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This book is a retrospect covering the period 1912–1919. It begins with the first Balkan War, and ends with the Peace Conference at Paris. Many of the events described have been dealt with by other writers, and the only justification for adding one more volume to an already well-stocked library, is that the author was an eye-witness of all that he relates and enjoyed peculiar opportunities for studying the situation as a whole. To impressions derived from personal contact with many of the principal actors in this world-drama has been added the easy wisdom which comes after the event. With these qualifications a conscientious effort has been made to arrange the subject matter in proper sequence and to establish some connection between cause and effect—not with a view to carping criticism, but rather to stress the more obvious errors of the past and glean from them some guidance for the future.

It would be a rash statement to say that a European conflagration was the inevitable outcome of a little Balkan War, but metaphor will not be strained by comparing that same little war to a spark in close proximity to a heap of combustible material, a spark fanned in secret by ambitious and unscrupulous men, while others stood by, and, either from ignorance or indifference, did nothing to prevent an inevitable and incalculable disaster. That, as the present writer sees it, is the parable of the Balkan Wars. And so in the first part of this book, which deals with the period 1912–1914, the selfish intrigues of the Central Empires are contrasted with the equally vicious proceedings of the Imperial Russian Government, with the ignorance and inertia which characterized Great Britain’s Continental policy and with the vacillations of the Latin States. In later chapters, comments are made on the diplomatic negotiations with the neutral Balkan States in 1915 and 1916, on the conduct of the war and on the Treaty signed June 28, 1919, in the Palace at Versailles.

The title refers to the downfall of the Central Empires, which were the last strongholds of the aristocratic traditions of Old Europe, both from a social and a political point of view. It is submitted that these Empires perished prematurely through the suicidal folly of their ruling classes. Under wiser statesmanship, their autocratic governmental system might have survived another century. Germany and Austria-Hungary were prosperous States, and were assured of still greater prosperity if events had pursued their normal course. But pride, ambition, impatience and an overweening confidence in efficiency without idealism destroyed their plans. They put their faith in Force, mere brutal Force, and hoped to achieve more rapidly by conquest a commercial and political predominance which, by waiting a few years, they could have acquired without bloodshed. In the end, the military weapon they had forged became the instrument of their own destruction. Too much was demanded from the warlike German tribes; an industrial age had made war an affair of workshops, and against them were arrayed all the resources of Great Britain and America. Blind to these patent facts, a few reckless militarists who held the reins of power goaded a docile people on to desperate and unavailing efforts, long after all hope of victory had vanished, and thus committed suicide as a despairing warrior does who falls upon his sword.

The Prussian military system collapsed in the throes of revolution and the rest of Europe breathed again. Materialism in its most efficient form had failed, and to peoples bearing the intolerable burden imposed by armaments came a new hope. Unfortunately, that hope was vain. With the cessation of hostilities, the suicide of Old Europe was not completely consummated. After the signing of the Armistice, enlightened opinion, though undoubtedly disconcerted by the rapid march of events, expected from the sudden downfall of the Central Empires a swift transition from the old order to the new. The expectation was not unreasonable that four years of wasteful, mad destruction would be a lesson to mankind and, in a figurative sense, would form the apex of a pyramid of errors—a pyramid rising from a broad base of primitive emotions, through secret stages of artifice and intrigue, and culminating in a point on which nothing could be built. A gloomy monument, indeed, and useless—save as a habitation for the dead.

In an evil hour for civilization, the delegates who met to make the Peace in Paris preferred the prospect of immediate gain to laying the foundation of a new and better world. They, and the experts who advised them, saw in the pyramid of errors a familiar structure, though incomplete. Its completion demanded neither vision, nor courage, nor originality of thought; precedent was their only guide in framing Treaties which crowned the errors of the past and placed its topmost block.

The chickens hatched at Versailles are now coming home to roost. Democracy has been betrayed, our boasted civilization has been exposed as a thin veneer overlaying the most savage instincts. Throughout all Europe a state of moral anarchy prevails, hatred and a lust for vengeance have usurped the place not only of charity and decent conduct but also of statesmanship and common-sense. Peoples mistrust their neighbours and their rulers, rich territories are unproductive for lack of confidence and goodwill.

These ills are moral and only moral remedies will cure them. Force was required, and has done its work in successfully resisting aggression by military states now humbled and dismembered. But Force is a weapon with a double edge, and plays no part in human progress.

While this book endeavours to draw some lessons from the war and from the even more disastrous peace, at the same time it pleads a cause. That cause is Progress, and an appeal is made to all thinking men and women to give their attention to these urgent international affairs, which affect not only their prosperity, but their honour as citizens of civilized States. The first step in this direction is to inform ourselves. If, in the following pages, a little light is thrown on what was before obscure, the writer will feel that his toil in the execution of an unaccustomed task has been rewarded.

C. W. Thomson

London.

December 6, 1921.