Old Europe's Suicide: The Building of a Pyramid of Errors

Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
Cover of the book Old Europe's Suicide: The Building of a Pyramid of Errors by Christopher Birdwood Thomson, Library of Alexandria
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
Author: Christopher Birdwood Thomson ISBN: 9781465611178
Publisher: Library of Alexandria Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint: Language: English
Author: Christopher Birdwood Thomson
ISBN: 9781465611178
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint:
Language: English
“When the snows melt there will be war in the Balkans,” had become an habitual formula in the Foreign Offices of Europe during the first decade of the twentieth century. Statesmen and diplomats found comfort in this prophecy on their return from cures at different Continental spas, because, the season being autumn, the snow had still to fall, and would not melt for at least six months. This annual breathing space was welcome after the anxieties of spring and summer; the inevitable war could be discussed calmly and dispassionately, preparations for its conduct could be made methodically, and brave words could be bandied freely in autumn in the Balkans. Only an imminent danger inspires fear; hope has no time limit, the most unimaginative person can hope for the impossible twenty years ahead. Without regard either for prophecies or the near approach of winter, Bulgaria, Servia, Greece and Montenegro declared war on Turkey at the beginning of October, 1912. The Balkan Bloc had been formed, and did not include Rumania, a land where plenty had need of peace; King Charles was resolutely opposed to participation in the war, he disdained a mere Balkan alliance as unworthy of the “Sentinel of the Near East.” Bukarest had, for the moment anyhow, lost interest; my work there was completed, and a telegram from London instructed me to proceed to Belgrade. The trains via Budapest being overcrowded, I decided on the Danube route, and left by the night train for Orsova, in company with a number of journalists and business men from all parts of Rumania. We reached the port of the Iron Gate before dawn, and found a Hungarian steamer waiting; soon after daybreak we were heading up stream. Behind us lay the Iron Gate, its gloom as yet unconquered by the sunrise; on our left the mountains of North-Eastern Servia rose like a rampart; on our right the foothills of the Carpathians terminated abruptly at the river’s edge; in front the Danube shimmered with soft and ever-changing lights; a stillness reigned which no one cared to break, even the crew spoke low, like pious travellers before a shrine. War’s alarms seemed infinitely distant from those glistening waters set in an amphitheatre of hills. “How can man, being happy, still keep his happy hour?” The pageant of dawn and river and mountain faded as the sun rose higher; dim outlines became hard and sharp; the Iron Gate, surmounted by eddying wisps of mist, looked like a giant cauldron. The pass broadened with our westward progress revealing the plain of Southern Hungary, low hills replaced the mountains on the Servian bank. A bell rang as we stopped at a small river port, it announced breakfast and reminded us, incidentally, that stuffy smells are inseparable from human activities, even on the Danube, and within sight of the blue mountains of Transylvania.
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
“When the snows melt there will be war in the Balkans,” had become an habitual formula in the Foreign Offices of Europe during the first decade of the twentieth century. Statesmen and diplomats found comfort in this prophecy on their return from cures at different Continental spas, because, the season being autumn, the snow had still to fall, and would not melt for at least six months. This annual breathing space was welcome after the anxieties of spring and summer; the inevitable war could be discussed calmly and dispassionately, preparations for its conduct could be made methodically, and brave words could be bandied freely in autumn in the Balkans. Only an imminent danger inspires fear; hope has no time limit, the most unimaginative person can hope for the impossible twenty years ahead. Without regard either for prophecies or the near approach of winter, Bulgaria, Servia, Greece and Montenegro declared war on Turkey at the beginning of October, 1912. The Balkan Bloc had been formed, and did not include Rumania, a land where plenty had need of peace; King Charles was resolutely opposed to participation in the war, he disdained a mere Balkan alliance as unworthy of the “Sentinel of the Near East.” Bukarest had, for the moment anyhow, lost interest; my work there was completed, and a telegram from London instructed me to proceed to Belgrade. The trains via Budapest being overcrowded, I decided on the Danube route, and left by the night train for Orsova, in company with a number of journalists and business men from all parts of Rumania. We reached the port of the Iron Gate before dawn, and found a Hungarian steamer waiting; soon after daybreak we were heading up stream. Behind us lay the Iron Gate, its gloom as yet unconquered by the sunrise; on our left the mountains of North-Eastern Servia rose like a rampart; on our right the foothills of the Carpathians terminated abruptly at the river’s edge; in front the Danube shimmered with soft and ever-changing lights; a stillness reigned which no one cared to break, even the crew spoke low, like pious travellers before a shrine. War’s alarms seemed infinitely distant from those glistening waters set in an amphitheatre of hills. “How can man, being happy, still keep his happy hour?” The pageant of dawn and river and mountain faded as the sun rose higher; dim outlines became hard and sharp; the Iron Gate, surmounted by eddying wisps of mist, looked like a giant cauldron. The pass broadened with our westward progress revealing the plain of Southern Hungary, low hills replaced the mountains on the Servian bank. A bell rang as we stopped at a small river port, it announced breakfast and reminded us, incidentally, that stuffy smells are inseparable from human activities, even on the Danube, and within sight of the blue mountains of Transylvania.

More books from Library of Alexandria

Cover of the book Nomads of The North A Story of Romance and Adventure under The Open Stars by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book A Quarter-Back's Pluck: A Story of College Football by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book Isis Unveiled by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book History of the War Between Mexico and the United States With a Preliminary View of Its Origin, Volume 1 by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book The Dawn of the XIXth Century in England: A Social Sketch of the Times by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book The Standard Bearer by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book A Journey in Southeastern Mexico by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book Damaged Goods; The Great Play "Les Avaries" by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book Practical Forestry in The Pacific Northwest: Protecting Existing Forests and Growing New Ones, From The Standpoint of The Public and That of The Lumberman, With an Outline of Technical Methods by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book When the King Loses His Head and Other Stories by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book Wolves of the Sea: Being a Tale of the Colonies from the Manuscript of One Geoffry Carlyle, Seaman, Narrating Certain Strange Adventures Which Befell Him Aboard the Pirate Craft "Namur" by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book The Charm of Scandinavia by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book A Plain Introduction to the Criticism of the New Testament (Complete) by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book Farthest North: Being the Record of a Voyage of Exploration of the Ship “Fram” 189396 and of a Fifteen Months’ Sleigh Journey by Dr. Nansen and Lieut. Johansen (Complete) by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
Cover of the book Campmates: A Story of the Plains by Christopher Birdwood Thomson
We use our own "cookies" and third party cookies to improve services and to see statistical information. By using this website, you agree to our Privacy Policy