CHAPTER IX.
"Thank God, they have beaten us!" were the words with which Joseph entered our house the next morning, carrying an extra paper in his hand. In those words was concentrated the whole misery of those days. "If Prussia would only march into the South German palaces! That is the only way to bring about a proper understanding."
This was the second idea that Joseph expressed.
An armistice was concluded. Bertha wished to return home at once. A letter from her husband was received, requesting her to remain at our house, and informing her that he would join her there immediately after the return of the troops.
He also informed us that he had received a letter from the widow of our Austrian cousin; her husband had lost his life at Königgratz.
We also received news from Annette. In a few short words she informed us of her wretched journey with the corpse of him who had been all her joy, and had been sacrificed to no purpose.
The postscript contained special greetings for Richard, both from her and from his friend, a medical professor, who had introduced himself to Annette as a friend of ours, and had been of great service to her.
Sad tidings threw the village into excitement.
Carl, who had been the favorite of the whole village, had fallen. It was both sad and gratifying to hear how every one praised him. Even the taciturn meadow farmer stopped me on my way to the spinner's cottage, and said, "He was a steady young fellow."
If I had replied by asking him to contribute a stated sum for the support of the destitute widow, he would have looked at me as if I were crazy, to think of making such a suggestion to him. According to his views of life, poor people were sent into the world to starve, and the rich in order that they might eat to their heart's content and fill their iron cooking-pots with gold.
The meadow farmer was accompanied by a peasant-prince from the valley on the other side of the mountains, where the succession falls to the minor, the youngest son inheriting the estate.
It was said that the only daughter of the meadow farmer had been determined on as the wife of this young peasant. He had inherited a considerable sum in securities, and now sought a wife. Love did not enter into the question; all that was required was to keep up the name and the honor of the peasant-court; and, while a noble life cannot result from such a union, it generally proves a respectable and contented marriage.
I remembered that there had been a rumor in the village that Marie, the daughter of the meadow farmer, loved Carl.
When I drew near to the house of the spinner, I saw Funk coming out, Lerz the baker following him. I think Funk must have seen me; otherwise there could have been no reason for his remarking to his companion in quite a loud voice, "What do you think of your beggarly Prussians now? This is their work--to kill the son of a poor widow. If he had been a prince, they would have gone into mourning, and for seven weeks would have eaten out of black bowls and with black spoons!"
It went hard with me to enter the widow's cottage, after hearing those words. The old woman, who had always been so quiet and contented, and who had never left her dwelling, unless it was to go earn her daily bread, was now quite urgent in her demands. She asked for money, so that she might go and witness the burial of her son, and know where they laid his body. She also wanted to go to the Prince, for whom her son had lost his life. She knew that she, a poor woman, had a better right to a good pension than the Captain's widow, who was a great lady.
When my wife came, the old woman said, "You are better off than I am. Your son still lives, but mine is dead. They told me that you once said your son was more than dead. But, tell me, what does it mean to be more than dead? Ah, you do not know. The Prussian sought out the best heart of them all. He knew what he was about. Of all the thousands who say 'mother,' there was no better child than my Carl. Your Ernst is also a good lad. They were born on the same day. Don't you remember? My husband was quite tipsy when he came home that evening. He was gloriously full, and so jolly! He must have known that he was soon to be the father of such a splendid boy.
"Oh, my poor Carl! You may hunt the land through, but you will never find so handsome a lad as my Carl. He did not get his good looks from me; but his father was just as good-looking as he--nay, almost more so.
"Ah, it will be a long while before you find so pretty a fellow as Carl--one who will sit down beside his mother of a Sunday afternoon and tell her merry jokes, so that her heart may be gladdened, although his own be sad.
"Yes, go and seek another such as he!
"Don't go away, Waldfried! There is no one left with whom I can talk. Or send Martella--to me she will do."
On our way home, my wife gently said, "His regiment was not once in battle."
This was the first intimation I had received of her careful reading of the newspapers. Ernst's regiment had not fired a single shot, and all our suffering had been to no purpose.
We sent Martella over to the spinner's cottage, where she remained all night.
On the following morning, Martella returned. She was quite joyful, and maintained that Ernst had been saved and would soon return to us.
She had arranged everything with the old spinner. The two of them would go to the Prince, and the spinner would say to him, "My son is dead! but give me the one who was born on the same day, and wipe out all that stands against him!" Or else the spinner would say, "My tears shall wash away all the charges that stand written against him on the slate."
It went hard to make Martella understand that this plan was nothing more than an idle dream.
The battle was over, and peace had been concluded.
Although Austria was separated from Germany, there was, as yet, no real Germany. While the high contracting parties were framing the chief clauses of their treaty, the Frenchman who was looking over their shoulders took the pen in his own hand and drew a black mark across the page, and called it "the line of the Main."
The Major came home, and the joy of Bertha and her children knew no bounds. The Major, however, seemed unable to shake off a deep fit of melancholy.
He was a strict disciplinarian. He never allowed himself to say aught against his superiors or their orders; but now, he could not keep down his indignation at the manner in which the war had been conducted. When a nation really goes to war it should be in greater earnest about its work.
There was much distrust, both as to the courage and the loyalty and firmness of the leaders. While the Major's feelings as a soldier had been outraged, there were many other thoughts which suggested themselves to him as a lover of his country, and in regard to which he maintained silence.
He told us that Annette had behaved with dignity and composure when she went to receive the body of her husband. But now it was evident that she had attempted too much; that she was unwell, and would be obliged until autumn to repair to the sea-side, where her mother-in-law would be with her.
When the Major remarked that he had heard it said that in this war even slight wounds might prove fatal, because every one was so filled with mortification, on account of this unholy strife, that the very idea itself would serve to aggravate even the slightest wound, my wife exclaimed, "Yes, it is indeed so. There are wounds which are made fatal by the thoughts of those who receive them."
We all felt that she was thinking of Ernst, and remained silent.
The Major did not mention Ernst's name, nor did he inquire whether we had heard from him.
He had heard of the death of Carl, and was just about to pay a visit to his mother, when Rothfuss came rushing into the room in breathless haste, and told us that Carl was down in the stable, and begged that we would go to his mother and gently break the news of his safe return to her.
We had Carl come up to us, and learned from him that he had been cut off from his companions during a reconnoissance, and taken prisoner, and had thus by mistake been entered in the list of the killed.
When he heard this, the Major inveighed furiously at the want of system that obtained everywhere.
I decided that I would go to his mother, and that Carl and the Major should follow me a little while later.
I went to the spinner's cottage. She sat at her spinning-wheel; and I could not help believing myself the witness of a miracle, for as soon as she saw me, the old woman called out, "Will he come soon?"
She then told me that she had awakened during the night--she was quite sure it was not a dream--and had heard the voice of her son saying quite distinctly, "Mother, I am not dead--I will soon be with you. I am coming--I am coming!" And she had heard his very footsteps.
"I went to the pastor's," she said, taking off one spindle and putting on a new one; "the pastor had given orders to have the church-bell tolled on account of Carl's death; but I will not allow it--my Carl is alive, and I do not want to hear the bells tolling for his death."
I told her that in time of war there was necessarily much confusion, and that I, too, believed that her son was still alive, and would return again. I was just about to say that I had already seen Carl, when he stepped out from behind the wood-pile, and called out, "Mother!"
The spinner remained seated, but threw her spindle to the far end of the room.
Carl fell on his knees before her and wept.
"You need not weep--I have done enough of it myself, already," said she. "But I knew it--you are a good child, and you would not be so cruel as to die before me. Get up and pick up my spindle. Have you eaten anything, Carl? You must be hungry."
When Carl told her that he did not wish for anything, she replied, "Indeed, I have nothing but cold boiled potatoes. Now, do tell me, how did it seem when you were dead? You surely thought of me at the last moment? Tell me, did you not last night at three o'clock, wherever you were, say to yourself, 'Mother, I am not dead: I shall soon be with you--I will come soon--I will come soon?"
Carl answered that he had really uttered those very words at the time mentioned.
"That is right," said the old woman.
She arose from her seat, took her son by the hand, and went on to say, "Now, come up into the village with me. Let us go with these gentlemen. Major, I thank you for the honor of your visit. I suppose I may go along with you?"
We returned homewards.
It was already known through the whole village, that the young man who had been lost and so sincerely deplored had returned. Friends poured forth from every doorway, while from the windows cries of "Welcome Carl!" were heard.
On our way we met Marie, carrying a bundle of clover on her head. She threw her bundle away and hurried towards Carl; but when she came up to him she suddenly stopped, as if frightened.
"Good-day, Marie. I am glad that you, too, have come to bid me welcome," said Carl.
He extended both his hands to her, and she took hold of them, but did not utter a word.
We walked on, and when I turned to look back, I saw Marie sitting on the bundle of clover, with her face buried in her hands.
Rothfuss was the jolliest in the party.
"Now one can see how untruthful the world is," he exclaimed. "Did not every one say how much he would give if only Carl were alive! He is here, now, and is alive again, and what do they give? Nothing. One ought not to do people the favor to die; anything in the world but death."
We reached the house. Carl's mother walked up to my wife and said, "Madame Waldfried, here he is--my son Carl. Just as he has come back to all that is good, so will Ernst surely return. They were born on the same day--do you remember? There was a great storm at the time; and the nurse came directly from your house to mine. And at that very moment the lightning struck the tree that stands behind my house and tore it to pieces; and then the nurse said, 'This boy will see something of war.'
"You did not believe in it, but it came to pass, nevertheless. Down in the valley there is a spring, and a mother's heart is like a spring, for it flows by day and night. Your Ernst--my Ernst--will return again."
No one dared reply, but with Ernst everything was different.
The old woman now begged that we would inform "the great lady," as she always called Annette, of Carl's return. The Major promised to do so; and when he and I were alone together, he mentioned Ernst's name for the first time, and informed me that the commander of his division had, in the presence of the entire corps of officers, expressed his great regret that his brother-in-law had deserted.
Ernst had brought pain and disgrace on us all; but there was still another trouble in store for us.
A letter reached us from Johanna, in which she informed us in short, hard sentences that her son Martin had died of the wound he had received; and that her husband, who had been an invalid for many months, could not long survive him. I told the Major of this, but kept the news from the rest of the family.
On the day before the Major left us, we had received a letter from Ludwig in America. He was delighted to know that the Diet had been dissolved, and thought that he now saw the dawning of a great era for our Fatherland. The Americans already spoke with great respect of Germany, and of the power of Prussia and its leaders.
There was a bitter tone in the remarks of the Major when he said, "Ah, yes; thus things seem to those who are far away, and get all their information from newspaper reports. If I only knew how I could turn my talents to use in the New World, I would ask for my discharge and emigrate to America."
This man, who had never known anything of discord or dissension, was now, like many others, torn by conflicting doubts.
The children had left; the house was quiet again, and winter approached.
Martella seemed filled with new life, and was glad that she could be alone with my wife again. When Annette wrote to us that she would spend the whole or a part of the winter in the village, Martella said, "That is well, too: she is so entertaining to mother."