Disarm! Disarm!

Early widowhood—Sorrow and solitude—I take up my studies again—Broader conceptions.

“It is all over now, Martha! Solferino is decisive. We have been beaten.” With these words my father hurried to me one morning, as I was sitting under the linden trees in the garden.

I was back in the home of my girlhood with my little Rudolf. Eight days after the great battle which left me a widow, I returned to live with my family in Grumitz, our country place in Lower Austria. Just as it had been before my marriage, I was surrounded by the loved ones—father, aunt, two growing sisters, and my little brother. Their kindness and sympathy touched my grief-stricken heart. My sorrow seemed to have consecrated me in their eyes and raised me above the ordinary level.

Next to the blood poured out by the soldiers on the altar of their country, the tears of the bereft mothers, wives, and children are considered the holiest libations poured on the same altar. What was almost a feeling of pride and heroic dignity took possession of me, for to have sacrificed a beloved husband in battle conferred upon me the equivalent of military merit, which grew to be quite a comforting thought, and helped me to bear my sorrow. But then I was but one of many whose loved ones slept beneath the Italian sod.

No particulars were brought me of Arno’s death, other than that he had been found dead, recognised, and buried. No doubt the baby and I were his last thought and consolation, and with his last breath he had groaned, “I have done my duty, more than my duty.”

“Yes, we are beaten,” sadly repeated my father as he sank on to the bench.

“So the victims were a needless sacrifice,” I sighed.

“Indeed they are to be envied, for they know nothing of the disgrace which has come upon us. But we shall gather ourselves together soon, though they say that peace must now be concluded.”

“May God grant it!” I interrupted. “Though it is too late for my poor Arno, yet thousands of others will be spared.”

“You seem to think only of your own sorrow, and that of private individuals. This is Austria’s affair.”

“But is not Austria made up of individuals?”

“But, my dear child, a state and empire has a longer and more important existence than an individual. Men disappear, from generation to generation, but the state goes on and on; it grows in power, fame, and greatness, or it crumbles, sinks, and is lost, if it allows itself to be surpassed or swallowed by other states. Therefore, it is the highest duty of every individual to sacrifice, suffer, and even die, that the existence, the power, and welfare of the state may be perpetuated and increased.”

These impressive words remained in my thought, and I noted them in my diary. They were curiously like the sentences in my old school books, whose strong, clear convictions had been quite driven from my mind of late, especially since Arno’s death, by the confusion, fear, and pity I had experienced. I once more hugged them to my heart, and found consolation and encouragement in the thought that my darling had been sacrificed in a great cause, and that, in giving up my husband, I had done my share in the service of my country.

Aunt Marie had a different source of consolation ready, however. “Stop your crying, my dear,” she would say when she found me crushed anew with my grief. “Is it not selfish to mourn for him who is now so happy? From up among the saints he is even now looking down and blessing you. The years will pass quickly when you will join him there. For the heroes of battle heaven prepares a special place of rest. Happy are those who are called from this earth while performing a sacred duty. Next in glory to the Christian martyr comes the dying soldier.”

“Then I am to rejoice that Arno——”

“No, not rejoice, that would be asking too much. You must bear your lot and resign yourself. Heaven sends this trial to purify and strengthen your faith.”

“And in order that my heart be purified and my faith strengthened my poor Arno had to——”

“No, no, but how dare you question the hidden ways of Providence?”

The consolations which my aunt offered were rather confusing and distracting, but I allowed myself to accept the mystical tangle, and believe that my dear victim was now enjoying heaven as a reward for his agony of sacrifice, and that his memory would be glorified on earth with the halo of heroic martyrdom.

Just before our departure from Vienna the great mourning ceremony had been celebrated in the cathedral of St. Stefan, and I attended. The De Profundis was sung for all our warriors fallen and buried on foreign soil. A catafalque had been erected in the centre of the church, lighted with a hundred candles and hung with flags, arms, and military emblems. The grand pathetic requiem came from the choir and flooded the congregation—mostly women clothed in black and weeping aloud. And not for her own alone, but for the same sad fate of all, each woman wept—for all these poor brave brothers who had given up their sweet young lives for us, for their country, the honour of their nation! And there in the background stood several regiments of living soldiers, listening to the ceremony—all waiting and ready to follow their fallen comrades without a murmur or fear. These clouds of incense, the swelling voice of the organ, the fervent petitions, the common woe poured out in tears and groans must surely have risen to a well-pleased heavenly ear, and the God of armies and battles must certainly shower down His blessing on those to whom this catafalque was raised.

These were the thoughts that came to me, and which I wrote in my journal when I described the mourning celebration.

Two weeks after the defeat of Solferino came the news of the peace of Villa Franca. My father gave himself no end of pains to explain to me how necessary for political reasons this peace had become. I assured him that it was very joyful news to me to know that there was an end to all this fighting and dying. But he continued at length to explain.

“You must not for one instant think,” he said, “that even though in this peace we have made concessions, we have thereby sacrificed our dignity. We Austrians know perfectly what we are about. It is not the little check we got at Solferino which makes us give up the game. Far from it. We could easily have routed them with another army corps, and forced the enemy from Milan, but, dear Martha, there are other things involved—great principles and objects. We do not cease to push the war further, lest these Sardinian robbers and their French hangman-ally should push into other portions of Italy—Modena and Tuscany—where dynasties are in power which are related to our imperial family; nay, they might advance even against Rome itself, and endanger the Holy Father—the Vandals! By giving up Lombardy we keep Venetia, and can assure the Holy See and the southern Italian states of our support. Thus, my dear, you see, it is only for political reasons and for the sake of the balance of power in Europe——”

“Oh, yes, father, I see it,” I broke in. “It is a pity that they could not have planned it all before Magenta!” I sighed bitterly, and, to change the subject, I pointed to a package of books which had just arrived from Vienna.

“See, father, the bookseller has sent us several things on approval. Among the rest is the English naturalist Darwin’s The Origin of Species. He recommends it as an epoch-making book in modern thought.”

“He need not bother me with it,” replied my father. “In such stirring times, who can be interested in such rubbish? How can a stupid book about plants and animals and their origin make an epoch of any importance to us men? The federation of the Italian States, the forming of the German Bund, and the consolidation of Austria—such matters make epochs in history and mark the great strides in human advancement. These things will live in history long after that stupid English book is forgotten. Mark my words.”

I did mark them.