by Follett, Ken
Walter said: “Are you quite sure, my dear Fitz, that a German victory over France would upset the balance of power?” This line of discussion was rather sensitive for a dinner party, but the issue was too important to be brushed under Fitz’s expensive carpet.
Fitz said: “With all due respect to your honored country, and to His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm, I fear Britain could not permit German control of France.”
That was the trouble, Walter thought, trying hard not to show the anger and frustration he felt at these glib words. A German attack on Russia’s ally France would, in reality, be defensive—but the English talked as if Germany was trying to dominate Europe. Forcing a genial smile, he said: “We defeated France forty-three years ago, in the conflict you call the Franco-Prussian War. Great Britain was a spectator then. And you did not suffer by our victory.”
Maud added: “That’s what Asquith said.”
“There’s a difference,” Fitz said. “In 1871, France was defeated by Prussia and a group of minor German kingdoms. After the war, that coalition became one country, the modern Germany—and I’m sure you will agree, von Ulrich, my old friend, that Germany today is a more formidable presence than old Prussia.”
Men like Fitz were so dangerous, Walter thought. With faultless good manners they would lead the world to destruction. He struggled to keep the tone of his reply light. “You’re right, of course—but perhaps formidable is not the same as hostile.”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
At the other end of the table, Bea coughed reproachfully. No doubt she thought this topic too contentious for polite conversation. She said brightly: “Are you looking forward to the duchess’s ball, Herr von Ulrich?”
Walter felt reproved. “I feel sure the ball will be absolutely splendid,” he gushed, and was rewarded with a grateful nod from Bea.
Aunt Herm put in: “You’re such a good dancer!”
Walter smiled warmly at the old woman. “Perhaps you will grant me the honor of the first dance, Lady Hermia?”
She was flattered. “Oh, my goodness, I’m too old for dancing. Besides, you youngsters have steps that didn’t even exist when I was a debutante.”
“The latest craze is the czardas. It’s a Hungarian folk dance. Perhaps I should teach you it.”
Fitz said: “Would that constitute a diplomatic incident, do you think?” It was not very funny, but everyone laughed, and the conversation turned to other trivial but safe subjects.
After dinner the party boarded carriages to drive the four hundred yards to Sussex House, the duke’s palace in Park Lane.
Night had fallen, and light blazed from every window: the duchess had at last given in and installed electricity. Walter climbed the grand staircase and entered the first of three grand reception rooms. The orchestra was playing the most popular tune of recent years, “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” His left hand twitched: the syncopation was the crucial element.
He kept his promise and danced with Aunt Herm. He hoped she would have lots of partners: he wanted her to get tired and doze off in a side room, so that Maud would be left unchaperoned. He kept remembering what he and Maud had done in the library of this house a few weeks ago. His hands itched to touch her through that clinging dress.
But first he had work to do. He bowed to Aunt Herm, took a glass of pink champagne from a footman, and began to circulate. He moved through the Small Ballroom, the Salon, and the Large Ballroom, talking to the political and diplomatic guests. Every ambassador in London had been invited, and many had come, including Walter’s boss, Prince Lichnowsky. Numerous members of Parliament were there. Most were Conservative, like the duchess, but there were some Liberals, including several government ministers. Robert was deep in conversation with Lord Remarc, a junior minister in the War Office. No Labour M.P.s were to be seen: the duchess considered herself an open-minded woman, but there were limits.
Walter learned that the Austrians had sent copies of their ultimatum to all the major embassies in Vienna. It would be cabled to London and translated overnight, and by morning everyone would know its contents. Most people were shocked by its demands, but no one knew what to do about it.
By one o’clock in the morning he had learned all he could, and he went to find Maud. He walked down the stairs and into the garden, where supper was laid out in a striped marquee. So much food was served in English high society! He found Maud toying with some grapes. Aunt Herm was happily nowhere to be seen.
Walter put his worries aside. “How can you English eat so much?” he said to Maud playfully. “Most of these people have had a hearty breakfast, a lunch of five or six courses, tea with sandwiches and cakes, and a dinner of at least eight courses. Do they now really need soup, stuffed quails, lobster, peaches, and ice cream?”
She laughed. “You think we’re vulgar, don’t you?”
He did not, but he teased her by pretending to. “Well, what culture do the English have?” He took her arm and, as if moving aimlessly, walked her out of the tent into the garden. The trees were decked with fairy lights that gave little illumination. On the winding paths between shrubs, a few other couples walked and talked, some holding hands discreetly in the gloom. Walter saw Robert with Lord Remarc again, and wondered if they, too, had found romance. “English composers?” he said, still teasing Maud. “Gilbert and Sullivan. Painters? While the French Impressionists were changing the way the world sees itself, the English were painting rosy-cheeked children playing with puppies. Opera? All Italian, when it’s not German. Ballet? Russian.”
“And yet we rule half the world,” she said with a mocking smile.
He took her in his arms. “And you can play ragtime.”
“It’s easy, once you get the rhythm.”
“That’s the part I find difficult.”
“You need lessons.”
He put his mouth to her ear and murmured: “Teach me, please?” The murmur turned to a groan as she kissed him, and after that they did not speak for some time.
{ II }
That was in the small hours of Friday, July 24. On the following evening, when Walter attended another dinner and another ball, the rumor on everyone’s lips was that the Serbians would concede every Austrian demand, except only for a request for clarification on points five and six. Surely, Walter thought elatedly, the Austrians could not reject such a cringing response? Unless, of course, they were determined to have a war regardless.
On his way home at daybreak on Saturday he stopped at the embassy to write a note about what he had learned during the evening. He was at his desk when the ambassador himself, Prince Lichnowsky, appeared in immaculate morning dress, carrying a gray top hat. Startled, Walter jumped to his feet, bowed, and said: “Good morning, Your Highness.”
“You’re here very early, von Ulrich,” said the ambassador. Then, noting Walter’s evening dress, he said: “Or rather, very late.” He was handsome in a craggy way, with a big curved nose over his mustache.
“I was just writing you a short note on last night’s gossip. Is there anything I can do for Your Highness?”
“I’ve been summoned by Sir Edward Grey. You can come with me and make notes, if you’ve got a different coat.”
Walter was elated. The British foreign secretary was one of the most powerful men on earth. Walter had met him, of course, in the small world of London diplomacy, but had never exchanged more than a few words with him. Now, at Lichnowsky’s characteristically casual invitation, Walter was to be present at an informal meeting of two men who were deciding the fate of Europe. Gottfried von Kessel would be sick with envy, he thought.
He reproved himself for being petty. This could be a critical meeting. Unlike the Austrian emperor, Grey might not want war. Would this be about preventing it? Grey was hard to predict. Which way would he jump? If he was against war, Walter would seize any chance to help him.
He kept a frock coat on a hook behind his door for just such emergencies as this. He pulled off his evening tailcoat and
buttoned the daytime coat over his white waistcoat. He picked up a notebook and left the building with the ambassador.
The two men walked across St. James’s Park in the cool of the early morning. Walter told his boss the rumor about the Serbian reply. The ambassador had a rumor of his own to report. “Albert Ballin dined with Winston Churchill last night,” he said. Ballin, a German shipping magnate, was close to the kaiser, despite being Jewish. Churchill was in charge of the Royal Navy. “I’d love to know what was said,” Lichnowsky finished.
He obviously feared the kaiser was bypassing him and sending messages to the British via Ballin. “I’ll try to find out,” said Walter, pleased at the opportunity.
They entered the Foreign Office, a neoclassical building that made Walter think of a wedding cake. They were shown to the foreign secretary’s opulent room overlooking the park. The British are the richest people on earth, the building seemed to say, and we can do anything we like to the rest of you.
Sir Edward Grey was a thin man with a face like a skull. He disliked foreigners and almost never traveled abroad: in British eyes, that made him the perfect foreign secretary. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said politely. He was alone but for an aide with a notebook. As soon as they were seated he got down to business. “We must do what we can to calm the situation in the Balkans.”
Walter’s hopes rose. That sounded pacific. Grey did not want war.
Lichnowsky nodded. The prince was part of the peace faction in the German government. He had sent a sharp telegram to Berlin urging that Austria be restrained. He disagreed with Walter’s father and others who believed that war now was better, for Germany, than war later when Russia and France might be stronger.
Grey went on: “Whatever the Austrians do, it must not be so threatening to Russia as to provoke a military response from the tsar.”
Exactly, Walter thought excitedly.
Lichnowsky obviously shared his view. “If I may say so, Foreign Secretary, you have hit the nail on the head.”
Grey was oblivious to compliments. “My suggestion is that you and we, that is to say Germany and Britain, should together ask the Austrians to extend their deadline.” He glanced reflexively at the clock on the wall: it was a little after six A.M. “They have demanded an answer by six tonight, Belgrade time. They could hardly refuse to give the Serbians another day.”
Walter was disappointed. He had been hoping Grey had a plan to save the world. This postponement was such a small thing. It might make no difference. And in Walter’s view the Austrians were so belligerent they easily could refuse the request, petty though it was. However, no one asked his opinion, and in this stratospherically elevated company he was not going to speak unless spoken to.
“A splendid idea,” said Lichnowsky. “I will pass it to Berlin with my endorsement.”
“Thank you,” said Grey. “But, failing that, I have another proposal.”
So, Walter thought, Grey was not really confident the Austrians would give Serbia more time.
Grey went on: “I propose that Britain, Germany, Italy, and France should together act as mediators, meeting at a four-power conference to produce a solution that would satisfy Austria without menacing Russia.”
That was more like it, Walter thought excitedly.
“Austria would not agree in advance to be bound by the conference decision, of course,” Grey continued. “But that’s not necessary. We could ask the Austrian emperor at least to take no further action until he hears what the conference has to say.”
Walter was delighted. It would be hard for Austria to refuse a plan that came from its allies as well as its rivals.
Lichnowsky looked pleased too. “I will recommend this to Berlin most strongly.”
Grey said: “It’s good of you to come to see me so early in the morning.”
Lichnowsky took that as dismissal and stood up. “Not at all,” he said. “Will you get down to Hampshire today?”
Grey’s hobbies were fly-fishing and bird-watching, and he was happiest at his cottage on the river Itchen in Hampshire.
“Tonight, I hope,” said Grey. “This is wonderful fishing weather.”
“I trust you will have a restful Sunday,” said Lichnowsky, and they left.
Walking back across the park, Lichnowsky said: “The English are amazing. Europe is on the brink of war, and the foreign secretary is going fishing.”
Walter felt elated. Grey might seem to lack a sense of urgency, but he was the first person to come up with a workable solution. Walter was grateful. I’ll invite him to my wedding, he thought, and thank him in my speech.
When they got back to the embassy he was startled to find his father there.
Otto beckoned Walter into his office. Gottfried von Kessel was standing by the desk. Walter was bursting to confront his father about Maud, but he was not going to speak of such things in front of von Kessel, so he said: “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago. I came overnight on the boat train from Paris. What were you doing with the ambassador?”
“We were summoned to see Sir Edward Grey.” Walter was gratified to see a look of envy cross von Kessel’s face.
Otto said: “And what did he have to say?”
“He proposed a four-power conference to mediate between Austria and Serbia.”
Von Kessel said: “Waste of time.”
Walter ignored him and asked his father: “What do you think?”
Otto narrowed his eyes. “Interesting,” he said. “Grey is crafty.”
Walter could not hide his enthusiasm. “Do you think the Austrian emperor might agree?”
“Absolutely not.”
Von Kessel snickered.
Walter was crushed. “But why?”
Otto said: “Suppose the conference proposes a solution and Austria rejects it?”
“Grey mentioned that. He said Austria would not be obliged to accept the conference recommendation.”
Otto shook his head. “Of course not—but what then? If Germany is part of a conference that makes a peace proposal, and Austria rejects our proposal, how could we then back the Austrians when they go to war?”
“We could not.”
“So Grey’s purpose in making this suggestion is to drive a wedge between Austria and Germany.”
“Oh.” Walter felt foolish. He had seen none of this. His optimism was punctured. Dismally, he said: “So we won’t support Grey’s peace plan?”
“Not a chance,” said his father.
{ III }
Sir Edward Grey’s proposal came to nothing, and Walter and Maud watched, hour by hour, as the world lurched closer to disaster.
The next day was Sunday, and Walter met with Anton. Once again everyone was desperate to know what the Russians would do. The Serbians had given in to almost every Austrian demand, only asking for more time to discuss the two harshest clauses; but the Austrians had announced that this was unacceptable, and Serbia had begun to mobilize its little army. There would be fighting, but would Russia join in?
Walter went to the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which was not in the fields but in Trafalgar Square, the busiest traffic junction in London. The church was an eighteenth-century building in the Palladian style, and Walter reflected that his meetings with Anton were giving him an education in the history of English architecture as well as information about Russian intentions.
He mounted the steps and passed through the great pillars into the nave. He looked around anxiously: at the best of times he was afraid Anton might not show up, and this would be the worst possible moment for the man to get cold feet. The interior was brightly lit by a big Venetian window at the east end, and he spotted Anton immediately. Relieved, he sat next to the vengeful spy a few seconds before the service began.
As always, they talked during the hymns. “The Council of Ministers met on Friday,” Anton said.
Walter knew that. “What did they decide?”
“Nothing. They only make recommend
ations. The tsar decides.”
Walter knew that, too. He controlled his impatience. “Excuse me. What did they recommend?”
“To permit four Russian military districts to prepare for mobilization.”
“No!” Walter’s cry was involuntary, and the hymn singers nearby turned and stared at him. This was the first preliminary to war. Calming himself with an effort, Walter said: “Did the tsar agree?”
“He ratified the decision yesterday.”
Despairingly, Walter said: “Which districts?”
“Moscow, Kazan, Odessa, and Kiev.”
During the prayers, Walter pictured a map of Russia. Moscow and Kazan were in the middle of that vast country, a thousand miles and more from its European borders, but Odessa and Kiev were in the southwest, near the Balkans. In the next hymn he said: “They are mobilizing against Austria.”
“It’s not mobilization—it’s preparation for mobilization.”
“I understand that,” said Walter patiently. “But yesterday we were talking about Austria attacking Serbia, a minor Balkan conflict. Today we’re talking about Austria and Russia, and a major European war.”
The hymn ended, and Walter waited impatiently for the next one. He had been brought up by a devout Protestant mother, and he always suffered a twinge of conscience about using church services as a cover for his clandestine work. He said a brief prayer for forgiveness.
When the congregation began to sing again, Walter said: “Why are they in such a hurry to make these warlike preparations?”
Anton shrugged. “The generals say to the tsar: ‘Every day you delay gives the enemy an advantage.’ It’s always the same.”
“Don’t they see that the preparations make the war more likely?”
“Soldiers want to win wars, not avoid them.”
