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Title: Disarm! Disarm!
Adapted from the German romance "Die waffen nieder"
Author: Bertha von Suttner
Adapter: Andrea Hofer Proudfoot
Release date: January 16, 2026 [eBook #77705]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1914
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISARM! DISARM! ***
DISARM! DISARM!
ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN ROMANCE
“DIE WAFFEN NIEDER”
BY THE BARONESS BERTHA VON SUTTNER
BY
ANDREA HOFER-PROUDFOOT
_POPULAR EDITION_
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
_Printed in 1914_
CONTENTS
BOOK I
1859
CHAPTER I
PAGE
Girlish fancies—Enthusiasm for heroism—Education—Entering
society—At Marienbad—Love at first sight 3
CHAPTER II
Marriage—The first-born—War rumours—The ultimatum 10
CHAPTER III
Last hours—Public glad at prospect of war—The sad parting 19
CHAPTER IV
Women’s co-operation at home—Anxious for news from seat of
war—Austria’s bad luck—Patriotism and relief work—A friendly
visit—The fatal news 29
CHAPTER V
Early widowhood—Sorrow and solitude—I take up my studies
again—Broader conceptions 41
BOOK II
TIME OF PEACE
CHAPTER I
Society once more—Happiness returns—A second marriage suggested—My
younger sisters need a chaperone—Baron Tilling introduced—He
tells of Arno’s death 51
CHAPTER II
After the carnival—Father’s dinner-party—Toy soldiers—Tilling
again—The brave Hupfauf—Darwin 63
CHAPTER III
A cosy chat with Tilling—We misunderstand each other—The
attachment grows—Countess Griesbach—Jealousy overcome—Tilling
goes away—A touching letter—Death of Tilling’s mother 72
CHAPTER IV
Conrad and Lilli—Easter ceremonies—Tilling again—A visit and
interview—Disappointments and apprehensions—A conversation about
warfare—At last, an understanding 83
CHAPTER V
A ride in the Prater—At last an understanding—The family
reconciled to the engagement—Marriage and visit to Berlin—Life
in garrison—Christmas at Vienna—Rumours of war 98
BOOK III
1864
CHAPTER I
War imminent with Denmark—New Year’s Eve—Return to garrison—The
Schleswig-Holstein Campaign—Story of the quarrel 113
CHAPTER II
The course of war—Hostilities suspended and renewed—My husband
departs—The dead baby—Letters from the seat of
war—Recovery—Anxiety—Letters—Return of Frederick 124
CHAPTER III
Reunion and summer joys—Resolved to quit the service—Rudolf’s
training—The end of the war—Conditions of peace—Fresh cares and
ruined fortunes—My husband remains in the service 132
CHAPTER IV
Lilli and Conrad—Aunt Marie’s letter—Rumours of war with
Prussia—Negotiations and arguments—My father’s New Year’s
toast—Hopes and fears—The army mobilised—War declared—The
manifestos of both sides 138
BOOK IV
1866
CHAPTER I
The Austro-Prussian War—Frederick again to the front—The Red
Cross—Reports and Letters—The Custozza victory—Austria has
reverses in Bohemia—Discussion of the press 157
CHAPTER II
More and more reverses for Austria—A soldier’s abhorrence of
war—Poor Puxl—My husband’s letter declares that this is his last
campaign 163
CHAPTER III
Austria ruined at the battle of Koniggratz—Dr. Bresser with the
wounded—I go to the seat of war to search for my husband—The
scenes on the way—More horrors described—I meet Frau Simon—A
night journey—Am carried back to Vienna exhausted—Return to
Grumitz 174
CHAPTER IV
Restored happiness—Prussians still press toward Vienna—War
practically over—Quiet country life—Military school—My only
brother Otto—Description of flying troops—Peace in sight—Victory
of Lyssa—Our plans of retirement—Conrad comes home—He describes
his enthusiasm for war 195
CHAPTER V
The Prussians at Grumitz—Otto gets into trouble—A dinner with
friend and foe—Rosa and Prince Henry are engaged—The Prussians
leave and cholera breaks out in our midst—Servants are the first
victims, then sisters—The lover’s suicide—The only son dies,
father follows him, cursing war 210
CHAPTER VI
Summer in Switzerland—Researches in International
law—Seclusion—Frederick enters the peace army—Off to Berlin—The
battle-field of Sadowa—Francis Joseph weeps for his dead
soldiers 227
BOOK V
TIME OF PEACE
CHAPTER I
Visit to Berlin—Aunt Cornelia—Aunt Marie’s death—Vienna
again—Politics and conscription 237
CHAPTER II
New Year’s reflections—Distrust between the French and
Germans—Quiet again—Paris—Napoleon’s plan for
disarmament—Frederick’s work for peace—A daughter born—Happiness
and study—The gay world—War talk again—Repose in
Switzerland—Sylvia’s illness 245
BOOK VI
CHAPTER I
Paris in March 1870—War party pushes the Emperor—His plan of
disarmament dropped—Our new home in Paris—The French and German
question—Menace and rumours again—France makes demands and then
threats 261
CHAPTER II
War declared—Excitement in Paris—Which side?—We remain in Paris—A
little history—First days of war—Paris a fortress—A Republic
declared—My husband’s fate 265
EPILOGUE 291
BOOK I
1859
CHAPTER I
Girlish fancies—Enthusiasm for heroism—Education—Entering society—At
Marienbad—Love at first sight.
At seventeen I was a very highly-strung girl. I should hardly realise
this to-day, if it were not for the diaries so carefully laid away. In
them I find again my long-lost enthusiasms, thoughts, and feelings now
utterly forgotten, convictions of which now not a vestige remains, and
sympathies which have long been dead and buried. I catch a glimpse of
the emptiness and silliness which filled my pretty little head. But, as
I painfully learn from my mirror, of the prettiness little trace is
left, although the old portraits assure me that it once existed.
I can imagine what an envied little creature the Countess Martha Althaus
must have been, pretty, popular, and petted. These quaint little red
diaries, however, recorded more of sadness than of joy in her life. I
think now, “How could I have been so silly not to realise how singularly
blessed I was with privileges?” Perhaps I was only expressing an
unbalanced sentimentality, and I tried to express it in somewhat poetic
prose. Imagine my discontent when I wrote:—
O Joan of Arc! heroic, heavenly virgin! If only I too might have waved
the oriflamme of France, crowned my king, and died for my fatherland!
Alas! this modest ambition was never gratified.
Again, I longed to be torn in the arena by lions like the Christian
martyrs. But the heroics were not for me. I must frankly admit that my
life was a commonplace failure, and the glories for which my soul
thirsted were for ever closed to me.
Often the little red book exclaimed, “Oh that I had been born a boy!”
Then I should have been able to win fame. But feminine heroes are few.
How seldom we have Gracchi for sons, and not often may we hope to carry
our husbands on our backs through the Weinsberg Gates, or to be a queen
and hear the sabre-swinging Magyars shout, “Long live Maria Theresa, our
King!” A man need only gird on the sword and dash to fame and laurels,
to capture a throne like Cromwell, or a world-empire like Napoleon.
My highest type of manhood was always a military hero. I had slight
respect for mere poets, scholars, and discoverers. The heroes of many
battles were the object of my adoration and devotion. Were they not the
chief pillars of the state, the makers of history, the builders of
empires? Did they not tower in God-like grandeur over all other heroes,
as did the Alps and Himalayas over mere grass and valley flowers?
From all this it need not be concluded that I possessed an heroic
nature. My enthusiasms and passions naturally took their bent from my
education and environment. My father was an Austrian General, who had
fought under “Father Radetzky” at Custozza, and therefore adored him. I
listened untiringly to the unending stories of this campaign. My dear
father actually pitied other men who had not had these proud and
glorious experiences, and I always regretted that I, being a girl, would
never have these magnificent opportunities; and, having heard some
mention of the question of the equal rights of women, I felt sure that
the only additional right I should ever keenly desire would be the right
to go to war. How charmed I was with the story of Semiramis or Catherine
II. when I read: “She made war upon this or that neighbouring kingdom,
or she conquered this or that people.”
The history books are responsible for this warlike ideal of the young.
That the God of Battles has constantly decreed wars stamps itself upon
the mind from the first, and one early accepts the belief that war is
necessary to regulate nations, and is almost a law of nature, like
tornadoes and earthquakes, which from time to time cannot be avoided.
History does not cover up the wickedness, the sorrow, the anguish of it
all, but presents it as a part of the inevitable, bringing advantage to
the nation, through the sacrifice of the happiness and life of the few.
That there is no nobler death than that of the soldier martyr is the
clear and unanimous verdict of all our school histories and texts. Long
lists of battles are given, and entrancing tales and poems of glory and
heroism are told, for must not patriotism be taught, must not every boy
grow to be a defender of his country? So he must be made a
war-enthusiast early. His spirit must be hardened long before he
questions through his natural sympathies why we inflict these horrors
and sufferings upon others. Such doubts must be carefully repressed.
History as it is taught aims to warp the inborn, divine impulse to hate
barbarism and inhumanity. The tale is so told as to belittle that part
of the story which appeals to the sympathies.
And the same books, the same subjects, the same system, encouraging a
like admiration for war and military heroics, are given to the
girls—delightful pictures for the tender souls, who otherwise are taught
that they must be gentle and mild. The frightful stories of carnage and
rapine from Bible days, from Macedonian and Punic times down to the
Thirty Years’ War and Napoleon, repeat the horrors of the thing until
the senses become callous. To read of cities burnt and the people put to
the sword with the victims trodden under foot was a keen enjoyment, and
to heap one horror upon the other blunted the perceptions till war no
longer could be regarded from the point of view of humanity, but was
received as something quite special, mysterious, majestic, and
sanctified.
The girls could readily see that war alone could give the highest honour
and dignity, so they learn all the military and glorifying odes, and
they become, like the Spartan mothers of old, the women who present
battle-flags and regimental colours, and are the admired and happy
belles during the ball season, when they receive the attentions of the
brass-buttoned officer’s corps.
As a child I had tutors and a governess at home, and was not reared in a
convent, as was often the case with children of my position. My mother
had died early, and the four children were watched over by an elderly
aunt. We spent our winters in Vienna, and our summers on the estate in
Lower Austria. Having a good memory and being ambitious, I was the
delight of my teachers. Since I was denied the career of an heroic
female warrior, I made it my enthusiasm to extol all who had helped to
make the world’s history through war. I mastered the French and English
languages perfectly. I learned all that was considered necessary for
girls in natural history, physics, and astronomy, but in the reading of
history I knew no limit. The ponderous records of wars and nations I
fetched from my father’s library and spent with them my leisure hours.
On March 10, 1857, I celebrated my seventeenth birthday. “Already
seventeen” I set down under this date. This “already” was a bit of
symbolism, and undoubtedly was meant to signify “and as yet I have done
nothing immortal.”
The Season was approaching, and it was arranged that I should be
introduced into society, but the prospect did not fill me with the
keenest pleasure. I felt that my aims were higher than ballroom
conquests. I could not have explained to myself what were the triumphs
for which I longed. I was hardly aware of the romantic attitude which
possessed me. I was full of glowing dreams and aspirations, such as
swell the hearts of youths and maidens, and fill them with a longing to
work out their ideals in all sorts of ways. It is at this age that the
love of knowledge, action, travel, adventure, show themselves, and are
perhaps only an unrecognised activity of the soul filled with desire to
express itself.
Aunt Marie was ordered to try the waters at Marienbad during the summer,
and found it convenient to take me. My coming-out in society was not to
take place till the following winter, and this trip to the fashionable
springs gave me a little preliminary practice in dancing and
conversation, so that I could wear off some of the shyness before my
first season.
Naturally at my first ball I had no eyes for anything but the brilliant
military uniforms which were present in such array. But of all the
splendid Hussars, Count Arno Dotzky was the most dazzling, and with him
I danced the cotillion and several waltzes.
The acquaintance quickly ripened into an attachment, and we were
betrothed on my eighteenth birthday, after which I was presented at
court.
CHAPTER II
Marriage—The first-born—War rumours—The ultimatum.
After our marriage we took an Italian journey, having been granted a
long leave of absence. Retirement from the army was never mentioned
between us. We both possessed handsome fortunes; but my husband loved
the military service, and I was proud of my elegant Hussar, and looked
forward to his certain promotion. He would rise unquestionably to the
rank of major, colonel, or even general. Who knew but he might be even
called to the highest rank, and add his name to the history of his
country, great as a conqueror!
The little red book contains a break just at the happy honeymoon time,
and that is a pity. Oh for a little breath of those happy days to come
back to me from between the leaves, in which I had wasted so much ink
recording odd peevishnesses and bad humours! Still, my memory recalls
those joys like an old half-forgotten fairy-tale. What could have been
added to my overflowing heart?—for I had love, riches, rank, health,
everything. My dashing Hussar, whom I loved with my whole soul, was a
manly, noble-hearted man, with a most cultivated and merry nature. It
might have been otherwise, for our acquaintance had been so short, and
it was not our own discretion and wise choosing which brought us all
this happiness. But the little red-bound book bore no entry for a long
time.
Wait a moment! Here I find a joyous event noted—my delight at becoming a
mother. A New Year’s gift—a son was born to us, the 1st of January 1859.
The diary was resumed to note with pride and astonishment this
all-absorbing event, as though we were the first to whom such a
happiness had ever come. The journal teemed with comments on the
mystical and sacred event. The future world had to be informed as to the
marvel of “maternal love,” it was mine to magnify the office of
motherhood. Was it not the greatest theme of art and literature, of song
and story?
I cultivated this ideal most carefully, collecting poems, baby songs,
and illustrations from journals and picture galleries. As in one
direction school books foster and develop an admiration for war heroes,
so through my collections I developed from hero-worship to baby-worship.
My charming little man was to me the mightiest wonder of the world. Ah,
my son, my grown-up manly Rudolf, the love of you in my maturer years
eclipsed in colour the hours of childish wonder and worship. The love of
my young motherhood is insignificant in comparison to what I feel for
you to-day, even as is the babe himself in swaddlings besides the
full-grown man.
How proud the father was of his tiny heir, as he planned for him the
sunniest, fairest future. “What shall he be?” This was the great
question that we discussed as we hung over the cradle together, and we
always decided unanimously—a soldier, of course. Sometimes the mother
would protest: “Suppose he should be killed in battle?” “Nonsense,” the
father would answer; “at the appointed time each one meets his end.”
Besides, Ruru was not to be the only son, but being the first he must be
what his father and grandfather were, the noblest of all—a soldier. So
it was settled, and so the joke was persisted in, and on his third-month
birthday he was promoted to the rank of a corporal.
On that same day a great foreboding came over me, something that made me
fly with a heavy heart to my little note-book. Dark clouds had arisen in
the political horizon, and the fears and suspicions were daily growing
into comments wherever people met together.
“Trouble in Italy is brewing” was the frequent remark. I had no time now
for heroics and politics, so it hardly touched me. But on the 1st of
April Arno said to me:—
“Do you know, darling, it will soon break out?”
“What will break out?”
“The war with Sardinia.”
I was terrified. “My God, that will be terrible. And must you go?”
“I hope so.”
“How can you say that? Hope to leave your wife and baby?”
“When duty calls.”
“Of course we can reconcile ourselves—but to hope—which means desire—to
wish for such a bitter duty——”
“Bitter? Why, a jolly, dashing war like that would be glorious! You are
a soldier’s wife, never forget that.”
I threw myself into his arms.
“Oh my darling husband. I can be content, and brave besides. How often I
have envied the heroes of history and longed to be one of its heroines.
What a glorious feeling it must be to go into battle! If I could only be
at your side, fight, conquer, or even fall!”
“Such nonsense, little wife; but brave you are. Your place is here by
the cradle of our little one, whom you must raise to be some day a
defender of his country. Women must keep the fireside warm. It is to
save our homes and wives from the attacks of the enemy and secure peace,
that we men must go to war.”
Why, I do not know, but these words, or similar ones which I had so
often read with enthusiasm, this time struck me as mere shallow phrases.
Where was the advancing army—were the barbarous hordes at the door? A
political tension between the Cabinets of two nations seemed an
intangible enemy. What was the pressing need of protecting wife and
child and home? Much as my husband spoke enthusiastically of going to
war for that, I failed to see it. Was it a mere burning desire to rush
into adventure, with a promise of excitement, promotion, and
distinction? “Yet,” I concluded, “it is a noble, honourable ambition to
delight in the brave discharge of duty.”
I poured out my feelings into the little note-book, denouncing Louis
Napoleon as an intriguer.... Austria cannot long look on.... War must
come.... No, Sardinia will soon give in, and peace be maintained. Thus I
commented on the course of events. My husband’s eyes sparkled at the
continued increase of the danger.
My father also gloried in the prospect, and retold the stories of the
Radetzky campaigns, and discussed the impending ones, as to how the
enemy would be easily routed, and all the advantages which would be
“ours.” Of the terrible sacrifices nothing was said. I was made to feel
quite ashamed of my meanness when I found myself thinking thus: “Ah, how
can any victory recompense the dead, the crippled, the widowed? How
would it be if the enemy conquered?”
I was contemptuously crushed by my military friends if I ventured such a
remark. Was it not most unpatriotic to have the shadow of a doubt about
our certain victory? Is not the duty of a soldier to feel himself
invincible, and must not a soldier’s wife share this conviction with
him?
My husband’s regiment was quartered in Vienna. The view of the Prater
from my window promised a wonderful spring. The air was warm and
delicious with violets, the sprouting buds seemed earlier than in years
before. How joyfully I might have looked forward to the coming weeks of
delightful driving, for we had purchased a fine carriage and a
four-in-hand team of dashing Hungarian horses—but oh, if only the
war-clouds had not hung over all that!
Coming home from a parade on the morning of April 19, my husband broke
the spell with the exclamation: “Thank God, at last this uncertainty is
at an end. The ultimatum has been sent.”
“And what does that mean?” I trembled.
“It means that the last word of the diplomats has been uttered—the last
word that precedes the declaration of war. Sardinia is called to disarm.
This she’ll not do, and we will soon march over the border.”
“Good God! Perhaps she may disarm.”
“Then that would end the quarrel.”
I fell on my knees. Silently and fervently a prayer cried out in my
soul: “Peace, peace!”
“My silly child, what are you doing?” said Arno, raising me. The news
had shaken my nerves, and I began to cry.
“Martha, Martha, you make me angry. How can you forget that you are a
general’s daughter, a first lieutenant’s wife, and,” he concluded with a
smile, “the mother of a corporal?”
“No, no,” I faltered, “I scarcely understand myself.... I used to thirst
for military glory, but now, when I think that on a single ‘yes’ or ‘no’
thousands may bleed and die—die in these beautiful days of spring—it
came over me that the word ‘Peace’ must be pronounced, that we must all
pray for it, and I fell on my knees.”
“To inform the good Lord of the condition of affairs, you dear little
goose!”
The house-door bell rang. I dried my eyes. My father came in with a
rush. “My children,” he cried out of breath, “have you heard the great
news—the ultimatum?”
“I have just told it to my wife.”
“Tell me, father dear,” I asked anxiously, “can the war be prevented by
the ultimatum?”
“I never heard of an ultimatum preventing a war. It would be very wise
of the wretched Italian rabble if they would yield and not risk another
Novara. Ah, if good Father Radetzky had not died last year, even at
ninety he would have routed this foreign scum. And I would have marched
with him. But the puppies have not had enough of it. They need a second
lesson. We shall get a handsome piece of Piedmont territory, and I look
forward to the entry of our troops into Turin.”
“But, papa, you speak as if the war were already declared, and you were
glad of it. Oh, if Arno must also go!”
“That he will, and I envy him.”
“But think of my terror at his danger!”
“Danger, what of that? Many a man comes home from war. Look at my
campaigns, my wounds, and yet I am alive, for I was not destined to
die.”
Such fatalistic notions!
“And if my regiment should not be ordered out——” began Arno.
I exclaimed joyously, “Oh, would that be possible?”
“In that case I shall apply for an exchange.”
“That can easily be settled,” my father assured him. “A good friend of
mine, Hess, commands the corps.”
Admiring both husband and father—yet anxiety sickened my heart. But I
must control myself. Was not my husband a hero? And I sprang up and
exclaimed, “Arno, I am proud of you.”
Kissing my hands, he turned to my father, “Father-in-law, I am glad that
you have trained your daughter to be a brave soldier’s wife.”
TURIN, _April 26_.—The ultimatum is rejected. The die is cast. War is
declared.
CHAPTER III
Last hours—Public glad at prospect of war—The sad parting.
The news was a bitter blow to me, and threw me into despair, although I
had been prepared for the catastrophe. Arno tried to comfort me.
“My darling, take courage. Things are not so bad and will soon be over.
Then we shall be doubly happy. You will break my heart with your
weeping, and make me sorry that I engaged to go. But think, if I
remained at home and my comrades went, you would be ashamed of me. I
must pass the baptism of fire to feel myself a man and a soldier. Only
think how happy you will be to see a third star on my collar, or perhaps
even the cross on my breast.”
I leaned on his shoulder and wept the more. Empty stars and crosses were
but poor pay for the terrible possibility that a ball might shatter that
beloved breast. Arno gently relieved himself from my embrace, saying:—
“Now, dear child, I must go to the Colonel. Have your little cry, and be
brave and cheerful when I return. In this hard hour my dear little wife
should not dishearten and discourage me. Good-bye, sweetheart.”
His last words helped me to collect myself. Yes, I must not damp his
courage, I must inspire his sense of duty. We women must prove our
patriotism by our sympathy, and must urge our soldiers to fame on the
battle-field.
“Battle-field”—strange how this word suddenly carried its radically
different meanings to my mind. First it appealed historically,
gloriously, pathetically; then again I shuddered as at some loathsome,
bloody, brutal, repulsive thing. I saw the poor creatures hurried to the
field, stricken, and lying there with gaping, bleeding wounds, and among
them, perhaps!—oh horrible thought!—and a loud cry escaped my lips at
the frightful picture.
Betty, my maid, rushed in. “In heaven’s name, madam, what has happened?”
I looked at the girl. Her eyes, too, were red with weeping. I remembered
her lover was a soldier, and I could have pressed her to my heart as a
sister in mutual sorrow.
“It is nothing, child, for they surely all come back again.”
“Not all of them, dear lady,” she said, the tears starting afresh.
Aunt Marie came in just then and Betty disappeared.
“Martha dear, I came to comfort you,” said she, “and help you to resign
yourself in this trouble.”
“So you know it?”
“The whole city knows it, and great joy is felt, for the war is very
popular.”
“Joy, Aunt Marie?” I exclaimed.
“Certainly. Wherever the family is not touched there is great rejoicing.
But I knew you would be in distress, and therefore I hurried to you.
Your father will come soon, not to comfort but to congratulate you. He
is beside himself with delight and thinks the prospect for Arno is a
rare one. And he is right, for is not war the best thing in the world
for a soldier? And you must see it so, my dear. What must be——”
“Yes, you are right, Aunt. I know: the inevitable——”
“What is the will of God——” rejoined my aunt.
And I concluded: “Must be borne with resignation.”
“Bravo, dear Martha, Providence has determined. Providence is all wise.
For each one the hour of death is settled as is the hour of birth, and
we can pray fervently for our dear soldiers.”
I did not analyse the contradiction that one might pray to avoid a death
that is predetermined. I had been taught not to reason on such matters,
and my aunt would have been quite shocked if I had voiced any such
scruples. “Never argue about it” is the commandment in matters of faith.
Not to question and not to think was much more convenient and
comfortable, so I accepted the suggestion that we should pray, and
during the absence of my husband I certainly would pray for the
protection of Heaven, and earnestly beg that the bullets might be turned
from the breast of my Arno. Diverted, but whither? To the breast of
another for whom some praying women also pleaded? And had not my
teachers in physics drilled me in the law of infallible consequences, of
motion and substance? The whole bewildering, tormenting question ...
away with it! I will not think.
“Yes, dear Aunt,” I roused myself to say, “we will pray diligently, and
God must hear us. Arno will return to us unhurt and happy.”
“You dear child, see how your soul flies to religion in the dark hours.
Perhaps God himself sent this trial to renew your faith.”
Again this did not strike me as clear. How could God have sent this
great complication, dating from the Crimean War, that Sardinia and
Austria should break out into grim war for the simple purpose of testing
my lukewarm faith? Was my aunt’s piety so deep and mine so shallow, that
I should be tempted thus to doubt? To attach the name of God to any
statement of cause rather consecrates the matter, and it is not
respectful to doubt. My father and husband were both quite indifferent
to religious matters, and my reasoning nature found mere dogmas hard to
accept. I had gone regularly to Sunday mass, and once a year to
confession, and at such hours I was honestly devout as a matter of
etiquette with the same correctness as I should have curtsied, if
introduced to the Empress. The chaplain himself could not have
reproached me, but my aunt’s accusation seemed perhaps justifiable.
“Ah, my child,” my aunt continued, “in times of happiness and prosperity
we are apt to forget our heavenly home, but when sorrow and sickness,
fear and death come in upon us, or if those we adore are stricken,
then——”
In this style she would have continued, had not the door been thrown
open and my father rushed in, exclaiming:—
“Hurrah, everything is decided. The Italian dogs wanted their whipping,
and they shall have it, they shall have it!”
War was declared. All was excitement. People seem to forget that two
sets of men are voluntarily thrown at each other’s throats upon the
assumption that there is a mighty third power which irresistibly forces
them to fight. The whole responsibility is thrown upon this mysterious
element, which regulates the ordained fate of the nations. (At this
period of my life I felt no trace of a revolt against war as a system.
Because my beloved husband was forced to go and I to remain—this alone
was my anguish.)
I consoled myself with all my old convictions that the highest duty of a
soldier was to be ready for service. History made it laudable to desire
honour and glory through patriotic devotion. It was a peculiarly
elevating thought that I was living in a most thrilling epoch. Had not
my life been given a share in one of the great events of history?
Nothing was being talked of but the war. The newspapers were full of it.
Prayers were said in all the churches for the success of the army.
Everywhere were the same excited faces, the same eager talk. Business,
pleasure, literature, art, everything was secondary, insignificant,
while the scenes of this great drama were being played on the world’s
arena. We read the proclamations, so confident of victory; we watched
the troops march through with glitter and clash of arms, and
battle-flags waving; leading articles and glowing speeches were filled
with patriotic ardour, appealing to honour, duty, courage,
self-sacrifice.
Assurances were made on both sides to the people, that their nation was
known to be the most invincible, each had the only just cause, each had
the noblest and most heroic cause to defend. Thus were the people filled
with enthusiasm, and the conviction that war was the most glorious,
necessary, and ennobling thing.
Every one was encouraged to think that he was a great citizen of a great
state for which he must be willing to sacrifice himself. Evils of war
were merely regarded as a necessary adjunct, and always “the enemy”
alone was found guilty of the evil passions, and the brawling, rapine,
hatred, cruelty, and all the other iniquities attached to warfare.
Consequently we were doing the world a noble service in punishing these
wretched Italians—this lazy, sensual, upstart nation. And Louis
Napoleon, with his consuming ambition, what an intriguer! It was with a
storm of indignation that Vienna received the proclamation: “Italy free
to the Adriatic.”
I uttered slight doubts whether it was so ignoble of Italy to wish to be
free, but I was rudely reminded that our enemies were scoundrels. In my
study of history I had usually found the writers sympathetic with the
struggling nation fighting to throw off a foreign yoke and gain its
independence. I felt that Italy was playing this part in the drama
before our eyes, but I was quickly and scowlingly given to understand
that our government—that is, the nation to which we happened to
belong—could never oppress, but only confer prosperity upon another
people, and when they sought to break away from us they were “rebels,”
that our control could be no yoke, for were we not always and only and
fully in the right?
In early May Arno’s regiment was ordered to march. They had to leave at
seven in the morning. Ah, the night before—that terrible night!
Arno slept. He breathed quietly, with tranquil happiness upon his
features. I set a candle behind the screen, for the darkness frightened
me and sleep was impossible. I lay quietly beside him, leaning on one
elbow and looking into his beloved face.
I wept and reviewed the cruel fate which was separating us. How could I
bear it? Would a merciful Father let us soon have peace? Why could there
not be peace always? I pictured him wounded, lying on the damp ground,
and all the agonies that would be mine should he never return. I could
have screamed and thrown my arms about him, but no, he must sleep that
he should be better ready for duty in the morning. I was wornout with my
despair, the clock ticked meaninglessly, the candle flickered low, and I
slipped into unconsciousness and dropped on to my pillow in sleep. Over
and over again I started in my sleep, my heart palpitating with fear and
alarm, and when I thus waked for the tenth or twelfth time, it was day,
the candle had gone out, and there came a loud knock at the door.
“Six o’clock, lieutenant,” said the orderly who came to rouse his master
in good time.
The hour had come, the dreaded farewell was to be said; I was not to go
to the station, but in our own room the sad parting was to take place,
for I knew that my agony would overcome me. As Arno dressed he made all
sorts of comforting speeches:—
“Be brave, my Martha. In two months we will be together again, and all
will be over. Many come back from wars—look at your own father. Did you
marry a Hussar to keep him at home, to raise hyacinths for you? I will
write you lively letters of the whole campaign. My own cheerfulness is a
good omen, and I am only out to win my spurs. Take care of yourself and
the darling Rudolf. My promotions are for him too. How he will love to
hear his father tell of the glorious victory over Italy in which he took
part!”
I listened to him and felt that perhaps my unhappiness was all
selfishness. I would be strong and take courage.
Again a knock at the door.
“I am quite ready; coming directly.” And he spread his arms. “Now,
Martha, my wife, my love!” I rushed to him speechless; the farewell
refused to pass my lips, and it was he who spoke the heart-breaking
word:—
“Good-bye, my all, my love, good-bye!” he convulsively sobbed, covering
his face. This was too much, and I felt my mind going.
“Arno! Arno!” I screamed, wrapping my arms about him. “Stay! Stay!” I
persistently called, “Stay, stay!”
“Lieutenant!” we heard outside, “it is quite time.”
One last kiss—and he rushed out.
CHAPTER IV
Women’s co-operation at home—Anxious for news from seat of
war—Austria’s bad luck—Patriotism and relief work—A friendly
visit—The fatal news.
Preparing lint, reading reports, following on the map the chess-board of
the war with my little movable flags, prayers for the success of our
side, talking of the events of the day: such were our occupations. All
our other interests lagged, one question alone occupied us: When and how
will this war end? We ate, drank, read, and worked with no real concern,
only the telegrams and letters from Italy seemed of any importance. Arno
was not given to letter-writing, but his short notes always gave me the
cheering word that he was still alive and unwounded. Letters were
irregular, for the field-post was cut off during an engagement, and then
my anxiety and suffering were indescribable. After each battle, the list
of the killed filled me each time with fresh terror, as though my loved
one had held a lottery ticket, and might have drawn the doomed number.
When, for the first time, I read the list and found no Arno Dotzky among
them, I folded my hands and prayed softly, “My God, I thank thee.” But
with the words still in my ears they suddenly grated upon me. Was I
perhaps thanking God that Adolf Schmidt and Karl Muller, and many others
had been slain, but not Arno Dotzky? Naturally those who prayed and
hoped for Schmidt and Muller would have been glad to read the name of
Dotzky instead of those they dreaded to find. And why should my thanks
be more pleasing to God than theirs? That Schmidt’s mother and Muller’s
sweetheart should break their hearts, this had made me rejoice? And I
realised the selfishness of such thanksgivings, and presumptuousness of
our prayers.
On the same day a letter came from Arno:—
Yesterday we had another hard fight, and, unfortunately, again a
defeat. But cheer up, darling Martha, the next battle we shall surely
win. It was my first great engagement. To stand in a thick shower of
bullets gives one a peculiar feeling. I will tell you about it by and
by; it is frightful. The poor fellows who fall on all sides must be
left in spite of their cries—but such is war. When we enter Turin to
dictate terms to the enemy, you can meet me there, for Aunt Marie can
take care of our little corporal until we return.
Such letters formed the sunshine of my existence, but my nights were
restless. Often I awoke with the horrible feeling that at the very
moment Arno might be dying in a ditch, thirsting for water, and crying
out for me. I would force myself back to my senses by imagining the
scene of his joyful return, which was much more probable to be my
experience than the contrary.
Bad news followed thick and fast. My father was deeply distressed, first
over Montebello, then Magenta; and not he alone, for all Vienna was
disheartened. Victory had been so certain, that we were already planning
our flag decorations and Te Deums. Instead, the flags were waving, and
the priests chanting in Turin. There they were thanking God that he had
helped them to strike down the wicked “Tedeschi.”
“Father dear, in case of another defeat, will not then peace be
declared?” I asked one day.
“Shame upon you to suggest such a thing!” he silenced me. “Better that
it should be a seven years’, even a thirty years’ war, so that our side
may be the conqueror, and we dictate terms of peace. If we fight only to
get out of it as quickly as possible, we might as well never have
begun.”
“And that would have been by far the best,” I sighed.
“Women are such cowards! Even you, whom I grounded so thoroughly in
principles of patriotism and love of fatherland, are now quite willing
to sacrifice the fame of your country for your own personal comfort.”
“Alas ... it is because I love my Arno so well!”
“Love of husband, love of family, all that is very good, but it takes
the second place to love of country.”
“_Ought_ it?”
* * * * *
The lists of fatalities grew apace, and contained the names of several
officers personally known to me, among the rest the only son of a dear
old lady whom I greatly respected. I felt I must go and comfort her. No,
comfort her, I could not. I would only weep with her. On reaching her
house I hesitated to pull the bell. My last visit there had been on the
occasion of a jolly little dancing party, and Frau von Ullmann, full of
joy, had said to me: “Martha, we are the two most enviable women in
Vienna. You have the handsomest of husbands and I the noblest of sons.”
And, to-day? I still, indeed, had my husband, but who knows? Shot and
shell might make me a widow any minute. There was no answer as I stood
and rang at the door. Finally a head was thrust out of the window of the
adjoining apartment:—
“There is no use ringing, miss, the house is empty.”
“What, is Frau von Ullmann gone?”
“She was taken to the insane asylum three days ago,” and the head
disappeared.
I stood motionless, rooted to the spot. What scenes there must have
been! What heights of agony before the poor old lady broke into madness!
And my father wished that the war might last thirty years for the
welfare of the country! How many more such mothers would there be then?
I went down the stairs shaken to the depths. I started to call on
another friend, and on the way I passed the Relief Corps storehouse, for
there was then no “Red Cross” or “Convention of Geneva” to distribute
supplies, and the people were all eagerly offering comforts for the sick
and wounded. I entered, feeling impelled to empty my purse into the
hands of the committee. It might save some poor fellow—and keep his
mother from the madhouse. I was shown to the room where the
contributions were taken. I passed several rooms where long tables were
piled with packages of linens, wines, cigars, tobacco, but mostly
mountains of bandages, and I thought with a shudder, how many bleeding
gashes it would take to use them all—and my father wishing that the war
might last for thirty years. How many of our country’s sons would then
succumb to their wounds?
My money was received thankfully, and my many questions were answered,
comforting me much to hear of the good being done.
An old gentleman came in, offering a hundred florin bill, and saying:
“Allow me to contribute a little toward the useful work. I look on all
this organisation of yours as the most humane. I have served in the
campaign of 1809–1813, when no one sent the wounded pillows and
bandages. There were never enough surgeons and supplies, and thousands
suffered a hideous death. You cannot realise the good you are doing.”
And he went away with tears in his eyes.
Just then there was commotion outside, and throwing open the double
doors, the guard announced: “Her Majesty, the Empress!”
From my quiet corner I saw the beautiful young sovereign, who in her
simple street dress appeared even lovelier than in her court costume or
ball dress.
“I have come,” she said gently, “because the Emperor writes to me from
the seat of war how useful and acceptable is your work.” She examined
the rolls of linen. “How beautifully done it is,” she exclaimed. “It is
a fine patriotic undertaking, and the poor soldiers——” I lost the rest
of the remark as she passed into another room, so visibly content with
what she was seeing.
“Poor soldiers!” These words sounded strangely pathetic in my ears. Yes,
poor indeed, and the more comforts we sent them the better. But the
suggestion that ran through my head was: “Why not keep them at home
altogether? Why send these poor men into all this misery?”
But no, I must shut out the thought, for is war not a necessary thing? I
found the only excuse for all this cruelty in that little word: “Must.”
I went on my way and passed a book-store. Remembering that my map of the
war region was worn to shreds, I stepped in to order one. A number of
buyers were there, and when my turn came the proprietor asked: “A map of
Italy, madam?”
“How did you guess it?”
“No one asks for anything else, nowadays.” While wrapping up my
purchase, he said to a gentleman standing by, “It goes hard nowadays
with writers and publishers of books. So long as war lasts no one is
interested in intellectual matters. These are hard times for authors and
booksellers.”
“Yes, this is a great drain on the nation, and war is always followed by
a decline in the intellectual standard.”
For the third time I thought: “And father, for the good of the country,
would have war last thirty years.”
“So your business suffers?” I asked.
“Not mine alone, madam. Except for the army providers, all tradesmen are
suffering untold losses. Everything stands still in the factory, on the
farm, everywhere men are without work, and without bread. Our securities
are falling and gold rises in value, while all enterprise is blocked,
and business is being bankrupted. In short, everywhere is misery,
misery!”
“And there is my own father wishing——” I found myself thinking as I left
the store.
My friend was at home. The Countess Lori Griesbach in more than one
respect shared the same lot with me. Her father was a general, and like
me she had married an officer. Her husband as well as two brothers were
in the service. But Lori’s nature was very light-hearted. She had fully
convinced herself that her dear ones were under the special protection
of her patron saint, and she was confident that they would return. She
received me with open arms.
“So glad to see you, dear; it is good of you to come. But you look
worried. Any bad news?”
“No, thank God, but the whole thing is so terrible to me.”
“You mean the defeat? Oh, do not think about that, for the next news
must be victory.”
“Defeat or victory, war is horrible,” I said. “How much better if there
never were a war.”
“Oh dear, what then would become of our glorious military profession?”
“Then we should not need any.”
“What a silly way for you to talk,” she said. “How stale life would be
with nothing but civilians. I almost shudder at the thought, but,
fortunately, that would be impossible.”
“Impossible?” I said. “But perhaps you are right, or it would have long
ago been changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that armies would have long ago been disbanded. But no, one
might as well expect to prevent earthquakes.”
“I cannot understand how you can talk so. For I am rejoiced that my
Louis has this splendid chance to distinguish himself. And for my
brothers, too, it is a good thing, for promotions are so very slow in
times of peace. Now they have all opportunities.”
“Have you received any news recently?” I interrupted.
“Not for some time, but you know how very uncertain the post is. After
an engagement they are too tired to write. But my mind is easy, for both
Louis and my brothers wear the blessed amulets. Mamma put them round
their necks herself?”
“Can you imagine two armies meeting, when every man wears an amulet?
Tell me; if the bullets are flying here and there, can they all be
deflected into the clouds?”
“I do not understand what you mean, dear Martha, and your faith is so
lukewarm. Even your aunt complains about you.”
“But why can’t you answer me?”
“Because you are jesting at what is sacred to me.”
“Jesting? Not at all. I was simply suggesting a reasonable argument in
things that are above us.”
“You well know that it is a sin to argue and trust your own reason in
things that are above you.”
“Yes, my dear, I will be quiet. You are right. Logic and reason are
dangerous. Reflection and research are of no use. All sorts of doubts
torment me and I try to answer them, but find only pain. Were I to
disbelieve in the necessity of war I could never forgive those who——”
“You mean Louis Napoleon? Oh, what an intriguer he is!”
“Whether he or another ... but I must try to believe that men do not
cause wars, that they break out of themselves like nervous fevers, and
the flames of Vesuvius.”
“What a state your mind is in! Let us be sensible. Listen to me. Soon
both our husbands will come back captains. I shall have a jolly six
weeks at a watering-place with mine. It will do us both good after this
suspense. You need not think that I have not suffered at all. And it may
yet be God’s will that one of our dear ones shall meet a soldier’s
death—but what is more noble, more honourable, than death in battle for
emperor and fatherland?”
“You are talking like the next best army proclamation.”
“Yet, it would be dreadful—poor mamma—should Karl or Gustav be lost. But
let us not think of it. Yes, I shall go and refresh myself at some
watering-place. I think I would prefer Carlsbad. I was there as a girl
and had a glorious season.”
“I, too, went to Marienbad, and there I made the acquaintance of my
husband. But don’t let us be sitting here idly. If you have linen at
hand we can be making bandages. I just came from the Relief Corps and——”
We were interrupted, for the footman brought in a letter.
“From Gustav,” cried Lori, joyfully. She read a few lines and,
shrieking, fell about my neck.
“Lori, my poor dear, what is it? Your husband?”
“Oh God, oh God!” she exclaimed. “Read for yourself.”
I took the letter up. I can recall the contents perfectly, for I
afterwards copied it in my diary.
“Read aloud, for I could not finish.”
I read:—
“DEAR SISTER—Yesterday we had a severe encounter. There was a long
list of dead and wounded. Prepare poor mother, tell her Karl is
severely wounded, but I tell you the truth—the brave fellow died for
his country.”
I stopped to embrace dear Lori, and continued reading, choked with my
tears.
“Your husband is safe, as well as I. Had the enemy’s bullet only hit
me instead! I envy Karl his heroic death. He fell at the beginning and
never knew we were defeated. Oh, how bitter it all is, I saw his fall,
for we were riding together. I sprang to lift him up, but one look
told me he was dead. The ball must have hit the lungs or heart. His
death was surely instant and quite painless. Many others suffered
hours of agony and lay long in the heat of battle till death came. It
was a bloody day. More than a thousand, friend and foe, were left on
the field. Among the dead I found many dear faces, and with the rest,
there is poor”—here I had to turn the page—“poor Arno Dotzky.”
I fell insensible to the floor.
CHAPTER V
Early widowhood—Sorrow and solitude—I take up my studies again—Broader
conceptions.
“It is all over now, Martha! Solferino is decisive. We have been
beaten.” With these words my father hurried to me one morning, as I was
sitting under the linden trees in the garden.
I was back in the home of my girlhood with my little Rudolf. Eight days
after the great battle which left me a widow, I returned to live with my
family in Grumitz, our country place in Lower Austria. Just as it had
been before my marriage, I was surrounded by the loved ones—father,
aunt, two growing sisters, and my little brother. Their kindness and
sympathy touched my grief-stricken heart. My sorrow seemed to have
consecrated me in their eyes and raised me above the ordinary level.
Next to the blood poured out by the soldiers on the altar of their
country, the tears of the bereft mothers, wives, and children are
considered the holiest libations poured on the same altar. What was
almost a feeling of pride and heroic dignity took possession of me, for
to have sacrificed a beloved husband in battle conferred upon me the
equivalent of military merit, which grew to be quite a comforting
thought, and helped me to bear my sorrow. But then I was but one of many
whose loved ones slept beneath the Italian sod.
No particulars were brought me of Arno’s death, other than that he had
been found dead, recognised, and buried. No doubt the baby and I were
his last thought and consolation, and with his last breath he had
groaned, “I have done my duty, more than my duty.”
“Yes, we are beaten,” sadly repeated my father as he sank on to the
bench.
“So the victims were a needless sacrifice,” I sighed.
“Indeed they are to be envied, for they know nothing of the disgrace
which has come upon us. But we shall gather ourselves together soon,
though they say that peace must now be concluded.”
“May God grant it!” I interrupted. “Though it is too late for my poor
Arno, yet thousands of others will be spared.”
“You seem to think only of your own sorrow, and that of private
individuals. This is Austria’s affair.”
“But is not Austria made up of individuals?”
“But, my dear child, a state and empire has a longer and more important
existence than an individual. Men disappear, from generation to
generation, but the state goes on and on; it grows in power, fame, and
greatness, or it crumbles, sinks, and is lost, if it allows itself to be
surpassed or swallowed by other states. Therefore, it is the highest
duty of every individual to sacrifice, suffer, and even die, that the
existence, the power, and welfare of the state may be perpetuated and
increased.”
These impressive words remained in my thought, and I noted them in my
diary. They were curiously like the sentences in my old school books,
whose strong, clear convictions had been quite driven from my mind of
late, especially since Arno’s death, by the confusion, fear, and pity I
had experienced. I once more hugged them to my heart, and found
consolation and encouragement in the thought that my darling had been
sacrificed in a great cause, and that, in giving up my husband, I had
done my share in the service of my country.
Aunt Marie had a different source of consolation ready, however. “Stop
your crying, my dear,” she would say when she found me crushed anew with
my grief. “Is it not selfish to mourn for him who is now so happy? From
up among the saints he is even now looking down and blessing you. The
years will pass quickly when you will join him there. For the heroes of
battle heaven prepares a special place of rest. Happy are those who are
called from this earth while performing a sacred duty. Next in glory to
the Christian martyr comes the dying soldier.”
“Then I am to rejoice that Arno——”
“No, not rejoice, that would be asking too much. You must bear your lot
and resign yourself. Heaven sends this trial to purify and strengthen
your faith.”
“And in order that my heart be purified and my faith strengthened my
poor Arno had to——”
“No, no, but how dare you question the hidden ways of Providence?”
The consolations which my aunt offered were rather confusing and
distracting, but I allowed myself to accept the mystical tangle, and
believe that my dear victim was now enjoying heaven as a reward for his
agony of sacrifice, and that his memory would be glorified on earth with
the halo of heroic martyrdom.
Just before our departure from Vienna the great mourning ceremony had
been celebrated in the cathedral of St. Stefan, and I attended. The _De
Profundis_ was sung for all our warriors fallen and buried on foreign
soil. A catafalque had been erected in the centre of the church, lighted
with a hundred candles and hung with flags, arms, and military emblems.
The grand pathetic requiem came from the choir and flooded the
congregation—mostly women clothed in black and weeping aloud. And not
for her own alone, but for the same sad fate of all, each woman wept—for
all these poor brave brothers who had given up their sweet young lives
for us, for their country, the honour of their nation! And there in the
background stood several regiments of living soldiers, listening to the
ceremony—all waiting and ready to follow their fallen comrades without a
murmur or fear. These clouds of incense, the swelling voice of the
organ, the fervent petitions, the common woe poured out in tears and
groans must surely have risen to a well-pleased heavenly ear, and the
God of armies and battles must certainly shower down His blessing on
those to whom this catafalque was raised.
These were the thoughts that came to me, and which I wrote in my journal
when I described the mourning celebration.
Two weeks after the defeat of Solferino came the news of the peace of
Villa Franca. My father gave himself no end of pains to explain to me
how necessary for political reasons this peace had become. I assured him
that it was very joyful news to me to know that there was an end to all
this fighting and dying. But he continued at length to explain.
“You must not for one instant think,” he said, “that even though in this
peace we have made concessions, we have thereby sacrificed our dignity.
We Austrians know perfectly what we are about. It is not the little
check we got at Solferino which makes us give up the game. Far from it.
We could easily have routed them with another army corps, and forced the
enemy from Milan, but, dear Martha, there are other things
involved—great principles and objects. We do not cease to push the war
further, lest these Sardinian robbers and their French hangman-ally
should push into other portions of Italy—Modena and Tuscany—where
dynasties are in power which are related to our imperial family; nay,
they might advance even against Rome itself, and endanger the Holy
Father—the Vandals! By giving up Lombardy we keep Venetia, and can
assure the Holy See and the southern Italian states of our support.
Thus, my dear, you see, it is only for political reasons and for the
sake of the balance of power in Europe——”
“Oh, yes, father, I see it,” I broke in. “It is a pity that they could
not have planned it all before Magenta!” I sighed bitterly, and, to
change the subject, I pointed to a package of books which had just
arrived from Vienna.
“See, father, the bookseller has sent us several things on approval.
Among the rest is the English naturalist Darwin’s _The Origin of
Species_. He recommends it as an epoch-making book in modern thought.”
“He need not bother me with it,” replied my father. “In such stirring
times, who can be interested in such rubbish? How can a stupid book
about plants and animals and their origin make an epoch of any
importance to us men? The federation of the Italian States, the forming
of the German Bund, and the consolidation of Austria—such matters make
epochs in history and mark the great strides in human advancement. These
things will live in history long after that stupid English book is
forgotten. Mark my words.”
I did mark them.
BOOK II
TIME OF PEACE
CHAPTER I
Society once more—Happiness returns—A second marriage suggested—My
younger sisters need a chaperone—Baron Tilling introduced—He tells
of Arno’s death.
Four years passed quietly, and my sisters, now seventeen and eighteen
years old, are to be presented at court. “Why should I not too return to
society?” I thought. Time had done its work and quieted my grief.
Despair had mellowed into sorrow, sorrow into melancholy, then came
listlessness, and finally I felt a renewing of my interest in life. I
woke one fine morning with the realisation that I was a woman to be
envied—twenty-three, beautiful, nobly born, rich, the mother of a
darling boy, and one of a devoted family. What had I still to ask to
make life delightful?
Behind me like a sweet dream lay the short period of my married life.
The shadowy past began to swallow up the memory of my desperate love, my
handsome Huzzar, my married happiness, my terrible separation and grief.
The duration of it had not been long enough to create a close sympathy.
Our devotion had been too shortly cut off to have grown into the
friendship and reverence which is often felt by those who have shared
years of joy and sorrow. Could I have been indispensable to him when,
for no cause, he rushed into the war and left his regiment, which was
not called out? Yes, four years made me a different being. My mind had
broadened, and knowledge and culture had come to me which, I felt, Arno
would have had no sympathy with. If he could come back he would be a
stranger to my present spiritual life.
How did it all come about?
One year of widowhood passed in despair, deep mourning, and
heart-breaking. Of society I would not hear. Rudolf’s education should
be my one thought. The “baby” turned into “my son,” and became the
centre of my hope, my pride, and my existence. To be able some day to be
his guide and intellectual companion, I buried myself in the treasures
of the chateau library. History, in which my interest had cooled, became
my passion again, as well as my consolation, for the account of battles
and heroics seemed to relate me to the grand historical processes, for
which I, too, had lived. Not that I ever got back the old enthusiasms of
girlish days for the Maid of Orleans. Many of the overwrought accounts
now sounded hollow and mocking, when I thought of the horrors of war.
Can the priceless gem life be paid for with the tinsel coin of
posthumous fame?
But the history-shelf of my father’s library was soon exhausted; I
begged the bookseller to send me more. He wrote:—
I send you Thomas Buckle’s _History of Civilisation in England_. The
work is unfinished, but these two volumes form a complete whole, and
have attracted great attention, not only in England but over the
world. They say that the author is introducing a new conception of
history.
New, indeed! Reading and re-reading it, I felt like a creature taken
suddenly from the bottom of a narrow valley to the mountain tops and
viewing the world for the first time, out, beyond and beyond, to the
boundless ocean. Not that I, a superficial mind of twenty, could grasp
the book—but, to keep to my picture, I saw that lofty monumental things
lay before my astonished vision. I was dazzled, overcome, my horizon
moved out into the immensities of life. Though the full understanding
only came to me later, yet that one vision I caught even then, that the
history of mankind itself was not formulated by wars, kings, statesmen,
treaties, greed, cunning, but by the gradual development of the
intellect. Court chronicles gave no explanation to underlying causes,
nor a picture of the civilisation of the time. Buckle did not paint war
and devastation with a glamour, but demonstrated that the respect for
arms diminished as a people rose in culture and intelligence. The lower
into barbarism you go, the more war, and he holds even that some day the
love of war and its romance will die out of our culture and cease to
exist. Just as childhood’s wrangling ceases, so must society outgrow its
childishness.
How all this appealed to the convictions of my heart, which I had so
often dismissed as unworthy and weak! I now felt that these growing
ideals in me were an echo of the spirit of the age, and saw that
thinkers were losing their idolatry for war, and doubting its necessity.
The book gave me the opposite of what I sought, yet how it solaced me,
enlightened, elevated, and pacified me. Once I tried to talk to my
father about it, but he would have none of it; he refused to follow me
to the mountain top, that is, he refused to read the book, so it was
useless to discuss it.
During the second year of my sorrow I studied with renewed ardour, and
as the mind expanded the old unhappiness disappeared. Buckle had
unconsciously given me a taste for the larger world again, and I
satisfied my craving to follow out his idea in other authors. The
passion for life renewed itself, and the melancholy disappeared. Then
the third change was wrought in me. Books alone would not satisfy me. I
saw that with all this reading my longings were not being
gratified—life’s flowers were still for me to pluck if I only stretched
out the hand. So in the winter of 1863 I entered the salons of Viennese
society once more, to introduce my younger sisters there.
“Martha, Countess Dotzky, the rich young widow,” thus spoken of, I took
my part in the great comedy of the world again. The part suited me, and
I was greeted, fêted, spoiled on all sides, much to my delight, after
four years of social starving.
The entire family quietly presumed that I would remarry. My aunt no
longer referred to my soldier saint above. The future promised meeting
might not be so agreeable if a second husband stepped in. Every one
except myself seemed to have forgotten his existence. My pain was gone,
but his image could never be wiped out. Daily Rudolf’s evening prayer
closed with: “God keep me good and brave for love of my father, Arno.”
We sisters enjoyed society in the extreme. It was really my first
glimpse, too, for I had married so soon that I had missed the gaiety and
attentions. My crowd of admirers, however, did not impress me much, for
between us there lay a chasm. Brilliant young beaux chatting of
ballroom, court, and theatre had not the faintest glimpse of the things
which my life was beginning to depend upon. Though I had only begun to
lisp in the language of the higher things of soul and science, yet that
was farther removed from these chatterers than Greek or even Patagonian.
I had begun to think in the tongue with which men of science would some
day debate, and finally solve the greatest riddles of the world.
It was quite certain that in such a circle I would scarcely find a
congenial mate, and I carefully avoided all entangling rumours, devoted
myself to my boy, plunged into study, kept in touch with the
intellectual world, read and relished keenly all the latest things. This
barred me from many of the frivolities, and yet I keenly enjoyed the
gaiety, the company, and dancing. I longed to open my salon to a few of
the upper world of scholarship, but my social position made that
impossible. I dared not hope to mix the classes in Vienna. Since that
day the exclusive spirit has changed, and fashion to-day finds it
acceptable to open its doors to brains of the rarer sort. But at that
time it would have been quite impossible to receive except such as were
presentable at court—counting at least sixteen ancestors. Our own social
set would not have been able to converse with the thinking class, and
the latter class would have found it intolerably dull to mingle with a
drawing-room full of sportsmen, cloister-bred young girls, old generals,
and canonesses. All the talk was a vapid recital of where the last ball
had been and the next one was to be—perhaps at Schwartzenberg’s or
Pallavicini’s; who was the latest adorer of Baroness Pacher, and the
latest rejected of the Countess Palffy; how many estates had Prince
Croy; was Lady Amalay’s title from her father’s or mother’s side? Could
such drivel possibly have interested the intellectual set?
Occasionally an able statesman, diplomat, or man of genius cropped up
among us, but they always assumed the frivolous conversation of the
rest. A quiet after-dinner chat with some of our parliamentarians or men
of mark would have been made impossible almost, for hardly would the
conversation turn on some political or scientific subject when it would
be interrupted with, “Ah, dearest Countess Dotzky, how charming you
looked yesterday at the picnic! And are you going to the Russian embassy
to-morrow?”
* * * * *
“Allow me, dear Martha,” said my cousin Conrad Althaus, “to introduce
Lieutenant-Colonel Baron Tilling.” I bowed and arose, thinking the
introduction meant an invitation to dance.
“Pardon me, Countess,” he said, with a slight smile, showing a perfect
row of teeth, “I do not dance.”
“So much the better, for I would like a moment’s rest,” I said,
reseating myself.
“I was bold enough to ask for the introduction, for I had some
information for you,” he continued.
I looked up at him in surprise. He was no longer young, somewhat grey,
and with a serious countenance, but withal a distinguished and
sympathetic face.
“I will not intrude, Countess, but what I have to tell you is not suited
to a ballroom chat. If you will fix the hour, I will come to you with
it.”
“I am at home on Saturdays between two and four.”
“I would rather see you alone.”
“Then come to-morrow at the same hour.” The Baron bowed and left me.
Later, Cousin Conrad passed; I called him to my side and questioned him
concerning Tilling.
“Ah ha! Has he so impressed you that you are setting an investigation on
foot? He is unmarried, but a distinguished princess of the reigning
house has him entangled in her silken web, and therefore he does not
wish to marry. His regiment has just been ordered here, but he is no
friend of society. I meet him every day at the ‘Noble’s Club,’ where he
always seems absorbed in the papers or a game of chess. I was astonished
to see him here, but the hostess is his cousin. After speaking with you
he went away immediately.”
“And he was introduced to no other ladies?”
“No; but do not imagine that it was your beauty that brought him down at
long range, and therefore asked to know you. He merely questioned:
‘Could you tell me whether a certain Countess Dotzky, formerly an
Althaus, probably a relative of yours, is here to-day? I want to speak
to her.’ I pointed to you. ‘There she sits in the blue dress.’ ‘Oh,’
said he, ‘that is she? Will you introduce me?’ And I brought him over
with no idea that I would disturb your peace of mind.”
“Such nonsense, Conrad, as though my peace were so easily ruffled!
Tilling! What family is that? The name is new to me.”
“So you are interested? Perhaps he is the lucky fellow. I who have tried
for three months to interest you in me must step aside for this
cold-hearted lieutenant-colonel. Let me warn you, he is without feeling.
The Tilling family, I believe, is of Hanoverian origin, although his
father was an Austrian officer and his mother a Prussian. Did you note
his North German accent?”
“He speaks beautiful German.”
“You find everything about him beautiful, no doubt.” Conrad rose. “I
have heard enough. Let me leave you to dream—I can find plenty of
beautiful ladies who——”
“Who will think you charming, Conrad. Indeed there are plenty.”
I was uneasy and left the ball early. Surely not to be able to think
uninterruptedly about the new friend, although I found myself doing it!
At midnight I enriched the red book with the conversation given above,
and added my unpleasant doubts that he might even then be sitting at the
feet of the princess. I ended my sentence by envying her—not Tilling, oh
no!—for being beloved by some one. My waking thought was once
more—Tilling. Naturally; had he not made an appointment for that day?
For some time nothing had excited me like this visit.
At ten minutes past two the Baron von Tilling was announced.
“As you see, Countess, I am prompt,” he said, kissing my hand.
“Luckily, for I am overwhelmed with curiosity to know your news.”
“Then, without delay, I will tell you. It is this: I was in the battle
of Magenta.”
“And you saw Arno die?” I cried.
“Yes. I can tell you of his last moments, and it will be a relief to
you. Do not tremble, for if the finish had been shocking I would not
tell you.”
“You take a weight from my heart. Go on, go on!”
“The empty phrase, ‘He died as a hero,’ I will not use. But it will
comfort you to know that he died instantly and without knowing it. We
were often together, and he was so confident of his safety. He showed me
the pictures of his wife and boy, and insisted that after the campaign I
should be his guest. I chanced in the Magenta massacre to be at his
side. I will not relate the terrible scenes. The intoxication of the
warrior passion had quite seized Dotzky in the thick of the bullet-hail
and powder-fog. His eyes were blazing and he was fighting like mad. I,
who was sober, saw it all. Suddenly a shell, and ten men—Dotzky among
them—fell. He was instantly killed, but many of them shrieked in agony.
All but he were shockingly mangled, but we had to leave them, for a
charging column came upon us with a murderous hurrah, pell-mell over the
dead and wounded. Lucky those who were dead! After the battle I found
Dotzky, with the placid smile on his face, a painless look, and in the
same spot and position. I have meant for several years to come and tell
you, and relieve you of a painful uncertainty. But forgive me if I have
recalled torturing memories.”
The Baron rose to go, and I thanked him while drying my tears: “You
cannot know what a relief it is to feel that he died without agony. But
stay. A certain tone in your remarks has touched a like strain in my
thought. Tell me frankly, you too hate war?”
His face darkened: “Forgive me if I cannot stop to discuss the subject.
I am sorry, but I am expected elsewhere.”
A cold expression passed over me, and the unpleasant thought of the
princess came into my mind. “Then I will not detain you, Colonel,” I
said coldly, and he left without asking if he might be allowed to come
again.
CHAPTER II
After the carnival—Father’s dinner-party—Toy soldiers—Tilling
again—The brave Hupfauf—Darwin.
The carnival over—Rosa and Lilli were still fancy free, and I was
feeling that the dancing was growing monotonous. I find all my
impressions noted in the red book. Society was not dropped, for Lent
brought its rounds as well; sermons and church were quite as popular a
meeting-place for the friends as were the opera and ballroom earlier in
the season. I was not quite pious enough to suit Aunt Marie, who dragged
the girls off to hear all the famous preachers. I spent my evenings by
the fire with books, and devoted myself afresh to my boy. I repeated
Tilling’s story to my father, but he considered it of no importance that
Arno died without pain. How differently Tilling had regarded the matter,
and I did not repeat his words to my father, for he would only
instinctively have despised him for his unsoldierly sentiments. How
gladly I would further have discussed the question of war with Tilling,
but, alas! he never called, and I only casually met him in public
occasionally. But even those meetings and greetings lingered in my
thought.
One morning at breakfast my father handed me a parcel: “My dear, here is
a parcel for you, and I have a favour to ask.”
“A present and a request,” I laughed; “that’s bribery.”
“Yes. I must have three old generals and their wives to dinner, a stiff,
sleepy, tedious affair, and I want you to come to my house and do the
honours.”
“And you evidently wish to sacrifice your daughter, as the ancient
father Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigenia.”
“I added a younger element for your sake—Dr. Bresser, for one; he
treated me in my last illness, and I wish to show my appreciation. I
also invited Lieutenant-Colonel Tilling. Ah, you blush; what is the
matter with you?”
“Me?” I said, hiding my confusion by hastily breaking open the parcel.
“It is nothing for you, only a box of lead soldiers for Rudolf.”
“But, father, a child of four——”
“Nonsense; I played at soldiers when I was three. My earliest memory is
of drums, swords, words of command and marching. That is the way to
start the boys to love the profession.”
“But my son shall never be a soldier,” I interrupted.
“Martha, you know it would be his father’s wish.”
“The boy belongs to me now, and I object.”
“What! Object to the noblest and most honourable of all callings?”
“His life shall not be risked in war, he is my only son.”
“As an only son I became a soldier; Arno and your brother also. The
traditions of both families require it that the offspring of a Dotzky
and an Althaus shall devote his service to his fatherland.”
“His country needs him less than I, and there are other ways of serving
one’s country.”
“If all mothers were like you——”
“There would then be fewer parades and reviews, fewer men to slay as
food for bullets. That would hardly be a misfortune.”
Much provoked, my father said: “Oh you women! Luckily the young do not
ask your permission, when soldier’s blood flows in their veins. But
Rudolf will not remain your only son, you will marry again. By the way,
what has become of all your admirers? There is Captain Olensky seriously
in love with you. Just lately he poured it all out to me, and I should
like him as a son-in-law.”
“I do not care for him for a husband.”
“How about Major Millersdorf?”
“You may call the whole army roll, but I want none of them.” And I
turned the subject: “When is the dinner?”
“At five. Come down earlier. Adieu, I must go. Kiss Rudi for me—the
future Field-Marshal of the Imperial Army.”
Could the dinner be a “stiff, tiresome affair,” when the presence of
Baron Tilling moved me in such a singular way? We had no occasion to
speak at the table, being separated, and even after the dinner, while
serving the coffee in the drawing-room, the two old generals remained my
faithful attendants. I longed to speak to Tilling again about the
battle-scene, and hear his sympathetic voice. But the circle left no
opportunity for me to talk with him. The conversation ran on the usual
topic.
“It will soon break out again,” suggested one old general.
“Hum,” said the other, “next time it will be with Russia.”
“Must there always be a next time?” I interrupted, but no one took
notice.
“Italy first,” persisted my father. “We must get back Lombardy. We
should march into Milan as we did with Father Radetzky in ’49. I
remember, it was a bright sunny morn——”
“Oh!” I exclaimed in a panic, “we all know the story of the entry into
Milan.”
“And the story of the brave Hupfauf, also?” asked my father.
“Yes, and it is most revolting.”
One of the group broke in diplomatically: “Let us hear it, Althaus.”
My father needed no encouragement.
“Hupfauf was a Tyrolese Jager, and the best shot imaginable. He proposed
to take four comrades to the roof of the cathedral and shoot down on the
rebels. The four did nothing but load, and he shot, hitting the mark
every time and killing ninety Italians.”
“Horrible!” I exclaimed. “Each one shot had a mother or sweetheart at
home, and had a right to his young life.”
“My dear, they were all enemies, and that alters the point of view.”
“Ah, true,” said Dr. Bresser, “the whole world is turned upside down so
long as there is racial enmity, and the laws of humanity will receive
but slight recognition.”
“What do you say, Baron Tilling?” I asked.
“I would have decorated the gallant breast of the man, from the point of
view of war ethics, and then put a bullet into his stony heart. He
deserved both.”
I gave the speaker a grateful look, and, except the doctor, all the
guests seemed unpleasantly affected, and a short pause ensued in the
talk.
The doctor then turned to my father, asking, “Have you read the new work
by the English naturalist, Darwin?”
“I know nothing of it.”
“Why, papa,” I exclaimed, “that is the book you told me would soon be
forgotten by the world.”
“And, so far as I am concerned, it is forgotten.”
“But,” continued the doctor, “it has quite turned the world upside down
with its new theory of the origin of species.”
“You mean the ape theory?” asked the general at the right. “The idea
that we are descended from the ourang-outang?”
“Upon the whole,” the cabinet minister began, nodding (and when he began
thus we all trembled, for he was getting ready for a long discourse),
“the thing seems absurd, but we dare not take it as a joke. The theory
is powerfully built up on collected facts, and ingeniously worked out.
Like all such rash conceptions it will find its followers and produce a
certain effect on modern thought. It is a great pity it has been given
so much consideration. Of course, the clergy will array itself against
the degrading theory that man is derived from the brute, rather than
from God’s image. No wonder they are shocked and denounce it. But church
condemnation cannot prevent the spread of ideas that come in the garb of
science. Until men of science themselves reduce it to an absurdity——”
“What folly!” broke in my father, fearing that his guests might be
bored. “One needs only a bit of common sense to reject the absurd notion
that man has descended from apes.”
“Darwin has certainly wakened reasonable doubts, and apes and man do
greatly resemble each other,” the minister added, “but it will take some
time to bring about a unity of opinion among the scientists about it.”
“These gentry live by disputing,” said the old general to the left, in a
heavy Viennese dialect. “I too have heard something about this ape
business. But why bother one’s head with the chatter of the star-gazers
and grass-collectors and frog-dissectors? I saw a picture of this
Darwin, and I could well believe that his grandfather was a chimpanzee.”
The entire company enjoyed the joke.
Then the quieter general spoke: “Can you imagine an ape inventing the
telegraph? Speech alone raised men so far above beasts——”
“Pardon, your Excellency,” interrupted Dr. Bresser, “but the art of
speech and the capacity for invention were not among man’s original
powers. After all, it is the result of evolution and development.”
“Yes, I know, Doctor,” replied the general, “the war-cry of the new
school is evolution, but one cannot develop a camel from a kangaroo, nor
do we find apes to-day developing into men.”
I turned to Baron Tilling: “And what do you think of Darwin? Are you a
follower or an opponent?”
“Although I have heard much of late about Darwin, Countess, I cannot
give an opinion, for I have not read the book.”
“Nor have I,” the doctor acknowledged.
“Nor I—nor I—nor I—” came the chorus from the rest.
And the cabinet minister gravely wound up: “The subject is so popular
to-day that the expressions, ‘evolution,’ ‘natural selection,’ ‘survival
of the fittest,’ have passed into current thought. You find many
defenders among those who thirst for new ideas and change, while
cool-headed, critical people who insist on proof are found on the other
side.”
“There is always opposition to every new idea as soon as it comes up,”
said Tilling; “but one must have penetrated into the idea in order to be
able to judge. Conservatives assail anything, and often for the weakest
and most absurd reasons, and the masses only repeat what they hear. To
judge of scientific theories without investigation is absurd. Even
Copernicus was thundered down by Rome——”
“But, as I said before,” interrupted the minister, “not orthodoxy but
science itself cries down false hypotheses in our day.”
“New ideas are always objected to in the beginning by the old fogeys who
never like to give up their settled dogmas and views,” Tilling replied.
“For my part, I shall read the book, and the opposition of the
narrow-brained speaks rather for than against its truth.”
“Oh, you brave, clear-thinking spirit!” I silently apostrophised the
speaker.
CHAPTER III
A cosy chat with Tilling—We misunderstand each other—The attachment
grows—Countess Griesbach—Jealousy overcome—Tilling goes away—A
touching letter—Death of Tilling’s mother.
The dinner-party broke up at eight o’clock although my father insisted
on detaining them. I politely urged a cup of tea, but each had his
excuse and felt obliged to go. Tilling and Bresser had also risen to
take leave, but were easily persuaded to stay. Father and the doctor
were soon seated at the card-table, while Baron Tilling joined me by the
fire.
“I have a scolding for you, Baron. After the first visit you forgot the
way to my house.”
“You never asked me.”
“I told you, Saturdays.”
“Pardon me, Countess, if I find regular reception days abominable. To
meet a lot of strange people, bow to the hostess, sit a minute, hear the
weather discussed, meet a stray acquaintance, venture a stupid remark; a
desperate attempt to start a conversation with the hostess is
interrupted by a new arrival, who starts the weather talk again, and
then a fresh bunch comes in—perhaps a mother with four marriageable
daughters—you give up your chair, and finally in weariness take leave
and go. No, Countess, my talent for society is weak at best.”
“I meet you nowhere. Perhaps you hate people, and are a bit
misanthropic. No, I do not believe that, for I conclude from your words
that you love all men.”
“Hardly that; it is humanity as a whole I love, but not every man, not
the coarse, worthless, self-seeking. I pity them because their education
and circumstances made them unworthy of love.”
“Education and circumstances? Does not the character depend on
heredity?”
“Our circumstances are also a matter of inheritance.”
“Then you do not hold a man responsible for his badness, and therefore
not to be hated?”
“The one does not always depend on the other. A man is often to be
condemned, though he is not responsible. You also are not responsible
for your beauty, and yet one may admire——”
“Baron Tilling,” I said reproachfully, “we began talking seriously, and
suddenly you treat me like a compliment-seeking society miss.”
“Pardon me; I only intended to use the illustration closest at hand.”
An awkward pause followed. Then I said abruptly:—
“Why did you become a soldier, Baron Tilling?”
“Your question shows that you have looked into my mind. It was not I,
Frederick Tilling, thirty-nine years old, who has seen three campaigns,
who chose the profession. It was the ten-year-old little Fritz, who
spent his babyhood playing with lead soldiers and toy war-horses. It was
this boy, whose father, a decorated general, and whose lieutenant uncle
were always asking, ‘What are you going to be, my boy?’ And the boy
would always answer, ‘A real soldier with a real sword and a live
horse!’”
“My son had a box of leaden soldiers given him to-day, but he shall
never have them. Tell me, why did you not leave the army after the
little Fritz had grown into the big Frederick? Had not the army become
hateful to you?”
“To call it hateful is saying too much. The condition of affairs which
requires that men shall enter the cruel duties of war, that I hate. But
if such conditions are inevitable, I cannot hate the men who fulfil
these duties conscientiously. If I left the service, would it diminish
war? Another would hazard his life in my place. Why not I?”
“Is there not some better way for you to serve your fellows?”
“Perhaps. But I have been taught nothing thoroughly except the arts of
war. I think a man can do good and be useful in almost any surrounding,
and find opportunity to lift the burden of those dependent upon him. I
appreciate the respect the world holds me in because of my position. My
career has been quite fortunate, my comrades love me, and I enjoy my
success. I have no estate, and as a civilian I could not help even
myself. So why should I consider abandoning the military service?”
“Because killing people is repulsive to you.”
“Yes, but in self-defence the responsibility for killing ceases. War is
often called murder on a big scale, but the soldier never feels himself
a murderer. Naturally the atrocities of the battle-field are revolting
to me, and fill me with pain and disgust even as a seaman might suffer
during a storm. Still a brave sailor is undaunted and ventures the sea
again.”
“Yes, if he must. But must there be war?”
“That is another question. The individual should do his duty, and that
gives him strength and even pleasure.”
And so we chatted in a low tone, that we might not disturb the
card-players. Neither would our conversation have suited the others, for
Tilling told of the horrors he experienced in war, and I told him of my
reading of Buckle, who argued that the war spirit would die out as
civilisation advanced. I felt Tilling’s confidence as he displayed his
inner feelings to me, and a certain current of sympathy was established
between us.
“What are you two plotting and whispering about?” my father suddenly
called out.
“I am telling the Countess old war stories.”
“Oh, she likes that; she has heard them from her childhood.”
We resumed our whispered talk. Suddenly Tilling fastened his gaze on me,
while speaking in a sympathetic voice. I thought of the princess, felt a
sudden stab, and turned my head away.
“Why did your face change, Countess? Did my words offend you?”
I assured him it was nothing, but the conversation became rather
strained. At last I rose and looked at the clock, and bade my father
goodnight. Tilling offered to take me downstairs.
“I fear I have offended you, Countess,” he said, lifting me in my
carriage.
“On my honour, no.”
He pressed my hand hard to his lips, “When may I call?”
“On Saturday——”
“That means not at all.” He bowed and stepped back.
I wanted to speak again, but the carriage door was shut. I should have
liked to cry tears of spite like a vexed child, to think I had been so
cold to one whose warm sympathy I had so enjoyed. Oh, that hateful
princess! Was it jealousy? Then it dawned on me with a burst of
astonishment—I was in love with Tilling! “In love, love, love,” answered
the carriage wheels. “You are in love,” the street lamps flashed at me.
“You love him,” breathed the scent of my glove, as I pressed the spot he
kissed to my lips.
Next day in the red book I denied it all. I enjoyed a sympathetic clever
man, but that is far from falling in love. I would meet him the next
time quite calmly, and find pleasure in conversing with him. How could I
have been so disturbed yesterday? To-day I could laugh at my silliness.
The same day I called on my girlhood friend, Lori Griesbach, from whose
letter I read the news of my husband’s death. Through our children we
had much in common, and saw each other almost daily, and, in spite of
many differences in our nature, we were real friends. Our two boys were
the same age, and her little daughter Beatrix, ten months old, we had
playfully destined should be some day the Countess Rudolf Dotzky. The
conversation ran on dress, our children and acquaintances, the latest
English novel, and the like.
As we chatted, I ventured to ask if she knew what the gossips had said
about Tilling and the princess.
“Everybody knows there is nothing to it. Why, have you any interest in
Tilling? Dear Martha, you are blushing. It is no use shaking your head.
Come, confess. How happy I would be to see you in love once more. But
Tilling is no match for you. He has nothing, and is too old. Ah, shall
we ever forget that sad hour when you read my letter? War is a cruel
business for some, and others find it excellent. My husband wishes for
nothing more ardently than that he may distinguish himself.”
“Or be crippled or shot dead.”
“Oh, that only happens when it is one’s destiny. Your destiny, my dear,
was to be a young widow.”
“And the war with Italy had to be to bring it about,” I added.
“And I hope it may be my destiny to be the wife of a brilliant young
general,” said Lori, laughingly.
“So another war must break out that your husband may be quickly
promoted, as though that were the simple and only purpose of the
government of the world.”
The conversation changed to pure gossip, of Cousin Conrad Althaus and
his devotion to Lilli; of the latest marriage; the last new English
novel, _Jane Eyre_; of the misdeeds of Lori’s French nurse; of the
trouble of changing servants, and all the usual chatter of idle ladies.
“Now, my dear,” I broke in, “I must really go, for I have other calls
which I cannot put off.” At another time I could have been entertained
for hours with the tittle-tattle. But to-day my mind was elsewhere. Once
more in my carriage, I realised that again there was a change in me, for
even the wheels took up the refrain: Ah, Tilling, Frederick Tilling!
When should I see him again? was my one thought, for in vain I went
nightly to the theatre, and from there to parties with the one hope. My
reception day failed to bring him. Had I offended him? What would I do?
I was all on fire to see him again. Oh, for another hour’s talk with
him! How I would make amends for my rudeness! The delight of such a
conversation would be increased a hundred fold, for I was now willing to
confess what was becoming more than plain to me, that I loved him.
The following Saturday brought Tilling’s cousin for a call, and her
appearance made my heart beat. Would she tell me of him who so
constantly filled my thought? I could not ask her directly. To speak his
name would betray me, for I even flushed at the thought. We talked of
indifferent things, even the weather, and the one name that lay most at
my heart I would not mention.
At last, without warning, she said, “Oh, Martha, I have a message for
you. My cousin Frederick went away day before yesterday, and begs to be
remembered to you.”
The blood left my face, and I gasped: “Went away? Where? Is his regiment
moved?”
“No; he has hurried to Berlin to his mother’s death-bed. He adores her,
poor fellow, and I pity him.”
Two days afterwards I received a letter from Berlin in an unknown hand.
Without reading it I knew it was from him:—
BERLIN, WILHELM ST., 8.
_March 30, 1863._ Midnight.
MY DEAR COUNTESS—I must tell my sorrow to some one, yet ask myself why
do I turn to you? I have no right to do so, but do so by irresistible
impulse. You will feel with me, I am sure of that.
Had you known my mother, how you would have loved her! And now this
tender heart, this fine mind, and charming disposition, must we put it
into the grave—for there is no ray of hope. Day and night I am at her
bed—and this is her last night. Such suffering, though now she is
quiet, poor darling mother. Her senses are numb and her heartbeat is
almost finished. Her sister and the physician are here with me.
How terrible is death and separation! It comes, but how we resist it
when it would snatch a loved one away. What my mother means to me I
can never tell you. She knows she is dying.
This morning she received me with an exclamation of joy when I
arrived: “Is it you? Do I see once more my own Fritz? I feared you
would be too late.”
“You will get well again, mother,” I cried.
“No, no, there is no hope for that, my dear son. Let us not waste our
last hours in meaningless words. Let this be our good-bye visit.” I
fell at her side sobbing. “You are crying, my son, I will not tell you
to stop, for it should grieve you to part with your best friend, and I
am sure I shall never be forgotten by you. Remember, also, that you
have made my life very happy. Except your small childish sickness, or
the dread that I might lose you during the time of war, you have given
me nothing but the keenest happiness; you have shared all my burdens
with me, and for this I bless you, my darling son.”
Another attack came on, and her groans of pain almost crushed my
heart. Oh, this last frightful enemy, death! I remembered the sights
of agonized sufferers on the battle-field and in hospitals! When I
reflect that we soldiers sometimes joyously drive others on to death,
that we urge full-blooded eager young men on to sacrifice themselves
willingly to this terrible enemy, against whom even the weak and
broken-down old people fight so bitterly—is it not revolting?
This night is frightfully long. If only sleep might quiet her. But
there she lies, with her lids parted, suffering. Every half-hour I
bend over her motionless, then I come away to write a few more lines
to you, and then I go to her again. It strikes four, and one shivers
at the unfeeling strides of time as it unrelentingly presses on to
eternity, and at this very moment for this one passionately loved
mother time must cease—for all eternity. But as the cold, outer world
turns dull to our pain, so much the more longingly do we seek to fly
to another human heart which we trust and hope may feel some unison of
feeling. And so this white sheet attracted me, and therefore I wrote
this letter to you.
Seven o’clock in the morning. It is over. Her last words were,
“Farewell, my dear boy.” Then she closed her eyes and slept. Sleep
soundly, darling mother. In grief I kiss your dear hands.—Yours in
deepest sorrow,
FREDERICK TILLING.
I have this letter still. Frayed and faded the pages are now. For
twenty-five years it has withstood my kisses and tears. It was sent “in
deepest sorrow”; I received it “shouting with joy,” for though there was
not a single word of love in it, yet where was a plainer proof that the
writer loved me than that he should turn to me at his mother’s
death-bed, to pour out his grief? In answer I sent a wreath of a hundred
white camellias enfolding a single half-blown red rose—the scentless
white flowers for the departed, and the glowing blossom—that was for
him.
CHAPTER IV
Conrad and Lilli—Easter ceremonies—Tilling again—A visit and
interview—Disappointments and apprehensions—A conversation about
warfare—At last, an understanding.
Three weeks had passed. Poor Conrad Althaus had proposed and been
rejected by Lilli. But his courage remained undaunted, and he visited us
as before.
Expressing my surprise at his loyalty, I said, “It delights me that you
are not offended, and it proves that you are not so serious, for
despised love often turns into resentment!”
“You mistake me, dear cousin; I love Lilli to distraction. First I
thought it was you whom I cared for, then Rosa, but now I am certain it
is and always will remain Lilli.”
“That sounds very likely. What if she will not marry you?”
“I am not the first man a girl has married to get rid of him. By-and-by
she will realise how faithful and worthy I am, and that will touch her.
You will be my sister-in-law yet, Martha, and I am sure you will speak
for me.”
“I certainly approve of you, and that is the way a woman should be won.
Our modern young men find it too much trouble to strive and win
happiness; they wish to pick it up without struggle, as they snatch a
way-side posy.”
Tilling had been back in Vienna for a fortnight without a sign to me. I
know I appeared depressed, and could not blame Aunt Marie for
reproaching me for my low spirits. She blamed my solitary existence, and
urged upon me matrimony and devotions. “You have quite forgotten it is
Easter,” she said.
“My dear Aunt, I think that both marrying and going to confession should
be done from the heart, and not for a remedy for depressed spirits.”
“Have you tickets to see the foot-washing?” she said presently.
“Papa brought me some, but I do not really care to go.”
“Oh, but you should go. There is really nothing quite so touching as
this ceremony—the exemplification of Christian meekness. Think of it—the
Emperor and Empress, in stooping to wash the feet of these poor old
folks, show us how small and meaningless is earthly greatness compared
with the majesty of God.”
“To symbolise humility by kneeling one must feel oneself very exalted.
This ceremony only tells this—‘As Jesus is in comparison with the humble
apostles so am I, the Emperor, in comparison with these paupers.’ Does
that express meekness?”
“What strange ideas you have, Martha. For three years in the country you
have read such wicked books that your ideas have all become warped.”
“Wicked books!”
“The other day I innocently mentioned _The Life of Jesus_ by Strauss,
which I saw on your table, to the Archbishop. ‘Merciful Heavens,’ he
cried, ‘how did you get hold of such a vicious work?’ When I told him
that I had seen it at the house of a relative, he exclaimed, ‘As she
values her soul let her throw the book into the flames.’ Do, Martha, do
burn the book!”
“Two hundred years ago would probably have seen not only the book but
the author thrown into the fire. That might have wiped it out—but not
for long.”
“Give me your answer. Will you burn the book?”
“Why discuss it, dear Aunt? We cannot understand each other in these
matters. Let me tell you what Rudolf did yesterday”; and the
conversation turned easily on her favourite subject, where we never
differed, for in our judgment Rudolf was surely the most original,
dearest, and capable child in the world.
Next day, shortly after ten, dressed in black, we all went to the palace
to witness the great ceremony of foot-washing. Our places were reserved
among the members of the aristocracy and diplomatic corps. We found
ourselves exchanging greeting right and left. The galleries were filled
with a mixed crowd, but we felt quite distinctly superior to them as we
witnessed this festival which was to stir us with humility.
Perhaps the rest were in a more religious mood, but to me the scene was
no more than a mere theatre spectacle. There we were, exchanging
salutations, as if from our boxes we were waiting for the curtain. The
long table was set expecting the twelve old men and twelve old women who
were to have their feet washed by their Majesties.
Suddenly, my eye fell upon Tilling. He was directly opposite us among
the general’s staff, but he did not see me, and just then the
twenty-four old people had taken their places. They were clad in old
German costume, wrinkled, toothless, bent, fitting admirably this
ceremony of the middle ages. We were the anachronism, and our modern
makeup did not harmonise with the picture.
I was watching the face of Tilling, which showed traces of suffering and
deep melancholy. How I longed to give him a sympathetic touch of the
hand. And while the spectators sat breathless, awaiting the coming of
the grandees of the court, he by chance looked my way and recognised me.
“Martha, are you ill?” asked Rosa, laying her hand on my arm. “You have
turned pale and red in the same moment. Look! Now! Now!”
The chief master of ceremonies gave the signal announcing the approach
of the Imperial pair—certainly the handsomest couple on the continent.
After them streamed in the archdukes and archduchesses, and the ceremony
was to begin. The stewards brought in dishes of food, which the royal
pair placed before the old people, making it more of a picture than
ever—the attire, the utensils, and the processional giving it the festal
aspect of an old Renaissance painting.
Scarcely were the dishes set on the table than they were removed
again—by the archdukes, who were supposed also to need a lesson in
humility. Then the tables were carried out, and the climax-scene of the
foot-washing began. The washing as well as the eating was mere
pantomime. The Emperor appeared to stroke the feet of each old man with
a towel, after the officiating priest had made a show of pouring water
over them. Stooping, he glided from the first to the twelfth. The
Empress proceeded with the old women in the same way, losing none of her
accustomed grace through the stooping attitude.
I was asking myself what could be the state of mind of these old people
from their point of view, as they sat in the bewildering company in
quaint costumes, with their Majesties at their feet. It must have been
like a half-realised dream, half-pain, half-pleasure, confusing their
poor heads already so full of the stupor of old age. Perhaps the newness
and solemnity brought a complete suspension of thought to their minds.
The thing that stood out most clearly, no doubt, was the red silk purse
with thirty pieces of silver which their Majesties hung about each neck,
and the basket of food they were allowed to take home.
The ceremony over, the greetings, gossip, and polite interchange of
compliments began. But my only thought was, “Will he be waiting outside
for me?” At last we got to the gate, and there he stood before me with a
bow. As he thanked me for the wreath I had sent to Berlin, he took my
hand and helped me to my carriage. The words came hard, but with a great
strain, I managed to say, “On Sunday, between two and three.” Another
bow and we were gone.
My little red book revealed my excited anticipations, my most
extravagant apprehensions that the meeting would reveal our mutual
devotion. While I was writing the bell rang and I recorded myself as
palpitating and trembling, for the last line was illegible.
He came. He was very reserved and cold, begged my pardon for having
written from Berlin, and said he hoped I would forgive his breach of
etiquette since he was so unnerved by his sorrow. He related something
of his mother’s life and last days, but not a word of what I was looking
for, and I became very strained and cold in my manner. When he rose to
go, I did not detain him or ask him to come again—a wretched half-hour.
I rushed to the open red book: “It is all over. I have shamefully
deceived myself.” I argued that he would never come again. Yet the world
held no second man. Rudolf must now be my sole consolation—would he love
me some day as this man had loved his mother? Oh, it is a foolish habit
this diary-writing. What proof it gives one of human fickleness!
A heavenly Easter Monday found “all Vienna” on the usual drive in the
Prater. The brilliant, dashing corso contrasted sadly with my depressed
spirits. Yet I hugged this very sorrow, for was not my heart empty two
months ago, where now it had at least something to feed upon? A quick
glimpse of Tilling down the drive, a bow and salute in passing, which I
returned warmly, again roused my anticipations.
Some days later, when other guests were calling, Tilling was announced.
I almost cried out with surprise and delight, but checked myself, and as
he sat opposite me he calmly announced that he expected to leave Vienna
for a post in Hungary.
“What has our poor Vienna done that you leave it?” I asked with an
effort.
“Its gaiety jars on me. I am more in a mood for solitude.”
“A jolly, rattling war would be the best thing to shake that out of you,
my dear Tilling,” said my father. “But, alas! there is no such cheerful
prospect. This peace threatens to last.”
“I protest against the idea that military men should desire war. We are
here to defend our country, just as the fire department is here to put
out fires, not to wish for them. Both war and fire are afflictions which
we do not care to bring upon our fellows. Peace alone is good. It is the
absence of the greatest evil. It is the only condition of welfare for
humanity. Has the army, from motives of pure personal ambition, a right
to desire that the greatest misery and suffering should fall upon the
rest? To carry on war that the army may be kept busy and its officers
promoted, would be like setting fire to our cities in order that the
fire brigade may distinguish themselves.”
Silently I seconded the speaker.
“Your comparison is a poor one,” replied my father. “Fires only destroy,
while wars build up the glory and power of a people. How otherwise could
a nation extend its territory except through conquest. Personal
promotion is not the gallant soldier’s only ambition. It is pride in his
race and country that leads him to desire war—in one word, Patriotism.”
“Oh, this mistaken love of country!” cried Tilling. “The soldier is not
the only one who learns to love the soil upon which he has taken root.
That is a passion common to all. For my part, there are other ways than
violence to express it. We should be proud of our poets rather than our
commanding generals.”
“How dare you compare a poet and a soldier?” exclaimed my father.
“I ask the same question. Is not the bloodless crown the better and
finer?”
“But,” expostulated Aunt Marie, “how can a soldier speak so? What would
become of the warlike spirit?”
“At nineteen,” answered Tilling, “I was filled with it. After I had seen
the realities, the butchery and bestialities of war, my soul was
sickened, and every later campaign I entered with resignation and
disgust rather than enthusiasm.”
“Hear me, Tilling,” said my father. “I have been through more campaigns
than you, and have witnessed as much of the horror of war, but I never
lost my ardour, and went in to the last as an old man with the same zeal
as into the first.”
“Pardon me, Excellency, the older generation to which you belong had a
more warlike and martial enthusiasm than now exists. The feelings of
humanity as a whole have changed. The desire to abolish misery is
growing in ever-widening circles, and permeates all society. That spirit
in your day had not yet been born.”
“What is the use?” retorted my father. “Misery will always be. Neither
that nor war can be abolished.”
“Pardon me, Count Althaus,” said Tilling. “Resignation to all forms of
evil was the spirit of the past. As soon as the heart questions, ‘Is it
necessary?’ that heart can no longer endure resignation and must make
right the wrong as a sort of expiation. This sense of repentance has
become universal enough to be called the _conscience of the age_.”
My father raised his shoulders, “That is too deep for me. I only know
that we old grandfathers look back on our campaigns with a thrill of
pleasure. And, in fact, the very youngest soldier, if asked to-day
whether he would like to go to war, would surely answer, ‘Willingly—even
joyfully!’”
“The boys, of course,” answered Tilling. “They have still the
school-drilled enthusiasm for war in them. And the old soldier, of
course, would answer ‘Willingly,’ for he must live up to the popular
conception of the courageous. If he said honestly, ‘Unwillingly,’ it
would only pass for fear.”
“Why, I certainly should be afraid,” said Lilli, with a little shudder.
“Think how terrible it must be to have bullets flying on all sides and
death threatening you any instant!”
“What you say seems quite natural from a young lady’s lips,” replied
Tilling. “But soldiers must repress their instincts of self-preservation
as well as their compassion for both friend and foe. Next to cowardice,
it is most disgraceful for us to have sentiments or emotions.”
“Only in war times,” said my father, “for in private life, thank God, we
also have hearts.”
“Yes, I know. With a sort of children’s sleight-of-hand, we say of every
horror when war is on, ‘That goes for nothing.’ Murder is no longer
murder. Robbery is no longer robbery, but provisioning. Burning cities
are so many ‘positions taken.’ For every broken law of morality,
humanity, and decency, as long as the war-game lasts, we snap our
fingers and by hocus-pocus transform it into nothing. But when this
inordinate war-gambling lifts from the conscience for a moment, and one
comprehends the actual depravity of the thing—that wholesale crime has
meant nothing—then the human mind can only wish to be delivered from the
intolerable depths—even by death.”
“Really,” said Aunt Marie reflectively, “commandments like, ‘Thou shalt
not murder,’ ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ ‘Love thy neighbour,’ ‘Forgive thy
enemies——’”
“Go for nothing, too,” repeated Tilling. “For those whose calling it is
to teach these commandments are the very ones who call down the blessing
of heaven on our murderous instruments and work.”
“And justly,” said my father. “For the God of the Bible is the God of
Battles, the Lord of Hosts, who commands us to draw the sword. It is
He——”
“Men always decree what they wish as the will of God,” said Tilling.
“Even the divine law is waved aside when men begin the great game of
hatred. The heavenly law of love goes for nothing when men find it
convenient so to interpret the God whom they have set up before them.
But forgive me, Countess; I have opened a wearisome discussion when I
only came to say good-bye.”
Dearer to me than ever because of the storm of feeling and thrilling
emotions he had set in action in my mind, how could I let him go,
perhaps never to meet again? With a cold farewell before all these
people—it must not end so. Had he gone and closed the door, I should
have burst into sobs.
Quietly rising, I said, “I must show you that photograph of which we
spoke,” and Tilling, very much surprised, followed me to a table at some
distance.
“I cannot let you go—I must speak to you.”
“As you will, Countess. I am listening.”
“Not now. Come to-morrow at this hour.”
He hesitated.
“I insist. By the memory of your mother, for whom I mourned with you.”
“O Martha!”
The word thrilled me with a flash. It was agreed, and, bowing to the
company, he kissed my hand and left.
With what impatience, anticipation, and even anxiety I looked forward to
the coming visit! Would he ask me what I wished to say, and would I need
to tell him of my love? Would he cross-examine me, and would my pride
stand between, and must we part after all? As I was thinking thus he was
announced.
“By your command, dear Countess,” he said. “I am happy that you invited
me in the name of my mother, and I must speak from the heart. I——”
“Why do you hesitate?”
“I find it harder than I thought to speak out.”
“Where is the confidence you gave me when watching at the death-bed?
Have you not the same faith in me now?”
“In that terrible hour I was beside myself. I overstepped my right, and
for fear I might do it again, I planned to go away.”
“You wish to avoid me? And why?”
“Why? Why? Because—because I adore you.”
My emotions turned my head away. Tilling also stood dumb. At last I
broke the silence:—
“And that is why you are planning to leave?”
“That is the reason.”
“Can the plan be recalled?”
“The transfer is not yet ordered.”
“Then stay!”
He seized my hand—gasping, “Martha!”
In the same instant my father rushed in.
“Are you at home? The footman said you were not.” My father glared at
Tilling. “Good-day. After last night’s farewell I am surprised to see
you. Martha, there is a family matter I must see you about.”
Tilling arose. “When can I see you again?” he asked in an undertone,
taking leave.
I whispered, “To-morrow, in the Prater at nine on horseback.”
With a bow to my father, who responded stiffly, he left the room.
“What is this family affair, father?”
“It is this very thing. I only scared your lover away in order to tell
you what I think of him. How dare you trifle with the family name and
your reputation in this way?”
“Father, my reputation and honour are guarded by my little son. As an
independent widow I have outgrown your authority. I tolerate no lovers,
but if I choose to marry after the dictates of my heart who shall
hinder?”
“Marry Tilling!” he shouted. “Are you mad? It would be a family
calamity.”
“Why, father, you yourself have been offering me a brevet-captain, a
captain, a major—while this man is in the rank of lieutenant-colonel.”
“The worse for that, with such treasonable opinions as he expressed
yesterday. He wants to resign, I guess, and is hunting a rich widow? And
would you stoop to such a man, you who are the daughter of a proud
soldier who fought in four wars, longing to enlist again, and you the
widow of a brave warrior who made glorious the field of battle by his
sacrifice?”
My father was pacing the floor, red-faced, and his voice trembling with
excitement. I was moved to the quick by these contemptuous words in
attack of the man of my heart. But no words of mine could defend the
injustice; Tilling’s ethical position my father was incapable of
understanding, so I remained dumb. My father’s disapproval might trouble
me, but I felt I was free to accept the great happiness which lay open
before me. Enough joy had come to me in that short hour to swallow any
vexation.
CHAPTER V
A ride in the Prater—At last an understanding—The family reconciled to
the engagement—Marriage and visit to Berlin—Life in
garrison—Christmas at Vienna—Rumours of war.
Oh the joy of the next morning, when at nine o’clock I left my carriage
at the bridle path of the Prater! There my horse awaited me. I was
hardly in the saddle when I realised the tread of a horse behind me. It
was the inevitable Conrad, and my greeting was rather cool, for though I
could hardly expect to have the Prater to myself, yet I must somehow get
rid of this faithful cavalier. Off in the distance I noticed Tilling
galloping.
“Ah, dear cousin,” I said, “only last night was I a good ally of yours,
and told Lilli what a fine fellow you were, so considerate, so——”
“Now, cousin, what do you want for all this flattery?”
“Only that you whip up your horse and gallop away,” and Conrad, seeing
Tilling approach, took the hint, and laughingly flew off.
“This Althaus again,” said Tilling coming up to my side, his tone being
plainly vexed, which pleased me. “Did he leave at seeing me, or did his
horse run away?”
“He went because I sent him.”
“Countess Martha, the world says he loves his cousin.”
“He does.”
“That he courts her persistently.”
“And not without hope.”
Tilling was silent, and I laughed into his face. “But I am not the
cousin. It is my sister Lilli.”
“You lift a load from my heart. This man was the reason why I wished to
leave Vienna. I could not stay and look on. Besides, I dared not trust
myself, for I could no longer conceal my feeling for you, and I feared
being made ridiculous and miserable.”
“But to-day you are happy.”
“Since yesterday I scarcely know myself, and yet I feared I should
suddenly awake and find it all a dream. What have I to offer you? I have
no prospects. To-day I am in the seventh heaven and to-morrow, perhaps,
in despair.... Pardon me, I am usually cool and prudent, but to-day my
feelings are extravagant. You can make me either happy or wretched.”
“I have doubts too. There is that princess.”
“Has that nonsense come to your ears? There is nothing in it, or would I
be wishing to leave Vienna?”
“A stupid jealousy in us both. Would I have asked you to meet me if I
had expected my cousin?” And I added, “Yet why have you kept away from
me?”
“Because I never dared hope that I could win your love. It was not till
you ordered me in the memory of my mother, that I dared speak, though I
was eager to dedicate my life to you.”
“So I have really thrown myself at your head, or you would not have
bothered about me?”
“I did not care to be counted with the swarm of admirers.”
“Oh, they do not count. They only wanted a rich widow——”
“That is the very point which held me back, for I have no fortune. I
would rather be miserable all my days than suspected by the world and
the woman I loved of having had a low motive in marrying her.”
“You proud, noble fellow, I could never believe, no never, that a single
wrong motive was possible to you.” And we rode on and questioned each
other about all our ideals and feelings. It was a blissful hour.
* * * * *
Direct from the Prater I drove to my father’s house. What an unpleasant
sensation the announcement would make, and I wished it over as soon as
possible. Father and Aunt Marie were busy over their morning papers, and
both were astonished at my early call, and in a riding habit.
“I have been riding in the Prater, and something happened which you must
all know at once. I have promised to marry——”
Aunt Marie threw up her hands, and father frowned—“I can only hope——”
“I have promised to marry the man that I love, and who will surely make
me happy—Baron Frederick von Tilling.”
“How dare you, after what I said yesterday,” shouted my father,
springing up.
Aunt Marie shook her head: “I had rather it were some one else. He is
not a match for you, and has such peculiar views.”
“Our views are alike, and I scorn to look out for any match. Father,
dearest father, do not frown so darkly, do not spoil my happiness with
your displeasure; be my dear good papa.”
“But, child,” said my father, softening, “I only want your happiness. I
could not be happy with a soldier who is not a soldier from his heart
and soul.”
“But you do not need to marry him,” remarked Aunt Marie judiciously.
“His soldier notions are of little consequence. But I would be unhappy
with a man who speaks with so little reverence of the Bible and God as
he did the other day.”
“You, too, my dear Aunt, need not marry him,” I interposed laughingly.
“Well,” said my father, sighing, “every one makes his own heaven. I
suppose he will resign.”
“We have not mentioned that at all, and I certainly desire it, but I
fear he will not.”
“To think,” said Aunt Marie, “that you have refused a Prince! and now
you are descending in the social scale instead.”
“Here I come,” I said, “for the first time since Arno’s death, to tell
you I am happy, and instead of being glad you both drag out reasons for
reproach—military service, Jehovah, social scale and suchlike.”
But after half an hour’s conversation the old folks were somewhat
reconciled, and my father agreed to come in the evening to meet his
future son-in-law at my house.
All the relatives came at the same time, and I introduced Tilling as my
betrothed. Rosa and Lilli were delighted. Conrad cried: “Bravo, Martha.
Lilli should profit by your example.” My father had conquered his
antipathy, or succeeded in concealing it, and Aunt was even full of
sentiment. Little Rudolf was presented to his “new papa,” who, kissing
him, said: “Of you, my little fellow, we two must try to make a perfect
man.”
During the evening my father suggested his idea that Tilling would quit
the service. The latter answered in astonishment.
“Give up my career, when I have no other! One can dislike war and
still——”
“Yes, I know—as you said lately, a fireman need not love to see a house
on fire.”
“There are other illustrations: Need a physician love cancer and typhus,
or a judge enjoy burglary and murder? But what reason could I have for
abandoning my profession?”
“You would spare your wife the unpleasant life of the garrison,” said
Aunt Marie, “and spare her the anxiety should there be war.”
“Those are good reasons, and I shall try to keep my wife from as many
unpleasantnesses as possible. But would it not be most unpleasant to
have a husband without a calling? If I resigned, it would count for
laziness or cowardice. It did not occur to me, nor to you either,
Martha, I hope.”
“Suppose I made it a condition?”
“You would not do that. I should prefer to renounce my happiness. You
are rich, I am poor, except for my pay and the hope of promotion. These
I cannot surrender without loss of my dignity and honour.”
“Bravo, my son, now I am reconciled. It would be a shame, for you will
certainly rise to the rank of general—you may be a governor or minister
of war some day. Your wife may have a proud position.”
The prospect of being a commander’s wife had no charms for me, but I was
silent. Though I would far rather have retired to one of our quiet
estates, yet I approved of Frederick’s resolution since it reconciled my
father.
“Yes, quite reconciled,” continued my father, “for the daughter of a
soldier, the widow of a soldier could never be content with a civilian’s
costume for always.”
Frederick’s glance said, “I know you better,” but aloud he remarked,
with a smile: “Yes—maybe she only fell in love with my uniform.”
* * * * *
In September we were married. My husband had two months’ leave, and we
spent a week in Berlin, visiting the sister of Frederick’s mother. The
two sisters had greatly resembled each other, and I was able to realise
the beauty of character of the one from the other. Frau Cornelia von
Tessau, the widow of a Prussian general, was the mother of an only son,
just about to become a lieutenant, and a touching affection existed
between them, such as I hoped my son and I might experience some day.
Our wedding tour, extending to the Rhine and to Switzerland, brought
many charming revelations. I discovered many new qualities in my
husband. I found him full of liveliness and quick appreciation of
everything beautiful in nature and art, and discovered also that he was
a perfect master of the French and English languages. Our two months
passed only too swiftly, and the first unpleasant moment was when the
official paper came recalling us to duty.
We joined Frederick’s regiment at Olmutz, where we retired completely
from the military circle and devoted our free time wholly to each other.
I exchanged the first necessary calls, and soon found I could not endure
the usual gossip of the set. We took up a course of scientific reading
between us, keeping up the liveliest sympathy in the advanced thought of
the world, and the philosophic questions of the day. We discussed the
future of our boy, and planned above all that he should not be a
soldier.
Christmas took us back to Vienna, the family being quite reconciled to
our marriage, for they were compelled to admit that at least we were
very happy. Conrad was still a constant visitor, and I could see that he
had made some progress with Lilli. Christmas eve was very gay, and above
all gifts were showered upon little Rudolf. A lively company had
gathered in the drawing-room, among the rest our old friends, the
Minister of the Interior and Dr. Bresser.
“Is it true, your Excellency,” the Doctor asked, “that another war is
threatening?”
“Yes,” answered the statesman, “there is indeed a dark and portentous
cloud on the political horizon.”
I shrank with terror, crying anxiously, “What! How! What can it mean?”
“Denmark has certainly gone too far.”
“Oh, Denmark? Then the storm does not threaten us?” I said, relieved.
“But the prospect of any war is distressing, yet I am glad it is Denmark
rather than Austria.”
“Never fear,” said my father, to comfort me, “if Austria is drawn into
it, we do not risk anything. In defending the rights of
Schleswig-Holstein we do not involve Austrian territory.”
“Do you imagine, father, that I would consider the question of
territories for a moment, when I only fear the one thing, and that is
the danger of those I love!”
“My child, you cannot consider the fate of the individual where the fate
of the nation is concerned. The men that are lost are of little
consequence in comparison to the main question whether our country shall
lose or win. I say if we cross swords with the Danes we can only extend
our influence in the German Alliance, and it is my dream that the
Hapsburgs may recover the German imperial crown to which they are
entitled. A war with Denmark would be a fit opportunity to wipe out the
loss of ’59 in Lombardy, and who knows, we might even gain power enough
to reconquer that province.”
I glanced across the room where Frederick was joking with the young
people, and a violent pain shot through me. My all would be crippled, or
perhaps shot dead. Our child, yet unborn, would be fatherless, all our
fresh happiness would be blotted out. All this in one side of the scale,
and in the other Austria, and the German Alliance, the liberation of
Schleswig-Holstein, with fresh laurels for the army—a lot of new phrases
for schoolboy orations and army proclamations. Thousands and thousands
of other individuals would have their happiness staked as well as mine,
both in ours and the enemy’s country. Could it not be avoided, this
monstrous thing? If all were to combine, all the wise, the good, and
just, could it not be averted?
“Tell me, your Excellency,” I asked. “Has it gone so far that the
statesmen and diplomatists cannot ward it off?”
“Do you believe, dear Baroness, that it is our business to maintain
eternal peace? It would be a beautiful mission, certainly, but
impracticable. It is ours to watch the interests of our states and
dynasties, and never allow their power to be diminished but strive in
every way to maintain our supremacy and honour and revenge insults.”
“In fact the principle of war is to injure the enemy whether you are
right or wrong.”
“Exactly.”
“And so they hack away at each other. It is horrible.”
“But it is the only way out. How else can quarrels be decided?”
“As are the quarrels between individuals.”
“By tribunals? But there are none over the nations.”
And Dr. Bresser came to my help: “No, savages have not; hence nations in
their intercourse cannot claim to be civilised, and it will take a long
time before an International Tribunal is constituted.”
“We will never get there,” interrupted my father. “Such things must
always be fought out, for the stronger nations would never submit to
arbitration. They will only set themselves right by fighting even as
gentlemen do, when they are offended.”
“The duel is barbarous and immoral.”
“You never will be able to alter it.”
“Still, your Excellency, I would never defend it.”
“What think you, Frederick?” my father turned to my husband. “Should a
man take a slap in the face and carry the matter to a law court, and get
five florins damages?”
“I should not do so.”
“You would challenge the insulter?”
“Of course.”
“Aha, Martha! Aha, Doctor,” cried my father victoriously. “Did you hear?
Tilling, who hates war, is an advocate of duelling.”
“No, I do not admit that. But in certain cases I should resort to it,
even as I have gone to war under present conditions. Our conduct must
correspond to the current notions of honour. Some day the insult will
turn back upon the person inflicting it as the disgraced one, and it
will be considered immoral to seek revenge, as it is in other questions
considered wrong to take the law into one’s own hands.”
“We will have to wait a long time for that day,” my father broke in. “As
long as an aristocracy exists——”
“That will not be for ever,” muttered the Doctor.
“Oh, so you would abolish the aristocracy?”
“Yes, the feudal. The future needs no nobility.”
“But so much the more will it need noble men,” said Frederick in
confirmation.
“And this rare race will quietly take a slap in the face?”
“There will be none to offer the insult.”
“And the states will not defend themselves, if attacked by a neighbour?”
“No neighbouring state will offer an attack, as even now our
neighbouring country seats do not besiege each other. A nobleman no
longer needs troops for his castle.”
“So some day the states will dispense with standing armies? Ha, what
will then become of you lieutenant-colonels?”
“What has become of the squires of feudal times?”
BOOK III
1864
CHAPTER I
War imminent with Denmark—New Year’s Eve—Return to garrison—The
Schleswig-Holstein Campaign—Story of the quarrel.
The remaining two weeks in Vienna were no joyous time for me. My
happiness was again darkened by this fatal prospect of war. Over all my
joys there seemed ever to hang some imminent anguish. Are there not
sufficient catastrophes in the natural course of events to keep one in a
sense of uncertainty? Why should man wilfully add fresh tortures to the
category of natural calamities which might at any time beset him? Some
people have learned to look upon war as a natural phenomenon like
earthquake and drought, but I had ceased to see it so. Instead of
resignation I felt only pain and opposition. Why should
Schleswig-Holstein and the Danish Constitution upset us? What matter to
us if the “Protocol Prince” repealed or confirmed the constitutional law
of November 13, 1863? What if the papers did make it the most important
matter in the world, should our husbands and sons therefore be shot
down? Should our belonging to the German Alliance necessitate taking up
all their quarrels? Had I foreseen two years later how these same German
brothers broke into the bitterest enmity, and the Austrians hated the
Prussians with a fiercer hate than that which they now entertained for
Denmark, I should have realised that all these arguments given out to
justify war are mere pretexts and empty phrases.
On New Year’s Eve at my father’s house he proposed a toast to the hour,
and “might it be a glorious one to our arms.” I refused to concur. When
we returned to the hotel I found myself disturbed even to tears. My
husband comforted me: “Do not weep over the bare possibility of war;
nothing is yet definite.”
“It is the possibility which makes me cry. Were there a certainty I
should be shrieking and wailing. Oh that in this first year you should
be torn from me by war!”
“Come, my dear Martha, when a child is born to you, you must face the
possibility of death like every man on the battle-field. Let us enjoy
our life now and not waste it thinking of the death which hangs over
every head.”
“You talk of Destiny just like Aunt Marie. No, it is the
thoughtlessness, cruelty, and folly of mankind! Where is there a
necessity of a war with Denmark?”
“But that is not yet declared——”
“Yes, I know, accidents may still avert the evil; but it should depend,
not on accidents, intrigues, humours, but upon the righteous will of
humanity. Do not try to quiet me with evasive words when I know that
your whole soul shudders with repugnance. My only consolation is that
you condemn with me what brings so much unhappiness.”
“Yes, yes, dear, I do not hide from you my feelings; when the disaster
happens I will not conceal from you my hate for legalised slaughter. But
to-day let us not think of destruction; let us be happy while nothing
separates us. No joy can last for ever. It is not the length of our
days, but the degree of the beauty of our days which makes life so
blessed.”
And I let myself sink into the sweet rest of the moment and forget the
threatening future.
* * * * *
We returned to the garrison on January 10. There was no longer any doubt
of war. In Vienna I still heard of some small hope that the dispute
could be settled, but in our military circle this was out of the
question. The officers and their wives were greatly, even joyfully
excited. Did it mean hope for promotion and distinction, or only a
restless desire for action?
“Ah, this war will be immensely popular,” said the Colonel at a jolly
supper. “And our own territory cannot suffer.”
“It is the noble motive that inspires me,” said a young lieutenant. “We
defend the rights of our oppressed brothers the Prussians. We cannot be
vanquished when we fight together, and it will strengthen the national
ties. The ideal of nationality——”
“Nonsense,” interrupted the Colonel with severity, “that is humbug to an
Austrian. Louis Napoleon rode the same sort of a hobby-horse in ’59:
‘Italy for the Italians.’ Why talk of banding with the Germans when we
have the Bohemians, Hungarians, Croats?—our bond of unity lies in our
loyalty to our dynasty. The thing which must inspire us is not the
nationality of our allies but the good, faithful service we can render
our beloved ruler. Long live the Emperor!”
All rose and pledged the toast. Even my quaking heart stirred for a
moment with enthusiasm. That thousands could be inspired by one motive,
one person, into a desire for self-sacrifice, this is really a lofty
sense of love. But to think that through this love the high fulfilment
of duty leads men into the most horrible work of the deadliest
hatred—War! My heart chilled again at the thought.
My anxiety grew with the succeeding days. On January 16 the allies
demanded that Denmark revoke a certain law against which the Holsteiners
had protested asking the protection of the German Alliance, and to do
this in twenty-four hours. Denmark refused, and had been expected to
refuse, for Austrian and German troops stood massed on the frontier, and
on February 1 they crossed the Eider.
So the die was cast and the bloody game began.
A hasty letter of congratulation came from father:—
Rejoice, my children! We may now repair the defeat of ’59 with a few
sharp blows at Denmark. When we return conquerors from the north we
can again turn our faces southward. With the Prussians as our allies
those shabby Italians and the wily Napoleon can do nothing against us.
Frederick’s regiment, to the great chagrin of the Colonel and corps, was
not ordered north. This brought a fatherly letter of commiseration:—
Such ill-luck, not to be called into the opening to a glorious
campaign! This will rejoice Martha. But you, Frederick, though
philosophically opposed to war, must regret it. If you got into the
fight, certainly your manly enthusiasm would awaken. To be forced to
stay at home is truly hard on a soldier!
“Is it hard on you to stay with me, Frederick?” The silent answer was
enough.
But my peace was gone. The order might come any day. If the campaign
would only end quickly! I watched the newspapers eagerly. I prayed for
the termination of the war before my “all on earth” was called. What
cared I what became of that little scrap of country? Their rulers were
quarrelling only over their jealousies, not over the wrongs of their
people, or to better the conditions.
If a number of dogs are fighting over some bones, it is only the hungry
dogs that tear each other, but in human history it is the “bones” that
have to fight for their devourers.
The Austrians held that they were justified in maintaining the “balance
of power.” The Danes maintained the opposite principle with equal
emphasis. If two States disagree and cannot come to an understanding,
why not call in a third Power as arbitrator? Why go on shouting oneself
hoarse, and then finally decide by force of arms? Is it not savage? And
when a third Power comes in it does not do so judicially, but with blows
again. And this is what they call world politics. Why not name it
primitive savagery—or parliamentary nonsense—or international barbarism?
I found myself greatly troubled by this mysterious power called “reasons
of State,” and I began a careful study of history to find out where the
historic right lay over which they were quarrelling.
I found the disputed district ceded to Denmark in 1027. So in reality
the Danes are right. They are the legitimate kings. However, two hundred
years later it was turned over to a younger house, and it was ranked
only as a fief of Denmark. In 1326 Count Gerhard of Holstein received
Schleswig, and the Waldemar constitution provided that Denmark should
never again claim any ownership. Oh! then, indeed, the right is with the
allies! We are really fighting for the Waldemar Constitution of 1326.
That is very good, for if these paper securities are not upheld of what
worth are they?
In 1448 this constitution was again ratified by King Christian I. So how
dare Denmark ever again claim sovereignty? But what has the Protocol
Prince to do with the matter? Twelve years later the Schleswig ruler
dies with heirs, and the National Assembly met at Ripon (so important to
know exactly where these assemblies always convene). Well then at Ripon,
in 1460, they proclaimed the Danish king the Duke of Schleswig, and he
thereupon promised that the countries should remain together “for ever
undivided.” Ah, that is a bit confusing; but remember, they shall remain
united “for ever.” This little “for ever” is chiefly responsible for the
historical confusion, for straightway they divide up the provinces among
the king’s sons, and under later kings they are again reunited. They are
hardly together before they are sliced up again. What a tangle! How can
I find my way out, and historically establish the point upon which
finally our Austrian countrymen must shed their blood?
Again, I find during the Thirty Years’ War, Charles IV. fell upon the
duchy. Then a treaty made in 1658 forced the Danish sovereignty to
surrender for ever. So we have gotten rid of the Danish feudal lordship
“for ever,” thank God, and our way is clear again.
But here comes an agreement on August 22, 1721, and Schleswig becomes a
dependency of Denmark once more, and on June 1, 1773, Holstein also
becomes a simple Danish province. This alters the case again, and,
certainly, now the Danes have a perfect right. But hold, not quite—for
the Vienna Congress of 1815 declared Holstein a part of the German
Alliance. This enraged the Danes, who raised the battle-cry “Denmark to
the Eider!” and strove for the complete possession of Schleswig. In the
year 1846 King Christian writes a public letter in which he proposed the
integrity of the entire state. But the Germans protest. Then the
announcement of the complete union is made from the throne, and a
rebellion breaks out on the part of the Germans. The Danes win one
battle, the Schleswig-Holsteiners the other. Hereupon the Alliance
interfered. Prussia took some strategic points, but the struggle
continues. At last Prussia and Denmark conclude a peace, so
Schleswig-Holstein now stands alone to fight the Danes, and is defeated.
The Alliance calls the “revolters” to discontinue, and they do. Austria
takes possession of Holstein, and the two duchies are separated. What
has become of all the paper promises to hold them together “for ever”?
It is incomprehensible.
But here comes the Protocol of London, May 8, 1852. (So wise that we
know the exact date of these flimsy agreements!) This secures to Prince
Christian of Glucksburg the succession to Schleswig. So this is where
the “Protocol Prince” originated.
In 1854, after each little duchy had adopted a Constitution of its own,
both were again appended to Denmark. In ’58 Denmark was compelled to lay
down its claim. Now history brings us quite close to the present time,
and yet with all this eager study it is not clear to me to whom these
two countries should rightly belong. November 18, 1858, the German
Parliament passed a “Fundamental Law for the Mutual Relations between
Denmark and Schleswig.” Two days afterwards the king died and left no
heir.
Relying on this two-days’-old law, Frederick of Augustenburg raised his
claim and turned to the German Alliance for support. (I had completely
forgotten to follow that Augustenburg family.) The Alliance at once
occupied and proclaimed Augustenburg the duke. But why? Prussians
disagreed with Austrians in the proceedings. But why? I cannot
understand it to this day.
The London Protocol must be respected. Why? Are protocols things so
absolute and supreme that we must pour out the blood of our sons to
defend them? Ah, yes, there comes in the mysterious “reason of State.”
The gentlemen around the green diplomatic table are all wise, and they
know how to bring about the greatest security of national supremacy. Of
course, the London Protocol of 1852 must be upheld and the
constitutional decree of Copenhagen of 1863 must be revoked within
twenty-four hours. Yes, Austria’s honour and welfare depended upon that.
The dogma was a bit hard to believe, but in politics, even more than in
religion, the mass allows itself to be led by the rule of _quis
absurdum_—to reason about it is forbidden. With the sword once
unsheathed, they shout the unquestioning “hurrah” and struggle for
victory. Besides, can we not invoke the blessing of Heaven upon our
side? And is it not of great consequence to the Almighty that the London
Protocol should be maintained, and the decrees of January 13 be revoked?
Is it not His duty to see that the exact numbers bleed to death, and
that certain villages be destroyed, in order that the family of
Gluckstadt or that of Augustenburg may rule over a certain trifling
scrap of His footstool?
Oh what a foolish, cruel, and misguided world, still in the leading
strings of infancy! Thus my historical studies left me quite as confused
as they found me.
CHAPTER II
The course of war—Hostilities suspended and renewed—My
husband departs—The dead baby—Letters from the seat of
war—Recovery—Anxiety—Letters—Return of Frederick.
Encouraging tidings came from the seat of war. The allies won battle
after battle. The Danes were forced from the entire field, which was
occupied by our troops, the enemy barely maintaining the lines. With
pins and flags I followed the campaign on the map. If only the butchery
might end before Frederick’s regiment was ordered into the field! This
fear hung over us like the sword of Damocles. I dreaded the night lest
the morning would bring the marching orders. Frederick was calm, but he
saw what was coming.
“Accustom yourself to face the events, my dear, and cease protesting. I
believe the war will continue for some time, for not a large enough
force was sent to the front in the beginning, so my regiment will have
to join.”
Two months and yet no results! Oh, why could not the cruel game be
settled in one fight like a duel? But no, if one battle is lost, another
is offered; if one position is given up, another is taken, and so on
till one side or the other is annihilated, or both exhausted.
On April 14 the last stronghold was taken, and immediately a peace
conference assembled in London. Every one was overjoyed and relieved,
save, perhaps, some of my husband’s comrades, who had hoped to share the
glory. Their wives thought it bad luck. But I received the news of
“suspension of hostilities” with great joy, and wrote in my diary
“Disarm! Disarm! For ever.” I added despondingly, and in brackets,
“Utopia.”
The London conference dragged on two months without agreement, and then
came the orders to Frederick’s regiment to march, with twenty-four hours
for leave-taking. The birth of our little child was hourly expected, and
it was as if we both awaited death upon our farewell.
We were overwhelmed with the magnitude of the approaching evils. To us
it was neither patriotic nor heroic to help hew down the Danes, and in
case our parting was for ever, what excuse of state could reconcile us
to this terrible sacrifice? To defend the common cause of humanity might
be justified, but to rush into battle with a distant country, throwing
away life, and home, and family, because of the mere pledge of
princes—it was too infamous! Why must Austrian soldiers leave home to
help set this petty prince on his petty throne? Why? Why? How
treasonable and blasphemous to ask such a question of Emperor and Pope!
Neither would or could answer.
The regiment was to march at ten. We had not slept for hours lest we
should waste a moment. We strove vainly to comfort each other. In the
rays of morning light I realised that my hour had come, and with tears
of uncertainty we tore ourselves apart, Frederick desperate lest the
next moment might rob him of both wife and child.
The next morning the Olmutz papers contained the following account:—
Yesterday the ——th Regiment left town with flying colours to gain
fresh laurels in the sea-girt brotherland. The joy of battle inspired
every heart, etc., etc.
I lost my child, and for weeks lay between life and death, dreaming all
the agonies of war and torture. In my delirium I cried, “Disarm! Disarm!
Help us all for the sake of justice and mercy, help!”
When I regained consciousness, my father and Aunt Marie stood at my
bedside.
“Is he alive? Have letters come?” were my first questions. Yes, quite a
heap of letters had accumulated. One was marked: “Not to be opened till
all danger is past.” From this I take extracts:—
To-day we met the enemy for the first time, having marched through
conquered territory until now, with the Danes retreating fast.
Everywhere are the ruins and remnants of battle. The landscape is torn
with shell and piled with graves. So the victors march on to new
victories. To-day we took the enemy’s position and leave a burning
village behind us. While friend and foe were absorbed in the tumult, I
could only think of you, and that perhaps you were lost. The enemy
withstood us but two hours, and we did not pursue. We collected our
wounded and cared for them as well as we could. The dead, some among
them still possibly alive, we buried, but the wounded and injured we
must leave behind to bleed slowly to death and starve. And we, hurrah,
we must push on into the jolly, dashing war.
Our next will probably be a pitched battle, for two great army corps
are about to clash. Then the loss will run into thousands, and the
artillery will mow them down. What a strange way of doing things! It
would be better if the two enemies each had a weapon, which with one
blow would wipe out either side. Perhaps such blasts would tend to put
a stop to war. If both forces were equally deadly, then force could no
longer be employed to settle disputes, for both disputants would be
wiped out.
Why do I write thus to you, when I ought to be glorifying our
engagements and triumphs? Because, like you, I long for the
unvarnished truth, and hate the usual lying phrases when death is
near. With thousands voicing the opposite, I must speak out before I
fall a sacrifice to war,—that I hate it. If every man who feels it
would say so, Heaven would hear our cry, and even the thundering
cannon roar would be drowned out by the new battle-cry of panting,
exhausted humanity: Let us make war on war!
The above was written yesterday. I snatched a few hours of sleep on a
sack of straw. In half an hour the field mail is taken. With little
rest we are already up for the march,—poor fellows. It is indeed
little rest after the bloody work to prepare them for still bloodier
sights. I have just returned from looking over the wounded, whom we
must leave. How gladly I would have put a bullet into some of them,
who must drag out a miserable agonized death. My horse is saddled.
Farewell, my Martha, if you are still alive.
One or two letters I found of a later date:—
The day is ours. I am unhurt. The first is good news for papa and the
last for you. I cannot forget that for thousands the same day has
brought untellable grief.
Another letter:—
Imagine my astonishment. Riding near me at the head of a detachment
was Aunt Cornelia’s only son, Gottfried. The youngster is beside
himself with enthusiasm, but how his poor mother must suffer! That
evening I sent for him to come to my tent. “Is it not splendid,” he
cried, “to be fighting in the same cause? How lucky I am to be called
out in my first year of service! I shall win the cross of honour.”
“And my aunt, how does she like it?” “Oh, just as all women—she tried
to damp my spirits with tears, but I am enchanted, delighted! Awful, I
grant, but magnificent. It is gratifying to feel that I am filling
man’s highest duty, with God’s help, for king and country. To meet
death so closely, to challenge him face to face, and yet not be
touched, it fills me with the glory of the old epics, as if the muse
of history were leading us on to victory. I feel such an indignation
at the enemy who dares defy us Germans, and it is a thrilling
sensation to gratify this hate, to destroy without being a murderer,
this fearless exposure of one’s life.”
So the boy rattled on, and I let him. Was not my first campaign the
same experience? Epic? Yes, that is the very word with which we so
carefully train our schoolboys into soldiers. We throw it into their
excitable young brains, which makes quiet domestic bliss seem stupid
nonsense, when they are longing for heroics. With me this attitude has
so completely vanished, that I could hardly realise Gottfried’s state
of mind. I had so early realised it all as so inhuman, that it was no
longer a revelation from the kingdom of Lucifer but gross barbarity
and bestiality. Only he who is drunk with the passion for blood and
destruction can triumphantly split open the defenceless head of an
enemy. I never knew the “joy of battle,” believe me, my dear wife, I
never did.
Gottfried is delighted that we are fighting together as brothers in
the same just cause (as if every cause were not called right by the
powers commanding). “We Germans are brothers!” “Yes, that was proved
by the Thirty Years’ and the Seven Years’ Wars,” I suggested
ironically. Gottfried paid no attention. “Together we will conquer
every enemy.” “Yes, until the Prussians declare war against the
Austrians.” “Not to be thought of! Impossible! What, when we have
fought and bled together?” “I warn you, nothing is impossible in
political matters. The friendships of dynastical rulers are as
changeable as the ephemeral fly.”
I write this, not because I imagine you in all your ill condition will
be able to read it, but because I have a premonition that I shall not
outlive this campaign, and I want to leave my convictions behind me.
The sincere reflections of honest, humane soldiers should not be
falsified or sink into the silent grave with them, unspoken and
unrevealed. I have here spoken it, this quiets my conscience, I can
die in peace.
This latest letter was five days old—five unspeakable days of dread.
Though Frederick was yet unhurt, my anxieties left me no comfort. My
father was obliged to return to Grumitz, and Aunt Marie remained to keep
me consoled with her orthodox ideas of destiny, providence, and divine
mercy—small comfort with so few letters coming from the seat of war. My
father made inquiries, but could get no information, although Frederick
was not in the list of the dead. Thus the days dragged on.
One afternoon I lay half dreaming on the sofa, where I had begged to be
left alone. My weakness and anxiety had so overpowered my imagination
and reasonableness that I was full of fleeting visionary sensations, and
springing up in terror at some slight movement in the room, I suddenly
thought I saw Frederick in the doorway.
“Oh, my Frederick, my lost one,” I groaned.
“Martha, my wife!”
What? could it be his real voice? then real arms were thrown around me
eagerly.
The dream came true, I was enfolded in my husband’s loving embrace.
CHAPTER III
Reunion and summer joys—Resolved to quit the service—Rudolf’s
training—The end of the war—Conditions of peace—Fresh cares and
ruined fortunes—My husband remains in the service.
After our first expressions of joy had subsided, Frederick told us how
he had been left wounded in a peasant’s hut, the regiment marching on
and reporting him “missing.” This report had not reached us, and when he
was sufficiently recovered he hastened home without waiting to write,
for the war was practically at an end. We spent the summer again at
father’s country seat, where the entire family assembled, including
brother Otto, home from the Military Academy, and Cousin Conrad, whose
regiment lay not far away.
I was determined to persuade my husband to quit the service, for we had
grown so one in our feelings and interests that what was mine was surely
his also, and why, if new wars were again to threaten, need we go
through such horrors again?
Besides, Rudolf was now seven years old, and it should be our delight,
in our retirement, to educate and train this little man according to our
highest ideals. He had never been given over to nurses and tutors, for
it was my pride to watch every phase of his development. In his growing
appetite for knowledge we had never permitted ourselves to tell him a
falsehood, but his questions were not always answered fully enough to
suit him. He accompanied us on our daily walks, and often his questions
demanded the unknowable, so we answered, “We do not know.” This did not
satisfy him, and he used to put these questions to others of whom he
received quite decided answers. One day he remarked triumphantly, “You
do not know how old the moon is, but I do. It is six thousand years
old—remember that.” Frederick and I looked at each other silently, and a
whole volume of protest lay in that glance and that silence.
I seriously objected to the soldier games which his grandfather and
uncle played with him. Thus the ideas of cutting down the enemy were
infused in him without my knowledge. One day Frederick and I came upon
him when he was mercilessly beating two puppies with a riding whip.
“You cheating little Italian,” he said, lashing the one puppy. And
striking the other he called loudly, “You saucy Dane.” Frederick
snatched the whip from his hand: “And you heartless little Austrian,” he
said, laying on two or three blows. Rudolf began to blubber, and the
Italian and Dane ran joyfully away.
“I hope you are not angry that I struck your boy, Martha; I hate the
lash, but I cannot endure seeing an animal abused.”
“Quite right.”
“Only people can be hurt, then?” whimpered the boy.
“That is still worse.”
“But you went out to beat the Italians and Danes.”
“They were our enemies.”
“Then one may hate those?”
Turning away, Frederick said: “And to-morrow the priest will tell him
that we must love our enemies. Such logic!” Then to Rudolf: “No, it is
not because we hate them that we strike, but because they strike us.”
“Why do they want to strike us?”
“Because we—no, go and play, Rudi,” he interrupted himself, “there is no
way out of the tangle. You must never do it again, and we will forgive
you.”
We often had distinguished visitors from Vienna. They discussed the
political situations, and thus I was enabled to follow the entire Danish
engagement to the end. After all these victories it must be decided what
would be done with all these Duchies. Would the famous Augustenburg
receive his portion? Not at all, for an entirely new pretender claimed
it. It was not enough that there was a “Glucksburg” and a “Gotrop” and
whatever other lines of succession to lay claim, but Russia presented a
new candidate. Against Augustenburg Russia pitted an “Oldenburg.” But
finally there were no burgs at all to have the Duchies, but they were to
be divided among the allies, and the expenses of the war was to be borne
by the defeated. This was hard to understand. The land had been
devastated, its harvests trampled under, its sons were mouldering in
their graves, and now it must pay the costs. Was not rather some
reparation due to them?
One day I opened the conversation: “What news in regard to
Schleswig-Holstein?”
“The latest news is, that von Beust has addressed a demand to the
Assembly, asking by what right the Allies can accept the surrender of
these provinces from a king whose sovereignty has not been recognised by
them.”
“And it is a very reasonable question,” I remarked.
“You do not understand these matters, child,” said my father. “It is not
reasonable, but an impertinent trick on von Beust’s part. Do not the
Duchies belong to us because we have conquered them? We should not have
concluded peace, but conquered the whole of Denmark and turned it over
to the German Alliance.”
“Why do that, papa, you are such a patriotic Austrian, what do you care
for the German Federation?”
“Have you forgotten that our Hapsburgs were German Emperors once, and
may become so again?”
“What if some of the great Germans cherished a like dream?” suggested
Frederick.
My father laughed outright: “Imagine a Protestant princeling at the head
of our Holy Roman Empire! You have lost your senses.”
As Bresser said, “Let us hope that the settling of this affair will not
be a source of discord between the powers. For every war has within it
the seed of future wars, as one act of violence has led to another since
the beginning.”
Some days later a bit of news was reported: King William of Prussia
visited our Emperor at Schönbrun. They met with embraces, the Prussian
eagle was hoisted, and the Prussian national airs were played, with
triumphant hurrahs from the people. I was very happy, for it put to
shame the evil prophecies that the two powers might get into a quarrel
again. My father rejoiced, for he saw in this alliance a means of
reconquering our lost Lombardy.
“Will you tell me,” I cried out to the assembled guests one day, “why do
not all the European States form an alliance? Would not that be the
simplest way?”
The gentlemen shrugged their shoulders, smiled superior smiles and did
not answer. I probably had said one of those silly things with which
ladies are apt to venture into the realms of higher politics.
* * * * *
The autumn was at hand; peace had been signed, and Frederick’s
retirement from the army could now be carried out. But man proposes and
circumstances dispose for him. As a sequel of the war many banking
houses failed, and with the rest I lost my private fortune. Shot and
shell blast not only the ramparts and forts but also the entire social
fabric of family and finance.
My kindest of fathers, however, came to the rescue and saw that I should
want for nothing, yet the retirement of my husband from the military had
become impossible, for we could not entirely depend on my father.
Frederick was too proud for that, and so our beautiful castle in the air
was shattered. But one comfort remained: there was nowhere a black spot
on the horizon, and peace might last for many years.
CHAPTER IV
Lilli and Conrad—Aunt Marie’s letter—Rumours of war with
Prussia—Negotiations and arguments—My father’s New Year’s
toast—Hopes and fears—The army mobilised—War declared—The
manifestos of both sides.
Spring found me in the neighbourhood of Vienna. Here I could see
Frederick daily. My sisters and aunt were off for Marienbad, and from
there Lilli wrote me:—
I confess I am beginning to be interested in Cousin Conrad.
And another letter from Aunt Marie:—
MY DEAR CHILD—It has been a tiresome winter in society, and I shall be
glad when Lilli and Rosa are married off. They have had opportunities
enough. It is a tiresome, thankless task to chaperone two
pleasure-seeking girls.
I am rejoiced to hear that you are well once more. [I had suffered
from a serious fever.] Your husband had been very much alarmed. But,
thank God, your time had not yet come. The service which I had said at
the Ursalines no doubt aided in bringing about your recovery. Kiss
little Rudolf for me. Tell him he must learn all he can. I am sending
him a few books: _The Pious Child, and his Guardian Angel_,—a
beautiful story—and _The Heroes of our Country_, a collection of war
stories for boys. We cannot begin too early to teach them such
glorious ideals. Your brother Otto was barely five when he first
learned of Alexander and Cæsar. It delights me to see how heroic and
enthusiastic he is. I am sorry your plan is to stay in Vienna this
summer to be nearer Frederick. But you should think of your dear
father as well, who would love to have you at Grumitz. Take my word
for it, you married people should not be so constantly together, but
allow each other some little liberty. That Heaven may protect you all
is my constant prayer.
AUNT MARIE.
_P.S._—Your husband has relatives in Prussia. (Happily he is not so
arrogant as his countrymen.) Please ask him what they are saying there
about the present political situation. It is rather critical.
This letter was the first insinuation to me that some complication was
in view. Having been ill, I had neglected to keep myself informed on the
current news, and I asked my husband: “You dear Prussian, less arrogant
than the rest, what does Aunt Marie mean? Is there really a political
situation just now?”
“Yes, there always is, as there always is weather, some political
situation—which is as changeable and treacherous as the weather. They
are still arguing about these complicated Duchies who talk of freeing
themselves of these arrogant Prussians—‘rather Danish than Prussian!’
they cry.”
“And what will become of Augustenburg, with his ‘undivided right’ over
these Danish Provinces? I studied all this history with the greatest
care, and I have taken my stand for the old inherited right which has
stood for hundreds of years. I thought I was sacrificing you to help
establish this right.”
“It will go hard with your historical claims, my dear Martha,” laughed
Frederick. Again I began to study the crisis, and discovered that the
Vienna treaty had really settled nothing. Schleswig-Holstein loomed more
formidably than before. The old claimants renewed their claims before
the Alliance, and no one could guess what they were going to do about
it. The two great powers were accusing each other of encroachment.
“Now, what are the arrogant Prussians up to?” was the constant suspicion
of Austria as well as of the Middle States and the Duchies. Napoleon
III. advised Prussia to annex up to the Danish-speaking border, but
Prussia pretended to be unwilling. But at last she formulated her claim
thus: Prussian troops should remain in occupation on the defensive, and
under Prussian leadership; a contingent should represent the Alliance;
the harbour of Kiel to be occupied; postal, telegraph, and customs to be
under Prussian control. This angered the Austrian Minister of War; the
jealous Middle States objected, and demanded that their leader be put in
possession of the Duchies. This again Austria objected to, and although
willing that Prussia should hold the harbour of Kiel, could not tolerate
her right to recruit soldiers and sailors. And so the quarrel ripened.
Prussia declared she had no design absolutely to annex, but was planning
the best interest of all parties. Under opposition Prussia became even
more assertive, and voice after voice was raised against this “insolent
announcement,” public sentiment rising daily against Prussia and
Bismarck.
The Middle States demanded to know the secret negotiations carried on
between the diplomats of the two powers. The two Emperors betook
themselves to their country seats, and messages flew between them thick
and fast. Several points were agreed upon. The investment should be
shared half and half. Lauenburg should fall to Prussia, and Austria in
lieu thereof receive two and a half million thalers. I asked myself,
what return could such a sum be to offset all the losses, my financial
losses, for instance, and in the case of thousands of others their
fallen loved ones? Yet I was rejoiced when a new “treaty” was signed;
that sounded so reassuring. Later I learned that these documents
generally contain the germ of some future _causus belli_. The breaking
of a treaty is only a fresh chance to fly to arms.
The quarrel seemed to be laid aside. The powers occupied the provinces,
and I was again obliged to give up my favourite aspiration to see them
once more “for ever together undivided,” as was decreed in 1460.
But in spite of the treaty, the situation was not relieved. Patient
reading of the political press gave me an idea of the shifting
condition, but I could hardly believe that war would result. I contented
myself with the thought that legal questions could always be settled
legally and justly. All these wise ministers, diplomats, judicious
councillors, parliamentarians, and polite monarchs, could surely settle
such a trivial point. Thus I was actuated more by curiosity than anxiety
in my research, which I was carefully jotting into the red book:—
_Oct. 1, ’65._—Imperial Council at Frankfort adopts the following
resolutions: 1. The right of Schleswig-Holstein to control itself must
remain in force. The Gastein treaty is rejected as a breach of right
to the nation. 2. All officials shall refuse to pay over taxes and
loans to the Allies.
_Oct. 15._—The Prussian royal edict approved the decision in regard to
hereditary claimant, who renounces all right to the throne for the sum
of a half million thalers. By the Vienna treaty the duchies were ceded
to the Allies, hence there can be no further claim.
Protests were made on all hands. “Prussian arrogance” became a
catchword, and all hands declared, “We must protect ourselves against
them.” “King William would be another Victor Emanuel.” “To reconquer
Silesia is Austria’s secret intent.” “Prussia is paying court to
France.” “Austria is coquetting with the French.” Thus tittle-tattle and
recrimination was indulged in by the Cabinets of the great Powers quite
as seriously as by the gossips at a village tea.
* * * * *
The entire family returned for the autumn to Vienna.
I was very eager to keep my little Rudolf away from the influence of his
grandfather, who was determined to inspire in him military tastes, which
were already awakened, probably through a long line of soldier ancestry.
My studies of natural science had taught me that such tendencies could
be inherited. On my boy’s birthday his grandfather brought him a sword.
I remonstrated:—
“You know very well that my son shall never be a soldier?”
“Would you tie him to your apron strings? Never mind, good soldier blood
will tell; let him grow up, and see what profession he chooses—the
noblest of all, I am sure—the military.”
“Martha fears he may die in battle,” said Aunt Marie. “As though the
same fate might not overtake one in bed.”
“If a hundred thousand fell in battle,” I said, “would the same fate
have been theirs in peace?”
Aunt Marie was always ready with an answer, “No, it would have been
their destiny to have died in war.”
“Suppose they had been bold enough to refuse to go to war,” I suggested.
“Impossible,” shouted my father, and then the old controversy began.
The Greek fable of the hundred-headed hydra illustrates so perfectly the
manner of argument between two convinced opponents. No sooner have you
sliced the head off one point and started to attack the second, when the
first head has grown on again.
The following were my father’s favourite and unconquerable arguments in
favour of war:—
1. War was the decree of God Himself (see Bible).
2. Wars have always been and always will be.
3. Without war population would increase too fast.
4. Permanent peace would corrupt, weaken, relax, and degenerate the
race.
5. War best develops self-sacrifice, heroism, and fine character.
6. Human beings will always differ in opinions, interests, and desires,
hence perpetual peace is impossible.
None of the above wise sayings can be maintained under argument, but
each in turn can be set up as a fresh defence when the preceding one
topples. For example, obliged to drop argument No. 4 and admit that
peace is more apt to secure happiness, prosperity, and progress, my
father would agree, “War is an evil, but (arguments 1 and 2)
inevitable.” Then I would prove that by international agreement and law,
war could be avoided; he would acknowledge that it could, but ought not
(No. 5). If the argument for peace upsets the claims of Nos. 4 and 5,
and shows that war hardens and brutalises men, then he would admit it,
but quote No. 3. This argument sounds hugely humane and learned, but is
the least sincere of all. Wars are not waged for the benefit of
posterity. When you have proved the fallacy of 3 the other returns to 1,
and so the trick can be carried on till it becomes a labyrinthal puzzle.
The lovers of war reason in a circle where one can always see and
follow, but never catch them. That their arguments often proceed from
opposite points of view and nullify each other matters nothing to them,
and proves that they are arguing a position they have not thought out
for themselves, but are bolstering up opinions which have been handed on
to them. I did not see this clearly at the time I carried on the
argument with my father on peace and war, but I always came away from
the combat fatigued and dizzy, and I realised later that it came from
whirling in this circle which his lack of logic necessitated.
* * * * *
New Year’s eve, 1866. As the first hour of this momentous year struck,
we were sitting about my father’s table celebrating the engagement of
Lilli and Conrad. My father arose and offered his New Year’s toast:—
“My dear children and friends: The year ’66 begins well, for long have I
desired Conrad for a son-in-law. May we hope that this year may bring
Rosa her ideal also. And you, Martha, may your husband be promoted to
the rank of Colonel. For you, Dr. Bresser, I may wish hosts of patients,
although it does not fit in with the spirit of my wishes for health and
happiness. And for you, my dear, fatalistic Marie, may destiny bring you
the grand prize of a full indulgence, or anything else you may be
wishing for. For my Otto, my son, I can only wish him every distinction
in his final examination, that he may acquire every soldierly virtue,
and some day be an ornament to the army, and a pride to his old father’s
heart. And for myself, who knows no greater joy than the welfare and
fame of my fatherland, I can only wish that the coming year may bring
back to my Austria the province of Lombardy, and—who knows—Silesia also.
And may we take back from the insolent Prussian this land which they
stole from the great Maria Theresa.”
A chill fell upon the company as my father closed his toast. Truly, none
of us felt any pressing need for these two provinces.
“No, father dear,” I replied, “we must not forget that in Italy and
Prussia it is also New Year’s Day, and we will wish them no evil. May
the year ’66 and all the years to come help us to grow more united and
happy.”
“Oh, you fantastic idealist,” said my father, shrugging his shoulders.
“Not that,” said my husband in my defence. “The wish is not one of an
enthusiast and dreamer, for science assures us that it must be fulfilled
some day. The world has slowly been growing better since the beginning,
and it must go on, although we do not note it from year to year. We all
know that men are happier, and better, and freer than in the primeval
days.”
“If you are so sure of eternal progress, why so often complain of
reaction and the relapses into barbarism in our day?” asked my father,
tauntingly.
“Because”—Frederick took out his pencil and drew a spiral—“because the
movement of progress goes on like this. It continually ascends, although
at times appearing to go backwards. This coming year, if war is forced
upon us, may be represented by one of these backward curves. Such events
hurt civilisation materially as well as morally.”
“How unsoldierly you speak, Tilling.”
“These are universal matters; the opinions of a soldier or civilian have
no different weight here, for the truth is always the same. If a thing
is red, must one obstinately call it blue because one wears a blue
uniform, or black because one wears a black coat?”
“A what?” said my father, who, when the argument went against him, was
apt to appear hard of hearing. Since it is difficult to repeat a long
argument, the discussion inclined to drop.
Upon our return home, I asked my husband: “What did I hear you say?
There is prospect of war? Never, never will I allow you to go into
another campaign.”
“How can your passionate ‘Never, never!’ help in the matter? The nearer
the fatal day comes, the less possible it will be for me to resign.
Immediately after Schleswig-Holstein it would have been possible, but
not now.”
“Ah, that unlucky Schmidt & Sons the bankers!”
Again I found myself anxiously following developments in the newspapers
and reports. “Be prepared! Be prepared!” was now the cry. “Prussia is
preparing!” “Austria is quietly preparing!” “The Prussians claim we are
preparing; it is not true, it is they who are preparing.” And thus the
variations were sounded in my anxious ear.
“Why is all this commotion about armaments,” I asked my father, “if
neither party plans to use them?” He answered me with the old saying:
“In times of peace prepare for war.”
Thus each is keeping the eye on the other, and each accuses the other of
warlike motives. So again begins the endless circle—the serpent with his
tail in his mouth.
On the morning of March 12 my father burst into my room beaming with
joy: “Hurrah,” he cried, “Good news!”
“Disarmament?” I asked, delighted.
“On the contrary. Yesterday a great council of war was held. We are
ready on an hour’s notice to send out 800,000 men, and I tell you, my
child, Silesia is ours whenever we choose.”
“Oh God! Oh God!” I groaned, “must this affliction come upon us once
more? Who can be so devoid of conscience that for greed and ambition——”
And my father, denying that it was greed or ambition, only justice and
patriotic ardour which pressed for war, harangued on the subject in his
illogical manner, jumbling his arguments together, proving that all
wished for peace, but if war came it must be met—until I was quite
frantic, and said, beside myself with emotion:—
“You know well, that not only you, but the whole council want war, then
why not say it out frankly? Why all this falsehood? Why tell the people
they hope for peace when they are madly arming? Show your teeth and your
closed fists, but do not the while whisper soft, false words of
reassurance. If you are wildly eager to draw the sword, do not pretend
that you are only caressing the hilt.”
He rose to the height of passion, and finally I burst into exhausting
tears. My father was so amazed that he did not utter a word.
Now came a time of hopes and fears, ringing the changes on “Peace is
secure,” “War is certain.” But once this word “war,” this little seed of
thought, finds its way to the front, it seems inevitably to produce—war.
News came that Prussia was arming the Silesian fortresses. Austria
disclaimed any intention of attacking Prussia and demanded that the
latter should disarm. Prussia declared herself innocent of warlike
intentions, but strengthened her standing army, hence Austria felt
compelled to continue her preparations. So the dual game continued, and
became a triple game as Italy armed herself with haste.
The excitement became universal and more violent every day. Every
newspaper and speech announced that war was in sight. Bismarck was hated
and reviled on every side. Letters were received from Aunt Cornelia in
Prussia telling that the war was anything but wished, and that Bismarck
was no less hated in his own country. She said the army was reported as
refusing to go out in a war against brothers; that Queen Augusta had
thrown herself at her husband’s feet to pray for peace. Had perhaps our
beautiful Empress also done the same and with tears begged for
disarmament, who knows? Perhaps the Emperor himself wished for peace,
but it seemed that not even the throne could stand against the pressure
and strain on every side.
On June 1 Prussia declared to the Assembly that she would disarm if
Austria and Saxony would. Vienna responded accusing Prussia of planning
an attack in concert with Italy. Austria would call the German Alliance
to arms and decide the case of the Duchies. Holstein should co-operate.
Prussia declared that this broke the treaty, and they moved into
Holstein. Bismarck issued a circular letter. The press cried for war and
predicted a victory to strengthen the national confidence.
On June 11 Austria proposed that the Alliance should take a hand against
Prussia for helping herself to Holstein. On June 14 the vote stood nine
to six—accepted. Oh, those three terrible votes! All was over.
Ambassadors are dismissed. The Alliance requests Austria and Bavaria to
go to the rescue of Hanover and Saxony, who have already attacked the
Prussians.
On the 18th, Prussia’s war manifesto appeared. On the same date
Austria’s troops marched out, and on the 22nd Prussia issued her first
army orders.
King William said:—
To the last I have worked for peace with Austria, but it was refused.
Kaiser Francis Joseph announced:—
Prussia shows her desire to set might in the place of right, therefore
this unholy war of German against German cannot be avoided. Before the
judgment seat of history and Almighty God I summon him who has brought
this misery down upon our families and country.
The war is always the desire of “the other side.” It is always the other
one who chooses to overcome justice with might, “German against German
makes an unholy war”; quite right to step beyond Prussia and Austria and
appeal to Germany. But why not in every war reach to the higher plane,
and recognise it as a war of humanity against humanity? and regard every
battle as an unholy contest?
And what good would it do to summon the aggressor before the judgment of
History? Has not History always given the right to the victor? The
laurels of History have always been placed on the conqueror’s brow, and
he has been called great and the promotor of civilisation.
And why summon him before the Judgment seat of God? Is He not the same
Lord of Hosts who begins as well as ends every war with His unchangeable
will? Such contradictions! Are we not expected to consider two opposite
principles as equally holy? Are the God of Love and the God of War one
God, compelling war as well as justice, demanding national hatred as
well as love of humanity?
BOOK IV
1866
CHAPTER I
The Austro-Prussian War—Frederick again to the front—The Red
Cross—Reports and Letters—The Custozza victory—Austria has
reverses in Bohemia—Discussion of the press.
The greatest of all human misfortunes was again upon us, and, as usual,
the public was jubilant. Regiments marched out (how would they return?)
with blessings and good wishes and followed by the shouting rabble of
street urchins.
Frederick had been ordered to Bohemia before the declaration of
hostilities, when I was still confident that matters would blow over, so
I was somewhat spared the agony of parting. When my father came
triumphantly with the news, “Now the war is begun,” I had been alone a
fortnight, and I had made up my mind for the worst, as does a doomed man
in his cell when he knows that the death-sentence must come.
I raised my hand imploringly: “Father, one wish! Leave me to myself.”
Not being fond of pathetic scenes he hastily retired, and I, crushed in
spirit, wrote in my red journal:—
The death-sentence! A hundred thousand men will be executed. Will
Frederick be among them? And for that matter, who am I that I should
not perish with them? Oh that I were already dead!
On the same day I received from Frederick these hasty lines:—
My wife! Be brave and do not lose heart. We have been happy. That past
no one can take from us even if to-day the decree “it is finished”
should be issued for us as for many others. To-day we meet the enemy.
Perhaps I shall recognise some of the old Prussian comrades—even my
cousin Gottfried. We march upon Liebenau with the advance guard of
Count Clam-Gallas. There will be no leisure for letters—at most a line
to assure you of my safety. But on this leaflet—in case it be the
last—I wish I could put into one single word all the love I bear you.
I can find only this: “Martha!” You know what that means to me.
Conrad had also been ordered to march. He was full of ardour and felt
enough hatred of the Prussians to make his start a pleasure. Still,
parting with Lilli was hard, for the marriage licence had arrived just
two days before.
“Oh, Lilli, Lilli, why have you put me off so long? Who knows if I shall
ever return?”
Upon his departure her remorse was pitiful, and she wept bitterly in my
arms. I consoled her with the thought that had she been his wife it
would have made the parting even harder.
The family now removed to Grumitz, and I joined them, oppressed with the
premonition of widowhood. Occasionally in the midst of my dull grief
would come the bright thought: “He is alive. He will come back.” Then
the horror of agony that he might be wounded, perishing for water, or
that heavy waggons were rolling over his torn limbs, or that flies were
in his open wounds, or, worse yet, that they were throwing him into the
trench while yet he lived!
I would spring up with a shriek at this thought.
“Shame, Martha,” my father would remonstrate; “you will become insane if
you brood in this way. Drive such wicked fears from your mind.”
Again he would say, “Your husband is a staff officer, and will not be
neglected as a common soldier. Besides, you should think about the
grandeur of the result of the war, and not about your own petty nervous
feelings.”
“Yes, not to think about it. That is always the way we treat human
misery. All kinds of barbarity exist because we are trained not to think
about it.”
The Red Cross was a new organisation. I read Dunant’s pamphlet, which
urged its necessity. The tract was a heart-rending appeal. He had
hurried to the field of Solferino, and told the world what he saw. Hosts
of wounded lying five and six days without help. What could a single man
do to save this mass of misery? Many needed only a drop of water or a
bite of bread; others were buried still breathing. He spoke out, and for
the first time—the world echoed the cry. The Geneva Convention was
called and the Red Cross was founded.
Why had not Austria sent delegates? Why is everything new met either
with opposition or indifference? The law of mental inertia and the
sanctified custom are to blame. My father argued: “The idea is all
right, but impracticable!” How could military authority allow private
service on the field? And then there were spies! And the expense! Is not
war costly enough without it? Volunteer nurses were an unnecessary
burden. Tactics came before friendly offices. It was even argued that
this unnecessary burden would increase the cost of supplies and bring a
rise in prices.
Such is official wisdom! so learned, so prudent, so heartless, and so
immeasurably stupid!
The first engagement took place in Bohemia at Liebenau, June 25.
“It is a magnificent beginning,” said my father. “Heaven is with us. Our
‘Iron Brigade’ will reduce these windbags. They will punish these
fellows well.”
(However, the next news showed that, after five hours of fighting, this
same brigade, forming a part of the advance guard of Clam-Gallas,
retreated to Podol. I learned later that Frederick was in this
engagement, and the same night General Horn attacked Podol.)
“But,” continued my father, “even better news comes from the south. At
Custozza, dear children, we have gained a most glorious victory. I have
already said it: Lombardy must become ours. I regard the war as decided.
We must send some of our regulars and finish off these Italians, and
then it will be easy to deal with these ‘tailors’ apprentices.’ This
impertinent Prussian militia is not fit to engage with regular soldiers.
They are all from the shops, the bench, and mere rubbish, and they
cannot stand against such blood and iron as our men are made of. Hear
the good news from the paper this morning: ‘The cattle-plague in
Prussian Silesia has broken out in a highly threatening form.’”
“Cattle-plague—threatening! Is this your good news? Nice thing we must
accept as pleasure in these war days. However, the black and gold
frontier posts will undoubtedly keep the plague from crossing over to
us.”
But my father went on reading the pleasant intelligence:—
Fever is raging among Prussian troops. Such results must necessarily
abound in the villages, with the miserable shelter, unhealthy swamp
land, and bad treatment. Austrians have no idea how miserably the
Prussians handle their men. The nobles do as they please with the
common people. Three ounces of salt pork is all that is allowed for
each man. They are unaccustomed to forced marches and the hardship of
short rations, and are close to starvation.
“The papers are full of startling news. You ought to keep them, Martha.”
And I have kept them. This one ought always to do, and when a new
struggle is in prospect one should read not the latest news but the
accounts of the preceding wars, and weigh how little truth is contained
in all these boastings and the prophesying; _that_ would be instructing.
CHAPTER II
More and more reverses for Austria—A soldier’s abhorrence of war—Poor
Puxl—My husband’s letter declares that this is his last campaign.
“How extraordinary! Defeat after defeat is ours. First the capture of
Podol by moonlight; Clam-Gallas barricaded; the village taken and
burned. Then they conquer Gitchin. Oh, those cursed needle-guns, how
they mowed down our men rank after rank! The enemy’s two great army
corps have joined and are even now pressing down against Münchengratz.”
Thus my father lamented, telling us the terrible news. But his
confidence was unshaken.
“Let them come, every man of them, down into Bohemia, and we will
annihilate them yet. We will surround them; the people will rise against
them, and when there is no escape, no retreat—hemmed in—we will give
them the finishing touch. It is a disadvantage for them to be in the
enemy’s country, for you have not only the army but the people against
you. At Trautenau the inhabitants poured boiling water and oil on to the
Prussians.”
A cry of horror and disgust escaped me.
“War is horrible, I grant,” said my father, “but what would you have?”
“Then never again dare tell me that war ennobles a people. Admit that it
unmans them, brutalises and turns men into tigers and very devils.
Boiling oil! Ugh!”
“Self-defence and righteous revenge are justifiable, Martha. Do you
think we should take their needle-guns and bullets without return? Our
brave fellows are cut down like defenceless cattle. But we will beat
them yet, for we are too numerous and too well disciplined. I
acknowledge a few mistakes have been made; we should not have waited,
but pushed across the Prussian frontier from the start. Our choice of
marshals may not have been altogether wise. But I will not find fault,
for the decisive battle is yet to come. We are now concentrating a
hundred thousand strong at Koniggratz. There will our northern Custozza
be fought and won.”
Frederick was to fight there also. His last letter had said so. I have
still in my possession all his hurried little notes, written in pencil,
on horseback, in the tent, illegible save to me, and sent whenever he
found opportunity to do so. Some came into my hands even after the
campaign was over, and I have them as mementos to this hour. They are
not the clever descriptions or careful dispatches of the war
correspondent. There are no details of the strategy, no rhetorical
pictures of the battle-scenes. Here are some of them:—
A lovely summer night in camp—the ground is covered with exhausted men
after a long forced march. Tents have been pitched for staff officers
only. In mine there are three beds, and my two comrades are asleep. By
the feeble light I am writing to my beloved wife. Puxl lies on my bed.
Poor, tired dog! I almost regret that I brought him with me. He is
sleeping and dreaming of his lover and master Count Rudolf Dotzky. And
I, Martha, am dreaming of you. True, it is a waking dream, but I see
you sitting in the far corner of the tent, and I dare not move for
fear the image will vanish.
I stepped out a moment. Straggling figures dragged themselves up to
our camp fires; they had been left on the road. But many more are
still lying in the ditches and corn-fields. The heat of the march was
fearful. The brazen sun burned into our brains, the knapsacks and
muskets galled our shoulders. None have complained, though many fell
from sunstroke, never to rise again. This June night is clear and
enchanting, but nightingales and roses and jasmine are not for us. We
hear stamping and neighing horses, voices of restless men, the even
tramp of the guard. Later we shall hear the croak of the raven, and
smell the powder, blood, and corruption. Astonishing how blind is
mankind! Those who curse the fearful fires that burned the martyrs for
the glory of God, even those glorify the battle-field. The torture
chambers of the Inquisition fill them with abhorrence, but how proud
they are of their arsenals!
* * * * *
How aesthetically our battle-fields are painted! Upon a hill-top
stands a group of generals; the field-marshal, with the glass at his
eyes, is dictating to his staff as he sits proudly on a white charger.
One hand is stretched dramatically toward the smoke-covered plain. Or
he is waving his sword and looking backwards, as if saying to those
behind, “Follow me, my children!” Pictures give the magnificent and
scenic effects of war without the horrors. They give the superb detail
of line and the elevations and landscape, not the flowing blood, the
mangled forms, and scenes of disgust. To see only the glitter of arms,
the clouds of smoke, the prancing horses, the floating banners, the
whirl of action, might inspire a battle-song or an epic, or a
masterpiece of painting.
* * * * *
The village is ours—no, the enemy has it—it is once more ours—finally
it is the enemy’s, but no longer can it be called a village, nothing
but a heap of smoking ruins. The inhabitants (was the village not
theirs?) had abandoned it early—happy for them—for the shot and shell
hit all alike, old and young, women and children. One family had
remained behind in this place which yesterday we took, lost, retook,
and lost again—an old couple with a married daughter in childbed. The
husband chanced to be one of my regiment. “For God’s sake, Colonel,”
he said, as we approached the village, “send me over there to the
house with the red roof, for there lives my wife with her crippled old
parents. They could not get away.” Poor devil, he arrived only to see
his wife and child killed by an exploding shell, and the old people
buried beneath the debris.
Fighting in the open country is terrible enough, but fighting in the
midst of homes and human haunts is ten times more cruel. Crashing
timbers, burning buildings, smothering smoke and fumes, maddened
animals, every building a fortress or barricade, and every window a
gun-hole! There was a breastwork heaped up with corpses, the defenders
having used the slain as a rampart to shoot behind. I shall never
forget that wall in all my days. One man penned in among the rest was
still alive, for I saw him move.
Living still! that is the most horrible condition for the uncared-for
wounded. If only some angel, either of compassion or death, might
touch these poor wretches with a tender hand!
* * * * *
To-day we had a little cavalry skirmish in the open field. A Prussian
dragoon regiment came up, dropped into line, and, with their bridles
drawn and sabres over their heads, they galloped down on us. We sprang
to meet the attack. No bullets were exchanged. A few paces apart both
regiments broke into a thundering “hurrah” (like intoxicated Indians
or barbaric Zulus); and so we fell upon each other, horse to horse and
knee to knee, sabres swinging and crashing down upon the men from both
sides. We were soon in such a muddle that we could not use our
weapons. The horses reared and pranced, clanging their hoofs. Once I
fell and saw above me these frightful crashing feet within an inch of
my head—it was not a pleasant thing.
* * * * *
Again on the march, with a few skirmishes. Another great sorrow. It
ought not to haunt me so when so many are in despair. I should have
left poor Puxl at home with his little master, for, as he ran after
me, the splinter of a shell tore off his front legs. I heard the
mournful howl, but must press on and desert the poor beast, who may
not die for twenty-four, no, even forty-eight, hours. “Master,
master,” he seemed to cry, “don’t forsake poor Puxl, and his little
heart is breaking.”... What torments one most is to think that the
dying faithful creature misjudged me. It cannot know that when a
regiment is flying to attack, leaving behind so many comrades, one
cannot command “Halt!” for a little dog ... and he must have thought
me merciless. Many would say, shrugging their shoulders, how can one
mind such trifles amidst such great events and such gigantic
misfortunes? But not you, my Martha—you will weep for Puxl.
What goes there? A spy? One? No, seventeen. There they came in four
rows, four in a row, marching with bowed heads, surrounded by a square
of soldiers. Behind, in a waggon, lies a corpse, and bound to it a
twelve-year-old boy—the dead man’s son—all condemned to die. I
withdraw, but hear the firing and see the smoke, and I shudder. The
boy is dead too.
At last a comfortable night in a bed! A poor little town! Provisions?
Yes, taken from the inhabitants on requisition. All they had for the
coming month. “Requisition!” It is a good thing to have a pretty name
for an ugly act. But a night’s sleep and a meal mean a great deal to
me just now. When I was about to tumble into bed, an orderly came in
and brought me something for which I pressed his hands, rewarded him
handsomely, and promised to do something for his family. What the fine
fellow brought me gave me the keenest pleasure, and freed me from an
anxiety which I had been unable to shake off for thirty-six hours—he
had brought me our Puxl. He was alive, beside himself with joy, though
badly mangled. Ah, such a scene of reunion! He interrupted his greedy
drink ten times to bark with joy. I bound his poor legs and gave him
some supper. Finally we both slept, and in the morning when we woke he
licked my hand again and again, stretched out his small body, breathed
deep—and was no more. Poor Puxl, it is better so.
* * * * *
Another day and its horrors. With my eyes shut it comes to me in
frightful pictures. Nothing but desecrating agony! How can some men
give their war reminiscences with such delight? Do they lie and paint
the scenes in story-book fashion for the sake of heroics? The more
horrible things are, the more gloriously do they describe them; the
more shocking the scenes, the more indifferent and easy they make it
appear. Writers seldom speak of these horrors with disapprobation,
indignation, or rebellion. Some may, perhaps, heave a few sentimental
sighs of sympathy, but they are ever ready to sing the glories of
war—“Lift your heart to God and your hand against the enemy, ra-ra,
Hurrah!”
To-day two pictures impressed themselves upon me. Rocky heights, with
_jagers_ climbing up them like cats. They were ordered to “take” the
height. The enemy was firing down. As the bullets from above struck
them, they threw out their arms, dropped their rifles, and rolled
crashing to the bottom, and over the rocky projections they were
smashed to pieces. The other scene: A rider, a little way from me, was
struck by a shell, which ripped the lower part of his body off,
disembowelling him. The horse swerved, and carried this mangled,
bleeding mass, which at a short distance fell to the ground and was
dragged over the stones by the galloping animal.
* * * * *
An artillery section stands with its wheels sunk deep in the mire of
water-covered road. Dripping with sweat and blood from the cruel
blows, the horses drag at the sinking guns. One has dropped, but the
lash keeps falling on the poor beast, who cannot move. Does not the
man see this? Yes, but he is responsible for his guns and must fulfil
his duty. The tormented, willing, faithful creature does not
understand it, and has made his most desperate efforts. What must it
think?—think, as animals think, not articulately, but insensately; not
in words but in feelings, which are all the more acute because they
can find no expression. And with its only expression, a shriek of
pain, the poor thing sank; and that shriek rings in my ears yet, it
even haunted my next night’s dream. To sense the pain of one artillery
horse and then multiply it by one hundred thousand—for that is the
usual number slaughtered in a long campaign—gives one some idea of the
mass of agony men heap upon these poor unfortunate dumb brutes—these
same men who go with pleasure to meet their foes. The men are supposed
to know why they go, but the poor beast knows no reason why he is hewn
into helpless agony. What anguish they endure—and terror so great that
sweat drenches their bodies! And then the fever of the wounds, the
terrible thirst, which is suffered by these miserable, abused one
hundred thousand horses! This was my dream, and I awoke in a fever
reaching for my water-bottle.
* * * * *
Another street fight. The crashing timbers and falling walls were the
more horrible for the battle-cries, shots, and explosions of shell.
From a wrecked house there flew over my head a window-frame, and the
chimney fell to dust, stifling the air and stinging our eyes with the
plaster dust. Fighting along the narrow lanes and streets, we finally
came upon the open market-place. In the middle, on a high pillar,
stood a statue of the Virgin Mother, with the Child in one arm,
stretching the other in blessing. Here the struggle became one of
demons—hand to hand. They were hacking at me and I was laying about me
with terrific force. What I hit I do not know, for in such moments one
loses the memory. Yet two terrible pictures remain in my mind: A
Prussian dragoon, strong as Goliath, tore one of our officers out of
his saddle, and split his skull at the feet of the Madonna. The gentle
saint looked on unmoved. Another Goliath of the enemy’s dragoons
snatched my neighbour, bent him backwards, so that I heard his spine
crack, and threw him lifeless under the same blessed lady’s
outstretched hand.
* * * * *
From the heights we saw again a spectacle. A bridge fell with a train
of waggons crossing it. Were they filled with wounded? I could only
see that horses, waggons, and humans sank for ever into the rapid
water. It was counted lucky, for it was the enemy’s loss: our men had
sawed the timbers as a successful strategy. Another picture from this
height disclosed our own Khevenhüller’s regiment inveigled into a
swamp from which it could not extricate itself. While sinking into the
morass, the enemy’s shell killed them all. But they could not mutter a
sound with their noses, eyes, and mouths filled with mire. This, we
were told, was a tactical mistake. Any one is apt to err, and what
does it matter if a few of the chess-board figures are lost? That the
slime is in their eyes and mouths does not count; only the mistake is
deplored, but the tactitian will make up for it, and may be decorated
with orders and promotions yet. Too bad that lately our 18th Battalion
should fire all night upon another one of our regiments till daylight
disclosed the error, and sad also that another troop was led into a
pond through a conflict in orders, but little things like that will
happen to the best players of the game of war.
* * * * *
I have settled it. This shall be my last campaign. When I come back I
quit the service. When a man has learned to look upon war with the
horror that it produces in me, it would be a lie and a crime to stay
in its service. As you know, I have always gone into battle with
repugnance, but this detestation is so increased, this condemnation
and decision has become so strong, that all the reasons with which I
had held my judgment have ceased to argue in me. Our mutual study of
the question has proved to me that the greatest souls in the world
share this conception of war with me. Whatever comes, I am determined
that at the end of this campaign I shall for ever close my military
life. I cannot serve the god of war any longer. I have come to this
conviction as some people change their old ideas of religion, which
they gradually find have rested on folly and superstition; and so I
can no longer keep up the deception, or kneel to the delusion, that
army proclamations and cannon roars are consecrated things. Without
any respect for the ritual of the god Mars, with its weird human
sacrifices, I abjure for ever the cruel worship.
CHAPTER III
Austria ruined at the battle of Koniggratz—Dr. Bresser with the
wounded—I go to the seat of war to search for my husband—The
scenes on the way—More horrors described—I meet Frau Simon—A night
journey—Am carried back to Vienna exhausted—Return to Grumitz.
The battle of Koniggratz ended in a terrible defeat which seemed
decisive. My father told the news in such a tone as though it had been
the end of the world. There was neither letter nor telegram from
Frederick. Was he wounded or worse? Conrad had reported himself as
untouched. The lists had not yet arrived, but the loss in killed and
wounded was reported as forty thousand.
I wept for hours when the third day came without a line. While there was
hope, I could still weep; had all been over my woe would have been
without expression. My father was terribly depressed, and Otto full of
revenge. He wished to join a corps of volunteers recruiting in Vienna.
It was reported that the victorious commander of the southern campaign
was to replace the defeated marshal of the north.
But no news came of Frederick.
A few days later there was a letter from Dr. Bresser, who was busy in
the neighbourhood of the battle, and wrote of the infinite misery and
need of help, which was beyond imagination. He had joined Dr. Brauer,
who had been sent by the Saxon Government, and a Saxon lady, another
Florence Nightingale, was to arrive two days later. She came from the
hospitals of Dresden to help in Bohemia. The two surgeons were planning
to meet the lady at the nearest station to Koniggratz, and Bresser
begged us, if possible, to send quantities of bandages and such supplies
to this station, that they might be delivered into his hands. This
letter awoke in me a resolution which I did not dare tell my family: I
would take the box of bandages myself.
I announced that I would go to Vienna and prepare supplies for the
doctor, and so managed to get away without difficulty. I could easily
announce from there my real intentions to the family without their
interference.
I had some doubts as to my want of experience, but I felt the compelling
gaze of my husband fixed upon me, and he seemed to be stretching his
arms from a bed of pain, and my only thought was: “I am coming, I am
coming.”
I found Vienna a mass of confusion. Everywhere my carriage passed
vehicles of wounded men. I made my preparations hurriedly and started
for the North Station. Here the crowds of wounded and dying were
arriving, and the public crowded in with supplies and looking for
friends; there were nurses, nuns, physicians, men and women from every
rank, and the officials were busy pushing back the crowds. They sent me
off too. But I protested: “I want to take the next train north,” but was
informed that there were no trains for passengers, in order to keep the
lines open for the arrivals of the wounded. Only one train would go out,
and that was exclusively for the Relief Corps.
“May I go by that train?”
“Impossible.” The voice within kept calling for me to come. I was about
to despair when I caught sight of the President of the Relief Corps. I
rushed to him: “For pity’s sake, help me, Baron S——. You know me!
Baroness Tilling, General Althaus’s daughter. You are about to send a
train to Bohemia. My dying husband needs me there. If you have a heart,
let me go with that train.”
With many misgivings he finally arranged to put me in the car of a
surgeon who accompanied the train. It would be ready in an hour. I could
not stay in the waiting-room; everything was turned into a hospital, and
everywhere lay and crouched the wretched neglected forms of the mangled
and wounded. And train after train came in with more wounded, and they
were as quickly placed and carried away. At my feet was laid a man who
gasped unceasingly, making a continuous gurgling sound. I stooped to
speak a sympathetic word, but covered my face in horror. He no longer
looked like a human being, his under jaw was shot away, and his eyes
were hanging from their sockets. He was reeking with decay and
corruption. My head sank back against the wall. But the sickening idea
came into my head—could it be Frederick? I looked again. No, it was not
he.
As they carried the poor gurgling wretch away the regimental doctor
said, “He need not go back to the hospital, he is already three-fourths
dead.” And with that the agonized creature threw up both his hands in
pleading to heaven.
The hour passed, and I started with the two surgeons and four Sisters of
Charity and several soldiers. The carriage was hot and filled with a
mingled odour of hospital and incense, and I felt deathly sick. I leant
back in my corner and closed my eyes.
“Are you ill?” asked the sympathetic young surgeon. “I hear you are
joining your wounded husband at Koniggratz. Do you know where to look
for him?”
“No, but I expect to meet Dr. Bresser.”
“I know him. We visited the battle-field together three days ago.”
“Visited the battle-field?” I repeated, shuddering. “Oh, tell me about
it.”
The surgeon told his story, and I put it afterwards into my journal as I
remembered it. From there I copy it now. I had remembered it quite
accurately, for into every scene my imagination thrust one fixed
idea—that there would be found my wounded Frederick, calling for me:—
Behind a little hill the ambulance corps lay protected. Beyond, the
engagement had already begun. The very earth and air trembled with the
heat and explosions. Clouds of smoke and roaring artillery filled
space. Orders came that we should fetch the wounded from the field. It
takes some heroism to march into the midst of a battle when none of
the fury of the conflict is in the mind to urge you on. The corporal
in charge of the relief ordered the men to a point where the enemy had
opened fire. Across the open ground they met groups of wounded and
slightly wounded dragging themselves and helping each other. One fell
insensible, but not from a wound but sheer exhaustion. They explained:
“We have eaten nothing for two days. After an enforced march of twelve
hours and a bit of sleep, we were called to the fight unrefreshed.”
The relief patrol push on. Let them look out for themselves, the
surgeons were urged on to the more desperately wounded. They might be
picked up on the way back, after help had been rendered to those lying
thick in the battle. Everywhere lies a bleeding mass. The wounded
swarm about thicker and thicker, creeping and dragging themselves over
mounds of corpses, all stretched in mangled positions with the
death-writhings still evident—hands clawing the ground, eyes and
tongues projecting, teeth gnashed, and mouths gaping as the last
breath had been drawn. So they lie, with their limbs and bodies
mangled into shapelessness and stiffened with the death-agony.
Down through a little ravine the patrol pushed. Here the dead and
wounded were lying in heaps together. The shrieks for help, the
begging, weeping, and lamenting, mixed with the cries for water. Alas,
the provisions were soon exhausted, and what can a few men do in all
this mass of hopelessness? If every helper had a hundred arms they
could not do half of the rescue work. But they work like heroes till,
suddenly, there comes the signal horn calling to another part of the
field, while the broken wretches piteously beg not to be deserted. An
adjutant comes in hot haste. Evidently a general has been wounded. The
surgeons must follow, begging the poor fellows to have patience for
they will return. But the promise was never meant and never believed.
On, on they must follow the adjutant. Cries and groans to right and
left are unheeded, and though some of the rescuing party falls, they
are left with the rest. Men writhing with horrible wounds, torn by
horses’ hoofs, crushed by passing guns, seeing the rescuers, rear
themselves and call for help with a last effort. But on, on, over them
all!
* * * * *
So it goes on, page after page, in my journal. One account tells how a
shell burst over a group of wounded who had just been bandaged and
relieved, tearing them to pieces. Again, it tells how the fighting broke
out around the ambulances, a fleeing and pursuing troop sweeping down
the wounded, dying, and surgeons, all together; or when terrified
riderless horses, maddened with agony, rushed over the wounded on the
stretchers, throwing them crushed and lifeless to the ground. Again, the
most frightful scene of all is described: A hundred helpless men lay in
a farmhouse where their wounds had been dressed, when a shell set the
place in a blaze, and their shrieks will ever remain in the memory of
those who heard it—and in mine, for I fancied again, while the surgeon
spoke, that Frederick was there, and I heard his voice out of the place
of torture, and I fell back in my seat.
“Oh, dear lady,” the surgeon exclaimed, “I must not try your nerves.”
But I had not yet heard enough to slake my thirst for the horrible; I
would hear more, and I said, “No, no, continue: How was the next
morning?” So he continued:—
A battle-field by night is hideous enough, but under the glorious sun
the fiendish work of man seems doubly fiendish. What the night made
seem ghostly, the daylight revealed as absolutely hopeless. Then one
first realises the countless dead—in the streets, the fields.
There is no cannonading, no rattle of musketry, no drums or
trumpet-blasts, no flags, no regimentals; the only sound is the low
moaning of the poor wretches who are dying without aid. The steaming
earth is saturated with red puddles that shimmer, reek, and clot in
the sun. Everywhere lie scattered the abandoned sabres, bayonets,
knapsacks, cloaks, broken carriages, waggons, and cannon, the
half-dead horses staggering up and down and hideously bellowing out
their dying shrieks. There is a little hollow into which the wounded
had dragged themselves, but it is clear that a battery had driven over
them, the hoofs and wheels crushing them into a pulpy oozing mass
while still alive—yes, hopelessly alive.
But even more hellish than all this is the certain appearance of that
vile scum of humanity, the ghouls which creep in the wake of the
battle, to plunder and spoil the dead. They slink among the corpses,
mercilessly tearing off their valuables, mutilating and hacking even
the living if they still have life enough to defend themselves,
snatching out their eyes to make them unrecognisable.
And so they lie, day after day, these poor wretches, for the Sanitary
Corps, though they work untiringly, cannot stop for the hopeless ones
who beg that they be shot or stabbed in their helpless misery. From
above the carrion crows are watching from the trees, preparing to
descend for their dinner. Even the starved village dogs come and lick
the open flesh.
Then comes the great interment. They dig long shallow trenches, and
the bodies are thrown in helter-skelter, heads up and heads down. Also
they heap the bodies into mounds and cover them with a few feet of
dirt. Let the rain wash it away, who cares?
“Now, will you hear what happened the next day?”
“Oh, I can tell you that,” I interrupted. “In the capital of the
victorious country the reports have arrived. In the forenoon, while the
hyenas of the battle-field work round the trenches, the people in the
churches are singing “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” and in
the evening, wife and mother of those who have been buried—while yet
breathing perhaps—put lighted candles on their window-sill, for the city
has to be illuminated for a sign of joy.”
“Yes,” said the surgeon, “such comedy is marked in the cities—and yonder
the tragedy continues....”
* * * * *
What a terrible journey it was! Long after the surgeon ceased to tell
his story we caught glimpses from the windows of the effects of the war.
True, there were no scenes of devastation, but everywhere families were
hurrying with their belongings, leaving home to go they knew not where,
for the cry, “The Prussians are coming,” filled them with terror. We
passed many trains carrying the wounded to the inland hospitals. The
stations were crammed with men waiting to be carried farther. They had
been brought by waggons and cots from the field, and were waiting to get
either to the hospitals or cemeteries. At every halt the Sisters of
Charity in our party immediately busied themselves, but I was useless.
The uproar about the stations was like a bewildering dream; people were
running about confusedly, the troops were taking the trains to go
farther, the wounded and bleeding were swarming everywhere, and the
screams of women added to the frightful conditions. Cannons and baggage
waggons rumbled by; trains followed, carrying the reserves from Vienna.
The soldiers were crammed in cattle-trucks and freight-cars—just as
cattle are sent to the slaughter—and were they not, I could not help
thinking, were they not being sent to the big political shambles where
the official butchers seek their profits? They rushed by on the rattling
wheels like the wind, and a howling war-song pealed from the cars. An
armed host marching through the fields or roads on foot or horse, with
flags flying, has a certain antique touch of the poetic, more of the
movement of free will in it; that the railroad track, this symbol of
modernism and civilisation which brings the nations nearer together,
should be used to thrust men into the battle to let barbarism loose is a
hideous contradiction. And even the clicking telegraph, mastering the
lightning to do man’s will, to advance his interests, to relieve his
anxieties, to bring his life into immediate and close touch with his
fellows—to think that it should be used in the service of barbarity! Our
boast before the barbarians is, “Behold our civilisation, our railroads,
our telegraph lines,” and then we debase these things by using them to
enforce and multiply our own savagery.
Such thoughts deepened and embittered my sorrow. Happy were they who
were simply weeping and wringing their hands, whose souls did not rise
up in wrath against the whole hideous comedy, who did not accuse nor
arraign any one with the blame—not even that Lord of Armies whom they
believed to be the loving author of all their misery!
Late in the evening I arrived at Königinhof, my companions having left
me at an earlier station. What if Dr. Bresser failed to meet me? My
nerves were quite shattered by the night’s experiences, and only my
extreme anxiety about Frederick sustained me.
The station in Königinhof was overflowing with wounded men; they were
lying everywhere—in every nook and corner, on the ground, and on the
stones. The night was very dark, there was no moon, and only a few
lanterns lighted the station. I sank on to a bench, put my luggage on
the ground before me, overcome with the desire for sleep. I began to
realise the absurdity of my coming. What if Frederick were already at
home, or perhaps dead and buried? Oh, to be able to sleep and forget it,
and perhaps even never wake again to behold all this world of horror! At
least, let me not live on and find Frederick among the “missing.” Was
perhaps my boy at home calling for me? What if I did not find Dr.
Bresser? What should I do in that case? Luckily I had a little bag with
money about my neck, and money always affords some help out of
difficulties. And I involuntarily felt for the bag. The fastenings were
torn off—it was gone. What a blow! Still, the floods of misfortune on
all sides made my loss seem slight to me. I rose to look for the
station-master, and suddenly caught sight of Dr. Bresser. In my
excitement I fell about his neck.
“Baroness Tilling!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I have come to assist. Is Frederick in one of your hospitals?”
His negative reply was a relief as well as a disappointment. But how
could he know of all the wounded? I would search for myself. I asked for
Frau Simon.
“She is here, and a splendid woman—quick, decisive, prudent. She has
discovered that the need is the greatest in a near village. We are going
there together.”
“Let me go along with you, Doctor.” He tried to dissuade me, but after
some argument he introduced me to Frau Simon as an assistant, and in a
few minutes we started on our journey in a hay-waggon which had just
brought some wounded men to the station. We sat upon the straw, possibly
still wet from blood, and started on our long uncomfortable ride. The
ricketty waggon with its straw-covered boards was pure torture to me,
accustomed to springs and cushions. I was sound and well, what must it
have been to the mangled and shattered bodies which were carried over
rough roads in this waggon? My eyes were heavy; the discomfort and
excited nerves prevented sleep, but leaning on the Doctor’s shoulder,
half dreaming, I heard bits of the conversation which my companions
carried on half aloud.
They spoke of the lack of surgeons and instruments. Even bread was not
to be had, and in many places the water had been so polluted that it
could not be used. Every roof-covered space was crammed with wounded men
dying and raving in their last agonies, and in their ravings they
blasphemed God.
“Mr. Twining of London must have heard these curses,” said the Doctor,
“when he proposed to the Geneva Red Cross that, when the condition of
the wounded is hopeless, they should be offered the consolations of
religion and then be put out of their agony in the most humane manner,
thus preventing them from dying with curses of God upon their lips.”
“How unchristian,” cried Frau Simon.
“Unchristian to give them such gracious relief?”
“No, but the idea that such curses are a sin. The christian God is not
unjust, he takes the fallen soldiers to Himself.”
“Mohammed promises paradise to every Turk who slays a christian,”
replied Dr. Bresser. “Believe me, dear madam, the gods that are
represented as both inciting war and blessing murder are deaf both to
curses and to prayers. Look up and see the planet Mars overhead. Every
two years it shines there, and is unconscious of its consecration to the
god of war. That same blood-red star shone down upon Marathon and
Thermopylæ, the curses of the dying were heaped upon it, but it
indifferently and peacefully kept its perfect circuit round the sun—even
as to-day. Unlucky stars? There is no such thing—man is the only enemy
of man—and his only friend.”
But finally sleep overcame me, and it was a relief to get rid of the
unendurable images that filled my brain. How long I slept I do not know,
but I was suddenly roused as by a shock. But no, it was not a noise or
vibration which woke me; it was a pestilential, stifling odour that
filled the air. By the clear light of the moon, which had risen, we saw
the cause of the intolerable stench; a church wall which had served as a
breastwork was banked up with countless corpses, from which a black
cloud of fluttering ravens rose as we approached, and fluttered back
again upon their feast as we passed on.
The driver whipped up the horses, and we jolted madly out of the range
of the frightful odour. Terror held my throat like a screw, or I should
have shrieked.
* * * * *
As we arrived at our destination, Frau Simon complained that I should be
more of a burden than a help, but I roused all my courage and begged to
be allowed to assist. We found ourselves in the middle of the village,
at the gate of a chateau which had been deserted by its owners and
filled from cellar to roof with wounded men. We got out, and I pulled
myself together with all my force. We passed the gate of the chateau,
meeting stifled sounds of woe on all sides. Everything was dark, and we
had forgotten to bring along any means of lighting. Some matches from
the Doctor’s pocket served for a few seconds to give us a flash of the
terrible picture. Our feet slipped in the bloody slime, and we could do
nothing but add our despair to the multitude groaning and sighing about
us.
Frau Simon and the Doctor hurried out to search for the village priest,
and left me alone in the dark among these wailing people, and in this
stifling odour, shuddering to the bones. But the Doctor returned,
saying, “No, you must come with us, you shall not stay in that
purgatory.” I waited in the open air in the waggon for half an hour,
when the expedition came back quite unsuccessful. The pastor’s house was
in ruins and no light was to be found. We must wait for the daylight,
and how many of these miserable creatures would perish after all the
hope our coming had wakened in them?
Those three hours seemed endless, marked not by the ticking of the
clock, but by the fitful groans and helpless cries of the wounded. At
last the day broke. Now for duty. First the frightened, hiding villagers
must be found and made to help. Some buried the dead, others cleared the
choked wells, everything was collected that would furnish food and
clothing. A Prussian surgeon with his staff arrived, and before long
some of the general distress was relieved. First we visited the crowd of
wounded in the castle—my husband was not among them; then I went with
Dr. Bresser into the village church, where a hundred men, mangled and
feverish, lay on the stone floor. I almost fainted with terror as I
looked for the one beloved face—it was not there. I sank beside the
altar, filled with inexpressible horror. And this was the temple of the
eternal God of Love! The niches were full of pious images—saints with
folded hands and lifted faces which were crowned with circlets of gold.
I heard a poor soldier cry: “O Mother of God, Holy Mother, one drop of
water, have mercy!” All eternity he might have called to that painted
image. Ah, miserable men, your petitions to God will be in vain till you
obey the law of love which He has stamped upon your own souls. So long
as hate and murder are not subdued in your own hearts, you can hope for
no compassion from Heaven.
Oh, the experiences of that dreadful day! At the sight of one scene,
which my pen shrinks to describe, I heard Mrs. Simon exclaim:—
“It is astonishing what human nature can endure.”
What is most astonishing to me is that human beings will bring each
other into such situations of agony; that men will not swear before God
that war shall cease; that, if they are princes, they do not break their
swords; and, if they have no other power, that they do not, in thought
and words and deeds, devote themselves to the one passionate cry,
“Disarm! Disarm!”
I remember that in a barn, where we found a heap of wounded and dead who
had been forgotten there for more than a week, my poor strength finally
forsook me and I swooned away.
When my consciousness returned I found myself in a railway car, Dr.
Bresser sitting beside me. He was bringing me home. I had not found my
husband—thank God I had not found him among those terrible scenes—and a
faint hope took possession of my heart that some news of him was
awaiting me in Grumitz.
* * * * *
Whatever the future held for me in sorrow or joy, it would never be able
to blot out the memory of the gigantic misery which I had witnessed, and
I was resolved that I should cry it into the ears of my human brothers
and sisters until they should no longer look upon war as a fatality, but
as an unspeakable crime.
I slept nearly the entire way to Vienna; at the station my father met
me, embraced me silently, and said to the Doctor:—
“How can I thank you for taking this crazy young woman under your
protection——”
“I must be off. Put the young woman to bed. Do not scold her, she has
been terribly shaken. Give her orange-flower water and rest. Good-bye.”
We picked our way through the long rows of ambulance waggons and
carriages to our own conveyance. I had only one question on my lips, but
had not the courage to ask it till we were started: “Any news from
Frederick?”
“Not up to yesterday, when I came here in answer to the telegram to meet
you,” was the reply. “However, when we get home there may be news. How
silly of you to give us such a fright! To go right into the midst of
those savage enemies and needle-guns—the worst might have happened; but
never mind, the doctor said I should not scold you.”
“How is my boy, my Rudolf?”
“He is crying for you, and hunting all over the place. But you seem
strangely indifferent about the rest of us.”
“How are they all? Has Conrad written?”
“The family is all well, and a letter came from Conrad yesterday. So
Lilli is happy, and you, too, will see Tilling back all safe and sound.
There is nothing good to report from the political centre. Have you
heard of the great calamity?”
“I have seen and heard nothing but calamity and misery.”
“Oh, beautiful Venice has been given—handed over on a platter—to the
intriguing Louis Napoleon, and in spite of winning the victory of
Custozza. Venice as well as Lombardy lost! But that gives us peace in
the south, and Napoleon on our side, and a chance to revenge ourselves
yet on the Prussians. But you are not listening, so I will obey
Bresser’s orders, and see that you rest.”
“Martha, Martha, he is here,” shouted my sisters from the chateau garden
as they rushed to meet us.
“Who?”
“Frederick.”
* * * * *
It was true. He had arrived the evening before, having been transported
with other wounded from Bohemia. A slight bullet wound in the leg was
all, and he was never in danger.
But joy was hardest of all to bear. The terrors of the day before did
not more completely rob me of my senses. I had to be lifted from the
carriage to bed, and for several hours lay in delirious unconsciousness.
When I found myself conscious in my own bed, I believed I had only
wakened from a terrible dream, and had never been away. My aunt recalled
me to realities:—
“Quick, Martha, get up. Frederick is dying with impatience to see you.”
“Frederick, Frederick.” All these days I had called this name with pain,
and now it was with a cry of joy. It was not a dream—I had been away,
had come back, and would see my husband.
Alone I went to his room, and sank sobbing upon his breast:—
“Frederick!”
“Martha!”
CHAPTER IV
Restored happiness—Prussians still press toward Vienna—War practically
over—Quiet country life—Military school—My only brother
Otto—Description of flying troops—Peace in sight—Victory of
Lyssa—Our plans of retirement—Conrad comes home—He describes his
enthusiasm for war.
Thus for the second time my beloved husband was restored to me from the
dangers of war.
Who was I, that this tide of woe should have passed over and left me
safe and happy on the shore, when so many thousands had sunk beneath the
flood of misery? Happy indeed were those who were simple-hearted enough
to lift up their glance to heaven and express their deep gratitude to
the Almighty Guide, and feel that for this special blessing a divine
Providence had chosen them. Those who speak such gratitude think they
are humble, but they do not realise how arrogant and self-important they
really are. When I thought of the poor wretches and the broken hearts
and the mourning mothers and wives, I could not be so immodest as to
take all this as a favour sent from God to me. I remembered how our
housekeeper swept one day from a closet a swarm of ants. Fate had in
just such a way swept over the fields of Bohemia. The poor workers had
been ruthlessly scattered, crushed, and killed—only a few were unhurt.
In the case of the ants, would it seem reasonable and just to imagine
those few remaining ones would send up prayers of gratitude to the
housekeeper?
However great was our joy of reunion, I could not unload the burden of
sorrow and suffering I had seen. Though I could not help and nurse and
endure like those other courageous women, yet I felt a compassion toward
my brother men that I could never drown in selfish contentment again. I
would settle this account with the world some day.
Yet, though I could not feel triumphant and grateful, I could love with
a hundred fold more tenderness than ever before. “Oh, Frederick,
Frederick,” I would repeat with tears and caresses, “have I found you at
last?”
“Yes, and you rushed off to find me and nurse me—was that not heroic and
foolish of you, Martha?”
“Foolish, I agree. I imagined I heard you call. But heroic, no! If you
only could know how cowardly I was in the face of misery! If you had
been lying there I could have been brave. Such horrors as I have seen I
shall never forget. Oh, this world is so beautiful, and how can men make
it so terrible? A world in which we two can find such happiness and fill
with such unchanging love, how can any one spoil it by stirring up such
flames of hate to bring death and agony?”
“I have seen horrible things too, Martha—one thing I shall never forget.
Who do you suppose sprang at me during our cavalry engagement at Sadowa?
Gottfried von Tessow.”
“Aunt Cornelia’s son?”
“Yes; he recognised me in time, and dropped his sword, which he held
ready to sink into my skull.”
“Where was his duty? How could he spare his King’s and country’s enemy?
How dare he think first of friend or cousin?”
“The poor boy! His arm dropped, and suddenly a sabre swung from the
officer next to me, who wished to defend my life——” and Frederick
covered his face with his hands.
“Killed,” I asked, shuddering. He nodded.
“Mamma, mamma!” came from the next room, and Lilli appeared with my
little Rudolf. I rushed to him, and eagerly pressed him to me. “Ah,
poor, poor Aunt Cornelia.”
* * * * *
It looked as though the war was practically over. The quarrel with
France and Italy ceased when Austria abandoned Venice. Prussia offered
liberal terms, and our emperor was anxious lest Vienna, his capital,
should be besieged. Prussia’s other German victories, and the entry into
Frankfort, awoke a certain admiration which success always brings, and
imbued even the Austrians with the feeling that Prussia might be
destined to perform a certain historical mission in her victories.
The words “truce” and “peace” became contagious, and one could almost
count upon their coming true, in the same way as war threats gave rise
to war. My father admitted that the needle-gun had exhausted our ranks.
He did not wish to contemplate a march on Vienna, which meant the
destruction of his estate in Grumitz. That would have been too much for
even his bellicose spirit. His confidence in Austria’s invincibility was
sadly shaken, and in common with the rest of mortals he felt it was best
to put a stop to the run of luck, for no doubt some day the tide would
turn with an opportunity for vengeance. Vengeance follows vengeance!
Every war leaves one side defeated with the belief that the next war
will give them satisfaction! And so one struggle invites and demands the
next—where will it end? How can justice ever be established if in
punishing an old wrong another is committed? Can one obliterate
ink-stains with ink, or oil-spots with oil? Yet they say nothing but
blood can wash out blood.
At Grumitz a gloom settled over every one. The villagers prepared for
the coming of the Prussians, hiding their possessions. Even our family
silver was secreted. We read and talked of nothing but the war. Lilli
had heard nothing from Conrad for days. My father’s patriotism was
deeply wounded, and though Frederick and I were blissfully happy in our
reunion, yet the unhappiness of the rest affected us painfully. Over a
letter from Aunt Cornelia we shed bitter tears for she had not yet
learned of her only son’s death.
As we sat all together in the evening there was no music or cheerful
chatter, no jokes or games, only the repetition of stories of woe and
death.
Any possibility of the prolongation of the war filled my brother Otto
with enthusiasm, for in that event the seniors of the military academy
had been promised to be called into the service. He longed for this
privilege—straight from the military school into the battle-field. Just
as a girl graduate longs for her first ball, for which she has been
taught to dance, and the light and music, so the young cadet welcomes
his first engagement in the great artillery dance for which he has been
learning to shoot.
Frederick and I had decided that upon the declaration of Peace he would
resign from the army, and that under no circumstances would our son be
educated at school where the whole education was bent upon awakening in
boys the thirst for military glory. I questioned my brother Otto, and
found that in the schools they taught that war was a necessary evil (at
least acknowledging, in the spirit of the age, that it is an evil), at
the same time the chief incentive to all the noblest manly
virtues—courage, endurance, and self-sacrifice. Through war comes the
highest glory to men and the greatest progress to civilisation.
Alexander, Cæsar, and Napoleon, conquerors and empire builders, were to
be regarded as the supreme types of human exaltation. War’s successes
and benefits were described in high colours, but its wretched results
were piously ignored. There was complete silence as to the barbarity,
degeneration, and ruin which it brought.
I remembered my own girlish enthusiasm for war, and could hardly blame
my brother that he looked upon a possible call to battle with
impatience.
I offered one day to read the report of a retreat of our army, and Otto
impatiently said, “I would rather not hear it. If it were the enemy
retreating that would be different.”
“Retreats are generally passed over in silence,” remarked Frederick.
But my father hastily added, “A well-ordered retreat is not a flight.
Why, in ’49——”
But I knew the old story of ’49, and headed it off by beginning to
read:—
About four o’clock our troops began to retreat. We surgeons were
caring for several hundred wounded, when suddenly the cavalry broke in
on us. A general rush brought on tremendous confusion of artillery,
cavalry, infantry, and baggage, all joining in the flight. Men, horse,
and waggons were mingled together. We were swept from our work. They
shouted to us, “Save yourselves!” as the shell burst overhead. We were
carried forward by the surging mass, we knew not whither——
“Enough! enough!” cried the two girls.
“The censor of the press should stop such stuff from appearing,”
exclaimed my father angrily. “It takes away all pride in the profession
of war.”
“Yes, if they should destroy all joy in war it would be such a pity,” I
said in an undertone.
“At least,” continued my father, “those who take part in a flight ought
to be quiet about it—it is no honour. The rascal who shouted ‘Save
yourselves!’ ought to be shot. A coward raises a yell and thousands of
brave men are demoralised and run with him.”
“And in the same way,” responded Frederick, “when some brave fellow
shouts ‘Forward!’ a thousand cowards sweep after him, inspired with his
courage. Men cannot be called either cowardly or brave, for every one
has his moments of strength and weakness. When crowded together we move
as a herd, dependent upon the mind of our fellows. One man rushes,
shouting ‘Hurrah!’ and the rest do the same. Another drops his gun and
runs and the rest follow. In each case it is the same impulse, yet in
the one case they are praised for courage and in the other blamed for
cowardice. Bravery and fear are not fixed qualities, neither are joy and
sorrow: they are merely different states of mind. In my first campaign I
was drawn into such a wild confusion of flight. The official reports
called it a well-ordered retreat, but it was, in fact, a complete riot.
We rushed madly on, without orders, panting and shrieking with despair,
the enemy goading us with bullets. This is one of the most horrible
phases of war, when men are no longer gallant soldiers but beasts, and
hunt each other as prey; the pursuer becomes a blood-drunken savage and
the pursued is filled with the delirium of terror like a poor animal at
bay. All the sentiments of patriotism, ambition, and noble deeds with
which he has been educated for the battle are forgotten—he is merely
possessed with the instinct for self-preservation and filled with the
wildest paroxysms of terror.”
Frederick’s recovery progressed, even as the feverishness of the outer
world lessened, and daily we heard more of peace. The Prussians advanced
without obstacle, and surely and slowly approached Vienna, passing
through the City of Brunn, where they had already been given the keys.
But their march was more like a military promenade than an activity of
war, and by July 26 the preliminaries of peace were announced.
Another political event of the day was that Austria had, at last, joined
the Geneva Convention of the Red Cross.
“Does that satisfy you?” asked my father as he read the news aloud. “You
call war barbarism, but you see it also progresses with civilisation and
becomes more humane. I am in favour of all these efforts to relieve the
wounded. Even from the stand-point of statesmanship it is wiser, for it
is well that the sick should be made fit for service again.”
“You are right, papa. The important thing is that they be made useful
material for future battles. But no Red Cross can alleviate the agonies
I have witnessed. With multiplied men and means they could not conjure
away the results of one battle——”
“Not conjure it away, but mitigate it—what we cannot prevent we should
seek to mitigate.”
“For what I have seen there is no mitigation. We should turn the rule
about: what we cannot mitigate we ought to prevent.”
That war must cease was daily becoming a fixed idea with me—and that
every human being should work to this end. The scenes I had witnessed
after the great battle haunted me, especially at night, when I would
awake with the most terrible oppression of heart and pricking of
conscience just as if I were being commanded to stop it. And only when
fully awake would I realise my entire incapacity to stem such a tide—as
well might I face the swelling waves of the sea, and command them to dry
up.
Frederick and I had made very definite plans for the future. At the
close of the war he was to resign, and we would retire to some small
country place, and live with his pension and my allowance in a simple
way.
Frederick intended to take up the study of international law and science
apart from its sentimental and utopian aspect, and make himself capable
of grasping the practical side of all these ideas. He felt that the
world was coming into a new era of thought, and he desired to lead his
life into these lines along with our domestic pleasures.
We had not communicated our thoughts to my father, who had quite other
ambitions for our future.
“You will be a colonel at a very early age, Tilling,” he said one day,
“and in ten years you will certainly be a general. A fresh war will
certainly give you the command of an entire corps, and you may even
reach the rank of commander-in-chief, who knows. It may come to your lot
to restore the glory of the arms of Austria, which is for the moment
under a cloud. When once we adopt the needle-gun or some more effective
weapon we shall soon have the best of these Prussian gentlemen.”
“Who knows,” I suggested, “we may even make it up with the Prussians and
become their allies.”
My father shrugged his shoulders. “If women would only keep out of
politics! Our honour and our position as a Power of Europe demand that
we should punish these insolent braggarts, and take back the states
which they have annexed. What! friendship with these dastardly enemies!
Never! unless they come and humbly beg for it.”
“In that event,” remarked Frederick, “we would set our feet upon their
necks. Alliances are only sought with those whom we fear or need as a
protection against a common foe. In statecraft egotism is the ruling
motive.”
“Yes, indeed,” my father replied, “when that ego represents our own
fatherland everything else is secondary.”
“We can but wish,” replied Frederick, “that communities may adopt the
same rules of behaviour as is demanded of individuals, which does away
with the law of the fist and the vulgar self-seeking, and declares that
our own interests are best advanced when we are in harmony with the
interests of others.”
“What’s that?” asked my father, with his hand to his ear, but Frederick
wisely dropped the discussion.
* * * * *
I shall arrive at Grumitz to-morrow at one o’clock.
CONRAD.
The delight with which this dispatch was received by Lilli can be
imagined. No welcome is so loving and gracious as that given to him who
returns from war. Naturally he would have preferred to return
victoriously, to have aided in conquering for his emperor, but it was
honour enough to have fought at all—and to be among the fallen was a
specially glorious fate. Otto said that in the military academy every
one who was left dead on the field was specially inscribed in the roll
of honour, and the more ancestors one could boast as having fallen in
battle, the prouder were the descendants, and the less value should they
place upon their own lives. To show one’s appreciation of such ancestors
need one actively and passively rejoice in all kinds of bloodshed in
war?
Perhaps it is better that so long as war exists there should be plenty
that find pleasure and inspiration in it. Alas! this class is daily
growing less, while the armies are daily increasing. Where will it
finally lead?
But Conrad did not think so far ahead, and my brother Otto was his
envious admirer—of the hussar uniform, the scar that decorated his chin,
which he got in passing through a rain of bullets—all this surrounded
him with a halo of glory.
“I will admit it was an unfortunate campaign, but I have brought back
glorious memories of it.”
“Oh, tell us, tell us!” Lilli and Otto cried.
“The details are gone, but the whole lies behind me like a dream, for
powder gets into one’s head in such a strange way. The moment the order
comes to march, the intoxication and the fever begin, even at the very
moment of suffering the pain of farewell from loved ones. But when
surrounded by comrades, filled with the demand of patriotic duty,
marching with the bands playing and the flag fluttering, I would not
have turned back even to the arms of my sweetheart. Nor would I be
worthy of her if I did. One never doubts one is marching to victory. The
needle-guns, you say? Ah, they alone were the cause of our defeat—their
bullets fell upon us like hailstones. Also Benedek’s generalship was
poor. They should court-martial him. If I were ever general I should
play a forward game, ever advancing on the enemy. However, since the
Emperor did not put me in charge, the tactics were not my fault. We
officers and soldiers were ordered to fight, and fight we did. And that
was the glorious sensation of it. The anticipation, the suspense,
waiting for the order to charge—the consciousness that in the next
moment we should be creating history—the delight in one’s own courage,
with Death to the right and left—bidding this awful mystery defiance——”
“Just like poor Gottfried Tessow,” murmured Frederick to me. “Of course
it is all from the same teaching.”
Conrad continued eagerly: “One’s heart beats higher, one’s pulse
quickens, there awakes—that is the peculiar ecstasy of it all—there
wakes the mad delight in battle, the ferocious hatred of the foe, the
blazing passion for one’s menaced fatherland—and on we rush, and hewing
down becomes a mad revelry. One feels as if transported to another
world. Ordinary feelings have changed to their opposites. Life itself is
our prey; to slay is the law. The only motives that do not disappear in
the conflict are magnificent heroism and self-sacrifice. To this add
powder, smoke, and battle-cries. It is a sensation unparalleled—there is
nothing like it—except perhaps a lion or tiger hunt, when one stands
face to face with maddened beasts.”
“Yes,” Frederick added, “while man was still subject to attack from two
or four-legged savages, to protect his life by killing the latter was a
delight. The hereditary thirst for blood has not completely died out of
civilised man, and since in Europe we have no longer beast nor barbarism
to fight, we create an artificial enemy for ourselves, and the hunt goes
thus: You here, have red coats, and over there blue coats. Three claps,
and presto, the red coats are changed into tigers and the blue coats
become wild beasts to them. Again attention! Trumpets blow, one, two,
three; drums beat; now begin; eat each other up. And if 100,000 such
beasts eat each other up at X——, history records the famous X—— battle.
Then the men who clapped their hands assemble about a green table in
X——, lay down their maps, rearrange the frontier lines, haggle over who
shall pay the bills, sign a paper which figures in history as the Peace
of X——. The magicians clap again three times, and order the red coats
and the blue coats, ‘Now, dear children, embrace each other again as men
and brethren.’”
CHAPTER V
The Prussians at Grumitz—Otto gets into trouble—A dinner with friend
and foe—Rosa and Prince Henry are engaged—The Prussians leave and
cholera breaks out in our midst—Servants are the first victims,
then sisters—The lover’s suicide—The only son dies, father follows
him, cursing war.
The Prussian troops were quartered everywhere about Grumitz, and the
villagers were possessed with terror of the hated enemy, whose name
became the synonym of every evil, and when the quartermaster approached
to arrange quarters for his men they trembled as if the wolves were upon
them. An occasional patriot sent a rifle bullet from some place of
hiding after the foe, and his quick execution forced the villagers to
suppress their hatred. Much to the surprise of the villagers, when they
quartered the soldiers, they found the “enemy” was usually a very
good-natured friendly lot, who punctually paid their bills.
I was sitting one morning near a big window in the library, which gave a
wide view over the surrounding country. A troop of horsemen suddenly
came in sight. “Prussians coming for quarters,” I thought. Seizing the
glass, I saw a group of possibly ten surrounding what appeared to be a
hunter. If the prisoner had fired upon them there was little hope for
him. I ran to the library and called my aunt and father.
“The Prussians, the Prussians!” I exclaimed breathlessly.
“The devil take them,” my father exclaimed, while Aunt Marie rushed to
make final preparations for the enemy, whom for several days she had
expected.
“Where is Otto?” I asked. “We must warn him from speaking out his hatred
of Prussia.”
“Otto went out early to hunt birds. And how fine the youngster did look
in his new hunting-suit. How proud I was of him.”
The house was suddenly all in an uproar of loud voices and hasty steps.
Franz the footman, pale with terror, flew into the room, and as though
he were shouting “Fire!” called out “The Prussians, the Prussians, and,
your Excellency, they have a prisoner—your son—who is said to have fired
on them.”
My father, with an exclamation of alarm, hurried down the steps. His
heart stood still. The situation before us was terrible; I dared not
think of the conclusion. But it was soon all over, for father returned
with Otto with the explanation that in crossing the field he had
stumbled and accidentally discharged his rifle. They had seized him, but
learning who he was, had brought him to the house, and had accepted his
explanation.
“It would be impossible for an honourable soldier, and the son of a
soldier, to act like an assassin,” they said, as they released him.
Later, I asked Otto if he was really innocent.
He answered, “I hope in the future to have plenty of opportunities to
shoot a few of them, but never would I be guilty without offering my own
breast to their bullets.”
“Bravo, my boy,” cried my father. But I did not share the enthusiasm.
Words which tossed about and cheapened human life so boastfully had a
most repellent sound to me.
We had as our self-invited guests two colonels and six subordinate
officers, and with the cellar full of provisions, and comfortable beds,
they were treated with every courtesy given to friends.
The Prussians bore distinguished names, and among them was a Prince
Henry of the house of Ruess. Our enemies seemed to be very courtly
gentlemen, with the most approved conventional manners of the best
society. It is true that in these days we do not war with Huns and
Vandals, but it is slightly hard to realise that the other side can
possibly stand for the same civilisation as our own.
“O God, thou who protectest those who trust in Thee, hear us as we pray
for Thy gracious mercy. Protect us from the rage of our enemies, that we
may praise Thee to all eternity.”
The priest in Grumitz prayed thus daily. Certainly these elegant,
gentlemanly fellows could hardly be considered as raging enemies as they
took the ladies in to dinner. Perhaps God had this time listened to the
prayers of the other side, and had protected them from our “rage”—or
perhaps it was the needle-guns which had done it. At any rate it was a
queer pious jumble to me. As we chatted with the stately colonel and the
tall lieutenant, mention of war was shunned with the greatest caution on
both sides. The strangers were treated as though they were guests
travelling for pleasure, and the real state of things was never hinted
at—that they were quartered with us as conquerors.
The gentlemen enjoyed the soft summer moonlight on the terraces—the same
moonlight which so lately had lighted up the mouldering corpses against
the churchyard wall. And under this soft light the Prussian Prince Henry
lost his heart to our beautiful Rosa; and to our astonishment my father
made no objection, so the engagement was announced to the family.
I had believed that my father’s hatred of the Prussians would make it
impossible for him to accept one as a son-in-law, but he separated
altogether the individual from the nation. We often hear people protest:
“I hate them as a nation, not as individuals.” This is quite as sensible
as if one were to say: “I hate wine as a drink, but the drops I swallow
with pleasure.” But popular sayings are not expected to be rational.
Perhaps the possibility of an alliance for his daughter with a princely
house flattered my father, at any rate he said yes with apparent
pleasure.
But Otto rebelled at the idea: “How would it be should war break out
again, and I were obliged to chase my brother-in-law out of the
country?” However, he was soon converted to the famous theory of the
difference between nations and individuals. I confess I never could
understand it.
* * * * *
How quickly happy surroundings swallow up misery, and how soon are
catastrophes forgotten! Gradually the pictures of terrors which I had
experienced in the few previous weeks faded from my thought. I realised
this and my conscience pricked me at times when the laments of the
villagers reached us. Many had lost their worldly goods, others their
friends; reports came of financial troubles, and it was even rumoured
that the cholera had shown itself among the Prussian troops. One case
had also occurred in our village, but we comforted ourselves that it was
of no consequence.
“Do you realise, Martha,” Rosa said to me one day, “what a blessed thing
this war has been to me—though I know it is something terrible. I should
never have been so happy and met Henry, and he—where would he have found
such a love as mine?”
“I wish I might think it with you, Rosa, and believe that your two happy
hearts might outweigh the many thousands of broken ones.”
“Oh, we must not think of the individual losses when the war brings such
great gain to the conquerors and the whole nation. You should listen to
Henry. He says the Prussians have won a grand result, and the entire
army is enthusiastic for its generals. This victory has done so much for
German civilisation and commerce. He says the prosperity of Germany—I
forget the word—its historical mission—but you should hear him talk
about it.”
“I should think he would have other matters than politics to talk with
you.”
“Oh, he does talk about everything, and I sympathise with it all and am
so proud and happy that he has played such a glorious part in this war
for his King and country.”
“And carries you off as his booty,” I replied.
The future son-in-law quite suited my father, and certainly he was a
fine young fellow. He gave him his blessing with all manner of protests.
“My dear Ruess, you suit me exactly as a man, as a soldier, and as a
prince”—this he repeated in manifold expressions—“but as a Prussian
officer, I maintain the right—family matters aside—to wish that Austria
may fully revenge herself for this victory which you have snatched from
her. Separating politics from personal questions, I hope I may live to
see my son take the field against Prussia. Old as I am I would be
willing to accept a command to fight William I. and humble the arrogant
Bismarck. I acknowledge the military readiness of the Prussian army and
its strategic leaders, and would think it quite a matter of course if in
the next campaign your own battalion were compelled to storm our capital
city, and even burn down your father-in-law’s house, in short——”
I interrupted: “In short, your confusion of sentiments is frightful—your
inconsistencies are as intermingled as are the infusoria in a drop of
putrid water. You fill one with repugnance through your paradoxical
conceptions—to hate the whole and love its parts; to think one way as a
citizen and the opposite as a man. No, let us have it the one way or the
other. I prefer the savage Indian’s way. He never thought of anybody as
an individual, but wanted the scalp of every member of the other tribe.”
“Martha, my daughter, do not give vent to such savage sentiments, they
are quite unsuitable to the times, which have grown so refined and
humane.”
“Rather say that our boasted civilisation is a lie upon our inherited
barbarisms. What right have we to claim to be humane until we cast off
the savage custom of making war? Do you call your speech to Prince Henry
sensible where you assure him that you love him as a son-in-law and hate
him as a Prussian; value him highly as a man and detest him as a
lieutenant-colonel; that you bless him as a father and in the same
breath grant he has the right to fire upon you if necessary? Forgive me,
father, but can you talk thus and call it common sense?”
“What did you say? I did not catch a word.” The convenient deafness had
come on again at the right moment.
* * * * *
After a few days the guests departed, and all was quiet again at
Grumitz.
The marriage of my two sisters had been postponed until October. Prince
Henry planned to quit the service, having earned sufficient honours in
the glorious campaign. He would retire on his laurels and on his
estates.
The two pairs of lovers parted painfully but joyfully, content in the
certainty of their future happiness.
Certain happiness? There is in reality no such thing, least of all in
times of war, for then misfortunes swarm thick as gnats, and the chance
that one may be standing on the spot which may be spared the descending
scourge is at best a small one.
True, the war was over and peace concluded. A word had been enough to
let loose all the terrors of hostility, and a word should also suffice
to relieve us from the results. Hostilities were suspended, but what can
suspend the persistent consequences? The seed of future war had been
sown, and the fruit of the war just closed ripened still further into
want, demoralisation, and plague. To stop and think about it was now
useless, for the cholera was raging throughout the country.
One morning the Vienna paper, opened at breakfast, brought the following
item:—
The cholera death-rate increases. The military and civil hospitals
report many cases of genuine Asiatic cholera. Every measure is taken
to stop its spread.
I was about to read these lines aloud, when Aunt Marie exclaimed, as she
read a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood:—
“Dreadful! Betty writes that in their house two persons have died of the
cholera, and that her husband is ill.”
“Your Excellence, the schoolmaster wishes to speak to you.”
The teacher entered, looking pale and bewildered.
“Count Althaus, I must report that the school is closed, for yesterday
two children were taken ill and to-day they are dead.”
“The cholera!” we cried out.
“There is no doubt. There is great terror in the village, and the
doctors who have come from the town say that the horrible disease has
taken hold of the entire population.”
We looked round in dismay, pale and speechless. Here, again, was the
frightful enemy, Death; and each in turn saw his bony hand stretched
over the head of some loved one.
“We must go away!” said Aunt Marie.
“Where?” replied the schoolmaster, “for the disease is spreading
everywhere.”
“Across the frontier.”
“Across the frontier——”
“But quarantine will be set up, and you will not be allowed to pass.”
“Oh, how terrible! will they prevent people leaving a region of
pestilence?”
“Certainly. Healthy neighbourhoods must protect themselves against
infection.”
“Then we will remain and await God’s will,” answered my father with deep
emotion. “You, Marie, who believe so strongly in destiny, I cannot
understand why you should wish to run away. You say the fate of every
one will overtake him. Yet I would rather have you and the children go
away. Otto, you must eat no more fruit.”
“I will write to Bresser,” said Frederick, “and have him send us
disinfectants.”
* * * * *
What happened immediately after this I cannot tell in detail, for this
breakfast scene was the last I found in the red book. I must depend upon
my memory for the next few days’ happenings.
Terror possessed us all. The sword of Damocles hung over each head, and
is it not a horrible thought to feel that one’s friends and even oneself
should be so helplessly and uselessly destroyed? In such a case to stop
thinking is the better part of valour.
Flee? The idea possessed me on account of the safety of Rudolf. My
father insisted upon the family taking flight, and the following day was
decided upon. He meant to remain and face the danger with the villagers.
Frederick declared he would remain, and I would not leave his side.
The two girls, Otto, and Rudolf, were to go with Aunt Marie—but whither?
That was not settled at once. At first to Hungary—and then farther. The
young people busily flew to their preparations and packing. To die just
as life was beginning to unfold its happiness to them would be a tenfold
death.
The boxes were brought to the dining-room that all might work together.
As I brought Rudolf’s clothes in my arms my father demanded, “Why does
not the maid do that?”
“I do not know where Netti is hiding. I ring and she does not come.”
He despatched another servant to find her, who in a short time returned
with an anxious countenance:
“Netti is in her room. She is—she is——”
“Speak out!” shouted my father, “what is she?”
“She is—already—quite—black.”
A shriek came from every lip. The plague, the horrible plague, was in
our very house. What was to be done? Could one leave the poor girl to
die alone? But was it not certain death to whoever approached her and
those whom this person might afterwards approach? It was as if we were
surrounded by murderers or flames, and death grinned at us from every
corner and followed every step.
My father ordered the doctor to be fetched immediately. “And you,
children, hurry your departure.”
“Oh, I feel so sick!” exclaimed Lilli, turning pale and clutching a
chair.
We all sprang toward her. “What ails you?” “Don’t be silly!” “It is only
fear.”
We dared not think, but hurried her to her room, and soon she showed
most aggravated symptoms of the dread disease. This made the second case
of cholera in the castle in one day.
It was terrible to see her suffer and to be unable to help. Frederick
did everything possible to relieve her, but nothing availed. When the
attack subsided cramps followed, which seemed to make every bone crack,
tearing the quivering frame with agony. The poor victim tried to moan
but could not—her voice failed, her skin turned cold and blue, and the
breathing difficult.
My father strode up and down wringing his hands. Once I stood before him
and dared to say: “Father, this is war! Will you not curse it now?” But
he shook me off without reply.
After ten hours of suffering, Lilli died. Netti died before, alone in
her room, for we were all occupied with Lilli, and no servant would
venture to approach one who had “turned black.”
* * * * *
Meanwhile Dr. Bresser had arrived, and took command of the household,
bringing with him every known means of relief. I could have kissed his
hand.
The two bodies were carried to a distant chamber, and strictest measures
of disinfection were taken. The odour of carbolic acid to this day
brings back the memory of those terrible days.
The intended flight was a second time set on foot. On the day of Lilli’s
death the carriage stood waiting to carry away Aunt Marie, Rosa, Otto,
and my son—but the coachman declared himself unable to drive, seized by
the invisible destroyer.
“Then I will drive myself,” said my father. “Quick, is everything
ready?”
Rosa came forward and said, “Drive on! I must stay and follow Lilli.”
It proved the case. The next sunrise found the second daughter in the
vault of death. And in the horror of it all our departure was given up.
In my anguish a sudden scorn seized me for the gigantic folly which had
brought on all this misery. When Rosa’s corpse had been carried out my
father sank on his knees with his head against the wall.
I seized him by the arm. “Father, this is war!” No answer. “Father, do
you hear? Will you at last curse war?”
He sprang to his feet. “You bring me back to my duty as a soldier, I
must not forget that my entire fatherland offers its sacrifice of blood
and tears.”
“What benefit can come to the fatherland through the suffering and death
of its people? What gain through lost battles and the shortening of
these young lives? Oh, father, I plead with you—curse war! See from the
window the black coffins—they are for Lilli and Rosa, and perhaps there
will be a third—and why, why?”
“Because God wills it, my child.”
“God—always God. All that folly and savagery—the wilful sin of
man—always hiding under this shield—God’s will!”
“Do not blaspheme, Martha, even while the hand of a reproving God is
clearly visible.”
The footman appeared, announcing that the carpenter refused to carry the
coffins into the chamber where the dead young countesses lay.
“Then I will see to it myself,” said my father, and he strode to the
door.
* * * * *
The post brought nothing but sorrow—news of the ravages of the pest;
love-letters that would never be answered—for Prince Henry knew nothing
of what had happened. A letter to Conrad announcing Lilli’s sickness
brought him four days later to the castle.
“Lilli!” he cried. “Is it true?”
We nodded. He remained quiet, without shedding a tear, and softly said
to himself, “I have loved her all these years. I will go to the
churchyard. She waits for me.”
He rushed out, and there upon her grave he shot himself.
The war had carried off many an officer, so the tragedy of this indirect
death was quite blunted. Besides, this event was swallowed up by a
misfortune which sounded the deepest agonies of all our hearts. Otto,
the adored and only son, was in the clutch of the destroying angel. All
day, all night, with alternating hope and despair, he suffered.
When all was over his father threw himself upon the body with such a
piercing shriek that it rang through the house. We had to tear them
apart, and for hours and hours the old man poured out his cries of
anguish—giving vent to groans and roars, and rattling shrieks of
desperation. His son, his Otto, his pride, his all!
After this outbreak he succumbed to a dumb apathy. He lay as one
motionless and unconscious, and was put to bed.
When he came to himself, Frederick and I and Aunt Marie were at his
bedside. He could not speak, and was struggling for breath. Then he
began to shake and toss about, as if in the last symptoms of the
cholera, though he had shown no other sign. At last he uttered one
word—“Martha.”
I fell on my knees beside him. “Father, my poor, dear father!”
He lifted his hands over my head.
“Your wish—is fulfilled. I curse—I cur——” He sank back. All was over.
“How dreadful,” said Aunt Marie, after we had buried him, “he died with
a curse on his lips.”
“Console yourself,” I answered. “If only that curse would fall from
every lip—what a blessing to humanity.”
* * * * *
Such was the cholera week at Grumitz. In seven days ten of our group
were taken. In the village over eighty died. Stated thus coldly it makes
a scarcely noteworthy report. Told as a story it seems an extravagant
tale. But it is neither a dry fact nor an overdrawn romance. It is a
cold, palpable, sad reality.
I stood resigned in daily expectation that death would take the rest of
us. I actually wept in anticipation of it. Yet in the thought of their
deliverance I still had sweet moments. And as this hope and compassion
and love still glowed in us as individuals, might it not some day come
to dominate the general relations of the whole human family? The future
belongs to Goodness.
CHAPTER VI
Summer in Switzerland—Researches in International
law—Seclusion—Frederick enters the peace army—Off to Berlin—The
battle-field of Sadowa—Francis Joseph weeps for his dead soldiers.
We spent the remainder of the summer in Geneva, Dr. Bresser having urged
us to flee from the infected country and the scene of so much sorrow.
The depth of apathy and resignation which had overcome me made flight
seem almost useless and distasteful to me; besides, I did not wish to
leave the graves of my family. But the doctor conquered my objections
when he appealed to my duty as a mother, and begged me to take little
Rudolf out of danger.
We chose Switzerland because Frederick wished to become acquainted with
the men who had formed the Red Cross society. He wished to be on the
spot, and inform himself as to their object and further aims.
He had resigned from the military service, and took a half-year’s leave
of absence awaiting its acceptance.
I was now rich—very rich. The entire family being gone—all was mine.
“Look, Frederick,” I said, as the notary delivered the title-deeds to
me, “what would you say if I should praise the war because it has
brought all this advantage to me?”
“Then you would not be my Martha. I see you are thinking of the
heartlessness which can rejoice over material prosperity won by the
destruction of another’s good. Individuals are ashamed of such feelings,
but nations rather delight in each other’s destruction, and dynasties
openly and vaingloriously admit them. Thousands have perished in untold
misery—we have ruined them to win for ourselves territory and power. So
let us thank Heaven for our victories!”
We lived in quiet retirement in a little villa, close to the shores of
the lake. I was still so overwhelmed with what I had passed through that
I had no desire to meet strangers. My sympathetic husband quite
understood my desire to weep out the sorrow of my torn heart in
solitude. It is quite fitting that those who have been so mercilessly
thrown out of this beautiful world should have some sacred time allotted
them in the memory of those who have been so cruelly robbed of their
companionship.
Frederick often went into the city, making his study of the Red Cross.
Of this period I have no daily record, and what Frederick told me of
those days has nearly passed out of my recollection. My one impression
of this time, given me by every element of our environment, was that of
quiet, ease, and the cheerful activity of the neighbourhood. Every one
seemed so peaceful and good-humoured. Hardly an echo of the war reached
us. It was already alluded to as an anecdote of history which had
changed the map but slightly. The terrific cannonading in the Bohemian
fields was an interesting episode, a little more than a new Wagnerian
opera, perhaps. History had recorded it in its pages, but it was soon
forgotten by those who lived outside the stricken boundaries. We saw
mostly French newspapers, and they were filled with the latest
happenings in literature, drama, music, and the coming exposition. The
sharp duel between the Prussians and Austrians was an old story. What
happened three months ago and thirty miles away, what is not in the Now
and the Here, soon slips out of the memory and loses its hold on the
heart.
October found us in Vienna settling the many affairs of my inheritance,
and preparing for a considerable stay in Paris. The projected exposition
offered Frederick the best opportunity to carry out his idea of calling
a congress together with the idea of forming a league of peace.
“The professions of arms I have laid down through my convictions gained
in war. Now I enlist in the army of peace. Truly, it is a small army
with no weapons save love and justice, but every great thing must have
its small beginnings.”
“Ah,” I sighed, “it is a hopeless work. What can a single man do against
this stronghold, backed by centuries of custom and millions of men?”
“What can I do? I cannot foolishly hope personally to bring about such a
revolution. I simply remarked that I would join the ranks of the peace
army. I did not suppose as a soldier that _I_ could save my country or
conquer a province. No, the single man can only _serve_. Still more he
_must_ serve. One inspired with a purpose cannot help working for it. He
stakes his life for it, even though he knows how little this one life
counts. He serves because he must. Not the State alone demands
allegiance; sincere, strong convictions also oblige compulsory service.”
Before going to Paris we planned a visit to Aunt Cornelia in Berlin. We
broke the journey at Prague in order to spend “All Souls’ Day” on the
battle-field of Sadowa.
War will have its charm so long as historians persist in setting up for
the leaders monuments of glory built out of the ruins of battle, and
crown the Titans of public murder with laurels. Tear away the mask of
glory and show its horror, and who would be madly ambitious enough to
grasp for such fame?
It was twilight when we arrived, and sadly and silently we proceeded to
the dread battle-field, filled with depression and grief. The snow was
falling, the bleak trees were swaying in the wailing November wind. Tier
after tier the graves stretched out before us, but not as in the quiet,
restful churchyard. These were not the graves of aged and weary pilgrims
of life gone to their eternal rest, but of young men in the height of
their youthful vigour, exulting in the fulness of their manhood, full of
rich expectation in the future. Violently and mercilessly they had been
hurled into the ditch and the dust of the earth shovelled over them. Who
counts the broken hearts, the mangled bleeding limbs, the cries of
despair, the flooding tears, the hopeless prayers, the agonising pains,
the shrieks, the maddening submission to death—all is entombed in the
eternal silence.
We were not alone on this burial field. The day had brought many both
from the home country and the enemy’s country, both sought their loved
ones in these acres of death. For hours we had heard the sobs and
murmurs of lament, for many mourners had come with us on the train.
I heard a poor, heart-broken father say, “Three sons have I lost—each
one more noble and better than the other—oh, my three sons!” I can hear
it yet above all the other lamentings for fathers, husbands, and
brothers which were poured out around us.
All about us black-robed figures knelt, and some, with sobs of pain,
staggered from place to place hopelessly searching their dead. But few
single graves were to be seen, and few were marked by stone or
inscription.
Everywhere the earth was heaped up, and we knew that even under our feet
the soldiers’ bodies were mouldering.
Many officers and soldiers wandered among the other mourners. Evidently
they had shared in the terrible contest, and were now making this
pilgrimage to honour their fallen comrades.
We went to that part of the field where the largest number of friends
and foes lay entombed together, in one enclosure. To this place the
majority of the pilgrims found their way, for here, naturally, they
might expect their lost loved ones to be buried. Around this spot they
set up their crosses and candles, and here they laid their wreaths and
flowers as they knelt and sobbed out their sorrowing hearts.
A tall, slender man, of noble presence, in a general’s cloak, approached
this central burial ground. All gave way reverently to him, and in
hushed whispers I heard: “The Emperor.”
Yes, it was Francis Joseph, the ruler of the country, the supreme war
lord, and he had come on this All Souls’ Day to offer his silent prayers
for the souls of his dead children, his fallen warriors. There he stood,
with his bowed head uncovered, in agonized and devoted homage before the
majesty of Death. He stood long and motionless in profound meditation. I
could not turn my eyes from his face. What thoughts were passing through
his soul, what sentiments oppressed his overwhelmed heart? I knew he had
a good and tender heart. I felt my mind yield to his thoughts, and I
felt that I was thinking as he was thinking as he stood there with bowed
head:—
“You, my own poor, brave soldiers—dead ... and for what? We did not
conquer; and my Venice, too, is lost, ... so much is lost, and all your
young lives lost too. And you offered them so devotedly—for me. Oh, if I
could give them back, for I never desired this sacrifice! It was for
yourselves, your country, that you were led out into this war. Not
through me, although I was compelled to give the command. Not for me
have my subjects fought. No, I was called to the throne for their sakes,
and any hour I would have been ready to die for the good of my
people.... Oh, if I had but followed the impulse of my heart and never
said ‘Yes’ when all about me shouted ‘War! war!’ Yet, could I have
resisted? God is my witness that I could not. What impelled me I do not
fully realise, but I know the pressure was an irresistible force outside
me—from you—yourselves—my poor dead soldiers.... Oh, what have you not
suffered? And how sad—how sad it all is! And now you lie here—and on
other battle-fields, snatched away by shot and shell and grape and
sabres—by cholera and fever.... Oh, had I only said ‘No!’ And you,
Elizabeth, begged me to! Oh, if I had only said it! The thought that—is
unendurable that.... Oh, it is a wretched, imperfect world—too much
agony—too much woe!”
As I watched him, thinking thus for him, my eyes searching his
features—just as I came to the “too much agony, too much woe”—he covered
his face with both hands and broke into tears.
So passed All Souls’ Day of 1866 on the Sadowa battle-field.
BOOK V
TIME OF PEACE
CHAPTER I
Visit to Berlin—Aunt Cornelia—Aunt Marie’s death—Vienna again—Politics
and conscription.
In Berlin there reigned an evident spirit of jubilation. Even the
useless street-loafer had an air of conscious victory. “We have given
the other fellows a good thrashing” seemed to give a certain air of
conscious victory to every one. Yet nearly every family mourned for some
never-to-be-forgotten dead which lay on the battle-fields of Germany and
Bohemia.
I dreaded meeting Aunt Cornelia again, for Gottfried had been her idol,
her all; to measure her sorrow, I had only to fancy losing my Rudolf, if
he were a young man—no, I did not dare think it out.
With beating hearts we entered Frau von Tessow’s house. Even in the
entrance the deep mourning of the house was felt. We were led into my
aunt’s bedroom, which she seldom quitted, except to go to church on
Sunday and for one hour each day, which she spent in Gottfried’s little
study. Here she took us, and showed us the letter which he had left on
his desk:—
MY OWN DARLING MOTHER—I know that you will come here when I am gone
and find this letter. We have already parted, and it will please you
and surprise you to get these last words, so hopeful and cheerful.
Have courage, I shall be back. We are two undivided hearts which hang
on each other, and nothing can tear them apart. I prophesy that I
shall win stars and crosses in this fortunate campaign, and then come
home and make you a grandmother six times over. I kiss your hand, your
dear benign forehead, my most adored of all little mothers.
YOUR GOTTFRIED.
When I embraced the dear lady, we both broke into loud sobs. Frederick’s
eyes were wet as he silently pressed her to his heart. Tears were
sufficient words to express all we felt.
Our visit was a most sorrowful one, but Frederick was able to give the
poor mother the self-same comfort he had brought to me, in assuring her
of the instantaneous and painless death of Gottfried.
* * * * *
We were suddenly called from Berlin by the dangerous illness of Aunt
Marie. Upon returning, we found her at the point of death.
“It is my turn now,” she said, “but I am glad. Since my dear brother and
the three children were torn away, I have had no delight in life. It has
been a great comfort, my dear Martha, to know that you are happy, and
since your husband escaped the dangers of two wars and the cholera, it
is evident that you are destined to grow old together. Try to educate
our little Rudolf to be a good Christian and a good soldier, that his
grandfather in heaven may rejoice over him. I shall constantly pray for
you from above that you may live long and contented.”
After three days of lingering, this last friend of my childhood passed
away, resigned, as she had lived, happy in the hope of heaven. She left
her small fortune to Rudolf, and appointed our old friend, the Cabinet
Minister, as trustee, and since business affairs kept us in Vienna for
some months we saw much of him.
Twice a week he dined with us, and though he had now retired to private
life was still fond of discussing politics. Frederick tried to turn the
conversation away from political gossip, in which the other revelled
upon the subject of the rights of humanity. The old gentleman could not
follow Frederick, for he merely saw political science from the
stand-point of gaining an advantage, and not of giving right and justice
the first place.
I usually sat near by with my needlework, but only listened. The old
statesman would hardly think it proper for a woman to mix into such deep
subjects. He little realised that I made it my business to record all
these discussions in my note-book.
Frederick made no secret of his opinions, although he realised the
thankless part one plays in defending theories which are generally
thought to be impracticable and grotesque.
“My dear Tilling, I have an important piece of news to-day,” said the
Minister one afternoon with an air of importance. “It is rumoured in
government circles that the ministry of war is recommending general
obligatory military service.”
“What? the same system which before the war was so ridiculed?”
“Yes, we did have a prejudice against it, but Prussia has shown its
advantages. From your enthusiastic moral, democratic, and liberal point
of view, it would seem the ideal thing to have every patriot give
himself to his fatherland for service, then ... if we had already
introduced conscription, could little Prussia have vanquished us?”
“That simply means that with our added force we would have
counterbalanced the enemy’s forces. If conscription were introduced
generally how could it benefit anybody? The chess game of war would
simply be played with greater numbers. The proportion would be the same,
and the decision of victory would cost—instead of hundreds of thousands
of slaughtered—millions perhaps.”
“But do you consider it fair that only a small part should be sacrificed
for the benefit of another class, who, chiefly because they are rich,
may stay at home? No, indeed; the new law will change all this—every one
must serve and none can buy his freedom from it. Besides, the educated
and intelligent make the finest material for soldiers.”
“But the enemy will also have the educated class, both sides will suffer
by the loss of such priceless material—the intellect from which
civilisation is to gain its inventions, arts, and scientific
discoveries. Should they be set up as targets for the enemy’s bullets?”
“Pshaw! What can rummaging of the scientists, the dreams of the artists
and inventors, help to advance the power of a nation?”
“How can you say that!” exclaimed Frederick.
“Besides, these men need spare but a short period from their research,
and a few years of strict discipline will do them good. In the present
state of things we must pay the blood tax, and it ought to be equally
shared.”
“If through this it could be diminished, something would be gained—but
it is only increased. I fully hope the plan fails. No one can tell where
it will lead. Each Power will try to outdo the other, and we shall no
longer have armies, but armed nations. Men will be drawn more and more
into the service; the time will be lengthened, the costs will increase,
and without actual battle and bloodshed, nations will be thrown into
ruin, simply through their preparation for war.”
“You look too far into the future, dear Tilling.”
“One can never look too far ahead. We should think to the end in our
undertakings—were we not just now comparing war to a game of chess? It
is a poor player who only looks a single move ahead. Let us develop the
thought of conscription to the extreme measure—what if, after the limit
of number and age has been reached, a nation should recruit its women
too? The others would imitate it. And then the children—and the rest
would imitate it. And in the armaments, in the instruments of
destruction, where would be the limits? Oh, it is a savage blind leap
into the dark.”
“You are a rash dreamer, Tilling. If war were preventable, it would
indeed be a good thing, but since that is impossible, every nation must
prepare to win in the ‘struggle for existence,’ as your new-fangled
Darwinism calls it.”
“And if I did show you a practical way to wipe out war, you would
consider me only a silly faddist, riding the humanitarian hobby, as the
war party sneeringly calls it.”
“There is no practical means of doing away with war so long as we have
to deal with human passions, rivalries, opposing interests, the
impossibility of agreeing on all questions——”
“Such agreement is unnecessary,” interrupted Frederick. “Where
differences arise, courts of justice, not the sword, can decide.”
“Sovereign states appeal to such a settlement? Never! Nor would the
people.”
“The people? Rulers and statesmen are opposed, but never the
people—their love for peace is sincere, while the claim of the diplomats
is always hypocritical. More and more the people cry for peace as the
standing armies grow, for the halo of self-sacrifice will grow dim when
every man must serve. Besides, who are the enthusiasts for the glories
and dangers of war? Those who are safely outside them—the politicians,
the professors, the stay-at-homes. When their safety is threatened they
sing another song. Then more and more every one must look upon it with
horror, and that sense will grow when poets, thinkers, lovers of
humanity, timid people, when all these will, each from his own special
point of view, curse the wretched trade they have been forced into.”
“However, they will be very careful to keep silent and not pass as
cowards, or fall out of favour with their superiors.”
“Keep silent? Not always. I have kept silent for many years, but as I
speak, soon many will break out. When convictions possess one’s soul, it
speaks out. It took forty years for mine to find expression. It took
decades to ripen in me; perhaps the masses may need as many
generations—but the hour will come when they will at last speak out.”
CHAPTER II
New Year’s reflections—Distrust between the French and Germans—Quiet
again—Paris—Napoleon’s plan for disarmament—Frederick’s work for
peace—A daughter born—Happiness and study—The gay world—War talk
again—Repose in Switzerland—Sylvia’s illness.
New Year, ’67! We celebrated it alone, my dearest Frederick and I, and
as the clock struck twelve, I sighed:—
“Do you remember poor father’s toast last year at this very hour? I dare
not wish you a happy New Year. Behind the future there often lies
concealed so much that is terrible and which mortal wishes cannot
avert.”
“Then let us to-night rather look back than toward the future. What you
have endured, my poor brave wife! So many loved ones you have buried—and
those days of horror on the battle-field in Bohemia!”
“I shall never regret having seen those cruel sights. They make me able
to sympathise with my whole soul in your efforts.”
“We must educate our Rudolf to continue in these ideas. Perhaps in his
lifetime these things may come to pass—hardly in ours. What a noise
there is upon the streets! They greeted the last New Year with as much
enthusiasm—and it brought such frightful suffering. How forgetful men
are!”
“Do not scold them for forgetting. Some of our anguish is already
passing into the shadows, and I am filled with the happiness of the
present—what bliss to have you, my own love. We were not to speak of the
future; but what lies before us looks so good—we have love, unity,
riches, all that life has to offer. We will travel, see the world and
all that is beautiful and wondrous in it. During times of peace the
world is so fair—and peace may last many, many years. Yet if war comes
you are no longer in it, and Rudolf is safe, for he shall never be a
soldier.”
“But if, some day, every man is liable to serve?”
“Oh, nonsense! We shall travel, give Rudolf a pattern education—we will
follow our ideals—in working for peace, and we—we will love each other.”
* * * * *
The carnival of this year brought with it the usual balls and affairs,
from which my mourning kept me. But society as a whole still kept up the
mad round of pleasure, although almost every family had sustained its
losses. The young people had plenty of opportunities to dance, even if
some few aristocratic houses did remain closed. Those who had returned
safely from the battles were the favourites of the ladies, and all
conversations were of the past war and the coming of the needle-guns and
conscriptions with which to win the future victories. Victories? When
and over whom? No one had any idea, but revenge—even if only for a loss
at cards—is the universal feeling.
With the coming of spring, once more the “black spot” appeared in the
horizon—a “question,” as they called it. This time the question was
Luxembourg.
Of what great importance was Luxembourg to the world? I must take up my
studies again as I had in the former war, and my investigations led me
to the following:—
Luxembourg belonged to the King of the Netherlands and at the same time
to the German Bund. (This according to the treaties of 1814–16. Ah,
these treaties are themselves the roots of quarrels.) Prussia was
privileged to garrison the capital. Now as she (Prussia) had broken with
the Bund in 1866, how could she keep this right? That was the
“question.” With the Peace of Prague the connection was dissolved. Why
did the Prussians maintain their right? An intricate affair, to be sure,
and of course the only sensible way to settle it would be to slaughter
fresh hundreds of thousands. Every enlightened statesman would admit
that. The Dutch never valued this possession, and King William III. was
planning to sell it to France for his own profit. Secret negotiations
were on foot. Quite right, secrecy is the soul of diplomacy. The people
need not know anything of such differences. If the matter comes to
blows, it is time enough for them to shed their blood. The reason for
shedding it is of no importance to them.
In March the Prussians were informed that the King had telegraphed his
acceptance to France, and German public opinion was outraged. Who is
this “public opinion”? Certain editorial writers, perhaps. The Reichstag
discussed the question hotly, but Bismarck remained very
cool—nevertheless he took occasion to make preparations for war with
France, and the latter also prepared.
It was the old tune I recognised, and I feared a fresh outbreak in
Europe, with so many leaders to poke the fire. One is amazed at such
firebrands; have they no idea how great is their crime?
Years later I heard of a conversation between the Crown Prince Frederick
of Prussia with Professor Simon:—
“If France and Holland have already made terms, that means war!”
The Crown Prince answered with intense excitement and feeling:—
“You have never seen war or you could not utter that word so carelessly.
I have seen it, and let me tell you it is the supreme duty to avoid war
if there is any possibility.”
This time it was avoided. Luxembourg was declared, by a counsel in
London, to be neutral, and Prussia withdrew. Friends of peace breathed
again, but many were dissatisfied—not the French Emperor, he wished for
peace, but the war party. Many Germans, too, considered the submissive
policy wise. But why should not states as well as individuals accept a
verdict submissively? Is it not more sensible to bow to the settlement
of reason than force? What this London conference attained could always
be secured by rulers if they wished to avoid war, and thus accomplish
what Frederick III. (The Noble) declared to be their highest duty.
* * * * *
May found us in Paris, seeing the great exhibition. It was my first
visit, and I was dazzled by its brilliancy. The empire was in its
highest splendour. Many European rulers were visiting there, and it
seemed almost like a great international capitol—this French city which
was in three short years to be bombarded by its eastern neighbour.
All the nations were assembled in this great peaceful and profitable
pageant of industry—this productive, not destructive, strife of
business. All the riches which art and manufacture contribute to use and
beauty were here displayed, and one felt proud of the progressive times
one lived in, and how natural it was to feel that never more should all
this development be threatened by the brutal processes of destruction.
And I breathed easily when I realised that all these royal guests
commingled in congratulatory festivities. Certainly they would never
again exchange shots with their mutual entertainers and hosts. All this
splendid public recognition and congratulatory association seemed like a
pledge that an era of unbroken peace and plenty had come. Never again
would these civilised nations draw the sword—only barbarians and tartar
hordes would be capable of that.
In the midst of it all it was rumoured that the Emperor was seeking the
earliest suitable opportunity to present his favourite idea to the
Powers for _general_ disarmament. The information came from reliable
sources.
What government could refuse such a suggestion without unmasking its
desire for conquest? What nation would not revolt at such a refusal? The
proposal must succeed.
Frederick was not so confident as I.
“First of all,” he said, “I cannot believe Napoleon will ever propose it
since the war party is too strong. Occupants of thrones cannot govern
public opinion; they are prevented by their closest advisers. In the
second place, one cannot command a great organic body to cease to exist
as such. It would set itself in opposition.”
“Of what great body are you speaking?”
“Of the army. As a body, it has life and has the power to sustain its
existence. As an organism, it is to-day full grown, and if universal
conscription is introduced it is on the point of enormous expansion.”
“And yet you plan to oppose this thing!”
“Yes, but not by stepping up and crying, ‘Die, monster!’ Such an
institution would hardly respond by stretching itself dead at my
command. I will urge war against this monster by introducing another
living, though still fragile form, which as it unfolds will finally wipe
the other out. It was you, Martha, who introduced me to the ideas of
modern scientists. An inexorable law is changing and moving the world,
and what is opposed to it must go. Politicians, rulers, and soldiers
seem not to have the slightest notion of this truth. A few years ago I
was just as blind to it.”
We lived at the Grand Hotel, but since I had not laid aside my mourning,
we did not seek acquaintances. Of course Rudolf was with us but he did
not make many long excursions with us, for the time had come for him to
learn, and he spent much of his time with his English tutor.
The world which opened to us here was all new to me. There had come
together, from the four corners, the rich, the famous—and I was fairly
confused by the turmoil, the fêtes, the luxuriousness, all so enchanting
and interesting. But I longed for the quiet and peace of home as
ardently as one wishes for the gay world when entirely shut out from it.
We kept ourselves outside the hubbub and sought only the acquaintance of
the prominent thinkers who could be of benefit not only to our mental
life, but also who could help further Frederick in his new idea. We were
busy at home collecting what we called a “Peace Protocol,” a sort of
scrap-book on the history of the peace ideal as it had developed from
the beginning. It soon grew into quite a volume. (Since I have carried
it down to the present day it has grown into several.) But, as a whole,
it is but a small drop as compared to the oceans of war literature which
flood our libraries. But when we reflect that in a single acorn is
hidden the possibility of a whole oak-forest we need not be discouraged
when the history of a new movement can be chronicled in a few pages.
* * * * *
And now came the fulfilment of a cherished hope. A girl was born to us.
We knew the joy of having a son, and now we should realise the promise
of happiness which a little daughter might bring to her parents, and of
course our little Sylvia would unfold into a paragon of beauty, grace,
and cleverness. Happiness makes us so selfish. Under the fair sky of our
domestic heaven all else seemed to evaporate; even the terrors of the
cholera faded into a cloud-like dream, and even Frederick slackened in
the pursuit of his ideal. No doubt much discouragement as well was the
reason for this, for everywhere his plans met with shrugs and doubts,
and even pitying smiles and condemnation. The world seems to prefer to
be swindled and kept wretched. Every proposed plan to wipe out misery
and woe is dubbed “Utopian,” and even put aside as childish.
However, Frederick never entirely lost sight of his aim. His studies led
him into correspondence with learned men of every type. He planned to
write a great book called _War and Peace_.
The winter after Sylvia’s birth was quietly spent in Vienna, and the
following spring we visited Italy. Our new programme demanded that we
should know other countries. Those were lovely days, and I am sorry I
kept no note of them in my red book. The next winter found us again in
Paris, and this time we plunged into the great whirl. We rented a small
furnished house where we could entertain our friends, by whom in turn we
were constantly invited. Our ambassador presented us at court, and we
were frequently the guests of the Empress. All the foreign embassies
were open to us, as well as those of foreign notabilities. The literary
stars of the times were all invited to our home except the greatest of
all—Victor Hugo—who was in exile.
In all this fascinating whirl of amusement it is easy to drift into the
heartless and thoughtless life, to forget the real problems which lie
beyond it all, and even domestic shipwreck is apt to be the result. But
we steadfastly kept our hold on the hearthstone, and neither did we
forget our deep and universal interests. Every morning a few hours were
devoted to the domestic side and to our study, and we succeeded in
getting a great deal of real happiness even in the midst of all this
round of pleasure.
As Austrians we found much sympathy expressed in Paris, even suggesting
revenge upon the Prussians for our defeated army. But such consolations
were all rejected, and we assured our sympathetic friends that we
desired only peace, for revenge never made anything right. If old blows
were wiped out by fresh ones, when would the dreadful business of war
cease?
We assured our friends that we hoped the present peace would never be
broken again, and we were given to understand that this was also the
wish of Napoleon III. We were closely associated with many of his
intimates, and they gave us the assurance that he actually desired to
propose a general disarmament. But the populace was seething with
discontent, and many of the imperialists considered it impossible to
remove the antagonism against the French throne, except by diverting
their attention by a foreign war, a sort of grand promenade against the
Rhine. That the Luxembourg matter failed to bring this about was
considered unfortunate. But the newspapers continued to say much about
the unavoidable war between Prussia and France.
The brilliant season reached even more extravagant heights with the
spring-time, and we began to long for rest. We were overwhelmed with
invitations to visit the country-houses of our friends. But we refused
to think of it, and not desiring to return to Grumitz on account of the
unhappy memories, we settled in a quiet spot in Switzerland, and
promised our Parisian friends that the following winter would find us in
their midst again.
And what a refreshment was this summer with its long walks, its long
hours of study, and longer hours of play for the children. But there
were few pages in the little red book, which always meant a mind free of
care, and peace.
Europe as a whole also seemed tolerably peaceful. There were no “dark
spots,” and no more talk of revenge. But the only thing which annoyed us
was that Austria had introduced conscription; and that my Rudolf, like
the rest, must some day also become a soldier was a thing I could not
bear to contemplate.
“And yet people dare dream of freedom!” I exclaimed.
“A year of volunteering is not much,” said Frederick, trying to comfort
me.
I shook my head. “Even a day is too much. To have to pretend for a
single day to do willingly what you detest—to live a lie—is abhorrent,
and I mean to train my son for the truth.”
“Then he should have been born a few centuries later, my dear,” replied
Frederick. “To be a perfectly true man and a perfectly free one seems
impossible in our day. The deeper I go into my studies the more I see it
so.”
Double time was now possible to Frederick for his work, and in our quiet
summer we determined to return the next winter to Paris, not for gaiety,
but to devote the entire season to the one object of our lives. We
wished to help bring about some practical results, and hoped to be able
to co-operate with the plans of the Emperor for disarmament, for we
might get his ear through our friends. Through our old friend the
Cabinet Minister we hoped also to get to the ear of the Austrian
government. Frederick also had influential relatives at the Berlin
Court, through whom such a plan might be brought to the consideration of
Prussia.
But our return to Paris was disarranged. Our little Sylvia, our
treasure, became seriously ill. These anxious hours filled with fear of
death threw everything else into the background. But she did not die. In
two weeks the danger was past. Then the winter’s cold delayed our
departure till March.
BOOK VI
CHAPTER I
Paris in March 1870—War party pushes the Emperor—His plan of
disarmament dropped—Our new home in Paris—The French and German
question—Menace and rumours again—France makes demands and then
threats.
Forebodings? There were none in my mind when we again entered Paris on
that beautiful sunny March day in 1870. It was all cheer and promise,
but one knows now what horrors were hanging over it all.
We engaged the same little house which we had occupied the year before.
The same servants awaited us, and as we drove through the streets on our
way home, we met many acquaintances, who were driving at that hour,
among them the beautiful Empress, who graciously saluted us in passing.
Violets were being sold everywhere, and the air was full of the promise
of spring.
This season we were determined to avoid the gaiety; we declined all
invitations, seldom went to the theatre, and kept ourselves quite apart,
spending our evenings at home or in the society of a few choice friends.
Our plans regarding the Emperor’s scheme of disarmament were at a
standstill, for the time seemed not ripe for such an idea. The people
were in a turmoil, and the throne itself seemed not on the surest
foundations. We grew accustomed to hear that the only safety of the
dynasty would be in a fortunate campaign. There seemed no possibility of
war, and yet talk of disarmament was dropped for the Bonaparte halo
largely depended upon its military glory. Neither Prussia nor Austria
responded to our plan. Expansion of the army was everywhere the fashion,
and our dream of disarmament fell upon deaf ears.
“The time is not ripe,” said Frederick. “I may need to abandon my hope
to help personally to hasten the peace of the nations. What I can
contribute is small indeed, but from the first hour it dawned upon me,
it possessed me with the conviction that it was the one most important
thing in the world. I must be faithful.”
If for the moment the project for disarmament must be postponed, yet I
was content that there was no immediate threat of war. At court and
among the people those who believed the dynasty must be rebaptized in
blood had to give up all hope of glory in a charming little campaign on
the Rhine. There were no French allies, the harvest had failed, forage
was scarce, the army had to sell its horses, the extra recruits had been
cut off by legislation, and above all there was nowhere any political
complication; in short, so Ollivier proclaimed from the forum: “The
peace of Europe is assured.”
Assured! How the word rejoiced me. The papers repeated it, and thousands
rejoiced with me. What greater good can be given to the majority of
humanity than the assurance of peace?
The worth of this lulling security, of which the statesmen assured us in
June 1870, we all realise now. We might have known then and always in
the future that we mistake when we put our innocent trust into the
statements of diplomats. How can peace ever be secure when any hour
these meddlers can turn up some agitation? We can never be secure from
war until some other means for settling differences is provided.
* * * * *
In Paris again society scattered itself, but we remained in town for
business, since we had decided to buy ourselves a home there; but many
of our friends owned houses in the near neighbourhood of Paris, and we
visited them all several times during the early summer. I clearly
remember that it was in the salon of the Princess Mathilde that I first
got wind that there was a new agitation in the air. It was said that a
prince of Hohenzollern was a candidate for the vacant Spanish throne. It
seemed of little consequence who should sit on the Spanish throne, but
it cut me to the heart when I heard some one make the remark: “France
will not tolerate that!” I knew what this phrase always meant: “we will
not tolerate.”
The subject was idly dropped, and none of us realised the fearful result
of the doubtful Spanish succession. But the point obtruded itself more
and more, privately and in the newspapers. Everybody declared that
Prussia wished purposely to provoke war. Yet letters from Berlin assured
us that the Spanish throne was not considered a question of any
importance.
We were deeply interested in our house and its furnishings, and little
realised the approaching storm that began to threaten louder and louder.
On the 19th of July the French declared war against Prussia.
CHAPTER II
War declared—Excitement in Paris—Which side?—We remain in Paris—A
little history—First days of war—Paris a fortress—A Republic
declared—My husband’s fate.
“War is declared!” These three words, what do they mean? The beginning
of a conflict which is the result of a political intrigue, and,
incidentally, a half million of human beings are sentenced to death.
Does he who signs such a declaration realise that he is plunging his pen
in fire, in bloody tears, and in the poisons of plague and disease?
So on account of a vacant throne seeking an occupant, and unreasonable
dissensions between two monarchs, the storm was brought upon us.
I remember the peculiar frame of mind which took possession of me when
this war broke out. The whole population was in a ferment, and who could
escape the infection? Naturally, according to old custom, the beginning
of the campaign was regarded as a triumphant march; that is, of course,
a patriotic duty. The “Marseillaise” was heard at every corner. At every
theatrical performance the leading actress or singer—at the opera it was
Marie Sass—must appear before the curtain in the costume of Joan of Arc
and, carrying the national colours, must sing this battle-song—the
audience rising and generally joining in the chorus. Frederick and I
realised one evening the might of this popular enthusiasm, and were
compelled to rise to our feet—compelled because we were electrified.
“See, Martha,” exclaimed Frederick, “this spark which spreads from one
to another, uniting the whole mass and making every heart beat higher,
is love——”
“Do you believe so? It is a song inspiring hate.” “That makes no
difference; a common hatred is but another form of love. When two or
three or more are bound together by the same feeling, they love one
another. When the time arrives for a nobler, broader aspiration than the
interests of nationality, namely, the cause of humanity, then our ideal
will be attained.”
“Ah, when will that time come?” I sighed.
“When? One can speak but relatively. As a length of time compared with
our personal existence—never; when compared with the existence of our
race—to-morrow.”
When war breaks out the inhabitants of neutral states divide into two
camps; one siding with this, the other with that party, as if there were
a great stake in which every one had a share. We were unconsciously
influenced by our earlier interests. Frederick was of Prussian descent
and the German language was my own. The declaration of war had been made
by the French on such insignificant grounds—mere pretences—that we must
recognise the cause of the Prussians as more justly representing that of
defence, since they were forced into the contest. It was inspiring to
note with what enthusiasm the Germans, but so shortly before at strife
among themselves, now trooped together.
On the 19th of July, in his address from the throne, King William said:—
The German and French nations, both in like degree enjoying the
blessings of Christian civilisation and increasing prosperity, are
called to a more beneficent rivalry than the bloody one of arms. But
the ruler of France, instigated by personal interests and passions,
has been able, through misleading statements, to excite the
justifiable though excitable vanity of our great neighbours.
The Emperor Napoleon on his part issued the following proclamation:—
Because of the arrogant claims of Prussia we were obliged to protest.
These protests have been met with ridicule. Events followed which
indicated a contempt for us. Our country has been deeply incensed
thereby, and instantly the battle-cry has been heard from one end of
France to the other. There is nothing to be done except to consign our
fate to the lot drawn by war. We do not war against Germany, whose
independence we respect. We have the most earnest desire that the
people who compose the great German nation may be the arbiters of
their own destiny. What we desire is the establishment of a condition
of things which will insure our present security and make our future
safe. We desire a permanent peace, founded upon the true interests of
peoples; we wish that this miserable condition should end, and that
all nations use all possible means to secure general disarmament.
What a lesson, what a striking lesson this document is when we consider
it in connection with the events which followed. In order to be sure of
safety, in order to attain permanent peace, this war was begun by
France. And what was the result? “The Terrible Year” and enduring
hatred. No, no; one does not use charcoal to paint a thing white, not
asafoetida to perfume a room, nor war to secure peace.
I could not believe that the war would be a long one. What were they
fighting about? Really nothing at all. It was a sort of grand parade,
undertaken by the French from a spirit of adventure—by the Germans as a
duty of defence. One might expect a few sabre thrusts, and the
antagonists would again shake hands. Fool that I was! As if the results
of war bore any adequate relation to its cause. The course of it
determines the result.
We would gladly have left Paris, for the enthusiasm of the people pained
us immeasurably. But the way eastward was blocked; our house was not
finished—in short, we remained. All of our acquaintance who could get
away had fled, and, excepting a few literary men, we had no visitors. A
young writer, the later famous Guy de Maupassant, once expressed my own
feelings so perfectly that I entered his words in my journal:—
War—when I think of this word I shudder as if one talked of the
Inquisition, or of a distant, horrible, unnatural thing. War—to kill
one another, cut each other down! And we have to-day—in our times,
with our culture, with our extensive knowledge in the higher planes of
development, which we flatter ourselves to have attained—we still have
schools to teach men how to kill, to kill in the most scientific
manner and as many as possible.
It is wonderful that the people do not rise against this thing, that
the whole of society does not revolt at the mere mention of war. He
who rules is in duty bound to avoid war, as the captain of a ship is
bound to avoid shipwreck. When a captain loses his ship he is required
to answer for it, in case it is discovered that he has been remiss in
duty. Why should not every government be called to account when it
declares war? If the people understood how to refuse to allow
themselves to be killed without just cause, war would cease.
Ernest Renan, also, let us hear from him:—
Is it not heart-breaking to think that all that we men of science have
sought to accomplish during the past fifty years is destroyed at a
blow; the sympathy between peoples, the mutual understanding, the
fruitful, united work? How such a war destroys the love of truth! What
lies, what defamation of a nation will from now on, for the next fifty
years, be believed by each of the other, and divide them for an
incalculable time! How it will retard the progress of Europe! We
cannot build up in a hundred years what these men have torn down in
one day.
I also had the opportunity of reading a letter which Gustave Flaubert
wrote during those first July days to Georges Sand. Here it is:—
I am in despair at the stupidity of my countrymen. The incorrigible
barbarism of humanity fills me with the deepest grief. This enthusiasm
inspired by not one reasonable idea makes me long to die that I may
not witness it. Our good Frenchmen will fight: first, because they
believe themselves called out by Prussia; secondly, because the
natural condition of man is that of barbarism; thirdly, because war
possesses a mystical element which carries mankind away. Have we
returned to a war of races? I am afraid so. The horrible battles which
we prepare for have not a single pretext to excuse them. It is simply
the pleasure of fighting for fighting itself. I regret the bridges and
tunnels that will be blown to pieces, all this superb work of man
which will be destroyed. I notice that a member of the Chamber
proposes the plundering of the Grand Duchy of Baden. Ah, I wish I were
with the Bedouins.
“Oh!” I cried, as I read this letter, “if we had only been born five
hundred years later—that would be better than the Bedouins.”
“Mankind will not take so long to become reasonable,” replied Frederick
confidently.
It was again the era of proclamations and army orders.
Always the same old song, and always the same enthusiasm and applause of
the populace! There was the same rejoicing over promised victories as if
they had been already won.
On the 28th of July Napoleon III. published the following proclamation
from his headquarters in Metz. I copied this, not out of admiration, but
because of anger over its everlasting hollow phrases:
We defend the honour and soil of our native land. We will be
victorious. Nothing is too great for the sturdy endurance of the
soldiers of Africa, the Crimea, China, Italy, and Mexico. Once more
they will show what a French army inspired by a love of country is
capable of accomplishing. Whichever way we turn outside our borders we
find the marks of the valour of our fathers. We will prove ourselves
worthy of them. Upon our success hangs the fate of freedom and
civilisation. Soldiers, do your duty, and the God of Battles will be
with you.
Oh, of course, it would not do to leave out “the God of Battles!” That
the leaders of vanquished armies have a hundred times promised the same
does not prevent the claim of special protection being set up at every
fresh campaign in order to awaken the same confidence. Is anything
shorter than the memory of a people or anything feebler than their
logic?
On the 31st of July King William left Berlin and issued the following
manifesto:—
To-day, before I leave to join the army, to fight with it for the
honour and preservation of all dearest to us, I proclaim a general
amnesty for all political offences. My people know that we were not
guilty of enmity and breach of faith. But being attacked we are
resolved, as were our fathers, in firm reliance upon God, to endure
the struggle for the rescue of our country.
Defence, defence, that is the only dignified sort of death; therefore
both sides cry: “I defend myself.” Is that not a contradiction? Not
quite—for over each a third power rules—the might of the old hereditary
war spirit. If they would only defend themselves against that!
* * * * *
“O Monsieur, O Madame, what news!” With these words Frederick’s butler
and the cook behind him rushed into our sitting-room. It was the day of
the battle of Wörth.
“A dispatch has arrived. The Prussians are as good as absolutely
crushed. The city is being decorated with tri-coloured flags, it will be
illuminated to-night.”
In the course of the afternoon further despatches proved that the first
was false—a manœuvre of the Bourse.
On the 7th of August there was a rumour of disaster. The Emperor
hastened from St. Cloud to the seat of war. The enemy had crossed the
frontier and was marching inland. The papers could not express their
indignation in strong enough terms. I had imagined that the shout _à
Berlin_! meant a similar invasion. But that these eastern barbarians
should dare the same thing, should march into beautiful and beloved
France—this seemed pure, audacious villainy, and must be stopped at
once.
The provisional Minister of War published an order calling upon all
able-bodied citizens between thirty and forty years of age to enrol
themselves in the National Guard. A ministry for defence of the interior
was organised. The appropriation was increased from five hundred to a
thousand million of francs. It is refreshing to notice how free the
authorities are with the money and lives of others. An unpleasant little
occurrence disturbed the convenience of the public; if one wanted to
change a bank-note he was obliged to pay a broker ten per cent. There
was not sufficient gold to keep the notes of the Bank of France at par.
Now followed victory after victory on the part of the Germans.
The aspect of Paris and its inhabitants underwent an astonishing change.
In the place of the proud, boastful, war-loving humour, dismay and
vindictive anger appeared. The impression that a horde of vandals was
ready to devour the land was widespread. That the French had called down
this storm upon themselves they never considered; or that they had done
it to prevent some Hohenzollern in the distant future from conceiving a
fancy for the Spanish throne—that they also forgot. The most astonishing
stories were told of the ferocity of the invaders, “The Uhlans, the
Uhlans!” the words had a sort of fantastic demoniac sound, as if they
had talked about the armies of Satan. In the imagination of the people
these troops became demons. Whenever a particularly bold stroke was
reported, it was at once ascribed to the Uhlans. They were said to be
recruited to serve for booty and without pay. Mixed up with these
recitals of terror were stories of occasional triumphs. To lie about
success is naturally the chief duty of the sensationalist, for, of
course, the courage of the populace must be kept up. The law of
veracity—like many other laws of morality—loses its force in times of
war. Frederick read to me the following:—
Up to the 16th of August the Germans have lost one hundred and
forty-four thousand men, the remainder are on the verge of starvation.
The reserves from Germany, the “landwehr” and “landsturm,” are
arriving; old men of over sixty, with flint-lock muskets, carrying on
one side a huge tobacco pouch, on the other a big flask of brandy,
with a long clay pipe in the mouth, are staggering under the weight of
the knapsacks, coffee-mills, and packages of elderberry tea. Coughing
and groaning, they are crossing from the right to the left bank of the
Rhine, cursing those who have torn them from the arms of their
grandchildren to thrust them into the clutches of death. The reports
we get from the German press of victorious battles are all the usual
Prussian lies.
On the 20th of August Count Palikao informed the Chamber that three army
corps, which had united against Bazaine, had been thrown into the
quarries of Jaumont. It is true no one had the remotest idea where these
stone quarries were, or how it happened that the three army corps were
kept there. From tongue to tongue the joyful tidings spread, and
everybody acted as if they had been born in the region of Jaumont, and,
of course, knew all about the quarries. At the same time there was a
current report that the King of Prussia had become insane over the
condition of his army.
All sorts of atrocities were reported; the excitement among the
population increased hourly. The engagement of Bazaine near Metz was
described as if the Bavarians had been guilty of most inhuman barbarity.
“Do you believe this?” I said to Frederick. “Do you believe these
stories of the good-natured Bavarians?”
“They are possible. Whether a man is Bavarian or Turk, German, French,
or Indian, makes no particular difference; when he takes his life in his
hands and fights to destroy others he ceases to be human. All that is
awakened and strongest within him is the beast.”
Metz is taken. The report resounded through the city like a shriek of
terror.
To me the news of the capture of a fortress brought relief rather than
dismay. Were we not probably nearer the end? But after every defeat each
side strains itself to the utmost for a fresh trial of strength;
possibly the fortune of war may turn. Usually the advantage is first on
one side next on the other; on both sides there is certain sorrow and
certain death.
Trochu felt himself called upon to arouse the courage of the population
by a fresh proclamation, calling upon them with the motto of Bretagne,
“With God’s help for our native land.” That does not sound quite new to
me—I must have heard something similar to it in other proclamations. It
did not fail of its effect, however; the people were encouraged. Next we
were told Paris must be fortified. Paris a fortress! I could scarcely
grasp the thought. This city, the lode-star of the whole civilised rich,
art- and life-loving world; the radiating point of splendour, of
fashion, of the intellect—this city must fortify itself, that is, must
be the aim of the enemy’s attacks, the target of bombardment, and run
the risk of destruction through fire and hunger? And these people
proceeded to the work with gaiety of heart, with the zeal of pleasure,
with self-sacrifice, as if they were bringing to completion the noblest,
most useful work in the world. Ramparts to be manned by infantry were
built with embrasures, earthworks were thrown up before the gates,
canals were covered, and surmounted by parapets, powder magazines were
built, and a flotilla of barges, carrying cannon, was put upon the
Seine. What a fever of activity; what an expenditure of strength and
nerve; what monstrous cost of labour and money! If all had only been so
cheerfully and nobly devoted to works of true utility—but for the
purpose of destruction, which had no object except that of a strategic
checkmate, it was inconceivable!
To be prepared for a long siege the city was amply provisioned. But it
is the experiences of ages that no fortification has existed which has
been impregnable—capitulation is solely a matter of time. Yet
fortifications are still erected, they are still provisioned,
notwithstanding the mathematical impossibility of maintaining them, in
the long-run, against starvation.
The preparations were made on an enormous scale. Mills were erected and
stockyards filled; yet the hour must come when the corn would all be
ground and the flesh all eaten. But so far ahead as this no one thought.
Long before that the enemy would be driven from the country. The entire
male force of the city was enrolled in the National Guard, and all
possible were drawn from the country. What difference did it make if the
provinces were laid in ashes? Such insignificant events were not to be
considered when there was prospect of a national disaster. On the 17th
of August sixty thousand provincial troops had already arrived in Paris.
With an ever-increasing activity events followed events. All around
there was heard but one expression, “Death to the Prussians.” A storm of
the wildest hatred was gathering—it had not yet broken out. In all the
official reports, in all the street disturbances we heard of but one
aim—“death to the Prussians.” All these troops, regular and irregular,
all these munitions of war, all these busy workmen with spade and
barrow, all that one saw and heard, in form or tone, surged and
threatened “death to the Prussians!” Or, in other words, it sounds
really like the cry of love, and inspires even tender hearts—“all for
our country”—but it is one and the same thing.
“You are of Prussian descent,” I said to Frederick one day, “how do
these expressions of hatred affect you?”
“You asked me the same question in the year 1866, and then I answered,
as I must to-day, that I suffer under these demonstrations of hatred,
not as a Prussian, but as a man. When I reflect upon the feelings of
these people from a national stand-point, I can only regard them as
justifiable; they call it the sacred hatred of the enemy, and this
sentiment forms an important incentive to military patriotism. They have
but one thought—to free their country from the presence of the
antagonist. They forget that they caused the invasion by their
declaration of war. They did not do it themselves, but it was their
government in which they believed. They waste no time in reflections or
in recriminations; the misfortune is upon them, and every muscle, every
nerve is strained to meet it, or with reckless self-sacrifice they will
all go to destruction together. Believe me, there is untold capacity of
love in mankind; the pity of it is that we waste it in the old rut of
hatred. And the enemy, the ‘red-haired, eastern barbarians!’—what are
they doing? They were called out and they invade the land which
threatened theirs. Do you remember how the cry, _à Berlin, à Berlin_,
resounded through the streets?”
“Now the others march upon Paris! Why do the Parisian shouters call that
a crime?”
“Because there is neither logic nor justice in that national feeling
whose chief principle is, we are we,—that is, the first,—the others are
barbarians. That march of the Germans from victory to victory fills me
with admiration. I have been a soldier and know what an inspiration the
idea of victory has, what pride, what intense delight. It is the reward
for all suffering, for the renunciation of rest and happiness, for the
life at stake.”
“Why do not the victors admire the vanquished, if they know all that
victory means to those who are soldiers like themselves? Why do not the
army reports of the losing party contain the sentence: The enemy has won
a glorious victory?”
“Why? I repeat, the war spirit and patriotic egotism are the destruction
of all justice.”
On the 28th of August all Germans were ordered to leave Paris within
three days. I had the opportunity to see the effect of this order. Many
Germans had been citizens of Paris for ten and twenty years, had married
Parisians, but were now compelled to leave everything—home, business,
and property.
Sedan! The Emperor had surrendered his sword. The report overpowered us.
Then truly a terrible catastrophe had occurred—Germany had won, and the
butchery was over.
“It is over,” I cried. “If there are people who are citizens of the
world, they may illuminate their windows; in the temples of humanity Te
Deums can now be sung—the butchery is over.”
“Do not rejoice too soon,” Frederick warned me. “This war has long lost
the character of a battle game of chess, the whole nation is in arms.
For one army destroyed ten new ones will spring out of the soil.”
“Is that just? These are only German soldiers, not the German nation.”
“Why always talk of justice and reason in the presence of a madman.
France is mad with pain and terror, and from the stand-point of the love
of country her rage is just, her sorrow sacred. Personal interest is not
considered, only the loftiest self-sacrifice. If the time would only
come when the noble virtues common to humanity could be torn from the
work of destruction and united for the blessing of the race! But this
unholy war has again driven us back a long way from the attainment of
this goal.”
“No, no, I hope the war is at an end.”
“If so, which I much doubt, the seeds of future wars are sown and the
seeds of hate, which will outlast this generation.”
On the 4th of September another great event occurred. The Emperor was
deposed and France was declared a republic. With the destruction of the
throne, the leaves were torn out of the book of France which told the
story of Metz and Sedan. It was Napoleon and his dismissed generals who,
through cowardice, treachery, and bad tactics, had been responsible for
all this disaster—but not France. France would now carry on the war if
the Germans still dared to continue the invasion.
“How would it have been had Napoleon and his generals been victorious?”
I asked when Frederick told me this latest news.
“Then they would have accepted his success as the success of France.”
“Is there any justice in that?”
“Why will you not break yourself off the habit of asking that question?”
My hope that with Sedan the war would end was soon dissipated. The
frenzied orations, the atrocious pamphlets which were now made and
published and rained down upon the unfortunate Emperor and Empress, and
the unlucky generals, were absolutely disgusting. The rough masses held
that they could lay upon these few the responsibility for the general
disaster. The preparations for the defence of Paris were carried on with
rapidity. Houses which might serve as protection to the approaching
enemy were torn down, and the region around the city became a desert.
Crowds of country people filled up the already crowded city, and the
streets were jammed with the waggons and pack-horses of these people,
laden with the remains of their household goods. I had seen the same
sight in Bohemia, and now was fated to see the like misery and a similar
terror in the beautiful streets of the most wonderful, most brilliant
city of the world.
There came at last the news of the prospect of better things, there was
the chance that peace might be arranged.
On the contrary, the breach became much wider. For some time past German
papers had suggested the retention of Alsace-Lorraine. The former German
provinces were to be annexed. The historical argument was not quite
tenable, therefore the strategical reason was made more prominent: as a
rampart they were absolutely necessary in case of future wars. It is
well known that the strategic grounds are the most important, the most
incontestible—the ethical reasons must take second rank. On the other
hand, as France had lost in the struggle, was it not fair that the
winner should hold the prize? In case of the success of the French, they
of course would have claimed the provinces of the Rhine. What is war for
except for the extension of the territory of the one or the other
antagonist?
In the meantime the victorious army did not halt in its march on
Paris—the Germans were already at her door. The consent to the cession
of Alsace-Lorraine was officially demanded. In response the well-known
reply was given: “Not an inch of our territory—not a stone of our
fortresses.”
Yes, yes—a thousand lives—not an inch of earth. That is the foundation
principle of the patriotic spirit. “They seek to humiliate us!” cried
the French patriots. “We would rather be buried under the ruins of
Paris.”
We attempted to leave the city. Why should we stay among a people so
embittered by hate that they clenched their fists if they heard us speak
German. We had succeeded in making arrangements for departure, when I
was seized by a nervous fever of so dangerous a character that the
family physician forbade any attempt at removal.
I lay upon my bed for many weeks, and only a dreamy recollection of that
time remains. In the careful hands of my husband, and the tender care of
my children, my Rudolph and my little Sylvia, all knowledge of the
fearful events then occurring was shut out, and when I recovered winter
had set in.
Strassburg had been bombarded, the library destroyed; four or five shots
a minute were said to have been fired—in all, one hundred and
ninety-three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two.
Should Paris be starved into submission or bombarded?
Against the last the conscience of civilisation protested. Should this
rendezvous of all nations, this brilliant seat of art, with its
irrecoverable riches and treasures, be bombarded as any common citadel?
It was not to be thought of; the whole neutral press, I learned
afterwards, protested. The press of Berlin approved the idea, considered
it the only way to end the war and conquer the city. No protest availed,
and on the 28th of December the bombardment began.
At first greeting it with terror, it was not long before the Parisians
chose for a promenade the localities from which one could best hear the
music of cannon. Here and there a shell fell in the street, but there
was seldom a consequent catastrophe. Rarely could any news from the
outside world be obtained, and that only through carrier pigeons and
balloons. The reports were most contradictory; one day we were informed
of successful sallies, the next, that the enemy was about to storm the
city, set fire to it, and lay it in ashes; or we were assured that
rather than see one German enter within the walls the commandant would
blow all Paris into atoms.
It became daily more and more difficult to obtain food. Meat was not to
be had; cattle and sheep and horses were exhausted, and the period began
when dogs, cats, rats, and mice were a rarity, and finally the beloved
elephant at the Jardin des Plantes must be served up. Bread was scarce.
People stood in rows, hours at a time, in front of the bakers in order
to receive their tiny portion. Disease broke out, induced by famine. The
mortality increased from the ordinary eleven hundred a week to between
four and five thousand.
One day Frederick came into the house from his daily walk in an unusual
state of excitement.
“Take up your note-book, my zealous historian,” he cried. “To-day there
is wonderful news.”
“Which of my books?” I asked. “My Peace Protocol?”
Frederick shook his head.
“Oh, for that the time is past. The war now being carried on is of so
mighty a character that it will drag its martial spirit long after it.
It has sown broadcast such a store of hatred and revenge that future
battle harvests must grow therefrom; and upon the other side it has
produced for the victors such magnificent revolutionary results that a
like harvest may be brought about by their haughty martial spirits.”
“What is it that is so important?”
“King William has been proclaimed Emperor at Versailles. There is now
really a Germany, one single empire—and a mighty one. That is a new
event in the world’s history. And you can easily perceive how this great
result will redound to the honour of the work of war. The two most
advanced representatives of civilisation on the continent are the ones
who from now on for some time to come will cultivate the war spirit—the
one in order to return the blow, the other in order to maintain the
position won; here out of hate, there out of love; here from a spirit of
retaliation, on the other side out of gratitude. Shut up your peace
protocols—for a long time to come we shall stand under the bloody and
iron sign of Mars.”
“Emperor of Germany!” I cried, “that is indeed glorious. I cannot help
rejoicing over this news. The whole barbarous slaughter has not been in
vain if a great, new empire has been born.”
“From the French point of view the war is doubly lost. And it is to be
expected of us that we should not regard this contest from the onesided
German stand-point alone. Not only as human beings but from a narrower
national feeling we should be excused if we regretted the success of our
enemies of 1866. And yet I will acknowledge that the union of divided
Germany is a desirable thing, and that the readiness with which all
these German princes joined in offering the imperial crown to the
gray-haired victor is inspiring and admirable. Only it is a pity that
this union was not brought about through peaceful rather than warlike
measures. It may be that if Napoleon III. had not made his demand of the
19th of July there would not have been enough patriotism among the
Germans to bring about this result. They may well rejoice; the poet’s
wish is fulfilled—they are a band of brothers. Four years ago they had
each other by the throat and knew but one common cause—hatred of
Prussia.”
“That word hate makes me shudder.”
“Well it may. So long as this feeling is not regarded as unjust and
dishonourable, we shall have no humane humanity. Religious hatred has
about disappeared, but national hatreds form a part of the education of
the citizen.”
In the quiet of the next few days we had many discussions as to our
future. With the establishment of peace, which we could now hope for, we
might again dare to think of our personal happiness. During the eight
years of our married life there had been no discord, not a discourteous
or unkindly word or thought had passed between us; as the years drew on
we knew we should grow nearer to each other, and we could look forward
to an old age together—the golden evening of our lives—with sure
content.
Many of the preceding pages I have turned over with a shudder. It is not
without repulsion that I have recorded my visit to the battle-fields of
Bohemia and the scenes of the cholera week in Grumitz. I have done it as
a duty. I had been told: “In case I die first take up my work and do
what you can to further the cause of peace among men.”
But I have now reached a point when I cannot go on.
I have tried; many half-written sheets lie on the floor beside me; but
my heart fails and I can only fall to weeping—weeping bitterly like a
child.
Some hours later I again made the attempt, but the particulars of the
circumstances it is not possible for me to relate.
The fact is enough.
Frederick—my all!—was seized by a fanatical mob who, finding a letter
from Berlin upon his person, accused him of being a spy. He was dragged
before a so-called patriotic tribunal, and on the 1st of February 1871
was sentenced to be shot.
EPILOGUE
When I again awoke to consciousness peace had been declared, the Commune
had been defeated. For months, attended by my faithful Frau Anna, I
lived through an illness without knowing that I was alive. The character
of my illness I have never known. Those about me tenderly called it
typhus, but I believe it was simply insanity.
Dimly I remember that the latter part of the time seemed filled with the
rattling of shot and the falling of burning walls; probably my fancies
were influenced by the actual events, the skirmishes between the
communists and the party of Versailles.
That when I recovered my reason and realised the circumstances of my
profound unhappiness I did not kill myself, or that the anguish had not
killed me, was owing to the existence of my children. For these I could,
I must, live. Even before my illness, on the day when the terrible event
occurred, Rudolf had held me to life. I had sunk on my knees, weeping
aloud while I repeated, “Die—die! I will die!” Two little arms were
thrown around me, and a sweet, piteous, pleading, childish face looked
into mine:—
“Mother!”
My little one had never called me anything but Mamma. That he at that
moment, for the first time, used the word “Mother” said to me in two
syllables, “You are not alone, you have a son who shares your pain, who
loves you above all things, who has no one in the world but you. Do not
leave your child, Mother!”
I pressed the precious being to my heart, and to show him that I had
understood him I murmured, “My son, my son!”
I then remembered my little girl—his child—and resolved to live.
But the anguish was unendurable, and I fell into mental darkness. For
years—at longer and longer intervals—I was subject to these attacks of
melancholy, of which upon my restoration to health I knew nothing. Now,
at length, I have outlived them, and for several years have been free
from the unconscious misery, though not from the bitterest, conscious
sorrow. Eighteen years have passed since the 1st of February 1871; but
the deep anguish and the deepest mourning, which the tragedy of that day
brought to me, I can never outlive though I should live a hundred years.
If, in later times, the days are more frequent when I can take part in
the events of the present, can forget the past unhappiness, can
sympathise in the joys of my children, not a night passes when I escape
my misery. It is a peculiar experience, hard for me to describe, and
which can only be understood by those who have similarly suffered. It
would seem to indicate a dual life of the soul. If the one is so
occupied, when awake, with the things of the outer world as to forget,
there yet remains that second nature which ever keeps faithfully in mind
that dreadful memory; and this I—when the other is asleep—makes itself
felt. Every night at the same hour I awake with this deep depression. My
heart seems torn asunder, and I feel as if I must relieve my agony in
sighs and bitter weeping; this lasts for several seconds, without the
awakened I knowing why the other is happy or unhappy. The next stage is
a sentiment of universal sympathy, full of the tenderest compassion:
“Oh, poor, poor humanity!” Then amidst a shower of bullets I see
shrieking figures fall—and then I remember for the first time that my
best-beloved met such a death.
But in dreams, singular to say, I never realise my loss. It often occurs
that I seem to talk with Frederick as if he were alive. Many
circumstances of the past—but no sad ones—are frequently alluded to by
us: our meeting after Schleswig-Holstein, our joking over Sylvia’s
cradle, our walk through Switzerland, our studies of favourite books,
and now and then a certain picture of my white-haired husband in the
evening sunset-light, with his garden shears, clipping his roses. “Is it
not true,” he says to me, smiling, “that we are a happy old couple?”
My mourning I have never laid aside—not even on my son’s wedding day.
The woman who has loved, possessed, and lost—so lost—such a man must
feel that love is indeed stronger than death. With this may exist a
longing for revenge which can never grow cold.
But how should I seek revenge? The men who were guilty of the act could
not be personally blamed. The sole responsibility rested upon the spirit
of war, and this was the only force with which I could attempt—though in
a feeble way—to settle my account.
My son Rudolf shared my views in regard to war—which did not, however,
prevent his going into camp for the annual military drill, nor would it
hinder his marching over the border, should that gigantic European
contest break out which we are all anticipating. I might yet live to see
the dearest one left to me sacrificed to this relentless Moloch, and the
hearth of my old age fall in ruins.
Should I live to experience that and again be driven to madness, or
should I see the triumph of justice and humanity, for which all nations
and alliances of peoples are now striving?
My red journals are closed, and under date of 1871 I marked with a great
cross the record of my life. My so-called protocol—my peace record— I
have again opened, and of late have added much to the history of the
growth of the international idea of the settlement of the strifes of
humanity by peaceful methods.
For some years the two most influential nations of the continent have
been watching each other, both absorbed in thoughts of war—the one in
arrogant review of past successes, the other in burning hopes of
revenge. Gradually these sentiments have somewhat cooled, and
notwithstanding, or by reason of, the great increase of our standing
armies, after ten years the voices petitioning for peace are once more
heard.
To-day there are few to whom this dream of peace seems an impossibility.
There are sentinels on every hill, to wake humanity out of its long
sleep of barbarism, and to plant the white flag. Their battle-cry is
“War against war”; their watchword, “Disarm! Disarm!” The only thing
which can now prevent the most appalling disaster to Europe is the
universal cry, “Disarm! Disarm!” Everywhere, in England and France, in
Italy, in the northern countries, in Germany, in Switzerland, in
America, societies have been formed with the common object to educate
public opinion, and by the united expression of popular will to demand
of governments that future dissensions shall be submitted to
international arbitration, and by so doing to set justice for ever in
the place of rude force. That this is not the impossible fancy of a
dreamer has been proved by facts. It is not only people of no influence
and position, but members of Parliament, bishops, scholars, senators,
ambassadors, who stand on the list. To these is added that ever-growing
party which will shortly number millions, the party of “Labour” and of
the people, upon whose programme the demand for peace is a first
condition.
* * * * *
“Mother, will you lay aside your mourning the day after to-morrow?”
With these words Rudolf came into my room this morning. For the day
after to-morrow—the 30th of July 1889—the baptism of his first-born son
is to be celebrated.
“No, my child,” I answered.
“But, think, surely at such a festival you will not be sad; why wear the
outward sign of sorrow?”
“And you surely are not superstitious enough to think that the black
dress of the grandmother will bring ill-luck to the grandchild?”
“Certainly not. But it is not suitable to the occasion. Have you taken a
vow?”
“No, it is only a quiet determination. But a determination connected
with such a memory has all the force of a vow.”
My son bowed his head and urged me no longer.
“I have disturbed you in your work. Were you writing?”
“Yes—the story of my life. I am, thank God, at the end. That was the
last chapter.”
“How can you write the close of your life? You may live many years, many
happy years, Mother. With the birth of my little Frederick, whom I will
train to adore his grandmother, a new chapter is begun for you.”
“You are a good son, my Rudolf, I should be ungrateful if I had not
pride and happiness in you; and I am also proud of my—his sweet Sylvia;
yes, I am entering on a happy old age—a quiet evening; but the story of
the day is closed at sunset, is it not?”
He answered me with a quiet and sympathetic glance.
“Yes, the word ‘end’ under my biography is justified. When I conceived
the idea of writing it, I determined to stop with the 1st of February
1871. If you had been torn from me for service in the field—luckily
during the Bosnian campaign you were not old enough—I might have been
obliged to lengthen my book. As it is, it was painful enough to write.”
“And also to read,” answered Rudolf, turning over the leaves.
“I hope so. If the book shall cause such pain in the reading as to
awaken a detestation of the source of all the unhappiness here
described, I shall not have tormented myself in vain.”
“Have you examined all sides of the question, Mother?” said my son.
“Have you exhausted all the arguments, analysed to the roots the spirit
of war, and sufficiently brought out the scientific objections to it?”
“My dear, what are you thinking about? I have only written of my life.
All sides of the question? Certainly not. What do I, the rich woman of
high rank, know of the sorrows which war brings to the mass of the poor?
What do I know of the plagues and evil tendencies of barrack life? And
with the economic-social question involved I am not familiar—and yet
these are all the very matters which finally determine all reformation.
I do not offer a history of the past and future rights of nations—only
the story of the individual.”
“But are you not afraid of your intentions being recognised?”
“People are offended only when the author tries to hide his intentions.
My aim is open as the day, and is found in the words on the title page.”
The baptism took place yesterday. The occasion was made doubly important
by the betrothal of my daughter Sylvia and the old friend of her
babyhood—Count Anton Delnitzky.
I am surrounded by the happiness of my children. Rudolf inherited the
Dotzky estates six years ago, and has been married four years to
Beatrice Griesbach, promised to him in their childhood. She is a
charming creature, and the birth of their son adds to their enviable,
brilliant lot.
In the room looking out upon the garden the dinner was served. The glass
doors were open, and the air of the superb summer afternoon streamed in
loaded with the perfume of roses.
Near me sat the Countess Lori Griesbach, Beatrice’s mother. She is now a
widow. Her husband fell in the Bosnian campaign. She has not taken his
loss much to heart. On the contrary—for she is dressed in a ruby brocade
and brilliant diamonds—she is exactly as superficial as in her youth.
Matters of the toilet, a few French and English novels, the usual
society gossip—these suffice to fill her horizon. She is as great a
coquette as ever. For young men she has now no fancy, but personages of
rank and position are the objects of her conquests. At present, it seems
to me, she has our Cabinet Minister in hand.
“I must make a confession to you,” said Lori to me when we had
congratulated each other upon our grandchild. “On this solemn occasion I
must relieve my conscience. I was seriously in love with your husband.”
“You have often told me that, dear Lori.”
“But he was always absolutely indifferent to me.”
“That is well known to me.”
“You had a husband true as gold, Martha! I cannot say the same of mine.
But nevertheless I was sorry to lose him. Well he died a glorious death,
that is one comfort. Really it is a wearisome existence to be a widow,
more especially as one grows older; so long as one can flirt widowhood
is not without its compensations. But now I acknowledge I become quite
melancholy. With you it is different; you live with your son, but I
would not like to live with Beatrice. She would not wish it either. A
mother-in-law in the house—that does not go well, for one wants to be
mistress. One gets so provoked with the servants. You may believe me, I
am much inclined to marry again. Of course, a marriage with some one of
position——”
“A Minister of Finance, for instance,” I interrupted, laughing.
“O you sly one! You see through me at once. Look there: do you see how
Toni Delnitzky is whispering to your Sylvia. That is compromising.”
“Let them alone. The two have come to an understanding on the way from
church. Sylvia has confided to me that the young man will ask my
permission to-morrow.”
“What do you say? Well, I congratulate you. It is said the handsome Toni
has been a little gay—but all of them are that—it cannot be helped, and
he is a splendid match.”
“Of that my Sylvia has not thought.”
“Well, so much the better; it is a charming addition to marriage.”
“Addition? Love is the sum of all.”
* * * * *
One of the guests, an imperial colonel, had knocked on his glass, and
“Oh, dear—a toast!” thought all, and discontentedly dropped their
special conversation to listen to the speaker. We had good reason to
sigh; three times the unlucky man stuck fast, and the choice of his good
wishes was unfortunate. The health of the young heir was offered, who
was born at a time when his country needed all her sons.
“May he wear the sword as his great-grandfather and his grandfather did;
may he bring many sons into the world, who on their part may be an
honour to their ancestry, and as they have done who have fallen, win
fame on the field of honour. May they for the honour of the land of
their fathers conquer—as their fathers and fathers’ fathers—in short:
Long life to Frederick Dotzky!”
The glasses rattled but the speech fell flat. That this little creature
just on the threshold of life should be sentenced to the death-list on a
battle-field did not make a pleasant impression.
To banish this dark picture, several guests made the comforting remark
that present circumstances promised a long peace, that the Triple
Alliance——and with that general interest was carried into the political
arena, and our Cabinet Minister led the conversation.
“In truth” (Lori Griesbach listened with intense interest), “it cannot
be denied that the perfection which our weapons have attained is
marvellous and enough to terrify all breakers of the peace. The law for
general service allows us to put into the field, on the first call, four
million eight hundred thousand men between the ages of nineteen and
forty, with officers up to sixty. On the other hand, one must
acknowledge that the extraordinary attendant expenses will be a strain
upon the finances. It will be an intolerable burden to the population;
but it is encouraging to see with what patriotic self-sacrifice the
people respond to the demands of the war ministry; they recognise what
all far-sighted politicians realise, that the general armament of
neighbouring states and the difficulties of the political situation
demand that all other considerations should be subordinated to the iron
pressure of military necessity.”
“Sounds like the usual editorial,” murmured some one.
The Minister went on calmly:—
“But such a system is surety for the preservation of peace. For if to
secure our border, as traditional patriotism demands of us, we do as our
neighbours are doing, we are but fulfilling a sacred duty and hope to
keep danger far from us. So I raise my glass to the toast in honour of
the principle which lies so close to the heart of Frau Martha—a
principle dear to the Peace League of Middle Europe—and I call upon all
of you to drink to the maintenance of peace! May we long enjoy its
blessings!”
“To such a toast I will not drink,” I replied. “Armed peace is no
benefaction; we do not want peace for a long time, but for ever. If we
set out upon a sea voyage, do we like the assurance that the ship will
escape wreck for a long time? That the whole trip will be a fortunate
one is what the honest captain vouches for.”
Doctor Bresser, our intimate old friend, came to my help.
“Can you in truth, your Excellency, honestly believe in a desire for
peace on the part of those who with enthusiasm and passion are soldiers.
How could they find such delight in arsenals, fortresses, and manœuvres
if these things were really regarded merely as scarecrows? Must the
people give all their earnings in order to kiss hands across the border?
Do you think the military class will willingly accept the position of
mere custodians of the peace? Behind this mask—the _si vis pacem_
mask—glitters the eye of understanding, and every member who votes for
the war budget knows it.”
“The members?” interrupted the minister. “We cannot praise enough the
self-sacrifice which they have never failed to exhibit in serious times,
and which finds expression in their willingness to vote the appropriate
funds.”
“Forgive me, your Excellency, I would call out to these willing members:
‘Your “Yes” will rob that mother of her only child; yours puts out the
eyes of some poor wretch; yours sets in a blaze a fearful conflagration;
yours stamps out the brain of a poet who would have been an honour to
his country. But you have all voted “Yes” in order to prove that you are
not cowards—as if one had only oneself to consider. Are you not there to
represent the wishes of the people? And the people wish profitable
labour, wish relief, wish peace.’”
“I hope, dear Doctor,” remarked the Colonel bitterly, “that you may
never be a member; the whole house would spit upon you.”
“I would soon prove that I am no coward. To swim against the stream
requires nerves of steel.”
“But how would it be if a serious attack were made and found us
unprepared?”
“We must have a system of justice which will make an attack impossible.
But when the time for action does come, and these tremendous armies with
their fearful new means of warfare are brought into the field, it will
be a serious, a gigantic catastrophe. Help and care will be an
impossibility. The endeavours of the Sanitary or Red Cross corps, the
means of provision, will prove a mere irony. The next war of which
people so glibly and indifferently speak will not be a victory for the
one and a loss for the other, but destruction for all. Who among us
desires this?”
“I, certainly not,” said the minister. “You, of course not, dear Doctor,
but men in general. Our government, possibly not, but other states.”
“With what right do you deem other people worse and less intelligent
than yourself and me? I will tell you a little story:—
“Once upon a time a thousand and one men stood before the gate of a
beautiful garden, longingly looking over the wall, desiring to enter.
The gatekeeper had been ordered to admit the people, provided the
majority wished admittance. He called one man up: ‘Tell me honestly, do
you want to come in?’ ‘Certainly,’ he replied, ‘but the other thousand
do not care about it.’
“The shrewd custodian wrote this answer in his note-book. He then called
a second. He made the same reply. Again the wise man wrote under the
word ‘Yes’ the figure one, and under the word ‘No’ the figure one
thousand. So he went on to the very last man. Then he added up the
columns. The result was: One thousand and one ‘Yeas’ but over a million
‘Noes.’ So the gate remained shut because the ‘Noes’ had an immense
majority. And that came about because each one not only answered for
himself, but felt himself obliged to answer for all the others.”
“It would be a noble thing,” replied the minister reflectively, “if by
general consent disarmament could be effected. But what government would
dare to begin? There is nothing, upon the whole, more desirable than
peace; but, on the other hand, how can we maintain it; how can we look
for durable peace so long as human passions and diverse interests
exist?”
“Allow me,” said my son Rudolf. “Forty million inhabitants form a state.
Why not one hundred millions? One could prove logically and
mathematically that so long as forty millions, notwithstanding diverse
interests and human passions, can restrain themselves from warring with
one another—as the three states, the Triple Alliance, or five states,
can form a league of peace—one hundred millions can do the same? But, in
truth, the world nowadays calls itself immensely wise, and ridicules the
barbarians; and yet in many things we cannot count five.”
Several voices exclaimed: “What? barbarians—with our refined
civilisation? And the close of the nineteenth century?”
Rudolf stood up. “Yes, barbarians—I will not take back the name. And so
long as we cling to the past we shall remain barbarians. But we stand
upon the threshold of a new era—all eyes are looking forward, everything
drives us on toward a higher civilisation. Barbarism is already casting
away its ancient idols and its antiquated weapons. Even though we stand
nearer to barbaric ideas than many are willing to acknowledge, we are
also nearer to a nobler development than many dare even hope. Possibly
the prince or the statesman is now alive who will figure in all future
history as the most famous, the most enlightened, because he will have
brought about this general laying down of arms. Even now the insane idea
is dying out, notwithstanding that diplomatic egotism attempts to
justify itself by its assertion—the insane idea that the destruction of
one person is the security of another. Already the realisation that
justice must be the foundation of all social life is glimmering upon the
world, and from an acknowledgment of this truth humanity must gain a
nobler stature—that development of humanity for which Frederick Tilling
laboured. Mother, I celebrate the memory of your devoted husband, to
whom I also owe it that I am what I am. Out of this glass no other toast
shall ever be drunk”—and he threw it against the wall, where it fell
shattered to pieces; “at this baptismal feast of the first-born no other
toast shall be offered but ‘Hail to the Future!’ We must not show
ourselves worthy rather of our fathers’ fathers—as the old phrase
went—no; but of our grandsons’ grandsons. Mother—what is it?” he stopped
suddenly. “You are weeping. What do you see there?”
My glance had fallen on the open door. The rays of the setting sun fell
on a rose-bush, covering it with its golden shimmer, and there stood—the
figure of my dreams. I saw the white hair, the glitter of the garden
shears.
“It is true, is it not,” he smiled at me, “we are a happy old couple?”
Ah, me!
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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