Chapter XI: Part SIX: The New Education (2)

He struck himself on the head with his fist. He was dragged into the house, howling at the top of his voice. Soon the garden was empty. By degrees the lights were extinguished and the noise was stilled, except for the distant artillery fire. The patrol which had helped to take the madman back into the hospital repassed, with the old corporal in the rear, hanging his head. From afar off came the flash of an explosion, followed by a prolonged rumbling. The old man stood still, listened, shook his fist, spat disgustedly, and muttered:

"Oh, Hell!"

I have given lengthy extracts from this story, for I wished to convey a notion of the author's pulsating, vibrant, and impassioned style. There is more of the drama here than of the novel, and an elemental fierceness like that of Shakespearean drama. It would be well if these pages, so profound in the bitterness of their injustice, were to become widely known. It would be well if the poor women who, in all love as a rule, adopt a superhuman pose, could be made to realise, by means of this madman's outpourings, the secret thoughts which no man will dare to tell them, to understand the mute and almost shamefaced appeal to their poor human kindliness, to their simple and motherly compassion.

* * * * *

I shall deal more briefly with the other episodes.

The second, "Baptism of Fire" (Feuertaufe), is long, perhaps too long, but full of pity and of pain. Almost the whole scene is played within the soul of Captain Marschner, a man of fifty, who is leading his company to the front-line trench under the enemy's fire. He is not a professional soldier. As a young man he had been an officer, but at the age of thirty he had gone to school again, wishing to quit the trade of war and to become a civil engineer. Now the war had brought him back to the army. He had been in Vienna only the day before yesterday. His men were fathers of families, stonemasons, peasants, factory hands, and so on. None of them had any patriotic enthusiasm. He read their minds, and felt ashamed of himself because he was leading to certain death these poor fellows who trusted him. Beside him marched Weixler, a young lieutenant, cold, ruthless, inhuman--as one so often is at twenty years of age "when one has had no time yet to learn the value of life." The hardness of this man (an irreproachable officer) arouses in Marschner mingled anger and suffering. By degrees a fierce but unspoken feud arises between them. At the very end, just when open war is about to break out between the two, a huge shell bursts in their trench and both are buried under the wreckage. The captain comes to himself with a shattered skull. At a few paces' distance lies the implacable lieutenant, his entrails trailing on the ground beside him. They exchange a last look. Marschner sees a face that is almost strange to him, pale and sad, with timid eyes. The whole expression is gentle and plaintive; there is an unforgettable air of tender, anxious resignation.

"He is suffering!" flashed through the captain's mind. "He is suffering!" Marschner is transported with joy. And therewith he dies.

"My Comrade" (Der Kamarad) is the diary of a soldier in hospital. This man has been driven mad by the terrible sights at the front, and above all by the vision of a wounded man in the death agony, a poor wretch whose face had been torn away by a grapnel. The sight was seared upon his brain. The image never left him by day or by night. It sat down beside him at meals; went to bed with him; got up with him in the morning. It had become "My Comrade." The description is positively hallucinating, and this story contains some of the most forceful passages in the book, directed against the warmongers and against the humbugs of the press.

"A Hero's Death" (Heldentod) describes the death in hospital of First Lieutenant Otto Kadar. He has a fractured skull. While the regimental officers were listening to a gramophone playing the Rakoczy march, a bomb exploded among them. The dying man never stops talking of the Rakoczy march. He imagines that he is looking at the corpse of a young officer whose head has been carried away, and in place of the head, screwed into the neck, is the gramophone disc. In his growing delirium, he fancies that the same thing has happened to all the common soldiers, to all the officers, to himself; that in each one the head has been replaced by a gramophone disc. That is why it is so easy to lead them to the slaughter. The dying man makes a frantic effort to tear away the disc from his own neck, and as he does so all is over. The old major looking on says in a voice vibrating with respect: "He died like a true Hungarian--singing the Rakoczy march."

"Home Again" (Heimkehr) tells of the homecoming of Johann Bogdan, who had been the handsomest man in his native village. He returns from the war hopelessly disfigured. In hospital his face has been remade for him by means of a number of plastic operations. But when he looks at himself in the glass he is horror-stricken. No one in the village recognises him. The only exception is a hunchback whom he had looked on with contempt, and who now greets him familiarly. The countryside has been transformed by the building of a munition factory. Marcsa, Bogdan's betrothed, works there, and has become the factory owner's mistress. Bogdan sees red, and stabs the man, to be struck down dead himself a moment later.--In this story the growth of the revolutionary spirit is manifest. Bogdan, a dull conservative by nature, is inspired with it against his will. We have a threatening vision of the return of the soldiers from all the armies, and of how they will take vengeance upon those who sent others to death while remaining at home to enjoy life and to grow rich by speculation.

I have kept the third story to the last, for it contrasts with the others by the sobriety of its emotion. It is entitled "The Victor" (Der Sieger). In the other episodes, the tragic element is nude and bleeding. Here tragedy is veiled with irony, and is all the more formidable. Revolt simmers beneath the calm words; the butchers are pilloried by the bitter satire.

The victor is His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief, the renowned Generalissimo X., universally known in the press as "The Victor of * * *." He is there in all his glory, in the principal square of the town which is now the military headquarters. Here he is absolute master. Here there is nothing which he cannot do or undo at his will. The band is playing, on a fine autumn afternoon. His Excellency sits out of doors in front of a café, amid smart officers and elegantly dressed ladies. It is nearly forty miles from the front. Strict orders have been given that no wounded or convalescent soldier, or any man whose appearance might have a depressing effect on the general war enthusiasm or might trouble the comfort of those who are at ease, shall be allowed out of hospital. We are told how much His Excellency is enjoying himself. He finds the war splendid. People have never had a jollier time. "Did you notice the young fellows back from the front? Sunburnt, healthy, happy!... I assure you the world has never been so healthy as it is now." The whole company chimes in to celebrate the beneficial effects of the war. His Excellency meditates upon his good luck, his titles, his decorations, harvested in a single year of war, after he had vegetated for nine-and-thirty years in peace and mediocrity. It has been a perfect miracle. He is now a national hero. He has his motor, his country mansion, his chef, delicate fare, a lordly retinue of servants--and he has not to pay a penny for it. Only one thing troubles his reflections, the thought that the whole fairy tale may vanish as suddenly as it came, and that he may relapse into obscurity. What if the enemy were to break through? But he reassures himself. All is going well. The great enemy offensive, which has been expected for the last three months, and which actually began twenty-four hours ago, hurls itself vainly against a wall of iron. "The human reservoir is full to overflowing. Two hundred thousand young stalwarts of exactly the right age are ready to be caught up in the whirl of the dance, until they sink in a marish of blood and bones." His Excellency's agreeable reverie is interrupted by an aide-de-camp, who informs him that the correspondent of an influential foreign newspaper has requested an interview. This scene is brilliantly described. The general does not allow the journalist to get a word in. He has his speech ready:

"He delivered it now, speaking with emphasis, and pausing occasionally to recall what came next. First of all, he referred to his gallant soldiers, lauding their courage, their contempt for death, their doings glorious beyond description. He went on to express regret that it was impossible to reward all these heroes according to their deserts. Raising his voice, he invoked the fatherland's eternal gratitude for such loyalty and self-renunciation even unto death. Pointing to the heavy crop of medals on his chest, he explained that the distinctions conferred on him were really a tribute to his men. Finally he interwove a few well-chosen remarks anent the military calibre of the enemy and the skilled generalship displayed by the other side. His last words conveyed his inviolable confidence in ultimate victory."

When the oration was finished, the general became the man of the world.

"You are going to the front now?" he asked with a courteous smile, and responded to the journalist's enthusiastic "yes" with a melancholy sigh.

"Lucky man! I envy you. You see, the tragedy in the life of the modern general is that he cannot lead his men personally into the fray. He spends his whole life making ready for war; he is a soldier in body and mind, and yet he knows the excitement of battle only from hearsay."

Of course the correspondent is delighted that he will be able to depict this all-powerful warrior in the sympathetic role of renunciation.

The agreeable scene is disturbed by the intrusion of an infantry captain who is out of his mind and has escaped from hospital. His Excellency, though in a towering rage, controls his temper for the sake of appearances, and has the inconvenient visitor sent back in his own car. He turns the incident to account by uttering a few touching phrases concerning the impossibility for a general to do his duty if he had to witness all the misery at the front. He evades the correspondent's final question, "When does Your Excellency hope for peace?" by pointing across the square to the old cathedral, saying, "The only advice I can give you is to go over there and ask our Heavenly Father. No one else can answer that question."--Then His Excellency descends upon the hospital like a whirlwind, blusters at the old staff-surgeon, and reiterates the order to keep all the patients safely under lock and key. His wrath by now is slightly assuaged, but it is revived by a message from the front. A brigadier-general reports terrible losses, and declares that he cannot hold the line without reinforcements. It was part of His Excellency's plan that this brigade should be wiped out, after resisting the attack as long as possible. But he is angry that his victims should have any advice to offer, and sends curt orders, "The sector is to be held."--At length, the day's work being over, the great man drives home in his motor, still fiercely excogitating the correspondent's idiotic question, "When does Your Excellency hope for peace?"

"Hope!... How tactless!... Hope for peace! What good has a general to expect from peace? Could not this civilian understand that a commander-in-chief is only a commander-in-chief in war-time, and that in peace-time he is nothing more than a professor with a collar of gold braid?"

The general is annoyed once more when the car pulls up because it is necessary to close the hood on account of the rain. But during the pause His Excellency hears the sound of distant firing. His eyes brighten.--Thank God, there was still war.

* * * * *

My quotations have been enough to show the emotional force and the trenchant irony of Latzko's book. It scorches. It is a torch of suffering and revolt. Both its merits and its defects are sib to this frenzy. The author is master of the writer's art, but he is not always master of his own feelings. His memories are still open wounds. He is possessed by his visions. His nerves vibrate like violin strings. Almost without exception, his analyses of emotion are tremulous monologues. His shattered spirit cannot find repose.

Doubtless he will be criticised for the preponderant place assumed in his book by physical pain. The work is full of it. Pain monopolises the reader's mind and wearies his eyes. Not until we have read _Men in Battle_ do we fully appreciate Barbusse's chariness in the use of material effects. If Latzko is persistent in their employment, this is not merely because he is haunted by memories of pain. He wishes, deliberately wishes, to communicate these impressions to others, for he has suffered greatly from others' insensibility.

In very truth, such insensibility has been the saddest of all our experiences during this war. We knew man to be stupid, mediocre, selfish: we knew that on occasions man could be extremely cruel. But though we had few illusions, we had never believed that man could remain so monstrously indifferent to the cries of millions of victims. We had never believed that there could be a smile such as we have witnessed upon the lips of the young fanatics and of the old demoniacs who, from their safe seats, are never weary of looking on at the mutual slaughter of the nations, of those who kill one another for the pleasure, the pride, the ideas, and the interests of the onlookers. All the rest, all the crimes, we can tolerate; but this aridity of soul is the worst of all, and we feel that Latzko has been overwhelmed by it. Like one of his own characters, who is regarded as a sick man because he cannot forget the sufferings he has witnessed, Latzko cries to the apathetic public:

"Sick!... No! It is the others that are sick. They are sick who gloat over news of victories and see conquered miles of territory arise resplendent above mountains of corpses. They are sick who stretch a barrier of many-coloured bunting between themselves and their better feelings, lest they should see what crimes are being committed against their brothers in the beyond that they call 'the front.' Every man is sick who can still think, talk, argue, sleep, knowing that other men, holding their own entrails in their hands, are crawling like half-crushed worms across the furrows in the fields, and are dying like animals before they can reach the ambulance station, while somewhere, far away, a woman with longing in her heart is dreaming beside an empty bed. All those are sick who fail to hear the moaning, the gnashing of teeth, the howling, the crashing and bursting, the wailing and cursing and agonising in death, because their ears are filled with the murmur of everyday affairs. These blind and deaf ones are sick, not I. Sick are those dumb beings whose soul can give voice neither to compassion nor to anger...." ("My Comrade").

The author's aim is to arouse these sick beings from their torpor, to treat them with the actual cautery of pain. This aim is portrayed in the person of Captain Marschner ("Baptism of Fire"), who, when his company is in the thick of the slaughter, suffers from nothing so intensely as from the harsh impassivity of his lieutenant, but who, himself at the point of death, finds it a positive solace to see on Weixler's stern face a shadow of pain, brotherly pain.

"Thank God," he thinks. "At last he knows what suffering is!"

"Through sympathy to knowledge," sings the mystical chorus of _Parsifal_.

This "suffering with others" (sympathy, Mitleid), this "pain which unites," overflows from the work of Andreas Latzko.

_November 15, 1917._

"Les Tablettes," Geneva, December, 1917.

XIX

VOX CLAMANTIS....[43]

After the glacial torpor of the early days of the war, mutilated art begins to bloom anew. The irrepressible song of the soul wells up out of suffering. Man is not merely, as he is apt to boast, a reasoning animal (he might, with better ground, term himself an unreasoning one); he is a singing animal; he can no more get on without singing than without bread. We learn it amid the very trials through which we are passing to-day. Although the general suppression of liberty in Europe has doubtless deprived us of the deeper music, of the most intimate confessions, we nevertheless hear great voices rising from every land. Some of these, coming from the armies, sing in sad and epic strains. See, for example, _Under Fire_ by Henri Barbusse, and the heart-rending tales issued by Andreas Latzko under the collective title of _Men in Battle_. Others express the pain and horror of those who, remaining at home, look on at the butchery without taking part in it, and who, being inactive, suffer all the more from the torments of thought. To this category belong the impassioned poems of Marcel Martinet[44] and P. J. Jouve.[45] Paying less attention to suffering and more concerned with understanding, the English novelists, H. G. Wells[46] and Douglas Goldring,[47] give a faithful analysis of the distressing errors amid which they move and which they themselves by no means escape. Yet others, finally, taking refuge in the contemplation of the past, rediscover there the same circle of misfortunes and of hopes--rediscover the "eternal cycle." They cloak their grief in the fashions of other days, thus ennobling it and despoiling it of its poisoned dart. From the lofty eyrie of the ages, set free by art, the soul contemplates suffering as in a vision, no longer aware whether that suffering belongs to the present or to the past. Stefan Zweig's _Jeremias_ is the finest contemporary specimen known to me of this august melancholy which, looking beyond the bloody drama of to-day, is able to see in it the eternal tragedy of mankind.

Not without struggle can such serene regions be attained. A friend of Zweig before the war, his friend to-day, I have witnessed all that was endured by this free European spirit whom the war robbed of that which he had held most dear; robbed him of his artistic and humanist faith, thereby depriving him of any reason for existence. The letters he wrote me during the first year of the war reveal his agonising torments in all their tragical beauty. By degrees, however, the immensity of the catastrophe, communion with the universal sorrow, restored to him the calm which resigns itself to destiny; for he came to see that destiny leads to God, who is the union of souls. Of the Hebrew race, he has drawn his inspiration from the Bible. It was easy to find there analogous instances of national madness, of the fall of empires, and of heroic patience. One figure, above all, attracted him, that of the great forerunner, Jeremiah the persecuted prophet, foretelling the woeful peace which was to flourish upon the ruins.

Zweig devotes to Jeremiah a dramatic poem, which I propose to analyse, making extensive quotations. The work consists of nine scenes. It is written in prose mingled with verse, sometimes free, sometimes rhymed, the transition from prose to verse occurring when emotion breaks from control. The form is ample and rhetorical. There is a majestic balance in the exposition of the thought; but the poem would perhaps have been better for condensation, for this would have left more to the reader's imagination. The common people play a leading part in the action. Their sallies and counter-sallies jostle one another; but at the close their voices unite in measured choruses, breathing the thoughts of the prophet, the guardian of Israel. Zweig has steered his course skilfully between the dangers of archaism and anachronism. We rediscover our preoccupations of the moment in this epic of the fall of Jerusalem; but we find them as the faithful of recent centuries found day by day in their Bible the light which lightened their road in hours of difficulty--sub specie aeternitatis.

"Jeremiah is our prophet," Stefan Zweig said to me. "He has spoken for us, for our Europe. The other prophets came at their due time. Moses spoke and acted. Jesus died and acted. Jeremiah spoke in vain. His people failed to understand him. The times were not ripe. He could only prophesy, and bewail the approaching doom. He could do nothing to prevent what was to happen. Ours is a like fate."

But there are defeats more fruitful than victories; there are griefs more illuminating than joys. Zweig's poem shows this magnificently. At the end of the drama, Israel has been crushed. The Jews, leaving their ruined city, going into exile, pass towards the future filled with an inward radiance never known to them before, strong by reason of the sacrifices which have revealed to them their mission.

* * * * *

SCENE ONE

THE PROPHET'S AWAKENING.

A night in early spring. All is quiet. Jeremiah, awakened with a start by a vision of Jerusalem in flames, goes up to the terrace which overlooks his dwelling and the town. He is "poisoned" by dreams, obsessed by the oncoming storm, although peace still broods over the scene. He does not understand the fierce energy which surges up in him; but he knows that it comes from God and he awaits his orders, uneasy and under the spell of hallucination. His mother calls to him, and at first he imagines her voice to be the voice of God. To the terrified woman he foretells the ruin of Jerusalem. She implores him to be silent; his words seem to her sacrilegious and arouse her anger; to close his mouth, she tells him he will have her curse if he makes his sinister dreams known to others. But Jeremiah is no longer his own man. He follows the unseen Master.

SCENE TWO

THE WARNING.

In the great square of Jerusalem, in front of the temple and the king's palace, the people acclaim the Egyptian envoys who have brought with them a daughter of the Pharaoh to wed King Zedekiah, and who are to cement an alliance against the Chaldeans. Abimelech the general, Pashur the high priest, Hananiah the official prophet who prophesies falsely in order to inflame the passion of the people, incite the crowd to frenzy. Young Baruch is one of the most violent among those who clamour for war. Jeremiah resists the stream of fury. He condemns the war. He is immediately charged with having been bought by Chaldean gold. Hananiah, the false prophet, sings the praises of "the holy war, the war of God."

JEREMIAH. Do not bring God's name into the war. Men make war, not God. No war is holy; no death is holy; life alone is holy.

BARUCH. Thou liest, thou liest! Life is given us solely that we may sacrifice it to God.

The crowd is carried away by the hope of an easy victory. A woman spits upon Jeremiah the pacifist. Jeremiah curses her.

JEREMIAH. Cursed be the man who thirsts for blood! But seven times cursed be the woman who thirsts for war. War will devour the fruit of her body.

His violence is terrifying. He is charged to hold his peace. He refuses, for Jerusalem is within him, and Jerusalem does not wish to die.

JEREMIAH. The walls of Jerusalem stand erect in my heart, and they do not wish to fall.... Safeguard peace!

The fickle crowd, despite itself, is being swayed by his words, when General Abimelech returns in a fury. He has just left the king's council, where a majority has voted against the alliance with Egypt. In his wrath, he has thrown away his sword. Young Israel, through the voice of Baruch, acclaims him as a national hero. The high priest blesses him. Hananiah, prophet and demagogue, fires the crowd to flock to the palace that they may force the king to declare war. Jeremiah tries to stop the yelling mob. He is knocked down. Young Baruch strikes him with a sword. The crowd passes on.

But Baruch, appalled, stays with his victim, staunches the blood which flows from the wound, and begs for pardon. Jeremiah, helped to his feet, thinks only of rejoining the maddened crowd, to cry his message of peace. This inviolable energy astounds Baruch, who had regarded as a coward anyone who should condemn action or preach peace.

JEREMIAH. Dost thou imagine that peace is not action, that peace is not the action of all actions? Day by day thou shouldst wrest it from the mouth of the liars and from the heart of the crowd. Thou shouldst stand alone against all.... Those who desire peace are for ever fighting.

Baruch is overcome.

BARUCH. I believe in thee, for I have seen thy blood poured forth for thy words.

Jeremiah vainly endeavours to dissuade him. The prophet is unwilling that Baruch should share in his dreams and his awesome fate. But Baruch insists upon joining Jeremiah, and the young man's ardent faith is superadded to and redoubles that of the prophet.

JEREMIAH. Thou believest in me when I myself scarcely believe in my own dreams.... Thou hast made my blood flow and hast mingled thy will with mine.... Thou art the first to believe in me, the first-born of my faith, the son of my anguish.

The crowd flocks back into the square, uttering cries of delight, for war has been decided on. Heading a solemn procession, the king appears, gloomy, with naked sword. Hananiah dances before him, like David. Jeremiah cries out to the king, "Throw down the sword. Save Jerusalem! Peace! God's peace!" His words are drowned by the shouting, and he is pushed aside. But the king has heard. He halts for a moment, looking round and trying to find the speaker. Then, sword in hand, he marches forward, and goes up into the temple.

SCENE THREE

RUMOURS.

The war has begun. The crowd is awaiting news. They talk at random, catching at the words which please them, or shaping utterances which express their wishes. Longing for victory, they imagine it won. In masterly fashion, Zweig shows how a vague rumour spreads in the hallucinated mind of the multitude, to attain in an instant a certainty surpassing that of truth. Details pass from mouth to mouth; precise figures of the false victory are given. Jeremiah, the defeatist prophet, is mocked. The bird of ill-omen is informed that the Chaldeans have been crushed, and that King Nebuchadnezzar has been slain. Jeremiah, at first dumb with astonishment, thanks God for having turned to derision his gloomy forebodings. Then, pricked by the foolish pride of the people, who become brutishly intoxicated with the victory and have learned nothing from their trials, he scourges them with new threats.

JEREMIAH. Your joy will be brief.... God will rend it asunder like a curtain.... Already the messenger is afoot, the bearer of evil tidings, he is running, he is running; his swift footsteps lead towards Jerusalem. Already, already, he is at hand, the messenger of fear, the messenger of terror, already the messenger is at hand.

And lo, the messenger enters, panting for breath. Before he speaks, Jeremiah trembles with fear.

MESSENGER. The enemy is victorious. The Egyptians have come to terms with the Chaldeans. Nebuchadnezzar is marching on Jerusalem.

The crowd utters cries of terror. In the king's name a herald issues the call to arms. Jeremiah, the seer whose visions have been too faithfully fulfilled, Jeremiah from whose neighbourhood the panic-stricken folk withdraw, vainly implores God to convict him of falsehood.

SCENE FOUR

THE WATCH ON THE RAMPARTS.

Moonlight. On the walls of Jerusalem. The enemy is at work. In the distance Samaria and Gilgal are seen in flames. Two sentinels are conversing. One, a professional soldier, neither can nor will see anything beyond his orders. The other, who seems one of our brothers of to-day, is trying to understand, and his heart is racked.

SECOND SOLDIER. Why does God hurl the nations against one another? Is there not room for all beneath the heavens? What are nations?... What puts death between the nations? What is it which sows hatred when there is room and to spare for life, and when there is abundance of scope for love? I can't understand, I can't understand.... This crime cannot be God's will. He has given us our lives that we may live them.... War does not come from God. Whence comes it then?

He thinks that if he could talk matters over with a Chaldean, they would come to an understanding. Why should not they talk things over? He would like to summon one, to hold out a friendly hand. The other soldier grows angry.

FIRST SOLDIER. You shall not do that. They are our enemies, and it is our duty to hate them.

SECOND SOLDIER. Why should I hate them if my heart knows no reason for hatred?

FIRST SOLDIER. They began the war; they were the aggressors.

SECOND SOLDIER. Yes, that is what we say in Jerusalem. In Babylon, perchance, they use the same words of us. If we could talk things over with them, we might get some light on the question.... Whom do we serve by compassing their death?

FIRST SOLDIER. We serve God and the king our master.

SECOND SOLDIER. But God said, and it is written, Thou shalt not kill.

FIRST SOLDIER. It is likewise written, An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

SECOND SOLDIER (sighs). Many things are written. Who can understand them all?

He continues to bewail himself aloud. The first soldier urges him to be silent.

SECOND SOLDIER. How can a man help questioning himself, how can he be other than uneasy, at such an hour? Do I know where I am and how long I have still to stand on guard?... How can I fail, while I live, to question the meaning of life?... Maybe death is already within me; perchance the questioner is no longer life, but death.

FIRST SOLDIER. You are only tormenting yourself about nothings.

SECOND SOLDIER. God has given us a heart precisely that it may torment us.

Jeremiah and Baruch appear on the ramparts. Jeremiah leans over the parapet and gazes down. All that he is now looking at, these fires, these myriad tents, this first night of the siege, are things with which he is already familiar from his visions. There is not a star in heaven which he has not seen in this place. He can no longer deny that God has chosen him. He must give his message to the king, for he knows the end; he sees it; he describes it in prophetic verses.

King Zedekiah, full of fear, making his rounds with Abimelech, hears the voice of Jeremiah, and recognises it as the voice of the one who wished to hold him back on the threshold of the declaration of war. He would pay heed now, could the decision be made over again. Jeremiah assures him that it is never too late to ask peace. Zedekiah is unwilling to be the first to move. What if his proposals were rejected?

JEREMIAH. Happy are they who are rejected for justice' sake.

But what if people laugh at him? asks Zedekiah.

JEREMIAH. It is better to be followed by the laughter of fools than by the tears of widows.

Zedekiah refuses. He would rather die than humble himself. Jeremiah curses him and calls him the murderer of his people. The soldiers wish to throw him from the wall. Zedekiah restrains them. His calm, his forbearance, perplex Jeremiah, who lets the king depart without making any further effort to save him. The decisive moment has been lost. Jeremiah accuses himself of weakness; he feels himself impotent, and he despairs; he knows only how to cry aloud and to utter curses. He does not know how to do good. Baruch consoles him. At Jeremiah's suggestion, Baruch decides to climb down the walls into the Chaldean camp, that he may parley with Nebuchadnezzar.

SCENE FIVE

THE PROPHET'S ORDEAL.

Jeremiah's mother is dying. The sick woman knows nothing of what is happening outside. Since she drove her son from home she has been suffering and waiting. Both mother and son are proud, and neither will make the first advance. Ahab, the old servitor, has taken it upon himself to fetch Jeremiah. The sick woman awakens and calls her son. He appears, but dares not draw near, because of the curse which weighs on him. His mother stretches out her arms. They embrace one another. In affectionate dialogue, versified, they recount their love and their grief. The mother rejoices at seeing her son once more. She believes him to be convinced that he was mistaken in the past, that his visions were false. "I was certain," says she, "that the enemy would never, never besiege Jerusalem." Jeremiah cannot hide his uneasiness. She notices it, grows uneasy herself, asks questions, guesses, "There is war in Israel!" Panic seizes her; she tries to leave her bed. Jeremiah endeavours to quiet her. She begs him to swear that there is no enemy, no danger. The attendants whisper to Jeremiah, "Swear! swear!" Jeremiah cannot lie. The mother dies terror-stricken. Hardly has she breathed her last when Jeremiah swears the falsehood. But the oath comes too late. The enraged witnesses chase forth the unfeeling son who has killed his mother. An angry crowd wishes to stone him. The high priest has him thrown into prison, to gag his prophecies. Jeremiah accepts the sentence unrepiningly. He wishes to live under shadow of night, he is eager to be delivered from this world, to be brother of the dead.

SCENE SIX

MIDNIGHT VOICES.

The king's room. Zedekiah, at the window, is looking out over the moonlit town. He envies other kings, who can hold counsel with their gods, or who can learn the will of the gods from soothsayers. "It is terrible to be the servant of a God who is always silent; whom no one has ever seen." The king has to advise others; but who will advise the king?

Nevertheless, here are his five closest counsellors, whom he has summoned to his presence: Pashur the high priest; Hananiah the prophet; Imri the elder; Abimelech the general; Nahum the steward. For eleven months Jerusalem has been besieged. No help is coming. What is to be done? All agree that it is essential to hold out. Nahum alone is gloomy; there remains food for three weeks only. Zedekiah asks their opinion concerning the opening of negotiations with Nebuchadnezzar. They are opposed to it, save Imri and Nahum. The king tells them that an envoy from Nebuchadnezzar has already come. He is summoned. Baruch is the envoy. He states the terms of the Chaldeans. Nebuchadnezzar, admiring the courageous resistance of the Jews, agrees to spare their lives if they open their gates. All that he demands is the humiliation of Zedekiah, who was king by his grace and who shall be king once more, by Nebuchadnezzar's grace, when his fault has been atoned. Let Zedekiah abase himself before the victor, yoke on neck and crown in hand! Zedekiah is indignant, and Abimelech supports his objection. But the others, who think that the Jews are getting off cheaply, explain to the king how splendid will be his sacrifice. Zedekiah, overborne, agrees; he will resign the crown to his son.--But Nebuchadnezzar has additional demands. He wishes to look upon the One who is Master in Israel; he wishes to enter the temple. Pashur and Hananiah are outraged by this sacrilegious suggestion. The matter is put to the vote. Abimelech abstains, saying that his business is to act, not to discuss. The others are two for and two against. It devolves on the king to give the casting vote. He tells the advisers to leave him to himself that he may think the matter over. He is on the point of constraining himself to accept the Chaldeans' terms, when Baruch admits that the visit to Nebuchadnezzar to sue for peace was made at Jeremiah's instigation. Zedekiah is enraged at this name which he thought he had heard the last of. He has immured Jeremiah's body, but the prophet's thought continues to act, and to cry "Peace!" The king's pride is wounded, and he refuses to yield to the ascendancy of the prophet. He despatches Baruch to the Chaldeans with an insulting answer. But hardly has Baruch departed, when Zedekiah regrets his precipitancy. He vainly tries to sleep. Jeremiah's voice fills his thoughts, seems to break the silence of the night. Sending for the prophet, the king quietly recounts Nebuchadnezzar's terms, but does not say that they have been refused. He endeavours to secure Jeremiah's approval for the course he has chosen, hoping thus to appease his conscience. But the prophet reads his hidden thoughts, and utters lamentations upon Jerusalem. Soon, seized with frenzy, Jeremiah portrays the destruction of the city. He foretells Zedekiah's punishment; the king's eyes will be put out after he has witnessed the death of his three sons. Zedekiah, furious at first and then quailing, throws himself on his bed, weeping, and pleading for mercy. Jeremiah goes on unheeding, down to the final curse. Then he awakens from his trance, no less shattered than his victim. Zedekiah, no longer angry, no longer in revolt, recognises the prophet's power; he believes in Jeremiah, believes in the terrible predictions.

ZEDEKIAH. Jeremiah, I did not want war. I was forced to declare war, but I loved peace. And I loved thee because of thy love for peace. Not with a light heart did I take up arms.... I have suffered greatly, as thou canst testify when the time comes. Be thou near me if thy words are fulfilled.

JEREMIAH. I shall be near thee, Zedekiah my brother. The prophet is leaving, when the king recalls him.

ZEDEKIAH. Death is upon me, and I see thee for the last time. Thou hast cursed me, Jeremiah. Bless me, now, ere we part.

JEREMIAH. The Lord bless thee, and keep thee in all thy ways. May the light of His countenance shine upon thee, and may He give thee peace.

ZEDEKIAH (as in a dream). May He give us peace.

SCENE SEVEN

THE SUPREME AFFLICTION.

The following morning, in the great square before the temple. The famished crowd clamours for bread, prepares to attack the palace, threatens Nahum the forestaller. Abimelech, to rescue him, sends soldiers to the attack. Amid the riot, a voice is heard crying that the enemy has forced one of the gates. The people utter wails of terror, cursing king, priests, and prophets. Their thoughts fly to Jeremiah, who alone foretold the truth. He is their only hope. They break into his prison, and bring him forth, in triumph, shouting: "Saint! Master! Samuel! Elijah!... Save us!"--Jeremiah, heavy-hearted, does not at first understand. When he hears them accuse the king of having sold the people, he exclaims, "It is false!"

THE CROWD. They have sacrificed us. We wanted peace.

JEREMIAH. Too late!... Why do you put your transgressions on the king's shoulders? You wanted war.

THE CROWD. No!... Not I!... No!... Not I!... It was the king!... Not I!... Not one of us!

JEREMIAH. You all wanted the war, all, all! Your hearts are fickle.... The very ones who are now clamouring for peace, I have myself heard howling for war.... Woe unto you, O people! You drive before every wind. You have fornicated with war, and shall now bear the fruit of war! You have played with the sword, and shall now taste its edge!

The crowd, terrified, clamours for a miracle. Jeremiah refuses. He speaks.

JEREMIAH. Humble yourselves!... Let Jerusalem fall, if God will. Let the temple fall. Let Israel be utterly destroyed and her name wiped out!... Humble yourselves!

The people call him traitor. Jeremiah is seized with a fresh trance. In a transport of love and faith, he welcomes the sufferings inflicted by the beloved hand; he blesses trial, fire, death, shame, the enemy. The people cry aloud: "Stone him! Crucify him!"--Jeremiah stretches out his arms as on the cross. Hungry for martyrdom, he prophesies the Crucified. He wishes to be crucified. And crucified he would be, did not fugitives rush into the square, shouting: "The walls have fallen, the enemy is in the town!"--The mob flees into the temple.

SCENE EIGHT

THE CONVERSION.

In the gloom of a huge crypt we see a prostrate crowd. Here and there groups are formed round an elder reading the Scriptures. Jeremiah stands apart, motionless and as if petrified.--It is on the night following the fall of Jerusalem. Death and destruction are everywhere. The tombs have been violated; the temple has been profaned; all the nobles have been killed, save the king, who has been blinded. Jeremiah groans with horror when he learns that his prophecies have been fulfilled. People draw away from him, as from one accursed. In vain does he, with anguish, defend himself from the charge of having wrought all the evil.

JEREMIAH. I did not will it! You have no right to accuse me. The word came from my mouth as fire from flint. My word is not my will. Force is greater than I. Above me stands He, He, the Terrible One, the Merciless! I am no more than His instrument, His breath, the servant of His malice.... Woe upon the hands of God! Whom He, the Terrible One seizes, He will never loose.... Let Him set me free! No longer will I speak His words, I will not, I will not....

Trumpets sound without, and the will of Nebuchadnezzar is declared. The city is to disappear from the earth. The survivors may have one night to bury the dead; then they will be carried into captivity. The people lament, refusing to go. But a wounded man, who is in pain, wishes to live, to live! A young woman echoes his words. She does not want to go into the cold, to go to death. Bear anything, suffer anything; but live!--Disputes occur among the crowd. Some say that it is impossible to leave the land where God is. Others maintain that God will be with them wherever they may go. Jeremiah cries despairingly.

JEREMIAH. He is nowhere! Neither in heaven nor in earth, nor in the souls of men!

These sacrilegious words arouse horror. But Jeremiah continues.

JEREMIAH. Who has sinned against Him, if not Himself? He has broken His covenant.... He denies Himself.

Jeremiah recalls all the sacrifices he has made for God. House, mother, friends, he has abandoned all, lost all. He gave himself up wholly to God, serving God because he hoped that God would avert the threatened misfortune. He cursed in the hope that the curse would turn into a blessing. He prophesied in the hope that he was lying, and that Jerusalem would be saved. But his prophecies came true, and God was the liar. He has faithfully served the Faithless One. He refuses to continue this service. He cuts himself off from the God who hates, to join his brothers who suffer. He speaks.

JEREMIAH. I hate Thee, God, and I love them only.

The crowd strikes him, wishing to close his mouth, believing him to be dangerous. He throws himself on his knees, asking pardon for his pride and for his imprecations; he desires to be nothing more than the humblest servitor of his people. But all repulse him as a blasphemer.

At this moment there is a violent knocking at the door. Three envoys from Nebuchadnezzar enter and prostrate themselves before Jeremiah. Nebuchadnezzar, who admires him, wishes to make him chief of the magi. Jeremiah refuses, in disdainful terms. Gradually growing warm as he speaks, he prophecies the fall of Nebuchadnezzar. The great king's hour is at hand, and with fierce joy the prophet heaps curses upon him.

JEREMIAH. The avenger has awakened; He is coming; He draws nigh; terrible are the hands with which He smites.... We are His children, His first-born. He has chastised us, but He will have pity on us. He has thrown us down, but He will set us up again.

The Chaldean envoys flee, affrighted. The people surround Jeremiah and acclaim him. They drink in his frenzied words. God is speaking through his mouth. He unrolls before their eyes the vision of the New Jerusalem, towards which the dispersed tribes will flock from all the quarters of the earth. Peace shines on the city. The peace of the Lord, the peace of Israel. With exclamations of delight, the people, already looking forward to the days of the return, embrace the feet and knees of Jeremiah. The prophet awakens from his trance. He no longer knows what he has said. He is interpenetrated with the love of those around him; he endeavours to restrain their enthusiasm, which is yet further inflamed by a miracle of healing. The true miracle, says Jeremiah, is that he has cursed God and that God has blessed him. God has torn out his hard heart, and has replaced it with a compassionate heart, enabling him to share all suffering and to understand its meaning. "I have been long in finding it; I have been long in finding you, my brothers! No more curses! Sad is our fate; but let us take hope, for life is wonderful, the world is holy. I wish to embrace in my love those whom I have attacked in my anger." He utters thanksgivings for death and for life. Baruch begs him to carry the healing message to the people assembled in the square. Jeremiah agrees to do so, saying: "I have been consoled by God; now let me be the consoler." He wishes to build the undying Jerusalem in the hearts of men.--The people follow him out, calling him God's Master-Builder.

SCENE NINE

THE EVERLASTING ROAD.

The great square of Jerusalem, as in Scene Two, but after the destruction. The half-light of a moon partially veiled by clouds. In the obscurity there can be seen carts, mules, groups of those ready to depart. Voices are heard of persons calling one another and checking their numbers. The people are confused and leaderless. No one pays any attention to the unfortunate Zedekiah, who has been blinded, and whom all curse. Songs are heard, drawing nearer. The singers are in the train of Jeremiah. The prophet speaks to the people, who are at first incredulous and hostile. He consoles them, announcing their divine mission. Their heritage is grief; they are the people of suffering (Leidensvolk), but they are the people of God (Gottesvolk). Happy the vanquished, happy those that have lost all, that they may find God! Glory to the time of trial! From the people, now inspired with enthusiasm, arise choral chants, celebrating the ordeals of ancient days; celebrating Mizraim and Moses.... The choirs break up into groups of voices, now solemn, now gay, now exultant. The whole epic of Israel marches by in these songs, which Jeremiah directs as a skilful driver manages a team. The people, gradually becoming enkindled, wish to suffer, wish to set out for exile, and they call upon Jeremiah to lead them forth. Jeremiah prostrates himself before the unhappy Zedekiah, who has been thrust aside by the crowd. Zedekiah imagines that the prophet is mocking him.

JEREMIAH. Thou hast become the king of sorrows, and never hast thou been more regal.... Anointed by suffering, lead us forth! Thou, who now seest God only, who no longer seest the world, guide thy people!

Turning to the people, Jeremiah shows to them the leader sent by God, the "Crowned-by-Suffering" (Schmerzengekrönte). The people bow before the stricken king.

Day dawns. A tucket sounds. Jeremiah, from the perron of the temple, summons Israel to set out. Let the people fill their eyes with their fatherland, for the last time! "Drink your fill of the walls, drink your fill of the towers, drink your fill of Jerusalem!"--They prostrate themselves, kissing the earth, and lifting a handful to take with them. Addressing the "wandering people" (Wandervolk), Jeremiah tells them to arise, to leave the dead who have found peace, to look not backward but forward, to look out into the distance, to the highways of the world. These highways are theirs. An impassioned dialogue ensues between the prophet and his people.

THE PEOPLE. Shall we ever see Jerusalem again?

JEREMIAH. He who believes, looks always on Jerusalem.

THE PEOPLE. Who shall rebuild the city?

JEREMIAH. The ardour of desire, the night of prison, and the suffering which brings counsel.

THE PEOPLE. Will it endure?

JEREMIAH. Yes. Stones fall, but that which the soul builds in suffering, endureth for ever.

The trumpet sounds once more. The people are now eager to depart. The huge procession ranges itself in silence. At the head is the king, borne in a litter. The tribes follow, singing as they march, with the solemn joy of sacrifice. There is neither haste nor lagging. An infinite on the march. As they pass, the Chaldeans gaze at them with astonishment. Strange folk, whom no one can understand, whether in their dejection or their exultation!

CHORUS OF JEWS. We move among the nations, we move athwart the ages, by the unending roads of suffering. For ever and for ever. Eternally we are vanquished.... But cities fall, nations vanish, oppressors go down into shame. We move onward, through the eternities, towards our country, towards God.

THE CHALDEANS. Their God? Have we not conquered him?... Who can conquer the invisible? Men we can slay, but the God who lives in them we cannot slay. A nation can be controlled by force; its spirit, never.

For the third time the tucket sounds. The sun, breaking forth, shines on the procession of God's people, beginning their march athwart the ages.

* * * * *

Thus does a great artist exemplify the supreme liberty of the spirit. Others have made a frontal attack upon the follies and crimes of to-day. At grips with the force which wounds them, their bitter words of revolt bruise themselves against the obstacles they are endeavouring to break down. Here, the soul which has won to peace, sees passing before it the tragical flood of the present. Unperturbed, it torments itself no longer, for its gaze takes in the whole course of the stream, absorbing into itself the secular energies of that stream and the tranquil destiny which leads the flow onward towards the infinite.

_November 20, 1917._

Written for the review "Coenobium," edited by Enrico Bignami, at
Lugano.

XX

A GREAT EUROPEAN: G. F. NICOLAI[48]

I

Art and science have bent the knee to war. Art has become war's sycophant; science, war's hand-maiden. Few have had the strength or inclination to resist. In art, rare works, sombre French works, have blossomed on the blood-drenched soil. In science, the greatest product during these three criminal years has been the one we owe to G. F. Nicolai, a German whose spirit is free and whose thought has an enormous range.

The book is, as it were, a symbol of that unconquerable Freedom whom all the tyrannies of this age of force have vainly endeavoured to gag. It was written behind prison walls, but these walls were not thick enough to stifle the voice which judges the oppressors and will survive them.