Chapter III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt Marie came in just then and Betty disappeared.

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

“So you know it?”

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

“Joy, Aunt Marie?” I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again a knock at the door.

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

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

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

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

One last kiss—and he rushed out.