"Good-morning, Gustava," said I, opening my eyes. It was the anniversary of our wedding-day, and every year while we were together, these were the first accents from her lips and mine--in joy and in sorrow, always the same.
And this very morning, when awakening, I heard her quite distinctly in my dream saying, "Good-morning, Henry." But I am alone. She has been snatched away from me.
On this day our first-born returns from the new world. I am writing these words in the early dawn, as it will be a long while before I again have a chance quietly to set down my recollections. I will now prepare myself to go forth and meet my son.
June, 1870.
Ludwig and Richard have gone to the capital, and I have at last quiet and time to note down his arrival and his presence with us.
I had just finished writing the above lines, on the twenty-eighth of May, when I heard Rothfuss drawing the chaise up from the barn to the front of the house. He then placed the jack-screw under the frame and took off one wheel after the other and greased the axles, singing and whistling while at his work.
He saw me seated at the window, and called out in a joyful voice:
"One waits ever so long for the Kirchweih,[4] but it comes at last. Martella is up already, and has been fixing up the beehives with red ribbons; the bees, too, are to know that joy comes to this house to-day. While busy at her work, she called out Ernst's name, as if she could drag him here that way. But to-day we must not let ourselves remember that any one is missing."
There it was again. No cup of joy without its drop of gall.
But the mind has great power, and one can force himself to forget things.