will you accept an unbidden guest?" interposed Annette. "I know that you will say 'yes,' and I promise you that I will be quite good and docile."
I extended my hand to her, while she continued:
"You know that it has for a long while been my wish to be permitted to spend some time with your wife. Iphigenia in the forest, in the German pine forest! Oh, how charming it was of your father-in-law to name his daughter so! Are pretty names only intended for books? Of course, Grecian Iphigenia should not knit stockings. Did not your father-in-law begin to translate Goethe's 'Iphigenia' into Greek, but fail to complete it? Is not Iphigenia too long a name for daily use? How do you address your wife?"
"By her middle name, Gustava."
"Ah, how lovely! 'Madame Gustava.' And the forest child? I presume she is still with you? And now I shall at last become acquainted with your noble and faithful servant, Rothfuss, who said that 'one who is drenched to the skin need not dread the rain.'"
As far as our all-engrossing anxiety would permit it, Annette's volubility and liveliness contributed greatly to our relief.
We had just left the table when Rolunt, the Major's most intimate friend, entered. He had at one time been an officer in the service of the Duke of Augustenberg, and had thence returned to his home, where he was now professor at the military school.
Now political conversation could not be restrained, although the Major refrained from taking part in it.
Rolunt was furious that, no matter how the war might end, Germany would be obliged to give an indemnity, in the shape of Nice, to France.
We had the galling consciousness that one nation presumed to decide the affairs of another, with as much freedom as it would regulate the taxes or the actions of its own citizens.
We remained together until it was quite late, and when we separated, it was with crushed hearts.
The Major insisted on my staying at his house; the war, he said, had done away with all minor considerations.
On the following day there was another session of the Parliament. The government demanded an extraordinary credit, which was accorded, although it was hoped that we might escape being drawn into war; for both the government and the legislature fondly expected that our troubles might be arranged by diplomacy.
Who, after all, was the enemy that we were fighting against?
I went to the barracks. I was refused admission. Fortunately, I saw the ensign approaching, and, under his protection, I was allowed to enter. Ernst, who had already donned the uniform, was lying on a bench. He seemed surprised to see me.
"Pray do not say a word until we get outside."
He received permission to go out for half an hour, and soon stood before me in his smart attire. There was something graceful and yet determined in his bearing.
When we gained the street, he asked me whether there was any chance of his discharge.
I was in a sad dilemma. I had taken no steps, because it was only too evident that my efforts would have been of no avail.
It was this that made me hesitate in answering him, and Ernst exclaimed, "All right. I know all about it."
My very heart bled, pierced as it was by the same sword that rent my Fatherland in twain.
I endeavored to persuade my son that there are times when our own wills and thoughts are of no avail against the great current of Fate.
"Thanks, father, thanks," answered Ernst, in a strangely significant tone.
I could only add, "I feel assured that you will do your duty. Do not forget that you have parents and a bride."
He seemed to pay but little attention to my words.
He took off his helmet, and said, "This presses me so: I am unused to it. It seems to crush my brain."
He looked very handsome, but very sad. We were standing before the office of the State Gazette, when suddenly the street seemed filled with groups of excited people, listening to a man who had climbed to the top of a wagon and was reading off a dispatch just received from Berlin, to the effect that there had been an attempt to shoot Bismarck, but that the ball had missed aim.
"Curse him!" cried Ernst; "I would not have missed aim."
I reproved him with great severity, but he insisted that one had a right to commit murder. I replied that no one would ever have that right, and that this deed had been as culpable as the assassination of Abraham Lincoln; for if any one man has the right to be both the judge and the executioner of his enemies, you will have to accord the privilege to the democrat as well as to the aristocrat.
"Let us cease this quarrelling," he answered; "I have no desire to dispute with you. I am firm in my belief that one is justified in doing wrong for the sake of bringing about a good result. But, I beg of you, father, let us now and forever cease this quarrelling."
His face showed his conflicting emotions, and he kissed my hand when I gently stroked his face.
The crowd had dispersed in the meanwhile, and we proceeded on our way.
Ernst suddenly stopped and said to me: "Farewell, father. Give my love to mother and Martella."
He held on to my hand quite firmly for a moment or two longer, and then said, "I must go to the barracks."
His eyes plainly told me that he would like to say more that he could not express; but he merely nodded, and then turning on his heel, departed.
"Write to us often!" I called out to him. He did not look back.
I followed after him for a while, keeping near enough to hear his firm step and the rattling of his spurs. I fondly hoped that he would yet return to me, and tell me of the thoughts that oppressed his heart.
I met many acquaintances on the way, who saluted me and extended their hands. They wanted me to stop and talk with them, but I merely nodded and passed on.
In my eager haste I ran against many people, for I did not want to lose sight of my son. There he goes! Now he stands still-now he turns. Surely- At that moment a company of soldiers marched down the street to the sound of lively music; we were now separated. I could not see my son again. I returned to Bertha and the Major, and the latter promised me to keep a watchful eye on Ernst, and to send us frequent tidings in regard to him, in case he should neglect to write.
I rode to the depot. I was fearfully tired, and felt as if I could not walk another step.
As the trains were quite irregular, I was obliged to wait there for a long while.
I felt-no, I cannot-I dare not-revive the painful emotions that rent my bosom. Of what avail would it be? My son was going forth to war, and I had brought him here, myself.
"Brother fighting against brother." I fancied that I had been talking to myself and had uttered these words; but I found that they were frequently repeated by the excited groups that were scattered about the depot. All about me there was ceaseless turmoil. People were rushing to and fro, yelling, shouting, cursing, and laughing. I sat there absorbed in thought, not caring to see or hear anything more of the world, when a familiar voice said to me, "How charming, father, that I should meet you here!"
My son
