One of the most interesting of the public meetings in connexion with this Conference was held in an immense church, like a great cathedral for size and proportions. One of the speakers on this occasion was a mulatto woman who addressed the gathering in excellent German. Very suitably she pleaded the cause of her race and the importance of a world at peace for the development along right lines of the black man and woman.
At the foot of the pulpit from which we spoke was an invalid chair in which was seated a pale, scholarly looking man with a refined and earnest face. He listened with the keenest attention to the speeches and obviously understood all the languages employed on this occasion. Nobody could fail to be arrested by the personality of this intense listener. The question as to who he was flew from one to another. He was Prince Alexander Hohenlohe, often spoken of as the “Red Prince” on account of his radical views on many subjects. The next day I received a complimentary letter from him and an invitation to tea, which I accepted. I found him seated under the trees in his chair in the garden of the Hôtel Baur au Lac, and we had an interesting talk on the condition of European politics at the time. He spoke in the friendliest way of England. Amongst his dreams for the future is that of a real friendship between France and Germany. His father was for some years German Ambassador to France. His uncle was the German Chancellor. He himself lived in Paris for years. And this close acquaintance with the French people had evidently had a happy result. His invalidism restricts his physical activities; but he is a prolific and able writer, whose writings invariably aim at the establishment of pacific relations amongst the nations of the world.
A speaker who proved most acceptable at the public meetings was Mrs. Despard. Not only was her speaking liked, but she made an extraordinary impression upon the Swiss people by the immense dignity, I might almost say majesty, of her appearance. A walk with Mrs. Despard along the main street of Zurich stands out in my memory. She was entirely unaware of the sensation she made; but it is a simple fact that this beautiful old lady with her aristocratic bearing and fine features, her snowy hair tucked under a black Spanish lace mantilla, her old-fashioned long dress and sandalled feet caused everybody who passed her to stop and stare and stop and stare again, wonder all over his face. There was respect in every look; no vulgar curiosity. Some men, entirely unknown to either of us, raised their hats as they passed us, saluting her as if she were a queen.
Mrs. Despard is more than seventy years of age, yet she shames us all by the strenuousness of her life. She is Irish, with an Irishwoman’s quick imagination and warm heart. When visiting an English town to make a speech, she is usually advertised as the sister of Viscount (now Earl) French. Whether this is done to attract an audience by taking the edge off her Socialism through her connexion with titled folk, or whether it is thought that otherwise she would interest nobody because unknown to most, I cannot say; but Mrs. Despard can stand entirely on her own feet for the richness of her personality and the quality and variety of her work, always on behalf of the poor and the oppressed. The only value to be attached to the advertised connexion with Lord French lies in its demonstration of the possibility of there being varied opinions without alienated affections in one family. Lord French and his sister differ as far as the poles in political opinions. She is a democrat, a Socialist, a pacifist. Nobody knows his politics. She is in favour of self-determination for Ireland. He has been Ireland’s Governor-General under the Terror. Yet I understand there exists a very tender affection the one for the other; and nothing could shake Mrs. Despard’s belief that, in all his actions, whether as a soldier or a statesman, her beloved brother has been actuated by the finest motives that can govern any man in a position of grave responsibility for the lives and welfare of the people in his charge. In England we have christened her the “grandmother of the revolution,” because when many of us were babes in arms, Mrs. Despard was carrying the flag of freedom in the cause which we hope will ultimately secure the material happiness of mankind. But in spirit she is the youngest of us all.
CHAPTER VI
THE INTERNATIONAL AT LUCERNE (JULY, 1919)
It was not the full International, but the special Council appointed by it which met at Lucerne in July of 1919. This time my position was that of a representative of the Press, and not a delegate. I had an honorary commission from a London daily newspaper to report the proceedings of the Conference. I am afraid my report was not too sympathetic. Everybody felt the same thing in some degree. Far too much time was wasted on petty national squabbles. The old fight on responsibility for the war was taken up with renewed lustiness. French and Germans yelled at one another, like children in a street squabble, with the old vituperativeness. Meantime the crime of Paris had been committed, and the world was shrieking from its gaping and undoctored wounds. A problem presented itself to me: How to make a genuine International out of men so filled with national hates and envies that they were at one another’s throats for the slightest word! Of course, I am sure they said a great deal more than they meant. They always do at Socialist conferences. Nobody could stay for five minutes in any Socialist Party I know, if he believed that all the abuse and violence of language used by members against one another were intended to be taken at their face value. But it seemed pitiful that the old vice of talking and saying nothing should have possessed the International at such a tragic time in the world’s history. Apart from the awfulness of the Peace, the persecution of the Jews and the Hungarian counter-revolution should have absorbed the attention of any body of enlightened Socialists sitting in conference.
Lucerne is not a good place for a congress. It is too beautiful. The delegates wanted to be out amongst the mountains or to be dipping their hands into the lake as they rowed lazily on its still surface. The most inveterate lover of eloquence could not get up any enthusiasm for such indoor sport when he saw the bright sun on the dancing waves and mopped his moist brow on his cool handkerchief.
I arrived at the Conference late on account of special difficulties about my passport. On the way I had a curious experience. It happened at Berne. I had broken my journey there and taken the evening train. Into the carriage stepped a dark-haired girl who evidently knew me, as she called me by my name, and asked if I would mind her smoking “one little cigarette,” a very mild one. When she had lit it she settled herself in a corner; and then began a conversation which I speedily discovered was designed to elicit information. She appeared particularly interested in Mr. J. R. Macdonald. I evaded all her questions about Mr. Macdonald, but to silence her on the subject said she should have an introduction to Mr. Macdonald the next day at the Conference. Her story of herself was interesting. She had married an Englishman and divorced him. She had one delicate little son. She had married again, a Hungarian, a Socialist who had accepted a position in the Hungarian Social-Democratic Government. She was going to join him soon. She had been in England, the guest of Miss Hobhouse. She was extradited from England as a pacifist. I recalled some story about Miss Hobhouse having entertained unawares a foreign Government agent. Was this the woman? I introduced her next day to Mr. Macdonald, having previously cautioned him. He was quite convinced she was pursuing her avocation. But what was that? Was she a spy?
Some of our delegates were rather apt to imagine everybody was a spy. One of them was taken to see a certain Austrian diplomat, and all the time the taxi was rattling there he was looking out of the little window at the back, quite, quite certain that the cab was being followed by he didn’t know whom—but somebody!