CHAPTER II

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.

EPILOGUE

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!

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.