Every man who governs is just as much bound to avoid war as a ship’s captain is bound to avoid shipwreck. If a captain has lost a ship he is brought before a court and tried, so that it may be known whether he has been guilty of negligence. Why should not a Government be put on its trial whenever a war has been declared? If the people understood it, if they refused to allow themselves to be killed without cause, there would be an end of war.
I had also an opportunity of reading a letter, written by Gustave Flaubert to George Sand in the early days of July, just after the outbreak of the war. Here it is:—
I am in despair at the stupidity of my countrymen. The incorrigible barbarity of men fills me with deep grief. This enthusiasm, which is inspired by no idea, makes me wish to die in order to see no more of it. These good Frenchmen wish to fight (1) because they believe themselves challenged by Prussia, (2) because savagery is the natural state of men, (3) because war has an element of mystery in it which is alluring to men. Are we coming to indiscriminate fighting? I fear it. … The horrible battles which are in preparation have no pretext whatever for them. It is the love of fighting for fighting’s sake. I lament for the bridges and tunnels blown up. All this human labour gone to ruin. You will have seen that a gentleman recommended in the Chamber the plundering of the Grand Duchy of Baden. Oh that I could be with the Bedouins!
“Oh,” cried I, as I read this letter, “that we could have been born 500 years later! that would be even better than the Bedouins.”
“Men will not want all that time to become reasonable,” said Frederick confidently.
The period of proclamations and general orders was now come.
The old humdrum tune again always, and always again the public carried away to give it support and enthusiasm! There was joy over the victories guaranteed in the manifestoes, just as if they had been gained already.
On July 28 Napoleon III issued the following document from his headquarters at Metz. This also I entered in my book, not, indeed, because I shared in the admiration but from contempt for the everlasting sameness and hollowness of its phrase-mongering:—
We are defending the honour and the soil of our country. We shall conquer. Nothing is too much for the persevering exertions of the soldiers of Africa, the Crimea, China, Italy and Mexico: Once more you will show what a French army can do, which is on fire with the love of country. Whatever way we take out of our boundaries, we find there the glorious footsteps of our forefathers. We will show ourselves worthy of them. On our success depends the fate of Freedom and Civilisation. Soldiers! let everyone do his duty, and the God of Battles will be with us.
Of course, “le Dieu des Armées” could not be left out. That the leaders of defeated armies have said the same thing a hundred times over does not prevent the others from saying the same words at the beginning of every new campaign and awakening the same confidence by doing so. Is there anything more short and more weak than the memory of the people?
On July 31 King William quitted Berlin and left the following writing:—
In going today to the army, to fight along with it for honour and for the preservation of our noblest possessions, I leave an amnesty for all political offenders. My people know as well as I that the breach of treaty and hostile proceedings are not on our side. But as we have been provoked, we are determined, like our fathers, and in firm reliance on God, to brave the battle for the deliverance of our fatherland.
Necessity of defence—necessity of defence—that is the only recognised way of killing, and so both parties cry out: “I am defending myself.” Is not that a contradiction? Not altogether, for over both there presides a third power, the power of the conquering, ancient war-spirit. It is only against him that all should join in a defensive league.
Along with the above manifestoes, I find in my red volumes an entry, with the singular title written over it: “If Ollivier had married Meyerbeer’s daughter would the war have broken out?” This is how the matter stood. Amongst our Parisian acquaintance there was a literary man named Alexander Weill, and it was he who threw out the above question, while he told us the following story:—
“Meyerbeer was looking out for a man of talent for his second daughter, and his choice fell on my friend Emile Ollivier. Ollivier was a widower. He had married for his first wife the daughter of Liszt, whom the renowned pianist had by the Countess d’Agoult (Daniel Stern), with whom he long lived as his wife. The marriage was very happy, and Ollivier had the reputation of a virtuous husband. He possessed no fortune, but as a speaker and statesman he was already famous. Meyerbeer wanted to make his personal acquaintance, and to this end I gave, in April, 1864, a great ball, which was attended by most of the celebrities of art and science, and where, of course, Ollivier, who had been informed by me of Meyerbeer’s purpose, played the first part. He pleased Meyerbeer. The matter was not easy to bring to a head. Meyerbeer knew the independent originality of his second daughter,
