He, however, collected himself.
“You remind me of it—this misfortune shall be borne with a soldier’s courage. It is not I alone, the whole country has to offer its sacrifice of blood and tears.”
“What comfort then has come to the country from the sufferings of you and your brethren? What comfort from the lost battles? What from these two girls’ lives cut short? Father! Oh do me this kindness for the love of me!—curse war! See here”—I drew him to a window, and just then a black coffin was being brought on a car into the courtyard—“See here; that is for our Lilly, and tomorrow another such for our Rosa, and the day after perhaps a third; and why, why?”
“Because God has willed it so, my child.”
“God—always God. All that, however, is folly. All savagery, all the arbitrary action of men, hiding itself under the shield of God’s will.”
“Do not blaspheme, Martha! Do not blaspheme now when God’s chastening hand is so visibly—”
A footman came into the room.
“Your excellency, the carpenter will not carry the coffin into the chamber where the countesses are lying, and no one will venture into it.”
“Not you, either, coward?”
“I could not alone.”
“Then I will help you. I will myself see to my daughters;” and he strode to the door.
“Back,” he cried to me, as I was following him; “you must not go with me. You must not die as well as me—think of your child.”
What could I do? I hesitated. That is the most torturing thing in such circumstances—not to know at all where one’s duty lies. If one pays to the sick and the dead the loving service which one’s heart yearns to do, then one spreads the germs of the evil wider again, and brings danger on the others who have as yet been spared. One would be willing to sacrifice oneself; but one knows that in risking this one risks sacrificing others also.
In such a dilemma there is only one helpful way—to give up life, not one’s own merely, but also that of all one’s dear ones—to assume that all is done with, and for each one to stand by the other in his hours of suffering, as long as they last. Looking backward, looking forward—all that must cease. Together! On the deck of a sinking ship, no means of escape—“let us hold each other in our arms—close, close as possible, to the last moment; and adieu, fair world.”
This resignation had come over us all. The plan of flight had been given up; everyone went to the bed of every patient, and of everyone who had died. Even Bresser no longer tried to keep us from this, the only humane way of acting. His neighbourhood, his energetic, unresting rule gave us a certain feeling of security. Our sinking ship was at least not without a captain.
Oh that cholera week in Grumitz! Over twenty years have passed since then, but I still feel a shudder through my bones and marrow when I think of it. Tears, wailing, heartrending death-scenes, the smell of carbolic acid, the cracking of the bones of those seized with cramp, the disgusting symptoms, the incessant tolling of the death-bell, the interment—no, the huddling away—of the dead, for in such cases there is no funeral pomp. All the order of life given up; no meal times—the cook was dead. No going to sleep at nights. Here and there a morsel snatched standing, and a doze as one sat in one’s chair in the morning hours. Outside, as though from the irony of indifferent Nature, the most splendid summer weather; the joyous song of the blackbird, the luxuriant colours of the flowerbeds. In the village, death without cessation. All the Prussians who were left behind were dead.
“I met the man who buries the dead today,” said Francis, our valet de chambre, “as he was coming back from the churchyard with his empty carriage. ‘One or two more taken there?’ I asked. ‘Oh yes; six or seven—about half-a-dozen every day, sometimes even more; and it does happen sometimes that one or other gives a grunt or so inside the hearse there; but that makes no matter, in he goes into the trench, the d⸺d Prussian.”
Next day the monster died himself, and another man had to take up his office—at that time the most laborious in the place. The post brought nothing but sorrow—news from all quarters of the ravages of the pest; and love letters—letters to remain forever unanswered—from Prince Henry, who knew nothing of what was going on. To Conrad I had sent a single line to prepare him for the awful event—“Lilly very ill.” He could not come immediately, the service detained him. It was not till the fourth day that the poor fellow rushed into the house.
“Lilly!” he cried. “Is it true?” He had heard of the misfortune as he was on the way.
We said yes.
He remained unnaturally still and tearless.
“I have loved her many years,” was all he said, low to him self. Then aloud: “Where is she lying? In the churchyard? Goodbye. She is waiting for me.”
“Shall I come with you?” someone offered.
“No, I prefer going alone.”
He went, and we saw him no more. On the grave of his sweetheart he put a bullet through his brains.
So ended Conrad Count Althaus, captain-lieutenant in the Fourth Regiment of Hussars, in his twenty-seventh year.
At another time the tragic nature of this event would have produced a very shocking effect; but now, how many young officers had not the war carried off immediately, this one only indirectly! And at the moment when we heard of his deed a new misfortune had occurred in our midst which called for all the anguish of our hearts. Otto, my poor father’s adored and only son, was seized by the destroying angel. His sufferings lasted the whole night and the next day, with alternations of hope and despair; about 7 p.m. all was over. My father threw himself on the
