Lay Down Your Arms 61

Lay Down Your Arms 61

You, my poor, brave fellows, dead, and what for? No, we have not

conquered. My Venice--lost. So much lost--ah, so much! and your young

lives too. And you gave them so devotedly--for me. Oh, if I could give

them back to you! I, for my part, never desired the sacrifice; it was

for you, for your country, that you, the children of my country, were

led forth to this war! And not by my means; no, not though it was at my

order, for was I not _compelled_ to give the order? The subjects do not

exist for my sake. No, I was called to the throne for their sakes, and

any hour have I been ready to die for the weal of my people. Oh, had I

followed the impulse of my heart, and never said “Yes,” when all around

me were shouting “War!” “War!” Still, could I have resisted them? God is

my witness that I could not. What impelled me, what forced me, at this

moment, I do not know exactly, only so much I know, that it was an

irresistible pressure from without, from yourselves, ye dead soldiers!

Oh, how mournful, mournful, mournful! How I have suffered for it all!

and now you are lying here, and on other battlefields, snatched away by

grape-shot and sabre-cuts, by cholera and typhus! Oh, if I had said

“No!” You begged me to do so, Elizabeth. Oh, if I had said it! The

thought is intolerable that---- Oh, it is a miserable, imperfect

world--too much, too much of woe!

 

During the whole time that I was thinking thus for him, I fastened my

eyes on his features, and now--yes, just as I came to “too much--too

much of woe”--now he covered his face with both hands, and broke out

into a hot flood of tears.

 

So passed All Souls’ Day on the battlefield of Sadowa.

 

* * * * *

 

We found the city of Berlin in the height of jubilation. Every

counter-jumper and every street-loafer bore on his countenance a certain

consciousness of victory. “We have given the fellows there a good

licking.” That appears anyhow to be a very elevating feeling, and one

which may be spread over the whole population. Still, in the families

which we visited, we found many people deeply cast down, those, that is

to say, who had one never to be forgotten lying dead on the German or

Bohemian battlefields. For my own part, I feared most the meeting with

Aunt Cornelia again. I knew that her handsome son Godfrey was her idol,

her all, and I could judge of the pang which the poor bereaved mother

must now be experiencing. I had only to fancy to myself that my Rudolf,

if I had brought him up to manhood--no, that thought I absolutely

refused to think out.

 

Our visit was announced. With a beating heart I entered Fr. v. Tessow’s

house. Even in the ante-chamber, the mourning which reigned in the house

was perceptible. The footman who opened the door for us wore a black

livery; in the great reception-room, the chairs of which were covered

over with chair covers, there was no fire lighted; and the mirrors and

pictures on the walls were all covered with crape. From hence, the door

into Aunt Cornelia’s bedroom was opened for us, and she received us

there. It was a very large room, divided into two by a curtain, behind

which the bed stood; and it served Aunt Cornelia now as her regular

reception-room. She no longer quitted the house at all, except every

Sunday to go to the cathedral, and very seldom her room, except for one

hour every day, which she spent in what had been Godfrey’s study. In

this everything was left standing or lying as he had left it on the day

of his departure. She took us into it, in the course of our visit, and

made us read a letter, which he had laid on his portfolio.

 

“My own dear Mother,--I know well that you will come here after my

departure, and then you will find this letter. My personal

departure is over. So much the more will it please and surprise you

to find one _more_ line, to hear one more last word from me, and

indeed a joyful, hopeful one. Be of good cheer. I shall come back

again. Two hearts, that hang together so entirely as ours do, fate

will not tear asunder. I have settled that I am now going to serve

through a fortunate campaign, gain stars and crosses, and then make

you a grandmother six times over. I kiss your hand, I kiss your

dear soft forehead, O you most adored of all little mothers.”

 

“YOUR GODFREY.”

 

 

 

When we went into Aunt Cornelia’s room, she was not alone. A gentleman

in a long black coat, recognisable at the first glance as a clergyman,

was sitting opposite to her.

 

She got up and came to meet us. The clergyman rose at the same time from

his seat, but remained standing in the background.

 

What I expected occurred. When I embraced the old lady both of us, she

and I, broke out into loud sobs. Frederick also did not remain dry-eyed

as he pressed the mourner to his heart. In this first minute no word at

all was spoken. All that one can say at such a moment, at one’s first

meeting after a severe misfortune, is sufficiently expressed by tears.

 

She led us back to the place where they were sitting, and pointed us to

chairs that stood there. Then, after drying her eyes, she made the

introduction.

 

“My nephew, Colonel Baron Tilling--Herr Mölser, head military chaplain

and consistorial councillor.”

 

Silent bows were exchanged.

 

“My friend and spiritual adviser,” she proceeded, “who has allowed me to

lay on him the burden of instructing me in my trouble.”

 

“But who unfortunately has not succeeded in instilling into you the

proper resignation, the proper joy in bearing the cross, my valued

friend,” said he. “Why is it that I have always to witness a fresh

outburst of these very foolish tears?”

 

“Oh, forgive me! When I last saw my nephew with his sweet young wife, my

Godfrey was there.”

 

She could speak no further.

 

“Your son was there, in this sinful world, still exposed to all

temptations and dangers, while now he has gone into the bosom of the

Father, after meeting with the most glorious and most blessed of deaths

for king and country.

 

“You, colonel,” turning now to my husband, “who have just been

introduced to me as a soldier, can assist me to give to this afflicted

mother the consolation that her son’s fate is an enviable one. You must

know what delight in death animates the brave warrior; the resolve to

offer his life as a sacrifice on the altar of his country glorifies for

him all the pain of departing this life; and, though he sinks in the

storm of the battle amidst the thunder of the artillery, yet he expects

to be transferred to the great army on high, and to be present when the

Lord of Sabaoth holds muster above. You, colonel, have come back in the

number of those to whom Divine Providence has granted a righteous

victory.”

 

“Forgive me, reverend consistorial councillor, I was in the Austrian

service.”

 

“Oh, I thought---- Oh, really,” replied the other quite confused. “A

grand, brave army too is the Austrian.” He rose. “But I will not

intrude longer. You will be wishing, doubtless, to talk of family

matters. Farewell, dear lady; in a few days I will come again. Till

then, raise your thoughts to the All-merciful, without whose will not a

hair falls from our heads, and who causes all things to serve for the

good of those that love Him--even sorrow and suffering, even privation

and death. I salute you with all devotion.”

 

My aunt shook his hand.

 

“I hope I shall see you soon. Very soon, pray.”

 

He bowed to us all, and was stepping towards the door when Frederick

detained him.

 

“Reverend consistorial councillor, may I ask you a favour?”

 

“Pray, tell me what it is, colonel?”

 

“I conclude from your conversation that you are penetrated equally by

the religious and the military spirit. In that case you might do me a

great pleasure.”

 

I listened with interest. What could Frederick mean?

 

“The fact is,” he continued, “that my little wife here is full of

scruples and doubts of all sorts. Her opinion is that, from a Christian

point of view, war is not quite permissible. I, of course, know to the

contrary, for there is no alliance closer than that between the

professions of priest and soldier, but I have not the eloquence to make

this clear to my wife. Would you then, reverend consistorial councillor,

so far favour us as to give us, to-morrow or next day, an hour of your

conversation, with the view----”

 

“Oh, with great pleasure,” the clergyman said, interrupting him. “Will

you give me your address?”

 

Frederick gave him his card, and the day and hour of the visit he asked

for were fixed at once. Then we remained alone with our aunt.

 

“Does your intercourse with this friend really afford you consolation?”

asked Frederick.

 

“Consolation? There is no consolation for me any more here below. But he

speaks so much and so beautifully about the things which I like most to

hear of--about death and mourning, about the cross and sacrifice and

resignation--he paints the world which my poor Godfrey had to leave, and

from which I long to be released, as such a vale of misery, of

corruption, of sin, and of advancing ruin.... And so it seems to me a

little less mournful that my child has been called away. He is assuredly

in heaven, and here on this earth----”

 

“The powers of hell often prevail. That is true. I have again seen proof

of that close to me,” replied Frederick thoughtfully.

 

The poor lady next questioned him about the two campaigns that he had

passed through--the one with, the other against, Godfrey. He had to

relate hundreds of details, and in doing so he was able to give the

bereaved mother the same comfort that he once brought me back from the

war in Italy, namely, that the lamented one had died a rapid and

painless death. It was a long and a mournful visit. I also again

recounted there all the details of the horrible cholera week, and my

experiences on the Bohemian battlefields. Before we left, Aunt Cornelia

took us into Godfrey’s room, where I wept bitter tears anew at the

perusal of the letter which I have quoted above, and of which at a later

period I begged a copy.

 

* * * * *

 

“Now explain to me,” I said to Frederick, as we got into our carriage,

which was in waiting in front of Aunt Cornelia’s villa, “why you asked the consistorial councillor----”