Thunder At Twilight: Vienna 1913/1914

by Frederic Morton

  In Vienna Bilinski did as he was done to. He was just as cunning about not telling the truth just as careful. He told neither the Archduke nor the police nor the army nor Austrian Intelligence about that visit to his office. He, too, had politic reasons.

  Bilinski disliked General Potiorek, the Austrian Military Governor of Bosnia, a Serb-eating hotspur of the General Conrad stripe. If Bilinski passed on these vague, probably meaningless whispers of the Serb envoy, they would eventually benefit Potiorek. Despite their unreality, Potiorek would use them to vindicate his bias, strengthen his position. This, in turn, would heighten his insolence toward Bilinski who was his nominal superior as Minister in charge of Bosnia. And Potiorek was already insolent enough.

  Potiorek had appropriated a privilege belonging to Bilinski. He, not Bilinski, had made the arrangements for the Archduke's sojourn in Bosnia; worse yet, he had then sent the Archduke's program to all ministries except Bilinski's. On top of that, Bilinski had not even received an invitation to the state dinner! Why should Bilinski play Potiorek's intelligenceassistant and feed Potiorek every scrap of information that might or might not be authentic, that might or might not help Potiorek to do his job?

  Bilinski retaliated with his silence. And General Potiorek did his job by his-uninformed-lights. Of the 22,000 troops deployed near Sarajevo for maneuvers, he detailed only an honor guard for the Archduke's route in the city itself. This was to show that under Potiorek's govenorship Belgrade's propaganda had been unable to shake the allegiance of the population to the Crown: His Imperial Highness required no extra protection in Sarajevo.

  But in areas other than security Potiorek launched preparations aplenty. Throughout June telegraph keys kept clicking between Potiorek's office and the archducal chancellery at Belvedere Palace in Vienna. What wines would His Imperial Highness prefer at various dinners? Would Highness like to approve the seating at all the tables? Did Highness wish to specify menus? As for the horse His Imperial Highness would grace, what would be the best saddle and which the most comfortable stirrup length? And what was Highness's exact weight, so as to select the proper mount?

  There was a moment, peculiarly enough, when all these questions seemed to be asked in vain.

  That moment had come the day before the Serbian envoy's visit to Bilinski. On June 4, Franz Joseph received his Heir Apparent in audience. It was the first meeting between uncle and nephew since the older man had recovered from his illness. In contrast to some previous encounters, this one seemed to proceed quite cordially. But after expressing his pleasure at seeing the Emperor so well, the Archduke made a rather unexpected reference to his own health. He had not felt very fit lately, he said. The weather down in Bosnia was bound to be hot in mid-summer. He had been asking himself whether he was in a condition to undertake the journey.

  Franz Joseph looked at Franz Ferdinand. The Archduke appeared to be as robust as ever. A bit curtly the Emperor asked if the purpose of this conversation was to inform him that Franz Ferdinand did not wish to go to the Sarajevo exercises.

  Oh, he did wish to go, Franz Ferdinand said. But he would be grateful if he could bring Sophie along; his wife was always a boost to his constitution.

  The Emperor confessed himself puzzled. After all, he said, Sophie usually came along on maneuvers-Franz Ferdinand needed no special permission for that purpose. Yes, the Archduke said, but what he meant was that with His Majesty's gracious approval he, Franz Ferdinand, would like to have Sophie with him during the subsequent state visit to Sarajevo itself. Her presence would certainly lighten the burden.

  Franz Joseph was ancient but not slow. He understood what Franz Ferdinand really meant: to make Sophie the Crown Princess at least while the two were in Sarajevo. At her husband's side she would share all the homage shown to the Crown Prince.

  A tiresome issue, a tiresome audience. "Very well," Franz Joseph said. "If you go, let her go with you everywhere. Now do as you like."

  That ended Franz Ferdinand's reluctance about Sarajevo, which had been no reluctance at all but rather a basis for negotiations now successfully concluded. Never mind the old man's gruffness-it was his consent that mattered. As the Archduke took his leave he kissed the Emperor's hand heartily as never before.

  Never before-certainly not on Habsburg soil-had Sophie received the ceremonial respect she would soon be shown at Sarajevo. And never before had the Archduke been quite so confident of himself and of his future. The tubercle bacillus was the only assassin he truly feared. Some years earlier he'd asked his personal physician for a hand-written note: " I, Dr. Viktor Eisenmenger, hereby certify that His Imperial and Royal Highness the Archduke Franz Ferdinand has been entirely cured of tuberculosis and that he will never suffer a relapse again." When anxious, he would reach for the pocket where he always carried "my life certificate."

  His staff saw him reach for it much less often in the spring of 1914. His hypochondria was receding. As for bullets or bombs, he had always been a fatalist. "Precautions?" he'd once said to his secretary. "Bodyguards? I put up with them, but that's all rubbish. We are at all times in God's hands. Worry paralyzes life."

  Of course, he was not nearly as philosophical about chal lenges thrust at him by sworn enemies-the likes of General Conrad or the Emperor's First Lord Chamberlain Prince Montenuovo. Yet in June the Archduke scented victory even in that arena. He discerned it in the Emperor's consent on Sophie. He saw it-ever since the Emperor's illness-in the quality of bows and curtsies greeting him. They seemed less rigid, more spontaneous. He didn't crave acclaim as the Kaiser did, nor encourage it even indirectly like Franz Joseph. Playacting the Lord Affable was not his forte. He disliked indulging the people unnecessarily because he hated indulging himself (even his hunting mania was a pursuit as relentless on his comfort as it was on the lives of ducks and deer). But now he sensed, if not popularity, a readier acceptance of his imperial destiny.

  23

  FOR THE ARCHDUKE IT WAS A EUPHORIC MONTH. ON SUNDAY, JUNE 7, three days after his audience at the Palace, he attended the Vienna Derby. Last year he'd stayed away. In 1913 the occasion had still been blighted by the Redl spy case. This year the young military elite was back with its dash restored.

  The grandstands swaggered with hussars and dragoons, with kepis and capes, with slim captains blowing smoke rings at baronesses whose smiles were half-shadowed by their saucy hats. Perhaps Redl had never happened. Perhaps the Empire would last. Perhaps it would not rain.

  The day began quite cloudy. But when the future, in the form of the Crown Prince and his consort, entered the Imperial Box, the sun pushed through and the stands burst into ap plause. Not an overwhelming ovation, it was still a salute livelier than the kind usually tendered to Franz Ferdinand. And who must join it, willy-nilly? Prince Montenuovo in the neighboring box.

  Still more satisfying was the press next morning. It revealed a certain burgeoning of the Archduke's image. In the coverage of ladies' fashion at the track, the Duchess of Hohenberg- Franz Ferdinand's Sophie-took up more space than the Archduchesses. Most reports went on and on about Sophie's white voile frock with the black sash, her long black jacket brimming with white lace, her black hat with the white visor, topped by black feathers in-regal! — tiara style…

  For once, the two left Vienna with pleased faces. Arrived at their Bohemian estate at Konopiste, the Archduke toured his gardens. It was here that he would make a gesture to the populace-his very first. He had decided on it hesitantly some weeks ago. Now he briskly proceeded with its implementation.

  For fifteen years he had been developing at Konopiste the greatest rose garden in Central Europe. This spring he would open its gates to the public at the very height of the blossoming. The people had begun to welcome him as their sovereignto-be. In return he would welcome them into his pleasance on June 15, from morning to night.

  First, though, he must do some summit politicking over the weekend of June 12. The Kaiser was coming to Konopiste. With this visit, the display of horticulture mattered
less than the cultivation of peace.

  Since the occasion centered on Wilhelm, nothing about it was quite calculable, not even his choice in excess of dress. Expecting something martial, the Archduke appeared at the railroad station in the uniform of a Colonel of the 10th Prussian Uhlan Regiment. However, the Kaiser stepped out of the train in a hunting costume he'd overcoutured himself-brassbuttoned green jacket; shining black leather boots aglitter and ajingle with spurs; and the Order of St. Hubertus, patron saint of the chase, hanging from his neck. In Wilhelm's wake followed Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, the creator of Germany's huge new navy, as well as Wadl and Hexl, two ferocious dachshunds.

  Tirpitz's appearance made Vienna's leading newspaper comment, "How quickly the ravishing floral scent [of the Konopiste garden] can change into the smell of gun powder." As for Wadl and Hexl, they rushed off into the bushes and emerged dragging between them the body of a beautiful golden pheasant. Their kill was the only such bird in the estate, meant to be admired, not hunted.

  Franz Ferdinand had to shrug off the loss. The point was to concentrate on bigger game, namely detente in Europe. He resolved not to be deterred by von Tirpitz, bristling braid, forked beard, and all. Fortunately no military retinue accompanied Kaiser or admiral. Indeed Wilhelm said that he had brought along "the sailor boy" because, like Franz Ferdinand, Tirpitz was a breeder of roses. And Franz Ferdinand took Wilhelm very firmly at his word: He sent the rose-loving Grand Admiral away on a walk into the vasts of the garden. Then he led Wilhelm to his automobile.

  During long drives through his domain, tete-a-tete in the back seat, Franz Ferdinand presented his case. The argument he'd made in vain three months earlier at Miramare-here he repeated it much more forcibly: that an accommodation was possible, an accommodation was necessary between Vienna and the Serbs; but that it was constantly sabotaged by Buda pest. He really must correct, he told his guest, the good impression the Hungarian Premier Tisza had managed to make on the Kaiser. Tisza did not want the Kaiser's sharp eyes to see how Magyar chauvinism endangered not only Austria but Germany. After all, the Hungarians were a minority even in the Hungarian half of Austria-Hungary. Yet under Tisza they oppressed the Slav majority there, restricted the voting rights of Serbs and Croats, provided only skimpy schooling in the Serbo-Croat tongue. And through Tisza's influence the Habsburg government refused Serbia access to the Adriatic, refused them even some flea-bitten fishing village of no naval significance. With that, Tisza played right into the hands of the stormy petrels in Belgrade that were always screeching against Austria-and against Germany. Nor was that all. Tisza had begun to tyrannize the Rumanian minority in Hungary. The result? Rumania was being driven away from the Central Powers, away from Austria and Germany, into an alliance with Russia and France. Tisza just kept inflicting absolutely criminal damage. Under normal circumstances he would be disciplined by his King, who was also the Austrian Emperor, Franz Joseph. But there was Franz Joseph's advanced age and his fragile condition. Firmness like that could no longer be expected from Schonbrunn Palace. But it could be hoped for from Europe's most dynamic monarch; it could come from the Kaiser, Austria's trusty ally. Couldn't Wilhelm knock some sense into Tisza's head?

  The Archduke signalled to the chauffeur. His car slowed to a stop. It stood surrounded by the thousands of roses Franz Ferdinand had conjured from the earth. Their perfume came down on the Kaiser together with the light-blue stare of Franz Ferdinand's eyes. In sight and smell the Kaiser now bore the full brunt of the Archduke's passion. A daunting experience for a poseur like Wilhelm, able to use an empire as prop for his poses but unable-in contrast to Franz Ferdinand-to command a vision or a cogent policy all his own.

  Well, the Kaiser said. Well, he was glad to receive such a… such a candid briefing on the difficulty. Yes, the Hungarians did seem to be a bit of a problem, especially when it came to Rumania, which Budapest must not alienate. Yes, he would instruct von Tschirsky (his ambassador to Austria-Hungary) accordingly. He would direct von Tschirsky to tell Tisza, "Sir, be mindful of Rumania!"

  As to Serbia, the Kaiser made a less specific commitment, yet couldn't help but voice sympathy with the views the Archduke had so dramatically presented. On the whole Franz Ferdinand's automobile diplomacy at Konopiste appeared to work much better than all his luncheon pleading at Miramare earlier in the spring.

  Socially, Wilhelm's visit proved even more auspicious. It ended on Saturday, June 13, with nine courses of a farewell dinner. Franz Ferdinand's Sophie walked into Konopiste Castle's dining hall to sit down at the Kaiser's right. On her head shimmered a tiara of evening feathers. This time the royal connotations came into their own.

  At half past eight in the evening the archducal family bade their guest good-bye. Franz Ferdinand accompanied Wilhelm to the train station in a car gliding at slow, stately speed. The military band that had serenaded the diners followed behind with a medley of the Kaiser's favorite marches. As the escutcheoned locomotive of Wilhelm's private train got up steam, he promised to return in the fall; most roses would be gone by then, but the woodcock shooting would be wonderful. Franz Ferdinand applauded the idea, adding that Wilhelm's stay should be coordinated with the hunting visit of the English King, also planned for autumn. "Capital!" roared the Kaiser. Franz Ferdinand smiled: Let German Emperor and British monarch stand side by side, blasting away at game, thereby muzzling the cannons of their armies.

  Two days later, at 7 A.M. Monday, June 15, five hundred gendarmes marched by a side entrance into the Konopiste estate. It was the first day of the Archduke's final week at Konopiste, the week before he left on the first leg of his trip to Sarajevo.

  The gendarmes distributed themselves according to a prearranged pattern. Soon they were so scattered on the enormous terrain as to be barely noticeable. Yet they could intervene fast when needed.

  No need arose. At 9 A.M. the great gates swung open. For the first time ever the public streamed in. Many were peasants in boots and black Sunday suits who had trudged to the castle from neighboring villages. Many were burghers with watchchained waistcoats, who had arrived by rail or bus or private car. All of them shuffled through this exalted wonderland, hushed, awed, quiet.

  They gawked at the endless flamboyance of the roses, at the infinite varieties of their hue from gold to scarlet to white to black, at a horizon brimming with aromas and blossoms. They shook heads over stone vases two stories tall from which cactus flowered or holly sprouted. They admired the obelisks, the marble amoretti, satyrs, and Greek gods, the baroque fountains casting up pillars of water.

  The men had removed their hats, as if in church. The women looked for petals dropped to the gravel. Young girls would slip them into their bodices; matrons would press them between pages of Bibles brought for that purpose. Amidst the crowds passing the castle itself, voices were raised here and there.

  Long live the Archduke!

  Their shouts sounded frail against the massive seventeenth century turrets. No answer came. Kaiser Wilhelm would have mounted a parapet and strutted in his spurs. Franz Joseph would have appeared and performed his kindly little wave. Not Archduke Franz Ferdinand. He showed himself only during a brief ride down the main path. After that he did not emerge from behind the stone walls.

  Though unseen, he saw. He watched from behind a window, holding his Sophie's hand. It is not impossible that he smiled.

  On Saturday, June 20, the couple went to Chlumetz, Franz Ferdinand's other, more intimate Bohemian castle. Here they spent a cozy family weekend with their brood, bowling, playing checkers, roaming the woods. And here, on the early morning of Wednesday, June 24, they said good-bye to their daughter and their two sons until a reunion planned for a week later. Then the Archduke and his Duchess began their journey to Sarajevo.

  24

  They traveled together only until Vienna. There Sophie took the express going east to Budapest. Their destination lay south, yet this somewhat indirect path was the only one available by train: rail connections from the Austrian pa
rt of the Empire to Bosnia had been constructed as detours via Budapest, at Hungarian insistence. The Archduke refused to let Magyar impudence dictate his route. He'd rather complicate it his own way-by sea. At the same time, being an ever considerate husband, he did not want to subject his Sophie to the extra strain of his complication. For himself, of course, thumbing his nose at Budapest would be well worth the discomfort. It would help him keep his cheer.

  That he kept it so well seems remarkable in view of his temper and how it was tested throughout the trip. When he went on alone from Vienna to Trieste, the electric lights of his salon car went out. The Archduke grinned. "How interesting," he said, as footmen scurried to light candles. "Don't we look like a crypt?"

  After such a small calamity came a long laboriousness in the summer heat. At Trieste harbor he was piped aboard the Austrian dreadnought Viribus Unitis, which carried him down the humid Illyrian coastline to the mouth of the Narenta river, where he was transferred to the yacht Dalmat, which in turn sailed upstream to the Hercegovian town of Metkovic, where the archducal party entrained once more, this time heading for Bad Ilidze, a spa just outside the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo.

  On the steamy, rainy afternoon of June 25, Franz Ferdinand reached Ilidze at the end of almost forty hours of ceaseless traveling. He bounded out of his rail car and past the honor guard, remarkably unfatigued.

  So far the trip had been refreshing hard work. His advisers had primed him on the St. Vitus Day problem. Just during the weekend ahead, Serbs in Serbia as well as on the Austrian side of the border would celebrate their great ethnic holiday. To defuse resentment he had taken a good deal of trouble learning some Serbo-Croat sentences that said how pleased he was to acquaint himself first hand with the history, traditions, and festive occasions of this important region.

  He was no linguist. His tongue struggled with those Slavic consonants. A public smile did not come easily to him. Yet he produced the consonants and the smile before any crowd organized for him along the way. Each time, people were surprised by such cordiality from the Archduke notorious for his frown. He, in turn, was exhilarated by their enthusiasm.