decadence, with which they had been sedulously indoctrinated, no longer
finds credence. They join with us in making fun of it. It is amusing to
see these humble folk, who have always been treated with disdain by their
superiors, whether civil or military, accept us as intimate friends.
They feel flattered when they can talk to us on a footing of democratic
equality, for they do not fail to recognize our superiority, and they are
greatly touched that we never abuse it. They feel that we are sincere in
our hatred of the pride of caste. They applaud our republican speeches.
In return, they confide to us their grievances and their despair. The
poor devils are absolutely unanimous in detesting this horrible butchery.
It is unquestionable that the terrible burden of the war—the most
terrible burden of death, weariness, and misery, that has ever weighed
humanity down—presses more heavily upon their shoulders than upon ours.
We have been held up in the trenches since September. On their side, for
a year they have had no respite. Alternately victors and vanquished, upon
the eastern front there continually occurs some new gigantic action,
like that of the Marne. Day after day there is a savage attack in full
force. Day after day there is a massacre. More than three and a half
million Germans are fattening the soil of Galicia and Poland; more than
ten millions have been wounded. And why? In defence? “Ah,” they say
to us, “if you only knew how little we care whether we are French or
Prussian! Give us peace, give us peace!”
They no longer believe that the war is a war of defence. They have heard
their non-commissioned officers, men of the middle class, cursing Austria
for having led them into this hateful business. The idea has become
current in the villages where the troops are quartered. Exasperated by
their sufferings, the soldiers are murmuring. Many would like to desert.
They understand perfectly that they are the victims of a caste of nobles
and manufacturers mad with pride. They still obey, but they grumble. A
German grumbler is a new phenomenon.
“Every one hates us,” declared in my hearing a young workman from Upper
Franconia. “Every one in the world except the Pope and the Turks. There
can be no doubt that our rulers wanted everything for themselves. They
told us, too, that the French nation was crumbling and would fall to
pieces at a touch. What rot! We know well enough that you are splendid
soldiers.”
“I was in the Vosges,” said a sentry of the 13th Bavarians. “Your
chasseurs alpins are perfect fiends!”
“I was on the Yser,” commented another. “I shan’t forget your colonial
infantrymen in a hurry!”
He made me come near the lamp to see his wound.
“Old man,” I rejoined, “my younger brother, a colonial infantryman, was
also wounded in the fight on the Yser.”
“We have been made fools of,” they declare without exception. “You are
not decadent! Far from it! Nor are your cannon. Fine tales they fed us
up with! If our leaders had been the humanitarians they claim to be, it
is obvious that we should have a few friends somewhere in the world. We
should not have every one against us. And we poor devils have to pay for
the folly. It’s altogether too bad! Oh that peace may come quickly! Take
Alsace-Lorraine if you like. What on earth does it matter? Take anything.
What difference does it make to us whether we are governed from Paris or
from Berlin?”
A fat _Unteroffizier_ spoke as follows:
“I honestly prefer the French to the Prussians. The French are good
fellows. They feel compassion; they share their bread with us. But
the Prussians! It’s kicks we get from them. A pack of swelled-heads
who imagine they can do anything they like, who want everything for
themselves, who bamboozle their own people and refuse to give them any
rights! There is but one thing we want: to live at peace with the world.
Instead of that they make us go and kill. Why? Does any one know why?
What do we gain by it? The villages are full of widows and disabled men.
It is even worse in the towns, where lots of working-class families are
positively starving. You fellows are lucky. France is rich. France can
send parcels to her prisoners. All that we can do is to draw our belts
tighter. They lead us to the slaughter while they leave our wives and
children to suffer. And how it drags. Peace! Let’s have done with it!
Peace at any price!”
For the last six months I have not heard a single German soldier use any
other language than this. Wounded returning to the front, men of the
_Landwehr_ or the _Landsturm_ on their way to the fighting-line, they are
unanimous. If but the tenth part of their private grumblings were to be
translated into action there would be revolution throughout the country.
To speak frankly, these mutterings do not evoke my admiration. They
are not the fruit of an indignant conscience, they do not manifest the
reaction of inner freedoms which have been outraged and deceived, and
which come to their own again in the form of a reasserted dignity. One
hears in them nothing but the cry of the beaten and overloaded mule.
He wants his peaceful stable, bran, fresh water, warm and comfortable
litter. But there is no occasion to be alarmed, for he dreads the whip,
and his master is an adept in drubbing him all the way up the hill.
For Michael can hardly be said to have become more spiritual-minded
since the empire was founded. In former days he was extremely poor. He
was frugal. He was fond of music and of dreaming, and was addicted to a
mystical piety. A serf before men, he felt free in the presence of God,
his God of the gospels, gentle and affectionate, _mein lieber Gott_.
To-day he is fairly well-to-do. He is still a serf, more of a serf than
ever, in relation to those in authority, the nobility, officers in the
army, and employers; but he no longer endeavours to find freedom at God’s
hands. His new cult is that of a cosy fireside, with good victuals and a
barrel of beer. In a word, he has become an egoist. He now thinks only of
himself, of his personal interests, of his trade unions which protect his
wages, of his co-operative societies which secure his comforts. Without
realizing it, through ignoring politics, through taking no interest in
the workings of authority, through thinking solely of his own private
affairs, he has slipped into the acceptance of that base doctrine which
finds expression in the ancient formula, _Ubi bene, ibi patria_—“My
country is the place where I am well off!”
Last July, when he was luxuriating in his petty good fortune, he cried
with his masters, “_Deutschland über alles!_” At his drinking parties he
vociferated jingo songs. Some of the megalomania of the Olympians was
fermenting in his body, indiscriminately mingled with beer and sausages.
In this mood he saw himself mounting in company with his Germania,
mounting continuously to attain the topmost summit of glory and strength.
Then he loved his Germania. She was so powerful. It was thus that she
had always been depicted to him, as a robust and formidable matron,
not altogether amiable, imposing her will with peremptory fists, but
providing her children with such good things to eat and drink, with all
the comforts they could desire. How can one help loving a person like
this when one is a poor devil who has only just emerged from poverty?
Now the war has begun. Germania is at length to become queen of the
world. Forward! Good Michael sets out for Paris. It will soon be over.
A fortnight or so. A simple wedding journey. Just think of it: Rheims,
and champagne in floods; Paris, the little women, all the delights of
Babylon. For, after all, France, as every one knows, is ours for the
taking. Forward!
Forward! But, confound it all, there are some hard knocks! Paris is just
over there, but what an inferno of fire to get through first! I say,
we’re retreating now! We’re leaving a lot of good Germans on the stubbles
and in the ponds of the Marne. What a massacre! They have been fooling
us, it seems. The French can beat us after all: in fact, they have
already given us a good licking.
“But there’s no end to it. How bitter winter seems in the trenches.
Always more dead, and more, and more. My feet are freezing. I am badly
fed. Oh, my slippers, my nice, comfortable slippers, my darling wife who
used to light my long pipe for me, and who used to cuddle me warm in bed!
_Sakrament!_ What’s this horrible war about? They told me it would be
such an easy matter. After all, what do I, good, honest Michael, care
about ruling the world? Must I pay for _this_ with _my_ skin? No, no; I’m
only a poor man. What business is it of mine, this ruling of the world?
Oh, _lieber Gott_, let the war end soon, let me get back to my village,
my pub, my bed, and my children!”
Thus has Michael reasoned, and thus he continues to reason. It is not
heroic. Sancho Panza would shake him by the hand as a true comrade.
Still, why should Michael be a Don Quixote? Has Germany ever claimed to
be a Dulcinea? Has she manifested herself to him as charming, winsome,
gentle, and maternal, as loving him unselfishly for his own sake? Nothing
of the sort! On the contrary, Germany has terrorized him with rough
orders, and has made him efface himself by her display of aggressive
force. She has appealed to the traditional servility of his imagination,
not to the nobility of his heart. She has desired obedience, not
affection.
Now the great hour has arrived, the gloomy hour of sacrifice. It is not
enough to sing:
Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein.…
No, one simply has to die so that the country one loves may live.
Love is an easy word to say. We have so often been told that the Germans
loved Germany, that they were the true patriots, while we, the French,
were nothing but anarchists. Yet, after a year of war, these Gallic
“grumblers,” who are always wrangling, who take ideas into their heads,
and who hold to these ideas so firmly that you sometimes hear them
cry, “Perish countries, so long as principle lives and humanity becomes
established”—these ungovernable and intractable “anarchists” remain a
single body and soul, exhibit infinite patience, and continue the most
formidable warlike efforts. Why? Are they inconsistent? Not for a moment.
For them, France is justice; France is the human ideal. They save their
souls by saving France. They can die, for they would not wish to go on
living if beautiful Europe were to fall beneath the German yoke.
But why should you expect these little Michaels of Germany to die
cheerfully? Why, as the slaughter increases, should they stand shoulder
to shoulder round their leaders, firmly resolved to conquer or to perish?
Is Germany really worth dying for?
This much is certain, that the mystical admirers of justice and liberty,
who, in time of peace, filled the men of order with dismay, are to-day
the most disciplined in the world; whilst the pillars of order, the
singers of unity, the adorers of powerful Germania, those who made a
mystical cult of force and force alone, have taken to grumbling, are
reasoning like ill-conditioned individualists, have denied their faith.
I have noticed a thousand times that these Teuton soldiers who, through
dread of their leaders, are not yet traitors in fact, are nevertheless
traitors in soul.
This no longer surprises me. I understand why they regard us without
hatred, why they long for peace at any price, and why, if the war is to
continue, they look forward to being made prisoners. They suffer too
much, and their suffering has overwhelmed their patriotism.
Those only who love greatly can accept great suffering. Their boasted
affection for Germania was nothing more than a fever of the imagination,
a fictitious suggestion, a sentiment for display. It was the fascination
felt by the ignorant for everything that glitters and makes a brave
noise. They loved Germania in her success. They loved her triumphant,
colossal, brobdingnagian. They loved her as a parvenu loves wealth and a
gourmand good cheer. They loved her carnally, a power of the flesh. Has
any one ever seen such a love accept sacrifice cheerfully and outlast
misfortune? No, the ideal alone is worth more than life. The ideal alone
evokes that wonderful love which increases with suffering, the chaste
and shy love which shuns display, and which does not chant its pæans or
unfurl the beauties of its splendid wings until the hour of absolute
surrender. Now Germany has long ere this ceased to be an ideal.
This is what it means to have nothing but force to depend upon. When we
lose it, we have lost all. This is what it means to build upon egoism
and the political nullity of the masses. When the hour strikes for an
appeal to their heroism, we encounter nothing but a soft and melancholy
passivity.
But what an astounding organization it is which is capable of
neutralizing so much inadequacy of will, and is able to make tough and
efficient armies out of this assemblage of worthless material!
CROSSING SWITZERLAND
_July 31, 1915._
Our convoy crossed Switzerland last night. I should have been sorry
to be ill, ill with relief and happiness, for this would have made it
impossible to describe our reception. It delighted and I must say it
surprised me.
I know Switzerland well. I love it like a second motherland. I am
familiar with its history and its institutions. I have made prolonged
stays by the shores of Lake Geneva, and dear friendships convinced me
long ere this that our two nations are animated by the same instinct,
the instinct of independence and humanity. In the terrible duel now in
progress I was assured beforehand of the freely given sympathy of our
predecessors in the art of republican government.
I believed, nevertheless, that on our way through the country we should
find this sympathy, however true and however certain, veiled and
restrained.
From prudential considerations, first of all. Switzerland is such a
paradox! When a citizen of Lausanne manifests his love for French
civilization (in which he has just as strong and legitimate an interest
as any citizen of Orleans or Nancy), can he ever do so without being
afraid lest he may be wounding a fellow-Confederate of Basle or Zurich?
Supposing that his manifestation should become generalized, and that
it should provoke a counter-manifestation, has he not good reason to
dread the consequences to Switzerland of this spontaneous plebiscite?
Would it not involve the ruin of this nation with two hearts, if within
its frontiers war should suddenly be declared between the two rival
civilizations? If during our nocturnal journey from Constance to Geneva
we had encountered nothing but gentle and calm faces, I should not, on
that account, have harboured any suspicions of my dear Switzerland.
I should have said to my companions:
“Continue to trust her; she loves us. This democracy is tranquil,
healthy, little inclined to use lofty phrases, and by no means fond of
scenes in the street; but she has a robust faith in the right of nations.
With all her heart she detests aggressive imperialism and the cultured
barbarism of Germany. You will find her shy, reserved, and circumspect;
you will perhaps blame her for her silence. But this would be wrong,
for her silence is a duty she owes to her patriotism. She is intensely
patriotic. She would like to hail you with acclamations, but a great
national obligation seals her lips. You could not possibly wish her
light-heartedly to do anything owing to which German civilization and
Latin civilization might suddenly come into hostile conflict within her
closed borders, for she exists solely in virtue of their mutual accord,
and it is her historic mission to maintain the contact between them, to
harmonize them, to interpenetrate each with the other. This abominable
war is a difficult hour in her inner life. Even in times of peace she has
to walk circumspectly; but now, if she is to avoid a disruption which
is always possible, she must control her every movement, must bridle
her tongue, swallow her burning words, the words of love and admiration
which, if she followed the dictates of her heart, she would utter to
her valiant sister and neighbour. Believe me, my friends, the mountain
democracy is praying in her heart for the victory of right, for our
victory. Her silence is but a mask; she is mute for reasons of state.”
I did not have to deliver this address. From one end to the other of
Switzerland, the Helvetian people, so hostile to demonstrations, hailed
us with acclamations. They sat up all night. They overwhelmed us with
gifts. The seats of the train were heaped with ribbons, cockades,
flowers, boxes of cigars, baskets of food, bottles of the celebrated
vintages of Neuchâtel, La Côte, Lavaux, and Yvorne. In my compartment
alone we filled six haversacks with cigars, which we sent to the front to
the 30th of the line, the regiment of poor Robequain, of whose death I
learned on reaching Bellegarde.
Do not imagine that this explosion of generosity was inspired by mere
pity for the wreckage of war. I am absolutely confident that it was
inspired by love for France. Burghers and peasants, children and old
men, in German Switzerland just as much as in French, they all sang the
_Marseillaise_. They waved the tricolor. They cried, “_Vive la France!_”
At the stops they talked to us frankly, like brothers. They handed us
addresses which were hymns to “The Nation of Valmy and of the Marne,”
to “The Champions of the Rights of Man,” to “The Citizen Army which has
sworn to conquer or die for the Advent of a Free Europe.”
It seemed to me that the proud Helvetians of Morgarten and Sempach, these
forefathers of democracy and liberty, had emerged from their national
Grütli to line the road in our honour, and to give their blessing to the
sons of the young republic.
I cannot describe the mad jubilation which surged through our veins.
France! France the beloved! France of our blood and our heart. France
the eternal, resuscitated by the German aggression, once more become the
champion of freedom. France hailed by the neutrals, and by all men who
respect the right! I was drunk with happiness. This single night was a
compensation, for you, noble fellows mutilated in the war; for you, my
brother, with broken ear-drums and split skull; and for you, my friends,
all my dear dead friends, who sleep in Lorraine, in Belgium, in Flanders,
and on the Marne.
FOOTNOTES
[1] On this point I am in entire agreement with my friend François
Poncet. His little book, published a year before the war, _Ce que pense
la jeunesse allemande_, besides being couched in an admirably concise and
clear style, is of substantial value.
[2] Many German liberals have held the opinion, in all good faith, that
the new generation of France is reactionary. I do not know why, but
a young man coming from Paris, and having nothing to do with either
royalism or clericalism, was regarded by them as a remarkable exception.
[3] Vide _supra_, note on p. 17.
[4] The system of having no more than one or two children.
[5] M. Deschars was killed by the Germans in Belgium, in August 1914,
together with all the wounded and the staff of Dr. Sedillot’s ambulance.
[6] Let me repeat once more that such is the belief of every German
liberal. In their view we are all nothing more than replicas of Charles
Maurras.
[7] Are you not ashamed, you, the French democracy, to be allied with the
Russian barbarians?
[8] Provençal execration.
[9] Are any of you sick? Any tropical fevers?
[10] Sergeant-major.
[11] A slang word, universally employed, meaning “smashed” or “ruined.”
Accent on second syllable.
[12] Treat a ruffian gently and he will knock you about; knock a ruffian
about and he will fawn upon you.
[13] It need hardly be said that this story has no pretensions to
historical accuracy. The current talk among soldiers is, as a rule, no
less “imaginary” than the chatter of the drawing-rooms.
[14] Refer to previous note.
[15]
O my native place! O my native place!
O Toulouse! O Toulouse!…
[16] Old city of Cahors, so old and so smoky!
[17] A few days later the regulations established the right to send four
cards and two letters each month.
[18]
Dear fatherland, calm heart be thine,
Firm stands and true the watch by Rhine!
[19]
Hail to thee in the victor’s crown,
Ruler of the fatherland!
[20] The men would rather have a little more bread than so much spiritual
nourishment.
[21] The word “tub” alarms me, and the reader must excuse me for writing
it as we really pronounce it in France.
[22] A handsome Frenchman and an ugly German.
[23] Back with the mob!
[24] Now then, gentlemen, can’t we work a little harder?
[25] There, old chum! There’s something to grease your dirty palm!
[26] This war will be the greatest stain on the history of Europe!
[27] “Upon what nation, in days to come, will the verdict of ‘guilty’ be
passed by the tribunal of world history? One thing, at least, is certain.
Germany can look forward to the verdict with a clear conscience.” (Otto
von Gierke, _Internationale Monatschrift für Wissenschaft, Kunst, und
Technik_, November 1, 1914, 3rd _Kriegsheft_, “Deutsches Recht und
Deutsche Kraft.”) At this identical time, the Protestant theologians of
England, in the celebrated letter they sent to Adolf von Harnack, assured
that illustrious German historian and personal friend of William II:
“_Doch wir sind der festen Ueberzeugung, dass Grossbritannien in diesem
Kampfe für Recht und Gewissen; für Europa, die Menschheit und dauernden
Frieden fecht._” [“We are, however, firmly convinced that, in this
struggle, Great Britain is fighting for right and conscience, for Europe,
humanity, and permanent peace.”] It is a remarkable fact that throughout
Europe every one has a “clear conscience”!
[28] The German authorities subsequently rifled all the notebooks
containing “memoirs.” It was only by continued stratagems that I was able
to save part of my own.
[29]
The Vandals have taken Berlin! Oh, what a spectacle!
The pagans are at Danzig! The Mongols at Breslau!
In my mind all this rises simultaneously,
Pell-mell, as chance wills; it is horrible!… O shame!…
Germany, Germany, Germany.… Alas!
[30]
The little Frenchwoman
Who awaits me at home
Has eyes that glow
And a heart of lilac.…
[31] After repeated requests I had been allowed to subscribe to the
_Frankfurter Zeitung_. Three other prisoners have subscribed respectively
to the _Münchener Neueste Nachrichten_, the _Berliner Tageblatt_, and the
_Kölnische Zeitung_.
[32] Potato bread.
_Printed in Great Britain by_
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON
Battles and Bivouacs
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“Battles and Bivouacs,” by Jacques Roujon, is a vivid recital of the
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My Experiences on Three Fronts
BY SISTER MARTIN-NICHOLSON
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A vivid account of the author’s experiences in Belgium and Russia and
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Practical Pacifism and its Adversaries: “Is it Peace, Jehu?”
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BY ROMAIN ROLLAND
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