After their ship laid anchor in the harbor, Viviani and President Poincaré were transferred onto a smaller steamer and piloted into port, where they were surprised by crowds shouting, “Vive la France!” and “Vive Poincaré!” While he ordinarily enjoyed such displays of patriotism, Poincaré was surprised by the intensity of the public mood. “What struck me,” he recalled later, “was that many people here seem to think war imminent.” Crowds showed up at every station along the three-hour train trip to Paris and at many points in between. “We saw the inhabitants massed on both sides of the way,” he observed, “shouting without ceasing the same public greetings, the same cheers, the same vows of peace, the same promises of courage and res-ignation.”3 If war would come, it seemed that the French people were ready, whether or not France’s government had decided what to do.
Poincaré and Viviani were a bit behind events because of the vagaries of wireless communication at sea. There remains some controversy as to whether the German Admiralty deliberately jammed the France’s signals while it was off Germany’s Baltic coast, as the French always claimed.*4 Poor signal strength, along with interference among wireless messages transmitted at similar frequencies across well-trafficked sea channels, may account for the difficulties of reception aboard the France. Still, it is clear that not all messages from Paris and Petersburg got through. On Tuesday evening, 28 July, Ambassador Paléologue had told Foreign Minister Sazonov that he could not reach the France—with the corollary that, because his superiors were out of touch, “they cannot send me any instructions.” He thus left the Russians in doubt about whether his endorsement of the acceleration of Russia’s mobilization measures that day (“the complete readiness of France to fulfill her obligations as an ally”) really had been given “on the instructions of his Government,” as he told Sazonov.5 To this day, we do not know for sure whether Paléologue was acting on orders from his president or premier, or exceeding them.
Almost certainly, Poincaré and Viviani knew less than did their ambassador in Petersburg when they returned to France. Still, they knew more than they made out in postwar memoirs. Viviani’s latest communication from on board the France to Bienvenu-Martin, acting director of the Quai d’Orsay, on Tuesday, had taken up British foreign secretary Grey’s three-days-old proposal for a four-power conference, not the more urgent recent ones for direct Austrian-Russian talks on the basis of Serbia’s reply.6 This suggests he was running behind on mediation efforts. Poincaré and Viviani probably had not heard yet of Austria’s declaration of war on Serbia on Tuesday (although they would learn of it after docking at Dunkirk), nor of the drawing up of mobilization ukases in Petersburg on Tuesday night. They may or may not have known about the inauguration of Russia’s Period Preparatory to War: the Paléologue and Laguiche telegrams discussing it were sent directly to Paris, and there is no proof that these messages ever reached the France.
Still, as against their later claims to have known nothing of Russian war preparations, we can confirm that Viviani was informed by Bienvenu-Martin on Sunday, 26 July, that Russia planned to “partially mobilize” thirteen army corps against Vienna “if Austria were to bring armed pressure to bear on Serbia,” and that “Russian public opinion affirms its determination not to let Serbia be crushed.”7 In response to this telegram, Viviani had instructed Paléologue, on Monday, 27 July, to tell Sazonov that France was “ready . . . wholeheartedly to second the action of the [Russian] imperial government” (although Viviani, significantly, had inserted the clause “in the interests of general peace” to the original Quai d’Orsay draft, in between “ready” and “wholeheartedly”).8 Neither Viviani nor Poincaré was up on all the latest developments. But they had left Russia in no doubt as to French resolve and support.
On the train to Paris, Poincaré and Viviani were further debriefed by Abel Ferry, the French undersecretary of state, who had assembled “an enormous pile of telegrams” for them. They learned, among other things, that French Algeria and Morocco had been mobilized: a hundred thousand “crack troops” were assembling on the coast, ready to be shipped to the French mainland. French and other European civilians were being evacuated into the African interior for safety. Even Poincaré was taken aback by this news. Still, Ferry did not know everything. He informed the president neither of Russia’s far-reaching Period Preparatory to War, underway by now for four days, nor that Joffre, Messimy, and Paléologue had urged the Russians to go further still.9
Poincaré would not remain ignorant for long. Messimy met him as soon as the president’s train pulled into the capital. “Monsieur le Président,” the minister of war said by way of greeting, “you are going to see Paris; it is magnificent.” Indeed it was. Only the previous day the Caillaux trial had concluded, after dividing the French public for months. It was a kind of exorcism: France’s inner demons seemed to have dissolved into a nationalist frenzy against the Germans. “As I came out of the station,” Poincaré recalled,
I was greeted by an overwhelming demonstration which moved me to the depths of my being. Many people had tears in their eyes and I could hardly hold back my own. From thousands of throats arose repeated shouts of: Vive la France et Vive la République! Vive le Président! . . . From the station to the Elysée the cheering never stopped. . . . Here was a united France. Political quarrels were forgotten. . . . How far away the [Caillaux] affair seems now! What different matters now claim public attention!10
For a man himself involved in the affair on the side of the nationalist publisher murdered by Caillaux’s wife, who had legitimate concerns that Russian subsidies routed via Ambassador Izvolsky to his presidential campaign in 1913 would be exposed, Poincaré saw the outpouring of patriotism as something of a personal vindication.
Once the cheering subsided, it was time to go to work. At eleven fifteen that morning, Izvolsky arrived at the Quai d’Orsay to debrief Viviani and Poincaré. He shared with them Sazonov’s telegram, sent on Tuesday evening, announcing Russia’s partial mobilization in response to Austria’s declaration of war on Serbia, along with the vaguer one to Ambassador Benckendorff in London, in which Sazonov spoke only of Austria’s declaration of war on Serbia (but not Russia’s response to it) and requested that his ambassador ask Grey “with all speed to take action in view of mediation and for Austria at once to suspend military measures against Serbia.” Izvolsky did not acquaint the president—or at least not the premier—with his recent discussions with Messimy and Joffre regarding the acceleration of Russian mobilization measures.11
Izvolsky’s briefing was a classic red herring. According to the terms of the Franco-Russian military convention, reaffirmed as recently as 1913, neither country could mobilize without first informing the other. If Russia were to order general mobilization without clearing this with France (or without prior German mobilization, which would trigger both French and Russian mobilizations), it would violate one of the fundamental conditions of the alliance.12 This, and not Sazonov’s loaded request for Austria to suspend military measures against Serbia (even while Russia accelerated her own), should have been the first order of business between Izvolsky and France’s government. By Wednesday, Russia’s war preparations had already begun to resemble a general mobilization, whatever she chose to call them. We can get an idea of their scope—and intent—in a report filed that day by Germany’s consul in Warsaw:
Russia is already fully in a state of preparation for war. . . . The troops ranged against Germany are assembling between Lomza and Kovno along the Niemen, while those ranged against Austria are assembling at Lublin and Kovel [in Ukraine]. . . . The Warsaw-Kalish line [to the Prussian border] and the Warsaw-Vienna tracks have been blanketed with infantry and sappers, who are laying mines under the roadbeds.13
Unaware of all this—and with Izvolsky doing nothing to enlighten him—Viviani agreed to telegraph his ambassador in London, Paul Cambon, to tell him that he should support Sazonov’s request that England get Austria to “suspend military measures.”14 While the request was re
asonable on the surface, in terms of diplomatic priorities it made little sense. There was little that France, much less England, could do to influence Vienna directly, especially as Austrian military measures thus far targeted Serbia, not Russia. France did, however, have an interest—a legal obligation, even—to sign off on Russian military measures, which had already taken on threatening overtones on both the Austrian and the German borders. It was the strategic-alliance implications of Russia’s own military measures, underway since Saturday night, that Viviani should have been focusing on. France’s premier was rushing to get up to speed on Austria. When it came to his own ally, however, he was running nearly four days behind.
THE GERMANS WERE NOT DOING MUCH BETTER. By Tuesday, 27 July, Chancellor Bethmann had, more or less, caught up to events following his return from Hohenfinow, but, whether by accident or design, he had done a very poor job of keeping his sovereign and the military service chiefs informed. The kaiser remained unaware for most of Wednesday that Bethmann had effectively gutted his proposal to mediate at Vienna by ruling out any negotiations over the terms of Serbia’s reply. Chief of Staff Moltke, responsible for the mobilization of Germany’s armies in case the crisis spiraled into war, had awakened to the seriousness of the situation only toward Tuesday evening, when he began composing a policy statement for the chancellor. Given to Bethmann Wednesday morning, Moltke’s memorandum made for depressing reading. It would be suicidal, he argued, for Austria to send her armies into Serbia without also mobilizing against Russia—otherwise the tsarist armies could seize Austrian Galicia without a fight. “The instant Austria mobilizes her whole army,” Moltke continued,
the clash between her and Russia will become inevitable. Now that is for Germany the casus foederis. Unless Germany means to break her word and allow her ally to succumb to Russia’s superior strength, she must also mobilize. This will lead to the mobilization of the remaining Russian military districts. . . . The Franco-Russian agreement . . . comes thereby into operation, and the civilized states of Europe will tear each other to pieces. . . . This is the way things will and must develop, unless, one might almost say, a miracle takes place at the last hour, to prevent a war that will annihilate the civilization of almost all of Europe for decades to come.15
Although tinged with his habitual pessimism, Moltke’s statement was a fairly accurate representation of where things stood on Wednesday. Austria had not yet mobilized her whole army, nor Russia hers, although both were far along in “partial” mobilization measures, and in the Russian case this clearly included the areas of Poland bordering Germany. Nor had France mobilized—although, as Moltke pointed out, she had already begun a few premobilization measures on the frontier, as reported by German army intelligence. On the orders of Erich von Falkenhayn, the Prussian minister of war (not Moltke), the German army had undertaken a few precautionary measures of her own on Tuesday, keeping troops in garrison by calling off planned maneuvers, purchasing grain, and heightening security on the railways. This fell far short of premobilization, much less mobilization. So long as the powers refrained from accelerating war preparations, therefore, there was still a slim chance of staving off war—but, as Moltke suggested, it would require a diplomatic miracle. Any further perturbation in the delicate dance of mobilization timetables could be fatal.
After reading over the memorandum, Bethmann summoned Moltke and Falkenhayn to the Wilhelmstrasse. We have no transcript of this Wednesday morning audience, but it seems to have been a difficult one. Falkenhayn, having ordered precautionary measures on Tuesday, wanted to take things to the next level by proclaiming Kriegsgefahrzustand, or “the Imminent Danger of War,” a stage akin to Russia’s Period Preparatory to War, although in the German case still more serious, as, barring contrary orders, general mobilization would follow automatically after just two days. Bethmann, hoping that the kaiser’s “Halt in Belgrade” plan might still work, refused. He was backed by Moltke, who, Falkenhayn complained, “would not go further than giving military protection to important railway key points.”16
Still, Moltke had his own concerns about Bethmann’s dithering. Germany’s latest mobilization plan, which he had modified significantly from the design of Count Alfred von Schlieffen, his predecessor as chief of staff, dating to 1906,* required the German armies to achieve a major victory on the western front within six or seven weeks of mobilization, so as to give Moltke enough time to wheel them around to fend off Russia’s expected offensive on Berlin. Every passing day, during which France and Russia were mobilizing (or premobilizing) threatened Moltke’s timetable. It was thus imperative, he told Bethmann, to clarify French and Russian intentions immediately.17
The chancellor agreed. At 12:50 PM Wednesday, Bethmann sent off wires to his ambassadors in Paris and Petersburg. Baron Schoen was instructed to inform the French government that, in response to France’s preliminary mobilization preparations, Germany would have to proclaim Kriegsgefahr (“Danger of War,” not quite “Immediate Danger of War”), which, Schoen was to insist, fell well short of mobilization.18 More ominously, Pourtalès was asked to “please impress on M. Sazonov very seriously that further progress of Russian mobilization measures would compel us to mobilize and that European war could then scarcely be prevented.”19
Bethmann had once again blundered into the most counterproductive policy imaginable. Having failed to follow his kaiser’s instructions on Tuesday to mediate seriously in Vienna, he had lost what was probably his last realistic chance to lure Austria, and with her Russia, back from the precipice. Bethmann had also failed to give point to his ministrations in Petersburg by refusing to declare Kriegsgefahrzustand, which might have put a scare into Sazonov—and the French. Instead of quietly preparing for war, the chancellor issued two clumsy threats to undertake retaliatory mobilization measures—and in his threat to Russia, Bethmann vowed explicitly that German mobilization would lead to “European war.” In doing so, he undermined his own “Halt in Belgrade” initiative, which he had committed to (however selectively) on Tuesday night. France and Russia, though speaking softly—especially in London—continued priming their fists for war. The Germans were loudly proclaiming their warlike intentions—but doing little to prepare for the fight.
Meanwhile, the Austrians were serving up another fait accompli, without bothering to inform the Germans. Wednesday afternoon, while Pourtalès was mulling over how to issue Bethmann’s veiled threat to Sazonov without it sounding like a threat, the Austrian army began shelling Belgrade, conveniently located on the Austrian border, directly opposite the Danube. The attack was mostly symbolic, doing little actual damage. It petered out quickly and was not followed by any hint of a ground offensive. Still, it gave the lie to any expectation that the Austrians might accept mediation with Serbia—or that the Germans would force them to.
BY WEDNESDAY EVENING, Bethmann’s contradictory policies had borne evil fruit in St. Petersburg.
At around eleven AM, Pourtalès had called on Sazonov to reassure him that Berlin was working to rein in Austria, as promised in the kaiser’s “Nicky” telegram—although (lacking clearer instructions from Bethmann) he was not able to spell out how, exactly, the Germans were restraining their ally. The ambassador also requested that the Russians not make things harder by undertaking a “premature mobilization” against Austria (apparently Sazonov had not yet informed Pourtalès about the “partial mobilization” against her that was ordered on Tuesday). Sazonov replied that Austria should halt her own mobilization measures—no fewer than eight corps, he told Pourtalès, had been mobilized (this was true, but it was also true that, at Chief of Staff Conrad’s insistence, all eight had been mobilized against Serbia, not Russia). Sazonov then called in his advisers to discuss whether the Germans were sincere or were merely using delaying tactics. An answer, of sorts, was offered at around five PM, when Sazonov learned of the Austrian bombardment of Belgrade.20 At six PM, Pourtalès returned, carrying Bethmann’s veiled warning, so contrary in spirit to what he had said that
morning (although the ambassador gamely insisted to Sazonov that “it was not a threat, but a friendly opinion”).21
The effect on the Russian foreign minister was electric. After being told—shortly after hearing that Austria had begun shelling the Serbian capital—that Germany would be “compelled” to mobilize if Russia continued her military preparations, Russia’s foreign minister “sharply replied, ‘I no longer have any doubt as to the real cause of Austrian intransigence.’ At this, Count Pourtalès jumped up from his seat, and also sharply exclaimed, ‘I protest with all my power, Mr. Minister, against this injurious assertion.’” Sazonov, Schilling recorded, “drily replied that Germany still had an opportunity for proving the erroneousness of what he had said.” The two men then parted “coolly.”22 In a week of mounting tension between Pourtalès and Sazonov, this was their most disastrous encounter yet.
The next hours in Petersburg were packed with incident. Shortly before 8 PM, the tsar phoned Sazonov to share with him the previous night’s telegram from the kaiser, which he had just finished reading. Sazonov, in turn, informed his sovereign about Bethmann’s warning and the resulting unpleasant confrontation with the German ambassador from which he had just emerged.23 The tsar was perplexed by the seeming contradiction and sent an urgent telegram to Willy at 8:20 PM, demanding clarification:
THANKS FOR YOUR TELEGRAM CONCILIATORY AND FRIENDLY, WHEREAS OFFICIAL MESSAGE PRESENTED TODAY BY YOUR AMBASSADOR TO MY MINISTER WAS CONVEYED IN A VERY DIFFERENT TONE. BEG YOU TO EXPLAIN THE DIVERGENCY. IT WOULD BE RIGHT TO GIVE OVER THE AUSTRO-SERBIAN PROBLEM TO THE HAGUE CONFERENCE. TRUST IN YOUR WISDOM AND FRIENDSHIP. YOUR LOVING NICKY.24
July 1914: Countdown to War Page 26
