The Longest Winter (22 page)

‘I wish they’d act like them. I’m at a high time of my life, I’d rather like peace, perfect peace.’

They began to walk, moving along the Appel Quay near the Lateiner Bridge, then turning into Franz Josef Street, Sarajevo’s elegant shopping thoroughfare. They scanned faces. James felt their search was impossible. Instinctively he was looking for men with the same characteristics as Ferenac, men with secrets in their eyes, dark soulful men. He saw only people, all of whom wore an air of festivity for the day or concern for near tragedy. They were not people who seemed hostile to the formidable archduke, a more far-seeing man than Vienna gave him credit for. Perhaps under the eyes of the Austrian authorities the people of Sarajevo had learned to smile on all the right occasions, or perhaps they felt that Franz Ferdinand was sympathetic to the cause of self-determination for Bosnia. Serbia resented the Austrian occupation of the country, but the Bosnians of Sarajevo had flags and bunting out.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ observed the major, neat in a light grey suit, ‘but the sport’s a little more elusive. By God, I thought the police in Ilidze would never let us go.’

‘What do you suppose we’ll get, a reprimand or a reward?’ smiled James.

The major chuckled and said, ‘Either is worth the sport we had. I’m damned pleased to have made your acquaintance, I must say.’

‘Mutual, I assure you,’ said James, scanning more faces, ‘especially when I remember the schnapps.’

‘Kept us warm company, what?’

James looked as an elegant woman passed him. He thought of Sophie, so irresistible in her summer colour and her enterprising little turns of speech. She would always be able to talk him into some things and out of others. Well, he had made up his mind to propose to her, and his only obstacle now would be her parents. They would naturally want Sophie to marry one of her own kind. An aristocrat. Preferably an Austrian aristocrat.

He moved up and down the street with Major Moeller. It was lined with police and people, for the archduke’s return route would take in Franz Josef Street. That, at least, had been the original intention. But because of Cabrinovic’s bomb attempt this had been changed and the motorcade would proceed straight back along the Appel Quay. The public were not aware of this, nor the police, and so they lined Franz Josef Street in anticipation of seeing the archduke and his wife.

Major Moeller eyed a lady or two with a gentleman’s interest and a man’s appreciation. It relieved the unrewarding work of trying to spot would-be assassins. James eyed almost everyone he passed, although he realized, Ferenac apart,
that he was unlikely to distinguish an anarchist from a municipal clerk. He did not have a policeman’s nose or instinct for such work.

They heard some cheering, much of it sympathetic. Spectators visibly stirred. The archduke’s procession, led by the mayor’s car, was turning into Franz Josef Street. And Trifko Grabez, one of the three most promising conspirators, had just suffered a complete failure of his nerve. At the first bridge the archduke reached from the city hall, the Kaiser Bridge, Grabez stood in numb incompetence and let the car go by. He retired in a mood of maudlin self-disillusionment.

James saw the first car, the mayor’s, enter Franz Josef Street. In a moment of confusion the driver had followed the original route, making this right turn instead of taking the rearranged route straight along the Appel Quay. Franz Ferdinand’s car made the same turn in the wake of the mayor’s car, for the archduke’s chauffeur had not been informed of the changed plan. James watched. The royal car was not far away, a uniformed officer standing guard on the running board. He saw the archduke, in plumed helmet and white jacket, his wife in shimmering white by his side. Franz Ferdinand sat in broad, soldierly compactness. His wife, the Duchess of Hohenberg, though still shaken by the bomb incident, was smiling in response to the sympathetic cheers.

The car suddenly stopped as General Potiorek called the chauffeur’s attention to the fact that a mistake had been made. It was a mistake
that was to cost Austria her empire and Europe over eight million lives. The chauffeur began a reverse turn. Outside Schiller’s well-known food shop, on the corner of the street, stood Gavrilo Princip, the last major hope of the Black Hand. The slowly reversing car came directly into line with him. James saw the young man step forward, and his long-lying uneasiness leapt into a full-blooded certainty that tragedy was imminent. He pushed forward but was blocked by spectators and police, and Princip, redeeming the failure of confederates, entered history. At a distance of no more than six feet he drew his revolver and fired twice. The shots were barely heard above the noise of the crowds. Franz Ferdinand, a bullet in his neck, continued to sit majestically and aloofly upright. His wife, a bullet in her stomach, also gave no immediate indication that she had been hit. General Potiorek was certain both shots had missed, since there was this entire absence of reaction from the royal couple. Princip was whirling about in a melee of enraged onlookers, and while this went on a brief examination was made of the apparently unharmed archduke and duchess. Nothing seemed amiss, but Potiorek ordered an immediate return to his official residence. Just as the car turned to proceed over the Lateiner Bridge the archduke’s mouth spilled blood. His wife cried out and sank to her knees. Potiorek, violently alarmed, shouted at the driver to make all possible speed.

The police pulled Princip out of the hands of
citizens threatening to suffocate him or beat him to death. He was manhandled to the station, green with sickness, for he too had swallowed an aged cyanide tablet. He suffered no more than this sickness and some bruises. But Franz Ferdinand and his duchess were both dead half an hour later.

James and Major Moeller sat long in shock at a café table, silently aware of Sarajevo in panic, sorrow, mortification and anger. Shouts, cries and running people spoke of citizens conducting their own searches for anarchists.

In Belgrade, Colonel Dimitrijevic received Major Tankosic. The congratulations were sincere and mutual. Major Tankosic went to church later.

The assassination shocked Austria but did not intimidate her. The emperor, who had survived far greater tragedies, took the demise of Franz Ferdinand almost philosophically. The seven conspirators were rounded up. Under interrogation some of them were unable to conceal the Serbian origins of the plot. Accordingly the Austrian Foreign Minister. Count Berchtold, proceeded on the basis that the Serbian government was implicated.

Franz Ferdinand and his wife were unobtrusively buried at the dead of a rainy night, leaving Vienna in a state of mourning but not of grief for the unfortunate heir apparent. The archduke had not been one of the most popular Habsburgs. The capital spent one subdued night and then resumed its air of untroubled summer.
The new heir, Charles, was a likeable young man with a lovely wife. The emperor much preferred Charles. So what was there to mope about? There were always Habsburgs to spare.

The soft warm nights were beautiful, the lights radiant, the dance halls full and
The Merry Widow
playing to packed houses.

And the von Korvacs family, having abruptly cut their holiday short, were in residence again at their house in the Salesianergasse.

Baron and Baroness von Korvacs had been shocked and grieved by the tragedy of Sarajevo. Back in Vienna they found it hard to hide their feelings, to re-enter the pleasurable diversities of their everyday life, and there was a quietness within the house for several days. Ludwig called after two days, apologizing for intruding on the family at this time but wishing to enquire after the health of Anne and Sophie. He was unable, in fact, to stay away longer from Anne. He had finally discovered it was Anne who engaged his serious affections and, as he had once declared to Sophie, such discovery must be followed by a vigorous pressing of his suit.

Major Moeller, who had also returned to Vienna, paid a courtesy call after four days. He came to see how the delightful young baronesses were after their shattering experience and to talk to the family again about the fateful moment in Sarajevo, when he and James had been close enough to see the shots fired.

‘James always knew that something dreadful was going to happen,’ said Anne.

‘He did his best,’ said the major, enjoying an aperitif, ‘he passed on all the information he could to the police in Ilidze and the authorities in Sarajevo. It all pointed to a positive attempt on the archduke’s life, but when rogues and villains are as fanatical as this bunch were, all the vigilance in the world can be set aside by the momentary freakishness of fate. If the archduke’s car hadn’t stopped, if there had been people close to Princip at that time – well, it is all if, if.’

‘Poor Franz Ferdinand,’ said Anne, ‘I’m sure he meant to do so well.’

‘Infernally hard on the emperor,’ said Carl, ‘he has had damned bad luck at times.’

‘He will survive it,’ said the baroness confidently, ‘as he has survived other misfortunes.’

Sophie, standing at the drawing-room windows, suddenly entered the lists after a period of unusual quiet from her. She said, ‘I presume James has survived whatever misfortunes he has encountered since he returned with us? Or does anyone know if he has gone off in search of other maidens in distress?’

This little burst of bitterness was so unlike Sophie that it produced a slightly shocked silence. Carl, standing near her, looked hard at her.

‘It’s not like you to be as ungenerous as that, Sophie,’ he said.

She turned away, looking out at the gardens bright with the colours of summer. Carl, puzzled and curious, moved closer and peered at her. He was startled to see the glitter of tears. Sophie
never shed tears, she could always deal with the ups and downs of life without resorting to a moist lament. It did not take him more than a second or two to understand. Sophie, previously so blithe and fancy-free, had fallen hard. Her predilection for James had been the most obvious thing about her recently. And she had seen nothing of him for days.

‘Oh, that’s all right, Sophie,’ he murmured and squeezed her arm. She cast him a grateful but unsteady smile.

The baroness, aware of the upset aside, said lightly to Major Moeller, ‘What is James doing these days, do you know?’

‘Oh, we’ve met a couple of times. He draws and I jaw.’ The major smiled. ‘Can’t get him interested in fishing, though. Nor in shooting. Pity. He has an aptitude for good sport, you know, but is shockingly lazy about it.’

‘Not all the time,’ said Anne. She glanced at Sophie. Sophie still had her back turned. ‘But he’s getting a little forgetful, isn’t he? He promised to call.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Sophie, sounding a long way off, ‘he’s moving in more artistic circles.’

‘James?’ said the major. ‘I hope not. That’s certain death to any sportsman.’

The baroness found Sophie sitting in the garden later, a book in her lap.

‘Sophie,’ she said, ‘Anne and Ludwig are going to drive out with Carl. Wouldn’t you like to join them?’

‘I don’t think so, Mama,’ said Sophie, ‘I’m not really very good company at the moment.’

‘It’s been one thing and another, hasn’t it?’ The baroness was lightly sympathetic. Sophie did not look up. That caused a little inquisitive concern in her mother. The baroness, grateful to life and Ernst and providence for giving her three children quite matchless, would have gladly taken on the heartaches of all of them. But she always trod as tactfully and carefully as she could. She knew she must be particularly careful with Sophie, whom she felt to be the most intelligent of her children and yet the most sensitive. It was not like Sophie to suffer depression, however, or moods. She was equable where Anne was ebullient, and she warmed to life in her intense appreciation of it as Anne sparkled in her uninhibited enjoyment of it. ‘Yes, one thing and another, darling.’

‘Mama,’ said Sophie in a suppressed voice, ‘I’m quite recovered from one thing and another. I’m simply in the throes of a new ordeal, and I’m not enduring it at all well.’

The baroness, quite aware now of what was wrong, said gently, ‘It’s James, isn’t it?’

Sophie smoothed the fluttering pages of her book and said, ‘Mama, why doesn’t he call? Ludwig has been every day, and Major Moeller, who is quite a new friend, has taken the trouble to come and see us. Wouldn’t you think James would too? He isn’t throwing us over, is he?’

‘Throwing us over?’ The baroness was slightly astonished. ‘But I thought you and
James— Darling, I don’t wish to interfere or jump to conclusions or ask the wrong questions, but I did infer from what you said at Ilidze that you and he were coming to an understanding. Was I mistaken?’

‘I have a very worried feeling that I was, that I heard things he didn’t really say. Oh, why doesn’t he come and see me?’

‘Shall I send him a note and ask him to call?’ suggested the baroness.

‘No.’ Sophie looked up then. Uncertainty had diminished her elan but not her pride. ‘Mama, he must call without being begged or persuaded.’

What have I done, she thought distractedly, that he doesn’t?

James, in fact, knowing that the archduke’s murder had deeply affected the von Korvacs and given the baron some official worries, had simply decided not to intrude on the family for a while. In any case, he needed a few days to think long and hard about marriage to Sophie. Yet for all the attention he gave to the ifs and buts, he knew he had already made up his mind to do what she had asked him to. Propose to her. Sophie, despite considering herself modern, still wanted a formal proposal. But did she genuinely understand that her horizons as his wife would not be the limitless ones they were now, when she had the world at her feet? She was quite lovely, she was creative, and she was blessed with wheedling voice magic. And the world did come
to Vienna. It did not come to Warwickshire. Warwickshire, by comparison with Vienna, would be parochial.

He thought about it. He still had his room at the Ecole Internationale, for Maude insisted he was more than welcome to it for as long as it suited him. She enjoyed his company, his presence at mealtimes and during the relaxing quietness of the evenings. Over lunch one day they discussed the Sarajevo tragedy and its possible repercussions. Maude, widow of a diplomat, had her ear instinctively to the ground, as well as friends in the service, and she frankly did not like what she heard about the belligerent nature of Count Berchtold’s attitude.