CHAPTER V.

Annette wrote:

"What happiness it is to write to you! This is the first time that I
address you as your real and true daughter. Do you remember how ill you
took it when I once called you Patriarch? You were right, because
bandying sharp speeches was a great fault of mine. Too much of the
intellectual was my misfortune and that of all of us. Now I am nothing
but a quiet ant, crawling up a tree and bearing my tiny mite; to be one
ant amongst a thousand is now my only ambition. I do not wish to be
anything for myself. I must give you an extract from Richard's letter.
What is dearest and most beautiful in it, I cannot, of course, repeat
to you. He writes:

"'Hitherto, our happiness consisted in the general belief that every
one was a nobody, unless he was something quite apart, because the
people as a whole were held in but little esteem. Germany was like the
educated Jew, who is always intent on hearing from others, "How do they
regard me?" "What do they think of me?" You yourself,'--but here he
begins praising me--enough of that.

"'It gave me great pleasure to have Johanna with us in the hospital for
a few days, which enabled us, by working together, to gain a better
appreciation of each other. She has gathered experience and insight
from other sources than myself, and she insists that nature is better
than what we call principle. We can afford to let the latter pass, here
and there. She acknowledges that unbelievers, as she calls us, are
capable of virtuous actions. This war has taught all of us not to ask
for dogmas, but for deeds.

"'I am scarcely able to-day, to write a letter in my own name. It was
general mail-day, and I sat for hours at the bedside of the sick,
writing word for word as they dictated. I am glad to have learnt enough
French to be able to write for the officer whom you may remember. How
manifold are the relations of life with which I have become
familiarized! There is much wonderful beauty hidden in the world, and
every people and every station in life has its share.

"'I had to add postscripts to two letters announcing the death of those
in whose name they were written. One was the son of honored parents,
and the other was himself the head of a family, and leaves four
children.

"'_Midnight_.--I could not write further. Now all is hushed; and I do
not wish to sleep before fulfilling my duty towards you. I find it
hateful, when in full health, to say, "I cannot,"