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
Conrad and Lilli—Easter ceremonies—Tilling again—A visit and interview—Disappointments and apprehensions—A conversation about warfare—At last, an understanding
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
BOOK I 1859 — CHAPTER I — CHAPTER II — CHAPTER III — CHAPTER IV — CHAPTER V
1
3
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
4only 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,
5the 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
6avoided. 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
7callous. 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
8necessary 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
9this 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.
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
11heart?—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,
12the 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
13politics, 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
14warm. 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
15sacrifices 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
16disarm. 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?”
17“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.”
18Admiring 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.
19
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.
20Have 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.
21Aunt 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.
22I 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,
23that 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
24is 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
25most 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
26to 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,
27it 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
28farewell 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.
29
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.
30When, 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,
31but 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
32sacrifice 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.”
33“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
34many 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,
35and 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
36losses. 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.”
37“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
38Martha, 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
39yet 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:—
40“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.
41
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
42was 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
43a 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
44there. 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
45came 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
46concessions, 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.”
47“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 — CHAPTER II — CHAPTER III — CHAPTER IV — CHAPTER V
49
51
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
52cut 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.
53Can 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
54did 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
55this 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
56of 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
57ball 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.
58“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
59that 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
60new 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,
61and 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.”
62A 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.
63
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
64casually 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.”
65“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.”
66“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——”
67“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
68the 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
69of 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.”
70“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
71is 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.
72
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
73start 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.”
74“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?”
75“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
76told 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.
77I 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.
78As 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;
79of 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,
80even 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,
81but 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,
82then 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.
83
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.”
84“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
85tells 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
86surely 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
87hand. 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.
88I 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.
89He 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
90he 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
91conquest. 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
92to 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.”
93“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
94shalt 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.
95“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.”
96“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
97have 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.
98
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.
99“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
100is 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
101would 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
102with 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.”
103During 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
104the 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.
105I 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.
106“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
107Denmark 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
108our 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
109slap 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?”
110“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 — CHAPTER II — CHAPTER III — CHAPTER IV
111
113
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
114down? 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?”
115“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,”
116said 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
117revoke 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
118quickly! 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
119are 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
120can 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
121Schleswig-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
122Augustenburg 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
123Augustenburg 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.
124
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
125like 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
126home 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
127opened 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,
128like 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!
129That 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
130of 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
131from 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.
132
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?
133Besides, 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
134the 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
135be 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
136conquered 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
137guests 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.
138
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
139at 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,
140some 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;
141a 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;
142that 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
143all 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?
144Never 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.
1455. 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
146a 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.
147And 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.
148“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!”
149Again 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
150ambition, 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
151preparations. 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.
152On 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,
153and 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 — CHAPTER II — CHAPTER III — CHAPTER IV — CHAPTER V — CHAPTER VI
155
157
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
158retired, 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,
159and 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
160hurried 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.”
161(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
162results 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.
163
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.”
164A 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
165careful 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
166fearful 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
167one 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
168crashing 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
169and 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
170the 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,
171but 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
172were 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
173all 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.
174
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.
175But 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
176men. 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
177wounded. 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.”
178“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
179the 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
180horses’ 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:—
181A 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,
182cannot 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
183war. 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,
184more 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
185wounded 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
186wounded? 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
187raving 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.”
188But 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
189any 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
190of 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
191other 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.
192Give 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,
193and 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
194been away, had come back, and would see my
husband.
Alone I went to his room, and sank sobbing
upon his breast:—
“Frederick!”
“Martha!”
195
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
196God 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.
197Such 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
198when 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
199oil? 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
200declaration 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.
201But 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
202his 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
203we 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
204fixed 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,
205and 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,
206and 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
207less, 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
208did 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
209still 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.’”
210
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
211suddenly 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
212that 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.
213“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
214accept 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,
215but 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,
216and 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
217anybody 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.
218The 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
219two 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.”
220“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.
221The 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.”
222“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.
223The 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
224through 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.”
225He 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.
226“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.
227
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.
228I 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
229daily 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
230through 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
231who 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
232than 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.”
233Yes, 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
234witness 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 — CHAPTER II
235
237
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.
238Here 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
239been 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
240business 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
241part 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,
242the 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
243passions, 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
244soul, 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.”
245
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
246these 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
247people 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.
248Every 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:—
249“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
250productive, 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
251is 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
252he 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
253hope. 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
254house 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
255we 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.
256Europe 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
257hoped 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 — CHAPTER II
259
261
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,
262spending 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
263had 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
264in 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.
265
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
266performance 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
267stake 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.
268There 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
269to 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
270themselves 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
271simply 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
272of 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
273these 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
274the 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
275kept 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
276had 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,
277“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!
278To 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,
279regular 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;
280the 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
281compelled 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.”
282“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
283for 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
284the 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.
285Strassburg 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
286one 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.”
287“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
288German 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.
289Many 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
291
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
292around 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
293forget 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,
294and 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?
295My 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
296will 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
297determination 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.”
298“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
299was 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
300must 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
301has 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!”
302The 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.”
303“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
304people 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.”
305“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
306note-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
307wise, 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
308of 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 byR. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.