Disarm! Disarm!

Paris in March 1870—War party pushes the Emperor—His plan of disarmament dropped—Our new home in Paris—The French and German question—Menace and rumours again—France makes demands and then threats.

Forebodings? There were none in my mind when we again entered Paris on that beautiful sunny March day in 1870. It was all cheer and promise, but one knows now what horrors were hanging over it all.

We engaged the same little house which we had occupied the year before. The same servants awaited us, and as we drove through the streets on our way home, we met many acquaintances, who were driving at that hour, among them the beautiful Empress, who graciously saluted us in passing. Violets were being sold everywhere, and the air was full of the promise of spring.

This season we were determined to avoid the gaiety; we declined all invitations, seldom went to the theatre, and kept ourselves quite apart, spending our evenings at home or in the society of a few choice friends.

Our plans regarding the Emperor’s scheme of disarmament were at a standstill, for the time seemed not ripe for such an idea. The people were in a turmoil, and the throne itself seemed not on the surest foundations. We grew accustomed to hear that the only safety of the dynasty would be in a fortunate campaign. There seemed no possibility of war, and yet talk of disarmament was dropped for the Bonaparte halo largely depended upon its military glory. Neither Prussia nor Austria responded to our plan. Expansion of the army was everywhere the fashion, and our dream of disarmament fell upon deaf ears.

“The time is not ripe,” said Frederick. “I may need to abandon my hope to help personally to hasten the peace of the nations. What I can contribute is small indeed, but from the first hour it dawned upon me, it possessed me with the conviction that it was the one most important thing in the world. I must be faithful.”

If for the moment the project for disarmament must be postponed, yet I was content that there was no immediate threat of war. At court and among the people those who believed the dynasty must be rebaptized in blood had to give up all hope of glory in a charming little campaign on the Rhine. There were no French allies, the harvest had failed, forage was scarce, the army had to sell its horses, the extra recruits had been cut off by legislation, and above all there was nowhere any political complication; in short, so Ollivier proclaimed from the forum: “The peace of Europe is assured.”

Assured! How the word rejoiced me. The papers repeated it, and thousands rejoiced with me. What greater good can be given to the majority of humanity than the assurance of peace?

The worth of this lulling security, of which the statesmen assured us in June 1870, we all realise now. We might have known then and always in the future that we mistake when we put our innocent trust into the statements of diplomats. How can peace ever be secure when any hour these meddlers can turn up some agitation? We can never be secure from war until some other means for settling differences is provided.

In Paris again society scattered itself, but we remained in town for business, since we had decided to buy ourselves a home there; but many of our friends owned houses in the near neighbourhood of Paris, and we visited them all several times during the early summer. I clearly remember that it was in the salon of the Princess Mathilde that I first got wind that there was a new agitation in the air. It was said that a prince of Hohenzollern was a candidate for the vacant Spanish throne. It seemed of little consequence who should sit on the Spanish throne, but it cut me to the heart when I heard some one make the remark: “France will not tolerate that!” I knew what this phrase always meant: “we will not tolerate.”

The subject was idly dropped, and none of us realised the fearful result of the doubtful Spanish succession. But the point obtruded itself more and more, privately and in the newspapers. Everybody declared that Prussia wished purposely to provoke war. Yet letters from Berlin assured us that the Spanish throne was not considered a question of any importance.

We were deeply interested in our house and its furnishings, and little realised the approaching storm that began to threaten louder and louder.

On the 19th of July the French declared war against Prussia.

War declared—Excitement in Paris—Which side?—We remain in Paris—A little history—First days of war—Paris a fortress—A Republic declared—My husband’s fate.

“War is declared!” These three words, what do they mean? The beginning of a conflict which is the result of a political intrigue, and, incidentally, a half million of human beings are sentenced to death. Does he who signs such a declaration realise that he is plunging his pen in fire, in bloody tears, and in the poisons of plague and disease?

So on account of a vacant throne seeking an occupant, and unreasonable dissensions between two monarchs, the storm was brought upon us.

I remember the peculiar frame of mind which took possession of me when this war broke out. The whole population was in a ferment, and who could escape the infection? Naturally, according to old custom, the beginning of the campaign was regarded as a triumphant march; that is, of course, a patriotic duty. The “Marseillaise” was heard at every corner. At every theatrical performance the leading actress or singer—at the opera it was Marie Sass—must appear before the curtain in the costume of Joan of Arc and, carrying the national colours, must sing this battle-song—the audience rising and generally joining in the chorus. Frederick and I realised one evening the might of this popular enthusiasm, and were compelled to rise to our feet—compelled because we were electrified.

“See, Martha,” exclaimed Frederick, “this spark which spreads from one to another, uniting the whole mass and making every heart beat higher, is love——”

“Do you believe so? It is a song inspiring hate.” “That makes no difference; a common hatred is but another form of love. When two or three or more are bound together by the same feeling, they love one another. When the time arrives for a nobler, broader aspiration than the interests of nationality, namely, the cause of humanity, then our ideal will be attained.”

“Ah, when will that time come?” I sighed.

“When? One can speak but relatively. As a length of time compared with our personal existence—never; when compared with the existence of our race—to-morrow.”

When war breaks out the inhabitants of neutral states divide into two camps; one siding with this, the other with that party, as if there were a great stake in which every one had a share. We were unconsciously influenced by our earlier interests. Frederick was of Prussian descent and the German language was my own. The declaration of war had been made by the French on such insignificant grounds—mere pretences—that we must recognise the cause of the Prussians as more justly representing that of defence, since they were forced into the contest. It was inspiring to note with what enthusiasm the Germans, but so shortly before at strife among themselves, now trooped together.

On the 19th of July, in his address from the throne, King William said:—

The German and French nations, both in like degree enjoying the blessings of Christian civilisation and increasing prosperity, are called to a more beneficent rivalry than the bloody one of arms. But the ruler of France, instigated by personal interests and passions, has been able, through misleading statements, to excite the justifiable though excitable vanity of our great neighbours.

The Emperor Napoleon on his part issued the following proclamation:—

Because of the arrogant claims of Prussia we were obliged to protest. These protests have been met with ridicule. Events followed which indicated a contempt for us. Our country has been deeply incensed thereby, and instantly the battle-cry has been heard from one end of France to the other. There is nothing to be done except to consign our fate to the lot drawn by war. We do not war against Germany, whose independence we respect. We have the most earnest desire that the people who compose the great German nation may be the arbiters of their own destiny. What we desire is the establishment of a condition of things which will insure our present security and make our future safe. We desire a permanent peace, founded upon the true interests of peoples; we wish that this miserable condition should end, and that all nations use all possible means to secure general disarmament.

What a lesson, what a striking lesson this document is when we consider it in connection with the events which followed. In order to be sure of safety, in order to attain permanent peace, this war was begun by France. And what was the result? “The Terrible Year” and enduring hatred. No, no; one does not use charcoal to paint a thing white, not asafoetida to perfume a room, nor war to secure peace.

I could not believe that the war would be a long one. What were they fighting about? Really nothing at all. It was a sort of grand parade, undertaken by the French from a spirit of adventure—by the Germans as a duty of defence. One might expect a few sabre thrusts, and the antagonists would again shake hands. Fool that I was! As if the results of war bore any adequate relation to its cause. The course of it determines the result.

We would gladly have left Paris, for the enthusiasm of the people pained us immeasurably. But the way eastward was blocked; our house was not finished—in short, we remained. All of our acquaintance who could get away had fled, and, excepting a few literary men, we had no visitors. A young writer, the later famous Guy de Maupassant, once expressed my own feelings so perfectly that I entered his words in my journal:—

War—when I think of this word I shudder as if one talked of the Inquisition, or of a distant, horrible, unnatural thing. War—to kill one another, cut each other down! And we have to-day—in our times, with our culture, with our extensive knowledge in the higher planes of development, which we flatter ourselves to have attained—we still have schools to teach men how to kill, to kill in the most scientific manner and as many as possible.

It is wonderful that the people do not rise against this thing, that the whole of society does not revolt at the mere mention of war. He who rules is in duty bound to avoid war, as the captain of a ship is bound to avoid shipwreck. When a captain loses his ship he is required to answer for it, in case it is discovered that he has been remiss in duty. Why should not every government be called to account when it declares war? If the people understood how to refuse to allow themselves to be killed without just cause, war would cease.

Ernest Renan, also, let us hear from him:—

Is it not heart-breaking to think that all that we men of science have sought to accomplish during the past fifty years is destroyed at a blow; the sympathy between peoples, the mutual understanding, the fruitful, united work? How such a war destroys the love of truth! What lies, what defamation of a nation will from now on, for the next fifty years, be believed by each of the other, and divide them for an incalculable time! How it will retard the progress of Europe! We cannot build up in a hundred years what these men have torn down in one day.

I also had the opportunity of reading a letter which Gustave Flaubert wrote during those first July days to Georges Sand. Here it is:—

I am in despair at the stupidity of my countrymen. The incorrigible barbarism of humanity fills me with the deepest grief. This enthusiasm inspired by not one reasonable idea makes me long to die that I may not witness it. Our good Frenchmen will fight: first, because they believe themselves called out by Prussia; secondly, because the natural condition of man is that of barbarism; thirdly, because war possesses a mystical element which carries mankind away. Have we returned to a war of races? I am afraid so. The horrible battles which we prepare for have not a single pretext to excuse them. It is simply the pleasure of fighting for fighting itself. I regret the bridges and tunnels that will be blown to pieces, all this superb work of man which will be destroyed. I notice that a member of the Chamber proposes the plundering of the Grand Duchy of Baden. Ah, I wish I were with the Bedouins.

“Oh!” I cried, as I read this letter, “if we had only been born five hundred years later—that would be better than the Bedouins.”

“Mankind will not take so long to become reasonable,” replied Frederick confidently.

It was again the era of proclamations and army orders.

Always the same old song, and always the same enthusiasm and applause of the populace! There was the same rejoicing over promised victories as if they had been already won.

On the 28th of July Napoleon III. published the following proclamation from his headquarters in Metz. I copied this, not out of admiration, but because of anger over its everlasting hollow phrases:

We defend the honour and soil of our native land. We will be victorious. Nothing is too great for the sturdy endurance of the soldiers of Africa, the Crimea, China, Italy, and Mexico. Once more they will show what a French army inspired by a love of country is capable of accomplishing. Whichever way we turn outside our borders we find the marks of the valour of our fathers. We will prove ourselves worthy of them. Upon our success hangs the fate of freedom and civilisation. Soldiers, do your duty, and the God of Battles will be with you.

Oh, of course, it would not do to leave out “the God of Battles!” That the leaders of vanquished armies have a hundred times promised the same does not prevent the claim of special protection being set up at every fresh campaign in order to awaken the same confidence. Is anything shorter than the memory of a people or anything feebler than their logic?

On the 31st of July King William left Berlin and issued the following manifesto:—

To-day, before I leave to join the army, to fight with it for the honour and preservation of all dearest to us, I proclaim a general amnesty for all political offences. My people know that we were not guilty of enmity and breach of faith. But being attacked we are resolved, as were our fathers, in firm reliance upon God, to endure the struggle for the rescue of our country.

Defence, defence, that is the only dignified sort of death; therefore both sides cry: “I defend myself.” Is that not a contradiction? Not quite—for over each a third power rules—the might of the old hereditary war spirit. If they would only defend themselves against that!

“O Monsieur, O Madame, what news!” With these words Frederick’s butler and the cook behind him rushed into our sitting-room. It was the day of the battle of Wörth.

“A dispatch has arrived. The Prussians are as good as absolutely crushed. The city is being decorated with tri-coloured flags, it will be illuminated to-night.”

In the course of the afternoon further despatches proved that the first was false—a manœuvre of the Bourse.

On the 7th of August there was a rumour of disaster. The Emperor hastened from St. Cloud to the seat of war. The enemy had crossed the frontier and was marching inland. The papers could not express their indignation in strong enough terms. I had imagined that the shout à Berlin! meant a similar invasion. But that these eastern barbarians should dare the same thing, should march into beautiful and beloved France—this seemed pure, audacious villainy, and must be stopped at once.

The provisional Minister of War published an order calling upon all able-bodied citizens between thirty and forty years of age to enrol themselves in the National Guard. A ministry for defence of the interior was organised. The appropriation was increased from five hundred to a thousand million of francs. It is refreshing to notice how free the authorities are with the money and lives of others. An unpleasant little occurrence disturbed the convenience of the public; if one wanted to change a bank-note he was obliged to pay a broker ten per cent. There was not sufficient gold to keep the notes of the Bank of France at par.

Now followed victory after victory on the part of the Germans.

The aspect of Paris and its inhabitants underwent an astonishing change. In the place of the proud, boastful, war-loving humour, dismay and vindictive anger appeared. The impression that a horde of vandals was ready to devour the land was widespread. That the French had called down this storm upon themselves they never considered; or that they had done it to prevent some Hohenzollern in the distant future from conceiving a fancy for the Spanish throne—that they also forgot. The most astonishing stories were told of the ferocity of the invaders, “The Uhlans, the Uhlans!” the words had a sort of fantastic demoniac sound, as if they had talked about the armies of Satan. In the imagination of the people these troops became demons. Whenever a particularly bold stroke was reported, it was at once ascribed to the Uhlans. They were said to be recruited to serve for booty and without pay. Mixed up with these recitals of terror were stories of occasional triumphs. To lie about success is naturally the chief duty of the sensationalist, for, of course, the courage of the populace must be kept up. The law of veracity—like many other laws of morality—loses its force in times of war. Frederick read to me the following:—

Up to the 16th of August the Germans have lost one hundred and forty-four thousand men, the remainder are on the verge of starvation. The reserves from Germany, the “landwehr” and “landsturm,” are arriving; old men of over sixty, with flint-lock muskets, carrying on one side a huge tobacco pouch, on the other a big flask of brandy, with a long clay pipe in the mouth, are staggering under the weight of the knapsacks, coffee-mills, and packages of elderberry tea. Coughing and groaning, they are crossing from the right to the left bank of the Rhine, cursing those who have torn them from the arms of their grandchildren to thrust them into the clutches of death. The reports we get from the German press of victorious battles are all the usual Prussian lies.

On the 20th of August Count Palikao informed the Chamber that three army corps, which had united against Bazaine, had been thrown into the quarries of Jaumont. It is true no one had the remotest idea where these stone quarries were, or how it happened that the three army corps were kept there. From tongue to tongue the joyful tidings spread, and everybody acted as if they had been born in the region of Jaumont, and, of course, knew all about the quarries. At the same time there was a current report that the King of Prussia had become insane over the condition of his army.

All sorts of atrocities were reported; the excitement among the population increased hourly. The engagement of Bazaine near Metz was described as if the Bavarians had been guilty of most inhuman barbarity.

“Do you believe this?” I said to Frederick. “Do you believe these stories of the good-natured Bavarians?”

“They are possible. Whether a man is Bavarian or Turk, German, French, or Indian, makes no particular difference; when he takes his life in his hands and fights to destroy others he ceases to be human. All that is awakened and strongest within him is the beast.”

Metz is taken. The report resounded through the city like a shriek of terror.

To me the news of the capture of a fortress brought relief rather than dismay. Were we not probably nearer the end? But after every defeat each side strains itself to the utmost for a fresh trial of strength; possibly the fortune of war may turn. Usually the advantage is first on one side next on the other; on both sides there is certain sorrow and certain death.

Trochu felt himself called upon to arouse the courage of the population by a fresh proclamation, calling upon them with the motto of Bretagne, “With God’s help for our native land.” That does not sound quite new to me—I must have heard something similar to it in other proclamations. It did not fail of its effect, however; the people were encouraged. Next we were told Paris must be fortified. Paris a fortress! I could scarcely grasp the thought. This city, the lode-star of the whole civilised rich, art- and life-loving world; the radiating point of splendour, of fashion, of the intellect—this city must fortify itself, that is, must be the aim of the enemy’s attacks, the target of bombardment, and run the risk of destruction through fire and hunger? And these people proceeded to the work with gaiety of heart, with the zeal of pleasure, with self-sacrifice, as if they were bringing to completion the noblest, most useful work in the world. Ramparts to be manned by infantry were built with embrasures, earthworks were thrown up before the gates, canals were covered, and surmounted by parapets, powder magazines were built, and a flotilla of barges, carrying cannon, was put upon the Seine. What a fever of activity; what an expenditure of strength and nerve; what monstrous cost of labour and money! If all had only been so cheerfully and nobly devoted to works of true utility—but for the purpose of destruction, which had no object except that of a strategic checkmate, it was inconceivable!

To be prepared for a long siege the city was amply provisioned. But it is the experiences of ages that no fortification has existed which has been impregnable—capitulation is solely a matter of time. Yet fortifications are still erected, they are still provisioned, notwithstanding the mathematical impossibility of maintaining them, in the long-run, against starvation.

The preparations were made on an enormous scale. Mills were erected and stockyards filled; yet the hour must come when the corn would all be ground and the flesh all eaten. But so far ahead as this no one thought. Long before that the enemy would be driven from the country. The entire male force of the city was enrolled in the National Guard, and all possible were drawn from the country. What difference did it make if the provinces were laid in ashes? Such insignificant events were not to be considered when there was prospect of a national disaster. On the 17th of August sixty thousand provincial troops had already arrived in Paris.

With an ever-increasing activity events followed events. All around there was heard but one expression, “Death to the Prussians.” A storm of the wildest hatred was gathering—it had not yet broken out. In all the official reports, in all the street disturbances we heard of but one aim—“death to the Prussians.” All these troops, regular and irregular, all these munitions of war, all these busy workmen with spade and barrow, all that one saw and heard, in form or tone, surged and threatened “death to the Prussians!” Or, in other words, it sounds really like the cry of love, and inspires even tender hearts—“all for our country”—but it is one and the same thing.

“You are of Prussian descent,” I said to Frederick one day, “how do these expressions of hatred affect you?”

“You asked me the same question in the year 1866, and then I answered, as I must to-day, that I suffer under these demonstrations of hatred, not as a Prussian, but as a man. When I reflect upon the feelings of these people from a national stand-point, I can only regard them as justifiable; they call it the sacred hatred of the enemy, and this sentiment forms an important incentive to military patriotism. They have but one thought—to free their country from the presence of the antagonist. They forget that they caused the invasion by their declaration of war. They did not do it themselves, but it was their government in which they believed. They waste no time in reflections or in recriminations; the misfortune is upon them, and every muscle, every nerve is strained to meet it, or with reckless self-sacrifice they will all go to destruction together. Believe me, there is untold capacity of love in mankind; the pity of it is that we waste it in the old rut of hatred. And the enemy, the ‘red-haired, eastern barbarians!’—what are they doing? They were called out and they invade the land which threatened theirs. Do you remember how the cry, à Berlin, à Berlin, resounded through the streets?”

“Now the others march upon Paris! Why do the Parisian shouters call that a crime?”

“Because there is neither logic nor justice in that national feeling whose chief principle is, we are we,—that is, the first,—the others are barbarians. That march of the Germans from victory to victory fills me with admiration. I have been a soldier and know what an inspiration the idea of victory has, what pride, what intense delight. It is the reward for all suffering, for the renunciation of rest and happiness, for the life at stake.”

“Why do not the victors admire the vanquished, if they know all that victory means to those who are soldiers like themselves? Why do not the army reports of the losing party contain the sentence: The enemy has won a glorious victory?”

“Why? I repeat, the war spirit and patriotic egotism are the destruction of all justice.”

On the 28th of August all Germans were ordered to leave Paris within three days. I had the opportunity to see the effect of this order. Many Germans had been citizens of Paris for ten and twenty years, had married Parisians, but were now compelled to leave everything—home, business, and property.

Sedan! The Emperor had surrendered his sword. The report overpowered us. Then truly a terrible catastrophe had occurred—Germany had won, and the butchery was over.

“It is over,” I cried. “If there are people who are citizens of the world, they may illuminate their windows; in the temples of humanity Te Deums can now be sung—the butchery is over.”

“Do not rejoice too soon,” Frederick warned me. “This war has long lost the character of a battle game of chess, the whole nation is in arms. For one army destroyed ten new ones will spring out of the soil.”

“Is that just? These are only German soldiers, not the German nation.”

“Why always talk of justice and reason in the presence of a madman. France is mad with pain and terror, and from the stand-point of the love of country her rage is just, her sorrow sacred. Personal interest is not considered, only the loftiest self-sacrifice. If the time would only come when the noble virtues common to humanity could be torn from the work of destruction and united for the blessing of the race! But this unholy war has again driven us back a long way from the attainment of this goal.”

“No, no, I hope the war is at an end.”

“If so, which I much doubt, the seeds of future wars are sown and the seeds of hate, which will outlast this generation.”

On the 4th of September another great event occurred. The Emperor was deposed and France was declared a republic. With the destruction of the throne, the leaves were torn out of the book of France which told the story of Metz and Sedan. It was Napoleon and his dismissed generals who, through cowardice, treachery, and bad tactics, had been responsible for all this disaster—but not France. France would now carry on the war if the Germans still dared to continue the invasion.

“How would it have been had Napoleon and his generals been victorious?” I asked when Frederick told me this latest news.

“Then they would have accepted his success as the success of France.”

“Is there any justice in that?”

“Why will you not break yourself off the habit of asking that question?”

My hope that with Sedan the war would end was soon dissipated. The frenzied orations, the atrocious pamphlets which were now made and published and rained down upon the unfortunate Emperor and Empress, and the unlucky generals, were absolutely disgusting. The rough masses held that they could lay upon these few the responsibility for the general disaster. The preparations for the defence of Paris were carried on with rapidity. Houses which might serve as protection to the approaching enemy were torn down, and the region around the city became a desert. Crowds of country people filled up the already crowded city, and the streets were jammed with the waggons and pack-horses of these people, laden with the remains of their household goods. I had seen the same sight in Bohemia, and now was fated to see the like misery and a similar terror in the beautiful streets of the most wonderful, most brilliant city of the world.

There came at last the news of the prospect of better things, there was the chance that peace might be arranged.

On the contrary, the breach became much wider. For some time past German papers had suggested the retention of Alsace-Lorraine. The former German provinces were to be annexed. The historical argument was not quite tenable, therefore the strategical reason was made more prominent: as a rampart they were absolutely necessary in case of future wars. It is well known that the strategic grounds are the most important, the most incontestible—the ethical reasons must take second rank. On the other hand, as France had lost in the struggle, was it not fair that the winner should hold the prize? In case of the success of the French, they of course would have claimed the provinces of the Rhine. What is war for except for the extension of the territory of the one or the other antagonist?

In the meantime the victorious army did not halt in its march on Paris—the Germans were already at her door. The consent to the cession of Alsace-Lorraine was officially demanded. In response the well-known reply was given: “Not an inch of our territory—not a stone of our fortresses.”

Yes, yes—a thousand lives—not an inch of earth. That is the foundation principle of the patriotic spirit. “They seek to humiliate us!” cried the French patriots. “We would rather be buried under the ruins of Paris.”

We attempted to leave the city. Why should we stay among a people so embittered by hate that they clenched their fists if they heard us speak German. We had succeeded in making arrangements for departure, when I was seized by a nervous fever of so dangerous a character that the family physician forbade any attempt at removal.

I lay upon my bed for many weeks, and only a dreamy recollection of that time remains. In the careful hands of my husband, and the tender care of my children, my Rudolph and my little Sylvia, all knowledge of the fearful events then occurring was shut out, and when I recovered winter had set in.

Strassburg had been bombarded, the library destroyed; four or five shots a minute were said to have been fired—in all, one hundred and ninety-three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two.

Should Paris be starved into submission or bombarded?

Against the last the conscience of civilisation protested. Should this rendezvous of all nations, this brilliant seat of art, with its irrecoverable riches and treasures, be bombarded as any common citadel? It was not to be thought of; the whole neutral press, I learned afterwards, protested. The press of Berlin approved the idea, considered it the only way to end the war and conquer the city. No protest availed, and on the 28th of December the bombardment began.

At first greeting it with terror, it was not long before the Parisians chose for a promenade the localities from which one could best hear the music of cannon. Here and there a shell fell in the street, but there was seldom a consequent catastrophe. Rarely could any news from the outside world be obtained, and that only through carrier pigeons and balloons. The reports were most contradictory; one day we were informed of successful sallies, the next, that the enemy was about to storm the city, set fire to it, and lay it in ashes; or we were assured that rather than see one German enter within the walls the commandant would blow all Paris into atoms.

It became daily more and more difficult to obtain food. Meat was not to be had; cattle and sheep and horses were exhausted, and the period began when dogs, cats, rats, and mice were a rarity, and finally the beloved elephant at the Jardin des Plantes must be served up. Bread was scarce. People stood in rows, hours at a time, in front of the bakers in order to receive their tiny portion. Disease broke out, induced by famine. The mortality increased from the ordinary eleven hundred a week to between four and five thousand.

One day Frederick came into the house from his daily walk in an unusual state of excitement.

“Take up your note-book, my zealous historian,” he cried. “To-day there is wonderful news.”

“Which of my books?” I asked. “My Peace Protocol?”

Frederick shook his head.

“Oh, for that the time is past. The war now being carried on is of so mighty a character that it will drag its martial spirit long after it. It has sown broadcast such a store of hatred and revenge that future battle harvests must grow therefrom; and upon the other side it has produced for the victors such magnificent revolutionary results that a like harvest may be brought about by their haughty martial spirits.”

“What is it that is so important?”

“King William has been proclaimed Emperor at Versailles. There is now really a Germany, one single empire—and a mighty one. That is a new event in the world’s history. And you can easily perceive how this great result will redound to the honour of the work of war. The two most advanced representatives of civilisation on the continent are the ones who from now on for some time to come will cultivate the war spirit—the one in order to return the blow, the other in order to maintain the position won; here out of hate, there out of love; here from a spirit of retaliation, on the other side out of gratitude. Shut up your peace protocols—for a long time to come we shall stand under the bloody and iron sign of Mars.”

“Emperor of Germany!” I cried, “that is indeed glorious. I cannot help rejoicing over this news. The whole barbarous slaughter has not been in vain if a great, new empire has been born.”

“From the French point of view the war is doubly lost. And it is to be expected of us that we should not regard this contest from the onesided German stand-point alone. Not only as human beings but from a narrower national feeling we should be excused if we regretted the success of our enemies of 1866. And yet I will acknowledge that the union of divided Germany is a desirable thing, and that the readiness with which all these German princes joined in offering the imperial crown to the gray-haired victor is inspiring and admirable. Only it is a pity that this union was not brought about through peaceful rather than warlike measures. It may be that if Napoleon III. had not made his demand of the 19th of July there would not have been enough patriotism among the Germans to bring about this result. They may well rejoice; the poet’s wish is fulfilled—they are a band of brothers. Four years ago they had each other by the throat and knew but one common cause—hatred of Prussia.”

“That word hate makes me shudder.”

“Well it may. So long as this feeling is not regarded as unjust and dishonourable, we shall have no humane humanity. Religious hatred has about disappeared, but national hatreds form a part of the education of the citizen.”

In the quiet of the next few days we had many discussions as to our future. With the establishment of peace, which we could now hope for, we might again dare to think of our personal happiness. During the eight years of our married life there had been no discord, not a discourteous or unkindly word or thought had passed between us; as the years drew on we knew we should grow nearer to each other, and we could look forward to an old age together—the golden evening of our lives—with sure content.

Many of the preceding pages I have turned over with a shudder. It is not without repulsion that I have recorded my visit to the battle-fields of Bohemia and the scenes of the cholera week in Grumitz. I have done it as a duty. I had been told: “In case I die first take up my work and do what you can to further the cause of peace among men.”

But I have now reached a point when I cannot go on.

I have tried; many half-written sheets lie on the floor beside me; but my heart fails and I can only fall to weeping—weeping bitterly like a child.

Some hours later I again made the attempt, but the particulars of the circumstances it is not possible for me to relate.

The fact is enough.

Frederick—my all!—was seized by a fanatical mob who, finding a letter from Berlin upon his person, accused him of being a spy. He was dragged before a so-called patriotic tribunal, and on the 1st of February 1871 was sentenced to be shot.