Disarm! Disarm!

Restored happiness—Prussians still press toward Vienna—War practically over—Quiet country life—Military school—My only brother Otto—Description of flying troops—Peace in sight—Victory of Lyssa—Our plans of retirement—Conrad comes home—He describes his enthusiasm for war.

Thus for the second time my beloved husband was restored to me from the dangers of war.

Who was I, that this tide of woe should have passed over and left me safe and happy on the shore, when so many thousands had sunk beneath the flood of misery? Happy indeed were those who were simple-hearted enough to lift up their glance to heaven and express their deep gratitude to the Almighty Guide, and feel that for this special blessing a divine Providence had chosen them. Those who speak such gratitude think they are humble, but they do not realise how arrogant and self-important they really are. When I thought of the poor wretches and the broken hearts and the mourning mothers and wives, I could not be so immodest as to take all this as a favour sent from God to me. I remembered how our housekeeper swept one day from a closet a swarm of ants. Fate had in just such a way swept over the fields of Bohemia. The poor workers had been ruthlessly scattered, crushed, and killed—only a few were unhurt. In the case of the ants, would it seem reasonable and just to imagine those few remaining ones would send up prayers of gratitude to the housekeeper?

However great was our joy of reunion, I could not unload the burden of sorrow and suffering I had seen. Though I could not help and nurse and endure like those other courageous women, yet I felt a compassion toward my brother men that I could never drown in selfish contentment again. I would settle this account with the world some day.

Yet, though I could not feel triumphant and grateful, I could love with a hundred fold more tenderness than ever before. “Oh, Frederick, Frederick,” I would repeat with tears and caresses, “have I found you at last?”

“Yes, and you rushed off to find me and nurse me—was that not heroic and foolish of you, Martha?”

“Foolish, I agree. I imagined I heard you call. But heroic, no! If you only could know how cowardly I was in the face of misery! If you had been lying there I could have been brave. Such horrors as I have seen I shall never forget. Oh, this world is so beautiful, and how can men make it so terrible? A world in which we two can find such happiness and fill with such unchanging love, how can any one spoil it by stirring up such flames of hate to bring death and agony?”

“I have seen horrible things too, Martha—one thing I shall never forget. Who do you suppose sprang at me during our cavalry engagement at Sadowa? Gottfried von Tessow.”

“Aunt Cornelia’s son?”

“Yes; he recognised me in time, and dropped his sword, which he held ready to sink into my skull.”

“Where was his duty? How could he spare his King’s and country’s enemy? How dare he think first of friend or cousin?”

“The poor boy! His arm dropped, and suddenly a sabre swung from the officer next to me, who wished to defend my life——” and Frederick covered his face with his hands.

“Killed,” I asked, shuddering. He nodded.

“Mamma, mamma!” came from the next room, and Lilli appeared with my little Rudolf. I rushed to him, and eagerly pressed him to me. “Ah, poor, poor Aunt Cornelia.”

It looked as though the war was practically over. The quarrel with France and Italy ceased when Austria abandoned Venice. Prussia offered liberal terms, and our emperor was anxious lest Vienna, his capital, should be besieged. Prussia’s other German victories, and the entry into Frankfort, awoke a certain admiration which success always brings, and imbued even the Austrians with the feeling that Prussia might be destined to perform a certain historical mission in her victories.

The words “truce” and “peace” became contagious, and one could almost count upon their coming true, in the same way as war threats gave rise to war. My father admitted that the needle-gun had exhausted our ranks. He did not wish to contemplate a march on Vienna, which meant the destruction of his estate in Grumitz. That would have been too much for even his bellicose spirit. His confidence in Austria’s invincibility was sadly shaken, and in common with the rest of mortals he felt it was best to put a stop to the run of luck, for no doubt some day the tide would turn with an opportunity for vengeance. Vengeance follows vengeance! Every war leaves one side defeated with the belief that the next war will give them satisfaction! And so one struggle invites and demands the next—where will it end? How can justice ever be established if in punishing an old wrong another is committed? Can one obliterate ink-stains with ink, or oil-spots with oil? Yet they say nothing but blood can wash out blood.

At Grumitz a gloom settled over every one. The villagers prepared for the coming of the Prussians, hiding their possessions. Even our family silver was secreted. We read and talked of nothing but the war. Lilli had heard nothing from Conrad for days. My father’s patriotism was deeply wounded, and though Frederick and I were blissfully happy in our reunion, yet the unhappiness of the rest affected us painfully. Over a letter from Aunt Cornelia we shed bitter tears for she had not yet learned of her only son’s death.

As we sat all together in the evening there was no music or cheerful chatter, no jokes or games, only the repetition of stories of woe and death.

Any possibility of the prolongation of the war filled my brother Otto with enthusiasm, for in that event the seniors of the military academy had been promised to be called into the service. He longed for this privilege—straight from the military school into the battle-field. Just as a girl graduate longs for her first ball, for which she has been taught to dance, and the light and music, so the young cadet welcomes his first engagement in the great artillery dance for which he has been learning to shoot.

Frederick and I had decided that upon the declaration of Peace he would resign from the army, and that under no circumstances would our son be educated at school where the whole education was bent upon awakening in boys the thirst for military glory. I questioned my brother Otto, and found that in the schools they taught that war was a necessary evil (at least acknowledging, in the spirit of the age, that it is an evil), at the same time the chief incentive to all the noblest manly virtues—courage, endurance, and self-sacrifice. Through war comes the highest glory to men and the greatest progress to civilisation. Alexander, Cæsar, and Napoleon, conquerors and empire builders, were to be regarded as the supreme types of human exaltation. War’s successes and benefits were described in high colours, but its wretched results were piously ignored. There was complete silence as to the barbarity, degeneration, and ruin which it brought.

I remembered my own girlish enthusiasm for war, and could hardly blame my brother that he looked upon a possible call to battle with impatience.

I offered one day to read the report of a retreat of our army, and Otto impatiently said, “I would rather not hear it. If it were the enemy retreating that would be different.”

“Retreats are generally passed over in silence,” remarked Frederick.

But my father hastily added, “A well-ordered retreat is not a flight. Why, in ’49——”

But I knew the old story of ’49, and headed it off by beginning to read:—

About four o’clock our troops began to retreat. We surgeons were caring for several hundred wounded, when suddenly the cavalry broke in on us. A general rush brought on tremendous confusion of artillery, cavalry, infantry, and baggage, all joining in the flight. Men, horse, and waggons were mingled together. We were swept from our work. They shouted to us, “Save yourselves!” as the shell burst overhead. We were carried forward by the surging mass, we knew not whither——

“Enough! enough!” cried the two girls.

“The censor of the press should stop such stuff from appearing,” exclaimed my father angrily. “It takes away all pride in the profession of war.”

“Yes, if they should destroy all joy in war it would be such a pity,” I said in an undertone.

“At least,” continued my father, “those who take part in a flight ought to be quiet about it—it is no honour. The rascal who shouted ‘Save yourselves!’ ought to be shot. A coward raises a yell and thousands of brave men are demoralised and run with him.”

“And in the same way,” responded Frederick, “when some brave fellow shouts ‘Forward!’ a thousand cowards sweep after him, inspired with his courage. Men cannot be called either cowardly or brave, for every one has his moments of strength and weakness. When crowded together we move as a herd, dependent upon the mind of our fellows. One man rushes, shouting ‘Hurrah!’ and the rest do the same. Another drops his gun and runs and the rest follow. In each case it is the same impulse, yet in the one case they are praised for courage and in the other blamed for cowardice. Bravery and fear are not fixed qualities, neither are joy and sorrow: they are merely different states of mind. In my first campaign I was drawn into such a wild confusion of flight. The official reports called it a well-ordered retreat, but it was, in fact, a complete riot. We rushed madly on, without orders, panting and shrieking with despair, the enemy goading us with bullets. This is one of the most horrible phases of war, when men are no longer gallant soldiers but beasts, and hunt each other as prey; the pursuer becomes a blood-drunken savage and the pursued is filled with the delirium of terror like a poor animal at bay. All the sentiments of patriotism, ambition, and noble deeds with which he has been educated for the battle are forgotten—he is merely possessed with the instinct for self-preservation and filled with the wildest paroxysms of terror.”

Frederick’s recovery progressed, even as the feverishness of the outer world lessened, and daily we heard more of peace. The Prussians advanced without obstacle, and surely and slowly approached Vienna, passing through the City of Brunn, where they had already been given the keys. But their march was more like a military promenade than an activity of war, and by July 26 the preliminaries of peace were announced.

Another political event of the day was that Austria had, at last, joined the Geneva Convention of the Red Cross.

“Does that satisfy you?” asked my father as he read the news aloud. “You call war barbarism, but you see it also progresses with civilisation and becomes more humane. I am in favour of all these efforts to relieve the wounded. Even from the stand-point of statesmanship it is wiser, for it is well that the sick should be made fit for service again.”

“You are right, papa. The important thing is that they be made useful material for future battles. But no Red Cross can alleviate the agonies I have witnessed. With multiplied men and means they could not conjure away the results of one battle——”

“Not conjure it away, but mitigate it—what we cannot prevent we should seek to mitigate.”

“For what I have seen there is no mitigation. We should turn the rule about: what we cannot mitigate we ought to prevent.”

That war must cease was daily becoming a fixed idea with me—and that every human being should work to this end. The scenes I had witnessed after the great battle haunted me, especially at night, when I would awake with the most terrible oppression of heart and pricking of conscience just as if I were being commanded to stop it. And only when fully awake would I realise my entire incapacity to stem such a tide—as well might I face the swelling waves of the sea, and command them to dry up.

Frederick and I had made very definite plans for the future. At the close of the war he was to resign, and we would retire to some small country place, and live with his pension and my allowance in a simple way.

Frederick intended to take up the study of international law and science apart from its sentimental and utopian aspect, and make himself capable of grasping the practical side of all these ideas. He felt that the world was coming into a new era of thought, and he desired to lead his life into these lines along with our domestic pleasures.

We had not communicated our thoughts to my father, who had quite other ambitions for our future.

“You will be a colonel at a very early age, Tilling,” he said one day, “and in ten years you will certainly be a general. A fresh war will certainly give you the command of an entire corps, and you may even reach the rank of commander-in-chief, who knows. It may come to your lot to restore the glory of the arms of Austria, which is for the moment under a cloud. When once we adopt the needle-gun or some more effective weapon we shall soon have the best of these Prussian gentlemen.”

“Who knows,” I suggested, “we may even make it up with the Prussians and become their allies.”

My father shrugged his shoulders. “If women would only keep out of politics! Our honour and our position as a Power of Europe demand that we should punish these insolent braggarts, and take back the states which they have annexed. What! friendship with these dastardly enemies! Never! unless they come and humbly beg for it.”

“In that event,” remarked Frederick, “we would set our feet upon their necks. Alliances are only sought with those whom we fear or need as a protection against a common foe. In statecraft egotism is the ruling motive.”

“Yes, indeed,” my father replied, “when that ego represents our own fatherland everything else is secondary.”

“We can but wish,” replied Frederick, “that communities may adopt the same rules of behaviour as is demanded of individuals, which does away with the law of the fist and the vulgar self-seeking, and declares that our own interests are best advanced when we are in harmony with the interests of others.”

“What’s that?” asked my father, with his hand to his ear, but Frederick wisely dropped the discussion.

I shall arrive at Grumitz to-morrow at one o’clock.

The delight with which this dispatch was received by Lilli can be imagined. No welcome is so loving and gracious as that given to him who returns from war. Naturally he would have preferred to return victoriously, to have aided in conquering for his emperor, but it was honour enough to have fought at all—and to be among the fallen was a specially glorious fate. Otto said that in the military academy every one who was left dead on the field was specially inscribed in the roll of honour, and the more ancestors one could boast as having fallen in battle, the prouder were the descendants, and the less value should they place upon their own lives. To show one’s appreciation of such ancestors need one actively and passively rejoice in all kinds of bloodshed in war?

Perhaps it is better that so long as war exists there should be plenty that find pleasure and inspiration in it. Alas! this class is daily growing less, while the armies are daily increasing. Where will it finally lead?

But Conrad did not think so far ahead, and my brother Otto was his envious admirer—of the hussar uniform, the scar that decorated his chin, which he got in passing through a rain of bullets—all this surrounded him with a halo of glory.

“I will admit it was an unfortunate campaign, but I have brought back glorious memories of it.”

“Oh, tell us, tell us!” Lilli and Otto cried.

“The details are gone, but the whole lies behind me like a dream, for powder gets into one’s head in such a strange way. The moment the order comes to march, the intoxication and the fever begin, even at the very moment of suffering the pain of farewell from loved ones. But when surrounded by comrades, filled with the demand of patriotic duty, marching with the bands playing and the flag fluttering, I would not have turned back even to the arms of my sweetheart. Nor would I be worthy of her if I did. One never doubts one is marching to victory. The needle-guns, you say? Ah, they alone were the cause of our defeat—their bullets fell upon us like hailstones. Also Benedek’s generalship was poor. They should court-martial him. If I were ever general I should play a forward game, ever advancing on the enemy. However, since the Emperor did not put me in charge, the tactics were not my fault. We officers and soldiers were ordered to fight, and fight we did. And that was the glorious sensation of it. The anticipation, the suspense, waiting for the order to charge—the consciousness that in the next moment we should be creating history—the delight in one’s own courage, with Death to the right and left—bidding this awful mystery defiance——”

“Just like poor Gottfried Tessow,” murmured Frederick to me. “Of course it is all from the same teaching.”

Conrad continued eagerly: “One’s heart beats higher, one’s pulse quickens, there awakes—that is the peculiar ecstasy of it all—there wakes the mad delight in battle, the ferocious hatred of the foe, the blazing passion for one’s menaced fatherland—and on we rush, and hewing down becomes a mad revelry. One feels as if transported to another world. Ordinary feelings have changed to their opposites. Life itself is our prey; to slay is the law. The only motives that do not disappear in the conflict are magnificent heroism and self-sacrifice. To this add powder, smoke, and battle-cries. It is a sensation unparalleled—there is nothing like it—except perhaps a lion or tiger hunt, when one stands face to face with maddened beasts.”

“Yes,” Frederick added, “while man was still subject to attack from two or four-legged savages, to protect his life by killing the latter was a delight. The hereditary thirst for blood has not completely died out of civilised man, and since in Europe we have no longer beast nor barbarism to fight, we create an artificial enemy for ourselves, and the hunt goes thus: You here, have red coats, and over there blue coats. Three claps, and presto, the red coats are changed into tigers and the blue coats become wild beasts to them. Again attention! Trumpets blow, one, two, three; drums beat; now begin; eat each other up. And if 100,000 such beasts eat each other up at X——, history records the famous X—— battle. Then the men who clapped their hands assemble about a green table in X——, lay down their maps, rearrange the frontier lines, haggle over who shall pay the bills, sign a paper which figures in history as the Peace of X——. The magicians clap again three times, and order the red coats and the blue coats, ‘Now, dear children, embrace each other again as men and brethren.’”

The Prussians at Grumitz—Otto gets into trouble—A dinner with friend and foe—Rosa and Prince Henry are engaged—The Prussians leave and cholera breaks out in our midst—Servants are the first victims, then sisters—The lover’s suicide—The only son dies, father follows him, cursing war.

The Prussian troops were quartered everywhere about Grumitz, and the villagers were possessed with terror of the hated enemy, whose name became the synonym of every evil, and when the quartermaster approached to arrange quarters for his men they trembled as if the wolves were upon them. An occasional patriot sent a rifle bullet from some place of hiding after the foe, and his quick execution forced the villagers to suppress their hatred. Much to the surprise of the villagers, when they quartered the soldiers, they found the “enemy” was usually a very good-natured friendly lot, who punctually paid their bills.

I was sitting one morning near a big window in the library, which gave a wide view over the surrounding country. A troop of horsemen suddenly came in sight. “Prussians coming for quarters,” I thought. Seizing the glass, I saw a group of possibly ten surrounding what appeared to be a hunter. If the prisoner had fired upon them there was little hope for him. I ran to the library and called my aunt and father.

“The Prussians, the Prussians!” I exclaimed breathlessly.

“The devil take them,” my father exclaimed, while Aunt Marie rushed to make final preparations for the enemy, whom for several days she had expected.

“Where is Otto?” I asked. “We must warn him from speaking out his hatred of Prussia.”

“Otto went out early to hunt birds. And how fine the youngster did look in his new hunting-suit. How proud I was of him.”

The house was suddenly all in an uproar of loud voices and hasty steps. Franz the footman, pale with terror, flew into the room, and as though he were shouting “Fire!” called out “The Prussians, the Prussians, and, your Excellency, they have a prisoner—your son—who is said to have fired on them.”

My father, with an exclamation of alarm, hurried down the steps. His heart stood still. The situation before us was terrible; I dared not think of the conclusion. But it was soon all over, for father returned with Otto with the explanation that in crossing the field he had stumbled and accidentally discharged his rifle. They had seized him, but learning who he was, had brought him to the house, and had accepted his explanation.

“It would be impossible for an honourable soldier, and the son of a soldier, to act like an assassin,” they said, as they released him.

Later, I asked Otto if he was really innocent.

He answered, “I hope in the future to have plenty of opportunities to shoot a few of them, but never would I be guilty without offering my own breast to their bullets.”

“Bravo, my boy,” cried my father. But I did not share the enthusiasm. Words which tossed about and cheapened human life so boastfully had a most repellent sound to me.

We had as our self-invited guests two colonels and six subordinate officers, and with the cellar full of provisions, and comfortable beds, they were treated with every courtesy given to friends.

The Prussians bore distinguished names, and among them was a Prince Henry of the house of Ruess. Our enemies seemed to be very courtly gentlemen, with the most approved conventional manners of the best society. It is true that in these days we do not war with Huns and Vandals, but it is slightly hard to realise that the other side can possibly stand for the same civilisation as our own.

“O God, thou who protectest those who trust in Thee, hear us as we pray for Thy gracious mercy. Protect us from the rage of our enemies, that we may praise Thee to all eternity.”

The priest in Grumitz prayed thus daily. Certainly these elegant, gentlemanly fellows could hardly be considered as raging enemies as they took the ladies in to dinner. Perhaps God had this time listened to the prayers of the other side, and had protected them from our “rage”—or perhaps it was the needle-guns which had done it. At any rate it was a queer pious jumble to me. As we chatted with the stately colonel and the tall lieutenant, mention of war was shunned with the greatest caution on both sides. The strangers were treated as though they were guests travelling for pleasure, and the real state of things was never hinted at—that they were quartered with us as conquerors.

The gentlemen enjoyed the soft summer moonlight on the terraces—the same moonlight which so lately had lighted up the mouldering corpses against the churchyard wall. And under this soft light the Prussian Prince Henry lost his heart to our beautiful Rosa; and to our astonishment my father made no objection, so the engagement was announced to the family.

I had believed that my father’s hatred of the Prussians would make it impossible for him to accept one as a son-in-law, but he separated altogether the individual from the nation. We often hear people protest: “I hate them as a nation, not as individuals.” This is quite as sensible as if one were to say: “I hate wine as a drink, but the drops I swallow with pleasure.” But popular sayings are not expected to be rational.

Perhaps the possibility of an alliance for his daughter with a princely house flattered my father, at any rate he said yes with apparent pleasure.

But Otto rebelled at the idea: “How would it be should war break out again, and I were obliged to chase my brother-in-law out of the country?” However, he was soon converted to the famous theory of the difference between nations and individuals. I confess I never could understand it.

How quickly happy surroundings swallow up misery, and how soon are catastrophes forgotten! Gradually the pictures of terrors which I had experienced in the few previous weeks faded from my thought. I realised this and my conscience pricked me at times when the laments of the villagers reached us. Many had lost their worldly goods, others their friends; reports came of financial troubles, and it was even rumoured that the cholera had shown itself among the Prussian troops. One case had also occurred in our village, but we comforted ourselves that it was of no consequence.

“Do you realise, Martha,” Rosa said to me one day, “what a blessed thing this war has been to me—though I know it is something terrible. I should never have been so happy and met Henry, and he—where would he have found such a love as mine?”

“I wish I might think it with you, Rosa, and believe that your two happy hearts might outweigh the many thousands of broken ones.”

“Oh, we must not think of the individual losses when the war brings such great gain to the conquerors and the whole nation. You should listen to Henry. He says the Prussians have won a grand result, and the entire army is enthusiastic for its generals. This victory has done so much for German civilisation and commerce. He says the prosperity of Germany—I forget the word—its historical mission—but you should hear him talk about it.”

“I should think he would have other matters than politics to talk with you.”

“Oh, he does talk about everything, and I sympathise with it all and am so proud and happy that he has played such a glorious part in this war for his King and country.”

“And carries you off as his booty,” I replied.

The future son-in-law quite suited my father, and certainly he was a fine young fellow. He gave him his blessing with all manner of protests.

“My dear Ruess, you suit me exactly as a man, as a soldier, and as a prince”—this he repeated in manifold expressions—“but as a Prussian officer, I maintain the right—family matters aside—to wish that Austria may fully revenge herself for this victory which you have snatched from her. Separating politics from personal questions, I hope I may live to see my son take the field against Prussia. Old as I am I would be willing to accept a command to fight William I. and humble the arrogant Bismarck. I acknowledge the military readiness of the Prussian army and its strategic leaders, and would think it quite a matter of course if in the next campaign your own battalion were compelled to storm our capital city, and even burn down your father-in-law’s house, in short——”

I interrupted: “In short, your confusion of sentiments is frightful—your inconsistencies are as intermingled as are the infusoria in a drop of putrid water. You fill one with repugnance through your paradoxical conceptions—to hate the whole and love its parts; to think one way as a citizen and the opposite as a man. No, let us have it the one way or the other. I prefer the savage Indian’s way. He never thought of anybody as an individual, but wanted the scalp of every member of the other tribe.”

“Martha, my daughter, do not give vent to such savage sentiments, they are quite unsuitable to the times, which have grown so refined and humane.”

“Rather say that our boasted civilisation is a lie upon our inherited barbarisms. What right have we to claim to be humane until we cast off the savage custom of making war? Do you call your speech to Prince Henry sensible where you assure him that you love him as a son-in-law and hate him as a Prussian; value him highly as a man and detest him as a lieutenant-colonel; that you bless him as a father and in the same breath grant he has the right to fire upon you if necessary? Forgive me, father, but can you talk thus and call it common sense?”

“What did you say? I did not catch a word.” The convenient deafness had come on again at the right moment.

After a few days the guests departed, and all was quiet again at Grumitz.

The marriage of my two sisters had been postponed until October. Prince Henry planned to quit the service, having earned sufficient honours in the glorious campaign. He would retire on his laurels and on his estates.

The two pairs of lovers parted painfully but joyfully, content in the certainty of their future happiness.

Certain happiness? There is in reality no such thing, least of all in times of war, for then misfortunes swarm thick as gnats, and the chance that one may be standing on the spot which may be spared the descending scourge is at best a small one.

True, the war was over and peace concluded. A word had been enough to let loose all the terrors of hostility, and a word should also suffice to relieve us from the results. Hostilities were suspended, but what can suspend the persistent consequences? The seed of future war had been sown, and the fruit of the war just closed ripened still further into want, demoralisation, and plague. To stop and think about it was now useless, for the cholera was raging throughout the country.

One morning the Vienna paper, opened at breakfast, brought the following item:—

The cholera death-rate increases. The military and civil hospitals report many cases of genuine Asiatic cholera. Every measure is taken to stop its spread.

I was about to read these lines aloud, when Aunt Marie exclaimed, as she read a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood:—

“Dreadful! Betty writes that in their house two persons have died of the cholera, and that her husband is ill.”

“Your Excellence, the schoolmaster wishes to speak to you.”

The teacher entered, looking pale and bewildered.

“Count Althaus, I must report that the school is closed, for yesterday two children were taken ill and to-day they are dead.”

“The cholera!” we cried out.

“There is no doubt. There is great terror in the village, and the doctors who have come from the town say that the horrible disease has taken hold of the entire population.”

We looked round in dismay, pale and speechless. Here, again, was the frightful enemy, Death; and each in turn saw his bony hand stretched over the head of some loved one.

“We must go away!” said Aunt Marie.

“Where?” replied the schoolmaster, “for the disease is spreading everywhere.”

“Across the frontier.”

“Across the frontier——”

“But quarantine will be set up, and you will not be allowed to pass.”

“Oh, how terrible! will they prevent people leaving a region of pestilence?”

“Certainly. Healthy neighbourhoods must protect themselves against infection.”

“Then we will remain and await God’s will,” answered my father with deep emotion. “You, Marie, who believe so strongly in destiny, I cannot understand why you should wish to run away. You say the fate of every one will overtake him. Yet I would rather have you and the children go away. Otto, you must eat no more fruit.”

“I will write to Bresser,” said Frederick, “and have him send us disinfectants.”

What happened immediately after this I cannot tell in detail, for this breakfast scene was the last I found in the red book. I must depend upon my memory for the next few days’ happenings.

Terror possessed us all. The sword of Damocles hung over each head, and is it not a horrible thought to feel that one’s friends and even oneself should be so helplessly and uselessly destroyed? In such a case to stop thinking is the better part of valour.

Flee? The idea possessed me on account of the safety of Rudolf. My father insisted upon the family taking flight, and the following day was decided upon. He meant to remain and face the danger with the villagers. Frederick declared he would remain, and I would not leave his side.

The two girls, Otto, and Rudolf, were to go with Aunt Marie—but whither? That was not settled at once. At first to Hungary—and then farther. The young people busily flew to their preparations and packing. To die just as life was beginning to unfold its happiness to them would be a tenfold death.

The boxes were brought to the dining-room that all might work together. As I brought Rudolf’s clothes in my arms my father demanded, “Why does not the maid do that?”

“I do not know where Netti is hiding. I ring and she does not come.”

He despatched another servant to find her, who in a short time returned with an anxious countenance:

“Netti is in her room. She is—she is——”

“Speak out!” shouted my father, “what is she?”

“She is—already—quite—black.”

A shriek came from every lip. The plague, the horrible plague, was in our very house. What was to be done? Could one leave the poor girl to die alone? But was it not certain death to whoever approached her and those whom this person might afterwards approach? It was as if we were surrounded by murderers or flames, and death grinned at us from every corner and followed every step.

My father ordered the doctor to be fetched immediately. “And you, children, hurry your departure.”

“Oh, I feel so sick!” exclaimed Lilli, turning pale and clutching a chair.

We all sprang toward her. “What ails you?” “Don’t be silly!” “It is only fear.”

We dared not think, but hurried her to her room, and soon she showed most aggravated symptoms of the dread disease. This made the second case of cholera in the castle in one day.

It was terrible to see her suffer and to be unable to help. Frederick did everything possible to relieve her, but nothing availed. When the attack subsided cramps followed, which seemed to make every bone crack, tearing the quivering frame with agony. The poor victim tried to moan but could not—her voice failed, her skin turned cold and blue, and the breathing difficult.

My father strode up and down wringing his hands. Once I stood before him and dared to say: “Father, this is war! Will you not curse it now?” But he shook me off without reply.

After ten hours of suffering, Lilli died. Netti died before, alone in her room, for we were all occupied with Lilli, and no servant would venture to approach one who had “turned black.”

Meanwhile Dr. Bresser had arrived, and took command of the household, bringing with him every known means of relief. I could have kissed his hand.

The two bodies were carried to a distant chamber, and strictest measures of disinfection were taken. The odour of carbolic acid to this day brings back the memory of those terrible days.

The intended flight was a second time set on foot. On the day of Lilli’s death the carriage stood waiting to carry away Aunt Marie, Rosa, Otto, and my son—but the coachman declared himself unable to drive, seized by the invisible destroyer.

“Then I will drive myself,” said my father. “Quick, is everything ready?”

Rosa came forward and said, “Drive on! I must stay and follow Lilli.”

It proved the case. The next sunrise found the second daughter in the vault of death. And in the horror of it all our departure was given up.

In my anguish a sudden scorn seized me for the gigantic folly which had brought on all this misery. When Rosa’s corpse had been carried out my father sank on his knees with his head against the wall.

I seized him by the arm. “Father, this is war!” No answer. “Father, do you hear? Will you at last curse war?”

He sprang to his feet. “You bring me back to my duty as a soldier, I must not forget that my entire fatherland offers its sacrifice of blood and tears.”

“What benefit can come to the fatherland through the suffering and death of its people? What gain through lost battles and the shortening of these young lives? Oh, father, I plead with you—curse war! See from the window the black coffins—they are for Lilli and Rosa, and perhaps there will be a third—and why, why?”

“Because God wills it, my child.”

“God—always God. All that folly and savagery—the wilful sin of man—always hiding under this shield—God’s will!”

“Do not blaspheme, Martha, even while the hand of a reproving God is clearly visible.”

The footman appeared, announcing that the carpenter refused to carry the coffins into the chamber where the dead young countesses lay.

“Then I will see to it myself,” said my father, and he strode to the door.

The post brought nothing but sorrow—news of the ravages of the pest; love-letters that would never be answered—for Prince Henry knew nothing of what had happened. A letter to Conrad announcing Lilli’s sickness brought him four days later to the castle.

“Lilli!” he cried. “Is it true?”

We nodded. He remained quiet, without shedding a tear, and softly said to himself, “I have loved her all these years. I will go to the churchyard. She waits for me.”

He rushed out, and there upon her grave he shot himself.

The war had carried off many an officer, so the tragedy of this indirect death was quite blunted. Besides, this event was swallowed up by a misfortune which sounded the deepest agonies of all our hearts. Otto, the adored and only son, was in the clutch of the destroying angel. All day, all night, with alternating hope and despair, he suffered.

When all was over his father threw himself upon the body with such a piercing shriek that it rang through the house. We had to tear them apart, and for hours and hours the old man poured out his cries of anguish—giving vent to groans and roars, and rattling shrieks of desperation. His son, his Otto, his pride, his all!

After this outbreak he succumbed to a dumb apathy. He lay as one motionless and unconscious, and was put to bed.

When he came to himself, Frederick and I and Aunt Marie were at his bedside. He could not speak, and was struggling for breath. Then he began to shake and toss about, as if in the last symptoms of the cholera, though he had shown no other sign. At last he uttered one word—“Martha.”

I fell on my knees beside him. “Father, my poor, dear father!”

He lifted his hands over my head.

“Your wish—is fulfilled. I curse—I cur——” He sank back. All was over.

“How dreadful,” said Aunt Marie, after we had buried him, “he died with a curse on his lips.”

“Console yourself,” I answered. “If only that curse would fall from every lip—what a blessing to humanity.”

Such was the cholera week at Grumitz. In seven days ten of our group were taken. In the village over eighty died. Stated thus coldly it makes a scarcely noteworthy report. Told as a story it seems an extravagant tale. But it is neither a dry fact nor an overdrawn romance. It is a cold, palpable, sad reality.

I stood resigned in daily expectation that death would take the rest of us. I actually wept in anticipation of it. Yet in the thought of their deliverance I still had sweet moments. And as this hope and compassion and love still glowed in us as individuals, might it not some day come to dominate the general relations of the whole human family? The future belongs to Goodness.