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14
THE STORY OF A TRUNK.
A simple tale about a common thing—Or rather say, it is no tale at all,
But a mere sketch. But oft prosaic things
Possess a deeper pathos for the heart,
When on them falls a tear of pity shed
At hope deferred or petty tyranny,
Than all the lyrics born of laurelled brows.
A poor French governess had, in ten years
Of patient work in Russia, earned enough
To found a schoolroom in her native land.
As evil fate would have it, she returned
Just at the moment when the war broke out
Between the French and Germans. Who forgets
Those July days of fatal 'Seventy,
All dark and sultry with the coming storm;
When, like an omen, all the Paris leaves
Came prematurely whirling to the ground;
When on both sides was hurried mustering
Of horse and foot; when wild confusion seized
All those who by their honest commerce lived,
And traffic ceased between the hostile States?
She made her way to Paris, but, alas!
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Now this unlucky trunk contained wellnigh
Her little all, and, what she valued most,
Her Russian testimonials, without which
She could do nothing; and, who knows, perhaps
Some tender tokens or some letters dear,
For who can pass the earliest bloom of youth
And not have such? The poor woman wrote
And wrote again, and almost gave up hope;
But yet at last the long-wished answer came
From the officials of the rail at Köln.
All full of hope, without a moment lost,
She brought the letter for me to translate,
As she could not read German, and I could.
She might be thirty-two or thirty-three;
She was not handsome, yet I oft have seen
A handsome woman that has pleased me less,
For there was something in her eyes that said
She was not of the vulgar or the vain.
The note began with mock civility:
The writer was a soldier, and would bring
Her trunk himself to Paris very soon,
For he was going thither with his king
And full five hundred thousand German hearts,
And then. . . . I crushed the letter in my hand,
And begged that she would let me tear it up,
Because, I said, I could not read the rest,
As it contained an insult foul and base.
She nodded slowly in assent, and heaved
A sigh that seemed to say, “Can such men be?”
But spoke no word of anger nor of scorn:
For like an arrow aimed against a rock,
A jest aimed at the breast of Purity,
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And if a tear was trickling down her cheek,
I think it was not at the cruel joke,
But for her luckless trunk. She thanked me then,
And went her way; nor have I seen her since.
She sank in that great whirlpool of a siege.
The Prussian soldier doubtless kept his word,
And came to Paris with his regiment.
I wish that I could add that there he met
The fate that should such cowards overtake.
But 'tis more like the ways of life to think
That he returned to Prussia, with his share
Of laurels and a medal on his breast,
While the poor victim of his insolence
Stood hours daily in the melting snow,
To get her share of black and mouldy bread;
As many a thousand other women did,
With no reward, except a smile from heaven.
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