I remember that the news made on me the impression that one of the world’s darkest catastrophes had come upon it—the great Field Marshal no more! I knew what adoration Fritzerl felt for him and how painfully this loss must affect him. To be sure, Radetzky was already ninety-two; but for that very reason it seemed as if he were not to die at all, or at least as if he were predestined to come to be a hundred. At any rate the world, particularly Austria, was the poorer by a treasure. Such a hero! Such a demigod! My admiration for soldierly fame was devotional. There was nothing more piously loyal to the military than I. If any one had at that time had the idea of writing a book with such a nefarious title as _Die Waffen nieder_ I should have deeply despised the author. Elvira was just the same. Radetzky’s death put her muse in a painful commotion at once. That same day a long poem was produced: a poetic wreath of all plants and flowers to lay on the grave of the victor of Custozza—roses, immortelles, pansies, but chiefly laurel, a stanza for each species. With pride and emotion she gave us the hearing of this poem. She wept; I wept; Aunt Lotti decided, “To-morrow you must send that to your godfather Huyn and ask his judgment.” Next day the manuscript went off to Galicia, where General Huyn was in garrison at the time. The answer arrived after a while,—in verse too. The yellowed sheet is in my possession, and I will copy it here; not that it has intrinsic literary value, but it offers an illustration of the pious spirit that so strikingly characterized the writer. Stanislau, February 18, 1858 TO KAROLINE A host of lines thou sendest me, For critic aid applying! In prose I’ve shown proficiency, But not in versifying. Yet to myself I did confess, If I am fit to greet her, I must my little poetess Address likewise in meter. Once more, as in the days gone by, Because the task compels me, On Pegasus I’ll boldly fly, And give thee what sense tells me. The blossoms full of Love’s bright glow Express their feelings fairly; And yet their pretty praises go With that old man’s life barely. One thing, besides, has been left out (An error hard to pardon) That grows most freely all about, Ev’n in our hero’s garden. The thorns it is, that interlace With all through which we wander, At every time, in every place— My Karolin’, O ponder! The Lord has set them in our life In every shape of sorrow, That we might from this painful strife Look gladly to a morrow.