I took my way towards the Galician frontier in the character of a British tourist, armed with a sheaf of the coupons of Messrs. Cook. I was aware that this disguise would serve better than any other as a cloak for prying and impertinent questioning.
Galicia, I need hardly say, is that part of Poland which fell to the share of Austria in the famous partition of the eighteenth century. Bitterly as the Poles hate the Russians, the two peoples are allied in language and blood, and Russia has always looked forward to incorporating the whole of the ancient realm of the Jagellons in her own dominions in course of time. The break-up of the Dual Monarchy would naturally be the signal for Russia to execute her designs on the Polish province of the Habsburgs.
In Galicia itself I found everything in a state of the most profound peace and security. There was the usual frontier garrison, but the camps showed no signs of special activity. I toured along the frontier almost from end to end, in a motor which I had ordered from Paris, and I came upon great stretches of country, several miles in extent, where a whole Russian army corps could have crossed the line without being observed, far less opposed.
At the end of this inspection, which lasted about a week, I crossed over to the Russian side.
I found myself received without apparent distrust. The legend of the mad Englishman on his motor-car had no doubt preceded me. The Russians do not dislike Englishmen, as individuals, in the way they dislike Germans. At all events I had no difficulty in making friends with many of the officers in command of frontier posts. They offered me hospitality, and showed no resentment at my somewhat daring exploration of their frontier.
At the first blush, everything seemed as peaceful on this side as on the other. The number of troops under arms was not excessive, and the men showed none of those signs of suppressed excitement which warn an experienced eye that some movement is in contemplation.
Presently, however, I began to remark an extraordinary number of telegraphic despatches arriving at the various posts. Special messengers seemed to come and go with a frequency that hardly seemed necessary in time of peace. At last, one night, I was roused from sleep by a sound which my ears were quick to recognise. It was the muffled rumble of an artillery train passing over the rough paving-stones of the small town in which I had stopped for the night.
I got up, softly drew back the curtain of the window, and cautiously peeped out. There, in the moonlight, rolled by gun after gun, followed by the caissons and all the supplementary outfit of a park of artillery.
They were heading southward, and the frontier lay only three miles away. I counted six batteries—thirty-six guns—the equipment of an army corps. When all had gone by I retired to rest again.
I rose at break of day, took out my car, and followed in the route of the cannon. The road conducted me without a turning straight to the frontier post, where I found a sleepy Russian sentry exchanging friendly greetings with a still drowsier Austrian one. A short way beyond stood the Austrian guard-house, with the men lounging on a bench outside the door in the sunlight, waiting for their coffee.