Notes of a Cosmopolite

Alexander S. Kaun

Mit dem Nationalhaß ist es ein eigenes Ding. Auf den untersten Stufen der Kultur wird man ihn immer am stärksten und heftigsten finden. Es giebt aber eine Stufe, wo er ganz verschwindet, wo man gewissermaßen über den Nationen steht und man ein Glück oder Weh seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, alswärs dem eigenen Volk begegnet.—Goethe.

You remember the story of the king parading every morning before his meek subjects who expressed their great admiration for the sovereign’s gorgeous raiment, until a certain simpleton shouted: “Why, the king is nude!” I do not recall the end of the story, nor how the impudent sceptic was punished; but the part I do remember recurs to me every time some elemental power comes along and sweeps away the ephemeral figments from the body of mankind. Mars has more than once played the part of the rude simpleton; this god has neither tact nor manners; with his heavy boot he dots the i’s and compels us to name pigs pigs. His first victim falls the frail web of diplomatic niceties. Talleyrand’s cynicism about the function of the diplomat’s tongue to conceal truth has become bankrupt: who takes seriously nowadays the casuistry of the manicolored Books issued by the belligerents? Even Tartuffian England has had to doff the robe of idealism and to admit through theTimesthat it would have fought regardless of whether the neutrality of Belgium had been infringed upon or not. Good. One of the salutary results of the war (let us hope there will be more than one good result) has already been realized in the wholesale unmasquing of international politics; it will do immense good for mankind-Caliban to see his real image.

The United States holds fast to its tradition of lagging behind the rest of the world. Messrs. Wilson and Bryan still employ the rusty weapon of “putting one over” through transparent bluff. “Too proud to fight” has become a classicmotthe world over, to the sheer delight of European humorists and cartoonists after their wits had been exhausted over the memorable “Watchful Waiting.” The admirable English of the President has demonstrated its effectiveness time and again: nearly each eloquent Note has been responded to by a German torpedo. “America asks nothing for herself but what she has a right to ask for humanity itself”—what obsolete verbosity! Who is this Mme. Humanity in whose name we demand the right to send shells to Europe unhampered by the intended victims of those shells? An American weekly, outspokenly pro-British, has cynicallysummed up the situation: “The British government will not allow a German woman to obtain food from the United States with which to feed her children, in spite of the fact that it is buying rifles in the United States with which to kill her husband.” We can neither blame England for her practical purposes, nor reproach the United States for her desire to accommodate a good customer: business is business; but why these appeals in the name of humanity? Why the indignant outcries against Germany’s successful attempts to check the supply of ammunition for her enemies? The brutal Lusitania affair has merely proved the consistent and consequential policy of Germany; had she not carried out her threats she would have found herself in the ridiculous position of our government which seldom goes beyond threats. Talk about the murder of women and children in time of war! I heard of a polite Frenchman who hurled himself from the top story of the Masonic Temple and removed his hat to apologize before a lady on one of the balconies whose hat he happened to brush on his downward flight. Well, the Germans are not polite.

What is the significance of Mr. Bryan’s resignation? Let us hope it is of no import; let us hope it may cause a change in tone, but not in action. For this country to be dragged into the whirlpool of the world war would be a more unpardonable folly than the puerile Vera Cruz affair. Our entrance into the war would change the actual situation of the fighting powers as much as the solemn declaration of war by the Liliputian San Marino has changed it; in the absence of an army deserving mention we could depend solely upon our navy which would be able to accomplish nothing more than joining in some calm bay the invincible fleet of the Ruler of the Waves and indulge in philosophical watchful waiting. On the other hand official war against Germany will doubtless produce internal friction of the gravest importance. I sayofficial, for unofficially we have been on the side of the Allies for many months despite our theoretical neutrality. Think of the sentiments of the German soldiers when they are showered upon with shells bearing the labels of American manufacturers. Had we not supplied England and France with ammunition, who knows but that they would have found themselves in the same predicament as Russia, that is, in the position of an orchestra without instruments? When we shall have declared war against Germany we shall hardly be in power to harm her more than we have done heretofore; the Allies will do the killing, and we, the manufacturing. But the cat’s-paw-game is ungentlemanly, especially when it is done officially. To be sure, Mr. Wilson is a gentleman; hence our firm hope that he will do nothing more grave than enriching English literature with exemplary Notography.

In his Frankfurt letters Heine wrote:

I have never felt inclined to repose confidence in Prussia. I have rather been filled with anxiety as I gazed upon this Prussian eagle, and while others boasted of the bold way in which he glaredat the sun my attention was drawn more and more to his claws. I never trusted this Prussian, this tall canting hero in gaiters, with his big paunch and his large jaws, and his corporal’s stick, which he dips in holy water before he lays it about your back. I am not overfond of this philosophical Christian militarism, this hodge-podge of thin beer, lies, and sand. I utterly loathe this Prussia, this stiff, hypocritical, sanctimonious Prussia, this Tartuffe among the nations.

Can you blame Wilhelm for opposing the erection of a Heine monument in Düsseldorf? Those lines were written nearly four scores of years ago, a time sufficient for turning epithets obsolete. No longer is Prussia labeled hypocritical and sanctimonious; it is rather accused of rude frankness and insulting tactlessness. Yet the hatred for Prussia has not abated, but has been greatly enhanced. Heine died before the planting of the atrocious Sieges-Allee, that symbol of the triumphant pig; it is in the last forty years that the world has witnessed the development of Prussian forbearance, narrowness, machine-like preciseness, and soullessness. We have always preferred to distinguish Germany from Prussia; we have found delight in the thought that there is a Munich as well as a Berlin, a Nietzsche as well as a Haeckel, a Rheinhard as well as a Bernhardi.... Today we witness the hegemony of Prussia, a hegemony political as well as spiritual, for the great war has crowned with triumph not only the Krupp guns but also the Prussian idea of efficiency and preciseness. Our amazement at the achievements of the lightning-like army that has been almost invariably victorious during the eleven months of fighting and has held in its iron grip two hostile fronts, and our astonishment at the diabolical accomplishment of the submarines which have driven the English fleet to rest in North Scotland and have become the Flying Dutchmen of the seas, pale before our admiration for the wonderful spirit displayed by the German people within their country. Read their press; you find nothing bombastic or boasting, but calm reserve, set teeth, clenched fists, and deadly determination to fight for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. “Weder Schlafpulver noch Tonics!” admonishes Maximilian Harden against drumming up illusionary hopes. “Stirb und werde,” he closes up one of his terse articles in the most virile publication I know of, theZukunft. Bernhardi’s alternative—a World Power or Downfall—is not any longer a mere jingo-rocket but an imperative axiom uniting all Germans in a desperate decision to preserve their national existence in face of a universal hatred and complete isolation. They are not geniuses, those perseverant Teutons; rather are they the reverse of geniuses. They do not rise above reality; they adapt themselves to facts. They refuse to be Quixotic knights; they prefer to emulate Mahomet who went to the mountain when the mountain declined to go unto him; not to ride on the back of conditions and circumstances, but to hold tight their tail and be dragged after them. Herein lies the Teutonic victory, the victory of Blond Beast over Superman, the triumph of mediocrity over uniqueness, of fact over idea, of efficiency over idealism, of state over individual.

Arthur Rimbaud, the close friend of Verlaine, the “ruffian,” according to Mr. Powys (this I shall never forgive him), was capable not only of perceiving the color of vowels but also of foreseeing the political situation forty-five years ahead.L’Eclaireur de Niceprints an interesting statement made by Rimbaud in 1871, a few lines of which I shall reluctantly attempt to translate:

The Germans are by far our inferiors, for the vainer a people is the closer it approaches decadence—history proves it.... They are our inferiors because victory has besotted them. Our chauvinism has received a blow from which it will not recover. The defeat has freed us from stupid prejudice, has transformed and saved us. Yes, they will pay dearly for their victory! In fifty years envious and restless Europe will prepare for them a bold unexpected stroke, and will whip them. I can foresee the administration of iron and folly that will stifle German society and German thought, in the end to be crushed by some coalition!

There has been a good deal of misapprehension concerning Brandes’ attitude towards the war. His refusal to answer the interpellation of his friend Clemenceau, his condemnation of the Russian policy in Finland and of the cowardly and treacherous treatment of the Jews by the Poles, have given cause for suspecting him of pro-German sentiments. In a recent interview with the correspondent of the ParisJournalthe Danish critic avows his full sympathy for France. Although his statement is reserved and plausibly neutral, one easily discerns his dislike for Germany, in whoseDeutschland über Allesmotto he sees a Jesuitic excuse for all means that may lead to her end. “German brutality is not instinctive; it is a scientific one, a theory.” The cause of the war he epitomizes in themotof Pascal: “Pourquoi voulez vous tuer cette homme?”—“Il est mon ennemi: il habite de l’autre côté du fleuve.” Brandes expresses himself more frankly in the DanishTilskueren, where he interprets the war as the struggle between liberalism and personal government, between civil spirit and militarism, between a people (England) which accords others commercial freedom and self-government and a country overridden with economic protectionism, junkers, and bureaucracy. “England has an independent press and a government which voices the parliament and public opinion; in Germany the press is semi-official, the government is responsible solely before the Kaiser, and the Kaiser only before God.”

The French Immortals, too old for actual participation in the war, have found an outlet for their patriotism in shedding red ink of ridiculouschauvinism. It has become a matter of course to meet a name of some “Membre de l’Academie” signed under such outbursts as this: “Nothing of the Barbarians, nothing of their literature, of their music, of their art, of their science, nothing of their culture, of anything Made in Germany!” Another Academic gives vent to his ire against those Frenchmen who still find certain German things worth admiring, and he vehemently advocates the prohibition of the Barbarian music and art “by law, by persuasion, by force, by violence if necessary!” The octogenarian Saint-Saens has written a series of articles venomously attacking Wagnerian music, labeling traitor any Frenchman who favors the art of the arch-foe of his country. Even the semi-officialLe Tempswas shocked by the violent tone of the old composer; it quoted Saint-Saens’s articles of the year 1876, in which the author appeared to be an ardent Wagnerite and appealed to his compatriots for broad-mindedness and toleration for “the greatest genius of our times.” As a substitute for the atrocious Wagner Saint-Saens recommends the return to Haydn and Mozart, even to Meyerbeer; Schumann’s Lieder he would ban for Gounod and Massenet; he favors even Dussek, for he is “only a Bohemian.” Patriotic as he is, he refuses to sanction the modern French composers, since Debussy, Fauré, D’Indy, and the rest are Wagnerians in his estimation. It is a case of “senile reactionarism,” as theMercure de Francerightly observes.

It is very interesting to compare the barometer of public morale in the European capitals, judging from their amusements. Here is one day’s bill taken from the LondonDaily News, the PetrogradRyech, theBerliner Tageblatt, the ViennaNeue Freie Presse, and the ParisFigaro; I have omitted the movies, which bear for the most part ultra-patriotic titles, and the vaudevilles. The London bill is quite poor:Veronique, a comic opera;Mme. Sans-Gene; Gaby Deslys inRosy Rapture, presented by Charles Frohman;The Girl in the Taxi; Frondai’sThe Right to Kill;For England, Home, and Beauty; and our old friends, the Irish Players, in the Little Theatre. Still more meager is the Paris bill: outside ofCavalleria Rusticana(the chairman of the Walt Whitman dinner pronounces it Keyveleeria Rohstikeyna), it abounds with such tit-bits asLa Petite Fonctionaire,Mam’zelle Boy Scout,Mariage de Pepeta, and so forth. Berlin has on that day three operas—Don Juan,Elektra,Lohengrin; three dramas—Faust,Peer Gynt,Schluck und Jau(the last one in Rheinhard’s Deutsches Theater), not counting the minor affairs. Vienna’s bill took away my breath: a Schönberg-Mahler Abend, a Schubert-Strauss Abend, a Beethoven-Brahms Abend, a Brahms Kammermusik Abend, a concert under Sevcik;Carmen; a play by Fulda after Molière; Ibsen’sMaster BuilderandGhosts; Kleist’sKätchen von Heilbronn. As for the Petrograd bill, I had better not say what emotions it has aroused in me. Judge for yourselves: five operas—Traviata,Faust,Pagliacci,Ruslan and Ludmilla,Eugene Onegin; a ballet by Mlle.Krzesinsky; two ballets by Fokin’s company; plays by Ibsen, Mirbo, Andreyev, besidePotash and Perlmutterand other importations; an exhibition of paintings by Lancerè and Dobuzhinsky; a Poeso-Evening by Futurist poets with Igor Severyanin as leader; an Evening of Poetry under K. R. (Grand Duke Konstantine, whose playKing of the Jewsrecently appeared in an English translation); public lectures onThe Blue Birdin Our Days, on Dostoevsky and Nietzsche.... Allow me to stop. Are you inclined to draw conclusions and comparisons between the stage of war-ridden Europe and that of peacefully complacent America? I beg to be excused.

Rostand is a member of the Academy; perhaps this affliction is responsible for his growing hoarseness as a Chantecler. Yet as of all recent war poems his is the best, I feel justified in citing it:

Les CondoléancesBernstorff, pour aller à la Maison Blanche,S’est mis tout en noir.(L’onde a pris, là-bas, la dernière plancheDans son entonnoir.)Il entre, affigé, refuse une chaiseD’un geste contrit.(Des femmes, là-bas, heurtent la falaiseDe leur sein meurtri.)Il tousse une toux de condoléance.Il s’essuie un oeil.(Les enfants noyés tournent en silenceAutour d’un écueil.)Il se mouche. Il dit—son mouchoir embaume:—“Je viens de la partDe Sa Majesté l’Empereur GuillaumeVous dire la part....”Derrière Wilson, dont on aime à croireQue tout le sang bout,Lincoln, la Vertu,—Washington, la Gloire,Se tiennent débout.Le comte Bernstorff ne peut les connaître.Il ne les voit pas.S’il pouvait les voir, il aurait peut-êtreReculé d’un pas.“... Vous dire la part....”—O mornes allures!Touchant trémolo!(Les pêcheurs, là-bas, voient des cheveluresOuvertes sur l’eau.)“... Vous dire la part que nous daignons prendreA votre malheur.”(Les flots verts ont-ils d’autres morts à rendre?Demandez-le-leur!)Bernstorff pleure et dit: “J’ai su ce naufrageEt je suis venu.Ils n’ont pas souffert. Ayez du courage.Ils en ont bien eu.“Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite,Et puis je m’en vais.Mais vous sentez bien que, cette visite,Je vous la devais.“Nous plaignons le sort des enfants, des femmes,Cela va de soi....Ah si vous voyiez tous les télégrammesQue Tirpitz reçoit!“C’est un grand succès pour notre marine.Je suis désolé.Veuillez constater que sur ma marineCe pleur a coulé.“Un pleur magnifique, en cristal de roche.Voyez, c’est exact.Je ne comprends pas que l’on nous reprocheDe manquer de tact.“Berlin se pavoise.—Hélas!—On décoreLe moindre faubourg.Ah je le disais tout à l’heure encoreA Monsieur Dernburg.“Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cacheQuelques pleurs amers—N’est plus sur les mers, il faut que l’on sacheQu’il est sous les mers.“Ceux qui malgré nous voyagent sur l’ondeSont les agresseurs.”(Là-bas, l’eau rapporte une vierge blondeAvec ses trois soeurs.)“LesTipperaryque chez vous on siffleNous ont agacés,Et quand Roosevelt joue avec son rifleNous disons: Assez.“Qu’allaient donc chercher en cette aventureVos Princes de l’Or?”(Là-bas, pour avoir donné sa ceinture,Vanderbilt est mort.)“Il ne faudra pas que ça recommence.Ils sont bien punis.Veuillez exprimer ma douleur immenseAux Etats-Unis.”(Il se fait, là-bas, d’horribles trouvaillesQu’on met sous un drap.)Et Bernstorff reprend: “Pour les funérailles,On me préviendra.“Ce désastre a fait, en Bourse allemande,Monteur les valeurs.On me préviendra pour que je commandeLes plus belles fleurs.”Et comme Wilson dit, d’une voix sombre:“Nous verrons demain,”Et sent Washington et Lincoln, dans l’ombre,Lui prendre la main,Bernstorff, en pleurant, regagne la porte ...(Il y a, là-bas,Deux petits enfants qu’une femme morteSerre entre ses bras.)

Bernstorff, pour aller à la Maison Blanche,S’est mis tout en noir.(L’onde a pris, là-bas, la dernière plancheDans son entonnoir.)Il entre, affigé, refuse une chaiseD’un geste contrit.(Des femmes, là-bas, heurtent la falaiseDe leur sein meurtri.)Il tousse une toux de condoléance.Il s’essuie un oeil.(Les enfants noyés tournent en silenceAutour d’un écueil.)Il se mouche. Il dit—son mouchoir embaume:—“Je viens de la partDe Sa Majesté l’Empereur GuillaumeVous dire la part....”Derrière Wilson, dont on aime à croireQue tout le sang bout,Lincoln, la Vertu,—Washington, la Gloire,Se tiennent débout.Le comte Bernstorff ne peut les connaître.Il ne les voit pas.S’il pouvait les voir, il aurait peut-êtreReculé d’un pas.“... Vous dire la part....”—O mornes allures!Touchant trémolo!(Les pêcheurs, là-bas, voient des cheveluresOuvertes sur l’eau.)“... Vous dire la part que nous daignons prendreA votre malheur.”(Les flots verts ont-ils d’autres morts à rendre?Demandez-le-leur!)Bernstorff pleure et dit: “J’ai su ce naufrageEt je suis venu.Ils n’ont pas souffert. Ayez du courage.Ils en ont bien eu.“Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite,Et puis je m’en vais.Mais vous sentez bien que, cette visite,Je vous la devais.“Nous plaignons le sort des enfants, des femmes,Cela va de soi....Ah si vous voyiez tous les télégrammesQue Tirpitz reçoit!“C’est un grand succès pour notre marine.Je suis désolé.Veuillez constater que sur ma marineCe pleur a coulé.“Un pleur magnifique, en cristal de roche.Voyez, c’est exact.Je ne comprends pas que l’on nous reprocheDe manquer de tact.“Berlin se pavoise.—Hélas!—On décoreLe moindre faubourg.Ah je le disais tout à l’heure encoreA Monsieur Dernburg.“Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cacheQuelques pleurs amers—N’est plus sur les mers, il faut que l’on sacheQu’il est sous les mers.“Ceux qui malgré nous voyagent sur l’ondeSont les agresseurs.”(Là-bas, l’eau rapporte une vierge blondeAvec ses trois soeurs.)“LesTipperaryque chez vous on siffleNous ont agacés,Et quand Roosevelt joue avec son rifleNous disons: Assez.“Qu’allaient donc chercher en cette aventureVos Princes de l’Or?”(Là-bas, pour avoir donné sa ceinture,Vanderbilt est mort.)“Il ne faudra pas que ça recommence.Ils sont bien punis.Veuillez exprimer ma douleur immenseAux Etats-Unis.”(Il se fait, là-bas, d’horribles trouvaillesQu’on met sous un drap.)Et Bernstorff reprend: “Pour les funérailles,On me préviendra.“Ce désastre a fait, en Bourse allemande,Monteur les valeurs.On me préviendra pour que je commandeLes plus belles fleurs.”Et comme Wilson dit, d’une voix sombre:“Nous verrons demain,”Et sent Washington et Lincoln, dans l’ombre,Lui prendre la main,Bernstorff, en pleurant, regagne la porte ...(Il y a, là-bas,Deux petits enfants qu’une femme morteSerre entre ses bras.)

Bernstorff, pour aller à la Maison Blanche,S’est mis tout en noir.(L’onde a pris, là-bas, la dernière plancheDans son entonnoir.)

Bernstorff, pour aller à la Maison Blanche,

S’est mis tout en noir.

(L’onde a pris, là-bas, la dernière planche

Dans son entonnoir.)

Il entre, affigé, refuse une chaiseD’un geste contrit.(Des femmes, là-bas, heurtent la falaiseDe leur sein meurtri.)

Il entre, affigé, refuse une chaise

D’un geste contrit.

(Des femmes, là-bas, heurtent la falaise

De leur sein meurtri.)

Il tousse une toux de condoléance.Il s’essuie un oeil.(Les enfants noyés tournent en silenceAutour d’un écueil.)

Il tousse une toux de condoléance.

Il s’essuie un oeil.

(Les enfants noyés tournent en silence

Autour d’un écueil.)

Il se mouche. Il dit—son mouchoir embaume:—“Je viens de la partDe Sa Majesté l’Empereur GuillaumeVous dire la part....”

Il se mouche. Il dit—son mouchoir embaume:—

“Je viens de la part

De Sa Majesté l’Empereur Guillaume

Vous dire la part....”

Derrière Wilson, dont on aime à croireQue tout le sang bout,Lincoln, la Vertu,—Washington, la Gloire,Se tiennent débout.

Derrière Wilson, dont on aime à croire

Que tout le sang bout,

Lincoln, la Vertu,—Washington, la Gloire,

Se tiennent débout.

Le comte Bernstorff ne peut les connaître.Il ne les voit pas.S’il pouvait les voir, il aurait peut-êtreReculé d’un pas.

Le comte Bernstorff ne peut les connaître.

Il ne les voit pas.

S’il pouvait les voir, il aurait peut-être

Reculé d’un pas.

“... Vous dire la part....”—O mornes allures!Touchant trémolo!(Les pêcheurs, là-bas, voient des cheveluresOuvertes sur l’eau.)

“... Vous dire la part....”—O mornes allures!

Touchant trémolo!

(Les pêcheurs, là-bas, voient des chevelures

Ouvertes sur l’eau.)

“... Vous dire la part que nous daignons prendreA votre malheur.”(Les flots verts ont-ils d’autres morts à rendre?Demandez-le-leur!)

“... Vous dire la part que nous daignons prendre

A votre malheur.”

(Les flots verts ont-ils d’autres morts à rendre?

Demandez-le-leur!)

Bernstorff pleure et dit: “J’ai su ce naufrageEt je suis venu.Ils n’ont pas souffert. Ayez du courage.Ils en ont bien eu.

Bernstorff pleure et dit: “J’ai su ce naufrage

Et je suis venu.

Ils n’ont pas souffert. Ayez du courage.

Ils en ont bien eu.

“Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite,Et puis je m’en vais.Mais vous sentez bien que, cette visite,Je vous la devais.

“Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite,

Et puis je m’en vais.

Mais vous sentez bien que, cette visite,

Je vous la devais.

“Nous plaignons le sort des enfants, des femmes,Cela va de soi....Ah si vous voyiez tous les télégrammesQue Tirpitz reçoit!

“Nous plaignons le sort des enfants, des femmes,

Cela va de soi....

Ah si vous voyiez tous les télégrammes

Que Tirpitz reçoit!

“C’est un grand succès pour notre marine.Je suis désolé.Veuillez constater que sur ma marineCe pleur a coulé.

“C’est un grand succès pour notre marine.

Je suis désolé.

Veuillez constater que sur ma marine

Ce pleur a coulé.

“Un pleur magnifique, en cristal de roche.Voyez, c’est exact.Je ne comprends pas que l’on nous reprocheDe manquer de tact.

“Un pleur magnifique, en cristal de roche.

Voyez, c’est exact.

Je ne comprends pas que l’on nous reproche

De manquer de tact.

“Berlin se pavoise.—Hélas!—On décoreLe moindre faubourg.Ah je le disais tout à l’heure encoreA Monsieur Dernburg.

“Berlin se pavoise.—Hélas!—On décore

Le moindre faubourg.

Ah je le disais tout à l’heure encore

A Monsieur Dernburg.

“Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cacheQuelques pleurs amers—N’est plus sur les mers, il faut que l’on sacheQu’il est sous les mers.

“Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cache

Quelques pleurs amers—

N’est plus sur les mers, il faut que l’on sache

Qu’il est sous les mers.

“Ceux qui malgré nous voyagent sur l’ondeSont les agresseurs.”(Là-bas, l’eau rapporte une vierge blondeAvec ses trois soeurs.)

“Ceux qui malgré nous voyagent sur l’onde

Sont les agresseurs.”

(Là-bas, l’eau rapporte une vierge blonde

Avec ses trois soeurs.)

“LesTipperaryque chez vous on siffleNous ont agacés,Et quand Roosevelt joue avec son rifleNous disons: Assez.

“LesTipperaryque chez vous on siffle

Nous ont agacés,

Et quand Roosevelt joue avec son rifle

Nous disons: Assez.

“Qu’allaient donc chercher en cette aventureVos Princes de l’Or?”(Là-bas, pour avoir donné sa ceinture,Vanderbilt est mort.)

“Qu’allaient donc chercher en cette aventure

Vos Princes de l’Or?”

(Là-bas, pour avoir donné sa ceinture,

Vanderbilt est mort.)

“Il ne faudra pas que ça recommence.Ils sont bien punis.Veuillez exprimer ma douleur immenseAux Etats-Unis.”

“Il ne faudra pas que ça recommence.

Ils sont bien punis.

Veuillez exprimer ma douleur immense

Aux Etats-Unis.”

(Il se fait, là-bas, d’horribles trouvaillesQu’on met sous un drap.)Et Bernstorff reprend: “Pour les funérailles,On me préviendra.

(Il se fait, là-bas, d’horribles trouvailles

Qu’on met sous un drap.)

Et Bernstorff reprend: “Pour les funérailles,

On me préviendra.

“Ce désastre a fait, en Bourse allemande,Monteur les valeurs.On me préviendra pour que je commandeLes plus belles fleurs.”

“Ce désastre a fait, en Bourse allemande,

Monteur les valeurs.

On me préviendra pour que je commande

Les plus belles fleurs.”

Et comme Wilson dit, d’une voix sombre:“Nous verrons demain,”Et sent Washington et Lincoln, dans l’ombre,Lui prendre la main,

Et comme Wilson dit, d’une voix sombre:

“Nous verrons demain,”

Et sent Washington et Lincoln, dans l’ombre,

Lui prendre la main,

Bernstorff, en pleurant, regagne la porte ...(Il y a, là-bas,Deux petits enfants qu’une femme morteSerre entre ses bras.)

Bernstorff, en pleurant, regagne la porte ...

(Il y a, là-bas,

Deux petits enfants qu’une femme morte

Serre entre ses bras.)

Another result of the war, already sufficiently crystallized, is the bankruptcy of the illusionary spirit of internationalism. In his remarkable book[1]Mr. Walling has taken the trouble of quoting resolutions of national sections of the Socialist party the world over, before and during the war.With a few significant exceptions the Socialists of the warring nations have had to exchange their erstwhile slogan “Workers of the world, be united!” for the less noble motto “Defend your country!” Even when the European armies had already been mobilized the Socialists held protest meetings at which they threatened to call a general strike if war should be declared. But with the first cannon boom the theoretic brotherhood evaporated and gave way to patriotic sentiments. The workers declared that they were Germans, Russians, etc., first, then Socialists. True, in the beginning the German Socialists claimed that they were fighting against the reactionary Czardom, while the Socialists of the Allies tried to justify the international carnage as the struggle against Prussian militarism; but ultimately such clear-headed thinkers as Kautsky and some of the English Socialists came to see the futility of endeavoring to discover idealistic causes for the mutual slaughter. The country is in danger, consequently we must defend it, regardless of the rightness or wrongness of its policy—this is the prevailing sentiment among the workers. The grandiose structure of the International has fallen in ruins; the “scientific” theories and calculations of the Marxians have received a blow by the underestimated imponderabilia, that of primitive patriotism. On the other hand, “applied” Socialism has won a considerable victory with the development of the war. Nearly all the belligerent countries have adopted State-Socialism in such measures as the nationalization of railways and means of production. The capitalists are evidently shrewd enough to utilize the doctrines of their opponents in time of need and thus to neutralize the sting of that very opposition. What will become of Socialism when at least its minimum-program is accepted and put into practice by thecapitalisticorder without the aid of a social revolution, the inevitability of which has been scientifically proven by Marx and his disciples?

[1]The Socialists and the War, by William English Walling. New York: Henry Holt and Company.

Artists should not see things as they are; they should see them fuller, simpler, stronger: to this end, however, a kind of youthfulness, of vernality, a sort of perpetual elation, must be peculiar to their lives.—Nietzsche.

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