Chapter II

The course of war—Hostilities suspended and renewed—My
husband departs—The dead baby—Letters from the seat of
war—Recovery—Anxiety—Letters—Return of Frederick.

Encouraging tidings came from the seat of war. The allies won battle after battle. The Danes were forced from the entire field, which was occupied by our troops, the enemy barely maintaining the lines. With pins and flags I followed the campaign on the map. If only the butchery might end before Frederick’s regiment was ordered into the field! This fear hung over us like the sword of Damocles. I dreaded the night lest the morning would bring the marching orders. Frederick was calm, but he saw what was coming.

“Accustom yourself to face the events, my dear, and cease protesting. I believe the war will continue for some time, for not a large enough force was sent to the front in the beginning, so my regiment will have to join.”

Two months and yet no results! Oh, why could not the cruel game be settled in one fight like a duel? But no, if one battle is lost, another is offered; if one position is given up, another is taken, and so on till one side or the other is annihilated, or both exhausted.

On April 14 the last stronghold was taken, and immediately a peace conference assembled in London. Every one was overjoyed and relieved, save, perhaps, some of my husband’s comrades, who had hoped to share the glory. Their wives thought it bad luck. But I received the news of “suspension of hostilities” with great joy, and wrote in my diary “Disarm! Disarm! For ever.” I added despondingly, and in brackets, “Utopia.”

The London conference dragged on two months without agreement, and then came the orders to Frederick’s regiment to march, with twenty-four hours for leave-taking. The birth of our little child was hourly expected, and it was as if we both awaited death upon our farewell.

We were overwhelmed with the magnitude of the approaching evils. To us it was neither patriotic nor heroic to help hew down the Danes, and in case our parting was for ever, what excuse of state could reconcile us to this terrible sacrifice? To defend the common cause of humanity might be justified, but to rush into battle with a distant country, throwing away life, and home, and family, because of the mere pledge of princes—it was too infamous! Why must Austrian soldiers leave home to help set this petty prince on his petty throne? Why? Why? How treasonable and blasphemous to ask such a question of Emperor and Pope! Neither would or could answer.

The regiment was to march at ten. We had not slept for hours lest we should waste a moment. We strove vainly to comfort each other. In the rays of morning light I realised that my hour had come, and with tears of uncertainty we tore ourselves apart, Frederick desperate lest the next moment might rob him of both wife and child.

The next morning the Olmutz papers contained the following account:—

Yesterday the ——th Regiment left town with flying colours to gain
fresh laurels in the sea-girt brotherland. The joy of battle inspired
every heart, etc., etc.

I lost my child, and for weeks lay between life and death, dreaming all the agonies of war and torture. In my delirium I cried, “Disarm! Disarm! Help us all for the sake of justice and mercy, help!”

When I regained consciousness, my father and Aunt Marie stood at my bedside.

“Is he alive? Have letters come?” were my first questions. Yes, quite a heap of letters had accumulated. One was marked: “Not to be opened till all danger is past.” From this I take extracts:—

To-day we met the enemy for the first time, having marched through
conquered territory until now, with the Danes retreating fast.
Everywhere are the ruins and remnants of battle. The landscape is torn
with shell and piled with graves. So the victors march on to new
victories. To-day we took the enemy’s position and leave a burning
village behind us. While friend and foe were absorbed in the tumult, I
could only think of you, and that perhaps you were lost. The enemy
withstood us but two hours, and we did not pursue. We collected our
wounded and cared for them as well as we could. The dead, some among
them still possibly alive, we buried, but the wounded and injured we
must leave behind to bleed slowly to death and starve. And we, hurrah,
we must push on into the jolly, dashing war.

Our next will probably be a pitched battle, for two great army corps
are about to clash. Then the loss will run into thousands, and the
artillery will mow them down. What a strange way of doing things! It
would be better if the two enemies each had a weapon, which with one
blow would wipe out either side. Perhaps such blasts would tend to put
a stop to war. If both forces were equally deadly, then force could no
longer be employed to settle disputes, for both disputants would be
wiped out.

Why do I write thus to you, when I ought to be glorifying our
engagements and triumphs? Because, like you, I long for the
unvarnished truth, and hate the usual lying phrases when death is
near. With thousands voicing the opposite, I must speak out before I
fall a sacrifice to war,—that I hate it. If every man who feels it
would say so, Heaven would hear our cry, and even the thundering
cannon roar would be drowned out by the new battle-cry of panting,
exhausted humanity: Let us make war on war!

The above was written yesterday. I snatched a few hours of sleep on a
sack of straw. In half an hour the field mail is taken. With little
rest we are already up for the march,—poor fellows. It is indeed
little rest after the bloody work to prepare them for still bloodier
sights. I have just returned from looking over the wounded, whom we
must leave. How gladly I would have put a bullet into some of them,
who must drag out a miserable agonized death. My horse is saddled.
Farewell, my Martha, if you are still alive.

One or two letters I found of a later date:—

The day is ours. I am unhurt. The first is good news for papa and the
last for you. I cannot forget that for thousands the same day has
brought untellable grief.

Another letter:—

Imagine my astonishment. Riding near me at the head of a detachment
was Aunt Cornelia’s only son, Gottfried. The youngster is beside
himself with enthusiasm, but how his poor mother must suffer! That
evening I sent for him to come to my tent. “Is it not splendid,” he
cried, “to be fighting in the same cause? How lucky I am to be called
out in my first year of service! I shall win the cross of honour.”
“And my aunt, how does she like it?” “Oh, just as all women—she tried
to damp my spirits with tears, but I am enchanted, delighted! Awful, I
grant, but magnificent. It is gratifying to feel that I am filling
man’s highest duty, with God’s help, for king and country. To meet
death so closely, to challenge him face to face, and yet not be
touched, it fills me with the glory of the old epics, as if the muse
of history were leading us on to victory. I feel such an indignation
at the enemy who dares defy us Germans, and it is a thrilling
sensation to gratify this hate, to destroy without being a murderer,
this fearless exposure of one’s life.”

So the boy rattled on, and I let him. Was not my first campaign the
same experience? Epic? Yes, that is the very word with which we so
carefully train our schoolboys into soldiers. We throw it into their
excitable young brains, which makes quiet domestic bliss seem stupid
nonsense, when they are longing for heroics. With me this attitude has
so completely vanished, that I could hardly realise Gottfried’s state
of mind. I had so early realised it all as so inhuman, that it was no
longer a revelation from the kingdom of Lucifer but gross barbarity
and bestiality. Only he who is drunk with the passion for blood and
destruction can triumphantly split open the defenceless head of an
enemy. I never knew the “joy of battle,” believe me, my dear wife, I
never did.

Gottfried is delighted that we are fighting together as brothers in
the same just cause (as if every cause were not called right by the
powers commanding). “We Germans are brothers!” “Yes, that was proved
by the Thirty Years’ and the Seven Years’ Wars,” I suggested
ironically. Gottfried paid no attention. “Together we will conquer
every enemy.” “Yes, until the Prussians declare war against the
Austrians.” “Not to be thought of! Impossible! What, when we have
fought and bled together?” “I warn you, nothing is impossible in
political matters. The friendships of dynastical rulers are as
changeable as the ephemeral fly.”

I write this, not because I imagine you in all your ill condition will
be able to read it, but because I have a premonition that I shall not
outlive this campaign, and I want to leave my convictions behind me.
The sincere reflections of honest, humane soldiers should not be
falsified or sink into the silent grave with them, unspoken and
unrevealed. I have here spoken it, this quiets my conscience, I can
die in peace.

This latest letter was five days old—five unspeakable days of dread. Though Frederick was yet unhurt, my anxieties left me no comfort. My father was obliged to return to Grumitz, and Aunt Marie remained to keep me consoled with her orthodox ideas of destiny, providence, and divine mercy—small comfort with so few letters coming from the seat of war. My father made inquiries, but could get no information, although Frederick was not in the list of the dead. Thus the days dragged on.

One afternoon I lay half dreaming on the sofa, where I had begged to be left alone. My weakness and anxiety had so overpowered my imagination and reasonableness that I was full of fleeting visionary sensations, and springing up in terror at some slight movement in the room, I suddenly thought I saw Frederick in the doorway.

“Oh, my Frederick, my lost one,” I groaned.

“Martha, my wife!”

What? could it be his real voice? then real arms were thrown around me eagerly.

The dream came true, I was enfolded in my husband’s loving embrace.