CHAPTER IX.
We of the mountains had heard the cannonading; but how differently had it affected those of the neighborhood, whose homes and whose all were at stake. We could see the destruction that had been wrought on the houses, but not that which had wasted the nerves of the people. Wherever I went, I found every one feeling restless and homeless, like the swallows that flew about, settling here and there; but only for a moment, for their nests had been destroyed, along with the houses and towers and fortifications.
Every one I met had a puzzled look: the alarm and fear caused by the incredible disasters that had overwhelmed them, had dazed them, and they seemed hurt by friendly greetings--yes, even by offers of assistance.
My brother-in-law, the forester, a man who ordinarily bore himself well, seemed entirely broken down. He stared at me in silence as I entered his house, and scarcely answered my greeting with a slight nod.
My sister told me that, since the siege of Strasburg, he had suffered from asthma, and that he constantly repeated, "General Werder's shots have taken my breath away."
On looking at the pictures hanging on the wall, I could see plainly what these people would have to thrust aside. The pictures on the walls, as well as those that dwelt in their memory, were to be changed. In our every-day life, we soon forget what the ornaments on the wall are like. But if they are not in accord with the times, then we find out what was once ours, but has now ceased to belong to us. On my hinting that Germany would adopt the regained provinces with increased affection, my brother-in-law sprang up, rolling his eyes and striking the table with his fist, and swore that he would emigrate. My sister then said that an oath at such a time was worthless; but he answered in bitter scorn--he could speak nothing but French--"And if no one will accompany me--I cannot force the trees in the forest to go along--my dog, at least, will be my companion. What do you say, Fidele--you'll go with me? You won't take bread from a German; you will rather starve with me?" The dog barked and licked his master's hand.
I could see what a difficult task I had before me, but I did not give it up. In the village, in the houses, and before the court-house, wherever the people were gathered together, I spoke words of peace and encouragement to them. They would listen to me as if they were forced to do so; and once I heard a man behind me say, "The whole thing is a lie, white hairs and all; he is some young fellow in disguise." I seldom received a straightforward answer; the nearest approach to a reply was, "What are we to do?" "What are we to learn." The feeling at the bottom of all this was,--to-morrow the French will be back, and drive the Germans away. It is impossible to conquer the French.
I then visited my brother-in-law, the parson, who lived a few miles further on. He spoke of nothing but the excellent behavior of the soldiers that had been quartered on them. They went to church on Sundays and joined in the singing; and officers of high rank had been there, too. He seemed nervous, and did not dare to express his joy--either because he feared the maid-servant who was going in and out, or else because he disliked to lay bare his thoughts. It was only while walking in the woods that he unbosomed himself. I do not like to repeat what he related, as I preferred not to believe his story. He told me that the French government had received the assurance from the priesthood, that the South Germans would not take the field against France. I do not believe this, but it is the current opinion, and so I feel forced to repeat it.
He also said that the beggars from the Catholic villages of the vicinity had, for some time past, ceased asking for alms. They had walked around boldly in his village, selecting the houses they intended to occupy as soon as the Protestants had been exterminated.
Thus wickedly had religion been mixed up with this war.
"The thought of Germany," said the parson, "always seemed to me like a silent, yea, a criminal dream. Now I see it realized in broad daylight. We are like the prodigal son of Scripture, but the truant in Alsace is this time not in fault, and it is that which makes his return to his home so painful. I have often thought that the father of the prodigal must have offended against his son, although the Scriptures do not say so, otherwise he would not have been thus afflicted."
He was merely drawing a parallel, yet he made my heart beat with the thought of Ernst.
The father of the prodigal son is also at fault. What had I been guilty of?
When we returned from our walk, we were told that a French soldier, who had served his time, had called to see me; he had not given his name, and would return.
Who can he be? I must wait to find out. But I met a man in the village whom I had forgotten.
The advocate Offenheimer, Annette's brother, met me, and his first words were, "You are a great consolation to me. Come with me and give my son an escort."
I now perceived that his only son had fallen, and that the father desired him to be buried in the Jewish cemetery here.
As he divined my thoughts, he said, "It is true, I could not allow them to bury my son out there with the others; but it is, perhaps, well if there is some sign here of our having fairly and joyfully taken our part in the fight. Perhaps it will have a mollifying effect upon our new countrymen of the Jewish faith, who were particularly contumacious."
I was astounded to find the man so placid. But, as if guessing my thoughts, he said he had no more strength for complaints and tears, and that a fact must at last be accepted.
I thought of the handsome, spirited lad, that had one time come to me with Wolfgang. But I greatly desired to find a favorable opportunity for addressing the Jewish inhabitants of the village. They had an especial fear of the Germans, and were proud of French equality.
The advocate's son was buried with all the ceremonies of his church. Two slightly wounded South German officers, who were lying in the village, acted as the escort. They recognized in me the Colonel's father-in-law, and had much to tell me in his praise.
"He shows that we are not inferior to the Prussians." Such appeared to be the highest compliment they could bestow upon him.
Upon our return from the cemetery, to which the Jews here in Alsace give the peculiar name of the "good place,"[6] the advocate leaned upon my arm, and, as I sat next to him in the little room, after quietly meditating for a long while, he exclaimed, "In my youth I had willingly died for the true Fatherland; now, my son has been permitted to die for it."
For years had I been in constant intercourse with this man; now, in his grief and in the hour of civil commotion, I first learned to know him; and to learn to know an upright man is to learn to love him.
I have, like suffering Odysseus, participated in the experiences of many men; Rautenkron, the Colonel, and Arven have revealed to me their life-secrets. Now I was to hear still another's: the history of a step-child in his step-fatherland, who still longed for affection, for the closest friendship, and who, though repulsed and oppressed by the laws and his fellow-men, had not yet lost his love for them.
As Offenheimer recounted the grievances he had suffered in the schools, and the incivilities and insults of later years, it seemed to me that I should ask his forgiveness for all this suffering and uncharitableness, of which, because of what we had done to him, and of what our ancestors had done to his, we were to-day guilty. Those who style themselves believers in the religion of love, would be much astonished at the strength of this man's affections, who, though repulsed and scorned; still preserved them pure. We live a whole human life and know nothing of the inward emotions of many of our contemporaries. Offenheimer spoke with great severity concerning the attempt to obtain recognition by means of extravagant display, that caused many Jews to appear unpatriotic and presumptuous. He explained this, indeed, as arising from the necessity, imposed by the prejudice against his race, of proving its claim to respectability, and was frank enough to refer to the early conduct of his sister as an example.
Offenheimer then told me how happy it had made him to find his son growing up in comparative ignorance of such persecutions--he had thus developed naturally. He smiled sadly, as he added that he, though he had grown physically larger and more active, had acquired a lightness of heart which the man who is obliged to win his freedom before enjoying it, never acquires.
"I do not mourn for my son," were his words: "he had reached the most beautiful period of life, and it is all the same, whether a man lives seventeen years or seventy. No man liveth to himself, and no one dieth to himself, says the apostle; and that is true. I understand it to be true in another sense as well. Each of us dies only to his connections and his posterity."
It was a novelty to me to hear Holy Writ referred to as simply the teachings of wisdom. I have since then often found educated Israelites are not so much Jews, as simply not Christians.
Offenheimer thanked me with great tenderness for the wonders that we had accomplished with Annette. She had been proud and selfish; now she had become humble, and lived for others.
As I sat with him, the Rabbi of the place came and expressed his thanks for the generous subscription that had been made in memory of the fallen.
One word, which the priest then uttered, went straight to my heart. He said the bereaved father would find consolation; for the Talmud declared that the patriarch Jacob could not suppress his sufferings and his tears for his lost son Joseph, because he felt within himself that his son still lived. Grief for one who is dead vanishes when the corpse becomes clay; for a living lost one, the grief endures.
Oh! my lost son Ernst!
Upon my return home, I found, awaiting me in the village, a man in a blue blouse, with a short pipe in his mouth, and wearing his cap awry. He approached me with a military salute, and said, "Yes, it is you."
"Who am I?"
"His father."
"Whose father?"
"Our sergeant's, Ernst Tännling."
"That is not my name."
"Of course! But he has confided to me--he took me, indeed, for a German--that his name was Waldfried. Do you remember that I met you in Paris during the World's Exposition. Your son deserted in 1866, and has a bride. Have I the correct signs now?"
Alas! he had them, and again I heard that Ernst had entered the service in Algiers, and now, probably, was in the onward movement against Germany.
The veteran allowed me no time for reflection. He confided to me, with great urgency and secrecy, that he could be of great service. He knew that I had great influence, and wanted me to conduct him to some officer of high rank; he could be of great service, but must receive liberal pay.
I had learned much in life, but for the first time there stood before me a man who offered me his services as a spy. He had seized my hand, and it seemed as if his touch had soiled it.
I sought further intelligence from him concerning Ernst, but he knew nothing more. I took him with me and handed him over to an officer that lay here. I considered it to be my duty not to discard the dirty, but perhaps useful, tool.
With thoughts of Ernst in my breast, with the consciousness that my only son was in arms against the Fatherland, I was not in the mood to unburden my heart to others; and besides, it was evidently too early. Now, since force yet speaks, the good-will of the oppressed cannot be won.
I turned back to my sister's, and was much delighted to meet Hartriegel, the so-called forest professor, who had been sent by the administration to inspect the forests.