CHAPTER III.

It was eventide. The clear tones of the village bell filled the valley and were echoed back from the mountains opposite. The young woods down by the stone wall seemed transparent with the reflection of the rosy sunset, and all looked as if bathed in golden clouds.

We were sitting in the arbor, and every one was probably thinking to himself, "Perhaps at this very moment men of the same nation--yea, brothers--may be murdering one another on the battle-field."

In a low voice, and with an absence of all that resembled her usual excessive excitability, Annette remarked that my wife ought to feel very happy to think that she had planted yonder wood.

At that moment we saw a carriage coming up the hill.

"It is father!" exclaimed the daughter of the kreis-director, and ran to meet him.

We observed that he opened the carriage door for her, and that she entered it and remained with him.

Annette remarked that she had given orders that all telegrams should be sent to Herr Von Rontheim, who would forward them to us as speedily as possible. This must be a matter of importance, however, as he had come in person. But let his tidings be what they may, we would stand by and support one another.

Rontheim entered.

He brought us the news of a great victory gained by the Austrians, who were said to have penetrated into Silesia. His manner of imparting this was in accord with our feelings, and was quite free from any spirit of rejoicing. A brief telegram had brought the news.

Rontheim seemed quite ill at ease and soon left, taking his daughter and Annette with him. A little while after that, Joseph arrived, and told me privately that he wished that Richard and I would come over to his house.

I was struck with fear, and felt that there was bad news in store for me.

Without knowing why, I felt alarmed.

When I entered Annette's apartment, Rontheim was seated at a table on which there was a lighted lamp. In his hand there was a newspaper. He did not rise to receive me, but requested me to be seated.

He grasped my hand firmly while he said, "You are a strong man, a just father--no father can be blamed for what his child may do.--Your son Ernst has deserted."

Those were his words: I have written them down with my own hand. Could I, at that time, have believed that I would ever be able to do this!

But to this day, I cannot tell what rent my heart and crazed my brain.

All that I can recollect is that I felt as if a bullet were piercing my brain, and found it strange that I knew even that much of what was going on. I remember Richard's throwing his arms about my neck, and crying, "Father! Dear father!" and all was over.

When I recovered consciousness my first thought was, "Why live again?

Death has been conquered."

The next thought that flashed upon me was, "But my wife!--She foresaw it all, yet how will she bear this burden?"

Annette came up to me and seemed to guess at my thoughts, for with a voice choked with tears she said:

"Do not tell your wife of this to-night. In the morning, when day approaches, if you wish me to tell her of this, I am at your service.

But how cold your hands are!"

She knelt down and kissed my hands.

The director handed the newspaper to Richard. I noticed how his hand trembled while he held it. I asked to have it handed to me, and read the proclamation of my son's dishonor and the order for his arrest.

When I at last started to return home, I was obliged, for the first time in my life, to lean on my son Richard for support. Annette had asked permission to accompany me. We declined her proffered aid. The kind-hearted, impulsive creature was all gentleness and desire to a.s.sist me.

I arrived in front of the house. There stands the large and well-ordered house,--but no joy will ever enter there again.

The wind from the valley was swaying the red beech to and fro; the fountain swelled and roared while its waters glistened in the broad moonlight. All this to be seen again and again, and yet--"daily suicide"--

"What are you saying, father? What do you mean by those words?" asked Richard.

It was not until then that I became aware of my having uttered them.

For Ernst, for my poor child, no day would ever more begin with the love of life. "Daily suicide"--in this phrase his deed and its consequences seemed to concentrate themselves. I was obliged to sit clown on the steps, and not until then was I able to shed tears.

How often Ernst had run up and down there! I could yet remember the first time that he climbed those steps on all fours, turning his pretty head with its light curls towards me when I called out to him, and waiting quietly until I would come and take him up in my arms!

But now he had conjured up a restless demon whom no cry or supplication could exorcise.

At this very moment I can distinctly remember how I wished that all the sorrow and pain might descend on my own head and be gathered up into my own heart, in order that I might bear them for others.

"Master, why are you sitting at your own threshold like a strange beggar?" were the words with which Rothfuss surprised me. "I have already heard what our madcap Ernst has done; do not let that grieve you to death--that will do you no good. In this world, every one must carry his own hide to market. It is bad enough in all conscience, but there is courage in it for all. There are hundreds and thousands of them who would like to do what he has done; but they follow the drum with its rat-tat-tat, and put on airs into the bargain. Do you know what I think of this matter?--Do not interrupt me, Heir Professor; I know what I am talking about--I say that every large family must have its black sheep, and I would rather a thousand times have a good-for-nothing than an idiot, the very sight of whom makes one's hair stand on end.

"Yes, indeed; my mother was right. Her favorite maxim was: 'Better sour than rotten,' and 'To be hard of hearing is not half so bad as to have poor eyes.'

"In every family there is something; or, as the poor woman once said: 'There is something everywhere,--except in my lard-pot, where there is nothing at all.'"

Rothfuss would not rest until I got up again.

I went up the steps with him and into the room. He drew off my boots, and was full of kind attentions.

Addressing me in a whisper, he offered to tell the news to his mistress in the morning, as he thought that he was best fitted for the task.

He meant to speak of it in such a way that she would take it as his stupid talk and give him a thorough scolding, and thus wreak her anger on him. He thought that would be the best way, because that would help to break the first shock of the news, and then it would be easier to endure the rest.

The only other thing that troubled Rothfuss was how he might stop Funk's evil tongue. He felt sure that with the exception of Funk, others would be as much grieved as we were.

That was the trouble. The news would enlist the attention of the busy world, those who pitied as well as those who rejoiced in the sufferings of others.

But what matters the world: it can neither help nor hinder our griefs.

I have experienced much bitter suffering:--I have gazed into the grave that had received all that had been dearest to me on earth, but no pain can be compared to that of grief for a son, who, though living, is lost.

Morning had already dawned. The birds were singing in the trees; the sun had returned; all life seemed to awake anew; and at last I found an hour's sleep.

"Destroyer of sleep!" were the first words I uttered when I awoke.

How can he enjoy a moment's rest, or swallow a morsel of food while he knows that his parents are sorrowing for him.

I have often been advised--it is easy enough to say the words--"Make up your mind to blot his name from your memory." But it is not so easy to follow such counsel.

My wife softly slumbered through the whole night. Will she ever again have so refreshing a sleep?