Chapter I: The Morality of Strife in Relation to the War

BY ELEANOR M. SIDGWICK

I must begin by confessing that I am so entirely without such special knowledge on any subject connected with ‘the International Crisis in its Ethical and Psychological Aspects’ as would enable me to speak about it with authority, or otherwise than as an ordinary member of the general public, that it was only after much hesitation that I accepted the invitation to give this lecture. I reflected, however, that in a crisis like this there is a general desire to exchange views. We all have views whether we are experts or not. We all have our minds fixed on the crisis, and have all made them up, with more or less definiteness, on such questions as the rightness of the war and what our attitude towards it and matters connected with it, as a nation and as individuals, should be. But with most of us, in this as in other matters about which we have to judge, the more or less definiteness is apt to be less. Or perhaps I should say that definite conclusions are based on vague and hazy premisses leading to confusion and contradiction and doubt—vagueness and confusion which can only be cleared away by resolute effort and a determination to try to see things in their proper proportion. In this process any of us who will sincerely try to think out and express his own views may help others whose minds are dwelling on the same things, and this not so much by compelling agreement as by offering points round which the thoughts of each of us may crystallize. I hope that anything I have to say will be received in this spirit, and that I shall be regarded not as expressing any original views or speaking from any standpoint of superior knowledge, but merely with the knowledge at the disposal of all of us endeavouring to make out what we do think and feel, and what we ought to think and feel, about our duty as a nation and as individuals concerning war and especially this present war.

But before I go on to the main subject I must note that one reason given for inviting me to lecture was that I am a woman and it was desired that at least one lecture in the series should be given by a woman. I do not know whether this desire was prompted by any idea that the point of view of women as such might be different from that of men and that I might represent it and speak as a woman. I should be very willing to do so if I could, and indeed, if there is a difference, my point of view must of course be the feminine one. But I am quite unaware of any such difference, and do not see how in a great national crisis women can have a special point of view—the whole thing is above differences of sex. In many of the details of national affairs—chiefly practical affairs of daily life and legislation affecting them—the different experience of men and of women necessarily places them at somewhat different points of view, and the nation generally would, I think, gain by having both represented. But in the really big things, in things in which our action here and now irrevocably affects the whole future of our country, and (in the present case) the progress in civilization of the whole world as well—in a crisis, in short, like that through which we are passing—it seems to me that if the men and women of the country as such felt differently from each other the country would be rotten at the core, and would be doomed to defeat and decay.

I know there are people who assume that there is a difference, and that according as one or other sex managed the affairs of the world there would be less or more war. But their arguments, so far as I have seen them, seem to take a very superficial view of the causes and consequences of great wars. I may mention two of these arguments. The first is expressed in a pamphlet written by a woman which was sent to me the other day. She maintains among other things that while the larger share of the suffering which war produces falls on the women, the honour and glory of fighting is exclusively enjoyed by the men, who in her view are thereby tempted to make wars which women would prevent. The other argument I will mention, and which is, I think, a commoner one, is almost in contradiction to the first. It is, if I understand it rightly, that as the labour and hardship and personal risk of the actual fighting must be borne by men, it is for the men—that is, I suppose, the young men of fighting age—to decide whether the fighting is worth while or not.

Neither of these considerations seems to have much weight unless war be regarded as a kind of game played between opposing armies—dangerous no doubt, but still a game played for its own sake. The first argument dwells on the danger the game causes to the general public, such as might come, for instance, from playing hockey in a crowded street, the other on the risks to the players themselves; but neither argument looks beyond the war itself. But wars are hardly ever fought like games, simply for their own sake. Even a Prussian militarist party does not do that. It fights to gain some supposed advantage for its country. Even if the perfection of its war machine makes it long to use it, it does not do so without some ulterior object in view. And the ulterior object for which each side fights, whether it be legitimate or illegitimate, honest or dishonest, right or wrong, concerns the whole country, not only the fighting men. It concerns not only the men or only the women, not one class or section or another class or section, but the whole nation, and if it be a right cause and an important cause the whole nation must be prepared to suffer if need be and each man and each woman to contribute what he or she can and to sacrifice all that is required to secure success in the struggle. That cannot be done in a grudging spirit. So far as sacrifices can be measured, those who sacrifice most must get their reward in being proud of it.

Our young men are in an enviable position, for it is they who have the chance of translating their patriotism into action in the most direct way. It is on their courage and endurance and self-sacrifice in the field that success largely depends. It is on them that the brunt of physical effort and physical hardship first falls. And in fact of course war could not be carried on without them. Our soldiers and sailors have been splendid, as we always knew they would be, and we may be proud of the way our young men have under the voluntary service system come forward and shown themselves willing to suffer and die for their country.

But they are not the only people called on to give active service of one kind or another, and they are not the only people who suffer and will suffer. This is so in our own country, and we see it yet more in Belgium and the north of France. A war like this is a horrible thing. It brings sorrow and suffering to almost every home in the countries engaged in it; it impoverishes victors and vanquished and brings poverty and misery in its wake more widespread than the belligerent countries. It no doubt draws out some virtues—courage and valour, and, more important still, ardent ‘self-sacrifice for duty and the common good’—and we must not underrate these. But it also tends to stimulate evil feelings, brutality, bitterness, and hate, and to increase national selfishness and mutual distrust among nations.

War is an awful calamity, and it is no wonder that some ask themselves whether all war is not wrong. No wonder that many more think there must be some way of securing perpetual peace. But it is of no use discussing the general question whether war is wrong. Any particular war is usually wrong if we consider both sides together—that is to say, it is usually due to wrongdoing on one side or the other or both. But the question that is important for each particular State is whether it is itself right to fight. And whether on any given occasion it is its duty to do so may often be a question by no means easy to answer. I hope that my opening words have not suggested to any one that I intend to be so rash as to attempt any general answer myself. To give such an answer would require far more knowledge than I possess, and far more space than I have at my disposal, and in the end discussion would probably lead to the conclusion that circumstances vary so much that rules are scarcely possible, and each case must be decided on its merits. Fortunately the present case is perfectly clear, and barely admits of difference of opinion, for we are fighting for freedom and independent national existence, and we are fighting in fulfilment of obligations deliberately undertaken.

There are, I take it, few people in the world who would uncompromisingly advocate peace at any price. Few would not grant that a State when attacked must defend itself, just as in a country with no settled government a man must defend himself and his family from those who try to injure him, whether they be men or wild beasts. Few would deny (at least in any country but Germany) that a State must fight in support of pledges solemnly undertaken, like the guarantee by France, Prussia, and England of Belgium’s neutrality. A strong State cannot sit by with folded arms while what it has guaranteed is violated by another, any more than a man who has promised to help his neighbour in case of attack can shut himself up in his own house when the attack is made. It would be admitted, in fact, by almost all, that there are circumstances for nations, as there are for individuals, when they must fight for their life and liberty and that of others. And these circumstances have arisen for us in the present case.

Is there, then, any possibility of preventing such circumstances arising? Can we hope that war will ever cease? I am perhaps a sanguine person, but I do think we may hope that it will at any rate greatly diminish in frequency. I am not, however, sanguine about the possibility of devising schemes for international government which shall of themselves secure us from wars.

The first of such schemes is arbitration—and it is a good scheme as far as it goes. Given an arbitration court in which both sides feel confidence, and given on both sides a desire to avoid quarrelling, a good many disputes between States might be settled by arbitration. And as a matter of fact a good many have been so settled of recent years. But arbitration is necessarily limited in its application. Generally speaking, questions that can be settled by arbitration are either questions like those which in private life can be settled as civil cases in the law courts—questions of fact, or rights, or of interpretation of conventions, or of damage done which is capable of being compensated, and so forth. Or they must at least be questions, like those involved in most trade disputes, about which each side can put forward a more or less plausible case, the one comparable with the other.

But even when arbitration is possible, it is only useful if both sides prefer peace to war, and cases that would lend themselves to arbitration are perhaps more often the occasion—the pretext—for war than its real cause, at least where great countries are concerned. However, we should none of us deny that arbitration may help materially in maintaining peace and should be used to the utmost.

Still more should every favourable opportunity be made use of by States, while at peace, to remove by negotiation causes of irritation and friction which might lead to quarrels. Negotiation has over arbitration the advantage that the nations concerned are more likely through it to come to understand one another, to realize each other’s attitude and point of view; and are therefore more likely to trust each other afterwards than if they leave all that to the external arbitrator before whom each merely advocates his own cause. We in England have endeavoured for many years past to promote both these things—arbitration and negotiation about difficulties—to the utmost of our ability. And France, too, has worked with us of late, with the _Entente Cordiale_ as a result. I wish we could say the same of Germany; but Germany has for years managed to give the impression of thinking it her interest to prevent the sore places of the world—the danger spots—from being healed, and even of working to create new ones.

But it is clear that there are some causes of war that neither arbitration nor negotiation can touch. Neither can, for instance, prevent wars of pure aggression. There is nothing to arbitrate about when practically the whole contention of one side is that Might makes Right and that therefore it proposes to secure what it would like to have by force. There is a proverb that it takes two to make a quarrel. There is some truth in this—enough to remind us, both in private life and in international affairs, that if we say and do irritating things we are responsible for the irritation produced. But it is much more true that it takes two to keep the peace. A nation that is determined to fight _will_ fight, and will have no difficulty in finding, or making, the occasion for it. Nothing can prevent it except the conviction that those it desires to fight against are too strong to be overcome.

Wanton aggression for the sake of gaining power or territory or wealth is not the only cause of war which cannot be arbitrated about. Another cause which we have seen in operation within the life of many of us is the conflict of incompatible principles. The American Civil War was a war for principles. And we may observe that there was no militarism there—no perfecting of the war machine in long preparation to attack or defend. And, moreover, another of the plans for securing European peace, a federation of States for the purpose, failed here, for the antagonists were knit in a federation far closer than any we can conceive as taking place among the European nations.

We need not infer that such a federation in Europe would be useless. It would be very difficult to arrange, but if satisfactorily arranged it might have some effect in preventing aggression, just as the fact that England, France, Germany, and Belgium were bound by treaty to preserve Belgian neutrality may very well have saved Belgium from attacks for all these years till now. But no such federation could be a complete guarantee of peace; for what would there be to prevent the federated nations—even if we assume them all to be actuated by good intentions—from disagreeing on questions as to how their function of guardians of the peace was in any particular case to be carried out, or whether some particular action of some particular State constituted a breach of the convention or not? Would there not here be as much danger of war as now? The only sanction behind the rules of such a federation would be the threat of armed intervention against an offending State, and if there were disagreement so that the federation were divided into parties, armed intervention would mean a European war.

One method suggested for the prevention of war is an agreed reduction of armaments. Of course in this country we should all like reduction of armaments, and so would our Allies. It would, to say the least, save much wasteful expenditure, and if we fight this war to a finish and win, we may well hope that it will come about. But if it were carried out all round I doubt if it would in itself have much effect in promoting peace, for all would still be in the same relative strength. And if it were carried out only partially it would leave those who refused to reduce, who would certainly include those who wished to attack their neighbours, in a specially advantageous position for doing so.

I have dwelt rather long on the difficulty, if not impossibility, as it seems to me, of really securing international peace by any scheme of international arrangement. But though I do not think the ingenuity of man has yet devised a way of doing this, I am nevertheless hopeful that progress in the direction of reduction of war is being made and will continue. It is on general improvement in the moral tone of the world that I build my hopes. Progress is slow; but although of course this shocking and surprising return of Germany to mediaeval barbarism is rather disconcerting to one’s optimism, the world still seems to me to be a better world than it was; by which I mean that it is tending on the whole to become less selfish and more just and sympathetic, without on the whole losing its energy and virility.

Then another hopeful sign is that, except in Germany and in places like the Central American Republics, there is in these days no chronic desire to fight either in governments or in people. The desire may be kindled under the influence of angry passions, or in consequence of oppression, or by other causes, but it is not there all the time, and in most places it takes a good deal of kindling. Most European nations have tasted the sweets of peace, some of them know the horrors of war, and almost all wish for opportunity to develop their internal resources. Neither we nor any of our Allies in this war had any desire for the war. Neither the people nor the governments had. We have only to read the diplomatic correspondence that preceded it to feel sure of this. France, Russia, Belgium, England, simply wanted to be let alone. Serbia went great lengths for the sake of peace in yielding to Austria’s demands. The desire for revenge which the tearing from France of Alsace and Lorraine left in the breasts of Frenchmen for many years had practically died. They may have hoped that a change in the position of Alsace might somehow be brought about, but not by war. As one of their writers, M. Paul Sabatier, said in 1911,[1]

‘La France veut la paix avec l’Allemagne parce qu’une guerre est une explosion de haine, et qu’elle ne se sent pas plus de haine pour nos voisins de l’Est que pour les autres. Elle sent sa solidarité avec eux.’

But he goes on:

‘Si le malheur voulait que ces sentiments ne fussent pas compris, et qu’après nous avoir représentés pendant plus de quarante ans comme ceux qui menacent la paix de l’Europe, on nous attaquât, oh! alors, nous nous élancerions avec l’enthousiasme de citoyens qui défendent non seulement le sol de leur patrie, mais qui portent une idée, qui par leurs efforts, leur martyre s’il le faut, fera son entrée dans le monde.’

There are many States in Europe which for many decades have had no warlike impulses and have only desired to be let alone to develop themselves in their own way. If only, therefore, the moral perversion of Germany could be cured, and some perennial sources of friction, e.g. in the Balkan States and parts of Austria-Hungary, removed, the prospects of peace, if we are victorious in this war, would for a long time be very good. It is, then, these two things, the development of international morality and the removal of causes of friction, that those who desire a peaceful world must seek.

What, then, is wrong with Germany? How comes prosperous Germany to bring the calamity of war on us all?

Germany won too easily in her previous wars; and since 1870 has suffered from what our American cousins call swelled head. She applies to nations an idea which has, I understand, proved attractive to her in theoretical social psychology and in art—the idea of a superman who in virtue of his strength, physical and intellectual, is above all moral law, and has the right as well as the power to work his will on his fellow men. However much he may be admired in theory, we may be sure that the superman, if he appeared in real life and used his strength so as to annoy his neighbours, would in Germany, as in any other well-governed country where slavery is not allowed, be dealt with by the police. But when the idea is carried into international relations, and it is deliberately maintained by a powerful State that Might makes Right, that a nation is a law to itself, and not only has no duties to other nations but is bound to aim solely at what it conceives to be its own interests irrespective of all considerations of justice, veracity, and good faith—when a State holds this it is obvious that trouble is bound to come.

Leading Germans have taught this Neo-Machiavellianism for many years. It is not only Treitschke and Bernhardi, of whom we in England have lately heard so much—it is not only they who have preached it; it has been widespread in Germany for half a century or more. Perhaps you will allow me to read a passage which brings out this fact from an essay on ‘Public Morality’, written in 1897 by the late Henry Sidgwick[2]. The immorality of Machiavellianism begins, he says:

‘when the interest of a particular State is taken as the ultimate and paramount end justifying the employment of any means whatever to attain it, whatever the consequences of such action may be to the rest of the human race. And this “national egoism” is, I think, the essence of the Neo-Machiavellianism, which,—though views somewhat similar have frequently found expression from the sixteenth century onwards,—has been especially prominent in the political thought of the last forty years, and as I have said has found the most unreserved and meditated expression in the writings of Germans. I may give as an example the statements of an able and moderate writer who is by no means an admirer of Machiavelli. “The State”, says Rümelin,[3] “is self-sufficient.” “Self-regard is its appointed duty; the maintenance and development of its own power and well-being,—egoism, if you like to call this egoism,—is the supreme principle of politics.” “The State can only have regard to the interest of any other State so far as this can be identified with its own interest.” “Self-devotion is the principle for the individual, self-assertion for the State.” “The maintenance of the State justifies every sacrifice, and is superior to every moral rule.”’

The practical aim in affirming national egoism, Mr. Sidgwick further says, of the writers to whom he refers,

‘is almost always expressly to emancipate the public action of statesmen from the restraints of private morality.’

It is this want of international morality—the absence of a moral code, not merely the failure to live up to one—in one of the leading States of the world which has more than anything else, and for many years, endangered the peace of Europe and has now plunged us into this ghastly war. It is the theory held in Germany that envy, hatred, and malice are not vices in a nation whatever they may be in individuals; that justice, veracity, and good faith are not virtues which a powerful nation should foster in its relations with other nations, however admirable they may be in individuals—it is this theory which threatens to wreck western civilization, and which has already shown us that the progress we were fain to hope had been attained in the humane conduct of war was largely illusory, and that international treaties are, for nations with Germany’s views, scraps of paper.

Till this immoral theory is abandoned there is little hope of lasting peace. Have we, then, we must ask, any reason for believing that it ever will be abandoned by Germany? I may be optimistic, but I think we have reason to hope it. I think we may very reasonably look forward to Germany’s conversion, at least if we win. In the first place, the temptation to hold such a theory is much greater when a nation feels itself to be stronger than all its neighbours. As its might becomes to itself more doubtful, the disadvantages of the theory that Might makes Right become more obvious.

Then, secondly, I do not think that Germans in general—whatever their statesmen may do—I do not think that Germany as a nation holds the theory quite single-heartedly now. I infer this from the fact that Germany tries to explain away her actions. If to attack is the right of the strong, why are Germany’s statesmen concerned to make out, when their case is so miserably poor, that she was not the attacking party but the attacked? If strong States are justified in ignoring treaty obligations when they think it their interest to do so, why, with such miserable arguments to produce, do they try to convince a wondering world that Belgium and France—not Germany—violated Belgium’s neutrality? It may be said that these arguments are addressed to neutral States, that Germany is aware that she has not got international public opinion with her, and is not strong enough—no one is—to be willing to do without. But so far as I can judge from the statements from German sources I have seen, it is not only to impress outsiders that these arguments are used, but to satisfy the conscience of Germany’s own people.

Then, thirdly, there is probably an ideal element mixed up in German motives which is not purely selfish. All nations—including Germany—believe in their own _Kultur_. We each believe in our national way of looking at things, our national methods of administration, our own way of advancing civilization, our own plans of family life, and so forth. I do not, of course, mean that we do not regard them as capable of improvement—progressive nations are always trying to improve them—but, taken as a whole, we prefer our own way of doing things to other peoples’. Germany, which is, I think, deficient in sympathy and in the power of understanding other people, probably goes further and sincerely believes that her own _Kultur_ is necessarily the best for all the world, and that all humanity would gain in the long run by being Germanized—by force or otherwise. I think it is probable, too, for all her apparent substitution of Odin for the Christian God, that her visions of conquest include visions of future world-wide peace under her own domination. These benevolent plans for the world are mistaken, but the fact that they are benevolent at all, affords a hope for something beyond national egoism.

There is yet another reason for expecting a change in the views of the German people. Although they are evidently very docile—very ready to think what they are told to think—still the opinions inculcated in them by their Government have been supported by false or misleading information conveyed largely through a manipulated press, manipulated in the way so successfully developed by Bismarck. But this is a dangerous expedient, for, easy as it is for us all to see things as we wish to see them, in the end the truth comes at least partially to light. As a result of the war—if we win—the scales are likely to fall from German eyes, the German nation will see things that have been hidden from it as a nation for many years, and with new premisses new conclusions may be hoped for.

Do not let us, then, despair of Germany. On the contrary, let us look forward to a day when her many excellent qualities—her industry, her thoroughness, her methodicalness, her discipline, her patriotism—may under a freer and more independent habit of thought, and a less egoistic system of international morality, be an important part of the forces making for human progress, not only physically and intellectually, but morally.

This can only happen, of course, through German public opinion, which is made up, as all public opinion is, of individual opinions and feelings acting and reacting on each other. And this brings me to some things I want to say about our duties as individuals in this crisis. The duty of patriotism, of helping in every way we can the cause for which we are fighting, I need not dwell on. We are fighting for our life as a free nation, and the help of every individual counts. The active help we can render varies of course much—for some of us it is necessarily almost non-existent. But what I may call the spiritual help—the help through thought and feeling, both as individuals and as contributing to public opinion—which we can all render, is important, and it is incumbent on all of us to see if we are helping as we should.

There are two of the duties in this region on which I should like to dwell a little. The first is the duty of not hating the Germans. We may, and as I think must, judge Germany as having committed a terrible crime, but let us condemn her as a judge would, impartially and without hate or rancour; remembering, too, that if all who do wrong are to be hated, few in this world would escape. This war may be called a holy war if there ever was one. We and our Allies are not only fighting, as I have said, for our own national existence, we are not only fighting for the rights of small States, or for the liberty to develop each in our own way. We are fighting not only for these things, but against the principle of which I have spoken—the principle that Might makes Right, that there is no sense in the idea of justice and good faith as between nations, and that envy and hatred between them is natural and right. Do not let us, then, indulge on our side in the very vices we are condemning. How can we hope to diminish hatred in the world if we allow ourselves to feel it? How can we hope to have any influence in restoring or increasing peace and good will if we ourselves are full of hatred? Hatred is not, except in a very limited way, a source of strength but a source of weakness, and if we depend on hatred to enable us to win we shall lose. We must be absolutely firm. We must fight to the utmost of our strength and as long as necessary in the cause of justice. We must see that Germany pays the debts she has incurred (they are very heavy debts to Belgium and France and Poland and Serbia). And we must help to make arrangements which, by giving satisfaction so far as possible to the inhabitants of all the provinces affected by them, may give hope of a durable peace. But desire for retaliation—that is, to inflict on Germany the injuries she has inflicted on our Allies or on ourselves; or the desire to humiliate Germany because we think she would like to humiliate us, or indeed for any other reason—these things are unworthy of the spirit in which this war should be fought on our side.

The second duty I want to insist on is that of not being afraid. I do not of course mean that we are to be reckless, or that we are to shut our eyes to difficulties and dangers, or that we are to say that things are well when they are not well. On the contrary, we must face the task before us, keeping steadily in view that it is a very difficult one and needs every effort we can make, as a nation and as individuals, to carry it through. But when we have done and are continuing to do all that is in our power to ensure success, then whatever we have to bear (and remember so far we in England have had nothing to bear like Belgium and France and Poland and Serbia), whatever we have to face, fear should have no place in our hearts. For fear is weakness. The task before us is hard and we may have anxious times to go through; as indeed we have had already in this war, and as we had in those other wars when England helped to save Europe from the domination of ambitious nations or individuals. But we are going to win now as we did in the end; then and even those of us who can contribute no active service can help to bring about victory by courage and hope.