Disarm! Disarm!

Society once more—Happiness returns—A second marriage suggested—My younger sisters need a chaperone—Baron Tilling introduced—He tells of Arno’s death.

Four years passed quietly, and my sisters, now seventeen and eighteen years old, are to be presented at court. “Why should I not too return to society?” I thought. Time had done its work and quieted my grief. Despair had mellowed into sorrow, sorrow into melancholy, then came listlessness, and finally I felt a renewing of my interest in life. I woke one fine morning with the realisation that I was a woman to be envied—twenty-three, beautiful, nobly born, rich, the mother of a darling boy, and one of a devoted family. What had I still to ask to make life delightful?

Behind me like a sweet dream lay the short period of my married life. The shadowy past began to swallow up the memory of my desperate love, my handsome Huzzar, my married happiness, my terrible separation and grief. The duration of it had not been long enough to create a close sympathy. Our devotion had been too shortly cut off to have grown into the friendship and reverence which is often felt by those who have shared years of joy and sorrow. Could I have been indispensable to him when, for no cause, he rushed into the war and left his regiment, which was not called out? Yes, four years made me a different being. My mind had broadened, and knowledge and culture had come to me which, I felt, Arno would have had no sympathy with. If he could come back he would be a stranger to my present spiritual life.

How did it all come about?

One year of widowhood passed in despair, deep mourning, and heart-breaking. Of society I would not hear. Rudolf’s education should be my one thought. The “baby” turned into “my son,” and became the centre of my hope, my pride, and my existence. To be able some day to be his guide and intellectual companion, I buried myself in the treasures of the chateau library. History, in which my interest had cooled, became my passion again, as well as my consolation, for the account of battles and heroics seemed to relate me to the grand historical processes, for which I, too, had lived. Not that I ever got back the old enthusiasms of girlish days for the Maid of Orleans. Many of the overwrought accounts now sounded hollow and mocking, when I thought of the horrors of war.

Can the priceless gem life be paid for with the tinsel coin of posthumous fame?

But the history-shelf of my father’s library was soon exhausted; I begged the bookseller to send me more. He wrote:—

I send you Thomas Buckle’s History of Civilisation in England. The work is unfinished, but these two volumes form a complete whole, and have attracted great attention, not only in England but over the world. They say that the author is introducing a new conception of history.

New, indeed! Reading and re-reading it, I felt like a creature taken suddenly from the bottom of a narrow valley to the mountain tops and viewing the world for the first time, out, beyond and beyond, to the boundless ocean. Not that I, a superficial mind of twenty, could grasp the book—but, to keep to my picture, I saw that lofty monumental things lay before my astonished vision. I was dazzled, overcome, my horizon moved out into the immensities of life. Though the full understanding only came to me later, yet that one vision I caught even then, that the history of mankind itself was not formulated by wars, kings, statesmen, treaties, greed, cunning, but by the gradual development of the intellect. Court chronicles gave no explanation to underlying causes, nor a picture of the civilisation of the time. Buckle did not paint war and devastation with a glamour, but demonstrated that the respect for arms diminished as a people rose in culture and intelligence. The lower into barbarism you go, the more war, and he holds even that some day the love of war and its romance will die out of our culture and cease to exist. Just as childhood’s wrangling ceases, so must society outgrow its childishness.

How all this appealed to the convictions of my heart, which I had so often dismissed as unworthy and weak! I now felt that these growing ideals in me were an echo of the spirit of the age, and saw that thinkers were losing their idolatry for war, and doubting its necessity. The book gave me the opposite of what I sought, yet how it solaced me, enlightened, elevated, and pacified me. Once I tried to talk to my father about it, but he would have none of it; he refused to follow me to the mountain top, that is, he refused to read the book, so it was useless to discuss it.

During the second year of my sorrow I studied with renewed ardour, and as the mind expanded the old unhappiness disappeared. Buckle had unconsciously given me a taste for the larger world again, and I satisfied my craving to follow out his idea in other authors. The passion for life renewed itself, and the melancholy disappeared. Then the third change was wrought in me. Books alone would not satisfy me. I saw that with all this reading my longings were not being gratified—life’s flowers were still for me to pluck if I only stretched out the hand. So in the winter of 1863 I entered the salons of Viennese society once more, to introduce my younger sisters there.

“Martha, Countess Dotzky, the rich young widow,” thus spoken of, I took my part in the great comedy of the world again. The part suited me, and I was greeted, fêted, spoiled on all sides, much to my delight, after four years of social starving.

The entire family quietly presumed that I would remarry. My aunt no longer referred to my soldier saint above. The future promised meeting might not be so agreeable if a second husband stepped in. Every one except myself seemed to have forgotten his existence. My pain was gone, but his image could never be wiped out. Daily Rudolf’s evening prayer closed with: “God keep me good and brave for love of my father, Arno.”

We sisters enjoyed society in the extreme. It was really my first glimpse, too, for I had married so soon that I had missed the gaiety and attentions. My crowd of admirers, however, did not impress me much, for between us there lay a chasm. Brilliant young beaux chatting of ballroom, court, and theatre had not the faintest glimpse of the things which my life was beginning to depend upon. Though I had only begun to lisp in the language of the higher things of soul and science, yet that was farther removed from these chatterers than Greek or even Patagonian. I had begun to think in the tongue with which men of science would some day debate, and finally solve the greatest riddles of the world.

It was quite certain that in such a circle I would scarcely find a congenial mate, and I carefully avoided all entangling rumours, devoted myself to my boy, plunged into study, kept in touch with the intellectual world, read and relished keenly all the latest things. This barred me from many of the frivolities, and yet I keenly enjoyed the gaiety, the company, and dancing. I longed to open my salon to a few of the upper world of scholarship, but my social position made that impossible. I dared not hope to mix the classes in Vienna. Since that day the exclusive spirit has changed, and fashion to-day finds it acceptable to open its doors to brains of the rarer sort. But at that time it would have been quite impossible to receive except such as were presentable at court—counting at least sixteen ancestors. Our own social set would not have been able to converse with the thinking class, and the latter class would have found it intolerably dull to mingle with a drawing-room full of sportsmen, cloister-bred young girls, old generals, and canonesses. All the talk was a vapid recital of where the last ball had been and the next one was to be—perhaps at Schwartzenberg’s or Pallavicini’s; who was the latest adorer of Baroness Pacher, and the latest rejected of the Countess Palffy; how many estates had Prince Croy; was Lady Amalay’s title from her father’s or mother’s side? Could such drivel possibly have interested the intellectual set?

Occasionally an able statesman, diplomat, or man of genius cropped up among us, but they always assumed the frivolous conversation of the rest. A quiet after-dinner chat with some of our parliamentarians or men of mark would have been made impossible almost, for hardly would the conversation turn on some political or scientific subject when it would be interrupted with, “Ah, dearest Countess Dotzky, how charming you looked yesterday at the picnic! And are you going to the Russian embassy to-morrow?”

“Allow me, dear Martha,” said my cousin Conrad Althaus, “to introduce Lieutenant-Colonel Baron Tilling.” I bowed and arose, thinking the introduction meant an invitation to dance.

“Pardon me, Countess,” he said, with a slight smile, showing a perfect row of teeth, “I do not dance.”

“So much the better, for I would like a moment’s rest,” I said, reseating myself.

“I was bold enough to ask for the introduction, for I had some information for you,” he continued.

I looked up at him in surprise. He was no longer young, somewhat grey, and with a serious countenance, but withal a distinguished and sympathetic face.

“I will not intrude, Countess, but what I have to tell you is not suited to a ballroom chat. If you will fix the hour, I will come to you with it.”

“I am at home on Saturdays between two and four.”

“I would rather see you alone.”

“Then come to-morrow at the same hour.” The Baron bowed and left me. Later, Cousin Conrad passed; I called him to my side and questioned him concerning Tilling.

“Ah ha! Has he so impressed you that you are setting an investigation on foot? He is unmarried, but a distinguished princess of the reigning house has him entangled in her silken web, and therefore he does not wish to marry. His regiment has just been ordered here, but he is no friend of society. I meet him every day at the ‘Noble’s Club,’ where he always seems absorbed in the papers or a game of chess. I was astonished to see him here, but the hostess is his cousin. After speaking with you he went away immediately.”

“And he was introduced to no other ladies?”

“No; but do not imagine that it was your beauty that brought him down at long range, and therefore asked to know you. He merely questioned: ‘Could you tell me whether a certain Countess Dotzky, formerly an Althaus, probably a relative of yours, is here to-day? I want to speak to her.’ I pointed to you. ‘There she sits in the blue dress.’ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘that is she? Will you introduce me?’ And I brought him over with no idea that I would disturb your peace of mind.”

“Such nonsense, Conrad, as though my peace were so easily ruffled! Tilling! What family is that? The name is new to me.”

“So you are interested? Perhaps he is the lucky fellow. I who have tried for three months to interest you in me must step aside for this cold-hearted lieutenant-colonel. Let me warn you, he is without feeling. The Tilling family, I believe, is of Hanoverian origin, although his father was an Austrian officer and his mother a Prussian. Did you note his North German accent?”

“He speaks beautiful German.”

“You find everything about him beautiful, no doubt.” Conrad rose. “I have heard enough. Let me leave you to dream—I can find plenty of beautiful ladies who——”

“Who will think you charming, Conrad. Indeed there are plenty.”

I was uneasy and left the ball early. Surely not to be able to think uninterruptedly about the new friend, although I found myself doing it! At midnight I enriched the red book with the conversation given above, and added my unpleasant doubts that he might even then be sitting at the feet of the princess. I ended my sentence by envying her—not Tilling, oh no!—for being beloved by some one. My waking thought was once more—Tilling. Naturally; had he not made an appointment for that day? For some time nothing had excited me like this visit.

At ten minutes past two the Baron von Tilling was announced.

“As you see, Countess, I am prompt,” he said, kissing my hand.

“Luckily, for I am overwhelmed with curiosity to know your news.”

“Then, without delay, I will tell you. It is this: I was in the battle of Magenta.”

“And you saw Arno die?” I cried.

“Yes. I can tell you of his last moments, and it will be a relief to you. Do not tremble, for if the finish had been shocking I would not tell you.”

“You take a weight from my heart. Go on, go on!”

“The empty phrase, ‘He died as a hero,’ I will not use. But it will comfort you to know that he died instantly and without knowing it. We were often together, and he was so confident of his safety. He showed me the pictures of his wife and boy, and insisted that after the campaign I should be his guest. I chanced in the Magenta massacre to be at his side. I will not relate the terrible scenes. The intoxication of the warrior passion had quite seized Dotzky in the thick of the bullet-hail and powder-fog. His eyes were blazing and he was fighting like mad. I, who was sober, saw it all. Suddenly a shell, and ten men—Dotzky among them—fell. He was instantly killed, but many of them shrieked in agony. All but he were shockingly mangled, but we had to leave them, for a charging column came upon us with a murderous hurrah, pell-mell over the dead and wounded. Lucky those who were dead! After the battle I found Dotzky, with the placid smile on his face, a painless look, and in the same spot and position. I have meant for several years to come and tell you, and relieve you of a painful uncertainty. But forgive me if I have recalled torturing memories.”

The Baron rose to go, and I thanked him while drying my tears: “You cannot know what a relief it is to feel that he died without agony. But stay. A certain tone in your remarks has touched a like strain in my thought. Tell me frankly, you too hate war?”

His face darkened: “Forgive me if I cannot stop to discuss the subject. I am sorry, but I am expected elsewhere.”

A cold expression passed over me, and the unpleasant thought of the princess came into my mind. “Then I will not detain you, Colonel,” I said coldly, and he left without asking if he might be allowed to come again.

After the carnival—Father’s dinner-party—Toy soldiers—Tilling again—The brave Hupfauf—Darwin.

The carnival over—Rosa and Lilli were still fancy free, and I was feeling that the dancing was growing monotonous. I find all my impressions noted in the red book. Society was not dropped, for Lent brought its rounds as well; sermons and church were quite as popular a meeting-place for the friends as were the opera and ballroom earlier in the season. I was not quite pious enough to suit Aunt Marie, who dragged the girls off to hear all the famous preachers. I spent my evenings by the fire with books, and devoted myself afresh to my boy. I repeated Tilling’s story to my father, but he considered it of no importance that Arno died without pain. How differently Tilling had regarded the matter, and I did not repeat his words to my father, for he would only instinctively have despised him for his unsoldierly sentiments. How gladly I would further have discussed the question of war with Tilling, but, alas! he never called, and I only casually met him in public occasionally. But even those meetings and greetings lingered in my thought.

One morning at breakfast my father handed me a parcel: “My dear, here is a parcel for you, and I have a favour to ask.”

“A present and a request,” I laughed; “that’s bribery.”

“Yes. I must have three old generals and their wives to dinner, a stiff, sleepy, tedious affair, and I want you to come to my house and do the honours.”

“And you evidently wish to sacrifice your daughter, as the ancient father Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigenia.”

“I added a younger element for your sake—Dr. Bresser, for one; he treated me in my last illness, and I wish to show my appreciation. I also invited Lieutenant-Colonel Tilling. Ah, you blush; what is the matter with you?”

“Me?” I said, hiding my confusion by hastily breaking open the parcel.

“It is nothing for you, only a box of lead soldiers for Rudolf.”

“But, father, a child of four——”

“Nonsense; I played at soldiers when I was three. My earliest memory is of drums, swords, words of command and marching. That is the way to start the boys to love the profession.”

“But my son shall never be a soldier,” I interrupted.

“Martha, you know it would be his father’s wish.”

“The boy belongs to me now, and I object.”

“What! Object to the noblest and most honourable of all callings?”

“His life shall not be risked in war, he is my only son.”

“As an only son I became a soldier; Arno and your brother also. The traditions of both families require it that the offspring of a Dotzky and an Althaus shall devote his service to his fatherland.”

“His country needs him less than I, and there are other ways of serving one’s country.”

“If all mothers were like you——”

“There would then be fewer parades and reviews, fewer men to slay as food for bullets. That would hardly be a misfortune.”

Much provoked, my father said: “Oh you women! Luckily the young do not ask your permission, when soldier’s blood flows in their veins. But Rudolf will not remain your only son, you will marry again. By the way, what has become of all your admirers? There is Captain Olensky seriously in love with you. Just lately he poured it all out to me, and I should like him as a son-in-law.”

“I do not care for him for a husband.”

“How about Major Millersdorf?”

“You may call the whole army roll, but I want none of them.” And I turned the subject: “When is the dinner?”

“At five. Come down earlier. Adieu, I must go. Kiss Rudi for me—the future Field-Marshal of the Imperial Army.”

Could the dinner be a “stiff, tiresome affair,” when the presence of Baron Tilling moved me in such a singular way? We had no occasion to speak at the table, being separated, and even after the dinner, while serving the coffee in the drawing-room, the two old generals remained my faithful attendants. I longed to speak to Tilling again about the battle-scene, and hear his sympathetic voice. But the circle left no opportunity for me to talk with him. The conversation ran on the usual topic.

“It will soon break out again,” suggested one old general.

“Hum,” said the other, “next time it will be with Russia.”

“Must there always be a next time?” I interrupted, but no one took notice.

“Italy first,” persisted my father. “We must get back Lombardy. We should march into Milan as we did with Father Radetzky in ’49. I remember, it was a bright sunny morn——”

“Oh!” I exclaimed in a panic, “we all know the story of the entry into Milan.”

“And the story of the brave Hupfauf, also?” asked my father.

“Yes, and it is most revolting.”

One of the group broke in diplomatically: “Let us hear it, Althaus.”

My father needed no encouragement.

“Hupfauf was a Tyrolese Jager, and the best shot imaginable. He proposed to take four comrades to the roof of the cathedral and shoot down on the rebels. The four did nothing but load, and he shot, hitting the mark every time and killing ninety Italians.”

“Horrible!” I exclaimed. “Each one shot had a mother or sweetheart at home, and had a right to his young life.”

“My dear, they were all enemies, and that alters the point of view.”

“Ah, true,” said Dr. Bresser, “the whole world is turned upside down so long as there is racial enmity, and the laws of humanity will receive but slight recognition.”

“What do you say, Baron Tilling?” I asked.

“I would have decorated the gallant breast of the man, from the point of view of war ethics, and then put a bullet into his stony heart. He deserved both.”

I gave the speaker a grateful look, and, except the doctor, all the guests seemed unpleasantly affected, and a short pause ensued in the talk.

The doctor then turned to my father, asking, “Have you read the new work by the English naturalist, Darwin?”

“I know nothing of it.”

“Why, papa,” I exclaimed, “that is the book you told me would soon be forgotten by the world.”

“And, so far as I am concerned, it is forgotten.”

“But,” continued the doctor, “it has quite turned the world upside down with its new theory of the origin of species.”

“You mean the ape theory?” asked the general at the right. “The idea that we are descended from the ourang-outang?”

“Upon the whole,” the cabinet minister began, nodding (and when he began thus we all trembled, for he was getting ready for a long discourse), “the thing seems absurd, but we dare not take it as a joke. The theory is powerfully built up on collected facts, and ingeniously worked out. Like all such rash conceptions it will find its followers and produce a certain effect on modern thought. It is a great pity it has been given so much consideration. Of course, the clergy will array itself against the degrading theory that man is derived from the brute, rather than from God’s image. No wonder they are shocked and denounce it. But church condemnation cannot prevent the spread of ideas that come in the garb of science. Until men of science themselves reduce it to an absurdity——”

“What folly!” broke in my father, fearing that his guests might be bored. “One needs only a bit of common sense to reject the absurd notion that man has descended from apes.”

“Darwin has certainly wakened reasonable doubts, and apes and man do greatly resemble each other,” the minister added, “but it will take some time to bring about a unity of opinion among the scientists about it.”

“These gentry live by disputing,” said the old general to the left, in a heavy Viennese dialect. “I too have heard something about this ape business. But why bother one’s head with the chatter of the star-gazers and grass-collectors and frog-dissectors? I saw a picture of this Darwin, and I could well believe that his grandfather was a chimpanzee.”

The entire company enjoyed the joke.

Then the quieter general spoke: “Can you imagine an ape inventing the telegraph? Speech alone raised men so far above beasts——”

“Pardon, your Excellency,” interrupted Dr. Bresser, “but the art of speech and the capacity for invention were not among man’s original powers. After all, it is the result of evolution and development.”

“Yes, I know, Doctor,” replied the general, “the war-cry of the new school is evolution, but one cannot develop a camel from a kangaroo, nor do we find apes to-day developing into men.”

I turned to Baron Tilling: “And what do you think of Darwin? Are you a follower or an opponent?”

“Although I have heard much of late about Darwin, Countess, I cannot give an opinion, for I have not read the book.”

“Nor have I,” the doctor acknowledged.

“Nor I—nor I—nor I—” came the chorus from the rest.

And the cabinet minister gravely wound up: “The subject is so popular to-day that the expressions, ‘evolution,’ ‘natural selection,’ ‘survival of the fittest,’ have passed into current thought. You find many defenders among those who thirst for new ideas and change, while cool-headed, critical people who insist on proof are found on the other side.”

“There is always opposition to every new idea as soon as it comes up,” said Tilling; “but one must have penetrated into the idea in order to be able to judge. Conservatives assail anything, and often for the weakest and most absurd reasons, and the masses only repeat what they hear. To judge of scientific theories without investigation is absurd. Even Copernicus was thundered down by Rome——”

“But, as I said before,” interrupted the minister, “not orthodoxy but science itself cries down false hypotheses in our day.”

“New ideas are always objected to in the beginning by the old fogeys who never like to give up their settled dogmas and views,” Tilling replied. “For my part, I shall read the book, and the opposition of the narrow-brained speaks rather for than against its truth.”

“Oh, you brave, clear-thinking spirit!” I silently apostrophised the speaker.

A cosy chat with Tilling—We misunderstand each other—The attachment grows—Countess Griesbach—Jealousy overcome—Tilling goes away—A touching letter—Death of Tilling’s mother.

The dinner-party broke up at eight o’clock although my father insisted on detaining them. I politely urged a cup of tea, but each had his excuse and felt obliged to go. Tilling and Bresser had also risen to take leave, but were easily persuaded to stay. Father and the doctor were soon seated at the card-table, while Baron Tilling joined me by the fire.

“I have a scolding for you, Baron. After the first visit you forgot the way to my house.”

“You never asked me.”

“I told you, Saturdays.”

“Pardon me, Countess, if I find regular reception days abominable. To meet a lot of strange people, bow to the hostess, sit a minute, hear the weather discussed, meet a stray acquaintance, venture a stupid remark; a desperate attempt to start a conversation with the hostess is interrupted by a new arrival, who starts the weather talk again, and then a fresh bunch comes in—perhaps a mother with four marriageable daughters—you give up your chair, and finally in weariness take leave and go. No, Countess, my talent for society is weak at best.”

“I meet you nowhere. Perhaps you hate people, and are a bit misanthropic. No, I do not believe that, for I conclude from your words that you love all men.”

“Hardly that; it is humanity as a whole I love, but not every man, not the coarse, worthless, self-seeking. I pity them because their education and circumstances made them unworthy of love.”

“Education and circumstances? Does not the character depend on heredity?”

“Our circumstances are also a matter of inheritance.”

“Then you do not hold a man responsible for his badness, and therefore not to be hated?”

“The one does not always depend on the other. A man is often to be condemned, though he is not responsible. You also are not responsible for your beauty, and yet one may admire——”

“Baron Tilling,” I said reproachfully, “we began talking seriously, and suddenly you treat me like a compliment-seeking society miss.”

“Pardon me; I only intended to use the illustration closest at hand.”

An awkward pause followed. Then I said abruptly:—

“Why did you become a soldier, Baron Tilling?”

“Your question shows that you have looked into my mind. It was not I, Frederick Tilling, thirty-nine years old, who has seen three campaigns, who chose the profession. It was the ten-year-old little Fritz, who spent his babyhood playing with lead soldiers and toy war-horses. It was this boy, whose father, a decorated general, and whose lieutenant uncle were always asking, ‘What are you going to be, my boy?’ And the boy would always answer, ‘A real soldier with a real sword and a live horse!’”

“My son had a box of leaden soldiers given him to-day, but he shall never have them. Tell me, why did you not leave the army after the little Fritz had grown into the big Frederick? Had not the army become hateful to you?”

“To call it hateful is saying too much. The condition of affairs which requires that men shall enter the cruel duties of war, that I hate. But if such conditions are inevitable, I cannot hate the men who fulfil these duties conscientiously. If I left the service, would it diminish war? Another would hazard his life in my place. Why not I?”

“Is there not some better way for you to serve your fellows?”

“Perhaps. But I have been taught nothing thoroughly except the arts of war. I think a man can do good and be useful in almost any surrounding, and find opportunity to lift the burden of those dependent upon him. I appreciate the respect the world holds me in because of my position. My career has been quite fortunate, my comrades love me, and I enjoy my success. I have no estate, and as a civilian I could not help even myself. So why should I consider abandoning the military service?”

“Because killing people is repulsive to you.”

“Yes, but in self-defence the responsibility for killing ceases. War is often called murder on a big scale, but the soldier never feels himself a murderer. Naturally the atrocities of the battle-field are revolting to me, and fill me with pain and disgust even as a seaman might suffer during a storm. Still a brave sailor is undaunted and ventures the sea again.”

“Yes, if he must. But must there be war?”

“That is another question. The individual should do his duty, and that gives him strength and even pleasure.”

And so we chatted in a low tone, that we might not disturb the card-players. Neither would our conversation have suited the others, for Tilling told of the horrors he experienced in war, and I told him of my reading of Buckle, who argued that the war spirit would die out as civilisation advanced. I felt Tilling’s confidence as he displayed his inner feelings to me, and a certain current of sympathy was established between us.

“What are you two plotting and whispering about?” my father suddenly called out.

“I am telling the Countess old war stories.”

“Oh, she likes that; she has heard them from her childhood.”

We resumed our whispered talk. Suddenly Tilling fastened his gaze on me, while speaking in a sympathetic voice. I thought of the princess, felt a sudden stab, and turned my head away.

“Why did your face change, Countess? Did my words offend you?”

I assured him it was nothing, but the conversation became rather strained. At last I rose and looked at the clock, and bade my father goodnight. Tilling offered to take me downstairs.

“I fear I have offended you, Countess,” he said, lifting me in my carriage.

“On my honour, no.”

He pressed my hand hard to his lips, “When may I call?”

“On Saturday——”

“That means not at all.” He bowed and stepped back.

I wanted to speak again, but the carriage door was shut. I should have liked to cry tears of spite like a vexed child, to think I had been so cold to one whose warm sympathy I had so enjoyed. Oh, that hateful princess! Was it jealousy? Then it dawned on me with a burst of astonishment—I was in love with Tilling! “In love, love, love,” answered the carriage wheels. “You are in love,” the street lamps flashed at me. “You love him,” breathed the scent of my glove, as I pressed the spot he kissed to my lips.

Next day in the red book I denied it all. I enjoyed a sympathetic clever man, but that is far from falling in love. I would meet him the next time quite calmly, and find pleasure in conversing with him. How could I have been so disturbed yesterday? To-day I could laugh at my silliness.

The same day I called on my girlhood friend, Lori Griesbach, from whose letter I read the news of my husband’s death. Through our children we had much in common, and saw each other almost daily, and, in spite of many differences in our nature, we were real friends. Our two boys were the same age, and her little daughter Beatrix, ten months old, we had playfully destined should be some day the Countess Rudolf Dotzky. The conversation ran on dress, our children and acquaintances, the latest English novel, and the like.

As we chatted, I ventured to ask if she knew what the gossips had said about Tilling and the princess.

“Everybody knows there is nothing to it. Why, have you any interest in Tilling? Dear Martha, you are blushing. It is no use shaking your head. Come, confess. How happy I would be to see you in love once more. But Tilling is no match for you. He has nothing, and is too old. Ah, shall we ever forget that sad hour when you read my letter? War is a cruel business for some, and others find it excellent. My husband wishes for nothing more ardently than that he may distinguish himself.”

“Or be crippled or shot dead.”

“Oh, that only happens when it is one’s destiny. Your destiny, my dear, was to be a young widow.”

“And the war with Italy had to be to bring it about,” I added.

“And I hope it may be my destiny to be the wife of a brilliant young general,” said Lori, laughingly.

“So another war must break out that your husband may be quickly promoted, as though that were the simple and only purpose of the government of the world.”

The conversation changed to pure gossip, of Cousin Conrad Althaus and his devotion to Lilli; of the latest marriage; the last new English novel, Jane Eyre; of the misdeeds of Lori’s French nurse; of the trouble of changing servants, and all the usual chatter of idle ladies.

“Now, my dear,” I broke in, “I must really go, for I have other calls which I cannot put off.” At another time I could have been entertained for hours with the tittle-tattle. But to-day my mind was elsewhere. Once more in my carriage, I realised that again there was a change in me, for even the wheels took up the refrain: Ah, Tilling, Frederick Tilling!

When should I see him again? was my one thought, for in vain I went nightly to the theatre, and from there to parties with the one hope. My reception day failed to bring him. Had I offended him? What would I do? I was all on fire to see him again. Oh, for another hour’s talk with him! How I would make amends for my rudeness! The delight of such a conversation would be increased a hundred fold, for I was now willing to confess what was becoming more than plain to me, that I loved him.

The following Saturday brought Tilling’s cousin for a call, and her appearance made my heart beat. Would she tell me of him who so constantly filled my thought? I could not ask her directly. To speak his name would betray me, for I even flushed at the thought. We talked of indifferent things, even the weather, and the one name that lay most at my heart I would not mention.

At last, without warning, she said, “Oh, Martha, I have a message for you. My cousin Frederick went away day before yesterday, and begs to be remembered to you.”

The blood left my face, and I gasped: “Went away? Where? Is his regiment moved?”

“No; he has hurried to Berlin to his mother’s death-bed. He adores her, poor fellow, and I pity him.”

Two days afterwards I received a letter from Berlin in an unknown hand. Without reading it I knew it was from him:—

My dear Countess—I must tell my sorrow to some one, yet ask myself why do I turn to you? I have no right to do so, but do so by irresistible impulse. You will feel with me, I am sure of that.

Had you known my mother, how you would have loved her! And now this tender heart, this fine mind, and charming disposition, must we put it into the grave—for there is no ray of hope. Day and night I am at her bed—and this is her last night. Such suffering, though now she is quiet, poor darling mother. Her senses are numb and her heartbeat is almost finished. Her sister and the physician are here with me.

How terrible is death and separation! It comes, but how we resist it when it would snatch a loved one away. What my mother means to me I can never tell you. She knows she is dying.

This morning she received me with an exclamation of joy when I arrived: “Is it you? Do I see once more my own Fritz? I feared you would be too late.”

“You will get well again, mother,” I cried.

“No, no, there is no hope for that, my dear son. Let us not waste our last hours in meaningless words. Let this be our good-bye visit.” I fell at her side sobbing. “You are crying, my son, I will not tell you to stop, for it should grieve you to part with your best friend, and I am sure I shall never be forgotten by you. Remember, also, that you have made my life very happy. Except your small childish sickness, or the dread that I might lose you during the time of war, you have given me nothing but the keenest happiness; you have shared all my burdens with me, and for this I bless you, my darling son.”

Another attack came on, and her groans of pain almost crushed my heart. Oh, this last frightful enemy, death! I remembered the sights of agonized sufferers on the battle-field and in hospitals! When I reflect that we soldiers sometimes joyously drive others on to death, that we urge full-blooded eager young men on to sacrifice themselves willingly to this terrible enemy, against whom even the weak and broken-down old people fight so bitterly—is it not revolting?

This night is frightfully long. If only sleep might quiet her. But there she lies, with her lids parted, suffering. Every half-hour I bend over her motionless, then I come away to write a few more lines to you, and then I go to her again. It strikes four, and one shivers at the unfeeling strides of time as it unrelentingly presses on to eternity, and at this very moment for this one passionately loved mother time must cease—for all eternity. But as the cold, outer world turns dull to our pain, so much the more longingly do we seek to fly to another human heart which we trust and hope may feel some unison of feeling. And so this white sheet attracted me, and therefore I wrote this letter to you.

Seven o’clock in the morning. It is over. Her last words were, “Farewell, my dear boy.” Then she closed her eyes and slept. Sleep soundly, darling mother. In grief I kiss your dear hands.—Yours in deepest sorrow,

I have this letter still. Frayed and faded the pages are now. For twenty-five years it has withstood my kisses and tears. It was sent “in deepest sorrow”; I received it “shouting with joy,” for though there was not a single word of love in it, yet where was a plainer proof that the writer loved me than that he should turn to me at his mother’s death-bed, to pour out his grief? In answer I sent a wreath of a hundred white camellias enfolding a single half-blown red rose—the scentless white flowers for the departed, and the glowing blossom—that was for him.