And the farewell. The last, long, trembling embrace of his father, the moment when the guards who were to conduct the convict away busied themselves with their sabres and compassionately withdrew while the father whispered imploringly to his son, "Promise me that you will do no harm to yourself!"
And the time in the prison. The fearful despair of the first weeks, when he longed for death, and the promise which he had given his father continually weighed upon and tormented him like a fetter; the brooding stupor into which this despair changed, and which in its turn gave place to a gradual reviving and accustoming himself to his circumstances. He remembered very well the day when he began to look around at his companions, began anxiously to seek manifestations of their good qualities; to search among them for young people of blameless lives who had sinned in a moment of madness. What did he find? A few convicts who by alternating imprisonment and crime had gradually become dull and stupid, others who had wholly degenerated to rough, terrible, malicious animals; besides these, two or three sons of good family, who confessed their sins with brutal cynicism, scornfully derided their relatives and procured through the jailer wine, cards and evil romances. The sight of these people caused Felix boundless misery. How he loathed them; how they astonished him; the importance which trifles had for them, and that they had the heart to rail at the poor food!
The doubt came to him whether the idea which he had of himself was not a mere illusion. He dissected his most secret impulses, criticised all his instincts--in short, tormented himself into a pitiable condition. The remnant of self-respect which he had taken into the prison shrunk away to nothing.
All who had anything to do with him showed him the warmest sympathy. He was so quiet, so obliging; he never asked for anything except more work. The degraded officers were at that time employed in the office work. Felix fulfilled the tasks allotted him with the most painful punctiliousness. At the prison he accustomed himself to that correct regular handwriting which differed so greatly from the careless writing of his gay youth.
The old baron had begged that some consideration might be shown Felix on account of his weakened health. They were perfectly willing to do so, but Felix would hear nothing of this. The money which his father sent him to procure little comforts, he gave to assistants.
At last the year was over.
Felix had received a letter from his father, in which the latter, too considerate to personally accompany his son from the prison, told him that he would meet him at this or that station, to take a long trip with him. But Felix could not resolve to meet his father immediately after this degrading imprisonment.
It was in the year 1866. War was expected. Felix enlisted in a regiment as a private soldier. He performed his duties with fanatic zeal. The soldiers, who knew nothing of his sad story, looked upon his serving in their ranks as the "whim of a great gentleman," such as is not unusual in excited times, and met him with defiant opposition. But he took such sincere trouble to win their liking, so willingly shared their whole life, that they soon became devoted to him. Their unfeigned liking was more pleasant to him than the sentimental humanity which he met with later in life. Often one of his present comrades pushed him away from some work which he considered unworthy of Felix, and murmured with good-natured embarrassment, "That you are not used to, sir." The officers, who at first had been very ill at ease with him, gradually understood how painful it was to him if any difference was made between him and his comrades, and gave up attempting to make an exception of him.
He never complained, ate the coarsest food without changing his expression in the slightest, conscientiously polished the buttons of his uniform, and always chose the worst place to bivouac.
The first cannon was fired.