Chapter I

Visit to Berlin—Aunt Cornelia—Aunt Marie’s death—Vienna again—Politics
and conscription.

In Berlin there reigned an evident spirit of jubilation. Even the useless street-loafer had an air of conscious victory. “We have given the other fellows a good thrashing” seemed to give a certain air of conscious victory to every one. Yet nearly every family mourned for some never-to-be-forgotten dead which lay on the battle-fields of Germany and Bohemia.

I dreaded meeting Aunt Cornelia again, for Gottfried had been her idol, her all; to measure her sorrow, I had only to fancy losing my Rudolf, if he were a young man—no, I did not dare think it out.

With beating hearts we entered Frau von Tessow’s house. Even in the entrance the deep mourning of the house was felt. We were led into my aunt’s bedroom, which she seldom quitted, except to go to church on Sunday and for one hour each day, which she spent in Gottfried’s little study. Here she took us, and showed us the letter which he had left on his desk:—

MY OWN DARLING MOTHER—I know that you will come here when I am gone
and find this letter. We have already parted, and it will please you
and surprise you to get these last words, so hopeful and cheerful.
Have courage, I shall be back. We are two undivided hearts which hang
on each other, and nothing can tear them apart. I prophesy that I
shall win stars and crosses in this fortunate campaign, and then come
home and make you a grandmother six times over. I kiss your hand, your
dear benign forehead, my most adored of all little mothers.

YOUR GOTTFRIED.

When I embraced the dear lady, we both broke into loud sobs. Frederick’s eyes were wet as he silently pressed her to his heart. Tears were sufficient words to express all we felt.

Our visit was a most sorrowful one, but Frederick was able to give the poor mother the self-same comfort he had brought to me, in assuring her of the instantaneous and painless death of Gottfried.

* * * * *

We were suddenly called from Berlin by the dangerous illness of Aunt Marie. Upon returning, we found her at the point of death.

“It is my turn now,” she said, “but I am glad. Since my dear brother and the three children were torn away, I have had no delight in life. It has been a great comfort, my dear Martha, to know that you are happy, and since your husband escaped the dangers of two wars and the cholera, it is evident that you are destined to grow old together. Try to educate our little Rudolf to be a good Christian and a good soldier, that his grandfather in heaven may rejoice over him. I shall constantly pray for you from above that you may live long and contented.”

After three days of lingering, this last friend of my childhood passed away, resigned, as she had lived, happy in the hope of heaven. She left her small fortune to Rudolf, and appointed our old friend, the Cabinet Minister, as trustee, and since business affairs kept us in Vienna for some months we saw much of him.

Twice a week he dined with us, and though he had now retired to private life was still fond of discussing politics. Frederick tried to turn the conversation away from political gossip, in which the other revelled upon the subject of the rights of humanity. The old gentleman could not follow Frederick, for he merely saw political science from the stand-point of gaining an advantage, and not of giving right and justice the first place.

I usually sat near by with my needlework, but only listened. The old statesman would hardly think it proper for a woman to mix into such deep subjects. He little realised that I made it my business to record all these discussions in my note-book.

Frederick made no secret of his opinions, although he realised the thankless part one plays in defending theories which are generally thought to be impracticable and grotesque.

“My dear Tilling, I have an important piece of news to-day,” said the Minister one afternoon with an air of importance. “It is rumoured in government circles that the ministry of war is recommending general obligatory military service.”

“What? the same system which before the war was so ridiculed?”

“Yes, we did have a prejudice against it, but Prussia has shown its advantages. From your enthusiastic moral, democratic, and liberal point of view, it would seem the ideal thing to have every patriot give himself to his fatherland for service, then ... if we had already introduced conscription, could little Prussia have vanquished us?”

“That simply means that with our added force we would have counterbalanced the enemy’s forces. If conscription were introduced generally how could it benefit anybody? The chess game of war would simply be played with greater numbers. The proportion would be the same, and the decision of victory would cost—instead of hundreds of thousands of slaughtered—millions perhaps.”

“But do you consider it fair that only a small part should be sacrificed for the benefit of another class, who, chiefly because they are rich, may stay at home? No, indeed; the new law will change all this—every one must serve and none can buy his freedom from it. Besides, the educated and intelligent make the finest material for soldiers.”

“But the enemy will also have the educated class, both sides will suffer by the loss of such priceless material—the intellect from which civilisation is to gain its inventions, arts, and scientific discoveries. Should they be set up as targets for the enemy’s bullets?”

“Pshaw! What can rummaging of the scientists, the dreams of the artists and inventors, help to advance the power of a nation?”

“How can you say that!” exclaimed Frederick.

“Besides, these men need spare but a short period from their research, and a few years of strict discipline will do them good. In the present state of things we must pay the blood tax, and it ought to be equally shared.”

“If through this it could be diminished, something would be gained—but it is only increased. I fully hope the plan fails. No one can tell where it will lead. Each Power will try to outdo the other, and we shall no longer have armies, but armed nations. Men will be drawn more and more into the service; the time will be lengthened, the costs will increase, and without actual battle and bloodshed, nations will be thrown into ruin, simply through their preparation for war.”

“You look too far into the future, dear Tilling.”

“One can never look too far ahead. We should think to the end in our undertakings—were we not just now comparing war to a game of chess? It is a poor player who only looks a single move ahead. Let us develop the thought of conscription to the extreme measure—what if, after the limit of number and age has been reached, a nation should recruit its women too? The others would imitate it. And then the children—and the rest would imitate it. And in the armaments, in the instruments of destruction, where would be the limits? Oh, it is a savage blind leap into the dark.”

“You are a rash dreamer, Tilling. If war were preventable, it would indeed be a good thing, but since that is impossible, every nation must prepare to win in the ‘struggle for existence,’ as your new-fangled Darwinism calls it.”

“And if I did show you a practical way to wipe out war, you would consider me only a silly faddist, riding the humanitarian hobby, as the war party sneeringly calls it.”

“There is no practical means of doing away with war so long as we have to deal with human passions, rivalries, opposing interests, the impossibility of agreeing on all questions——”

“Such agreement is unnecessary,” interrupted Frederick. “Where differences arise, courts of justice, not the sword, can decide.”

“Sovereign states appeal to such a settlement? Never! Nor would the people.”

“The people? Rulers and statesmen are opposed, but never the people—their love for peace is sincere, while the claim of the diplomats is always hypocritical. More and more the people cry for peace as the standing armies grow, for the halo of self-sacrifice will grow dim when every man must serve. Besides, who are the enthusiasts for the glories and dangers of war? Those who are safely outside them—the politicians, the professors, the stay-at-homes. When their safety is threatened they sing another song. Then more and more every one must look upon it with horror, and that sense will grow when poets, thinkers, lovers of humanity, timid people, when all these will, each from his own special point of view, curse the wretched trade they have been forced into.”

“However, they will be very careful to keep silent and not pass as cowards, or fall out of favour with their superiors.”

“Keep silent? Not always. I have kept silent for many years, but as I speak, soon many will break out. When convictions possess one’s soul, it speaks out. It took forty years for mine to find expression. It took decades to ripen in me; perhaps the masses may need as many generations—but the hour will come when they will at last speak out.”