Crowns in Conflict

by Theo Aronson

  Although Constantine, Sophie and their six children, born between 1890 and 1913, lived a charmingly simple life in their palace in Athens or in their country place at Tatoi, they remained very much part of that royal clan. But gratifying as such grand and influential connections were in peacetime, they were to prove, in the years ahead, to be little short of disastrous.

  King Constantine had hardly had time to swear allegiance to the constitution before the Second Balkan War broke out. This time, instead of attacking the Turks, the erstwhile allies turned on each other. An offer by Tsar Nicholas II to arbitrate between King Peter of Serbia and Tsar Ferdinand of Bulgaria on the basis of the pre-war treaty was politely but firmly rejected by the Serbian King. The Serbs had no intention of handing over their recently acquired Macedonian spoils to Bulgaria, whatever their pre-war arrangements might have been. So there remained little for Ferdinand to do other than to launch an attack on the Serbian forces in Macedonia. By the beginning of July 1913, the Second Balkan War was under way.

  This time King Peter of Serbia was allied, not only to the kings of Greece and Montenegro, but to King Carol of Romania. Deciding that he might as well get what he could out of the fracas, King Carol ordered his troops to attack Bulgaria from the north. Ringed by enemies, the Bulgarians were soundly beaten. By the terms of a second peace treaty, signed in August 1913, Ferdinand was obliged to sit helplessly by while vast tracts of territory were doled out to Serbia, Greece, Romania and even Turkey.

  Tsar Ferdinand's humiliation was complete. Not only had he seen his dream of Byzantium dissolve but almost all his plans for a Greater Bulgaria had been frustrated. Nevertheless, the steely resilience which lay at the heart of that apparently effete personality did not fail him, not even in this moment of black despair.

  'My hour will come,' declared Ferdinand to young King Alfonso XIII of Spain. 'I shall have my revenge; I shall set fire to the four corners of Europe!'3

  King Constantine emerged from the Second Balkan War with an even greater reputation. By the terms of the Treaty of Bucharest, Greece now controlled all southern Macedonia, Thrace and the Epirus, the Aegean Archipelago and Crete. The size of the country had more than doubled. It was undoubtedly a moment of national glory.

  On 5 August 1913, the triumphant King returned to Athens from the front. Under a blazing summer sun, the battle cruiser Averoff, escorted by the entire Greek fleet, dropped anchor in Phaleron Bay. Dressed in plain service khaki and wearing no decorations, Constantine disembarked, to be met by Queen Sophie. Together, in an open landau, the couple drove through the hysterically cheering crowds towards the capital.

  At Hadrian's Arch, where a special stand had been erected for disabled war veterans, Constantine suddenly ordered his coachman to stop. Alighting from the carriage, he walked over to the stand and solemnly saluted the wounded men. In a completely spontaneous gesture, one crippled soldier picked up a laurel branch from the ground and, hobbling over to the King, handed it to him. In silence, Constantine carried it back to the landau.

  In some ways, the little incident symbolised the almost mystical relationship which had developed between the Soldier-King and his men. The troops were devoted to this unaffected giant who had led them to such magnificent victories and had won for them such widespread territory. To them, he was now known as the 'Son of the Eagle'. This close communion between Constantine and his soldiers was to influence much of his thinking in the months ahead and, in the end, lead to an agonising personal and political dilemma.

  But no such foreboding clouded this brilliant homecoming. As the King and Queen drove through the roaring crowds – he so tall and soldierly and she so erect and proud – it was not difficult to believe that an old prophecy was being fulfilled. Throughout the centuries of Turkish domination, the flame of Hellenism had been kept flickering by the legend that Byzantium would rise again when another Constantine and Sophie sat upon the Greek throne. This new Constantine would reconquer Constantinople and make it the capital of a great Hellenic empire. It was, in short, the Greek version of the dream that obsessed so many Balkan monarchs.

  Before leaving the front, the King had given each soldier who had served under him a photograph of himself. It showed him in plain khaki uniform and dusty boots, smoking a cigarette. Each picture carried the hand-writteninscription: 'To my gallant fellow soldiers of two glorious wars.' It was signed CONSTANTINE B. (B, standing for King, always followed the royal name.) Yet, to many of its enraptured recipients, this scrawled B looked more like IB, which in Greek numerals stood for XII. The last Emperor of Byzantium had been Constantine XI; had the new King, inadvertently or intentionally, signed himself Constantine XII? Was he destined to lead his people back to Constantinople and there, under the great dome of Saint Sophia, to wear again the imperial crown of Byzantium?

  Not long after his return to Athens, Constantine set off on a tour of various European capitals. The journey, traditional for most monarchs, both confirmed his accession and allowed him to visit his many relations. In Berlin he was entertained by his brother-in-law, Wilhelm II, at a state banquet. In his characteristically fulsome way – for he dearly loved the idea of a warrior-king – the Kaiser paid tribute to Constantine's military prowess and then, quite unexpectedly, presented him with a field marshal's baton. Taken by surprise, Constantine blurted out an impromptu speech of thanks in which he made mention of the fact that he had received his military training in Germany.

  The Kaiser, in drawing up a draft of the Greek King's reply for publication, slightly altered the emphasis. Out of politeness, Constantine made no objection.

  The subsequent publication of the speech, together with a photograph of Constantine in his German field marshal's uniform complete with spiked helmet, caused a furore, especially in Germany's most implacable enemy, France. Constantine was astounded. When chided by his secretary for having agreed to the Kaiser's slanted version, the King's answer was typically artless.

  'How was I supposed to know that the thing would be telegraphed all over Europe?' he protested.

  He could, with more justification, have pointed out that his cousin, George V, was also a German field marshal, and that the Kaiser was a British field marshal.

  But the harm had been done. From now on it was firmly believed, by the Entente powers, that the Greek King was pro-German.

  No sovereign, not even King Constantine of the Hellenes, won more acclaim in the Balkan wars than old King Peter of Serbia. Although he, and King Nicholas of Montenegro, had been too old to play an active part in the fighting, King Peter had presided over a glorious chapter in his country's history. Not only had his kingdom doubled in size but it had increased, enormously, in self-confidence. In a matter of months, the dream of Greater Serbia was being realised.

  That Serbia's next target would be the deliverance of the Serbs living in the Austro-Hungarian empire there was very little doubt. 'The first round is won,' crowed the Serbian prime minister, 'now we must prepare for the second round, against Austria.'4

  Of this, Austria was very well aware. As the Serbs hailed their aged King in his moment of glory, the even older Franz Joseph was thinking in terms of snuffing out that glory. Yet the Emperor realised that any attempt to crush Serbia would be regarded as a move against Serbia's powerful protector, Russia.

  For by this stage Russia was deeply involved in Serbian affairs. The country had become a key factor in Nicholas II's anti-Austrian policy. King Peter, as a democrat and an ascetic, might have disapproved of the absolutism and extravagance of the Romanovs but he realised that his country would have to accept the help and protection of Russia. When his son, the austere Crown Prince Alexander, travelled to St Petersburg to thank the Tsar for his support of the Serb cause during the recent Balkan wars, Nicholas II replied that he had simply been doing his 'Slav duty'.

  By now the Russian minister in Belgrade was busily encouraging Serbian expansionist ambitions, both officially through King Peter and his government and through clandestine support of va
rious patriotic organisations. Chief of these Russian-backed secret societies was the Black Hand. With its cells, its sinister initiation ceremony, its oath of allegiance and its preference for 'terrorist action' rather than 'intellectual propaganda', the Black Hand attracted the support of a variety of extremists. At one time even Crown Prince Alexander gave it his support.

  But the average member of the Black Hand was a far less temperate, far more explosive type than the Crown Prince. That sooner or later one of these hot-headed young patriots would commit some violent act in the sacred cause of a Greater Serbia was only to be expected.

  From out of the imbroglio of the Balkan wars came an opportunity for the Russian Tsar, Nicholas II, to form yet another friendship: this time with King Carol of Romania.

  On the face of it, it seemed an unlikely partnership. The iron-willed King Carol, who had ruled Romania since it had been created in 1866, had been born a prince of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, a Catholic branch of the Prussian ruling dynasty. And since 1883, Romania had been tied, by secret treaty, to the Triple Alliance of Germany, Austria–Hungary and Italy. The Romanians, moreover, were not Slavs but Latins. By a trick of history, Latin culture and language had survived in the mountains of Transylvania long after the Roman Empire had fallen. The very name, Romania, harked back to the days when the country had been part of Roman civilisation. So the Romanians felt no affinity with the Russian Slavs.

  On the other hand, King Carol's sympathies for his native Germany and his high regard for the old Emperor Franz Joseph were not shared by the majority of his subjects. In fact, they regarded the Austro-Hungarian Empire as their enemy. The chief reason for this was that many Romanians still lived under Austro-Hungarian rule. Indeed, the heart of ancient Romania lay in Hungarian-occupied Transylvania. And, no less than all the Balkan states, did Romania have a national dream of uniting all Romanians in one state: Romania Mare.

  With precious little chance of this dream being realised by peaceful means, certain Romanian politicians began to think in terms of a closer understanding with Austria–Hungary's great enemy – Russia. By 1913 relations, which had never been particularly good between Russia and Romania, suddenly improved. The Russians, appreciating that Romania's friendship would be very useful in some future war against Austria–Hungary, began paying her court. Perhaps Romania could be persuaded to leave the Triple Alliance and join the Entente powers – Russia, France and Britain?

  Although there seemed little likelihood of the ageing King Carol forsaking Germany and Austria–Hungary, the chances of his heir being encouraged to do so were rather more promising. In time, the childless Carol would be succeeded by his nephew, Crown Prince Ferdinand. And if the Crown Prince was a somewhat ineffectual personality, his wife, Crown Princess Marie, was an altogether more assertive type. Beautiful, theatrical and self-regarding, Marie of Romania was a woman of considerable intelligence. Like those other consorts – Queen Elisabeth of the Belgians, the Tsaritsa Alexandra of Russia and Queen Sophie of the Hellenes – she was destined to make her mark in the coming conflict.

  As her father had been Queen Victoria's second son, Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, and her mother the only daughter of Tsar Alexander II, Crown Princess Marie was first cousin to George V, Wilhelm II and Nicholas II. A woman of passionate feelings and outspoken loyalties, Marie made no secret of her pro-British and pro-Russian sympathies. The Austrian ambassador in Bucharest had recently warned his government that Crown Princess Marie's 'character and mentality is one of the most important reasons for putting relations with Romania on quite another basis'.5 In other words, once Marie had become Queen, Austria would not always be able to take Romanian friendship for granted.

  This, Russia appreciated. And what better way of encouraging Crown Princess Marie's pro-Russian sympathies than by that classic diplomatic manoeuvre: a royal marriage? With a royal alliance still being regarded as a significant instrument of foreign policy, the Russian foreign ministry began to think in terms of a match between the eighteen-year-old Grand Duchess Olga, eldest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II, and the twenty-two-year-old Prince Carol, eldest son of Crown Prince Ferdinand and, more important, Crown Princess Marie of Romania. What better way of bringing Romania into the Entente camp than by a marriage between the Tsar's daughter and Romania's future king?

  Although flattered by the proposal, Crown Princess Marie was not very well disposed towards the idea. Her reasons were personal rather than political. She was afraid that Olga, like her mother, might be a transmitter of haemophilia. She did not want the dreaded disease carried into the Romanian royal family. Nevertheless, not wanting to dismiss the idea entirely, the Crown Prince and Princess, with their son Carol in tow, accepted an invitation to visit the Tsar in the spring of 1914.

  The visit was not a great success. 'The outward pomp and show of power was still there, glittering palaces, guards-regiments, wild-looking Cossacks on constant patrol,' wrote Marie of Tsarskoe Selo. 'But all this ended at the front door, and stepping over the threshold you entered suddenly into a quiet family life, uniform, exclusive and rather dull. '

  First cousins as both the Tsar and the Tsaritsa were to Marie, she could not get close to them. Nicholas II, for all his habitual charm and courtesy, seemed to be living, she says, 'in a sort of imperial mist'. Alexandra she found as reserved, inarticulate and awkward as ever. 'She managed to put an insuperable distance between her world and yours, her experiences and yours, her thoughts, her opinions, her principles, rights and privileges. She made you, in fact, feel an intruding outsider, which is of all sensations the most chilling and uncomfortable.'

  And as for Prince Carol and Grand Duchess Olga, neither showed the slightest desire to become better acquainted.

  'Much had changed in Russia,' concluded Marie, 'and a feeling of dissatisfaction lay over all things. Tsarskoe Selo seemed to sleep, but beneath that sleep lay something uncanny which we sensed without being able to explain it.'

  To her, Tsarskoe Selo seemed 'that mysterious centre where somewhere in the shade Rasputin held his fatal sway'.

  The visit was returned that summer. The Russian imperial family paid a formal, day-long visit to the Romanian Black Sea port of Constanza. They were met on the sunlit, gaily beflagged pier by King Carol, his Queen, the Crown Prince and Princess and their children. For the old King it was a significant day. No monarch had paid him a state visit since the Emperor Franz Joseph had come eighteen years before. To many of his subjects, the occasion seemed to accentuate the growing rapport between Russia and Romania.

  While the ministers of their respective countries held talks, the two royal families carried out the customary engagements: a Te Deum in the cathedral, a drive through the town, a military parade, an official luncheon, a state banquet. It was all judged a brilliant success. Even Alexandra made 'brave efforts to be as gracious as possible'.

  But whatever else the imperial visit might have achieved (an alliance was to be concluded two years later) it brought the proposed marriage between Prince Carol and Grand Duchess Olga no nearer. The couple were simply not interested in each other. 'I don't want it to happen,' the young Grand Duchess had told her tutor, Pierre Gilliard, on board the imperial yacht that morning. 'Papa has promised not to make me, and I don't want to leave Russia. I am a Russian and I mean to remain a Russian.'

  By this decision, Olga turned her back on the one certain way that could have saved her from her fate in that cellar in Ekaterinburg.

  That evening the imperial family sailed back to Russia. Crown Princess Marie, who was never to see any of them again, ran along the pier to watch the departing ships. 'It was a gorgeous night,' she wrote in her inimitable fashion, 'the heavens a mighty map of stars. For a long time I stood there at the very end of the pier; the ships were now mere specks of light. A lump rose in my throat; the great day was ended, had slipped over into Eternity like so much else . . . '

  10

  Regicide

  ON SUNDAY, 28 June 1914, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir
to the Habsburg throne, with his morganatic wife Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg, drove into Sarajevo.

  Like two pouter pigeons, the couple sat side by side in their open car as it was driven through the beflagged and sunlit streets of the little Balkan capital. Tightly buttoned into his field marshal's uniform and with a fountain of green peacock feathers sprouting from his peaked hat, Franz Ferdinand was looking uncharacteristically benign. Beside him, in her lavish hat and lace dress, Sophie was her usual, dignified self. Both appeared highly gratified by the warmth of their reception.

  Why, in spite of repeated warnings that it would be dangerous for the heir to visit the capital of Bosnia, did Franz Ferdinand insist on carrying out his engagement? After all, as recently appointed Inspector-General of the Austro-Hungarian armed forces, Franz Ferdinand had come to Bosnia to attend military manoeuvres close to the Serbian border: surely this was a highly provocative act? And was this official visit to Sarajevo not equally provocative? Franz Ferdinand knew that Bosnia and its capital were aflame with Slav nationalism and terrorism.

  In the decades since the assassinations at Sarajevo, many reasons have been propounded for Franz Ferdinand's apparent pigheadedness. It has been claimed that his visit was designed as a shot in the eye for upstart Serbia; that it would serve as a warning that the Habsburg empire would tolerate no trouble, neither from the Serbs beyond its borders nor from the Slav secessionists within. Even the date chosen for the visit was said to be significant. June 28 – or June 15 by the Serbian Orthodox calendar – was Vidov-Dan, a Serbian anniversary commemorating the fourteenth-century defeat of Serbia by the Turks and therefore an especially emotional day for Serb nationalists.