The Pen and the Sword.
The late afternoon sun of a bright September day shone through the
thick-leaved boughs of the ancient gigantic chestnuts which shaded the
avenues and grass-plats of the broad park stretching behind the castle
of S., one of those magnificently situated country seats in which the
interior of France is so rich. This castle, on the western declivity of
a precipitous range of hills, which at this point unfolded all their
widely-romantic beauty, as well as the village in its immediate
vicinity, had just been seized as quarters for the soldiery. A Rhenish
landwehr regiment, after having taken part in all the August battles
had been ordered back here to protect the mountain region from roving
bands of French fusileers, and to keep the passes free. It was a
dangerous and arduous post for the rather small detachment, which, many
miles distant from its comrades, almost daily undertook excursions to
the mountains, thereby placing itself in constant danger of an attack
for which this region was only too favorable. The soldiery lay in the
village, while the officers had quartered themselves close by in the
castle, whose inmates had naturally fled. These gentlemen, for the
moment at least, seemed to have surrendered themselves to an idleness
of late only rarely offered them; from the terrace echoed loud talking
and laughing, blended with the ringing of glasses.
At the entrance of the park, under one of these giant chestnuts, lay a
landwehr officer stretched upon the tall grass, and gazing up into the
thick leafy roof through which the setting sun threw hither and thither
its palpitating rays. The floral treasures of the garden, arranged with
great art and care, and now resplendent with all the summer's
magnificence and luxuriance, appeared to fetter his attention just as
little as the sound of his comrades' merriment coming down to him from
the castle. He raised his head only when an approaching footstep
startled him from his dream.
A man of about thirty years, his uniform and the bands upon his arm
designating him as a surgeon, came up the path as if in search of some
one, and halted before the reclining officer.
"I thought as much! Here you lie dreaming again, while I, by the sweat
of my brow, am winning popularity for you. You really do not concern
yourself about it in the least!"
The man addressed half rose and supported himself on his elbows. "I
have a duty to perform," he said. "I must go down to the village at
four o'clock."
"And for that reason you must make yourself invisible at three? Do not
deny it, Walter, you ran away from us because you remarked that I had
the horrible intention of reading aloud a poem, a copy of which I
forced from you. But flight does not avail you; on your return, you
will be received with general acclamation. Our major swears that he
never heard anything like it his life; the adjutant was just as
enthusiastic in its praise. You know he is a sort of amateur critic,
well versed in aesthetics, and from the very first you wonderfully
impressed him with your learning. He reminds us how highly favored we
are by destiny in being able to call a poet our companion-in-arms, a
poet Germany will one day salute as it greatest genius. Our lieutenant
swears by all the gods of the upper and lower world, that if the French
had possessed a bard who before the battle had inspired them with such
songs, they would have given us more to do; but your poetry has had the
most stupendous effect upon our fat captain; it has made him forget his
dram!"
"Stop this nonsense!" said the young officer half in anger, as he sank
back to his reclining posture.
"_Nonsense!_ I give you my word that I have only repeated literally to
you, what was said. Did you hear the glasses ring? All the officers
were just then solemnly guaranteeing you immortality. I am sent to
seize the flying singer, and bring him back, living or dead. They
clamorously demand your presence."
"Spare me! You know how much I dislike such ovations."
"And again do you refuse to come? Well, it is just like you! We ought
by this time to have learned that we can have Lieutenant Fernow's
company only when some service is required, or some fight is at hand.
You run away from all recognition of your talents, as any other man
would run from punishment. You must cease this, Walter; it really is
not fitting for the future poet of Germany."
Fernow had meantime risen; he had put on the helmet which lay near him
in the grass, and bound his sword more firmly. One who two months ago
had seen the learned professor of the university of B. would certainly
not have recognized him in this young warrior, whose military coat
fitted the slender form excellently, as if he had all his life worn no
other. The sickly pallor and the deep, shadowy rings about the eyes,
had vanished with the bowed form and the unhealthy appearance. The
forehead and cheeks were deeply sunburned, the blood coursed vigorously
through the veins, the blonde hair, little cared for, waved in
luxuriant profusion under the helmet; the once smooth chin wore a heavy
beard; the upright military bearing seemed to cost the present landwehr
lieutenant not the slightest effort, and the once delicate hands, with
a strong grip, now seized the sword. These six weeks in the field had
wrought wonders; it was evident at the first glance--Doctor Stephen's
radical cure had been affected.
"You place too much value on my songs," he said evasively. "The verses,
written upon the inspiration of the moment, inspire only for the
moment, and when the excitement which called them forth is ended, they
will fall into forgetfulness."
"Do you think so?" asked the surgeon gravely. "I may be allowed to
doubt it. In your verses resounds more than a mere battle-cry, although
you may, perhaps, in future, thank the war for having roused your
slumbering talent and for showing you the path to future renown."
"Perhaps!" said Fernow gloomily. "And perhaps, also, a bullet may
to-day or to-morrow make an end of all the promised renown?"
"Can you not throw off this eternal melancholy?" asked the doctor
chidingly. "Walter, I really believe you are bearing an unhappy love
around with you."
"Not at all!" cried Fernow passionately, and turned away. The deep
flush which earlier had suffused his pale face at every violent
excitement, again appeared, although less visible in the bronzed
countenance.
This sudden emotion had escaped the surgeon. He had been a younger
colleague of Doctor Stephen, a private tutor in the university of B. He
and Fernow had known each other sufficiently to exchange a passing
salutation as they met. This had lasted for three years, but the army
life had in a few hours made them acquaintances, and in a few weeks,
friends.
The always merry young doctor laughed aloud at his own comic idea. "I
have really been very curious as to the where and when! Since we have
been in the field, I have scarcely stirred from your side, and in B.
you never so much as looked at a woman, for which reason, the fairer
half of the city, with good reason, declared you outlawed and
proscribed." Fernow made no answer; he busied himself with the hilt of
his sword.
"But Doctor Stephen was right with his diagnosis," continued the
surgeon after a momentary pause, "although I would not believe it when
he came over to H. to commend you to my care, he having heard that I
was assigned to your regiment. I could with a good conscience, promise
to do my best, for I was convinced that you would be the first patient,
to fall into my hands. The first week, I would not have given a penny
for your life, but when the marches and hardships began, when our men
fell in scores beneath the fiery August sun, and you still held out;
when amid all the over exertion and deprivation which sometimes lay low
the strongest, you grew only healthier and more robust then I took off
my hat to the superior discernment of my old colleague. Walter, you
have one of the best constitutions, a really magnificent constitution,
which only needed to renounce the study and the writing-desk, to gain
its full development; and you have found the right, although somewhat
unusual remedy for your nerves. The thunder of the cannon has
thoroughly re-established them! This will be a surprise to everyone
when you return to B."
"When I return?"
"Forever and eternally, these presentiments of death!" cried the
surgeon, with an impatient gesture. "You cling to them with a genuine
passion."
"Because I feel them!"
"Nonsense! If there is a man bullet-proof it is you! Do not take it ill
of me, Walter, but your rushing to the front in all these battles,
borders on insanity. Courage need not become reckless; but where
excitement urges you on, you see and hear nothing. Your comrades all
say this."
"And still there is not one among them, who a little while ago, would
have owned that I possessed any courage at all," returned Fernow, with
some bitterness.
"I know that," said the surgeon, frankly. "But to tell the truth you
used to have little enough of the hero in you. You were entirely a man
of the pen, who wholly absorbed in his books had nothing to do with the
outside world. Now that is all a thing of the past, as well as the
error of your comrades. Since the first battle, none doubt your
courage."
Fernow smiled sadly. His eyes alone had not changed. There lay within
them the old dreaminess and the old sadness.