Friday, April 5, 2024

Historical Understanding by Leo Strauss



According to a saying of Kant, it is possible to understand a philosopher better than he understood himself (Critique of Pure Reason, B370). Now, such an understanding may have the greatest merits, but it is clearly not historical understanding. If it goes so far as to claim to be the true understanding, it is positively unhistorical. The most outstanding example of such unhistorical interpretation which we have in the field of the study of Jewish medieval philosophy is Herman Cohen’s essay on Maimonides’ ethics. Cohen constantly refers statements of Maimonides, not to Maimonides center of reference, but to his own center of reference; he understands them not within Maimonides’ horizon but within his own horizon. Cohen had a technical teem for his procedure: he called it ‘idealizing’ interpretation. It may justly be described as the modern form of allegorical interpretation. At any rate, it is professedly an attempt to understand the old author better than he understood himself. Historical understanding  means to understand an author exactly as he understood himself. Everyone who has ever tried his hand at such a task will bear me out when I say that this task is an already sufficiently tough assignment in itself.

The attempt to understand a philosopher of the past better than he understood himself presupposes that the interpreter considers his insight superior to the insight of the old author. Kant made this quite clear when suggesting that one can understand a philosopher better than he understood himself. The average historian is much too modest a fellow to raise such an enormous claim in so many words. But he is in danger of doing so without noticing it. He will not clam that his personal insight is superior to that of, e.g. Maimonides. But only with difficulty can he avoid claiming that the collective insight available today is superior to the collective insight available in the twelfth century. There is more than one historian who in interpreting, say, Maimonides,  tries to assess the contribution of Maimonides. His contribution to what? To the treasure of knowledge and insight which has been accumulated throughout the ages. That treasure appears to be greater today than it was, say, in the year of Maimonides’ death. This means that when speaking of Maimonides’ ‘contribution’ the historian has in mind the contribution of Maimonides’ to the treasure of knowledge and insight as it is available today. Hence, he interprets Maimonides’ thought in terms of the thought of the present day. His tacit assumption is that the history of thought is, generally speaking, a progress, and that therefore the philosophic thought of the twentieth century is superior to, or nearer the truth than, the philosophic thought of the twelfth century. I contend  That this assumption is irreconcilable with true historical understanding. It necessarily leads to the attempt to understand the thought of the past better than it understood itself, and not as it understood itself. For it is evident that our understanding of the past will tend to be more adequate, the more we are interested in the past; but we cannot be seriously interested, i.e. passionately interested, in the past, if we know beforehand that the present is, in the most important respect, superior to the past. It is not a matter of chance that, generally speaking,  the historical understanding of the continental romantics, of the historical school, was superior to the historical understanding of eighteenth century rationalism; it is a necessary consequence of the fact that the representatives of the historical school did not believe in the superiority of their time to the past, whereas  the eighteenth-century rationalist believed in the superiority of the Age of Reason to all former ages.

Historians who start from the belief in the superiority of the present-day thought to the thought of the past feel no necessity to understand the past by itself: they understand it as only a preparation for the present. When studying a doctrine of the past, they do not ask primarily: What was the conscious and deliberate intention of its originator? The prefer to ask, What was the contribution of the doctrine to our beliefs? What is the meaning, unknown to its originator, of the doctrine from the point of view of the present? What is its meaning in the light of later developments? Against this approach, the historical consciousness rightly protested in the name of historical truth, of historical exactness. The task of the historian of thought is to understand the thinkers of the past exactly as they understood themselves, or  to revitalize their thought according to their own interpretation of it. To sum up this point: the belief in the superiority of one’s own approach, or of the approach of one’s time, to the approach of the past is fatal to historical understanding.

We may express the same thought somewhat differently as follows. The task of the historian of thought is to understand the thought of the past exactly as it understood itself; for to abandon that task is tantamount to abandoning the only practical criteria of objectivity in the history of thought. It is well know that the same historical phenomena is interpreted in very different ways indifferent periods, different generations, and different types of men. The same historical phenomena appears in different lights at different times. New human experiences shed light on old texts. No one an foresee how, e.g. the Bible will be read one hundred years hence. Observations such as these have led some people to adopt the view that the claim of any one interpretation to be the true interpretation as untenable. Yet the observations in question do not justify such a view.  For the infinite variety of ways in which a given text can be understood does not do away with the fact that the author of the text, when writing it, understood it in one way only. The light in which the history of Samuel and Saul appears on the basis of the Puritan revolution, for example, is not the light in which the author of the Biblical history  understood that history. And the true interpretation of Biblical history in question is the one that restates and makes intelligible the Biblical history as understood by the Biblical author. Ultimately, the infinite variety of interpretations of an author is due to conscious or unconscious attempts to understand the author better than he understood himself; but there is only one way of understanding him as he understood himself.

 

To return to the point where I left off: the belief in the superiority of one’s own approach, or the approach of one’ time, to the approach of the past is fatal to historical understanding. This dangerous assumption, which is characteristic of what one may call progressivism, was avoided by what is frequently called historicism. Whereas the progressivist believes that the present is superior to the past, the historicist believes that al periods are equally ‘immediate to God.’ The historicist does not want to judge the past, by assessing the contribution of each person, for example, but rather seeks to understand and to relate how things have actually been, ‘wie es eigentlich gewesen ist. ( Leopold von Ranke), and in particular how the thought of the past has been. The historicist ha a least the intention to understand the thought of the past exactly as it understood itself. For he knows, or rather he assumes, that, generally speaking, and other things being equal, the thought of all epochs is equally true, because every philosophy is essentially the expression of the spirit of its time. Maimonides, for example, expressed the spirit of his time as perfectly, as, say, Hermann Cohen expressed the spirit of his time. Now, all philosophers of the past claimed to have found the truth, and not merely the truth for their time. The historicist, however, asserts that they were mistaken in believing so. And he makes this assertion the basis of his interpretation. He knows a priori that the claim of Maimonides, to teach the truth, the truth valid for all times, is unfounded. In this most important respect, the historicist, just as his hostile brother the progressivist, believes that his approach is superior to the approach of the thinkers of old. The historicist is therefore compelled, by his principle if against his intention, to try to understand the past better than it understood itself. He merely repeats, if sometimes in a more sophisticated form, the sin for which he blames the progressivist so severely.

To repeat, to understand a serious teaching, one must be seriously interested in it, one must take it seriously. But one cannot take it seriously if one knows beforehand that it is ‘dated.’ To take a serious teaching seriously one must be willing to consider the possibility that it is simply true. Therefore, if we are interested in an adequate understanding of medieval philosophy, we must be willing to consider the possibility that medieval philosophy is simply true, or, to speak less paradoxically, that it is superior, in the most important respect, to all that we can learn from any other of the contemporary philosophers. We can understand medieval philosophy only if we are prepared to learn something, not merely about the medieval philosophers, but from them . .  .  .

The historian of philosophy must then undergo a transformation into a philosopher, or a conversion to philosophy, if he wants to do his job properly, if he wants to be a competent historian of philosophy. He must acquire a freedom of mind which is not too frequently met among the ‘professional’ philosophers: he must have as perfect a freedom of mind as is humanly possible. No prejudice in favor of contemporary thought, even of modern philosophy, of modern civilization, of modern science itself, must deter him from giving the thinkers of old the full benefit of the doubt. When engaging in the study of philosophy of the past, he must cease to take his bearings by the modern signposts with which he has grown familiar since his earliest childhood; he must try to take his bearings by the signposts which guided thinkers of old. Those signposts are not immediately visible: they are concealed by heaps of dust and rubble. The most obnoxious part of the rubble consists of the superficial interpretations by modern writers, of the cheap clichés which are offered in the textbooks and which seem to unlock by one formula the mystery of the past. The signposts which guided the thinkers of the past must be recovered before they can be used. Before the historian has succeeded in recovering them, he cannot help being in a condition of utter bewilderment, of universal doubt: he finds himself in a darkness which is illuminated exclusively by his knowledge that he knows nothing. When engaging in the study of the philosophy of the past, he must know that he embarks on a journey whose end is completely hidden from him: he is not likely to return to the shore of his time as the same man who left it.

from How to Begin to Study Medieval Philosophy, Chapter Nine, pages 207-212


 


Friday, March 29, 2024

The Anthropological Disagreement Between the Bible and Philosophy by Daniel Tanguay



In its simplest expression, the disagreement between Greek philosophy and the Bible has to do with what is, in Leo Strauss’s words, ‘that which supplements or completes morality.’ This search for a supplement to morality presupposes that Jerusalem as well as Athens perceives the insufficiency of morality for leading a complete human life. Morality alone cannot resolve the problem of man’s end. It can acquire a meaning only if it is completed by something that both goes beyond and grounds it. This is why Strauss places the question of the supplement to morality and that of its basis on the same footing. The ultimate  vindication of morality – that is, of obedience to the law- will be furnished at the moment that the supplement to morality is found. Yet the Bible and Greek philosophy respond to the question of the supplement in diametrically opposed manners: whereas for philosophy the supplement is theoria (the contemplative life), for the Bible it is ‘piety, the need for divine mercy or redemption, obedient love.’

Strauss does not think of this opposition in abstract terms. It is an opposition between two ways of life and ways or responding to the most important question for man: ‘How should I live my life?’  With reference to Weber, Strauss summarizes the problem that confronts all men: if they need to know the good in order to live, can men acquire knowledge of the good by means of their natural faculties or must they depend upon a divine revelation in order to obtain this knowledge? Two paths then open before them: that of human or divine guidance. One cannot evade this choice since no synthesis of the two attitudes exists that can pass the test of an honest examination. These two attitudes are fundamentally antagonistic, ‘for both philosophy and the Bible proclaim something as the one needful, as the only thing that ultimately counts, and the one thing needful proclaimed by the Bible is the opposite of that proclaimed by philosophy: a life of obedient love versus a life of free insight.’ To these two opposite attitudes correspond two different ways of life. Philosophy is a way of life to the same extent that a life of obedience to the law is away of life. Strauss thinks that before being a body of doctrines or a collection of positions, philosophy is in fact a mode of life animated by a particular passion: philosophic eros. The philosophers who share this way of life group themselves into a ‘sect’ (the adherents to philosophy’) which, by the very fact of its existence, comes into conflict with other sects. What distinguishes this particular sect from other sects is that each of its members has decided to devote his life to the search for the answer to the question ‘What is the best way of life’ by using only the powers of reason, rather than simply obeying the law given by tradition.

Perhaps nothing can bring out the contrast of these two ways of life better than the human sentiment that lies at their origins. Whereas the beginning of philosophy is wonder, the beginning of wisdom for the Bible is the fear of God. According to Strauss, the philosopher lives beyond fear and trembling, as well as beyond hope. For the philosopher there is no final redemption, no end of evil, no messianic reign – things that all presuppose for their fulfilment the intervention of an omnipotent God who relaxes  the grip of necessity that governs nature. This purely contemplative attitude towards the world also tends to weaken the force of moral demands. This theoretical and contemplative attitude towards the world is in fact a fundamentally  trans-social, trans-political, and, we would dare to say in the spirit of Strauss, a trans-moral attitude. The gaze with which the philosopher looks at the world is a gaze indifferent to the distinction between the beautiful and the ugly, good and evil. More precisely, if he sees the various workings of these ideas, he has for the most part become insensible to their influence: he sees because he masters his heart. He contemplates the reign of necessity within the real, and this contemplation is for him the experience that vindicates his very existence. Strauss, at the very end of a public lecture, revealed almost brutally the meaning of philosophical activity and its amor Dei intellectualis:  ‘we cannot exert our understanding without from time to time understanding something of importance, and this act of understanding may be accompanied by an awareness of our understanding, by the understanding of understanding, by noesis noeseos, and this so high, so pure, so noble an experience that Aristotle could ascribe it to his God. The experience is entirely independent of whether what we understand primarily is pleasing or displeasing, fair or ugly. It leads us to realize that all evils are in a sense necessary if there is to be understanding.’ Philosophy is intrinsically edifying not because it dictates morality, but because it manifests the dignity of the human mind through its contemplative activity. Evil can be understood as a manifestation of natural necessity. Rather than rebelling against evil and suffering, the philosopher perceives all things as if they were manifestations of the necessity or destiny that governs the Whole.

The philosophic attitude thus comes with a certain moral harshness. Strauss recognizes thus fact when he highlights the contrast between the biblical attitude and the philosophic attitude with regard to the poor. While the Bible makes of the poor a synonym from the just. Greek philosophy does not consider poverty a virtue. To the contrary, it seems that the exercise of virtue presupposes economic independence, which is perhaps the image for the independence of heart necessary for the freedom of the mind. Poverty in itself does not have a moral value; it is not glorified by Greek philosophy. Strauss further illustrates this anthropological contrast between the Bible and Greek philosophy by contrasting Greek magnanimity to biblical humility. Magnanimity, as described by Aristotle, seems to be the highest virtue since it concerns man as an individual and not in his relationship to others. The magnanimous man is he who, conscious of his worth, can claim those honors that he knows he deserves. Magnanimity presupposes that man can strive toward virtue and even become virtuous by his own powers. Hence the consciousness of sin, past faults, and remorse, or feelings of shame, are foreign to the genuinely magnanimous man. The feeling of guilt belongs to the tragic or the common man, not to the magnanimous man. Yet it is precisely the feeling of guilt that is at the origin of the two feelings characteristic of religion: fear and pity. Pity is born of the guilt man feels for those he has wounded, and fear is born of the anticipated revenge for the fault committed.

Those feelings that give birth to the fear of God are precisely those that Greek philosophy seeks to eliminate from the heart of the genuinely virtuous man. If tragedy has a cathartic effect, it is indeed by freeing man’s heart from the type of feeling that destroy man’s self-esteem and confidence in his own powers. The fear of God constrains man to look into his own heart so as to test the purity of his motives. For God, the only judge, reads men’s hearts. Yet, according to the opinions of philosophers, God does not concern himself with human beings. Thus man must find the good by relying on his own resources alone. From such a perspective, biblical humility is an unreasonable attitude, indeed, even foolish. It can in fact vindicate itself only if we have assurance that a God, who is king and judge, concerns himself with the general order of the world and, even more, with the particular fate of each individual. Faced with such a God, humility makes sense since no man can claim to vie for sanctity with the one who is the source of all sanctity.

 

One cannot learn from Greek philosophy the humility necessary to discover the meaning of the words: ‘Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom.’ On the contrary, here a man will learn to take more pride in his own intelligence than in regulating his behavior in accord with the Divine Word. For him, the beginning of wisdom is not the fear of a God he does not know, but wonder before a nature that veils and at the same time unveils itself. Strauss illustrates the whole difference that separates the philosophic from the religious attitude. The very model of obedient faith is embodied by Abraham, who, although he does not grasp the meaning of God’s injunction ordering him to sacrifice his son Isaac, obeys the divine command. Socrates’ response to the Delphic Oracle is altogether characteristic of the philosophic attitude. He does not consider Apollo’s judgment, according to which he is the wisest of men, as final. Instead, he seeks to test its validity. He substitutes rational examination of the divine command for blind obedience. This idea of an examination conducted by means of one’s own resources alone indicates the presence of another disagreement that brings the anthropological disagreement to completion. For lack of a better expression, we call this disagreement methodological, by which we mean that Jerusalem and Athens envision reality according to two fundamentally distinct approaches or methods. Of course, we do not mean methods in the modern sense of the term, but rather in the larger sense of away of apprehending reality . . .

We maintain that the fundamental ontological distinction for Strauss was that which separates ‘to be in truth’ from ‘to be by virtue of law or convention.’ It was by recognizing this distinction that philosophy came into the world. The birth of philosophy is contemporaneous with the theoretical emancipation from what is first for man, that is, ‘being by virtue or law or convention.’ Need one spell out that the law here in question  is the political law that is supported by a divine law, or, in other words, the theological-political law that organizes the way of life of each particular city? The moment this given law becomes problematic, philosophy can take flight. The given law can become problematic only if it is judged from a point of view outside itself. This external point of view will be the idea of nature that precedes and overshadows all codes and particular laws.

Before this discovery of nature, the good was identified quite simply with custom or way. Each thing had its way of being: each living being  follows away of behavior; each people or tribe has its way regulated by a set of customs. Each group considers its customs to be supreme. To enhance the dignity of its customs, each group attributes to them a long-ago ancestral origin. Understanding this to be the work of the gods lends even more dignity to the code that expresses the particular way of the group. The ancestral law of the group is therefore also a divine law. The divine law commands obedience and regulates before and all conflicts  with regards to the just and unjust. It is therefore by authority of divine law that the understanding of both what is just and unjust and the correct life are defined. The authority of the law establishes how the first things are to understood as well as the norms of behavior. .  .  .

The first philosophic experience is perplexity at the contradictory character of the character of the divine codes and the calling into the question of the authority that supports them .  .  .

The Bible teaches that God is mindful of man and that man has in faith the experience of the care that God lavishes upon him. God is not blind necessity ruling over nature but a person who concerns himself with the good of his creatures. The authentic religious experience is an entering into dialogue with this God who summons man. Yet is precisely this type of interpretation of the experience of what surpasses man that poses a problem for Greek philosophy . . .the opposition between the biblical conception of God and the Greek philosophic conception of an impersonal reign of necessity is at the theological and metaphysical heart of the conflict between ( to use metaphor) Jerusalem and Athens.(etc.)

[But here’s ‘the hitch': in Strauss’s formulation the opposition between Revelation and Philosophy  in the anthropological and methodological senses is not dialectical, no synthesis can be obtained; philosophy is ‘contaminated’ with religion and religion is ‘contaminated’ with philosophy and this, in Strauss’s view, is what defines the ‘new thinking’ of modernity, as the author writes:]

In the final analysis, it is the impossibility of philosophy to refute the biblical understanding of God that keeps the conflict between Jerusalem and Athens open. The genuine argument against revelation would in effect have to be able to exclude absolutely the hypothesis of the existence of an omnipotent and mysterious God. Yet philosophy has always failed to produce a rational system that would make all of reality transparent, divine action included. Strauss thinks neither Spinoza nor Hegel succeeded in this enterprise.


 

Thursday, February 29, 2024

Reparations by A. J. P. Taylor



By 1921 much of the peace-treaty was being enforced. It was reasonable to assume that it would gradually lose its contentious character. Men cannot go on wrangling over a settled question year after year, however embittered they may feel at first. The French forgot Waterloo; they even tended to forget Alsace and Lorraine, despite repeated resolves not to do so. The Germans, too, might have been expected to forget,  or at any rate to acquiesce, after a time. The problem of German power would remain; but it would not be aggravated by an acute determination to destroy the settlement of 1919 at the first opportunity. The reverse happened: resentment against the treaty increased with every year. For one part of the treaty remain unsettled; and disputes over this put the rest of the treaty in constant question. The unsettled issue was the payment of reparations- a striking example of good intentions, or to be correct, good ingenuity, gone wrong.

In 1919 the French wished to lay down uncompromisingly the principle that Germany must pay the full bill for war damage – an indeterminate liability that would swell in the future with every step of German economic recovery. The Americans, more sensibly, proposed to state a fixed sum. Lloyd George appreciated that, in the heated atmosphere of 1919, this sum, too, would be far beyond German capacity. He hoped  that in time men (himself included) would come to their senses: the Allies would make a reasonable demand, the Germans would make a reasonable offer,, and the two figures would more or less coincide. He therefore swung around behind the French, though exactly for the opposite reason: they wanted to make the bill fantastically large, he wanted to scale it down. The Americans gave way. The peace treaty merely stated the principle of reparations: their amount was to be settled at some time into future.

Lloyd George had meant to make reconciliation with Germany easier; he made it almost impossible. For the divergence between the British and French views which had been covered over in 1919  rose again to the surface as soon as they tried to fix a figure: the French still trying to push it up, the British impatiently scaling it down. Nor did the Germans show any  willingness to co-operate. Far from attempting to estimate their capacity to pay, they deliberately kept their economic affairs in confusion, well knowing that, if they once got things straight, the bill for reparations would follow. In 1920 there were angry meetings between the Allies, then conference with the Germans; more conferences in 1921; still more in 1922. In 1923 the French tried to enforce payment by occupying the Ruhr. The Germans first answered with passive resistance; then surrendered at discretion, under the catastrophe of inflation. The French, almost as exhausted as the Germans, agreed to a compromise: the Dawes plan, drafted – largely at British prompting – under an American chairman. Though this temporary settlement was resented by both French and Germans, reparations were in  fact paid for the next five years. Then there was another conference – more wrangling, more accusations, more demands, and more evasions. The Young plan, again under an American chairman, emerged. It had hardly begun to operate before the great depression struck Europe. The Germans claimed they could not go on paying In 1931 the Hoover moratorium suspended reparations for twelve months. In 1932 a last conference at Lausanne wiped the slate clean. Agreement was at last reached; but it has taken thirteen years, years of mounting suspicion and grievance on all sides. At the end the French felt swindled; and the German felt robbed. Reparations had kept the passions of war alive.


Reparations would, no doubt, have been a grievance in any case. It was the uncertainty and argument over them which made the grievance chronic. In 1919 many people believed that payment of reparations would reduce Germany to a state of Asiatic poverty. J. M. Keynes held this view, as did all Germans and probably many Frenchmen did also, though without regretting the consequence. During the second World  war an ingenious young Frenchman, Etienne Mantoux, demonstrated that the Germans could have paid reparations, without impoverishment, if they had wished to do so; and Hitler gave a practical demonstration of this when he extracted vast sums from the Vichy government of France. The question only has an academic interest. No doubt the apprehensions of Keynes and the Germans were grotesquely exaggerated. No doubt that the impoverishment of Germany was caused by war, not by reparations. No doubt the Germans could have paid reparations, if they had regarded them an obligation of honor, honestly incurred. In actual fact, as everyone now knows, Germany was a net gainer by the financial transactions of the nineteen-twenties: she borrowed far more from private American investors ( and failed to pay back) than she paid in reparations. This was of course little consolation to the German taxpayer, who was not at all the same person as the German borrower. For that matter, reparations gave little consolation to the taxpayers of allied countries, who immediately saw the proceeds transferred to the United States in repayment of war debts. Setting one thing against another, the only economic effect of reparations was to give employment to a large number of bookkeepers. But the economic facts about reparations are of little importance. Reparations counted as a symbol. They created resentment, suspicion, and international hostility. More than anything else, they cleared the way for the second World war.

Reparations fixed the French in an attitude of sullen, but rather hopeless resistance. They had, after all, a not unjustified claim. Northeast France had been devastated during the war; and, whatever the rights and wrongs of war guilt, it was reasonable that the Germans should help restore the damage. But the French soon cheated on reparations, as everyone else did. Some Frenchmen wanted to ruin Germany forever. Others hoped that reparations would not be paid, so that the armies of occupation should stay in the Rhineland. French taxpayers had been told that Germany would pay for the war; and were indignant against the Germans when their own taxers went up. In the end, the French cheated in their turn; they got virtually nothing except the moral blame for having demanded reparations at all. As the French saw it, they had made a series of concessions over reparations to please the Germans. Finally they had they had to abandon all claim to reparations. The Germans emerged more dissatisfied than ever. The French concluded from this experience that concessions in other fields – over disarmament or frontiers – would be equally futile. They also concluded, though less consciously, that concessions would be made. The French were distinguished, in the years before the second World war, by lack of faith in their leaders and in themselves. This despairing cynicism had a long and complicated origin which has often been dissected by historians. But the record of reparations was its immediate, practical cause. Here the French had certainly lost; and their leaders had as certainly displayed a singular incapacity, or at least a singular failure, to fulfil their promises. Reparations did almost as much to damage to democracy in France as in Germany itself.

Reparations had also a critical influence on the relations between France and Great Britain. In the last days of the war, the British – both politicians a and public – had shared the French enthusiasm for reparations. It was a British statesman of high competence, not a Frenchman, who proposed to squeeze the German orange till the pips squeaked; and even Lloyd George had been more clamorous for reparations than he subsequently like to imagine. Soon however the British changed round. They began to denounce the folly of reparations once they had themselves carried off the German merchant navy. Perhaps they were influenced by the writings of Keynes. Their more practical motive was to restore the economic life of Europe so as to promote the recovery of their own export industries. They listened readily to the German stories of the endless woes which would follow the payment of reparations; and, once they had condemned reparations, they soon condemned other clauses of the peace treaty. Reparations were wicked. Therefore the disarmament of Germany was wicked; the frontier with Poland was wicked, the new national states were wicked. And not only wicked: they were a justified German grievance, and the Germans would be neither content nor prosperous until they were undone. The British grew indignant at French logic, at French anxiety about German recovery, and particularly indignant at French insistence that treaties should be honored once they had been signed. French claims to reparations were pernicious and dangerous nonsense; therefore their claim for security s pernicious and dangerous nonsense also. The British had some plausible ground for complaint. In 1931 they were forced off the gold-standard. The French, who had claimed to be ruined by the war, had a stable currency and the largest gold-reserve in Europe. It was a bad beginning for the years of danger. The disagreements over reparations in the years after the first World war made it almost impossible for the British and French to agree over security  in the years before the second.

The most catastrophic effect of reparations was on the Germans themselves.  Of course they would have been aggrieved in any case. They had not only lost the war. They had lost territory; they had been compelled to disarm; they had been saddled with a war-guilt which they did not feel. But these were intellectual grievances: things to grumble over in the evenings, not the cause of suffering in everyday life. Reparations hit every German, or seemed to, at each moment of his existence. It would be useless to discuss whether reparations in fact impoverished Germany; and it was equally useless to argue the point in 1919. No German was likely to accept the proposition that Norman Angell had advanced in The Great Illusion that the payment of the indemnity by the French in 1871 benefited France and injured Germany. The common sense of mankind says that a man is the poorer for paying out money; and what is true for an individual appears to be true for a nation. Germany was paying reparations; and therefore was the poorer for it. By an easy transition reparations became the sole cause of German poverty. The businessman in difficulties; the underpaid schoolteacher; the unemployed worker all blamed their troubles on reparations. The cry of a hungry  child was a cry against reparations. Old men stumbled into the grave because of reparations. The great inflation of 1923 was attributed to reparations; so was the great depression of 1929. These views were not just held merely by the German man-in-the-street. They were held  just as strongly by the most distinguished financial and political experts. The campaign against ‘the slave-treaty’ hardly needed the promptings of extremist agitators. Every touch of economic hardship stirred the Germans to shake off ‘the shackles of Versailles’.

Once men reject a treaty, they cannot be expected to remember precisely which clause they reject. The Germans began with the more or less rational belief that they were being ruined by reparations. They soon proceeded to the less rational belief that they were being ruined by the treaty as a whole. Finally, retracing their steps, they concluded that they were being ruined by clauses of the treaty which had nothing to do with reparations. German disarmament, for instance, may have been humiliating; it may have exposed Germany to invasion by Poland or France. But economically it was to the good so far as it had any effect at all [with remarkable, though not unique ingenuity, however, the German generals managed to make disarmament more expensive than armament had been. It cost the German taxpayers less to maintain the great army and navy of 1914 than to maintain a small army and no navy after 1919]. This is not what the ordinary German felt. He assumed that, since reparations made him poorer, disarmament did also. It was the same with the territorial clauses of the treaty. There were defects, of course, in the settlement. The eastern front put too many Germans in Poland- though it also put too many Poles in Germany. It could have been improved by some redrawing and by an exchange of populations – an expedient not contemplated in those civilized days. But an impartial judge, if such existed, would have found little fault with the territorial settlement once the principle of national states was accepted. The so-called Polish corridor was inhabited predominantly by Poles; and the arrangement of free railway-communication with East Prussia were adequate. Danzig would actually have been better off economically if it had been included in Poland.  As to the former German colonies – also a fertile cause of grievance – they had always been an expense, not a source of profit.

All this was lost sight of, thanks to the link between reparations and the rest of the treaty. The German believed he was ill-dressed, hungry, or out-of-work, because  Danzig was a Free City, because the corridor cut off East Prussia from the Reich; or because Germany had no colonies. Even the highly intelligent banker Schacht attributed Germany’s financial difficulties to the loss of her colonies – a view which he continued to hold, sincerely no doubt, even after the second World war. The Germans were not being self-centered or uniquely stupid in holding such views. This outlook was shared by enlightened liberal Englishmen such as Keynes; by nearly all the leaders of the British Labor party, and by all Americans who thought about European affairs. Yet it is difficult to see why the loss of colonies and land in Europe should have crippled Germany economically. After the second World war Germany had much greater territorial losses, yet became more prosperous than at any time in her history. There could be no clearer demonstration that the economic difficulties of Germany between the wars were due to defects in her domestic policies, not to unjust frontiers. The demonstration has been in vain; every textbook continues to attribute Germany’s difficulties to the treaty of Versailles. The myth went further, and still does. First, the economic problems of Germany were blamed on the treaty. Then it was observed that these problems continued. From this it was held to follow that nothing was done to conciliate Germany and to modify the system set up in 1919. ‘Appeasement’ was supposed to have been attempted only in 1938; and by that time it was too late.

This was far from the truth. Even reparations were constantly revised, and always downward; though no doubt the revision dragged out tiresomely long. In other ways appeasement was attempted sooner, and with success. . .

 

 [And so on - the issue of disarmament proved as difficult to resolve as that of reparations - perhaps the most complex historical narrative I have ever encountered,  diplomatic fiascos lasting decades, only really comparable to what’s going on today]

Rearmament

The first World war shattered all the Great Powers involved, with the exception of the United States, who took virtually no part in it; maybe they were all foolish to go on trying to be Great Powers afterwards. Total war is probably beyond the strength of any Great Power. Now even preparations for such a war threaten to ruin the Great Powers who attempt them. Nor is this new. In the eighteenth century Frederick the Great led Prussia to the point of collapse in the effort to be a Great Power. The Napoleonic wars brought France down from her high estate in Europe, and she never recovered her former greatness. This is an odd, inescapable dilemma. Though the object of being a Great Power is to be able to fight a great war, the only way of remaining a Great Power is not to fight one, or to fight it on a limited scale. This was the secret of Great Britain’s greatness so long as she stuck to naval warfare and did not try to become a military power on a continental pattern. Hitler did not need instruction from a historian in order to appreciate this. The inability of Germany to fight a long war was a constant theme of his; and so was the danger which threatened Germany if the other Great Powers combined against her. In talking like this, Hitler was more sensible than the German generals who imagined all would be well if they got Germany back to the position she occupied before Ludendorff’s offense in March 1918. Hitler did not draw the moral that it was silly for Germany to be a Great Power. Instead he proposed to dodge the problem by ingenuity, much as the British had once done. Where they relied on sea power, he relied on guile. Far from wanting war, a general war was the last thing he wanted. He wanted the fruits of total victory without total war; and thanks to the stupidity of others he nearly got them. Other Powers thought that they were faced with the choice between total war and surrender. At first they chose surrender; then they chose total war, to Hitler’s ultimate ruin.

This is not guesswork. It is demonstrated beyond peradventure by the record of German armament before the second World war and even during it. It would have been obvious long ago if men had not been blinded by two mistakes. Before the war they listened to what Hitler said instead of looking at what he did. After the war they wanted to pin on him the guilt for everything which happened, regardless of the evidence.  The record, however, is there for anyone that wishes to use it: until the spring of 1936 German rearmament was largely a myth. This does not mean merely that the preliminary stages of rearmament were not producing increase strength, as always happens. Even the preliminary stages were not being undertaken at all seriously. Hitler  cheated foreign powers and the German people in exactly the opposite sense from that which is usually supposed. He, or rather Goering, announced: ‘Guns before butter’. In fact, he put butter before guns.

In 1936, according to Churchill, two independent estimates placed German rearmament expenditure at an annual rate of 12 thousand million marks. The actual rate was under 5 thousand million. Hitler himself asserted that the Nazi government had spent 90 thousand million marks on armaments before the outbreak of war. In fact the German government expenditure, war and non-war, did not amount to much more than this between 1933 and 1938. Rearmament cost about forty thousand million marks in the six fiscal years ending 31  Mach 1939, and about 50 thousand millions up to the out break of war.

Why was German rearmament on such a limited scale? For one thing, Hitler was anxious not to weaken his popularity by reducing the standard of civilian life in Germany. The most rearmament did was to prevent its rising faster than it otherwise would have done. Even so the Germans were better off than they had ever been before. Then the Nazi system was inefficient, corrupt and muddle. More important, Hitler would not increase taxes but was terrified of inflation. Even the overthrown of Schacht did not really shake the financial limitations, though it was supposed to do so. Most important of all, Hitler did not make large war preparations simply because his concept of warfare did not require them. Rather he planned to solve Germany’s living space problem in piecemeal fashion – by a series of small wars. One even suspects Hitler hoped to get by without any war at all. The one thing he did not plan for was the great war often attributed to him.

Pretending to prepare for a great war and not in fact doing it was an essential part of Hitler’s strategy; and those who sounded the alarm against him, such as Churchill, unwittingly did his work for him. This device was new and took everyone in. Previously governments spent more on armaments than they admitted, as most do to the present day. This was sometimes to deceive their own people, sometimes to deceive a potential enemy. In 1909, for instance, the German government were accused by many British people of secretly accelerating naval building without the approval of the Reichstag. This accusation was probably untrue. But it left a permanent legacy of suspicion that the German would d it again; and this suspicion was strengthened by the evasions of the disarmament imposed by the treaty of Versailles, which successive German governments practiced, though to little advantage, after 1919. Hitler encouraged this suspicion and exploited it. There is a very good illustration. On 28 November 1934 Baldwin denied Churchill’s statement tat German air strength was equal to that of Great Britain’s. Baldwin’s figures were right; Churchill’s were wrong. On 24 March 1935 Sir John Simon and Anthony Eden visited Hitler. He told them that the German air force was already equal to that of Great Britain, if not indeed superior. He was at one believed, and has been believed ever since. Baldwin was discredited. Panic was created. How was it possible that a statesman could exaggerate his armaments instead of concealing them? Yet this is what Hitler had done.

German rearmament was largely a myth until the spring of 1936. Ten Hitler put some reality in it. His motive was principally fear of the Red Army, and of course Great Britain and France had begun to rearm also. Hitler raced along with the others, and not much faster.  In October 1936 he told Goering to prepare the German army for war within four years, though he did not lay down any detailed requirements. In 1938-39, the last peacetime year, Germany spent about 15% of her gross national product. The British proportion was almost exactly the same. German expenditure on armaments was actually cut down after Munich and remained at this lower level, so that British production of airplanes, for example, was way ahead of the German by 1940. When the wat broke out in 1939, Germany had 1450 modern fighter planes and 800 bombers’ Great Britain and France had 950 fighters and 1300 bombers. The Germans had 3500 tanks, Great Britain and France had 3850. In each case Allied intelligence estimated German strength at more than twice the true figure. As usual, Hitler was thought to have planned and prepared for a great war. In fact, he had not.

It may be objected that these figures are irrelevant. Whatever the deficiencies of German armaments on paper, Hitler won a war against two European Great Powers when the test came.  However, though Hitler won, he won by mistake – a mistake he shared. Of course the Germans were confident that they could defeat Poland if they were left undisturbed in the west. Here Hitler’s judgment that the French could do nothing proved more accurate than the apprehensions of the German generals. But he had no idea that he could knock France out of the war when he invaded Belgium and Holland on 10 May 1940. This was a defensive move: to secure the Ruhr from Allied invasion. The conquest of France was an unforeseen bonus. Even after this Hitler did not prepare for a great war. He imagined he could defeat Soviet Russia without serious effort as he had defeated France. German production of armaments was not reduced merely during the winter of 1940-41; it was reduced still more in the autumn of 1941 when the war against Russia had already begun. No serious change took place after the initial setback in Russia nor even after the catastrophe at Stalingrad. Germany remained with ‘a peace-like war economy” Only British bombing attacks on German cities stimulated Hitler and the Germans to take war seriously. German war production reached its height just when Allied bombing did: in July 1944. From the first to last, ingenuity, not military strength, was Hitler’s secret of success. He was done for when military strength became decisive, as he had always know he would be.