“1914” PEACE AND WAR
In the early spring of 1914 a revolution broke out in Southern Albania.
The Christian Epirotes, renouncing allegiance to the Prince of Wied
(the sovereign appointed by the Great Powers), had set up a provisional
and independent Government at Argyrocastron, a mountain village about
twenty miles north-east of Santi Quaranta. This port lies within easy
distance of Corfu, and, by a stroke of fortune, I was able to land
there, in spite of the fact that it was held by the insurgents. After a
short stay at Argyrocastron I went to Athens, where I was received by
both King Constantine and M. Venizelos.
The former regarded the revolution from a strictly military point of
view. He said he had decided to take disciplinary measures against
officers and men of the Greek Army who aided or abetted the Epirotes,
and seemed to think that the only duty of Greek soldiers was to their
King, to whom they owed so much. As, apparently, he was without any
detailed information on the subject, I did not tell him that numerous
Greek soldiers, wearing uniform, were already with the insurgent
bands. The King was at this time the most popular man in Greece, and
the consciousness of this had become an obsession. He had won his
popularity by two campaigns, and was meditating a third, against
Turkey, so soon as his army and his fleet would be reorganized and
re-equipped. Prussian military methods were to be followed, as far as
possible, in spite of the fact that a French Military Mission had been
charged with the training of the troops. King Constantine talked like
a young officer who had recently emerged from a staff college; coming
from the ruler of a country his conversation left an impression of
irresponsibility, one felt he was a dangerous, though well-meaning man.
M. Venizelos was moved, almost to tears, on hearing of the pitiable
condition of the Greek refugees from Central Albania, but explained
his utter helplessness to relieve their lot. Albania was under the
protection of the Great Powers, and he feared that any practical
sympathy for revolutionaries, within the frontiers made sacrosanct by
the Ambassadors’ Conference, might entail serious consequences for
himself and Greece. He inquired after M. Zografos, the head of the
Provisional Government, and one of his most bitter political opponents.
The latter had referred to M. Venizelos in unflattering terms,
describing him as both incompetent and unprincipled, but, although it
was evident that no love was lost between the two men, the man in power
disdained vituperation.
M. Venizelos spoke with real feeling about the religious side of the
revolution and the sincerity of the peasants in all that concerned
their faith. He seemed amused at the idea of M. Zografos being
associated with three Archbishops in the Provisional Government. I
asked the reason. He confined himself to saying that M. Zografos was
very rich. I replied that, from what I had seen at Argyrocastron,
at least one of the Archbishops accepted with patriotic resignation
this disqualification for the Kingdom of Heaven on the part of his
political chief, and that he had even seemed to enjoy some excellent
dinners prepared by the rich man’s cook.
The Prelates in question were, in point of fact, the real leaders of
the revolution. Between them they combined all the qualities needed by
their peculiar environment. Archbishop Basileus was a worldly-minded
old gentleman who, beneath a venerable exterior, concealed political
ability of no mean order. Of the other two--one was a meek and learned
monk, possessed of great authority among the local clergy; the third,
Germanos by name, was a striking and interesting personality. Young,
handsome, ascetic, gifted with fiery eloquence, and as religious as his
flock, he supplied a moral impulse which redeemed much that was trivial
in the conduct of the revolution; his premature death from consumption
was a real loss to Epirus and its already hopeless cause.
M. Venizelos said little about general Balkan matters, he appeared
tired and dispirited, and it was evident that the Greek Government
was not going to get itself into trouble over the Epirotes, in spite
of their pure Greek origin. These unfortunate people constituted the
wealthiest and most civilized element in the population of Albania,
they had an indisputable right to a large share in the Government of
that country. This they had not got, and, with the full knowledge
of the Great Powers, they had been left, politically, to the tender
mercies of men saturated with Turkish traditions, under the nominal
Kingship of a conceited and ignorant German Prince.
I reached Belgrade early in April, 1914. The city had resumed its
normal aspect. The General Staff were talking and planning war, the
general public was more interested in the working of the Commercial
Convention with Greece. In political and diplomatic circles vague
references were made to certain concessions to Bulgaria in the Vardar
Valley. These latter appeared to me to be so inadequate as to be hardly
worth discussing, and yet, as matters stood, the Serbs refused to
offer more. This attitude, however unfortunate, was more reasonable
in 1914 than at any previous period. In the absence of direct railway
communication between Greece and Servia, the Commercial Convention
would lose half its point, since the only railway line available passed
by the Vardar Valley through the heart of the “Contested Zone.” No
practicable trace for another line existed, except a tortuous route
impinging on Albania.
Ethnical and geographical conditions had conspired to make Macedonia a
“Debatable Land,” the creation of an independent Albania had added fuel
to the flames of discord, it had not only shortened the Serbo-Greek
frontier and prevented all communication by sea, but, by thwarting
Servian and Greek aspirations in that direction, had engendered in both
countries an uncompromising state of mind. Bulgaria’s claims remained
unaltered, they had become crystallized by defeat and disappointment;
amid the shifting sands of Balkan politics they stood out like a rock.
The Great Powers had sacrificed the interests of Greece and Servia
directly, and those of Bulgaria indirectly, on the altar of an
Autonomous Albania. Ingenuous people claimed that this course had been
dictated by high-minded motives, by a benevolent, if tardy, recognition
of the principles of self-government, whose application in other lands
could wait on this strange experiment. Naïveté is charming when not
contaminated with hypocrisy, but one swallow does not make a summer; a
single act, however specious, cannot efface a decade of intrigue.
An active economic policy in Macedonia had already been initiated by
the Austro-Hungarian Government. The first move was characteristic,
a share in the control of the Belgrade-Salonika Railway was claimed,
on the ground that a large part of the capital for its original
construction had been subscribed by citizens of the Dual Monarchy.
British newspapers dealt fully with the financial aspects of the
case, but refrained from criticizing a proposition which deprived a
sovereign independent State of the sole control of a railway within
its frontiers. The Servian Government tried to float a loan with which
to buy out the foreign shareholders, but failed--high finance is
international and obdurate to the poor. _On ne prête qu’aux riches_.[20]
I stayed in Vienna for a few days on my way to London. Here, it was
generally recognized that, in regard to Servia, a dangerous situation
was developing, which could not be neglected. Many serious people
frankly expressed the hope that some incident would occur which would
provide a pretext for taking military action against the Serbs. No
one wanted war, but every one felt that an end had to be put to “an
intolerable state of affairs”; the time for conciliatory measures had
passed, the Southern-Slav movement was assuming menacing proportions,
and would wreck the Austro-Hungarian Empire, if steps were not promptly
taken to nip it in the bud.
Such were the opinions expressed, in private circles, by men and women
who did not know with what skill and ingenuity the net had been spread
for Servia. In official circles confidence was the prevailing note;
the lessons of the last two wars had been forgotten in the Austrian
War Office, where the efficiency of the Servian Army was, as usual,
under-estimated. Diplomats professed to have no faith in the sincerity
of Russia’s intentions when posing as the champion of the Southern
Slavs; such a policy struck them as being too unselfish for the
Government of the Czar.
Cynics are bad psychologists; to them Russia has always been an enigma
and a source of error. M. Hartwig expressed the Pan-Slav point of view:
Servia was part of Russia, the Serbs were “little brothers,” destined
once more to reach the Adriatic, to bar the highway to Salonika, to
fight again, if need arose, in Slavdom’s sacred cause.
The Serbs themselves wanted independence, complete and definite; they
hoped to gain it with the help of Russia, and then to found an Empire
of their own. That Empire could be created only at the expense of
Austria-Hungary, Germany’s ally, mate of a monster Python State which
soon would raise its head.
Though outwardly at peace, Servia and Bulgaria were arming with
feverish haste, preparing to take their places in Europe’s opposing
camps. The pyramid was rising, taking shape; issues were narrowing,
effect was succeeding cause; the disintegration of the Balkan _bloc_
had left the Slavs and Teutons face to face, the arena was cleared for
a titanic struggle, those who knew anything of Europe foretold the
coming storm.
Austria-Hungary had not long to wait for the desired pretext. The
assassination of the Archduke Francis Ferdinand was a sufficiently
sensational incident to satisfy the most exacting. The Dual Monarchy
took the fatal step, and sent an ultimatum which was its own death
warrant.
Civilization stood aghast and feigned a moral indignation which
was far from being sincere. Austria-Hungary, in thus using a weak
and neighbouring race, was acting in strict conformity with moral
standards which the Great Powers themselves had set. Junkers in
Germany, Cosmopolitan financiers in Paris, Reactionaries in England,
and the Czar’s ministers in Russia had acted, or were prepared to
act in precisely similar fashion, each in their separate sphere. In
the eyes of these men, national sentiment was the appanage of Great
Powers, the day of small States had passed. They had admitted the
independence of Albania from motives of expediency, and at the instance
of Austria-Hungary, the very State which now they should have judged.
The relations between the different European States were those which
exist between the denizens of a jungle--no moral laws restrained them,
the weak were the natural victims of the strong. The peoples were
sometimes passive, at others artificially excited, but always helpless
and inarticulate, driven like cattle in a herd. The “Jingo” Press in
every Christian land glorified might as right, eminent soldiers told a
respectful public that militarism alone could save the Commonwealth,
and that without its wholesome discipline the nations would decay;
science collaborated in the race of armaments, which had become a
source of riches and a patriotic cult.
The murder at Sarajevo gave Austria-Hungary an opening, she pressed her
advantage like a bully bent on the destruction of a weak antagonist.
Not only had the weak to go to the wall, and go there with every
circumstance of humiliation, a still more signal ignominy was needed
to mollify the wounded pride of men like Tisza;[21] who insisted that
Belgrade should be occupied, and that Servian peasants should, once
more, endure the horrors of an alien yoke. Only by such means could
an Archduke be avenged and jungle law maintained. Blinded by passion,
Austria-Hungary had forgotten that there were other carnivori in the
jungle whose interests were involved.
The Junkers, capitalists, journalists and soldiers, who had led
Europe to the verge of the abyss, now realized what lay before
them,--something incalculable, immense and elemental. Self-interest
was forgotten for a moment, even _their_ callous minds recoiled.
These men had spent their lives talking of European War, and making
costly preparations for it, but at its near approach they flinched.
In Petrograd a supreme effort was made to avert the cataclysm, it was
cynical enough and revealed the morality of the “Balance of Power” in
Europe in a brief but pregnant phrase[22]--“_Lâchez l’Autriche et nous
lâcherons les Français_” was the message to the German Government. It
came too late; public opinion in Russia was dangerously excited, and
behind the Russian people stood another Power which also was suffering
from “an intolerable state of affairs.” For nearly fifty years the
French had lived beneath a sword of Damocles wielded with German
arrogance; they supported with difficulty the “Three Years’ Service”
system, and had lent much money to the Russians. The French Government
seized its opportunity, France made the Servian Cause her own.
Three crowned heads symbolized the might and power of Central
Europe--one, senile, embittered, selfish, surrounded by a mediaeval
Court; another, pompous, vain, ambitious, a war-lord, the apex of
a social pyramid which recognized no law but force; the third, an
autocrat whose will was law to millions, a man both weak and obstinate,
whose character was a riddle to those who knew him best. Men such as
these could not prevent the conflagration; considering their influence
and position one wondered why it had not come before.
When war became inevitable, the British Empire was utterly unprepared
in both a mental and material sense; many educated people of the upper
classes were amazed at each other’s ignorance of geography; the man in
the street awoke from his wonted lethargy, and studied geography, as
well as ethics, in the pages of the _Daily Mail_.
On August 10, 1914, a troop train passed through Woking Station bound
for Southampton Harbour. The men were typical “Tommies” of the old
Army, and were in the highest possible spirits. One of them, more
curious-minded than the rest, shouted to a be-spectacled civilian on
the platform, “’Ow far is it from ’ere to Servia, guv’nor?” The train
was in motion, and time did not admit of a satisfactory reply.
After all, at that time, it did not matter where or how far away an
unknown land like Servia might be; all the best strategists were agreed
that Servia’s future destiny would be settled by a great battle in
the West. Poor Servia, it would take more than that to save her from
invasion; for the moment, anyhow, Heaven was too high, and her Allies
were too far.
A little over twelve months later, British and French troops were being
disembarked at Salonika and hurried thence to reinforce the already
beaten and retreating Serbs. I’ve wondered sometimes whether the
lighthearted boy, who tried to learn geography at Woking Station, was
of their number.
He may have struggled up the Vardar Valley and penetrated narrow
gorges, where the railway, for want of space, follows the ancient road.
He may have seen the mountains of Old Servia and caught an echo from
their frowning heights: “Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now.”