Lay Down Your Arms 53

Lay Down Your Arms 53

My little brother--he was indeed big enough by this time, but I had got

into the habit of calling him so--my little brother was in fear of

nothing so much as that the war would come to a speedy end, and it would

not be his lot to chase the enemy out of the country. For the news had

just come from the Neustadt that in case hostilities had to be resumed,

then at the next period of calling out the reserves--_i.e._, next August

18--not only the recruits of the last year, but also a large proportion

of the last but one would have to go at once into active service. This

prospect delighted the young hero. Straight from the academy into the

field! What rapture! Just so a school-girl looks out into the world--to

her first ball. She has learned to dance; the Neustadt scholar has

learned to shoot and fence. She longs to display her powers under a

blazing chandelier in evening dress, to the accompaniment of the

orchestra; and he longs no less for the smart uniform and the great

artillery dance.

 

My father was of course pleased in the highest degree at his darling’s

martial ardour.

 

“By easy, my brave boy,” he said in reply to Otto’s sigh over the threat

of peace, patting him the while on the shoulder. “You have a long life

before you. Even if the campaign were to come to an end now, it must

break out again in a year or two.”

 

I said nothing. Since my outbreak against Aunt Mary I had, on

Frederick’s advice, formed and carried out the resolution to avoid these

painful disputes on the subject of war as far as possible. It would lead

to nothing but bitter feelings; and after having seen the traces of the

grim scourge with my own eyes I had so increased my hatred and my

contempt for war that all defence of it cut into my soul like a personal

insult. About Frederick we were indeed at one--he was to quit the

service; and I was also clear on this point, that my son Rudolf should

not be put into any military institution where the whole of the

education is directed--and _must_, to be consistent, be directed--to

awaken in the young a longing for deeds of war. I once asked my brother

what might be the views which were put before the students on the

subject of war. His replies came to something like what follows: War was

represented as a necessary evil (thus, at any rate, _evil_--a concession

to the spirit of the age) but at the same time as the chief excitant of

the noblest of human virtues--such as courage, the power of

self-renunciation and the spirit of sacrifice, as the bestower of the

greatest glory, and lastly, as the mightiest factor in the development

of civilisation. The mighty conquerors and founders of the so-called

universal empires--Alexander, Cæsar, Napoleon--were quoted as the most

exalted specimens of human greatness, and recommended for admiration.

The successes and advantages of war were set forth in the liveliest

colours, while they passed over in complete silence the drawbacks which

inevitably come in its train, its barbarising influence, its ruinous

effects, the moral and physical degeneration it causes. Yes, assuredly,

for the same system was pursued in my case--in the education of

girls--and it was thus that was kindled in my childish spirit the

admiration of warlike laurels which at first inspired me. If I had even

myself been full of regret that the possibility of plucking these

laurels did not beckon me on, as it did the boys, could I now take it

ill in a boy if such a possibility filled him with joy and with

impatience?

 

And so I answered nothing to Otto’s complaint, but quietly went on with

my reading. I was, as usual, reading a newspaper, and that was filled,

as usual, with news from the theatre of war.

 

“Here is an interesting correspondence of a physician who accompanied

the retreat of our troops. Shall I read it aloud?” I asked.

 

“The retreat?” cried Otto. “I had rather not hear about that. Now, if

it were the history of the retreat of the foe, hotly pursued----”

 

“As a general principle it surprises me,” remarked Frederick, “that any

one should tell the tale of a flight which he has accompanied. That is

an episode of war which the people concerned in it generally pass over

in silence.”

 

“An orderly retreat is however not a flight,” interposed my father. “We

had one in ’49. It was under Radetzky----”

 

I knew the story and prevented its continuation by interposing.

 

“This account was sent to a medical weekly paper, and, therefore, was

not intended for military circles. Listen.”

 

And without further request for permission I read out the passage.

 

“It was about four o’clock when our troops began the retreat. We doctors

were fully occupied dressing the wounded--to the number of some

hundreds--who could bear removal. Suddenly cavalry broke in on us, and

spread themselves beside and behind us, over hills and fields,

accompanied by artillery and baggage-waggons, towards Königgrätz. Many

riders fell and _were stamped to pieces_ by the horses that came behind.

Waggons overturned and crushed the foot-men, who were pressed in among

them. We were scattered away from the dressing station, which

disappeared all at once. They shouted to us: “Save yourselves!” While

this cry went on we heard the thunder of the cannon, and splinters of

shell began to fall amongst our crowd. And so we were carried forward by

the press without knowing whither. I despaired of my life. My poor old

mother, my dear espoused bride, farewell! On a sudden we had water

before us, on the right a railway embankment, on the left a hollow way

stopped up with clumsy baggage-and sick-waggons, and behind us an

innumerable crowd of horsemen. We began to wade through the water. Now

came the order to cut the traces of the horses, to save the horses, and

leave the waggons behind. The waggons of the wounded also? Yes, those

too. We on foot were almost in despair: we were wading again over our

knees in water, every moment in fear of being shot down or drowned. At

last we got into a railway station, which again was closely barred. Many

broke through the barrier, the rest leaped over it. I with thousands of

the infantry soldiers ran on. Now we came to a river, waded through it,

then clambered over some palisades, passed again through a second river

up to our necks, clambered up some rising ground, leaped over fallen

trees, and arrived about one A.M. at a little wood, where we sank down

from exhaustion and fever. About three o’clock we marched--that is, some

of us, another part had to remain and die there--we marched on still

dripping with wet and shuddering with cold. The villages were all

empty--no men, no provisions, not even a drop of drinking water; the air

was poisoned, corpses covering the corn-fields; bodies black as coal,

with the eyes fallen from their sockets----”

 

“Enough! enough!” cried the girls.

 

“The censorship should not allow the publication of things of that

sort,” said my father. “It might destroy a man’s love for the profession

of a soldier.”

 

“And especially the love for war, which would be a pity,” I murmured

half aloud.

 

“As a general rule,” he went on, “about these episodes of flight, the

people who have been present at them should observe a decorous silence,

for it is surely no honour to have borne a part at a general ‘Sauve qui

peut’. The fellow who, by shouting ‘Save yourselves,’ gives the signal

for scampering should be shot down on the spot. One coward raises the

shout, and a thousand brave men are demoralised thereby and obliged to

run with him.”

 

“Exactly so,” replied Frederick, “just as when one brave man shouts

‘Forward’ a thousand cowards are obliged to rush on, and thus are really

animated by a merely momentary courage. Men cannot in general be divided

so sharply into courageous and cowards, but every one has his moments of

more or less courage and those of more or less cowardice. And

especially when one is dealing with masses of men each individual is

dependent on the condition of his comrades. We are gregarious animals,

and are under the domination of gregarious feelings. Where one sheep

leaps over the others leap after him, where one man rushes on shouting

‘Hurrah’ the others shout and rush after him, and where one dashes down

his musket into the corn in order to run away the others run after him.

In the one case ‘our brave troops’ get praised, in the other their

proceedings are passed over in silence, yet they are all the same

persons. Yes, they are the very same men who, obeying in each case a

common impulse, behave and feel at one time courageously, at another

cowardly. Bravery and fear are to be regarded, not as fixed qualities,

but rather as states of the spirits, just like joy and grief. I, during

my first campaign, was once involved in the whirl of one of these panic

flights. In the official account of the Etat-major, it is true, the

affair was passed over in a few words as an ‘orderly retreat’; but in

fact it was a thorough rout. They rushed on, madly raging in

indescribable confusion; arms, knapsacks, shakos, and cloaks were cast

away; no word of command could be heard; panting, shrieking, hounded on

by despair, the disbanded battalion streamed on, with the enemy pursuing

and firing after them. That is one of the many gruesome phases of

war--the most gruesome, when the two adversaries figure no longer as

warriors but as hunter and prey. Thence arises in the hunter the most

cruel lust of blood; in the prey the most bitter fear of death. The

pursued, hunted and spurred by fear, get into a kind of delirium, all

the feelings and sentiments in which they have been educated, and which

animate a man as he is rushing into battle, such as love of country,

ambition, thirst for noble deeds--all these are lost to the fugitive. He

is filled with one impulse only, in its greatest force, liberated from

all restraint, and that the most vehement which can assume the mastery

of a living being--the impulse of self-preservation: and this, as danger

comes nearer, rises to the highest paroxysm of terror.”

 

* * * * *

 

Frederick’s recovery progressed surely. The feverish outer world, too,

seemed to come nearer to recovery. The word “Peace” was always being

spoken more frequently and always louder. The advance of the Prussians,

who found no longer any opposition on the way, and who were quietly

drawing on towards Vienna, by way of Brünn, the keys of which were

delivered by the burgomaster to King William, this advance was more in

the nature of a military promenade than an operation of war, and on July

26 a regular suspension of arms at Nikolsburg was ended by the

preliminaries of peace.

 

My father had a great delight in the reception of the news of Admiral

Tegethoff’s victory at Lyssa. Italian ships blown into the air, the

_Affundatore_ destroyed, what a satisfaction! I could not with perfect

honesty take my share in his joy. Speaking generally, I could not

understand why, since Venice had already been surrendered, these naval

actions should be fought at all. So much, however, is certain, that

there broke out over this event the most lively shout of joy, not from

my father only, but from all the Viennese papers. The fame of a victory

in war is a thing which has been swollen up to such a size through the

traditions of a thousand years, that even from the mere news of one some

share of pride is spread over the whole population. If anywhere a

general of your country has beaten a general of a foreign country, every

single subject of the state in question is congratulated, and since each

man hears that all the rest are rejoicing, a thing which in itself is

exhilarating, why, each man ends by rejoicing, in fact. This is what

Frederick called “feeling in droves”.

 

Another political event of those days was that Austria at length joined

the Geneva convention.

 

“Well, are you contented now?” asked my father as he read the news. “Do

you agree that war, which you are always calling a barbarity, is always

becoming more humane as civilisation progresses? I too am indeed in

favour of carrying on war humanely: the wounded should have the most

careful nursing and all possible relief.... Even on strategic

principles, which in the long ran are surely the most important in

warlike matters, by a proper treatment of the sick very many may become

fit for service again, and be replaced in the ranks in a shorter space

of time.”

 

“You are right, papa. Material to be used again, that is the chief

thing. But after the things which I have seen, no Red Cross will be enough, even if they had ten times as much of men and means, to conjure away the misery which one battle brings with it----”