The Story of My Life from Childhood to Manhood | Page 8

any other offence to pass unpunished, but because I had

an opportunity of perceiving its ugliness very early in life. When only
seven or eight years old I heard a boy--I still remember his name--tell
his mother a shameless lie about some prank in which I had shared. I
did not interrupt him to vindicate the truth, but I shrank in horror with
the feeling of having witnessed a crime.
If Ludo and I, even in the most critical situations, adhered to the truth
more rigidly than other boys, we "little ones" owe it especially to our
sister Paula, who was always a fanatic in its cause, and even now
endures many an annoyance because she scorns the trivial "necessary
fibs" deemed allowable by society.
True, the interesting question of how far necessary fibs are justifiable
among children, is yet to be considered; but what did we know of such
necessity in our sports in the Thiergarten? From what could a lie have
saved us except a blow from a beloved mother's little hand, which, it is
true, when any special misdeed was punished by a box on the ear, could
inflict a tolerable amount of pain by means of the rings which adorned
it.
There is a tradition that once when she had slapped Paula's pretty face,
the odd child rubbed her cheek and said, with the droll calmness that
rarely deserted her, "When you want to strike me again, mother, please
take off your rings first."
THE GOVERNESS--THE CEMETERY.
During the time we lived in the Thiergarten my mother's hand scarcely
ever touched my face except in a caress. Every memory of her is bright
and beautiful. I distinctly remember how merrily she jested and played
with us, and from my earliest recollections her beloved face always
greets me cheerily. Yet she had moved to the Thiergarten with a heart
oppressed by the deepest sorrow.
I know from the woman who accompanied her there as the governess
of the two eldest children, and became a faithful friend, how deeply she
needed consolation, how completely her feelings harmonized with the
widow's weeds she wore, and in which she is said to have been so

beautiful.
The name of this rare woman was Bernhardine Kron. A native of
Mecklenburg, she united to rich and wide culture the sterling character,
warmth of feeling, and fidelity of this sturdy and sympathetic branch of
the German nation. She soon became deeply attached to the young
widow, to whose children she was to devote her best powers, and, in
after years, her eyes often grew dim when she spoke of the time during
which she shared our mother's grief and helped her in her work of
education.
Both liked to recall in later days the quiet evenings when, after the rest
of the household had retired, they read alone or discussed what stirred
their hearts. Each gave the other what she could. The German
governess went through our classic authors with her employer, and my
mother read to her the works of Racine and Corneille, and urged her to
speak French and English with her; for, like many natives of Holland,
her mastery of both languages was as thorough as if she had grown up
in Paris or London. The necessity of studying and sharing her own rich
intellectual possessions continued to be a marked trait in my mother's
character until late in life, and how much cause for gratitude we all
have for the share she gave us of her own knowledge and experience!
Fraulein Kron always deeply appreciated the intellectual development
she owed to her employer, while the latter never forgot the comfort and
support bestowed by the faithful governess in the most sorrowful days
of her life. When I first became conscious of my surroundings, these
days were over; but in saying that my first recollections of my mother
were bright and cheerful, I forgot the hours devoted to my father's
memory. She rarely brought them to our notice; a certain chaste reserve,
even later in life, prevented her showing her deepest grief to others. She
always strove to cope with her sorest trials alone. Her sunny nature
shrank from diffusing shadow and darkness around her.
On the 14th of February, the anniversary of my father's death, wherever
she might be, she always withdrew from the members of the household,
and even her own children. A second occasion of sharing her sorrowful
emotion was repeated several times every summer. This was the visit to

the cemetery, which she rarely made alone.
The visits impressed us all strongly, and the one I first remember could
not have occurred later than my fifth year, for I distinctly recollect that
Frau Rapp's horses took us to the churchyard. My father was buried in
the Dreifaltigkeitskirchhof,--[Trinity churchyard]--just outside