The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 10. Коллектив авторов

has grown worse, about the temperature of a freely watered palm-house, and my lack of summer materials is making itself decidedly felt. I go about in the rooms in my shirt alone, as the dear blue dressing-gown is too narrow, even now at six o'clock in the morning. A courier wakened me half an hour ago, with his war and peace, and I cannot sleep any more now, although I did not get to bed until towards two. Our politics are drifting more and more into the Austrian wake, and as soon as we have fired a shot on the Rhine then it's all over with the war between Italy and Austria, and, instead of that, a war between France and Prussia will take the stage, in which Austria, after we have taken the burden from her shoulders, will stand by us or will not stand by us, just as her own interests dictate. She will certainly not suffer us to play a gloriously victorious rôle. It is quite remarkable that in such crises Catholic ministers always hold the reins of our destiny—Radowitz once before, now Hohenzollern, who just now has the predominant influence, and is in favor of war. I look very darkly into the future; our troops are not better than the Austrian, because they only serve half as long; and the German troops, on whose support we reckon, are for the most part quite wretched, and, if things go ill with us, their leaders will fall away from us like dry leaves in the wind. But God, who can hold up and throw down Prussia, and the world, knows why these things must be, and we will not embitter ourselves against the land in which we were born, and against the authorities for whose enlightenment we pray. After thirty years, perhaps much sooner, it will be a small matter to us how things stand with Prussia and Austria, if only the mercy of God and the deserving of Christ remain to our souls. I opened the Scriptures last evening, at random, so as to rid my anxious heart of politics, and my eye lighted immediately on the 5th verse of the 110th Psalm. As God wills—it is all, to be sure, only a question of time, nations and people, folly and wisdom, war and peace; they come and go like waves of water, and the sea remains. What are our states and their power and honor before God, except as ant-hills and bee-hives which the hoof of an ox tramples down, or fate, in the form of a honey-farmer, overtakes? * * * Farewell, my sweetheart, and learn to experience life's folly in sadness; there is nothing in this world but hypocrisy and jugglery, and whether fever or grape-shot shall bear away this mass of flesh, fall it must, sooner or later, and then such a resemblance will appear between a Prussian and an Austrian, if they are of the same size, like Schrech and Rechberg, for example, that it will be difficult to distinguish between them; the stupid and the clever, too, properly reduced to the skeleton state, look a good deal like each other. Patriotism for a particular country is destroyed by this reflection, but we should have to despair in any case, even now, were it linked with our salvation. Farewell once more, with love to parents and children. How impatient I am to see them! As soon as Vriendschap—so our vessel is called—is in sight, I shall telegraph. With love, as always,

      Your most faithful VON B.

      Paris, May 31, '62.

      My Dear Heart,—Only a few lines in the press of business to tell you I am well, but very lonely, with a view out over the green, in this dull, rainy weather, while the bumble-bees hum and the sparrows twitter. Grand audience tomorrow. It's vexatious that I have to buy linen, towels, table-cloths, and sheets. * * * Farewell. Hearty love, and write! Your most faithful v.B.

      Paris, June 1, '62.

      My Dear Heart,—The Emperor received me today, and I handed over my credentials; he received me kindly, is looking well, has grown somewhat stouter, but by no means fat and aged, as he generally is in caricatures. The Empress is still one of the most beautiful women I know, in spite of Petersburg; she has, if anything, grown more beautiful in the past five years. The whole affair was official, ceremonial; I was taken back in court-carriage with master of ceremonies, etc. Next time I shall probably have a private audience. I long for business, for I don't know what to do with myself. Today I dined alone, the young gentlemen were out; the entire evening rain; and at home alone. To whom should I go? In the midst of big Paris I am lonelier than you are at Reinfeld, and sit here like a rat in a deserted house. The only pleasure I have had was sending the cook away because of overcharges. You know my indulgence in this matter, but Rembours was a child in comparison. I am dining for the present in a café. How long that will last, God knows. I shall probably receive a summons, by telegram, to Berlin, in eight or ten days, and then good-by to this song-and-dance. If my opponents only knew what a boon their victory would be to me, and how heartily I desire it! Then Rechberg would, perhaps, out of malice, do his best to have me called to Berlin. You can't have any more aversion to Wilhelmstrasse than myself, and if I am not persuaded that it must be, then I will not go. I consider it cowardice and disloyalty to leave the King in the lurch, under pretence of illness. If it is not to be, then God will permit those who search to find another princillon who will offer himself as cover for the pot. If it is to be, then "s'Bogom" ("with God"), as our Russian drivers used to say, when they took up the reins. * * *

      Your v.B.

      Bordeaux, July 27, '62.

      My Dear Heart,—You cannot refuse to testify that I am a good correspondent; I wrote this morning from Chenonceaux to your birthday-child, and now this evening, from the city of red wine, to you. But these lines will arrive a day later than those, as the mail does not leave until tomorrow afternoon. I left Paris only day before yesterday noon, but it seems to me a week. I have seen very beautiful castles—Chambord, of which the enclosure (torn out of a book) gives only an imperfect idea, corresponds, in its desolation, to the fate of its owner (I hope you know it belongs to the Duke of Bordeaux). In the wide halls and magnificent rooms, where so many kings kept their court, with their mistresses and their hunting, the Duke's only furniture consists now of the children's toys. My guide took me for a French Legitimist, and squeezed out a tear as she showed me the little cannon. I paid for the tear-drop, tariff-wise, with an extra franc, although it is not my vocation to subsidize Carlism. The castle court-yards lay in the sun as quiet as deserted churches; there is a distant view round about from the towers, but on all sides silent woods and heather to the farthest horizon; not a city, not a village, not a farm-house, either near the castle or in the region round it. The enclosed sprigs, specimens of heather, will no longer show you how purple this plant I love so much blooms here, the only flower in the royal garden, and swallows the only living creatures in the castle; it is too solitary for sparrows. The situation of the old castle of Amboise is glorious; from the top you can look up and down the Loire for about thirty miles. Coming from there to this place one passes gradually into the south; wheat disappears, giving way to maize; between, twining vines and chestnut woods, castles and country-seats, with many towers, chimneys, and gables, all white, with high-pointed slate roofs. It was boiling hot, and I was very glad to have a half-coupé to myself. In the evening glorious lightning in the whole eastern sky, and now an agreeable coolness, which I should find sultry at home. The sun set at 7.35; in Petersburg one can see now, without a light, at eleven o'clock. As yet there is no letter for me here; perhaps I shall find one in Bayonne. I shall stay here probably two days, to see where our wines grow. Now, good-night, my angel. Dearest love. Your most faithful v.B.

      San Sebastian, August 1, '62.

      My Dear Heart,—I could not have believed last year that I should celebrate Bill's birthday this time in Spain. I shall not fail to drink his health in dark red wine, and pray God earnestly to take and keep all of you under His protection; it is now half past three, and I imagine you have just got up from table and are sitting in the front hall at your coffee, if the sun permits. The sun is probably not so scalding there as it is here, but it doesn't do me any harm, and I am feeling splendidly well. The route from Bayonne here is glorious; on the left the Pyrenees, something like the Dent du Midi and Moléson, which, however, are here called "Pie" and "Port," in shifting Alpine panorama, on the right the shores of the sea, like those at Genoa. The change in entering Spain is surprising; at Behobie, the last place in France, one could easily believe one's self still on the Loire; in Fuentarabia a steep street twelve feet wide, every window with balcony and curtain, every balcony with black eyes and mantillas, beauty and dirt; at the market-place drums and fifes, and some hundreds of women, old and young, dancing a fandango, while the men in their drapery looked on, smoking. Thus far the country is exceptionally beautiful—green valleys and wooded slopes, with fantastic lines of fortifications above them, row after row; inlets of the sea, with very narrow entrances, which cut deep into the land, like Salzburg lakes in mountain basins. I look down on such