“Now, thank God, at last this uncertainty is at an end,” cried my husband one morning—April 19—on coming home from parade. “The ultimatum has been sent.”
I shrieked out: “Eh, what? What does that mean?”
“It means that the last word of the diplomatic formalities, the one which precedes the declaration of war, has been spoken. Our ultimatum to Sardinia calls on Sardinia to disarm. She, of course, will take no notice of it, and we march across the frontier.”
“Good God! But perhaps they may disarm?”
“Well, then, the quarrel would be at an end, and peace would continue.”
I fell on my knees. I could not help it. Silently, but still as earnestly as if with a cry, there rose the prayer from my soul to heaven for “Peace! peace!”
Arno raised me up.
“My silly child, what are you doing?”
I threw my arms round his neck and began to weep. It was no burst of pain, for the misfortune was certainly as yet not decided on; but the news had so shaken me that my nerves quivered, and that caused this flood of tears.
“Martha, Martha, you will make me angry,” said Arno, reproachfully. “Is this being my brave little soldier’s wife? Do you forget that you are a general’s daughter, wife of a first lieutenant, and,” he concluded with a smile, “mother of a corporal?”
“No, no, Arno. I do not comprehend myself. It was only a kind of seizure. I am really myself ardent for military glory. But—I do not know how it is—a little while ago everything was hanging on a single word, which must by this time have been spoken—‘yes’ or ‘no’—in answer to this ultimatum as it is called, and this ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is to decide whether thousands must bleed and die—die in these sunny happy days of spring—and so it came over me that the word of peace must come, and I could not help falling on my knees in prayer.”
“To inform the Almighty of the position of affairs, you dear little goose!”
The house bell rang. I dried my eyes at once. Who could it be so early?
It was my father. He rushed in all in a hurry.
“Now, children,” he cried, all out of breath, throwing himself into an armchair. “Have you heard the great news? The ultimatum—”
“I have just told my wife.”
“Tell me, dear papa, what you think,” I asked anxiously. “Will that prevent the war?”
“I am not aware that an ultimatum ever prevented a war. It would indeed be only prudent of this wretched rabble of Italians to give in and not expose themselves to a second Novara. Ah! if good Father Radetzky had not died last year I believe he would, in spite of his ninety years, have put himself again at the head of his army, and, by God! I would have marched along with him. We two have, I think, shown already how to manage these foreign scum. But it seems they have not yet had enough of it, the puppies! They want a second lesson. All right. Our Lombardo-Venetian kingdom will get a handsome addition in the Piedmontese territory, and I already look forward to the entry of our troops into Turin.”
“But, papa, you speak just as if war were already declared, and you were glad of it! But how if Arno has to go too?” And the tears were already in my eyes again.
“That he will too—the enviable young fellow!”
“But my terror! The danger—”
“Eh! what? Danger! ‘A man may fight and not be slain,’ as the saying goes. I have gone through more than one campaign, thank God, and been wounded more than once—and yet I am all alive, just because it was ordained that I should live through it.”
The old fatalist way of talking! the same as prevailed to settle Ruru’s choice of a profession—and which even now appeared to me again as quite philosophical.
“Even if it should chance that my regiment is not ordered out—” Arno began.
“Ah, yes!” I joyfully broke in, “there is still that hope.”
“In that case I would get exchanged, if possible.”
“Oh, it will be quite possible,” my father assured him. “Hess is to receive the command-in-chief and he is a good friend of mine.” My heart trembled, and yet I could not help admiring both the men. With what a joyful equanimity they spoke of a coming campaign, as if it were only a question of some pleasure trip that had been arranged. My brave Arno was desirous, even if his duty did not summon him, to go and meet the foe, and my magnanimous father thought that quite simple and natural. I collected myself. Away with childish, womanish fear! Now was the time to show myself worthy of this my love, to raise my heart above all egotistic fears and find room for nothing but the noble reflection—“my husband is a hero.”
I sprang up and stretched out both my hands to him: “Arno, I am proud of you!”
He put my hands to his lips, then turned to papa and said, with a face radiant with joy:—
“You have brought the girl up well, father-in-law!”
Rejected! The ultimatum rejected! This took place at Turin, April 26. The die is cast! War has broken out.
II
Last Hours with the Beloved One—Public Feeling in the Prospect of War—The Parting—Employments of the Women at Home—Anxieties Over the News from the Seat of War—Ill-Success of Austria—Friends in Trouble—The Patriotic Aid Association—Visit to a Friend—Dreadful News.
For a week I had been prepared for the catastrophe, and yet its occurrence gave me a bitter blow. I threw myself sobbing on the sofa, and hid my face in the cushion when Arno brought me the news.
He sat down by me, and began gently to comfort me.
“My darling! Courage! Compose yourself! It is not so bad after all. In a short time we shall return as conquerors. Then we two shall be doubly happy. Do not
