Disarm! Disarm!

Summer in Switzerland—Researches in International law—Seclusion—Frederick enters the peace army—Off to Berlin—The battle-field of Sadowa—Francis Joseph weeps for his dead soldiers.

We spent the remainder of the summer in Geneva, Dr. Bresser having urged us to flee from the infected country and the scene of so much sorrow. The depth of apathy and resignation which had overcome me made flight seem almost useless and distasteful to me; besides, I did not wish to leave the graves of my family. But the doctor conquered my objections when he appealed to my duty as a mother, and begged me to take little Rudolf out of danger.

We chose Switzerland because Frederick wished to become acquainted with the men who had formed the Red Cross society. He wished to be on the spot, and inform himself as to their object and further aims.

He had resigned from the military service, and took a half-year’s leave of absence awaiting its acceptance.

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

“Look, Frederick,” I said, as the notary delivered the title-deeds to me, “what would you say if I should praise the war because it has brought all this advantage to me?”

“Then you would not be my Martha. I see you are thinking of the heartlessness which can rejoice over material prosperity won by the destruction of another’s good. Individuals are ashamed of such feelings, but nations rather delight in each other’s destruction, and dynasties openly and vaingloriously admit them. Thousands have perished in untold misery—we have ruined them to win for ourselves territory and power. So let us thank Heaven for our victories!”

We lived in quiet retirement in a little villa, close to the shores of the lake. I was still so overwhelmed with what I had passed through that I had no desire to meet strangers. My sympathetic husband quite understood my desire to weep out the sorrow of my torn heart in solitude. It is quite fitting that those who have been so mercilessly thrown out of this beautiful world should have some sacred time allotted them in the memory of those who have been so cruelly robbed of their companionship.

Frederick often went into the city, making his study of the Red Cross. Of this period I have no daily record, and what Frederick told me of those days has nearly passed out of my recollection. My one impression of this time, given me by every element of our environment, was that of quiet, ease, and the cheerful activity of the neighbourhood. Every one seemed so peaceful and good-humoured. Hardly an echo of the war reached us. It was already alluded to as an anecdote of history which had changed the map but slightly. The terrific cannonading in the Bohemian fields was an interesting episode, a little more than a new Wagnerian opera, perhaps. History had recorded it in its pages, but it was soon forgotten by those who lived outside the stricken boundaries. We saw mostly French newspapers, and they were filled with the latest happenings in literature, drama, music, and the coming exposition. The sharp duel between the Prussians and Austrians was an old story. What happened three months ago and thirty miles away, what is not in the Now and the Here, soon slips out of the memory and loses its hold on the heart.

October found us in Vienna settling the many affairs of my inheritance, and preparing for a considerable stay in Paris. The projected exposition offered Frederick the best opportunity to carry out his idea of calling a congress together with the idea of forming a league of peace.

“The professions of arms I have laid down through my convictions gained in war. Now I enlist in the army of peace. Truly, it is a small army with no weapons save love and justice, but every great thing must have its small beginnings.”

“Ah,” I sighed, “it is a hopeless work. What can a single man do against this stronghold, backed by centuries of custom and millions of men?”

“What can I do? I cannot foolishly hope personally to bring about such a revolution. I simply remarked that I would join the ranks of the peace army. I did not suppose as a soldier that I could save my country or conquer a province. No, the single man can only serve. Still more he must serve. One inspired with a purpose cannot help working for it. He stakes his life for it, even though he knows how little this one life counts. He serves because he must. Not the State alone demands allegiance; sincere, strong convictions also oblige compulsory service.”

Before going to Paris we planned a visit to Aunt Cornelia in Berlin. We broke the journey at Prague in order to spend “All Souls’ Day” on the battle-field of Sadowa.

War will have its charm so long as historians persist in setting up for the leaders monuments of glory built out of the ruins of battle, and crown the Titans of public murder with laurels. Tear away the mask of glory and show its horror, and who would be madly ambitious enough to grasp for such fame?

It was twilight when we arrived, and sadly and silently we proceeded to the dread battle-field, filled with depression and grief. The snow was falling, the bleak trees were swaying in the wailing November wind. Tier after tier the graves stretched out before us, but not as in the quiet, restful churchyard. These were not the graves of aged and weary pilgrims of life gone to their eternal rest, but of young men in the height of their youthful vigour, exulting in the fulness of their manhood, full of rich expectation in the future. Violently and mercilessly they had been hurled into the ditch and the dust of the earth shovelled over them. Who counts the broken hearts, the mangled bleeding limbs, the cries of despair, the flooding tears, the hopeless prayers, the agonising pains, the shrieks, the maddening submission to death—all is entombed in the eternal silence.

We were not alone on this burial field. The day had brought many both from the home country and the enemy’s country, both sought their loved ones in these acres of death. For hours we had heard the sobs and murmurs of lament, for many mourners had come with us on the train.

I heard a poor, heart-broken father say, “Three sons have I lost—each one more noble and better than the other—oh, my three sons!” I can hear it yet above all the other lamentings for fathers, husbands, and brothers which were poured out around us.

All about us black-robed figures knelt, and some, with sobs of pain, staggered from place to place hopelessly searching their dead. But few single graves were to be seen, and few were marked by stone or inscription.

Everywhere the earth was heaped up, and we knew that even under our feet the soldiers’ bodies were mouldering.

Many officers and soldiers wandered among the other mourners. Evidently they had shared in the terrible contest, and were now making this pilgrimage to honour their fallen comrades.

We went to that part of the field where the largest number of friends and foes lay entombed together, in one enclosure. To this place the majority of the pilgrims found their way, for here, naturally, they might expect their lost loved ones to be buried. Around this spot they set up their crosses and candles, and here they laid their wreaths and flowers as they knelt and sobbed out their sorrowing hearts.

A tall, slender man, of noble presence, in a general’s cloak, approached this central burial ground. All gave way reverently to him, and in hushed whispers I heard: “The Emperor.”

Yes, it was Francis Joseph, the ruler of the country, the supreme war lord, and he had come on this All Souls’ Day to offer his silent prayers for the souls of his dead children, his fallen warriors. There he stood, with his bowed head uncovered, in agonized and devoted homage before the majesty of Death. He stood long and motionless in profound meditation. I could not turn my eyes from his face. What thoughts were passing through his soul, what sentiments oppressed his overwhelmed heart? I knew he had a good and tender heart. I felt my mind yield to his thoughts, and I felt that I was thinking as he was thinking as he stood there with bowed head:—

“You, my own poor, brave soldiers—dead ... and for what? We did not conquer; and my Venice, too, is lost, ... so much is lost, and all your young lives lost too. And you offered them so devotedly—for me. Oh, if I could give them back, for I never desired this sacrifice! It was for yourselves, your country, that you were led out into this war. Not through me, although I was compelled to give the command. Not for me have my subjects fought. No, I was called to the throne for their sakes, and any hour I would have been ready to die for the good of my people.... Oh, if I had but followed the impulse of my heart and never said ‘Yes’ when all about me shouted ‘War! war!’ Yet, could I have resisted? God is my witness that I could not. What impelled me I do not fully realise, but I know the pressure was an irresistible force outside me—from you—yourselves—my poor dead soldiers.... Oh, what have you not suffered? And how sad—how sad it all is! And now you lie here—and on other battle-fields, snatched away by shot and shell and grape and sabres—by cholera and fever.... Oh, had I only said ‘No!’ And you, Elizabeth, begged me to! Oh, if I had only said it! The thought that—is unendurable that.... Oh, it is a wretched, imperfect world—too much agony—too much woe!”

As I watched him, thinking thus for him, my eyes searching his features—just as I came to the “too much agony, too much woe”—he covered his face with both hands and broke into tears.

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