and, as you see⁠—for the system of universal defence will surely be introduced into other countries⁠—is just on the point of being powerfully extended.”

“And yet you want to fight against it?”

“Yes; but not by stepping up to it and saying ‘Die, thou monster!’ for the organism in question would hardly do me the kindness to stretch itself dead at my feet on that summons. But I am fighting against it in appearing on behalf of another living form, which is still only in its fragile bud, but which, as it gains in power and extent, will crush the other out. It is your fault to begin with, Martha, that I talk in these scientific metaphors. It was you who first led me to study the works of the modern students of nature. From this there has arisen in me the view that the phenomena of social life also can not be understood in their origin, or foreseen in their future course till one conceives of them as existing under the influence of eternal laws. Of this most politicians and people in positions of high dignity have no notion⁠—not the faintest; the worthy soldier certainly not. A few years ago it had not entered my head either.”

We were living in the Grand Hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines. It was occupied chiefly by English people and Americans. We met few of our own people⁠—the Austrians are not fond of travel. Besides, we sought for no acquaintance. I had not put off my mourning, and we cherished no wish for company. Of course I had my son Rudolf with me. He was now eight years old, and a wonderfully clever little fellow. We had hired a young Englishman, who performed the duties partly of tutor, partly of nursery governess to the boy. In our long visits to the exhibition-palace, as well as our numerous excursions into the neighbourhood, we could not, of course, always take Rudi with us; and besides, the time was also now come for him to begin to learn.

New⁠—new⁠—new⁠—to me, was the whole of this world here open to us. All the men who had come together from the four corners of the earth⁠—the richest and most distinguished from every quarter⁠—these fêtes, this expenditure, this turmoil. I was literally deafened by it. But, interesting and full of enjoyment as it was to me to receive into my mind these surprising and overpowering impressions, yet, when alone, I wished myself out of all this hubbub again, and in some remote peaceful spot, where I could live in quiet retirement along with Frederick and my child⁠—nay, my children, for I was looking forward confidently to the joy of motherhood again. It is wonderful, indeed⁠—and I find it often noted in the red volumes⁠—how in retirement the longing rises for events and exploits, for experiences and enjoyments; and again, in the midst of the latter, for solitude and tranquillity.

We kept ourselves apart from the great world. We had merely paid a visit to the house of our ambassador, Metternich, and had let it be known there that on account of our domestic afflictions we did not desire any entrée into Court circles or society. On the other hand, we sought to make the acquaintance of a few prominent political and literary personages, partly from self-interest and for our mental improvement, partly with a view to “the service” into which Frederick had entered. In spite of the slight hopes he had of any perceptible result from his efforts, he never allowed it to escape him, and he put himself into communication with numerous influential persons, from whom he might gain assistance in his career, or at least information as to its position. We had at that time commenced a little book of our own⁠—we called it The Protocol of Peace⁠—into which all news, notices, articles, and so forth, bearing on the subject, were to be sedulously entered. The history also of the idea of Peace, as far as we could gain a knowledge of it, was incorporated in the Protocol; and along with this the expressions of various philosophers, poets, priests, and authors on the subject of “Peace and War.” It had soon grown into an imposing little volume; and in course of time⁠—for I have carried on this composition down to the present day⁠—it has grown into several little volumes. If one were to compare it with the libraries which are filled with works on strategical subjects, with the untold thousands of volumes containing histories of wars, studies on war, and glorification of war, with the textbooks of military science and military tactics, and guides for the instruction of recruits and artillery, with the chronicles of battles and annals of états-majors, soldiers’ ballads and war songs: well, then, I allow that the comparison with these one or two poor little volumes of peace-literature might humiliate one, on the assumption that one might measure the power and value⁠—especially the future value⁠—of a thing by its size. But if one reflects that a single grain of seed hides in itself the virtual power of causing the growth of an entire forest, which will displace whole masses of weeds, though spread over acres of country, and further reflects that an idea is in the mental kingdom what a seed is in the vegetable, then one need not be anxious about the future of an idea, merely because the history of its development may be as yet contained in one little manuscript.

I will here produce a few extracts taken from our Protocol of Peace for the year 1867. On the first page was placed a compressed historical survey.

Four hundred years before Christ, Aristophanes wrote a comedy⁠—Peace⁠—into which a humanitarian tendency enters.

The Greek philosophy⁠—afterwards transplanted to Rome⁠—admitted a striving after “the unity of humanity” from Socrates, who called himself a “citizen of the world,” down to Terence, to whom “nothing human was foreign,” and Cicero, who represents the “love of the

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