Chapter V

The Prussians at Grumitz—Otto gets into trouble—A dinner with friend
and foe—Rosa and Prince Henry are engaged—The Prussians leave and
cholera breaks out in our midst—Servants are the first victims,
then sisters—The lover’s suicide—The only son dies, father follows
him, cursing war.

The Prussian troops were quartered everywhere about Grumitz, and the villagers were possessed with terror of the hated enemy, whose name became the synonym of every evil, and when the quartermaster approached to arrange quarters for his men they trembled as if the wolves were upon them. An occasional patriot sent a rifle bullet from some place of hiding after the foe, and his quick execution forced the villagers to suppress their hatred. Much to the surprise of the villagers, when they quartered the soldiers, they found the “enemy” was usually a very good-natured friendly lot, who punctually paid their bills.

I was sitting one morning near a big window in the library, which gave a wide view over the surrounding country. A troop of horsemen suddenly came in sight. “Prussians coming for quarters,” I thought. Seizing the glass, I saw a group of possibly ten surrounding what appeared to be a hunter. If the prisoner had fired upon them there was little hope for him. I ran to the library and called my aunt and father.

“The Prussians, the Prussians!” I exclaimed breathlessly.

“The devil take them,” my father exclaimed, while Aunt Marie rushed to make final preparations for the enemy, whom for several days she had expected.

“Where is Otto?” I asked. “We must warn him from speaking out his hatred of Prussia.”

“Otto went out early to hunt birds. And how fine the youngster did look in his new hunting-suit. How proud I was of him.”

The house was suddenly all in an uproar of loud voices and hasty steps. Franz the footman, pale with terror, flew into the room, and as though he were shouting “Fire!” called out “The Prussians, the Prussians, and, your Excellency, they have a prisoner—your son—who is said to have fired on them.”

My father, with an exclamation of alarm, hurried down the steps. His heart stood still. The situation before us was terrible; I dared not think of the conclusion. But it was soon all over, for father returned with Otto with the explanation that in crossing the field he had stumbled and accidentally discharged his rifle. They had seized him, but learning who he was, had brought him to the house, and had accepted his explanation.

“It would be impossible for an honourable soldier, and the son of a soldier, to act like an assassin,” they said, as they released him.

Later, I asked Otto if he was really innocent.

He answered, “I hope in the future to have plenty of opportunities to shoot a few of them, but never would I be guilty without offering my own breast to their bullets.”

“Bravo, my boy,” cried my father. But I did not share the enthusiasm. Words which tossed about and cheapened human life so boastfully had a most repellent sound to me.

We had as our self-invited guests two colonels and six subordinate officers, and with the cellar full of provisions, and comfortable beds, they were treated with every courtesy given to friends.

The Prussians bore distinguished names, and among them was a Prince Henry of the house of Ruess. Our enemies seemed to be very courtly gentlemen, with the most approved conventional manners of the best society. It is true that in these days we do not war with Huns and Vandals, but it is slightly hard to realise that the other side can possibly stand for the same civilisation as our own.

“O God, thou who protectest those who trust in Thee, hear us as we pray for Thy gracious mercy. Protect us from the rage of our enemies, that we may praise Thee to all eternity.”

The priest in Grumitz prayed thus daily. Certainly these elegant, gentlemanly fellows could hardly be considered as raging enemies as they took the ladies in to dinner. Perhaps God had this time listened to the prayers of the other side, and had protected them from our “rage”—or perhaps it was the needle-guns which had done it. At any rate it was a queer pious jumble to me. As we chatted with the stately colonel and the tall lieutenant, mention of war was shunned with the greatest caution on both sides. The strangers were treated as though they were guests travelling for pleasure, and the real state of things was never hinted at—that they were quartered with us as conquerors.

The gentlemen enjoyed the soft summer moonlight on the terraces—the same moonlight which so lately had lighted up the mouldering corpses against the churchyard wall. And under this soft light the Prussian Prince Henry lost his heart to our beautiful Rosa; and to our astonishment my father made no objection, so the engagement was announced to the family.

I had believed that my father’s hatred of the Prussians would make it impossible for him to accept one as a son-in-law, but he separated altogether the individual from the nation. We often hear people protest: “I hate them as a nation, not as individuals.” This is quite as sensible as if one were to say: “I hate wine as a drink, but the drops I swallow with pleasure.” But popular sayings are not expected to be rational.

Perhaps the possibility of an alliance for his daughter with a princely house flattered my father, at any rate he said yes with apparent pleasure.

But Otto rebelled at the idea: “How would it be should war break out again, and I were obliged to chase my brother-in-law out of the country?” However, he was soon converted to the famous theory of the difference between nations and individuals. I confess I never could understand it.

* * * * *

How quickly happy surroundings swallow up misery, and how soon are catastrophes forgotten! Gradually the pictures of terrors which I had experienced in the few previous weeks faded from my thought. I realised this and my conscience pricked me at times when the laments of the villagers reached us. Many had lost their worldly goods, others their friends; reports came of financial troubles, and it was even rumoured that the cholera had shown itself among the Prussian troops. One case had also occurred in our village, but we comforted ourselves that it was of no consequence.

“Do you realise, Martha,” Rosa said to me one day, “what a blessed thing this war has been to me—though I know it is something terrible. I should never have been so happy and met Henry, and he—where would he have found such a love as mine?”

“I wish I might think it with you, Rosa, and believe that your two happy hearts might outweigh the many thousands of broken ones.”

“Oh, we must not think of the individual losses when the war brings such great gain to the conquerors and the whole nation. You should listen to Henry. He says the Prussians have won a grand result, and the entire army is enthusiastic for its generals. This victory has done so much for German civilisation and commerce. He says the prosperity of Germany—I forget the word—its historical mission—but you should hear him talk about it.”

“I should think he would have other matters than politics to talk with you.”

“Oh, he does talk about everything, and I sympathise with it all and am so proud and happy that he has played such a glorious part in this war for his King and country.”

“And carries you off as his booty,” I replied.

The future son-in-law quite suited my father, and certainly he was a fine young fellow. He gave him his blessing with all manner of protests.

“My dear Ruess, you suit me exactly as a man, as a soldier, and as a prince”—this he repeated in manifold expressions—“but as a Prussian officer, I maintain the right—family matters aside—to wish that Austria may fully revenge herself for this victory which you have snatched from her. Separating politics from personal questions, I hope I may live to see my son take the field against Prussia. Old as I am I would be willing to accept a command to fight William I. and humble the arrogant Bismarck. I acknowledge the military readiness of the Prussian army and its strategic leaders, and would think it quite a matter of course if in the next campaign your own battalion were compelled to storm our capital city, and even burn down your father-in-law’s house, in short——”

I interrupted: “In short, your confusion of sentiments is frightful—your inconsistencies are as intermingled as are the infusoria in a drop of putrid water. You fill one with repugnance through your paradoxical conceptions—to hate the whole and love its parts; to think one way as a citizen and the opposite as a man. No, let us have it the one way or the other. I prefer the savage Indian’s way. He never thought of anybody as an individual, but wanted the scalp of every member of the other tribe.”

“Martha, my daughter, do not give vent to such savage sentiments, they are quite unsuitable to the times, which have grown so refined and humane.”

“Rather say that our boasted civilisation is a lie upon our inherited barbarisms. What right have we to claim to be humane until we cast off the savage custom of making war? Do you call your speech to Prince Henry sensible where you assure him that you love him as a son-in-law and hate him as a Prussian; value him highly as a man and detest him as a lieutenant-colonel; that you bless him as a father and in the same breath grant he has the right to fire upon you if necessary? Forgive me, father, but can you talk thus and call it common sense?”

“What did you say? I did not catch a word.” The convenient deafness had come on again at the right moment.

* * * * *

After a few days the guests departed, and all was quiet again at Grumitz.

The marriage of my two sisters had been postponed until October. Prince Henry planned to quit the service, having earned sufficient honours in the glorious campaign. He would retire on his laurels and on his estates.

The two pairs of lovers parted painfully but joyfully, content in the certainty of their future happiness.

Certain happiness? There is in reality no such thing, least of all in times of war, for then misfortunes swarm thick as gnats, and the chance that one may be standing on the spot which may be spared the descending scourge is at best a small one.

True, the war was over and peace concluded. A word had been enough to let loose all the terrors of hostility, and a word should also suffice to relieve us from the results. Hostilities were suspended, but what can suspend the persistent consequences? The seed of future war had been sown, and the fruit of the war just closed ripened still further into want, demoralisation, and plague. To stop and think about it was now useless, for the cholera was raging throughout the country.

One morning the Vienna paper, opened at breakfast, brought the following item:—

The cholera death-rate increases. The military and civil hospitals
report many cases of genuine Asiatic cholera. Every measure is taken
to stop its spread.

I was about to read these lines aloud, when Aunt Marie exclaimed, as she read a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood:—

“Dreadful! Betty writes that in their house two persons have died of the cholera, and that her husband is ill.”

“Your Excellence, the schoolmaster wishes to speak to you.”

The teacher entered, looking pale and bewildered.

“Count Althaus, I must report that the school is closed, for yesterday two children were taken ill and to-day they are dead.”

“The cholera!” we cried out.

“There is no doubt. There is great terror in the village, and the doctors who have come from the town say that the horrible disease has taken hold of the entire population.”

We looked round in dismay, pale and speechless. Here, again, was the frightful enemy, Death; and each in turn saw his bony hand stretched over the head of some loved one.

“We must go away!” said Aunt Marie.

“Where?” replied the schoolmaster, “for the disease is spreading everywhere.”

“Across the frontier.”

“Across the frontier——”

“But quarantine will be set up, and you will not be allowed to pass.”

“Oh, how terrible! will they prevent people leaving a region of pestilence?”

“Certainly. Healthy neighbourhoods must protect themselves against infection.”

“Then we will remain and await God’s will,” answered my father with deep emotion. “You, Marie, who believe so strongly in destiny, I cannot understand why you should wish to run away. You say the fate of every one will overtake him. Yet I would rather have you and the children go away. Otto, you must eat no more fruit.”

“I will write to Bresser,” said Frederick, “and have him send us disinfectants.”

* * * * *

What happened immediately after this I cannot tell in detail, for this breakfast scene was the last I found in the red book. I must depend upon my memory for the next few days’ happenings.

Terror possessed us all. The sword of Damocles hung over each head, and is it not a horrible thought to feel that one’s friends and even oneself should be so helplessly and uselessly destroyed? In such a case to stop thinking is the better part of valour.

Flee? The idea possessed me on account of the safety of Rudolf. My father insisted upon the family taking flight, and the following day was decided upon. He meant to remain and face the danger with the villagers. Frederick declared he would remain, and I would not leave his side.

The two girls, Otto, and Rudolf, were to go with Aunt Marie—but whither? That was not settled at once. At first to Hungary—and then farther. The young people busily flew to their preparations and packing. To die just as life was beginning to unfold its happiness to them would be a tenfold death.

The boxes were brought to the dining-room that all might work together. As I brought Rudolf’s clothes in my arms my father demanded, “Why does not the maid do that?”

“I do not know where Netti is hiding. I ring and she does not come.”

He despatched another servant to find her, who in a short time returned with an anxious countenance:

“Netti is in her room. She is—she is——”

“Speak out!” shouted my father, “what is she?”

“She is—already—quite—black.”

A shriek came from every lip. The plague, the horrible plague, was in our very house. What was to be done? Could one leave the poor girl to die alone? But was it not certain death to whoever approached her and those whom this person might afterwards approach? It was as if we were surrounded by murderers or flames, and death grinned at us from every corner and followed every step.

My father ordered the doctor to be fetched immediately. “And you, children, hurry your departure.”

“Oh, I feel so sick!” exclaimed Lilli, turning pale and clutching a chair.

We all sprang toward her. “What ails you?” “Don’t be silly!” “It is only fear.”

We dared not think, but hurried her to her room, and soon she showed most aggravated symptoms of the dread disease. This made the second case of cholera in the castle in one day.

It was terrible to see her suffer and to be unable to help. Frederick did everything possible to relieve her, but nothing availed. When the attack subsided cramps followed, which seemed to make every bone crack, tearing the quivering frame with agony. The poor victim tried to moan but could not—her voice failed, her skin turned cold and blue, and the breathing difficult.

My father strode up and down wringing his hands. Once I stood before him and dared to say: “Father, this is war! Will you not curse it now?” But he shook me off without reply.

After ten hours of suffering, Lilli died. Netti died before, alone in her room, for we were all occupied with Lilli, and no servant would venture to approach one who had “turned black.”

* * * * *

Meanwhile Dr. Bresser had arrived, and took command of the household, bringing with him every known means of relief. I could have kissed his hand.

The two bodies were carried to a distant chamber, and strictest measures of disinfection were taken. The odour of carbolic acid to this day brings back the memory of those terrible days.

The intended flight was a second time set on foot. On the day of Lilli’s death the carriage stood waiting to carry away Aunt Marie, Rosa, Otto, and my son—but the coachman declared himself unable to drive, seized by the invisible destroyer.

“Then I will drive myself,” said my father. “Quick, is everything ready?”

Rosa came forward and said, “Drive on! I must stay and follow Lilli.”

It proved the case. The next sunrise found the second daughter in the vault of death. And in the horror of it all our departure was given up.

In my anguish a sudden scorn seized me for the gigantic folly which had brought on all this misery. When Rosa’s corpse had been carried out my father sank on his knees with his head against the wall.

I seized him by the arm. “Father, this is war!” No answer. “Father, do you hear? Will you at last curse war?”

He sprang to his feet. “You bring me back to my duty as a soldier, I must not forget that my entire fatherland offers its sacrifice of blood and tears.”

“What benefit can come to the fatherland through the suffering and death of its people? What gain through lost battles and the shortening of these young lives? Oh, father, I plead with you—curse war! See from the window the black coffins—they are for Lilli and Rosa, and perhaps there will be a third—and why, why?”

“Because God wills it, my child.”

“God—always God. All that folly and savagery—the wilful sin of man—always hiding under this shield—God’s will!”

“Do not blaspheme, Martha, even while the hand of a reproving God is clearly visible.”

The footman appeared, announcing that the carpenter refused to carry the coffins into the chamber where the dead young countesses lay.

“Then I will see to it myself,” said my father, and he strode to the door.

* * * * *

The post brought nothing but sorrow—news of the ravages of the pest; love-letters that would never be answered—for Prince Henry knew nothing of what had happened. A letter to Conrad announcing Lilli’s sickness brought him four days later to the castle.

“Lilli!” he cried. “Is it true?”

We nodded. He remained quiet, without shedding a tear, and softly said to himself, “I have loved her all these years. I will go to the churchyard. She waits for me.”

He rushed out, and there upon her grave he shot himself.

The war had carried off many an officer, so the tragedy of this indirect death was quite blunted. Besides, this event was swallowed up by a misfortune which sounded the deepest agonies of all our hearts. Otto, the adored and only son, was in the clutch of the destroying angel. All day, all night, with alternating hope and despair, he suffered.

When all was over his father threw himself upon the body with such a piercing shriek that it rang through the house. We had to tear them apart, and for hours and hours the old man poured out his cries of anguish—giving vent to groans and roars, and rattling shrieks of desperation. His son, his Otto, his pride, his all!

After this outbreak he succumbed to a dumb apathy. He lay as one motionless and unconscious, and was put to bed.

When he came to himself, Frederick and I and Aunt Marie were at his bedside. He could not speak, and was struggling for breath. Then he began to shake and toss about, as if in the last symptoms of the cholera, though he had shown no other sign. At last he uttered one word—“Martha.”

I fell on my knees beside him. “Father, my poor, dear father!”

He lifted his hands over my head.

“Your wish—is fulfilled. I curse—I cur——” He sank back. All was over.

“How dreadful,” said Aunt Marie, after we had buried him, “he died with a curse on his lips.”

“Console yourself,” I answered. “If only that curse would fall from every lip—what a blessing to humanity.”

* * * * *

Such was the cholera week at Grumitz. In seven days ten of our group were taken. In the village over eighty died. Stated thus coldly it makes a scarcely noteworthy report. Told as a story it seems an extravagant tale. But it is neither a dry fact nor an overdrawn romance. It is a cold, palpable, sad reality.

I stood resigned in daily expectation that death would take the rest of us. I actually wept in anticipation of it. Yet in the thought of their deliverance I still had sweet moments. And as this hope and compassion and love still glowed in us as individuals, might it not some day come to dominate the general relations of the whole human family? The future belongs to Goodness.