The Diet was again convoked; and I can hardly describe how hard I found it to leave my home and resume the disagreeable and exhausting occupations that now devolved on me.
In company with Joseph, I drove into town, on my way to the capital, when Annette called to me from the warehouse of Edward Levi. Her mourning attire invested her with an air of majestic gloom; but her brilliant glance and her clear complexion prevented her black habit from looking too sombre. She must have noticed that I was pleased with this, for she said, "I am trying to recover my health, and avail myself of the two greatest remedies; I have just left the ocean, and shall now go into the woods. My mother-in-law has gone to Paris to join her daughter, who is the wife of our minister. She has an idea that one cannot exist, save in Paris. I shall come and see you; you and your wife can do me much good, and I may perhaps be of some use to you. I have never learned how to lead a life of repose. I shall now learn it; in your house I shall find the best school, and your wife will have patience with a sad, yet wayward pupil."
She bought an ingeniously constructed stove with all sorts of cooking utensils belonging to it, and presented it to Carl's mother. Besides this, she had bought all sorts of new furniture for herself, as she intended to spend the winter at the village. She was so glad to see Rothfuss again that she left her carriage and got into ours, so that he might tell her of all that had happened during her absence. Her driver had been instructed to take all her new purchases up to Joseph's house and deliver them to her maid.
I went on towards the capital, and Annette towards the village.
On the way, Joseph told me that he had done very well by the war. The South Germans, he told me, had been such violent partisans of Austria because the greater portion of the proprietors in the neighborhood had invested their money in Austrian securities.
Annette's brother had, however, in good season, called his attention to the fact that a great change was taking place in financial affairs. America had already successfully passed through a great war, and the current of capital was now tending in the direction of the United States, where its investment was both safe and profitable.
Joseph's object in visiting the city was to dispose of his American bonds, which were then commanding a very high price.
It has always been, and will ever remain, a marvel to me how Joseph, with all his real interest in public life, could at the same time manage to reap a profit from the movements of capital.
I had the good fortune to travel in company with Baron Arven, who was a member of the Upper Chamber, and was also on his way to the capital. He seemed greatly depressed, and admitted that the realization of hopes one could not help entertaining sometimes produced new and unforeseen griefs.
Thus it had been, he said, with the separation of Austria from the rest of Germany. It had long been recognized as necessary to the proper development of our own political life, and as an advantage to Austria; and yet, when it was brought about, it seemed more like a death that one had felt it his duty to wish for.
From many hints that he threw out, I could not but feel assured that the painful political dissensions had been deeply felt by the Arvens, who were connected with the empire through so many family ties.
The Baron invited me to take up my quarters, while in the capital, in his mansion, as his wife did not intend going there during that winter. I declined with thanks, as I had promised Annette to make use of the vacant dwelling that belonged to her.
The deputies were all in a state of great excitement. There is no greater test of accord among a body of men than a sudden calamity. Just as, with an individual, a lazy resignation will, in times of doubt and indecision, alternate with vehement energy, and self-distrust succeed overconfidence, so did it happen with this large assembly. All felt that a bold operation was necessary, but who was to be the surgeon, and whence was he to come. It was necessary to wait for the hour of danger, and even then there was great reason to fear that when the treatment had been decided on, our cousin on the other side of the Rhine, who had been praised as the great saviour, might interpose his objections.
In a secret session, we were informed of the stipulations that had been determined on by the North German Confederation in regard to a union of German forces, in case of coming danger. We were sworn to secrecy, for all were afraid of our neighbor in the west.
My son-in-law, the Major, left on a long furlough. I have never yet been able to discover whether he passed his time in Paris or in Berlin.
The work and the angry debates in Parliament taxed our patience and endurance to the utmost.
When I returned to my home, I was frightened by my wife's appearance; her face showed the traces of great suffering. Although I took all pains to prevent her from seeing that I noticed it, she discovered my concern, and assured me that she was feeling quite well, but was sometimes weak; and that all would be right again in the summer, when she would accompany Annette to the springs. She was so active and cheerful that I silenced my fears. She had already learned of the death of our grandson Martin, and spoke of it with calmness.
She informed me of Martella's kind and considerate behavior. Rothfuss had been sick again, and even now was only able, with great exertion, to drag himself about the house. Martella took charge of all his duties, and, what with this and her instructions from mother and Annette, was kept quite busy; but she was never so happy and cheerful as when full of work.
My wife took great pleasure in explaining to me what strange counterparts Annette and Martella were.
Annette was endeavoring to free herself from the effects of overwrought culture and to get back to simplicity. Martella, who had become conscious of her own simplicity, was vexed thereat, and with iron industry sought to acquire the rudiments of an education. Annette had always lived out of herself; Martella had always lived within herself. Annette had always tried to subject everything to critical analysis: Martella was merely artless impressibility.
It was certainly a strange pair that my wife was teaching to keep step with each other.
With great self-control Annette had accustomed herself to the quiet winter life of the village. She often said that she would leave in a few days. She seemed determined not to commit herself by any promise, in order that she might from day to day make new resolutions. When I told her that she was thus making both herself and us uncomfortable, she promised to remain until I should advise her to leave. She admitted that it was pleasant to her to be guided by another's will. She spun assiduously, and, like a diligent child, showed me the result of her labor.
The old spinner maintained that Annette was learning all the secrets of her art. In spite of this, she was at times unable to control her restless spirits. She had the snow cleared away from the pond, and went skating on the ice, while half of the village stood around looking at her. My sons had sometimes skated on this pond; but it was quite a different sight to see the tall, handsome lady, with the black feather in her hat and the closely fitting pelisse trimmed with fur. She ordered a pair of skates for Martella, but could never induce the child to try them.
Annette left us occasionally in order to spend a few days with Baroness Arven. On her return it would always seem as if a wondrous change had come over her.
One day she came back in great excitement and exclaimed:
"Oh, if I could only have faith! I think I shall have to administer chloroform to my soul."
We could make no reply to this, and she soon again adapted herself to the quiet tenor of our life.
I was obliged to introduce a change that gave me almost as much trouble as my opponents in the House of Delegates had done. It was necessary to engage some one to replace or assist Rothfuss. I could do nothing without his consent; several whom I had proposed he had rejected, and when I at last obtained Joseph's consent to engage Carl, Rothfuss was scarcely pleased, although he interposed no objections.
Rothfuss always insisted that Carl, while a soldier, had behaved in the same way as the girl who said, "Catch me: I'll hold still."
He had allowed himself to be caught. If Ernst had only been smart enough to do likewise!
For the sake of his affection for Ernst, Carl submitted to this unjust reproach. He was indeed a brave and daring soldier, and felt provoked that during the whole war there had been nothing but marching hither and thither, back and forth, without once meeting the foe.
Rothfuss and Martella had much to say to each other about Ernst, to whom Martella clung with unshaken confidence.
Whenever the letter-carrier came, she was all anxious expectation, but had enough self-control to conceal her feelings for my wife's sake.
My wife never mentioned Ernst's name, but ever since the day on which news had come from him, her sleep had been restless.
When I returned from the session she said to me, "I am sure you have no news that you are concealing from me?"
I could truthfully assure her that I had none, and after that she seemed as tranquil as if she had been speaking of an indifferent subject. And yet this grief preyed on her incessantly.
Annette received many letters; and, as she could have nothing to do with any one without feeling a personal interest in him, she would always have something to eat and drink ready for the country letter-carrier. She soon knew all about the toil and trouble inseparable from his work, and also inquired in regard to his family circumstances, and assisted him as well as she could.
She ordered a sheep-skin coat for him, but he was obliged to decline it, because in his walks over hill and dale the weight of it would have been insupportable. She presented the skin to a poor old man; and, indeed, tried to do good to every one in the village and neighborhood. The oldest house in the neighborhood is yet standing down in the valley. It is built of logs, and is known asthe hut. The smoke fills the whole house and forces its way out through the crevices.
Annette found this smoky atmosphere particularly grateful. She often went down to the hut, and the people would come from the houses near by and listen to her stories and her strange jokes. She was always in good spirits on her return.
Annette had once encountered Rautenkron. She attempted to engage him in conversation, but he rudely turned on his heel; and when she was telling us of the manhater, my wife made a remark which I shall never forget:
"This man must have come from a respected and well-to-do family, for the child of poor parents can never become a misanthrope."
Although Annette kindly cared for the poor and did not permit herself to be repelled by any rudeness or vulgarity on their part, she was both severe and void of pity with the faults of those who were in better circumstances.
Rimminger, who had taken his discharge and had married the only daughter of the rich owner of the saw-mill, endeavored, as an old comrade of her deceased husband, to bring about friendly relations between Annette and his household. She kept him at a distance, however, and expressed herself quite forcibly on the subject. She maintained that the young wife always looked like anennuiedduchess, and was constantly trying to show that she had been educated in Paris.
My wife said that she disapproved of such personalities. Annette looked at her with surprise and then cast her eyes to the ground.
Our days were full of work, our evenings all leisure; and Annette called our attention to something that had never occurred to us. She found it very strange that there were no playing-cards in our house. She could not conceive how, living in the country, we could have overlooked this pastime. But we had never felt the want of it.
Annette had a rich, musical voice, and would often read aloud to us.
Joseph and his wife would come and listen, while Martella would spin so softly that one could not hear her wheel.
Rothfuss would sit on the bench near the stove, and would artfully prevent us from noticing when he fell asleep. When the reading was over, he was always wide-awake, and would insist on being permitted to light the way to Joseph's house for Annette.
In her letters to Richard, my wife described our pleasant genial life; and yet, for the first time, Richard did not visit us once during the whole winter. He regretted that he had an extensive work in hand which could not be laid aside, and believed that he was about to finish a novel and important contribution to his favorite science.
Annette had procured various fugitive articles of Richard's that had been published in scientific journals, and during the winter had read all of his books, as well as an essay of his on the "Origin of Language."
She once said: "I do not consider it vanity when a writer asks me, 'Have you read such and such work of mine?' How can he believe that one faithfully listens to his words if one does not care to become acquainted with the best that he has done--the fruit of the deepest labors of his calmer hours?
"I read the Professor's writings, and find much in them that I cannot understand; but he wrote them, and I read them for that reason, if for no other. And then again, I often chance on passages which are quite clear to me."
My wife looked at me with a significant glance, and for the first time it occurred to me that it might be possible that Richard was in love with Annette, and for that reason held himself aloof from her.
It was towards the end of February. There was grief among our nearest friends. Joseph's father died. On the day that he was buried, Annette received a letter informing her of the illness of her mother-in-law in Paris.
I, of course, advised her to depart at once; and thus we were again left to ourselves. We all felt the void that Annette's departure had made, but soon after new and heavy troubles fell upon us.
Days have passed in which I did not once take my pen in hand; I could not. Must I indeed write of this? What forces me to do so?
"Above all things, leave nothing unfinished that you have once begun," was a maxim of hers; and I must therefore tell of her death. When the fogs of autumn and the frosts of winter scatter the foliage of the trees, a branch may here and there be seen to which a few leaves are still clinging. Why should those alone have remained?
My memory has remained true to me; but of that grief which seemed to divide my life I have but little recollection. I constantly thought of the saying of Carl's mother, "You are a good child: you cannot be so cruel as to die before me." From the garret, I looked on while they were filling up her grave. The spade shone in the sunshine. No one knew that I was looking on. Shall I again renew the feelings that then passed through my soul? Let it be so.
My wife was ill. She uttered no complaint, but she was feeble, and took no interest in what was going on about her. During the day, she would sleep for hours; and at night, when she awoke, would seem surprised by the surrounding objects. During her sleeping hours, she may have dwelt in quite a different region; but she never alluded to it. The physician gave her but little medicine, and consoled us with the hope that the return of summer, and a visit to a watering-place, with cheerful companions, would help her.
Annette soon returned to us. She was followed by my daughter Johanna, who had, in the meanwhile, lost her husband, and was accompanied by her daughter Christiane. She took up her abode with us. Her only son was living as a vicar in the Unterland.
Assisted by Balbina, Johanna took charge of our entire household. When my wife told Martella that she had better submit to Johanna in all things, she replied, "I shall gladly do so; this was her home before it was mine; and I shall thus be better able to spend all of my time with mother." My wife indeed preferred to have this stranger-child about her; for Johanna could not help treating us in a patronizing, pitying manner, because we were not as pious as she would have us be.
Spring returned, and my wife's health seemed to improve. I was quite happy again. At that time, I did not understand what the prudent and sensible physician meant, when he told me that it would be better for me to moderate my joy.
All preparations for a journey to the springs had been made. Bertha had promised to join us there, and bring her daughter with her.
Suddenly the physician decided that it would be better if my wife would remain yet awhile among the surroundings she was accustomed to. He was a young and kind-hearted man, constantly endeavoring to improve himself by study; full of love for his calling, and beloved by all throughout the valley. His visits now became longer than they had been. He would, at times, acquaint me with the details of his own life, and tell me that, although he had lost his wife while quite young, he endeavored to console himself by the remembrance of the happy days he had passed in her society. I listened to his words without giving them further thought; but afterwards it became clear to me why he had spoken so impressively on the subject.
The days passed on. I gradually accustomed myself to the thought of my wife's illness; but when out in the fields, I would suddenly become alarmed, and imagine that something terrible must have taken place at the house. I would hurry home and find that all was going on as usual.
Back of my house, where the road makes a descent, the young teamsters would crack their whips quite loudly. I observed that this startled Gustava, and she overheard me telling Rothfuss to ask the young fellows not to make so great a noise.
"Do not interfere with them," said she. "A man who saunters along the road and has an instrument that is capable of making a noise, finds pleasure in using it. Do not stop him."
I had never, before that, seen Rothfuss in tears; but when he heard those words, he wept, and that evening he said to me, "The angels who look down from heaven to see what we human beings on earth are doing, must be just as she is. She is no longer human--she will not stay with us. Pardon me: I am a stupid fellow to be talking this way. You know I am a simpleton, and do not understand such things. She is right, though; stupid people must always make a noise, be it with their mouths or with their whips."
He had, however, in the meanwhile persuaded the youths not to crack their whips.
My wife was determined that Annette and Bertha should go to the springs without her; and, as she would listen to no refusal, they were obliged to comply with her desire.
Several weeks had gone by, when, one evening, the physician told me that she could last but a few days longer. I cannot describe my feelings at that moment.
Joseph telegraphed for the children. They came.
Strangely enough, my wife was not surprised by their speedy return. She conversed with them as if they had not been away more than an hour.
The physician said that perhaps there might still be a chance to save my wife by injecting another's blood into her veins, and that, at all events, the attempt should be made. Johanna immediately declared her readiness, and though her offer was well meant, the manner in which it was made jarred on my feelings. She said that, as a daughter, she had the first right; but, if they did not want her blood her child must be willing.
The physician declared that neither her blood nor that of her child would serve the purpose.
The choice now lay between Martella and Annette, and when the physician decided in favor of Martella, her face brightened, and she exclaimed:
"Take my blood--every drop of it--all that I have."
Some of Martella's blood was injected into my wife's veins, and during the night, she gained in strength. But it was very sad to find that she had almost lost her hearing, and that the only medium of pleasure yet left her was the sense of sight.
Martha, the eldest daughter of the kreis-director, had painted a picture of the view from our balcony, looking towards the woods down by the stone wall, and now brought it to my wife, who was delighted with it. The only figure was a hunter coming out of the woods.
Martha told us that she could not draw figures, and that Annette had been kind enough to sketch the huntsman for her; and she kissed my wife's hands on hearing her say, "I think the hunter looks like our grandson, Julius."
It was on the 22d of July, when she said, "Have a little pine-tree brought for me, from my woods, and placed here beside my bed."
I sent Rothfuss out to the woods; he brought a little pine, placed it in a flower-pot, and I observed, while he was leaning over it, how his tears dropped upon the branches.
He turned around to me and said, "I hope that will not harm the little tree."
When I placed the tree at her bedside, she smiled and moved her left hand among its branches, but the hand soon fell down by her side.
What wonderful powers of memory lie in a mother's heart! She would tell us of a thousand and one little stories and sayings of Ernst, and of his bright, clever freaks, with as much detail as if they had happened but the moment before; but, strangely enough, she did all this without mentioning his name. She praised his flaxen hair, and moved her hand as if passing it through his locks.
"Do you not recollect how he once said, 'Mother, I cannot imagine how you could have been in the world without me: of course I have never been in the world without you'?"
She repeated the words, "without you--without me," perhaps a hundred times during the night: and she was almost constantly humming snatches of old songs.
In the morning, just as day was breaking, she turned around to me, and said with a smile, "This is his birthday." And that was her last smile. "This is Ernst's birthday."
And when the lost son returned, there was no mother to receive him.
Her silent thoughts had always been of him, but now they were deeper than ever.
She had lost her hearing. Suddenly she exclaimed in a loud voice, "God be praised; Richard will marry her after all!" and then--I cannot go on with the story--I must stop.
It was eleven o'clock (I do not know why I was always looking towards the clock that day) when she said, "Water from my spring."
Richard hurried to bring it.
What must his thoughts have been while on his way there and back!
He soon returned, bringing the water with him, but she seemed to have forgotten that she had asked for it. When Richard lifted her up in bed, and placed the glass to her lips, she motioned him away.
I heard a voice from without the house. A cold shudder came over me; my hair stood on end.
It is the voice of our son Ernst!
If Ernst were to come at this time! Could he have been drawn here by a presentiment of what is happening? And if he were here, what power could dare take him away from us, at this moment--and how will he enter his mother's presence?
I hurried out. It was Julius--his voice is just like Ernst's. He brought a letter that Edward Levi had handed to him. It was from Ernst, and was dated at Algiers.
I could not stop to read the letter. I could not remain away from the bedside--every moment was yet a drop of blood to me, and everything glimmered before my eyes. I hurried back to the sick-room; my wife looked at me with strangely bright eyes.
"There is a letter here from Ernst!" I called out.
I do not know whether she understood me, but she reached for the sheet that was in my hand, and held it with a convulsive grasp.
I lifted her head, and moved it towards the cooler side of the pillow; she opened her eyes, and tried to raise her arms; I bent towards her and she kissed me.
It was just striking the hour of noon, when she breathed her last.
I tottered to her room at last; it seemed to me as if I must still find her alive; and when I was in her chair, I could not realize that I was seated there, and that she lay so near me, while I could do nothing for her.
I do not know how it was, but I felt awed by the very silence of the place.
Martella said, "I have stopped the clock; it, too, shall stand still."
They had withdrawn the letter from her convulsively closed hand, and I read it. It has since disappeared--whither, I know not. I remember only this--that it contained news from Algiers, and that Ernst said in it that if Martella and Richard were fond of one another, he was quite ready to release her from any promise to him.
With the exception of Ernst and Ludwig, all of my children were present. Many friends, too, were there. I recollect that I grasped the hands of many of them; but what avails that? They all have their own life left them--I have none.
All arose to attend to the funeral. They set down the coffin in front of the house, and not far from the spring. They told me that my grandson, the vicar, delivered an impressive address in the name of the family. I heard nothing but the rushing of the water.
How I reached her grave, or who led me, I know not.
This alone do I know. I saw how Martella kissed the handful of earth that she threw into the empty grave, and when I returned homeward, the waters were still roaring in our fountain. It roars and roars.
I felt borne down as if by a load of lead. Tears were not vouchsafed me. I could not realize that my hands could move, my eyes see--in fact that I was still alive.
When I looked out again over the valley and towards the hills, it suddenly seemed as if my eyes had become covered with a film, and then all--the forest, the meadows, and the houses seemed of a blood-red color, as if steeped in the dark glow of evening.
I closed my eyes for a long while, and when I opened them again, I saw that the meadows and the woods were green, and everything had its natural color.
The water flows over the weir and bubbles and rushes and sparkles to-day, just as it did yesterday, and as it will tomorrow. How can it be possible that all continues to live on, and she not here. Do not tell me that nature can comfort us against real grief. Against a loss for aye she availeth nothing.
If, in your closet, you have grieved because of insult and falsehood and meanness, do but go out into the fields or woods. While gazing upon the bright and kindly face of nature, or inhaling the sweet perfume of the trees and flowers, you will soon learn to forget such troubles. How weak is all the world's wickedness, when compared with such undying grandeur? That which is best on earth is still yours, if these things but preserve their sway over you. But, if your wife has been torn away from you, neither tree, nor stream, nor the blue heavens, nor the flowers, nor the singing birds will help you. All nature lives a life of its own, and unto itself, and of what avail is it all, when she no longer shares it with me?
The first thing that recalled me to myself, was hearing the old spinner say to Carl, "Why am I yet here? She was so good and so useful, and I am nothing but a burden to you and to the world. Why must I stay behind? I would so gladly have gone in her stead."
The poor people were gathered all about the house, and one old woman cried out, through her tears, "The bread she gave us was doubly welcome, for it was given cheerfully."
I felt that my energies would never again arouse themselves. I cannot say that the thought alarmed me; I merely felt conscious that my mental powers were either failing or torpid. For days I could not collect my thoughts, and led a dull, listless, inanimate life. My children were about me, but their sympathy did not help me. Ernst's evil letter was the only thing that had any effect on me.
I could not realize that what had once been life, was now nothing more than a thought, a memory.
When I heard some one coming up the steps, I always thought it must be she returning and saying, "I could not stay away; I must return to you, you are so lonely. The children are good and kind, but we two cannot remain apart." And then I would start with affright, when I noticed how my thoughts had been wandering.
When I walked in the street, I felt as if I were but half of myself. As long as she was with me I had always felt myself rich, for my home contained her who was best of all.
No one can know what a wealth of soul had been mine; through her, and with her, I had felt myself moving in a higher spiritual sphere. But now I felt so broken, so bereft, as if my entire intellectual possessions had gone to naught. The children are yet here; but they are for themselves. My wife alone was here for me--was indeed my other self.
Before that, when I awakened of a morning it was always a pleasure to feel conscious of life itself; but now with every morrow I had to begin anew and try to learn how to reconcile myself to my loss. But that is a lesson I shall never learn. My sun had gone down; I did not care to live any longer, because all that I experienced seemed to come in between her and me, and I did not wish to live but in thoughts of her.
I looked at her lamp, her table, her work-basket--all these had survived her, are still here, and will remain. The one clock was never wound up afterward. From that day, there was but one clock heard in our room.
I can now understand why the ancients buried the working implements with their dead.
I looked out of the window. The neighbors' children were in the street; their noise grated on my ears. I could not but think how she once said to me, "Why should it annoy us? Is it anything more than the singing of the birds? The children are like so many innocent birds."
All things remind me of her. I could sit by the window for hours and look at the chickens running back and forth, picking up crumbs, and watching the strutting cock.
I must have been like a little child that, for the first time, begins to take notice of the objects that surround it.
I seemed as if awaking from darkness, as if dreaming with my eyes open. Everything seemed new and strangely mysterious to me, although I had nearly attained my seventieth year.
When, after many weeks, I again saw my face in the mirror, I was surprised at the saddened, sunken features of the old man. Could that be I!
I had gone to the neighboring village to order a gravestone. On my way home, night overtook me. Suddenly a storm burst upon the valley. Like a child, I counted the interval between the lightning and the thunder. At first I could count up to thirty-two, afterwards only to seven; and then I stopped counting. I saw the houses by the roadside, and knew who lived in them here and there, I might have found shelter, but what should I do in a strange house, wet to the skin as I was? I kept in the middle of the road, on the broken stone. When I came to where the little bridge was, I had to wade through the water.
I noticed that I was in the midst of the storm-cloud. How glorious it would have been to die at that moment--to be struck dead by lightning!
"But my children, my children!" I uttered the words in a loud voice, but the thunder drowned my cries.
The flashes of lightning succeeded each other so rapidly that they blinded me; I could see nothing more. I closed my eyes and held fast to a rock by the wayside. I had never heard such fearful roaring of the thunder, or seen such uninterrupted flashes of lightning. I stood still and concluded to wait there, while I thought of the many other beings who were also exposed to this storm; and at last, I could weep. I had not wept since her death, and now it did me good. The hail beat into my face, already wet with tears.
Suddenly Rothfuss appears and exclaims: "Martella sends me. Oh, God be praised! there is a good bed waiting for you at home."
Guided by Rothfuss, I reached the house. Although my family were greatly concerned as to the effect it might have, the shock that I had undergone had really benefited me. I slept until noon, and when I arose I felt as if breathing a new life.
I must stop here. I cannot go on. I was obliged to learn how to begin life anew. When one has buried his dearest love in the earth, the earth itself becomes a changed world, and one's step upon it a different one. I trust that I shall not be obliged hereafter to repeat my lamentations for my own life. The first tranquillizing influence I found was in the statue gallery, with its figures from another world, so silent, so unchanging. We can offer them nothing, and yet they give us so much: they are without life or color, but they represent life in its imperishable beauty.
Rothfuss offered me a strange solace. He said, "Master, there must be another woman somewhere in this world just as she was."
"Why?"
"I always thought that God only suffered the sun to shine because she was here, but I see that the sun still shines, and so there must be others like her."
Martella, however, could not realize that she was dead.
"It cannot be: it is not true: she is not dead. She is surely coming up the steps now. How is it possible that a being can remain away from those who love her so? I have one request to make. I wish you would give the pretty dresses to Madame Johanna and Fraulein Christiane; a few of the work-day clothes you can give to me, and the good woollen dress you can give to Carl's mother. Let no one else have any of her clothes. It would grieve me to the heart to know that a strange person was wearing anything that she had worn. Whoever wears a dress of hers can neither think an evil thought nor do an evil deed."
My son Ludwig wrote a letter, in which he lamented my wife's death with all the feeling of which a son is capable, and yet spoke of death as a wise man should. My daughter Johanna lost the letter. I think she must have destroyed it on account of the heresies it contained.
My consolation is that I have been found worthy of the perfect love of so pure a being; that, of itself, is worth all the troubles of life. Let what may come hereafter, what I have experienced cannot be taken from me.
I have had a tomb-stone placed at her grave. It has two tablets on one are the words:
"HERE LIESIPHIGENIA GUSTAVA WALDFRIED,Born December 15th, 1807,Died July 23d, 1867."
On the other, my name shall one day be placed.
Life is indeed a sacred trust. I now began to feel that great and noble duties yet claimed me.
I had become dull and listless. I had taken life as it came, resigning my will to outer influences, just as one without appetite sits down to a meal, merely to gain nourishment.
I had become morbidly sensitive; every effort that was made to alleviate my sufferings and restore my accustomed spirits only served to pain me anew.
I was now experiencing the worst effect of grief--indifference to the world.
My path seemed to lie through dismal darkness; but at last I stepped out into the bright light of day and into the busy haunts of men.
The village street leads into the highway; the forest-brooks flow on until they reach the river that empties itself into the ocean.
Thus too has it been with my life.
Yielding to Joseph's earnest wishes, I had made a collection of specimens illustrating every stage in the cultivation and growth of the white pine. When the collection was complete, I sent it to the great Paris Exposition.
I received a medal of honor. I did not really deserve it; it should in justice have gone to Ernst, who had acquainted me with the results of his careful study of the subject.
I have the diploma, and the medal bearing the effigy of Napoleon. I looked at them but once, and then enclosed them under seal. They will be found in the little casket that contains my discharge from the fortress and other strange mementoes of the past.
Joseph asked me to accompany him to Paris, and would listen to no refusal. He wanted to acquaint himself with the new methods of kyanizing railroad ties, and insisted that he could not get along without my aid.
I had not yet escaped from that condition in which it is well to resign one's self to the guidance of others.
I saw Paris for the second time. My first visit was in 1832 or 1833, and was undertaken with the object of making the acquaintance of La Fayette. In those days we fondly believed that Paris was to save the world.
Compared with what I now saw, all that had been done in the Parliament that was held in the High street of our little capital seemed petty and trifling.
Though storms were gathering, Jupiter Napoleon sat enthroned over all Europe, and ruled the thunder and the lightning.
I saw him surrounded by all the European monarchs, and often asked myself whether the world's life is, after all, anything but mummery.
One day, while I was sitting on a bench in the Champs Elysées, and gazing at the lively, bustling throng that passed before me, I was approached by a Turco, who said to me:
"Are you not Herr Waldfried?"
My heart trembled with emotion.
Was it not Ernst's voice? Before I could collect my thoughts, the stranger had vanished in the great crowd that followed in the wake of the Emperor, who was just passing by.
I caught another glimpse of the man with the red fez and called out to him; but he had vanished.
Had I been awake or dreaming?
It could not have been Ernst. He would not have left me after thus addressing me. And if it were he after all! I felt sure that he would return; so I waited in the hope of again seeing the stranger. The people who passed me seemed like so many shadows, and I felt as if withdrawn from the world.
Night approached, and I was obliged to go to my lodgings. I told Joseph of all that had happened. He stoutly maintained that I must have been dreaming; but nevertheless went with me the next day to the Champs Elysées where, seated on a bench, we waited for hours without seeing any sign of the stranger.
On my journey homeward, I spent a whole week with my sister who lives in the forest of Hagenau. She can cheer me up better than any of my children can. Her excellent memory enabled her to remind me of many little incidents connected with our childhood and our parental home. In her house, I was, for the first time since my affliction, able to indulge in a hearty laugh.
In the eyes of my brother-in-law, the medal awarded me at the Exposition invested me with new importance; he never omitted to allude to this mark of distinction, when introducing me to his acquaintances. On the 15th of August, Napoleon'sfêteday, he actually wanted me to wear the medal on my coat. He could not understand why I would not carry it about with me constantly, so as to make a show of my medal of honor, notwithstanding the fact that the French consider their whole nation as the world's legion of honor. Every individual among them seems anxious to thrust himself forward at the expense of the rest.
My sister privately informed me that the young sergeant whom I met at her house was a suitor for the hand of her eldest daughter, and was only awaiting the satisfactory settlement of the proper dowry on his future wife. He was a young man of limited information, but was very polite and respectful towards me. He hoped to win his epaulets in an early war with Prussia, which had been so bold as to gain Sadowa and conclude a peace without paying France the tribute of a portion of her territory.
The young man evidently thought himself vastly my superior, and spoke of the future of the South German States in a patronizing and pitying tone. As I did not think it worth while to contradict him, he fondly thought that he was instructing me.
As a German, I found the Hagenau Forest of especial interest, from the fact that a part of it had been presented to the town of Hagenau by the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.
I gave my brother-in-law many councils in regard to arboriculture; but, as the new ideas entailed work, he declined making use of them. He was very proud of his epaulets which were displayed in a little frame that hung on the wall; but he was devoid of all love for the forest, and indifferent to anything that helped the State without at the same time contributing to his personal advancement.
I passed a delightful day with my brother-in-law the pastor.
I accompanied him to church, and was greatly moved to once again hear German preaching and German hymns. The organist was one of the most respected men of the neighborhood, and was the owner of a large forge.
I was introduced to him after the service. In the presence of others, he was quite reserved towards me; but during the afternoon, he visited the pastor, and, while we were seated in the arbor under the walnut-tree, we conversed freely in regard to the dangers that, in Alsace, menaced the last remnant of German institutions and the Evangelical Church.
"France was happiest under Louis Philippe," said the pastor; and when the manufacturer ventured to inveigh against the Emperor, he replied that Napoleon was not so bad a man after all, but that the Empress was spoiling everything; that she was a friend of the Pope, and was endeavoring, at one and the same time, to destroy Protestantism and increase luxury.
I returned home. Johanna superintended my household affairs, and also the farm, with great judgment.
During the whole winter I was in delicate health, and in the following year I was obliged to visit the springs of Tarasp. Richard accompanied me.
I was indeed unwell, for when I rode through the Prattigau and the wild waters of the Land-quart roared at the side of the road, it seemed to me as if the stream were a living monster that was climbing up and seeking to devour me.
When on Fluella, I plucked the first Alpine rose. I wept. There was no one left to whom I could carry the flower that bloomed by the wayside.
Richard regarded me for a long while in silence, and at last said, "Father, I know what it is that moves your soul. Let it content you that you did so much to make her life a lovely one."
On those heights, where no plant can live, where no bird sings, where nothing can be heard but the rushing of the snow currents, where the fragments of rocks lay bare and bleak, and eternal snows fill the ravines, I felt as if I were floating in eternity--released from all that belonged to earth--and I called out her name--"Gustava!"
Ah, if one could wait until death should overtake him in this cold, bleak region, where naught that has life can endure.
I went on, and met people who had pitched their dwellings in lofty spots, in order to shelter and entertain tourists. My heart seemed congealed; but I can yet remember where I was when it again thawed into life. Neither the lofty mountains nor the mighty landscape helped me. I sat by the roadside and saw a little bush growing from among the rubble-stones and bearing the blue flowers called snakeweed. And it was there that I became myself again.
But look! A bee comes flying towards the bush. She bends down into the open blossoms; she overlooks none of them, from the top to the bottom of the bush, but seems to find nothing, and flies off to another flower. On the next branch she sucks for a long while from every flower-cup.
A second bee, apparently a younger one, approaches. She, too, tries flower after flower, and does not know that some one has been there before her. At last, however, she seems to become aware of the fact, and skips two or three of the blossoms until she at last finds one that contains nourishment for her.
Here by the wayside, just as up above where human footsteps do not reach, there grows a flower that blooms for itself, and yet bears within it nourishment for another.
I do not know how long I may have been seated there, but when I arose I felt that life had returned to me, and that I was in full sympathy with all that was firmly rooted in the earth or freely moving upon its surface.
My soul had been closed to the world, but was now again open to the air and the sunshine of existence. From that moment, I felt the spell of the lofty peaks and lovely scenery, and, yielding to it, at last became absorbed in self-communion.
I was again living in unconstrained and cheerful intercourse with human beings; and indeed I could not, at times, refrain from showing some of the well-informed Swiss that I met how carelessly and sinfully their countrymen were treating the forests. They complained that the independence of the cantons and the unrestrained liberty of individuals rendered it useless to make any attempt to protect the forests.
I made the acquaintance of many worthy men, and that, after all, is always the greatest acquisition.
We met the widow of our cousin who had fallen at Königgratz. She was exceedingly gay, was surrounded by a train of admirers, and flaunted in elegant attire. She nodded to us formally and seemed to take no pride in her citizen relatives.
I must report another occurrence.
On the very last morning, Richard had succeeded in plucking a large bunch of edelweiss. He was coming down the mountain where the wagon was waiting for us. Just then another wagon arrived, and in it was Annette with her maid.
Richard offered the flowers to Annette.
"Were you thinking of me when you plucked them?" she asked.
"To be truthful, I was not."
"Thanks for the flowers--and for your honesty."
"I did not know, when plucking them, for whom they were; but I am glad to know that now they are yours."
"Thanks; you are always candid."
We continued our journey. On the way, Richard said, "Our cousin, the Baroness, is quite a new character; she ought to be called 'the watering-place widow.' She travels from one watering-place to another, wears mourning or half-mourning, is quite interesting, and always has a crowd buzzing around her. It were a great pity if Annette were to turn out in the same way."
I replied, "If she were to marry, which indeed, were greatly to be desired, she would no longer be 'the watering-place widow.'"
He made no answer, but bit off the end of a cigar which he had been holding in his hand for some time.
On our way home, we rested in the shadow of a rock on a high Alpine peak, and there I found a symbol of what was passing between Annette and Richard--a forget-me-not growing among nettles.