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In the autumn of 1917 I had a visit from a subject of a neutral state, who is a pronounced upholder of general disarmament and world pacifism. We began, of course, to discuss the theme of free competition in armaments, of militarism, which in England prevails on the sea and in Germany on land, and my visitor entered upon the various possibilities likely to occur when the war was at an end. He had no faith in the destruction of England, nor had I; but he thought it possible that France and Italy might collapse. The French and Italians could not possibly bear any heavier burdens than already were laid on them; in Paris and Rome, he thought, revolution was not far distant, and a fresh phase of the war would then ensue. England and America would continue to fight on alone, for ten, perhaps even twenty, years. England was not to be considered just a little island, but comprised Australia, India, Canada, and the sea. "L'Angleterre est imbattable," he repeated, and America likewise. On the other hand, the German army was also invincible. The secession of France and Italy would greatly hinder the cruel blockade, for the resources of those two countries—once they were conquered by the Central Powers—were very vast, and in that case he could not see any end to the war. Finally, the world would collapse from the general state of exhaustion. My visitor cited the fable in which two goats met on a narrow bridge; neither would give way to the other, and they fought until they both fell into the water and were drowned. The victory of one group as in previous wars, he continued, where the conqueror gleaned a rich harvest of gains and the vanquished had to bear all the losses, was out of the question in this present war. Tout le monde perdra, et à la fin il n'y aura que des vaincus.
I often recalled that interview later. Much that was false and yet, as it seemed to me, much that was true lay in my friend's words. France and Italy did not break down; the end of the war came quicker than he thought; and the invincible Germany was defeated. And still I think that the conclusions he arrived at came very near the truth.
The conquerors' finances are in a very precarious state, particularly in Italy and France; unrest prevails; wages are exorbitant; discontent is general; the phantom of Bolshevism leers at them; and they live in the hope that the defeated Central Powers will have to pay, and they will thus be saved. It was set forth in the peace terms, but ultra posse nemo tenetur, and the future will show to what extent the Central Powers can fulfil the conditions dictated to them.
Since the opening of the Peace Congress at Versailles continuous war in Europe has been seen: Russians against the whole world, Czechs against Hungarians, Roumanians against Hungarians, Poles against Ukrainians, Southern Slavs against Germans, Communists against Socialists. Three-fourths of Europe is turned into a witch's cauldron where everything is concocted except work and production, and it is futile to ask how this self-lacerated Europe will be able to find the war expenses laid upon her. According to human reckoning, the conquerors cannot extract even approximate compensation for their losses from the defeated states, and their victory will terminate with a considerable deficit. If that be the case, then my visitor will be right—there will only be the vanquished.
If our plan in 1917, namely, Germany to cede Alsace-Lorraine to France in exchange for the annexation of all Poland, together with Galicia, and all states to disarm; if that plan had been accepted in Berlin and sanctioned by the Entente—unless the non possumus in Berlin and opposition in Rome to a change in the Pact of London had hindered any action—it seems to me the advantage would not only have been on the side of the Central Powers.
Pyrrhus also conquered at Asculum.
My visitor was astonished at Vienna. The psychology of no city that he had seen during the war could compare with that of Vienna. An amazing apathy prevailed. In Paris there was a passionate demand for Alsace-Lorraine; in Berlin the contrary was demanded just as eagerly; in England the destruction of Germany was the objective; in Sofia the conquest of the Dobrudsha; in Rome they clamoured for all possible and impossible things; in Vienna nothing at all was demanded. In Cracow they called for a Great Poland; in Budapest for an unmolested Hungary; in Prague for a united Czech State; and in Innsbruck the descendants of Andreas Hofer were fighting as they did in his day for their sacred land, Tyrol. In Vienna they asked only for peace and quiet.
Old men and children would fight the arch-enemy in Tyrol, but if the Italians were to enter Vienna and bring bread with them they would be received with shouts of enthusiasm. And yet Berlin and Innsbruck were just as hungry as Vienna. C'est une ville sans âme.
My visitor compared the Viennese to a pretty, gay, and frivolous woman, whose aim in life is pleasure and only pleasure. She must dance, sing, and enjoy life, and will do so under any circumstances—sans âme.
This pleasure-loving good nature of the Viennese has its admirable points. For instance, all enemy aliens were better treated in Vienna than anywhere else. Not the slightest trace of enmity was shown to those who were the first to attack and then starve the city.
Stronger than anything else in Vienna was the desire for sensation, pleasure, and a gay life. My friend once saw a piece acted at one of the theatres in Vienna called, I believe, Der Junge Medardus. The scene is laid during the occupation of Vienna by Napoleon. Viennese citizens condemned to death for intriguing with the enemy are led away by the French. In a most thrilling scene weeping women and children bid them farewell. A vast crowd witnesses the affair. A boy suddenly rushes in shouting: "Napoleon is coming." The crowd hurries away to see him, and cries of "Long live Napoleon" are heard in the distance.
Such was Vienna a hundred years ago, and it is still the same. Une ville sans âme.
I pass on the criticism without comment.