The Story of My Life from Childhood to Manhood | Page 9

the
Halle Gate. I found it so little changed when I entered it again, two
years ago, that I could walk without a guide directly to the Ebers family
vault. But what a transformation had taken place in the way!
When we visited it with my mother, which was always in carriages, for
it was a long distance from our home, we drove quickly through the
city, the gate, and as far as the spot where I found the stately pile of the
brick Kreuzkirche; then we turned to the right, and if we had come in
cabs we children got out, it was so hard for the horses to drag the
vehicles over the sandy road which led to the cemetery.
During this walk we gathered blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies
from the fields, bluebells, daisies, ranunculus, and snapdragon from the
narrow border of turf along the roadside, and tied them into bouquets
for the graves. My mother moved silently with us between the rows of
grassy mounds, tombstones, and crosses, while we carried the pots of
flowers and wreaths, which, to afford every one the pleasure of helping,
she had distributed among us at the gravedigger's house, just back of
the cemetery.
Our family burial place--my mother's stone cross now stands there
beside my father's--was one of those bounded in the rear by the church
yard wall; a marble slab set in the masonry bears the owner's name. It is
large enough for us all, and lies at the right of the path between Count
Kalckreuth's and the stately mausoleum which contains the earthly
remains of Moritz von Oppenfeld--who was by far the dearest of our
father's relatives--and his family.
My mother led the way into the small enclosure, which was surrounded
by an iron railing, and prayed or thought silently of the beloved dead
who rested there.

Is there any way for us Protestants, when love for the dead longs to find
expression in action, except to adorn with flowers the places which
contain their earthly remains? Their bright hues and a child's beaming
face are the only cheerful things which a mourner whose wounds are
still bleeding freshly beside a coffin can endure to see, and I might
compare flowers to the sound of bells. Both are in place and welcome
in the supreme moments of life.
Therefore my mother, besides a heart full of love, always brought to
my father's grave children and flowers. When she had satisfied the
needs of her own soul, she turned to us, and with cheerful composure
directed the decoration of the mound. Then she spoke of our father, and
if any of us had recently incurred punishment--one instance of this kind
is indelibly impressed on my memory--she passed her arms around the
child, and in whispered words, which no one else could hear, entreated
the son or daughter not to grieve her so again, but to remember the dead.
Such an admonition on this spot could not fail to produce its effect, and
brought forgiveness with it.
On our return our hands and hearts were free again, and we were at
liberty to use our tongues. During these visits my interest in
Schleiermacher was awakened, for his grave--he died in 1834, three
years before I was born--lay near our lot, and we often stopped before
the stone erected by his friends, grateful pupils, and admirers. It was
adorned with his likeness in marble; and my mother, who had
frequently met him, pausing in front of it, told us about the
keen-sighted theologian, philosopher, and pulpit orator, whose
teachings, as I was to learn later, had exerted the most powerful
influence upon my principal instructors at Keilhau. She also knew his
best enigmas; and the following one, whose terse brevity is
unsurpassed:
"Parted I am sacred, United abominable"--
she had heard him propound himself. The answer, "Mein eid" (my
oath), and "Meineid" (perjury), every one knows.
Nothing was further from my mother's intention than to make these

visits to the cemetery special memorial days; on the contrary, they were
inter-woven into our lives, not set at regular intervals or on certain
dates, but when her heart prompted and the weather was favourable for
out-of-door excursions. Therefore they became associated in our minds
with happy and sacred memories.
CHAPTER III.
ON FESTAL DAYS
The celebration of a memorial day by outward forms was one of my
mother's customs; for, spite of her sincerity of feeling, she favoured
external ceremonies, and tried when we were very young to awaken a
sense of their meaning in our minds.
On all festal occasions we children were freshly dressed from top to toe,
and all of us, including the servants, had cakes at breakfast, and the
older ones wine at dinner.
On the birthdays these cakes were