CHAPTER III - The Genius for
War
Every special calling in life, if it is to be followed
with success, requires peculiar qualifications of understanding and soul. Where
these are of a high order, and manifest themselves by extraordinary
achievements, the mind to which they belong is termed GENIUS.
We know very well that this word is used in many
significations which are very different both in extent and nature, and that
with many of these significations it is a very difficult task to define the
essence of Genius; but as we neither profess to be philosopher nor grammarian,
we must be allowed to keep to the meaning usual in ordinary language, and to
understand by “genius” a very high mental capacity for certain employments.
We wish to stop for a moment over this faculty and
dignity of the mind, in order to vindicate its title, and to explain more fully
the meaning of the conception. But we shall not dwell on that (genius) which
has obtained its title through a very great talent, on genius properly so
called, that is a conception which has no defined limits. What we have to do is
to bring under consideration every common tendency of the powers of the mind
and soul towards the business of War, the whole of which common tendencies we
may look upon as the ESSENCE OF MILITARY GENIUS. We say “common,” for just
therein consists military genius, that it is not one single quality bearing
upon War, as, for instance, courage, while other qualities of mind and soul are
wanting or have a direction which is unserviceable for War, but that it is AN
HARMONIOUS ASSOCIATION OF POWERS, in which one or other may predominate, but
none must be in opposition.
If every combatant required to be more or less
endowed with military genius, then our armies would be very weak; for as it
implies a peculiar bent of the intelligent powers, therefore it can only rarely
be found where the mental powers of a people are called into requisition and
trained in many different ways. The fewer the employments followed by a Nation,
the more that of arms predominates, so much the more prevalent will military
genius also be found. But this merely applies to its prevalence, by no means to
its degree, for that depends on the general state of intellectual culture in
the country. If we look at a wild, warlike race, then we find a warlike spirit
in individuals much more common than in a civilised people; for in the former
almost every warrior possesses it, whilst in the civilised whole, masses are
only carried away by it from necessity, never by inclination. But amongst
uncivilised people we never find a really great General, and very seldom what
we can properly call a military genius, because that requires a development of
the intelligent powers which cannot be found in an uncivilised state. That a
civilised people may also have a warlike tendency and development is a matter
of course; and the more this is general, the more frequently also will military
spirit be found in individuals in their armies. Now as this coincides in such
case with the higher degree of civilisation, therefore from such nations have
issued forth the most brilliant military exploits, as the Romans and the French
have exemplified. The greatest names in these and in all other nations that
have been renowned in War belong strictly to epochs of higher culture.
From this we may infer how great a share the
intelligent powers have in superior military genius. We shall now look more
closely into this point.
War is the province of danger, and therefore
courage above all things is the first quality of a warrior.
Courage is of two kinds: first, physical courage,
or courage in presence of danger to the person; and next, moral courage, or
courage before responsibility, whether it be before the judgment-seat of
external authority, or of the inner power, the conscience. We only speak here
of the first.
Courage before danger to the person, again, is of
two kinds. First, it may be indifference to danger, whether proceeding from the
organism of the individual, contempt of death, or habit: in any of these cases
it is to be regarded as a permanent condition.
Secondly, courage may proceed from positive
motives, such as personal pride, patriotism, enthusiasm of any kind. In this
case courage is not so much a normal condition as an impulse.
We may conceive that the two kinds act
differently. The first kind is more certain, because it has become a second
nature, never forsakes the man; the second often leads him farther. In the
first there is more of firmness, in the second, of boldness. The first leaves
the judgment cooler, the second raises its power at times, but often bewilders
it. The two combined make up the most perfect kind of courage.
War is the province of physical exertion and
suffering. In order not to be completely overcome by them, a certain strength
of body and mind is required, which, either natural or acquired, produces
indifference to them. With these qualifications, under the guidance of simply a
sound understanding, a man is at once a proper instrument for War; and these
are the qualifications so generally to be met with amongst wild and
half-civilised tribes. If we go further in the demands which War makes on it,
then we find the powers of the understanding predominating. War is the province
of uncertainty: three-fourths of those things upon which action in War must be
calculated, are hidden more or less in the clouds of great uncertainty. Here,
then, above all a fine and penetrating mind is called for, to search out the
truth by the tact of its judgment.
An average intellect may, at one time, perhaps hit
upon this truth by accident; an extraordinary courage, at another, may
compensate for the want of this tact; but in the majority of cases the average
result will always bring to light the deficient understanding.
War is the province of chance. In no sphere of
human activity is such a margin to be left for this intruder, because none is
so much in constant contact with him on all sides. He increases the uncertainty
of every circumstance, and deranges the course of events.
From this uncertainty of all intelligence and
suppositions, this continual interposition of chance, the actor in War
constantly finds things different from his expectations; and this cannot fail
to have an influence on his plans, or at least on the presumptions connected
with these plans. If this influence is so great as to render the pre-determined
plan completely nugatory, then, as a rule, a new one must be substituted in its
place; but at the moment the necessary data are often wanting for this, because
in the course of action circumstances press for immediate decision, and allow
no time to look about for fresh data, often not enough for mature
consideration.
But it more often happens that the correction of
one premise, and the knowledge of chance events which have arisen, are not
sufficient to overthrow our plans completely, but only suffice to produce hesitation.
Our knowledge of circumstances has increased, but our uncertainty, instead of
having diminished, has only increased. The reason of this is, that we do not
gain all our experience at once, but by degrees; thus our determinations
continue to be assailed incessantly by fresh experience; and the mind, if we
may use the expression, must always be “under arms.”
Now, if it is to get safely through this perpetual
conflict with the unexpected, two qualities are indispensable: in the first
place an intellect which, even in the midst of this intense obscurity, is not
without some traces of inner light, which lead to the truth, and then the
courage to follow this faint light. The first is figuratively expressed by the
French phrase coup d’œil. The other is resolution. As the battle is the feature
in War to which attention was originally chiefly directed, and as time and
space are important elements in it, more particularly when cavalry with their
rapid decisions were the chief arm, the idea of rapid and correct decision
related in the first instance to the estimation of these two elements, and to
denote the idea an expression was adopted which actually only points to a
correct judgment by eye. Many teachers of the Art of War then gave this limited
signification as the definition of coup d’œil. But it is undeniable that all
able decisions formed in the moment of action soon came to be understood by the
expression, as, for instance, the hitting upon the right point of attack,
&c. It is, therefore, not only the physical, but more frequently the mental
eye which is meant in coup d’œil. Naturally, the expression, like the thing, is
always more in its place in the field of tactics: still, it must not be wanting
in strategy, inasmuch as in it rapid decisions are often necessary. If we strip
this conception of that which the expression has given it of the
over-figurative and restricted, then it amounts simply to the rapid discovery
of a truth which to the ordinary mind is either not visible at all or only
becomes so after long examination and reflection.
Resolution is an act of courage in single
instances, and if it becomes a characteristic trait, it is a habit of the mind.
But here we do not mean courage in face of bodily danger, but in face of
responsibility, therefore, to a certain extent against moral danger. This has
been often called courage d’esprit, on the ground that it springs from the
understanding; nevertheless, it is no act of the understanding on that account;
it is an act of feeling. Mere intelligence is still not courage, for we often
see the cleverest people devoid of resolution. The mind must, therefore, first
awaken the feeling of courage, and then be guided and supported by it, because
in momentary emergencies the man is swayed more by his feelings than his
thoughts.
We have assigned to resolution the office of
removing the torments of doubt, and the dangers of delay, when there are no
sufficient motives for guidance. Through the unscrupulous use of language which
is prevalent, this term is often applied to the mere propensity to daring, to
bravery, boldness, or temerity. But, when there are sufficient motives in the
man, let them be objective or subjective, true or false, we have no right to
speak of his resolution; for, when we do so, we put ourselves in his place, and
we throw into the scale doubts which did not exist with him.
Here there is no question of anything but of
strength and weakness. We are not pedantic enough to dispute with the use of
language about this little misapplication, our observation is only intended to
remove wrong objections.
This resolution now, which overcomes the state of
doubting, can only be called forth by the intellect, and, in fact, by a
peculiar tendency of the same. We maintain that the mere union of a superior
understanding and the necessary feelings are not sufficient to make up
resolution. There are persons who possess the keenest perception for the most
difficult problems, who are also not fearful of responsibility, and yet in
cases of difficulty cannot come to a resolution. Their courage and their
sagacity operate independently of each other, do not give each other a hand,
and on that account do not produce resolution as a result. The forerunner of
resolution is an act of the mind making evident the necessity of venturing, and
thus influencing the will. This quite peculiar direction of the mind, which
conquers every other fear in man by the fear of wavering or doubting, is what
makes up resolution in strong minds; therefore, in our opinion, men who have
little intelligence can never be resolute. They may act without hesitation
under perplexing circumstances, but then they act without reflection. Now, of
course, when a man acts without reflection he cannot be at variance with
himself by doubts, and such a mode of action may now and then lead to the right
point; but we say now as before, it is the average result which indicates the
existence of military genius. Should our assertion appear extraordinary to any
one, because he knows many a resolute hussar officer who is no deep thinker, we
must remind him that the question here is about a peculiar direction of the
mind, and not about great thinking powers.
We believe, therefore, that resolution is indebted
to a special direction of the mind for its existence, a direction which belongs
to a strong head rather than to a brilliant one. In corroboration of this
genealogy of resolution we may add that there have been many instances of men
who have shown the greatest resolution in an inferior rank, and have lost it in
a higher position. While, on the one hand, they are obliged to resolve, on the
other they see the dangers of a wrong decision, and as they are surrounded with
things new to them, their understanding loses its original force, and they
become only the more timid the more they become aware of the danger of the
irresolution into which they have fallen, and the more they have formerly been
in the habit of acting on the spur of the moment.
From the coup d’œil and resolution we are
naturally to speak of its kindred quality, presence of mind, which in a region
of the unexpected like War must act a great part, for it is indeed nothing but
a great conquest over the unexpected. As we admire presence of mind in a pithy
answer to anything said unexpectedly, so we admire it in a ready expedient on
sudden danger. Neither the answer nor the expedient need be in themselves
extraordinary, if they only hit the point; for that which as the result of
mature reflection would be nothing unusual, therefore insignificant in its
impression on us, may as an instantaneous act of the mind produce a pleasing
impression. The expression “presence of mind” certainly denotes very fitly the
readiness and rapidity of the help rendered by the mind.
Whether this noble quality of a man is to be
ascribed more to the peculiarity of his mind or to the equanimity of his
feelings, depends on the nature of the case, although neither of the two can be
entirely wanting. A telling repartee bespeaks rather a ready wit, a ready
expedient on sudden danger implies more particularly a well-balanced mind.
If we take a general view of the four elements
composing the atmosphere in which War moves, of danger, physical effort,
uncertainty, and chance, it is easy to conceive that a great force of mind and
understanding is requisite to be able to make way with safety and success
amongst such opposing elements, a force which, according to the different
modifications arising out of circumstances, we find termed by military writers
and annalists as energy, firmness, staunchness, strength of mind and character.
All these manifestations of the heroic nature might be regarded as one and the
same power of volition, modified according to circumstances; but nearly related
as these things are to each other, still they are not one and the same, and it
is desirable for us to distinguish here a little more closely at least the
action of the powers of the soul in relation to them.
In the first place, to make the conception clear,
it is essential to observe that the weight, burden, resistance, or whatever it
may be called, by which that force of the soul in the General is brought to
light, is only in a very small measure the enemy’s activity, the enemy’s
resistance, the enemy’s action directly. The enemy’s activity only affects the
General directly in the first place in relation to his person, without
disturbing his action as Commander. If the enemy, instead of two hours, resists
for four, the Commander instead of two hours is four hours in danger; this is a
quantity which plainly diminishes the higher the rank of the Commander. What is
it for one in the post of Commander-in-Chief? It is nothing.
Secondly, although the opposition offered by the
enemy has a direct effect on the Commander through the loss of means arising
from prolonged resistance, and the responsibility connected with that loss, and
his force of will is first tested and called forth by these anxious
considerations, still we maintain that this is not the heaviest burden by far
which he has to bear, because he has only himself to settle with. All the other
effects of the enemy’s resistance act directly upon the combatants under his
command, and through them react upon him.
As long as his men full of good courage fight with
zeal and spirit, it is seldom necessary for the Chief to show great energy of
purpose in the pursuit of his object. But as soon as difficulties arise—and
that must always happen when great results are at stake—then things no longer
move on of themselves like a well-oiled machine, the machine itself then begins
to offer resistance, and to overcome this the Commander must have a great force
of will. By this resistance we must not exactly suppose disobedience and
murmurs, although these are frequent enough with particular individuals; it is
the whole feeling of the dissolution of all physical and moral power, it is the
heartrending sight of the bloody sacrifice which the Commander has to contend
with in himself, and then in all others who directly or indirectly transfer to
him their impressions, feelings, anxieties, and desires. As the forces in one
individual after another become prostrated, and can no longer be excited and
supported by an effort of his own will, the whole inertia of the mass gradually
rests its weight on the Will of the Commander: by the spark in his breast, by
the light of his spirit, the spark of purpose, the light of hope, must be
kindled afresh in others: in so far only as he is equal to this, he stands
above the masses and continues to be their master; whenever that influence
ceases, and his own spirit is no longer strong enough to revive the spirit of
all others, the masses drawing him down with them sink into the lower region of
animal nature, which shrinks from danger and knows not shame. These are the
weights which the courage and intelligent faculties of the military Commander
have to overcome if he is to make his name illustrious. They increase with the
masses, and therefore, if the forces in question are to continue equal to the
burden, they must rise in proportion to the height of the station.
Energy in action expresses the strength of the
motive through which the action is excited, let the motive have its origin in a
conviction of the understanding, or in an impulse. But the latter can hardly
ever be wanting where great force is to show itself.
Of all the noble feelings which fill the human
heart in the exciting tumult of battle, none, we must admit, are so powerful
and constant as the soul’s thirst for honour and renown, which the German
language treats so unfairly and tends to depreciate by the unworthy
associations in the words Ehrgeiz (greed of honour) and Ruhmsucht (hankering
after glory). No doubt it is just in War that the abuse of these proud
aspirations of the soul must bring upon the human race the most shocking
outrages, but by their origin they are certainly to be counted amongst the
noblest feelings which belong to human nature, and in War they are the
vivifying principle which gives the enormous body a spirit. Although other
feelings may be more general in their influence, and many of them—such as love
of country, fanaticism, revenge, enthusiasm of every kind—may seem to stand
higher, the thirst for honour and renown still remains indispensable. Those
other feelings may rouse the great masses in general, and excite them more
powerfully, but they do not give the Leader a desire to will more than others,
which is an essential requisite in his position if he is to make himself
distinguished in it. They do not, like a thirst for honour, make the military
act specially the property of the Leader, which he strives to turn to the best
account; where he ploughs with toil, sows with care, that he may reap
plentifully. It is through these aspirations we have been speaking of in
Commanders, from the highest to the lowest, this sort of energy, this spirit of
emulation, these incentives, that the action of armies is chiefly animated and
made successful. And now as to that which specially concerns the head of all,
we ask, Has there ever been a great Commander destitute of the love of honour,
or is such a character even conceivable?
Firmness denotes the resistance of the will in
relation to the force of a single blow, staunchness in relation to a
continuance of blows. Close as is the analogy between the two, and often as the
one is used in place of the other, still there is a notable difference between
them which cannot be mistaken, inasmuch as firmness against a single powerful
impression may have its root in the mere strength of a feeling, but staunchness
must be supported rather by the understanding, for the greater the duration of
an action the more systematic deliberation is connected with it, and from this
staunchness partly derives its power.
If we now turn to strength of mind or soul, then
the first question is, What are we to understand thereby?
Plainly it is not vehement expressions of feeling,
nor easily excited passions, for that would be contrary to all the usage of
language, but the power of listening to reason in the midst of the most intense
excitement, in the storm of the most violent passions. Should this power depend
on strength of understanding alone? We doubt it. The fact that there are men of
the greatest intellect who cannot command themselves certainly proves nothing
to the contrary, for we might say that it perhaps requires an understanding of
a powerful rather than of a comprehensive nature; but we believe we shall be
nearer the truth if we assume that the power of submitting oneself to the
control of the understanding, even in moments of the most violent excitement of
the feelings, that power which we call self-command, has its root in the heart
itself. It is, in point of fact, another feeling, which in strong minds
balances the excited passions without destroying them; and it is only through
this equilibrium that the mastery of the understanding is secured. This
counterpoise is nothing but a sense of the dignity of man, that noblest pride,
that deeply-seated desire of the soul always to act as a being endued with
understanding and reason. We may therefore say that a strong mind is one which
does not lose its balance even under the most violent excitement.
If we cast a glance at the variety to be observed
in the human character in respect to feeling, we find, first, some people who
have very little excitability, who are called phlegmatic or indolent.
Secondly, some very excitable, but whose feelings
still never overstep certain limits, and who are therefore known as men full of
feeling, but sober-minded.
Thirdly, those who are very easily roused, whose
feelings blaze up quickly and violently like gunpowder, but do not last.
Fourthly, and lastly, those who cannot be moved by
slight causes, and who generally are not to be roused suddenly, but only
gradually; but whose feelings become very powerful and are much more lasting.
These are men with strong passions, lying deep and latent.
This difference of character lies probably close
on the confines of the physical powers which move the human organism, and
belongs to that amphibious organisation which we call the nervous system, which
appears to be partly material, partly spiritual. With our weak philosophy, we
shall not proceed further in this mysterious field. But it is important for us
to spend a moment over the effects which these different natures have on,
action in War, and to see how far a great strength of mind is to be expected
from them.
Indolent men cannot easily be thrown out of their
equanimity, but we cannot certainly say there is strength of mind where there
is a want of all manifestation of power.
At the same time, it is not to be denied that such
men have a certain peculiar aptitude for War, on account of their constant
equanimity. They often want the positive motive to action, impulse, and
consequently activity, but they are not apt to throw things into disorder.
The peculiarity of the second class is that they
are easily excited to act on trifling grounds, but in great matters they are
easily overwhelmed. Men of this kind show great activity in helping an
unfortunate individual, but by the distress of a whole Nation they are only
inclined to despond, not roused to action.
Such people are not deficient in either activity
or equanimity in War; but they will never accomplish anything great unless a
great intellectual force furnishes the motive, and it is very seldom that a
strong, independent mind is combined with such a character.
Excitable, inflammable feelings are in themselves
little suited for practical life, and therefore they are not very fit for War.
They have certainly the advantage of strong impulses, but that cannot long
sustain them. At the same time, if the excitability in such men takes the
direction of courage, or a sense of honour, they may often be very useful in
inferior positions in War, because the action in War over which commanders in
inferior positions have control is generally of shorter duration. Here one
courageous resolution, one effervescence of the forces of the soul, will often
suffice. A brave attack, a soul-stirring hurrah, is the work of a few moments,
whilst a brave contest on the battle-field is the work of a day, and a campaign
the work of a year.
Owing to the rapid movement of their feelings, it
is doubly difficult for men of this description to preserve equilibrium of the
mind; therefore they frequently lose head, and that is the worst phase in their
nature as respects the conduct of War. But it would be contrary to experience
to maintain that very excitable spirits can never preserve a steady
equilibrium—that is to say, that they cannot do so even under the strongest
excitement. Why should they not have the sentiment of self-respect, for, as a
rule, they are men of a noble nature? This feeling is seldom wanting in them,
but it has not time to produce an effect. After an outburst they suffer most
from a feeling of inward humiliation. If through education, self-observance,
and experience of life, they have learned, sooner or later, the means of being
on their guard, so that at the moment of powerful excitement they are conscious
betimes of the counteracting force within their own breasts, then even such men
may have great strength of mind.
Lastly, those who are difficult to move, but on
that account susceptible of very deep feelings, men who stand in the same
relation to the preceding as red heat to a flame, are the best adapted by means
of their Titanic strength to roll away the enormous masses by which we may
figuratively represent the difficulties which beset command in War. The effect
of their feelings is like the movement of a great body, slower, but more
irresistible.
Although such men are not so likely to be suddenly
surprised by their feelings and carried away so as to be afterwards ashamed of
themselves, like the preceding, still it would be contrary to experience to
believe that they can never lose their equanimity, or be overcome by blind
passion; on the contrary, this must always happen whenever the noble pride of
self-control is wanting, or as often as it has not sufficient weight. We see
examples of this most frequently in men of noble minds belonging to savage
nations, where the low degree of mental cultivation favours always the
dominance of the passions. But even amongst the most civilised classes in
civilised States, life is full of examples of this kind—of men carried away by
the violence of their passions, like the poacher of old chained to the stag in
the forest.
We therefore say once more a strong mind is not
one that is merely susceptible of strong excitement, but one which can maintain
its serenity under the most powerful excitement, so that, in spite of the storm
in the breast, the perception and judgment can act with perfect freedom, like
the needle of the compass in the storm-tossed ship.
By the term strength of character, or simply
character, is denoted tenacity of conviction, let it be the result of our own
or of others’ views, and whether they are principles, opinions, momentary
inspirations, or any kind of emanations of the understanding; but this kind of
firmness certainly cannot manifest itself if the views themselves are subject
to frequent change. This frequent change need not be the consequence of
external influences; it may proceed from the continuous activity of our own
mind, in which case it indicates a characteristic unsteadiness of mind.
Evidently we should not say of a man who changes his views every moment,
however much the motives of change may originate with himself, that he has
character. Only those men, therefore, can be said to have this quality whose
conviction is very constant, either because it is deeply rooted and clear in
itself, little liable to alteration, or because, as in the case of indolent
men, there is a want of mental activity, and therefore a want of motives to
change; or lastly, because an explicit act of the will, derived from an
imperative maxim of the understanding, refuses any change of opinion up to a
certain point.
Now in War, owing to the many and powerful
impressions to which the mind is exposed, and in the uncertainty of all
knowledge and of all science, more things occur to distract a man from the road
he has entered upon, to make him doubt himself and others, than in any other
human activity.
The harrowing sight of danger and suffering easily
leads to the feelings gaining ascendency over the conviction of the
understanding; and in the twilight which surrounds everything a deep clear view
is so difficult that a change of opinion is more conceivable and more
pardonable. It is, at all times, only conjecture or guesses at truth which we
have to act upon. This is why differences of opinion are nowhere so great as in
War, and the stream of impressions acting counter to one’s own convictions
never ceases to flow. Even the greatest impassibility of mind is hardly proof
against them, because the impressions are powerful in their nature, and always
act at the same time upon the feelings.
When the discernment is clear and deep, none but
general principles and views of action from a high standpoint can be the
result; and on these principles the opinion in each particular case immediately
under consideration lies, as it were, at anchor. But to keep to these results
of bygone reflection, in opposition to the stream of opinions and phenomena
which the present brings with it, is just the difficulty. Between the
particular case and the principle there is often a wide space which cannot always
be traversed on a visible chain of conclusions, and where a certain faith in
self is necessary and a certain amount of scepticism is serviceable. Here often
nothing else will help us but an imperative maxim which, independent of
reflection, at once controls it: that maxim is, in all doubtful cases to adhere
to the first opinion, and not to give it up until a clear conviction forces us
to do so. We must firmly believe in the superior authority of well-tried
maxims, and under the dazzling influence of momentary events not forget that
their value is of an inferior stamp. By this preference which in doubtful cases
we give to first convictions, by adherence to the same our actions acquire that
stability and consistency which make up what is called character.
It is easy to see how essential a well-balanced
mind is to strength of character; therefore men of strong minds generally have
a great deal of character.
Force of character leads us to a spurious variety
of it—OBSTINACY.
It is often very difficult in concrete cases to
say where the one ends and the other begins; on the other hand, it does not
seem difficult to determine the difference in idea.
Obstinacy is no fault of the understanding; we use
the term as denoting a resistance against our better judgment, and it would be
inconsistent to charge that to the understanding, as the understanding is the
power of judgment. Obstinacy is A FAULT OF THE FEELINGS or heart. This
inflexibility of will, this impatience of contradiction, have their origin only
in a particular kind of egotism, which sets above every other pleasure that of
governing both self and others by its own mind alone. We should call it a kind
of vanity, were it not decidedly something better. Vanity is satisfied with
mere show, but obstinacy rests upon the enjoyment of the thing.
We say, therefore, force of character degenerates
into obstinacy whenever the resistance to opposing judgments proceeds not from
better convictions or a reliance upon a trustworthy maxim, but from a feeling
of opposition. If this definition, as we have already admitted, is of little
assistance practically, still it will prevent obstinacy from being considered
merely force of character intensified, whilst it is something essentially
different—something which certainly lies close to it and is cognate to it, but
is at the same time so little an intensification of it that there are very
obstinate men who from want of understanding have very little force of
character.
Having in these high attributes of a great
military Commander made ourselves acquainted with those qualities in which
heart and head co-operate, we now come to a speciality of military activity
which perhaps may be looked upon as the most marked if it is not the most
important, and which only makes a demand on the power of the mind without
regard to the forces of feelings. It is the connection which exists between War
and country or ground.
This connection is, in the first place, a
permanent condition of War, for it is impossible to imagine our organised Armies
effecting any operation otherwise than in some given space; it is, secondly, of
the most decisive importance, because it modifies, at times completely alters,
the action of all forces; thirdly, while on the one hand it often concerns the
most minute features of locality, on the other it may apply to immense tracts
of country.
In this manner a great peculiarity is given to the
effect of this connection of War with country and ground. If we think of other
occupations of man which have a relation to these objects, on horticulture,
agriculture, on building houses and hydraulic works, on mining, on the chase,
and forestry, they are all confined within very limited spaces which may be
soon explored with sufficient exactness. But the Commander in War must commit
the business he has in hand to a corresponding space which his eye cannot
survey, which the keenest zeal cannot always explore, and with which, owing to
the constant changes taking place, he can also seldom become properly
acquainted. Certainly the enemy generally is in the same situation; still, in
the first place, the difficulty, although common to both, is not the less a
difficulty, and he who by talent and practice overcomes it will have a great
advantage on his side; secondly, this equality of the difficulty on both sides
is merely an abstract supposition which is rarely realised in the particular
case, as one of the two opponents (the defensive) usually knows much more of
the locality than his adversary.
This very peculiar difficulty must be overcome by
a natural mental gift of a special kind which is known by the—too
restricted—term of Ortsinn sense of locality. It is the power of quickly
forming a correct geometrical idea of any portion of country, and consequently
of being able to find one’s place in it exactly at any time. This is plainly an
act of the imagination. The perception no doubt is formed partly by means of
the physical eye, partly by the mind, which fills up what is wanting with ideas
derived from knowledge and experience, and out of the fragments visible to the
physical eye forms a whole; but that this whole should present itself vividly
to the reason, should become a picture, a mentally drawn map, that this picture
should be fixed, that the details should never again separate themselves—all
that can only be effected by the mental faculty which we call imagination. If
some great poet or painter should feel hurt that we require from his goddess
such an office; if he shrugs his shoulders at the notion that a sharp
gamekeeper must necessarily excel in imagination, we readily grant that we only
speak here of imagination in a limited sense, of its service in a really menial
capacity. But, however slight this service, still it must be the work of that
natural gift, for if that gift is wanting, it would be difficult to imagine
things plainly in all the completeness of the visible. That a good memory is a
great assistance we freely allow, but whether memory is to be considered as an
independent faculty of the mind in this case, or whether it is just that power
of imagination which here fixes these things better on the memory, we leave
undecided, as in many respects it seems difficult upon the whole to conceive
these two mental powers apart from each other.
That practice and mental acuteness have much to do
with it is not to be denied. Puysegur, the celebrated Quartermaster-General of
the famous Luxemburg, used to say that he had very little confidence in himself
in this respect at first, because if he had to fetch the parole from a distance
he always lost his way.
It is natural that scope for the exercise of this
talent should increase along with rank. If the hussar and rifleman in command
of a patrol must know well all the highways and byways, and if for that a few
marks, a few limited powers of observation, are sufficient, the Chief of an
Army must make himself familiar with the general geographical features of a
province and of a country; must always have vividly before his eyes the
direction of the roads, rivers, and hills, without at the same time being able
to dispense with the narrower “sense of locality” (Ortsinn). No doubt,
information of various kinds as to objects in general, maps, books, memoirs,
and for details the assistance of his Staff, are a great help to him; but it is
nevertheless certain that if he has himself a talent for forming an ideal
picture of a country quickly and distinctly, it lends to his action an easier
and firmer step, saves him from a certain mental helplessness, and makes him
less dependent on others.
If this talent then is to be ascribed to
imagination, it is also almost the only service which military activity
requires from that erratic goddess, whose influence is more hurtful than useful
in other respects.
We think we have now passed in review those
manifestations of the powers of mind and soul which military activity requires
from human nature. Everywhere intellect appears as an essential co-operative
force; and thus we can understand how the work of War, although so plain and
simple in its effects, can never be conducted with distinguished success by
people without distinguished powers of the understanding.
When we have reached this view, then we need no
longer look upon such a natural idea as the turning an enemy’s position, which
has been done a thousand times, and a hundred other similar conceptions, as the
result of a great effort of genius.
Certainly one is accustomed to regard the plain
honest soldier as the very opposite of the man of reflection, full of
inventions and ideas, or of the brilliant spirit shining in the ornaments of
refined education of every kind. This antithesis is also by no means devoid of
truth; but it does not show that the efficiency of the soldier consists only in
his courage, and that there is no particular energy and capacity of the brain
required in addition to make a man merely what is called a true soldier. We
must again repeat that there is nothing more common than to hear of men losing
their energy on being raised to a higher position, to which they do not feel
themselves equal; but we must also remind our readers that we are speaking of
pre-eminent services, of such as give renown in the branch of activity to which
they belong. Each grade of command in War therefore forms its own stratum of
requisite capacity of fame and honour.
An immense space lies between a General—that is,
one at the head of a whole War, or of a theatre of War—and his Second in
Command, for the simple reason that the latter is in more immediate
subordination to a superior authority and supervision, consequently is
restricted to a more limited sphere of independent thought. This is why common
opinion sees no room for the exercise of high talent except in high places, and
looks upon an ordinary capacity as sufficient for all beneath: this is why
people are rather inclined to look upon a subordinate General grown grey in the
service, and in whom constant discharge of routine duties has produced a
decided poverty of mind, as a man of failing intellect, and, with all respect
for his bravery, to laugh at his simplicity. It is not our object to gain for
these brave men a better lot—that would contribute nothing to their efficiency,
and little to their happiness; we only wish to represent things as they are,
and to expose the error of believing that a mere bravo without intellect can
make himself distinguished in War.
As we consider distinguished talents requisite for
those who are to attain distinction, even in inferior positions, it naturally
follows that we think highly of those who fill with renown the place of Second
in Command of an Army; and their seeming simplicity of character as compared
with a polyhistor, with ready men of business, or with councillors of state,
must not lead us astray as to the superior nature of their intellectual
activity. It happens sometimes that men import the fame gained in an inferior
position into a higher one, without in reality deserving it in the new
position; and then if they are not much employed, and therefore not much
exposed to the risk of showing their weak points, the judgment does not
distinguish very exactly what degree of fame is really due to them; and thus
such men are often the occasion of too low an estimate being formed of the
characteristics required to shine in certain situations.
For each station, from the lowest upwards, to
render distinguished services in War, there must be a particular genius. But
the title of genius, history and the judgment of posterity only confer, in
general, on those minds which have shone in the highest rank, that of
Commanders-in-Chief. The reason is that here, in point of fact, the demand on
the reasoning and intellectual powers generally is much greater.
To conduct a whole War, or its great acts, which
we call campaigns, to a successful termination, there must be an intimate knowledge
of State policy in its higher relations. The conduct of the War and the policy
of the State here coincide, and the General becomes at the same time the
Statesman.
We do not give Charles XII. the name of a great
genius, because he could not make the power of his sword subservient to a
higher judgment and philosophy—could not attain by it to a glorious object. We
do not give that title to Henry IV. (of France), because he did not live long
enough to set at rest the relations of different States by his military
activity, and to occupy himself in that higher field where noble feelings and a
chivalrous disposition have less to do in mastering the enemy than in
overcoming internal dissension.
In order that the reader may appreciate all that
must be comprehended and judged of correctly at a glance by a General, we refer
to the first chapter. We say the General becomes a Statesman, but he must not
cease to be the General. He takes into view all the relations of the State on
the one hand; on the other, he must know exactly what he can do with the means
at his disposal.
As the diversity, and undefined limits, of all the
circumstances bring a great number of factors into consideration in War, as the
most of these factors can only be estimated according to probability,
therefore, if the Chief of an Army does not bring to bear upon them a mind with
an intuitive perception of the truth, a confusion of ideas and views must take
place, in the midst of which the judgment will become bewildered. In this
sense, Buonaparte was right when he said that many of the questions which come
before a General for decision would make problems for a mathematical
calculation not unworthy of the powers of Newton or Euler.
What is here required from the higher powers of
the mind is a sense of unity, and a judgment raised to such a compass as to
give the mind an extraordinary faculty of vision which in its range allays and
sets aside a thousand dim notions which an ordinary understanding could only
bring to light with great effort, and over which it would exhaust itself. But
this higher activity of the mind, this glance of genius, would still not become
matter of history if the qualities of temperament and character of which we
have treated did not give it their support.
Truth alone is but a weak motive of action with
men, and hence there is always a great difference between knowing and action,
between science and art. The man receives the strongest impulse to action
through the feelings, and the most powerful succour, if we may use the expression,
through those faculties of heart and mind which we have considered under the
terms of resolution, firmness, perseverance, and force of character.
If, however, this elevated condition of heart and
mind in the General did not manifest itself in the general effects resulting
from it, and could only be accepted on trust and faith, then it would rarely
become matter of history.
All that becomes known of the course of events in
War is usually very simple, and has a great sameness in appearance; no one on
the mere relation of such events perceives the difficulties connected with them
which had to be overcome. It is only now and again, in the memoirs of Generals
or of those in their confidence, or by reason of some special historical
inquiry directed to a particular circumstance, that a portion of the many
threads composing the whole web is brought to light. The reflections, mental
doubts, and conflicts which precede the execution of great acts are purposely
concealed because they affect political interests, or the recollection of them
is accidentally lost because they have been looked upon as mere scaffolding
which had to be removed on the completion of the building.
If, now, in conclusion, without venturing upon a
closer definition of the higher powers of the soul, we should admit a
distinction in the intelligent faculties themselves according to the common
ideas established by language, and ask ourselves what kind of mind comes
closest to military genius, then a look at the subject as well as at experience
will tell us that searching rather than inventive minds, comprehensive minds
rather than such as have a special bent, cool rather than fiery heads, are
those to which in time of War we should prefer to trust the welfare of our
women and children, the honour and the safety of our fatherland.
