If I had
been kept much longer out, I would have died very soon [Footnote:
Blucher's own words]. When I was now in the water--that is to say,
when I was a soldier, I lost my mother; I never saw her again, and
know only that she wept a great deal for me. And I never was able to
beg her to forgive me, and tell her, 'Do not be angry, my dear
mutting!' I was a dashing young soldier, and she was weeping for me
at Rostock, for she believed I would come to grief. Well, I was
first lieutenant in some Prussian fortress when they wrote to me
that my mother was dead. Yes, she had died and I was not at her
bedside; I was never able to say to her for the last time, 'Forgive
me, my mutting!' But now I say so from the bottom of my heart."
While uttering these words, Blucher raised his head and fixed his
large eyes with a touching and childlike expression on the wintry
sky.
Old Hennemann devoutly clasped his hands, and tears ran slowly down
his furrowed cheeks. Christian stood at the door, and dried his eyes
with his coat-sleeve.
"Thunder and lightning," suddenly exclaimed Blucher, "how foolish I
am! That is the consequence of being absorbed in one's
recollections. While talking about Mecklenburg I had really
forgotten that I am an old boy of seventy years, and thought I was
still the naughty young rascal who longed to ask his mutting to
forgive him! Well, Christian, now sing us a Low-German song.
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