CHAPTER IV
Before I proceed further, I must tell you of Martella.
It were of course better if I could let her speak for herself; for her voice, though firm, has an indescribably mellow and touching tone, and seems to hold the listener as if spell-bound. She had thick, unmanageable brown hair, and brown eyes in which there was hardly any white to be seen. She was not slender, but rather short, although there were moments when she would suddenly seem as if quite tall. Her manner was not gentle, but rather domineering, as if she would say, "Get out of the way there! I am coming!" In disposition she was wayward and passionate, vain and conceited. It was only in our house that she became pliant and yielding, and acquired mild and modest ways. I do not mean modest in the current acceptation of the word; she had genuine respect for those who were higher and better than she. My wife effected a miraculous change in her without ever attempting to instruct, but simply by commanding her. She was the betrothed of my son Ernst, who, as I have already mentioned, was with us at Frankfort in the year 1848.
It is difficult, and to us of an older generation perhaps impossible, to discover what impression the events of 1848 must have made on a child's mind.
For my part, I have learned through this son, that failure on the part of the parents induces in their offspring a feeling which can best be described as pity mingled with a want of respect. Like William Tell, we had long carried the arrow of revolution in our bosoms, but when we sent it forth it missed the mark.
In the autumn of 1848 my wife came to visit me at Frankfort and brought Ernst with her.
Old Arndt was particularly fond of the lad, and often took him on his knee and called him his "little pine-tree." When the Regent, on the day after his triumphal entry, appeared in public, he met Ernst and kissed him.
During the summer Ernst attended a preparatory school in the neighboring town. But he seemed to have no real love for study, while the teachers were over-indulgent with the handsome lad, who was always ready with his bold glances and saucy remarks.
When I asked him what he intended to become, he would always answer me, "Chief forester of the state."
To my great horror, I learned that he often repeated the party cries with which members of the different factions taunted each other. I sent him home after September, for I saw that his intercourse with those who were high in station was making him haughty and disrespectful.
I am unable to judge as to the proper period at which a youthful mind should be induced to interest itself in political questions. I am sure, however, that if such participation in the affairs of the country be chiefly in the way of opposition, it must prove injurious, for its immediate effect is to destroy every feeling of veneration.
Years passed on, Ernst was educated at the house of my wife's nephew, who was a professor at the Gymnasium at the capital. He also spent much of his time with his sister Bertha, who had married Captain Von Carsten.
I must here remark that my son-in-law, in spite of the obstinate opposition of his haughty family, and the strongly marked disapproval of all of his superiors, up to the Prince himself, had married the daughter of a member of the opposition, and had become the brother-in-law of a refugee who was under sentence of death. He is a man of sterling character.
When it was time for Ernst to leave for the university, or, as he had always desired, to attend the forester's school, he declared quite positively that it was his wish to enter the army. He remained there but one year. "The army of the lesser states," he said, "is either mere child's play, or else all the horrors of civil war lurk behind it." He visited the university only to remain there two terms, after which he entered himself with Hartriegel, the district forester.
Ernst's unsteadiness gave us much concern, and I was especially shocked by the sarcastic, mocking manner, in which he spoke of those objects which we of the older generation held in reverence.
He was disputatious, and maintained that it was one's duty to doubt everything. Indeed he did not even spare his parents in that regard, and was bold enough to tell me and my wife which of our qualities he most admired.
He once uttered these wicked words: "The present generation does not look upon the fifth commandment as really a command: but I have a reason for honoring my parents; and I am especially grateful to you, father, for the good constitution I have inherited from you."
My hand itched when I heard Ernst's words; but a glance from my wife pacified me, and I shall forever be grateful to her that I succeeded in controlling myself. Had I given way to my just anger, I would have had myself to blame for Ernst's desperate course and his lost life. That would have been adding guilt to misfortune, and would have been insupportable.
I had yet much to learn. As a father I was sadly deficient in many respects. But, with every desire to improve herself, my wife was already a perfect being, and could therefore be more to the children than I was. I was disposed to neglect my family on account of what was due my office. She was vigilant and severe, and supplied what was lacking on my part. But although she was sterner than I was, the children were more attached to her than to me.
Although Ernst's views of life gave me deep concern, he was often kind and affectionate; for his good-nature was, at times, stronger than his so-called principles.
I sought consolation in the thought that children will always see the world in a different light from that in which it appears to their parents. Even that which is ideal is subject to constant change, and we should therefore be careful not to imagine that the form which is pleasing to us, and to which we have accustomed ourselves, will endure forever. And, moreover, was it not our wish to educate our children as free moral agents, and was it not our duty to accord full liberty even to those who differed with us?
I have often seen it verified that a perfect development cannot take place with those who, either through birth or adverse circumstances, are deficient in any important moral faculty. With all of Ernst's love of freedom, he was entirely wanting in respect or regard for the feelings of others. Piety, in its widest sense, he was utterly devoid of. From his stand-point, his actions were perfectly just; as to their effects upon others, he was indifferent.
On the Wiesenplatz in Frankfort, during the autumn of 1848, I had gone through a heart-rending experience. And now, after many years, I returned to the same spot only to be reminded of my former grief by painful and conflicting emotions. I had gone to Frankfort to attend the Schützenfest. The city was alive with joy; a spirit of unity had for the first time become manifest. I was standing close by the temple for the distribution of the prizes. Although surrounded by a gay and laughing crowd, I was quite absorbed in my own reflections, when suddenly a voice thus addressed me:
"Ah, father! Are you here, too?" I looked around to see who it was, and beheld my son Ernst. He carried his rifle on his shoulder, and the rewards for his well-aimed shots were fastened under the green ribbon of his hat. Before I could get a chance to congratulate him, he had said to me, "Father, you should not have come; I am sorry that I meet you here."
"Why so?"
"Why! Because this is for us young lads. We are here for the purpose of gaining prize-goblets by our lucky shots; and the great speeches that are being held in yonder hall are nothing more than a mere flash in the pan. They are trying to persuade each other that they are all heroes and willing to bear arms for their Fatherland, and their talk is, after all, a mere sham. The good marksmen have not come here for the sake of their Fatherland and such stuff: all they desire is simply to gain the prize-that, and nothing more."
"Do you not know that I, too, made a speech in there yesterday?"
"No. I was informed that some one named Waldfried had been speaking; but I could not imagine it was you. One should have nothing to do with such inflammable thoughts when fire-arms are at hand. If we were to govern ourselves by your speeches, our brotherly-feeling would very soon be at an end, and there would be naught but violence and murder among us riflemen."
I tried to explain to him that our hope lay in our able-bodied youth, and that we would not rest content until we had a real, united Fatherland. To which he answered:
"Ah, yes. The students, those of brother Richard's sort, live on yesterday: the politicians live on to-morrow: we live in the present."
His features trembled, and it was with an effort that he added, "Forgive me, father; perhaps I, too, will have as much confidence in mankind as you have, when I am as old as you are."
What could I answer to this? While all about me was loud with joy, my soul was filled with sorrow. My youngest son denied the gods to whom I offered up my prayers.
And yet, when I saw him among a group of riflemen, my fatherly pride was aroused. His proud, lithe form towered above the rest. New-comers saluted him, and the eyes of all seemed to rest upon Ernst with serene satisfaction.
CHAPTER V
One day Ernst visited us and went about for a long while in silence, – now going out to Rothfuss in the stable, and then again joining us in the room; but here again he uttered no word. Although I could see that he was agitated, I did not ask him the reason. I had been obliged to accustom myself to allow him to speak when it suited him, and to avoid any advances on my part until it pleased him to seek them.
We were just about to rise from the dinner-table when he said to us in a hurried manner, "Before you hear it from others, I must announce it to you myself: – I am engaged to be married."
We looked at each other in silence. Not a sound was heard, save the ticking of the two Black Forest clocks in our room. At last my wife asked: "And with whom?"
I could tell by the tone of her voice how many heavy thoughts had preceded these words.
"With a healthy girl. I-I know all about selection in breeding," answered Ernst, while he lit his cigar.
I reprimanded him severely for his tone. Without changing a feature, he allowed me to finish my remarks. After that he arose, threw his rifle over his shoulder, put on his green hat, and left the house. I wanted to call him back, but my wife prevented me. I reproached myself for the violent manner in which I had spoken to him. Now he will rush into misfortune-who knows what he may do next? With mild words, I might have been able to direct him on the right path; but now he may, perhaps, not return, and will even persuade himself to hate me.
My wife consoled me with the words: "He will return before nightfall."
And it was so. In the evening he returned, and addressing me with a voice full of emotion, said: "Father, forgive me!"
Rothfuss was in the room at the time, and I beckoned to him to leave; but Ernst requested that he should remain, and continued:
"I have done wrong. I am heartily sorry for it. I have also done wrong to Martella. I should not have acted as I have done, but ought to have brought her to you first of all. She deserves quite different treatment-better indeed than I do. I beg of you, give back the words that I uttered! Forgive me! and, above all things, do not make Martella suffer for what I have said."
He uttered these words with a trembling voice. Rothfuss had left the room. I held out my hand to Ernst, and he continued firmly:
"You have so often told me, and as I am always forgetting it, you will have to tell it to me many a time again, that there is something in me which causes me at times to express myself quite differently from the way in which I intended to. I also know, dear father, that such a word lingers in your memory like a smouldering spark, especially when the word is uttered by your own child; and that in your grief you picture to yourself the utter ruin of a character that can indulge in such expressions. I understand you, do I not? Trust in me: I am not so bad, after all.
"I do not believe in the possessed; and yet there must be something of that kind. Enough on that point, however. Though I seemed cheerful, I had a heavy heart; but now I am one of the happiest beings alive; and if I were obliged to be a wood-cutter for the rest of my days, I could still content myself. O mother, I would not have believed that I could have found such a creature in a world in which all others are mere pretence and rouge, lies and deceit.
"She is in perfect health, and as pure and as fresh as a dewdrop. Although she has learned nothing, she knows everything. She cannot couch it in words, but her eyes speak it. Her heart is so thoroughly good, – so strong, – so pure, – indeed, I cannot find the right word for it. She has no parents, no brothers or sisters. She is a child of the woods, and as pure and as holy as the primeval forest itself.
"O, forgive me all! I cannot describe my emotions. Now I understand and believe everything. They tell us that in the olden time, a Prince once lost his way while hunting in the forest, and that he found a maiden whom he placed upon his horse and led to his castle and then made her his queen. Those stories are all true. I cannot make a queen of Martella, but through her I am ennobled; and it grieves me that it will not do to have our wedding at once. But I will wait. I can wait. Or, if you like it better, we will wander forth to America, and, far from the world, shall live there as our first parents did in Paradise. Believe me, there is indeed a paradise.
"O mother! You are certainly all that a human being can be, but still you have one fault; – yes, yes; you have wept-and the first commandment should be, 'Man, thou shalt not weep.' And, just think of it, mother, Martella has never yet wept! She is as healthy as a doe, and I swear it to you, she shall never know what it is to weep. O mother! O father! in the depths of the forest I have found this pure, innocent child, so wise and clever, so strong and brave. This flower has blossomed in the hidden depths of the forest; no human eye had ever seen her before. I am not worthy of her, but I will try to become so."
His voice became thick. He beat his breast with both hands, and drew a long deep breath. I have never yet seen a being so refulgent with happiness. Thus, in the olden time, must they have looked who thought they were beholding a miracle; and even now, when I write of these things, feeble as my words seem, I tremble with emotion.
And could this be my child, my son, my madcap, who now felt so humble and contrite. I had lost all memory of his former rudeness and sarcasm. It was some time before we could answer his words.
The sun was going down in the west, its last broad rays fell into the room, shedding a glow of light over all, and as we sat we heard the evening chimes.
CHAPTER VI
"I believe in your love," said my wife at last.
"O mother!" cried Ernst, throwing himself at her feet; and then kissing her hands, he wept and sobbed while he rested his head on her knee.
I lifted him up and said, "We are independent enough not to ask where our daughter-in-law comes from, so that she be but good and will make our child happy."
Ernst grasped both of my hands and said, "I knew it. I do not deserve your love, but now I shall try to be worthy of it."
"But where have you been since dinner-time?" said my wife, trying to change the conversation.
Ernst replied that he had left the road and had wandered far into the forest, where he had lain down and fallen asleep; and that within him two sorts of spirits had been battling. The spiteful spirit had urged him not to take back the rude words, and desired him, without heeding father or mother, to wander forth into the wide world with his Martella; she would follow him wherever he led.
The humble spirit had, however, warned him to return and undo the harm he had done. The conflict had been a long one. At last he rose to his feet and ran home as if sent by a messenger of happiness.
My wife listened attentively, and regarded him with that glance of hers which seemed to penetrate the deepest recesses of the soul. No other being can listen so attentively as she could, and no glance is as soothing as hers was. She would not attempt to assist you when at a loss for words, or by her manner imply that she knew what you meant. She patiently permitted you to explain yourself, to stop or to continue; and when she was listening, you could not but feel wiser than you really were. Her glance illumined your very soul.
When Ernst had finished she said to him: "You are on the right path at last. I know that you think you have already reached the goal, and that all is done. But, believe me, and do not forget what I now tell you, – the spiteful spirit will return again; now he only feigns death. But rest content, for from this day you will be his master. I see this as clearly as I see your very eyes. The best possession in the world is now yours-pure, righteous love. Yes, you may well laugh, for now it is your goodness that laughs."
Rothfuss came to tell me that the Alsatian cattle-dealer who wanted to purchase our fat oxen, wished to see me. I was about to send word to him to wait or to come some other time, but I understood my wife's glance, which told me that I had better leave her alone with Ernst.
I left the room, and, while going, I heard her say, "Ernst, you must now eat and drink something; such emotions as you have felt awaken hunger and thirst."
When I returned, Ernst sat at the table eating his supper. He called out to me, "Father, mother has arranged everything nicely, and if you are satisfied, why-"
"Eat now, and let me speak," said my wife. And then she continued:
"From all that Ernst has told me-and we depend upon his truthfulness-I am convinced that Martella is a real treasure-trove. No one but such a girl could banish this spirit of unrest. We are, thank God, so circumstanced that besides a good family name we can also bestow worldly goods upon our children. Ernst and his bride1 are both young and can work for themselves. He loves in her the child of nature; but he understands that there is much of good which she can and must yet take up into this pure nature of hers. He used to say that he could never be happy except with a woman who sang beautifully, but now he no longer finds singing a necessity. But he cannot do without spiritual sympathy and harmony in his higher life. She need not learn French; I have forgotten what I once knew of it. But Ernst is accustomed to a refined home; and when he goes home to his wife in his forest house, he should be able to find refreshment and rest in noble and elevating thoughts.
"If a forester is denied the proper delights of home and married life, there is nothing left him but the pleasures of the tavern; and they will certainly ruin him.
"Martella must not be confused or taught in school-girl fashion. That which is noble and refined in life cannot be imparted by precept or command. It must become a necessity to her, just as it has become to our own son, and not until then can they both be happy.
"Neither will the world be satisfied with mere nature and forest manners. Does it not seem the very thing that she of her own accord has said to Ernst, 'Let me spend a year as a servant to your sister, the captain's wife, or what would be still better, with your mother, and then come for me? If you do not object, I think we had better do this. Early to-morrow morning I shall drive over into the valley with Ernst, and in the evening I shall return with Martella, who will remain with us until all is arranged and she has become used to our ways and customs, so that Ernst may live happily with her, not only in his youth, but until his eighty-third year-for my father lived to that age."
I do not know which to admire most in my wife-her shrewdness or her kindness. She always had the right word at the right time.
I, of course, approved of her plan, and on the morrow she started off with Ernst in the wagon. Rothfuss drove the two bays.
Towards evening, I walked down the road to meet them on their return.
The sun was going down behind the Vosges Mountains. The rosy sunset shed its glow over the rocks and the waters of the brook.
The Englishman stood at the bank angling. He never saluted those whom he met, but lived entirely for himself. Every year, as soon as the snows began to melt, he came to our valley, and remained until the winter returned. He dwelt with Lerz the baker, and was always fishing up and down the valley. He gathered up his complicated fishing-tackle and departed, followed by a day laborer carrying a fish basket.