THE TRIBUNAL OF THE SPIRIT
No one had been more perfectly forearmed than Romain Rolland. The
closing chapters of _Jean Christophe_ foretell the coming mass illusion.
Never for a moment had he entertained the vain hope of certain idealists
that the fact (or semblance) of civilization, that the increase of human
kindliness which we owe to two millenniums of Christianity, would make a
future war, comparatively humane. Too well did he know as historian that
in the initial outbursts of war passion the veneer of civilization and
Christianity would be rubbed off; that in all nations alike the naked
bestiality of human beings would be disclosed; that the smell of the
shed blood would reduce them all to the level of wild beasts. He did not
conceal from himself that this strange halitus is able to dull and to
confuse even the gentlest, the kindliest, the most intelligent of souls.
The rending asunder of ancient friendships, the sudden solidarity among
persons most opposed in temperament now eager to abase themselves before
the idol of the fatherland, the total disappearance of conscientious
conviction at the first breath of the actualities of war--in _Jean
Christophe_ these things were written no less plainly than when of old
the fingers of the hand wrote upon the palace wall in Babylon.
Nevertheless, even this prophetic soul had underestimated the cruel
reality. During the opening days of the war, Rolland was horrified to
note how all previous wars were being eclipsed in the atrocity of the
struggle, in its material and spiritual brutality, in its extent, and in
the intensity of its passion. All possible anticipations had been
outdone. Although for thousands of years, by twos or variously allied,
the peoples of Europe had almost unceasingly been warring one with
another, never before had their mutual hatreds, as manifested in word
and deed, risen to such a pitch as in this twentieth century after the
birth of Christ. Never before in the history of mankind did hatred
extend so widely through the populations; never did it rage so fiercely
among the intellectuals; never before was oil pumped into the flames as
it was now pumped from innumerable fountains and tubes of the spirit,
from the canals of the newspapers, from the retorts of the professors.
All evil instincts were fostered among the masses. The whole world of
feeling, the whole world of thought, became militarized. The loathsome
organization for the dealing of death by material weapons was yet more
loathsomely reflected in the organization of national telegraphic
bureaus to scatter lies like sparks over land and sea. For the first
time, science, poetry, art, and philosophy became no less subservient to
war than mechanical ingenuity was subservient. In the pulpits and
professorial chairs, in the research laboratories, in the editorial
offices and in the authors' studies, all energies were concentrated as
by an invisible system upon the generation and diffusion of hatred. The
seer's apocalyptic warnings were surpassed.
A deluge of hatred and blood such as even the blood-drenched soil of
Europe had never known, flowed from land to land. Romain Rolland knew
that a lost world, a corrupt generation, cannot be saved from its
illusions. A world conflagration cannot be extinguished by a word,
cannot be quelled by the efforts of naked human hands. The only possible
endeavor was to prevent others adding fuel to the flames, and with the
lash of scorn and contempt to deter as far as might be those who were
engaged in such criminal undertakings. It might be possible, too, to
build an ark wherein what was intellectually precious in this suicidal
generation might be saved from the deluge, might be made available for
those of a future day when the waters of hatred should have subsided. A
sign might be uplifted, round which the faithful could rally, building a
temple of unity amid, and yet high above, the battlefields.
Among the detestable organizations of the general staffs, mechanical
ingenuity, lying, and hatred, Rolland dreamed of establishing another
organization, a fellowship of the free spirits of Europe. The leading
imaginative writers, the leading men of science, were to constitute the
ark he desired; they were to be the sustainers of justice in these days
of injustice and falsehood. While the masses, deceived by words, were
raging against one another in blind fury, the artists, the writers, the
men of science, of Germany, France, and England, who for centuries had
been coöperating for discoveries, advances, ideals, could combine to
form a tribunal of the spirit which, with scientific earnestness, should
devote itself to extirpating the falsehoods that were keeping their
respective peoples apart. Transcending nationality, they could hold
intercourse on a higher plane. For it was Rolland's most cherished hope
that the great artists and great investigators would refuse to identify
themselves with the crime of the war, would refrain from abandoning
their freedom of conscience and from entrenching themselves behind a
facile "my country, right or wrong." With few exceptions, intellectuals
had for centuries recognized the repulsiveness of war. More than a
thousand years earlier, when China was threatened by ambitious Mongols,
Li Tai Peh had exclaimed: "Accursed be war! Accursed the work of
weapons! The sage has nothing to do with these follies." The contention
that the sage has naught to do with such follies seems to rise like an
unenunciated refrain from all the utterances of western men of learning
since Europe began to have a common life. In Latin letters (for Latin,
the medium of intercourse, was likewise the symbol of supranational
fellowship), the great humanists whose respective countries were at war
exchanged their regrets, and offered mutual philosophical solace against
the murderous illusions of their less instructed fellows. Herder was
speaking for the learned Germans of the eighteenth century when he
wrote: "For fatherland to engage in a bloody struggle with fatherland is
the most preposterous, barbarism." Goethe, Byron, Voltaire, and
Rousseau, were at one in their contempt for the purposeless butcheries
of war. To-day, in Rolland's view, the leading intellectuals, the great
scientific investigators whose minds would perforce remain unclouded,
the most humane among the imaginative writers, could join in a
fellowship whose members would renounce the errors of their respective
nations. He did not, indeed, venture to hope that there would be a very
large number of persons whose souls would remain free from the passions
of the time. But spiritual force is not based upon numbers; its laws are
not those of armies. In this field, Goethe's saying is applicable:
"Everything great, and everything most worth having comes from a
minority. It cannot be supposed that reason will ever become popular.
Passion and sentiment may be popularized, the reason will always remain
a privilege of the few." This minority, however, may acquire authority
through spiritual force. Above all, it may constitute a bulwark against
falsehood. If men of light and leading, free men of all nationalities,
were to meet somewhere, in Switzerland perhaps, to make common cause
against every injustice, by whomever committed, a sanctuary would at
length be established, an asylum for truth which was now everywhere
bound and gagged. Europe would have a span of soil for home; mankind
would have a spark of hope. Holding mutual converse, these best of men
could enlighten one another; and the reciprocal illumination on the part
of such unprejudiced persons could not fail to diffuse its light over
the world.
Such was the mood in which Rolland took up his pen for the first time
after the outbreak of war. He wrote an open letter to Hauptmann, to the
author whom among Germans he chiefly honored for goodness and
humaneness. Within the same hour he wrote to Verhaeren, Germany's
bitterest foe. Rolland thus stretched forth both his hands, rightward
and leftward, in the hope that he could bring his two correspondents
together, so that at least within the domain of pure spirit there might
be a first essay towards spiritual reconciliation, what time upon the
battlefields the machine-guns with their infernal clatter were mowing
down the sons of France, Germany, Belgium, Britain, Austria-Hungary, and
Russia.