I must begin by confessing that I am so entirely without such special
knowledge on any subject connected with ‘the International Crisis in its
Ethical and Psychological Aspects’ as would enable me to speak about it
with authority, or otherwise than as an ordinary member of the general
public, that it was only after much hesitation that I accepted the
invitation to give this lecture. I reflected, however, that in a crisis
like this there is a general desire to exchange views. We all have views
whether we are experts or not. We all have our minds fixed on the
crisis, and have all made them up, with more or less definiteness, on
such questions as the rightness of the war and what our attitude towards
it and matters connected with it, as a nation and as individuals, should
be. But with most of us, in this as in other matters about which we have
to judge, the more or less definiteness is apt to be less. Or perhaps I
should say that definite conclusions are based on vague and hazy
premisses leading to confusion and contradiction and doubt—vagueness and
confusion which can only be cleared away by resolute effort and a
determination to try to see things in their proper proportion. In this
process any of us who will sincerely try to think out and express his
own views may help others whose minds are dwelling on the same things,
and this not so much by compelling agreement as by offering points round
which the thoughts of each of us may crystallize. I hope that anything I
have to say will be received in this spirit, and that I shall be
regarded not as expressing any original views or speaking from any
standpoint of superior knowledge, but merely with the knowledge at the
disposal of all of us endeavouring to make out what we do think and
feel, and what we ought to think and feel, about our duty as a nation
and as individuals concerning war and especially this present war.
But before I go on to the main subject I must note that one reason given
for inviting me to lecture was that I am a woman and it was desired that
at least one lecture in the series should be given by a woman. I do not
know whether this desire was prompted by any idea that the point of view
of women as such might be different from that of men and that I might
represent it and speak as a woman. I should be very willing to do so if
I could, and indeed, if there is a difference, my point of view must of
course be the feminine one. But I am quite unaware of any such
difference, and do not see how in a great national crisis women can have
a special point of view—the whole thing is above differences of sex. In
many of the details of national affairs—chiefly practical affairs of
daily life and legislation affecting them—the different experience of
men and of women necessarily places them at somewhat different points of
view, and the nation generally would, I think, gain by having both
represented. But in the really big things, in things in which our action
here and now irrevocably affects the whole future of our country, and
(in the present case) the progress in civilization of the whole world as
well—in a crisis, in short, like that through which we are passing—it
seems to me that if the men and women of the country as such felt
differently from each other the country would be rotten at the core, and
would be doomed to defeat and decay.
I know there are people who assume that there is a difference, and that
according as one or other sex managed the affairs of the world there
would be less or more war. But their arguments, so far as I have seen
them, seem to take a very superficial view of the causes and
consequences of great wars. I may mention two of these arguments. The
first is expressed in a pamphlet written by a woman which was sent to me
the other day. She maintains among other things that while the larger
share of the suffering which war produces falls on the women, the honour
and glory of fighting is exclusively enjoyed by the men, who in her view
are thereby tempted to make wars which women would prevent. The other
argument I will mention, and which is, I think, a commoner one, is
almost in contradiction to the first. It is, if I understand it rightly,
that as the labour and hardship and personal risk of the actual fighting
must be borne by men, it is for the men—that is, I suppose, the young
men of fighting age—to decide whether the fighting is worth while or
not.
Neither of these considerations seems to have much weight unless war be
regarded as a kind of game played between opposing armies—dangerous no
doubt, but still a game played for its own sake. The first argument
dwells on the danger the game causes to the general public, such as
might come, for instance, from playing hockey in a crowded street, the
other on the risks to the players themselves; but neither argument looks
beyond the war itself. But wars are hardly ever fought like games,
simply for their own sake. Even a Prussian militarist party does not do
that. It fights to gain some supposed advantage for its country. Even if
the perfection of its war machine makes it long to use it, it does not
do so without some ulterior object in view. And the ulterior object for
which each side fights, whether it be legitimate or illegitimate, honest
or dishonest, right or wrong, concerns the whole country, not only the
fighting men. It concerns not only the men or only the women, not one
class or section or another class or section, but the whole nation, and
if it be a right cause and an important cause the whole nation must be
prepared to suffer if need be and each man and each woman to contribute
what he or she can and to sacrifice all that is required to secure
success in the struggle. That cannot be done in a grudging spirit. So
far as sacrifices can be measured, those who sacrifice most must get
their reward in being proud of it.
Our young men are in an enviable position, for it is they who have the
chance of translating their patriotism into action in the most direct
way. It is on their courage and endurance and self-sacrifice in the
field that success largely depends. It is on them that the brunt of
physical effort and physical hardship first falls. And in fact of course
war could not be carried on without them. Our soldiers and sailors have
been splendid, as we always knew they would be, and we may be proud of
the way our young men have under the voluntary service system come
forward and shown themselves willing to suffer and die for their
country.
But they are not the only people called on to give active service of one
kind or another, and they are not the only people who suffer and will
suffer. This is so in our own country, and we see it yet more in Belgium
and the north of France. A war like this is a horrible thing. It brings
sorrow and suffering to almost every home in the countries engaged in
it; it impoverishes victors and vanquished and brings poverty and misery
in its wake more widespread than the belligerent countries. It no doubt
draws out some virtues—courage and valour, and, more important still,
ardent ‘self-sacrifice for duty and the common good’—and we must not
underrate these. But it also tends to stimulate evil feelings,
brutality, bitterness, and hate, and to increase national selfishness
and mutual distrust among nations.
War is an awful calamity, and it is no wonder that some ask themselves
whether all war is not wrong. No wonder that many more think there must
be some way of securing perpetual peace. But it is of no use discussing
the general question whether war is wrong. Any particular war is usually
wrong if we consider both sides together—that is to say, it is usually
due to wrongdoing on one side or the other or both. But the question
that is important for each particular State is whether it is itself
right to fight. And whether on any given occasion it is its duty to do
so may often be a question by no means easy to answer. I hope that my
opening words have not suggested to any one that I intend to be so rash
as to attempt any general answer myself. To give such an answer would
require far more knowledge than I possess, and far more space than I
have at my disposal, and in the end discussion would probably lead to
the conclusion that circumstances vary so much that rules are scarcely
possible, and each case must be decided on its merits. Fortunately the
present case is perfectly clear, and barely admits of difference of
opinion, for we are fighting for freedom and independent national
existence, and we are fighting in fulfilment of obligations deliberately
undertaken.
There are, I take it, few people in the world who would uncompromisingly
advocate peace at any price. Few would not grant that a State when
attacked must defend itself, just as in a country with no settled
government a man must defend himself and his family from those who try
to injure him, whether they be men or wild beasts. Few would deny (at
least in any country but Germany) that a State must fight in support of
pledges solemnly undertaken, like the guarantee by France, Prussia, and
England of Belgium’s neutrality. A strong State cannot sit by with
folded arms while what it has guaranteed is violated by another, any
more than a man who has promised to help his neighbour in case of attack
can shut himself up in his own house when the attack is made. It would
be admitted, in fact, by almost all, that there are circumstances for
nations, as there are for individuals, when they must fight for their
life and liberty and that of others. And these circumstances have arisen
for us in the present case.
Is there, then, any possibility of preventing such circumstances
arising? Can we hope that war will ever cease? I am perhaps a sanguine
person, but I do think we may hope that it will at any rate greatly
diminish in frequency. I am not, however, sanguine about the possibility
of devising schemes for international government which shall of
themselves secure us from wars.
The first of such schemes is arbitration—and it is a good scheme as far
as it goes. Given an arbitration court in which both sides feel
confidence, and given on both sides a desire to avoid quarrelling, a
good many disputes between States might be settled by arbitration. And
as a matter of fact a good many have been so settled of recent years.
But arbitration is necessarily limited in its application. Generally
speaking, questions that can be settled by arbitration are either
questions like those which in private life can be settled as civil cases
in the law courts—questions of fact, or rights, or of interpretation of
conventions, or of damage done which is capable of being compensated,
and so forth. Or they must at least be questions, like those involved in
most trade disputes, about which each side can put forward a more or
less plausible case, the one comparable with the other.
But even when arbitration is possible, it is only useful if both sides
prefer peace to war, and cases that would lend themselves to arbitration
are perhaps more often the occasion—the pretext—for war than its real
cause, at least where great countries are concerned. However, we should
none of us deny that arbitration may help materially in maintaining
peace and should be used to the utmost.
Still more should every favourable opportunity be made use of by States,
while at peace, to remove by negotiation causes of irritation and
friction which might lead to quarrels. Negotiation has over arbitration
the advantage that the nations concerned are more likely through it to
come to understand one another, to realize each other’s attitude and
point of view; and are therefore more likely to trust each other
afterwards than if they leave all that to the external arbitrator before
whom each merely advocates his own cause. We in England have endeavoured
for many years past to promote both these things—arbitration and
negotiation about difficulties—to the utmost of our ability. And France,
too, has worked with us of late, with the _Entente Cordiale_ as a
result. I wish we could say the same of Germany; but Germany has for
years managed to give the impression of thinking it her interest to
prevent the sore places of the world—the danger spots—from being healed,
and even of working to create new ones.
But it is clear that there are some causes of war that neither
arbitration nor negotiation can touch. Neither can, for instance,
prevent wars of pure aggression. There is nothing to arbitrate about
when practically the whole contention of one side is that Might makes
Right and that therefore it proposes to secure what it would like to
have by force. There is a proverb that it takes two to make a quarrel.
There is some truth in this—enough to remind us, both in private life
and in international affairs, that if we say and do irritating things we
are responsible for the irritation produced. But it is much more true
that it takes two to keep the peace. A nation that is determined to
fight _will_ fight, and will have no difficulty in finding, or making,
the occasion for it. Nothing can prevent it except the conviction that
those it desires to fight against are too strong to be overcome.
Wanton aggression for the sake of gaining power or territory or wealth
is not the only cause of war which cannot be arbitrated about. Another
cause which we have seen in operation within the life of many of us is
the conflict of incompatible principles. The American Civil War was a
war for principles. And we may observe that there was no militarism
there—no perfecting of the war machine in long preparation to attack or
defend. And, moreover, another of the plans for securing European peace,
a federation of States for the purpose, failed here, for the antagonists
were knit in a federation far closer than any we can conceive as taking
place among the European nations.
We need not infer that such a federation in Europe would be useless. It
would be very difficult to arrange, but if satisfactorily arranged it
might have some effect in preventing aggression, just as the fact that
England, France, Germany, and Belgium were bound by treaty to preserve
Belgian neutrality may very well have saved Belgium from attacks for all
these years till now. But no such federation could be a complete
guarantee of peace; for what would there be to prevent the federated
nations—even if we assume them all to be actuated by good
intentions—from disagreeing on questions as to how their function of
guardians of the peace was in any particular case to be carried out, or
whether some particular action of some particular State constituted a
breach of the convention or not? Would there not here be as much danger
of war as now? The only sanction behind the rules of such a federation
would be the threat of armed intervention against an offending State,
and if there were disagreement so that the federation were divided into
parties, armed intervention would mean a European war.
One method suggested for the prevention of war is an agreed reduction of
armaments. Of course in this country we should all like reduction of
armaments, and so would our Allies. It would, to say the least, save
much wasteful expenditure, and if we fight this war to a finish and win,
we may well hope that it will come about. But if it were carried out all
round I doubt if it would in itself have much effect in promoting peace,
for all would still be in the same relative strength. And if it were
carried out only partially it would leave those who refused to reduce,
who would certainly include those who wished to attack their neighbours,
in a specially advantageous position for doing so.
I have dwelt rather long on the difficulty, if not impossibility, as it
seems to me, of really securing international peace by any scheme of
international arrangement. But though I do not think the ingenuity of
man has yet devised a way of doing this, I am nevertheless hopeful that
progress in the direction of reduction of war is being made and will
continue. It is on general improvement in the moral tone of the world
that I build my hopes. Progress is slow; but although of course this
shocking and surprising return of Germany to mediaeval barbarism is
rather disconcerting to one’s optimism, the world still seems to me to
be a better world than it was; by which I mean that it is tending on the
whole to become less selfish and more just and sympathetic, without on
the whole losing its energy and virility.
Then another hopeful sign is that, except in Germany and in places like
the Central American Republics, there is in these days no chronic desire
to fight either in governments or in people. The desire may be kindled
under the influence of angry passions, or in consequence of oppression,
or by other causes, but it is not there all the time, and in most places
it takes a good deal of kindling. Most European nations have tasted the
sweets of peace, some of them know the horrors of war, and almost all
wish for opportunity to develop their internal resources. Neither we nor
any of our Allies in this war had any desire for the war. Neither the
people nor the governments had. We have only to read the diplomatic
correspondence that preceded it to feel sure of this. France, Russia,
Belgium, England, simply wanted to be let alone. Serbia went great
lengths for the sake of peace in yielding to Austria’s demands. The
desire for revenge which the tearing from France of Alsace and Lorraine
left in the breasts of Frenchmen for many years had practically died.
They may have hoped that a change in the position of Alsace might
somehow be brought about, but not by war. As one of their writers, M.
Paul Sabatier, said in 1911,[1]
‘La France veut la paix avec l’Allemagne parce qu’une guerre est une
explosion de haine, et qu’elle ne se sent pas plus de haine pour nos
voisins de l’Est que pour les autres. Elle sent sa solidarité avec eux.’
But he goes on:
‘Si le malheur voulait que ces sentiments ne fussent pas compris, et
qu’après nous avoir représentés pendant plus de quarante ans comme ceux
qui menacent la paix de l’Europe, on nous attaquât, oh! alors, nous nous
élancerions avec l’enthousiasme de citoyens qui défendent non seulement
le sol de leur patrie, mais qui portent une idée, qui par leurs efforts,
leur martyre s’il le faut, fera son entrée dans le monde.’
There are many States in Europe which for many decades have had no
warlike impulses and have only desired to be let alone to develop
themselves in their own way. If only, therefore, the moral perversion of
Germany could be cured, and some perennial sources of friction, e.g. in
the Balkan States and parts of Austria-Hungary, removed, the prospects
of peace, if we are victorious in this war, would for a long time be
very good. It is, then, these two things, the development of
international morality and the removal of causes of friction, that those
who desire a peaceful world must seek.
What, then, is wrong with Germany? How comes prosperous Germany to bring
the calamity of war on us all?
Germany won too easily in her previous wars; and since 1870 has suffered
from what our American cousins call swelled head. She applies to nations
an idea which has, I understand, proved attractive to her in theoretical
social psychology and in art—the idea of a superman who in virtue of his
strength, physical and intellectual, is above all moral law, and has the
right as well as the power to work his will on his fellow men. However
much he may be admired in theory, we may be sure that the superman, if
he appeared in real life and used his strength so as to annoy his
neighbours, would in Germany, as in any other well-governed country
where slavery is not allowed, be dealt with by the police. But when the
idea is carried into international relations, and it is deliberately
maintained by a powerful State that Might makes Right, that a nation is
a law to itself, and not only has no duties to other nations but is
bound to aim solely at what it conceives to be its own interests
irrespective of all considerations of justice, veracity, and good
faith—when a State holds this it is obvious that trouble is bound to
come.
Leading Germans have taught this Neo-Machiavellianism for many years. It
is not only Treitschke and Bernhardi, of whom we in England have lately
heard so much—it is not only they who have preached it; it has been
widespread in Germany for half a century or more. Perhaps you will allow
me to read a passage which brings out this fact from an essay on ‘Public
Morality’, written in 1897 by the late Henry Sidgwick[2]. The immorality
of Machiavellianism begins, he says:
‘when the interest of a particular State is taken as the ultimate and
paramount end justifying the employment of any means whatever to attain
it, whatever the consequences of such action may be to the rest of the
human race. And this “national egoism” is, I think, the essence of the
Neo-Machiavellianism, which,—though views somewhat similar have
frequently found expression from the sixteenth century onwards,—has been
especially prominent in the political thought of the last forty years,
and as I have said has found the most unreserved and meditated
expression in the writings of Germans. I may give as an example the
statements of an able and moderate writer who is by no means an admirer
of Machiavelli. “The State”, says Rümelin,[3] “is self-sufficient.”
“Self-regard is its appointed duty; the maintenance and development of
its own power and well-being,—egoism, if you like to call this
egoism,—is the supreme principle of politics.” “The State can only have
regard to the interest of any other State so far as this can be
identified with its own interest.” “Self-devotion is the principle for
the individual, self-assertion for the State.” “The maintenance of the
State justifies every sacrifice, and is superior to every moral rule.”’
The practical aim in affirming national egoism, Mr. Sidgwick further
says, of the writers to whom he refers,
‘is almost always expressly to emancipate the public action of statesmen
from the restraints of private morality.’
It is this want of international morality—the absence of a moral code,
not merely the failure to live up to one—in one of the leading States of
the world which has more than anything else, and for many years,
endangered the peace of Europe and has now plunged us into this ghastly
war. It is the theory held in Germany that envy, hatred, and malice are
not vices in a nation whatever they may be in individuals; that justice,
veracity, and good faith are not virtues which a powerful nation should
foster in its relations with other nations, however admirable they may
be in individuals—it is this theory which threatens to wreck western
civilization, and which has already shown us that the progress we were
fain to hope had been attained in the humane conduct of war was largely
illusory, and that international treaties are, for nations with
Germany’s views, scraps of paper.
Till this immoral theory is abandoned there is little hope of lasting
peace. Have we, then, we must ask, any reason for believing that it ever
will be abandoned by Germany? I may be optimistic, but I think we have
reason to hope it. I think we may very reasonably look forward to
Germany’s conversion, at least if we win. In the first place, the
temptation to hold such a theory is much greater when a nation feels
itself to be stronger than all its neighbours. As its might becomes to
itself more doubtful, the disadvantages of the theory that Might makes
Right become more obvious.
Then, secondly, I do not think that Germans in general—whatever their
statesmen may do—I do not think that Germany as a nation holds the
theory quite single-heartedly now. I infer this from the fact that
Germany tries to explain away her actions. If to attack is the right of
the strong, why are Germany’s statesmen concerned to make out, when
their case is so miserably poor, that she was not the attacking party
but the attacked? If strong States are justified in ignoring treaty
obligations when they think it their interest to do so, why, with such
miserable arguments to produce, do they try to convince a wondering
world that Belgium and France—not Germany—violated Belgium’s neutrality?
It may be said that these arguments are addressed to neutral States,
that Germany is aware that she has not got international public opinion
with her, and is not strong enough—no one is—to be willing to do
without. But so far as I can judge from the statements from German
sources I have seen, it is not only to impress outsiders that these
arguments are used, but to satisfy the conscience of Germany’s own
people.
Then, thirdly, there is probably an ideal element mixed up in German
motives which is not purely selfish. All nations—including
Germany—believe in their own _Kultur_. We each believe in our national
way of looking at things, our national methods of administration, our
own way of advancing civilization, our own plans of family life, and so
forth. I do not, of course, mean that we do not regard them as capable
of improvement—progressive nations are always trying to improve
them—but, taken as a whole, we prefer our own way of doing things to
other peoples’. Germany, which is, I think, deficient in sympathy and in
the power of understanding other people, probably goes further and
sincerely believes that her own _Kultur_ is necessarily the best for all
the world, and that all humanity would gain in the long run by being
Germanized—by force or otherwise. I think it is probable, too, for all
her apparent substitution of Odin for the Christian God, that her
visions of conquest include visions of future world-wide peace under her
own domination. These benevolent plans for the world are mistaken, but
the fact that they are benevolent at all, affords a hope for something
beyond national egoism.
There is yet another reason for expecting a change in the views of the
German people. Although they are evidently very docile—very ready to
think what they are told to think—still the opinions inculcated in them
by their Government have been supported by false or misleading
information conveyed largely through a manipulated press, manipulated in
the way so successfully developed by Bismarck. But this is a dangerous
expedient, for, easy as it is for us all to see things as we wish to see
them, in the end the truth comes at least partially to light. As a
result of the war—if we win—the scales are likely to fall from German
eyes, the German nation will see things that have been hidden from it as
a nation for many years, and with new premisses new conclusions may be
hoped for.
Do not let us, then, despair of Germany. On the contrary, let us look
forward to a day when her many excellent qualities—her industry, her
thoroughness, her methodicalness, her discipline, her patriotism—may
under a freer and more independent habit of thought, and a less egoistic
system of international morality, be an important part of the forces
making for human progress, not only physically and intellectually, but
morally.
This can only happen, of course, through German public opinion, which is
made up, as all public opinion is, of individual opinions and feelings
acting and reacting on each other. And this brings me to some things I
want to say about our duties as individuals in this crisis. The duty of
patriotism, of helping in every way we can the cause for which we are
fighting, I need not dwell on. We are fighting for our life as a free
nation, and the help of every individual counts. The active help we can
render varies of course much—for some of us it is necessarily almost
non-existent. But what I may call the spiritual help—the help through
thought and feeling, both as individuals and as contributing to public
opinion—which we can all render, is important, and it is incumbent on
all of us to see if we are helping as we should.
There are two of the duties in this region on which I should like to
dwell a little. The first is the duty of not hating the Germans. We may,
and as I think must, judge Germany as having committed a terrible crime,
but let us condemn her as a judge would, impartially and without hate or
rancour; remembering, too, that if all who do wrong are to be hated, few
in this world would escape. This war may be called a holy war if there
ever was one. We and our Allies are not only fighting, as I have said,
for our own national existence, we are not only fighting for the rights
of small States, or for the liberty to develop each in our own way. We
are fighting not only for these things, but against the principle of
which I have spoken—the principle that Might makes Right, that there is
no sense in the idea of justice and good faith as between nations, and
that envy and hatred between them is natural and right. Do not let us,
then, indulge on our side in the very vices we are condemning. How can
we hope to diminish hatred in the world if we allow ourselves to feel
it? How can we hope to have any influence in restoring or increasing
peace and good will if we ourselves are full of hatred? Hatred is not,
except in a very limited way, a source of strength but a source of
weakness, and if we depend on hatred to enable us to win we shall lose.
We must be absolutely firm. We must fight to the utmost of our strength
and as long as necessary in the cause of justice. We must see that
Germany pays the debts she has incurred (they are very heavy debts to
Belgium and France and Poland and Serbia). And we must help to make
arrangements which, by giving satisfaction so far as possible to the
inhabitants of all the provinces affected by them, may give hope of a
durable peace. But desire for retaliation—that is, to inflict on Germany
the injuries she has inflicted on our Allies or on ourselves; or the
desire to humiliate Germany because we think she would like to humiliate
us, or indeed for any other reason—these things are unworthy of the
spirit in which this war should be fought on our side.
The second duty I want to insist on is that of not being afraid. I do
not of course mean that we are to be reckless, or that we are to shut
our eyes to difficulties and dangers, or that we are to say that things
are well when they are not well. On the contrary, we must face the task
before us, keeping steadily in view that it is a very difficult one and
needs every effort we can make, as a nation and as individuals, to carry
it through. But when we have done and are continuing to do all that is
in our power to ensure success, then whatever we have to bear (and
remember so far we in England have had nothing to bear like Belgium and
France and Poland and Serbia), whatever we have to face, fear should
have no place in our hearts. For fear is weakness. The task before us is
hard and we may have anxious times to go through; as indeed we have had
already in this war, and as we had in those other wars when England
helped to save Europe from the domination of ambitious nations or
individuals. But we are going to win now as we did in the end; then and
even those of us who can contribute no active service can help to bring
about victory by courage and hope.
II
HERD INSTINCT AND THE WAR