Paléologue recorded Szapáry saying coldly to Poincaré: ‘Monsieur le Président, we cannot suffer a foreign government to allow plots against our polity to be hatched on its territory!’ The president allegedly urged the need for caution on the part of all the European powers, adding: ‘With a little goodwill this Serbian business is easy to settle. But it can just as easily become critical. Serbia has some very warm friends in the Russian people. And Russia has an ally, France. There are plenty of complications to be feared!’ Szapáry bowed and left without saying a further word. Poincaré said to Viviani and Paléologue, according to the latter: ‘I’m not satisfied with this conversation. The ambassador had obviously been instructed to say nothing … Austria has a coup de théâtre in store for us. Sazonov must be firm and we must back him up …’ This account is disingenuous, but probably catches the tone of what was said.
A telegram arrived from Paris, reporting that Germany was offering Austria-Hungary its support. Viviani and Poincaré claimed to have agreed that this sounded like a bluff to increase pressure on the Serbs, but the French leaders were now becoming alarmed by the meagreness and tardiness of incoming information. The Germans shortly thereafter began jamming some French diplomatic wireless traffic. The mere fact that Berlin adopted such a measure places its role in the July crisis in an unsympathetic light, alongside its consistent mendacity in exchanges with the other Powers. If Germany seriously desired a peaceful outcome, this could scarcely be promoted by isolating France’s leaders from unfolding developments, nor by lying about its own state of knowledge.
On the 23rd, Poincaré gave a dinner under an awning on the quarterdeck of the France, marred by a heavy rainstorm which doused the empress and her daughters. The president was irked that his naval officer showed little imagination or chic in its management of the evening. The dinner, he complained, needed a woman’s touch. But the French delegation left St Petersburg a few hours later confident that the visit had been a success, and confirmed in France’s commitment to Russia. Indeed, it is possible that Viviani’s visible unease was fuelled by fears about how far his president went in promising support, though again there is no evidence about this. Poincaré speculated later that efforts made by Germany to deny him information during those critical days were prompted by fears that Russia and France might otherwise have concocted a credible peace initiative. This is implausible; but it is a matter of fact that the Austrians delayed presenting their ultimatum to Serbia until they were sure the French presidential party was at sea, sailing ever further from Russian shores. Only next day did Poincaré and Viviani begin to receive in successive fragments the text of the Austrian document as delivered.
Between 14 and 25 July, astonishingly, the two men received no dispatches from France’s Belgrade mission, because the minister was ill. Meanwhile Paléologue in St Petersburg was persistently pressing on Sazonov the case for ‘firmness’. In those days ambassadors were important people, as intermediaries and even sometimes as principals. Paléologue was an erratic personality, unafraid of war because he believed that the balance of military advantage now lay with Russia and France. But it remains hard to see why the St Petersburg summit should be condemned as a malign and conspiratorial affair, as some seek to do even in the absence of evidence to that effect.
It is true that Russia was competing fiercely with Germany for control of the Dardanelles and access to the Black Sea, but the latter issue influenced 1914 events only because it had intensified animosity and suspicion between the two nations. The Tsarist Empire had stronger motives than any nation in Europe to delay a showdown. At St Petersburg in July the two Entente Powers debated not a military initiative of their own, but an appropriate reaction to an Austrian one, which was evidently likely to be backed by the Germans. It was never plausible that Russia would acquiesce in Serbia’s suppression, nor that Paris would leave St Petersburg unsupported. Both the Austrians and the Germans knew this, but declined to be deterred, because they believed they could win a war.
The final Austrian decision to invade Serbia, heedless of Belgrade’s response to Vienna’s demands, was reached at a secret meeting in Berchtold’s house on 19 July. Count Tisza, the sole earlier dissenter, was now reconciled to the foreign minister’s course; Hungarian public opinion had become as feverishly anti-Serb as was Austrian. Baron Musulin, who drafted Austria’s ultimatum to Serbia, said proudly later that he ‘sculpted and polished it like a precious stone’, to ‘astound the world with the eloquence of its accusation’. The day before its delivery, a draft was sent to Berlin, which the German government made no attempt to amend or soften, and afterwards mendaciously claimed that it had not seen before publication.
The document presented to Belgrade at 6 p.m. on 23 July denounced Serbia for promoting terror and murder in the Hapsburg Empire. The charges made in the ultimatum about the participation of the Black Hand in the Sarajevo plot were largely valid. But Clauses 5 and 6, demanding that the Austrians should be empowered themselves to investigate and arbitrate on Serbian soil, represented a surrender of sovereignty no nation could concede – nor was Serbia expected by Vienna to do so. Berchtold’s missile was thus launched, and in flight.
Nikola Pašić, the Serb prime minister, was away from Belgrade electioneering on 23 July – he made a habit of removing himself from the capital at moments of crisis, perhaps not accidentally. In his absence, the Austrian ultimatum was received by Serbia’s finance minister, Dr Laza Paču. A frenzy of activity followed. Apis, one of those most responsible for the crisis, went to the house of his brother-in-law, Živan Živanović, and warned him gravely: ‘The situation is very serious. Austria has delivered the ultimatum, the news has been passed on to Russia and the mobilisation orders are out.’ Živanović, like many others, hastily escorted his family to the temporary safety of the countryside.
The Russian ambassador, the egregious Nikolai Hartwig, had died suddenly of a heart attack on 10 July; his deputy, Vasily Strandman, found himself in charge of the mission, which was modestly staffed. Strandman conscripted his wife and Lyudmila Nikolaevna, Hartwig’s daughter, to help encipher the mounting pile of telegrams that had now to be dispatched to Sazonov in St Petersburg, creating a curious snapshot of diplomatic domesticity. Late that night, they were engaged on this task when a servant entered to report that Alexander, the twenty-six-year-old Prince Regent, was waiting below to discuss the ultimatum. The Russian told the young man, who was visibly emotional: ‘The terms are very severe and offer little hope of a peaceful outcome.’ Strandman said that unless they could be accepted in their entirety, Serbia must expect to have to fight. The Prince agreed, then asked simply, ‘What will Russia do?’ Strandman answered: ‘I cannot say anything, because St Petersburg has not yet seen the ultimatum, and I have no instructions.’ ‘Yes, but what is your personal opinion?’ Strandman said he thought it likely that Russia would offer Serbia some protection. Alexander then asked, ‘What should we do next?’ The Russian urged him to telegraph the Tsar.
The Prince, who had been educated in Russia, fell silent for a few moments, then said, ‘Yes, my father the King will send a telegram.’ Strandman urged: ‘You yourself must tell [the Tsar] what has happened, give him your assessment of the situation and ask for help. You should sign,