Fighting For Peace | Page 9

to which they were paying a
visit of ceremony. The news of this murder filled all thoughtful people
in Europe with horror and dismay. It was a dark and sinister crime. The
Crown Prince and his wife had not been "personae gratae" with the
Viennese court, but the brutal manner of their taking off aroused the
anger of the people. Vengeance was called for. The two wretched
murderers were Austrian subjects, but they were Servian sympathizers,
and in some kind of connection with a society called Narodna Obrana,
whose avowed object was to work for a "Greater Servia," including the
southern Slavic provinces of Austria. The Government of
Austria-Hungary, having conducted a secret inquiry, declared that it
had proofs that the instructions and the weapons for the crime came
from Servia. On the other hand, it has not been denied that the Servian
Minister at Vienna had conveyed a warning to the Government there, a
week before the ceremonial visit to Serajevo, to the effect that it would
be wise to give the visit up, as there were grounds for believing that an
assassination had been planned. We knew little or nothing of all this at
the time, in The Hague. Anxiously we waited for light under the black
cloud. It came like lightning in the Austro-Hungarian note to Servia of
July 23, 1914.
It was made public the next day. I remember coming home that evening
from a motor-drive through the dead cities of the Zuyder Zee. Taking
up the newspaper in the quiet library, I read the note. The paper
dropped from my hand, and I said to my son: "That means an immense
war. God knows how far it will go and how long it will last."
This Austrian ultimatum was so severe in matter and in manner as to
justify the comment of Sir Edward Grey: "Never have I seen one state
address to another independent state a document of so formidable a
character." It not only dictated a public confession of guilt; it also made
a series of ten sweeping demands on Servia, one of which (No. 5)

seemed to imply a surrender of independent sovereignty; and it allowed
only forty-eight hours for an unqualified, complete acceptance.
Russia promptly declared that she would not object to the punishment
of Servians for any proved offense, but that she must defend the
territorial integrity and independence of Servia. Italy and France
suggested an extension of time for the answer. France and Russia
advised Servia to make a general acceptance of the ultimatum. She did
so in her reply of the 25th, reserving demand No. 5, which she said she
did not understand, and offering to submit that point, or the whole
matter, to the tribunal at The Hague. Austria had instructed her minister
at Belgrade to reject anything but a categorical submission to the
ultimatum. When the Servian reply was handed to him he said that it
was not good enough, demanded his passports, and left the capital
within half an hour. Germany, vowing that she had no knowledge of
the text of the Austrian note before it was presented and had not
influenced its contents (which seems incredible, as I shall show later),
nevertheless announced that she approved and would support it.
Verily this was "miching mallecho," as Hamlet says. It meant mischief.
Austria was inflexible in her purpose to make war on Servia. Russia's
warning that in such a case she could not stand aside and see a small
kindred nation subjugated, and her appeals for arbitration or four-power
mediation, which Great Britain, France, and Italy supported, were
disregarded. Behind Austria stood Germany, proud, menacing, armed
to the teeth, ready for attack, supporting if not instigating the relentless
Austrian purpose. Something vast and very evil was impending over
the world.
That was our conviction at The Hague in the fateful week from July 24
to August 1, 1914. We who stood outside the secret councils of the
Central Powers were both bewildered and dismayed. Could it be that
Europe of the twentieth century was to be thrust back into the ancient
barbarism of a general war? It was like a dreadful nightmare. There was
the head of the huge dragon, crested, fanged, clad in glittering scales,
poised above the world and ready to strike. We were benumbed and
terrified. There was nothing that we could do. The monstrous thing

advanced, but even while we shuddered we could not make ourselves
feel that it was real. It had the vagueness and the horrid pressure of a
bad dream.
If it seemed dreamlike to us, so near at hand, how could the people in
America, three thousand miles away, feel its reality or grasp its
meaning? They could not do it then, and many of them have not done