In a Reichsrat debate on the military budget (April 18, 1891) Minister
Dunajewski, of the Department of Finance, spoke the following words:
“There has recently appeared a book called _Die Waffen nieder_. I can
only advise the gentlemen to devote a few hours to the reading of this
novel; any one who then still has a predilection for war I can only
pity.”
Of course opponents were not lacking. Anonymous letters of ridicule and
of abuse; withering criticisms—“What the good old lady tells about her
misfortunes is indeed very sad; but the conclusions drawn from them can
elicit from the serious politician only a smile”; “emotional silliness”;
“obtrusive, inartistic didacticism”; “Brummagem that totally fails of
its purpose”; “the authoress ought to return to her short stories, in
which she has shown a quite clever talent”; etc. Even one of the great
in the realm of literature, Felix Dahn, sent out an epigram which went
the rounds of the press, but which—the poet himself will concede
this—cannot boast of much poetic beauty:
_An die weiblichen und männlichen Waffenscheuen_
Die Waffen hoch! Das Schwert ist Mannes eigen,
Wo Männer fechten, hat das Weib zu schweigen,
Doch freilich, Männer gibt’s in diesen Tagen,
Die sollten lieber Unterröcke tragen.[22]
Everything in this world is in reciprocity. What comes as a result is in
turn the cause of new results. So here. I had written the book with the
design of rendering, in my own way, a service to the peace movement, of
whose incipient organization I had learned; and the relationships and
experiences that grew out of the book have swept me more and more into
the movement, so that at last I was compelled to go into it not only, as
I had at first intended, with my pen, but with my whole being.
Meanwhile, during the time of the World’s Exposition of 1889 in Paris, a
Peace Congress had been held there, presided over by Jules Simon. This
was taken as an opportunity for creating also the institution of
Interparliamentary Conferences. The year before, two men—Randal Cremer,
member of the English Parliament, and the French deputy Frédéric
Passy—had set to work to form an Interparliamentary Union. They enlisted
the support of a number of their colleagues, and in the year of the
Exposition these assembled in a first conference (of the English
Parliament three hundred members were present), and it was agreed that
adherents should be secured from the popular assemblies of all the
European countries, and that every year an Interparliamentary Conference
should be held. For the next conference, the second, London was named as
the place of meeting.
To all this the contemporary world paid but little attention, one might
say paid none at all. But I followed these events with the eagerest and
most hopeful interest. Through the monthly periodical Concord, the organ
of the London Peace Association, I was kept informed of what was going
on, and I read attentively the reports of all the speeches delivered in
the assemblies, and of the resolutions passed. But as yet the idea of
taking part in the movement myself, otherwise than with my pen, never
entered my mind.
XXVI
INTERCOURSE WITH FRIENDS
In port · Trip to Vienna · Literary circles · Balduin Groller · Theodor
Herzl · Letter from Count Hoyos · Letter from Friedrich Bodenstedt
After our return from Paris we remained quiet and secluded at
Harmannsdorf. An uneventful life, but no empty life. There is no way in
which a life can be better filled than with labor and love. Of course
there is not much to tell about it. The reminiscences of my youth, with
all its betrothals and art-plans and varying adventures, have certainly
made more amusing reading.
The period of storms was past; we were now in port. The midday sun of
youth no longer blazed, and now there lay on our horizon something like
the tints of evening. But not yet time to lay aside work; there was yet
much to be done. And we had to bear a great grief, to fight a hard
battle. It was not sorrow of our own that weighed upon us, but the
sorrow of the world; we took the field not against personal enemies, but
against the enemies of mankind—cruelty and falsehood!
It is a common belief that only people who are themselves unfortunate
can understand the misfortunes of others, and they call that the hard
school of suffering. With us it was different: whatever we experienced
of deep pity, of warm wishes to help and to better, had its root in the
_joy_ which we had in life and life’s beauties. It was in the college of
happiness that we had learned that here on earth life may be—in other
words, ought to be—glorious and joyous and rich in love. The unfortunate
are likelier to get embittered: “other folks may as well have their
troubles too,” they think, and they comfort themselves by saying “there
is no such thing as happiness anyhow.” We knew better: there is. It is
only that not all find it, that very few indeed can find it because so
much stupidity blocks the way to it,—these things will not let the happy
be at peace.
For a little change from our workaday existence in the country we had
brief trips to Vienna. There we attended the theater and associated with
a few friends, mostly in literary circles. When Carneri was in town we
joined the “deputy table” at the Hotel Meissl. We had a very pleasant
intercourse with Balduin Groller, then editor of the _Oesterreichische
Illustrierte Zeitung_. While still in the Caucasus we had formed an
epistolary friendship with him, a friendship which has remained
steadfast to this day. Humor and heart are the two qualities which
characterize Balduin Groller as a feuilletonist and as a man. This is
why in his company one is excellently amused and at the same time is in
such a comfortable frame of mind; you laugh at his dry wit and bask in
his warm geniality. That he was a handsome, dark-eyed, elegant man, an
adept in sports, did not detract from the effect. Moreover, he liked us
as well as we liked him, and those evenings when we four—Groller has the
dearest little wife—chatted together over our food and wine were most
delightful. Often Theodor Herzl joined us. He also sparkled with wit.
And that head of his—like an Assyrian king’s! He ought to have been
really king of the new Zion, whose awakener he was, and which might
perhaps already exist if he had not died so prematurely.
We had in Vienna a dear and interesting friend, Count Rudolf Hoyos, a
handsome old gentleman, every inch an aristocrat, but a democrat in his
views. I perceive that this is the third time I have laid stress on
external beauty in describing the persons of notable men. I cannot help
it—in the first place they really were handsome, these three, and in the
second place, I like handsome people better than homely people. One must
forgive homeliness; but one ought not to neglect beauty.—Count Hoyos was
a free and brilliant intellect. He had published a volume of poems in
which a few pearls were to be found. His residence—a whole floor in the
palace of the “Adliges Kasino” on the Ringstrasse—was a museum:
paintings, art furniture, bric-a-brac, antiquities, vases, fabrics,
carved cabinets, armorial trophies, bronzes, costly books,—it took hours
and hours to admire all the rare objects. The host, however, preferred
to spend his time in a little oriel where there was room only for one
table with various mementos on it, besides his easy chair with a
reading-desk, a little divan and a rocking-chair for at most three
callers, and an easel with the portrait of a woman—a woman whom Rudolf
Hoyos had loved; a great lady who had once been the center of a
distinguished and witty circle, but who was no longer living. Count
Hoyos remained unmarried. I have a large number of letters from him, and
one of them I will introduce here; his character will thus most clearly
be shown: