CHAPTER XVIII.

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for the crown of Spain.—The war rumours and the speeches in the Chamber become menacing.—The Hohenzollern candidature withdrawn.—Further demands of France.—Threatening debate in the French Chamber.—War declared.—Excitement and enthusiasm in Paris.—With which side should we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.

PARISsociety 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 thesalonof Princess Mathilde that I first heard of “the question” that was soon to come into “agitation”.

The company was sitting, afterdéjeûner, 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 withespritand witticisms. The author of theVie de Jésusis 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 spacebecame larger which it occupied in the newspapers and in conversations in thesalons, 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 namedGribouille. 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 throughpersons who were about him, still wished, as before, for the preservation of peace; but most of the people of hisentouragenow 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 PrinceLeopold 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 evenruinwithout 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 Frenchchargé d’affairesin 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:—

The Government of His Majesty the Emperor of the French could not regard the design of raising a Prussian prince to the throne of Spain otherwise than as an attack on the territorial security of France, and has therefore found itself compelled to request from His Majesty the King of Prussia the assurance that such a combination should never again occur with his consent. As His Majesty refuses any such assurance, and has, on the contrary, declared to our ambassador that he must reserve to himself the possibility of such an event, and inquire into the circumstances, the Imperial Government cannot help recognising in this declaration of the king anarrière-pensée, which, for France and for the European equilibrium ... (There it comes again—this famous equilibrium. Look at this shelf, and the precious china on it—it is tottering; the dishes may fall, so let us smash it down.) This declaration has assumed a still graver character from the communication which has been made to the Cabinet of the refusal to receive the emperor’s ambassador, and to introduce, in common with him, a new method of solution. (So, by such things as these, by a more or less friendly conversation between rulers and diplomatists, the fate of nations may be decided.) In consequence of this the French Government has thought it its duty (!) without delay to think of the defence (Yes, yes, defence: never attack) of its outraged dignity and its outraged interests, and being determined to employ for that end all means which are offered by the position which has been imposed upon it, regards itself from this time forward as in a state of war with Prussia.

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 thespirit, 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 wereelectrified.

“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 islove.”

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

That their unholy bloodMay sink into our furrows.”

“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.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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 German and the French nations, both enjoying equally the blessings of Christian training and increasing prosperity, have been called to a more holy strife than the bloody one of arms. The rulers of France, however, have contrived to make profit for their own personal interests and passions out of the justifiable but irritable self-consciousness of our great neighbour by means of deliberate deception.

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

In view of the presumptuous pretensions of Prussia, we were obliged to make protests. These were treated with scorn. Transactions[9]followed which showed their contempt for us. Our country has been deeply irritated at this, and at present the cry for war resounds from one end of France to the other. There remains nothing possible for us except to trust our fate to the arbitrament of arms. We are not making war on Germany, whose independence we respect. It is the object of our best wishes that the people composing the great German nationality should dispose freely of their own fate. As far as concerns ourselves, we desire to set up a state of things which will guarantee our security and make our future safe. We wish to obtain a lasting peace, founded on the true interests of the peoples. We wish for the termination of this miserable situation, in which all the nations are expending their resources in arming on all sides against each other.

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 toattain security—to attain lasting peace? And what came of it?L’annèe terribleand lasting enmity—enmity which still prevails. No; as with coal you cannot white-wash, as with assafœtida 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 itscoursewhich 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 thepresent, 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:—

War—if I only think of the word a horror comes over me, as if people were talking to me about witches, about the inquisition, about some faraway, overmastering, horrible, unnatural thing. War—to fight each other, strangle, cut each other to pieces! And we have amongst us at this day, in our times, with our culture, with such an extension of science, with so high a grade of development as we believe ourselves to have attained—we have schools, where people are taught to kill, to kill at a good distance, and a good round number at a time. What is wonderful is that the people do not rise up against it, that the whole of society does not revolt at the bare word—war!Every man who governs is just as much bound to avoid war as a ship’s captain is bound to avoid shipwreck. If a captain has lost a ship he is brought before a court and tried, so that it may be known whether he has been guilty of negligence. Why should not a Government be put on its trial whenever a war has been declared? If the people understood it, if they refused to allow themselves to be killed without cause, there would be an end of war.

Every man who governs is just as much bound to avoid war as a ship’s captain is bound to avoid shipwreck. If a captain has lost a ship he is brought before a court and tried, so that it may be known whether he has been guilty of negligence. Why should not a Government be put on its trial whenever a war has been declared? If the people understood it, if they refused to allow themselves to be killed without cause, there would be an end of war.

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:—

I am in despair at the stupidity of my countrymen. The incorrigible barbarity of men fills me with deep grief. This enthusiasm, which is inspired by no idea, makes me wish to die in order to see no more of it. These good Frenchmen wish to fight (1) because they believe themselveschallenged by Prussia, (2) because savagery is the natural state of men, (3) because war has an element of mystery in it which is alluring to men. Are we coming to indiscriminate fighting? I fear it.... The horrible battles which are in preparation have no pretext whatever for them. It is the love of fighting for fighting’s sake. I lament for the bridges and tunnels blown up. All this human labour gone to ruin. You will have seen that a gentleman recommended in the Chamber the plundering of the Grand Duchy of Baden. Oh that I could be with the Bedouins!

“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.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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:—

We are defending the honour and the soil of our country. We shall conquer. Nothing is too much for the persevering exertions of the soldiers of Africa, the Crimea, China, Italy and Mexico: Once more you will show what a French army can do, which is on fire with the love of country. Whatever way we take out of our boundaries, we find there the glorious footsteps of our forefathers. We will show ourselves worthy of them. On our success depends the fate of Freedom and Civilisation. Soldiers! let every one do his duty, and the God of Battles will be with us.

Of course, “le Dieu des Armées” could not be left out. That the leaders of defeated armies have said the same thing ahundred 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 againsthimthat 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 attendedby 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 hisélogeand 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]

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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.

“OHmonsieur! 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 Warad interimpublished 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 imaginationof 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 newspaperLe Volontairefor 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.”

On August 20 Count Palikao announced in the Chamber that three army corps which had coalesced against Bazaine had been thrown into the quarries at Jaumont (Bravo! Bravo!). It is true that no one knew what quarries these were, or where they were; nor did any one explain how they could contain three army corps; but the joyous message went round from mouth to mouth. “Have you heard? In the quarries——” “Oh yes! Of Jaumont.” No one uttered a doubt or question. It was as if everybody had been born at Jaumont, and knew these army-swallowing quarries as well as his own pocket. About this time the rumour also prevailed that the King of Prussia hadgone madfrom despair at the condition of his army.

Nothing but monstrous things were heard of. The excitement,the fever, of the populace increased hourly. The war “là-bas” had ceased to be regarded as an armed promenade. It was felt that the forces which had been let loose were now bringing something terrible on the world. Nothing was spoken of but armies annihilated, princes driven mad, diabolical hordes, war to the knife. I listened to it thundering and growling. It was the storm of rage and despair that was rising. The battle at Bazeilles near Metz was described, and it was stated that inhuman cruelties had been committed there by the Bavarians.

“Do you believe that?” I asked Frederick. “Do you believe that of the gentle Bavarians?”

“It is quite possible. Bavarian or Turco, German, French, or Indian, the warrior who is defending his own life, and lifting up his arm to kill another, has ceased for the time to be ‘human’. What has been awakened in him and stirred up with all possible force is nothing else than bestiality.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Metz fallen! The news resounded in the city like some strange and overpowering cry of terror. To me the news of the taking of a fortress was a message which brought rather a relief; for I thought, “Well, that is decisive”. And it was only for this, that the bloody game might be over, it was for this, only this that I longed. But no, there was nothing decisive in it—more fortresses remained. After a defeat all that is to be done is to pick yourself up again, and strike out again at them twice as hard. The chance of arms may change at any time. Ah yes! The advantage may be now on this side, now on that. It is only woe that is certain—death that is certain—to be on both.

Trochu felt himself called upon to arouse the spirit of the populace by a new proclamation, and in it appealed to an old motto of Bretagne, “With God’s help for our fatherland”. That did not sound new to me. I had met with something like it before in other proclamations. It did not fail to haveits effect. The people were inspirited. Now, the thing was to turn Paris into a fortress.

Paris a fortress! I could not take in the idea. The city which V. Hugo called “la ville-lumière,” which is the point of attraction for the whole world of civilisation, riches, the pursuit of art, and the enjoyment of life—the point from which radiate splendour, fashions,esprit—this city is now to be “fortified”—i.e., become the point at which hostile attacks are to be aimed; the target for shot; to close itself against all intercourse, and expose itself to the danger of being set in flames by bombardment, or starved by famine! And that is done by these people,de gaieté de cœur, in the spirit of self-sacrifice, with joyous emulation, as if it was a question of carrying out the most useful, the most noble work! The work was proceeded with in feverish haste. Ramparts had to be erected on which troops could be placed, and shot holes cut in them; also trenches dug outside the gates, drawbridges erected, covering works repaired, canals bridged over, and protected by breastworks, powder magazines built, and a flotilla of gunboats placed on the Seine. What a fever of activity! What expenditure of exertion and industry! What gigantic expense in labour and money! How exhilarating and ennobling all that would have been, if it had been expended on works of public utility; but for the purpose of working mischief, of annihilation—a purpose which is not even one’s own, but only a move on the strategic chess-board—it is inconceivable!

In order to be able to stand a siege, which might possibly be a long one, the city was provisioned. Up to the present time, according to all experience, no such thing as an impregnable fortification has been known, capitulation is always only a question of time. And yet fortresses have always been erected anew, and provisioned anew with necessaries, in spite of the mathematicalimpossibilityof protecting oneself against thedurationof a blockade.

The measures taken were on a great scale. Mills were erected, and cattle parks laid out, and yet at last the momentmustcome when the corn will give out and the meat be consumed. But people do not carry their thoughts so far—by that time the enemy will be driven back over the frontier, or annihilated in the country. Now the whole people are joining the army of the fatherland. Every one offers himself for the service, or is pressed into it; and all the firemen in the country were called in to join the garrison of Paris. There might be fires in the provinces, but what of that? Such little accidents disappear when a national “disaster” is in question. On Aug. 17, 60,000 firemen had already been enrolled in the capital. The sailors too were called in, and new troops of soldiers were formed every day under various names—volontaires,éclaireurs,franc-tireurs.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Events followed each other in ever-hastening movement. But now only military events. Everything else was suspended. Nothing else was any more thought of around us except “mort aux Prussiens”. A storm of savage hatred collected: it had not yet broken out, but one heard it rumble. In all official proclamations, in all the street cries, in all public transactions, the conclusion was always “mort aux Prussiens”. All these troops, regular and irregular, these munitions, these work-people pressing to the fortifications with their tools and barrows, these transports for weapons, everything that one sees and hears means, in its every form and tone, in all its lightning and bluster, in all its flame and rage, “mort aux Prussiens”. Or in other words, and then indeed it sounds like a cry of love and warms even the softest hearts, it means “pour la patrie,” but in essence it is the same.

I asked Frederick: “You are of Prussian extraction, how does all this unfriendly feeling, which is now finding loud expression, affect you?”

“You said the same to me before, in 1866, and I answered you then as I do to-day, that I suffer from these expressions ofhatred not as the subject of any country, but as a man. If I judge of the opinions of the people here from a national point of view I cannot but think them right, they call itla haine sacrée de l’ennemi, and that motive forms an important element in warlike patriotism. They are now occupied with this one thought, to liberate their country from a hostile invasion. That it is themselves who provoked this invasion by declaring war, they have forgotten. Indeed it was not they who did it, but their Government, which they believed on its word; and now they lose no time over reproaches or reflections, as to who called down this misfortune on them: it has come, and all their force, all their enthusiasm must be spent on turning it aside again, or else uniting with unthinking self-sacrifice in a common ruin. Trust me, there is much noble capacity for love in us children of men, the pity only is that we lavish it on the old-world tracks of hatred.... And on the other side, the hated ones, the invaders, ‘the red-haired eastern barbarians,’ what are they doing? They were the challenged; and they are pressing forward into the country of those who threatened to overrun theirs—‘À Berlin, à Berlin’. Do not you recollect how this cry kept pealing through the whole city, even down from the roofs of omnibusses?”

“And now these are marching ‘Nach Paris’. Why do the shouters of ‘À Berlin’ attribute that as a crime to them?”

“Because there cannot be any logic or justice in that national sentiment whose foundation is the assumption thatweare ourselves, that is the first, and the others are barbarians. And this forward march of the Germans from victory to victory strikes me with admiration. I have been a soldier also, and I know with what a magical power victory fastens on the mind, what pride, what joy are contained in it. It is in any case the aim, the reward for all the sacrifices made, for the renunciation of rest and happiness, for the risk of life.”

“But then why do not the conquered adversaries, since they too are soldiers, and know what fame accompanies victory, why do they not admire their conquerors? Why is it never said inan account of a battle by the losing party: ‘The enemy has obtained a glorious victory’?”

“I repeat, because the war spirit and patriotic egotism are thedenial of all justice.”

So it came about—I can see it from all our conversations entered in the red books in those days—that we did not and could not think of anything at that time except the result of the present national duel.

Our happiness, our poor happiness, we had it, but we dared not enjoy it. Yes, we possessed everything that might have procured for us a heaven of delight on earth—boundless love, riches, rank, the charming, growing boy Rudolf, our heart’s idol Sylvia, independence, ardent interest in the world of mind; but before all this a curtain had fallen. How dared we, how could we taste of our joys while around us every one was suffering and trembling, shrieking and raving? It was as if one should set oneself to enjoy oneself heartily on board a storm-tossed vessel.

“A theatrical fellow, this Trochu,” Frederick told me—it was on August 25. “Such acoup de theâtrehas been played off to-day! You will never guess it.”

“The women called out for military service?” I guessed.

“Well, it does concern the women; but they are not called out. On the contrary.”

“Then are the sutlers discharged? or the Sisters of Mercy?”

“You have not guessed it yet, either. There is something of dismissal in it to be sure, and as to sutlers, too, in the sense that these ladies minister the cup of pleasure, and in a sense the ladies dismissed are merciful too; but in short, without more riddles, thedemimondeis exiled.”

“And the Minister of War has taken that step? What connection——?”

“I cannot see any either. But the people are in ecstasies over the regulation. In fact they are always glad whenanythinghappens. From every new order they expect a change,like many sick folks who greet every medicine which is given them as possibly a panacea. When vice is driven out of the city—so think the pious—who knows whether Heaven, now evidently angry, will not again extend its protection over the inhabitants? And now, when people are preparing for the serious time of the siege, with all its privations, what have these silly, wasteful women of pleasure to do here? And so most people, excluding those concerned, think the regulation a proper, moral, and besides, a patriotic one, since a great number of these women are foreigners, English, Southerners, nay even Germans, some of whom may perhaps be spies. No, no; there is only room in the city now for her own children, and only for her virtuous children!”

On August 28 occurred something still worse. Another banishment.All Germanshad to quit Paris within three days.

The poison, the deadly, long-abiding poison, which lay in this regulation those who wrote the decree possibly had not in any way suspected.The hatred of Germanswas awakened by it. For how long a time even after the war, this misfortune was to go on bearing its terrible fruit, I know at this day. From that time forward, France and Germany, those two great, flourishing, magnificent countries, were no longer two nations whose armies had fought out a chivalrous conflict; hatred for the whole of the opposed nation pervaded the entire people. Enmity was erected into an institution which was not restricted to the duration of the war, but ensured its continuance as “hereditary enmity,” even to future generations.

Exiled. Obliged to leave the city within three days. I had occasion to see how hardly, how inhumanly hardly, this command pressed on many worthy, harmless families. Among the business people who were supplying us with goods for the decoration of our house, several were Germans—one a carriage-builder, one an upholsterer, one an art-furniture manufacture—settled from ten to twenty years in Paris, where they had got their domestic hearth, where they had allied themselves in marriage with Parisians, where they had the whole of theirbusiness connection; and now they had to go out, out in three days—shut up their house, leave all that was dear and familiar to them, lose their fortune, their customers, their inheritance. The poor creatures came running to us in consternation, and told us of the misery that had fallen on them. Even the work which they were on the point of delivering to us had to be put aside, and the workshops closed. Wringing their hands and with tears in their eyes, they complained of their sufferings to us. “I have an old father an invalid,” said one, “and my wife is looking for her confinement any day; and now we must go in three days!” “I have not a sou in the house,” another complained; “all my customers who owe me money will be in no hurry to meet their obligations. A week hence I should have completed a large order which would have made me comfortably off, and now I must leave all in confusion!”

And why,whywas all this misery brought on these poor people? Because they belonged to a nation whose army did its duty successfully, or because (to go further back in the chain of causes) a Hohenzollern might possibly have allowed it to enter into his mind to assume the Spanish throne if offered to him? No; this “because,” too, has not arrived at the ultimate reason. All this is only the pretext—not the cause of that war.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sedan! “The Emperor Napoleon has given up his sword.”

The news overwhelmed us. Now there had really occurred a great, an historical catastrophe. The French army beaten, its leader checkmated. Then the game was over, won triumphantly by Germany. “Over! over!” I shouted. “If there were people who have the right to call themselves citizens of the world they might illuminate their windows to-day. If we had temples of Humanity yet,Te Deumswould have to be sung in them on this occasion—the butchery is over!”

“Do not rejoice too soon, my darling,” said Frederick in a warning tone. “This war has now for some time lost thecharacter of a game fought out on the chess-board of the battlefield. The whole nation is joining in the fight. Foronearmy annihilated ten others will start out of the earth.”

“But would that be just? It is only German soldiers who have forced themselves into the country—not the German people—and so they ought only to oppose them with French soldiers.”

“How you keep on appealing to justice and reason, you unreasonable creature, in dealing with a madman! France is mad with pain and rage; and from the point of view of loss of country, her pain is pious, her rage justifiable. Whatever desperate thing she may do now is inspired, not by personal self-seeking, but by the highest spirit of sacrifice. If only the time were come when the powers of virtue, which is the essential thing that binds men together, were diverted from the work of destruction and devoted to the work of felicity! But this unholy war has again thrown us back a long distance from that goal.”

“No, no! I hope the war is over now.”

“If it were so (and I despair of it) there would be sown the seeds of future wars, and it could only be the seed of hatred which is contained in this expulsion of the Germans. Such a thing as that has an effect far beyond the present generation.”

September 4. Another act of violence, an outbreak of passion, and, at the same time, a remedy tried for the salvation of the country—the emperor is deposed. France proclaims herself a republic. Whatever Napoleon III. and his army may have done matters not. Mistakes, treachery, cowardice, all these faults have been committed by individuals, the emperor and his generals; but France has not committed them, she is not answerable for it. When the throne was overturned, the leaves in France’s history, on which Metz and Sedan were inscribed, were simply torn out of the book. From this time the country itself would carry on the war, if, at least, Germany dared to continue this infamous invasion.

“But how if Napoleon had conquered?” I asked, when Frederick communicated this to me.

“Oh, then, France would have taken his victory and his glory as the country’s victory and glory.”

“Is that just?”

“Cannot you get out of the habit of putting that question?”

I had soon to see my hopes, that the catastrophe of Sedan would put an end to the campaign, vanish. All around us seemed as warlike as ever. The air was laden with savage rage and hot lust of vengeance. Rage against the enemy, and almost as much against the fallen dynasty. The scandalous talk, the pamphlets which now poured down against the emperor, the empress, and the unfortunate generals; the contempt, the slanders, the insults, the jests—it was disgusting. In this way the uncultured masses thought they could lay the whole burden of the defeats of the country on the shoulders of one or two persons, and, now that these persons were down, pelted them with dung and stones. And this was the beginning of the time when the country was to show that she was invincible!

The preparations for intrenching Paris were carried on zealously. The buildings in the fighting area of the chiefenceintewere abandoned or taken down entirely. The suburbs became deserts. Troops of men kept coming from outside into the city with all their belongings. Oh, those sorrowful trains of carts and pack horses, and laden men, who were trailing the ruins of their desolated hearths through the streets! I had already seen the same thing once in Bohemia, when the poor country folk were flying from the enemy; and now I had to look on the same picture of wretchedness in the joyous, brilliant capital of the world. There were the same frightened, sorrowful visages, the same weariness and haste, the same woe.

At last, God be praised, once more a good piece of news! On the proposal of a mediation on the part of England, ameeting was arranged at Ferrières between Jules Favre and Bismarck. Now surely they would succeed in coming to an agreement—in making peace!

On the contrary, it was not till now that the extent of the gulf was seen. For some little time before this there had been some talk in the German papers of the annexation of Alsace and Lorraine. A desire was shown to incorporate once more the land which had formerly been German. The historical argument for the claim on these provinces appearing only partially sustainable, thestrategicargument was brought forward to support it—“indispensable as a fortress in future wars which may be expected”. And it is well known, of course, that the strategic grounds are the weightiest, the most impregnable; and that in comparison with them a moral ground can only reckon as secondary. On the other hand, the war game had been lost by France; was it not fair that the prize should fall to the winners? In casetheyhad won, would not the French have seized the Rhine provinces? If the result of a war is not to have for its consequence an extension of territory for one side or the other, what good would it be to make war at all?

Meantime the victorious army made no halt in its onward march. The Germans were already before the gates of Paris. The cession of Alsace and Lorraine was officially demanded; to which came the well-known reply: “Not an inch of our territory, not a stone of our fortresses”—(“Pas un pouce—pas une pierre”).

Yes, yes—thousands of lives, but not an inch of ground. That is the rooted idea of the patriotic spirit. “They wish to humble us,” cried the French patriots. “No! sooner shall exasperated Paris bury itself under its own ruins!”

Away! away! was now our resolution. Why should we stay in a beleaguered foreign city without any necessity; why live among people full of no other thoughts than those of hate and vengeance, who looked at us with sidelong glances and often with clenched fists, when they heard us talking German? It is true, we could no longer leave Paris, or leave France,without difficulty. One had in all directions to pass over war districts, the railway traffic was frequently suspended for private travellers. To leave our new building in the lurch was unpleasant, but this was of no consequence, for our stay was impossible. In fact we had already stayed far too long. The events which I had experienced recently had shaken me so much that my nerves had suffered grievously from it. I was seized often with shivering, and once or twice also with crying fits.

Our boxes were all ready packed, and everything prepared for departure, when I had another attack, and this time so violent that I had to be carried to bed. The physician who was sent for said that either a nervous fever or even an inflammation of the brain was commencing, and for the present it was not to be thought of to expose me to the fatigues of travelling.

I lay in bed for long, long weeks. Only a very dreamy recollection of that whole time remains with me. And strangely enough, a pleasant recollection. I was, it is true, very ill, and everything in the place where I resided was unceasingly mournful and terrible; and yet when I look back on it it was a singularly joyful time. Yes, joy, perfectly intense joy, such as children are in the habit of feeling. The cerebral affection which I was suffering, and which brought with it an almost continuous absence, or at least only half-presence of consciousness, caused all thoughts and judgments, all reflections and deliberations, to vanish out of my head, and there remained only a vague enjoyment of existence, just like that which children experience, as I said just now, and especially those children who are tenderly watched over. There was no want of tender watching for me. My husband, thoughtful and loving and untiring, was with me day and night. He brought the children also often to my bedside. How much my Rudolf had to tell me! For the most part I did not understand it, but his beloved voice sounded to me like music, and the babbling of our little Sylvia, our heart’s idol, how sweetly that began to charm me! Then there were a hundred little jokesand intelligences between Frederick and me about the tricks of our little daughter. What these jokes were about I have quite forgotten, but I know that I laughed and enjoyed myself quite unrestrainedly. Each one of the customary jests seemed to me the height of wit, and the oftener repeated the more witty and more precious; and with what delight did I not swallow the draughts given me—for every day at a given hour I took a glass of lemonade. Such nectar I have never tasted during my whole life of health; and how entirely refreshing was a medicine with opium in it, whose softly soothing action, putting me into a conscious slumber, sent a thrill of happy calm through my soul. I knew all the while that my beloved husband was by my side, protecting me and watching over me as his heart’s dearest treasure. Of the war, which was raging at my door, I had now hardly any cognisance; and if, for all that, some remembrance of it flashed on me sometimes, I looked on it as something situated as far away and as completely without any concern for me, as if it was being played out in China or on another planet. My world was here, in this sick-room, or rather in this chamber of recovery; for I felt myself getting better, and all tended to happiness.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

To happiness? No. With recovery, understanding came back too, and the perception of the horrors that surrounded us. We were in a beleaguered, famishing, freezing, miserable city. The war was still raging on.

The winter had come in the meantime—icy cold. I now, for the first time, learned all that had taken place during my long unconsciousness. The capital of “the brotherland,” Strasbourg—the “lovely,” the “true German,” the city “German to its core,” had been bombarded, its library destroyed. One hundred and ninety-three thousand seven hundred and twenty-two shots had been poured into the town—four or five a minute.

Strasbourg was taken.

The country fell into wild despair—such a despair as issues in raving madness. People began to hunt inNostradamusto find prophecies for the present events, and new seers began to put out fresh predictions. Still worse,possessedfolks came forward. It was like falling back into a ghost-night of the middle ages, lighted by the fire of hell. “Oh that I could be among the Bedouins!” cried Gustave Flaubert. “Oh that I could be back in the half-conscious dreamland of my illness,” cried I, weeping. I was well again now, and had to hear and comprehend all the terrible things that were going on around us. Then began again the entries in the red books, and I have lit on the following notes:—

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