I
THE HOHENZOLLERN TRADITION

Ernest Renan, the author of that once heretical “Life of Jesus,” was by temperament unenthusiastic and had further schooled himself to look upon all human events with high unconcern. The great sceptic had been born in 1823; he was therefore sixty-five at the time of the accession of William II, and his declining health, in Horatian phrase, refused to allow him to enter upon any long hope. In looking forward to his inevitable end one thing, he said, afflicted him. He regretted only that he was not to see, in its later and more decisive phases, the unfolding of the multiform personality of the new German Emperor. To him it was an intellectual puzzle, more intricate and more interesting than any he had encountered in the many cycles of the history of the Hebrews or in the complicated schisms of the church. In the early years of his reign the youthful Emperor was regarded with much interest and some concern by his contemporaries generally. He was the chameleon among the royal figures of Europe. One day he receives the Czar at Berlin and proclaims peace to the world. A few weeks later he visits the Sultan at Constantinople, and shortly thereafter he announces to his loyal Brandenburgers that he will lead them on to greater things. What did he mean? Now he is a soldier, jesting with his officers; and, with the rising of another sun, in workman’s garb, with the axe upon his shoulder, he goes forth as woodman or laborer on his own estates. At home he was regarded as Benjamin Constant regarded Madame de Staël. He was the “bel orage,” the beautiful storm which had come upon Europe in the dull and piping times of peace of the last decades of the nineteenth century. He cleared the air of Continental politics in the years of late Victorianism. He was a dilettante of dangerous activities, as Renan had been of antiquated heresies and harmless, outworn systems, and to him Fate seemed to have given the future as a toy. Such, at least, was the view of the famous Portuguese poet Eça de Queiroz, who cast his horoscope in 1891.

A quarter century of peace had removed much apprehension. After the dismissal of Bismarck he had shaped his own policy and gone his own way. To his great advisers he had seemed to say: “Ôte-toi que je m’y mette.” Yet his career had ceased to disquiet, and the youthful exuberance had given way to mature and conscientious labor. With unshakable confidence in himself and with a determined application he was making Germany the greatest state in Europe. To those who, unlike Renan, did not have the misfortune to have been born too soon to be his later contemporaries, the riddle seemed to be solving itself to the greater good of humanity. The Emperor’s army, so he tells us himself, is invincible. Never has Germany been defeated so long as she was united, and God, who has taken such infinite pains with us, will never leave us “in the lurch.” By means of this powerful, unconquerable army, at whose side he had now set one of the greatest fleets on the seas, he had, so he told us, laid firm and sure the foundations of peace.

Then suddenly “the abyss is opened, ... the sword is thrust into his hand,” and reluctantly and with a heavy heart he goes forth to do battle. Like a shuttle he flits from frontier to frontier, now planning an invasion of England, now supervising the readministration of Belgian industries, and now directing a battle in Poland. Surely such a destiny, so immense a power, has been granted to no man. It may be he is the great predestined victim; it may be that Time is preparing for him a final and well-earned European triumph.

What shall be the end, and where lies the responsibility? No ethical or political problem of our time forces itself upon us with greater insistence. His utterances may help to make the question if not the answer clear. Looking forward dispassionately twenty-three years ago that Portuguese student prophesied that this could not last, that there would be war; and in the light of later events that prophecy about “the allied armies” has been recently recalled. It was in these words that he closed his brilliant study of the youthful Emperor and King:

“William II runs the awful danger of being cast down Gemoniæ. He boldly takes upon himself responsibilities which in all nations are divided among various bodies of the state—he alone judges, he alone executes, because to him alone it is (not to his ministers, to his council, or to his parliament) that God, the God of the Hohenzollerns, imparts his transcendental inspiration. He must therefore be infallible and invincible. At the first disaster—whether it be inflicted by his burghers or by his people in the streets of Berlin, or by allied armies on the plains of Europe—Germany will at once conclude that his much-vaunted alliance with God was the trick of a wily despot.

“Then will there not be stones enough from Lorraine to Pomerania to stone this counterfeit Moses. William II is in very truth casting against fate those terrible ‘iron dice’ to which the now-forgotten Bismarck once alluded. If he win he may have within and without the frontiers altars such as were raised to Augustus; should he lose, exile, the traditional exile, in England awaits him—a degraded exile, the exile with which he so sternly threatens those who deny his infallibility.

“M. Renan is therefore quite right: there is nothing more attractive at this period of the century than to witness the final development of William II. In the course of years (may God make them slow and lengthy!) this youth, ardent, pleasing, fertile in imagination, of sincere, perhaps heroic, soul, may be sitting in calm majesty in his Berlin Schloss presiding over the destinies of Europe—or he may be in the Hôtel Métropole in London sadly unpacking from his exile’s handbag the battered double crown of Prussia and Germany.”

This drama of a life is twenty-three years nearer its climax than it was when Renan bade the world good night. With a certain finality of pathos a Greek poet whom Renan loved, thinking doubtless of his unhappy countrymen who had fallen in the long wars between Athens and Sparta, had said: “They that have died are not sick, nor do they possess any evil things.” If this be true, quite possibly, then, the world was kinder to this aged Frenchman than he shall ever know. For the disasters which were to follow the rising star of the Emperor, which he regarded so curiously, were to be far greater than he had ever dreamed. It may be, therefore, that it is he and not some of his younger countrymen who are to be congratulated on the bournes which marked the time of his coming and his passing.

The question of the responsibility of the Emperor and the limits of his power is one which perhaps only time can decide. Undeniably Germany has a written Constitution. But that Constitution is of comparatively recent date (April 16, 1871). It is not looked upon, as is the American Constitution, as the source of Germany’s political life. It is the empire and not the Constitution that is holy. Struggles for personal liberty find little place in the history of Prussia. They have no Cromwell, no Washington, no Robespierre, and, significantly too, they have had in times past no Ravaillac and no Guiteau. There, still, a