In his pathologically light, uncannily ingenious manner that is always somewhat reminiscent of the degenerate prattle of certain religious characters in his novels, Dostoyevsky speaks—1877—about the problem of Germany in the world, about “Germany, the protesting kingdom.” As long as there has ever been a Germany, he says, her task has been protestantism:
not merely that form of protestantism that developed at the time of Luther, but her eternal protestantism, her eternal protest as it began with Arminius against the Roman world, against everything that was Rome and Rome’s mission, and later against everything that was transmitted from the old Rome to the new, and to all nations that received the Roman idea, formula, and element, protest against the heirs of Rome and against everything that constitutes this heritage.
In great sweeps, he then outlines the history of the Roman idea: beginning in ancient Rome with her concept of a universal unification of mankind and her belief in the practical realization of this concept in the form of a world monarchy. This formula died, he said, but not the idea; for the idea was that of the European people; their civilization has developed from it, and they exist solely for its sake. The concept of the Roman universal monarchy was replaced by that of unification in Christ; whereupon there followed that split of the new ideal into an eastern part, which Dostoyevsky says is characterized by the ideal of the wholly spiritual unification of mankind, and a western European part, which was Roman Catholic, papal. In its western form, the idea certainly did not surrender its Christian, spiritual character, but it also preserved the old Roman political-imperial tradition. After this, Dostoyevsky goes on, the idea of universal unity continued without interruption to progress and to change, but the development of the endeavor led to the loss of the essential body of Christian principles. The heirs of the ancient Roman world, who had succeeded in discarding Christianity intellectually, also discarded the papacy with it: this happened in the French Revolution, which was nothing more (basically, nothing more) than the last reshaping or reembodiment of this same ancient Roman formula of universal unification. The realization of the idea—we are still following Dostoyevsky’s thought—the realization was quite inadequate. To be sure, there was the most complete satisfaction in that section of human society that had won political supremacy for itself in 1789, namely in the bourgeoisie: it had triumphed, and now held that it was no longer necessary to go farther. But those intellects who, according to the immutable laws of nature, are destined to create eternal disturbance in the world, to search for new formulations of the ideal and of the new word—both so indispensable to the development of the human organism—joined those downtrodden and neglected ones who had benefited little or not at all from the revolutionary formula of the unification of all people: socialism proclaimed its new word.
And Germany? And the Germans? Dostoyevsky says,
The most characteristic, most essential trait of this great, proud, and special people has always been, since the first moment of its appearance in the historical world, that it has never, neither in its destiny nor in its principles, wanted to be united with the far Western world, that is, with all the heirs of the ancient Roman destiny. Throughout all these two thousand years, Germany has protested against this world, and even if she did not express her own word—and has still never expressed it at all, her own sharply formulated ideal as a positive replacement for the ancient Roman idea she destroyed—still, I believe—
(this is a powerful passage; one realizes suddenly where one is: with the foremost psychologist of world literature!) “still,” he says,
I believe that in her heart she has always been convinced that one day she will once again be in a position to proclaim this new word and to lead mankind with it. She began her struggle against the Roman world as early as the time of Arminius. During the era of Roman Christianity, more than any other nation, she fought with Rome for supremacy. Finally, she protested in the most powerful way by taking the new formula of protest from the most spiritual, most elementary foundations of the Germanic world. The voice of God resounded from her, proclaiming freedom of the spirit. The split was terrible and universal—the formula of protest had been found and was fulfilled—even though it still remained a negative one, and the positive word still had not been expressed . . .
After this deed, Dostoyevsky continues approximately, the Germanic spirit fades for a long time. The Western world, however, influenced by the discovery of America, by the new science, new principles, “seeks to recreate itself in a new truth” and to enter a new phase, and the first attempt at this transformation is the Revolution. What a confusing event for the German spirit! For basically, Dostoyevsky suggests, it understands as little about the Revolution as the Latin spirit does of the Reformation. Indeed, it is close to surrendering its individuality and to losing its belief in itself.
It could say nothing against the new ideas of the far Western world. The era of Luther’s protestantism was long past, but the idea of the free spirit, of free research, had already been accepted for some time by the world scientific community. More than ever, the gigantic German organism felt that it had no body, no form to express itself. And at that time there arose in it the urgent need to form itself, outwardly at least, into a single, solid organism: in consideration of the new, approaching phases of its eternal struggle with the far Western world . . .
Whoever devotes himself to the intellectual contemplation of great upheavals and crushing catastrophes, always runs the risk of falling under the suspicion that vanity is goading him on to test his cleverness against an earthquake. In great and terrible situations, intellect can very easily seem frivolous. But without intellect, nothing, not even the smallest thing, let alone great historical events, can be understood. They all have two aspects. If one removes “the philosophy” from the French Revolution, there remain the hunger revolt and the upheaval in property relationships. But who would deny that this would do a great injustice to the French Revolution? It is no different with our present-day experiences, and it is impossible to agree with the embittered purists who insist, admittedly out of understandable fear of the feuilleton, that the only reality of this war is its manifestation, namely unspeakable misery, and who argue that it is shameless to try to make sense of it, to distort and to embellish this loathsome reality by seeking to explain and to interpret it. The demand for such restraint is inhumane, even though it has its origin in humanitarian grief at the fall of brotherhood. Humanitarian is not always the same as humane.
Dostoyevsky’s view of European history, or rather of the special role of resistance that Germany plays in it, is not less valid for its brilliance. I believe I see that his interpretation takes liberties, is sometimes one-sided, and even contains errors. When he states, for example, that the development of the Roman idea of unity led, in the Revolution, to the loss of the essential body of Christian principles, he seems to me to confuse what the Revolution itself confused, namely Christianity with the church; for all the cult of reason, all hatred of the clergy, all scorn unleashed against the dogmas and legends of positive religions in general and against the “bastard of an unfaithful wife” in particular, did not prevent the Revolution, as far as it bore Rousseauian intellectual traits, from being based upon a good bit of Christianity, of Christian universality, of Christian sensitivity. It was not in vain that Madame Roland, in her letter to the Pope, spoke of “those evangelical principles that the purest democracy, the tenderest love of humanity, and the most perfect equality breathe.” It is also easy to establish that all Rousseauians, all radical democrats, all revolutionary epigones, even up to the present day, are ready at any moment to moralize in a Christian way; yes, even consciously to call upon Christianity as an ally. And finally, there is probably something to the charge that Germany’s enemies in this war have been able to hurl against her from “civilization’s” camp that Germans are heathens who secretly pray to Odin—there is probably something to this, I feel, because the joke originated in our midst that the only Christians in Germany are the Jews. But as to the relationship of the German spirit to the Roman world, I think that Dostoyevsky sees only one of the two great symbolic German events and experiences, while probably intentionally overlooking the other: he sees the German event, “Luther in Rome”; but he does not see the other one, “Goethe in Rome,” which to many a German is more dear and important—but we must be content here with these formula-like hints.
Dostoyevsky’s aperçu is grandiose and one-sided, but it is profound and true—even though one must remember that true thoughts are not at all times equally true. Dostoyevsky wrote his reflection under the influence of Bismarck’s personality, a few years after the Franco-Prussian War, and at that time it was to a high degree true. In the intervening time it lost some of the intensity of its truth; we could read it without being particularly moved by it, yes, without properly feeling and understanding it. Today we do not need to read it to be fully aware of its message and to contemplate its truth. For it is a warlike concept, of warlike truth, and in times of war this concept of the “protesting kingdom” shines out clearly to everyone in the greatest force of its truth—yes, from the first moment there was basically complete and general unanimity on it: Germany agreed with her enemies on this thought, and not only with her foreign enemies, but also with her so-called domestic ones, with those intellects among us who protest against the German protest—intellects, about whom we will have more to say later, who turn in trusting love to the European West. Everyone, I say, friend and foe, was and is of one opinion, even if not of one disposition—for that is, to be sure, something else. When, for example, Romain Rolland says in his war book that I was, in a certain article that some of my readers may possibly remember (“Thoughts in Wartime,” November 1914), like a raging bull with head lowered, charging into the sword of the matador; that I had claimed all the enemy’s accusations as so many terms of praise for Germany and had provided ammunition for Germany’s enemies—that I had, in short, in the most imprudent way, agreed with them, then he only clarifies that distinction between opinion and disposition that is actually the basis of all intellectual enmity. For where there is not the slightest community of thought, there can be no enmity. There is only indifferent remoteness. Only where people think alike but feel differently is there enmity; this is where hatred grows. Finally, dear and good M. Rolland, the issue is one of European fraternal strife.
In my opinion, then, there has been the most complete unanimity from the first moment that the intellectual roots of this war, “the German war,” as it is called with every possible justification, lie in Germany’s inborn and historical “protestantism,” that this war is essentially a new outbreak, perhaps the grandest, the final one, as some believe, of Germany’s ancient struggle against the spirit of the West, as well as the struggle of the Roman world against stubborn Germany. I will not be dissuaded from the belief that all German “patriotism” in this war—especially that which manifested itself so unexpectedly, or almost unexpectedly—was and is, in its essence, instinctive, innate partisanship for precisely this protestantism, partisanship that was often only reflected upon later; that Germany’s face has remained pointed toward the west in this war—despite the great physical danger that has threatened from the east, and that has not ceased to threaten. The eastern danger was terrible, and it was necessary to shift those five army corps from the western front with the result that the French gained their grande victoire sur la Marne—each one of us would have agreed if he had been asked, for things could naturally not continue as they were in East Prussia. But this does not negate the fact that in the present war, dangerous, clumsy Russia is merely the tool of the West; she can only be considered from an intellectual point of view today to the extent she is liberalized in a Western manner—precisely as a member of the entente to which she is adapting spiritually as well as she can (the fascinating conversation that the Russian foreign minister, Sazonov, carried on with an English novelist about the Christian-human meekness of the sinner and the unbearable “strict morality” of Prussia shows that this adaptation is going rather well—a very good, witty conversation that our press tried to make fun of in the most inappropriate manner): as a member of the entente, I say, which, America included, is the unification of the Western world, of the heirs of Rome, of “civilization” against Germany, against the Germany that is now protesting with more primeval power than ever before.