Waldfried Part 65

This interview sobered me. Was this the frame of mind in which a part of our country was to be regained? I decided to visit my sister, and then to return home. That evening Arven changed my resolution.

CHAPTER VIII.

Arven lived in the hospital, and on my arrival there I was welcomed by a tall, fine-looking woman in a white cap and white ap.r.o.n. It was Annette, and I was not a little astonished to meet her there; but even she had no time to spare, for she said she had to return to her patients, and that Arven was waiting for me in his room.

This was really the case. Arven gave me a hearty welcome, and said that he had given orders that he was not to be disturbed excepting in case something of great importance needed his attention, and that, for this evening, he would be a thorough egotist.

When I told him how repellent the angularity and coldness of the Prussians had appeared to me, he said that this was just what he wanted to talk to me about.

He had been exceedingly provoked at their cold-blooded manner. He had already determined to leave them; but after a while he had made up his mind that this sharpness, bitterness, and decision were the forces that made them the men they were. Obedience is with them a habit that can be depended on. We South Germans are too soft and easygoing, and we ought to breathe some of the salt-sea air that blows across that northern country. This want of attention towards others, this disregard of people's feelings, lay in the fact that they had no consideration for themselves. The French, who, whatever they do, want to be observed and applauded, will be beaten by these men, whose whole power rests in their self-respect. We used to think the Prussians were braggarts; but now we found no trace of boastfulness, and in spite of their constant victories, they took every precaution as they advanced, and were prepared for defeat. Yes, orders describing the manner of retreat were issued before every battle.

He could not cease praising them, and only stopped when he added that he thought their self-esteem was a result of Protestantism. The Baron stopped when he had said this, and, after we had eaten and drunk to our hearts' content, he said that, although he was a Catholic, he would never confess to a priest again, but that he would confess to me; and in case he should not return from the war, he would have the satisfaction of feeling that his inner life had been laid before another, for an hour at least.

He confessed to me that his desire had been to die in this campaign, and it was for this reason that he had exposed himself so recklessly when collecting the wounded. It seemed strange to him that people should praise his courage, while he was engaged in seeking death. He thought it would be the best thing for himself and his children, if the great sorrows that had come upon them, and which might come again, could be buried with him.

He then groaned aloud, saying, "I do not want to die before their eyes."

I saw before me a life that had been most cruelly broken. The Baron had once been in the Austrian army. He had never expected to find himself at the head of his family, for he belonged to the younger branch.

In Bohemia he made the acquaintance of a girl belonging to a n.o.ble family, and was subdued by her.

Feodora was tall and majestic, of a warm, sensual nature, but cold-hearted. Persuaded by his sister, he became engaged to her; but felt that he would have to stand alone in life, with her as his spouse.

On the day after his engagement, he suddenly awoke to a horror of what he had done. He was visiting the large estate of her father. He walked through the park, wrestling with the resolve to drown himself in the pond; but he did not do so, because he considered it his duty to keep his plighted word; and besides, the hope arose in his breast that, at some future time, a closer sympathy would be brought about. Her beauty fettered him; in short, the marriage was celebrated, and he lived for thirty-one years married, but lonely. One by one, his hopes had all been shattered. He had persuaded himself that congeniality was not necessary to happiness.

But after awhile he discovered what it was to be united to some one, and at the same time to be alone. The sudden death of the last of the main line of his family placed him at the head of the house. He resigned his position in the army, and devoted himself to agriculture.

He had no control over his children--scarcely any influence in fact, but as his sons grew up, they espoused the cause of Germany, and would have nothing to do with the conflict which their mother and her ghostly advisers tried to stir up.

In the campaign of 1866, the Baron suffered unspeakably. He was homeless in his own house. But when the present war began, and he discovered plots that he would never have suspected, the conflict broke out openly. The two sons joined the German army, and did not, or would not, know of what was going on at home. I dare not speak of the bitterness, hate, and despair that filled the soul of this naturally good-hearted man, and appeared in the course of his story. "I had to confess to you some time," said he finally, "and I chose the best time.

"I believe that your wife intuitively knew everything that I have told you."

The deep misery of his life seemed again renewed when he cried, "I do not wish to die before their eyes."

He mentioned Rautenkron, and said that their cases were similar. Their devotion in the present great movement was not a joyful sacrifice, but indifference and contempt for life; they wanted to die.

I was deeply pained, and also gratified, when he took my hand at last, saying that my wife and I had kept him up in the faith that happiness was yet to be found on earth. "And now I must make a further confession. It was a great sacrifice on my part, considering the comfort I enjoyed in your house, and the deep sympathy your wife showed me, to deny myself frequent, yea, daily visits, whenever I felt like a stranger in my house; and as one banished from home, I would ride across the hills, and down into the valley towards you and your wife; but when I had reached the saw-mill, I would turn back. It was better thus. I felt that your wife knew everything. Though I was a man who had sons in the army, I was again tossed hither and thither by youthful feelings; but I overcame them. I think I ought to tell you this too; it relieves me, and cannot oppress you. Of all men who were affected by her sterling qualities, there is no one who worshipped her more profoundly than I did," said the Baron finally, again taking my hand.

We sat there in silence for some time, and I was made happy by the thought that her spirit was hovering over us, bringing us peace. The Baron then arose and said, "Now I have unburdened myself, and am free.

I thank you for your share in this relief. And now, no more of this.

Now duty calls."

He again told me how much good I could accomplish, by going from village to village, and from house to house, in the region in which I had long been known, there to teach the Alsatians what they ought to learn.

"You may depend on one thing," said he: "you will have bitter experiences. You will be looked upon as a spy. But do you remember what your wife once called you?"

I did not know what he meant.

"She called you the spy of what was good, because you always discover the good qualities in every one. Well, be one again."

I made up my mind to cope willingly with everything, and went to my sister's the next day.

CHAPTER IX.

We of the mountains had heard the cannonading; but how differently had it affected those of the neighborhood, whose homes and whose all were at stake. We could see the destruction that had been wrought on the houses, but not that which had wasted the nerves of the people.

Wherever I went, I found every one feeling restless and homeless, like the swallows that flew about, settling here and there; but only for a moment, for their nests had been destroyed, along with the houses and towers and fortifications.

Every one I met had a puzzled look: the alarm and fear caused by the incredible disasters that had overwhelmed them, had dazed them, and they seemed hurt by friendly greetings--yes, even by offers of a.s.sistance.

My brother-in-law, the forester, a man who ordinarily bore himself well, seemed entirely broken down. He stared at me in silence as I entered his house, and scarcely answered my greeting with a slight nod.

My sister told me that, since the siege of Strasburg, he had suffered from asthma, and that he constantly repeated, "General Werder's shots have taken my breath away."

On looking at the pictures hanging on the wall, I could see plainly what these people would have to thrust aside. The pictures on the walls, as well as those that dwelt in their memory, were to be changed.

In our every-day life, we soon forget what the ornaments on the wall are like. But if they are not in accord with the times, then we find out what was once ours, but has now ceased to belong to us. On my hinting that Germany would adopt the regained provinces with increased affection, my brother-in-law sprang up, rolling his eyes and striking the table with his fist, and swore that he would emigrate. My sister then said that an oath at such a time was worthless; but he answered in bitter scorn--he could speak nothing but French--"And if no one will accompany me--I cannot force the trees in the forest to go along--my dog, at least, will be my companion. What do you say, Fidele--you'll go with me? You won't take bread from a German; you will rather starve with me?" The dog barked and licked his master's hand.

I could see what a difficult task I had before me, but I did not give it up. In the village, in the houses, and before the court-house, wherever the people were gathered together, I spoke words of peace and encouragement to them. They would listen to me as if they were forced to do so; and once I heard a man behind me say, "The whole thing is a lie, white hairs and all; he is some young fellow in disguise." I seldom received a straightforward answer; the nearest approach to a reply was, "What are we to do?" "What are we to learn." The feeling at the bottom of all this was,--to-morrow the French will be back, and drive the Germans away. It is impossible to conquer the French.

I then visited my brother-in-law, the parson, who lived a few miles further on. He spoke of nothing but the excellent behavior of the soldiers that had been quartered on them. They went to church on Sundays and joined in the singing; and officers of high rank had been there, too. He seemed nervous, and did not dare to express his joy--either because he feared the maid-servant who was going in and out, or else because he disliked to lay bare his thoughts. It was only while walking in the woods that he unbosomed himself. I do not like to repeat what he related, as I preferred not to believe his story. He told me that the French government had received the a.s.surance from the priesthood, that the South Germans would not take the field against France. I do not believe this, but it is the current opinion, and so I feel forced to repeat it.

He also said that the beggars from the Catholic villages of the vicinity had, for some time past, ceased asking for alms. They had walked around boldly in his village, selecting the houses they intended to occupy as soon as the Protestants had been exterminated.

Thus wickedly had religion been mixed up with this war.

"The thought of Germany," said the parson, "always seemed to me like a silent, yea, a criminal dream. Now I see it realized in broad daylight.

We are like the prodigal son of Scripture, but the truant in Alsace is this time not in fault, and it is that which makes his return to his home so painful. I have often thought that the father of the prodigal must have offended against his son, although the Scriptures do not say so, otherwise he would not have been thus afflicted."

He was merely drawing a parallel, yet he made my heart beat with the thought of Ernst.

The father of the prodigal son is also at fault. What had I been guilty of?

When we returned from our walk, we were told that a French soldier, who had served his time, had called to see me; he had not given his name, and would return.

Who can he be? I must wait to find out. But I met a man in the village whom I had forgotten.

The advocate Offenheimer, Annette's brother, met me, and his first words were, "You are a great consolation to me. Come with me and give my son an escort."

I now perceived that his only son had fallen, and that the father desired him to be buried in the Jewish cemetery here.

As he divined my thoughts, he said, "It is true, I could not allow them to bury my son out there with the others; but it is, perhaps, well if there is some sign here of our having fairly and joyfully taken our part in the fight. Perhaps it will have a mollifying effect upon our new countrymen of the Jewish faith, who were particularly contumacious."