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 schoolgirl 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, Caesar, 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 anyone 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-wagons, towards Königgrätz. Many riders fell and were stamped to pieces by the horses that came behind. Wagons overturned and crushed the footmen, 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-wagons, 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
