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, tomorrow 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
