Chapter II

Marriage—The first-born—War rumours—The ultimatum.

After our marriage we took an Italian journey, having been granted a long leave of absence. Retirement from the army was never mentioned between us. We both possessed handsome fortunes; but my husband loved the military service, and I was proud of my elegant Hussar, and looked forward to his certain promotion. He would rise unquestionably to the rank of major, colonel, or even general. Who knew but he might be even called to the highest rank, and add his name to the history of his country, great as a conqueror!

The little red book contains a break just at the happy honeymoon time, and that is a pity. Oh for a little breath of those happy days to come back to me from between the leaves, in which I had wasted so much ink recording odd peevishnesses and bad humours! Still, my memory recalls those joys like an old half-forgotten fairy-tale. What could have been added to my overflowing heart?—for I had love, riches, rank, health, everything. My dashing Hussar, whom I loved with my whole soul, was a manly, noble-hearted man, with a most cultivated and merry nature. It might have been otherwise, for our acquaintance had been so short, and it was not our own discretion and wise choosing which brought us all this happiness. But the little red-bound book bore no entry for a long time.

Wait a moment! Here I find a joyous event noted—my delight at becoming a mother. A New Year’s gift—a son was born to us, the 1st of January 1859. The diary was resumed to note with pride and astonishment this all-absorbing event, as though we were the first to whom such a happiness had ever come. The journal teemed with comments on the mystical and sacred event. The future world had to be informed as to the marvel of “maternal love,” it was mine to magnify the office of motherhood. Was it not the greatest theme of art and literature, of song and story?

I cultivated this ideal most carefully, collecting poems, baby songs, and illustrations from journals and picture galleries. As in one direction school books foster and develop an admiration for war heroes, so through my collections I developed from hero-worship to baby-worship. My charming little man was to me the mightiest wonder of the world. Ah, my son, my grown-up manly Rudolf, the love of you in my maturer years eclipsed in colour the hours of childish wonder and worship. The love of my young motherhood is insignificant in comparison to what I feel for you to-day, even as is the babe himself in swaddlings besides the full-grown man.

How proud the father was of his tiny heir, as he planned for him the sunniest, fairest future. “What shall he be?” This was the great question that we discussed as we hung over the cradle together, and we always decided unanimously—a soldier, of course. Sometimes the mother would protest: “Suppose he should be killed in battle?” “Nonsense,” the father would answer; “at the appointed time each one meets his end.” Besides, Ruru was not to be the only son, but being the first he must be what his father and grandfather were, the noblest of all—a soldier. So it was settled, and so the joke was persisted in, and on his third-month birthday he was promoted to the rank of a corporal.

On that same day a great foreboding came over me, something that made me fly with a heavy heart to my little note-book. Dark clouds had arisen in the political horizon, and the fears and suspicions were daily growing into comments wherever people met together.

“Trouble in Italy is brewing” was the frequent remark. I had no time now for heroics and politics, so it hardly touched me. But on the 1st of April Arno said to me:—

“Do you know, darling, it will soon break out?”

“What will break out?”

“The war with Sardinia.”

I was terrified. “My God, that will be terrible. And must you go?”

“I hope so.”

“How can you say that? Hope to leave your wife and baby?”

“When duty calls.”

“Of course we can reconcile ourselves—but to hope—which means desire—to wish for such a bitter duty——”

“Bitter? Why, a jolly, dashing war like that would be glorious! You are a soldier’s wife, never forget that.”

I threw myself into his arms.

“Oh my darling husband. I can be content, and brave besides. How often I have envied the heroes of history and longed to be one of its heroines. What a glorious feeling it must be to go into battle! If I could only be at your side, fight, conquer, or even fall!”

“Such nonsense, little wife; but brave you are. Your place is here by the cradle of our little one, whom you must raise to be some day a defender of his country. Women must keep the fireside warm. It is to save our homes and wives from the attacks of the enemy and secure peace, that we men must go to war.”

Why, I do not know, but these words, or similar ones which I had so often read with enthusiasm, this time struck me as mere shallow phrases. Where was the advancing army—were the barbarous hordes at the door? A political tension between the Cabinets of two nations seemed an intangible enemy. What was the pressing need of protecting wife and child and home? Much as my husband spoke enthusiastically of going to war for that, I failed to see it. Was it a mere burning desire to rush into adventure, with a promise of excitement, promotion, and distinction? “Yet,” I concluded, “it is a noble, honourable ambition to delight in the brave discharge of duty.”

I poured out my feelings into the little note-book, denouncing Louis Napoleon as an intriguer.... Austria cannot long look on.... War must come.... No, Sardinia will soon give in, and peace be maintained. Thus I commented on the course of events. My husband’s eyes sparkled at the continued increase of the danger.

My father also gloried in the prospect, and retold the stories of the Radetzky campaigns, and discussed the impending ones, as to how the enemy would be easily routed, and all the advantages which would be “ours.” Of the terrible sacrifices nothing was said. I was made to feel quite ashamed of my meanness when I found myself thinking thus: “Ah, how can any victory recompense the dead, the crippled, the widowed? How would it be if the enemy conquered?”

I was contemptuously crushed by my military friends if I ventured such a remark. Was it not most unpatriotic to have the shadow of a doubt about our certain victory? Is not the duty of a soldier to feel himself invincible, and must not a soldier’s wife share this conviction with him?

My husband’s regiment was quartered in Vienna. The view of the Prater from my window promised a wonderful spring. The air was warm and delicious with violets, the sprouting buds seemed earlier than in years before. How joyfully I might have looked forward to the coming weeks of delightful driving, for we had purchased a fine carriage and a four-in-hand team of dashing Hungarian horses—but oh, if only the war-clouds had not hung over all that!

Coming home from a parade on the morning of April 19, my husband broke the spell with the exclamation: “Thank God, at last this uncertainty is at an end. The ultimatum has been sent.”

“And what does that mean?” I trembled.

“It means that the last word of the diplomats has been uttered—the last word that precedes the declaration of war. Sardinia is called to disarm. This she’ll not do, and we will soon march over the border.”

“Good God! Perhaps she may disarm.”

“Then that would end the quarrel.”

I fell on my knees. Silently and fervently a prayer cried out in my soul: “Peace, peace!”

“My silly child, what are you doing?” said Arno, raising me. The news had shaken my nerves, and I began to cry.

“Martha, Martha, you make me angry. How can you forget that you are a general’s daughter, a first lieutenant’s wife, and,” he concluded with a smile, “the mother of a corporal?”

“No, no,” I faltered, “I scarcely understand myself.... I used to thirst for military glory, but now, when I think that on a single ‘yes’ or ‘no’ thousands may bleed and die—die in these beautiful days of spring—it came over me that the word ‘Peace’ must be pronounced, that we must all pray for it, and I fell on my knees.”

“To inform the good Lord of the condition of affairs, you dear little goose!”

The house-door bell rang. I dried my eyes. My father came in with a rush. “My children,” he cried out of breath, “have you heard the great news—the ultimatum?”

“I have just told it to my wife.”

“Tell me, father dear,” I asked anxiously, “can the war be prevented by the ultimatum?”

“I never heard of an ultimatum preventing a war. It would be very wise of the wretched Italian rabble if they would yield and not risk another Novara. Ah, if good Father Radetzky had not died last year, even at ninety he would have routed this foreign scum. And I would have marched with him. But the puppies have not had enough of it. They need a second lesson. We shall get a handsome piece of Piedmont territory, and I look forward to the entry of our troops into Turin.”

“But, papa, you speak as if the war were already declared, and you were glad of it. Oh, if Arno must also go!”

“That he will, and I envy him.”

“But think of my terror at his danger!”

“Danger, what of that? Many a man comes home from war. Look at my campaigns, my wounds, and yet I am alive, for I was not destined to die.”

Such fatalistic notions!

“And if my regiment should not be ordered out——” began Arno.

I exclaimed joyously, “Oh, would that be possible?”

“In that case I shall apply for an exchange.”

“That can easily be settled,” my father assured him. “A good friend of mine, Hess, commands the corps.”

Admiring both husband and father—yet anxiety sickened my heart. But I must control myself. Was not my husband a hero? And I sprang up and exclaimed, “Arno, I am proud of you.”

Kissing my hands, he turned to my father, “Father-in-law, I am glad that you have trained your daughter to be a brave soldier’s wife.”

TURIN, _April 26_.—The ultimatum is rejected. The die is cast. War is declared.