During long drives through his domain, tete-a-tete in the back seat, Franz Ferdinand presented his case. The argument he'd made in vain three months earlier at Miramare-here he repeated it much more forcibly: that an accommodation was possible, an accommodation was necessary between Vienna and the Serbs; but that it was constantly sabotaged by Buda pest. He really must correct, he told his guest, the good impression the Hungarian Premier Tisza had managed to make on the Kaiser. Tisza did not want the Kaiser's sharp eyes to see how Magyar chauvinism endangered not only Austria but Germany. After all, the Hungarians were a minority even in the Hungarian half of Austria-Hungary. Yet under Tisza they oppressed the Slav majority there, restricted the voting rights of Serbs and Croats, provided only skimpy schooling in the Serbo-Croat tongue. And through Tisza's influence the Habsburg government refused Serbia access to the Adriatic, refused them even some flea-bitten fishing village of no naval significance. With that, Tisza played right into the hands of the stormy petrels in Belgrade that were always screeching against Austria-and against Germany. Nor was that all. Tisza had begun to tyrannize the Rumanian minority in Hungary. The result? Rumania was being driven away from the Central Powers, away from Austria and Germany, into an alliance with Russia and France. Tisza just kept inflicting absolutely criminal damage. Under normal circumstances he would be disciplined by his King, who was also the Austrian Emperor, Franz Joseph. But there was Franz Joseph's advanced age and his fragile condition. Firmness like that could no longer be expected from Schonbrunn Palace. But it could be hoped for from Europe's most dynamic monarch; it could come from the Kaiser, Austria's trusty ally. Couldn't Wilhelm knock some sense into Tisza's head?
The Archduke signalled to the chauffeur. His car slowed to a stop. It stood surrounded by the thousands of roses Franz Ferdinand had conjured from the earth. Their perfume came down on the Kaiser together with the light-blue stare of Franz Ferdinand's eyes. In sight and smell the Kaiser now bore the full brunt of the Archduke's passion. A daunting experience for a poseur like Wilhelm, able to use an empire as prop for his poses but unable-in contrast to Franz Ferdinand-to command a vision or a cogent policy all his own.
Well, the Kaiser said. Well, he was glad to receive such a… such a candid briefing on the difficulty. Yes, the Hungarians did seem to be a bit of a problem, especially when it came to Rumania, which Budapest must not alienate. Yes, he would instruct von Tschirsky (his ambassador to Austria-Hungary) accordingly. He would direct von Tschirsky to tell Tisza, "Sir, be mindful of Rumania!"
As to Serbia, the Kaiser made a less specific commitment, yet couldn't help but voice sympathy with the views the Archduke had so dramatically presented. On the whole Franz Ferdinand's automobile diplomacy at Konopiste appeared to work much better than all his luncheon pleading at Miramare earlier in the spring.
Socially, Wilhelm's visit proved even more auspicious. It ended on Saturday, June 13, with nine courses of a farewell dinner. Franz Ferdinand's Sophie walked into Konopiste Castle's dining hall to sit down at the Kaiser's right. On her head shimmered a tiara of evening feathers. This time the royal connotations came into their own.
At half past eight in the evening the archducal family bade their guest good-bye. Franz Ferdinand accompanied Wilhelm to the train station in a car gliding at slow, stately speed. The military band that had serenaded the diners followed behind with a medley of the Kaiser's favorite marches. As the escutcheoned locomotive of Wilhelm's private train got up steam, he promised to return in the fall; most roses would be gone by then, but the woodcock shooting would be wonderful. Franz Ferdinand applauded the idea, adding that Wilhelm's stay should be coordinated with the hunting visit of the English King, also planned for autumn. "Capital!" roared the Kaiser. Franz Ferdinand smiled: Let German Emperor and British monarch stand side by side, blasting away at game, thereby muzzling the cannons of their armies.
Two days later, at 7 A.M. Monday, June 15, five hundred gendarmes marched by a side entrance into the Konopiste estate. It was the first day of the Archduke's final week at Konopiste, the week before he left on the first leg of his trip to Sarajevo.
The gendarmes distributed themselves according to a prearranged pattern. Soon they were so scattered on the enormous terrain as to be barely noticeable. Yet they could intervene fast when needed.
No need arose. At 9 A.M. the great gates swung open. For the first time ever the public streamed in. Many were peasants in boots and black Sunday suits who had trudged to the castle from neighboring villages. Many were burghers with watchchained waistcoats, who had arrived by rail or bus or private car. All of them shuffled through this exalted wonderland, hushed, awed, quiet.
They gawked at the endless flamboyance of the roses, at the infinite varieties of their hue from gold to scarlet to white to black, at a horizon brimming with aromas and blossoms. They shook heads over stone vases two stories tall from which cactus flowered or holly sprouted. They admired the obelisks, the marble amoretti, satyrs, and Greek gods, the baroque fountains casting up pillars of water.
The men had removed their hats, as if in church. The women looked for petals dropped to the gravel. Young girls would slip them into their bodices; matrons would press them between pages of Bibles brought for that purpose. Amidst the crowds passing the castle itself, voices were raised here and there.
Long live the Archduke!
Their shouts sounded frail against the massive seventeenth century turrets. No answer came. Kaiser Wilhelm would have mounted a parapet and strutted in his spurs. Franz Joseph would have appeared and performed his kindly little wave. Not Archduke Franz Ferdinand. He showed himself only during a brief ride down the main path. After that he did not emerge from behind the stone walls.
Though unseen, he saw. He watched from behind a window, holding his Sophie's hand. It is not impossible that he smiled.
On Saturday, June 20, the couple went to Chlumetz, Franz Ferdinand's other, more intimate Bohemian castle. Here they spent a cozy family weekend with their brood, bowling, playing checkers, roaming the woods. And here, on the early morning of Wednesday, June 24, they said good-bye to their daughter and their two sons until a reunion planned for a week later. Then the Archduke and his Duchess began their journey to Sarajevo.
They traveled together only until Vienna. There Sophie took the express going east to Budapest. Their destination lay south, yet this somewhat indirect path was the only one available by train: rail connections from the Austrian part of the Empire to Bosnia had been constructed as detours via Budapest, at Hungarian insistence. The Archduke refused to let Magyar impudence dictate his route. He'd rather complicate it his own way-by sea. At the same time, being an ever considerate husband, he did not want to subject his Sophie to the extra strain of his complication. For himself, of course, thumbing his nose at Budapest would be well worth the discomfort. It would help him keep his cheer.
That he kept it so well seems remarkable in view of his temper and how it was tested throughout the trip. When he went on alone from Vienna to Trieste, the electric lights of his salon car went out. The Archduke grinned. "How interesting," he said, as footmen scurried to light candles. "Don't we look like a crypt?"