IN September of this year our marriage took place.

My bridegroom had got two months leave for the wedding-tour. Our first stage was Berlin. I had expressed a wish to lay a wreath on the grave of Frederick’s mother, and begin our tour with that pilgrimage.

We stopped eight days in the Prussian capital. Frederick introduced me to his relatives who were living there, and all seemed to me the most amiable people in the world. And, really, everything we met was pleasant and beautiful—wearing as we did the rose-coloured glasses through which one looks at the outside world during the honeymoon. Besides, the newly-married pair were greeted on all sides with cheerful and kindly politeness; every one seemed to find it a duty to strew new roses on a path already so sunny.

What pleased me particularly in North Germany was the dialect. Not only because it was marked by my husband’s accent—one of his qualities which had excited my love at first—but also because in comparison with the way of speaking used in Austria it seemed to announce a higher level of education, or rather did not seem, but was really its result. Grammatical solecisms such as deform the common speech of the best circles in Vienna do not occur in good society at Berlin. The Prussian substitution of the accusative for the dative, “Gib mich einen Federhut,” is confined to the lower classes, while in Vienna the ordinary confusions of cases, such as “Ohne dir,” “Mit die kinder,” are heard commonly enough in the best drawing-rooms. We may for all that call our way of speaking kindly, and get foreigners to take it as being so, but it shows some inferiority nevertheless. If one measures human worth by the scale of education—and what more correct standard can one have?—then the North German is a little bit more of a man than the South German—an assertion that would sound very arrogant in the mouth of a Prussian, and may seem very “unpatriotic” from the pen of an Austrian authoress; but how seldom is there any outspoken truth which does not give offence, somewhere or somehow?

Our first visit in Berlin, after the churchyard, was to the sister of the deceased. From the amiability and intellectual accomplishments of this lady I could infer how amiable and accomplished his mother must have been if she was like Frau Cornelia v. Tessow. The latter was the widow of a Prussian general, and had an only son, who had just then become a lieutenant.

I never met with a handsomer young man in my whole life than this Godfrey v. Tessow. It was touching to see the affection between mother and son; and in this also Frau Cornelia seemed to have a resemblance to her deceased sister. When I saw the pride which she visibly had in Godfrey, and the tenderness with which he treated his mother, I was already delighting myself with imagining the time when my son Rudolf should be grown up. One thing only I could not understand, and this I expressed to my husband, thus:—

“How can a mother allow her only child, her treasure, to embrace so dangerous a profession as the army?”

“My dear, there are simple reflections which no one ever makes,” Frederick answered, “considerations which lie so near one that no one ever heeds them. Such a reflection is the danger of the military profession. People do not allow themselves to take that into consideration; it is thought a kind of impropriety or cowardice to allow that to weigh with one. And so it is assumed as a matter of course and inevitable that such danger must be survived, and indeed is nearly always survived by good luck (the percentages of killed are distributed over other people), and so the chance of being killed is not thought of. To be sure, it exists; but so it does for every one born into the world, and yet no one thinks about death. The mind can do a great deal to chase away troublesome thoughts. And, lastly, what more pleasant and more respected position can a Prussian nobleman occupy than that of a cavalry officer?”

Aunt Cornelia appeared also pleased with me.

“Ah!” she sighed on one occasion, “how I wish that my poor sister could have lived to feel the joy of having such a daughter-in-law and seeing her Frederick so happy as he is now with you. It was always her warmest wish to see him married. But he demanded so much from marriage——”

“That it did not seem likely he would fall in love with me, aunty.”

“That is what the English call ‘fishing for a compliment’. I only wish my Godfrey could get such a prize. I have been long impatient to know the joy of being a grandmother. But I shall have long to wait for that, my son is only twenty-one.”

“He may turn many young ladies’ heads,” I said, “break many hearts.”

“That would not be like him; a better, more straightforward young man does not exist. One day he will make a wife very happy——”

“As Frederick makes his.”

“You cannot tell that quite yet, my dear. We must talk about that ten years hence. In the first few weeks almost every one is happy. Not that I would express any doubt of my nephew or of you; I believe quite that your happiness will be lasting.”

This prophecy of Aunt Cornelia I wrote down in my diary, and wrote underneath it: “Did it come true? The answer to be written ten years hence.” And then I left a line blank. How I filled up that line in the year 1873—well, that must not be set down in this place as yet.

After leaving Berlin we went to the German watering-places. If my short tour in Italy with Arno were left out of account—and of this I had besides only a dreamy recollection—I had never been away from home. To make acquaintance in this way with new places, new people, new ways of life, put me into a most elevated state of mind. The world appeared to me to have become all at once so beautiful, and thrice as interesting. If it had not been for my little Rudolf that I had left behind, I should have pressed Frederick: “Let us travel about like this for years. We will visit the whole of Europe and then the other quarters of the globe. Let us enjoy this wandering life, this unfettered roving to and fro, let us collect the treasures of new impressions and experiences. Anywhere that we come to, however strange may be the people or the country, we shall be sure, in virtue of our companionship, to bring a sufficient portion of home along with us.” What would Frederick have answered to such a proposition? Probably, that a man cannot make it his business to spend his life in a wedding-tour, that his leave only lasted for two months, and many more such reasonable matters.

We visited Baden-Baden, Homburg, and Wiesbaden. Everywhere the same cheerful, elegant way of living; everywhere so many interesting people from all the chief countries of the world. It was in intercourse with these foreigners that I first became aware that Frederick was a perfect master of the French and English languages—a thing which made him rise to a still higher place in my admiration. I was always discovering new qualities in him—gentleness, liveliness, the most quick feeling for everything beautiful. A voyage on the Rhine threw him into raptures, and in the theatre or concert-room, when the artists performed anything peculiarly excellent, his enjoyment shone out of his eyes. This made the Rhine and its castles seem to me doubly romantic; this redoubled my admiration of the performances of celebrated musicians.

These two months passed over only too swiftly. Frederick applied for an extension of his leave, but it was decided against him. It was my first unpleasant moment since my marriage when this official paper arrived, which, in curt style, ordered our return home.

“And men call that freedom!” I cried, throwing the offending document down on the table.

Tilling smiled. “Oh! I never looked on myself as free in the least, my mistress,” he replied.

“If I were your mistress I could find it in my heart to command you to bid adieu to military service, and live only to serve me in the future.”

“On this question we had agreed——”

“Yes, I know. I am obliged to submit; but that proves that you are not my slave; and at bottom I feel that that is right, my dear, proud husband!”

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On our return from our tour, we went to a small Moravian city, the fortress of OlmÜtz, where Frederick’s regiment lay in garrison. There was no opportunity for social intercourse in the neighbourhood, so we two lived in complete retirement, with the exception of the hours given up to duty—he as lieutenant-colonel with his dragoons, I as a mother with my Rudolf. We gave ourselves up to each other only. The necessary ceremonial calls and return calls had been exchanged with the ladies of the regiment; but I could not lend myself to any intimate acquaintance; it did not amuse me in the least to go to afternoon tea parties and hear stories about servant-maids and the gossip of the town, and Frederick held off quite as far from the gambling parties of the colonel and the drinking bouts of the officers. We had something better to do. The world in which we moved, when we sat in the evening by the boiling tea-kettle, was worlds away from the world of OlmÜtz society. “Worlds away” often in a literal sense; for some of the favourite excursions of our spirit were directed towards the firmament. For we often read together scientific works and instructed ourselves in the wonders of the formation of the world. In this way we penetrated into the depths of the earth’s centre, and the heights of the heavenly spaces. In this way we explored the secrets of the infinite minuteness revealed by the microscope, and the infinite distances of the telescope; and by how much the wider the universe expanded before our gaze, by so much did the affairs of the OlmÜtz circle shrink into narrower dimensions. Our readings did not confine themselves to the natural sciences, but embraced many other branches of inquiry and thought. Thus I took up, among other things, my favourite Buckle, for the third time, to make Frederick acquainted with that author, whom he admired quite as much as I did; and, at the same time, we did not neglect the poets or novelists. And so our evening readings together became real feasts of the mind, while the rest of our existence besides was a continual feast of the heart. Every day we became more fond of each other. As passion cooled in its flame, affection increased in its intimacy and respect in its steadfastness. The relations between Frederick and Rudolf were a source of delight to me. The two were the best friends in the world, and to see them playing together was charming. Frederick was, if anything, the more childish of the two. Of course I joined in the game at once, and all the nonsense that we acted and said at these times we hoped the wise and learned men would forgive us, whose works we read when Rudolf had been put to bed. Frederick, it is true, maintained that apart from him he was not very fond of children; but, in the first place, the little boy was the son of his Martha, and in the next, he was really such a dear good little fellow, and suited his stepfather so wonderfully. We often laid plans for the boy’s future. A soldier? No. He should have no aptitude for it, since in our scheme of education there would be no drilling him into a love for military glory. A diplomatist? Perhaps. But most likely a country gentleman. As heir, presently, to the Dotzky estate, which must come to him on the death of Arno’s uncle, now sixty-six years old, he would have sufficient business in managing his possessions properly. Then he might take his little bride Beatrix to himself and live happily. We ourselves were so happy that we would gladly have seen all the world—aye, and future generations too—assured of the treasures of all life’s joys. Yet we did not shut our eyes to the misery in which the greater part of mankind was groaning, and in which, for some generations at any rate, they must continue to groan—poverty, ignorance, want of freedom, exposed to so many dangers and ills; and among these ills the most dreadful of all—War. “Ah, could one contribute anything towards warding it off?” This wish often sprang with groans from our hearts; but the contemplation of the prevailing circumstances and views was enough to discourage us and make us feel that it was impossible. Alas! the beautiful dream that for every one it might “be well with them, and they might live long upon the earth” could not be fulfilled, at least not at present. The pessimist theory, however, that life itself is an evil, that it would have been better for every one if he had never been born—that was radically refuted by our own lot.

At Christmas we undertook an excursion to Vienna, in order to spend the holidays in the circle of my family. My father was now fully reconciled to Frederick. The fact that the latter had not quitted the army had chased away his former doubts and suspicions. That I had made “a bad match” remained indeed the conviction both of my father and Aunt Mary; but, on the other hand, they could not help perceiving the fact that my husband made me very happy, and that they reckoned in his favour.

Rosa and Lilly were sorry that they would have to go into “the world” next carnival not under my supervision but the much more severe one of their aunt. Conrad Althaus was still, as before, a constant visitor at the house; and I could see, I thought, that he had made progress in Lilly’s graces.

Christmas Eve turned out very gay. A great Christmas tree was lighted up and all kinds of presents were exchanged between one and the other. The king of the feast and the one who had most presents was, of course, my son Rudolf, but all the others were thought of. Amongst the rest Frederick got one from me, at the sight of which he could not repress a cry of joy. It was a silver letter-weight in the form of a stork. In its bill it held a slip of paper on which in my writing were the words: “I am bringing you something in the summer of 1864”. Frederick embraced me warmly. If the others had not been there he would certainly have waltzed round the room with me.

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On Boxing Day the whole family gathered together again at dinner at my father’s. There were no strangers except the Right Honourable “To-be-sure” and Dr. Bresser. As we were sitting at table in the familiar dining-room I could not help having a lively remembrance of that evening when we two first plainly recognised our love. Dr. Bresser had the same thought.

“Have you forgotten the game of piquet which I was playing with your father, while you chatted over the fire with Baron Tilling?” he asked me. “I seemed, it is true, quite absorbed in my play, but nevertheless I had my ear cocked in your direction, and heard from the sound of the voices—for I could not catch the words—something which awoke in me the conviction, ‘Those two will come together’. And now that I observe you together a new conviction arises in me, ‘Those two are and will remain happy together’.”

“I admire your penetration, doctor. Yes, we are happy. Shall we remain so? That, unfortunately, depends not on ourselves but on Fate.... Over every happiness there hangs a danger, and the more heartfelt is the former so much the more terrible the latter.”

“What have you to fear?”

“Death.”

“Ah, yes! That did not occur to me. As a physician, it is true, I have frequent opportunities of meeting the gentleman, but I do not think of him. And, indeed, for young and healthy people, like the happy pair we are speaking of, he lies so far in the distance——”

“What is a soldier better for youth and health?”

“Chase away such ideas, dear baroness. There is really no war in prospect. Is it not true, your excellency,” he said, turning to the Minister, “that at present the dark point so often spoken of is not visible?”

“‘Point’ is far too little to say,” he replied. “It is rather a black, heavy cloud.”

I trembled to my heart’s core.

“What,” I cried out sharply, “what do you mean?”

“Denmark is going altogether too far——”

“Oh, Denmark?” I said, much relieved. “Then the cloud is not threatening us? It is indeed to me a sad thing, under any circumstances, to hear that there is to be fighting anywhere; but if it is to be the Danes and not the Austrians, I feel pity indeed, but no fear.”

“Well, you have no need for fear either,” my father broke in hastily; “even if Austria were to protect her own interests. If we have to defend the rights of Schleswig-Holstein against the supremacy of Denmark, we are not risking anything in doing so. There is no question of any Austrian territory, the loss of which might be involved in an unsuccessful campaign.”

“Do you think then, father, that if our troops should have to march out I should be thinking of such things as Austrian territory, Schleswig-Holstein’s rights, or Danish supremacy? I should see one thing only—the danger of our dear ones. And that would remain just as great, whether the war were waged for one cause or another.”

“My dear child, the fate of individuals does not come into consideration in cases where the events of the world’s history are being decided. If a war breaks out, the question whether one or another will fall in it or not is silenced in the presence of the one mighty question whether one’s own country will gain or lose in it. And, as I said, if we fight with the Danes we have nothing to lose in the war, and may improve our power and position in the German Bund. I am always dreaming that the Hapsburgs may yet one day get back the dignity of German emperor, which is their birthright. It would indeed be only proper. We are the most considerable state in the Bund—the Hegemony is secured to us, but that is not enough. I should welcome the war with Denmark as a very happy event, not only to wipe out the stain of ’59, but also so to improve our position in the German Bund that we should get a rich compensation for the loss of Lombardy, and—who knows?—gain in power to such an extent that the reconquest of that province will be an easy task.”

I looked across to Frederick. He had taken no part in the conversation, but had engaged in a lively laughing prattle with Lilly. A stab of pain shot through my soul, a pain which united into one twenty different fancies: war; and he, my All, would have to go, would be crippled, shot dead; the child in my bosom, whose coming he had greeted with such joy yesterday, would be born into the world an orphan; all destroyed, all destroyed, our happiness yet scarcely full-blown, but bearing the promise of such rich fruit! This danger in the one scale—and in the other——? Austria’s consideration in the German Bund, the liberation of Schleswig-Holstein, “fresh laurels in the army’s crown of glory”—i.e., a lot of phrases for school themes and army proclamations—and even that only dubious, for defeat is always just as possible as victory. And this supposed benefit to the country is to be set against not one individual’s suffering—mine—but thousands and thousands of individuals in our own and in the enemy’s country must be exposed to the same pain as was now quivering through me. Oh! could not this be prevented? Could it not be warded off? If all were to unite, all learned, good, and just men to avert the threatened evil!

“But tell me,” I said aloud, turning to the Minister, “are affairs really in so bad a condition? You ministers and diplomatists, have you no means of hindering this conflict? Do you know of no way of preventing it from breaking out?”

“Do you think then, baroness, that it is our office to maintain perpetual peace? That would, to be sure, be a grand mission, only not practicable. We exist only to watch over the interests of our respective states and dynasties, to work against anything that may threaten the diminution of their power, and strive to conquer for them every supremacy possible, jealously to guard the honour of the country, to avenge any insult cast on it——”

“In short,” I interrupted, “to act on the principle of war—to do the enemy, i.e., every other state, all the harm possible, and if a dispute begins, to persist as long as possible in asserting that you are in the right, even if you see you are in the wrong. Eh?”

“To be sure.”

“Till the patience of the two disputants gives way, and they have to begin hacking away at each other. It is horrible.”

“But that is the only way out. How else can a dispute between nations be decided?”

“How then are trials between civilised individuals decided?”

“By the tribunals. But nations have no such over them.”

“No more have savages,” said Dr. Bresser, coming to my help. “Ergo, nations in their intercourse with each other are still uncivilised, and it will take a good long time yet before we come to the point of establishing an international tribunal of arbitration.”

“We shall never get to that,” said my father. “There are things which can only be fought out, and cannot be settled by law. Even if one chose to try to establish such an arbitration court, the stronger governments would as little submit to it as two men of honour, one of whom has been insulted, would carry their difference into a court of law. They simply send their seconds and fight to set themselves right.”

“But the duel is a barbarous, uncivilised custom.”

“You won’t alter it, doctor.”

“Still, your excellency, I would not defend it.”

“What say you, then, Frederick?” said my father, turning to his son-in-law. “Is it your opinion that a man who has received a slap on the face should take the matter before a court of law and get five florins’ damages?”

“I should not do so.”

“You would challenge the man who insulted you?”

“Of course.”

“Aha, doctor—aha, Martha,” said my father in triumph. “Do you hear? Even Tilling, who is no friend of war, submits to, and is a friend of, duelling.”

“A friend? I have never said so. I only said that in a given case I would, as a matter of course, have recourse to the duel, as indeed I have actually done once or twice: just as, equally as a matter of course, I have several times taken part in a war; and will do so again on the next occasion. I guide myself by the rules of honour; but I by no means imply thereby that those rules, as they now exist amongst us, correspond to my own moral ideal. By degrees, as this ideal gains the sovereignty, the conception of honour will also experience a change. Some day an insult one may have experienced, and which is unprovoked, will redound as a disgrace, not on the receiver, but on the savage inflicter; and when this is the case, self-revenge in matters of honour also will fall as much out of use as in civilised society it has become practically out of the question to right oneself in other matters. Till that time comes——”

“Well, we shall have some time to wait for that,” my father broke in. “As long as there are persons of quality anywhere——”

“But that too may not perhaps be for ever,” hinted the doctor.

“Holloa! you would not get rid of rank, Mr. Radical?” cried my father.

“Well, I would, of feudal rank. The future has no need for ‘nobility’.”

“So much the more need for noble men,” said Frederick in confirmation.

“And this new race will put up with their slaps on the face?”

“First of all they will give none——”

“And will not defend themselves if a neighbouring state makes a hostile attack on them?”

“There will be no attacks from neighbouring states, no more than our country seats now are besieged by neighbouring citizens. As the nobleman no longer needs armed squires to defend his castle——”

“So the state of the future will dispense with its armed hosts? What will become then of you lieutenant-colonels?”

“What has become of the squires?”

And so the old dispute began again, and was prolonged for some time longer. I hung with delight on Frederick’s lips. It did me more good than I can say to see the cause of noble humanity so firmly and so confidently defended; and in spirit I applied to himself the name he had just used—“noble man”.

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We stayed a fortnight longer in Vienna. But it was by no means a pleasant holiday to me. This fatal “prospect of war,” which now filled all newspapers and all conversations, robbed me of all pleasure in my life. As often as I thought of any of the things of which my happiness was made up, and especially my possession of a husband who was becoming daily dearer to me, so often was I reminded also of the uncertainty, of the imminent danger which hung over all my happiness, in view of the war which was looming in sight. And so I could not, as the saying is, “feel myself comfortable”. Of the accidents of sickness and death, conflagrations, inundations, in short, all the menaces of Nature and the elements, there are sufficient; but one has habituated oneself not to think about them, and one lives in a certain sense of security in spite of these dangers. But how is it that men have created for themselves other dangers arbitrarily devised by themselves, and thus of their own will and in pure wantonness thrown into artificial eruption the volcanic soil on which the happiness of this life is founded? It is true that people have also accustomed themselves to think of war too as a natural phenomenon, and to speak of it as eluding calculation in the same category with the earthquake or drought—and therefore to think of it as little as possible. But I could no longer bring myself to this way of looking at it. The question, of which Frederick had once spoken: “Must it then be so?” I had often answered with a negative in the case of war—and at this time instead of resignation I felt pain and vexation—I should have liked to shout out to them all: “Do not do it; do not do it”. This business of Schleswig-Holstein and the Danish constitution, what did it matter to us? Whether the “Protocol-Prince” abolished the fundamental law of November 13, 1863, or confirmed it, what did it matter to us? Yet all the journals and speeches at that time were full of discussions on this matter, as if it were the most important, most decisive, most universally comprehensive question in the world, so that in comparison with it the query “Are our husbands and sons to be shot dead?” ought not even to be considered. Only at intervals could I myself for a moment feel anyhow reconciled to this state of things, i.e., when the conception of “duty” came directly before my soul. It was true, no doubt, we belonged to the German Bund, and, in common with our brothers of Germany combined in that society, we were bound to fight for the rights of German brothers who were being oppressed. The principle of nationality was no doubt a thing that with elemental force demanded its field of action, and therefore from this point of view the thing must be. By sticking to this idea the painful indignation of my soul subsided a little. Had I been able to foresee how, two years later, the whole of this German band of brothers would be broken up by the bitterest enmity, that then the hatred of Prussia would have become far more burning in Austria than the hatred of Denmark now was, I should have recognised even so early what I learned to know later on, that the motives which are adduced in order to justify hostilities are nothing but phrases—phrases and pretexts.

New-Year’s eve we again spent in my father’s house. As it struck twelve he raised his glass.

“May the campaign which is before us in this new year be a glorious one for our arms,” he said solemnly; and at these words I put my glass, which I had just lifted up, down on the table again. “And,” he concluded, “may our dear ones be spared to us!”

In that I concurred.

“Why did you not drink to the first half of my toast, Martha?”

“Because I can have no wish about a campaign, except that it may never occur.”

When we had got back into the hotel, and into our bedroom, I threw myself on Frederick’s neck.

“My own one! Frederick! Frederick!”

“What is the matter with you, Martha? You are weeping; and to-day—on New-Year’s night! Why then salute the New Year with tears? Are you not happy? Have I given you any offence?”

“You? Oh no! no! You make me only too happy—much too happy—and that makes me anxious——”

“Superstitious, Martha? Do you then conjure up for yourself envious gods, who destroy men’s happiness when it is too great?”

“Not gods; it is senseless men who call misery down on themselves.”

“You are hinting at this possible war. But it is certainly not settled as yet. Why then this premature grief? Who knows whether it will come to blows? and who knows, if so, whether I shall be called out? Come here, my darling, and let us sit down,” and he drew me to the sofa by his side. “Do not spend your tears on a bare possibility.”

“Even the possibility is terrible to me. If it were a certainty, Frederick, I should not be crying so softly and quietly on your shoulder. I should have to shriek and wail out loud. But the possibility, nay, the probability, that in the year which is opening you may be torn from my arms by a marching order. That is quite enough to transport me with anxiety and grief.”

“Bethink you, Martha. You are yourself going to meet a peril, as this Christmas box of yours so charmingly informed me, and yet we two do not think of the cruel possibility which threatens every woman in childbed about as much as every man on the battlefield. Let us enjoy our life, and not think of the death which is impending over the heads of all of us.”

“You are talking just like Aunt Mary, dearest, as if our lot depended on ‘Providence,’ and not on the thoughtlessness, cruelty, excesses, and follies of our fellow-men. Wherein lies the inevitable necessity of this war with Denmark?”

“It has not yet broken out, and there may still——”

“I know, I know; accidents may still happen to avert the evil. But it is not accident, not political intrigues and humours which ought to decide such questions of destiny; but the firm, righteous will of mankind. But what is the good of my ‘ought’ or ‘ought not’? I cannot alter the order of things. I can only complain of it. But do help me so far, Frederick! Do not try to console me with hollow conventional evasions! You do not believe in them yourself! You yourself are shuddering with noble repugnance! The only consolation I find is in thinking that you condemn and bewail as I do what will make me and numberless others so unhappy.”

“Yes, my dear; if this fatality should come to pass, then I will say you are right. Then I will not hide from you the shuddering and the hate which the national slaughter ordained on us awakes in me. But to-day let us still enjoy our life. We surely have each other—nothing separates us. There is not the slightest bar between our souls! Let us enjoy this happiness as long as we have it; enjoy it to the full. Let us not think of the threatened destruction of it. No joy assuredly can last for ever. In a hundred years it will be all the same whether our life has been long or short. The number of beautiful days is not the question, but the degree of their beauty. Let the future bring what it pleases, my dearly-loved wife; our present is so beautiful, so very beautiful, that I cannot now feel anything but a blessed delight.”

As he said this, he threw his arm around me, and kissed my head, which rested on his breast. And then the threatening future disappeared for me also, and I too let myself sink into the sweet transport of the moment.

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On 10th January we returned to OlmÜtz.

No one any longer doubted about the outbreak of war. I had heard a few individuals in Vienna hope that the Schleswig-Holstein dispute could even yet be capable of diplomatic settlement; but in the military circles of our garrison town all possibility of peace was held to be out of the question. Among the officers and their wives there prevailed an excited, but on the whole joyfully excited, temper. Opportunities for distinction and advancement were in prospect, for the satisfaction of the love of adventure in one, the ambition of another, the thirst for promotion of a third.

“This is a famous war which is in prospect,” said the colonel, to whose house, with several other officers and their wives, we were invited to dinner; “a famous war, and one that must be immensely popular. No danger to our territory; and even the population of our country will suffer no diminution, since the scene of war lies on foreign soil.”

“What inspires me in the matter,” said a young first lieutenant, “is the noble motive, to defend the rights of our brethren under oppression. The fact that the Prussians are marching with us—or rather we with them—assures us in the first place of victory, and in the next place it will bind still closer the bonds of nationality. The national idea——”

“I had rather you would not talk about that,” interposed the colonel rather sternly. “That humbug does not sit well on an Austrian. It was that that raised up the Italian war against us; for it was on this hobby-horse, ‘Italy for the Italians,’ that Louis Napoleon kept always mounting, and the whole principle is specially unsuitable for Austria. Bohemians, Hungarians, Germans, Croats—where is the bond of nationality? We know one principle only which unites us, and that is a loyal love of our reigning family. Therefore, what ought to put spirit into us when we take the field is not the circumstance that we are Germans, and have Germans as allies, but that we can render loyal service to our exalted and beloved commander-in-chief. The emperor’s health!”

All stood up to drink the toast. A spark of animation even reached my heart, inflaming it for a moment and filling it with a warmth that did me good. That thousands should love one and the same cause, one and the same person, is a thing which produces a peculiar, a thousandfold impulse of devotion. And that is the feeling which swells the heart under the name of loyalty, patriotism, or esprit-de-corps. It is in reality nothing but love; and this has such a mighty working that a man regards the work of hatred ordained in its name, even the most horrible work of the deadliest hatred—War—as the fulfilment of the duty of his love.

But this glow only lasted in my heart for one instant, for a love stronger than that for any earthly fatherland or father of the country filled its depths—the love of my husband. His life was to me in all cases the dearest of my possessions, and if it was to be the stake I could do nothing but abhor the game, whether it was to be played for Schleswig-Holstein or Japan.

The time which now followed I passed in unspeakable anxiety. On 16th January the powers of the Bund addressed a demand to Denmark calling on her to abrogate a certain law, against which the Convocation of Estates and the nobles of Holstein had invoked the protection of the Bund, and to do this in twenty-four hours. Denmark refused. Who would consent to be commanded in that fashion? This refusal had been foreseen, of course, for Austrian and Prussian troops stood ready posted on the frontier; and on 1st February they crossed the Eider.

So the bloody die was cast again—the game had begun. This gave occasion to my father to send us a letter of congratulation.

“Rejoice, my children,” he wrote. “Now we have at length an opportunity to repair the losses we got in ’59, by inflicting losses on the Danes. When we have come back from the north as conquerors, we shall be able to turn our faces southwards again. The Prussians will remain our constant allies; and in that case these shabby Italians and their intriguing Louis Napoleon cannot again stand up against us.”

Frederick’s regiment, to the great disappointment of the colonel and the corps of officers, was not despatched to the frontier. This fact brought us a paternal letter of condolence:—

“I am heartily sorry that Tilling has the ill-luck to be serving in just one of the regiments which are not called on to open the campaign which has such glorious prospects, but there remains always the possibility that he will be marked out to follow in support. Martha, indeed, will look on the best side of the business, and be glad that the fear for her beloved husband is spared her, and Frederick also is confessedly no friend of war; but I think he is only against it in principle, that is to say, he would rather, on grounds of so-called ‘humanity,’ that it should never come to fighting, but when it has so come, then he would, I know, rather have a part in it, for then I know his manly love of battle would awake. In truth it ought to be the whole army that should always be sent to meet the foe; at such a time to be forced to stay at home is surely something altogether too hard on a soldier.”

“Does it strike you as hard, my Frederick, to remain with me?” I asked, after reading the letter.

He pressed me to his heart. The dumb reply contented me.

But what was the good of it? My peace was gone. The order to march might come any day. If the unhappy war could only be brought to an end quickly! With the greatest eagerness did I read in the newspapers the news from the seat of war, and warmly did I wish that the allies might win speedy and decisive victories. I confess that the wish had no patriotism at all in it. I should indeed have preferred that the victory should be on our side; but what I hoped from it was the termination of the war, before my “all on earth” was out there; and then only in the second degree the triumph of my countrymen, and quite in the last the “sea-surrounded” patch of country. Whether, however, Schleswig was to belong to Denmark or no, what in the world could that matter to me? And finally, what matter could it make to the Danes and Schleswig-Holsteiners themselves? Could not then the two nations themselves see that it was only their rulers who were quarrelling about the possession of territory and power, and that in the present case, for example, the question was not their good or their suffering, but the wishes of the so-called Prince “Protocol” and of the Augustenburgs? If a number of dogs are fighting over some bones, it is still only the dogs themselves who tear each other; but in the history of nations it is chiefly the poor silly bones themselves that rush at each other and knock each other to pieces on the two sides, in fighting for the rights of the combatants who covet them. “Lion wants me,” or “Towser has a claim on me”. “I protest against Caro’s fangs,” or “I reckon it an honour to be swallowed by Growler,” cry the bones. “Denmark up to the Eider,” shouted the Danish patriots. “We will have Frederick of Augustenburg for our duke,” shouted the loyalists of Holstein. The articles in our papers and the talk of our quidnuncs were all of course permeated by the principle that the cause for which “we” had entered into the war was the right one, the only one which was “historically developed”—the only one necessary for the maintenance of “the balance of power in Europe”. And of course the opposite principle was maintained with equal emphasis in the leading articles and the political speeches in Copenhagen. Why not on both sides weigh the rival claims, in order to come to an understanding; and if this should fail, make a third power arbitrator? Why go on always shouting on both sides, “I, I am in the right”—and even shouting it out against one’s own conviction, till one has shouted oneself hoarse, and finishes by leaving the decision to Force? Is not that savagery? And even should a third power mix in the strife, it also does so, not with a balancing of rights or a judicial sentence, but equally with downright blows! And that is what people call “foreign politics”. Foreign and domestic savagery it is—statesmanlike tomfoolery—international barbarism!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It is true that I did not at that time look at what was going on in this light with such certainty as this. It was only for a few moments that doubts of this sort woke up in me, and then I took all possible pains to chase them away. I attempted to persuade myself that the mysterious thing called “reasons of state,” a thing elevated above all private reason, and particularly my own poor faculties, was a principle on which the life of states depends, and I began a zealous study of the history of Schleswig-Holstein, in order to arrive at a conception of the “historic rights” which it was the object of the present proceedings to maintain.

And then I discovered that the strip of land in dispute had, as early as the year 1027, been ceded to Denmark. So, in reality, the Danes are in the right. They are the legitimate kings of the country.

But then, 200 years later, the district was made over to a younger branch of the royal house, and then ranked rather as a fief of the Danish crown. In 1326 Schleswig was given over to Count Gerhard of Holstein, and “the Constitution of Waldemar” provides that “it should never again be so far united with Denmark that there should be but one lord”. Oh! then the right is still on the side of the allies. We are fighting for the Constitution of Waldemar. That is quite correct, for what is the use of these securities on paper if they are not to be upheld?

In the year 1448 the Constitution of Waldemar was again confirmed by King Christian I. So there can be no doubt that there must and shall never again be “one lord”. What has the Protocol-Prince to do in the matter?

Twelve years later, the ruler of Schleswig dies without issue, and the Estates of the country meet at Ripen (it would be well if we always knew with such exactness when and where the Estates met—well, it was in 1460 at Ripen), and they proclaim the King of Denmark Duke of Schleswig, in return for which he promises them that the countries “shall remain together for ever, undivided”. This makes me again a little confused. The only point to hold by is that they “shall remain together for ever”.

But the confusion goes on constantly increasing, as this historical study takes a wider circuit; for now in spite of the formula “for ever undivided” (the word “for ever” plays an exquisite part generally in political business), there commences an everlasting cutting up and division of the territory amongst the king’s sons and a reunion of these under a succeeding king, and the founding of new families, Holstein-Gottorp and Schleswig-Sonderburg, which with reciprocal shuffling and cessions of their shares, again separate themselves into the families of Sonderburg-Augustenburg, Beck-GlÜcksburg, Sonderburg-GlÜcksburg, Holstein-GlÜckstadt. In short, I no longer knew where I was.

But there is more to come. Perhaps the “historical claim” for which the sons of our country have to bleed to-day may not have been established till later.

Christian IV. mixed himself up in the Thirty Years’ War, and the Imperialists and Swedes invaded the duchies. Now was made (at Copenhagen, 1658) another treaty, by which the lordship over the Schleswig portion was secured to the house of Holstein Gottorp, and so at last we have got done with the Danish feudal lordship. Done with it for ever. Thank God. Now I find myself again all right.

But what happened by the Patent of 22nd August, 1721? Simply this: the Gottorps’ dominion of Schleswig was incorporated into the kingdom of Denmark. In January, 1773, Holstein also was ceded to the royal house of Denmark; the whole ranked now as a Danish province.

That changes the affair, the Danes are in the right.

Yet not entirely so. The Congress of Vienna, in 1815, declares Holstein to be a part of the German Bund. This, however, vexes the Danes. They invent the cry: “Denmark up to the Eider,” and struggle for the complete possession of Schleswig—called by them “South Jutland,” against which the “hereditary right of Augustenburg” was employed as a watchword and used in German national proclamations. In the year 1846 King Christian writes a public letter in which he proposes the integrity of the entire state as his object, and against this “the German countries” protest. Two years later the complete union is announced from the Throne, no longer as an object, but as a fait accompli, and then the uprising occurs in the “German countries”. And now the fighting begins. At first the Danes gain the victory in one fight, next the Schleswig-Holsteiners in a second. Then the German Bund intervenes. The Prussians “occupy” the heights of DÜppel, but that does not terminate the strife. Prussia and Denmark make peace. Schleswig-Holstein has now to fight the Danes single-handed, and is struck down at Idstedt.

The Bund now calls on the “revolters” to discontinue the war, which they proceed to do. Austrian troops take possession of Holstein, and the two duchies are separated. So what has become of the paper-stipulation “to be for ever united”?

Still the situation is not made completely secure. Now I find a Protocol of London, 8th May, 1852 (it is a good thing that we always know so exactly the date when these fragile treaties are made), which secures the succession of Schleswig to Prince Christian of GlÜcksburg (“secures” is good). And now I know at any rate the origin of the name “Protocol-Prince”.

In the year 1854, after each duchy had received a constitution of its own, both were “Danised”. But in 1858 the Danisation of Holstein had to be revoked again. And now this historical sketch is coming quite close to the present time; and yet it is not so clear to me to whom the two countries “rightly belong,” or what was the precise cause of the outbreak of the present war.

On 18th November, 1858, the famous “Fundamental law for the mutual relations between Denmark and Schleswig” was passed by the Reichsrath. Two days afterwards the king died. With him again was extinguished a family—that of Holstein-GlÜckstadt—and when the successor of the monarch presented himself on the scene, in reliance on the two-days-old law, Frederick of Augustenburg (a family I had nearly forgotten) raised his claim, and together with his nobility turned for support to the German Bund.

The latter at once occupied Holstein with Saxon and Hanoverian troops, and proclaimed Augustenburg duke. Why? But Prussia and Austria were not of accord in this proceeding. Why? That I do not to this day understand.

It is said the London Protocol had to be respected. Why? Are these Protocols about things which concern us absolutely nothing so exceedingly to be respected, that we must defend them at the price of the blood of our own sons? If so, there must lie in the background some mysterious “reason of state” for it. It must be firmly held as a dogma that what the gentlemen round the green table of diplomacy may decide is the highest wisdom, and has for its aim the greatest possible advance of the power of one’s country. The London Protocol of 8th May, 1852, had to be maintained intact; but the Fundamental Law of Copenhagen, of 13th January, 1863, had to be abolished, and that within twenty-four hours. On that hung Austria’s honour and welfare. The dogma was a little hard to believe, but in political matters, almost more willingly than in religious, the masses allow themselves to be led by the principle of the “quia absurdum”—they have renounced beforehand the attempt to reason and understand. When the sword is once drawn nothing more is necessary than to shout “Hurrah,” and press hotly on to victory. Besides that, all that is necessary is to invoke the blessing of heaven on the war. For so much is certain, that it must be the business of the Almighty to see that the Protocol of the 8th May is maintained, and the Law of 5th November repealed. He must conduct the matter so that the precise number of men bleed to death and villages are set on fire, that are necessary in order that the family of GlÜckstadt, or that of Augustenburg should rule over a particular spot of earth. What a foolish world—still in leading strings—cruel, unthinking! Such was the result of my historical studies.