October 15. The Prussian crown-syndic gave his judgment on the hereditary rights of Prince Augustenburg. The father of the latter had renounced for himself and his posterity his succession to the throne for a sum of one and a half million of specie thalers. The duchies were surrendered in the treaty of Vienna—the Augustenburg had no claims at all upon them.
An impudence—an assumption—such were the terms applied to this speech delivered at Berlin, and “the arrogance of Prussia” became a catchword. “We must protect ourselves against it,” was accepted as a dogma on all hands. “King William seems disposed to play the part of a German Victor Emmanuel.” “Austria’s secret motive is to reconquer Silesia,” “Prussia is paying court to France,” “Austria is paying court to France,” et patati, et patatà, as the French say. Tritsch tratsch is the German name for it, and it does not go on more busily in the coffeehouse coteries of country towns than between the Cabinets of Great Powers.
The winter brought my whole family back to Vienna. Rosa and Lilly had amused themselves very much in the Bohemian watering-places, but neither was engaged. Conrad’s affairs were in an excellent way. In the shooting season he was to come to Grumitz, and, although at this crisis the decisive word had not yet been spoken, still both were inwardly convinced that they would end in being united.
Neither at this autumn shooting season did I make my appearance, in spite of my father’s pressing persuasions. Frederick could not get any leave, and to separate from him was to exist in such sorrow as I would not expose myself to without necessity. A second reason for not passing any length of time at my father’s was that I did not wish to expose my little Rudolf to his grandfather’s influence, whose effort always was to inspire the child with military tastes. The inclination for this calling, to which I was thoroughly averse as a profession for my son, had been awakened in him without this. Probably it was in his blood. The scion of a long race of soldiers must, by nature, bring warlike instincts into the world with him. In the works on natural science, whose study we were now pursuing more eagerly than ever, I had learned about the power of heredity, of the existence of so-called “congenital instincts,” which are nothing but the impulse to put in action the customs handed down from our ancestors.
On the boy’s birthday his grandfather was careful to bring him again a sabre.
“But you know, father,” I remonstrated, “that my son will certainly not become a soldier, and I must really beg you seriously—”
“What, do you want to tie him to his mother’s apron-strings? I hope you will not succeed there. Good soldiers’ blood is no liar. Let the fellow only grow up, and he will soon choose his profession for himself, … and there is no finer one than that which you want to forbid him.”
“Martha is frightened,” said Aunt Mary, who was present at this conversation, “of exposing her only son to danger, but she forgets that if one is destined to die, that fate will overtake one in one’s bed as surely as in battle—”
“Then, suppose 100,000 men to have fallen in a war, they would all have been killed in peace, too?”
Aunt Mary was not at a loss for an answer. “It was the destiny of these 100,000 to die in war.”
“But if men had the sense not to begin any war,” I suggested.
“Oh! but that is an impossibility,” cried my father, and then the conversation turned again into a controversy such as my father and I used often to wage, and always on the same lines. On the one side, the same assertions and principles; on the other, the same counter assertions and opposite principles. There is nothing to which the fable of the hydra is so applicable as to some standing difference of opinion. No sooner have you cut one head off the argument, and settled yourself to send the second the same way, when, lo! the first has grown again. Thus my father had one or two favourite positions in favour of war which nothing could uproot:—
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Wars are ordained by God Himself—the Lord of Hosts—see the Holy Scriptures.
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There have always been wars, and consequently there always will be wars.
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Mankind, without this occasional decimation, would increase at too great a rate.
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Continual peace relaxes, effeminates, produces—like stagnant water—corruption; especially the degeneration of morals.
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Wars are the best means for putting in practice self-sacrifice, heroism—in short, the firmer elements of the character.
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Men will always contend. Perfect agreement in all their views is impossible; divergent interests must be always impinging on each other, consequently everlasting peace is a contradiction in terms.
None of these positions—in particular none of the “consequentlies” contained in them—could be kept standing if stoutly attacked. But each of them served the defender as a bulwark, if compelled to let another of them fall, and while the new bulwark was being reduced to ruins he had been setting the old one up again. For example, if the champion of war, driven into a corner, has to confess that peace is more worthy of humanity, more rich in blessing, more favourable to culture, than war, he says: “Oh, yes; war is an evil, but it is inevitable”; and then follow Nos. 1 and 2. Then if one shows that it could be avoided and how—by alliances of states, arbitration courts and so forth—then comes the reply: “Oh, yes; war could be avoided, but it ought not”; and then come in
