CHAPTER I

DISARM! DISARM!

ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN ROMANCE

“DIE WAFFEN NIEDER”

BY THE BARONESS BERTHA VON SUTTNER

BY

ANDREA HOFER-PROUDFOOT

_POPULAR EDITION_

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO

_Printed in 1914_

CONTENTS

BOOK I

1859

CHAPTER I

PAGE

Girlish fancies—Enthusiasm for heroism—Education—Entering

society—At Marienbad—Love at first sight 3

CHAPTER II

Marriage—The first-born—War rumours—The ultimatum 10

CHAPTER III

Last hours—Public glad at prospect of war—The sad parting 19

CHAPTER IV

Women’s co-operation at home—Anxious for news from seat of

war—Austria’s bad luck—Patriotism and relief work—A friendly

visit—The fatal news 29

CHAPTER V

Early widowhood—Sorrow and solitude—I take up my studies

again—Broader conceptions 41

BOOK II

TIME OF PEACE

CHAPTER I

Society once more—Happiness returns—A second marriage suggested—My

younger sisters need a chaperone—Baron Tilling introduced—He

tells of Arno’s death 51

CHAPTER II

After the carnival—Father’s dinner-party—Toy soldiers—Tilling

again—The brave Hupfauf—Darwin 63

CHAPTER III

A cosy chat with Tilling—We misunderstand each other—The

attachment grows—Countess Griesbach—Jealousy overcome—Tilling

goes away—A touching letter—Death of Tilling’s mother 72

CHAPTER IV

Conrad and Lilli—Easter ceremonies—Tilling again—A visit and

interview—Disappointments and apprehensions—A conversation about

warfare—At last, an understanding 83

CHAPTER V

A ride in the Prater—At last an understanding—The family

reconciled to the engagement—Marriage and visit to Berlin—Life

in garrison—Christmas at Vienna—Rumours of war 98

BOOK III

1864

CHAPTER I

War imminent with Denmark—New Year’s Eve—Return to garrison—The

Schleswig-Holstein Campaign—Story of the quarrel 113

CHAPTER II

The course of war—Hostilities suspended and renewed—My husband

departs—The dead baby—Letters from the seat of

war—Recovery—Anxiety—Letters—Return of Frederick 124

CHAPTER III

Reunion and summer joys—Resolved to quit the service—Rudolf’s

training—The end of the war—Conditions of peace—Fresh cares and

ruined fortunes—My husband remains in the service 132

CHAPTER IV

Lilli and Conrad—Aunt Marie’s letter—Rumours of war with

Prussia—Negotiations and arguments—My father’s New Year’s

toast—Hopes and fears—The army mobilised—War declared—The

manifestos of both sides 138

BOOK IV

1866

CHAPTER I

The Austro-Prussian War—Frederick again to the front—The Red

Cross—Reports and Letters—The Custozza victory—Austria has

reverses in Bohemia—Discussion of the press 157

CHAPTER II

More and more reverses for Austria—A soldier’s abhorrence of

war—Poor Puxl—My husband’s letter declares that this is his last

campaign 163

CHAPTER III

Austria ruined at the battle of Koniggratz—Dr. Bresser with the

wounded—I go to the seat of war to search for my husband—The

scenes on the way—More horrors described—I meet Frau Simon—A

night journey—Am carried back to Vienna exhausted—Return to

Grumitz 174

CHAPTER IV

Restored happiness—Prussians still press toward Vienna—War

practically over—Quiet country life—Military school—My only

brother Otto—Description of flying troops—Peace in sight—Victory

of Lyssa—Our plans of retirement—Conrad comes home—He describes

his enthusiasm for war 195

CHAPTER V

The Prussians at Grumitz—Otto gets into trouble—A dinner with

friend and foe—Rosa and Prince Henry are engaged—The Prussians

leave and cholera breaks out in our midst—Servants are the first

victims, then sisters—The lover’s suicide—The only son dies,

father follows him, cursing war 210

CHAPTER VI

Summer in Switzerland—Researches in International

law—Seclusion—Frederick enters the peace army—Off to Berlin—The

battle-field of Sadowa—Francis Joseph weeps for his dead

soldiers 227

BOOK V

TIME OF PEACE

CHAPTER I

Visit to Berlin—Aunt Cornelia—Aunt Marie’s death—Vienna

again—Politics and conscription 237

CHAPTER II

New Year’s reflections—Distrust between the French and

Germans—Quiet again—Paris—Napoleon’s plan for

disarmament—Frederick’s work for peace—A daughter born—Happiness

and study—The gay world—War talk again—Repose in

Switzerland—Sylvia’s illness 245

BOOK VI

CHAPTER I

Paris in March 1870—War party pushes the Emperor—His plan of

disarmament dropped—Our new home in Paris—The French and German

question—Menace and rumours again—France makes demands and then

threats 261

CHAPTER II

War declared—Excitement in Paris—Which side?—We remain in Paris—A

little history—First days of war—Paris a fortress—A Republic

declared—My husband’s fate 265

EPILOGUE 291

BOOK I

1859

CHAPTER I

Girlish fancies—Enthusiasm for heroism—Education—Entering society—At

Marienbad—Love at first sight.

At seventeen I was a very highly-strung girl. I should hardly realise

this to-day, if it were not for the diaries so carefully laid away. In

them I find again my long-lost enthusiasms, thoughts, and feelings now

utterly forgotten, convictions of which now not a vestige remains, and

sympathies which have long been dead and buried. I catch a glimpse of

the emptiness and silliness which filled my pretty little head. But, as

I painfully learn from my mirror, of the prettiness little trace is

left, although the old portraits assure me that it once existed.

I can imagine what an envied little creature the Countess Martha Althaus

must have been, pretty, popular, and petted. These quaint little red

diaries, however, recorded more of sadness than of joy in her life. I

think now, “How could I have been so silly not to realise how singularly

blessed I was with privileges?” Perhaps I was only expressing an

unbalanced sentimentality, and I tried to express it in somewhat poetic

prose. Imagine my discontent when I wrote:—

O Joan of Arc! heroic, heavenly virgin! If only I too might have waved

the oriflamme of France, crowned my king, and died for my fatherland!

Alas! this modest ambition was never gratified.

Again, I longed to be torn in the arena by lions like the Christian

martyrs. But the heroics were not for me. I must frankly admit that my

life was a commonplace failure, and the glories for which my soul

thirsted were for ever closed to me.

Often the little red book exclaimed, “Oh that I had been born a boy!”

Then I should have been able to win fame. But feminine heroes are few.

How seldom we have Gracchi for sons, and not often may we hope to carry

our husbands on our backs through the Weinsberg Gates, or to be a queen

and hear the sabre-swinging Magyars shout, “Long live Maria Theresa, our

King!” A man need only gird on the sword and dash to fame and laurels,

to capture a throne like Cromwell, or a world-empire like Napoleon.

My highest type of manhood was always a military hero. I had slight

respect for mere poets, scholars, and discoverers. The heroes of many

battles were the object of my adoration and devotion. Were they not the

chief pillars of the state, the makers of history, the builders of

empires? Did they not tower in God-like grandeur over all other heroes,

as did the Alps and Himalayas over mere grass and valley flowers?

From all this it need not be concluded that I possessed an heroic

nature. My enthusiasms and passions naturally took their bent from my

education and environment. My father was an Austrian General, who had

fought under “Father Radetzky” at Custozza, and therefore adored him. I

listened untiringly to the unending stories of this campaign. My dear

father actually pitied other men who had not had these proud and

glorious experiences, and I always regretted that I, being a girl, would

never have these magnificent opportunities; and, having heard some

mention of the question of the equal rights of women, I felt sure that

the only additional right I should ever keenly desire would be the right

to go to war. How charmed I was with the story of Semiramis or Catherine

II. when I read: “She made war upon this or that neighbouring kingdom,

or she conquered this or that people.”

The history books are responsible for this warlike ideal of the young.

That the God of Battles has constantly decreed wars stamps itself upon

the mind from the first, and one early accepts the belief that war is

necessary to regulate nations, and is almost a law of nature, like

tornadoes and earthquakes, which from time to time cannot be avoided.

History does not cover up the wickedness, the sorrow, the anguish of it

all, but presents it as a part of the inevitable, bringing advantage to

the nation, through the sacrifice of the happiness and life of the few.

That there is no nobler death than that of the soldier martyr is the

clear and unanimous verdict of all our school histories and texts. Long

lists of battles are given, and entrancing tales and poems of glory and

heroism are told, for must not patriotism be taught, must not every boy

grow to be a defender of his country? So he must be made a

war-enthusiast early. His spirit must be hardened long before he

questions through his natural sympathies why we inflict these horrors

and sufferings upon others. Such doubts must be carefully repressed.

History as it is taught aims to warp the inborn, divine impulse to hate

barbarism and inhumanity. The tale is so told as to belittle that part

of the story which appeals to the sympathies.

And the same books, the same subjects, the same system, encouraging a

like admiration for war and military heroics, are given to the

girls—delightful pictures for the tender souls, who otherwise are taught

that they must be gentle and mild. The frightful stories of carnage and

rapine from Bible days, from Macedonian and Punic times down to the

Thirty Years’ War and Napoleon, repeat the horrors of the thing until

the senses become callous. To read of cities burnt and the people put to

the sword with the victims trodden under foot was a keen enjoyment, and

to heap one horror upon the other blunted the perceptions till war no

longer could be regarded from the point of view of humanity, but was

received as something quite special, mysterious, majestic, and

sanctified.

The girls could readily see that war alone could give the highest honour

and dignity, so they learn all the military and glorifying odes, and

they become, like the Spartan mothers of old, the women who present

battle-flags and regimental colours, and are the admired and happy

belles during the ball season, when they receive the attentions of the

brass-buttoned officer’s corps.

As a child I had tutors and a governess at home, and was not reared in a

convent, as was often the case with children of my position. My mother

had died early, and the four children were watched over by an elderly

aunt. We spent our winters in Vienna, and our summers on the estate in

Lower Austria. Having a good memory and being ambitious, I was the

delight of my teachers. Since I was denied the career of an heroic

female warrior, I made it my enthusiasm to extol all who had helped to

make the world’s history through war. I mastered the French and English

languages perfectly. I learned all that was considered necessary for

girls in natural history, physics, and astronomy, but in the reading of

history I knew no limit. The ponderous records of wars and nations I

fetched from my father’s library and spent with them my leisure hours.

On March 10, 1857, I celebrated my seventeenth birthday. “Already

seventeen” I set down under this date. This “already” was a bit of

symbolism, and undoubtedly was meant to signify “and as yet I have done

nothing immortal.”

The Season was approaching, and it was arranged that I should be

introduced into society, but the prospect did not fill me with the

keenest pleasure. I felt that my aims were higher than ballroom

conquests. I could not have explained to myself what were the triumphs

for which I longed. I was hardly aware of the romantic attitude which

possessed me. I was full of glowing dreams and aspirations, such as

swell the hearts of youths and maidens, and fill them with a longing to

work out their ideals in all sorts of ways. It is at this age that the

love of knowledge, action, travel, adventure, show themselves, and are

perhaps only an unrecognised activity of the soul filled with desire to

express itself.

Aunt Marie was ordered to try the waters at Marienbad during the summer,

and found it convenient to take me. My coming-out in society was not to

take place till the following winter, and this trip to the fashionable

springs gave me a little preliminary practice in dancing and

conversation, so that I could wear off some of the shyness before my

first season.

Naturally at my first ball I had no eyes for anything but the brilliant

military uniforms which were present in such array. But of all the

splendid Hussars, Count Arno Dotzky was the most dazzling, and with him

I danced the cotillion and several waltzes.

The acquaintance quickly ripened into an attachment, and we were

betrothed on my eighteenth birthday, after which I was presented at

court.

CHAPTER II

Marriage—The first-born—War rumours—The ultimatum.

After our marriage we took an Italian journey, having been granted a

long leave of absence. Retirement from the army was never mentioned

between us. We both possessed handsome fortunes; but my husband loved

the military service, and I was proud of my elegant Hussar, and looked

forward to his certain promotion. He would rise unquestionably to the

rank of major, colonel, or even general. Who knew but he might be even

called to the highest rank, and add his name to the history of his

country, great as a conqueror!

The little red book contains a break just at the happy honeymoon time,

and that is a pity. Oh for a little breath of those happy days to come

back to me from between the leaves, in which I had wasted so much ink

recording odd peevishnesses and bad humours! Still, my memory recalls

those joys like an old half-forgotten fairy-tale. What could have been

added to my overflowing heart?—for I had love, riches, rank, health,

everything. My dashing Hussar, whom I loved with my whole soul, was a

manly, noble-hearted man, with a most cultivated and merry nature. It

might have been otherwise, for our acquaintance had been so short, and

it was not our own discretion and wise choosing which brought us all

this happiness. But the little red-bound book bore no entry for a long

time.

Wait a moment! Here I find a joyous event noted—my delight at becoming a

mother. A New Year’s gift—a son was born to us, the 1st of January 1859.

The diary was resumed to note with pride and astonishment this

all-absorbing event, as though we were the first to whom such a

happiness had ever come. The journal teemed with comments on the

mystical and sacred event. The future world had to be informed as to the

marvel of “maternal love,” it was mine to magnify the office of

motherhood. Was it not the greatest theme of art and literature, of song

and story?

I cultivated this ideal most carefully, collecting poems, baby songs,

and illustrations from journals and picture galleries. As in one

direction school books foster and develop an admiration for war heroes,

so through my collections I developed from hero-worship to baby-worship.

My charming little man was to me the mightiest wonder of the world. Ah,

my son, my grown-up manly Rudolf, the love of you in my maturer years

eclipsed in colour the hours of childish wonder and worship. The love of

my young motherhood is insignificant in comparison to what I feel for

you to-day, even as is the babe himself in swaddlings besides the

full-grown man.

How proud the father was of his tiny heir, as he planned for him the

sunniest, fairest future. “What shall he be?” This was the great

question that we discussed as we hung over the cradle together, and we

always decided unanimously—a soldier, of course. Sometimes the mother

would protest: “Suppose he should be killed in battle?” “Nonsense,” the

father would answer; “at the appointed time each one meets his end.”

Besides, Ruru was not to be the only son, but being the first he must be

what his father and grandfather were, the noblest of all—a soldier. So

it was settled, and so the joke was persisted in, and on his third-month

birthday he was promoted to the rank of a corporal.

On that same day a great foreboding came over me, something that made me

fly with a heavy heart to my little note-book. Dark clouds had arisen in

the political horizon, and the fears and suspicions were daily growing

into comments wherever people met together.

“Trouble in Italy is brewing” was the frequent remark. I had no time now

for heroics and politics, so it hardly touched me. But on the 1st of

April Arno said to me:—

“Do you know, darling, it will soon break out?”

“What will break out?”

“The war with Sardinia.”

I was terrified. “My God, that will be terrible. And must you go?”

“I hope so.”

“How can you say that? Hope to leave your wife and baby?”

“When duty calls.”

“Of course we can reconcile ourselves—but to hope—which means desire—to

wish for such a bitter duty——”

“Bitter? Why, a jolly, dashing war like that would be glorious! You are

a soldier’s wife, never forget that.”

I threw myself into his arms.

“Oh my darling husband. I can be content, and brave besides. How often I

have envied the heroes of history and longed to be one of its heroines.

What a glorious feeling it must be to go into battle! If I could only be

at your side, fight, conquer, or even fall!”

“Such nonsense, little wife; but brave you are. Your place is here by

the cradle of our little one, whom you must raise to be some day a

defender of his country. Women must keep the fireside warm. It is to

save our homes and wives from the attacks of the enemy and secure peace,

that we men must go to war.”

Why, I do not know, but these words, or similar ones which I had so

often read with enthusiasm, this time struck me as mere shallow phrases.

Where was the advancing army—were the barbarous hordes at the door? A

political tension between the Cabinets of two nations seemed an

intangible enemy. What was the pressing need of protecting wife and

child and home? Much as my husband spoke enthusiastically of going to

war for that, I failed to see it. Was it a mere burning desire to rush

into adventure, with a promise of excitement, promotion, and

distinction? “Yet,” I concluded, “it is a noble, honourable ambition to

delight in the brave discharge of duty.”

I poured out my feelings into the little note-book, denouncing Louis

Napoleon as an intriguer.... Austria cannot long look on.... War must

come.... No, Sardinia will soon give in, and peace be maintained. Thus I

commented on the course of events. My husband’s eyes sparkled at the

continued increase of the danger.

My father also gloried in the prospect, and retold the stories of the

Radetzky campaigns, and discussed the impending ones, as to how the

enemy would be easily routed, and all the advantages which would be

“ours.” Of the terrible sacrifices nothing was said. I was made to feel

quite ashamed of my meanness when I found myself thinking thus: “Ah, how

can any victory recompense the dead, the crippled, the widowed? How

would it be if the enemy conquered?”

I was contemptuously crushed by my military friends if I ventured such a

remark. Was it not most unpatriotic to have the shadow of a doubt about

our certain victory? Is not the duty of a soldier to feel himself

invincible, and must not a soldier’s wife share this conviction with

him?

My husband’s regiment was quartered in Vienna. The view of the Prater

from my window promised a wonderful spring. The air was warm and

delicious with violets, the sprouting buds seemed earlier than in years

before. How joyfully I might have looked forward to the coming weeks of

delightful driving, for we had purchased a fine carriage and a

four-in-hand team of dashing Hungarian horses—but oh, if only the

war-clouds had not hung over all that!

Coming home from a parade on the morning of April 19, my husband broke

the spell with the exclamation: “Thank God, at last this uncertainty is

at an end. The ultimatum has been sent.”

“And what does that mean?” I trembled.

“It means that the last word of the diplomats has been uttered—the last

word that precedes the declaration of war. Sardinia is called to disarm.

This she’ll not do, and we will soon march over the border.”

“Good God! Perhaps she may disarm.”

“Then that would end the quarrel.”

I fell on my knees. Silently and fervently a prayer cried out in my

soul: “Peace, peace!”

“My silly child, what are you doing?” said Arno, raising me. The news

had shaken my nerves, and I began to cry.

“Martha, Martha, you make me angry. How can you forget that you are a

general’s daughter, a first lieutenant’s wife, and,” he concluded with a

smile, “the mother of a corporal?”

“No, no,” I faltered, “I scarcely understand myself.... I used to thirst

for military glory, but now, when I think that on a single ‘yes’ or ‘no’

thousands may bleed and die—die in these beautiful days of spring—it

came over me that the word ‘Peace’ must be pronounced, that we must all

pray for it, and I fell on my knees.”

“To inform the good Lord of the condition of affairs, you dear little

goose!”

The house-door bell rang. I dried my eyes. My father came in with a

rush. “My children,” he cried out of breath, “have you heard the great

news—the ultimatum?”

“I have just told it to my wife.”

“Tell me, father dear,” I asked anxiously, “can the war be prevented by

the ultimatum?”

“I never heard of an ultimatum preventing a war. It would be very wise

of the wretched Italian rabble if they would yield and not risk another

Novara. Ah, if good Father Radetzky had not died last year, even at

ninety he would have routed this foreign scum. And I would have marched

with him. But the puppies have not had enough of it. They need a second

lesson. We shall get a handsome piece of Piedmont territory, and I look

forward to the entry of our troops into Turin.”

“But, papa, you speak as if the war were already declared, and you were

glad of it. Oh, if Arno must also go!”

“That he will, and I envy him.”

“But think of my terror at his danger!”

“Danger, what of that? Many a man comes home from war. Look at my

campaigns, my wounds, and yet I am alive, for I was not destined to

die.”

Such fatalistic notions!

“And if my regiment should not be ordered out——” began Arno.

I exclaimed joyously, “Oh, would that be possible?”

“In that case I shall apply for an exchange.”

“That can easily be settled,” my father assured him. “A good friend of

mine, Hess, commands the corps.”

Admiring both husband and father—yet anxiety sickened my heart. But I

must control myself. Was not my husband a hero? And I sprang up and

exclaimed, “Arno, I am proud of you.”

Kissing my hands, he turned to my father, “Father-in-law, I am glad that

you have trained your daughter to be a brave soldier’s wife.”

TURIN, _April 26_.—The ultimatum is rejected. The die is cast. War is

declared.

CHAPTER III

Last hours—Public glad at prospect of war—The sad parting.

The news was a bitter blow to me, and threw me into despair, although I

had been prepared for the catastrophe. Arno tried to comfort me.

“My darling, take courage. Things are not so bad and will soon be over.

Then we shall be doubly happy. You will break my heart with your

weeping, and make me sorry that I engaged to go. But think, if I

remained at home and my comrades went, you would be ashamed of me. I

must pass the baptism of fire to feel myself a man and a soldier. Only

think how happy you will be to see a third star on my collar, or perhaps

even the cross on my breast.”

I leaned on his shoulder and wept the more. Empty stars and crosses were

but poor pay for the terrible possibility that a ball might shatter that

beloved breast. Arno gently relieved himself from my embrace, saying:—

“Now, dear child, I must go to the Colonel. Have your little cry, and be

brave and cheerful when I return. In this hard hour my dear little wife

should not dishearten and discourage me. Good-bye, sweetheart.”

His last words helped me to collect myself. Yes, I must not damp his

courage, I must inspire his sense of duty. We women must prove our

patriotism by our sympathy, and must urge our soldiers to fame on the

battle-field.

“Battle-field”—strange how this word suddenly carried its radically

different meanings to my mind. First it appealed historically,

gloriously, pathetically; then again I shuddered as at some loathsome,

bloody, brutal, repulsive thing. I saw the poor creatures hurried to the

field, stricken, and lying there with gaping, bleeding wounds, and among

them, perhaps!—oh horrible thought!—and a loud cry escaped my lips at

the frightful picture.

Betty, my maid, rushed in. “In heaven’s name, madam, what has happened?”

I looked at the girl. Her eyes, too, were red with weeping. I remembered

her lover was a soldier, and I could have pressed her to my heart as a

sister in mutual sorrow.

“It is nothing, child, for they surely all come back again.”

“Not all of them, dear lady,” she said, the tears starting afresh.

Aunt Marie came in just then and Betty disappeared.

“Martha dear, I came to comfort you,” said she, “and help you to resign

yourself in this trouble.”

“So you know it?”

“The whole city knows it, and great joy is felt, for the war is very

popular.”

“Joy, Aunt Marie?” I exclaimed.

“Certainly. Wherever the family is not touched there is great rejoicing.

But I knew you would be in distress, and therefore I hurried to you.

Your father will come soon, not to comfort but to congratulate you. He

is beside himself with delight and thinks the prospect for Arno is a

rare one. And he is right, for is not war the best thing in the world

for a soldier? And you must see it so, my dear. What must be——”

“Yes, you are right, Aunt. I know: the inevitable——”

“What is the will of God——” rejoined my aunt.

And I concluded: “Must be borne with resignation.”

“Bravo, dear Martha, Providence has determined. Providence is all wise.

For each one the hour of death is settled as is the hour of birth, and

we can pray fervently for our dear soldiers.”

I did not analyse the contradiction that one might pray to avoid a death

that is predetermined. I had been taught not to reason on such matters,

and my aunt would have been quite shocked if I had voiced any such

scruples. “Never argue about it” is the commandment in matters of faith.

Not to question and not to think was much more convenient and

comfortable, so I accepted the suggestion that we should pray, and

during the absence of my husband I certainly would pray for the

protection of Heaven, and earnestly beg that the bullets might be turned

from the breast of my Arno. Diverted, but whither? To the breast of

another for whom some praying women also pleaded? And had not my

teachers in physics drilled me in the law of infallible consequences, of

motion and substance? The whole bewildering, tormenting question ...

away with it! I will not think.

“Yes, dear Aunt,” I roused myself to say, “we will pray diligently, and

God must hear us. Arno will return to us unhurt and happy.”

“You dear child, see how your soul flies to religion in the dark hours.

Perhaps God himself sent this trial to renew your faith.”

Again this did not strike me as clear. How could God have sent this

great complication, dating from the Crimean War, that Sardinia and

Austria should break out into grim war for the simple purpose of testing

my lukewarm faith? Was my aunt’s piety so deep and mine so shallow, that

I should be tempted thus to doubt? To attach the name of God to any

statement of cause rather consecrates the matter, and it is not

respectful to doubt. My father and husband were both quite indifferent

to religious matters, and my reasoning nature found mere dogmas hard to

accept. I had gone regularly to Sunday mass, and once a year to

confession, and at such hours I was honestly devout as a matter of

etiquette with the same correctness as I should have curtsied, if

introduced to the Empress. The chaplain himself could not have

reproached me, but my aunt’s accusation seemed perhaps justifiable.

“Ah, my child,” my aunt continued, “in times of happiness and prosperity

we are apt to forget our heavenly home, but when sorrow and sickness,

fear and death come in upon us, or if those we adore are stricken,

then——”

In this style she would have continued, had not the door been thrown

open and my father rushed in, exclaiming:—

“Hurrah, everything is decided. The Italian dogs wanted their whipping,

and they shall have it, they shall have it!”

War was declared. All was excitement. People seem to forget that two

sets of men are voluntarily thrown at each other’s throats upon the

assumption that there is a mighty third power which irresistibly forces

them to fight. The whole responsibility is thrown upon this mysterious

element, which regulates the ordained fate of the nations. (At this

period of my life I felt no trace of a revolt against war as a system.

Because my beloved husband was forced to go and I to remain—this alone

was my anguish.)

I consoled myself with all my old convictions that the highest duty of a

soldier was to be ready for service. History made it laudable to desire

honour and glory through patriotic devotion. It was a peculiarly

elevating thought that I was living in a most thrilling epoch. Had not

my life been given a share in one of the great events of history?

Nothing was being talked of but the war. The newspapers were full of it.

Prayers were said in all the churches for the success of the army.

Everywhere were the same excited faces, the same eager talk. Business,

pleasure, literature, art, everything was secondary, insignificant,

while the scenes of this great drama were being played on the world’s

arena. We read the proclamations, so confident of victory; we watched

the troops march through with glitter and clash of arms, and

battle-flags waving; leading articles and glowing speeches were filled

with patriotic ardour, appealing to honour, duty, courage,

self-sacrifice.

Assurances were made on both sides to the people, that their nation was

known to be the most invincible, each had the only just cause, each had

the noblest and most heroic cause to defend. Thus were the people filled

with enthusiasm, and the conviction that war was the most glorious,

necessary, and ennobling thing.

Every one was encouraged to think that he was a great citizen of a great

state for which he must be willing to sacrifice himself. Evils of war

were merely regarded as a necessary adjunct, and always “the enemy”

alone was found guilty of the evil passions, and the brawling, rapine,

hatred, cruelty, and all the other iniquities attached to warfare.

Consequently we were doing the world a noble service in punishing these

wretched Italians—this lazy, sensual, upstart nation. And Louis

Napoleon, with his consuming ambition, what an intriguer! It was with a

storm of indignation that Vienna received the proclamation: “Italy free

to the Adriatic.”

I uttered slight doubts whether it was so ignoble of Italy to wish to be

free, but I was rudely reminded that our enemies were scoundrels. In my

study of history I had usually found the writers sympathetic with the

struggling nation fighting to throw off a foreign yoke and gain its

independence. I felt that Italy was playing this part in the drama

before our eyes, but I was quickly and scowlingly given to understand

that our government—that is, the nation to which we happened to

belong—could never oppress, but only confer prosperity upon another

people, and when they sought to break away from us they were “rebels,”

that our control could be no yoke, for were we not always and only and

fully in the right?

In early May Arno’s regiment was ordered to march. They had to leave at

seven in the morning. Ah, the night before—that terrible night!

Arno slept. He breathed quietly, with tranquil happiness upon his

features. I set a candle behind the screen, for the darkness frightened

me and sleep was impossible. I lay quietly beside him, leaning on one

elbow and looking into his beloved face.

I wept and reviewed the cruel fate which was separating us. How could I

bear it? Would a merciful Father let us soon have peace? Why could there

not be peace always? I pictured him wounded, lying on the damp ground,

and all the agonies that would be mine should he never return. I could

have screamed and thrown my arms about him, but no, he must sleep that

he should be better ready for duty in the morning. I was wornout with my

despair, the clock ticked meaninglessly, the candle flickered low, and I

slipped into unconsciousness and dropped on to my pillow in sleep. Over

and over again I started in my sleep, my heart palpitating with fear and

alarm, and when I thus waked for the tenth or twelfth time, it was day,

the candle had gone out, and there came a loud knock at the door.

“Six o’clock, lieutenant,” said the orderly who came to rouse his master

in good time.

The hour had come, the dreaded farewell was to be said; I was not to go

to the station, but in our own room the sad parting was to take place,

for I knew that my agony would overcome me. As Arno dressed he made all

sorts of comforting speeches:—

“Be brave, my Martha. In two months we will be together again, and all

will be over. Many come back from wars—look at your own father. Did you

marry a Hussar to keep him at home, to raise hyacinths for you? I will

write you lively letters of the whole campaign. My own cheerfulness is a

good omen, and I am only out to win my spurs. Take care of yourself and

the darling Rudolf. My promotions are for him too. How he will love to

hear his father tell of the glorious victory over Italy in which he took

part!”

I listened to him and felt that perhaps my unhappiness was all

selfishness. I would be strong and take courage.

Again a knock at the door.

“I am quite ready; coming directly.” And he spread his arms. “Now,

Martha, my wife, my love!” I rushed to him speechless; the farewell

refused to pass my lips, and it was he who spoke the heart-breaking

word:—

“Good-bye, my all, my love, good-bye!” he convulsively sobbed, covering

his face. This was too much, and I felt my mind going.

“Arno! Arno!” I screamed, wrapping my arms about him. “Stay! Stay!” I

persistently called, “Stay, stay!”

“Lieutenant!” we heard outside, “it is quite time.”

One last kiss—and he rushed out.

CHAPTER IV

Women’s co-operation at home—Anxious for news from seat of

war—Austria’s bad luck—Patriotism and relief work—A friendly

visit—The fatal news.

Preparing lint, reading reports, following on the map the chess-board of

the war with my little movable flags, prayers for the success of our

side, talking of the events of the day: such were our occupations. All

our other interests lagged, one question alone occupied us: When and how

will this war end? We ate, drank, read, and worked with no real concern,

only the telegrams and letters from Italy seemed of any importance. Arno

was not given to letter-writing, but his short notes always gave me the

cheering word that he was still alive and unwounded. Letters were

irregular, for the field-post was cut off during an engagement, and then

my anxiety and suffering were indescribable. After each battle, the list

of the killed filled me each time with fresh terror, as though my loved

one had held a lottery ticket, and might have drawn the doomed number.

When, for the first time, I read the list and found no Arno Dotzky among

them, I folded my hands and prayed softly, “My God, I thank thee.” But

with the words still in my ears they suddenly grated upon me. Was I

perhaps thanking God that Adolf Schmidt and Karl Muller, and many others

had been slain, but not Arno Dotzky? Naturally those who prayed and

hoped for Schmidt and Muller would have been glad to read the name of

Dotzky instead of those they dreaded to find. And why should my thanks

be more pleasing to God than theirs? That Schmidt’s mother and Muller’s

sweetheart should break their hearts, this had made me rejoice? And I

realised the selfishness of such thanksgivings, and presumptuousness of

our prayers.

On the same day a letter came from Arno:—

Yesterday we had another hard fight, and, unfortunately, again a

defeat. But cheer up, darling Martha, the next battle we shall surely

win. It was my first great engagement. To stand in a thick shower of

bullets gives one a peculiar feeling. I will tell you about it by and

by; it is frightful. The poor fellows who fall on all sides must be

left in spite of their cries—but such is war. When we enter Turin to

dictate terms to the enemy, you can meet me there, for Aunt Marie can

take care of our little corporal until we return.

Such letters formed the sunshine of my existence, but my nights were

restless. Often I awoke with the horrible feeling that at the very

moment Arno might be dying in a ditch, thirsting for water, and crying

out for me. I would force myself back to my senses by imagining the

scene of his joyful return, which was much more probable to be my

experience than the contrary.

Bad news followed thick and fast. My father was deeply distressed, first

over Montebello, then Magenta; and not he alone, for all Vienna was

disheartened. Victory had been so certain, that we were already planning

our flag decorations and Te Deums. Instead, the flags were waving, and

the priests chanting in Turin. There they were thanking God that he had

helped them to strike down the wicked “Tedeschi.”

“Father dear, in case of another defeat, will not then peace be

declared?” I asked one day.

“Shame upon you to suggest such a thing!” he silenced me. “Better that

it should be a seven years’, even a thirty years’ war, so that our side

may be the conqueror, and we dictate terms of peace. If we fight only to

get out of it as quickly as possible, we might as well never have

begun.”

“And that would have been by far the best,” I sighed.

“Women are such cowards! Even you, whom I grounded so thoroughly in

principles of patriotism and love of fatherland, are now quite willing

to sacrifice the fame of your country for your own personal comfort.”

“Alas ... it is because I love my Arno so well!”

“Love of husband, love of family, all that is very good, but it takes

the second place to love of country.”

“_Ought_ it?”

* * * * *

The lists of fatalities grew apace, and contained the names of several

officers personally known to me, among the rest the only son of a dear

old lady whom I greatly respected. I felt I must go and comfort her. No,

comfort her, I could not. I would only weep with her. On reaching her

house I hesitated to pull the bell. My last visit there had been on the

occasion of a jolly little dancing party, and Frau von Ullmann, full of

joy, had said to me: “Martha, we are the two most enviable women in

Vienna. You have the handsomest of husbands and I the noblest of sons.”

And, to-day? I still, indeed, had my husband, but who knows? Shot and

shell might make me a widow any minute. There was no answer as I stood

and rang at the door. Finally a head was thrust out of the window of the

adjoining apartment:—

“There is no use ringing, miss, the house is empty.”

“What, is Frau von Ullmann gone?”

“She was taken to the insane asylum three days ago,” and the head

disappeared.

I stood motionless, rooted to the spot. What scenes there must have

been! What heights of agony before the poor old lady broke into madness!

And my father wished that the war might last thirty years for the

welfare of the country! How many more such mothers would there be then?

I went down the stairs shaken to the depths. I started to call on

another friend, and on the way I passed the Relief Corps storehouse, for

there was then no “Red Cross” or “Convention of Geneva” to distribute

supplies, and the people were all eagerly offering comforts for the sick

and wounded. I entered, feeling impelled to empty my purse into the

hands of the committee. It might save some poor fellow—and keep his

mother from the madhouse. I was shown to the room where the

contributions were taken. I passed several rooms where long tables were

piled with packages of linens, wines, cigars, tobacco, but mostly

mountains of bandages, and I thought with a shudder, how many bleeding

gashes it would take to use them all—and my father wishing that the war

might last for thirty years. How many of our country’s sons would then

succumb to their wounds?

My money was received thankfully, and my many questions were answered,

comforting me much to hear of the good being done.

An old gentleman came in, offering a hundred florin bill, and saying:

“Allow me to contribute a little toward the useful work. I look on all

this organisation of yours as the most humane. I have served in the

campaign of 1809–1813, when no one sent the wounded pillows and

bandages. There were never enough surgeons and supplies, and thousands

suffered a hideous death. You cannot realise the good you are doing.”

And he went away with tears in his eyes.

Just then there was commotion outside, and throwing open the double

doors, the guard announced: “Her Majesty, the Empress!”

From my quiet corner I saw the beautiful young sovereign, who in her

simple street dress appeared even lovelier than in her court costume or

ball dress.

“I have come,” she said gently, “because the Emperor writes to me from

the seat of war how useful and acceptable is your work.” She examined

the rolls of linen. “How beautifully done it is,” she exclaimed. “It is

a fine patriotic undertaking, and the poor soldiers——” I lost the rest

of the remark as she passed into another room, so visibly content with

what she was seeing.

“Poor soldiers!” These words sounded strangely pathetic in my ears. Yes,

poor indeed, and the more comforts we sent them the better. But the

suggestion that ran through my head was: “Why not keep them at home

altogether? Why send these poor men into all this misery?”

But no, I must shut out the thought, for is war not a necessary thing? I

found the only excuse for all this cruelty in that little word: “Must.”

I went on my way and passed a book-store. Remembering that my map of the

war region was worn to shreds, I stepped in to order one. A number of

buyers were there, and when my turn came the proprietor asked: “A map of

Italy, madam?”

“How did you guess it?”

“No one asks for anything else, nowadays.” While wrapping up my

purchase, he said to a gentleman standing by, “It goes hard nowadays

with writers and publishers of books. So long as war lasts no one is

interested in intellectual matters. These are hard times for authors and

booksellers.”

“Yes, this is a great drain on the nation, and war is always followed by

a decline in the intellectual standard.”

For the third time I thought: “And father, for the good of the country,

would have war last thirty years.”

“So your business suffers?” I asked.

“Not mine alone, madam. Except for the army providers, all tradesmen are

suffering untold losses. Everything stands still in the factory, on the

farm, everywhere men are without work, and without bread. Our securities

are falling and gold rises in value, while all enterprise is blocked,

and business is being bankrupted. In short, everywhere is misery,

misery!”

“And there is my own father wishing——” I found myself thinking as I left

the store.

My friend was at home. The Countess Lori Griesbach in more than one

respect shared the same lot with me. Her father was a general, and like

me she had married an officer. Her husband as well as two brothers were

in the service. But Lori’s nature was very light-hearted. She had fully

convinced herself that her dear ones were under the special protection

of her patron saint, and she was confident that they would return. She

received me with open arms.

“So glad to see you, dear; it is good of you to come. But you look

worried. Any bad news?”

“No, thank God, but the whole thing is so terrible to me.”

“You mean the defeat? Oh, do not think about that, for the next news

must be victory.”

“Defeat or victory, war is horrible,” I said. “How much better if there

never were a war.”

“Oh dear, what then would become of our glorious military profession?”

“Then we should not need any.”

“What a silly way for you to talk,” she said. “How stale life would be

with nothing but civilians. I almost shudder at the thought, but,

fortunately, that would be impossible.”

“Impossible?” I said. “But perhaps you are right, or it would have long

ago been changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that armies would have long ago been disbanded. But no, one

might as well expect to prevent earthquakes.”

“I cannot understand how you can talk so. For I am rejoiced that my

Louis has this splendid chance to distinguish himself. And for my

brothers, too, it is a good thing, for promotions are so very slow in

times of peace. Now they have all opportunities.”

“Have you received any news recently?” I interrupted.

“Not for some time, but you know how very uncertain the post is. After

an engagement they are too tired to write. But my mind is easy, for both

Louis and my brothers wear the blessed amulets. Mamma put them round

their necks herself?”

“Can you imagine two armies meeting, when every man wears an amulet?

Tell me; if the bullets are flying here and there, can they all be

deflected into the clouds?”

“I do not understand what you mean, dear Martha, and your faith is so

lukewarm. Even your aunt complains about you.”

“But why can’t you answer me?”

“Because you are jesting at what is sacred to me.”

“Jesting? Not at all. I was simply suggesting a reasonable argument in

things that are above us.”

“You well know that it is a sin to argue and trust your own reason in

things that are above you.”

“Yes, my dear, I will be quiet. You are right. Logic and reason are

dangerous. Reflection and research are of no use. All sorts of doubts

torment me and I try to answer them, but find only pain. Were I to

disbelieve in the necessity of war I could never forgive those who——”

“You mean Louis Napoleon? Oh, what an intriguer he is!”

“Whether he or another ... but I must try to believe that men do not

cause wars, that they break out of themselves like nervous fevers, and

the flames of Vesuvius.”

“What a state your mind is in! Let us be sensible. Listen to me. Soon

both our husbands will come back captains. I shall have a jolly six

weeks at a watering-place with mine. It will do us both good after this

suspense. You need not think that I have not suffered at all. And it may

yet be God’s will that one of our dear ones shall meet a soldier’s

death—but what is more noble, more honourable, than death in battle for

emperor and fatherland?”

“You are talking like the next best army proclamation.”

“Yet, it would be dreadful—poor mamma—should Karl or Gustav be lost. But

let us not think of it. Yes, I shall go and refresh myself at some

watering-place. I think I would prefer Carlsbad. I was there as a girl

and had a glorious season.”

“I, too, went to Marienbad, and there I made the acquaintance of my

husband. But don’t let us be sitting here idly. If you have linen at

hand we can be making bandages. I just came from the Relief Corps and——”

We were interrupted, for the footman brought in a letter.

“From Gustav,” cried Lori, joyfully. She read a few lines and,

shrieking, fell about my neck.

“Lori, my poor dear, what is it? Your husband?”

“Oh God, oh God!” she exclaimed. “Read for yourself.”

I took the letter up. I can recall the contents perfectly, for I

afterwards copied it in my diary.

“Read aloud, for I could not finish.”

I read:—

“DEAR SISTER—Yesterday we had a severe encounter. There was a long

list of dead and wounded. Prepare poor mother, tell her Karl is

severely wounded, but I tell you the truth—the brave fellow died for

his country.”

I stopped to embrace dear Lori, and continued reading, choked with my

tears.

“Your husband is safe, as well as I. Had the enemy’s bullet only hit

me instead! I envy Karl his heroic death. He fell at the beginning and

never knew we were defeated. Oh, how bitter it all is, I saw his fall,

for we were riding together. I sprang to lift him up, but one look

told me he was dead. The ball must have hit the lungs or heart. His

death was surely instant and quite painless. Many others suffered

hours of agony and lay long in the heat of battle till death came. It

was a bloody day. More than a thousand, friend and foe, were left on

the field. Among the dead I found many dear faces, and with the rest,

there is poor”—here I had to turn the page—“poor Arno Dotzky.”

I fell insensible to the floor.

CHAPTER V

Early widowhood—Sorrow and solitude—I take up my studies again—Broader

conceptions.

“It is all over now, Martha! Solferino is decisive. We have been

beaten.” With these words my father hurried to me one morning, as I was

sitting under the linden trees in the garden.

I was back in the home of my girlhood with my little Rudolf. Eight days

after the great battle which left me a widow, I returned to live with my

family in Grumitz, our country place in Lower Austria. Just as it had

been before my marriage, I was surrounded by the loved ones—father,

aunt, two growing sisters, and my little brother. Their kindness and

sympathy touched my grief-stricken heart. My sorrow seemed to have

consecrated me in their eyes and raised me above the ordinary level.

Next to the blood poured out by the soldiers on the altar of their

country, the tears of the bereft mothers, wives, and children are

considered the holiest libations poured on the same altar. What was

almost a feeling of pride and heroic dignity took possession of me, for

to have sacrificed a beloved husband in battle conferred upon me the

equivalent of military merit, which grew to be quite a comforting

thought, and helped me to bear my sorrow. But then I was but one of many

whose loved ones slept beneath the Italian sod.

No particulars were brought me of Arno’s death, other than that he had

been found dead, recognised, and buried. No doubt the baby and I were

his last thought and consolation, and with his last breath he had

groaned, “I have done my duty, more than my duty.”

“Yes, we are beaten,” sadly repeated my father as he sank on to the

bench.

“So the victims were a needless sacrifice,” I sighed.

“Indeed they are to be envied, for they know nothing of the disgrace

which has come upon us. But we shall gather ourselves together soon,

though they say that peace must now be concluded.”

“May God grant it!” I interrupted. “Though it is too late for my poor

Arno, yet thousands of others will be spared.”

“You seem to think only of your own sorrow, and that of private

individuals. This is Austria’s affair.”

“But is not Austria made up of individuals?”

“But, my dear child, a state and empire has a longer and more important

existence than an individual. Men disappear, from generation to

generation, but the state goes on and on; it grows in power, fame, and

greatness, or it crumbles, sinks, and is lost, if it allows itself to be

surpassed or swallowed by other states. Therefore, it is the highest

duty of every individual to sacrifice, suffer, and even die, that the

existence, the power, and welfare of the state may be perpetuated and

increased.”

These impressive words remained in my thought, and I noted them in my

diary. They were curiously like the sentences in my old school books,

whose strong, clear convictions had been quite driven from my mind of

late, especially since Arno’s death, by the confusion, fear, and pity I

had experienced. I once more hugged them to my heart, and found

consolation and encouragement in the thought that my darling had been

sacrificed in a great cause, and that, in giving up my husband, I had

done my share in the service of my country.

Aunt Marie had a different source of consolation ready, however. “Stop

your crying, my dear,” she would say when she found me crushed anew with

my grief. “Is it not selfish to mourn for him who is now so happy? From

up among the saints he is even now looking down and blessing you. The

years will pass quickly when you will join him there. For the heroes of

battle heaven prepares a special place of rest. Happy are those who are

called from this earth while performing a sacred duty. Next in glory to

the Christian martyr comes the dying soldier.”

“Then I am to rejoice that Arno——”

“No, not rejoice, that would be asking too much. You must bear your lot

and resign yourself. Heaven sends this trial to purify and strengthen

your faith.”

“And in order that my heart be purified and my faith strengthened my

poor Arno had to——”

“No, no, but how dare you question the hidden ways of Providence?”

The consolations which my aunt offered were rather confusing and

distracting, but I allowed myself to accept the mystical tangle, and

believe that my dear victim was now enjoying heaven as a reward for his

agony of sacrifice, and that his memory would be glorified on earth with

the halo of heroic martyrdom.

Just before our departure from Vienna the great mourning ceremony had

been celebrated in the cathedral of St. Stefan, and I attended. The _De

Profundis_ was sung for all our warriors fallen and buried on foreign

soil. A catafalque had been erected in the centre of the church, lighted

with a hundred candles and hung with flags, arms, and military emblems.

The grand pathetic requiem came from the choir and flooded the

congregation—mostly women clothed in black and weeping aloud. And not

for her own alone, but for the same sad fate of all, each woman wept—for

all these poor brave brothers who had given up their sweet young lives

for us, for their country, the honour of their nation! And there in the

background stood several regiments of living soldiers, listening to the

ceremony—all waiting and ready to follow their fallen comrades without a

murmur or fear. These clouds of incense, the swelling voice of the

organ, the fervent petitions, the common woe poured out in tears and

groans must surely have risen to a well-pleased heavenly ear, and the

God of armies and battles must certainly shower down His blessing on

those to whom this catafalque was raised.

These were the thoughts that came to me, and which I wrote in my journal

when I described the mourning celebration.

Two weeks after the defeat of Solferino came the news of the peace of

Villa Franca. My father gave himself no end of pains to explain to me

how necessary for political reasons this peace had become. I assured him

that it was very joyful news to me to know that there was an end to all

this fighting and dying. But he continued at length to explain.

“You must not for one instant think,” he said, “that even though in this

peace we have made concessions, we have thereby sacrificed our dignity.

We Austrians know perfectly what we are about. It is not the little

check we got at Solferino which makes us give up the game. Far from it.

We could easily have routed them with another army corps, and forced the

enemy from Milan, but, dear Martha, there are other things

involved—great principles and objects. We do not cease to push the war

further, lest these Sardinian robbers and their French hangman-ally

should push into other portions of Italy—Modena and Tuscany—where

dynasties are in power which are related to our imperial family; nay,

they might advance even against Rome itself, and endanger the Holy

Father—the Vandals! By giving up Lombardy we keep Venetia, and can

assure the Holy See and the southern Italian states of our support.

Thus, my dear, you see, it is only for political reasons and for the

sake of the balance of power in Europe——”

“Oh, yes, father, I see it,” I broke in. “It is a pity that they could

not have planned it all before Magenta!” I sighed bitterly, and, to

change the subject, I pointed to a package of books which had just

arrived from Vienna.

“See, father, the bookseller has sent us several things on approval.

Among the rest is the English naturalist Darwin’s _The Origin of

Species_. He recommends it as an epoch-making book in modern thought.”

“He need not bother me with it,” replied my father. “In such stirring

times, who can be interested in such rubbish? How can a stupid book

about plants and animals and their origin make an epoch of any

importance to us men? The federation of the Italian States, the forming

of the German Bund, and the consolidation of Austria—such matters make

epochs in history and mark the great strides in human advancement. These

things will live in history long after that stupid English book is

forgotten. Mark my words.”

I did mark them.

BOOK II

TIME OF PEACE

CHAPTER I

Society once more—Happiness returns—A second marriage suggested—My

younger sisters need a chaperone—Baron Tilling introduced—He tells

of Arno’s death.

Four years passed quietly, and my sisters, now seventeen and eighteen

years old, are to be presented at court. “Why should I not too return to

society?” I thought. Time had done its work and quieted my grief.

Despair had mellowed into sorrow, sorrow into melancholy, then came

listlessness, and finally I felt a renewing of my interest in life. I

woke one fine morning with the realisation that I was a woman to be

envied—twenty-three, beautiful, nobly born, rich, the mother of a

darling boy, and one of a devoted family. What had I still to ask to

make life delightful?

Behind me like a sweet dream lay the short period of my married life.

The shadowy past began to swallow up the memory of my desperate love, my

handsome Huzzar, my married happiness, my terrible separation and grief.

The duration of it had not been long enough to create a close sympathy.

Our devotion had been too shortly cut off to have grown into the

friendship and reverence which is often felt by those who have shared

years of joy and sorrow. Could I have been indispensable to him when,

for no cause, he rushed into the war and left his regiment, which was

not called out? Yes, four years made me a different being. My mind had

broadened, and knowledge and culture had come to me which, I felt, Arno

would have had no sympathy with. If he could come back he would be a

stranger to my present spiritual life.

How did it all come about?

One year of widowhood passed in despair, deep mourning, and

heart-breaking. Of society I would not hear. Rudolf’s education should

be my one thought. The “baby” turned into “my son,” and became the

centre of my hope, my pride, and my existence. To be able some day to be

his guide and intellectual companion, I buried myself in the treasures

of the chateau library. History, in which my interest had cooled, became

my passion again, as well as my consolation, for the account of battles

and heroics seemed to relate me to the grand historical processes, for

which I, too, had lived. Not that I ever got back the old enthusiasms of

girlish days for the Maid of Orleans. Many of the overwrought accounts

now sounded hollow and mocking, when I thought of the horrors of war.

Can the priceless gem life be paid for with the tinsel coin of

posthumous fame?

But the history-shelf of my father’s library was soon exhausted; I

begged the bookseller to send me more. He wrote:—

I send you Thomas Buckle’s _History of Civilisation in England_. The

work is unfinished, but these two volumes form a complete whole, and

have attracted great attention, not only in England but over the

world. They say that the author is introducing a new conception of

history.

New, indeed! Reading and re-reading it, I felt like a creature taken

suddenly from the bottom of a narrow valley to the mountain tops and

viewing the world for the first time, out, beyond and beyond, to the

boundless ocean. Not that I, a superficial mind of twenty, could grasp

the book—but, to keep to my picture, I saw that lofty monumental things

lay before my astonished vision. I was dazzled, overcome, my horizon

moved out into the immensities of life. Though the full understanding

only came to me later, yet that one vision I caught even then, that the

history of mankind itself was not formulated by wars, kings, statesmen,

treaties, greed, cunning, but by the gradual development of the

intellect. Court chronicles gave no explanation to underlying causes,

nor a picture of the civilisation of the time. Buckle did not paint war

and devastation with a glamour, but demonstrated that the respect for

arms diminished as a people rose in culture and intelligence. The lower

into barbarism you go, the more war, and he holds even that some day the

love of war and its romance will die out of our culture and cease to

exist. Just as childhood’s wrangling ceases, so must society outgrow its

childishness.

How all this appealed to the convictions of my heart, which I had so

often dismissed as unworthy and weak! I now felt that these growing

ideals in me were an echo of the spirit of the age, and saw that

thinkers were losing their idolatry for war, and doubting its necessity.

The book gave me the opposite of what I sought, yet how it solaced me,

enlightened, elevated, and pacified me. Once I tried to talk to my

father about it, but he would have none of it; he refused to follow me

to the mountain top, that is, he refused to read the book, so it was

useless to discuss it.

During the second year of my sorrow I studied with renewed ardour, and

as the mind expanded the old unhappiness disappeared. Buckle had

unconsciously given me a taste for the larger world again, and I

satisfied my craving to follow out his idea in other authors. The

passion for life renewed itself, and the melancholy disappeared. Then

the third change was wrought in me. Books alone would not satisfy me. I

saw that with all this reading my longings were not being

gratified—life’s flowers were still for me to pluck if I only stretched

out the hand. So in the winter of 1863 I entered the salons of Viennese

society once more, to introduce my younger sisters there.

“Martha, Countess Dotzky, the rich young widow,” thus spoken of, I took

my part in the great comedy of the world again. The part suited me, and

I was greeted, fêted, spoiled on all sides, much to my delight, after

four years of social starving.

The entire family quietly presumed that I would remarry. My aunt no

longer referred to my soldier saint above. The future promised meeting

might not be so agreeable if a second husband stepped in. Every one

except myself seemed to have forgotten his existence. My pain was gone,

but his image could never be wiped out. Daily Rudolf’s evening prayer

closed with: “God keep me good and brave for love of my father, Arno.”

We sisters enjoyed society in the extreme. It was really my first

glimpse, too, for I had married so soon that I had missed the gaiety and

attentions. My crowd of admirers, however, did not impress me much, for

between us there lay a chasm. Brilliant young beaux chatting of

ballroom, court, and theatre had not the faintest glimpse of the things

which my life was beginning to depend upon. Though I had only begun to

lisp in the language of the higher things of soul and science, yet that

was farther removed from these chatterers than Greek or even Patagonian.

I had begun to think in the tongue with which men of science would some

day debate, and finally solve the greatest riddles of the world.

It was quite certain that in such a circle I would scarcely find a

congenial mate, and I carefully avoided all entangling rumours, devoted

myself to my boy, plunged into study, kept in touch with the

intellectual world, read and relished keenly all the latest things. This

barred me from many of the frivolities, and yet I keenly enjoyed the

gaiety, the company, and dancing. I longed to open my salon to a few of

the upper world of scholarship, but my social position made that

impossible. I dared not hope to mix the classes in Vienna. Since that

day the exclusive spirit has changed, and fashion to-day finds it

acceptable to open its doors to brains of the rarer sort. But at that

time it would have been quite impossible to receive except such as were

presentable at court—counting at least sixteen ancestors. Our own social

set would not have been able to converse with the thinking class, and

the latter class would have found it intolerably dull to mingle with a

drawing-room full of sportsmen, cloister-bred young girls, old generals,

and canonesses. All the talk was a vapid recital of where the last ball

had been and the next one was to be—perhaps at Schwartzenberg’s or

Pallavicini’s; who was the latest adorer of Baroness Pacher, and the

latest rejected of the Countess Palffy; how many estates had Prince

Croy; was Lady Amalay’s title from her father’s or mother’s side? Could

such drivel possibly have interested the intellectual set?

Occasionally an able statesman, diplomat, or man of genius cropped up

among us, but they always assumed the frivolous conversation of the

rest. A quiet after-dinner chat with some of our parliamentarians or men

of mark would have been made impossible almost, for hardly would the

conversation turn on some political or scientific subject when it would

be interrupted with, “Ah, dearest Countess Dotzky, how charming you

looked yesterday at the picnic! And are you going to the Russian embassy

to-morrow?”

* * * * *

“Allow me, dear Martha,” said my cousin Conrad Althaus, “to introduce

Lieutenant-Colonel Baron Tilling.” I bowed and arose, thinking the

introduction meant an invitation to dance.

“Pardon me, Countess,” he said, with a slight smile, showing a perfect

row of teeth, “I do not dance.”

“So much the better, for I would like a moment’s rest,” I said,

reseating myself.

“I was bold enough to ask for the introduction, for I had some

information for you,” he continued.

I looked up at him in surprise. He was no longer young, somewhat grey,

and with a serious countenance, but withal a distinguished and

sympathetic face.

“I will not intrude, Countess, but what I have to tell you is not suited

to a ballroom chat. If you will fix the hour, I will come to you with

it.”

“I am at home on Saturdays between two and four.”

“I would rather see you alone.”

“Then come to-morrow at the same hour.” The Baron bowed and left me.

Later, Cousin Conrad passed; I called him to my side and questioned him

concerning Tilling.

“Ah ha! Has he so impressed you that you are setting an investigation on

foot? He is unmarried, but a distinguished princess of the reigning

house has him entangled in her silken web, and therefore he does not

wish to marry. His regiment has just been ordered here, but he is no

friend of society. I meet him every day at the ‘Noble’s Club,’ where he

always seems absorbed in the papers or a game of chess. I was astonished

to see him here, but the hostess is his cousin. After speaking with you

he went away immediately.”

“And he was introduced to no other ladies?”

“No; but do not imagine that it was your beauty that brought him down at

long range, and therefore asked to know you. He merely questioned:

‘Could you tell me whether a certain Countess Dotzky, formerly an

Althaus, probably a relative of yours, is here to-day? I want to speak

to her.’ I pointed to you. ‘There she sits in the blue dress.’ ‘Oh,’

said he, ‘that is she? Will you introduce me?’ And I brought him over

with no idea that I would disturb your peace of mind.”

“Such nonsense, Conrad, as though my peace were so easily ruffled!

Tilling! What family is that? The name is new to me.”

“So you are interested? Perhaps he is the lucky fellow. I who have tried

for three months to interest you in me must step aside for this

cold-hearted lieutenant-colonel. Let me warn you, he is without feeling.

The Tilling family, I believe, is of Hanoverian origin, although his

father was an Austrian officer and his mother a Prussian. Did you note

his North German accent?”

“He speaks beautiful German.”

“You find everything about him beautiful, no doubt.” Conrad rose. “I

have heard enough. Let me leave you to dream—I can find plenty of

beautiful ladies who——”

“Who will think you charming, Conrad. Indeed there are plenty.”

I was uneasy and left the ball early. Surely not to be able to think

uninterruptedly about the new friend, although I found myself doing it!

At midnight I enriched the red book with the conversation given above,

and added my unpleasant doubts that he might even then be sitting at the

feet of the princess. I ended my sentence by envying her—not Tilling, oh

no!—for being beloved by some one. My waking thought was once

more—Tilling. Naturally; had he not made an appointment for that day?

For some time nothing had excited me like this visit.

At ten minutes past two the Baron von Tilling was announced.

“As you see, Countess, I am prompt,” he said, kissing my hand.

“Luckily, for I am overwhelmed with curiosity to know your news.”

“Then, without delay, I will tell you. It is this: I was in the battle

of Magenta.”

“And you saw Arno die?” I cried.

“Yes. I can tell you of his last moments, and it will be a relief to

you. Do not tremble, for if the finish had been shocking I would not

tell you.”

“You take a weight from my heart. Go on, go on!”

“The empty phrase, ‘He died as a hero,’ I will not use. But it will

comfort you to know that he died instantly and without knowing it. We

were often together, and he was so confident of his safety. He showed me

the pictures of his wife and boy, and insisted that after the campaign I

should be his guest. I chanced in the Magenta massacre to be at his

side. I will not relate the terrible scenes. The intoxication of the

warrior passion had quite seized Dotzky in the thick of the bullet-hail

and powder-fog. His eyes were blazing and he was fighting like mad. I,

who was sober, saw it all. Suddenly a shell, and ten men—Dotzky among

them—fell. He was instantly killed, but many of them shrieked in agony.

All but he were shockingly mangled, but we had to leave them, for a

charging column came upon us with a murderous hurrah, pell-mell over the

dead and wounded. Lucky those who were dead! After the battle I found

Dotzky, with the placid smile on his face, a painless look, and in the

same spot and position. I have meant for several years to come and tell

you, and relieve you of a painful uncertainty. But forgive me if I have

recalled torturing memories.”

The Baron rose to go, and I thanked him while drying my tears: “You

cannot know what a relief it is to feel that he died without agony. But

stay. A certain tone in your remarks has touched a like strain in my

thought. Tell me frankly, you too hate war?”

His face darkened: “Forgive me if I cannot stop to discuss the subject.

I am sorry, but I am expected elsewhere.”

A cold expression passed over me, and the unpleasant thought of the

princess came into my mind. “Then I will not detain you, Colonel,” I

said coldly, and he left without asking if he might be allowed to come

again.

CHAPTER II

After the carnival—Father’s dinner-party—Toy soldiers—Tilling

again—The brave Hupfauf—Darwin.

The carnival over—Rosa and Lilli were still fancy free, and I was

feeling that the dancing was growing monotonous. I find all my

impressions noted in the red book. Society was not dropped, for Lent

brought its rounds as well; sermons and church were quite as popular a

meeting-place for the friends as were the opera and ballroom earlier in

the season. I was not quite pious enough to suit Aunt Marie, who dragged

the girls off to hear all the famous preachers. I spent my evenings by

the fire with books, and devoted myself afresh to my boy. I repeated

Tilling’s story to my father, but he considered it of no importance that

Arno died without pain. How differently Tilling had regarded the matter,

and I did not repeat his words to my father, for he would only

instinctively have despised him for his unsoldierly sentiments. How

gladly I would further have discussed the question of war with Tilling,

but, alas! he never called, and I only casually met him in public

occasionally. But even those meetings and greetings lingered in my

thought.

One morning at breakfast my father handed me a parcel: “My dear, here is

a parcel for you, and I have a favour to ask.”

“A present and a request,” I laughed; “that’s bribery.”

“Yes. I must have three old generals and their wives to dinner, a stiff,

sleepy, tedious affair, and I want you to come to my house and do the

honours.”

“And you evidently wish to sacrifice your daughter, as the ancient

father Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigenia.”

“I added a younger element for your sake—Dr. Bresser, for one; he

treated me in my last illness, and I wish to show my appreciation. I

also invited Lieutenant-Colonel Tilling. Ah, you blush; what is the

matter with you?”

“Me?” I said, hiding my confusion by hastily breaking open the parcel.

“It is nothing for you, only a box of lead soldiers for Rudolf.”

“But, father, a child of four——”

“Nonsense; I played at soldiers when I was three. My earliest memory is

of drums, swords, words of command and marching. That is the way to

start the boys to love the profession.”

“But my son shall never be a soldier,” I interrupted.

“Martha, you know it would be his father’s wish.”

“The boy belongs to me now, and I object.”

“What! Object to the noblest and most honourable of all callings?”

“His life shall not be risked in war, he is my only son.”

“As an only son I became a soldier; Arno and your brother also. The

traditions of both families require it that the offspring of a Dotzky

and an Althaus shall devote his service to his fatherland.”

“His country needs him less than I, and there are other ways of serving

one’s country.”

“If all mothers were like you——”

“There would then be fewer parades and reviews, fewer men to slay as

food for bullets. That would hardly be a misfortune.”

Much provoked, my father said: “Oh you women! Luckily the young do not

ask your permission, when soldier’s blood flows in their veins. But

Rudolf will not remain your only son, you will marry again. By the way,

what has become of all your admirers? There is Captain Olensky seriously

in love with you. Just lately he poured it all out to me, and I should

like him as a son-in-law.”

“I do not care for him for a husband.”

“How about Major Millersdorf?”

“You may call the whole army roll, but I want none of them.” And I

turned the subject: “When is the dinner?”

“At five. Come down earlier. Adieu, I must go. Kiss Rudi for me—the

future Field-Marshal of the Imperial Army.”

Could the dinner be a “stiff, tiresome affair,” when the presence of

Baron Tilling moved me in such a singular way? We had no occasion to

speak at the table, being separated, and even after the dinner, while

serving the coffee in the drawing-room, the two old generals remained my

faithful attendants. I longed to speak to Tilling again about the

battle-scene, and hear his sympathetic voice. But the circle left no

opportunity for me to talk with him. The conversation ran on the usual

topic.

“It will soon break out again,” suggested one old general.

“Hum,” said the other, “next time it will be with Russia.”

“Must there always be a next time?” I interrupted, but no one took

notice.

“Italy first,” persisted my father. “We must get back Lombardy. We

should march into Milan as we did with Father Radetzky in ’49. I

remember, it was a bright sunny morn——”

“Oh!” I exclaimed in a panic, “we all know the story of the entry into

Milan.”

“And the story of the brave Hupfauf, also?” asked my father.

“Yes, and it is most revolting.”

One of the group broke in diplomatically: “Let us hear it, Althaus.”

My father needed no encouragement.

“Hupfauf was a Tyrolese Jager, and the best shot imaginable. He proposed

to take four comrades to the roof of the cathedral and shoot down on the

rebels. The four did nothing but load, and he shot, hitting the mark

every time and killing ninety Italians.”

“Horrible!” I exclaimed. “Each one shot had a mother or sweetheart at

home, and had a right to his young life.”

“My dear, they were all enemies, and that alters the point of view.”

“Ah, true,” said Dr. Bresser, “the whole world is turned upside down so

long as there is racial enmity, and the laws of humanity will receive

but slight recognition.”

“What do you say, Baron Tilling?” I asked.

“I would have decorated the gallant breast of the man, from the point of

view of war ethics, and then put a bullet into his stony heart. He

deserved both.”

I gave the speaker a grateful look, and, except the doctor, all the

guests seemed unpleasantly affected, and a short pause ensued in the

talk.

The doctor then turned to my father, asking, “Have you read the new work

by the English naturalist, Darwin?”

“I know nothing of it.”

“Why, papa,” I exclaimed, “that is the book you told me would soon be

forgotten by the world.”

“And, so far as I am concerned, it is forgotten.”

“But,” continued the doctor, “it has quite turned the world upside down

with its new theory of the origin of species.”

“You mean the ape theory?” asked the general at the right. “The idea

that we are descended from the ourang-outang?”

“Upon the whole,” the cabinet minister began, nodding (and when he began

thus we all trembled, for he was getting ready for a long discourse),

“the thing seems absurd, but we dare not take it as a joke. The theory

is powerfully built up on collected facts, and ingeniously worked out.

Like all such rash conceptions it will find its followers and produce a

certain effect on modern thought. It is a great pity it has been given

so much consideration. Of course, the clergy will array itself against

the degrading theory that man is derived from the brute, rather than

from God’s image. No wonder they are shocked and denounce it. But church

condemnation cannot prevent the spread of ideas that come in the garb of

science. Until men of science themselves reduce it to an absurdity——”

“What folly!” broke in my father, fearing that his guests might be

bored. “One needs only a bit of common sense to reject the absurd notion

that man has descended from apes.”

“Darwin has certainly wakened reasonable doubts, and apes and man do

greatly resemble each other,” the minister added, “but it will take some

time to bring about a unity of opinion among the scientists about it.”

“These gentry live by disputing,” said the old general to the left, in a

heavy Viennese dialect. “I too have heard something about this ape

business. But why bother one’s head with the chatter of the star-gazers

and grass-collectors and frog-dissectors? I saw a picture of this

Darwin, and I could well believe that his grandfather was a chimpanzee.”

The entire company enjoyed the joke.

Then the quieter general spoke: “Can you imagine an ape inventing the

telegraph? Speech alone raised men so far above beasts——”

“Pardon, your Excellency,” interrupted Dr. Bresser, “but the art of

speech and the capacity for invention were not among man’s original

powers. After all, it is the result of evolution and development.”

“Yes, I know, Doctor,” replied the general, “the war-cry of the new

school is evolution, but one cannot develop a camel from a kangaroo, nor

do we find apes to-day developing into men.”

I turned to Baron Tilling: “And what do you think of Darwin? Are you a

follower or an opponent?”

“Although I have heard much of late about Darwin, Countess, I cannot

give an opinion, for I have not read the book.”

“Nor have I,” the doctor acknowledged.

“Nor I—nor I—nor I—” came the chorus from the rest.

And the cabinet minister gravely wound up: “The subject is so popular

to-day that the expressions, ‘evolution,’ ‘natural selection,’ ‘survival

of the fittest,’ have passed into current thought. You find many

defenders among those who thirst for new ideas and change, while

cool-headed, critical people who insist on proof are found on the other

side.”

“There is always opposition to every new idea as soon as it comes up,”

said Tilling; “but one must have penetrated into the idea in order to be

able to judge. Conservatives assail anything, and often for the weakest

and most absurd reasons, and the masses only repeat what they hear. To

judge of scientific theories without investigation is absurd. Even

Copernicus was thundered down by Rome——”

“But, as I said before,” interrupted the minister, “not orthodoxy but

science itself cries down false hypotheses in our day.”

“New ideas are always objected to in the beginning by the old fogeys who

never like to give up their settled dogmas and views,” Tilling replied.

“For my part, I shall read the book, and the opposition of the

narrow-brained speaks rather for than against its truth.”

“Oh, you brave, clear-thinking spirit!” I silently apostrophised the

speaker.

CHAPTER III

A cosy chat with Tilling—We misunderstand each other—The attachment

grows—Countess Griesbach—Jealousy overcome—Tilling goes away—A

touching letter—Death of Tilling’s mother.

The dinner-party broke up at eight o’clock although my father insisted

on detaining them. I politely urged a cup of tea, but each had his

excuse and felt obliged to go. Tilling and Bresser had also risen to

take leave, but were easily persuaded to stay. Father and the doctor

were soon seated at the card-table, while Baron Tilling joined me by the

fire.

“I have a scolding for you, Baron. After the first visit you forgot the

way to my house.”

“You never asked me.”

“I told you, Saturdays.”

“Pardon me, Countess, if I find regular reception days abominable. To

meet a lot of strange people, bow to the hostess, sit a minute, hear the

weather discussed, meet a stray acquaintance, venture a stupid remark; a

desperate attempt to start a conversation with the hostess is

interrupted by a new arrival, who starts the weather talk again, and

then a fresh bunch comes in—perhaps a mother with four marriageable

daughters—you give up your chair, and finally in weariness take leave

and go. No, Countess, my talent for society is weak at best.”

“I meet you nowhere. Perhaps you hate people, and are a bit

misanthropic. No, I do not believe that, for I conclude from your words

that you love all men.”

“Hardly that; it is humanity as a whole I love, but not every man, not

the coarse, worthless, self-seeking. I pity them because their education

and circumstances made them unworthy of love.”

“Education and circumstances? Does not the character depend on

heredity?”

“Our circumstances are also a matter of inheritance.”

“Then you do not hold a man responsible for his badness, and therefore

not to be hated?”

“The one does not always depend on the other. A man is often to be

condemned, though he is not responsible. You also are not responsible

for your beauty, and yet one may admire——”

“Baron Tilling,” I said reproachfully, “we began talking seriously, and

suddenly you treat me like a compliment-seeking society miss.”

“Pardon me; I only intended to use the illustration closest at hand.”

An awkward pause followed. Then I said abruptly:—

“Why did you become a soldier, Baron Tilling?”

“Your question shows that you have looked into my mind. It was not I,

Frederick Tilling, thirty-nine years old, who has seen three campaigns,

who chose the profession. It was the ten-year-old little Fritz, who

spent his babyhood playing with lead soldiers and toy war-horses. It was

this boy, whose father, a decorated general, and whose lieutenant uncle

were always asking, ‘What are you going to be, my boy?’ And the boy

would always answer, ‘A real soldier with a real sword and a live

horse!’”

“My son had a box of leaden soldiers given him to-day, but he shall

never have them. Tell me, why did you not leave the army after the

little Fritz had grown into the big Frederick? Had not the army become

hateful to you?”

“To call it hateful is saying too much. The condition of affairs which

requires that men shall enter the cruel duties of war, that I hate. But

if such conditions are inevitable, I cannot hate the men who fulfil

these duties conscientiously. If I left the service, would it diminish

war? Another would hazard his life in my place. Why not I?”

“Is there not some better way for you to serve your fellows?”

“Perhaps. But I have been taught nothing thoroughly except the arts of

war. I think a man can do good and be useful in almost any surrounding,

and find opportunity to lift the burden of those dependent upon him. I

appreciate the respect the world holds me in because of my position. My

career has been quite fortunate, my comrades love me, and I enjoy my

success. I have no estate, and as a civilian I could not help even

myself. So why should I consider abandoning the military service?”

“Because killing people is repulsive to you.”

“Yes, but in self-defence the responsibility for killing ceases. War is

often called murder on a big scale, but the soldier never feels himself

a murderer. Naturally the atrocities of the battle-field are revolting

to me, and fill me with pain and disgust even as a seaman might suffer

during a storm. Still a brave sailor is undaunted and ventures the sea

again.”

“Yes, if he must. But must there be war?”

“That is another question. The individual should do his duty, and that

gives him strength and even pleasure.”

And so we chatted in a low tone, that we might not disturb the

card-players. Neither would our conversation have suited the others, for

Tilling told of the horrors he experienced in war, and I told him of my

reading of Buckle, who argued that the war spirit would die out as

civilisation advanced. I felt Tilling’s confidence as he displayed his

inner feelings to me, and a certain current of sympathy was established

between us.

“What are you two plotting and whispering about?” my father suddenly

called out.

“I am telling the Countess old war stories.”

“Oh, she likes that; she has heard them from her childhood.”

We resumed our whispered talk. Suddenly Tilling fastened his gaze on me,

while speaking in a sympathetic voice. I thought of the princess, felt a

sudden stab, and turned my head away.

“Why did your face change, Countess? Did my words offend you?”

I assured him it was nothing, but the conversation became rather

strained. At last I rose and looked at the clock, and bade my father

goodnight. Tilling offered to take me downstairs.

“I fear I have offended you, Countess,” he said, lifting me in my

carriage.

“On my honour, no.”

He pressed my hand hard to his lips, “When may I call?”

“On Saturday——”

“That means not at all.” He bowed and stepped back.

I wanted to speak again, but the carriage door was shut. I should have

liked to cry tears of spite like a vexed child, to think I had been so

cold to one whose warm sympathy I had so enjoyed. Oh, that hateful

princess! Was it jealousy? Then it dawned on me with a burst of

astonishment—I was in love with Tilling! “In love, love, love,” answered

the carriage wheels. “You are in love,” the street lamps flashed at me.

“You love him,” breathed the scent of my glove, as I pressed the spot he

kissed to my lips.

Next day in the red book I denied it all. I enjoyed a sympathetic clever

man, but that is far from falling in love. I would meet him the next

time quite calmly, and find pleasure in conversing with him. How could I

have been so disturbed yesterday? To-day I could laugh at my silliness.

The same day I called on my girlhood friend, Lori Griesbach, from whose

letter I read the news of my husband’s death. Through our children we

had much in common, and saw each other almost daily, and, in spite of

many differences in our nature, we were real friends. Our two boys were

the same age, and her little daughter Beatrix, ten months old, we had

playfully destined should be some day the Countess Rudolf Dotzky. The

conversation ran on dress, our children and acquaintances, the latest

English novel, and the like.

As we chatted, I ventured to ask if she knew what the gossips had said

about Tilling and the princess.

“Everybody knows there is nothing to it. Why, have you any interest in

Tilling? Dear Martha, you are blushing. It is no use shaking your head.

Come, confess. How happy I would be to see you in love once more. But

Tilling is no match for you. He has nothing, and is too old. Ah, shall

we ever forget that sad hour when you read my letter? War is a cruel

business for some, and others find it excellent. My husband wishes for

nothing more ardently than that he may distinguish himself.”

“Or be crippled or shot dead.”

“Oh, that only happens when it is one’s destiny. Your destiny, my dear,

was to be a young widow.”

“And the war with Italy had to be to bring it about,” I added.

“And I hope it may be my destiny to be the wife of a brilliant young

general,” said Lori, laughingly.

“So another war must break out that your husband may be quickly

promoted, as though that were the simple and only purpose of the

government of the world.”

The conversation changed to pure gossip, of Cousin Conrad Althaus and

his devotion to Lilli; of the latest marriage; the last new English

novel, _Jane Eyre_; of the misdeeds of Lori’s French nurse; of the

trouble of changing servants, and all the usual chatter of idle ladies.

“Now, my dear,” I broke in, “I must really go, for I have other calls

which I cannot put off.” At another time I could have been entertained

for hours with the tittle-tattle. But to-day my mind was elsewhere. Once

more in my carriage, I realised that again there was a change in me, for

even the wheels took up the refrain: Ah, Tilling, Frederick Tilling!

When should I see him again? was my one thought, for in vain I went

nightly to the theatre, and from there to parties with the one hope. My

reception day failed to bring him. Had I offended him? What would I do?

I was all on fire to see him again. Oh, for another hour’s talk with

him! How I would make amends for my rudeness! The delight of such a

conversation would be increased a hundred fold, for I was now willing to

confess what was becoming more than plain to me, that I loved him.

The following Saturday brought Tilling’s cousin for a call, and her

appearance made my heart beat. Would she tell me of him who so

constantly filled my thought? I could not ask her directly. To speak his

name would betray me, for I even flushed at the thought. We talked of

indifferent things, even the weather, and the one name that lay most at

my heart I would not mention.

At last, without warning, she said, “Oh, Martha, I have a message for

you. My cousin Frederick went away day before yesterday, and begs to be

remembered to you.”

The blood left my face, and I gasped: “Went away? Where? Is his regiment

moved?”

“No; he has hurried to Berlin to his mother’s death-bed. He adores her,

poor fellow, and I pity him.”

Two days afterwards I received a letter from Berlin in an unknown hand.

Without reading it I knew it was from him:—

BERLIN, WILHELM ST., 8.

_March 30, 1863._ Midnight.

MY DEAR COUNTESS—I must tell my sorrow to some one, yet ask myself why

do I turn to you? I have no right to do so, but do so by irresistible

impulse. You will feel with me, I am sure of that.

Had you known my mother, how you would have loved her! And now this

tender heart, this fine mind, and charming disposition, must we put it

into the grave—for there is no ray of hope. Day and night I am at her

bed—and this is her last night. Such suffering, though now she is

quiet, poor darling mother. Her senses are numb and her heartbeat is

almost finished. Her sister and the physician are here with me.

How terrible is death and separation! It comes, but how we resist it

when it would snatch a loved one away. What my mother means to me I

can never tell you. She knows she is dying.

This morning she received me with an exclamation of joy when I

arrived: “Is it you? Do I see once more my own Fritz? I feared you

would be too late.”

“You will get well again, mother,” I cried.

“No, no, there is no hope for that, my dear son. Let us not waste our

last hours in meaningless words. Let this be our good-bye visit.” I

fell at her side sobbing. “You are crying, my son, I will not tell you

to stop, for it should grieve you to part with your best friend, and I

am sure I shall never be forgotten by you. Remember, also, that you

have made my life very happy. Except your small childish sickness, or

the dread that I might lose you during the time of war, you have given

me nothing but the keenest happiness; you have shared all my burdens

with me, and for this I bless you, my darling son.”

Another attack came on, and her groans of pain almost crushed my

heart. Oh, this last frightful enemy, death! I remembered the sights

of agonized sufferers on the battle-field and in hospitals! When I

reflect that we soldiers sometimes joyously drive others on to death,

that we urge full-blooded eager young men on to sacrifice themselves

willingly to this terrible enemy, against whom even the weak and

broken-down old people fight so bitterly—is it not revolting?

This night is frightfully long. If only sleep might quiet her. But

there she lies, with her lids parted, suffering. Every half-hour I

bend over her motionless, then I come away to write a few more lines

to you, and then I go to her again. It strikes four, and one shivers

at the unfeeling strides of time as it unrelentingly presses on to

eternity, and at this very moment for this one passionately loved

mother time must cease—for all eternity. But as the cold, outer world

turns dull to our pain, so much the more longingly do we seek to fly

to another human heart which we trust and hope may feel some unison of

feeling. And so this white sheet attracted me, and therefore I wrote

this letter to you.

Seven o’clock in the morning. It is over. Her last words were,

“Farewell, my dear boy.” Then she closed her eyes and slept. Sleep

soundly, darling mother. In grief I kiss your dear hands.—Yours in

deepest sorrow,

FREDERICK TILLING.

I have this letter still. Frayed and faded the pages are now. For

twenty-five years it has withstood my kisses and tears. It was sent “in

deepest sorrow”; I received it “shouting with joy,” for though there was

not a single word of love in it, yet where was a plainer proof that the

writer loved me than that he should turn to me at his mother’s

death-bed, to pour out his grief? In answer I sent a wreath of a hundred

white camellias enfolding a single half-blown red rose—the scentless

white flowers for the departed, and the glowing blossom—that was for

him.

CHAPTER IV

Conrad and Lilli—Easter ceremonies—Tilling again—A visit and

interview—Disappointments and apprehensions—A conversation about

warfare—At last, an understanding.

Three weeks had passed. Poor Conrad Althaus had proposed and been

rejected by Lilli. But his courage remained undaunted, and he visited us

as before.

Expressing my surprise at his loyalty, I said, “It delights me that you

are not offended, and it proves that you are not so serious, for

despised love often turns into resentment!”

“You mistake me, dear cousin; I love Lilli to distraction. First I

thought it was you whom I cared for, then Rosa, but now I am certain it

is and always will remain Lilli.”

“That sounds very likely. What if she will not marry you?”

“I am not the first man a girl has married to get rid of him. By-and-by

she will realise how faithful and worthy I am, and that will touch her.

You will be my sister-in-law yet, Martha, and I am sure you will speak

for me.”

“I certainly approve of you, and that is the way a woman should be won.

Our modern young men find it too much trouble to strive and win

happiness; they wish to pick it up without struggle, as they snatch a

way-side posy.”

Tilling had been back in Vienna for a fortnight without a sign to me. I

know I appeared depressed, and could not blame Aunt Marie for

reproaching me for my low spirits. She blamed my solitary existence, and

urged upon me matrimony and devotions. “You have quite forgotten it is

Easter,” she said.

“My dear Aunt, I think that both marrying and going to confession should

be done from the heart, and not for a remedy for depressed spirits.”

“Have you tickets to see the foot-washing?” she said presently.

“Papa brought me some, but I do not really care to go.”

“Oh, but you should go. There is really nothing quite so touching as

this ceremony—the exemplification of Christian meekness. Think of it—the

Emperor and Empress, in stooping to wash the feet of these poor old

folks, show us how small and meaningless is earthly greatness compared

with the majesty of God.”

“To symbolise humility by kneeling one must feel oneself very exalted.

This ceremony only tells this—‘As Jesus is in comparison with the humble

apostles so am I, the Emperor, in comparison with these paupers.’ Does

that express meekness?”

“What strange ideas you have, Martha. For three years in the country you

have read such wicked books that your ideas have all become warped.”

“Wicked books!”

“The other day I innocently mentioned _The Life of Jesus_ by Strauss,

which I saw on your table, to the Archbishop. ‘Merciful Heavens,’ he

cried, ‘how did you get hold of such a vicious work?’ When I told him

that I had seen it at the house of a relative, he exclaimed, ‘As she

values her soul let her throw the book into the flames.’ Do, Martha, do

burn the book!”

“Two hundred years ago would probably have seen not only the book but

the author thrown into the fire. That might have wiped it out—but not

for long.”

“Give me your answer. Will you burn the book?”

“Why discuss it, dear Aunt? We cannot understand each other in these

matters. Let me tell you what Rudolf did yesterday”; and the

conversation turned easily on her favourite subject, where we never

differed, for in our judgment Rudolf was surely the most original,

dearest, and capable child in the world.

Next day, shortly after ten, dressed in black, we all went to the palace

to witness the great ceremony of foot-washing. Our places were reserved

among the members of the aristocracy and diplomatic corps. We found

ourselves exchanging greeting right and left. The galleries were filled

with a mixed crowd, but we felt quite distinctly superior to them as we

witnessed this festival which was to stir us with humility.

Perhaps the rest were in a more religious mood, but to me the scene was

no more than a mere theatre spectacle. There we were, exchanging

salutations, as if from our boxes we were waiting for the curtain. The

long table was set expecting the twelve old men and twelve old women who

were to have their feet washed by their Majesties.

Suddenly, my eye fell upon Tilling. He was directly opposite us among

the general’s staff, but he did not see me, and just then the

twenty-four old people had taken their places. They were clad in old

German costume, wrinkled, toothless, bent, fitting admirably this

ceremony of the middle ages. We were the anachronism, and our modern

makeup did not harmonise with the picture.

I was watching the face of Tilling, which showed traces of suffering and

deep melancholy. How I longed to give him a sympathetic touch of the

hand. And while the spectators sat breathless, awaiting the coming of

the grandees of the court, he by chance looked my way and recognised me.

“Martha, are you ill?” asked Rosa, laying her hand on my arm. “You have

turned pale and red in the same moment. Look! Now! Now!”

The chief master of ceremonies gave the signal announcing the approach

of the Imperial pair—certainly the handsomest couple on the continent.

After them streamed in the archdukes and archduchesses, and the ceremony

was to begin. The stewards brought in dishes of food, which the royal

pair placed before the old people, making it more of a picture than

ever—the attire, the utensils, and the processional giving it the festal

aspect of an old Renaissance painting.

Scarcely were the dishes set on the table than they were removed

again—by the archdukes, who were supposed also to need a lesson in

humility. Then the tables were carried out, and the climax-scene of the

foot-washing began. The washing as well as the eating was mere

pantomime. The Emperor appeared to stroke the feet of each old man with

a towel, after the officiating priest had made a show of pouring water

over them. Stooping, he glided from the first to the twelfth. The

Empress proceeded with the old women in the same way, losing none of her

accustomed grace through the stooping attitude.

I was asking myself what could be the state of mind of these old people

from their point of view, as they sat in the bewildering company in

quaint costumes, with their Majesties at their feet. It must have been

like a half-realised dream, half-pain, half-pleasure, confusing their

poor heads already so full of the stupor of old age. Perhaps the newness

and solemnity brought a complete suspension of thought to their minds.

The thing that stood out most clearly, no doubt, was the red silk purse

with thirty pieces of silver which their Majesties hung about each neck,

and the basket of food they were allowed to take home.

The ceremony over, the greetings, gossip, and polite interchange of

compliments began. But my only thought was, “Will he be waiting outside

for me?” At last we got to the gate, and there he stood before me with a

bow. As he thanked me for the wreath I had sent to Berlin, he took my

hand and helped me to my carriage. The words came hard, but with a great

strain, I managed to say, “On Sunday, between two and three.” Another

bow and we were gone.

My little red book revealed my excited anticipations, my most

extravagant apprehensions that the meeting would reveal our mutual

devotion. While I was writing the bell rang and I recorded myself as

palpitating and trembling, for the last line was illegible.

He came. He was very reserved and cold, begged my pardon for having

written from Berlin, and said he hoped I would forgive his breach of

etiquette since he was so unnerved by his sorrow. He related something

of his mother’s life and last days, but not a word of what I was looking

for, and I became very strained and cold in my manner. When he rose to

go, I did not detain him or ask him to come again—a wretched half-hour.

I rushed to the open red book: “It is all over. I have shamefully

deceived myself.” I argued that he would never come again. Yet the world

held no second man. Rudolf must now be my sole consolation—would he love

me some day as this man had loved his mother? Oh, it is a foolish habit

this diary-writing. What proof it gives one of human fickleness!

A heavenly Easter Monday found “all Vienna” on the usual drive in the

Prater. The brilliant, dashing corso contrasted sadly with my depressed

spirits. Yet I hugged this very sorrow, for was not my heart empty two

months ago, where now it had at least something to feed upon? A quick

glimpse of Tilling down the drive, a bow and salute in passing, which I

returned warmly, again roused my anticipations.

Some days later, when other guests were calling, Tilling was announced.

I almost cried out with surprise and delight, but checked myself, and as

he sat opposite me he calmly announced that he expected to leave Vienna

for a post in Hungary.

“What has our poor Vienna done that you leave it?” I asked with an

effort.

“Its gaiety jars on me. I am more in a mood for solitude.”

“A jolly, rattling war would be the best thing to shake that out of you,

my dear Tilling,” said my father. “But, alas! there is no such cheerful

prospect. This peace threatens to last.”

“I protest against the idea that military men should desire war. We are

here to defend our country, just as the fire department is here to put

out fires, not to wish for them. Both war and fire are afflictions which

we do not care to bring upon our fellows. Peace alone is good. It is the

absence of the greatest evil. It is the only condition of welfare for

humanity. Has the army, from motives of pure personal ambition, a right

to desire that the greatest misery and suffering should fall upon the

rest? To carry on war that the army may be kept busy and its officers

promoted, would be like setting fire to our cities in order that the

fire brigade may distinguish themselves.”

Silently I seconded the speaker.

“Your comparison is a poor one,” replied my father. “Fires only destroy,

while wars build up the glory and power of a people. How otherwise could

a nation extend its territory except through conquest. Personal

promotion is not the gallant soldier’s only ambition. It is pride in his

race and country that leads him to desire war—in one word, Patriotism.”

“Oh, this mistaken love of country!” cried Tilling. “The soldier is not

the only one who learns to love the soil upon which he has taken root.

That is a passion common to all. For my part, there are other ways than

violence to express it. We should be proud of our poets rather than our

commanding generals.”

“How dare you compare a poet and a soldier?” exclaimed my father.

“I ask the same question. Is not the bloodless crown the better and

finer?”

“But,” expostulated Aunt Marie, “how can a soldier speak so? What would

become of the warlike spirit?”

“At nineteen,” answered Tilling, “I was filled with it. After I had seen

the realities, the butchery and bestialities of war, my soul was

sickened, and every later campaign I entered with resignation and

disgust rather than enthusiasm.”

“Hear me, Tilling,” said my father. “I have been through more campaigns

than you, and have witnessed as much of the horror of war, but I never

lost my ardour, and went in to the last as an old man with the same zeal

as into the first.”

“Pardon me, Excellency, the older generation to which you belong had a

more warlike and martial enthusiasm than now exists. The feelings of

humanity as a whole have changed. The desire to abolish misery is

growing in ever-widening circles, and permeates all society. That spirit

in your day had not yet been born.”

“What is the use?” retorted my father. “Misery will always be. Neither

that nor war can be abolished.”

“Pardon me, Count Althaus,” said Tilling. “Resignation to all forms of

evil was the spirit of the past. As soon as the heart questions, ‘Is it

necessary?’ that heart can no longer endure resignation and must make

right the wrong as a sort of expiation. This sense of repentance has

become universal enough to be called the _conscience of the age_.”

My father raised his shoulders, “That is too deep for me. I only know

that we old grandfathers look back on our campaigns with a thrill of

pleasure. And, in fact, the very youngest soldier, if asked to-day

whether he would like to go to war, would surely answer, ‘Willingly—even

joyfully!’”

“The boys, of course,” answered Tilling. “They have still the

school-drilled enthusiasm for war in them. And the old soldier, of

course, would answer ‘Willingly,’ for he must live up to the popular

conception of the courageous. If he said honestly, ‘Unwillingly,’ it

would only pass for fear.”

“Why, I certainly should be afraid,” said Lilli, with a little shudder.

“Think how terrible it must be to have bullets flying on all sides and

death threatening you any instant!”

“What you say seems quite natural from a young lady’s lips,” replied

Tilling. “But soldiers must repress their instincts of self-preservation

as well as their compassion for both friend and foe. Next to cowardice,

it is most disgraceful for us to have sentiments or emotions.”

“Only in war times,” said my father, “for in private life, thank God, we

also have hearts.”

“Yes, I know. With a sort of children’s sleight-of-hand, we say of every

horror when war is on, ‘That goes for nothing.’ Murder is no longer

murder. Robbery is no longer robbery, but provisioning. Burning cities

are so many ‘positions taken.’ For every broken law of morality,

humanity, and decency, as long as the war-game lasts, we snap our

fingers and by hocus-pocus transform it into nothing. But when this

inordinate war-gambling lifts from the conscience for a moment, and one

comprehends the actual depravity of the thing—that wholesale crime has

meant nothing—then the human mind can only wish to be delivered from the

intolerable depths—even by death.”

“Really,” said Aunt Marie reflectively, “commandments like, ‘Thou shalt

not murder,’ ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ ‘Love thy neighbour,’ ‘Forgive thy

enemies——’”

“Go for nothing, too,” repeated Tilling. “For those whose calling it is

to teach these commandments are the very ones who call down the blessing

of heaven on our murderous instruments and work.”

“And justly,” said my father. “For the God of the Bible is the God of

Battles, the Lord of Hosts, who commands us to draw the sword. It is

He——”

“Men always decree what they wish as the will of God,” said Tilling.

“Even the divine law is waved aside when men begin the great game of

hatred. The heavenly law of love goes for nothing when men find it

convenient so to interpret the God whom they have set up before them.

But forgive me, Countess; I have opened a wearisome discussion when I

only came to say good-bye.”

Dearer to me than ever because of the storm of feeling and thrilling

emotions he had set in action in my mind, how could I let him go,

perhaps never to meet again? With a cold farewell before all these

people—it must not end so. Had he gone and closed the door, I should

have burst into sobs.

Quietly rising, I said, “I must show you that photograph of which we

spoke,” and Tilling, very much surprised, followed me to a table at some

distance.

“I cannot let you go—I must speak to you.”

“As you will, Countess. I am listening.”

“Not now. Come to-morrow at this hour.”

He hesitated.

“I insist. By the memory of your mother, for whom I mourned with you.”

“O Martha!”

The word thrilled me with a flash. It was agreed, and, bowing to the

company, he kissed my hand and left.

With what impatience, anticipation, and even anxiety I looked forward to

the coming visit! Would he ask me what I wished to say, and would I need

to tell him of my love? Would he cross-examine me, and would my pride

stand between, and must we part after all? As I was thinking thus he was

announced.

“By your command, dear Countess,” he said. “I am happy that you invited

me in the name of my mother, and I must speak from the heart. I——”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“I find it harder than I thought to speak out.”

“Where is the confidence you gave me when watching at the death-bed?

Have you not the same faith in me now?”

“In that terrible hour I was beside myself. I overstepped my right, and

for fear I might do it again, I planned to go away.”

“You wish to avoid me? And why?”

“Why? Why? Because—because I adore you.”

My emotions turned my head away. Tilling also stood dumb. At last I

broke the silence:—

“And that is why you are planning to leave?”

“That is the reason.”

“Can the plan be recalled?”

“The transfer is not yet ordered.”

“Then stay!”

He seized my hand—gasping, “Martha!”

In the same instant my father rushed in.

“Are you at home? The footman said you were not.” My father glared at

Tilling. “Good-day. After last night’s farewell I am surprised to see

you. Martha, there is a family matter I must see you about.”

Tilling arose. “When can I see you again?” he asked in an undertone,

taking leave.

I whispered, “To-morrow, in the Prater at nine on horseback.”

With a bow to my father, who responded stiffly, he left the room.

“What is this family affair, father?”

“It is this very thing. I only scared your lover away in order to tell

you what I think of him. How dare you trifle with the family name and

your reputation in this way?”

“Father, my reputation and honour are guarded by my little son. As an

independent widow I have outgrown your authority. I tolerate no lovers,

but if I choose to marry after the dictates of my heart who shall

hinder?”

“Marry Tilling!” he shouted. “Are you mad? It would be a family

calamity.”

“Why, father, you yourself have been offering me a brevet-captain, a

captain, a major—while this man is in the rank of lieutenant-colonel.”

“The worse for that, with such treasonable opinions as he expressed

yesterday. He wants to resign, I guess, and is hunting a rich widow? And

would you stoop to such a man, you who are the daughter of a proud

soldier who fought in four wars, longing to enlist again, and you the

widow of a brave warrior who made glorious the field of battle by his

sacrifice?”

My father was pacing the floor, red-faced, and his voice trembling with

excitement. I was moved to the quick by these contemptuous words in

attack of the man of my heart. But no words of mine could defend the

injustice; Tilling’s ethical position my father was incapable of

understanding, so I remained dumb. My father’s disapproval might trouble

me, but I felt I was free to accept the great happiness which lay open

before me. Enough joy had come to me in that short hour to swallow any

vexation.

CHAPTER V

A ride in the Prater—At last an understanding—The family reconciled to

the engagement—Marriage and visit to Berlin—Life in

garrison—Christmas at Vienna—Rumours of war.

Oh the joy of the next morning, when at nine o’clock I left my carriage

at the bridle path of the Prater! There my horse awaited me. I was

hardly in the saddle when I realised the tread of a horse behind me. It

was the inevitable Conrad, and my greeting was rather cool, for though I

could hardly expect to have the Prater to myself, yet I must somehow get

rid of this faithful cavalier. Off in the distance I noticed Tilling

galloping.

“Ah, dear cousin,” I said, “only last night was I a good ally of yours,

and told Lilli what a fine fellow you were, so considerate, so——”

“Now, cousin, what do you want for all this flattery?”

“Only that you whip up your horse and gallop away,” and Conrad, seeing

Tilling approach, took the hint, and laughingly flew off.

“This Althaus again,” said Tilling coming up to my side, his tone being

plainly vexed, which pleased me. “Did he leave at seeing me, or did his

horse run away?”

“He went because I sent him.”

“Countess Martha, the world says he loves his cousin.”

“He does.”

“That he courts her persistently.”

“And not without hope.”

Tilling was silent, and I laughed into his face. “But I am not the

cousin. It is my sister Lilli.”

“You lift a load from my heart. This man was the reason why I wished to

leave Vienna. I could not stay and look on. Besides, I dared not trust

myself, for I could no longer conceal my feeling for you, and I feared

being made ridiculous and miserable.”

“But to-day you are happy.”

“Since yesterday I scarcely know myself, and yet I feared I should

suddenly awake and find it all a dream. What have I to offer you? I have

no prospects. To-day I am in the seventh heaven and to-morrow, perhaps,

in despair.... Pardon me, I am usually cool and prudent, but to-day my

feelings are extravagant. You can make me either happy or wretched.”

“I have doubts too. There is that princess.”

“Has that nonsense come to your ears? There is nothing in it, or would I

be wishing to leave Vienna?”

“A stupid jealousy in us both. Would I have asked you to meet me if I

had expected my cousin?” And I added, “Yet why have you kept away from

me?”

“Because I never dared hope that I could win your love. It was not till

you ordered me in the memory of my mother, that I dared speak, though I

was eager to dedicate my life to you.”

“So I have really thrown myself at your head, or you would not have

bothered about me?”

“I did not care to be counted with the swarm of admirers.”

“Oh, they do not count. They only wanted a rich widow——”

“That is the very point which held me back, for I have no fortune. I

would rather be miserable all my days than suspected by the world and

the woman I loved of having had a low motive in marrying her.”

“You proud, noble fellow, I could never believe, no never, that a single

wrong motive was possible to you.” And we rode on and questioned each

other about all our ideals and feelings. It was a blissful hour.

* * * * *

Direct from the Prater I drove to my father’s house. What an unpleasant

sensation the announcement would make, and I wished it over as soon as

possible. Father and Aunt Marie were busy over their morning papers, and

both were astonished at my early call, and in a riding habit.

“I have been riding in the Prater, and something happened which you must

all know at once. I have promised to marry——”

Aunt Marie threw up her hands, and father frowned—“I can only hope——”

“I have promised to marry the man that I love, and who will surely make

me happy—Baron Frederick von Tilling.”

“How dare you, after what I said yesterday,” shouted my father,

springing up.

Aunt Marie shook her head: “I had rather it were some one else. He is

not a match for you, and has such peculiar views.”

“Our views are alike, and I scorn to look out for any match. Father,

dearest father, do not frown so darkly, do not spoil my happiness with

your displeasure; be my dear good papa.”

“But, child,” said my father, softening, “I only want your happiness. I

could not be happy with a soldier who is not a soldier from his heart

and soul.”

“But you do not need to marry him,” remarked Aunt Marie judiciously.

“His soldier notions are of little consequence. But I would be unhappy

with a man who speaks with so little reverence of the Bible and God as

he did the other day.”

“You, too, my dear Aunt, need not marry him,” I interposed laughingly.

“Well,” said my father, sighing, “every one makes his own heaven. I

suppose he will resign.”

“We have not mentioned that at all, and I certainly desire it, but I

fear he will not.”

“To think,” said Aunt Marie, “that you have refused a Prince! and now

you are descending in the social scale instead.”

“Here I come,” I said, “for the first time since Arno’s death, to tell

you I am happy, and instead of being glad you both drag out reasons for

reproach—military service, Jehovah, social scale and suchlike.”

But after half an hour’s conversation the old folks were somewhat

reconciled, and my father agreed to come in the evening to meet his

future son-in-law at my house.

All the relatives came at the same time, and I introduced Tilling as my

betrothed. Rosa and Lilli were delighted. Conrad cried: “Bravo, Martha.

Lilli should profit by your example.” My father had conquered his

antipathy, or succeeded in concealing it, and Aunt was even full of

sentiment. Little Rudolf was presented to his “new papa,” who, kissing

him, said: “Of you, my little fellow, we two must try to make a perfect

man.”

During the evening my father suggested his idea that Tilling would quit

the service. The latter answered in astonishment.

“Give up my career, when I have no other! One can dislike war and

still——”

“Yes, I know—as you said lately, a fireman need not love to see a house

on fire.”

“There are other illustrations: Need a physician love cancer and typhus,

or a judge enjoy burglary and murder? But what reason could I have for

abandoning my profession?”

“You would spare your wife the unpleasant life of the garrison,” said

Aunt Marie, “and spare her the anxiety should there be war.”

“Those are good reasons, and I shall try to keep my wife from as many

unpleasantnesses as possible. But would it not be most unpleasant to

have a husband without a calling? If I resigned, it would count for

laziness or cowardice. It did not occur to me, nor to you either,

Martha, I hope.”

“Suppose I made it a condition?”

“You would not do that. I should prefer to renounce my happiness. You

are rich, I am poor, except for my pay and the hope of promotion. These

I cannot surrender without loss of my dignity and honour.”

“Bravo, my son, now I am reconciled. It would be a shame, for you will

certainly rise to the rank of general—you may be a governor or minister

of war some day. Your wife may have a proud position.”

The prospect of being a commander’s wife had no charms for me, but I was

silent. Though I would far rather have retired to one of our quiet

estates, yet I approved of Frederick’s resolution since it reconciled my

father.

“Yes, quite reconciled,” continued my father, “for the daughter of a

soldier, the widow of a soldier could never be content with a civilian’s

costume for always.”

Frederick’s glance said, “I know you better,” but aloud he remarked,

with a smile: “Yes—maybe she only fell in love with my uniform.”

* * * * *

In September we were married. My husband had two months’ leave, and we

spent a week in Berlin, visiting the sister of Frederick’s mother. The

two sisters had greatly resembled each other, and I was able to realise

the beauty of character of the one from the other. Frau Cornelia von

Tessau, the widow of a Prussian general, was the mother of an only son,

just about to become a lieutenant, and a touching affection existed

between them, such as I hoped my son and I might experience some day.

Our wedding tour, extending to the Rhine and to Switzerland, brought

many charming revelations. I discovered many new qualities in my

husband. I found him full of liveliness and quick appreciation of

everything beautiful in nature and art, and discovered also that he was

a perfect master of the French and English languages. Our two months

passed only too swiftly, and the first unpleasant moment was when the

official paper came recalling us to duty.

We joined Frederick’s regiment at Olmutz, where we retired completely

from the military circle and devoted our free time wholly to each other.

I exchanged the first necessary calls, and soon found I could not endure

the usual gossip of the set. We took up a course of scientific reading

between us, keeping up the liveliest sympathy in the advanced thought of

the world, and the philosophic questions of the day. We discussed the

future of our boy, and planned above all that he should not be a

soldier.

Christmas took us back to Vienna, the family being quite reconciled to

our marriage, for they were compelled to admit that at least we were

very happy. Conrad was still a constant visitor, and I could see that he

had made some progress with Lilli. Christmas eve was very gay, and above

all gifts were showered upon little Rudolf. A lively company had

gathered in the drawing-room, among the rest our old friends, the

Minister of the Interior and Dr. Bresser.

“Is it true, your Excellency,” the Doctor asked, “that another war is

threatening?”

“Yes,” answered the statesman, “there is indeed a dark and portentous

cloud on the political horizon.”

I shrank with terror, crying anxiously, “What! How! What can it mean?”

“Denmark has certainly gone too far.”

“Oh, Denmark? Then the storm does not threaten us?” I said, relieved.

“But the prospect of any war is distressing, yet I am glad it is Denmark

rather than Austria.”

“Never fear,” said my father, to comfort me, “if Austria is drawn into

it, we do not risk anything. In defending the rights of

Schleswig-Holstein we do not involve Austrian territory.”

“Do you imagine, father, that I would consider the question of

territories for a moment, when I only fear the one thing, and that is

the danger of those I love!”

“My child, you cannot consider the fate of the individual where the fate

of the nation is concerned. The men that are lost are of little

consequence in comparison to the main question whether our country shall

lose or win. I say if we cross swords with the Danes we can only extend

our influence in the German Alliance, and it is my dream that the

Hapsburgs may recover the German imperial crown to which they are

entitled. A war with Denmark would be a fit opportunity to wipe out the

loss of ’59 in Lombardy, and who knows, we might even gain power enough

to reconquer that province.”

I glanced across the room where Frederick was joking with the young

people, and a violent pain shot through me. My all would be crippled, or

perhaps shot dead. Our child, yet unborn, would be fatherless, all our

fresh happiness would be blotted out. All this in one side of the scale,

and in the other Austria, and the German Alliance, the liberation of

Schleswig-Holstein, with fresh laurels for the army—a lot of new phrases

for schoolboy orations and army proclamations. Thousands and thousands

of other individuals would have their happiness staked as well as mine,

both in ours and the enemy’s country. Could it not be avoided, this

monstrous thing? If all were to combine, all the wise, the good, and

just, could it not be averted?

“Tell me, your Excellency,” I asked. “Has it gone so far that the

statesmen and diplomatists cannot ward it off?”

“Do you believe, dear Baroness, that it is our business to maintain

eternal peace? It would be a beautiful mission, certainly, but

impracticable. It is ours to watch the interests of our states and

dynasties, and never allow their power to be diminished but strive in

every way to maintain our supremacy and honour and revenge insults.”

“In fact the principle of war is to injure the enemy whether you are

right or wrong.”

“Exactly.”

“And so they hack away at each other. It is horrible.”

“But it is the only way out. How else can quarrels be decided?”

“As are the quarrels between individuals.”

“By tribunals? But there are none over the nations.”

And Dr. Bresser came to my help: “No, savages have not; hence nations in

their intercourse cannot claim to be civilised, and it will take a long

time before an International Tribunal is constituted.”

“We will never get there,” interrupted my father. “Such things must

always be fought out, for the stronger nations would never submit to

arbitration. They will only set themselves right by fighting even as

gentlemen do, when they are offended.”

“The duel is barbarous and immoral.”

“You never will be able to alter it.”

“Still, your Excellency, I would never defend it.”

“What think you, Frederick?” my father turned to my husband. “Should a

man take a slap in the face and carry the matter to a law court, and get

five florins damages?”

“I should not do so.”

“You would challenge the insulter?”

“Of course.”

“Aha, Martha! Aha, Doctor,” cried my father victoriously. “Did you hear?

Tilling, who hates war, is an advocate of duelling.”

“No, I do not admit that. But in certain cases I should resort to it,

even as I have gone to war under present conditions. Our conduct must

correspond to the current notions of honour. Some day the insult will

turn back upon the person inflicting it as the disgraced one, and it

will be considered immoral to seek revenge, as it is in other questions

considered wrong to take the law into one’s own hands.”

“We will have to wait a long time for that day,” my father broke in. “As

long as an aristocracy exists——”

“That will not be for ever,” muttered the Doctor.

“Oh, so you would abolish the aristocracy?”

“Yes, the feudal. The future needs no nobility.”

“But so much the more will it need noble men,” said Frederick in

confirmation.

“And this rare race will quietly take a slap in the face?”

“There will be none to offer the insult.”

“And the states will not defend themselves, if attacked by a neighbour?”

“No neighbouring state will offer an attack, as even now our

neighbouring country seats do not besiege each other. A nobleman no

longer needs troops for his castle.”

“So some day the states will dispense with standing armies? Ha, what

will then become of you lieutenant-colonels?”

“What has become of the squires of feudal times?”

BOOK III

1864

CHAPTER I

War imminent with Denmark—New Year’s Eve—Return to garrison—The

Schleswig-Holstein Campaign—Story of the quarrel.

The remaining two weeks in Vienna were no joyous time for me. My

happiness was again darkened by this fatal prospect of war. Over all my

joys there seemed ever to hang some imminent anguish. Are there not

sufficient catastrophes in the natural course of events to keep one in a

sense of uncertainty? Why should man wilfully add fresh tortures to the

category of natural calamities which might at any time beset him? Some

people have learned to look upon war as a natural phenomenon like

earthquake and drought, but I had ceased to see it so. Instead of

resignation I felt only pain and opposition. Why should

Schleswig-Holstein and the Danish Constitution upset us? What matter to

us if the “Protocol Prince” repealed or confirmed the constitutional law

of November 13, 1863? What if the papers did make it the most important

matter in the world, should our husbands and sons therefore be shot

down? Should our belonging to the German Alliance necessitate taking up

all their quarrels? Had I foreseen two years later how these same German

brothers broke into the bitterest enmity, and the Austrians hated the

Prussians with a fiercer hate than that which they now entertained for

Denmark, I should have realised that all these arguments given out to

justify war are mere pretexts and empty phrases.

On New Year’s Eve at my father’s house he proposed a toast to the hour,

and “might it be a glorious one to our arms.” I refused to concur. When

we returned to the hotel I found myself disturbed even to tears. My

husband comforted me: “Do not weep over the bare possibility of war;

nothing is yet definite.”

“It is the possibility which makes me cry. Were there a certainty I

should be shrieking and wailing. Oh that in this first year you should

be torn from me by war!”

“Come, my dear Martha, when a child is born to you, you must face the

possibility of death like every man on the battle-field. Let us enjoy

our life now and not waste it thinking of the death which hangs over

every head.”

“You talk of Destiny just like Aunt Marie. No, it is the

thoughtlessness, cruelty, and folly of mankind! Where is there a

necessity of a war with Denmark?”

“But that is not yet declared——”

“Yes, I know, accidents may still avert the evil; but it should depend,

not on accidents, intrigues, humours, but upon the righteous will of

humanity. Do not try to quiet me with evasive words when I know that

your whole soul shudders with repugnance. My only consolation is that

you condemn with me what brings so much unhappiness.”

“Yes, yes, dear, I do not hide from you my feelings; when the disaster

happens I will not conceal from you my hate for legalised slaughter. But

to-day let us not think of destruction; let us be happy while nothing

separates us. No joy can last for ever. It is not the length of our

days, but the degree of the beauty of our days which makes life so

blessed.”

And I let myself sink into the sweet rest of the moment and forget the

threatening future.

* * * * *

We returned to the garrison on January 10. There was no longer any doubt

of war. In Vienna I still heard of some small hope that the dispute

could be settled, but in our military circle this was out of the

question. The officers and their wives were greatly, even joyfully

excited. Did it mean hope for promotion and distinction, or only a

restless desire for action?

“Ah, this war will be immensely popular,” said the Colonel at a jolly

supper. “And our own territory cannot suffer.”

“It is the noble motive that inspires me,” said a young lieutenant. “We

defend the rights of our oppressed brothers the Prussians. We cannot be

vanquished when we fight together, and it will strengthen the national

ties. The ideal of nationality——”

“Nonsense,” interrupted the Colonel with severity, “that is humbug to an

Austrian. Louis Napoleon rode the same sort of a hobby-horse in ’59:

‘Italy for the Italians.’ Why talk of banding with the Germans when we

have the Bohemians, Hungarians, Croats?—our bond of unity lies in our

loyalty to our dynasty. The thing which must inspire us is not the

nationality of our allies but the good, faithful service we can render

our beloved ruler. Long live the Emperor!”

All rose and pledged the toast. Even my quaking heart stirred for a

moment with enthusiasm. That thousands could be inspired by one motive,

one person, into a desire for self-sacrifice, this is really a lofty

sense of love. But to think that through this love the high fulfilment

of duty leads men into the most horrible work of the deadliest

hatred—War! My heart chilled again at the thought.

My anxiety grew with the succeeding days. On January 16 the allies

demanded that Denmark revoke a certain law against which the Holsteiners

had protested asking the protection of the German Alliance, and to do

this in twenty-four hours. Denmark refused, and had been expected to

refuse, for Austrian and German troops stood massed on the frontier, and

on February 1 they crossed the Eider.

So the die was cast and the bloody game began.

A hasty letter of congratulation came from father:—

Rejoice, my children! We may now repair the defeat of ’59 with a few

sharp blows at Denmark. When we return conquerors from the north we

can again turn our faces southward. With the Prussians as our allies

those shabby Italians and the wily Napoleon can do nothing against us.

Frederick’s regiment, to the great chagrin of the Colonel and corps, was

not ordered north. This brought a fatherly letter of commiseration:—

Such ill-luck, not to be called into the opening to a glorious

campaign! This will rejoice Martha. But you, Frederick, though

philosophically opposed to war, must regret it. If you got into the

fight, certainly your manly enthusiasm would awaken. To be forced to

stay at home is truly hard on a soldier!

“Is it hard on you to stay with me, Frederick?” The silent answer was

enough.

But my peace was gone. The order might come any day. If the campaign

would only end quickly! I watched the newspapers eagerly. I prayed for

the termination of the war before my “all on earth” was called. What

cared I what became of that little scrap of country? Their rulers were

quarrelling only over their jealousies, not over the wrongs of their

people, or to better the conditions.

If a number of dogs are fighting over some bones, it is only the hungry

dogs that tear each other, but in human history it is the “bones” that

have to fight for their devourers.

The Austrians held that they were justified in maintaining the “balance

of power.” The Danes maintained the opposite principle with equal

emphasis. If two States disagree and cannot come to an understanding,

why not call in a third Power as arbitrator? Why go on shouting oneself

hoarse, and then finally decide by force of arms? Is it not savage? And

when a third Power comes in it does not do so judicially, but with blows

again. And this is what they call world politics. Why not name it

primitive savagery—or parliamentary nonsense—or international barbarism?

I found myself greatly troubled by this mysterious power called “reasons

of State,” and I began a careful study of history to find out where the

historic right lay over which they were quarrelling.

I found the disputed district ceded to Denmark in 1027. So in reality

the Danes are right. They are the legitimate kings. However, two hundred

years later it was turned over to a younger house, and it was ranked

only as a fief of Denmark. In 1326 Count Gerhard of Holstein received

Schleswig, and the Waldemar constitution provided that Denmark should

never again claim any ownership. Oh! then, indeed, the right is with the

allies! We are really fighting for the Waldemar Constitution of 1326.

That is very good, for if these paper securities are not upheld of what

worth are they?

In 1448 this constitution was again ratified by King Christian I. So how

dare Denmark ever again claim sovereignty? But what has the Protocol

Prince to do with the matter? Twelve years later the Schleswig ruler

dies with heirs, and the National Assembly met at Ripon (so important to

know exactly where these assemblies always convene). Well then at Ripon,

in 1460, they proclaimed the Danish king the Duke of Schleswig, and he

thereupon promised that the countries should remain together “for ever

undivided.” Ah, that is a bit confusing; but remember, they shall remain

united “for ever.” This little “for ever” is chiefly responsible for the

historical confusion, for straightway they divide up the provinces among

the king’s sons, and under later kings they are again reunited. They are

hardly together before they are sliced up again. What a tangle! How can

I find my way out, and historically establish the point upon which

finally our Austrian countrymen must shed their blood?

Again, I find during the Thirty Years’ War, Charles IV. fell upon the

duchy. Then a treaty made in 1658 forced the Danish sovereignty to

surrender for ever. So we have gotten rid of the Danish feudal lordship

“for ever,” thank God, and our way is clear again.

But here comes an agreement on August 22, 1721, and Schleswig becomes a

dependency of Denmark once more, and on June 1, 1773, Holstein also

becomes a simple Danish province. This alters the case again, and,

certainly, now the Danes have a perfect right. But hold, not quite—for

the Vienna Congress of 1815 declared Holstein a part of the German

Alliance. This enraged the Danes, who raised the battle-cry “Denmark to

the Eider!” and strove for the complete possession of Schleswig. In the

year 1846 King Christian writes a public letter in which he proposed the

integrity of the entire state. But the Germans protest. Then the

announcement of the complete union is made from the throne, and a

rebellion breaks out on the part of the Germans. The Danes win one

battle, the Schleswig-Holsteiners the other. Hereupon the Alliance

interfered. Prussia took some strategic points, but the struggle

continues. At last Prussia and Denmark conclude a peace, so

Schleswig-Holstein now stands alone to fight the Danes, and is defeated.

The Alliance calls the “revolters” to discontinue, and they do. Austria

takes possession of Holstein, and the two duchies are separated. What

has become of all the paper promises to hold them together “for ever”?

It is incomprehensible.

But here comes the Protocol of London, May 8, 1852. (So wise that we

know the exact date of these flimsy agreements!) This secures to Prince

Christian of Glucksburg the succession to Schleswig. So this is where

the “Protocol Prince” originated.

In 1854, after each little duchy had adopted a Constitution of its own,

both were again appended to Denmark. In ’58 Denmark was compelled to lay

down its claim. Now history brings us quite close to the present time,

and yet with all this eager study it is not clear to me to whom these

two countries should rightly belong. November 18, 1858, the German

Parliament passed a “Fundamental Law for the Mutual Relations between

Denmark and Schleswig.” Two days afterwards the king died and left no

heir.

Relying on this two-days’-old law, Frederick of Augustenburg raised his

claim and turned to the German Alliance for support. (I had completely

forgotten to follow that Augustenburg family.) The Alliance at once

occupied and proclaimed Augustenburg the duke. But why? Prussians

disagreed with Austrians in the proceedings. But why? I cannot

understand it to this day.

The London Protocol must be respected. Why? Are protocols things so

absolute and supreme that we must pour out the blood of our sons to

defend them? Ah, yes, there comes in the mysterious “reason of State.”

The gentlemen around the green diplomatic table are all wise, and they

know how to bring about the greatest security of national supremacy. Of

course, the London Protocol of 1852 must be upheld and the

constitutional decree of Copenhagen of 1863 must be revoked within

twenty-four hours. Yes, Austria’s honour and welfare depended upon that.

The dogma was a bit hard to believe, but in politics, even more than in

religion, the mass allows itself to be led by the rule of _quis

absurdum_—to reason about it is forbidden. With the sword once

unsheathed, they shout the unquestioning “hurrah” and struggle for

victory. Besides, can we not invoke the blessing of Heaven upon our

side? And is it not of great consequence to the Almighty that the London

Protocol should be maintained, and the decrees of January 13 be revoked?

Is it not His duty to see that the exact numbers bleed to death, and

that certain villages be destroyed, in order that the family of

Gluckstadt or that of Augustenburg may rule over a certain trifling

scrap of His footstool?

Oh what a foolish, cruel, and misguided world, still in the leading

strings of infancy! Thus my historical studies left me quite as confused

as they found me.

CHAPTER II

The course of war—Hostilities suspended and renewed—My

husband departs—The dead baby—Letters from the seat of

war—Recovery—Anxiety—Letters—Return of Frederick.

Encouraging tidings came from the seat of war. The allies won battle

after battle. The Danes were forced from the entire field, which was

occupied by our troops, the enemy barely maintaining the lines. With

pins and flags I followed the campaign on the map. If only the butchery

might end before Frederick’s regiment was ordered into the field! This

fear hung over us like the sword of Damocles. I dreaded the night lest

the morning would bring the marching orders. Frederick was calm, but he

saw what was coming.

“Accustom yourself to face the events, my dear, and cease protesting. I

believe the war will continue for some time, for not a large enough

force was sent to the front in the beginning, so my regiment will have

to join.”

Two months and yet no results! Oh, why could not the cruel game be

settled in one fight like a duel? But no, if one battle is lost, another

is offered; if one position is given up, another is taken, and so on

till one side or the other is annihilated, or both exhausted.

On April 14 the last stronghold was taken, and immediately a peace

conference assembled in London. Every one was overjoyed and relieved,

save, perhaps, some of my husband’s comrades, who had hoped to share the

glory. Their wives thought it bad luck. But I received the news of

“suspension of hostilities” with great joy, and wrote in my diary

“Disarm! Disarm! For ever.” I added despondingly, and in brackets,

“Utopia.”

The London conference dragged on two months without agreement, and then

came the orders to Frederick’s regiment to march, with twenty-four hours

for leave-taking. The birth of our little child was hourly expected, and

it was as if we both awaited death upon our farewell.

We were overwhelmed with the magnitude of the approaching evils. To us

it was neither patriotic nor heroic to help hew down the Danes, and in

case our parting was for ever, what excuse of state could reconcile us

to this terrible sacrifice? To defend the common cause of humanity might

be justified, but to rush into battle with a distant country, throwing

away life, and home, and family, because of the mere pledge of

princes—it was too infamous! Why must Austrian soldiers leave home to

help set this petty prince on his petty throne? Why? Why? How

treasonable and blasphemous to ask such a question of Emperor and Pope!

Neither would or could answer.

The regiment was to march at ten. We had not slept for hours lest we

should waste a moment. We strove vainly to comfort each other. In the

rays of morning light I realised that my hour had come, and with tears

of uncertainty we tore ourselves apart, Frederick desperate lest the

next moment might rob him of both wife and child.

The next morning the Olmutz papers contained the following account:—

Yesterday the ——th Regiment left town with flying colours to gain

fresh laurels in the sea-girt brotherland. The joy of battle inspired

every heart, etc., etc.

I lost my child, and for weeks lay between life and death, dreaming all

the agonies of war and torture. In my delirium I cried, “Disarm! Disarm!

Help us all for the sake of justice and mercy, help!”

When I regained consciousness, my father and Aunt Marie stood at my

bedside.

“Is he alive? Have letters come?” were my first questions. Yes, quite a

heap of letters had accumulated. One was marked: “Not to be opened till

all danger is past.” From this I take extracts:—

To-day we met the enemy for the first time, having marched through

conquered territory until now, with the Danes retreating fast.

Everywhere are the ruins and remnants of battle. The landscape is torn

with shell and piled with graves. So the victors march on to new

victories. To-day we took the enemy’s position and leave a burning

village behind us. While friend and foe were absorbed in the tumult, I

could only think of you, and that perhaps you were lost. The enemy

withstood us but two hours, and we did not pursue. We collected our

wounded and cared for them as well as we could. The dead, some among

them still possibly alive, we buried, but the wounded and injured we

must leave behind to bleed slowly to death and starve. And we, hurrah,

we must push on into the jolly, dashing war.

Our next will probably be a pitched battle, for two great army corps

are about to clash. Then the loss will run into thousands, and the

artillery will mow them down. What a strange way of doing things! It

would be better if the two enemies each had a weapon, which with one

blow would wipe out either side. Perhaps such blasts would tend to put

a stop to war. If both forces were equally deadly, then force could no

longer be employed to settle disputes, for both disputants would be

wiped out.

Why do I write thus to you, when I ought to be glorifying our

engagements and triumphs? Because, like you, I long for the

unvarnished truth, and hate the usual lying phrases when death is

near. With thousands voicing the opposite, I must speak out before I

fall a sacrifice to war,—that I hate it. If every man who feels it

would say so, Heaven would hear our cry, and even the thundering

cannon roar would be drowned out by the new battle-cry of panting,

exhausted humanity: Let us make war on war!

The above was written yesterday. I snatched a few hours of sleep on a

sack of straw. In half an hour the field mail is taken. With little

rest we are already up for the march,—poor fellows. It is indeed

little rest after the bloody work to prepare them for still bloodier

sights. I have just returned from looking over the wounded, whom we

must leave. How gladly I would have put a bullet into some of them,

who must drag out a miserable agonized death. My horse is saddled.

Farewell, my Martha, if you are still alive.

One or two letters I found of a later date:—

The day is ours. I am unhurt. The first is good news for papa and the

last for you. I cannot forget that for thousands the same day has

brought untellable grief.

Another letter:—

Imagine my astonishment. Riding near me at the head of a detachment

was Aunt Cornelia’s only son, Gottfried. The youngster is beside

himself with enthusiasm, but how his poor mother must suffer! That

evening I sent for him to come to my tent. “Is it not splendid,” he

cried, “to be fighting in the same cause? How lucky I am to be called

out in my first year of service! I shall win the cross of honour.”

“And my aunt, how does she like it?” “Oh, just as all women—she tried

to damp my spirits with tears, but I am enchanted, delighted! Awful, I

grant, but magnificent. It is gratifying to feel that I am filling

man’s highest duty, with God’s help, for king and country. To meet

death so closely, to challenge him face to face, and yet not be

touched, it fills me with the glory of the old epics, as if the muse

of history were leading us on to victory. I feel such an indignation

at the enemy who dares defy us Germans, and it is a thrilling

sensation to gratify this hate, to destroy without being a murderer,

this fearless exposure of one’s life.”

So the boy rattled on, and I let him. Was not my first campaign the

same experience? Epic? Yes, that is the very word with which we so

carefully train our schoolboys into soldiers. We throw it into their

excitable young brains, which makes quiet domestic bliss seem stupid

nonsense, when they are longing for heroics. With me this attitude has

so completely vanished, that I could hardly realise Gottfried’s state

of mind. I had so early realised it all as so inhuman, that it was no

longer a revelation from the kingdom of Lucifer but gross barbarity

and bestiality. Only he who is drunk with the passion for blood and

destruction can triumphantly split open the defenceless head of an

enemy. I never knew the “joy of battle,” believe me, my dear wife, I

never did.

Gottfried is delighted that we are fighting together as brothers in

the same just cause (as if every cause were not called right by the

powers commanding). “We Germans are brothers!” “Yes, that was proved

by the Thirty Years’ and the Seven Years’ Wars,” I suggested

ironically. Gottfried paid no attention. “Together we will conquer

every enemy.” “Yes, until the Prussians declare war against the

Austrians.” “Not to be thought of! Impossible! What, when we have

fought and bled together?” “I warn you, nothing is impossible in

political matters. The friendships of dynastical rulers are as

changeable as the ephemeral fly.”

I write this, not because I imagine you in all your ill condition will

be able to read it, but because I have a premonition that I shall not

outlive this campaign, and I want to leave my convictions behind me.

The sincere reflections of honest, humane soldiers should not be

falsified or sink into the silent grave with them, unspoken and

unrevealed. I have here spoken it, this quiets my conscience, I can

die in peace.

This latest letter was five days old—five unspeakable days of dread.

Though Frederick was yet unhurt, my anxieties left me no comfort. My

father was obliged to return to Grumitz, and Aunt Marie remained to keep

me consoled with her orthodox ideas of destiny, providence, and divine

mercy—small comfort with so few letters coming from the seat of war. My

father made inquiries, but could get no information, although Frederick

was not in the list of the dead. Thus the days dragged on.

One afternoon I lay half dreaming on the sofa, where I had begged to be

left alone. My weakness and anxiety had so overpowered my imagination

and reasonableness that I was full of fleeting visionary sensations, and

springing up in terror at some slight movement in the room, I suddenly

thought I saw Frederick in the doorway.

“Oh, my Frederick, my lost one,” I groaned.

“Martha, my wife!”

What? could it be his real voice? then real arms were thrown around me

eagerly.

The dream came true, I was enfolded in my husband’s loving embrace.

CHAPTER III

Reunion and summer joys—Resolved to quit the service—Rudolf’s

training—The end of the war—Conditions of peace—Fresh cares and

ruined fortunes—My husband remains in the service.

After our first expressions of joy had subsided, Frederick told us how

he had been left wounded in a peasant’s hut, the regiment marching on

and reporting him “missing.” This report had not reached us, and when he

was sufficiently recovered he hastened home without waiting to write,

for the war was practically at an end. We spent the summer again at

father’s country seat, where the entire family assembled, including

brother Otto, home from the Military Academy, and Cousin Conrad, whose

regiment lay not far away.

I was determined to persuade my husband to quit the service, for we had

grown so one in our feelings and interests that what was mine was surely

his also, and why, if new wars were again to threaten, need we go

through such horrors again?

Besides, Rudolf was now seven years old, and it should be our delight,

in our retirement, to educate and train this little man according to our

highest ideals. He had never been given over to nurses and tutors, for

it was my pride to watch every phase of his development. In his growing

appetite for knowledge we had never permitted ourselves to tell him a

falsehood, but his questions were not always answered fully enough to

suit him. He accompanied us on our daily walks, and often his questions

demanded the unknowable, so we answered, “We do not know.” This did not

satisfy him, and he used to put these questions to others of whom he

received quite decided answers. One day he remarked triumphantly, “You

do not know how old the moon is, but I do. It is six thousand years

old—remember that.” Frederick and I looked at each other silently, and a

whole volume of protest lay in that glance and that silence.

I seriously objected to the soldier games which his grandfather and

uncle played with him. Thus the ideas of cutting down the enemy were

infused in him without my knowledge. One day Frederick and I came upon

him when he was mercilessly beating two puppies with a riding whip.

“You cheating little Italian,” he said, lashing the one puppy. And

striking the other he called loudly, “You saucy Dane.” Frederick

snatched the whip from his hand: “And you heartless little Austrian,” he

said, laying on two or three blows. Rudolf began to blubber, and the

Italian and Dane ran joyfully away.

“I hope you are not angry that I struck your boy, Martha; I hate the

lash, but I cannot endure seeing an animal abused.”

“Quite right.”

“Only people can be hurt, then?” whimpered the boy.

“That is still worse.”

“But you went out to beat the Italians and Danes.”

“They were our enemies.”

“Then one may hate those?”

Turning away, Frederick said: “And to-morrow the priest will tell him

that we must love our enemies. Such logic!” Then to Rudolf: “No, it is

not because we hate them that we strike, but because they strike us.”

“Why do they want to strike us?”

“Because we—no, go and play, Rudi,” he interrupted himself, “there is no

way out of the tangle. You must never do it again, and we will forgive

you.”

We often had distinguished visitors from Vienna. They discussed the

political situations, and thus I was enabled to follow the entire Danish

engagement to the end. After all these victories it must be decided what

would be done with all these Duchies. Would the famous Augustenburg

receive his portion? Not at all, for an entirely new pretender claimed

it. It was not enough that there was a “Glucksburg” and a “Gotrop” and

whatever other lines of succession to lay claim, but Russia presented a

new candidate. Against Augustenburg Russia pitted an “Oldenburg.” But

finally there were no burgs at all to have the Duchies, but they were to

be divided among the allies, and the expenses of the war was to be borne

by the defeated. This was hard to understand. The land had been

devastated, its harvests trampled under, its sons were mouldering in

their graves, and now it must pay the costs. Was not rather some

reparation due to them?

One day I opened the conversation: “What news in regard to

Schleswig-Holstein?”

“The latest news is, that von Beust has addressed a demand to the

Assembly, asking by what right the Allies can accept the surrender of

these provinces from a king whose sovereignty has not been recognised by

them.”

“And it is a very reasonable question,” I remarked.

“You do not understand these matters, child,” said my father. “It is not

reasonable, but an impertinent trick on von Beust’s part. Do not the

Duchies belong to us because we have conquered them? We should not have

concluded peace, but conquered the whole of Denmark and turned it over

to the German Alliance.”

“Why do that, papa, you are such a patriotic Austrian, what do you care

for the German Federation?”

“Have you forgotten that our Hapsburgs were German Emperors once, and

may become so again?”

“What if some of the great Germans cherished a like dream?” suggested

Frederick.

My father laughed outright: “Imagine a Protestant princeling at the head

of our Holy Roman Empire! You have lost your senses.”

As Bresser said, “Let us hope that the settling of this affair will not

be a source of discord between the powers. For every war has within it

the seed of future wars, as one act of violence has led to another since

the beginning.”

Some days later a bit of news was reported: King William of Prussia

visited our Emperor at Schönbrun. They met with embraces, the Prussian

eagle was hoisted, and the Prussian national airs were played, with

triumphant hurrahs from the people. I was very happy, for it put to

shame the evil prophecies that the two powers might get into a quarrel

again. My father rejoiced, for he saw in this alliance a means of

reconquering our lost Lombardy.

“Will you tell me,” I cried out to the assembled guests one day, “why do

not all the European States form an alliance? Would not that be the

simplest way?”

The gentlemen shrugged their shoulders, smiled superior smiles and did

not answer. I probably had said one of those silly things with which

ladies are apt to venture into the realms of higher politics.

* * * * *

The autumn was at hand; peace had been signed, and Frederick’s

retirement from the army could now be carried out. But man proposes and

circumstances dispose for him. As a sequel of the war many banking

houses failed, and with the rest I lost my private fortune. Shot and

shell blast not only the ramparts and forts but also the entire social

fabric of family and finance.

My kindest of fathers, however, came to the rescue and saw that I should

want for nothing, yet the retirement of my husband from the military had

become impossible, for we could not entirely depend on my father.

Frederick was too proud for that, and so our beautiful castle in the air

was shattered. But one comfort remained: there was nowhere a black spot

on the horizon, and peace might last for many years.

CHAPTER IV

Lilli and Conrad—Aunt Marie’s letter—Rumours of war with

Prussia—Negotiations and arguments—My father’s New Year’s

toast—Hopes and fears—The army mobilised—War declared—The

manifestos of both sides.

Spring found me in the neighbourhood of Vienna. Here I could see

Frederick daily. My sisters and aunt were off for Marienbad, and from

there Lilli wrote me:—

I confess I am beginning to be interested in Cousin Conrad.

And another letter from Aunt Marie:—

MY DEAR CHILD—It has been a tiresome winter in society, and I shall be

glad when Lilli and Rosa are married off. They have had opportunities

enough. It is a tiresome, thankless task to chaperone two

pleasure-seeking girls.

I am rejoiced to hear that you are well once more. [I had suffered

from a serious fever.] Your husband had been very much alarmed. But,

thank God, your time had not yet come. The service which I had said at

the Ursalines no doubt aided in bringing about your recovery. Kiss

little Rudolf for me. Tell him he must learn all he can. I am sending

him a few books: _The Pious Child, and his Guardian Angel_,—a

beautiful story—and _The Heroes of our Country_, a collection of war

stories for boys. We cannot begin too early to teach them such

glorious ideals. Your brother Otto was barely five when he first

learned of Alexander and Cæsar. It delights me to see how heroic and

enthusiastic he is. I am sorry your plan is to stay in Vienna this

summer to be nearer Frederick. But you should think of your dear

father as well, who would love to have you at Grumitz. Take my word

for it, you married people should not be so constantly together, but

allow each other some little liberty. That Heaven may protect you all

is my constant prayer.

AUNT MARIE.

_P.S._—Your husband has relatives in Prussia. (Happily he is not so

arrogant as his countrymen.) Please ask him what they are saying there

about the present political situation. It is rather critical.

This letter was the first insinuation to me that some complication was

in view. Having been ill, I had neglected to keep myself informed on the

current news, and I asked my husband: “You dear Prussian, less arrogant

than the rest, what does Aunt Marie mean? Is there really a political

situation just now?”

“Yes, there always is, as there always is weather, some political

situation—which is as changeable and treacherous as the weather. They

are still arguing about these complicated Duchies who talk of freeing

themselves of these arrogant Prussians—‘rather Danish than Prussian!’

they cry.”

“And what will become of Augustenburg, with his ‘undivided right’ over

these Danish Provinces? I studied all this history with the greatest

care, and I have taken my stand for the old inherited right which has

stood for hundreds of years. I thought I was sacrificing you to help

establish this right.”

“It will go hard with your historical claims, my dear Martha,” laughed

Frederick. Again I began to study the crisis, and discovered that the

Vienna treaty had really settled nothing. Schleswig-Holstein loomed more

formidably than before. The old claimants renewed their claims before

the Alliance, and no one could guess what they were going to do about

it. The two great powers were accusing each other of encroachment.

“Now, what are the arrogant Prussians up to?” was the constant suspicion

of Austria as well as of the Middle States and the Duchies. Napoleon

III. advised Prussia to annex up to the Danish-speaking border, but

Prussia pretended to be unwilling. But at last she formulated her claim

thus: Prussian troops should remain in occupation on the defensive, and

under Prussian leadership; a contingent should represent the Alliance;

the harbour of Kiel to be occupied; postal, telegraph, and customs to be

under Prussian control. This angered the Austrian Minister of War; the

jealous Middle States objected, and demanded that their leader be put in

possession of the Duchies. This again Austria objected to, and although

willing that Prussia should hold the harbour of Kiel, could not tolerate

her right to recruit soldiers and sailors. And so the quarrel ripened.

Prussia declared she had no design absolutely to annex, but was planning

the best interest of all parties. Under opposition Prussia became even

more assertive, and voice after voice was raised against this “insolent

announcement,” public sentiment rising daily against Prussia and

Bismarck.

The Middle States demanded to know the secret negotiations carried on

between the diplomats of the two powers. The two Emperors betook

themselves to their country seats, and messages flew between them thick

and fast. Several points were agreed upon. The investment should be

shared half and half. Lauenburg should fall to Prussia, and Austria in

lieu thereof receive two and a half million thalers. I asked myself,

what return could such a sum be to offset all the losses, my financial

losses, for instance, and in the case of thousands of others their

fallen loved ones? Yet I was rejoiced when a new “treaty” was signed;

that sounded so reassuring. Later I learned that these documents

generally contain the germ of some future _causus belli_. The breaking

of a treaty is only a fresh chance to fly to arms.

The quarrel seemed to be laid aside. The powers occupied the provinces,

and I was again obliged to give up my favourite aspiration to see them

once more “for ever together undivided,” as was decreed in 1460.

But in spite of the treaty, the situation was not relieved. Patient

reading of the political press gave me an idea of the shifting

condition, but I could hardly believe that war would result. I contented

myself with the thought that legal questions could always be settled

legally and justly. All these wise ministers, diplomats, judicious

councillors, parliamentarians, and polite monarchs, could surely settle

such a trivial point. Thus I was actuated more by curiosity than anxiety

in my research, which I was carefully jotting into the red book:—

_Oct. 1, ’65._—Imperial Council at Frankfort adopts the following

resolutions: 1. The right of Schleswig-Holstein to control itself must

remain in force. The Gastein treaty is rejected as a breach of right

to the nation. 2. All officials shall refuse to pay over taxes and

loans to the Allies.

_Oct. 15._—The Prussian royal edict approved the decision in regard to

hereditary claimant, who renounces all right to the throne for the sum

of a half million thalers. By the Vienna treaty the duchies were ceded

to the Allies, hence there can be no further claim.

Protests were made on all hands. “Prussian arrogance” became a

catchword, and all hands declared, “We must protect ourselves against

them.” “King William would be another Victor Emanuel.” “To reconquer

Silesia is Austria’s secret intent.” “Prussia is paying court to

France.” “Austria is coquetting with the French.” Thus tittle-tattle and

recrimination was indulged in by the Cabinets of the great Powers quite

as seriously as by the gossips at a village tea.

* * * * *

The entire family returned for the autumn to Vienna.

I was very eager to keep my little Rudolf away from the influence of his

grandfather, who was determined to inspire in him military tastes, which

were already awakened, probably through a long line of soldier ancestry.

My studies of natural science had taught me that such tendencies could

be inherited. On my boy’s birthday his grandfather brought him a sword.

I remonstrated:—

“You know very well that my son shall never be a soldier?”

“Would you tie him to your apron strings? Never mind, good soldier blood

will tell; let him grow up, and see what profession he chooses—the

noblest of all, I am sure—the military.”

“Martha fears he may die in battle,” said Aunt Marie. “As though the

same fate might not overtake one in bed.”

“If a hundred thousand fell in battle,” I said, “would the same fate

have been theirs in peace?”

Aunt Marie was always ready with an answer, “No, it would have been

their destiny to have died in war.”

“Suppose they had been bold enough to refuse to go to war,” I suggested.

“Impossible,” shouted my father, and then the old controversy began.

The Greek fable of the hundred-headed hydra illustrates so perfectly the

manner of argument between two convinced opponents. No sooner have you

sliced the head off one point and started to attack the second, when the

first head has grown on again.

The following were my father’s favourite and unconquerable arguments in

favour of war:—

1. War was the decree of God Himself (see Bible).

2. Wars have always been and always will be.

3. Without war population would increase too fast.

4. Permanent peace would corrupt, weaken, relax, and degenerate the

race.

5. War best develops self-sacrifice, heroism, and fine character.

6. Human beings will always differ in opinions, interests, and desires,

hence perpetual peace is impossible.

None of the above wise sayings can be maintained under argument, but

each in turn can be set up as a fresh defence when the preceding one

topples. For example, obliged to drop argument No. 4 and admit that

peace is more apt to secure happiness, prosperity, and progress, my

father would agree, “War is an evil, but (arguments 1 and 2)

inevitable.” Then I would prove that by international agreement and law,

war could be avoided; he would acknowledge that it could, but ought not

(No. 5). If the argument for peace upsets the claims of Nos. 4 and 5,

and shows that war hardens and brutalises men, then he would admit it,

but quote No. 3. This argument sounds hugely humane and learned, but is

the least sincere of all. Wars are not waged for the benefit of

posterity. When you have proved the fallacy of 3 the other returns to 1,

and so the trick can be carried on till it becomes a labyrinthal puzzle.

The lovers of war reason in a circle where one can always see and

follow, but never catch them. That their arguments often proceed from

opposite points of view and nullify each other matters nothing to them,

and proves that they are arguing a position they have not thought out

for themselves, but are bolstering up opinions which have been handed on

to them. I did not see this clearly at the time I carried on the

argument with my father on peace and war, but I always came away from

the combat fatigued and dizzy, and I realised later that it came from

whirling in this circle which his lack of logic necessitated.

* * * * *

New Year’s eve, 1866. As the first hour of this momentous year struck,

we were sitting about my father’s table celebrating the engagement of

Lilli and Conrad. My father arose and offered his New Year’s toast:—

“My dear children and friends: The year ’66 begins well, for long have I

desired Conrad for a son-in-law. May we hope that this year may bring

Rosa her ideal also. And you, Martha, may your husband be promoted to

the rank of Colonel. For you, Dr. Bresser, I may wish hosts of patients,

although it does not fit in with the spirit of my wishes for health and

happiness. And for you, my dear, fatalistic Marie, may destiny bring you

the grand prize of a full indulgence, or anything else you may be

wishing for. For my Otto, my son, I can only wish him every distinction

in his final examination, that he may acquire every soldierly virtue,

and some day be an ornament to the army, and a pride to his old father’s

heart. And for myself, who knows no greater joy than the welfare and

fame of my fatherland, I can only wish that the coming year may bring

back to my Austria the province of Lombardy, and—who knows—Silesia also.

And may we take back from the insolent Prussian this land which they

stole from the great Maria Theresa.”

A chill fell upon the company as my father closed his toast. Truly, none

of us felt any pressing need for these two provinces.

“No, father dear,” I replied, “we must not forget that in Italy and

Prussia it is also New Year’s Day, and we will wish them no evil. May

the year ’66 and all the years to come help us to grow more united and

happy.”

“Oh, you fantastic idealist,” said my father, shrugging his shoulders.

“Not that,” said my husband in my defence. “The wish is not one of an

enthusiast and dreamer, for science assures us that it must be fulfilled

some day. The world has slowly been growing better since the beginning,

and it must go on, although we do not note it from year to year. We all

know that men are happier, and better, and freer than in the primeval

days.”

“If you are so sure of eternal progress, why so often complain of

reaction and the relapses into barbarism in our day?” asked my father,

tauntingly.

“Because”—Frederick took out his pencil and drew a spiral—“because the

movement of progress goes on like this. It continually ascends, although

at times appearing to go backwards. This coming year, if war is forced

upon us, may be represented by one of these backward curves. Such events

hurt civilisation materially as well as morally.”

“How unsoldierly you speak, Tilling.”

“These are universal matters; the opinions of a soldier or civilian have

no different weight here, for the truth is always the same. If a thing

is red, must one obstinately call it blue because one wears a blue

uniform, or black because one wears a black coat?”

“A what?” said my father, who, when the argument went against him, was

apt to appear hard of hearing. Since it is difficult to repeat a long

argument, the discussion inclined to drop.

Upon our return home, I asked my husband: “What did I hear you say?

There is prospect of war? Never, never will I allow you to go into

another campaign.”

“How can your passionate ‘Never, never!’ help in the matter? The nearer

the fatal day comes, the less possible it will be for me to resign.

Immediately after Schleswig-Holstein it would have been possible, but

not now.”

“Ah, that unlucky Schmidt & Sons the bankers!”

Again I found myself anxiously following developments in the newspapers

and reports. “Be prepared! Be prepared!” was now the cry. “Prussia is

preparing!” “Austria is quietly preparing!” “The Prussians claim we are

preparing; it is not true, it is they who are preparing.” And thus the

variations were sounded in my anxious ear.

“Why is all this commotion about armaments,” I asked my father, “if

neither party plans to use them?” He answered me with the old saying:

“In times of peace prepare for war.”

Thus each is keeping the eye on the other, and each accuses the other of

warlike motives. So again begins the endless circle—the serpent with his

tail in his mouth.

On the morning of March 12 my father burst into my room beaming with

joy: “Hurrah,” he cried, “Good news!”

“Disarmament?” I asked, delighted.

“On the contrary. Yesterday a great council of war was held. We are

ready on an hour’s notice to send out 800,000 men, and I tell you, my

child, Silesia is ours whenever we choose.”

“Oh God! Oh God!” I groaned, “must this affliction come upon us once

more? Who can be so devoid of conscience that for greed and ambition——”

And my father, denying that it was greed or ambition, only justice and

patriotic ardour which pressed for war, harangued on the subject in his

illogical manner, jumbling his arguments together, proving that all

wished for peace, but if war came it must be met—until I was quite

frantic, and said, beside myself with emotion:—

“You know well, that not only you, but the whole council want war, then

why not say it out frankly? Why all this falsehood? Why tell the people

they hope for peace when they are madly arming? Show your teeth and your

closed fists, but do not the while whisper soft, false words of

reassurance. If you are wildly eager to draw the sword, do not pretend

that you are only caressing the hilt.”

He rose to the height of passion, and finally I burst into exhausting

tears. My father was so amazed that he did not utter a word.

Now came a time of hopes and fears, ringing the changes on “Peace is

secure,” “War is certain.” But once this word “war,” this little seed of

thought, finds its way to the front, it seems inevitably to produce—war.

News came that Prussia was arming the Silesian fortresses. Austria

disclaimed any intention of attacking Prussia and demanded that the

latter should disarm. Prussia declared herself innocent of warlike

intentions, but strengthened her standing army, hence Austria felt

compelled to continue her preparations. So the dual game continued, and

became a triple game as Italy armed herself with haste.

The excitement became universal and more violent every day. Every

newspaper and speech announced that war was in sight. Bismarck was hated

and reviled on every side. Letters were received from Aunt Cornelia in

Prussia telling that the war was anything but wished, and that Bismarck

was no less hated in his own country. She said the army was reported as

refusing to go out in a war against brothers; that Queen Augusta had

thrown herself at her husband’s feet to pray for peace. Had perhaps our

beautiful Empress also done the same and with tears begged for

disarmament, who knows? Perhaps the Emperor himself wished for peace,

but it seemed that not even the throne could stand against the pressure

and strain on every side.

On June 1 Prussia declared to the Assembly that she would disarm if

Austria and Saxony would. Vienna responded accusing Prussia of planning

an attack in concert with Italy. Austria would call the German Alliance

to arms and decide the case of the Duchies. Holstein should co-operate.

Prussia declared that this broke the treaty, and they moved into

Holstein. Bismarck issued a circular letter. The press cried for war and

predicted a victory to strengthen the national confidence.

On June 11 Austria proposed that the Alliance should take a hand against

Prussia for helping herself to Holstein. On June 14 the vote stood nine

to six—accepted. Oh, those three terrible votes! All was over.

Ambassadors are dismissed. The Alliance requests Austria and Bavaria to

go to the rescue of Hanover and Saxony, who have already attacked the

Prussians.

On the 18th, Prussia’s war manifesto appeared. On the same date

Austria’s troops marched out, and on the 22nd Prussia issued her first

army orders.

King William said:—

To the last I have worked for peace with Austria, but it was refused.

Kaiser Francis Joseph announced:—

Prussia shows her desire to set might in the place of right, therefore

this unholy war of German against German cannot be avoided. Before the

judgment seat of history and Almighty God I summon him who has brought

this misery down upon our families and country.

The war is always the desire of “the other side.” It is always the other

one who chooses to overcome justice with might, “German against German

makes an unholy war”; quite right to step beyond Prussia and Austria and

appeal to Germany. But why not in every war reach to the higher plane,

and recognise it as a war of humanity against humanity? and regard every

battle as an unholy contest?

And what good would it do to summon the aggressor before the judgment of

History? Has not History always given the right to the victor? The

laurels of History have always been placed on the conqueror’s brow, and

he has been called great and the promotor of civilisation.

And why summon him before the Judgment seat of God? Is He not the same

Lord of Hosts who begins as well as ends every war with His unchangeable

will? Such contradictions! Are we not expected to consider two opposite

principles as equally holy? Are the God of Love and the God of War one

God, compelling war as well as justice, demanding national hatred as

well as love of humanity?

BOOK IV

1866

CHAPTER I

The Austro-Prussian War—Frederick again to the front—The Red

Cross—Reports and Letters—The Custozza victory—Austria has

reverses in Bohemia—Discussion of the press.

The greatest of all human misfortunes was again upon us, and, as usual,

the public was jubilant. Regiments marched out (how would they return?)

with blessings and good wishes and followed by the shouting rabble of

street urchins.

Frederick had been ordered to Bohemia before the declaration of

hostilities, when I was still confident that matters would blow over, so

I was somewhat spared the agony of parting. When my father came

triumphantly with the news, “Now the war is begun,” I had been alone a

fortnight, and I had made up my mind for the worst, as does a doomed man

in his cell when he knows that the death-sentence must come.

I raised my hand imploringly: “Father, one wish! Leave me to myself.”

Not being fond of pathetic scenes he hastily retired, and I, crushed in

spirit, wrote in my red journal:—

The death-sentence! A hundred thousand men will be executed. Will

Frederick be among them? And for that matter, who am I that I should

not perish with them? Oh that I were already dead!

On the same day I received from Frederick these hasty lines:—

My wife! Be brave and do not lose heart. We have been happy. That past

no one can take from us even if to-day the decree “it is finished”

should be issued for us as for many others. To-day we meet the enemy.

Perhaps I shall recognise some of the old Prussian comrades—even my

cousin Gottfried. We march upon Liebenau with the advance guard of

Count Clam-Gallas. There will be no leisure for letters—at most a line

to assure you of my safety. But on this leaflet—in case it be the

last—I wish I could put into one single word all the love I bear you.

I can find only this: “Martha!” You know what that means to me.

Conrad had also been ordered to march. He was full of ardour and felt

enough hatred of the Prussians to make his start a pleasure. Still,

parting with Lilli was hard, for the marriage licence had arrived just

two days before.

“Oh, Lilli, Lilli, why have you put me off so long? Who knows if I shall

ever return?”

Upon his departure her remorse was pitiful, and she wept bitterly in my

arms. I consoled her with the thought that had she been his wife it

would have made the parting even harder.

The family now removed to Grumitz, and I joined them, oppressed with the

premonition of widowhood. Occasionally in the midst of my dull grief

would come the bright thought: “He is alive. He will come back.” Then

the horror of agony that he might be wounded, perishing for water, or

that heavy waggons were rolling over his torn limbs, or that flies were

in his open wounds, or, worse yet, that they were throwing him into the

trench while yet he lived!

I would spring up with a shriek at this thought.

“Shame, Martha,” my father would remonstrate; “you will become insane if

you brood in this way. Drive such wicked fears from your mind.”

Again he would say, “Your husband is a staff officer, and will not be

neglected as a common soldier. Besides, you should think about the

grandeur of the result of the war, and not about your own petty nervous

feelings.”

“Yes, not to think about it. That is always the way we treat human

misery. All kinds of barbarity exist because we are trained not to think

about it.”

The Red Cross was a new organisation. I read Dunant’s pamphlet, which

urged its necessity. The tract was a heart-rending appeal. He had

hurried to the field of Solferino, and told the world what he saw. Hosts

of wounded lying five and six days without help. What could a single man

do to save this mass of misery? Many needed only a drop of water or a

bite of bread; others were buried still breathing. He spoke out, and for

the first time—the world echoed the cry. The Geneva Convention was

called and the Red Cross was founded.

Why had not Austria sent delegates? Why is everything new met either

with opposition or indifference? The law of mental inertia and the

sanctified custom are to blame. My father argued: “The idea is all

right, but impracticable!” How could military authority allow private

service on the field? And then there were spies! And the expense! Is not

war costly enough without it? Volunteer nurses were an unnecessary

burden. Tactics came before friendly offices. It was even argued that

this unnecessary burden would increase the cost of supplies and bring a

rise in prices.

Such is official wisdom! so learned, so prudent, so heartless, and so

immeasurably stupid!

The first engagement took place in Bohemia at Liebenau, June 25.

“It is a magnificent beginning,” said my father. “Heaven is with us. Our

‘Iron Brigade’ will reduce these windbags. They will punish these

fellows well.”

(However, the next news showed that, after five hours of fighting, this

same brigade, forming a part of the advance guard of Clam-Gallas,

retreated to Podol. I learned later that Frederick was in this

engagement, and the same night General Horn attacked Podol.)

“But,” continued my father, “even better news comes from the south. At

Custozza, dear children, we have gained a most glorious victory. I have

already said it: Lombardy must become ours. I regard the war as decided.

We must send some of our regulars and finish off these Italians, and

then it will be easy to deal with these ‘tailors’ apprentices.’ This

impertinent Prussian militia is not fit to engage with regular soldiers.

They are all from the shops, the bench, and mere rubbish, and they

cannot stand against such blood and iron as our men are made of. Hear

the good news from the paper this morning: ‘The cattle-plague in

Prussian Silesia has broken out in a highly threatening form.’”

“Cattle-plague—threatening! Is this your good news? Nice thing we must

accept as pleasure in these war days. However, the black and gold

frontier posts will undoubtedly keep the plague from crossing over to

us.”

But my father went on reading the pleasant intelligence:—

Fever is raging among Prussian troops. Such results must necessarily

abound in the villages, with the miserable shelter, unhealthy swamp

land, and bad treatment. Austrians have no idea how miserably the

Prussians handle their men. The nobles do as they please with the

common people. Three ounces of salt pork is all that is allowed for

each man. They are unaccustomed to forced marches and the hardship of

short rations, and are close to starvation.

“The papers are full of startling news. You ought to keep them, Martha.”

And I have kept them. This one ought always to do, and when a new

struggle is in prospect one should read not the latest news but the

accounts of the preceding wars, and weigh how little truth is contained

in all these boastings and the prophesying; _that_ would be instructing.