Chapter IV

Conrad and Lilli—Easter ceremonies—Tilling again—A visit and
interview—Disappointments and apprehensions—A conversation about
warfare—At last, an understanding.

Three weeks had passed. Poor Conrad Althaus had proposed and been rejected by Lilli. But his courage remained undaunted, and he visited us as before.

Expressing my surprise at his loyalty, I said, “It delights me that you are not offended, and it proves that you are not so serious, for despised love often turns into resentment!”

“You mistake me, dear cousin; I love Lilli to distraction. First I thought it was you whom I cared for, then Rosa, but now I am certain it is and always will remain Lilli.”

“That sounds very likely. What if she will not marry you?”

“I am not the first man a girl has married to get rid of him. By-and-by she will realise how faithful and worthy I am, and that will touch her. You will be my sister-in-law yet, Martha, and I am sure you will speak for me.”

“I certainly approve of you, and that is the way a woman should be won. Our modern young men find it too much trouble to strive and win happiness; they wish to pick it up without struggle, as they snatch a way-side posy.”

Tilling had been back in Vienna for a fortnight without a sign to me. I know I appeared depressed, and could not blame Aunt Marie for reproaching me for my low spirits. She blamed my solitary existence, and urged upon me matrimony and devotions. “You have quite forgotten it is Easter,” she said.

“My dear Aunt, I think that both marrying and going to confession should be done from the heart, and not for a remedy for depressed spirits.”

“Have you tickets to see the foot-washing?” she said presently.

“Papa brought me some, but I do not really care to go.”

“Oh, but you should go. There is really nothing quite so touching as this ceremony—the exemplification of Christian meekness. Think of it—the Emperor and Empress, in stooping to wash the feet of these poor old folks, show us how small and meaningless is earthly greatness compared with the majesty of God.”

“To symbolise humility by kneeling one must feel oneself very exalted. This ceremony only tells this—‘As Jesus is in comparison with the humble apostles so am I, the Emperor, in comparison with these paupers.’ Does that express meekness?”

“What strange ideas you have, Martha. For three years in the country you have read such wicked books that your ideas have all become warped.”

“Wicked books!”

“The other day I innocently mentioned _The Life of Jesus_ by Strauss, which I saw on your table, to the Archbishop. ‘Merciful Heavens,’ he cried, ‘how did you get hold of such a vicious work?’ When I told him that I had seen it at the house of a relative, he exclaimed, ‘As she values her soul let her throw the book into the flames.’ Do, Martha, do burn the book!”

“Two hundred years ago would probably have seen not only the book but the author thrown into the fire. That might have wiped it out—but not for long.”

“Give me your answer. Will you burn the book?”

“Why discuss it, dear Aunt? We cannot understand each other in these matters. Let me tell you what Rudolf did yesterday”; and the conversation turned easily on her favourite subject, where we never differed, for in our judgment Rudolf was surely the most original, dearest, and capable child in the world.

Next day, shortly after ten, dressed in black, we all went to the palace to witness the great ceremony of foot-washing. Our places were reserved among the members of the aristocracy and diplomatic corps. We found ourselves exchanging greeting right and left. The galleries were filled with a mixed crowd, but we felt quite distinctly superior to them as we witnessed this festival which was to stir us with humility.

Perhaps the rest were in a more religious mood, but to me the scene was no more than a mere theatre spectacle. There we were, exchanging salutations, as if from our boxes we were waiting for the curtain. The long table was set expecting the twelve old men and twelve old women who were to have their feet washed by their Majesties.

Suddenly, my eye fell upon Tilling. He was directly opposite us among the general’s staff, but he did not see me, and just then the twenty-four old people had taken their places. They were clad in old German costume, wrinkled, toothless, bent, fitting admirably this ceremony of the middle ages. We were the anachronism, and our modern makeup did not harmonise with the picture.

I was watching the face of Tilling, which showed traces of suffering and deep melancholy. How I longed to give him a sympathetic touch of the hand. And while the spectators sat breathless, awaiting the coming of the grandees of the court, he by chance looked my way and recognised me.

“Martha, are you ill?” asked Rosa, laying her hand on my arm. “You have turned pale and red in the same moment. Look! Now! Now!”

The chief master of ceremonies gave the signal announcing the approach of the Imperial pair—certainly the handsomest couple on the continent. After them streamed in the archdukes and archduchesses, and the ceremony was to begin. The stewards brought in dishes of food, which the royal pair placed before the old people, making it more of a picture than ever—the attire, the utensils, and the processional giving it the festal aspect of an old Renaissance painting.

Scarcely were the dishes set on the table than they were removed again—by the archdukes, who were supposed also to need a lesson in humility. Then the tables were carried out, and the climax-scene of the foot-washing began. The washing as well as the eating was mere pantomime. The Emperor appeared to stroke the feet of each old man with a towel, after the officiating priest had made a show of pouring water over them. Stooping, he glided from the first to the twelfth. The Empress proceeded with the old women in the same way, losing none of her accustomed grace through the stooping attitude.

I was asking myself what could be the state of mind of these old people from their point of view, as they sat in the bewildering company in quaint costumes, with their Majesties at their feet. It must have been like a half-realised dream, half-pain, half-pleasure, confusing their poor heads already so full of the stupor of old age. Perhaps the newness and solemnity brought a complete suspension of thought to their minds. The thing that stood out most clearly, no doubt, was the red silk purse with thirty pieces of silver which their Majesties hung about each neck, and the basket of food they were allowed to take home.

The ceremony over, the greetings, gossip, and polite interchange of compliments began. But my only thought was, “Will he be waiting outside for me?” At last we got to the gate, and there he stood before me with a bow. As he thanked me for the wreath I had sent to Berlin, he took my hand and helped me to my carriage. The words came hard, but with a great strain, I managed to say, “On Sunday, between two and three.” Another bow and we were gone.

My little red book revealed my excited anticipations, my most extravagant apprehensions that the meeting would reveal our mutual devotion. While I was writing the bell rang and I recorded myself as palpitating and trembling, for the last line was illegible.

He came. He was very reserved and cold, begged my pardon for having written from Berlin, and said he hoped I would forgive his breach of etiquette since he was so unnerved by his sorrow. He related something of his mother’s life and last days, but not a word of what I was looking for, and I became very strained and cold in my manner. When he rose to go, I did not detain him or ask him to come again—a wretched half-hour.

I rushed to the open red book: “It is all over. I have shamefully deceived myself.” I argued that he would never come again. Yet the world held no second man. Rudolf must now be my sole consolation—would he love me some day as this man had loved his mother? Oh, it is a foolish habit this diary-writing. What proof it gives one of human fickleness!

A heavenly Easter Monday found “all Vienna” on the usual drive in the Prater. The brilliant, dashing corso contrasted sadly with my depressed spirits. Yet I hugged this very sorrow, for was not my heart empty two months ago, where now it had at least something to feed upon? A quick glimpse of Tilling down the drive, a bow and salute in passing, which I returned warmly, again roused my anticipations.

Some days later, when other guests were calling, Tilling was announced. I almost cried out with surprise and delight, but checked myself, and as he sat opposite me he calmly announced that he expected to leave Vienna for a post in Hungary.

“What has our poor Vienna done that you leave it?” I asked with an effort.

“Its gaiety jars on me. I am more in a mood for solitude.”

“A jolly, rattling war would be the best thing to shake that out of you, my dear Tilling,” said my father. “But, alas! there is no such cheerful prospect. This peace threatens to last.”

“I protest against the idea that military men should desire war. We are here to defend our country, just as the fire department is here to put out fires, not to wish for them. Both war and fire are afflictions which we do not care to bring upon our fellows. Peace alone is good. It is the absence of the greatest evil. It is the only condition of welfare for humanity. Has the army, from motives of pure personal ambition, a right to desire that the greatest misery and suffering should fall upon the rest? To carry on war that the army may be kept busy and its officers promoted, would be like setting fire to our cities in order that the fire brigade may distinguish themselves.”

Silently I seconded the speaker.

“Your comparison is a poor one,” replied my father. “Fires only destroy, while wars build up the glory and power of a people. How otherwise could a nation extend its territory except through conquest. Personal promotion is not the gallant soldier’s only ambition. It is pride in his race and country that leads him to desire war—in one word, Patriotism.”

“Oh, this mistaken love of country!” cried Tilling. “The soldier is not the only one who learns to love the soil upon which he has taken root. That is a passion common to all. For my part, there are other ways than violence to express it. We should be proud of our poets rather than our commanding generals.”

“How dare you compare a poet and a soldier?” exclaimed my father.

“I ask the same question. Is not the bloodless crown the better and finer?”

“But,” expostulated Aunt Marie, “how can a soldier speak so? What would become of the warlike spirit?”

“At nineteen,” answered Tilling, “I was filled with it. After I had seen the realities, the butchery and bestialities of war, my soul was sickened, and every later campaign I entered with resignation and disgust rather than enthusiasm.”

“Hear me, Tilling,” said my father. “I have been through more campaigns than you, and have witnessed as much of the horror of war, but I never lost my ardour, and went in to the last as an old man with the same zeal as into the first.”

“Pardon me, Excellency, the older generation to which you belong had a more warlike and martial enthusiasm than now exists. The feelings of humanity as a whole have changed. The desire to abolish misery is growing in ever-widening circles, and permeates all society. That spirit in your day had not yet been born.”

“What is the use?” retorted my father. “Misery will always be. Neither that nor war can be abolished.”

“Pardon me, Count Althaus,” said Tilling. “Resignation to all forms of evil was the spirit of the past. As soon as the heart questions, ‘Is it necessary?’ that heart can no longer endure resignation and must make right the wrong as a sort of expiation. This sense of repentance has become universal enough to be called the _conscience of the age_.”

My father raised his shoulders, “That is too deep for me. I only know that we old grandfathers look back on our campaigns with a thrill of pleasure. And, in fact, the very youngest soldier, if asked to-day whether he would like to go to war, would surely answer, ‘Willingly—even joyfully!’”

“The boys, of course,” answered Tilling. “They have still the school-drilled enthusiasm for war in them. And the old soldier, of course, would answer ‘Willingly,’ for he must live up to the popular conception of the courageous. If he said honestly, ‘Unwillingly,’ it would only pass for fear.”

“Why, I certainly should be afraid,” said Lilli, with a little shudder. “Think how terrible it must be to have bullets flying on all sides and death threatening you any instant!”

“What you say seems quite natural from a young lady’s lips,” replied Tilling. “But soldiers must repress their instincts of self-preservation as well as their compassion for both friend and foe. Next to cowardice, it is most disgraceful for us to have sentiments or emotions.”

“Only in war times,” said my father, “for in private life, thank God, we also have hearts.”

“Yes, I know. With a sort of children’s sleight-of-hand, we say of every horror when war is on, ‘That goes for nothing.’ Murder is no longer murder. Robbery is no longer robbery, but provisioning. Burning cities are so many ‘positions taken.’ For every broken law of morality, humanity, and decency, as long as the war-game lasts, we snap our fingers and by hocus-pocus transform it into nothing. But when this inordinate war-gambling lifts from the conscience for a moment, and one comprehends the actual depravity of the thing—that wholesale crime has meant nothing—then the human mind can only wish to be delivered from the intolerable depths—even by death.”

“Really,” said Aunt Marie reflectively, “commandments like, ‘Thou shalt not murder,’ ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ ‘Love thy neighbour,’ ‘Forgive thy enemies——’”

“Go for nothing, too,” repeated Tilling. “For those whose calling it is to teach these commandments are the very ones who call down the blessing of heaven on our murderous instruments and work.”

“And justly,” said my father. “For the God of the Bible is the God of Battles, the Lord of Hosts, who commands us to draw the sword. It is He——”

“Men always decree what they wish as the will of God,” said Tilling. “Even the divine law is waved aside when men begin the great game of hatred. The heavenly law of love goes for nothing when men find it convenient so to interpret the God whom they have set up before them. But forgive me, Countess; I have opened a wearisome discussion when I only came to say good-bye.”

Dearer to me than ever because of the storm of feeling and thrilling emotions he had set in action in my mind, how could I let him go, perhaps never to meet again? With a cold farewell before all these people—it must not end so. Had he gone and closed the door, I should have burst into sobs.

Quietly rising, I said, “I must show you that photograph of which we spoke,” and Tilling, very much surprised, followed me to a table at some distance.

“I cannot let you go—I must speak to you.”

“As you will, Countess. I am listening.”

“Not now. Come to-morrow at this hour.”

He hesitated.

“I insist. By the memory of your mother, for whom I mourned with you.”

“O Martha!”

The word thrilled me with a flash. It was agreed, and, bowing to the company, he kissed my hand and left.

With what impatience, anticipation, and even anxiety I looked forward to the coming visit! Would he ask me what I wished to say, and would I need to tell him of my love? Would he cross-examine me, and would my pride stand between, and must we part after all? As I was thinking thus he was announced.

“By your command, dear Countess,” he said. “I am happy that you invited me in the name of my mother, and I must speak from the heart. I——”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“I find it harder than I thought to speak out.”

“Where is the confidence you gave me when watching at the death-bed? Have you not the same faith in me now?”

“In that terrible hour I was beside myself. I overstepped my right, and for fear I might do it again, I planned to go away.”

“You wish to avoid me? And why?”

“Why? Why? Because—because I adore you.”

My emotions turned my head away. Tilling also stood dumb. At last I broke the silence:—

“And that is why you are planning to leave?”

“That is the reason.”

“Can the plan be recalled?”

“The transfer is not yet ordered.”

“Then stay!”

He seized my hand—gasping, “Martha!”

In the same instant my father rushed in.

“Are you at home? The footman said you were not.” My father glared at Tilling. “Good-day. After last night’s farewell I am surprised to see you. Martha, there is a family matter I must see you about.”

Tilling arose. “When can I see you again?” he asked in an undertone, taking leave.

I whispered, “To-morrow, in the Prater at nine on horseback.”

With a bow to my father, who responded stiffly, he left the room.

“What is this family affair, father?”

“It is this very thing. I only scared your lover away in order to tell you what I think of him. How dare you trifle with the family name and your reputation in this way?”

“Father, my reputation and honour are guarded by my little son. As an independent widow I have outgrown your authority. I tolerate no lovers, but if I choose to marry after the dictates of my heart who shall hinder?”

“Marry Tilling!” he shouted. “Are you mad? It would be a family calamity.”

“Why, father, you yourself have been offering me a brevet-captain, a captain, a major—while this man is in the rank of lieutenant-colonel.”

“The worse for that, with such treasonable opinions as he expressed yesterday. He wants to resign, I guess, and is hunting a rich widow? And would you stoop to such a man, you who are the daughter of a proud soldier who fought in four wars, longing to enlist again, and you the widow of a brave warrior who made glorious the field of battle by his sacrifice?”

My father was pacing the floor, red-faced, and his voice trembling with excitement. I was moved to the quick by these contemptuous words in attack of the man of my heart. But no words of mine could defend the injustice; Tilling’s ethical position my father was incapable of understanding, so I remained dumb. My father’s disapproval might trouble me, but I felt I was free to accept the great happiness which lay open before me. Enough joy had come to me in that short hour to swallow any vexation.