Armageddon—And After

And I fear that there is another ancient piece of our international strategy which has been found wanting. I approach with some hesitation the subject of diplomacy, because it contains so many elements of value to a state, and has given so many opportunities for active and original minds. Its worst feature is that its operations have to be conducted in secret: its best is that it affords a fine exemplification of the way in which the history and fortunes of states are—to their advantage—dependent upon the initiative of gifted and patriotic individuals. But if we look back over the history of recent years, we shall discover that diplomacy has not fulfilled its especial mission. According to a well-known cynical dictum a diplomatist is a man who is paid to lie for his country. And, indeed, it is one of the least gracious aspects of the diplomatic career that it seems necessarily to involve the use of a certain amount of chicanery and falsehood, the object being to jockey opponents by means of skilful ruses into a position in which they find themselves at a disadvantage. Clearly, however, there are better aims than these for diplomacy—one aim in particular, which is the preservation of peace. A diplomat is supposed to have failed if the result of his work leads to war. It is not his business to bring about war. Any king or prime minister or general can do that, very often with conspicuous ease. A diplomat is a skilful statesman versed in international politics, who makes the best provision he can for the interests of his country, carefully steering it away from those rocks of angry hostility on which possibly his good ship may founder.

Now what has diplomacy done for us during the last few years? It has formed certain understandings and alliances between different states; it has tried to safeguard our position by creating sympathetic bonds with those nations who are allied to us in policy. It has also attempted to produce that kind of "Balance of Power" in Europe which on its own showing makes for peace. This Balance of Power, so often and so mysteriously alluded to by the diplomatic world, has become a veritable fetish. Perhaps its supreme achievement was reached when two autocratic monarchs—the Tsar of Russia and the German Emperor—solemnly propounded a statement, as we have seen, at Port Baltic that the Balance of Power, as distributed between the Triple Alliance and the Triple Entente, had proved itself valuable in the interests of European peace. That was only two years ago, and the thing seems a mockery now. If we examine precisely what is meant by a Balance of Power, we shall see that it presupposes certain conditions of animosity and attempts to neutralise them by the exhibition of superior or, at all events, equivalent forces. A Balance of Power in the continental system assumes, for all practical purposes, that the nations of Europe are ready to fly at each other's throats, and that the only way to deter them is to make them realise how extremely perilous to themselves would be any such military enterprise. Can any one doubt that this is the real meaning of the phrase? If we listen to the Delphic oracles of diplomacy on this subject of the Balance of Power, we shall understand that in nine cases out of ten a man invoking this phrase means that he wants the Balance of Power to be favourable to himself. It is not so much an exact equipoise that he desires, as a certain tendency of the scales to dip in his direction. If Germany feels herself weak she not only associates Austria and Italy with herself, but looks eastward to get the assistance of Turkey, or, perhaps, attempts—as it so happens without any success—to create sympathy for herself in the United States of America. If, on the other hand, France feels herself in danger, she not only forms an alliance with Russia, but also an entente with England and, on the principle that the friends of one's friends ought to be accepted, produces a further entente between England and Russia. England, on her part, if for whatever reason she feels that she is liable to attack, goes even so far as to make an alliance with an Asiatic nation—Japan—in order to safeguard her Asiatic interests in India. Thus, when diplomatists invoke the necessity of a Balance of Power, they are really trying to work for a preponderance of power on their side. It is inevitable that this should be so. An exact Balance of Power must result in a stalemate.

Observe what has happened to Great Britain during recent years. When she was ruled by that extremely clear-headed though obstinate statesman, Lord Salisbury, she remained, at his advice, outside the circle of continental entanglements and rejoiced in what was known as a policy of "Splendid Isolation." It was, of course, a selfish policy. It rested on sound geographical grounds, because, making use of the fortunate accident that Great Britain is an island, it suggested that she could pursue her own commercial career and, thanks to the English Channel, let the whole of the rest of the world go hang. Such a position could not possibly last, partly because Great Britain is not only an island, but also an empire scattered over the seven seas; partly because we could not remain alien from those social and economic interests which necessarily link our career with continental nations. So we became part of the continental system, and it became necessary for us to choose friends and partners and mark off other peoples as our enemies. It might have been possible a certain number of years ago for us to join the Triple Alliance. At one time Prince Bülow seemed anxious that we should do so, and Mr. Chamberlain on our side was by no means unwilling. But gradually we discovered that Germany was intensely jealous of us as a colonial power and as a great sea-power, and for this reason, as well as for others, we preferred to compose our ancient differences with France and promote an understanding between English and French as the nearest of neighbours and the most convenient of allies. Observe, however, that every step in the process was a challenge, and a challenge which the rival aimed at could not possibly ignore. The conclusion of the French Entente Cordiale in 1904, the launching of the Dreadnought in 1906, the formation of the Russian agreement in 1907, and certain changes which we made in our own army were obviously intended as warnings to Germany that we were dangerous people to attack.[5] Germany naturally sought reprisals in her fashion, and gradually Europe was transformed into a huge armed camp, divided into two powerful organisations which necessarily watched each other with no friendly gaze.

I do not say that the course of events could possibly have been altered. When once we became part of the continental system, it was necessary for us to choose between friends and enemies. I only say that if diplomacy calls itself an agency for preventing war, it cannot be said to be altogether successful. Its famous doctrine of a Balance of Power is in reality a mere phrase. If one combination be represented as X and the other as Y, and X increases itself up to X², it becomes necessary that Y should similarly increase itself to Y², a process which, clearly, does not make for peace. I should imagine that the best of diplomatists are quite aware of this. Indeed, there seems reason to suppose that Sir Edward Grey, owing to definite experience in the last two years, not only discovered the uselessness of the principle of a Balance of Power, but did his best to substitute something entirely different—the Concert of Europe. All the negotiations he conducted during and after the two Balkan wars, his constant effort to summon London Conferences and other things, were intended to create a Concert of European Powers, discussing amongst themselves the best measures to secure the peace of the world. Alas! the whole of the fabric was destroyed, the fair prospects hopelessly clouded over, by the intemperate ambition of the Kaiser, who, just because he believed that the Balance of Power was favourable to himself, that Russia was unready, that France was involved in serious domestic trouble, that England was on the brink of civil war, set fire to the magazine and engineered the present colossal explosion.

One cannot feel sure that diplomacy as hitherto recognised will be able, or, indeed, ought to be able, to survive the shock. In this country, as in others, diplomacy has been considered a highly specialised science, which can only be conducted by trained men and by methods of entire secrecy. As a mere matter of fact, England has far less control over her foreign policy than any of the continental Powers. In Germany foreign affairs come before the Reichstag, in France they are surveyed by the Senate, in America there is a special department of the Senate empowered to deal with foreign concerns. In Great Britain there is nothing of the kind. Parliament has practically no control whatsoever over foreign affairs, it is not even consulted in the formation of treaties and arrangements with other nations. Nor yet has the Cabinet any real control, because it must act together as a whole, and a determined criticism of a foreign secretary means the resignation of the Government. Fortunately, our diplomacy has been left for the most part in very able hands. Nevertheless, it is surely a paradox that the English people should know so little about foreign affairs as to be absolutely incapable of any control in questions that affect their life or death. Democracy, though it is supposed to be incompetent to manage foreign relations, could hardly have made a worse mess of it than the highly-trained Chancelleries. When the new Europe arises out of the ashes of the old, it is not very hazardous to prophesy that diplomacy, with its secret methods, its belief in phrases and abstract principles, and its assumption of a special professional knowledge, will find the range of its powers and the sphere of its authority sensibly curtailed.

CHAPTER II

The problems that lie before us in the reconstitution of Europe are so many and so various that we can only hope to take a few separately, especially those which seem to throw most light on a possible future. I have used the phrase "reconstitution of Europe," because I do not know how otherwise to characterise the general trend of the ideas germinating in many men's minds as they survey the present crisis and its probable outcome. Europe will have to be reconstituted in more respects than one. At the present moment, or rather before the present war broke out, it was governed by phrases and conceptions which had become superannuated. An uneasy equipoise between the Great Powers represented the highest culmination of our diplomatic efforts. Something must clearly be substituted for this uneasy equipoise. It is not enough that after tremendous efforts the relative balance of forces between great states should, on the whole, dissuade them from war. As a matter of fact, it has not done so. The underlying conception has been that nations are so ardently bellicose that they require to be restrained from headlong conflicts by the doubtful and dangerous character of such military efforts as might be practicable. Hence Europe, as divided into armed camps, represents one of the old-fashioned ideas that we want to abolish. We wish to put in its stead something like a Concert of Europe. We have before our eyes a vague, but inspiring vision not of tremendous and rival armaments, but of a United States of Europe, each component element striving for the public weal, and for further advances in general cultivation and welfare rather than commercial prosperity. The last is a vital point, for it does not require much knowledge of modern history to discover that the race for commercial advantage is exactly one of the reasons why Europe is at war at the present moment. A vast increase in the commercial prosperity of any one state means a frantic effort on the part of its rivals to pull down this advantage. In some fashion, therefore, we have to substitute for endless competition the principle of co-operation, national welfare being construed at the same time not in terms of overwhelming wealth, but of thorough sanity and health in the body corporate.

All this sounds shadowy and abstruse until it is translated into something concrete and definite. What is it we want to dispossess and banish from the Europe of to-day? We have to find something to take the place of what is called militarism. I dealt with the general features of militarism in my last essay; I will therefore content myself with saying that militarism in Europe has meant two things above all. First, the worship of might, as expressed in formidable armaments; next, the corresponding worship of wealth to enable the burden of armaments to be borne with comparative ease. The worship of naked strength involves several deductions. Right disappears, or rather is translated in terms of might. International morality equally disappears. Individuals, it is true, seek to be governed by the consciousness of universal moral laws. But a nation, as such, has no conscience, and is not bound to recognise the supremacy of anything higher than itself. Morality, though it may bind the individual, does not bind the State, or, as General von Bernhardi has expressed it, "political morality differs from individual morality because there is no power above the State." In similar fashion the worship of wealth carries numerous consequences with it, which are well worthy of consideration. But the main point, so far as it affects my present argument, is that it substitutes materialistic objects of endeavour for ethical and spiritual aims. Once more morality is defeated. The ideal is not the supremacy of good, but the supremacy of that range and sphere of material efficiency that is procurable by wealth.

Let us try to be more concrete still, and in this context let us turn to such definite statements as are available of the views entertained by our chief statesmen, politicians, and leaders of public opinion. I turn to the speech which Mr. Asquith delivered on Friday evening, September 25, in Dublin, as part of the crusade which he and others are undertaking for the general enlightenment of the country. "I should like," said Mr. Asquith, "to ask your attention and that of my fellow-countrymen to the end which, in this war, we ought to keep in view. Forty-four years ago, at the time of the war of 1870, Mr. Gladstone used these words. He said: 'The greatest triumph of our time will be the enthronement of the idea of public right as the governing idea of European politics.' Nearly fifty years have passed. Little progress, it seems, has as yet been made towards that good and beneficent change, but it seems to me to be now at this moment as good a definition as we can have of our European policy—the idea of public right. What does it mean when translated into concrete terms? It means, first and foremost, the clearing of the ground by the definite repudiation of militarism as the governing factor in the relation of states and of the future moulding of the European world. It means next that room must be found and kept for the independent existence and the free development of the smaller nationalities, each with a corporate consciousness of its own.... And it means, finally, or it ought to mean, perhaps, by a slow and gradual process, the substitution for force, for the clash of competing ambition, for groupings and alliances, of a real European partnership based on the recognition of equal right and established and enforced by a common will."[6]

Much the same language has been used by Sir Edward Grey and by Mr. Winston Churchill.

Observe that there are three points here. In the first place—if I do not misapprehend Mr. Asquith's drift—in working for the abolition of militarism, we are working for a great diminution in those armaments which have become a nightmare to the modern world. The second point is that we have to help in every fashion small nationalities, or, in other words, that we have to see that countries like Belgium, Holland, Switzerland, the Scandinavian countries, Greece and the Balkan States, and, perhaps, more specially, the Slav nationalities shall have a free chance in Europe, shall "have their place in the sun," and not be browbeaten and raided and overwhelmed by their powerful neighbours. And the third point, perhaps more important than all, is the creation of what Mr. Asquith calls a "European partnership based on the recognition of equal right and established and enforced by a common will." We have to recognise that there is such a thing as public right; that there is such a thing as international morality, and that the United States of Europe have to keep as their ideal the affirmation of this public right, and to enforce it by a common will. That creation of a common will is at once the most difficult and the most imperative thing of all. Every one must be aware how difficult it is. We know, for instance, how the common law is enforced in any specified state, because it has a "sanction," or, in other words, because those who break it can be punished. But the weakness for a long time past of international law, from the time of Grotius onwards, is that it apparently has no real sanction. How are we to punish an offending state? It can only be done by the gradual development of a public conscience in Europe, and by means of definite agreements so that the rest of the civilised world shall compel a recalcitrant member to abide by the common decrees. If only this common will of Europe ever came into existence, we should have solved most, if not all, our troubles. But the question is: How?

It may be depressing, but it certainly is an instructive lesson to go back just a hundred years ago, when the condition of Europe was in many respects similar to that which prevails now. The problems that unrolled themselves before the nations afford useful points of comparison. The great enemy was then Napoleon and France. Napoleon's views of empire were precisely of that universal predatory type which we have learnt to associate with the Kaiser and the German Empire. The autocratic rule of the single personal will was weighing heavily on nearly every quarter of the globe. Then came a time when the principle of nationality, which Napoleon had everywhere defied, gradually grew in strength until it was able to shake off the yoke of the conqueror. In Germany, and Spain, and Italy the principle of nationality steadily grew, while in England there had always been a steady opposition to the tyranny of Napoleon on the precise ground that it interfered with the independent existence of nations. The defeat of Napoleon, therefore, was hailed by our forefathers a hundred years ago as the dawn of a new era. Four great Powers—Great Britain, Russia, Austria, and Prussia—had before them as their task the settlement of Europe, one of the noblest tasks that could possibly be assigned to those who, having suffered under the old regime, were desirous to secure peace and base it on just and equitable foundations. There is thus an obvious parallelism between the conditions of affairs in 1815 and those which will, as we hope, obtain if and when the German tyrant is defeated and the nations of Europe commence their solemn task of reconstituting Europe. Of course, we must not press the analogy too far. The dawn of a new era might have been welcomed in 1815, but the proviso was always kept in the background that most of the older traditions should be preserved. Diplomacy was still inspired by its traditional watchwords. Above all, the transformation so keenly and so vaguely desired was in the hands of sovereigns who were more anxious about their own interests than perhaps was consistent with the common weal.

At first the four Great Powers proceeded very tentatively. They wished to confine France—the dangerous element in Europe—within her legitimate boundaries. Next, they desired to arrange an equilibrium of Powers (observe, in passing, the old doctrine of the Balance of Power) so that no individual state should for the future be in a position to upset the general tranquillity. Revolutionary France was to be held under by the re-establishment of its ancient dynasty. Hence Louis XVIII was to be restored. The other object was to be obtained by a careful parcelling out of the various territories of Europe, on the basis, so far as possible, of old rights consecrated by treaties. It is unnecessary to go into detail in this matter. We may say summarily that Germany was reconstituted as a Confederation of Sovereign States; Austria received the Presidency of the Federal Diet; in Italy Lombardo-Venetia was erected into a kingdom under Austrian hegemony, while the Low Countries were annexed to the crown of Holland so as to form, under the title of the United Netherlands, an efficient barrier against French aggression northwards. It was troublesome to satisfy Alexander I of Russia because of his ambition to secure for himself the kingdom of Poland. Indeed, as we shall see presently, the personality of Alexander was a permanent stumbling-block to most of the projects of European statesmen. As a whole, it cannot be denied that this particular period of history, between Napoleon's abdication in 1814 and the meeting of the European Congress at Verona in 1882, presented a profoundly distressing picture of international egotism. The ruin of their common enemy, relieving the members of the European family from the necessity of maintaining concord, also released their individual selfishnesses and their long-suppressed mutual jealousies.[7]

The figure of Alexander I dominates this epoch. His character exhibits a very curious mixture of autocratic ambition and a mystical vein of sheer undiluted idealism. Probably it would be true to say that he began by being an idealist, and was forced by the pressure of events to adopt reactionary tactics. Perhaps also, deeply embedded in the Russian nature we generally find a certain unpracticalness and a tendency to mystical dreams, far remote from the ordinary necessities of every day. It was Alexander's dream to found a Union of Europe, and to consecrate its political by its spiritual aims. He retained various nebulous thinkers around his throne; he also derived much of his crusade from the inspiration of a woman—Baroness von Krüdener, who is supposed to have owed her own conversion to the teaching of a pious cobbler. Even if we have to describe Alexander's dream as futile, we cannot afford to dismiss it as wholly inoperative. For it had as its fruit the so-called Holy Alliance, which was in a sense the direct ancestor of the peace programmes of the Hague, and, through a different chain of ideas, the Monroe Doctrine of the United States. We are apt sometimes to confuse the Holy Alliance with the Grand Alliance. The second, however, was a union of the four Great Powers, to which France was ultimately admitted. The first was not an alliance at all, hardly, perhaps, even a treaty. It was in its original conception a single-hearted attempt to arrange Europe on the principles of the Christian religion, the various nations being regarded as brothers who ought to have proper brotherly affection for one another. We know that, eventually, the Holy Alliance became an instrument of something like autocratic despotism, but in its essence it was so far from being reactionary that, according to the Emperor Alexander, it involved the grant of liberal constitutions by princes to their subjects.

But just because it bound its signatories to act on certain vague principles for no well-defined ends, it was bound to become the mockery of diplomatists trained in an older school. Metternich, for instance, called it a "loud sounding nothing"; Castlereagh "a piece of sublime mysticism and nonsense," while Canning declared that for his part he wanted no more of "Areopagus and the like of that." What happened on this occasion is what ordinarily happens with well-intentioned idealists who happen also to be amateur statesmen. Trying to regulate practical politics, the Holy Alliance was deflected from its original purpose because its chief author, Alexander I, came under the influence of Metternich and was frightened by revolutionary movements in Italy and within his own dominions. Thus the instrument originally intended to preserve nationalities and secure the constitutional rights of people was converted into a weapon for the use of autocrats only anxious to preserve their own thrones. Nevertheless, though it may have been a failure, the Holy Alliance did not leave itself without witness in the modern world. It tried to regulate ordinary diplomacy in accordance with ethical and spiritual principles; and the dreaming mind of its first founder was reproduced in that later descendant of his who initiated the Hague propaganda of peace.

What we have to ask ourselves is whether the conditions a hundred years ago have any real similarity with those likely to obtain when Europe begins anew to set its house in order. To this, fortunately, we can return a decided negative. We have already shown that the general outlines present a certain similarity, but the parallelism is at most superficial, and in many respects deceptive. A despot has to be overthrown, an end has to be put to a particular form of autocratic regime, and smaller states have to be protected against the exactions of their stronger neighbours—that is the extent of the analogy. But it is to be hoped that we shall commence our labours under much better auspices. The personal forces involved, for instance, are wholly different. Amongst those who took upon themselves to solve the problems of the time is to be found the widest possible divergence in character and aims. On the one side we have a sheer mystic and idealist in the person of Alexander I, with all kinds of visionary characters at his side—La Harpe, who was his tutor, a Jacobin pure and simple, and a fervent apostle of the teachings of Jean Jacques Rousseau; Czartoryski, a Pole, sincerely anxious for the regeneration of his kingdom; and Capo d'Istria, a champion of Greek nationality. To these we have to add the curious figure of the Baroness von Krüdener, an admirable representative of the religious sickliness of the age. "I have immense things to say to him," she said, referring to the Emperor, "the Lord alone can prepare his heart to receive them." She had, indeed, many things to say to him, but her influence was evanescent and his Imperial heart was hardened eventually to quite different issues.

Absolutely at the other extreme was a man like Metternich, trained in the old school of politics, wily with the wiliness of a practised diplomatic training, naturally impatient of speculative dreamers, thoroughly practical in the only sense in which he understood the term, that is to say, determined to preserve Austrian supremacy. To a reactionary of this kind the Holy Alliance represented nothing but words. He knew, with the cynicism bred of long experience of mankind, that the rivalries and jealousies between different states would prevent their union in any common purpose, and in the long run the intensity with which he pursued his objects, narrow and limited as it was, prevailed over the large and vague generosity of Alexander's nature. To the same type belonged both Talleyrand and Richelieu, who concentrated themselves on the single task of winning back for France her older position in the European commonwealth—a laudable aim for patriots to espouse, but one which was not likely to help the cause of the Holy Alliance.

Half-way between these two extremes of unpractical idealists and extremely practical but narrow-minded reactionaries come the English statesmen, Castlereagh, Wellington, and Canning. Much injustice has been done to the first of these. For many critics have been misled by Byron's denunciation of Castlereagh, just as others have spoken lightly of the stubborn conservatism of Wellington, or the easy and half-cynical insouciance of the author of the Anti-Jacobin. As a matter of fact, Castlereagh was by no means an opponent of the principles of the Holy Alliance. He joined with Russia, Austria, and Prussia as a not unwilling member of the successive Congresses, but both he and Wellington, true to their national instincts, sought to subordinate all proposals to the interests of Great Britain, and to confine discussions to immediate objects, such as the limitation of French power and the suppression of dangerous revolutionary ideas. They were not, it is true, idealists in the sense in which Alexander I understood the term. And yet, on the whole, both Castlereagh and Canning did more for the principle of nationality than any of the other diplomatists of the time. The reason why Canning broke with the Holy Alliance, after Troppau, Laibach, and Verona, was because he discerned something more than a tendency on the part of Continental States to crush the free development of peoples, especially in reference to the Latin-American States of South America. It is true that in these matters he and his successor were guided by a shrewd notion of British interest, but it would be hardly just to blame them on this account. "You know my politics well enough," wrote Canning in 1822 to the British Ambassador in St. Petersburg, "to know what I mean when I say that for Europe I should be desirous now and then to read England." Castlereagh was, no doubt, more conciliatory than Canning, but he saw the fundamental difficulty of organising an international system and yet holding the balance between conflicting nations. And thus we get to a result such as seems to have rejoiced the heart of Canning, when he said in 1823 that "the issue of Verona has split the one and indivisible alliance into three parts as distinct as the constitutions of England, France, and Muscovy." "Things are getting back," he added, "to a wholesome state again. Every nation for itself and God for us all. Only bid your Emperor (Alexander I) be quiet, for the time for Areopagus and the like of that is gone by."[8]

If, then, the ardent hopes of a regenerated Europe in the early years of the nineteenth century failed, the result was due in large measure to the fact that the business was committed to wrong hands. The organs for working the change were for the most part autocratic monarchs and old-world diplomatists—the last people in the world likely to bring about a workable millennium. A great crisis demands very careful manipulation. Cynicism must not be allowed to play any part in it. Traditional watchwords are not of much use. Theoretical idealism itself may turn out to be a most formidable stumbling-block. Yet no one can doubt that a solution of the problem, whenever it is arrived at, must come along the path of idealism. Long ago a man of the world was defined as a man who in every serious crisis is invariably wrong. He is wrong because he applies old-fashioned experience to a novel situation—old wine in new bottles—and because he has no faith in generous aspirations, having noted their continuous failure in the past. Yet, after all, it is only faith which can move mountains, and the Holy Alliance itself was not so much wrong in the principles to which it appealed as it was in the personages who signed it. We have noticed already that, like all other great ideas, it did not wholly die. The propaganda of peace, however futile may be some of the discussions of pacifists, is the heritage which even so wrong-headed a man as Alexander I has left to the world. The idea of arbitration between nations, the solution of difficulties by arguments rather than by swords, the power which democracies hold in their hands for guiding the future destinies of the world—all these in their various forms remain with us as legacies of that splendid, though ineffective, idealism which lay at the root of the Holy Alliance.

And now after this digression, which has been necessary to clear the ground, and also to suggest apt parallels, let us return to what Mr. Asquith said in Dublin on the ultimate objects of the present war. He borrowed from Mr. Gladstone the phrase "the enthronement of the idea of public right as the governing idea of European politics," and in developing it as applicable to the present situation he pointed out that for us three definite objects are involved. The first, assented to by every publicist of the day, apart from those educated in Germany, is the wholesale obliteration of the notion that states exist simply for the sake of going to war. This kind of militarism, in all its different aspects, will have to be abolished. The next point brings us at once to the heart of some of the controversies raised in 1815 and onwards. "Room," said Mr. Asquith—agreeing in this matter with Mr. Winston Churchill—"room must be found, and kept, for the independent existence and the free development of the smaller nationalities, each with a corporate consciousness of its own." Now this is a plain issue which every one can understand. Not only did we go to war in order to help a small nationality—Belgium—but the very principle of nationality is one of the familiar phrases which have characterised British policy through the greater part of the nineteenth century. Our principle is to live and let live, to allow smaller states to exist and thrive by the side of their large neighbours without undue interference on the part of the latter. Each distinct nationality is to have its voice, at all events, in the free direction of its own future. And, above all, its present and future position must be determined not by the interests of the big Powers, but by a sort of plebiscite of the whole nationality.

Applying such principles to Europe as it exists to-day, and as it is likely to exist to-morrow, we arrive at certain very definite conclusions. The independence of Belgium must be secured, so also must the independence of Holland and Denmark. Alsace and Lorraine must, if the inhabitants so wish, be restored to France, and there can be little doubt that Alsace at all events will be only too glad to resume her old allegiance to the French nation. The Duchies of Schleswig-Holstein must also decide whether they would like to be reunited to Denmark. And we are already aware that the Tsar has promised to give independence to the country of Poland—a point which forms a curious analogy with the same offer originally proposed by the Tsar's ancestor, Alexander I. Of course, these do not exhaust by any means the changes that must be forthcoming. Finland will have to be liberated; those portions of Transylvania which are akin to Roumania must be allowed to gravitate towards their own stock. Italy must arrogate to herself—if she is wise enough to join her forces with those of the Triple Entente—those territories which come under the general title of "unredeemed Italy"—the Trentino and Trieste, to say nothing of what Italy claims on the Adriatic littoral. Possibly the greatest changes of all will take place in reference to the Slavs. Servia and Montenegro will clearly wish to incorporate in a great Slav kingdom a great many of their kinsmen who at present are held in uneasy subjection by Austria.[9] Nor must we forget how these same principles apply to the Teutonic States. If the principle of nationality is to guide us, we must preserve the German nation, even though we desire to reduce its dangerous elements to impotence. Prussia must remain the home of all those Germans who accept the hegemony of Berlin, but it does not follow that the southern states of the German Empire—who have not been particularly fond of their northern neighbours—should have to endure any longer the Prussian yoke. Lastly, the German colonies can hardly be permitted to remain under the dominion of the Kaiser.[10] Here are only a few of the changes which may metamorphose the face of Europe as a direct result of enforcing the principle of nationalities.

But there is a further point to which Mr. Asquith referred, one which is more important than anything else, because it represents the far-off ideal of European peace and the peace of the world. "We have got to substitute by a slow and gradual process," said Mr. Asquith, "instead of force, instead of the clash of compelling ambition, instead of groupings and alliances, a real European partnership, based on the recognition of equal right and established and enforced by a common will." There we have the whole crux of the situation, and, unfortunately, we are forced to add, its main difficulty. For if we desire to summarise in a single sentence the rock on which European negotiations from 1815 to 1829 ultimately split, it was the union of two such contradictory things as independent nationalities and an international committee or system of public law. Intrinsically the two ideas are opposed, for one suggests absolute freedom, and the other suggests control, superintendence, interference. If the one recognises the entire independence of a nationality within its own limits, the other seeks to enforce something of the nature of a European police to see that every nation does its duty. It is true, of course, that this public will of Europe must be incorporated in a kind of parliament, to which the separate nations must send their representatives, and that thus in a fashion each nation will have its proper say in any of the conclusions arrived at. But here the difficulty starts anew owing to the relative size, and therefore the relative importance of the different states constituting the union. If all alike are given an equivalent vote, it is rather hard on the big states, which represent larger numbers and therefore control larger destinies. If, on the other hand, we adopt the principle of proportional representation, we may be pretty certain that the larger states will press somewhat heavily on the smaller. For instance, suppose that some state violates, or threatens to violate, the public law of the world. In that case the Universal Union must, of course, try to bring it to reason by peaceful means first, but if that should fail, the only other alternative is by force of arms. If once we admit the right of the world-organisation to coerce its recalcitrant members, what becomes of the sovereign independence of nations? That, as we have said, was the main difficulty confronting the European peace-maker of a hundred years ago, and, however we may choose to regard it, it remains a difficulty, we will not say insuperable, but at all events exceedingly formidable, for the European peace-makers of the twentieth century. The antithesis is the old antithesis between order and progress; between coercion and independence; between the public voice, or, if we like to phrase it so, the public conscience, and the arbitrariness and irresponsibility of individual units. Or we might put the problem in a still wider form. A patriot is a man who believes intensely in the rights of his own nationality. But if we have to form a United States of Europe we shall have gradually to soften, diminish, or perhaps even destroy the narrower conceptions of patriotism. The ultimate evolution of democracy in the various peoples means the mutual recognition of their common interests, as against despotism and autocracy. It is clear that such a process must gradually wipe out the distinction between the different peoples, and substitute for particularism something of universal import. In such a process what, we ask once more, becomes of the principle of nationality, which is one of our immediate aims? In point of fact, it is obvious that, from a strictly logical standpoint, the will of Europe, or the public right of Europe, and the free independence of nationalities are antithetical terms, and will continue to remain so, however cunningly, by a series of compromises, we may conceal their essential divergence. That is the real problem which confronts us quite as obstinately as it did our forefathers after the destruction of the Napoleonic power. And it will have to be faced by all reformers, whether they are pacifists or idealists, on ethical or political grounds.

What is the outcome of the foregoing considerations? The only moral at present which I am disposed to draw is one which may be addressed to pacifists in general, and to all those who avail themselves of large and generous phrases, such as "the public will of Europe," or "the common consciousness of civilised states." The solution of the problem before us is not to be gained by the use of abstract terms, but by very definite and concrete experience used in the most practical way to secure immediate reforms. We demand, for instance, the creation of what is to all intents and purposes an international federal system applied to Europe at large. Now it is obvious that a federal system can be created amongst nations more or less at the same level of civilisation, inspired by much the same ideals, acknowledging the same end of their political and social activity. But in what sense is this true of Europe as we know it? There is every kind of diversity between the constituent elements of the suggested federation. There is no real uniformity of political institutions and ideals. But in order that our object may be realised it is precisely this uniformity of political institutions and ideals amongst the nations which we require. How is a public opinion formed in any given state? It comes into being owing to a certain community of sentiments, opinions, and prejudices, and without such community it cannot develop. The same thing holds true of international affairs. If we desiderate the public voice of Europe, or the public conscience of Europe, Europe must grow to be far more concordant than it is at present, both in actual political institutions and in those inspiring ideals which form the life-blood of institutions. How many states, for instance, recognise or put into practice a really representative system of government?

If we turn to the programme of the pacifists, we shall be confronted by similar difficulties. Pacifism, as such, involves an appeal to all the democracies, asking them to come into line, as it were, for the execution of certain definite projects intended to seek peace and ensure it. The first stage of the peace movement is the general recognition of the principle of arbitration between states. That first period has, we may take it, been already realised. The second stage is the recognition of compulsory arbitration. When, in 1907, the second Hague Conference was held, this principle was supported by thirty-two different states, representing more than a thousand million human beings. Something like three or four hundred millions remained not yet prepared to admit the principle in its entirety. I may remark in passing that the verbal acceptance of a general principle is one thing, the application, as we have lately had much reason to discover, is quite another. We may recognise, however, that this second stage of the pacifist programme has, undoubtedly, made large advances. But of course it must necessarily be followed by its consequence, a third stage which shall ensure respect for, and obedience to arbitration verdicts. Recalcitrant states will have to be coerced, and the one thing that can coerce them is an international police administered by an international executive power. That is to say, we must have a parliament of parliaments, a universal parliament, the representatives of which must be selected by the different constituent members of the United States of Europe. When this has been done, and only when this has been done, can we arrive at a fourth stage, that of a general disarmament. In the millennium that is to be it is only the international police which shall be allowed to use weapons of war in order to execute the decrees of the central parliament representing the common European will.

Here we have all the old difficulties starting anew, and especially the main one—democratic unanimity. How far the democracies of the European Commonwealth can work in unison is one of the problems which the future will have to solve. At present they, obviously, do not do so. The Social Democrats of Germany agreed to make war on the democrats of other countries. Old instincts were too strong for them. For it must always be remembered that only so far as a cosmopolitan spirit takes the place of narrow national prejudices can we hope to reach the level of a common conscience, or a common will of Europe. And are we prepared to say that national prejudices ought to be obliterated and ignored? The very principle of nationality forbids it.

I do not wish, however, to end on a note of pessimism. The mistake of the pacifist has all along been the assumption that bellicose impulses have died away. They have done nothing of the kind, and are not likely to do so. But, happily, all past experience in the world's history shows us that ideas in a real sense govern the world, and that a logical difficulty is not necessarily a practical impossibility. In this case, as in others, a noble and generous idea of European peace will gradually work its own fulfilment, if we are not in too much of a hurry to force the pace, or imagine that the ideal has been reached even before the preliminary foundations have been laid.

CHAPTER III

It is an obvious criticism on the considerations which have been occupying us in the preceding chapters that they are too purely theoretical to be of any value. They are indeed speculative, and, perhaps, from one point of view come under the edge of the usual condemnation of prophecy. Prophecy is, of course, if one of the most interesting, also one of the most dangerous of human ingenuities, and the usual fate of prophets is, in nine cases out of ten, to be proved wrong. Moreover, it is possible that there may come an issue to the present war which would be by far the worst which the human mind can conceive. It may end in a deadlock, a stalemate, an impasse, because the two opposing forces are so equal that neither side can get the better of the other. If peace has to be made because of such a balance between the opposing forces as this, it would be a calamity almost worse than the original war. German militarism would still be unsubdued, the Kaiser's pretensions to universal sovereignty, although clipped, would not be wiped out, and we should find remaining in all the nations of the earth a sort of sullen resentment which could not possibly lead to anything else than a purely temporary truce. The only logical object of war is to make war impossible, and if merely an indecisive result were achieved in the present war, it would be as certain as anything human can be that a fresh war would soon arise. At the present moment we confess that there is an ugly possibility of this kind, and that it is one of the most formidable perils of future civilisation.

It is so immensely important, however, that the cause of the Allies should prevail not for their own sakes alone, but for the sake of the world, that it is difficult to imagine their consenting to an ignoble pacification. The Allies have signed an important document, in order to prove their solidarity, that no one of them will sign peace without the sanction of the other partners. Let us suppose that the rival armies have fought each other to a standstill; let us suppose that France is exhausted; let us further suppose that the German troops, by their mobility and their tactical skill, are able to hold the Russians in the eastern sphere of war. We can suppose all these things, but what we cannot imagine even for a moment is that Great Britain—to confine ourselves only to our own case—will ever consent to stop until she has achieved her object. America may strive to make the combatants desist from hostilities, partly because she is a great pacific power herself, and partly because it is a practical object with her as a commercial nation to secure tranquil conditions. Yet, even so, there would be no answer to the question which most thoughtful minds would propound: Why did we go to war, and what have we gained by the war? If we went to war for large cosmic purposes, then we cannot consent to a peace which leaves those ultimate purposes unfulfilled. I think, therefore, we can put aside this extremely uncomfortable suggestion that the war may possibly end in a deadlock, because, in the last resort, Great Britain, with her fleet, her sister dominions over the seas, her colonies, and her eastern ally Japan, will always, to use the familiar phrase, have "something up her sleeve," even though continental nations should reach a pitch of absolute exhaustion.

It follows then that, even if we admit the purely speculative character of our argument, it is not only right and proper, but absolutely necessary that we should prepare ourselves for something which we can really describe as a new Europe. Thoughtful minds ought imaginatively to put themselves in the position of a spectator of a reconstituted world, or rather of a world that waits to be reconstituted. It is necessary that this should be done, because so many older prejudices have to be swept away, so many novel conceptions have to be entertained. Let us take only a single example. If we look back over history, we shall see that all the great nations have made themselves great by war. There is a possible exception in the case of Italy, whose present greatness has flowed from loyal help rendered her by other kindred nations, and by realising for herself certain large patriotic ideals entertained by great minds. But for the majority of nations it is certainly true that they have fought their way into the ranks of supreme powers. From this the deduction is easy that greatness depends on the possession of formidable military power. Indeed, all the arguments of those who are very anxious that we should not reduce our armaments is entirely based on this supposition. The strong man armed keepeth his goods in peace; his only fear is that a stronger man may come with better arms and take away his possessions. Now if the new Europe dawns not indeed for those who are past middle age—for they will have died before its realisation—but for the younger generation for whose sake we are bearing the toil and burden of the day, the one thing which is absolutely necessary is that the index of greatness must no longer be found in armies and navies. Clearly it will take a long time for men to get used to this novel conception. Inveterate prejudices will stand in the way. We shall be told over and over again that peace-lovers are no patriots; that imperialism demands the possible sacrifice of our manhood to the exigencies of war; and that the only class of men who are ever respected in this world are those who can fight. And so, even though we have had ocular demonstration of the appalling ruin which militarism can produce, we may yet, if we are not careful, forget all our experience and drift back into notions which are not really separable from precisely those ideas which we are at present reprobating in the German nation. The real test is this: Is, or is not, war a supreme evil? It is no answer to this question to suggest that war educes many splendid qualities. Of course it does. And so, too, does exploration of Polar solitudes, or even climbing Alpine or Himalayan heights. Either war is a detestable solution of our difficulties, or it is not. If it is not, then we have no right whatsoever to object to the Prussian ideal. But if it is, let us call it by its proper name. Let us say that it is devil's work, and have done with it.

We are trying not only to understand what Europe will be like if, as we hope, this war ends successfully for the Allies, but what sort of new Europe it will be in the hands of the conquerors to frame. Those who come after us are to find in that new Europe real possibilities of advance in all the higher kinds of civilisation. Not only are the various states to contain sane and healthy people who desire to live in peace with their neighbours, but people who will desire to realise themselves in science, in philosophic thought, in art, in literature. What is an indispensable condition for an evolution of this sort? It must be the absence of all uneasiness, the growth of a serene confidence and trust, the obliteration of envy, jealousy, and every kind of unreasonableness. The cause, above all others, which has produced an opposite condition of things, which has created the unfortunate Europe in which we have hitherto had to live, is the growth and extension of armaments. The main factor, then, in our problem is the existence of such swollen armaments as have wasted the resources of every nation and embittered the minds of rival peoples. How are we to meet this intolerable evil of armaments?

In the first place, let us remark that on our supposition—the eventual victory of the Allies—one of the great disturbing elements will have been put out of the field. Europe has hitherto been lulled into an uneasy and fractious sleep by the balance of two great organisations. Under the happiest hypothesis the Triple Alliance and the Triple Entente will have disappeared into the deep backward and abysm of time. For all practical purposes there will be no Triple Alliance, and therefore no Triple Entente to confront it. With Austria wiped out of the map for all purposes of offence, and Germany restricted within modest dimensions, the three powers of the Triple Entente—Great Britain, France, and Russia—can do what they like, and as they are sworn friends and allies they can take their own steps undisturbed by fears of hostile combinations. Why should these three allies consent any further to keep up bloated armaments? It is against their own interests and against the interests of the world. So long as Germany existed as a power and developed her own ambitions, we were always on the edge of a catastrophe. With the conquest of Germany that nightmare will have gone. And observe some of the consequences which must inevitably follow. It was against the menace of Germany that France had to pass her three years' law of military service: in the absence of the German army France can reduce as she pleases her military establishment. It was against the menace of a German fleet that we had to incur an outlay of millions of pounds: in the absence of the German fleet we, too, can do what we please. It is certain also that Russia, so long as the deep-seated antagonism between Teuton and Slav remained, was under strong compulsion to reform and reinforce her army.

There may, it is true, remain in some minds a certain fear about Russia, because it is difficult to dispel the old conception of a great despotic Russian autocracy, or, if we like to say so, a semi-eastern and half-barbarous power biding her time to push her conquests both towards the rising and the setting sun. But many happy signs of quite a new spirit in Russia have helped to allay our fears. It looks as if a reformed Russia might arise, with ideas of constitutionalism and liberty and a much truer conception of what the evolution of a state means. At the very beginning of the war the Tsar issued a striking proclamation to the Poles, promising them a restoration of the national freedom which they had lost a century and a half previously. This doubtless was a good stroke of policy, but also it seemed something more—a proof of that benevolent idealism which belongs to the Russian nature, and of which the Tsar himself has given many signs. Of the three nations who control the Poles, the Austrians have done most for their subjects: at all events, the Poles under Austrian control are supposed to be the most happy and contented. Then come the Russian Poles. But the Poles under German government are the most miserable of all, mainly because all German administration is so mechanical, so hard, in a real sense so inhuman. But this determination of the Tsar to do some justice to the Polish subjects is not the only sign of a newer spirit we have to deal with. There was also a proclamation promising liberty to the Jews—a very necessary piece of reform—and giving, as an earnest of the good intentions of the Government, commissions to Jews in the army. Better than all other evidence is the extraordinary outburst of patriotic feeling in all sections of the Russian people. It looks as if this war has really united Russia in a sense in which it has never been united before. When we see voluntary service offered on the part of those who hitherto have felt themselves the victims of Russian autocracy, we may be pretty certain that even the reformers in the great northern kingdom have satisfied themselves that their long-deferred hopes may at length gain fulfilment. Nor ought we to forget that splendid act of reform which has abolished the Imperial monopoly of the sale of vodka. If by one stroke of the pen the Tsar can sacrifice ninety-three millions of revenue in order that Russia may be sober, it is not very extravagant to hope that in virtue of the same kind of benevolent despotism Russia may secure a liberal constitution and the Russian people be set free.[11]