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Title: The Pentecost of Calamity

Author: Owen Wister

Release Date: April 23, 2010 [EBook #32098]

Language: English

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  THE
  PENTECOST OF
  CALAMITY




  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO . DALLAS
  ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO

  MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
  LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA
  MELBOURNE

  THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
  TORONTO




  THE
  PENTECOST OF
  CALAMITY

  _By_
  OWEN WISTER
  _Author of "The Virginian," etc._

  New York
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  1915

  _All rights reserved_




  COPYRIGHT, 1915,
  BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY.

  COPYRIGHT, 1915,
  BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

  Set up and electrotyped. Published August, 1915.
  Reprinted September, twice, October, twice, November,
  three times; December, 1915

  Norwood Press
  J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
  Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.




THE PENTECOST OF CALAMITY

    Ever the fiery Pentecost
    Girds with one flame the countless host.

                                    --EMERSON.




I


By various influences and agents the Past is summoned before us, more
vivid than a dream. The process seems as magical as those whereof we
read in fairy legends, where circles are drawn, wands waved, mystic
syllables pronounced. Adjured by these rites, voices speak, or forms
and faces shape themselves from nothing. So, through certain
influences, not magical at all, our brains are made to flash with
visions of other days. Is there among us one to whom this experience
is unknown? For whom no particular strain of music, or no special
perfume, is linked with an inveterate association? Music and perfumes
are among the most potent of these evocatory agents; but many more
exist, such as words, sounds, handwriting. Thus almost always, at the
name of the town Cologne, the banks of the golden stream, the German
Rhine, sweep into my sight as first I saw them long ago; and from a
steamer's deck I watch again, and again count, a train composed of
twenty-one locomotives, moving ominous and sinister on their new
errand. That was July 19, 1870. France had declared war on Prussia
that day. Mobilization was beginning before my eyes. I was ten.

Dates and anniversaries also perform the same office as music and
perfumes. This is the ninth of June. This day, last year, I was in the
heart of Germany. The beautiful, peaceful scene is plain yet. It seems
as if I never could forget it or cease to love it. Often last June I
thought how different the sights I was then seeing were from those
twenty-one locomotives rolling their heavy threat along the banks of
the Rhine. And, for the mere curiosity of it, I looked in my German
diary to find if I had recorded anything on last June ninth that
should be worth repeating on this June ninth.

Well, at the end of the day's jotted routine were the following
sentences: "I am constantly more impressed with the Germans. They are
a massive, on-going, steady race. Some unifying slow fire is at work
in them. This can be felt, somehow." Such was my American impression,
innocent altogether, deeply innocent, and ignorant of what the slow
fire was going to become. So were the peasants and the other humbler
subjects of the Empire who gave me this daily impression; they were
innocent and ignorant too. Therefore is the German tragedy deeper even
than the Belgian.

On June twenty-eighth I was still in the heart of Germany, but at
another beautiful place, where further signs of Germany's great
thrift, order and competence had met me at every turn. It was a
Sunday, cloudless and hot, with the mountains full of odors from the
pines. After two hours of strolling I reentered our hotel to find a
group of travelers before the bulletin board. Here we read in silence
the news of a political assassination. The silence was prolonged, not
because this news touched any of us nationally but because any such
crime must touch and shock all thoughtful persons.

At last the silence was broken by an old German traveler, who said:
"That is the match which will set all Europe in a blaze." We did not
know who he was. None of our party ever knew. On the next morning this
party took its untroubled way toward France, a party of innocent,
ignorant Americans, in whose minds lingered no thought of the old
German's remark. That evening we slept in Rheims. Our windows opened
opposite the quiet cathedral. It towered far above them into the
night and sky, its presence filling our rooms with a serene and grave
benediction. Just to see it from one's pillow gave to one's thoughts
the quality of prayer.

Two days later I took my leave of it by sitting for a silent hour
alone beneath its solemn nave. I can never be too glad that I bade it
this good-by. Not long afterward--only thirty-two days--we recollected
the old German's remark, for suddenly it came true. He had known
whereof he spoke. On August 1, 1914, Europe fell to pieces; and during
August, 1915, in a few weeks from to-day, the anniversaries will
begin--public anniversaries and private. These, like perfumes, like
music, will waken legions of visions. The days of the calendar,
succeeding one another, will ring in the memories of hundreds and
thousands like bells. Each date will invest its day and the sun or the
rain thereof with special, pregnant relation to the bereft and the
mourning of many faiths and languages. Thus all Europe will be tolling
with memorial knells inaudible, yet which in those ears that hear them
will sound louder than any noise of shrapnel or calamity.




II


Calamity, like those far-off locomotives on the Rhine, has again rolled
out of Germany on her neighbors. Yet this very Calamity it is that has
given me back my faith in my own country. It was Germany at peace which
shook my faith; and I must tell you of that peaceful, beautiful Germany
in which I rejoiced for so many days, and of how I envied it. Then,
perhaps, among some other things I hope you will see, you will see that
it is Germany who is, in truth, the deepest tragedy of this war.

The Germany at peace that I saw during May and June, 1914, was, in
the first place, a constant pleasure to the eye, a constant repose to
the body and mind. Look where you might, beauty was in some form to be
seen, given its chance by the intelligence of man--not defaced, but
made the most of; and, whether in towns or in the country, a
harmonious spectacle was the rule. I thought of our landscape,
littered with rubbish and careless fences and stumps of trees, hideous
with glaring advertisements; of the rusty junk lying about our farms
and towns and wayside stations; and of the disfigured Palisades along
the Hudson River. America was ugly and shabby--made so by Americans;
Germany was swept and garnished--made so by Germans.

In Nauheim the admirable courtyard of the bathhouses was matched by
the admirable system within. The convenience and the architecture
were equally good. For every hour of the invalid's day the secret of
his well-being seemed to have been thought out. On one side of the
group and court of baths ran the chief street, shady and well-kempt,
with its hotels and its very entertaining shops; on the other side
spread a park. This was a truly gracious little region, embowered in
trees, with spaces and walks and flowers all near at hand, yet nothing
crowded. The park sloped upward to a terrace and casino, with tables
for sitting out to eat and drink and hear the band, and with a concert
hall and theater for the evening. Herein comedies and little operas
and music, both serious and light, were played.

Nothing was far from anything; the baths, the doctors, the hotels,
the music, the tennis courts, the lake, the golf links--all were
fitted into a scheme laid out with marvelous capability. Various hills
and forests, a little more distant, provided walks for those robust
enough to take them, while longer excursions in carriages or motor
cars over miles of excellent roads were all mapped out and tariffed in
a terse but comprehensive guidebook. Such was living at Nauheim.
Dying, I feel sure, was equally well arranged; it was never allowed to
obtrude itself on living.

Each day began with an early hour of routine, walking and
water-drinking before breakfast, amid surroundings equally well
planned--an arcade inclosing a large level space, with an expanse of
water, a band playing, flowers growing in the open, cut flowers for
sale in the arcade and comfortable seats where the doctor permitted
pausing, but no permanent settling down. Thus went the whole day.
Everything was well planned and everything worked. I thought of
America, where so many things look beautiful on paper and so few
things work, because nobody keeps the rules. I thought of our college
elective system, by which every boy was free to study what best fitted
him for his career, and nearly every boy did study what he could most
easily pass examinations in. There was no elective system in Nauheim.
Everybody kept the rules. There was no breakdown, no failure.

Moreover, the civility of the various ministrants to the invalid, from
the eminent professor-doctor down through hotel porters and bath
attendants to the elevator boy, was well-nigh perfect. If you asked
for something out of the routine, either it was permitted or it was
satisfactorily explained why it could not be permitted. Whether at the
bank, the bookshop, the hotel, the railway station or in the street,
your questions were not merely understood--the Germans knew the
answers to them. And every day the street was charming with fresh
flowers and fresh fruit in abundance at many corners and
booths--cherries, strawberries, plums, apricots, grapes, both cheap
and good, as here they never are. But the great luxury, the great
repose, was that each person fitted his job, did it well, took it
seriously. After our American way of taking it as a joke,
particularly when you fumble it, this German way was almost enough to
cure a sick man without further treatment.




III


This serenity of living was not got up for the stranger; it was not to
meet his market that a complex and artificial ease had been
constructed, bearing no relation to what lay beyond its limits. That
sort of thing is to be found among ourselves in isolated spots, though
far less perfect and far more expensive. Nauheim was merely a blossom
on the general tree. It was when I began my walks in the country and
found everywhere a corresponding, ordered excellence, and came to talk
more and more with the peasants and to notice the men, women and
children, that the scheme of Germany grew impressive to me.

So had it not been in 1870, as I looked back on my early impressions,
reading them now in my maturer judgment's light. So had it not been
even in 1882 and 1883, when I had again seen the country. We various
invalids of Nauheim presently began to compare notes. All of us were
going about the country, among the gardens and the farms, or across
the plain through the fruit trees to little Friedberg on its hill--an
old castle, a steep village, a clean Teutonic gem, dropped perfect out
of the Middle Ages into the present, yet perfectly keeping up with the
present. Many of the peasants in the plain, men and women, were of
those who brought their flowers and produce to sell in Nauheim--humble
people, poor in what you call worldly goods, but seemingly very few
of them poor in the great essential possession.

We invalids compared notes and found ourselves all of one mind. Ten or
twelve of us were, at the several hotels, acquaintances at home; every
one had been struck with the contentment in the German face.
Contentment! Among the old and young of both sexes this was the
dominating note, the great essential possession. The question arose:
What is the best sign that a government is doing well by its people--is
agreeing with its people, so to speak? None of us were quite so sure as
we used to be that our native formula, "Of the people, by the people,
for the people," is the universal ultimate truth.

Twice two is four, wherever you go; this is as certain in Berlin as
it is at Washington or in the cannibal islands. But, until mankind
grows uniform, can government be treated as you treat mathematics?
Until mankind grows uniform, will any form of government be likely to
fit the whole world like a glove? So long as mankind continues as
various as men's digestions, better to look at government as if it
were a sort of diet or treatment. How is the government agreeing with
its people? This is the question to ask in each country. And what is
the surest sign? Could any sign be surer than the general expression,
the composite face of the people themselves? This goes deeper than
skyscrapers and other material aspects.

I had sailed away from skyscrapers and limited expresses; from
farmers sowing crops wastefully; from houses burned through
carelessness; from forests burned through carelessness; from heaps of
fruit rotting on the ground in one place and hundreds of men hungry in
another place. I had sailed away from the city face and the country
face of America, and neither one was the face of content. They looked
driven, unpeaceful, dissatisfied. The hasty American was not looking
after his country himself, and nobody was there to make him look after
it while he rushed about climbing, climbing--and to what? A higher
skyscraper. It was very restful to come to a place where the spirit of
man was in stable equilibrium; where man's lot was in stable
equilibrium; where never a schoolboy had been told he might become
President and every schoolboy knew he could not be Emperor.

The students on a walking holiday from their universities often
wandered singing through Nauheim. Somewhat Tyrolese in get-up,
sometimes with odd, Byronic collars, too much open at the neck, they
wore their knapsacks and the caps that showed their guild. They came
generally in the early morning while the invalids were strolling at
the Sprudel. The sound of their young voices singing in part-chorus
would be heard, growing near, passing close, then dying away
melodiously among the trees.

A single little sharp discord vibrated through all this German harmony
one day when I learned that in the Empire more children committed
suicide than in any other country.

But soon this discord was lost amid the massive Teutonic polyphony of
well-being. Of this well-being knowledge was enlarged by excursions to
various towns. To Worms, for instance, that we might see the famous
Luther Monument. Part of the journey thither lay through a fine
forest. This the city of Frankfurt-am-Main owns and has forested for
seven hundred years; using the wood all the time, but so wisely that
the supply has maintained itself against the demand. I thought of our
own forests, looted and leveled, and of ourselves boasting our
glorious future while we obliterated that future's resources.
Frankfurt was there to teach us better, had we chosen to learn.




IV


In Frankfurt-am-Main was born one of the three supreme poets since
Greece and Rome--Goethe--from whom I shall quote more than once; but
Frankfurt has present glories that I saw. It is one of many
beautifully governed German cities. I grew even fond of its Union
Station, since through this gate I entered so often the pleasures and
edifications of the town. The trains were a symbol of the whole
Empire. About a mile north of Nauheim the railroad passes under a
bridge and curves out of sight. The four-fifteen was apt to be my
express to Frankfurt. I would stand on the platform, watch in hand,
looking northward for my train. At four-eleven the bridge was
invariably an empty hole. Invariably at four-twelve the engine filled
the hole; then the train glided in quietly, and smoothly glided on,
almost punctual to the second. So did the other trains.

The conductors were officials of disciplined courtesy and informed
minds. They appeared at the door of your compartment, erect,
requesting your ticket in an established formula. If you asked them
something they told you correctly and with a Teutonic adequacy that
was grave, but not gruff. Once only in a score of journeys did I
encounter bad manners. Now I should never choose these admirable
conductors for companions, but as conductors they were superior to the
engaging fellow citizen who took my ticket down in Georgia and, when
I asked did his train usually make its scheduled connection at
Yemassee Junction, cried out with contagious mirth:

"My Lawd, suh, 'most nevah!"

In these German trains another little discord jarred with some
regularity: the German passengers they brought from Berlin, or were
taking back to Berlin, were of a heavy impenetrable rudeness--quite
another breed than the kindly Hessians of Frankfurt.

We know the saying of a floor--that it is so clean "you could eat your
dinner off it." All the streets of Frankfurt, that I saw, were clean
like this. The system of street cars was lucid--and blessedly
noiseless!--and their conductors informed with the same adequate
gravity I have already noted.

I found that I developed a special affection for Route 19, because
this took me from the station to the opera house. But all routes took
one to and through aspects of municipal perfection at which one stared
with envy as one thought of home.

Oh, yes! Frankfurt is a name to me compact with memories--memories of
clean streets; of streets full of by-passers who could direct you when
you asked your way; of streets empty of beggars, empty of all signs of
desolate, drunken or idle poverty; of streets bordered by substantial
stone dwellings, with fragrant gardens; of excellent shops; the
streets full of prosperous movement and bustle; an absence of rags, a
presence of good stout clothes; a people of contented faces, whether
they talked or were silent--the same firm and broad contentment, like
a tree deep-rooted, in the city face that was in the country face.

These burghers, these Frankfurters, seemed to be going about their
business with a sort of solid yet placid energy, well and deliberately
aimed, that would hit the mark at once without wasting powder. It was
very different and very superior to the ill-arranged and hectic haste
of New York and Chicago; here nobody seemed driven as though by
invisible furies--the German business mind was not out of breath.

Such are my memories of Frankfurt at work. Frankfurt at leisure was to
be seen in its Palm Garden. This was the town's place of general
recreation; large, various, beautifully and intelligently planned;
with space for babies to roll in safety, and there were the babies
rolling, and their nurses; with courts for tennis, and thither I saw
adolescent Frankfurt strolling in flannels and short skirts after
business hours; with benches where sat the more elderly, taking the
air and gazing at the games or the flowers or the pleasant trees; with
paths more sequestered that wound among bowers, convenient for
sweethearts--but I did not see any, because I forbore to look. A
central building held tropic plants and basins, and large rooms for
bad weather, I suppose, with a restaurant; but on this fine day the
music played and we dined outside.

An entrance fee, very small, served to make you respect the Palm
Garden, since humanity seldom respects what it pays nothing for. Most
unexpected show of all in this Palm Garden were the flowers under
glass. I had erroneously supposed that any German scheme of color
would be heavy, and possibly garish. Never had I beheld more exquisite
subtlety on so extended a scale of arrangement. One walked through
aisle after aisle of roses and other blooms in these
greenhouses--everywhere was the same delicate sense and feeling; the
same, in fact, in these flower schemes that one finds in German lyric
verse, and in the songs of Schubert, Schumann and Franz.

It was in the opera house--Frankfurt has a fine and commodious
one--that my whole impression of Germany's glory culminated. The
performances drew their light from no Melbas or Carusos, or other
meteors, but from a fixed constellation, now and then enriched by
some visitor; it was teamwork of drilled and even excellence, singers,
chorus, orchestra and scenery unitedly equal to the occasion, in
operas old and new, an immense sweep of repertory, with an audience to
match--an accustomed audience, to whom music was traditional food,
music having always grown hereabout plenteously, indigenously, so that
they took it as naturally as they took their Rhine wine, paying for it
as moderately, going to hear it in rather plain clothes, as a
rule--men in day dress, women in high-neck; not an audience that had
to put on its diamonds in order to listen conspicuously to a costly
and not comprehended exotic.

The difference between hearing opera where it grows and hearing it in
New York is the difference between eating strawberries warm from
their vines in June and strawberries in January that have come a
thousand miles by freight. Where opera grows, it is the blend of
native music, singers and listeners that gives a ripe flavor of a
warmth which Fifth Avenue can never purchase.

This, every performance in Frankfurt had; but even this could be
raised to a higher key of inspiration. I walked in one night and found
myself amid a pious ceremonial. They were giving an old work, of
bygone design, stiff in outline, noble, remote from all present
things. Why did they revive this somewhat pale and rigid classic? For
contrast, variety? Not at all. Two hundred years ago this day, Gluck
had been born. Gluck had written this opera. For this reason, then,
Frankfurt was assembled to hear Gluck's music and remember him; and,
as I looked at these living Germans honoring their classics, I thought
it was truly a splendid people that not only possessed but practically
nourished themselves with these masterpieces of their great dead.

But this was not all. This was Germany looking at its Past. In the
Frankfurt opera house I also learned one of the ways in which Germany
attends to its Future. It was on a Sunday afternoon. As I crossed the
open space toward the opera house it seemed as though I were the only
grown person bound there. Children by threes and fours, and in little
groups, were streaming from every quarter, entering every door,
tripping up the wide, handsome stairs, filling all the seats--boys and
girls; it was like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. After a few minutes I
found that I was indeed almost alone amid a rippling sea of
children--nearly two thousand, as I later learned. In the boxes here
and there was a parent or two with a family party, and dotted about
the house a few scattered older heads among the young ones.

The overture began. "Hush!" went several little voices; the sprightly,
expectant Babel fell to silence; they listened like a congregation in
church.

Then the curtain rose. It was a gay old opera, tuneful, full of
boisterous, innocent comedy and simple sentiment. Not Gluck this time;
Gluck would have been a trifle severe for their young understandings.
The enthusiasm and the attention of these boys and girls, with their
clapping of hands and their laughter, soon affected the spirits of the
singers as a radiant day in spring; it affected me. I envied the happy
parents who had their children round them; it was like some sort of
wonderful April light. Beneath it the quaint, sweet old opera shone like
a fruit tree in blossom. The actors became as children again themselves;
so did the fiddlers; so did the conductor. I doubt if that little old
opera, _Czaar und Zimmermann_, had ever felt younger in its life; and I
thought if the spirit of Goethe were watching Frankfurt, his city,
to-day, it would add a new happiness to a moment of his Eternity.

Between the acts I was full of questions. What occasion was this? I
read the program, wherein was set forth a most interesting account of
the composer--his character, life and adventures, with a historic
account also of Peter the Great, the hero of the opera; but nothing
about the occasion. So in the lobby I addressed myself to a group of
the men I had seen dotted among the rows of children. The men were
schoolmasters. The occasion was an experiment. The children were of
the public schools of Frankfurt--not the oldest scholars, but the
middle grades of the schools. For the oldest, Frankfurt had already
provided opera days, but this was the first ever given for these
younger boys and girls. The cost was twelve-and-a-half cents a seat.
If it proved a success, a second would follow in two weeks. At the
theater, throughout each winter school term, plays were given
expressly for them in this way--the great German classics; but never
any opera before to-day.

Well, the performance went on; but I was obliged, near the end of it, to
hasten away to my train for Nauheim, most reluctantly leaving the sight
and company of those two thousand joyous children of the Frankfurt
public schools. "Rosy cheeks predominated; eyeglasses were rare."--Again
I quote from my own diary:--"The children seemed between ten and
fifteen. The boys had good foreheads and big backs to their heads."




V


Nothing can efface this memory, nothing can efface the whole
impression of Germany; in retrospect this picture rises clear--the
fair aspect and order of the country and the cities, the well-being of
the people, their contented faces, their grave adequacy, their
kindliness; and, crowning all material prosperity, the feeling for
beauty as shown by their gardens, and, better and more important
still, the reverent value for their great native poets and musicians,
so attentive, so cherishing, seeing to it that the young generation
began early its acquaintance with the masterpieces that are Germany's
heritage of inspiration.

Such was the splendor of this empire as it unrolled before me through
May and June, 1914, that by contrast the state of its two great
neighbors, France and England, seemed distressing and unenviable.
Paris was shabby and incoherent, London full of unrest. Instead of
Germany's order, confusion prevailed in France; instead of Germany's
placidity, disturbance prevailed in England; and in both France and
England incompetence seemed the chief note. The French face, alike in
city or country, was too often a face of worried sadness or revolt;
men spoke of political scandals and dissensions petty and unpatriotic
in spirit, and a political trial, revealing depths of every sort of
baseness and dishonor, filled the newspapers; while in England,
besides discord of suffrage and discord of labor, civil war seemed so
imminent that no one would have been surprised to hear of it any day.

So that I thought: Suppose a soul, arrived on earth from another
world, wholly ignorant of earth, without any mortal ties whatever,
were given its choice after a survey of the nations, which it should
be born in and belong to? In May, June and July, 1914, my choice would
have been, not France, not England, not America, but Germany.

It was on the seventh day of June, 1914, that Frankfurt assembled her
school children in the opera house, to further their taste and
understanding of Germany's supreme national art. Exactly eleven months
later, on May 7, 1915, a German torpedo sank the Lusitania; and the
cities of the Rhine celebrated this also for their school children.




VI


The world is in agony. We witness the most terrible catastrophe known
to mankind--most terrible, not from its huge size, but because it is a
moral catastrophe. Through centuries of suffering and cruelty, guided
by religion, we thought we had attained to knowledge of and belief in
a public right between nations, and an honorable warfare, if warfare
must be. This has been shattered to pieces. No need to investigate
further the atrocities at Liege or Louvain. These and more have indeed
been amply proved, but what need of proof after the Lusitania school
festival? In that holiday we see the feast of _Kultur_, the Teutonic
climax. How came it to pass? Is it the same Germany who gave those two
holidays to her school children? The opera in Frankfurt, and this orgy
of barbaric blood-lust, guttural with the deep basses of the fathers
and shrill with the trebles of their young? Their young, to whom they
teach one day the gentle melodies of Lortzing, and to exult in
world-assassination on another?

Goethe said--and the words glow with new prophetic light: "Germans are
of yesterday; ... a few centuries must still elapse before ... it will
be said of them, 'It is long since they were barbarians.'" And again:
"National hatred is a peculiar thing. You will always find it
strongest and most violent where there is the lowest degree of
_Kultur_." But how came it to pass? Do the two holidays proceed from
the same _Kultur_, the same Fatherland?

They do; and nothing in the whole story of mankind is more strange
than the case of Germany--how Germany through generations has been
carefully trained for this wild spring at the throat of Europe that
she has made. The Servian assassination has nothing to do with it,
save that it accidentally struck the hour. Months and years before
that, Germany was crouching for her spring. In one respect the war she
has incubated is the old assault of Xerxes, of Alexander, of Napoleon,
of every one who has been visited by the dangerous dream of world
conquest. Only, never before has the dream been taught to a people on
such a scale, not merely because of the vast modern apparatus, but
much more because no subjects of any despot have ever been so
politically docile and credulous as the Germans.

In another respect this war resembles strikingly our own and the
French Revolution. All three were prepared and fomented by books, by
teachings from books. The American brain seized hold of certain
doctrines and generalizations of Locke, Montesquieu, Burlamaqui and
Beccaria concerning the rights of man and the consent of the governed.
The French brain nourished and inspired itself with some theorems of
the encyclopedists and of Rousseau about man's natural innocence and
the social contract. The Teutonic brain assimilated some diplomatic
and philosophic precepts laid down by Machiavelli, Nietzsche and
Treitschke. Indeed, Fichte, during the Winter of 1807-08, at the
University of Berlin, made an address to the German people which may
be accounted the first famous academic harbinger and source of the
present Teutonic state of mind. Here the parallel stops. With America
and France, war made way for independence, liberty and freedom,
political and moral; Germany would establish everywhere her absolute
military despotism. We shall reach in due course the full statement of
her creed; we are not ready for it yet.




VII


Often of late I have thought of those twenty-one locomotives moving
along the bank of the Rhine. They were a symbol. They stood for the
House of Hohenzollern; they carried Caesar and all his fortunes, which
had begun long before locomotives were invented. July 19, 1870, is one
of the dates that does not remain of the same size, but grows, has not
done growing yet, will be one of History's enormous dates before it is
done growing. The heavier descendants of those locomotives have been
lugging to France a larger destruction, and more hideous, than their
ancestors dragged there; but this new freight belongs to the same
haul, forms part of one vast organic materialistic growth, and
spiritual eclipse, of which 1870 and 1914 are important parts, but by
no means the whole.

Woven with it is the struggle of nations for the possession of their own
soul. Consider 1870 in this light: Through that war France took her soul
out of the custody of an Emperor and handed it to the people; through
the same war Germany placed her soul in the hands of an Emperor.
Defeated France, rid of her Bonapartes; victorious Germany, shackled to
her Hohenzollern! In the light of forty-five years how those two
opposite actions gleam with significance, and how in the same light the
two words _defeat_ and _victory_ grow lambent with shifting import!
Unless our democratic faith be vain, France walked forward then, and
Germany backward. But this did not seem so last June.




VIII


Had it not culminated before our eyes, the case of Germany would be
perfectly incredible. As it stands to-day, the truly incredible thing
is that she should have made her spring at the throat of an
unexpecting, unprepared world. Now that she _has_ sprung, the
diagnosis of her case has been often and ably made--before the event,
Dr. Charles Sarolea, a Belgian gentleman, made it notably; but
prophets are seldom recognized except by posterity. The case of
Germany is a hospital case, a case for the alienist; the mania of
grandeur, complemented by the mania of persecution.

Very well do I remember the first dawning hint I had of this diseased
mental state. It was Wednesday, August 5, 1914. We were in mid-ocean.
Before the bulletin board we passengers were clustered to read that
day's marconigram and learn what more of Europe had fallen to pieces
since yesterday. This morning was posted the Kaiser's proclamation,
quoting Hamlet, calling on his subjects "to be or not to be," and to
defy a world conspired against them. In these words there was such a
wild, incoherent ring of exaltation that I said to a friend: "Can he
be off his head?"

Later in that voyage we sped silent and unlanterned through the fog
from two German cruisers, of which nobody seemed personally afraid but
one stewardess. She said: "They're all wild beasts. They would send
us all to the bottom." No one believed her. Since then we believe her.
Since then we have heard the wild incoherent ring in many German
voices besides the Kaiser's, and we know to-day that Germany's mania
is analogous to those mental epidemics of the Middle Ages, when
fanaticism, usually religious, sent entire communities into various
forms of madness.

The case of Germany is the Prussianizing of Germany. Long after all of
us are gone, men will still be studying this war; and, whatever
responsibility for it be apportioned among the nations, the huge
weight and bulk of guilt will be laid on Prussia and the
Hohenzollern--unless, indeed, it befall that Germany conquer the world
and the Kaiser dictate his version of History to us all, suppressing
all other versions, as he has conducted the training of his subjects
since 1888. But this will not be; whatever comes first, this cannot be
the end. If I believed that the earth would be Prussianized, life
would cease to be desirable.

To me the whole case of Germany, the whole process, seems a fatalistic
thing, destined, inevitable; cosmic forces above and beyond men's
comprehension flooding this northern land with their high tide, as once
they flooded southern coasts; giving to this Teuton race its turn, its
day, its hour of white heat and of bloom, its temperamental greatness,
its strength and excess of vital sap, intellectual, procreative--all
this grandeur to be hurled into tragedy by its own action.

The process goes back a long way behind Napoleon--who stayed it for a
while--to years when we see the Germany of the Reformation, Poetry,
Music, the grand Germany, blossoming in the very same moment that the
Prussian poison was also germinating. About 1830, Heine perceived and
wrote scornfully concerning the new and evil influence. This was a
germination of state and family ambition combined, fermenting at last
into lust for world dominion. It grows quite visible first in Frederick
the Great. By him the Prussian state of mind and international ethics
began to be formulated. By force and fraud he annexed weak peoples'
territory. He cut Poland's body in three, blasphemously inviting Russia
and Austria to partake with him of his Eucharist.

Theft has followed theft since Frederick's. His cynical, strong spirit
guided Prussia after Waterloo, guided first the predecessor of
Bismarck and next Bismarck himself, with his stealing of
Schleswig-Holstein, his dishonest mutilation of the telegram at Ems
and the subsequent rape of Alsace and Lorraine in 1870. Very plain it
is to see now, and very sad, why the small separate German states that
had indeed produced their giants--their Luthers, Goethes,
Beethovens--but had always suffered military defeat, had been the
shambles of their conquerors for centuries, should after 1870 hail
their new-created Emperor. Had he not led them united to the first
glory and conquest they had ever known? Had he not got them back
Alsace and Lorraine, which France had stolen from them two hundred
years ago? So they handed their soul to the Hohenzollern. This marks
the beginning of the end.




IX


We can hardly emphasize too much, or sufficiently underline, the moral
effect of 1870 on the German nature, the influence it had on the
German mind. It is essential to a clear understanding of the full
Prussianizing process that now set in. On the German's innate docility
and credulity many have dwelt, but few on what 1870 did to this. Only
with Bismarck's quick, tremendous victory over France as the final
explanation is the abject and servile faith that the Germans
thenceforth put in Prussia rendered conceivable to reason. They
blindly swallowed the sham that Bismarck gave them as universal
suffrage. They swallowed extreme political and military restraint.
They swallowed a rigid compulsion in schools, which led to the excess
in child suicide I have mentioned. They swallowed a state of life
where outside the indicated limits almost nothing was permitted and
almost everything was forbidden.

But all this proscription is merely material and has been attended by
great material welfare. Intellectual speculation was apparently
unfettered; but he who dared philosophize about Liberty and the Divine
right of Kings found it was not. Prussia put its uniform not only on
German bodies but on their brains. Literature and music grew
correspondingly sterilized. Drama, fiction, poetry and the comic
papers became invaded by a new violence and a new, heavy obscenity.
Impatience with the noble German classics was bred by Prussia. What
wonder, since freedom was their essence?

Beethoven, after Napoleon made himself Emperor, tore off the
dedication of his "Eroica" symphony to Napoleon. And Goethe had said:
"Napoleon affords us an example of the danger of elevating oneself to
the Absolute and sacrificing everything to the carrying out of an
idea." Goethe fell frankly out of date in Berlin. Symphony orchestras
could no longer properly interpret Mozart and Beethoven. A strange
blend of frivolity and bestiality began to pervade the whole realm of
German art. Scientific eminence degenerated _pari passu_. No
originator of the dimensions of Helmholtz was produced, but a herd of
diligent and thorough workers-out of the ideas got from England--like
the aniline dyes--or from France--like the Wassermann tests--and
seldom credited to their sources. So poor grew the academic tone at
Berlin that a Munich professor declined an offer of promotion thither.

For forty years German school children and university students sat in
the thickening fumes that exhaled from Berlin, spread everywhere by
professors chosen at the fountainhead. Any professor or editor who
dared speak anything not dictated by Prussia, for German credulity to
write down on its slate, was dealt with as a heretic.

Out of the fumes emerged three colossal shapes--the Super-man, the
Super-race and the Super-state: the new Trinity of German worship.




X


Thus was Germany shut in from the world. Even her Socialist-Democrats
abjectly conformed. China built a stone wall, Germany a wall of the mind.

To assert that any great nation has in these modern days deliberately
built around herself such a wall, may seem an extreme statement, and I
will therefore support it with an instance--only one instance out of
many, out of hundreds; it will suffice to indicate the sort of
information about the world lying outside the wall that Germany has
carefully prepared for the children in her schools. I quote from the
letter of an American parent recently living in Berlin, who placed his
children in a school there: "The text books were unique. I suppose there
was not in any book of physics or chemistry that they studied an
admission that a citizen of some other country had taken any forward
step; every step was by some line of argument assigned to a German. As
you might expect, the history of the modern world is the work of German
Heroes. The oddest example, however, was the geography used by
Katherine. (His daughter, aged thirteen.) This contained maps indicating
the Deutsche Gebiete (the German "spheres of influence" in foreign
lands) in striking colors. In North and South America, including the
United States and Canada, there are said to be three classes of
inhabitants--negroes, Indians and Germans. For the United States there
is a black belt for negroes and a middle-west section for Indians; but
the rest is Deutsche Gebiete. Canada is occupied mainly by Indians. The
matter was brought to my attention because one of Katherine's girl
friends asked her whether she was of negro or Indian blood; and when she
replied she was neither her friend pointed out that this was impossible
for she surely was not German." Information less laughable about the
morals taught in the German schools I forbear to quote.

During forty years Germany sat within her wall, learning and repeating
Prussian incantations. It recalls those savage rites where the
participants, by shouting and by concerted rhythmic movements, work
themselves into a frothing state. This has befallen Germany. Within
her wall of moral isolation her sight has grown distorted, her sense
of proportion is lost; a set of reeling delusions possesses her--her
own greatness, her mission of _Kultur_, her contempt for the rest of
mankind, her grievance that mankind is in league to cramp and suppress
her.

These delusions have been attended by their proper Nemesis: Germany
has misunderstood us all--everybody and everything outside her wall.

Like the bewitched dwarfs in certain old magic tales, whose talk
reveals their evil without their knowing it, Germans constantly utter
words of the most naif and grotesque self-betrayal--as when the German
ambassador was being escorted away from England and was urged by his
escort not to be so downcast; the war being no fault of his. He
answered in sincere sadness:

"Oh, you don't realize! My future is broken. I was sent to watch
England and tell my Emperor the right moment for him to strike, when
England's internal disturbances would make it impossible for her to
fight us. I told him the moment had come."

Or again, when a German in Brussels said to an American:

"We were sincerely sorry for Belgium; but we feel it is better for
that country to suffer, even to disappear, than for our Empire, so
much larger and more important, to be torpedoed by our treacherous
enemies."

Or again, when Doctor Dernburg shows us why Germany had to murder
eleven hundred passengers:

"It has been the custom heretofore to take off passengers and crew....
But a submarine ... cannot do it. The submarine is a frail craft and
may easily be rammed, and a speedy ship is capable of running away
from it."

No more than the dwarf has Germany any conception what such candid
words reveal of herself to ears outside her Teutonic wall--that she
has walked back to the morality of the Stone Age and made ancient
warfare more hideous through the devices of modern science.

Thus her Nemesis is to misunderstand the world. She blundered as to
what Belgium would do, what France would do, what Russia would do; and
she most desperately blundered as to what England would do. And she
expected American sympathy.

Summarized thus, the Prussianizing of Germany seems fantastic;
fantastic, too, and not of the real world, the utter credulity, the
abject, fervent faith of the hypnotized young men. Yet here are a young
German's recent words. I have seen his letter, written to a friend of
mine. He was tutor to my friend's children. Delightful, of admirable
education, there was no sign in him of hypnotism. He went home to fight.
There he inhaled afresh the Prussian fumes. Presently his letter came,
just such a letter as one would wish from an ardent, sincere, patriotic
youth--for the first pages. Then the fumes show their work and he
suddenly breaks out in the following intellectual vertigo:

"Individual life has become worthless; even the uneducated men feel
that something greater than individual happiness is at stake, and the
educated know that it is the culture of Europe. By her shameless lies
and cold-blooded hypocrisy England has forfeited her claim to the
title of a country of culture. France has passed her prime anyway,
your country is too far behind in its development, the other countries
are too small to carry on the heritage of Greek culture and Christian
faith--the two main components of every higher culture to-day; so _we_
have to do it, and we _shall_ do it--even if we and millions more of
us should have to die."

There you have it! A cultivated student, a noble nature, a character
of promise, Prussianized, with millions like him, into a gibbering
maniac, and flung into a caldron of blood! Could tragedy be deeper?
Goethe's young Wilhelm Meister thus images the ruin of Hamlet's mind
and how it came about: "An oak tree is planted in a costly vase, which
should only have borne beautiful flowers in its bosom; the roots
expand and the vase is shattered." Thus has Prussia, planted in
Germany, cracked the Empire.




XI


And now we are ready for the Prussian Creed. The following is an
embodiment, a composite statement, of Prussianism, compiled sentence
by sentence from the utterances of Prussians, the Kaiser and his
generals, professors, editors, and Nietzsche, part of it said in cold
blood, years before this war, and all of it a declaration of faith now
being ratified by action:

"We Hohenzollerns take our crown from God alone. On me the Spirit of
God has descended. I regard my whole ... task as appointed by heaven.
Who opposes me I shall crush to pieces. Nothing must be settled in
this world without the intervention ... of ... the German Emperor. He
who listens to public opinion runs a danger of inflicting immense harm
on ... the State. When one occupies certain positions in the world one
ought to make dupes rather than friends. Christian morality cannot be
political. Treaties are only a disguise to conceal other political
aims. Remember that the German people are the chosen of God.

"Might is right and ... is decided by war. Every youth who enters a
beer-drinking and dueling club will receive the true direction of his
life. War in itself is a good thing. God will see to it that war
always recurs. The efforts directed toward the abolition of war must
not only be termed foolish, but absolutely immoral. The peace of
Europe is only a secondary matter for us. The sight of suffering does
one good; the infliction of suffering does one more good. This war
must be conducted as ruthlessly as possible.

"The Belgians should not be shot _dead_. They should be ... so left as
to make impossible all hope of recovery. The troops are to treat the
Belgian civil population with unrelenting severity and frightfulness.
Weak nations have not the same right to live as powerful ... nations.
The world has no longer need of little nationalities. We Germans have
little esteem and less respect ... for Holland. We need to enlarge our
colonial possessions; such territorial acquisitions we can only
realize at the cost of other states.

"Russia must no longer be our frontier. The Polish press should be
annihilated ... likewise the French and Danish.... The Poles should be
allowed ... three privileges: to pay taxes, serve in the army, and
shut their jaws. France must be so completely crushed that she will
never again cross our path. You must remember that we have not come to
make war on the French people, but to bring them the higher
Civilization. The French have shown themselves decadent and without
respect for the Divine law. Against England we fight for booty. Our
real enemy is England. We have to ... crush absolutely perfidious
Albion ... subdue her to such an extent that her influence all over
the world is broken forever.

"German should replace English as the world language. English, the
bastard tongue ... must be swept into the remotest corners ... until
it has returned to its original elements of an insignificant pirate
dialect. The German language acts as a blessing which, coming direct
from the hand of God, sinks into the heart like a precious balm. To
us, more than any other nation, is intrusted the true structure of
human existence. Our own country, by employing military power, has
attained a degree of Culture which it could never have reached by
peaceful means.

"The civilization of mankind suffers every time a German becomes an
American. Let us drop our miserable attempts to excuse Germany's
action. We willed it. Our might shall create a new law in Europe. It
is Germany that strikes. We are morally and intellectually superior
beyond all comparison.... We must ... fight with Russian beasts,
English mercenaries and Belgian fanatics. We have nothing to apologize
for. It is no consequence whatever if all the monuments ever created,
all the pictures ever painted, all the buildings ever erected by the
great architects of the world, be destroyed.... The ugliest stone
placed to mark the burial of a German grenadier is a more glorious
monument than all the cathedrals of Europe put together. No respect
for the tombs of Shakespeare, Newton and Faraday.

"They call us barbarians. What of it? The German claim must be: ...
Education to hate.... Organization of hatred.... Education to the
desire for hatred. Let us abolish unripe and false shame.... To us is
given faith, hope and hatred; but hatred is the greatest among them."




XII


Can the splendid land of Goethe unlearn its Prussian lesson and regain
its own noble sanity, or has it too long inhaled the fumes? There is
no saying yet. Still they sit inside their wall. Like a trained chorus
they still repeat that England made the war, that Louvain was not
destroyed, that Rheims was not bombarded, that their Fatherland is the
unoffending victim of world-jealousy. When travelers ask what proofs
they have, the trained chorus has but one reply: "Our government
officials tell us so." Berlin, Cologne, Munich--all their cities--give
this answer to the traveler. Nothing that we know do they know. It is
kept from them. Their brains still wear the Prussian uniform and go
mechanically through the Prussian drill. Will adversity lift this curse?

Something happened at Louvain--a little thing, but let it give us
hope. In the house of a professor at the University some German
soldiers were quartered, friendly, considerate, doing no harm.
Suddenly one day, in obedience to new orders, they fell on this home,
burned books, wrecked rooms, destroyed the house and all its
possessions. Its master is dead. His wife, looking on with her
helpless children, saw a soldier give an apple to a child.

"Thank you," she said; "you, at least, have a heart."

"No, madam," said the German; "it is broken."

Goethe said: "He who wishes to exert a useful influence must be careful
to insult nothing.... We are become too humane to enjoy the triumphs of
Caesar." Ninety years after he said this Germany took the Belgian women
from their ruined villages--some of these women being so infirm that for
months they had not been out-of-doors--and loaded them on trains like
cattle, and during several weeks exposed them publicly to the jeers and
scoffs and insults of German crowds through city after city.

Perhaps the German soldier whose heart was broken by Louvain will be
one of a legion, and thus, perhaps, through thousands of broken
German hearts, Germany may become herself again. She has hurled
calamity on a continent. She has struck to pieces a Europe whose very
unpreparedness answers her ridiculous falsehood that she was attacked
first. Never shall Europe be again as it was. Our brains, could they
take in the whole of this war, would burst.

But Calamity has its Pentecost. When its mighty wind rushed over
Belgium and France, and its tongues of fire sat on each of them, they,
too, like the apostles in the New Testament, began to speak as the
Spirit gave them utterance. Their words and deeds have filled the
world with a splendor the world had lost. The flesh, that has
dominated our day and generation, fell away in the presence of the
Spirit. I have heard Belgians bless the martyrdom and awakening of
their nation. They have said:

"Do not talk of our suffering; talk of our glory. We have found
ourselves."

Frenchmen have said to me: "For forty-four years we have been unhappy,
in darkness, without health, without faith, believing the true France
dead. Resurrection has come to us." I heard the French Ambassador,
Jules Jusserand, say in a noble speech: "George Eliot profoundly
observes that to every man comes a crisis when in a moment, without
chance for reflection, he must decide and act instantly. What
determines his decision? His whole past, the daily choices between
good and evil that he has made throughout his previous years--these
determine his decision. Such a crisis fell in a moment on France; she
acted instantly, true to her historic honor and courage."

Every day deeds of faith, love and renunciation are done by the score
and the hundred which will never be recorded, and every one of which is
noble enough to make an immortal song. All over the broken map of
Europe, through stricken thousands of square miles, such deeds are being
done by Servians, Russians, Poles, Belgians, French and English,--yes,
and Germans too,--the souls of men and women rising above their bodies,
flinging them away for the sake of a cause. Think of one incident only,
only one of the white-hot gleams of the Spirit that have reached us from
the raging furnace. Out from the burning cathedral of Rheims they were
dragging the wounded German prisoners lying helpless inside on straw
that had begun to burn. In front of the church the French mob was about
to shoot or tear to pieces those crippled, defenseless enemies. You and
I might well want to kill an enemy who had set fire to Mount Vernon, the
house of the Father of our Country.

For more than seven hundred years that great church of Rheims had been
the sacred shrine of France. One minute more and those Germans lying
or crawling outside the church door would have been destroyed by the
furious people. But above the crash of rafters and glass, the fall of
statues, the thunder of bombarding cannon, and the cries of French
execration, rose one man's voice. There on the steps of the ruined
church stood a priest. He lifted his arms and said:

"Stop; remember the ancient ways and chivalry of France. It is not
Frenchmen who trample on a maimed and fallen foe. Let us not descend
to the level of our enemies."

It was enough. The French remembered France. Those Germans were
conveyed in safety to their appointed shelter--and far away, across
the lands and oceans, hearts throbbed and eyes grew wet that had never
looked on Rheims.

These are the tongues of fire; this is the Pentecost of Calamity. Often
it must have made brothers again of those who found themselves prone on
the battlefield, neighbors awaiting the grave. In Flanders a French
officer of cavalry, shot through the chest, lay dying, but with life
enough still to write his story to the lady of his heart. He wrote thus:

"There are two other men lying near me, and I do not think there is
much hope for them either. One is an officer of a Scottish regiment
and the other a private in the uhlans. They were struck down after me,
and when I came to myself I found them bending over me, rendering
first aid. The Britisher was pouring water down my throat from his
flask, while the German was endeavoring to stanch my wound with an
antiseptic preparation served out to their troops by the medical
corps. The Highlander had one of his legs shattered, and the German
had several pieces of shrapnel buried in his side.

"In spite of their own sufferings, they were trying to help me; and
when I was fully conscious again the German gave us a morphia
injection and took one himself. His medical corps had also provided
him with the injection and the needle, together with printed
instructions for their use. After the injection, feeling wonderfully
at ease, we spoke of the lives we had lived before the war. We all
spoke English, and we talked of the women we had left at home. Both
the German and the Britisher had been married only a year....

"I wondered--and I suppose the others did--why we had fought each
other at all. I looked at the Highlander, who was falling to sleep,
exhausted, and, in spite of his drawn face and mud-stained uniform, he
looked the embodiment of freedom. Then I thought of the Tricolor of
France and all that France had done for liberty. Then I watched the
German, who had ceased to speak. He had taken a prayer book from his
knapsack, and was trying to read a service for soldiers wounded in
battle. And ... while I watched him I realized what we were fighting
for.... He was dying in vain, while the Britisher and myself, by our
deaths, would probably contribute something toward the cause of
civilization and peace."

Thus wrote this young French officer of cavalry to the lady of his
heart, the American lady to whom he was engaged. The Red Cross found
the letter at his side. Through it she learned the manner of his
death. This, too, is the Pentecost of Calamity.




XIII


And what do the women say--the women who lose such men? Thus do they
decline to attend at The Hague the Peace Congress of foolish women who
have lost nobody:

"How would it be possible, in an hour like this, for us to meet women
of the enemy's countries?... Have they disavowed the ... crimes of
their government? Have they protested against the violation of
Belgium's neutrality? Against offenses to the law of nations? Against
the crimes of their army and navy? If their voices had been raised it
was too feebly for the echo of their protest to reach us across our
violated and devastated territories...."

And one celebrated lady writes to a delegate at The Hague:

"Madam, are you really English?... I confess I understand better
Englishwomen who wish to fight.... To ask Frenchwomen in such an hour
to come and talk of arbitration and mediation and discourse of an
armistice is to ask them to deny their nation.... All that Frenchwomen
could desire is to awake and acclaim in their children, their husbands
and brothers, and in their very fathers, the conviction that defensive
war is a thing so holy that all must be abandoned, forgotten,
sacrificed, and death must be faced heroically to defend and save that
which is most sacred ... our country.... It would be to deny my dead
to look for anything beside that which is and ought to be!--if the God
of right and justice, the enemy of the devil and of force and crazy
pride, is the true God."

Thus awakened and transfigured by Calamity do men and women rise in
their full spiritual nature, efface themselves, and utter sacred
words. Calamity, when the Lusitania went down, wrung from the lips of
an awakened German, Kuno Francke, this noble burst of patriotism:

    _Ends Europe so? Then, in Thy mercy, God,
    Out of the foundering planet's gruesome night
    Pluck Thou my people's soul. From rage and craze
    Of the staled Earth, O lift Thou it aloft,
    Re-youthed, and through transfiguration cleansed;
    So beaming shall it light the newer time,
    And heavenly, on a world refreshed, unfold.
    Soul of my race, thou sinkest not to dust._

If Germany's tragedy be, as I think, the deepest of all, the hope is
that she, too, will be touched by the Pentecost of Calamity, and pluck
her soul from Prussia, to whom she gave it in 1870. Thus shall the
curse be lifted.




XIV


And what of ourselves in this well-nigh world-wide cloud-burst?

Every man has walked at night through gloom where objects were dim and
hard to see, when suddenly a flash of lightning has struck the
landscape livid. Trees close by, fences far off, houses, fields,
animals and the faces of people--all things stand transfixed by a
piercing distinctness. So now, in this thunderstorm of war, each
nation and every man and woman is searchingly revealed by the
perpetual lightnings. Whatever this American nation is, whatever
aspect, noble or ignoble, our Democracy shows in the glare of this
cataclysm, is even already engraved on the page of History, will be
the portrait of the United States in 1914-15 for all time.

I want no better photograph of any individual than his opinion of this
war. If he has none, that is a photograph of him. Last autumn there
were Americans who wished the papers would stop printing war news and
give their readers a change. So we have their photographs, as well as
those of other Americans who merely calculated the extra dollars they
could squeeze out of Europe's need and agony. But that--thank God!--is
not what we look like as a whole. Our sympathy has poured out for
Belgium a springtide of help and relief; it has flowed to the wounded
and afflicted of Poland, Servia, France and England. A continuous
publishing of books, magazine articles and editorials, full of justice
and of anger at Prussia's long-prepared and malignant assault, should
prove to Europe that American hearts and heads by the thousand and
hundred thousand are in the right place. Merely the stand taken by the
_New York Sun_, _New York Times_, _Outlook_ and _Philadelphia Public
Ledger_--to name no more--saves us from the reproach of moral
neutrality: saves us as individuals.

Yet, somehow, in Europe's eyes we fall short. The Allies, in spite of
their recognition of our material generosity, find us spiritually
wanting. In the _London Punch_, on the sinking of the Lusitania,
Britannia stands perplexed and indignant behind the bowed figure of
America, and, with a hand on her shoulder, addresses her thus:

    _In silence you have looked on felon blows,
      On butcher's work of which the waste lands reek;
    Now, in God's name, from Whom your greatness flows,
      Sister, will you not speak?_

This is asked of us not as individuals but as a nation; and as a
nation our only spokesman is our Government: "Sister, will you not
speak?" Well--we did speak; but after nine months of silence. This
silence, in the opinion of French and Belgian emissaries who have
talked to me with courteous frankness, constitutes our moral failure.

"When this war began"--they say--"we all looked to you. You were the
great Democracy; you were not involved; you would speak the justifying
word we longed for. We knew you must keep out politically; this was your
true part and your great strength. We altogether agreed with your
President there. But why did your universities remain dumb? The
University of Chicago stopped the mouth of a Belgian professor who was
going to present Belgium's case in public. Your press has been divided.
The word we expected from you has never come. You sent us your charity;
but what we wanted was justice, ratification of our cause."

To this I have answered:

"First--Our universities do not and cannot sit like yours in high
seats, inspiring public opinion. I wish they did. Second--We are not
yet melted into one nationality; we are a mosaic of languages and
bloods; yet, even so, never in my life have I seen the American press
and people so united on any question. Third--Our charity is our very
way--the only way we have--of telling you we are with you. I am glad
you recognize the necessity of our political neutrality. Anything else
would have been, both historically and as an act of folly,
unprecedented. Fourth--Do not forget that George Washington advised us
to mind our own business."

But they reply: "Isn't this your own business?" And there they touch
the core of the matter.

Across the sea the deadliest assault ever made on Democracy has been
going on, month after month. We send bread and bandages to the
wounded; individually we denounce the assault. Columbia and Uncle Sam
stand looking on. Is this quite enough? War being out of the question,
was there nothing else? No protest to register? Did the wide ocean
wholly let Columbia out? Europe, weltering in her own failure, had
turned towards us a wistful look.

I cannot tell what George Washington would have thought; I only know
that my answer to my European friends leaves them unconvinced--and
therefore how can it quite satisfy me? Minds are exalted now, and
white-hot. When they cool, what will our historic likeness be as
revealed in the lightnings of this cosmic emergency? Will it be the
portrait of a people who sold its birthright for a mess of pottage?
Viewing how we have given, and the tone of our press, perhaps this
would hardly be just. Yet I can not but regret that we did not protest.
What we lost in not doing so I see clearly; I can not see clearly what
we gained. We may argue thus in our defense: If it is deemed that we
missed a great opportunity in not protesting as signatories of the
violated Hague conventions, are not our proofs of the violations more
authentic now than at the time? What we heard was incredible to American
minds. We had never made or known such war. By the time the truth was
established a protest might have seemed somewhat belated. Well, this is
all the explanation we can offer. Is it enough?

It is too early to answer; certain it is that not as we see ourselves
but as others see us, so shall we forever be. Certain it is also, and
eternally, that through suffering alone men and nations find their
greater selves. It is fifty years since we Americans knew the
Pentecost of Calamity. These years have been too easy. We have not had
to live dangerously enough. We have prospered, we have been immune,
and our prosperity has proved somewhat a curse in disguise.

In these times that uncover men's souls and the souls of nations, has
our soul come to light, or only our huge, lavish body? In 1865 we had
found our soul indeed. Where is it gone? We have been witnessing many
"scholarly retreats," and every day we have had to hear the "maxims of
a low prudence." Have they sunk to the core and killed it? God forbid!
But since August, 1914, we have stood listening to the cry of our
European brothers-in-Liberty. They did not ask our feeble arm to
strike in their cause, but they yearned for our voice and did not get
it. Will History acquit us of this silence?

Meanwhile, the maxims of a low prudence, masquerading as Christianity,
daily counsel us to keep our arm feeble. It was not so that Washington
survived Valley Forge, or Lincoln won through to Appomattox. If the
Fourth of July and the Declaration it celebrates still mean anything
to us, let our arm be strong.

This for our own sake. For the sake of mankind, if this war brings
home to us that we now sit in the council of nations and share
directly in the general responsibility for the world's well-being, we
shall have taken a great stride in national and spiritual maturity,
and our talk about the brotherhood of man may progress from rhetoric
towards realization.




XV


We have yet to find our greater selves. We have also yet to realize
that Europe, since the Spanish War, has counted us in the concert of
great nations far more than we have counted ourselves.

Somebody wrote in the New York Sun:

    _We are not English, German, Swede,
      Or Austrian, Russian, French or Pole;
    But we have made a separate breed
      And gained a separate soul._

It sounds well; it means nothing; its sum total is zero. America
asserts the brotherhood of man and then talks about a separate soul!

To speak of the Old World and the New World is to speak in a dead
language. The world is one. All humanity is in the same boat. The
passengers multiply, but the boat remains the same size. And people
who rock the boat must be stopped by force. America can no more
separate itself from the destiny of Europe than it can escape the
natural laws of the universe.

Because we declared political independence, does any one still harbor
the delusion that we are independent of the acts and fortunes of
monarchs? If so, let him consider only these four events: In 1492 a
Spanish Queen financed a sailor named Columbus--and Europe reached out
and laid a hand on this hemisphere. In 1685 a French King revoked an
edict--and thousands of Huguenots enriched our stock. In 1803 a French
consul, to spite Britain, sold us some land--it was pretty much
everything west of the Mississippi. One might well have supposed we
were independent of the heir of Austria. In 1914 they killed him, and
Europe fell to pieces--and that fall is shaking our ship of state from
stem to stern. There may be some citizens down in the hold who do not
know it--among a hundred million people you cannot expect to have no
imbeciles.

Thus, from Palos, in 1492, to Sarajevo, in 1914, the hand of Europe
has drawn us ever and ever closer.

Yes, indeed; we are all in the same boat. Europe has never forgotten
some words spoken here once: "That government of the people, by the
people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth." She waited
to hear us repeat that in some form when The Hague conventions we
signed were torn to scraps of paper. Perhaps nothing save calamity
will teach us what Europe is thankful to have learned again--that some
things are worse than war, and that you can pay too high a price for
peace; but that you cannot pay too high for the finding and keeping of
your own soul.




[FINIS]

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed in United States of America.




  --------------------------------------------
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By OWEN WISTER

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  WITH EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
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     page will find it next to impossible to put the book down until he
     has read every one of the five hundred and four in the book, and
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     with interest many years hence."--_Chicago American._

     "The story is human and alive. It has the 'touch and go' of the
     vibrating life of the expansive American West and puts the country
     and the people vividly before the reader."--_Philadelphia
     Times-Saturday Review._


=Members of the Family=

  =Vivid Sketches of Life on the Western Plains=

                                          _Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25_

     "Highly finished and serves to mirror the West of thirty years ago,
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     It is a delineation of life and society made familiar to an earlier
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     "It is a pleasant hour with the world's great minds and a strong
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     Herald._

     "The stories show Mr. Wister at his best. It would be a difficult
     task to give the stories a rating as to value. All are good.
     Admirers of Wister will find in this book one that they will read
     several times."--_Detroit News._


=Lady Baltimore=

                                   _Illustrated, cloth, 12mo $1.50_

     "It is pleasant to be able to say that ... his reputation will
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     'Lady Baltimore,' as may be gathered from what we have said
     above, is a many-sided book.... In fine, here is an author of
     whom America may well be proud, not only for his literary
     accomplishments, but for his generous, yet discriminating, love
     of his country."--_The Spectator_, London.

     "Full of the tenderest human interest, sufficiently dramatic,
     with a decided touch of originality."--_Daily News_, Chicago.

     "A delightful story; the reader is captivated from the
     start."--_New York Globe._

     "As a picture it is charming; as a story it has genuine
     strength."--_New York Mail._

     "Wholly charming from end to end."--_Toronto Globe._

     "The story maintains a rare quality of sincerity and
     indefinable charm."--_North American_, Philadelphia.

     "A most charming story ... one of the most exquisite done in
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     "A love story that even excels that between Molly Wood and 'The
     Virginian.'"--_The Advance_, Chicago.

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=How Doth the Simple Spelling Bee=

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     "Mr. Wister's humor is always genuine and racy, and in this
     little burlesque he fairly riots in absurd specimens of
     supersimplified spelling. This fantastic skit is intensely
     amusing."--_Outlook._

     "It is a clever extravaganza, and points a moral without
     possibility of mistake."--_Louisville Post._

     "Its spirit is the spirit of pure farce, and the vein of satire
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     tale."--_Critic._


=Philosophy Four=

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     "Told well and with a reserve which betokens a ripe literary
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     "Owen Wister is a born story-teller. If you have ever read any
     of his books you have doubtless discovered this for yourself.
     In this charming story of undergraduate life at Harvard, Mr.
     Wister has shown that he has great skill in character
     delineation."--_The Boston Globe._


=The Seven Ages of Washington=

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CRITICAL COMMENDATION

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     Wister the right man.

     "'The Seven Ages of Washington' ... gives a remarkable
     interpretation of its subject.... It is plain that the author has
     been moved to the depths of him by his hero's worth, finding in the
     traditionally 'cold' figure of Washington a type to touch the
     emotions as vividly as Napoleon touches them in even his most
     dramatic moments. He passes on his impression in a few chapters
     which gather up everyday traits as they come out in letters and
     other records. The salient events in Washington's career, military
     and political, are indicated rather than dwelt upon. The object of
     interest is always his character; the things placed in the
     foreground are the episodes, great or small, which show us that
     character in action or point to the sources of its development....

     "The background is handled with perfect discretion. The reader who
     is searching for an authoritative biography of Washington, brief,
     and made humanly interesting from the first page to the last, will
     find it here."--From a column review of the book in _The New York
     Tribune_, Nov. 23, 1907.

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* Replicated chapter titles removed.]





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