hopenhauer Society, and who, when it was pointed out that
our foreign members certainly condemned this infamous war as
much as we Germans, protested that she could not belong to an
association in which Frenchmen, Englishmen and Russians took
part, and announced her withdrawal from our society, indeed,
even published her brave resolution in the columns of a local
paper in her provincial town. _We shall not shed any tears_ for
her having gone."[71]

Romain Rolland bears out the idea that "in all countries the extremest
views have been expressed by writers already past middle age." So it is
in Germany, Rolland tells us. Dehmel, the enemy of war, has enlisted at
51; Gerhart Hauptmann, "the poet of brotherly love," cries out for
slaughter. But Fritz von Unruh has, from the battlefield, written "Das
Lamm": "Lamb of God, I have seen Thy look of suffering; lead us back to
the heaven of love." Rudolf Leonhard, who was caught up in the storm,
wrote afterwards on the front page of his poems: "These were written
during the madness of the first weeks. That madness has spent itself,
and only our strength is left. We shall again win control over ourselves
and love one another."

"Menschen in Not ...
Brueder dir tot ...
Krieg ist im Land ..."

No "glory" of war is in these simple, poignant words of Ludwig
Marck--simply a dire evil that we have not the sanity to avoid. "Whether
you gaze trembling into the eyes of the beloved, or mark down your enemy
with pitiless glance, think of the eye that will grow dim, of the
failing breath, the parched lips and clenched hands, the final solitude,
and the brow that grows moist in the last pangs.... Be kind....
Tenderness is wisdom. Kindness is reason.... We are strangers all upon
this earth, and die but to be reunited." Thus Franz Werfel. Since these
words cannot be called barbaric, they will perhaps be called
sentimental. It is true that to those of us who have loved our comrades,
of whatever nation, the sentiment of brotherhood does just now make a
somewhat tragic appeal. If that appeal, in these days of decimated
ideals, be at times strained and feverish, it scarcely lies in the
mouths of the apostles of hate to deride us. The sentimentality of
hatred is uglier and more fatuous than the sentimentality of
brotherhood.

Hermann Hesse is living at Berne. He has implored the writers of all
nations not to join with their pens in destroying the future of E