CHAPTER IV.
Martha, who had hitherto shown such self-possession, was now seized with the greatest anxiety. She changed color constantly. She tried in vain to control her feelings, but at last her anxiety as well as mine became so great that we drove to the city. The crops were being already gathered from such fields as lay facing the south; nearly all the reapers were women.
While driving up the hill towards the court-house, I saw Edward Levi, the iron merchant, turn about suddenly as he caught sight of us and go towards his house. That was not the way he usually received us; so at once I feared that there was some bad news awaiting us, and that he did not wish to be the first one to tell it to us.
We halted before the court-house, but no one came to the windows; no one came to meet us. We went upstairs into the hall. The councillor's wife stood by the round table in the centre. She kept her hand on the table for a moment; then advancing towards Martha, and taking her hand, she said, "I awaited you here; I did not wish to cause you any emotion on the stairs, much less in the street. Your brother--dear Martha--your brother--died--an heroic death."
She said this with a firm voice; but when she had finished, she sobbed aloud and embraced Martha. The latter sank down beside her. We raised her; her faintness was of short duration, and her mother whispered, "Don't be alarmed! the shock will not harm her."
"My brother!" cried Martha, "I shall never see you more; never call you brother again. Pardon me, mother, I distress you instead of helping you. Where is father?"
"He is gone to the battle-field with Baron Arven. He has telegraphed that he is bringing the body with him. Ludwig, Wolfgang, and that sturdy Ikwarte are of the greatest assistance to him."
"Where is my sister?"
"She is at work in the town-hall. That is the best, the only thing to do--to care for others while you are bowed down with grief. As soon as you are restored, we will go to work together. Only do not idly mourn now! I have had your brother's room put in order; we will take charge of some wounded man and nurse him."
Martha looked wonderingly at her mother. How was such self-control possible! That is the blessing which long and careful culture brings, while it, at the same time, strengthens the moral sense. Her mother was dressed with care; she looked as she did in more peaceful days, and displayed no emotion, deeply as her heart was torn by the loss of her dearly beloved son. She told me that a messenger had come after bandages and to get help for the battle-field, and that her husband had sent word by him that the young lieutenant had been the first officer that had fallen. He had not been rash, but had moved forward at the head of his men with steadfast courage, had broken the ranks of the enemy, and, while crying, "The day is ours! the day is ours!" he had fallen with a bullet in his heart.
Martha was now restored, and a half hour after our arrival we were on our way to the town-hall. Her sister, who was engaged in cutting out garments, came towards us, gave Martha her hand, and repressed the rising tears. She spoke softly to Martha: she evidently begged her not to give vent to her grief before those who were present. Martha accompanied her quietly to the table, and helped to spread out the linen.
The daughter of Councillor Reckingen, who was just budding into womanhood, and who had hitherto been a stubborn, proud girl, lording it over every one, sat among the workers and was in entire harmony with them, while her father had cast aside his grief and joined his comrades in the field. She was placed specially in Christiane's charge.
The children, who were making lint in the basement, were singing the song of "The Good Comrade"--in the hall upstairs everything was still. Orders were given quietly, and the women and maidens passed silently to and fro. It seemed as if some one was lying dead in the adjoining room; but, above all this affliction and sorrow, there was a spirit which had never before shown itself among those present. All class distinctions had ceased, for all were united in their sympathy for their fellow-men.
Why does this spirit of friendship, this unanimity, appear only in times of trouble and sorrow; why not in every-day life?
I felt sure that this union of hearts would remain with us and beautify our lives, and this thought was strengthened by the remark of the lady at whose side I sat, who said, "You see,--this activity is the salvation of many, as you can perceive in your grand-daughter Christiane. She is untiring, and the dissatisfied air her face used to wear is gone. We are now all united. It will not last; but hereafter the thought that there once was a time when the children of the poorer and of the upper classes did not ask 'Who are you, after all?' will greatly benefit us."
I stayed in the city. The next evening, just as it was growing dark, the councillor arrived with his son's body. The whole town, young and old, was collected at the railway station. The children carried wreaths and flowers, the bells were ringing, and thus was the body taken from the station to the churchyard. After a hymn was sung, the clergyman delivered his address. What could he say? He explained in few words that this was not an ordinary funeral, but that we were now parts of one great whole, even in death.
The father, mother, and sisters cast the first clods of earth on the young hero's coffin; the grave was then filled in and covered with flowers.
We had buried the first one who had died for the union and independence of our Fatherland. I was staying with the family which had thus lost its only son. They sat at home in silence; indeed, what could be said?
The parson had added a text from the Bible, and had made some earnest remarks thereon; yet I thought, and am sure that these stricken ones thought as I did, that all political feeling is foreign to that holy book. Patient endurance here, and the hope of better things beyond, suit a nation that is kept in subjection, but not one that is gladly battling and sacrificing itself for its existence. What an entirely different comprehension the Greeks had of exertion carried to its utmost limit. I remembered how, while in prison, the speech of Pericles, delivered at the funeral rites in Athens, had illumined and elevated my soul; and I could almost see the words, for they seemed to have been hewn out of stone, like a finely chiselled piece of sculpture. I found the book in the house, and read the address to the parents and children. I had to stop frequently, for sometimes the father and sometimes the mother would exclaim: "That is intended for us, for to-day."
"No enemy has ever seen our entire forces," says Pericles, and so say we.
"Bold, daring, and calm consideration of what we undertake, are united in us. He among us who does not concern himself about matters of state, is not regarded as a peaceable, but as a useless, man." Pericles shows that he possesses the true religion when he cries: "You must constantly keep before your eyes the powers of the state, and must love them. Seek for happiness in liberty, and for liberty in your own courage."