When the Persian sought to force the dominion of his ideals upon the Greek, the states of Hellas made head against him from the love and honour in which they held their own. When the successors of the Prophet, zealous for their faith, confident in the protection of the One God, drove the soldiers of the Cross before them from the passes of the Pyrenees to the vineyards of Touraine, neither side would have listened with any patience to a dissertation upon the inconveniences resulting from a state of war and upon the economic advantages of peace. It was there one faith against another, one attitude towards life against another, one system of manners, customs, and laws against another. When a collision occurs in this region of human affairs there is seldom room for compromise or adjustment. Things unmerchantable cannot be purchased with the finest of fine gold.
In these instances, seen by us from far off, the truth of this is easily recognised. But what some of our recent moralists have overlooked, is the fact that forces of precisely the same order exist in the world of to-day, and are at work, not only among the fierce Balkan peoples, in the resurgent empire of Japan, and in the great military nations—the French, theGermans, and the Russians—but also in America and England. The last two pride themselves upon a higher civilisation, and in return are despised by the prophets of militarism as worshippers of material gain. The unfavourable and the flattering estimate agree, however, upon a single point—in assuming that our own people and those of the United States are unlikely to yield themselves to unsophisticated impulse. This assumption is wholly false.
VIRTUES OF THE WAR SPIRIT
If we search carefully, we shall find every where underlying the great struggles recorded in past history, no less than those which have occurred, and are now occurring, in our own time, an antagonism of one kind or another between two systems, visions, or ideals, which in some particular were fundamentally opposed and could not be reconciled. State papers and the memoranda of diplomatists, when in due course they come to light, are not a little apt to confuse the real issues, by setting forth a diary of minor incidents and piquant details, not in their true proportions, but as they appeared at the moment of their occurrence to the eyes of harassed and suspicious officials. But even so, all the emptying of desks and pigeon-holes since the great American Civil War, has not been able to cover up the essential fact, that in this case a million lives were sacrificed by one of the most intelligent, humane, and practical nations upon earth, and for no other cause than that there was an irreconcilable difference amongst them, with regard to what St. Paul has called 'the substance of things hoped for.' On the one side there was an ideal of Union and a determination to make it prevail: on the other side there was an ideal of Independence and an equal determination to defend it whatsoevermight be the cost. If war on such grounds be possible within the confines of a single nation, nurtured in the same traditions, and born to a large extent of the same stock, how futile is the assurance that economic and material considerations will suffice to make war impossible between nations, who have not even the tie of a common mother-tongue!
A collision may occur, as we know only too well, even although one of two vessels be at anchor, if it happens to lie athwart the course of the other. It was therefore no security against war that British policy did not aim at any aggrandisement or seek for any territorial expansion. The essential questions were—had we possessions which appeared to obstruct the national aspirations and ideals of others; and did these others believe that alone, or in alliance, they had the power to redress the balance?
The real difficulty which besets the philanthropist in his endeavour to exorcise the spirit of war is caused, not by the vices of this spirit, but by its virtues. In so far as it springs from vainglory or cupidity, it is comparatively easy to deal with. In so far as it is base, there is room for a bargain. It can be compounded with and bought off, as we have seen before now, with some kind of material currency. It will not stand out for very long against promises of prosperity and threats of dearth. But where, as at most crises, this spirit is not base, where its impulse is not less noble, but more noble than those which influence men day by day in the conduct of their worldly affairs, where the contrast which presents itself to their imagination is between duty on the one hand and gain on the other, between self-sacrifice and self-interest, between their country's need andtheir own ease, it is not possible to quench the fires by appeals proceeding from a lower plane. The philanthropist, if he is to succeed, must take still higher ground, and higher ground than this it is not a very simple matter to discover.
[1] The increase and acceleration of German shipbuilding was discovered by the British Government in the autumn of 1908, and led to the Imperial Defence Conference in the summer of the following year.
When war came, it came suddenly. A man who had happened to fall sick of a fever on St. Swithin's day 1914, but was so far on the way to convalescence four weeks later as to desire news of the outside world, must have been altogether incredulous of the tidings which first greeted his ears.
When he fell ill the nations were at peace. The townspeople of Europe were in a holiday humour, packing their trunks and portmanteaus for 'land travel or sea-faring.' The country people were getting in their harvest or looking forward hopefully to the vintage. Business was prosperous. Credit was good. Money, in banking phraseology, was 'cheap.' The horror of the Serajevo assassinations had already faded almost into oblivion. At the worst this sensational event was only an affair of police. Such real anxiety as existed in the United Kingdom had reference to Ireland.
We can imagine the invalid's first feeble question on public affairs:—'What has happened in Ulster?'—The answer, 'Nothing has happened in Ulster.'—The sigh of relief with which he sinks back on his pillows.
When, however, they proceed to tell him what has happened, elsewhere than in Ulster, during thefour weeks while they have been watching by his bedside, will he not fancy that his supposed recovery is only an illusion, and that he is still struggling with the phantoms of his delirium?
For what will they have to report? That the greater part of the world which professes Christianity has called out its armies; that more than half Europe has already joined battle; that England, France, Russia, Belgium, Servia, and Montenegro on the one side are ranged against Germany and Austria on the other. Japan, they will tell him, is upon the point of declaring war. The Turk is wondering if, and when, he may venture to come in; while the Italian, the Roumanian, the Bulgar, the Greek, the Dutchman, the Dane, and the Swede are reckoning no less anxiously for how short or long a period it may still be safe for them to stand out. Three millions of men, or thereabouts—a British Army included—are advancing against one another along the mountain barriers of Luxemburg, Lorraine, and Alsace. Another three millions are engaged in similar evolutions among the lakes of East Prussia, along the river-banks of Poland, and under the shadow of the Carpathians. A large part of Belgium is already devastated, her villages are in ashes or flames, her eastern fortresses invested, her capital threatened by the invader.
Nine-tenths or more of the navies of the world are cleared for action, and are either scouring the seas in pursuit, or are withdrawn under the shelter of land-batteries watching their opportunity for a stroke. Air-craft circle by day and night over the cities, dropping bombs, with a careless and impartial aim, upon buildings both private and public, both sacred and profane, upon churches, palaces, hospitals,and arsenals. The North Sea and the Baltic are sown with mines. The trade of the greater part of industrial Europe is at a standstill; the rest is disorganised; while the credit and finances, not merely of Europe, but of every continent, are temporarily in a state either of chaos or paralysis.
A NIGHTMARE
To the bewildered convalescent all this may well have seemed incredible. It is hardly to be wondered at if he concluded that the fumes of his fever were not yet dispersed, and that this frightful phantasmagoria had been produced, not by external realities, but by the disorders of his own brain.
How long it might have taken to convince him of the truth and substance of these events we may judge from our own recent experience. How long was it after war broke out, before even we, who had watched the trouble brewing through all its stages, ceased to be haunted, even in broad daylight, by the feeling that we were asleep, and that the whole thing was a nightmare which must vanish when we awoke? We were faced (so at least it seemed at frequent moments) not by facts, but by a spectre, and one by no means unfamiliar—the spectre of Europe at war, so long dreaded by some, so scornfully derided by others, so often driven away, of late years so persistently reappearing. But this time the thing refused to be driven away. It sat, hunched up, with its head resting on its hands, as pitiless and inhuman as one of the gargoyles on a Gothic cathedral, staring through us, as if we were merely vapour, at something beyond.
So late as Wednesday, July 29—the day on which Austria declared war on Servia—there wasprobably not one Englishman in a hundred who believed it possible that, within a week, his own country would be at war; still less, that a few days later the British Army would be crossing the Channel to assist France and Belgium in repelling a German invasion. To the ordinary man—and not merely to the ordinary man, but equally to the press, and the great majority of politicians—such things were unthinkable until they occurred. Unfortunately, the inability to think a thing is no more a protection against its occurrence than the inability to see a thing gives security to the ostrich.
The sequence of events which led up to the final disaster is of great importance, although very far from being in itself a full explanation of the causes.
On June 28, 1914, the heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, together with his consort, was murdered by a young Bosnian at Serajevo, not far distant from the southern frontier. The Imperial authorities instituted a secret enquiry into the circumstances of the plot, as a result of which they professed to have discovered that it had been hatched at Belgrade, that Government officials were implicated in it, and that so far from being reprobated, it was approved by Servian public opinion.[1]
On Thursday, July 23—a month after the tragedy—Austria suddenly delivered an ultimatum to Servia, and demanded an acceptance of its terms within forty-eight hours. The demands put forward wereharsh, humiliating, and unconscionable. They were such as could not have been accepted, as they stood, by any nation which desired to preserve a shred of its independence. They had been framed with the deliberate intention, either of provoking a refusal which might afford a pretext for war, or of procuring an acceptance which would at once reduce the Servian Kingdom to the position of a vassal. Even in Berlin it was admitted[2] that this ultimatum asked more than it was reasonable to expect Servia to yield. But none the less, there can be but little doubt that the German ambassador at Vienna saw and approved the document before it was despatched, and it seems more than likely that he had a hand in drafting it. It also rests on good authority that the German Kaiser was informed beforehand of the contents, and that he did not demur to its presentation.[3]
THE SERVIAN REPLY
On the evening of Saturday, July 25, the Servian Government, as required, handed in its answer. The purport of this, when it became known to the world, excited surprise by the humility of its tone and the substance of its submission. Almost everything thatAustria had demanded was agreed to. What remained outstanding was clearly not worth quarrelling about, unless a quarrel were the object of the ultimatum. The refusal, such as it was, did not close the door, but, on the contrary, contained an offer to submit the subjects of difference to the Hague Convention.[4]
The document was a lengthy one. The Austrian minister at Belgrade nevertheless found time to read it through, to weigh it carefully, to find it wanting, to ask for his passports, and to catch his train, all within a period not exceeding three-quarters of an hour from the time at which it was put into his hands.[5]
When these occurrences became known, the English Foreign Minister immediately made proposals for a conference between representatives of Germany, France, Italy, and Great Britain, with the object of discovering some means of peaceful settlement.[6] France and Italy promptly accepted his invitation.[7] Germany, while professing to desire mediation, did not accept it.[8] Consequently Sir Edward Grey's effort failed; and before he was able to renew it in any more acceptable form, Austria, acting with a promptitude almost unique in her annals, declared war upon Servia, and hostilities began.
It is unnecessary to enter here into an examination of the feverish and fruitless attempts to preserve peace, which were made in various quarters during the next four and twenty hours. They present amost pathetic appearance, like the efforts of a crew, sitting with oars unshipped, arguing, exhorting, and imploring, while their boat drifts on to the smooth lip of the cataract.
MOBILIZATION
Russia ordered the mobilisation of her Southern armies, alleging that she could not stand by while a Slav nation was being crushed out of existence, despite the fact that it had made an abject submission for an unproved offence.[9]
Subsequently, on Friday, July 31, Russia—having, as she considered, reasons for believing that Germany was secretly mobilising her whole forces—proceeded to do likewise.[10]
Germany simultaneously declared 'a state of war' within her own territories, and a veil instantly fell upon all her internal proceedings. She demanded that Russia should cease her mobilisation, and as no answer which satisfied her was forthcoming, but only an interchange of telegrams between the two sovereigns—disingenuous on the one side and not unreasonably suspicious on the other—Germany declared war on Russia on Saturday, August 1.
On Saturday and Sunday, war on a grand scale being by this time certain, the chief interest centred in questions of neutrality. Germany enquired of France whether she would undertake to stand aside—knowing full well beforehand that the terms of the Dual Alliance compelled the Republic to lend assistance if Russia were attacked by more than one power.Sir Edward Grey enquired of France and Germany if they would undertake to respect the integrity of Belgium. France replied in the affirmative. Germany declined to commit herself, and this was rightly construed as a refusal.[11]
While this matter was still the subject of diplomatic discussion the German Army advanced into the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg, and was correctly reported as having entered Belgian territory near Liège and French territory near Cirey.
On the evening of Sunday, August 2, the German Government presented an ultimatum to Belgium[12] demanding free passage for its troops, thereby putting its intentions beyond all doubt.
On the same day Italy issued a declaration of neutrality, making it clear that, although a member of the Triple Alliance, she did not consider herself bound to support her allies in a war of aggression.[13]
Meanwhile Germany had been making enquiries as to the attitude of England, and, startled to discover that this country might not be willing tamely to submit to the violation of Belgium and invasion of France, proceeded to state, under cross-examination, the price she was prepared to pay, or at any rate to promise, for the sake of securing British neutrality.[14]
ENGLAND DECLARES WAR
On Tuesday, August 4, the British Ambassador at Berlin presented an ultimatum which demanded an assurance, before midnight, that the integrity of Belgium would not be violated. The answer was given informally at a much earlier hour by thebombardment of Liège; and shortly before midnight England declared war on Germany.[15]
Two days later Austria declared herself to be at war with Russia, and within a week from that date Great Britain and France issued a similar declaration against Austria.
[1] There is perhaps as much reason, certainly no more, for believing that an official clique at Belgrade plotted the Serajevo murders, as that an official clique at Vienna connived at them, by deliberately withdrawing police protection from the unfortunate and unpopular Archduke on the occasion of his visit to a notorious hotbed of sedition.
[2] Herr von Jagow "also admitted that the Servian Government could not swallow certain of the Austro-Hungarian demands.... He repeated very earnestly that, though he had been accused of knowing all the contents of that note, he had in fact no such knowledge."—Sir H. Rumbold at Berlin to Sir Edward Grey (White Paper, No. 18).
[3] "Although I am unable to verify it, I have private information that the German Ambassador (i.e.at Vienna) knew the text of the Austrian ultimatum to Servia before it was despatched and telegraphed it to the German Emperor. I know from the German Ambassador himself that he endorses every line of it."—British Ambassador at Vienna to Sir Edward Grey (White Paper, No. 95). (Cf. also White Book, Nos. 95 and 141; French Yellow Book, No. 87; Russian Orange Book, No. 41.)
"The German Ambassador (i.e.in London) read me a telegram from the German Foreign Office saying that his Government had not known beforehand, and had no more than other Powers to do with the stiff terms of the Austrian note to Servia."—Sir Edward Grey to the British Ambassador in Berlin (White Paper, No. 25). (Cf. also French Yellow Book, Nos. 17, 30, 36, 41, 57, and 94.)
[4] Last paragraph of Reply of Servian Government to Austro-Hungarian note.
[5] White Paper, Nos. 20 and 23.
[6] White Paper, No. 36.
[7] White Paper, Nos. 35, 42, and 52.
[8] White Paper, Nos. 43 and 71. Cf. also German White Book, Nos. 12 and 15.
[9] White Paper, No. 113; Russian Orange Book, No. 77; French Yellow Book, No. 95.
[10] These suspicions were well founded. German mobilisation began at least two days earlier (White Paper, No. 113; French Yellow Book, Nos. 60, 88, 89, and 106).
[11] White Paper, Nos. 114, 122, 123, and 125.
[12] Belgian Grey Book, No. 20; French Yellow Book, No. 141.
[13] White Paper, No. 152; French Yellow Book, No. 124.
[14] White Paper, Nos. 85 and 123.
[15] "I found the Chancellor very agitated. His Excellency at once began a harangue which lasted for about twenty minutes. He said that the step taken by His Majesty's Government was terrible to a degree: just for a word—'neutrality,' a word which in war time had so often been disregarded—just for a scrap of paper Great Britain was going to make war on a kindred nation, who desired nothing better than to be friends with her."—British Ambassador at Berlin to Sir Edward Grey (White Paper, No. 160).
Such is the chronological order of events; but on the face of it, it explains little of the underlying causes of this conflagration. Why with the single exception of Italy had all the great naval and military powers of Europe, together with several smaller nations, suddenly plunged into war? Which of the combatants wanted war? ... To the latter question the answer can be given at once and with certainty—save Germany and Austria no nation wanted war, and even Germany and Austria did not wantthiswar.
DESIRE FOR PEACE
Whatever opinion we may entertain of the Servian character or of her policy in recent times, it is at all events certain that she did not desire war with Austria. That she submitted to the very depths of humiliation in order to avoid war cannot be doubted by any one who has read her reply to the demands put forward by Vienna. Only a few months since, she had emerged from two sanguinary wars—the first against Turkey and the second against Bulgaria—and although victory had crowned her arms in both of these contests, her losses in men and material had been very severe.
That Russia did not desire war was equally plain.She was still engaged in repairing the gigantic losses which she had sustained in her struggle with Japan. At least two years must elapse before her new fleet would be in a condition to take the sea, and it was generally understood that at least as long a period would be necessary, in order to carry through the scheme of reorganisation by which she hoped to place her army in a state of efficiency. Whatever might be the ultimate designs of Russia, it was altogether incredible that she would have sought to bring about a war, either at this time or in the near future.
Russia, like England, had nothing to gain by war. Her development was proceeding rapidly. For years to come her highest interest must be peace. A supreme provocation was necessary in order to make her draw the sword. Such a provocation had been given in 1909 when, ignoring the terms of the Treaty of Berlin, Austria had formally annexed the provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina. But at that time Russia's resources were not merely unprepared; they were utterly exhausted. Menaced simultaneously by Vienna and Berlin, she had been forced on that occasion to stand by, while her prestige in the Balkan peninsula suffered a blow which she was powerless to ward off. Now a further encroachment was threatened from the same quarters. A Serb power which looked to St. Petersburg[1] for protection was to be put under the heel of Austria.
Nor can any one believe that France wanted war. It is true that for a year, or rather more, after the Agadir episode[2] the spirit of France was perturbed. But no Foreign Office in the world—least of all thatof Germany—was so ill-informed as to believe that the sporadic demonstrations, which occurred in the press and elsewhere, were caused by any eagerness for adventure or any ambition of conquest. They were due, as every calm observer was aware, to one thing and one thing only—the knowledge that the Republic had come to the very end of her human resources; that all her sons who were capable of bearing arms had already been enrolled in her army; that she could do nothing further to strengthen her defences against Germany, who up to that time, had taken for military training barely one half of her available male population, and who was now engaged in increasing her striking power both by land and sea. The cause of this restlessness in France was the fear that Germany was preparing an invincible superiority and would strike so soon as her weapon was forged. If so, would it not be better for France to strike at once, while she had still a fighting chance, and before she was hopelessly outnumbered? But this mood, the product of anxiety and suspense, which had been somewhat prevalent in irresponsible quarters during the autumn of 1912 and the early part of the following year, had passed away. Partly it wore itself out; partly popular interest was diverted to other objects of excitement.
France, during the twelve months preceding Midsummer 1914, had been singularly quiescent as regards foreign affairs. Her internal conditions absorbed attention. Various events had conspired to disturb public confidence in the fidelity of her rulers, and in the adequacy of their military preparations. The popular mood had been sobered, disquieted, and scandalised to such a point that war,so far from being sought after, was the thing of all others which France most wished to avoid.
THE CASE OF BELGIUM
It is unnecessary to waste words in establishing the aversion of Belgium from war. There was nothing which she could hope to gain by it in any event. Suffering and loss—how great suffering and loss even Belgium herself can hardly have foreseen—were inevitable to her civil population, as well as to her soldiers, whether the war went well or ill. Her territory lay in the direct way of the invaders, and was likely, as in times past, to become the 'cockpit of Europe.' She was asked to allow the free passage of the Germanic forces. She was promised restoration of her independence and integrity at the end of the war. But to grant this arrogant demand would have been to destroy her dynasty and wreck her institutions; for what King or Constitution could have withstood the popular contempt for a government which acquiesced in national degradation? And to believe the promise, was a thing only possible for simpletons; for what was such an assurance worth, seeing that, at the very moment of the offer, Germany was engaged in breaking her former undertaking, solemnly guaranteed and recorded, that the neutrality of Belgium should be respected? That the sympathies of Belgium would have been with France in any event cannot of course be doubted; for a French victory threatened no danger, whereas the success of German arms was a menace to her independence, and a prelude to vassalage or absorption in the Empire.
Neither the British people nor their Government wanted war. In the end they accepted it reluctantly, and only after most strenuous efforts had been madeto prevent its occurrence. To the intelligent foreign observer, however unfriendly, who has a thorough understanding of British interests, ideas, and habits of mind this is self-evident. He does not need a White Paper to prove it to him.
It is clear that Austria wanted war—not this war certainly, but a snug little war with a troublesome little neighbour, as to the outcome of which, with the ring kept, there could be no possibility of doubt. She obviously hoped that indirectly, and as a sort of by-product of this convenient little war, she would secure a great victory of the diplomatic sort over her most powerful neighbour—a matter of infinitely more consequence to her than the ostensible object of her efforts.
The crushing of Servia would mean the humiliation of Russia, and would shake, for a second time within five years, the confidence of the Balkan peoples in the power of the Slav Empire to protect its kindred and co-religionists against the aggression of the Teutons and Magyars. Anything which would lower the credit of Russia in the Balkan peninsula would be a gain to Austria. To her more ambitious statesmen such an achievement might well seem to open the way for coveted expansions towards the Aegean Sea, which had been closed against her, to her great chagrin, by the Treaty of Bucharest.[3] To others, whose chief anxiety was to preserve peace in their own time, and to prevent the Austro-Hungarian State from splitting asunder, the repression of Servia seemed to promise security against the growing unrest and discontent of the vast Slav population which was included in the Empire.
AUSTRIAN ILL-FORTUNE
For something nearer two centuries than one the Austro-Hungarian Empire has been miscalculating and suffering for its miscalculations, until its blunders and ill-fortune have become a byword. Scheming ever for safety, Austria has never found it. The very modesty of her aim has helped to secure its own defeat. Her unvarying method has been a timid and unimaginative repression. In politics, as in most other human affairs, equilibrium is more easily attained by moving forward than by standing still. Austria has sought security for powers, and systems, and balances which were worn out, unsuited to our modern world, and therefore incapable of being secured at all. The more she has schemed for safety the more precarious her integrity has become. There are things which scheming will never accomplish—things which for their achievement need a change of spirit, some new birth of faith or freedom. But in Vienna change in any direction is ill-regarded, and new births are ever more likely to be strangled in their cradles than to arrive at maturity.
Distracted by the problem of her divers, discordant, and unwelded[4] races, Austria has always inclined to put her trust in schemers who were able to produce some plausible system, some ingenious device, some promising ladder of calculation, or miscalculation, for reaching the moon without going through the clouds. In the present case there can be no doubt that she allowed herself to be persuaded by her German neighbours that Russia was not in a position to makean effective fight, and would therefore probably stand by, growling and showing her teeth. Consequently it was safe to take a bold line; to present Servia with an ultimatum which had been made completely watertight against acceptance of the unconditional and immediate kind; to reject any acceptance which was not unconditional and immediate; to allow the Government of King Peter no time for second thoughts, the European Powers no time for mediation, her own Minister at Belgrade time only to give one hasty glance at the reply, call for his passports, and catch his train. So far as poor humanity can make certain of anything, Austria, with German approval and under German guidance, made certain of war with Servia.
But the impression produced, when this matter first began to excite public attention, was somewhat different. Foreign newspaper correspondents at Vienna and Berlin were specially well cared for after the Serajevo murders, and when the ultimatum was delivered, they immediately sent to England and elsewhere accounts of the position which made it appear, that the Austrian Government and people, provoked beyond endurance by the intrigues of Servia, had acted impetuously, possibly unwisely, but not altogether inexcusably.
At this stage the idea was also sedulously put about that the Kaiser was behaving like a gentleman. It was suggested that Germany had been left very much in the dark until the explosion actually occurred, and that she was now paying the penalty of loyalty to an indiscreet friend, by suffering herself to be dragged into a quarrel in which she had neither interest nor concern. In these early days, whenSir Edward Grey was striving hopefully, if somewhat innocently, after peace, it was assumed by the world in general, that Germany, for her own reasons, must desire, at least as ardently as the British Foreign Minister, to find a means of escape from an exceedingly awkward position, and that she would accordingly use her great influence with her ally to this end. If there had been a grain of truth in this assumption, peace would have been assured, for France and Italy had already promised their support. But this theory broke down very speedily; and as soon as the official papers were published, it was seen never to have rested on the smallest basis of fact.
GERMANY USES AUSTRIA
So far from Germany having been dragged in against her will, it was clear that from the beginning she had been using Austria as an agent, who was not unwilling to stir up strife, but was only half-conscious of the nature and dimensions of the contest which was bound to follow. It is not credible that Germany was blind to the all-but-inevitable results of letting Austria loose to range around, of hallooing her on, and of comforting her with assurances of loyal support. But it may well be believed that Austria herself did not see the situation in the same clear light, and remained almost up to the last, under the delusion, which had been so industriously fostered by the German ambassador at Vienna, that Russia could not fight effectively and therefore would probably choose not to fight at all.
But although Austria may have had no adequate conception of the consequences which her action would bring about, it is certain that Germany foresaw them, with the single exception of Britishintervention; that what she foresaw she also desired; and further, that at the right moment she did her part, boldly but clumsily, to guard against any miscarriage of her schemes.
Germany continued to make light of all apprehensions of serious danger from St. Petersburg; but at the eleventh hour Austria appears suddenly to have realised for herself the appalling nature of the catastrophe which impended. Something happened; what it was we do not know, and the present generation will probably never know. We may conjecture, however—but it is only conjecture—that by some means or other the intrigues of the war cabal at Vienna—the instrument of German policy, owing more fealty to the Kaiser than to their own Emperor—had been unmasked. In hot haste they were disavowed, and Austria opened discussions with Russia 'in a perfectly friendly manner,'[5] and with good hopes of success, as to how the catastrophe might still be averted.
On Thursday, July 30, we are informed, the tension between Vienna and St. Petersburg had greatly relaxed. An arrangement compatible with the honour and interests of both empires seemed almost in sight when, on the following day, Germany suddenly intervened with ultimatums to France and Russia, of a kind to which only one answer was possible. The spirit of the Ems telegram[6] had inebriated a duller generation. "A few days' delay," our Ambassador at Vienna concludes, "might in allprobability have saved Europe from one of the greatest calamities in history."[7]
SIR EDWARD GREY
As we turn over the official pages in which the British Government has set out its case, we are inclined to marvel—knowing what we now know—that our Foreign Minister should have shown so much zeal and innocence in pleading the cause of peace on high grounds of humanity, and with a faith, apparently unshaken to the last, that in principle at least, the German Government were in full agreement with his aims. The practical disadvantages of being a gentleman are that they are apt to make a man too credulous and not sufficiently inquisitive. Sir Edward Grey acted according to his nature. His miscalculation was one which his fellow-countrymen have not hesitated to forgive. But clearly he misjudged the forces which were opposed to him. He was deceived by hollow assurances. He beat hopefully, but vainly and pathetically, against a door which was already barred and bolted, and behind which (could he but have seen) the Kaiser, with his Ministers and Staff, was wholly absorbed in the study of war maps and tables of mobilisation.
Sir Edward Grey failed to prevent war, and in the circumstances it is hardly to be wondered at. But if he failed in one direction he succeeded in another. His whole procedure from first to last was so transparently disinterested and above board that, when war did actually come upon us, it found us, not merely as a nation, but also as an Empire, more united than we have ever been at any crisis, since the Great Armada was sighted off Plymouth Sound. English people felt that whatever else theremight be to reproach themselves with, they at any rate went into the fight with clean hands. What is even more remarkable, the people of all neutral countries, with the possible exception of the rigid moralists of Constantinople, appeared for once to share the same opinion.
This was a great achievement; nearly, but not quite, the greatest of all. To have prevented war would have been a greater achievement still.... But was war inevitable? Or was M. Sazonof right, when he said to our Ambassador, on the morning of the day when Servia replied to the Austrian ultimatum,[8] that if Britain then took her stand firmly with France and Russia there would be no war; but that if we failed them then, rivers of blood would flow, and in the end we should be dragged into war?[9]
Sir Edward Grey refused to take this course. He judged that a pronouncement of such a character would appear in the light of a menace to the governments of Germany and Austria, and also to public opinion in those countries; that it would only stiffen their backs; that a more hopeful way of proceeding was for England to deal with Germany as a friend, letting it be understood that if our counsels of moderation were disregarded, we might be driven most reluctantly into the camp of her enemies. To this, when it was urged by our Ambassador at St. Petersburg, the Russian Minister only replied—and the words seem to have in them a note of tragedy and weariness, as if the speaker well knew that he was talking to deaf ears—that unfortunately Germany was convinced that she could count upon the neutrality of Britain.[10]
The alternative was to speak out as Mr. Lloyd George spoke at the time of the Agadir crisis, 'to rattle the sabre,' and to take our stand 'in shining armour' beside the other two members of the Entente.
Sir Edward Grey believed that this procedure would not have the effect desired, but the reverse. Further, it would have committed this country to a policy which had never been submitted to it, and which it had never considered, far less approved, even in principle. The Agadir precedent could be distinguished. There the danger which threatened France arose directly out of treaty engagements with ourselves. Here there was no such particular justification, but a wide general question of the safety of Europe and the British Empire.
With regard to this wider question, notwithstanding its imminence for a good many years, the British Empire had not made up its mind, nor indeed had it ever been asked to do so by those in authority. Sir Edward Grey appears to have thought that, on democratic principles, he had not the right to make such a pronouncement as M. Sazonof desired; and that even if this pathway might have led to peace, it was one which he could not tread.
The one alternative was tried, and failed. We proffered our good offices, we urged our counsels of moderation, all in vain. That, at any rate, is among the certainties. And it is also among the certainties that, although this alternative failed, it brought us two signal benefits, in the unity of our own people and the goodwill of the world.
About the other alternative, which was not tried, we cannot of course speak with the same sureness. If Sir Edward Grey had taken the step whichM. Sazonof desired him to take, he would at once have been vehemently opposed and denounced by a very large body of his own fellow-countrymen, who, never having been taken frankly into the confidence of the Government with regard to the foundations of British policy, were at this early stage of the proceedings almost wholly ignorant of the motives and issues involved. This being so, if war had ensued, we should then have gone into it a divided instead of a united nation. On the other hand, if peace had ensued, it must have been a patched-up ill-natured peace; and it is not improbable that Sir Edward Grey would have been driven from office by enemies in his own household, playing the game of Germany unconsciously, as on previous occasions, and would have brought the Cabinet down with him in his fall. For at this time, owing to domestic difficulties, the Government stood in a very perilous position, and it needed only such a mutiny, as a bold departure in foreign affairs would almost certainly have provoked among the Liberal party, to bring Mr. Asquith's government to an end.
As one reads and re-reads the official documents in our present twilight, it is difficult to resist the conclusion that on the main point Sir Edward Grey was wrong and M. Sazonof right. Germany, with her eyes wide open, had determined on war with Russia and France, unless by Russia's surrender of her prestige in the Balkans—a surrender in its way almost as abject as that which had already been demanded of Servia—the results of victory could be secured without recourse to arms. Germany, nevertheless, was not prepared for war with Britain. She was reckoning with confidence on our standing aside,on our unwillingness and inability to intervene.[11] If it had been made clear to her, that in case she insisted on pressing things to extremity, we should on no account stand aside, she might then have eagerly forwarded, instead of deliberately frustrating, Austria's eleventh-hour negotiations for an accommodation with St. Petersburg.
No one, except Germans, whose judgments, naturally enough, are disordered by the miscarriage of their plans, has dreamed of bringing the charge against Sir Edward Grey that he wished for war, or fomented it, or even that through levity or want of vigilance, he allowed it to occur. The criticism is, that although his intentions were of the best, and his industry unflagging, he failed to realise the situation, and to adopt the only means which might have secured peace.
The charge which is not only alleged, but established against Austria is of a wholly different order. It is that she provoked war—blindly perhaps, and not foreseeing what the war would be, but at any rate recklessly and obstinately.
The crime of which Germany stands accused is that she deliberately aimed at war, and that when there seemed a chance of her plan miscarrying, she promptly took steps to render peace impossible. Among neutral countries is there one, the public opinion of which has acquitted her? And has not Italy, her own ally, condemned her by refusing assistance on the ground that this war is a war of German aggression?
[1] The name of the Russian capital was not changed until after the declaration of war, and therefore St. Petersburg is used in this chapter instead of Petrograd.
[2] July-September 1911.
[3] August 1913.
[4] The total population of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, including Bosnia-Herzegovina, is roughly 50 millions. Of these 11 millions are Germans and 10 millions Magyars. About 24 millions are composed of a strange variety of Slav races. The remaining 5 millions consist of Italians, Roumanians, and Jews.
[5] White Paper, No. 161.
[6] A harmless and unprovocative telegram from the King of Prussia to Bismarck in July 1870 was, by the latter, so altered in tone that when published it achieved the intention of its editor and served as 'a red rag to the Gallic bull' and brought about the declaration of war by Napoleon III.—Bismarck'sReflections and Reminiscences, vol. ii. p. 100.
[7] White Paper, No. 161.
[8] Saturday, July 25.
[9] White Paper, No. 17.
[10] Ibid. Nos. 17 and 44.
[11] A proof of this is the outburst of hatred in Germany against England so soon as we ranged ourselves with France and Russia.
The East has been drawn into the circle of this war as well as the West, the New World as well as the Old; nor can any man feel certain, or even hopeful, that the conflagration will be content to burn itself out where it is now raging, and will not spread across further boundaries.... It is therefore no matter of surprise that people should be asking themselves—"Of what nature is this war? Is it one of those calamities, like earthquake or tempest, drought or flood, which lawyers describe as 'the act of God'? Or is it a thing which, having been conceived and deliberately projected by the wit of man, could have been averted by human courage and judgment? Was this war, or was it not, inevitable?" ... To which it may be answered, that no war is inevitable until it occurs; and then every war is apt to make pretensions to that character.
In old times it was the Fates, superior even to Zeus, who decreed wars. In later days wars were regarded as the will of God. And to-day professional interpreters of events are as ready as ever with explanations why this war was, in the nature of things, unavoidable. Whether the prevailing priesthood wears white robes and fillets, or rich vestments, orcassocks and Geneva bands, or the severer modern garb of the professor or politician, it appears to be equally prone to dogmatic blasphemy. There is no proof that this war was pre-ordained either by a Christian God or by the laws of Pagan Nature.
WAS WAR INEVITABLE?
One may doubt if any war is inevitable. If statesmen can gain time the chances are that they will gain peace. This was the view of public opinion throughout the British Empire down to July 1914. It was in a special sense the view of the Liberal party; and their view was endorsed, if not by the whole body of Unionists, at any rate by their leader, in terms which admitted of no misunderstanding.[1] It is also the point of view from which this book is written.... This war was not inevitable; it could have been avoided, but on one condition—if England had been prepared.
England was not prepared either morally or materially. Her rulers had left her in the dark as to the dangers which surrounded her. They had neglected to make clear to her—probably even to themselves—the essential principles of British policy, and the sacrifices which it entailed. They had failed to provide armaments to correspond with this policy. When the crisis arose their hands were tied. They had to sit down hurriedly, and decipher their policy, and find out what it meant. Still more hurriedly they had to get it approved, not merely by their fellow-countrymen, but by their own colleagues—a work, if rumour[2] speaks truly, ofconsiderable difficulty. Then they found that one of the main supports was wanting; and they had to set to work frantically to make an army adequate to their needs.
But it was too late. By this time their policy had fallen about their ears in ruins. For their policy was the neutrality of Belgium, and that was already violated. Their policy was the defence of France, and invasion had begun. Their policy was peace, and peace was broken. The nation which would enjoy peace must be strong enough to enforce peace.
The moods of nations pass like clouds, only more slowly. They bank up filled with menace; we look again and are surprised to find that they have melted away as silently and swiftly as they came. One does not need to be very old to recall various wars, deemed at one time or another to be inevitable, which never occurred. In the 'sixties' war with the second Empire was judged to be inevitable; and along our coasts dismantled forts remain to this day as monuments of our fathers' firm belief in the imminence of an invasion. In the 'seventies,' and indeed until we had entered the present century, war with Russia was regarded as inevitable by a large number of well-informed people; and for a part of this period war with the French Republic was judged to be no less so. Fortune on the whole was favourable. Circumstances changed. The sense of a common danger healed old antagonisms. Causes of chronic irritation disappeared of themselves, or were removed by diplomatic surgery. And with the disappearance of these inflammatory centres, misunderstandings, prejudices, and suspicions began to vanish also.Gradually it became clear, that what had been mistaken on both sides for destiny was nothing more inexorable than a fit of temper, or a conflict of business interests not incapable of adjustment. And in a sense the German menace was less formidable than any of these others, for the reason that it was a fit of temper on one side only—a fit of temper, or megalomania. We became fully conscious of the German mood only after the end of the South African War, when its persistence showed clearly that it arose, not from any sympathy with the Dutch, but from some internal cause. When this cause was explained to us it seemed so inadequate, so absurd, so unreal, so contrary to the facts, that only a small fraction of our nation ever succeeded in believing that it actually existed. We had been taught by Carlyle, that while the verities draw immortal life from the facts to which they correspond, the falsities have but a phenomenal existence, and a brief influence over the minds of men. Consequently the greater part of the British people troubled their heads very little about this matter, never thought things would come to a crisis, or lead to serious mischief; but trusted always that, in due time, the ridiculous illusions of our neighbours would vanish and die of their own inanity.
GERMAN JEALOUSY
We listened with an equal wonder and weariness to German complaints that we were jealous of her trade and bent on strangling it; that we grudged her colonial expansion, and were intriguing all the world over to prevent it; that we had isolated her and ringed her round with hostile alliances. We knew that these notions were all entirely false. We knew that, so far from hampering German commerce,our Free Trade system in the United Kingdom, in the Dependencies, and in the Indian Empire had fostered it and helped its rapid and brilliant success more than any other external factor.
For fully thirty years from 1870—during which period what remained of the uncivilised portions of the world was divided up, during which period also Germany was the most powerful nation in Europe, and could have had anything she wanted of these new territories almost for the asking—Bismarck and the statesmen of his school, engrossed mainly in the European situation, set little store by colonies, thought of them rather as expensive and dangerous vanities, and abstained deliberately from taking an energetic part in the scramble. We knew, that in Africa and the East, Germany had nevertheless obtained considerable possessions, and that it was, primarily her own fault that she had not obtained more. We assumed, no doubt very foolishly, that she must ultimately become aware of her absurdity in blaming us for her own neglect. We forgot human nature, and the apologue of the drunkard who cursed the lamp-post for its clumsiness in getting in his way.
The British people knew that Germany was talking nonsense; but unfortunately they never fully realised that she was sincere, and meant all the things she said. They thought she only half believed in her complaints, as a man is apt to do when ill-temper upsets his equanimity. They were confident that in the end the falsities would perish and the verities remain, and that in the fulness of time the two nations would become friends.
As to this last the British people probably judged correctly; but they entirely overlooked the fact,that if truth was to be given a chance of prevailing in the end, it was important to provide against mischief which might very easily occur in the meantime. Nor did their rulers, whose duty it was, ever warn them seriously of this necessity.
DANGERS OF ILL-TEMPER
When a man works himself up into a rage and proceeds to flourish a loaded revolver, something more is necessary for the security of the bystanders than the knowledge that his ill-temper does not rest upon a reasonable basis. War was not inevitable, certainly; but until the mood of Germany changed, it was exceedingly likely to occur unless the odds against the aggressor were made too formidable for him to face. None of the governments, however, which have controlled our national destinies since 1900, ever developed sufficient energy to realise the position of affairs, or ever mustered up courage to tell the people clearly what the risks were, to state the amount of the premium which was required to cover the risks, and to insist upon the immediate duty of the sacrifice which imperial security inexorably demanded.
[1] "I hear it also constantly said—there is no use shutting our eyes or ears to obvious facts—that owing to divergent interests, war some day or other between this country and Germany is inevitable. I never believe in these inevitable wars."—Mr. Bonar Law inEngland and Germany.
[2] Rumour finds confirmation in the White Paper; also in an interview with Mr. Lloyd George, reported inPearson's Magazine, March 1915, p. 265, col. ii.
Although in a technical sense the present war was brought on by Austrian diplomacy, no one, in England at least, is inclined to rate the moral responsibility of that empire at the highest figure. It is in Germany that we find, or imagine ourselves to have found, not only the true and deep-seated causes of the war, but the immediate occasions of it.
Not the least of our difficulties, however, is to decide the point—Who is Germany? Who was her man of business? Who acted for her in the matter of this war? Who pulled the wires, or touched the button that set the conflagration blazing? Was this the work of an individual or a camarilla? Was it the result of one strong will prevailing, or of several wills getting to loggerheads—wills not particularly strong, but obstinate, and flustered by internal controversy and external events? What actually happened—was it meant by the 'super-men' to happen, or did it come as a shock—not upon 'supermen' at all—but upon several groups of surprised blunderers? These questions are not likely to be answered for a generation or more—until, if ever, the archives of Vienna and Berlin give up theirsecrets—and it would therefore be idle to waste too much time in analysis of the probabilities.
The immediate occasion of the catastrophe has been variously attributed to the German court, army, bureaucracy, professors, press, and people. If we are looking only for a single thing—the hand which lit the conflagration—and not for the profounder and more permanent causes and origins of the trouble, we can at once dismiss several of these suspects from the dock.
MEN OF LETTERS
Men of learning and letters, professors of every variety—a class which has been christened 'the Pedantocracy' by unfriendly critics—may be all struck off the charge-sheet as unconcerned in the actual delinquency of arson.
In fact, if not in name, these are a kind of priesthood, and a large part of their lives' work has been to spread among German youth the worship of the State under Hohenzollern kingship. It is impossible of course to make 'a silk purse out of a sow's ear,' a religion out of a self-advertising dynasty, or a god out of a machine. Consequently, except for mischief, their efforts have been mainly wasted. Over a long period of years, however, they have been engaged in heaping up combustibles. They have filled men's minds to overflowing with notions which are very liable to lead to war, and which indeed were designed for no other purpose than to prepare public opinion for just such a war as this. Their responsibility therefore is no light one, and it will be dealt with later. But they are innocent at all events of complicity in this particular exploit of fire-raising; and if, after the event, they have sought to excuse, vindicate, and uphold the action of their rulers it would be hard measure to condemn them for that.
Nor did the press bring about the war. In other countries, where the press is free and irresponsible, it has frequently been the prime mover in such mischief; but never in Germany. For in Germany the press is incapable of bringing about anything of the political kind, being merely an instrument and not a principal.
Just as little can the charge of having produced the war be brought against the people. In other countries, where the people are used to give marching orders to their rulers, popular clamour has led to catastrophe of this kind more frequently than any other cause. But this, again, has never been so in Germany. The German people are sober, steadfast, and humble in matters of high policy. They have confidence in their rulers, believe what they are told, obey orders readily, but do not think of giving them. When war was declared, all Germans responded to the call of duty with loyalty and devotion. Nay, having been prepared for at least a generation, they welcomed war with enthusiasm. According to the lights which were given them to judge by, they judged every whit as rightly as our own people. The lights were false lights, hung out deliberately to mislead them and to justify imperial policy. But this was no fault of theirs. Moreover, the judgment which they came to with regard to the war was made after the event, and cannot therefore in any case be held responsible for its occurrence. This is a people's war surely enough, but just as surely, the people had no hand in bringing it about.
The circle of the accused is therefore narrowed down to the Court, the Army, and the Bureaucracy. And there we must leave it for the present—a joint indictment against all three. But whether theseparties were guilty, all three in equal measure, we cannot conjecture with the least approach to certainty. Nor can we even say precisely of what they were guilty—of misunderstanding—of a quarrel among themselves—of a series of blunders—or of a crime so black and deliberate, that no apologist will be able ever to delete it from the pages of history. On all this posterity must be left to pronounce.
GERMAN MILITARY OPINION
It is only human nevertheless to be curious about personalities. Unfortunately for the satisfaction of this appetite, all is darkness as to the German Army. We may suspect that the Prussian junker, or country gentleman, controls and dominates it. But even as to this we may conceivably be wrong. The military genius of some Hanoverian, Saxon, or Bavarian may possess the mastery in council. As to the real heads of the army, as to their individual characters, and their potency in directing policy we know nothing at all. After nine months of war, we have arrived at no clear notion, even with regard to their relative values as soldiers in the field. We have even less knowledge as to their influence beforehand in shaping and deciding the issues of war and peace.
This much, however, we may reasonably deduce from Bernhardi and other writers—that military opinion had been anxious for some considerable number of years past, and more particularly since the Agadir incident,[1] lest war, which it regarded as ultimately inevitable, should be delayed until the forces ranged against Germany, especially upon her Eastern frontier, were too strong for her to cope with.
In the pages of various official publications, and in newspaper reports immediately before and afterwar began, we caught glimpses of certain characters at work; but these were not professional soldiers; they were members of the Court and the Bureaucracy.
Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg, the Imperial Chancellor, comes upon the scene—a harassed and indignant official—sorely flustered—not by any means master of his temper—not altogether certain of his facts—in considerable doubt apparently as to whether things have not passed behind his back which he ought to have been told of by higher powers, but was not. He appears to us as a diligent and faithful servant,—one who does not seek to impose his own decisions, but to excuse, justify, and carry out, if he can, decisions which have been made by others, more highly placed and greedier of responsibility than himself.
Herr von Jagow, the Foreign Minister, is much affected. He drops tears—or comes somewhere near dropping them—over the lost hopes of a peaceful understanding between England and Germany. We can credit the sincerity of his sorrow all the more easily, for the reason that Herr von Jagow behaves throughout the crisis as the courteous gentleman; while others, who by position were even greater gentlemen, forget momentarily, in their excitement, the qualities which are usually associated with that title.
Then there is the German Ambassador at Vienna—obviously a firebrand—enjoying, one imagines, the confidence of the war parties in both capitals: also apparently a busy intriguer. The documents show him acting behind the back of the Berlin Foreign Office, and communicating direct with the Kaiser.
We gather very clearly that he egged on thestatesmen of Vienna, with great diligence and success, to press Servia to extremes, and to shear time so short that peace-makers had nothing left to catch hold of. Russia, he assured them, would never carry her opposition to the point of war. Even if she did so, he argued with much plausibility, she would be negligible. For she stood midway in a great military and naval reformation, than which no situation is more deplorable for the purposes of carrying on a campaign.
PRINCE LICHNOWSKY
When Prince Lichnowsky, the German Ambassador in London, took his departure at the outbreak of war, he probably left no single enemy behind him. A simple, friendly, sanguine figure, with a pardonable vanity which led him to believe the incredible. He produced what is called in the cant of the day 'an atmosphere,' mainly in drawing-rooms and newspaper offices, but occasionally, one conjectures, even in Downing Street itself. His artistry was purely in air and touched nothing solid. He was useful to his employers, mainly because he put England off her guard. He would not have been in the least useful if he had not been mainly sincere.
But though he was useful to German policy, he was not trusted by the powers in Berlin to attend to their business at the Court of St. James's except under strict supervision. What precisely were the duties of Baron von Kuhlmann, Councillor to the Embassy? He was always very cheerful, and obliging, and ready to smooth any little difficulty out of the way. On the other hand, he was also very deft at inserting an obstacle with an air of perfect innocence, which imposed on nearly every one—even occasionally on the editors of newspapers. Forsome reason, however, very few people were willing to accept this plausible diplomatist's assurances without a grain or two of salt. Indeed quite a large number were so misled by their prejudices against him, that they were convinced his prime vocation was that of a spy—a spy on the country to which he was accredited and on the Ambassador under whom he served.[2]