Chapter IV

Women’s co-operation at home—Anxious for news from seat of
war—Austria’s bad luck—Patriotism and relief work—A friendly
visit—The fatal news.

Preparing lint, reading reports, following on the map the chess-board of the war with my little movable flags, prayers for the success of our side, talking of the events of the day: such were our occupations. All our other interests lagged, one question alone occupied us: When and how will this war end? We ate, drank, read, and worked with no real concern, only the telegrams and letters from Italy seemed of any importance. Arno was not given to letter-writing, but his short notes always gave me the cheering word that he was still alive and unwounded. Letters were irregular, for the field-post was cut off during an engagement, and then my anxiety and suffering were indescribable. After each battle, the list of the killed filled me each time with fresh terror, as though my loved one had held a lottery ticket, and might have drawn the doomed number.

When, for the first time, I read the list and found no Arno Dotzky among them, I folded my hands and prayed softly, “My God, I thank thee.” But with the words still in my ears they suddenly grated upon me. Was I perhaps thanking God that Adolf Schmidt and Karl Muller, and many others had been slain, but not Arno Dotzky? Naturally those who prayed and hoped for Schmidt and Muller would have been glad to read the name of Dotzky instead of those they dreaded to find. And why should my thanks be more pleasing to God than theirs? That Schmidt’s mother and Muller’s sweetheart should break their hearts, this had made me rejoice? And I realised the selfishness of such thanksgivings, and presumptuousness of our prayers.

On the same day a letter came from Arno:—

Yesterday we had another hard fight, and, unfortunately, again a
defeat. But cheer up, darling Martha, the next battle we shall surely
win. It was my first great engagement. To stand in a thick shower of
bullets gives one a peculiar feeling. I will tell you about it by and
by; it is frightful. The poor fellows who fall on all sides must be
left in spite of their cries—but such is war. When we enter Turin to
dictate terms to the enemy, you can meet me there, for Aunt Marie can
take care of our little corporal until we return.

Such letters formed the sunshine of my existence, but my nights were restless. Often I awoke with the horrible feeling that at the very moment Arno might be dying in a ditch, thirsting for water, and crying out for me. I would force myself back to my senses by imagining the scene of his joyful return, which was much more probable to be my experience than the contrary.

Bad news followed thick and fast. My father was deeply distressed, first over Montebello, then Magenta; and not he alone, for all Vienna was disheartened. Victory had been so certain, that we were already planning our flag decorations and Te Deums. Instead, the flags were waving, and the priests chanting in Turin. There they were thanking God that he had helped them to strike down the wicked “Tedeschi.”

“Father dear, in case of another defeat, will not then peace be declared?” I asked one day.

“Shame upon you to suggest such a thing!” he silenced me. “Better that it should be a seven years’, even a thirty years’ war, so that our side may be the conqueror, and we dictate terms of peace. If we fight only to get out of it as quickly as possible, we might as well never have begun.”

“And that would have been by far the best,” I sighed.

“Women are such cowards! Even you, whom I grounded so thoroughly in principles of patriotism and love of fatherland, are now quite willing to sacrifice the fame of your country for your own personal comfort.”

“Alas ... it is because I love my Arno so well!”

“Love of husband, love of family, all that is very good, but it takes the second place to love of country.”

“_Ought_ it?”

* * * * *

The lists of fatalities grew apace, and contained the names of several officers personally known to me, among the rest the only son of a dear old lady whom I greatly respected. I felt I must go and comfort her. No, comfort her, I could not. I would only weep with her. On reaching her house I hesitated to pull the bell. My last visit there had been on the occasion of a jolly little dancing party, and Frau von Ullmann, full of joy, had said to me: “Martha, we are the two most enviable women in Vienna. You have the handsomest of husbands and I the noblest of sons.”

And, to-day? I still, indeed, had my husband, but who knows? Shot and shell might make me a widow any minute. There was no answer as I stood and rang at the door. Finally a head was thrust out of the window of the adjoining apartment:—

“There is no use ringing, miss, the house is empty.”

“What, is Frau von Ullmann gone?”

“She was taken to the insane asylum three days ago,” and the head disappeared.

I stood motionless, rooted to the spot. What scenes there must have been! What heights of agony before the poor old lady broke into madness!

And my father wished that the war might last thirty years for the welfare of the country! How many more such mothers would there be then?

I went down the stairs shaken to the depths. I started to call on another friend, and on the way I passed the Relief Corps storehouse, for there was then no “Red Cross” or “Convention of Geneva” to distribute supplies, and the people were all eagerly offering comforts for the sick and wounded. I entered, feeling impelled to empty my purse into the hands of the committee. It might save some poor fellow—and keep his mother from the madhouse. I was shown to the room where the contributions were taken. I passed several rooms where long tables were piled with packages of linens, wines, cigars, tobacco, but mostly mountains of bandages, and I thought with a shudder, how many bleeding gashes it would take to use them all—and my father wishing that the war might last for thirty years. How many of our country’s sons would then succumb to their wounds?

My money was received thankfully, and my many questions were answered, comforting me much to hear of the good being done.

An old gentleman came in, offering a hundred florin bill, and saying: “Allow me to contribute a little toward the useful work. I look on all this organisation of yours as the most humane. I have served in the campaign of 1809–1813, when no one sent the wounded pillows and bandages. There were never enough surgeons and supplies, and thousands suffered a hideous death. You cannot realise the good you are doing.” And he went away with tears in his eyes.

Just then there was commotion outside, and throwing open the double doors, the guard announced: “Her Majesty, the Empress!”

From my quiet corner I saw the beautiful young sovereign, who in her simple street dress appeared even lovelier than in her court costume or ball dress.

“I have come,” she said gently, “because the Emperor writes to me from the seat of war how useful and acceptable is your work.” She examined the rolls of linen. “How beautifully done it is,” she exclaimed. “It is a fine patriotic undertaking, and the poor soldiers——” I lost the rest of the remark as she passed into another room, so visibly content with what she was seeing.

“Poor soldiers!” These words sounded strangely pathetic in my ears. Yes, poor indeed, and the more comforts we sent them the better. But the suggestion that ran through my head was: “Why not keep them at home altogether? Why send these poor men into all this misery?”

But no, I must shut out the thought, for is war not a necessary thing? I found the only excuse for all this cruelty in that little word: “Must.”

I went on my way and passed a book-store. Remembering that my map of the war region was worn to shreds, I stepped in to order one. A number of buyers were there, and when my turn came the proprietor asked: “A map of Italy, madam?”

“How did you guess it?”

“No one asks for anything else, nowadays.” While wrapping up my purchase, he said to a gentleman standing by, “It goes hard nowadays with writers and publishers of books. So long as war lasts no one is interested in intellectual matters. These are hard times for authors and booksellers.”

“Yes, this is a great drain on the nation, and war is always followed by a decline in the intellectual standard.”

For the third time I thought: “And father, for the good of the country, would have war last thirty years.”

“So your business suffers?” I asked.

“Not mine alone, madam. Except for the army providers, all tradesmen are suffering untold losses. Everything stands still in the factory, on the farm, everywhere men are without work, and without bread. Our securities are falling and gold rises in value, while all enterprise is blocked, and business is being bankrupted. In short, everywhere is misery, misery!”

“And there is my own father wishing——” I found myself thinking as I left the store.

My friend was at home. The Countess Lori Griesbach in more than one respect shared the same lot with me. Her father was a general, and like me she had married an officer. Her husband as well as two brothers were in the service. But Lori’s nature was very light-hearted. She had fully convinced herself that her dear ones were under the special protection of her patron saint, and she was confident that they would return. She received me with open arms.

“So glad to see you, dear; it is good of you to come. But you look worried. Any bad news?”

“No, thank God, but the whole thing is so terrible to me.”

“You mean the defeat? Oh, do not think about that, for the next news must be victory.”

“Defeat or victory, war is horrible,” I said. “How much better if there never were a war.”

“Oh dear, what then would become of our glorious military profession?”

“Then we should not need any.”

“What a silly way for you to talk,” she said. “How stale life would be with nothing but civilians. I almost shudder at the thought, but, fortunately, that would be impossible.”

“Impossible?” I said. “But perhaps you are right, or it would have long ago been changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that armies would have long ago been disbanded. But no, one might as well expect to prevent earthquakes.”

“I cannot understand how you can talk so. For I am rejoiced that my Louis has this splendid chance to distinguish himself. And for my brothers, too, it is a good thing, for promotions are so very slow in times of peace. Now they have all opportunities.”

“Have you received any news recently?” I interrupted.

“Not for some time, but you know how very uncertain the post is. After an engagement they are too tired to write. But my mind is easy, for both Louis and my brothers wear the blessed amulets. Mamma put them round their necks herself?”

“Can you imagine two armies meeting, when every man wears an amulet? Tell me; if the bullets are flying here and there, can they all be deflected into the clouds?”

“I do not understand what you mean, dear Martha, and your faith is so lukewarm. Even your aunt complains about you.”

“But why can’t you answer me?”

“Because you are jesting at what is sacred to me.”

“Jesting? Not at all. I was simply suggesting a reasonable argument in things that are above us.”

“You well know that it is a sin to argue and trust your own reason in things that are above you.”

“Yes, my dear, I will be quiet. You are right. Logic and reason are dangerous. Reflection and research are of no use. All sorts of doubts torment me and I try to answer them, but find only pain. Were I to disbelieve in the necessity of war I could never forgive those who——”

“You mean Louis Napoleon? Oh, what an intriguer he is!”

“Whether he or another ... but I must try to believe that men do not cause wars, that they break out of themselves like nervous fevers, and the flames of Vesuvius.”

“What a state your mind is in! Let us be sensible. Listen to me. Soon both our husbands will come back captains. I shall have a jolly six weeks at a watering-place with mine. It will do us both good after this suspense. You need not think that I have not suffered at all. And it may yet be God’s will that one of our dear ones shall meet a soldier’s death—but what is more noble, more honourable, than death in battle for emperor and fatherland?”

“You are talking like the next best army proclamation.”

“Yet, it would be dreadful—poor mamma—should Karl or Gustav be lost. But let us not think of it. Yes, I shall go and refresh myself at some watering-place. I think I would prefer Carlsbad. I was there as a girl and had a glorious season.”

“I, too, went to Marienbad, and there I made the acquaintance of my husband. But don’t let us be sitting here idly. If you have linen at hand we can be making bandages. I just came from the Relief Corps and——”

We were interrupted, for the footman brought in a letter.

“From Gustav,” cried Lori, joyfully. She read a few lines and, shrieking, fell about my neck.

“Lori, my poor dear, what is it? Your husband?”

“Oh God, oh God!” she exclaimed. “Read for yourself.”

I took the letter up. I can recall the contents perfectly, for I afterwards copied it in my diary.

“Read aloud, for I could not finish.”

I read:—

“DEAR SISTER—Yesterday we had a severe encounter. There was a long
list of dead and wounded. Prepare poor mother, tell her Karl is
severely wounded, but I tell you the truth—the brave fellow died for
his country.”

I stopped to embrace dear Lori, and continued reading, choked with my tears.

“Your husband is safe, as well as I. Had the enemy’s bullet only hit
me instead! I envy Karl his heroic death. He fell at the beginning and
never knew we were defeated. Oh, how bitter it all is, I saw his fall,
for we were riding together. I sprang to lift him up, but one look
told me he was dead. The ball must have hit the lungs or heart. His
death was surely instant and quite painless. Many others suffered
hours of agony and lay long in the heat of battle till death came. It
was a bloody day. More than a thousand, friend and foe, were left on
the field. Among the dead I found many dear faces, and with the rest,
there is poor”—here I had to turn the page—“poor Arno Dotzky.”

I fell insensible to the floor.