There was presented to me one day in the lobby of the hotel a tall thin man with laughing eyes and an engaging boyish manner, who had just challenged Fate by dashing at break-neck speed from Geneva to Berne in a powerful motor-car. His English was halting but perfectly intelligible, and he had a way of insinuating himself into the regard of a stranger which reminded one of the wiles of the “White-headed Boy.” It was Prince Ludwig Windischgraetz, the Winston Churchill of Hungary; the gay, irresponsible hero of a thousand romances, military, political and human. He is only thirty-eight years of age, but he has had a very full life, and has held positions of great responsibility in his country’s public life. At the time of the Conference in Budapest of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies he was one of the distinguished champions of votes for women. He was very much concerned that I should understand that he was a sincere democrat. I remember with some amusement at a lunch, where he and his wife, Mr. Rudolf Kommer and myself formed the party, taking his side most heartily in a hot discussion on the relative value of autocracy and democracy. He, the kinsman of kings, was all for democracy. Who was against it must be inferred. But the Prince was very much in earnest.
His memoirs, which are to be published in English very soon, will be interesting reading if they are anything like complete, for the adventures of this temperamental romanticist, this gallant and not too discreet patriot, this reckless and warm-hearted young aristocrat have been many and varied. Recklessness in politics is a dangerous thing; but Prince Windischgraetz has the personality which reminds one how mean a thing discretion can be. I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind that Prince Ludwig Windischgraetz was the prime instigator and organizer of the Kaiser Karl exploit.
But the Prince’s greatest romance is surely his wife. Princess Maria Windischgraetz is one of the loveliest women I have ever seen. Her beauty is of the English type: fair skin, golden hair and blue eyes. She is one of the few women outside feminist and Socialist circles I met on the Continent whose gaze is frank, and who leaves the impression of a decent attitude towards men. I wearied of it almost before I understood the sex-game as it is played in the cosmopolitan cities of Europe (doubtless of this country also). The insolent, sidelong look, the provocative dress, the tasteless conversation and gross manners of the women habituées of fashionable cafés and big continental hotels are a weariness of the flesh to the self-respecting. A relief it was after the hectic atmosphere of the hotel reception-rooms to meet this sweet Hungarian mother of five beautiful children who looks like a girl, and hear her unaffected talk about her home and her country. She very modestly claimed no understanding of politics; but had she had the power she knew enough and felt rightly enough to have saved her country from the pit into which politicians with more experience but less common sense had let it fall.
We met several times, each occasion happier than the last. From entirely different worlds, I think she would agree that we understood each other and held many ideas in common. I remember one meeting with peculiar tenderness. We were the guests of Mr. Rudolf Kommer on the Gurten-külm. After dinner we walked through the trees to see the moonlight on the Bernese Alps. I tried to comfort her with prophecies that all would be well with Hungary one day if Hungary did not lose faith in herself. “And when that day comes, do not, I beg of you, copy the methods you deplore in the Bolsheviks, establishing a White Terror instead of a Red. Someone has got to take a stand against the iniquities and cruelties of terrorism. Let those to whom more has been given do that, the educated, the rich, the aristocratic.”
I do not know what part, if any, Princess Maria has played in the recent politics of Hungary. Her estates have been restored to her; her country is hers once more. Whether or not she approved of the insane policy which has treated simple Trade Unionists and Co-operators as Bolsheviks, and still strikes discriminating blows at the poor Jews, I am not able to say. Probably not. But she said to me when I begged her to take up the cause of women in Hungary: “I have five children to care for and a husband to look after. I have little time for politics.”
Princess Maritza von Liechtenstein is another beautiful blonde who was living in Berne at the time of the Conference. She is stronger looking than Princess Windischgraetz, and more vigorous and active. Her English is amazingly perfect. She is the daughter of Count Geza Andrassy, the Hungarian patriot, and the mother of five or six handsome boys. She bitterly blamed Count Karolyi for having let loose the flood of Bolshevism upon Hungary, especially criticizing his land policy and the break up of the big estates. She evinced considerable interest in English politics. So did her distinguished uncle. Both confessed to a real liking for England which I believe was quite genuine. Count Andrassy appeared much broken by his country’s afflictions. In appearance he struck me as a refined edition of Thomas Carlyle in his later years. He has grey hair with touches of white, a square forehead, shaggy eyebrows, clear-cut features, a slightly stooping figure. A striking resemblance to my own father attracted me. He walked about the hotel full, as one could see, of grave preoccupation: not too occupied to save a woman from a mistake! I was taking tea with him and one other when the concierge brought to me a note from a man who claimed a mutual friendship with a highly respected friend of my own. This man in his wife’s name invited me to his home. I had never heard of the man. I read the name aloud. Count Andrassy suggested that I would be wise to decline the invitation, which I did. I afterwards discovered how right he was!
Prince Johann von Liechtenstein, the father of the six splendid boys, is a tall, grave, elegant man with blue eyes, black-fringed, and a reserved and earnest manner. Soft and slow of speech, without a trace of self-assertiveness, he made a friend of all with whom he came into contact.
Before leaving Berne I paid a visit of investigation to a camp for hungry Austrian children at Frutigen, on the invitation of Baroness von Einam, who ran the camp. This extraordinary woman collected incredible sums of money and organized this camp whilst other people were busy thinking about it. There in the Swiss mountains for seven weeks each, five or six hundred starving little Austrians lived. They were housed in the smaller hotels. Their teachers came with them. The villagers told us in answer to our questions that when the children first came nobody knew they were there, they crept about so languidly and quietly. The second week they began to sing and run about. The third week they tore the air with their happy yells. When we saw them they were about to go home. They looked rosy and brown and jolly. They had played in the fields all the morning. For us they were going to sing and dance. Their costumes were of paper, but very prettily made. And they went through their exercises with great grace and beauty. One incident only marred the day’s proceedings. A little girl had written to Vienna complaining that her teacher ate all her food. She was brought before Baroness Einam. The teacher, a red-faced girl of over-fed appearance, feeling herself wronged, rushed at the pale child as if to strangle her. The girl was stubborn and refused to make amends. What was done to the little Bolshevik I don’t know. But it was gratifying to the organizers of the scheme, and very interesting to us to discover that the kindly Swiss peasants grew so attached to the little Austrians that when the time came for them to go home they offered to keep them all until the next Austrian harvest.
We drove home through the lovely Swiss scenery in the cool evening air. But what obtrudes on the mind to spoil the memory of that drive? The six luckless idiots, with vacant faces and staring eyes, the disfiguring goitre thickening their poor throats, we counted on the roadside before we were out of sight of the little mountain town.