Chapter IV

Lilli and Conrad—Aunt Marie’s letter—Rumours of war with
Prussia—Negotiations and arguments—My father’s New Year’s
toast—Hopes and fears—The army mobilised—War declared—The
manifestos of both sides.

Spring found me in the neighbourhood of Vienna. Here I could see Frederick daily. My sisters and aunt were off for Marienbad, and from there Lilli wrote me:—

I confess I am beginning to be interested in Cousin Conrad.

And another letter from Aunt Marie:—

MY DEAR CHILD—It has been a tiresome winter in society, and I shall be
glad when Lilli and Rosa are married off. They have had opportunities
enough. It is a tiresome, thankless task to chaperone two
pleasure-seeking girls.

I am rejoiced to hear that you are well once more. [I had suffered
from a serious fever.] Your husband had been very much alarmed. But,
thank God, your time had not yet come. The service which I had said at
the Ursalines no doubt aided in bringing about your recovery. Kiss
little Rudolf for me. Tell him he must learn all he can. I am sending
him a few books: _The Pious Child, and his Guardian Angel_,—a
beautiful story—and _The Heroes of our Country_, a collection of war
stories for boys. We cannot begin too early to teach them such
glorious ideals. Your brother Otto was barely five when he first
learned of Alexander and Cæsar. It delights me to see how heroic and
enthusiastic he is. I am sorry your plan is to stay in Vienna this
summer to be nearer Frederick. But you should think of your dear
father as well, who would love to have you at Grumitz. Take my word
for it, you married people should not be so constantly together, but
allow each other some little liberty. That Heaven may protect you all
is my constant prayer.

AUNT MARIE.

_P.S._—Your husband has relatives in Prussia. (Happily he is not so
arrogant as his countrymen.) Please ask him what they are saying there
about the present political situation. It is rather critical.

This letter was the first insinuation to me that some complication was in view. Having been ill, I had neglected to keep myself informed on the current news, and I asked my husband: “You dear Prussian, less arrogant than the rest, what does Aunt Marie mean? Is there really a political situation just now?”

“Yes, there always is, as there always is weather, some political situation—which is as changeable and treacherous as the weather. They are still arguing about these complicated Duchies who talk of freeing themselves of these arrogant Prussians—‘rather Danish than Prussian!’ they cry.”

“And what will become of Augustenburg, with his ‘undivided right’ over these Danish Provinces? I studied all this history with the greatest care, and I have taken my stand for the old inherited right which has stood for hundreds of years. I thought I was sacrificing you to help establish this right.”

“It will go hard with your historical claims, my dear Martha,” laughed Frederick. Again I began to study the crisis, and discovered that the Vienna treaty had really settled nothing. Schleswig-Holstein loomed more formidably than before. The old claimants renewed their claims before the Alliance, and no one could guess what they were going to do about it. The two great powers were accusing each other of encroachment.

“Now, what are the arrogant Prussians up to?” was the constant suspicion of Austria as well as of the Middle States and the Duchies. Napoleon III. advised Prussia to annex up to the Danish-speaking border, but Prussia pretended to be unwilling. But at last she formulated her claim thus: Prussian troops should remain in occupation on the defensive, and under Prussian leadership; a contingent should represent the Alliance; the harbour of Kiel to be occupied; postal, telegraph, and customs to be under Prussian control. This angered the Austrian Minister of War; the jealous Middle States objected, and demanded that their leader be put in possession of the Duchies. This again Austria objected to, and although willing that Prussia should hold the harbour of Kiel, could not tolerate her right to recruit soldiers and sailors. And so the quarrel ripened.

Prussia declared she had no design absolutely to annex, but was planning the best interest of all parties. Under opposition Prussia became even more assertive, and voice after voice was raised against this “insolent announcement,” public sentiment rising daily against Prussia and Bismarck.

The Middle States demanded to know the secret negotiations carried on between the diplomats of the two powers. The two Emperors betook themselves to their country seats, and messages flew between them thick and fast. Several points were agreed upon. The investment should be shared half and half. Lauenburg should fall to Prussia, and Austria in lieu thereof receive two and a half million thalers. I asked myself, what return could such a sum be to offset all the losses, my financial losses, for instance, and in the case of thousands of others their fallen loved ones? Yet I was rejoiced when a new “treaty” was signed; that sounded so reassuring. Later I learned that these documents generally contain the germ of some future _causus belli_. The breaking of a treaty is only a fresh chance to fly to arms.

The quarrel seemed to be laid aside. The powers occupied the provinces, and I was again obliged to give up my favourite aspiration to see them once more “for ever together undivided,” as was decreed in 1460.

But in spite of the treaty, the situation was not relieved. Patient reading of the political press gave me an idea of the shifting condition, but I could hardly believe that war would result. I contented myself with the thought that legal questions could always be settled legally and justly. All these wise ministers, diplomats, judicious councillors, parliamentarians, and polite monarchs, could surely settle such a trivial point. Thus I was actuated more by curiosity than anxiety in my research, which I was carefully jotting into the red book:—

_Oct. 1, ’65._—Imperial Council at Frankfort adopts the following
resolutions: 1. The right of Schleswig-Holstein to control itself must
remain in force. The Gastein treaty is rejected as a breach of right
to the nation. 2. All officials shall refuse to pay over taxes and
loans to the Allies.

_Oct. 15._—The Prussian royal edict approved the decision in regard to
hereditary claimant, who renounces all right to the throne for the sum
of a half million thalers. By the Vienna treaty the duchies were ceded
to the Allies, hence there can be no further claim.

Protests were made on all hands. “Prussian arrogance” became a catchword, and all hands declared, “We must protect ourselves against them.” “King William would be another Victor Emanuel.” “To reconquer Silesia is Austria’s secret intent.” “Prussia is paying court to France.” “Austria is coquetting with the French.” Thus tittle-tattle and recrimination was indulged in by the Cabinets of the great Powers quite as seriously as by the gossips at a village tea.

* * * * *

The entire family returned for the autumn to Vienna.

I was very eager to keep my little Rudolf away from the influence of his grandfather, who was determined to inspire in him military tastes, which were already awakened, probably through a long line of soldier ancestry. My studies of natural science had taught me that such tendencies could be inherited. On my boy’s birthday his grandfather brought him a sword. I remonstrated:—

“You know very well that my son shall never be a soldier?”

“Would you tie him to your apron strings? Never mind, good soldier blood will tell; let him grow up, and see what profession he chooses—the noblest of all, I am sure—the military.”

“Martha fears he may die in battle,” said Aunt Marie. “As though the same fate might not overtake one in bed.”

“If a hundred thousand fell in battle,” I said, “would the same fate have been theirs in peace?”

Aunt Marie was always ready with an answer, “No, it would have been their destiny to have died in war.”

“Suppose they had been bold enough to refuse to go to war,” I suggested. “Impossible,” shouted my father, and then the old controversy began.

The Greek fable of the hundred-headed hydra illustrates so perfectly the manner of argument between two convinced opponents. No sooner have you sliced the head off one point and started to attack the second, when the first head has grown on again.

The following were my father’s favourite and unconquerable arguments in favour of war:—

1. War was the decree of God Himself (see Bible).

2. Wars have always been and always will be.

3. Without war population would increase too fast.

4. Permanent peace would corrupt, weaken, relax, and degenerate the race.

5. War best develops self-sacrifice, heroism, and fine character.

6. Human beings will always differ in opinions, interests, and desires, hence perpetual peace is impossible.

None of the above wise sayings can be maintained under argument, but each in turn can be set up as a fresh defence when the preceding one topples. For example, obliged to drop argument No. 4 and admit that peace is more apt to secure happiness, prosperity, and progress, my father would agree, “War is an evil, but (arguments 1 and 2) inevitable.” Then I would prove that by international agreement and law, war could be avoided; he would acknowledge that it could, but ought not (No. 5). If the argument for peace upsets the claims of Nos. 4 and 5, and shows that war hardens and brutalises men, then he would admit it, but quote No. 3. This argument sounds hugely humane and learned, but is the least sincere of all. Wars are not waged for the benefit of posterity. When you have proved the fallacy of 3 the other returns to 1, and so the trick can be carried on till it becomes a labyrinthal puzzle.

The lovers of war reason in a circle where one can always see and follow, but never catch them. That their arguments often proceed from opposite points of view and nullify each other matters nothing to them, and proves that they are arguing a position they have not thought out for themselves, but are bolstering up opinions which have been handed on to them. I did not see this clearly at the time I carried on the argument with my father on peace and war, but I always came away from the combat fatigued and dizzy, and I realised later that it came from whirling in this circle which his lack of logic necessitated.

* * * * *

New Year’s eve, 1866. As the first hour of this momentous year struck, we were sitting about my father’s table celebrating the engagement of Lilli and Conrad. My father arose and offered his New Year’s toast:—

“My dear children and friends: The year ’66 begins well, for long have I desired Conrad for a son-in-law. May we hope that this year may bring Rosa her ideal also. And you, Martha, may your husband be promoted to the rank of Colonel. For you, Dr. Bresser, I may wish hosts of patients, although it does not fit in with the spirit of my wishes for health and happiness. And for you, my dear, fatalistic Marie, may destiny bring you the grand prize of a full indulgence, or anything else you may be wishing for. For my Otto, my son, I can only wish him every distinction in his final examination, that he may acquire every soldierly virtue, and some day be an ornament to the army, and a pride to his old father’s heart. And for myself, who knows no greater joy than the welfare and fame of my fatherland, I can only wish that the coming year may bring back to my Austria the province of Lombardy, and—who knows—Silesia also. And may we take back from the insolent Prussian this land which they stole from the great Maria Theresa.”

A chill fell upon the company as my father closed his toast. Truly, none of us felt any pressing need for these two provinces.

“No, father dear,” I replied, “we must not forget that in Italy and Prussia it is also New Year’s Day, and we will wish them no evil. May the year ’66 and all the years to come help us to grow more united and happy.”

“Oh, you fantastic idealist,” said my father, shrugging his shoulders.

“Not that,” said my husband in my defence. “The wish is not one of an enthusiast and dreamer, for science assures us that it must be fulfilled some day. The world has slowly been growing better since the beginning, and it must go on, although we do not note it from year to year. We all know that men are happier, and better, and freer than in the primeval days.”

“If you are so sure of eternal progress, why so often complain of reaction and the relapses into barbarism in our day?” asked my father, tauntingly.

“Because”—Frederick took out his pencil and drew a spiral—“because the movement of progress goes on like this. It continually ascends, although at times appearing to go backwards. This coming year, if war is forced upon us, may be represented by one of these backward curves. Such events hurt civilisation materially as well as morally.”

“How unsoldierly you speak, Tilling.”

“These are universal matters; the opinions of a soldier or civilian have no different weight here, for the truth is always the same. If a thing is red, must one obstinately call it blue because one wears a blue uniform, or black because one wears a black coat?”

“A what?” said my father, who, when the argument went against him, was apt to appear hard of hearing. Since it is difficult to repeat a long argument, the discussion inclined to drop.

Upon our return home, I asked my husband: “What did I hear you say? There is prospect of war? Never, never will I allow you to go into another campaign.”

“How can your passionate ‘Never, never!’ help in the matter? The nearer the fatal day comes, the less possible it will be for me to resign. Immediately after Schleswig-Holstein it would have been possible, but not now.”

“Ah, that unlucky Schmidt & Sons the bankers!”

Again I found myself anxiously following developments in the newspapers and reports. “Be prepared! Be prepared!” was now the cry. “Prussia is preparing!” “Austria is quietly preparing!” “The Prussians claim we are preparing; it is not true, it is they who are preparing.” And thus the variations were sounded in my anxious ear.

“Why is all this commotion about armaments,” I asked my father, “if neither party plans to use them?” He answered me with the old saying: “In times of peace prepare for war.”

Thus each is keeping the eye on the other, and each accuses the other of warlike motives. So again begins the endless circle—the serpent with his tail in his mouth.

On the morning of March 12 my father burst into my room beaming with joy: “Hurrah,” he cried, “Good news!”

“Disarmament?” I asked, delighted.

“On the contrary. Yesterday a great council of war was held. We are ready on an hour’s notice to send out 800,000 men, and I tell you, my child, Silesia is ours whenever we choose.”

“Oh God! Oh God!” I groaned, “must this affliction come upon us once more? Who can be so devoid of conscience that for greed and ambition——”

And my father, denying that it was greed or ambition, only justice and patriotic ardour which pressed for war, harangued on the subject in his illogical manner, jumbling his arguments together, proving that all wished for peace, but if war came it must be met—until I was quite frantic, and said, beside myself with emotion:—

“You know well, that not only you, but the whole council want war, then why not say it out frankly? Why all this falsehood? Why tell the people they hope for peace when they are madly arming? Show your teeth and your closed fists, but do not the while whisper soft, false words of reassurance. If you are wildly eager to draw the sword, do not pretend that you are only caressing the hilt.”

He rose to the height of passion, and finally I burst into exhausting tears. My father was so amazed that he did not utter a word.

Now came a time of hopes and fears, ringing the changes on “Peace is secure,” “War is certain.” But once this word “war,” this little seed of thought, finds its way to the front, it seems inevitably to produce—war.

News came that Prussia was arming the Silesian fortresses. Austria disclaimed any intention of attacking Prussia and demanded that the latter should disarm. Prussia declared herself innocent of warlike intentions, but strengthened her standing army, hence Austria felt compelled to continue her preparations. So the dual game continued, and became a triple game as Italy armed herself with haste.

The excitement became universal and more violent every day. Every newspaper and speech announced that war was in sight. Bismarck was hated and reviled on every side. Letters were received from Aunt Cornelia in Prussia telling that the war was anything but wished, and that Bismarck was no less hated in his own country. She said the army was reported as refusing to go out in a war against brothers; that Queen Augusta had thrown herself at her husband’s feet to pray for peace. Had perhaps our beautiful Empress also done the same and with tears begged for disarmament, who knows? Perhaps the Emperor himself wished for peace, but it seemed that not even the throne could stand against the pressure and strain on every side.

On June 1 Prussia declared to the Assembly that she would disarm if Austria and Saxony would. Vienna responded accusing Prussia of planning an attack in concert with Italy. Austria would call the German Alliance to arms and decide the case of the Duchies. Holstein should co-operate. Prussia declared that this broke the treaty, and they moved into Holstein. Bismarck issued a circular letter. The press cried for war and predicted a victory to strengthen the national confidence.

On June 11 Austria proposed that the Alliance should take a hand against Prussia for helping herself to Holstein. On June 14 the vote stood nine to six—accepted. Oh, those three terrible votes! All was over. Ambassadors are dismissed. The Alliance requests Austria and Bavaria to go to the rescue of Hanover and Saxony, who have already attacked the Prussians.

On the 18th, Prussia’s war manifesto appeared. On the same date Austria’s troops marched out, and on the 22nd Prussia issued her first army orders.

King William said:—

To the last I have worked for peace with Austria, but it was refused.

Kaiser Francis Joseph announced:—

Prussia shows her desire to set might in the place of right, therefore
this unholy war of German against German cannot be avoided. Before the
judgment seat of history and Almighty God I summon him who has brought
this misery down upon our families and country.

The war is always the desire of “the other side.” It is always the other one who chooses to overcome justice with might, “German against German makes an unholy war”; quite right to step beyond Prussia and Austria and appeal to Germany. But why not in every war reach to the higher plane, and recognise it as a war of humanity against humanity? and regard every battle as an unholy contest?

And what good would it do to summon the aggressor before the judgment of History? Has not History always given the right to the victor? The laurels of History have always been placed on the conqueror’s brow, and he has been called great and the promotor of civilisation.

And why summon him before the Judgment seat of God? Is He not the same Lord of Hosts who begins as well as ends every war with His unchangeable will? Such contradictions! Are we not expected to consider two opposite principles as equally holy? Are the God of Love and the God of War one God, compelling war as well as justice, demanding national hatred as well as love of humanity?