Martha, who had hitherto shown such self-possession, was now seized with the greatest anxiety. She changed color constantly. She tried in vain to control her feelings, but at last her anxiety as well as mine became so great that we drove to the city. The crops were being already gathered from such fields as lay facing the south; nearly all the reapers were women.
While driving up the hill towards the court-house, I saw Edward Levi, the iron merchant, turn about suddenly as he caught sight of us and go towards his house. That was not the way he usually received us; so at once I feared that there was some bad news awaiting us, and that he did not wish to be the first one to tell it to us.
We halted before the court-house, but no one came to the windows; no one came to meet us. We went upstairs into the hall. The councillor's wife stood by the round table in the centre. She kept her hand on the table for a moment; then advancing towards Martha, and taking her hand, she said, "I awaited you here; I did not wish to cause you any emotion on the stairs, much less in the street. Your brother--dear Martha--your brother--died--an heroic death."
She said this with a firm voice; but when she had finished, she sobbed aloud and embraced Martha. The latter sank down beside her. We raised her; her faintness was of short duration, and her mother whispered, "Don't be alarmed! the shock will not harm her."
"My brother!" cried Martha, "I shall never see you more; never call you brother again. Pardon me, mother, I distress you instead of helping you. Where is father?"
"He is gone to the battle-field with Baron Arven. He has telegraphed that he is bringing the body with him. Ludwig, Wolfgang, and that sturdy Ikwarte are of the greatest assistance to him."
"Where is my sister?"
"She is at work in the town-hall. That is the best, the only thing to do--to care for others while you are bowed down with grief. As soon as you are restored, we will go to work together. Only do not idly mourn now! I have had your brother's room put in order; we will take charge of some wounded man and nurse him."
Martha looked wonderingly at her mother. How was such self-control possible! That is the blessing which long and careful culture brings, while it, at the same time, strengthens the moral sense. Her mother was dressed with care; she looked as she did in more peaceful days, and displayed no emotion, deeply as her heart was torn by the loss of her dearly beloved son. She told me that a messenger had come after bandages and to get help for the battle-field, and that her husband had sent word by him that the young lieutenant had been the first officer that had fallen. He had not been rash, but had moved forward at the head of his men with steadfast courage, had broken the ranks of the enemy, and, while crying, "The day is ours! the day is ours!" he had fallen with a bullet in his heart.
Martha was now restored, and a half hour after our arrival we were on our way to the town-hall. Her sister, who was engaged in cutting out garments, came towards us, gave Martha her hand, and repressed the rising tears. She spoke softly to Martha: she evidently begged her not to give vent to her grief before those who were present. Martha accompanied her quietly to the table, and helped to spread out the linen.
The daughter of Councillor Reckingen, who was just budding into womanhood, and who had hitherto been a stubborn, proud girl, lording it over every one, sat among the workers and was in entire harmony with them, while her father had cast aside his grief and joined his comrades in the field. She was placed specially in Christiane's charge.
The children, who were making lint in the basement, were singing the song of "The Good Comrade"--in the hall upstairs everything was still. Orders were given quietly, and the women and maidens passed silently to and fro. It seemed as if some one was lying dead in the adjoining room; but, above all this affliction and sorrow, there was a spirit which had never before shown itself among those present. All class distinctions had ceased, for all were united in their sympathy for their fellow-men.
Why does this spirit of friendship, this unanimity, appear only in times of trouble and sorrow; why not in every-day life?
I felt sure that this union of hearts would remain with us and beautify our lives, and this thought was strengthened by the remark of the lady at whose side I sat, who said, "You see,--this activity is the salvation of many, as you can perceive in your grand-daughter Christiane. She is untiring, and the dissatisfied air her face used to wear is gone. We are now all united. It will not last; but hereafter the thought that there once was a time when the children of the poorer and of the upper classes did not ask 'Who are you, after all?' will greatly benefit us."
I stayed in the city. The next evening, just as it was growing dark, the councillor arrived with his son's body. The whole town, young and old, was collected at the railway station. The children carried wreaths and flowers, the bells were ringing, and thus was the body taken from the station to the churchyard. After a hymn was sung, the clergyman delivered his address. What could he say? He explained in few words that this was not an ordinary funeral, but that we were now parts of one great whole, even in death.
The father, mother, and sisters cast the first clods of earth on the young hero's coffin; the grave was then filled in and covered with flowers.
We had buried the first one who had died for the union and independence of our Fatherland. I was staying with the family which had thus lost its only son. They sat at home in silence; indeed, what could be said?
The parson had added a text from the Bible, and had made some earnest remarks thereon; yet I thought, and am sure that these stricken ones thought as I did, that all political feeling is foreign to that holy book. Patient endurance here, and the hope of better things beyond, suit a nation that is kept in subjection, but not one that is gladly battling and sacrificing itself for its existence. What an entirely different comprehension the Greeks had of exertion carried to its utmost limit. I remembered how, while in prison, the speech of Pericles, delivered at the funeral rites in Athens, had illumined and elevated my soul; and I could almost see the words, for they seemed to have been hewn out of stone, like a finely chiselled piece of sculpture. I found the book in the house, and read the address to the parents and children. I had to stop frequently, for sometimes the father and sometimes the mother would exclaim: "That is intended for us, for to-day."
"No enemy has ever seen our entire forces," says Pericles, and so say we.
"Bold, daring, and calm consideration of what we undertake, are united in us. He among us who does not concern himself about matters of state, is not regarded as a peaceable, but as a useless, man." Pericles shows that he possesses the true religion when he cries: "You must constantly keep before your eyes the powers of the state, and must love them. Seek for happiness in liberty, and for liberty in your own courage."
"A Prussian doesn't let go his grip from anything he holds," said Ikwarte to the councillor, when the latter called to him not to let a badly wounded man, who was being carefully carried by, drop. This was, in a certain sense, a motto for us all.
Prussia has the Frenchman in her grip, and will not let him go; and our troops have gone bravely on. The blood of the South and North German has been shed together. Grief for the individual was assuaged by the thought of the result which would be achieved.
The union of the German people is now indissoluble.
The councillor returned to the army.
I was greatly grieved that I could not also lend a hand, and that I was forced to return home, there to watch and wait. But the councillor assured me, and I dare say he was right, that I would be unable to stand the sights of the battle-field. On the first day, he himself, even before he knew of his son's fate, had become so crushed and dazed that he could hardly keep his feet. Now he no longer thought of the misery itself, but solely of the means of remedying it.
Rontheim related, to our momentary amusement, how the vicar had lost the trunk containing his robes of office, and how he therefore had to perform his duties without his distinctive dress: a circumstance which worked no harm, as he was of great service at any rate. Martha took a quantity of goods along, which she wanted either to finish up at home, or to use as a means of instructing the children of our village. We drove home. It seemed like a dream to me that the saw-mill was running, that wagons loaded with wood met us, and that people were at work in the fields. Everything goes its gait, and yonder rages the battle.
At the newspaper-tree we met Carl's mother and Marie, and she called out to me, "Do you see the flock of hungry crows! They are flying beyond the Rhine, to where the boys who used to sing are lying dead--and each of them had a mother."
"Your Carl has written that he is safe and sound."
"Yes, yes, until to-morrow. Come! We'll go home."
The two boundary posts were united by means of a black, red, and gold flag, which had been wound around them. Joseph, whom we met there, had done it. He was greatly shocked at the sight of Martha in mourning, although he had already heard that her brother had fallen; but all life was now so uncertain, that he feared she might also be mourning for Julius. She gave him a letter which her father had brought from Julius. It was full of sadness, but at the same time he wrote with pride of his dead brother-in-law, and expressed himself as being convinced that he would return from the war uninjured.
The days passed by quietly. The school-master reported that the children had become so inattentive that he did not know what to do, for they would not study their lessons, and talked of nothing but the war. He determined to let the children read the newspapers aloud, and copy the reports from the seat of war.
The game-keeper who reported to Joseph told us that fewer crimes were being committed than usual, although the taverns were constantly full. There was a good deal of trespassing on the woods; but that was none of his business.
Short and precise letters came from Carl, and he never forgot to mention that he had enough to eat and drink, for he knew that such news would gladden his mother's heart.
Martha reported that Marie and Carl's mother had stopped going to the newspaper-tree. Marie had learned, to her astonishment, that you could buy your own newspapers, and so she procured one daily. Living in constant dread of her father, she subscribed for it in the name of the schoolmaster, and receiving it every evening, she undertook the troublesome task of reading it aloud to the old woman at night. The worst part of it was that the latter insisted on having the lists of the dead and wounded read to her. She did not know what she should do in case the awful news were to come.
I live among peasants, and see a great deal of rudeness, as well as good feeling; but the greatest affection I ever saw lay in the conduct of Marie towards Carl's mother.
The wagons of our district were ordered to Alsace, and my wagon and team of bays had to go along. I wanted to employ one of the workmen engaged in regulating the course of the river to drive them, but Rothfuss insisted on taking charge of the team himself, so I had to let him go. He was in great spirits, and declared that he would return with the wagon wreathed in flowers, and that Martella and Ernst would sit in it.
Our house became still more quiet now, and when our horses were gone, we felt as if we were cut off from the world.
The nights were so calm and peaceful, the moon shone so clear; no leaf stirred, and even the brook ran dreamily along. And yet, at this time, there were thousands attempting to kill each other.
Martha was often busy looking at the pages of an album through a magnifying glass. This book contained a collection of mosses and ferns, which Julius had arranged for her. Underneath each specimen was noted the place from which it came and when it had been gathered; and there were always added the words "for Martha."
We were in almost daily receipt of postal cards from Julius, and with the same minuteness which he had shown in the album, he gave us the day, hour, and place of writing. Sometimes a sealed letter from him would also reach us. Martha let me read them, and only once did she blushingly cover a postscript with her hand. Conny called my attention to Martha; what a touching and hallowed vision she seemed to be, and how humbly and modestly she bore her life's great secret!
While I was examining the mosses, Martha told me, with radiant face and sparkling eyes, how she had become acquainted with Julius. She had danced with him at a country ball, but they had seen no more of each other.
On the next morning, as she and her sister were walking in the "Rockenthal" and were passing through the shrubbery, they suddenly came to a large pine-tree under which a hunter was sleeping. His dog sat at his side, and they motioned to him to remain quiet, while they both stood there examining the man's youthful, browned features and white brow. Martha summoned up her courage, seized his hat and took out the feathers, replacing them with a bunch of freshly gathered flowers. After this bold deed, the sisters fled to the shrubbery; but the dog barked, and the hunter awoke. He stared about him, seized his gun and hat, apparently puzzled to find the alteration that had been made, and uttered an energetic oath. He just caught sight of the two sisters in their light-blue summer dresses, as they disappeared in the shrubbery. He called after them, and they ran, until Martha stumbled over the root of a tree and fell. "Your voice is too good to swear with," said the sister who had remained standing, and then the young hunter pulled off his hat, and looked confused. Recovering himself immediately, he said, "It was not you, but your sister, who played the robber. She has the feathers yet. I--I thank you for the exchange." Then, as Martha handed him the feathers, and as he held his hat out towards her, he succeeded in touching her hand with his lips. He escorted the two girls through the woods, and starting with the joke of having caught them trespassing, they ended by having a merry talk. He soon begged Martha to sing, for he said that he could see that she, like him, was in the humor of singing. So these two began to sing their favorite songs, which, strangely enough, were the same; and when they reached the road, both of the sisters stretched out their hands to Julius. He held Martha's hand in his the longest, and from that moment their fate was fixed, and became more blissful every day.
He arranged the album while they were engaged. It was filled with the fondest memories, and even I learned much from it that was new to me. Each tree showed me new forms of existence, and in a little while I was able to forget, while contemplating these minute products of nature, the great commotion that was raging so near us. A bird is perched on the telegraph wire, while beneath it the most stirring news is passing silently and invisibly. I often regarded the wires that were stretched in front of my woods. Who knows the news that is flashing through them? We were soon to hear it.
"It thunders, booms, tumbles, and crashes; the mountains are falling, the world is coming to an end!"--thus did Carl's mother cry out in the village street. She refused to be comforted, and when she saw Martha in mourning, she began to shriek out: "Black! black! We shall all be charred to death!"
We succeeded at last in calming her, and then led her home, while round about us a noise like thunder seemed to come from the hills; although not a cloud was visible in the sky.
We knew that Strasburg was being bombarded. The fact was, that the sound of the cannonade struck against the rock behind the spinner's cottage, and rolled thence along the little valleys between the hills.
This lone woman, who could scarcely hear a man's voice, could distinctly perceive the roar of the artillery which shook her cottage.
"My boy is there, my good, my brave son," she cried, when she was told that Strasburg was being bombarded. Then she broke out into a sort of chant: "In Strasburg is the minster; I was in service for five years in the Blauwolken Street; in Strasburg, in Strasburg, in Strasburg,"--it sounded like a doleful song. We wanted to induce her to come to us; even Marie wanted to take charge of her; but she caught hold of her table, crying, "No, no! I shall not go from here until I am carried out."
That evening Joseph came for me, saying, that from the top of the stone-wall, the shells could be seen flying through the air. We accompanied him to the spot, and could see the shells rising, then falling and disappearing in little clouds of smoke. The stone-cutter, who had seen service as a soldier, pointed out to us the shells that exploded harmlessly in the air, and those which spread destruction as they burst.
How is it with the people over there on whom this rain of fire is falling? What are they doing at home? What do they say, and think, and what consolation and support do they bring each other? I imagined myself among them, living with them. And my niece was there, too. She had thought to find protection there, and now she was in the greatest danger. And how must my sister, yonder in the forest of Hagenau, be wringing her hands at these sounds and sights! And we are sending death and destruction among those to whom we want to cry, "Come to us, stay with us." The language the cannon speak is a dreadful one.
We had to return home at last. I was so confused and shocked, that Joseph had to lead me. I could hear the guns as I lay in bed; but after a while sleep comes to you in spite of noise and sorrow.
Marie told me the next morning that the spinner had counted the shots by the hour during the night. When she had reached one hundred, beyond which she could not count, she buried her head in the pillow, crying, "I can count no further; I cannot; it is enough!" and had then fallen asleep. Marie asked our aid, for the spinner had said that, when daylight came, she would stand it no longer; she would go to her son.
However, when the next day came she had forgotten her intention. She sat in her room, spinning, and whenever she heard the sound of a gun, would merely open her mouth, but say nothing. Not a word passed her lips for days.
Joseph wanted to visit the besiegers, but I asked him to remain with us, as I wanted to have one of my men about the house.
Every evening the young folks from the village would climb to the top of the hill behind the little stone wall, and, with the light-heartedness of youth, would enjoy themselves in spite of the destruction that was going on before their very eyes.
My sister and her daughter surprised us. The former had visited the camp; had luckily found Julius, and through him had obtained permission for her daughter to leave the fortress. She had left all her property at the mercy of the shells and of the plundering soldiers; for the opinion of the citizens was, that the German soldiers would sack the city. As Germans, they had been regarded with aversion by their neighbors and acquaintances. She left us soon again, so as to be with her husband; but her daughter, who was greatly overcome, remained with us.
Martha and Conny nursed the young wife carefully; and Martha spoke French to her, so as to please her.
A large detachment of captured and wounded French and Algerians came through our valley. The people from all the villages flocked to the high-road to see them pass. I feared that the people would show their irritation, and jeer these unfortunates: but, as if by a tacit agreement, every one kept aloof, and only words of sympathy were heard. It was only when the fantastic, and sometimes terrible-looking Africans appeared, that the dismay of the people showed itself, as they called out, "There they are, the men that were going to burn our towns and forests, the cannibals!"
Rothfuss, with my team of bays, was also in the procession. He halted a moment at the saw-mill near the bridge, and gave a merry account of the kind of load he was carrying. It consisted of wounded Turcos, and he laid great stress on the fact that the French would have nothing in common with these wicked apes. He had to keep on his way.
Great excitement was caused in the village when it was reported that Carl had returned. We all accompanied his mother and Marie down the valley, where he had halted with a squad of prisoners. Marie embraced him before us all, and the prisoners smiled, and imitated the sound of their smacking lips.
Carl had much to tell me, and could not find words to say all he wanted to, particularly in praise of the Pomeranian lancers. He said they were the right sort of fellows--as quiet and strong as the pine-trees; and it was strange to see, when they first saw the Rhine, about which so much had been sung and said, how, in their enthusiasm, they wanted to ride directly into the stream.
His mother and sweetheart accompanied him for some distance on the road, and when they turned to come back the old woman said, "Now I am satisfied; now no one shall hear me complain; I am sure that nothing will happen to him in this war."
We harvested our crops; we placed the green bough on the top of the new mill down in the valley; we began to cut wood in the forest; yet still the thunder of the bombardment of Strasburg continued.
The old meadow farmer lay at home very ill, and often said, "I shall be buried like a soldier; they will fire over my grave."
We buried the old fellow on the morning of September 2d. He had given orders that his St. Helena medal should be buried with him; but his son did not see fit to let this be done. He looked upon this so-called mark of distinction as a means of preservation, in case the French should come after all.
While we were standing at the open grave, Joseph came riding up the hill, his horse very much blown, and cried, "Napoleon is a prisoner!" We all hurried to the road where Joseph, still on horseback, read the extra aloud. It was the account of the capture of Napoleon at Sedan.
What strange coincidences occur in life! We had just buried the last man in our village who wore on his breast the badge of the infamy of our alliance with Napoleon; and now we had his successor and heir a prisoner in our hands.
As if by a preconcerted signal, the young people of the village struck up, "Die Wacht am Rhein."
Without awaiting the parson's permission--very likely he wouldn't have given it--the church-bells were rung, and the German flag was thrown to the breeze from the top of the church spire. We returned home as if in a dream.
When my niece, the Alsacienne, heard the news, she shook her head, and refused to be convinced of its truth.
She had been always accustomed to hear the lying despatches of her countrymen.
After the Sedan campaign, we all thought that the war was ended; but the French people, in their overweening confidence, still insisted on retaining the first place among nations, and resented the idea of their giving up the German provinces, of which in former days they had robbed us.
The war went on without ceasing.
We cannot be astonished anew every day at the phenomena of existence: how the sun rises, how the plants grow and bloom. We must accustom ourselves to the homely changes that are being wrought; to life and death among us, to love and hate, to union and discord.
We ended by becoming accustomed to the fact that the war was raging, and as surely as the sun rose we expected news of another victory; for that we should ever be beaten seemed, to judge from what had happened, impossible.
The daily question was, "Has Strasburg surrendered yet?"
On the morning of the 29th of September, I attended the weekly market to sell my grain. It was the crop of 1870.
Everything went on as usual; there was the same chaffering, bargaining, and cheating, and occasionally the war was discussed.
Suddenly I heard a noise of shouting and rejoicing, and saw flags hung out of the windows. "Strasburg has fallen," was the cry.
People called to each other, "Strasburg has fallen at last," as if some one who had been long lost had returned at last.
Joseph brought the Alsacienne to town. We made up a store of food and clothing for her, and accompanied by Christiane, who had been despatched to the afflicted city by the Aid Society, she returned to Alsace. Every one went over to Strasburg, partly from curiosity, and partly out of pity. I refused to go.
Then came letters from Alsace for Martha and me.
I did not know the handwriting of the one for me. It turned out to be from Baron Arven. He wrote that he had had frequent conferences with those high in office on the importance of quieting the minds of the Alsatians, and of coming to an understanding with them. Unfortunately they had been forced to take sharp measures against those who were untractable and traitorous, and now they desired to take such measures as would stop any further sacrifices. There were other nurses required besides those who attended the wounded, and he believed I would suit his purpose.
The following sentence in his letter pierced my heart like a dagger: "Your family ties make it your duty to aid the lost son to return to his father's house."
How? Has Ernst been found, and is the preceding portion of the letter simply written to prepare me for the shock?
I read on, and found I was mistaken. A troubled mind interprets everything in its interest. Arven simply meant that I should aid in the work of attaching Alsace to Germany; for he informed me that men of all classes, who were known to have friends and relatives in Alsace, had been requested to visit those sections of the country with which they were acquainted, there to work in the interest of union. Those who had been in opposition to the government were especially wanted, for the reason that their conduct would be regarded as being founded on a pure love for the Fatherland.
He asked me to visit the villages in the forest of Hagenau, with which I was acquainted through my relations, and see what I could do towards furthering the good work.
I had to laugh when he added: "Your presence and your white hair will do much, I think, to create confidence in you."
The Baron was in the confidence of the government. It seemed, therefore, to be decided that we should take back the provinces of which we had been robbed. Yes, I am ready to do what I can. It is true, I doubted my capacity; but a love of the cause and encouraging hopefulness strengthened me. Arven's letter gave me courage. He had never praised me to my face, but he displayed the best feeling in his letter.
"I am going to Alsace," said I to Martha.
"Oh, that is splendid, and you can take me along."
She showed me a letter from Julius, in which he asked her to visit him in Strasburg for a short time, until he should march off again.
He wrote: "We will meet among saddening ruins, but we shall remain erect, and while we help rebuild the great fabric of the state, shall also strengthen our own life-fabric."
We journeyed to Strasburg. Julius met us in Kehl. What a meeting between the young couple!
"I have also seen Martella," Julius said. "I wanted her to enter a hospital as nurse, but she has retained her old dislikes, and refuses to have anything to do with the sick. She was engaged with a number of other women in distributing supplies, but I don't know whether she is near here now. I have been told that she has gone to Lorraine with another detachment of the supply commission. She parted from Lerz, the baker, after a few days. The Prince's letter of pardon has passed her everywhere, and she is now with Ikwarte and Wolfgang, who will protect her."
I shall not speak of the effect the appearance of the bombarded city produced on me. I had been in Strasburg frequently, and knew many there who could not forget the ties which bound them to Germany. Forty years ago I was here with Buchmaier, and at that time this great broad fellow planted himself before the Cathedral, and called out, "I say, tumble down, or turn German."
Now it stood there, a German monument. It had been, unfortunately, struck by our shot, but had been only slightly injured; and from far and near one could behold this edifice, every stone and ornament of which is German.
Martha could look on nothing but the face of her Julius, and on one other thing--the iron cross on his breast. She asked why he had not written about having received it; and Julius confessed that he had not done so because a promise that was not yet binding, but which required him to arrive at some conclusion, was connected with it.
He related that the commanding general, while fastening the cross on his breast, had said, "You intend remaining in the service?" to which he had not answered, but believed that he had nodded "yes," although he was not sure.
And now he wanted to learn from Martha's lips whether he had nodded or shaken his head.
Martha looked at me and said, "What do you say, grandfather?"
I said, of course, that this could be decided on when the war was over, and that meanwhile Julius could consider himself a professional soldier. I thought him too tenderhearted for a soldier, for he had said to me, "Grandfather! the worst feature about war, is not the fighting, but the foraging. It is heart-rending to force people to deliver up everything, yet it must be done."
The thought that Julius would remain a soldier was painful to me, for I had cherished the hope that, at some time or other, he would take charge of his patrimonial estate. I could not agree with Ludwig's American ideas, that all property should be personal. But what matters all that at present?
I hunted up Baron Arven. Although he had written such hearty letters to me, I found that he had again become formal and brusque. I had to learn that in war times small matters can receive but little attention.
The Baron directed a servant to accompany me to the provisional governor of the province. Although I had been sent for, I found myself treated as if I were a suitor. I had to accustom myself to the North-German manner, which regards every sacrifice you may bring as a mere matter of duty.
The governor remembered that Arven had spoken of me. He begged me to take a look, for the present, at the part of the country with which I was acquainted, and then to report to him.
This interview sobered me. Was this the frame of mind in which a part of our country was to be regained? I decided to visit my sister, and then to return home. That evening Arven changed my resolution.
Arven lived in the hospital, and on my arrival there I was welcomed by a tall, fine-looking woman in a white cap and white apron. It was Annette, and I was not a little astonished to meet her there; but even she had no time to spare, for she said she had to return to her patients, and that Arven was waiting for me in his room.
This was really the case. Arven gave me a hearty welcome, and said that he had given orders that he was not to be disturbed excepting in case something of great importance needed his attention, and that, for this evening, he would be a thorough egotist.
When I told him how repellent the angularity and coldness of the Prussians had appeared to me, he said that this was just what he wanted to talk to me about.
He had been exceedingly provoked at their cold-blooded manner. He had already determined to leave them; but after a while he had made up his mind that this sharpness, bitterness, and decision were the forces that made them the men they were. Obedience is with them a habit that can be depended on. We South Germans are too soft and easygoing, and we ought to breathe some of the salt-sea air that blows across that northern country. This want of attention towards others, this disregard of people's feelings, lay in the fact that they had no consideration for themselves. The French, who, whatever they do, want to be observed and applauded, will be beaten by these men, whose whole power rests in their self-respect. We used to think the Prussians were braggarts; but now we found no trace of boastfulness, and in spite of their constant victories, they took every precaution as they advanced, and were prepared for defeat. Yes, orders describing the manner of retreat were issued before every battle.
He could not cease praising them, and only stopped when he added that he thought their self-esteem was a result of Protestantism. The Baron stopped when he had said this, and, after we had eaten and drunk to our hearts' content, he said that, although he was a Catholic, he would never confess to a priest again, but that he would confess to me; and in case he should not return from the war, he would have the satisfaction of feeling that his inner life had been laid before another, for an hour at least.
He confessed to me that his desire had been to die in this campaign, and it was for this reason that he had exposed himself so recklessly when collecting the wounded. It seemed strange to him that people should praise his courage, while he was engaged in seeking death. He thought it would be the best thing for himself and his children, if the great sorrows that had come upon them, and which might come again, could be buried with him.
He then groaned aloud, saying, "I do not want to die before their eyes."
I saw before me a life that had been most cruelly broken. The Baron had once been in the Austrian army. He had never expected to find himself at the head of his family, for he belonged to the younger branch.
In Bohemia he made the acquaintance of a girl belonging to a noble family, and was subdued by her.
Feodora was tall and majestic, of a warm, sensual nature, but cold-hearted. Persuaded by his sister, he became engaged to her; but felt that he would have to stand alone in life, with her as his spouse.
On the day after his engagement, he suddenly awoke to a horror of what he had done. He was visiting the large estate of her father. He walked through the park, wrestling with the resolve to drown himself in the pond; but he did not do so, because he considered it his duty to keep his plighted word; and besides, the hope arose in his breast that, at some future time, a closer sympathy would be brought about. Her beauty fettered him; in short, the marriage was celebrated, and he lived for thirty-one years married, but lonely. One by one, his hopes had all been shattered. He had persuaded himself that congeniality was not necessary to happiness.
But after awhile he discovered what it was to be united to some one, and at the same time to be alone. The sudden death of the last of the main line of his family placed him at the head of the house. He resigned his position in the army, and devoted himself to agriculture. He had no control over his children--scarcely any influence in fact, but as his sons grew up, they espoused the cause of Germany, and would have nothing to do with the conflict which their mother and her ghostly advisers tried to stir up.
In the campaign of 1866, the Baron suffered unspeakably. He was homeless in his own house. But when the present war began, and he discovered plots that he would never have suspected, the conflict broke out openly. The two sons joined the German army, and did not, or would not, know of what was going on at home. I dare not speak of the bitterness, hate, and despair that filled the soul of this naturally good-hearted man, and appeared in the course of his story. "I had to confess to you some time," said he finally, "and I chose the best time.
"I believe that your wife intuitively knew everything that I have told you."
The deep misery of his life seemed again renewed when he cried, "I do not wish to die before their eyes."
He mentioned Rautenkron, and said that their cases were similar. Their devotion in the present great movement was not a joyful sacrifice, but indifference and contempt for life; they wanted to die.
I was deeply pained, and also gratified, when he took my hand at last, saying that my wife and I had kept him up in the faith that happiness was yet to be found on earth. "And now I must make a further confession. It was a great sacrifice on my part, considering the comfort I enjoyed in your house, and the deep sympathy your wife showed me, to deny myself frequent, yea, daily visits, whenever I felt like a stranger in my house; and as one banished from home, I would ride across the hills, and down into the valley towards you and your wife; but when I had reached the saw-mill, I would turn back. It was better thus. I felt that your wife knew everything. Though I was a man who had sons in the army, I was again tossed hither and thither by youthful feelings; but I overcame them. I think I ought to tell you this too; it relieves me, and cannot oppress you. Of all men who were affected by her sterling qualities, there is no one who worshipped her more profoundly than I did," said the Baron finally, again taking my hand.
We sat there in silence for some time, and I was made happy by the thought that her spirit was hovering over us, bringing us peace. The Baron then arose and said, "Now I have unburdened myself, and am free. I thank you for your share in this relief. And now, no more of this. Now duty calls."
He again told me how much good I could accomplish, by going from village to village, and from house to house, in the region in which I had long been known, there to teach the Alsatians what they ought to learn.
"You may depend on one thing," said he: "you will have bitter experiences. You will be looked upon as a spy. But do you remember what your wife once called you?"
I did not know what he meant.
"She called you the spy of what was good, because you always discover the good qualities in every one. Well, be one again."
I made up my mind to cope willingly with everything, and went to my sister's the next day.
We of the mountains had heard the cannonading; but how differently had it affected those of the neighborhood, whose homes and whose all were at stake. We could see the destruction that had been wrought on the houses, but not that which had wasted the nerves of the people. Wherever I went, I found every one feeling restless and homeless, like the swallows that flew about, settling here and there; but only for a moment, for their nests had been destroyed, along with the houses and towers and fortifications.
Every one I met had a puzzled look: the alarm and fear caused by the incredible disasters that had overwhelmed them, had dazed them, and they seemed hurt by friendly greetings--yes, even by offers of assistance.
My brother-in-law, the forester, a man who ordinarily bore himself well, seemed entirely broken down. He stared at me in silence as I entered his house, and scarcely answered my greeting with a slight nod.
My sister told me that, since the siege of Strasburg, he had suffered from asthma, and that he constantly repeated, "General Werder's shots have taken my breath away."
On looking at the pictures hanging on the wall, I could see plainly what these people would have to thrust aside. The pictures on the walls, as well as those that dwelt in their memory, were to be changed. In our every-day life, we soon forget what the ornaments on the wall are like. But if they are not in accord with the times, then we find out what was once ours, but has now ceased to belong to us. On my hinting that Germany would adopt the regained provinces with increased affection, my brother-in-law sprang up, rolling his eyes and striking the table with his fist, and swore that he would emigrate. My sister then said that an oath at such a time was worthless; but he answered in bitter scorn--he could speak nothing but French--"And if no one will accompany me--I cannot force the trees in the forest to go along--my dog, at least, will be my companion. What do you say, Fidele--you'll go with me? You won't take bread from a German; you will rather starve with me?" The dog barked and licked his master's hand.
I could see what a difficult task I had before me, but I did not give it up. In the village, in the houses, and before the court-house, wherever the people were gathered together, I spoke words of peace and encouragement to them. They would listen to me as if they were forced to do so; and once I heard a man behind me say, "The whole thing is a lie, white hairs and all; he is some young fellow in disguise." I seldom received a straightforward answer; the nearest approach to a reply was, "What are we to do?" "What are we to learn." The feeling at the bottom of all this was,--to-morrow the French will be back, and drive the Germans away. It is impossible to conquer the French.
I then visited my brother-in-law, the parson, who lived a few miles further on. He spoke of nothing but the excellent behavior of the soldiers that had been quartered on them. They went to church on Sundays and joined in the singing; and officers of high rank had been there, too. He seemed nervous, and did not dare to express his joy--either because he feared the maid-servant who was going in and out, or else because he disliked to lay bare his thoughts. It was only while walking in the woods that he unbosomed himself. I do not like to repeat what he related, as I preferred not to believe his story. He told me that the French government had received the assurance from the priesthood, that the South Germans would not take the field against France. I do not believe this, but it is the current opinion, and so I feel forced to repeat it.
He also said that the beggars from the Catholic villages of the vicinity had, for some time past, ceased asking for alms. They had walked around boldly in his village, selecting the houses they intended to occupy as soon as the Protestants had been exterminated.
Thus wickedly had religion been mixed up with this war.
"The thought of Germany," said the parson, "always seemed to me like a silent, yea, a criminal dream. Now I see it realized in broad daylight. We are like the prodigal son of Scripture, but the truant in Alsace is this time not in fault, and it is that which makes his return to his home so painful. I have often thought that the father of the prodigal must have offended against his son, although the Scriptures do not say so, otherwise he would not have been thus afflicted."
He was merely drawing a parallel, yet he made my heart beat with the thought of Ernst.
The father of the prodigal son is also at fault. What had I been guilty of?
When we returned from our walk, we were told that a French soldier, who had served his time, had called to see me; he had not given his name, and would return.
Who can he be? I must wait to find out. But I met a man in the village whom I had forgotten.
The advocate Offenheimer, Annette's brother, met me, and his first words were, "You are a great consolation to me. Come with me and give my son an escort."
I now perceived that his only son had fallen, and that the father desired him to be buried in the Jewish cemetery here.
As he divined my thoughts, he said, "It is true, I could not allow them to bury my son out there with the others; but it is, perhaps, well if there is some sign here of our having fairly and joyfully taken our part in the fight. Perhaps it will have a mollifying effect upon our new countrymen of the Jewish faith, who were particularly contumacious."
I was astounded to find the man so placid. But, as if guessing my thoughts, he said he had no more strength for complaints and tears, and that a fact must at last be accepted.
I thought of the handsome, spirited lad, that had one time come to me with Wolfgang. But I greatly desired to find a favorable opportunity for addressing the Jewish inhabitants of the village. They had an especial fear of the Germans, and were proud of French equality.
The advocate's son was buried with all the ceremonies of his church. Two slightly wounded South German officers, who were lying in the village, acted as the escort. They recognized in me the Colonel's father-in-law, and had much to tell me in his praise.
"He shows that we are not inferior to the Prussians." Such appeared to be the highest compliment they could bestow upon him.
Upon our return from the cemetery, to which the Jews here in Alsace give the peculiar name of the "good place,"6the advocate leaned upon my arm, and, as I sat next to him in the little room, after quietly meditating for a long while, he exclaimed, "In my youth I had willingly died for the true Fatherland; now, my son has been permitted to die for it."
For years had I been in constant intercourse with this man; now, in his grief and in the hour of civil commotion, I first learned to know him; and to learn to know an upright man is to learn to love him.
I have, like suffering Odysseus, participated in the experiences of many men; Rautenkron, the Colonel, and Arven have revealed to me their life-secrets. Now I was to hear still another's: the history of a step-child in his step-fatherland, who still longed for affection, for the closest friendship, and who, though repulsed and oppressed by the laws and his fellow-men, had not yet lost his love for them.
As Offenheimer recounted the grievances he had suffered in the schools, and the incivilities and insults of later years, it seemed to me that I should ask his forgiveness for all this suffering and uncharitableness, of which, because of what we had done to him, and of what our ancestors had done to his, we were to-day guilty. Those who style themselves believers in the religion of love, would be much astonished at the strength of this man's affections, who, though repulsed and scorned; still preserved them pure. We live a whole human life and know nothing of the inward emotions of many of our contemporaries. Offenheimer spoke with great severity concerning the attempt to obtain recognition by means of extravagant display, that caused many Jews to appear unpatriotic and presumptuous. He explained this, indeed, as arising from the necessity, imposed by the prejudice against his race, of proving its claim to respectability, and was frank enough to refer to the early conduct of his sister as an example.
Offenheimer then told me how happy it had made him to find his son growing up in comparative ignorance of such persecutions--he had thus developed naturally. He smiled sadly, as he added that he, though he had grown physically larger and more active, had acquired a lightness of heart which the man who is obliged to win his freedom before enjoying it, never acquires.
"I do not mourn for my son," were his words: "he had reached the most beautiful period of life, and it is all the same, whether a man lives seventeen years or seventy. No man liveth to himself, and no one dieth to himself, says the apostle; and that is true. I understand it to be true in another sense as well. Each of us dies only to his connections and his posterity."
It was a novelty to me to hear Holy Writ referred to as simply the teachings of wisdom. I have since then often found educated Israelites are not so much Jews, as simply not Christians.
Offenheimer thanked me with great tenderness for the wonders that we had accomplished with Annette. She had been proud and selfish; now she had become humble, and lived for others.
As I sat with him, the Rabbi of the place came and expressed his thanks for the generous subscription that had been made in memory of the fallen.
One word, which the priest then uttered, went straight to my heart. He said the bereaved father would find consolation; for the Talmud declared that the patriarch Jacob could not suppress his sufferings and his tears for his lost son Joseph, because he felt within himself that his son still lived. Grief for one who is dead vanishes when the corpse becomes clay; for a living lost one, the grief endures.
Oh! my lost son Ernst!
Upon my return home, I found, awaiting me in the village, a man in a blue blouse, with a short pipe in his mouth, and wearing his cap awry. He approached me with a military salute, and said, "Yes, it is you."
"Who am I?"
"His father."
"Whose father?"
"Our sergeant's, Ernst Tännling."
"That is not my name."
"Of course! But he has confided to me--he took me, indeed, for a German--that his name was Waldfried. Do you remember that I met you in Paris during the World's Exposition. Your son deserted in 1866, and has a bride. Have I the correct signs now?"
Alas! he had them, and again I heard that Ernst had entered the service in Algiers, and now, probably, was in the onward movement against Germany.
The veteran allowed me no time for reflection. He confided to me, with great urgency and secrecy, that he could be of great service. He knew that I had great influence, and wanted me to conduct him to some officer of high rank; he could be of great service, but must receive liberal pay.
I had learned much in life, but for the first time there stood before me a man who offered me his services as a spy. He had seized my hand, and it seemed as if his touch had soiled it.
I sought further intelligence from him concerning Ernst, but he knew nothing more. I took him with me and handed him over to an officer that lay here. I considered it to be my duty not to discard the dirty, but perhaps useful, tool.
With thoughts of Ernst in my breast, with the consciousness that my only son was in arms against the Fatherland, I was not in the mood to unburden my heart to others; and besides, it was evidently too early. Now, since force yet speaks, the good-will of the oppressed cannot be won.
I turned back to my sister's, and was much delighted to meet Hartriegel, the so-called forest professor, who had been sent by the administration to inspect the forests.