Produced by Don Kostuch
[Transcriber's Notes]
Chapter numbers and subheading are both Roman numerals.
The chapter headings are preceded with the word "Chapter".
Text has been moved to avoid breaking sentences across page boundaries.
Other Gutenberg books on World War I are:
"Sergeant York And His People"
by Samuel Kinkade Cowan.
https://www.gutenberg.org/etext/19117
"History of the World War
An Authentic Narrative of the World's Greatest War"
by Richard Joseph Beamish.
https://www.gutenberg.org/etext/18993
This is a list of unfamiliar (to me) words.
apologue
Moral fable; an allegory.
arbitral
Relating to arbiters or arbitration.
bahn
Pathway.
Belial
Spirit of evil personified; the devil; Satan; worthlessness.
billet-doux
Love letter.
chatelaine
Mistress of a castle or fashionable household. Clasp or chain for
holding keys, trinkets, etc., worn at the waist by women; woman's
lapel ornament resembling this.
confabulations
Conversation; discussion.
Credat Judaeus Apella! [non ego]
"Let the Jew Apella believe it; not I".
Roughly, "tell it to someone else, not me."
escutcheon
Shield or similar surface showing a coat of arms.
flagitious
Shamefully wicked, persons, actions, or times.
Heinous or flagrant crime;
grandiloquently
Speaking or expressed in a lofty style; pompous, bombastic, turgid,
pretentious.
identic
Identical in form, as when two or more governments deal simultaneously
with another government.
lycanthropy
In folklore, ability to assume the form and characteristics of a wolf.
Mare Liberum
Body of navigable water to which all nations have unrestricted access.
mendax
Given to lying.
miching mallecho
Sneaky mischief.
Mittel-Europa
German term approximately equal to Central Europe.
non possumus
We cannot.
obeisance
Movement of the body showing respect or deferential courtesy; bow,
curtsy, or similar gesture.
passier-scheine
Pass; permit.
persona grata
Acceptable person or diplomatic representative.
poilus
French soldier, especially in World War I.
Potsdam
Capital city of the federal state of Brandenburg in Germany, southwest
of Berlin. Berlin was the official capital of Prussia and later of the
German Empire, but the court remained in nearby Potsdam, and many
government officials also settled in Potsdam. The city lost this
status as a second capital in 1918, when World War I ended and the
emperor Wilhelm II was deposed.
refractory (persons)
Hard or impossible to manage; stubbornly disobedient.
sagacity
Sound judgment.
schmuck
Obnoxious, contemptible, clumsy or stupid person.
schrecklichkeit
Frightfulness; horror.
soubrette
Maidservant in a play displaying coquetry, pertness, and a tendency to
engage in intrigue. Flirtatious or frivolous young woman.
trepanning
Using a small circular saw with a center pin mounted on a strong
hollow metal shaft that is attached a transverse handle: used in
surgery to remove circular disks of bone from the skull.
ululation
Howl, as a dog or a wolf; hoot, as an owl; to lament loudly and
shrilly.
Vallombrosa
Resort in central Italy, near Florence; a famous abbey.
vicegerent
Person appointed by a head of state to act as an administrative deputy.
voluble
Continuous flow of words; fluent; glib; talkative: articulate,
garrulous, loquacious.
[End Transcriber's Notes]
BY HENRY VAN DYKE
Fighting for Peace
The Unknown Quantity
The Ruling Passion
The Blue Flower
----------------------
Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land
Days Off
Little Rivers
Fisherman's Luck
---------------------
Poems, Collection in one volume
---------------------
The Red Flower
The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems
The White Bees, and Other Poems
The Builders, and Other Poems
Music, and Other Poems
The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems
The House of Rimmon
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
FIGHTING FOR PEACE
BY
HENRY VAN DYKE
D.C.L. (OXFORD)
RECENTLY UNITED STATES MINISTER TO HOLLAND
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1917
Copyright, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons
Published November, 1917
[Illustration: Scribner's Logo]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
FOREWORD
I. FAIR-WEATHER AND STORM SIGNS
II. APOLOGUE
III. THE WERWOLF AT LARGE
IV. GERMAN MENDAX
V. A DIALOGUE ON PEACE BETWEEN A HOUSEHOLDER AND A BURGLAR
VI. STAND FAST, YE FREE!
VII. PAX HUMANA
FOREWORD
This brief series of chapters is not a tale
"Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach."
Some dangers I have passed through during the last three years, but
nothing to speak of.
Nor is it a romance in the style of those thrilling novels of secret
diplomacy which I peruse with wonder and delight in hours of relaxation,
chiefly because they move about in worlds regarding which I have no
experience and little faith.
There is nothing secret or mysterious about the American diplomatic
service, so far as I have known it. Of course there are times when, like
every other honestly and properly conducted affair, it does not seek
publicity in the newspapers. That, I should suppose, must always be a
fundamental condition of frank and free conversation between governments
as between gentlemen. There is a certain kind of reserve which is
essential to candor.
But American diplomacy has no picturesque meetings at midnight in the
gloom of lonely forests; no confabulations in black cellars with bands
of hireling desperadoes waiting to carry out its decrees; no disguises,
no masks, no dark lanterns--nothing half so exciting and melodramatic.
On the contrary, it is amazingly plain and straightforward, with plenty
of hard work, but always open and aboveboard. That is the rule for the
diplomatic service of the United States.
Its chief and constant aims are known to all men. First, to maintain
American principles and interests, and to get a fair showing for them in
the world. Second, to preserve and advance friendly relations and
intercourse with the particular nation to which the diplomat is sent.
Third, to promote a just and firm and free peace throughout the world,
so that democracy everywhere may live without fear.
It was the last of these three aims that acted as the main motive in my
acceptance of President Wilson's invitation to go out as American
Minister to the Netherlands and Luxembourg in the summer of 1913. It was
pleasant, of course, to return for a while to the land from which my
ancestors came so long ago. It seemed also that some useful and
interesting work might be done to forward the common interests and
ideals of the United States and the Netherlands--that brave,
liberty-loving nation from which our country learned and received so
much in its beginnings--and in particular that there might be
opportunity for co-operation in the Far East, where the Dutch East
Indies and the Philippines are next-door neighbors. But the chief thing
that drew me to Holland was the desire to promote the great work of
peace which had been begun by the International Peace Conferences at The
Hague. This indeed was what the President especially charged me to do.
Two conferences had already been held and had accomplished much. But
their work was incomplete. It lacked firm attachments and sanctions. It
was left to a certain extent "hanging in the air." It needed just those
things which the American delegates to the Conference of 1907 had
advocated--the establishment of a Permanent Court of Arbitral Justice;
an International Prize Court; an agreement for the protection of private
property at sea in time of war; the further study and discussion of the
question of the reduction of armaments by the nations; and so on. Most
of these were the things of which Germany had hitherto prevented the
attainment. A third International Peace Conference was necessary to
secure and carry on the work of the first two. The President told me to
do all that I properly could to forward the assembling of that
conference in the Palace of Peace at the earliest possible date.
So I went to Holland as an envoy of the world-peace founded on justice
which is America's great desire. For that cause I worked and strove. Of
that cause I am still a devoted follower and servant. I am working for
it now, but with a difference. It is evident that we cannot maintain
that cause, as the world stands to-day, without fighting for it. And
after it is won, it will need protection. It must be Peace with
Righteousness and Power.
The following chapters narrate some of the experiences--things seen and
heard and studied during my years of service abroad--which have forced
me to this conclusion. To the articles which were published in
Scribner's Magazine for September, October, and November, 1917, I have
added two short chapters on the cause of the war and the kind of peace
America is fighting for.
The third peace conference is more needed, more desirable, than ever.
But we shall never get it until the military forces of Germany are
broken, and the predatory Potsdam gang which rules them is brought low.
Chapter I
FAIR-WEATHER AND STORM SIGNS
I
It takes a New England farmer to note and interpret the signs of coming
storm on a beautiful and sunny day. Perhaps his power is due in part to
natural sharpness, and in part to the innate pessimism of the Yankee
mind, which considers the fact that the hay is cut but not yet in the
barn a sufficient reason for believing that "it'll prob'ly rain
t'morrow."
I must confess that I had not enough of either of these qualities to be
observant and fearful of the presages of the oncoming tempest which
lurked in the beautiful autumn and winter of 1913-14 in Europe. Looking
back at them now, I can see that the signs were ominous. But anybody can
be wise after the event, and the role of a reminiscent prophet is too
easy to be worth playing.
Certainly all was bright and tranquil when we rolled through the
pleasant land of France and the rich cities of Belgium, and came by
ship-thronged Rotterdam to The Hague in the first week of October, 1913.
Holland was at her autumnal best. Wide pastures wonderfully green were
full of drowsy, contented cattle. The level brown fields and gardens
were smoothly ploughed and harrowed for next year's harvest, and the
vast tulip-beds were ready to receive the little gray bulbs which would
overflow April with a flood-tide of flowers. On the broad canals
innumerable barges and sloops and motor-boats were leisurely passing,
and on the little side-canals and ditches which drained the fields the
duckweed spread its pale-emerald carpet undisturbed. In the woods--the
tall woods of Holland--the elms and the lindens were putting on frosted
gold, and the massy beeches glowed with ruddy bronze in the sunlight.
The quaint towns and villages looked at themselves in the waters at
their feet and were content. Slowly the long arms of the windmills
turned in the suave and shimmering air. Everybody, in city and country,
seemed to be busy without haste. And overhead, the luminous cloud
mountains--the poor man's Alps--marched placidly with the wind from
horizon to horizon.
The Hague--that "largest village in Europe," that city of three hundred
thousand inhabitants set in the midst of a park, that seat of government
which does not dare to call itself the capital because Amsterdam is
jealous--was in especially good form and humor, looking forward to a
winter of unhurried gayety and feasting such as the Hollanders love. The
new Palace of Peace, given by Mr. Andrew Carnegie for the use of the
Permanent Court of Arbitration and its auxiliary bodies, had been opened
with much ceremony in September. Situated before the entrance of that
long, tree-embowered avenue which is called the Old Scheveningen Road,
the edifice has an imposing exterior although a mixture of architects in
the process of building has given it something the look of a glorified
railway station. But the interior is altogether dignified and splendid,
more palatial, in fact, than any of the royal residences. It is lined
with costly marbles, rare Eastern woods, wonderful Japanese tapestries,
and adorned with gifts from all the nations, except the United States,
which had promised to give a marble statue representing "Peace through
Justice," to be placed on the central landing of the great Stairway of
Honor, the most conspicuous position in the whole building. The promise
had been standing for some years, but not the statue. One of my first
minor tasks at The Hague was to see to it that active steps were taken
at Washington to fulfil this promise, and to fill this empty place which
waits for the American sculpture.
Meantime the rich collection of books on international law was being
arranged and classified in the library under the learned direction of M.
Alberic Rolin. The late roses were blooming abundantly in the broad
gardens of the palace. Thousands of visitors were coming every day to
see this new wonder of the world, the royal house of "Vrede door Recht."
Queen Wilhelmina was still at her country palace, Het Loo, in
Gelderland. It was about the middle of October that I was invited there
to lunch and to have my first audience with Her Majesty, and to present
my letter of credence as American Minister.
The journey of three or four hours was made in company with the Dutch
Minister of Foreign Affairs, Jonkheer Loudon, who represented the
Netherlands at Washington for several years and is an intelligent and
warm friend of the United States, and the Japanese Minister, Mr. Aimaro
Sato, a very agreeable gentleman (and, by the way, an ardent angler),
who now represents Japan at Washington. He talked a little, and with
great good sense and feeling, of the desirability of a better
understanding and closer relations between the United States and Japan.
I liked what he said and the way he said it. But most of our
conversation on that pleasant journey, it must be confessed, was
personal and anecdotic--fish-stories not excluded.
The ceremony of presenting the letter of credence, which I had rather
dreaded, was in fact quite simple and easy. I handed to Her Majesty the
commendatory epistle of the President (beginning, as usual, "Great and
good friend") and made a short speech in English, according to the
regulations. The Queen, accepting the letter, made a brief friendly
reply in French, which is the language of the court, and passed at once
into an informal conversation in English. She speaks both languages
fluently and well. Her first inquiry, according to royal custom, was
about family matters; the number of the children; the health of the
household; the finding of a comfortable house to live in at The Hague,
and so on. There is something very homely and human in the good manners
of a real court. Then the Queen asked about the Dutch immigrants in
America, especially in recent times--were they good citizens? I answered
that we counted them among the best, especially strong in agriculture
and in furniture-making, where I had seen many of them in the famous
shops of Grand Rapids, Michigan. The Queen smiled, and said that the
Netherlands, being a small country, did not want to lose too many of her
good people.
The impression left upon me by this first interview, and deepened by all
that followed, was that Queen Wilhelmina is a woman admirably fit for
her task. Her natural shyness of temperament is sometimes misinterpreted
as a haughty reserve. But that is not correct. She is, in fact, most
sincere and straightforward, devoted to her duty and very intelligent in
doing it, one of the ablest and sanest crowned heads in Europe, an
altogether good ruler for the very democratic country of the
Netherlands.
We settled down in the home which I had rented at The Hague. It was a
big, dignified house on the principal street, the Lange Voorhout, which
is almost like a park, with four rows of trees down the middle. Our
house had once been the palace of the Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, a princess
of the Orange-Nassau family. But it was not at all showy, only
comfortable and large. This was fortunate for our country when the rush
of fugitive American tourists came at the beginning of the war, for
every room on the first floor, and the biggest room on the second floor,
were crowded with the work that we had to do for them.
But during the first winter everything went smoothly; there was no hurry
and no crowding. The Queen came back to her town palace. The rounds of
ceremonial visits were ground out. The Hague people and our diplomatic
colleagues were most cordial and friendly. There were dinners and dances
and court receptions and fancy-dress balls--all of a discreet and
moderate joyousness which New York and Newport, perhaps even Chicago and
Hot Springs, would have called tame and rustic. The weather, for the
first time in several years, was clear, cold, and full of sunshine. The
canals were frozen. Everybody, from grandparents to grandchildren,
including the Crown Princess Juliana, went on skates, which greatly
added to the gayety of the nation.
At the same time there was plenty of work to do. The affairs of the
legation had to be straightened out; the sending of despatches and the
carrying out of instructions speeded up; the arrangements for a proposed
international congress on education in the autumn of 1914, forwarded;
the Bryan treaty for a year of investigation before the beginning of
hostilities--the so-called "Stop-Look-Listen" treaty--modified and
helped through; and the thousand and one minor, unforeseen jobs that
fall on a diplomatic chief carefully attended to.
II
Through all this time the barometer stood at "Set Fair." The new Dutch
Ministry, which Mr. Cort van der Linden, a wise and eloquent philosophic
liberal, had formed on the mandate of the Queen, seemed to have the
confidence of the Parliament. Although it had no pledged majority of any
party or bloc behind it, the announcement of its simple programme of
"carrying out the wishes of the majority of the voters as expressed in
the last election," met with approval on every side. The
"Anti-Revolutionary" lion lay down with the "Christian-Historical"
lamb; the "Liberal" bear and the "Clerical" cow fed together; and the
sucking "Social-Democrat" laid his hand on the "Reactionary" adder's
den. It was idyllic. Real progress looked nearly possible.
The international sky was clear except for the one big cloud, which had
been there so long that the world had grown used to it. The Great Powers
kept up the mad race of armaments, purchasing mutual terror at the price
of billions of dollars every year.
Now the pace was quickened, but the race remained the same, with Germany
still in the lead. Her new army bill of 1912 provided for a peace
strength of 870,000 men, and a war strength of 5,400,000 men. Russia
followed with a bill raising the term of military service from three to
three and a half years; France with a bill raising the term of service
from two to three years (but this was not until in June, 1913). Great
Britain, with voluntary service, still had a comparatively small army:
in size "contemptible," as Kaiser Wilhelm called it later, but in morale
and spirit unsurpassed. Evidently the military force of Germany, which
lay like a glittering sword in her ruler's hand, was larger, better
organized and equipped, than any other in the world.
But might it not still be used as a make-weight in the scales of
negotiation rather than as a weapon of actual offense? Might not the
Kaiser still be pleased with his dramatic role of "the war-lord who kept
the peace"? Might he not do again as he did successfully in 1909, when
Austria violated the provisions of the Congress of Berlin (1878) by
annexing Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Germany protected the theft; and
with partial success at Algeciras in 1906, and after the Agadir incident
in 1911, when Germany gained something she wanted though less than she
claimed? Might he not still be content with showing and shaking the
sword, without fleshing it in the body of Europe? It seemed wiser,
because safer for Germany, that the Kaiser should follow that line. The
methodical madness of a forced war looked incredible.
Thus all of us who were interested in the continuance and solidification
of the work of the peace conferences at The Hague reasoned ourselves
into a peaceful hope. We knew that no other power except Germany was
really prepared for war. We knew that the effort to draw Great Britain
into an offensive and defensive alliance with Germany had failed,
although London was willing to promise help to Berlin if attacked. We
remembered Bismarck's warning that a war against Russia and Great
Britain at the same time would be fatal, and we trusted that it had not
been forgotten in Berlin. We knew that Germany, under her policy of
industrial development and pacific penetration, was prospering more than
ever, and we thought she might enjoy that enough to continue it. We
hoped that a third peace conference would be assembled before a general
conflict of arms could be launched, and that some things might be done
there which would make wilful and aggressive war vastly more dangerous
and difficult, if not impossible. So we were at ease in Zion and worked
in the way which seemed most promising for the peace of the world.
But that way was not included in the German plan. It was remote from the
Berlin-Baghdad-Bahn. It did not lead toward a dominant imperial state of
Mittel-Europa, with tentacles reaching out to ports on every sea and
strait. The plan for another Hague conference failed to interest the
ruling clique at Berlin and Potsdam because they had made "other
arrangements."
Very gradually slight indications of this fact began to appear, though
they were not clearly understood at the time. It was like watching a
stage-curtain which rises very slowly a little way and then stops.
Through the crack one could see feet moving about and hear rumbling
noises. Evidently a drama was in preparation. But what it was to be
could hardly be guessed. Then, after a long wait, the curtain rose
swiftly. The tragedy was revealed. Flames burst forth from the stage and
wrapped the whole house in fire. Some of the spectators were the first
victims. The conflagration still rages. It will not be put out until the
flame-lust is smothered in the hearts of those who kindled and spread
the great fire in Europe.
III
I must get back from this expression of my present feelings and views to
the plain story of the experiences which gradually made me aware of the
actual condition of affairs in Europe and the great obstacle to a
durable peace in the world.
The first thing that disquieted me a little was the strange difficulty
encountered in making the preliminary arrangements for the third peace
conference. The final resolution of the second conference in 1907,
unanimously recommended, first, that the next conference, should be held
within a period of eight years, and second, that a preparatory committee
should be appointed two years beforehand, to consider the subjects which
were ripe for discussion, and to draw up a programme which could be
examined in advance by the countries interested. That, of course, was
necessary. No sensible government will go into a conference blindfold,
without knowing what is to be talked about.
But in 1914, when the matter came into my hands, the lapse of time and
the negligence of the nations (the United States included) had made it
too late to fulfil both of these recommendations. If one was carried out
the other must be modified or disregarded. The then Secretary of State,
Mr. Bryan, instructed me to endeavor to have the conference called in
1915, that is, within the period of eight years. After careful
investigation and earnest effort, I reported that it could not be done
at that date. The first thing was to get the preparatory committee,
which would require at least two years for its formation and work.
Toward this point, then, with the approval of the President, I steered
and rowed hard, receiving the warmest sympathy and most effective
co-operation from Jonkheer Loudon, the Netherlands Minister of Foreign
Affairs. Indeed the entire Dutch Government, with the Queen at the head,
were favorable. Holland naturally likes to have the peace conferences at
The Hague. They add to the dignity of the country. The honor is
well-deserved, for Holland may fairly be called the fountainhead of
modern international law, and has produced many of its best expounders,
from Grotius and Bynkershoek to Asser. Moreover, as a side
consideration, these meetings bring a multitude of visitors to the
country, some famous and many profitable, and this is not bad for
business. So the movement is generally popular.
My own particular suggestion toward getting the required "preparatory
committee" seemed to its author to have the double advantage of
practical speed and representative quality. It was to make use, at least
for the first steps, of a body already in existence and in which all the
nations were represented. But there is no need of describing it,
because it did not go through. I was not so much stuck upon it that any
other fair and speedy plan would not have received my hearty backing.
But the trouble was that, push as hard as we would, there was no plan
that would move beyond a certain point. There it stood still. Washington
and The Hague were earnest and enthusiastic. St. Petersburg was warmly
interested, but showed a strong preference for its own plan, and a sense
of its right to a leading place as the proposer of the first conference.
London and Paris seemed favorable to the general idea, and took an
expectant attitude toward any proposal of organization that would be on
the level and fair for everybody. Berlin was singularly reserved and
vague. It said little or nothing. It did not seem to care about the
matter.
I talked informally with my German friends at The Hague. They were
polite and attentive. They may have had a real interest in the subject,
but it was not shown so that you could notice it. They expressed
opinions on the value of peace conferences in general which I am not at
liberty to repeat. The idea of a third conference at The Hague may have
seemed beautiful to them, but it looked as if they felt that it was
lacking in actuality. Possibly I did not understand them. That was just
the trouble--I could not. It was all puzzling, baffling, mysterious.
It seemed as if all our efforts to forward the calling of the next
conference in the interest of permanent peace brought up dead against an
invisible barrier, an impassable wall like the secret line drawn in the
air by magic, thinner than a cobweb, more impenetrable than steel. What
was it? Indifference? General scepticism? Preoccupation with other
designs which made the discussion of peace plans premature and futile? I
did not know. But certainly there was something in the way, and the
undiscovered nature of that something was food for thought.
The next jolt that was given to my comfortable hope that the fair
weather in Europe was likely to last for some time was a very slight
incident that happened in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, to which small
sovereign state I was also accredited as American Minister.
The existence and status of Luxembourg in Europe before the war are not
universally understood in America, and it may be useful to say a few
words about it. The grand duchy is a tiny independent country, about
1,000 square miles of lovely hills and dales and table-lands, clothed
with noble woods, watered by clear streams, and inhabited by about
250,000 people of undoubted German-Keltic stock and of equally undoubted
French sympathies. The land lies in the form of a northward-pointing
triangle between Germany, Belgium, and France. The sovereign is the
Grand Duchess Marie Adelheid (of Nassau), a beautiful, sincere,
high-spirited girl who succeeded to the crown on her father's death. The
political leader for twenty-five years was the Minister-President Paul
Eyschen, an astute statesman and a devoted patriot, who nursed his
little country in his arms like a baby and brought it to a high degree
of prosperity and contentment.
Like Belgium, Luxembourg was a neutralized country--the former by the
Treaty of 1831; the latter by the Treaty of 1867; both treaties were
signed and guaranteed by the Great Powers. But there was a distinct
difference between the two neutralities. That of Belgium was an armed
neutrality; her forts and her military forces were left to her. That of
Luxembourg was a disarmed neutrality; her only fortress was dismantled
and razed to the ground, and her army was reduced and limited to one
company of gendarmes and one company of infantry. Thus Belgium had the
right, the duty, and the power to resist if her territory were violated
by the armed forces of a belligerent. But Luxembourg was made powerless
to resist; she could only protest.
Remember this when you consider the fates which fell on the two
countries. Remember how the proud and independent little duchy must have
felt beforehand, standing without a weapon amid the mighty armed powers
of Europe.
It was in February or early in March, 1914, that the Grand Duchess sent
out an invitation to the Diplomatic Corps to attend a court function. We
all went gladly because of the pleasantness of the land and the good
hospitality of the palace. There were separate audiences with Her Royal
Highness in the morning, a big luncheon given by the Cabinet and the
city authorities at noon, a state dinner in the old Spanish palace at
night, and after that a gala concert. It was then that the incident
occurred. I had heard in the town that thirty military officers from the
German garrison at Trier, a few miles away on the border, were coming,
invited or self-invited, to the concert, and the Luxembourgers did not
like the idea at all. Well, the Germans came in a body, some of them
courteous and affable, the others stiff, wooden, high-chinned, and
staring--distinctly a foreign group. They were tactless enough to
propose staying over the next day. A big crowd of excited Luxembourgers
filled the streets in the morning and gave every sign of extreme
dissatisfaction. "What were these Prussian soldiers doing there? Had
they come to spy out the land and the city in preparation for an
invasion? Was there a stray prince or duke among them who wanted to
marry the Grand Duchess? The music was over. These Kriegs-Herren had
better go home at once--at once, did they understand?" Yes, they
understood, and they went by the next train, which took them to Trier in
an hour.
It was a very trivial affair. But it seemed to throw some light on the
mentality of the German army. It also made me reflect upon the state of
mind of this little unarmed country living next door to the big military
machine and directly on the open way to France. Yet we all laughed and
joked about the incident on the way back to Holland in the train. Only
the French, German, Italian, and Belgian Ministers were not with us, for
these countries have separate missions in Luxembourg.
At The Hague everything pursued its tranquil course as usual. Golf set
in. The tulips bloomed in a sea of splendor. I strove at the footless
task of promoting the third peace conference. It was not until the
season of Pentecost, 1914, that I went to Luxembourg again, intending to
gather material for a report on the flourishing steel industry there,
which had developed some new processes, and to get a little
trout-fishing on the side. During that pleasant journey two things
happened which opened my eyes.
The first was at a luncheon which Prime Minister Eyschen gave me. It was
a friendly foursome: our genial host; the German Minister, Von B.; the
French Minister, M.; and myself. Mr. Eyschen's wine-cellar was famous,
and his old Luxembourg cook was a wonder; she served a repast which made
us linger at table for three hours. The conversation rambled everywhere,
and there were no chains or padlocks on it. It was in French, English,
and German, but mostly in French. One remark has stuck in my memory ever
since. Mr. Eyschen said to me: "You have heard of the famous
'Luxembourger Loch'? It is the easiest military road between Germany and
France." Then he continued with great good humor to the two gentlemen at
the ends of the table: "Perhaps one of your two countries may march an
army through it before long, and we certainly cannot stop you." Then he
turned to Herr von B., still smiling: "Most likely it will be your
country, Excellenz! But please remember, for the last ten years we have
made our mining concessions and contracts so that they will hold,
whatever happens. And we have spent the greatest part of our national
income on our roads. You can't roll them up and carry them off in your
pocket!" Of course we all laughed. But it was serious. Two months later
the French Minister had to make a quick and quiet flight along one of
those very roads.
A couple of days after the luncheon, at the beginning of June, I saw a
curious confirmation of Eyschen's hint. Having gone just over the German
border for a bit of angling, I was following a very lovely little river
full of trout and grayling. With me were two or three Luxembourgers and
as many Germans, to whom fishing with the fly--fine and far off--was a
new and curious sight. Along the east bank of the stream ran one of the
strategic railways of Germany, from Koln to Trier. All day long
innumerable trains rolled southward along that line, and every train was
packed with soldiers in field-gray--their cheerful, stolid bullet-heads
stuck out of all the windows. "Why so many soldiers," I asked, "and
where are they all going?" "Ach!" replied my German companions, "it is
Pfingstferien (Pentecost vacation), and they are sent a changing of
scene and air to get." My Luxembourg friends laughed. "Yes, yes," they
said. "That is it. Trier has a splendid climate for soldiers. The
situation is kolossal for that!"
When we passed through the hot and dusty little city it was simply
swarming with the field-gray ones--thousands upon thousands of them--new
barracks everywhere; parks of artillery; mountains of munitions and
military stores. It was a veritable base of operation, ready for war.
Now the point is that Trier is just seven miles from Wasserbillig on the
Luxembourg frontier, the place where the armed German forces entered the
neutral land on August 2, 1914.
The government and the "grande armee" of the Grand Duchess protested.
But--well, did you ever see a wren resist an eagle? The motor-van (not
the private car of Her Royal Highness, as rumor has said, but just an
ordinary panier-a-salade), which was drawn up across the road to the
capital, was rolled into the ditch. The mighty host of invaders, having
long been ready, marched triumphantly into the dismantled fortress, and
along their smooth, unlawful way to France. I had caught, in June,
angling along the little river, a passing glimpse of the preparation for
that march.
But what about things on the French side of the border in that same week
of June, 1914? Well, I can only tell what I saw. Returning to Holland by
way of Paris, I saw no soldiers in the trains, only a few scattered
members of the local garrisons at the railway stations, not a man in
arms within ten kilometres of the frontier. It seemed as if France slept
quietly at the southern edge of Luxembourg, believing that the solemn
treaty, which had made Germany respect the neutrality of that little
land even in the war of 1870, still held good to safeguard her from a
treacherous attack in the rear, through a peaceful neighbor's garden.
Longwy--the poor, old-fashioned fortress in the northeast corner of
France--had hardly enough guns for a big rabbit-shoot, and hardly enough
garrison to man the guns. The conquering Crown Prince afterward took it
almost as easily as a boy steals an apple from an unprotected orchard.
It was the first star in his diadem of glory. But Verdun, though near
by, was not the second.
From this little journey I went home to The Hague with the clear
conviction that one nation in Europe was ready for war, and wanted war,
and intended war on the first convenient opportunity. But when would
that be? Not even the most truculent government could well venture a
bald declaration of hostilities without some plausible pretext, some
ostensible ground of quarrel. Where was it? There was none in sight. Of
course the danger of a homicidal crisis in the insanity of armaments was
always there. And of course the ambition of Germany for "a place in the
sun" was as coldly fierce as ever. The Pan-Germanists were impatient.
But they could hardly proclaim war without saying what place and whose
place they wanted. Nor was there any particular grievance on which they
could stand as a colorable ground of armed conflict. The Kaiser had
prepared for war, no doubt. The argument and justification of war as the
means of spreading the German Kultur were in the Potsdam mind. But the
concrete and definite occasion of war was lacking. How long would that
lack hold off the storm? Could the precarious peace be maintained until
measures to enforce and protect it by common consent could be taken?
These questions were answered with dreadful suddenness. The curtain
which had half-concealed the scene went up with a rush, and the missing
occasion of war was revealed in the flash of a pistol.
IV
On June 28, 1914, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir apparent to the
Austro-Hungarian crowns, and his wife, the Duchess of Hohenburg, were
shot to death in the street at Serajevo, the capital of the annexed
provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina, to which they were paying a visit
of ceremony. The news of this murder filled all thoughtful people in
Europe with horror and dismay. It was a dark and sinister crime. The
Crown Prince and his wife had not been "personae gratae" with the
Viennese court, but the brutal manner of their taking off aroused the
anger of the people. Vengeance was called for. The two wretched
murderers were Austrian subjects, but they were Servian sympathizers,
and in some kind of connection with a society called Narodna Obrana,
whose avowed object was to work for a "Greater Servia," including the
southern Slavic provinces of Austria. The Government of Austria-Hungary,
having conducted a secret inquiry, declared that it had proofs that the
instructions and the weapons for the crime came from Servia. On the
other hand, it has not been denied that the Servian Minister at Vienna
had conveyed a warning to the Government there, a week before the
ceremonial visit to Serajevo, to the effect that it would be wise to
give the visit up, as there were grounds for believing that an
assassination had been planned. We knew little or nothing of all this at
the time, in The Hague. Anxiously we waited for light under the black
cloud. It came like lightning in the Austro-Hungarian note to Servia of
July 23, 1914.
It was made public the next day. I remember coming home that evening
from a motor-drive through the dead cities of the Zuyder Zee. Taking up
the newspaper in the quiet library, I read the note. The paper dropped
from my hand, and I said to my son: "That means an immense war. God
knows how far it will go and how long it will last."
This Austrian ultimatum was so severe in matter and in manner as to
justify the comment of Sir Edward Grey: "Never have I seen one state
address to another independent state a document of so formidable a
character." It not only dictated a public confession of guilt; it also
made a series of ten sweeping demands on Servia, one of which (No. 5)
seemed to imply a surrender of independent sovereignty; and it allowed
only forty-eight hours for an unqualified, complete acceptance.
Russia promptly declared that she would not object to the punishment of
Servians for any proved offense, but that she must defend the
territorial integrity and independence of Servia. Italy and France
suggested an extension of time for the answer. France and Russia advised
Servia to make a general acceptance of the ultimatum. She did so in her
reply of the 25th, reserving demand No. 5, which she said she did not
understand, and offering to submit that point, or the whole matter, to
the tribunal at The Hague. Austria had instructed her minister at
Belgrade to reject anything but a categorical submission to the
ultimatum. When the Servian reply was handed to him he said that it was
not good enough, demanded his passports, and left the capital within
half an hour. Germany, vowing that she had no knowledge of the text of
the Austrian note before it was presented and had not influenced its
contents (which seems incredible, as I shall show later), nevertheless
announced that she approved and would support it.
Verily this was "miching mallecho," as Hamlet says. It meant mischief.
Austria was inflexible in her purpose to make war on Servia. Russia's
warning that in such a case she could not stand aside and see a small
kindred nation subjugated, and her appeals for arbitration or four-power
mediation, which Great Britain, France, and Italy supported, were
disregarded. Behind Austria stood Germany, proud, menacing, armed to the
teeth, ready for attack, supporting if not instigating the relentless
Austrian purpose. Something vast and very evil was impending over the
world.
That was our conviction at The Hague in the fateful week from July 24 to
August 1, 1914. We who stood outside the secret councils of the Central
Powers were both bewildered and dismayed. Could it be that Europe of the
twentieth century was to be thrust back into the ancient barbarism of a
general war? It was like a dreadful nightmare. There was the head of the
huge dragon, crested, fanged, clad in glittering scales, poised above
the world and ready to strike. We were benumbed and terrified. There was
nothing that we could do. The monstrous thing advanced, but even while
we shuddered we could not make ourselves feel that it was real. It had
the vagueness and the horrid pressure of a bad dream.
If it seemed dreamlike to us, so near at hand, how could the people in
America, three thousand miles away, feel its reality or grasp its
meaning? They could not do it then, and many of them have not done it
yet.
But we who were on the other side of the sea were suddenly and rudely
awakened to know that the bad dream was all too real. On July 28 Austria
declared war on Servia. On the 29th Russia ordered a partial
mobilization of troops on the Austrian frontier. On the same night the
Austrian troops entered Servia and bombarded Belgrade. On the 31st
Austria and Russia ordered a general mobilization.
Then Germany, already coiled, struck.
On August 1 Germany declared war on Russia. On the 2d Germany invaded
Luxembourg and France. On the 3d Germany declared war on France. On the
4th Germany invaded Belgium, in violation of her solemn treaty. On the
5th Great Britain, having given warning to the Kaiser that she meant to
keep her promise to protect the neutrality of Belgium, severed
diplomatic relations, and on the 6th Parliament, by a vote of
extraordinary supply, formally accepted a state of war with Germany, the
invader.
So the storm signs, foreshadowed in fair weather, were fulfilled in
tempest, more vast and cruel than the world had ever known.
The Barabbas of war was preferred to the Christ of righteous judgment.
The hope of an enduring peace through justice receded and grew dim. We
knew that it could not be rekindled until the ruthless military power of
Germany, that had denied and rejected it, was defeated and brought to
repentance.
Thus those who loved true peace--peace with equal security for small and
great nations, peace with law protecting the liberties of the people,
peace with power to defend itself against assault--were forced to fight
for it or give it up forever.