by Anne Edwards
As Queen Mary boarded the Royal train from Victoria Station to Paris, the intimidating prospect of a visit to a foreign land with no Court, no relatives, and no Royal protocol was far more worrying to her than the threat and machinations of countries revving up for war. The trip, as Pope-Hennessy says, was “a venture into the unknown ...” She need not have worried. The Royal couple’s arrival in France was greeted with great enthusiasm and as “a reassuring symbol of the Entente Cordiale.” The Queen entered Paris in an open carriage, seated beside a decidedly dowdy Mme. Poincaré, and the crowds in the streets went wild at the grand sight of a queen gowned in luxurious pale blue crepe de soie, a hat piled up with bluish-white ostrich plumes that made her appear at least a foot taller than the President’s wife, and around her throat ropes and ropes of magnificent pearls that gleamed with light in the warm spring sun.
Wherever the King and Queen went, there were crowds “milling round the carriage” ... “Wonderful reception & crowds of people” . . . “Crowds in the street in spite of late hour” ... “Crowds in the streets both going & coming,” Queen Mary wrote in her diary. And she adds that all this enthusiasm “shows that the French people wish to be on good terms with us.”
However much the reports of their grand success in Paris might have delighted Aunt Augusta (who wrote her niece a glowing letter), Kaiser Wilhelm was considerably less pleased.
Footnotes
*The phrase “small days” meant shooting privately on the grounds of Sandringham, and the phrase “big ones,” the event of shooting parties.
* Sir Edward Carson. Lord Carson (1854–1935), Lord of the Appeal in Ordinary, 1921–29.
*’King George I of Greece, son of Princess Thyra of Denmark.
*The midshipman no longer exists in the Navy, having been abolished in the Admiralty education reforms of 1954, when the age entry into the Royal Navy was raised to eighteen years. The term Naval Cadet was also abolished at this time, and students at the Royal Naval College were known as midshipmen.
*Prince Albert held the following Royal Naval ranks:
Naval Cadet—1909–1913
Midshipman—September 15, 1913
Acting Sub-Lieutenant—September 15, 1915
Sub-Lieutenant—May 15, 1916
Lieutenant—June 15, 1916
Commander—December 31, 1920
Captain—June 30, 1925
Rear-Admiral—June 3, 1932
Vice-Admiral—January 1, 1936
Admiral—January 21, 1936
Admiral of the Fleet—December 11, 1936
*Their Majesties’ suite consisted of Sir Frederick Ponsonby, Lady Desborough (Lady-in-Waiting), Lord Charles Nairne, Equerry to King George V (killed in action October 1914), the Duchess of Devonshire (Mistress of the Robes), Sir Edward Grey (Minister in Attendance), Lord Shaftesbury (Lord Chamberlain to the Queen), Lord Annaly (Lord-in-Waiting), Lord Stamford ham (Private Secretary), James Reid (Groom-in-Waiting; later Major General, the Hon. Sir William Lambton), Charles Fitzmaurice (Equerry), and the future Lord Tyrell (Private Secretary to Sir Edward Grey).
NINETEEN
In 1914, at the age of eighty-four, Emperor Franz Joseph had ruled Austria for sixty-six years. His wife, the beautiful Empress Elisabeth, had been struck down by an assassin’s knife in Geneva. His only son—the brooding, possibly mad Crown Prince Rudolf—had been a victim of a double-suicide pact at Mayerling. His brother, Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico, had been executed at Juarez’s order before a firing squad on a Mexican hillside. And his great-nephew and heir, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, had married a commoner, invalidating their three children’s right to succession. The old gentleman had survived these tragedies with great dignity, and Queen Mary felt a warmth and an admiration for him.*
Shortly after their return from Berlin and the wedding of Kaiser Wilhelm’s daughter, Princess Victoria Louise, in 1913, King George and Queen Mary were hosts at Windsor to Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie Chotek, now the Duchess of Hohenberg. On public occasions in Austria, Sophie Chotek’s morganatic status placed her in the humiliating position of having “to walk behind the least important ladies of royal blood and to sit at a distant end of the Imperial table.” These insults were intolerable to both Sophie and the Archduke, and since nothing could be done about them at his own Court, Franz Ferdinand would generally demand archducal honours for his wife when abroad. To the King and Queen’s great relief, this did not occur in England.
Indeed, the five-day visit of the Archduke and his wife was a pleasant and nostalgic one, filled for the two Royal couples with an exchange of memories of the recent wedding, their meeting in Madrid at the wedding of Queen Ena and King Alfonso XIII several years earlier, and the visit King George and Queen Mary had made to the Austrian Court when Prince and Princess of Wales.
Recently, Franz Ferdinand had been intent on transforming the dual Austro-Hungarian Empire into a triple monarchy to include the Austrian, Magyar, and Slavic kingdoms under Croatian leadership. These efforts had gained him the enmity of Serbia and Germany, as well as that of his own Austrian ministers and their Magyar counterparts who did not want to share their power. Franz Ferdinand would not be deterred from his objective. Directly after his stay at Windsor, he became Inspector General of the Austro-Hungarian Armies. One of his first ceremonial visits was to be to the provincial capital of Sarajevo. Aiming toward better relations, he requested that no troops line his and Sophie’s path through the city. The streets of Sarajevo were thus manned by only 150 local policemen.
The Archduke was dressed in his green Austrian field marshal’s uniform, ostrich feathers attached to his military hat. Sophie rode beside him in the open backseat of the second car of a motorcade. A blazing June sun beat down on them. Sarajevo’s streets were brightly decorated with flags and banners and portraits of the Austrian Heir to the Throne. The Archduke was certain his gesture of friendship had been a success. Then, suddenly, as the motorcade approached the city hall, a bomb was hurled from the crowd. The chauffeur saw the object coming toward them, accelerated the car’s speed, and the bomb hit the vehicle behind them, wounding two officers. The welcome at Sarajevo’s city hall was now filled with tension. A second assassination attempt was feared, and Franz Ferdinand’s return route was changed. Ironically, the driver of the lead vehicle became confused and turned into a street on the original route, and the Archduke’s chauffeur followed. “Not that way, you fool!” shouted the governor from the front seat of the car. But his warning came too late. Two pistol shots were sounded not five feet from them.* Although mortally wounded in the neck, Franz Ferdinand managed to cry: “Sophie! Sophie! Don’t die! Stay alive for our children!” Sophie was already dead. Fifteen minutes later, the Archduke muttered his last words, “It is nothing.”
King George and Queen Mary received the tragic news late that same afternoon. “Terrible shock for the dear old Emperor,” King George wrote in his diary without any awareness that the dual assassinations might prove to be the “match of fate which would set Europe ablaze.” Nor, for that matter, did Queen Mary have any presentiments. “The horrible tragedy to the poor Archduke and his wife came as a great shock to us,” she wrote Aunt Augusta on the fifth of July, “particularly as they had been our guests so very recently and we were really quite attached to them both. Poor Emperor, nothing is he spared ... I think it is a great blessing that husband & wife died together, making the future less complicated with regard to their children ...”†
The murders at Sarajevo began a rush of events that led tragically toward war. On July 5, Germany offered Austria its support if any punitive action taken against Serbia should bring Russia to the Serbs’ defense. Strengthened by the Kaiser’s declaration, Austria delivered an ultimatum to Serbia on July 23. In England, for the first time in over a year, the Home Rule crisis was put aside. Europe was on the verge of war. Queen Mary’s entry in her diary for July 28 reads: “Austria has declared war against Serbia!” And to Aunt Augusta that same day, she wrote, “G
od grant we may not have a European War thrust upon us, & for such a stupid reason too, no I don’t mean stupid, but to have to go to war on account of tiresome Serbia beggars belief!”
All eyes were on Russia, for unless she moved, the war might still remain a Balkan affair. Apparently with the hope that Germany need not be involved, Kaiser Wilhelm telegraphed the Tsar on July 28:
It is with the gravest concern that I hear of the impression which the action of Austria against Serbia is creating in your country. The unscrupulous agitation that has been going on in Serbia for years has resulted in the outrageous crime to which Archduke Ferdinand fell victim. You will doubtless agree with me that we both, you and I, have a common interest as well as all Sovereigns, to insist that all the persons morally responsible for this dastardly murder should receive their deserved punishment. In this politics play no part at all.
On the other hand, I fully understand how difficult it is for you and your government to face the cry of public opinion.
Therefore, with regard to the hearty and tender friendship which binds us both from long ago with firm ties, I am exerting my utmost influence to induce the Austrians to deal straightly to arrive at a satisfactory understanding with you. I confidently hope you will help me in my efforts to smooth over difficulties that may still arise. Your very sincere and devoted friend and cousin.
Willy
And in a telegram that crossed the Kaiser’s, the Tsar begged his German cousin “to try and avoid such a calamity as a European War. I beg you in the name of our old friendship to do what you can to stop your allies from going too far. Nicky.”
On July 29, Austria bombarded Belgrade, and to the Kaiser’s fury and the consternation of Serbia’s allies, Russia mobilised along her Austrian frontier. King George’s entry in his diary for that day reads: “Where will it end? ... Winston Churchill [First Lord of the Admiralty] came to see me, the Navy is all ready for war, but please God it will not come. These are anxious days for me to live in.” And on July 30: “Foreign telegrams coming in all day we are doing all we can for peace and to prevent a European War but things look very black ... the debate in H[ouse] of C[ommons] on Irish question today has been postponed on account of gravity of European situation.”
Following his meeting with King George, Churchill ordered the First Fleet to move by night from Portland to its new stations at Scapa and Rosyth. “Everything tends towards catastrophe & collapse,” he wrote his wife, Clementine. “I am interested, geared up & happy. Is it not horrible to be built like that? The preparations have a hideous fascination for me. I pray to God to forgive me for such fearful moods of levity. Yet I wd do my best for peace & nothing would induce me wrongfully to strike the blow.”
The next day an ultimatum was issued to Russia by Germany to “demobilise within twelve hours and make us a distinct declaration to that effect.”
Prime Minister Asquith had a special audience with the King to inform him of the gravity of the situation. Nothing was likely to stop the eventuality of world war. Lloyd George recorded that “the Kaiser, frightened by the thunder clouds, intervened personally with the Czar to avert war, he begged ‘Nicky’ to cancel his Decree which had already gone forth, for the mobilisation of the Russian army. The Czar was willing to accede to this not unreasonable request, but the army leaders assured him that the ‘technical’ difficulties of cancellation and even partial mobilisation were insuperable. It was thus that the military chiefs in the leading countries of the Continent thrust the nations into war, whilst their impotent statesmen [and sovereigns] were still fumbling for Peace.” In fact, at 12:30 A.M. on July 31, Prime Minister Asquith returned to Buckingham Palace and awakened the King. “I got up and saw him in the Audience Room,” the King recorded in his diary later that night, “and he showed me a draft of a telegram he wanted me to send to Nicky as a last resort to try to prevent War, which, of course, I did.”
King George also telegraphed the Kaiser a guarded appeal the same day:
I cannot help thinking that some misunderstanding has produced this deadlock. I am most anxious not to miss any possibility of avoiding the terrible calamity which at present threatens the whole world. I, therefore, make a personal appeal to you to remove the misapprehension about Russian mobilisation which I feel must have occurred, and to leave still open grounds for negotiation and possible peace. If you think that I can in any way contribute to that all-important purpose, I will do everything in my power to assist in reopening the interrupted conversations between the Powers concerned. I feel confident that you are as anxious as I am that all that is possible should be done to secure the peace of the world.
George.
And, on the thirtieth of July, M. Jules Cambon, French Ambassador in Berlin, had telegraphed President Poincaré: “Germans are quite hopeful as to successful issue of their fight against France and Russia, if these are unsupported. Nothing but the chance of English intervention affects the Emperor, his Government or German interests.”
France had immediately appealed to the King to stand up to the Germans and pledge his support to France and Russia. But the Government had not made up its mind about England’s intervention, and King George could do no more than attempt to appeal to his cousin Willy’s conscience. The Kaiser’s reply was to declare war on Russia the very evening he received King George’s plea for peace.
“Saw Sir Edward Grey. Germany declared War on Russia at 7:30 this evening and German Ambassador left Petersburg,” King George wrote in his diary later that night. “Whether we shall be dragged into it God only knows, but we shall not send Expeditionary Force of the Army now. France is begging us to come to their assistance. At this moment public opinion here is dead against our joining in the War but I think it will be impossible to keep out of it as we cannot allow France to be smashed.” On August 2, he wrote grimly: “We issued orders to mobilise the fleet last night ...”
A German observer of this period was to say: “We must prove to Russia the superiority of our culture and of our military might. We must force France onto her knees until she chokes ... but between Russia and Germany there are no insoluble problems. France, too, fights chiefly for honour’s sake. It is from England we must wring the uttermost price for this gigantic struggle, however dearly others may have to pay for the help they give her.”*
The Kaiser would not have thrown his country into a war against France and Russia for the sole purpose of forcing England’s hand. He would have much preferred both England and Russia to remain neutral. But once Russia had mobilised, he could not turn back. His deep sense of hostility toward his English relations—that had begun with Edward’s cool attitude—came fully to the surface.
Inside Buckingham Palace during the last days of July and the first days of August, the anguish was great. In the event that England would have to go to war—a probability that grew more threatening with the passage of each hour—Bertie, as a Naval officer, would most likely be in the thick of it. All their foreign relations’ lives and thrones would be endangered. Three cousins reigned as sovereigns of three warring nations. The war that would take millions of young lives (at this stage) resembled a family feud. Within a shockingly short time, several dozen Royal relatives, who for generations had lived in harmony, would be forced to take sides against each other. In the Royal Family’s private rooms at Buckingham Palace, family conferences were many, and these personal concerns brought even more tension to King George and Queen Mary’s mounting fears for their country and their people.
Outside the palace, beneath summer showers and in a warm but persistent wind, crowds had begun to gather on July 31 and had stood since then “collecting, dispersing, and reforming, filling the great rooms with their tumultuous sounds.” David watched them from his bedroom window. He called them “friendly, patient, hopeful, and patriotic ... people ... of good conscience.
Each day the crowds continued to grow, extending from Trafalgar Square, where they formed a dense mass, right along to the House of Commons, where their
greatest number gathered about Downing Street, opposite the War Office. Groups of young men passed along in taxicabs singing the “Marseillaise,” and hundreds of Union Jacks were waved all over London. The greatest throngs gathered at Buckingham Palace.
At half-past ten on the night of August 4, Germany declared war on England. “A Privy Council was at once summoned for Papa to sign our declaration of War,” David wrote in his diary for that night, “& as soon as this was known in the crowd outside, excitement became intense. Then amid an unparalleled demonstration of patriotism the parents showed themselves at 11:00 before going to bed. But the people remained singing, cheering, and whistling for another 3 hours & I was lulled to sleep by their fearful shindy at 1:30. The die is cast; may God protect the Fleet!!!”
“I held a Council at 10:45 [P.M.] to declare War with Germany,” King George recorded that night. “It is a terrible catastrophe but it is not our fault ... When they [the crowds outside the palace] heard that War had been declared the fir] excitement increased & it was a never to be forgotten sight when May & I with David went on the balcony. The cheering was terrific. Please God it may soon be over & that He will protect dear Bertie’s life.”
One month after England went to war, and H.M.S. Collingwood, Bertie’s ship, to sea patrolling the coasts of Britain, the young seaman was doubled with pain and suffering extreme nausea. Appendicitis was diagnosed, and Bertie was transferred to the hospital ship Rohilla, then to the Northern Nursing Home in Aberdeen. On September 9, surgery was performed by Professor John Marnoch of Aberdeen University in the presence of Sir John Reid. The removal of his appendix did not cure Bertie’s severe stomach and gastric problems, however,* and he was to be benched from active duty—to his great sense of guilt—for nearly one year.
