CHAPTER VI

Summer in Switzerland—Researches in International

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

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

We spent the remainder of the summer in Geneva, Dr. Bresser having urged

us to flee from the infected country and the scene of so much sorrow.

The depth of apathy and resignation which had overcome me made flight

seem almost useless and distasteful to me; besides, I did not wish to

leave the graves of my family. But the doctor conquered my objections

when he appealed to my duty as a mother, and begged me to take little

Rudolf out of danger.

We chose Switzerland because Frederick wished to become acquainted with

the men who had formed the Red Cross society. He wished to be on the

spot, and inform himself as to their object and further aims.

He had resigned from the military service, and took a half-year’s leave

of absence awaiting its acceptance.

I was now rich—very rich. The entire family being gone—all was mine.

“Look, Frederick,” I said, as the notary delivered the title-deeds to

me, “what would you say if I should praise the war because it has

brought all this advantage to me?”

“Then you would not be my Martha. I see you are thinking of the

heartlessness which can rejoice over material prosperity won by the

destruction of another’s good. Individuals are ashamed of such feelings,

but nations rather delight in each other’s destruction, and dynasties

openly and vaingloriously admit them. Thousands have perished in untold

misery—we have ruined them to win for ourselves territory and power. So

let us thank Heaven for our victories!”

We lived in quiet retirement in a little villa, close to the shores of

the lake. I was still so overwhelmed with what I had passed through that

I had no desire to meet strangers. My sympathetic husband quite

understood my desire to weep out the sorrow of my torn heart in

solitude. It is quite fitting that those who have been so mercilessly

thrown out of this beautiful world should have some sacred time allotted

them in the memory of those who have been so cruelly robbed of their

companionship.

Frederick often went into the city, making his study of the Red Cross.

Of this period I have no daily record, and what Frederick told me of

those days has nearly passed out of my recollection. My one impression

of this time, given me by every element of our environment, was that of

quiet, ease, and the cheerful activity of the neighbourhood. Every one

seemed so peaceful and good-humoured. Hardly an echo of the war reached

us. It was already alluded to as an anecdote of history which had

changed the map but slightly. The terrific cannonading in the Bohemian

fields was an interesting episode, a little more than a new Wagnerian

opera, perhaps. History had recorded it in its pages, but it was soon

forgotten by those who lived outside the stricken boundaries. We saw

mostly French newspapers, and they were filled with the latest

happenings in literature, drama, music, and the coming exposition. The

sharp duel between the Prussians and Austrians was an old story. What

happened three months ago and thirty miles away, what is not in the Now

and the Here, soon slips out of the memory and loses its hold on the

heart.

October found us in Vienna settling the many affairs of my inheritance,

and preparing for a considerable stay in Paris. The projected exposition

offered Frederick the best opportunity to carry out his idea of calling

a congress together with the idea of forming a league of peace.

“The professions of arms I have laid down through my convictions gained

in war. Now I enlist in the army of peace. Truly, it is a small army

with no weapons save love and justice, but every great thing must have

its small beginnings.”

“Ah,” I sighed, “it is a hopeless work. What can a single man do against

this stronghold, backed by centuries of custom and millions of men?”

“What can I do? I cannot foolishly hope personally to bring about such a

revolution. I simply remarked that I would join the ranks of the peace

army. I did not suppose as a soldier that _I_ could save my country or

conquer a province. No, the single man can only _serve_. Still more he

_must_ serve. One inspired with a purpose cannot help working for it. He

stakes his life for it, even though he knows how little this one life

counts. He serves because he must. Not the State alone demands

allegiance; sincere, strong convictions also oblige compulsory service.”

Before going to Paris we planned a visit to Aunt Cornelia in Berlin. We

broke the journey at Prague in order to spend “All Souls’ Day” on the

battle-field of Sadowa.

War will have its charm so long as historians persist in setting up for

the leaders monuments of glory built out of the ruins of battle, and

crown the Titans of public murder with laurels. Tear away the mask of

glory and show its horror, and who would be madly ambitious enough to

grasp for such fame?

It was twilight when we arrived, and sadly and silently we proceeded to

the dread battle-field, filled with depression and grief. The snow was

falling, the bleak trees were swaying in the wailing November wind. Tier

after tier the graves stretched out before us, but not as in the quiet,

restful churchyard. These were not the graves of aged and weary pilgrims

of life gone to their eternal rest, but of young men in the height of

their youthful vigour, exulting in the fulness of their manhood, full of

rich expectation in the future. Violently and mercilessly they had been

hurled into the ditch and the dust of the earth shovelled over them. Who

counts the broken hearts, the mangled bleeding limbs, the cries of

despair, the flooding tears, the hopeless prayers, the agonising pains,

the shrieks, the maddening submission to death—all is entombed in the

eternal silence.

We were not alone on this burial field. The day had brought many both

from the home country and the enemy’s country, both sought their loved

ones in these acres of death. For hours we had heard the sobs and

murmurs of lament, for many mourners had come with us on the train.

I heard a poor, heart-broken father say, “Three sons have I lost—each

one more noble and better than the other—oh, my three sons!” I can hear

it yet above all the other lamentings for fathers, husbands, and

brothers which were poured out around us.

All about us black-robed figures knelt, and some, with sobs of pain,

staggered from place to place hopelessly searching their dead. But few

single graves were to be seen, and few were marked by stone or

inscription.

Everywhere the earth was heaped up, and we knew that even under our feet

the soldiers’ bodies were mouldering.

Many officers and soldiers wandered among the other mourners. Evidently

they had shared in the terrible contest, and were now making this

pilgrimage to honour their fallen comrades.

We went to that part of the field where the largest number of friends

and foes lay entombed together, in one enclosure. To this place the

majority of the pilgrims found their way, for here, naturally, they

might expect their lost loved ones to be buried. Around this spot they

set up their crosses and candles, and here they laid their wreaths and

flowers as they knelt and sobbed out their sorrowing hearts.

A tall, slender man, of noble presence, in a general’s cloak, approached

this central burial ground. All gave way reverently to him, and in

hushed whispers I heard: “The Emperor.”

Yes, it was Francis Joseph, the ruler of the country, the supreme war

lord, and he had come on this All Souls’ Day to offer his silent prayers

for the souls of his dead children, his fallen warriors. There he stood,

with his bowed head uncovered, in agonized and devoted homage before the

majesty of Death. He stood long and motionless in profound meditation. I

could not turn my eyes from his face. What thoughts were passing through

his soul, what sentiments oppressed his overwhelmed heart? I knew he had

a good and tender heart. I felt my mind yield to his thoughts, and I

felt that I was thinking as he was thinking as he stood there with bowed

head:—

“You, my own poor, brave soldiers—dead ... and for what? We did not

conquer; and my Venice, too, is lost, ... so much is lost, and all your

young lives lost too. And you offered them so devotedly—for me. Oh, if I

could give them back, for I never desired this sacrifice! It was for

yourselves, your country, that you were led out into this war. Not

through me, although I was compelled to give the command. Not for me

have my subjects fought. No, I was called to the throne for their sakes,

and any hour I would have been ready to die for the good of my

people.... Oh, if I had but followed the impulse of my heart and never

said ‘Yes’ when all about me shouted ‘War! war!’ Yet, could I have

resisted? God is my witness that I could not. What impelled me I do not

fully realise, but I know the pressure was an irresistible force outside

me—from you—yourselves—my poor dead soldiers.... Oh, what have you not

suffered? And how sad—how sad it all is! And now you lie here—and on

other battle-fields, snatched away by shot and shell and grape and

sabres—by cholera and fever.... Oh, had I only said ‘No!’ And you,

Elizabeth, begged me to! Oh, if I had only said it! The thought that—is

unendurable that.... Oh, it is a wretched, imperfect world—too much

agony—too much woe!”

As I watched him, thinking thus for him, my eyes searching his

features—just as I came to the “too much agony, too much woe”—he covered

his face with both hands and broke into tears.

So passed All Souls’ Day of 1866 on the Sadowa battle-field.

BOOK V

TIME OF PEACE

CHAPTER I

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

and conscription.

In Berlin there reigned an evident spirit of jubilation. Even the

useless street-loafer had an air of conscious victory. “We have given

the other fellows a good thrashing” seemed to give a certain air of

conscious victory to every one. Yet nearly every family mourned for some

never-to-be-forgotten dead which lay on the battle-fields of Germany and

Bohemia.

I dreaded meeting Aunt Cornelia again, for Gottfried had been her idol,

her all; to measure her sorrow, I had only to fancy losing my Rudolf, if

he were a young man—no, I did not dare think it out.

With beating hearts we entered Frau von Tessow’s house. Even in the

entrance the deep mourning of the house was felt. We were led into my

aunt’s bedroom, which she seldom quitted, except to go to church on

Sunday and for one hour each day, which she spent in Gottfried’s little

study. Here she took us, and showed us the letter which he had left on

his desk:—

MY OWN DARLING MOTHER—I know that you will come here when I am gone

and find this letter. We have already parted, and it will please you

and surprise you to get these last words, so hopeful and cheerful.

Have courage, I shall be back. We are two undivided hearts which hang

on each other, and nothing can tear them apart. I prophesy that I

shall win stars and crosses in this fortunate campaign, and then come

home and make you a grandmother six times over. I kiss your hand, your

dear benign forehead, my most adored of all little mothers.

YOUR GOTTFRIED.

When I embraced the dear lady, we both broke into loud sobs. Frederick’s

eyes were wet as he silently pressed her to his heart. Tears were

sufficient words to express all we felt.

Our visit was a most sorrowful one, but Frederick was able to give the

poor mother the self-same comfort he had brought to me, in assuring her

of the instantaneous and painless death of Gottfried.

* * * * *

We were suddenly called from Berlin by the dangerous illness of Aunt

Marie. Upon returning, we found her at the point of death.

“It is my turn now,” she said, “but I am glad. Since my dear brother and

the three children were torn away, I have had no delight in life. It has

been a great comfort, my dear Martha, to know that you are happy, and

since your husband escaped the dangers of two wars and the cholera, it

is evident that you are destined to grow old together. Try to educate

our little Rudolf to be a good Christian and a good soldier, that his

grandfather in heaven may rejoice over him. I shall constantly pray for

you from above that you may live long and contented.”

After three days of lingering, this last friend of my childhood passed

away, resigned, as she had lived, happy in the hope of heaven. She left

her small fortune to Rudolf, and appointed our old friend, the Cabinet

Minister, as trustee, and since business affairs kept us in Vienna for

some months we saw much of him.

Twice a week he dined with us, and though he had now retired to private

life was still fond of discussing politics. Frederick tried to turn the

conversation away from political gossip, in which the other revelled

upon the subject of the rights of humanity. The old gentleman could not

follow Frederick, for he merely saw political science from the

stand-point of gaining an advantage, and not of giving right and justice

the first place.

I usually sat near by with my needlework, but only listened. The old

statesman would hardly think it proper for a woman to mix into such deep

subjects. He little realised that I made it my business to record all

these discussions in my note-book.

Frederick made no secret of his opinions, although he realised the

thankless part one plays in defending theories which are generally

thought to be impracticable and grotesque.

“My dear Tilling, I have an important piece of news to-day,” said the

Minister one afternoon with an air of importance. “It is rumoured in

government circles that the ministry of war is recommending general

obligatory military service.”

“What? the same system which before the war was so ridiculed?”

“Yes, we did have a prejudice against it, but Prussia has shown its

advantages. From your enthusiastic moral, democratic, and liberal point

of view, it would seem the ideal thing to have every patriot give

himself to his fatherland for service, then ... if we had already

introduced conscription, could little Prussia have vanquished us?”

“That simply means that with our added force we would have

counterbalanced the enemy’s forces. If conscription were introduced

generally how could it benefit anybody? The chess game of war would

simply be played with greater numbers. The proportion would be the same,

and the decision of victory would cost—instead of hundreds of thousands

of slaughtered—millions perhaps.”

“But do you consider it fair that only a small part should be sacrificed

for the benefit of another class, who, chiefly because they are rich,

may stay at home? No, indeed; the new law will change all this—every one

must serve and none can buy his freedom from it. Besides, the educated

and intelligent make the finest material for soldiers.”

“But the enemy will also have the educated class, both sides will suffer

by the loss of such priceless material—the intellect from which

civilisation is to gain its inventions, arts, and scientific

discoveries. Should they be set up as targets for the enemy’s bullets?”

“Pshaw! What can rummaging of the scientists, the dreams of the artists

and inventors, help to advance the power of a nation?”

“How can you say that!” exclaimed Frederick.

“Besides, these men need spare but a short period from their research,

and a few years of strict discipline will do them good. In the present

state of things we must pay the blood tax, and it ought to be equally

shared.”

“If through this it could be diminished, something would be gained—but

it is only increased. I fully hope the plan fails. No one can tell where

it will lead. Each Power will try to outdo the other, and we shall no

longer have armies, but armed nations. Men will be drawn more and more

into the service; the time will be lengthened, the costs will increase,

and without actual battle and bloodshed, nations will be thrown into

ruin, simply through their preparation for war.”

“You look too far into the future, dear Tilling.”

“One can never look too far ahead. We should think to the end in our

undertakings—were we not just now comparing war to a game of chess? It

is a poor player who only looks a single move ahead. Let us develop the

thought of conscription to the extreme measure—what if, after the limit

of number and age has been reached, a nation should recruit its women

too? The others would imitate it. And then the children—and the rest

would imitate it. And in the armaments, in the instruments of

destruction, where would be the limits? Oh, it is a savage blind leap

into the dark.”

“You are a rash dreamer, Tilling. If war were preventable, it would

indeed be a good thing, but since that is impossible, every nation must

prepare to win in the ‘struggle for existence,’ as your new-fangled

Darwinism calls it.”

“And if I did show you a practical way to wipe out war, you would

consider me only a silly faddist, riding the humanitarian hobby, as the

war party sneeringly calls it.”

“There is no practical means of doing away with war so long as we have

to deal with human passions, rivalries, opposing interests, the

impossibility of agreeing on all questions——”

“Such agreement is unnecessary,” interrupted Frederick. “Where

differences arise, courts of justice, not the sword, can decide.”

“Sovereign states appeal to such a settlement? Never! Nor would the

people.”

“The people? Rulers and statesmen are opposed, but never the

people—their love for peace is sincere, while the claim of the diplomats

is always hypocritical. More and more the people cry for peace as the

standing armies grow, for the halo of self-sacrifice will grow dim when

every man must serve. Besides, who are the enthusiasts for the glories

and dangers of war? Those who are safely outside them—the politicians,

the professors, the stay-at-homes. When their safety is threatened they

sing another song. Then more and more every one must look upon it with

horror, and that sense will grow when poets, thinkers, lovers of

humanity, timid people, when all these will, each from his own special

point of view, curse the wretched trade they have been forced into.”

“However, they will be very careful to keep silent and not pass as

cowards, or fall out of favour with their superiors.”

“Keep silent? Not always. I have kept silent for many years, but as I

speak, soon many will break out. When convictions possess one’s soul, it

speaks out. It took forty years for mine to find expression. It took

decades to ripen in me; perhaps the masses may need as many

generations—but the hour will come when they will at last speak out.”

CHAPTER II

New Year’s reflections—Distrust between the French and Germans—Quiet

again—Paris—Napoleon’s plan for disarmament—Frederick’s work for

peace—A daughter born—Happiness and study—The gay world—War talk

again—Repose in Switzerland—Sylvia’s illness.

New Year, ’67! We celebrated it alone, my dearest Frederick and I, and

as the clock struck twelve, I sighed:—

“Do you remember poor father’s toast last year at this very hour? I dare

not wish you a happy New Year. Behind the future there often lies

concealed so much that is terrible and which mortal wishes cannot

avert.”

“Then let us to-night rather look back than toward the future. What you

have endured, my poor brave wife! So many loved ones you have buried—and

those days of horror on the battle-field in Bohemia!”

“I shall never regret having seen those cruel sights. They make me able

to sympathise with my whole soul in your efforts.”

“We must educate our Rudolf to continue in these ideas. Perhaps in his

lifetime these things may come to pass—hardly in ours. What a noise

there is upon the streets! They greeted the last New Year with as much

enthusiasm—and it brought such frightful suffering. How forgetful men

are!”

“Do not scold them for forgetting. Some of our anguish is already

passing into the shadows, and I am filled with the happiness of the

present—what bliss to have you, my own love. We were not to speak of the

future; but what lies before us looks so good—we have love, unity,

riches, all that life has to offer. We will travel, see the world and

all that is beautiful and wondrous in it. During times of peace the

world is so fair—and peace may last many, many years. Yet if war comes

you are no longer in it, and Rudolf is safe, for he shall never be a

soldier.”

“But if, some day, every man is liable to serve?”

“Oh, nonsense! We shall travel, give Rudolf a pattern education—we will

follow our ideals—in working for peace, and we—we will love each other.”

* * * * *

The carnival of this year brought with it the usual balls and affairs,

from which my mourning kept me. But society as a whole still kept up the

mad round of pleasure, although almost every family had sustained its

losses. The young people had plenty of opportunities to dance, even if

some few aristocratic houses did remain closed. Those who had returned

safely from the battles were the favourites of the ladies, and all

conversations were of the past war and the coming of the needle-guns and

conscriptions with which to win the future victories. Victories? When

and over whom? No one had any idea, but revenge—even if only for a loss

at cards—is the universal feeling.

With the coming of spring, once more the “black spot” appeared in the

horizon—a “question,” as they called it. This time the question was

Luxembourg.

Of what great importance was Luxembourg to the world? I must take up my

studies again as I had in the former war, and my investigations led me

to the following:—

Luxembourg belonged to the King of the Netherlands and at the same time

to the German Bund. (This according to the treaties of 1814–16. Ah,

these treaties are themselves the roots of quarrels.) Prussia was

privileged to garrison the capital. Now as she (Prussia) had broken with

the Bund in 1866, how could she keep this right? That was the

“question.” With the Peace of Prague the connection was dissolved. Why

did the Prussians maintain their right? An intricate affair, to be sure,

and of course the only sensible way to settle it would be to slaughter

fresh hundreds of thousands. Every enlightened statesman would admit

that. The Dutch never valued this possession, and King William III. was

planning to sell it to France for his own profit. Secret negotiations

were on foot. Quite right, secrecy is the soul of diplomacy. The people

need not know anything of such differences. If the matter comes to

blows, it is time enough for them to shed their blood. The reason for

shedding it is of no importance to them.

In March the Prussians were informed that the King had telegraphed his

acceptance to France, and German public opinion was outraged. Who is

this “public opinion”? Certain editorial writers, perhaps. The Reichstag

discussed the question hotly, but Bismarck remained very

cool—nevertheless he took occasion to make preparations for war with

France, and the latter also prepared.

It was the old tune I recognised, and I feared a fresh outbreak in

Europe, with so many leaders to poke the fire. One is amazed at such

firebrands; have they no idea how great is their crime?

Years later I heard of a conversation between the Crown Prince Frederick

of Prussia with Professor Simon:—

“If France and Holland have already made terms, that means war!”

The Crown Prince answered with intense excitement and feeling:—

“You have never seen war or you could not utter that word so carelessly.

I have seen it, and let me tell you it is the supreme duty to avoid war

if there is any possibility.”

This time it was avoided. Luxembourg was declared, by a counsel in

London, to be neutral, and Prussia withdrew. Friends of peace breathed

again, but many were dissatisfied—not the French Emperor, he wished for

peace, but the war party. Many Germans, too, considered the submissive

policy wise. But why should not states as well as individuals accept a

verdict submissively? Is it not more sensible to bow to the settlement

of reason than force? What this London conference attained could always

be secured by rulers if they wished to avoid war, and thus accomplish

what Frederick III. (The Noble) declared to be their highest duty.

* * * * *

May found us in Paris, seeing the great exhibition. It was my first

visit, and I was dazzled by its brilliancy. The empire was in its

highest splendour. Many European rulers were visiting there, and it

seemed almost like a great international capitol—this French city which

was in three short years to be bombarded by its eastern neighbour.

All the nations were assembled in this great peaceful and profitable

pageant of industry—this productive, not destructive, strife of

business. All the riches which art and manufacture contribute to use and

beauty were here displayed, and one felt proud of the progressive times

one lived in, and how natural it was to feel that never more should all

this development be threatened by the brutal processes of destruction.

And I breathed easily when I realised that all these royal guests

commingled in congratulatory festivities. Certainly they would never

again exchange shots with their mutual entertainers and hosts. All this

splendid public recognition and congratulatory association seemed like a

pledge that an era of unbroken peace and plenty had come. Never again

would these civilised nations draw the sword—only barbarians and tartar

hordes would be capable of that.

In the midst of it all it was rumoured that the Emperor was seeking the

earliest suitable opportunity to present his favourite idea to the

Powers for _general_ disarmament. The information came from reliable

sources.

What government could refuse such a suggestion without unmasking its

desire for conquest? What nation would not revolt at such a refusal? The

proposal must succeed.

Frederick was not so confident as I.

“First of all,” he said, “I cannot believe Napoleon will ever propose it

since the war party is too strong. Occupants of thrones cannot govern

public opinion; they are prevented by their closest advisers. In the

second place, one cannot command a great organic body to cease to exist

as such. It would set itself in opposition.”

“Of what great body are you speaking?”

“Of the army. As a body, it has life and has the power to sustain its

existence. As an organism, it is to-day full grown, and if universal

conscription is introduced it is on the point of enormous expansion.”

“And yet you plan to oppose this thing!”

“Yes, but not by stepping up and crying, ‘Die, monster!’ Such an

institution would hardly respond by stretching itself dead at my

command. I will urge war against this monster by introducing another

living, though still fragile form, which as it unfolds will finally wipe

the other out. It was you, Martha, who introduced me to the ideas of

modern scientists. An inexorable law is changing and moving the world,

and what is opposed to it must go. Politicians, rulers, and soldiers

seem not to have the slightest notion of this truth. A few years ago I

was just as blind to it.”

We lived at the Grand Hotel, but since I had not laid aside my mourning,

we did not seek acquaintances. Of course Rudolf was with us but he did

not make many long excursions with us, for the time had come for him to

learn, and he spent much of his time with his English tutor.

The world which opened to us here was all new to me. There had come

together, from the four corners, the rich, the famous—and I was fairly

confused by the turmoil, the fêtes, the luxuriousness, all so enchanting

and interesting. But I longed for the quiet and peace of home as

ardently as one wishes for the gay world when entirely shut out from it.

We kept ourselves outside the hubbub and sought only the acquaintance of

the prominent thinkers who could be of benefit not only to our mental

life, but also who could help further Frederick in his new idea. We were

busy at home collecting what we called a “Peace Protocol,” a sort of

scrap-book on the history of the peace ideal as it had developed from

the beginning. It soon grew into quite a volume. (Since I have carried

it down to the present day it has grown into several.) But, as a whole,

it is but a small drop as compared to the oceans of war literature which

flood our libraries. But when we reflect that in a single acorn is

hidden the possibility of a whole oak-forest we need not be discouraged

when the history of a new movement can be chronicled in a few pages.

* * * * *

And now came the fulfilment of a cherished hope. A girl was born to us.

We knew the joy of having a son, and now we should realise the promise

of happiness which a little daughter might bring to her parents, and of

course our little Sylvia would unfold into a paragon of beauty, grace,

and cleverness. Happiness makes us so selfish. Under the fair sky of our

domestic heaven all else seemed to evaporate; even the terrors of the

cholera faded into a cloud-like dream, and even Frederick slackened in

the pursuit of his ideal. No doubt much discouragement as well was the

reason for this, for everywhere his plans met with shrugs and doubts,

and even pitying smiles and condemnation. The world seems to prefer to

be swindled and kept wretched. Every proposed plan to wipe out misery

and woe is dubbed “Utopian,” and even put aside as childish.

However, Frederick never entirely lost sight of his aim. His studies led

him into correspondence with learned men of every type. He planned to

write a great book called _War and Peace_.

The winter after Sylvia’s birth was quietly spent in Vienna, and the

following spring we visited Italy. Our new programme demanded that we

should know other countries. Those were lovely days, and I am sorry I

kept no note of them in my red book. The next winter found us again in

Paris, and this time we plunged into the great whirl. We rented a small

furnished house where we could entertain our friends, by whom in turn we

were constantly invited. Our ambassador presented us at court, and we

were frequently the guests of the Empress. All the foreign embassies

were open to us, as well as those of foreign notabilities. The literary

stars of the times were all invited to our home except the greatest of

all—Victor Hugo—who was in exile.

In all this fascinating whirl of amusement it is easy to drift into the

heartless and thoughtless life, to forget the real problems which lie

beyond it all, and even domestic shipwreck is apt to be the result. But

we steadfastly kept our hold on the hearthstone, and neither did we

forget our deep and universal interests. Every morning a few hours were

devoted to the domestic side and to our study, and we succeeded in

getting a great deal of real happiness even in the midst of all this

round of pleasure.

As Austrians we found much sympathy expressed in Paris, even suggesting

revenge upon the Prussians for our defeated army. But such consolations

were all rejected, and we assured our sympathetic friends that we

desired only peace, for revenge never made anything right. If old blows

were wiped out by fresh ones, when would the dreadful business of war

cease?

We assured our friends that we hoped the present peace would never be

broken again, and we were given to understand that this was also the

wish of Napoleon III. We were closely associated with many of his

intimates, and they gave us the assurance that he actually desired to

propose a general disarmament. But the populace was seething with

discontent, and many of the imperialists considered it impossible to

remove the antagonism against the French throne, except by diverting

their attention by a foreign war, a sort of grand promenade against the

Rhine. That the Luxembourg matter failed to bring this about was

considered unfortunate. But the newspapers continued to say much about

the unavoidable war between Prussia and France.

The brilliant season reached even more extravagant heights with the

spring-time, and we began to long for rest. We were overwhelmed with

invitations to visit the country-houses of our friends. But we refused

to think of it, and not desiring to return to Grumitz on account of the

unhappy memories, we settled in a quiet spot in Switzerland, and

promised our Parisian friends that the following winter would find us in

their midst again.

And what a refreshment was this summer with its long walks, its long

hours of study, and longer hours of play for the children. But there

were few pages in the little red book, which always meant a mind free of

care, and peace.

Europe as a whole also seemed tolerably peaceful. There were no “dark

spots,” and no more talk of revenge. But the only thing which annoyed us

was that Austria had introduced conscription; and that my Rudolf, like

the rest, must some day also become a soldier was a thing I could not

bear to contemplate.

“And yet people dare dream of freedom!” I exclaimed.

“A year of volunteering is not much,” said Frederick, trying to comfort

me.

I shook my head. “Even a day is too much. To have to pretend for a

single day to do willingly what you detest—to live a lie—is abhorrent,

and I mean to train my son for the truth.”

“Then he should have been born a few centuries later, my dear,” replied

Frederick. “To be a perfectly true man and a perfectly free one seems

impossible in our day. The deeper I go into my studies the more I see it

so.”

Double time was now possible to Frederick for his work, and in our quiet

summer we determined to return the next winter to Paris, not for gaiety,

but to devote the entire season to the one object of our lives. We

wished to help bring about some practical results, and hoped to be able

to co-operate with the plans of the Emperor for disarmament, for we

might get his ear through our friends. Through our old friend the

Cabinet Minister we hoped also to get to the ear of the Austrian

government. Frederick also had influential relatives at the Berlin

Court, through whom such a plan might be brought to the consideration of

Prussia.

But our return to Paris was disarranged. Our little Sylvia, our

treasure, became seriously ill. These anxious hours filled with fear of

death threw everything else into the background. But she did not die. In

two weeks the danger was past. Then the winter’s cold delayed our

departure till March.

BOOK VI

CHAPTER I

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

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

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

threats.

Forebodings? There were none in my mind when we again entered Paris on

that beautiful sunny March day in 1870. It was all cheer and promise,

but one knows now what horrors were hanging over it all.

We engaged the same little house which we had occupied the year before.

The same servants awaited us, and as we drove through the streets on our

way home, we met many acquaintances, who were driving at that hour,

among them the beautiful Empress, who graciously saluted us in passing.

Violets were being sold everywhere, and the air was full of the promise

of spring.

This season we were determined to avoid the gaiety; we declined all

invitations, seldom went to the theatre, and kept ourselves quite apart,

spending our evenings at home or in the society of a few choice friends.

Our plans regarding the Emperor’s scheme of disarmament were at a

standstill, for the time seemed not ripe for such an idea. The people

were in a turmoil, and the throne itself seemed not on the surest

foundations. We grew accustomed to hear that the only safety of the

dynasty would be in a fortunate campaign. There seemed no possibility of

war, and yet talk of disarmament was dropped for the Bonaparte halo

largely depended upon its military glory. Neither Prussia nor Austria

responded to our plan. Expansion of the army was everywhere the fashion,

and our dream of disarmament fell upon deaf ears.

“The time is not ripe,” said Frederick. “I may need to abandon my hope

to help personally to hasten the peace of the nations. What I can

contribute is small indeed, but from the first hour it dawned upon me,

it possessed me with the conviction that it was the one most important

thing in the world. I must be faithful.”

If for the moment the project for disarmament must be postponed, yet I

was content that there was no immediate threat of war. At court and

among the people those who believed the dynasty must be rebaptized in

blood had to give up all hope of glory in a charming little campaign on

the Rhine. There were no French allies, the harvest had failed, forage

was scarce, the army had to sell its horses, the extra recruits had been

cut off by legislation, and above all there was nowhere any political

complication; in short, so Ollivier proclaimed from the forum: “The

peace of Europe is assured.”

Assured! How the word rejoiced me. The papers repeated it, and thousands

rejoiced with me. What greater good can be given to the majority of

humanity than the assurance of peace?

The worth of this lulling security, of which the statesmen assured us in

June 1870, we all realise now. We might have known then and always in

the future that we mistake when we put our innocent trust into the

statements of diplomats. How can peace ever be secure when any hour

these meddlers can turn up some agitation? We can never be secure from

war until some other means for settling differences is provided.

* * * * *

In Paris again society scattered itself, but we remained in town for

business, since we had decided to buy ourselves a home there; but many

of our friends owned houses in the near neighbourhood of Paris, and we

visited them all several times during the early summer. I clearly

remember that it was in the salon of the Princess Mathilde that I first

got wind that there was a new agitation in the air. It was said that a

prince of Hohenzollern was a candidate for the vacant Spanish throne. It

seemed of little consequence who should sit on the Spanish throne, but

it cut me to the heart when I heard some one make the remark: “France

will not tolerate that!” I knew what this phrase always meant: “we will

not tolerate.”

The subject was idly dropped, and none of us realised the fearful result

of the doubtful Spanish succession. But the point obtruded itself more

and more, privately and in the newspapers. Everybody declared that

Prussia wished purposely to provoke war. Yet letters from Berlin assured

us that the Spanish throne was not considered a question of any

importance.

We were deeply interested in our house and its furnishings, and little

realised the approaching storm that began to threaten louder and louder.

On the 19th of July the French declared war against Prussia.

CHAPTER II

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

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

declared—My husband’s fate.

“War is declared!” These three words, what do they mean? The beginning

of a conflict which is the result of a political intrigue, and,

incidentally, a half million of human beings are sentenced to death.

Does he who signs such a declaration realise that he is plunging his pen

in fire, in bloody tears, and in the poisons of plague and disease?

So on account of a vacant throne seeking an occupant, and unreasonable

dissensions between two monarchs, the storm was brought upon us.

I remember the peculiar frame of mind which took possession of me when

this war broke out. The whole population was in a ferment, and who could

escape the infection? Naturally, according to old custom, the beginning

of the campaign was regarded as a triumphant march; that is, of course,

a patriotic duty. The “Marseillaise” was heard at every corner. At every

theatrical performance the leading actress or singer—at the opera it was

Marie Sass—must appear before the curtain in the costume of Joan of Arc

and, carrying the national colours, must sing this battle-song—the

audience rising and generally joining in the chorus. Frederick and I

realised one evening the might of this popular enthusiasm, and were

compelled to rise to our feet—compelled because we were electrified.

“See, Martha,” exclaimed Frederick, “this spark which spreads from one

to another, uniting the whole mass and making every heart beat higher,

is love——”

“Do you believe so? It is a song inspiring hate.” “That makes no

difference; a common hatred is but another form of love. When two or

three or more are bound together by the same feeling, they love one

another. When the time arrives for a nobler, broader aspiration than the

interests of nationality, namely, the cause of humanity, then our ideal

will be attained.”

“Ah, when will that time come?” I sighed.

“When? One can speak but relatively. As a length of time compared with

our personal existence—never; when compared with the existence of our

race—to-morrow.”

When war breaks out the inhabitants of neutral states divide into two

camps; one siding with this, the other with that party, as if there were

a great stake in which every one had a share. We were unconsciously

influenced by our earlier interests. Frederick was of Prussian descent

and the German language was my own. The declaration of war had been made

by the French on such insignificant grounds—mere pretences—that we must

recognise the cause of the Prussians as more justly representing that of

defence, since they were forced into the contest. It was inspiring to

note with what enthusiasm the Germans, but so shortly before at strife

among themselves, now trooped together.

On the 19th of July, in his address from the throne, King William said:—

The German and French nations, both in like degree enjoying the

blessings of Christian civilisation and increasing prosperity, are

called to a more beneficent rivalry than the bloody one of arms. But

the ruler of France, instigated by personal interests and passions,

has been able, through misleading statements, to excite the

justifiable though excitable vanity of our great neighbours.

The Emperor Napoleon on his part issued the following proclamation:—

Because of the arrogant claims of Prussia we were obliged to protest.

These protests have been met with ridicule. Events followed which

indicated a contempt for us. Our country has been deeply incensed

thereby, and instantly the battle-cry has been heard from one end of

France to the other. There is nothing to be done except to consign our

fate to the lot drawn by war. We do not war against Germany, whose

independence we respect. We have the most earnest desire that the

people who compose the great German nation may be the arbiters of

their own destiny. What we desire is the establishment of a condition

of things which will insure our present security and make our future

safe. We desire a permanent peace, founded upon the true interests of

peoples; we wish that this miserable condition should end, and that

all nations use all possible means to secure general disarmament.

What a lesson, what a striking lesson this document is when we consider

it in connection with the events which followed. In order to be sure of

safety, in order to attain permanent peace, this war was begun by

France. And what was the result? “The Terrible Year” and enduring

hatred. No, no; one does not use charcoal to paint a thing white, not

asafoetida to perfume a room, nor war to secure peace.

I could not believe that the war would be a long one. What were they

fighting about? Really nothing at all. It was a sort of grand parade,

undertaken by the French from a spirit of adventure—by the Germans as a

duty of defence. One might expect a few sabre thrusts, and the

antagonists would again shake hands. Fool that I was! As if the results

of war bore any adequate relation to its cause. The course of it

determines the result.

We would gladly have left Paris, for the enthusiasm of the people pained

us immeasurably. But the way eastward was blocked; our house was not

finished—in short, we remained. All of our acquaintance who could get

away had fled, and, excepting a few literary men, we had no visitors. A

young writer, the later famous Guy de Maupassant, once expressed my own

feelings so perfectly that I entered his words in my journal:—

War—when I think of this word I shudder as if one talked of the

Inquisition, or of a distant, horrible, unnatural thing. War—to kill

one another, cut each other down! And we have to-day—in our times,

with our culture, with our extensive knowledge in the higher planes of

development, which we flatter ourselves to have attained—we still have

schools to teach men how to kill, to kill in the most scientific

manner and as many as possible.

It is wonderful that the people do not rise against this thing, that

the whole of society does not revolt at the mere mention of war. He

who rules is in duty bound to avoid war, as the captain of a ship is

bound to avoid shipwreck. When a captain loses his ship he is required

to answer for it, in case it is discovered that he has been remiss in

duty. Why should not every government be called to account when it

declares war? If the people understood how to refuse to allow

themselves to be killed without just cause, war would cease.

Ernest Renan, also, let us hear from him:—

Is it not heart-breaking to think that all that we men of science have

sought to accomplish during the past fifty years is destroyed at a

blow; the sympathy between peoples, the mutual understanding, the

fruitful, united work? How such a war destroys the love of truth! What

lies, what defamation of a nation will from now on, for the next fifty

years, be believed by each of the other, and divide them for an

incalculable time! How it will retard the progress of Europe! We

cannot build up in a hundred years what these men have torn down in

one day.

I also had the opportunity of reading a letter which Gustave Flaubert

wrote during those first July days to Georges Sand. Here it is:—

I am in despair at the stupidity of my countrymen. The incorrigible

barbarism of humanity fills me with the deepest grief. This enthusiasm

inspired by not one reasonable idea makes me long to die that I may

not witness it. Our good Frenchmen will fight: first, because they

believe themselves called out by Prussia; secondly, because the

natural condition of man is that of barbarism; thirdly, because war

possesses a mystical element which carries mankind away. Have we

returned to a war of races? I am afraid so. The horrible battles which

we prepare for have not a single pretext to excuse them. It is simply

the pleasure of fighting for fighting itself. I regret the bridges and

tunnels that will be blown to pieces, all this superb work of man

which will be destroyed. I notice that a member of the Chamber

proposes the plundering of the Grand Duchy of Baden. Ah, I wish I were

with the Bedouins.

“Oh!” I cried, as I read this letter, “if we had only been born five

hundred years later—that would be better than the Bedouins.”

“Mankind will not take so long to become reasonable,” replied Frederick

confidently.

It was again the era of proclamations and army orders.

Always the same old song, and always the same enthusiasm and applause of

the populace! There was the same rejoicing over promised victories as if

they had been already won.

On the 28th of July Napoleon III. published the following proclamation

from his headquarters in Metz. I copied this, not out of admiration, but

because of anger over its everlasting hollow phrases:

We defend the honour and soil of our native land. We will be

victorious. Nothing is too great for the sturdy endurance of the

soldiers of Africa, the Crimea, China, Italy, and Mexico. Once more

they will show what a French army inspired by a love of country is

capable of accomplishing. Whichever way we turn outside our borders we

find the marks of the valour of our fathers. We will prove ourselves

worthy of them. Upon our success hangs the fate of freedom and

civilisation. Soldiers, do your duty, and the God of Battles will be

with you.

Oh, of course, it would not do to leave out “the God of Battles!” That

the leaders of vanquished armies have a hundred times promised the same

does not prevent the claim of special protection being set up at every

fresh campaign in order to awaken the same confidence. Is anything

shorter than the memory of a people or anything feebler than their

logic?

On the 31st of July King William left Berlin and issued the following

manifesto:—

To-day, before I leave to join the army, to fight with it for the

honour and preservation of all dearest to us, I proclaim a general

amnesty for all political offences. My people know that we were not

guilty of enmity and breach of faith. But being attacked we are

resolved, as were our fathers, in firm reliance upon God, to endure

the struggle for the rescue of our country.

Defence, defence, that is the only dignified sort of death; therefore

both sides cry: “I defend myself.” Is that not a contradiction? Not

quite—for over each a third power rules—the might of the old hereditary

war spirit. If they would only defend themselves against that!

* * * * *

“O Monsieur, O Madame, what news!” With these words Frederick’s butler

and the cook behind him rushed into our sitting-room. It was the day of

the battle of Wörth.

“A dispatch has arrived. The Prussians are as good as absolutely

crushed. The city is being decorated with tri-coloured flags, it will be

illuminated to-night.”

In the course of the afternoon further despatches proved that the first

was false—a manœuvre of the Bourse.

On the 7th of August there was a rumour of disaster. The Emperor

hastened from St. Cloud to the seat of war. The enemy had crossed the

frontier and was marching inland. The papers could not express their

indignation in strong enough terms. I had imagined that the shout _à

Berlin_! meant a similar invasion. But that these eastern barbarians

should dare the same thing, should march into beautiful and beloved

France—this seemed pure, audacious villainy, and must be stopped at

once.

The provisional Minister of War published an order calling upon all

able-bodied citizens between thirty and forty years of age to enrol

themselves in the National Guard. A ministry for defence of the interior

was organised. The appropriation was increased from five hundred to a

thousand million of francs. It is refreshing to notice how free the

authorities are with the money and lives of others. An unpleasant little

occurrence disturbed the convenience of the public; if one wanted to

change a bank-note he was obliged to pay a broker ten per cent. There

was not sufficient gold to keep the notes of the Bank of France at par.

Now followed victory after victory on the part of the Germans.

The aspect of Paris and its inhabitants underwent an astonishing change.

In the place of the proud, boastful, war-loving humour, dismay and

vindictive anger appeared. The impression that a horde of vandals was

ready to devour the land was widespread. That the French had called down

this storm upon themselves they never considered; or that they had done

it to prevent some Hohenzollern in the distant future from conceiving a

fancy for the Spanish throne—that they also forgot. The most astonishing

stories were told of the ferocity of the invaders, “The Uhlans, the

Uhlans!” the words had a sort of fantastic demoniac sound, as if they

had talked about the armies of Satan. In the imagination of the people

these troops became demons. Whenever a particularly bold stroke was

reported, it was at once ascribed to the Uhlans. They were said to be

recruited to serve for booty and without pay. Mixed up with these

recitals of terror were stories of occasional triumphs. To lie about

success is naturally the chief duty of the sensationalist, for, of

course, the courage of the populace must be kept up. The law of

veracity—like many other laws of morality—loses its force in times of

war. Frederick read to me the following:—

Up to the 16th of August the Germans have lost one hundred and

forty-four thousand men, the remainder are on the verge of starvation.

The reserves from Germany, the “landwehr” and “landsturm,” are

arriving; old men of over sixty, with flint-lock muskets, carrying on

one side a huge tobacco pouch, on the other a big flask of brandy,

with a long clay pipe in the mouth, are staggering under the weight of

the knapsacks, coffee-mills, and packages of elderberry tea. Coughing

and groaning, they are crossing from the right to the left bank of the

Rhine, cursing those who have torn them from the arms of their

grandchildren to thrust them into the clutches of death. The reports

we get from the German press of victorious battles are all the usual

Prussian lies.

On the 20th of August Count Palikao informed the Chamber that three army

corps, which had united against Bazaine, had been thrown into the

quarries of Jaumont. It is true no one had the remotest idea where these

stone quarries were, or how it happened that the three army corps were

kept there. From tongue to tongue the joyful tidings spread, and

everybody acted as if they had been born in the region of Jaumont, and,

of course, knew all about the quarries. At the same time there was a

current report that the King of Prussia had become insane over the

condition of his army.

All sorts of atrocities were reported; the excitement among the

population increased hourly. The engagement of Bazaine near Metz was

described as if the Bavarians had been guilty of most inhuman barbarity.

“Do you believe this?” I said to Frederick. “Do you believe these

stories of the good-natured Bavarians?”

“They are possible. Whether a man is Bavarian or Turk, German, French,

or Indian, makes no particular difference; when he takes his life in his

hands and fights to destroy others he ceases to be human. All that is

awakened and strongest within him is the beast.”

Metz is taken. The report resounded through the city like a shriek of

terror.

To me the news of the capture of a fortress brought relief rather than

dismay. Were we not probably nearer the end? But after every defeat each

side strains itself to the utmost for a fresh trial of strength;

possibly the fortune of war may turn. Usually the advantage is first on

one side next on the other; on both sides there is certain sorrow and

certain death.

Trochu felt himself called upon to arouse the courage of the population

by a fresh proclamation, calling upon them with the motto of Bretagne,

“With God’s help for our native land.” That does not sound quite new to

me—I must have heard something similar to it in other proclamations. It

did not fail of its effect, however; the people were encouraged. Next we

were told Paris must be fortified. Paris a fortress! I could scarcely

grasp the thought. This city, the lode-star of the whole civilised rich,

art- and life-loving world; the radiating point of splendour, of

fashion, of the intellect—this city must fortify itself, that is, must

be the aim of the enemy’s attacks, the target of bombardment, and run

the risk of destruction through fire and hunger? And these people

proceeded to the work with gaiety of heart, with the zeal of pleasure,

with self-sacrifice, as if they were bringing to completion the noblest,

most useful work in the world. Ramparts to be manned by infantry were

built with embrasures, earthworks were thrown up before the gates,

canals were covered, and surmounted by parapets, powder magazines were

built, and a flotilla of barges, carrying cannon, was put upon the

Seine. What a fever of activity; what an expenditure of strength and

nerve; what monstrous cost of labour and money! If all had only been so

cheerfully and nobly devoted to works of true utility—but for the

purpose of destruction, which had no object except that of a strategic

checkmate, it was inconceivable!

To be prepared for a long siege the city was amply provisioned. But it

is the experiences of ages that no fortification has existed which has

been impregnable—capitulation is solely a matter of time. Yet

fortifications are still erected, they are still provisioned,

notwithstanding the mathematical impossibility of maintaining them, in

the long-run, against starvation.

The preparations were made on an enormous scale. Mills were erected and

stockyards filled; yet the hour must come when the corn would all be

ground and the flesh all eaten. But so far ahead as this no one thought.

Long before that the enemy would be driven from the country. The entire

male force of the city was enrolled in the National Guard, and all

possible were drawn from the country. What difference did it make if the

provinces were laid in ashes? Such insignificant events were not to be

considered when there was prospect of a national disaster. On the 17th

of August sixty thousand provincial troops had already arrived in Paris.

With an ever-increasing activity events followed events. All around

there was heard but one expression, “Death to the Prussians.” A storm of

the wildest hatred was gathering—it had not yet broken out. In all the

official reports, in all the street disturbances we heard of but one

aim—“death to the Prussians.” All these troops, regular and irregular,

all these munitions of war, all these busy workmen with spade and

barrow, all that one saw and heard, in form or tone, surged and

threatened “death to the Prussians!” Or, in other words, it sounds

really like the cry of love, and inspires even tender hearts—“all for

our country”—but it is one and the same thing.

“You are of Prussian descent,” I said to Frederick one day, “how do

these expressions of hatred affect you?”

“You asked me the same question in the year 1866, and then I answered,

as I must to-day, that I suffer under these demonstrations of hatred,

not as a Prussian, but as a man. When I reflect upon the feelings of

these people from a national stand-point, I can only regard them as

justifiable; they call it the sacred hatred of the enemy, and this

sentiment forms an important incentive to military patriotism. They have

but one thought—to free their country from the presence of the

antagonist. They forget that they caused the invasion by their

declaration of war. They did not do it themselves, but it was their

government in which they believed. They waste no time in reflections or

in recriminations; the misfortune is upon them, and every muscle, every

nerve is strained to meet it, or with reckless self-sacrifice they will

all go to destruction together. Believe me, there is untold capacity of

love in mankind; the pity of it is that we waste it in the old rut of

hatred. And the enemy, the ‘red-haired, eastern barbarians!’—what are

they doing? They were called out and they invade the land which

threatened theirs. Do you remember how the cry, _à Berlin, à Berlin_,

resounded through the streets?”

“Now the others march upon Paris! Why do the Parisian shouters call that

a crime?”

“Because there is neither logic nor justice in that national feeling

whose chief principle is, we are we,—that is, the first,—the others are

barbarians. That march of the Germans from victory to victory fills me

with admiration. I have been a soldier and know what an inspiration the

idea of victory has, what pride, what intense delight. It is the reward

for all suffering, for the renunciation of rest and happiness, for the

life at stake.”

“Why do not the victors admire the vanquished, if they know all that

victory means to those who are soldiers like themselves? Why do not the

army reports of the losing party contain the sentence: The enemy has won

a glorious victory?”

“Why? I repeat, the war spirit and patriotic egotism are the destruction

of all justice.”

On the 28th of August all Germans were ordered to leave Paris within

three days. I had the opportunity to see the effect of this order. Many

Germans had been citizens of Paris for ten and twenty years, had married

Parisians, but were now compelled to leave everything—home, business,

and property.

Sedan! The Emperor had surrendered his sword. The report overpowered us.

Then truly a terrible catastrophe had occurred—Germany had won, and the

butchery was over.

“It is over,” I cried. “If there are people who are citizens of the

world, they may illuminate their windows; in the temples of humanity Te

Deums can now be sung—the butchery is over.”

“Do not rejoice too soon,” Frederick warned me. “This war has long lost

the character of a battle game of chess, the whole nation is in arms.

For one army destroyed ten new ones will spring out of the soil.”

“Is that just? These are only German soldiers, not the German nation.”

“Why always talk of justice and reason in the presence of a madman.

France is mad with pain and terror, and from the stand-point of the love

of country her rage is just, her sorrow sacred. Personal interest is not

considered, only the loftiest self-sacrifice. If the time would only

come when the noble virtues common to humanity could be torn from the

work of destruction and united for the blessing of the race! But this

unholy war has again driven us back a long way from the attainment of

this goal.”

“No, no, I hope the war is at an end.”

“If so, which I much doubt, the seeds of future wars are sown and the

seeds of hate, which will outlast this generation.”

On the 4th of September another great event occurred. The Emperor was

deposed and France was declared a republic. With the destruction of the

throne, the leaves were torn out of the book of France which told the

story of Metz and Sedan. It was Napoleon and his dismissed generals who,

through cowardice, treachery, and bad tactics, had been responsible for

all this disaster—but not France. France would now carry on the war if

the Germans still dared to continue the invasion.

“How would it have been had Napoleon and his generals been victorious?”

I asked when Frederick told me this latest news.

“Then they would have accepted his success as the success of France.”

“Is there any justice in that?”

“Why will you not break yourself off the habit of asking that question?”

My hope that with Sedan the war would end was soon dissipated. The

frenzied orations, the atrocious pamphlets which were now made and

published and rained down upon the unfortunate Emperor and Empress, and

the unlucky generals, were absolutely disgusting. The rough masses held

that they could lay upon these few the responsibility for the general

disaster. The preparations for the defence of Paris were carried on with

rapidity. Houses which might serve as protection to the approaching

enemy were torn down, and the region around the city became a desert.

Crowds of country people filled up the already crowded city, and the

streets were jammed with the waggons and pack-horses of these people,

laden with the remains of their household goods. I had seen the same

sight in Bohemia, and now was fated to see the like misery and a similar

terror in the beautiful streets of the most wonderful, most brilliant

city of the world.

There came at last the news of the prospect of better things, there was

the chance that peace might be arranged.

On the contrary, the breach became much wider. For some time past German

papers had suggested the retention of Alsace-Lorraine. The former German

provinces were to be annexed. The historical argument was not quite

tenable, therefore the strategical reason was made more prominent: as a

rampart they were absolutely necessary in case of future wars. It is

well known that the strategic grounds are the most important, the most

incontestible—the ethical reasons must take second rank. On the other

hand, as France had lost in the struggle, was it not fair that the

winner should hold the prize? In case of the success of the French, they

of course would have claimed the provinces of the Rhine. What is war for

except for the extension of the territory of the one or the other

antagonist?

In the meantime the victorious army did not halt in its march on

Paris—the Germans were already at her door. The consent to the cession

of Alsace-Lorraine was officially demanded. In response the well-known

reply was given: “Not an inch of our territory—not a stone of our

fortresses.”

Yes, yes—a thousand lives—not an inch of earth. That is the foundation

principle of the patriotic spirit. “They seek to humiliate us!” cried

the French patriots. “We would rather be buried under the ruins of

Paris.”

We attempted to leave the city. Why should we stay among a people so

embittered by hate that they clenched their fists if they heard us speak

German. We had succeeded in making arrangements for departure, when I

was seized by a nervous fever of so dangerous a character that the

family physician forbade any attempt at removal.

I lay upon my bed for many weeks, and only a dreamy recollection of that

time remains. In the careful hands of my husband, and the tender care of

my children, my Rudolph and my little Sylvia, all knowledge of the

fearful events then occurring was shut out, and when I recovered winter

had set in.

Strassburg had been bombarded, the library destroyed; four or five shots

a minute were said to have been fired—in all, one hundred and

ninety-three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two.

Should Paris be starved into submission or bombarded?

Against the last the conscience of civilisation protested. Should this

rendezvous of all nations, this brilliant seat of art, with its

irrecoverable riches and treasures, be bombarded as any common citadel?

It was not to be thought of; the whole neutral press, I learned

afterwards, protested. The press of Berlin approved the idea, considered

it the only way to end the war and conquer the city. No protest availed,

and on the 28th of December the bombardment began.

At first greeting it with terror, it was not long before the Parisians

chose for a promenade the localities from which one could best hear the

music of cannon. Here and there a shell fell in the street, but there

was seldom a consequent catastrophe. Rarely could any news from the

outside world be obtained, and that only through carrier pigeons and

balloons. The reports were most contradictory; one day we were informed

of successful sallies, the next, that the enemy was about to storm the

city, set fire to it, and lay it in ashes; or we were assured that

rather than see one German enter within the walls the commandant would

blow all Paris into atoms.

It became daily more and more difficult to obtain food. Meat was not to

be had; cattle and sheep and horses were exhausted, and the period began

when dogs, cats, rats, and mice were a rarity, and finally the beloved

elephant at the Jardin des Plantes must be served up. Bread was scarce.

People stood in rows, hours at a time, in front of the bakers in order

to receive their tiny portion. Disease broke out, induced by famine. The

mortality increased from the ordinary eleven hundred a week to between

four and five thousand.

One day Frederick came into the house from his daily walk in an unusual

state of excitement.

“Take up your note-book, my zealous historian,” he cried. “To-day there

is wonderful news.”

“Which of my books?” I asked. “My Peace Protocol?”

Frederick shook his head.

“Oh, for that the time is past. The war now being carried on is of so

mighty a character that it will drag its martial spirit long after it.

It has sown broadcast such a store of hatred and revenge that future

battle harvests must grow therefrom; and upon the other side it has

produced for the victors such magnificent revolutionary results that a

like harvest may be brought about by their haughty martial spirits.”

“What is it that is so important?”

“King William has been proclaimed Emperor at Versailles. There is now

really a Germany, one single empire—and a mighty one. That is a new

event in the world’s history. And you can easily perceive how this great

result will redound to the honour of the work of war. The two most

advanced representatives of civilisation on the continent are the ones

who from now on for some time to come will cultivate the war spirit—the

one in order to return the blow, the other in order to maintain the

position won; here out of hate, there out of love; here from a spirit of

retaliation, on the other side out of gratitude. Shut up your peace

protocols—for a long time to come we shall stand under the bloody and

iron sign of Mars.”

“Emperor of Germany!” I cried, “that is indeed glorious. I cannot help

rejoicing over this news. The whole barbarous slaughter has not been in

vain if a great, new empire has been born.”

“From the French point of view the war is doubly lost. And it is to be

expected of us that we should not regard this contest from the onesided

German stand-point alone. Not only as human beings but from a narrower

national feeling we should be excused if we regretted the success of our

enemies of 1866. And yet I will acknowledge that the union of divided

Germany is a desirable thing, and that the readiness with which all

these German princes joined in offering the imperial crown to the

gray-haired victor is inspiring and admirable. Only it is a pity that

this union was not brought about through peaceful rather than warlike

measures. It may be that if Napoleon III. had not made his demand of the

19th of July there would not have been enough patriotism among the

Germans to bring about this result. They may well rejoice; the poet’s

wish is fulfilled—they are a band of brothers. Four years ago they had

each other by the throat and knew but one common cause—hatred of

Prussia.”

“That word hate makes me shudder.”

“Well it may. So long as this feeling is not regarded as unjust and

dishonourable, we shall have no humane humanity. Religious hatred has

about disappeared, but national hatreds form a part of the education of

the citizen.”

In the quiet of the next few days we had many discussions as to our

future. With the establishment of peace, which we could now hope for, we

might again dare to think of our personal happiness. During the eight

years of our married life there had been no discord, not a discourteous

or unkindly word or thought had passed between us; as the years drew on

we knew we should grow nearer to each other, and we could look forward

to an old age together—the golden evening of our lives—with sure

content.

Many of the preceding pages I have turned over with a shudder. It is not

without repulsion that I have recorded my visit to the battle-fields of

Bohemia and the scenes of the cholera week in Grumitz. I have done it as

a duty. I had been told: “In case I die first take up my work and do

what you can to further the cause of peace among men.”

But I have now reached a point when I cannot go on.

I have tried; many half-written sheets lie on the floor beside me; but

my heart fails and I can only fall to weeping—weeping bitterly like a

child.

Some hours later I again made the attempt, but the particulars of the

circumstances it is not possible for me to relate.

The fact is enough.

Frederick—my all!—was seized by a fanatical mob who, finding a letter

from Berlin upon his person, accused him of being a spy. He was dragged

before a so-called patriotic tribunal, and on the 1st of February 1871

was sentenced to be shot.

EPILOGUE

When I again awoke to consciousness peace had been declared, the Commune

had been defeated. For months, attended by my faithful Frau Anna, I

lived through an illness without knowing that I was alive. The character

of my illness I have never known. Those about me tenderly called it

typhus, but I believe it was simply insanity.

Dimly I remember that the latter part of the time seemed filled with the

rattling of shot and the falling of burning walls; probably my fancies

were influenced by the actual events, the skirmishes between the

communists and the party of Versailles.

That when I recovered my reason and realised the circumstances of my

profound unhappiness I did not kill myself, or that the anguish had not

killed me, was owing to the existence of my children. For these I could,

I must, live. Even before my illness, on the day when the terrible event

occurred, Rudolf had held me to life. I had sunk on my knees, weeping

aloud while I repeated, “Die—die! I will die!” Two little arms were

thrown around me, and a sweet, piteous, pleading, childish face looked

into mine:—

“Mother!”

My little one had never called me anything but Mamma. That he at that

moment, for the first time, used the word “Mother” said to me in two

syllables, “You are not alone, you have a son who shares your pain, who

loves you above all things, who has no one in the world but you. Do not

leave your child, Mother!”

I pressed the precious being to my heart, and to show him that I had

understood him I murmured, “My son, my son!”

I then remembered my little girl—his child—and resolved to live.

But the anguish was unendurable, and I fell into mental darkness. For

years—at longer and longer intervals—I was subject to these attacks of

melancholy, of which upon my restoration to health I knew nothing. Now,

at length, I have outlived them, and for several years have been free

from the unconscious misery, though not from the bitterest, conscious

sorrow. Eighteen years have passed since the 1st of February 1871; but

the deep anguish and the deepest mourning, which the tragedy of that day

brought to me, I can never outlive though I should live a hundred years.

If, in later times, the days are more frequent when I can take part in

the events of the present, can forget the past unhappiness, can

sympathise in the joys of my children, not a night passes when I escape

my misery. It is a peculiar experience, hard for me to describe, and

which can only be understood by those who have similarly suffered. It

would seem to indicate a dual life of the soul. If the one is so

occupied, when awake, with the things of the outer world as to forget,

there yet remains that second nature which ever keeps faithfully in mind

that dreadful memory; and this I—when the other is asleep—makes itself

felt. Every night at the same hour I awake with this deep depression. My

heart seems torn asunder, and I feel as if I must relieve my agony in

sighs and bitter weeping; this lasts for several seconds, without the

awakened I knowing why the other is happy or unhappy. The next stage is

a sentiment of universal sympathy, full of the tenderest compassion:

“Oh, poor, poor humanity!” Then amidst a shower of bullets I see

shrieking figures fall—and then I remember for the first time that my

best-beloved met such a death.

But in dreams, singular to say, I never realise my loss. It often occurs

that I seem to talk with Frederick as if he were alive. Many

circumstances of the past—but no sad ones—are frequently alluded to by

us: our meeting after Schleswig-Holstein, our joking over Sylvia’s

cradle, our walk through Switzerland, our studies of favourite books,

and now and then a certain picture of my white-haired husband in the

evening sunset-light, with his garden shears, clipping his roses. “Is it

not true,” he says to me, smiling, “that we are a happy old couple?”

My mourning I have never laid aside—not even on my son’s wedding day.

The woman who has loved, possessed, and lost—so lost—such a man must

feel that love is indeed stronger than death. With this may exist a

longing for revenge which can never grow cold.

But how should I seek revenge? The men who were guilty of the act could

not be personally blamed. The sole responsibility rested upon the spirit

of war, and this was the only force with which I could attempt—though in

a feeble way—to settle my account.

My son Rudolf shared my views in regard to war—which did not, however,

prevent his going into camp for the annual military drill, nor would it

hinder his marching over the border, should that gigantic European

contest break out which we are all anticipating. I might yet live to see

the dearest one left to me sacrificed to this relentless Moloch, and the

hearth of my old age fall in ruins.

Should I live to experience that and again be driven to madness, or

should I see the triumph of justice and humanity, for which all nations

and alliances of peoples are now striving?

My red journals are closed, and under date of 1871 I marked with a great

cross the record of my life. My so-called protocol—my peace record— I

have again opened, and of late have added much to the history of the

growth of the international idea of the settlement of the strifes of

humanity by peaceful methods.

For some years the two most influential nations of the continent have

been watching each other, both absorbed in thoughts of war—the one in

arrogant review of past successes, the other in burning hopes of

revenge. Gradually these sentiments have somewhat cooled, and

notwithstanding, or by reason of, the great increase of our standing

armies, after ten years the voices petitioning for peace are once more

heard.

To-day there are few to whom this dream of peace seems an impossibility.

There are sentinels on every hill, to wake humanity out of its long

sleep of barbarism, and to plant the white flag. Their battle-cry is

“War against war”; their watchword, “Disarm! Disarm!” The only thing

which can now prevent the most appalling disaster to Europe is the

universal cry, “Disarm! Disarm!” Everywhere, in England and France, in

Italy, in the northern countries, in Germany, in Switzerland, in

America, societies have been formed with the common object to educate

public opinion, and by the united expression of popular will to demand

of governments that future dissensions shall be submitted to

international arbitration, and by so doing to set justice for ever in

the place of rude force. That this is not the impossible fancy of a

dreamer has been proved by facts. It is not only people of no influence

and position, but members of Parliament, bishops, scholars, senators,

ambassadors, who stand on the list. To these is added that ever-growing

party which will shortly number millions, the party of “Labour” and of

the people, upon whose programme the demand for peace is a first

condition.

* * * * *

“Mother, will you lay aside your mourning the day after to-morrow?”

With these words Rudolf came into my room this morning. For the day

after to-morrow—the 30th of July 1889—the baptism of his first-born son

is to be celebrated.

“No, my child,” I answered.

“But, think, surely at such a festival you will not be sad; why wear the

outward sign of sorrow?”

“And you surely are not superstitious enough to think that the black

dress of the grandmother will bring ill-luck to the grandchild?”

“Certainly not. But it is not suitable to the occasion. Have you taken a

vow?”

“No, it is only a quiet determination. But a determination connected

with such a memory has all the force of a vow.”

My son bowed his head and urged me no longer.

“I have disturbed you in your work. Were you writing?”

“Yes—the story of my life. I am, thank God, at the end. That was the

last chapter.”

“How can you write the close of your life? You may live many years, many

happy years, Mother. With the birth of my little Frederick, whom I will

train to adore his grandmother, a new chapter is begun for you.”

“You are a good son, my Rudolf, I should be ungrateful if I had not

pride and happiness in you; and I am also proud of my—his sweet Sylvia;

yes, I am entering on a happy old age—a quiet evening; but the story of

the day is closed at sunset, is it not?”

He answered me with a quiet and sympathetic glance.

“Yes, the word ‘end’ under my biography is justified. When I conceived

the idea of writing it, I determined to stop with the 1st of February

1871. If you had been torn from me for service in the field—luckily

during the Bosnian campaign you were not old enough—I might have been

obliged to lengthen my book. As it is, it was painful enough to write.”

“And also to read,” answered Rudolf, turning over the leaves.

“I hope so. If the book shall cause such pain in the reading as to

awaken a detestation of the source of all the unhappiness here

described, I shall not have tormented myself in vain.”

“Have you examined all sides of the question, Mother?” said my son.

“Have you exhausted all the arguments, analysed to the roots the spirit

of war, and sufficiently brought out the scientific objections to it?”

“My dear, what are you thinking about? I have only written of my life.

All sides of the question? Certainly not. What do I, the rich woman of

high rank, know of the sorrows which war brings to the mass of the poor?

What do I know of the plagues and evil tendencies of barrack life? And

with the economic-social question involved I am not familiar—and yet

these are all the very matters which finally determine all reformation.

I do not offer a history of the past and future rights of nations—only

the story of the individual.”

“But are you not afraid of your intentions being recognised?”

“People are offended only when the author tries to hide his intentions.

My aim is open as the day, and is found in the words on the title page.”

The baptism took place yesterday. The occasion was made doubly important

by the betrothal of my daughter Sylvia and the old friend of her

babyhood—Count Anton Delnitzky.

I am surrounded by the happiness of my children. Rudolf inherited the

Dotzky estates six years ago, and has been married four years to

Beatrice Griesbach, promised to him in their childhood. She is a

charming creature, and the birth of their son adds to their enviable,

brilliant lot.

In the room looking out upon the garden the dinner was served. The glass

doors were open, and the air of the superb summer afternoon streamed in

loaded with the perfume of roses.

Near me sat the Countess Lori Griesbach, Beatrice’s mother. She is now a

widow. Her husband fell in the Bosnian campaign. She has not taken his

loss much to heart. On the contrary—for she is dressed in a ruby brocade

and brilliant diamonds—she is exactly as superficial as in her youth.

Matters of the toilet, a few French and English novels, the usual

society gossip—these suffice to fill her horizon. She is as great a

coquette as ever. For young men she has now no fancy, but personages of

rank and position are the objects of her conquests. At present, it seems

to me, she has our Cabinet Minister in hand.

“I must make a confession to you,” said Lori to me when we had

congratulated each other upon our grandchild. “On this solemn occasion I

must relieve my conscience. I was seriously in love with your husband.”

“You have often told me that, dear Lori.”

“But he was always absolutely indifferent to me.”

“That is well known to me.”

“You had a husband true as gold, Martha! I cannot say the same of mine.

But nevertheless I was sorry to lose him. Well he died a glorious death,

that is one comfort. Really it is a wearisome existence to be a widow,

more especially as one grows older; so long as one can flirt widowhood

is not without its compensations. But now I acknowledge I become quite

melancholy. With you it is different; you live with your son, but I

would not like to live with Beatrice. She would not wish it either. A

mother-in-law in the house—that does not go well, for one wants to be

mistress. One gets so provoked with the servants. You may believe me, I

am much inclined to marry again. Of course, a marriage with some one of

position——”

“A Minister of Finance, for instance,” I interrupted, laughing.

“O you sly one! You see through me at once. Look there: do you see how

Toni Delnitzky is whispering to your Sylvia. That is compromising.”

“Let them alone. The two have come to an understanding on the way from

church. Sylvia has confided to me that the young man will ask my

permission to-morrow.”

“What do you say? Well, I congratulate you. It is said the handsome Toni

has been a little gay—but all of them are that—it cannot be helped, and

he is a splendid match.”

“Of that my Sylvia has not thought.”

“Well, so much the better; it is a charming addition to marriage.”

“Addition? Love is the sum of all.”

* * * * *

One of the guests, an imperial colonel, had knocked on his glass, and

“Oh, dear—a toast!” thought all, and discontentedly dropped their

special conversation to listen to the speaker. We had good reason to

sigh; three times the unlucky man stuck fast, and the choice of his good

wishes was unfortunate. The health of the young heir was offered, who

was born at a time when his country needed all her sons.

“May he wear the sword as his great-grandfather and his grandfather did;

may he bring many sons into the world, who on their part may be an

honour to their ancestry, and as they have done who have fallen, win

fame on the field of honour. May they for the honour of the land of

their fathers conquer—as their fathers and fathers’ fathers—in short:

Long life to Frederick Dotzky!”

The glasses rattled but the speech fell flat. That this little creature

just on the threshold of life should be sentenced to the death-list on a

battle-field did not make a pleasant impression.

To banish this dark picture, several guests made the comforting remark

that present circumstances promised a long peace, that the Triple

Alliance——and with that general interest was carried into the political

arena, and our Cabinet Minister led the conversation.

“In truth” (Lori Griesbach listened with intense interest), “it cannot

be denied that the perfection which our weapons have attained is

marvellous and enough to terrify all breakers of the peace. The law for

general service allows us to put into the field, on the first call, four

million eight hundred thousand men between the ages of nineteen and

forty, with officers up to sixty. On the other hand, one must

acknowledge that the extraordinary attendant expenses will be a strain

upon the finances. It will be an intolerable burden to the population;

but it is encouraging to see with what patriotic self-sacrifice the

people respond to the demands of the war ministry; they recognise what

all far-sighted politicians realise, that the general armament of

neighbouring states and the difficulties of the political situation

demand that all other considerations should be subordinated to the iron

pressure of military necessity.”

“Sounds like the usual editorial,” murmured some one.

The Minister went on calmly:—

“But such a system is surety for the preservation of peace. For if to

secure our border, as traditional patriotism demands of us, we do as our

neighbours are doing, we are but fulfilling a sacred duty and hope to

keep danger far from us. So I raise my glass to the toast in honour of

the principle which lies so close to the heart of Frau Martha—a

principle dear to the Peace League of Middle Europe—and I call upon all

of you to drink to the maintenance of peace! May we long enjoy its

blessings!”

“To such a toast I will not drink,” I replied. “Armed peace is no

benefaction; we do not want peace for a long time, but for ever. If we

set out upon a sea voyage, do we like the assurance that the ship will

escape wreck for a long time? That the whole trip will be a fortunate

one is what the honest captain vouches for.”

Doctor Bresser, our intimate old friend, came to my help.

“Can you in truth, your Excellency, honestly believe in a desire for

peace on the part of those who with enthusiasm and passion are soldiers.

How could they find such delight in arsenals, fortresses, and manœuvres

if these things were really regarded merely as scarecrows? Must the

people give all their earnings in order to kiss hands across the border?

Do you think the military class will willingly accept the position of

mere custodians of the peace? Behind this mask—the _si vis pacem_

mask—glitters the eye of understanding, and every member who votes for

the war budget knows it.”

“The members?” interrupted the minister. “We cannot praise enough the

self-sacrifice which they have never failed to exhibit in serious times,

and which finds expression in their willingness to vote the appropriate

funds.”

“Forgive me, your Excellency, I would call out to these willing members:

‘Your “Yes” will rob that mother of her only child; yours puts out the

eyes of some poor wretch; yours sets in a blaze a fearful conflagration;

yours stamps out the brain of a poet who would have been an honour to

his country. But you have all voted “Yes” in order to prove that you are

not cowards—as if one had only oneself to consider. Are you not there to

represent the wishes of the people? And the people wish profitable

labour, wish relief, wish peace.’”

“I hope, dear Doctor,” remarked the Colonel bitterly, “that you may

never be a member; the whole house would spit upon you.”

“I would soon prove that I am no coward. To swim against the stream

requires nerves of steel.”

“But how would it be if a serious attack were made and found us

unprepared?”

“We must have a system of justice which will make an attack impossible.

But when the time for action does come, and these tremendous armies with

their fearful new means of warfare are brought into the field, it will

be a serious, a gigantic catastrophe. Help and care will be an

impossibility. The endeavours of the Sanitary or Red Cross corps, the

means of provision, will prove a mere irony. The next war of which

people so glibly and indifferently speak will not be a victory for the

one and a loss for the other, but destruction for all. Who among us

desires this?”

“I, certainly not,” said the minister. “You, of course not, dear Doctor,

but men in general. Our government, possibly not, but other states.”

“With what right do you deem other people worse and less intelligent

than yourself and me? I will tell you a little story:—

“Once upon a time a thousand and one men stood before the gate of a

beautiful garden, longingly looking over the wall, desiring to enter.

The gatekeeper had been ordered to admit the people, provided the

majority wished admittance. He called one man up: ‘Tell me honestly, do

you want to come in?’ ‘Certainly,’ he replied, ‘but the other thousand

do not care about it.’

“The shrewd custodian wrote this answer in his note-book. He then called

a second. He made the same reply. Again the wise man wrote under the

word ‘Yes’ the figure one, and under the word ‘No’ the figure one

thousand. So he went on to the very last man. Then he added up the

columns. The result was: One thousand and one ‘Yeas’ but over a million

‘Noes.’ So the gate remained shut because the ‘Noes’ had an immense

majority. And that came about because each one not only answered for

himself, but felt himself obliged to answer for all the others.”

“It would be a noble thing,” replied the minister reflectively, “if by

general consent disarmament could be effected. But what government would

dare to begin? There is nothing, upon the whole, more desirable than

peace; but, on the other hand, how can we maintain it; how can we look

for durable peace so long as human passions and diverse interests

exist?”

“Allow me,” said my son Rudolf. “Forty million inhabitants form a state.

Why not one hundred millions? One could prove logically and

mathematically that so long as forty millions, notwithstanding diverse

interests and human passions, can restrain themselves from warring with

one another—as the three states, the Triple Alliance, or five states,

can form a league of peace—one hundred millions can do the same? But, in

truth, the world nowadays calls itself immensely wise, and ridicules the

barbarians; and yet in many things we cannot count five.”

Several voices exclaimed: “What? barbarians—with our refined

civilisation? And the close of the nineteenth century?”

Rudolf stood up. “Yes, barbarians—I will not take back the name. And so

long as we cling to the past we shall remain barbarians. But we stand

upon the threshold of a new era—all eyes are looking forward, everything

drives us on toward a higher civilisation. Barbarism is already casting

away its ancient idols and its antiquated weapons. Even though we stand

nearer to barbaric ideas than many are willing to acknowledge, we are

also nearer to a nobler development than many dare even hope. Possibly

the prince or the statesman is now alive who will figure in all future

history as the most famous, the most enlightened, because he will have

brought about this general laying down of arms. Even now the insane idea

is dying out, notwithstanding that diplomatic egotism attempts to

justify itself by its assertion—the insane idea that the destruction of

one person is the security of another. Already the realisation that

justice must be the foundation of all social life is glimmering upon the

world, and from an acknowledgment of this truth humanity must gain a

nobler stature—that development of humanity for which Frederick Tilling

laboured. Mother, I celebrate the memory of your devoted husband, to

whom I also owe it that I am what I am. Out of this glass no other toast

shall ever be drunk”—and he threw it against the wall, where it fell

shattered to pieces; “at this baptismal feast of the first-born no other

toast shall be offered but ‘Hail to the Future!’ We must not show

ourselves worthy rather of our fathers’ fathers—as the old phrase

went—no; but of our grandsons’ grandsons. Mother—what is it?” he stopped

suddenly. “You are weeping. What do you see there?”

My glance had fallen on the open door. The rays of the setting sun fell

on a rose-bush, covering it with its golden shimmer, and there stood—the

figure of my dreams. I saw the white hair, the glitter of the garden

shears.

“It is true, is it not,” he smiled at me, “we are a happy old couple?”

Ah, me!

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.