Waldfried: A Novel

CHAPTER XXI

I remained standing near the gate and saw constant arrivals of more young men. Men and women desired to accompany them inside the barracks, but were always ordered back by the guard.

Carl, the son of the spinner who lived on the rock, was also among the arrivals. Without any solicitation on my part, he promised to keep an eye on Ernst.

It had become night; the gas-lamps were lit, and yet I stood there so buried in thought, that the lamp-lighter was obliged to tell me to move on.

There I was, in the capital in which there lived so many of my friends, and my own child; indeed, two of my children.

Where should I go first? Our club-house was in the vicinity, and I went there. They praised me for having come so soon, for while I had been at the borough town they had telegraphed for me.

They were in hourly expectation of a government order, convoking the Parliament. What we were expected to discuss no one knew; but every one felt that it was necessary for us to assemble. I could not bring myself to believe that war was really possible, and there were many who shared my opinion.

Funk was there also. He offered me his hand in a careless manner, and, feeling that in such times enmity should be at an end, I shook hands with him.

Funk rejoiced that the grand crash was at last to come. Prussia would have to be beaten to pieces, and a federation founded; for the present, with a monarchical head.

The minister, who was well known as an arch-enemy of Prussia, had sent word to the committee of our party that he would come to us that same evening, and bring the order convoking us with him. He did not come in person, but contented himself with sending the written order. Of what use could we be when the harm had already been done. What were we? Nothing but a flock without any will of our own.

I went to Bertha's house. I found her alone; her husband was at his post, busy day and night. It had suddenly been discovered that the troops were not fully prepared.

I had not been there long, before her friend Annette entered, from whom as usual I was obliged to endure much praise. Annette found it quite-she was about to say "patriarchal," but checked herself in time-that I had come to assist Bertha.

"Only think of it," she continued, putting all her remarks in the form of questions, as was her wont: "Would you have thought that Bertha would be much less resigned than I? I have always wished that I might be so gentle and self-controlled as Bertha; and now I am the quieter of the two. Have I not as much love for my husband as any woman can have for hers? Have I not given up everything for his sake? Now I say to myself, 'Did you not know what you were doing when you married a soldier? Is the uniform merely for the parade and the court ball? Therefore, rest content. In this world everything must be paid for. It is necessary to accept the consequences of one's actions.' Am I right or wrong?"

Annette always closed with a note of interrogation, and of course I was obliged to respond affirmatively.

Bertha smiled sadly, and said in a weary voice: "Yes, father, I must admit it; I have always thought that war was one of those things of which one only learned in the hour devoted at school to history. I only knew of the Punic wars and the Peloponnesian war-for we never got as far as modern history-and thought of these things as of what had once been. But I honestly admit that I did not think they would come to pass again in our time."

"Just think of it, Bertha," said Annette, while she drew a thick volume from her satchel, "this is the Bible. You know that I never take quotations at second-hand, but prefer looking them up myself. This morning while the hairdresser was with me, it occurred to me that the Bible says the wife should leave her father and her mother for his sake. So I sent for the Bible, the very one that the dowager princess presented me with when I was christened. I hunted up the passage, but what did I find? Why, that for this the 'man would leave his father and mother,'-the man. Now just look, it says the man; and why should it say the man? He is not a domestic plant, like us girls!"

The vivacity of the pretty and graceful woman cheered me, and I must admit that from that time my opinion of Annette changed. She seems imbued with much of that power of self-reliance which is a peculiar characteristic of the Jews; they are nothing by inheritence, and are obliged to make themselves what they are.

But Annette seemed to guess at my silent thoughts, and continued, "Do not praise me, I beg of you! I do not deserve it. I am quite different when I am alone; then I am tormented with horrible fancies. And let me tell you, Bertha, when our husbands leave, you must keep me with you. I cannot be alone. I am beginning to hate my piano already. I do not go into the room in which it stands. Ah, here come our husbands!"

We heard advancing steps. The Major entered, and greeted me politely, but seemed quite gloomy.

I told him that I had brought Ernst.

"I hope he will do himself credit," said the Major in a hard voice.

I told him that the Parliament was about to reassemble, whereupon the Major with great emphasis said, "Dear father, I beg of you do not let us talk politics now. I have the greatest respect for your patriotism, your liberalism, and for all your opinions. But now it is my uniform alone that speaks; what is inside of it has not a word to say."

He pressed both hands to his heart, and continued:

"Pshaw! I, too, once believed in 'German unity,' as they are fond of calling it… and even had hopes of Prussia. But now we will show these impudent, mustachioed Prussian gentlemen what we are made of."

I was careful not to reply to his remarks, in which I could easily notice the struggle that was going on within him. He was on duty; and it is wrong to talk to a man who is at his post.

What sort of a war is it in which they know no other cry but "Let us show them what we are made of!"

And if the victory is achieved, what then? An invisible demon sat crouching on the knapsack of every soldier, making his load heavier by a hundred-fold.

We seated ourselves at the table. The Major seemed to feel that he had been harsh towards me, and was now particularly polite. He asked about mother, Martella, and Rothfuss. He told us that he had that day heard from our newly discovered cousin, in a letter from Mayence, in which he had expressed the hope that they might stand side by side on the battle-field, and thus again become bound to each other.

The Major had nothing more to say. He poured out a glass of wine for me, and drank my health in silence. Annette used every exertion to dispel the dark cloud under which we were laboring.

She asserted that her saddle horse seemed to know that it would soon be led forth to battle, and told us a number of marvellous stories about that clever animal. She was very fond of telling anecdotes, and had considerable dramatic talent.

"Dear father," said the Major, "I believe I have not yet acquainted you with my darling wish."

"I do not remember your having done so."

"My request is, that when we leave, Bertha and the children should remain with you until the end of the campaign, which from present indications will not extend to your neighborhood.

"They are now, at last, constructing a telegraph line through your valley-it has been deemed a military necessity, and that will enable us to hear from each other with dispatch."

"And will you accept an unbidden guest?" interposed Annette. "I know that you will say 'yes,' and I promise you that I will be quite good and docile."

I extended my hand to her, while she continued:

"You know that it has for a long while been my wish to be permitted to spend some time with your wife. Iphigenia in the forest, in the German pine forest! Oh, how charming it was of your father-in-law to name his daughter so! Are pretty names only intended for books? Of course, Grecian Iphigenia should not knit stockings. Did not your father-in-law begin to translate Goethe's 'Iphigenia' into Greek, but fail to complete it? Is not Iphigenia too long a name for daily use? How do you address your wife?"

"By her middle name, Gustava."

"Ah, how lovely! 'Madame Gustava.' And the forest child? I presume she is still with you? And now I shall at last become acquainted with your noble and faithful servant, Rothfuss, who said that 'one who is drenched to the skin need not dread the rain.'"

As far as our all-engrossing anxiety would permit it, Annette's volubility and liveliness contributed greatly to our relief.

We had just left the table when Rolunt, the Major's most intimate friend, entered. He had at one time been an officer in the service of the Duke of Augustenberg, and had thence returned to his home, where he was now professor at the military school.

Now political conversation could not be restrained, although the Major refrained from taking part in it.

Rolunt was furious that, no matter how the war might end, Germany would be obliged to give an indemnity, in the shape of Nice, to France.

We had the galling consciousness that one nation presumed to decide the affairs of another, with as much freedom as it would regulate the taxes or the actions of its own citizens.

We remained together until it was quite late, and when we separated, it was with crushed hearts.

The Major insisted on my staying at his house; the war, he said, had done away with all minor considerations.

On the following day there was another session of the Parliament. The government demanded an extraordinary credit, which was accorded, although it was hoped that we might escape being drawn into war; for both the government and the legislature fondly expected that our troubles might be arranged by diplomacy.

Who, after all, was the enemy that we were fighting against?

I went to the barracks. I was refused admission. Fortunately, I saw the ensign approaching, and, under his protection, I was allowed to enter. Ernst, who had already donned the uniform, was lying on a bench. He seemed surprised to see me.

"Pray do not say a word until we get outside."

He received permission to go out for half an hour, and soon stood before me in his smart attire. There was something graceful and yet determined in his bearing.

When we gained the street, he asked me whether there was any chance of his discharge.

I was in a sad dilemma. I had taken no steps, because it was only too evident that my efforts would have been of no avail.

It was this that made me hesitate in answering him, and Ernst exclaimed, "All right. I know all about it."

My very heart bled, pierced as it was by the same sword that rent my Fatherland in twain.

I endeavored to persuade my son that there are times when our own wills and thoughts are of no avail against the great current of Fate.

"Thanks, father, thanks," answered Ernst, in a strangely significant tone.

I could only add, "I feel assured that you will do your duty. Do not forget that you have parents and a bride."

He seemed to pay but little attention to my words.

He took off his helmet, and said, "This presses me so: I am unused to it. It seems to crush my brain."

He looked very handsome, but very sad. We were standing before the office of the State Gazette, when suddenly the street seemed filled with groups of excited people, listening to a man who had climbed to the top of a wagon and was reading off a dispatch just received from Berlin, to the effect that there had been an attempt to shoot Bismarck, but that the ball had missed aim.

"Curse him!" cried Ernst; "I would not have missed aim."

I reproved him with great severity, but he insisted that one had a right to commit murder. I replied that no one would ever have that right, and that this deed had been as culpable as the assassination of Abraham Lincoln; for if any one man has the right to be both the judge and the executioner of his enemies, you will have to accord the privilege to the democrat as well as to the aristocrat.

"Let us cease this quarrelling," he answered; "I have no desire to dispute with you. I am firm in my belief that one is justified in doing wrong for the sake of bringing about a good result. But, I beg of you, father, let us now and forever cease this quarrelling."

His face showed his conflicting emotions, and he kissed my hand when I gently stroked his face.

The crowd had dispersed in the meanwhile, and we proceeded on our way.

Ernst suddenly stopped and said to me: "Farewell, father. Give my love to mother and Martella."

He held on to my hand quite firmly for a moment or two longer, and then said, "I must go to the barracks."

His eyes plainly told me that he would like to say more that he could not express; but he merely nodded, and then turning on his heel, departed.

"Write to us often!" I called out to him. He did not look back.

I followed after him for a while, keeping near enough to hear his firm step and the rattling of his spurs. I fondly hoped that he would yet return to me, and tell me of the thoughts that oppressed his heart.

I met many acquaintances on the way, who saluted me and extended their hands. They wanted me to stop and talk with them, but I merely nodded and passed on.

In my eager haste I ran against many people, for I did not want to lose sight of my son. There he goes! Now he stands still-now he turns. Surely- At that moment a company of soldiers marched down the street to the sound of lively music; we were now separated. I could not see my son again. I returned to Bertha and the Major, and the latter promised me to keep a watchful eye on Ernst, and to send us frequent tidings in regard to him, in case he should neglect to write.

I rode to the depot. I was fearfully tired, and felt as if I could not walk another step.

As the trains were quite irregular, I was obliged to wait there for a long while.

I felt-no, I cannot-I dare not-revive the painful emotions that rent my bosom. Of what avail would it be? My son was going forth to war, and I had brought him here, myself.

"Brother fighting against brother." I fancied that I had been talking to myself and had uttered these words; but I found that they were frequently repeated by the excited groups that were scattered about the depot. All about me there was ceaseless turmoil. People were rushing to and fro, yelling, shouting, cursing, and laughing. I sat there absorbed in thought, not caring to see or hear anything more of the world, when a familiar voice said to me, "How charming, father, that I should meet you here!"

My son Richard stood before me; he had finished his lectures and was about to return home.

Accompanied by him, I started for home.

Richard informed me of the political divisions among the professors, and thus afforded me a glimpse of a sphere of life entirely different from my own. Even the immovable altars of science were now trembling, and personal feeling had become so violent that the friends of Prussia, of whom Richard was one, could not appear in public without being subjected to insults. On our way home, we stopped for dinner at the garrison town, where we heard the most contemptuous allusions to the "Prussian braggarts," as they were termed.

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!"