Karl Kraus: The Last Days of Mankind

Kraus’s article has a paradigmatic value with applications for our own day. In 1909, when Friedjung claimed that Austria was “in danger”, citing forged documents in an attempt to stage a war, his lies were exposed in court. Sadly, the political lesson was not learnt, and the warmongers ultimately had their way. Moreover Kraus’s analysis has a prophetic resonance. Almost a hundred years later, the evidence used to justify the invasion of Iraq in 2003 proved to be just as flawed as that cited by Friedjung. The photographs of Iraqi bases allegedly equipped with weapons of mass destruction, displayed by the U.S. Secretary of State at the United Nations in order to win support for the invasion, owed more to slick public relations than to reliable intelligence. It was now America that was “in danger” and Britain that was standing “shoulder to shoulder” with the dominant military power.

Far from resolving the Balkan crisis, the Austrian annexation of Bosnia was followed by a series of further conflicts, accompanied by equally irresponsible press coverage. Through a close focus on journalistic style, Kraus showed that the language of politics had lost its clarity and flexibility, becoming overloaded with anachronistic metaphors. Hence the increasingly prophetic tone of his critique of Austrian affairs: “On occasion”, he wrote in December 1912, “an operetta culture will start parading its enthusiasm for war. Its mercenaries are writers. Totally irresponsible types, who launch a première one day and a war the next” (F 363–65, 71). The example Kraus cites on the following page highlights the irresponsibility of cartoonists, notably Fritz Schönpflug, co-founder of the humorous weekly Die Muskete (The Musket). Schönpflug was famous for his facetious images of the Austro-Hungarian army, such as his drawing of General Staff officers from the Autumn Manoeuvres (Herbstmanöver) series, reproduced here.

Even the adjutants of the portly army commander are equipped with anachronistic sabres and implausibly elegant uniforms, as if they were characters from an operetta. Austrian officers were permitted to wear this paraphernalia when off-duty, and the Schönpflug drawing cited by Kraus in December 1912 portrays them in an urban context: on the Ringstrasse in Vienna. Pleasure-seeking officers are planning a supper party with their friends at a favourite Viennese restaurant. The jocular dialogue with which Schönpflug embellishes his design reveals that it is actually a disguised advertisement — for the Hopfner restaurant chain. These casual exchanges may sound harmless, but for the satirist they epitomize the mindless hedonism of Austrian public life under the shadow of war. Hence the paradox with which his commentary concludes: “An advert for a restaurant? No, a report from the battlefront!” (F 363–65, 72).

In the following issue, still echoing with the threat of war, Kraus laments that Austrian affairs now resemble a botched Schönpflug drawing (F 366–67, 13). He treats the cartoons as a prism through which the tensions destabilizing the Habsburg Empire can be seen in lurid colours. To understand this reaction we need to take account of the cultural politics of the period. Schönpflug and his fellow cartoonists did not merely create figures of fun to distract their readers from an impending crisis. During the years 1908–14 Die Muskete contributed to international tensions by repeatedly publishing xenophobic caricatures of Austria’s potential adversaries, especially the political and military leadership of Serbia. Set against patriotic images of the Austrian armed forces would be caricatures of conniving and despicable Serbs. Thus on 15 April 1909, after the government in Belgrade was compelled to accept the annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Schönpflug’s cover design for Die Muskete , ironically entitled “Peace!”, portrayed a humiliated Serbia being comforted by Britain and Russia. The Serbs, the cartoon implies, are still hoping for a war against Austria. Hence the caption: “Something postponed may still be condoned.”

Drawing of General Staff officers from the Autumn Manoeuvres (Herbstmanöver) series

Historically even more significant was Schönpflug’s cover design for the issue of Die Muskete published on 16 July 1914, shortly after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, when the peace of Europe hung in the balance. Under the title “Sarajevo” the cartoon depicts the smirking figures of King Peter of Serbia and Tsar Nicholas of Russia self-righteously washing their hands — in a bowl of blood! The King of Montenegro can be seen gloating in the background. Like Friedjung’s forged documents, this inflammatory cartoon seems designed to criminalize Austria’s adversaries, providing a pretext for launching a war against Serbia and its allies.

Such cartoons, backed by cynical official communiqués and tendentious editorials, shaped a public response to the assassination of the Archduke that filled Kraus with foreboding. In Die Fackel of 10 July 1914 he compiled a panorama of press clippings to portray an irredeemably dysfunctional society. The prime minister, nominally in charge of national policy, is observed relaxing with members of the cabinet in the Café Pucher, while nightclubs continue to churn out popular entertainment as if no catastrophe has occurred. Die Muskete is again identified as a symptom of Austrian decay — through its blurring of the boundaries between military professionalism and journalistic frivolity (serving officers are writing for the magazine under pseudonyms). This endemic confusion of spheres provokes apocalyptic conclusions. Austria, Kraus warns while paying tribute to Franz Ferdinand, is an “experimental station for the destruction of the world” (F 400–403, 2). The publication of this article was followed three weeks later by the declaration of war on Serbia.

During the First World War, despite the constraints of censorship, Kraus was able to publish 19 substantial issues of Die Fackel . His was virtually the only journal in any of the belligerent nations to adopt a critical view of the war from the start and sustain it with increasing vehemence until the bitter end. In 1911 he had been received into the Catholic Church, and his opposition to war was nourished by an underlying religiosity. Resisting the politically orchestrated euphoria that swept through Europe, he launched his antiwar campaign in November 1914 by reading in public a critique entitled “In dieser großen Zeit” (In This Age of Grandeur). 4

Despite the censorship, Kraus succeeded in publishing “In dieser großen Zeit” the following month. His argument deconstructs the idea that the World War has ushered in a heroic era, as proclaimed by the propaganda apparatus set up in every belligerent country. The telegram, Kraus observes in this critique, is “an instrument of war like the grenade” (F 404, 12). In order to make the thousands of casualties acceptable, the public was saturated with poems and articles celebrating the ethical value of war and the glory of laying down your life for your country. When Kraus argued that people’s minds had been numbed by clichés, he had one slogan especially in mind: “dying a hero’s death.” Through decades of practice, he argued, “the newspaper reporter has so impoverished our imagination that it becomes possible to fight a war of annihilation against ourselves.” A more truthful use of language would reveal the “hero’s death as cruel destiny” (F 404, 9–10). During the years 1915–18 he intensified his campaign against the insanity of modern warfare, publishing incisive articles, pithy aphorisms, and plangent poems. Being exempt from army service (due to curvature of the spine), he frequently travelled from his home in Vienna to Berlin and other cities to give further readings criticizing the war. His subversive satire led him to be denounced to the authorities as a traitor.