The Empress Elisabeth · The last days of my father-in-law · Egidy on the assassination of the Empress · Session of the delegates in Turin · Egidy evening in Vienna · Reminiscence of the campaign of 1866 · William T. Stead in Vienna on his pilgrimage · His portrait · His audience with Nicholas II · His meeting with Bloch · My interview with Muravieff · Conclusion of Spanish-American treaty of peace · Reply of the chairman of the Spanish Commission to a memorial from Émile Arnaud · Still the Dreyfus affair · General Türr with King Humbert · Egidy dead · Letter from his son
The Empress Elisabeth assassinated! An infamous dagger thrust into a quiet, proud, unworldly, and generous heart. Once again mourning and terror flashed through the whole civilized world with lightning speed. More and more it is shown that this civilized world has only one soul. The memory of this princess, so opulent in sufferings, so endowed with beauty, will go down in history as a radiant and poetic vision. And that vision will be haloed with a tragic charm—so shockingly sad though it is, so hateful the deed that was responsible for it—from the fact that she did not die in her bed of illness or old age, but fell under the deadly blow of a fanatic madman, just as she was setting out on a new voyage into the splendor of nature which she loved so well. Out of the gray monotony of the commonplace thou standest forth for all time,—a figure in shining black,—Elisabeth of Austria!
My father-in-law, then seventy-nine years of age, had been for some time, especially since Lotti’s death, very much shattered in health. He no longer took his daily walks, often dropped off to sleep, sometimes began to wander in his speech,—in short, his demise was evidently near at hand. Nevertheless he had his secretary and faithful attendant—my husband’s former tutor—read the newspaper to him every day. When the news of the assassination of the Empress arrived we made haste to warn Herr Wiesner (that was the secretary’s name, though at home we always called him “Dominus”) not to read to the old gentleman the passages regarding the tragedy. Attached with the deepest devotion to the imperial house, Old Austrian to his finger tips, an enthusiastic admirer of the beautiful Empress,—the news of her death would have terribly shocked him, and we desired to spare him that.
Only a few days after this event he died in My Own’s arms. At five o’clock one morning we were summoned to his bedside. The nurse thought that he was dying, but he soon rallied and lay peacefully. About nine o’clock—meantime the doctor had been called and all the members of the family stood about the bed—he sat up and took my husband’s hand.
“Artur,” he said, “you know I have always been an industrious worker—I must write a few letters to-day; ... there the Dominus stands waiting for me to dictate—but, Artur, I should like to rest to-day—I may, may I not?—just a little sleep—yes?”
My Own laid him gently back on the pillow. “Dear father—sleep!”
The old man thrust his arm under the pillow and turned his face to one side. With a satisfied sigh he closed his eyes, and after a few minutes he fell asleep—in the sleep that knows no waking.
Egidy wrote me as follows regarding the Empress Elisabeth’s death:
... The most affecting word that has been spoken about your Empress’s death is that from her own husband’s mouth: “It is incomprehensible how a man could lay his hand on this woman, who in all her life had never harmed any one and had done nothing but good.”
A touching truth is to be found in this thought, and at the same time, also, the earnest call to think the thought again. Possibly the innocent woman had to die this sudden death in order that deep sorrow might come upon the best of all peoples, in order that all might mourn with the bereaved husband and Emperor, and also in order that we might repeat that lamentation in our thought, and comprehend, should the grief-stricken Emperor in humble realization come to the following resolution:
“Henceforth men who have never done any one any harm shall cease mercilessly thrusting the deadly steel into one another’s hearts. Henceforth I will not allow men whose lives are confided to my protection to march to fields of battle; no longer will I train to war the nations that are under my scepter. The labor of the remaining years that Providence shall vouchsafe me belongs to internal and external preparation for the warless epoch.”
Egidy still further elaborated this idea in the October number of his Versöhnung (“Reconciliation”).
The plans for the meetings to be held in Lisbon in the year 1898 fell through. The Iberian peninsula seemed little fitted to arrange for peace congresses as long as the Spanish-American War was in progress; so this year the two Bernese councils met for consultation in different places, having for their object the decision of what attitude to take regarding the Russian circular. The Interparliamentary Union met in Brussels, the International Peace Bureau in Turin, where a World’s Exposition was being held.
We went to Turin, My Own and I, in spite of our bereavement, starting a fortnight after the old baron had been laid away in the family tomb at Höflein.
A letter which I wrote to a friend tells of our visit to the capital of Piedmont:
Turin, Grand Hôtel d’Europe,
September 28, 1898
The committee which has been assembled here concluded its labors to-day. The manifesto of the Emperor of Russia naturally formed the basis and suggested the direction of the proceedings.
On Sunday, the twenty-fifth, the Turin “Peace Days” began with the centennial jubilee of the Piedmontese statesman, Count Federigo Sclopis. In the vast Aula of the Royal University the festival committee and a great audience were assembled. The hall was packed.
General Türr conducted me to the front row and introduced me to the Mayor of Turin, Baron Casano, the governor, Marchese Guiccioli,—I could not help thinking of Byron, who loved a Guiccioli whom I used to know in Paris,—and the Minister, Count Ferraris. We sat in front of the desk. The cards of invitation bore the names of twenty-four eminent men as patrons of the festival; among them were Biancheri, President of the Chamber, Minister Vigliani, the presidents of the Roman and Bernese Courts of Cassation, the rector of the University, the president of the Academy of Sciences, and others.
Lawyer Luzatti was the first to take the platform, and he gave us a biographical sketch of Federigo Sclopis. He eulogized his services, and particularized as most glorious the part he played as chairman of the Alabama Court of Arbitration. Then the vice president of the Roman Senate, who is also chairman of the Roman Peace Society, spoke, and he was followed by our Frédéric Passy. He had been in his youth a friend of Sclopis’s, and was therefore able to tell much that was fresh and interesting about the life of the great man.
The meeting was over at noon. The rest of the day was devoted to social intercourse and the Exposition. Such visitors as had any taste for art were here afforded more delights than are often found in displays of this kind, for the galleries of sculpture and painting are better filled than usual, and in a great edifice, built like a coliseum, an orchestra of two hundred artists gave wonderful concerts.
But if I prove unable to tell much about the Exposition in general, who will blame a member of the Congress for that? Here old friends are discovered and new and congenial acquaintances are made, and this fact serves to promote serious conversation; so the Exposition park, with its many pavilions, is neglected; you sit down with your comrades round a café table and talk of the things that are in your heart. The manifesto first of all, but also everything else that is going on in the world; among other things, the Dreyfus affair, which just at this moment every one has more or less in mind. A delegate from Paris, Gaston Moch, who himself had been a cavalry officer and had served in the same corps with the exile, has much interesting information to give. Even as early as 1894 he had looked behind the scenes in the affair and had realized that the Jewish officer would not be endured on the general staff. A peculiar thing was also told us: In the summer of 1894, and thus before the charge was brought against Dreyfus, Le Journal published a novel as a feuilleton, in which a plot for the extermination of an unpopular comrade was devised and carried out: the smuggling into the intelligence bureau of a forged document and the like,—a whole chain of intrigues such as was actually adopted against the innocent man, just as if Paty, Henry, and the rest had taken the novel as a pattern to go by.
On Monday, the twenty-sixth, the delegates met for their first session in the Palazzo Carignan. The splendor of the Italian princely palaces is well known. The hall where we met is of sheer gold; the wall coverings are of gold, the doors and window shutters heavily gilded; adjoining, and also glittering with gold, is the historic chamber in which Victor Emmanuel was born.
As the president of the Bureau was obliged to go to Brussels to attend the session of the Interparliamentary Directorate, the chairmanship of our meetings was intrusted to the lawyer Luzatti. Though many letters of greeting arrived, I will cite only the Italian Prime Minister’s:
“Our country—on the ground of the principles that have inspired its regeneration, on the ground of its ideals of civilization as well as of its political interests—our country must desire that in international questions juristic reason may win the day over the appeal to force.
E. Visconti-Venosta”
The first subject for discussion is expressed clearly in the text of the resolution that was passed:
“The Meeting is of the opinion that the societies throughout their spheres of activity should organize demonstrations of every kind, in the form of petitions and meetings designed to promote a favorable result of the Tsar’s rescript; it invites the societies to communicate the effects of these demonstrations to the International Bureau in Bern, which will give them the greatest possible publicity.”
The English delegates were able to report that in their country numerous demonstrations in this direction had already taken place. Political leaders in Parliament had joined in the movement, among them Sir William Harcourt, Morley, the Marquis of Ripon, Earl Crewe, Bryce, Sir John Lubbock, Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Spencer Watson, and others; also many bishops, and the three English cardinals, Vaughan, Loyne, and Gibbons. The Congress of the Trade Unions, which had until recently held aloof, voted unanimously and enthusiastically as follows:
“This Congress of organized laborers, representing the industrial classes of Great Britain and Ireland, greets the Tsar’s message with satisfaction and calls upon the government to employ all legitimate means to promote its success, since militarism is a great enemy to labor and a cruel burden for the slaving millions.”
This attitude of the English workingmen—be this observed in parenthesis—is at all events more beneficial than that of the socialists of other lands, who are distrustful of the Russian Emperor’s views, and who say, “Peace and disarmament, yes—but we want to bring it about, we alone, and in our own way.” But what is destined to benefit all mankind must be done by all; it cannot be the work of a class and against other classes.
Élie Ducommun gave a report on the events of the year, which he claimed would have marked it as one of the most unfortunate and discouraging for the movement, had it not ended with the Russian Emperor’s proposal of official investigation of means for bringing about assured peace and the reduction of armaments. Moreover, to the assets of the year were to be reckoned the agreement of France and England on the Niger question, the arbitration between France and Brazil, and, finally, the conclusion of a permanent arbitration treaty between Italy and the Argentine Republic.
The assembly sent a congratulatory dispatch to the Italian government on this treaty,—the first of its kind and likely to prove of the greatest blessing as an example to be followed.[26]
On the other hand, apprehension was felt regarding the danger that threatens on the part of Argentina, which is on the point of declaring war against Chile. It was suggested that a trustworthy person might be sent in the name of the Peace Bureau to Argentina and Chile to urge both their presidents to submit the unsettled controversy to a court of arbitration. Perhaps they would turn a deaf ear to our delegate, but more probably a word spoken in the name of two hundred societies, representing both the New World and the Old, would turn the scale in their deliberations. Dr. Evans Darby suggested, on the other hand, that, as the outbreak of hostilities was already imminent and the delegate would assuredly arrive too late, a cablegram should be dispatched instead.
Accordingly two dispatches were sent on that very same day in the name of the Turin assembly, one to Valparaiso, the other to Buenos Aires, earnestly urging the two governments to avoid a war, which, just at this present moment, would be a lamentable setback to the approaching conference summoned by the Russian Emperor.[27]
The cable dispatches cost nine hundred francs. Prodigal Friends of Peace! when one thinks how penurious the war boards are!
On the evening of the twenty-ninth the general public of Turin were invited to listen to addresses in the Circolo filologico. There was not a vacant place in the vast auditorium. General Türr made the first speech and cited passages from Garibaldi’s appeal to the governments. Then I followed with a reading of my short story, Es müssen doch schöne Erinnerungen sein, translated into Italian for this occasion, under the title Bei ricordi (“Beautiful Recollections”), by the poet F. Fontana. Then Émile Arnaud, Professor Ludwig Stein of Bern University, Novikof, and others spoke.
The audience was in such a high pitch of enthusiasm and sympathy at the end that I mustered courage, amid the storm of applause, to mount the platform again and make a brief appeal that the listeners should not reward our words with mere clapping of hands,—we were not artists hungry for approbation, we were plain champions of a holy cause,—but rather should join our organization; they might come up and sign their names. This invitation was accepted, and by reason of the addresses that evening the membership list of the Turin Peace Union was increased by many and influential names.
This Union has also a special section in the Exposition building. The autograph entries in the book that is there are very interesting. Even Arabic and Chinese signatures are among them; also dialogues: some one wrote in French, “I do not believe in it”; some one else wrote underneath, “I pity you with all my heart.” Tolstoi’s son wrote in the register, Quale è lo scopo della guerra? L’assassinio—(“What is the object of war? Massacre!”).
Our first care after our return to Austria was to organize a meeting to agitate in behalf of the Russian circular. Lieutenant Colonel von Egidy came at my request to address this meeting, which took place in the Ronacher ballroom on the eighteenth of October. It was the first time he had ever spoken in Vienna. Although our Viennese did not fully realize how distinguished he was, they were in a high degree curious about the famous man who had once been an officer of the empire. It was universally known that he had been compelled to leave the military service on account of his convictions as expressed in his pamphlet Ernste Gedanken (“Serious Thoughts”).
An acquaintance, Count X., whom I had invited to hear the address, wrote me:
I have never read a line by Egidy. But I cannot share your opinion regarding him, for in the first place I cannot endure the Prussians; secondly, if a soldier has done anything so unseemly(!) that he can no longer serve, I am compelled to reject what he says, even were he as wise as Aristotle.
Well, now, there are figures in history who have done such unseemly things that they have been compelled not only to doff their uniforms but also to empty the cup of hemlock or die at the stake or on the cross; these would probably have been subjected to a still severer criticism at the hands of my friend the count.
An hour beforehand the doors of the hall were thrown open, and the throng which had long been waiting rushed in. The great room was soon packed; people stood in the gallery behind the last seats. Entrance was free, “every one invited,”—such was Egidy’s wish.
The representative of the government took his place at the chairman’s table near me. I made a few prefatory remarks; then Egidy stepped forward, and his words rang out like bell tones. It was ever so when this orator spoke,—bronze in his voice, gold in his words, consecration in the room.
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.
From what Stead told me of the impression made upon him during his audience with Nicholas II, I felt warranted in concluding that the young Emperor was thoroughly in earnest in the matter of the manifesto. I complained to him of the lack of comprehension, the stupidity, and at the same time the hostile spite with which the message was received, for the disappointment to me had been unprecedented; I had so firmly believed that, with the exception of a small circle, the world would surely break out into jubilation at having the hope so nearly fulfilled of being freed from the mountainous weight that oppressed it. To this Stead replied:
“The manifesto is a mirror—a kind of magic mirror. You hold it up before men whose nature you wish to learn, and according to the judgments they pronounce on it, it reflects clearly the image of their spirit and their character.”
“But since almost everywhere a petty, ugly picture is shown,” I went on complaining, “since the purpose manifested by the Tsar is to be counteracted by mistrust, indifference, open and secret resistance, the lofty work may fail....”
“Are you of so little faith?... You?... Such a declaration may be delayed. But can it be silenced? Never! I myself, as I have made this journey through the cities of Europe, began to grow faint-hearted, but what I learned in Russia has restored my courage. The Emperor, I have faith to believe, now that he has put his hand to the plow, will draw the furrow, and his three ministers are with him in the matter. One is Kuropatkin, the Minister of War, whose ambition it is to reduce armaments; the second is Witte, Minister of Finance; the third, Count Lamsdorff, pupil and follower of Giers, the efficient force in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
“As regards the questions to be discussed at the coming conference,” continued Stead, “of course neither the Tsar nor any of his ministers thinks of disarmament in the literal meaning of the word; such a proposition is not to be made at all. The practical purpose of the discussions is to bring about a cessation of the ever-increasing preparations for war.”
During his journey Stead had also visited Councilor von Bloch, author of the great work “War.” This work is said to have made a marked impression on the Tsar, even when he was still crown prince, and very possibly it gave him the impulse to issue the rescript. Upon Stead’s asking him what results he expected from the conference, Bloch replied:
“In my opinion the most useful thing that can be done is for the conference, after its preliminary session, to appoint a committee of its ablest members, who shall be intrusted with the duty of investigating the degree to which modern warfare under present social conditions has become practically impossible—impossible, that is to say, without hitherto unheard-of loss of life on the battlefield, absolute destruction of the social structure, inevitable bankruptcy, and threatening revolution.”
Stead proceeded from Vienna to Rome, where he heard that he might expect some encouraging words from the Pope, all the more as Leo XIII had already many times expressed himself in sympathy with the peace cause. He did not, however, succeed in securing an audience at the Vatican.
The Russian Minister Muravieff also came to Vienna in the course of a journey he was making through Europe, and he remained there two or three days in order to hold conferences at court and with the ministers, just as he had done in other capitals, and to get a personal notion as to what reception the rescript had met with; also under what premises the rulers would be ready to send delegates to the conference.
I requested an interview with the Minister, and he sent me word by return mail that he would be glad to receive me the following forenoon at the Russian Embassy, where he was staying.
We had scarcely entered the drawing-room (my husband accompanied me) when Count Muravieff came in by another door. He was of medium height, wore a gray mustache, and had a round, kindly face. In spite of a certain coldness and dignity he appeared sympathetic. Like all Russian grands seigneurs, he showed the most gracious courtesy and spoke faultless French. It gave him infinite pleasure, he said as he greeted me, to make the personal acquaintance of so zealous a champion of the idea for which the Tsar and his government had now enlisted as apostles,—an idea which he confidently hoped would gradually conquer the world.
On my return home, after a conversation which lasted almost an hour, I noted down the following utterances of the count in my diary:
“It is not to be expected that the end will be reached in a short time. Think only of the Geneva Convention; that also took years before it became the comprehensive organization that it is to-day. Only one step must be made at a time. For the present, the cessation of armaments is the first stage. It is not to be expected that the states will consent to complete disarmament, or even to a diminution of the contingent; but if we could reach a common halt in the ‘race to ruin,’ that would be a favorable beginning. Henceforth the endeavor must be made to put universal peace on a safe basis, for a war in the future is surely a thing of horror and of ruin,—really an impossible thing; to take care of the present huge armies in the field is impracticable. The first result of a war waged between the great powers will be starvation....”
I detected the echo of Bloch’s doctrine in those last words, and that justifies the assumption that the work of the Russian councilor had helped to give the impulse to the drawing up of the rescript. Only Bloch had added to the word “starvation” two others, “revolution” and “anarchy.”
From what Muravieff told us of his journey through Europe, it was evident that his presence and intervention had as a result the blunting of the edge of the Fashoda conflict. From his conferences with the different sovereigns he had evidently become convinced that there was no inclination at present to adopt any measures toward the reduction of armies, or to accept the principle that war and the military establishment should be done away with, and that, in face of this difficulty, a basis must be found on which the first step,—stopping the increase in armaments,—might be taken in common. “It cannot be expected,” he said, “that at this very first conference the great final object will be attained.”
“It would be sufficient,” I remarked, “if the powers would make an agreement not to wage any war in the next twenty, or even in the next ten, years.”
“Twenty years—ten years! Vous allez trop vite, madame. We could be satisfied if such an agreement were entered into for three years. But I believe even that will not be demanded. First and foremost there must be a pledge not to increase the contingents or make any new purchases of instruments of destruction. The constant demands for more money always mean a conflict between the ministers of war and the ministers of finance.”
“They ought to appoint ministers of peace,” said my husband, interrupting.
“Ministers of peace?” he repeated thoughtfully. “Well, yes, courts of arbitration, national tribunals—” And he began to talk with great practical knowledge about all the postulates of the peace movement.
“In my youth,” h