lay down your arms 71

lay down your arms 71

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:--

 

In going to-day to the army, to fight along with it for honour and

for the preservation of our noblest possessions, I leave an amnesty

for all political offenders. My people know as well as I that the

breach of treaty and hostile proceedings are not on our side. But

as we have been provoked, we are determined, like our fathers, and

in firm reliance on God, to brave the battle for the deliverance of

our fatherland.

 

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 cœur 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]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

 

_First days of the war in Paris.--Constant reverses of the French

arms.--Fall of Metz.--Paris turned into a fortress.--The Prussians

expelled from Paris.--Surrender of the Emperor Napoleon and his

army at Sedan.--Proclamation of the Republic.--Futile negotiations

for peace.--We determine to quit Paris.--This is prevented by my

illness.--When I recover the winter has set in, and Paris has long

been beleaguered.--Fall of Strasbourg.--Paris bombarded.--The

proclamation of the German Empire at Versailles.--Dreams of release

and future happiness suddenly interrupted by the arrest and

execution of my husband by the Communards._

 

 

“Oh monsieur! Oh madame! What happiness! What great news!” With these

words Frederick’s valet rushed into our room one day, and the cook after

him. It was the day of Wörth.

 

“What is it?”

 

“A telegram has been posted up at the Bourse. We have conquered. The

King of Prussia’s army is as good as annihilated. The city is adorning

itself with tricolour flags. There will be an illumination to-night.”

 

But in the course of the afternoon it turned out that the news was

false--a Bourse trick. Ollivier made a speech to the crowd from his

balcony. Well, so much the better; at least one would not be obliged to

illuminate. These joyful tidings of “armies annihilated”--_i.e._, of

numberless lives torn asunder, and hearts broken--awoke again in me too

the same wish as Flaubert’s--“Oh that I were with the Bedouins!”

 

On August 7, news of a catastrophe. The emperor hastened from St. Cloud

to the theatre of war. The enemy had penetrated into the country. The

newspapers could not give __EXPRESSION__ hot enough to their rage at the

“invasion”. The cry “À Berlin,” as it seemed to me, pointed to an

intended invasion; but in that there was nothing to cause anger. But

that these eastern barbarians should venture to make an incursion into

beautiful, God-beloved France--that was sheer savagery and sin. That

must be stopped, and quickly too.

 

The Minister of War _ad interim_ published a decree that all citizens

fit for service, from the age of thirty to forty, who did not belong to

the National Guard, should be immediately enrolled in that body. A

Ministry of the Defence of the Country was formed. The war loan of 500

millions, which had been voted, was raised to 1000. It is quite

refreshing to see how freely people always offer up the money and the

lives of others. A trifling financial unpleasantness, to be sure, was

soon perceptible to the public. If one wanted to change bank notes one

had to pay the money-changer ten per cent. There was not gold at hand to

meet all the notes which the Bank of France was authorised to issue.

 

And now, victory after victory on the German side.

 

The physiognomy of the city of Paris and its inhabitants altered.

Instead of its proud, magnificent, resplendent mood, came confusion and

savage indignation. The feeling spread ever wider and wider that a horde

of Vandals had descended on to the land--something terrible, unheard of,

like some cloud of locusts, or some such natural portent. That they had

themselves brought this plague on themselves by their declaration of

war--that they had considered such a declaration indispensable, in order

that no Hohenzollern, even in the distant future, should even conceive

the idea of succeeding to the Spanish throne--all that they had

forgotten. Hideous tales were circulated about the enemy. “The Uhlans!

the Uhlans!” These words had a fantastically-demoniacal sound, as if one

had said “the horde of savages”. In the imagination of the people this

kind of troops assumed a demoniacal shape. Wherever a bold stroke was

executed by the German cavalry, it was attributed to the Uhlans--a kind

of half-men, getting no pay, and therefore bound to live on their

plunder. Along with the rumours of terror arose rumours also of triumph.

To tell lies about successes is one of the duties of Chauvinism. Of

course, because courage must be kept up. The command, to tell truth,

like so many other commands, loses its obligation in war time. Frederick

dictated to me the following passage out of the newspaper _Le

Volontaire_ for my red book:--

 

Up to the 16th of August, the Germans have lost already 144,000

men. The rest are almost starving. The last reserves are coming up

from Germany--“la landwehr et la landsturm”. Old men of sixty, with

flint muskets, with an enormous tobacco pouch on their right side

and a still larger schnaps-flask on their left, a long clay pipe in

their mouth; stooping under the weight of the knapsack (on the top

of which there must not be omitted the coffee mill and the elder

tea inside), are crawling along, coughing and blowing their noses,

from the right to the left bank of the Rhine, cursing those who

have torn them from the embraces of their grandchildren, to lead

them on to certain death. “As to the news of victory, brought from

German sources,” it was said in the French newspapers, “they are     the usual Prussian lies.”