You, my child, rested beside a mother's heart during the battles; you slept during the triumphant march, and now, around you, great words and thoughts wander forth into the world. When, at some future time, you shall learn how your father fought and suffered for home and country, may it sound to you like a fable from the old, dark days, that, long ago, we had to fight the monsters who despised the people. Stand firm and pure in the new life of nations, amongst whom the battle will only be for the possession of the noblest treasures of the intellectual world.
AT HOME, July 22.
I did not find my comrade Rothfuss. He died full of happiness and peace. On the last morning, he said to Johanna: "The German Empire is not the right thing after all. One must die in it, just as before. Our Emperor should order a different state of things, but never mind. 'He who is wet to the skin, need not dread the rain.' If I could only lie down in my grave for my master, as I once had myself locked up for Ludwig."
My grandson the vicar, who is chaplain at the neighboring fortress, was with him in his last hours.
Ludwig has taken the family estate for his son Wolfgang; not, as is customary, at the family valuation, but at its full market value.
I shall resign my post.
So far, the memoirs up to the evening before the anniversary of Gustava's death. They were written in the afternoon, with a firm hand. After that, he walked out into the forest. Carl, who was in the fields, saw him drinking from the Gustava fountain, and rejoiced to see the master walking so sturdily.
He was found in the woods he had planted, beneath a white pine tree, stretched out in death. His face was toward the earth, and rested on the wild thyme.
The second tablet of the grave-stone bears the following inscription: