Crowns in Conflict

by Theo Aronson

  To understand this, one needed to understand the composition of Franz Joseph's extraordinary realm.

  Above the gateway into the Hofburg was carved the proud motto: To Austria is the whole world subject. Although things had changed a great deal since the Habsburgs had ruled the vast Holy Roman Empire, they still held sway over fifty million people of different nationalities – Germans, Magyars, Czechs, Slovaks, Croats, Serbs, Slovenes, Italians, Romanians and Poles – artificially bound together by the accidents of history and the authority of the Habsburg dynasty. With the Habsburg lands stretching from the waters of the Adriatic in the south to the forests of Poland in the north, and from the Alps in the west to within two hundred miles of the Black Sea in the east, there was no such thing as a single Austrian nation. An earlier Habsburg emperor, on being assured that one of his subjects was an outstanding patriot, had very sensibly asked, 'But is he a patriot for me?'

  The two dominant groups within this racial mélange were the Austrian Germans and the Hungarian Magyars. Since 1867 the empire had been divided into two semi-autonomous states of Austria and Hungary, linked by the person of a common ruler – the Emperor Franz Joseph. The arrangement did precious little towards solving the problems of this ramshackle structure: it remained a hotch-potch of inter-racial friction, unsatisfied political aspirations and strident nationalisms.

  And this fragile edifice rested in the hands of a monarch who, despite his dignity, courtesy, authority and unquestioning sense of duty, was lacking in any of the qualities necessary to meet the challenges of his times.

  Like his brother sovereigns, the emperors of Germany and Russia, Franz Joseph was an autocrat thinly disguised as a constitutional monarch. Obsessed with the preservation of his dynasty, he had, throughout his long reign, felt obliged to grant various political concessions: a little more autonomy here, a relaxation of an ordinance there, an extension of the suffrage somewhere else. But, in the final analysis, the empire was run by the Emperor and his vast army of bureaucrats. The Reichsrat, the Austrian parliament, for all the bombast of its speeches and the vigour of its resolutions, was virtually powerless. If the Reichsrat refused to pass a law, the Emperor would pass it by an 'emergency decree' instead. The members of the various parties were usually too busy bickering among themselves to present a serious challenge to the Emperor's powers.

  What Franz Joseph exercised was 'absolute authority within a legal structure of constitutionalism'. His rule might have been described as 'latent absolutism' but it was absolutism none the less.

  Yet it was never repressive in the way that the Tsarist regime in Russia was repressive. The Habsburg monarchy was not tyrannical or brutal: it was merely muddled, inefficient and ineffective. Far from being a tyrant, Franz Joseph was a glorified civil servant. It was, as A.J.P. Taylor has put it, 'a perpetual puzzle to him that he could not make his Empire work merely by sitting at his desk and signing documents for eight hours a day'. And, as he aged, so did effective power pass into the hands of those who drew up the documents: the sometimes well-meaning, sometimes corrupt but invariably irresponsible bureaucrats who governed the empire in his name.

  In addition to the customary challenges of liberalism and socialism, the Emperor had to deal with the problems created by the multi-racial or multi-national nature of his empire. By a process of divide and rule, of playing off one group against another, by making concessions to more important nationalities at the expense of the less important ones, by allowing the Germans and the Magyars to dominate the Czechs, Slovaks, Croats and Serbs, he had hitherto managed to hold his patchwork domain together. He was astute enough to appreciate that the minority races would rather be dominated by him than by some larger minority race.

  Yet the Emperor had never managed to create any sense of national unity, no feeling of loyalty towards the empire itself. By now the ageing Franz Joseph's empire had become hardly more than 'a fabric held up by a scaffolding of officialdom and by a precarious equipoise of national animosities'.2

  Heir to this crumbling edifice, now that Franz Joseph's only son had committed suicide, was the old Emperor's nephew, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Forty-five years old in 1910, Franz Ferdinand was a corpulent, unsmiling, steely-eyed man with a pair of swooping, antler-like moustaches. Like his uncle, the Emperor, he was seldom seen out of uniform. Unlike his uncle, though, he had very little personal appeal. Humourless, impatient, energetic, given to black depressions and violent rages, he seemed more like a hard-headed Prussian than a light-hearted Viennese.

  Yet this apparently unromantic man had made one supremely romantic gesture: he had married, most unsuitably, for love. His bride had been Countess Sophie Chotek, lady-in-waiting to his cousin, the Archduchess Isabella. In spite of all the Countess's advantages – her noble birth, her distinguished looks, her dignified manner, her agreeable nature – she lacked the one thing that counted in the Habsburg dynasty: royal blood. Only after protracted discussions would the old Emperor give his consent to their marriage. And then only on the condition that it was morganatic.

  At a solemn meeting of the court and the privy council in the Hofburg on 28 June 1900, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand had been obliged to renounce all rights of rank and succession for his future children. His wife could never be his Empress; his children could never be regarded as members of the Imperial House; his eldest son could never inherit the throne.

  Nor did the humiliations end there. Franz Ferdinand's morganatic wife, to whom the Emperor later accorded the title of Duchess of Hohenberg, was made to feel her inferior status in countless ways. Where, at court, both sides of the double doors would be flung open for even the least of the archduchesses, only one side was opened for her. She could sit neither in a royal carriage nor in the royal box at the opera. In fact, the couple would not be seen together in public in Vienna at all, not even on informal occasions. When Franz Ferdinand gave an official banquet for the German Crown Prince at his Belvedere Palace, his wife could not act as hostess. When he left her alone at the Belvedere, even for one night, the sentries would be withdrawn.

  But beyond the empire, among Europe's less hidebound monarchs, the Duchess of Hohenberg was gradually being accorded recognition. Kaiser Wilhelm II, in his unpredictable way, had always been well-diposed towards Franz Ferdinand's wife. Regarding the Archduke as something of a soul mate, Wilhelm was on very friendly terms with the couple. He often visited them at their estate, Konopischt, where he shared Franz Ferdinand's two passions: the cultivation of roses and the slaughter of game. In 1909 the Archduke and his wife paid a state visit to Berlin where, much to their gratification, they were afforded full honours by the Kaiser. The question of precedence was neatly solved, at a state banquet at the Neues Palais, by seating all the guests at small tables, with the two royal couples at a table of their own.

  The Kaiser's championship of the Archduke's wife had led directly to a measure of political accord between the two men. Working with an eye to the future, when Franz Ferdinand would be emperor, Wilhelm had set out to cultivate the younger man. Although the Kaiser's effusive, braggardly style would, in the ordinary way, have aroused his distrust, Franz Ferdinand was gratified by Wilhelm's attentiveness. The two of them needed each other. Wilhelm hoped, through their friendship, to strengthen the Austro-German alliance and to check future Austrian adventures in the Balkans. Franz Ferdinand was flattered by the prospect of one day standing as a friend and equal beside this powerful ruler.

  An even more gratifying mark of recognition of the Archduke's wife came when the couple were received – privately but with Sophie being accorded proper status – by George V and Queen Mary at Windsor in November 1913. Although much of the time was spent shooting in atrocious weather, the couple made an excellent impression.

  But it would need more than royal acceptance abroad to ensure a similar acceptance at home. The gulf between the Hofburg and the Belvedere remained as wide as ever. Neither personally nor politically did the Emperor Franz Joseph and the Archduke Franz Fe
rdinand see eye-to-eye.

  This is not to say that Franz Ferdinand was some enlightened spirit setting himself up in opposition to his reactionary uncle. It was just that he considered the Emperor's rule to be too lax, too hesitant, too compromising. Far better informed than Franz Joseph about the affairs of the empire, Franz Ferdinand appreciated that something would have to be done if it were not to disintegrate entirely. What he favoured was more firmness. This firmness would be employed, not to stifle political life, but to reorganise it. He was particularly anxious to coerce the Hungarians, whom he hated, into adopting less feudalistic attitudes.

  He realised, though, that something more than iron discipline was necessary to accommodate the clamorous nationalisms within the empire. At one stage Franz Ferdinand favoured 'Trialism', whereby the Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary would be converted into a union of three national states, the third being the restored Slav kingdom of Croatia. Later, he toyed with the idea of a federal solution, a sort of United States of Austria.

  How seriously Franz Ferdinand had thought any of this through is uncertain; and, by this time, largely immaterial. For if the rotting carcase of the Habsburg Empire were not soon to be destroyed from within, it would almost certainly be destroyed from without.

  The deepest thorn in Franz Joseph's side was the kingdom of Serbia. This wild and mountainous country, jutting into the southern borders of the Austro-Hungarian empire, had won its independence from Turkey in 1878. Since then, it had established itself as the most dynamic state in the Balkans. Fired with a poetic yearning to unite, not only all Serbs scattered throughout the Balkans into one greater Serbia, but all South Slav (Yugo Slav) peoples in a triumphant movement of national unification, little Serbia was becoming yearly more militant.

  In this, she was being encouraged by Russia. Serbia's 'Slavonic Mission' accorded very well with Russia's no less fervent Pan-Slavism – that half-mystical, half-chauvinistic conviction of the superiority of the Slav peoples and of the Russian Orthodox Church. It was a conviction shared by Tsar Nicholas II.

  It was most certainly not shared by his Catholic and Apostolic Majesty, the Emperor Franz Joseph. As most of the Serbs and other Slavs, whom Serbia was so anxious to unite, were his subjects, the Habsburg Emperor was determined to thwart Serbian ambitions. Already, by his annexation in 1908 of the largely Serb-populated provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Franz Joseph had given his upstart neighbour a slap in the face. Serbia's determination to avenge this insult by declaring war on Austria had come to nothing. Without Russia's support, Serbia could not act. And Russia, backing down in the face of a stark German warning not to interfere, was unable to come to Serbia's aid. So Serbia was obliged to swallow her humiliation. And to bide her time.

  But, in Franz Joseph's rheumy eyes, Serbia was more than just a troublesome neighbour. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand might dismiss it as a country of 'rascals, fools and prune trees' and the Emperor himself might regard the Serbs as little more than brigands, but there is no doubt that Franz Joseph considered them to be a real threat to Habsburg power. Twice, in the course of his long reign, had he seen his dynasty humbled by nationalist movements. In 1859 Italian unification, spearheaded by Victor Emmanuel II's Piedmont, had cost him his Italian possessions. In 1866 German unification, led by Wilhelm I's Prussia, had put paid to his ascendancy in Germany. He was determined that it would not happen a third time. Serbia's ambition, to unite all South Slavs at Austrian expense, must be checked before it was too late.

  In his stand, the old Emperor was being backed up by his powerful ally, Wilhelm II. Both in public speeches and in private correspondence, Wilhelm II assured Franz Joseph of German support against Serbia and, through Serbia, against Russia. In a letter to the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the Kaiser was equally adamant. 'I hold myself prepared for everything that God may ordain,' wrote Wilhelm. 'I keep my powder dry and I am on my guard. You know that you may count on us.'

  It was left to the British ambassador in Vienna to strike a less histrionic, more realistic note. 'Serbia', wrote Sir Arthur Nicolson at this time, 'will one day set Europe by the ears, and bring about a universal war on the Continent. '

  Part Two

  THE BALKAN POWDER KEG

  8

  League of the Balkan Kings

  IN THE WINTER of 1912-13, a frisson of fear passed through the ranks of Europe's leading monarchs. Their Balkan colleagues, whom these more sophisticated sovereigns considered only just worthy of their kingly titles, suddenly plunged their countries into a war against Turkey. With the Balkans always in a dangerously inflammable state, there was no knowing where such a conflict might lead. It needed only 'some damned foolish thing in the Balkans', as Bismarck had once warned, to set Europe ablaze. Would this ganging-up of the Balkan kings against the Turkish sultan be that damned foolish thing?

  If these Balkan rulers were only just kings, their kingdoms were only just countries. Almost a century before, Count Metternich had said, with pardonable exaggeration, that the East began at the Landstrasse. But even in his day the East – in the form of the Ottoman empire – had receded a good way from the outskirts of Vienna. Since then, it had receded even further. One by one, during the course of the nineteenth century, the various Balkan countries had won their independence, or semi-independence, from the Turks; by the early years of the twentieth century, all that remained of the European possessions of the once-mighty Ottoman empire "was the area around Constantinople and, beyond it, the central Balkan territory known as Macedonia. How much longer the 'Sick Man of Europe' could remain alive was an open question.

  Five independent Balkan states had emerged, or re-emerged, from this gradual shrinking of the Ottoman empire. They were Greece, Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia and Montenegro. And, as each country won its independence, so did monarchical Europe ensure that a sovereign was provided to rule over it. Greece, Romania and Bulgaria were given scions of reigning European houses; Serbia and Montenegro provided their own home-grown rulers.

  Different from each other in many ways – and no two men could have been less alike than the rough-hewn Nicholas of Montenegro and the effete Ferdinand of Bulgaria – these Balkan rulers had certain things in common. All reigned over simple, turbulent, largely peasant populations. All, whatever their own religions, had to respect the Orthodoxy of their subjects. All needed to be strong, astute and infinitely patient men in order to work with the faction-forming politicians who made up their parliaments. All had to overcome that lethargy and corruption which, no less than the domes, minarets and latticed balconies of their towns and villages, was a legacy of many centuries of Turkish domination.

  Paternalistic rather than autocratic, these Balkan kings exercised considerable personal power. They kept foreign affairs and defence firmly in their own hands and it is doubtful that there would have been much economic growth – whether roads, railways, hospitals, factories or schools would have been built – had it not been for the unstinting efforts and international contacts of their sovereigns. Almost single-handed, they had been obliged to drag their backward states into the twentieth century. Whatever their individual failings might have been, these Balkan kings were all energetic, conscientious men, dedicated to the advancement of their countries and the welfare of their subjects.

  They were also dedicated to the aggrandisement of their kingdoms. With the exception of the Greeks and the largely Latin population of Romania, the Balkan peoples were Slavs. But as these Slavs were made up of different nationalities – Serbs, Montenegrins, Bulgarians and others – there were various movements aimed at uniting each national grouping. This meant that each monarch had his eye on those of his nationals living in his neighbour's kingdom: the King of Serbia on the Serbs living in Bulgaria and Bosnia, the Tsar of Bulgaria on the Bulgarians living in Thrace and Macedonia, the King of Romania on the Romanians living in Bulgaria and Transylvania.

  Every state had its 'unredeemed' territory, its national expansionist dream. In Greece it was the 'Great Idea', in Romania
'Romania Mare', in Serbia the 'Serbian Dream', in Bulgaria 'Greater Bulgaria'. The result was that these kingdoms were always at odds with each other. It also explained why they proved such fertile ground for Russian and Austro-Hungarian ambitions.

  There was, though, one territory on which these bickering monarchs could lay claim without treading on each other's toes (not initially, at any rate) and this was the last sizeable Turkish outpost in Europe – Macedonia. Fringed by the Balkan states of Greece, Montenegro, Serbia and Bulgaria, Macedonia had a predominantly Slav population, a mixture of national minorities of all its neighbours. Indeed, its very name inspired the French culinary term – macédoine. As such, and because its Turkish masters ruled it with great harshness, Macedonia was in an almost continuous state of ferment. It was a ferment which its Balkan neighbours were only too happy to encourage: a break-up of Macedonia would mean an enlargement of their own countries.

  It was this prospect of rich territorial pickings, allied to a genuine concern about Turkish misrule, that in 1912 achieved the near-impossible: an alliance of four Balkan monarchs – King Peter of Serbia, King Nicholas of Montenegro, King George of the Hellenes and Tsar Ferdinand of Bulgaria. By the winter of 1911–12 secret talks had opened between the four states.

  In February 1912 the coming-of-age of Prince Boris, heir to the Bulgarian throne, provided his father, the flamboyant Tsar Ferdinand, with an excellent opportunity for demonstrating this new Balkan accord. Ferdinand staged a three-day-long series of festivities in his capital, Sofia, to which the heirs apparent of Romania, Serbia, Greece and Montenegro were invited. Also present were the royal representatives of the Tsar of Russia, the Emperor of Austria–Hungary and the German Kaiser. Highlight of this royal jamboree was a Te Deum in the Cathedral of St Alexander Nevski, recently built in the neo-Byzantine style so dear to the hearts of Balkan royalty. According to the Orthodox ritual and among the multi-coloured mosaics and twinkling icons, this next generation of Balkan rulers gave thanks.