LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS.
LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF
MARTHA VON TILLING
BY
BERTHA VON SUTTNER
AUTHORISED TRANSLATION BY
T. HOLMES
REVISED BY THE AUTHORESS
_New Impression_
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
LONDON, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA AND MADRAS
1914
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
When I was requested by the Committee of the International Arbitration
and Peace Association, of which I have the honour to be a Member, to
undertake the translation of the novel entitled _Die Waffen Nieder_, I
considered it my duty to consent; and I have found the labour truly a
delight. Baroness Suttner’s striking tale has had so great a success on
the Continent of Europe that it seems singular that no complete
translation into English should yet have appeared. An incomplete version
was published some time since in the United States, without the sanction
of the authoress; but it gives no just idea of the work.
Apart from its value as a work of fiction--great as that is--the book
has a transcendent interest for the Society with which I am connected
from its bearing on the question of war in general and of the present
state of Europe in particular. We English-speaking people, whether in
England, in the Colonies, or in the United States, being ourselves in no
immediate danger of seeing our homes invaded, and our cities laid under
contribution by hostile armies, are apt to forget how terribly the
remembrance of such calamities, and the constant threat of their
recurrence, haunt the lives of our Continental brethren. Madame
Suttner’s vivid pages will enable those of us who have not seen anything
of the ravages of war, or felt the griefs and anxieties of
non-combatants, to realise the state in which people live on the
Continent of Europe, under the grim “shadow of the sword,” with
constantly increasing demands on the treasure accumulated by their
labour, and on their still dearer treasure--their children--drawn into
the ravenous maw of the Conscription, to meet the ever-increasing
demands of war, which seems daily drawing nearer and nearer, in spite of
the protestations made by every Government of its anxiety for peace.
What can we expect to change this terrible condition except the
formation of a healthy public opinion? And what can more powerfully
contribute to its formation than a clear conception both of the horrors
and sufferings that have attended the great wars waged in our times, and
also of the inadequacy of the reasons, at least the ostensible reasons,
for their commencement, and the ease with which they might have been
avoided, if their reasons had been indeed their causes? This work
appears to me of especial value, as setting this forth more plainly than
a formal treatise could do, and it is towards the formation of such a
public opinion that we hope it may contribute. The dawn of a better day
in respect of war is plain enough in our country. We have advanced far
indeed from the state of things that existed a century ago, when
Coleridge could indignantly say of England:--
’Mid thy herds and thy cornfields secure thou hast stood
And joined the wild yelling of famine and blood!
England since then has given and is giving many gratifying proofs of her
sincere desire for peace, and her readiness to submit her claims to
peaceful arbitration. Is it too much to hope that we may see our
country joining in some well-considered scheme for general treaties of
Arbitration and for the institution of an International Court? And may
we not hope that our influence, as that of a nation not implicated in
the mad race of armaments, and yet not removed from the area of European
war, may avail to bring the question of disarmament before an
International Conference and thus introduce the twentieth century into a
world in which there will be some brighter prospect than that
War shall endless war still breed?
Let as trust that this may not be found quite an idle dream, and that we
may without self-delusion look forward to a more happy era, and join the
cry of Baroness Suttner’s Rudolf--“Es lebe die Zukunft”.
HAIL TO THE FUTURE!
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
The rapid sale of the first edition of this translation has encouraged
the Association at whose request it was made to endeavour to make it
more widely known to the various English-speaking populations, by
printing a larger edition at a lower price. It is hoped, also, that the
enlarged circulation of a work so graphic, and written by one who has so
thoroughly studied the real aspects of war, as seen by those on the
spot, may lead not so much to sentimental emotions and vague protests,
as to a business-like discussion of the means by which the resort to war
may be at any rate rendered more and more infrequent. The English
Government has lately given repeated and practical proofs of its sincere
desire to substitute the peaceful and rational method of arbitration for
the rough, cruel, and uncertain decision of force; and the conspicuous
success of that method hitherto--though tried under circumstances not
altogether favourable--must have prepared thinking men for the question:
“Why cannot some scheme for the formation of an International Tribunal
of Arbitration be formed and debated among the Powers who, by taking
part in the Congress at Paris after the Crimean War, formally admitted
the principle, and who have already seen it successfully applied in
practice”? To this question, which has been frequently asked, no
satisfactory answer has yet been given, nor to the further question why
our Government should not introduce the subject to the great Powers,
after showing so unmistakably its adherence to the principle. People
differ, and, probably, will always differ, as to the light in which they
regard war. A very small and rapidly diminishing minority regard it as a
good thing in itself--most as an evil which in our present stage of
civilisation cannot always be avoided; some as a crime formally
prohibited by the moral law and the Christian religion. All of the two
latter classes ought to join in any practical steps for diminishing the
occasions of war; and of these the one which is most within the scope of
politicians is the promotion of International Arbitration. The
Association to which I belong has published this work in the confident
hope that its circulation will aid in hastening this much-needed reform.
THE TRANSLATOR.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Girlish days. My first marriage and birth of my first child. My
husband summoned to the Italian war of 1859 1
CHAPTER II.
Period of war. A wife’s anxieties. Terrible news 18
CHAPTER III.
Years of widowhood. Re-entry into society. Introduction to Baron
Tilling. Manner of my husband’s death 40
CHAPTER IV.
Progress of my friendship for Tilling. His mother’s death. Growth
of love 59
CHAPTER V.
Doubts and fears. Engagement to Tilling 84
CHAPTER VI.
Marriage and garrison life. Outbreak of the Schleswig-Holstein
war. History of its causes 116
CHAPTER VII.
My husband ordered off to the war. Premature confinement and
deadly peril. Letters from the seat of war 141
CHAPTER VIII.
Re-union. Financial ruin 164
CHAPTER IX.
Approach of the Austro-Prussian war. The preliminaries to it.
War declared 187
CHAPTER X.
Early period of the war 215
CHAPTER XI.
War-sketches by a soldier who abhors war 231
CHAPTER XII.
After Königgrätz. My experiences in a journey over the Bohemian
battlefields in search of my husband 245
CHAPTER XIII.
Prussian advance on Vienna. Life at Grumitz 283
CHAPTER XIV.
Festivities at Grumitz, followed by an outbreak of cholera which
sweeps off nearly the whole family 303
CHAPTER XV.
Period of mourning. Discussion with a military chaplain. Death
of Aunt Mary 327
CHAPTER XVI.
Threat of war between France and Prussia. Arbitration. Life in
Paris during the exhibition of 1868 and afterwards in 1870.
Birth of a daughter 356
CHAPTER XVII.
Approach of war between France and Prussia. We linger in Paris.
War breaks out 380
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Franco-German war. Departure from Paris prevented by
illness. Siege of Paris. My husband shot by the Communards 396
CHAPTER XIX.
The end. “Hail to the future!” 420
LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS.
CHAPTER I.
_Girlish days and girlish fancies.--Youthful enthusiasm for
war.--Education.--“Coming out.”--An important visit to
Marienbad.--Love at first sight.--Marriage.--A first child.--The
baby-soldier.--Threatenings of war.--Declaration of war with
Sardinia.--My husband is to see active service._
At seventeen I was a thoroughly overwrought creature. This perhaps I
should no longer be aware of to-day, if it were not that my diaries have
been preserved. But in them the enthusiasms long since fled, the
thoughts which have never been thought again, the feelings never again
felt have immortalised themselves, and thus I can judge at this present
time what exalted notions had stuck in my silly, pretty head. Even this
prettiness, of which my glass has now little left to say, is revealed to
me by the portraits of long ago. I can figure to myself what an envied
person the Countess Martha Althaus--youthful, thought beautiful, and
surrounded by all kinds of luxury--must have been. These remarkable
diaries, however, bound in their red covers, point more to melancholy
than to joy in life. The question I now ask myself is, Was I really so
silly as not to recognise the advantages of my position or was I only so
enthusiastic as to believe that only melancholy feelings were elevated
and worthy of being expressed in poetical form and as such enrolled in
the red volumes? My lot seems not to have contented me--for thus is it
written:--
“O Joan of Arc! heroic virgin favoured of heaven! could I be like to
thee--to wave the oriflamme, to crown my king, and then die--for the
fatherland, the beloved!”
No opportunity offered itself to me of realising these modest views of
life. Again, to be torn to pieces in the circus by a lion as a Christian
martyr, another vocation for which I longed--see entry of September 19,
1853--was not to be compassed by me, and so I had plainly to suffer
under the consciousness that the great deeds after which my soul
thirsted must remain ever unaccomplished, that my life, considered
fundamentally, was a failure. Ah! why had I not come into the world as a
boy? (another fruitless reproach against destiny which often found
expression in the red volumes); in that case I would have been able to
strive after and to achieve “the exalted”. Of female heroism history
affords but few examples. How seldom do we succeed in having the Gracchi
for our sons, or in carrying our husbands out to the Weinsberg Gates, or
in being saluted by sabre-brandishing Magyars with the shout, “Hurrah
for Maria Theresa our king”. But when one is a man, then one need only
gird on the sword and start off to win fame and laurels--win for oneself
a throne like Cromwell, or the empire of the world, like Bonaparte. I
recollect that the highest conception of human greatness seemed to me to
be embodied in warlike heroism. For scholars, poets, explorers, I had
indeed a sort of respect, but only the winners of battles inspired me
with real _admiration_. These were indeed the chief pillars of history,
the rulers of the fate of countries; these were in importance and in
elevation near to the Divinity, as elevated above all other folk as the
peaks of the Alps and Himalayas above the turf and flowers of the
valley.
From all which I need not conclude that I possessed a heroic nature. The
fact was simply that I was capable of enthusiasm and impassioned, and
so I was of course passionately enthusiastic for that which was most
highly accounted of by my school-books and my _entourage_.
My father was a general in the Austrian army, and had fought at Custozza
under “Father Radetzky,” whom he venerated to superstition. What eternal
campaigning stories had I to listen to! Dear papa was so proud of his
warlike experiences, and spoke with such satisfaction of the campaigns
in which he had fought, that I felt an involuntary pity for every man
who possessed no such reminiscences. But what a drawback for the female
sex to be excluded from this most magnificent display of the manly
feeling of honour and duty! If anything came to my ears about the
efforts of women after equality--and of this in my youth but little was
heard, and then usually in a tone of contempt and condemnation--I
conceived the wish for emancipation only in one direction, _viz._, that
women also should have the right to carry arms and take the field. Ah,
how beautiful was it to read in history about a Semiramis or a Catherine
II. “She carried on war with this or that neighbouring state--she
conquered this or that country!”
Speaking generally it is history which, as our youth are instructed, is
the chief source of the admiration of war. From thence it is stamped on
the childish mind that the Lord of armies is constantly decreeing
battles, that these are, as it were, the vehicle upon which the destiny
of nations is carried on through the ages; that they are the fulfilment
of an inevitable law of nature and must always occur from time to time
like storms at sea or earthquakes; that terror and woe are indeed
connected with them; but the latter is fully counterpoised, for the
commonwealth by the importance of the results, for individuals by the
blaze of glory which may be won in them, or even by the consciousness of
the fulfilment of the most elevated duty. Can there be a more glorious
death than that on the field of honour, a nobler immortality than that
of the hero? All this comes out clear and unanimous in all school-books
of “readings for the use of schools,” where, besides the formal
history, which is only represented as a concatenation of military
events, even the separate tales and poems always manage to tell only of
heroic deeds of arms. This is a part of the patriotic system of
education. Since out of every scholar a defender of his country has to
be formed, therefore the enthusiasm even of the child must be aroused
for this its first duty as a citizen; his spirit must be hardened
against the natural horror which the terrors of war might awaken, by
passing over as quickly as possible the story of the most fearful
massacres and butcheries as of something quite common and necessary, and
laying meanwhile all possible stress on the ideal side of this ancient
national custom; and it is in this way they have succeeded in forming a
race eager for battle and delighting in war.
The girls--who indeed are not to take the field--are educated out of the
same books as are prepared for the military training of the boys, and so
in the female youth arises the same conception which exhausts itself in
envy that they have nothing to do with war and in admiration for the
military class. What pictures of horror out of all the battles on earth,
from the Biblical and Macedonian and Punic Wars down to the Thirty
Years’ War and the wars of Napoleon, were brought before us tender
maidens, who in all other things were formed to be gentle and mild; how
we saw there cities burnt and the inhabitants put to the sword and the
conquered trodden down--and all this was a real enjoyment; and of course
through this heaping up and repetition of the horrors the perception
that they were horrors becomes blunted, everything which belongs to the
category of war comes no longer to be regarded from the point of view of
humanity, and receives a perfectly peculiar mystico-historico-political
consecration. War must be--it is the source of the highest dignities and
honours--_that_ the girls see very well, and they have had also to learn
by heart the poems and tirades in which war is magnified. And thus
originate the Spartan mothers, and the “mothers of the colours,” and the
frequent invitations to the cotillon which are given to a corps of
officers when it is the turn of the ladies to choose partners.[1] I was
not like so many of my companions in rank educated in a convent, but
under the direction of governesses and masters in my father’s house. My
mother I lost early. Our aunt, an old canoness, filled the place of a
mother to us children--for there were three younger children. We spent
the winter months in Vienna, the summer on a family estate in Lower
Austria.
I can remember that I gave my governesses and masters much satisfaction,
for I was an industrious and ambitious scholar, gifted with an accurate
memory. When I could not, as I have remarked, satisfy my ambition by
winning battles like a heroine, I contented myself with passing
judgments on them in my lessons, and extorting admiration by my zeal for
learning. In the French and English languages I was nearly perfect. In
geology and astronomy I made as much progress as was ordinarily
accessible in the programme of the education of a girl, but in the
subject of history I learned more than was required of me. Out of the
library of my father I fetched the ponderous works of history, in which
I studied in my leisure hours. I always thought myself a little bit
cleverer when I could enrich my memory with an event, a name, or a date
out of past times. Against pianoforte-playing--which was put down in the
plan of education--I made a resolute resistance. I possessed neither
talent nor desire for music, and felt that in it, for me, no
satisfaction of my ambition would be found. I begged so long and so
pressingly that my precious time, which I might spend on my other
studies, should not be shortened by this meaningless strumming, that my
good father let me off this musical servitude, to the great grief of my
aunt, whose opinion was that without pianoforte-playing there could be
no proper education.
On March 10, 1857, I celebrated my seventeenth birthday. “Seventeen
already!” runs the entry of that date in my diary. This “already” is in
itself a poem. There is no commentary added, but probably I meant by it
“and as yet nothing done for immortality”. These red volumes do me
excellent service now, when I want to recall the recollections of a
life. They render it possible for me to depict even down to their
minutest details the feelings of the past, which would have remained in
my memory only as faded outlines, and to reproduce whole trains of
thought long forgotten, and long-silent speeches.
In the following carnival I was to be “brought out”. This prospect
delighted me, but not to such an extraordinary degree as is usually the
case with young girls. My spirit yearned for something higher than the
triumphs of the ballroom. What was it I yearned for? A question that I
could have hardly answered to myself. Probably for love, though I was
not aware of it. All those glowing dreams of aspiration and ambition
which swell the hearts of young men and women, and which long to work
themselves out all sorts of ways--as thirst for knowledge, love of
travel or adventure--are in reality for the most part only the
unrecognised activity of the growing instinct of love.
This summer my aunt was ordered a course of the waters at Marienbad. She
was pleased to take me with her. Though my official introduction into
the so-called “world” was not to take place till the following winter, I
was yet allowed to take part in some little dances at the Kurhaus, with
an idea also of exercising me in dancing and conversation, so that I
might not be altogether too shy and awkward in entering on my first
carnival season.
But what happened at the first party which I visited? A serious, vital
love affair. It was of course a lieutenant of hussars. The civilians in
the hall appeared to me like cockchafers to butterflies compared to the
soldiers. And of the wearers of uniforms present the hussars were every
way the most splendid; and, finally, of all the hussars Count Arno
Dotzky was the most dazzling. Over six feet high, with black curly hair,
twisted moustaches, glittering white teeth, dark eyes, with such a
penetrating and tender expression--in fine, at his question, “Have you
the cotillon free, countess?” I felt that there might be other triumphs
as exciting as the banner-waving of the Maid of Orleans, or the
sceptre-waving of the great Catherine. And he at the age of twenty-two
felt something very similar as he flew round the room in the waltz with
the prettiest girl in the hall (for one may say so thirty years
afterwards)--at any rate he was probably thinking, “To possess thee,
thou sweet creature, would outweigh a field-marshal’s baton”.
“Why, Martha, Martha,” remonstrated my aunt, as I sank breathless on the
seat at her side, covering her head-dress with the floating muslins of
my robe.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, auntie,” said I, and sat more upright. “I could
not help it.”
“I was not finding fault with you for that. My blame was for your
behaviour with that hussar. You ought not to cling so in dancing, and
who would ever look so close into a gentleman’s eyes?”
I blushed deep. Had I committed some unmaidenly offence, and might the
Incomparable have conceived a bad idea of me?
I was relieved of this anxious doubt before the ball was over, for in
the course of the supper waltz the Incomparable whispered to me: “Listen
to me. I cannot help it--you must know it even to-day--I love you.”
This sounded a little more sweet than Joan’s famous “voices”. However,
while the dance was going on I could not give him any reply. He must
have seen this, for he came to a stop. We were standing in an empty
corner of the room, and could continue the conversation without being
overheard.
“Speak, countess; what have I to hope?”
“I do not understand you,” was my insincere reply.
“Perhaps you do not believe in love at first sight? I myself held it a
fable till now, but to-day I have experienced the truth of it.”
How my heart beat! but I was silent.
“I have leapt head over heels into my fate,” he continued. “You or no
one! Decide then for my bliss or my death, for without you I neither can
nor will live. Will you be mine?”
To so direct a question I was obliged to give some reply. I sought for
some extremely diplomatic phrase which without cutting off all hope
would sacrifice nothing of my dignity, but I got out nothing more than a
tremulous whispered “yes”.
“Then may I to-morrow propose for your hand to your aunt, and write to
Count Althaus?”
“Yes” again, this time a little firmer.
“Oh, what happiness! So at first sight you love me too?”
This time I only answered with my eyes, but they, I fancy, spoke the
plainest “yes”.
On my eighteenth birthday I was married, after having been first
introduced into society, and presented to the empress on my engagement.
After our wedding we went for a tour in Italy. For this purpose Arno had
got a long leave of absence; of retirement from the military service
nothing was ever said. It is true we both possessed a tolerable
property, but my husband loved his profession, and I agreed with him. I
was proud of my handsome hussar officer, and looked forward with
satisfaction to the time when he would rise to the rank of major,
colonel, even general. Who knows? Perhaps he might even be called to a
higher fortune; perhaps he might shine in the glorious history of his
country as a great military commander!
That the red volumes exhibit a break just during the happy wedding time
and the honeymoon is now to me a great grief. The joys of those days
would indeed have been evaporated, dispersed, scattered to the winds,
even if I had entered them there, but at any rate a reflection of them
would have been kept bound tight between the leaves. But no! for my
grief and my pain I could not find complaints enough--enough dashes and
notes of exclamation. All grievous things had to be cried over
carefully before the world, present and to come, but the happy hours I
enjoyed in silence. I was not proud of my happiness, and so gave no one,
not even myself, in my diary, any information about it, but sufferings
and longings I looked on as a kind of merit, and so made much of them.
But how true a mirror these red volumes present of my sad experiences,
while in the happy times the leaves are quite blank! It is too silly! It
is as if during a walk a man were to make a collection to bring home
with him, and to collect of all the things he found by the way only
those that were ugly, as if he filled his botanic case with nothing but
thorns, thistles, worms and toads, and left the flowers and butterflies
behind.
Still I recollect that it was a grand time, a kind of fairy dream. I had
indeed everything that the heart of a young woman could wish: love,
wealth, rank, fortune, and most of it so new, so surprising, so
incredible! We loved each other--my Arno and I--devotedly, with all the
fire of our youth, abounding as it was in life and scenes of beauty. And
it so happened that my darling hussar was besides a worthy,
good-hearted, noble-minded young gentleman, with the education of a man
of the world and a cheerful temper--it happened so; for he might as
well, for anything that the ball at Marienbad could testify to the
contrary, have been a vicious, rough man--and as it happened also I was
a moderately sensible, good-hearted creature; for he might just as well
at the said ball have fallen in love with a pretty, capricious, little
goose. And so it came about that we were completely happy, and that as a
consequence the red-bound book of lamentation remained empty for a long
while.
Stop; here I do find a joyous entry--Raptures over the new dignity of
motherhood. On the 1st of January, 1859 (was not _that_ a new-year’s
gift?), a little son was born to us. Of course this event awakened in us
as much astonishment and pride as if we were the first pair to which
anything of the kind had happened; and this accounts also for the
resumption of the diary. Of this wonder, and of this dignity of mine,
the world of the future had to be informed. Besides, the theme
“youthful motherhood” is so extremely well adapted for art and
literature. It belongs to the class of the best sung and most carefully
painted subjects; besides, it may be treated mystically and sacredly,
touchingly and pathetically, simply and affectionately--in short,
immensely poetically. To nurse this disposition all possible collections
of poems, illustrated journals, picture galleries, and current phrases
of rapture, such as “mother’s love,” “mother’s happiness,” “mother’s
pride,” contribute their power, just as the school-books do to nurse the
admiration for war. The highest pitch of deification which has been
reached next to the adoration of heroes (see Carlyle’s _Hero Worship_)
is reached by the multitude in “baby worship”; and of course in this
also I was not left behind. My little charming Ruru was to me the
mightiest wonder of the world. Ah, my son! my grown-up, stately Rudolf,
what I feel for you is such that against it that childish baby-wonder
loses colour, against it that blind, apish, devouring love of the young
mother is as insignificant as the child himself in swaddling clothes is
insignificant by the side of the grown man.
The young father was not less proud of his successor, and built on him
the fairest schemes for the future. “What will he be?” This question,
not as yet a very pressing one, was nevertheless often discussed over
Ruru’s cradle and always decided unanimously--a soldier. Sometimes it
awoke a weak protest on the mother’s part. “But suppose he should meet
with any accident in a war?” “Ah, bah!” was the answer to this
objection, “every one must die when and where it is appointed him.” Ruru
was also not to remain the only son; of the following sons one might,
please God, be brought up as a diplomatist, another as a country
gentleman, a third as a priest; but the eldest, he must choose his
father’s and grandfather’s profession--the noblest profession of all. He
must be a soldier.
And so it was settled. Ruru, as soon as he was two months old, was
promoted by us to be lance-corporal.[2] Well, as all crown princes
immediately they are born are named “proprietors” of some regiment, why
should not we also decorate our little one with an imaginary rank? It
was only a regular joke this playing at soldiers with our baby.
On April 1, as the third monthly recurrence of his birthday (for to keep
only the anniversaries would have given too few opportunities for
festivity), Ruru was promoted from lance-corporal to corporal. But on
the same day there happened also something more mournful--something that
made my heart heavy, and obliged me to relieve it into the red volumes.
There had been now for a long time a certain black point visible on the
political horizon, about the possible increase of which the liveliest
commentaries were made in all journals and at all private parties. I had
up to that time thought nothing about it. My husband and my father and
their military friends might have often said in my hearing, “There will
soon be something to settle with Italy,” but it glanced off my
understanding. I had little time or inclination to trouble myself about
politics. So that however eagerly people about me might debate about the
relations between Sardinia and Austria, or the behaviour of Napoleon
III., of whose help Cavour had assured himself by taking part in the
Crimean War, or however constantly they might talk about the tension
which this alliance had called forth between us and our Italian
neighbours, I took no notice of it.
But on April 1 my husband said to me very seriously:--
“Do you know, dear, that it will soon break out?”
“What will break out, darling?”
“The war with Sardinia.”
I was terrified. “My God! that would be terrible! And will you have to
go?”
“I hope so.”
“How can you say such a thing? Hope to leave your wife and child!”
“If duty calls.”
“One might reconcile oneself to it; but to hope--which means wish--that
such a bitter duty should arise!”
“Bitter! A rattling jolly war like that must be something glorious! You
are a soldier’s wife; don’t forget that.”
I fell on his neck. “O my dear husband, be content. I also can be brave!
How often have I sympathised with the heroes and heroines of history!
What an elevating feeling it must be to go into battle! If I only might
fight, fall, or conquer at your side!”
“Bravely spoken, little wife, but nonsense! Your place is here, by the
cradle of the little one, who also is to become a defender of his
country when he is grown up. Your place is at our household hearth. It
is to protect this, and guard it from any hostile attack, to preserve
peace for our homes and our wives, that we men have to go to battle.”
I don’t know why, but these words, which, or something of the same sort,
I had often before heard and read with assent, this time seemed to me to
be in a sense mere “phrases”. There was certainly no hearth menaced, no
horde of barbarians at the gate, merely a political tension between two
cabinets. So, if my husband was all on fire to rush into the war, it was
not so much from the pressing need of defending his wife, child, and
country, but much rather his delight in the march out, which promised
change and adventure--his seeking for distinction and promotion. “Oh,
yes,” was my conclusion from this train of thought, “it is ambition--a
noble, honourable ambition--delight in the brave discharge of duty.”
It was good of him that he was rejoicing in the _chance_ of being
obliged to take the field--for as yet there was assuredly no certainty.
Perhaps the war might not break out at all, and even in case they came
to blows, who knows whether it would be Arno’s fate to be sent off?--the
whole army does not always see the enemy. No, this splendid, perfect
happiness which fate had just built as a snug house for me, it was
impossible that the same fate should roughly shatter it to pieces! “O
Arno, my dearly-loved husband! it would be horrible to know that you
are in danger!” These and similar outpourings fill the leaves of the
diary which were written in those days.
From this period the red volumes are full for some time of political
stuff. Louis Napoleon is an intriguer; Austria cannot long be only a
spectator. It is coming to war. Sardinia will be frightened at our
superior power, and give in. Peace is going to be maintained. My wishes,
despite of all theoretical admiration of the battles of the past, were,
of course, secretly directed to the preservation of peace, but the wish
of my spouse called openly for the other alternative. He did not say
anything out plainly, but he always communicated any news about the
increase of “the black spot” with sparkling eyes; while, on the
contrary, he always took note of such peaceful prospects as occurred now
and then (but, alas! they became always rarer) with a kind of dejection.
My father, also, was all on fire for the war. To conquer the Piedmontese
would be only child’s play; and, in support of this assertion, the
Radetzky anecdotes were poured out again. I heard the impending campaign
talked about always from the strategic point of view--_i.e._, a
balancing of the chances on the two sides; how and where the enemy would
be routed, and the advantages which would thereby accrue to “us”. The
humane point of view, _viz._, that whether lost or won every battle
demands innumerable sacrifices of blood and tears, was quite left out of
sight. The interests which were here in question were represented as
raised to such a height above any private destiny, that I felt ashamed
of the meanness of my way of thinking, if at times the thought occurred
to me: “Ah! what joy do the poor slain men, the poor cripples, the poor
widows, get out of the victory?” However, very soon the old school-book
dithyrambs came in again for an answer to all these despairing
questionings: “Glory offers recompense for all”. Still--suppose the
enemy wins? This question I propounded in the circle of my military
friends, but was ignominiously hissed down. The mere mention of the
possibility of a shadow of a doubt is in itself unpatriotic. To be
certain beforehand of one’s invincibility is a part of a soldier’s
duties; and, therefore, in her degree, of those of a loyal wife of a
lieutenant.
My husband’s regiment was quartered in Vienna. From our home there was a
view over the Prater, and from the window there was such a lovely
promise of summer over everything. It was a wonderful spring. The air
was warm and redolent of violets, and the fresh foliage sprouted out
more early than in other years. I was amusing myself without any anxiety
over the great processions in the Prater which were planned for the
following month. We had, for this purpose, procured a tasty little
equipage--a brake with a four-in-hand team of Hungarian horses. Even
already, in this splendid April weather, we kept driving almost daily in
the alleys of the Prater--but that was only a foretaste of the pleasure
peculiar to May. Ah! if the war had not broken in on all that!
“Now, thank God, at last this uncertainty is at an end,” cried my
husband one morning--April 19--on coming home from parade. “The
ultimatum has been sent.”
I shrieked out: “Eh, what? What does that mean?”
“It means that the last word of the diplomatic formalities, the one
which precedes the declaration of war, has been spoken. Our ultimatum to
Sardinia calls on Sardinia to disarm. She, of course, will take no
notice of it, and we march across the frontier.”
“Good God! But perhaps they may disarm?”
“Well, then, the quarrel would be at an end, and peace would continue.”
I fell on my knees. I could not help it. Silently, but still as
earnestly as if with a cry, there rose the prayer from my soul to heaven
for “Peace! peace!”
Arno raised me up.
“My silly child, what are you doing?”
I threw my arms round his neck and began to weep. It was no burst of
pain, for the misfortune was certainly as yet not decided on; but the
news had so shaken me that my nerves quivered, and that caused this
flood of tears.
“Martha, Martha, you will make me angry,” said Arno, reproachfully. “Is
this being my brave little soldier’s wife? Do you forget that you are a
general’s daughter, wife of a first lieutenant, and,” he concluded with
a smile, “mother of a corporal?”
“No, no, Arno. I do not comprehend myself. It was only a kind of
seizure. I am really myself ardent for military glory. But--I do not
know how it is--a little while ago everything was hanging on a single
word, which must by this time have been spoken--‘yes’ or ‘no’--in answer
to this ultimatum as it is called, and this ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is to decide
whether thousands must bleed and die--die in these sunny happy days of
spring--and so it came over me that the word of peace _must_ come, and I
could not help falling on my knees in prayer.”
“To inform the Almighty of the position of affairs, you dear little
goose!”
The house bell rang. I dried my eyes at once. Who could it be so early?
It was my father. He rushed in all in a hurry.
“Now, children,” he cried, all out of breath, throwing himself into an
arm-chair. “Have you heard the great news? The ultimatum----”
“I have just told my wife.”
“Tell me, dear papa, what you think,” I asked anxiously. “Will that
prevent the war?”
“I am not aware that an ultimatum ever prevented a war. It would indeed
be only prudent of this wretched rabble of Italians to give in and not
expose themselves to a second Novara. Ah! if good Father Radetzky had
not died last year I believe he would, in spite of his ninety years,
have put himself again at the head of his army, and, by God! I would
have marched along with him. We two have, I think, shown already how to
manage these foreign scum. But it seems they have not yet had enough of
it, the puppies! They want a second lesson. All right. Our
Lombardo-Venetian kingdom will get a handsome addition in the
Piedmontese territory, and I already look forward to the entry of our
troops into Turin.”
“But, papa, you speak just as if war were already declared, and you were
glad of it! But how if Arno has to go too?” And the tears were already
in my eyes again.
“That he will too--the enviable young fellow!”
“But my terror! The danger----”
“Eh! what? Danger! ‘A man may fight and not be slain,’ as the saying
goes. I have gone through more than one campaign, thank God, and been
wounded more than once--and yet I am all alive, just because it was
ordained that I should live through it.”
The old fatalist way of talking! the same as prevailed to settle Ruru’s
choice of a profession--and which even now appeared to me again as quite
philosophical.
“Even if it should chance that my regiment is not ordered out----” Arno
began.
“Ah, yes!” I joyfully broke in, “there is still that hope.”
“In that case I would get exchanged, if possible.”
“Oh, it will be quite possible,” my father assured him. “Hess is to
receive the command-in-chief and he is a good friend of mine.” My heart
trembled, and yet I could not help admiring both the men. With what a
joyful equanimity they spoke of a coming campaign, as if it were only a
question of some pleasure trip that had been arranged. My brave Arno was
desirous, even if his duty did not summon him, to go and meet the foe,
and my magnanimous father thought that quite simple and natural. I
collected myself. Away with childish, womanish fear! Now was the time to
show myself worthy of this my love, to raise my heart above all
egotistic fears and find room for nothing but the noble reflection--“my
husband is a hero”.
I sprang up and stretched out both my hands to him: “Arno, I am proud of
you!”
He put my hands to his lips, then turned to papa and said, with a face
radiant with joy:--
“You have brought the girl up well, father-in-law!”
Rejected! The ultimatum rejected! This took place at Turin, April 26.
The die is cast! War has broken out.