_April 10, 1915._

XIV. WAR LITERATURE

The intellectuals on both sides have been much in evidence since the beginning of the war; they have, indeed, brought so much violence and pa.s.sion to bear upon it, that it might almost be called their war!

It seems to me, however, that attention has not been sufficiently drawn to the fact that, with a few exceptions, it is only the voice of the older generation that has been heard--the voice of Academicians, and Professoren, of distinguished members of the press and the universities, of poets of established reputations, and the doyens of literature, art, and science.

As far as France is concerned, the explanation of this is simple: nearly all those up to the age of forty-eight who are able to bear arms are now acting instead of talking. In Germany the situation is rather different, since for various reasons, which I shall not attempt to elucidate, much of the literary youth of the nation has remained at home, and continues to publish books. Even those who are at the front contrive to send articles and poems to the Reviews (for the pa.s.sion for writing dies hard in Germany).

It seems to me to be of importance to ascertain what spiritual currents are influencing the young intellectuals of Germany.[29]

It has been pointed out that in all countries the extremest views have been expressed by writers who have already pa.s.sed _el mezzo del cammino_. We shall attempt to find the reason for this at some later date. At present we are content again to verify this fact in the case of German writers. Almost all the celebrated and acknowledged poets, all those who were rich in years and in honor, were swept off their feet at the beginning of the war. And this fact is all the more curious because some of them had been up to that time the apostles of peace, of pity, and of humanitarianism. Dehmel, the enemy of war, the friend of all men, who said that he did not know to which of the ten nationalities he owed his intellect, is now writing Battle Songs (_Schlachtenlieder_), and Songs of the Flag (_Fahnenlieder_), apostrophizing the enemy, praising and dealing death. (At the age of fifty-one he is learning to bear arms, and has enlisted against the Russians.) Gerhart Hauptmann, whom Fritz von Unruh calls "the poet of brotherly love," has shaken off his neurasthenia, and bids men "mow down the gra.s.s which drips with blood."

Franz Wedekind is pouring out invectives against Czarism, Lissauer against England. Arno Holz is raving deliriously. Petzold desires to be in every bullet that enters an enemy's heart; whilst Richard Nordhausen has written an Ode to a Howitzer.[30]

At first the younger writers as well were possessed with the same madness for war; but, in contact with the sufferings they endured and inflicted, it quickly disappeared. Fritz von Unruh enlisted as a Uhlan, and left for the front, crying "Paris, Paris is our goal!" Since the Battle of the Aisne, in September, he has written "Der Lamm": "_Lamb of G.o.d, I have seen thy look of suffering. Give us peace and rest; lead us back to the heaven of love, and give us back our dead_." Rudolf Leonhard sang of war at the beginning, and is still fighting; on re-reading his poems shortly afterwards, he wrote on the front page: "_These were written during the madness of the first weeks. That madness has spent itself, and only our strength is left. We shall again win control over ourselves and love one another._" Poets, hitherto unknown, are revealed by the cry of compa.s.sion wrung from their anguished hearts.

To Andrea Fram, who has remained at home, it is a grief that he does not suffer, whilst thousands of others suffer and die. "_All thy love, and all thy agony, in spite of thy ardent desire, avail not to soothe the last hour of a single man who is dying yonder._" Upon Ludwig Marck each minute weighs like a nightmare:--

Menschen in Not....

Bruder dir tot....

Krieg ist im Land....

The poet who writes under the pseudonym of Dr. Owlgla.s.s proposed a new ideal for Germany, on the seventieth anniversary of the birth of Nietzsche (October 15th): not the superman, but at least--man. And Franz Werfel realizes this ideal in poems thrilling with a mournful humanity, which takes part in the sacrament of misery and death:

"_We are bound together not only by our common words and deeds, but still more by the dying glance, the last hours, the mortal anguish of the breaking heart. And whether you bow down before the tyrant, or gaze trembling into the beloved's countenance, or mark down your enemy with pitiless glance, think of the eye that will grow dim, of the failing breath, the parched lips and clenched hands, the final solitude, and the brow that grows moist in the last agony.... Be kind.... Tenderness is wisdom, kindness is reason[31].... We are strangers all upon this earth, and die but to be reunited._"[32]

But the one German poet who has written the serenest and loftiest words, and preserved in the midst of this demoniacal war an att.i.tude worthy of Goethe, is Hermann Hesse. He continues to live at Berne, and, sheltered there from the moral contagion, he has deliberately kept aloof from the combat. All will remember his n.o.ble article in the _Neue Zurcher Zeitung_ of November 3rd, "_O Freunde, nicht diese Tone!_" in which he implored the artists and thinkers of Europe "to save what little peace"

might yet be saved, and not to join with their pens in destroying the future of Europe. Since then he has written some beautiful poems, one of which, an Invocation to Peace, is inspired with deep feeling and cla.s.sical simplicity, and will find its way to many an oppressed heart.

Jeder hat's gehabt Keiner hat's geschatzt.

Jeden hat der susse Quell gelabt.

O wie klingt der Name Friede jetzt!

Klingt so fern und zag, Klingt so tranenschwer, Keiner weiss und kennt den Tag, Jeder sehnt ihn vol Verlangen her....

("Each one possessed it, but no one prized it. Like a cool spring it refreshed us all. What a sound the word Peace has for us now!

"Distant it sounds, and fearful, and heavy with tears. No one knows or can name the day for which all sigh with such longing.")

The att.i.tude of the younger reviews is curious: for whereas the older, traditional reviews (those which correspond to our _Revue des Deux Mondes_ or our _Revue de Paris_) are more or less affected by military fervor--thus, for instance, the _Neue Rundschau_, which printed Thomas Mann's notorious vagaries on Culture and Civilization (_Gedanken im Kriege_)--many of the younger ones affect a haughty detachment from actual events.

That impa.s.sive publication, _Blatter fur die Kunst_, over which broods the invisible personality of Stefan George, published at the end of 1914 a volume of poems of 156 pages, which did not contain a single line referring to the war. A note at the end affirms that the points of view of the various authors have not changed on account of recent events, and antic.i.p.ates the objection that "this is not the time for poetry," by the saying of Jean Paul: "No period has so much need of poetry, as the one which thinks it can do without it."

_Die Aktion_, a vibrating, audacious Berlin review, with an ultra-modern point of view, totally different from the calm impersonality of _Blatter fur die Kunst_, stated in its issue of August 15, 1914, that it would not concern itself with politics, but would contain only literature and art. And if it finds room in its literary columns for the war poems sent from the field of battle by the military doctors, Wilhelm Klemm and Hans k.o.c.k, it is in consideration of their value as art, and not for the vivacity of their patriotic sentiments; for it scoffs mercilessly at the ridiculous bards of German Chauvinism, at Heinrich Vierordt, the author of _Deutschland, ha.s.se_, at the criminal poets who stir up hatred with their false stories, and at Professor Haeckel. The dilettantism of this review is extreme. Its weekly issues contain translations from the French of Andre Gide, Peguy, and Leon Bloy, and reproductions of the works of Daumier, Delacroix, Cezanne, Matisse, and R. de la Fresnaye: (cubism flourishes in this Berlin review). The issue of October 24th is devoted to Peguy, and contains, as frontispiece, Egon Schiele's portrait of the man, who is honored by Franz Pfemfert, the editor, as "the purest and most vigorous moral force in French literature of today." Let us hasten to add, however, that, as is often the case on the other side of the Rhine, they are carried away by their zeal in deploring his death as of one of their countrymen, and in proclaiming themselves his heirs. But the pride which admires is at least superior to the pride which disparages.

The most important of these young reviews is _Die Weissen Blatter_; important on account of the variety of questions it deals with, and the value and number of its contributors, as well as for the broad-mindedness of its editor--Rene Schickele. An Alsatian by birth, he belongs to those who feel most acutely the bitterness of the present struggle. After an interval of three months _Die Weissen Blatter_, which almost corresponds to our _Nouvelle Revue Francaise_, reappeared in January last with the following declaration, akin to that of the _Revue des Nations_, at Berne. "_It seems good to us to begin the work of reconstruction, in the midst of the war, and to aid in preparing for the victory of the spirit. The community of Europe is at present apparently destroyed. Is it not the duty of all of us who are not bearing arms, to live from today onwards according to the dictates of our conscience, as it will be the duty of every German when once the war is over?_"

By the side of these disinterested manifestoes about actual politics, appear lengthy historical novels (_Tycho Brahe_ by Max Brod) and satirical comedies by Carl Sternheim, who continues to scourge the upper cla.s.ses of German society, and the capitalists, for _Die Weissen Blatter_ is open to all questions of the day. But in spite of the actual differences which must necessarily exist between a German and a French review, we cannot but point out the frankly hostile att.i.tude of these writers to all the excesses of Chauvinism. The articles of Max Scheler, "Europe and the War," show an impartial att.i.tude which is entirely praiseworthy. The review opens its columns to the loyal Annette Kolb, who, as the daughter of a German father and of a French mother, suffers keenly in this conflict between the parts of her nature, and has lately raised a tempest in Dresden, where in a public lecture she had the courage to admit her fidelity to both sides, and to express her regret that Germany should fail to understand France. In the February number, under the t.i.tle "Ganz niedrich hangen!" there appeared a violent repudiation of the _Krieg mit dem Maul_ (the war of tongues); "_If journalists hope to inspire courage by insulting the enemy, they are mistaken--we refuse such stimulants. We dare to maintain our opinion, that the humblest volunteer of the enemy, who from an unreasoned but exalted sentiment of patriotism, fires upon us from an ambush, knowing well what he risks, is much superior to those journalists who profit by the public feeling of the day, and under cover of high-sounding words of patriotism do not fight the enemy but spit upon him._"

Of all these young writers who are striving to preserve the integrity of their minds against the force of national pa.s.sions, the one whose personality has been most exalted by this tempest, the most eloquent, courageous, and decided of all is Wilhelm Herzog. He is the editor of the _Forum_ at Munich, and like our own Peguy, when he began to publish his _Cahiers de la Quinzaine_, he fills almost the whole of his review with his own burning articles. The enthusiastic biographer of H. von Kleist, he sees and judges the events of his own time with the eyes of that indomitable spirit. The German censor attempts in vain to silence him and to forbid the publication of the lectures of Spitteler and of Annette Kolb; his indignation and cries of vengeful irony spread even to us. He attacks bitterly the ninety-three intellectuals who "_fancy they are all Ajaxes because they bray the loudest_," those politicians of the school of Haeckel, who make a new division of the world, those patriotic bards who insult other nations; he attacks Thomas Mann mercilessly, scoffs at his sophistry, and defends France, the French Army,[33] and French civilization against him; he points out that the great men of Germany (Grunwald, Durer, Bach, and Mozart amongst others) have always been persecuted, humiliated, and calumniated.[34] In an article ent.i.tled "_Der neue Geist_,"[35] after having scoffed at the ba.n.a.lity that has reappeared in the German theaters, and the literary mediocrity of patriotic productions, he asked where this "new spirit" may be found, and this gives him an opportunity to demolish Ostwald and La.s.son.

"_Where is it to be found? In the Hochschulen? Have we not read that incredibly clumsy_ (unwahrscheinlich plumpen) _appeal of the 99 professors? Have we not appreciated the statements of that double centenarian_ (des zweihundertjahrige Mummelgreises) _mummy La.s.son? When I was studying philosophy as an undergraduate at the University of Berlin, the theatre in which he lectured was a place of amus.e.m.e.nt_ (Lachkabinett) _for us--nothing more. And today people take him seriously! English, French, and Italian papers print his senile babblings against Holland, as typical of the_ Stimmung _of the German intellectuals. The wrong that these privy councillors and professors have done us with their Aufklarungsarbeit can hardly be measured. They have isolated themselves from humanity by their inability to realize the feelings of others._"

In opposition to these false representatives of a nation, these cultured gossips and political adventurers, he extols the silent ones, the great ma.s.s of the people of all nations who suffer in silence; and he joins with them in "the invisible community of sorrow."

"_One who is suffering and knows that his sorrow is shared by millions of other beings, will bear it calmly; he will accept it willingly even, because he knows that he is enriched thereby, made stronger, more tender, more humane._"[36]

And he quotes the words of old Meister Eckehart: "_Suffering is the fastest steed that will bear you to perfection._"

At the close of this summary review of the young writers of the war, a place must be found for those whom the war has crushed--they counted amongst the best. Ernst Stadler was an enthusiastic admirer of French art and of the French spirit. He translated Francis Jammes, and on the eve of his death, in November, he was writing to Stefan Zweig from the trenches about the poems of Verlaine, which he was translating. The unfortunate George Trakl, the poet of melancholy, was made lieutenant of a sanitary column in Galicia, and the sight of so much suffering drove him to despair and death. And there are many hidden tragedies, still unrevealed. When they are made known, humanity will tremble in contemplating its handiwork.

I reflected, as doubtless many of my French readers have also done, in reading through these German writings inspired by the war--writings through which from time to time there pa.s.ses a mighty breath of revolt and sorrow--that our young writers are not writing "literature." Instead of books they give us deeds, and their letters. And in re-reading some of their letters I thought that ours had chosen the better part. It is not for me now to point out the position that this heroic correspondence will occupy, not only in our history but also in our literature. Into it the flower of our youth has put all its life, its faith and its genius: and for some of those letters I would give many of the finest lines of the n.o.blest poems. Whatever be the result of this war, and the opinion as to its value later, it will be recognized that France has written on paper, mud-stained and often blotted with blood, some of its sublimest pages. a.s.suredly this war touches us more nearly than it does our adversaries, for who of us would have the heart to write a play or a novel whilst his country is in danger and his brothers dying?

But I will make no comparisons between the two nations. For the present the essential thing is to show that even in Germany there are certain finer minds who are fighting against the spirit which we hate--the spirit of grasping imperialism and inhuman pride, of military caste and the megalomania of pedants. They are but a minority--we have no illusions about that--and we ought to redouble our efforts on that account to vanquish the common enemy. Why then should we trouble to make these generous but feeble voices heard? Because their merit is the greater for being so little heeded; because it is the duty of those who are fighting for justice to render justice in their turn to all those men, even when they dwell in a country in which the state represents the violation of right by _Faustrecht_, who are defending with us the spirit of liberty.

_Journal de Geneve_, April 19, 1915.

XV. THE MURDER OF THE eLITE

The phrase is not new-coined today;[37] but the fact is. Never in any period, have we seen humanity throwing into the b.l.o.o.d.y arena all its intellectual and moral reserves, its priests, its thinkers, its scholars, its artists, the whole future of the spirit--wasting its geniuses as food for cannon.

A great thing, doubtless, when the struggle is great, when a people fights for an eternal cause, the fervor of which fires the whole nation, from the smallest to the greatest; when it fuses all the egoisms, purifies desire, and out of many souls makes one unanimous soul. But if the cause be suspect or if it is tainted (as we judge that of our adversaries to be), what will be the situation of a moral elite which has preserved the sad and lofty privilege of perceiving at least a part of the truth, and which must nevertheless fight and die and kill for a faith which it doubts?

Those pa.s.sionate natures that are intoxicated by fighting or are voluntarily blinded by the necessities of action are not troubled by these questions. For them the enemy is a single ma.s.s; nothing else exists for them but this, for they have to break it; it is their function and their duty. And to each his special duty. But if minorities do not exist for such men, they do exist for us who, since we are not fighting, have the liberty and the duty to see every aspect of the case--we who form part of the eternal minority, the minority which has been, is, and always will be eternally oppressed. It is for us to hear and to proclaim these moral sufferings! Plenty of others repeat or invent the jubilant echoes of the struggle. May other voices be raised to give the tragic accents of the fight and its sacred horror!

I shall take my examples from the enemy camp, for several reasons: because the German cause being from the first tainted with injustice, the sufferings of the few who are just, and the still fewer who have spiritual perceptions are greater there than elsewhere; because these evidences appear openly in publications whose boldness the German censorship has not perceived; because I bow with respect to the heroic discipline of silence which France in fighting imposes on her sufferings. (Would to G.o.d that this silence were not broken by those who, trying to deny these sufferings, profane the grandeur of the sacrifice by the revolting levity of their silly jests in newspapers which are without either gravity or dignity.)

I have shown in the last chapter that a part of the intellectual youth of Germany was far from sharing the war-madness of its elders. I cited certain energetic reproofs delivered by these young writers to the theorists of imperialism. And these writers are not, as one might think from an article in the _Temps_ (though I gladly pay a tribute to its honesty), merely a small group as narrow as that of our symbolists. They count among them writers who appeal to a large public and who do not set out in any way (except for the group of Stefan George) to write for a _select few_--they wish to write for all. I stated, too, that the boldest review of all, Wilhelm Herzog's _Forum_, was read in the German trenches and received approbation thence.

But what is more astonishing, this spirit of criticism has possessed some of the combatants and even made its appearance among German officers. In the November-December number of the _Friedens-Warte_, published in Berlin, Vienna, and Leipzig, by Dr. Alfred H. Fried, there occurs "An appeal to the Germanic peoples," addressed, at the end of October, by Baron Marschall von Biberstein, Landrat of Prussia and captain in the 1st Foot Guards reserve. This article was written in a trench north of Arras, where on the 11th of November, Biberstein was killed. He expresses unreservedly his horror of the war and his ardent desire that it may be the last: "_That is the conviction of those at the front who are witnesses of the unspeakable horrors of modern warfare._"

Even more praiseworthy is Biberstein's frankness when he decides to begin a confession and a _mea culpa_ for the sins of Germany. "_The war has opened my eyes_," he says, "_to our terrible unlovableness (Unbeliebtheit). Everything has its cause; we must have given cause for this hatred; and even in part have justified it.... Let us hope that it will not be the least of the advantages of this war that Germany will turn round on herself, will search out and recognize her faults and correct them._" Unfortunately even this article is spoiled by Germanic pride which, desiring a world peace, sets out to impose it on the world.

Herein it recalls in some respects the bellicose pacifism of the too celebrated Ostwald.

But another officer (of whom I spoke in my last chapter) the poet Fritz von Unruh, first Lieutenant of Uhlans on the western front, has written dramatic scenes in verse and prose. These have appeared recently under the t.i.tle _Before the Decision (Vor der Entscheidung)_. It is a dramatic poem in which the author has noted his own impressions and his moral transformations. The hero, who like himself, is an officer of Uhlans, pa.s.ses through various centers of the war and remains everywhere a stranger; his soul is detached from murderous pa.s.sions, he sees the abominable reality until his sufferings from it amount to agony. The two scenes reproduced by the _Neue Zurcher Zeitung_ show us a muddy and bloodstained trench, where German soldiers, like beasts in a slaughter-house, die or await death with bitter words--and officers getting drunk on champagne around a 42mm. mortar, laughing and getting excited till they fall beneath the weight of sleep and fatigue.