CHAPTER VII
We cannot be astonished anew every day at the phenomena of existence: how the sun rises, how the plants grow and bloom. We must accustom ourselves to the homely changes that are being wrought; to life and death among us, to love and hate, to union and discord.
We ended by becoming accustomed to the fact that the war was raging, and as surely as the sun rose we expected news of another victory; for that we should ever be beaten seemed, to judge from what had happened, impossible.
The daily question was, "Has Strasburg surrendered yet?"
On the morning of the 29th of September, I attended the weekly market to sell my grain. It was the crop of 1870.
Everything went on as usual; there was the same chaffering, bargaining, and cheating, and occasionally the war was discussed.
Suddenly I heard a noise of shouting and rejoicing, and saw flags hung out of the windows. "Strasburg has fallen," was the cry.
People called to each other, "Strasburg has fallen at last," as if some one who had been long lost had returned at last.
Joseph brought the Alsacienne to town. We made up a store of food and clothing for her, and accompanied by Christiane, who had been despatched to the afflicted city by the Aid Society, she returned to Alsace. Every one went over to Strasburg, partly from curiosity, and partly out of pity. I refused to go.
Then came letters from Alsace for Martha and me.
I did not know the handwriting of the one for me. It turned out to be from Baron Arven. He wrote that he had had frequent conferences with those high in office on the importance of quieting the minds of the Alsatians, and of coming to an understanding with them. Unfortunately they had been forced to take sharp measures against those who were untractable and traitorous, and now they desired to take such measures as would stop any further sacrifices. There were other nurses required besides those who attended the wounded, and he believed I would suit his purpose.
The following sentence in his letter pierced my heart like a dagger: "Your family ties make it your duty to aid the lost son to return to his father's house."
How? Has Ernst been found, and is the preceding portion of the letter simply written to prepare me for the shock?
I read on, and found I was mistaken. A troubled mind interprets everything in its interest. Arven simply meant that I should aid in the work of attaching Alsace to Germany; for he informed me that men of all classes, who were known to have friends and relatives in Alsace, had been requested to visit those sections of the country with which they were acquainted, there to work in the interest of union. Those who had been in opposition to the government were especially wanted, for the reason that their conduct would be regarded as being founded on a pure love for the Fatherland.
He asked me to visit the villages in the forest of Hagenau, with which I was acquainted through my relations, and see what I could do towards furthering the good work.
I had to laugh when he added: "Your presence and your white hair will do much, I think, to create confidence in you."
The Baron was in the confidence of the government. It seemed, therefore, to be decided that we should take back the provinces of which we had been robbed. Yes, I am ready to do what I can. It is true, I doubted my capacity; but a love of the cause and encouraging hopefulness strengthened me. Arven's letter gave me courage. He had never praised me to my face, but he displayed the best feeling in his letter.
"I am going to Alsace," said I to Martha.
"Oh, that is splendid, and you can take me along."
She showed me a letter from Julius, in which he asked her to visit him in Strasburg for a short time, until he should march off again.
He wrote: "We will meet among saddening ruins, but we shall remain erect, and while we help rebuild the great fabric of the state, shall also strengthen our own life-fabric."
We journeyed to Strasburg. Julius met us in Kehl. What a meeting between the young couple!
"I have also seen Martella," Julius said. "I wanted her to enter a hospital as nurse, but she has retained her old dislikes, and refuses to have anything to do with the sick. She was engaged with a number of other women in distributing supplies, but I don't know whether she is near here now. I have been told that she has gone to Lorraine with another detachment of the supply commission. She parted from Lerz, the baker, after a few days. The Prince's letter of pardon has passed her everywhere, and she is now with Ikwarte and Wolfgang, who will protect her."
I shall not speak of the effect the appearance of the bombarded city produced on me. I had been in Strasburg frequently, and knew many there who could not forget the ties which bound them to Germany. Forty years ago I was here with Buchmaier, and at that time this great broad fellow planted himself before the Cathedral, and called out, "I say, tumble down, or turn German."
Now it stood there, a German monument. It had been, unfortunately, struck by our shot, but had been only slightly injured; and from far and near one could behold this edifice, every stone and ornament of which is German.
Martha could look on nothing but the face of her Julius, and on one other thing-the iron cross on his breast. She asked why he had not written about having received it; and Julius confessed that he had not done so because a promise that was not yet binding, but which required him to arrive at some conclusion, was connected with it.
He related that the commanding general, while fastening the cross on his breast, had said, "You intend remaining in the service?" to which he had not answered, but believed that he had nodded "yes," although he was not sure.
And now he wanted to learn from Martha's lips whether he had nodded or shaken his head.
Martha looked at me and said, "What do you say, grandfather?"
I said, of course, that this could be decided on when the war was over, and that meanwhile Julius could consider himself a professional soldier. I thought him too tenderhearted for a soldier, for he had said to me, "Grandfather! the worst feature about war, is not the fighting, but the foraging. It is heart-rending to force people to deliver up everything, yet it must be done."
The thought that Julius would remain a soldier was painful to me, for I had cherished the hope that, at some time or other, he would take charge of his patrimonial estate. I could not agree with Ludwig's American ideas, that all property should be personal. But what matters all that at present?
I hunted up Baron Arven. Although he had written such hearty letters to me, I found that he had again become formal and brusque. I had to learn that in war times small matters can receive but little attention.
The Baron directed a servant to accompany me to the provisional governor of the province. Although I had been sent for, I found myself treated as if I were a suitor. I had to accustom myself to the North-German manner, which regards every sacrifice you may bring as a mere matter of duty.
The governor remembered that Arven had spoken of me. He begged me to take a look, for the present, at the part of the country with which I was acquainted, and then to report to him.
This interview sobered me. Was this the frame of mind in which a part of our country was to be regained? I decided to visit my sister, and then to return home. That evening Arven changed my resolution.
CHAPTER VIII
Arven lived in the hospital, and on my arrival there I was welcomed by a tall, fine-looking woman in a white cap and white apron. It was Annette, and I was not a little astonished to meet her there; but even she had no time to spare, for she said she had to return to her patients, and that Arven was waiting for me in his room.
This was really the case. Arven gave me a hearty welcome, and said that he had given orders that he was not to be disturbed excepting in case something of great importance needed his attention, and that, for this evening, he would be a thorough egotist.
When I told him how repellent the angularity and coldness of the Prussians had appeared to me, he said that this was just what he wanted to talk to me about.
He had been exceedingly provoked at their cold-blooded manner. He had already determined to leave them; but after a while he had made up his mind that this sharpness, bitterness, and decision were the forces that made them the men they were. Obedience is with them a habit that can be depended on. We South Germans are too soft and easygoing, and we ought to breathe some of the salt-sea air that blows across that northern country. This want of attention towards others, this disregard of people's feelings, lay in the fact that they had no consideration for themselves. The French, who, whatever they do, want to be observed and applauded, will be beaten by these men, whose whole power rests in their self-respect. We used to think the Prussians were braggarts; but now we found no trace of boastfulness, and in spite of their constant victories, they took every precaution as they advanced, and were prepared for defeat. Yes, orders describing the manner of retreat were issued before every battle.
He could not cease praising them, and only stopped when he added that he thought their self-esteem was a result of Protestantism. The Baron stopped when he had said this, and, after we had eaten and drunk to our hearts' content, he said that, although he was a Catholic, he would never confess to a priest again, but that he would confess to me; and in case he should not return from the war, he would have the satisfaction of feeling that his inner life had been laid before another, for an hour at least.
He confessed to me that his desire had been to die in this campaign, and it was for this reason that he had exposed himself so recklessly when collecting the wounded. It seemed strange to him that people should praise his courage, while he was engaged in seeking death. He thought it would be the best thing for himself and his children, if the great sorrows that had come upon them, and which might come again, could be buried with him.
He then groaned aloud, saying, "I do not want to die before their eyes."
I saw before me a life that had been most cruelly broken. The Baron had once been in the Austrian army. He had never expected to find himself at the head of his family, for he belonged to the younger branch.
In Bohemia he made the acquaintance of a girl belonging to a noble family, and was subdued by her.
Feodora was tall and majestic, of a warm, sensual nature, but cold-hearted. Persuaded by his sister, he became engaged to her; but felt that he would have to stand alone in life, with her as his spouse.
On the day after his engagement, he suddenly awoke to a horror of what he had done. He was visiting the large estate of her father. He walked through the park, wrestling with the resolve to drown himself in the pond; but he did not do so, because he considered it his duty to keep his plighted word; and besides, the hope arose in his breast that, at some future time, a closer sympathy would be brought about. Her beauty fettered him; in short, the marriage was celebrated, and he lived for thirty-one years married, but lonely. One by one, his hopes had all been shattered. He had persuaded himself that congeniality was not necessary to happiness.
But after awhile he discovered what it was to be united to some one, and at the same time to be alone. The sudden death of the last of the main line of his family placed him at the head of the house. He resigned his position in the army, and devoted himself to agriculture. He had no control over his children-scarcely any influence in fact, but as his sons grew up, they espoused the cause of Germany, and would have nothing to do with the conflict which their mother and her ghostly advisers tried to stir up.
In the campaign of 1866, the Baron suffered unspeakably. He was homeless in his own house. But when the present war began, and he discovered plots that he would never have suspected, the conflict broke out openly. The two sons joined the German army, and did not, or would not, know of what was going on at home. I dare not speak of the bitterness, hate, and despair that filled the soul of this naturally good-hearted man, and appeared in the course of his story. "I had to confess to you some time," said he finally, "and I chose the best time.
"I believe that your wife intuitively knew everything that I have told you."
The deep misery of his life seemed again renewed when he cried, "I do not wish to die before their eyes."
He mentioned Rautenkron, and said that their cases were similar. Their devotion in the present great movement was not a joyful sacrifice, but indifference and contempt for life; they wanted to die.
I was deeply pained, and also gratified, when he took my hand at last, saying that my wife and I had kept him up in the faith that happiness was yet to be found on earth. "And now I must make a further confession. It was a great sacrifice on my part, considering the comfort I enjoyed in your house, and the deep sympathy your wife showed me, to deny myself frequent, yea, daily visits, whenever I felt like a stranger in my house; and as one banished from home, I would ride across the hills, and down into the valley towards you and your wife; but when I had reached the saw-mill, I would turn back. It was better thus. I felt that your wife knew everything. Though I was a man who had sons in the army, I was again tossed hither and thither by youthful feelings; but I overcame them. I think I ought to tell you this too; it relieves me, and cannot oppress you. Of all men who were affected by her sterling qualities, there is no one who worshipped her more profoundly than I did," said the Baron finally, again taking my hand.
We sat there in silence for some time, and I was made happy by the thought that her spirit was hovering over us, bringing us peace. The Baron then arose and said, "Now I have unburdened myself, and am free. I thank you for your share in this relief. And now, no more of this. Now duty calls."
He again told me how much good I could accomplish, by going from village to village, and from house to house, in the region in which I had long been known, there to teach the Alsatians what they ought to learn.
"You may depend on one thing," said he: "you will have bitter experiences. You will be looked upon as a spy. But do you remember what your wife once called you?"
I did not know what he meant.
"She called you the spy of what was good, because you always discover the good qualities in every one. Well, be one again."
I made up my mind to cope willingly with everything, and went to my sister's the next day.
CHAPTER IX
We of the mountains had heard the cannonading; but how differently had it affected those of the neighborhood, whose homes and whose all were at stake. We could see the destruction that had been wrought on the houses, but not that which had wasted the nerves of the people. Wherever I went, I found every one feeling restless and homeless, like the swallows that flew about, settling here and there; but only for a moment, for their nests had been destroyed, along with the houses and towers and fortifications.
Every one I met had a puzzled look: the alarm and fear caused by the incredible disasters that had overwhelmed them, had dazed them, and they seemed hurt by friendly greetings-yes, even by offers of assistance.
My brother-in-law, the forester, a man who ordinarily bore himself well, seemed entirely broken down. He stared at me in silence as I entered his house, and scarcely answered my greeting with a slight nod.
My sister told me that, since the siege of Strasburg, he had suffered from asthma, and that he constantly repeated, "General Werder's shots have taken my breath away."
On looking at the pictures hanging on the wall, I could see plainly what these people would have to thrust aside. The pictures on the walls, as well as those that dwelt in their memory, were to be changed. In our every-day life, we soon forget what the ornaments on the wall are like. But if they are not in accord with the times, then we find out what was once ours, but has now ceased to belong to us. On my hinting that Germany would adopt the regained provinces with increased affection, my brother-in-law sprang up, rolling his eyes and striking the table with his fist, and swore that he would emigrate. My sister then said that an oath at such a time was worthless; but he answered in bitter scorn-he could speak nothing but French-"And if no one will accompany me-I cannot force the trees in the forest to go along-my dog, at least, will be my companion. What do you say, Fidele-you'll go with me? You won't take bread from a German; you will rather starve with me?" The dog barked and licked his master's hand.
I could see what a difficult task I had before me, but I did not give it up. In the village, in the houses, and before the court-house, wherever the people were gathered together, I spoke words of peace and encouragement to them. They would listen to me as if they were forced to do so; and once I heard a man behind me say, "The whole thing is a lie, white hairs and all; he is some young fellow in disguise." I seldom received a straightforward answer; the nearest approach to a reply was, "What are we to do?" "What are we to learn." The feeling at the bottom of all this was, – to-morrow the French will be back, and drive the Germans away. It is impossible to conquer the French.
I then visited my brother-in-law, the parson, who lived a few miles further on. He spoke of nothing but the excellent behavior of the soldiers that had been quartered on them. They went to church on Sundays and joined in the singing; and officers of high rank had been there, too. He seemed nervous, and did not dare to express his joy-either because he feared the maid-servant who was going in and out, or else because he disliked to lay bare his thoughts. It was only while walking in the woods that he unbosomed himself. I do not like to repeat what he related, as I preferred not to believe his story. He told me that the French government had received the assurance from the priesthood, that the South Germans would not take the field against France. I do not believe this, but it is the current opinion, and so I feel forced to repeat it.
He also said that the beggars from the Catholic villages of the vicinity had, for some time past, ceased asking for alms. They had walked around boldly in his village, selecting the houses they intended to occupy as soon as the Protestants had been exterminated.
Thus wickedly had religion been mixed up with this war.
"The thought of Germany," said the parson, "always seemed to me like a silent, yea, a criminal dream. Now I see it realized in broad daylight. We are like the prodigal son of Scripture, but the truant in Alsace is this time not in fault, and it is that which makes his return to his home so painful. I have often thought that the father of the prodigal must have offended against his son, although the Scriptures do not say so, otherwise he would not have been thus afflicted."
He was merely drawing a parallel, yet he made my heart beat with the thought of Ernst.
The father of the prodigal son is also at fault. What had I been guilty of?
When we returned from our walk, we were told that a French soldier, who had served his time, had called to see me; he had not given his name, and would return.
Who can he be? I must wait to find out. But I met a man in the village whom I had forgotten.
The advocate Offenheimer, Annette's brother, met me, and his first words were, "You are a great consolation to me. Come with me and give my son an escort."
I now perceived that his only son had fallen, and that the father desired him to be buried in the Jewish cemetery here.
As he divined my thoughts, he said, "It is true, I could not allow them to bury my son out there with the others; but it is, perhaps, well if there is some sign here of our having fairly and joyfully taken our part in the fight. Perhaps it will have a mollifying effect upon our new countrymen of the Jewish faith, who were particularly contumacious."
I was astounded to find the man so placid. But, as if guessing my thoughts, he said he had no more strength for complaints and tears, and that a fact must at last be accepted.
I thought of the handsome, spirited lad, that had one time come to me with Wolfgang. But I greatly desired to find a favorable opportunity for addressing the Jewish inhabitants of the village. They had an especial fear of the Germans, and were proud of French equality.
The advocate's son was buried with all the ceremonies of his church. Two slightly wounded South German officers, who were lying in the village, acted as the escort. They recognized in me the Colonel's father-in-law, and had much to tell me in his praise.
"He shows that we are not inferior to the Prussians." Such appeared to be the highest compliment they could bestow upon him.
Upon our return from the cemetery, to which the Jews here in Alsace give the peculiar name of the "good place,"6 the advocate leaned upon my arm, and, as I sat next to him in the little room, after quietly meditating for a long while, he exclaimed, "In my youth I had willingly died for the true Fatherland; now, my son has been permitted to die for it."
For years had I been in constant intercourse with this man; now, in his grief and in the hour of civil commotion, I first learned to know him; and to learn to know an upright man is to learn to love him.
I have, like suffering Odysseus, participated in the experiences of many men; Rautenkron, the Colonel, and Arven have revealed to me their life-secrets. Now I was to hear still another's: the history of a step-child in his step-fatherland, who still longed for affection, for the closest friendship, and who, though repulsed and oppressed by the laws and his fellow-men, had not yet lost his love for them.
As Offenheimer recounted the grievances he had suffered in the schools, and the incivilities and insults of later years, it seemed to me that I should ask his forgiveness for all this suffering and uncharitableness, of which, because of what we had done to him, and of what our ancestors had done to his, we were to-day guilty. Those who style themselves believers in the religion of love, would be much astonished at the strength of this man's affections, who, though repulsed and scorned; still preserved them pure. We live a whole human life and know nothing of the inward emotions of many of our contemporaries. Offenheimer spoke with great severity concerning the attempt to obtain recognition by means of extravagant display, that caused many Jews to appear unpatriotic and presumptuous. He explained this, indeed, as arising from the necessity, imposed by the prejudice against his race, of proving its claim to respectability, and was frank enough to refer to the early conduct of his sister as an example.
Offenheimer then told me how happy it had made him to find his son growing up in comparative ignorance of such persecutions-he had thus developed naturally. He smiled sadly, as he added that he, though he had grown physically larger and more active, had acquired a lightness of heart which the man who is obliged to win his freedom before enjoying it, never acquires.
"I do not mourn for my son," were his words: "he had reached the most beautiful period of life, and it is all the same, whether a man lives seventeen years or seventy. No man liveth to himself, and no one dieth to himself, says the apostle; and that is true. I understand it to be true in another sense as well. Each of us dies only to his connections and his posterity."
It was a novelty to me to hear Holy Writ referred to as simply the teachings of wisdom. I have since then often found educated Israelites are not so much Jews, as simply not Christians.
Offenheimer thanked me with great tenderness for the wonders that we had accomplished with Annette. She had been proud and selfish; now she had become humble, and lived for others.
As I sat with him, the Rabbi of the place came and expressed his thanks for the generous subscription that had been made in memory of the fallen.
One word, which the priest then uttered, went straight to my heart. He said the bereaved father would find consolation; for the Talmud declared that the patriarch Jacob could not suppress his sufferings and his tears for his lost son Joseph, because he felt within himself that his son still lived. Grief for one who is dead vanishes when the corpse becomes clay; for a living lost one, the grief endures.
Oh! my lost son Ernst!
Upon my return home, I found, awaiting me in the village, a man in a blue blouse, with a short pipe in his mouth, and wearing his cap awry. He approached me with a military salute, and said, "Yes, it is you."
"Who am I?"
"His father."
"Whose father?"
"Our sergeant's, Ernst Tännling."
"That is not my name."
"Of course! But he has confided to me-he took me, indeed, for a German-that his name was Waldfried. Do you remember that I met you in Paris during the World's Exposition. Your son deserted in 1866, and has a bride. Have I the correct signs now?"
Alas! he had them, and again I heard that Ernst had entered the service in Algiers, and now, probably, was in the onward movement against Germany.
The veteran allowed me no time for reflection. He confided to me, with great urgency and secrecy, that he could be of great service. He knew that I had great influence, and wanted me to conduct him to some officer of high rank; he could be of great service, but must receive liberal pay.
I had learned much in life, but for the first time there stood before me a man who offered me his services as a spy. He had seized my hand, and it seemed as if his touch had soiled it.
I sought further intelligence from him concerning Ernst, but he knew nothing more. I took him with me and handed him over to an officer that lay here. I considered it to be my duty not to discard the dirty, but perhaps useful, tool.
With thoughts of Ernst in my breast, with the consciousness that my only son was in arms against the Fatherland, I was not in the mood to unburden my heart to others; and besides, it was evidently too early. Now, since force yet speaks, the good-will of the oppressed cannot be won.
I turned back to my sister's, and was much delighted to meet Hartriegel, the so-called forest professor, who had been sent by the administration to inspect the forests.