Chapter XIII “We will Divide the World Between Us”
Dazzling the War Lord—Bartering Kingdoms—Juggling with the Church
Franz Este, masquerading for incognito purposes as Duc de Lorraine, was a tall, closely-knit man, no more at home in mufti than a gorilla in pyjamas. A bronzed face, disfigured by the Habsburg lip and an air of disdain, one would have picked him out of thousands as a person to avoid!
His speech was a cross between a military command and the snarl of an angry dog when addressed to persons beneath his rank, and against such the physical advantages he boasted were ruthlessly exploited. Franz was impervious to heat or cold, hence the officers of his household and his servants had to endure both in the extreme without proper protection.
“If the master can do without an overcoat, or wear a close-fitting uniform when it is a hundred in the shade, why not you, menials?”
He had a passion for drill and for slaughter. A day on the parade ground, meddling with the mere outer film of things, seemed to him the pinnacle of military achievements. He never stalked, or took risks in the chase; the proud deer and the miserable hare alike were driven before his gun in vast numbers that he might pump lead into them, turning forest or plain into shambles.
He went to visit their Prussian Majesties with the fixed intention of dazzling the War Lord with a programme of petty regulations about military customs and appearances to be introduced at his enthronement. A slanting row of buttons was to be set in a straight line; another was to be lopped off altogether. Yes, indeed, he was considering, too, a new movement in the goose-step. And those Hungarians! They had little respect for the essentials of military obedience; but, with His Majesty’s advisory help, he would pound it into them—yes, pound it!
Gentle methods might do for women when they are decidedly pretty, but not for the people as a whole, etc.
Music to the War Lord, who feeds on regulations and petty tyrannies as a boa constrictor—if the whole can’t be masticated at a gulp, why, leave the rest for another “try.”
Brothers in spirit and in arms!
“Franz,” said the War Lord after luncheon, enlivened by French champagne with a German label—the Court Marshal’s way of encouraging home industry to the naked eye: German products only for German Imperial palates, but beware lest a certain august taste be displeased! A bit of unpatriotic deception, rather than face such an eventuality!
“Franz,” said the War Lord, after that fruitful and thought-quickening luncheon, “some day we will divide the world between us—pope-kaisers both of us.”
“Pope?” gasped Franz, his mind tugging at the Jesuit swaddling clothes that he never really outgrew.
“You know,” insinuated the War Lord-tempter, “there is but one way to re-establish rulership by divine right as on a rock of bronze: impregnate it with sacerdotal authority. I am already Chief Bishop of Prussia; the Lutheran popeship of the world is my game, as yours should be the Roman Catholic popeship.”
“What about the Holy Father?” suggested the Jesuits, using Franz as a speaking-tube.
“Holy fiddlesticks,” laughed the War Lord. “As one of the English Henrys put it: ‘I will be damned ere an Italian parson dictates to me in my own realms.’”
The War Lord bowed ceremoniously. “Hail thee, spiritual and mundane lord—true Emperor of Slavs, Czechs, Magyars, Poles, Russians, Servians, Bulgarians and Montenegrins.”
“But Italy—you promised me Italy,” muttered Franz.
“Correct, in exchange for German Austria!” said the War Lord.
“Do I have to give up Vienna?”
“Rome is a more celebrated place, and if it gets too hot in August, Petersburg will make a splendid summer resort. There is Prague and Budapest besides. I thought you liked the Hradschin?” he added gaily.
When Franz still refrained from entering into the spirit of the proposals, the War Lord opened a miniature safe on the top of his desk.
“Have a ‘genuine,’ same as Edward smokes. Have to keep them in a burglar-proof safe—those thieving lackeys, you know. You have the same trouble at Bellevue” (the Austrian heir’s Vienna town house) “I suppose.”
“God punish the scoundrels—yes,” replied the pious Franz, and, accustomed to the cheap and nasty output of the Austrian tobacco monopoly with its endless stogies, helped himself eagerly.
“A mark apiece,” boasted Wilhelm, like a Jew commenting on early strawberries.
“Italy being a sort of apanage to the Emperor of the Slavs”—more bowing and scraping—“you wouldn’t care to have a rival court on your hands, would you? And that’s what the Vatican will always be so long as it is allowed to exist.”
“You would abolish it?” cried Franz, alarmed.
“Not completely; I would retain the Holy Father as a sort of Christian Sheikh-ul-Islam, yourself to be the real responsible head of the Church.”
“The Pope is not a married man.”
“Alexander VI. was, and also some others. Besides, the Tsar whom you are to succeed as orthodox pope never was a stickler for celibacy.”
“Orthodox pope?” echoed Franz, his Jesuit blood a-tingle.
To his pietist understanding the mere mention of a rival Church was as a red rag to a bull, and no one realised that condition of his mind more fully than the War Lord. But would he allow the even tenor of these pourparlers to be disturbed by the conscientious scruples of the surly individual smoking his echte? Not he!
Conscientious scruples, indeed, and in world politics too! He had not previously given the subject any thought, but on his desk lay a letter marked: “On the Service of the Holy See”—a happy coincidence and a suggestion.
The papal breve dealt with nothing more momentous than the shifting of the protectorate over the Christians in Turkey, but the mysterious word State-secret covers a multitude of lies.
“My dear Franz,” said the War Lord, weighing the Pope’s letter in his hand, “the problems you seem to approach with fears and trepidation are fully treated in this document. However, without the Holy Father’s consent, I dare not reveal his intentions. But this much I can say on my own responsibility: after we get through with Russia, there will be no orthodox question. The orthodox Church will have to unite with the Catholic——”
The late Whistler would have loved to draw Franz’s face while the future Emperor of the Slavs listened with covetousness and fanaticism, the zealot’s ardour and the brute’s vindictiveness written large in his usually stony face.
“Will have to make submission to Rome,” he interrupted, pounding the table.
“As you like, King of Rome.” To offset the Duke’s holy fervour, the War Lord affected a tone of calmness utterly at variance with his ideas.
“The coming union of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches——” he continued.
“The absorption of the schismatic Church by the only true Church,” insisted Franz.
“Will make it particularly important for you to have the office of Pontifex Maximus in addition to that of Emperor and King,” said the War Lord. “I’ll let Bülow talk details.”
“After consultation with my father confessor?” asked Franz anxiously.
“Why not unfold our plans to a council of Archduchesses and the whole priest-ridden pest?” cried the War Lord, momentarily forgetful of his rôle. “I beg your pardon,” he added quickly; “I was quoting Bismarck. What I meant to say is: that our pourparlers are strictly confidential—not a word to any one, confessor, Francis Joseph, or the Princess herself. I have your word as an officer?”
Never was a word of honour more reluctantly forthcoming than that of the prospective Emperor of the Slavs.