Disarm! Disarm!

Girlish fancies—Enthusiasm for heroism—Education—Entering society—At Marienbad—Love at first sight.

At seventeen I was a very highly-strung girl. I should hardly realise this to-day, if it were not for the diaries so carefully laid away. In them I find again my long-lost enthusiasms, thoughts, and feelings now utterly forgotten, convictions of which now not a vestige remains, and sympathies which have long been dead and buried. I catch a glimpse of the emptiness and silliness which filled my pretty little head. But, as I painfully learn from my mirror, of the prettiness little trace is left, although the old portraits assure me that it once existed.

I can imagine what an envied little creature the Countess Martha Althaus must have been, pretty, popular, and petted. These quaint little red diaries, however, recorded more of sadness than of joy in her life. I think now, “How could I have been so silly not to realise how singularly blessed I was with privileges?” Perhaps I was only expressing an unbalanced sentimentality, and I tried to express it in somewhat poetic prose. Imagine my discontent when I wrote:—

O Joan of Arc! heroic, heavenly virgin! If only I too might have waved the oriflamme of France, crowned my king, and died for my fatherland!

Alas! this modest ambition was never gratified.

Again, I longed to be torn in the arena by lions like the Christian martyrs. But the heroics were not for me. I must frankly admit that my life was a commonplace failure, and the glories for which my soul thirsted were for ever closed to me.

Often the little red book exclaimed, “Oh that I had been born a boy!” Then I should have been able to win fame. But feminine heroes are few. How seldom we have Gracchi for sons, and not often may we hope to carry our husbands on our backs through the Weinsberg Gates, or to be a queen and hear the sabre-swinging Magyars shout, “Long live Maria Theresa, our King!” A man need only gird on the sword and dash to fame and laurels, to capture a throne like Cromwell, or a world-empire like Napoleon.

My highest type of manhood was always a military hero. I had slight respect for mere poets, scholars, and discoverers. The heroes of many battles were the object of my adoration and devotion. Were they not the chief pillars of the state, the makers of history, the builders of empires? Did they not tower in God-like grandeur over all other heroes, as did the Alps and Himalayas over mere grass and valley flowers?

From all this it need not be concluded that I possessed an heroic nature. My enthusiasms and passions naturally took their bent from my education and environment. My father was an Austrian General, who had fought under “Father Radetzky” at Custozza, and therefore adored him. I listened untiringly to the unending stories of this campaign. My dear father actually pitied other men who had not had these proud and glorious experiences, and I always regretted that I, being a girl, would never have these magnificent opportunities; and, having heard some mention of the question of the equal rights of women, I felt sure that the only additional right I should ever keenly desire would be the right to go to war. How charmed I was with the story of Semiramis or Catherine II. when I read: “She made war upon this or that neighbouring kingdom, or she conquered this or that people.”

The history books are responsible for this warlike ideal of the young. That the God of Battles has constantly decreed wars stamps itself upon the mind from the first, and one early accepts the belief that war is necessary to regulate nations, and is almost a law of nature, like tornadoes and earthquakes, which from time to time cannot be avoided. History does not cover up the wickedness, the sorrow, the anguish of it all, but presents it as a part of the inevitable, bringing advantage to the nation, through the sacrifice of the happiness and life of the few. That there is no nobler death than that of the soldier martyr is the clear and unanimous verdict of all our school histories and texts. Long lists of battles are given, and entrancing tales and poems of glory and heroism are told, for must not patriotism be taught, must not every boy grow to be a defender of his country? So he must be made a war-enthusiast early. His spirit must be hardened long before he questions through his natural sympathies why we inflict these horrors and sufferings upon others. Such doubts must be carefully repressed.

History as it is taught aims to warp the inborn, divine impulse to hate barbarism and inhumanity. The tale is so told as to belittle that part of the story which appeals to the sympathies.

And the same books, the same subjects, the same system, encouraging a like admiration for war and military heroics, are given to the girls—delightful pictures for the tender souls, who otherwise are taught that they must be gentle and mild. The frightful stories of carnage and rapine from Bible days, from Macedonian and Punic times down to the Thirty Years’ War and Napoleon, repeat the horrors of the thing until the senses become callous. To read of cities burnt and the people put to the sword with the victims trodden under foot was a keen enjoyment, and to heap one horror upon the other blunted the perceptions till war no longer could be regarded from the point of view of humanity, but was received as something quite special, mysterious, majestic, and sanctified.

The girls could readily see that war alone could give the highest honour and dignity, so they learn all the military and glorifying odes, and they become, like the Spartan mothers of old, the women who present battle-flags and regimental colours, and are the admired and happy belles during the ball season, when they receive the attentions of the brass-buttoned officer’s corps.

As a child I had tutors and a governess at home, and was not reared in a convent, as was often the case with children of my position. My mother had died early, and the four children were watched over by an elderly aunt. We spent our winters in Vienna, and our summers on the estate in Lower Austria. Having a good memory and being ambitious, I was the delight of my teachers. Since I was denied the career of an heroic female warrior, I made it my enthusiasm to extol all who had helped to make the world’s history through war. I mastered the French and English languages perfectly. I learned all that was considered necessary for girls in natural history, physics, and astronomy, but in the reading of history I knew no limit. The ponderous records of wars and nations I fetched from my father’s library and spent with them my leisure hours.

On March 10, 1857, I celebrated my seventeenth birthday. “Already seventeen” I set down under this date. This “already” was a bit of symbolism, and undoubtedly was meant to signify “and as yet I have done nothing immortal.”

The Season was approaching, and it was arranged that I should be introduced into society, but the prospect did not fill me with the keenest pleasure. I felt that my aims were higher than ballroom conquests. I could not have explained to myself what were the triumphs for which I longed. I was hardly aware of the romantic attitude which possessed me. I was full of glowing dreams and aspirations, such as swell the hearts of youths and maidens, and fill them with a longing to work out their ideals in all sorts of ways. It is at this age that the love of knowledge, action, travel, adventure, show themselves, and are perhaps only an unrecognised activity of the soul filled with desire to express itself.

Aunt Marie was ordered to try the waters at Marienbad during the summer, and found it convenient to take me. My coming-out in society was not to take place till the following winter, and this trip to the fashionable springs gave me a little preliminary practice in dancing and conversation, so that I could wear off some of the shyness before my first season.

Naturally at my first ball I had no eyes for anything but the brilliant military uniforms which were present in such array. But of all the splendid Hussars, Count Arno Dotzky was the most dazzling, and with him I danced the cotillion and several waltzes.

The acquaintance quickly ripened into an attachment, and we were betrothed on my eighteenth birthday, after which I was presented at court.

Marriage—The first-born—War rumours—The ultimatum.

After our marriage we took an Italian journey, having been granted a long leave of absence. Retirement from the army was never mentioned between us. We both possessed handsome fortunes; but my husband loved the military service, and I was proud of my elegant Hussar, and looked forward to his certain promotion. He would rise unquestionably to the rank of major, colonel, or even general. Who knew but he might be even called to the highest rank, and add his name to the history of his country, great as a conqueror!

The little red book contains a break just at the happy honeymoon time, and that is a pity. Oh for a little breath of those happy days to come back to me from between the leaves, in which I had wasted so much ink recording odd peevishnesses and bad humours! Still, my memory recalls those joys like an old half-forgotten fairy-tale. What could have been added to my overflowing heart?—for I had love, riches, rank, health, everything. My dashing Hussar, whom I loved with my whole soul, was a manly, noble-hearted man, with a most cultivated and merry nature. It might have been otherwise, for our acquaintance had been so short, and it was not our own discretion and wise choosing which brought us all this happiness. But the little red-bound book bore no entry for a long time.

Wait a moment! Here I find a joyous event noted—my delight at becoming a mother. A New Year’s gift—a son was born to us, the 1st of January 1859. The diary was resumed to note with pride and astonishment this all-absorbing event, as though we were the first to whom such a happiness had ever come. The journal teemed with comments on the mystical and sacred event. The future world had to be informed as to the marvel of “maternal love,” it was mine to magnify the office of motherhood. Was it not the greatest theme of art and literature, of song and story?

I cultivated this ideal most carefully, collecting poems, baby songs, and illustrations from journals and picture galleries. As in one direction school books foster and develop an admiration for war heroes, so through my collections I developed from hero-worship to baby-worship. My charming little man was to me the mightiest wonder of the world. Ah, my son, my grown-up manly Rudolf, the love of you in my maturer years eclipsed in colour the hours of childish wonder and worship. The love of my young motherhood is insignificant in comparison to what I feel for you to-day, even as is the babe himself in swaddlings besides the full-grown man.

How proud the father was of his tiny heir, as he planned for him the sunniest, fairest future. “What shall he be?” This was the great question that we discussed as we hung over the cradle together, and we always decided unanimously—a soldier, of course. Sometimes the mother would protest: “Suppose he should be killed in battle?” “Nonsense,” the father would answer; “at the appointed time each one meets his end.” Besides, Ruru was not to be the only son, but being the first he must be what his father and grandfather were, the noblest of all—a soldier. So it was settled, and so the joke was persisted in, and on his third-month birthday he was promoted to the rank of a corporal.

On that same day a great foreboding came over me, something that made me fly with a heavy heart to my little note-book. Dark clouds had arisen in the political horizon, and the fears and suspicions were daily growing into comments wherever people met together.

“Trouble in Italy is brewing” was the frequent remark. I had no time now for heroics and politics, so it hardly touched me. But on the 1st of April Arno said to me:—

“Do you know, darling, it will soon break out?”

“What will break out?”

“The war with Sardinia.”

I was terrified. “My God, that will be terrible. And must you go?”

“I hope so.”

“How can you say that? Hope to leave your wife and baby?”

“When duty calls.”

“Of course we can reconcile ourselves—but to hope—which means desire—to wish for such a bitter duty——”

“Bitter? Why, a jolly, dashing war like that would be glorious! You are a soldier’s wife, never forget that.”

I threw myself into his arms.

“Oh my darling husband. I can be content, and brave besides. How often I have envied the heroes of history and longed to be one of its heroines. What a glorious feeling it must be to go into battle! If I could only be at your side, fight, conquer, or even fall!”

“Such nonsense, little wife; but brave you are. Your place is here by the cradle of our little one, whom you must raise to be some day a defender of his country. Women must keep the fireside warm. It is to save our homes and wives from the attacks of the enemy and secure peace, that we men must go to war.”

Why, I do not know, but these words, or similar ones which I had so often read with enthusiasm, this time struck me as mere shallow phrases. Where was the advancing army—were the barbarous hordes at the door? A political tension between the Cabinets of two nations seemed an intangible enemy. What was the pressing need of protecting wife and child and home? Much as my husband spoke enthusiastically of going to war for that, I failed to see it. Was it a mere burning desire to rush into adventure, with a promise of excitement, promotion, and distinction? “Yet,” I concluded, “it is a noble, honourable ambition to delight in the brave discharge of duty.”

I poured out my feelings into the little note-book, denouncing Louis Napoleon as an intriguer.... Austria cannot long look on.... War must come.... No, Sardinia will soon give in, and peace be maintained. Thus I commented on the course of events. My husband’s eyes sparkled at the continued increase of the danger.

My father also gloried in the prospect, and retold the stories of the Radetzky campaigns, and discussed the impending ones, as to how the enemy would be easily routed, and all the advantages which would be “ours.” Of the terrible sacrifices nothing was said. I was made to feel quite ashamed of my meanness when I found myself thinking thus: “Ah, how can any victory recompense the dead, the crippled, the widowed? How would it be if the enemy conquered?”

I was contemptuously crushed by my military friends if I ventured such a remark. Was it not most unpatriotic to have the shadow of a doubt about our certain victory? Is not the duty of a soldier to feel himself invincible, and must not a soldier’s wife share this conviction with him?

My husband’s regiment was quartered in Vienna. The view of the Prater from my window promised a wonderful spring. The air was warm and delicious with violets, the sprouting buds seemed earlier than in years before. How joyfully I might have looked forward to the coming weeks of delightful driving, for we had purchased a fine carriage and a four-in-hand team of dashing Hungarian horses—but oh, if only the war-clouds had not hung over all that!

Coming home from a parade on the morning of April 19, my husband broke the spell with the exclamation: “Thank God, at last this uncertainty is at an end. The ultimatum has been sent.”

“And what does that mean?” I trembled.

“It means that the last word of the diplomats has been uttered—the last word that precedes the declaration of war. Sardinia is called to disarm. This she’ll not do, and we will soon march over the border.”

“Good God! Perhaps she may disarm.”

“Then that would end the quarrel.”

I fell on my knees. Silently and fervently a prayer cried out in my soul: “Peace, peace!”

“My silly child, what are you doing?” said Arno, raising me. The news had shaken my nerves, and I began to cry.

“Martha, Martha, you make me angry. How can you forget that you are a general’s daughter, a first lieutenant’s wife, and,” he concluded with a smile, “the mother of a corporal?”

“No, no,” I faltered, “I scarcely understand myself.... I used to thirst for military glory, but now, when I think that on a single ‘yes’ or ‘no’ thousands may bleed and die—die in these beautiful days of spring—it came over me that the word ‘Peace’ must be pronounced, that we must all pray for it, and I fell on my knees.”

“To inform the good Lord of the condition of affairs, you dear little goose!”

The house-door bell rang. I dried my eyes. My father came in with a rush. “My children,” he cried out of breath, “have you heard the great news—the ultimatum?”

“I have just told it to my wife.”

“Tell me, father dear,” I asked anxiously, “can the war be prevented by the ultimatum?”

“I never heard of an ultimatum preventing a war. It would be very wise of the wretched Italian rabble if they would yield and not risk another Novara. Ah, if good Father Radetzky had not died last year, even at ninety he would have routed this foreign scum. And I would have marched with him. But the puppies have not had enough of it. They need a second lesson. We shall get a handsome piece of Piedmont territory, and I look forward to the entry of our troops into Turin.”

“But, papa, you speak as if the war were already declared, and you were glad of it. Oh, if Arno must also go!”

“That he will, and I envy him.”

“But think of my terror at his danger!”

“Danger, what of that? Many a man comes home from war. Look at my campaigns, my wounds, and yet I am alive, for I was not destined to die.”

Such fatalistic notions!

“And if my regiment should not be ordered out——” began Arno.

I exclaimed joyously, “Oh, would that be possible?”

“In that case I shall apply for an exchange.”

“That can easily be settled,” my father assured him. “A good friend of mine, Hess, commands the corps.”

Admiring both husband and father—yet anxiety sickened my heart. But I must control myself. Was not my husband a hero? And I sprang up and exclaimed, “Arno, I am proud of you.”

Kissing my hands, he turned to my father, “Father-in-law, I am glad that you have trained your daughter to be a brave soldier’s wife.”

Turin, April 26.—The ultimatum is rejected. The die is cast. War is declared.

Last hours—Public glad at prospect of war—The sad parting.

The news was a bitter blow to me, and threw me into despair, although I had been prepared for the catastrophe. Arno tried to comfort me.

“My darling, take courage. Things are not so bad and will soon be over. Then we shall be doubly happy. You will break my heart with your weeping, and make me sorry that I engaged to go. But think, if I remained at home and my comrades went, you would be ashamed of me. I must pass the baptism of fire to feel myself a man and a soldier. Only think how happy you will be to see a third star on my collar, or perhaps even the cross on my breast.”

I leaned on his shoulder and wept the more. Empty stars and crosses were but poor pay for the terrible possibility that a ball might shatter that beloved breast. Arno gently relieved himself from my embrace, saying:—

“Now, dear child, I must go to the Colonel. Have your little cry, and be brave and cheerful when I return. In this hard hour my dear little wife should not dishearten and discourage me. Good-bye, sweetheart.”

His last words helped me to collect myself. Yes, I must not damp his courage, I must inspire his sense of duty. We women must prove our patriotism by our sympathy, and must urge our soldiers to fame on the battle-field.

“Battle-field”—strange how this word suddenly carried its radically different meanings to my mind. First it appealed historically, gloriously, pathetically; then again I shuddered as at some loathsome, bloody, brutal, repulsive thing. I saw the poor creatures hurried to the field, stricken, and lying there with gaping, bleeding wounds, and among them, perhaps!—oh horrible thought!—and a loud cry escaped my lips at the frightful picture.

Betty, my maid, rushed in. “In heaven’s name, madam, what has happened?”

I looked at the girl. Her eyes, too, were red with weeping. I remembered her lover was a soldier, and I could have pressed her to my heart as a sister in mutual sorrow.

“It is nothing, child, for they surely all come back again.”

“Not all of them, dear lady,” she said, the tears starting afresh.

Aunt Marie came in just then and Betty disappeared.

“Martha dear, I came to comfort you,” said she, “and help you to resign yourself in this trouble.”

“So you know it?”

“The whole city knows it, and great joy is felt, for the war is very popular.”

“Joy, Aunt Marie?” I exclaimed.

“Certainly. Wherever the family is not touched there is great rejoicing. But I knew you would be in distress, and therefore I hurried to you. Your father will come soon, not to comfort but to congratulate you. He is beside himself with delight and thinks the prospect for Arno is a rare one. And he is right, for is not war the best thing in the world for a soldier? And you must see it so, my dear. What must be——”

“Yes, you are right, Aunt. I know: the inevitable——”

“What is the will of God——” rejoined my aunt.

And I concluded: “Must be borne with resignation.”

“Bravo, dear Martha, Providence has determined. Providence is all wise. For each one the hour of death is settled as is the hour of birth, and we can pray fervently for our dear soldiers.”

I did not analyse the contradiction that one might pray to avoid a death that is predetermined. I had been taught not to reason on such matters, and my aunt would have been quite shocked if I had voiced any such scruples. “Never argue about it” is the commandment in matters of faith. Not to question and not to think was much more convenient and comfortable, so I accepted the suggestion that we should pray, and during the absence of my husband I certainly would pray for the protection of Heaven, and earnestly beg that the bullets might be turned from the breast of my Arno. Diverted, but whither? To the breast of another for whom some praying women also pleaded? And had not my teachers in physics drilled me in the law of infallible consequences, of motion and substance? The whole bewildering, tormenting question ... away with it! I will not think.

“Yes, dear Aunt,” I roused myself to say, “we will pray diligently, and God must hear us. Arno will return to us unhurt and happy.”

“You dear child, see how your soul flies to religion in the dark hours. Perhaps God himself sent this trial to renew your faith.”

Again this did not strike me as clear. How could God have sent this great complication, dating from the Crimean War, that Sardinia and Austria should break out into grim war for the simple purpose of testing my lukewarm faith? Was my aunt’s piety so deep and mine so shallow, that I should be tempted thus to doubt? To attach the name of God to any statement of cause rather consecrates the matter, and it is not respectful to doubt. My father and husband were both quite indifferent to religious matters, and my reasoning nature found mere dogmas hard to accept. I had gone regularly to Sunday mass, and once a year to confession, and at such hours I was honestly devout as a matter of etiquette with the same correctness as I should have curtsied, if introduced to the Empress. The chaplain himself could not have reproached me, but my aunt’s accusation seemed perhaps justifiable.

“Ah, my child,” my aunt continued, “in times of happiness and prosperity we are apt to forget our heavenly home, but when sorrow and sickness, fear and death come in upon us, or if those we adore are stricken, then——”

In this style she would have continued, had not the door been thrown open and my father rushed in, exclaiming:—

“Hurrah, everything is decided. The Italian dogs wanted their whipping, and they shall have it, they shall have it!”

War was declared. All was excitement. People seem to forget that two sets of men are voluntarily thrown at each other’s throats upon the assumption that there is a mighty third power which irresistibly forces them to fight. The whole responsibility is thrown upon this mysterious element, which regulates the ordained fate of the nations. (At this period of my life I felt no trace of a revolt against war as a system. Because my beloved husband was forced to go and I to remain—this alone was my anguish.)

I consoled myself with all my old convictions that the highest duty of a soldier was to be ready for service. History made it laudable to desire honour and glory through patriotic devotion. It was a peculiarly elevating thought that I was living in a most thrilling epoch. Had not my life been given a share in one of the great events of history?

Nothing was being talked of but the war. The newspapers were full of it. Prayers were said in all the churches for the success of the army. Everywhere were the same excited faces, the same eager talk. Business, pleasure, literature, art, everything was secondary, insignificant, while the scenes of this great drama were being played on the world’s arena. We read the proclamations, so confident of victory; we watched the troops march through with glitter and clash of arms, and battle-flags waving; leading articles and glowing speeches were filled with patriotic ardour, appealing to honour, duty, courage, self-sacrifice.

Assurances were made on both sides to the people, that their nation was known to be the most invincible, each had the only just cause, each had the noblest and most heroic cause to defend. Thus were the people filled with enthusiasm, and the conviction that war was the most glorious, necessary, and ennobling thing.

Every one was encouraged to think that he was a great citizen of a great state for which he must be willing to sacrifice himself. Evils of war were merely regarded as a necessary adjunct, and always “the enemy” alone was found guilty of the evil passions, and the brawling, rapine, hatred, cruelty, and all the other iniquities attached to warfare. Consequently we were doing the world a noble service in punishing these wretched Italians—this lazy, sensual, upstart nation. And Louis Napoleon, with his consuming ambition, what an intriguer! It was with a storm of indignation that Vienna received the proclamation: “Italy free to the Adriatic.”

I uttered slight doubts whether it was so ignoble of Italy to wish to be free, but I was rudely reminded that our enemies were scoundrels. In my study of history I had usually found the writers sympathetic with the struggling nation fighting to throw off a foreign yoke and gain its independence. I felt that Italy was playing this part in the drama before our eyes, but I was quickly and scowlingly given to understand that our government—that is, the nation to which we happened to belong—could never oppress, but only confer prosperity upon another people, and when they sought to break away from us they were “rebels,” that our control could be no yoke, for were we not always and only and fully in the right?

In early May Arno’s regiment was ordered to march. They had to leave at seven in the morning. Ah, the night before—that terrible night!

Arno slept. He breathed quietly, with tranquil happiness upon his features. I set a candle behind the screen, for the darkness frightened me and sleep was impossible. I lay quietly beside him, leaning on one elbow and looking into his beloved face.

I wept and reviewed the cruel fate which was separating us. How could I bear it? Would a merciful Father let us soon have peace? Why could there not be peace always? I pictured him wounded, lying on the damp ground, and all the agonies that would be mine should he never return. I could have screamed and thrown my arms about him, but no, he must sleep that he should be better ready for duty in the morning. I was wornout with my despair, the clock ticked meaninglessly, the candle flickered low, and I slipped into unconsciousness and dropped on to my pillow in sleep. Over and over again I started in my sleep, my heart palpitating with fear and alarm, and when I thus waked for the tenth or twelfth time, it was day, the candle had gone out, and there came a loud knock at the door.

“Six o’clock, lieutenant,” said the orderly who came to rouse his master in good time.

The hour had come, the dreaded farewell was to be said; I was not to go to the station, but in our own room the sad parting was to take place, for I knew that my agony would overcome me. As Arno dressed he made all sorts of comforting speeches:—

“Be brave, my Martha. In two months we will be together again, and all will be over. Many come back from wars—look at your own father. Did you marry a Hussar to keep him at home, to raise hyacinths for you? I will write you lively letters of the whole campaign. My own cheerfulness is a good omen, and I am only out to win my spurs. Take care of yourself and the darling Rudolf. My promotions are for him too. How he will love to hear his father tell of the glorious victory over Italy in which he took part!”

I listened to him and felt that perhaps my unhappiness was all selfishness. I would be strong and take courage.

Again a knock at the door.

“I am quite ready; coming directly.” And he spread his arms. “Now, Martha, my wife, my love!” I rushed to him speechless; the farewell refused to pass my lips, and it was he who spoke the heart-breaking word:—

“Good-bye, my all, my love, good-bye!” he convulsively sobbed, covering his face. This was too much, and I felt my mind going.

“Arno! Arno!” I screamed, wrapping my arms about him. “Stay! Stay!” I persistently called, “Stay, stay!”

“Lieutenant!” we heard outside, “it is quite time.”

One last kiss—and he rushed out.

Women’s co-operation at home—Anxious for news from seat of war—Austria’s bad luck—Patriotism and relief work—A friendly visit—The fatal news.

Preparing lint, reading reports, following on the map the chess-board of the war with my little movable flags, prayers for the success of our side, talking of the events of the day: such were our occupations. All our other interests lagged, one question alone occupied us: When and how will this war end? We ate, drank, read, and worked with no real concern, only the telegrams and letters from Italy seemed of any importance. Arno was not given to letter-writing, but his short notes always gave me the cheering word that he was still alive and unwounded. Letters were irregular, for the field-post was cut off during an engagement, and then my anxiety and suffering were indescribable. After each battle, the list of the killed filled me each time with fresh terror, as though my loved one had held a lottery ticket, and might have drawn the doomed number.

When, for the first time, I read the list and found no Arno Dotzky among them, I folded my hands and prayed softly, “My God, I thank thee.” But with the words still in my ears they suddenly grated upon me. Was I perhaps thanking God that Adolf Schmidt and Karl Muller, and many others had been slain, but not Arno Dotzky? Naturally those who prayed and hoped for Schmidt and Muller would have been glad to read the name of Dotzky instead of those they dreaded to find. And why should my thanks be more pleasing to God than theirs? That Schmidt’s mother and Muller’s sweetheart should break their hearts, this had made me rejoice? And I realised the selfishness of such thanksgivings, and presumptuousness of our prayers.

On the same day a letter came from Arno:—

Yesterday we had another hard fight, and, unfortunately, again a defeat. But cheer up, darling Martha, the next battle we shall surely win. It was my first great engagement. To stand in a thick shower of bullets gives one a peculiar feeling. I will tell you about it by and by; it is frightful. The poor fellows who fall on all sides must be left in spite of their cries—but such is war. When we enter Turin to dictate terms to the enemy, you can meet me there, for Aunt Marie can take care of our little corporal until we return.

Such letters formed the sunshine of my existence, but my nights were restless. Often I awoke with the horrible feeling that at the very moment Arno might be dying in a ditch, thirsting for water, and crying out for me. I would force myself back to my senses by imagining the scene of his joyful return, which was much more probable to be my experience than the contrary.

Bad news followed thick and fast. My father was deeply distressed, first over Montebello, then Magenta; and not he alone, for all Vienna was disheartened. Victory had been so certain, that we were already planning our flag decorations and Te Deums. Instead, the flags were waving, and the priests chanting in Turin. There they were thanking God that he had helped them to strike down the wicked “Tedeschi.”

“Father dear, in case of another defeat, will not then peace be declared?” I asked one day.

“Shame upon you to suggest such a thing!” he silenced me. “Better that it should be a seven years’, even a thirty years’ war, so that our side may be the conqueror, and we dictate terms of peace. If we fight only to get out of it as quickly as possible, we might as well never have begun.”

“And that would have been by far the best,” I sighed.

“Women are such cowards! Even you, whom I grounded so thoroughly in principles of patriotism and love of fatherland, are now quite willing to sacrifice the fame of your country for your own personal comfort.”

“Alas ... it is because I love my Arno so well!”

“Love of husband, love of family, all that is very good, but it takes the second place to love of country.”

“Ought it?”

The lists of fatalities grew apace, and contained the names of several officers personally known to me, among the rest the only son of a dear old lady whom I greatly respected. I felt I must go and comfort her. No, comfort her, I could not. I would only weep with her. On reaching her house I hesitated to pull the bell. My last visit there had been on the occasion of a jolly little dancing party, and Frau von Ullmann, full of joy, had said to me: “Martha, we are the two most enviable women in Vienna. You have the handsomest of husbands and I the noblest of sons.”

And, to-day? I still, indeed, had my husband, but who knows? Shot and shell might make me a widow any minute. There was no answer as I stood and rang at the door. Finally a head was thrust out of the window of the adjoining apartment:—

“There is no use ringing, miss, the house is empty.”

“What, is Frau von Ullmann gone?”

“She was taken to the insane asylum three days ago,” and the head disappeared.

I stood motionless, rooted to the spot. What scenes there must have been! What heights of agony before the poor old lady broke into madness!

And my father wished that the war might last thirty years for the welfare of the country! How many more such mothers would there be then?

I went down the stairs shaken to the depths. I started to call on another friend, and on the way I passed the Relief Corps storehouse, for there was then no “Red Cross” or “Convention of Geneva” to distribute supplies, and the people were all eagerly offering comforts for the sick and wounded. I entered, feeling impelled to empty my purse into the hands of the committee. It might save some poor fellow—and keep his mother from the madhouse. I was shown to the room where the contributions were taken. I passed several rooms where long tables were piled with packages of linens, wines, cigars, tobacco, but mostly mountains of bandages, and I thought with a shudder, how many bleeding gashes it would take to use them all—and my father wishing that the war might last for thirty years. How many of our country’s sons would then succumb to their wounds?

My money was received thankfully, and my many questions were answered, comforting me much to hear of the good being done.

An old gentleman came in, offering a hundred florin bill, and saying: “Allow me to contribute a little toward the useful work. I look on all this organisation of yours as the most humane. I have served in the campaign of 1809–1813, when no one sent the wounded pillows and bandages. There were never enough surgeons and supplies, and thousands suffered a hideous death. You cannot realise the good you are doing.” And he went away with tears in his eyes.

Just then there was commotion outside, and throwing open the double doors, the guard announced: “Her Majesty, the Empress!”

From my quiet corner I saw the beautiful young sovereign, who in her simple street dress appeared even lovelier than in her court costume or ball dress.

“I have come,” she said gently, “because the Emperor writes to me from the seat of war how useful and acceptable is your work.” She examined the rolls of linen. “How beautifully done it is,” she exclaimed. “It is a fine patriotic undertaking, and the poor soldiers——” I lost the rest of the remark as she passed into another room, so visibly content with what she was seeing.

“Poor soldiers!” These words sounded strangely pathetic in my ears. Yes, poor indeed, and the more comforts we sent them the better. But the suggestion that ran through my head was: “Why not keep them at home altogether? Why send these poor men into all this misery?”

But no, I must shut out the thought, for is war not a necessary thing? I found the only excuse for all this cruelty in that little word: “Must.”

I went on my way and passed a book-store. Remembering that my map of the war region was worn to shreds, I stepped in to order one. A number of buyers were there, and when my turn came the proprietor asked: “A map of Italy, madam?”

“How did you guess it?”

“No one asks for anything else, nowadays.” While wrapping up my purchase, he said to a gentleman standing by, “It goes hard nowadays with writers and publishers of books. So long as war lasts no one is interested in intellectual matters. These are hard times for authors and booksellers.”

“Yes, this is a great drain on the nation, and war is always followed by a decline in the intellectual standard.”

For the third time I thought: “And father, for the good of the country, would have war last thirty years.”

“So your business suffers?” I asked.

“Not mine alone, madam. Except for the army providers, all tradesmen are suffering untold losses. Everything stands still in the factory, on the farm, everywhere men are without work, and without bread. Our securities are falling and gold rises in value, while all enterprise is blocked, and business is being bankrupted. In short, everywhere is misery, misery!”

“And there is my own father wishing——” I found myself thinking as I left the store.

My friend was at home. The Countess Lori Griesbach in more than one respect shared the same lot with me. Her father was a general, and like me she had married an officer. Her husband as well as two brothers were in the service. But Lori’s nature was very light-hearted. She had fully convinced herself that her dear ones were under the special protection of her patron saint, and she was confident that they would return. She received me with open arms.

“So glad to see you, dear; it is good of you to come. But you look worried. Any bad news?”

“No, thank God, but the whole thing is so terrible to me.”

“You mean the defeat? Oh, do not think about that, for the next news must be victory.”

“Defeat or victory, war is horrible,” I said. “How much better if there never were a war.”

“Oh dear, what then would become of our glorious military profession?”

“Then we should not need any.”

“What a silly way for you to talk,” she said. “How stale life would be with nothing but civilians. I almost shudder at the thought, but, fortunately, that would be impossible.”

“Impossible?” I said. “But perhaps you are right, or it would have long ago been changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that armies would have long ago been disbanded. But no, one might as well expect to prevent earthquakes.”

“I cannot understand how you can talk so. For I am rejoiced that my Louis has this splendid chance to distinguish himself. And for my brothers, too, it is a good thing, for promotions are so very slow in times of peace. Now they have all opportunities.”

“Have you received any news recently?” I interrupted.

“Not for some time, but you know how very uncertain the post is. After an engagement they are too tired to write. But my mind is easy, for both Louis and my brothers wear the blessed amulets. Mamma put them round their necks herself?”

“Can you imagine two armies meeting, when every man wears an amulet? Tell me; if the bullets are flying here and there, can they all be deflected into the clouds?”

“I do not understand what you mean, dear Martha, and your faith is so lukewarm. Even your aunt complains about you.”

“But why can’t you answer me?”

“Because you are jesting at what is sacred to me.”

“Jesting? Not at all. I was simply suggesting a reasonable argument in things that are above us.”

“You well know that it is a sin to argue and trust your own reason in things that are above you.”

“Yes, my dear, I will be quiet. You are right. Logic and reason are dangerous. Reflection and research are of no use. All sorts of doubts torment me and I try to answer them, but find only pain. Were I to disbelieve in the necessity of war I could never forgive those who——”

“You mean Louis Napoleon? Oh, what an intriguer he is!”

“Whether he or another ... but I must try to believe that men do not cause wars, that they break out of themselves like nervous fevers, and the flames of Vesuvius.”

“What a state your mind is in! Let us be sensible. Listen to me. Soon both our husbands will come back captains. I shall have a jolly six weeks at a watering-place with mine. It will do us both good after this suspense. You need not think that I have not suffered at all. And it may yet be God’s will that one of our dear ones shall meet a soldier’s death—but what is more noble, more honourable, than death in battle for emperor and fatherland?”

“You are talking like the next best army proclamation.”

“Yet, it would be dreadful—poor mamma—should Karl or Gustav be lost. But let us not think of it. Yes, I shall go and refresh myself at some watering-place. I think I would prefer Carlsbad. I was there as a girl and had a glorious season.”

“I, too, went to Marienbad, and there I made the acquaintance of my husband. But don’t let us be sitting here idly. If you have linen at hand we can be making bandages. I just came from the Relief Corps and——”

We were interrupted, for the footman brought in a letter.

“From Gustav,” cried Lori, joyfully. She read a few lines and, shrieking, fell about my neck.

“Lori, my poor dear, what is it? Your husband?”

“Oh God, oh God!” she exclaimed. “Read for yourself.”

I took the letter up. I can recall the contents perfectly, for I afterwards copied it in my diary.

“Read aloud, for I could not finish.”

I read:—

“Dear Sister—Yesterday we had a severe encounter. There was a long list of dead and wounded. Prepare poor mother, tell her Karl is severely wounded, but I tell you the truth—the brave fellow died for his country.”

I stopped to embrace dear Lori, and continued reading, choked with my tears.

“Your husband is safe, as well as I. Had the enemy’s bullet only hit me instead! I envy Karl his heroic death. He fell at the beginning and never knew we were defeated. Oh, how bitter it all is, I saw his fall, for we were riding together. I sprang to lift him up, but one look told me he was dead. The ball must have hit the lungs or heart. His death was surely instant and quite painless. Many others suffered hours of agony and lay long in the heat of battle till death came. It was a bloody day. More than a thousand, friend and foe, were left on the field. Among the dead I found many dear faces, and with the rest, there is poor”—here I had to turn the page—“poor Arno Dotzky.”

I fell insensible to the floor.