The ultimate arbitrament—The diplomatist’s status—The causes in the aims and ideals of the peoples—Europe’s economic relation to the rest of the world—The economic cause—“Biological necessity”—England’s position—Her complacency—The “German Wedge”—The German system—Modern efficiency methods—“A machine civil world”—The Kaiser’s mission—A German the world over—Germany’s plans and ambitions—Her war spirit—Activities in Italy—The Austrian situation—The Slav-Teuton racial hatred—France, a nation with a closed-in culture—The Kaiser’s “peace”—The Germanic “isolation.”

Who started it? Who is to blame? The courts decide the point when there is a quarrel between Smith and Jones; and it is the ethics of simple justice that no friend of Smith or Jones should act as judge. When the quarrel is between nations, the neutral world turns to the diplomatic correspondence which preceded the breaking-off of relations; and only one who is a neutral can hope to weigh impartially the evidence on both sides. For war is the highest degree of partisanship. Every one engaged is a special pleader.

I, too, have read the White and Blue and Yellow and Green Papers. Others have analysed them in detail; I shall not attempt it. One learned less from their dignified phraseology than from the human motives that he read between the lines. Each was aiming to make out the best case for its own side; aiming to put the heart of justice into the blows of its arms. Obviously, the diplomatist is an attorney for a client. Incidentally, the whole training of his profession is to try to prevent war. He does try to prevent it; so does every right-minded man. It is a horror and a scourge, to be avoided as you would avoid leprosy. When it does come, the diplomatist’s business is to place all the blame for it with the enemy.

One must go many years back of the dates of the State papers to find the cause of the Great War. He must go into the hearts of the people who are fighting, into their aims and ambitions, which diplomatists make plausible according to international law. More illumining than the pamphlets embracing an exchange of despatches was the remark of a practical German: “Von Bethmann-Hollweg made a slip when he talked of a treaty as a scrap of paper and about hacking his way through. That had a bad effect.”

Equally pointed was the remark of a practical Briton: “It was a good thing that the Germans violated the neutrality of Belgium; otherwise, we might not have gone in, which would have been fatal for us. If Germany had crushed France and kept the Channel ports, the next step would have been a war in which we should have had to deal with her single-handed.”

I would rather catch the drift of a nation’s purpose from the talk of statesmen in the lobby or in the club than from their official pronouncements. Von Bethmann-Hollweg had said in public what was universally accepted in private. He had let the cat out of the bag. England’s desire to preserve the neutrality of Belgium was not altogether ethical. If Belgium’s coast had been on the Adriatic rather than on the British Channel, her wrongs would not have had the support of British arms. Great moral causes were at stake in the Great War; but they are inextricably mixed with cool, national self-interest and racial hatreds, which are also dictated by self-interest, though not always by the interests of the human race. One who sees the struggle of Europe as a spectator, with no hatred in his heart except of war itself, finds prejudice and efficiency, folly and merciless logic, running in company. He would return to the simplest principles, human principles, to avoid confusion in his own mind. Not of Europe, he studies Europe; he wonders at Europe.

On a map of the world twice the size of a foolscap page, the little finger’s end will cover the area of the struggle. Europe is a very small section of the earth’s surface, indeed. Yet at the thought of a great European war, all the other peoples drew their breath aghast. When the catastrophe came, all were affected in their most intimate relations, in their income, and in their intellectual life. Rare was the mortal who did not find himself taking sides in what would have seemed to an astronomer on Mars as a local terrestrial upheaval.

From Europe have gone forth the waves of vigour and enterprise which have had the greatest influence on the rest of the world, in much the same way that they went forth from Rome over the then known world. The war in this respect was like the great Roman civil war. The dominating power of our civilisation was at war with itself. Draw a circle around England, Scandinavia, the Germanic countries, and France, and you have the hub from which the spokes radiate to the immense wheel-rim. It is a region which cannot feed its mouths from its own soil, though it could amply a little more than a century ago in the Napoleonic struggle. In a sense, then, it is a physical parasite on the rest of the world; a parasite which, however, has given its intellectual energy in return for food for its body.

This war had for its object the delivery of no people from bondage, except the Belgians after the war had begun; it had no religious purpose such as the Crusades; it was not the uprising of democracy like the French Revolution. Those who charged the machine guns and the wives and mothers who urged them on were unconscious of the real force disguised by their patriotic fervour. Ask a man to die for money and he refuses. Ask him to die in order that he may have more butter on his bread and he refuses. This is putting the cause of war too bluntly. It is insulting to courage and to self-sacrifice, assessing them as something set on a counter for sale. For nations do not know why they fight, as a rule. Processes of evolution and chains of events arouse their patriotic ardour and their martial instinct till the climax comes in blows.

The cause of the European war is economic; and, by the same token, Europe kept the peace for forty years for economic reasons. She was busy skimming the cream of the resources of other countries. Hers was the capital, the skill, the energy, the morale, the culture, for exploiting the others. All modern invention originated with her or with the offspring of her races beyond seas. Steamers brought her raw material, which she sent back in manufactures; they took forth, in place of the buccaneers of former days seeking gold, her financiers, engineers, salesmen, and teachers, who returned with tribute or sent back the interest on the capital they had applied to enterprise. She looked down on the rest of the world with something of the Roman patrician feeling of superiority to outsiders.

But also the medical scientist kept pace with other scientists and with invention. Sanitation and the preservation of life led to an amazing rapidity of increase in population. There were more mouths to feed and more people who must have work and share the tribute. Without the increase of population it is possible that we should not have had war. Biological necessity played its part in bringing on the struggle, along with economic pressure. The richest veins of the mines of other lands, the most accessible wood of the forests, were taken, and a higher rate of living all over Europe increased the demand of the numbers.

Most fortunate of all the European peoples were the British. Most significant in this material progress was the part of Germany. England had a narrow stretch of salt water between her and the other nations. They could fight one another by crossing a land frontier; to fight her, they must cross in ships. She had the advantage of being of Europe and yet separated from Europe. All the seas were the secure pathway for her trade, guaranteed for a century by the victory of Trafalgar. By war she had won her sea power; by war she was the mistress of many colonies. Germany’s increasing mercantile marine had to travel from a narrow sea front through the channel called British. Rich was England’s heritage beyond her own realisation. Hers the accumulated capital; hers the field of resources under her own flag to exploit.

But she had done more. Through a century’s experience she had learned the strength of moderation. What she had won by war she was holding by wisdom. If some one must guard the seas, if some one must have dominion over brown and yellow races, she was well fitted for the task. Wherever she had dominion, whether Bombay or Hongkong, there was freedom in trade and in development for all men. We who have travelled recognise this.

When the war began, South Africa had no British regular garrisons, but the Boers, a people who had lost their nation in war with her fifteen years before, took up arms under her flag to invade a German colony. India without a parliament, India ruled by English governors, sent her troops to fight in France. In place of sedition, loyalty from a brave and hardy white people of another race and from hundreds of millions of brown men! Such power is not gained by war, but by the policy of fair play; of live and let live. Measurably, she held in trust those distant lands for the other progressive nations; she was the policeman of wide domains. Certainly no neutral, at least no American, envied her the task. Certainly no neutral, for selfish reasons if for no other, would want to risk chaos throughout the world by the transfer of that power to another nation.

England was satiated, as Admiral Mahan said. She had gained all that she cared to hold. It is not too much to say that, of late years, colonies might come begging to her doorstep and be refused. Those who held her wealth were complacent as well as satiated—which was her danger. For complacency goes with satiation. But she, too, was suffering from having skimmed the cream, for want of mines and concessions as rich as those which had filled her coffers, and from the demand of the increased population become used to a higher rate of living. Her vast, accumulated wealth in investments the world over was in relatively few hands. In no great European country, perhaps, was wealth more unevenly distributed. Her old age pensions and many social reforms of recent years arose from a restlessness, locally intensified but not alone of local origin.

Another flag was appearing too frequently in her channel. A wedge was being forced into her complacency. A competitor who worked twelve hours a day, while complacency preferred eight or ten, met the Englishman at every turn. A navy was growing in the Baltic; taxes pressed heavily on complacency to keep up a navy stronger than the young rival’s. Who really was to blame for the clerks’ pay being kept down, while the cost of living went up? That cheap-living German clerk! What capitalist was pressing the English capitalist? The German! The newspapers were always hinting at the German danger. Certain interests in England, as in any other country, were glad to find a scapegoat. Why should Germany want colonies when England ruled her colonies so well? Germany—always Germany, whatever way you looked, Germany with her seventy millions, aggressive, enterprising, industrious, organised! The pressure of the wedge kept increasing. Something must break.

Does any one doubt that if Germany had been in England’s place she would have struck the rival in the egg? But that is not the way of complacency. Nor is it the way of that wisdom of moderation, that live and let live, which has kept the British Empire intact.

Germany wanted room for her wedge. In Central Europe, with foes on either side, she had to hold two land frontiers before she could start her sea wedge. She was the more readily convinced that England had won all she held by war because modern Germany was the product of war. By war Prussia won Schleswig-Holstein; by war Germany won Alsace-Lorraine, and welded the Germanic peoples into a whole. It was only natural that the German public should be loyal to the system that had fathered German success.

Thus, England reveres its Wellingtons, Nelsons, Pitts, and maintains the traditions of the regiments which fought for her. Thus, we are loyal to the Constitution of the United States, because it was drafted by the forefathers who made the nation. If it had been drafted in the thirties we should think it more fallible. It is the nature of individuals, of business concerns, of nations, to hold with the methods that laid the foundations of success till some cataclysm shows that they are wrong or antiquated. This reckoning may be sudden loss of his position in a crisis for the individual, bankruptcy for the business concern, war for the nation. One sticks to the doctor who cured him when he was young and perhaps goes to an early grave because that doctor has grown out of date.

The old Kaiser, Bismarck, and von Moltke laid the basis of the German system. It was industry, unity, and obedience to superiors, from bottom to top. Under it, if not because of it, Germany became a mighty national entity. Another Kaiser, who had the merit of making the most of his inheritance, with other generals and leaders, brought modern methods to the service of the successful system. A new, up-to-date doctor succeeded the old, with the inherited authority of the old.

That aristocratic, exclusive German officer, staring at you, elbowing you if you did not give him right of way in the street, seemed to express insufferable caste to the outsider. But he was a part of the system which had won; and he worked longer hours than the officers of other European armies. Seeming to enjoy enormous privileges, he was really a circumscribed being, subject to all the rigid discipline that he demanded of others, bred and fashioned for war. Wherever I have met foreign military attachÉs observing other wars, the German was the busiest one, the most persistent and resourceful after information; and he was not acting on his own initiative, but under careful instructions of a staff who knew exactly what it wanted to know. “Germany shall be first!” was his motto; “Germany shall be first!” the motto of all Germans.

In the same way that von Moltke constructed his machine army, the Germany of the young Kaiser set out to construct a machine civil world. He had a public which was ready to be moulded, because plasticity to the master’s hand had beaten France. Drill, application, and discipline had done the trick for von Moltke—these and leadership. The new method was economic education plus drill, application, and discipline.

It is not for me to describe the industrial beehive of modern Germany. The world knows it well. The Kaiser, who led, worked as hard as the humblest of his subjects. From the top came the impetus which the leaders passed on. Germany looked for worlds to conquer; England had conquered hers. The energy of increasing population overflowed from the boundaries, pushing that wedge closer home to an England growing more irritably apprehensive.

Wherever the traveller went he found Germans, whether waiters, or capitalists, or salesmen, learning the language of the country where they lived, making place for themselves by their industry. Germany was struggling for room, and the birth rate was increasing the excess of population. The business of German nationalism was to keep them all in Germany and mould them into so much more power behind the sea wedge. The German teaching—that teaching of a partisan youth which is never complacent—did not contemplate a world composed of human beings, but a world composed of Germans, loyal to the Kaiser, and others who were not. Within that tiny plot on the earth’s surface the German system was giving more people a livelihood and more comforts for their resources than anywhere else, unless in Belgium.

Germany and her Kaiser believed that she had a mission and the right to more room. Wherever there was an opportunity she appeared with his aggressive paternalism to get ground for Germanic seed. The experience of her opportunistic fishing in the troubled waters of Manila Bay in ’98 is still fresh in the minds of many Americans. She went into China during the Boxer rebellion in the same spirit. She had her foot thrust into every doorway ajar and was pushing with all her organised imperial might, which kept growing.

I never think of modern Germany without calling to mind two Germans who seem to me to illustrate German strength—and weakness. In a compartment on a train from Berlin to Holland some years ago, an Englishman was saying that Germany was a balloon which would burst. He called the Kaiser a vain madman and set his free English tongue on his dislike of Prussian boorishness, aggressiveness, and verbotens. I told him that I should never choose to live in Prussia; I preferred England or France; but I thought that England was closing her eyes to Germany’s development. The Kaiser seemed to me a very clever man, his people on the whole loyal to him; while it was wonderful how so great a population had been organised and cared for. We might learn the value of co-ordination from Germany, without adopting militarism or other characteristics which we disliked.

The Englishman thought that I was pro-German. For in Europe one must always be pro or anti something; Francophile or Francophobe, Germanophile or Germanophobe. I noticed the train-guard listening at intervals to our discussion. Perhaps he knew English. Many German train-guards do. Few English or French train-guards know any but their own language. This also is suggestive, if you care to take it that way.

When I left the train, the guard, instead of a porter, took my bag to the custom house. Probably he was of a mind to add to his income, I thought. After I was through the customs he put my bag in a compartment of the Dutch train. When I offered him a tip, the manner of his refusal made me feel rather mean. He saluted and clicked his heels together and said: “Thank you, sir, for what you said about my Emperor!” and with a military step marched back to the German train. How he had boiled inwardly as he listened to the Englishman and held his temper, thinking that “the day” was coming!

The second German was first mate of a little German steamer on the Central American coast. The mark of German thoroughness was on him. He spoke English and Spanish well; he was highly efficient, so far as I could tell. After passing through the Straits of Magellan, the steamer went as far as Vancouver in British Columbia. Its traffic was the small kind which the English did not find worth while, but which tireless German capability in details and cheap labour made profitable. The steamer stopped at every small West, South, and Central American and Mexican port to take on and leave cargo. At any hour of the night anchor was dropped, perhaps in a heavy ground-swell and almost invariably in intense tropical heat. Sometimes a German coffee planter came on board and had a glass of beer with the captain and the mate. For nearly all the rich Guatemala coffee estates had passed into German hands. The Guatemaltecan dictator taxed the native owners bankrupt and the Germans, in collusion with him, bought in the estates.

Life for that mate was a battle with filthy cargadores in stifling heat; he snatched his sleep when he might between ports. The steamer was in Hamburg to dock and refit once a year. Then he saw his wife and children for at most a month; sometimes for only a week. In any essay-contest on “Is Life Worth Living?” it seemed to me he ought to win the prize for the negative side.

“Since I have been on this run I have seen California ranches,” he said. “If I had come out to California fifteen years ago, when I thought of emigrating to America, by working half as hard as I have worked—and that would be harder than most California ranchers work—I could have had my own plot of ground and my own house and lived at home with my family. But when I spoke of emigrating I was warned against it. Maybe you don’t know that the local officials have orders to dissuade intending emigrants from their purpose. They told me that the United States and Canada were lands of graft, injustice, and disorder, where native Americans formed a caste which kept all immigrants at manual labour. I should be robbed and forced to work for the trusts for a pittance. Instead of an imperial government to protect me, I should be exploited by millionaire kings. Wasn’t I a German? Wasn’t I loyal to my Kaiser? Would I forfeit my nationality? This appeal decided me. And I am too old, now, to start at ranching.”

Had I been one of those wicked millionaire kings of the United States or Canada, I should have set this man up on a ranch, believing that he was not yet too old to make good in a new land if he were given a fair start, knowing that he would pay back the capital with interest; and I have known wicked millionaire kings to be guilty of such lapses as this from their tyranny.

The imperial German system wanted his earning power and energy back of the sea wedge. German steamship companies promoted emigration from Hungary, Russia, and Italy for the fares it brought. The German government, however, took care that the steamship companies carried no German emigrants; and it ruled that no Russian peasant or Polish Jew bound for Hamburg or Bremen on the way to America might stop over en route across Germany, lest he stay. Russians and Poles and Jews were not desirable material for the German sea wedge. Let them go into the pot-au-feu of the capacious and indiscriminating American melting-pot, which may yet make something of them that will surprise the chauvinists.

Breed more Germans; keep them fed, clothed, employed, organised industrially, educated! Don’t relieve the economic pressure by emigration or by lowering the birth rate! Keep up the military spirit! Develop the money spirit! Instilled with loyalty to the Kaiser, with a sense of superiority in industry and training as well as of racial superiority, the German felt himself the victim of a world injustice. He saw complacent England living on the fat of empire. He saw America with its rich resources and lack of civil organisation and discipline and its waste individual effort.

If the United States only would not play the dog in the manger! If Germany could apply the magic of her system to Mexico or Central America, what tribute that would bring home to Berlin! Consider organised German industrialism working India for all that it was worth! Or Zanzibar! Or the Straits Settlements! Germany had the restless ambition, with an undercurrent of resentment, of the young manager with modern methods who wants to supplant the old manager and his old-fogy methods—an old manager set in his way, but a very kindly, sound old manager, to whose ways the world had grown accustomed.

Taxes for armament, and particularly for that new navy, lay heavily on Germany, too. Driving the wedge by peaceful means became increasingly difficult. It needed the blow of war to split open the way to rich fields. The war spirit lost nothing by Germany’s sense of isolation. For this isolation England was to blame; she and the alliances which King Edward had formed around her. England was to blame for everything. Germany could not be to blame for anything. The national rival is always the scapegoat of patriotism. So Germany prepared to strike, as one prepares to build and open a store or to put on a play.

Where forty years ago the Englishman, with his aggressive ways, was the unpopular traveller in Europe, the German had become most disliked. In Italy, with his expanding industry, he ran many hotels. His success and his personal manners combined to make the sensitive Italian loathe him. Thus, he sowed the seed of popular feeling which broke in a wave that forced Italy into the war.

Germany thought of England as too selfish and cunning in her complacency really to come to the aid of France and Russia. She would stay out; and had she stayed out, Germany would have crushed Russia and then turned on France. But Germany did not know England any better than England knew Germany. The jaundiced mists of chauvinism kept even high leaders from seeing their adversaries clearly.

Austria, too, was feeling economic pressure. Her people, especially the Hungarians, looked toward the southeast for expansion. Her shrewd statesmanship, its instincts inherited from the Hapsburg dynasty, playing race hatred against race hatred and bound, so it looked, to national disruption, welcomed any opportunity which would set the mind of the whole people thinking of some exterior object rather than of internal differences. She annexed Bosnia-Herzegovina with its Slav population at a moment when Russia was not prepared to aid her kindred. Bosnia and Herzegovina are better off for the annexation; they have enjoyed rapid material progress as the result.

Bounded by the Danube and the Turk were the Balkan countries, which ought to be the garden spot of civilisation. Here, poverty aggravated racial hate and racial hate aggravated poverty in a vicious circle. Serbia, longest free of the Turk, adjoining Austria, had no outlet except through other lands. She was a commercial slave of Austria, dependent on Austrian tariffs and Austrian railroads, with Hungarian business men holding the purse-strings of trade. In her swineherds and tillers the desire for some of the good things of modern life was developing. Strangling, with Austria’s hands at her throat, with many clever, resourceful agitators urging her on, she fought in the only way that she knew. To Austria she was the uncouth swineherd who assassinated the Austrian Crown Prince and his consort. This deed was the exterior object which united Austria in a passionate rage. For Austria, more than any other country, could welcome war for the old reason. It let out the emotion of the nation against an enemy instead of against its own rulers.

A deeper-seated cause was the racial hatred of Slav and Teuton. For rulers do not make war these days; they try to keep their thrones secure on the crest of public opinion. They appear to rule and to give, and are ruled and yield. Whoever had travelled in Russia of late years had been conscious of a rising ground-swell in the great mass of Russian feeling. Your simple moujik had an idea that his Czar had yielded to the Austrians and the Germans. In short, the German had tweaked the nose of the Slav race with the annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the Czar had borne the insult because his people were willing.

Slow to think, and not thinking overmuch, the Russian peasant began to see red whenever he thought of a German. As a whole public thinks, eventually its rulers must think. The upper class of Russia was inclined to fan the flames of the people’s passions. If the people were venting their emotions against the Teuton they would not be developing further revolutions against the old order of things. The military class was prompt to make use of the national tendency to strengthen military resources. By action and reaction across the frontiers the strain was increasing. Germany saw Russia with double her own population and was sensitive to the dangers behind Russia’s ambitions. Russia stood for everything abhorrent to German order and racial feeling.

And what of France? There is little to say of her when we assign responsibility. Here was a nation with its population practically stationary; a nation with a closed-in culture; a democracy with its racial and national integrity assured by its own peculiar genius. Visions of conquest had passed from the French mind. Her “place in the sun” was her own sun of France. Her trade was that due to skill in handicraft rather than to any tactics of aggression. At every Hague conference France was for all measures that would assure peace; Germany against every one that might interfere with her military ambition; England against any that might limit her action in defending the seas.

The desire for “revenge” for ’70 had died out in the younger generation of Frenchmen. Her stationary population, which chauvinists resented, had solved the problem of expansion. From father to son, she could be content with her thrift, her industry, and her arts, and with the joy of living. For, more than any other European nation, she had that gift: the joy of living. Her armies and her alliances were truly for defence. She could not fight Germany and Austria alone. She must have help. If Russia went to war she, too, must go to war. She acted up to her belief when she held back her armies five miles from the frontier till the German struck; when she gave Germany a start in mobilisation—a start which, with England’s delay, came near being fatal for her. That price she paid for peace; that advantage Germany gained by striking first. It is a hard moral for the pacificists, but one which ought to give the French conscience a cleaner taste in after years.

The Kaiser, too, insisted that he was for peace. So he was, according to German logic. He realised his military power as the outside world could not realise it. Had Italy joined her forces to her allies, he might have crushed France and then turned on Russia, as his staff had planned. For striking he could reduce France to a second-rate power, take her colonies, fatten German coffers with an enormous indemnity, and gain Belgium and the Channel ports as the next step in national ambition before crushing England and securing the mastery of the seas. But he held off the blow for many years; that is the logic of his partisanship for peace. The fact that France proved stronger than he thought hardly interfered with his belief in his own moderation, in view of his confidence in his arms before the test came. He was for peace because he did not knock the other man down as soon as he might.

No other race in all Europe liked the Germans; not even the Huns, or the Czechs, or the Croats, and least of all the Italians. The Belgians, too, shared the universal enmity. It was Germany that Belgium feared. Her forts looked toward Germany; she looked toward England and France for protection. In this she was unneutral; but not in the thing that counted—thorough military preparation.

Thus were the Germanic empires isolated in sentiment before the war began. This strengthened their realisation that their one true ally was their power in arms, unaffected by any sentiment except that of beating their enemies. Europe, straining under the taxation of preparation, long held back by fear of the cataclysm, yet drawn by curiosity as to the nature of its capacity, sent her millions of soldiers to that test in practice of the struggle of modern arms which had been the haunting subject of her speculation.