As ordered, so done. Berchtold had successfully achieved the end of Act I.
Act II opened well, or so it seemed. Abruptly, out of the blue of yet another lovely day, the Austrian Ambassador Baron von Giesl placed a telephone call "of utmost urgency" to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Belgrade. It was 4:30 P.M. on July 23, and the Ambassador said that he must deliver "an extremely important communication" to the Prime Minister-who was also the Foreign Minister-that very afternoon at 6 P.M.
Prime Minister Panic was not even in town. He had no reason to stay close to his office. True, at the beginning of the month, Serbian diplomats abroad had reported rumors that something "strong" might be brewing in Vienna. Yet week followed week after Sarajevo, and nothing "strong" materialized. Serbia began to turn to internal matters. An electoral campaign engrossed the country in mid-July. Panic left the capital for a political tour, speaking against Apis's extremist party. It was at this point that the Austrian ambassador placed his peremptory call.
Since the Prime Minister was away on the hustings in the Southern provinces, the Finance Minister substituted for him. The Finance Minister received that astounding note from the ambassador at 6 P.M. of July 23. It did not reach Pasic until 8 P.M. that night, when he heard over the telephone details of the suddenness, the severity, the smooth murderousness of Vienna's demands. He had less than forty-eight hours to answer them.
Panic cancelled all further election speeches. He returned to Belgrade at five o'clock the next morning and immediately called a cabinet meeting. Sessions continued throughout the day, through most of the night that followed, and through most of the day after.
Shortly after 6 P.M. of Saturday July 25, a tall rotund man with a seignorial white beard and a black formal frock coat hurried on foot from the Foreign Ministry to the Austrian Embassy a few blocks off. It was Prime Minister Pasic, holding in his hand an envelope with his government's reply.
When he was admitted to the Ambassador's office it was 6:15 P.M., a quarter of an hour after the deadline set by Vienna. Therefore Ambassador von Giesl did not ask the Prime Minister to sit down. He himself read the note standing. It was a messy document, revised and re-typed many times, after frenzied debates and febrile consultations with the Russian and French embassies. The final version in Baron von Giesl's hands had an inked-out passage and a number of corrections made by pen. That did not interest the Austrian ambassador, nor did the reply's conciliatory and mournful prose, nor did its acceptance of all points of the demarche except those demanding the participation of Austrian police in pursuit of Serbian subjects on Serbian soil. Such requests, the note said, Belgrade "must reject, being a violation of the Serbian constitution and of the law of criminal procedure."
It was this rejection that mattered to the Ambassador. It was the necessary next event in Austria's scenario. The Ambassador had counted on it. He had anticipated it. That was why he stood before the Serbian Prime Minister in his trav eling clothes. That was why his code-book had already gone up the chimney, why his secret papers had been shredded, his luggage packed, and his motor-car readied at the front door. That was why he only needed to sign a statement prepared in advance: It said that "due to the unsatisfactory nature" of the Serbian response, the Austro-Hungarian Empire saw itself forced to break off relations with the Kingdom of Serbia.
At 6:20 P.M. a messenger took the statement from Baron von Giesl's desk for delivery to the Serbian Prime Minister's office. As the messenger left, Giesl repeated the statement orally to the Prime Minister who still stood before him. Then the Austrian ambassador bowed, wished the Prime Minister good day, walked to his car. At half past six he boarded a train that crossed the Austrian frontier ten minutes later.
33
THAT SAME EVENING OF JULY 25, THE AUSTRIAN FOREIGN MINISTER Count von Berchtold sat in the Ischl office of Emperor Franz Joseph's military aide-de-camp. They were waiting for a call from the War Ministry in Vienna, which in turn waited for a telephone call from the Embassy in Belgrade. When the clock struck 6:30 P.M., the Foreign Minister, white-faced, said he had to leave, he must get some fresh air. Two minutes after he had gone, the telephone rang with the staccato news. Serbia rejects essential demand. The aide ran to have himself announced at the Emperor's villa.
Franz Joseph received his message (as the aide would remember) "hollow-eyed" and "hoarse of voice." "Also dock…" he said. ("So, after all…"). Then, after a long silence, he added, "But the rupture of relations needn't necessarily mean war!.
What sudden change. Barely two days earlier, in the same idyllic Alpine setting, with the same beneficent weather, the same Emperor and the same Foreign Minister had looked forward to just this news: Serbia's rejection of the demarche, which now justified its military punishment. Why, then, was the Emperor shaken? Why the Foreign Minister's ashen cheeks?
Because the play had begun to fail.
In Belgrade Berchtold's libretto had proceeded on cue, but elsewhere the second act was suddenly unravelling. The trouble began with Austria's chief supporting actor, namely Germany.
On the surface nothing seemed wrong. Vienna had sent the text of the "jewel" demarche to Berlin on July 22. Within a day the Austrian ambassador cabled from the German capital that the Kaiser's Foreign Minister "thanks for the communication and assures me that the government here is entirely in agreement with the contents of the demarche."
Actually the Wilhelmstrasse was only imitating the attitude struck by its overlord, the absentee Kaiser (still away on his cruise) before he had boarded his yacht. Aping their master, German ministers stepped before the footlights to stiffen their upper lips at Europe: On July 27, Berlin officially and publicly advised its ally not to accept an offer of mediation from Britain.
But Berlin performed only the external mechanics of the Austrian script, as Vienna was soon to know. Internally things were rather different. A cable sent by the German Foreign Ministry to its principal diplomats abroad said". we have had no influence of any kind on the wording of Austria's note to Serbia, and no more opportunity than other powers to take sides in any way before its publication…" The tart implication here was made plain to the Austrian ambassador by the German Foreign Minister von Jagow shortly after he had read Vienna's demarche. "I at once gave my opinion to His Excellency [Jagow's memoirs would state] that the contents of the Austrian note to Serbia seemed pretty stiff and going beyond its purpose… I expressed my pained surprise… that the decisions of the Austrian government had been communicated to us so tardily that we were deprived of the possibility of giving our views on it. The Chancellor, too, to whom I at once submitted the text of the ultimatum, thought it was too harsh."
If Berlin thought so, in its heart of hearts, what about capitals less friendly?
On July 24, the British Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey returned to London from trout fishing on the river Itchen, and the First Lord of the Admiralty Mr. Winston Churchill from his beach idyll near Norfolk. They met in Parliament, which was still in something of a dither over the Irish Home Rule Bill. But the debate suddenly gave way to Sir Edward's voice. He was reading from a paper just handed to him-the Austrian note to Serbia, ". an ultimatum [this is Churchill describing the scene] such as had never been penned in modern times before. The parishes of Fermanagh and Tyrone [i.e., the Irish issue] faded back into the mists… and a strange new light fell on the map of Europe."
Little more than forty-eight hours later the Admiralty announced that new orders had been issued to the First and Second Fleets of the British Navy. They were the most powerful units of the world's most powerful marine force, and they happened to be concentrated in the English Channel for maneuvers just finished. Now, contrary to previous plans, they were not to disperse. All shore leaves were cancelled.
In Paris, a hastily called Ministerial Council cabled the text of the Austrian "jewel" to President Poincare on the battle cruiser France. Poincare was about to visit some Scandinavian ports. He cancelled all further travels. The France headed straight for Du
nkirk.
At his summer residence on the Gulf of Finland, the Tsar stopped playing tennis. The Russian General Staff Gazette proclaimed a "State of Pre-Mobilization." It involved, among other measures, preparations to deploy troops quickly at "any threatened frontier" (in this case the Austrian) and the recall of reservists to bring border divisions to full strength.
Overnight Berchtold's libretto had gone to pieces. He had miscalculated entirely its effects on its intended audience.
The pause he had spun out so cunningly after Sarajevo; the lethargy so studiously orchestrated through four weeks; the dolce far niente put on by the Ballhausplatz that was to have gentled Europe into a summer sleep so sweet that, by the time it woke and rubbed its eyes, it would see Serbia crushed-all that artfulness had produced a very different outcome and an altogether unwanted mood.
During the long month, Sarajevo had dimmed into a trivializing distance. By the end of July, Vienna's abrupt growl at Serbia sounded-even in diplomatic French-like a savage vendetta over a remote cause. Huge Habsburg looked like a brute seizing a stale pretext to exterminate little Serbia. Now it was the ultimatum that looked like an outrage, not the Archduke's assassination.
And that wasn't all. Vienna's month-long "peace" act produced yet another unpleasant result. During the many days the Ballhausplatz had spent styling the nonultimatum super-ultimatum, General Conrad on his nonholiday holiday had seethed and scribbled and cabled in his Dolomite village, perfecting the mobilization schedules of his army. Of course he had put none of them in effect as yet-that would have rattled the fair-weather scenery. But with the demarche delivered, this backstage phase of his effort was over. On July 26, the General charged into Berchtold's office saying that the martial moves made by Serbia's friends in the last twenty-four hours had revised his plans. To prepare for all contingencies, Austria's forces must now be at absolutely maximum strength and in optimum condition before striking Belgrade-a goal he, Conrad, would need at least three weeks to reach; the army could not start its offensive until then.
Count von Berchtold took all this like a true Viennese. Yes, he had lost his poise temporarily in Ischl. But he recovered it fast, together with his instinct for make-believe. So the fiction that was to beguile Europe had misfired. Very well, he would produce another fiction.
This one he believed in himself. Cleverly it turned Conrad's bleak news of the Army's unreadiness into the semblance of an advantage. Now (as one of the Foreign Minister's lieutenants would later recall)
Berchtold regarded even the declaration of war as not more than an extreme form of pressure to obtain a diplomatic surrender from Serbia which still had almost twenty days for reflection, seeing that military operations would not commence before August 15th…
How induce the proper "reflection" in Serbia and her allies? Again by theatrical means, naturally. The Foreign Minister decided that Habsburg would put on a face that was absolutely resolute and charmingly patient at the same time.
To show absolute resolve, Austria declared war on Serbia at 1 P.M. of July 28, by cable. For the first time in history a telegram opened hostilities between two countries (a first time balancing the last time of Austria's ultimatum in diplomatic French). Austria also trumpeted its determination with thousands of mobilization posters materializing overnight, black print on gold background, from one end of the Empire to the other; by patriotic fireworks in newspapers amenable to government influence; by the announcement that His Majesty was about to issue a ringing manifesto calling his subjects to arms.
At the same time the mask of charming patience spoke. Austrian ambassadors-especially those accredited with Serbia's friends-pointed to Habsburg restraint. Here was a great power at war. Yet so far Austria had not taken advantage of its enemy's smallness but only of the fact that the Serb capital lay just across from the Austrian border. Austria had done no more than shell that capital from its own territory. There was still no invasion of Serbia. Furthermore, despite the enormity of Sarajevo, the Austrian government asked only justice from Belgrade and not one square inch of Serbian land.
Surely this demonstrated Vienna's patience? As for Vienna's charm, consider her treatment of General Radomir Put- nik, Chief of Staff of the Serbian Armed Forces. When Vienna had surprised Belgrade with the ultimatum, the General was still sipping the waters of the Austrian spa Bad Gleichenberg. Of course he departed instantly. On his way home via Budapest, he was hauled off the train and held as a potential prisoner of war-the war Austria would declare within hours. However, "orders from an All-Highest level" had the General released. An Austrian army physician was detailed to attend the General's asthma while he remained on Austrian soil. An honor guard escorted him to the personal train of General Conrad; and it was in the luxury of Conrad's salon car that he was allowed to proceed to the Serbian border to assume command against the troops of his host.
Shouldn't such Viennese gallantry sway Belgrade's heart, even as Austria's might should soften Belgrade's impertinence? And wouldn't Belgrade's allies be wise to help Belgrade practice moderation? Shouldn't they join Berchtold's effort to prevent the deepening and widening, indeed the very continuance, of the conflict? Shouldn't they make Belgrade see reason on the one sticking point in the Austrian demarche (participation of Austrian police in the pursuit of Sarajevo accomplices on Serbian soil)-the one point whose settlement on Austrian terms would stop the war before it had really begun? This was the outline of Berchtold's new plot. But Libretto B fared no better than Libretto A. And once more Germany chimed in with the wrong note.
Not that Berlin had changed its-public-willingness to sing along. This time, though, the Heldentenor himself, the Kaiser, insisted on making an entrance. When the crisis broke, he was still away on his Nordic cruise. His ministers tried to keep him there. They knew too well His Majesty's impulsiveness, unevenness, hollowness-the thunder of his tongue, the shaking of his knees. During Libretto A they had encouraged the blithe continuation of his voyage. The Wilhelmstrasse had radioed the Imperial yacht Hohenzollern as little of the tension as late as possible. In fact, the Kaiser first learned of the Austrian ultimatum not from his Berlin Chancellery but from his yacht's radio officer who had listened to news agency reports on July 24.
This irritated Wilhelm, but not enough to abandon his sail along the glitter of the fjords. He did ask Berlin to keep him abreast of developments in detail. In return he received a long, ingeniously murky telegram from his Chancellor, climaxing in the sentence "the diplomatic situation is not entirely clear." By then it was early in the morning of July 27. Libretto B was on. The Kaiser wired Berlin that he proposed to head home. Back came a telegram saying "Your Majesty's sudden reappearance might cause undue alarm." And just that alarmed His Majesty at last.
Never mind that Berlin had just announced that he would not return until August 2. He not only decided to turn his yacht around, he transferred to the swiftest of his escorting cruisers, the Rostock, to speed his homecoming.
On the afternoon of July 27, he hastened down the gangplank at Swinnemunde to be greeted by his pale, hand-kissing ministers as well as by the news that stock markets were quaking all over Europe. En route to Berlin he realized that a major crisis had matured rapidly in his absence. He faced it in character, by blurting out epithets. At this point he still blurted grandiosely, hand on sword hilt, repeating some exclamations he had made on board. He called Berchtold "a donkey" for pledging to let Serbia keep all its territory. He accused his naval chief of "incredible presumption" for advising against drastic fleet movements at this precarious juncture. He said that the Balkan countries were mostly contemptible scum.
Still exclamatory, he entered Potsdam Palace on the evening of July 27. The text of Serbia's response to the ultimatum had reached Berlin rather tardily only that afternoon. But the German Foreign Minister delayed its transmission to Potsdam yet further. He waited until late at night after the Kaiser had retired: better to let His Majesty calm down first with a good rest.
Next morning Wi
lhelm was shown the Serbian note. Again he began to exclaim-but in the opposite direction. "A brilliant achievement in a time limit of only twenty-four hours!" he annotated Belgrade's reply. "More than one could have expected! A great moral success for Vienna! All reason for war is gone! After that I should never have ordered mobilization!"
As he scribbled this, he had no idea that Vienna had done much more than mobilize. A few minutes later, an aide handed him a bulletin: Austria had declared war. It staggered the Kaiser. Within an hour the German Chancellor von BethmannHollweg stood before him, peremptorily summoned, "very humble, with a pale and wretched face."
"How did all this happen?" the Kaiser demanded.
Bethmann tried to explain the purpose and hope of Libretto A, as devised by Vienna: true, the nonultimatum that was an ultimatum had not worked out right, but perhaps this war just declared would yet turn into a nonwar, maybe the Serbs would give in after all, maybe-
Wilhelm, blurting epithets, cut him off. The Chancellor, "utterly cowed, admitted that he had been deceived all along by Vienna and submitted his resignation." Wilhelm refused him.
"You have cooked this broth," said His Majesty. "Now you are going to eat it."
The Kaiser knew that it was beyond his ability to eat it himself. According to Prince Bernard von Bulow-eye-witness of the scene above-Wilhelm was "well aware that he was a neurasthenic. His exaggerations were mainly meant to ring in the ears of the Foreign Office… His jingo speeches intended to give the impression that here was another Frederick the Great. But he did not trust his nerves under the strain of any really critical situation. The moment there was danger His Majesty became uncomfortably conscious that he would never lead an army in the field. Wilhelm did not want war."
Thunder At Twilight: Vienna 1913/1914 Page 26