The Tsar’s rescript furnished the text. After he had explained what was contained in this manifesto, Egidy passed in review the various kinds of misunderstanding and misinterpretation it had met in the world. The doubts and questions raised in various quarters, the difficulties of detail enumerated by civilization brakemen (Kulturbremser, a word of characteristic Egidy coinage),—all this he answered and explained in clear, occasionally witty language, and always with logical conciseness. And the audience vibrated with him. Every satirical point was punctuated with a laugh, at every allusion a murmur of appreciation ran through the assembly. You might have believed that all were penetrated by the orator’s meaning, yet how many of those present had probably expressed, only an hour or two before, ideas which were current as the view of the majority: “A proposal for disarmament?... Hm!... political move—a trap set—practically unfeasible idealism....”
Most characteristic of this prevalent skepticism remains deeply engraven on my memory the picture of a deputy,—a member also of the Interparliamentary Union,—who, after I had spoken for a time about the manifesto, turned his head in my direction and said, with a sly wink, “Do you believe that story?”
This phrase became a catchword between My Own and me; whenever either of us communicated to the other anything perfectly unquestionable and simple, we would look as sly as we could and hiss out, “Do you believe that story?”
After the address Egidy was our guest at a supper which, together with Baron Leitenberger and a few other friends, we gave in his honor at Sacher’s. At the supper a pretty scene was enacted. One of our company was a former officer, now a deputy and also vice president of the Austrian Interparliamentary Group, Herr von Gniewocz. He turned the conversation to the campaign of 1866, in which he had taken part. Egidy then told how he also had been there, and then the two men recalled certain incidents, one of which, as it appeared in the comparison of details, had brought them face to face as opponents. And now here they were, both as adherents and champions of the peace cause, united in joyous festal mood.
Mark Twain happened to be in Vienna at this time and was present at this supper. The American humorist used the Egidy-Gniewocz incident for a brilliant improvisation, full of wit and feeling. He had been present at the lecture, had been recognized by the audience, and was asked to speak. He mounted the platform and declared that, as far as he was concerned, having only a penknife with him, he was ready to disarm!
A few days later I was permitted to make the personal acquaintance of a man who has taken a most important part in the peace movement, and with whose activity I had long been acquainted,—William T. Stead. A telegram from Vienna signed with his name invited me to make an appointment for a meeting with him as he was passing through the city. With delight I acceded to his wish, and on the following evening I spent several hours with the famous English journalist, enjoying with him a frugal supper and the most exhilarating conversation. We talked about a hundred things.
His external appearance is that of a gentleman; his hair and full beard are turning somewhat gray; he has noble, intelligent features, is forty-nine years of age, and his conversation is full of witty turns and comprehensive views of the world. His characteristics, one might say, are the energy of gentleness, tenderness, and capacity—also humor; those seem to be the predominant elements of his nature.
The son of a Protestant clergyman, he was brought up in strict orthodoxy. And since then, although he has attained spiritual emancipation and discarded every sign of dogma, he has kept a deeply religious spirit and is penetrated with the conviction that the spirit of goodness—God—is gradually bringing this world to perfection and using for this purpose inspired men as his instruments,—men who, being conscious that they are working in the service of a lofty principle, feel strengthened and elevated by it, full of joyous and courageous reliance in the support that is behind them in their divine mission.
The object of his journey was to ascertain how the Russian Emperor’s manifesto was received in different countries, and especially in official circles, and, above all, to learn what direction the Tsar himself and his ministers intended to give to the coming conference.
He had been on a journey through Europe, and was now on his return from Livadia, still under the impression of two extended interviews which the young Tsar had granted him. He had not been received as a journalist, but as a privileged guest in accordance with the wish of the late Emperor, Alexander III. About ten years before, a perfectly false idea of the Russian autocrat had gained currency with the British public. He was described as morose, violent, and insincere. And it was particularly supposed that he was all ready to let loose the horrors of a universal war. Stead, the journalist, had succeeded in dissipating this impression. In the year 1888 he had been accorded an audience at the imperial court at Gatchina, and the Emperor had engaged in an exceedingly frank conversation with him. When Stead returned to England he was able to announce with the utmost particularity that Alexander III was quite the opposite of the popular conception of him; that he was an enemy of all falsehoods, and imbued with the strongest detestation of war. These representations entirely changed public opinion, and must have helped to avert the ever-present danger of war.