Lay Down Your Arms: The Autobiography of Martha von Tilling

by Bertha von Suttner

“Even if it were but a day! No man ought to be compelled to take upon himself a certain office, which perhaps he hates, even for a single day; for during that day he must make a show of the opposite of what he feels—must pretend that he is doing joyfully what he really hates—in short, he is obliged to lie, and I wanted to bring up my son to be true, before all things.”

“Then he ought to have been born one or two centuries later, my dearest,” replied Frederick. “It is only the perfectly free man who can be perfectly true; and we are still poorly off for both things—freedom and truth—in our days; that becomes clearer and clearer to me the deeper I plunge into my studies.”

Now, in this retirement Frederick had twice the leisure for his work, and he set about it with true ardour. However happy and content we were with our life in this solitude, still we remained firm in our determination to spend next winter in Paris again. This time, however, it was not with the view of amusing ourselves, but in order to do something practical towards the fulfilment of the task of our lives. In this, it is true, we did not cherish any confidence that we should attain anything; but when a man sees even the possibility of the shadow of a chance offered him to contribute anything towards a cause which he recognises as the holiest cause on earth, he feels it to be a duty which he cannot refuse, to try this chance. Now, in recapitulating, during our familiar talks, the recollections of Paris, we had thought also of that plan of the Emperor Napoleon which had come to our ears by the communications of his confidants—I mean the plan for proposing disarmament to the great powers. It was on this that we based our hopes and our projects. Frederick’s researches had brought into his hand Sully’s Memoirs, in which the plan of Henry IV. for peace is described in all its details. We meant to convey an abstract of this to the Emperor of the French; and at the same time to try, through our connections in Austria and Prussia, to prepare both these Governments for the propositions of the French Government. I could set this on foot by the means of Minister To-be-sure, and Frederick had at Berlin a relative who was in an influential political position, and stood very well at court.

In December, which was the time we meant to move to Paris, we were prevented. Our treasure, our little Sylvia, fell ill. What anxious hours those were! Napoleon III. and Henry IV. of course were then put in the background—our child dying!

But she did not die. In two weeks all danger was over. Only the physician forbade us to travel during the worst of the winter’s cold. So we put off our departure till March.

This sickness and recovery, the danger and the preservation—what a shock they had given our hearts! and how much—though I thought that no longer possible—they had brought them more near to each other still! To tremble in unison before a horrid disaster—one which each fears the more from seeing the other’s despair, and to weep tears of joy in common when this disaster has been averted—are things which have a most mighty influence in welding souls together.

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Forebodings? No, there were none. If there had been Paris would not have made on me the cheerful impression of promised pleasure which it did on one sunny afternoon of March, 1870, on our arrival. One knows now what horrors were brooding over that city after a very short interval; but not the faintest anticipation of trouble arose in my mind.

We had already hired beforehand, through the agent, John Arthur, the same little palace in which we had lived last year, and at its door was waiting for us our maître d’hôtel of the previous year. As we drove across the Champs Elysées to reach our dwelling, it was just the hour for the Bois, and several of our old acquaintances met us and exchanged joyful recognitions. The numerous little barrows of violets which were dragged about the streets of Paris that year filled the air with the promise of spring; the sunbeams were sparkling and playing in rainbows on the fountains of the Rond-point, making little reflections on the carriage lamps and the harness of the many carriages. Amongst others, the beautiful empress was driving in a carriage harnessed à la Daumont. She passed us, and, recognising me, made a gesture of salutation.

There are some special pictures or scenes which photograph or phonograph themselves on our memory, along with the feelings that accompany them, and some of the words that are spoken at them. “This Paris is truly lovely,” cried Frederick at this point, and my feeling was a childish self-congratulation at the coming treat. Had I known what was coming to me, and to this whole city, now bathed in splendour and rejoicing!