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CHAPTER VII

As far as she could, Bertha led a self-contained and secluded life. She frankly admitted that she was not in the mood to worry about her lost brother; her heart was filled with thoughts of her husband, the father of her children.

When haymaking began on the mountain meadows, Bertha would go out and assist in scattering the newly mown grass. She hoped that physical exercise would enable her again to enjoy the refreshing sleep of her childhood, and was quite happy when, in the morning, she found herself able to tell us that she had passed a night in dreamless sleep.

Annette suffered greatly from the heat. Bertha, however, said that it was best to expose one's self to the sun, because the heat would then be less oppressive. She was quite delighted to see how the sun browned her own children.

Annette again introduced the subject of the parable of the Prodigal Son, when Richard, with an ironical smile, replied, "I am glad to see that you can dwell on a subject and again return to it; and I shall only add, that in the Old Testament the history of a nation is conceived in a popular manner, while the New Testament is a history in which one exalted and idealized man serves as the sole and central figure. The real life of the family, the relations of parents and kindred, is not emphasized in the latter. Life, there, is isolated, and looks only towards heaven.

"In the Old Testament, the life of the family is in constant action, and superfluous figures which serve no moral in themselves are also introduced.

"To express myself symbolically, I should say Moses has a brother and a sister who are also important figures. Jesus, on the other hand, stands alone against the golden background, and no relationship of His is mentioned except that to His mother, which was afterward poetically invested with a higher significance."

"Accept my thanks; I believe I understand you. If one were able always to regard individual suffering as merely part of the world's development, one would be saved from all pain," said Annette.

Richard's look was one of surprise, almost of anger, at these words.

When we were together, most of his attentions were for the daughter of the kreis-director. Her calm and gentle manner seemed to him the very opposite of Annette's; and it may have been his desire to let Annette see that cultivated womanhood consists of something more than incessantly propounding questions, or in keeping a man in a constant trot to prove his gallantry by providing for the intellectual requirements of the ladies.

"I greatly fear," said Richard to my wife, "that Annette is one of that class of beings with whom everything resolves itself into talk, and of whom one might well say that what to us is a church, is to them a concert." And he went on to complain that, in the strict sense of the word, Annette did not have a nice ear; that where she thought she fully understood one's meaning, she usually misconceived it. When he had finished, my wife answered with a quiet smile:

"Be careful: the professor is again showing himself in you. It seems to me that the professor finds it annoying to have listeners who are not all attention."

Richard was a severe judge of his own motives and actions, and frankly confessed that he deserved the reproach. Nevertheless ne could not accustom himself to Annette's presence.

He had much knowledge of men, and constantly lived in a certain equable atmosphere of his own; and the impulsive, changeable traits of Annette were therefore repugnant to him.

She, too, felt the antagonism, and one day said to him, quite roguishly, "The forester is the type of many men. I had always thought that he found it refreshing to breathe the pure air of the woods; but I find that he is constantly smoking his vile tobacco."

The petty war between Richard and Annette enabled us, for many an hour, to forget the greater war that was raging out of doors. Annette was quite anxious in her care for my wife, and could never fully gratify her desire to be with her always.

Although Richard attempted to conceal it, it was quite evident that he had a decided aversion to Annette.

He would sometimes spend whole days with Rautenkron the forester, and was more frequent in his visits to Baron Arven than he had formerly been.

But in the evenings, when we were all together, Annette seemed to possess the art of drawing him out in spite of himself.

And thus we led a simple and yet intellectual life, while, without doors, armies speaking the same language were arrayed against each other with deadly intent.

CHAPTER VIII

"Pincher is here again; he could not find him," said Martella one morning. Her dog had returned during the night.

At noon, Joseph returned from Alsace. He had not succeeded in finding Ernst, who had remained at my sister's house but one day, and had seemed excited and troubled while there.

He had understood that Ernst had met some one at the railway station, as if by appointment.

Joseph, who was always so cool and collected, seemed remarkably nervous and excited.

I thought that he had perhaps seen Ernst after all, and was not telling us all that he knew; but he assured me, in a somewhat confused manner, that he had concealed nothing. He told me that he was out of sorts, simply because of the triumphant and malicious airs that the Alsatians had displayed. Business friends of his, among whom there was a deputy who seemed to be well posted, insisted upon it as a fact that the Prussian statesman had offered the French Emperor a considerable portion, if not all, of the left bank of the Rhine, on condition that the Emperor would not prevent him from using his own pleasure towards Germany, if conquered.

The left bank of the Rhine! How often I, too, while in Alsace had heard it said that France must take possession of this left bank, as a matter of course; for the Frenchmen thought themselves the lords of creation, with whom it was only necessary to express a wish in order to have it gratified.

Would I yet live to see the ruin of my Fatherland? At that very moment, Germans were battling against Germans, in order that the aims of France might be served.

I asked Joseph and Richard whether they could conceive of such a thing as a German selling and betraying his Fatherland.

We had no assurance of this, and thought it best to encourage each other's faith in humanity.

The failure of Joseph's mission had only served to arouse my own deep sorrow anew.

My son lost! When night came, I could not make up my mind to retire. For a long while, I sat gazing at the starry heavens, and the dark forest-covered mountains. Where is he now? Can it be possible that he is not thinking of us? He is in danger, and may work his own ruin. How gladly would I fly to his help, if I only knew how!

At last one goes to his couch, thinking: "To-morrow something definite must be done." But the morning comes, and the deed is left undone. Thou hast waited this long, and shalt wait still longer. And thus the days pass by, while naught is accomplished. When I lay awake at nights, thinking of my son, I felt as if with him; and when, by chance, other thoughts arose in my mind, the one great grief would thrust them aside. It seemed as if my soul had for a time left the body and had now returned to it again.

The fear of sleeplessness is almost worse than the reality; but one falls asleep at last without knowing how, and so it shall some day be with our final sleep.

And, often, when the tired body had fallen asleep, the troubled soul would awaken it again.

At these moments I would say to myself, "Life is a solemn charge." It went hard with me to renounce perfect happiness.

One morning, when I was just about to go out into the fields, Martella came running towards me. She was almost out of breath, and told me that the captain's wife was over in the garden of the school-master's wife, and had fainted. She had received a letter with bad news. Her husband had been shot in the forehead, and was dead.

My wife hurried on ahead of me, and stepped as quickly as in the days of her youth.

When I reached the garden gate, Annette was already sitting on a bench. She had her arms around Gustava's neck, and had buried her face in my wife's bosom.

She raised her head and said, "The flowers still bloom." Then she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.

My wife placed her hand on Annette's head, and said, "Weep on. You have a right to lament. Let them not dare come and say, 'Conquer your pain, for hundreds suffer just as you do.' Were there thousands to suffer this same grief, every one must suffer it for himself, and through life carry a wounded heart. You are very, very unhappy. You were life and joy itself: you must now know what it is to be sad. It is a hard lesson, and although I bear my burden, that will not lighten yours. That you must bear for yourself, as none besides you can."

Annette raised her head, and when she saw me, extended her hand, saying at the same time:

"You knew him well; but no one knew him as I did. He was a hero, with a soul as pure as a child's. Can it be? Can it be possible that he lives no more? Can a mere bullet put in end to so much beauty, so much happiness? Surely it cannot be! Why should it have been he? Why should this stroke fall on me? Forgive me, Bertha, you were stronger and more determined than I. And how your husband will mourn him! Victor, do you know what has happened? Uncle Hugo is dead! And in the very hour of his death I may have been laughing. Alas, alas! Forgive me for making you all so sad. I cannot help myself."

We had not yet left the garden, when the kreis-director entered. He was accompanied by a tall gentleman who was a stranger to us.

"Max, you here!" exclaimed Annette. "While I was happy, you did not come to me, but now you do come. How kind!"

She threw her arms around his neck, and I then learned that he was her brother.

We retired, leaving them together.

I had known that Annette was an orphan. I now learned that her brother, who was a lawyer of renown, had given up all intercourse with his sister, because of her having embraced Christianity. He had wished her to remain true to the faith of her ancestors, and to contract only a civil marriage. For her husband's sake, however, she had embraced the Catholic religion. This was the first intimation I had of her being a Catholic.

A sudden shower forced us to withdraw into the house.

It is depressing to think that while we were absorbed by the deepest despair, a petty annoyance could cause us to flee. We entered the school-room.

"There it is!" exclaimed Annette, pointing to the blackboard; "there it stands!"

On the blackboard were the words, "War, Victory, Fatherland, Germany," as a writing-copy for the children.

"Children are taught to write it," said Annette, "but where is it? All life is a blackboard, and on it are written the words, 'Death, Grief, Tears.'"

The old spinner entered. She walked up to Annette, took her by the hand, and uttered a few words which none of us could understand.

Annette called upon us all to bear witness, that from that very hour she would give the spinner a considerable annuity in case her son should lose his life; but that, even if he were to return in safety, she would nevertheless make her a yearly allowance.

Her brother objected that at such a time it were wrong to make a vow. She could, from year to year, give the old woman as much as she thought proper; but that she ought not, at this moment, to make a promise which would be irrevocable, and for life.

We all looked at him with surprise.

He added that he, too would be happy to contribute a generous sum to the annuity.

Annette returned to her dwelling, in order to prepare for her departure. Her orders were, that her rooms should remain in the same condition as she left them, as it was her intention to return.

"Your master is dead," she said to the brown spaniel; "your eye tells me that you understand my words. You must remain here; I shall return again. He loved you, too; but rest quiet: we can neither of us die yet. You are well off-you can neither wish for death for yourself, nor seek it: you cannot think of these things. Yes, you are well off."

I can hardly find room to mention all the strange images that were called up by Annette's words. Her richly endowed and many-sided mind was in unwonted commotion.

The shower had passed away; the grass and the trees were radiant with the sunlight, and the lines of the opposite hills were clear and distinct.

Annette stood at her window gazing into the distance, while she uttered the words:

"While the earth decks itself with verdure and brings forth new life, it receives the dead. Let no one dare come to me again and say that he understands the world and life!

"Where is the professor?"

My wife was the only one who could quiet Annette, and she said, "If I could only go with you!"

"You will be with me in spirit, I am sure," replied Annette.

She extended her hand to my wife, saying, "I can assure you of this: I will so conduct myself, that you could at any moment say to me, 'This is right.'-I have been wild and wayward; I am so no longer; hereafter, I will be strong and gentle."

The carriage drove up and we accompanied Annette down the hill as far as the saw-mill.

There was a rainbow over our heads; it reached from our mountains to the Vosges.

Annette held a handkerchief to her eyes. My wife and Bertha were walking on either side of her.

The only time I heard her speak was when she said to Bertha:

"Your husband has lost his best comrade. The Major will live; there shall yet be some happy ones on earth. I shall write you from the camp."

Rothfuss was ploughing the potato field. He was walking with his back towards us.

Annette called to him. He came out into the road and inquired what was the matter.

"My husband is dead. I am going to bring him and lay him in the earth which you are now ploughing," said Annette in a firm voice.

Rothfuss extended his hand to her. He seemed unable to utter a word, and was excitedly swinging his cap about with his left hand.

At last, in a loud voice, and stopping after every word, he exclaimed:

"I would-rather-not-be-King-or Emperor-than have-that-rest-on me."

He returned to the field and continued his work.

When we reached the valley, Annette said, "I shall not say 'good by;' I shall need all my strength for the other sad affair."

She quickly stepped into the carriage; her brother, Rontheim, and the daughter of the latter following her.

The carriage rolled away.

On our way back to the house, my wife was several times obliged to sit down by the roadside. The sad events of this day had deeply affected her.

We were seated under an apple-tree, when my wife, taking me by the hand, said, "Yes, Henry, how full of blossoms that tree once was; but May-bugs and caterpillars and frost and hail have destroyed it. And thus it is with him, too."

She was not as demonstrative as I was; she could bear her sorrow silently; but the thought of Ernst did not leave her for a moment.

When we got back to the house she fell asleep in the armchair, and did not awaken until sunset, when Richard, whom we had not seen all day, returned.

He admitted that he had heard of Annette's bereavement, but had kept out in the woods to be out of the way, as he thought there were enough sympathizers without him, and that he could not have been of any service.

My wife looked at him with surprise.

Richard told us that during the rain-storm, which had been quite heavy in the woods, he had been with Rautenkron.

The gloomy man had spoken of Ernst with great interest, and had incidentally inquired in regard to Martella. He was quite enraged that he, who never read a newspaper and did not want to have anything to do with the world, was obliged to know of this war, as one of his assistants and a forest laborer had been conscripted. He felt quite convinced, too, that Prussia would be victorious.

For a long while there was no news from the seat of war, except reports of marching and countermarching.

After that, there came a letter from the Major, who lamented the death of the Captain, and wrote in terms of admiration of the noble and composed bearing of Annette.

Richard, who, during Annette's presence, had, as far as possible, affected solitude, was now again with us almost constantly.

He spoke quite harshly of Annette, and said that she was always expressing a desire for repose and a quiet life, while at the same time she was constantly disturbing every one. She would allow no one to live in his own thoughts; her only desire was, that the thoughts and feelings of others should be the reflection of her evanescent emotions.

He thought it likely, however, that she might emerge from the refining fire of a great grief, purer and firmer than she had ever been.

"I know now," said my wife to me one evening, "why Richard went out into the woods. It was well of him."

I did not understand it, and she, in order to tease me, refused to explain. She seemed quite pleased with her secret, and I was only too happy to see her smile once again.

CHAPTER IX

"Thank God, they have beaten us!" were the words with which Joseph entered our house the next morning, carrying an extra paper in his hand. In those words was concentrated the whole misery of those days. "If Prussia would only march into the South German palaces! That is the only way to bring about a proper understanding."

This was the second idea that Joseph expressed.

An armistice was concluded. Bertha wished to return home at once. A letter from her husband was received, requesting her to remain at our house, and informing her that he would join her there immediately after the return of the troops.

He also informed us that he had received a letter from the widow of our Austrian cousin; her husband had lost his life at Königgratz.

We also received news from Annette. In a few short words she informed us of her wretched journey with the corpse of him who had been all her joy, and had been sacrificed to no purpose.

The postscript contained special greetings for Richard, both from her and from his friend, a medical professor, who had introduced himself to Annette as a friend of ours, and had been of great service to her.

Sad tidings threw the village into excitement.

Carl, who had been the favorite of the whole village, had fallen. It was both sad and gratifying to hear how every one praised him. Even the taciturn meadow farmer stopped me on my way to the spinner's cottage, and said, "He was a steady young fellow."

If I had replied by asking him to contribute a stated sum for the support of the destitute widow, he would have looked at me as if I were crazy, to think of making such a suggestion to him. According to his views of life, poor people were sent into the world to starve, and the rich in order that they might eat to their heart's content and fill their iron cooking-pots with gold.

The meadow farmer was accompanied by a peasant-prince from the valley on the other side of the mountains, where the succession falls to the minor, the youngest son inheriting the estate.

It was said that the only daughter of the meadow farmer had been determined on as the wife of this young peasant. He had inherited a considerable sum in securities, and now sought a wife. Love did not enter into the question; all that was required was to keep up the name and the honor of the peasant-court; and, while a noble life cannot result from such a union, it generally proves a respectable and contented marriage.

I remembered that there had been a rumor in the village that Marie, the daughter of the meadow farmer, loved Carl.

When I drew near to the house of the spinner, I saw Funk coming out, Lerz the baker following him. I think Funk must have seen me; otherwise there could have been no reason for his remarking to his companion in quite a loud voice, "What do you think of your beggarly Prussians now? This is their work-to kill the son of a poor widow. If he had been a prince, they would have gone into mourning, and for seven weeks would have eaten out of black bowls and with black spoons!"

It went hard with me to enter the widow's cottage, after hearing those words. The old woman, who had always been so quiet and contented, and who had never left her dwelling, unless it was to go earn her daily bread, was now quite urgent in her demands. She asked for money, so that she might go and witness the burial of her son, and know where they laid his body. She also wanted to go to the Prince, for whom her son had lost his life. She knew that she, a poor woman, had a better right to a good pension than the Captain's widow, who was a great lady.

When my wife came, the old woman said, "You are better off than I am. Your son still lives, but mine is dead. They told me that you once said your son was more than dead. But, tell me, what does it mean to be more than dead? Ah, you do not know. The Prussian sought out the best heart of them all. He knew what he was about. Of all the thousands who say 'mother,' there was no better child than my Carl. Your Ernst is also a good lad. They were born on the same day. Don't you remember? My husband was quite tipsy when he came home that evening. He was gloriously full, and so jolly! He must have known that he was soon to be the father of such a splendid boy.

"Oh, my poor Carl! You may hunt the land through, but you will never find so handsome a lad as my Carl. He did not get his good looks from me; but his father was just as good-looking as he-nay, almost more so.

"Ah, it will be a long while before you find so pretty a fellow as Carl-one who will sit down beside his mother of a Sunday afternoon and tell her merry jokes, so that her heart may be gladdened, although his own be sad.

"Yes, go and seek another such as he!

"Don't go away, Waldfried! There is no one left with whom I can talk. Or send Martella-to me she will do."

On our way home, my wife gently said, "His regiment was not once in battle."

This was the first intimation I had received of her careful reading of the newspapers. Ernst's regiment had not fired a single shot, and all our suffering had been to no purpose.

We sent Martella over to the spinner's cottage, where she remained all night.

On the following morning, Martella returned. She was quite joyful, and maintained that Ernst had been saved and would soon return to us.

She had arranged everything with the old spinner. The two of them would go to the Prince, and the spinner would say to him, "My son is dead! but give me the one who was born on the same day, and wipe out all that stands against him!" Or else the spinner would say, "My tears shall wash away all the charges that stand written against him on the slate."

It went hard to make Martella understand that this plan was nothing more than an idle dream.

The battle was over, and peace had been concluded.

Although Austria was separated from Germany, there was, as yet, no real Germany. While the high contracting parties were framing the chief clauses of their treaty, the Frenchman who was looking over their shoulders took the pen in his own hand and drew a black mark across the page, and called it "the line of the Main."

The Major came home, and the joy of Bertha and her children knew no bounds. The Major, however, seemed unable to shake off a deep fit of melancholy.

He was a strict disciplinarian. He never allowed himself to say aught against his superiors or their orders; but now, he could not keep down his indignation at the manner in which the war had been conducted. When a nation really goes to war it should be in greater earnest about its work.

There was much distrust, both as to the courage and the loyalty and firmness of the leaders. While the Major's feelings as a soldier had been outraged, there were many other thoughts which suggested themselves to him as a lover of his country, and in regard to which he maintained silence.

He told us that Annette had behaved with dignity and composure when she went to receive the body of her husband. But now it was evident that she had attempted too much; that she was unwell, and would be obliged until autumn to repair to the sea-side, where her mother-in-law would be with her.

When the Major remarked that he had heard it said that in this war even slight wounds might prove fatal, because every one was so filled with mortification, on account of this unholy strife, that the very idea itself would serve to aggravate even the slightest wound, my wife exclaimed, "Yes, it is indeed so. There are wounds which are made fatal by the thoughts of those who receive them."

We all felt that she was thinking of Ernst, and remained silent.

The Major did not mention Ernst's name, nor did he inquire whether we had heard from him.

He had heard of the death of Carl, and was just about to pay a visit to his mother, when Rothfuss came rushing into the room in breathless haste, and told us that Carl was down in the stable, and begged that we would go to his mother and gently break the news of his safe return to her.

We had Carl come up to us, and learned from him that he had been cut off from his companions during a reconnoissance, and taken prisoner, and had thus by mistake been entered in the list of the killed.

When he heard this, the Major inveighed furiously at the want of system that obtained everywhere.

I decided that I would go to his mother, and that Carl and the Major should follow me a little while later.

I went to the spinner's cottage. She sat at her spinning-wheel; and I could not help believing myself the witness of a miracle, for as soon as she saw me, the old woman called out, "Will he come soon?"

She then told me that she had awakened during the night-she was quite sure it was not a dream-and had heard the voice of her son saying quite distinctly, "Mother, I am not dead-I will soon be with you. I am coming-I am coming!" And she had heard his very footsteps.

"I went to the pastor's," she said, taking off one spindle and putting on a new one; "the pastor had given orders to have the church-bell tolled on account of Carl's death; but I will not allow it-my Carl is alive, and I do not want to hear the bells tolling for his death."

I told her that in time of war there was necessarily much confusion, and that I, too, believed that her son was still alive, and would return again. I was just about to say that I had already seen Carl, when he stepped out from behind the wood-pile, and called out, "Mother!"

The spinner remained seated, but threw her spindle to the far end of the room.

Carl fell on his knees before her and wept.

"You need not weep-I have done enough of it myself, already," said she. "But I knew it-you are a good child, and you would not be so cruel as to die before me. Get up and pick up my spindle. Have you eaten anything, Carl? You must be hungry."

When Carl told her that he did not wish for anything, she replied, "Indeed, I have nothing but cold boiled potatoes. Now, do tell me, how did it seem when you were dead? You surely thought of me at the last moment? Tell me, did you not last night at three o'clock, wherever you were, say to yourself, 'Mother, I am not dead: I shall soon be with you-I will come soon-I will come soon?"

Carl answered that he had really uttered those very words at the time mentioned.

"That is right," said the old woman.

She arose from her seat, took her son by the hand, and went on to say, "Now, come up into the village with me. Let us go with these gentlemen. Major, I thank you for the honor of your visit. I suppose I may go along with you?"

We returned homewards.

It was already known through the whole village, that the young man who had been lost and so sincerely deplored had returned. Friends poured forth from every doorway, while from the windows cries of "Welcome Carl!" were heard.

On our way we met Marie, carrying a bundle of clover on her head. She threw her bundle away and hurried towards Carl; but when she came up to him she suddenly stopped, as if frightened.

"Good-day, Marie. I am glad that you, too, have come to bid me welcome," said Carl.

He extended both his hands to her, and she took hold of them, but did not utter a word.

We walked on, and when I turned to look back, I saw Marie sitting on the bundle of clover, with her face buried in her hands.

Rothfuss was the jolliest in the party.

"Now one can see how untruthful the world is," he exclaimed. "Did not every one say how much he would give if only Carl were alive! He is here, now, and is alive again, and what do they give? Nothing. One ought not to do people the favor to die; anything in the world but death."

We reached the house. Carl's mother walked up to my wife and said, "Madame Waldfried, here he is-my son Carl. Just as he has come back to all that is good, so will Ernst surely return. They were born on the same day-do you remember? There was a great storm at the time; and the nurse came directly from your house to mine. And at that very moment the lightning struck the tree that stands behind my house and tore it to pieces; and then the nurse said, 'This boy will see something of war.'

"You did not believe in it, but it came to pass, nevertheless. Down in the valley there is a spring, and a mother's heart is like a spring, for it flows by day and night. Your Ernst-my Ernst-will return again."

No one dared reply, but with Ernst everything was different.

The old woman now begged that we would inform "the great lady," as she always called Annette, of Carl's return. The Major promised to do so; and when he and I were alone together, he mentioned Ernst's name for the first time, and informed me that the commander of his division had, in the presence of the entire corps of officers, expressed his great regret that his brother-in-law had deserted.

Ernst had brought pain and disgrace on us all; but there was still another trouble in store for us.

A letter reached us from Johanna, in which she informed us in short, hard sentences that her son Martin had died of the wound he had received; and that her husband, who had been an invalid for many months, could not long survive him. I told the Major of this, but kept the news from the rest of the family.