II.
The bellicose minority, more active and strenuous, included, in the first place, the war party of which I have spoken in Chapter III. But by the side of the violently aggressive Germans there were more lukewarm spirits; by the side of the Pan-Germans and the disciples of Von der Goltz and Bernhardi there were men of a philosophic cast, who saw war coming as an inevitable necessity, a crisis decreed by fate, essential to the well-being and development of the Empire. The shades of difference among them were as varied as the colours in a prism.
Among the nobles of South Germany, for instance, the military traditions of their families were tinged with regret for the old days of independence and with a certain ill-feeling towards Prussia. It was the same with the aristocracy of Hanover, an impoverished caste (apart from a few great landowners), devoted to the profession of arms, and still loyal to the memory of their generous treatment by the English dynasty, which they liked to contrast with the stinginess of the Hohenzollerns. In the Rhine provinces, the former contact with France had left unmistakable traces upon the upper classes, among whom French culture did not arouse the same scorn and detestation as in the north and east of the Empire. For all these patricians a fresh war—in other words fresh victories—meant an even more complete triumph for Prussian supremacy, and an end of all autonomy for the smaller States. If the heart of the soldier in them beat faster at the thought of Germany’s latter-day glory, the eyes of the provincial grew sombre as they saw the shadows threaten to engulf all that was left to them of a still cherished past.
The great Liberal middle class has always prided itself on a patriotism no less watchful than that of the landed gentry. Its representatives in the Reichstag, as I have pointed out, voted for all the army bills as unfailingly as the Conservatives. This was not the quarter from which any aid could be expected, especially after Agadir, in an attempt to draw closer to France. Yet it seems to me that not a few middle-class millionaires must have been led, by their personal share in financial and industrial concerns, to wish for a continued spell of peace. In such matters it is impossible to dogmatize; but can we believe that these cool heads, these astute calculators, inclined to the view that, under the whip-lash of victory, German wealth would take a tremendous leap forward, and that the products of the national labour would swamp the markets of the globe? For my part, I think that they were too shrewd to have any hope of stifling English and American competition otherwise than by unremitting efforts in their own sphere.
On the other hand, those who supplied the Empire with its guns and its rifles, with the armour-plates of its navy and the equipment of its soldiers, must have rubbed their hands with glee when they saw the signs that heralded a fresh war, since its first effect would be to increase tenfold the output of their workshops. Other manufacturers persisted in looking on all Frenchmen as revolutionaries, dangerous models for the German labourer to copy. Their hatred of the republican system was enhanced by the fear of strikes, for which these undesirable neighbours set the example. In spite of the formidable barriers raised by the most monarchical State in the world, they still dreaded the wind of emancipation and liberty that might in the long run cross the Vosges and bring unrest to the disciplined spirit of the German toilers.
It would be a gross overstatement to say that the followers of the liberal vocations were for the most part in favour of a new European conflict. Many of them were by nature men of peace; many, again, were far too much immersed in professional duties and research work to trouble their heads about politics. Yet all the highly-educated element in Germany, all those whose minds had been trained by intensive methods, issued from the same mould, that of the public schools and universities, where the fire of a white-hot patriotism was kept alive. Almost all of the younger generation, from one end of the Empire to another, had been faced, while still at their lessons, with the dilemma which Bernhardi summed up for his readers in the words: “Weltmacht oder Niedergang!” (“World Power or Downfall!”) Among university students and even the pupils of the Gymnasien (highest-grade schools), knotty problems were hotly discussed. Had the era of great wars vanished for ever? Had not Germany, girt, like the Siegfried of her legends, with an invincible sword, come too late into the lists, at a time when the struggle to carve the world had reached its end? Was Germany therefore to rest content, in cowardly fashion, with her humble lot, or should she throw down the gauntlet to those who held these rich spoils in fee? As time went on, these questions grew more and more pressing, while no change took place in the relative position of the great Powers.
German literature, drawing inspiration from Tolstoi, the Scandinavian masters, and the French writers, was extremely fond of painting social distress. Although much given to criticism, often severe, of the privileged classes, it never, so far as I know, inveighed against war and the abuse of might. Vivid sketches of officers, scathing satires on their vices and on the brutalities of Prussian discipline—of these there was enough and to spare. They were often very well written; some have been translated into French and produced with success on the Parisian stage. No eminent playwright or novelist of the day in Germany, however, spoke out boldly on behalf of peace and disarmament. Their pens pricked individual types, and often drew blood; but they always respected, nay, even glorified the army, as a sacred institution, the solid pillar of the Germanic union, the instrument of its greatness to come.
The university professors, taken as a whole, were one of the most fiery elements of the nation. Not only did they inflame with their teachings the youthful minds entrusted to their care, and stamp them with an indelible imprint of nationalism, but they did not shrink from criticising the policy, too timid for their liking, pursued by the Imperial Government. I have in my possession letters from provincial savants, in which the Convention of November 4, 1911, is branded as a disgrace, and the name of Kiderlen-Wächter held up to the scorn of every German. One of them wrote: “Such a scandal will not occur again. Germany, conscious of herself and realizing her strength, will no longer tolerate a peaceful settlement of such affairs.”
When all is said and done, the resolute champions of war—the only war in question being one with France, the opponent whose name was constantly cropping up in the patriotic books and journals—formed, so far as I could see, a rather small minority of the nation. This impression, which I gathered from my stay in Berlin and my travels about the provinces, both rich and poor, remains firmly fixed in my mind. When I call up the picture of this tranquil people, going steadily about its business every week-day, or comfortably seated every Sunday at the café tables and drinking the national glass of beer, I can remember nothing but those placid faces, on which violent passions, antipathy to the foreigner, and even the feverish stress of the battle for existence, had left none of those marks which I have sometimes observed elsewhere as a looker-on at the human crowd.