Lay Down Your Arms

long time now been no longer any beeves or sheep in the cattle parks that had been formed; all the horses also were soon eaten up, and then the period began when the dogs and cats, the rats and mice, and finally the beasts in the Jardin des Plantes also, even the poor elephant, who was such a favourite, had to serve as food. Bread could now be hardly procured. The people had to stand in rows for hours after hours in front of the bakers’ shops in order to get their little ration, and still most of them had to go empty away. Exhaustion and sickness made Death’s harvest a rich one. Whilst ordinarily 1,100 died in a week, the death-list of Paris in these times rose to between 4,000 and 5,000 weekly. That is, there were every day between 400 and 500 unnatural deaths⁠—that is to say, murders. For if the murderer is not an individual man, but an impersonal thing, viz., war, it is not any the less murder. Whose is the responsibility? Does it not lie on those parliamentary swaggerers, who in their provocative speeches declared with proud self-assumption⁠—as that Girardin did in the sitting of July 15⁠—that they “took on themselves the responsibility for this war in the face of history”? Could, then, any man’s shoulders be sufficiently strong to bear such a load of guilt? Surely not. But no one thinks of taking such boasters at their word.

One day⁠—it was about January 20⁠—Frederick came into my room, with an excited look, on his return from a walk in the city.

“Take your diary in hand, my busy little historian,” he called out to me. “Today a mighty despatch has come.” And he threw himself into a chair.

“Which of my books?” I asked. “The Protocol of Peace?”

Frederick shook his head.

“Oh that will be out of use for long. The war, which is now being fought out, is of too powerful a nature not to proceed to its end, and give rise to renewed war. On the side of the vanquished it has scattered such a plenty of the seeds of hatred and revenge, that a future harvest of war must grow out of them; and on the other side, it has brought such magnificent and bewildering successes to the victors, that for them an equally great seedtime of warlike pride must grow out of it.”

“What, then, has happened of such importance?”

“King William has been proclaimed German Emperor in Versailles. There is now one Germany⁠—one single empire⁠—and a mighty empire too. That forms a new chapter in what is called the history of the world. And you may think for yourself, how, from the birth of this empire, which is the product of war, that trade will be held high in honour. It is, therefore, from this time, the two continental states most advanced in civilisation which will chiefly nourish the war spirit⁠—the one, in order to return the blow it has received, the other, in order to keep the position it has conquered amongst the powers⁠—from hatred on that side, from love on this⁠—on that side from lust of revenge, on this from gratitude⁠—it comes to the same thing. Shut your Protocol of Peace⁠—for a long time henceforth we shall abide under the blood-and-iron sign of Mars.”

“German Emperor!” I cried, “that really is grand;” and I got him to tell me the particulars of this event.

“I cannot help, Frederick,” I said, “being pleased at this news. The whole work of slaughter has not then been for nothing, if a great new empire has grown out of it.”

“But from a French point of view it has been for less than nothing. And we two must have surely the right of looking at this war, not from one side⁠—the German side⁠—only. Not only as men, but even from the narrow national conception, we should have the right to bewail the successes of our enemies and conquerors in 1866. However I agree with you that the union of dismembered Germany, which has now been attained, is a fine thing⁠—that this agreement of the rest of the German princes to give the Imperial Crown to the old victor, has something inspiring, something admirable about it. The only pity is that this union did not arise from a peaceful, but from a warlike exploit. How was it then that there was not enough love of country, enough popular power in Germany, even though Napoleon III had never sent the challenge of July 19, to form, of their own will, that entity on which their national pride is now to rest⁠—‘one single people of brothers’? Now they will be jubilant⁠—the poet’s wish is fulfilled. That only four short years ago all were at daggers drawn with each other, that for Hanoverians, Saxons, Frankforters, Nassauers, there was no name more hateful than ‘Prussians,’ will luckily be forgotten. In place of this, however, the hatred of Germans in this country, how it will ripen from this time!”

I shuddered. “The mere word, hatred⁠—” I began.

“Is hateful to you? You are right. As long as this feeling is not banished and outlawed, so long is there no humane humanity. Religious hatred is conquered, but national hatred forms still part of civil education. And yet there is only one ennobling, cheering feeling on this earth, and that is Love. We could say something about that, Martha, could we not?” I leaned my head on his shoulder, and looked up at him, while he tenderly stroked the hair off my forehead.

“We know,” he went on, “how sweet it is that so much love should reside in our hearts for our little ones, for all the brothers and sisters of the Great Family of Man, whom one would so gladly⁠—aye, so gladly⁠—spare the pain that threatens them. But they will not⁠—”

“No, no, Frederick. My heart is not yet so comprehensive. I cannot love all the haters.”

“You can, however, pity them?”

And so we talked on a long