Bertha von Suttner

We remain in Paris to get ready a new house.—The “question” between France and Prussia.—Candidature of Prince Hohenzollern for the crown of Spain.—The war rumours and the speeches in the Chamber become menacing.—The Hohenzollern candidature withdrawn.—Further demands of France.—Threatening debate in the French Chamber.—War declared.—Excitement and enthusiasm in Paris.—With which side should we sympathise?—The opposing manifestoes.—We linger in Paris.—Opinions about war of eminent French writers.—Proclamations of the two armies.—Secret history.

PARIS society again dispersed in all directions. We, however, remained behind on business. For an extraordinarily advantageous bargain had been offered to us. Through the sudden departure of an American a little, half-finished hotel, in the Avenue de l’Imperatrice, had had to be offered for sale, and at a price which did not amount to much more than the sum already expended on the decoration and furnishing of the thing itself. As we had already the intention of spending in future some months of each year in Paris, and as the purchase in question was also at the same time an excellent bargain, we closed with it. We wished to superintend the completion ourselves, and for this purpose stopped in Paris. The decoration of one’s own nest is, besides, such a pleasurable task that we willingly endured the unpleasantness of staying in a city the whole summer. Besides, we had plenty of houses to which we could resort for company. The chÂteau of Princess Mathilde, St. Gratien, then ChÂteau Mouchy, and next Baron Rothschild’s place, FerriÈres, and other summer residences besides of our acquaintance, were situated near Paris, and we arranged once or twice a week to pay a visit, now to one of them, now to another.

It was, I recollect, in the salon of Princess Mathilde that I first heard of “the question” that was soon to come into “agitation”.

The company was sitting, after dÉjeÛner, on the terrace, looking on to the park. Who were all the people there? I do not recollect them all now; only two of the persons present remain in my memory, Taine and Renan. The conversation was a very lively one, and I recollect that it was Renan chiefly who led the talk, sparkling with esprit and witticisms. The author of the Vie de JÉsus is an example that a man may be incredibly ugly and yet exercise an incredible fascination.

Now the talk turned upon politics. A candidate had been sought for the crown of Spain. A prince of Hohenzollern was to receive the crown. I had scarcely been listening, for what could the throne of Spain or he who was to sit upon it have to do with me or all these nonchalant folks here? But then some one said:—

“A Hohenzollern? France would not permit that!”

The words cut me to the heart, for what did that “not permit” imply? When such an utterance comes from any country one sees with one’s mind’s eye the statue personifying that country as a gigantic virgin, her head thrown back in defiance, her hand on her sword.

The conversation, however, soon turned to another subject. How full of tremendous results this question of the Spanish throne would be none of us yet suspected. I, of course, did not either. Only, that arrogant “France would not permit that” stuck in my memory like a discord, and along with it the whole scenery did so in which it was spoken.

From that time the question of the Spanish throne became constantly more loud and more pressing. Every day the space became larger which it occupied in the newspapers and in conversations in the salons, and I know that it bored me in the highest degree, this Hohenzollern candidature: soon there was nothing else spoken of. And it was spoken of in an offended tone, as if nothing more insulting to France could take place. Most people saw behind it a provocation to war on the part of Prussia. But it was clear, so it was said, that “France could not permit such a thing, so, if the Hohenzollerns persist in it, that is a simple challenge”. I could not understand that; but in other respects I was free from anxiety. We received letters from Berlin, telling us from a well-instructed quarter that not the slightest importance was attached at court to the succession of a Hohenzollern to the Spanish crown. And, therefore, we were much more occupied with the work at our house than with politics.

But gradually we became more attentive to the subject for all that. As, before the storm, a certain rustling of leaves goes through the forest, so, before war, a rustle of certain voices goes through the world. “Nous aurons la guerre—nous aurons la guerre,” was what resounded in the air of Paris. Then an unspeakable anxiety possessed me. Not for my own people—for we, as Austrians, were at first out of the game. On the contrary, we might possibly have some “satisfaction” offered to us—the well-known “revenge for Sadowa”. But we had untaught ourselves the habit of looking at war from a national point of view; and what war is from the point of view of humanity—of the highest humanity—is surely notorious. That is expressed in the following words which I heard spoken by Guy de Maupassant:—

“Quand je songe seulement À ce mot ‘la guerre’ il me vient un effarement, comme si l’on me parlait de sorcellerie, d’inquisition, d’une chose lontaine, finie, abominable, contre nature”.

When the news arrived that the crown had been offered by Prim to Prince Leopold, the Duke of Grammont made a speech in Parliament, which was received with great approbation, to the following effect:—

“We do not meddle with the affairs of foreign nations, but we do not believe that respect for the rights of a neighbouring state binds us to permit a foreign power, by seating one of its own princes on the throne of Charles V., to destroy, to our detriment, the equilibrium which exists between the states of Europe (Oh that equilibrium! What war-loving hypocrite invented that hollow phrase?), and so bring into danger the interests, the honour of France”.

I know a tale of George Sand named Gribouille. This Gribouille has the peculiarity, when rain is threatened, of plunging into the river, for fear of getting wet. Whenever I hear that war is contemplated in order to avert threatened dangers, I can never help thinking of Gribouille. A whole branch of Hohenzollerns might very well have seated themselves on Charles V.’s throne, and many other thrones as well, without exposing the interests or the honour of France to one thousandth part of the damage that resulted to them from this bold “We cannot permit it”.

“The case,” the speaker continued, “will, as we most confidently believe, not occur. We reckon, in this regard, on the wisdom of the German and the friendship of the Spanish people. But if it should turn out otherwise, then, gentlemen, we, strong in your support and that of the nation, shall know how to do our duty, without vacillation and without weakness.” (Loud applause.)

From that time began in the press the cry for war. It was Girardin in particular, who could not inflame his countrymen sufficiently to punish the unheard-of audacity contained in this candidature for the throne. It would be unworthy of the dignity of France not to interpose her veto upon it. Prussia, it is true, would not give in, for she is bent, mad as she is, on conjuring up war. Intoxicated by her success of 1866, she believes that she may extend her march of victory and robbery on the Rhine also; but, thank God, we are ready to baulk all these appetites of the Pickelhaubers. And so it went on, in the same key. Napoleon III., it is true, as we found out through persons who were about him, still wished, as before, for the preservation of peace; but most of the people of his entourage now thought that a war was inevitable—that, since apart from all this there was discontent among the people with the Government, the best thing that could be done to secure the respect of the country, anxious as it was for glory, would be to carry out a successful war. “Il faut faire grand.”

And now inquiries were made of all the European Cabinets about the situation. Each declared that they wished for peace. In Germany a manifesto was published, originating in popular articles signed by Liebknecht amongst others, wherein it was said “the mere thought of a war between Germany and France is a crime”.

Benedetti was sent with the charge of demanding from the King of Prussia that he would forbid Prince Leopold to assume the crown. King William was at that moment taking the waters at Ems. Benedetti went there, and got an audience on July 9.

What would the result be? I waited for the news with trembling.

The answer of the king simply said that he could not forbid anything to a prince who had attained adult years.

This answer sent the war party into triumphant joy. “There—will you suffer that? Do they want to provoke us to the utmost? That the head of the house cannot command or forbid anything to one of its members! Ridiculous! It is clearly a made-up plot—the Hohenzollerns want to get a footing in Spain, and then fall upon our country from the east and south at once. And are we to wait for that? Are we to be content to take with humility the utter disregard of our protest? Surely not. We know what honour, what patriotism, commands us to do.”

Ever louder and louder, ever more and more threatening sounded the storm-warnings. Then on July 12 came a piece of news which filled me with delight. Don Salusto Olozaga announced officially to the French Government that Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern, in order not to give any pretext for war, refused to assume the crown offered to him.

Now, thank God, the entire “question” is thus simply put aside. The news was communicated to the Chamber at 12 at noon, and Ollivier declared that this put an end to the dispute. Yet, on the same day, troops and war material were forwarded to Metz (publicly said to be in pursuance of previous orders), and in the same sitting Clement Duvernois put the following question:—

“What securities have we that Prussia will not originate fresh complications, like this Spanish candidature? That should be provided against.”

There Gribouille comes up again. It may happen, perhaps, at some time, that a trifling rain may threaten to wet us; so let us jump into the river at once!

And so Benedetti was despatched again to Ems; this time to demand of the King of Prussia that he would forbid Prince Leopold once for all, and for all future time, to revive his candidature. What could follow such an attempt at dictating a course of action, which the party on whom the demand is made is not competent to carry out, except an impatient shrug of the shoulders? Those who made the demand must have known as much.

There was another memorable sitting on July 15. Ollivier demanded a credit of 500,000,000 frs. for the war. Thiers opposed it. Ollivier replied. He took on himself to justify before the bar of history what had been done. The King of Prussia had refused to receive the French envoy, and had notified this to the Government in a letter. The Left wanted to see this letter. The majority forbade, by clamour and by a counter-vote, the production of the document, which probably had no existence. This majority supported any demand made by the Government in favour of the war. This patriotic readiness for sacrifice, which would accept even ruin without hesitation, was of course again applauded becomingly with the usual ready-made turns of sentence.

July 16. England made attempts to prevent the war. In vain. Ah! if there had been an arbitration court established how easily and simply might such a trivial dispute have been decided.

July 19. The French chargÉ d’affaires in Berlin handed the Prussian Government the declaration of war.

Declaration of war! Three words, which can be pronounced quite calmly. But what is connected with them? The beginning of an extra-political action, and thus, along with it, half-a-million sentences of death.

This document also I entered in the red volumes. It runs thus:—

State of war! Does the man think who puts these words on paper, on the green cloth of his writing-table, that he is plunging his pen in flames, in tears of blood, in the poison of plague?

And so the storm is unchained, this time on account of a king being sought for a vacant throne, and as the consequence of a negotiation undertaken between two monarchs! Must Kant then be right in his first definitive condition for everlasting peace? “The civil constitution in every state should be republican.” To be sure, the effect of this article would be to remove many causes of war; for history shows how many campaigns have been undertaken for dynastic questions, and the whole establishment of monarchical power rests assuredly on successful conduct of war—still republics also are warlike. It is the spirit, the old savage spirit which lights up hatred, lust of plunder, and ambition of conquest in peoples, whether governed in one form or another.

I recollect what an altogether peculiar humour seized me at this time, when the Franco-German war was in preparation and then broke out. The stormy sultriness before, the howling tempest after its declaration. The whole population was in a fever, and who can keep himself aloof from such an epidemic? Naturally, according to old custom, the beginning of the campaign was at once looked on as a triumphal procession—that is no more than patriotic duty. “À Berlin, À Berlin,” was shouted through the streets and from the outside of the omnibusses—the Marseillaise at every street corner, “Le jour de gloire est arrivÉ”. At every theatrical representation the first actress or singer, at the opera it was Marie Sass, had to come before the curtain in a Jeanne d’Arc costume, waving a flag, and sing this battle song, which was received by the audience standing, and in which they often joined. We also were among the spectators one evening, Frederick and I, and we also had to rise from our seats. I say “had to,” not from any external pressure, for we could of course have withdrawn into the back of the box, but “had to,” because we were electrified.

“Look, Martha,” Frederick explained to me, “a spark like that which runs from one man to another and makes this whole mass rise to one united and excited heart-beat, that is love.”

“What do you mean? It is surely a song of hatred:—

“That is no matter, united hatred also is one form of love. Wherever two or more unite in one common feeling, they love each other. Let but a higher conception than that of the nation, i.e., of mankind and of humanity, once be seized as the general idea, and then——”

“Ah,” I sighed, “when will that be?”

“When? that is a very relative term. In regard to the duration of our life, never; in regard to that of our race, to-morrow.”

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When war has broken out all the subjects of neutral states divide themselves into two camps, one takes the side of the one, the other of the opposite party; it is like a great fluctuating wager, in which every one has a share.

We too—Frederick and I—with which side should we sympathise, which wish to conquer? As Austrians we should have been fully justified, “patriotically,” in wishing to see our victor in the former war vanquished in this one. Besides, it is again natural that one should give the greater sympathy to those in whose midst one is living, and with whose feelings one is involuntarily infected; and we were then surrounded by the French. Still, Frederick was of Prussian descent, and were we not more allied with the Germans, whose speech even was my own, than with their adversaries? Besides, had not the declaration of war proceeded from the French, on such trifling grounds—nay, not grounds, but pretexts? And must we not conclude from that that the Prussian cause was the more just one, and that they were going into battle only as defenders, and in obedience to compulsion? King William had spoken with much justice in his speech from the throne on July 19:—

The Emperor Napoleon, on his side, published the following proclamation:—

What a lesson! what a mighty lesson speaks from this writing, when compared with the events which ensued upon it! This campaign, then, was undertaken by France in order to attain security—to attain lasting peace? And what came of it? L’annÈe terrible and lasting enmity—enmity which still prevails. No; as with coal you cannot white-wash, as with assafoetida you cannot diffuse a sweet perfume, so neither with war can you make peace secure. This “miserable situation,” to which Napoleon alludes, how much has it not changed for the worse since then! The emperor was in earnest, thoroughly in earnest about the scheme for setting on foot a European disarmament. I have it quite certainly from his nearest relations; but the war party put pressure on him—coerced him—and he yielded. And yet he could not refrain, even in the war proclamation, from harping on his favourite idea. Its carrying out was only to be deferred. “After the campaign”—“after the victory,” said he, to console himself. It turned out otherwise.

So, on which side were our sympathies? If one has got to the point of detesting all war in and for itself, as was the case with Frederick and me, the genuine, pure, “passionate attachment” to either side can exist no more. One’s only feeling is “Oh that it had never begun—this campaign! Oh that it were only already over!”

I did not think that the existing war would last long, or have important consequences. Two or three battles won here and there, and then there would be parleys for certain, and the thing would be brought to an end. What were they really fighting for? Literally for nothing. The whole thing was more of an armed promenade, undertaken by the French from love of knightly adventure, by the Germans from brave feelings of defensive duty. A few sabre-cuts would be exchanged, and the adversaries would shake hands again. Fool that I was! As if the consequences of a war remained in any proportion to the causes which produced it. It is its course which determines its consequences.

We should have been glad to leave Paris, for all the enthusiasm which the whole population displayed produced the most painful effect on us. But the way eastward was barred for the present, and the business of our house-building detained us. In short, we stayed. We had hardly any society connections left. Everybody that could anyhow do so had fled from Paris; and even of those who remained, no one under present circumstances even thought of issuing invitations. A few, however, of our acquaintances among the literary circles, who were still in the city, we did frequently visit. Just at this phase of the commencing war, it interested Frederick to make himself acquainted with the judgments and views then entertained by the master spirits of the time. There was an author, then quite young, who later on attained much fame, Guy de Maupassant, some of whose utterances, which penetrated into my soul, I entered in the red volumes:—

I had also an opportunity of reading a letter, written by Gustave Flaubert to George Sand in the early days of July, just after the outbreak of the war. Here it is:—

“Oh,” cried I, as I read this letter, “that we could have been born 500 years later! that would be even better than the Bedouins.”

“Men will not want all that time to become reasonable,” said Frederick confidently.

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The period of proclamations and general orders was now come.

The old hum-drum tune again always, and always again the public carried away to give it support and enthusiasm! There was joy over the victories guaranteed in the manifestoes, just as if they had been gained already.

On July 28 Napoleon III. issued the following document from his headquarters at Metz. This also I entered in my book, not, indeed, because I shared in the admiration but from contempt for the everlasting sameness and hollowness of its phrase-mongering:—

Of course, “le Dieu des ArmÉes” could not be left out. That the leaders of defeated armies have said the same thing a hundred times over does not prevent the others from saying the same words at the beginning of every new campaign and awakening the same confidence by doing so. Is there anything more short and more weak than the memory of the people?

On July 31 King William quitted Berlin and left the following writing:—

Necessity of defence—necessity of defence—that is the only recognised way of killing, and so both parties cry out: “I am defending myself”. Is not that a contradiction? Not altogether, for over both there presides a third power, the power of the conquering, ancient war-spirit. It is only against him that all should join in a defensive league.

Along with the above manifestoes, I find in my red volumes an entry, with the singular title written over it: “If Ollivier had married Meyerbeer’s daughter would the war have broken out?” This is how the matter stood. Amongst our Parisian acquaintance there was a literary man named Alexander Weill, and it was he who threw out the above question, while he told us the following story:—

“Meyerbeer was looking out for a man of talent for his second daughter, and his choice fell on my friend Emile Ollivier. Ollivier was a widower. He had married for his first wife the daughter of Liszt, whom the renowned pianist had by the Countess d’Agoult (Daniel Stern), with whom he long lived as his wife. The marriage was very happy, and Ollivier had the reputation of a virtuous husband. He possessed no fortune, but as a speaker and statesman he was already famous. Meyerbeer wanted to make his personal acquaintance, and to this end I gave, in April, 1864, a great ball, which was attended by most of the celebrities of art and science, and where, of course, Ollivier, who had been informed by me of Meyerbeer’s purpose, played the first part. He pleased Meyerbeer. The matter was not easy to bring to a head. Meyerbeer knew the independent originality of his second daughter, who would never marry any other husband than one of her own choice. It was arranged that Ollivier should pay a visit to Baden, and there be introduced as if by chance to the young lady. When Meyerbeer died suddenly a fortnight after this ball, it was Ollivier, if you recollect, who pronounced his Éloge and funeral oration at the Northern Railway Station. Now, I affirm, nay I am certain of it, that if Ollivier had married Meyerbeer’s daughter, the war between France and Germany would not have broken out. Look how plausible my proofs are. In the first place, Meyerbeer, who hated the empire to the point of contempt, would never have permitted his daughter’s husband to become a minister of the emperor. It is well known that, if Ollivier had threatened the Chamber to give in his resignation sooner than declare war, the Chamber would never have declared war. The present war is the work of three backstairs confidants and secret ministers of the empress, named, JerÔme David, Paul de Cassagnac, and the Duc de Grammont. The empress, excited by the Pope, whose religious puppet she is, would have this war, as to the success of which she never doubted, in order to ensure her son’s succession. She said: ‘C’est ma guerre À moi et À mon fils,’ and the three above-named papal ‘anabaptists’ were her secret tools to force the emperor, who did not want any war, and the Chamber into war by false and secret despatches from Germany.”

“And this is what is called diplomacy!” I interrupted with a shudder.

“Listen further,” pursued Alexander Weill. “Ollivier said to me on July 15, when I met him on the Place de la Concorde: ‘Peace is assured, or I resign’. Whence came it then that this same man, a few days later, instead of resigning, declared war himself, ‘d’un coeur lÉger,’ as he said in the Chamber?”

“With a light heart!” I cried, shuddering again.

“There is a secret in this that I can throw light upon. The emperor, for whom money had never any other value than to purchase love or friendship with it (he believes, like Jugurtha in Rome, that all in France, men and women, have their price), has the custom, when he takes a minister who is not rich, of binding him more closely to himself by a present of a million francs. Daru alone, who told me this secret, declined this present—‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’. And he alone, being unfettered, sent in his resignation. As long as the emperor hesitated, Ollivier, being bound to his master by this chain of gold, declared himself neutral—rather inclined to peace. But as soon as the emperor had been overborne by his wife and her three ultramontane anabaptists, Ollivier declared for war, and gave it lively utterance, with light heart, ‘and with full pockets’.”[10]

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