In the Bay of Salonika a British warship lay at anchor, a symbol of the Armada whose tentacles were on every sea, but a symbol and nothing more. To the men on shore, some of whom were looking at the sea for the first time, this ship was an object of respect and curiosity; they had heard of Great Britain’s habitual gesture when Abdul Hamid became obstreperous, and they may have wondered whether Salonika was not regarded in the same light as Besika Bay;[7] it may even have occurred to some of them that perhaps the British Government had a policy in the Ægean, where a new situation had arisen, requiring prompt attention from the Mistress of the Seas.
It was then, as it is now, my firm conviction that if, at this critical period, the British and French Governments had sent a Note insisting on Salonika being made an international port, and that if the Note had been supported by the dispatch to Salonika of a squadron of warships, Greece and Bulgaria would have complied. The rulers of the Balkan States would have welcomed such a method of escape from the dilemma in which they found themselves; they knew, none better, how devoid of a comprehensive Macedonian policy they were, how the swift advance of the armies had outstripped their calculations, and what would be the consequences if they failed to reach agreement. The Note would have indicated the course to pursue; the display of force would have justified compliance in the eyes of their own peoples. Objections to this course of action might have been raised by the Central Powers, but they could hardly have made it a casus belli, the pretext would have been too flimsy; further, while the Balkan Bloc was still in being a prudent policy was imposed. On the other hand, the Russian Government, partly owing to the advocacy of M. Hartwig, and partly from anxiety in regard to the Bulgarian advance towards Constantinople, had become the partisan of Servia, and was not directly interested in Salonika.
No such step was taken, and a great opportunity was lost. The action of each of the Great Powers was characteristic—the British Government suggested a conference of Balkan representatives in London; French agents, working in the interest of Schneider, secured orders from the Servian Government for guns and ammunition; Italy sent Servia a warning about the Adriatic; Austria-Hungary began a partial mobilization. If further proof had been needed, this mobilization should have convinced the most purblind observers of Austria-Hungary’s underlying motives; the veriest tyro in geography must have known that Salonika was more accessible to the fleets than to the armies of the Great Powers; a display of force in Bosnia and Herzegovina could not effect appeasement at Salonika, it could only terrorize the Montenegrins and the Serbs, and at the same time encourage the Turks still left in Europe to prolong their resistance. Nor did Austro-Hungarian policy overlook the possibilities presented by Bulgaria; the Bulgars, so far, had gained little by the war, the Greeks were at Salonika, and the Serbs at Monastir; they, the Bulgars, had not yet captured Adrianople, and their hearts were filled with bitterness and resentment. After all, they had some cause to grumble, and some excuse for listening to the tempter.
The belligerent States accepted the invitation to confer in London. While the delegates conferred, wearied soldiers, immobilized by frost and snow, burrowed in holes like hibernating animals.
I returned to Belgrade for Christmas, 1912. The town was full to overflowing, and, as usual, foreigners, posing as Balkan experts, did all the talking. The Serbs themselves were feeling the pinch of war, hunger and cold had brought typhus in their train; the angel of death was claiming many victims still.
Walking back from dinner with a journalist who enjoyed a European reputation, I got what my companion called “a peep behind the scenes.” It was a most unedifying spectacle, and as remote from reality as the moon, which, sailing high in heaven, lit up that winter night.
In all that concerned the Balkans the Great Powers were in truth les Grandes Impuissances.[8] Blinded by ignorance, greed and prejudice, they were laying the foundations of a pyramid, whose blocks would be errors piled on errors through seven succeeding years. The Great Powers were the master-builders, and the Balkan States their pupils. Apt pupils these, ready to learn and accustomed to obey. The lessons given and received were base, unworthy and a negation of all moral sense.
To any one who knew and faced the facts the situation had the elements of a Greek tragedy. The Balkan experts had played the part of a Bacchanalian chorus and created a suitable atmosphere. The first act was completed, its stage a little known, romantic land, to many a land of promise. One wondered whether the cast was yet complete, and what new players might be added. Ruthlessly, logically and inevitably the climax would be reached. But where and how? No one could then foresee.