Chapter III

A cosy chat with Tilling—We misunderstand each other—The attachment
grows—Countess Griesbach—Jealousy overcome—Tilling goes away—A
touching letter—Death of Tilling’s mother.

The dinner-party broke up at eight o’clock although my father insisted on detaining them. I politely urged a cup of tea, but each had his excuse and felt obliged to go. Tilling and Bresser had also risen to take leave, but were easily persuaded to stay. Father and the doctor were soon seated at the card-table, while Baron Tilling joined me by the fire.

“I have a scolding for you, Baron. After the first visit you forgot the way to my house.”

“You never asked me.”

“I told you, Saturdays.”

“Pardon me, Countess, if I find regular reception days abominable. To meet a lot of strange people, bow to the hostess, sit a minute, hear the weather discussed, meet a stray acquaintance, venture a stupid remark; a desperate attempt to start a conversation with the hostess is interrupted by a new arrival, who starts the weather talk again, and then a fresh bunch comes in—perhaps a mother with four marriageable daughters—you give up your chair, and finally in weariness take leave and go. No, Countess, my talent for society is weak at best.”

“I meet you nowhere. Perhaps you hate people, and are a bit misanthropic. No, I do not believe that, for I conclude from your words that you love all men.”

“Hardly that; it is humanity as a whole I love, but not every man, not the coarse, worthless, self-seeking. I pity them because their education and circumstances made them unworthy of love.”

“Education and circumstances? Does not the character depend on heredity?”

“Our circumstances are also a matter of inheritance.”

“Then you do not hold a man responsible for his badness, and therefore not to be hated?”

“The one does not always depend on the other. A man is often to be condemned, though he is not responsible. You also are not responsible for your beauty, and yet one may admire——”

“Baron Tilling,” I said reproachfully, “we began talking seriously, and suddenly you treat me like a compliment-seeking society miss.”

“Pardon me; I only intended to use the illustration closest at hand.”

An awkward pause followed. Then I said abruptly:—

“Why did you become a soldier, Baron Tilling?”

“Your question shows that you have looked into my mind. It was not I, Frederick Tilling, thirty-nine years old, who has seen three campaigns, who chose the profession. It was the ten-year-old little Fritz, who spent his babyhood playing with lead soldiers and toy war-horses. It was this boy, whose father, a decorated general, and whose lieutenant uncle were always asking, ‘What are you going to be, my boy?’ And the boy would always answer, ‘A real soldier with a real sword and a live horse!’”

“My son had a box of leaden soldiers given him to-day, but he shall never have them. Tell me, why did you not leave the army after the little Fritz had grown into the big Frederick? Had not the army become hateful to you?”

“To call it hateful is saying too much. The condition of affairs which requires that men shall enter the cruel duties of war, that I hate. But if such conditions are inevitable, I cannot hate the men who fulfil these duties conscientiously. If I left the service, would it diminish war? Another would hazard his life in my place. Why not I?”

“Is there not some better way for you to serve your fellows?”

“Perhaps. But I have been taught nothing thoroughly except the arts of war. I think a man can do good and be useful in almost any surrounding, and find opportunity to lift the burden of those dependent upon him. I appreciate the respect the world holds me in because of my position. My career has been quite fortunate, my comrades love me, and I enjoy my success. I have no estate, and as a civilian I could not help even myself. So why should I consider abandoning the military service?”

“Because killing people is repulsive to you.”

“Yes, but in self-defence the responsibility for killing ceases. War is often called murder on a big scale, but the soldier never feels himself a murderer. Naturally the atrocities of the battle-field are revolting to me, and fill me with pain and disgust even as a seaman might suffer during a storm. Still a brave sailor is undaunted and ventures the sea again.”

“Yes, if he must. But must there be war?”

“That is another question. The individual should do his duty, and that gives him strength and even pleasure.”

And so we chatted in a low tone, that we might not disturb the card-players. Neither would our conversation have suited the others, for Tilling told of the horrors he experienced in war, and I told him of my reading of Buckle, who argued that the war spirit would die out as civilisation advanced. I felt Tilling’s confidence as he displayed his inner feelings to me, and a certain current of sympathy was established between us.

“What are you two plotting and whispering about?” my father suddenly called out.

“I am telling the Countess old war stories.”

“Oh, she likes that; she has heard them from her childhood.”

We resumed our whispered talk. Suddenly Tilling fastened his gaze on me, while speaking in a sympathetic voice. I thought of the princess, felt a sudden stab, and turned my head away.

“Why did your face change, Countess? Did my words offend you?”

I assured him it was nothing, but the conversation became rather strained. At last I rose and looked at the clock, and bade my father goodnight. Tilling offered to take me downstairs.

“I fear I have offended you, Countess,” he said, lifting me in my carriage.

“On my honour, no.”

He pressed my hand hard to his lips, “When may I call?”

“On Saturday——”

“That means not at all.” He bowed and stepped back.

I wanted to speak again, but the carriage door was shut. I should have liked to cry tears of spite like a vexed child, to think I had been so cold to one whose warm sympathy I had so enjoyed. Oh, that hateful princess! Was it jealousy? Then it dawned on me with a burst of astonishment—I was in love with Tilling! “In love, love, love,” answered the carriage wheels. “You are in love,” the street lamps flashed at me. “You love him,” breathed the scent of my glove, as I pressed the spot he kissed to my lips.

Next day in the red book I denied it all. I enjoyed a sympathetic clever man, but that is far from falling in love. I would meet him the next time quite calmly, and find pleasure in conversing with him. How could I have been so disturbed yesterday? To-day I could laugh at my silliness.

The same day I called on my girlhood friend, Lori Griesbach, from whose letter I read the news of my husband’s death. Through our children we had much in common, and saw each other almost daily, and, in spite of many differences in our nature, we were real friends. Our two boys were the same age, and her little daughter Beatrix, ten months old, we had playfully destined should be some day the Countess Rudolf Dotzky. The conversation ran on dress, our children and acquaintances, the latest English novel, and the like.

As we chatted, I ventured to ask if she knew what the gossips had said about Tilling and the princess.

“Everybody knows there is nothing to it. Why, have you any interest in Tilling? Dear Martha, you are blushing. It is no use shaking your head. Come, confess. How happy I would be to see you in love once more. But Tilling is no match for you. He has nothing, and is too old. Ah, shall we ever forget that sad hour when you read my letter? War is a cruel business for some, and others find it excellent. My husband wishes for nothing more ardently than that he may distinguish himself.”

“Or be crippled or shot dead.”

“Oh, that only happens when it is one’s destiny. Your destiny, my dear, was to be a young widow.”

“And the war with Italy had to be to bring it about,” I added.

“And I hope it may be my destiny to be the wife of a brilliant young general,” said Lori, laughingly.

“So another war must break out that your husband may be quickly promoted, as though that were the simple and only purpose of the government of the world.”

The conversation changed to pure gossip, of Cousin Conrad Althaus and his devotion to Lilli; of the latest marriage; the last new English novel, _Jane Eyre_; of the misdeeds of Lori’s French nurse; of the trouble of changing servants, and all the usual chatter of idle ladies.

“Now, my dear,” I broke in, “I must really go, for I have other calls which I cannot put off.” At another time I could have been entertained for hours with the tittle-tattle. But to-day my mind was elsewhere. Once more in my carriage, I realised that again there was a change in me, for even the wheels took up the refrain: Ah, Tilling, Frederick Tilling!

When should I see him again? was my one thought, for in vain I went nightly to the theatre, and from there to parties with the one hope. My reception day failed to bring him. Had I offended him? What would I do? I was all on fire to see him again. Oh, for another hour’s talk with him! How I would make amends for my rudeness! The delight of such a conversation would be increased a hundred fold, for I was now willing to confess what was becoming more than plain to me, that I loved him.

The following Saturday brought Tilling’s cousin for a call, and her appearance made my heart beat. Would she tell me of him who so constantly filled my thought? I could not ask her directly. To speak his name would betray me, for I even flushed at the thought. We talked of indifferent things, even the weather, and the one name that lay most at my heart I would not mention.

At last, without warning, she said, “Oh, Martha, I have a message for you. My cousin Frederick went away day before yesterday, and begs to be remembered to you.”

The blood left my face, and I gasped: “Went away? Where? Is his regiment moved?”

“No; he has hurried to Berlin to his mother’s death-bed. He adores her, poor fellow, and I pity him.”

Two days afterwards I received a letter from Berlin in an unknown hand. Without reading it I knew it was from him:—

BERLIN, WILHELM ST., 8.
_March 30, 1863._ Midnight.

MY DEAR COUNTESS—I must tell my sorrow to some one, yet ask myself why
do I turn to you? I have no right to do so, but do so by irresistible
impulse. You will feel with me, I am sure of that.

Had you known my mother, how you would have loved her! And now this
tender heart, this fine mind, and charming disposition, must we put it
into the grave—for there is no ray of hope. Day and night I am at her
bed—and this is her last night. Such suffering, though now she is
quiet, poor darling mother. Her senses are numb and her heartbeat is
almost finished. Her sister and the physician are here with me.

How terrible is death and separation! It comes, but how we resist it
when it would snatch a loved one away. What my mother means to me I
can never tell you. She knows she is dying.

This morning she received me with an exclamation of joy when I
arrived: “Is it you? Do I see once more my own Fritz? I feared you
would be too late.”

“You will get well again, mother,” I cried.

“No, no, there is no hope for that, my dear son. Let us not waste our
last hours in meaningless words. Let this be our good-bye visit.” I
fell at her side sobbing. “You are crying, my son, I will not tell you
to stop, for it should grieve you to part with your best friend, and I
am sure I shall never be forgotten by you. Remember, also, that you
have made my life very happy. Except your small childish sickness, or
the dread that I might lose you during the time of war, you have given
me nothing but the keenest happiness; you have shared all my burdens
with me, and for this I bless you, my darling son.”

Another attack came on, and her groans of pain almost crushed my
heart. Oh, this last frightful enemy, death! I remembered the sights
of agonized sufferers on the battle-field and in hospitals! When I
reflect that we soldiers sometimes joyously drive others on to death,
that we urge full-blooded eager young men on to sacrifice themselves
willingly to this terrible enemy, against whom even the weak and
broken-down old people fight so bitterly—is it not revolting?

This night is frightfully long. If only sleep might quiet her. But
there she lies, with her lids parted, suffering. Every half-hour I
bend over her motionless, then I come away to write a few more lines
to you, and then I go to her again. It strikes four, and one shivers
at the unfeeling strides of time as it unrelentingly presses on to
eternity, and at this very moment for this one passionately loved
mother time must cease—for all eternity. But as the cold, outer world
turns dull to our pain, so much the more longingly do we seek to fly
to another human heart which we trust and hope may feel some unison of
feeling. And so this white sheet attracted me, and therefore I wrote
this letter to you.

Seven o’clock in the morning. It is over. Her last words were,
“Farewell, my dear boy.” Then she closed her eyes and slept. Sleep
soundly, darling mother. In grief I kiss your dear hands.—Yours in
deepest sorrow,

FREDERICK TILLING.

I have this letter still. Frayed and faded the pages are now. For twenty-five years it has withstood my kisses and tears. It was sent “in deepest sorrow”; I received it “shouting with joy,” for though there was not a single word of love in it, yet where was a plainer proof that the writer loved me than that he should turn to me at his mother’s death-bed, to pour out his grief? In answer I sent a wreath of a hundred white camellias enfolding a single half-blown red rose—the scentless white flowers for the departed, and the glowing blossom—that was for him.