Anna Sophia returned to her solitary home in deep meditation, and
not even in the stillness of her room could she regain her accustomed
serenity and cheerfulness. Her thoughts were far away; for the first
time her room appeared to her gloomy and deserted. The memories of the
past did not now speak to her, and when she threw herself upon her bed,
it was without having bid her parents goodnight.
But even then she could find no rest. Strange visions were wafted before
her waking eyes, wonderful dreams took hold of her senses. She saw her
victorious king standing before her, his sparkling eyes beckoning her to
follow him. Then she saw herself in the front of an army, the fluttering
banner in her hand, the glittering shield on her breast, followed by
many brave warriors, who were all gazing proudly upon her. And again
she saw herself. But now she was all alone--alone by the side of an open
grave, with a gaping wound in her breast, raising her weary eyes upward
and murmuring with pale lips, “How sweet to die for one’s country!” Then
the brothers of her betrothed raised themselves slowly from among the
dead, and signed to her to follow them. She seemed to hear them saying,
“Revenge our death, our brother is faint-hearted!”
At this thought, she raised herself upon her couch.
“He is a coward,” murmured she. “I saw him turn pale and tremble, and
I felt as if a sword had entered my heart and destroyed all my love for
him. Yes, he is a coward, and instead of rejoicing at the thought of a
battle, he trembles.”
She covered her face with her hands, as if to hide from the night the
burning blush of shame that mounted to her brow. Thus she sat for hours
motionless, as if listening to the voices whispering to her from within,
until the first gleam of morning, the first ray of sun entered the open
window to arouse her from her waking dreams.
She sprang from her bed, and dressed herself with trembling eagerness.
The sun had arisen, and Charles Henry was no doubt already in the woods,
at the place she had appointed to meet him yesterday morning. When
bidding him good-by, she had whispered to him to meet her there in the
morning at sunrise; she did not then know why she had appointed this
meeting. She well knew it was not the longing to pass an undisturbed
hour with her lover that had actuated her. Anna had no such wish; her
heart was too pure, her love too cold. She had only felt that she would
have something to say to him; she knew not what herself.
But now she well knew what she had to say; it was all clear, and
therefore she was happy and cheerful. It seemed to her as if her soul
had taken flight, and as if there was a lark within her singing songs of
joy, and with these feelings she hastened down the road into the woods.
At the appointed place stood Charles Henry, and as his betrothed
approached him, so proud, so smiling, sparkling with beauty and youth,
it appeared to him that he had never seen her so exquisitely beautiful;
to her, as he advanced smilingly to meet her, he had never seemed so
small, so devoid of attractions.
When they met, they looked at each other in amazement--there was a
change in both.
“Anna Sophia,” said Charles Henry at last, sadly, “you have something
against me.”
“Yes,” said she, “I have something against you, otherwise I would not
have appointed this meeting here, where we can be heard by no one. Were
this that I have to tell you something good, something pleasant, all
the world might stand by and hear it, but as it is something painful, it
must be heard by you alone.”
She seated herself silently upon the ground, signing to Charles Henry to
follow her example.
“It was here,” said Anna, hastily, “that you first told me of your
love.”
“Yes, it was here, Anna,” repeated he, “and you then told me that my
love was returned, and that you would be my wife when we had saved
enough to commence housekeeping. But still I have always felt that you
were not kind to me, not as the other girls in the village are to their
lovers. You have never permitted me to come under your window at night;
I have never been allowed to take you in my arms and kiss you tenderly,
as the others boys do their sweethearts; and never, no never, have you
given me a kiss unasked; and, after all my entreaties, you kissed me
only in the presence of my old father and his dog.”
“It is not in my nature to be very tender,” said Anna, shrugging her
shoulders. “I read in one of my books lately a fairy tale, in which
there was a young girl, of whom it was said that a bad fairy had bound
her heart in iron, to prevent its full play; the girl was constantly
bewailing this fatality, saying, ‘I can only like, but never love.’
Perhaps it is thus with me, but I do not weep over it, like the foolish
girl in the book.”
“And was this what you had to tell me?” asked Charles Henry, mockingly.
She gave him a look that sent the jeering smile from his lip.
“No, Charles Henry,” said she, “this is not what I have to tell you.”
“Well, what is it then, Anna, for this wounds me?” said he impatiently.
“Perhaps the other will do so also,” said she, sadly. “But it must come
out, I cannot suppress it. Hear, Charles Henry, what I have to say, and
if it is not true, forgive me. I fear you do not go willingly into
the army, and that your heart does not beat with joy at the thought of
becoming a soldier.”
“You are right,” said Charles Henry, laughing, “I do not go willingly;
and how should it be otherwise? it is a wild, disorderly life, and it
strikes me it cannot be right for men who, our pastor says, should love
each other like brothers, to vie in cutting off each other’s limbs,
and to fire upon each other without mercy or pity, as if one were the
butcher, the other the poor ox, who only resists because he does not
wish to give up his life; and in this case all would be the butchers,
and none the oxen, therefore each one gives his stroke bravely to
preserve his own life.”
“It would be sad if it were as you say,” said Anna, shaking her head,
“but it is not so. The true soldier does not think of his life; he
thinks of his country, for which he will gladly shed his blood--of his
king, to whom he has sworn to be true--and of the glory which he will
gain for himself!”
Charles Henry looked in amazement upon Anna Sophia’s agitated
countenance.
“How do you know all this?” said he. “Who has told you that these are
soldiers’ thoughts?”
“I have read of it in my books, Charles Henry; in one of them there is
the history of a man whose name was Leonidas. He defended, with three
hundred of his soldiers, against many thousands of his enemy, a narrow
passway. He well knew that he could not conquer; his soldiers also knew
it, but they preferred death rather than the humiliation of laying
down their weapons and praying for mercy. And every man of them died
joyfully, giving up his life for his country.”
“Well, I must say they were fools!” cried Charles Henry, excitedly;
“if I had been there, I would not have done so--I would have sued for
pardon.”
“Yes,” said Anna Sophia thoughtfully--“yes, I think you would have done
as you say; and I have been wondering all through the past night whether
you would willingly and joyfully go to battle?”
“I? God forefend; I will not go joyfully--I will not go at all! This
morning I intend going to our pastor to receive from him a certificate,
showing that I cannot join the army, as I have a decrepit old father to
support, who would die without me.”
“Charles Henry, your father is not decrepit, nor very old, nor would he
starve if you were not here, for he can support himself.”
“But he may, at any moment, become unable to help himself, and then
he would need me; I would have no rest day or night when far away, but
would be thinking if my poor old father, lying sick and helpless in his
hut, with no one near to give him a piece of bread or a cup of water.”
“Let not this trouble you, Charles Henry,” said Anna, solemnly. “I swear
to you that I will love him and care for him as a daughter. He shall
want for nothing; and when he can work no longer, I am strong and
healthy enough to work for both of us. Go with a peaceful mind, I will
be here in your place.”
“No, no!” cried Charles Henry, turning pale; “I will not join the army.
I cannot, I will not be separated from you, Anna. You have sworn to
be my wife, and I will beseech the pastor to join us to-day; then they
cannot take me away from here, for I will have a father and a wife to
take care of.”
“Not for me, Charles Henry, for I will not marry yet. Have we saved
enough to commence housekeeping? Is this a time to marry and build a
nest, when war, misery, and ruin are raging throughout the country? No,
no! Charles Henry, we cannot marry now.”
“Because you do not wish it, Anna. But it shall be, for I have your
promise, and you must keep it. Ah, Anna Sophia, you do not know what a
longing I have to call you my wife!”
“But I have no such longing,” said she, drily; “no desire whatever to
marry; and I will tell you, that though you wish to marry to-day, it is
not out of love for me, but to save yourself.”
His eyes sunk before the large, searching ones fixed upon him.
“To save myself, and from what, Anna Sophia?”
“From being a soldier, Charles Henry! For last evening, I read upon your
countenance that you were devoid of courage.”
“You read that?”
“Yes, Charles Henry, fear was stamped upon your brow.”
“Well, then,” said he, after a pause, “you have read aright. I have no
courage, I fear for myself. I am not accustomed to stand still, while
some one is pointing his gun at me, and to cry, ‘Long live the king!’
when the cannon-balls are flying around me; to attack men who have
done me no harm, and to whom I wish to do none. When I think upon the
possibility of my being compelled to do this. I tremble, and my heart
ceases to beat. Do not require it of me, Anna, for if I have to go, I
will fly at the first fight, and come back here. They may then shoot me
as a deserter, if they choose; I prefer to die rather than to kill any
one else.”
Anna Sophia sprang from her seat with a cry of horror.
“I thought so,” said she, in a low voice; and, crossing her arms upon
her breast, she walked to and fro, thoughtfully.
Charles Henry looked at her in amazement, but had not the courage to
speak to her; for she was so completely changed, that he was almost
afraid of her. There was something so cold and proud about her to-day,
something aristocratic in her beauty. He thought to himself, “It is thus
that a queen would look when dressed as a peasant.” Anna Sophia stood
still before him at last, and gave him a tender, almost pitiful glance.
“Charles Henry,” said she, “you shall not join the army; I will not
suffer it.”
He sprang from his seat with a cry of joy.
“You will then marry me, Anna Sophia?” said he, exultingly. “You will
become my wife, so as to keep me here? You love me too much to let me
go!” He tried to embrace her, but she waved him off.
“No,” said she, “I will not marry you, but, still, you must not join the
army; for if you became a deserter, it would break your father’s heart,
and it would be a disgrace, not only for me, but for the whole village.
Think well over what you have said. Perhaps you are mistaken in
yourself, and only dislike joining the army on your poor father’s
account. Question your conscience and your heart, and remember, Charles
Henry, that God will hear your answer. Do you truly believe that you are
wanting in courage--that you would fly from the battle-field?”
“As truly as there is a God above us, I believe it, Anna Sophia. It is
not belief, it is certainty. It is not in my nature to be brave; I was
not brought up to it, and am therefore without it. I am an apt farmer,
but would be a bad soldier.”
Anna Sophia sighed deeply, and covered her face with her hands. Thus
she stood for some time in front of her betrothed, and he saw the
large tears, stealing through her fingers, fall upon the grass, to be
transformed there by the sun into sparkling jewels.
“Why do you weep, Anna Sophia?” asked he, gently. “What has so suddenly
made you sad?”
Her hands fell slowly and wearily from her face. “I am not weeping now,”
said she, “it is past--I have shed my last tear. Now we must settle upon
what is to be done, for you cannot be a soldier.”
“But they will force me,” said he, “for I am tall, strong, and
healthy--just the build for a soldier.”
Anna Sophia raised herself proudly and stood beside him. “I am as tall
as you,” said she.
“It is true,” replied Charles Henry, laughing, “we are of the same
height. We can scarcely fail to have tall, good-looking children some of
these days!”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and looked at him in a strange
manner. “I am as strong and as healthy as you,” said she, “my sight is
as sharp, my hand as sure. Were I Charles Henry Buschman, I would be
a good soldier, for I have courage--I would lot tremble at the
cannon-balls.”
“But, fortunately, you are not a man,” said Charles Henry, laughing.
“You are the beautiful Anna Sophia, who is this day to become my wife to
save me from being a soldier.”
“No, Charles Henry; the war must be at an end, and Charles Henry
Buschman must have returned a brave soldier, before I can marry him.”
“You mean,” said he, with trembling lips--“you mean I must be a
soldier?”
“As you have said, they will not let you off. You are a strong, healthy
youth--you are unmarried, and have no one to support, for your father
can take care of himself. Why, then, as the king is in need of soldiers,
should they pass you by?”
“It is too true.” murmured Charles Henry, despondently. After a slight
pause, he said: “But I will not be a soldier--I cannot! For it is true I
am a coward--I have not a particle of courage! That is born with one, it
cannot be acquired; I have it not, and cannot therefore be a soldier.”
“Nor shall you become one,” said Anna, with determination.
“What can you do?”
“I will join the army in your stead!”
Charles Henry stared at her. He was on the point of laughing, but
the sight of her inspired, earnest countenance, in which a world of
determination was expressed, sobered him completely.
“I will do as I said, for I have great courage, and when I think of a
battle my heart beats loudly, not with fear but with rapturous joy.
To me, nothing would be more glorious than to die, banner in hand,
surrounded by the thunder of cannon, and to cry out exultingly, as the
blood flows from my wounds, ‘Vive le roi! vive la patrie!’” Her form was
raised majestically, her countenance beamed with inspiration, a daring
fire sparkled in her eyes--she was so changed in form and expression,
that Charles Henry drew back from her in terror.
“I am afraid of you, Anna Sophia,” said he, shuddering. “You are
changed--you are not like yourself.”
“No,” said she; “nor am I the same. Yesterday I was Anna Sophia
Detzloff--from to-day I am Charles Henry Buschman. Do not interrupt
me--it must be! You shall not break your father’s heart--you shall not
bring disgrace upon the village. The king has called you--you must obey
the call. But I will go in your place; you shall remain quietly at home,
thrashing your corn, cutting your hay, and taking care of your kind old
father, while I shall be upon the battle-field, fighting in your place.”
“Do you then love me well enough to give your life for me?” cried
Charles Henry, with streaming eyes.
She shook her head slowly, thoughtfully. “I do not know if it be love,”
said she. “I only feel that it must be done--there is no other outlet
but this to help us all. Let us speak no more about it--only tell me
that you accept it.”
“It is impossible, Anna Sophia.”
“Only accept it, and all will be right.”
“I cannot. It would be an everlasting shame to me.”
She pressed her teeth tightly together--her eyes gleamed with anger.
“Hear me out,” said she. “Go, or stay--whichever you do--I do not remain
here! I must away and seek my fortune. I have never been happy, as
yet--upon the battle-field I may be. I have nothing to lose, and can
therefore win all. Well, say! Am I to be a soldier in your stead?”
“If you really wish it, I must yield,” said he, sadly. “You say you have
nothing to lose, but I, I have you, and I cannot, will not lose you. And
as you would be angry with and leave me if I said ‘No,’ I prefer saying
‘Yes.’”
Anna Sophia gave a cry of delight, and, for the first time, gave Charles
Henry a willing kiss. “Many, many thanks, Charles Henry,” said she. “Now
we will all be happy.”
Charles Henry sighed. He could not bring himself to trust in Anna’s
prophecy.
“And now,” said she, eagerly, “how shall we go about it?”