The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 10. Коллектив авторов
most faithful v.B.
Evening.
I have not yet found an opportunity to send this. Again the lights are shining up from Pesth, lightning appears on the horizon in the direction of the Theiss, and there is starlight above us. I have been in uniform most of the day, handed my credentials to the young ruler of this country at a solemn audience, and received a very pleasing impression of him—twenty-year-old vivacity, coupled with studied composure. He can be very winning, I have seen that; whether he always will, I do not know, and he need not, for that matter. At any rate, he is for this country exactly what it needs, and more than that for the peace of its neighbors, if God does not give him a peace-loving heart. After dinner all the court went on an excursion into the mountains, to a romantic spot called the Pretty Shepherdess, who has long been dead, King Matthias Corvinus having loved her many hundred years ago. Thence the view is over woody hills, like those on the Neckar banks to Ofen, its castle, and the plain. A popular festival had brought thousands up to it, and the Emperor, who mingled with them, was surrounded with noisy cheers; Czardas danced, waltzed, sang, played, climbed into the trees, and crowded the court-yard. On a grassy slope was a supper-table of about twenty persons, sitting along one side only, leaving the other free for a view of wood, hill, city, and country, high beeches over us, with Hungarians climbing among the branches; behind us a densely crowded and crowding mass of people near by, and, beyond, alternate horn-music and singing, wild gipsy melodies. Illumination, moonlight, and evening glow, interspersed with torches through the wood; the whole might have been served, unaltered, as a great scenic effect in a romantic opera. Beside me sat the whitebearded Archbishop of Gran, primate of Hungary, in a black silk talar, with a red cape; on the other side a very amiable and elegant general of cavalry, Prince Liechtenstein. You see, the painting was rich in contrasts. Then we rode home by moonlight, escorted by torches; and while I smoke my evening cigar I am writing to my darling, and leaving the documents until tomorrow. * * * I have listened today to the story of how this castle was stormed by the insurgents three years ago, when the brave General Hentzi and the entire garrison were cut down after a wonderfully heroic defence. The black spots on my floor are in part burns, and where I am now writing to you the shells then danced about, and the combat finally raged on top of smoking débris. It was only put in order again a few weeks ago, against the Emperor's arrival. Now it is very quiet and cozy up here; I hear only the ticking of a clock and distant rolling of wheels from below. For the second time from this place I bid you good-night in the distance. May angels watch over you—a grenadier with a bear-skin cap does that for me here; I see his bayonet two arm-lengths away from me, projecting six inches above the windowsill, and reflecting my light. He is standing on the terrace over the Danube, and is, perhaps, thinking of his Nan, too.
Tomsjönäs, August 16, '57.
My Dearest,—I make use again of the Sunday quiet to give you a sign of life, though I do not know what day there will be a chance to send it out of this wilderness to the mail. I rode about seventy miles without break, through the desolate forest, in order to reach here, and before me lie more than a hundred miles more before one gets to provinces of arable land. Not a city, not a village, far and wide; only single settlers in wide huts, with a little barley and potatoes, who find rods of land to till, here and there between dead trees, pieces of rock, and bushes. Picture to yourself about five hundred square miles of such desolate country as that around Viartlum, high heather, alternating with short grass and bog, and with birches, junipers pines, beeches, oaks, alders, here impenetrably thick, there thin and barren of foliage, the whole strewn with innumerable stones of all sizes up to that of a house, smelling of wild rosemary and rosin, at intervals wonderfully shaped lakes surrounded by woods and hills of the heath, then you have the land of Smaa, where I am just now. Really, the land of my dreams, inaccessible to despatches, colleagues, and Reitzenstein, but unfortunately, to you as well. I should like ever so much to have a hunting-castle on one of these quiet lakes and inhabit it for some months with all the dear ones whom I think of now as assembled in Reinfeld. In winter, to be sure, it would not be endurable here, especially in the mud that all the rain would make. Yesterday we turned out at about five, hunted, in burning heat, up-hill and down, through bush and fen, until eleven, and found absolutely nothing; walking in bogs and impenetrable juniper thickets, on large stones and timbers, is very fatiguing. Then we slept in a hay-shed until two o'clock, drank lots of milk, and hunted again until sunset, bringing down twenty-five grouse and two mountain-hens. I shot four of the former; Engel, to his great delight, one of the latter. Then we dined in the hunting-lodge, a remarkable wooden building on a peninsula in the lake. My sleeping-room and its three chairs, two tables, and bedstead are of no other color than that of the natural pine-boards, like the whole house, whose walls are made of these. A sofa does not exist; bed very hard; but after such hardships as ours one does not need to be rocked to sleep. From my window I see a blooming hill rise from the heath, on it birches rocking in the wind, and between them I see, in the lake mirror, pine-woods on the other side. Near the house a camp has been put up for hunters, drivers, servants, and peasants, then the barricade of wagons, a little city of dogs, eighteen or twenty huts on both sides of a lane which they form; from each a throng looks out tired from yesterday's hunt. * * *
Petersburg, April 4, '59.
My Dear Heart,—Now that the rush of today noon is past, I sit down in the evening to write you a few more lines in peace. When I closed my letter today I did it with the intention of writing to you next a birthday letter, and thought I had plenty of time for it; it is only the 23d of March here. I have thought it over, and find that a letter must go out today exactly to reach Frankfort on the 11th; it is hard to get used to the seven days' interval which the post needs. So I hurry my congratulations. May God grant you His rich blessing in soul and body, for all your love and truth, and give you resignation and contentment in regard to the various new conditions of life, contrary to your inclinations, which you will meet here. We cannot get rid of the sixtieth degree of latitude, and we have not chosen our own lot. Many live happily here, although the ice is still solid as rock, and more snow fell in the night, and there are no garden and no Taunus here.
I could get along very well indeed here if I only knew the same of you, and, above all, if I had you with me. All official matters—and in them rests really the calling which in this world has fallen to my lot, and which you, through your significant "Yes" in the Kolziglow church, are bound to help bear in joy and sorrow—all official matters are, in comparison with Frankfort, changed from thorns to roses; whether they will ever blossom is, indeed, uncertain. The aggravations of the Diet and the palace venom look from here like childishness. If we do not wantonly make ourselves disagreeable, we are welcome here. Whenever the carriages are called here, and "Prusku passlanika" ("Prussian carriage") is cried out among those waiting, then all the Russians look about with pleasant smiles, as though they had just popped down a ninety-degree glass of schnapps. There is some social affair every evening, and the people are different from those in Frankfort. Your aversion to court life will weaken. You cannot fail to like the Czar; you have seen him already—have you not! He is extremely gracious to me, as well as the Czarina—the young Czarina, I mean. And it is easy to get along with the mother, in spite of her imposing presence. I dined with her today with the Meiendorfs and Loen,19 and it was just like that dinner at our house with Prince Carl and the Princess Anna, when we enjoyed ourselves so much. In short, only take courage, and things will come out all right. So far I have only agreeable impressions; the only thing that provokes me is that smoking is not allowed on the street. One can have no idea in what disfavor the Austrians are over here; a mangy dog will not take a piece of meat from them. I am sorry for poor Szechenyi; I do not dislike him. They will either drive things to a war from here, or let it come, and then they will stick the bayonet into the Austrians' backs; however peacefully people talk, and however I try to soften things down, as my duty demands, the hatred is unlimited, and goes beyond all my expectations. Since coming here I begin to believe in war. There seems to be no room in Russian politics for any other thought than how to strike at Austria. Even the quiet, mild Czar falls into rage and fire whenever he talks about it, as does the Czarina, although a Darmstadt Princess; and it is touching when the Dowager Czarina talks of her husband's broken heart, and of Francis Joseph, whom he loved as a son, really without anger, but as if speaking of one who is exposed to God's vengeance. Now I have still much to write for the carrier tomorrow,
Military