Russia, like England, had nothing to gain by war. Her development was proceeding rapidly. For years to come her highest interest must be peace. A supreme provocation was necessary in order to make her draw the sword. Such a provocation had been given in 1909 when, ignoring the terms of the Treaty of Berlin, Austria had formally annexed the provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina. But at that time Russia's resources were not merely unprepared; they were utterly exhausted. Menaced simultaneously by Vienna and Berlin, she had been forced on that occasion to stand by, while her prestige in the Balkan peninsula suffered a blow which she was powerless to ward off. Now a further encroachment was threatened from the same quarters. A Serb power which looked to St. Petersburg[[1]] for protection was to be put under the heel of Austria.
Nor can any one believe that France wanted war. It is true that for a year, or rather more, after the Agadir episode[[2]] the spirit of France was perturbed. But no Foreign Office in the world—least of all that of Germany—was so ill-informed as to believe that the sporadic demonstrations, which occurred in the press and elsewhere, were caused by any eagerness for adventure or any ambition of conquest. They were due, as every calm observer was aware, to one thing and one thing only—the knowledge that the Republic had come to the very end of her human resources; that all her sons who were capable of bearing arms had already been enrolled in her army; that she could do nothing further to strengthen her defences against Germany, who up to that time, had taken for military training barely one half of her available male population, and who was now engaged in increasing her striking power both by land and sea. The cause of this restlessness in France was the fear that Germany was preparing an invincible superiority and would strike so soon as her weapon was forged. If so, would it not be better for France to strike at once, while she had still a fighting chance, and before she was hopelessly outnumbered? But this mood, the product of anxiety and suspense, which had been somewhat prevalent in irresponsible quarters during the autumn of 1912 and the early part of the following year, had passed away. Partly it wore itself out; partly popular interest was diverted to other objects of excitement.
France, during the twelve months preceding Midsummer 1914, had been singularly quiescent as regards foreign affairs. Her internal conditions absorbed attention. Various events had conspired to disturb public confidence in the fidelity of her rulers, and in the adequacy of their military preparations. The popular mood had been sobered, disquieted, and scandalised to such a point that war, so far from being sought after, was the thing of all others which France most wished to avoid.
THE CASE OF BELGIUM
It is unnecessary to waste words in establishing the aversion of Belgium from war. There was nothing which she could hope to gain by it in any event. Suffering and loss—how great suffering and loss even Belgium herself can hardly have foreseen—were inevitable to her civil population, as well as to her soldiers, whether the war went well or ill. Her territory lay in the direct way of the invaders, and was likely, as in times past, to become the 'cockpit of Europe.' She was asked to allow the free passage of the Germanic forces. She was promised restoration of her independence and integrity at the end of the war. But to grant this arrogant demand would have been to destroy her dynasty and wreck her institutions; for what King or Constitution could have withstood the popular contempt for a government which acquiesced in national degradation? And to believe the promise, was a thing only possible for simpletons; for what was such an assurance worth, seeing that, at the very moment of the offer, Germany was engaged in breaking her former undertaking, solemnly guaranteed and recorded, that the neutrality of Belgium should be respected? That the sympathies of Belgium would have been with France in any event cannot of course be doubted; for a French victory threatened no danger, whereas the success of German arms was a menace to her independence, and a prelude to vassalage or absorption in the Empire.
Neither the British people nor their Government wanted war. In the end they accepted it reluctantly, and only after most strenuous efforts had been made to prevent its occurrence. To the intelligent foreign observer, however unfriendly, who has a thorough understanding of British interests, ideas, and habits of mind this is self-evident. He does not need a White Paper to prove it to him.
It is clear that Austria wanted war—not this war certainly, but a snug little war with a troublesome little neighbour, as to the outcome of which, with the ring kept, there could be no possibility of doubt. She obviously hoped that indirectly, and as a sort of by-product of this convenient little war, she would secure a great victory of the diplomatic sort over her most powerful neighbour—a matter of infinitely more consequence to her than the ostensible object of her efforts.
The crushing of Servia would mean the humiliation of Russia, and would shake, for a second time within five years, the confidence of the Balkan peoples in the power of the Slav Empire to protect its kindred and co-religionists against the aggression of the Teutons and Magyars. Anything which would lower the credit of Russia in the Balkan peninsula would be a gain to Austria. To her more ambitious statesmen such an achievement might well seem to open the way for coveted expansions towards the Aegean Sea, which had been closed against her, to her great chagrin, by the Treaty of Bucharest.[[3]] To others, whose chief anxiety was to preserve peace in their own time, and to prevent the Austro-Hungarian State from splitting asunder, the repression of Servia seemed to promise security against the growing unrest and discontent of the vast Slav population which was included in the Empire.
AUSTRIAN ILL-FORTUNE