“What are you saying? I do not catch a word.”
The favourite deafness had again come on at the right moment.
After a few days all became quiet again at Grumitz. The soldiers quartered on us had to march off, and Conrad had been ordered to join his regiment. Lori Griesbach and the Minister had already departed before.
The marriage of my two sisters had been postponed till October. Both were to be married on the same day at Grumitz. Prince Henry was to quit the service; now that he had finished this glorious campaign in which he had earned distinction, he could easily do this, and so repose on his laurels, and on his estates.
The partings of the two pairs of lovers were painful and joyful at the same time. They promised to write to each other every day, and the certain prospect of bliss so near made the anguish of parting seem not so severe.
Certain prospect of bliss? There is in reality no such thing, and assuredly least of all in seasons of war. Then misfortunes hover around “as thick as the swarms of gnats in the air,” and the chances that you may be standing on a spot that will be spared by the descending scourge are at best but small.
True, the war was over. That is, it had been proclaimed that peace was concluded. A word is sufficient to unchain the horrors, and thence one is apt to think that a word will also suffice to remove them again, but no spell has in reality that power. Hostilities may be suspended, and yet hostility may persist. The seed of future war is sown, and the fruit of the war just ended spreads still further, in wretchedness, savagery, and plagues. Yes, no falsehood and no “not thinking of it” was any good now, the cholera was raging through the country.
It was on the morning of 8th August. We were all seated at the breakfast-table and reading our correspondence which had just come by the post. The two fiancées had fastened on the love letters that had come for them, I was turning over the newspapers. From Vienna the news was:—
The cholera death-rate is rising considerably. Not only in the military but also in the civil hospitals many cases have been already reported, which must be looked on as genuine Asiatic cholera, and energetic measures are being taken on all sides to check the progress of the epidemic.
I was about to read the passage aloud when Aunt Mary, who had in her hand a letter from one of her friends in a neighbouring château, gave a cry of horror.
“Horrible! Betty writes me that in her house two persons have died of cholera, and now her husband is ill also.”
“Your excellence, the schoolmaster wishes to speak to you.”
The gentleman announced followed the footman into the room. He looked pale and bewildered.
“Count, I tell you, with all deference, that I must close the school. Two children were taken ill yesterday, and today they are dead.”
“The cholera?” we cried out.
“I think it is. I think we must give it that name. The so-called diarrhea which broke out among the soldiers quartered here, and of which twenty of them died, was the cholera. Great terror prevails in the village, because the doctor who came here from town has affirmed without any concealment that the horrible disease has now beyond doubt taken hold of the population of this place.”
“What sound is that,” I asked, listening, “that one hears?”
“That is the passing-bell, baroness,” announced the schoolmaster. “Someone must be lying at his last gasp. The doctor tells us that in town the passing-bell absolutely never stops ringing.”
We all looked round at each other, pale and speechless. So here it was again—Death—and each one of us saw his bony hand stretched out in the direction of some dear one’s head.
“Let us flee!” suggested Aunt Mary.
“Flee? whither?” answered the schoolmaster. “The pest has by this time spread everywhere round.”
“Oh, far, far away, over the frontier—”
“But a cordon will be drawn there, over which no one will be allowed to pass.”
“Oh, that would be horrible! Surely no one would hinder people from quitting a land stricken with pestilence?”
“Assuredly, the healthy neighbourhoods will protect themselves against infection.”
“What is to be done? what is to be done?” And Aunt Mary wrung her hands.
“To await God’s will,” answered my father. “You are besides such a believer in destiny, Mary, I cannot understand your desire for flight. Everyone’s fate finds him, wherever he is. But, at the same time, I should like it better if you, children, could depart; and you, Otto, see that you touch no more fruit.”
“I will telegraph at once to Bresser,” said Frederick, “to send on disinfectants.”
What happened immediately after this I am no longer able to set down in detail, because the scene at the breakfast-table was the last which at that time I entered in the red book. I can only tell the events of the next few days from memory. Fear and anxiety filled us all—yes, all. Who, in a time of epidemic, could help trembling when living amongst those dear to him? For the sword of Damocles was always suspended over the dear one’s head, and even to die oneself, so terribly and so uselessly, who is there that such a thought would not fill with horror? The chief proof of courage consists in this: not to think about it.
To flee? The
