CHRISTIAN: Met you with nothing else in that Valley?
FAITHFUL: Yes, I met with Shame. But of all the Men I met with in my Pilgrimage, he I think bears the wrong name: ... this boldfaced Shame, would never have done.
CHRISTIAN: Why, what did he say to you?
FAITHFUL: What! Why he objected against Religion itself; he said it was a pitiful low sneaking business for a Man to mind Religion; he said that a tender conscience was an unmanly thing, and that for a Man to watch over his words and ways, so as to tye up himself from that hectoring liberty that the brave spirits of the times accustom themselves unto, would make me the Ridicule of the times.
He objected also, that but few of the Mighty, Rich, or Wise, were ever of my opinion; nor any of them, neither, before they were perswaded to be Fools, and to be of a voluntary fondness to venture the loss of all, for no body else knows what.
Yea, he did hold me to it at that rate also about a great many more things than here I relate; as, that it was a shame ... to ask my neighbour forgiveness for petty faults, or to make restitution where I had taken from any. He said also that Religion made a man grow strange to the great because of a few vices (which he called by finer names)....
The Pilgrim's Progress.
CHAPTER I
THE BISMARCKIAN EPOCH
All nations dream—some more than others; while some are more ready than others to follow their dreams into action. Nor does the prevalence, or even the intensity, of these national dreams seem to bear any fixed relation to the strength of will which seeks to turn them into achievement.
After 1789 there was a great deal of dreaming among the nations of Europe. At the beginning of it all was revolutionary France, who dreamed of offering freedom to all mankind. A few years later, an altogether different France was dreaming furiously of glory for her own arms. In the end it was still France who dreamed; and this time she sought to impose the blessings of peace, order, and uniformity upon the whole world. Her first dream was realised in part, the second wholly; but the third ended in ruin.
Following upon this momentous failure came a short period when the exhausted nations slept much too soundly to dream dreams. During this epoch Europe was parcelled out artificially, like a patch-work quilt, by practical and unimaginative diplomatists, anxious certainly to take securities for a lasting peace, but still more anxious to bolster up the ancient dynasties.
Against their arbitrary expedients there was soon a strong reaction, and dreaming began once more among the nations, as they turned in their sleep, and tried to stretch their hampered limbs. At the beginning their dreaming was of a mild and somewhat futile type. It called itself 'liberalism'—a name coined upon the continent of Europe. It aimed by methods of peaceful persuasion, at reaching the double goal of nationality as the ideal unit of the state, and popular representation as the ideal system of government. Then the seams of the patchwork, which had been put together with so much labour at Vienna[1] and Aix-la-Chapelle,[2] began to gape. Greece struggled with some success to free herself from the Turk,[3] and Belgium broke away from Holland,[4] as at a much later date Norway severed her union with Sweden.[5] In 1848 there were revolutions all over Europe, the objects of which were the setting up of parliamentary systems. In all directions it seemed as if the dynastic stitches were coming undone. Italy dreamed of union and finally achieved it,[6] expelling the Austrian encroachers—though not by peaceful persuasion—and disordering still further the neatly sewn handiwork of Talleyrand, Metternich, and Castlereagh. Finally, the Balkans began to dream of Slav destinies, unrealisable either under the auspices of the Sublime Porte or in tutelage to the Habsburgs.[7]
MAKING OF THE GERMAN UNION
But of all the nations which have dreamed since days long before Napoleon, none has dreamed more nobly or more persistently than Germany. For the first half of the nineteenth century it seemed as if the Germans were satisfied to behold a vision without attempting to turn it into a reality. Their aspirations issued in no effective action. They dreamed of union between their many kingdoms, principalities, and duchies, and of building up a firm empire against which all enemies would beat in vain; but until 1864 they had gone but a few steps towards the achievement of this end.
Then within a period of seven years, Prussia, the most powerful of the German states, planned, provoked, and carried to a successful issue three wars of aggression. By a series of swift strokes, the genius of Bismarck snatched Schleswig-Holstein from the Danes, beat down the pretensions of Austria to the leadership of the Teutonic races, and wrested the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine from France. When Denmark was invaded by Germanic armies in February 1864, the vision of unity seemed as remote as ever; by January 1871 it was fully achieved. When at Versailles, in the Hall of Mirrors, in the stately palace of the Bourbons, King William accepted from the hands of his peers—the sovereign rulers of Germany—an imperial crown, the dream of centuries was fulfilled.
Austria, indeed, stood aloof; but both by reason of her geographical situation and the heterogeneous ancestry of her people that was a matter only of small account. Union was, for all practical purposes complete. And what made the achievement all the more marvellous was the fact, that the vision had been realised by methods which had no place in the gentle speculations of those, who had cherished the hope of unity with the most fervent loyalty. It had been accomplished by the Prussians, who of all races between the Alps and the Baltic, between the mountain barriers of Burgundy and the Polish Marshes, are the least German in blood,[8] and who of all Germans dream the least. It had been carried through, not by peaceful persuasion, nor on any principles of Liberalism, nor in any of the ways foreseen by the philosophers and poets who had beheld visions of the millennium. Union was the triumph of craft and calculation, courage and resolve, 'blood and iron.'
The world in general, whose thoughts at this time were much more congenially occupied with International Exhibitions, and Peace Societies, and the ideals of Manchester statesmanship, was inclined to regard the whole of this series of events as an anachronism—as the belated offspring of 'militarism' and 'feudalism.' These were well known to be both in their dotage; they could not possibly survive for many years. What had happened, therefore, did not startle mankind simply because the nature of it was not understood. The spirit of the age, wholly possessed, as it was, by an opposite set of ideas, was unable to comprehend, to believe in, or even to consider with patience, phenomena which, according to prevailing theories, had no reasonable basis of existence.
In some quarters, indeed, efforts were made to gloss over the proceedings of Prince Bismarck, and to fit them into the fashionable theory of a universe, flowing with the milk of human kindness and the honey of material prosperity. It was urged that the Germans were a people, pure in their morals, industrious in their habits, the pioneers of higher education and domestic economy. For the most part, British and American public opinion was inclined to regard these various occurrences and conquests as a mediaeval masquerade, in rather doubtful taste, but of no particular significance and involving no serious consequences. Even in that enlightened age, however, there were still a few superstitious persons who saw ghosts. To their eyes the shade of Richard Cobden seemed in some danger of being eclipsed in the near future by that of Niccolo Machiavelli; though the former had died in great honour and prestige only a few years earlier, while the latter had been dead, discredited, and disavowed for almost as many centuries.
GERMAN PROSPERITY AFTER UNION
After 1870 Germany entered upon a period of peaceful prosperity. Forges clanged, workshops throbbed, looms hummed, and within twenty years, the ebb of emigration had entirely ceased. Indeed, not only was there work in the Fatherland for all its sons, but for others besides; so that long before another twenty years had passed away, the tide had turned and immigrants were pouring in.
At first the larger part of German exports was cheap and nasty, with a piratical habit of sailing under false colours, and simulating well-known British and other national trade-marks. But this was a brief interlude. The sagacity, thoroughness, and enterprise of manufacturers and merchants soon guided their steps past this dangerous quicksand, and the label made in Germany ceased to be a reproach.
Students and lovers of truth laboured at discovery; and hard upon their heels followed a crowd of practical inventors—the gleaners, scavengers, and rag-pickers of science. Never had the trade of any country thriven with a more wonderful rapidity. Though still of necessity a borrower by very reason of her marvellous expansion, Germany nevertheless began to make her influence felt in the financial sphere. Her own ships carried her products to the ends of the earth, and fetched home raw materials in exchange. And not only this, her merchant fleets began to enter into successful competition for the carrying trade of the world, even with the Mistress of the Seas herself.
LIFE'S WORK OF BISMARCK
For a score of years after the fall of Paris, Germany found but little time for dreaming. Meanwhile, by an astute if somewhat tortuous policy, and under the impenetrable shield of the finest army in Europe, Bismarck kept safe the empire which he had founded. He declined to be drawn into adventures either at home or abroad, either in the new world or the old. He opposed the colonial aspirations of a few visionaries, who began to make some noise towards the end of his long reign, and silenced them with some spacious but easy acquisitions in Africa and the East. He consolidated the Prussian autocracy, and brought its servant, the bureaucracy, to the highest pitch of efficiency. He played with the political parties in the Reichstag as if they had been a box of dominoes, combining them into what patterns he pleased. At the same time he fostered the national well-being with ceaseless vigilance, and kept down popular discontent by the boldness and thoroughness of his social legislation. But for Bismarck himself the age of adventure was past. It was enough that by the labours of an arduous lifetime, he had made of Germany a puissant state, in which all her children, even the most restless, could find full scope for their soaring ambitions.
With the dismissal of Bismarck in 1890, Germany entered upon a new phase. Then once again her people began to dream, and this time furiously. They had conquered in war. They had won great victories in peace. According to their own estimate they were the foremost thinkers of the world. They found themselves impelled by a limitless ambition and a superb self-confidence. But the vision which now presented itself to their eyes was disordered and tumultuous. Indeed it was less dream than nightmare; and in some degree, no doubt, it owed its origin, like other nightmares, to a sudden surfeit—to a glut of material prosperity.[1]
Why did Germany with her larger population still lag behind Britain in commerce and shipping? Surely the reason could only be that Britain, at every turn, sought to cripple the enterprise of her young rival. Why had Britain a great and thriving colonial empire, while Germany had only a few tracts of tropical jungle and light soil, not particularly prosperous or promising? The reason could only be that, out of jealousy, Britain had obstructed Teutonic acquisition. Why was Germany tending to become more and more isolated and unpopular in Europe? The reason could only be that the crafty and unscrupulous policy of Britain had intrigued, with some success, for her political ostracism.
It is useless to argue with a man in a nightmare. He brushes reason aside and cares not for facts. But to seekers after truth it was obvious, that so far from making any attack upon German commerce, Britain, by adhering to her system of free trade at home and in her dependencies, had conferred a boon immeasurable on this new and eager competitor. So far from hindering Germany's acquisition of colonies, Britain had been careless and indifferent in the matter; perhaps too much so for the security of some of her own possessions. It was Bismarck, much more than Britain, who had put obstacles in the way of German colonial expansion. With a sigh of relief (as we may imagine) this great statesman saw the partition of the vacant territories of the world completed, and his fellow-countrymen thereby estopped from wasting their substance, and dissipating their energies, in costly and embarrassing adventures. So far from holding aloof from Germany or attempting to isolate her among European nations, we had persisted in treating her with friendliness, long after she had ceased to be friendly. One of our leading statesmen had even gone the length of suggesting an alliance, and had been denounced immediately by the whole German press, although it was understood at the time that he had spoken with the august encouragement of the Kaiser and his Chancellor.[2] It was Germany herself, deprived of the guidance of Bismarck, who by blustering at her various neighbours, and threatening them in turn, had aroused their suspicions and achieved her own isolation.
The grievances against Britain which figured in the phantasmagoria of the German nightmare were obviously tinged with envy. There were other grievances against France, and these were tinged with annoyance. For France, although she had been beaten on to her knees, had nevertheless had the impudence to make a successful recovery. There were also grievances against Russia, and these were tinged with fear. Her vast adjacent territories and teeming population, her social and industrial progress, the reformation of her government, and the rapid recuperation of her military and naval power, constituted in German eyes the gravest menace of all.
Self-confidence and ambition were the original stuff—the warp and the weft—of which the German dream was made; but these admirable and healthy qualities rapidly underwent a morbid deterioration. Ambition degenerated into groundless suspicion, and self-confidence into arrogance. It was a considerable time, however, before Germany was realised to have become a public danger by reason of her mental affliction. Until her prophets and high priests began preaching from the housetops as a divine ordinance, that Germany was now so great, prosperous, and prolific as to need the lands of her neighbours for her expansion, her symptoms were not generally recognised. It was not really pressure of population, but only the oppression of a nightmare which had brought her to this restless and excited condition. In terms of psychology, the disease from which Germany has been suffering of late years is known as megalomania, in the slang of the street-corner as madness of the swollen head.
The dreams of a nation may be guided well or ill by statesmen, or they may be left altogether unguided. The dreams of Italy under Cavour, and those of Germany under Bismarck, were skilfully fostered and directed with great shrewdness to certain practical ends. But in considering the case of Germany under William the Second, our feeling is that although popular imaginings have been controlled from above with even greater solicitude than before, the persons who inspired and regulated them have been lacking in the sense of proportion. The governing power would seem to have been the victim of changing moods, conflicting policies, and disordered purposes.
TWO FUNDAMENTAL ASSUMPTIONS
When we piece together the various schemes for the aggrandisement of the Fatherland, which German writers have set forth with increasing boldness and perfect gravity during the past ten years, we are confronted with an immense mosaic—a conception of the most grandiose character. On examination each of these projects is found to be based upon two fundamental assumptions:—The first, that the present boundaries of Germany and her possessions overseas are too narrow to contain the legitimate aspirations of the German race:—The second that it is the immediate interest of Germany, as well as a duty which she owes to posterity, to remedy this deficiency, by taking from her neighbours by force what she requires for her own expansion. There is a third assumption, not however of a political so much as an ethical character, which is stated with equal frankness and conviction—that war on an extensive scale is necessary, from time to time, in order to preserve the vigour of the German people and their noble spirit.
One school of dreamers, with its gaze fixed upon the Atlantic trade-routes, insists upon the absurdity of resting content with a western sea-board of some two hundred miles. The estuaries of the Elbe and the Weser alone are exclusively German; that of the Ems is shared with the Dutch; while the far more valuable harbour-mouths of the Rhine and the Scheldt are in the possession of Holland and Belgium. Put into plain language what this means is, that both Holland and Belgium must be incorporated in the German Empire; if by treaty, so much the better for all parties concerned; but if diplomacy should fail to accomplish the desired absorption, then it must be brought about by war. Nor has it been overlooked, that in order to complete the rectification, and to secure the keys of the Baltic, it would be necessary to 'admit' Denmark also into the privileges of the Germanic Empire.
Another school looks to the south-east and broods upon the day, not far distant, when the Germans of Austria-Hungary—a small but dominating minority of the whole population—will be driven, by reasons of self-defence, to seek a federal inclusion in the Empire of the Hohenzollerns. And it is surmised that for somewhat similar reasons the Magyars of Hungary will at the same time elect to throw in their lot with Teutons rather than with Slavs.
When that day arrives, however, it is not merely the German and Magyar territories of the Habsburg Emperor-King which will need to be incorporated in the Hohenzollern Empire, but the whole congeries of nations which at present submits, more or less reluctantly, to the rule of Vienna and Buda-Pest. There must be no break-up of the empire of Francis Joseph, no sentimental sacrifice to the mumbo-jumbos of nationality. The Italians of Trieste and Fiume, the Bohemians, the Croats, the Serbs, the Roumanians of Transylvania, and the Poles of Galicia must all be kept together in one state, even more firmly than they are to-day. The Germans of Austria will not be cordially welcomed, unless they bring this dowry with them to the altar of imperial union.
THE AUSTRIAN DOWRY
But to clear eyes, looking into the future, more even than this appears to be necessary. Austria will be required to bring with her, not merely all her present possessions, but also her reversionary prospects, contingent remainders, and all and sundry her rights of action throughout the whole Balkan peninsula, which sooner or later must either accept the hegemony of the German Empire or submit to annexation at the sword's point. Advantageous as it would be for the Fatherland to obtain great harbours for her commerce at the head of the Adriatic, these acquisitions might easily become valueless in practice if some rival barred the right of entry through the Straits of Otranto. Salonica again, in her snug and sheltered corner of the Aegean, is essential as the natural entrepÔt for the trade of Asia Minor and the East; while there can be no hope, until the mouths of the Danube, as well as the Dardanelles and the Bosphorus, are firmly held, of turning the Black Sea into a Germanic lake.
The absorption of the Balkan peninsula, involving as it must the occupation of Constantinople and European Turkey, would carry with it, as a natural consequence, the custody of the Sultan and the control of his Asiatic dominions. These vast territories which extend from Smyrna to the Caucasus, from Syria to the Persian Gulf, from the Black Sea to the Gulf of Aden, contain some of the richest and most fertile tracts upon the surface of the globe. Massacre, misrule, and oppression have indeed converted the greater part of these regions into a state hardly to be distinguished from the barest deserts of Arabia. But a culture which has lapsed through long neglect may be reclaimed by new enterprise. All that is required to this end is such shelter and encouragement as a stable government would afford.
What more suitable instrument for this beneficent recovery than the peculiar genius of the Teuton race? Would not the whole world gain by the substitution of settled order for a murderous anarchy, of tilth and industry for a barren desolation? The waters of Tigris and Euphrates are still sweet. It needs but the energy and art of man to lead them in channelled courses, quenching the longings of a thirsty land, and filling the Mesopotamian waste with the music of a myriad streams. The doom of Babylon is no curse eternal. It awaits but the sword of Siegfried to end the slumbers of two thousand years. Where great cities and an ancient civilisation lie buried under drifted sand, great cities may be raised once more, the habitations of a hardier race, the seminaries of a nobler civilisation.
This vision, more fanciful and poetically inspired than the rest, has already advanced some considerable way beyond the frontiers of dreamland. When the Turko-Russian War came to an end[3] the influence of Germany at Constantinople was as nearly as possible nil; and so long as Bismarck remained in power, no very serious efforts were made to increase it. But from the date of Bismarck's dismissal[4] down to the present day, it has been the steady aim of German policy to control the destinies of the Turkish Empire. These attempts have been persistent, and in the main successful.
THE WOOING OF TURKEY
It mattered not what dubious personage or party might happen to be in the ascendant at Stamboul, the friendship of Germany was always forthcoming. It was extended with an equal cordiality to Abdul Hamid; to the Young Turks when they overthrew Abdul Hamid; to the Reactionaries when they overthrew the Young Turks; to the Young Turks again when they compounded matters with the Reactionaries. The largesse of Berlin bankers refreshed the empty treasuries of each despot and camarilla in turn, so soon as proofs could be produced of positive, or even of presumptive predominance. At the same time the makers of armaments, at Essen and elsewhere, looked to it, that a sufficient portion of these generous loans was paid in kind, and that the national gain was not confined to high policy and high finance. The reform of the Turkish army was taken in hand zealously by Prussian soldiers. Imperial courtesies cemented the bricks which usury, commerce, and diplomacy had laid so well. At a time when the late Sultan was ill-regarded by the whole of Europe, on account of his supposed complicity in Armenian massacres, the magnanimity of the Kaiser took pity on the pariah, and a visit of honour to the Bosphorus formed an incident in the Hohenzollern pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre.
The harvest of these endeavours was reaped at a later date in the form of vast concessions for lines of railway running through Asia Minor to the Persian Gulf. It is needless to enter here into a discussion of the famous and still unsettled controversy regarding the Baghdad route, except to say that this project for the benefit, not merely of Turkey, but of the whole human race, was to be realised under German direction and according to German plans and specifications; it was to be administered under German control; but it was to be paid for in the main out of the savings of England and France.
The scheme was no less bold than ingenious. Obligations were imposed upon Turkey which it was clearly impossible for Turkey to discharge. In the event of her failure it was likely to go hard with the original shareholders, and somewhat hard with the Sublime Porte itself; but on the other hand it was not likely to go hard with Germany, or to involve her in anything more irksome than a labour of love—a protectorate over Asia Minor and Arabia.[5]
These are the main dreams which German writers, with a genuine enthusiasm and an engaging frankness, have set out in the pages of books and periodicals—the North Sea dream, the Austrian dream, the Balkan dream, and the Levantine dream. But these dreams by no means exhaust the Teuton fancy.
Wars are contemplated calmly as inevitable incidents in the acquisition of world-power—war with France, war with England, war either of army corps or diplomacy with Belgium, Holland, and Denmark. And as victory is also contemplated, just as confidently, various bye-products of considerable value are likely to be secured during the process, and as a result.
ACQUISITION OF AFRICA
The greater part of north-western Africa, which lies along the seaboards of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, is under the French flag. The greater part of eastern Africa from Alexandria to Capetown is in the hands of the British. The central region of Africa is Belgian. In the north there is Tripoli which is now Italian; and in various quarters patches and scattered islands which are Portuguese. The former might be tolerated as a harmless enclave; the latter might readily be acquired by compulsory purchase. What would then remain of the Dark Continent is already German. So that, as the results of the wars and victories which are considered by German thinkers to be inevitable, the whole of Africa would shortly pass into German hands.
With the destinies of Africa in the keeping of a virile race, accustomed to face great problems in no piecemeal fashion, but as a whole, vast transformations must ensue. Before their indomitable will and scientific thoroughness, the dusky savage will lay aside his ferocity, and toil joyously at the arts of peace. Under an indefatigable and intelligent administration, desert, jungle, forest, and swamp will yield their appropriate harvests. Timber, oil, cotton, rubber, tea, coffee, and every variety of raw material will gradually become available in limitless supplies. Jewels and precious metals will be dug out of the bowels of the earth. Flocks and herds will roam in safety over the rich uplands—no robber bands to drive them off; no wild beasts to tear them limb from limb; no murrain or envenomed fly to strike them down by tens of thousands. For as the armies of the Kaiser are invincible against all human foes, so also are his men of science invincible, in their ceaseless war against disease of man and beast. In the end they also will conquer in their own sphere, no less certainly than the soldier in his; for their courage is as high and their devotion faces death, or worse than death, with equanimity.
The Dark Continent, which in all its history has never known either peace or order, will then at last know both. Even the stiff-necked Africander, jealous of his antique shibboleths of freedom, will not refuse incorporation in an Empire to which the land of his forefathers will already have become bound in federal ties. And the dowry which Holland is expected to bring with her, will be not only the good will of the South African Dutch, but the rich islands of the East, where merchant-adventurers planted her flag, in days when the fleets of Rotterdam disputed, not unsuccessfully, with London herself the primacy of the seas.
THE EASTERN DREAM
Finally, there is the dream of the farthest East. This is of such simple grandeur that it may be stated in a few sentences. When the war between China and Japan came to an end in 1895 Germany, acting in concert with France and Russia, forced the victorious troops of the Mikado to forgo all the fruits of their conquest. When three years later Germany herself seized upon the reversion of Kiao-Chau, she saw a vision of an empire, greater than that which had been secured to her envied rival by the daring of Clive and the forethought of Warren Hastings. If England could hold and rule India, a mightier than England could surely hold and rule China, containing though it does a full quarter of the human race.
CHAPTER III
THE GERMAN PROJECT OF EMPIRE
The German project of empire is a gorgeous fabric. The weft of it is thread of gold, but the warp of it has been dipped in the centaur's blood. It is the pride of its possessor; but it is likely to be his undoing. It ravishes his fancy with the symmetry and vastness of the pattern; yet these very two qualities, which so much excite his admiration, have shown themselves in the past singularly unpropitious to high imperial adventures.
No man of action worthy of the name will ever take history for his guide. He would rightly refuse to do so, even were it possible, which it is not, to write history truthfully. But with all their deficiencies, history books have certain sibylline qualities which make them worth consulting upon occasions; and as to symmetry and vastness this oracle, if consulted, would speak clearly enough. Of all false enticements which have lured great princes to their ruin, these two have the biggest tale of victims to their score.
SYMMETRY AND VASTNESS
The British Empire, like the Roman, built itself slowly. It was the way of both nations to deal with needs as needs occurred, and not before. Neither of them charted out their projects in advance, thereafter working to them, like LenÔtre, when he laid out the gardens of Versailles. On the contrary, a strip was added here, a kingdom there, as time went on, but not in accordance with any plan or system. In certain cases, no doubt, the reason for annexation was a simple desire for possession. But much more often the motive was apprehension of one kind or another. Empire-builders have usually achieved empire as an accident attending their search after security—security against the ambition of a neighbour, against lawless hordes which threaten the frontier, against the fires of revolution and disorder spreading from adjacent territories. Britain, like Rome before her, built up her empire piecemeal; for the most part reluctantly; always reckoning up and dreading the cost, labour, and burden of it; hating the responsibility of expansion, and shouldering it only when there seemed to be no other course open to her in honour or safety. Symmetry did not appeal to either of these nations any more than vastness. Their realms spread out and extended, as chance and circumstances willed they should, like pools of water in the fields when floods are out.
We cannot but distrust the soundness of recent German policy, with its grandiose visions of universal empire, if we consider it in the light of other things which happened when the world was somewhat younger, though possibly no less wise. The great imaginative conquerors, though the fame of their deeds still rings down the ages, do not make so brave a show, when we begin to examine into the permanency of their achievements. The imperial projects of Alexander, of the Habsburgs, the Grand Monarque, and Napoleon—each of whom drew out a vast pattern and worked to it—are not among those things which can be said with any justice to have endured. None of them were ever fully achieved; while some were broken in pieces, even during the lifetimes of their architects.
To treat the whole world as if it were a huge garden, for which one small race of men, who have worked busily in a single corner of it, can aspire to make and carry out an all-comprehending plan, is in reality a proof of littleness and not largeness of mind. Such vaulting ambitions are the symptoms of a dangerous disease, to be noted and distrusted. And none ever noted these tendencies more carefully or distrusted them more heartily than the two greatest statesmen whom Prussia has produced. Frederick the Great rode his own Pegasus-vision on curb and martingale. The Great Bismarck reined back the Pegasus-vision of his fellow-countrymen on to its haunches with an even sterner hand. "One cannot," so he wrote in later years—"one cannot see the cards of Providence so closely as to anticipate historical development according to one's own calculation."
MASTERY OF THE WORLD
Those very qualities of vastness and symmetry which appear to have such fatal attraction for the pedantocracy repel the practical statesman; and woe to the nation which follows after the former class rather than the latter, when the ways of the two part company! To the foreign observer it seems as if Germany, for a good many years past, has been making this mistake. Perhaps it is her destiny so to do. Possibly the reigns of Frederick and Bismarck were only interludes. For Germany followed the pedantocracy during a century or more, while it preached political inaction and contentment with a shorn and parcelled Fatherland. She was following it still, when Bismarck turned constitutionalism out of doors and went his own stern way to union. And now once again she seems to be marching in a fatal procession after the same Pied Pipers, who this time are engaged, with a surpassing eloquence and fervour, in preaching discontent with the narrow limits of a united empire, and in exhorting their fellow-countrymen to proceed to the Mastery of the World.
Among an imaginative race like the Germans, those who wield the weapons of rhetoric and fancy are only too likely to get the better of those surer guides, who know from hard experience that the world is a diverse and incalculable place, where no man, and no acre of land, are precisely the same as their next-door neighbours, where history never repeats itself, and refuses always—out of malice or disdain—to travel along the way which ingenious Titans have charted for it. But it is not every generation which succeeds in producing a Frederick the Great or a Bismarck, to tame the dreamers and use them as beasts of draught and burden.
The complete mosaic of the German vision is an empire incomparably greater in extent, in riches, and in population, than any which has yet existed since the world first began to keep its records. Visionaries are always in a hurry. This stupendous rearrangement of the Earth's surface is confidently anticipated to occur within the first half of the present century. It is to be accomplished by a race distinguished for its courage, industry, and devotion,—let us admit so much without grudging. But in numbers—even if we count the Teutons of the Habsburg Empire along with those of the Hohenzollern—it amounts upon the highest computation to less than eighty millions. This is the grain of mustard-seed which is confidently believed to have in it 'the property to get up and spread,' until within little more than a generation, it will dominate and control more than seven hundred millions of human souls.
Nor to German eyes, which dwell lovingly, and apparently without misgiving, upon this appalling prospect of symmetry and vastness, are these the sum total of its attractions. The achievement of their vision would bring peace to mankind. For there would then be but two empires remaining, which need give the overlords of the world the smallest concern. Of these Russia, in their opinion, needs a century at least in which to emerge out of primitive barbarism and become a serious danger; while in less than a century, the United States must inevitably crumble to nonentity, through the worship of false gods and the corruption of a decadent democracy. Neither of these two empires could ever hope to challenge the German Mastery of the World.
In South America as in North, there is already a German garrison, possessing great wealth and influence. And in the South, at any rate, it may well become, very speedily, an imperative obligation on the Fatherland to secure, for its exiled children, more settled conditions under which to extend the advantages of German commerce and Kultur. President Monroe has already been dead a hundred years or more. According to the calculations of the pedantocracy, his famous doctrine will need some stronger backing than the moral disapprobation of a hundred millions of materially-minded and unwarlike people, in order to withstand the pressure of German diplomacy, if it should summon war-ships and transports to its aid.
UNIVERSAL PEACE
So in the end we arrive at an exceedingly strange conclusion. For that very thing, which the philanthropists have all these years been vainly endeavouring to bring about by means of congresses of good men, and resolutions which breathe a unanimity of noble aspirations, may be achieved in a single lifetime by a series of bold strokes with the German sword. Then at last Universal Peace will have been secured.
At this point the Prussian professor and the pacifist apostle, who turned their backs upon one another so angrily at the beginning, and started off, as it seemed, in opposite directions, are confronting one another unexpectedly at the other side of the circle of human endeavour. They ought surely to shake hands; for each, if he be honest, will have to own himself the convert of the other. "You admit then after all," cries the triumphant Pacifist, "that Peace is the real end of human endeavour!" "Whether or no," grunts the other in reply, "this at any rate was the only road to it."
One wonders—will the Pacifist be content? He has reached his goal sure enough; though by means which he has been accustomed to denounce as the end of all true morality? Will the Professor, on the other hand, be well pleased when he discovers that by the very triumph of his doctrines he has made war for ever impossible,—manliness, therefore, and all true virtue likewise impossible,—thereby damning the souls of posterity to the end of time? "To put questions in this quarter with a hammer, and to hear perchance that well-known hollow sound which tells of blown-out frogs"[1]—this is a joy, no doubt; and it is all we are ever likely to arrive at by the cross-examination of dreamers.
CHAPTER IV
THE NEW MORALISTS
The dream of German expansion, as year by year it took firmer hold upon the popular imagination, produced, as might have been expected, a desire that it might be realised. From the stage of vague and ardent longing it was but a short way to the next, where a determined will began to put forth efforts towards achievement. But as mankind in the mass, whether in Germany or England, is still to some extent hampered by human nature, by a number of habits, traditions, and instincts, and by various notions of good and evil, justice and injustice—which the subtlest philosophers and most eloquent rhetoricians have not yet succeeded in eradicating—a need was felt for what the text-books in their solemn nomenclature call an ethical basis. In plain words, the German people wanted to have right on their side—if possible, old-fashioned, Sunday-school, copy-book Right. Failing that, even such a plea as the wolf maintained against the lamb would be a great deal better than nothing.
This tendency in a nation to look about for justification and a righteous plea, when it is preparing to possess itself of property belonging to its neighbours, is for the most part a subconscious process, not only among the common people, but also among the leaders themselves. It resembles the instinct among hens which produces in them an appetite for lime when the season has come to begin laying. It was through some natural impulse of this sort, and not through mere cynicism, hypocrisy, or cool calculation, that German publicists discovered all the grievances which have been already touched upon. For even if the possession of these grievances did not altogether give the would-be aggressors right up to the point of righteousness, it certainly put their neighbours in the wrong, and branded the French dove and the British lamb with turpitude in the eyes of the German people. The grievances against France were, that although she had been vanquished in 1870, although her population had actually decreased since that date, and although therefore she had neither the right to nor any need for expansion, she had nevertheless expanded in Africa as well as in the East, to a far greater extent than Germany herself, the victorious power, whose own population had meanwhile been increasing by leaps and bounds.
GRIEVANCES AGAINST ENGLAND
The grievances against Britain were that she was supposed to have made war upon German trade, to have prevented her young rival from acquiring colonies, and to have intrigued to surround the Teuton peoples with a ring of foes. Britain had helped France to occupy and hold her new territories. Britain had been mainly responsible for the diplomatic defeat of Germany at Algeciras in 1905 and again over Agadir in 1911. Moreover when Germany, during the South African war, had attempted, in the interests of international morality, to combine the nations against us, we had foiled her high-minded and unselfish endeavours. When at an earlier date she had sought, by the seizure of Kiao-Chau and by a vigorous concentration, to oust British influence and trade from their position of predominance in China, we had countered her efforts by the occupation of Wei-hai-wei and the Japanese alliance.
As regards command of the sea we had likewise frustrated German ambitions. After a certain amount of vacillation, and a somewhat piteous plea for a general diminution of armaments—backed up by an arrest of our own, which Germany interpreted, perhaps not unnaturally, as a throwing up of the sponge and beginning of the end of our naval supremacy—we had actually had the treachery (for it was nothing less) to upset all her calculations, and turn all her efforts and acceleration to foolishness, by resuming the race for sea-power with redoubled energy. And although to our own eyes, and even possibly to the eyes of impartial observers, none of these doings of ours—in so far as they were truly alleged—could be rightly held to constitute any real grievance, that consideration was irrelevant. For when a man is in search of a grievance he will find it, if he be earnest enough, in the mere fact that his intended adversary stammers, or has a wart upon his nose.
German statesmen were happy in having established these grievances to their own satisfaction; but something more was necessary in order that their morality might rest upon a sure foundation. German policy must be absolutely right, and not merely relatively right by contrast with those neighbours whose power she sought to overthrow, and whose territories she wished to annex. And although this effort to establish German policy on the principle of Right involved a recasting of Christian morality, it was not shirked on that account. On the contrary it was undertaken in a most energetic spirit.
The first great influence in this readjustment of popular conceptions of right and wrong was the historian Heinrich von Treitschke.[1] He boldly differentiated the moral obligations of the private individual from those of a government charged with the destinies of a nation.[2] The duties of a man to his family, neighbours, and society Treitschke left undisturbed. In this sphere of human life the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount not only remained unchallenged, but was upheld and reinforced. Statecraft, however, fell under a different category.
THE STATE IS POWER
The true principle of private conduct was Love for one's Neighbour, but the true principle of the state was Power. The duty of a virtuous ruler was to seek power, more power, and always more power, on behalf of the nation he was called upon to govern. The internal power of the state over the action of its own subjects was absolute, and it was a duty owed by each generation of rulers to posterity, to see to it that in their own time, the external power of the state was increased at the expense of its neighbours.[3] To secure this end wars were inevitable; and despite the sufferings which wars entailed, they were far from regrettable, for the reason that they preserved the vigour, unity, and devotion of the race, while stimulating the virtues of courage and self-sacrifice among private citizens.[4]
Nations, he maintained, cannot safely stand still. They must either increase their power or lose it, expand their territories or be prepared to see them shorn away. No growth of spiritual force or material well-being within the state will preserve it, if it fails to extend its authority and power among its neighbours. Feelings of friendliness, chivalry, and pity are absurd as between nations. To speak even of justice in such a connection is absurd. Need and Might together constitute Right. Nor ought the world to regret the eating-up of weak nations by the strong, of small nations by the great, because—a somewhat bold conclusion—great and powerful nations alone are capable of producing what the world requires in thought, art, action, and virtue. For how can these things flourish nobly in a timid, cowering state, which finds itself driven by force of circumstances to make-believes and fictions, to the meanest supplications and to devices of low cunning, in order to preserve an independence which, as it can only exist on sufferance, is nothing better than a sham?[5]
As the Hohenzollerns, the noblest and most capable of modern dynasties, had never been content merely to reign, but had always maintained their 'divine right' of ruling and dominating the Prussian Kingdom—as Prussia itself, the most manly and energetic of modern nations, had not been content merely to serve as the figurehead of a loose confederation, but had insisted upon becoming supreme master and imposing its own system, policy, and ideals upon all Germany—so was it the duty and destiny of united Germany, under these happy auspices, having been taught and seasoned by long centuries of stern and painful apprenticeship, to issue forth in the meridian vigour of her age and seize upon the Mastery of the World.
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
If Treitschke, the eloquent historian, succeeded to his own satisfaction and that of a very large proportion of German statesmen, soldiers, intellectuals, and publicists in taking high policy altogether out of the jurisdiction of Christian morals, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche,[6] the even more eloquent and infinitely more subtle poet-philosopher, made a cleaner and bolder cut, and got rid of Christian morality even in the sphere of private conduct.
Nietzsche was but little interested or concerned in the practical problems of statecraft which engrossed the patriotic mind of Treitschke. The destinies of the German nation were for him a small matter in comparison with those of the human race. But nevertheless his vigorously expressed contempt for the English, their ways of life and thought, the meanness of their practical aims, and the degradation of their philosophic ideals,[7] was comforting to his fellow-countrymen, who were relieved to find that the nation whom they desired to despoil was so despicable and corrupt. This train of argument was deceptive and somewhat dangerous; for it led his German readers to overlook the fact, that the broad front of his attack aimed at enveloping and crushing the cherished traditions of the Teuton race no less than those of the Anglo-Saxon.[8]
Nietzsche's derision and dislike of the Prussian spirit, of militarism, and of what he conceived to be the spurious principle of nationality, his vague, disinterested cosmopolitanism or Europeanism, are as the poles apart from the aims and ideas of Treitschke and the German patriots.[9] Nietzsche is not concerned to evolve a sovereign and omnipotent state, but a high overmastering type of man, who shall inherit the earth and dominate—not for their good, but for his own—the millions who inhabit it. His ideal is a glorious aristocracy of intellect, beauty, courage, self-control, felicity, and power, scornfully smiling, exuberantly vital. The evolution, ever higher and higher, of this fine oligarchy of super-men is the one absolute end of human endeavour. The super-men will use and direct the force and instincts of 'the herd'—even the capacities of kings, soldiers, law-givers, and administrators—to make the world a fit place for their own development. The millions of slaves are to be considered merely as a means to this end. Concern about them for their own sakes, above all pity for their sufferings, or regard on the part of the super-men for their resentment—except to guard against it—is a mistake. The serenity of the superman must not allow itself to be disturbed and distracted by any such considerations. It is for him to take what he needs or desires, to impose order on the world, so that it may be a fit environment for the evolution of his own caste, and, so far as he can compass it, to live like the gods.[10]
THE BLONDE BRUTE
It is clear that although Nietzsche chaunts a pÆan in admiration of "the magnificent blonde brute, avidly rampant for spoil and victory,"[11] and although he is constantly found, as it were, humming this refrain, he had no intention of taking the Prussian as his ideal type—still less of personifying Prussia itself as a super-state engaged in a contest for supremacy with a herd of inferior nations. He does not trouble himself in the least about nations, but only about individual men. Yet, like others who have had the gift of memorable speech, he might well marvel, were he still alive, at the purposes to which his words have been turned by orators and journalists, desirous to grind an edge on their own blunt axes.
General von Bernhardi[12] may be taken as a type of the sincere but unoriginal writer who turns all texts to the support of his own sermon. He is an honest, literal fellow. In spite of all his ecstatic flights of rhetoric he is never at all in the clouds—never any farther from the earth's surface than hopping distance. Notwithstanding, he quietly appropriates any Nietzschean aphorisms the sound and shape of which appear to suit his purpose, and uses them to drive home his very simple and concrete proposition that it is the duty of Germany to conquer the world.
One imagines from his writings that Bernhardi has no quarrel with Christianity, no wish whatsoever to overturn our accepted notions of morality. He is merely a soldier with a fixed idea, and he is very much in earnest. His literary methods remind one somewhat of the starlings in spring-time, perched on the backs of sheep and cattle, picking off the loose hairs to line their nests. This is the highly practical and soldierly use to which he puts philosophers, poets, and men of letters generally—laying them under contribution to garnish his discourse.
INFLUENCE OF PHILOSOPHY
It is probably true that the average soldier who fought on the German side at Ypres and elsewhere was hardly more conversant with the writings of Treitschke, Nietzsche, and Bernhardi than the average British soldier opposed to him was with those of Herbert Spencer, Mr. Bernard Shaw, and Mr. Norman Angell. It is very unlikely, however, that the battle of Ypres would ever have been fought had it not been for the ideas which sprang from these and similar sources. The influence of the written and spoken word upon German policy and action is glaringly manifest.[13] It inspired and supported the high bureaucrats at Berlin, and had equally to do, if indirectly, with the marching of the humblest raw recruits shoulder to shoulder to be shot down on the Menin Road. For by a process of percolation through the press and popular literature, the doctrines of these teachers—diluted somewhat, it is true, and a good deal disguised and perverted—had reached a very wide audience. Though the names of these authors were for the most part unknown, though their opinions had never been either understood or accepted by the common people, the effects of their teaching had made themselves felt in every home in Germany.
The German private soldier would not have been shot down unless these eloquent sermons had been preached. None the less, he had never grasped or understood, far less had he adhered to and professed, the cardinal doctrines which they contained. He still believed in the old-fashioned morality, and thought that states as well as individual men were bound to act justly. It was this faith which gave him his strength, and made him die gladly. For he believed that Germany had acted justly, the Allies unjustly, that it was his task, along with other good men and true, to win victory for his Emperor and safety for his Fatherland, and to crush the treacherous and malignant aggressors.
In spite of all this preliminary discoursing which had been going on for many years past, like artillery preparation before an infantry attack—about world-power, will-to-power, and all the rest of it—nothing is more remarkable than the contrast presented, immediately after war broke out, between the blatancy of those writers who had caused the war and the bleating of those (in many cases the same) who sought to justify Germany's part in it to their countrymen and the world.
On the enlightened principles of Treitschke and Bernhardi, Britain would have acted not only wisely, but in the strictest accordance with her duty to her own state, had she indeed contrived and compassed this war, believing circumstances to be favourable for herself and unfavourable for Germany. Not another shred of right or reason was required.[14] But when war actually burst out, all these new-fangled doctrines went by the board. Though the ink was hardly dry upon Bernhardi's latest exhortation—of which several hundred thousand copies had been sold, and in which he urged his fellow-countrymen to watch their time and make war when it suited them, without remorse and no matter on what plea—in spite of this fact, there was a singular lack of Stoicism among 'the brethren' when war was declared against Russia and France. When Britain joined in, and when things began to go less well than had been expected, Stoicism entirely disappeared. Indeed there is something highly ludicrous, at the same time painful—like all spectacles of human abasement—in the chorus of whines and shrill execration, which at once went up to heaven from that very pedantocracy whose leaders, so short a time before, had been preaching that, as between the nations of the earth, Might is Right, and Craft is the trusty servant of Might.[15]
APOSTASY WHEN WAR CAME
These scolding fakirs were of an infinite credulity, inasmuch as they believed that Sir Edward Grey was the reincarnation of Machiavelli. Yet on their own principles, what was there in this discovery to be in the least shocked at? British statesmen (it is hardly necessary to repeat it) had not walked in the footsteps of the Florentine; had not provoked the war; had not wished for it; had tried with all their might to prevent it; but if they had done the very reverse, would they not merely have been taking a leaf out of the sacred book of the pedantocracy—out of Bernhardi's book, out of Nietzsche's book, out of Treitschke's book? Why, then, all these unpleasant howlings and ravings?
The answers are not hard to find. The careful plans and theories of the German bureaucrats had been turned topsy-turvy because England had joined in the war when, according to the calculations of the augurs, she should have remained neutral. That mistake must have been sufficiently annoying in itself to disturb the equanimity even of professional philosophers. And further, in spite of all the ingenious, eloquent, and sophistical exhortations of the prophets, the old morality still kept its hold upon the hearts of men. When trouble arose they turned to it instinctively—priesthood as well as people—and the later gospel fell flat like a house of cards. Immediately war came there was an appeal to old-fashioned justice, and the altars of the little, new-fangled, will-to-power gods were deserted by their worshippers.
When statesmen are laying out policies, and moralists are setting up systems, it is worth their while to make certain that they are not, in fact, engaged upon an attempt to make water flow uphill; above all, that their ingenious new aqueducts will actually hold water, which in this instance they certainly did not.
CHAPTER V
THE STATECRAFT OF A PRIESTHOOD
The thoroughness and efficiency of the Germans are admitted even by hostile critics. In the practical sphere they have excelled in military preparations, in the encouragement of industry, and in the organisation of finance. But they have achieved an even more remarkable success than any of these; for they have so arranged their educational system that it is drilled hardly less admirably than their army.[1] From the primary schools to the universities everything is ordered, so that the plastic mind of youth is forced into a political mould which suits the purposes of government. Patriotism of the pattern approved by the authorities is inculcated directly or indirectly in every class-room. While thought is left ostentatiously free in regard to private morals and religious foundations, the duties of the citizen to the state, the duties of the state to posterity, the relations of Germany to the outside world, are subjects upon which independent speculation is not tolerated.
Even schoolmasters and professors have their ambitions; but unless they contribute their quota to the support of imperial ideals, their careers are unlikely to prosper. It is not enough that a lecturer should not run counter to state policy; he must actively promote its ends before he can hope to be transferred to a sphere of greater dignity and influence. Pedagogy is a branch of the Civil Service just as much as the Treasury or the Public Health Department. Teachers from the lowest to the highest grades are the stipendiaries of the bureaucracy. If they render useful services they are promoted. If they fail to render useful services they are passed over. If they indulge in dangerous speculations they are sent adrift. Not merely the army, but the whole German nation, is disciplined, during the period of its impressionable youth, with the object of inclining its mind to support state policy through thick and thin.
The schools feed the universities; the universities feed the press, the learned professions, and the higher grades in industry and finance. Private conversation, as well as what is published in newspapers, magazines, and books, bears the impress of the official mint to a degree unthinkable in England or America, Russia or France. Theories of politics are devised by ingenious sophists, exactly as the machinery at Essen is contrived by engineers—for the express purpose of forwarding Prussian policy. History is twisted and distorted in order to prepare the way for imperial ambitions by justifying them in advance.
It is a signal triumph for the thoroughness of German methods that all the thinkers, dreamers, poets, and prophets, with but a few exceptions, should have been commandeered and set to work thinking, dreaming, poetising, and prophesying to the glory of the Kaiser, and his army, and his navy, and his counsellors, and his world policy, and the conquests and expansion which are entailed therein.
MOBILISATION OF INTELLECTUALS
It is somewhat startling, however, to find the intellectuals thus mobilised, and all but unanimous, on the official side; for hitherto in history they have rarely agreed among themselves, and the greater part have usually favoured the Opposition rather than the Government. Nor does this close alliance between learning and the bureaucracy seem altogether satisfactory. For thought loses its fine edge when it is set to cut millstones of state. It loses its fine temper in the red heat of political controversy. By turning utilitarian it ceases to be universal; and what is perhaps even worse, it ceases to be free. It tends more and more to become the mere inventor of things which will sell at a profit; less and less the discoverer of high principles which the gods have hidden out of sight. It would hardly be possible to imagine a more complete reversal of attitude than that which has occurred in Germany between the beginning of the nineteenth century and the present time; and though this change may serve admirably the immediate purposes of the state, it does not augur well for the future of German thought.
The similarities and contrasts of history are interesting to contemplate. In the ferment of thought and action which occurred in France during the generation preceding the battle of Valmy, and that other which has been going on in Germany in the generation preceding the battle of the Marne, there are various likenesses and unlikenesses. In France before the Revolution, as in Germany to-day, a bureaucracy, responsible solely to the monarch, directed policy and controlled administration. But in France this bureaucracy was incompetent, unpractical, and corrupt. Its machinery was clogged with dead matter of every kind, with prejudices, traditions, and statutes, many of which had outlived their original purposes. The Struldbrugs, discovered by Gulliver during his voyages, were a race of men whose mortal souls were incased in immortal bodies. The French monarchy was of this nature, and the soul of it was long since dead. Inefficiency was everywhere apparent; and, as a natural consequence, the whole system had become a butt, at which each brilliant writer in turn levelled his darts of derision and contempt.
In Germany, although the political mechanism is the same, the conditions are diametrically the opposite. The bureaucracy and the monarchy which it supports, have proved themselves highly efficient and adaptive. The arrangement has worked with a marvellous success. It has cherished the material, if not the spiritual, well-being of the people. The wealth-producing and belly-filling activities of the race have been stimulated to an extent never yet attained by any form of government, either popular or despotic. Administration has been honest, thrifty, and singularly free from the usual dull negatives of officialdom and the pedantries of red tape. In all directions industrial prosperity has increased, under the fostering care of the state, by leaps and bounds. Anything more remote from the bankrupt empire of Louis XVI. it would be impossible to conceive. And as a natural consequence, brilliant German writers have for the most part[2] spent their forces of rhetoric and fancy in idealising the grandeur and nobility of an order of things, under which resources, comfort, and luxury have expanded with such amazing strides.
IDEAS OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
In the case of France the aim of the intellectuals was to pull down existing institutions, in that of Germany it has been to bolster them up, to extend and develop them to their logical conclusions. But the second were no less agents of destruction than the first. Each alike, as a condition of success, required that a new order of moral and political ideas should be set up; each attained a certain measure of success; and the results which followed were those which usually follow, when new wine is poured into old bottles.
The ideas of the French Revolution cast themselves into the mould of republicanism. A picture wholly imaginary and fictitious was drawn of the institutions of Greece and Rome in ancient days. Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity were believed to have been the foundations of these famous states. Patriots on the banks of the Seine conceived themselves to be re-incarnations of Aristides and the Gracchi, of Pericles, of one Brutus or the other—it mattered little which. Political idealism passed rapidly into a kind of religious fervour.
The German masquerade is very different from this, but it is no less a masquerade. What covers the new faith, indeed, is not plumage borrowed from the Greeks and Romans, but habiliments which are supposed to have clad the heroic forms of ancestral Teutons. The student on his way to doctor's degree—the intelligent clerk scanning the high-road to fortune from the eminence of office-stool—dream in their pensive leisure to emulate the heroes of Asgard, to merit and enjoy the glories of Valhalla. But the noble shapes and gorgeous colourings in which the modern young German of honest, sober, and industrious character has chosen to see his destiny prefigured, are no less imaginary and fictitious than those others, with which eloquent notaries'-clerks, and emancipated, unfrocked priests, decked themselves out for the admiration of the Paris mob. In Germany as in France political idealism passed into a kind of religious fervour, which inspired men to a mimicry of old-Wardour-Street shams, and led them to neglect the development of their own true natures.
During quiet times that stream of events, which we are wont to call human progress, is occupied incessantly in throwing up dams, of one sort or another, throughout the world. Tree-trunks and logs, which have been swept down by former floods of conquest and invasion, jam at some convenient rocky angle, as the river falls to its normal level. Against these obstacles the drift and silt of habit, custom, law, convention, prejudice, and tradition slowly collect, settle, and consolidate. An embankment is gradually formed, and the waters are held up behind it ever higher and higher. The tribal pool becomes a pond or nation; and this again, if conditions remain favourable—for so long, that is to say, as there are no more raging and destructive floods,—extends into a lake or inland sea of empire.... "See," cry the optimists, "see what a fine, smooth, silvery sheet of civilisation, culture, wealth, happiness, comfort, and what not besides, where formerly there was but an insignificant torrent brawling in the gorge!" ... But the pessimists, as is their nature, shake their heads, talk anxiously of the weight of waters which are banking up behind, and of the unreliable character of the materials out of which the dam has grown. "Some day," they warn us, "the embankment will burst under the heavy pressure; or, more likely still, some ignorant, heedless, or malicious person will begin to fiddle and tamper with the casual structure; and then what may we expect?"
RECENT ANXIETIES
There has been considerable nervousness of late among rulers of nations as to the soundness of their existing barrages. For the most part, however, they have concerned themselves with internal dangers—with watching propagandists of the socialist persuasion—with keeping these under a kind of benevolent police supervision, and in removing ostentatiously from time to time the more glaring of their alleged grievances. This procedure has been quite as noticeable in the case of autocracies, as in countries which enjoy popular institutions.
Treitschke and Bernhardi—even Nietzsche himself—valued themselves far more highly as builders-up than as pullers-down. It is always so with your inspired inaugurators of change. It was so with Rousseau and those other writers, whose thoughts, fermenting for a generation in the minds of Frenchmen, brought about the Revolution. The intellectuals of the eighteenth century, like those of the nineteenth, aimed at getting rid of a great accumulation of insanitary rubbish. But this was only a troublesome preliminary, to be hurried through with as quickly as possible, in order that the much greater work of construction might proceed upon the cleared site.
Treitschke made a hole in the German dam when he cut an ancient commonplace in two, and tore out the one half of it. Nietzsche turned the hole into a much vaster cavity by pulling out the other half. Bernhardi and the pedantocracy worked lustily at the business, with the result that a great part of the sticks, stones, and mud of tradition are now dancing, rumbling, and boiling famously in the flood. Whether they have injured our dam as well as their own, we are hardly as yet in a position to judge.
The profounder spirit of Nietzsche realised clearly enough the absurdity of supposing that the conflicting beliefs and aspirations of mankind could all be settled and squared in a few bustling decades—that the contradictions, paradoxes, and antinomies of national existence could be written off with a few bold strokes of the sword, and the world started off on the road to perfection, like a brisk debtor who has purged his insolvency in the Bankruptcy Court. But the enthusiasm of Treitschke and Bernhardi made them blind to these considerations. Had not the formula been discovered, which would overcome every obstacle—that stroke of genius, the famous bisection of the commonplace? For private conduct, the Sermon on the Mount; for high statecraft, Machiavelli's Prince! Was ever anything simpler, except perhaps the way of Columbus with the egg?
When we push our examination further, into the means which Germany has been urged by her great thinkers to employ in preparing for this premeditated war, for provoking it when the season should be ripe, and for securing victory and spoils, we are struck more than ever by the gulf which separates the ideas of the German pedantocracy from those of the rest of the world. Nor can we fail to be impressed by the matter-of-fact and businesslike way in which the military and civil powers have set to work to translate those notions into practice.
A POLITICAL PRIESTHOOD
No kind of priesthood has ever yet exercised a great and direct influence upon national policy without producing calamity. And by an ill fate, it has always been the nature of these spiritual guides to clutch at political power whenever it has come within their reach.
Of all classes in the community who are intellectually capable of having ideas upon public affairs, a priesthood—or what is the same thing, a pedantocracy—is undoubtedly the most mischievous, if it succeeds in obtaining power. It matters not a whit whether they thunder forth their edicts and incitements from church pulpits or university chairs, whether they carry their sophistical projects up the back stairs of Catholic King or Lutheran Kaiser, whether, having shaved their heads and assumed vows of celibacy, they dwell in ancient cloisters, or, having taken unto themselves wives and begotten children, they keep house in commonplace villa residences. None of these differences is essential, or much worth considering. The one class is as much a priesthood as the other, and the evils which proceed from the predominance of the one, and the other, are hardly distinguishable.
They stand ostentatiously aloof from the sordid competitions of worldly business. They have forsworn, or at any rate forgone, the ordinary prizes of wealth and position. And for these very reasons they are ill equipped for guiding practical affairs. Their abstinences are fatal impediments, and render them apt to leave human nature out of their reckoning. They are wanting in experience of the difficulties which beset ordinary men, and of the motives which influence them. Knowing less of such matters (for all their book learning) than any other class of articulately-speaking men, they find it by so much the easier to lay down rules and regulations for the government of the world.
To a priesthood, whether ecclesiastical or academic, problems of politics and war present themselves for consideration in an engaging simplicity. They evolve theories of how people live, of how they ought to live; and both sets of theories are mainly cobwebs. There is no place in their philosophy for anything which is illogical or untidy. Ideas of compromise and give-and-take, are abominations in priestly eyes—at any rate when they are engaged in contemplation of worldly affairs. And seeing that the priesthood aspires, nevertheless, to govern and direct a world which is illogical and needs humouring, there is nothing wonderful, if when it has achieved power, it should blunder on disaster in the name of principle, and incite men to cruelties in the name of humanity. 'Clericalism,' said a French statesman, and English statesmen have echoed his words—'Clericalism is the enemy.' And this is right, whether the priesthood be that of Rome or John Calvin, of economic professors expounding Adam Smith in the interests of Manchester, or history professors improving upon Treitschke in the interests of the Hohenzollern dynasty.
PRIESTS AND LAWYERS
Priests and professors when they meddle in politics are always the same. They sit in their studies or cells, inventing fundamental principles; building thereon great edifices of reasoned or sentimental brickwork which splits in the sun and crumbles in the storm. Throughout the ages, as often as they have left their proper sphere, they have been subject to the same angry enthusiasms and savage obstinacies. Their errors of judgment have been comparable only to their arrogance. Acts of cruelty and treachery, meanness and dishonour,[3] which would revolt the ordinary German or Englishman, commend themselves readily, on grounds of sophistry or logic, to these morbid ascetics, so soon as they begin busying themselves with the direction of public affairs.
It would be unfair to judge any country by its political professors. At the same time, if any country is so foolish as to follow such guides, there is a probability of mischief in national—still more in international—affairs. For they are as innocent as the lawyers themselves, of any knowledge of the real insides of things. They differ of course from the lawyers in many ways. They are ever for making changes for the sake of symmetry; while the man of law is for keeping as he is until the last moment; or at any rate until it is clearly his interest to budge. A priesthood has a burning faith in its own hand-wrought idols; the lawyer on the contrary, does not go readily to the stake, does not catch fire easily, being rather of the nature of asbestos. When lawyers monopolise political power—even when they merely preponderate, as of late years they have seemed to do more and more in all democratic countries, whether of the monarchical or republican type—they invariably destroy by insensible gradations that which is most worth preserving in man or state, the soul. But they do not bring on sudden catastrophe as a priesthood does; their method is to strangle slowly like ivy.
In England, nowadays—indeed ever since the 'eighties, when professors of Political Economy became discredited as political guides—there are not many evidences of priestly influence. Certainly there is nothing of an organised kind. What exists is erratic and incalculable. There is much clamour; but it is contradictory, spasmodic, and inconstant, without any serious pretence, either of learning or science, to support it. Each of our prophets is in business for himself. There is no tinge of Erastianism about any of them. For the most part they are the grotesques and lions comiques of the world of letters, who prophesy standing on their heads, or grinning through horse-collars, and mistaking always "the twinkling of their own sophisticated minds for wisdom."
Alliance between a priesthood and a bureaucracy tends gradually to produce, as in the case of China, an oppressive uniformity—not unlike that aimed at by the more advanced socialists—where every fresh innovation is a restriction hampering the natural bent. On the other hand an alliance between a priesthood and a military caste—especially when the bureaucracy is ready to act in sympathy—is one of the commonest causes of international convulsions.
PRIESTS AND SOLDIERS
Oddly enough, the soldier, who affects to despise men of words and make-believes, and who on this account has an instinctive dislike and distrust of the lawyer—so violent indeed that it often puts him in the wrong, and leaves him at the mercy of the object of his contempt—is dangerously apt to become the tool of anything which bears a likeness to Peter the Hermit. It is not really the lawyer's confidence in the efficacy of words which revolts the soldier, nearly so much as the kind of words used, the temperament of him who uses them, and the character of the make-believes which it is sought to establish. The unworldliness, simplicity, idealism, and fervour of the priesthood make strong appeals to a military caste, which on the contrary is repelled by what it conceives to be the cynicism, opportunism, and self-seeking of lawyer statecraft.
More especially is it difficult for the military caste to resist the influence of the priesthood when, as in Germany of recent years, they have insisted upon giving the warrior the most important niche in their temple, and on burning incense before him day and night. Working industriously in their studies and laboratories they have found moral justification for every course, however repugnant to established ideas, which may conceivably make it easier to attain victory and conquest. The soldier might have scruples about doing this or that; but when he is assured by inspired intellectuals, that what would best serve his military ends is also the most moral course of action, how can he—being a man of simple mind—presume to doubt it; though he may occasionally shudder as he proceeds to put it into execution?
German thoroughness is an admirable quality, but even thoroughness may be carried to extremes which are absurd, or something worse.
No nation has a right to complain if another chooses to drill armies, build fleets, accumulate stores of treasure, weapons, and material; nor is it incumbent upon any nation to wear its heart upon its sleeve, or to let the whole world into its secrets, military or political. In so far as Germany has acted upon these principles she was well within her rights. As a result we have suffered heavily; but we must blame ourselves for being ill-prepared; we have no justification for complaining because Germany was well-prepared.
There are some kinds of preparation, however, which it does not seem possible to justify, if the world is to consist as heretofore of a large number of independent states, between whose citizens it is desirable to maintain a certain friendliness and freedom of intercourse. German activities in various directions, for many years before war broke out, make one wonder what state of things was contemplated by German statesmen, as likely to prevail when war should be over. What, for instance, is to be the status of Germans visiting or residing in other countries—seeking to trade with them—to borrow money from them—to interchange with them the civilities of ordinary life, or those more solemn courtesies which are practised by societies of learning and letters? Will the announcement civis Germanicus sum be enough henceforth to secure the stranger a warm welcome and respect? Or will such revelation of his origin be more likely to lead to his speedy re-embarkation for the land of his nativity?
GERMAN AGENCIES
Spying has always been practised since the beginning of time; but it has rarely been conducted in such a manner as to produce general uneasiness, or any sensible restraint upon private relations. Logically, it would be unfair to condemn recent German enterprises in this direction, seeing that she has only extended an accepted nuisance on to a much vaster scale. But here again logic is a misleading guide. There is something in the very scale of German espionage which has changed the nature of this institution. It has grown into a huge organised industry for the debauching of vain, weak, and greedy natures; for turning such men—for the most part without their being aware of it—into German agents. The result of Teutonic thoroughness in this instance is a domestic intrusion which is odious, as well as a national menace which cannot be disregarded. Many of these hostile agencies may surely be termed treacherous, seeing that they have aimed, under the guise of friendly intercourse, at forwarding schemes of invasion and conquest.
We are familiar enough with the vain purse-proud fellow, who on the strength of a few civil speeches from the Kaiser—breathing friendship and the love of peace—has thenceforward flattered himself that his mission in life was to eradicate suspicion of German intentions from the minds of his British fellow-countrymen. This is the unconscious type of agent, useful especially in sophisticated circles, and among our more advanced politicians of anti-militarist sympathies.
Then we have the naturalised, or unnaturalised, magnate of finance or industry, to whom business prosperity is the great reality of life, politics and patriotism being by comparison merely things of the illusory sort. It would cause him no very bitter anguish of heart to see England humiliated and her Empire dissolved, providing his own cosmopolitan undertakings continued to thrive undisturbed by horrid war. He, also, has very likely been the recipient of imperial suavities. In addition to this, however, he has been encouraged to imagine that he enjoys in a peculiar degree the confidence of the German Foreign Office. The difficulties which so shrewd a fellow must have in believing in the innocence of German intentions must be considerable at the outset; but they are worn away by the constant erosion of his private interests. Britain must not cross Germany:—that is his creed in a nutshell. This is the semi-conscious type of agent; and he carries great weight in business circles, and even sometimes in circles much higher than those frequented by the money-changers.
We may resent such influences as these, now that we have become more or less sensible of the effect which they have had during recent years in hindering our preparations for defence; but here we cannot fairly charge Germany with any breach of custom and tradition. We must blame ourselves for having given heed to their counsellors. But it is different when we come to such things as the wholesale corruption of the subjects of friendly nations—a network of careful intrigue for the promotion of rebellion—lavish subsidies and incitements for the purpose of fostering Indian unrest, Egyptian discontent, and South African treason—the supply of weapons and munitions of war on the shortest notice, and most favourable terms, to any one and every one who seems inclined to engage in civil war in Ireland or elsewhere.
GERMAN METHODS AT WORK
The whole of this procedure has been justified in advance and advocated in detail by Bernhardi and the priesthood. Belgium, France, Russia, and Britain are doubtless peculiarly alive to the iniquity of these practices, for the reason that their moral judgment has been sharpened by personal suffering. But they do not denounce the system solely because they themselves have been injured by it, but also because it seems to them to be totally at variance with all recent notions regarding the comity of nations. If we may use such an old-fashioned term, it appears to us to be wrong.
If methods such as these are henceforth to be practised by the world in general, must not all international communion become impossible, as much in time of peace as during a war? Indeed must not human existence itself become almost intolerable? Friendliness, hospitality, courtesies of every sort, between men and women of one country and those of another, must cease absolutely, if the world should become a convert to these German doctrines. Travel must cease; for no one likes to be stripped naked and searched at every frontier. Trade and financial operations must also be restricted, one would imagine, to such an extent that ultimately they will wither and die.
And if the world in general after the war is ended does not become a convert to these German doctrines of treacherous preparation, made in friendly territories during time of peace, what then will be its attitude towards Germany and the Germans; for they presumably have no intention of abandoning these practices? It is an unpleasant problem, but it will have to be faced sooner or later.
For obviously, although every sensible man believes, and many of us know by actual experience, that the instincts of Germans, in all private relations, are as loyal and honourable as those of most other races which inhabit the earth, no nation can afford any longer to have dealings with them on equal terms, if they have decided to allow their instincts to be used and abused, over-ridden and perverted, by a bureaucracy whose ideal is thoroughness, and by a priesthood which has invented a new system of morals to serve a particular set of ends. Not only the allied nations which are at present at war with Germany, but any country whose interests may conceivably, at any future time, come into conflict with those of that far-sighted empire, will be forced in self-defence to take due precautions. It is clear enough that more efficacious means than mere scraps of naturalisation paper will be needed to secure mankind against the abuse of its hospitality by Teutonic theorists.
THE GERMAN CREED
The whole of this strange system, those methods which, even after somewhat painful experience of their effects, we are still inclined in our less reflective moments to regard as utterly incredible—is it possible to summarise them in a few sentences? What are the accepted maxims, the orthodox formulas of Prussian statecraft?
Power, more power, world-power; these according to German theory, as well as practice, should be the dominant principles of the state.
When a nation desires territories belonging to its neighbours, let it take them, if it is strong enough. No further justification is needed than mere appetite for possession, and the strength to satisfy it.
War is in itself a good thing and not a bad. Like a purge, or a course of the waters of Aix, it should be taken, every half-century or so, by all nations which aim at preserving the vigour of their constitutions.
During the intervening periods the chief duty of the state is to prepare for war, so that when it comes, victory, and with it benefits of the material, as well as of the spiritual sort, may be secured.
No means which will help to secure victory are immoral, whether in the years preceding the outbreak of hostilities, or afterwards, when the war is in full course. If the state, aided by its men of science, could find any safe and secret means of sending a plague, as an advance guard, to ravage the enemy, where is the objection? The soul of a Prussian soldier might revolt against this form of warfare, but at what point would it conflict with the teachings of the priesthood? Nor can we imagine, were the thing possible, that the bureaucracy would allow itself to be hampered by any scruples.
As to the declaration of war, let it be made when the state is in a strong position and its prey in a weak one. This is the all-important consideration. The actual pretext is only a secondary matter, though worthy of attention for the effect it may have on the action of neutrals. And as war is a game of chance, it is wise and right to 'correct fortune,' so far as this can be accomplished during years of peace and under the cloak of amity, by the aid of spies, secret agents, accomplices, traitors, rebels, and what not besides.
The state which has evolved this system and laid down these rules, without the least attempt at secrecy or concealment, is the most efficient machine of the fighting and administrative kind at present existing in the world—perhaps which has ever existed in the world. But as you increase the size, power, and complexity of a machine there are obvious dangers unless you can also increase the calibre of the men who have to drive and direct it. This is a much more difficult problem than the other; and there is no evidence to show that it has been solved in the case of Germany. The more powerful the machine, the greater is apt to be the disaster if it is mishandled.
In history the blunders of bureaucracy are a by-word. They have been great and many, even when, as in Germany to-day, the bureaucracy is in the full vigour of its age, and in the first flower of uprightness; for a bureaucracy, in order to retain its efficiency, must remain incorruptible, and that is one of the hardest things to secure.
As for the priesthoods, if they are to be of any use, their faith must burn brightly. And the faith of a priesthood is very apt to burn itself out—very apt also to set fire to other things during the process; even to the edifice of popular virtue and the imperial purple itself, which things—unlike the Phoenix, the Salamander, and the Saint—are none the better or stronger for being burned.
We are constantly being told by high authorities that the moral objective of the present war is 'to put down militarism,' and 'abolish it' off the face of the earth. There are few of us who do not wish that this aim may be crowned with success; but militarism is a tough weed to kill, and something more than the mere mowing of it down by some outside scythesman will be necessary, one imagines, in order to get rid of it.
MAIN OBJECT OF THE WAR
The true moral objective of the war is something much more important than this. A blacker evil than militarism is that violation of private trust and public honour which is known as the Prussian System, and which has recently been 'marching through rapine, to the disintegration,' not of a single nation, or group of nations, but of the whole fabric of human society, including its own. It is an elaborate contrivance of extreme artificiality, a strange perversion of the nature of man. These are its inherent weaknesses; and fortunately, by reason of them, it is more vulnerable to hard blows than militarism which, with all its vices, and extravagancies, is rooted in instincts which are neither depraved nor ignoble.
Militarism might continue to thrive under adversity, and after the heaviest defeat, as it has done in times past; but the life of the Prussian System—that joint invention of the most efficient bureaucracy in the world, and of a priesthood whose industry can only be matched by its sycophancy and conceit—hangs upon the thread of success. Like the South Sea Bubble, or any of those other impostures of the financial sort, which have temporarily beguiled the confidence of mankind, it must collapse utterly under the shock of failure. It depends entirely on credit, and its powers of recuperation are nil. When its assets are disclosed, the characters of its promoters will be understood. The need, therefore, is to bring it at all costs to a complete demonstration of failure.
We have been urged by our own anti-militarists not to inflict suffering and humiliation on Germany. But this is not a matter of the slightest importance one way or the other. It has but little to do with the issue which it is our business to settle, if we have the good fortune to come out victorious from the present struggle. To set up the suffering and humiliation of Germany as the object of high policy would cover the Allies with contempt; but to shrink from such things, if they should happen to stand between the Allies and the utter moral bankruptcy of the Prussian System, would overwhelm them with a burden far heavier and more shameful than contempt.
CHAPTER VI
THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE
A German might fairly contend that British criticism of his moral ideas and political system is tainted throughout by ignorance and prejudice, and that all our talk of autocracy, bureaucracy, pedantocracy, military caste, and sham constitutionalism is merely an attempt to avoid the real issue by calling things, which we happen to dislike, by bad names. Political institutions, he might insist, must be judged by their fruits. If this test were applied, Germany in his opinion would have nothing to fear in any comparison.
"We Germans," writes a correspondent, the Freiherr von HexenkÜchen,[1] "are not inferior in intelligence or education to any other race. Had this been so, we could never have reached, in so short a period as four decades, the proud position which we now occupy in science, invention, manufacture, commerce, finance, and administration.[2] Consequently, if we are well content to live under the institutions we possess, this cannot be put down either to our want of enterprise or to the dulness of our understandings.
"Our people have already shown that they are willing to fight and die for these very institutions which you Englishmen affect to regard with so much contempt. Possibly your people are equally willing to fight and die for theirs. I do not deny this; but it is not yet proved; it remains to be proved.
"I do not assert that your people are inferior to mine in their readiness to fight and die when they are actually faced with a great national danger. But I do claim that mine are superior to yours in the constancy of their devotion to duty. For a hundred years past—not only in periods of stress and danger, which stirred the national imagination, but equally in times of peace and prosperity, which always tend to encourage the growth of comfort and the love of ease—each succeeding generation has been found willing to train itself in the use of arms, so as to be prepared, if occasion should arise, to defend the Fatherland.
"When the present war broke out was there a firmer loyalty or a more patriotic response to the call to arms among your people or among mine? Will your people fight and suffer more gladly for their 'democratic' ideals than mine will for their Kaiser and Fatherland? ... Surely, upon your own principles no comparison should be possible between the warmth of your devotion and the tepidity of ours.
"Is our system really so reactionary and mechanical as you imagine? In an age which has learned as its special lesson the advantages, in ordinary business affairs of life, of organisation, thoroughness, long views, reticence, and combined effort, guided by a strong central control, is it reaction, or is it progress, to aim at applying the same principles to the greatest, most complex, and infinitely most important of all businesses—that of government itself? Can a nation hope to survive which refuses, in the name of freedom, to submit to control in these respects, if it should be faced by competition with another, which has been wise enough to employ quiet experts instead of loquacious amateurs—any more than a cotton mill could escape bankruptcy were it managed on a system of party government?
"Our civil service, which you are pleased to describe as a Bureaucracy, is distinguished among all others existing at the present time, by the calibre of its members, by its efficiency and honesty, by its poverty, and not less by the honour in which it is held notwithstanding its poverty. You laugh at our love for calling men, and also their wives, by the titles of their various offices—Herr this and Frau that, from the humblest inspector of drains to the Imperial Chancellor himself! And no doubt there is a ludicrous side to this practice. But it marks at least one important thing—that membership of our civil service is regarded as conferring honour. So far, we have succeeded in maintaining public officials of all grades in higher popular respect than men who devote their lives to building up private fortunes, and also to those others who delight and excel in interminable debate.
"You are used to boast, and I daresay rightly of the personal honesty and pecuniary disinterestedness of your politicians; and you assume as a matter of course that your civil servants, with such high standards and examples ever before their eyes, are likewise incorruptible. We invert this order. With us the honour of our civil servants is the chief thing; we assume that our politicians must follow suit. They are probably as upright as your own, thanks partly to tradition, but also to the vigilance of their superiors, the professionals, who carry on the actual business of government. With you the fame of the showy amateur fills the mouths of the public. We, on the contrary, exalt the expert, the man who has been trained to the job he undertakes. In so doing we may be reactionaries and you may be progressives; but the progress of Germany since 1870—a progress in which we are everywhere either already in front of you, or else treading closely on your heels—does not seem to furnish you with a conclusive argument.
"As for what you call our Pedantocracy, meaning thereby our professors and men of letters, it is true that these exercise a great influence upon public opinion. We have always respected learning and thought. It is in the German nature so to do. I admit that our learned ones are rather too much inclined to imagine, that because they are students of theory, they are therefore qualified to engage in practice. They are apt to offer their advice and service officiously, and occasionally in a ridiculous manner. But, if my recollection of the English newspapers be correct, this is no more so with us than with you. There is apparently something in the professorial nature which impels men of this calling to the drafting of manifestoes and the signing of round-robins in times of excitement. They may be officious and absurd, but they are not wholly despicable, since they act thus quite as much from earnestness as from vanity. If our academicians on such occasions mislead more people than your own it is due to their virtues, to the greater zeal and success with which they have won the confidence of their former pupils.[3]
THE MILITARY CASTE
"You are fond of sneering at our Military Caste and attribute to it the most malign influence upon public affairs. But there again, believe me, you exaggerate. Our officers are undoubtedly held in great respect, even in some awe. And the reason is that they are known to be brave, and like those you call the bureaucracy, to have preferred comparative poverty in the public service to the pursuit of riches. To say that they have no influence upon policy would of course be absurd. It is inevitable that in the present state of the world, soldiers will always have great influence in certain departments of public affairs. This must be so in any country which is not plunged in dreams. For it is their business to guarantee national security, and to keep watch over the growth of military strength among the neighbours and rivals of Germany. If the general staff foresees dangers, and can give reasonable grounds for its anticipations, it is clear that the military view must carry weight with the Kaiser and his ministers. And surely there can be no question that this is right.
"The officers of the German Army are a caste, if you like to put it that way. But in every form of government under the sun, unless conceivably in some tiny oriental despotism, the predominance of a certain caste, or the competition between different castes, is absolutely essential to the working of the machinery.
"It is not regrettable in our opinion if a caste, which has considerable weight in public affairs, is a manly one, contemptuous of wealth and sophistry, ready always to risk its own life for the faith which is in it. The influence of a military caste may have its drawbacks; but at any rate it has kept the peace in Germany for not far short of half a century—kept it successfully until, as some people have thought, the professors acquired too large a share of power.
"Is it so certain, moreover, that the lawyer caste, the self-advertising caste, and the financial caste are not all of them a great deal worse, even a great deal more dangerous to peace? Is a country any more likely to be safe, happy, and prosperous under the rÉgime of a talking caste—of windbags resourcefully keeping their bellows full of air, and wheedling the most numerous with transparent falsehoods—than where civil servants of tried wisdom and experience are responsible for carrying on affairs of state, aided at their high task by sober military opinion?[4]
"As for our Kaiser, whom you regard as a crafty and ambitious tyrant, he appears in our view as the incarnation of patriotic duty, burdened though not overwhelmed by care—a lover of peace, so long as peace may be had with honour and safety; but if this may not be, then a stern, though reluctant, drawer of the sword. It is true that the Kaiser's government is in many important respects a purely personal government. His is the ultimate responsibility for high policy. He fulfils the function in our system of that strong central power, without which the most ingeniously constructed organisation is but impotence.
GERMAN SELF-KNOWLEDGE
"The German people are ahead of the English and the Americans in self-knowledge; for they realise that there are many things appertaining to government, which cannot be discussed in the newspapers, or on the platform, any more than the policy and conduct of a great business can be made known in advance to the staff, and to trade competitors all over the world. And so, believing the Kaiser's government to be honest, capable, and devoted to the public weal, the German people trust it without reservation to decide when action shall be taken in a variety of spheres.
"This system of ours which is founded in reason, and in experience of modern conditions, and which is upheld by the unfaltering confidence of a great people, you are wont to condemn as tyrannical and reactionary. But can democracy stand against it?—Democracy infirm of purpose, jealous, grudging, timid, changeable, unthorough, unready, without foresight, obscure in its aims, blundering along in an age of lucidity guided only by a faltering and confused instinct! Given anything like an equal contest, is it conceivable that such an undisciplined chaos can prevail against the Hohenzollern Empire?
"Of late your newspapers have been busily complaining of what they call 'German lies,' 'boastfulness,' and 'vulgar abuse.' They have taunted our government with not daring to trust the people. Our Headquarters bulletins have been vigorously taken to task by the Allies on these and other grounds.
"But all nations will acclaim their victories louder than they will trumpet their defeats. This is in human nature. No official communiquÉ will ever be a perfect mirror of truth. It will never give the whole picture, but only a part; and by giving only a part it will often mislead. Were we to believe literally what the various governments have hitherto given out as regards their respective advances, the Germans by this time might perhaps have been at Moscow in the East and somewhere about the Azores in the West. But by the same token the Russians should have been on the Rhine and the French and English Allies at Berlin.
"I read your newspapers, and I read our own. I do not think our journalists, though they do their best, can fairly claim to excel yours in the contest of boastfulness and vulgar abuse. And as regards the utterances of responsible public men in our two countries, can you really contend that we Germans are more open to the reproach of vainglorious and undignified speech than the British? Our Kaiser denies having used the words, so often attributed to him in your press, about 'General French's contemptible little army,' and in Germany we believe his denial. But even if he did in fact utter this expression, is it not quite as seemly and restrained as references to 'digging rats out of a hole'—as applied to our gallant navy—or to that later announcement from the same quarter which was recently addressed to the Mayor of Scarborough about 'baby-killers'? Such expressions are regrettable, no doubt, but not of the first importance. They are a matter of temperament. An ill-balanced, or even a very highly-strung nature, will be betrayed into blunders of this sort more readily than the phlegmatic person, or one whose upbringing has been in circles where self-control is the rule of manners.
TRUST IN THE PEOPLE
"But what puzzles us Germans perhaps more than any of your other charges against us is, when you say that our rulers do not trust the people as the British Government does.
"You accuse our War Office of publishing accounts of imaginary victories to revive our drooping confidence, and of concealing actual disasters lest our country should fall into a panic of despondency. There was surely nothing imaginary about the fall of LiÈge, Namur, Maubeuge, Laon, or La Fere. The engagements before Metz, at Mons, Charleroi, and Amiens, the battles of Lodz and Lyck, were not inconsiderable successes for German arms, or at the very least for German generalship. The victory of Tannenberg was among the greatest in history, reckoning in numbers alone. Our government made no secret of the German retirement—retreat if you prefer the term—from the Marne to the Aisne, or of that other falling back after the first attempt on Warsaw. Naturally they laid less emphasis on reverses than on conquests, but what government has ever acted otherwise? Certainly not the French, or the Russian, or your own. And what actual disasters have we concealed? In what respect, as regards the conduct of this war, have we, the German people, been trusted less than yours?
"I am especially interested, I confess, as a student of British politics, in this matter of 'trusting the people.' All your great writers have led me to believe that here lies the essential difference between your system and ours, and that the great superiority of yours to ours is demonstrated in the confidence which your statesmen never hesitate to place in the wisdom, fortitude, and patriotism of the people. Frankly, I do not understand it. Trust must surely have some esoteric meaning when applied to your populace which foreigners are unable to apprehend. I can discover no other sense in your phrase about 'trusting the people,' than that they are trusted not to find out their politicians. It certainly cannot be believed that you trust your people to hear the truth; for if so why has your government practised so rigorous an economy of this virtue, doling it out very much as we have lately been doing with our wheat and potatoes?
THE BRITISH PRESS BUREAU
"Has your government not concealed actual disaster—concealed it from their own people, though from no one else; for all the world was on the broad grin? Everybody knew of your misfortune save a certain large portion of the British public. The motive of your government could not have been to hide it away from the Germans, or the Austrians, or from neutrals, for the illustrated papers all over the globe, even in your own colonies, contained pictures reproduced from photographs of the occurrence. It was only possible to muzzle the press and blindfold the people of the United Kingdom, and these things your government did; acting no doubt very wisely.
"Again after the great German victory over the Russians at Tannenberg in September last, an official bulletin of simple and conspicuous candour was published at Petrograd which confirmed in most of the . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Why did your Press Bureau during the heavy fighting from the middle of October to the middle of November persist in maintaining that 'the British are still gaining ground.' The British resistance from the beginning to the end of the four weeks' battle round Ypres is not likely to be forgotten by our German soldiers, still less to be belittled by them. It was surely a great enough feat of arms to bear the light of truth. But. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"But is the same true of the British people? Can they be trusted to bear the light of truth?
"You cannot wonder if we Germans, and for that matter the whole world, have drawn certain conclusions from these and other incidents. We do not doubt that your ministers have acted wisely in suppressing bad tidings; but why should they have taken all those pains and endured the derision, while incurring the distrust, of foreign countries—a material injury, mind you, and not merely a sentimental one—unless they had known, only too well, that publication of this or that piece of news would have too painfully affected the nerves of your people? Concealment of checks, reverses, and disasters which had not already become known to the Austrians and ourselves might have served a useful military purpose; but what purpose except that of a sedative for British public opinion could be served by the concealment of such matters when we, your enemies, knew them already? Have you ever thought of asking your American friends in what order they would place the candour of the official communications which emanate from Berlin, Petrograd, Paris, and London?
"Shortly before Christmas one of your legal ministers, who, I understand, is specially responsible for looking after the Press Bureau, explained to the House of Commons the principles by which he had been guided in the suppression of news and comment. He should refuse, he said, to publish any criticism which might tend to disturb popular confidence in the Government, or which might cause the people of England to think that their affairs were in a really serious state. On practical grounds there is no doubt something to be said for such a policy; but (will you tell me?) has any autocratic government ever laid down a more drastic rule for blindfolding the people in order to preserve its own existence?[5]
BRITISH PATRIOTISM
"Pondering upon these things, I scratch my head and marvel what you can possibly have had in yours, when you used to assure us that the surpassing merit of the English political system was that it trusted the people, the inherent weakness of ours, the Austrian, and the Russian that they did not.
"Your Prime Minister, speaking in the early autumn, thus adjured the men of Wales:—'Be worthy of those who went before you, and leave to your children the richest of all inheritances, the memory of fathers who, in a great cause, put self-sacrifice before ease, and honour above life itself.' These are noble words, of Periclean grandeur. But have they met with a general response? Are these sentiments prevalent outside government circles, among those—the bulk of your people—who do not come under the direct influence of ministerial inspiration and example? If so, why then have your rulers not screwed up their courage to call for national service? Why do they still continue to depend for their recruits upon sensational advertisements, newspaper puffs, oratorical entreaties, and private influence of a singularly irregular sort?
"Is not this the reason?—Your government is afraid—even in this great struggle, where (as they put it) your future existence as a nation is at stake—that the English people—or at any rate so large a proportion of them, as if rendered uncomfortable could create a political disturbance—is not even yet prepared to make the necessary sacrifices. And so, to the amazement of us Germans, you let the older men, with families dependent on them, go forth to the war, urged on by a high sense of duty, while hundreds of thousands of young unmarried men are still allowed to stay at home.
COMPARISON OF RECRUITING
"You are still, it would appear, enamoured of your voluntary system. You have not yet abandoned your belief that it is the duty of the man, who possesses a sense of duty, to protect the skin, family, and property of the man who does not. To us this seems a topsy-turvy creed, and not more topsy-turvy than contemptible. In Germany and France—where for generations past the doctrine of private sacrifice for the public weal is ingrained, and has been approved in principle and applied in practice with unfaltering devotion—a 'voluntary' system might conceivably have some chance of providing such an army as you are in search of. But to the United Kingdom surely it is singularly inapplicable? Let me illustrate my meaning by a comparison.
"Our Kaiser in his New Year's message—which in Germany we all read with enthusiasm, and considered very noble and appropriate—summed up the military situation by saying that after five months' hard and hot fighting the war was still being waged almost everywhere off German soil, and on the enemies' territories. And he summed up the domestic situation by saying (and this, believe me, is true) that our nation stands in unexampled harmony, prepared to sacrifice its heart's blood for the defence of the Fatherland. Another three months have passed away, and these statements still hold good.
"The point to which I chiefly wish to call your attention is one of numbers, and I will take my estimates of numbers from your own most famous newspaper experts.
"Your claim, as I understand it, is that on New Year's Day 1915 you had—exclusive of Indian troops and Dominion contingents—between 2,000,000 and 2,500,000 men training and in the field.
"Germany alone (here again I quote your English experts), without reckoning Austria, has actually put into the field during the past five months 5,000,000 men. Of these it is stated by your newspapers that she has lost in round figures 1,500,000, who have either been killed, or taken prisoners, or are too severely wounded to return as yet to the fighting line. But in spite of this depletion, your military statisticians tell us that Germany and her ally, at New Year's Day, still outnumbered the Allies on both the Eastern and the Western frontier.
"The same high authorities tell us further, that during this period of five months, the German Government has called upon the civil population, has appealed to able-bodied men who had previously been exempt from military service, and that by this means it has obtained, and has been engaged in training, arming, and equipping another 4,000,000 or 4,500,000 who, it is anticipated, will become available for war purposes in new formations, during the spring and summer of the present year.
"Our Government, therefore, according to your own account, has not been afraid to ask the civil population to serve, and this is the response. Does it look as if the national spirit had been quenched under our autocratic system?
"Out of our whole population of sixty-five millions we have apparently raised for military service on land and naval service at sea, between 9,000,000 and 11,000,000 men since this war began. Out of your whole population of forty-five millions you have succeeded in raising for these same purposes only something between 2,000,000 and 2,500,000 men. And in your case, be it observed, in order to attract recruits, you have offered good wages and munificent separation allowances; while in our case men serve without pay.
"This numerical comparison is worth carrying a stage further. Germany and her ally have between them a total population of 115,000,000. The United Kingdom (including the people of European stock who inhabit the various Dominions), France, Russia, Belgium, Servia, and Montenegro number in round figures about 280,000,000. Roughly speaking, these are odds of seven to three against us. And I am leaving out of account all the non-European races—the Turks on the one side, the Japanese and the Indians on the other. If these were included the odds would be much heavier.
"And yet our Kaiser spoke but the simple truth, when he told us on New Year's Day that, after five months of war, the German armies were almost everywhere on the territories of their enemies. We are not only keeping you back and defying all your efforts to invade us; but like the infant Hercules, we have gripped you by your throats, and were holding you out at arm's length!
METHODS OF RECRUITING
"I do not of course pretend to look at this matter except from the German standpoint; but is there any flaw in my reasoning, is there anything at all unfair, if I thus sum up my conclusions?—By Midsummer next—after stupendous efforts of the oratorical and journalistic kind—after an enormous amount of shouting, music-hall singing, cinema films, and showy advertising of every description—after making great play with the name and features of a popular field-marshal, in a manner which must have shocked both his natural modesty and soldierly pride—after all this you expect, or say you expect, that you will possess between two and two-and-a-half millions of men trained, armed, equipped, and ready to take the field.
"As against this, during the same period, and out of the less military half of our male population, without any shouting or advertising to speak of, we shall have provided approximately double that number. We have raised these new forces quietly, without any fuss, and without a word of protest from any of our people. We are training them without any serious difficulty. We are arming them, equipping them, clothing them, and housing them without any difficulty at all.
"To conclude this interesting contrast, may I ask you—is it true, as the French newspapers allege, that you are about to invite, or have already invited, your Japanese Allies to send some portion of their Army to European battlefields? With what face can you make this appeal when you have not yet called upon your own people to do, what every other people engaged in the present struggle, has already done?
"After you have pondered upon this strange and startling contrast, will you still hold to the opinion that the German system—which you have affected to despise, on the ground that it does not rest upon what you are pleased to term 'a popular basis'—is at any point inferior to your own in its hold upon the hearts of the people?
"What is meant by the phrase—'a popular basis'? Is it something different from the support of the people, the will of the people, the devotion of the people? And if it is different, is it better—judging, that is, by its results in times of trouble—or is it worse?"
So the cultured Freiherr, watching democracy at work in Britain, its ancient home, concludes with this question—"Is this timid, jealous, and distracted thing possessed of any real faith in itself; and if so, will it fight for its faith to the bitter end? Is the British system one which even the utmost faith in it can succeed in propping up? Does it possess any inherent strength; or is it merely a thing of paste-board and make-believe, fore-ordained to perish?"
CHAPTER VII
THE CONFLICT OF SYSTEMS AND IDEAS
The Freiherr's discourse raises a large number of questions, some of them unarguable. Others again are too much so; for if once started upon, argument with regard to them need never end. Some of his contentions have already been dealt with in previous chapters; some on the other hand, such as the British methods of recruiting, will be considered later on. It must, however, be admitted that his taunts and criticisms do not all rebound with blunted points from our shield of self-complacency; some, if only a few, get home and rankle.
We are challenged to contrast our faith in our own political institutions with that of the Germans in theirs; also to measure the intrinsic strength of that form of political organisation called 'democracy' against that other form which is known as 'autocracy.'
The German state is the most highly developed and efficient type of personal monarchy at present known to the world. Its triumphs in certain directions have been apparent from the beginning. It would be sheer waste of time to dispute the fact that Germany was incomparably better prepared, organised, and educated for this war—the purpose of which was the spoliation of her neighbours—than any of her neighbours were for offering resistance.
But what the Freiherr does not touch upon at all is the conflict between certain underlying ideas of right and wrong—old ideas, which are held by Russia, France, and ourselves, and which now find themselves confronted by new and strange ideas which have been exceedingly prevalent among the governing classes in Germany for many years past. He does not raise this issue, any more than his fellow-countrymen now raise it either in America or at home. It is true that there was a flamboyant outburst from a few faithful Treitschkians and Nietzschians, both in prose and poetry, during those weeks of August and September which teemed with German successes; but their voices soon sank below audibility—possibly by order verboten—in a swiftly dying fall. We, however, cannot agree to let this aspect of the matter drop, merely because patriotic Germans happen to have concluded that the present time is inopportune for the discussion of it.
There are two clear and separate issues. From the point of view of posterity the more important of these, perhaps, may prove to be this conflict in the region of moral ideas. From the point of view of the present generation, however, the chief matter of practical interest is the result of a struggle for the preservation of our own institutions, against the aggression of a race which has not yet learned the last and hardest lesson of civilisation—how to live and let live.
DEMOCRACY
The present war may result in the bankruptcy of the Habsburg and Hohenzollern dynasties. It is very desirable, however, to make clear the fact that the alternative is the bankruptcy of 'democracy.' Our institutions are now being subjected to a severer strain than they have ever yet experienced. Popular government is standing its trial. It will be judged by the result; and no one can say that this is an unfair test to apply to human institutions.
No nation, unless it be utterly mad, will retain a form of government which from some inherent defect is unable to protect itself against external attack. Is democratic government capable of looking ahead, making adequate and timely preparation, calling for and obtaining from its people the sacrifices which are necessary in order to preserve their own existence? Can it recover ground which has been lost, and maintain a long, costly, and arduous struggle, until, by victory, it has placed national security beyond the reach of danger?
Defeat in the present war would shake popular institutions to their foundations in England as well as France; possibly also in regions which are more remote than either of these. But something far short of defeat—anything indeed in the nature of a drawn game or stalemate—would assuredly bring the credit of democracy so low that it would be driven to make some composition with its creditors.
Words, like other currencies, have a way of changing their values as the world grows older. Until comparatively recent times 'democracy' was a term of contempt, as 'demagogue' still is to-day.
The founders of American Union abhorred 'Democracy,'[1] and took every precaution which occurred to them in order to ward it off. Their aim was 'Popular,' or 'Representative Government'—a thing which they conceived to lie almost at the opposite pole. Their ideal was a state, the citizens of which chose their leaders at stated intervals, and trusted them. Democracy, as it appeared in their eyes, was a political chaos where the people chose its servants, and expected from them only servility. There was an ever-present danger, calling for stringent safeguards, that the first, which they esteemed the best of all constitutional arrangements, would degenerate into the second, which they judged to be the worst.
Until times not so very remote it was only the enemies of Representative Government, or its most cringing flatterers, who spoke of it by the title of Democracy. Gradually, however, in the looseness of popular discussions, the sharpness of the original distinction wore off, so that the ideal system and its opposite—the good and the evil—are now confounded together under one name. There is no use fighting against current terminology; but it is well to bear in mind that terminology has no power to alter facts, and that the difference between the two principles still remains as wide as it was at the beginning.
When a people becomes so self-complacent that it mistakes its own ignorance for omniscience—so jealous of authority and impatient of contradiction that it refuses to invest with more than a mere shadow of power those whose business it is to govern—when the stock of leadership gives out, or remains hidden and undiscovered under a litter of showy refuse—when those who succeed in pushing themselves to the front are chiefly concerned not to lead, but merely to act the parts of leaders 'in silver slippers and amid applause'—when the chiefs of parties are so fearful of unpopularity that they will not assert their own opinions, or utter timely warnings, or proclaim what they know to be the truth—when such things as these come to pass the nation has reached that state which was dreaded by the framers of the American Constitution, and which—intending to warn mankind against it—they branded as 'Democracy.'
DANGERS OF SELF-CRITICISM
Self-criticism makes for health in a people; but it may be overdone. If it purges the national spirit it is good; but if it should lead to pessimism, or to some impatient breach with tradition, it is one of the worst evils. One is conscious of a somewhat dangerous tendency in certain quarters at the present time to assume the worst with regard to the working of our own institutions.
Critics of this school have pointed out (what is undoubtedly true) that Germany has been far ahead of us in her preparations. Every month since war began has furnished fresh evidence of the far-sightedness, resourcefulness, thoroughness, and efficiency of all her military arrangements. Her commercial and financial resources have also been husbanded, and organised in a manner which excites our unwilling admiration. And what perhaps has been the rudest shock of all, is the apparent unity and devotion of the whole German people, in support of a war which, without exaggeration, may be said to have cast the shadow of death on every German home.
These critics further insist that our own nation has not shown itself more loyal, and that it did not rouse itself to the emergency with anything approaching the same swiftness. Timidity and a wilful self-deception, they say, have marked our policy for years before this war broke out. They marked it again when the crisis came upon us. Have they not marked it ever since war began? And who can have confidence that they will not continue to mark it until the end, whatever the end may be?
The conclusion therefore at which our more despondent spirits have arrived, is that the representative system has already failed us—that it has suffered that very degradation which liberal minds of the eighteenth century feared so much. How can democracy in the bad sense—democracy which has become decadent—which is concerned mainly with its rights instead of with its duties—with its comforts more than with the sacrifices which are essential to its own preservation—how can such a system make head against an efficient monarchy sustained by the enthusiastic devotion of a vigorous and intelligent people?
It does not seem altogether wise to despair of one's own institutions at the first check. Even democracy, in the best sense, is not a flawless thing. Of all forms of government it is the most delicate, more dependent than any other upon the supply of leaders. There are times of dearth when the crop of leadership is a short one. Nor are popular institutions, any more than our own vile bodies, exempt from disease. Disease, however, is not necessarily fatal. The patient may recover, and in the bracing air of a national crisis, such as the present, conditions are favourable for a cure.
And, after all, we may remind these critics that in 1792 democracy did in fact make head pretty successfully against monarchy. Though it was miserably unprovided, untrained, inferior to its enemies in everything save spirit and leadership, the states of Europe nevertheless—all but England—went down before it, in the years which followed, like a row of ninepins. Then as now, England, guarded by seas and sea-power, had a breathing-space allowed her, in which to adjust the spirit of her people to the new conditions. That Germany will not conquer us with her arms we may well feel confident. But unless we conquer her with our arms—and this is a much longer step—there is a considerable danger that she may yet conquer us with her ideas. In that case the world will be thrown back several hundred years; and the blame for this disaster, should it occur, will be laid—and laid rightly—at the door of Democracy, because it vaunted a system which it had neither the fortitude nor the strength to uphold.
IRRECONCILABLE OPPOSITIONS
When we pass from the conflict between systems of government, and come to the other conflict of ideas as to right and wrong, we find ourselves faced with an antagonism which is wholly incapable of accommodation. In this war the stakes are something more than any of the material interests involved. It is a conflict where one faith is pitted against another. No casuistry will reconcile the ideal which inspires English policy with the ideal which inspires German policy. There is no sense—nothing indeed but danger—in arguing round the circle to prove that the rulers of these two nations are victims of some frightful misunderstanding, and that really at the bottom of their hearts they believe the same things. This is entirely untrue: they believe quite different things; things indeed which are as nearly as possible opposites.
Our own belief is old, ingrained, and universal. It is accepted equally by the people and their rulers. We have held it so long that the articles of our creed have become somewhat blurred in outline—overgrown, like a memorial tablet, by moss and lichen.
In the case of our enemy the tablet is new and the inscription sharp. He who runs may read it in bold clear-cut lettering. But the belief of the German people in the doctrine which has been carved upon the stone is not yet universal, or anything like universal. It is not even general. It is fully understood and accepted only in certain strata of society; but it is responsible, without a doubt, for the making in cold blood of the policy which has led to this war. When the hour struck which the German rulers deemed favourable for conquest, war, according to their creed, became the duty as well as the interest of the Fatherland.
But so soon as war had been declared, the German people were allowed and even encouraged to believe that the making of war from motives of self-interest was a crime against humanity—the Sin against the Holy Ghost. They were allowed and encouraged to believe that the Allies were guilty of this crime and sin. And not only this, but war itself, which had been hymned in so many professorial rhapsodies, as a noble and splendid restorer of vigour and virtue, was now execrated with wailing and gnashing of teeth, as the most hideous of all human calamities.
It is clear from all this that the greater part of the German people regarded war in exactly the same light as the whole of the English people did. In itself it was a curse; and the man who deliberately contrived it for his own ends, or even for those of his country, was a criminal. The German people applied the same tests as we did, and it is not possible to doubt that in so doing they were perfectly sincere. They acted upon instinct. They had not learned the later doctrines of the pedantocracy, or how to steer by a new magnetic pole. They still held by the old Christian rules as to duties which exist between neighbours. To their simple old-fashioned loyalty what their Kaiser said must be the truth. And what their Kaiser said was that the Fatherland was attacked by treacherous foes. That was enough to banish all doubts. For the common people that was the reality and the only reality. Phrases about world-power and will-to-power—supposing they had ever heard or noticed them—were only mouthfuls of strange words, such as preachers of all kinds love to chew in the intervals of their discourses.
APOSTASY OF THE PRIESTHOOD
When the priests and prophets found themselves at last confronted by those very horrors which they had so often invoked, did their new-found faith desert them, or was it only that their tongues, for some reason, refused to speak the old jargon? Judging by their high-flown indignation against the Allies it would rather seem as if, in the day of wrath, they had hastily abandoned sophistication for the pious memories of their unlettered childhood. Their apostasy was too well done to have been hypocrisy.
With the rulers it was different. They knew clearly enough what they had done, what they were doing, and what they meant to do. When they remained sympathetically silent, amid the popular babble about the horrors of war and iniquity of peace-breakers, their tongues were not paralysed by remorse—they were merely in their cheeks. Their sole concern was to humour public opinion, the results of whose disapproval they feared, quite as much as they despised its judgment.
That war draws out and gives scope to some of the noblest human qualities, which in peace-time are apt to be hidden out of sight, no one will deny. That it is a great getter-rid of words and phrases, which have no real meaning behind them—that it is a great winnower of true men from shams, of staunch men from boasters and blowers of their own trumpets—that it is a great binder-together of classes, a great purifier of the hearts of nations, there is no need to dispute. Occasionally, though very rarely, it has proved itself to be a great destroyer of misunderstanding between the combatants themselves.
But although the whole of this is true, it does not lighten the guilt of the deliberate peace-breaker. Many of the same benefits, though in a lesser degree, arise out of a pestilence, a famine, or any other great national calamity; and it is the acknowledged duty of man to strive to the uttermost against these and to ward them off with all his strength. It is the same with war. To argue, as German intellectuals have done of late, that in order to expand their territories they were justified in scattering infection and deliberately inviting this plague, that the plague itself was a thing greatly for the advantage of the moral sanitation of the world—all this is merely the casuistry of a priesthood whom the vanity of rubbing elbows with men of action has beguiled of their salvation.
THE ARROGANCE OF PEDANTS
Somewhere in one of his essays Emerson introduces an interlocutor whom he salutes as 'little Sir.' One feels tempted to personify the whole corporation of German pedants under the same title. When they talk so vehemently and pompously about the duty of deliberate war-making for the expansion of the Fatherland, for the fulfilment of the theory of evolution, even for the glory of God on high, our minds are filled with wonder and a kind of pity.
Have they ever seen war except in their dreams, or a countryside in devastation? Have they ever looked with their own eyes on shattered limbs, or faces defaced, of which cases, and the like, there are already some hundreds of thousands in the hospitals of Europe, and may be some millions before this war is ended? Have they ever reckoned—except in columns of numerals without human meaning—how many more hundreds of thousands, in the flower of their age, have died and will die, or—more to be pitied—will linger on maimed and impotent when the war is ended? Have they realised any of these things, except in diagrams, and curves, and statistical tables, dealing with the matter—as they would say themselves, in their own dull and dry fashion—'under its broader aspects'—in terms, that is, of population, food-supply, and economic output?
Death, and suffering of many sorts occur in all wars—even in the most humane war. And this is not a humane war which the pedants have let loose upon us. Indeed, they have taught with some emphasis that humanity, under such conditions, is altogether a mistake.
"Sentimentality!" cries the 'little Sir' impatiently, "sickly sentimentality! In a world of men such things must be. God has ordained war."
Possibly. But what one feels is that the making of war is the Lord's own business and not the 'little Sir's.' It is the Lord's, as vengeance is, and earthquakes, floods, and droughts; not an office to be undertaken by mortals.
The 'little Sir,' however, has devised a new order for the world, and apparently he will never rest satisfied until Heaven itself conforms to his initiative. He is audacious, for like the Titans he has challenged Zeus. But at times we are inclined to wonder—is he not perhaps trying too much? Is he not in fact engaged in an attempt to outflank Providence, whose pivot is infinity? And for this he is relying solely upon the resources of his own active little finite mind. He presses his attack most gallantly against human nature—back and forwards, up and down—but opposing all his efforts is there not a screen of adamantine crystal which cannot be pierced, of interminable superficies which cannot be circumvented? Is he not in some ways like a wasp, which beats itself angrily against a pane of glass?
