"Which Kaiser, Marischa?"
"German Kaiser. Our King Kaiser yes old man now not know like German Kaiser yes know—fears God—fears God."
It was a pity to spoil this beautiful faith, so I always remained on very good terms with Marischa, who always greeted me with a smile of affection and pity that was touching.
X—STORIES THE PEASANTS BROUGHT HOME
News of great deeds soon came from Serbia, where the Austrians were supposed to be already in the heart of the country. No lie was ever too big for the Austrian papers, and the jubilation throughout the country over the imaginary successes in Serbia knew no bounds....
The fields had become very empty and sad: instead of the crowds of jolly handsome young peasant lads, singing their beautiful Slovak songs as they worked, there were now only a few old men and women, and gipsies who would follow one any distance begging all the time for "a Kreutzer for the love of God, Mistress."
The men-servants who had gone to their Kaders soon began to return. First came the Man of Art. We had all been sitting outside on the terrace when we heard that this first of the heroes had returned, and he was at once summoned to give his report. His heart was bad, so bad that the doctor feared that the exertion of even a few days' military service might kill him, therefore—with many shakes of his head—he would never fight for his country.
"Where did they tell you that?" I asked.
"In Agram, Fräulein," very mournfully.
"They didn't expect you to believe it, I hope?"