We found the city of Berlin in the height of jubilation. Every counter-jumper and every street-loafer bore on his countenance a certain consciousness of victory. “We have given the fellows there a good licking.” That appears anyhow to be a very elevating feeling, and one which may be spread over the whole population. Still, in the families which we visited, we found many people deeply cast down, those, that is to say, who had one never to be forgotten lying dead on the German or Bohemian battlefields. For my own part, I feared most the meeting with Aunt Cornelia again. I knew that her handsome son Godfrey was her idol, her all, and I could judge of the pang which the poor bereaved mother must now be experiencing. I had only to fancy to myself that my Rudolf, if I had brought him up to manhood—no, that thought I absolutely refused to think out.
Our visit was announced. With a beating heart I entered Fr. v. Tessow’s house. Even in the ante-chamber, the mourning which reigned in the house was perceptible. The footman who opened the door for us wore a black livery; in the great reception-room, the chairs of which were covered over with chair covers, there was no fire lighted; and the mirrors and pictures on the walls were all covered with crape. From hence, the door into Aunt Cornelia’s bedroom was opened for us, and she received us there. It was a very large room, divided into two by a curtain, behind which the bed stood; and it served Aunt Cornelia now as her regular reception-room. She no longer quitted the house at all, except every Sunday to go to the cathedral, and very seldom her room, except for one hour every day, which she spent in what had been Godfrey’s study. In this everything was left standing or lying as he had left it on the day of his departure. She took us into it, in the course of our visit, and made us read a letter, which he had laid on his portfolio.
“My own dear Mother,—I know well that you will come here after my departure, and then you will find this letter. My personal departure is over. So much the more will it please and surprise you to find one more line, to hear one more last word from me, and indeed a joyful, hopeful one. Be of good cheer. I shall come back again. Two hearts, that hang together so entirely as ours do, fate will not tear asunder. I have settled that I am now going to serve through a fortunate campaign, gain stars and crosses, and then make you a grandmother six times over. I kiss your hand, I kiss your dear soft forehead, O you most adored of all little mothers.”
“Your Godfrey.”
When we went into Aunt Cornelia’s room, she was not alone. A gentleman in a long black coat, recognisable at the first glance as a clergyman, was sitting opposite to her.
She got up and came to meet us. The clergyman rose at the same time from his seat, but remained standing in the background.
What I expected occurred. When I embraced the old lady both of us, she and I, broke out into loud sobs. Frederick also did not remain dry-eyed as he pressed the mourner to his heart. In this first minute no word at all was spoken. All that one can say at such a moment, at one’s first meeting after a severe misfortune, is sufficiently expressed by tears.
She led us back to the place where they were sitting, and pointed us to chairs that stood there. Then, after drying her eyes, she made the introduction.
“My nephew, Colonel Baron Tilling—Herr Mölser, head military chaplain and consistorial councillor.”
Silent bows were exchanged.