Nicholas and Alexandra

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Long Summer of 1914

BY the spring of 1914, the nine-year-old Tsarevich had made a good recovery from the attack at Spala eighteen months before. His leg had straightened and, to his parents’ delight, he walked with only a trace of a limp. In celebration of Alexis’s return to health, the Tsar decided one clear May morning to abandon his papers and take his son on an outing. The excursion from Livadia into the mountains was to be entirely male. Alexis was overjoyed.

Two touring cars set out after breakfast. Alexis and his father were in the first, along with Gilliard and an officer from the Standart; the sailor Derevenko and a single Cossack guard followed in the second. Trailing long plumes of dust, the cars climbed the slopes of the mountains behind the Imperial palace, passing through cool forests of towering pines. Their destination was a great rust-colored cliff called Red Rock, which offered a majestic view of the valleys, the white palaces and the turquoise sea below. After lunch, descending the northern slope, the little cavalcade came on patches of still un-melted winter snow. Alexis begged that the cars be stopped, and Nicholas agreed. “He [Alexis] ran around us, skipping about, rolling in the snow, and picking himself up only to fall again a few seconds later,” wrote Gilliard. “The Tsar watched his son’s frolics with obvious pleasure.” Although he intervened from time to time to caution his son to be careful, Nicholas was convinced for the first time that the ordeal at Spala was finally over.

“The day drew to a close,” Gilliard continued, “and we were quite sorry to have to start back. The Tsar was in high spirits during the drive. We had an impression that this holiday devoted to his son had been a tremendous pleasure to him. For a few hours, he had escaped his imperial duties.”

Despite her shyness and the close family circle that surrounded her, talk of marriage began to focus that year on eighteen-year-old Grand Duchess Olga. A match with Edward, the Prince of Wales, was mentioned. Nothing came of it, and the Prince remained unmarried until 1936, when he gave up his throne to marry Wallis Warfield Simpson. More serious discussion centered on Crown Prince Carol of Rumania. Sazonov, the Russian Foreign Minister, was an advocate of this match; he saw in it a possibility of detaching Rumania from her alliance with Germany and Austria-Hungary. Nicholas and Alexandra were receptive to Carol’s suit, but Olga herself was implacably opposed.

On June 13, the Russian Imperial family paid a brief, formal visit to the Rumanian Black Sea port of Constanza. Carol and his family waited on the pier as the Standart brought the Russian visitors from Yalta. The single day was crowded with ceremonies: a cathedral service, a naval review and luncheon in the morning, followed by a military review, a formal tea, a state dinner, a torchlight parade and fireworks in the evening. All day long, the Rumanians stared at Olga, aware that in the Russian girl they might be observing their future queen.

In that sense, the visit was a waste of time. Even before the Standart arrived in Constanza, Olga found Gilliard on deck. “Tell me the truth, Monsieur,” she said, “do you know why we are going to Rumania?” Tactfully, the tutor replied that he understood it was a matter of diplomacy. Tossing her head, Olga declared that Gilliard obviously knew the real reason. “I don’t want it to happen,” she said fiercely. “Papa has promised not to make me, and I don’t want to leave Russia. I am a Russian and I mean to remain a Russian.”

Olga’s parents respected her feelings. Alexandra, sitting one day on the terrace at Livadia, explained their viewpoint to Sazonov. “I think with terror that the time draws near when I shall have to part with my daughters,” she said. “I could desire nothing better than that they should remain in Russia after their marriage. But I have four daughters and it is, of course, impossible. You know how difficult marriages are in reigning families. I know it by experience, although I was never in the position my daughters occupy, being [only] the daughter of the Grand Duke of Hesse, and running little risk of being obliged to make a political match. Still, I was once threatened with the danger of marrying without love or even affection, and I vividly remember the torments I endured when … (the Empress named a member of one of the German reigning houses) arrived at Darmstadt and I was informed that he intended to marry me. I did not know him at all and I shall never forget what I suffered when I met him for the first time. My grandmother, Queen Victoria, took pity on me, and I was left in peace. God disposed otherwise of my fate, and granted me undreamed-of happiness. All the more then do I feel it my duty to leave my daughters free to marry according to their inclination. The Emperor will have to decide whether he considers this or that marriage suitable for his daughters, but parental authority must not extend beyond that.”

Carol did not give up hope of marrying a Romanov grand duchess. Two years later, he suggested to Nicholas that he marry Marie, then sixteen. Nicholas laughingly declared that Marie was only a schoolgirl. In 1947, having abdicated the throne of Rumania, Carol made the third of his three marriages. His wife was the woman who had been his mistress for twenty-two years, Magda Lupescu.

In Europe, the early summer of 1914 was marked by glorious weather. Millions of men and women went off on holidays, forgetting their fears of war in the warmth of the sun. Kings and emperors continued to visit each other, dine at state dinners, review armies and fleets and bounce each other’s children on their knees. Beneath the surface, however, differences were detectable. The important visits took place between allies: King George V visited Paris; the Kaiser visited the Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand; Raymond Poincaré, President of France, visited the Tsar in St. Petersburg. In their entourages, the chiefs of state brought generals and diplomats who sat down quietly with their opposite numbers to compare plans and confirm understandings. Military reviews took on special significance. Troops on parade were carefully watched for signs of élan, vigor and readiness for war.

An event of special symbolic importance took place at the end of June when the dashing British Admiral Sir David Beatty led the First Battle Cruiser Squadron of the Royal Navy up the Baltic on a visit to Russia. England, alarmed by the rapid building of the Kaiser’s powerful High Seas Fleet, was reluctantly abandoning a century of “splendid isolation.” A closer tie with Tsarist Russia, hitherto despised in press and parliament as the land of the Cossack and the knout, was part of Britain’s new diplomacy. On June 20, a blazing, cloudless day, Beatty’s four huge gray ships, Lion, Queen Mary, Princess Royal and New Zealand, steamed slowly past the Standart and anchored at Kronstadt. The Imperial family went aboard Beatty’s flagship, Lion, for lunch. “Never have I seen happier faces than those of the young grand duchesses escorted over Lion by a little band of middies especially told off for their amusement,” reported the British Ambassador, Sir George Buchanan. “When I think of them as I saw them that day,” he added, “the tragic story of their deaths seems like some hideous nightmare.”

The following day, while thousands of Russians stared at the English ships swinging silently on the Baltic tide, Beatty and his officers visited Tsarskoe Selo. Beatty himself, the youngest British admiral since Nelson, made a tremendous impression. His youthful, clean-shaven face caused many Russians, accustomed to seeing admirals with beards to their waists, to mistake Beatty for his own flag lieutenant. But Beatty’s manner was unmistakably one of command. His square jaw and the jaunty angle at which he wore his cap suggested the sea dog. He spoke in a voice which would have carried over the howl of a gale. It was as if the solid reality of Britain’s enormous seapower, a thing few Russians understood, had suddenly been revealed in Beatty’s person.

After Beatty’s departure, the Imperial family boarded the Standart for their annual two-week cruise along the coast of Finland. They were at sea four days later, June 28, when the terrible day arrived which is known in European history simply as “Sarajevo.”

A hot Balkan sun shone down that morning on the white, flat-roofed houses of the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo. The streets were crowded with people who had come from miles away to see the middle-aged Hapsburg prince who one day would be their emperor. Tall and fleshy, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was not ragingly popular anywhere within the sprawling Austro-Hungarian Empire, which had been ruled for sixty-six years by his aged uncle, Emperor Franz Joseph. Yet Franz Ferdinand was sufficiently enlightened politically to see—as his uncle and the government in Vienna did not—that unless something was done about the Slav nationalism burning inside the empire, the empire itself would disintegrate.

Austria-Hungary in 1914 was a hodge-podge of races, provinces and nationalities scattered across central Europe and the upper Balkans. Three fifths of these forty million people were Slavs—Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, Serbs, Bosnians and Montenegrins—yet the empire was ruled by its two non-Slavic races, the Austrians and the Magyars of Hungary. Not surprisingly, most of the Slavic peoples within the empire restlessly longed for the day they would be free.

On these turbulent Slav provinces within the empire, the small independent Slav kingdom of Serbia acted as a magnet. Inside Serbia, passionate Slav nationalists plotted to break up the crumbling Austro-Hungarian Empire and weld the dissident Slav provinces into a single Greater South Slav Kingdom. Serbia lacked the military strength to wrest the provinces away by force, but Belgrade, the Serb capital, became a fountainhead of inflammatory Slav nationalist propaganda. Belgrade also became the headquarters of a secret terrorist organization called the Black Hand, designed to strike at Austria-Hungary by sabotage and murder.

In Vienna, the Imperial capital, the disruptive influence of Serbia was greatly feared. Field Marshal von Conrad-Hötzendorf, Chief of the Austrian General Staff, described Serbia as “a dangerous little viper.” For years, Conrad-Hötzendorf had impatiently awaited orders to crush the Serb menace. But in 1914 the Emperor Franz Joseph was eighty-four. He had come to the throne in 1848; the years of his reign had been marked by tragedy. His brother Maximilian had become Emperor of Mexico and had been shot by a firing squad on a Mexican hillside. His only son, Crown Prince Rudolf, had died with his mistress in a love-pact suicide at Mayerling. His wife, Empress Elizabeth, had been struck down by an assassin’s knife. His nephew and heir, Franz Ferdinand, had defied his will and married a commoner, Countess Sophie Chotek. Before settling the succession on Franz Ferdinand, the old Emperor forced the Archduke to renounce the throne for any children he should have by Sophie. On public occasions, Sophie, wife of the heir, was forced to walk behind the least important ladies of the royal blood and to sit at a distant end of the Imperial table. She found the humiliations unbearable; the Archduke made violent scenes with his family, but the Emperor refused to give way. His last hope was to die in peace with his Imperial dignity and his empire intact.

Busy soothing his wife, absent from the court, Franz Ferdinand knew nevertheless that the Emperor would not live forever. Politically, he understood that the policy of drift could not continue. His proposal was to appease the Slavs within the empire by bringing them into active participation within the government: he foresaw an eventual broadening of Austro-Hungarian “dualism” into a “trialism” which would include in the government Austrians, Magyars and Slavs. His solution was opposed by all concerned: by Austrian and Magyar ministers who did not wish to share their power, and by Slav nationalists who feared that the plan’s success would destroy their own dreams of a South Slav kingdom. Yet Franz Ferdinand persisted. As a preliminary step, he decided that while he was watching Austrian army maneuvers in the Bosnian mountains, he would also pay a ceremonial visit to the provincial capital of Sarajevo. To expand this gesture of friendship, the Archduke brought his wife, the mother of his three disinherited children. In addition, he asked that the troops which normally lined the streets during an Imperial visit be dispensed with. Except for 150 local policemen, the crowds were to have free access to the Heir to the Throne.

Franz Ferdinand was dressed that day in the green uniform of an Austrian field marshal, with feathers waving from his military cap. As his six-car motorcade entered the town, he was in the open back seat of the second car with Sophie beside him. On the streets, he saw smiling faces and waving arms. Flags and bright-colored rugs hung as decorations, and from the windows of shops and houses his own portrait stared back at him. Franz Ferdinand was enormously pleased.

As the procession neared the city hall, the Archduke’s chauffeur glimpsed an object hurled from the crowd. He pressed the accelerator, the car jumped forward and a bomb which would have landed in Sophie’s lap bounced off the rear of the car and exploded under the wheels of the car behind. Two officers were wounded. The young Serb who had thrown the bomb ran across a bridge, but was apprehended by the police.

Franz Ferdinand, meanwhile, arrived at Sarajevo’s city hall. He was pale, shaken and furious. “One comes here for a visit,” he shouted, “and is welcomed by bombs!” There was a quick, urgent conference. One of the Archduke’s suite asked if a military guard could be arranged. The provincial governor replied acidly, “Do you think Sarajevo is filled with assassins?” It was decided to go back through the city by a different route. On the way, however, the driver of the first car, forgetting the alteration, turned into one of the prearranged streets. The Archduke’s chauffeur, following behind, was momentarily misled. He too started to turn. An official shouted, “Not that way, you fool!” The chauffeur braked, pausing to shift gears not five feet from the watching crowd. At that moment, a slim nineteen-year-old boy stepped forward, aimed a pistol into the car and fired twice. Sophie sank forward onto her husband’s breast. Franz Ferdinand remained sitting upright, and for a minute no one noticed that he had been hit. Then the governor, sitting in front, heard him murmur, “Sophie! Sophie! Don’t die! Stay alive for our children!” His body sagged and blood from a wound in his neck spurted across his green uniform. Sophie, the wife who could never become an empress, died first from a bullet in the abdomen. Fifteen minutes later, in a room next to the ballroom where waiters were preparing chilled champagne for his reception, the Archduke died. His last muttered words were “It is nothing.”

The assassin, Gabriel Princip, was a native Bosnian of Serb extraction. On trial, the boy declared that he had acted to “kill an enemy of the South Slavs” and to “avenge the Serbian people.” The Archduke, Princip explained to the court, was “an energetic man who as ruler would have carried through ideas and reforms which stood in our way.” Years later, after Princip had died of tuberculosis in an Austrian prison, the truth came out: the plot had been laid in Belgrade, capital of Serbia, by the Serbian terrorist society known as the Black Hand. Its leader was none other than the chief of Serbian Army Intelligence.

The Austrian government reacted violently to Princip’s act. The Heir to the Throne had been killed in a Slav province by a Serb. The time and the pretext had arrived to crush “the Serbian viper.” Field Marshal von Conrad-Hötzendorf immediately declared that the assassination was “Serbia’s declaration of war on Austria-Hungary.” Count Berchtold, the Chancellor, who hitherto had opposed preventive war against Serbia, changed his mind and demanded that “the Monarchy with unflinching hand … tear asunder the threads which its foes are endeavoring to weave into a net above its head.” The most candid appraisal of the situation came in a personal letter from the Emperor Franz Joseph to the Kaiser:

“The bloody deed was not the work of a single individual but a well organized plot whose threads extend to Belgrade. Although it may be impossible to establish the complicity of the Serbian government, no one can doubt that its policy of uniting all Southern Slavs under the Serbian flag encourages such crimes and that the continuation of this situation is a chronic peril for my house and my territories. Serbia,” the Emperor concluded, “must be eliminated as a political factor in the Balkans.”

Despite the excitement in Vienna, most Europeans refused to consider the Archduke’s assassination a final act of doom. War, revolution, conspiracy and assassinations were the normal ingredients of Balkan politics. “Nothing to cause anxiety,” said the Paris newspaper Figaro. “Terrible shock for the dear old Emperor,” Britain’s King George V wrote in his diary. The Kaiser received the news three hours later aboard his sailing yacht, Meteor, as he was setting out from Kiel to take part in a race. A motor launch sped toward the yacht and William leaned over the stern to hear the shouted news. “The cowardly detestable crime … has shaken me to the depths of my soul,” he wired his Chancellor, Bethmann-Hollweg. But William did not think that the assassination meant war. What appalled him was the occurrence of that most monstrous of crimes, a regicide.

Three days before the events at Sarajevo, the Russian Imperial family sailed from Peterhof on their annual summer cruise along the Baltic coast. As they were boarding the Standart, Alexis, jumping for the ladder leading up to the deck of the yacht, caught his foot on a rung and twisted his ankle. Toward evening that day, he began to feel serious pain.

The following morning, the Standart was anchored in the heart of one of the Finnish fjords. Gilliard, making his way to Alexis’s cabin, found both Dr. Botkin and the Empress with his pupil, who was suffering intensely. The hemorrhage into the ankle was continuing, the joint swollen and rigid. Alexis was weeping; every few minutes, as the throbbing pain mounted, he screamed. Alexandra’s face was white. Gilliard went back to collect his books and then settled down to read to him as a distraction. Despite the illness, the cruise continued.

It was aboard the Standart that Nicholas and Alexandra learned what had happened at Sarajevo. Because neither he nor his ministers expected the assassination to lead to war, the Tsar did not return to his capital. On the day following the Archduke’s death, other news, even more sensational for every Russian, arrived on the Standart. It passed quickly through the ship in excited whispers: an attempt had been made on Rasputin’s life. None dared speak openly, but almost every person aboard hoped that the starets was finished. Alexandra, struggling with Alexis’s illness, became frantic with worry. She prayed continually and telegraphed daily to Pokrovskoe.

What had happened was this: Rasputin, returning to his village on June 27, had been followed there without his knowledge by Khina Gusseva, Iliodor’s agent. Gusseva caught the starets alone in a village street. She accosted him and, when he turned, drove Iliodor’s knife deep into his stomach. “I have killed the Antichrist,” she screamed hysterically and then attempted unsuccessfully to stab herself.

Rasputin was gravely hurt; the slash in his stomach had exposed his entrails. He was taken to a hospital in Tyumen, where a specialist sent by his friends in St. Petersburg performed an operation. For two weeks, his life was uncertain. Then, with the enormous physical strength which marked his life, he began to recover. He remained in bed for the rest of the summer and, accordingly, exercised no influence on the momentous events which were to come. Gusseva was placed on trial, declared insane and put into an asylum.

It was sheer coincidence that placed the two assassination attempts, the one at Sarajevo and the one at Pokrovskoe, so close together in time. Yet the coincidence alone is enough to provoke a tantalizing bit of speculation: Suppose the outcome of these two violent episodes had been reversed. Suppose the Hapsburg Prince, a well-meaning man, the heir and the hope of a crumbling dynasty, had lived, while the surging life and mischievous influence of the Siberian peasant had ended forever. How different the course of that long summer—and perhaps of our twentieth century—might have been.

On July 19, the Standart returned its passengers to Peterhof. Alexis, still suffering from a swollen ankle, was carried ashore. Nicholas and Alexandra plunged immediately into preparations for the state visit of the President of France, Raymond Poincaré, who was due in St. Petersburg the following day.

Raymond Poincaré was ten years old in 1870 when Prussian armies seized his native province of Lorraine, exiling him for most of his life from the place of his birth. Poincaré became a lawyer and then, successively, Foreign Minister, Premier and President of France. A short, dark-haired, robust man, he impressed all who met him. Sazonov, the Russian Foreign Minister, reported to the Tsar: “In him [Poincaré], Russia possesses a reliable and true friend endowed with a statesmanlike understanding that is exceptional and with an indomitable will.” The German ambassador in Paris had much the same impression. “M. Poincaré differs from many of his countrymen by a deliberate avoidance of that smooth and fulsome tone characteristic of the Frenchman,” he wrote. “His manner is measured, his words unadorned and carefully weighed. He makes the impression of a man with a lawyer’s mind who expresses his conditions with stubborn emphasis and pursues his aims with a powerful will.” Nicholas, who had met Poincaré once before, said simply, “I like him very much. He is a calm and clever man of small build.”

Only a few weeks before Poincaré’s arrival in Russia, he had been preceded to St. Petersburg by the new French Ambassador, Maurice Paléologue. A veteran career diplomat, Paléologue was also a brilliant writer whose talents later brought him membership in the French Academy. From the moment of his arrival in Russia, Paléologue began keeping a diary of people, events, conversations and impressions, providing an extraordinarily vivid account of Imperial Russia in the Great War.

Paléologue’s diary began on July 20, 1914, the day that Poincaré arrived in Russia. The President was steaming up the Baltic aboard the battleship France; that morning the Tsar invited Paléologue to lunch with him aboard his yacht before the arrival of the France. “Nicholas II [was] in the uniform of an admiral,” wrote Paléologue. “Luncheon was served immediately. We had at least an hour and three quarters before us until the arrival of the France. But the Tsar likes to linger over his meals. There are always long intervals between the courses in which he chats and smokes cigarettes.…” Paléologue mentioned the possibility of war. “The Tsar reflected a moment. ‘I can’t believe the Emperor [William II] wants war.… If you knew him as I do! If you knew how much theatricality there is in his posing!’ Coffee had just arrived when the French squadron was signalled. The Tsar made me go up on the bridge with him. It was a magnificent spectacle. In a quivering silvery light, the France slowly surged forward over the turquoise and emerald waves, leaving a long white furrow behind her. Then she stopped majestically. The mighty warship which had brought the head of the French state is well worthy of her name. She was indeed France coming to Russia. I felt my heart beating. For a few minutes there was a prodigious din in the harbor; the guns and the shore batteries firing, the crews cheering, the Marseillaise answering the Russian national anthem, the cheers of thousands of spectators who had come from St. Petersburg on pleasure boats.”

That night, at Peterhof, the Tsar welcomed his guest at a formal banquet. “I shall long remember the dazzling display of jewels on the women’s shoulders,” wrote Paléologue. “It was simply a fantastic shower of diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, topaz, beryls—a blaze of fire and flame. In this fiery milieu, Poincaré’s black coat was a drab touch. But the wide, sky-blue ribbon of St. Andrew across his breast increased his importance in the eyes of the Russians.… During the dinner I kept an eye on the Tsaritsa Alexandra Fedorovna opposite whom I was sitting. She was a beautiful sight with her low brocade gown and a diamond tiara on her head. Her forty-two years have left her face and figure still pleasant to look at.”

Two days later, Paléologue attended the review of sixty thousand troops at the army encampment at Krasnoe Selo. “A blazing sun lit up the vast plain,” he wrote. “The elite of St. Petersburg society were crowded into some stands. The light toilettes of the women, their white hats and parasols made the stands look like azalea beds. Before long the Imperial party arrived. In a court horse calèche was the Tsaritsa with the President of the Republic on her right and her two elder daughters opposite her. The Tsar was galloping by the side of the carriage, followed by a brilliant escort of the grand dukes and aides de camp.… The troops, without arms, were drawn up in serried ranks as far as the eye could reach.…

“The sun was dropping towards the horizon in a sky of purple and gold,” Paléologue continued. “On a sign from the Tsar an artillery salvo signalled evening prayer. The bands played a hymn. Everyone uncovered. A non-commissioned officer recited the Pater in a loud voice. All those men, thousands upon thousands, prayed for the Tsar and Holy Russia. The silence and composure of that multitude in that plain, the magic poetry of the hour … gave the ceremony a touching majesty.”

The following night, the last of Poincaré’s visit, the President entertained the Tsar and the Empress at dinner aboard the France. “It had indeed a kind of terrifying grandeur with the four gigantic 304 cm. guns raising their huge muzzles above the heads of the guests,” wrote Paléologue. “The sky was soon clear again; a light breeze kissed the waves; the moon rose above the horizon.… I found myself alone with the Tsaritsa, who asked me to take a chair on her left. The poor lady seemed worn out.… Suddenly she put her hands to her ears. Then with a pained and pleading glance she timidly pointed to the ship’s band quite near to us which had just started on a furious allegro with a full battery of brass and big drums.

“ ‘Couldn’t you?’ … she murmured.

“I signalled sharply to the conductor.… The young Grand Duchess Olga had been observing us for some minutes with an anxious eye. She suddenly rose, glided towards her mother with graceful ease and whispered two or three words in her ear. Then addressing me, she continued, ‘The Empress is rather tired, but she asks you to stay, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, and to go on talking to her.’ ”

As the France prepared to leave, Nicholas invited Paléologue to remain aboard the Imperial yacht. “It was a splendid night,” Paléologue wrote. “The Milky Way stretched, a pure band of silver, into unending space. Not a breath of wind. The France and her escorting division sped rapidly away to the west, leaving behind long ribbons of foam which glistened in the moonlight like silvery streams.… Admiral Nilov came to the Tsar for orders. The latter said to me, ‘It’s a wonderful night. Suppose we go for a sail.’ ” The Tsar told the Ambassador of the conversation he had just had with Poincaré. “He said, ‘Notwithstanding appearances the Emperor William is too cautious to launch his country on some wild adventure and the Emperor Franz Joseph’s only wish is to die in peace.’ ”

At 12:45 a.m., July 25, Paléologue said goodnight to the Tsar, and at half past two he reached his bed in St. Petersburg. At seven the next morning, he was awakened and informed that the previous evening, while he had been out for a sail, Austria had presented Serbia with an ultimatum.

The wording and the timing of the Austrian ultimatum had been carefully planned in Vienna. With the Emperor Franz Joseph’s approval, the Austro-Hungarian Empire had decided to make war on Serbia. Conrad-Hötzendorf, the Chief-of-Staff, wanted to mobilize and attack Serbia immediately. But Count Berchtold, the Chancellor, took a subtler line. He persuaded his colleagues to send the Serbs an ultimatum so outrageous that Serbia would be forced to reject it.

The ultimatum declared the the Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s murder had been plotted in Belgrade, that Serb officials had supplied the assassin’s bomb and pistol, and that Serb frontier guards had arranged their secret entry into Bosnia. As satisfaction, Austria demanded that Austrian officers be allowed to enter Serbia to conduct their own investigation. In addition, the ultimatum demanded suppression of all Serb nationalist propaganda directed at the empire, dissolution of Serb nationalist societies and dismissal of all Serbian officers who were “anti-Austrian.” Serbia was given forty-eight hours to answer.

The ultimatum was drafted and approved by Franz Joseph on July 19. Then it was deliberately withheld for four days during the visit of President Poincaré to St. Petersburg so that the President and the Tsar would not be able to coordinate the response of France and Russia. Only at midnight on July 23, after Poincaré was at sea, headed down the Gulf of Finland, was the ultimatum delivered.

Every diplomat in Europe, reading the document, understood its implications. In Vienna, a government official, Count Hoyos, said flatly, “The Austrian demands are such that no state possessing the smallest amount of national pride or dignity could accept them.” In London, the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, told the Austrian Ambassador that he had never before seen one state address to another so formidable a document. In St. Petersburg, the Russian Foreign Minister, Sazonov, said simply, “C’est la guerre Européenne.”

Upon receiving the ultimatum, Serbia immediately appealed to Russia, traditional protector of the Slavs. From Tsarskoe Selo, Nicholas telegraphed to the Serbian Crown Prince: “As long as there remains the faintest hope of avoiding bloodshed, all my efforts will tend in that direction. If we fail to attain this object, in spite of our sincere desire for peace, Your Royal Highness may rest assured that Russia will in no case remain indifferent to the fate of Serbia.” A military council was convened at Krasnoe Selo on July 24, and on July 25 the Tsar summoned his ministers to Tsarskoe Selo.

To the men seated in Nicholas’s study that summer day, the Austrian ultimatum to Serbia appeared aimed directly at Russia. Russia’s classic role as protector of the Slavs and Nicholas II’s personal guarantees of Serbian independence were part of the permanent fabric of European diplomacy; a threat to Serbia, therefore, could be interpreted only as a challenge to Russian power and influence in the Balkans. In the discussions that took place near St. Petersburg those hectic two days, both Sazonov and Grand Duke Nicholas, Inspector General of the Army, declared that Russia could not stand by and permit Serbia’s humiliation without herself losing her rank as a great power.

The roots of this Russian dilemma in July 1914 went back seven years to another European diplomatic crisis, provoked in 1907 by Austria’s sudden annexation of Bosnia. On that occasion, when Russia had been humiliated before the world, the fault lay primarily in the ornate secret diplomacy and personal character of the Russian Foreign Minister of the day, Alexander Izvolsky.

Izvolsky came to power at the end of the disastrous war with Japan and promptly proceeded to liquidate what remained of Russia’s Far Eastern adventure. From the moment he took office with Stolypin in 1906, Izvolsky concentrated on a historical Russian objective: the opening of the Dardenelles. Izvolsky himself was simply for grabbing both the Strait and the city of Constantinople from the decrepit Turkish Empire, but Stolypin absolutely prohibited any such provocative aggressive act, at least until Russian strength had grown. Then, said Stolypin, “Russia could speak as in the past.”

Izvolsky did not give up his dream. Alert, able and ambitious, Alexander Izvolsky was the archetype of the Old World professional diplomat. A plumpish, dandified man, he wore a pearl pin in his white waistcoat, affected white spats, carried a lorgnette and always trailed a faint touch of violet eau de cologne. In his world of secret diplomatic intrigue, achievement of one objective might mean betrayal of another; Izvolsky took such arrangements easily in stride.

It was entirely in character, therefore, when Alexander Izvolsky secretly met his Austrian counterpart, Foreign Minister Freiherr von Aehrenthal, in 1907 and reached a private agreement from which both countries would benefit. In return for Austrian support of a Russian demand that Turkey open the Dardenelles to free passage by Russian warships, Izvolsky agreed to turn his back when Austria-Hungary annexed the Balkan provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Both halves of this bargain were in violation of general European treaties signed by all the great powers. Recognizing this, the two statesmen agreed—or so Izvolsky afterward claimed—that the two moves should be made simultaneously, in order to present Europe with a fait accompli. No date was set for the moves. In Izvolsky’s case, the bargain involved not only defiance of treaties but, infinitely worse, the betrayal of a small Slavic people. His willingness to go ahead indicated the importance he attached to opening the Strait.

Unfortunately for Izvolsky, before he was ready to betray the Bosnians, he himself was betrayed by Aehrenthal. Three weeks after the secret meeting, long before Izvolsky was ready to press Russia’s demand on Turkey, the Emperor Franz Joseph suddenly proclaimed the annexation of Bosnia to Austria-Hungary. Caught red-handed, without a thing to show for his betrayal, Izvolsky hurried to London and Paris, attempting to get support for a belated Russian move on the Strait. He failed. Nicholas, informed of the bargain after it had been secretly struck, was furious. “Brazen impudence gets away with anything,” he wrote to Marie. “The main culprit is Aehrenthal. He is simply a scoundrel. He made Izvolsky his dupe.” Serbia mobilized and called on Russia for aid. Russian troops began to assemble on the Austrian frontier.

At this point, Germany intervened to save her Austrian ally. The intervention was performed in the bluntest possible manner; the Kaiser himself later described it as appearing in “shining armor” beside his ally. The German government asked Izvolsky whether he was prepared to back down. “We expect a precise answer, yes or no. Any vague, complicated or ambiguous reply will be regarded as a refusal.” Izvolsky had no choice; Russia was unready for war. “If we are not attacked,” Nicholas wrote Marie, “of course we are not going to fight.” Later, he explained the situation to her more fully. “Germany,” he wrote, “told us we could help solve the difficulty by agreeing to the annexation, while if we refused the consequences might be very serious and hard to foretell. Once the matter had been put as definitely and unequivocally as that, there was nothing for it but to swallow one’s pride, give in, and agree.… But,” added the Tsar, “German action towards us has simply been brutal and we won’t forget it.”

Russia’s humiliation in the Bosnia crisis was spectacular. Sir Arthur Nicolson, then the British Ambassador to St. Petersburg, wrote, “In the recent history of Russia … there has never previously been a moment when the country has undergone such humiliation and, though Russia has had her troubles and trials both external and internal and has suffered defeats in the field, she has never, for apparently no valid reason, had to submit to the dictation of a foreign power.”

It was in the depths of this humiliation that Russian statesmen, generals and the Tsar himself had formed their resolve never to withdraw again from a similar challenge. From 1909 onward, the commander of Kiev military district in the Ukraine had standing orders to be ready within forty-eight hours to repel an invasion from the West. Izvolsky left his post in St. Petersburg to become Russian Ambassador to France, where vengefully he worked night and day to strengthen the alliance. In 1914, when war came, Alexander Izvolsky boasted happily in Paris, “This is my war! My war!”

Nicholas recognized that the Austrian ultimatum to Serbia was the feared second challenge to Russia. For years, he had faced the fact that Russia could not back down again. But against this resolution he had balanced a hope that the challenge would not come until Russia was ready.

In 1911, Nicholas stressed this point in an interview with his new Ambassador to Bulgaria, Nekliudov. “The Tsar,” Nekliudov later recalled, “after an intentional pause, stepping back and fixing me with a penetrating stare, said, ‘Listen to me, Nekliudov, do not for one instant lose sight of the fact that we cannot go to war. I do not wish for war; as a rule I shall do all in my power to preserve for my people the benefits of peace. But at this moment of all moments everything that might lead to war must be avoided. It would be out of the question for us to face a war for five or six years—in fact until 1917—although if the most vital interests and the honor of Russia were at stake we might, if it were absolutely necessary, accept a challenge in 1915; but not a moment sooner in any circumstances or under any pretext whatsoever.’ ”

With Russia’s unpreparedness in mind, the Tsar hoped desperately that this new crisis could be negotiated. He instructed Sazonov to play for time. Sazonov’s first move, accordingly, was a plea that the limit on the Austrian ultimatum be extended beyond forty-eight hours. Vienna, determined to let nothing prevent its destruction of Serbia, refused. Next, Sazonov attempted to persuade Austria’s ally Germany to mediate the Balkan quarrel. The German government refused, declaring that the matter was an issue solely between Austria and Serbia and that all other states, including Russia, should stand aside. Sazonov then asked Sir Edward Grey to mediate. Grey agreed, and proposed a conference of ambassadors in London. Sazanov hurriedly accepted Grey’s proposal, but the German government refused. Finally, in reply to Serbia’s appeals for aid, Sazonov advised the Serbian Premier, Pashich, to accept all the Austrian demands which did not actually compromise Serbian independence.

The Serbs, no less anxious to avoid a military showdown than their Russian patron, agreed, and replied to the Austrian ultimatum in extravagantly conciliatory terms. So humble was their reply, in fact, that it took Vienna entirely by surprise. Count Berchtold was aghast and didn’t know what to do with the document. Accordingly, for two days, July 26 and July 27, he hid it. When the German Ambassador in Vienna asked to see it, he was told that he would have to wait because of the pile-up of paperwork in the Austrian Foreign Ministry.

By July 28, however, Berchtold and his colleagues had reached a decision. Austria, rejecting the Serb reply, issued a declaration of war. At 5 a.m. the following morning, July 29, Austro-Hungarian artillery began hurling shells across the Danube into Belgrade, the Serbian capital. The bombardment continued all day, in disregard of the white flags fluttering from Belgrade rooftops. In St. Petersburg, Tsar Nicholas gave the order to mobilize all Russian military districts along the Austrian frontier.

How fast and how far the war was to spread now depended on the reaction of Germany. Despite the urgent demands of the Russian General Staff for general mobilization, Nicholas had permitted only partial mobilization against Austria. The long frontier with Germany running through Poland and East Prussia still slumbered in peace. The Tsar believed, as he had said to Paléologue, that the Kaiser did not want war.

Predictably, the Kaiser’s views had changed several times during the crisis. He first assumed that the cringing Slavs could be bullied into backing down before the shining Teutons. In October 1913, William had spoken of just such a situation to Count Berchtold, the Austrian Chancellor: “If His Majesty the Emperor Franz Joseph makes a demand, the Serbian government must obey,” said William. “If not, Belgrade must be bombarded and occupied until his wish is fulfilled. And rest assured that I am behind you and ready to draw the sword wherever your action requires.”

As he spoke, William rested his hand on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. Berchtold was suitably impressed. After Franz Ferdinand’s assassination, the Kaiser’s militancy appeared to increase. “Now or never,” he scribbled on the margin of a telegram from Vienna. “It is time to settle accounts with the Serbs and the sooner the better.” “We could reckon on Germany’s full support,” cabled Count Szogyeny, the Austrian Ambassador in Berlin, after a talk with the Kaiser. “His Majesty [the Kaiser] said … Austria must judge what is to be done to clear up her relations with Serbia. Whatever Austria’s decision may turn out to be, Austria can count with certainty upon it that Germany will stand by her friend and ally.” Having given his pledge, William cheerfully left for Kiel to board the Hohenzollern for a cruise through the Norwegian fjords.

Wreathed in his own bluster, the Kaiser miscalculated the reactions of each of Germany’s three major antagonists. According to Sazonov’s estimate: “The authorities in Berlin were not convinced that Russia would care to risk a war in order to preserve her position in the Balkans.… In any case, they scarcely believed her capable of carrying on a war. Nor did they entertain a very high opinion of France as a military power. As for the possibility of England siding with their enemies, no one in Germany ever thought of it; the warnings of the German Ambassador in London, Prince Lichnowsky, were derided, and he was indulgently referred to as ‘good old Lichnowsky’ at the Berlin Foreign Office.”

The wisdom of presenting Austria-Hungary with exactly this kind of carte blanche to determine the fate of Germany had often been questioned in Berlin. As late as May 1914, the German Ambassador to Vienna wrote to Berlin wondering “whether it really pays to bind ourselves so tightly to this phantasm of a state which is cracking in every direction.” The dominant view in Berlin, however, was expressed in a résumé from the German Foreign Ministry to the German Embassy in London summarizing the factors determining German policy:

“Austria is now going to come to a reckoning with Serbia.… We have not at the present time forced Austria to her decision. But neither should we attempt to stay her hand. If we should do that, Austria would have the right to reproach us with having deprived her of her last chance of political rehabilitation. And then the process of her wasting away and of her internal decay would be still further accelerated. Her standing in the Balkans would be gone forever.… The maintenance of Austria, and in fact of the most powerful Austria possible is a necessity for us.… That she cannot be maintained forever I willingly admit. But in the meanwhile we may be able to arrange other combinations.”

The Kaiser’s endorsement of this position was significantly reinforced by the reports he was getting from his elderly Ambassador in St. Petersburg, Count Pourtalès. Pourtalès, the dean of the St. Petersburg diplomatic corps, had spent seven years in his post. He was enormously fond of Russia. But he knew that, in July 1914, a million and a half Russian workers were out on strike; he had seen with his own eyes the barricades erected in the streets of the capital. Citing these factors, he repeatedly assured his sovereign that Russia could not go to war. On July 28, Pourtalès lunched at the British Embassy with his British colleague, Sir George Buchanan. Over cigars, Pourtalès expressed his views on Russia’s weakness, declaring that he was regularly forwarding these views to Berlin. Appalled, Buchanan grasped his guest by the shoulders and said, “Count Pourtalès, Russia means it.” Nevertheless, as late as July 31, the Kaiser was speaking confidently of the “mood of a sick Tom-cat” which, his Ambassador had assured him, infected the Russian court and army.

To the end, William expected to bluff his way. On July 28, back from his cruise, he saw the abject Serb reply to Austria’s ultimatum. His expectations seemed brilliantly confirmed. “A capitulation of the most humiliating character,” he exulted. “Now that Serbia has given in, all grounds for war have disappeared.” When, that same night, Austria declared war on Serbia, William was astonished and frustrated. Nevertheless, the war was still only an affair in the Balkans. Unless Russia moved, Germany need not become involved. With this in mind, William personally telegraphed the Tsar:

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 Franz 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 drift 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

The Kaiser’s telegram crossed a message to him from the Tsar:

Am glad you are back. In this most serious moment I appeal to you to help me. An ignoble war has been declared on a weak country. The indignation in Russia, shared fully by me, is enormous. I foresee that very soon I shall be overwhelmed by pressure brought upon me, and forced to take extreme measures which will lead to war. 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

The “pressure” on Nicholas to which he referred in his telegram came from the Russian General Staff, which was insisting on full mobilization. Sazonov, once he had heard that the Austrians were firing on Belgrade, had abandoned his protests and endorsed the generals’ request.

On the 29th, William replied to the Tsar’s telegram:

It would be quite possible for Russia to remain a spectator of the Austro-Serbian conflict, without involving Europe in the most horrible war she ever witnessed. I think a direct understanding between your government and Vienna possible and desirable and as I already telegraphed you, my government is continuing its exertions to promote it. Of course, military measures on the part of Russia which would be looked upon by Austria as threatening, would precipitate a calamity we both wish to avoid, and jeopardize my position as mediator which I readily accepted on your appeal to my friendship and help.

Willy

Nicholas replied, suggesting that the dispute be sent to the Hague.

I thank you for your conciliatory and friendly telegram, whereas the communications of your Ambassador to my Minister today have been in a very different tone. Please clear up this difference. The Austro-Serbian problem must be submitted to the Hague Conference. I trust to your wisdom and friendship.

Nicholas

On the morning of the 30th, Nicholas wired the Kaiser an explanation of Russia’s partial mobilization:

The military measures which have now come into force were decided five days ago for reasons of defense on account of Austria’s preparations. I hope with all my heart that these measures won’t interfere with your part as mediator which I greatly value. We need your strong pressure on Austria to come to an understanding with us.

Nicky

The Tsar’s telegram announcing that Russia had mobilized against Austria put the Kaiser into a rage. “And these measures are for defense against Austria which is no way attacking him!!! I cannot agree to any more mediation since the Tsar who requested it has at the same time secretly mobilized behind my back.” After reading Nicholas’s plea; “We need your strong pressure on Austria …,” William scribbled: “No, there is no thought of anything of that sort!!!”

On the afternoon of July 30, Sazonov telephoned Tsarskoe Selo to ask for an immediate interview. Nicholas came to the telephone and, suspecting the purpose, reluctantly asked his Foreign Minister to come to the palace at three p.m. When the two men met, Sazonov sadly told his sovereign, “I don’t think Your Majesty can postpone the order for general mobilization.” He added that, in his opinion, general war was unavoidable. Nicholas, pale and speaking in a choked voice, replied, “Think of the responsibility you are advising me to take. Remember, it would mean sending hundreds of thousands of Russian people to their deaths.” Sazonov pointed out that everything had been done to avoid war. Germany and Austria, he declared, were “determined to increase their power by enslaving our natural allies in the Balkans, destroying our influence there, and reducing Russia to a pitiful dependence on the arbitrary will of the Central Powers.” “The Tsar,” Sazonov wrote later, “remained silent and his face showed the traces of a terrible inner struggle. At last, speaking with difficulty, he said, ‘You are right. There is nothing left for us to do but get ready for an attack upon us. Give … my order for [general] mobilization.’ ”

Before news of Russia’s general mobilization reached Berlin, two more telegrams passed between Potsdam and Tsarskoe Selo. First, Nicholas cabled to the Kaiser:

It is technically impossible for me to suspend my military preparations. But as long as conversations with Austria are not broken off, my troops will refrain from taking the offensive anyway, I give you my word of honor on that.

Nicky

William replied:

I have gone to the utmost limits of the possible in my efforts to save peace. It is not I who will bear the responsibility for the terrible disaster which now threatens the civilized world. You and you alone can still avert it. My friendship for you and your empire which my grandfather bequeathed to me on his deathbed is still sacred to me and I have been loyal to Russia when she was in trouble, notably during your last war. Even now, you can still save the peace of Europe by stopping your military measures.

Willy

News of the general mobilization of the huge Russian army caused consternation in Berlin. At midnight on July 31, Count Pourtalès appeared in Sazonov’s office with a German ultimatum to Russia to halt her mobilization within twelve hours. At noon the following day, August 1, Russia had not replied, and the Kaiser ordered general mobilization.

Nicholas hurriedly telegraphed to William:

I understand that you are compelled to mobilize but I should like to have the same guarantee from you that I gave you myself—that these measures do not mean war and that we shall continue to negotiate to save the general peace so dear to our hearts. With God’s help our long and tried friendship should be able to prevent bloodshed. I confidently await your reply.

Nicky

Before this message arrived in Berlin, however, coded instructions had been sent by the German government to Count Pourtalès in St. Petersburg. He was instructed to declare war on Russia at five p.m. The Count was tardy and it was not until 7:10 p.m. that he appeared ashen-faced before Sazonov. Three times Pourtalès asked if Sazonov could not assure him that Russia would cancel its mobilization; three times Sazonov refused. “In that case, sir,” said Pourtalès, “my government charges me to hand you this note. His Majesty the Emperor, my august sovereign, in the name of the empire accepts the challenge and considers himself in a state of war with Russia.” Pourtalès was overcome with emotion. He leaned against a window and wept openly. “Who could have thought I should be leaving St. Petersburg under such circumstances,” he said. Sazonov rose from his desk, embraced the elderly Count and helped him from the room.

At Peterhof, the Tsar and his family had just come from evening prayer. Before going to dinner, Nicholas went to his study to read the latest dispatches. The Empress and her daughters went straight to the dinner table to await the Tsar. Nicholas was in his study when Count Fredericks brought him the message from Sazonov that Germany had declared war. Shaken but calm, the Tsar instructed his ministers to come to the palace at nine p.m.

Meanwhile, Alexandra and the girls waited with growing uneasiness. The Empress had just asked Tatiana to go and bring her father to the table when Nicholas appeared in the doorway. In a tense voice he told them what had happened. Alexandra began to weep. The girls, badly frightened, followed their mother’s example. Nicholas did what he could to calm them and then withdrew, without dinner. At nine p.m., Sazonov, Goremykin and other ministers arrived at the palace along with the French and British Ambassadors, Paléologue and Buchanan.

Four months later, in another conversation with Paléologue, Nicholas revealed how the day had ended for him. Late that night, after war had been declared, he had received another telegram from the Kaiser. It read:

An immediate, clear and unmistakable reply of your government [to the German ultimatum] is the sole way to avoid endless misery. Until I receive this reply, I am unable to my great grief to enter upon the subject of your telegram. I must ask most earnestly that you, without delay, order your troops under no circumstances to commit the slightest violation of our frontiers.

Almost certainly this message had been intended for delivery before the declaration of war and had been caught in the crowded bureaucratic pipeline. Yet it was composed during the same hours that his country was declaring war, an indication of the Kaiser’s state of mind. To Nicholas, this last message he ever received from the German Emperor seemed a final revelation of William’s character.

“He was never sincere; not a moment,” Nicholas told Paléologue, speaking of the Kaiser. “In the end he was hopelessly entangled in the net of his own perfidy and lies.… It was half past one in the morning of August 2.… I went to the Empress’s room, as she was already in bed, to have a cup of tea with her before retiring myself. I stayed with her until two in the morning. Then I wanted to have a bath as I was very tired. I was just getting in when my servant knocked at the door saying he had ‘a very important telegram … from His Majesty the Emperor William.’ I read the telegram, read it again, and then repeated it aloud, but I couldn’t understand a word. What on earth does William mean, I thought, pretending that it still depends on me whether war is averted or not? He implores me not to let my troops cross the frontier! Have I suddenly gone mad? Didn’t the Minister of the Court, my trusted Fredericks, at least six hours ago bring me the declaration of war the German ambassador had just handed to Sazonov? I returned to the Empress’s room and read her William’s telegram.… She said immediately: ‘You’re not going to answer it, are you?’ ‘Certainly not!’

“There is no doubt that the object of this strange and farcical telegram was to shake my resolution, disconcert me and inspire me to some absurd and dishonorable step. It produced the opposite effect. As I left the Empress’s room I felt that all was over forever between me and William. I slept extremely well. When I woke at my usual hour, I felt as if a weight had fallen from my mind. My responsibility to God and my people was still enormous, but at least I knew what I had to do.”