In 1909 there had been rumours of grave events; Count Ehrenthal had announced privately to some bankers that 'war was evitable.' Count Szechenyi, the Austrian-Hungarian, a lover of peace, if there ever was one, met me one day on the steps of the Foreign Office, in a state of trepidation. Mr. Michel Bibikoff, of the Russian Legation, had seen me several times on the subject of the possible conflict, academically and personally, of course, as our Government was supposed to have no great interest in war in Europe. A speech made by Mr. Alexander Konta, whose son, Geoffrey, was one of the best private secretaries I ever had, put me on the track (Mr. Konta, an American of Hungarian birth, had been conducting some financial affairs in his native country). I suspected there would be no war since Count Ehrenthal had announced to the financiers that there would be war. In my opinion, it was a question of the fall or rise of stocks. Count de Beaucaire, the French Minister, was intensely interested; a flame lit in the Balkans might involve France. The English Minister, Sir Alan Johnstone, seemed to take matters more calmly; we all expected his Foreign Office to send him to Vienna, and his calmness was a sedative. He, a prospective ambassador, was supposed to know something of conditions, but Count Szechenyi discovered that he was nervous, too. It struck me that it was rather absurd for me not to know something definite.
There was an old friend, deep in the diplomatic secrets of the Vatican, who knew the Balkans well, who disliked Russia as much as he suspected Germany. It was easy to get an opinion from him because he knew I would use it with discretion. There was a clever old Hanoverian noble, much in the secrets of the court at Berlin, and there was Frederick Wile in Berlin, who knew many things. When Count Szechenyi, rather pale, came up the stairs of the Foreign Office, and said, 'My God! There will be war!'
'No,' I answered, 'it is settled—there will be no war. I give you my word of honour.'
'You are sure?'
'I have just told Bibikoff, and he is delighted.'
I have been grateful many times to Frederick Wile, who was once a student of mine, but that day I was more grateful than ever, for war is hell and I was glad to relieve my friends' minds.
That night there was a cercle at court. King Frederick VIII., the most affable of kings, greatly interested in the Danes in America, had been praising Count Carl Moltke, who had shown a great interest in the Americans of Danish blood; it was an interesting subject. To speak well of Count Moltke, who had the good taste to marry an American, is always a genuine pleasure, though, I believe, he would have left Washington if the sale of the Danish West Indies had been mooted in his time. Then the king said, 'Your country is fortunate not to be entangled in European affairs. There is talk of war. As the American Minister, you have no interest, except a humanitarian one, in a European war; you do not trouble yourself about the question seriously.' I bowed, being discreet, I hope. Suddenly a deep voice, audible everywhere, called out: 'But Egan told Szechenyi that the propositions had been accepted, and there will be no war.' The king turned to me; I was not especially desirous of admitting that I had been making investigations, and still less desirous of revealing my sources of information.
Before the king could ask a question, Sir Alan Johnstone cut in, just behind me, 'From whom did you hear it?'
'From a journalist,' I answered, remembering Frederick Wile.
'It will be in the papers to-morrow, then,' said the king.