Lay Down Your Arms: The Autobiography of Martha von Tilling

by Bertha von Suttner

“Do not commit a sin, Martha,” my aunt admonished me; “the good God and His saints would not have preserved you, in answer to our prayers, in order afterwards to send such a visitation upon you. Your husband also will be preserved to you, for whom I—you may believe me when I say so—have prayed as fervently as for you. I have even sent him a scapulary. Oh yes! Do not shrug your shoulders; you have no trust in such things, but they can do no harm anyhow, can they? And how many proofs there are of their good effect! You yourself are again another proof what effect the intervention of the saints has; for you were, believe me, on the edge of the grave, when I addressed myself to your patron and protectress, St. Martha——”

“And I,” interrupted my father, who was very clerical indeed in his politics, but in the practical way did not at all sympathise with his sister, “I wrote to Vienna for Dr. Braun, and he saved your life.”

Next day, on my urgent prayer, I was permitted to read through all the messages that had come from Frederick. Mostly they were only questions in a single line, or news equally laconic. “An engagement yesterday. I am unhurt.” “We march again to-day. Send messages to——” A longer letter bore this direction on the envelope: “To be delivered only if all danger is over”. This I read last:—

“My all! Will you ever read this? The last news which reached me from your physician ran: ‘Patient in high fever; condition grave’. ‘Grave!’ He used the expression perhaps out of consideration, so as not to say ‘Hopeless’. If you have this put into your hands you will know by that that you have escaped the danger; but you may think, in addition, what my feelings were, as, on the eve of a battle, I pictured to myself that my adored wife was lying on her deathbed; that she was calling for me, stretching out her arms for me. We did not even say any regular adieu to each other; and our child, about whom I had had such joy, dead! And to-morrow, I myself—suppose a bullet find me? If I knew beforehand that you were no more, the mortal shot would be the dearest thing to me; but if you are preserved—no! then I do not wish to know anything more of death. The ‘joy of dying,’ that unnatural feeling which the field preachers are always pressing on us, is one no happy man can know; and if you are alive, and I reach home, I have still untold treasures of bliss to gather. Oh, the joy of living with which we two will enjoy the future, if any such is to be our lot.

“To-day we met the enemy for the first time. Up to that our way had been through conquered territory, from which the Danes had retreated. Smoking ruins of villages, ravaged cornfields, weapons and knapsacks lying about, spots where the land was ploughed up by the shells, blood stains, bodies of horses, trenches filled with the slain—such are the features of the scenes through which we have been moving in the rear of the victors, in order, if possible, to add more victories to the account—i.e., to burn more villages, and so forth.... And that we have done to-day. We have carried the position. Behind us lies a village in flames. The inhabitants had the good luck to have quitted it beforehand; but in the stable a horse had been forgotten. I heard the beast in despair stamping and shrieking. Do you know what I did? It will procure me no decoration most certainly; for, instead of bringing down a Dane or two, I rushed to the stable to set the poor horse free. Impossible; the manger had already caught fire, then the straw under his hoofs, then his mane. So I put two revolver bullets through his head. He fell down dead, and was saved from the pain of being burned to death. Then, back into the fight, the deathly smell of the powder, the wild alarm of the whistling bullets, falling buildings, savage war-cries. Most of those around me, friends and foes, were, it is true, seized by the delirium of battle; but I remained in unblessed sobriety. I could not get myself up to hate the Danes. They are brave men, and what did they do but their duty in attacking us? My thoughts were with you, Martha! I saw you laid out on your bier, and what I wished for myself was that the bullet might strike me. But at intervals, nevertheless, a ray of longing and of hope would shine again. ‘What if she is alive? What if I should get home again?’

“The butchery lasted more than two hours, and we remained as I said, in possession of the field. The routed enemy fled. We did not pursue. We had work enough to do on the field. A hundred paces distant from the village stood a large farmhouse, with many empty dwelling-rooms and stables; here we were to rest for the night and hither we have brought our wounded. The burial of the dead is to be done to-morrow morning. Some of the living will, of course, be shovelled in with them, for the ‘stiff cramp’ after a severe wound is a common phenomenon. Many who have remained out, whether dead or wounded, or even unwounded, we are obliged to abandon entirely, especially those who are lying under the ruins of the fallen houses. There they may, if dead, moulder slowly where they are; if wounded, bleed slowly to death; if unwounded, die slowly of famine. And we, hurrah! may go on with our jolly, joyous war!

“The next engagement will probably be a general action. According to all appearance there will be two entire corps d’armée opposed to each other. The number of the killed and wounded may in that case easily rise to 10,000; for when the cannons begin their work of vomiting out death the front ranks on both sides are soon wiped out. It is certainly a wonderful contrivance. But still better would it be if the science of artillery could progress to such a point that any army could fire a shot which would smash the whole army of the enemy at one blow. Then, perhaps, all waging of war would be entirely given up. Force would then, provided the total power of the two combatants were equally great, no longer be looked to for the solution of questions of right.

“Why am I writing all this to you? Why do I not break out, as a warrior should, into exalted hymns of triumph over our warlike work? Why? Because I thirst after truth, and after its expression without any reserve; because at all times I hate lying phrases; but at this moment, when I am so near death myself, and am speaking to you who, perhaps, are yourself lying in the death-agony, it presses on me doubly to speak what is in my heart. Even though a thousand others should think differently, or should hold themselves bound at least to speak differently, I will, nay, I must say it once more before I fall a sacrifice to war—I hate war. If only every man who feels the same would dare to proclaim it aloud, what a threatening protest would be shouted out to heaven! All the hurrahs which are now resounding, and all the cannon-thunder that accompanies them, would then be drowned by the battle-cry of humanity panting after humanity, by the victorious cry denouncing ‘war on war’.

“Half-past three in the morning. I wrote the above last night. Then I lay down on a sack of straw and slept for an hour or two. We shall break up in half-an-hour, and then I shall be able to give this to the field-post. All is stirring now and getting ready for the march. Poor fellows! they have got little rest since the bloody work accomplished yesterday: little refreshment for that which is to be accomplished to-day. I began with a turn round our improvised field-hospital, which is to remain here. There I saw among the wounded and dying a pair for whom I would gladly have done the same as for the horse in the fire—put a bullet as a coup de grâce through their heads. One was a man who had had his whole lower jaw shot away, and the other—but enough. I cannot help him. Nothing can but Death. Unfortunately he is often so slow. If a man calls in despair for him he stands deaf before him. On the other hand, he is far too busy in snatching those away who with all their heart are hoping to recover, and calling on him beseechingly: ‘Oh, spare me, for I have a beloved wife pining for me at home!’ My horse is saddled, so now I must close these lines. Farewell, Martha, if you are still here!”

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