The whole family was assembled at Grumitz. Otto, too, my brother, was spending his holidays with us. He was now fifteen years old, and had three years to pass at the Neustadt Military Academy at Vienna. A fine fellow my brother, and my father’s darling and pride. He as well as Lilly and Rosa filled the house with their merriment. It was a constant laughing and romping and playing ball and rackets and all sorts of mad antics. Cousin Conrad, whose regiment lay not far from Grumitz in garrison, came as often as possible, riding over, and took his part gallantly in all these youthful sports. The old folks formed a second party, namely, Aunt Mary, my father, and a few of his comrades who were staying as guests in the house. Among them there was serious card-playing, quiet walks in the park, a devoted cultivation of the pleasures of the table, and immeasurable talks about politics. The military events that had just taken place, and the Schleswig-Holstein question, which the latter had by no means set at rest, offered a rich field for these talks. Frederick and I lived practically separate, or nearly so, from the rest—we only met them at meals, and not always then—we were allowed to do as we liked. It was taken as a settled thing that we were going through a second edition of our honeymoon, and that solitude suited us. And indeed we were best pleased to be alone. Not at all, as the others perhaps thought, to play and caress in honeymoon fashion, we were not “newly married” enough for that, but because we found most satisfaction in mutual conversation. After the heavy sorrows we had just passed through, we could not share the naive gaiety of the youthful party, and still less did we sympathise with the interests and the conversations of the dignified personages, and so we preferred to secure for ourselves a good deal of retirement, under the privilege of a pair of lovers, which was tacitly granted to us. We undertook long walks together—sometimes excursions in the neighbourhood, in which we stayed away the whole day—we spent whole hours alone together in the book-room, and in the evening, when the various card parties were being made up, we retired into our rooms where over tea and cigarettes we resumed our familiar chat. We always found an infinity of things to say to each other. We liked best to tell each other of the feelings of woe and horror which we experienced during our separation, for this always awakened again the joy of our reunion. We agreed that presentiments of death and suchlike things are nothing but superstition, since both of us, from the hour of our leave-taking, had been penetrated with the conviction that one or the other must necessarily die, yet here we had each other back! Frederick had to recount to me in detail all the dangers and sufferings which he had just gone through, and to describe the pictures of horror from the battlefield and hospital which he had absorbed lately into his shuddering soul. I loved the tone of repugnance and pain which quivered in his voice during such recitals. From the way in which he spoke of the cruelties he had witnessed during the confusion of the war, I gathered the promise of an elevation of humanity, the result of which would be, first in individuals, then in the many, and finally in all to overcome the old barbarity.
My father also and Otto often called upon Frederick to interest them with episodes from the late campaign. This indeed was done in quite a different spirit from that in which I begged for such stories, and Frederick’s relation was given in quite a different spirit. He contented himself with describing the tactical movements of the forces, the events of the battles, the names of the places taken or defended, recounting single camp-scenes, repeating speeches which had been made by the generals, and suchlike miscellanea of the war. His audience was delighted with it. My father listened with satisfaction, Otto with admiration, the generals with the solemnity of experts. I alone could not find any relish in this dry style of narrative. I knew that this covered a whole world of feelings and thoughts which the matters related had awakened in the depths of the speaker’s soul. When I once reproached him with this when we were alone, he replied:—
“Falsehood? Dishonesty? Want of enthusiasm? No, my dear; you are mistaken. It is mere decorum. Do you remember our wedding-tour, our departure from Vienna, the first time we were alone in the carriage, the night in the hotel at Prague? Did you ever repeat the details of those hours, or ever sketch to your friends and relations the feelings and emotions of that happy time?”
“No; of course not. Every woman must surely be silent about such things.”
“Then don’t you see that there are things also which every man is silent about? You could not tell of your joys in love; nor could we of our sufferings in war. The former might lay bare your chief virtue, modesty; the latter ours, courage. The delights of the honeymoon, and the terrors of the battlefield, no ‘womanly’ woman can speak of the one, nor any ‘manly’ man of the other. What? You may, in the rapture of love, have poured out sweet tears! and I may have in the imminence of the death-agony uttered a cry. How could you acknowledge such a sensibility; how could I such a cowardice?”
“But did you cry out, Frederick, did you tremble? You may surely say it to me. I do not, you know, conceal the joys of my love from you, and you may to me—”
“Confess to you the fears of death which seize us soldiers on the field of battle? How can it be otherwise? Phrases and poetry tell lies about it. The inspiration artificially caused in this way by phrases
