CHAPTER V.
When Edward Levi, the iron merchant, came to out village, he cautiously went, first of all, to my nephew Joseph; he then sent for me, and handed me a letter from Ernst. It was written in a firm hand, and read as follows:
"To my parents I say farewell. I leave my so-called Fatherland forever.
"It grieves me to know that I must grieve you, but I cannot help it.
"If thousands had done what I did, it would have been praised as a noble deed. Must we sacrifice ourselves to this degenerate Fatherland?
"I cannot murder my compatriots, nor do I care to allow them to murder me.
"Take care of Martella for my sake. I will write to her myself.
"Your Lost Son."
"You must pluck such a child from your heart--you must forget him entirely."
These were Joseph's words after he had read the letter. Many others spoke just as he did. But he who has ever heard the word "father" from the lips of his child, knows that this is impossible. From that time I always said to myself, "No day without sorrow." Do you know what it means never to have a pure, bright, happy day?--"no day without sorrow?" And yet, I admit it, I was not without hope. I felt a quiet assurance that Ernst would be all right in the end. How it was to be brought about, I did not know; but I felt that the seeds of indestructible virtue and purity were yet lurking amidst this mass of ruin and rottenness. There might yet be a turn in the tide of affairs, that would draw the current of my son's life into the proper channel. My wife mentioned his name only once after that. But her love for the child was stronger and firmer than her resolution.
She took pains to be about and to keep up an interest in all that was going on: but, from the moment that she was shocked by the news of Ernst's desertion, it was evident that it cost her an effort to control her will.
She seemed constantly tired. She rarely went out--hardly ever as far as the garden, where she would walk but a short distance before sitting down on a bench. She would often sit in an absent manner, gazing into vacancy, and when addressed would seem as if hurriedly collecting her thoughts.
Martella had also received a letter. It contained a ring; but she would not show any one, not even my wife, what Ernst had written. Edward Levi, the iron merchant, acted with great good sense and delicacy. He attempted neither to explain things nor to console us; but gave us the simple account of how the affair had happened. If it had not related to my own son, and had not been so full of sadness, Ernst's ingenuity in the matter would even have afforded us amusement.
It was late in the evening when he arrived at the town in which Levi resided. He went to the police-office at once, and ordered a forester whom he found there to produce Edward Levi, who arrived shortly afterward, and to whom Ernst used these words:
"You have been a soldier and can be trusted. I shall confide my secret to you."
He then informed him, with an air of great secrecy, that he had been ordered to enter the Prussian lines as a spy, and requested him to provide him at once with some French money and the dress of a Jewish cattle-dealer; and also to bring to him a cattle-dealer provided with a correct passport.
After all this had been successfully accomplished, Ernst wrote the two letters and handed them to Levi, with instructions not to deliver them until three days had elapsed.
He started off with his companion. On the way, he asked him to show him his passport: it was handed to him but not returned. He carefully instructed the cattle-dealer to address him by the name of Rothfuss.
"Why, that is the name of the old servant that your father thinks so much of!"
"That is the very reason I have chosen it; you will have no difficulty in remembering it. What is my name?
"The same as the servant's."
"No--but what is it?"
"Rothfuss. Why, every child knows the name. Might I inquire--"
"No; you need ask no questions."
They journeyed on together as far as Kehl, where Ernst suddenly disappeared. The drover waited all day, in the vain hope of seeing him again, and at last returned home.
Ernst had in all likelihood gone to my sister, who lives in the Hagenau forest, or to my brother-in-law, the director of the water-works on the Upper Rhine. Before leaving, he handed a bag of money that belonged to the state to Edward Levi, for safe-keeping.
Joseph, who was always ready to assist others, at once offered to journey after Ernst, in the hope of overtaking him and consulting with him as to his future.
I had instructed Rothfuss to make up a package of the clothes that Ernst had left behind him, and I was at Joseph's house when he brought the bundle there.
Martella wanted to accompany Joseph; but, finding that he would not consent, she turned around to her dog, and said: "Pincher, go with Joseph and hunt your master!"
The dog looked up at her, as if knowing what she said, and then ran after Joseph.
While I was yet with Joseph, a copy of our newspaper came to hand; it had been sent to me marked.
The marked passages read as follows:
"Father Noah, the Prussian lickspittle"--I recognized Funk by these very words--"has allowed a dove to desert from his ark.
"We cannot but regard the rumor that the father had urged his son to take this step, because of his own aversion to fighting against the beloved Prussians, as a malicious invention.
"We do not believe the party of these beggarly Prussians, or this weak-minded old gray-beard, endowed with the requisite firmness.
"But the noble Caffre's pride in his virtue must have received a fearful blow."
I must admit that this low personal attack gave me much pain. I was, however, more grieved to think that party hatred could induce men to indulge in such abuse.
Joseph remarked, "One should indeed always have an enemy, in order to find out what criticism and explanation our deeds may be subjected to."
Joseph was a burgomaster. The game-keeper came to report to him.
My very heart trembled with fear, and I felt ashamed of myself in the presence of the game-keeper.
He had the description and order of arrest for my son in his pocket.
One does not find how far and how deep honor has spread its roots, until it is lost.
Unrest, the most hateful demon in the world, had been conjured up in our house.
Now that our pride was broken, we at last noticed how proud we had been.
One day, when walking through the village, I met the perjured baker, Lerz of Hollerberg. He extended his hand to me in a friendly manner. Did he regard me as one of his equals? I withdrew my hand.
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and went on his way.
The first neighbor who visited me was Baron Arven, who lives about a mile and a half from our house.
I believe I have not yet referred to this man. His dignified and quiet demeanor betokened a really brave and noble character. He was just what he seemed to be--free from all pretence or deceit.
I must add a few words in regard to his family. Following the bent of most of the dwellers in our part of the country, he had gone down the Danube and had entered the Austrian army. He afterward left the service and returned to the family estate, bringing with him a wife who was a native of Bohemia, and who held but little intercourse with the neighborhood. Her only familiar companions were the clergy.
The Bishop had stopped there on two occasions while making his pastoral journeys.
She led a life of seclusion in the castle, or rather the convent; for the estate on which they lived had, at one time, belonged to a religious order.
The Baron had two sons, splendid fellows, who were serving in the cavalry. He is a member of our upper chamber. He is a man of but few words, but always votes with the moderate liberals.
He has no respect for the people; their coarse morals and manners are repugnant to him. He does not deny that mankind in general have equal rights; but, as individuals, he would only accord them such consideration as their education, their means, or their social position would entitle them to. In this respect he is a thorough aristocrat.
The farmers speak of him with love and veneration, although he is never friendly towards them. He is very active as the President of our Agricultural Association. He has the finest cattle and the best machines, and his special hobby is to stock the many woodland streams and lakes of our vicinity with fish.
He is passionately fond of the chase and of fishing, and possesses the art of getting through with his day in the most approved and knightly manner. Rautenkron acts as his forest-keeper.
That very day, the Baron came riding along, followed by his two fine, large dogs. He alighted at Joseph's house and saluted Annette, with whom he had become acquainted at the capital, for he spent several months there with his family every winter. The family of Von Arven owned an old mansion in the city.
He came up to me, offered me his hand in silence, and seated himself.
I could not help thinking of some words from the Book of Job, that had always so deeply affected me: "And none spake a word unto him, for they saw that his grief was very great."
"My dear neighbor," he at last said, "I see that you, too, have been highly assessed in the impost of misfortune that every one of us must pay. I shall spare you any words of attempted consolation, and only add that there are thousands who would like to do just as your son has done."
And then, in his calm and collected tone, he spoke of this horrid war, in which Germans were fighting against each other. Napoleon's darling hope was that Austria and Prussia might mutually weaken each other, so that he might be the master and the arbiter of peace, and could then dictate his own terms. Arven had at one time been an Austrian officer, and was naturally not partial to Prussia. He had an inborn aversion to Northern harshness; but with his knowledge of the organization of the Austrian armies, he felt free to say that Prussia would be victorious. Although both of his sons were in our army, he said this with great calmness.
The Baron's presence exerted a gentle, soothing influence on our household. When I told my wife that he had expressed a wish to speak with her, she came into the room; and when the two were conversing with each other, it was like a beautiful song of mourning.
The Baron's presence always produced a subdued tone, an atmosphere of quiet refinement--an influence like a subtile, pleasing perfume lingered in the room long after he had taken his departure.
And now, when he was conversing with my wife, she gave utterance to thoughts that otherwise we might never have become acquainted with. When conversing with strangers, she revealed far more of her pure and elevated views of the world than when she was with us alone.
Shortly after the Baron's departure, we were visited by Counsellor Reckingen, who came over from the city to see us. He usually lived in strict seclusion from the world. While sailing on Lake Constance, he had lost his young wife. He had plunged in after her, and had succeeded in reaching the bank with her, only to find that life had fled. Since that time, he had lived in solitude, devoting himself to the education of the little daughter who was left to him.
Under these circumstances, I could not but appreciate his kindness in paying me this visit.
He seemed to have become quite unused to conversation. He said but little, and soon went out into the garden in front of our house, in order to plant some rose-slips that he had brought with him.
I was greatly gratified by the visit of a deputation of my constituents. It consisted of three esteemed farmer-burgomasters of the neighborhood. They made no allusion to the grief which had befallen me; our conversation referred only to the war; and when Martella brought in wine, they looked at the child with curious eyes.