Bertha von Suttner

New-Year’s Day, 1867.—The Luxembourg question.—Disputes between France and Prussia.—Arbitration.—The alarm blows over.—We visit Paris.—Plan of Napoleon III. for general disarmament.—Frederick’s efforts in the cause of peace.—“The Protocol of Peace.”—A little daughter is born to us.—Renewed happiness.—Frederick’s studies.—M. Desmoulin’s proposals.—Return to Paris, and re-entry into the gay world.—Talk of the “Revanche de Sadowa”.—Pressure of the war party on Napoleon III.—Whirl of gaiety.—We seek repose in Switzerland.—Illness of my little daughter.—Return to Paris in March, 1870.—Napoleon III. drops his plan of disarmament under the pressure of the war party.—Still peace seems assured.

THE New Year, ’67! We kept the Sylvester Night quite alone, my Frederick and I. When it struck twelve,—

“Do you recollect,” I asked with a sigh, “the speech my poor father made in proposing a toast last year at this same hour? I do not dare to wish you good fortune now. The future sometimes hides something so unexpectedly terrible in its bosom; and no wish has ever availed to turn it aside.”

“Then let us use the turn of the year, Martha, as an occasion not for thinking of what is coming, but for looking back into the year which has just flown by. What sufferings you have had to endure, my poor, brave wife! So many of your dear ones buried—and those days of horror on the battlefields in Bohemia.”

“I do not grieve that I have seen the cruel things that took place there. Now I can at least participate with all the might of my soul in your efforts.”

“We must bring up your—or rather our—Rudolf with a view of his pushing these efforts further. In his time a visible mark will perhaps arise above the horizon—hardly in ours. What a noise the people are making in the streets! they are greeting with shouts the new year in spite of the sufferings which the old one (that was greeted in the same way) brought on them. Oh, how forgetful men are!”

“Do not chide them too much for their forgetfulness, Frederick. We too are beginning to brush away from our memory the sufferings of the past, and what I feel is the bliss of the present—the bliss of having you, my own one. We were not to speak of the future I know; still I think that the future we have before us is good. United, loving, sufficient in ourselves, rich—how many exquisite enjoyments can not life still offer us! We will travel, will make acquaintance with the world, the world that is so fair! Fair so long as peace prevails; and peace may now last for many, many years! But if war is to break out again, you are no longer involved in it; and Rudolf too is not threatened, since he is not going to be a soldier.”

“But if, according to Minister To-be-sure’s information, every man should be obliged to share in the defence——”

“Oh, nonsense. So what I mean is, we will travel; we will bring up our Rudolf to be a pattern man; we will follow our noble aim—the propaganda of peace; and we—we will love each other!”

The carnival this same year brought with it once more balls and pleasures of all sorts; but my mourning kept me away from all such things. But what astonished me was that the whole of society did not abstain from such mad goings on. Surely there must have been a loss in almost every family; but, as it seemed, folks set all that at nought. A few houses, it is true, remained closed, especially among the aristocracy; but there was no want of opportunities for the young people to dance, and the most favoured partners were, of course, those who had come back from the battlefields of Italy and Bohemia; and the naval officers were those most fÊted, especially those who had fought at Lissa. Half the lady world had fallen in love with Tegethoff, the youthful admiral, as they had done with the handsome General Gablenz after the campaign of Schleswig-Holstein. “Custozza” and “Lissa” were the two trump-cards which were everywhere played in any conversation about the war which was over. Along with this, the needle-gun and Landwehr came in—two institutions which must be introduced as speedily as possible—and then future victories were assured to us. Victories? when and over whom? On this point people did not speak out; but the idea of revenge, which is wont to accompany the loss of a game, even if it be only a game at cards, was hovering over all the utterances of the politicians. If even we did not ourselves take the field once more against the Prussians, perhaps there might be others who would take it on themselves to avenge us. All appearances seemed to show that France would get into a quarrel with our conquerors, and then they might get paid off for a good deal. The thing had even got a name in diplomatic circles—“La Revanche de Sadowa”. Such was the triumphant announcement to us of Minister To-be-sure.

It was at the beginning of spring that once more a certain “black spot” appeared on the horizon—a “question” as they call it. The news also of French preparations provided the conjectural politicians with what they love so—“the prospect of war”. The question this time was called that of Luxembourg.

Luxembourg? What was there then of such great importance to the world in that? On this subject I had again to embark in studies similar to those about Schleswig-Holstein. The name was indeed familiar to me only from SuppÉ’s “Jolly Companions,” in which, as is well known, a Count of Luxembourg “spends all he has in dress—dress—dress”. The result of my studies was as follows:—

Luxembourg belonged according to the treaties of 1814 and 1816 (Ah! there we have it! treaties—they contain ready-made the root of a national quarrel—a fine institution these treaties) to the King of the Netherlands, and at the same time to the German Bund. Prussia had the right to garrison the capital. Now, however, as Prussia had renounced her share in the old Bund, how could she keep the right of garrison? That was the point—the “question”. The peace of Prague had in fact introduced a new system into Germany, and thereby the connection with Luxembourg had been dissolved; why then did the Prussians maintain their right of garrison? “To be sure” that was an intricate affair, and the most advantageous and righteous way of settling it would be to slaughter fresh hundreds of thousands—that every “enlightened” politician must allow. The Dutch had never attached any importance to the possession of the Grand Duchy; the king also—William III.—attached no importance to it, and would have been happy to cede it to France for a sum to be paid into his privy purse; so private negotiations now commenced between the king and the French Cabinet. Exactly; secrecy is always the essence of all diplomacy. The peoples are not to know anything of the matters in dispute; as soon as the latter are ripe for decision they have the right to bleed for them. Why and wherefore they are fighting each other is a question of no importance.

It was not till the end of March that the king made the official announcement, and on the same day as that on which his assent was telegraphed to France, the Prussian ambassador at the Hague was informed of it. On that began negotiations with Prussia. The latter appealed to the guarantees of the treaties of 1859, the foundations on which the kingdom of Holland stood. Public opinion in Prussia (What is meant by public opinion? Possibly the writers of leading articles) was indignant that the old German Reichsland should be torn away; and in the Reichstag of North Germany, on April 1, there were heated questions on the subject. Bismarck, it is true, remained cool about Luxembourg; but nevertheless he set on foot preparations against France on this occasion, and they of course were followed by counter preparations on the French side. Ah, how well I know that tune! At that time I trembled sorely for fear of a new fire being lighted in Europe. No want of people to poke it—in Paris, Cassagnac and Emile de Girardin, in Berlin, Menzel and Heinrich Leo. Have then such provokers of war even the remotest notion of the gigantic enormity of their transgression? I hardly think so. It was at this time—as I first heard the tale many years after—that Professor Simson used the following expression in the presence of the Crown Prince Frederick of Prussia about the question in dispute:—

“If France and Holland have already come to an agreement, that signifies war”.

To which the crown prince in hot excitement and alarm replied:—

“You have never seen war; if you had seen it, you would not pronounce the word so quietly. I have seen it; and I say to you that it is the highest duty, if it be anyhow possible, to avoid it.”

And this time it was avoided. A conference met at London, which, on May 11, led to the wished-for peaceable solution. Luxembourg was declared neutral and Prussia drew her troops out. The friends of peace breathed again, but there were plenty of people who were discontented at this turn of affairs. Not the Emperor of the French—he wished for peace—but the French “war party”. In Germany too there were voices raised to condemn the behaviour of Prussia. “Sacrifice of a fortress,” “submission looking like fear,” and other things of the kind. But every private person also, who on the sentence of a court gives up his claim to any possessions, shows the same submission. Would it be better for him not to bow to any tribunal, but to settle the matter with his fists? The result achieved by the conference of London may in such doubtful questions be always achieved, and the leaders of states can always find that avoidance possible, which Frederick the Noble, afterwards Frederick III., called the highest duty.

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In May we betook ourselves to Paris to visit the exhibition.

I had not yet seen the World’s Capital, and was quite dazzled by its splendour and its life. At that time especially, the empire was standing at its highest pitch of splendour, and all the crowned heads of Europe had collected there; and at that time above all others, Paris presented a picture of splendour the most joyful and the most secure of peace. The city appeared to me at that time not like the capital of a single country, but like the capital of Internationality; that city which three years afterwards was to be bombarded by its eastern neighbour. All the nations of the earth had assembled in the great palace in the Champ de Mars for the peaceful—nay profitable, because productive not destructive—strife of business competition. Riches, works of art, marvels of manufactory were brought together here, so that it must have excited pride in every beholder to have lived in a time so progressive and so full of promise of further progress; and along with this pride must naturally have arisen the purpose never more to hamper the march of that development of civilisation which was spreading enjoyment all round, by the brutal rage of destruction. All these kings, princes, and diplomatists who were assembled here as guests of the emperor and empress could not surely be thinking amidst all the civilities that were interchanged, the courtesies and the good wishes, of exchanging next time shots with their hosts or one another? No. I breathed again. This really splendid exhibition fÊte seemed to me the pledge that now an era of long, long years of peace had begun. At most against an incursion of Tartar hordes, or something of that sort, these civilised people might draw the sword; but against each other!—we were never more to see that it was hoped. What strengthened me in this opinion was a communication that reached me from a well-informed trustworthy source about a favourite plan of the emperor for a general disarmament. Yes. Napoleon III. was strong on that point. I have it from the mouth of his nearest relations and most trusted friends, and on the next convenient opportunity he was going to communicate to all the European governments a proposal for reducing their military establishments to a minimum. That was good to hear; it was at any rate a more reasonable idea than that of a general increase of forces. In this way the well-known demand of Kant would be granted, which is thus formulated in par. 3 of the “Preliminary Article to an Everlasting Peace”:—

What government could decline a proposition such as that which France was meditating without unmasking its lust of conquest? What nation would not revolt against such a refusal? The plan must succeed.

Frederick did not share my confidence.

“In the first place,” he said, “I doubt whether Napoleon will make the proposal. The pressure of the war party will hinder him. As a general rule the occupants of thrones are prevented by those who surround them from the exercise of those great efforts of individual will, which fall quite outside of the usual pattern. In the second place, one cannot give to a living being the command to cease to exist in this sort of way. It straightway sets itself on its defence——”

“Of what living being are you speaking?”

“Of the army. That is an organism, and as such has powers of life development and of self-maintenance. At the present time this organism is just in its prime, and, as you see—for the system of universal defence will surely be introduced into other countries—is just on the point of being powerfully extended.”

“And yet you want to fight against it?”

“Yes; but not by stepping up to it and saying ‘Die, thou monster!’ for the organism in question would hardly do me the kindness to stretch itself dead at my feet on that summons. But I am fighting against it in appearing on behalf of another living form, which is still only in its fragile bud, but which, as it gains in power and extent, will crush the other out. It is your fault to begin with, Martha, that I talk in these scientific metaphors. It was you who first led me to study the works of the modern students of nature. From this there has arisen in me the view that the phenomena of social life also can not be understood in their origin, or foreseen in their future course till one conceives of them as existing under the influence of eternal laws. Of this most politicians and people in positions of high dignity have no notion—not the faintest; the worthy soldier certainly not. A few years ago it had not entered my head either.”

We were living in the Grand Hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines. It was occupied chiefly by English people and Americans. We met few of our own people—the Austrians are not fond of travel. Besides, we sought for no acquaintance. I had not put off my mourning, and we cherished no wish for company. Of course I had my son Rudolf with me. He was now eight years old, and a wonderfully clever little fellow. We had hired a young Englishman, who performed the duties partly of tutor, partly of nursery governess to the boy. In our long visits to the exhibition-palace, as well as our numerous excursions into the neighbourhood, we could not, of course, always take Rudi with us; and besides, the time was also now come for him to begin to learn.

New—new—new—to me, was the whole of this world here open to us. All the men who had come together from the four corners of the earth—the richest and most distinguished from every quarter—these fÊtes, this expenditure, this turmoil. I was literally deafened by it. But, interesting and full of enjoyment as it was to me to receive into my mind these surprising and overpowering impressions, yet, when alone, I wished myself out of all this hubbub again, and in some remote peaceful spot, where I could live in quiet retirement along with Frederick and my child—nay, my children, for I was looking forward confidently to the joy of motherhood again. It is wonderful, indeed—and I find it often noted in the red volumes—how in retirement the longing rises for events and exploits, for experiences and enjoyments; and again, in the midst of the latter, for solitude and tranquillity.

We kept ourselves apart from the great world. We had merely paid a visit to the house of our ambassador, Metternich, and had let it be known there that on account of our domestic afflictions we did not desire any entrÉe into Court circles or society. On the other hand, we sought to make the acquaintance of a few prominent political and literary personages, partly from self-interest and for our mental improvement, partly with a view to “the service” into which Frederick had entered. In spite of the slight hopes he had of any perceptible result from his efforts, he never allowed it to escape him, and he put himself into communication with numerous influential persons, from whom he might gain assistance in his career, or at least information as to its position. We had at that time commenced a little book of our own—we called it The Protocol of Peace—into which all news, notices, articles, and so forth, bearing on the subject, were to be sedulously entered. The history also of the idea of Peace, as far as we could gain a knowledge of it, was incorporated in the Protocol; and along with this the expressions of various philosophers, poets, priests, and authors on the subject of “Peace and War”. It had soon grown into an imposing little volume; and in course of time—for I have carried on this composition down to the present day—it has grown into several little volumes. If one were to compare it with the libraries which are filled with works on strategical subjects, with the untold thousands of volumes containing histories of wars, studies on war, and glorification of war, with the text-books of military science and military tactics, and guides for the instruction of recruits and artillery, with the chronicles of battles and annals of États-majors, soldiers’ ballads and war songs: well, then, I allow that the comparison with these one or two poor little volumes of peace-literature might humiliate one, on the assumption that one might measure the power and value—especially the future value—of a thing by its size. But if one reflects that a single grain of seed hides in itself the virtual power of causing the growth of an entire forest, which will displace whole masses of weeds, though spread over acres of country, and further reflects that an idea is in the mental kingdom what a seed is in the vegetable, then one need not be anxious about the future of an idea, merely because the history of its development may be as yet contained in one little manuscript.

I will here produce a few extracts taken from our Protocol of Peace for the year 1867. On the first page was placed a compressed historical survey.

But this proposal found no support whatever from the other Governments.

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And now, my hour of trial was again drawing nigh.

But it was so different this time from that other in which Frederick had to leave me—to fight for the Augustenburger. This time he was at my side—the husband’s proper post—diminishing through his presence and through his sympathy the sufferings of his wife. The feeling that I had him there was to me so calming and so happy that in it I almost forgot my physical discomfort.

A girl! It was the fulfilment of my silent hope. The joys connected with a son had already been given to us by my little Rudolf: we could now, in addition to these, taste those joys which such a fine little daughter promised to her parents. That this little Sylvia of ours would grow into a paragon of beauty, grace, and comeliness we did not doubt for a single moment. How childish we both of us became over the cradle of this child; what sweet fooleries we spoke and acted there, I will not even try to tell. Others than fond parents would not understand it, and all of them have no doubt been just as silly themselves.

But how selfish happiness makes us! There came now a time for us, in which we really were far too forgetful of everything which lay outside of our domestic heaven. The terrors of the cholera week kept taking always more and more in my memory the shape of a vanished evil dream; and even Frederick’s energy in the pursuit of his aim gradually abated. And it was no doubt discouraging, wherever one knocked at any doors with these ideas, to meet with shrugs of shoulders, compassionate smiles, if not a regular setting to rights. The world, as it seems, is fond not only of being cheated, but also of being made miserable. Wherever one tries to put forward any proposals for removing misery and woe, they are called “Utopian—a childish dream”—and the world will not listen to them.

Still Frederick did not let his aim fall quite out of sight. He plunged ever deeper into the study of international law, and got into correspondence by letter with Bluntschli and other men learned in this branch. At the same time, and here with my companionship, he diligently followed other studies, chiefly natural science. He formed a plan for writing a great work on “War and Peace”. But, before setting to work on it, he wanted to prepare himself for it and instruct himself by long and comprehensive researches. “I am, it is true,” he said, “an old royal and imperial colonel, and it would shame most of my equals in age and rank to dip into schooling. When one is an elderly man of office and rank one thinks oneself usually clever enough to act independently. I myself a few years since had that respect for my own individuality. But when I had suddenly attained to a new point of view, in which I got an insight into the modern spirit, then the consciousness of my want of knowledge came over me. Ah yes! Of all the gains that have now been made in the matter of new discoveries in all provinces of knowledge, there was nothing at all taught in my youth—or rather the reverse was taught—so I must now, in spite of the streaks of grey on my temples, begin again at the beginning.”

The winter after Sylvia’s birth we spent at Vienna in perfect quiet. Next spring we travelled to Italy. To travel and make acquaintance with the world was indeed a part of our new programme of life. We were independent and rich, and nothing hindered us from carrying it out. Small children are a little troublesome in travelling; but if one can take about a sufficient train of bonnes and nurses, the thing can be done. I had taken into my establishment an old servant who had once been nurse to me and my sisters, and then had married an hotel steward, and now was left a widow. This “Mistress Anna” was worthy of my fullest confidence, and in her hands I could leave my little Sylvia at home with perfect security, at any time when we—i.e., Frederick and I—left our headquarters for several days on some excursion. Rudolf would have been just as well seen after by Mr. Foster, his tutor; but it often happened that we took the little eight-years-old boy with us.

Happy, happy times! Pity that I then neglected the red books so much! It was exactly at this time that I might have entered so much that was beautiful, interesting and gay; but I neglected it, and so the details of that year have mostly faded out of my recollection, and it is only in rough outline that I can now recall a picture of it.

In the Protocol of Peace I did find an opportunity to make a gratifying entry. This was a leading article signed B. Desmoulins, in which the proposal was made to the French Government that it should put itself at the head of the European states by giving them the example of disarmament:—

This article, of course, got no attention.

In the winter of 1868-69 we went back to Paris, and this time, for we wished to make acquaintance with life, we plunged into the “Great World”.

It was a rather tiring process; but yet for a time it was very pleasant. In order to have some home, we had hired a small residence in the quarter of the Champs ElysÉes, whither we also could sometimes invite in turn our numerous acquaintance, by whom we were invited every day to a party of some kind or other. Having been introduced by our ambassador at the Court of the Tuilleries, we were invited for the whole winter to the Mondays of the empress, and, besides this, the houses of all the ambassadors were open to us, as well as the salons of Princess Mathilde, the Duchess of Mouchy, Queen Isabella of Spain, and so on. We made the acquaintance also of many literary magnates, not of the greatest, however, I mean Victor Hugo, as he was living in exile, but we met Renan, Dumas pÈre et fils, Octave Feuillet, George Sand, ArsÈne Houssaye, and some others. At the house of the last named we also were present at a masked ball. When the author of the Grandes Dames gave one of his Venetian fÊtes in his splendid little hotel, on the Avenue Friedland, it was the custom that the real grandes dames should go there under the protection of their masks along with the “little ladies,” well-known actresses and so forth, who were making their diamonds and their wit sparkle here.

We were also very industrious visitors to the theatres. At least three times a week we spent our evenings either at the Italian opera, where Adelina Patti, just married to the Marquis de Caux, was enchanting the audience, or at the TheÂtre FranÇais, or even at one of the little boulevard theatres to see Hortense Schneider as the Grand Duchess of Gerolstein, or some of the other celebrities of operetta or vaudeville.

It is wonderful, however, how, when one is once plunged into this whirl of splendour and entertainments, this little “great world” appears to one all of a sudden so terribly important; and the laws which prevail therein of elegance and chic (it was even then called chic) as laying on one a kind of solemnly undertaken duty. To take at the theatre a less distinguished place than a stage-box; to appear in the Bois with a carriage whose equipage should not be faultless; to go to a court ball without putting on a toilette of 2000 francs, “signed” by Worth; to sit down to table (Madame la Baronne est servie), even if one had no guests, without having the finest dishes and the choicest wines served by the solemn maÎtre d’hÔtel in person and several lackeys, all these would have been serious offences. How easy, how very easy it becomes to one, when one is caught up in the machinery of such an existence as this, to spend all one’s thoughts and feelings on this business, which is really devoid of all thought and feeling, and in doing this to forget to take any part in the progress of the real world outside, I mean the universe, or in the condition of one’s own world within, I mean domestic bliss. This is what might perhaps have happened to me, but Frederick preserved me from it. He was not the man to allow himself to be torn away and smothered by the whirlpool of Parisian “high-life”. He did not forget, in the world in which we were moving, either the universe or our own hearth. An hour or two in the morning we still kept devoted to reading and domestic life; and so we accomplished the great feat of enjoying happiness even in the midst of pleasure.

For us Austrians there was much sympathy cherished at Paris. In political conversations there was often a talk about a Revanche de Sadowa, certainly in the sense that the injustice done to us two years before was to be made good again—as if anything of that sort could make it good again. If blows are only to be wiped out by fresh blows, then surely the thing can never cease. It was just to my husband and me, because he had been in the army and had served the campaign in Bohemia, it was just to us that people thought they could say nothing more polite or more agreeable than a hopeful allusion to the Revanche de Sadowa which was in prospect, and which was already treated of as an historical event which would assure the European equilibrium, and was itself ensured by diplomatic arrangements. A slap to be administered to the Prussians on the next opportunity was a necessity in the school-discipline of the nations. Nothing tragical would come of the matter, only enough to check the arrogance of certain folks. Perhaps even the whip hanging up on the wall would be enough for this purpose; but if that arrogant fellow should try any of his saucy tricks he had received fair warning that it would come down upon him in the shape of the Revanche de Sadowa.

We, of course, decisively put aside all such consolations. A former misfortune was not to be conjured away by a fresh misfortune, nor an old injustice to be atoned for by a new injustice. We assured our friends that we wished for nothing, except that we might never see the present peace broken again. This was also essentially the wish of Napoleon III. We had so much intercourse with persons whose position was quite close to the emperor, that we had plenty of opportunities of becoming acquainted with his political views, as he gave utterance to them in his confidential conversation. It was not only that he wished for peace at the moment—he cherished the plan of proposing to the powers a general disarmament. But, for the moment, he did not feel his own domestic position in the country secure enough to carry this plan out. There was great discontent boiling and seething among the populace; and in the circle immediately surrounding the throne there was a party which laboured to represent to him that his throne could only be rendered secure by a successful foreign war—just a little triumphal promenade to the Rhine, and the splendour and stability of the Napoleonic dynasty were secured. Il faut faire grand, was the advice of his counsellors. That the war, which was in prospect the year before on the Luxembourg question, had come to nothing, and was displeasing to them; the preparations on both sides had gone on so grandly, and then the matter had been adjourned. But in the long run a fight between France and Prussia was certainly inevitable. They were incessantly urging on further in this direction. But only a feeble echo of these matters came to us. One is accustomed to hear that sort of thing resounding in the journals, as regularly as the breakers on the shore. There is no occasion to fear a storm on that account. You listen quite tranquilly to the band which is playing its lively airs on the beach—the breakers form only a soft unheeded bass accompaniment to them.

This brilliant way of life, only too overburdened with pleasure, reached its highest pitch in the spring months. At that time there were added long drives in the Bois in open carriages, numerous picture exhibitions, garden parties, horse-races, picnics, and with all this no fewer theatres, or visits, or dinner or evening parties, than in the depth of winter. We then began to long much for repose. In fact, this sort of life has never its true attraction, except when some flirtation or love affair is combined with it. Girls who are in search of a husband, women who want a lover, or men who are in search of adventures, for these every new fÊte, where it is possible they may meet the object of their dream, possesses a new interest, but for Frederick and me? That I was inflexibly true to my lord, that I never by a single glance gave any one the occasion to approach me with any audacious hopes, I may say, without any pride of virtue—it was a mere matter of course. Whether, under different relations, I should also have resisted all the temptations to which, in such a whirl of pleasure, pretty young ladies are exposed, is more than I can say; but when one carries in one’s heart a love so deep and so full of bliss as I felt for my Frederick, one is surely armed against all danger. And as far as he was concerned, was he true to me? I can only say, that I never felt any doubt about it.

When the summer had returned to the land, when the Grand Prix was over, and the different members of society began to quit Paris, some to Trouville or Dieppe, Biarritz or Vichy, others to Baden Baden, and a third set to their chÂteaux, Princess Mathilde to St. Gratien, and the court to CompiÈgne, then we were besieged with requests to select the same destinations for travel, and with invitations to country-houses; but we were decidedly indisposed to prolong the campaign of luxury and pleasure which we had carried out in the winter, into a summer one also. I did not wish to return at once to Grumitz. I feared too much the reawakening of painful memories; besides, we should not have found there the solitude we desired, on account of our numerous relations and neighbours. So we chose once more for our resting-place a quiet corner of Switzerland. We promised our friends in Paris that we would come back next winter, and went on our summer tour with the joy of schoolboys going for their holidays.

Now succeeded a time of real refreshment. Long walks, long hours of study, long hours of play with the children, and no entries in the red volumes—which last was a sign of freedom from care, and spiritual peace.

Europe also seemed at that time tolerably free from care, and peaceful. At least no “black spots” were anywhere visible. One did not even hear any more talk about the famous Revanche de Sadowa. The greatest trouble which I experienced at that time was caused by the universal obligation for defence which had been introduced a year before amongst us Austrians. That my Rudolf some time or other must become a soldier—that was a thing I could not bear. And yet folks dream of freedom!

Frederick tried to comfort me. “A year of ‘volunteering’ is not much.” I shook my head.

“Even if it were but a day! No man ought to be compelled to take upon himself a certain office, which perhaps he hates, even for a single day; for during that day he must make a show of the opposite of what he feels—must pretend that he is doing joyfully what he really hates—in short, he is obliged to lie, and I wanted to bring up my son to be true, before all things.”

“Then he ought to have been born one or two centuries later, my dearest,” replied Frederick. “It is only the perfectly free man who can be perfectly true; and we are still poorly off for both things—freedom and truth—in our days; that becomes clearer and clearer to me the deeper I plunge into my studies.”

Now, in this retirement Frederick had twice the leisure for his work, and he set about it with true ardour. However happy and content we were with our life in this solitude, still we remained firm in our determination to spend next winter in Paris again. This time, however, it was not with the view of amusing ourselves, but in order to do something practical towards the fulfilment of the task of our lives. In this, it is true, we did not cherish any confidence that we should attain anything; but when a man sees even the possibility of the shadow of a chance offered him to contribute anything towards a cause which he recognises as the holiest cause on earth, he feels it to be a duty which he cannot refuse, to try this chance. Now, in recapitulating, during our familiar talks, the recollections of Paris, we had thought also of that plan of the Emperor Napoleon which had come to our ears by the communications of his confidants—I mean the plan for proposing disarmament to the great powers. It was on this that we based our hopes and our projects. Frederick’s researches had brought into his hand Sully’s Memoirs, in which the plan of Henry IV. for peace is described in all its details. We meant to convey an abstract of this to the Emperor of the French; and at the same time to try, through our connections in Austria and Prussia, to prepare both these Governments for the propositions of the French Government. I could set this on foot by the means of Minister To-be-sure, and Frederick had at Berlin a relative who was in an influential political position, and stood very well at court.

In December, which was the time we meant to move to Paris, we were prevented. Our treasure, our little Sylvia, fell ill. What anxious hours those were! Napoleon III. and Henry IV. of course were then put in the background—our child dying!

But she did not die. In two weeks all danger was over. Only the physician forbade us to travel during the worst of the winter’s cold. So we put off our departure till March.

This sickness and recovery, the danger and the preservation—what a shock they had given our hearts! and how much—though I thought that no longer possible—they had brought them more near to each other still! To tremble in unison before a horrid disaster—one which each fears the more from seeing the other’s despair, and to weep tears of joy in common when this disaster has been averted—are things which have a most mighty influence in welding souls together.

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Forebodings? No, there were none. If there had been Paris would not have made on me the cheerful impression of promised pleasure which it did on one sunny afternoon of March, 1870, on our arrival. One knows now what horrors were brooding over that city after a very short interval; but not the faintest anticipation of trouble arose in my mind.

We had already hired beforehand, through the agent, John Arthur, the same little palace in which we had lived last year, and at its door was waiting for us our maÎtre d’hÔtel of the previous year. As we drove across the Champs ElysÉes to reach our dwelling, it was just the hour for the Bois, and several of our old acquaintances met us and exchanged joyful recognitions. The numerous little barrows of violets which were dragged about the streets of Paris that year filled the air with the promise of spring; the sunbeams were sparkling and playing in rainbows on the fountains of the Rond-point, making little reflections on the carriage lamps and the harness of the many carriages. Amongst others, the beautiful empress was driving in a carriage harnessed À la Daumont. She passed us, and, recognising me, made a gesture of salutation.

There are some special pictures or scenes which photograph or phonograph themselves on our memory, along with the feelings that accompany them, and some of the words that are spoken at them. “This Paris is truly lovely,” cried Frederick at this point, and my feeling was a childish self-congratulation at the coming treat. Had I known what was coming to me, and to this whole city, now bathed in splendour and rejoicing!

This time we abstained from throwing ourselves, as we had done the year before, into the whirlpool of worldly amusements. We announced that we would not accept any dancing invitations, and kept ourselves apart from the great receptions. Even the theatre we did not visit so often—only when some piece made a great impression—and so it came about that we spent most evenings at home alone, or in the society of a few friends.

As to our plans with regard to the idea of the emperor about disarmament, we got on but badly with them. Napoleon III. had not, indeed, given up his idea altogether, but the present time, it was said, was not at all suited for carrying it out. In the circle around the throne a conviction had grown up that that throne stood on no very firm footing—a great discontent was boiling and seething among the people, in order to repress which all the police and censorship regulations were made more stringent, and the only consequence of this was greater discontent. The only thing, said certain people, which could give renewed splendour and security to the dynasty would be a successful campaign. It is true there was no near prospect of this, but all mention of disarmament would be a total and complete mistake, for thereby the whole Bonaparte-nimbus would be destroyed, which was undoubtedly founded on the heritage of glory of the first Napoleon. We had also received no very cheering answers to our inquiries on these subjects from Prussia and Austria. There people had entered on an epoch of expansion of the “defensive forces” (the word “army” began to be unfashionable), and the word “disarmament” fell on this like a gross discord. On the contrary, in order to obtain the blessings of peace, the “defensive power” must be increased—the French were not to be trusted—the Russians neither—and the Italians, most certainly not—they would fall on Triest and Trent at once, if they had the opportunity—in short, the only thing to do was to nurse the Landwehr system with all the care possible.

“The time is not ripe,” said Frederick, on our receiving communications such as these, “and I must, I suppose, in reason give up the hope that I personally may be able to help in hastening the ripening of that time, or even see the fruits I long for blossoming. What I can contribute is mean enough. But from the hour that I saw that this thing, however mean, is my duty, it has in spite of all become the greatest thing of all to me, so I keep on.”

But if for the present the project of disarmament had been dropped, I had yet one comfort—there was no war in sight. The war party which existed in the court and among the people, and whose opinion was that the dynasty must be “rebaptised in blood,” and that another little taste of glory must be provided for the people, were obliged to renounce their plan of attack and their bewitching “little campaign on the Rhine frontier”. For France possessed no allies; great drought prevailed in the country; a dearth of forage was to be anticipated; the army horses had to be sold; there was no “question” in agitation; the contingent of recruits had been diminished by the legislative body; in short, so Ollivier declared from the tribune—“the peace of Europe is assured”.

Assured! I rejoiced over the word. It was repeated in all the papers, and many thousands rejoiced with me. For what can there be better for the majority of men than assured peace?

How much, however, that security which was announced by a statesman on June 3, 1870, was worth we now all know. And even at the time we might have known this much, that assurances of that kind from statesmen, though the public always receives them again with the same innocent trust, really contain no guarantee—literally none. The European situation shows no question in agitation—therefore peace is secure. What feeble logic! Questions may come into agitation any moment; it is not till we have prepared some means against such a contingency other than war, that we can ever be secure against war.