Читать книгу Old Europe's Suicide; or, The Building of a Pyramid of Errors - Christopher Birdwood Baron Thomson - Страница 5

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“When the snows melt there will be war in the Balkans,” had become an habitual formula in the Foreign Offices of Europe during the first decade of the twentieth century. Statesmen and diplomats found comfort in this prophecy on their return from cures at different Continental spas, because, the season being autumn, the snow had still to fall, and would not melt for at least six months. This annual breathing space was welcome after the anxieties of spring and summer; the inevitable war could be discussed calmly and dispassionately, preparations for its conduct could be made methodically, and brave words could be bandied freely in autumn in the Balkans. Only an imminent danger inspires fear; hope has no time limit, the most unimaginative person can hope for the impossible twenty years ahead.

Without regard either for prophecies or the near approach of winter, Bulgaria, Servia, Greece and Montenegro declared war on Turkey at the beginning of October, 1912. The Balkan Bloc had been formed, and did not include Rumania, a land where plenty had need of peace; King Charles was resolutely opposed to participation in the war, he disdained a mere Balkan alliance as unworthy of the “Sentinel of the Near East.”

Bukarest had, for the moment anyhow, lost interest; my work there was completed, and a telegram from London instructed me to proceed to Belgrade. The trains via Budapest being overcrowded, I decided on the Danube route, and left by the night train for Orsova, in company with a number of journalists and business men from all parts of Rumania. We reached the port of the Iron Gate before dawn, and found a Hungarian steamer waiting; soon after daybreak we were heading up stream.

Behind us lay the Iron Gate, its gloom as yet unconquered by the sunrise; on our left the mountains of North-Eastern Servia rose like a rampart; on our right the foothills of the Carpathians terminated abruptly at the river’s edge; in front the Danube shimmered with soft and ever-changing lights; a stillness reigned which no one cared to break, even the crew spoke low, like pious travellers before a shrine. War’s alarms seemed infinitely distant from those glistening waters set in an amphitheatre of hills.

“How can man, being happy, still keep his happy hour?” The pageant of dawn and river and mountain faded as the sun rose higher; dim outlines became hard and sharp; the Iron Gate, surmounted by eddying wisps of mist, looked like a giant cauldron. The pass broadened with our westward progress revealing the plain of Southern Hungary, low hills replaced the mountains on the Servian bank. A bell rang as we stopped at a small river port, it announced breakfast and reminded us, incidentally, that stuffy smells are inseparable from human activities, even on the Danube, and within sight of the blue mountains of Transylvania.

My travelling companions were mainly British and French, with a sprinkling of Austrians and Italians. To all of them the latest development in the Balkan situation was of absorbing interest, and they discussed it incessantly from every point of view. Their attitude, as I learnt later, was typical, not one of them had failed to foresee everything that had happened; in the case of the more mysterious mannered, one had a vague impression that they had planned the whole business, and were awaiting results like rival trainers of racehorses on the eve of a great race. These citizens of the Great Powers were, in their commerce with the Balkan peoples, a curious mixture of patron and partisan. The right to patronize was, in their opinion, conferred by the fact of belonging to a big country; the partisan spirit had been developed after a short residence in the Peninsula. This spirit was perhaps based on genuine good will and sincere sympathy, but it certainly was not wholly disinterested. There was no reason why it should have been. No man can, simultaneously, be a good citizen of two countries; he will nearly always make money in one and spend it in the other. Patriotism is made to cover a multitude of sins, and, where money is being made, the acid test of political professions is their effect on business.

Listening to the conversation on the steamer I was astonished by the vivacity with which these self-appointed champions urged and disputed the territorial claims of each Balkan State in turn. Remote historical precedents were dragged in to justify the most extravagant extension of territory, secret treaties were hinted at which would change the nationality of millions of peasants, and whole campaigns were mapped out with a knowledge of geography which, to any one fresh from official circles in London, was amazing.

From breakfast on, the babel of voices continued, and it was curious to note how the different nationalities grouped themselves. The British were, almost to a man, pro-Bulgar, they wanted Bulgaria to have the greater part of Macedonia and Thrace, some of them even claimed Constantinople and Salonika for their protégés; they were on the whole optimistic as to the success of the Allies. The French and Italians urged the claims of Servia, Greece and Rumania in Macedonia; in regard to Albania the French were in favour of dividing that country between Servia and Greece, but this latter suggestion provoked vehement protests from the Italians. The three Austrians hardly joined in the discussion at all, one of them remarked that he agreed with the writer of the leading article in the Neue Freie Presse of a few days back, who compared the Balkan Peninsula to a certain suburb of Berlin, where there was one bank too many, and where, as a consequence, all banks suffered. In the Balkan Peninsula, according to this writer, there was one country too many, and a settled state of affairs was impossible until one of them had been eliminated; he didn’t say which.

I asked whether a definite partition of the territory to be conquered was not laid down in the Treaty of Alliance. No one knew or, at least, no one cared to say. There seemed to be a general feeling that Treaties didn’t matter. The journalists were in a seventh heaven of satisfaction at the prospect of unlimited copy for several months to come; the business men expected to increase their business if all went well. On that Danube steamer the war of 1912 was popular, the future might be uncertain, but it was full of pleasant possibilities.

I thought of London and remembered conversations there three weeks before the declaration of war. The general opinion might have been summarized as follows: The Bulgars were a hardy, frugal race, rather like the Scotch, and, therefore, sympathetic; they were ruled over by a king called Ferdinand, who was too clever to be quite respectable. As for Servia, the British conscience had, of course, been deeply shocked by the murder of the late King, and the Servian Government had been stood in the diplomatic corner for some years, but the crime had been more or less expiated by its dramatic elements and the fact that it had taught everybody a little geography. King Nicholas of Montenegro was a picturesque figure and had an amiable habit of distributing decorations. In regard to Greece, there were dynastic reasons why we should be well disposed towards the descendants of the men who fought at Marathon, not to mention the presence in our midst of financial magnates with unmistakably Greek names. Lastly, the Turks. In London, in 1912, these people enjoyed considerable popularity; they were considered the only gentlemen in the Balkans, the upper-class ones of course. Admittedly Turkish administration was corrupt and the Turks had a distressing habit of cutting down trees everywhere, but their most serious defect was that they were a little sticky about affording facilities for Western enterprise. This latter consideration was considered really important. Matters would improve, it was thought, after some changes had been made in the Consular Service.

The war had come at last. Few people in England knew its cause or its objects; many thought and hoped the Turks would win. We had played the part of stern moralists when a debauched and tyrannical youth received summary justice at the hands of his outraged subjects, but we watched lightheartedly the preparations for a struggle which would soak the whole Balkan Peninsula in blood.

Night was falling as we passed under the walls of the old fortress of Belgrade. During the last hour the conversation had taken a purely business turn about coal concessions in the Ergene Valley1 and a French company which was being formed to exploit Uskub. Both localities were in Turkish territory, but would change their nationality after the war, if the Balkan Allies were the victors.

The steamer ran alongside the jetty; the journey was, for most of us, at an end. Every one was in high spirits; the near prospect of dinner in an hotel had produced a general feeling of optimism in regard to the Near Eastern question. One felt it wouldn’t be the fault of any one on our steamer if things went wrong. Our advice would always be given gladly and ungrudgingly, and we would accept any responsibility except that of putting into execution our own plans. We considered we were playing quite an important part in the Balkan drama, but, belonging as we did to big countries or Great Powers, once the fighting began we were forced to stand aside.

Belgrade seemed half asleep already. The city is built on a ridge overlooking the junction of the Save with the Danube. From the quay a long line of white houses was visible, flanked at one end by the Cathedral and a dark mass of trees, at the other by a large, ugly building, behind which stands the Royal Palace. Lights were few and far between, the aspect of the town was cold and inhospitable, it was evidently no busy centre eager to swallow up travellers and take their money. The Servian capital has nothing to offer to pleasure seekers, and sightseers must be content with scenery. Across the river, half a mile away, the lights of the Semlin cast a glare upon the sky, one could even hear faintly the strains of a Hungarian military band.

Only three of my fellow travellers remained on the landing stage; they were Austrians. Two of them were going to Semlin in the steamer, the third was, like myself, waiting for his baggage to be disembarked. This man and I were to see a good deal of each other during the months that followed; he was the Austrian Military Attaché at Belgrade.

The steamer whistle gave the signal for departure and farewells were exchanged. Just before stepping on board, one of the departing Austrians said, “Well, Otto, when next we meet I suppose the Turks will be here,” to which the military representative of the Dual Monarchy replied, “The sooner the better.” He then got into his cab and drove off to the house where, for three years, he had enjoyed all the privileges due to his diplomatic functions.

I had spent the whole day with a crowd of talkative and communicative men, but, as a rickety old cab took me up the hill towards the town, I remembered more distinctly what the comparatively silent Austrians had said than anything else that I had heard. These men seemed to mix up private business and politics less than the others; they gave the impression of thinking on big lines, of representing a policy of some sort.

In October, 1912, many people still believed that the British Government had a Balkan policy. The war had been foreseen for so many years, its repercussion on Asia Minor and the whole Mohammedan world could hardly fail to be considerable, while the risk of the conflagration spreading, so as to involve all Europe, was universally recognized. Under such circumstances, it seemed incredible that those responsible for the maintenance of the British Empire would leave anything to chance. Of course, we British had a policy, but personally I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was, nor, for the moment, could I think of any one who had.

At last the hotel was reached. A sleepy “concierge” showed me to my room, a vast apartment whose outstanding feature was its painted ceiling. This work of art was oval in shape and consisted of a vault of almost inky blue spangled with stars, round which were cherubs and angels in appropriately exiguous costumes. The subject was perhaps meant to be a celestial choir, but the artist had somehow missed his mark; the faces were neither angelic nor cherubic; they wore an air of mystery not unmingled with self-satisfaction. The figures emerged in stiff, conventional fashion from the edges of the ceiling into the central blue, and, if it hadn’t been for their lack of dress and look of conscious superiority, they might have been a collection of quite ordinary men, gathered round an oval table stained with ink. One of the cherubs bore a strong facial resemblance to a distinguished diplomat of my acquaintance; he was whispering something in his neighbour’s ear, and the latter seemed amused. The neighbour was a cherub, not an angel; he had a queer, wizened face of somewhat Slavonic type.

I was tired out, but I did not sleep well. I had been thinking about British policy in the Balkans before I fell asleep, and had strange dreams which were almost nightmares. It was all the fault of the ceiling; that cherub was so exactly like the diplomat and I dreamed he was telling the other one a secret, this explained the whispering, and that it was an important State secret, connected with my visit to Belgrade.

Who knows? The artist who had painted that hideous ceiling may have done so in a mood of irony. He may have chosen, as models for his cherubs, some well-known personages engaged in propping up a crazy structure known as “the balance of power in Europe.”