CHAPTER II
Our clergyman was the son of poor parents. His father had been a beadle. He is without a single spark of genius, but is said to have distinguished himself by great application. He attends to his duties methodically, but in a cold and perfunctory manner. During the summer, he spends much of his time fishing; in the winter, he is almost always at home. He is well-skilled in that game of chess which requires but one player. He lost his father while he was quite young, and in order to be able to aid his mother and his many brothers and sisters, he married a wealthy, but half-witted girl, whom he never cared to take into society. Politics had no attractions for him.
Formerly, if a beggar applied to him for alms he would have him sent up into his room, and would ask him, "What good will it do if I give you that which will only help you for a moment or so? Come and listen" – and he would then read the beggar a sermon, or a chapter out of the Bible. But, of late years, the beggars had piously avoided his house.
Our school-master, on the other hand, is a clever and wide-awake man. He, too, had taken part in the political movements of 1848, but when placed on trial was acquitted. Ever since that time, he has held aloof from political affairs. He married a woman who is exceedingly clever, and who brought him some money besides.
The clergyman has no children: the school-master has three-two sons, one of whom is a merchant down by the fortress; the other is a machinist, and resides in America. He is said to have quite a large business. The daughter is the wife of the inspector of roads. The school-master is quite proud that he can say, "If I were to give up my position to-morrow, I could afford to live without work" – a state of affairs to which the skill and economy of his wife has greatly contributed. The couple lead a loving and tranquil life. They are hale and hearty, and, as it often happens when two persons have lived together many years, they have grown to look very much alike. Their garden was filled with teeming flower-beds. Florists from the neighboring watering-places would come daily to purchase flowers, and thus the garden had become a source of considerable profit.
But now that the war had emptied the watering-places, the flowers were left to perish for want of purchasers.
Annette instructed the school-master's wife in the art of drying flowers, and making pretty bouquets of them.
Carl's mother, who lived in a little house out by the rock, worked every day in the garden of the school-master's wife.
Annette was attracted by the woman. She was short and thin, old and stooping, but had wonderfully clear and sparkling eyes, and Annette felt quite happy to think that this old woman, who was almost deaf, could by means of her eyes still have so much enjoyment.
During the summer, the spinner, as had been her wont every year, would scrape off the bark from the branches of the elderberry tree, and afterward tie up the branches in bundles. Annette did great damage by explaining to her-she had only learned it herself the day before-that they would be used to make gunpowder. When the old woman heard that, she felt as if she could not bear to touch the wood; but, as she had undertaken the task, she was obliged to finish it, and so went on with her work, although it was not without murmuring.
Through Annette's insinuating herself into the intimacy of others, much that happened in our village acquired clearer colors, and greater importance in my eyes.
I told her the history of the spinner. She had had a husband, a tall, handsome man. He had been employed as a laborer on the road, but had wasted all his earnings at the tavern.
Besides that, he had been a sportsman, and had loved, above all things, to roam through the woods with the forester and his attendants, in search of game.
While these things were going on, the wife had, with her own earnings, reared four children, who were always among the tidiest in the village. Whenever anyone expressed pity that she had so thoughtless and inconsiderate a husband, she would say, "Oh, that's all right. If he were not so shiftless a fellow, he would never have married me; he would have gone and married some woman better, handsomer, and richer than I was."
When the building of the railway was begun, he gave up his situation and went to work in the valley; but he would never bring home a groschen of money. Indeed, on one occasion, when he received a larger sum than usual, he drove up in a carriage with two comrades, and the three were not content until the last kreutzer had been spent.
But yet with all this no word of complaint ever fell from the lips of his wife; and when, at last, her husband lost his life while blasting a rock, she bewailed his death, saying that he was the best man in the world.
Two of her sons and one daughter were employed at Mulhausen; but they would not help the mother. Carl, who had been Joseph's servant, and was now with the troops, gave all his earnings to her, and would not suffer her to accept a gift from any one.
When Annette knew this, she was all attention to the spinner; but it required much clever management to be able to do her a service. Besides that, it was awkward that the spinner was so indistinct of speech, that with the exception of her son Carl and the school-master's wife, there was hardly any one who could understand her.
Richard and Bertha shook their heads while watching Annette's movements, and could not refrain from commenting on them. But my wife would always tell them that Annette was of an active temperament, and was only happy when assisting others. She also told them that Annette had interested herself for the baker Lerz's victim and her child, and that she had given the clergymen of the neighboring villages considerable sums to be distributed among the poor. And, further, that it was much to her credit that she would not allow herself to be driven away from her work by rudeness on the part of those whom she was trying to benefit.
We soon had an amusing instance of this.
One Sunday afternoon, while we were up in the arbor, Annette had seated herself with Rothfuss and Martella on a bench in front of the house. She was trying to find out from Rothfuss how much he loved his horses and cattle.
Rothfuss knew nothing about loving them. All he said was, "Feed them well, and they will work for you."
She was quite provoked that the tinkling of the bells of the cows that were grazing on the mountain patches was inharmonious. She said that she would buy bells that were in accord with each other, and present them to the owners of the cows.
She conversed quite familiarly with Rothfuss and Martella, and asked them to look upon her as their companion.
To which Rothfuss replied, "I have nothing against the Jews-they are all the same to me. In the place where I was born, there were lots of Jews, and I was on good terms with all of them. Two of them served in the same regiment with me; and in my village there was a splendid girl whom they called 'the little beauty;' she was strong and healthy and jolly. She loved to dance with me; and, if I could only have afforded to marry, I would have been bound to have her. And you may take my word for it, she would not have refused me.
"You are a sensible woman; one can talk to you about all sorts of things. You are not like Baroness Arven, who once ordered me to take my cap in my hand while I was speaking to her. You are better than she is.
"Yes, indeed; my first love was a Jewess.
"And then there was Myerle the horse-dealer, who often came to see us. He looks just like you; – are you related to him? I know him intimately; he is a sharp fellow, and a man of his word, and always gives two crown thalers drink-money. Of late he has been trying to make it Prussian thalers, but that won't go down.
"The Jews are just like us in everything. There is only one thing that they cannot do-they don't know how to drink; and they don't try it, either. But in all other respects they are just like us. 'He who is wet to the skin need not dread the rain.'"
"And you, Martella," asked Annette, "what do you think of the Jews?"
"I? I don't think of them at all. I want nothing to do with them. In the forest they always told me that my mother must have been a Jewess; but it is not true."
"Who is your mother, then?"
"Who? Why, Madame Cuckoo; – just ask her."
Martella walked away.
Annette joined us and told us all that had happened, adding: "One is always getting new and interesting ideas. Rothfuss and Martella, comparing their religion with mine, look upon themselves as nobles who vouchsafe me their favor. I accept it with thanks."
My wife, however, looked over to us with a significant glance that seemed quite distinctly to say, "There, you can see now that she is free from prejudice, and full of imperturbable kindness."
Notwithstanding her love and respect for us, Annette found great pleasure in her intimate relations with the neighboring family of Baron Arven. This may have been the result of her having formerly been kept in the background.
Her constant journeyings to and fro were the occasion of our making some delightful acquaintances.
Just beyond the boundary line, where I owned a large piece of woodland, there resided a young forester, who was of noble birth, and a relative of Annette's husband. We had before that been strangers to each other; but Annette knew how to draw him and his wife into our circle, and we were charmed by the simple manners of these highly cultivated people.
Our family was so widely extended that we found it quite easy to trace a distant relationship to our newly discovered friends. The young wife was the daughter of a high official. Though living in the woods, she did not neglect her intellectual life, and found good music of great assistance in that regard. She had also been able to bring up sturdy boys; and we were quite pleased to learn that her only rule with them had been truthfulness and obedience. These two requisites had been firmly and inexorably insisted upon, and as a result the boys did their parents great credit.
The new element that Annette had thus introduced into our circle often caused us to forget that the very next hour might bring us the saddest news.
CHAPTER III
It was eventide. The clear tones of the village bell filled the valley and were echoed back from the mountains opposite. The young woods down by the stone wall seemed transparent with the reflection of the rosy sunset, and all looked as if bathed in golden clouds.
We were sitting in the arbor, and every one was probably thinking to himself, "Perhaps at this very moment men of the same nation-yea, brothers-may be murdering one another on the battle-field."
In a low voice, and with an absence of all that resembled her usual excessive excitability, Annette remarked that my wife ought to feel very happy to think that she had planted yonder wood.
At that moment we saw a carriage coming up the hill.
"It is father!" exclaimed the daughter of the kreis-director, and ran to meet him.
We observed that he opened the carriage door for her, and that she entered it and remained with him.
Annette remarked that she had given orders that all telegrams should be sent to Herr Von Rontheim, who would forward them to us as speedily as possible. This must be a matter of importance, however, as he had come in person. But let his tidings be what they may, we would stand by and support one another.
Rontheim entered.
He brought us the news of a great victory gained by the Austrians, who were said to have penetrated into Silesia. His manner of imparting this was in accord with our feelings, and was quite free from any spirit of rejoicing. A brief telegram had brought the news.
Rontheim seemed quite ill at ease and soon left, taking his daughter and Annette with him. A little while after that, Joseph arrived, and told me privately that he wished that Richard and I would come over to his house.
I was struck with fear, and felt that there was bad news in store for me.
Without knowing why, I felt alarmed.
When I entered Annette's apartment, Rontheim was seated at a table on which there was a lighted lamp. In his hand there was a newspaper. He did not rise to receive me, but requested me to be seated.
He grasped my hand firmly while he said, "You are a strong man, a just father-no father can be blamed for what his child may do. – Your son Ernst has deserted."
Those were his words: I have written them down with my own hand. Could I, at that time, have believed that I would ever be able to do this! But to this day, I cannot tell what rent my heart and crazed my brain. All that I can recollect is that I felt as if a bullet were piercing my brain, and found it strange that I knew even that much of what was going on. I remember Richard's throwing his arms about my neck, and crying, "Father! Dear father!" and all was over.
When I recovered consciousness my first thought was, "Why live again? Death has been conquered."
The next thought that flashed upon me was, "But my wife! – She foresaw it all, yet how will she bear this burden?"
Annette came up to me and seemed to guess at my thoughts, for with a voice choked with tears she said:
"Do not tell your wife of this to-night. In the morning, when day approaches, if you wish me to tell her of this, I am at your service. But how cold your hands are!"
She knelt down and kissed my hands.
The director handed the newspaper to Richard. I noticed how his hand trembled while he held it. I asked to have it handed to me, and read the proclamation of my son's dishonor and the order for his arrest.
When I at last started to return home, I was obliged, for the first time in my life, to lean on my son Richard for support. Annette had asked permission to accompany me. We declined her proffered aid. The kind-hearted, impulsive creature was all gentleness and desire to assist me.
I arrived in front of the house. There stands the large and well-ordered house, – but no joy will ever enter there again.
The wind from the valley was swaying the red beech to and fro; the fountain swelled and roared while its waters glistened in the broad moonlight. All this to be seen again and again, and yet-"daily suicide" -
"What are you saying, father? What do you mean by those words?" asked Richard.
It was not until then that I became aware of my having uttered them.
For Ernst, for my poor child, no day would ever more begin with the love of life. "Daily suicide" – in this phrase his deed and its consequences seemed to concentrate themselves. I was obliged to sit clown on the steps, and not until then was I able to shed tears.
How often Ernst had run up and down there! I could yet remember the first time that he climbed those steps on all fours, turning his pretty head with its light curls towards me when I called out to him, and waiting quietly until I would come and take him up in my arms!
But now he had conjured up a restless demon whom no cry or supplication could exorcise.
At this very moment I can distinctly remember how I wished that all the sorrow and pain might descend on my own head and be gathered up into my own heart, in order that I might bear them for others.
"Master, why are you sitting at your own threshold like a strange beggar?" were the words with which Rothfuss surprised me. "I have already heard what our madcap Ernst has done; do not let that grieve you to death-that will do you no good. In this world, every one must carry his own hide to market. It is bad enough in all conscience, but there is courage in it for all. There are hundreds and thousands of them who would like to do what he has done; but they follow the drum with its rat-tat-tat, and put on airs into the bargain. Do you know what I think of this matter? – Do not interrupt me, Heir Professor; I know what I am talking about-I say that every large family must have its black sheep, and I would rather a thousand times have a good-for-nothing than an idiot, the very sight of whom makes one's hair stand on end.
"Yes, indeed; my mother was right. Her favorite maxim was: 'Better sour than rotten,' and 'To be hard of hearing is not half so bad as to have poor eyes.'
"In every family there is something; or, as the poor woman once said: 'There is something everywhere, – except in my lard-pot, where there is nothing at all.'"
Rothfuss would not rest until I got up again.
I went up the steps with him and into the room. He drew off my boots, and was full of kind attentions.
Addressing me in a whisper, he offered to tell the news to his mistress in the morning, as he thought that he was best fitted for the task.
He meant to speak of it in such a way that she would take it as his stupid talk and give him a thorough scolding, and thus wreak her anger on him. He thought that would be the best way, because that would help to break the first shock of the news, and then it would be easier to endure the rest.
The only other thing that troubled Rothfuss was how he might stop Funk's evil tongue. He felt sure that with the exception of Funk, others would be as much grieved as we were.
That was the trouble. The news would enlist the attention of the busy world, those who pitied as well as those who rejoiced in the sufferings of others.
But what matters the world: it can neither help nor hinder our griefs.
I have experienced much bitter suffering: – I have gazed into the grave that had received all that had been dearest to me on earth, but no pain can be compared to that of grief for a son, who, though living, is lost.
Morning had already dawned. The birds were singing in the trees; the sun had returned; all life seemed to awake anew; and at last I found an hour's sleep.
"Destroyer of sleep!" were the first words I uttered when I awoke.
How can he enjoy a moment's rest, or swallow a morsel of food while he knows that his parents are sorrowing for him.
I have often been advised-it is easy enough to say the words-"Make up your mind to blot his name from your memory." But it is not so easy to follow such counsel.
My wife softly slumbered through the whole night. Will she ever again have so refreshing a sleep?
CHAPTER IV
The morning was bright and clear. We were seated around the breakfast table, every one of us doubly oppressed. We were grieved on our own account, and troubled by the thought that the mother's heart was soon to become rent by the sad tidings.
Richard had told the news to Bertha.
My wife seemed to be watching Bertha, and at last reproved her for having been weeping again. "It is our duty," said she, "to accept the inevitable with resignation. Mankind might well be likened to the plants in the field, which are obliged quietly to submit to the storm that descends on their heads."
We exchanged hurried glances, but Bertha did not reply.
"Will my wife be as strong in a few moments from now?" was the question I inwardly asked myself.
Rothfuss was heard cracking his whip in front of the house. He was about to drive out into the fields, taking Martella with him.
His intention was to tell her all that had happened as soon as he reached the fields, so that she might there spend her rage, and not annoy the household by her noise.
Victor rode along with them.
My wife inquired whether the newspaper had not yet come, or why I was not reading it, and wished to know what was the matter.
The moment had arrived. I gathered up all the courage that was yet left me, and said, "We will take you at your word-'It is our duty to accept the inevitable with resignation.'"
"What is it? Tell me."
"Our son Ernst has-deserted!"
"After all!" exclaimed my wife, while she laid her clinched fists on her heart, as if to prevent it from bursting, and with compressed lips stared into vacancy.
Fearing that she would faint, the children and I rushed to her assistance.
"Never mind; all will be over in a moment. I can now breathe again. And now, I beg of you all, be silent." She closed her eyes. We remained standing around her in silence. Not a sound was heard, save the rapid ticking of the clocks and the innocent singing of the thistle-finch.
At last, she removed her hands from her face and gave way to a torrent of tears. With her hands folded on her breast, and softly, without a loud sign of pain, she thus lamented:
"O my son! My poor son! My poor, unhappy child! You are now a fugitive in the wide world, and without a home-lost and distracted-a wandering proof of the confusion of our broken household, now rent in twain and bereft of peace. His heart is a wayward one. It is easier to spoil a human being than to improve one. Let him who believes that this war is just before God rise up and plunge his sword into my son's heart!"
She had raised herself while uttering the last sentence; when she finished, she fell back in her seat again. She then suddenly and energetically sat up again, and asked, "Does Martella know of this?"
I replied that Rothfuss had taken her out into the fields with him in order to tell her all.
"It is well," she answered. "Give me the newspaper, that I may read the letter of arrest. This was the reason the director came to us yesterday and departed without saying good-by. Give me the advertisement which thousands are now reading-I am his mother."
I was obliged to tell her that I had given the paper to Rothfuss, who had asked for it in order that he might show it as a proof to Martella.
My wife nodded approvingly, and said, "Yes, Martella. Listen to what I am about to say. Ernst has run away because he was unwilling to fight in this fratricidal war. That is true enough, as far as it goes; I feel assured of that. But let me tell you something more-he is unfaithful-unfaithful to his parents, his brothers and sisters, and his betrothed. I beg of you, Henry, do not contradict me! Promise me one thing."
"Whatever you wish."
"You, my husband, and you, my children, faithfully promise me that, when I am no longer with you, you will firmly and inviolably cherish Martella as a child of the house and as one of the family."
We promised all that she asked.
"I have one other request to make. Whatever may happen, do not for a moment conceal aught from me; do no violence to yourselves for my sake. I can support everything as long as I know all."
Her next wish was that we should all go out into the fields, for she felt sure that Rothfuss would not be able to control Martella, who, she feared, might run away and rush into suffering or death.
Richard said that he would be able to assist Rothfuss, and that he knew the direction in which they had gone.
He hurried away to meet them.
"You had better go in and join them," we heard Richard say as he left the house, and then he ran off on his errand.
A moment later, Annette joined us. Although usually quite courtly in her manner, she was now diffident and timid, and in heartfelt tones begged us to consider her as one of us, and permit her to assist in bearing our affliction.
My wife extended her arms towards her, and for the first time embraced and kissed Annette.
"I have brought smelling-salts and other restoratives," said Annette in a cheerful tone, while the thick tears were running down her cheeks. "But, dear Madame Gustava, you need nothing of that kind; you are as firm as a forest-tree."
"Ernst will never again return to his forest," complained my wife.
Neither Bertha nor I were able to utter a word, but Annette said to my wife, "You have a right to indulge in the deepest grief. I shall never attempt to persuade you otherwise. I know how galling it is when friends come and imagine that they can console us by smoothing over or belittling our griefs. It is well, after all, that I am with you. It is indeed true that I only feel your sorrows through sympathy, while the blow itself has descended on your heads. With all my sincere sympathy, there are hours when I can forget your sorrows, and am thus better able to be of use to you."
My wife again took Annette's hand and pressed it to her own forehead.
"Do you believe," said my wife, addressing Annette; "do you believe that Ernst sees his actions in their true colors?"
"I do not."
"I hope that it is so. Indeed, I really trust that my child does not reason clearly on this subject. I would rather have him think himself right in what he is doing; for he will then be able to endure his days, and to sleep peacefully at night."
"How happy one is to watch the growth of bright, youthful memories in a child's soul; but after such a deed, it were kindest to wish that he might forget everything." And then turning towards me, she added, "I feel so badly to think that my favorite maxim is now dead."
"Which?"
"When I was asked how one could best bring up children, I would always answer, 'Let your married life be pure, for thus alone can you have good, righteous children.' But it seems that even this is no longer the case."
No one replied. Annette told us that she had just received a dispatch. The tidings of victory were false, and the very reverse of the first news was the true report, for the Prussians had penetrated into Bohemia.
"Ah, how soon there will be more grieving mothers! If the woful cries of all these mothers could be concentrated into one utterance, who is there that could hear it, and still live?"
Thus lamented my wife. We sat in silence.
Richard entered, saying, "Mother is right; she looks far ahead." He told us that Martella had shouted with joy when Rothfuss had told her of Ernst's flight; she had praised his adroitness.
And Victor called out, "For shame! Uncle Ernst is a coward! For shame! Uncle Ernst is a bad man!"
Martella raised the scythe and was about to hurl it at Victor, but Rothfuss fortunately parried the stroke. Martella now wrestled with Rothfuss, and called out to Victor, "You soldier's child! Keep quiet, you soldier's child!" She seemed to use the words reproachfully.
Suddenly she exclaimed, "I know where Ernst is! I am going to him-away, away from all of you!"
She started on a brisk run, but was caught in the arms of Richard, who was just coming up.
When Richard told us all this, his voice seemed broken, and, for some time, he stood with his eyes cast on the ground. Then he went on to tell us that Martella had become quiet and gentle, and had willingly consented to ride home again, when he told her that mother wanted to see her; and that now she was down in the barn, and was sitting on the clover, waiting until she was sent for.
Martella was called up to the house. When she entered the room, my wife requested us to leave. I have never learned what passed between them.
I was quite surprised at what Rothfuss told me.
When Richard caught Martella in his arms, she cried out, "No, no; you shall not kiss me!" and pushed him from her with such force, that he would have been thrown to the ground if Rothfuss had not come to his assistance.
Richard had told us nothing of that.