to me something of the admiration for war which I had imbibed from my youthful education. I still shared to some extent with the departing soldier in the pride which he visibly felt in the “great emprise.” But now I knew that he who was going went to the work of death with horror rather than with exultation, I knew that he loved the life which he had to set on the hazard—that to him one thing was dearer than everything, yes, everything, even the claims of the Augustenburgs—his wife—his wife who in a few days was to be a mother. Whilst in Arno’s case I had the conviction that he departed with feelings for which he was surely to be envied, I discerned that in this second separation both of us were deserving of equal pity. Yes, we suffered in equal measure, and we confessed it and bewailed it to each other. No hypocrisies, no empty phrases of consolation, no swagger; we were one in all things, and neither sought to deceive the other. It was still our best consolation that each could fully understand the other’s inconsolability. We did not seek to conceal the magnitude of the misfortune that had burst on us by any conventional cloaks or masks of patriotism or heroism. No, the prospect of being allowed to shoot and hack at the Danes was to him no compensation for the anguish of having to leave me—on the contrary, rather an aggravation—for killing and destroying is repulsive to every “noble man.” And to me it was no recompense—absolutely none—for
my suffering to think that my dear one might perhaps gain a step in rank. And should the misfortune of this perilous separation rise to the still greater misfortune of parting forever—should Frederick fall—the reasons of state on account of which this war had to be waged were not in the faintest degree elevated or holy enough to my mind to balance such a sacrifice. “Defender of his Country,” that is the fair-sounding title with which the soldier is decorated. And in fact what nobler duty can there be for the members of a commonwealth than to defend their state when menaced? But then why does his military oath bind the soldier to a hundred other warlike duties, besides the defensive? Why is he obliged to go and attack? Why must he, in cases where there is not the slightest menace of any invasion of his country, hazard the same possessions—his life and his hearth—in the quarrels of certain foreign princes for territory or ambition, as if it were a question, as it surely ought to be to justify war, of the defence of endangered life and hearth? Why, for example, in the present instance, must the Austrian army march out to set the Augustenburgs on a foreign throne? Why? Why? The question is one which to address to an emperor or pope is in itself treasonable and blasphemous, which in the latter case passes for irreligion and in the former for want of loyalty, and which never deserves an answer.
The regiment was to march at 10 a.m. We stayed up the whole night. Not a minute of the time still left to us to spend together would we lose.
There was so much that we had still to say to each other, and yet we spoke little. It was mainly kisses and tears, which said more plainly than any words: “I love you, and I have to leave you.” From time to time there dropped in a hopeful word, “When you come back again.” It was certainly possible. Surely there are so many that come back; yet it was strange I repeated “When you come back” and tried to put before myself the delights of this event; but in vain. My imagination could form no other picture than that of my husband’s corpse on the field of battle, or myself on the bier, with a dead child in my arms.
Frederick was filled with similar gloomy forebodings, for his “When I come back” did not sound natural; and more often he spoke of what might happen, “If I should fall.”
“Do not marry a third time, Martha! Do not wash out, by the impressions of a new love, the recollections of this glorious year! Has it not been a happy time?”
We now recalled a hundred little details which had impressed themselves on our minds, from our first meeting to the present hour, and passed them through our remembrance.
“And my little one, my poor little one, whom perhaps I may never press to my heart, what is its name to be?”
“Frederick or Frederica.”
“No; Martha is prettier. If it is a girl call it by the name which its dying father at the last moment—”
“Frederick, why do you talk always about dying? If you come back—”
“Ah! if!” he repeated with a sigh.
As the day was beginning to dawn, my eyes, weary with weeping, closed, a light slumber fell on both of us. We lay there with our arms linked together, but without losing the consciousness that this was our parting hour.
Suddenly I started up and broke out into loud groans. Frederick got up at once.
“In God’s name, Martha, what is the matter with you? It is not yet come? Oh speak! Is it—”
I nodded affirmatively.
Was it a cry, or a curse, or an ejaculation of prayer, that escaped his lips? He clutched the bell and gave the alarm.
“Run at once for the doctor—for the nurse,” he shouted to the maid who had hurried in. Then he threw himself down on his knees beside me, and kissed my hand as it hung down.
“My wife! my all! and now, now I have to go.”
I could not speak. The most violent physical pain that one can conceive was racking and wringing my body; and besides this, the agony of my soul was yet more horrible, that he “had to go now, now”; and that he was so wretched about it. Those who had been summoned
