quality which may perhaps be racially simple; but which is, at any rate,
very plain. Chamberlain, the German philosopher or historian (I know not
which to call him or how to call him either) remarks somewhere that
purebred races possess fidelity; he instances the negro and the dog--and, I
suppose, the German. Anyhow, it is true that there is a recognisable and
real thing which might be called fidelity (or perhaps monotony) which
exists in Germans in about the same style as in dogs and niggers. The North
Teuton really has in this respect the simplicities of the savage and the
lower animals; that he has no reactions. He does not laugh at himself. He
does not want to kick himself. He does not, like most of us, repent--or
occasionally even repent of repenting. He does not read his own works and
find them much worse or much better than he had expected. He does not feel
a faint irrational sense of debauch, after even divine pleasures of this
life. Watch him at a German restaurant, and you will satisfy yourself that
he does not. In short, both in the most scientific and in the most casual
sense of the word, he does not know what it is to have a _temper_. He does
not bend and fly back like steel; he sticks out, like wood. In this he
differs from any nation I have known, from your nation and mine, from the
French, the Spanish, the Scotch, the Welsh and the Irish. Bad luck never
braces him as it does us. Good luck never frightens him as it does us. It
can be seen in what the French call Chauvinism and we call Jingoism. For us
it is fireworks; for him it is daylight. On Mafeking Night, celebrating a
small but picturesque success against the Boers, nearly everybody in London
came out waving little flags. Nearly everybody in London is now heartily
ashamed of it. But it would never occur to the Prussians not to ride their
high horses with the freshest insolence for the far-off victory of Sedan;
though on that very anniversary the star of their fate had turned scornful
in the sky, and Von Kluck was in retreat from Paris. Above all, the
Prussian does not feel annoyed, as I do, when foreigners praise his country
for all the wrong reasons. The Prussian will allow you to praise him for
any reasons, for any length of time, for any eternity of folly; he is there
to be praised. Probably he is proud of this; probably he thinks he has a
good digestion, because the poison of praise does not make him sick. He
thinks the absence of such doubt, or self-knowledge, makes for composure,
grandeur, a colossal calm, a superior race--in short, the whole claim of
the Teutons to be the highest spiritual product of Nature and Evolution.
But as I have noticed a calm unity even more complete, not only in dogs and
negroes, but in slugs, slow-worms, mangoldwurzels, moss, mud and bits of
stone, I am a sceptic about this test for the marshalling in rank of all
the children of God. Now I point this out to you here for a very practical
reason. The Prussian will never understand revolutions--which are
generally reactions. He regards them, not only with dislike, but with a
mysterious kind of pity. Throughout his confused popular histories, there
runs a strange suggestion that civic populations have failed hitherto, and
failed because they were always fighting. The population of Berlin does not
fight, or can't; and therefore Berlin will succeed where Greece and Rome
have failed. Hitherto it is plain enough that Berlin has succeeded in
nothing except in bad copies of Greece and Rome; and Prussians would be
wiser to discuss the details of the Greek and Roman past, which we can
follow, rather than the details of their own future, about which we are
naturally not so well informed. Well, every dome they build, every pillar
they put upright, every pedestal for epitaph or panel for decoration, every
type of church, Catholic or Protestant, every kind of street, large or
small, they have copied from the old Pagan or Catholic cities; and those
cities, when they made those things, were boiling with revolutions. I
remember a German professor saying to me, "I should have no scruple about
extinguishing such republics as Brazil, Venezuela, Bolivia, Nicaragua; they
are perpetually rioting for one thing or another." I said I supposed he
would have had no scruple in extinguishing Athens, Rome, Florence and
Paris; for they were always rioting for one thing or another. His reply
indicated, I thought, that he felt about Cæsar or Rienzi very much as the
Scotch Presbyterian Minister felt about Christ, when he was reminded of the
corn-plucking on the Sabbath, and said, "Weel, I dinna think the better of
him." In other words he was quite positive, like all his countrymen, that
he could impose a sort of Pax Germanica, which would satisfy all the needs
of order and of freedom forever; leaving no need for revolutions or
reactions. I am myself of a different opinion. When I was a child, when the
toy-trade of Germany had begun to flood this country, there was a priggish
British couplet, engraven on the minds of governesses, which ran--
What the German children delight to make
The English children delight to break.
I can answer for the delight of the English children; a just and godlike
delight. I am not so sure about the delight of the German children, when
they were caught in the infernal wheels of the modern civilisation of
factories. But, for the present, I am only concerned to say that I do not
accept this line of historical division. I do not think history supports
the view that those who could break things could not make them.
This is the least intrusive approach by which I can touch on a topic that
must of necessity be a delicate one; yet which may well be a difficulty
among Latins like yourself. Against this preposterous Prussian upstart we
have not only to protect our unity; we have even to protect our quarrels.
And the deepest of the reactions or revolts of which I have spoken is the
quarrel which (very tragically as I think) has for some hundred years
cloven the Christian from the Liberal ideal. It would ill become me, in
whose country there is neither such clear doctrine nor such combative
democracy, to suppose it can be easy for any of you to close up such sacred
wounds. There must still be Catholics who feel they can never forgive a
Jacobin. There must still be old Republicans who feel that they could never
endure a priest. And yet there is something, the mere sight of which should
lock them both in an instant alliance. They have only to look northward and
hold the third thing, which thinks itself superior to either: the enormous
turnip-face of _ce type là_, as the French say, who conceives that he can
make them both like himself and yet remain superior to both.
I implore you to keep out of the hands of this Fool the quarrel of the
great saints and of the great blasphemers. He will do to religion what he
will do to art; mix up all the colours on your palette into the colour of
mud: and then say that only the purified eyes of Teutons can see that it is
pure white. The other day the Director of Museums in Berlin was said to be
setting about the creation of a new kind of Art: German Art. Philosophers
and men of science were at the same time directed to meet round the table
and found a new Religion: German Religion. How can such people appreciate
art; how can they appreciate religion--nay, how can they appreciate
irreligion? How does one invent a message? How does one create a Creator?
Is it not the plain meaning of the Gospel that it is good news? And is it
not the plain meaning of good news that it must come from outside oneself?
Otherwise I could make myself happy this moment, by inventing an enormous
victory in Flanders. And I suppose (now I come to think of it) that the
Germans do.
By the fulness of your faith and even the fulness of your despair, you that
remember Rome, have earned a right to prevent all our quarrels being
quenched in such cold water from the north. But it is not too much to say
that neither religion at its worst nor republicanism at its worst ever
offered the coarse insult to all mankind that is offered by this new and
nakedly universal monarchy.
There has always been something common to civilised men, whether they
called it being merely a citizen; or being merely a sinner. There has
always been something which your ancestors called _Verecundia_; which is at
once humility and dignity. Whatever our faults, we do not do exactly as
the Prussians do. We do not bellow day and night to draw attention to our
own stern silence. We do not praise ourselves solely because nobody else
will praise us. I, for one, say at the end of these letters, as I said at
the beginning; that in these international matters I have often differed
from my countrymen; I have often differed from myself. I shall not claim
the completeness of this silly creature we discuss. I shall not answer his
boasts with boasts; but with blows.
My front-door is beaten in and broken down suddenly. I see nothing outside,
except a sort of smiling, straw-haired commercial traveller with a notebook
open, who says, "Excuse me, I am a faultless being, I have persuaded
Poland; I can count on my respectful Allies in Alsace. I am simply loved in
Lorraine. _Quae reggio in terris_ ... What place is there on earth where
the name of Prussia is not the signal for hopeful prayers and joyful
dances? I am that German who has civilised Belgium; and delicately trimmed
the frontiers of Denmark. And I may tell you, with the fulness of
conviction, that I have never failed, and shall never fail in anything.
Permit me, therefore, to bless your house by the passage of my beautiful
boots; that I may burgle the house next door."
And then something European that is prouder than pride will rise up in me;
and I shall answer:--
"I am that Englishman who has tortured Ireland, who has been tortured by
South Africa; who knows all his mistakes, who is heavy with all his sins.
And he tells you, Faultless Being, with a truth as deep as his own guilt,
and as deathless as his own remembrance, that you shall not pass this way."
End of Project Gutenberg's The Appetite of Tyranny, by G.K. Chesterton