Half Leyden had followed the brave captain’s coffin, and among the other
soldiers, who rendered the last honors to the departed, was Georg von
Dornburg. After the funeral, the musician Wilhelm led the son of the
kind comrade, whom so many mourned, to his house. Van der Werff found
many things to be done after the burial, but reserved the noon hour; for
he expected the German to dine.
The burgomaster, as usual, sat at the head of the table; the Junker
had taken his place between him and Maria, opposite to Barbara and the
children.
The widow never wearied of gazing at the young man’s fresh, bright face,
for although her son could not compare with him in beauty, there was
an honest expression in the Junker’s eyes, which reminded her of her
Wilhelm.
Many a question and answer had already been exchanged between those
assembled round the board, many a pleasant memory recalled, when Peter,
after the dishes had been removed and a new jug with better wine placed
on the table, filled the young nobleman’s glass again, and raised his
own.
“Let us drink this bumper,” he cried, gazing at Georg with sincere
pleasure in his eyes, “let us drink to the victory of the good cause,
for which you too voluntarily draw your sword. Thanks for the vigorous
pledge. Drinking is also an art, and the Germans are masters of it.”
“We learn it in various places, and not worst at the University of
Jena.”
“All honor to the doctors and professors, who bring their pupils up to
the standard of my dead brother-in-law, and judging from this sample
drink, you also.”
“Leonhard was my teacher in the ‘ars bibendi.’ How long ago it is!”
“Youth is not usually content,” replied Peter, “but when the point
in question concerns years, readily calls ‘much,’ what seems to older
people ‘little.’ True, many experiences may have been crowded into the
last few years of your life. I can still spare an hour, and as we are
all sitting so cosily together here, you can tell us, unless you wish to
keep silence on the subject, how you chanced to leave your distant home
for Holland, and your German and Latin books to enlist under the English
standard.”
“Yes,” added Maria, without any trace of embarrassment. “You still owe
me the story. Give thanks, children, and then go.”
Adrian gazed beseechingly first at his mother and then at his father,
and as neither forbade him to stay, moved his chair close to his sister,
and both leaned their heads together and listened with wide open eyes,
while the Junker first quietly, then with increasing vivacity, related
the following story:
“You know that I am a native of Thuringia, a mountainous country in the
heart of Germany. Our castle is situated in a pleasant valley, through
which a clear river flows in countless windings. Wooded mountains, not
so high as the giants in Switzerland, yet by no means contemptible,
border the narrow boundaries of the valley. At their feet the fields
and meadows, at a greater height rise pine forests, which, like the
huntsman, wear green robes at all seasons of the year. In winter, it
is true, the snow cover them with a glimmering white sheet. When spring
comes, the pines put forth new shoots, as fresh and full of sap as the
budding foliage of your oaks and beeches, and in the meadows by the
river it begins to snow in the warm breezes, for then one fruit-tree
blooms beside another, and when the wind rises, the delicate white
petals flutter through the air and fall among the bright blossoms in the
grass, and on the clear surface of the river. There are also numerous
barren cliffs on the higher portions of the mountains, and where they
towered in the most rugged, inaccessible ridges, our ancestors built
their fastnesses, to secure themselves from the attacks of their
enemies. Our castle stands on a mountain-ridge in the midst of the
valley of the Saale. There I was born, there I sported through the years
of my boyhood, learned to read and guide the pen. There was plenty of
hunting in the forests, we had spirited horses in the stable, and, wild
lad that I was, I rarely went voluntarily into the school-room, the
grey-haired teacher, Lorenz, had to catch me, if he wanted to get
possession of me. My sisters and Hans, our youngest child, the boy was
only three years younger than I, kept quiet--I had an older brother too,
yet did not have him. When his beard was first beginning to grow, he was
given by our gracious Duke to Chevalier von Brand as his esquire, and
sent to Spain, to buy Andalusian horses. John Frederick’s father had
learned their value in Madrid after the battle of Muhlburg. Louis was
a merry fellow when he went away, and knew how to tame the wildest
stallion. It was hard for our parents to believe him dead, but years
elapsed, and as neither he nor Chevalier von Brand appeared, we were
obliged to give him up for lost. My mother alone could not do this, and
constantly expected his return. My father called me the future heir
and lord of the castle. When I had passed beyond boyhood and understood
Cicero tolerably well, I was sent to the University of Jena to study
law, as my uncle, the chancellor, wished me to become a counsellor of
state.
“Oh Jena, beloved Jena! There are blissful days in May and June, when
only light clouds float in the sky, and all the leaves and flowers
are so fresh and green, that one would think--they probably think so
themselves--that they could never fade and wither; such days in human
existence are the period of joyous German student life. You can believe
it. Leonhard has told you enough of Jena. He understood how to unite
work and pleasure; I, on the contrary, learned little on the wooden
benches, for I rarely occupied them, and the dust of books certainly
didn’t spoil my lungs. But I read Ariosto again and again, devoted
myself to singing, and when a storm of feeling seethed within my breast,
composed many songs for my own pleasure. We learned to wield the sword
too in Jena, and I would gladly have crossed blades with the sturdy
fencing-master Allertssohn, of whom you have just told me. Leonhard was
older than I, and when he graduated with honor, I was still very weak
in the pandects. But we were always one in heart and soul, so I went
to Holland with him to attend his wedding. Ah, those were days! The
theologians in Jena have actively disputed about the part of the earth,
in which the little garden of Paradise should be sought. I considered
them all fools, and thought: ‘There is only one Eden, and that lies in
Holland, and the fairest roses the dew waked on the first sunny morning,
bloom in Delft!’”
At these words Georg shook back his waving locks and hesitated in great
embarrassment, but as no one interrupted him and he saw Barbara’s eager
face and the children’s glowing cheeks, quietly continued:
“So I came home, and was to learn for the first time, that in life also
beautiful sunny days often end with storms. I found my father ill, and
a few days after my return he closed his eyes in death. I had never seen
any human being die, and the first, the very first, was he, my father.”
Georg paused, and deeply moved, passed his hand over his eyes.
“Your father!” cried Barbara, in a tone of cordial sympathy, breaking
the silence. “If we can judge the tree by the apple, he was surely a
splendid man.”
The Junker again raised his head, exclaiming with sparkling eyes:
“Unite every good and noble quality, and embody them in the form of a
tall, handsome man, then you will have the image of my father;--and I
might tell you of my mother--”
“Is she still alive?” asked Peter.
“God grant it!” exclaimed the young man. “I have heard nothing from my
family for two months. That is hard. Pleasures smile along every path,
and I like my profession of soldier, but it often grieves me sorely to
hear so little from home. Oh! if one were only a bird, a sunbeam, or a
shooting-star, one might, if only for the twinkling of an eye, learn
how matters go at home and fill the soul with fresh gratitude, or, if it
must be--but I will not think of that. In the valley of the Saale, the
trees are blossoming and a thousand flowers deck all the meadows, just
as they do here, and did there two years ago, when I left home for the
second time.
“After my father’s death I was the heir, but neither hunting nor riding
to court, neither singing nor the clinking of beakers could please me.
I went about like a sleep-walker, and it seemed as if I had no right to
live without my father. Then--it is now just two years ago--a messenger
brought from Weimar a letter which had come from Italy with several
others, addressed to our most gracious sovereign; it contained the news
that our lost brother was still alive, lying sick and wretched in the
hospital at Bergamo. A kind nun had written for him, and we now learned
that on the journey from Valencia to Livorno Louis had been captured by
corsairs and dragged to Tunis. How much suffering he endured there, with
what danger he at last succeeded in obtaining his liberty, you shall
learn later. He escaped to Italy on a Genoese galley. His feet carried
him as far as Bergamo, but he could go no farther, and now lay ill,
perhaps dying, among sympathizing strangers. I set out at once and did
not spare horseflesh on the way to Bergamo, but though there were many
strange and beautiful things to be seen on my way, they afforded me
little pleasure, the thought of Louis, so dangerously ill, saddened my
joyous spirits. Every running brook urged me to hasten, and the lofty
mountains seemed like jealous barriers. When once beyond St. Gotthard
I felt less anxious, and as I rode down from Bellinzona to Lake Lugano,
and the sparkling surface of the water beyond the city smiled at me like
a blue eye, forgot my grief for a time, waved my hat, and sung a song.
In Bergamo I found my brother, alive, but enfeebled in mind and body,
weak, and without any desire to take up the burden of life again. He
had been in good hands, and after a few weeks we were able to travel
homeward--this time I went through beautiful Tyrol. Louis’s strength
daily increased, but the wings of his soul had been paralyzed by
suffering. Alas, for long years he had dug and carried heavy loads, with
chains on his feet, beneath a broiling sun. Chevalier von Brand could
not long endure this hard fate, but Louis, while in Tunis, forgot both
how to laugh and weep, and which of the two can be most easily spared?
“Even when he saw my mother again, he could not shed a tear, yet his
whole body--and surely his heart also--trembled with emotion. Now he
lives quietly at the castle. In the prime of manhood he is an old man,
but he is beginning to accommodate himself to life, only he can’t bear
the sight of a strange face. I had a hard battle with him, for as the
eldest son, the castle and estate, according to the law, belong to him,
but he wanted to resign his rights and put me in his place. Even when
he had brought my mother over to his side, and my uncle and brothers and
sisters tried to persuade me to yield to his wish, I remained resolute.
I would not touch what did not belong to me, and our youngest boy,
Wolfgang, has grown up, and can fill my place wherever it is necessary.
When the entreaties and persuasions became too strong for me, I saddled
my horse and went away again. It was hard for my mother to let me go,
but I had tasted the delight of travelling, and rode off as if to a
wedding. If I must be perfectly frank, I’ll confess that I resigned
castle and estates like a troublesome restraint. Free as the wind and
clouds, I followed the same road over which I had ridden with Leonhard,
for in your country a war after my own heart was going on, and my future
fortune was to be based upon my sword. In Cologne I enlisted under the
banner of Louis of Nassau, and fought with him at Mook Heath till every
one retreated. My horse had fallen, my doublet was torn, there was
little left save good spirits and the hope of better days. These were
soon found, for Captain Gensfort asked me to join the English troops. I
became his ensign, and at Alfen held out beside him till the last grain
of powder was exhausted. What happened there, you know.”
“And Captain Van der Laen told us,” said Peter, “that he owes his life
to you. You fought like a lion.”
“It was wild work enough at the fortifications, yet neither I nor my
horse had a hair ruffled, and this time I even saved my knapsack and
a full purse. Fate, like mothers, loves troublesome children best, and
therefore led me to you and your family, Herr Burgomaster.”
“And I beg you to consider yourself one of them,” replied Peter. “We
have two pleasant rooms looking out upon the court-yard; they shall be
put in order for you, if you would like to occupy them.”
“With pleasure,” replied the Junker, and Peter, offering him his hand,
said:
“The duties of my office call me away, but you can tell the ladies what
you need, and when you mean to move in. The sooner, the better we shall
be pleased. Shall we not, Maria?”
“You will be welcome, Junker Georg. Now I must look after the invalid we
are nursing here. Barbara will ascertain your wishes.”
The young wife took her husband’s hand and left the room with him.
The widow was left alone with the young nobleman and tried to learn
everything he desired. Then she followed her sister-in-law, and finding
her in Henrica’s room, clapped her hands, exclaiming:
“That is a man! Fraulein, I assure you that, though I’m an old woman, I
never met so fine a young fellow in all my life. So much heart, and so
handsome too! ‘To whom fortune gives once, it gives by bushels, and unto
him that hath, shall be given!’ Those are precious words!”