CHAPTER NINE - Late July 1914
Walter von Ulrich could not play ragtime.
He could play the tunes, which were simple. He could play the distinctive chords, which often used the interval of the flatted seventh. And he could play both together-but it did not sound like ragtime. The rhythm eluded him. His effort was more like something you might hear from a band in a Berlin park. For one who could play Beethoven sonatas effortlessly, this was frustrating.
Maud had tried to teach him, that Saturday morning at Tŷ Gwyn, at the upright Bechstein among the potted palms in the small drawing room, with the summer sun coming through the tall windows. They had sat hip to hip on the piano stool, their arms interlaced, and Maud had laughed at his efforts. It had been a moment of golden happiness.
His mood had darkened when she explained how his father had talked her into breaking with Walter. If he had seen his father on the evening when he returned to London, there would have been an explosion. But Otto had left for Vienna, and Walter had had to swallow his rage. He had not seen his father since.
He had agreed to Maud's proposal that they should keep their engagement secret until the Balkan crisis was over. It was still going on, though things had calmed down. Almost four weeks had passed since the assassination in Sarajevo, but the Austrian emperor still had not sent to the Serbians the note he had been mulling so long. The delay encouraged Walter to hope that tempers had cooled and moderate counsels had prevailed in Vienna.
Sitting at the baby grand piano in the compact drawing room of his bachelor flat in Piccadilly, he reflected that there was much the Austrians could do, short of war, to punish Serbia and soothe their wounded pride. For example, they could force the Serbian government to close anti-Austrian newspapers, and purge nationalists from the Serbian army and civil service. The Serbians could submit to that: it would be humiliating, but better than a war they could not win.
Then the leaders of the great European countries could relax and concentrate on their domestic problems. The Russians could crush their general strike, the English could pacify the mutinous Irish Protestants, and the French could enjoy the murder trial of Madame Caillaux, who had shot the editor of Le Figaro for printing her husband's love letters.
And Walter could marry Maud.
That was his focus now. The more he thought about the difficulties, the more determined he became to overcome them. Having looked, for a few days, at the joyless prospect of life without her, he was even more sure that he wanted to marry her, regardless of the price they might both have to pay. As he avidly followed the diplomatic game being played on the chessboard of Europe, he scrutinized every move to assess its effect first on him and Maud, and only second on Germany and the world.
He was going to see her tonight, at dinner and at the Duchess of Sussex's ball. He was already dressed in white tie and tails. It was time to leave. But as he closed the lid of the piano the doorbell rang, and his manservant announced Count Robert von Ulrich.
Robert looked surly. It was a familiar expression. Robert had been a troubled and unhappy young man when they were students together in Vienna. His feelings drew him irresistibly toward a group whom he had been brought up to regard as decadent. Then, when he came home after an evening with men like himself, he wore that look, guilty but defiant. In time he had discovered that homosexuality, like adultery, was officially condemned but-in sophisticated circles, at least-unofficially tolerated; and he had become reconciled to who he was. Today he wore that face for some other reason.
"I've just seen the text of the emperor's note," Robert said immediately.
Walter's heart leaped in hope. This might be the peaceful resolution he was waiting for. "What does it say?"
Robert handed him a sheet of paper. "I copied out the main part."
"Has it been delivered to the Serbian government?"
"Yes, at six o'clock Belgrade time."
There were ten demands. The first three followed the lines Walter had anticipated, he saw with relief: Serbia had to suppress liberal newspapers, break up the secret society called the Black Hand, and clamp down on nationalist propaganda. Perhaps the moderates in Vienna had won the argument after all, he thought gratefully.
Point four seemed reasonable at first-the Austrians demanded a purge of nationalists in the Serbian civil service-but there was a sting in the tail: the Austrians would supply the names. "That seems a bit strong," Walter said anxiously. "The Serbian government can't just sack everyone the Austrians tell them to."
Robert shrugged. "They will have to."
"I suppose so." For the sake of peace, Walter hoped they would.
But there was worse to come.
Point five demanded that Austria assist the Serbian government in crushing subversion, and point six, Walter read with dismay, insisted that Austrian officials take part in Serbia's judicial inquiry into the assassination. "But Serbia can't agree to this!" Walter protested. "It would amount to giving up their sovereignty."
Robert's face darkened further. "Hardly," he said peevishly.
"No country in the world could agree to it."
"Serbia will. It must, or be destroyed."
"In a war?"
"If necessary."
"Which could engulf all of Europe!"
Robert wagged his finger. "Not if other governments are sensible."
Unlike yours, Walter thought, but he bit back the retort and read on. The remaining points were arrogantly expressed, but the Serbs could probably live with them: arrest of conspirators, prevention of smuggling of weapons into Austrian territory, and a clampdown on anti-Austrian pronouncements by Serbian officials.
But there was a forty-eight-hour deadline for reply.
"My God, this is harsh," said Walter.
"People who defy the Austrian emperor must expect harshness."
"I know, I know, but he hasn't even given them room to save face."
"Why should he?"
Walter let his exasperation show. "For goodness' sake, does he want war?"
"The emperor's family, the Habsburg dynasty, has governed vast areas of Europe for hundreds of years. Emperor Franz Joseph knows that God intends him to rule over inferior Slavic peoples. This is his destiny."
"God spare us from men of destiny," Walter muttered. "Has my embassy seen this?"
"They will any minute now."
Walter wondered how others would react. Would they accept this, as Robert had, or be outraged like Walter? Would there be an international howl of protest or just a helpless diplomatic shrug? He would find out this evening. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I'm late for dinner. Are you going to the Duchess of Sussex's ball later?"
"Yes. I'll see you there."
They left the building and parted company in Piccadilly. Walter headed for Fitz's house, where he was to dine. He felt breathless, as if he had been knocked down. The war he dreaded had come dangerously closer.
He arrived with just enough time to bow to Princess Bea, in a lavender gown festooned with silk bows, and shake hands with Fitz, impossibly handsome in a wing collar and a white bow tie; then dinner was announced. He was glad to find himself assigned to escort Maud through to the dining room. She wore a dark red dress of some soft material that clung to her body the way Walter wanted to. As he held her chair he said: "What a very attractive gown."
"Paul Poiret," she said, naming a designer so famous that even Walter had heard of him. She lowered her voice a little. "I thought you might like it."
The remark was only mildly intimate, but all the same it gave him a thrill, rapidly followed by a shiver of fear at the thought that he could yet lose this enchanting woman.
Fitz's house was not quite a palace. Its long dining room, at the corner of the street, looked over two thoroughfares. Electric chandeliers burned despite the bright summer evening outside, and reflected lights glittered in the crystal glasses and silver cutlery marshaled at each place. Looking around the table at the other female guests, Walter marveled anew at the indecent amount of bosom revealed by upper-class Englishwomen at dinner.
Such observations were adolescent. It was time he got married.
As soon as he sat down, Maud slipped off a shoe and pushed her stockinged toe up the leg of his trousers. He smiled at her, but she saw immediately that he was distracted. "What's the matter?" she said.
"Start a conversation about the Austrian ultimatum," he murmured. "Say you've heard it has been delivered."
Maud addressed Fitz, at the head of the table. "I believe the Austrian emperor's note has at last been handed in at Belgrade," she said. "Have you heard anything, Fitz?"
Fitz put down his soup spoon. "The same as you. But no one knows what is in it."
Walter said: "I believe it is very harsh. The Austrians insist on taking a role in the Serbian judicial process."
"Taking a role!" said Fitz. "But if the Serbian prime minister agreed to that, he'd have to resign."
Walter nodded. Fitz foresaw the same consequences as he did. "It is almost as if the Austrians want war." He was perilously close to speaking disloyally about one of Germany's allies, but he felt anxious enough not to care. He caught Maud's eye. She was pale and silent. She, too, had immediately seen the threat.
"One has sympathy for Franz Joseph, of course," Fitz said. "Nationalist subversion can destabilize an empire if it is not firmly dealt with." Walter guessed he was thinking of Irish independence campaigners and South African Boers threatening the British empire. "But you don't need a sledgehammer to crack a nut," Fitz finished.
Footmen took away the soup bowls and poured a different wine. Walter drank nothing. It was going to be a long evening, and he needed a clear head.
Maud said quietly: "I happened to see Prime Minister Asquith today. He said there could be a real Armageddon." She looked scared. "I'm afraid I did not believe him-but now I see he might have been right."
Fitz said: "It's what we're all afraid of."
Walter was impressed as always by Maud's connections. She hobnobbed casually with the most powerful men in London. Walter recalled that as a girl of eleven or twelve, when her father was a minister in a Conservative government, she would solemnly question his cabinet colleagues when they visited Tŷ Gwyn; and even then such men would listen to her attentively and answer her patiently.
She went on: "On the bright side, if there is a war Asquith thinks Britain need not be involved."
Walter's heart lifted. If Britain stayed out, the war need not separate him from Maud.
But Fitz looked disapproving. "Really?" he said. "Even if... " He looked at Walter. "Forgive me, von Ulrich-even if France is overrun by Germany?"
Maud replied: "We will be spectators, Asquith says."
"As I have long feared," Fitz said pompously, "the government does not understand the balance of power in Europe." As a Conservative, he mistrusted the Liberal government, and personally he hated Asquith, who had enfeebled the House of Lords; but, most importantly, he was not totally horrified by the prospect of war. In some ways, Walter feared, he might relish the thought, just as Otto did. And he certainly thought war preferable to any weakening of British power.
Walter said: "Are you quite sure, my dear Fitz, that a German victory over France would upset the balance of power?" This line of discussion was rather sensitive for a dinner party, but the issue was too important to be brushed under Fitz's expensive carpet.
Fitz said: "With all due respect to your honored country, and to His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm, I fear Britain could not permit German control of France."
That was the trouble, Walter thought, trying hard not to show the anger and frustration he felt at these glib words. A German attack on Russia's ally France would, in reality, be defensive-but the English talked as if Germany was trying to dominate Europe. Forcing a genial smile, he said: "We defeated France forty-three years ago, in the conflict you call the Franco-Prussian War. Great Britain was a spectator then. And you did not suffer by our victory."
Maud added: "That's what Asquith said."
"There's a difference," Fitz said. "In 1871, France was defeated by Prussia and a group of minor German kingdoms. After the war, that coalition became one country, the modern Germany-and I'm sure you will agree, von Ulrich, my old friend, that Germany today is a more formidable presence than old Prussia."
Men like Fitz were so dangerous, Walter thought. With faultless good manners they would lead the world to destruction. He struggled to keep the tone of his reply light. "You're right, of course-but perhaps formidable is not the same as hostile."
"That's the question, isn't it?"
At the other end of the table, Bea coughed reproachfully. No doubt she thought this topic too contentious for polite conversation. She said brightly: "Are you looking forward to the duchess's ball, Herr von Ulrich?"
Walter felt reproved. "I feel sure the ball will be absolutely splendid," he gushed, and was rewarded with a grateful nod from Bea.
Aunt Herm put in: "You're such a good dancer!"
Walter smiled warmly at the old woman. "Perhaps you will grant me the honor of the first dance, Lady Hermia?"
She was flattered. "Oh, my goodness, I'm too old for dancing. Besides, you youngsters have steps that didn't even exist when I was a debutante."
"The latest craze is the czardas. It's a Hungarian folk dance. Perhaps I should teach you it."
Fitz said: "Would that constitute a diplomatic incident, do you think?" It was not very funny, but everyone laughed, and the conversation turned to other trivial but safe subjects.
After dinner the party boarded carriages to drive the four hundred yards to Sussex House, the duke's palace in Park Lane.
Night had fallen, and light blazed from every window: the duchess had at last given in and installed electricity. Walter climbed the grand staircase and entered the first of three grand reception rooms. The orchestra was playing the most popular tune of recent years, "Alexander's Ragtime Band." His left hand twitched: the syncopation was the crucial element.
He kept his promise and danced with Aunt Herm. He hoped she would have lots of partners: he wanted her to get tired and doze off in a side room, so that Maud would be left unchaperoned. He kept remembering what he and Maud had done in the library of this house a few weeks ago. His hands itched to touch her through that clinging dress.
But first he had work to do. He bowed to Aunt Herm, took a glass of pink champagne from a footman, and began to circulate. He moved through the Small Ballroom, the Salon, and the Large Ballroom, talking to the political and diplomatic guests. Every ambassador in London had been invited, and many had come, including Walter's boss, Prince Lichnowsky. Numerous members of Parliament were there. Most were Conservative, like the duchess, but there were some Liberals, including several government ministers. Robert was deep in conversation with Lord Remarc, a junior minister in the War Office. No Labour M.P.s were to be seen: the duchess considered herself an open-minded woman, but there were limits.
Walter learned that the Austrians had sent copies of their ultimatum to all the major embassies in Vienna. It would be cabled to London and translated overnight, and by morning everyone would know its contents. Most people were shocked by its demands, but no one knew what to do about it.
By one o'clock in the morning he had learned all he could, and he went to find Maud. He walked down the stairs and into the garden, where supper was laid out in a striped marquee. So much food was served in English high society! He found Maud toying with some grapes. Aunt Herm was happily nowhere to be seen.
Walter put his worries aside. "How can you English eat so much?" he said to Maud playfully. "Most of these people have had a hearty breakfast, a lunch of five or six courses, tea with sandwiches and cakes, and a dinner of at least eight courses. Do they now really need soup, stuffed quails, lobster, peaches, and ice cream?"
She laughed. "You think we're vulgar, don't you?"
He did not, but he teased her by pretending to. "Well, what culture do the English have?" He took her arm and, as if moving aimlessly, walked her out of the tent into the garden. The trees were decked with fairy lights that gave little illumination. On the winding paths between shrubs, a few other couples walked and talked, some holding hands discreetly in the gloom. Walter saw Robert with Lord Remarc again, and wondered if they, too, had found romance. "English composers?" he said, still teasing Maud. "Gilbert and Sullivan. Painters? While the French Impressionists were changing the way the world sees itself, the English were painting rosy-cheeked children playing with puppies. Opera? All Italian, when it's not German. Ballet? Russian."
"And yet we rule half the world," she said with a mocking smile.
He took her in his arms. "And you can play ragtime."
"It's easy, once you get the rhythm."
"That's the part I find difficult."
"You need lessons."
He put his mouth to her ear and murmured: "Teach me, please?" The murmur turned to a groan as she kissed him, and after that they did not speak for some time.
{II}
That was in the small hours of Friday, July 24. On the following evening, when Walter attended another dinner and another ball, the rumor on everyone's lips was that the Serbians would concede every Austrian demand, except only for a request for clarification on points five and six. Surely, Walter thought elatedly, the Austrians could not reject such a cringing response? Unless, of course, they were determined to have a war regardless.
On his way home at daybreak on Saturday he stopped at the embassy to write a note about what he had learned during the evening. He was at his desk when the ambassador himself, Prince Lichnowsky, appeared in immaculate morning dress, carrying a gray top hat. Startled, Walter jumped to his feet, bowed, and said: "Good morning, Your Highness."
"You're here very early, von Ulrich," said the ambassador. Then, noting Walter's evening dress, he said: "Or rather, very late." He was handsome in a craggy way, with a big curved nose over his mustache.
"I was just writing you a short note on last night's gossip. Is there anything I can do for Your Highness?"
"I've been summoned by Sir Edward Grey. You can come with me and make notes, if you've got a different coat."
Walter was elated. The British foreign secretary was one of the most powerful men on earth. Walter had met him, of course, in the small world of London diplomacy, but had never exchanged more than a few words with him. Now, at Lichnowsky's characteristically casual invitation, Walter was to be present at an informal meeting of two men who were deciding the fate of Europe. Gottfried von Kessel would be sick with envy, he thought.
He reproved himself for being petty. This could be a critical meeting. Unlike the Austrian emperor, Grey might not want war. Would this be about preventing it? Grey was hard to predict. Which way would he jump? If he was against war, Walter would seize any chance to help him.
He kept a frock coat on a hook behind his door for just such emergencies as this. He pulled off his evening tailcoat and buttoned the daytime coat over his white waistcoat. He picked up a notebook and left the building with the ambassador.
The two men walked across St. James's Park in the cool of the early morning. Walter told his boss the rumor about the Serbian reply. The ambassador had a rumor of his own to report. "Albert Ballin dined with Winston Churchill last night," he said. Ballin, a German shipping magnate, was close to the kaiser, despite being Jewish. Churchill was in charge of the Royal Navy. "I'd love to know what was said," Lichnowsky finished.
He obviously feared the kaiser was bypassing him and sending messages to the British via Ballin. "I'll try to find out," said Walter, pleased at the opportunity.
They entered the Foreign Office, a neoclassical building that made Walter think of a wedding cake. They were shown to the foreign secretary's opulent room overlooking the park. The British are the richest people on earth, the building seemed to say, and we can do anything we like to the rest of you.
Sir Edward Grey was a thin man with a face like a skull. He disliked foreigners and almost never traveled abroad: in British eyes, that made him the perfect foreign secretary. "Thank you so much for coming," he said politely. He was alone but for an aide with a notebook. As soon as they were seated he got down to business. "We must do what we can to calm the situation in the Balkans."
Walter's hopes rose. That sounded pacific. Grey did not want war.
Lichnowsky nodded. The prince was part of the peace faction in the German government. He had sent a sharp telegram to Berlin urging that Austria be restrained. He disagreed with Walter's father and others who believed that war now was better, for Germany, than war later when Russia and France might be stronger.
Grey went on: "Whatever the Austrians do, it must not be so threatening to Russia as to provoke a military response from the tsar."
Exactly, Walter thought excitedly.
Lichnowsky obviously shared his view. "If I may say so, Foreign Secretary, you have hit the nail on the head."
Grey was oblivious to compliments. "My suggestion is that you and we, that is to say Germany and Britain, should together ask the Austrians to extend their deadline." He glanced reflexively at the clock on the wall: it was a little after six A.M. "They have demanded an answer by six tonight, Belgrade time. They could hardly refuse to give the Serbians another day."
Walter was disappointed. He had been hoping Grey had a plan to save the world. This postponement was such a small thing. It might make no difference. And in Walter's view the Austrians were so belligerent they easily could refuse the request, petty though it was. However, no one asked his opinion, and in this stratospherically elevated company he was not going to speak unless spoken to.
"A splendid idea," said Lichnowsky. "I will pass it to Berlin with my endorsement."
"Thank you," said Grey. "But, failing that, I have another proposal."
So, Walter thought, Grey was not really confident the Austrians would give Serbia more time.
Grey went on: "I propose that Britain, Germany, Italy, and France should together act as mediators, meeting at a four-power conference to produce a solution that would satisfy Austria without menacing Russia."
That was more like it, Walter thought excitedly.
"Austria would not agree in advance to be bound by the conference decision, of course," Grey continued. "But that's not necessary. We could ask the Austrian emperor at least to take no further action until he hears what the conference has to say."
Walter was delighted. It would be hard for Austria to refuse a plan that came from its allies as well as its rivals.
Lichnowsky looked pleased too. "I will recommend this to Berlin most strongly."
Grey said: "It's good of you to come to see me so early in the morning."
Lichnowsky took that as dismissal and stood up. "Not at all," he said. "Will you get down to Hampshire today?"
Grey's hobbies were fly-fishing and bird-watching, and he was happiest at his cottage on the river Itchen in Hampshire.
"Tonight, I hope," said Grey. "This is wonderful fishing weather."
"I trust you will have a restful Sunday," said Lichnowsky, and they left.
Walking back across the park, Lichnowsky said: "The English are amazing. Europe is on the brink of war, and the foreign secretary is going fishing."
Walter felt elated. Grey might seem to lack a sense of urgency, but he was the first person to come up with a workable solution. Walter was grateful. I'll invite him to my wedding, he thought, and thank him in my speech.
When they got back to the embassy he was startled to find his father there.
Otto beckoned Walter into his office. Gottfried von Kessel was standing by the desk. Walter was bursting to confront his father about Maud, but he was not going to speak of such things in front of von Kessel, so he said: "When did you get here?"
"A few minutes ago. I came overnight on the boat train from Paris. What were you doing with the ambassador?"
"We were summoned to see Sir Edward Grey." Walter was gratified to see a look of envy cross von Kessel's face.
Otto said: "And what did he have to say?"
"He proposed a four-power conference to mediate between Austria and Serbia."
Von Kessel said: "Waste of time."
Walter ignored him and asked his father: "What do you think?"
Otto narrowed his eyes. "Interesting," he said. "Grey is crafty."
Walter could not hide his enthusiasm. "Do you think the Austrian emperor might agree?"
"Absolutely not."
Von Kessel snickered.
Walter was crushed. "But why?"
Otto said: "Suppose the conference proposes a solution and Austria rejects it?"
"Grey mentioned that. He said Austria would not be obliged to accept the conference recommendation."
Otto shook his head. "Of course not-but what then? If Germany is part of a conference that makes a peace proposal, and Austria rejects our proposal, how could we then back the Austrians when they go to war?"
"We could not."
"So Grey's purpose in making this suggestion is to drive a wedge between Austria and Germany."
"Oh." Walter felt foolish. He had seen none of this. His optimism was punctured. Dismally, he said: "So we won't support Grey's peace plan?"
"Not a chance," said his father.
{III}
Sir Edward Grey's proposal came to nothing, and Walter and Maud watched, hour by hour, as the world lurched closer to disaster.
The next day was Sunday, and Walter met with Anton. Once again everyone was desperate to know what the Russians would do. The Serbians had given in to almost every Austrian demand, only asking for more time to discuss the two harshest clauses; but the Austrians had announced that this was unacceptable, and Serbia had begun to mobilize its little army. There would be fighting, but would Russia join in?
Walter went to the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which was not in the fields but in Trafalgar Square, the busiest traffic junction in London. The church was an eighteenth-century building in the Palladian style, and Walter reflected that his meetings with Anton were giving him an education in the history of English architecture as well as information about Russian intentions.
He mounted the steps and passed through the great pillars into the nave. He looked around anxiously: at the best of times he was afraid Anton might not show up, and this would be the worst possible moment for the man to get cold feet. The interior was brightly lit by a big Venetian window at the east end, and he spotted Anton immediately. Relieved, he sat next to the vengeful spy a few seconds before the service began.
As always, they talked during the hymns. "The Council of Ministers met on Friday," Anton said.
Walter knew that. "What did they decide?"
"Nothing. They only make recommendations. The tsar decides."
Walter knew that, too. He controlled his impatience. "Excuse me. What did they recommend?"
"To permit four Russian military districts to prepare for mobilization."
"No!" Walter's cry was involuntary, and the hymn singers nearby turned and stared at him. This was the first preliminary to war. Calming himself with an effort, Walter said: "Did the tsar agree?"
"He ratified the decision yesterday."
Despairingly, Walter said: "Which districts?"
"Moscow, Kazan, Odessa, and Kiev."
During the prayers, Walter pictured a map of Russia. Moscow and Kazan were in the middle of that vast country, a thousand miles and more from its European borders, but Odessa and Kiev were in the southwest, near the Balkans. In the next hymn he said: "They are mobilizing against Austria."
"It's not mobilization-it's preparation for mobilization."
"I understand that," said Walter patiently. "But yesterday we were talking about Austria attacking Serbia, a minor Balkan conflict. Today we're talking about Austria and Russia, and a major European war."
The hymn ended, and Walter waited impatiently for the next one. He had been brought up by a devout Protestant mother, and he always suffered a twinge of conscience about using church services as a cover for his clandestine work. He said a brief prayer for forgiveness.
When the congregation began to sing again, Walter said: "Why are they in such a hurry to make these warlike preparations?"
Anton shrugged. "The generals say to the tsar: 'Every day you delay gives the enemy an advantage.' It's always the same."
"Don't they see that the preparations make the war more likely?"
"Soldiers want to win wars, not avoid them."
The hymn ended and the service came to a close. As Anton stood up, Walter held his arm. "I have to see you more often," he said.
Anton looked panicky. "We've been through that-"
"I don't care. Europe is on the brink of war. You say the Russians are preparing to mobilize in some districts. What if they authorize other districts to prepare? What other steps will they take? When does preparation turn into the real thing? I have to have daily reports. Hourly would be better."