MY BROTHER OTTO
In telling the story of my brother’s short life, I cannot do better than
employ in the first place the simple words of his faithful attendant,
Mary Barnes, who for seven years watched over him devotedly night and
day, by her untiring care doing much to alleviate the pain he suffered
from his birth. Her notes begin thus:--
“Friday, 22nd November, 1850, the anxiously expected treasure entered
this valley of sorrow. The event can be forgotten by none who were
present on that day. For some time past but small hopes had been
entertained of the child coming into the world alive, and we therefore
rejoiced the more, when after many hours of pain and danger, a fine boy
was born. New life, new hope sprang up; but the joy was of short
duration, to be transformed only too soon into lasting sorrow. Very
shortly after his birth, the poor infant’s laboured breathing showed
that all was not well with him, and this led to the discovery of a
serious organic defect. At first the doctors believed that this could be
remedied by a slight operation, and an eminent surgeon was sent for.
Unfortunately he arrived too late to operate that day, and the night
that followed was a terrible one. I did not think it possible for the
poor babe to last till morning; it was blue in the face, as I held it,
all night long, upright in my arms, to prevent it being suffocated. At
last morning came, and after due examination, the operation was fixed
for eleven o’clock. We moistened the poor child’s lips with a few drops
of milk, as it had not sufficient strength to take the breast. The
malformation was more serious, and the operation in consequence attended
with far greater difficulty, than the doctors had foreseen. It lasted so
long, and left the tiny patient so exhausted, we hardly thought he would
survive it many seconds. His whole appearance was changed; the skin had
taken a dull yellowish hue, and the little limbs were so cold, we
resorted to every possible means of restoring a little warmth. This
state of utter exhaustion lasted for twenty-four hours, during which we
kept moistening the lips with milk and with a few drops of a
resuscitating medicine, it being the opinion of the doctors that could
we but succeed in prolonging life for a few hours, all might be well in
the end.
“When at last the feeble flame of life seemed to burn a little more
steadily, I was indeed shocked to see, in performing the little
sufferer’s toilet, the awful change wrought in his poor little tortured
body. He seemed to have dwindled away, to have grown so small, so
fragile, that one feared that the lightest touch must hurt him. He did
succeed in getting a little sleep, but his sufferings were
indescribable, and caused him, when awake, to scream incessantly night
and day, till the little voice, worn out, became weak and hoarse, and
the cry ended in a feeble moan, whilst the baby face twitched with pain.
Early on the morning of the tenth day he
[Illustration: PRINCE OTTO ZU WIED]
seemed so near death, that the ceremony of christening was gone through
in haste. The name of Otto Nicholas was given him. All day long we
thought every breath must be his last; and yet again he rallied, and was
able after a few days to be nursed, which was the greatest comfort, as
it often soothed him to sleep.
“But when the pain was too violent, nothing was of the slightest avail,
and the fits of screaming it occasioned had other ill results. And so
the days passed; in alternations of more or less violent pain, for he
was seldom altogether free from it; and this of course retarded his
growth and prevented him from gaining strength. He remained very, very
small, with a sweet little pale face, and big blue eyes, full of
expression. In the spring I was able to take him out, and hoped that
might strengthen him. By the beginning of May we moved to Bonn, for him
to be under the observation of the surgeon who had performed the
operation; and there his condition became so far satisfactory, that he
seemed to begin at last to grow and develop in a normal manner. The
terrible fits of pain still continued, for although everything that
could be was done to alleviate them, they were of a nature that rendered
all human succour unavailing. When out of pain, he lay perfectly still;
one never heard him laugh or coo like other babies. And, although he
began to lift himself up and take notice of things, his growth was very
slow, and the cutting of each tooth almost cost him his life. When he
had to be weaned, there were fresh dangers, and a journey to England,
undertaken to give him the benefit of the sea air, very nearly proved
fatal. In London a celebrated physician was consulted, whose opinion
absolutely coincided with that of the doctor in Bonn, both affirming
that the child could never live to grow up, human skill being powerless
to aid in such a case. The asses’ milk, however, prescribed by the
London doctor, proved very beneficial, and for some time this with
arrowroot formed his diet. He remained a very small baby, and only took
his first few steps on his second birthday, having also made no attempt
at all to speak up to that time. But he was a dear sweet child, with
eyes that looked at one so pitifully, it was as if they were imploring
help. There was something in him quite different to all other children.
It must have been the fearful attacks of pain, in which several hours of
each night and day were passed, that gave him this heavenly expression.
In the summer of 1853, we went to Paris; and again the poor little thing
was at death’s door in a teething crisis. He was not yet three years
old, but the delirium was hardly over, when he insisted, as he lay
exhausted on his bed, that all the servants should come in to see him
for a moment, and it was touching to see him stretch out his tiny little
thin hand to each in turn, telling them how ill he had been, but that he
was getting better! It took some time after this for him to recover his
strength sufficiently to be able to walk again.”
I have followed thus far the narrative of our good Barnes, giving in her
own simple language an account of the first three years of the life over
which she watched so faithfully. It was at about the time when these
notes stop, that the letter of a friend staying with us in Paris,
describes the poor child in these words:--“Little Otto seems to grow
smaller and smaller, and he is always suffering. You cannot think what a
dear child it is,--much too good for this world!” And a little later she
wrote:--“Otto is marvellously precocious, his mental development is
quite extraordinary, he is altogether an ethereal little being!” On his
third birthday we had sent out a little table with all his presents, and
stood round it, eager to witness the expression of his delight. But he
could only say--“Is all that for me?” as he looked at each thing in turn
with big wondering eyes, and it was only a month later, that, looking
out from the window at the children walking and running happily in the
Champs Elysées, he asked:--“And have those little children really no
pain?” And when he heard that they had not:--“Oh! how glad I am!” he
exclaimed.
When he was four years old, a little white rabbit was given him, which
became his greatest pet, his constant companion, following his little
master about everywhere like a dog, and licking his face and hands. The
only time I ever saw Otto give way to a real fit of despair, was on one
occasion when he believed that his dear Bunny had burnt itself. The poor
little fellow flung himself on the ground, with piercing screams,
tearing at his hair, and his heart still went on thumping like a hammer,
long after he had convinced himself that his beloved playfellow had
really met with no harm. The faithful little creature outlived its
master just a year.
Quite early the poor boy had begun to practise most marvellous
self-control. After a sleepless night, he would walk up and down in his
room, with his little fists clenched, saying from time to time--“now I
am ready--now I can go in!”--until he felt that he was sufficiently
prepared to appear among the rest of us at the breakfast-table, where he
would take his place, pale as death, but apparently quite calm. When he
was five years old, he began learning to read, and also to join Wilhelm
and myself in reciting poetry, as was our custom every Sunday. In this
he soon gave evidence of quite exceptional talent; from simple rhymes
and fables in verse passing on quickly to the ballads of Schiller and
Bürger, and these he declaimed with so much spirit and such a rare sense
of humour, that it was a treat to see and hear him.
In a friend’s letter of April, 1855, I find the following
passage:--“Otto is really touching; all day yesterday, after the doctor
had gone, he kept repeating--‘the good doctor says that if I ate no
bread, I should have less pain; how kind of him, to think of what would
be good for me!’--This is what he finds to say, instead of a word of
complaint at being deprived of the food he likes best.”
He very soon began to take the greatest pleasure in his lessons--history
and botany above all. His tiny fingers were very skilful in arranging
and pasting in an album the specimens of plants he collected. In this as
in everything else his keen sense of order was shown; everything
belonging to him had its right place, and was kept in perfect order. He
was very fond of flowers, and they flourished under his care; the
fuchsias that stood in his window were literally covered with blossoms.
He began Greek when he was seven years old, and Latin the next year.
Greek, however, always remained his favourite study, and he loved to
recite verses in that language. One day a lady asked him to let her hear
him say a Greek fable. “Why?” he asked rather drily. “You would not
understand it if I did!” “That is quite true, but I like to hear the
sound.” “Ah! that is another matter!” and he began reciting without more
ado.
In the autumn of the year 1858, we went for a little tour in Switzerland
and Northern Italy. Otto’s delight at all the wonders he saw was
unbounded, and his manner of expressing it caused general amazement.
“That cannot be a child!” people said, when they heard him reciting
verses of the “Diver” by the Falls of the Rhine, and again quoting
appropriate lines of Gœthe and Bürger in the valley of the Rhine, at
that moment still ravaged by recent floods. Everywhere guides and
cicerones turned to him with their chief explanations, his eager
questions and intelligent little face with the big bright eyes showing
the deep interest he felt. In Milan his enthusiasm was aroused by the
life of S. Charles Borromeo. Noticing this, the priest who was guiding
us round the cathedral, and who could speak a little English, took Otto
by the hand, and addressed all his remarks to him. Such examples of
human grandeur always excited his passionate admiration, and it was his
constant dream, one day to leave his mark in the world.
On our return to Germany that same year, we spent a month at Freiburg,
and it is from here that are dated some of my brother’s most
characteristic letters, to a little friend of his own age--simple,
childlike letters, by no means free from mistakes, but showing a most
remarkable depth of thought and precocious intelligence on the part of a
child who had not yet quite accomplished his eighth year.
The next year, up to the autumn of 1859, was the very best and happiest
of his short life, and during the summer we soon began to hope once more
that he might after all perhaps get well. He was much out of doors, able
to work in his own little garden, and the healthy exercise, the life in
the open air gave him for the moment quite a blooming appearance that
might well delude us with false hopes. None who saw him trot about, with
his gardening tools flung across his shoulder, his little face flushed
and glowing, beneath the straw hat perched jauntily on his fair
curls,--no one who saw him thus could have guessed what his sufferings
had hitherto been, nor have suspected how soon he was again to be their
victim. For that short period his appetite improved, and he seemed able
to satisfy it without becoming a prey to the agonising pains with which
the digestive process had for so long been almost invariably
accompanied. During the harvesting he was in his glory; sometimes out in
the fields for hours, taking an active part in the proceedings, and so
lively, and joyous, and full of fun, it did everyone good to see him.
Thus the summer went by, but all at once in October Otto was seized with
an attack of pain, even more violent and spasmodic than any of the
preceding ones, and this being repeated and becoming of very frequent
recurrence, a great specialist was consulted, who declared that an
operation was necessary. This, although attended with considerable
danger, was successfully performed in March, 1860, the long and painful
examinations that preceded it, and that were not always carried out
under anæsthetics, having been most heroically borne. But the results
were not such as had been anticipated. Hardly had the little patient
left his bed, before the attacks of pain began again with redoubled
violence, to the consternation of the doctors, who felt their skill
completely baffled by this unexpected occurrence.
The sympathy shown by the good townspeople at the time of the operation
was most touching. Sometimes there was quite a little throng gathered
all day in front of the iron railings before the Castle, to hear the
latest tidings.
I have told of the deep interest the dear boy took in my confirmation,
which took place that same summer. In the little volume of the
“Imitation,” which he gave me on that day, I asked him to write a few
words, and without a moment’s pause, he took his pen, and wrote in his
firm clear characters:--“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of
angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a
tinkling cymbal.”--Otto. The gospel of Love had passed into his flesh
and blood, had become part of his inmost being.
Directly it was possible, his lessons had begun again, for that was
indeed the best, the only means of abstracting his thoughts, diverting
them entirely from his own condition. The letters that I have from him,
during a few weeks’ absence from home about this time, point to the
extraordinary self-command he had attained, whilst they also display
most remarkable and varied intellectual interests. In some he tells me
of his botanical studies and the experiments in horticulture that
already so deeply interested him, in others, he spoke of the lectures on
Art and Literature, which it had been arranged for different professors
to give for his benefit. But Nature and her works he loved best of all,
and I treasure the tiny little album he gave me about this time, in
which specimens of various mosses were most beautifully arranged,
together with a charming little essay, “My Love for the Leaves,” a
complete dissertation on all his favourite plants and trees, carefully
enumerated, and their foliage described in every detail.
But his sufferings grew worse, the attacks of pain succeeding one
another more frequently, and on Ascension Day of that same year every
faint hope of his ultimate recovery was taken from us. The surgeon, by
whom the last operation had been performed, discovered, on examining him
again, in addition to the original organic trouble, the existence of a
very large internal tumour, and pronounced that in his opinion Otto
could not possibly last another year. At the same time, my father’s
lungs were subjected to thorough examination, with the alarming result
that in his case also the doctor declared no hope of recovery to exist,
and that he could hardly be expected to live more than two years longer.
Oh! that terrible Ascension Day! what a blight was cast over all our
hearts! And the fearful attacks of pain went on, increasing in duration
and in intensity, and giving the poor child an opportunity of displaying
almost superhuman courage and endurance, above all in his constant and
heroic efforts to hide some part of his sufferings from his beloved
mother, whose anguish was indeed almost unendurable. But between the
paroxysms, ever the same sweet serenity, even cheerfulness, and an
immediate resumption of the study or occupation interrupted just before.
His activity and energy were unbounded; he was always at work, either
carving, pasting or cutting out; his hands were never at rest.
That summer brought one great joy to the poor little invalid, the return
of his idolised elder brother, whose course of study had caused him to
absent himself from home for some years, and who had meanwhile developed
from a mere schoolboy into a tall youth. Otto’s excitement was so great,
that for the time being he felt no pain. Once more his laughter
resounded through the house, and even out into the woods, where we
lingered till quite late in those long, lovely summer days. Once more it
was quite a gay, lively, youthful party that collected round the
tea-table, and our merriment was so infectious that our elders would
often pause in their serious conversation to listen to the nonsense we
talked, and join in our peals of laughter. An exhibition of celebrated
pictures had just been opened in Cologne, and we all went over there one
day to see them. The cartoons by Cornelius attracted Otto’s attention
more than all the rest, and he stood for a long time contemplating the
one, concerning whose subject the rest of our party--although there were
several scholars and artists with us--could not be agreed. To their
astonishment, when the boy at last took his eyes off the picture, he
said very quietly--“I know what it is!” and proceeded to describe in
every detail the scene from the Odyssey, which it did indeed depict.
So long as his brother was in the house, Otto would not stir from his
side. His admiration for the big elder brother, for his health and
strength, was most touching, and it was refreshing to hear his generous
outburst of indignation at any remark he considered in the slightest
degree disparaging to his idol. Were there but the faintest hint of
criticism, he would blaze up: “Wilhelm has beautiful eyes and splendid
teeth, and is very, very clever!” In the warmth and sincerity of his
heart, he could understand no grudging affection, no measured qualified
praise. And this warm-heartedness was probably his greatest source of
happiness, providing him with more glad hours than might well have been
deemed possible in an existence so fraught with pain.
Very great pleasure he derived from the little farmhouse, built in the
style of a Swiss chalet, which my mother had originally planned as a
present to him, on his coming of age. We had passed many happy hours
there, but in the autumn of 1861, he was no longer able to ride or go
thither on foot, and soon even the movement of the little
donkey-carriage, in which for a time he drove there daily, also became
unbearable, and one evening we had to pull up in the middle of the wood
and wait till a litter was brought on which to carry him home. It was a
pitiable sight; the little motionless body, worn out with suffering,
stretched on the litter and borne along by grave silent men, while the
flickering moon-beams darting through the branches shed an unearthly
light over the small white face, and overhead night-hawks and
screech-owls, circling round the sad little procession, filled the air
with their jarring cries.
From the following October he could not walk at all, and was carried
about everywhere in a little arm-chair, which was fastened on a litter.
In this manner he was brought to table or taken out into the woods,
where he would lie for hours, resting on his right side, with the dead
leaves falling thickly round him. After this he was never again able to
lie either on his back or on the left side. The course of his illness
after this I find described in my letters to my absent brother Wilhelm,
a few extracts from which I give here.... “Otto suffered frightfully
yesterday all day long, and was almost beside himself at the slightest
movement in the room.... Sleep can only be obtained by means of
laudanum.... He seems to grow more and more loving towards us all; I
have never seen such depth of feeling in another; there is a strange
depth in the big serious eyes, that appear to be untouched by the
sufferings of the frail body. The other day, as I sat beside him in the
wood, he said many such touching things, winding up with accusing
himself of cowardice, in taking laudanum to procure relief from pain. I
could only comfort him by reminding him that it was not of his own free
will he took it, but to please others.... For the last two days Otto has
stayed in bed altogether.... The agony he has suffered is indescribable;
it wrings one’s heart to witness it.... Mamma has been letting him know
the truth about his condition, thinking that it must comfort him to know
that his suffering will soon be over. But at first he wept at the
thought of parting with her, saying that he could not bear it. Then he
grew calmer and discussed the matter quite quietly. He told mamma
yesterday that he wished to be buried in Monrepos, under the old trees,
with a white cross at the head of his grave, and quantities of flowers
planted on it. Then he went on to ask, if in the life beyond he should
see all the great men of antiquity, and Socrates above all--and also if
he should still see mamma--sitting in her chair, just as she was
then!--“I hope so, my child!” she told him.... Papa is a little better.
He came down yesterday for the first time for three weeks. The meeting
was a touching one; papa himself, worn to a shadow, looking down so
anxiously on the poor little pale face, that was gazing with rapture up
in his.... Otto suffers more and more. He begins to have hallucinations,
sees himself surrounded by hideous faces that threaten him.... He seems
to have reached a degree of pain, beyond which it is impossible to go.
His sufferings are indescribable. A little time ago, he said he had to
pray each day that he might welcome death, for the thought of the
parting was still too terrible to him; but now he begins to comfort
himself with the thought that there is no real separation, and to
rejoice that he may at last rest and be free from pain. And he has been
giving all his instructions, telling us his wishes, and always coming
back to the provision to be made for his own two special attendants....
Each new day is worse than the last.... Once he cried out:--“I cannot
bear it!” but when mamma said:--“Yes, we will bear it together!” he grew
quieter and murmured--“Father, Thy will be done!” ... Although the doses
of laudanum are constantly being increased, he sleeps very little, the
pain is too agonising.... Of mamma I say nothing. What she suffers, she
keeps to herself; she says sometimes she feels as if a saw were at her
heart, being slowly drawn backwards and forwards.”
Otto had always taken special pleasure in following the mental
development of the lives he read about. He found satisfaction in the
thought that the activity of the spirit can neither be blighted nor
repressed. Every fact or occurrence that seemed to bear on this theory
interested him; the story of Kasper Hauser was a case in point, and
delighted him greatly, whilst the inactive life of the poor young Duke
of Reichstadt was simply incomprehensible to him--“To live to be
twenty-two,--and have _done_ nothing!” he would exclaim, almost
impatiently.
There seemed at one moment to be danger of his being too severe in his
judgment of others, but directly my mother pointed this out to him, he
saw his mistake and took pains to avoid it.
To the last his spirit remained active, and in the intervals of pain he
was always busily employed. Close beside his pillow, near the little
Testament that never left him, lay a case of the different instruments
he used for painting and carving, and with them he fabricated all sorts
of pretty things for us all. His strong sense of the beautiful, of grace
and harmony, never deserted him, neither did the humour with which he
had so often enlivened us. After the fiercest attack of pain, whilst all
around him were still overcome by witnessing his struggles, he would
suddenly make some witty remark, and would not rest content till he had
brought us all to join in his laughter.
But the pain grew worse and worse, and he was so weakened by it, that on
his eleventh birthday we dared to hope, that before the day was over, he
would be keeping it in Paradise. We had brought him flowers, and some of
them we strewed over his bed, and wreathed around his pillow, and it
might have been in his last slumber that he was lying there, so silent
and still, and the sheets no whiter than his wan white face. But that
mercy was not yet granted him; there was still much more suffering in
store. A month later came my eighteenth birthday, and directly I came to
see him in the morning, he pulled out from under his pillow a tiny
marble slab, on which notwithstanding the awkward position in which he
lay, he had contrived to paint in water-colours the words: “God is
love.” When he gave it me, we could only throw our arms round one
another and cry together. The night before he had made the remark, that
whatever presents he now gave must be of a lasting nature.
For an account of the last few dreadful weeks, during which his illness
made rapid strides, I turn to letters written by me at the time, and
copy a few pages.
“_December, 1861._--Our preparations of Christmas are being made with
more than usual care, so that the festival may be kept with all due
solemnity,--for the last time, as we well know, that we shall all
celebrate it together on earth.... Papa is very weak, and the fits of
coughing are almost intermittent. With him, as with Otto, it is only a
question of time.... Christmas Eve was very solemn and peaceful and
beautiful: the few days preceding it had been exceptionally good and
free from pain, so that Otto could be wheeled into the room where the
Christmas-trees stood ready, and it was touching to see his little face,
beaming with happiness, when the trees were lighted up, and the
Christmas hymn sung as usual, by the whole household, led by me from my
accustomed place at the organ.... But since then he has had two very
disturbed nights, and the dreadful attacks of pain have begun again....
‘Keep calm!’ he called to mamma, after one of these,--‘it is only the
body that suffers, nothing of this can hurt the soul!’
“_January, 1862._--Yesterday he thought he was dying, and took leave of
us all, but when he saw mamma’s tears, he again found strength to
comfort her. The night that followed was a dreadful one; the sensation
of suffocation so intense that, exhausted as he was, he sometimes stood
upright in bed in the effort to breathe.... And through it all his
patience and resignation are inexhaustible, and his affection for mamma
and each one of us seems only to grow stronger.... The fits of pain are
now so frequent, even mamma no longer keeps count of them. Last night
she had to give him twenty-one drops of laudanum.... We pray that the
end may be near. To-day his eyes are quite dim, and he can only bear
that we speak in whispers.... But his first thought is still for mamma,
and he says she is much more to be pitied than he.... It was her
birthday yesterday, and Otto was in a great state of excitement. He gave
her a flower-stand and a little casket, which he had himself designed.
One could see the efforts he made to appear cheerful, whilst hardly for
one moment free from pain. (He gave orders at the time for another
present, for a surprise to his mother on her next birthday. She received
it eleven months after his death!)....
“_February._--His strength seems to be ebbing.... His one prayer is that
he may die in full consciousness. Another respite.... Then a new and
worse pain. The poor child is being slowly tortured to death....
Sometimes, in his agony, cries of despair are forced from him, and then
again he can talk with the utmost composure of the blessedness awaiting
him when the last struggle is over.... We had a visit from Professor
Perthes, who sat for some hours in Otto’s room, talking to him and Uncle
Nicholas. The Professor was so much struck by the invalid’s keen
interest in the subject being discussed, and his clear-headed practical
suggestions, that he exclaimed on coming away from him:--“That boy is
not going to die yet;--he thinks and feels like a grown-up man!” But a
little later, after witnessing one of the cruel paroxysms of pain, our
friend also was convinced that this matured intelligence he had just
been admiring, only betokened that the soul, purified and ennobled by
suffering, was already ripe for a better world.... The weakness
increased. All day yesterday and all night long, he lay with his hands
clasped in prayer, murmuring feebly:--“When will the hour of release
come? when will the Angel of Peace appear, to bear me away?” His piety
and resignation never fail him for one moment.... His hands are cold as
ice, his brow like marble, his eyes sunken, but still bright with
intelligence.... One evening he complained that he could no longer
rightly distinguish our faces. Over his poor little wasted face the
shadow of death is already creeping, but he is strangely beautiful with
it.... Yesterday, Monday, as we sat as usual round him, he slowly
stretched out his poor feeble arms, exclaiming joyfully:--“Well, then,
if this is to be the end, farewell to you all!” And his expression was
rapturous, as he bade us each good-night, and prayed for blessings on
us.... But even then it was not over....”
The agony lasted two days longer. He seemed to sleep, but woke from time
to time with a cry of anguish. He could no longer speak, though he still
saw and heard everything, and gave signs that he understood. Then, at
the very last, after a few broken accents, came the rattle in his
throat, and the one word “Help!” loud and clear. And then a deathly
silence. And mamma bent over him and murmured--“Thanks be to God! His
name be praised for evermore!”
The struggle was over. Peace and heavenly calm spread themselves over
the tired features, and a sweet smile played about his lips--the deep
line across the high forehead alone showing how dearly this peace had
been purchased.
Our dear Otto looked like an angel sleeping there; we could scarce tear
ourselves away from him. My mother kept saying--“How quietly he rests!”
and if anyone sobbed on coming into the room--“Hush! hush!” she said,
“do not disturb my child!” With our own hands we placed him in his last
little bed, and covered him over. The old clergyman from Biebrich, by
whom the benediction had been spoken at my parents’ marriage, now
pronounced the last blessing over their beloved child.
Otto’s best epitaph is contained in a letter from my father to an
intimate friend, which concluded thus: “ ...On a little rising-ground
not far from Monrepos, he sleeps his last sleep in the shade of the old
linden trees. But he lives on forever in our memory, and this living
remembrance, this communion with the dead, is our last best heritage, by
which in the midst of the heavy loss, we are yet made rich
sempiternally.”