CONTENTS
[I. Elsè's Story.]
[II. Extracts from Friedrich's Chronicle.]
[III. Elsè's Chronicle.]
[IV. Extracts from Friedrich's Chronicle.]
[V. Elsè's Chronicle.]
[VI. Friedrich's Story.]
[VII. Elsè's Story.]
[VIII. Fritz's Story.]
[IX. Elsè's Story.]
[X. Fritz's Story.]
[XI. Eva's Story.]
[XII. Elsè's Story.]
[XIII. Eva's Story.]
[XIV. Elsè's Story.]
[XV. Fritz's Story.]
[XVI. Elsè's Story.]
[XVII. Eva's Story.]
[XVIII. Thekla's Story.]
[XIX. Fritz's Story.]
[XX. Thekla's Story.]
[XXI. Eva's Story.]
[XXII. Elsè's Story.]
[XXIII. Atlantis' Story.]
[XXIV. Eva's Story.]
[XXV. Thekla's Story.]
[XXVI. Fritz's Story.]
[XXVII. Eva's Story.]
[XXVIII. Elsè's Story.]
[XXIX. Eva's Story.]
[XXX. Elsè's Story.]
[XXXI. Thekla's Story.]
[XXXII. Elsè's Story.]
[XXXIII. Thekla's Story.]
[XXXIV. The Mother's Story.]
[XXXV. Eva's Agnes's Story.]
[XXXVI. Thekla's Story.]
[XXXVII. Fritz's Story.]
[XXXVIII. Elsè's Story.]
I.
Elsè's Story.
Friedrich wishes me to write a chronicle of my life. Friedrich is my eldest brother. I am sixteen, and he is seventeen, and I have always been in the habit of doing what he wishes; and therefore, although it seems to me a very strange idea, I do so now. It is easy for Friedrich to write a chronicle, or anything else, because he has thoughts. But I have so few thoughts, I can only write what I see and hear about people and things. And that is certainly very little to write about, because everything goes on so much the same always with us. The people around me are the same I have known since I was a baby, and the things have changed very little; except that the people are more, because there are so many little children in our home now, and the things seem to me to become less, because my father does not grow richer: and there are more to clothe and feed. However, since Fritz wishes it, I will try; especially as ink and paper are the two things which are plentiful among us, because my father is a printer.
Fritz and I have never been separated all our lives until now. Yesterday he went to the University at Erfurt. It was when I was crying at the thought of parting with him that he told me his plan about the chronicle. He is to write one, and I another. He said it would be a help to him, as our twilight talk has been—when always, ever since I can remember, we two have crept away in summer into the garden, under the great pear-tree, and in winter into the deep window of the lumber-room inside my father's printing-room, where the bales of paper are kept, and old books are piled up, among which we used to make ourselves a seat.
It may be a help and comfort to Fritz, but I do not see how it ever can be any to me. He had all the thoughts, and he will have them still. But I—what shall I have for his voice and his dear face, but cold, blank paper, and no thoughts at all! Besides, I am so very busy, being the eldest; and the mother is far from strong, and the father so often wants me to help him at his types, or to read to him while he sets them. However, Fritz wishes it, and I shall do it. I wonder what his chronicle will be like!
But where am I to begin? What is a chronicle? Two of the books in the Bible are called "Chronicles" in Latin—at least Fritz says that is what the other long word[1] means—and the first book begins with "Adam," I know, because I read it one day to my father for his printing. But Fritz certainly cannot mean me to begin so far back as that. Of course I could not remember. I think I had better begin with the oldest person I know, because she is the furthest on the way back to Adam; and that is our grandmother Von Schönberg. She is very old—more than sixty—but her form is so erect, and her dark eyes so piercing, that sometimes she looks almost younger than her daughter, our precious mother, who is often bowed down with ill-health and cares.