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It was said that they had no officers who had ever smelt powder. That what had been done in Schleswig-Holstein had been achieved by the Austrians; and that if they ever dared go so far as to fight, they would be sent home in disgrace.

I do not know whether they really believed what they said, or whether they were simply trying to keep up their courage. But, on every hand, one could hear them say, "They will not let matters proceed so far; they are loud talkers and nothing else."

I was quite beside myself; but Richard begged me to remain silent. He thought it was well that matters had come to this pass.

Whoever had brought on this war had assumed a great, but perhaps unavoidable, responsibility. It was the sad fiat of fate, and none could foretell where the sacrifice and suffering would end. History would march on in its appointed path, even though sin and suffering be its steppingstones.

And then he pointed to our surroundings, and added, "Such fellows as these will never be converted by speeches; nothing but a thorough beating will teach them reason."

I have found that sober history tells us very little of all those things. She brings the harvest under shelter and enters the result; but who stops to ask how the weather may have changed while the grain was ripening?

But to us who live in the present, such things are not trifles; and I cannot help maintaining that the war of 1866 was forced on the people against their will, as far as I can judge, and I have spoken to many on the subject. The Prussians did not desire war; the conservatives did certainly not wish for it, for Austria was, spite of all, the bulwark of their principles. The liberals did not want it; nor did the soldiers go forth with cheerful hearts. But necessity had become incarnate in the brain of a single statesman: separation from Austria was the end to be gained, and though it went hard, that result must be achieved.

But the operation was a difficult and a painful one.

CHAPTER XXII

Before the train left the station, the newsboys were running about offering copies of extra issues of the journals, with news that the Diet had raised the German colors: black, red, gold.

And thus the Diet dared to unfurl the flag which we had always regarded with devotion, – for the sake of which we had been persecuted, imprisoned, or exiled. It seemed as if the holiest of holies had been denied and dishonored.

"It is the death-bed repentance of a sinner who has not enough time left to do good in," said Richard, who divined the thoughts that were passing through my mind.

A large company of soldiers was on the train, and went as far as the next garrison town.

But how could they have found it in their hearts to sing?

Haymaking had begun, the cars were filled with the fragrant odor of the newly mown grass. The laborers in the fields would look up from their work, and raise their scythes on high when they saw us pass.

And now, when it seemed as if my Fatherland was to be laid waste and destroyed, I became more than ever sensible of my great affection for it.

These woods, these fields and villages, were all to be laid waste, and shrieks of woe would resound from the flames. I felt it as keenly, as if beholding a beloved relative in the grasp of death.

The train was just moving away from the station when I heard a soldier call out to me, "Grandfather!"

I recognized him: it was my grandson Martin, the son of my daughter Johanna. He nodded to me, and when I turned to look at him, I saw the lieutenant collaring and buffeting him for speaking without orders while in the ranks.

We had proceeded but a short distance when I observed that Funk was on the train. He kept at a distance from us. He had bought a large bundle of extra newspapers, which he distributed to the people at the different stations.

When we reached our circuit town we repaired to the Wild Man Tavern, where, while waiting for a conveyance, we seated ourselves under the newly planted lindens. While sitting there, engrossed by thoughts of the country's troubles, I learned of another trouble nearer home.

I am old enough to know something of human wickedness, but I admit that I am, even to this day, frequently surprised by the shape that human meanness will sometimes take.

At a side table was seated Funk's special satellite-the baker Lerz, of Hollerberg. He was accompanied by his wife, and both looked about them with an air of serene contentment. The baker was a sensual, self-complacent man, who had a habit of smiling and moving his lips, as if he were smacking them at the thoughts of a feast he had just been enjoying. He had just been involved in an unclean piece of business, in which he had sworn that he was innocent, although, according to my conviction and the general belief, he had perjured himself in so doing. But what does such an unconscionable voluptuary care for that? When the peril was passed, all care was at an end.

The baker approached me and inquired if I would like to ride home with him; for the government levies had rendered it difficult to obtain a conveyance. I declined; Fortunately, my neighbor, the young meadow farmer, who had been taking hay over to the railway station, was passing by at the time, and so I rode home with him.

A little way out of the town, we came up with a young woman who was walking along the road. She had covered her head with a large white kerchief, and was carrying an infant in her arms.

Her head was bent forward; and it is generally a sign of deep thought if one who is walking along a road does not look around at the rapid approach of a vehicle. And this woman was Lerz's victim.

The meadow farmer, who was, usually, a man of few words, leaned back from his seat on the front bench, and whispered to me, "Such a fellow as Lerz ought not to be permitted to take an oath."

The meadow farmer had for a long while been my worst enemy, simply because I had deprived him of his greatest enjoyment-venting his spite on others.

Although it may, in these pages, seem as if I had cherished too high an ideal of the people, I desire right here to say that I have found among the lower classes that which is noblest and highest in man. But I have also found much that is mean and revolting. Envy and malice are characteristics almost peculiar to the farmer, and are especially shown about the time of irrigating the meadows. It affords him peculiar pleasure to wait until a neighbor has set his water-traps, and to sneak out and reverse them so as to make the water flow on to his own meadows.

The authorities had forbidden the watering of meadows after two o'clock on Sunday morning, but it availed nothing. I appointed a servant who was to have the sole right of setting the water-gates and opening them again; and the meadow farmer could not forgive me for this. I had robbed him of the pleasure of wreaking his spite on others.

It was not so much on account of the advantage he had gained thereby; but, like the rest of them, he had found it great sport to outwit the "gentleman farmer," as they called me.

The meadow farmer really hated me and Joseph; for if it had not been for us he would have been the first man in the village. Wherever he went, they inquired, "How goes it with Waldfried?" or "How is Joseph Linker?" It annoyed him that they did not ask after him first of all.

He would have been glad to take a share in politics, but was too mean to bestow the requisite amount of time upon such matters; and then he would say, "Such folks as Funk should not be permitted to put in their say; there is nothing behind him."

We had just reached the saw-mill, down in the valley, when we saw a large hay-wagon coming along the road in the direction of the meadow. Martella sat on top: Rothfuss was walking beside the horses.

Martella alighted. She looked quite troubled. She welcomed Richard, and asked me, "Where have you left Ernst?"

"He is not with us."

"Where then?"

We had no time to reply before Martella called out, "So he must go to war after all!"

"Of course."

"Of course? Of course?" Martella asked repeatedly. She stopped for a moment, and removing the rake from her shoulder rested herself upon it.

I told her that in all likelihood there would be no war, and that all the clamor was nothing more than angry threatening on both sides.

"That is not true!" cried Martella; "you should not tell me an untruth!"

"Martella, this is my father!" cried Richard.

"And mine too," she interrupted; "forgive me! Because you are my father you should forgive me; if you did not you would not and could not be my father. Forgive me! Oh! they will shoot my good, kind Ernst!"

She sat down by the roadside and covered her face with both her hands. In a little while, however, she yielded to our entreaties, and accompanied us to the house, but without speaking a word on the way. As soon as we arrived there, she hurriedly left us and hastened to the barn. In a few moments she returned and cried out with a loud voice, "Mother, Richard is here!"

The child's temperament was strangely variable.

My wife was especially delighted at Richard's return. "With one exception," she said, smiling (for she could not reconcile herself to Richard's remaining unmarried), "you always did the right thing at the right time. We need both a son and a Professor. Perhaps you will be able to make Martella understand what is meant by the words State and Fatherland."

She told us that Martella, who was generally so quick of apprehension, found it impossible to form any conception of those ideas, and that, naturally enough, in her present troubles, this was doubly difficult. For, even in our eyes, the events as well as the duties of that sad period seemed like a horrible enigma.

It seemed as if thinking of Martella had relieved my wife from the weight of her own trouble. When I informed her of the expected arrival of Bertha and the children, her face beamed with joy. She at once repaired to the rooms that they were to occupy, and seemed, in anticipation, to enjoy the thought of entertaining those who were dearest to her.

I had told my wife nothing of Annette's coming. She was, however, gifted with a prophetic insight that bordered on the marvellous. Results which to others were yet invisible were, by her, discerned with unerring foresight. She at once devoted two large rooms opening on the garden to Annette.

Martella hurried about, helping to get the house in order, and seemed as if there was nothing to depress her spirits.

Rothfuss complained to me that the "forest imp," as he at times called Martella, left him no peace, day or night. She wanted him to tell her why people had to be soldiers, and why there was such a thing as war; and she had abused the Prince in terms that would secure her seven years in the fortress of Illenberg, if her remarks were reported to the authorities.

She had once even wanted to run off to the Prince and tell him how wicked it was to command human beings to shoot one another, and that he should, at all events, give her lover back again, for the war was nothing to Ernst or to her.

Rothfuss called the professor to his assistance.

Richard declined the commission, remarking that it was not necessary for every maiden to know why her lover was forced to go to the wars, and that, in the present instance, he hardly knew the reason himself.

Notwithstanding this remark, he essayed to speak with Martella on the subject, and I have never seen him so nervous and confused as on that occasion; for Martella called out to him, "Do not say a word: it is all of no use." Then she embraced him, and kissed him, and pressed him to her heart.

Martella's ardent kisses had so surprised and confused him that it was some time before he could collect himself. I had never seen him so unnerved before. I believed that I understood the cause of his emotion.

Martella was a riddle which to Richard seemed more difficult of solution than to any of us.

What we had all failed to accomplish was brought about by the simple-minded Spinner.

Had she been told that she could be of use, or had she divined it? She came up to Martella and said, "Child, your lot is a hard one; but look at me: mine is still harder. My best child, indeed my only one, – for the others had left me to starve, – has also gone to the war; and though a lover be ever so dear, he is not a son, as you will sometime know when you have a son of your own."

After that, Martella was quite resigned. She had, of course, not acquired any idea of the significance of the word "State;" but she now felt that the fate of all beings was ordained by a great overruling power.

Joseph kept us constantly informed of the excitement that reigned through the neighborhood. Funk was the chief spokesman. He announced that the time was about to arrive when Germany would become a free confederation like our neighbor Switzerland.

I do not think that one of those loud talkers believed in the fulfilment of such hopes; but, for the time being, it afforded them an opportunity of indulging in high-sounding phrases. On the other hand, we knew that to "abolish Prussia," as their phrase ran, would simply be the first step towards preparing for Germany the fate of Poland. And yet my own kindred-my son, my son-in-law, and Martin, my grandson-were fighting to accomplish that very object.

BOOK SECOND

CHAPTER I

We were seated on the balcony when we saw Bertha and her children coming up the hill towards the house. My wife at once arose, and opened the two folding-doors, as if with that action she were opening wide our hearts to receive them.

Realizing the fact that there was no escaping from our troubles, Bertha had conquered her sorrow, and now appeared as fresh and cheerful as if she had just been drinking at the fountain of youth.

As soon as the first greetings were over, my wife inquired about Ernst.

Bertha had seen him but once, as his captain had sent him up the country to get transportation for horses.

"That is bad; they should not have sent him there. O Ernst, poor, dear Ernst!" suddenly shrieked my wife.

She grew pale and fell back on a chair. We feared that she would faint. Bertha rushed to her aid, but she speedily recovered herself, and her trembling lips were the only sign, of the emotion she had passed through. She did not tell us why she had found it so wrong of them to send Ernst on that errand. She accompanied Bertha to her room, and stroking the light locks of little Victor, whom she had taken on her lap, said, "He looked just as you do when he was a little boy, except that he had blue eyes."

"Yes," said Bertha, "my husband has often noticed that Victor bears great resemblance to Ernst."

"And Uncle Ernst promised me a horse," said Victor.

"Did he?" said my wife, with pleased looks: "If he did that, it is all right, but sad enough for all. Still, others have their burdens to bear as well as we."

Martella's first meeting with Bertha as well as with Annette, resulted in mutual attraction.

Bertha was obliged to tell Martella all that she knew about Ernst, and while she was holding the hand of the strange child, the latter must have felt a consciousness of the candor and straightforwardness of Bertha's character, for she looked into her face with sparkling eyes.

Martella asked Bertha whether Ernst had sent the broken ring by her.

Bertha said he had not.

She removed a ring from her finger and offered it to Martella, who declined it.

When Annette offered both her hands to Martella, and said that she had for a long while been anxious to make her acquaintance, Martella was quite confused, and looked down towards the ground. When she raised her head, her eyes fell on a light green necktie which Annette wore.

"How pretty it is!" were her first words.

Annette immediately removed the tie, and fastened it about Martella's neck.

"It is quite warm, yet," said Martella; and Annette replied, "How lovely! Let us regard that as a good omen."

When Bertha, who rarely gave way to sentiment, returned and joined us again, she said, "Let us now be thrice as kind and loving to one another as we have been, and be indulgent with each other's moods. It is only by such means that we can manage to live through these terrible times."

Bertha and her daughter Clotilde, a charming, graceful child about nine years of age, were so clever in anticipating every wish of my wife's, that, although it had always been her wont to be serving others and providing for their comfort, she was now obliged to let them have their own way.

Martella seemed almost inseparable from Rothfuss, and Victor was always with the two. He accompanied them out to the fields and into the woods; and it was difficult to say which of the two was the happier, Rothfuss the old, or Victor the young, child.

It would have been difficult also to say which of the two, Victor or Martella, cut wilder capers, for the young play-fellow with the soldier cap seemed to make her forget all her trouble. She was quite proud of her skill in leaping, and loved to display it.

Bertha maintained that, in spite of rough manners, many of Martella's movements were full of wondrous grace; and when she would turn around five or six times on one foot, Victor could never imitate her.

On the very day of her arrival, Annette awakened great interest in the village.

She ascended to the top of the church steeple, where none of us had ever been. She waved her handkerchief from the little window in the belfry, until we took notice of her and returned her salute. All of the villagers who were not engaged in the fields had gathered in groups, and were looking up at the church steeple.

When she joined us at dinner, she told us that she had already found out everything. The school-master had told her of the woods that had been planted by my wife, that she had already been at the Gustava Spring, and that the water had tasted as if it were pure dew.

"Ah, how fortunate you are to own all this! The very air you breathe is your own."

She talked incessantly, and many of her remarks were quite entertaining. She plied Richard with so many questions that he looked quite displeased, and soon left the table.

"I can tell by the professor's looks that he is musical; is he not?"

"Indeed he is; he is esteemed an excellent violincello player."

"I can assure you that I asked no one, and I am so glad that my intuitions did not deceive me."

While Annette was paying a visit to the school-mistress, Richard gave vent to his anger at her; but my wife pacified him. Annette could not enjoy the quiet possession of anything, and was always anxious to impart what she knew and felt to others. She was evidently of a very hospitable nature, and would, in good time, acquire repose of manner.

During the first few days, while we were yet without news of any kind, and before the journals had given us any information as to the movements of the troops, Annette did not allow us to get a moment's rest.

The way she worried us all, and Richard in particular, was quite provoking; and yet this lesser trouble made us forget the greater one.

My father-in-law had converted the large corner room on the ground floor of our house into a veritable temple of beauty. He had, from time to time, purchased casts of the best antique statues, and had carefully arranged them along the walls and on pedestals, placing beautiful engravings between them.

He had thus brought the immortal types of beauty into the depths of the forest. The room in which he had placed the statues, and which Richard jokingly entitled "Athens," was a favorite haunt of ours.

Annette was greatly surprised to find such treasures with us, and said to Richard, "These undying types of a past great civilization are at home everywhere. It is because they no longer have, and indeed never did have, anything in common with the life of fashion, that they are thus immortal. Do you not agree with me?"

She always insisted on having an answer to her questions. Then she would briskly add: "Now I understand the meaning of the Niobe; she is the old spinner who lives out on the rock." When we laughed at this conceit of hers, she told us, "Oh! I beg your pardon, I mean that she is the embodiment of a mother's grief in time of war."

Pointing to a statue of Iphigenia, she inquired, "Herr Professor, can you tell me how the Grecian priestesses spent their time? Do you think it possible to be constantly offering sacrifices and uttering lofty thoughts?"

Richard admitted that he could not give her the desired information; and Annette was quite delighted that she had posed the professor. She did not give up troubling him, however.

All her notions of life in the country had been derived from books, and she was quite shocked to find that the mere money value or utility of trees was the only point of view in which they were regarded.

Notwithstanding her overflowing, emotional temperament, she had quite a taste for details, and even for figures. At the first sight of a prettily situated village, she would always make inquiries in regard to the number of its inhabitants, their means, and manner of living. I was obliged to tell her all about my own household-how many acres of timber there were ready to cut, and how much was young timber; the amount of our annual production, how much live-stock my meadows would support, how much fruit my orchards gave me, and also how the work was divided amongst the four men-servants and three maids that we employed.

She examined the whole establishment, from the stable to the loft. She seemed to take especial delight in the happy combination we had effected between the fruits of culture and the pursuit of husbandry. There was a certain air of solid comfort and good taste in our home. It had descended from the times of my father-in-law, and had been kept up by us.

With good judgment, Annette thought that the very best site had been selected for our house. The hill beyond the hollow at the back of the house protected us on three sides, but was not near enough to deprive us of fresh air, or to keep out the gentle breezes that would come up from the valley after sunset and carry away the miasmatic vapors, thus affording us healthful and refreshing sleep during the night. A barn, which the meadow farmer had so placed that it destroyed part of the view down the valley, was a great eyesore to Annette.

She asked Richard why the air with us was so cool and invigorating, and was very grateful when he explained the theory of the dew-fall to her.

She was full of charming ingenuousness, for she once said. "I do not doubt that you enjoy the singing of the birds, but I honestly confess that I do not. It is pleasant to know that the little animal up in the trees is so joyful; but, nevertheless, there is no beauty in tones without connection or expression. I find that there are no more tones in the scale of the finch than in that of the barn-yard rooster; and why do we prefer the notes of the finch?"

Richard often felt annoyed that Annette was constantly keeping every one about her on pins and needles, and seemed to desire his special approval of all that she did. He maintained that she was entirely deficient in mental balance.

The temperaments of Annette and Bertha were in marked contrast to each other.

When they were seated opposite each other and engaged in conversation, Bertha would bend forward, while Annette would lean back in her chair, as if immovable.

Bertha's mere presence exerted a grateful influence, while Annette felt that she must always be doing something, in order to inspire others with an interest in her.

Bertha, with all her affection for Martella, remained somewhat reserved towards her, while Annette was open and confiding, as with a sister. She was incapable of any other relations than those of perfect intimacy or absolute indifference.

Richard noticed all these peculiarities, and when he mentioned them to me, I was almost startled to find how carefully he had been observing Annette.

He was obliged, however, to agree with my wife when she said, "Annette's habit of requiring her friends to interest themselves in whatever engages her attention, is both innocent and childlike. A child will always think that its whip or its ball is of as much importance to others as to itself. Bear in mind, moreover, that Annette takes a lively interest in all that others do, and naturally enough supposes that they resemble her in that respect."

Annette had gone from the school-house one day, to pay a visit to my nephew Joseph, who was a friend of her brother, the lawyer, who resided in the capital. She found that there were well-furnished rooms in his house, and a few days later removed there. She frankly admitted that she was too noisy for our home, and that it were better that she should visit us for a few hours at a time, instead of living with us.

She at once set about rearranging the furniture and removing unnecessary decorations in her new quarters; and, on the next day, while the carpenters were busily engaged in making the changes she had ordered, she drove over to the city to visit the family of the kreis-director, with whom she had formerly been intimate.

She returned in the evening, bringing their eldest daughter, whom she intended to keep with her as a companion. A large wagon carrying sofas, rocking-chairs, and all sorts of furniture followed.

Although Annette had intended to lead a quiet and contemplative life, she might have been seen in the village at any hour of the day. She speedily acquainted herself with all of its features. She had, by rearranging the furniture in her own rooms, made them habitable and tasteful, and she now desired to effect a corresponding transformation in the houses of the wood-cutters; but the wives of the well-to-do farmers looked askance. Whenever she met one of the villagers, she would greet him or her politely, and would ask both old and young what they had had for dinner. She insisted that this was the most important of all questions. The people, however, found it great sport to answer her with lies.

She had speedily become attached to the wife of the school-master, but disliked to go to the clergyman's house.