Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  “A most interesting suggestion . . . Permit me to make our position clear. Germany has no quarrel with either France or Great Britain.”

  It sounded as if Grey was going over the same ground as Tyrrell. Clearly the English were very serious about this.

  Lichnowsky said: “The Russian mobilization is a threat that clearly cannot be ignored, but it is a threat to our eastern border, and that of our ally Austria-Hungary. We have asked France for a guarantee of neutrality. If France can give us that—or, alternatively, if Britain can guarantee French neutrality—there will be no reason for war in western Europe . . . Thank you, Foreign Secretary. Perfect—I will call on you at half past three this afternoon.” He hung up.

  He looked at Walter. They both smiled triumphantly. “Well,” said Lichnowsky, “I didn’t expect that!”

  { III }

  Maud was at Sussex House, where a group of influential Conservative M.P.s and peers had gathered in the duchess’s morning room for tea, when Fitz came in boiling with rage. “Asquith and Grey are crumbling!” he said. He pointed to a silver cake stand. “Crumbling like that dashed scone. They’re going to betray our friends. I feel ashamed to be British.”

  Maud had feared this. Fitz was no compromiser. He believed that Britain should issue orders and the world should obey. The idea that the government might have to negotiate with others as equals was abhorrent to him. And there were distressingly many who agreed.

  The duchess said: “Calm down, Fitz, dear, and tell us all what’s happened.”

  Fitz said: “Asquith sent a letter this morning to Douglas.” Maud presumed he meant General Sir Charles Douglas, chief of the Imperial General Staff. “Our prime minister wanted to put it on record that the government had never promised to send British troops to France in the event of a war with Germany!”

  Maud, as the only Liberal present, felt obliged to defend the government. “But it’s true, Fitz. Asquith is only making it clear that all our options are open.”

  “Then what on earth was the point of all the talks we’ve held with the French military?”

  “To explore possibilities! To make contingency plans! Talks are not contracts—especially in international politics.”

  “Friends are friends. Britain is a world leader. A woman doesn’t necessarily understand these things, but people expect us to stand by our neighbors. As gentlemen, we abhor the least hint of deceit, and we should do the same as a country.”

  That was the kind of talk that might yet get Britain embroiled in a war, Maud thought with a shiver of panic. She just could not get her brother to understand the danger. Their love for one another had always been stronger than their political differences, but now they were so angry that they might quarrel gravely. And when Fitz fell out with someone, he never made it up. Yet he was the one who would have to fight and perhaps die, shot or bayoneted or blown to pieces—Fitz, and Walter too. Why could Fitz not see that? It made her want to scream.

  While she struggled to find adequate words, one of the other guests spoke. Maud recognized him as the foreign editor of The Times, a man called Steed. “I can tell you that there is a dirty German-Jewish international financial attempt to bully my paper into advocating neutrality,” he said.

  The duchess pursed her lips: she disliked the language of the gutter press.

  “What makes you say so?” Maud said coldly to Steed.

  “Lord Rothschild spoke to our financial editor yesterday,” the journalist said. “Wants us to moderate the anti-German tone of our articles in the interests of peace.”

  Maud knew Natty Rothschild, who was a Liberal. She said: “And what does Lord Northcliffe think of Rothschild’s request?” Northcliffe was the proprietor of The Times.

  Steed grinned. “He ordered us to print an even stiffer leading article today.” He picked up a copy of the paper from a side table and waved it. “‘Peace is not our strongest interest,’” he quoted.

  Maud could not think of anything more contemptible than deliberately encouraging war. She could see that even Fitz was disgusted by the journalist’s frivolous attitude. She was about to say something when Fitz, with his unfailing courtesy even to brutes, changed the subject. “I’ve just seen the French ambassador, Paul Cambon, coming out of the Foreign Office,” he said. “He was as white as that tablecloth. He said: ‘Ils vont nous lacher.’ ‘They’re going to let us down.’ He had been with Grey.”

  The duchess asked: “Do you know what Grey had said, to upset Monsieur Cambon so?”

  “Yes, Cambon told me. Apparently, the Germans are willing to leave France alone, if France promises to stay out of the war—and if the French refuse that offer, the British will not feel obliged to help defend France.”

  Maud felt sorry for the French ambassador, but her heart leaped with hope at the suggestion that Britain might stay out of the war.

  “But France must refuse that offer,” the duchess said. “She has a treaty with Russia, according to which each must come to the other’s aid in war.”

  “Exactly!” said Fitz angrily. “What is the point of international alliances if they are to be broken at the moment of crisis?”

  “Nonsense,” Maud said, knowing she was being rude but not caring. “International alliances are broken whenever convenient. That isn’t the issue.”

  “And what is, pray?” Fitz said frostily.

  “I think Asquith and Grey are simply trying to frighten the French with a dose of reality. France cannot defeat Germany without our help. If they think they might have to go it alone, perhaps the French will become peacemakers, and pressure their Russian allies to back off from war with Germany.”

  “And what about Serbia?”

  Maud said: “Even at this stage, it’s not too late for Russia and Austria to sit down at a table and work out a solution for the Balkans that both can live with.”

  There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds, then Fitz said: “I doubt very much that anything like that will happen.”

  “But surely,” said Maud, and even as she spoke she could hear the desperation in her own voice, “surely we must keep hope alive?”

  { IV }

  Maud sat in her room and could not summon the energy to change her clothes for dinner. Her maid had laid out a gown and some jewelry, but Maud just stared at them.

  She went to parties almost every night during the London season, because much of the politics and diplomacy that fascinated her was done at social occasions. But tonight she felt she could not do it—could not be glamorous and charming, could not entice powerful men to tell her what they were thinking, could not play the game of changing their minds without their even suspecting that they were being persuaded.

  Walter was going to war. He would put on a uniform and carry a gun, and enemy troops would fire shells and mortars and machine-gun rounds at him and try to kill him, or wound him so badly that he was no longer able to stand up. She found it hard to think about anything else, and she was constantly on the edge of tears. She had even had harsh words with her beloved brother.

  There was a tap at the door. Grout stood outside. “Herr von Ulrich is here, my lady,” he said.

  Maud was shocked. She had not been expecting Walter. Why had he come?

  Noticing her surprise, Grout added: “When I said my master was not at home, he asked for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Maud, and she pushed past Grout and headed down the stairs.

  Grout called after her: “Herr von Ulrich is in the drawing room. I will ask Lady Hermia to join you.” Even Grout knew that Maud was not supposed to be left alone with a young man. But Aunt Herm did not move fast, and it would be several minutes before she arrived.

  Maud rushed into the drawing room and threw herself into Walter’s arms. “What are we going to do?” she wailed. “Walter, what are we going to do?”

  He hugged her hard, then gazed at her gravely. His face was gray and drawn. He looked as if he had been told of a death. He said: “France has not replied to the G
erman ultimatum.”

  “Have they said nothing at all?” she cried.

  “Our ambassador in Paris insisted on a response. The message from Premier Viviani was: ‘France will have regard to her own interests.’ They will not promise neutrality.”

  “But there may still be time—”

  “No. They have decided to mobilize. Joffre won the argument—as the military have in every country. The telegrams were sent at four o’clock this afternoon, Paris time.”

  “There must be something you can do!”

  “Germany has run out of choices,” he said. “We cannot fight Russia with a hostile France at our backs, armed and eager to win back Alsace-Lorraine. So we must attack France. The Schlieffen Plan has already been set in motion. In Berlin, the crowds are singing the ‘Kaiserhymne’ in the streets.”

  “You’ll have to join your regiment,” she said, and she could not hold back the tears.

  “Of course.”

  She wiped her face. Her handkerchief was too small, a stupid scrap of embroidered lawn. She used her sleeve instead. “When?” she said. “When will you have to leave London?”

  “Not for a few days.” He was fighting back tears himself, she saw. He said: “Is there any chance at all that Britain can be kept out of the war? Then at least I wouldn’t be fighting against your country.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Tomorrow will tell.” She pulled him close. “Please hold me tight.” She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  { V }

  Fitz was angered to see an antiwar demonstration in Trafalgar Square on Sunday afternoon. Keir Hardie, the Labour M.P., was speaking, dressed in a tweed suit—like a gamekeeper, Fitz thought. He stood on the plinth of Nelson’s Column, shouting hoarsely in his Scots accent, desecrating the memory of the hero who died for Britain at the Battle of Trafalgar.

  Hardie said that the coming war would be the greatest catastrophe the world had ever seen. He represented a mining constituency—Merthyr, near Aberowen. He was the illegitimate son of a maidservant, and had been a coal miner until he went into politics. What did he know about war?

  Fitz stalked off in disgust and went to the duchess’s for tea. In the grand hall he came upon Maud deep in conversation with Walter. The crisis was driving him away from both of them, to his profound regret. He loved his sister and he was fond of Walter, but Maud was a Liberal and Walter a German, and in times like these it was hard even to speak to them. However, he did his best to seem amiable as he said to Maud: “I hear this morning’s cabinet was stormy.”

  She nodded. “Churchill mobilized the fleet last night without asking anyone. John Burns resigned this morning in protest.”

  “I can’t pretend to be sorry.” Burns was an old radical, the most fervently antiwar cabinet minister. “So the rest must have endorsed Winston’s action.”

  “Reluctantly.”

  “We must be grateful for small mercies.” It was appalling, Fitz felt, that at this time of national danger the government should be in the hands of these leftist ditherers.

  Maud said: “But they refused Grey’s request for a commitment to defend France.”

  “Still acting like cowards, then,” Fitz said. He knew he was being rude to his sister, but he felt too bitter to hold back.

  “Not quite,” Maud said evenly. “They agreed to prevent the German navy passing through the English Channel to attack France.”

  Fitz brightened a little. “Well, that’s something.”

  Walter put in: “The German government has responded by saying we have no intention of sending ships into the English Channel.”

  Fitz said to Maud: “You see what happens when you stand firm?”

  “Don’t be so smug, Fitz,” she said. “If we do go to war it will be because people such as you have not tried hard enough to prevent it.”

  “Oh, really?” He was offended. “Well, let me tell you something. I spoke to Sir Edward Grey last night at Brooks’s club. He has asked both the French and the Germans to respect the neutrality of Belgium. The French agreed immediately.” Fitz looked challengingly at Walter. “The Germans have not responded.”

  “It’s true.” Walter gave an apologetic shrug. “My dear Fitz, you as a soldier will see that we couldn’t answer that question, one way or the other, without giving away our war plans.”

  “I do see, but in the light of that I want to know why my sister thinks I am a warmonger and you are a peacemaker.”

  Maud avoided the question. “Lloyd George thinks Britain should intervene only if the German army violates Belgian territory substantially. He may suggest it at tonight’s cabinet.”

  Fitz knew what that meant. Furiously he said: “So we will give Germany permission to attack France via the southern corner of Belgium?”

  “I suppose that is exactly what it means.”

  “I knew it,” Fitz said. “The traitors. They’re planning to wriggle out of their duty. They will do anything to avoid war!”

  “I wish you were right,” said Maud.

  { VI }

  Maud had to go to the House of Commons on Monday afternoon to hear Sir Edward Grey address members of Parliament. The speech would be a turning point, everyone agreed. Aunt Herm went with her. For once, Maud was glad of an old lady’s reassuring company.

  Maud’s fate would be decided this afternoon, as well as the fate of thousands of men of fighting age. Depending on what Grey said, and how Parliament reacted, women all over Europe could become widows, their children orphans.

  Maud had stopped being angry—worn out with it, perhaps. Now she was just frightened. War or peace, marriage or loneliness, life or death: her destiny.

  It was a holiday, so the city’s huge population of bank clerks, civil servants, lawyers, stockbrokers, and merchants all had the day off. Most of them seemed to have gathered near the great departments of government in Westminster, hoping to be the first to hear news. The chauffeur steered Fitz’s seven-passenger Cadillac limousine slowly through the vast crowds in Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, and Parliament Square. The weather was cloudy but warm, and the more fashionable young men wore straw boaters. Maud glimpsed a placard for the Evening Standard that read: ON THE BRINK OF CATASTROPHE.

  The crowd cheered as the car drew up outside the Palace of Westminster, then there was a little groan of disappointment when it disgorged nothing more interesting than two ladies. The onlookers wanted to see their heroes, men such as Lloyd George and Keir Hardie.

  The palace epitomized the Victorian mania for decoration, Maud thought. The stone was elaborately carved, there was linenfold paneling everywhere, the floor tiles were multicolored, the glass was stained, and the carpets were patterned.

  Although it was a holiday, the House was sitting and the place was crowded with members and peers, most of them in the parliamentary uniform of black morning coat and black silk top hat. Only the Labour members defied the dress code by wearing tweeds or lounge suits.

  The peace faction was still a majority in cabinet, Maud knew. Lloyd George had won his point last night, and the government would stand aside if Germany committed a merely technical violation of Belgian territory.

  Helpfully, the Italians had declared neutrality, saying their treaty with Austria obliged them to join only in a defensive war, whereas Austria’s action in Serbia was clearly aggressive. So far, Maud thought, Italy was the only country to have shown common sense.

  Fitz and Walter were waiting in the octagonal Central Lobby. Maud immediately said: “I haven’t heard what happened at this morning’s cabinet—have you?”

  “Three more resignations,” Fitz said. “Morley, Simon, and Beauchamp.”

  All three were antiwar. Maud was discouraged, and also puzzled. “Not Lloyd George?”

  “No.”

  “Strange.” Maud felt a chill of foreboding. Was there a split in the peace faction? “What is Lloyd George up to?”

  Walter said: “I don’t know, but I can guess.” He looked solemn. “Las
t night, Germany demanded free passage through Belgium for our troops.”

  Maud gasped.

  Walter went on: “The Belgian cabinet sat from nine o’clock yesterday evening until four this morning, then rejected the demand and said they would fight.”

  This was dreadful.

  Fitz said: “So Lloyd George was wrong—the German army is not going to commit a merely technical violation.”

  Walter said nothing, but spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  Maud feared that the brutal German ultimatum, and the Belgian government’s foolhardy defiance, might have undermined the peace faction in the cabinet. Belgium and Germany looked too much like David and Goliath. Lloyd George had a nose for public opinion: had he sensed that the mood was about to change?

  “We must take our places,” said Fitz.

  Full of apprehension, Maud passed through a small door and climbed a long staircase to emerge in the Strangers’ Gallery overlooking the chamber of the House of Commons. Here sat the sovereign government of the British empire. In this room, matters of life and death were decided for the 444 million people who lived under some form of British rule. Every time she came here Maud was struck by how small it was, with less room than the average London church.

  Government and opposition faced each other on tiered rows of benches, separated by a gap that—according to legend—was two sword lengths, so that opponents could not fight. For most debates the chamber was almost empty, with no more than a dozen or so members sprawled comfortably on the green leather upholstery. Today, however, the benches were packed, and M.P.s who could not find seats were standing at the entrance. Only the front rows were vacant, those places being reserved by tradition for cabinet ministers, on the government side, and opposition leaders on the other.

  It was significant, Maud thought, that today’s debate was to take place in this chamber, not in the House of Lords. In fact many of the peers were, like Fitz, here in the gallery, watching. The House of Commons had the authority that came from being elected by the people—even though not much more than half of adult men had the vote, and no women. Much of Asquith’s time as prime minister had been spent fighting the Lords, especially over Lloyd George’s plan to give all old people a small pension. The battles had been fierce but, each time, the Commons had won. The underlying reason, Maud believed, was that the English aristocracy were terrified that the French revolution would be repeated here, so in the end they always accepted a compromise.