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CHAPTER V

When Edward Levi, the iron merchant, came to out village, he cautiously went, first of all, to my nephew Joseph; he then sent for me, and handed me a letter from Ernst. It was written in a firm hand, and read as follows:

"To my parents I say farewell. I leave my so-called Fatherland forever.

"It grieves me to know that I must grieve you, but I cannot help it.

"If thousands had done what I did, it would have been praised as a noble deed. Must we sacrifice ourselves to this degenerate Fatherland?

"I cannot murder my compatriots, nor do I care to allow them to murder me.

"Take care of Martella for my sake. I will write to her myself.

"Your Lost Son."

"You must pluck such a child from your heart-you must forget him entirely."

These were Joseph's words after he had read the letter. Many others spoke just as he did. But he who has ever heard the word "father" from the lips of his child, knows that this is impossible. From that time I always said to myself, "No day without sorrow." Do you know what it means never to have a pure, bright, happy day? – "no day without sorrow?" And yet, I admit it, I was not without hope. I felt a quiet assurance that Ernst would be all right in the end. How it was to be brought about, I did not know; but I felt that the seeds of indestructible virtue and purity were yet lurking amidst this mass of ruin and rottenness. There might yet be a turn in the tide of affairs, that would draw the current of my son's life into the proper channel. My wife mentioned his name only once after that. But her love for the child was stronger and firmer than her resolution.

She took pains to be about and to keep up an interest in all that was going on: but, from the moment that she was shocked by the news of Ernst's desertion, it was evident that it cost her an effort to control her will.

She seemed constantly tired. She rarely went out-hardly ever as far as the garden, where she would walk but a short distance before sitting down on a bench. She would often sit in an absent manner, gazing into vacancy, and when addressed would seem as if hurriedly collecting her thoughts.

Martella had also received a letter. It contained a ring; but she would not show any one, not even my wife, what Ernst had written. Edward Levi, the iron merchant, acted with great good sense and delicacy. He attempted neither to explain things nor to console us; but gave us the simple account of how the affair had happened. If it had not related to my own son, and had not been so full of sadness, Ernst's ingenuity in the matter would even have afforded us amusement.

It was late in the evening when he arrived at the town in which Levi resided. He went to the police-office at once, and ordered a forester whom he found there to produce Edward Levi, who arrived shortly afterward, and to whom Ernst used these words:

"You have been a soldier and can be trusted. I shall confide my secret to you."

He then informed him, with an air of great secrecy, that he had been ordered to enter the Prussian lines as a spy, and requested him to provide him at once with some French money and the dress of a Jewish cattle-dealer; and also to bring to him a cattle-dealer provided with a correct passport.

After all this had been successfully accomplished, Ernst wrote the two letters and handed them to Levi, with instructions not to deliver them until three days had elapsed.

He started off with his companion. On the way, he asked him to show him his passport: it was handed to him but not returned. He carefully instructed the cattle-dealer to address him by the name of Rothfuss.

"Why, that is the name of the old servant that your father thinks so much of!"

"That is the very reason I have chosen it; you will have no difficulty in remembering it. What is my name?

"The same as the servant's."

"No-but what is it?"

"Rothfuss. Why, every child knows the name. Might I inquire-"

"No; you need ask no questions."

They journeyed on together as far as Kehl, where Ernst suddenly disappeared. The drover waited all day, in the vain hope of seeing him again, and at last returned home.

Ernst had in all likelihood gone to my sister, who lives in the Hagenau forest, or to my brother-in-law, the director of the water-works on the Upper Rhine. Before leaving, he handed a bag of money that belonged to the state to Edward Levi, for safe-keeping.

Joseph, who was always ready to assist others, at once offered to journey after Ernst, in the hope of overtaking him and consulting with him as to his future.

I had instructed Rothfuss to make up a package of the clothes that Ernst had left behind him, and I was at Joseph's house when he brought the bundle there.

Martella wanted to accompany Joseph; but, finding that he would not consent, she turned around to her dog, and said: "Pincher, go with Joseph and hunt your master!"

The dog looked up at her, as if knowing what she said, and then ran after Joseph.

While I was yet with Joseph, a copy of our newspaper came to hand; it had been sent to me marked.

The marked passages read as follows:

"Father Noah, the Prussian lickspittle" – I recognized Funk by these very words-"has allowed a dove to desert from his ark.

"We cannot but regard the rumor that the father had urged his son to take this step, because of his own aversion to fighting against the beloved Prussians, as a malicious invention.

"We do not believe the party of these beggarly Prussians, or this weak-minded old gray-beard, endowed with the requisite firmness.

"But the noble Caffre's pride in his virtue must have received a fearful blow."

I must admit that this low personal attack gave me much pain. I was, however, more grieved to think that party hatred could induce men to indulge in such abuse.

Joseph remarked, "One should indeed always have an enemy, in order to find out what criticism and explanation our deeds may be subjected to."

Joseph was a burgomaster. The game-keeper came to report to him.

My very heart trembled with fear, and I felt ashamed of myself in the presence of the game-keeper.

He had the description and order of arrest for my son in his pocket.

One does not find how far and how deep honor has spread its roots, until it is lost.

Unrest, the most hateful demon in the world, had been conjured up in our house.

Now that our pride was broken, we at last noticed how proud we had been.

One day, when walking through the village, I met the perjured baker, Lerz of Hollerberg. He extended his hand to me in a friendly manner. Did he regard me as one of his equals? I withdrew my hand.

He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and went on his way.

The first neighbor who visited me was Baron Arven, who lives about a mile and a half from our house.

I believe I have not yet referred to this man. His dignified and quiet demeanor betokened a really brave and noble character. He was just what he seemed to be-free from all pretence or deceit.

I must add a few words in regard to his family. Following the bent of most of the dwellers in our part of the country, he had gone down the Danube and had entered the Austrian army. He afterward left the service and returned to the family estate, bringing with him a wife who was a native of Bohemia, and who held but little intercourse with the neighborhood. Her only familiar companions were the clergy.

The Bishop had stopped there on two occasions while making his pastoral journeys.

She led a life of seclusion in the castle, or rather the convent; for the estate on which they lived had, at one time, belonged to a religious order.

The Baron had two sons, splendid fellows, who were serving in the cavalry. He is a member of our upper chamber. He is a man of but few words, but always votes with the moderate liberals.

He has no respect for the people; their coarse morals and manners are repugnant to him. He does not deny that mankind in general have equal rights; but, as individuals, he would only accord them such consideration as their education, their means, or their social position would entitle them to. In this respect he is a thorough aristocrat.

The farmers speak of him with love and veneration, although he is never friendly towards them. He is very active as the President of our Agricultural Association. He has the finest cattle and the best machines, and his special hobby is to stock the many woodland streams and lakes of our vicinity with fish.

He is passionately fond of the chase and of fishing, and possesses the art of getting through with his day in the most approved and knightly manner. Rautenkron acts as his forest-keeper.

That very day, the Baron came riding along, followed by his two fine, large dogs. He alighted at Joseph's house and saluted Annette, with whom he had become acquainted at the capital, for he spent several months there with his family every winter. The family of Von Arven owned an old mansion in the city.

He came up to me, offered me his hand in silence, and seated himself.

I could not help thinking of some words from the Book of Job, that had always so deeply affected me: "And none spake a word unto him, for they saw that his grief was very great."

"My dear neighbor," he at last said, "I see that you, too, have been highly assessed in the impost of misfortune that every one of us must pay. I shall spare you any words of attempted consolation, and only add that there are thousands who would like to do just as your son has done."

And then, in his calm and collected tone, he spoke of this horrid war, in which Germans were fighting against each other. Napoleon's darling hope was that Austria and Prussia might mutually weaken each other, so that he might be the master and the arbiter of peace, and could then dictate his own terms. Arven had at one time been an Austrian officer, and was naturally not partial to Prussia. He had an inborn aversion to Northern harshness; but with his knowledge of the organization of the Austrian armies, he felt free to say that Prussia would be victorious. Although both of his sons were in our army, he said this with great calmness.

The Baron's presence exerted a gentle, soothing influence on our household. When I told my wife that he had expressed a wish to speak with her, she came into the room; and when the two were conversing with each other, it was like a beautiful song of mourning.

The Baron's presence always produced a subdued tone, an atmosphere of quiet refinement-an influence like a subtile, pleasing perfume lingered in the room long after he had taken his departure.

And now, when he was conversing with my wife, she gave utterance to thoughts that otherwise we might never have become acquainted with. When conversing with strangers, she revealed far more of her pure and elevated views of the world than when she was with us alone.

Shortly after the Baron's departure, we were visited by Counsellor Reckingen, who came over from the city to see us. He usually lived in strict seclusion from the world. While sailing on Lake Constance, he had lost his young wife. He had plunged in after her, and had succeeded in reaching the bank with her, only to find that life had fled. Since that time, he had lived in solitude, devoting himself to the education of the little daughter who was left to him.

Under these circumstances, I could not but appreciate his kindness in paying me this visit.

He seemed to have become quite unused to conversation. He said but little, and soon went out into the garden in front of our house, in order to plant some rose-slips that he had brought with him.

I was greatly gratified by the visit of a deputation of my constituents. It consisted of three esteemed farmer-burgomasters of the neighborhood. They made no allusion to the grief which had befallen me; our conversation referred only to the war; and when Martella brought in wine, they looked at the child with curious eyes.

CHAPTER VI

Ought we to bear the blame of our son Ernst's having wandered from the right path?

By our example and precept we have guided our children in the path of virtue, but who can control their souls? I have caused many a fallow soil to bear fruit, and up on the bleak hills have raised sturdy trees. Nature's law is unchanging; but if not even a tree can mature without harm coming to it, how much less can a human soul be expected to do so. We have lived to see naught but what is good and proper in our son Richard. His development is so natural and consistent. In his earliest youth, he decided to devote himself to science. He has steadily advanced, swerving neither to the right nor the left, and has always been full of the conscious power of the clear and temperate mind that grasps the laws underlying the phenomena presented by the world of thought and of action.

We can neither take credit to ourselves, in the one instance, nor acknowledge that we were in fault in the other.

My wife had been true to herself, and yet full of resignation in the first shock of this bitter grief; but now there came an insurmountable desire to quarrel with her lot, and the puzzling question, "Why should this happen just to us?" was again awakened.

I dislike to admit it, but truth forces me to say that this was brought about by the arrival of my daughter Johanna.

Johanna also had her troubles. Her husband was sickly, her son was in the army, and she seemed chosen for suffering; but chosen by reason of a higher faith. With inconsiderate zeal, she attempted to awaken the same faith in us. At that very moment, she thought, when we were crushed and bowed down by sorrow, our redemption should take place. She assigned the impiety of our household as the cause of our son's disobedience.

The education which my wife had received from her father was, as some would call it, a heathen one; for she had received more instruction from the classics than from the Bible.

We were seated in our statue gallery. The door that led to the garden was open; my wife had been eagerly reading from a book, which she now laid aside with the remark, "That does one good."

"What were you reading?" inquired Johanna.

My wife made no answer, and Johanna repeated her question, when she said, "I have been reading the Antigone of Sophocles, and I find that I am right."

"In what respect?"

"It has renewed my recollection of an idea of my father's. When I was reading the Antigone aloud to him for the first time, he said, If a woman acted in this way, she would be doing right; but a brother should not have done so. With a sister, or with a mother, the natural law of love of kindred is above that of the state, which would have treated the brother as a traitor to his country. And in this lies the deeply tragic element-that innocence and guilt are so closely interwoven, and that two considerations are battling with each other. You men may pass judgment on Ernst; you require unconditional submission to the lawful authorities. You are right, because you are men of the law. But, with Antigone, I rest myself upon that higher law which is far above all laws that states may frame!

"'It lives neither for to-day nor for yesterday, but for all time,

And none can know since when.'

"This book is to me a sacred one."

"Mother!" cried Johanna, with a voice trembling with emotion, "mother, how can you say that, while I here have the only sacred book in my hand?"

"In its own sense, that, too, is sacred; but it teaches me nothing of the deep struggles between the human heart and the laws of the state."

"Mother," cried Johanna, kneeling before her; "here is the Bible. I implore you to give up those profane books; they cannot help you. Listen to the Word of God!"

"To me he speaks through these books," answered my wife.

"Mother, we are mourning for the lost son."

"Our son is not lost; he is a sad sacrifice."

Richard entered. Mother said to him, "Read me the story from the Gospel."

"What do you refer to?" inquired Richard.

"Mother means the Parable of the Prodigal Son," interrupted Johanna; and holding the Bible on high, she continued: "Here it is: Gospel of St. Luke, fifteenth chapter, eleventh verse."

"Not you, but Richard, shall read it."

"But, mother-"

"Richard, I wish you to read it."

He had just taken the book, when Annette entered. She asked whether she was disturbing them.

My wife said that she was not, and requested her to sit down at her side.

In a calm and full voice Richard read:

"'And he said, A certain man had two sons:

"'And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living.

"'And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living.

"'And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want.

"'And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine.

"'And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him.

"'And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!

"'I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee.

"'And am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.

"'And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.

"'And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.

"'But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet:

"'And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry:

"'For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry.

"'Now his elder son was in the field: and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing.

"'And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant.

"'And he said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.

"'And he was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out and entreated him.

"'And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandments; and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends.

"'But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.

"'And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.

"'It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'"

When Richard had finished, he placed his hand on the open book and said, "This story has much dramatic interest. The father, the two sons, the servant, are clearly and strikingly drawn; and with correct judgment; the mother is not mentioned, for here it would not do to have double notes-a variation of emotion on the part of the father and one on the part of the mother. I might, indeed, say that a mother would have dwelt on the appearance her son presented on his return; while here it is left unnoticed. Further-"

"What do you mean? You are not among your students," angrily interrupted Johanna.

"You are right," continued Richard, with a quiet smile; "my students are polite enough to permit me to finish a sentence without interrupting me. I will also state, first of all, that this ingenious parable makes no mention of the sister. I do not know what a sister would have said in that affair."

Johanna jumped from her seat in anger; her features seemed distorted with passion. She opened her mouth to answer him, but could not utter a word.

"Shall I go on, mother?" asked Richard.

"Of course; speak on."

"In the first place, the pure spirit which here reveals itself is as fully acknowledged by us as by the pious believers.

"To me the all-important point is, that it illustrates a view of the relation between parents and children, which is completely the reverse of that fostered by the ancient civilization, in which the children suffer for the sins of their parents. Just think of the curse of the Atrides. In our days, it is quite different, and the fate of the parents-their happiness as well as their sorrow-depends upon the conduct of their children.

"The individual to whom such affliction comes is subject to the great and universal law of the newer life."

"Is there anything else you would like to say?" inquired Johanna, in an angry voice. She had some time before that snatched the Bible out of Richard's hands, and had been reading in it ever since, as if she thought that the best way to counteract the influence of the heresies he had been uttering. With all that, she seemed to hear every word that was said.

"I certainly have, if you will permit me. To me this story seems a repetition, in a new shape, of a subject already treated in the same book. The story of Joseph in Egypt is a family history that borders on the region of fable, narrated without any regard to the moral that underlies it, and yet representing to us the reward of innocence. This story which tells of a son who had been a real sinner, and for that reason was not permitted to return as a viceroy amid joy and splendor, but in the garb of a beggar, has another lesson for us. Viewed from the stand-point of the Old or New Testament, or even by our own feelings, it tells the story of redemption. Yes, every human being who falls into sinful ways, shall be obliged to eat the husks;… but he is not lost. When through self-knowledge his soul has been humbled in the dust, He who never fails will lift him up again, for it is far easier to avoid sin than, before God and one's own soul, to confess having sinned."

After a pause of a few moments, Richard continued: "There is an excellent painting of the Prodigal's Return. It is by Führich. The artist has chosen the moment when the father is embracing his long-lost son, now kneeling at his feet; the son, however, dares not venture to embrace his father; bent down towards the earth, he folds his hands upon his breast in humble, silent gratitude."

Johanna seemed to think that she might as well abandon all attempts to change our views of religious matters. She arose from her seat and, pressing the Bible to her bosom, left the room without uttering another word.

"Come into the garden with me," said my wife to Richard. I was left alone with Annette. Great tears were rolling down her cheeks. After a little while she said that now she was at last really converted, but not in the way that the church would wish her to be. She could at last understand that the best consolation and the most elevating reflection, in time of sorrow, is to consider individual suffering a part of a great whole, and as a phase of the soul-experience of advancing humanity.

She regretted that Bertha had not been with us. She felt sure, also, that her husband would have been a delighted listener. He had always felt attracted to Richard, although he had never become intimate with him.

She hurried home in order, as I fancy, to write out for her husband's benefit her impressions of what she had just heard.

Johanna left us that very day. She said that she now felt as a stranger in our home, and consoled herself with the thought that she could feel at home in the house of a Father whom we, alas! did not know.

We were neither anxious nor able to prevent her departure. And why should I not confess it? – we felt more at our ease without her.