Disarm! Disarm!

War imminent with Denmark—New Year’s Eve—Return to garrison—The Schleswig-Holstein Campaign—Story of the quarrel.

The remaining two weeks in Vienna were no joyous time for me. My happiness was again darkened by this fatal prospect of war. Over all my joys there seemed ever to hang some imminent anguish. Are there not sufficient catastrophes in the natural course of events to keep one in a sense of uncertainty? Why should man wilfully add fresh tortures to the category of natural calamities which might at any time beset him? Some people have learned to look upon war as a natural phenomenon like earthquake and drought, but I had ceased to see it so. Instead of resignation I felt only pain and opposition. Why should Schleswig-Holstein and the Danish Constitution upset us? What matter to us if the “Protocol Prince” repealed or confirmed the constitutional law of November 13, 1863? What if the papers did make it the most important matter in the world, should our husbands and sons therefore be shot down? Should our belonging to the German Alliance necessitate taking up all their quarrels? Had I foreseen two years later how these same German brothers broke into the bitterest enmity, and the Austrians hated the Prussians with a fiercer hate than that which they now entertained for Denmark, I should have realised that all these arguments given out to justify war are mere pretexts and empty phrases.

On New Year’s Eve at my father’s house he proposed a toast to the hour, and “might it be a glorious one to our arms.” I refused to concur. When we returned to the hotel I found myself disturbed even to tears. My husband comforted me: “Do not weep over the bare possibility of war; nothing is yet definite.”

“It is the possibility which makes me cry. Were there a certainty I should be shrieking and wailing. Oh that in this first year you should be torn from me by war!”

“Come, my dear Martha, when a child is born to you, you must face the possibility of death like every man on the battle-field. Let us enjoy our life now and not waste it thinking of the death which hangs over every head.”

“You talk of Destiny just like Aunt Marie. No, it is the thoughtlessness, cruelty, and folly of mankind! Where is there a necessity of a war with Denmark?”

“But that is not yet declared——”

“Yes, I know, accidents may still avert the evil; but it should depend, not on accidents, intrigues, humours, but upon the righteous will of humanity. Do not try to quiet me with evasive words when I know that your whole soul shudders with repugnance. My only consolation is that you condemn with me what brings so much unhappiness.”

“Yes, yes, dear, I do not hide from you my feelings; when the disaster happens I will not conceal from you my hate for legalised slaughter. But to-day let us not think of destruction; let us be happy while nothing separates us. No joy can last for ever. It is not the length of our days, but the degree of the beauty of our days which makes life so blessed.”

And I let myself sink into the sweet rest of the moment and forget the threatening future.

We returned to the garrison on January 10. There was no longer any doubt of war. In Vienna I still heard of some small hope that the dispute could be settled, but in our military circle this was out of the question. The officers and their wives were greatly, even joyfully excited. Did it mean hope for promotion and distinction, or only a restless desire for action?

“Ah, this war will be immensely popular,” said the Colonel at a jolly supper. “And our own territory cannot suffer.”

“It is the noble motive that inspires me,” said a young lieutenant. “We defend the rights of our oppressed brothers the Prussians. We cannot be vanquished when we fight together, and it will strengthen the national ties. The ideal of nationality——”

“Nonsense,” interrupted the Colonel with severity, “that is humbug to an Austrian. Louis Napoleon rode the same sort of a hobby-horse in ’59: ‘Italy for the Italians.’ Why talk of banding with the Germans when we have the Bohemians, Hungarians, Croats?—our bond of unity lies in our loyalty to our dynasty. The thing which must inspire us is not the nationality of our allies but the good, faithful service we can render our beloved ruler. Long live the Emperor!”

All rose and pledged the toast. Even my quaking heart stirred for a moment with enthusiasm. That thousands could be inspired by one motive, one person, into a desire for self-sacrifice, this is really a lofty sense of love. But to think that through this love the high fulfilment of duty leads men into the most horrible work of the deadliest hatred—War! My heart chilled again at the thought.

My anxiety grew with the succeeding days. On January 16 the allies demanded that Denmark revoke a certain law against which the Holsteiners had protested asking the protection of the German Alliance, and to do this in twenty-four hours. Denmark refused, and had been expected to refuse, for Austrian and German troops stood massed on the frontier, and on February 1 they crossed the Eider.

So the die was cast and the bloody game began.

A hasty letter of congratulation came from father:—

Rejoice, my children! We may now repair the defeat of ’59 with a few sharp blows at Denmark. When we return conquerors from the north we can again turn our faces southward. With the Prussians as our allies those shabby Italians and the wily Napoleon can do nothing against us.

Frederick’s regiment, to the great chagrin of the Colonel and corps, was not ordered north. This brought a fatherly letter of commiseration:—

Such ill-luck, not to be called into the opening to a glorious campaign! This will rejoice Martha. But you, Frederick, though philosophically opposed to war, must regret it. If you got into the fight, certainly your manly enthusiasm would awaken. To be forced to stay at home is truly hard on a soldier!

“Is it hard on you to stay with me, Frederick?” The silent answer was enough.

But my peace was gone. The order might come any day. If the campaign would only end quickly! I watched the newspapers eagerly. I prayed for the termination of the war before my “all on earth” was called. What cared I what became of that little scrap of country? Their rulers were quarrelling only over their jealousies, not over the wrongs of their people, or to better the conditions.

If a number of dogs are fighting over some bones, it is only the hungry dogs that tear each other, but in human history it is the “bones” that have to fight for their devourers.

The Austrians held that they were justified in maintaining the “balance of power.” The Danes maintained the opposite principle with equal emphasis. If two States disagree and cannot come to an understanding, why not call in a third Power as arbitrator? Why go on shouting oneself hoarse, and then finally decide by force of arms? Is it not savage? And when a third Power comes in it does not do so judicially, but with blows again. And this is what they call world politics. Why not name it primitive savagery—or parliamentary nonsense—or international barbarism?

I found myself greatly troubled by this mysterious power called “reasons of State,” and I began a careful study of history to find out where the historic right lay over which they were quarrelling.

I found the disputed district ceded to Denmark in 1027. So in reality the Danes are right. They are the legitimate kings. However, two hundred years later it was turned over to a younger house, and it was ranked only as a fief of Denmark. In 1326 Count Gerhard of Holstein received Schleswig, and the Waldemar constitution provided that Denmark should never again claim any ownership. Oh! then, indeed, the right is with the allies! We are really fighting for the Waldemar Constitution of 1326. That is very good, for if these paper securities are not upheld of what worth are they?

In 1448 this constitution was again ratified by King Christian I. So how dare Denmark ever again claim sovereignty? But what has the Protocol Prince to do with the matter? Twelve years later the Schleswig ruler dies with heirs, and the National Assembly met at Ripon (so important to know exactly where these assemblies always convene). Well then at Ripon, in 1460, they proclaimed the Danish king the Duke of Schleswig, and he thereupon promised that the countries should remain together “for ever undivided.” Ah, that is a bit confusing; but remember, they shall remain united “for ever.” This little “for ever” is chiefly responsible for the historical confusion, for straightway they divide up the provinces among the king’s sons, and under later kings they are again reunited. They are hardly together before they are sliced up again. What a tangle! How can I find my way out, and historically establish the point upon which finally our Austrian countrymen must shed their blood?

Again, I find during the Thirty Years’ War, Charles IV. fell upon the duchy. Then a treaty made in 1658 forced the Danish sovereignty to surrender for ever. So we have gotten rid of the Danish feudal lordship “for ever,” thank God, and our way is clear again.

But here comes an agreement on August 22, 1721, and Schleswig becomes a dependency of Denmark once more, and on June 1, 1773, Holstein also becomes a simple Danish province. This alters the case again, and, certainly, now the Danes have a perfect right. But hold, not quite—for the Vienna Congress of 1815 declared Holstein a part of the German Alliance. This enraged the Danes, who raised the battle-cry “Denmark to the Eider!” and strove for the complete possession of Schleswig. In the year 1846 King Christian writes a public letter in which he proposed the integrity of the entire state. But the Germans protest. Then the announcement of the complete union is made from the throne, and a rebellion breaks out on the part of the Germans. The Danes win one battle, the Schleswig-Holsteiners the other. Hereupon the Alliance interfered. Prussia took some strategic points, but the struggle continues. At last Prussia and Denmark conclude a peace, so Schleswig-Holstein now stands alone to fight the Danes, and is defeated.

The Alliance calls the “revolters” to discontinue, and they do. Austria takes possession of Holstein, and the two duchies are separated. What has become of all the paper promises to hold them together “for ever”? It is incomprehensible.

But here comes the Protocol of London, May 8, 1852. (So wise that we know the exact date of these flimsy agreements!) This secures to Prince Christian of Glucksburg the succession to Schleswig. So this is where the “Protocol Prince” originated.

In 1854, after each little duchy had adopted a Constitution of its own, both were again appended to Denmark. In ’58 Denmark was compelled to lay down its claim. Now history brings us quite close to the present time, and yet with all this eager study it is not clear to me to whom these two countries should rightly belong. November 18, 1858, the German Parliament passed a “Fundamental Law for the Mutual Relations between Denmark and Schleswig.” Two days afterwards the king died and left no heir.

Relying on this two-days’-old law, Frederick of Augustenburg raised his claim and turned to the German Alliance for support. (I had completely forgotten to follow that Augustenburg family.) The Alliance at once occupied and proclaimed Augustenburg the duke. But why? Prussians disagreed with Austrians in the proceedings. But why? I cannot understand it to this day.

The London Protocol must be respected. Why? Are protocols things so absolute and supreme that we must pour out the blood of our sons to defend them? Ah, yes, there comes in the mysterious “reason of State.” The gentlemen around the green diplomatic table are all wise, and they know how to bring about the greatest security of national supremacy. Of course, the London Protocol of 1852 must be upheld and the constitutional decree of Copenhagen of 1863 must be revoked within twenty-four hours. Yes, Austria’s honour and welfare depended upon that. The dogma was a bit hard to believe, but in politics, even more than in religion, the mass allows itself to be led by the rule of quis absurdum—to reason about it is forbidden. With the sword once unsheathed, they shout the unquestioning “hurrah” and struggle for victory. Besides, can we not invoke the blessing of Heaven upon our side? And is it not of great consequence to the Almighty that the London Protocol should be maintained, and the decrees of January 13 be revoked? Is it not His duty to see that the exact numbers bleed to death, and that certain villages be destroyed, in order that the family of Gluckstadt or that of Augustenburg may rule over a certain trifling scrap of His footstool?

Oh what a foolish, cruel, and misguided world, still in the leading strings of infancy! Thus my historical studies left me quite as confused as they found me.

The course of war—Hostilities suspended and renewed—My husband departs—The dead baby—Letters from the seat of war—Recovery—Anxiety—Letters—Return of Frederick.

Encouraging tidings came from the seat of war. The allies won battle after battle. The Danes were forced from the entire field, which was occupied by our troops, the enemy barely maintaining the lines. With pins and flags I followed the campaign on the map. If only the butchery might end before Frederick’s regiment was ordered into the field! This fear hung over us like the sword of Damocles. I dreaded the night lest the morning would bring the marching orders. Frederick was calm, but he saw what was coming.

“Accustom yourself to face the events, my dear, and cease protesting. I believe the war will continue for some time, for not a large enough force was sent to the front in the beginning, so my regiment will have to join.”

Two months and yet no results! Oh, why could not the cruel game be settled in one fight like a duel? But no, if one battle is lost, another is offered; if one position is given up, another is taken, and so on till one side or the other is annihilated, or both exhausted.

On April 14 the last stronghold was taken, and immediately a peace conference assembled in London. Every one was overjoyed and relieved, save, perhaps, some of my husband’s comrades, who had hoped to share the glory. Their wives thought it bad luck. But I received the news of “suspension of hostilities” with great joy, and wrote in my diary “Disarm! Disarm! For ever.” I added despondingly, and in brackets, “Utopia.”

The London conference dragged on two months without agreement, and then came the orders to Frederick’s regiment to march, with twenty-four hours for leave-taking. The birth of our little child was hourly expected, and it was as if we both awaited death upon our farewell.

We were overwhelmed with the magnitude of the approaching evils. To us it was neither patriotic nor heroic to help hew down the Danes, and in case our parting was for ever, what excuse of state could reconcile us to this terrible sacrifice? To defend the common cause of humanity might be justified, but to rush into battle with a distant country, throwing away life, and home, and family, because of the mere pledge of princes—it was too infamous! Why must Austrian soldiers leave home to help set this petty prince on his petty throne? Why? Why? How treasonable and blasphemous to ask such a question of Emperor and Pope! Neither would or could answer.

The regiment was to march at ten. We had not slept for hours lest we should waste a moment. We strove vainly to comfort each other. In the rays of morning light I realised that my hour had come, and with tears of uncertainty we tore ourselves apart, Frederick desperate lest the next moment might rob him of both wife and child.

The next morning the Olmutz papers contained the following account:—

Yesterday the ——th Regiment left town with flying colours to gain fresh laurels in the sea-girt brotherland. The joy of battle inspired every heart, etc., etc.

I lost my child, and for weeks lay between life and death, dreaming all the agonies of war and torture. In my delirium I cried, “Disarm! Disarm! Help us all for the sake of justice and mercy, help!”

When I regained consciousness, my father and Aunt Marie stood at my bedside.

“Is he alive? Have letters come?” were my first questions. Yes, quite a heap of letters had accumulated. One was marked: “Not to be opened till all danger is past.” From this I take extracts:—

To-day we met the enemy for the first time, having marched through conquered territory until now, with the Danes retreating fast. Everywhere are the ruins and remnants of battle. The landscape is torn with shell and piled with graves. So the victors march on to new victories. To-day we took the enemy’s position and leave a burning village behind us. While friend and foe were absorbed in the tumult, I could only think of you, and that perhaps you were lost. The enemy withstood us but two hours, and we did not pursue. We collected our wounded and cared for them as well as we could. The dead, some among them still possibly alive, we buried, but the wounded and injured we must leave behind to bleed slowly to death and starve. And we, hurrah, we must push on into the jolly, dashing war.

Our next will probably be a pitched battle, for two great army corps are about to clash. Then the loss will run into thousands, and the artillery will mow them down. What a strange way of doing things! It would be better if the two enemies each had a weapon, which with one blow would wipe out either side. Perhaps such blasts would tend to put a stop to war. If both forces were equally deadly, then force could no longer be employed to settle disputes, for both disputants would be wiped out.

Why do I write thus to you, when I ought to be glorifying our engagements and triumphs? Because, like you, I long for the unvarnished truth, and hate the usual lying phrases when death is near. With thousands voicing the opposite, I must speak out before I fall a sacrifice to war,—that I hate it. If every man who feels it would say so, Heaven would hear our cry, and even the thundering cannon roar would be drowned out by the new battle-cry of panting, exhausted humanity: Let us make war on war!

The above was written yesterday. I snatched a few hours of sleep on a sack of straw. In half an hour the field mail is taken. With little rest we are already up for the march,—poor fellows. It is indeed little rest after the bloody work to prepare them for still bloodier sights. I have just returned from looking over the wounded, whom we must leave. How gladly I would have put a bullet into some of them, who must drag out a miserable agonized death. My horse is saddled. Farewell, my Martha, if you are still alive.

One or two letters I found of a later date:—

The day is ours. I am unhurt. The first is good news for papa and the last for you. I cannot forget that for thousands the same day has brought untellable grief.

Another letter:—

Imagine my astonishment. Riding near me at the head of a detachment was Aunt Cornelia’s only son, Gottfried. The youngster is beside himself with enthusiasm, but how his poor mother must suffer! That evening I sent for him to come to my tent. “Is it not splendid,” he cried, “to be fighting in the same cause? How lucky I am to be called out in my first year of service! I shall win the cross of honour.” “And my aunt, how does she like it?” “Oh, just as all women—she tried to damp my spirits with tears, but I am enchanted, delighted! Awful, I grant, but magnificent. It is gratifying to feel that I am filling man’s highest duty, with God’s help, for king and country. To meet death so closely, to challenge him face to face, and yet not be touched, it fills me with the glory of the old epics, as if the muse of history were leading us on to victory. I feel such an indignation at the enemy who dares defy us Germans, and it is a thrilling sensation to gratify this hate, to destroy without being a murderer, this fearless exposure of one’s life.”

So the boy rattled on, and I let him. Was not my first campaign the same experience? Epic? Yes, that is the very word with which we so carefully train our schoolboys into soldiers. We throw it into their excitable young brains, which makes quiet domestic bliss seem stupid nonsense, when they are longing for heroics. With me this attitude has so completely vanished, that I could hardly realise Gottfried’s state of mind. I had so early realised it all as so inhuman, that it was no longer a revelation from the kingdom of Lucifer but gross barbarity and bestiality. Only he who is drunk with the passion for blood and destruction can triumphantly split open the defenceless head of an enemy. I never knew the “joy of battle,” believe me, my dear wife, I never did.

Gottfried is delighted that we are fighting together as brothers in the same just cause (as if every cause were not called right by the powers commanding). “We Germans are brothers!” “Yes, that was proved by the Thirty Years’ and the Seven Years’ Wars,” I suggested ironically. Gottfried paid no attention. “Together we will conquer every enemy.” “Yes, until the Prussians declare war against the Austrians.” “Not to be thought of! Impossible! What, when we have fought and bled together?” “I warn you, nothing is impossible in political matters. The friendships of dynastical rulers are as changeable as the ephemeral fly.”

I write this, not because I imagine you in all your ill condition will be able to read it, but because I have a premonition that I shall not outlive this campaign, and I want to leave my convictions behind me. The sincere reflections of honest, humane soldiers should not be falsified or sink into the silent grave with them, unspoken and unrevealed. I have here spoken it, this quiets my conscience, I can die in peace.

This latest letter was five days old—five unspeakable days of dread. Though Frederick was yet unhurt, my anxieties left me no comfort. My father was obliged to return to Grumitz, and Aunt Marie remained to keep me consoled with her orthodox ideas of destiny, providence, and divine mercy—small comfort with so few letters coming from the seat of war. My father made inquiries, but could get no information, although Frederick was not in the list of the dead. Thus the days dragged on.

One afternoon I lay half dreaming on the sofa, where I had begged to be left alone. My weakness and anxiety had so overpowered my imagination and reasonableness that I was full of fleeting visionary sensations, and springing up in terror at some slight movement in the room, I suddenly thought I saw Frederick in the doorway.

“Oh, my Frederick, my lost one,” I groaned.

“Martha, my wife!”

What? could it be his real voice? then real arms were thrown around me eagerly.

The dream came true, I was enfolded in my husband’s loving embrace.

Reunion and summer joys—Resolved to quit the service—Rudolf’s training—The end of the war—Conditions of peace—Fresh cares and ruined fortunes—My husband remains in the service.

After our first expressions of joy had subsided, Frederick told us how he had been left wounded in a peasant’s hut, the regiment marching on and reporting him “missing.” This report had not reached us, and when he was sufficiently recovered he hastened home without waiting to write, for the war was practically at an end. We spent the summer again at father’s country seat, where the entire family assembled, including brother Otto, home from the Military Academy, and Cousin Conrad, whose regiment lay not far away.

I was determined to persuade my husband to quit the service, for we had grown so one in our feelings and interests that what was mine was surely his also, and why, if new wars were again to threaten, need we go through such horrors again?

Besides, Rudolf was now seven years old, and it should be our delight, in our retirement, to educate and train this little man according to our highest ideals. He had never been given over to nurses and tutors, for it was my pride to watch every phase of his development. In his growing appetite for knowledge we had never permitted ourselves to tell him a falsehood, but his questions were not always answered fully enough to suit him. He accompanied us on our daily walks, and often his questions demanded the unknowable, so we answered, “We do not know.” This did not satisfy him, and he used to put these questions to others of whom he received quite decided answers. One day he remarked triumphantly, “You do not know how old the moon is, but I do. It is six thousand years old—remember that.” Frederick and I looked at each other silently, and a whole volume of protest lay in that glance and that silence.

I seriously objected to the soldier games which his grandfather and uncle played with him. Thus the ideas of cutting down the enemy were infused in him without my knowledge. One day Frederick and I came upon him when he was mercilessly beating two puppies with a riding whip.

“You cheating little Italian,” he said, lashing the one puppy. And striking the other he called loudly, “You saucy Dane.” Frederick snatched the whip from his hand: “And you heartless little Austrian,” he said, laying on two or three blows. Rudolf began to blubber, and the Italian and Dane ran joyfully away.

“I hope you are not angry that I struck your boy, Martha; I hate the lash, but I cannot endure seeing an animal abused.”

“Quite right.”

“Only people can be hurt, then?” whimpered the boy.

“That is still worse.”

“But you went out to beat the Italians and Danes.”

“They were our enemies.”

“Then one may hate those?”

Turning away, Frederick said: “And to-morrow the priest will tell him that we must love our enemies. Such logic!” Then to Rudolf: “No, it is not because we hate them that we strike, but because they strike us.”

“Why do they want to strike us?”

“Because we—no, go and play, Rudi,” he interrupted himself, “there is no way out of the tangle. You must never do it again, and we will forgive you.”

We often had distinguished visitors from Vienna. They discussed the political situations, and thus I was enabled to follow the entire Danish engagement to the end. After all these victories it must be decided what would be done with all these Duchies. Would the famous Augustenburg receive his portion? Not at all, for an entirely new pretender claimed it. It was not enough that there was a “Glucksburg” and a “Gotrop” and whatever other lines of succession to lay claim, but Russia presented a new candidate. Against Augustenburg Russia pitted an “Oldenburg.” But finally there were no burgs at all to have the Duchies, but they were to be divided among the allies, and the expenses of the war was to be borne by the defeated. This was hard to understand. The land had been devastated, its harvests trampled under, its sons were mouldering in their graves, and now it must pay the costs. Was not rather some reparation due to them?

One day I opened the conversation: “What news in regard to Schleswig-Holstein?”

“The latest news is, that von Beust has addressed a demand to the Assembly, asking by what right the Allies can accept the surrender of these provinces from a king whose sovereignty has not been recognised by them.”

“And it is a very reasonable question,” I remarked.

“You do not understand these matters, child,” said my father. “It is not reasonable, but an impertinent trick on von Beust’s part. Do not the Duchies belong to us because we have conquered them? We should not have concluded peace, but conquered the whole of Denmark and turned it over to the German Alliance.”

“Why do that, papa, you are such a patriotic Austrian, what do you care for the German Federation?”

“Have you forgotten that our Hapsburgs were German Emperors once, and may become so again?”

“What if some of the great Germans cherished a like dream?” suggested Frederick.

My father laughed outright: “Imagine a Protestant princeling at the head of our Holy Roman Empire! You have lost your senses.”

As Bresser said, “Let us hope that the settling of this affair will not be a source of discord between the powers. For every war has within it the seed of future wars, as one act of violence has led to another since the beginning.”

Some days later a bit of news was reported: King William of Prussia visited our Emperor at Schönbrun. They met with embraces, the Prussian eagle was hoisted, and the Prussian national airs were played, with triumphant hurrahs from the people. I was very happy, for it put to shame the evil prophecies that the two powers might get into a quarrel again. My father rejoiced, for he saw in this alliance a means of reconquering our lost Lombardy.

“Will you tell me,” I cried out to the assembled guests one day, “why do not all the European States form an alliance? Would not that be the simplest way?”

The gentlemen shrugged their shoulders, smiled superior smiles and did not answer. I probably had said one of those silly things with which ladies are apt to venture into the realms of higher politics.

The autumn was at hand; peace had been signed, and Frederick’s retirement from the army could now be carried out. But man proposes and circumstances dispose for him. As a sequel of the war many banking houses failed, and with the rest I lost my private fortune. Shot and shell blast not only the ramparts and forts but also the entire social fabric of family and finance.

My kindest of fathers, however, came to the rescue and saw that I should want for nothing, yet the retirement of my husband from the military had become impossible, for we could not entirely depend on my father. Frederick was too proud for that, and so our beautiful castle in the air was shattered. But one comfort remained: there was nowhere a black spot on the horizon, and peace might last for many years.

Lilli and Conrad—Aunt Marie’s letter—Rumours of war with Prussia—Negotiations and arguments—My father’s New Year’s toast—Hopes and fears—The army mobilised—War declared—The manifestos of both sides.

Spring found me in the neighbourhood of Vienna. Here I could see Frederick daily. My sisters and aunt were off for Marienbad, and from there Lilli wrote me:—

I confess I am beginning to be interested in Cousin Conrad.

And another letter from Aunt Marie:—

My dear Child—It has been a tiresome winter in society, and I shall be glad when Lilli and Rosa are married off. They have had opportunities enough. It is a tiresome, thankless task to chaperone two pleasure-seeking girls.

I am rejoiced to hear that you are well once more. [I had suffered from a serious fever.] Your husband had been very much alarmed. But, thank God, your time had not yet come. The service which I had said at the Ursalines no doubt aided in bringing about your recovery. Kiss little Rudolf for me. Tell him he must learn all he can. I am sending him a few books: The Pious Child, and his Guardian Angel,—a beautiful story—and The Heroes of our Country, a collection of war stories for boys. We cannot begin too early to teach them such glorious ideals. Your brother Otto was barely five when he first learned of Alexander and Cæsar. It delights me to see how heroic and enthusiastic he is. I am sorry your plan is to stay in Vienna this summer to be nearer Frederick. But you should think of your dear father as well, who would love to have you at Grumitz. Take my word for it, you married people should not be so constantly together, but allow each other some little liberty. That Heaven may protect you all is my constant prayer.

P.S.—Your husband has relatives in Prussia. (Happily he is not so arrogant as his countrymen.) Please ask him what they are saying there about the present political situation. It is rather critical.

This letter was the first insinuation to me that some complication was in view. Having been ill, I had neglected to keep myself informed on the current news, and I asked my husband: “You dear Prussian, less arrogant than the rest, what does Aunt Marie mean? Is there really a political situation just now?”

“Yes, there always is, as there always is weather, some political situation—which is as changeable and treacherous as the weather. They are still arguing about these complicated Duchies who talk of freeing themselves of these arrogant Prussians—‘rather Danish than Prussian!’ they cry.”

“And what will become of Augustenburg, with his ‘undivided right’ over these Danish Provinces? I studied all this history with the greatest care, and I have taken my stand for the old inherited right which has stood for hundreds of years. I thought I was sacrificing you to help establish this right.”

“It will go hard with your historical claims, my dear Martha,” laughed Frederick. Again I began to study the crisis, and discovered that the Vienna treaty had really settled nothing. Schleswig-Holstein loomed more formidably than before. The old claimants renewed their claims before the Alliance, and no one could guess what they were going to do about it. The two great powers were accusing each other of encroachment.

“Now, what are the arrogant Prussians up to?” was the constant suspicion of Austria as well as of the Middle States and the Duchies. Napoleon III. advised Prussia to annex up to the Danish-speaking border, but Prussia pretended to be unwilling. But at last she formulated her claim thus: Prussian troops should remain in occupation on the defensive, and under Prussian leadership; a contingent should represent the Alliance; the harbour of Kiel to be occupied; postal, telegraph, and customs to be under Prussian control. This angered the Austrian Minister of War; the jealous Middle States objected, and demanded that their leader be put in possession of the Duchies. This again Austria objected to, and although willing that Prussia should hold the harbour of Kiel, could not tolerate her right to recruit soldiers and sailors. And so the quarrel ripened.

Prussia declared she had no design absolutely to annex, but was planning the best interest of all parties. Under opposition Prussia became even more assertive, and voice after voice was raised against this “insolent announcement,” public sentiment rising daily against Prussia and Bismarck.

The Middle States demanded to know the secret negotiations carried on between the diplomats of the two powers. The two Emperors betook themselves to their country seats, and messages flew between them thick and fast. Several points were agreed upon. The investment should be shared half and half. Lauenburg should fall to Prussia, and Austria in lieu thereof receive two and a half million thalers. I asked myself, what return could such a sum be to offset all the losses, my financial losses, for instance, and in the case of thousands of others their fallen loved ones? Yet I was rejoiced when a new “treaty” was signed; that sounded so reassuring. Later I learned that these documents generally contain the germ of some future causus belli. The breaking of a treaty is only a fresh chance to fly to arms.

The quarrel seemed to be laid aside. The powers occupied the provinces, and I was again obliged to give up my favourite aspiration to see them once more “for ever together undivided,” as was decreed in 1460.

But in spite of the treaty, the situation was not relieved. Patient reading of the political press gave me an idea of the shifting condition, but I could hardly believe that war would result. I contented myself with the thought that legal questions could always be settled legally and justly. All these wise ministers, diplomats, judicious councillors, parliamentarians, and polite monarchs, could surely settle such a trivial point. Thus I was actuated more by curiosity than anxiety in my research, which I was carefully jotting into the red book:—

Oct. 1, ’65.—Imperial Council at Frankfort adopts the following resolutions: 1. The right of Schleswig-Holstein to control itself must remain in force. The Gastein treaty is rejected as a breach of right to the nation. 2. All officials shall refuse to pay over taxes and loans to the Allies.

Oct. 15.—The Prussian royal edict approved the decision in regard to hereditary claimant, who renounces all right to the throne for the sum of a half million thalers. By the Vienna treaty the duchies were ceded to the Allies, hence there can be no further claim.

Protests were made on all hands. “Prussian arrogance” became a catchword, and all hands declared, “We must protect ourselves against them.” “King William would be another Victor Emanuel.” “To reconquer Silesia is Austria’s secret intent.” “Prussia is paying court to France.” “Austria is coquetting with the French.” Thus tittle-tattle and recrimination was indulged in by the Cabinets of the great Powers quite as seriously as by the gossips at a village tea.

The entire family returned for the autumn to Vienna.

I was very eager to keep my little Rudolf away from the influence of his grandfather, who was determined to inspire in him military tastes, which were already awakened, probably through a long line of soldier ancestry. My studies of natural science had taught me that such tendencies could be inherited. On my boy’s birthday his grandfather brought him a sword. I remonstrated:—

“You know very well that my son shall never be a soldier?”

“Would you tie him to your apron strings? Never mind, good soldier blood will tell; let him grow up, and see what profession he chooses—the noblest of all, I am sure—the military.”

“Martha fears he may die in battle,” said Aunt Marie. “As though the same fate might not overtake one in bed.”

“If a hundred thousand fell in battle,” I said, “would the same fate have been theirs in peace?”

Aunt Marie was always ready with an answer, “No, it would have been their destiny to have died in war.”

“Suppose they had been bold enough to refuse to go to war,” I suggested. “Impossible,” shouted my father, and then the old controversy began.

The Greek fable of the hundred-headed hydra illustrates so perfectly the manner of argument between two convinced opponents. No sooner have you sliced the head off one point and started to attack the second, when the first head has grown on again.

The following were my father’s favourite and unconquerable arguments in favour of war:—

1. War was the decree of God Himself (see Bible).

2. Wars have always been and always will be.

3. Without war population would increase too fast.

4. Permanent peace would corrupt, weaken, relax, and degenerate the race.

5. War best develops self-sacrifice, heroism, and fine character.

6. Human beings will always differ in opinions, interests, and desires, hence perpetual peace is impossible.

None of the above wise sayings can be maintained under argument, but each in turn can be set up as a fresh defence when the preceding one topples. For example, obliged to drop argument No. 4 and admit that peace is more apt to secure happiness, prosperity, and progress, my father would agree, “War is an evil, but (arguments 1 and 2) inevitable.” Then I would prove that by international agreement and law, war could be avoided; he would acknowledge that it could, but ought not (No. 5). If the argument for peace upsets the claims of Nos. 4 and 5, and shows that war hardens and brutalises men, then he would admit it, but quote No. 3. This argument sounds hugely humane and learned, but is the least sincere of all. Wars are not waged for the benefit of posterity. When you have proved the fallacy of 3 the other returns to 1, and so the trick can be carried on till it becomes a labyrinthal puzzle.

The lovers of war reason in a circle where one can always see and follow, but never catch them. That their arguments often proceed from opposite points of view and nullify each other matters nothing to them, and proves that they are arguing a position they have not thought out for themselves, but are bolstering up opinions which have been handed on to them. I did not see this clearly at the time I carried on the argument with my father on peace and war, but I always came away from the combat fatigued and dizzy, and I realised later that it came from whirling in this circle which his lack of logic necessitated.

New Year’s eve, 1866. As the first hour of this momentous year struck, we were sitting about my father’s table celebrating the engagement of Lilli and Conrad. My father arose and offered his New Year’s toast:—

“My dear children and friends: The year ’66 begins well, for long have I desired Conrad for a son-in-law. May we hope that this year may bring Rosa her ideal also. And you, Martha, may your husband be promoted to the rank of Colonel. For you, Dr. Bresser, I may wish hosts of patients, although it does not fit in with the spirit of my wishes for health and happiness. And for you, my dear, fatalistic Marie, may destiny bring you the grand prize of a full indulgence, or anything else you may be wishing for. For my Otto, my son, I can only wish him every distinction in his final examination, that he may acquire every soldierly virtue, and some day be an ornament to the army, and a pride to his old father’s heart. And for myself, who knows no greater joy than the welfare and fame of my fatherland, I can only wish that the coming year may bring back to my Austria the province of Lombardy, and—who knows—Silesia also. And may we take back from the insolent Prussian this land which they stole from the great Maria Theresa.”

A chill fell upon the company as my father closed his toast. Truly, none of us felt any pressing need for these two provinces.

“No, father dear,” I replied, “we must not forget that in Italy and Prussia it is also New Year’s Day, and we will wish them no evil. May the year ’66 and all the years to come help us to grow more united and happy.”

“Oh, you fantastic idealist,” said my father, shrugging his shoulders.

“Not that,” said my husband in my defence. “The wish is not one of an enthusiast and dreamer, for science assures us that it must be fulfilled some day. The world has slowly been growing better since the beginning, and it must go on, although we do not note it from year to year. We all know that men are happier, and better, and freer than in the primeval days.”

“If you are so sure of eternal progress, why so often complain of reaction and the relapses into barbarism in our day?” asked my father, tauntingly.

“Because”—Frederick took out his pencil and drew a spiral—“because the movement of progress goes on like this. It continually ascends, although at times appearing to go backwards. This coming year, if war is forced upon us, may be represented by one of these backward curves. Such events hurt civilisation materially as well as morally.”

“How unsoldierly you speak, Tilling.”

“These are universal matters; the opinions of a soldier or civilian have no different weight here, for the truth is always the same. If a thing is red, must one obstinately call it blue because one wears a blue uniform, or black because one wears a black coat?”

“A what?” said my father, who, when the argument went against him, was apt to appear hard of hearing. Since it is difficult to repeat a long argument, the discussion inclined to drop.

Upon our return home, I asked my husband: “What did I hear you say? There is prospect of war? Never, never will I allow you to go into another campaign.”

“How can your passionate ‘Never, never!’ help in the matter? The nearer the fatal day comes, the less possible it will be for me to resign. Immediately after Schleswig-Holstein it would have been possible, but not now.”

“Ah, that unlucky Schmidt & Sons the bankers!”

Again I found myself anxiously following developments in the newspapers and reports. “Be prepared! Be prepared!” was now the cry. “Prussia is preparing!” “Austria is quietly preparing!” “The Prussians claim we are preparing; it is not true, it is they who are preparing.” And thus the variations were sounded in my anxious ear.

“Why is all this commotion about armaments,” I asked my father, “if neither party plans to use them?” He answered me with the old saying: “In times of peace prepare for war.”

Thus each is keeping the eye on the other, and each accuses the other of warlike motives. So again begins the endless circle—the serpent with his tail in his mouth.

On the morning of March 12 my father burst into my room beaming with joy: “Hurrah,” he cried, “Good news!”

“Disarmament?” I asked, delighted.

“On the contrary. Yesterday a great council of war was held. We are ready on an hour’s notice to send out 800,000 men, and I tell you, my child, Silesia is ours whenever we choose.”

“Oh God! Oh God!” I groaned, “must this affliction come upon us once more? Who can be so devoid of conscience that for greed and ambition——”

And my father, denying that it was greed or ambition, only justice and patriotic ardour which pressed for war, harangued on the subject in his illogical manner, jumbling his arguments together, proving that all wished for peace, but if war came it must be met—until I was quite frantic, and said, beside myself with emotion:—

“You know well, that not only you, but the whole council want war, then why not say it out frankly? Why all this falsehood? Why tell the people they hope for peace when they are madly arming? Show your teeth and your closed fists, but do not the while whisper soft, false words of reassurance. If you are wildly eager to draw the sword, do not pretend that you are only caressing the hilt.”

He rose to the height of passion, and finally I burst into exhausting tears. My father was so amazed that he did not utter a word.

Now came a time of hopes and fears, ringing the changes on “Peace is secure,” “War is certain.” But once this word “war,” this little seed of thought, finds its way to the front, it seems inevitably to produce—war.

News came that Prussia was arming the Silesian fortresses. Austria disclaimed any intention of attacking Prussia and demanded that the latter should disarm. Prussia declared herself innocent of warlike intentions, but strengthened her standing army, hence Austria felt compelled to continue her preparations. So the dual game continued, and became a triple game as Italy armed herself with haste.

The excitement became universal and more violent every day. Every newspaper and speech announced that war was in sight. Bismarck was hated and reviled on every side. Letters were received from Aunt Cornelia in Prussia telling that the war was anything but wished, and that Bismarck was no less hated in his own country. She said the army was reported as refusing to go out in a war against brothers; that Queen Augusta had thrown herself at her husband’s feet to pray for peace. Had perhaps our beautiful Empress also done the same and with tears begged for disarmament, who knows? Perhaps the Emperor himself wished for peace, but it seemed that not even the throne could stand against the pressure and strain on every side.

On June 1 Prussia declared to the Assembly that she would disarm if Austria and Saxony would. Vienna responded accusing Prussia of planning an attack in concert with Italy. Austria would call the German Alliance to arms and decide the case of the Duchies. Holstein should co-operate. Prussia declared that this broke the treaty, and they moved into Holstein. Bismarck issued a circular letter. The press cried for war and predicted a victory to strengthen the national confidence.

On June 11 Austria proposed that the Alliance should take a hand against Prussia for helping herself to Holstein. On June 14 the vote stood nine to six—accepted. Oh, those three terrible votes! All was over. Ambassadors are dismissed. The Alliance requests Austria and Bavaria to go to the rescue of Hanover and Saxony, who have already attacked the Prussians.

On the 18th, Prussia’s war manifesto appeared. On the same date Austria’s troops marched out, and on the 22nd Prussia issued her first army orders.

King William said:—

To the last I have worked for peace with Austria, but it was refused.

Kaiser Francis Joseph announced:—

Prussia shows her desire to set might in the place of right, therefore this unholy war of German against German cannot be avoided. Before the judgment seat of history and Almighty God I summon him who has brought this misery down upon our families and country.

The war is always the desire of “the other side.” It is always the other one who chooses to overcome justice with might, “German against German makes an unholy war”; quite right to step beyond Prussia and Austria and appeal to Germany. But why not in every war reach to the higher plane, and recognise it as a war of humanity against humanity? and regard every battle as an unholy contest?

And what good would it do to summon the aggressor before the judgment of History? Has not History always given the right to the victor? The laurels of History have always been placed on the conqueror’s brow, and he has been called great and the promotor of civilisation.

And why summon him before the Judgment seat of God? Is He not the same Lord of Hosts who begins as well as ends every war with His unchangeable will? Such contradictions! Are we not expected to consider two opposite principles as equally holy? Are the God of Love and the God of War one God, compelling war as well as justice, demanding national hatred as well as love of humanity?