Countdown to War, Day 26. 23 July: Austria-Hungary prepares a "Note" for Serbia. But not to worry about war.

One hundred years ago today, Thursday 23 July 1914 provided a welcome break from a period of unusual heat: “There was yesterday a welcome change from the oppressively hot weather of Tuesday in the North of England,” wrote the Manchester Guardian, “to conditions decidedly cooler and less enervating.” An anticyclone was due “to give several days of fine, stable weather, at first rather cool and subsequently very warm.”

On the Continent, however, things were as hot as ever: “The heat in Germany and Northern Europe continues extreme.” Further south, things might – or might not – be warming up, but that didn’t have much to do with the weather.

Serious Turn Improbable

In the Lower House of the Hungarian Parliament to-day the Premier, Count Tisza, said the Foreign situation is now not of such a nature that a serious turn can be regarded as certain or even probable. The situation abroad is now absolutely uncertain. It can be settled by peaceful means, though the possibility of serious complications also exists.

A report from Paris added:

In well-informed quarters it is believed that the Austro-Hungarian Note to Servia will not be presented until the end of this week. While its terms are not yet known, it is understood that on the whole counsels of moderation will be found to have prevailed, and that generally speaking no demands will be made upon Servia to which she will not be able to accede without loss of dignity.

“So...” said Martin hesitantly, “Things are certain or they’re completely uncertain. Peaceful means are possible but there may be serious complications. Counsels of moderation sounds good, but if they fail, just how extreme will things get?”

“They’re getting tough,” said the Cynic, “Austria-Hungary’s winding itself up to put pressure on Serbia. That’s what that means. A diplomatic note is how a country tells another it’s pissed off. This one isn’t going to be nice.”

“But... what about the counsels of moderation and all that?”

“What? You’ve never seen wishful thinking before?”

Austro-Hungarian troops. Getting ready?

The article went on:

The “Neue Freie Presse” says what we demand from Servia does not go beyond what two States wishing to maintain friendly relations must grant each other, as Austria-Hungary actually grants it to Russia...

Russia? That nation’s name kept cropping up these days. But what did the business of the assassination of Francis Ferdinand have to do with Russia?

“Fellow slavs. And a rival empire to Austria’s.”

At least there was another piece, “Austria and Servia”, that was a little reassuring.

Vienna is notoriously the most jumpy capital in Europe, and the talk about war between Austria and Servia is surely not to be taken seriously. The nearest parallel to the quarrel now in progress between Austria and Servia is the quarrel between England and France in 1868 over Orsini’s attempt on the life of the Emperor Napoleon. Orsini’s headquarters had been in London and France complained very bitterly of our allowing our capital to be the centre of a conspiracy against he life of her Sovereign.

A good point. There had been no war between Britain and France in the 1860s. Why should there be war now between Austria-Hungary and Serbia? 

“When people start telling you there’s no danger of war, get ready to take cover,” said the Cynic.

For light relief, they turned to another story, about an “Ulster Suffragette’s Trial”.

Miss Dorothy Evans, organising secretary of the Ulster branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union, was placed in the dock at the Belfast Assizes yesterday for trial, but owing to her conduct no progress could be made, and after a series of remarkable scenes the case against her was adjourned to the next assizes, and she was forcibly removed from the dock protesting.

Belfast Evening Telegraph photo of Dorothy Evans (right) and
fellow-suffragette Madge Muir on their release from gaol in April 1914

Amusing. Women’s suffrage and Ireland were the questions most troubling Britain these days, he supposed. And here they were coming together. Characteristically, in a noisy confrontation.

Sir Edward Carson, the troublesome loyalist. And the Winslow Boy

Some readers of my “Countdown to War” series of blog posts have asked about that strange character, Sir Edward Carson.

As pressure mounted, in the years leading up to the First World War, for some kind of Home Rule in Ireland – i.e. a measure of autonomy within the United Kingdom – he took the leadership of the Protestant movement in Ulster that opposed any slackening of the ties with Britain. He was a lawyer and a Member of Parliament, but he raised and at least connived at the arming of a resistance group that came to be known as the Ulster Volunteer Force.

Sir Edward Carson opposing Home Rule
He launched the slogan "No Surrender"

Decades later, the UVF and its successors were major contributors to the troubles that plagued Northern Ireland between 1972 and 1997.

Even back then, it was a significant factor in the instability of the island and its steady drift towards civil war.

And yet Carson was never arrested. Indeed, the British government treated him as a spokesman for a certain strand of opinion, and someone with whom it was prepared to negotiate. It’s hard not to feel that if he was treated so leniently, despite fomenting armed insurrection against the State he was sworn to serve, it was because at heart the government couldn’t bring itself to condemn a movement that set out to keep at least a part of Ireland under its control.

Because he favoured the Union, he was a loyalist, and one can be indulgent towards any degree of disloyalty in a loyalist.

This adulation of a rebel and insurgent continues to this day. There is a greater than life-size statue of Carson on the drive up to Stormont Castle outside Belfast, the seat of the power-sharing government of Northern Ireland and its Assembly. One can’t help admiring the Republicans who turn up there each day and go past the statue, on their way to continue work for the peaceful development of the province.

What amazes me most about the man, however, is that there was another side to his character. The Terence Rattigan play The Winslow Boy tells the story of a young cadet expelled from Naval College for the theft of a five shilling postal order; a leading right-wing MP and lawyer takes up the case and his brilliant forensic skills become the biggest weapon in the defence of the child.

The lawyer, Sir Robert Morton, bases his legal action on a so-called “petition of right”. Technically, this is an appeal to the Sovereign to correct a wrong that has been done to a subject. The play several times makes powerful and poignant use of the words inscribed on such a petition, “let Right be done.” At one point, Morton declares, “it is easy to do justice, but it is very hard to do right”.

It came as a shock to me a few years ago – such a shock that I put up a blog post on the subject at the time – to discover that the historical figure on whom Morton is modelled, who fought the case of the real cadet on whom the Winslow boy is based, was none other than Sir Edward Carson.

I’ve always preferred my heroes when I can see that they have feet of clay. Carson’s interesting because he’s a villain in whom I can see a halo. And that’s marvellously intriguing.

Countdown to War. Day 7, 4 July: massacres in the Balkans, trouble in Ireland, getting on with the French

One hundred years ago today, on Saturday 4 July 1914, Martin, the young Mancunian railwayman, reading the Manchester Guardian with his workmates, would have seen a chilling report on the horrors inflicted on each other by people in the Balkans.

After reading the carefully documented evidence to be found in the second half of the volume, one is driven to find all the races – Bulgars, Greeks, Serbs and Turks – guilty of massacring upon occasion their enemies, men, women and children, as well the wounded as the whole. Two points should, however, be noted before judgement is passed. The share taken in the fighting by armed bands of irregulars may be held to have justified a severer method of warfare than could be excused in more highly civilised combatants; most of the outrages, and those the most dreadful, were committed by irregulars.

It was some comfort, despite the pity he felt at such tales, to know that he at least belonged to one of the West European nations which had learned to civilise their behaviour, even in war. And had, after all, known forty years of peace.

The paper still had much to say about death in high society, though the Austrian Imperial family seemed to have slipped down the agenda. Several articles dealt with the departure of Joseph Chamberlain two days earlier. The former Radical Mayor of Birmingham had latterly become the champion of Tariff reform, wanting to protect British industry by erecting customs barriers against imports from abroad. He had also emerged as a major figure in favour of Imperialism, opposed in particular to any kind of concession towards Home Rule for Ireland.

The history of English politics between 1892 and 1895 is mainly the story of Mr Chamberlain’s attempt to destroy the Home Rule Administration. For the first two years he attacked Mr. Gladstone in his effort to carry Home Rule by every means known to the skilful Parliamentarian. At last the Grand Old Man’s strength gave way under the strain, and he resigned.

“Important stuff,” said one of his mates, “but it's 1914. Remind me again: when did Gladstone die? He was my Dad’s generation. My Granddad’s.”

“Sixteen years ago,“ came the reply from one of the older tracklayers.

“Yes, more history than news,” said Martin, “Even so, that stuff about Ireland’s still a bit of an issue, isn’t it?”

A point underlined by a story about Ulster Boundaries. The Saturday Review had written to thank the Manchester Guardian for its compliments on a leader article the previous week. The piece had concerned a supposed new map of the north of Ireland allegedly being considered by the government, to draw “an artificial boundary line for Ulster – in order as far as possible to divide the province into Protestant and Roman Catholic areas.” This was a worrying and radical suggestion, “and we should be really glad to know, as a fact, whether the Government is considering an artificial boundary between the Protestant part of Ulster and the rest of Ireland.”

St James's Street in London
Decorated for the visit of French President Emile Loubet in 1903
The year of the signing of the Entente Cordiale

It was links across the Channel rather than across the Irish Sea that drew the intention of a Monsieur Yves Guyot. He had written to underline the importance of the “Entente Cordiale” between France and Britain:

The question as to the use of the formal term “entente” or “alliance” is of no importance. What is really of importance is the conviction that our two countries should lend each other reciprocal support for their mutual security and in the interests of peace.

Yes. We really needed to pull together with the Frogs. Waterloo was nearly a century behind us, after all, and we’d fought the Crimean War together. In an uncertain world, a cordial alliance – or understanding – would offer some welcome stability.

France v England, 1913
England won 20-0. France came bottom of the table.
Those were the days...

Just as long as they didn’t start beating us at rugby in that new-fangled Five Nations championship.