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Strategic Studies

The second edition of Strategic Studies: A Reader brings together key essays on strategic
theory by some of the leading contributors to the field. This revised volume contains
several new essays and updated introductions to each section.
The volume comprises hard-to-find classics in the field as well as the latest scholar-
ship. The aim is to provide students with a wide-ranging survey of the key issues in
strategic studies, and to provide an introduction to the main ideas and themes in the
field. The book contains six extensive sections, each of which is prefaced by a short
introductory essay:

• The uses of strategic theory

• Interpretation of the classics
• Instruments of war, intelligence and deception
• Nuclear strategy
• Irregular warfare and small wars
• Future warfare, future strategy

Overall, this volume strikes a balance between theoretical works, which seek to discover
generalizations about the nature of modern strategy, and case studies, which attempt to
ground the study of strategy in the realities of modern war.
This new edition will be essential reading for all students of strategic studies, security
studies, military history and war studies, as well as for professional military college
students.

Thomas G. Mahnken is currently Jerome E. Levy Chair of Economic Geography

and National Security at the US Naval War College. He is also a Visiting Scholar at the
Philip Merrill Center for Strategic Studies at The Johns Hopkins University’s Paul H.
Nitze School of Advanced International Studies (SAIS).

Joseph A. Maiolo is Professor of International History in the Department of War

Studies, King’s College London, UK.
‘A brilliant and, unlike most edited collections, coherent collection of essays by masters
past and present on the theory and practice of strategy. A superb primer for any and all
students of the subject.’ Eliot A. Cohen, School of Advanced International Studies, Johns Hopkins
University, Washington, DC

‘This superb volume provides an essential primer for any student of strategic studies.’
Theo Farrell, Kings College, London

‘By a wide margin this is the premier Reader in the field of strategic studies. For research
as well as teaching, it is an invaluable resource.’ Colin S. Gray, University of Reading

‘A fine collection of strategic thought.’ Journal of Military History

‘An essential text for anyone interested in the development of strategic ideas.’
Stephan Fruehling, Australian National University, Canberra

‘The new volume makes an excellent contribution to the study of strategy, and to the
ongoing debate on the complexity of strategy and the connection between security and
strategy. It is also a great and highly recommended teaching tool for advanced course on
strategic studies.’ Mohiaddin Mesbahi, Florida International University
Strategic Studies
A Reader

Second Edition

Edited by Thomas G. Mahnken and

Joseph A. Maiolo

R Routledge
Taylor & Francis Group

LO N D O N A N D N E W YORK
First published 2008 by Routledge
This edition published 2014
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2014 selection and editorial material, Thomas G. Mahnken and Joseph A. Maiolo;
individual chapters, the contributors
The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of
the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with
sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in
any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered
trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to
infringe.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data has been requested

ISBN: 978–0–415–66111–9 (hbk)

ISBN: 978–0–415–66112–6 (pbk)
ISBN: 978–1–315–81480–3 (ebk)

Typeset in Baskerville
by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk
Contents

Acknowledgements viii

General introduction 1

PART I
The uses of strategic theory 5

Introduction 5

1 Strategic studies and the problem of power 9

LAWRENCE FREEDMAN

2 What is a military lesson? 22

WILLIAM C. FULLER, JR.

3 Why strategy is difficult 40

COLIN S. GRAY

PART II
Interpretation of the classics 49

Introduction 49

4 Who is afraid of Carl von Clausewitz?: A guide to

the perplexed 53
MICHAEL I. HANDEL

5 “The art of war” 76

SUN TZU

6 Strategy: the indirect approach 101

BASIL LIDDELL HART
vi Contents
7 Arms and influence 105
THOMAS C. SCHELLING

PART III
Instruments of war, intelligence and deception 127

Introduction 127

8 Some principles of maritime strategy 131

JULIAN CORBETT

9 Kosovo and the great air power debate 145

DANIEL L. BYMAN AND MATTHEW C. WAXMAN

10 What’s wrong with the intelligence process? 172

ROBERT JERVIS

11 Deception and intelligence failure: Anglo-German

preparations for U-boat warfare in the 1930s 184
JOSEPH A. MAIOLO

PART IV
Nuclear strategy 203

Introduction 203

12 The absolute weapon 207

BERNARD BRODIE

13 The delicate balance of terror 223

ALBERT WOHLSTETTER

14 Attacking the atom: does bombing nuclear facilities

affect proliferation? 240
SARAH KREPS AND MATTHEW FUHRMANN

PART V
Irregular warfare and small wars 261

Introduction 261

15 Science of guerrilla warfare 265

T.E. LAWRENCE
 Contents vii
16 Problems of strategy in China’s civil war 274
MAO TSE TUNG

17 Strategic terrorism: the framework and its fallacies 309

PETER R. NEUMANN AND MICHAEL L.R. SMITH

18 Hybrid warfare and challenges 329

FRANK G. HOFFMAN

PART VI
Future warfare, future strategy 339

Introduction 339

19 Weapons: the growth and spread of the precision-strike regime 343

THOMAS G. MAHNKEN

20 The revolution in military affairs with Chinese characteristics 355

JACQUELINE NEWMYER DEAL

21 Iron cannot fight: the role of technology in current

Russian military theory 372
TOR BUKKVOLL

22 From Kadesh to Kandahar: military theory and the future of war 392
MICHAEL EVANS

23 Cyber war will not take place 408

THOMAS RID

24 The lost meaning of strategy 429

HEW STRACHAN

Index 447
Acknowledgements

The publisher would like to thank the following for permission to reprint their
material:

Oxford University Press, for Freedman, Lawrence, “Strategic Studies and the Problem
of Power,” from War, Strategy, and International Politics (1992), edited by Lawrence
Freedman et al., pp. 279–294.

Naval War College Press, for Fuller, William C., Jr., “What is a Military Lesson?,” from
Strategic Logic and Political Rationality: Essays in Honor of Michael I. Handel (Frank Cass,
2002), edited by Bradford A. Lee and Karl-Friedrich Walling, pp. 38–59.

National Defense University, for Gray, Colin S., “Why Strategy is Difficult,” Joint Force
Quarterly (summer 1999), pp. 6–12.

The United States Naval War College, for Handel, Michael I., “Who is Afraid of Carl
von Clausewitz?: A Guide to the Perplexed” (summer 1999).

University of California Press, for Liddell Hart, Basil, The Decisive Wars of History (1929),
reprinted as Strategy: The Indirect Approach (London: Faber and Faber, 1954), extracted
in Gerard Chaliand, ed., The Art of War in World History: From Antiquity to the Nuclear Age
(Berkeley, University of California Press, 1994), pp. 927–931.

University of California Press, for Schelling, Thomas C., Arms and Influence (New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 1966), pp. 1–34, extracted in Gerard Chaliand, ed., The
Art of War in World History: From Antiquity to the Nuclear Age (Berkeley, University of
California Press, 1994), pp. 1013–1022.

MIT Press, for Byman, Daniel L. and Waxman, Matthew C., “Kosovo and the Great
Air Power Debate,” International Security, 24 (4) (spring 2000), pp. 5–38. © 2000 by the
President and Fellows of Harvard College and the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology.
 Acknowledgements ix
Taylor and Francis, for Jervis, Robert, “What’s Wrong with the Intelligence Process?,”
International Journal of Intelligence and CounterIntelligence, 1(1) (1986), pp. 28–41.

Taylor and Francis, for Maiolo, Joseph A., “Deception and Intelligence Failure: Anglo-
German Preparations for U-boat Warfare in the 1930s,” Journal of Strategic Studies,
22(4) (1999), pp. 55–76.

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, for Brodie, Bernard (ed.), The Absolute Weapon: Atomic Power
and World Order. © 1946 by Yale Institute of International Studies. Copyright ©
renewed 1974 by Yale Concilium on International and Area Studies. Used by permis-
sion of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

Foreign Affairs, for Wohlstetter, Albert, “The Delicate Balance of Terror.” Reprinted
by permission of Foreign Affairs, 37(2), pp. 211–234. © 1959 by the Council on Foreign
Relations, Inc. www.ForeignAffairs.com.

Taylor and Francis, for Kreps, Sarah and Fuhrmann, Matthew, “Attacking the Atom:
Does Bombing Nuclear Facilities Affect Proliferation?,” The Journal of Strategic Studies,
34(2) (April 2011), pp. 161–187.

University of California Press, for Lawrence, T.E., “Guerrilla,” reproduced in Gerard

Chaliand, ed., The Art of War in World History: From Antiquity to the Nuclear Age,
pp. 880–890.

Taylor and Francis, for Neumann, Peter R. and Smith, Michael L.R., “Strategic
Terrorism: The Framework and its Fallacies,” The Journal of Strategic Studies 28(4)
(August 2005), pp. 571–595.

National Defense University, for Hoffman, Frank G., “Hybrid Warfare and Challenges,”
Joint Force Quarterly (2009), pp. 34–48.

MIT Press, for Mahnken, Thomas G., “Weapons: The Growth and Spread of the
Precision-Strike Regime,” Daedalus, 140 (3) (summer 2011), pp. 45–57. © 2011 by the
American Academy of Arts and Sciences.

Taylor and Francis, for Newmyer Deal, Jacqueline, “The Revolution in Military Affairs
with Chinese Characteristics,” The Journal of Strategic Studies, 33(4) (August 2010),
pp. 481–504.

Taylor and Francis, for Bukkvoll, Tor, “Iron Cannot Fight: The Role of Technology in
Current Russian Military Theory,” The Journal of Strategic Studies, 34(5) (October 2011),
pp. 681–706.
x Acknowledgements
The United States Naval War College, for Evans, Michael, “From Kadesh to Kandahar:
Military Theory and the Future of War,” Naval War College Review, 56(3) (summer
2003), pp. 139–147.

Taylor and Francis, for Rid, Thomas, “Cyber War Will Not Take Place,” The Journal of
Strategic Studies, 35(1) (February 2012), pp. 5–32.

Taylor and Francis, for Strachan, Hew, “The Lost Meaning of Strategy,” Survival (2005),
pp. 33–54.

Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders for their permission to reprint
material in this book. The publishers would be grateful to hear from any copyright
holder who is not here acknowledged and will undertake to rectify any errors or
omissions in future editions of this book.
General introduction to the
second edition

Events since the publication of the first edition of this Reader have only emphasized the
relevance of war and strategy in the modern world. The wars in Iraq, Afghanistan,
Georgia and Libya; territorial disputes in the South China and East China seas, as well
as the continuing possibility of conflict on the Korean Peninsula, in the Persian Gulf and
across the Taiwan Strait, all demonstrate that force remains an instrument of statecraft
and emphasize the importance of strategic thought and action.
At the same time, war appears to be taking new forms. Since the early 1990s, theorists
and practitioners have been arguing that we are in the early phases of a Revolution in
Military Affairs (RMA) brought on by the development and diffusion of precision-strike
weaponry. Moreover, recent years have seen growing debates over the effects and effective-
ness of cyber operations. The Chinese military has embraced both precision-guided weap-
onry and information operations, and both figure prominently in Chinese writings on
future warfare. In addition, Russia’s increasing reliance on nuclear weapons, China’s
nuclear modernization, North Korea’s demonstration of its nuclear capability, and
continued suspicion that Iran would like to follow suit, demonstrate that nuclear weapons
(and nuclear strategy) remain a concern.
In a world in which so much about the character and conduct of war appears to be
changing, an understanding of the theory of war reminds us that the nature of war does
not change. Moreover, an understanding of the enduring nature of war can help us
focus on its changing character and conduct.
Theory offers the student of strategy a conceptual toolkit to analyse strategic prob-
lems. An understanding of theory equips the student with a set of questions to guide
further study. As Carl von Clausewitz wrote, the purpose of theory is not to uncover
fixed laws or principles, but rather to educate the mind. As he put it:

[Theory] is an analytical investigation leading to a close acquaintance with the subject;

applied to experience – in our case, to military history – it leads to a thorough famili-
arity with it . . . Theory will have fulfilled its main task when it is used to analyze the
constituent elements of war, to distinguish precisely what at first sight seems fused,
to explain in full the properties of the means employed and to show their probable
effects, to define clearly the nature of the ends in view, and to illuminate all phases
of warfare in a thorough critical inquiry. Theory then becomes a guide to anyone
who wants to learn about war from books; it will light his way, ease his progress,
2 General introduction
train his judgment, and help him to avoid pitfalls . . . It is meant to educate the mind
of the future commander, or, more accurately, to guide him in his self-education,
not to accompany him to the battlefield; just as a wise teacher guides and stimulates
a young man’s intellectual development, but is careful not to lead him by the hand
for the rest of his life.1

In other words, we study strategic theory in order to learn how to think strategically.
Because the stakes in war are so high, strategy is a supremely practical endeavour.
The most elegant theory is useless if it lacks practical application. Strategic theory thus
succeeds or fails in direct proportion to its ability to help decision makers formulate
sound strategy. As the twentieth-century American strategist Bernard Brodie put it,
“strategy is a field where truth is sought in the pursuit of viable solutions.”2

On strategy
Because strategy is about how to win wars, any discussion of strategy must begin with an
understanding of war. As Clausewitz famously defined it, “war is thus an act of force to
compel our enemy to do our will.”3 Two aspects of this definition are notable. First, the
fact that war involves force separates it from other types of political, economic and mili-
tary competition. Second, the fact that war is not senseless slaughter, but rather an
instrument that is used to achieve a political purpose, differentiates it from other types of
violence.
Strategy is, or rather should be, a rational process. As Clausewitz wrote, “No one
starts a war – or rather, no one in his senses ought to do so – without first being clear
in his mind what he intends to achieve by that war and how he intends to conduct
it.”4 In other words, success in war requires a clear articulation of political aims and
the development of an adequate strategy to achieve them. Clausewitz’s formulation
acknowledges, however, that states sometimes go to war without clear or achievable
aims or a strategy to achieve them. As Germany demonstrated in two World
Wars, mastery of tactics and operations counts for little without a coherent or feasible
strategy.5
Successful strategy is based upon clearly identifying political goals, assessing one’s
comparative advantage relative to the enemy, calculating costs and benefits carefully,
and examining the risks and rewards of alternative strategies. The purpose of strategy is
ultimately to convince the enemy that he cannot achieve his aims. As Admiral J.C. Wylie
wrote,

the primary aim of the strategist in the conduct of war is some selected degree of
control of the enemy for the strategist’s own purpose; this is achieved by control
of the pattern of war; and this control of the pattern of war is had by manipulation
of the centre of gravity of war to the disadvantage of the opponent.6

Military success by itself is insufficient to achieve victory. History contains numerous

examples of armies that won all the battles and yet lost the war due to a flawed
strategy. In the Vietnam War, for example, the US military defeated the Viet Cong and
 General introduction 3
North Vietnamese Army in every major engagement they fought. The United States
nonetheless lost the war because civilian and military leaders never understood the
complex nature of the war they were waging and were thus unable to develop an effec-
tive strategy. Conversely, the United States achieved its independence from Britain
despite the fact that the Continental Army won only a handful of battles.7
It is worth emphasizing that the primacy of politics applies not only to states but also
to other strategic actors. As Al Qaeda’s leader Ayman al-Zawahiri wrote in his book
Knights Under the Prophet’s Banner:

If the successful operations against Islam’s enemies and the severe damage inflicted
on them do not serve the ultimate goal of establishing the Muslim nation in the
heart of the Islamic world, they will be nothing more than disturbing acts, regardless
of their magnitude, that could be absorbed and endured, even if after some time and
with some losses.

Clausewitz would doubtless approve of Zawahiri’s understanding of strategy, if not his

goals.
Just as it would be wrong to view war as nothing more than slaughter, it would be
misleading to believe that force can be used in highly calibrated increments to achieve
finely tuned effects. War has its own dynamics that makes it an unwieldy instrument,
more a bludgeon than a rapier. Interaction with the adversary makes it difficult to
achieve even the simplest objective. As Clausewitz reminds us, “War is not the act of a
living force upon a lifeless mass but always the collision of two living forces.”8 In other
words, just as we seek to use force to compel our adversary to do our will, so too will he
attempt to use force to coerce us. Effectiveness in war thus depends not only on what we
do but also on what an opponent does. This interaction limits significantly the ability to
control the use of military force.

About this volume

This Reader brings together works on strategic theory by some of the leading contribu-
tors to the field. It includes a mixture of hard-to-find classics as well as the latest scholar-
ship. It is meant to be of use to both students and practitioners of strategy. It is also
meant to be interdisciplinary, of interest both to historically minded political scientists as
well as theoretically minded historians.
Our intention in assembling this collection is to guide readers through a wide-ranging
survey of the key issues in strategy. In making our choices we have attempted to strike a
balance between theoretical works which seek to discover robust generalizations about
the nature of modern strategy, pertinent historical studies which attempt to ground the
study of strategy in the realities of modern war, and extracts from classic works by writers
such as Sun Tzu and T.E. Lawrence. No doubt some readers will be surprised to see one
of their favourites omitted and some issues neglected. Inevitably, for reasons of space,
the editors could not include all the essays and issues they would have ideally wanted.
Nonetheless, we feel that this collection offers students a balanced starting point for the
serious study of strategy.
4 General introduction
Contributors to this volume come from a wide variety of backgrounds. They repre-
sent a diversity of academic disciplines: from mathematics to history, from economics to
anthropology. As a result, students will encounter in this anthology a wide variety of
writing styles and methodologies, which reflects the importance of strategy as scholarly
discipline and real-world preoccupation.
The Reader is divided into six Parts. Each Part begins with a brief synopsis of the
included works and some background material to provide context, as well as suggestions
for further reading. To help students focus while reading, we have also provided a list of
study questions. Readers should also note that in addition to our suggestions for further
reading, the notes of the works reproduced here are a valuable bibliographic source.
Part I of the collection begins by discussing the role of strategic theory and history for
theorists, policy makers and professionals. It also discusses the use and abuse of strategic
theory and history.
Part II contains a set of essays that interpret, and reinterpret, classical strategic theory. It
includes excerpts from some of the classic texts of strategic theory by Sun Tzu, Liddell Hart
and Schelling, as well as Michael Handel’s guide to interpreting Clausewitz’s masterpiece
On War.
Having discussed strategic theory holistically, Part III contains essays that explore
some sea and air power. The essays are meant to provide the reader with a better under-
standing of what each of these instruments can – and cannot – accomplish. Part III also
contains essays about the role of intelligence and deception in warfare.
Part IV builds on the previous two parts by exploring the extent to which the advent of
nuclear weapons changed the theory and practice of strategy. It includes classics by Bernard
Brodie and Albert Wohlstetter, as well as a recent essay by Sarah Kreps and Matthew
Fuhrmann exploring the effectiveness of military efforts to prevent nuclear proliferation.
Part V explores irregular warfare, including small wars and hybrid wars.
Part VI addresses issues of future warfare and strategy. The works included address
the debate about revolutions in military affairs and offer some insight into how strategists
should approach the daunting challenge posed by the future. Are there enduring princi-
ples of strategy that future strategists neglect at their peril, or does the changing nature
of warfare also transform the fundamentals of strategy?

Notes
1 Carl von Clausewitz, On War, edited and translated by Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), 141.
2 Bernard Brodie, War and Politics (New York: Macmillan, 1973), 452–3
3 Clausewitz, On War, 75.
4 Ibid., 579.
5 David Stevenson, 1914–18: The History of the First World War (London: Penguin Books, 2005); Karl-
Heinz Frieser, The Blitzkrieg Legend: The 1940 Campaign in the West (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute
Press, 2005).
6 J.C. Wylie, Military Strategy: A General Theory of Power Control (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press,
1989), 77.
7 Andrew F. Krepinevich, Jr., The Army and Vietnam (Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1986); Piers Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783 (Rutgers: University of Nebraska Press,
1993).
8 Clausewitz, On War, 4.
Part I

The uses of strategic

theory

Introduction
The three essays in Part I offer readers an important point of departure for the explora-
tion of strategic studies. All three authors share the view that strategy is more than the
practical application of a few common-sense rules of thumb about the use of military
means to achieve political ends; that strategy should be studied methodically and that it
has a place among the scholarly pursuits; and that useful strategic knowledge demands
that present-day theorists think rigorously about “the lessons” of past wars and history
more generally.
In the first essay reproduced in Part I, Sir Lawrence Freedman of King’s College
London draws on insights from political science and sociology to examine the most
fundamental underlying concept of strategic studies: namely, the concept of “power”.
Although power is often measured in terms of assets (men, money, hardware, etc.),
power should be understood as a relationship between opposing wills. As Freedman
defines it, “power is the capacity to produce effects that are more advantageous than
would otherwise have been the case”. To illustrate, Freedman turns to deterrence
theory: A deters (or exercises power over) B, when B modifies its behaviour in response
to A’s threats. As anyone familiar with international relations knows, however, deter-
rence relationships are in practice never straightforward. B may not perceive the threat
or respond in the way intended by A. The complexities of politics and psychology
conspire to frustrate the exercise of power, especially when it requires the continual
application of force. Put simply, B will always seek ways to subvert A’s control. Although
for these reasons any exercise of power is inherently unstable, power at its most stable is
achieved when B accepts A’s will in the form of authority. What Freedman’s analysis
suggests is that an understanding of power relevant to strategic studies must encompass
more than “control” through “force”. Strategy, he writes, is “the art of creating power
to obtain the maximum political objective using available military means”.
While Freedman offers insights into the methodology of strategic studies and the
central concept of power, the second essay reproduced here examines the way in which
strategic thinkers have used and abused history. William C. Fuller, Jr. of the US Naval
War College disputes the accepted wisdom that armed forces routinely ignore the
“lessons” of prior wars. Even the most cursory survey shows that nations and their armed
forces have constantly striven to learn from past experience. The real problem, as Fuller
6 The uses of strategic theory
sees it, is not a lack of interest in historical lessons, but instead the problem of knowing
what “the lessons” are and how to embrace them. He sets out the typical styles of
extracting military lessons and the pitfalls associated with them, specifically the fallacies
of the “linear projection” and the “significant exception”. Strategists fall for the first of
these by rigidly predicting future military outcomes from those of the immediate past;
strategists fall for the second when they explain away prior military experiences that do
not conform to the existing model of war as “significant exceptions”. These two fallacies
occur because military organizations prefer steady incremental change to radical trans-
formation, and because they often prefer to prepare for the wars they want to fight
instead of the ones that they may actually be more likely to fight. What Fuller’s analysis
shows is that the whole concept of a “military lesson” is dubious and potentially
dangerous. Although military organizations can learn much from wars of the past, useful
“military lessons” are short-lived because of the interactive nature of war. After
all, future adversaries may find a way to creatively exploit a strategy based on prior
experience, or may simply learn precisely the same lesson, and so produce a frustrating
strategic stalemate.
The final essay takes strategic studies to the level of its application. As Colin S. Gray
of the University of Reading points out, much of what appears to be wise and even
prudent in theory is often unhelpful to the hapless military officer who is tasked with
drawing up a feasible strategy and then executing it. Strategy is difficult to put into prac-
tice because it is neither policy making nor combat. Talent in one or the other field, as
Gray writes, does not make one a good strategist. Good strategists, Gray suggests, are
born rather than trained. Strategy is difficult because war itself is an extraordinarily
complex activity in which everything that can go wrong will. Even the most high-tech
communication and intelligence systems, for instance, cannot dispel what Clausewitz
(see Michael Handel’s essay in Part II) called the fog and friction of war, or anticipate
how a foe will act to frustrate even the most brilliantly conceived and executed strategy.

Study questions
1 What is strategy?
2 What is “power”? And how does the definition offered by Freedman shape your
understanding of strategy?
3 Is strategy an “art” or a “social science”?
4 Are historical “lessons” a reliable guide for future strategy?
5 Why is strategy difficult?

Further reading
Betts, Richard K., “Is Strategy an Illusion?”, International Security 25, no. 2 (2000), 5–50.
Brodie, Bernard, “Strategy as a Science”, World Politics 1, no. 4 (1949), 467–488.
Brodie, Bernard, Strategy in the Missile Age (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1959).
Fearon, James, “Rationalist Explanations for War”, International Organization (summer 1995), 317–414.
Fischer, David Hackett, Historians’ Fallacies (London: Routledge, 1971).
Gat, Azar, A History of Military Thought: From the Enlightenment to the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2002).
 The uses of strategic theory 7
Gooch, John, “Clio and Mars: The Use and Abuse of History”, The Journal of Strategic Studies 3, no. 3
(1980), 21–36.
Howard, Michael, The Causes of War (London: Ashgate, 1983).
Lanir, Zvi, “The ‘Principles of War’ and Military Thinking”, The Journal of Strategic Studies 16, no. 1
(1992), 1–17.
McIvor, Anthony D., ed., Rethinking the Principles of War (Annapolis, MD: US Naval Institute Press,
2005).
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1 Strategic studies and the
problem of power
Lawrence Freedman

I
‘The strategic approach’ is . . . one which takes account of the part played by force,
or the threat of force in the international system. It is descriptive in so far as it
analyses the extent to which political units have the capacity to use, or to threaten
the use of armed force to impose their will on other units; whether to compel them
to do some things, to deter them from doing others, or if need be to destroy them as
independent communities altogether. It is prescriptive in so far as it recommends
policies which will enable such units to operate in an international system which is
subject to such conditions and constraints.1

Michael Howard has throughout his career served as one of the most eloquent and lucid
exponents of the strategic approach. He was outlining his own creed when he described
classical strategists as

the thinkers who assume that the element of force exists in international relations,
that it can and must be intelligently controlled, but that it cannot be totally
eliminated.2

In that essay, first published in 1968, he concluded by wondering whether classical

strategy as a self-sufficient study still had any claim to exist. The field was then
dominated by the inputs of political scientists, physical scientists, systems analysts,
and mathematical economists and a grasp of modern military technology appeared,
above all, to be of central importance for those seeking to make sense of the great—
and largely nuclear—strategic issues of the day. During the next decade, as the costs
of allowing a preoccupation with technology to crowd out the traditional themes of
strategic thought and as the limitations of the sophisticated methodologies developed
in the United States become painfully apparent, Howard’s confidence in a classical
approach returned, suitably modified to take account of the rate of technological
advance.3
It is only in recent decades that the study of strategy has become academically respect-
able. After the Great War, for many the only reason to study war was in order to design
an international order in which disputes would be settled without resort to arms. It was
10 Lawrence Freedman
only when Quincy Wright produced his monumental The Study of War, that the virtue of
serious empirical analysis became acknowledged.4
Historians sustained the study of the ebb and flow of political life, with diplomatic
historians undertaking this responsibility for international affairs. However, even here,
until well into this century, the role of military force as a political instrument was studied
only in the most general terms. Diplomatic historians were of course interested in the
threat of force and its application in particular instances, but they rarely descended into
issues of tactics and logistics.
Only those close to the military establishment saw virtue in the study of strategy. They
produced campaign histories and tried to search for principles of strategy with which to
educate the officer corps. At best, as with Clausewitz, practitioners understood the rela-
tionship between war and the character of the societies fighting them: at worst, there was
little interest in anything other than tips on the conduct of battle. As Bernard Brodie
observed, ‘Some modicum of theory there always had to be. But like much other
military equipment, it had to be light in weight and easily packaged to be carried into
the field.’5 Thus he noted the tendency to strip such theory as did emerge to its barest
essentials and then convert it into maxims, or lists of the principles of war. Strategic
theory, complained Brodie, thus became pragmatic and practical, unreflective of the
framework in which the strategists were operating.
There was therefore prior to the start of the nuclear age no established framework
for the academic study of military strategy. Diplomatic historians were aware of indi-
vidual strategies; students of international relations understood why strategies were
needed; military practitioners busied themselves with the design of strategies; political
theorists and international lawyers sought to reorder the world so that strategy would be
irrelevant.
The experience of the 1930s and 1940s knocked much of the idealism out of political
and intellectual life. A world war followed so quickly by a cold war might have encour-
aged the study of strategy under any circumstances. The advent of nuclear weapons
pushed questions of strategy right to the fore of political life, and once they were there it
could not be long before the academic community would follow. Howard and Brodie
were part of an emerging community of strategic thinkers who brought a variety of
academic disciplines to bear on these great problems.
They, along with others generally drawn from the disciplines of history and politics,
initially worried most as to the sense of nuclear strategy, doubting whether nuclear
strength could be turned into a decisive military asset when faced with an adversary
of some—even if inferior—nuclear strength. But East and West were acting and
talking as if nuclear weapons had superseded all other types of weapons, and commit-
ments to allies had been made on exactly this supposition. So the few classical strategists
found themselves in a conundrum for which their intellectual traditions had left
them unprepared. Into the breach stepped a new breed of strategists, often from
schools of economics and engineering rather than politics and history, who sought
to demonstrate how a wholly novel situation might be mastered by exploiting novel
methodologies.6
Their approach derived its significance largely from their concentration on those
features of the nuclear age which distinguished it from the exercise of military power in
 Strategic studies and the problem of power 11
pre-nuclear times. This inevitably led to the neglect of the traditional sources of military
power. In addition, because so much of the intellectual attraction of the new methodolo-
gies derived from their abstract nature, the scenarios of future conflict explored made
only a slight attempt to relate decision-making to any recognizable social and political
context.
Almost by definition, should anything remotely resembling these scenarios ever come
to pass, the political and social context would be utterly transformed. But many of the
new strategists argued that to the extent that social forces and human passions must
inevitably be in play their role should be minimized, for there would be a premium on
cool, rational decision-making if there was to be any satisfactory result to a nuclear
confrontation. Formal rationality not mass emotion must govern decisions. At most, the
prospect of mass emotion might be used by the calculating manager to persuade his
opponent that the time had come to strike a bargain.
It was almost an attempt to transform the exercise of political power by making it
subject to the managerial revolution and so turn states into rational decision-makers,
maximizing utilities. This analytical approach illuminated aspects of strategy that had
not always been appreciated in the classical approach but it lacked the broad, histori-
cally tuned insight of the classicist. Meanwhile the classical strategists lacked a theoreti-
cal framework to help integrate the new analyses. It is not surprising that there has been
a constant return to Clausewitz.
Michael Howard has been unusual in his attention to the need for a conceptual
framework if the study of strategy is to progress. My concern in this essay is to explore
the possibility that strategic theory can be taken further by investigating what must be
one of its central concepts—power.
The classical approach starts with the state as the central unit of the international
system, reflecting sovereignty, a capacity for independent action, and certain value-
systems. States need strategy because they are vulnerable: they can be created
or destroyed by armed force. Howard has always insisted that a concern with this dark
side of the international system could never provide a total approach to international
politics, but it was necessary to take care of it in order that the lighter side could glow.
He has stressed the adverse consequences of following it too slavishly, for this could
provoke conflicts rather than prevent them. The strategic approach must only be used
in conjunction with other, more positive, approaches to the conduct of relations among
states. However, so long as armed force remains a feature of the system it cannot be
ignored.
The fact that military strategy must come to terms with force distinguishes it from
those other forms of planning which are often described as strategic but which do not
involve ‘functional and purposive violence’. In one pithy definition Howard describes
military strategy as ‘organized coercion’.7
The ideal for the strategist might be to achieve a condition of ‘pure coercion’, when
his will becomes irresistible, but the opportunities for this have been diminishing in the
modern international system and so a state resorting to force as an instrument of policy
must overcome an opposing, and armed, will.8
Thus, along with Beaufre, Howard sees strategy as a ‘dialectic of two opposing wills’.9
The stress on ‘will’ in an analysis of the meaning of strategy is important because it
12 Lawrence Freedman
provides a link with classic definitions of power, which Howard by and large follows, as
referring to the ability to get one’s way against a resistant opponent. In one essay he
defines it as the ability of political units ‘to organize the relevant elements of the external
world to satisfy their needs’. As an attribute of a political unit this is normally described
as a capacity. So strategic power becomes ‘coercive capacity’, which is elaborated else-
where as ‘the capacity to use violence for the protection, enforcement or extension of
authority’.10
This understanding of power is central to the strategic approach. In this essay I wish
to question whether it is adequate to the task. The elaboration of a satisfactory concept
of power is a familiar endeavour among political theorists and the lack of an agreed
definition has suggested that this is one of those ‘essentially contested’ concepts that defy
definition because it can only be understood through a package of values and assump-
tions that are in themselves matters of fundamental dispute.11
In the first part of this essay I take a brief look at the concept of power in political
theory as a means of raising some of the issues relevant to a discussion of how the
concept has been and might be used in strategic theory. I then consider why this ques-
tion has not been addressed as much as it might have been by the strategic studies
community. Morgenthau’s view of power provides a link between political theory and
strategic theory, before a consideration of the insights that might be derived from
contemporary strategic theory. In the final part I attempt to elaborate a concept of
power relevant to strategic theory. Through this I seek to justify a definition of strategy
as the art of creating power to obtain the maximum political objectives using available
military means.

II
Although the intensive political science debate on this nature of power has been much
more extensive and sophisticated than that in strategic studies it has still reached a dead
end. This is not the place to survey the massive literature on power, but it is worth noting
some features.
Much of the difficulty stems from the fact that the starting-point for most analyses of
power—in political theory as much as strategic studies—is that it is an expression of the
subject’s will. This is reflected in different ways in three of the classic definitions of power:
Thomas Hobbes, ‘man’s present means to any future apparent good’;12 Max Weber,
‘the probability that one actor in a social relationship will . . . carry out his own will’;13
and Bertrand Russell—‘the production of intended effects’.14
One of the key questions is whether power is only realized through conflict. Talcott
Parsons, for example, sees power as a generalized capacity to seek group goals, and he
stresses the extent to which these goals can be consensual and achieved by an accepted
authority.15 Those who disagree insist that this neglects the inherently coercive and
conflictual dimensions of power. They are concerned that insufficient stress is given to
the ‘power over’ questions as opposed to the ‘power to’.16
There are many problems with the analysis of power in terms of ‘power over’. Pluralist
theorists, such as Dahl, sought to measure power by looking at the processes of decision-
making and tended to discover that no one group had a monopoly of power in terms of
 Strategic studies and the problem of power 13
being able to get their way. This was vulnerable to the sort of critique developed by the
more radical theorists such as Bachrach and Baratz, who pointed to the importance of
successful non-decisions, that is the ability to get a set of interests enshrined in the
unspoken and unchallenged consensus, as a critical indicator of power.17 Power can be
exercised by the creation of social and political institutions which ensure that only the
most innocuous second-order issues ever come forward for decision. If the major ques-
tions relating to the distribution of resources and values in a society are successfully kept
from political consideration then this is an effective exercise of power. So what is meas-
ured may not be very interesting.
Others have argued that power can be measured by looking at the distribution of
resources and values, but that is open to the objection that the distribution may not have
been intended and so cannot truly be said to be an exercise of power. Looking at the
political hierarchy in search for ‘power élites’ also has its limitations, in that one élite
may not always win on all issues, and that those in an apparently subordinate position
may not be dissatisfied with the outcomes of the political process. Thus is it really an
exercise of power if the effects were not intended? At the very least must one show that
its exercise has made a difference?
Those who are most keen to find the sources of power have been those most anxious
to seize them. The strategists with the most sensitive theories of power have been
Marxist-Leninists because their theorizing has been closely linked with political action
(praxis). Marxist theory has taken as its starting-point the existence of a conflict of interest
between the ruling and working classes and seen its strategic task as being one of creating
a consciousness of class oppression rather than using its own awareness of this to analyse
inequality.
The difficulties of doing this have given Marxists a sense of the great variety of means
by which people can be kept down. Concepts like hegemony, which are now so useful in
understanding international relations, were first applied systematically by activist-
theoreticians such as Gramsci18 who were anxious to discover how it was that ruling
groups could ensure passivity and compliance among the masses. The problem of seizing
control of the state in conditions when all the odds were stacked in favour of the ruling
group stimulated sustained strategic debate.
Marxists were least interested in decision-making in a bourgeois democracy, which
they saw as part of the pretence by which ruling groups hid the realities of power from
the masses. Rather they were interested in the processes by which mass consciousness
became clouded by the ability of the ruling class to influence the way they saw political
reality, and, at the other extreme, those historic, revolutionary moments when the
masses rise to the challenge and attempt to take power.
From a variety of perspectives other political theorists have considered the relation-
ship of power to authority on the one hand and force on the other. This link between
power and authority is an important issue in much political theory, according to whether
the two are considered to be exclusive or extensions of each other.19 There is little doubt
that the peaceful exercise of authority is much more satisfactory than the violent exercise
of force when it comes to getting one’s way. But how is that to be achieved? The trick of
the powerful is to rule by encouraging the ruled to internalize the ruler’s own values and
interests.
14 Lawrence Freedman
III
Can strategists make a contribution to this debate? Strategic studies itself is not rich
in theory. It appeals to the practical and the pragmatic. Much of the fascination of
strategy is that it is concerned with politics at its most pure and raw—the pursuit of
interests even where they conflict with those of others, the problems of anticipating the
decisions of competitors or rivals when taking one’s own, the attempt to manipulate and
shape the environment rather than simply becoming the victim of forces beyond one’s
control.
As such it has long intrigued students of politics—Machiavelli is considered to be one
of the founding fathers of modern strategy.20 Arguably, it should be acknowledged as
one of the central branches of political theory. Yet a preoccupation with strategy has
often been considered slightly improper, perhaps because it requires regarding political
life too much through the eyes of the practitioner. Academic political theory has been
dominated by questions of order and justice. Even the study of power has often been
about whether to exercise it can be moral, rather than how the concept can be refined
to aid our understanding of the dynamics of political life.21
From a moral perspective strategy appears as subversive: it illuminates the means by
which the drive for order is thwarted and the unjust can triumph. Meanwhile, more
contemporary political analysis has sought to identify patterns and regularities in polit-
ical systems that tend to deny the importance of the active element in political life.
The debate within political science on the concept of power which raged during the
1960s and 1970s22 barely caused a ripple in the study of international politics, let alone
strategic theory. Graham Allison’s discovery of the limitations to rational decision-
making in Essence of Decision mirrored without reference many of the arguments used by
pluralist writers in their battle with the élite theorists.23
Yet there was a relevant intellectual tradition which influenced those coming to these
questions from the broader study of international politics. Those working within the
realist tradition had ‘power’ as the central concept and in general have defined it along
established lines, stressing causation and the production of intended effects, and identi-
fying it in terms of power over resources.24
Let us consider Hans Morgenthau’s concept of power.25 There is, with Morgenthau,
as is often noted, a tension between his understanding of power as a means to ultimate
ends, and power as an end in itself.26 It must be to be some extent an end in itself. Unless
one exercise of power is always different from another according to the ends being
sought, the acquisition of power as a general capacity which can serve a variety of ends
is a natural activity.
Power is directly related to political processes. Anything that can be achieved by
natural means does not require power. Excluded from consideration are non-
controversial interactions, such as extradition treaties. Morgenthau’s concept of politics
is thus very narrow—too narrow for most modern tastes. It is even more circumscribed
in domestic affairs, where much more activity is shaped by non-political factors. In inter-
national affairs, without the social cement, much more is left to politics.
Yet while Morgenthau’s understanding of politics is too narrow, his definition of
power is intriguing:
 Strategic studies and the problem of power 15
When we speak of power, we mean man’s control over the minds and actions of
other men . . .
Thus the statement that A has or wants political power over B signifies always
that A is able, or wants to be able, to control certain actions of B through influencing
B’s mind.

Thus the concept of power stresses ‘the psychological element of the political relation-
ship’. As such, it works through an expectation of benefits or a fear of disadvantage, or
‘respect or love of a man or an office’. It involves orders, threats, and persuasion but also
a recognition of authority or prestige, an aspect of international politics Morgenthau
considered too often neglected.
This is distinguished from the actual exercise of physical violence. The threat of this
violence is an intrinsic element of international politics, but when violence becomes an
actuality, it signifies the abdication of political power in favour of military or pseudo-
military power. Yet Morgenthau cannot separate the application of force from power
because war has a political objective. War is a non-political means to a political end—
the accumulation of power. ‘The political objective of war itself is not per se the conquest
of territory and the annihilation of enemy armies, but a change in the mind of the enemy
which make him yield to the will of the victor.’ Note here too the identification of real-
izing one’s will as an expression of power.
There are obvious problems with the distinction between physical force and psycho-
logical power. The only time when one can truly enforce one’s will is when one has
achieved physical dominance. This is a problem to which I shall return.
What interests me for the moment is the consequence of the presumption that power
is exercised through the mind of the target—it is in the mind of the beholder. This is a
useful starting-point for any analysis of power, yet its immediate impact is to undermine
two of the common assumptions with which many analyses start, and with which
Morgenthau is often associated—that power is an asset to be accumulated and is
achieved to the extent that one’s will can be realized.
Once it is recognized that power can only be exercised through its impact on the
subject’s mind then it is accepted that it is relational and dependent upon the mental
construction of political reality by the subject.

IV
This problem can be taken further by a consideration of deterrence theory, which, for
strategic studies, has been the most thoroughly considered power relationship.27 A
standard definition is employed by George and Smoke: ‘Deterrence is simply the persua-
sion of one’s opponent that the costs and/or risks of a given course of action he might
take outweigh its benefits.’28 The definition makes it clear that the idea is to dissuade the
opponent from initiating action rather than to compel him to do—or undo—something
against his will, which distinguishes it from a more general definition of power.29
However, it is by no means clear that the ‘something’ in question threatens the deterrer
directly. The deterred may decide not to act in a particular way, even though this may
have no direct bearing on the interests of the deterrer. The definition acknowledges that
16 Lawrence Freedman
the success of deterrence depends on the opponent being persuaded. No matter how
sincere the deterrer might be in his conditional threats, if the opponent does not take
these threats seriously then deterrence will fail.
If deterrence is in the eye of the beholder then the opponent may simply misappre-
hend the message that he is being sent and fail to act accordingly. The problem with
designing deterrence strategies has therefore been to find ways of ensuring that the
opponent receives the threat, relates it to his proposed course of action, and decides as a
result not to go ahead as planned. The use in the definition from George and Smoke of
the phrase ‘costs and/or risks’ recognizes that the opponent need not be convinced that
the costs will definitely be imposed, only that there is a significant probability of this
being so.
This peculiar quality of deterrence, with the opponent being persuaded not to do
something, makes it very difficult to know whether in practice a deterrence relationship
is in being. If the opponent is inactive this may be because he has no inclination to act,
or, if he has been persuaded not to act, then this may be for reasons quite unconnected
with the deterrer or from the particular character of deterrent threats.
This is often discussed as a problem for the deterrer. Is he wasting his time by making
an effort to deter something that cannot be deterred or does not need deterring? How
can he make his threats sufficiently credible to penetrate the mind-set of his opponent?
Does this credibility depend on really being prepared to carry out the threat or merely
conveying a sufficient probability that he just might?
But it is also a problem for the deterred. Is he missing an opportunity because of
mythical fears about the possible consequences? The condition of paranoia, which is
much discussed in the deterrence literature, is an obvious example of being influenced
by fear of another which has little basis in reality. A deterrer can remain innocent of his
influence on an opponent’s calculations without the opponent losing his grip on reality.
It is possible, indeed quite normal, to be persuaded against a particular course of action
by the thought of how the target might respond. Prudence might dictate caution without
the potential target being aware that he had ever been at risk. A would-be aggressor may
thus be effectively deterred by an accurate assessment of the likely form of his potential
victim’s response without the victim having to do very much.
The phrase ‘self-deterrence’ is sometimes used to denote an unwillingness to take
necessary initiatives as a result of a self-induced fear of the consequences. But all deter-
rence is self-deterrence in that it ultimately depends on the calculations made by the
deterred, whatever the quality of the threats being made by the deterrer. So while much
of the discussion of deterrence revolves around the problem of adopting it as a strategy,
analytically it is important to recognize that it is as interesting to examine it from the
perspective of the deterred as much as the deterrer.
Moreover, deterrence can seem far less problematic when we start from the point of
view of the deterred. Once certain courses of action have been precluded through fear
of the consequences should they be attempted, this conclusion may be institutionalized.
It requires little further deliberation.
I noted earlier the focus of strategic studies on military means rather than political
ends. The political ends are normally described in terms of obtaining conformity to the
‘will’ of the political unit. With unconditional surrender at the end of total war this may
 Strategic studies and the problem of power 17
be achieved, but with many conflicts where force is employed the outcome is much more
messy and confused than this decisive objective would anticipate. Much of the strategic
theory developed by such figures as Kahn and Schelling has discussed strategy in terms
of an incomplete antagonism, by which elements of common interest can be influential
even during the most intensive conflict, and has considered the conduct of the key
players during the course of a conflict in terms of bargaining.
A bargain normally means an adjustment to ends. A less than perfect outcome is
achieved but it is still the most that can be achieved. How then does this fit in with defi-
nitions of strategy which discuss it in terms of the search for appropriate means to achieve
given ends—such as the much-used definition developed by Basil Liddell Hart, ‘The art
of distributing and applying military means to fulfil the ends of policy.’30
It is possible to discuss either military means or political ends in isolation from each
other. That is what happens in much strategic studies, which turns into the most micro-
scopic examination of means unrelated to any serious discussion of what ends might be
served. Equally, many discussions of political ends are on a macroscopic scale and
discussed without any consideration of whether they are at all feasible in practice.
A key aspect of strategy is the interdependence of decision-making. This does not only
refer to the need to take the goals and capabilities of opponents into account. It must
take in the need to motivate one’s own forces by appealing either to their very personal
goals of survival/comfort/honour or to their broader values, as well as the need to
appeal to allies to throw in their lot with you. Equally, with allies, there is co-operation
to achieve the overriding goal of the containment or defeat of the enemy, but as with the
grand alliance during the Second World War, this can be combined with confrontation
over the shape of the post-war settlement or competition for the hearts and minds of
the liberated territories. Again, this requires some adjustment of both means and ends.
In practice, strategic relations are all mixtures of co-operation, confrontation, and
competition.
The interdependence of the decision-making means that effective strategy is based on
a sound appreciation of the structure of the relationships involved and the opportunities
it provides the various actors. It is necessary to anticipate the choices faced by others and
the way that your action shapes those choices.

V
Where does this leave us with the analysis of power and strategy? The view that strategy
is bound up with the role of force in international life must be qualified, because if force
is but one form of power then strategy must address the relationship between this form
and others, including authority.
The analysis of power has been dominated by a sense of hierarchy, as a relationship
between a super-ordinate and a sub-ordinate. This seems to be accepted in strategic
theory yet it is contradicted by the anarchic character of the international system and the
lack of a supreme locus of power. If power resources are decentralized then power rela-
tionships cannot be simply hierarchical. It is further assumed that the atomized nature
of the system produces regular clashes between individual units which, because they are
not mediated through a complex social structure, are more likely to be settled through
18 Lawrence Freedman
force. While this Hobbesian view of the international system has been properly contra-
dicted,31 it does provide a contrary tendency to that in domestic politics in modern states
with an authoritative government and many effective constraints against the regular use
of force to settle conflicts.
It is hard to get away from a view of power as a capacity to produce effects. In my
view, if it is insisted that these effects be ‘intended and foreseen’32 then in practice this is
too restrictive. My definition of power is the capacity to produce effects that are more advanta-
geous than would otherwise have been the case. How might this work as a concept?
A can oblige B to modify his behaviour through a successful application of force. In
this case B’s range of choice is physically restricted and his perceptions of A’s power are
reinforced through superior strength. However, it is normally preferable for A to
encourage B to modify his behaviour through coercive threats (and also inducements).
Best of all for A is if B does his bidding without question because he accepts A’s authority.
With all exertions of power other than force majeure, A’s objective is to persuade B to
change his preferred pattern of behaviour. In these cases an appreciation of power must
start with B’s understanding of his relationship with A.
Theorists normally give short shrift to the idea that power is an asset. Although we
talk of the powerful, in practice we are talking of power resources. There is nothing
automatic in their application: they can be squandered or exploited brilliantly. There is
an art to politics. Yet if by looking at great strength we act cautiously with A then A has
exerted power. So power is a capacity that exists to the extent that it is recognized by others. It is a
perceived capacity that cannot be independent of what is perceived.
This does not require a distinction between power and brute force. Force is not some-
thing different, merely the most extreme case when recognition of A’s power becomes
inescapable. Nor does power dissolve into authority at the other extreme. Authority is a
form of power. If people do what you want because of awe or respect then that is the best
form of power.
The perception of B may bear scant resemblance to the intention of A. The identifica-
tion of power with the ability to achieve a desired effect, that is with will, ignores the
problem that many of the effects involved are unintended or partial. It is one thing to
demonstrate mastery over nature—quite another to demonstrate mastery over other
wilful beings. It is rare in any social system for an actor to be able to disregard pressure
of one sort or another, positive and negative, from all others, which would imply a
complete monopoly of power. Even when A is in an unassailable position vis-à-vis B,
B may still have potentials that cause A to modify his behaviour. There is a fundamental
difference between the exertion of ‘power over’ nature or physical objects, and over
other individuals or groups who also have a capacity of sorts.
In most social systems, even those marked by a high degree of conflict, individual
actors participate in a multiplicity of political relationships. B does not simply need to
modify his behaviour because of A but also because of C and D as well. Most decisions
are complex and involve a variety of considerations involving other actors. The more dense
and complex the social structure the more difficult the exertion of power because B cannot attend only to
the pressures from A.
The greater the coherence within a political community the more likely it is that
power will be exercised through authority. In modern, complex structures this will mean
 Strategic studies and the problem of power 19
that it has been institutionalized. For reasons that are familiar this is extremely difficult
in international society but it has been achieved in some areas—for example Western
Europe and North America. Conflict will develop within a political community to the
extent that institutional forms leave one group feeling disadvantaged, and to the extent
that it sees itself to be a distinct community on its own. This is the natural state of the
international community. But it is moderated by awareness of a shared fate resulting
from the costs of conflicts and the benefits of interdependence.
The two-way character of most political relationships and the complex character of
most political systems mean that any exercise of power is manifestly unstable. It is,
however, possible to go further and argue that any exercise of power is inherently unstable.
Let us examine this last point more fully. The ideal type towards which most discus-
sions of power tend is of A wholly controlling B’s fate. Suppose that A has captured B.
A’s most complete exercise of power would be to execute B immediately. But then the
power relationship would cease to exist. Let us assume that A wishes only to imprison B.
To start with B may be hopelessly cowed. Gradually he may find ways of not doing A’s
bidding. This may be no more than time-wasting. He may become aware that he is
something of a prize for A and that A will eventually wish to exhibit him in a reasonable
physical condition. He will also know that A cannot cope with a complete challenge to
his authority and so he will begin to seek the limits of A’s tolerance.
All this may be quite trivial and petty. In essential terms it may not matter. Despite all
the irritations imposed on his captors, B is still taken and displayed. But multiply this
relationship and the individual assertions of freedom at the margins can have a cumula-
tive effect. A cannot provide a warden for every prisoner. The fewer he has, the greater
the opportunity for conspiracies and acts of defiance. If control is lost completely then
there might be a mass break-out.
Absolute control requires a continual application of force. It needs continual renewal.
While for hard cases this may be found when necessary, in practice a more relaxed rela-
tionship will often be sought. Occupying forces will seek to do bargains with the victim
populations—material goods, respect for religious symbols, etc. That is, they seek to
reduce the coercive aspects of the relationships and seek to develop durable structures
which soften the impact of conflict.

VI
This analysis may be able to help clarify the character of strategic activity.
The focus of strategic thinking must be the ability of a state to sustain itself. Much
writing on strategy and international politics distinguishes the problems of the state in its
external relations from the requirements of internal order. This is a false dichotomy. A
state with problems in internal order is more vulnerable to external pressure—it is a
supplicant, requiring powerful friends to put down insurgency and provide economic
assistance. It is vulnerable to an unfriendly opponent stirring the pot a little.
Often problems of internal order at most require local police action. The complexity
of social interactions in a modern society ensures a coherence that in itself deters seces-
sionists and insurrectionists. However, this is by no means always the case. Many modern
states are still at an early stage of development and are not based on any natural social
20 Lawrence Freedman
cohesion. They are agglomerations of nationalities or tribes who feel their greatest
loyalty to the group rather than society at large.
We can thus distinguish between hard and soft states according to the degree of social
cohesion and popular legitimacy which they enjoy. Hard states can be vulnerable exter-
nally. But strong national feeling is an important source of political strength.
The same distinction can be applied at the regional level. Western Europe is a strong
sub-system, in that it is marked by a complex interdependence and shared values, while
Eastern Europe may be weak. The potential for conflict tends to decline with the
complexity of the social structure. None the less conflicts persist and strategy only comes
into being when there is an antagonism of which all participants are aware. It is inter-
esting to consider unconscious power relationships but they do not involve strategy.
While strategy may start with a visible conflict which will have to be decided by force
the ideal resolution may be for A to turn his advantage into authority. The institution-
alization of advantage so that it becomes reflected in consensus and procedure is the
supreme achievement of strategy. Strategists specialize in situations in which force may
be necessary, but a sole preoccupation with force misses the opportunities of authority.
Although all power is unstable, that based on authority has a much longer half-life than
that based on force.
Because in most cases, the power relationship between A and B is only one of a
number in which both actors participate, B may have a variety of options as to how to
respond to A’s threats. In order to get B to produce the required behaviour A must gain
B’s attention and shape his construction of reality. This must depend on the coercive
means at A’s disposal, but to translate these means into effective power is an art rather
than a science because of the need both to ensure that B does not use his own means to
frustrate this effort and also to influence B’s developing assessment of his own situation.
This is always the case even in war. In the movement towards the decisive clash, B may
be holding out all the time for a better peace settlement than unconditional surrender.
Force may for a moment provide complete control but the instability of such control
requires that either it is renewed continuously or else transformed, through the strate-
gist’s art, into authority.
In this sense strategy is the art of creating power. Power is unstable and subject to qualifica-
tion. It does not always produce the preferred effects, but it produces more advanta-
geous effects than would otherwise have been achieved.

Notes
1 Michael Howard, ‘The Strategic Approach to International Relations’, repr. in The Causes of Wars
(London, 1983), 36.
2 Michael Howard, ‘The Classical Strategists’, repr. in Studies in War and Peace (London, 1970), 155.
3 See in particular ‘The Relevance of Traditional Strategy’ and ‘The Forgotten Dimensions of
Strategy’, in Foreign Affairs, Jan. 1973 and Summer 1979 respectively. Both are reprinted in The
Causes of Wars.
4 Quincy Wright, The Study of War (Chicago, 1942). (Abridged version edited by Louise Leonard
Wright, Chicago, 1964.)
5 Bernard Brodie, Strategy in the Missile Age (Princeton, NJ, 1959) 21.
6 This is discussed in my The Evolution of Nuclear Strategy (London, 1981), esp. Section Five.
7 ‘The Relevance of Traditional Strategy’, in Causes, 85.
 Strategic studies and the problem of power 21
8 Ibid. 86.
9 André Beaufre, Deterrence and Strategy (London, 1965), although he disagreed with Beaufre’s tendency
to extend the use of the term strategy.
10 ‘Morality and Force in International Politics’, in Studies, 235; ‘Ethics and Power in International
Policy’, in Causes, 61; ‘Military Power and International Order’, in Studies, 209.
11 W.B. Gallie, ‘Essentially Contested Concepts’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 56 (1955–6),
167–98. For a discussion of power along these lines see William E. Connolly, The Terms of Political
Discourse (2nd edn.; Princeton, NJ, 1983).
12 Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, parts 1 and II (Indianapolis, 1958), 78.
13 Max Weber, Economy and Society, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich (3 vols., New York, 1968),
53.
14 Bertrand Russell, Power: A New Social Analysis (London, 1938), 25.
15 Talcott Parsons, ‘On the Concept of Political Power’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society,
107 (1963), 232–62.
16 See Steven Lukes, Power: A Radical View (London, 1974).
17 Robert Dahl, Who Governs? Democracy and Power in an American City (New Haven, Conn., 1961); Peter
Bachrach and Morton Baratz, ‘The Two Faces of Power’, American Political Science Review, 56
(Nov. 1962), 947–52.
18 A. Gramsci, Selections from the Prison Notebooks (London, 1971).
19 See John Hoffman, State, Power and Democracy (Sussex, 1988), pt. 2.
20 He is the first to be considered in Edward Meade Earle’s Makers of Modern Strategy (Princeton, NJ,
1962).
21 This is one of the main preoccupations of Connolly, Terms of Political Discourse. It is interesting to
note how much Howard has been preoccupied with this tension between ‘morality and force’ and
‘ethics and power’. See n. 17.
22 For collections of materials on this debate see Marvin Olsen (ed.), Power in Societies (London, 1970)
and Steven Lukes (ed.), Power (London, 1986).
23 Graham Allison, Essence of Decision: Explaining the Cuban Missile Crisis (Boston, Mass., 1971). For a
critique along these lines see Lawrence Freedman, ‘Logic, Politics and Foreign Policy Processes: A
Critique of the Bureaucratic Politics Model’, International Affairs (July 1976).
24 See for example Stanley Hoffman, ‘Notes on the Elusiveness of Modern Power’, International Journal,
30 (Spring 1975); David Baldwin, ‘Power Analysis and World Politics’, World Politics, 31 (Jan. 1979);
Jeffrey Hart, ‘Three Approaches to the Measurement of Power in International Relations’,
International Organization, 30 (Spring 1976).
25 I am basing this section largely on the excerpt from Hans Morgenthau, Politics Among Nations, repr.
as ‘Power and Ideology in International Politics’, in James Rosenau (ed.), International Politics and
Foreign Policy (New York, 1961), 170–2.
26 See Kenneth Waltz, Man, the State and War: A Theoretical Analysis (New York, 1959), 35.
27 This question is considered in more detail in Lawrence Freedman, ‘In praise of general deterrence’,
International Studies (Spring, 1989).
28 Alexander George and Richard Smoke, Deterrence in American Foreign Policy: Theory and Practice
(New York, 1974), 11.
29 A distinction is developed in the literature between deterrence and compellance—between ‘inducing
inaction and making someone perform’. It has been most fully elaborated by Thomas Schelling,
Arms and Influence (New Haven, Conn., 1966), 175, 69 ff.
30 Basil Liddell Hart, Strategy: The Indirect Approach (London, 1967), 335.
31 Charles Beitz, Political Theory and International Relations (Princeton, NJ, 1979), 44.
32 Dennis Wrong, Power: Its Forms, Bases and Uses (London, 1988), 2.
2 What is a military lesson?
William C. Fuller, Jr.

‘Those who do not learn the lessons of the past are condemned to repeat them.’ This
hackneyed statement, popularly but erroneously ascribed to George Santayana, ought
of course to be paired with the comment of the German philosopher Hegel, which (in
paraphrase) is that the one thing we learn from history is that nobody ever learns
anything from history.1 What can we or do we usefully learn from the experience of
previous wars? This is a very important question, not least because if one contemplates
the twentieth century, one notices almost immediately that a whole variety of military
establishments compiled a dismal record at predicting the character of the next war –
that is, at correctly forecasting the nature of the conflict they were to confront next.
Consider World War 1. Almost no one in Europe, with the exception of the obscure
Polish-Jewish financier Ivan Bliokh, understood that World War I would be a protracted
war of attrition and stalemate.2 Nearly everybody else expected that the coming pan-
European war would be short and decisive, over in a matter of months, if not weeks.3 But
the predictive skills of the leaders of the major powers did not improve later in the
century. In 1940, for example, many Soviet leaders dismissed the idea that Germany
could conduct a successful Blitzkrieg against the USSR, despite Hitler’s campaigns in
Poland and France.4 Then, too, Japan, in preparing for a war against the United States
in 1941 adopted a theory of victory that was utterly bizarre, that bespoke a fatal incom-
prehension of the US system of government and the temperament of its people.5 Still
later, the United States itself failed to anticipate the Vietnam War and arguably never
grasped its essential character, even at its end.6 Thus the Soviet Union also misunder-
stood the war on which it embarked in Afghanistan in 1979, with catastrophic results.7
This list could be expanded almost effortlessly, although it would be both unedifying and
depressing to do so.
The question naturally arises: Why was this the case? What explains why the military
establishments of so many countries have been so badly wrong about the very thing that
Clausewitz declared was their most important task? After all, in one of the best-known
passages in On War, Clausewitz insisted that,

the first, the supreme, the most far-reaching act of judgment that the statesman and
commander have to make is to establish . . . the kind of war on which they are
embarking; neither mistaking it for, nor trying to turn it into, something that is alien
to its nature. This is the first of all strategic questions and the most comprehensive.8
 What is a military lesson? 23
Why, then, do military establishments get it wrong? An answer proposed by some is that
the ability of the military to perceive the obvious is clouded over by an almost willful
blindness. It has, for example, been maintained that the great European military powers
contemptuously ignored the experience of the American Civil War, supposedly because,
as Moltke apocryphally said, that war was merely a matter of two ragged militias chasing
each other around a continent and consequently had no instructive value for the officers
of the professional armies of civilized countries.9 The ‘lessons’ of almost every war fought
since are said to have been stupidly disregarded by one nation or another. This view –
that military establishments have an uncanny capacity for overlooking the obvious – is
still very much with us.
Take Colonel (Ret.) John Warden of the US Air Force, an important air power
theorist of the past decade. In an influential essay he argues that:

many vital lessons have flowed from isolated events in the past. The following are
examples of lessons that should have been obvious at the time but were subsequently
ignored, with great loss of life: the effect of the long bow on French heavy cavalry at
Agincourt; the difficulty of attacking the trenches around Richmond; the carnage
wrought by the machine-gun in the Russo-Japanese War; the value of the tank as
demonstrated at Cambrai; and the effectiveness of aircraft against ships as shown by
the sinking of the Ostfriesland in tests after World War I.10

Now Colonel Warden is, of course, trying to make a case for the importance of the
lessons (or his version of the lessons) of the Persian Gulf War, which is the ‘isolated event’
to which he wants to call our attention. Yet his remarks here are problematic, not in the
least because the examples he cites are not ‘lessons’ at all, but rather empirical observa-
tions (and frequently incorrect ones) about the efficacy of various weapons.11 They are
not prescriptive and tell us nothing about what to do (or what not to do), which a lesson
by definition must. But a still greater objection can be made to Warden’s implicit allegation
that military establishments routinely ignore the experience of prior wars: it is demon-
strably false.
For instance, it is simply not the case that Europeans dismissed the American Civil
War; on the contrary, they studied it assiduously. G.F.R. Henderson’s Stonewall Jackson
and the American Civil War was a textbook at the British Staff College at Camberley for
many years.12 In Germany, there were a number of serving officers – among them
Scheibert, Mangold, and Freydag-Loringhoven – who specialized in writing about the
North American campaigns of 1861–65.13 Even in Imperial Russia, at the beginning of
the 1880s, the Tsar himself decreed a controversial (and extremely unpopular) reform of
the entire Russian cavalry arm based upon his appreciation of the operations of ‘Jeb’
Stuart and Phil Sheridan.14
If European military elites did not ignore the American Civil War, they were even
more eager to profit from the ‘lessons’ of their own recent conflicts. Consider the German
Wars of Unification. The successes of Prussia and then Germany in 1866 and 1870,
respectively, commanded the attention of the entire world. The armies of the other great
powers, and even those of the smaller powers, attempted to analyze the factors that had
produced German victory; there was an intense, even frenzied interest in studying and
24 William C. Fuller, Jr.
if possible copying the most important features of Germany’s military system. For
instance, the Prussian advantage in numbers vis-à-vis France in 1870 was clearly a func-
tion of the Prussian practice of conscription, which led to the creation of large reservoirs
of trained men. After all, Germany had been able to put 1.1 million troops into the field,
while France could initially muster no more than 560,000. One form or another of
conscription was adopted after the Franco-Prussian war by defeated France, Italy,
Holland, and Tsarist Russia. Even Britain, which recoiled from conscription as alien to
its traditions, still wanted to remain militarily competitive; the reforming Secretary of
State for War, Edward Cardwell, used fear of Prussia to ram through Parliament a series
of laws overhauling the British Army and abolishing finally the purchase of commissions
by officers.15
Indeed, the reverberations of Prussia’s victories were felt in areas of European life not
obviously connected to the performance of armies and fleets. Bismarck’s cryptic remark
that ‘the battle of Königgrätz was won by the Prussian schoolmaster’ was interpreted to
mean that efficiency in modern war depended on the intelligence and initiative of the
troops.16 It was not enough any more to have soldiers who behaved like automata, who
did exactly what they were told, and displayed neither independence nor ingenuity.
It was also believed that education could develop these traits. If it was unrealistic to
expect that every soldier would be a graduate of an elementary school, at a bare
minimum the corporals and sergeants – non-commissioned officers in general – would
have to be educated men. ‘Literate non-commissioned officers are a burning necessity
for contemporary armies’, wrote one Russian commentator in 1873.17 As a result of this
insight, governments throughout Europe took steps to make schools more numerous
and accessible. The notion that popular education was somehow indispensable to
national security put down roots, and it did so precisely because of the wars of German
unification. What was true of the American Civil War and Bismarck’s wars of unifica-
tion in the mid-nineteenth century is equally true of every major war fought since, for
military organizations have scrutinized them all in the hope of ascertaining their lessons.
Far from spurning the lessons of the past, most nations and their military establish-
ments have, by contrast, evidenced an insatiate desire to assimilate them. In the US
armed forces, for example, there are ‘lessons-learned’ databases; the army has a center
for the study of lessons learned; and there are 516 volumes in the Naval War College
Library that have the word ‘lessons’ in the title. What is true of the US military is true of
other militaries. Moreover, it has been true for an extremely long time. Once Frederick
the Great of Prussia happened to overhear some officers denigrate the value of studying
past wars and military theory, maintaining instead that personal experience was the only
source of military excellence. The king was moved to remark to them that he knew of
two mules in the army’s commissary corps that had served through 20 campaigns. ‘Yet’,
added Frederick ‘they are mules still.’18
It is hardly surprising that military organizations evince such profound curiosity about
the so-called ‘lessons’ of the past; knowledge of military history can be construed as
an inoculation against error and mistake in war, which at worst can produce defeat
and at the very best can exact an extremely high cost in blood. It was Bismarck, after all,
who observed that ‘fools say they learn from experience. I prefer to profit by others’
experience.’19
 What is a military lesson? 25
There are two components to the question of military lessons. The first is the problem
of knowing what the lessons are. In Bismarck’s terms, how are we to comprehend what
are the precise elements of other people’s experience that we ought to absorb? To extract
useable lessons from the past, we have to interpret it, and interpretation can be skewed
by prejudice, pre-conceptions, and tacit assumptions. The second problem concerns the
action taken in response to this process of learning. The issue is one of receptivity – that
is, the degree to which a military organization actually embraces a lesson in practice and
alters the way in which it conducts business as a result.

Extracting military lessons

Three styles of interpreting or reading military history are pertinent to determining what
the lessons of experience are. We might describe these as the antique (or pre-modern),
the positivist, and the pragmatic.20 The antique or pre-modern style of interpretation
was dominant virtually everywhere until the middle of the nineteenth century. It assumes
that war is universal and fundamentally unchanging. In this view, what was true of war
a thousand years ago is equally true today, for the reason that human nature is not
malleable and people everywhere across time and space are very much the same. It is
this attitude that lies behind the statement of Thucydides that he wished his book about
the Peloponnesian War to endure forever and be a ‘possession for all time’. After all,
Thucydides believed that an important objective of his work was to expose profound
truths about war and about human polities at war that would be of permanent value,
since ‘exact knowledge of the past’ would be ‘an aid to the understanding of the future’.21
It is also this kind of thinking that explains Napoleon’s famous comment that ‘knowledge
of the higher parts of war is acquired only through the study of history of the wars and
battles of the Great Captains’, by whom he meant Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar,
Gustavus Adolphus, Marshal Turenne, and Frederick the Great.22
There is obviously something profound and true about this point of view, particularly
at the level of strategy. As Michael Handel rightly noted: ‘the basic logic of strategy . . .
is universal’.23 Much that is instructive and suggestive about strategy can indeed be
gleaned from an analysis of past wars, even wars fought in antiquity – for which reason
the Naval War College’s strategy course gives Thucydides’ work a prominent place. Yet
even at the strategic level there is something missing from this style of interpretation,
since to understand any war one must grasp its political as well as purely military char-
acteristics. And while the logic of strategy does transcend history and geography, politics
are earthbound, the product of specific circumstances, cultures, and institutions. The
values, mores, preferences, and expectations of particular societies are often quite
different, and these differences play a significant role in shaping the nature of war.
However, when the subject at hand is operations or tactics the pre-modern approach
can be even more misleading, since history is by no means a perfect or exact guide to the
future. It scarcely needs saying that the character of war has changed over the centuries.
One of the more obvious instruments of that change has been technological advance.
By the middle of the nineteenth century, for example, new technologies – the tele-
graph, the railway, the rifle, and so forth – began to revolutionize the battlefield. It was
the beginning of a period of extremely rapid military-technical innovation that continued
26 William C. Fuller, Jr.
unabated until the outbreak of World War I. Between 1870 and 1914, the great powers
of the world scrambled to adopt the newest and latest technological improvements in
weapons. Smokeless powder, magazine rifles, quick-firing (QF) artillery, machine-guns,
the dreadnought, and the airplane – all were added to the arsenals of the powers.24
However, despite all this rapid change, there were soldiers in Europe in whom the
pre-modern view of war was so deeply engrained, and whose attachment to military
tradition was so strong, that they denied that the new weaponry made any difference to
the underlying logic of war.
Baron Jomini, famous theoretician of Napoleonic warfare, insisted that ‘improve-
ments in firearms will not introduce any important change in the manner of taking
troops into battle’.25 Colonel G.F.R. Henderson remained convinced until his death that
the increased lethality and range of the new weapons had neither reduced the value of
the cavalry, nor invalidated the massing of troops in close order for the bayonet charge.26
And the colorful Russian General M.I. Dragomirov, war hero and influential military
savant, was even blunter in his dismissal of the idea that modern technology could
substantively change war: ‘there is nothing to make a fuss about in all the pretended
revelations of the science of war’, he wrote. ‘Modern tactics remain substantially what
they were at the time of Napoleon. Napoleonic tactics rest on a firm foundation, on
principles that can never be affected by changes of armament.’27
Yet everyone did not share this extreme opinion. Other military leaders and thinkers,
perhaps less conservative, less hidebound, recognized that war had indeed changed.28
They disagreed, however, about how meaningful the changes had been. This leads us to
the next style of interpreting military lessons and of war in general – what we might
describe as the positivist approach.
Positivism was an intellectual system worked out by the French philosopher Auguste
Comte (1798–1857). It was the contention of Comte that it was possible to construct a
thoroughly scientific method for the study of history and society that would eventually
result in the discovery of actual laws of human development. One found these laws by
deducing the present condition from all probable antecedents. This process of deduction
would give rise to generalizations, and generalizations, once tested, would lead to posi-
tive laws – hence ‘positivism’. Positivism was one of the most ambitious intellectual
systems created during the entire nineteenth century, a period notable for its system-
building; Comte’s theory aspired to encompass the totality of knowledge. It additionally
claimed to provide access to the future, for if the ‘laws of progress’, as Comte called
them, explained the condition of society now, they also permitted reliable prediction
about society in the years ahead.29
Comtean philosophy, with its ostensibly scientific rigor, was attractive and had influ-
ence in a variety of fields. Military thought was no exception. One feature that accounted
for its appeal was that it recognized, embraced, and explained change, while simultane-
ously holding that there was an underlying core of unalterable truth. One person who
fell under the sway of positivism in the military, who in fact almost exemplifies it, was the
French Colonel Ardant du Picq (1828–70).30 The famous statement with which he began
the second part of his book Combat Studies (Études sur le Combat) testified to the profound
impression Comte had made on him: ‘the art of war is subjected to numerous modifica-
tions by industrial and scientific progress, etc. But one thing does not change, the heart
 What is a military lesson? 27
of man.’31 Killed in the early stages of the Franco-Prussian war, du Picq did not live long
enough to produce many published works. Virtually all his completed writings concern
tactics, for he believed that effective tactics were the foundation of success in battle, and,
by extension, in war. He was particularly interested in moral factors in war – the way in
which such emotions as fear and the desire for self-preservation shaped the performance
of troops in combat, which interest is epitomized in his famous aphorism that discipline
was a matter of getting men to fight despite themselves.32 Correct tactics, or ‘a method
of combat, sanely thought out in advance’, could be developed not only by studying
prior wars in books, but also, in true positivistic fashion, by administering exhaustive
questionnaires to the eye-witnesses and survivors of the most recent wars.
Although few were as committed as du Picq to the value of accumulating a compre-
hensive database of modern combat experience, other later writers also betrayed the
influence of positivism in various degrees. In his 1885 Modern War, General Victor
Derrécagaix approved of tactical innovation, while insisting that ‘the principles of the
past preserve all of their importance’.33 Even Ferdinand Foch, the future Marshal and
Supreme Allied Commander in World War I, although an eclectic borrower from many
military traditions, also owed his own debt to positivism, as was evidenced in his 1903
volume Des Principes de la Guerre (The Principles of War), which included what he described
as a ‘mathematical demonstration’ that the latest innovations in the technology of rifles
and artillery continued to favor the offense, not the defense.34
There is much of value in the works written from a positivist standpoint, particularly
those of du Picq, whose perceptive insights about morale and military psychology
still eminently repay the reading. Nevertheless, positivism comes freighted with its
own dangers. Positivists or quasi-positivists are often prone to fall victim to what might
be described as the fallacy of the linear projection – that is, the view that what has
happened in the immediate past is going to happen again in the immediate future; that
by means of a straight-line projection, one can deduce what will come next.35 As an
intellectual system positivism is utopian and presupposes a uniform continuity in history,
from the past into the present and, by implication, into the future. Positivists are conse-
quently interested in trends, and the quest for trends can blind them to aberration,
accident, and chance, which of course are the engines of discontinuity. Moreover,
whether conscious of it or not, those who make linear projections in military affairs are
often basing them on unwarranted assumptions about the inevitability of prior military
outcomes.
This fallacy is not solely the property of positivists, of course. All sorts of people have
been seduced by the simplicity of the linear projection. It is, however, a fallacy against
which adherents of the third approach take extreme precautions – perhaps too extreme.
This third approach is that of pragmatic skepticism, which holds that general laws of war
or eternal principles of war really cannot be said to exist. To the pragmatic skeptic, effec-
tiveness in war is a function of the prevailing environment – of the time, of the place, of
the level of technical development of armaments and so forth. To seek inner truths
about war, or to speculate about the eternal essence or meaning of war, is therefore a
futile waste of time.
Helmuth von Moltke was of this opinion. In an article of 1871, he observed that
‘[t]he doctrines of strategy hardly go beyond the first proposition of common sense; one
28 William C. Fuller, Jr.
can hardly call them a science; their value lies almost entirely in their concrete applica-
tion’. ‘Strategy’, he insisted, ‘is but a system of expedients.’36
Other theorists found pragmatic skepticism equally congenial. General Rudolf von
Caemmerer, author of The Development of Strategical Science during the Nineteenth Century,
shared Moltke’s opinions and took great pains in his book to show how not only
Napoleonic tactics, but Napoleonic operational principles had been rendered obsolete
by technical progress and the industrialization of war. Caemmerer’s debunking of
Napoleon’s methods did not mean that he thought there were no correct tactical
or operational solutions to military problems; in his view, correct solutions did exist,
but they were entirely situation-specific. It was the task of the gifted general armed
with inspiration and willpower to choose judiciously from the options available to him.
Were Napoleon to rise from the dead, insisted Caemmerer, he would be the first to
repudiate those military techniques and procedures that he had employed with dazzling
success against all of the powers of Europe in the early nineteenth century, techniques
and procedures that were now completely passé, despite their servile emulation for
generations.37
A skeptical posture can be quite healthy, for it can serve as a first line of defense
against school solutions and the concept of ‘war by algebra’ against which Clausewitz
warned us so eloquently. But, at the same time, skepticism can itself be a source of intel-
lectual weakness, principally by leading people to succumb to what I call the fallacy of
the significant exception. By accustoming the mind to look for differences, variations,
and freak events, and suggesting that these severely limit the applicability of prior expe-
rience, skepticism can inhibit recognition of underlying patterns that can indeed provide
food for thought as we contemplate the possible character of the wars to come. These
three approaches to the reading of ‘military lessons’, particularly the last two, have
significantly distorted the way in which future war has been conceptualized ever since
the middle of the nineteenth century. To illustrate this point, I will take a closer look at
the fallacies that stemmed from both positivism and skepticism, and at their implications
for receptivity to ‘military lessons’.

Fallacies and receptivity: linear projection

Let me begin with the fallacy of linear projection. A major consequence of the German
wars of unification in the 1860s and 1870s was the creation of a paradigm for the future
of European armed conflict that held sway for the ensuing 45 years.38 It was assumed that
to be victorious in a future war, a power would have to field an enormous army, composed
both of regulars and reservists, who would be called to colors from civilian life on the eve
of hostilities. The mobilization and concentration of such a force would have to be calcu-
lated with mathematical precision in accordance with a rigidly detailed plan for exploiting
the national system of railroads. In such an environment, advantages would accrue to the
power that struck earliest and with the most mass, which meant that increasing the speed
and efficiency of one’s own mobilization and one’s own offensive became an obsession of
European general staffs.
A parallel assumption was that the war would begin with a great battle, or set of great
battles, that were likely to decide the entire conflict, just as Sadowa and Sedan were
 What is a military lesson? 29
supposed to have done in 1866 and 1870 respectively. This misapprehension – the
so-called ‘short-war illusion’ – led European military planners to conceive of wars that
would last for weeks or a few months at most. It also led them to assume that wars would
be fought with the munitions and equipment that had already been stockpiled in peace-
time. There would be no need to put the economy on a war footing, for the conflict
would be over before the stockpiles had been exhausted.
As a result of these premises, in August of 1914 the French, Germans, Austrians, and
Russians all attempted to execute extraordinarily complicated plans for rapid offensives
that were supposed to result in decision. None of the plans worked. In reality, as we all
know, World War I did not feature early, decisive battles, was not short, and resulted in
the virtually total militarization of the economies and societies of all the belligerents.
At first glance, the attachment of European elites to the ‘short-war illusion’ appears
mystifying, for there were several conflicts at the turn of the century that one might think
should have raised doubts about the Bismarckian paradigm, in general, and about the
wisdom of offensives, in particular. The Russo-Japanese war of 1904–05 is a case in
point. This conflict, a limited war fought in Korea and Manchuria, saw the use of such
modern military technologies as machine-guns, magazine rifles, and QF artillery on a
scale heretofore never seen. One thing that has impressed many historians (as well as
Colonel Warden) is the degree to which certain episodes in the Russo-Japanese War
seemed clearly to foreshadow events that would occur in the great European war that
broke out just ten years later.
The Japanese siege of Russia’s Pacific naval base at Port Arthur, for example, featured
trench warfare, the stringing of miles of barbed (and electrified) wire, the employment of
electric searchlights to foil night attacks, and the high-explosive shelling of field fortifica-
tions. It saw artillery preparation before attacks that in terms of intensity and duration
seemed to presage the monster barrages of World War I. To cite just one instance, prior
to an assault on a single Russian strongpoint on the outskirts of Port Arthur, the Japanese
fired over a thousand artillery rounds in four hours.39 Some of the land battles of this
war, such as Mukden, involving as they did hundreds of thousands of troops, seemed to
be eerie dress rehearsals for the Marne, the Somme, and Passchendaele. The combat in
Manchuria also provided abundant evidence of the destructive power of modern
ordnance, rifles, and machine-guns, particularly when used against infantry trying to
take fortified positions by frontal assault.
Why, then, did not Europe’s military planners foresee the deadlock and carnage of
the Western Front? Why did they not allow their knowledge of the Russo-Japanese War,
and their knowledge of the devastating power of defensive military technologies, to
temper their enthusiasm for the extraordinarily offensive plans they had all prepared?
Why did they not allow this experience to inform their thinking?
One answer to these questions is that the dominant paradigm of warfare, derived by
linear projection from the era of Bismarck and Moltke, was so strong that the Russo-
Japanese War was interpreted as reinforcing, rather than undermining it. In the first
place, no one failed to note the prodigality with which human life had been expended
during the war. But many foreign military positivists were even more intrigued by the
simple fact that the Japanese had after all won battles and indeed the entire war, despite
the defensive firepower of modern military technologies. How had they managed to do
30 William C. Fuller, Jr.
this? On the tactical level, it seemed that they had done so through relentless offensive
operations, high morale among the infantry, and a willingness to accept large numbers
of casualties. The Japanese lost tens of thousands of lives in assault after assault on the
famous 203 Meter Hill, which dominated Port Arthur, but in the end they took it – and
it was this that impressed foreign observers.40
Study of the Russo-Japanese War consequently inspired two conclusions. The first
was that the offense is always superior to the defense on the strategic level of war. The
Russian Army had been on the strategic defensive for most of the war and had been
defeated; initiative and surprise had been in the hands of the Japanese. Second, at the
tactical level, the war was seen as proof that defensive positions, no matter how strongly
fortified or held, can always be taken if the attacking force is motivated and willing to
take casualties – even huge numbers of them. Major W.D. Bird of the British Army
spoke for many when he condemned the Russians for adhering to ‘the fallacy of the
advantages inherent in the occupation of defensive positions’.41 The important French
theorist, General François de Négrier, shared this view, and wrote that ‘the Russo-
Japanese war had demonstrated yet again that by offensive tactics alone can victory be
assured’. Négrier went on to argue that the war was an ‘object-lesson in the over-
whelming influence of moral forces’. Owing to their discipline, patriotism, and courage,
the Japanese had seized positions despite the murderous fire the Russians trained on
them. Ergo, reasoned Négrier, an army with superior moral force could fight and win,
even if it was outnumbered and technologically outclassed.42
In other words, the Russo-Japanese War resulted in the adjustment of the Bismarckian
paradigm of warfare, not its supersession. The linear projection involved here, of course,
ignores the question of contingency entirely. Just because a war turned out one way does
not mean that this was the only possible outcome. If, for example, Russia had not agreed
to negotiations, but had instead managed to defeat Japan in the summer of 1905, as was
by no means impossible, who then would have argued that ceaseless offensive operations
were always the key to victory? But why, indeed, was the Bismarckian paradigm so
strong? One reason is that the Prussian method had at one time been astonishingly
successful and seemed to be a recipe for quick victory. Who would not prefer favorable
outcomes that were rapid and cheap to those that were slow and expensive? Moreover,
and this is very important, by 1904, military establishments had been operating in
accord with the Bismarckian paradigm for over 30 years. Virtually all planning and
training had been based on its assumptions.
This brings us to the first point about receptivity to military lessons. Military organiza-
tions are not loath to innovate, just as they are not averse to the study of the experience
of recent wars. However, absent compelling reasons to the contrary (such as those
supplied by catastrophic defeat), military institutions, like all complex organizations,
prefer the stately pace of incremental change to the disquieting staccato of violent
transformation. This resistance to radical innovation goes a long way towards explaining
the popularity and longevity of the dominant paradigm. Of course, as it happened,
World War I did not resemble the German Wars of Unification at all. But in exploding
the old paradigm, the Great War gave birth to a new one: the view that future wars
would be protracted conflicts fought largely from static positions. In other words,
they would be repetitions of World War I, or at least key phases of World War I, with
 What is a military lesson? 31
the defense superior to the offense, stalemate, and the problem of the break-through
unresolved.
In the early 1920s, A. Kearsey, a retired lieutenant-colonel of Britain’s Imperial
General Staff, published a book on tactics and strategy that opined ‘that a purely frontal
attack against a well-entrenched position held by resolute troops must always involve
prohibitive losses’.43 He then proceeded to argue that if it could not be averted, the next
general European war would be characterized by the employment of great fleets of tanks
and immense clouds of poison gas. This prophecy was a direct linear projection into the
future of the military experience of the Western Front in 1918. In other words, a second
world war would be like the first, except more so.44
One practical result of the emergence of the new dominant paradigm was the
construction of a series of defensive positions during the inter-war period, of which the
most famous was, of course, the Maginot Line. An enormous band of fortifications
that shielded the north-eastern borders of France, the Maginot Line was based on
the insight that, in the words of Marshal Henri Pétain, ‘assuring the inviolability of the
national soil is . . . one of the major lessons of the [last] war’.45 The French were not
alone in their faith in fortifications, for almost everybody in Europe was building them:
the Czechs constructed the Little Maginot Line; the Finns, the Mannerheim Line. Even
countries with aggressive military intentions, such as National Socialist Germany and
the Soviet Union, made investments in fortifications: the West Wall and Stalin Line
were put up by the Nazis and the Communists, respectively, in the 1930s. The bitter
irony is that in the end, of course, the defensive mindset of the World War I paradigm
proved to be just as costly, deceptive, and perilous as the Bismarckian paradigm had
been in 1914.
The temptation represented by linear projection, by the way, was not confined to
theories of land warfare, for it had an impact on thinking about war at sea, as well.
Consider Alfred Thayer Mahan and Sir Julian Corbett, two of the greatest of all naval
theorists. When Mahan published The Influence of Sea Power upon History in 1890, the battle
of Lissa in 1866 was the largest recent naval battle. Lissa (which had been decided by
ramming) was nonetheless merely an episode in Austria’s war with Italy and Prussia in
that year, and of little significance to its outcome. Partly for this reason, Mahan insisted
that, ‘It is doubly necessary . . . to study critically the history and experience of naval
warfare in the days of sailing ships, because while these will be found to afford lessons of
present application and value, steam navies have as yet made no history. . .’.46 Given this
perspective, Mahan logically placed enormous stress on the lessons afforded by Britain’s
experience in the Napoleonic Wars. In particular, Horatio Nelson’s defeat of the fleets
of France and Spain off Trafalgar in 1805 shaped Mahan’s views about naval strategy
and the role of navies in war generally. To Mahan, it was the duty of navies to prepare
to fight and win another Trafalgar against their chief competitors. Mahan, then, talked
about the future of naval warfare by doing a linear projection that reached back to the
Napoleonic Wars.
By contrast, Corbett, who published his Principles of Maritime Strategy in 1911, had a
different vantage point. He was, after all, a British subject and thus belonged to a society
that controlled the greatest maritime empire on earth, whereas Mahan was a repre-
sentative of a country that was just beginning to move on to the world stage as a great
32 William C. Fuller, Jr.
power. But it must be noted as well that Corbett had a different set of historical examples
before him in 1911 than Mahan had had in 1890. By that time, the Spanish–American
War, the Boer War, and the Russo-Japanese War had all been fought, and it is to these
wars that Corbett refers most often. All of these conflicts had been limited wars, had
been fought on what we might describe as imperial peripheries, and had been won by
countries that in the end successfully integrated land and sea power in relationships of
mutual support. Although he admitted that there could be exceptions, Corbett tended
to imagine future warfare as conforming to this pattern.47 Thus, despite all of their
theoretical sophistication, both Mahan and Corbett were by no means immune to the
seduction of linear projection themselves.

Fallacies and receptivity: the significant exception

Positivists, of whatever stripe, were thus predisposed to linear projection, which could
easily become a dangerous method for learning the lessons of war. Yet pragmatic skepti-
cism could give rise to its own equally harmful fallacy – that of the ‘significant excep-
tion’. As we have already seen, the Bismarckian paradigm’s emphasis on the value of
offensive action was not shaken by the Russo-Japanese War, which ‘linear projectors’
read as reinforcing that value. However, another characteristic of the Russo-Japanese
War was that it was not short, but protracted. One might think that this would have
raised the gravest doubts about the short-war illusion, but it really did not – especially
among those who regarded the conflict in Manchuria as sui generis.
One person who perpetrated this fallacy was the great German theorist Friedrich von
Bernhardi, a firm adherent of skeptical pragmatism. Bernhardi explicitly warned against
using the Russo-Japanese War mechanically to forecast a future European war:

The next war will not come off distinctly under the same conditions and circum-
stances as those of recent date. Experience of war can never be applied directly
to the future. The creative mind must anticipate experience of the future. Not
the lessons that the latest wars apparently or really have taught us must we adopt
indiscriminately in the next war, but what appears to us to be the most suitable after
close investigation of the likely conditions.48

On the face of it, this is a powerful and extremely intelligent statement. But this aperçu
does not, however, provide us with much guidance. How precisely do we determine
what the most ‘suitable’ lessons of any previous war are? Which lessons are we to accept
and which are we to exclude? Obviously, the judgment will be subjective. Employing the
familiar argument of pragmatic skepticism that wars were defined by the unique proper-
ties of time and place, Bernhardi insisted that key aspects of the Russo-Japanese War
were highly unlikely to be replicated in a general European war, since, among other
things, the scale and the geography of the theater would be so different.49
Thus, if the ‘linear projectors’ started with the presumption of continuity, Bernhardi
began with a presumption of discontinuity; and this, of course, was the significant excep-
tion. Whereas in Manchuria the terrain had been rugged and the fronts extremely atten-
uated, in a general European war the terrain would be flat, and millions of men would
 What is a military lesson? 33
be engaged, permitting operations and attacks in depth. He employed the same logic to
explain why the European war would be short, rather than protracted, as the Russo-
Japanese War had been. Then, too, he criticized the idea that numerical superiority had
been a key to many of Japan’s victories by observing that bold and decisive generalship
could more than compensate for inferiority in numbers. In Bernhardi’s view, the coming
European war would be a short war of maneuver. Once again, this is exactly what
World War I was not.
Why did someone as capable as Bernhardi start with the presumption of disconti-
nuity? Why was he so obsessed with limning the differences between the war of 1904–05
and a general European war? Bernhardi gives the answer away in various places in his
book: he needed to imagine a war that he thought that Germany could win.50 If that war
were a war of lengthy fronts and trenches, then it would by definition be a protracted
war, a war of attrition. He believed that in such a conflict Germany and its allies would
sooner or later lose, since they would be outnumbered by the powers arrayed against
them – France, Russia, and perhaps Britain as well. To Bernhardi, this idea was imper-
missible and defeatist; accordingly, he censored his own thinking and rejected the possi-
bility of protracted war a priori and out of hand. In other words, his own personal
intellectual desires and needs decided for him what the useful lessons of the Russo-
Japanese War would be, and what would be the significant exceptions.
This brings me to my second point about receptivity, which is that military establish-
ments often prepare to fight the wars they would prefer to fight, rather than others that
may actually be more likely. Lest anyone think that this failing is not to be met with in
recent times, let me jump ahead to the US war in Vietnam. Some scholars maintain that
William Westmoreland’s relative neglect of counterinsurgency during his tenure at the
head of Military Assistance Command Vietnam can be explained by his fear of the costs
and risks to the US Army of a massive counterinsurgency campaign. He consequently
decided that he did not want to wage one and instead planned for a large-unit war
against the regular North Vietnam Army, a war with which the US Army would be
more comfortable and for which it was better prepared.51 This, of course, is not the only
possible interpretation of his actions. However, arguably, even if the large-unit war had
been a splendid success (which it was not), without a better program of counterinsur-
gency, US victory in Vietnam was simply not possible, given the constraints imposed on
the use of force there and the value of the political object to the United States in general.
In other words, what Westmoreland may actually have done was to fight the war he
preferred rather than the one he had.

Ex post facto lessons

The search for ‘military lessons’ thus involves ransacking the past to acquire (putatively)
valuable guidance for the future. There is nothing surprising about this enterprise. All
military organizations would like to win wars quickly, decisively, and at the lowest
possible cost in human lives. These are commendable aims, and no sane person can
object to them. If the use of ‘military lessons’ assists in achieving these aims, so much the
better. The problem is that ‘military lessons’ often do not facilitate such military effec-
tiveness. This is so because the entire concept of the ‘military lesson’ may be dubious.
34 William C. Fuller, Jr.
That is not to say that we cannot learn valuable things by studying the wars of the past
and reflecting upon them. There are all manner of things we can learn. We can, in fact,
learn about the operation and maintenance of weapons and equipment. We can identify
logistical and organizational failings and seek to rectify them. We can observe how
certain tactics and approaches to operational problems worked in practice. The ‘shelf-
life’ of such insights, however, may be short, and it may be a mistake to extrapolate from
them. We can also use history to hone our ability to think creatively about strategy. But
if we try to use a recent war, or even the most recent war, to deduce universal lessons
about the nature of modern war, we will most assuredly fail.
The word ‘lesson’ connotes authority and permanence, for a lesson is freestanding.
But war is not freestanding, for its nature is dependent, as Clausewitz shows us, on the
interaction of the belligerents. Because the nature of war depends on interaction, it is
therefore impermanent, in the same way that centers of gravity cannot exist outside
particular political and military contexts. There are many reasons why this is so; let us
adduce two.
First, say we presume that what succeeded against one adversary in the past will assur-
edly work against the next one in the future. But what if that new adversary acts unex-
pectedly, or merely differently, or figures out how to control the shape of the next conflict
so as to maximize his strengths and exploit our weaknesses? A good illustration of this is
the German Army during the Weimar period. After the humiliation of the Treaty of
Versailles, Germany’s military planners eventually reached consensus that insofar as
was humanly possible, they had to try to prevent the next war from being fought as
World War I had been: were a subsequent war to be another prolonged, attritional
struggle, the probability was exceedingly high that Germany would once again suffer
defeat. The upshot was the adoption of tactics, weapons, and doctrine that were all
supposed to promote the staging of mobile and decisive offensives.52 When London and
Paris declared war on Hitler in 1939, the French were of the view that, despite its offen-
sive doctrine, the German Army knew that it could not assault the Maginot Line defenses
without incurring suicidal losses. Indeed, merely to attempt such an attack might provoke
a domestic revolution against the Nazi regime. The war would therefore most likely be
a long one, and Germany would be ground down by economic attrition, just as it had
been in the conflict of 1914–18.53 Their reading of the ‘lessons’ of the Great War, then,
disadvantaged the French both intellectually and psychologically and helped prepare
the way for the military collapse of their country in the spring of 1940.
Second, what happens if prospective belligerents learn exactly the same things from a
recent war, or a recent trend, and this double knowledge cancels itself out? For example,
by the end of the nineteenth century virtually everyone realized how devastating modern
field artillery could be when fired from indirect positions against masses of infantry. As a
result, all the major European powers increased the number of field guns and anti-
personnel rounds in their arsenals prior to 1914. Indeed, artillery emerged as perhaps
the dominant weapon of World War I; probably 60 per cent of all casualties in the war
were the consequence of shelling.54 Ironically, however, field artillery did not produce
the rapid break-throughs and victory that its advocates had expected. It was the abun-
dance of field artillery firing shrapnel that as much as anything else forced armies into
the trenches. The interactive collision of belligerents who had all learned the same
 What is a military lesson? 35
‘lesson’ helped produce the unintended consequence of deadlock. In fact, the stalemate
on the Western Front was the result of an entire series of unforeseen interactions among
all the armies fighting there.55
At the strategic level of analysis, a ‘military lesson’ has two components: an interpreta-
tion of the nature and outcome of a previous war; and an explicit or implicit prophecy
about the nature and outcome of the next one. An interpretation without the prophecy
would merely be an exercise in historical reasoning and no contribution to military
theory at all. In most so-called ‘military lessons’ the prophecy is as deeply embedded in
the interpretation as a clove studded in an onion. In any ‘military lesson’ it is a discrete
historical interpretation that both makes possible and validates the prediction. Yet both
of the components of the ‘military lesson’ are often problematic. The hazards of prophecy
are obvious and do not need to be belabored. Who can infallibly foresee everything that
a future enemy might do? Still further, can one even confidently divine everything one’s
own side might do in a hypothetical prospective war? As Michael Handel wrote,
frequently ‘individuals and nations are unaware of their own limitations and weaknesses,
let alone those of their adversaries’.56 If it is difficult to know oneself, how can one be sure
that one knows one’s enemy? To prophesy about future war therefore involves lightly
brushing aside all of these imponderables and dismissing the principle of interaction.
But the particular style of military-historical interpretation advanced by the ‘military
lesson’ can have its analytic dangers, too, for it is usually anchored in retrospective deter-
minism, of one kind or another. That is, it presupposes that the reasons one believes
to have been most important in determining the outcome of a war equally ruled out any
other dénouement. In other words, given a belligerent’s superiority over his opponent
in technology, generalship, doctrine, manpower, or any of a number of other factors
either separately or in combination, the victory of the former and the defeat of the
latter were inevitable. Whether acknowledged or not, it is the assumption of an inevi-
table outcome that permits the extraction of a ‘lesson’ from one war that can be applied
to the next. However, the outcomes of previous wars frequently were not inevitable,
but contingent. The way a war or a campaign turned out often depended on human
choices and human interactions; had the choices or interactions been different, the
outcomes might have been also. Therefore, to assume that success can be assured by
emulating the performance of the winner and avoiding the mistakes of the loser in a
previous conflict may well be to indulge in an impermissible exclusion of alternative
possibilities. As we have already seen in the case of the Russo-Japanese War, if Japan
had lost the war (and it could have, had the Russians made different decisions), then the
‘lessons’ of the war would have been different also. But an argument about a ‘military
lesson’ denies the fact of contingency and ignores interaction, not only in the future but
even in the past.
To put it another way, whether a lesson from a particular war is true or false can only
be determined ex post facto, in an unpredictable future. And, in consequence, sometimes
you can only learn what the ‘true’ lesson was when it is too late. It is because of this that
the distinguished military historian Michael Howard insisted in an essay published a
generation ago that in any war ‘usually everybody starts even and everybody starts
wrong’.57 It is also because of this that Anthony Cordesman and Abraham Wagner
ended an enormous three-volume work entitled The Lessons of Modern Warfare with the
36 William C. Fuller, Jr.
pessimistic observation that ‘understanding the overall nature of modern conflict’ is
‘ultimately an impossible process’.58

Notes
1 In his Life of Reason, Santayana actually wrote: ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned
to fulfil it.’ Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, The Philosophy of History, trans. J. Sibree (New York:
Dover Publications, 1956), p. 6: ‘peoples and governments have never learned anything from
history, or acted on principles deduced from it’.
2 Bliokh was, of course, a pacifist who wanted to demonstrate that a future general war would be so
murderous, costly, and indecisive that it could not be considered a rational instrument of policy. He
wrote different sections of this massive work in Russian, Polish, and German. The first publication
was in Russian. I. S. Bliokh, Budushchaia voina v teknicheskom, ekonomicheskom i politicheskom otnosheniiakh,
6 vols (St Petersburg: I. Efron, 1898). The complete French translation has been reprinted: Jean de
Bloch [Ivan Bliokh], La guerre future aux points de vue technique, économique et politique, 6 vols (Paris:
Guillaumin, 1898–1900; reprint: New York: Garland, 1973).
3 On the ‘short-war illusion’ see Archer Jones, The Art of War in the Western World (Urbana and Chicago,
IL: University of Illinois Press, 1987), p. 423. See also Hew Strachan, The First World War, vol. I: To
Arms (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 74, 173, 1010–13. Strachan
presents a more nuanced interpretation of the ‘short-war illusion’ than has heretofore appeared in
the historical literature. He identifies a number of European statesmen and military leaders who,
prior to 1914, evidenced some awareness that a general war might become protracted. Nonetheless,
he also shows that European military establishments had generally planned for a short war.
4 I.A. Korotkov, Istoriia sovetskoi voennoi mysli (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo ‘Nauka’, 1980), pp. 143–4. Gabriel
Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion: Stalin and the German Invasion of Russia (New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 1999), p. 127.
5 Nobutaka Ike, ed. and trans., Japan’s Decision for War: Records of the 1941 Policy Conferences (Stanford,
CA: Stanford University Press, 1967), p. 153.
6 Lewis Sorley, A Better War: The Unexamined Victories and Final Tragedy of America’s Last Years in Vietnam
(New York: Harcourt Brace, 1999), pp. 4–5. See also Eric M. Bergerud, The Dynamics of Defeat: The
Vietnam War in Hau Nghia Province (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1991), pp. 89–90.
7 (No name given) ‘New Evidence on the Soviet Intervention in Afghanistan’, Cold War International
History Project Bulletin, 8–9 (winter 1996/97), pp. 128–84.
8 Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1976), pp. 88–9.
9 Jay Luvaas, The Military Legacy of the Civil War: The European Inheritance (Lawrence, KS: University
Press of Kansas, 1988), p. 126.
10 Col. John A. Warden III, USAF, ‘Employing Air Power in the Twenty-First Century’, in Richard
H. Schultz, Jr and Robert L. Pfaltzgraff, Jr (eds), The Future of Air Power in the Aftermath of the Gulf War
(Maxwell Air Force Base, AL: Air University Press, 1992), p. 80.
11 For example, the effects of the long bow became obvious to the French cavalry at the battle of
Poitiers in 1356, that is, almost 60 years before Agincourt. The result, as one scholar has put it, was
‘great changes in armor design intended in part to make men-at-arms less vulnerable to archery’.
Clifford J. Rogers, ‘The Efficacy of the English Long Bow: A Reply to Kelly DeVries’, War in History,
vol. 5, no. 2 (April 1998), p. 241. While it is true that at Cambrai in November 1917 the use of tanks
allowed the British to make an advance of 6,000 yards, there was no break-through and the perform-
ance of the tanks was quite properly regarded as mixed. See Paddy Griffith, Battle Tactics of the Western
Front: The British Army’s Art of Attack 1916–1918 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994),
pp. 164–5. As for the sinking of the Ostfriesland, Billy Mitchell’s bombers did destroy it, but only by
dropping ‘bombs from an unrealistically low level to ensure fatal hits’: I.B. Holley, Jr, ‘Reflections on
the Search for Airpower Theory,’ in Col. Phillip S. Meilinger (ed.), The Paths of Heaven: The Evolution
of Airpower Theory (Maxwell Air Force Base, AL: Air University Press, 1997), p. 582.
12 Brian Bond, The Victorian Army and the Staff College, 1854–1914 (London: Eyre Methuen, 1972),
p. 157. Brian Holden Reid, Studies in British Military Thought (Lincoln, NB: University of Nebraska
Press, 1998), p. 136.
13 Luvaas, Military Legacy, pp. 128–42.
 What is a military lesson? 37
14 William C. Fuller, Jr, Civil–Military Conflict in Imperial Russia, 1881–1914 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1985), p. 20.
15 Arvell T. Erickson, Edward T. Cardwell, Peelite (Philadelphia, PA: American Philosophical Society,
1959), pp. 80–5.
16 Quoted in M.V. Annenkov, Voina 1870 goda. Zametki i vpetchatleniia russkogo ofitsera (St Petersburg:
Tipografiia tovarishchestva ‘Obshchestvennaia pol’za’, 1871), p. 9.
17 M. Zinov’ev, ‘Zametki o Germanskoi armii’, Voennyi sbornik, June (1873), part 1, p. 278.
18 G.F.R. Henderson, The Science of War (London: Longmans, Green, 1905), p. 184. See also
Christopher Duffy, The Military Life of Frederick the Great (London: Routledge, 1986), p. 300.
19 B.H. Liddell Hart, Strategy, 2nd rev. edn (New York: New American Library, 1974), p. 3.
20 Azar Gat has developed the argument that virtually all military thought from 1780 to 1914 can be
divided into ‘Enlightenment’ and ‘Counter-Enlightenment’ strands. By the early nineteenth
century, the latter had become ‘Romanticism’; by the mid-nineteenth century, the former,
‘Positivism’. Although I find Gat’s ideas stimulating, I do not think that his typology is ultimately
successful. There are simply too many military intellectuals and theorists who have to be dragooned
into their assigned categories under protest. Nonetheless, I do believe that there are typically ‘posi-
tivist’ and ‘skeptical’ approaches to the reading of military lessons. See Azar Gat, The Origins of
Military Thought: From the Enlightenment to Clausewitz (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), and
Military Thought: The Nineteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992).
21 The Landmark Thucydides, ed. Robert B. Strassler, trans. Richard Crawley (New York: The Free
Press, 1996), p. 16.
22 Jay Luvaas (ed. and trans.), Napoleon on the Art of War (New York: Free Press, 1999), p. 24. Ironically
enough, the argument has been made that this was not the way Napoleon himself acquired knowl-
edge of the art of war. Jean Colin has maintained that the greatest intellectual influences on
Napoleon’s thinking about warfare were the works of such eighteenth-century French theorists as
Guibert and Bourcet. See Jean Colin, L’education militaire de Napoléon (Paris: Chapleot, 1901),
pp. 141–2.
23 Michael I. Handel, Masters of War: Classical Strategic Thought, 3rd edn (London: Frank Cass, 2001),
p. xvii. See also Colin S. Gray, Modern Strategy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), a book-
length defense of the proposition that: ‘To understand modern strategy is to understand it in all
ages’ (p. 364).
24 Larry H. Addington, The Patterns of War since the Eighteenth Century (London: Croom Helm, 1984),
pp. 44–5, 91–3, 106–8.
25 Baron de Jomini, The Art of War, trans. Capt. G.H. Mendel and Lieut. W.P. Craighill (1862; reprint,
Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1992), p. 325.
26 Henderson, Science of War, pp. 340–1.
27 Quoted in Henderson, Science of War, p. 144.
28 In fairness, I must observe that Henderson died in 1903 and Dragomirov in 1905.
29 See, for example, Auguste Comte ‘Fundamental Characteristics of the Positive Method in the
Study of Social Phenomena’, in Stanislav Andreski (ed.) and Margaret Clarke (trans.), The Essential
Comte (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1974), pp. 144–50.
30 On du Picq, see Gat, Military Thought, pp. 28–39.
31 Ardant du Picq, Études sur le combat (Paris: Chapelot, 1914), p. 88.
32 Du Picq, Études, p. 94: ‘Le but de la discipline est de faire combattre les gens souvent malgré eux.’
33 V. Derrécagaix, Modern War, trans. C.W. Foster, part 1 (Washington, DC: J.J. Chapman, 1888),
pp. 1–2.
34 Marshal [Ferdinand] Foch, The Principles of War, trans. Hilaire Belloc (New York: Chapman & Hall,
1920), p. 32: ‘Any improvement of firearms is ultimately bound to add strength to the offensive, to
a cleverly conducted attack.’ Foch assumes an attack of two battalions against one. If both sides are
armed with rifles firing a round a minute, the attackers will discharge 2000 bullets to the defenders’
1000. Yet if each force is equipped with rifles capable of firing ten rounds a minute, the attackers
will be capable of shooting 20,000 bullets to the attackers’ 10,000 in the same sixty-second period.
This argument is, of course, bizarre and completely overlooks such matters as the difficulty of
aiming while on the run, the tactical advantages of firing from prone and/or fortified positions, not
to mention the insalubrious effect of combat deaths on an attacker’s rate of fire. An illustration of
Foch’s belief in the principle of continuity throughout all modern wars is the following observation,
with which he concluded a brief account of the Russo-Japanese War: ‘Once again, industrial
38 William C. Fuller, Jr.
improvements modified the forms of war and continued the evolution of the art, but without
eliciting a revolution in it, without affecting in the slightest the fundamental principles of the
conduct of war.’ (Maréchal Ferdinand Foch), Préceptes et Jugements du Maréchal Foch, ed. A. Grasset
(Paris: Berger-Levrault, 1919), pp. 227–8.
35 There are of course exceptions. The distinguished British theorist J.F.C. Fuller, for instance, can be
assigned to the positivist camp. Not only did he believe that a ‘science of war’ was possible, he tried
to develop one himself. See J.F.C. Fuller, The Foundations of the Science of War (London: Hutchinson,
1926), p. 43, for his debt to Comte. Yet Fuller, who had an original and powerful mind, most
emphatically did not envision the next European war as aping the features of the war of 1914–18.
See his Machine Warfare: An Inquiry into the Influence of Mechanics on the Conduct of War (Washington, DC:
The Infantry Journal, 1943), pp. 44–5. See also Holden Reid, British Military Thought, pp. 66–7,
73–4, 82.
36 Daniel J. Hughes (ed.), Moltke on the Art of War: Selected Writings, trans. Daniel J. Hughes and Harry
Bell (Novato, CA: Presidio, 1993), p. 124.
37 Lieut.-General [Rudolf] von Caemmerer, The Development of Strategical Science During the Nineteenth
Century, trans. Karl von Donat (London: Hugh Rees, 1905), pp. ix–x, 212–13, 219, 276–7.
38 In an extremely interesting recent book, Antulio J. Echevarria II has argued that the application of
the term ‘paradigm’ to changes in military theory is inappropriate. ‘Thomas Kuhn’s brilliant
discussion of paradigm shifts relates better to the transposition of scientific models, where
anomalies – the accretion of which indicates that the model is becoming obsolete – are the
exception rather than the rule. In an environment characterized by friction, chance, fear, and
uncertainty, however, anomalies are more often the rule than the exception.’ After Clausewitz:
German Military Thinkers before the Great War (Lawrence, KS: University of Kansas Press, 2001), p. 226.
However, as this passage makes clear, Echevarria (who incidentally uses the word ‘paradigm’
himself in other sections of his book) is confusing action with ratiocination. To make war is indeed
to plunge into an environment of friction, chance, fear, and uncertainty; to think about making
war is not.
39 This was the attack on the Waterworks redoubt prior to the second attempt to storm Port Arthur
in September 1904.
40 Michael Howard, ‘Men against Fire’, in Peter Paret (ed.), Makers of Modern Strategy from Machiavelli to
the Nuclear Age (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986), pp. 517–19. Also see Azar Gat,
Military Thought: The Nineteenth Century, pp. 138–9.
41 W.D. Bird, Lectures on the Strategy of the Russo-Japanese War (London: Hugh Rees, 1909), p. 16.
42 General de Négrier, Lessons of the Russo-Japanese War, trans. E. Louis Spiers (London: Hugh Rees,
1906), pp. 54–5, 83.
43 Lt-Col. (Ret.) A. Kearsey, A Study of the Strategy and Tactics of the Russo-Japanese War (Aldershot: Gale
& Polden, n.d.), p. 5.
44 The case of the USSR is a particularly interesting one, because Russia had suffered through two
very different wars since 1913: the world war, and the Civil War that followed immediately on its
heels. Throughout the 1920s and into the 1930s, Soviet military theorists debated whether the next
war would bear a greater resemblance to the former or to the latter. M.V. Frunze, for instance,
writing in 1921, clearly indicated his belief that the Russian Civil War would be the best model for
thinking about a future conflict. See M.V. Frunze, ‘Edinaia voennaia doktrina v Krasnoi Armii’, in
M.V. Frunze, Izbrannye proizvedeniia (Moscow: Voennoe izdatel’stvo, 1984), p. 46. See also V.A.
Zolotarev (ed.), Istoriia voennoi strategii Rossii (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo ‘Kuchkovo pole’, 2000), pp. 196–7.
In Germany, the new defensive paradigm was eventually rejected, but only after serious debate.
General Walther Reinhardt, for example, made forceful arguments on behalf of a doctrine of
defensive war. See James S. Corum, The Roots of Blitzkrieg: Hans von Seeckt and German Military Reform
(Lawrence, KS: University of Kansas Press, 1992), pp. 55–7.
45 Eugenia C. Kiesling, Arming against Hitler: France and the Limits of Military Planning (Lawrence, KS:
University of Kansas Press, 1996), p. 130.
46 Alfred Thayer Mahan, The Influence of Sea Power upon History 1660–1783 (New York: Hill & Wang,
1957), p. 2.
47 Julian S. Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1998).
48 Friedrich von Bernhardi, On War of Today, vol. II, trans. Karl von Donat (London: H. Rees, 1913),
p. 98.
 What is a military lesson? 39
49 Friedrich von Bernhardi, On War of Today, vol. I, trans. Karl von Donat (London: H. Rees, 1912),
pp. 77–8, 130; vol. II, pp. 10–11, 30–1.
50 The following passage is typical: ‘If at some future time Germany is involved in the slowly threat-
ening war, she need not recoil before the numerical superiority of her enemies. But . . . she can only
rely on being successful if she is resolutely determined to break the superiority of her enemies by a
victory over one or the other of them before their total strength can come into action, and if she
prepares for war to that effect, and acts at the decisive moment. . .’. Bernhardi, War of Today, vol. I,
pp. 100–1. See also Bernhardi, War of Today, vol. II, pp. 442–3.
51 For a sympathetic account that nonetheless makes this point, see Phillip B. Davidson, Vietnam at
War. The History 1946–1975 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), pp. 430–1. For a less
sympathetic view, see Andrew F. Krepinevich, Jr, The Army and Vietnam (Baltimore, MD: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1986), pp. 165–7.
52 Corum, Roots of Blitzkrieg, pp. 66–7.
53 Ernest R. May, Strange Defeat: Hitler’s Conquest of France (New York: Hill & Wang, 2000), pp. 285–8.
54 Griffith, Battle Tactics of the Western Front, p. 43.
55 For an elegant and persuasive argument about interaction and stalemate during World War, I, see
Echevarria, After Clausewitz, pp. 224–5.
56 Handel, Masters of War, p. 238.
57 Michael Howard, ‘Military Science in an Age of Peace’, RUSI Journal, vol. 119, no. 1 (1974), p. 6.
58 Anthony H. Cordesman and Abraham R. Wagner, The Lessons of Modern War, vol. III: The Afghan
and Falklands Conflicts (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1990), p. 436.
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 lächelst Du nicht, wenn ich Dir sage, daß ich jezt Florentins Ebenbild
stündlich küssen, täglich an den — — M u t t e r b u s e n drükken kann! — Ich
werde so roth, indem ich schreibe, und finde doch keine Ursach dazu. — O
Florentin, wärst du izt bei mir! doch, du darfst es nicht sein.“
„Ich habe Dich gesehen in der Kirche zu R i e d e l s h e i m . Ich traute
meinen Augen nicht, schlug den Flor vom Gesichte und sah Dich. Um mich,
die ich im strengsten Inkognito lebte, nicht zu verrathen, begab ich mich
eilend in meine Wohnung. Du kamst zu A e l l m a r n — o, hättest du’s
gewußt, daß wir in den Mauern e i n e s Hauses beisammen waren — —!
nein, so ists besser. Du hast mich also in der Kirche erkannt? denn warum
drangen Aellmar und sein gutes Weibchen so sehr in mich, daß ich dem
leztern meinen Anzug leihen mußte, um dich zu täuschen?“
„A e l l m a r hat in einem angenehmen Lustwalde bei Riedelsheim ein
schönes Haus. Hierhin floh ich, damit Du mich nicht entdektest, aber meine
Gedanken begleiteten Dich stets. Ich fantasirte Dich zu mir her, meine
Einbildungskraft trieb ihr Spiel so hoch, daß ich zuweilen glaubte, Du riefest
mich laut bei Namen.“
„Das unstäte Herumreisen gefällt mir. Ich bin schon ganz
wiederhergestellt; in der andern Woche muß ich am Hofe erscheinen, aber,
ach, Florentin, wie öde ists dort, wenn Du nicht da bist! Mein Bruder, der
Herzog soll sehr niedergeschlagen sein — ich wünschte die Hälfte Sehnsucht
nach Dir, die mich quält, in seinen Busen und er würde Dich gewiß mit
Thränen der Reue in sein Land heimrufen.“ —
„Antworten mußt Du nie auf meine Briefe. Man hat mir aber versprochen,
mich von allem zu benachrichtigen, was sich mit Dir ereignet. — Florentin
liebe mich — bleib mir ewig gut! die Hand, die uns trennte, führt uns
vielleicht einst wieder zusammen. Erinnerst Du Dich noch eines Abends, da
du im Schloßgarten mir das Strumpfband applündertest?“
„Florentin lieb ewig
L o u i s e n .“
„Geschrieben im Aellmarschen
Waldhause bei
Riedelsheim.“

Daß F l o r e n t i n beim Lesen und nach Lesung dieses Briefes in

eine ihm jezt sehr ungewöhnliche heitre Seelenstimmung versezt
wurde, ist leicht zu errathen. Er küßte das Blatt, welches i h r e
Hände berührt, küßte die Züge, welche s i e gezeichnet hatten.
Aber die Wonne des G r a f e n war nicht das liebliche
R o s e n r o t h auf die g r ü n e F a r b e der Hoffnung hingegossen,
um mit Farben F l o r e n t i n s Seelenzustand zu mahlen: sondern ein
düsteres Roth auf schwarzem Grunde. Ein
unwandelbarer Trübsinn dämpfte jedes aufwallende, frohe Gefühl,
und ließ im Freudestrahlenden Auge die Thräne der Schwermuth
blinken.
Gewöhnlich glaubt man, daß Entfernung von der Geliebten den
Schmerz sie nicht besizzen zu können, und am Ende die Liebe selber,
mildert, auch der brave Herzog A d o l f gieng wahrscheinlich von
diesem Standpunkte aus, da er F l o r e n t i n e n und L o u i s e n mit
weiser Vorsicht trennte — aber hier fand das Gegentheil statt. Seine
Liebe wurde mit jeder Entfernung von dem Gegenstande derselben
heftiger, und er empfand die traurig angenehme Wahrheit des
O w e n i s c h e n Spruches an sich, daß
Je mehr man dem Feuer der Liebe entfliehe,
Je mehr es glühe.
Er hätte gern anizt die Pferde satteln und sich im sausenden Gallopp
wieder nach R i e d e l s h e i m oder dem Aellmarschen Waldhause
zurüktragen lassen, um L o u i s e n zu sehn, zu umarmen, zu
sprechen, um sein Ebenbild an das Vaterherz zu drükken — aber der
U r b a n s t a g war nicht mehr weit, und die P r i n z e s s i n , die
sogar seine Briefe verbat, konnte vielleicht auf seine
Selbsterscheinung noch ungehaltner werden; überdem war ihr
Aufenthalt äusserst ungewiß.
Gezwungen also mußte er so weise sein, die in ihm aufsteigenden
Wünsche schweigen zu machen. Aber A e l l m a r n konnte ers lange
nicht vergeben, daß er ihn so heimtükkisch hintergangen, und die
Anwesenheit der Prinzeßin in Riedelsheim nicht verrathen habe. —
Wäre A e l l m a r nicht der schwarzen Brüder einer gewesen, so
fürchte ich, daß F l o r e n t i n blutige Rache an ihm genommen
haben würde.
„O!“ rief der betrogne, tiefgekränkte G r a f , mehr als einmahl mit
wildem Verdrusse aus: „fürwahr, spielt man doch mit mir, als einem
Kinde. Nein, so wahr ein Gott über uns lebt, so wahr ich frei bin und
Mann bin, ich will länger nicht sein der, welcher ich war. O,
Freundschaft, Freundschaft, bist doch nur eine schöne Puppe,
welche man fühlenden, reinen Seelen, mit Kindesunschuld begabt,
auf eine Zeitlang zum Tändeln giebt! du selber reizendes Ideal,
Inbegrif jeder Tugend, hast dein Antliz abgewandt von der
entarteten Menschheit, dein Schatten nur schwebt noch auf der
Geschichte der Vorwelt und den Werken des Dichters!“
Ich glaube, der G r a f würde nicht unrecht gethan haben, wenn er
das beherzigt hätte, was wir oben (Seite 9.) über den Monolog eines
Fürsten gloßirten! —
Inzwischen hatte er weder Zeit genug seine Freude, noch seinen
Verdrus lange zu verfolgen, weil endlich der Tag des heiligen
U r b a n u s anbrach und — verdämmerte.
Schon vorher hatte der G r a f von einem Mungenwallischen
Wirthe nöthige Kunde über den rothen Wald, die Heerstraße, das
steinerne Kreuz und dergleichen mehr eingezogen, wovon ihm
H o l d e r sagte, so daß er jezt unmöglich irren konnte, da er gegen
Abend zum Mungenwaller Thore hinauswanderte, und dem vor ihm
liegenden Gehölz entgegen.
Er trat hinein in den sogenannten r o t h e n W a l d , der an sich
jedem andern g r ü n e n Walde gleich war, nur daß mit Anfang des
Gebüsches auch der Erdboden in Berg und Thal sich zu verändern
anfing, und F l o r e n t i n s Straße sich in ewgen Krümmungen um
Hügel, durch Thäler, grausenvolle mit hohen Rüstern überwölbte
Hohlwege eine gute halbe Meile hinschlängelte.
Die Mitternachtsstunde nahte. F l o r e n t i n sah links das
steinerne Kreuz auf einer mit Sträuchern wildumwachsenen Anhöhe.
Er lagerte sich am Fuße derselben, harrend der Dinge, welche
kommen sollten.
Der Himmel war mit Wolken bezogen; hie und da funkelte ein
Stern herab; dann und wann trat der Mond aus den Nebeln hervor,
übrigens herrschte Todesstille im Walde.
Der G r a f hatte noch Zeit genug vor sich seine Begebenheiten zu
überdenken, die ihn hieher gebracht hatten.
„Wie wunderbar das Verhängnis mit uns spielt!“ — dachte er bei
sich: „wie hätt’ ich je glauben sollen, daß ich einmal in diesem Walde
um Mitternacht liegen würde, Abentheuern entgegen zu gehn? —
Sollte man nicht beinahe des Menschen freien Willen für ein
Selbstgespinst seiner Fantasie halten? Ich kam an den Hof eines
Fürsten, wurde sein Vertrauter. Seine Schwester war zu schön, daß
ich nicht Liebe für sie hätte empfinden sollen und Sie liebte mich
wieder. Eine glükliche Nacht war die Quelle vieler Unglüksfälle. Ich
würde verloren gewesen sein, hätte mich nicht die Güte unbekannter
Männer erhalten; ich wäre nicht durch diese so glüklich gewesen,
hätte ein Ungewitter und ein rother Mantel nicht Holdern mit
meinem Onkel verbunden. Ich stand dem Tode nahe, wurde gerettet
— war dies nicht vielleicht nur Plan der schwarzen Brüder? —
Ungewiß über mein künftiges Leben schweif ich umher. Ich komme
in ein Dorf; der heitre Morgen reizt mich in die Kirche zu gehn, und
dieser Gang ist eine neue Ursach von tausend angenehmen und
widrigen Empfindungen. Könnte der Geist des Menschen die Folgen
jeder, auch der kleinsten, That überschaun, würd’ er wohl je
Thorheiten begehn?“
Florentin hörte jezt den Fußtritt eines Wandelnden durch das stille
Gebüsch hallen. Er horchte; es kam näher. Ein Mensch wie ihn
H o l d e r beschrieben hatte, gieng die Landstraße nach Mungenwall;
einen Bündel dürrer Reiser auf dem Rükken, eine Axt unterm linken
Arm tragend. Es war hell genug einander, wiewohl nur schwach,
wahrzunehmen. F l o r e n t i n wußte, was jezt geschehn würde.
Der F r e m d e gieng hart an ihm vorüber, ward seiner gewahr und
sprach: „Seid gegrüßt!“
„Gott dank Euch, Hugo!“ antwortete der G r a f und lauschte.
„„Es ist kalt, und nicht mehr weit von Mungenwall, warum
verweilet Ihr am Wege hier?““
„Ich sizze zum Feste der Schwarzen.“
„„Gut! gut! ich verstehe!““ erwiederte der H o l z t r ä g e r , gieng
an das steinerne Kreuz und schlug mit dem Rükken der Axt dreimahl
mit solcher Energie wider das Kruzifix, als wollt’ ers mit jedem
Schlage zermalmen. —
„Was bedeutet dies?“ fragte F l o r e n t i n , indem er aufstand.
„„Man soll uns erwarten und verstehn wie wir uns erwartet und
verstanden haben. Folgt mir!““
Der seltsame H o l z t r ä g e r wanderte frisch voran, F l o r e n t i n
ihm nach. Sie giengen einen wenig betretenen Fußsteig rechts ins
Gehölz hinein, verloren denselben, drangen durch Buschwerke,
sprangen über Graben, giengen neue Wege, verloren sie wieder, bis
sie nach anderthalb Viertelstunden vor einem Hause standen, wo
man eben niemanden zu erwarten, sondern wo vielmehr alles
ausgestorben zu sein schien. Der H o l z t r ä g e r klopfte dreimahl
an. Es wurde aufgethan.
Zweiter Abschnitt.
 Erstes Kapitel.
Kanella.

Unter andern sagte A e l l m a r zum Grafen F l o r e n t i n v o n

D u u r , während der Anwesenheit des leztern im Dorfe
Riedelsheim:
„Volk und Fürst liegen jezt zu K a n e l l a mit einander im Prozesse.
Um Menschen, Hofkreaturen, Politik und Volkskraft zu studieren, ist
das für jezt die beste hohe Schule.“
Ich zweifle gar nicht, daß sich meine Leser dieser Worte so gut,
als ich mich, zu erinnern wissen. — Die politischen Romane so wohl,
als die politischen Schauspiele und Staatsakzionen sind ziemlich aus
der Mode gekommen, ich finde auch kein Behagen sie wieder in den
alten Flor zu bringen, aber so viel es zu der Erzählung unsrer
Geschichte gehört, muß ich doch der Kanellesischen Unruhen
erwähnen.
P i e d r o , Fürst von Kanella, war schön gewachsen, in den besten
Lebensjahren, hatte ein niedliches Gesicht, viel Galanterie und
hinreißende Swade. Dieß aber war die ganze Summe seiner
Tugenden! er war der angenehmste Gesellschafter und der
elendeste Regent. Wie man nach gewöhnlicher Art den Fürstenpöbel
erzieht, war er erzogen; Stupidität, Wollust, Aberglaube, Prachtliebe,
Bigotterie, und Selbstsucht gaben die Grundlinien seines Karakters
an. Er regierte nicht, sondern diejenigen, welche seine Einfalt
vergötterten, seine Leidenschaften küzzelten; und regierte er: so war
er Despot.
Ein unglükseeliges Volk, welches ein solches Unhaupt zum Haupte
hat!
 Die K a n e l l e s e r fühlten P i e d r o s eisernen Zepter und
murrten; sein Prachtaufwand war groß, groß wie ihre Armuth — sie
murrten lauter; ihr Gewissen selber wurde als dependent von der
Laune des Fürsten erklärt, die Freiheit ihres Geistes in Fesseln
geschlagen und dies war das Signal zu thätigen Erklärungen des
Volks wider den Fürsten.
„Vergeuden will er mit seinen Konkubinen unser Hab und Gut!“ rief
hier mit Thränen ein Bürger aus, der einen Theil seines Silbergeräths
zu Gelde gemacht hatte, um die vielen Steuern und Abgaben zu
entrichten: „mit Lekkerbissen und Weinen aus allen Welttheilen
herbeigeführt, will er sich und seine Hofschranzen mästen, indeß wir
seine Bürger mit unsern Weibern und Kindern an Brodrinden
knauern und Quellwasser trinken sollen! Nein, Piedro, fürwahr du
treibst es nicht lange so!“
„Ha, des fürchterlichen Schlaukopfs!“ schrie dort ein andrer: „wir
sind ihm zu klug, er will uns umschaffen zu Dummköpfen, damit wir
ruhiger seine Tükke dulden, seine Pläne nicht sobald durchschauen,
und gewahren, wo uns die Ketten schaben. Darum verdammet er die
Aufklärung, darum giebt er uns bigotte Religionslehrer, darum dürfen
die Gelehrten auf der hohen Schule nicht mehr sprechen, wie sie
wohl wollten, und die Schriftsteller nicht mehr schreiben, wie sie
gern mögten. O Piedro, es wird dir doch nicht gelingen!“
So dachte man und sprach man leise und laut im ganzen Gebiete
Kanellas; täglich erschienen Pasquille auf dem Fürsten, seine
Lieblinge und Ministers, wöchentlich traten heimlich gedrukte
Schriften über die Regierung ans Licht, welche dieselben vor den
Augen des ganzen lesenden Volks in ihrer Blöße darstellten.
P i e d r o s Aufwand überstieg beiweiten seine Einnahmen; alle
Mittel wurden hervorgesucht, und waren es die abscheulichsten, um
die zerrütteten Finanzen wiederherzustellen. Eine auswärtige große
Macht, welche schon seit etlichen Jahren in einen schweren Krieg
verwickelt war, verlangte vom Kanellesischen Hofe Truppen gegen
Bezahlung einiger Millionen. Wem konnte dies Anerbieten
willkommener geschehn, als dem P i e d r o ? — die Regimenter
wurden kompletirt, exercirt und in marschfertigen Stand gesezt. Die
Kanelleser murmelten zwar manches von Unrecht, Widersezzen,
Aufsagung des Gehorsams und dergleichen mehr, aber wer hörte auf
sie? — Doch gab dies den ersten Anlaß zum öffentlichen Ausbruch
des allgemeinen Misvergnügens.
Der Kardinal Benedetto, Piedros Favorit und
Universalminister, hatte durch seine Spione manches erfahren, was
allerdings für den Hof nicht allzugünstig ablaufen konnte, begab sich
also zum Fürsten, und zwar am Tage vor dem Abmarsch der
Regimenter.
Er fand den Landesvater in den Armen der schönen Gräfin
R o s a f f a , wollüstig in ihren schwarzen Haarlokken tändelnd. Der
K a r d i n a l wollte zurüktreten.
„Nicht doch, Herr Kardinal,“ rief ihm die Geliebte P i e d r o s zu:
„kommen sie herein, wir werden nicht gestört.“

Piedro. (lachend) Nein, nein, wir werden nicht gestört! ha, ha, ha!
Kardinal. Ich habe Ew. Durchlaucht nur e i n Wort, aber ein
wichtiges Wort zu sagen.
Piedro. So? reden Sie; Donna Rosaffa darfs ja wohl hören.
Rosaffa. (einen intressanten Blik auf den Kardinal werfend.) Ich bitte selber
darum.
Kardinal. (sie anlächelnd) Ich muß gehorsamen.
Piedro. Was verlangen Sie denn?
Kardinal. Daß der Prinz Moriz nicht mit den Truppen Ew. herzogl.
Durchlaucht abgehe — —
Piedro. Sondern?
Kardinal. Noch eine zeitlang in Kanella bleibe, weil das Volk unruhig
geworden ist.
Piedro. (auffahrend) Unruhig?
Kardinal. Wegen des Abmarsches unsrer jungen Mannschaft.
Rosaffa. Die Burschen werden ihre Mädchen nicht verlassen wollen.
Piedro. Dem ersten, der da mukst eine Kugel vor den Kopf! — Was
soll aber Moriz hier?
Kardinal. Er ist vom ganzen Volke gefürchtet; ich habe Proben
davon erfahren, die unglaublich scheinen. Er wird am besten
Ordnung zu erhalten wissen — befehlen Ew. Durchlaucht, daß er
zurük bleibe.
Piedro. Meinethalben.
Rosaffa. Moriz ist ein fürchterlicher Mann; ich glaube seine trozzige
Miene allein schon kann eine Armee in die Flucht jagen.
Piedro. Sind die Unruhen von Bedeutung?
Kardinal. Noch nicht, könntens aber werden. Alles die traurigen
Folgen der Freigeisterei und eingerißnen Aufklärungssucht. Wehe,
wehe dem Staate, wo diese herrschen! — doch ich denke ja mit
der Hülfe des Himmels und Ew. Durchlaucht bald die Kezzereien
auszurotten, und Ihre Unterthanen in ein sanftes, frommes,
gottgefälliges Volk umzubilden. Ei, ei, ei, Dero Durchlauchte
Vorfahren haben das Uebel schon zu tief — —
Piedro. Verbessern Sie, Herr Kardinal. Und, wie gesagt, jedem
widerspenstigen Buben die Kugel oder den Galgen.
Rosaffa. Wenn marschieren die Soldaten aus?
Piedro. Wir sehen sie morgen vor unserm Pallast durchziehen. (er
flüstert der Gräfin etwas ins Ohr.)
Rosaffa. (beleidigte Schaamhaftigkeit affektirend) Nicht doch!
Kardinal. (empfiehlt sich)

Prinz M o r i z empfieng noch an selbigem Tage vom Hofe Befehl in

K a n e l l a zu bleiben, weil hier seine Anwesenheit vonnöthen sei.
Zwar war ihm dies eine sehr ungelegne Ordre; doch einige Zeilen
von B e n e d e t t o s Hand beruhigten ihn, machten ihn sogar
zufriedner mit seinem Heimbleiben, als seiner determinirten Abreise.
Ich darf den Karakter M o r i z e n s meinen Lesern nicht erst
schildern; wahrscheinlich kennen Sie den Mann noch, nebst seinem
getreuen F l i m m e r , aus seinen Händeln mit den schwarzen
Brüdern und den Grafen D u u r in Herzog A d o l f s Residenz. Hier
am Hofe zu K a n e l l a wurde er, wie man sieht, ungemein geschäzt.
Besonders bediente sich seiner B e n e d e t t o treflich, weil dieser
schlaue Mönch durch ihn manches Plänchen zu realisiren wußte,
welches nur durch einen so wilden, rauhen M o r i z realisirt werden
konnte; denn ausser diesem war das ganze Hofvolk ein Heer
entnervter Wollüstlinge, Sodomitten und Tribaden.
 Zweites Kapitel.
Der Landesvater mit seinen
Landeskindern.

Am folgenden Tage war es schon früh in den Straßen von

K a n e l l a lebhaft. Soldaten und Bürger, Männer und Weiber, Hohe
und Niedrige rannten durcheinander, sagten sich das Lebewohl,
wünschten sich das baldige Wiedersehn. Die Rosse schnoben, die
Fahnen und Standarten wehten, die Waffen klirrten, die Trommeln
wurden gerührt, man sties in die Trompeten, die Compagnien
stellten sich, alles zog sich auf dem großen S t . D o m i n i k u s p l a z
zusammen.
Es war ein rührendes Schauspiel anzusehn, wie sie da standen die
Greise, Männer und Jünglinge unter ihren Waffen. Verzweiflung und
Schmerz malte sich in ihren Mienen — ein gebrochnes Jammergetön
durchdrang die Luft — keiner aber sprach. Die Männer, welche
vorübergingen, riefen ihnen ein banges: „Gott mit euch!“ zu und
verbargen die heimlichen Thränen, welche sich aus ihren Augen
stahlen. Aber die Krieger verbissen ihren Schmerz — still lächelten
sie und drükten einander wehmüthig die Hände.
Mit einemmahle sahe man einen langen Zug von Weibern dem
D o m i n i k u s p l a z entgegen wanken; jedes beinahe führte ein
Kind an der Hand. Es waren die Weiber und Kinder der scheidenden
Krieger. — Diese sahen sich, vom Anblik dieser Szene durchbohrt,
an, jedem zitterte eine Thräne vom männlichen Auge und jeder
nahm vom Weibe und Kinde den lezten Abschied. „Lebet wohl, mein
Vater!“ riefen die unmündigen Kleinen. — „Lebet wohl!“ lallte ein
weinender Greis und stämmte sich auf seine Flinte: „lebet wohl, ihr
kleinen Engel!“
Die Weiber umschlangen ihre Gatten, stammelten ihnen tausend
heiße Wünsche, und jeder Wunsch wurde von einer Flut von
Thränen und Küssen erstikt.
„Gott ziehe mit dir, mein Einziger!“ rief ein junges Mädchen und
sank ohnmächtig an den Hals des geliebten Jünglings, und der
Jüngling erwiederte: „Tröste dich unser Gott, meine Traute, wenn ich
nicht heimkomme! In der Ewigkeit sehn wir uns wieder!“
„Ja in der Ewigkeit sehen wir uns wieder und da soll Gott der
Gerechte richten!“ heulten einige Weiber, und der Jammer ward
allgemein.
Plözlich schwieg alles; Todesschauer faßte jeden und jede, denn
es hieß: „M o r i z kömmt! M o r i z kömmt!“
Der P r i n z kam wirklich von einigen seiner Offizieren begleitet zu
Pferde herbeigesprengt.
„Allons, weg Weiber und Mezzen von den Soldaten; Memmen
sinds ohnedem!“ rief er.
„Wären nicht Memmen!“ replizirte hierauf einer der Senatoren von
Kanella, der unter dem Volke stand, so deutlich, daß es M o r i z
hören mußte, wenn er nicht im dem Augenblik mit Taubheit
geschlagen gewesen: „nicht Memmen, sobald man sie wider die
Feinde ihres Vaterlandes ausschikte!“
M o r i z stuzte; sein Stolz der hier Angesichts des Volks beleidigt
wurde, wiegelte seinen Zorn auf. Mit fürchterlichem Blik sah er um
sich und fragte: „Wer spricht das?“
Der alte Senator trat aus dem Gedränge hervor und antwortete:
„Borsellino, Prinz, ein edler Kanelleser.“
„„Elender Graukopf, hüte dich!““
„Vor wem? ich bin sicher.“
„„Ich will dir den Lohn deiner Kanellesischen Frechheit auszahlen
lassen.““
„Prinz, ich bin ein Bürger Kanellas!“
„„He, Wache herbei!““
„Herr, ich bin der Senatoren einer!“
„„Wache!““
 Das Volk stürzte zusammen; der Lärmen ward grösser, zwölf junge
Edelleute, verwandt und unverwandt mit dem Hause
B o r s e l l i n o s , umringten den Greis, ihn gegen Gewaltthätigkeiten
zu beschirmen.
Die Wache kam. M o r i z befahl B o r s e l l i n o ’ n zu ergreifen und
wegzuführen. Die zwölf Kanellischen Edeln baten für ihn, umsonst.
Sie drohten; M o r i z wurde wüthend.
Der neugierige Pöbel sammelte sich näher; einige im Volle
schrieen: „Borsellino darf nicht angetastet werden, er ist der
Senatoren einer!“ und plötzlich riefen mehrere Stimmen: „Wehe,
wehe dem, der den braven Bürger Kanellas mishandelt!“ und so grif
der Tumult um sich, der Pöbel lärmte, alles schrie: „Bürgerrechte
werden zertreten! steht Borsellino’n bei! wer thut ihm Gewalt?“
M o r i z sas etliche Minuten durch dies ungewohnte Schauspiel
versteinert da auf seinem Rosse; seine Lebensgeister waren
entflohen, aber bald kehrten sie wieder bei ihm ein und wie es
schien in Furien umgewandelt. Er rollte die Augen fürchterlich
umher, knirschte laut mit den Zähnen, schäumte, sties gräsliche
Flüche wider die Kanelleser aus und kommandirte das
nächststehende Regiment die Gewehre scharf zu laden und auf
seinen Wink unter das Volk zu feuern.
Beinahe der ganze Adel von Kanella, welcher ausser dem Hofe
lebte, war jezt herbeigeeilt, Morizens Befehl wirkte anfangs
allgemeine Bestürzung und Stille. Aber diese Stille verwandelte sich
bald wieder in leises Flüstern und Murren, das Geflüster in lauteres
Murmeln, das Murmeln wurde stärker und stärker und endlich das
vorige Schreien und Toben.
Der alte B o r s e l l i n o inzwischen glich einem Rasenden. Er hörte
M o r i z e n s Kommando die Gewehre zu laden und Feuer zu geben;
dies sezte ihn ausser sich, er war seiner nicht Mann, zog den Degen,
und versuchte sich durch den Haufen der Edelleute zu drängen.
„Ungeheuer!“ rief er mit glühendem Gesicht: „Ungeheuer! ists
erhört, das Blut der Bürger von Kanella zu vergießen? — Ungeheuer,
wag es, e i n e n Schuß wage! He! will das unser Landesherr? —
Ungeheuer, wird das Piedro wollen?“ —
 Man bemühte sich den jähzornigen B o r s e l l i n o zu überlärmen,
zu besänftigen, aber er ruhte nicht. „Laßt mich hin zu ihm, laßt mich!
Bürgerblut will er vergießen — hört ihrs denn nicht? Ists nicht
genug, daß man uns zu Sklaven machen will, zum Viehe sollen wir
noch herabgewürdigt werden, das man morden darf, nach
Herzenslust! — Laßt mich, laßt mich! — Heda, verdammter
Fremdling, mit dem Leben der Kanelleser willst du spielen? ho! ho!
— Bürgerblut! Bürgerblut! — Männer von Kanella ihr schweigt? —
ho! hindurch!“
Der P r i n z sah den schnaubenden B o r s e l l i n o , hörte seine
Worte, hörte des Volkes verwirrtes Geschrei, aber fühlte nicht, daß
e r es gewesen sei, der den schlummernden Funken des
allgemeinen Unwillens zur lodernden Flamme angeblasen hatte —
und wurde ob dieser unerhörten Vermessenheit eines Kanellesischen
von Adel dreimahl wilder, als zuvor. Sein Gefolge stämmte sich ihm
entgegen, aber Zwang empört den Zorn, stillt ihn nicht.
Es war ein entsezlicher Anblik, die beiden Wüthenden gegen über,
jeder von den seinigen umringt und zurükgehalten. Aber unmöglich
konnte man B o r s e l l i n o ’ n länger widerstehn, er, in dem die Wuth
Riesenstärke und Feuer der Jugend ausgegossen hatte. Er stürmte
hervor und sties blindlings das gezukte Schwerd bis an den Heft dem
Rosse des Prinzen in den Leib, und in eben den Augenblik stürzte
M o r i z e n s Klinge auf B o r s e l l i n o s Schädel herab.
„Gebt Feuer!“ schrie der P r i n z , indem sein Pferd unter ihm sank:
„Feuer auf die Hunde!“ und von verschiedenen Seiten fielen —
einzelne Schüsse.
Dies that Wirkung, wie sie M o r i z hoffte. Der Pöbel flüchtete;
alles wurde still. — —
B o r s e l l i n o lag ohnmächtig, in eignen Blute sich badend, in den
Armen seiner Freunde. Man trug ihn fort. M o r i z gab eiligst Befehl
zum Aufbruch der Soldaten. Es flogen die Rosse, die Fahnen und
Standarten wehten, die Waffen klirrten, die Trommeln wurden
gerührt, man sties in die Trompeten und so gieng der Marsch durch
die Straßen von Kanella, an das herzogliche Palais vorüber.
P i e d r o , R o s a f f a , B e n e d e t t o mit verschiedenen Herrn und
Damen des Hofs standen auf den Gallerien und Altanen vertheilt,
dem Zuge zuzuschaun.
Aber ehe die verkauften Landeskinder mit klingendem Spiel und
fliegenden Fahnen herankamen, erschien in trauriger Prozeßion der
blutende B o r s e l l i n o , getragen von den Vornehmsten von Adel.
Nicht ohne Absicht schleppte man den Verwundeten, der sich etwas
erholt hatte, hier vorüber.
Der F ü r s t hatte den Lärmen und später nachher das Schießen
gehört, und von einem Adjutanten aus M o r i z e n s Suite Nachricht
darüber empfangen.
„Wer ist der, welchen Ihr da unten traget?“ fragte der H e r z o g
mit Neugier und heimlichen Schaudern.
„„Der edle Borsellino!““ scholl die Antwort zurük.
Der Verwundete richtete sich mit dem Leibe empor, schlug die
Augen auf, sammlete alle Kräfte und sprach mit matter Stimme:
„Herzog Piedro, dein Landeskind! — Piedro dein Landeskind,
erschlagen von dem Fremdling der nach dem Blute deiner guten
Bürger dürstet! — Piedro, Rache und Recht, wenn du Landesvater
bist!“
P i e d r o war erschüttert. — R o s a f f a schrie hinunter: „Schaffet
den abscheulichen Anblik aus unsern Augen!“ und P i e d r o das
Echo seiner R o s a f f a intonirte sogleich: „Schaft ihn fort!“
B o r s e l l i n o seufzte; die ihm umgebenden Edelleute murmelten
unwillig unter sich, und gehorchten der Mätresse ihres Herrn.
Die Truppen marschirten bald darauf vorbei.
„Es lebe Piedro! — es lebe Piedro, die Lust seines Volkes!“ schrien
die Soldaten, wenn sie nahe am Schlosse waren, und wischten zu
gleicher Zeit die Thränen vom Auge, und der L a n d e s v a t e r
lächelte huldreich auf sie herab.
 Drittes Kapitel.
Gewitterwolken, die sich zerstreun.

Seit diesen Auftritten herrschten in K a n e l l a tiefe Stille und Ruhe;

es kam nirgends zu öffentlichen Händeln. Aber diese allgemeine
Stille glich der vor einem Gewitter; sie ist schreklich. Die Volksfeste
wurden nicht mehr so lebhaft, als sonst gefeiert; in den Tabagien
und Gasthöfen lärmte nicht mehr der frohe Muthwille; die schönsten
Spaziergänge wurden seltner besucht. Gram und Mismuth war auf
jedem Gesichte zu lesen; Armuth wohnte unter den meisten
Dächern, Unthätigkeit, Ekel der Arbeit in den meisten Werkstuben.
Nichts ist für einen Staat unglükweissagender, als s o l c h e
Phänomene! Armuth gebiert Muthlosigkeit, Misvergnügen,
Widerwillen gegen alle Arbeiten beim gemeinen Mann, weil er noch
nur das wenigste von dem durch seinen Fleis Gewonnenen für sich
behält, sondern den größten Theil seines Erwerbs den Pächtern,
Monopolisten, Zöllnern, Steuern- und Acciseeinnehmern für den
Fürsten u. s. f. entrichten muß. Träger Müssiggang ist der Vater
gefährlicher Projekte und Träume, wo man sich denn durch irgend
ein Wagstük in die ehmaligen Glüksumstände wieder hinauf zu
schwingen hofft.
Der habsüchtige B e n e d e t t o , der schwelgerische P i e d r o
argwöhnten von diesem Erfolg ihrer Unternehmungen zur
Verbesserung der Finanzen nicht das geringste. Nothdurft, — so
machiavellisirten sie — ist das Triebrad im Staate, welches Industrie,
Künste und Handwerke befördert. Reichthum der Landeseinwohner
macht sie frech, luxuriös, träge. Der Unterthan ist ein Esel, der nur
mit Zwang seine Pflichten erfüllt.
 Ob P i e d r o und sein U n i v e r s a l m i n i s t e r richtig
argumentirten, wird uns der Erfolg mit Thatsachen belegen können.
— Nur so viel war jezt schon gewiß, daß das Gebiet von K a n e l l a
um diese Zeiten ungleich mehr verarmte Familien, Bankeroteurs,
Bettler, Beitelschneider, Straßenräuber, und andres unnüzzes
Gesindel aufzuzeigen hatte, als irgend sonst.
Mehr gährte es in den Köpfen des so oft beleidigten, oft ungerecht
herabgewürdigten Senats und Adels. Der erstere hatte kein anderes
Gesezbuch, als die Laune des K a r d i n a l s , des P r i n z e n M o r i z
und der G r ä f i n R o s a f f a , lezterer keine Anwartschaft durch
Verdienste sich emporzuschwingen; Mittel waren nur etwa die
Schürze einer fürstlichen Beischläferin, oder eine Börse gepreßt
voller Goldstükken.
B o r s e l l i n o s Schiksal machte neue Sensazion; dieser
unglükliche Greis starb an seinen Wunden. Vor seinem Ende schrieb
er noch an den jungen G i o v a n n i , seinen Sohn, der sich damahls
in R o m befand, einen beweglichen Brief, worin er ihn bat nach
K a n e l l a zurükzukommen, um den Prozeß auszuführen, welchen
sein Mörder wider ihn anhängig gemacht hatte. — G i o v a n n i , dem
der ganze Karakter seines Vaters angeerbt war, kam — und fand
B o r s e l l i n o s Leichnam im Sarge.
„Oh!“ rief er, und warf sich über den entseelten Vater, hin: „ich bin
zu spät gekommen! — Gott, mein Gott, daß ich ihn verlieren könnte,
das wußt ich wohl — aber so ihn zu verlieren, das vergebe ich dem
Mörder nie, wenns auch der Himmel könnte! — Erschlagen,
meuchelmörderischerweise erschlagen mein Vater — nein, das hat er
nicht verdient um Kanellas Wohl!“ —
Es waren viele Edle und Senatoren in dem Trauerzimmer
versammelt — alle bemitleideten in den zärtlichsten Ausdrükken den
leidenden G i o v a n n i .
„Nein, nein,“ unterbrach er sie: „tröstet mich nicht, d a s Werk der
Barmherzigkeit will ich an mir selber verrichten. Das Blut des
Mörders löschet meine Wuth früh oder spät! — O, namenloser
Verbrecher, o Mörder! Mörder, verflucht seist du vor dem Schöpfer
und der Kreatur, verflucht sei dein Schlaf und dein Wachen, verflucht
der Becher, den du leerst, verflucht sei der Bissen, welcher dich
sättigt. — Es rüttle dich aus mitternächtlichem Halbschlummer
Borsellinos Geist, es verjage dir die Freude des Tages Borsellinos
Gespenst! — Mörder, entsezlicher Mörder, sichre dich, denn die
Rache schläft nicht. — Verflucht will ich sein vor dem Weltrichter
ewig, wenn ich nicht die Blutsünden abwasche — verflucht sei der
Gedanke, welcher sich in meine Seele hineinstiehlt, ohne daß Rache
ihm dieselbe aufschloß — es verdorre meine Hand, die sich dir
friedlich darreicht, es verblinde mein Auge, wenn es dich anlächelt.
Drükke ich einst den lallenden Säugling an mein Vaterherz, so sei
das erste Gebet, welches ich ihn lehre, der gräslichste Fluch über
dich und deine dann vermoderte Asche! — Oh! oh!“ —
Der ganze Senat, unzähliche vom Adel, zahlloses Volk begleiteten
den Sarg zum Grabe, in einem feierlichen Zuge, desgleichen in
Kanella noch unerhört war.
Was G i o v a n e n s Prozeß betraf: so wurde vom F ü r s t dahin
entschieden, daß, weil B o r s e l l i n o einen frevelhaften Aufruhr
begonnen, derselbe das Leben gerichtlich hätte verlieren müssen, da
aber der natürliche Tod seiner Strafe zuvorgekommen; so würden
die Erben des Delinquenten verbunden sein, drei Viertel vom
Vermögen desselben, als Strafgebühren, zu entrichten. V o n
Rechtswegen.
G i o v a n n i liebte die schöne L a u r a , Tochter des edeln
Kanellesers E o . Viele Wochen verflossen, ehe G i o v a n n i zu seiner
Geliebten ging. Er fand sie das erstemahl, als er sie wieder erblikte,
in Thränen. „Nun, trautes Mädchen, wirst du nie Giovannens Weib —
was soll dir ein armer Edelmann?“ sagte er. L a u r a war untröstlich;
der junge B o r s e l l i n o unerschöpflich an Witz, das arme Mädchen
zu foltern. „Ich sehe dich gern leiden, denn dein Leiden quält mich
zum Ziele hin, das mir vorgestekt ist. Morizens lezte Nacht sei unsre
Hochzeitnacht! verstehst du mich?“
„„Ich hab’ Euch verstanden, edler B o r s e l l i n o ,““ sagte der alte
E o , indem er ins Zimmer hereintrat, und von mehrern Edelleuten
begleitet wurde: „„seht hier Eure Freunde, die Euch zur baldigen
Hochzeit helfen wollen.““
G i o v a n n i war bestürzt; er bat um Erklärung des Räthsels und
man gab sie ihm mit den Worten: „Wir alle arbeiten an Morizens Fall
— arbeiten an Aufrechthaltung des Senats, des Adels und der
Bürgerrechte. Piedro ist ein schwacher Fürst, es gilt e i n e gewagte
That! — Ihr seid unser Genosse?“
„„Mit Herz und Hand!““ erwiederte glühend G i o v a n n i und warf
sich den Männern in die Arme.
In öftern Zusammenkünften entwarf man den Plan, aber die
Meinungen waren beständig getheilt. Einige drangen nur auf
Morizens Wegräumung, andere auf allgemeine Reform der
Regierung.
Man suchte beides zu verbinden — es gelang; es wurde die lezte
nächtliche Zusammenkunft bestimmt, in welcher die Rollen vertheilt
werden sollten.
Die Nacht erschien und jeder der Verschwornen mit ihr im Pallast
des E o . Ihre Zahl war vierzig. Die folgende Nacht wurde zur
Ausführung des patriotischen Entwurfs geweiht. Zehn Edelleute
sollten nach Mitternacht in Morizens Schloß eindringen und ihn
ermorden oder lebendig fangen. Eben so viel sollten sich des Fürsten
und des Kardinals zu gleicher Zeit versichern; dann sollte mit den
Glokken gestürmt, das Volk versammelt und Freiheit ausgerufen
werden. Im Fall einer Widersezzung der Fürstlichgesinnten, müsse
jeder der Verschwornen Sorge tragen, eine gewisse Anzahl Bürger
bereit und unter Waffen zu halten.
Der Plan war in der That sehr unreif, doch die Rache- und
Freiheitdurstigen achteten es für Feigheit länger zu projektiren und
die Unternehmung aufzuschieben.
„Auf!“ rief der begeisterte G i o v a n n i : „laßt uns in dieser lezten
Nacht den Bund besiegeln mit Eiden — Leben für Leben, Tod oder
Freiheit und Rache!“
„„Leben für Leben! Kanella frei, oder wir verderbt!““ schrien alle,
und wilde Schwärmerei umfaßte sie.
Die Weinbecher wurden gefüllt und geleert. „Borsellinos Geist
umschwebt uns!“ rief G i o v a n n i : „er sieht wohlgefällig unsern
Bund! wohlan, laßt uns gehn und ringen, als Brüder oder sterben mit
Brudertreue. Heda, wir trinken Bruderschaft, nicht etwa in Wein,
sondern in unserm Blute. Auf, folgt mir nach!“
 Er ergrif ein Messer, sties es sich in die linke Hand, daß das
rauchende Blut in seinen Pokal stürzte. Jeder that ein gleiches; ging
durch einander her, lies jedem von seinem blutigen Becher kosten,
und trank von des andern Blut.
Aber mitten in dem Rausch dieser Begeisterung öffneten sich die
Thüren — es blizten Gewehre herein — die Verschwornen erstarrten,
die Leibwache Piedros besezte rings das Zimmer und rief: „ergebt
euch auf Gnade und Ungnade!“
 Viertes Kapitel.
Das Haus im rothen Walde.

E
„ s ist unverzeihlich, daß wir F l o r e n t i n e n so lange verließen,
ohne uns zu bekümmern, wem das Haus im Walde angehörte, wer
die Thür öfnete, wen F l o r e n t i n hier erblikte und welche Miene er
annahm, als er wieder herausging? Was interessirte uns der
wollüstige, Kabalensüchtige Hof zu Kanella? was jenes unzufriedne
feige Volk, das nicht Muth genug hatte seine Ketten abzuwerfen?
was die B o r s e l l i n o s , G i o v a n n i ’ s , L a u r e n und E o ’ s ?“
Machen Sie mir keine Vorwürfe, meine Leser! Es ist nun einmal
meine Absicht, mich ungenirt auf meinem wilden Pegasus
F a n t a s i e herum zu tummeln, und ohne mich nach den Launen
und der Neugier meiner Beobachter zu richten, bald in Osten, bald in
Westen, bald unter guten, bald unter schlechten Menschen, bald in
den lieblichen Revieren ländlicher Einfalt und Unschuld, bald an
Höfen, wo Kunst die Natur verstümmelt und verzerrt, bald auf
schauerlichen Wahlpläzzen, wo ein leidendes Volk verzweiflungsvoll
nach Freiheit ringt, zu schwärmen.
Doch, ohne uns länger die edle Zeit mit Gezänken zu verderben,
laßt uns mit F l o r e n t i n in die ehrwürdige Provinzialversammlung
der s c h w a r z e n B r ü d e r treten. Wahrscheinlich erhält mancher
Leser, welcher nach Aufklärung über das Wesen derselben dürstet,
mit dem gräflichen Novitz, Befriedigung.
„Wer hauset hier?“ fragte F l o r e n t i n den Bruder Holzhakker.
„„Der Forstmeister B l a t t r a b e , ein Schwarzer!““ antwortete
H u g o . Dieser führte seinen Mann in ein Zimmer, kleidete ihn da in
ein schwarzes Gewand, öffnete darauf eine Nebenthür und lies den
frohbestürzten D u u r hineintreten.
 Florentin sah sich wieder in der Mitte der Unbekannten, wieder in
seinen Traum zurükgesezt. Es war ein großer, prächtiger Saal,
erleuchtet von unzähligen Wachskerzen, angefüllt von einer
ansehnlichen Menge schwarzer Herrn. Viel derselben eilten ihm
sogleich entgegen, umarmten ihn, wünschten ihm Glük zur
Aufnahme in den Bund der schwarzen Brüder, sprachen mit ihm von
gewissen Szenen seines Lebens so bekannt, so vertraut, als wären
sie Zuschauer und Theilnehmer derselben gewesen.
Man mischte sich brüderlich untereinander, füllte die Weingläser,
sang feierliche Bundesgesänge; trank Gesundheiten und rief mehr
als einmahl: e s l e b e r e p u b l i k a n i s c h e F r e i h e i t .
Aber F l o r e n t i n wußte sich eigentlich noch nicht in diesen
Wirrwarr zu finden; sein Herz sehnte sich nach dem, was H o l d e r
ihm verheissen hatte, und welches er gewiß hier antreffen sollte.
Doch es vergiengen anderthalb Stunden, ehe man Miene machte,
die Nacht mit etwas anderm, als Singen, Trinken, freundschaftlichen
und politischen Diskursen hinzubringen. — — —
Mit einemmahle änderte sich die Szene. Jeder riß den Faden des
Gesprächs ab; dieser sezte das schon zum Trinken aufgehobne
Weinglas nieder, jener verzog sein Lächeln in die Falten des Ernstes.
Aufmerksam wandte sich jedes Angesicht zu einem erhabnen Stuhle,
welchen ein Greis so eben in Besiz genommen hatte.
Einige Minuten herrschte eine ungewöhnliche Stille, wie in einer
Todtengruft; alles schien sich zu einer merkwürdigen Sache
vorzubereiten.
„Nun, Vinzenz,“ sprach der G r e i s vom Stuhle herab, indem er
dem G r a f e n mit der Hand winkte: „nun tretet mir näher.“
F l o r e n t i n gehorchte; er ging näher zu dem Manne, dessen
Anstand, Gebehrden, Sprache und Gesichtszüge ganz dem Ideale
entsprach, welches sich unsre Einbildungskraft von Ehrfurcht
erwekkender persönlicher Majestät zu machen gewohnt ist.
F l o r e n t i n hatte vor Fürsten gestanden, aber nie einen solchen
Grad der Hochachtung empfunden als izt.
„Wir haben Euch werth gefunden ein Glied in der Kette der
schwarzen Bruder zu werden!“ fuhr der Mann fort, welcher
Verehrung abzwang: „Euer Wunsch sei Euch gewährt. — Bruder,
unser aller Bruder, bedenket wohl, zu welcher Menschengattung Ihr
gerathen seid! Bedenket wohl, daß von nun an das allgemeine Glük
des Menschen euch näher liegt, als sonst — daß Ihr nicht mehr so
sehr für Euer Interesse allein arbeiten dürfet — daß klippenvolle
Umwege künftig Eures Lebens Pfade, Gefahren Eure Führerinnen,
Mühe und Sorgen Eure Erholungen, und Undank der Menschen Eure
Belohnungen sind! — Noch einmahl dürfet Ihr wählen: bleibt und
seid unser Bruder, oder gehet, und schweiget von dem was zwischen
uns vorgefallen ist.“
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