One day he was informed that he was to leave the jail for a French officers’ internment camp. His departure was fixed for December 7, 1915. During his short (?) sojourn among us Tager won the esteem of the prisoners of British nationality. I was the only one, however, to whom he confided anything about himself. He informed me one day, in great confidence, that he was a Great Rabbi of Turkestan. Judging by the way he pronounced his title, one would believe that his rank in Mohammedan countries corresponded to that of a lord in England. He entreated me not to reveal this to anyone.

Well, the British prisoners met together in a cell and decided to offer him a luncheon at the jail on the day of his departure. It was a formidable enterprise.

On the day fixed, a table of fifteen plates was laid in my cell. The plates, I need hardly remark, had to be set very close one to the other! At one o’clock, three of us went as a delegation to bring Tager, who did not understand what the whole thing meant.

Before luncheon, I told my British comrades that it was my intention to “reveal” to them, when the toasts were proposed, that our guest, Tager, was a Grand Rabbi of Turkestan, and although this title meant nothing to me or to them, I urged that they should display great enthusiasm at my disclosure and give Tager an ovation.

Luncheon was about to end, when I got up to propose the health of Tager. In concluding my speech, I duly informed my friends that I was about to create a sensation amongst them. Then, amid profound silence, I solemnly said that I deemed it my duty, notwithstanding the natural modesty of Mr. Tager, to reveal one of his titles to universal respect and admiration.

“Mr. Tager,” I said, “is a Grand Rabbi of Turkestan, a fact which he always hid from us.”

On this statement, everyone stood up and united in a loud chorus of “bravos.” Then, according to time-honored custom, one of the party led the popular refrain, “For he’s a jolly good-fellow.” We had scarcely got through the first part of the song when Hufmeyer, a non-commissioned officer, burst into my cell and called on us to stop. He was too late, however. We had then given full vent to our enthusiasm for Mr. Tager.

Liebknecht was not the only one to draw upon himself the wrath of the military authorities in 1915, 1916, and 1917.

I shall never forget the pathetic sight presented by a worthy old fellow who was interned with us for many months. He was Professor Franz Mehring, a gentleman seventy-one years of age. In April, 1915, Mehring issued a proclamation in favor of an immediate peace. The proclamation contained not only his signature, but also those of Rosa Luxemburg and de Ledebour. This was sufficient to merit a taste of the Stadtvogtei. Mehring, like Borchardt, belonged to the Spartacus group. A very learned man and a fine talker, he enabled us to spend with him many interesting and never-to-be-forgotten hours. These names of Mehring and Borchardt, of which I had guarded but a slight remembrance, have become of great importance since the revolution broke out in Germany. Mehring remained for some time in the jail. After his liberation he became a candidate for the seat left vacant by Liebknecht at Potsdam. He was defeated, but his subsequent candidature had a happier sequel in his election, for another constituency, to the Prussian Diet. He was returned by a large majority and at the time of writing is a member of the Prussian Parliament.

CHAPTER XXX
AN ALSATIAN NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICER

Every Tuesday and Friday, during the last year of my captivity, I was allowed, as the reader knows, to take a walk in the Tiergarten accompanied by a non-commissioned officer of the jail. Orders had been given, however, that my escort was never to be a non-commissioned officer named Hoch, an Alsatian. In the course of my conversation with Hoch, I had frequently expressed a desire to have him some day for my walking companion. He was quite willing, but the sergeant-major, in this instance, had the whole say and Hoch was not called upon for a long time to be my guardian. In the month of August, 1917, however, Hoch was requested to accompany me on my promenade in the park.

The instructions which had been given to the jail officials concerning me were very strict. I was not supposed to know that, but I knew it perfectly well. The non-commissioned officer, it had been ordered, was to leave the jail with me at two o’clock, proceed to the nearest urban railway station–that is to say about 300 feet from the jail–then board a train and go direct to the park. The promenade was to be made “inside” the park. I was not to be allowed to walk “outside,” neither to talk to anyone nor enter any other place.

On the afternoon I now speak of we had just left the jail, when I proposed to Hoch that we walk through the streets in order that I might buy a few cigars. Hoch willingly acceded to my request and we entered Koenig street. We bought some cigars, and from this street we crossed to Unter-den-Linden avenue, which leads directly to Brandenburg Gate which opens on the Tiergarten. I mention these details to show that we took the shortest route from the jail to the garden.

On Unter-den-Linden avenue we suddenly found ourselves face to face with Captain Wolff, of the Kommandantur. The officer knew me well, having met me four or five times at the jail, where he came every week to take the statements of prisoners who, through petitions or otherwise, had complained of the treatment inflicted upon them.

He advanced towards me and spoke thus:

“You are going for a walk in the garden?”

“Yes,” I answered.

I carried a small parcel in my hand.

“And,” said he, “you make some little purchases when you go out of jail?”

I thought it well to answer affirmatively.

“Au revoir!” said he sharply, and went his way.

I noticed that my Alsatian escort was very much annoyed by this accidental meeting. He remained taciturn all the way back to the jail.

Two days elapsed and Officer Block then came to my cell, anxiety being written all over his face.

“You went out this week?” he inquired.

“Yes, on Tuesday.”

“Where did you go?”

“To the park.”

“Did you go to any other place?”

“No.”

“This is strange,” he said. “I have just received from the Ober-Kommando a document which contains a single phrase to the following effect: ‘Why have instructions been transgressed in the case of Dr. Beland?’”

I feigned bewilderment. I could not understand how we could have transgressed the orders, for, I remarked, we went direct from the jail to the Tiergarten.

“Did you meet anyone?” asked the officer.

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“Captain Wolff, of the Kommandantur.”

“Ah!” said he, “there is the whole story. Where did you meet him?”

“On Unter-den-Linden avenue.”

“On Unter-den-Linden avenue!” the officer cried; “on Unter-den-Linden avenue?”

“Yes, and what harm was done?” I demanded. “Am I not allowed to promenade within the limits of the park? How can I get there more direct than by following Unter-den-Linden avenue?”

“Ah!” said he, “that is true, but it is not according to the orders we have received.”

And he thereupon explained how, under these instructions, I was to go to the park, accompanied by a non-commissioned officer, by urban train without however passing through the streets. He added that while I was not supposed to know these instructions, the non-commissioned officer would be punished if he “ignored them.” I expressed regret to see a fine fellow like Non-Commissioned Officer Hoch implicated in the matter. He agreed that Hoch was a dutiful man as a rule.

The idea at once occurred to me of saving Hoch from punishment if it were possible. I accordingly asked the officer to delay his answer to the Ober-Kommando for an hour. Having granted the request, he left me and I immediately went to the room of Non-Commissioned Officer Hoch.

Directly he saw me he realized that something was wrong.

“We are having some annoyances,” he said.

“Yes, but the matter is not very serious. This is the trouble we have to face.”

I related what had just taken place between the officer and myself, whereupon the poor non-commissioned officer, lifting his arms, exclaimed: “I am done for!”

“No, no,” I said, “I assure you that all is not lost. There is a means to arrange matters.”

“How?” he asked.

“Well, according to regulations, one day each week you spend the afternoon in town. Let us suppose,” I said, “that the afternoon the instructions concerning me were read by the sergeant-major, you were absent.”

“Ah!” replied Hoch; “but I was present.”

“I am not asking you,” I said, “if you were present. I am affirming that you were absent.…”

“Very well,” said he, “but the sergeant-major will remember that I was present.”

“I will attend to this,” I said. “For the time being we will take it that you were absent when the instructions were read.”

I left him, and proceeded to the sergeant-major’s room. This officer was at that time a sick man, and had consulted me three or four times about some kidney trouble he was suffering. He was surprised to see me and asked the reason for my visit.

“Well,” I said, “you remember the famous instructions concerning me? Three months ago, when you read them to the non-commissioned officers, Non-Commissioned Officer Hoch was out on his afternoon leave, was he not?”

“That is true,” he said.

“Well, on my last outing, I asked him to pass along Koenig street with me, and he consented.”

“Then there was no offence,” said the sergeant-major.

“Certainly not,” I agreed. “There is need only for a little explanation.”

I went on speaking of other matters, particularly of his illness, and leaving him then I hurried off to see Officer Block. I explained to him that when the instructions concerning myself were read three months previously Non-Commissioned Officer Hoch was absent.

“Well,” he said, “I will report in that sense.”

We waited four days for the outcome of this explanation, and during this time Hoch was in terrible fear. He imagined himself condemned to the dungeon or sent back to the trenches where three of his brothers had been killed.

Finally, on the fourth day, Lieutenant Block told me he had received the answer from the Ober-Kommando. “The explanation,” the document stated, “is satisfactory, but Non-Commissioned Officer Hoch must be severely reprimanded.”

“I hope the reprimand will not be too severe,” I ventured to say.

Lieut. Block did not reply. A German officer never commits himself when discipline is in question.

He left me, and a few minutes later the Alsatian non-commissioned officer was summoned before him. The following colloquy took place between them:

“Non-Commissioned Officer Hoch?”

“Yes, my Lieutenant.”

“You went out with prisoner Beland last week?”

“Yes, my Lieutenant.”

“You passed along Koenig street and Unter-den-Linden avenue?”

“Yes, my Lieutenant.”

“You know now that this was against the instructions received?”

“Yes, my Lieutenant.”

“I reprimand you severely.”

“Very well, my Lieutenant.”

“You may go.”

“Very well, my Lieutenant.”

And Hoch turned on his heels and disappeared.

The next minute he was in my cell, laughing in his sleeve at the happy turn of events in the adventure.

One can see that the whole trouble resulted from an excess of zeal on the part of the notorious Wolff.

CHAPTER XXXI
IN HOLLAND AND IN ENGLAND

“Because,” I answered, “I received in Berlin the assurance that my daughter–who had been in Belgium for three years, and to whom the German authorities have up to the present time refused permission to leave–will receive a passport for the frontier of Holland. I must, therefore, wait until she arrives from Belgium.”

“But,” said the young officer in charge, “this will not do. The Legation expects that you will leave for England to-morrow. I would suggest, as we have only incomplete information on this subject, that you go to The Hague and discuss the matter there.”

The same afternoon I proceeded to the British Legation at The Hague, where I had the pleasure of meeting a charming officer of the British Navy. He explained that it was quite true that I was expected to leave for England the next day. I again urged my objection to this course.

“Am I not, after all, the one most concerned in this question of repatriation?” I asked him. “It is of the utmost importance that I should stay in Holland until the arrival of my daughter, who has been detained for so long in Belgium. It will be almost impossible for me to maintain correspondence with her from England.”

The gallant officer admitted that from this point of view my presence in Holland was likely to be more useful and effective than if I were in England.

“At the same time,” he said, “you seem to overlook the fact that your case is a special one. You have been exchanged for a German prisoner in England.”

“I know this,” I answered.

“Well, then,” the officer continued, “this German prisoner whose liberty has been conceded in exchange for your release cannot leave England until you arrive there.”

Whatever spirit moved me, I could not help feeling a certain amount of satisfaction at hearing this explanation.

“Is what you have said quite true?” I asked.

“Assuredly,” was the answer.

“Then,” I said, “why should I not let him stew in his own juice for a time? Two years ago I was informed when in jail that I was then to be liberated. They kept me in a state of anxious expectation for more than two weeks and then shattered my hopes for freedom. I quite approve your efforts to persuade me to proceed immediately to England, but you may take my word for it that I have not the slightest intention to leave Holland to-morrow, nor the day after, nor before, as a matter of fact, such time as the German authorities have released my daughter, who is detained in Belgium. You may inform the British authorities that, in this question of exchange, the most interested party declares himself satisfied that I consider myself sufficiently ‘exchanged’ to allow, if they think proper, the German prisoner to leave England. On the other hand, if the British Government consider it proper to retain its German prisoner until I arrive in England, I make no pretence to hide the fact that I shall feel an extreme satisfaction at the manner in which affairs have turned.”

The officer smiled and assured me that he would at once telegraph the result of our conversation to the British authorities.

I learned, however, that two weeks later on Von Buelow, who had been Krupp’s representative in England before war was declared, and who had been detained in that country since the outbreak of hostilities, had arrived in Holland on his way to Germany. Von Buelow was the prisoner whom the British Government had consented to liberate in exchange for me. Three weeks later my daughter was liberated from Belgium. We met, after a separation of three years, at Rosendaal, and for the next three weeks, happy in our regained liberty, we enjoyed in a delicious atmosphere hospitality of this charming country, moving freely amongst the worthy Dutch population and admiring their old customs and strange garb. They were days of happiness never to be forgotten.

However, the hour when we would resume the journey towards our Canadian home would soon be at hand. Breathing the pure air of liberty, soul o’erflowing with a desire to see once more those landscapes of America we had not seen for four years, we proceeded to make the necessary preparations for crossing the North Sea to England.

For eighteen months these waters had been infested with pirates. Hereabouts the German submarines had two principal bases–one in Kiel Bay and the other at Zeebrugge. From these two points, and particularly from Zeebrugge, the German pirates could, in a few hours, menace an area as far as the English coast as well as the Rotterdam-Harwich sea route. This was their zone of operations par excellence.

And well we knew it! We had discussed the danger with Canadian officers, whose guests we were at Sheveningen where they had established for themselves the next best residence to a home. Here I was introduced by the gallant Major Ewart Osborne, of Toronto, and I have a very happy recollection of the few hours I spent there with him and his comrades.

We discussed submarines; we talked of Canada, and ventured to speculate as to the possible epoch of their return.

The British Admiralty had entire charge of the postal and passenger service between England and Holland. Convoys went and convoys came; that is all we could tell. As to the hour of departure, the point of embarkation, the names of the steamers, the route to be followed, the port of arrival, passengers were kept in the most complete ignorance.

When a permit to cross to England was obtained, the traveler had to present himself every day between eleven o’clock and noon for instructions. Thus we paid daily visits at this hour to the British Consulate at Rotterdam. This went on for one week and then we were told verbally, and secretly, to board a train at a certain station, at a given hour.

We were, of course, delighted. We had left the Consulate barely five minutes, and were waiting on the platform of a tramway station, when an individual approached and addressing me in perfect English, with an accent peculiar to a London citizen, said:

“At what hour do we leave?”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“Yes, at what hour do the steamers leave? I forget if it is this afternoon or to-night,” he replied.

“I do not know to what steamers you refer,” I said.

“I refer to the steamers on which ‘we’ are to cross to England,” he answered.

Holland during the war was literally overrun with German spies.

We knew this, because at the hotel in Rotterdam, where I stayed for a few weeks, “congenial” persons took advantage of any and every pretext to engage in conversation with me. I had been warned on my first visit to the Consulate against these “friends.”

When my interlocutor asked the first question I nearly fell into the trap. I was about to give him the information he sought when a suspicion flashed through my mind and put me on my guard.

To his last question, therefore, I answered, in a confidential manner:

“Exactly one week from to-day, at six o’clock a.m.”

“That was what I thought I understood,” said the man masquerading as an Englishman. His remark removed all doubts from my mind. I had been speaking to a spy.

On this day, June 30, travelers who had permits to cross to England proceeded towards Hoch Van Holland, where we arrived at seven o’clock in the evening. Five passenger ships awaited us at the wharf. We went on board, but no one knew the hour of departure–not even the ship’s officers, we were told.

Saturday night, Sunday, and Sunday night passed and the boats remained there. Not until a radiograph message was received could we leave Holland. Finally the expected message came, and at eleven o’clock on Monday morning we sailed from the mouth of the Meuse River. The convoy of five ships bearing thousands of passengers of all ages and conditions slowly advanced northwards, nursing the side coast of Holland until we reached Sheveningen. At this point we turned to the west and our boats headed towards England. We were barely out of the Dutch waters when, suddenly, a cloud of smoke appeared at the horizon in front of us.

What was it? We did not know. This black spot, hardly perceptible, grew bigger and advanced towards us. It was the convoy which left England that morning and was now entering the waters of Holland.

What a grand spectacle it was! Twenty-four ships in three lines cut through the waves, each ship vomiting thick black smoke. In the centre, preceded by a daring cruiser, were the seven ships bearing passengers. On either side were eight leviathans of the sea, boats of a particular model. They ploughed the waters in all directions, seeking an enemy whom they would devour!

After some seemingly fine disorder there were exchanges of signals, a run to right here, a run to left there–the whole business taking but three minutes–the outlook was clear again. Seven passenger ships were sailing in security along the Dutch coasts, the protecting warships, seventeen in number, had turned back. The majestic convoy proceeding west, and modeled on the one which had just come east, was negotiating the passage of the most dangerous zone in the North Sea.

All went well until two o’clock in the afternoon. Then a mine field was signaled. Some of the mines, not completely submerged, could be seen on the surface of the water. They looked like so many soft felt hats. Cruisers and torpedo boats at once came into action. Their marvelous artillery men pointed their guns and fired. A second afterwards a terrific explosion from a mine, accompanied by a column of water shooting up towards the sky, told us that the aim had been accurate. After an hour’s running fire we had crossed the mine field, and were proceeding at good speed towards England, whose lights we saw at about nine o’clock. We were due to arrive at the mouth of the Thames at dusk.

From all sides were heard tributes of high admiration for this marvelous service of protection, extending over the world’s seas and maintained unceasingly, without rest or respite, by the intrepid sailors of the British navy!

We were about to cross the line of the two powerful lights, which marked the limit of the waters frequented by the submarine pirates, when the seventeen warships approached quite near, as though to embrace us. Then, after exchanging a few signals, quickly, silently, they half turned round and were lost sight of in the offing. On the high sea, in the dark of the night, they went to fulfill another mission of humanity and protection. And each and every one of these brave sailors carried with him the homage of our unbounded gratitude and admiration.

On July 2, 1918, we arrived in England, and the inspection which I had dreaded so much on account of the numerous written works I had brought with me from Germany was of the most simple kind. At the inspection office at Gravesend, where I had the advantage of meeting some of the chief officials, they showed themselves exceedingly conciliating and accommodating towards me. They did not delay my journey to London, and promised that all my papers, documents, letters, etc., should be returned to me at the capital through the office of the High Commissioner of Canada. There was a big trunk full of these documents, and I wish here to acknowledge the courtesy of the officials and to thank them for having kept their word so punctually and considerately.

Of my sojourn of four weeks in London I must mention three events which will always remain impressed on my memory. The first, of course, is the gracious invitation I received from his Majesty the King to visit him at Buckingham Palace. On the day arranged, at noon, I had the very great honor to be received by the King with a courtesy and a kindness which deeply moved me. It was impossible not to notice on his Majesty’s features marks of the anxiety and disquietude he had borne during the past four years. It was at the time of the new and terrible offensive of the Germans in Champagne, and it was also–though hoping for it we did not then know it–the signal for the counter-offensive which was to lead the allied armies from one success to another and so on to the definite breakdown of the German military machine.

I took leave of his Majesty, but not without asking leave to express to him, on behalf of his French-Canadian subjects particularly, our congratulations and best wishes on the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of his wedding, which had been celebrated the day previous at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

It was at about this time that I had the pleasure of meeting, after about four years’ separation, my stepson, an officer in the Belgian army, who had obtained leave of absence to come from the battlefields of Flanders to meet me in England. I had been accompanied from Holland by the second son of my wife. He had, at great risk to his life, crossed the electrical barrier which separated Belgium from Holland. His purpose was now to enter the Belgian army. The two brothers met for the first time in four years in the hall of a London hotel, and a few days afterwards both left England together and resumed duty on the fields of battle.

A few days before the date fixed for my passage to Canada I received from General Turner an invitation to visit the Canadian camps at Frencham Pond and Bramshott. At Frencham Pond we saw the troops who had recently arrived from Canada. Here they received their first military training in England. They were afterward transferred to Bramshott, where their military education was completed.

At both places it was my privilege to address a few words to the Canadian troops, and to congratulate them on their fine deportment, which, I may add, excited general admiration alike in England and France. The day I spent with our Canadian officers and soldiers will remain one of the happiest remembrances of my life. More especially, I shall never forget the impression created by the march-past of the 10th Canadian Reserve Regiment (French-Canadian), Col. Desrosiers taking the salute. One could not witness such a demonstration without feeling throughout his whole being a thrill of enthusiasm and admiration.

I sought to express to the men the pride and gratitude we felt towards them, and I promised to bring back to the Canadian people the message I could plainly read on their faces, which may be thus expressed: Courage, Patience, and Confidence in Victory.

As I write these lines the exploits of these brave Canadians, without distinction of race, have been crowned with success–have been enveloped in immortal glory. Victory, so long doubted, is reflected in all its radiance in the folds of their flag. All honor to them! History will record their deeds and heroism in letters of gold.

And the memory of those who have made the supreme sacrifice will be enshrined throughout this land with perpetual flowers, whilst the incense of our gratitude will continue to ascend until the last drop of the majestic rivers of Canada has rolled by their mournful homes on its way to the sea. Let us bow our heads to those who return from the mighty struggle and honor the memory of the still more glorious who, enveloped in the love of Britain, France and Canada, repose in the soil, witness of their exploits.

CHAPTER XXXII
THE MILITARISTS AND THE MILITARIZED

To properly understand the German mentality one must turn to the country’s military history. Germany–that is, Prussia and her forty millions of people; a few smaller kingdoms such as Bavaria, Saxony, and Wurtemburg; and some fifteen lesser States–was federated in 1871. In 1864 Prussia made victorious war against Denmark. In 1866 she carried on another victorious campaign against Austria. Then, in 1870, after an exceedingly adroit diplomatic campaign which assured the neutrality of the other great nations of Europe, she, by the falsification of a despatch, inaugurated the Franco-Prussian war. She dragged into it the other German States right under the walls of Paris, and at Versailles founded the German Empire, comprising twenty-six States, with the King of Prussia proclaimed as Emperor.

She was at the zenith of her power. Bismarck the statesman, Von Moltke the soldier, were hailed as demigods after the conclusion of a treaty which wrested from France two of her Provinces and imposed an indemnity of five billions; these two men were held up to the universal admiration of the German people.

The artistic sense and idealism which had impregnated the German soul up to this period, even–which seems impossible now–under Frederic II., now gave way to the new-born Positivism. Bismarck had said: “Might is right,” and “One has only the right that Force can sanction.” These maxims had justified those who framed them in 1864, 1866, and again in 1870. Henceforward for the Emperor, for his entourage, for the hundreds of thousands of officers, war was to be an element, a factor, and the chief author of the nation’s grandeur. This was the spirit which dominated the classes, and it must be introduced to, and spread amongst, the masses. Literature, science and the arts were made to contribute to the work of this new formation. But it was chiefly through education and legislation that the new principle was expounded. Veterans of the war of 1870 became so many tutors who trained the mind of the rising generation. The children were taken regularly to the museums where they were shown the flags and cannons taken from the enemy.

An old officer was showing these trophies to his two grandsons.

“Who is our enemy?” he asked.

“France,” replied the boys.

“We defeated them, did we not?”

“Surely.”

“And we shall defeat all our enemies, present and future,” the veteran declared.

“Yes,” the children agreed.

“You are good and true children of the Fatherland,” their grandfather told them.

The standard reading-books in all the schools were full of stories recounting valiant and successful exploits of the German soldiers–cavalry charges, the taking of cities by storm, epic encounters with swords, all leading up to the exultant conclusion that the glory of German arms had dazzled the world. The intellects of the youth were thus impregnated, saturated, with principles of militarism from the first days at school. And if one dared venture to raise a voice against the “sanctus sanctorum” of the caste born of the spirit of Bismarck and Von Moltke, he was silenced by force. Was not Germany, like Pygmalion, surrounded by enemies who were ever ready to pounce upon and crush her? Therefore all must be prepared to advance every means for self-defence. Everything undertaken to build up the enormous mechanism of the barracks and the munition factories was for protection and self-preservation. Against whom? Against a world of enemies. This was the bogey which the pan-German press paraded before a population stricken with terror. The next war was to be, as appearances were represented, one of defence. Military and civilians of this caste, estimated then at half a million adults, while seeking to hide their real intentions from the rest of the German population, of course from the people of other countries, always invoked the name of Bismarck. He was made the great national hero. And what does Bismarck say? First that “Might is Right,” and then that “War is the negation of order.” Why does he say this? Everybody knows now. It is an old story. Wait. The Man of Iron has a purpose. Read further: “The most efficient means to force an enemy nation to sue for peace is to devastate its territory and terrorize its civil population.”

This new theory, based on the victory of 1870, so obtained, raised very little protest in Germany. It is monstrous, but it is true. And the disciples of Bismarck, having elaborated a finished theory on his guilty words and deeds, first shocked the good people of Germany, but the people soon became reconciled to the new faith. In short, a credulous people allowed themselves to be carried away by this wave of militarism which spread into the remotest corners of the territory.

As for the military caste itself, its members quite believed their prodigious preparedness of forty years was destined to make Germany mistress of the universe. As for the masses, they were led to believe that all the preparations were a means of defence and protection. The sinister designs of the schemers were concealed from the eyes of the credulous, and those of the masses who realized the actual game of the ringleaders in the Empire dared not ask any questions. One is governed or is not governed. And these people were being governed.

Moreover, why trouble one’s conscience? Had not this system justified itself in 1870? These two Provinces, these five billions of moneys, wrested, extorted from France, were they not the two determining factors in the tremendous industrial impulsion which would open the gates to Germany’s commercial preponderance in all the markets of the world? No wonder the masses kept silent.

Intensive militarism, then, became a religion of the State. Philosophers, litterateurs, and historians having done all they could to attain the dreamed-of purpose, others followed their lead. Each and every discovery in mechanics, optics, chemistry was studied and tested by its respective author in the light of the possibility of its practical adaptability and utility in the work of destruction.

The works of art also showed the effects of the enveloping atmosphere.

The Kaiser’s only daughter paraded in the uniform of a Hussar, while her august father talked of “keeping the powder dry.” One day, on his own domains at harvest time, he was seized by mad admiration at the sight of the millions of ears of golden corn.

“They remind me,” he said, “of the ocean of lances of my Uhlans.”

On another occasion, during a hunt near the French frontier, when the Kaiser was surrounded as usual by sycophants and toadies attired in all the resplendence of their military uniforms, the then Most Highest allowed a mysterious word to escape his lips. Having half drawn his sword, he snapped it back into its scabbard and exclaimed:

“They tremble in Europe.”

Then he burst out laughing.

And now came the decade which preceded the world war. Germany rejected Great Britain’s proposal that each side should limit its naval armament and halt for a while. Convinced at this time that her tremendous military machine was not only invincible, but irresistible, Germany applied herself feverishly to a mad rush of naval construction with the object of making her shores intangible. The idea was that in this way Britain would be kept quiet and Germany would be able to proceed to crush the Franco-Russian entente and obtain continental domination. From this to universal control only one step was required.

This was what the German military caste had in mind–that is to say, the Kaiser, the Crown Prince, and the 40,000 or 50,000 officers and civilians recruited from the nobility, high society, from the professions and the educated officials. And the crowd–the masses–would go to sleep each evening blinded to the facts, but convinced that numberless enemies were preparing to pounce covertly on their Fatherland.

The great hope of the German Government from 1908 to 1914 was to get the war started without it being apparent that Germany provoked it.

But as so often repeated to us by that fine Swiss fellow, Hinterman, who was interned with us, the artifices of the Germans are easily seen through. And all the scheming of the events which preceded the invasion of Belgium, however clever it was, will not prevent history from bringing against William Hohenzollern and his entourage a verdict of guilty.

The interview at Potsdam, on July 5, 1914, in which the Kaiser and the Austrian delegates took part; the ultimatum to Serbia; the refusal of Austria to accept the very satisfactory and conciliating answer of Serbia–and this without previous consultation with Germany–does not all this show that everything was decided on July 5, aforesaid? The rejection by Germany of the proposal for a conference made by Sir Edward Grey, British Minister of Foreign Affairs; the hesitations, the subterfuges of Von Jagow towards Monsieur Cambon, the French Ambassador; the entering of German troops into Belgium during the night of July 31–that is to say two days before the ultimatum of former Emperor William to the King of Belgium; the telegraphic correspondence between the Tsar of Russia, King George, and William II., all, indeed, carries on its face the stamp of Germany’s duplicity.

Of the underhand methods of the authors of the plot and murder at Serajevo, impartial history will tell later.

The mass of the German population when apprised of these historical facts disentangled from all pan-Germanic camouflage will not hesitate to stand as accusers of the real authors of the war; of those, finally, who were the cause of the collective aberration of the nation.

The flight of the Imperial family and the high officers to Holland will not prevent them from escaping the abhorrence of the German people. Can there be a more exemplary and a more bitter punishment at the same time than that meted out to a sovereign by his own subjects?

A portion of this industrious and frugal people undoubtedly allowed themselves to be deceived by their rulers who betrayed them on a pretence of defence; another portion yielded to the temptation for gain and conquest; a few of them allowed themselves, perhaps–Oh, human weakness!–to be fascinated by visions of universal domination, but we are willing to believe that the great majority were but blind tools in the hands of an ambitious militarism.

The allied nations have won a complete, decisive, definite victory. The last head of the hydra of militarism seems to have been battered down for all time.

May peace now be restored for ever among men of good will! But in order to obtain this end, the flag to be hoisted on civilization by the League of Nations will have to bear in its folds the words: Justice, Toleration, Magnanimity!

Justice, that is to say, punishment for the guilty, for the criminals, for the authors of the slaughtering and devastation.

Justice, that is to say, restitution and reparation. Justice, that is to say, indemnity for the millions of women and children who are deprived of their main support.

And why, some will ask, should I speak here of magnanimity? Does not the entire people of Germany and of her allies deserve the most severe condemnation?

In uttering here this word “magnanimity,” I only reflect the thought expressed by the leaders of the three great allied countries, on the day following the armistice: Lloyd George, Clemenceau, and Woodrow Wilson.

And as Mr. Winston Churchill declared on the 4th of July last, at Westminster: “We are bound to the principles for which we are fighting. Those principles alone will enable us to use with wisdom and with justice the victory which we shall gain. Whatever the extent of our victory, those principles would protect the German people. We could not treat them as they have treated Alsace-Lorraine or Belgium or Russia, or as they would treat us all if they had the power.”

It is because the population of a country is composed for the most part of women and children, and because we could not, without stooping to the level of the methods employed in Belgium, for example, make war against women, against children, against property.

Justice will have a field of operations large enough, if it wishes, to reach the conscious authors of the war and of the deeds incompatible with humanitarian principles and contrary to international laws.

(The End.)