It is interesting to contrast the ornate and flamboyant being whom we know as Kaiser Wilhelm the Second with Carlyle's famous description of the great Frederick:—
"A highly interesting lean little old man, of alert though slightly stooping figure; whose name among strangers was King Friedrich the Second, or Frederick the Great of Prussia, and at home among the common people, who much loved and esteemed him, was Vater Fritz,—Father Fred,—a name of familiarity which had not bred contempt in that instance. He is a King every inch of him, though without the trappings of a King. Presents himself in a Spartan simplicity of vesture; no crown but an old military cocked-hat,—generally old, or trampled and kneaded into absolute softness, if new;—no sceptre but one like Agamemnon's, a walking-stick cut from the woods, which serves also as a riding-stick (with which he hits the horse 'between the ears' say authors);—and for royal robes, a mere soldier's blue coat with red facings, coat likely to be old, and sure to have a good deal of Spanish snuff on the breast of it; rest of the apparel dim, unobtrusive in colour or cut, ending in high over-knee military boots, which may be brushed (and, I hope, kept soft with an underhand suspicion of oil), but are not permitted to be blackened or varnished; Day and Martin with their soot-pots forbidden to approach.
"The man is not of godlike physiognomy, any more than of imposing stature or costume; close-shut mouth with thin lips, prominent jaws and nose, receding brow, by no means of Olympian height; head, however, is of long form, and has superlative gray eyes in it. Not what is called a beautiful man; nor yet, by all appearance, what is called a happy. On the contrary, the face bears evidence of many sorrows, as they are termed, of much hard labour done in this world; and seems to anticipate nothing but more still coming. Quiet stoicism, capable enough of what joy there were, but not expecting any worth mention; great unconscious and some conscious pride, well tempered with a cheery mockery of humour,—are written on that old face; which carries its chin well forward, in spite of the slight stoop about the neck; snuffy nose rather flung into the air under its old cocked hat,—like an old snuffy lion on the watch; and such a pair of eyes as no man or lion or lynx of that century bore elsewhere, according to all the testimony we have."—Carlyle, History of Frederick the Great, Bk. I. chap. i.
[[4]] A friend who has been kind enough to read the proofs of this volume takes exception to the rating of Antichrist. The Devil, he maintains, is not at all a clever or profound spirit, though he is exceedingly industrious. The conception of him in the old Mystery Plays, where he figures as a kind of butt, whose elaborate and painfully constructed schemes are continually being upset owing to some ridiculous oversight, or by some trivial accident, is the true Satan; the Miltonic idea is a poetical myth, not in the least borne out by human experience.
CHAPTER VI
GERMAN MISCALCULATIONS
In the world's play-house there are a number of prominent and well-placed seats, which the instinct of veneration among mankind insists on reserving for Super-men; and as mankind is never content unless the seats of the super-men are well filled, 'the Management'—in other words, the press, the publicists, and other manipulators of opinion—have to do the best they can to find super-men to sit in them. When that is impossible, it is customary to burnish up, fig out, and pass off various colourable substitutes whom it is thought, may be trusted to comport themselves with propriety until the curtain falls. But those resplendent creatures whom we know so well by sight and fame, and upon whom all eyes and opera-glasses are directed during the entr'-actes, are for the most part not super-men at all, but merely what, in the slang of the box-office, is known as 'paper.' Indeed there have been long periods, even generations, during which the supposed super-men have been wholly 'paper.'
Of course so long as the super-men substitutes have only to walk to their places, to bow, smile, frown, overawe, and be admired, everything goes safely enough. The audience is satisfied and the 'management' rubs its hands. But if anything has to be done beyond this parade business, if the unexpected happens, if, for instance, there is an alarm of fire—in which case the example set by the super-creatures might be of inestimable assistance—the 'paper' element is certain to crumple up, according to the laws of its nature, being after all but dried pulp. Something of this kind appears to have happened in various great countries during the weeks which immediately preceded and followed the outbreak of war, and in none was the crumpling up of the supermen substitutes more noticeable than in Germany.
The thoroughness of the German race is no empty boast. All the world knows as much by experience in peace as well as war. Consequently, people had said to themselves: "However it may be with other nations, in Germany at all events the strings of foreign policy are firmly held in giant fingers." But as day succeeded day, unmasking one miscalculation after another, it became clear that there must have been at least as much 'paper' in the political high places of Germany as elsewhere.