CHAPTER VIII.
"Pincher is here again; he could not find him," said Martella one morning. Her dog had returned during the night.
At noon, Joseph returned from Alsace. He had not succeeded in finding Ernst, who had remained at my sister's house but one day, and had seemed excited and troubled while there.
He had understood that Ernst had met some one at the railway station, as if by appointment.
Joseph, who was always so cool and collected, seemed remarkably nervous and excited.
I thought that he had perhaps seen Ernst after all, and was not telling us all that he knew; but he assured me, in a somewhat confused manner, that he had concealed nothing. He told me that he was out of sorts, simply because of the triumphant and malicious airs that the Alsatians had displayed. Business friends of his, among whom there was a deputy who seemed to be well posted, insisted upon it as a fact that the Prussian statesman had offered the French Emperor a considerable portion, if not all, of the left bank of the Rhine, on condition that the Emperor would not prevent him from using his own pleasure towards Germany, if conquered.
The left bank of the Rhine! How often I, too, while in Alsace had heard it said that France must take possession of this left bank, as a matter of course; for the Frenchmen thought themselves the lords of creation, with whom it was only necessary to express a wish in order to have it gratified.
Would I yet live to see the ruin of my Fatherland? At that very moment, Germans were battling against Germans, in order that the aims of France might be served.
I asked Joseph and Richard whether they could conceive of such a thing as a German selling and betraying his Fatherland.
We had no assurance of this, and thought it best to encourage each other's faith in humanity.
The failure of Joseph's mission had only served to arouse my own deep sorrow anew.
My son lost! When night came, I could not make up my mind to retire. For a long while, I sat gazing at the starry heavens, and the dark forest-covered mountains. Where is he now? Can it be possible that he is not thinking of us? He is in danger, and may work his own ruin. How gladly would I fly to his help, if I only knew how!
At last one goes to his couch, thinking: "To-morrow something definite must be done." But the morning comes, and the deed is left undone. Thou hast waited this long, and shalt wait still longer. And thus the days pass by, while naught is accomplished. When I lay awake at nights, thinking of my son, I felt as if with him; and when, by chance, other thoughts arose in my mind, the one great grief would thrust them aside. It seemed as if my soul had for a time left the body and had now returned to it again.
The fear of sleeplessness is almost worse than the reality; but one falls asleep at last without knowing how, and so it shall some day be with our final sleep.
And, often, when the tired body had fallen asleep, the troubled soul would awaken it again.
At these moments I would say to myself, "Life is a solemn charge." It went hard with me to renounce perfect happiness.
One morning, when I was just about to go out into the fields, Martella came running towards me. She was almost out of breath, and told me that the captain's wife was over in the garden of the school-master's wife, and had fainted. She had received a letter with bad news. Her husband had been shot in the forehead, and was dead.
My wife hurried on ahead of me, and stepped as quickly as in the days of her youth.
When I reached the garden gate, Annette was already sitting on a bench. She had her arms around Gustava's neck, and had buried her face in my wife's bosom.
She raised her head and said, "The flowers still bloom." Then she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.
My wife placed her hand on Annette's head, and said, "Weep on. You have a right to lament. Let them not dare come and say, 'Conquer your pain, for hundreds suffer just as you do.' Were there thousands to suffer this same grief, every one must suffer it for himself, and through life carry a wounded heart. You are very, very unhappy. You were life and joy itself: you must now know what it is to be sad. It is a hard lesson, and although I bear my burden, that will not lighten yours. That you must bear for yourself, as none besides you can."
Annette raised her head, and when she saw me, extended her hand, saying at the same time:
"You knew him well; but no one knew him as I did. He was a hero, with a soul as pure as a child's. Can it be? Can it be possible that he lives no more? Can a mere bullet put in end to so much beauty, so much happiness? Surely it cannot be! Why should it have been he? Why should this stroke fall on me? Forgive me, Bertha, you were stronger and more determined than I. And how your husband will mourn him! Victor, do you know what has happened? Uncle Hugo is dead! And in the very hour of his death I may have been laughing. Alas, alas! Forgive me for making you all so sad. I cannot help myself."
We had not yet left the garden, when the kreis-director entered. He was accompanied by a tall gentleman who was a stranger to us.
"Max, you here!" exclaimed Annette. "While I was happy, you did not come to me, but now you do come. How kind!"
She threw her arms around his neck, and I then learned that he was her brother.
We retired, leaving them together.
I had known that Annette was an orphan. I now learned that her brother, who was a lawyer of renown, had given up all intercourse with his sister, because of her having embraced Christianity. He had wished her to remain true to the faith of her ancestors, and to contract only a civil marriage. For her husband's sake, however, she had embraced the Catholic religion. This was the first intimation I had of her being a Catholic.
A sudden shower forced us to withdraw into the house.
It is depressing to think that while we were absorbed by the deepest despair, a petty annoyance could cause us to flee. We entered the school-room.
"There it is!" exclaimed Annette, pointing to the blackboard; "there it stands!"
On the blackboard were the words, "War, Victory, Fatherland, Germany," as a writing-copy for the children.
"Children are taught to write it," said Annette, "but where is it? All life is a blackboard, and on it are written the words, 'Death, Grief, Tears.'"
The old spinner entered. She walked up to Annette, took her by the hand, and uttered a few words which none of us could understand.
Annette called upon us all to bear witness, that from that very hour she would give the spinner a considerable annuity in case her son should lose his life; but that, even if he were to return in safety, she would nevertheless make her a yearly allowance.
Her brother objected that at such a time it were wrong to make a vow. She could, from year to year, give the old woman as much as she thought proper; but that she ought not, at this moment, to make a promise which would be irrevocable, and for life.
We all looked at him with surprise.
He added that he, too would be happy to contribute a generous sum to the annuity.
Annette returned to her dwelling, in order to prepare for her departure. Her orders were, that her rooms should remain in the same condition as she left them, as it was her intention to return.
"Your master is dead," she said to the brown spaniel; "your eye tells me that you understand my words. You must remain here; I shall return again. He loved you, too; but rest quiet: we can neither of us die yet. You are well off--you can neither wish for death for yourself, nor seek it: you cannot think of these things. Yes, you are well off."
I can hardly find room to mention all the strange images that were called up by Annette's words. Her richly endowed and many-sided mind was in unwonted commotion.
The shower had passed away; the grass and the trees were radiant with the sunlight, and the lines of the opposite hills were clear and distinct.
Annette stood at her window gazing into the distance, while she uttered the words:
"While the earth decks itself with verdure and brings forth new life, it receives the dead. Let no one dare come to me again and say that he understands the world and life!
"Where is the professor?"
My wife was the only one who could quiet Annette, and she said, "If I could only go with you!"
"You will be with me in spirit, I am sure," replied Annette.
She extended her hand to my wife, saying, "I can assure you of this: I will so conduct myself, that you could at any moment say to me, 'This is right.'--I have been wild and wayward; I am so no longer; hereafter, I will be strong and gentle."
The carriage drove up and we accompanied Annette down the hill as far as the saw-mill.
There was a rainbow over our heads; it reached from our mountains to the Vosges.
Annette held a handkerchief to her eyes. My wife and Bertha were walking on either side of her.
The only time I heard her speak was when she said to Bertha:
"Your husband has lost his best comrade. The Major will live; there shall yet be some happy ones on earth. I shall write you from the camp."
Rothfuss was ploughing the potato field. He was walking with his back towards us.
Annette called to him. He came out into the road and inquired what was the matter.
"My husband is dead. I am going to bring him and lay him in the earth which you are now ploughing," said Annette in a firm voice.
Rothfuss extended his hand to her. He seemed unable to utter a word, and was excitedly swinging his cap about with his left hand.
At last, in a loud voice, and stopping after every word, he exclaimed:
"I would--rather--not--be--King--or Emperor--than have--that--rest--on me."
He returned to the field and continued his work.
When we reached the valley, Annette said, "I shall not say 'good by;' I shall need all my strength for the other sad affair."
She quickly stepped into the carriage; her brother, Rontheim, and the daughter of the latter following her.
The carriage rolled away.
On our way back to the house, my wife was several times obliged to sit down by the roadside. The sad events of this day had deeply affected her.
We were seated under an apple-tree, when my wife, taking me by the hand, said, "Yes, Henry, how full of blossoms that tree once was; but May-bugs and caterpillars and frost and hail have destroyed it. And thus it is with him, too."
She was not as demonstrative as I was; she could bear her sorrow silently; but the thought of Ernst did not leave her for a moment.
When we got back to the house she fell asleep in the armchair, and did not awaken until sunset, when Richard, whom we had not seen all day, returned.
He admitted that he had heard of Annette's bereavement, but had kept out in the woods to be out of the way, as he thought there were enough sympathizers without him, and that he could not have been of any service.
My wife looked at him with surprise.
Richard told us that during the rain-storm, which had been quite heavy in the woods, he had been with Rautenkron.
The gloomy man had spoken of Ernst with great interest, and had incidentally inquired in regard to Martella. He was quite enraged that he, who never read a newspaper and did not want to have anything to do with the world, was obliged to know of this war, as one of his assistants and a forest laborer had been conscripted. He felt quite convinced, too, that Prussia would be victorious.
For a long while there was no news from the seat of war, except reports of marching and countermarching.
After that, there came a letter from the Major, who lamented the death of the Captain, and wrote in terms of admiration of the noble and composed bearing of Annette.
Richard, who, during Annette's presence, had, as far as possible, affected solitude, was now again with us almost constantly.
He spoke quite harshly of Annette, and said that she was always expressing a desire for repose and a quiet life, while at the same time she was constantly disturbing every one. She would allow no one to live in his own thoughts; her only desire was, that the thoughts and feelings of others should be the reflection of her evanescent emotions.
He thought it likely, however, that she might emerge from the refining fire of a great grief, purer and firmer than she had ever been.
"I know now," said my wife to me one evening, "why Richard went out into the woods. It was well of him."
I did not understand it, and she, in order to tease me, refused to explain. She seemed quite pleased with her secret, and I was only too happy to see her smile once again.