Lay Down Your Arms 42

Lay Down Your Arms 42

“Will these lines ever reach you? and where, and how? Whether after a

hot day’s fight or in camp, or perhaps in hospital? In any case it will

do you good to get news of your dear ones. If I can write nothing but

what is mournful--and what else but what is mournful can be felt during

this time, when the sun is darkened by the great black pall hoisted up

in the name of ‘our country,’ to fall down on the country’s sons?--still

my lines will bring you refreshment, for I am dear to you, Frederick--I

know how dear, and my written word rejoices and moves you, as would a

soft touch from my hand. I am near you, Frederick--be assured of

that--with every thought, with every breath, by day and night. Here, in

my own circle, I move and act and speak mechanically. My innermost self,

_that_ belongs to you, _that_ never leaves you for a moment; only my boy

reminds me that the world still contains for me a thing which is not

you. The good little fellow--if you knew how he asks and cares for you!

We two talk together of nothing but ‘papa’. He knows well, like a boy of

sharp perceptions, what object fills my heart; and however little he may

be (you know that!) he is already in a sense a _friend_ of his mother. I

even begin to speak with him as with a reasonable being, and for this he

is thankful. I, on my part, am thankful to him for the love he shows to

you. It is so seldom that children get on well with their step-parents.

It is true there is nothing of the stepfather about you--you could not

be more tender and kind to a child of your own, my own tender and kind

one! Yes, kindness, great, soft, and mild, is the foundation of your

being; and what does the poet say? ‘As heaven is vaulted by one single

great sapphire, so the greatness of character of a noble man is formed

of one single virtue, kindness.’ In other words, I love you, Frederick!

That is still always the refrain of all my thoughts about you and your

qualities. I love you so confidingly, with such assurance. I _rest_ in

you, Frederick, warm and soft--that is when I have you, of course. Now

when you are again torn from me, my repose is naturally gone. Oh, if the

storm were only over, over; if you all were only in Berlin to dictate

terms of peace to King William! For my father is firmly convinced that

this will be the end of the campaign; and from all that is heard and

read here, I also most believe him. ‘As soon as, with God’s help, the

enemy is struck down’--so runs Benedek’s proclamation--‘we will follow

on his track, and you shall repose in the country of the foe, and enjoy

those refreshments----’ and so on. What, then, are these refreshments?

At this day no general dare say openly, and without circumlocution: ‘You

shall plunder, burn, murder, and ravish,’ as they used to say in the

middle ages to excite their hordes. Now, at the most, all that could be

kept before their eyes as a reward would be the free distribution of

beer and sausages; but that would be a little tame, and so it was put

figuratively--‘those refreshments,’ and so on. Every one may make out of

that what he pleases. The principle that in ‘the country of the foe’ is

to be found the reward of war is still maintained in military

language.... And how will you feel in ‘the foeman’s land,’ which is

really your own ancestral country, where your friends and your cousins

are living? Will you ‘refresh’ yourself by laying Aunt Cornelia’s pretty

villa even with the ground? ‘Enemy’s country;’ that is really a

fossilised conception of those times when war was openly what its

_raison d’etre_ proclaims it, a piracy; and when the enemy’s country

attracted the combatant as a land of prey which promised him a

recompense.

 

“I am talking now with you, as I used in those happy hours when you were

at my side, and when, after the reading of some book of the progressive

school, we used to philosophise with each other about the contradictions

of our times, so intimately, so entirely understanding and supplementing

each other. In my circle there is no one--no one--with whom I could talk

about matters of that kind. Doctor Bresser would have been the only one

with whom ideas condemnatory of war could be exchanged; and he also is

now gone--himself drawn into this horrible war--but with the purpose of

healing wounds, not inflicting them; another contradiction really, this

‘humanity’ in war: an essential contradiction. It is about the same as

‘enlightenment’ in faith. One thing or the other; but humanity and war;

reason and dogma, _that_ will not do. The downright, burning hatred of

the enemy, coupled with an entire contempt for human life, that is the

vital nerve of war, exactly as the unquestioning suppression of reason

is the fundamental condition of faith. But we live in a time of

compromise. The old institutions and the new ideas are working with

equal power. And so people, who do not wish to break entirely with the

old and who cannot entirely comprehend the new, make an attempt to fuse

the two together; and it is this which generates this mendacious,

inconsistent, contradictory, half-and-half system under which spirits

who thirst for truth, accuracy, and completeness so groan and suffer.

 

“Ah, why do I compose all this treatise! You will at the present time be

scarcely disposed for such generalisations, as you used to be in our

happy hours of chat. You hear raging round you a horrible reality, with

which you have to reckon. How much better would it be if you could

accept it with the simple assurance of ancient times, when the warlike

life was to the soldier a proud pleasure and a delight. Better also

would it be if I could write to you, as other wives do, letters full of

wishes for prosperity, confident promises of victory, and incitements to

your courage. Girls of the present day are educated in patriotism, so

that at the proper time they might cry to their husbands: ‘Go on, die

for your country--that is the most glorious of deaths’; or, ‘Come back

with victory, and then we will reward you with our loves. In the

meantime we will pray for you. The God of battles, who protects our

army, He will hear our prayers. Day and night our intercession is rising

up to heaven, and we are sure to take His favour by storm. You will come

back crowned with fame. We never tremble for an instant, for we are

worthy comrades of your valour. No! no! the mothers of your sons must be

no cowards if they would raise up a new race of heroes; and even if we

have to give up what is dearest to us--for king and country no sacrifice

is too great!’

 

“That would be the right letter for a soldier’s wife, would it not? But

not such a letter as you would wish to read from your wife--from the

partner of your thoughts, from her who shares your disgust at the old

blind delusion of mankind. Oh, such disgust--so bitter, so painful that

I cannot describe it to you.” When I picture to myself these two armies,

composed of individuals with the gift of reason, and for the most part

kind and gentle men, how they are rushing on each other, to annihilate

each other, desolating at the same time the unfortunate land, in which

they cast aside the villages they have ‘taken’ like cards in their game

of murder. When I picture all this, I feel inclined to shriek out: ‘Do

bethink you!’ ‘Do stop!’ And out of the 100,000, 90,000 individuals

would certainly be glad to stop; but the mass is compelled to go on in

its fury.

 

But enough; you will prefer to hear the accounts and the news from home.

Well, then, we are all well. My father is constantly in the highest

state of excitement over present events. The victory of Custozza fills

him with radiant pride. He behaves as if he had won it himself. In any

case he regards the splendour of that day as so bright that the

reflection which falls on him as an Austrian and a general makes him

completely happy. Lori, too, whose husband, as you know, is with the

Army of the South, writes me a letter of triumph about this same

Custozza. Do you recollect, Frederick, how jealous I was for a quarter

of an hour about this same good Lori? And how I came out after that

attack with stronger love and stronger trust in you? Oh, if only you had

betrayed me then; if only you had sometimes a little ill-treated me;

then I should perhaps bear your absence now more easily. But to know

that _such_ a husband is in the storm of bullets! Let me go on with my

news. Lori has offered to spend the remainder of her grass-widowhood in

Grumitz, along with her little Beatrix. I could not say ‘no’; yet

frankly any society is at the present time disagreeable to me. I want to

be alone, alone with my longing for you, the extent of which no one but

you can measure. Next week Otto begins his vacation. He laments in every

letter that the war should have begun before, instead of after, his

admission to officer’s rank. He hopes to God that the peace will not

‘break out’ before he leaves the academy. That word ‘break out’ is not

perhaps the one he used, but in any case it expresses his meaning, for

peace appears to him a threatening calamity. It is indeed the way they

are brought up. As long as there are wars men must be brought up to be

war-loving soldiers; and so long as there are war-loving soldiers there

must be war. Is that our eternal, inevitable circle? No, God be

thanked! For _that_ love, in spite of all school training, is constantly

diminishing. We found the proof of this diminution in Henry Thomas

Buckle. Do not you recollect? But I don’t want any printed proof; a

glance into your heart, your noble human heart, my Frederick, is enough

to demonstrate this to me. Let me get on with my news. From all our

landed connections and acquaintances in Bohemia we get on all sides

epistles of lamentation. The march of the troops through the country,

even if they are marching to victory, devastates it and sucks everything

out of it. And how if once the enemy should advance into it, if the

fight should be played out in their neighbourhood, there where their

possessions, their châteaux and fields are situated? All is ready for

flight, all their effects packed up and their treasures buried. Adieu to

our happy tours among the Bohemian Spas; adieu to the pleasant visits to

the country houses; adieu to the brilliant autumn hunting parties; and,

in any case, adieu to the usual revenues from farms and businesses. The

harvests are trampled down, the factories, if they are not battered down

and burned, are robbed of their labourers. ‘It is indeed a real

misfortune,’ they write, ‘that we live exactly on the border-land; and

it is a second misfortune that Benedek did not assume the offensive with

more vigour, so as to fight out the war in Prussia.’ Perhaps it might

also be called a misfortune that the whole political quarrel could not

have been adjusted before a court of arbitration, but that the murderous

devastation must be carried out on Bohemian or Silesian soil (for in

Silesia also, if we believe the accounts of trustworthy travellers,

there are really men and fields and crops). But that idea does not occur

to anybody!

 

“My little Rudolf is sitting at my feet while I am writing. He sends you

a kiss, and his love to our dear Puxl. We both miss him much, the good,

merry little dog; but, on the other hand, he would have missed his

master sadly, and he will be a diversion and a companion to you. Give

Puxl both our loves. I shake his paw, and Rudi kisses his dear black

snout.

 

“And now, good-bye for to-day, my all on earth!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

_The Austrian reverses increase.--Sketches from the seat of war,

showing its realities, as viewed by a soldier who abhors

war.--Death of poor Puxl.--My husband avows his determination never

to serve in another campaign._

 

 

“Never was such a thing heard of--defeat after defeat. First the village

of Podol, barricaded by Clam-Gallas, carried by storm, taken in the

night by moonlight, and by the light of the conflagration. Then Gitchin

conquered. The needle-gun, the cursed needle-gun, mows our troops down

by whole ranks at a time. The two great army corps of the enemy, that

commanded by the Crown Prince and that under Prince Fr. Karl, have

joined, and are pressing forward against Münchengrätz.” Thus sounded the

terrible news, and my father communicated it with as great a degree of

lamentation as he had shown joy in telling us the victorious news from

Custozza. But his confidence was not yet shaken.

 

“Let them come, all of them, all, into our Bohemia, and be annihilated

there, to the last man. There is no escape there, no retreat for them;

we hem them in, we encircle them, and the enraged country folks

themselves will give them the finishing stroke. It is not altogether so

advantageous as you might suppose to operate in an enemy’s country; for

in that case you have not only the army but the whole population against

you. The people poured boiling water and oil on the Prussians from the windows of the houses at----.”