Disarm! Disarm!

When I again awoke to consciousness peace had been declared, the Commune had been defeated. For months, attended by my faithful Frau Anna, I lived through an illness without knowing that I was alive. The character of my illness I have never known. Those about me tenderly called it typhus, but I believe it was simply insanity.

Dimly I remember that the latter part of the time seemed filled with the rattling of shot and the falling of burning walls; probably my fancies were influenced by the actual events, the skirmishes between the communists and the party of Versailles.

That when I recovered my reason and realised the circumstances of my profound unhappiness I did not kill myself, or that the anguish had not killed me, was owing to the existence of my children. For these I could, I must, live. Even before my illness, on the day when the terrible event occurred, Rudolf had held me to life. I had sunk on my knees, weeping aloud while I repeated, “Die—die! I will die!” Two little arms were thrown around me, and a sweet, piteous, pleading, childish face looked into mine:—

“Mother!”

My little one had never called me anything but Mamma. That he at that moment, for the first time, used the word “Mother” said to me in two syllables, “You are not alone, you have a son who shares your pain, who loves you above all things, who has no one in the world but you. Do not leave your child, Mother!”

I pressed the precious being to my heart, and to show him that I had understood him I murmured, “My son, my son!”

I then remembered my little girl—his child—and resolved to live.

But the anguish was unendurable, and I fell into mental darkness. For years—at longer and longer intervals—I was subject to these attacks of melancholy, of which upon my restoration to health I knew nothing. Now, at length, I have outlived them, and for several years have been free from the unconscious misery, though not from the bitterest, conscious sorrow. Eighteen years have passed since the 1st of February 1871; but the deep anguish and the deepest mourning, which the tragedy of that day brought to me, I can never outlive though I should live a hundred years. If, in later times, the days are more frequent when I can take part in the events of the present, can forget the past unhappiness, can sympathise in the joys of my children, not a night passes when I escape my misery. It is a peculiar experience, hard for me to describe, and which can only be understood by those who have similarly suffered. It would seem to indicate a dual life of the soul. If the one is so occupied, when awake, with the things of the outer world as to forget, there yet remains that second nature which ever keeps faithfully in mind that dreadful memory; and this I—when the other is asleep—makes itself felt. Every night at the same hour I awake with this deep depression. My heart seems torn asunder, and I feel as if I must relieve my agony in sighs and bitter weeping; this lasts for several seconds, without the awakened I knowing why the other is happy or unhappy. The next stage is a sentiment of universal sympathy, full of the tenderest compassion: “Oh, poor, poor humanity!” Then amidst a shower of bullets I see shrieking figures fall—and then I remember for the first time that my best-beloved met such a death.

But in dreams, singular to say, I never realise my loss. It often occurs that I seem to talk with Frederick as if he were alive. Many circumstances of the past—but no sad ones—are frequently alluded to by us: our meeting after Schleswig-Holstein, our joking over Sylvia’s cradle, our walk through Switzerland, our studies of favourite books, and now and then a certain picture of my white-haired husband in the evening sunset-light, with his garden shears, clipping his roses. “Is it not true,” he says to me, smiling, “that we are a happy old couple?”

My mourning I have never laid aside—not even on my son’s wedding day. The woman who has loved, possessed, and lost—so lost—such a man must feel that love is indeed stronger than death. With this may exist a longing for revenge which can never grow cold.

But how should I seek revenge? The men who were guilty of the act could not be personally blamed. The sole responsibility rested upon the spirit of war, and this was the only force with which I could attempt—though in a feeble way—to settle my account.

My son Rudolf shared my views in regard to war—which did not, however, prevent his going into camp for the annual military drill, nor would it hinder his marching over the border, should that gigantic European contest break out which we are all anticipating. I might yet live to see the dearest one left to me sacrificed to this relentless Moloch, and the hearth of my old age fall in ruins.

Should I live to experience that and again be driven to madness, or should I see the triumph of justice and humanity, for which all nations and alliances of peoples are now striving?

My red journals are closed, and under date of 1871 I marked with a great cross the record of my life. My so-called protocol—my peace record— I have again opened, and of late have added much to the history of the growth of the international idea of the settlement of the strifes of humanity by peaceful methods.

For some years the two most influential nations of the continent have been watching each other, both absorbed in thoughts of war—the one in arrogant review of past successes, the other in burning hopes of revenge. Gradually these sentiments have somewhat cooled, and notwithstanding, or by reason of, the great increase of our standing armies, after ten years the voices petitioning for peace are once more heard.

To-day there are few to whom this dream of peace seems an impossibility. There are sentinels on every hill, to wake humanity out of its long sleep of barbarism, and to plant the white flag. Their battle-cry is “War against war”; their watchword, “Disarm! Disarm!” The only thing which can now prevent the most appalling disaster to Europe is the universal cry, “Disarm! Disarm!” Everywhere, in England and France, in Italy, in the northern countries, in Germany, in Switzerland, in America, societies have been formed with the common object to educate public opinion, and by the united expression of popular will to demand of governments that future dissensions shall be submitted to international arbitration, and by so doing to set justice for ever in the place of rude force. That this is not the impossible fancy of a dreamer has been proved by facts. It is not only people of no influence and position, but members of Parliament, bishops, scholars, senators, ambassadors, who stand on the list. To these is added that ever-growing party which will shortly number millions, the party of “Labour” and of the people, upon whose programme the demand for peace is a first condition.

“Mother, will you lay aside your mourning the day after to-morrow?”

With these words Rudolf came into my room this morning. For the day after to-morrow—the 30th of July 1889—the baptism of his first-born son is to be celebrated.

“No, my child,” I answered.

“But, think, surely at such a festival you will not be sad; why wear the outward sign of sorrow?”

“And you surely are not superstitious enough to think that the black dress of the grandmother will bring ill-luck to the grandchild?”

“Certainly not. But it is not suitable to the occasion. Have you taken a vow?”

“No, it is only a quiet determination. But a determination connected with such a memory has all the force of a vow.”

My son bowed his head and urged me no longer.

“I have disturbed you in your work. Were you writing?”

“Yes—the story of my life. I am, thank God, at the end. That was the last chapter.”

“How can you write the close of your life? You may live many years, many happy years, Mother. With the birth of my little Frederick, whom I will train to adore his grandmother, a new chapter is begun for you.”

“You are a good son, my Rudolf, I should be ungrateful if I had not pride and happiness in you; and I am also proud of my—his sweet Sylvia; yes, I am entering on a happy old age—a quiet evening; but the story of the day is closed at sunset, is it not?”

He answered me with a quiet and sympathetic glance.

“Yes, the word ‘end’ under my biography is justified. When I conceived the idea of writing it, I determined to stop with the 1st of February 1871. If you had been torn from me for service in the field—luckily during the Bosnian campaign you were not old enough—I might have been obliged to lengthen my book. As it is, it was painful enough to write.”

“And also to read,” answered Rudolf, turning over the leaves.

“I hope so. If the book shall cause such pain in the reading as to awaken a detestation of the source of all the unhappiness here described, I shall not have tormented myself in vain.”

“Have you examined all sides of the question, Mother?” said my son. “Have you exhausted all the arguments, analysed to the roots the spirit of war, and sufficiently brought out the scientific objections to it?”

“My dear, what are you thinking about? I have only written of my life. All sides of the question? Certainly not. What do I, the rich woman of high rank, know of the sorrows which war brings to the mass of the poor? What do I know of the plagues and evil tendencies of barrack life? And with the economic-social question involved I am not familiar—and yet these are all the very matters which finally determine all reformation. I do not offer a history of the past and future rights of nations—only the story of the individual.”

“But are you not afraid of your intentions being recognised?”

“People are offended only when the author tries to hide his intentions. My aim is open as the day, and is found in the words on the title page.”

The baptism took place yesterday. The occasion was made doubly important by the betrothal of my daughter Sylvia and the old friend of her babyhood—Count Anton Delnitzky.

I am surrounded by the happiness of my children. Rudolf inherited the Dotzky estates six years ago, and has been married four years to Beatrice Griesbach, promised to him in their childhood. She is a charming creature, and the birth of their son adds to their enviable, brilliant lot.

In the room looking out upon the garden the dinner was served. The glass doors were open, and the air of the superb summer afternoon streamed in loaded with the perfume of roses.

Near me sat the Countess Lori Griesbach, Beatrice’s mother. She is now a widow. Her husband fell in the Bosnian campaign. She has not taken his loss much to heart. On the contrary—for she is dressed in a ruby brocade and brilliant diamonds—she is exactly as superficial as in her youth. Matters of the toilet, a few French and English novels, the usual society gossip—these suffice to fill her horizon. She is as great a coquette as ever. For young men she has now no fancy, but personages of rank and position are the objects of her conquests. At present, it seems to me, she has our Cabinet Minister in hand.

“I must make a confession to you,” said Lori to me when we had congratulated each other upon our grandchild. “On this solemn occasion I must relieve my conscience. I was seriously in love with your husband.”

“You have often told me that, dear Lori.”

“But he was always absolutely indifferent to me.”

“That is well known to me.”

“You had a husband true as gold, Martha! I cannot say the same of mine. But nevertheless I was sorry to lose him. Well he died a glorious death, that is one comfort. Really it is a wearisome existence to be a widow, more especially as one grows older; so long as one can flirt widowhood is not without its compensations. But now I acknowledge I become quite melancholy. With you it is different; you live with your son, but I would not like to live with Beatrice. She would not wish it either. A mother-in-law in the house—that does not go well, for one wants to be mistress. One gets so provoked with the servants. You may believe me, I am much inclined to marry again. Of course, a marriage with some one of position——”

“A Minister of Finance, for instance,” I interrupted, laughing.

“O you sly one! You see through me at once. Look there: do you see how Toni Delnitzky is whispering to your Sylvia. That is compromising.”

“Let them alone. The two have come to an understanding on the way from church. Sylvia has confided to me that the young man will ask my permission to-morrow.”

“What do you say? Well, I congratulate you. It is said the handsome Toni has been a little gay—but all of them are that—it cannot be helped, and he is a splendid match.”

“Of that my Sylvia has not thought.”

“Well, so much the better; it is a charming addition to marriage.”

“Addition? Love is the sum of all.”

One of the guests, an imperial colonel, had knocked on his glass, and “Oh, dear—a toast!” thought all, and discontentedly dropped their special conversation to listen to the speaker. We had good reason to sigh; three times the unlucky man stuck fast, and the choice of his good wishes was unfortunate. The health of the young heir was offered, who was born at a time when his country needed all her sons.

“May he wear the sword as his great-grandfather and his grandfather did; may he bring many sons into the world, who on their part may be an honour to their ancestry, and as they have done who have fallen, win fame on the field of honour. May they for the honour of the land of their fathers conquer—as their fathers and fathers’ fathers—in short: Long life to Frederick Dotzky!”

The glasses rattled but the speech fell flat. That this little creature just on the threshold of life should be sentenced to the death-list on a battle-field did not make a pleasant impression.

To banish this dark picture, several guests made the comforting remark that present circumstances promised a long peace, that the Triple Alliance——and with that general interest was carried into the political arena, and our Cabinet Minister led the conversation.

“In truth” (Lori Griesbach listened with intense interest), “it cannot be denied that the perfection which our weapons have attained is marvellous and enough to terrify all breakers of the peace. The law for general service allows us to put into the field, on the first call, four million eight hundred thousand men between the ages of nineteen and forty, with officers up to sixty. On the other hand, one must acknowledge that the extraordinary attendant expenses will be a strain upon the finances. It will be an intolerable burden to the population; but it is encouraging to see with what patriotic self-sacrifice the people respond to the demands of the war ministry; they recognise what all far-sighted politicians realise, that the general armament of neighbouring states and the difficulties of the political situation demand that all other considerations should be subordinated to the iron pressure of military necessity.”

“Sounds like the usual editorial,” murmured some one.

The Minister went on calmly:—

“But such a system is surety for the preservation of peace. For if to secure our border, as traditional patriotism demands of us, we do as our neighbours are doing, we are but fulfilling a sacred duty and hope to keep danger far from us. So I raise my glass to the toast in honour of the principle which lies so close to the heart of Frau Martha—a principle dear to the Peace League of Middle Europe—and I call upon all of you to drink to the maintenance of peace! May we long enjoy its blessings!”

“To such a toast I will not drink,” I replied. “Armed peace is no benefaction; we do not want peace for a long time, but for ever. If we set out upon a sea voyage, do we like the assurance that the ship will escape wreck for a long time? That the whole trip will be a fortunate one is what the honest captain vouches for.”

Doctor Bresser, our intimate old friend, came to my help.

“Can you in truth, your Excellency, honestly believe in a desire for peace on the part of those who with enthusiasm and passion are soldiers. How could they find such delight in arsenals, fortresses, and manœuvres if these things were really regarded merely as scarecrows? Must the people give all their earnings in order to kiss hands across the border? Do you think the military class will willingly accept the position of mere custodians of the peace? Behind this mask—the si vis pacem mask—glitters the eye of understanding, and every member who votes for the war budget knows it.”

“The members?” interrupted the minister. “We cannot praise enough the self-sacrifice which they have never failed to exhibit in serious times, and which finds expression in their willingness to vote the appropriate funds.”

“Forgive me, your Excellency, I would call out to these willing members: ‘Your “Yes” will rob that mother of her only child; yours puts out the eyes of some poor wretch; yours sets in a blaze a fearful conflagration; yours stamps out the brain of a poet who would have been an honour to his country. But you have all voted “Yes” in order to prove that you are not cowards—as if one had only oneself to consider. Are you not there to represent the wishes of the people? And the people wish profitable labour, wish relief, wish peace.’”

“I hope, dear Doctor,” remarked the Colonel bitterly, “that you may never be a member; the whole house would spit upon you.”

“I would soon prove that I am no coward. To swim against the stream requires nerves of steel.”

“But how would it be if a serious attack were made and found us unprepared?”

“We must have a system of justice which will make an attack impossible. But when the time for action does come, and these tremendous armies with their fearful new means of warfare are brought into the field, it will be a serious, a gigantic catastrophe. Help and care will be an impossibility. The endeavours of the Sanitary or Red Cross corps, the means of provision, will prove a mere irony. The next war of which people so glibly and indifferently speak will not be a victory for the one and a loss for the other, but destruction for all. Who among us desires this?”

“I, certainly not,” said the minister. “You, of course not, dear Doctor, but men in general. Our government, possibly not, but other states.”

“With what right do you deem other people worse and less intelligent than yourself and me? I will tell you a little story:—

“Once upon a time a thousand and one men stood before the gate of a beautiful garden, longingly looking over the wall, desiring to enter. The gatekeeper had been ordered to admit the people, provided the majority wished admittance. He called one man up: ‘Tell me honestly, do you want to come in?’ ‘Certainly,’ he replied, ‘but the other thousand do not care about it.’

“The shrewd custodian wrote this answer in his note-book. He then called a second. He made the same reply. Again the wise man wrote under the word ‘Yes’ the figure one, and under the word ‘No’ the figure one thousand. So he went on to the very last man. Then he added up the columns. The result was: One thousand and one ‘Yeas’ but over a million ‘Noes.’ So the gate remained shut because the ‘Noes’ had an immense majority. And that came about because each one not only answered for himself, but felt himself obliged to answer for all the others.”

“It would be a noble thing,” replied the minister reflectively, “if by general consent disarmament could be effected. But what government would dare to begin? There is nothing, upon the whole, more desirable than peace; but, on the other hand, how can we maintain it; how can we look for durable peace so long as human passions and diverse interests exist?”

“Allow me,” said my son Rudolf. “Forty million inhabitants form a state. Why not one hundred millions? One could prove logically and mathematically that so long as forty millions, notwithstanding diverse interests and human passions, can restrain themselves from warring with one another—as the three states, the Triple Alliance, or five states, can form a league of peace—one hundred millions can do the same? But, in truth, the world nowadays calls itself immensely wise, and ridicules the barbarians; and yet in many things we cannot count five.”

Several voices exclaimed: “What? barbarians—with our refined civilisation? And the close of the nineteenth century?”

Rudolf stood up. “Yes, barbarians—I will not take back the name. And so long as we cling to the past we shall remain barbarians. But we stand upon the threshold of a new era—all eyes are looking forward, everything drives us on toward a higher civilisation. Barbarism is already casting away its ancient idols and its antiquated weapons. Even though we stand nearer to barbaric ideas than many are willing to acknowledge, we are also nearer to a nobler development than many dare even hope. Possibly the prince or the statesman is now alive who will figure in all future history as the most famous, the most enlightened, because he will have brought about this general laying down of arms. Even now the insane idea is dying out, notwithstanding that diplomatic egotism attempts to justify itself by its assertion—the insane idea that the destruction of one person is the security of another. Already the realisation that justice must be the foundation of all social life is glimmering upon the world, and from an acknowledgment of this truth humanity must gain a nobler stature—that development of humanity for which Frederick Tilling laboured. Mother, I celebrate the memory of your devoted husband, to whom I also owe it that I am what I am. Out of this glass no other toast shall ever be drunk”—and he threw it against the wall, where it fell shattered to pieces; “at this baptismal feast of the first-born no other toast shall be offered but ‘Hail to the Future!’ We must not show ourselves worthy rather of our fathers’ fathers—as the old phrase went—no; but of our grandsons’ grandsons. Mother—what is it?” he stopped suddenly. “You are weeping. What do you see there?”

My glance had fallen on the open door. The rays of the setting sun fell on a rose-bush, covering it with its golden shimmer, and there stood—the figure of my dreams. I saw the white hair, the glitter of the garden shears.

“It is true, is it not,” he smiled at me, “we are a happy old couple?”

Ah, me!