One hundred years ago, the tension was reaching a breaking point.
It had been building ever since a Serbian radical assassinated Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife on June 28. Would Austria-Hungary move to slap down Serbia? How would Russia respond, and Germany, and France? Above all, what did it mean for Britain and its empire?
The drama was unfolding in microcosm at the Ritz-Carlton in Montreal, which had opened the previous year to rival the hitherto undisputed grande dame among the city’s hotels, the Windsor. Part of the Ritz’s cachet came from the dozens of experienced foreigners among its staff. Many were Germans or Austrians, with about the same number from France.
In the restaurant alone there were more than 20 Frenchmen. Many had already served in the French army and had contacted the French consul-general to declare their readiness to bear arms once more. Three former lieutenants were told they’d enjoy the same rank if — or rather when — the call came. One of them said the Tricolore was nothing less than his religion.
The hotel’s German contingent was led by no less a figure than its manager, an imposing and oh-so-correct Prussian named Rudolf Bischoff. As talk of war in Europe became increasingly heated, he constantly had to remind his staff that their first responsibility was to the Ritz’s patrons, not to whatever country they might have come from. In this he largely succeeded, but even so there were inevitable defections. On the last day of the month, an Austrian night clerk was the latest to resign, anxious to return home before it was too late.
He might not have made it. Within four days Germany and Austria were at war with Russia, Belgium, France, and Britain. And because Britain was in the fight, so automatically was Canada.
Montreal was overwhelmingly enthusiastic. Day by day, crowds cheered as militia units paraded through the streets, testifying to their own zeal but also to encourage the enlistment of others.
Young and even middle-aged men rushed to respond. Pro-war rallies filled the downtown squares; there was even one in Phillips Square where a new statue to the late King Edward VII, known — painfully, given the circumstances — as The Peacemaker, awaited formal unveiling.
The enthusiasm was shared by French- and English-speaking Montrealers, equally appalled that their mother countries faced German attack. Within just a few days of war being declared, more than 3,400 had volunteered for service.
“There are no longer French Canadians and English Canadians,” La Patrie declared. “Only one race now exists, united by the closest bonds in a common cause.”
Bitterness would eventually grow between the two communities, not least because of the 1917 conscription crisis. But for the moment the fervour was widespread.
Hamilton Gault, a wealthy Montreal industrialist, offered to raise a regiment of 1,000 men, and thus was founded one of Canada’s most distinguished units, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. Financier J.K.L. Ross donated $500,000 to purchase machine guns, and later paid for three navy patrol boats.
Militia detachments guarded the waterfront, the Victoria Bridge and the Lachine Canal. Entry passes were required for anyone entering the port area, even people working there.
But amid all the tub-thumping and flag-waving, there was also apprehension. One Gazette story noted how the “joyous marching” of some cadets impressed onlookers with “mingled feelings of admiration for their enthusiasm and an involuntary sadness that the idea of war should ever be associated with boys in their teens.”
In another report, “the more sober-minded … looked on with serious mien considering what war really meant.”
A local socialist named Jonathan Knight even had the courage to stand up in Phillips Square and urge working men not to be “led away by the fifes and drums” into a war created by capitalists to preserve markets.
Back at the Ritz, Rudolf Bischoff wrote the directors to announce his resignation. He apparently was able to get back to Europe, taking nearly two dozen of his countrymen with him.
He was succeeded as the hotel’s manager by Frank Quick, appropriately enough an Englishman. Though the directors told Bischoff that his job would await him “at the close of this horrible war,” it seems he ever saw Montreal again.