HEROES.
All over Germany the corn stood high in the fields, ripe for the
sickle. Then suddenly the threatening shadow of war rose in the west
like a black thundercloud in the blue summer sky, filling the harvest
gatherers with anxious forebodings. For fourteen days the people waited
in painful suspense, not knowing whether to take up the sword or the
scythe. Then the cry of destiny came crashing through the country,
terrifying and relieving at the same time: "The French have declared
War!"
That was on July 15, 1870, on a Friday. Late in the afternoon the
dismal news was spread in Berlin that the French ambassador at Ems had
insulted the king, who had retired to the capital, and that a combat
with the arrogant neighbors on the Rhine was inevitable. Before night
the street Unter den Linden, from the Brandenburger Thor to the
Schlossbrucke, was packed with men overflowing with intense excitement.
Without any preconceived arrangement, all the inhabitants decorated
their windows with banners and lights, and the streets assumed the
festal appearance of rejoicings over a victory. The crowd looked upon
this spectacle not as an undecided beginning, but a glorious
conclusion. There was no fear in any face, no question as to the future
in any eye, but the certainty of triumph in all; as if they had seen
the last page turned in the book of fate, with victory and its glorious
results written thereon.
Toward nine o'clock a thunderbolt broke over the Brandenburger Thor,
and rolled like the breaking of a wave to the other end of the street.
The king had left the Potsdam railway station a quarter of an hour ago,
and the crowd greeted him with a tremendous shout as his carriage
appeared. The people wished by this acclamation, springing from the
depths of their hearts, to show their ruler that they were prepared to
follow him even to death. But the king was so much absorbed in thought
that he scarcely seemed to hear or notice the enthusiasm of the crowd.
He saluted and bowed to right and left as a prince is accustomed to do
from his childhood, but it was a mechanical action of the body, and his
mind had little part in it. His eyes were not looking at the sea of
uncovered heads, but seemed fixed, under knitted brows, on the
distance, as if they endeavored to decipher there some indistinct,
shadowy form. Did the king perceive in this moment the responsibility
of one human being to carry such a load? Did he wish in his innermost
heart that he might share the weight of the decision with others--the
representatives of the people--and not alone be forced to throw the
dice deciding the life or death of hundreds and thousands? Who can say?
At all events the powerful features of the king's face betrayed no such
uneasy doubt--only a deep earnestness and an immovable steadiness of
expression. Belief in the divine right of his kingship gave him power
over the minds of men, and he took his duties on him in this hour
without weakness or failing, grasping with his human hand the obscure
spiritual web of man's destiny, and with his limited intelligence
trying to unravel the dark threads here and there, on which hung the
healing and destruction of millions. In such moments a whole people
will become united into one being, swayed by the mastery of a single
mind, and await the commands of a single will. It comes, no one knows
from whom--all blindly follow. In spite of the superficial differences
which men find in one another under similar conditions, the powerful
effect of unconscious imitation is surprisingly apparent, and under its
operation personal peculiarities disappear.
Wilhelm and Paul that same evening sat at one of the windows of
Spargnapani's, looking on the Lindens. The small rooms were filled to
overflowing, and the guests were crammed together in the open doorways,
or on the stone staircase, where their loud talking mingled with the
noise of the people in the street. The king's carriage had hardly
passed, when several young men sprang shouting into the room, threw a
quantity of printed leaflets, still damp from the press, on the nearest
table, and rushed out again. These were the proofs of an address on the
war to the king. No one knew who had written it, who had had it
printed, who the people were who had distributed it, but everyone
crowded excitedly round it, and begged for pens from the counter to add
their signatures to it. A few specially enthusiastic souls even put a
table with inkstands and pens out on the pavement, and called to the
passers-by to sign the paper. Paul was among the first to fulfill this
duty of citizenship, and then handed the pen to his friend. But Wilhelm
laid it down on the table, took Paul's arm, and drew him out of the
crowd into the quiet of the Friedrichstrasse.
"Are you a Prussian?" cried Paul angrily.
"I am as good a Prussian as you are," said Wilhelm quietly, "and ready
to do my duty again, as I have done it before, but these silly
effusions don't affect me at all."
"Such a manifesto gives the government the moral force for the sternest
fulfillment of duty."
"I hope you are not in earnest when you say that, my dear Paul. The
government does what it has to do without troubling itself about our
manifestoes. It is repugnant to me to have my approval of the war
dragged from me without being asked for it. I may not appear to say
'yes' willingly, but at the same time may not have the right to say
'no.'"
Paul followed silently, and Wilhelm went on:
"You deceive yourself as to your duty like all these people, who
imagine that they are still separate individuals, and that they can
sanction or forbid as they will the declaration of war. I, however,
know and feel that I have no longer a voice in the matter. I have only
to obey. I am no longer an individual. I am only an evanescent
subordinate unit in the organism of the State. A power over which I
have no control has taken possession of me, and has made my will of no
avail. Is there still a part of your destiny which you have the power
to guide as you will? Is there such for me? We shall be forced to join
simply in the united destiny of one people. And who decides this? The
king, no doubt, thinks that he does; the Emperor Napoleon thinks he
does. I say that these two have no more influence over the capabilities
of their people than we two have over the capabilities around us. The
State commands us, the whole evolution of mankind from its beginning
commands them. All of the race which has gone before holds them fast,
and compels them as the wheels of the State compel us. The dead sternly
point out the way to them, as the living do to us. We all of us know
nothing, kings and ministers as little as we, of the real forces at
work. What these forces will do, and what they strive to attain to, is
hidden from us, and we only see what is nearest to us, without any
connection with its causes and final operation. That is why it seems to
me better to do what one sees as one's duty at the moment, rather than
to give ourselves the absurd appearance of being free in our movements,
and certain as to our goal." Paul pressed his hand at parting, and
murmured:
"Theoretically you are right, but practically I do not see why the
tyrant at the Tuileries need begin with us. He could at least leave us
in peace."
The order for mobilization was issued. Wilhelm was surprised to receive
his appointment again as second lieutenant, and was nominated to the
61st Pomeranian Regiment. His duties during the next few days took up
the whole of his time, and left him hardly a moment to himself. He was
free only for a few hours before the march to the frontier, and then he
made all the haste he could to say good-by at the Lennestrasse. His
heart beat quickly as he hurried along, and now that the time of
separation was near, he reproached himself for the irresolution of the
last few weeks. He was going to the front without leaving a clear
understanding behind him. He tried to convince himself that perhaps it
was better so--if he fell she would be free before the world. But at
the bottom of his heart this reasoning did not satisfy him, and he
lingered over the idea of taking his weeping betrothed to his heart
before all the world, and kissing the tears off her cheeks, instead of
bidding farewell to her at the station, and holding her to him from a
distance by an acknowledged tie. Was not their love alone enough? No,
he knew that it was not, and he felt with painful surprise that his
contempt for outward appearances, his impulse after reality, were
vigorous in him as long as he followed his inmost life alone; but when
he came out of himself, and wished to unite another human destiny with
his own, these things had become a painful weakness. Through this other
life, the world's customs and frivolities began to influence him, and
his proud independence must be humbled to the dust, or he must
painfully tolerate his own weakness. These reflections brought another
with them--it was quite possible that an opportunity might occur at the
last moment. He painted the scene in his own imagination; he found
Loulou alone, embraced her fervently, asked her if she would be his for
life; she said "Yes;" then her mother came in, Loulou threw herself on
her neck; he took her hand and asked her in due form if she would
accept him as a son-in-law, as he had already gained Loulou's consent.
If the councilor was at home, his consent was also given, if not they
must wait until he came, and the time could not seem long, even if it
lasted an hour. He did not doubt that they would all consent. Things
might very likely have happened just as he dreamed of, if he had only
come to his determination at the right time, and had not hazarded
success on the decision of the last moment, when there was hardly time
for a weighty decision.
As he approached the red sandstone house, with its sculptured
balconies, and its pretty front garden, he had a disagreeable surprise.
At the iron gate two cabs were standing, evidently waiting for visitors
at the house. He was shown, not into the little blue-room, but into the
large drawing-room near the winter garden, and found several people
there in lively conversation. Beside Loulou and Frau Ellrich there were
Fraulein Malvine Marker, with her mother, and also Herr von Pechlar,
the lieutenant of hussars of cotillion fame.
"Have you come too to say good-by?" cried Loulou, going to meet Wilhelm.
Her face looked troubled, and her voice trembled, and yet Wilhelm felt
as if a shower of cold water had drenched his head. The insincerity of
their relations, her distant manner before the others, but above all
the unfortunate word "too," including him with the lieutenant, put him
so much out of tune that all his previous intentions vanished, and he
sank at once to the position of an ordinary visitor.
Herr von Pechlar led the conversation, and took no notice of the new
guest's presence. He oppressed Wilhelm, and made him feel small by the
smartness of his uniform, his rank as first lieutenant, and his
eyeglasses. Wilhelm tried hard to fight against the feeling. After all,
he was the better man of the two, and if human nature alone had been
put in the scale--that is to say, the value both of body and mind--Herr
von Pechlar would have flown up light as a feather. But just now they
did not stand together as man to man, but as the bourgeois second
lieutenant in his plain infantry uniform, against the aristocratic
first lieutenant--the smart hussar, and the first place was not to be
contested.
In Fraulein Malvine's kind heart there lurked a vague feeling that she
must come to Wilhelm's help, and overcoming her natural shyness, she
said to him:
"It must be very hard for you to tear yourself away under the
circumstances."
She was thinking of his attachment to Loulou, which in her innocence
she quite envied.
Oppressed and distracted as his mind was, he found nothing to say but
the banal response:
"When duty calls, fraulein." But while he spoke he was conscious of the
kindness of her manner, and to show her that he was grateful he went
on, "My friend Haber wishes to say good-by to you before he leaves
Berlin. He thinks a great deal of you, and is very happy in having made
your acquaintance."
Malvine threw him a quick glance from her blue eyes and looked down
again.
"What a good thing that I was here when you came," he said softly; "I
might certainly not have seen you but for this chance."
"The fact is, gnadiges Fraulein," he stammered, "our duties demand so
much of our time."
"Is Herr Haber in your regiment?" she asked.
"No; he has remained with our old Fusilier Guards."
"Ah, what a pity! It would have been so nice for you to be side by side
again, as in 1866."
"How much she knows about us," thought Wilhelm, wondering.
"I often think of Uhland's comrades. It must be a great comfort in war
to have a friend by one."
"Happily one makes friends quickly there."
"On that point we are better off than the poor reserve forces,"
remarked Herr von Pechlar, not addressing himself to the speaker, but
to Frau and Fraulein Ellrich. "We regular officers pull together like
old friends in danger and in death, while the others come among us
unknown. I imagine that must be very uncomfortable."
Wilhelm felt that he had no answer to make, and a silence ensued.
Loulou broke it by moving her chair near Wilhelm, and began to chatter
in a cheerful way over the occurrences of the last few days. How
dreadfully sudden all this was! Just in the midst of their preparations
to go away. That was put aside now. They must stay behind and do their
duty. Mamma had presided at a committee for providing the troops with
refreshment at the railway station; she herself and Malvine were also
members. There were meetings every day, and then there was running
about here, there, and everywhere, to collect money, enlist sympathy,
make purchases, and finally to see to the arrangements at the departure
of the troops.
"It is hard work," sighed Frau Ellrich; "I have dozens of letters to
write every day, and can hardly keep up with the correspondence."
Herr von Pechlar said he regretted that he was obliged to take to the
sword; he would much rather have helped the ladies with the pen.
Wilhelm felt that the moral atmosphere was intolerable. He had nothing
to say, and yet it was painful to him to be silent. Nobody made any
sign of leaving, so at last he rose. Herr von Pechlar did not follow
his example, merely giving him a distant bow. Malvine put out her hand
quickly, which Wilhelm grasped, feeling it tremble a little in his.
Frau Ellrich went with him to the door. She seemed touched, and said
with motherly tenderness, while he kissed her hand:
"We shall anxiously expect letters from you, and I promise you that we
will write as often as possible."
Loulou went outside the door with Wilhelm, in spite of a glance from
her mother. She thought they could bid each other good-by with a kiss,
but two servants stood outside, and they had to content themselves with
a prolonged clasp of the hand, and a look from Wilhelm's troubled eyes
into hers, which were wet. She was the first to speak:
"Farewell, and come back safely, my Wilhelm. I must go back to the
drawing-room."
Yes, if she must! and without looking back, he descended the marble
staircase, feeling chilled to the bone, in spite of the hot sunlight in
the street. He had the feeling that he was leaving nothing belonging to
him in Berlin, except his own people's graves.
In the evening he left by one of the numberless roads which at short
distances traverse Germany toward the west like the straight lines of a
railway. The quiet of the landscape was disturbed by the fifes, rattle
of wheels, and clanking of chains, and to all the villages along the
road they brought back the consciousness, forgotten till now, that
Germany's best blood was to be shed in a stream flowing westward. A
time was beginning for Wilhelm of powerful but very painful
impressions, not, it is true, to be compared with those which the
battlefields of 1866 had made on him when an unformed youth. The war
unveiled to him the foundations of human nature ordinarily buried under
a covering of culture, and his reason, marveled over the reconciliation
of such antitheses. On the one hand one saw the wildest struggle for
gain, and love of destruction; on the other hand were the daily
examples of the kindest human nature, self-sacrifice for
fellow-creatures, and an almost unearthly devotion to heroic
conceptions of duty. Now it appeared as if the primitive animal nature
in man were let loose, and bellowing for joy that the chains in which
he had lain were burst, and now again as if the noblest virtues were
proudly blossoming, only wanting favorable circumstances in which to
develop themselves. Life was worth nothing, the laws of property very
little; whatever the eyes saw which the body desired, the hand was at
once stretched out to obtain, and the point of the bayonet decided if
anything came between desire and satisfaction. But these same men, who
were as indifferent to their own lives, and as keen to destroy the
lives of others as savages, performed heroic deeds, helping their
comrades in want or danger, sharing their last mouthful with wounded or
imprisoned enemies, who returned them no thanks; and after the battle,
in the peasant's hut, cradling in their arms the little child, whose
roof they had perhaps destroyed, and possibly whose father they might
have slain. These impulses, as far apart as the poles, occurred hour
after hour before Wilhelm's eyes. He was not a born soldier, and his
nature was not given to fighting. But when it was necessary to endure
the wearisome fulfillment of duty, to bear privation silently, and to
look at menacing danger indifferently, then few were his equals, and
none before him. This quiet, passive heroism was noticed by his
comrades. The officers of his company found out that he did not smoke,
and never drank anything stronger than spring water. They noticed also
that dirt was painful to him, even the ordinary dust of the country
roads, and that he was dissatisfied if his boots and trousers bore the
marks of muddy fields. They thought him a spoiled mother's darling, a
"molly-coddle," and their instructive knowledge of human nature found a
name for him, the same name his schoolfellows had already given him.
They called him the "Fraulein."
But in the day of battle, when Wilhelm with his company stood for the
first time in the line of fire, the "Fraulein" was perhaps the firmest
of them all. The hissing balls made apparently no more impression on
him than a crowd of swarming gnats, and the only moment his courage
left him was when he thought he might be thrown into a ditch, which the
rains had turned into a complete puddle. He remained standing when all
the others lay down, and the captain at last called out to him, "In the
devil's name, do you want to be a target for the French?" making him
seek shelter behind a little mound, which left him nearly as uncovered
as he was before. And after hours of solid exertion, straining nerves
and muscles to the utmost, when peace came with night, Wilhelm began a
tiring piece of work with sticks and brushwood, out of pity for a weary
comrade.
On the strength of these first days before the enemy his position as a
soldier was established. A few harmless jokes were made on the march
and in the camp on Wilhelm's anxiety as to the removal of mud on his
clothes, and on the example he set in going out at night to save the
dead and wounded enemy from plunder, but the whole company loved and
admired the "Fraulein."
The officers, however, did not entirely share this feeling. This
lieutenant was not smart enough. They did full justice to his courage,
but thought that he was wanting in alertness and initiative. He lacked
the proper campaigning spirit, and they found it chilling that he
should be so distant in his manners after so long a time together.
Another said that Lieutenant Eynhardt went into action like a
sleep-walker, and his calmness had something uncanny about it. The
captain was not pleased with him, because he had no knowledge of
business; as far as example went he was the worst forager in the whole
regiment. If a peasant's wife complained to him, he would leave
empty-handed a house whose cellars were stocked with wine, and larders
with hams one could smell a hundred yards off. It was all the more
provoking as he could speak French perfectly, an accomplishment which
no one else in the regiment could, to the same extent, boast of. It
came even to a scene between him and the captain, who said angrily to
him after a fruitless search in a new and well-to-do village in
Champagne: "A good heart is a fine thing to have, but you are an
officer now, and not a Sister of Mercy. Our men have a right to eat,
and if you want to be compassionate, our poor fellows want food just as
much as those French peasants. Deny yourself if you like, but take care
that the soldiers have what they need. If ever you get back to Berlin,
then in God's name you can please yourself by distributing alms, and
buy a place for yourself in heaven."
Wilhelm was obliged to admit that the captain was right, but he could
not change his nature. Capturing, destroying, giving pain, were not to
his taste. From that time he left other people's property alone, and
let the French run if they fell into his hands. He was excellent on
outpost and patrol duties, for then his brains and not his hands were
at work--then he could think and endure. He could go for twenty-four
hours on a bit of bread and a draught of water better than any one, and
without a minute's sleep, stand for hours at a stretch holding a
position; he was always the first to explore dangerous roads, signing
to his companions if he could answer for their safety, and all this
with a natural, quiet self-possession as if he were taking a walk in
town, or reading a newspaper at Spargnapani's.
Weeks and months went by like a dream, in constant excitement, and the
exhausting strain of strength. Christmas passed at the outposts without
gifts and with few good wishes, and the thunder of the guns took the
place of church bells. January came in with a hard frost, trying the
field troops bitterly, and bringing with it hard work for Wilhelm's
regiment. The 61st belonged to General Kettler's brigade, which
strategically kept the Garibaldi and Pelissier divisions in check. By
the middle of January the brigade was in full touch with the enemy. On
the 21st the troops broke out from the St. Seine, dashed into the Val
Suzon, and after an hour's conflict with the Garibaldians, drove them
out and established themselves on the heights of Daix toward two
o'clock. Before them were the rugged summits of Talant and Fontaine,
the last spurs of the Jura Mountains seen in the blue distances both of
them crowned, by old villages, whose outer walls looked down a thousand
feet below. The gray walls, the rhomboid towers of the mediaeval
churches, brought to one's mind the vision of robber knights rather
than the modest homes of peasants. Between these two mountains was a
narrow valley, through which one caught a glimpse of Dijon, with its
red roofs and numbers of towers, and its high Gothic church above all,
St. Benigne, well known later to the German soldiers.
There lay before them the great wealthy town, looking as if one could
throw a pebble through one of its windows, so near did it seem in the
clear winter air. The smoke went straight up out of its thousand
chimneys, exciting appetizing thoughts of warm rooms and boiling pots
on kitchen fires. There were the sheltered streets full of shops,
friendly cafes, houses with beds and lamps and well-covered tables--but
the soldiers stood outside on the cold hillside, chilled to the bone by
the north wind, so tired that they could hardly stand, and often
sinking down in the snow, where they lay benumbed, without energy to
rouse themselves. They had gone for twenty-four hours without food, and
had only some black bread remaining for the evening, worth a kingdom in
price. Between their misery and the abundance before their eyes lay the
enemy's army, and this army they must conquer, if they would sit at
those tables and lie in the soft beds. The general wanted to take Dijon
in order to remove a danger menacing to South Germany, and to secure
the advance of the German army toward Paris and Belfort--the soldiers
had the same desire, but their longing for Dijon was for comfort,
satisfaction of hunger, and rest.
The German battalion kept on pressing forward. This mistake was hardly
the fault of the officers, who on this occasion strove to keep the men
back rather than encourage them to advance. The Garibaldian troops had
the advantages of superior forces, a greater range of artillery, and
sheltered position in the hills, and they pressed with increased
courage to the attack. The Germans did not await them quietly but threw
themselves on them, so that in many cases it came to a hand-to-hand
fight, and serious work was done with bayonets and the butt-ends of
rifles. At length the French began to retreat, and the Germans with
loud "Hurrahs!" flung themselves after them. But the pursuit was soon
abandoned, as they had to withdraw under the fire from the Talant and
Fontaine positions, and then, after a short rest, the French again
advanced. So the fight lasted for three hours, the snowflakes dispersed
by the balls, the men stamping their half-frozen feet on the ground,
stained in so many places with blood, but the distance between the
German battalion and beckoning, mocking Dijon never diminished. The
right wing of the brigade made a strenuous attempt, pressed hard toward
Plombieres, forced the Garibaldians back at the point of the bayonet,
and took possession of the village, which already had been stormed from
house to house. The sight of the slopes before Plombieres covered with
the enemy running, sliding, or rolling, acted like strong drink; the
whole German line threw itself on the yielding enemy before it had time
to regain breath, and amid the thunder of artillery, with the balls
from the French reserves on the heights rattling like hailstones, it
gained at last a footing on the hill. Some of the troops sank down
exhausted in the shelter of the little huts which were strewed over the
vineyard, while others followed the division of the enemy which had
forced itself between the mountain and the narrow valley behind the
French line of defense.
It was now night, and very dark, and to follow up the hard-won victory
was not to be thought of, so the German troops halted to rest if
possible for an hour. It was a terrible night, and the cold was
intense. Campfires were almost useless. The men's clothes were
insufficient and nearly worn out. During the last few days, on the
march and in the camp, every one had huddled together whatever seemed
warmest, and in the pale moon or starlight, figures in strange
disguises might be seen. One wore the thick wadded cloak of a peasant
woman over woefully torn trousers, another whose toes till now had
always been seen out of noisy boots, stalked in enormous wooden shoes,
the extra room being filled up with hay and straw. Overcoats from the
French and German dead had been taken, and were useful for replenishing
outfits--particularly when a German soldier wore red trousers, and the
braided fur coat of the fantastic Garbaldian uniform. Many others had
bed-clothing and horse-coverings, carpets and curtains, one even went
so far as to wear an altar-cloth from some poor village church over his
shoulders, and those who still had pocket-handkerchiefs in their
possession wore them tied over their ears. Many, however, had nothing
but their own torn uniforms, and these tried hard to get warm by
rolling themselves close against one another like dogs. The dark masses
lay there all among the trodden and half-frozen snow stained with
blood, sand, and clay, huddled together one on the top of the other,
and if their labored breathing had not been heard, one could hardly
have told whether one stood by living men or dead--the dead indeed lay
near, many hundreds of them, singly and in groups, scarcely more
cramped and huddled together than the sleepers, nor more quiet than
they. When the cold, even to the most warmly dressed, became
intolerable, they would spring up and stagger about, stumbling over
heaps of dead and living men, the latter cursing them loudly.
The dreadful night passed, and at most a third only of the German
troops had rested. The gray dawn began to appear in the sky, bugles
sounded, and cries of command were heard, but it was hard for the poor
soldiers to rouse themselves, to stir their benumbed limbs, which at
last were beginning to get a little warm. One after another the ridges
of the Jura Mountains became suffused with pink as the sun rose, but
the fissures in the hills and the valleys were still dark and filled
with thick mist, behind which the enemy's position and the town of
Dijon were still invisible. The soldiers soon forced their stiffened
limbs into position, the last remaining rations were quickly
distributed, and a picked number of the freshest of the men, i.e. those
who had had no night duty, went out doggedly against the enemy, with
trailing steps and gray, tired-out faces. The crackle of their lively
firing aroused the French from sleep, and perhaps from dreams of
conquest and fame, put them to confusion, and drove them back toward
Dijon. The Germans followed, this time without shouting, and as the fog
gradually dispersed, they saw the first skirmishers of the batteries on
Talant and Fontaine, apparently far distant against the Porte Guillaume
(the old town gate of Dijon, built to imitate a Roman arch of victory),
were really quite near them. One more tug and strain and the goal was
near. A fresh swing was put into the attack, but the French had found
time with the advancing day to gather themselves together, and to be
aware of the inferior numbers of the attacking party, and they threw
themselves in column formation down the hill, which the German division
threatened to attack in the rear. Fresh troops came marching out of
Dijon, and the Germans, to avoid being between two fires, drew back
again through the valley behind the mountain. The French pressed after
them, but were received by the German reserves with such a firm front,
that they paused and slowly retreated.
General von Kettler knew that in spite of his momentary success, he
could expect no further advance from his half-starved, cold, and weary
brigade, and therefore he ordered them half a mile to the rear. The
Garibaldian troops, who thought victory could be gained by one
strenuous effort, tried to arrest the departing troops, endeavoring to
bring them back to another advance. When they were at last distributed
in the villages, the exhausted Germans found rest and refreshment for
the first time for forty-eight hours. They had lost a tenth part of
their powers of endurance in those dreadful two days spent on the hills
in sight of Dijon.
The brigade had retreated, as one who jumps goes a step or two backward
to obtain more impetus. The next morning, January 23, they ware again
on the march to Dijon. This time, however, they chose another way to
avoid the batteries of Talant and Fontaine, and approached the town
from the north instead of from the west. Following the road and the
railway embankment from Langres to Dijon, the German troops pressed
forward without halting. The French outposts and breastworks soon fell
before the advancing Germans, and made no stand till they got to the
Faubourg St. Nicholas, the northeast suburb of Dijon. The greater
number of the Germans stationed themselves on the embankment, but the
walls of the vineyard, plentifully loopholed, pressed them hard with
shot. Toward evening the second battalion of the 61st, to which Wilhelm
belonged, received the order to advance. Over pleasure-gardens and
vineyards they went, through poor people's deserted houses the four
companies of skirmishers worked their way to the entrance of the Rue
St. Catherine, a long, narrow street. Just at the end stood a large
three-storied factory, whose front, filled with large high windows,
looked like a framework of stone and iron. At every window there was a
crowd of soldiers; the whole front bristled with death-dealing weapons.
Sixteen windows were on each floor, and at every window at least three
rows of four soldiers stood. It was therefore easy to reckon the total
number at six hundred at the very least.
As the points of the German bayonets came round the corner in sight of
this fortress a terrible change took place: in the twinkling of an eye
all the openings blazed out at once, and the building seemed to shake
from its foundations; forty-eight red tongues of flame blazed out
suddenly to right and left, as if so many throats of Vulcan or abysses
into hell had been opened, and soon the whole building was wrapped in a
thick white smoke, through which the men were invisible. Then a fresh
roar and fresh bursts of flame, and fresh puffing out of white smoke,
and so it went on, flash after flash, roar after roar came from that
awful wall, whose windows were every now and then visible between the
volleys of smoke. Hardly one of the soldiers within the line of fire
was left standing, numbers were crushed, many more lying dead or
wounded-and the furious firing took on a fresh impetus. If the whole
battalion was not to be destroyed, it must speedily get under cover.
So, running some hundred and fifty yards to the right, they threw
themselves into an apparently deep sandpit, and there they lay directly
opposite to the factory. During these few minutes the facade, still
vomiting fire, bellowed and poured out bullets like hailstones against
the sixty men in the sandpit, doing murderous work.
Hardly giving themselves time to take breath, the brave men began to
fire steadily at the factory, which up till now appeared, in spite of
its nearness, to be very little damaged. The enemy were there
completely enveloped from sight, and a lurid red flame through the
cloud of smoke was the only guide for the German shot. So the fighting
lasted for some time, till an adjutant sprang from over the field
behind, which he had reached by a circuitous way, bringing from the
commander-in-chief the questions as to what was going on, and why were
they there. The major pointed with his sword at the factory, and said
"We must have artillery against this."
"There is none here to have," answered the adjutant.
The major shrugged his shoulders, and gave the command for the Fifth
company to storm the factory. While they prepared themselves to leave
the sandpit the German firing stopped, and almost at the same time, the
French. The enemy could now see what was going on outside, for at this
moment the cloud of smoke became less dense. The company broke out of
the sandpit, and with the flag of the battalion gallantly waving over
them rushed madly toward the door of the factory, while the men who
were left behind tried by a furious fire to support their comrades and
to confuse the enemy. The strange silence had lasted forty or fifty
seconds, probably till the Germans had given some idea of their
intentions. This bit of time allowed the storming party to gain,
without loss, the middle of the space which separated them from their
object, the intoxication of victory began to possess them, and they
gave a cheer which rang with the exultant sound of triumph. Again the
crashing din began, as terribly as before, it was an uninterrupted
sound like the howling of a hurricane, in which no single report or
salvo could be distinguished; the whole building seemed to flame at
once from the top to the bottom in one red glow, and the bullets flew
and whistled in such a confusing mass, that it seemed as if the heavens
were opened and it rained balls, a dozen for every four square foot of
earth, and the men felt that they must be prepared for repeated attacks
of the same description, one after the other without stopping. In but a
few seconds half of the company lay on the ground, and the colors had
disappeared among the fallen. Those who remained standing seemed for a
short time as if stunned. A few, acting on the instinct of
self-preservation, fled almost unconsciously. Among the greater part,
however, the fighting Prussian instinct prevailed, impelling the
soldiers forward and never back, and so with renewed shouts they
pressed on. But only for a few minutes. The colors flew upward again,
raised by hands wearied to death, only to fall again at once. Three
times--four times the flag emerged, sinking again and again, and each
flutter meant a new sacrifice, and each fall the death of a hero. Soon
there was no one left standing, no man and no standard, nothing but a
gray heap of bodies, whose limbs palpitated and moved like some
fabulous sea creature, making groaning, ghostly sounds. Ten or twelve
poor fellows wounded by stray shots sheltered themselves in the sandpit
without weapons, with staring eyes and distorted features. That was all
there was left of the Fifth company.
There was deathly silence in the sandpit; the firing had ceased for
some minutes. The soldiers looked at one another, and at the mountain
of human bodies before them in the evening twilight, and threw doubtful
glances at the handful of men just returned, lying exhausted on the
ground. Suddenly the major called out:
"The colors!"
"The colors!" murmured several men, while others remained silent.
"We must search for them under the wounded," said the major sadly.
His glance strayed right and left, and seemed to invite volunteers
among the twenty or thirty who were nearest to him. The little band
cautiously left their shelter, and set diligently to work on the hill
of dead bodies. But in spite of the growing darkness they were observed
by the French, who began their fire anew, and a few minutes later no
living soul was left on the field.
The captain and Wilhelm were now the only remaining officers of the
battalion. The former cried: "Who--will volunteer?" and was surrounded
by a dozen brave fellows. Wilhelm was not among them. He stood leaning
on his sword against the half-frozen side of the pit, observing with
sorrowful expression what was going on around him. The captain threw
him a strange look, in which contempt and reproach were mingled, then
he drew out his watch, as if to note the last moment of his life, and
with the cry "Forward!" disappeared in the evening light. He did not
reach the spot where the corpses lay thickest. The factory went on
spitting fire, and crashing everything down over the heap. The shots,
however, came more slowly, and pauses came between them. A shriek was
heard, not far distant. Evidently it was one of the wounded who lay on
the ground. At the same time a form could be distinguished raising
itself up and then sinking again. Heedless of the balls which whistled
round his ears, Wilhelm raised his head out of the sandpit and looked
over the field. Then he worked himself out on his hands and knees, and
to the astonishment of the soldiers in the pit moved away toward the
wounded, alone and without hurry or excitement. Over there on the other
side they saw him, and although the artillery did not fire on him, he
received a brisk volley of single shots without, however, being hit,
and he reached the first group of wounded. A hasty glance showed him
only stiffened limbs and stony faces. He went on searching, and then he
heard close by him a feeble voice saying: "Here!" and a hand was
stretched out to him. With one bound he was near the wounded man, and
recognized the captain.
"Are you seriously hurt?" he asked, while as quickly as possible he
raised the wounded man on his shoulder, who answered almost inaudibly:
"A ball through the chest, and one in my foot. I am in awful pain."
As Wilhelm went slowly back with his burden, he looked so fantastic in
the growing darkness, that the French did not know what to make of the
strange apparition, and began to fire afresh. "Wilhelm, however,
reached the sandpit safely, where friendly arms were stretched out to
help him, and relieve him of the captain. He stayed to breathe a
moment, and then said:
"If any one will come with me, we might bring in one or two more poor
devils who have still life in them."
He was soon surrounded by five or six figures, and he was going with
them to search for wounded in the rain of balls which was falling, when
with a sudden cry of pain he sank backward. A ball had struck his right
leg. His volunteers put him back into the sandpit, and no one thought
any more either of the colors or the wounded who lay out there under
the fire from the factory. At this moment too an adjutant brought the
command to retreat, which the remains of the wearied battalion slowly
began, to obey under the command of a sub-officer.
The captain, who could not be moved, was left in a peasant's hut in the
village of Messigny, but as Wilhelm's injury was only a flesh wound,
and he was merely exhausted from loss of blood, he was sent with the
others to Tonnerre, where he arrived the next day, after a journey of
great suffering.
The schoolhouse was turned into an infirmary, many of the rooms holding
nearly a hundred and twenty beds. Wilhelm was put into a little room,
which he shared with one French and two German officers. A Sister of
Mercy and a male volunteer nurse attended to the patients in this as
well as in the four neighboring rooms. Wilhelm exercised the same
influence here as he did everywhere, by the power of his pale thin
face, which had not lost all its beauty; by the sympathetic tones of
his voice, and above all by the nobility of his quiet, patient nature.
His fellow-sufferers were attracted to him as if he were a magnet. Some
occupants of the room gave up their cigars when they noticed that he
did not smoke. The Frenchman declared immediately that he was le
Prussien le plus charmant he had ever seen. The Sister took him to her
motherly heart, and the doctor was constantly at his bedside. He was
able to give him a great deal of attention without neglecting his duty,
as there were few very severe cases under his care, and no new ones
came in--Paris had surrendered and a truce was declared.
At first Wilhelm's wound was very bad. It had been carelessly bound up
at first, and in the long journey to the infirmary had been neglected,
but owing to antiseptic treatment the fever soon abated and then left
him entirely. He took such a particular fancy to the doctor that after
a few days they were like old friends, and knew everything about each
other.
Dr. Schrotter was an unusual type, both in appearance and character. Of
middle height, extraordinarily broad-shouldered, and with large strong
hands and feet, he gave the impression of having been intended for a
giant, whose growth had stopped before reaching its fulfillment. The
powerful, nobly-formed he ad was rather bent, as if it bore some heavy
burden. His light hair, not very thick, and slightly gray on the
temples, grew together in a tuft over the high forehead. The
closely-cropped beard left his chin free, and the fine mustache showed
a mouth with a rather satirical curve and closely compressed lips A
strong aquiline nose and narrow bright blue eyes completed a
physiognomy indicating great reserve and a remarkable degree of
melancholy. It is no advantage to a man to possess a Sphinx-like head.
The pretty faces apparently full of secrets offer easy deceptions, and
one expects that the mouth when open will reveal all that the eyes seem
to mean. One is half-angry and half-inclined to laugh when one
discovers that the face of the Sphinx has quite an everyday meaning,
and utters only commonplaces. But with Dr. Schrotter one had no such
deception. He spoke quite simply, and when he closed his lips he left
in the minds of his listeners a hundred thoughts which his words had
conveyed, He was born in Breslau, had studied in Berlin, and had
started a practice there when his student day's were over. The
Revolution of '48 came, and he at once threw himself head over ears
into it. He fought at the barricades, took part in the storming of the
Arsenal, became a celebrated platform orator, and relieved a great deal
of distress during the reactionary policy which followed, leaving soon
afterward, however, to travel abroad. He went to London almost
penniless, and at first, through his ignorance of the language, he was
barely able to maintain himself, but he soon had the good fortune to
obtain an appointment in the East India Company. In the spring of 1850
he went to Calcutta, where he helped to manage the School of Medicine,
and some years later was sent to Lahore, where he also established a
medical school. After twenty years' service he was discharged with a
considerable pension. His return to Europe falling in with the outbreak
of the war, he hastened to offer his voluntary services to the army as
surgeon. Owing to temperate habits and a strong physique, he had kept
in good health, and no one would have dreamed that this strong,
fifty-year-old man had passed so many years in an enervating tropical
climate. The only signs it had left on his face were the dark,
yellowish color of his skin, and the habit of keeping the eyes
half-closed. The long years in India had also made a deep impression on
his character, and many things about him would have appeared strange
and odd in a European. They amounted to sheer contradictions, but their
explanation was to be looked for in the environment of his life.
Physically he was still young, but his mind seemed very old, and had
that appearance of dwelling quietly apart which is the privilege of
wise minds who have done with life, and who look on at the close of the
comedy free from illusions. His eyes often flashed with enthusiasm, but
his speech was always gentle and quiet. In his relations with other men
he had the decided manner of one who was accustomed to command, and at
the same time the kindness of a patriarch for his children. He was a
moderate sceptic, nevertheless he combined with it a mysticism which a
superficial judge might have denounced as superstition. He believed,
for instance, that many persons had power over wild animals; that they
could raise themselves into the air; that they could interrupt the
duration of their lives for months, or even for years, and then resume
it again; that they could read the thoughts of others, and communicate
without help the speech of others over unlimited distances. All these
things he averred he had himself seen, and if people asked him how they
were possible, he answered simply, "I can no more explain these
phenomena than I can explain the law of gravitation, or the
transformation of a caterpillar into a moth. The first principles of
everything are inexplicable. The difference in our surroundings is only
that some things are frequently observed, and others only seldom."
His philosophy, which he had learned from the Brahmins, attracted
Wilhelm greatly; it made many things clear to him which he himself had
vaguely felt possible ever since he had learned to think. "The
phenomenon of things on this earth," said Dr. Schrotter, "is a riddle
which we try to read in vain. We are borne away by a flood, whose
source and whose mouth are equally hidden from us. It is of no avail
when we anxiously cry, 'Whence have we come, and whither are we going?'
The wisest course for us is to lie quietly by the banks and let
ourselves drift--the blue sky above us, and the breaking of the waves
beneath us. From time to time we come to some fragrant lotus-flower,
which we may gather." And when Wilhelm complained that the philosophy
of the world is so egoistic, Dr. Schrotter answered, "Egoism is a word.
It depends on what meaning is attached to it. Every living being
strives after something he calls happiness, and all happiness is only a
spur goading us on to the search. It belongs to the peculiar organism
of a healthy being that he should be moved by sympathy. He cannot be
happy if he sees others suffering. The more highly developed a human
being is the deeper is this feeling, and the mere idea of the suffering
of others precludes happiness. The egoism of mankind is seen in this;
he searches for the suffering of others, and tries to alleviate it, and
in the combat with pain he insures his own happiness. A Catholic would
say of St. Vincent de Paul or St. Charles Borromeo, 'He was a great
saint.' I would say, 'He was a great egoist.' Let us render love to
those who are swimming with us down the stream of life, and without
pricking of conscience take joy in being egoists."
Wilhelm was never tired of talking about the wonderland of the rising
sun, of its gentle people and their wisdom, and Dr. Schrotter willingly
told him about his manner of life and experience there. So the peaceful
days went by in the quiet schoolhouse at Tonnerre, the monotony being
pleasantly relieved by visits from comrades, and letters from Paul
Haber and the Ellrichs. Paul was going on very well. He was at
Versailles, making acquaintances with celebrated people, and had
nothing to complain of except that, in spite of the truce, he had no
leave of absence to come and see his friend. Frau Ellrich complained of
the irregularity of their correspondence during the war. Loulou wrote
lively letters full of spirit and feeling. She had been frightened to
hear of his wound, but his convalescence had made her happy again. She
hoped that it would not leave him with a stiff leg, but even if it did
it would not matter so much, as he neither danced nor skated. What a
dreary winter they were having in Berlin! No balls, no parties, nothing
but lint-picking, and their only dissipation the arrival of the wounded
and the prisoners at the railway station. And that was quite spoiled by
the abominable newspaper articles on the subject--presuming to
criticize ladies because they were rather friendly to the French
officers! The French, whom one had known so well in Switzerland, must
be of some worth, and it was the woman's part to be kind to the wounded
enemy, and to intercede for human beings even in war, while the men
defended them by their courage and strength. Some of these Frenchmen
were charming, so witty, polite, and chivalrous, that one could almost
forgive them had they conquered us. One's friends were suffering so
much--one heard such dreadful things. Herr von Pechlar had escaped
without a hair being injured, and he already had an Iron Cross of the
first class! She hoped that Wilhelm would soon get one too.
Up till now Wilhelm had not been able to answer this question
decidedly. One morning, toward the end of February, as he was limping
about the room on a stick, the adjutant came in and said:
"I have brought you good news. You have won the Iron Cross." As Wilhelm
did not immediately answer he went on: "Your captain has the first
class. He is now out of danger. He has naturally surpassed you. I may
tell you between ourselves that it did not seem quite the thing, your
being so cool about the colors; but the way in which you fetched the
captain out was ripping. Don't be offended if I ask you why you exposed
yourself for the captain when you refused for the flag?"
"I don't mind telling you at all. The captain is a living man, and the
flag only a symbol. A symbol does not seem to me to be worth as much as
a man."
The adjutant stared at him, and he repeated confusedly:
"A symbol!"
Wilhelm said nothing in explanation, but went on:
"I regret very much that I was not asked before I was proposed for the
Iron Cross. I cannot accept it."
"Not take it? You can't really mean that!"
"Yes, I do. In trying to fulfill my duties as a man and a citizen, I
cannot hang a sign of my bravery on me for all passers-by to see."
"You speak like a tragedy, my dear Herr Eynhardt," said the adjutant.
"But just as you like. You can have the satisfaction of having done
something unique. It is hardly a usual thing to refuse the Iron Cross."
As he went out with a distant bow, Dr. Schrotter came in, and said,
smiling:
"What the adjutant said about the tragedy is very true. Decoration
appears very theatrical to me, but you might take it quietly and put it
in your pocket. I have got quite a collection of such things which I
never wear."
"But do you blame the men who despise these outward forms in order to
give an example to others?"
"My friend, when one is young one hopes to guide others, as one grows
older one grows more modest."
This objection struck Wilhelm, and he grew confused. Dr. Schrotter laid
his hand quietly on his shoulder, and said:
"That does not matter. We really mean the same thing. The difference is
only that you are twenty-five and I am fifty."
As Wilhelm was silent and thoughtful, Schrotter went on:
"There is a great deal to be said about symbols. Theoretically you are
right, but life practically does not permit of your views. Everything
which you see and do is a symbol, and where are you to draw the line?
The flag is one, but without doubt the battle is one too. I believe, in
spite of the historian who is wise after the event, that the so-called
decisive battles do not decide anything, and that it is the accidental
events which have the permanent influence on the destiny of peoples.
Neither Marathon nor Cannae kept the Greeks or Carthaginians from
destruction; all the Roman conquests did not prevent the Teutonic race
from overrunning the world; all the Crusader conquests of Jerusalem did
not maintain Christianity, or Napoleon's victories the first French
Empire; nor did the defeats sustained by the Russians in the Crimea
influence their development. And finally, I am convinced that Europe
to-day would not be materially different, even if all the decisive
victories of her people could be changed into defeats, and their
defeats into victories. So you see that a battle is a symbol of the
momentary capabilities of a people, and a very useless symbol, because
it tells nothing of the immediate future, and yet you will sacrifice
your life for this symbol, and not for another! It is not logical."
"You are right," said Wilhelm, "and our actions in cases like this are
not guided by logic. But one thing I am sure of, if everything else is
a symbol, a man's life is not. It is what it appears to be; it
signifies just itself."
"Do you think so?" said Schrotter thoughtfully.
"Yes, although I understand the doubt implied in your question. A
living man is to me a secret, which I respect with timidity and
reverence--who can tell his previous history, what things he does, what
truths he believes in, what happiness he is giving to others? Therefore
when I see him in danger I willingly risk my life to save his. I know
myself, and I estimate my value as a trifling thing."
Schrotter shook his head.
"If that were right, an adult must in all cases give his life to save a
child, because he might grow to be a Newton, or a Goethe, and above
all, because the child is the future, and that must always taken
precedence of the past and the present. But to a mature man that is not
practicable. There are no more secrets. Mankind knows that the probable
is planted within his own being. Do not seek to find additional reasons
for a fact which has already sprung up from unknown forces. It was
sympathy which impelled you, the natural feeling for a fellow-creature.
And that is right and natural."
Wilhelm looked at Schrotter gratefully as he affectionately grasped his
hand.