Martha was now restored, and a half hour after our arrival we were on our way to the town-hall. Her sister, who was engaged in cutting out garments, came towards us, gave Martha her hand, and repressed the rising tears. She spoke softly to Martha: she evidently begged her not to give vent to her grief before those who were present. Martha accompanied her quietly to the table, and helped to spread out the linen.
The daughter of Councillor Reckingen, who was just budding into womanhood, and who had hitherto been a stubborn, proud girl, lording it over every one, sat among the workers and was in entire harmony with them, while her father had cast aside his grief and joined his comrades in the field. She was placed specially in Christiane's charge.
The children, who were making lint in the basement, were singing the song of "The Good Comrade"--in the hall upstairs everything was still. Orders were given quietly, and the women and maidens passed silently to and fro. It seemed as if some one was lying dead in the adjoining room; but, above all this affliction and sorrow, there was a spirit which had never before shown itself among those present. All class distinctions had ceased, for all were united in their sympathy for their fellow-men.
Why does this spirit of friendship, this unanimity, appear only in times of trouble and sorrow; why not in every-day life?
I felt sure that this union of hearts would remain with us and beautify our lives, and this thought was strengthened by the remark of the lady at whose side I sat, who said, "You see,--this activity is the salvation of many, as you can perceive in your grand-daughter Christiane. She is untiring, and the dissatisfied air her face used to wear is gone. We are now all united. It will not last; but hereafter the thought that there once was a time when the children of the poorer and of the upper classes did not ask 'Who are you, after all?' will greatly benefit us."
I stayed in the city. The next evening, just as it was growing dark, the councillor arrived with his son's body. The whole town, young and old, was collected at the railway station. The children carried wreaths and flowers, the bells were ringing, and thus was the body taken from the station to the churchyard. After a hymn was sung, the clergyman delivered his address. What could he say? He explained in few words that this was not an ordinary funeral, but that we were now parts of one great whole, even in death.
The father, mother, and sisters cast the first clods of earth on the young hero's coffin; the grave was then filled in and covered with flowers.
We had buried the first one who had died for the union and independence of our Fatherland. I was staying with the family which had thus lost its only son. They sat at home in silence; indeed, what could be said?
The parson had added a text from the Bible, and had made some earnest remarks thereon; yet I thought, and am sure that these stricken ones thought as I did, that all political feeling is foreign to that holy book. Patient endurance here, and the hope of better things beyond, suit a nation that is kept in subjection, but not one that is gladly battling and sacrificing itself for its existence. What an entirely different comprehension the Greeks had of exertion carried to its utmost limit. I remembered how, while in prison, the speech of Pericles, delivered at the funeral rites in Athens, had illumined and elevated my soul; and I could almost see the words, for they seemed to have been hewn out of stone, like a finely chiselled piece of sculpture. I found the book in the house, and read the address to the parents and children. I had to stop frequently, for sometimes the father and sometimes the mother would exclaim: "That is intended for us, for to-day."
"No enemy has ever seen our entire forces," says Pericles, and so say we.