He calls for Kant, Hegel, Christ; and reads them, deeply. He likes Hegel’s idea that the history of the world shows “rational order,” conceals a “manifest destiny.”
¶ But the old man’s one consolation is the Book of Job.
He lays awake o’ nights, unable to sleep, he says, “and it seems as though there were a mountain on my chest.”
¶ He does not think much of Gladstone’s “Home Rule” ideas; this “let the people” rule is bad business, is the old man’s comment.
¶ He is invited out a great deal, but always makes the same excuse, “I do not sleep well anywhere except in my own four-post bed. My traveling days are over, thank you.”
¶ One day in the park, the ladies kissed his hand, but he replied by kissing their cheeks, and he made a little speech as though he were in parliament.
¶ He studies the thick walls of Schoenhausen mansion and examines the old French cannon of ’71 scattered around the yard, as souvenirs.
¶ He superintends the planting of trees; and rules over his estate with all the old family dignity and unshaken firmness of soul. He asks his secretary to count the telegrams that came this past year and in round numbers there are 10,000. The old man takes a notion to send each inquirer after his health a Bismarck autograph. So each day, from April to August, he spends part of his time writing over and over in great scrawling letters, at the bottom of a printed card of thanks, the huge signature, “Bismarck.”
¶ Little things are beginning to bother the old man. He comes in today from a short walk and says he hates crows, because they are the enemy of the singing birds.