The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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| Table of Contents | |
| Section | Page |
| Start of eBook | 1 |
| I. INTRODUCTORY. | 1 |
| II. | 6 |
| III. | 26 |
| IV. | 35 |
| V. | 43 |
| VI. | 66 |
| VII. | 78 |
| VIII. | 90 |
| IX | 118 |
| X. | 128 |
| XI. | 149 |
| XII. | 160 |
| XIII. | 172 |
| XIV | 181 |
| XV. | 204 |
| XVI. | 217 |
| INDEX | 248 |
William the Second, German Emperor and King of Prussia, Burgrave of Nuernberg, Margrave of Brandenburg, Landgrave of Hessen and Thuringia, Prince of Orange, Knight of the Garter and Field-Marshal of Great Britain, etc., was born in Berlin on January 27, 1859, and ascended the throne on June 15, 1888. He is, therefore, fifty-four years old in the present year of his Jubilee, 1913, and his reign—happily yet unfinished—has extended over a quarter of a century.
The Englishman who would understand the Emperor and his time must imagine a country with a monarchy, a government, and a people—in short, a political system—almost entirely different from his own. In Germany, paradoxical though it may sound to English ears, there is neither a government nor a people. The word “government” occurs only once in the Imperial Constitution, the Magna Charta of modern Germans, which in 1870 settled the relations between the Emperor and what the Englishman calls the “people,” and then only in an unimportant context joined to the word “federal.”
In Germany, instead of “the people” the Englishman speaks of when he talks politics, and the democratic orator, Mr. Bryan, in America is fond of calling the “peopul,” there is a “folk,” who neither claim to be, nor apparently wish to be, a “people” in the English sense. The German folk have their traditions as the English people have traditions, and their place in the political system as the English people have; but both traditions and place are wholly different from those of the English people; indeed, it may be said are just the reverse of them.
The German Emperor believes, and assumes his people to believe, that the Hollenzollern monarch is specially chosen by Heaven to guide and govern a folk entrusted to him as the talent was entrusted to the steward in Scripture. Until 1848, a little over sixty years ago, the Emperor (at that time only King of Prussia) was an absolute, or almost absolute, monarch, supported by soldiers and police, and his wishes were practically law to the folk. In that year, however, owing to the influence of the French Revolution, the King by the gift of a Constitution, abandoned part of his powers, but not any governing powers, to the folk in the form of a parliament, with permission to make laws for itself, though not for him. To pass them, that is; for they were not to carry the laws into execution—that was a matter the King kept, as the Emperor does still, in his own hands.
The business of making laws being, as experience shows, provocative of discussion, discussion of argument, and argument of controversy, there now arose a dozen or more parties in the Parliament, each with its own set of controversial opinions, and these the parties applied to the novel and interesting occupation of law-making.
However, it did not matter much to the King, so long as the folk did not ask for further, or worse still, as occurred in England, for all his powers; and accordingly the parties continued their discussions, as they do to-day, sometimes accepting and sometimes rejecting their own or the King’s suggestions about law-making. Generally speaking, the relation is not unlike that established by the dame who said to her husband, “When we are of the same opinion, you are right, but when we are of different opinions, I am right.” If the Parliament does not agree with the Emperor, the Emperor dissolves it.
These parties, from the situation of their seats in a parliament of 397 deputies, became known as the parties of the Right, or Conservative parties, and the parties of the Left, or Liberal parties. Between them sat the members of the Centre, who, as representing the Catholic populations of Germany—roughly, twenty-two millions out of sixty-six—became a powerful and unchanging phalanx of a hundred deputies, which had interests and tactics of its own independently of Right or Left.
By and by, one of the parties of the Left, representing the classes who work with their hands as distinguished from the classes who work with their heads, thought they would like to live under a political system of their own making and began to show a strong desire to take all power from the King and from the Parliament too. They agitated and organized, and organized and agitated, until at length, having settled on what was found to be an attractive theory, they made a wholly separate party, almost a people and parliament of their own. This is known as the Social Democracy, with, at present, no deputies.
Such, in a comparatively few sentences, is the political state of things in Germany. It might indeed be expressed in still fewer words, as follows: Heaven gave the royal house of Hohenzollern, as a present, a folk. The Hohenzollerns gave the folk, as a present, a parliament, a power to make laws without the power of executing them. The Social Democrats broke off from the folk and took an anti-Hohenzollern and anti-popular attitude, and the folk in their Parliament divided into parties to pass the time, and—of course—make laws.
This may seem to be treating an important subject with levity. It is intended merely as a statement of the facts. The system in Germany works well, to an Englishman indeed surprisingly so. In England there is no Heaven-appointed king; all the powers of the King, both that of making laws and of administering them, have long ago been taken by the people from the King and entrusted by them to a parliament, the majority of whom, called the Government, represent the majority of the electing voters. In the case of Germany the folk have surrendered some of what an Englishman would term their “liberties,” for example, the right to govern, to the King, to be used for the common good; whereas in the case of England, the people do not think it needful to surrender any of their liberties, least of all the government of their country, in order to attain the same end.
Thus, while the German Emperor and the German folk have the same aims as the English King and the English people, the common weal and the fair fame of their respective countries, the two monarchs and the two peoples have agreed on almost contrary ways of trying to secure them.
The political system of Germany has had to be sketched introductorily as for the Englishman, a necessary preliminary to an understanding of the German Emperor’s character and policy. One of the most important results of the character and policy is the state of Anglo-German relations; and the writer is convinced that if the character and policy were better and more generally known there would be no estrangement between the two countries, but, much more probably, mutual respect and mutual good-will.
With the growth of this knowledge, the writer is tempted to believe, would cease a delusion that appears to exist in the minds, or rather the imaginations, of two great peoples, the delusion that the highest national interests of both are fundamentally irreconcilable, and that the policies of their Governments are fundamentally opposed.
It seems indeed as though neither in England nor in Germany has the least attention been paid to the astonishing growth of commerce between the countries or to the repeated declarations made through a long series of years by the respective Governments on their countries’ behalf. The growth in commerce needs no statistics to prove it, for it is a matter of everyday observation and comment. The English Government declares it a vital necessity for an insular Power like Great Britain, with colonies and duties appertaining to their possession in all, and the most distant, parts of the world, to have a navy twice as powerful as that of any other possibly hostile Power. The ordinary German immediately cries out that England is planning to attack him, to annihilate his fleet, destroy his commerce, and diminish his prestige among the nations. The German Government repeatedly declares that the German fleet is intended for defence not aggression, that Germany does not aim at the seizure of other people’s property, but at protecting her growing commerce, at standing by her subjects in all parts of the world if subjected to injury or insult, and at increasing her prestige, and with it her power for good, in the family of nations. The ordinary Englishman immediately cries out that Germany is seeking to dispute his maritime supremacy, to rob him of his colonies, and to appropriate his trade. Is it not conceivable that both Governments are telling the truth, and that their designs are no more and no less than the Governments represent them to be? The necessity for Great Britain possessing an all-powerful fleet that will keep her in touch with her colonies if she is not to lose them altogether, is self-evident, and understood by even the most Chauvinistic German. The necessity for Germany’s possessing a fleet strong enough to make her rights respected
The truth is that if our ordinary Englishman and German were to sit down together, and with the help of books, maps, and newspapers, carefully and without prejudice, consider the annals of their respective countries for the last sixteen years with a view to establishing the causes of their delusion, they could hardly fail to confess that it was due to neither believing a word the other said; to each crediting the other with motives which, as individuals and men of honesty and integrity in the private relations of life, each would indignantly repudiate; to each assuming the other to be in the condition of barbarism mankind began to emerge from nineteen hundred years ago; to both supposing that Christianity has had so little influence on the world that peoples are still compelled to live and go about their daily work armed to the teeth lest they may be bludgeoned and robbed by their neighbours; that the hundreds of treaties solemnly signed by contracting nations are mere pieces of waste paper only testifying to the profundity and extent of human hypocrisy; that churches and cathedrals have been built, universities, colleges, and schools founded, only to fill the empty air with noise; that the printing presses of all countries have been occupied turning out myriads of books and papers which have had no effect on the reason or conscience of mankind; that nations learn nothing from experience; and to each supposing that he and his fellow-countrymen alone are the monopolists of wisdom, honour, truth, justice, charity—in short, of all the attributes and blessings of civilization. Is it not time to discard such error, or must the nations always suspect each other? To finish with our introduction,
From the pictorial and sensational point of view continuous peace is a drawback for the biographer no less than for the historian. What would history be without war?—almost inconceivable; since wars, not peace, are the principal materials with which it deals and supply it with most of its vitality and interest—must it also be admitted, its charm? For what are Hannibal or Napoleon or Frederick the Great remembered?—for their wars, and little else. Shakespeare has it that—
“Men’s evil
manners live in brass; their virtues
We write in water.”
Who, asks Heine, can name the artist who designed the cathedral of Cologne? In this regard the biographer of an emperor is almost as dependent as the historian.
The biography of an emperor, again, must be to a large extent, the history of his reign, and in no case is this more true than in that of Emperor William. But he has been closely identified with every event of general importance to the world since he mounted the throne, and the world’s attention has been fastened without intermission on his words and conduct. The rise of the modern German Empire is the salient fact of the world’s history for the last half-century, and accordingly only from this broader point of view will the Emperor’s future biographer, or the historian of the future, be able to do him or his Empire justice.
Lastly, another difficulty, if one may call it so, experienced equally by the biographer and the historian, is the fact that the life of the Emperor has been blameless from the moral standpoint. On two or three occasions early in the reign accounts were published of scandals at the Court. They may not have been wholly baseless, but none of them directly involved the Emperor, or even raised a doubt as to his respectability or reputation. Take from history—or from biography for that matter—the vices of those it treats of, and one-third, perhaps one-half, of its “human interest” disappears.
In the circumstances, therefore, all the writer need add is that he has done the best he could. He has ignored, certainly, at two or three stages of his narration, the demands of strict chronological succession; but if so, it has been to describe some of the more important events of the reign in their totality. He has also felt it necessary, as writing for English readers of a country not their own, to combine a portion of history with his biography. If, at the same time, he has ventured to infuse into both biography and history a slight admixture of philosophy, he can only hope that the fusion will not prove altogether disagreeable.
YOUTH
1859-1881
As the education of a prince, and the surroundings in which he is brought up, are usually different from the education and surroundings of his subjects, it is not surprising if, at least during some portion of his reign, and until he has graduated in the university of life, misunderstandings, if nothing worse, should occur between them: indeed the wonder is that princes and people succeed in living harmoniously together. They are separated by great gulfs both of sentiment and circumstance. Bismarck is quoted by one of his successors, Prince Hohenlohe, as remarking that every King of Prussia, with whatever popularity he began his reign, was invariably hated at the close of it.
The prince that would rule well has to study the science of government, itself a difficult and incompletely explored subject, and the art of administration; he has to know history, and above all the history of his own country; not that history is a safe or certain guide, but that it informs him of traditions he will be expected to continue in his own country and respect in that of others; he must understand the political system under which his people choose to live, and the play of political, religious, economic, and social forces which are ever at work in a community; he must learn to speak and understand (not always quite the same thing) other languages besides his own; and concurrently with these studies he must endeavour to develop in himself the personal qualities demanded by his high office—health and activity of body, quick comprehension and decision, a tenacious memory for names and faces, capacity for public speaking, patience, and that command over the passions and prejudices, natural or acquired, which is necessary for his moral influence as a ruler. On what percentage of his subjects is such a curriculum imposed, and what allowances should not be made if a full measure of success is not achieved?
But even when the prince has done all this, there is still a study, the most comprehensive and most important of all, in which he should be learned—the study of humanity, and in especial that part of it with the care of whose interests and happiness he is to be charged. A few people seem to have this knowledge instinctively, others acquire something of it in the school of sad experience. It is not the fault of the Emperor, if, in his youth, his knowledge of humanity was not profound. There was always a strong vein of idealism and romance among Hohenzollerns, the vein of a Lohengrin, a Tancred, or some mediaeval knight. The Emperor, of course, never lived among the common people; never had to work for a living in competition with a thousand others more fortunate than he, or better endowed by nature with the qualities and gifts that make for worldly success; never, so far as is known to a watchful and exceptionally curious public, endured domestic sorrow of a deep or lasting kind; never suffered materially or in his proper person from ingratitude, carelessness, or neglect; never knew the “penalty of Adam, the seasons’ difference”; never, in short, felt those pains one or more of which almost all the rest of mankind have at one time or other to bear as best they may.
The Emperor has always been happy in his family, happy in seeing his country prosperous, happy in the admiration and respect of the people of all nations; and if he has passed through some dark hours, he must feel happy in having nobly borne them. Want of knowledge of the trials of ordinary humanity is, of course, no matter of reproach to him; on the contrary, it is matter of congratulation; and, as several of his frankest deliverances show, he has, both as man and monarch, felt many a pang, many a regret, many a disappointment, the intensity of which cannot be gauged by those who have not felt the weight of his responsibilities.
A discharge of 101 guns in the gardens of Crown Prince Frederick’s palace in Berlin on the morning of January 27, 1859, announced the birth of the future Emperor. There were no portents in that hour. Nature proceeded calmly with her ordinary tasks. Heaven gave no special sign that a new member of the Hohenzollern family had appeared on the planet Earth. Nothing, in short, occurred to strengthen the faith of those who believe in the doctrine of kingship by divine appointment.
It was a time of political and social turmoil in many countries, the groundswell, doubtless, of the revolutionary wave of 1848. The Crimean War, the Indian Mutiny, and the war with China had kept England in a continual state of martial fever, and the agitation for electoral reform was beginning. Lord Palmerston was Prime Minister, with Lord Odo Russell as Minister for Foreign Affairs and Mr. Gladstone as Minister of Finance. Napoleon III was at war with Austria as the ally of Italy, where King Emmanuel II and Cavour were laying the foundations of their country’s unity. Russia, after defeating Schamyl, the hero of the Caucasus, was pursuing her policy of penetration in Central Asia.
In Prussia the unrest was chiefly domestic. The country, while nominally a Great Power, was neutral during the Crimean War, and played for the moment but a small part in foreign politics. Bismarck, in his “Gedanke und Erinnerungen,” compares her submission to Austria to the patience of the French noble-man he heard of when minister in Paris, whose conduct in condoning twenty-four acts of flagrant infidelity on the part of his wife was regarded by the French as an act of great forbearance and magnanimity. Prince William, the Emperor’s grandfather, afterwards William I, first German Emperor, was on the throne, acting as Prince Regent for his brother, Frederick William IV, incapacitated from ruling by an affection of the brain. The head of the Prussian Ministry, Manteuffel, had been dismissed, and a “new era,” with ministers of more liberal tendencies, among them von Bethmann Hollweg, an ancestor of the present Chancellor, had begun. General von Roon was Minister of War and Marine, offices at that time united in one department. The Italian War had roused Germany anew to a desire for union, and a great “national society” was founded at Frankfurt, with the Liberal leader, Rudolf von Bennigsen, at its head. Public attention was occupied with the subject of reorganizing the army and increasing it from 150,000 to 210,000 men. Parliament was on the eve of a bitter constitutional quarrel with Bismarck, who became Prussian Prime Minister (Minister President) in 1862, about the grant of the necessary army funds. Most of the great intellects of Germany—Kant, Goethe, Schiller, Hegel, Fichte, Schleiermacher—had long passed away. Heinrich Heine died in Paris in 1856. Frederick Nietzsche was a youth, Richard Wagner’s “Tannhaeuser” had just been greeted, in the presence of the composer, with a storm of hisses in the Opera house at Paris. The social condition of Germany may be partially realized if one remembers that the death-rate was over 28 per mille, as compared with 17 per mille to-day; that only a start had been made with railway construction; that the country, with its not very generous soil, depended wholly upon agriculture; that savings-bank deposits were not one-twelfth of what they are now; that there were 60 training schools where there are 221 to-day, and 338 evening classes as against 4,588 in 1910; that many of the principal towns were still lighted by oil; that there was practically no navy; and that the bulk of the aristocracy lived on about the same scale as the contemporary English yeoman farmer. Berlin contained a little less than half a million inhabitants, compared with its three and a half millions of to-day, and the state of its sanitation may be imagined from the fact that open drains ran down the streets.
The Emperor’s father, Frederick III, second German Emperor, was affectionately known to his people as “unser Fritz,” because of his liberal sympathies and of his high and kindly character. To most Englishmen he is perhaps better known as the husband of the Princess, afterwards Empress, Adelaide Victoria, eldest daughter of Queen Victoria, and mother of the Emperor. Frederick III had no great share in the political events which were the birth-pangs of modern Germany, unless his not particularly distinguished leadership in the war of 1866 and that with France be so considered. The greater part of his life was passed as Crown Prince, and a Crown Prince in Germany leads a life more or less removed from political responsibilities. He succeeded his father, William I, on the latter’s death, March 9, 1888, reigned for ninety-nine days, and died, on June 15th following, from cancer of the throat, after an illness borne with exemplary fortitude.
To what extent the character of his parents affected the character of the Emperor it is impossible to determine. The Emperor seldom refers to his parents in his speeches, and reserves most of his panegyric for his grandfather and his grandfather’s mother, Queen Louise; but the comparative neglect is probably due to no want of filial admiration and respect, while the frequent references to his grandfather in particular are explained by the great share the latter took in the formation of the Empire and by his unbounded popularity. The Crown Prince was an affectionate but not an easy-going father, with a passion for the arts and sciences; his mother also was a disciplinarian, and, equally with her husband, passionately fond of art; and it is therefore not improbable that these traits descended to the Emperor. As to whether the alleged “liberality” of the Crown Prince descended to him depends on the sense given to the word “liberal.” If it is taken to mean an ardent desire for the good and happiness of the people, it did; if it is taken to mean any inclination to give the people authority to govern themselves and direct their own destinies, it did not.
The mother of the Emperor, the Empress Frederick, had much of Queen Victoria’s good sense and still more of her strong will. A thoroughly English princess, she had, in German eyes, one serious defect: she failed to see, or at least to acknowledge, the superiority of most things German to most things English. She had an English nurse, Emma Hobbs, to assist at the birth of the future Emperor. She made English the language of the family life, and never lost her English tastes and sympathies; consequently she was called, always with an accent of reproach, “the Englaenderin,” and in German writings is represented as having wished to anglicize not only her husband, her children, and her Court, but also her adopted country and its people. A chaplain of the English Church in Berlin, the Rev. J.H. Fry, who met her many times, describes her as follows:—
“She was not the wife for a German Emperor, she so English and insisted so strongly on her English ways. The result was that she was very unpopular in Germany, and the Germans said many wicked things of her. She hated Berlin, and if her son, the present Emperor, had not required that she should come to the capital every winter, she would have lived altogether at Cronberg in the villa an Italian friend bequeathed to her.
“She was extremely musical, had extensively cultivated her talents in this respect, and was an accomplished linguist. Like her mother, Queen Victoria, she was unusually strong-minded, and was always believed to rule over her amiable and gentle husband. Her interest in the English community was great, another reason for the dislike with which the Germans regarded her. To her the community owes the pretty little English church in the Mon Bijou Platz (Berlin), which she used to attend regularly, and where a funeral service, at which the Emperor was present, was held in memory of her.
“German feeling was further embittered against her by the Morell Mackenzie incident, and to this day controversy rages round the famous English surgeon’s name. The controversy is as to whether or not Morell Mackenzie honestly believed what he said when he diagnosed the Emperor’s illness as non-cancerous in opposition to the opinion of distinguished German doctors like Professor Bergmann. Under German law no one can mount the throne of Prussia who is afflicted with a mortal sickness. For long it had been suspected that the Emperor’s throat was fatally affected, and, therefore, when King William was dying, it became of dynastic and national importance to establish the fact one way or other. Queen Victoria was ardently desirous of seeing her daughter an Empress, and sent Sir Morrell Mackenzie to Germany to examine the royal patient. On the verdict being given that the disease was not cancer, the Crown Prince mounted the throne, and Queen Victoria’s ambition for her daughter was realized.
“The Empress also put the aristocracy against her by introducing several relaxations into Court etiquette which had up to her time been stiff and formal. Her relations with Bismarck, as is well known, were for many years strained, and on one occasion she made the remark that the tears he had caused her to shed ‘would fill tumblers.’ On the whole she was an excellent wife and mother. She was no doubt in some degree responsible for the admiration of England as a country and of the English as a people which is a marked feature of the Emperor’s character.”
This account is fairly correct in its estimation of the Empress Frederick’s character and abilities, but it repeats a popular error in saying that German law lays down that no one can mount the Prussian throne if he is afflicted with a mortal sickness. There is no “German law” on the subject, and the law intended to be referred to is the so-called
The Emperor has four sisters and a brother. The sisters are Charlotte, born in 1860, and married to the Hereditary Prince of Saxe-Meiningen; Victoria, born in 1866, and married to Prince Adolphus of Schaumberg-Lippe; Sophie, born in 1870, and married to King Constantine, of Greece; and Margarete, born in 1872, and married to Prince Friederich Karl of Hessen.
The Emperor’s only brother, Prince Henry of Prussia, was born in 1862, and is married to Princess Irene of Hessen. He is probably the most popular Hohenzollern to-day. He adopted the navy as a profession and devotes himself to its duties, taking no part in politics. Like the Emperor himself and the Emperor’s heir, the Crown Prince, he is a great promoter of sport, and while a fair golfer (with a handicap of 14) and tennis player, gives much of his leisure to the encouragement of the automobile and other industries. Every Hohenzollern is supposed to learn a handicraft. The Emperor did not, owing to his shortened left arm. Prince Henry learned book-binding under a leading Berlin bookbinder, Herr Collin. The Crown Prince is a turner. Prince Henry seems perfectly satisfied with his position in the Empire as Inspector-General of the Fleet, stands to attention when talking to the Emperor in public, and on formal occasions addresses him as “Majesty” like every one else. Only in private conversation does he allow himself the use of the familiar Du. The Emperor has a strong affection for him, and always calls him “Heinrich.”
Many stories are current in Germany relating to the early part of the Emperor’s boyhood. Some are true, others partially so, while others again are wholly apochryphal. All, however, are more or less characteristic of the boy and his surroundings, and for this reason a selection of them may be given. Apropos of his birth, the following story is told. An artillery officer went to receive orders for the salute to be discharged when the birth occurred. They were given him by the then Prince Regent, afterwards Emperor William I. The officer showed signs of perplexity. “Well, is there anything else?” inquired the Regent. “Yes, Royal Highness; I have instructions for the birth of a prince and for that of a princess (which would be 30 guns); but what if it should be twins?” The Regent laughed. “In that case,” he said, “follow the Prussian rule—suum cuique.”
When the child was born the news ran like wildfire through Berlin, and all the high civil and military officials drove off in any vehicle they could find to offer their congratulations. The Regent, who was at the Foreign Office, jumped into a common cab. Immediately after him appeared tough old Field-Marshal Wrangel, the hero of the Danish wars. He wrote his name in the callers’ book, and on issuing from the palace shouted to the assembled crowd, “Children, it’s all right: a fine stout recruit.” On the evening of the birth a telegram came from Queen Victoria, “Is it a fine boy?” and the answer went back, “Yes, a very fine boy.”
Another story describes how the child was brought to submit cheerfully to the ordeal of the tub. He was “water-shy,” like the vast majority of Germans at that time, and the nurses had to complain to his father, Crown Prince Frederick, of his resistance. The Crown Prince thereupon directed the sentry at the palace gate not to salute the boy when he was taken out for his customary airing. The boy remarked the neglect and complained to his father, who explained that “sentries were not allowed to present arms to an unwashed prince.” The stratagem succeeded, and thereafter the lad submitted to the bathing with a good grace.
Like all boys, the lad was fond of the water, though now in another sense. At the age of two, nursery chroniclers relate, he had a toy boat, the Fortuna, in which he sat and see-sawed—and learned not to be sea-sick! At three he was put into sailor’s costume, with the bell-shaped trousers so dear to the hearts of English mothers fifty years ago.
At the age of four he had a memorable experience, though it is hardly likely that now, after the lapse of half a century, he remembers much about it. This was his first visit to England in 1863, when he was taken by his parents to be present at the marriage of his uncle, King Edward VII, then Prince of Wales. The boy, in pretty Highland costume, was an object of general attention, and occupies a prominent place in the well-known picture of the wedding scene by
Still another story concerns the boy and his father. The former came one day in much excitement to his tutor and said his father had just blamed him unjustly. He told the tutor what had really happened and asked him, if, under the circumstances, he was to blame. The tutor was in perplexity, for if he said the father had acted unjustly, as in fact he thought he had, he might lessen the son’s filial respect. However, he gave his candid opinion. “My Prince,” he said, “the greatest men of all times have occasionally made mistakes, for to err is human. I must admit I think your father was in the wrong.” “Really!” cried the lad, who looked pained. “I thought you would tell me I was in the wrong, and as I know how right you always are I was ready to go to papa and beg his pardon. What shall I do now?” “Leave it to me,” the tutor said, and afterwards told the Crown Prince what had passed. The Crown Prince sent for his son, who came and stood with downcast eyes some paces off. The Crown Prince only uttered the two words, “My son,” but in a tone of great affection. As he folded the Prince in his arms he reached his hand to the tutor, saying, “I thank you. Be always as true to me and to my son as you have been in this case.”
The last anecdote belongs also to the young Prince’s private tutor days. At one time a certain Dr. D. was teaching him. Every morning at eleven work was dropped for a quarter of an hour to enable the pair, teacher and pupil, to take what is called in German “second breakfast.” The Prince always had a piece of white bread and butter, with an apple, a pear, or other fruit, while the teacher was as regularly provided with something warm—chop, a cutlet, a slice of fish, salmon, perch, trout, or whatever was in season, accompanied by salad and potatoes. The smell of the meat never failed to appeal to the olfactory nerves of the Prince, and he often looked, longingly enough, at the luxuries served to his tutor. The latter noticed it and felt sorry for him; but there was nothing to be done: the royal orders were strict and could not be disobeyed. One day, however, the lesson, one of repetition, had gone so well that in a moment of gratitude the tutor decided to reward his pupil at all hazards. The lunch
“Herr Doktor,” said the Crown Prince, “tell me how it was that the Prince to-day was eating the warm breakfast and you the cold.”
The tutor tried to make as little of the affair as possible. It was a joke, he said, he had allowed himself, he had been so well pleased with his pupil that morning.
“Well, I will pass it over this time,” said the Crown Prince,
“but I must ask you to let the Prince get accustomed to bear the preference shown to his tutor and allow him to be satisfied with the simple food suitable for his age. What will he eat twenty years hence, if he now gets roast meat? Bread and fruit make a wholesome and perfectly satisfactory meal for a lad of his years.”
During second breakfast next day, the Prince took care not to look up from his plate of fruit, but when he had finished, murmured as though by way of grace, “After all, a fine bunch of grapes is a splendid lunch, and I really think I prefer it, Herr Doktor, to your nice-smelling perch-in-butter.”
The time had now come when the young Prince was to leave the paternal castle and submit to the discipline of school. The parents, one may be sure, held many a conference on the subject. The boy was beginning to have a character of his own, and his parents doubtless often had in mind Goethe’s lines:—
“Denn wir koennen
die Kinder nach unserem Willen nicht formen,
So wie Gott sie uns
gab, so muss man sie lieben und haben,
Sie erzielen aufs best
und jeglichen lassen gewaehren.”
("We cannot have children
according to our will:
as God gave them so
must we love and keep them:
bring them up as best
we can and leave each to its own
development.”)
It had always been Hohenzollern practice to educate the Heir to the Throne privately until he was of an age to go to the university, but the royal parents now decided to make an important departure from it by sending their boy to an ordinary public school in some carefully chosen place. The choice fell on Cassel, a quiet and beautiful spot not far from Wilhelmshohe, near Homburg, where there is a Hohenzollern castle, and which was the scene of Napoleon’s
An important ceremony, however, had to be performed before his departure for school—his confirmation. It took place at Potsdam on September 1, 1874, amid a brilliant crowd of relatives and friends, and included the following formal declaration by the young Prince:
“I will, in childlike faith, be devoted to God all the days of my life, put my trust in Him and at all times thank Him for His grace. I believe in Jesus Christ, the Saviour and Redeemer. Him who first loved me I will love in return, and will show this love by love to my parents, my dear grandparents, my sisters and brothers and relatives, but also to all men. I know that hard tasks await me in life, but they will brace me up, not overcome me. I will pray to God for strength and develop my bodily powers.”
The boy and his brother Henry stayed in Cassel for three years, in the winter occupying a villa near the Gymnasium with Dr. Hinzpeter, and in summer living in the castle of Wilhelmshohe hard by. Besides attending the usual school classes, they were instructed by private tutors in dancing, fencing, and music. Both pupils are represented as having been conscientious, and as moving among their schoolmates without affectation or any special consciousness of their birth or rank. Many years afterwards the Emperor, when revisiting Cassel, thus referred to his schooldays there:
“I do not regret for an instant a time which then seemed so hard to me, and I can truly say that work and the working life have become to me a second nature. For this I owe thanks to Cassel soil;”
and later in the same speech:
“I am pleased
to be on the ground where, directed by expert
hands, I learned that
work exists not only for its own sake,
but that man in work
shall find his entire joy.”
This is the right spirit; but if he had said “greatest joy” and “can find,” he would have said something more completely true.
The life at Cassel was simple, and the day strictly divided. The future Emperor rose at six, winter and summer, and after a breakfast of coffee and rolls refreshed his memory of the home repetition-work learned the previous evening. He then went to the Gymnasium, and when his lessons there were over, took a walk with his tutor before lunch. Home tasks followed, and on certain days private instruction was received in English, French, and drawing. His English and French became all but faultless, and he learned to draw in rough-and-ready, if not professionally expert fashion. Wednesdays and Saturdays, which were half-holidays, were spent roving in the country, especially in the forest, with two or three companions of his own age. In winter there was skating on the ponds. The Sunday dinner was a formal affair, at which royal relatives, who doubtless came to see how the princes were getting on, and high officials from Berlin, were usually present. After dinner the princes took young friends up to their private rooms and played charades, in which on occasion they amused themselves with the ever-delightful sport of taking off and satirizing their instructors. At this time the future Emperor’s favourite subjects were history and literature, and he was fond of displaying his rhetorical talent before the class. The classical authors of his choice were Homer, Sophocles, and Horace. Homer particularly attracted him; it is easy to imagine the conviction with which, as a Hohenzollern, he would deliver the declaration of King Agamemnon to Achilles:—
“And hence, to
all the host it shall be known
That kings are subject
to the gods alone.”
The young Prince left Cassel in January, 1877, after passing the exit (abiturient) examination, a rather severe test, twelfth in a class of seventeen. The result of the examination was officially described as “satisfactory,” the term used for those who were second in degree of merit. On leaving he was awarded a gold medal for good conduct, one of three annually presented by a patron of the Gymnasium.
A foreign resident in Germany, who saw the young Prince at this time, tells of an incident which refers to the lad’s appearance, and shows that even at that early date anti-English feeling existed among the people. It was at the military manoeuvres at Stettin:
“Then the old Emperor came by. Tremendous cheers. Then Bismarck and Moltke. Great acclaim. Then passed in a carriage a thin, weakly-looking youth, and people in the crowd said, ’Look at that boy who is to be our future Emperor—his good German blood has been ruined by his English training.’”
Before closing the Emperor’s record as a schoolboy it will be of interest to learn the opinion of him formed by his French tutor at Cassel, Monsieur Ayme, who has published a small volume on the education of his pupil, and who, though evidently not too well satisfied with his remuneration of L7 10s. a month, or with being required to pay his own fare back from Germany to France, writes favourably of the young princes. “The life of these young people (Prince William and Prince Henry) was,” he says,
“the most studious and peaceful imaginable. Up at six in the morning, they prepared their tasks until it was time to go to school. Lunch was at noon and tea at five. They went to bed at nine or half-past. All their hours of leisure were divided between lessons in French, English, music, pistol-shooting, equitation, and walking. Now and then they were allowed to play with boys of their own age, and on fete days and their parents’ birth-anniversaries they had the privilege of choosing a play and seeing it performed at the theatre. As pocket-money Prince William received 20s. a month, and Henry 10s. Out of these modest sums they had to buy their own notepaper and little presents for the servants or their favourite companions.”
As to Prince William’s character as a schoolboy, Monsieur Ayme writes:
“I do not suppose William was ever punished while he was in Cassel. He was too proud to draw down upon himself criticism, to him the worst form of punishment. At the castle, as at school, he made it a point of honour to act and work as if he had made his plans and resolved to stick to them. He was always among the first of his class, and as for me I never had any need to urge him on. If I pointed out to him an error in his task he began it over again of his own accord. We did grammar, analysis, dictations, and compositions, and he got over his difficulties by sheer perseverance. For example, if he was reading a fine page of Victor Hugo, or the like, he hated to be interrupted, so deeply was he interested in the subject he was reading. Style and poetry had a great effect upon him; he expressed admiration for the form and was aroused to enthusiasm by generous or noble ideas. Frederick the Great was the hero of his choice, a model of which he never ceased dreaming, and which, like his grandfather, he proposed as his own. It is easy to conceive that after ten or twelve years of such study, regularly and methodically pursued, the Prince must have possessed a literary and scientific baggage more varied and extensive than that of his companions. And he worked hard for it, few lads so hard. To speak the truth, he was much more disciplined and much more deprived of freedom and recreation of all sorts than most children of his age.”
Par paranthese may be introduced here a reference to Prince Henry, of whom Monsieur Ayme writes less enthusiastically.
“One day,” the tutor writes, “I was dictating to him something in which mention of a queen occurs. I came to the words ’... in addition to her natural distinction she possessed that August majesty which is the appanage of princesses of the blood royal....’
“Prince Henry
laid down his pen and remarked, ’The author
who wrote this piece
did not live much with queens.’
“‘Why?’ I asked.
“’Because
I never observed the August majesty which attaches
to princesses of the
blood royal, and yet I have been
brought up among them,’
was the reply.
“William, however,” continues Monsieur Ayme, “was the thinker, prudent and circumspect; the wise head which knew that it was not all truths which bear telling. He was not less loyal and constant in his opinions. He admired the French Revolution, and the declaration contained in ’The Rights of Man,’ though this did not prevent his declaiming against the Terrorists.”
One incident in particular must have appealed to the French tutor. Monsieur Ayme and his Prussian pupil one day began discussing the delicate question of the war of 1870. In the course of the discussion both parties lost their tempers, until at last Prince William suddenly got up and left the room. He remained silent and “huffed” for some days, but at last he took the Frenchman aside and made him a formal apology. “I am very sorry indeed,” he said,
“that you took seriously my conduct of the other day. I meant nothing by it, and I regret it hurt you. I am all the more sorry, because I offended in your case a sentiment which I respect above any in the world, the love of country.”
But it is time to pass from the details of the Emperor’s early youth, and observe him during the two years he spent, with interruptions, at the university. From Cassel he went immediately to Bonn, where, as during the years of military duty which followed, we only catch glimpses of him as he lived the ordinary, and by no means austere, life of the university student and soldier of the time; that is to say, the ordinary life with considerable modifications and exceptions. He did not, like young Bismarck, drink huge flagons of beer at a sitting, day after day. He was not followed everywhere by a boar-hound. He fought no student’s duels—though a secret performance of the kind is mentioned as a probability in the chronicles—or go about looking for trouble generally as the swashbuckling Junker, Bismarck, did; for in the first place his royal rank would not allow of his taking part in the bloody amusement of the Mensur, and his natural disposition, if it was quick and lively, was not choleric enough to involve him in serious quarrel. His studies were to some extent interrupted by military calls to Berlin, for after being appointed second lieutenant in the First Regiment of Foot Guards at Potsdam on his tenth birthday, the Hohenzollern age for entering the army, he was promoted to first lieutenant in the same regiment on leaving Cassel.
For the most part the university lectures he attended were the courses in law and philosophy, and he is not reported to have shown any particular enthusiasm for either subject. The differences between an English and a German university are of a fundamental kind, perhaps the greatest being that the German university does not aim at influencing conduct and character in the same measure as the English, but is rather for the supply of knowledge of all sorts, as a monster warehouse is for the supply of miscellaneous goods.
The social life of the English university is paralleled in Germany by associations of students in student “Corps,” with theatrical uniforms for their Chargierte or officers, special caps, sometimes of extraordinary shape, swords, leather gauntlets, Wellington boots, and other distinguishing gaudy insignia. The Corps are more or less select, the most exclusive of all being the Corps Borussia, which at every university only admits members of an upper class of society, though on rare occasions receiving in its ranks an exceptionally aristocratic, popular, or wealthy foreigner. To this Corps, the name of which is the old form of “Prussia,” the Emperor belonged when at Bonn, and in one or two of his speeches he has since spoken of the agreeable memories he retains in connexion with it and the practices observed by it.
Common to all university associations in Germany—whether Corps, Landsmannschaft, Burschenschaft, or Turnerschaft—is the practice of the Mensur, or student duel. It is not a duel in the sense usually given to the word in England, for it lacks the feature of personal hostility, hate, or injury, but is a particularly sanguinary form of the English “single-stick,” in which swords take the place of sticks. These swords (Schlaeger), called, curiously enough, rapiere, are long and thin in the blade, and their weight is such that at every duel students are told off on whose shoulders the combatants can rest
Take a sabre duel—“heavy sabre duel” is the German name for it—arising out of a quarrel in a cafe or beer-house, and in which one of the opponents may be a foreigner affiliated to some Corps or Burschenschaft. Cards are exchanged, and the challenger chooses a second whom he sends to the opponent. The latter, if he accepts the challenge, also appoints a second; the seconds then meet and arrange for the holding of a court of honour. The court will probably consist of old Corps students—lawyer, a doctor, and two or three other members of the Corps or Burschenschaft. The court summons the opponents before it and hears their account of the quarrel; the seconds produce evidence, for example the bills at the cafe or beer-hall, showing how much liquor has been consumed; also as to age, marriage or otherwise, and so on. Then the court decides whether there shall be a duel, or not, and if so, in what form it shall be fought.
The duel may be fixed to take place at any time within six months, and meanwhile the opponents industriously practise. The scene of the duel is usually the back room of some beer-hall, with locked doors between the duellists and the police. The latter know very well what is going on, but shut their eyes to it. The opponents take their places at about a yard and a half distance from advanced foot to advanced foot, and a chalk line is drawn between them. Close behind each opponent is his second with outstretched sword, ready to knock up the duellists’ weapons in case of too dangerous an impetuosity in the onset. The umpire (Unparteiischer), unarmed, stands a little distance from the duellists. The latter are naked to the waist, but wear a leather apron like that of a drayman, covering the lower half of the chest, and another piece of leather, like a stock, protecting their necks and jugular veins. The duel may last a couple of hours, and any number of rounds up to as many as two hundred may be fought. The rounds consist of three or four blows, and last about twenty seconds each, when the seconds, who have
On one occasion early in the reign the Emperor spoke of the Corps system with great enthusiasm, and especially endorsed the practice of the Mensur. “I am quite convinced,” he said at Bonn in 1891, three years after his accession,
“that every young man who enters a Corps receives through the spirit which rules in it, and supposing he imbibes the spirit, his true directive in life. For it is the best education for later life a young man can obtain. Whoever pokes fun at the German student Corps is ignorant of its true tendency, and I hope that so long as student Corps exist the spirit which is fostered in them, and which inspires strength and courage, will continue, and that for all time the student will joyfully wield the Schlaeger.”
Regarding the Mensur, he went on:
“Our Mensuren are frequently misunderstood by the public, but that must not let us be deceived. We who have been Corps students, as I myself was, know better. As in the Middle Ages through our gymnastic exercises (Turniere) the courage and strength of the man was steeled, so by means of the Corps spirit and Corps life is that measure of firmness acquired which is necessary in later life, and which will continue to exist as long as there are universities in Germany.”
The word for firmness used by the Emperor was Festigkeit, which may also be translated determination, steadiness, fortitude, or resoluteness of character. It may be that practice of the Mensur, which is held almost weekly, has a lifelong influence on the German student’s character. It probably enables him to look the adversary in the eye—look “hard” at him, as the mariners in Mr. A.W. Jacobs’s delightful tales look at one another when some particularly ingenious lie is being produced. In a way, moreover, it may be said to correspond to boxing in English universities, schools, and gymnasia. But, on the whole, the Anglo-Saxon spectator finds it difficult to understand how it can exercise any influence for good on the moral character of a youth, or determine, as the Emperor says it does, a disposition which is cowardly or weak by nature to bravery or strength, save of a momentary and merely physical kind. The Englishman who has been present at a Mensur is rather inclined to think the atmosphere too much that of a shambles, and the chief result of the practice the cultivation of braggadocio.
Besides, the practice is illegal, and though purposely overlooked, save in one German city, that of Leipzig, where it is punished with some rigour, the Emperor, who is supposed to embody the majesty and effectiveness of the law, is hardly the person to recommend it. His inconsistency in the matter on one occasion placed him in an undignified position. Two officers of the army quarrelled, and one, an infantry lieutenant, sent a challenge to the other, an army medical man. The latter refused on conscientious grounds, whereupon he was called on by a military court of honour to send in his resignation. The case was sent up to the Emperor, who upheld the decision of the court of honour, adding the remark that if the surgeon had conscientious scruples on the point he should not remain in the army. An irate Social Democratic editor thereupon pointed out that such a decision came with a bad grace from a man with whom, or with any of whose six sons, no one was allowed to fight. The Emperor is still a member of the Borussia Corps, but chiefly shows his interest by keeping its anniversaries in mind, by every few years attending one of its annual drinking festivals (Commers), and by paying a substantial yearly subscription.
The German student Corps, historically, go back to the fourteenth century, when the first European universities were established at Bologna, Paris, and Orleans. Universities then were not so called from the universality of their teachings, but rather as meaning a corporation, confraternity, or collegium, and were in reality social centres in the towns where they were instituted. The most renowned was that of Paris, and here was founded the first student Corps. It was called the “German Nation of Paris,” a corporation of students, with statutes, oaths, special costumes, and other distinctive features. At first, strange to say, it contained more Englishmen than Germans. The “Nation” had a procurator, a treasurer, and a bedell, the last to look after the legal affairs of the association. Drinking was not the supposed purpose of the society, but the Corps mostly assembled, as German Corps do to-day, for drinking purposes.
The earliest form of German student associations Was the Landsmannschaft. To this society, composed of elders and juniors, new-comers, called Pennales, were admitted after painful ceremonies and became something like the “fags” at an English public school. The object of the original Landsmannschaft was to keep alive the spirit of nationality. The object of the German Corps is different. It is to beget and perpetuate friendship, and this accounts for the steady goodwill the Emperor has always shown towards the comrades of his Bonn and Borussia days.
An ancient form of Corps entertainment is called the Hospiz, now, however, much modified. Upon invitation the members of the Corps meet in a beer-hall or in the rooms of one of the Corps. The president is seated with a house-key on the table before him as a symbol of unfettered authority. As members arrive, the president takes away their sticks and swords and deposits them in a closet. The guests sit down and are handed filled pipes and a lighted fidibus, or pipe-lighter. Bread and butter and cheese, followed by coffee, are offered. After this, the real work of the evening begins—the drinking. A large can of beer stands on a stool beside the president. The latter calls for silence by rapping three times on the table with the house-key, and the Hospiz is declared open. Thenceforward only the president pours out the beer, unless he appoints a deputy during his absence. The president’s great aim and honour is to make every one, including himself, intoxicated. He begins by rapping the table with his glass and saying “Significat ein Glas.” In response all drain their glasses. Then comes a “health to all,” and this is followed by a “health to each.” “The Ladies” follow, including toasts to the pretty girls of the town, and ladies known to be favourites of those present. Married ladies or women of bad reputation must not be toasted in the Hospiz.
A story is told of a toast the Emperor, in these his Lohengrin days, once proposed at a Borussia meeting. “On the Kreuzberg” (a hill near Bonn), he said,
“I saw a picture, the ideal of a German woman. She united in herself beauty of face and an imposing form, the roses in her cheeks spoke of the modesty peculiar to our maids, and her voice sounded harmoniously like the lute of the Minnesingers on the Wartburg. She told me her name—may it be blessed.”
The toast found its way into the local papers and gave birth to a romantic legend connecting the future Emperor with a pretty and modest girl of the town, but no true basis for it has ever been discovered.
In toasting the Ladies in a Hospiz each of those present may name the lady of his choice, and if two name the same lady they have a drinking bout to determine which is entitled to claim her. The one who first admits that he can drink no more—usually signified by a hasty and zigzag retreat from the room—is declared the loser. If a guest comes late to the Hospiz he must drink fast so as to catch up with earlier arrivals, unless he has been drinking elsewhere, when he is let off with drinking a “general health.”
The close of the Emperor’s student days was marked by an event which was to have a great influence on his life and happiness. It was in 1879 that he made the acquaintance of the young lady who was, a couple of years later, to become his wife, and subsequently Empress. When at Bonn Prince William had developed a liking for wild-game shooting, and accepted an invitation from Duke Frederick of Schleswig-Holstein to shoot pheasants at Primkenau Castle, the Duke’s seat in Silesia. More than one romantic story is current about the first meeting of the lovers, but that most generally credited, as it was published at or near the time, represents the young sportsman as meeting the lady accidentally in the garden of the castle. He had arrived at night and gone shooting early next morning before being introduced to the family of his host, and on his return surprised the fair-haired and blue-eyed Princess Auguste Victoria as she lay dozing in a hammock in the garden. The student approached, the words “little Rosebud” on his lips, but hastily withdrew as the Princess, all blushes, awoke. The pair met shortly afterwards at breakfast, when the visitor learned who the “little rosebud” was whom he had surprised. The Princess was then twenty-two, but looked much younger, a privilege from nature she still possesses in middle age. The impression made on the student was deep and lasting, and the engagement was announced on Valentine’s Day, in February, 1880. The marriage was celebrated on February 27th of the following year at the royal palace in Berlin. Great popular rejoicing marked the happy occasion, Berlin was gaily flagged to celebrate the formal entrance of the bride into the capital, and most other German cities illuminated in her honour. The imperial bridegroom came from Potsdam at the head of a military escort selected from his regiment and preceded the bridal cortege, in which the ancient coronation carriage, with its smiling occupant, and drawn by eight prancing steeds, was the principal feature. On the day following the marriage the young couple went to Primkenau for the honeymoon.
The marriage with a princess of Schleswig-Holstein was not only an event of general interest from the domestic and dynastic point of view. It had also political significance, for it meant the happy close of the troubled period of Prussian dealings with those conquered territories.
A story throwing light on the young bride’s character is current in connexion with her wedding. One of the hymns contained a strophe—“Should misfortune come upon us,” which her friends wanted her to have omitted as striking too melancholy a note. “No,” she said,
“let it be sung. I don’t expect my new position to be always a bed of roses. Prince William is of the same mind, and we have both determined to bear everything in common, and thus make what is unpleasant more endurable.”
Since the marriage their domestic felicity, as all
These domestic tastes she has preserved, and the saying, quoted in Germany whenever she is the subject of conversation, that her character and tastes are summed up in the four words Kaiser, Kinder, Kirche, and Kueche—Emperor, children, church, and kitchen—is as true as it is compendious and alliterative. It is often assumed, especially by men, that a woman who cultivates these tastes cultivates no other. This is not as true as is often supposed of the Empress, as a journal of her voyage to Jerusalem in 1898, published on her return to Germany, goes to show. Following the traditions and example of the queens and empresses who have preceded her, she has always given liberally of her time and care, as she still does, to the most multifarious forms of charity. She has a great and intelligible pride in her clever and energetic husband, while her interest in her children is proverbial. She appears to have no ambition to exercise any influence on politics or to shine as a leader of society. Like the Emperor, she is not without a sense of humour, and is always amused by the racy Irish stories (in dialect) told her and a little circle of guests by Dr. Mahaffy, of Trinity College, Dublin, who is a welcome guest at the palace.
The offspring of the marriage, it may be here noted, is a family of seven children—six sons and a daughter—as follows:—
Crown Prince Frederick William, born 1882 Prince Eitel Frederick " 1883 Prince Adalbert " 1884 Prince August William " 1887 Prince Oscar " 1888 Prince Joachim " 1890 Princess Victoria Louise " 1892
The Crown Prince was born on June 6th at the Marble Palace in Potsdam. He was educated at first privately by tutors, and later at the military academy at Ploen, not far from Kiel. When eighteen he became of age and began his active career as an officer in the
Since his marriage the Emperor has more than once publicly congratulated himself on his good fortune in having such a consort as the Empress. The most graceful compliment he paid her was in her own Province of Silesia in 1890, when he said:
“The band which unites me with the Province—that of all the provinces of the Empire which is nearest to my heart—is the jewel which sparkles at my side, Her Majesty the Empress. A native of this country, a model of all the virtues of a German princess, it is her I have to thank that I am in a position joyfully to perform the onerous duties of my office.”
Only the other day at Altona, after thirty years of married life, he referred to her, again in her home Province and again as she sat smiling beside him, as the
“first lady of the land, who is always ready to help the needy, to strengthen family ties, to discharge the duties of her sex, and suggest to it new aims. The Empress has bestowed a home life on the House of Hohenzollern such as Queen Louise, alone perhaps, conferred.”
Queen Louise, the famous wife of Frederick William III, died in 1810 and is buried in the mausoleum at Charlottenburg, the suburb of Berlin. She has remained ever since, for the German nation, the type of womanly perfection.
PRE-ACCESSION DAYS
1881-1887
The seven years between the date of his marriage and that of his accession were chiefly filled in by the future Emperor with the conscientious discharge of his regimental duties and the preparation of himself, by three or four hours’ study daily at the various Ministries, among them the Foreign Office, where he sat at the feet of Bismarck, for the imperial tasks he would presumably have to undertake later.
Emperor William I, now a man of eighty-four, was still on the throne. Born in 1797, he lived with his parents, Frederick William III and Queen Louise, in Koenigsberg and Memel for three years after the battle of Jena, won the Iron Cross at the age of seventeen in the war with Napoleon in 1814, took part in the entry of the Allies into Paris, and devoted himself thenceforward, until he became King of Prussia in 1861, chiefly to the reorganization of the army. For a year during the troubled times of 1848 he was forced to take refuge in England, from whence he returned to live quietly at Coblenz until called to the Regency of Prussia in 1858. He was the Grand Master of Prussian Freemasonry. The attempts on his life in Berlin in 1878 by the anarchists Hoedel and Nobiling are still spoken of by eye-witnesses to them. Both attempts were made within a period of three weeks while the King was driving down Unter den Linden, and on both occasions revolver shots were fired at him. Hoedel’s attempt failed, but in view of Socialist agitation, the would-be assassin was beheaded (the practice still in Prussia) a few weeks later. Pellets from Nobiling’s weapon struck the King in the face and arm, and disabled him from work for several weeks. The political events of the reign, including the Seven Weeks’ War with Austria in 1866, which ended at Sadowa, where King William was in chief command, and that with France in 1870, when he was present as Commander-in-Chief at Gravelotte and Sedan, are frequently referred to by Bismarck in his “Gedanke und Erinnerungen,” and to these the reader may be referred.
The high and amiable character of the old Emperor, as he became after 1870, is common knowledge. He was a thoroughgoing Hohenzollern in his views of monarchy and his relations to his folk, but he was at the same time the type of German chivalry, the essence of good nature, the soul of honour, and the slave of duty. He was extremely fond of his grandson, Prince William, and it is clear from the latter’s speeches subsequently that the affection was ardently reciprocated.
Of Emperor William, Bismarck writes in the highest terms, describing his “kingly courtesy,” his freedom from vanity, his impartiality towards friend and foe alike; in a word, he says, Emperor William was the idea “gentleman” incorporated. On the other hand, Bismarck tells how the old Emperor all his life long stood in awe of his consort, the Empress Augusta, Bismarck’s great enemy and the clearing-house (Krystallisationspunkt), as he describes her, of all the opposition against him; and how the Emperor used to speak of her as “the hot-head” ("Feuerkopf")—“a capital name for her,” Bismarck adds, “as she could not bear her authority as Queen to be overborne by that of anyone else.” The Iron Chancellor, by the way, mentions a curious fact in connexion with the attempt on Emperor William’s life by Nobiling. The Chancellor says he had noticed that in the seventies the Emperor’s powers had begun to fail, and that he often lost the thread of a conversation, both in hearing and speaking. After the Nobiling attempt this disability, strangely enough, completely disappeared. The fact was noticed by the Emperor himself, for one day he said jestingly to Bismarck: “Nobiling knew better than the doctors what I really needed—a good blood-letting.”
Referring to the Empress Frederick at this period, Bismarck writes:
“With her I could not reckon on the same good-will as I could with her husband (Emperor Frederick). Her natural and inborn sympathy for her native country showed itself from the very beginning in the endeavour to shift the weight of Prussian-German influence on the European grouping of the Powers into the scale of England, which she never ceased to regard as her Fatherland; and, in consciousness of the opposition of interests between the two great Asiatic Powers, England and Russia, to see Germany’s power, in case of a breach, used for the benefit of England.”
An incident may be mentioned here which took place at what was to turn out to be the Emperor William’s death-bed and refers particularly to our young Prince William. Bismarck was talking to the sick Emperor a few days before the latter’s death. The Chancellor spoke about the necessity of publishing an Order, already drawn up in November of the preceding year, appointing Prince William regent in case the necessity for such a measure should occur. The sick Emperor expressed the hope that Bismarck would stand by his successor. Bismarck promised to do so and the Emperor pressed his hand in token of satisfaction. Then, suddenly, Bismarck relates, the Emperor became delirious and began to rave. Prince William was the central figure in his ravings. He evidently thought his grandson was at his bedside and exclaimed, using the familiar Du; “Du you must always keep on good terms with the Czar (Alexander III) ... there is no need to quarrel in that quarter.” Thereafter he was silent, and Bismarck left the sick-room.
The Prince’s parents, Crown Prince Frederick and his English consort, had also their Court at the Marmor Palais in Potsdam, and their palace in Berlin, but the life they led was comparatively simple. The Crown Prince and Princess were great travellers and consequently often absent from Germany; and when at home, while the Crown Prince, in his serious-minded fashion, was absorbed in study, the Crown Princess divided her time between the practice of the arts and correspondence with her now grown-up sons and daughters.
Still, it is clear from the signs of the time that there was a good deal of intrigue going on throughout this pre-accession period, or, if intrigue is too strong a term for it, a good deal of friction, social and political, in high circles. It was chiefly caused, if the old Chancellor’s statements to his sycophantic adorer, Busch, are to be credited, by the interference of the Empress Augusta and her daughter-in-law, the Crown Princess, in the sphere of politics, the Empress seeking to influence her husband in favour of the Catholics, whom she had taken under her protection, and the Crown Princess trying, as we have seen, to influence German policy in favour of England.
Exactly what part Prince William took in it all is not very clear. One thing we know, that he greatly displeased Bismarck by his constant attendance at the Waldersee salon, then a social centre in Berlin. Countess Waldersee, who is still living in Hannover, was the daughter of an American banker named Lee. She married Frederick, Prince of Schleswig, but he died six months after the wedding. His widow afterwards married Count Waldersee, who was subsequently to command the international forces during the Boxer troubles in China. Bismarck detested Waldersee, perhaps because many people spoke of him as his probable successor, and consequently looked with anything but favour on his imperial pupil’s visit to the Waldersees.
The great figure of the time, however, was neither the Emperor nor the Crown Prince nor Prince William, but Prince Bismarck, who, as Chancellor for now more than a quarter of a century, had throughout that period guided the destinies of Prussia and the German Empire. Emperor William and Crown Prince Frederick and Prince William were playing, doubtless, more or less prominent parts on the public stage, but all things of moment gravitated towards Bismarck, whose days were spent, now persuading or convincing the Emperor, now warring with a Parliament growing impatient of his dictatorial attitude, now countermining the intrigues and opposition of his adversaries at Court and in the Ministries. He hardly ever went into society, but though he spent his days growling in his den at the Foreign Office when he was not immersed in work, he was the great popular figure of Berlin; indeed, it might be said, of all Germany.
As second lieutenant, Prince William had naturally a good deal to learn, though, entering life, as we have seen, as a “fine young recruit,” having had a “military governor” appointed to his service when he was four, being made an officer at the age of ten, and having passed most of his life hitherto in a military society and atmosphere, he had less perhaps to learn than the ordinary young German officer. He went through the usual drills, and doubtless felt, as keenly as does the young officer everywhere, their monotonous and seemingly unnecessary repetitions, but they fulfilled the object in view and gave him the well-set-up bearing and martial tread which still distinguish him. Living in the old Town Castle of Potsdam, in rooms that had once been occupied by Frederick the Great, he entered with zest into the task of learning the mechanism of his regiment and at the same time of the army generally, though it cannot have been as interesting a task then as now, when science has added so many new branches to military organization. Both he and his young wife were as hospitable as their not too generous means and occasional cheques from the Emperor William would allow, particularly to any Borussian of the Prince’s Bonn university days who might be passing through Berlin or Potsdam. The young Prince and Princess took part, as was to be expected of them, in the festivities and ceremonies of the Emperor’s and Crown Prince’s Court, and, when they had nothing more interesting to do, might be seen strolling arm in arm about the streets in Potsdam looking into the shops as young married people do in every town, and being apparently, as the story-books say, as happy as the day is long.
On the whole, however, during these pre-accession years, only glimpses of Prince William’s character and doings are obtainable, but, though meagre, they are sufficient to suggest that in his case, too, if we extend the saying to cover the entire period of youth, the child was father to the man. The chief, almost the only, reliable authorities for the inner history of the time are the memoirs and notes left by the two Chancellors, Prince Bismarck and Prince Hohenlohe—en passant let the hope be expressed here that in the interests of Germany herself another Chancellor, Prince Bernhard Ernst von Buelow, now living in retirement at Rome, will enlighten the world as to that of the last ten or twelve stirring years, quorum pars magna fuit. Both Bismarck and Hohenlohe were excellent judges of character, and have, described, though with regrettable brevity, the character of Prince William about this time. Talking to his confidant, Dr. Busch, in June, 1882, Bismarck says of the Prince:
“He is quite different from the Emperor William, and wishes to take the government into his own hands; he is energetic and determined, not at all disposed to put up with parliamentary co-regents, a regular guardsman; Philopater and Antipater at Potsdam! He is not at all pleased at his father (Crown Prince Frederick) taking up with professors, with Mommsen, Virchow, Forckenbeck. Perhaps he may one day develop into the rocher de bronze of which we stand in need.”
This rocher de bronze is an expression constantly employed by devoted royalists and imperialists in Germany. It was first used by Frederick William IV, who, in the jargon which in his time passed for the German language, exclaimed: “Ich werde meine Souvereinetat stabilizieren wie ein rocher de bronze.”
Again, about this time Bismarck says:
“Up to that time (when Prince William was studying at the Ministries) he knew little, and indeed did not trouble himself much about it, but preferred to enjoy himself in the society of young officers and such-like,”
and he goes on to tell how the Prince took—or did not take—to this Ministerial education. It was proposed that the Under Secretary of State, Herrfurth, who was reputed to be well informed, particularly in statistics, should instruct him about internal questions. The Prince agreed and invited Herrfurth to lunch, but afterwards told Bismarck he could not stand him, “with his bristly beard, his dryness and tediousness.” Could Bismarck suggest some one else? The Chancellor mentioned Privy Councillor von Brandenstein. The Prince did not object, had the Baron several times to meals, but paid so little attention to his explanations that Brandenstein lost patience and begged for some other employment. Concerning a rendezvous, Bismarck writes:
“He (Prince William) has more understanding, more courage and greater independence (than his grandfather), but in his leaning for me he goes too far. He was ‘surprised’ that I had waited for him, a thing his grandfather was incapable of saying;”
and the Chancellor adds:
“It is only in trifles and matters of secondary importance that one occasionally has reason to find fault with him, as, for instance, in the form of his State declarations—but that is youthful vivacity which time will correct. Better too much than too little fire.”
Busch relates, under date of April 6, 1888, Bismarck’s birthday, how Prince William came to offer his congratulations, and, having done so, invited himself to dinner. The meal over, he made a speech toasting Bismarck, in which he said:
“The Empire is like an army corps that has lost its commander-in-chief in the field, while the officer who is next to him in rank lies severely wounded. At this critical moment forty-six million loyal German hearts turn with solicitude and hope to the standard, and the standard-bearer in whom all their expectations are centred. The standard-bearer is our illustrious Prince, our great Chancellor. Let him lead us. We will follow him. Long may he live!”
Prince Hohenlohe’s references to Prince William as Emperor are frequent and full, but he has little to say about his character as Prince William beyond noting, when there was some talk of the Prince directly succeeding Emperor William, that he was “too young.” On an occasion subsequently Prince Hohenlohe amusingly notes that the Emperor shook hands with him until his fingers “nearly cracked.” This is still a genial gesture of the Emperor’s.
One document, however, is available to show the spirit of religious tolerance which then animated our young Lutheran Prince, as it has animated him, it may be added, ever since. Pius IX had been succeeded in the Papacy by the more liberal Leo XIII, and the Kulturkampf had come to an end. Prince William, writing to an uncle, Cardinal Hohenlohe, says:—
“That this unholy Kulturkampf is at an end is a thing which rejoices me beyond expression. Of late many eminent Catholics, among them Kopp (afterwards Cardinal) have frequently visited me and honoured me with a confidence at once complete and gratifying. I was often so happy as to be able to be the interpreter of their wishes (to the Emperor and Bismarck, presumably) and do them some service. So it has been granted to my youth to co-operate in this work of peace. This has given me great pleasure and happiness.
“Give my regards
to Galimberti and lay my respects at the
feet of the Pope.
“Thy devoted nephew,
“WILLIAM OF PRUSSIA.”
With his future subjects Prince William was brought into close relations only in a very limited way. No one, save perhaps Bismarck, seems to have known or suspected his true character and aims. This was natural enough, since it is not until a man comes to occupy some influential or prominent position that the public begins to take an interest in him. His father would be Emperor before him, and fate might have it that he himself would not live to come to the
At the same time it is obvious that if his people at this period had not much opportunity of studying the young Prince, he had been studying them and their requirements as these latter appeared to him. He had evidently thought much on Germany’s conditions and prospects before he came to the throne, and was Empire-building in imagination long before he became Emperor. It is not hard to guess the drift of his meditations. The success of the Empire depended on the success of Prussia, and the success of Prussia, ringed in by possibly hostile Powers, on union under a Prussian King whom Germans should swear fealty to and regard as a Heaven-granted leader. From the history of Prussia he drew the conclusion that force, physical force, well organized and equipped, must be the basis of Germany’s security. Physical force had made Brandenburg into Prussia, and Prussia into the still nascent modern German Empire. He knew that France was only waiting for the day to come when she would be powerful enough to recover her lost provinces. Russia was friendly, but there was no certainty she would always be so. Austria was an ally, but many people in Austria had not forgotten Sadowa, and in any case her military and naval forces were far from being efficient. An irresistible army, and a national spirit that would keep it so, were consequently Germany’s first essentials.
Simultaneously a new fact of vital importance for Germany’s prosperity presented itself for consideration—the growth of world-policy in trade, the expansion of commerce through the development caused by new conditions of transport and intercommunication in which other nations were already engaged. The Prince saw his country’s merchants beginning to spread over the earth, and believing in the doctrine that trade follows the flag, he felt that the flag, with the power and protection it affords, must be supplied. For this it appeared to him that a navy was as indispensable as was an efficient army for Germany’s internal security. All other great countries had fine navies, while to Germany this complement of Empire was practically wanting. Accordingly he now took up the study of naval science and naval construction.
There was an occasion, however, at this time when the young Prince attracted general attention, if only for a few days. It was when as colonel of the Body Guard Hussars, he ordered his officers to withdraw from a Berlin club in which hazard and high play had ruined some of the younger and less wealthy members. The committee of the club used their influence to cause Emperor William to make the new commander cancel his order. The Emperor sent for his grandson and requested its withdrawal.
“Majesty,” said the young commander, “permit me a question—am I still commander of the regiment?”
“Of course—”
“Well, then, will your Majesty allow me to maintain the order—or else accept my resignation?”
“Oh,” said the Emperor, who was in reality pleased with the young disciplinarian, “there can be no talk of such a thing. I could not find so good a commanding officer again in a hurry.”
When the club committee’s ambassadors came to the Emperor to learn the result of his intervention, his answer was, “Very sorry, gentlemen; I did my best, but the colonel refuses.”
The political situation as regards France was just now highly precarious. General Boulanger, whom Gambetta once described as “one of the four best officers in France,” had become Minister of War in the de Freycinet Cabinet of 1886. Relying on a supposed superiority of the French army, he prepared for a war of revenge against Germany and aimed, with the help of Deroulede and Rochfort, at suppressing the parliamentary regime and establishing himself as dictator. His plans were answered in Germany by the acceptance of Bismarck’s Septennat proposals for increasing the army and fixing its budget for seven years in advance. The war feeling in France diminished, and though it revived for a time owing to the arrest of the French frontier police commissary Schnaebele, it finally died out on that officer’s release at the particular request of the Czar to Emperor William. Boulanger’s subsequent history only concerns France. He was sent to a provincial command, but returned to Paris, where he was joyously received and elected to Parliament by a large majority. He might, it is believed, a year or two later, on being elected by the department of the Seine, with Paris at his back, have made a successful coup d’etat on the night of his triumphant election, but his courage at the last moment failed, and on learning that he was about to be arrested he fled to Brussels, where he committed suicide on the grave of his mistress.
The time, however, was approaching, the most interesting, and as the succession of events have shown, the most momentous for the Empire since 1870, when Prince William’s accession was obviously at hand. During the year 1887 and the early part of 1888 the attention of the world was fixed, first curiously, then anxiously, then sympathetically on the situation in Berlin. Emperor William was an old man just turned ninety; he was fast breaking up and any week his death might be announced. Hereditarily the Crown Prince Frederick, now fifty-six, should succeed, and a new reign would open which might introduce political changes of moment to other countries as well as Germany. The new reign was indeed to open, but only to prove one of the shortest in history.
In January, 1887, a Shadow fell on the House of Hohenzollern, the Shadow that must one day fall on every living creature. It was noticed that the Crown Prince was hoarse, had caught a cold, or something of the kind. A stay at Ems did him no good, Doctors Tobold and von Bergmann, the leading specialists of the day, were consulted, a laryngoscopic examination followed, the presence of cancer was strongly suspected, and an operation was advised. At this juncture, at the suggestion, it is said, of Queen Victoria, it was decided to summon the specialist of highest reputation in England, Sir Morell Mackenzie, who, having examined the patient, and basing his opinion on a report of Professor Virchow’s, declared that the growth was not malignant. It was now May, and on Mackenzie’s advice the patient visited England, where, accompanied by Prince William, he was present at the celebration of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. Some months after his return to the Continent were spent with his family in Tirol and Italy, until November found him in San Remo, where a meeting of famous surgeons from Vienna, Berlin, and Frankfort-on-Main finally diagnosed the existence of cancer, and Mackenzie coincided with the judgment.
The old Emperor died on March 9th. He had taken cold on March 3rd, and on the 7th a chronic ailment of the kidneys from which he suffered became worse, he could not sleep, his strength began to ebb, and it was clear the end was near. On the 6th, however, he was able to speak for a few minutes with Prince William, with Bismarck, and with his only daughter, the Grand Duchess of Baden, who had arrived post-haste the night before to be present at the death-bed. The Grand Duchess, as the Emperor spoke, besought him not to tire himself by talking. “I have no time to be tired,” he murmured, in a flicker of the sense of duty which had been a lifelong feature of his character, and a few hours later he passed quietly away. The funeral, headed by Prince William and the Knights of the Black Eagle, took place on the 20th. The new Emperor Frederick, who had hurried from San Remo on receiving news of the Emperor’s condition, was too ill to join it, but stood behind a closed window of his palace and saluted as the coffin went by.
The incidents of the Emperor Frederick’s ascent of the throne, the amnesty and liberal-minded proclamations to his people, and in particular the heroic resignation with which he bore his fate, are events of common knowledge. One of them was the so-called Battenberg affair. Queen Victoria desired a marriage between Princess Victoria, the present Emperor’s sister, then aged twenty-two, and Prince Alexander of Battenberg, at that time Prince of Bulgaria, so as to secure him against Russia by an alliance with the imperial house of Germany. Prince Bismarck objected on the ground that the marriage would show Germany in an unfriendly light at St. Petersburg, and might subject a Prussian princess to the risk of expulsion from Sofia. Another account is that the Chancellor feared an increase of English influence at the German Court with the Prince of Bulgaria as its channel. In any case, the result of the Chancellor’s opposition was to place the sick Emperor in a delicate and painful situation. It was ended by his yielding to the Chancellor’s representations, and the marriage did not come off.
Meanwhile, the Emperor’s malady was making fatal progress. The Shadow was growing darker and more formidable. A season of patiently-borne suffering followed, until Death in his terrific majesty appeared and another Emperor occupied the throne.
“VON GOTTES GNADEN”
Prince William is now German Emperor and King of Prussia. Before observing him as trustee and manager of his magnificent inheritance a pause may be made to investigate the true meaning of a much-discussed phrase which, while suggesting nothing to the Englishman though he will find it stamped in the words “Dei gratia” on every shilling piece that passes through his hands, is the bed-rock and foundation of the Emperor’s system of rule and the key to his nature and conduct.
Government in Germany is dynastic, not, as in England and America, parliamentary or democratic. The King of Prussia possesses his crown—such is the theory of the people as well as of the dynasty—by the grace of God, not by the consent of the people. The same may be said of the German Emperor, who fills his office as King of Prussia. To the Anglo-Saxon foreigner the dynasty in Germany, and particularly in Prussia, appears a sort of fetish, the worship of which begins in the public schools with lessons on the heroic deeds of the Hohenzollerns, and with the Emperor, as high priest, constantly calling on his people to worship with him. This view of the kingly succession may seem Oriental, but it is not surprising when one reflects that the Hohenzollern dynasty is over a thousand years old and during that time has ruled successively in part of Southern Germany, in Brandenburg, in Prussia, until at last, imperially, in all Germany. Moreover, it has ruled wisely on the whole; in the course of centuries it has brought a poor and disunited people, living on a soil to a great extent barren and sandy, to a pitch of power and prosperity which is exciting the envy and apprehension of other nations.
In England government passed centuries ago from the dynasty to the people, and there are people in England to-day who could not name the dynasty that occupies the English throne. Such ignorance in Germany is hardly conceivable. In Prussia government has always been the appanage of the Hohenzollerns, and the Emperor is resolved that, supported by the army, it shall continue to be their appanage in the Empire. Government means guidance, and no one is more conscious of the fact than the Emperor, for he is trying to guide his people all the time. Frederick William IV once said to the Diet: “You are here to represent rights, the rights of your class and, at the same time, the rights of the throne: to represent opinion is not your task.” This relation of government and people has become modified of recent years to a very obvious degree, but constitutionally not a step has been taken in the direction of popular, that is to say parliamentary, rule.
England and Germany are both constitutional monarchies, but both the monarch and the Constitution in Germany are different from the monarch and the Constitution in England. The British Constitution is a growth of centuries, not, like the German Constitution, the creation of a day. The British Constitution is unwritten, if it is stamped, as Mary said the word “Calais” would be found stamped on her heart after death, on the heart and brain of every Englishman. The German Constitution is a written document in seventy-eight chapters, not fifty years old, and on which, compared with the British Constitution, the ink is not yet dry. In England to the people the Constitution is the real monarch: in Germany the monarchy is to the people what the British Constitution is to the Englishman; and while in England the monarch is the first counsellor to the Constitution, in Germany the Constitution is the first counsellor to the monarch.
The consequence in England is representative government, with a political career for every ordinary citizen; the consequence in Germany is constitutional monarchy, properly so-called, with a political career for no common citizen. Neither system is perfect, but both, apparently, give admirable national results. And yet, of course, an Englishman cannot help thinking that if Herr Bebel were made Minister to-morrow, Social Democracy would cease to exist.
The people acquiesce in the Hohenzollern view, not indeed with perfect and entire unanimity, for the small Progressive party demand a parliamentary form of government, if not on the exact model of that established in England. The Social Democrats, evidently, would have no government at all. Many English people suppose that Germans generally must desire parliamentary rule and would help them to get it, for multitudes of English people are firmly persuaded that it is England’s mission to extend to other peoples the institutions which have suited her so well, without sufficiently considering how different are their circumstances, geographical position, history, traditions, and national character. A very similar mistake is made in Germany by multitudes of Germans, who believe it is Germany’s mission to impose her culture, her views of man and life, on the rest of the world.
The Prussian view of monarchy, expressed in the words “von Gottes Gnaden” ("By the Grace of God"), is a political conception, which, under its customary English translation, “by Divine Right,” has often been ridiculed by English writers. Lord Macaulay, it will be remembered, in his “History of England,” asserts that the doctrine first emerged into notice when James the Sixth of Scotland ascended the English throne. “It was gravely maintained,” writes Macaulay,
“that the Supreme Being regarded hereditary monarchy, as opposed to other systems of government, with peculiar favour; that the rule of succession in order of primogeniture was a divine institution anterior to the Christian, and even to the Mosaic, dispensation; that no human power, not even that of the whole legislature, no length of adverse possession, though it extended to ten centuries, could deprive the legitimate prince of his rights; that his authority was necessarily always despotic; that the laws by which, in England and other countries, the prerogative was limited, were to be regarded merely as concessions which the sovereign had freely made and might at his pleasure resume; and that any treaty into which a king might enter with his people was merely a declaration of his present intention, and not a contract of which the performance could be demanded.”
The statement exactly expresses the ideas on the subject attributed abroad to the Emperor.
The distinguished German historian, Heinrich von Treitschke, writes of King Frederick William IV, the predecessor of Emperor William I, as follows:—
“He believed in a mysterious enlightenment which is granted ‘von Gottes Gnaden’ to kings rather than other mortals. All the blessings of peace, which his People could expect under a Christian monarch, should Proceed from the wisdom of the Crown alone; he regarded his high office like a patriarch of the Old Testament and held the kingship as a fatherly power established by God Himself for the education of the people. Whatever happened in the State he connected with the person of the monarch. If only his age and its royal awakener had understood each other better! He had, however, in his strangely complicated process of development, constructed such extraordinary ideals that though he might sometimes agree in words with his contemporaries he never did as to the things, and spoke a different language from his people. Even General Gerlach, his good friend and servant, used to say: ‘The ways of the King are wonderful;’ and the not less loyal Bunsen wrote about a complaint of the monarch that ’no one understands me, no one agrees with me,’ the commentary—’When one understood him, how could one agree with him?’”
It was this king, be it parenthetically remarked, who said, when his people were clamouring for a Constitution, in 1847: “Now and never will I admit that a written paper, like a second Providence, force itself between our God in Heaven and this land”—and a few months later had to sign the document his people demanded.
Von Treitschke, writing on the last birthday of Emperor William I, thus spoke of the doctrine:
“A generation ago an attempt was made by a theologizing State theory to inculcate the doctrine of a power of the throne, divine, released from all earthly obligations. This mystery of the Jacobins never found entrance into the clear common sense of our people.”
Prince Bismarck’s view of the doctrine was explained in a speech he made to the Prussian Diet in 1847. He was speaking on “Prussia as a Christian State.” “For me,” he said,
“the words ‘von Gottes Gnaden,’ which Christian rulers join to their names, are no empty phrase, but I see in them the recognition that the princes desire to wield the sceptre which God has assigned them according to the will of God on earth. As God’s will I can, however, only recognize what is revealed in the Christian gospels, and I believe I am in my right when I call that State a Christian one which has taken as its task the realization, the putting into operation, of the Christian doctrine.... Assuming generally that the State has a religious foundation, in my opinion this foundation can only be Christianity. Take away this religious foundation from the State and we retain nothing of the State but a chance aggregation of rights, a kind of bulwark against the war of all against all, which the old philosophers spoke of.”
On the second occasion, thirty years later, the Chancellor’s theme was “Obedience to God and the King.”
“I refer,” he said,
“to the wrong interpretation of a sentence which in itself is right—namely, that one must obey God rather than man. The previous speaker must know me long enough to be aware that I subscribe to the entire correctness of this sentence, and that I believe I obey God when I serve the King under the device ‘With God for King and Country.’ Now he (the previous speaker) has separated the component parts of the device, for he sees God separated from King and Fatherland. I cannot follow him on this road. I believe I serve my God when I serve my King in the protection of the commonwealth whose monarch ‘von Gottes Gnaden’ he is, and on whom the emancipation from alien spiritual influence and the independence of his people from Romish pressure have been laid by God as a duty in which I serve the King. The previous speaker would certainly admit in private that we do not believe in the divinity of a State idol, though he seems to assert here that we believe in it.”
In these passages, it may be remarked, Bismarck avoids an unconditional endorsement of the Hohenzollern doctrine of divine “right” or even divine appointment. Indeed all he does is to express his belief in the sincerity of rulers who declare their desire to rule in accordance with the will of God as it appears in Holy Scripture. In addition to his dislike of a “Christianity above the State,” the fact that he did not subscribe to the doctrine of divine right, as these words are interpreted in England, is shown by another speech in which he said, “The essence of the constitutional monarchy under which we live is the co-operation of the monarchical will and the convictions of the people.” But what, one is tempted to ask, if will and convictions differ?
In recent times, Dr. Paul Liman, in an excellent character sketch of the Emperor, devotes his first chapter to the subject, thus recognizing the important place it occupies in the Emperor’s mentality. Dr. Liman, like all German writers who have dealt with the topic, animadverts on the Hohenzollern obsession by the theory and attributes it chiefly to the romantic side of the Emperor’s nature which was strongly influenced in youth by the “wonderful events” of 1870, by the national outburst of thanks to God at the time, and by the return from victorious war of his father, his grandfather, and other heroes, as they must have appeared to him, like Bismarck, Moltke, and Roon.
It is worth noting that Prince von Buelow, during the ten years of his Chancellorship, made no parliamentary or other specific and public allusion to the doctrine.
Before, however, attempting to offer a somewhat different explanation of the Emperor’s attitude in the matter from those just cited, let us see what statements he has himself made publicly about it and how the doctrine has been interpreted by his contemporaries. He made no reference to it in his declarations to the army, the navy, and the people when he ascended the throne. His first allusion to it was in March, 1890, at the annual meeting of the Brandenburg provincial Diet at the Kaiserhof Hotel in Berlin, and then the allusion was not explicit. “I see,” said the Emperor,
“in the folk and land which have descended to me a talent entrusted to me by God, which it is my task to increase, and I intend with all my power so to administer this talent that I hope to be able to add much to it. Those who are willing to help me I heartily welcome whoever they may be: those who oppose me in this task I will crush.”
His next allusion, at Bremen in April of the same year, when he was laying the foundation-stone of a statue to his grandfather, King William, a few months subsequent to Bismarck’s retirement, was more explicit, yet not completely so.
“It is a tradition of our House,” so ran his speech,
“that we, the Hohenzollerns, regard ourselves as appointed by God to govern and to lead the people, whom it is given us to rule, for their well-being and the advancement of their material and intellectual interests.”
The next reference, and the only one in which a divine “right” to rule in Prussia is formally claimed, occurs four years later at Koenigsberg, the ancient crowning-place of Prussian kings. Here he said:—
“The successor (namely himself) of him who of his own right was sovereign prince in Prussia will follow the same path as his great ancestor; as formerly the first King (of Prussia, Frederick I.) said, ‘My crown is born with me,’ and as his greater son (the Great Elector) gave his authority the stability of a rock of bronze, so I too, like my imperial grandfather, represent the kingship ’von Gottes Gnaden.’”
At Coblenz in 1897, in reference to the first Emperor William’s labours for the army and people:—
“He (Emperor William) left Coblenz to ascend the throne as the selected instrument of the Lord he always regarded himself to be. For us all, and above all for us princes, he raised once more aloft and lent lustrous beams to a jewel which we should hold high and holy—that is the kingship von Gottes Gnaden, the kingship with its onerous duties, its never-ending, ever-continuing trouble and labour, with its fearful responsibility to the Creator alone, from which no human being, no minister, no parliament, no people can release the prince.”
Here, too, if the words “responsibility to the Creator alone” be taken in their ordinary English sense, the allusion to a divine right may be construed, though it is observable that the word “right” is not actually employed.
In Berlin, when unveiling a monument to the Great Elector, the Emperor was filled with the same idea of the God-given mission of the Hohenzollerns. After briefly sketching the deeds of the Elector—how he came young to the throne to find crops down-trodden, villages burnt to the ground, a starved and fallen people, persecuted on every side, his country the arena for barbarous robber-bands who had spread war and devastation throughout Germany for thirty years; how, with “invincible reliance on God” and an iron will, he swept the pieces of the land together, raised trade and commerce, agriculture and industry, in for that period an incredibly short time; how he brought into existence a new army entirely devoted to him; how, in fine, guided by the hope of founding a great northern Empire, which would bring the German peoples together, he became an authority in Europe and laid the corner-stone of the present Empire—after sketching all this, the Emperor continues:
“How is this wonderful success of the house of Hohenzollern to be explained? Solely in this way, that every prince of the House is conscious from the beginning that he is only an earthly vicegerent, who must give an account of his labour to a higher King and Master, and show that he has been a faithful executor of the high commands laid upon him.”
One finds exactly the same idea expressed three months later when talking to his “Men of Brandenburg.” “You know well,” he reminded them,
“that I regard my whole position and my task as laid on me by Heaven, and that I am appointed by a Higher Power to whom I must later render an account. Accordingly I can assure you that not a morning or evening passes without a prayer for my people and a special thought for my Mark Brandenburg.”
To the Anglo-Saxon understanding, of course, the theory of divine right has long appeared untenable, obsolete, and, as Macaulay says, absurd. Many people to-day would go farther and argue that there is no such thing as a divine right at all, since “rights” are a purely human idea, possibly a purely legal one. But it is at least doubtful that the Emperor uses
From this point of view one may regard the statements of the Emperor concerning his kingly office. He has recently begun to use the expression “German Emperor von Gottes Gnaden,” a thing done by none of his imperial predecessors, and certainly a very curious extension of a doctrine which traditionally only applies to wearers of the crown of Prussia. But if he does, it may, it is here suggested, be considered further evidence that he employs the terms “von Gottes Gnaden” in a sense other than that of “divine right” as conceived by the Anglo-Saxon. The German “Gnade” means “favour,” “grace,” “mercy,” “pity,” or “blessing,” and is at times used in direct contrast with the word “Recht,” which means “justice” as well as “right.” The point, indeed, need hardly be elaborated, and the Emperor’s own explanation of the revelation of God to mankind, with its special reference to his grandfather which we shall find later in the confession of faith to Admiral Hollmann, is highly significant of the sense in which he regards himself and every ruling Hohenzollern as selected for the duties of Prussian kingship. It is the work of the kingship he is divinely appointed to do of which he is always thinking, not the legal right to the kingship vis a vis his people he is mistakenly supposed to claim. He regards himself as a trustee, not as the owner of the property. And is not such a spirit a proper and praiseworthy one? In a sense
This conveyance, this making plain is, as many people, and the Emperor among them, believe, performed by God through the agency of those whom mankind agree to call “great.” For the last nineteen centuries a large part of civilized mankind is at one in the belief that Christ was such an agency, while millions again agree to call the agency Buddha, Mahomet, Confucius, or Zoroaster. In the creed of Islam Christ, as a prophet, comes fifth from Adam. In America there are thousands who believe, or did believe, in the agency of a Mrs. Eddy or a Dr. Dowie. And if this is so in matters of religion, itself only a form of the reasoning soul, why should it not be the same in morals or philosophy, art or science, government or administration: why should we not all accept, as many still do, the sayings and writings of the Hebrew prophets (as does the Emperor), of Plato and Aristotle, of Bacon and Hobbes, of Milton and Shakespeare and Goethe, of Kepler and Galileo, or Charlemagne and Napoleon, as divinely intended to convey and make plain to us the dictates of Heaven until such time as yet greater souls shall instruct us afresh and still more fully?
It may be that the Emperor thinks in some such way; his speeches and edicts at least suggest it. Certainly, as already mentioned, he did on one occasion, when speaking of his kingship, employ the word “right” as descriptive of the nature of his appointment by God. But that was early in his reign, and at no time since has he insisted on a Heaven-granted right to rule. It was, no doubt, different with some of his absolute predecessors, but it was not the view of Frederick the Great, who declared himself “the first servant of the State.” Moreover, it is hardly conceivable that the Emperor, who is acquainted with the facts of history and is a man of practical common sense besides, does not know that the doctrine of “divine right” has long been rejected by people of intelligence in every civilized country, including his own.
If he really believes in divine right in the Stuart sense he must think that the conditions of Germany are so different from those of the rest of civilized mankind, and his own people so little advanced in knowledge and political science, that a doctrine absurd and dangerous to the peace of enlightened commonwealths is applicable as a basis of rule in his own. It seems a more plausible view, that the Emperor considers the expression “von Gottes Gnaden” an academic formula of government, or what is still more likely, as a moral and religious, not a legal, dogma, which yet expresses one of the leading and most admirable features of his policy as a ruler. If it is not so, he is inconsistent with himself, since he has repeatedly declared himself bound by the Constitution in accordance with which his grandfather and father and he himself have hitherto ruled. At present the doctrine of divine “right” is regarded by Germans no less than by Englishmen as dead and buried, and mention of it in Germany is usually greeted with a smile. Even the notion of appointment by divine “grace,” while considered a harmless and praiseworthy article of faith with the Emperor, is no longer regarded as a living principle of government.
THE ACCESSION
1888-1890
With his accession began for the Emperor a period of extraordinary activity which has continued practically undiminished to the present day. During that time he has been the most prominent man and monarch of his generation. From the domestic point of view his life perhaps has not been marked by many notable events, but from the point of view of politics and international relations it has been the history of his reign and to no small extent the history of the world.
When a German Emperor ascends the throne there is no great outburst of national rejoicing, no great series of popular ceremonials. There is no brilliant procession as in England, no impressive coronation like that of an English monarch in Westminster Abbey, no State visit of the monarch to the Houses of Parliament. In Germany Parliament goes to the King, not the King to Parliament.
On the same day that the Emperor began his reign he addressed proclamations to the army and navy. The addresses to the people and the Parliament were to come a few days later. In the proclamation to the army he said:
“I and the army were born for each other. Let us remain indissolubly so connected, come peace or storm, as God may will. You will now take the oath of fidelity and obedience to me, and I swear always to remember that the eyes of my ancestors are bent on me from the other world, and that one day I shall have to give an account touching the fame and the honour of the army.”
His address to the navy was in the same vein.
“We have only just put off mourning for my unforgettable grandfather, Kaiser William I, and already we have had to lower the flag for my beloved father, who took such an interest in the growth and progress of the navy. A time of earnest and sincere sorrow, however, strengthens the mind and heart of man, and so let us, keeping at heart the example of my grandfather and father, look with confidence to the future. I have learned to appreciate the high sense of honour and of duty which lives in the navy, and know that every man is ready faithfully to stake his life for the honour of the German flag, be it where it may. Accordingly I can, in this serious hour, feel fully assured that we shall stand strongly and steadily together in good or bad days, in storm or sunshine, always mindful of the Fatherland and always ready to shed our heart’s blood for the honour of the flag.”
To his people he promised that he would be a
“just and mild prince, observant of piety and religion, a protector of peace, a promoter of the country’s prosperity, a helper to the poor and needy, a faithful guardian of the right.”
To the Parliament a week later he announced that he meant to walk in the footsteps of his grandfather, particularly in regard to the working classes, to acquire the confidence of the federated princes, the affection of the people, and the friendly recognition of foreign countries. He said that in his opinion the
“most important duties of the German Emperor lay in the domain of the military and political security of the nation externally, and internally in the supervision of the carrying out of imperial laws.”
The highest of these laws, he explained, was the Imperial Constitution and “to preserve and protect the Constitution, and in especial the rights it gives to the legislative bodies, to every German, but also to the Emperor and the federated states,” he considered “among the most honourable duties of the Emperor.”
While the order of these addresses is different to what it would be in England, it entirely accords with the spirit of the Prussian monarchy and the political system of the German people. Settled in the heart of Europe, the nation rests on the army, and it is hardly too much to say that, from the Emperor’s point of view, possibly also from the popular German point of view, the interests of the army must be considered before the interests of the rest of the population. An English monarch, who issued his first address to the British navy, would be as justified in doing so by the real necessities of Great Britain as a German Emperor who first addresses the German army is justified by the real necessities of Germany; for the British navy is as vital to the British as the German army is to the German nation. In England, however, the monarch’s respect for the people and Parliament takes precedence of his respect for the army, not vice versa as in Germany.
In a speech from the throne to the Prussian Diet the Emperor took the Constitutional Oath: “I swear to hold firmly and unbrokenly to the Constitution of the Kingdom and to rule in agreement with it and the laws ... so help me God!” and went on to proclaim the continuance in Prussia and the Empire of his grandfather’s and father’s policy and work. He said at the same time, while undertaking not to make the People uneasy by trying to extend Crown rights, that he would take care that the constitutional rights of the Crown were respected and used, and that he meant to hand them over unimpaired to his successor. He concluded by saying that he would always bear in mind the words of Frederick the Great, who described himself as the “first servant of the State.”
At Frankfurt-on-the-Oder, a few months later, he declared, when unveiling a monument to his uncle, Prince Frederick Karl, a hero of the Franco-Prussian War, that he meant never to surrender a stone of the acquisitions made in the war and
“believed he voiced the feeling of the entire army in saying that Germany, rather than do so, would suffer its eighteen army corps and its whole population of 42 millions to perish on the field of battle.”
At this period of his career the Emperor was, first and foremost, a thoroughgoing Hohenzollern. Doubtless he is so still, if he talks less about the dynasty. He admired Frederick the Great, then as now, and in the first place as military commander, but the ancestor with whom he even more sympathized, and sympathizes, was the Great Elector. “The ancestor,” he said himself,
“for whom I have the most liking (Schwaermen, a hardly translatable German verb, is the word he used) and who always shone before me as an example in my youth, was the Great Elector, the man who loved his country with all his heart and strength, and unrestingly devoted himself to rescuing the Mark Brandenburg out of its deep distress and made it a strong and united whole.”
What particularly attracted the Emperor in the history of the Elector was the fact that he was the first Hohenzollern who saw the importance of promoting trade and industry, building a navy, and acquiring colonies. As yet, however, the Emperor had only clear and fairly definite ideas about the need for a navy. The world-policy may have been in embryo in his mind, but it was not born.
The imaginative side of the Emperor’s character at this period is well illustrated in a speech he made in 1890 to his favourite “Men of the Mark.” He was talking of his travels, to which allusion had been made by a previous speaker.
“My travels,” said the Emperor,
“have not only had the object of making myself acquainted with foreign countries and institutions, or to create friendly relations with neighbouring monarchs, but these journeys, which have been the subject of much misunderstanding, had for me the great value that, withdrawn from the heat of party faction, I could review our domestic conditions from a distance and submit them to calm consideration. Any one who, standing on a ship’s bridge far out at sea, with only God’s starry heaven above him, communes with himself, will not fail to appreciate the worth of such a journey. For many of my fellow-countrymen I would wish that they might live through such an hour, in which one can make up an account as to what he has attempted and what achieved. Then would he be cured of exaggerated self-estimation, and that we all need.”
Having discharged the duty of addressing his own subjects, the Emperor’s next care, after a stay at Kiel where a German Emperor and King now for the first time in history appeared in the uniform of an admiral, was personally to announce his accession at the courts of his fellow-European sovereigns. We find him, accordingly, paying visits to Alexander II in St. Petersburg, to King Oscar II in Stockholm (where he received a telegram announcing the birth of his fifth son), to Christian IX in Copenhagen, to Kaiser Franz Joseph in Vienna and to King Humbert in Rome. To both the last-mentioned he presented himself in the additional capacity of Triplice ally.
In August of the year following his accession he paid his first visit as Emperor to England. It was a very different thing, one may imagine, from the earliest recorded visit of a German Emperor to the English Court. That was in 1416, when the Emperor Sigismund (1411-1437) arrived there and was received by Henry V. Henry postponed the opening of Parliament specially on his account, made him a Knight of the Garter, and signed with him at Canterbury an offensive and defensive alliance against France. How poor the German Empire and the German Emperor were at that epoch may be judged from the fact that on his way home Sigismund had to pawn the costly gifts he had received in England.
On the present occasion a grand naval review of over a hundred warships, with crews totalling 25,000 men, was held in honour of the Emperor at Osborne. This was followed, a few days afterwards, by a parade of the troops at Aldershot under the command of General Sir Evelyn Wood. On this occasion, after expressing his admiration for the British troops, the Emperor concluded: “At Malplaquet and Waterloo, Prussian and British blood flowed in the prosecution of a common enterprise.” In a little speech after the review the Emperor spoke of the English navy as “the finest in the world.” The impression made by the Emperor on Sir Evelyn has been recorded by that general. “The Emperor is extremely wide-awake,” he writes to a friend, “with a decided, straightforward manner.
Next year the Emperor was again in England, this time to be present at the Cowes regatta, which he took part in regularly during the four succeeding years, noting, doubtless, all that might prove useful for the development of the Kiel yachting “week,” the success of which he had then, as always since, particularly at heart. He was received by Queen Victoria with the simple and homely words, “Welcome, William!”
A State visit to the City of London followed, when he was accompanied by the Empress, and was entertained to a luncheon given by the City Fathers in the Guildhall. The entertainment, which took place on July 10, 1891, was remarkable for a speech delivered by the Emperor in English, in which, besides declaring his intention of maintaining the “historical friendship” between England and Germany, he proclaimed that his great object “above all” was the preservation of peace, “since peace alone can inspire that confidence which is requisite for a healthy development of science, art, and commerce.” On the same occasion he expressed his feeling of “being at home” in England—“this delightful country”—and spoke of the “same blood which flows alike in the veins of Germans and English.” Shortly afterwards he attended a review of volunteers at Wimbledon, and, as he said, was “agreeably astonished at the spectacle of so many citizen-soldiers in a country that had no conscription.”
The Emperor returned from England to receive the visit of his chief Triplice ally, the Emperor Franz Joseph, and to discuss with him doubtless the European situation. Bismarck has been pictured as sitting at the European chessboard pondering the moves necessary tor Germany to win the game of which the great prize was the hegemony of Europe. The chief opposing Pieces, whose aid or neutrality was desirable, were for long France, Russia, Austria, and Italy; but in 1883, with the conclusion of the Triple Alliance, Austria and Italy needed less to be considered, and the only two really important opposing pieces left were France and Russia. Still, Germany, through her allies of the Triplice, might be dragged into war, and consequently the doings of Austria and Italy, both in relation to one another and to France and Russia were, as they now are, of great importance to her.
At the time of the accession, the chessboard of our metaphor was mainly occupied with Franco-German relations and with Russian designs on Constantinople, the Dardanelles, and the Black Sea. The danger to Germany of war with France, which had arisen out of the Boulanger and Schnaebele incidents, had died down, but not altogether ceased. Hohenlohe tells us how at this time, in conversation with the Emperor, the latter ventured the forecast: “Boulanger is sure to succeed. I prophesy that as Kaiser Ernest he will pay a visit to Berlin.” He was wrong, we know, as so many prophets are.
Russian designs on Turkey had had to reckon with the opposition of England and Austria. As regards these designs, Bismarck says:
“Germany’s policy should be one of reserve. Germany would act very foolishly if in Oriental questions, without having special interests, she took a side before the other Powers, who were more nearly interested: she would therefore do well to refrain from making her move as long as possible, and thus, besides, gain the benefit of longer peace.”
The Chancellor, however, admitted that against the advantages of a policy of reserve had to be set the disadvantage of Germany’s position in the centre of Europe with its frontiers exposed to the attacks of a coalition. “From this situation,” said the Chancellor, “it results that Germany is perhaps the only Great Power in Europe which is not tempted to attain its ends by victorious war.”
“Our interest,” he goes on,
“is to maintain peace, whereas our continental neighbours without exception have wishes, either secret or officially admitted, which can only be fulfilled through war. Consequently, German policy must be to prevent war or confine it as much as possible: to keep in the background while the European game of cards is going on: and not by loss of patience or concession at the cost of the country, or vanity, or provocation from friends, allow ourselves to be driven from the waiting attitude: otherwise—plectuntur Achivi!—third parties will rejoice.”
That was the Bismarckian policy twenty-five years ago, and though new economic conditions have had great influence in modifying it since, particularly as it regards the East, it is practically Germany’s policy now.
In his first speech from the throne to the Reichstag the Emperor thus referred to the Triple Alliance:
“Our Alliance with Austria-Hungary is publicly known. I hold to the same with German fidelity, not merely because it has been concluded, but because I see in this defensive union a foundation for the balance of power in Europe and a legacy of German history, the importance of which is recognized by the whole of the German people, while it accords with European international law as undeniably in force up to 1866. Similar historical relations and similar national exigences of the time bind us to Italy. Both Germany andPage 49
Italy desire to prolong the blessings of peace that they may pursue in tranquillity the consolidation of their newly acquired unity, the betterment of their national institutions, and the increase of their prosperity.”
In a speech a few months later he declared that the Alliance had no other purpose than to strengthen the peaceful relations of Germany to other foreign Powers. His next public reference to it was in May, 1900, when Kaiser Franz Joseph visited Berlin on the occasion of the coming of age of the German Crown Prince. “Truly,” exclaimed the Emperor, in a vein of some exaggeration,
“this Alliance is not alone an agreement in the eyes of the monarchs, but the longer it has existed, the deeper has it taken root in the convictions of the peoples, and the moment that the hearts of the peoples beat in unison nothing can tear them asunder. Common interests, common feelings, joy and sorrow shared together, unite our three nations for now twenty years, and although often enough misunderstandings and sarcasm and criticisms have been poured out on them, the three peoples have succeeded in maintaining peace hitherto, and are regarded by the whole world as its champions.”
The history of the Triplice may be shortly related here as, along with his navy, it is regarded by the Emperor as the chief factor in the preservation of the world’s peace, and is, in fact, as has been said, the foundation of his foreign policy. It arose from Bismarck’s desire to be independent of Russia and from his dread of a European coalition—for example, that of France, Austria, and Russia—against the German Empire. “We had,” Bismarck writes,
“carried on successful war against two of the European Great Powers (Austria and France), and it became advisable to withdraw at least one of them from the temptation to revenge which lay in the prospect an alliance with others offered. It could not be France, as any one who knew the history and temperament of the two peoples could see, nor England owing to her dislike of permanent alliances, nor Italy as her support alone was insufficient against an anti-German coalition; so that the choice lay between Austria-Hungary and Russia.”
For many reasons Bismarck would have preferred the Russian alliance, among others the traditional dynastic friendship between the two countries and the fact that no natural political or religious causes of conflict existed between them; while a union with Austria was less reliable, owing to the changeable nature of her public opinion, the heterogeneousness of her Magyar, Slav, and Catholic populations, and the loss of influence by the German element with the governing body. On the other hand, however, an alliance with Austria would be nothing new, internationally, as such a connection theoretically arose from the former connection of Germany and Austria in the Holy Roman Empire. While weighing the matter, a threatening letter from
The Triple Alliance rests on three treaties: one between Germany and Austria-Hungary, one between Germany and Italy, and one between Austria-Hungary and Italy. While by the first Germany and Austria-Hungary bind themselves to combine in case of an attack on either by Russia, whether as original foe or as ally, and to observe “at least” benevolent neutrality in case of attack from any other quarter, by the second Germany and Italy bind themselves to mutual support in case of an attack on either by France. The third, between Austria-Hungary and Italy, binds the signatories to benevolent neutrality in case Austria-Hungary is attacked by Russia, or Italy by France.
That there are weak points in the Triple Alliance is obvious. If Austria-Hungary were a purely homogeneous country like France or Russia, Germany and Austria-Hungary, even without Italy, could face with confidence an attack from either or both their powerful neighbours. But Austria-Hungary is not homogeneous. A large proportion of her population is anti-German, or at least non-German, and Italy is always subject to be tempted by an opportunity of obtaining some of Austria-Hungary’s Adriatic possessions. Moreover, a large party is even now to be found in Austria-Hungary which desires revenge for the humiliation of her defeat by Germany in 1866.
The relations of Germany to Russia have always been rather those of friendship between the monarchs of the two countries than of friendship between the two peoples; and it is easy to understand that the fear of revolution, Socialism, or “government of the people, by the people, for the people,” to use Lincoln’s celebrated phrase, at all times forms a strong and active bond of sympathy between the monarchs. In the case of Russia there is also always to be considered the obstinate, or as the Emperor would call it knightly, spirit in which his grandfather, King William I, regarded his obligation to maintain friendship with the Czar, and which for a long time made him hostile to the
The Czar returned the Emperor’s accession visit in Berlin in October, 1889, and it was on this occasion that the first sign of trouble between the Emperor and the old Chancellor showed itself. When the Emperor first proposed to make his round of visits of accession to foreign sovereigns, Bismarck agreed except as regarded Russia and England, objecting that visits to these countries would have an alternatively bad effect in each. The Emperor, however, as has been noted, went to Russia. During the return visit in Berlin, Bismarck had an interview with the Czar which resulted in the final adjustment of Russo-German relations, but at its close the Czar said, “Yes, I believe you and have confidence in you, but are you sure you will remain in office?” Bismarck looked surprised, and said, “Certainly, Majesty; I am quite certain I shall remain in office all my life”—an odd thing, one may remark, for a man to say, who must have been familiar with the saying, “Put not your trust in princes.”
When the Czar was going away, both the Emperor and Bismarck accompanied him to the station, and on their return the Emperor gave the old Chancellor a seat in his carriage. The talk concerned the visit just over, and the Emperor again announced his intention of spending some time in Russia the following year. Bismarck now advised against the project on the ground that it would arouse hostility in Austria, and because “it was not suitable considering the Czar’s disposition towards the Emperor.”
“What disposition? What do you mean? How do you know?” questioned the Emperor quickly.
“From confidential letters I am in the habit of receiving from St. Petersburg, in addition to official reports,” replied the Chancellor.
The Emperor expressed a wish to see the letters, but Bismarck gave an evasive answer. The result was a temporary coolness between Emperor and Chancellor.
From a memorandum of Prince Hohenlohe’s we get a glimpse of one of the political currents and anti-currents just now running high. Prince Hohenlohe writes under date, June 27, 1888, when the Emperor was hardly a fortnight on the throne:—
“Last evening at 8 left Berlin with Thaden after supping with Victor and Franz (son and nephew) in the Kaiserhof Hotel. Paid several visits during the day. I found Friedberg somewhat depressed. He is no longer the big man he was in the Emperor Frederick’s time, when everybody courted him. He knows that the Emperor does not favour Jews. Then I visited the new chief of the Cabinet (civil), Lucanus, a courtly, polished, obliging man, who looks more like an elegant Austrian privy councillor. Wilmoski inspires me with more confidence. At 5 to Bleichroeder’s (Bleichroeder was the great Jew banker). We spoke, or rather he spoke first, about the political situation. He is satisfied, and says Bismarck is too. Only the Emperor must take care to keep out of the hands of the Orthodox. People in the country wouldn’t stand that. (He is right there, comments Hohenlohe.) Waldersee and his followers, he said, was another danger. Waldersee was a foe of Bismarck’s and thought himself fit for anything and everything. Who knows but that these gentlemen wouldn’t begin the old game and say to the Emperor, ’You are simply nothing but a doll. Bismarck is the real ruler.’ On the old Emperor this would have made no impression, but the young one would be more sensitive. Bismarck, therefore, wanted Waldersee’s banishment, and would, if he could, send him to Strasburg (where Hohenlohe was Statthalter) as commanding general. Perhaps he was only aiming at making me (Hohenlohe) sick of my post and so get rid of Waldersee, his enemy, when I cleared out. Bleichroeder said Bismarck only introduced the compulsory pass system to show the Emperor that he too could act sharply against the French, and so as to take the wind out of the sails of the military party. Bismarck was thinking above all about seating his son Herbert firmly in the saddle (Herbert was Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs). That is the sole motive of his action and thought. There was therefore no prospect of matters in the Rhineland improving. As to Russia, Bleichroeder expected some occurrence, something out of the way (exotisches) by which Russia might be won, either the withdrawal of troops from the frontier or a meeting of Emperors. The Emperor, Bismarck said, would not begin a war. If it came, however, it would not be unwelcome to him.”
Prince Hohenlohe also tells of a visit he paid in the month of the accession to the widowed Empress Frederick. “She is much bowed down,” he said,
“very harassed-looking, and I feel sure that all this recent time, all the last year in fact, she has been displaying an artificial good-humour, for now I find her in deep distress. At first she could not speak for weeping. We spoke of the Emperor Frederick’s last days, then she recovered herself a little and complained of the wickedness and meanness of men, by which she meant to allude to certain people.... Herbert Bismarck had had the impudence to tellPage 53
the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII) that an Emperor who could not talk and discuss things should not be allowed to reign, and so on. The Prince of Wales, the Empress said, told Herbert that if it were not that he valued good relations between England and Germany, he would have thrown him out of the door.... Waldersee was a false, unprincipled wretch, who would think nothing of ruining his country if he could only satisfy his own personal ambition.”
Prince Hohenlohe finally called on the Prince of Wales, who “spoke prudently, but showed his disgust at the roughness of the Bismarcks, and could not understand their policy of irritating France.”
The particular question concerning France that was agitating Germany at the time of the accession was the state of affairs in Alsace-Lorraine, and particularly Bismarck’s measure requiring French citizens entering the provinces to provide themselves with a pass from the German Ambassador in Paris. The amiable and conciliatory Statthalter, Prince Hohenlohe, had to make a reluctant journey to Berlin in connexion with this question. There was another question also weighing on his mind—the question whether or not he should have a sentry guard before his official residence in Strasburg. The military authorities, whose rivalry with the civil authorities everywhere in Germany for influence and power still continues, wanted to have the sentries abolished, but the Prince eventually had his way. He showed Bismarck that they were necessary for his reputation with the population, which had already begun to think less of his influence as Statthalter owing to his one day at a review having incautiously and gallantly taken a back seat in his carriage in favour of some lady guests.
In normal times the composers of speeches from the throne are accustomed to describe the relations between their own and foreign countries as “friendly.” When the relations are not friendly, yet not the opposite, they are usually registered on the political barometer as “correct.” The attitude on both sides is formal, rigorously polite, reserved; such as would become a pair of people who had once been at feud and after their quarrel had been fought out agreed, if only for the sake of appearances, to show no outward animosity, but on the other hand not give an inch of way. The position of France and Germany is “correct”; it has never been friendly since 1870; and it must be many a long year before it can be friendly again. Apart from the difference between the Latin and Teutonic temperaments, apart from the legacy of hate left in Germany against France by the sufferings and humiliations the great Napoleon caused her, apart from the fact that one people is republican and the other monarchical, there is always one thing that will prevent reconciliation—the loss by France of the fair provinces Alsace and Lorraine. It is of no use for Germany to remind France that up to the Peace of Westphalia in 1648 this territory
Several suggestions have been made with a view to an arrangement that might leave France without reason, or with less reason, for constant meditation on revenge One of them is the neutralization of Alsace-Lorraine on the model of Belgium, while another is the distribution of the territory, so that while Alsace is divided between Baden and Bavaria, Lorraine becomes a part of Prussia A third would divide the provinces between the two nations. An illustration of the yet prevailing feeling is found in the fact that large Alsatian firms invariably use French in their correspondence with Berlin firms, and almost as invariably refer to the “customs-arrangement” with Germany in 1871. They cannot bring themselves to use the word “annexation.”
Yet of late years—to anticipate somewhat the course of events—Germany has made two important concessions to Alsace-Lorraine. The first was the abrogation of the so-called “Dictator-Paragraph,” which was part of the law for administering the new provinces after the war of 1870. Under the paragraph the Lieutenant-Governor (Oberpresident) of the Reichsland, as the newly incorporated territory is now officially known, was empowered in case of need to take command of the military forces and proclaim a state of siege. When announcing the abrogation of the Paragraph in the Reichstag in 1902, Chancellor von Buelow gave a resume of the relations of the provinces to the Empire since 1870. He stated that immediately after the war the population were not disposed to incorporation in the Empire, as they thought the new state of things would only be temporary and that France would soon reconquer the provinces. This state of feeling, the Chancellor explained, naturally reacted on the Government, which accordingly laid down the principle that the claims of the provinces to equal political rights with other parts of the Empire could only be recognized step by step, as the Government was satisfied that the population conformed to the new order of things.
The second important concession to the Provinces was made only recently, when the provincial committee was replaced by a popularly elected Diet and the Provinces were granted three seats in the Federal Council. There is a proviso that in case of equality in the Council meetings the votes shall not be allowed to turn the scale in favour of Prussia. The limitation is a concession to the susceptibilities of the other Federal states.
Germany’s relations with Great Britain at the time of the accession were unclouded. Mr. Gladstone had been defeated on his Home Rule proposals and Lord Salisbury was back in power. A lull had occurred in British relations with the Transvaal. All nations, including Germany, were beginning to turn their attention to the Orient with a view to the acquisition in Asia of “spheres of influence and spheres of interest,” but as yet English and German interests had not come anywhere into conflict.
The Emperor’s great internal foe and the object of his special enmity is the Social Democracy, and practically from the day of his accession he has waged war with it. His attitude towards the Socialists requires no long description, since it logically results from his traditional conception of Prussian monarchy and from the revolutionary character of Social Democratic aims. While a young man he paid little or no attention to the movement, and probably regarded it as the “passing phenomenon” he subsequently declared it to be. In 1884 the number of Social Democratic voters was something over half a million, and the number of Social Democratic members returned to the Reichstag 25: in 1890, two years after the accession, the figures were a million and a half and 35 respectively.
The Emperor’s denunciation of Social Democrats has always been unmeasured. “A crew undeserving the name of Germans,” a “plague that must be extirpated,” “traitors,” “people without a country and enemies to religion,” “foes to the Empire and the country”—such were a few of the expressions he then and during the next few years publicly applied to three millions of his subjects. To-day, it may be added, the number of Social Democrats in Germany is well over four millions.
In 1889, in reply to a deputation of three coal miners’ representatives, the Emperor said:
“As regards your demands, I will have them carefully investigated (a phrase, by the way, not unknown in England) by my Government, and let you know the result through the usual official channels. Should, however, offences against public peace and order occur, should a connexion between your movement and Social Democratic circles be demonstrated, I would not be in a position to weigh your wishes with my royal goodwill, since for me every Social Democrat is the same thing as a foe to the Empire and the Fatherland. Accordingly, if I see that Social Democratic tendencies mix with the movement and lead to unlawful opposition, I will intervene with all my powers—and they are great.”
And a month later:
“That the Radical agitation of the Social Democracy has turned so many heads and hearts is due to the fact that in schools, high and low, too little is taught about the cruel deeds of the French Revolution and too little about the heroic deeds of the War of Liberation, which was (with the help of English bayonets, be it parenthetically remarked) the salvation of the Fatherland.”
In 1892, to anticipate by a year or two, in reply to a guest who had observed that Social Democrats were not decreasing in numbers, the Emperor remarked:
“The moment the Social Democracy feels itself in possession of power it will not hesitate for an instant to attack the Burghertum (middle classes) very energetically. No exhibition of general benevolence is of any use against these people—here only religious feeling, founded on decided faith, can have any influence.”
The Emperor, referring to the murder of a manufacturer in Mulhausen, said: “Another victim to the revolutionary movement kept alive by the Socialists. If only our people would act like men!”
And yet it is obvious, looking at it from the standpoint of to-day, that an admirably organized movement with four million parliamentary voters in an electorate of fourteen millions, with no members in an Imperial Parliament of 397 with representatives, more or less numerous, on almost every municipal board of any importance in the Empire, with the power of disturbing at any moment the relations between capital and labour, upon which the prosperity, security, and comfort of the whole population depend, and in intimate relations with the Socialists of all other countries, cannot be merely ignored or disposed of by scornful and sarcastic speeches, by official anathema, or even by close police supervision. There must be something behind it all which ought to be susceptible of explanation.
Before, however, attempting to conjecture what the something is, it will be advisable, familiar to many though the facts must be, to recapitulate, as briefly as possible, the history of the movement. Old as the story is, it is necessary to have some knowledge of it, for Social Democracy is the great, perhaps the only, domestic political thorn in the Emperor’s side.
It is a truism to say that the “social question,” the question how best to organize society, is as old as society itself. Great thinkers all down the ages, from Plato to Sir Thomas More, from More to Jean Jacques Rousseau, from Rousseau to Saint Simon, Fourier, Louis Blanc, Lassalle, and Karl Marx, have devoted their attention to it. The French Revolutionists tried to solve it, and the revolutionary movement of 1848 took up the problem in its turn.
German Social Democracy may be referred for its source to the teachings of Louis Blanc, who formed in 1840 a workmen’s society in Paris. Blanc held, as the Social Democrats hold, that capitalism was the cause of all social evil, and that the workman was powerless against it. He therefore proposed the establishment of workmen’s societies for purposes of production, and the grant of the necessary capital at a low rate of interest by the State. The doctrine was taken up in Germany with fiery enthusiasm by Ferdinand Lassalle, who, in May, 1863, founded the General German Workmen’s Society for a “peaceful, lawful agitation” in favour of universal suffrage as a first means to the desired end. Universal suffrage was granted by the North German Confederation in 1867, and in 1873 Lassalle’s adherents numbered 60,000.
Meanwhile, Karl Marx and his disciple, Frederic Engels, had been propagating their theories, and in 1848 the former published his famous work on the ideal social state. At first Marx was a partizan of revolutionary methods, but he subsequently recanted this view and proclaimed that the Socialistic aim in future should be the “strengthening of the economic and political power of the workman so that the expropriation of private property could be obtained by legislation.” The Marxian doctrine was adopted in Germany by Wilhelm Liebknecht and August Bebel, who, at Eisenach in 1869, founded the Association of Social Democratic Workmen, to which the present German party owes its name. The Eisenach programme declared “the economic dependence of the workmen on the monopolists of the tools of labour the foundation of servitude and social evil,” and demanded “the economic emancipation of the working classes.” An attempt to get the Lassalle society to join the Eisenacher society on an international basis failed for the time, but the two associations finally coalesced at the Gotha Congress of 1875.
The attempt on the life of William I in 1878 by the anarchist Nobiling had an important effect on the fortunes of the party and the character of its programme. The Socialist Laws were passed and the police began a campaign against the Socialists, of which the mildest features were the dissolution of societies, the searching of houses, the expulsion of suspected persons, and the interdiction of Socialist newspapers and periodicals.
For the next few years the party held its annual congresses in Switzerland or Denmark, but as the Socialist Laws ceased to have effect after three years, and were not then renewed, the party resumed its congresses in Germany. The Congress at Erfurt in 1891 resulted in the issue of a new programme rejecting the Lassalle plan for the establishment of workmen’s societies for productive purposes and substituting for it the transfer of all capitalistic private property engaged in the means of production, such as lands, mines, raw material, tools, machinery, and means of transport, to the State. The term used in the programme is “state,” not “society,” but the State is in fact nothing but the society armed with coercive powers.
Other objects are universal suffrage for both sexes over twenty, electoral reform, two-year parliaments, direct legislation “through the people,” some form of parliamentary government, autonomy of the people in Empire, State, Province, and Parish, conscription, national militia instead of standing army, international arbitration, abolition of State religion, free and compulsory education, abolition of capital punishment, free burial, free medical assistance, free legal advice and advocacy, progressive succession duties, inheritance tax, abolition of indirect taxation and customs, parliamentary decisions as to peace and war, and undenominationalism in schools.
Especially for the working classes are intended the following: National and international protective legislation for workmen on the basis of a normal eight hours day, prohibition of child labour under fourteen years, prohibition of night work save rendered necessary by the nature of the work or the welfare of society, superintendence of labour and its relations by a Ministry of Labour, thorough workshop hygiene, equality of status between the agricultural labourer, servant class, and the artisan, right of association, and State insurance, as to which the working class should have an authoritative voice.
The programme contains nothing as to the practical consequences of the provisions it contains, but Herr Bebel, in his book on “Woman and Social Democracy,” gives some examples. One is that the working time will be alike for men and women, another that domestic life will be limited to the cohabitation of man and woman, for children are to be brought up by society, and a third that cooking and washing will be the care of central public kitchens and washhouses. Meanwhile, all these years, it may be noted, Herr Bebel and his millions of followers have been living exactly like everybody else.
The student of working-class conditions in Germany is unlikely to think clearly unless he distinguishes between such terms as Social Democracy, Socialism, Trade Unionism, and Labour party. Social Democracy is a species of Socialism. All Social Democrats are Socialists, but not all Socialists Social Democrats. The latter, as an enrolled political party, paying annual subscriptions and looking forward to the future state as conceived by Marx, and now by Bebel, number something under a million; the remaining three millions who voted for Social Democratic candidates at the last general election may have included men who believe in Social Democratic ideals, but the vast majority of them, unless one does grave injustice to their common sense, voted for such candidates owing to dissatisfaction with the policy of the Government and present conditions generally—the high cost of living, the pressure of taxation, the severity of class distinctions, and like grievances, real or imaginary. These people are Socialists in the English or international sense of the word, not Social Democrats strictly speaking; and with these people the Emperor is most angry because he knows they form the element most capable of dangerous expansion.
Again, though the vast majority of German Socialists in the broader sense are Trade Unionists, not all Trade Unionists are Socialists. Trade Unionism—the organization of labour against capital—is represented in Germany by two main bodies; the free or Socialist Unions containing about two million working men, and the “Christian” or loyal “National” Unions, which are anti-Social Democrat and anti-Socialist. These have a membership of about 300,000. The Hirsch-Duncker Unions, with 100,000 members, are Liberal,
But enough has been said to show the comprehensive and revolutionary nature of Social Democratic doctrine. The only other feature that requires mention in connexion with the movement is the desire on the part of a section of the party for a revision of its programme. The party of revision is usually identified with the names of Heinrich von Vollmar, who first suggested it, and Eduard Bernstein, who is in favour of trying to realize that portion of the programme which deals with the social needs of the existing generation, the demands of the present day, and would leave to posterity the attainment of the final goal. The views of the Revisionists differ also from those of the Radicals in respect of two other main questions which divide the party, that of voting budgets and that of going to court. The Revisionists are willing to do both, and the Radicals to do neither. A decisive split in the party is annually looked for, but hitherto, when congress-day came, the Revisionists, for the sake of peace and unity in the party, have refrained from pushing their views to extremes. One might suppose that professors of the tenets of Social Democracy would get into trouble with the police, but they avoid arrest and imprisonment by taking care to avoid attacking property or the family, advocating a republic, or introducing religious questions into their discussions.
In dealing with the growth of Social Democracy in Germany the philosophic historian would doubtless refer to the French Revolution, or go still farther back to the Reformation, as the starting-point of every great change in the views of civilized mankind during the last four and a half centuries; but it is with more recent times these pages are chiefly concerned and consequently with causes now operative. The main specific cause is the change from agriculture to industry, and with it the growth of what is generally spoken of as “industrialism.” Industrialism means the assemblage of large masses of intelligent men forming a community of their own, with its special conditions and the wants and wishes arising from them. This is the most fertile field for Socialism, for a new organization of society. In Germany Socialistic ideas kept growing with the increase of industrialism, and came to a head with the attempts by Hoedel and Nobiling on the life of the Emperor William. The anti-Socialist laws, passed for a definite period, followed, but they were not renewed; the Emperor and his Government pressed on instead with a great and far-reaching social policy, and Socialism, in the form of Social Democracy, freed from restraint, took a new lease of life.
Another cause of as general, but less ponderable, a nature is the remnant of the feudal spirit and feudal manners which lingers in the attitude of the German governing and official classes towards the rest of the population. The most objectionable features of the feudal system have passed away, the cruel and exclusive rights and privileges which only men in ignorant personal servitude to an all-powerful master could permanently endure; but traces of the system still exist in the official attitude towards the public and in the tone of the official communications issued by the administrative services generally. Attitude and tone may be referred in part to the traditional character of the Prussian monarchy, which regards the people as a flock of sheep, or as a “talent,” as the Emperor has called it, entrusted to its care and management by Heaven; but it is also due in part to the systematization of public life—and largely of private life—which at times makes the foreigner inclined to think Germany at once the most Socialistic and at the same time the most tyrannically ruled country in the world. Everything in Germany must be done systematically, and the system must be the result of development. But there is no use in having a system unless it is enforced—otherwise it remains, like Social Democracy, a theory. Compulsion, therefore, is necessary, and the Government provides it through its official machinery and its police. The systematization has enormous public advantages, but it is difficult for the Anglo-Saxon, jealous of his individual right to direct his public life through his own representatives and his private life according to his own judgment, to accommodate himself to a system which seems to him unduly to interfere with both right and judgment.
Perhaps it is the manner in which, under the name of authority, compulsion is exercised by subordinate officialdom and in especial by the police, as much as the compulsion itself, which irritates in Germany. Every profession, business, trade, and occupation, down to that of selling matches and newspapers in the streets, is meticulously regulated; and while there is nothing to object to in this, what strikes the Anglo-Saxon as objectionable is that the regulations are enforced with the manners and in the tone of a drill-sergeant. The official in Germany, he finds, is not the servant of the public. There is a story current in England of a Duke of Norfolk, when Postmaster-General, going into a district post-office and asking for a penny stamp. The clerk was dilatory, and the Duke remonstrated. “Who are you, I should like to know?” asked the clerk impertinently, “that you are laying down the law.” “I am the public,” replied the Duke simply, at the same time showing the clerk his card. An English Foreign Secretary once told a deputation that the Ministry was “waiting for instructions from their employers—the people.” In Germany it is the opposite; the official is the master and the public his dutiful servant. In Germany the official expects marked deference from the public: the post-office clerk is “Mr. Official,” the guardian of the law “Mr. Policeman” (with your hat off). The Anglo-Saxon rather expects the deference to be on the other side, and has a sordid subconsciousness that he pays the official for his services. Perhaps the Social Democrat has something of the same feeling.
One of the chief consequences of industrialism in Germany is that the people of the country are migrating to the towns. To the country bumpkin the city is an Eldorado and a lordly pleasure-house. In truth, he is much better off in it than in the stagnant life of the country. In the city he sees comfort on every hand, with possibilities of enjoyment of every kind, and if he does not soon get a share of the good things going he grows discontented and turns Socialist. In the city, too, he learns to think and compare, he perceives the distinction of classes and notices that certain classes have open to them careers from which he is excluded. Then there is the apparently inevitable antagonism between labour and capital, between the employer and employed, which drives the worker to Social Democracy, as offering the prospect of his becoming his own master and enjoying the whole fruits of his labour. He may not know Matthew Arnold’s “Sick King in Bokhara,” but he would endorse Arnold’s lines:—
“And these all,
for a lord
Eat not the fruit of
their own hands;
Which is the heaviest
of all plagues
To that man’s
mind, who understands.”
But whatever its causes, Social Democracy is one of the most curious and anomalous societies extant. In a country which worships order, it calls for absolute disorder. A revolutionary movement, it anxiously avoids revolution. It is a magnificent organization for no apparent practical, direct, or immediate purpose. Proclaiming the protection of the law and enjoying the blessing of efficient government, it yet refuses to vote the budget to pay for them. It supports a large parliamentary party without any clear or consistent parliamentary policy in internal or external affairs, unless to be “agin the Government” is a policy. And lastly, if some of its economic demands are justifiable, and have in several respects been satisfied by modern legislation, its fundamental doctrine, the basis of the entire edifice, is a wild hallucination, sickening to common sense, and completely out of harmony with the progressive economic development of all nations, including its own.
In conclusion, it may be added that the social side of the Social Democracy is perhaps too often unrecognized or ignored by the foreign observer. Life for the poorer classes in Germany is apt to be more monotonous and dull than for the poorer classes of any country which nature has blessed with more fertility, more sunshine, more diversity of hill and dale, and where people are more mutually sociable and accommodating. Social Democracy offers something by way of remedy to this: a field of interest in which the workers can organize and make processions and public demonstrations and can talk and theorize and dispute, and in which the woman can share the interest with the man; or a club, a social club with the largest membership in the world except freemasonry.
We must return, however, to the Emperor. During this period, in December, 1890, he, like every one else with his own ideas on education as well as on art and religion, delivered his views on popular instruction. At this time—he was then thirty—he called together forty-five of the ablest educational experts of the country and addressed them on the subject of high-school education. His Minister of Education, Dr. von Grossler, had drawn up a programme of fourteen points for discussion, and the Emperor added to these a few others he wished to have considered.
German high-school education, be it remarked, is a different thing from English public-school education, and ought rather to be spoken of as German information than as German education. We have seen that the spirit of the German university differs largely from that of the English university, in that it is not concerned with the formation of character or the inculcation of manners. The same may be said of the German gymnasium, or high school, the institution from which the German youth, as a rule, goes to college. No teaching institution, English or German, be it further said on our own account, makes any serious attempt to teach what will prepare youth for intercourse with the extremely complicated world of to-day, to give him, to take but one example, the faintest notion of contract, which, if he possessed it, would save him from many a foolish undertaking and protect him from many a business betrayal, Far from it. All the disagreeable, and many of the painful incidents of his subsequent life, all equally avoidable if knowledge regarding them had been instilled into him in his early years, he must buy with money and suffering and disgust in after-years.
But the Emperor is waiting to be heard. His entire speech need not be quoted, but only its chief contentions. In introducing his remarks he claimed to speak with knowledge as having himself sat on a public-school bench at Cassel.
The Social Democracy being to the Emperor what King Charles’s head was to Mr. Dick, it is not surprising to find almost his first statement being to the effect that if boys had been properly taught up to then, there would be no Social Democracy. Up to 1870, he said, the great subject of instruction for youth was the necessity for German unity. Unity had been achieved, the Empire was now founded, and there the matter rested. “Now,” said the Emperor, “we must recognize that the school is for the purpose of teaching how the Empire is to be maintained. I see nothing of such teaching, and I ought to know, for I am at the head of the Empire, and all such questions come under my observation. What,” he continues,
“is lacking in the education of our youth? The chief fault is that since 1870 the philologists have sat in the high schools as beati possidentes and laid chief stress upon the knowledge to be acquired and not on the formation of character and the demands of the present time. Emphasis has been put on the ability to know, not on the ability to do—the pupil is expected to know, that is the main thing, and whether what he knows is suitable for the conduct of life or not is considered a secondary matter. I am told the school has only to do with the gymnastics of the mind, and that a young man, well trained in these gymnastics, is equipped for the needs of life. This is all wrong and can’t go on.”
Then the Empire-builder speaks—what is wanted above all is a national basis.
“We must make German the foundation for the gymnasium: we must produce patriotic young Germans, not young Greeks and Romans. We must depart from the centuries-old basis, from the old monastic education of the Middle Ages, when Latin was the main thing and a tincture of Greek besides. That is no longer the standard. German must be the standard. The German exercise must be the pivot on which all things turn. When in the exit examination (Abiturientenexamen) a student hands in a German essay, one can judge from it what are the mental acquirements of the young man and decide whether he is fit for anything or not. Of course people will object—the Latin exercise is very important, very good for instructing students in other languages, and so on. Yes, gentlemen, I have been through the mill. How do we get this Latin exercise? I have often seen a young man get, say 4-1/2 marks, for his German exercise—’satisfactory,’ it was considered—and 2 for his Latin exercise. The youngster deserved punishment instead of praise, because it is clear he did not write his Latin exercise in a proper way; and of all the Latin exercises we wrote there was not one in a dozen which was done without cribbing. These exercises were marked ‘good,’ but when we wrote an essay on ’Minna von Barnhelm’ (one of Lessing’s dramas) we got hardly ‘satisfactory.’ So I say, away with the Latin exercise, it only harms us, and robs us of time we might give to German.”
The Emperor goes on to recommend the study of the nation’s history, geography, and literature ("Der Sage,” poetry, he calls it).
“Let us begin at home,” he says; “when we have learned enough at home, we can go to the museums. But above all we must know our German history. In my time the Grand Elector was a very foggy personage, the Seven Years’ War was quite outside consideration, and history ended with the close of the last century, the French Revolution. The War of Liberation, the most important for the young citizen, was not taught thoroughly, and I only learned to know it, thank God, through the very interesting lectures of Dr. Hinzpeter.Page 64
This, however, is the punctum saliens. Why are our young men misled? Why do we find so many unclear, confused world-improvers? Why is our government so cavilled at and criticized, and so often told to look at foreign nations? Because the young men do not know how our conditions have developed, and that the roots of the development lie in the period of the French Revolution. Consequently, I am convinced that if they understood the transition period from the Revolution to the nineteenth century in its fundamental features, they would have a far better understanding of the questions of to-day than they now have. At the universities they can supplement their school knowledge.”
The Emperor then turned to other points. It was “absolutely necessary” to reduce the hours of work. When he was at school, he said, all German parents were crying out against the evil, and the Government set on foot an inquiry. He and his brother (Henry) had every morning to hand a memorandum to the head master showing how many hours it had taken them to prepare the lessons for the day. In the Emperor’s case it took, “honestly,” from 5-1/2 to 7 hours’ home study. To this was to be added 6 hours in school and 2 hours for eating meals—“How much of the day,” the Emperor asks, “was left? If I,” he said, “hadn’t been able to ride to and from school I wouldn’t have known what the world even looked like.” The result of this, he continued, was an
“over-production of educated people, more than the nation wanted and more than was tolerable for the sufferers themselves. Hence the class Bismarck called the abiturienten-proletariat, all the so-called hunger candidates, especially the Mr. Journalists, who are often broken-down scholars and a danger to us. This surplus, far too large as it is, is like an irrigation field that cannot soak up any more water, and it must be got rid of.”
Another matter touched on by the Emperor was a reduction in the amount to be learned, so that more time might be had for the formation of character. This cannot be done now, he remarks, in a class containing thirty youngsters, who have such a huge amount of subjects to master. The teacher, too, the Emperor said, must learn that his work is not over when he has delivered his lecture. “It isn’t a matter of knowledge,” he concludes “but a matter of educating the young people for the practical affairs of life.”
The Emperor lastly dealt with the subject of shortsightedness. “I am looking for soldiers,” he said.
“We need a strong and healthy generation, which will also serve the Fatherland as intellectual leaders and officials. This mass of shortsightedness is no use, since a man who can’t use his eyes—how can he do anything later?”
and he went on to mention the extraordinary facts that in some of the primary classes of German schools as many as 74 per cent, were shortsighted, and that in his class at Cassel, of the twenty-one pupils, eighteen wore spectacles, while two of them could not see the desk before them without their glasses.
The Englishman in Germany often attributes German shortsightedness to the Gothic character of German print. It is more probable that the long hours of study spent poring over books without fresh-air exercise, judiciously interposed, is responsible for it.
It has been said that every one, like the Emperor, has his own theory of education, but there is one passage in the Emperor’s speech with which almost all men will agree—that, namely, in which he urges that knowledge is not the only—perhaps not the chief—thing, but that young people must be educated for the practical affairs of life. Unfortunately, as to how we are successfully to do this, the Emperor is silent; and it may be that there is no certain or exact way. One could, of course—but we are concerned with the Emperor.
The difference of opinion between the Emperor and Bismarck regarding the Emperor’s visit to Russia seems to have left no permanent ill-will in the Emperor’s mind, for on returning in October, 1889, from visits to Athens, where he attended the wedding of his sister Sophie with the Heir-Apparent of Greece, Prince Constantine (now King Constantine), and Constantinople, where he was allowed to inspect the Sultan’s seraglio, he sent a letter to the Chancellor praying God to grant that the latter’s “faithful and experienced counsel might for many years assist him in his difficult and responsible office.” In January, 1890, however, the question of renewing the Socialist Laws, which would expire shortly, came up for settlement. A council of Ministers, under the Emperor’s presidency, was called to decide it. When the council met, Bismarck was greatly surprised by a proposal of the Emperor to issue edicts developing the principles laid down by his grandfather for working-class reform instead of renewing the Socialist Laws. The Reichstag took the Emperor’s view and voted against the renewal of the Laws. It only now remained to give effect to the Emperor’s edicts. They were considered at a further council of Ministers, at which the Emperor exhorted them to “leave the Social Democracy to me, I can manage them alone.” The Ministers agreed, and Bismarck was in a minority of one. This, however, was only the beginning of the end. Bismarck decided to continue in office until he had carried through Parliament a new military Bill, which was to come before it in May or June. Meanwhile fresh matters of controversy between the Emperor and the Chancellor arose regarding the grant of imperial audiences to Ministers other than the Chancellor. Bismarck insisted that the Chancellor alone had the right to be received by the Emperor for the discussion of State affairs.
The quarrel was accentuated by a lively scene which occurred between the Emperor and the Chancellor about this period in connexion with a visit the leader of the Catholic Centre party had paid the Chancellor, and on March 17th the Emperor sent his chief Adjutant, General von Hahnke, to say he awaited the Chancellor’s resignation. Bismarck replied that to resign at this juncture would be an act of desertion; the Emperor could dismiss him. At the same time the Chancellor summoned a meeting of Ministers for the afternoon, but while they were discussing the situation a message was brought from the Emperor telling them he did not require their advice in such a matter and that he had made up his mind about the Chancellor. The messenger on the same occasion expressed to Bismarck the Emperor’s surprise at not having received a formal resignation. Bismarck’s reply was that it would require some days to prepare such a document, as it was the last official statement of a “Minister who had played a meritorious part in the history of Prussia and Germany, and history should know why he had been dismissed.” Three days later, on March 20th, an hour or two after the formal resignation reached the palace, the Emperor’s letter granting the Chancellor’s request for his release, naming him Duke of Lauenburg and announcing the appointment of General von Caprivi as his successor, was put into the old Chancellor’s hands.
THE COURT OF THE EMPEROR
While the ex-Chancellor is bitterly meditating on the unreliability and ingratitude of princes, yet having in his heart, as the records clearly show, the loyal sentiments of a Cardinal Wolsey towards his royal master, even though that master had cast him off, we may be allowed to pause awhile in order to give some account of the Court of which the Emperor now became the centre and pivot.
Human imagination, in its worship of force as the source of ability to achieve the ends of ambition and desire, very early conceived the courts of kings as fairylands of power, wealth, luxury, and magnificence—in a word, of happiness. The same imagination represents the Almighty, whose true nature no one knows, as a monarch in the bright court of heaven, and his great antagonist, Satan, who stands for the king of evil, is enthroned by it amid the shades of hell. The fiction that courts are a species of earthly paradise is still kept up for the entertainment of children; while the adult, whom the annals of all countries has made familiar with a long record of monarchs, bad as well as good, is disposed to regard them as beneficial or otherwise to a country according to the character and conduct of the occupant of the throne, and to believe that they are at least as liable to produce examples of vice and hypocrisy as of virtue and honesty.
The court of the German Emperor in this connexion need not fear comparison with any court described in history. True, courts all over the world have improved wonderfully of recent years. Their monarchs are more enlightened, they are frequented by a very different type of man and woman from the courts of former times, their morale and working are more closely scrutinized and more generally subjected to criticism, and they are occupied with a more public and less selfish order of considerations. The Court of the Emperor is, so far as can be known to a lynx-eyed and not always charitably thinking public, singularly free from the vices and failings the atmosphere of former courts was wont to foster. There is at all times, no doubt, the competition of politicians for influence and power acting and reacting on the Court and its frequenters, but of scandal at the Court of Berlin there has been none that could be fairly said to involve the Emperor or his family. Dame Gossip, of course, busied herself with the Emperor in his youth, but whatever truth she then uttered—and it is probably extremely little—on this head, there is no question that from the day he mounted the throne his Court and that of the Empress has been a model for all institutions of the kind.
The life of courts, the personages who play leading parts in them, their wealth and luxury, and the currents of social, amorous, and political intrigue which are supposed to course through them have in all countries and in all ages strongly appealed to writers, fanciful and serious. Perhaps one-third of the prose and poetic literature of every country deals, directly or indirectly, with the subject, and determines in no small degree the character of its rising generations. The great architects of romance, depicting for us life in high places, and often nobly idealizing it, or working the facts of history into the web of their imaginings and thus pleasantly combining fact with fiction, aim at elevating, not at debasing, the mind of the reader. A second valuable source of information on the topic are the memoirs of those who have set down their observations and recorded experiences made in the courts to which they had access. Among this class, however, are to be found unscrupulous as well as conscientious authors, the former obviously cherishing some personal grievance or as obviously actuated by malice, while the latter are usually moved by an honest desire to tell the world things that are important for it to know, and at the same time, it is not ill-natured to suspect, enhance their own reputation with their contemporaries or with posterity. The multitudinous tribe of anecdote inventors and retailers must also be taken into account. In our own day there is still another source of information, which, agreeably or odiously according to the temperament of the reader, keeps us in touch with courts and what goes on there—the periodical press; while afar off in the future one can imagine the historian bent over his desk, surrounded by books and knee-deep in newspapers, selecting and weighing events, studying characters, developing personalities, and passing what he hopes may be a final judgment on the court and period he is considering.
For a study of the Emperor’s life, as it passes in his Court, a large number of works are available, but not many that can be described as authoritative or reliable. Among the latter, however, may be placed Moritz Busch’s “Bismarck: Some Secret Pages of His History,” three volumes that make Busch almost as interesting to the reader as his subject; Bismarck’s own “Gedanke und Erinnerungen,” which is chiefly of a political nature; and the “Memorabilia of Prince Chlodwig Hohenlohe-Schillingsfuerst,” who was for several years Statthalter of Alsace-Lorraine and subsequently became Imperial Chancellor in succession to General von Caprivi. These works, with the collections of the Emperor’s speeches and the speeches and interviews of Chancellor Prince von Buelow, may be ranked in the category of serious and authentic contributions to the Court history of the period they cover. Then there are several German descriptions of the Court, reliable enough in their way which is a dull one, to those who are not impassioned monarchists or hide-bound bureaucrats. In the category of works by unscrupulous writers that entitled “The Private Lives of William II and His Consort,” by a lady-in-waiting to the Empress from 1888 to 1898, easily takes first place. Certainly it gives a lively and often entertaining insight into the domestic life of the palace, but it is so clearly informed by spite that it is impossible to distinguish what is true in it from what is false or misrepresented. Finally, for the closer study of individual events and the impressions they made at the time of their happening, the daily press can be consulted. For the Bismarck period the biography of Hans Blum is of exceptional value.
What may be termed the anecdotic literature of the Court is particularly rich and trivial, and this is only to be expected in a country where the monarchy and its representative are so forcibly and constantly brought home to the people’s consciousness. Yet it has its uses, and is referred to, though sparingly, in the present work. “The Emperor as Father of a Family,” “The Emperor and His Daughter’s Uniform,” “The Amiable Grandfather,” “The Emperor as Husband,” “The Emperor as Card Player,” “How the Emperor’s Family is Photographed,” “What does the Emperor’s Kitchen Look Like,” “Adieu, Auguste” ("Auguste” is the Empress), “The English Lord and the Emperor’s Cigarettes,” “When My Wife Makes You a Sandwich,” “What the Emperor Reads,” “The Emperor’s Handwriting,” “Can the Emperor Vote?” (the answer is, opinions differ), “Washing Day at the Emperor’s,” “The Emperor and the Empress at Tennis,” “Emperor and Auto,” are the sort of matters dealt with. Literature of this kind is beyond question intensely interesting to vast numbers of people, but helps very little towards understanding a singularly complex human being placed in a high and extraordinarily responsible position.
Strictly speaking, there is no Imperial Court in Germany, since the King of Prussia, in accordance with the Imperial Constitution, always succeeds to the imperial throne, and therefore officially the Court is that of the King of Prussia only. The distinction is emphasized by the fact that the Court is independent of the Empire as regards its administration and finance. It is a state within a state, an imperium in imperio. In all that pertains to it the Emperor is absolute ruler and his executive is a special Ministry. At the same time it is almost needless to add that the Court of Berlin is practically that of the Empire. It is this character, apart from Prussia’s size and importance, that distinguishes it from other courts in Germany and reduces them to comparative insignificance in foreign, though by no means in German, consideration.
The Court of the Empire and Prussia—and the same thing may be said of the various other courts in Germany—engages popular interest and attention to a much larger extent than is the case in England. The fact is almost wholly due to the nature of the monarchy and of its relations to the people. In England a great portion of the popular attention is concentrated on Parliament and the fortunes of its two great political parties. The attention given to the Court and its doings is not of the same general and permanent character, but is intermittent according to the occasion. The Englishman feels deep and abiding popular interest at all times in Parliament, whether in session or not, because it represents the people and is, in fact, and for hundreds of years has been, the Government.
The reverse may fairly be said to be the case in Germany. In Germany popular attention has been from early times concentrated on the monarch, his personality, sayings and doings, since in his hands lay government power and patronage. Monarchy of a more or less absolute character was accepted by the people, not only in Germany but all over the Continent, as the normal and desirable, perhaps the inevitable, state of things; and it is only since the French Revolution that parliaments after the English pattern, that is by two chambers elected by popular vote, yet in many important respects widely differing from it, were demanded by the people or finally established. Up to comparatively recent times the monarch in Prussia was an absolute ruler. Frederick William IV, after the events of 1848, was compelled to grant Prussia a Constitution which explicitly defined the respective rights of the Crown and the people in the sphere of politics; and the Imperial Constitution, drawn up on the formation of the modern Empire, did the same thing as regards the Emperor and the people of the Empire; but neither Constitution altered the nature of the monarchy in the direction of giving governing power to the people. Both secured the people legislative, but not governing power. Government in the Empire and Prussia remains, as of old, an appanage, so to speak, of the Court, and the fact of course tends to concentrate attention on the Court.
It has been said that the Court is a state within a state, an imperium in imperio. In this state, within Prussia or within the Empire, it is the same thing for our purpose, there are two main departments, that of the Lord Chamberlain (Oberstkammeramt) and that of the Master of the Household (Ministerium des Koeniglichen Hauses). The first deals with all questions of court etiquette, court ceremonial, court mourning, precedence, superintendence of the courts of the Emperor’s sons and near relatives, and of all Prussian court offices. The second deals with the personal affairs of the Emperor and his sons, the domestic administration of the palace, the management of the Crown estates and castles, and is the tribunal that decides all Hohenzollern differences and disputes that are not subject to the ordinary legal tribunals. Connected with this Ministry are the Herald’s office and the Court Archives office. The chief Court officials include, beside the Lord Chamberlain and the Master of the Household, a Chief Court Marshal. The Master of the Household is also Chief Master of Ceremonies, with a Deputy Master of Ceremonies who is also Introducer of Ambassadors, two Court Marshals, a Captain of the Palace Guards, a Court Chaplain, Court Physician, an Intendant in charge of the royal theatres, a Master of the Horse who has charge of the royal stables, a House Marshal, and a Master of the Kitchen. All these officials are princes (Fuerst) or counts (Graf), with the title Highness (Durchlaucht) or Excellency.
Court officials also include the various nobles in charge of the royal palaces, castles, and hunting lodges at Potsdam, Charlottenburg, Breslau, Stettin, Marienburg, Posen, Letzlingen, Hohkoenigsberg, Homberg von der Hoehe, Springe, Hubertusstock, Rominten, Korfu (the “Achilleion"), Wiesbaden, Koenigsberg, etc., to the number of thirty or more. The Empress has her own Court officials, including a Mistress of the Robes and Ladies of the Bedchamber, also with the title of Excellency, the Ladies being chosen from the most aristocratic families of Germany. The Empress has her own Master of the Household, physician, treasurer, and so on. Similarly with the households of the Crown Prince, other royal princes and the Emperor’s near relatives.
Every order the Emperor gives that is not of a purely domestic kind passes through one of his three cabinets—the Civil Cabinet, the Military Cabinet, or the Marine Cabinet. The cost of the first, with its chief, who receives L1,000 a year, and half a dozen subordinate officials on salaries of L200 to L350, is budgeted at about L10,000 a year. The Military Cabinet is a much larger establishment, having several departments and a staff of half a hundred councillors and clerks. The Naval Cabinet, on the other hand, is composed of only three upper officials and five clerks. The Emperor’s “civil list” is returned in the Budget as L860,000 roughly. His entire
The Emperor’s staff of adjutants are exceptionally useful and important people. At their head is the chief of the Emperor’s Military Cabinet. Not less important are the members of the Emperor’s Marine Cabinet, consisting of admirals, vice-admirals, and wing-admirals. The personal adjutants divide the day and night service between them, so that there may always be three adjutants at the Emperor’s immediate disposal. The adjutant announces Ministers or other visitors to the Emperor, telegraphs to say that His Majesty has an hour or an hour and a half at his disposal at such-and-such a time, or intimates that an audience of half an hour can be given in the train between two given points. They act as living memorandum books, knock at the Emperor’s door to announce that it is time for him to go to this or that appointment, remind him that a congratulatory telegram on some one’s seventieth birthday or other jubilee has to be sent, or perhaps whispers that Her Majesty the Empress wishes to see him. All the Emperor’s correspondence passes through their hands. They accompany the Emperor on his journeys and voyages, and when thus employed are usually invited to his table. The Emperor reads of some new book and tells an adjutant to order it, and the latter does so by communicating with the Civil Cabinet.
Court society in Berlin includes the German “higher” and “lower” nobility, with the exception of the so-called Fronde, who proudly absent themselves from it; the Ministers; the diplomatic corps; Court officials; and such members of the burghertum, or middle class, as hold offices which entitle them to attend court. The wives, however, of those in the last category are not “court-capable” on this account, nor is the middle class generally, nor even members of the Imperial or Prussian Parliaments as such. Members of Parliament are invited to the Court’s seasonal festivities, but as a rule only members of the Conservative parties or other supporters of the Government. The nobility, as in England, is hereditary or only nominated for life, and the hereditary nobility is divided into an upper and lower class. To the former belongs members of houses that were ruling when the modern Empire was established, and, while excluding the Emperor, who stands above them, includes sovereign houses and mediatized houses. Some of the ancient privileges of the nobility, such as exemption from taxation, and the right to certain high offices, have been abolished, but in practice
Not much that is complimentary can be said of the German aristocracy as a whole. “Serenissimus” is to-day as frequently the subject of bitter, if often humorous, caricature in the comic press as ever he was. A few of the class, like Prince Fuerstenberg, Prince Hohenlohe, Count Henkel-Donnersmarck and some others engage successfully in commerce; many are practical farmers and have done a good deal for agriculture; several are deputies to Parliament; but on the whole the foreigner gets the impression that the class as such contributes but a small percentage of what it might and should in the way of brains, industry, or example to the welfare and the progress of the Empire.
It is difficult to communicate an impression of the Court, whether at the Schloss in Berlin or the New Palace in Potsdam, and at the same time avoid the dry and dusty descriptions of the guide-books. If the reader is not in Berlin, let him imagine the fragment of a mediaeval town, situated on a river and fronted by a bridge; and on the bank of the river a dark, square, massive and weather-stained pile of four stories, with barred windows on the ground floor as defence against a possibly angry populace, and a sentry-box at each of its two lofty wrought-iron gates. It may be, as Baedeker informs us it is, a “handsome example of the German renaissance,” but to the foreigner it can as equally suggest a large and grimy barracks as the five-hundred-years-old palace of a long line of kings and emperors. And yet, to any one acquainted with the blood-stained annals of Prussian history, who knows something of the massive stone buildings about it and of the people who have inhabited them, who strolls through its interior divided into sombre squares, each with its cold and bare parade-ground, who reflects on the relations between king and people, closely identified by their historical associations, yet sundered by the feudal spirit which still keeps the Crown at a distance from the crowd, above all to the German versed in his country’s story—how eloquently it speaks!
When one thinks of the Court of Berlin one should not forget that the New Palace, the Emperor’s residence at Potsdam, sixteen miles distant from the capital, is as much, and as important, a part of it as the royal palace in Berlin itself. The Emperor divides his time between them, the former, when he is not travelling, being his more permanent residence, and the latter only claiming his presence during the winter season and for periods of a day or so at other parts of the year, when occasion requires it. It is only during the six or eight weeks of the winter season that the Empress and her daughter, Princess Victoria Louise (now Duchess of Brunswick), go into residence at the Berlin royal palace. There is a railway between Potsdam and Berlin, but since the introduction of the motor-car the Emperor almost always uses that means of conveyance for the half-hour’s run between his Berlin and Potsdam palaces.
The other section of the Court, if Potsdam may be so described, is hardly less rich in memories than the old palace by the Spree. Indeed it is richer from the cosmopolitan point of view, for though Frederick the Great was born in the Berlin Schloss and spent some of his time there, it was at Potsdam that, when not campaigning, he may be said to have lived and died. To this day, for the foreigner, his personality still pervades the place, and that of the Emperor sinks, comparatively, into the background. The tourist who has pored over his Baedeker will learn that Potsdam has 53,000 inhabitants and is “charmingly situated”—it depends on your temperament what the charm is, and to guide-book framers all tourists have the same temperament—on an island in the Havel “which here expands into a series of lakes bounded by wooded hills.” He will learn that the old town-palace, which few visitors give a thought to, was built by the Great Elector, that Frederick the Great lived here in “richly decorated apartments with sumptuous furniture and noteworthy pictures by Pater, Lancret, and Pesne”; that it contains a cabinet in which the dining-table could be let up and down by means of a trap-door, and “where the King occasionally dined with friends without risk of being overheard by his attendants”; that the present Emperor, then Prince William, lived here with his young wife when he was still only a lieutenant. He will drive to the New Palace—now old, for it was built by Frederick the Great in 1769, during the Seven Years’ War, at a cost of nearly half a million sterling—and gaze with interest at the summer residence of the Emperor. If he is an American he may think of his multi-millionaire fellow-citizen, Cornelius Vanderbilt, who, when driving up to call on his erstwhile imperial schoolfellow and friend, was nearly shot at by a sentry for whom the name Vanderbilt was no “Open Sesame.” He will see before him a main building, seven hundred feet in length, three stories high, with the central portion surmounted by a dome, its chief facade looking
From the New Palace our foreigner will probably drive to the Marble Palace, which (for Baedeker is ever at one’s elbow with the facts) he will mark was built in 1796 by Frederick William II, who died here, was completed in 1845 by Frederick William IV, and was the residence of the present Emperor at the time of his accession.
But while our foreigner has been hurrying from one palace to another, with his mind in a fog of historical and topographical confusion—if he is an American, half-hoping, half-expecting to meet the Emperor or Empress and secure a bow from one or other, or—why not?—one of William’s well-known vigorous poignees de main, there is always one thought predominant in his mind—Sans Souci. That is the real object of his quest, the main attraction that has brought him, all unconscious of it, to Berlin, and not the laudable, but wholly mistaken efforts of the “Society for the Promotion of Tourist Traffic,” which seeks to lure the moneyed and reluctant foreigner to the German capital. Our foreigner enters the Park of Sans Souci and his spirit is at rest. Now he knows where he really is—not in the wonderful new German Empire, not in modern Berlin with its splendid and to him unspeaking streets,
As our foreigner advances through the park, where, as he is told, the Emperor makes a promenade each Christmas Eve distributing ten-mark pieces (spiteful chroniclers make it three marks) to all and sundry poor, he will notice the fountain “the water of which rises to a height of 130 feet,” with its twelve figures by French artists of the eighteenth century, and ascend the broad terraced flight of marble steps up which the present Crown Prince is credited with once urging his trembling steed—leading to the Mecca of his imagination, the palace Sans Souci itself. The building is only one story high, not large, reminding one somewhat of the Trianon at Versailles, though lacking the Trianon’s finished lightness and elegance, yet with its semicircular colonnade distinctly French, and impressive by its elevated situation. The chief, the enduring, the magical impression, however, begins to form as our foreigner commences his pilgrimage through the rooms in which Frederick passed most of his later years. As he pauses in the Voltaire Chamber he imagines the two great figures, seated in stiff-backed chairs at a little table on which stand, perhaps, a pair of cut Venetian wine-glasses and a tall bottle of old Rheinish—the great man of thought and the great man of action, the two great atheists and freethinkers of Europe, with their earnest, sharply featured faces, and their wigs bobbing at each other, discussing the events and tendencies of their time. And how they must have talked—no wonder Frederick, though the idol of his subjects, withdrew for such discourse from the society of the day, with its twaddle of the tea-cups and its parade-ground platitudes.
As in our own time, there was then no lack of stimulating topics. The influence of the old Catholicism and the old feudalism was rapidly diminishing, the night of superstition was passing, and the age of reason, that was to culminate with such tremendous and horrible force in the French Revolution, was beginning to dawn. The encyclopaedists, with Diderot and d’Alembert in the van, were holding council in France, mobilizing the intellects of the time, and, like Bacon, taking all knowledge for their province, for a fierce attack on the old philosophy, the old statecraft, the old art, and the old religion. Are such topics and such men to deal with them to be found to-day, or have all the great problems of humanity and its intellect been started, studied, and resolved? And are motor-cars, aeroplanes, dances, Dreadnoughts, millinery, rag-time reviews, auction bridge, the rise and fall of stocks, and the last extraordinary round of golf, all that is left for the present generation to discuss?
However, the guardian of the palace has moved on, the other members of the party are getting bored, and our foreigner follows the guardian’s lead. Thus conducted, he passes through half a dozen rooms, each a museum of historical associations—the dining-room with its round table made famous by Menzel’s picture (now in the Berlin National Gallery) in which Frederick and his guests are seen seated, but in which it is difficult if not impossible to be certain which is the host; the concert-room with the clock which Frederick was in the habit of winding up, and which “is said to have stopped at the precise moment of his death, 2.20 a.m., August 17th, 1786”; the death-chamber with its eloquent and pathetic statue, Magnussen’s “Last Moments of Frederick the Great”; the library and picture gallery. Strangely enough, Baedeker has no mention of a female subject portrayed in the concert-room in all sorts of attitudes and in all sorts and no sort of costume. Yet every one has heard of La Barberini, the only woman, the chroniclers (and Voltaire among them) assure us, Frederick ever loved. She was no woman of birth or wit like the Pompadour, Recamier or Stael, but of merely ordinary understanding and the wife of a subordinate official of the Court. She charmed Frederick, however, and may have loved him. If so, let us remember that the morals of those days were not those of ours, and not grudge the lonely King his enjoyment of her beauty and amiability.
One thing only remains for our foreigner to see—the coffin of Frederick in the old Garrison Church. It lies in a small chamber behind the pulpit and looks more like the strong box of a miser than the last resting-place of a great king. For such a man it seems poor and mean, but probably Frederick himself did not wish for better. He must have known that his real monument would be his reputation with posterity. In fact the chroniclers agree, and the noble statue of Magnussen confirms the impression, that at the close of his stormy life he was glad finally to be at rest anywhere. “Quand je serai la,” he was wont to say, pointing to where his dogs were buried in the palace park, “je serai sans souci.”
In every court there is a disposition on the part of courtiers to agree with everything the monarch says, to flatter him as dexterously as they can, to minister to princely vanity, if vanity there be, to “crawl on their bellies,” in the choice language of hostile court critics, or “wag their tails” and double up their bodies at every bow; show, in short, in different ways, often all unconsciously, the presence of a servile and self-interested mind. The disposition is not to be found in courts alone. It is one of the commonest and most malignant qualities of humanity, and can any day and at any hour be observed in action in any Ministry of State, any mercantile office, any great warehouse, any public institution, in every scene, in fact, where one or many men are dependent for their living on the favour or caprice
The Emperor naturally knows nothing of such a thing, for there is no one superior to him in the Empire in point of rank, and he is much too modern, too well educated, and of too kindly and liberal a nature to encourage or permit Byzantinism towards him on the part of others. Indeed Byzantinism was never a Hohenzollern failing. In his able work on German civilization Professor Richard tells of some Silesian peasants who knelt down when presenting a petition to Frederick William I, and were promptly told to get up, as “such an attitude was unworthy of a human being.” Only on one occasion in the reign has an action of the Emperor’s afforded ground for the suspicion that he was for a moment filled with the spirit of the Byzantine emperors—namely, when he demanded the “kotow” from the Chinese Prince Tschun, who led the “mission of atonement” to Germany. This, however, was not really the result of a Byzantine character or spirit, but of the excusable anger of a man whose innocent representative had been treacherously killed.
Of affinity with the idea of Byzantinism is that as frequently occurring idea in German court and ordinary life conveyed by the word “reaction.” Here again we have one of those qualities to be found among mankind everywhere and always: the instinct opposed to change, even to those changes for the good we call progress, the disposition that made Horace deride the laudator temporis acti se puero of his day, the feeling of the man who laments the passing of the “good old times” and the military veteran who assures us that “the country, sir,
“DROPPING THE PILOT”
Heinrich von Treitschke, the German historian, writing to a friend, speaks of the dismissal of Prince Bismarck as “an indelible stain on Prussian history and a tragic stroke of fate the like of which the world has never seen since the days of Themistocles.”
Opinions may differ as to the indelibility of the stain—which must be taken as a reflection on the conduct of the Emperor; and parallels might perhaps be found, at least by students of English history, in the dismissal of Cardinal Wolsey by Henry VIII, or that of the elder Pitt by George III. But there may well be general agreement as to the tragic nature of the fall, for it was a struggle between a strong personality and the unknown, but irresistible, laws of fate.
The historic quarrel between the Emperor and his Chancellor was not merely the inevitable clash between two dispositions fundamentally different, but between—to adapt the expression of a modern poet—“an age that was dying and one that was coming to birth.” Old Prussia was giving place to New Germany. The atmosphere of war had changed to an atmosphere of peace. The standards of education and comfort were rising fast. The old German idealism was being pushed aside by materialism and commercialism, and the thoughts of the nation were turning from problems of philosophy and art to problems of practical science and experiment. Thought was to be followed by action. Mankind, after conversing with the ancients for centuries, now began to converse with one another. The desire for national expansion, if it could not be gratified by conquest, was to be satisfied by the spread of German influence, power, activity, and enterprise in all parts of the world. Such a collision of the ages is tragedy on the largest scale, for nothing can be more tragic—more inevitable or inexorable—than the march of Progress.
The natures of the two men were, in important respects, fundamentally different. Bismarck’s nature was prosaic, primitive, unscrupulous, domineering: a type which in an English schoolboy would be described as a bully, with the modification that while the bully in an English school is always depicted as a coward at heart (a supposition, however, by no means always borne out in after-life), Bismarck had the courage of a bull-dog. Moreover, Bismarck was a Conservative, a statesman of expediency. The Emperor is a man of principle; and as expediency, in a world of change, is a note of Conservatism, so, in the same world, is principle the leit-motiv of Liberalism. To call the Emperor a man of principle may appear to be at variance with general opinion as founded on exceptional occurrences, but these do not supply sufficient material for a fair judgment, and there are many acts of his reign which show him to be Liberal in disposition.
Not, it need hardly be said, Liberal in the English political sense. Liberalism in England—the two-party country—usually means a strong desire to vote against a Conservative on the assumption that the Conservative is nearly always completely wrong and never completely right. As will be seen later, there is no political Liberalism in the English sense in Germany. The Emperor’s Liberalism shows itself in his sympathy with his people in their desire for improvement as a society of which he is the head, selected by God and only restricted by a constitutional compact solemnly sworn to by the contracting parties. Proofs of this sympathy might be adduced—his determination to carry through his grandfather’s social policy against Bismarck’s wish, however hostile he was and is to Social Democracy; his steadfast peace policy, however nearly he has brought his country to war; his encouragement of the arts among the lower classes, however limited his views on art may be; his friendly intercourse with people of all nationalities and occupations.
The characters also of the two men were different. Bismarck’s was the result of civilian training; the Emperor’s of military training. Bismarck had small regard for manners, and would have scoffed had anyone told him “manners makyth man”; the Emperor is courtesy itself, as every one who meets him testifies. Bismarck was fond of eating and drinking, with the appetite of a horse and the thirst of a drayman, until he was nearly eighty, and smoked strong cigars from morning to night—a very pleasant thing, of course, if you can stand it. The Emperor has never cared particularly for what are called the pleasures of the table, is fond of apples and one or two simple German dishes, and has never been what in Germany is called a “chain-smoker.” Bismarck appears not to have had the faintest interest in art; the Emperor, while of late disclaiming in all art company his lack of expert knowledge, has always found delight in art’s most classical forms.
Yet the two men had some deeply marked traits of character in common. The Emperor, as was Bismarck, is Prussian, that is to say mediaeval, to the core, notwithstanding that he had an English mother and lived in early childhood under English influences. He has always exhibited, as Bismarck always did, the genuine qualities of the Prussian—self-confidence, tenacity of purpose, absolute trust in his own ideals and intolerance of those of other people, impatience of rivalry, selfishness for the advantage of Prussia as against other German States, as strong as that for the newly born Empire against other countries. Finally, the Emperor is convinced, as Bismarck was convinced, that in the first and last resort, a society, a people, a nation, is based on force and by force alone can prosper, or even be held together. Neither Bismarck nor the Emperor could ever sympathize with those who look to a time when one strong and sensible policeman will be of more value to a community than a thousand unproductive soldiers.
Long before he became Imperial Chancellor Bismarck had done masterly and important work for the country. In 1862 he began his career by filling the post of interim Minister President of Prussia at a time when the present Emperor was still an infant. It was on taking up the position that he made the celebrated statement that “great questions cannot be decided by speeches and majority-votes, but must be resolved by blood and iron.” Born in April, 1815, two months before the battle of Waterloo, at Schoenhausen, in the Prussian Province of Saxony, not far from Magdeburg, he studied at the universities of Gottingen and Berlin and passed two steps of the official ladder—Auscultator and Referendar—which may be translated respectively protocolist and junior counsel. His parliamentary career began in 1846, two years before the second French Revolution. At that time Prussia was an absolute monarchy, without a Constitution or a Parliament. There was no conscription, that foundation-stone of Prussian power and of the modern
The three “March Days,” the 18th, 19th, and 20th of March, 1848, form one of the few occasions in Prussian or German history on which Crown and people came into direct and serious conflict. According to German accounts of the episode the outbreak of the revolution in France was followed by a large influx into Berlin of Poles and Frenchmen, who instigated the populace to violence. Collisions with the police occurred, and on March 15th barricades began to be erected. Traffic in the streets was only possible with the aid of the military. The King was in despair, not so much, the accounts say, at the danger he was in of losing his throne as at the shedding of the blood of his folk, and issued a proclamation promising to grant all desirable reforms, abolishing the censorship of the press, and summoning the Diet to discuss the terms of a Constitution. The citizens, however, continued to build barricades, made their way into the courtyards of the palace, and demanded the withdrawal of the troops. The King ordered the courtyards to be cleared, the palace guard advanced, and, either by accident or design, the guns of two grenadiers went off. No one was hit, but cries of “Treason!” and “Murder!” were raised. Within an hour a score of barricades were set up in various parts of the town and manned by a medley of workmen, university students, artists, and even men of the Landwehr, or military reserve.
At this time there were about 14,000 troops at the King’s disposal, and with these the authorities proceeded against the mob. A series of scattered engagements between mob and military began. They lasted for eight hours, until at midnight General von Prittwitz, who was in command of the troops, was able to report to the King that the revolution was subdued.
Next morning, however, the 19th, numerous deputations of citizens presented themselves at the palace, and assuring the King that it was the only means of preventing the further effusion of blood, renewed the request for the withdrawal of the troops. The King consented, notwithstanding the opposition of Prince, afterwards Emperor, William, and the troops were drawn off to Potsdam. The citizens thereupon appointed a National Guard, which took charge of the palace, and in the evening a vast crowd appeared beneath the King’s windows bearing the corpses of those who had fallen at the barricades during the two preceding days. The dead bodies were laid in rows in the palace courtyard, and the King was invited out to see them. He could not but obey, and bowed to the crowd as he stood bareheaded before the bodies.
It is clear from the occurrences in Berlin in 1848 that while the Prussian idea of monarchy is deeply rooted in the German mind, the possibility of a sudden change in public sentiment and a radical alteration of the relations between Crown and people are never at any time to be wholly disregarded. Hence it is that the Emperor and his Government are so insistent on the doctrine of Heaven-granted sovereignty, so ready to support more or less autocratic monarchies in other parts of the world, and so sensitive to popular movements like Anarchism and Nihilism in Russia, or the always-smouldering Polish agitation and the propaganda of the Social Democracy in Germany. When King Frederick William IV said to his assembled generals at Potsdam a week after the “March Days,” “Never have I felt more free or more secure than when under the protection of my burghers,” his words were drowned in the buzz of murmurs and the angry clanking of swords. The Emperor to-day might, or might not, endorse the words of his ancestor. Most probably he would not; for, judging by his speeches, his care for the army, the military state with which he surrounds himself, and his habitual appearance in uniform, he, though in truth far more a civil monarch than the War Lord foreign writers delight in painting him, is evidently determined to rely only on his soldiers for every eventuality at home as well as abroad.
Perhaps the best German authorities on Bismarck’s falling-out with the young Emperor are the statements regarding it to be found in the memoranda supplied at the time by Prince Bismarck himself to Dr. Moritz Busch; the Memoirs of Prince Hohenlohe-Schillingsfuerst, subsequently Imperial Chancellor; and the monograph on Bismarck by Dr. Hans Blum, one of the Chancellor’s confidants. The memoranda supplied to Busch make regrettably few references to the subject, beyond giving the terms of the official resignation and some scanty addenda thereto; but enough is said generally by Busch concerning Bismarck’s conversations to show that the Chancellor was deeply mortified by his dismissal. Bismarck indeed expressly denies this in a conversational statement quoted by an able Bismarckian writer of our own time, Dr. Paul Liman; but in view of subsequent events and statements the denial can hardly be taken as sincere. The passage referred to is as follows:—
“I bear no grudge against my young master, who is fiery and lively. He wishes to make all men happy, and that is very natural at his age. I, for my part, believe perhaps less in this possibility, and have told him so too. It is very natural that a mentor like myself does not please him, and that he therefore rejects my advice. An old carthorse and a young courser go ill in harness together. Only politics are not so easy as a chemical combination: they deal with human beings. I wish certainly that his experiments may succeed, and am not in the least angry with him. I stand towards himPage 83
like a father whom a son has grieved; the father may suffer thereby, but all the same he says to himself, ’He is a fine young fellow.’ When I was young I followed my King everywhere: now that I am old I can no longer accompany my master when he travels so far. Accordingly it is unavoidable that counsellors who remained closer to him should win his confidence at my expense. He is very easily influenced when one puts before him ideas which he supposes will happily affect the condition of the people, and he can hardly wait to put them into operation. The Kaiser will achieve reputation at once: I have my own to watch over, to defend. I have sacrificed myself for renown and will not place it in jeopardy.”
Prince Hohenlohe’s Memoirs are much more valuable in respect of positive information, and especially in supplying an account of the incident taken from the lips of the Emperor himself. The Prince was without his great predecessor’s ability, but was much more amiable and sincere. He was, moreover, a friend of both the parties concerned, and he impartially jotted down events at the time they occurred. Lastly, if he was a courtier at heart, he was that not wholly unknown thing, an honest one. Dr. Hans Blum is obviously a partisan of the great Chancellor’s, but he may also be referred to for a fairly connected account of the fall and the events that succeeded it up to the time of Bismarck’s death on July 30, 1898.
Apart from the differences in the ages and temperaments of the Emperor and the Chancellor, there were differences in their views as to certain measures of policy. There was a difference of opinion as to German policy regarding Russia. Friendship with that country had been the policy of both Emperor William I and Bismarck, and the latter had effected a reinsurance treaty with Russia, stipulating for Russian neutrality in case of a war between Germany and France, notwithstanding the subsistence of the Triple Alliance between Germany, Austria, and Italy. The reinsurance treaty, which had been made for a period of three years, was now about to expire, and while Bismarck desired its renewal, the Emperor, in a spirit of loyalty to Austria, was against the renewal, and the treaty was not renewed. This was the “new course” as it regarded Russia. The difference with regard to the anti-Socialist Laws has been referred to in our chapter on the accession.
The Royal Order of September, 1852, which has been mentioned as leading immediately to the resignation, regulated intercourse between the Prussian Ministers and the Crown, its chief provision being that only the Minister President, and not individual Ministers, should have audience of the Emperor regarding matters of home and foreign policy. The Emperor desired the abrogation of the Order, for he wished to consult with the Ministers individually. The text of Bismarck’s official resignation, after describing the origin of the Order, continues:
“If each individual Minister can receive commands from his Sovereign without previous arrangement with his colleagues, a coherent policy, for which some one is to be responsible, is an impossibility. It would be impossible for any of the Ministers, and especially for the Minister President, to bear the constitutional responsibility for the Cabinet as a whole. Such a provision as that contained in the Order of 1852 could be dispensed with under the absolute monarchy and could also be dispensed with to-day if we returned to absolutism without ministerial responsibility. But according to the constitutional arrangements now legally in force the control of the Cabinet by a President under the Order of 1852 is indispensable.”
The Emperor replied to Prince Bismarck’s resignation in a communication which the reader, according to his disposition, will regard as an effusion of the heart, immensely creditable to its composer, a model of an official reply as demanded by circumstances, a striking example of the art of throwing dust in the public eye, or an equally striking contribution to the literature of excusable hypocrisy. It was as follows:—
“MY DEAR PRINCE,—With deep emotion I learn from your request of the 18th instant that you have decided to retire from the offices which you have filled for long years with incomparable success. I had hoped not to have been compelled to entertain the thought of separation during our lives. While, however, in full consciousness of the important consequences of your retirement, I am forced to accustom myself to the thought. I do so, it is true, with a heavy heart, but in the strong confidence that the grant of your request will contribute as much as possible to the protection and preservation for as long as possible of a life and strength of unreplaceable value to the Fatherland.
“The grounds you offer for your resignation convince me that any further attempt to induce you to reconsider your determination would have no prospect of success. I acquiesce, therefore, in your wish by hereby graciously releasing you from your offices as Imperial Chancellor, President of my State Ministry, and Minister of Foreign Affairs, and trust that your counsels and energy, your loyalty and devotion, will not be wanting to me and the country in the future also.
“I have considered it as one of the most valued privileges in my life that at the commencement of my reign I had you at my side as my first counsellor. What you have done and achieved for Prussia and Germany, what you have done for my House, my ancestors, and me, will remain to me and the German people in grateful and imperishable memory. But also in foreign countries your wise and energetic peace policy, which I, too, in the future also, as a result of sincere conviction, decide to take as the guiding line of my conduct, will be always gloriously recognized. It is not in my power to requite your servicesPage 85
as they deserve. I must rest satisfied with assuring you of my own and the country’s ineffaceable thanks. As a sign of this thanks I confer on you the rank of a Duke of Lauenburg. I will also send you a life-sized picture of myself.
“God bless you,
my dear Prince, and grant you still many
years of an old age
undisturbed and blessed with the
consciousness of duty
faithfully done.
“In this disposition
I remain to you and yours in the future
also your sincere, obliged,
and grateful Emperor and King,
“WILLIAM I.R.”
The Emperor has never, so far as is publicly known, issued, or caused to be issued, an official account of the episode and its peripeties, but the story he poured, evidently out of a full heart, into the ears of Prince Hohenlohe, then Statthalter of Alsace-Lorraine, during a midnight drive from the railway station at Hagenau to the hunting lodge at Sufflenheim, is an historical document of practically official authenticity. It appears as follows in the Prince’s Memoirs:—
“STRASBURG, 26 April, 1890.
“On the evening of the 23rd, nine o’clock, I drove with Thaden and Moritz to Hagenau, there to await the arrival of the Emperor. We spent the evening with circle-officer Klemm. I went to bed at eleven o’clock in the guest-room, and slept until half-past twelve. Moritz and Thaden drove to the station with a view to changing their clothes in the train. At one o’clock I was again at the station, when the Emperor punctually arrived. I presented the gentlemen to him, and turned over General Hahnke to Baron Charpentier and Lieutenant Cramer, for them to conduct him to the hunting ground. Our journey lasted about an hour, during which the Emperor related without a pause the whole story of his quarrel with Bismarck. According to this the coolness had already begun in December. The Emperor then demanded that something should be done about the Working Class Question. The Chancellor was against doing anything. The Emperor held the view that if the Government did not take the initiative, the Reichstag, i.e. the Socialists, Centre and Progressives, would take the matter in hand, and then the Government would lag behind. The Chancellor wanted to lay the anti-Socialist Bill with the expulsion paragraph again before the Reichstag, dissolving the chamber if it did not accept the Bill, and then, if it came to disturbances, to take energetic measures. The Emperor objected, saying that if his grandfather, after a long and glorious reign, were forced to repress disturbances no one would think ill of him. It was different in his case, who had as yet accomplished nothing. People would reproach him with beginning his reign by shooting down his subjects. He was ready to act, but he wished to do it with a good conscience after endeavouring to redress the well-founded grievances of the workmen, or at least after doing everythingPage 86
to meet their justifiable claims.
“The Emperor therefore demanded at a ministerial conference the submission of ministerial edicts which should contain what subsequently they in fact did contain. Bismarck would not hear of it. The Emperor then laid the question before the Council of State, and eventually obtained the edicts in spite of Bismarck’s opposition. Bismarck, however, secretly continued his opposition, and tried to persuade Switzerland to persevere with its idea of an International Labour Conference. The attempt was rendered nugatory by the loyal attitude of the Swiss Minister in Berlin, Roth. At the very same time Bismarck was trying to influence the diplomatists against the conference.
“The relations between the Emperor and Bismarck, already shaken by these dissensions, were still further embittered by the question of the Cabinet Order of 1852. Bismarck had often advised the Emperor to summon the Ministers to him. This the Emperor did, and as the intercourse became more frequent Bismarck took it ill, was jealous, and dragged out the Order of 1852 so as to keep Ministers from the Emperor. The Emperor resisted and acquired the abrogation of the Cabinet Order. Bismarck at first agreed, but gave no further sign in the matter. The Emperor now demanded either that the recission of the Order should be laid before him, or that Bismarck should resign—a demand which the Emperor communicated to Bismarck through General von Hahnke. The Chancellor delayed, but at length gave in the resignation on March 18th. It should be added that already, at the beginning of February, Bismarck had told the Emperor that he would retire. Afterwards, however, he declared that he had thought the position over and would remain—a thing not agreeable to the Emperor, though he made no remonstrance until the affair of the Cabinet Order came in addition. The visit of Windthorst to the Chancellor also gave rise to unpleasantness, though it was not the deciding factor. In any case the last three weeks were filled with disagreeable conversations between the Emperor and the Chancellor. It was, as the Emperor expressed it, a ‘devil of a time,’ and the question was, as the Emperor himself said, whether the dynasty Bismarck or the dynasty Hohenzollern should reign. The Emperor spoke very angrily, too, about the article in the Hamburg News. In foreign policy Bismarck, according to the Emperor, went his own way, and kept back from the Emperor much of what he did. ‘Yes,’ he said, ’Bismarck had it conveyed to St. Petersburg that I wanted to adopt an anti-Russian policy. But for that,’ the Emperor added, ’he had no proofs.’
“This conversation,” concludes Prince Hohenlohe, “between the Emperor and myself was told partly on the way to the lodge and partly on the way back. Between came the shooting; but there was no sport, as the Emperor took his stand in the dark under a tree on which was aPage 87
cock that did not ‘call.’”
The following further extracts from the Hohenlohe Memoirs are given rather with the object of showing the state of the political and social atmosphere in which the quarrel took place than as throwing any fresh light on its course. In June of the preceding year (1889) occurs an entry which registers the first signs of the coming storm. Prince Hohenlohe is telling of a visit he made in June to the Grand Duke of Baden, whom he found irritated by Bismarck’s proposal, made in connection with the arrest of a Prussian police officer by the Swiss, to close the frontier against the canton Aargau. The Grand Duke, the Prince relates, quoted Herbert Bismarck as saying he “could not understand his father any longer and that people were beginning to believe he was not right in his head.”
The next entry in the Journal is dated Strasburg, August 24th. It concerns another meeting with the Grand Duke, who now told him that Bismarck had changed his views and that these oscillations had puzzled the Emperor and at the same time heightened his self-consciousness; moreover, that the Emperor noticed that things were being kept back from him and was becoming suspicious. There had already been a collision between the Emperor and the Chancellor and the latter might have to go. What then? Probably the Emperor thought of conducting foreign policy himself—but that, added the Grand Duke, would be very dangerous.
The feeling at Court regarding Bismarck’s fall is shown by a passage in the Memoirs about this time. It runs:
“At 1.30 p.m. dinner (at the palace) at which I sat between Stosch and Kameke. The former told me much about his own quarrel with Bismarck, and was as gay as a snow-king that he can now speak freely and that the great man is no longer to be feared. This comfortable sentiment is obvious here on all sides.”
The anecdote still current in Berlin, that Bismarck actually threw an inkstand at the Emperor’s head is reduced to its proper proportions by the following entry:
“The Grand Duke of Baden, with whom I was yesterday, knows a good deal about the recent crisis. He says the cause of the breach between the Emperor and Chancellor was a question of power, and that all other differences of opinion about social legislation and other things were only secondary. The chief ground was the Cabinet Order of 1852, which Bismarck pressed on the attention of the Ministers without the Emperor’s knowledge, and so hindered them from going to make their reports to the Emperor. The Emperor wanted the Order rescinded, while Bismarck was against it. Nor had the conversation with Windthorst led to the breach. A talk between the Emperor and Bismarck about this conversation is said to have been so tempestuous that the Emperor subsequently said when describing it, ’He (Bismarck) all but threw the inkstand at me.’” To Hohenlohe Bismarck said, as Hohenlohe remarked that the resignation had surprised him, “Me also,” and that three weeks before he did not think things would end as they had. Bismarck added: “However, it was to be expected, for the Emperor is now quite determined to rule alone.”
Finally the Prince’s Journal has the following:
“Two things struck me in these last three days: one that no one has any time and every one is in a greater hurry than before; and secondly, that individualities have expanded. Every individual is conscious of himself, while before, under the predominating influence of Prince Bismarck, individualities shrank and were kept down. Now they are all swollen like sponges placed in water. That has its advantages, but also its dangers. The single-minded will is lacking.”
The period between the great Chancellor’s fall and his death nine years later was marked by so many incidents as to make it almost as mouvemente as the period of the fall itself. He retired to Friedrichsruh, all the more immediately as the new Chancellor, General von Caprivi, showed such indecent haste in taking possession of the official residence that a portion of Bismarck’s furniture was broken and rendered useless. That Bismarck retired with the angry feelings of a Coriolanus in his heart, or, as Anglo-Saxon slang would have it, of a “bear with a sore head,” became evident only a few weeks later. He was visited by the inevitable interviewer, and chose the Hamburg News as the medium of communicating to the world his opinion of the new regime and the men who were conducting it; and made use of that paper with such instant vigour and acerbity that little more than two months from his retirement elapsed before the new Chancellor thought it advisable to issue instructions to Germany’s diplomatic representatives warning them carefully to distinguish between the “present sentiments and views of the Duke of Lauenburg and those of the erstwhile Prince Bismarck,” and to pay no serious attention to the former. Bismarck replied in the Hamburg News that he would not allow his mouth to be closed, and set about proving that he meant what he said. Nothing the men of the “new course” could do met with his approval. The first thing he fell foul of was the Anglo-German agreement of July 1, 1890, which gave Germany Heligoland in exchange for Zanzibar, deploring the badness of the bargain for Germany, and evidently not foreseeing the importance that island’s position, commanding the approaches to the mouths of the Elbe and the Weser, was afterwards to possess. Besides the friendliness with England, the detachment of Germany from Russia in favour of Austria, also a feature of the “new course,” did not please him as tending to drive Russia into the arms of France.
His prescience, however, in this respect was demonstrated when a year later the Czar saluted a French squadron in the harbour of Cronstadt to the strains of the “Marseillaise” and signed a secret agreement that was alluded to four years later by the French Premier, M. Ribot, in the French Chamber of Deputies, who spoke of Russia as “our ally,” and was publicly announced in 1897, on the occasion of President Felix Faure’s visit to St. Petersburg, by the Czar’s now famous employment of the words “deux nations amies et alliees.”
The ex-Chancellor was as little satisfied with the new tariff treaties entered into by General Caprivi with Austria, Italy, Belgium, and other countries, which the Emperor, wiser, as events have shown, than his former Minister, characterized on their passage by Parliament as the country’s “salvation” (eine rettende Tat). The ex-Chancellor’s caustic but mistaken criticism was punished by the calculated neglect of the Berlin authorities to invite him to the ceremonies attending the celebration of the ninetieth birthday of his old comrade, General von Moltke, in October, 1890, and that of his funeral in the following April: still more publicly punished in connexion with the marriage of his son Herbert.
The wedding of the latter to Countess Marguerite Hoyos was to take place in Vienna on June 21, 1892, and on the 18th Prince Bismarck started with his family to attend it. The journey was a species of triumphal progress to Vienna, but it was to end in disappointment and chagrin. As the result of representations from Germany, made doubtless with the Emperor’s assent, if not at his suggestion, Bismarck was met on his arrival with the news that the German Ambassador, Prince Reuss, and the Embassy staff had orders to absent themselves from the wedding, that the widow of the Crown Prince Rudolph, who had accepted a card of invitation to it, had suddenly left Vienna, and that the Emperor Franz Joseph would not receive him. The German action was explained by the publication two months later of the edict, stigmatized by Bismarck as an “Urias Letter,” in which Caprivi warned foreign Governments against attaching any importance to the utterances of the Duke of Lauenburg. The Bismarckian and anti-Bismarckian storm came up afresh in Germany. Bismarck was reproached by the Government as “injuring monarchical feeling,” and by his enemies as a traitor to his country; while the angry statesman published a statement expressing the opinion that
“the control of private social intercourse abroad, and the influencing of dinner invitations, were not tasks for which high officers of State were selected nor public money for the payment of diplomatic representatives voted”:
doubting, at the same time, “if the foreign archives of any other country than Germany could show a parallel to the incident.”
The storm, notwithstanding, had a good effect, for it brought out in bold relief the immense regard and respect the overwhelming majority of his countrymen entertained for the chief architect of their Empire; and when Bismarck fell ill at Kissingen in 1893 the Emperor, subordinating his political animosities to the chivalrous instincts of his nature, telegraphed his sorrow to the patient and offered to lend him one of the royal castles for the purpose of his convalescence. Bismarck declined, but not ungratefully, and the way to a reconciliation was opened. Next year, 1894, Bismarck suffered from influenza, and when this time
The reconciliation was completed amid sympathetic popular rejoicing. The Emperor sent his brother, Prince Henry, to bring the ex-Chancellor from the railway station to the palace, where the Emperor himself, surrounded by a brilliant staff, stood to welcome the guest. Bismarck spent the day at the palace with the Royal Family and was taken back to the railway station in the evening by the Emperor. A few days later the Emperor returned the visit at Friedrichsruh.
The quiet of the ex-Chancellor’s last years was once unpleasantly affected by the Reichstag in 1895, at the instance of his parliamentary enemies, rejecting, to its everlasting discredit, a proposal for an official vote of congratulation to the ex-Chancellor on his eightieth birthday; but against this unpleasantness may be set his gratification at the receipt of a telegram from the Emperor expressing his “deepest indignation” at the rejection.
Prince Bismarck died on July 30th, 1898, and was laid to rest at Friedrichsruh in the presence of the Emperor and Empress, while the world paused for a moment in its occupations to discuss with sympathetic admiration the dead man’s personality and career. Bismarck’s spirit is still abroad in Germany, and the popular memory of him is as fresh now as though he died but yesterday. It is more than probable, much rather is it certain, that all trace of irritation with the proud old Chancellor has long faded from the Emperor’s mind: indeed at no time does there seem to have been sentiments of personal or permanent rancour on one side or the other. The episode, in short, was an inevitable collision of ages, temperaments, and times, regrettable no doubt as a possibly harmful example of political discord among the leaders of the nation, but—with due respect for the judgment of so capable an historian as von Treitschke—leaving no “indelible stain” either on the pages of German history or on the reputations of Bismarck or the Emperor.
SPACIOUS TIMES
1891-1899
A great English poet sings of the “spacious days” of Queen Elizabeth. From the German standpoint the decade from the fall of Bismarck to the end of the century may not inaptly be described as the spacious days of William II and the modern German Empire. To the Englishman the actual territorial acquisitions of Germany during the period must seem comparatively insignificant, but, taken in connection with the Emperor’s speeches, the building of the German navy, the Caprivi commercial treaties, the growth of friendly relations and of trade and intercourse with America, North and South, they mean the opening of a new era in the history of the Empire—the era of Weltpolitik.
Heligoland was obtained in exchange for Zanzibar in 1890, and is now regarded by Germans much as Gibraltar or Malta is regarded by Englishmen. The first Kiel regatta, due solely to the initiative of the Emperor, and starting the development of sport in all fields which is a feature of modern German progress, ethical and physical, was held in 1894. The Caprivi commercial treaties were concluded within the period. The Kiel Canal, connecting the Baltic and North Sea, and giving the German fleet access to all the open waters of the earth, was opened in 1895. In 1896 the Kruger telegram testified to imperial interest in South African developments. The Hamburg-Amerika Line now sent a specially fast mail and passenger steamer across the Atlantic. The district of Kiautschau was leased from China in 1898, securing Germany a foothold and naval base in the Far East. In the same year the modern Oriental policy of the Empire was inaugurated by the Emperor’s visit to Palestine and his declaration in the course of it that he would be the friend of Turkey and of the three hundred millions of Mohammedans who recognized the Sultan as their spiritual head. To this year also belongs the measure, the most important in its consequences and significance of the reign hitherto, the passing of the First Navy Law. Finally, in 1899 Germany acquired the Caroline Islands by purchase from Spain, and certain Samoan Islands by agreement with England and America.
Nothing was more natural as a result of the new world-policy than a change in the mental outlook of the people. It inaugurated in Germany an era somewhat analogous to the era inaugurated in England by the widening and brightening of the Englishman’s horizon under Elizabeth. The analogy may not be closely maintainable throughout, but, generally speaking, just as the eyes of Englishmen suddenly saw the possibilities of expansion disclosed to them by Drake, Raleigh, and Frobisher, so the Emperor’s appeals, with the pursuance of German colonial policy and the attempt to develop Germany’s African possessions, led to an awakening in Germany of a similar, if weaker, kind. To this awakening the building of the German navy contributed; and though it did not appeal to the German imagination as did the deeds of the old navigators to that of Elizabethan Englishmen, it widened the national outlook and fired the people with new imperial ambitions. Hitherto, moreover, Germany’s attention had been confined almost solely to trade within continental boundaries: henceforth she was to do business actively and enterprisingly with all parts of the world.
The Emperor’s thoughts on the subject were expressed in January, 1896, at a banquet in the Berlin palace given to a miscellaneous company of leading personalities of the time. The occasion was the celebration of the twenty-fifth year of the modern Empire’s foundation. He said:
“The German Empire becomes a world-empire. Everywhere in the farthest parts of the earth live thousands of our fellow-countrymen. German subjects, German knowledge, German industry cross the ocean. The value of German goods on the seas amounts to thousands of millions of marks. On you, gentlemen, devolves the serious duty of helping me to knit firmly this greater German Empire to the Empire at home.”
The expression “greater German Empire” immediately reminded the Englishman of his own “Greater Britain,” and he concluded that the Emperor was secretly thinking of rivalling him in the extent and value of his colonial possessions. Possibly he was, and doubtless he ardently desired to see Germany owning large and fertile colonies; but it is quite as probable he was thinking of his economic Weltpolitik, and knew as well then as he does now that it must be left to time and the hour to show whether they fall to her or not.
In the same order of ideas may be placed, though it is anticipating somewhat, the Emperor’s utterances at Aix in 1902 and three years later at Bremen. At Aix, after describing the failure of Charlemagne’s successors to reconcile the duties of a Holy Roman Emperor with those of a German King, he continued:
“Now another Empire has arisen. The German people has once more an Emperor of its own choice, with the sword on the field of battle has the crown been won, and the imperial flag flutters high in the breeze. But the tasks of the new Empire are different: confined within its borders it has to steel itself anew for the work it has to do, and which it could not achieve in the Middle Ages. We have to live so that the Empire, still young, becomes from year to year stronger in itself, while confidence in it strengthens on all sides. The powerful German army guarantees the peace of Europe. In accord with the German character we confine ourselves externally in order to be unconfined internally. Far stretches our speech over the ocean, far the flight of our science and exploration; no work in the domain of new discovery, no scientific idea but is first tested by us and then adopted by other nations. This is the world-rule the German spirit strives for.”
At Bremen he said:
“The world-empire I dream of is a new German Empire which shall enjoy on all hands the most absolute confidence as a quiet, peaceable, honest neighbour—not founded by conquest with the sword, but on the mutual confidence of nations aiming at the same end.”
The Emperor’s world-policy was referred to more than once about this time by Chancellor Prince Buelow in the Reichstag. “It is,” he said on one occasion, “Germany’s intention and duty to protect the great and ever-growing oversea interests which she has acquired through the development of conditions.” “We recognize,” he continued,
“that we have no longer interests only round our own fireside or in the neighbourhood of the church clock, but everywhere where German industry and Germany’s commercial spirit have penetrated; and we must foster these interests within the bounds of possibility and good sense.”
“Our world-policy,” he said on another occasion in the same place,
“is not a policy of interference, much less a policy of intervention: had it interfered in South Africa (he was alluding to the Boer War) it must have intervened, and intervention implies the use of force.”
On yet another occasion he explained that a prudent world-policy must go hand in hand with a sound protective policy for home industry, and that its basis must be a strong national home policy.
There is nothing in all this, even supposing Germany’s interests at that time were purposely exaggerated, to which the foreigner could reasonably object. The foreigner felt perhaps slightly uncomfortable when the same statesman, departing for a moment from his usual objective standpoint, spoke of the German “traversing the world with a sword in one hand and a spade and trowel in the other”; but otherwise no act of Germany’s world-policy need have inspired alarm, or need inspire alarm at the present time, in sensible foreign minds. The rapidity of its action probably helped to excite a feeling that it could not be altogether honest or above-board; but it should be remembered that the new Empire had much leeway to make up in the race with other nations, and that quick development was rendered necessary by her commercial treaties, by her protective system, by the unexpected growth of industry and trade, by the continuous increase of population, the development of the mercantile marine, and the growing consciousness of national strength.
And if there is nothing in Germany’s development of her world-policy to which the foreigner can reasonably object, there is much in it at which he can reasonably rejoice. Competition is good for him, for it puts him on his mettle. A large and prosperous German population extends his markets and means more business and more profit. The minds of both Germans and the foreigner become broader, more mutually sympathetic and appreciative. The elder Pitt warned his fellow-countrymen against letting France become a maritime, a commercial, or a colonial power. She has become all three, and what injury has occurred therefrom to England or any other nation?
Germany’s colonial development dates from about the year 1884, the period of the “scramble for Africa.” The first step to acquiring German colonies for the Empire was taken in 1883, when a merchant of Bremen, Edouard Luderitz, made an agreement with the Hottentots by which the bay of Angra Pequena in South-West Africa, with an area of fifty thousand square kilometres, was ceded to him. Luderitz applied to Bismarck for imperial protection. Bismarck inquired of England whether she claimed rights of sovereignty over the bay. Lord Granville replied in the negative, but added that he did not consider the seizure of possession by another Power allowable. Indignant at what he called a “monstrous claim” on all the land in the world which was without a master, Bismarck telegraphed to the German Consul at the Cape to “declare officially to the British Government that Herr Luderitz and his acquisitions are under the protection of the Empire.”
The Bremen pioneer was fated to gain no advantage from his enterprise, as he was drowned in the Orange River in 1886. His example as a colonist, however, was followed by three Hanseatic merchants, Woermann, Jansen, and Thormealen, of Hamburg, who acquired land in Togo, a small kingdom to the east of the British Gold Coast, and in the Cameroons, a large tract in the bend of the Gulf of Guinea, extending to Lake Chad, and applied for German imperial protection. Bismarck sent Consul-General Nachtigall with the gunboat Moewe in 1884 to hoist the German flag at various ports. Five days after this had been done the English gunboat Flirt arrived, but was thus too late to obtain Togoland and the Cameroons for England.
Dr. Carl Peters, the German Cecil Rhodes, now arrived at Zanzibar, and on obtaining concessions from the Sultan founded the German East Africa Company, with a charter from his Government. German hopes of great colonial expansion began to run high, but they were dashed by the Anglo-German agreement of June, 1890, delimiting the spheres of England, Germany, and the Sultan of Zanzibar, and stipulating that Germany should receive Heligoland from England in return for German recognition of English suzerainty in Zanzibar and the possession of Uganda, which had recently been taken for Germany by Dr. Peters. At that time Germans thought very little of Heligoland, but there was then no Anglo-German tension, and no apprehension of an English descent on the German coast.
The lease for ninety-nine years of Kiautschau, a small area of about four hundred square miles on the coast of China, was obtained from the Chinese in connexion with the murder of two German missionaries in 1897 in the Shantung Province, of which Kiautschau forms a part. Herr von Buelow, then only Foreign Secretary, referred to the transaction in the Reichstag in words that may be quoted, as they describe German foreign policy in the Far East. “Our cruiser fleet,” he said,
“was sent to Kiautschau Bay to exact reparation for the murder of German Catholic missionaries on the one hand, and to obtain greater security for the future against a repetition of such occurrences. The Government,”
he continued,
“has nothing but benevolent and friendly designs regarding China, and has no wish either to offend or provoke her. We are ready in East Asia to recognize the interests of other Great Powers in the certain confidence that our own interests will be duly respected by them. In one word—we desire to put no one in the shade, but we too demand our place in the sun. In East Asia, as in the West Indies, we shall endeavour, in accordance with the traditions of German policy, without unnecessary rigour, but also without weakness, to guard our rights and our interests.”
In mentioning the West Indies the Foreign Secretary was alluding to a quarrel Germany had at this time with the negro republic of Haiti, owing to the arrest and imprisonment of a German subject in that island. Kiautschau is administratively under the German Admiralty.
The Caroline, Marianne, and Palau Islands, including the Marschall Islands and the islands of the Bismarck archipelago, were bought from Spain this year for twenty-five million pesetas, or about one million sterling. The islands are valuable in German eyes, not only for their fertility and capacity for plantation development, but as affording good harbourage and coaling stations on the sea-road to China, Japan, and Central America. By the agreement with England and America, which in this year also put an end to the thorny question of Samoan administration, Germany acquired the Samoan islands of Upolu and Sawaii in the South Sea.
The ten years we are now concerned with were perhaps the most strenuous and picturesque of the Emperor’s life hitherto. He was now his own Chancellor, though that post was nominally occupied by General von Caprivi and Prince Chlodwig Hohenlohe successively. He was Chancellor, too, knowing that not a hundred miles off the old pilot of the ship of State was watching, keenly and not too benevolently, his every act and word. He was conscious that the eyes of the world were fixed on him, and that every other Government was waiting with interest and curiosity to learn what sort of rival in statecraft and diplomacy it would henceforward have to reckon with. Naturally many plans coursed through his restlessly active brain, but there were always, one may imagine, two compelling and ever-present thoughts at the back of them. One of these was a determination to promote the moral and material prosperity of his people so as to make them a model and thoroughly modern commonwealth; the other, the resolve that as Emperor he would not allow Germany to be overlooked, to be treated as a quantite negligeable, in the discussion or decision of international affairs.
The Chancellorship of General von Caprivi, who had been successively Minister of War and Marine, lasted from March, 1890, to October, 1894. He may have been a good commanding general, but he has left no reputation either as a man of marked character or as a statesman of exceptional ability. Nor was either character or ability much needed. He was, as every one knew, a man of immensely inferior ability to his great predecessor, but every one knew also that the Emperor intended to be his own Chancellor, pursue his own policy, and take responsibility for it. Taking responsibility is, naturally, easier for a Hohenzollern monarch than for most men, since he is responsible to no one but himself. With the appointment of Caprivi the Emperor’s “personal regiment” may be said to have begun.
During General von Caprivi’s term of office some measures of importance have to be noted, among them the Quinquennat, which replaced Bismarck’s Septennat and fixed the military budget for five years instead of seven; the reduction of the period of conscription for the infantry from three years to two; and the decision not to renew Bismarck’s reinsurance treaty with Russia.
The chief event, however, with which Chancellor Caprivi’s name is usually associated, is the conclusion of commercial treaties between Germany and most other continental countries. Other countries had followed Germany’s example and adopted a protective system, and with a view to the avoidance of tariff wars, Caprivi, strongly supported, it need hardly be said, by an Emperor who had just declared that “the world at the end of the nineteenth century stands under the star of commerce, which breaks down the barriers between nations,” began a series of commercial treaty negotiations.
The first agreements were made with Germany’s allies in the Triplice, Austria and Italy. Treaties with Switzerland and Belgium, Servia and Rumania, followed. Russia held aloof for a time, but as a great grain-exporting country she too found it advisable to come to terms. With France there was no need of an agreement, since she was bound by the Treaty of Frankfurt, concluded after the war of 1870, to grant Germany her minimum duties. One of the regrettable results of the Empire’s new commercial policy was an antagonism between agriculture and industry which now declared itself and has remained active to the present day. The political cause of Caprivi’s fall from power, if power it can be called, was the twofold hostility of the Conservative and Liberal parties in Parliament, that of the Conservatives being due to the injury supposed to be done to landlord interests by the commercial treaties, and that of the Liberals by an Education Bill, which, it was alleged, would hand the Prussian school system completely over to the Church. Perhaps the main cause, however, was the general unpopularity he incurred by attacking, officially and through the press, his predecessor, Bismarck, the idol of the people.
It was in the Chancellorship of Prince Hohenlohe, which ended in 1900, that the most memorable events of this remarkable decade occurred; but, as was to be expected, and as the Emperor himself must have expected, the Prince, now a man of seventy-five, played a very secondary part with regard to them. The Prince was what the Germans call a “house-friend” of the Hohenzollern family and related to it. He was useful, his contemporaries say, as a brake on the impetuous temper of his imperial master, though he did not, we may be sure, turn him from any of the main designs he had at heart. Prince Hohenlohe, in character, was good-nature and amiability personified. He was beloved by all classes and parties, and no foreigner can read his Memoirs without a feeling of friendliness for a Personality so moderate and calm and simple. A note he makes in one of his diaries amusingly illustrates the simple side of his character. He is dining with the Emperor, when the Emperor, catching the Prince’s eye, which we may be sure was on the alert to gather up any of the royal beams that might come his way, raises his glass in sign of amity. “I felt so overcome,” notes the Prince, “that I almost spilt the champagne.”
The famous “Kruger telegram” episode occurred
during the
Chancellorship of Prince Hohenlohe.
For many years the sending of the telegram was cited as a convincing proof of the Emperor’s “impulsive” character, and it was not until 1909 that the truth of the matter was stated by Chancellor von Buelow in the Reichstag. In March of that year he said:
“It has been asked, was this telegram an act of personal initiative or an act of State? In this regard let me refer you to your own proceedings. You will remember that the responsibility for the telegram was never repudiated by the directors of our political business at the time. The telegram was an act of State, the result of official consultations; it was in nowise an act of personal initiative on the part of his Majesty the Kaiser. Whoever asserts that it was is ignorant of what preceded it and does his Majesty completely wrong.”
The Emperor’s telegram to President Kruger, despatched on January 3, 1896, ran as follows:—
“I congratulate you most sincerely on having succeeded with your people, and without calling on the help of foreign Powers, by opposing your own force to an armed band which broke into your country to disturb the peace, in restoring quiet and in maintaining the independence of your country against external attack.”
The echoes of this historic message were heard immediately in every country, but naturally nowhere more loudly than in England; and the reverberation of them is audible to the present day. In Germany, however, for a day or two, the telegram seems to have surprised no one, was indeed spoken of with approval by deputies in the Reichstag, and seems not to have occurred to any one in the light of a serious diplomatic mistake. This state of feeling did not last long, and when the English newspapers arrived an entirely new light was thrown on the matter. The Morning Post concluded an article with the words: “It is not easy to speak calmly of the Kaiser’s telegram. The English people will not forget it, and in future will always think of it when considering its foreign policy.” The British Government’s comment on the telegram was to put a flying squadron in commission and issue an official statement urbi et orbi, calling attention to the Convention made with President Kruger in London in 1884, reserving the supervision of the foreign relations of the Transvaal to the British Government.
The Emperor himself appears to have recognized that he and his advisers had made a serious blunder, and that a gesture which, it is highly probable, was partly prompted by the chivalrous side of his character, was certain to be gravely misunderstood. At any rate his policy, or that of his Government, changed, and instead of following up his encouraging words with mediation or intervention, he assumed an attitude of neutrality towards the war which soon after began.
From Paris he started for Berlin, where he had engaged a large and expensive first-floor suite of rooms in a fashionable hotel. At Cologne, however, shortly after entering Germany, a telegram from Potsdam awaited him, announcing the Emperor’s refusal to grant him audience. The imperial telegram consisted of a few words to the effect that the Emperor was “not in a position” to receive him. Nor in truth was he. An audience at that moment would have meant war between Germany and England.
As to German policy with regard to the Boer War, Prince Buelow explained that the German Government deplored the war not only because it was between two Christian and white races, that were, moreover, of the same Germanic stock, but also because it drew within the evil circle of its consequences important German economic and political interests. He went on to describe their nature, enumerating under the one head the thousands of German settlers in South Africa, the industrial establishments and banks they had founded there, the busy trade and the millions sterling of invested capital; while, as regarded the other head, the Government had to take care that the war exercised no injurious influence on German territory in that region.
The Government, the Chancellor claimed, had done everything consistent with neutrality and the conservation of German interests to hinder the outbreak of the war. It had “loyally” warned the two Dutch republics of the disposition in Europe, and left them in no doubt as to the attitude Germany would adopt if war should come. These communications were not made directly, but through the Hague authorities and the Consul-General of the Netherlands in Pretoria. At that time the United States Government had come forward with a proposal for a submission of the quarrel to its arbitration, but the proposal had been rejected by President Kruger.
A little later the President changed his mind, but it was then too late and war was declared. Once the die was cast, Germany could only with propriety have interfered, provided she had reason to believe her mediation would be accepted by both parties: otherwise her conduct would not be mediation, but be regarded, in accordance with diplomatic usage, as intervention with coercive measures in the background. For such a policy Germany had no disposition, for it meant running the risk of a diplomatic defeat on the one hand and of an armed conflict with England on the other.
As regards the visit of the President to Berlin and the Emperor’s refusal to receive him, the Chancellor asked would a reception have done any good either to the President or to Germany, and he answered his own question with an emphatic negative. To the President an audience would have been of no more use than the ovations and demonstrations he was greeted with in Paris. To Germany a reception would have meant a shifting of international relations to the disadvantage of the country: in other words, would have meant the risk, almost the certainty, of war. “Wars,” said the Chancellor in this connexion,
“are much more easily unchained through elementary popular passions, through the passionate excitation of public opinion, than in the old days through the ambitions of monarchs or through the jealousies of Ministers.”
And he concluded:
“With regard to England we stand entirely independent of her: we are not a hair’s-breadth more dependent on England than England is on us. But we are ready on the basis of mutual consideration and complete equality—about this obvious preliminary condition for a proper relation between two Great Powers we have never left any Power in doubt: I say, we are ready on this basis to live with England in peace, friendship, and harmony. To play the Don Quixote and to lay the lance in rest and attack wherever in the world English windmills are to be found, for that we are not called upon.”
But just then there was little prospect of “peace friendship, and harmony” with England. The world remembers, and unfortunately the English people do not forget, that they had nowhere more bitter and offensive critics than in Germany. One refined method of opprobrium was the unprohibited sale in the main streets of Berlin of spittoons bearing the countenance of the English Colonial Minister, Mr. Chamberlain. A war with England would at that moment have been highly popular in Germany, but as the Chancellor wisely reminded the Parliament, it was the duty of the statesman to protect international relations from disturbance by intrigue or by popular demonstration.
Finally the Chancellor dealt with a report widely current in England and Germany at the time, to the effect that the Emperor’s refusal to receive President Kruger was due to the influence of his uncle, King Edward. The Chancellor emphatically denied that any pressure of the kind from the English Court, or from any other source, had been employed, and ended by saying:
“To suppose that his Majesty the Kaiser could allow himself to be influenced by family relations shows little understanding of his character, or of his love of country. For his Majesty solely the national standpoint is decisive, and if it were otherwise, and family relations or dynastic considerations determined our foreign policy, I would not remain Minister a day longer.”
A precisely similar and unfounded charge, it will be remembered, was made against King Edward VII in 1902, to the effect that it was Court influence, not the deliberate judgment of the Cabinet, that was the efficient cause of the co-operation of the British with the German fleet in the demonstration off the coast of Venezuela.
A recent writer, Dr. Adolf Stein, gives an account of the sending of the famous telegram which corroborates that of Prince von Buelow. The telegram, according to this version, was a well-considered answer to a question from the Transvaal Government put to the German Government a month before the Raid occurred, and when the Transvaal Government got the first inkling of the preparations being made for it. President Kruger asked what attitude Germany would adopt in case of a war between England and the Boer republics. The answer given to the person who made the inquiry on behalf of the Transvaal Government was that President Kruger might rest assured of Germany’s
“diplomatic support in so far as it was also Germany’s interest that the independence of the Boer States should be maintained, but that for anything beyond this he should not reckon on Germany’s assistance or that of any Great Power.”
This answer, Dr. Stein says, was in course of transmission by the post when the Raid occurred.
The Raid was made on January 1st. The event was at once telegraphed to Berlin, where Prince Hohenlohe was Chancellor, with Freiherr Marschall von Bieberstein, afterwards German Ambassador in Constantinople and London, as his Foreign Secretary. According to Dr. Stein, they drew up a telegram to President Kruger, and on the morning of the 3rd laid it before the Emperor, who had come early from Potsdam for consultation on the matter. The Chancellor, it should be mentioned, had been at Potsdam the day previous, but at that time the news of the Raid had not reached the Emperor. The Emperor, Chancellor, and Foreign Secretary now decided that a telegram congratulating President Kruger for having repulsed the Raid “without foreign aid” was the best non-committal form to adopt. The Emperor, Dr. Stein continues, raised some objections, but was over-persuaded by Prince Hohenlohe and von Bieberstein.
As confirming this version, a little note in Lord Goschen’s Biography may be recalled, in which Lord Goschen confides to a friend a few weeks before the Raid that the “Germans were taking the Boers under their wing, as the Americans had done with the Venezuelans.”
Enough perhaps has been said to show that the sending of the telegram had nothing to do with the Emperor’s “impulsive” character, and it will only be fair to him to let the notion that it had drop finally out of contemporary history. As an act of State it was in consonance with German policy at the time. That policy, if it did not look to acquiring possession of the Transvaal, may very well have looked to enlisting the sympathies and friendship of the Dutch in South Africa, and finding in them and their country a field for German enterprise and a market for German goods; and there was therefore nothing impulsive, however mistaken the act may have been as a matter of foreign policy, in the German Government’s congratulating President Kruger on successful resistance to a private raid.
We have suggested that the telegram was partly due to a certain element of chivalry in the Emperor’s character. The Emperor was well acquainted with other forms of government and other social systems besides his own, and though a Hohenzollern could put himself in the position of the chief of the little Boer republic, threatened as he was with annihilation by a mighty and powerful opponent. Moreover, there is always to be remembered the sympathy of view, particularly of religious view, that existed in the two men as regarded their attitude and duties to their respective “folk.” The President had appealed to the Emperor for help. The Emperor had had to refuse it, but had wired that he would do all he could “diplomatically.” He knew that this was but a poor sort of assistance, but it was something, and when the Raid occurred he gave the diplomatic assistance he had promised by sending a telegram of congratulation. In any case—tempi passati. Foreign policy is not concerned with sympathies or antipathies, and the whole episode should be ignored, or, better still, forgotten.
The Kruger telegram, it turned out, was to usher in a long period of tension between two countries of the same race, singularly alike in their ideals of whatever is sound and praiseworthy in Christian civilization, and almost equally mutual admirers of the fundamental features of each other’s national character. Unfortunately, along with these fundamental features of the English and German national characters, the love of money, the auri sacra fames, has to be reckoned with, and in the race of nations for wealth and power the fundamental qualities are apt, for a time, to be overborne and cease to act. The rise of the modern German Empire to power and prosperity, and the new world-situation thus created, largely by the Emperor, is at the bottom of Anglo-German tension. As a main contributory cause of both the power and the prosperity, was the creation of the German navy at the period of which we write.
The following is a parable which he who runs may read:—
In a certain town, with a large and heterogeneous population, there was once a “monster” shop. The firm (there were three partners) had been established for hundreds of years, had thrown out several branches, and by hard work, enterprise, and honesty had acquired a leading position in the trade of the town: so much so, indeed, that as time went on it had also come to do the carriage and delivery of goods for most of the smaller shops, though some of these were large houses themselves and the majority of them in a fair way of business. The smaller shops were naturally a little jealous of the “monster,” and it was the dream of every owner of them to enlarge his premises and become the proprietor of an equally great emporium as the “monster.” One day, therefore, a little cluster of shops, at some distance from the “monster,” suddenly resolved to form a combination, andPage 102
after settling a dispute with a neighbour in consideration of a sum of money and a fruitful tract of land, issued the prospectus of the new company and began to do business on modern lines.
Almost from the very beginning the new company was a great success: its situation was central; the company inspired its members with enterprise and spirit; it was industrious, energetic, and splendidly organized; and at last it began to cut into the trade of the old-established “monster.” Competition might have gone on in the ordinary way had not the new company made a departure in business methods that gradually roused special uneasiness among the members of the “monster” firm. Hitherto the latter had its delivery vans travel all over the town, and so well was this part of its system carried on that the firm acquired all but a monopoly of carrying and delivery. The new company, however, now began to do a little in the same line, whereupon the “monster” took to building a superior type of van much more powerful and imposing, if also much more expensive, than the one previously in use. The new company naturally followed suit, and in a surprisingly short time had built, or had under construction, several vans of an exactly similar kind. The “monster” saw the new departure of their rivals at first with curiosity, then with contempt, then with anxiety, and finally with suspicion and alarm. At the time of writing the alarm appears to have abated, but a good deal of the suspicion remains. The town is the world, the “monster” Great Britain, and the rival company the modern German Empire.
It would require the Emperor himself properly to tell the story of his creation of the modern German navy, and if he has a right to call any part of his people’s property his own, he is justified in speaking, as he invariably does, of “my navy.” As Prince William, his interest in the subject may have been originally due, as has been seen, to his partly English parentage, his frequent visits to England, and the fact that his physical disability threatened to prevent him taking an active part in the more strenuous duties of the soldier. It is very probable that it was in the region that cradled the British navy the idea of a great German navy was conceived by him. We have seen that the Emperor, as Prince William, showed his enthusiasm in the matter by delivering lectures on it in military circles, though it was not his lot, but that of his brother Henry, to be assigned the navy as a profession. In his Order to the Navy on ascending the throne, he spoke of the “lively and warm interest” that bound him to the navy, shortly afterwards issued directions for a new marine uniform on the English model, and caused the introduction into the Lutheran Church service of a special prayer for the arm. He gave a parliamentary soiree at the New Palace in Potsdam, and before allowing his Conservative and National Liberal guests to sit down to supper, made them listen to a lecture which occupied
The Emperor closed one of his naval lectures with an anecdote which the papers reported next day as being received with “stormy amusement.” It was about the metacentrum, the centre of gravity in ship construction. The Emperor told of his having asked an old sea lieutenant to explain to him the metacentrum. “I received the answer,” said the Emperor, “that he did not know very exactly himself—it was a secret. ‘All I can say is,’ the old seaman went on, ’that if the metacentrum was in the topmast, the ship would over-turn.’” The success of a jest, one is told, lies in the ear of the hearer. Possibly something of the “stormy amusement” may have been called forth by the reflection that the imperial metacentrum had on occasion got misplaced.
In addition to the natural and accidental predispositions of the Emperor, certain general considerations, which imposed themselves irresistibly on all men’s attention as the century drew to its close, impelled him to more energetic action. A student of the history of other countries as well as his own, and a watchful observer of the tendencies of the time, he felt that the young Empire was incomplete as long as it was without a navy corresponding in size and power to its army, the organization of which had been completed. With its army alone he regarded the Empire as a colossus, no doubt, but a colossus standing on one leg, and was convinced that if the Empire was to be a success it must have a navy at least able to withstand attack by any of his continental neighbours and potential enemies.
On ascending the throne the Emperor was naturally most occupied with the internal situation of his new inheritance, and spent a good deal of his time railing at Social Democracy and the press, explaining the nature of his Heaven-appointed kingship, and rousing his somewhat lethargic people to a sense of their power and possibilities; but he found a moment in 1891 to write under a photograph he gave the retiring Postmaster-General Stephan:
“The world, at the end of the nineteenth century, stands under the star of commerce; commerce breaks down the barriers which separate the peoples and creates new relations between the nations.”
Then the idea slumbered in his mind for a few years, while he continued to make his own people restless with criticism, perhaps deserved, of their sluggishness, their pessimism, their party strife, and foreign peoples equally restless with phrases like “nemo me impune lacessit”; until the idea came suddenly to utterance in 1897, when, on seeing the figure of Neptune on a monument to the Emperor William, he broke out: “The trident should be in our grip!” From this time, and for the next few years, the growth of the navy may be said to have never long been far from his thoughts. In sending Prince Henry to Kiautschau at the close of 1898 he made the remark that “imperial power means sea power, and sea power and imperial power are dependent on each other.” Nine months afterwards at Stettin he used a phrase alone sufficient to keep his name alive in history: “Our future lies on the water!”
At Hamburg, in 1899, he laid emphasis on the changes in the world which justify a naval policy one can see now was almost inevitable.
“A strong German fleet,” he said, “is a thing of which we stand in bitter need.” And he continued:
“In Hamburg especially one can understand how necessary is a powerful protection for German interests abroad. If we look around us we see how greatly the aspect of the world has altered in recent years. Old-world empires pass away and new ones begin to arise. Nations suddenly appear before the peoples and compete with them, nations of whom a little before the ordinary man had been hardly aware. Products which bring about radical changes in the domain of international relations, as well as in the political economy of the people, and which in old times took hundreds of years to ripen, come to maturity in a few months. The result is that the tasks of our German Empire and people have grown to enormous proportions and demand of me and my Government unusual and great efforts, which can then only be crowned with success when, united and decided, without respect to party, Germans stand behind us. Our people, moreover, must resolve to make some sacrifice. Above all they must put aside their endeavour to seek the excellent through the ever more-sharply contrasted party factions. They must cease to put party above the welfare of the whole. They must put a curb on their ancient and inherited weakness—to subject everything to the most unlicensed criticism; and they must stop at the point where their most vital interests become concerned. For it is precisely these political sins which revenge themselves so deeply on our sea interests and our fleet. Had the strengthening of the fleet not been refused me during the past eight years of my Government, notwithstanding all appealsPage 105
and warnings—and not without contumely and abuse for my person—how differently could we not have promoted our growing trade and our interests beyond the sea!”
Perhaps; but perhaps, too, it was as well for the peace of the world that Germany had no great war fleet during those eight years of troubled international relations, and that the gentle and adjusting hand of Providence, not the mailed fist of the Emperor, was guiding the destinies of nations.
Previous to the opening of the reign a German navy can hardly be said to have existed. Yet it should not be forgotten that Germany also has maritime traditions of no small interest, if of no great importance, to the world. The Great Elector, the ancestor of the Emperor who ruled Brandenburg from 1640 to 1688, was fully conscious of the profit his people might acquire by sea commerce, and the little navy of high-sea frigates which he built stood manfully, and often successfully, up to the more powerful navies of Sweden and Spain. This fleet was known, too, far away from Brandenburg, for the records tell how the Pope and the Maltese Knights and Louis XIV willingly admitted it to their harbours.
But there was lacking what until lately has always hemmed German progress—money; and the commercially-minded Dutch, a people themselves with many German characteristics, kept the Germans from the sea. Then came Frederick the Great, who ruled from 1740 to 1786, and those Germans who are fond of claiming Shakespeare for their own will also tell you that the plan drawn up by Frederick for Pitt’s seven years’ struggle with France—that plan so unfortunately imitated afterwards by the Emperor in his correspondence with Queen Victoria during the Boer War—was the foundation-stone of British naval supremacy! Frederick, too, saw the advantage of possessing a fleet, but he had his hands full with France and Russia, and reluctantly had to decline the offer of the French naval hero, Labourdonnais, to build him a battle-fleet. At this period, and in the Great Elector’s time, Emden was the Plymouth of Prussia. When Frederick died, there followed that time of which Germans themselves are ashamed—the hole-and-corner time, the time when the parochial spirit was abroad and no German burgher saw beyond the village church and the village pump; the Biedermeier time (that comic figure of the German Punch), the time of genuine German philistinism, when the people were lapped in an idyllic repose and were content, as many are to-day, with the smallest and simplest pleasures.
This spirit continued until the early quarter of the nineteenth century, when Professor Frederick List roused the attention of his countrymen, and notably that of Bismarck, to the necessity of an independent national existence and a national economic policy. In 1836 a committee recommended naval coast protection, but it was not until 1848, when Denmark blockaded the German coast, that anything was done to provide
To this humiliating state of things Bismarck refers in his “Gedanken und Erinnerungen.” “The German fleet,” he writes,
“and Kiel harbour as a foundation for its institution, were from 1848 on one of the most burning thoughts at whose fire German aspirations for unity were accustomed to warm themselves and to concentrate. Meanwhile, however, the hatred of my parliamentary opponents was stronger than the interest for a German fleet, and it seemed to me that the Progressive party at that time preferred to see the newly-acquired rights of Prussia to Kiel, and the prospect of a maritime future founded on its possession, rather in the hands of the auctioneer, Hannibal Fischer, than in those of a Bismarck Ministry.”
From this on naval development in Prussia was slow; there was no interest for a marine either among the governing classes or the people; but it was not wholly neglected, for Wilhelmshaven was acquired from the Duchy of Oldenburg, a small fleet was sent to the Orient with a view to obtaining commercial treaties and concessions, and a sum of L320,000 was devoted annually to naval requirements. During the Danish War of 1864 a fleet of three screw corvettes, two paddle steamers, and a few gunboats was considered sufficient to protect the coasts and make a blockade impossible.
From 1885 onwards there had been several Navy Proposals, but it was in that of 1889, a year after the Emperor’s accession, that the beginning of Germany’s naval policy is to be found. In that Proposal it was announced that the Government intended to depart from the previous principles of naval policy which had “become antiquated owing to the progress of science and the character of future naval warfare, as also owing to the extension of Germany’s oversea relations.” Up to this time German maritime needs had invariably been postponed to military requirements. The necessity for a fleet was indeed recognized, but only for purposes of coast defence and the prevention of a blockade of the ports on the North Sea and Baltic. To this end no large fleet was considered needful, particularly as the war with France had demonstrated the futility of coast attack. During that war two small fleets were sent from Cherbourg to blockade the North Sea and Baltic coasts, but the admirals in charge found the task “impossible” and returned to France after a few single engagements with divided honours had occurred. At that time the German people felt entirely secure on the score of invasion. The numerous espionage incidents of more recent times prove that this feeling of security has entirely passed away, and all countries are now armed as though they were to be invaded to-morrow.
Emperor William I did something, though not much, for the German navy. Moltke was interested in it and proposed an armoured cruiser fleet, but he was thinking chiefly of coast defence. Roon also took up the matter and laid a Navy Bill before the Diet in 1865, but it was rejected because, in Virchow’s words, the Diet thought “the Constitution more important than the development of the army and navy.” The war of 1866 showed the necessity of a fleet, and this time the Diet accepted Roon’s proposals. Still, however, the object was coast defence; and when Emperor William I died the navy was relatively of no consideration. In the ten years between 1881 and 1891 only one armoured cruiser, the Oldenburg, was launched. With the accession of the Emperor, however, began a new, and for the Emperor and the Empire—why not candidly admit it?—a glorious chapter in German naval history.
An incident during the reign which really touched German national pride, and was one of the reasons which caused the Emperor to accelerate the building of a powerful fleet, was the eviction, if the term is not too strong, of the German admiral, Diedrich, by the Americans from the harbour of Manila in the course of the Spanish-American War. Admiral Dewey was in command of a blockading fleet at Manila. The ships of various nationalities, and among them some German warships, were in the harbour. Various causes of irritation arose between the Germans and Americans. There was talk of Spain’s being desirous of selling the Philippines to Germany, and the impression got abroad in America that the Germans were inclined to behave as if they were already the new masters of the islands. The German warships kept going in and out of the harbour of Millesares, a village close to Manila, in connexion with the exchange of time-expired men, using search-lights, the American admiral thought, in an unnecessary way, and doing other acts which he considered might give information to blockade-running vessels.
In accordance with custom, the Germans, had at first supplied themselves with permits from the American admiral for crossing the blockade lines, but as time went on the German ships began to cross the line without them. Admiral Dewey thereupon issued an order that permits must be obtained. The German admiral sent his flag-lieutenant to Admiral Dewey to protest, on the ground that warships are exempt from blockade regulations. The American admiral’s reply was to bring his fist down on his cabin table and say,
“Tell Admiral Diedrich, with my compliments, that he must obtain permits, and that if a German ship breaks the blockade lines without one it spells war, for I shall fire on the first vessel that attempts it.”
The flag officer went back with the message, and Admiral Diedrich took his ships, which were greatly inferior in number to those of the Americans, out of the harbour.
The German navy, in contrast to the army, is a purely imperial institution—an institution, according to the Constitution, “entirely under the chief command of the Kaiser,” consequently in no respect administered or controlled by the federated kingdoms and states. One speaks of the “royal” army, but of the “imperial” navy. The Emperor is officially described as the navy’s “Chef,” superintends its organization and disposition, with his brother Prince Henry as Inspector-General, and appoints its officials and officers. He exercises his functions through the Marine Cabinet, a creation of his own, which serves as a connecting link between the Emperor and the Admiralty.
The legislative stages of the growth of the German navy have so far been five in number. The first Navy Law passed the Reichstag on third reading, on March 28, 1898, 212 members voting for it and 139 against, in a Parliament of 397 members. It provided for the building of a fleet of seventeen battleships within a certain time, and fixed the age of the ships at twenty-five years. The new ships were divided into ships-of-the-line (a new designation), large armoured cruisers, and small armoured cruisers. This fleet, however, was not large enough to have any influence on sea politics or seaborne trade, and the occurrences of the Spanish-American War, just now begun and finished, determined the Emperor to make further proposals. A great agitation for the navy was started throughout the Empire, and on January 25, 1900, Admiral Tirpitz laid the second Navy Bill (a “Novelle,” as it is called) before the Reichstag.
The new measure demanded a doubling of the fleet. The first fleet was intended chiefly with a view to coast defence, while the new fleet was to assure “the economic development of Germany, especially of its world-commerce.” If the first Navy Bill had excited surprise and uneasiness in England, the sensations roused by the second may be imagined, not altogether because of the increase of German naval power, but of the power that would result when the new German navy was combined with the navies of Germany’s allies of the Triplice. The third Navy Bill was a consequence of the Russo-Japanese War and of the lesson taught by the sea-fight of Tsuschima. It was laid before the Reichstag on November 28, 1905, for “a stronger representation of the Empire abroad.” Its main object was to increase by almost one-half the size of the battleships, thus following the lead of England, which had decided on the new and famous “Dreadnought” class of vessel, remarkable for its five revolving armoured turrets (instead of two previously) and the number of its heavy guns. Hitherto English warships had had an average tonnage of about 14,000 tons: the tonnage of the original “Dreadnought” was 18,300 tons. Notwithstanding the enormous nature of the financial demand (L47,600,000 within eleven years) the Reichstag passed the Bill on May 19, 1905. A torpedo fleet of 144 boats, in 24 divisions, was additionally provided for in this Bill.
The fourth Navy Bill was brought in in 1908, with the diminution of the age of the German battleship from twenty-five to twenty years as its principal aim. As a result the number of new ships to be built by 1912 was raised from six to twelve. The fifth and last Navy Bill was passed last year, 1912, creating a third active squadron as reserve, made up of existing vessels and three new battleships. The German navy now consists of 41 battleships of the line, 12 large armoured cruisers, and 30 small armoured cruisers, the cruisers being for purposes of reconnaissance; the foreign-service fleet of 8 large and 10 small armoured cruisers; and an active reserve fleet of 16 battleships, 4 large and 12 small armoured cruisers.
Like sailors everywhere, the German sailor is a frank and hearty type of his race, and welcome wherever he goes. The German naval officer is usually of middle-class extraction, while a slightly larger proportion of the officers of the army is taken from the noblesse. He is a fine, frank, and manly fellow as a rule, and, like the Emperor, perfectly willing to admit that his navy is closely modelled on that of Great Britain. Moreover, in addition to a thorough knowledge of his profession, he is able, in two cases out of three, to converse with useful fluency in English, French, and in some cases Italian as well.
The navy, like the army, is recruited by conscription, but active service is for three years, as in the German cavalry and artillery, while only two years in the German infantry. Naturally young men of an adventurous turn of mind frequently elect for the navy, as they hope thereby to see something of the world. At the end of their third year of service they may go back to civil life as reservists or may “capitulate,” that is, continue in active service for another year, and renew their “capitulation” thenceforward from year to year. The ordinary sailor receives (since 1912) the equivalent of 14s. 6d. in cash monthly and 9s. for clothing, but when at sea additional pay of 6s. a month. The result of the system of conscription is that about 40 per cent. of the fleet’s crews consist of what may be called seasoned sailors, the remainder being three-year conscripts. The officer class is recruited from young men who have passed a certain school standard examination and enter the navy as cadets. The one-year-volunteer system (Einjaehriger Dienst) only partially obtains in the navy, for purposes, namely, of coast defence and other services on land. After two years the cadet becomes a midshipman, and with five or six other middies serves for a year or so on board ship, when he becomes a sub-lieutenant and is promoted by seniority to full lieutenant, captain-lieutenant (the English naval lieutenant with eight years’ service), corvette-captain (the English naval commander, with three stripes), frigate-captain (corresponding in rank to a lieutenant-colonel in the English army), and finally captain-at-sea (with four stripes), when he may get command of a battleship. To reach this great object of the German naval officer’s ambition takes on an average twenty-four years, or about the same period as in the British navy.
The upper ranks, in ascending order, are contre-admiral (the English rear-admiral), vice-admiral, admiral, grand-admiral (English Admiral of the Fleet). There are only four grand-admirals in Germany, namely, the Emperor (as “Chef” of the navy), his brother Prince Henry (as inspector-general), retired Admiral von Koester (president of the Navy League), and Admiral von Tirpitz (Secretary of Admiralty and the only “active” grand-admiral). King George V of England is an admiral of the German navy, as the Emperor is an admiral of the British navy.
Salutes are a matter of international agreement. They are: 33 guns (simultaneously from all ships) for the Emperor and foreign monarchs, 21 for the Crown Prince of Germany or of a foreign country, 19 for a grand-admiral or an ambassador, 17 for an admiral, the Secretary of Admiralty or inspector-general, 15 for a vice-admiral, 13 for contre-admiral, and so descending. 101 guns are fired on the Emperor’s birthday or on the birth of an imperial prince. 66 guns is the salute when a German monarch ascends the imperial throne, and 101 when a German Emperor dies.
The yearly salaries of German naval officers are as follows: Admiral, L1,294 (of which L699 is “pay"), vice-admiral, L897 (L677 “pay"), contre-admiral, L772 (L677 “pay"), captain-at-sea, L520 (L438 “pay"), corvette-captain, L396 (L280 “pay"), full lieutenant, L174 (L120 “pay"), and so on downwards. Jews are not allowed to become officers of the navy, thus following the practice in the army. There is no law to prevent Jews becoming officers in either army or navy, but, as a matter of tradition or prejudice, no regimental or naval commander is willing to accept an Israelite among his officers.
It is time, however, to return to the personal doings of the Emperor. He is responsible for Germany’s foreign policy, and his duties in connexion with it and with the navy must often have suggested to him the desirability of seeing with his own eyes something of the Orient, the new battlefield of the world’s diplomacy, and possibly a new Eldorado for European merchants and engineers. His journey to the East, now undertaken, was, however, chiefly a religious one, though it had also something of a chivalric character, since much of every German’s imagination is concerned with the Crusades, the Order of Knight Templars, and similar historical or legendary incidents and personalities in the early stages of the struggle between the Christian and the Saracen. The birthplace of Christ has special interest for a Hohenzollern who holds his kingship by divine grace, and in the Emperor’s case because his father had made the journey to Jerusalem thirty years before. The Emperor, lastly, cannot but have been glad to escape, if only for a time, such harassing concerns as party politics, scribbling journalists, long-winded ministerial harangues, and Social Democrats.
The journey of the Emperor and Empress to Palestine occupied about a month from the middle of October, 1898, to the middle of the following November, and while it was one of the most delightful and picturesque experiences of the Emperor, it entailed some unforeseen and not altogether agreeable consequences. It was very much criticized in Germany as an exhibition of a theatrical kind, of the “decorative in policy,” as Bismarck used to say, who saw no utility in decoration, and evidently did not agree with Shakspeare that the “world is still deceived by ornament.” It was objected that the Emperor should have stayed at home to look after imperial business, that such a journey must excite suspicion in England and France—in the former because England is an Oriental power, and in the latter because France is supposed to claim special protective rights over Christianity in the East.
The Englishman who reads what German writers say about the journey gets the impression that the criticism was an expression of jealousy—jealousy, as we know from Bismarck and Prince Buelow, being a national German failing. Every German ardently desires to see Italy and the Orient, but until of late years few Germans had the means of gratifying the wish. In one point, however, the critics were right. The Emperor, when in Damascus, after saying that he felt “deeply moved at standing on the spot where one of the most knightly sovereigns of all times, the great Sultan Saladin, stood,” went on to say that Sultan Abdul “and the three hundred million Mohammedans who, scattered over the earth, venerated him as their Caliph, might be assured that at all times the German Emperor would be their friend.” It was a harmless and vague remark enough, one would think, but political writers in all countries have made great capital out of it ever since whenever Germany’s Oriental policy is discussed. At the risk of repetition it may be said that that policy is, in the East as elsewhere, a purely economic one. The Emperor’s mistake perhaps chiefly lay in raising hopes in Turkish minds which were very unlikely to be realized.
The Emperor’s allusion to Saladin as the most knightly sovereign of all times was a bad blunder. He was doubtless carried away by a combination, in his probably at this time somewhat excited imagination, of the chivalrous figures of the crusading times with thoughts of the German Knight Templars and other soldierly characters. Saladin was a brave man physically, and fond of imperial magnificence, as is only natural and necessary for an Oriental potentate to be; and a good deal of Eastern legend grew up about him on that account. Legend was enough for the Emperor in his then romantic mood. He forgot, or did not know, that Saladin, from the point of view of a modern and in reality far more knightly age, was a sanguinary and fanatic ruffian, who showed no mercy to his Christian prisoners—killed, in fact, one of them, Rainald de Chatillon, with his own hand, sacked Jerusalem, turned the Temple of Solomon into a mosque, after having it “disinfected” with rose-water, and killed Pope Urban III, who died, the chronicles tell, of sorrow at the news.
The journey was, as has been said, a delightful and picturesque experience for the Emperor and the Empress. They passed through Venice with its marble palaces, sailed over the sapphire waters of the Adriatic, and were received with great demonstrations of welcome by the Sultan in Constantinople. When they were leaving, the Sultan gave the Emperor a gigantic carpet, and the Emperor gave the Sultan a gold walking-stick, an exact imitation of the stick Frederick the Great used to lean on, and sometimes, very likely, apply to the backs of his trusty but stupid lieges.
Before disposing of the events of this period of the Emperor’s life mention may be made of two or three occurrences which must have been a source of political interest or social entertainment to him. From among them we select the Dreyfus case and the historic scene arranged for the painter, Adolf Menzel, in Sans Souci.
The Dreyfus case, though its investigation brought to light no fact implicating the German authorities, naturally aroused interest throughout Germany. The interest was felt equally in the army, notwithstanding that it contains no Jewish officer, and among the civil population. In France, it will be remembered, the case acquired its importance from the charge, made by the anti-Semite Drumont and his journal La Libre Parole, that the Jews were exploiting the Government and the country. There is an anti-Semite party in Germany, founded by the Court preacher Stoecker in 1878, but possibly owing to the prudence and good citizenship of the Jews in Germany, it has gained little weight or momentum since.
The “affaire,” as it was universally known, was only once referred to in the German Parliament, in January, 1898, when Chancellor von Buelow declared “in the most positive way possible” that there had “never been any traffic or relations of any kind whatsoever between Dreyfus and any German authority,” adding that the alleged finding of an official German communication in the wastepaper basket of the German Embassy in Paris was a fiction. The Chancellor concluded by saying that the case had in no respect ever troubled relations between Germany and France.
The incident most often cited as evidence of the Emperor’s love of recalling the days of his great ancestor, Frederick the Great, is the concert he arranged at Sans Souci on June 13, 1895, to gratify, we may be sure, as well as surprise, the famous painter. The incident and its origin are described in a work already mentioned, the “Private Lives of William II and His Consort,” by a lady of the Court. The account given below is illustrative of the unfriendly sentiments which are evident throughout the work, but the lady is probably fairly accurate as regards the incident, and in any case her gossip will give the reader some notion, though by no means an entirely faithful one, of the Court atmosphere at the time. Talk at the palace during afternoon tea having turned on the fact that Adolf Menzel, the painter, would shortly celebrate his eightieth birthday, some one remarked on the refusal by the Court marshal in the previous reign to allow him to see the scene of his celebrated “Flute Concert at Sans Souci,” which he was then composing, lighted up. The conversation, according to the lady writer, continued thus:—
“’Maybe
he was frightened at the prospect of furnishing a
couple of dozen wax
candles,’ sneered the Duke of Schleswig.
“’More likely
he knew nothing of Menzel’s growing
reputation,’ suggested
Begas, the sculptor.
“The Emperor overheard the last words. ’Are you prepared to say that my grand-uncle’s chief marshal failed to recognize the genius of the foremost Hohenzollern painter?’ he asked sharply.
“‘I would not like to libel a dead man,’ answered Begas, ’but appearances are certainly against the Count. I have it from Menzel’s own lips that the Court marshal refused him all and every assistance when he was painting the scenes of life in Sans Souci. The rooms of the chateau were accessible to him only to the same extent as to any other paying visitor or the hordes of foreign tourists, and he had to make his sketches piece-meal, gathering corroborative and additional material in museums and picture-galleries.’
“Quick as a flash the Kaiser turned to Count Eulenburg. ’I shall repay the debt Prussia owes to Menzel,’ he spoke, not without declamatory effect. ’We will have the representation of the Sans Souci flute concert three days hence. Your programme is to be ready tomorrow morning at ten. Menzel, mind you, must know nothing of this: merely command him to attend us at the Schloss at supper and for a musical evening.’ And, turning round, he said to her Majesty: ’You will impersonate Princess Amalia, and you, Kessel’ (Adjutant von Kessel, then Commander of the First Life Guards), ’engage all your tallest and best-looking officers to enact the great King’s military household.’
“Again the Kaiser addressed Count Eulenberg: ’Be sure to have the best artists of the Royal Orchestra perform Frederick the Great’s compositions, and let Joachim be engaged for the occasion.’ Saying this, he took her Majesty’s arm, and bidding his guests and the Court a hasty good-night, strode out of the apartment.”
A description of the Empress’s costume for the concert follows.
“Her Majesty’s dress consisted of a petticoat of sea-green satin, richly ornamented with silver lace of antique pattern and an overdress of dark velvet, embroidered with gold and set with precious stones. On her powdered hair, amplified by one of Herr Adeljana, the Viennese coiffeur’s, most successful creations, sat a jaunty three-cornered hat having a blazing aigrette of large diamonds in front, the identical cluster of white stones which figured at the great Napoleon’s coronation, and which he lost, together with his entire equipage, in the battle of Waterloo. In her ears her Majesty wore pearl ornaments representing a small bunch of cherries. Like the aigrette, they are Crown property, and that Auguste Victoria thought well enough of the jewels to rescue them from oblivion for this occasion was certainly most appropriate.”
The Emperor’s costume is also described.
“He wore the cuirassier uniform of the great Frederick’s period, a highly ornamented dress that suited the War Lord, who was painted and powdered to perfection, extremely well, especially as Wellington boots, a very becoming wig and his strange head-gear really and seemingly added to his figure, while his usually stern face beamed pleasantly under the powder and rouge laid on by expert hands.”
The arrival of Menzel is then narrated and the reception by the Emperor, who took the part of an adjutant of Frederick the Great’s, and in that character “bombarded the helpless master,” as the chronicler says,
“with forty stanzas of alleged verse, in which the deeds of Prussia’s kings and the masterpieces that commemorate them were extolled with a prosiness that sounded like an afterclap of William’s Reichstag and monument orations.”
A real concert followed, and supper was taken in the Marble Hall adjoining. The authoress concludes as follows:—
“I was contemplating
these reminiscences (the pictures of La
Barberini) in silent
reverie when the door opened and the
Kaiser came in with
little Menzel.
“’I have
a mind to engage Angeli to paint her Majesty’s
picture in the costume
of Princess Amalia,’ said the Emperor
‘What do you think
of it?’
“‘Angeli is painter to many emperors and kings,’ replied the Professor, and I saw him smile diplomatically as he moved his spectacles to get a better view of the allegorical canvas on the left wall that exhibits the nude figure of the famous mistress in its entirety.
“‘I am glad
you agree with me on that point,’ said the
Emperor, impatient to
execute the idea that had crossed his
mind. ‘I
will telegraph to him to-night.’
“And when, five minutes later, Menzel bent over my hand to take formal leave, I heard him murmur in his dry, absent-minded manner—’Pesne ... Angeli ... Frederick the Great ... William II!”
We have spoken of the Court atmosphere of this time. The following extracts from the Memoirs of ex-Chancellor Prince Hohenlohe will assist the reader, perhaps even better than a connected account, to enter, in imagination at all events, into it. The conversations cited between the Emperor and the Prince turn on all sorts of topics—the pass question in Alsace (where Hohenlohe was then Statthalter), the possibility of war with Russia, pheasant shooting, projected monuments, the breach with Bismarck, the Triple Alliance, and a hundred more of the most different kinds. Once talking domestic politics, the Emperor said:
“It will end by the Social Democrats getting the upper hand. Then they will plunder the people. Not that I care. I will have the palace loop-holed and look on at the plundering. The burghers will soon call on me for help;”
and on another occasion, in 1889, Hohenlohe tells of a dinner at the palace, and how after dinner, when the Empress and her ladies had gone into another salon, the Emperor, Hohenlohe, and Dr. Hinzpeter (the Emperor’s old tutor) conversed together for an hour, all standing. “The first subject touched on,” relates the Prince, was the gymnasia (high schools), the Emperor holding that they made too exacting claims on the scholars, while Hohenlohe and Hinzpeter pointed out that otherwise the run on the schools would be too great and cause danger of a “learned proletariat.” Prince Hohenlohe concludes:
“In the whole conversation, which never once came to a standstill, I was pleased by the fresh, lively manner of the Emperor, and was in all ways reminded of his grandfather, Prince Albert.”
Next year the Prince was present at an official dinner in the Berlin palace. He writes:—
“BERLIN, 22 March, 1890.
“At seven, dinner in the White Salon (at the palace). I sat opposite the Empress and between Moltke and Kameke. The former was very communicative, but was greatly interfered with by the continuous music, and was very angry at it. Two bands were placed facing each other, and when one ceased the other began to play its trumpets. It was hardly endurable. The Emperor made a speech in honour of the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward, present on the occasion of the investiture of his son Prince George, now King George V, with the Order of the Black Eagle), and mentioned his nomination as English admiral (whose uniform he was wearing) and the comradeship-in-arms at the battle of Waterloo; he also hoped that the English fleet and the German army would together maintain peace. Moltke then said to me: ‘Goethe says, “a political song, a discordant song."’
“He also said
he hoped the speech wouldn’t get into the
papers.”
(It did, however.)
The next extract describes a conversation Prince Hohenlohe had with the Emperor at Potsdam the following year. It gives an idea of the ordinary nature of conversations between the Emperor and his high officials on such occasions.
“BERLIN, 13 December, 1891.
“Yesterday forenoon was invited to the New Palace at Potsdam. Besides myself were the Prince and Princess von Wied, with the Mistress of the Robes and the Court marshal. Emperor and Empress very amiable. The Emperor spoke of his hunting in Alsace, and supposed it would be some years before the game there would be abundant. Then he expressed his satisfaction at my acquisition of Gensburg, and when I told him there was not much room in the castlePage 116
he said, no matter, he could nevertheless pass a few days there with a couple of gentlemen very pleasantly. Passing to politics, he gave vent to his displeasure at the attitude of the Conservative party, who were hindering the formation of a Conservative-monarchical combination against the Progressives and Social Democrats. This was all the more regrettable as the Progressives, if now and then they opposed the Social Democrats, still at bottom were with them. The Emperor approves of the commercial treaties and seemed to have great confidence in Caprivi generally. As we came to speak of intrigues and gossip, the Emperor hinted that Bismarck was behind them. He added that people were urging him from many quarters to be reconciled with Bismarck, but it was not for him to take the first step. He seemed well informed about the situation in Russia and considered it very dangerous. When I asked the Emperor how he stood now with the Czar, he replied ’Badly. He went through here without paying me a visit, and I only write him ceremonious letters. The Queen of Denmark prevented him coming to Berlin, for fear he should go to Potsdam. She has gone now with him to Livadia on the pretext of the silver wedding, but in reality to keep him away from Berlin.’”
Writing of a lunch at Potsdam, under date Berlin, November 10, 1892, the Prince notes:—
“The Emperor came late and looked tired, but was in good spirits. We went immediately to table. Afterwards the conversation turned on Bismarck. ’When one compares what Bismarck does with that for which poor Arnim had to suffer!’ He would do nothing, he said, against Bismarck, but the consequences of the whole thing were very serious. Waldersee and Bismarck couldn’t abide one another. They had, however, become allies out of common hatred of Caprivi, whose fall Bismarck desired. What might happen afterwards neither cared.”
The following was penned after the old Chancellor’s visit of reconciliation:—
“BERLIN, 27 January, 1894.
“To-night gala performance at the opera. Between the acts I talked first with different monarchs, the King of Wuerttemberg, the King of Saxony, the Grand Duke of Oldenburg, and so on. Then I was sent for by the Empress, of whom I took leave. The Emperor came shortly afterwards. We spoke of Bismarck’s visit the day before and the good consequences for the Emperor it would have. ‘Yes,’ said the Emperor, ’now they can put up triumphal arches for him in Vienna and Munich, I am all the time a length ahead. If the press continues its abuse it only puts itself and Bismarck in the wrong.’ I mentioned that red-hot partisans of Bismarck were greatly dissatisfied with the visit, and said the Emperor should have gone to Friedrichsruh (Bismarck’s estate near Hamburg). ‘I am well aware of it,’ said the Emperor,’but for that they would have had a long time to wait. He had to come here.’ On the whole the Emperor spokePage 117
very sensibly and decisively, and I did not at all get the impression that he now wants to change everything.”
Prince Hohenlohe was summoned to Potsdam in October, 1894, by a telegram from the Emperor. All the telegram said was that “important interests of the Empire” were concerned. Hohenlohe was only aware of the dismissal of Caprivi from a newspaper he read in Frankfort on his way to Potsdam. The Emperor met him at the station (Wildpark) and conveyed him to the New Palace, where the Prince agreed to accept the Chancellorship “at the Emperor’s earnest request.” Princess Hohenlohe was decidedly against her husband, who was now seventy-five, accepting the post, and even ventured to telegraph to the Empress to prevent it.
The Prince has a note on his intercourse with his imperial master. He is writing to his son, Prince Alexander:—
“BERLIN, 17 October, 1896.
“It is a curious thing—my relations to his Majesty. I come now and then to the conclusion, owing to his small inconsideratenesses, that he intentionally avoids me and that things can’t continue so. Then again I talk with him and see that I am mistaken. Yesterday I had occasion to report to him, and he poured out his heart to me and took occasion in the friendliest way to ask my advice. And thus my distrust is dissipated.”
Hunting with the Emperor:—
“15 December, 1896.
“Yesterday I obeyed the royal invitation to hunt at Springe. I had to leave Berlin as early as 7 a.m. to catch the royal train at Potsdam. From Springe railway station we passed immediately into the hunting district. Only sows were shot. I brought down six. Then we drove to the Schloss, rested for a few hours and then dined. The Emperor was in very good humour and talked incessantly; in addition the Uhlan band and the usually noisy conversation.”
When presenting his resignation to the Emperor at Hamburg in October, 1900, the Prince, who had evidently been for some time aware that his term of office was drawing to a close, describes his conversation with the Emperor:—
“At noon, as I came to the Emperor, he received me in a very friendly way. We first settled about summoning the Reichstag, and then his Majesty said, ’I have received a very distressing letter’—an allusion to the Chancellor’s official letter of resignation, which he had placed in the Emperor’s hands through Tschirschky, Foreign Minister. ’As I then,’ continued Hohenlohe, ’explained the necessity of my resignation on the ground of my health and age the Emperor, apparently quite satisfied, agreed, so that I could see he had already expected my request and consequently that it was high time I should make it. We talked further over the question of my successor, and I was agreeably surprised when he forthwith mentioned Buelow, who certainly at the moment is the best man available. His Majesty then said he would telegraph to Lucanus (Chief of the Civil Cabinet) to bring Buelow to Homburg so that we might consult about details. I breakfasted with their Majesties and went calmly home.’”
Writing to his daughter next day Prince Hohenlohe, in words that do equal credit to himself and the imperial family, says:
“It is always a pleasure to me when on such occasions I can convince myself of the Christian disposition of the imperial family. In our for the most part unbelieving age this family seems to me like an oasis in the desert.”
Prince Hohenlohe was succeeded as Chancellor by Prince von Buelow, who had held the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs for the preceding two years, and practically conducted the Emperor’s foreign policy during that time. He had served as Secretary of Embassy in St. Petersburg, Vienna, and Athens, was a Secretary to the Congress of Berlin, fought in the war with France and after seven years as Minister in Bucharest spent four years as Ambassador in Rome. Here he married a divorced Italian lady, the Countess Minghetti. After acting as deputy Foreign Secretary for the late Baron Marschall von Bieberstein, he was appointed permanent Foreign Secretary, and on October 17, 1900, was called by the Emperor to the most responsible post in the Empire next to his own, that of Imperial Chancellor. The Emperor’s choice was fully justified, for the new Chancellor proved himself to be the most brilliant diplomatist and parliamentarian since Bismarck.
THE NEW CENTURY
1900-1901
German writers, commenting on the turn of the century, claim to discover a change in the Emperor’s character about this period. He has lost much of his imaginative, his Lohengrin, vein, and has become more practical, more prosaic and matter-of-fact. To use the German word, he is now a Realpolitiker, one who deals in things, not words or theories, and drawing his gaze from the stars makes them dwell more attentively on the immediate practical considerations of the world about him. His nature has not changed, of course, nor his manner, but he has begun to see that he must employ means and ways different from those he employed previously. He has not become a Bismarck, for he still pursues his aims more in the spirit of the colonel of a regiment leading his men to the attack with banners flying, drums beating, swords rattling in their scabbards and mailed gauntlets held threateningly aloft, than in that of the cool and calculating politician ruminating in his closet on the tactics of his opponents, and deliberating how best to meet and confound them; but he gives more thought to what is going on about him, to party politics, to the economic necessities of the hour, and to modern science and its inventions.
What strikes the Englishman perhaps as much as anything in the Emperor’s character at this time is the Cromwellian trait in it. This is a side of his Protean nature which never seems to have been adequately recognized in England, yet in a singularly baffling character-composition it is one of the fundamental elements. The view of Prussian monarchy, inherited from one Hohenzollern to another for generation after
There was nothing in the Emperor’s youth to show the existence of deeply religious conviction, but as soon as he mounted the throne, and all through the reign up to the close of the century, indeed some years beyond it, his speeches, especially when he was addressing his soldiery, were filled with expressions of religious fervour. “Von Gotten Gnaden,” he writes as a preface for a Leipzig publication appearing on January 1, 1900,
“is the King; therefore to God alone is he responsible. He must choose his way and conduct himself solely from this standpoint. This fearfully heavy responsibility which the King bears for his folk gives him a claim on the faithful co-operation of his subjects. Accordingly, every man among the people must be thoroughly persuaded that he is, along with the King, responsible for the general welfare.”
It may be noted in passing that Cromwell and the Emperor are alike in being the founders of the great war navies of their respective countries.
On the date mentioned (New Year’s Day), in the Berlin arsenal when consecrating some flags, he addressed the garrison on the turn of the year:
“The first day of the new century finds our army, that is our folk in arms, gathered round its standards, kneeling before the Lord of Hosts—and certainly if anyone has reason to bend the knee before God, it is our army.”
“A glance at our standards,” the Emperor continued,
“is sufficient explanation, for they incorporate our history. What was the state of our army at the beginning of the century? The glorious army of Frederick the Great had gone to sleep on its laurels, ossified in pipeclay details, led by old, incapable generals, its officers shy of work, sunk in luxury, good living, and foolish self-satisfaction. In a word, the army was no longer not only not equal to its task, but had forgotten it. Heavy was the punishment of Heaven, which overtook it and our folk. They were flung into the dust, Frederick’s glory faded, the standards were cast down. In seven years of painful servitude God taught our folk to bethink itself of itself, and under the pressure of the feet of an arrogant usurper (Napoleon) was born the thought that it is the highest honour to devote in arms one’s life and property to the Fatherland—the thought, in short, of universal conscription.”
The word for conscription, it may be here remarked, is in German Wehrpflicht, the duty of defence.
However, we have not yet done with the Emperor’s baffling character. There was a third element that now developed in it—the modern, the twentieth-century, the American, the Rockefeller element. It is intimately connected with his Weltpolitik, as his Weltpolitik is with his foreign policy in general—indeed one might say his Weltpolitik is his foreign policy—a policy of economic expansion, with a desperate apprehension of losing any of the Empire’s property, and a determination to have a voice in the matter when there is any loose property anywhere in the world to be disposed of. To the Hebraic element and the warrior element (an entirely un-Christlike combination, as the Emperor must be aware) there now began to be added the mercantile, the modern, the American element—the interest in all the concerns of national material prosperity, in the national accumulation of wealth, the interest in inventions, in commercial science, in labour-saving machinery, the effort to win American favour, to facilitate intercourse and establish close and profitable relations with that wealthy land and people.
We know that the Emperor has English blood in him, greatly admires England, and is immensely proud of being a British admiral. We have seen him exhibiting traits of character that remind one of Lohengrin or Tancred. He has played many parts in the spirit of a Hebrew prophet and patriarch, of a Frederick the Great, a Cromwell, a Nelson, a Theodore Roosevelt. Preacher, teacher, soldier, sailor, he has been all four, now at one moment, now at another. We shall find him anon as art and dramatic critic, to end—so far as we are concerned with him—as farmer. Is it any wonder if such a man, mediaeval in his nature and modern in his character, defies clear and definite portrayal by his contemporaries?
Taking the year 1900 as the first year of the new century, not as some calculators, and the Emperor among them, take it, as the last year of the old, the twentieth century may be said to have opened with a dramatic historical episode in which the Emperor and his Empire took very prominent parts—the Boxer movement.
Little notice has been taken in our account of Germany’s spacious days of her relations to China and the Far East generally. They were, nevertheless, all through that period intimately connected with her expansion or dreams of expansion. About 1890 the Flowery Land awoke to the benefits of European civilization and in particular of European ingenuity; and in 1891, for the first time in Chinese history, foreign diplomatists were granted the privilege of an annual reception at the Chinese Court. So exclusive was the Manchu dynasty—the Hohenzollerns of China in point of antiquity; yet not a score of years later the Manchu monarchy had been quietly removed from its five-thousand-year-old throne, and China, apparently the most conservative and monarchical people on earth, proclaimed itself a republic—a regular modern republic!—an operation that among peoples claiming infinite superiority to the Chinese would have cost thousands of lives and a vast expenditure of money.
Naturally, once China showed a willingness to abandon its axenic attitude towards foreign devils and all things foreign-devilish, the European Powers turned their eyes and energies towards her, and a strenuous commercial and diplomatic race after prospective concessions for railways, mines, and undertakings of all kinds began. Each Power feared that China would be gobbled up by a rival, or that at least a partition of the vast Chinese Empire was at hand. Consequently, when China was beaten in her war with Japan, and made the unfavourable treaty of Shimonoseki, the European Powers were ready to appear as helpers in time of need. Russia, Germany, and France got the Shimonoseki Treaty altered, and the Laotung Peninsula with Port Arthur given back, and in return Russia acquired the right to build a railway through Manchuria (the first step towards “penetration” and occupation), French engineers obtained several valuable mining and railway concessions, and Germany got certain privileges in Hankow and Tientsin.
Meantime the old, deeply-rooted hatred of the foreign devil, the European, was spreading among the population, which was still, in the mass, conservative. Missionaries were murdered, and among them, in 1897, two German priests. Germany demanded compensation, and in default sent a cruiser squadron to Kiautschau Bay. Russia immediately hurried a fleet to Port Arthur and obtained from China a lease of that port for twenty-five years. England and France now put in a claim for their share of the good things going. England obtained Wei-hai-Wei, France a lease of Kwang-tschau and Hainan. China was evidently throwing herself into the arms of Europe, when, in 1898, the Dowager Empress took the government out of the hands of the young Emperor and a period of reaction set in. The appearance of Italy with a demand for a lease of the San-mun Bay in 1899 brought the Chinese anti-foreign movement to a head, and the Boxer conspiracy grew to great dimensions.
The movement was caused not merely by religious and race fanaticism, but by the popular fear that the new European era would change the economic life of China and deprive millions of Chinese of their wonted means of livelihood. The Dowager Empress and a number of Chinese princes now joined it. Massacres soon became the order of the day, and it is calculated that in the spring of 1900 alone more than 30,000 Christians were barbarously done to death. Among the victims were reckoned 118 English, 79 Americans, 25 French, and 40 of other nationalities. The Ambassadors and Ministers of all nations, conscious of their danger, applied to the Tsungli Yamen (Foreign Office), demanding that the Imperial Government should crush the Boxer movement. The Government took no steps, the diplomatists were beleaguered in their embassies, and were only saved by friendly police from being murdered.
This, however, was but a temporary respite, and it became necessary to bring marines from the foreign ships of war lying at the mouth of the Pei-ho River just out of range of the formidable Taku Forts. These troops, 2,000 in all, were led by Admiral Seymour. They tried to reach Pekin, but failed owing to the destruction of the railway, and retired to Tientsin, from whence, however, on June 16th, a detachment set out to capture the Taku Forts. The capture was effected, the German gunboat Iltis, under Captain Lans, playing a conspicuously brave part. Tientsin was now in danger from the Boxer bands, but was relieved by a mixed detachment of Russians and Germans under General Stoessel, the subsequent defender of Port Arthur.
The alarm meantime at Pekin was intense. The Chinese Government, throwing off all disguise, ordered the diplomatists to leave the city. They refused, knowing that to leave the shelter of the embassies meant torture and death. One of them, however, the German Minister, Freiherr von Ketteler, ventured from his Legation and was killed in broad daylight on his way to the Chinese Foreign Office. Only one of the Minister’s party escaped, to stagger, hacked and bloody, into the British Legation with the news. This Legation, as the strongest building in the quarter, became the refuge of the entire diplomatic corps, with their wives, children, and servants. It was straightway invested and bombarded by the Boxers, and as the days and weeks went on the other Legation buildings were burned, and the refugees in the British Legation had to look death at all hours in the face.
The murder of von Ketteler excited anger and horror throughout the world, and in no breast, naturally, to a stronger degree than in that of the German Emperor. All nations hastened to send troops to Pekin. Japan was first on the scene with 16,000 men under General Yamagutschi. Russia followed next with 15,000 under General Lenewitch, then England with 7,500 under General Gaselee, then France with 5,000 under General Frey, then America with 4,000 under General
The march to Pekin and the relief of the imprisoned Europeans are incidents still fresh in public memory. In the crowded British Legation fear alternated with hope, and hope with fear, until, on the forenoon of August 14th, a boy ran into the Legation crying that “black-faced Europeans” were advancing along the royal canal in the direction of the building. In a few minutes a company of Sikh cavalry, part of some Indian troops diverted on their way to Aden, galloped up, all danger was over, and the refugees were saved.
The Boxer troubles ended on May 13, 1901, with the signature by Li Hung Chang in the name of the Emperor of China of a treaty of peace, the main conditions of which were the payment by China within thirty years of a war indemnity to the Powers of 450 million taels (L66,000,000) and an agreement to send a mission of atonement to the Courts of Germany and Japan—for among the foreign victims of the Boxers in the previous year had been the Japanese representative in China, Baron Sugiyama.
For two or three weeks the action of the Emperor with regard to the Chinese mission of atonement brought him into universal ridicule. Prince Chun, a near relative of the Chinese Emperor, who had been appointed to conduct the mission, reached Basle in September, 1901, on his way to Berlin. Here he lingered, and it soon became known that a hitch had occurred in his relations with Germany. It then transpired that the delay was caused by the Emperor’s having suddenly intimated that he expected Prince Chun to make thrice to him, as he sat on his throne at Potsdam, the “kotow” as practised in the Court of China. In view of the surprise, laughter, and criticism of Europe, the Emperor modified his demand for the “kotow” to its symbolic performance by three deep bows. Prince Chun thereupon resumed his journey. An impressive, if theatrical, scene was prepared in the New Palace at Potsdam, where the Emperor, seated on the throne, his marshal’s baton in his hand, and flanked by Ministers and the officers of his household, received the bearer of China’s expressions of regret. Whatever one may think of the scenic effect provided, the reply the Emperor made to Prince Chun, after the three bows arranged upon had been made, is a model of its kind—general not personal, sorrowful rather than angry, warning rather than reproachful. The Emperor said—
“No pleasing nor festive cause, no mere fulfilment of a courtly duty, has brought your Imperial Highness to me, but a sad and deeply grave occurrence. My Minister to the Court of his Majesty the Emperor of China, Freiherr von Ketteler, fell in the Chinese capital beneath the murderous weapons of an imperial Chinese soldier, who acted by the orders of a superior, an unheard-of outrage condemned by the law of nations and the moral sense of all countries. From your Imperial Highness I have now heard the expression of the sincere and deep regret of his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of China regarding the occurrence. I am glad to believe that your Imperial Highness’s royal brother had nothing to do with the crime or with the further acts of violence against inviolable Ministers and peaceful foreigners, but all the greater is the guilt which attaches to his advisers and his Government. Let these not deceive themselves by supposing that they can make atonement and receive pardon for their crime through this mission alone, and not through their subsequent conduct in the light of the prescriptions of international law and the moral principles of civilized peoples. If his Majesty the Emperor of China henceforward directs the government of his great Empire in the spirit of these ordinances, his hope that the sad consequences of the confusion of last year may be overcome, and permanent, peaceful and friendly relations between Germany and China may exist as before, will be realized to the benefit of both peoples and the whole of civilized humanity. In the sincere wish that it may be so, I welcome your Imperial Highness.”
The Emperor’s other speeches referring to the Boxer movement at this period have been adversely commented on as showing him in the light of a cruel and blood-thirsty seeker after revenge. This is an unjust, at least a hard, judgment. A passage in his address at Bremerhaven to the expeditionary force when setting out for China is the main proof of the charge—in which, after referring to the murder of von Ketteler, he said:
“You know well you will have to fight with a cunning, brave, well-armed, cruel foe. When you come to close quarters with him remember—quarter (’Pardon’ is the German word the Emperor used) must not be given: prisoners must not be taken: manage your weapons so that for a thousand years to come no Chinaman will dare to look sideways at a German. Act like men.”
It is difficult, of course, to reconcile such an address with Christian humanity practised, so far as humanity can be practised, in modern war, but it should be remembered that the Emperor was speaking in a state of great excitement, and that, according to Chancellor Prince Buelow’s statement in the Reichstag subsequently, confirmation of the news of the murder of his Minister to China had only reached the Emperor ten minutes before he delivered the speech.
There is one incident, however, though not a very important one, in connexion with the troubles, which may fairly be made a matter of reproach to the Emperor—the seizure, on his order, of the ancient astronomical instruments at Pekin and their transference to Sans Souci, in Potsdam, where they are to be seen to the present day. The troops of all nations, it is known, looted freely at Pekin; but the Emperor might have spared China and his own fair fame the indignity of such public vandalism.
While writing of China it may not be superfluous to add that the Emperor’s foreign policy in the Orient cannot be expected to present exactly the same features, or proceed quite along the same lines, as his foreign policy in Europe. By far the greater part of Europe is now as completely parcelled out and as permanently settled as though it were a huge, well-managed estate. The capacities of its high roads, its railways, its great rivers, with their commercial and strategic values and relations are perfectly ascertained; and the knowledge, it is not too much to say, is the common property of all important Governments. It is not so, or not nearly to the same extent, in the Orient. In Europe there is little or no difficulty in distinguishing between enterprises that are political and those that are commercial, or in recognizing where they are both; and if a difficulty should arise it can be arranged by diplomatic conversations, by a conference of the Powers interested, or in the last resort—short of war—by arbitration. This is not so simple a matter in the Orient, where conditions are at once old and new, where interests of possibly great magnitude are as yet undetermined or unappropriated, where possibly great mineral sources are undeveloped and the capacities of new markets unascertained; where, in short, the decisive factors of the problem are undiscovered, it may be unsuspected.
In such cases there is often no certain and readily recognizable line of demarcation between the two kinds of enterprise; and an undertaking that may present all the appearance of being a purely commercial scheme, and be solemnly asseverated to be such by the Power or Powers promoting it, may turn out on closer examination to be one of great political significance and incalculable political consequence. Of such enterprises two immediately spring to mind, the Cape to Cairo railway and the Baghdad railway, not to mention a score of problematic undertakings in other parts of Africa or Asia. It will be useful to keep this general consideration in view when forming an opinion regarding the Emperor’s Oriental policy. That policy is, so far, almost entirely commercial. Long ago wars used to be made for the sake of religion, then for the sake of territory. Now they are made for the sake of new markets.
Yet the Far East is changing with the change in conditions everywhere in modern times, and it is evident that the premises for any conclusion as to German foreign policy there may, at any given moment, be subject to modification. Partly owing to the growth of Germany’s European influence, and to the increase in her navy which has helped her to it, she is to be found of recent years playing a role in the Far East which would have been unintelligible to the German of the last generation. There are many Germans to-day, as in Bismarck’s time, who ridicule the notion that the possibilities of trade in Oriental countries justify the national risk now run for it and the national expenditure now made upon it; but it is sometimes forgotten that, apart from the chance of obtaining concessions for the building of railways, for the establishment of banks, for the leasing of mines and working of cotton plantations, there is a large German export of beads, cloth, and, in short, of hundreds of articles which appeal to barbarian or only semi-civilized tastes.
Germany, too, looks hopefully forward to a future in which she will be supplied with the raw material of her manufactures by her colonies, or failing that by her subjects trading abroad in the colonies of other nations. This is one of the main objects of her Weltpolitik. As Prince von Buelow said: “The time has passed when the German left the earth to one neighbour and the sea to another, while he reserved heaven, where pure doctrines are enthroned, to himself;” and again: “We don’t seek to put anybody in the shade, but we demand our place in the sun;” and the idea finds technical expression in the phrase on which Germany lays so much stress, the “maintenance of the open door.” Her policy in the Far East, as in Europe, is thus on the whole a commercial one; she seeks there as elsewhere new markets, not new territory. Accordingly she supports the principle of the status quo in China, and therefore raised no objection to the Anglo-Japanese Agreement of 1902 which, among other objects, secured it.
In January, 1901, the Emperor was called to England by the sudden, and, as it was to prove, fatal illness of his grandmother, Queen Victoria. His journey to Osborne, where he arrived just in time to be recognized by the dying Queen, and his abandonment of the idea, impressive and almost sacred to a Prussian King and the Prussian people, of being present on his birthday, January 27th, at the bicentenary celebration of the foundation of the Prussian Kingdom, made a deep and sympathetic impression on the people of England. Usually on State occasions the Emperor does not display a countenance of good humour, or indeed of any sentiment save perhaps that of a sense of dignity; but on the occasion in question, as he rode in the uniform of a British Field-Marshal beside Edward VII, his looks were those of genuine sorrow. Public sympathy was not lessened when it became known that he had mentioned the pride he felt in being privileged to wear the uniform of two such soldiers of renown as the Duke of Wellington and Lord Roberts; and added that the privilege would be highly estimated by the whole German army. It was a chivalrous remark, the offspring of a chivalrous disposition.
The Emperor had hardly returned to Germany when, on February 6th, the only attack ever made on his person occurred in Bremen. He had been at a banquet in the town hall, and was being driven through the illuminated streets to the railway station to return to Berlin, when a half-witted locksmith’s apprentice of nineteen, Dietrich Weiland by name, flung a piece of railway iron at him with such good aim that it struck him on the face immediately under the right eye, inflicting a deep and nasty, but not dangerous wound. The Emperor proceeded with his journey, the doctors attending to his injury in the train, and in a few weeks he was well again. Weiland was sent to a criminal lunatic asylum. The attempt had, apparently, nothing to do with Anarchism or Nihilism or the Social Democracy. When the Emperor alluded to it afterwards in his speech to the Diet, he referred it to a general diminution of respect for authority.
“Respect for authority,” he said to the Diet,
“is wanting. In this regard all classes of the population are to blame. Particular interests are looked to, not the general well-being of the folk. Criticism of the measures of the Government and Throne takes the coarsest and most injurious forms—and hence the errors and demoralization of our youth. Parliament must help here, and a change must be made, beginning with the schools.”
It was natural enough that a few days after, addressing the Alexander Regiment of Guards, who were taking up quarters in a new barracks near the palace in Berlin, he should tell them the barracks were like a citadel to the palace, and that, as a sort of imperial bodyguard, the regiment “must be ready, day and night as once before”—he was referring to the “March Days”—“to meet any attack by the citizens on the Emperor.”
At Bonn in April the Emperor attended the matriculation (immatriculation, the Germans call it) of his eldest son, the Crown Prince, at the university. He was in civil dress, one of the rare public occasions during the reign when he has not been in uniform, but this did not prevent him delivering a martial address to the Borussians. “I hope and expect from the younger generation,” he said to the students,
“that they will put me in a position to maintain our German Fatherland in its close and strong boundaries and in the congeries of German races—doing to no one favour and to no one harm. If, however, anyone should touch us too nearly, then I will call upon you and I expect you won’t leave your Emperor sitting.”
A great shout of “Bravo!” went up when the Emperor ceased, and the students doubtless all thought what a fine thing it would be if he would only lead them straightway against those cheeky Englanders.
At the end of June, on board the Hamburg-American pleasure-steamer Princess Victoria Luise, the Emperor pronounced the famous sentence—“Our future lies on the water.” The year before he had said something like it, and it is worth quoting as the Emperor’s first explicit allusion to Weltpolitik. “Strongly,” he exclaimed,
“dashes the beat of ocean at the doors of our people and compels it to preservation of its place in the world, in a word, to Weltpolitik. The ocean is indispensable for Germany’s greatness. The ocean testifies that on it and far beyond it no important decision will be taken without Germany and the German Emperor.”
His words on the present occasion were:
“My entire task for the future will be to see that the undertakings of which the foundations have been laid may develop quietly and surely. We have, though as yet without the fleet as it should be, achieved our place in the sun. It will now be my task to hold this place unquestioned, so that its rays may act favourably on trade and industry and agriculture at home inside, and on our sail-sports on the coast—for our future lies on the water. The more Germans go on the sea—whether travelling or in the service of the State—the better. When the German has once learned to look abroad and afar he will lose that ‘hang’ towards the petty, the trivial, which now so often seizes him in daily life.”
And he closed: “We must now go out in search of new spots where we can drive in nails on which to hang our armour.”
Early in August the Emperor was called to the death-bed of his mother, the Empress Frederick, at her castle in Cronberg. She died on the afternoon of her son’s arrival, on August 5th. The Emperor ordered mourning throughout the Empire for six weeks, and forbade all “public music, entertainments, theatrical or otherwise” until after the funeral. The Empress was buried in the mausoleum attached to the Friedenskirche in Potsdam on the 13th of the month.
The delivery of a famous speech on art by the Emperor in December brings the chronicle of 1901 to a close, but perhaps it will not displease the reader if a new chapter is opened for the purpose of quoting it and of considering the Emperor in what is a traditional Hohenzollern relationship.
THE EMPEROR AND THE ARTS
Art is a favourite subject of conversation on the Continent, where it is more popularly discussed than in England and where authorities of all kinds are more alive to its educative capabilities. It is eminently “safe” ground, does not savour of gossip, and no one need leave the field of discussion with the feeling that he has been driven from it. Hence it is the salvation of diplomatists who are apprehensive of committing their Governments or themselves when mixing in general society, and it doubtless does good service for the Emperor also upon occasion. Indeed it is a topic on which he speaks willingly and well.
Unfortunately for precision of thought and speech, though useful for the man in the street, the word “art” has been pressed into the service of metaphor more than almost any other word in language. We are told in turn that everything is an art—hair-dressing, salad-dressing (a different kind), lying, flying, dying. The Germans are trying to make an art of life. Whistler wrote about the “Gentle Art of Making Enemies.” One hears of “artful hussies” and “artful dodgers.” People are described as “artful” in the small diplomacies of intercourse. Jugglers, acrobats, sword-swallowers, “supers” at the theatre, the men who play the elephant in the pantomime would all be mortified if they were not addressed as “artists,” In short, everything may be called an art.
But what, truly, is art? The question is as hard to answer satisfactorily as the questions what is truth or what is beauty? The notion “art” usually occurs to the mind as contrasted with the notion “nature”; the word is derived from the Sanskrit root ar, to plough, to make, to do; and accordingly art may be taken to be something made by man, as contrasted with something made, or grown, or given by God. How art came into existence it is of course impossible to do more than conjecture. The necessities of primitive man may have stimulated his inventive powers into originating and developing the useful arts for his physical comfort and convenience; and his desire for recreation after labour, or the mere ennui of idleness, may have urged the same powers into originating and developing the fine and plastic arts for the entertainment of his mind. Or, lastly, if no better reason can be found, and though Sir Joshua Reynolds laid it down that all models of perfection in art must be sought for on the earth, it may be that seeing and feeling instinctively the glory and beauty of the Creation, mankind began gradually, as its intelligence improved, to burn with a longing to imitate, reproduce, and represent them.
However art arose, it seems true to say, as a German writer has well said, that when a work of art, whether a poem or a picture or a statue, causes in us the thought that so, and in no other way, would we ourselves have expressed the idea, had we the talent, then we may conclude that true art is speaking to us, whatever the idea to be expressed may be. Everything demands thought, but our thoughts are an unruly folk, which never keep long on the same straight road, and love to wander off to left and right, here finding something new and there throwing away something old. The artist, when he conceives a plan, has to fight with the host of his thoughts and find a way through them. They often threaten to divert him from it, but on the other hand they often lead him to his goal by novel paths along which he finds much that is new and valuable.
This is a doctrine that, sensible though it is, would hardly be subscribed to by the Emperor, to whom no new movement in art strongly appeals, and who thinks that such movements, unless founded on the old classical school, the Greek and Roman school of beauty, ought, in the public interest, to be discouraged. However, let him speak for himself. He set forth his art creed in a speech which he delivered on December 18, 1901, to the sculptors who had executed the Hohenzollern statues in the famous Siegesallee at Berlin, and which ran substantially as follows:—
“I gladly seize the occasion, first of all, to express my congratulations and then my thanks for the manner in which you have assisted me to carry out my original plan. The preparation of the plan for the Siegesallee has occupied many years, and the learned historiographer of my House, Professor Dr. Poser, is the man who put me in a position to set the artists clear and intelligible tasks. Once the historic basis was found the work could be proceeded with, and when the personalities of the princes were established it was possible to ascertain those who had been their most important helpers. In this manner the groups originated and, to a certain extent, conditioned by their history, the forms of them came into existence.
“The next most
difficult question was—Was it possible,
as I
hoped it was, to find
in Berlin so many artists as would be
able to work together
harmoniously to realize the programme?
“As I came to consider the question, I had in view to show the world that the most favourable condition for the successful achievement of the work was not the appointment of an art commission and the establishment of prize competitions, but that in accord with ancient custom, as in the classical period, and later during the Middle Ages, was the case, it lay in the direct intercourse of the employer with the artists.
“I am therefore especially obliged to Professor Reinhold Begas for having assured me, when I applied to him, that there was absolutely no doubt there could be found in Berlin a sufficiency of artists to carry out the idea; and with his help, and in consequence of the acquaintances I have made by visiting exhibitions and studios in Berlin, I succeeded in getting together a staff, the majority of whom I see around me, with whom to approach the task.
“I think you will not refuse me the testimony that, in respect of the programme I drew up I have made the treatment of it as easy as possible, that while I ordered and defined the work I gave you an absolute freedom not only in the combination and composition, but precisely the freedom to put into it that from himself which every artist must if he is to give the work the stamp of his own individuality, since every work of art contains in itself something of the individual character of the artist. I believe that this experiment, if I may so call it, as made in the Siegesallee, has succeeded.
“... I have
never interfered with details, but have
contented myself with
simply giving the direction, the
impulse.
“But to-day the thought that Berlin stands there before the whole world with a guild of artists able to carry out so magnificent a project fills me with satisfaction and pride. It shows that the Berlin school of art stands on a height which could hardly have been more splendid in the time of the Renaissance.
“Here, too, one can draw a parallel between the great artistic achievements of the Middle Ages and the Italians—that, namely, the head of the State, an art-loving prince, who offered their tasks to the artists also found the master round whom a school of artists could gather.
“How is it, generally speaking, with art in the world? It takes its models, supplies itself from the great sources of Mother Nature, who, spite of her apparently unfettered, limitless freedom, still moves according to eternal laws which the Creator ordained for himself and which cannot be passed or violated without danger to the development of the world.
“Even so it is in art; and at the sight of the beautiful remains of old classical times comes again over one the feeling that here too reigns an eternal law that is always true to itself, the law of beauty and harmony, of the aesthetic. This law is given expression to by the ancients in so surprising and overpowering a fashion, in so thoroughly complete a form that we, with all our modern sensibilities and with all our power, are still proud, when we have done any specially fine piece of work, to hear that it is almost as good as it was made nineteen hundred years ago.
“But only almost! Under this impression I would earnestly ask you to lay it to heart that sculpture still remains untainted by so-called modern tendencies and currents—still stands high and chastely there! Keep her so, don’t let yourselves be misled by human criticism or any wind of doctrine to abandon the principles on which she has been built up.
“An art which transgresses the laws and limits I have indicated is art no more. It is factory work, handicraft, and that is a thing art should never be. Under the often misused word ‘freedom’ and her flag one falls too readily into boundlessness, unrestraint, self-exaggeration. For whoever cuts loose from the law of beauty, and the feeling for the aesthetic and harmonious, which every human breast feels, whether he can express it or not, and in his thought makes his chief object some special direction, some specific solution of more technical tasks, that man denies art’s first sources.
“Yet again. Art should help to exercise an educative influence on the people. She should offer the lower classes, after the hard work of the day, the possibility of refreshing themselves by regarding what is ideal. To us Germans great ideals have become permanent possessions, whereas to other peoples they have been more or less lost. Only the German people remainPage 132
called to preserve these great ideas, to cultivate and continue them. And among these ideals is this, that we afford the possibility to the working classes to elevate themselves by beauty, and by beauty to enable them to abstract themselves and rise above the thoughts they otherwise would have.
“When Art, as now often occurs, does nothing more than represent misery as still more unlovely than it is already, by so doing she sins against the German people. The cultivation of the ideal is at the same time the greatest work of culture, and if we wish to be and remain an example in this to other nations the whole people must work together to that end; if Culture is to fulfil her task she must penetrate to the lowest classes of society. That she can only do when art comes into play, when she raises up, instead of descending into the gutter.
“As ruler of the country I often find it extremely bitter that art, through its masters, does not with sufficient energy oppose such tendencies. I do not for a moment fail to perceive that many an aspiring character is to be found among the partisans of these tendencies, who are perhaps filled with the best intentions but who are on the wrong path. The true artist needs no advertisement, no press, no patronage. I do not believe that your great protagonists in the domain of science, either in ancient Greece or in Italy or in the Renaissance period ever had recourse to a reclame such as nowadays is often made in the press in order to bring their ideas into prominence, but worked as God inspired them and let others do the talking.
“And so must an honest, proper artist act. The art which descends to reclame is no art be it lauded a hundred or a thousand-fold. A feeling for what is beautiful or ugly has every one, be he ever so simple, and to educate this feeling in the people I require all of you. That in the Siegesallee you have done a piece of such work, I have specially to thank you.
“This I can even now tell you—the impression which the Siegesallee has made on the foreigner is quite an overpowering one; everywhere respect for German sculpture is making itself perceivable. May you always remain on these heights, may such masters stand by my sons and sons’ sons, should they ever come into existence! Then, I am convinced, will our people be in a position to love the beautiful and honour lofty ideals.”
At the Berlin Art Museum next year, after praising the devotion of his parents to art, and especially of his mother, “a nature,” he said, “about which poesy breathed,” he continued:—
“The son of both stands before you as their heir and executor: and so I regard it as my task, according to the intention of my parents, to hold my hand over my German people and its growing generation, to foster the love of beauty in them, and to develop art in them; but only along the lines and within the bounds drawn strictly by the feelings in mankind for beauty and harmony.”
The Emperor’s speech to the sculptors, if it contains some questionable statements, is a thoughtful address by one who is himself an artist, though not perhaps an artist of a high class. His artistic endowments, transmitted from his parents, have been already indicated. In reference to them he said to the official conducting him over the Marienburg in later years, when the official expressed surprise at the Emperor’s art-knowledge:—
“There is nothing wonderful in it. I was brought up in an artistic atmosphere. My mother was an artist, and from my earliest youth I have been surrounded by beautiful things. Art is my friend and my recreation.”
The highest praise of a work of art is to say of it that it pleased, or would have pleased; his mother. Of her he said, “Every thought she had was art, and to her everything, however simple, which was meant for the use of life, was penetrated with beauty.” When giving his sanction to a plan, a park, a statue or a building he always thinks—“Would it have pleased my parents—what would they have said about it?” The Kaiser Friedrich Museum and the Kaiser Friedrich Memorial Church, both in Berlin, testify to the Emperor’s gratitude to his parents for their artistic legacy.
He went, as we have seen, through the ordinary art drudgery of the school, recognizing, no doubt, with Michael Angelo, with all good artists, that correct drawing is the foundation of every art into which drawing enters and applying himself industriously to it. As a young soldier at Potsdam he spent a good deal of his time, during the three years from 1880 to 1883, practising oil-painting under the guidance of Herr Karl Salzmann, a distinguished Berlin painter. Among the results of this instruction was a picture which the princely artist called “The Corvette—Prince Adalbert in the Bay of Samitsu,” now hanging in the residence of his brother, Prince Henry, at Kiel; and two years later, as his interest in the navy grew, a “Fight between an Armoured Ship and a Torpedo-boat.” Innumerable aquarelles and sketches, chiefly of marine subjects, were also the fruit of this period.
The Emperor has constantly cultivated free and friendly intercourse with the best artists of his own and other nations, and been continually engaged devoting time and money to the art education of his people. The admirable art exhibitions in Berlin of the best examples of painting by English, French, and American artists, which he personally promoted and was greatly interested in, may be recalled as instances. If his efforts in encouraging art among his people have not been so successful as his imperial activities in other directions, the reason is not any fault on his part, but simply that art refuses to be, in Shakespeare’s phrase, “tongue-tied by authority.”
This was shown by the chorus of unfavourable criticism which the speech to the sculptors drew forth. No one questioned the sincerity of the Emperor or the magnanimity of his aims, nor was the criticism wholly caused by the suspicion that it savoured of the “personal regiment” under which the people were growing impatient; but many thought he was pushing the dynastic principle too far and unduly interfering with liberty of thought and judgment, and that there was something Oriental as well as selfish in occupying with a gallery of his ancestors, the majority of whom were, after all, very ordinary people, one of the fairest spots in the capital. Perhaps, however, what was most objected to was his trying to drive the art of the nation into a groove, the direction given by himself: in trying to inspire it with a particular spirit and that an ancient not a modern spirit, when he ought to let the spirit come of its own accord out of the mind of the people—the mind of many millions, not the mind of one man, however high his rank. Politics and government might be things in which he had a right to an authoritative voice, but art, like religion, the people considered to be a matter for individual taste and judgment.
Yet something may be advanced in favour of the Emperor. His recommendation, for in fact it was and could be only that, was quite in keeping with the traditions of his office and the people’s own view of royal government. The speech, as was admitted, was suggested by no mere dilettante’s vanity, but, as is evident from his words at the Art Museum, by the conviction that just as it is the imperial duty to provide an efficient army and navy, so it is the imperial duty to use every personal and private, as well as every public and official, effort to provide the people with an art as efficient, as honest, and as clean; and it was inevitable that the art the Emperor recommended was that which he believed, and still believes, to be in conformity with the ideals, as he interprets them, or would have them to be, of the Germanic race.
The speech itself is interesting as showing the Emperor’s attitude towards art and artists and his personal conception of art and its nature. His attitude is evidently that of the art-loving prince of whom he speaks in the address, a royal Maecenas or di Medici, who gathers artists round him; but he means to use them, not so much perhaps for art’s sake, as for the instruction and elevation of his folk. A very laudable aim; only, as it happens, the folk in this matter desire themselves to decide what is improving and elevating for them and what is not. They are not willing to leave the exclusive choice to the Emperor.
The Emperor, again, would give the artist the freedom to put into his work “that from himself which any artist must, if he is to give the work the stamp of his own individuality.” This attitude, too, is admirable, but on the other hand lies the danger, such is poor human nature, that the individuality will be that which the Emperor wishes it to be, not the artist’s independent individuality To the foreign eye all the Hohenzollern statues in the Siegesallee, with the exception possibly of two or three, seem to have much the same individuality, though that again may be due to the nature of the subject and the foreigner’s inherent and ineradicable predispositions.
Thirdly, art, the Emperor says, can only be educative when it elevates instead of descending into the gutter. Hogarth descended into the gutter. Gustav Dore depicts the horrors of hell. Yet both Hogarth and Dore were great artists, and educative too. The Emperor was here thinking of the Berlin Secession, a school just then starting, eccentric indeed and far from “classical,” but which nevertheless has since produced several fine artists. The Emperor, it would appear, thinks that the antique classical school is the true and only good school for the artist. Very likely most artists will agree with him— at least as a foundation; but the belief, it also appears, is not considered in Germany, or outside of it, to justify the Emperor, as Emperor, in discouraging all other schools and particularly the efforts of modern artists in their non-classical imaginings.
The Emperor says art “takes its models, supplies itself from the great sources of Mother Nature.” With all courtesy to the Emperor one may suggest that art, and sane art, takes its models not only from Mother Nature, but also from an almost as prolific a maternal source, namely imagination; and that imagination is limited by no eternal laws we know of, or can even suspect. Accordingly it is useless to check, or try to check, the imagination by telling it to work in a certain direction—so long, naturally, as the imagination is not obviously indecent or insane.
Again, the Emperor says that in classical art there reigns an eternal law, the “law of beauty and harmony, of the aesthetic” which is expressed in a “thoroughly complete form” by the ancients. It is admittedly a delightful and admirable form, but is it thoroughly complete? Is it the last and only form; and may not the very same law be found by experiment to be at work in future art that cannot be called classical, as it was found to be at work in the various noble schools since classical times? One must agree with the Emperor that the Greeks and Romans illustrated the “law of beauty and harmony, of the esthetic, in a wonderful manner.” But it was wonderfully done for their age and intellect. They did not exhaust the beautiful and harmonious: far from it.
Neither the world nor mankind has been standing still ever since; certainly the mind of man has not, even though his senses have undergone no elemental change. Paganism was succeeded by Christianity, and with Christianity came a new art canon, new forms of beauty and harmony—the Early Italian. The age of reason followed, bringing with it the Baroque and Rococo canons: and as time went on, and the world’s mind kept working, came other canons still. The most recent canon appears to be that of naturalism (the Emperor’s “gutter “) with which artists are now experimentalizing. None of the canons, be it noticed, destroyed the canon that preceded, because beauty and harmony are indestructible and imperishable. “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.”
But not only the mind of man kept changing: the world itself and its civilization—by war, by treaty, by science, by invention, by art itself—kept changing, and is changing now. Development, physical as well as social, has been constant, and the changes accompanying it have inspired, and are inspiring, artists with new ideas to which they are always trying to give expression. The subjects of art have enormously multiplied. Those introduced by sport of all kinds, by the development of the theatre, by the newly-found effects of light and colour, need only be mentioned as examples capable of suggesting beauties and harmonies unknown to and unsuspected by the ancients. Hence, in addition to the classical art of the day, there is room for the “new art,” the secessionist, the futurist, the impressionist, even the cubist, or whatever the experimental movement may call itself. And any day any of these movements may lead to the establishment of a new and admirable school of genuine art as beautiful as the classical, if in a different manner. The world has no idea of the surprises in all directions yet in store for it.
The Emperor, too, is at one with all the world in assuming that art, to deserve the name, must possess the quality of beauty. He speaks of “beauty and harmony,” but let it be taken that he understands beauty to include harmony. Now, as has been suggested, to answer the question, what is beauty, satisfactorily, is no easy matter. In immediate proximity to it lies the question, what is ugliness? It might be argued that nothing in nature is ugly, and that the word was introduced to express what is merely an inability on the part of mankind to perceive the beauty which constitutes nature; and it certainly is possible that, were man endowed with the mind of God, instead of with only some infinitesimal and mysterious emanation of it, he would find all things in creation, all art included, beautiful. The author of the Book of Genesis asserts that when God had finished making the world He looked upon His handiwork and saw that it was good. There is one advantage in adopting this view, and no small one, that a belief in its truth must impel us to look for beauty and goodness in all things, whether in art or nature—and even in the Secession. Perhaps, however, we shall not be far from the truth in saying, as regards art, that all things in creation are beautiful, that there are degrees in beauty of which ugliness is the lowest, and that the truly inspired artist can make all things, ugliness included, beautiful.
The Emperor thinks the appreciation of beauty is one of our innate ideas, like the ability to distinguish between right and wrong, which we call conscience. There is no agreement among thinkers on the point, and it may be that both beauty and conscience are relative, and simply the result of environment and education. Certainly there is no standard of beauty, and more certainly still, not of feminine beauty. The Mahommedan admires a woman who has the nose of the parrot, the teeth of the pomegranate seed, and the tread of the elephant.
But though there is no complete standard of beauty about which all people, at all times, in all countries, are agreed, there are two elements of beauty which may be said to have been standardized, at least for the civilized world, by the early Greeks and Romans. These elements are simplicity and harmony, simplicity being the forms of things most directly and pleasingly appealing to the eye and most easily reaching the common understanding, while harmony is the combination of parts most nearly identical with the lines, contours, and proportions of nature. These are two essentials of good sculpture, and the Emperor was talking to sculptors and perhaps thinking only of sculpture.
Yet simplicity and harmony alone do not constitute beauty, while on the other hand beauty may take very complicated forms. A third element one may suggest is essential, and its indescribable nature causes all the difficulty there is in defining beauty. This third element is—charm. A work of art, to be beautiful, must charm, and to different people different things are charming. Plato’s theory is that the sense of beauty is a dim recollection of a standard we have seen in a heavenly pre-existence. Accepting it as as good an explanation of charm as we can get, we may conclude by defining beauty as, in its highest form, a combination of simplicity and harmony, resulting in charm.
The Emperor says: “To us Germans great ideals have become permanent possessions, whereas to other peoples they have been more or less lost.” The remark is not one of those best calculated to promote friendly feelings on the part of other peoples towards Germany or its Emperor. It is like his declaration that Germans are the “salt of the earth,” and of a piece with the aggressive attitude of intellectual superiority adopted by many Germans towards other nations—one reason, by the way, for German unpopularity in the world. But is it true? Germany has great ideals in permanent possession, but are they more or less lost to other peoples? It is at least doubtful. Great ideals are the permanent possession of every great people; it is these ideals that have made them great; and they are no less great if they differ according to the nature and conditions of each great people. One might go further, indeed, and say that great ideals are the common property and permanent possession of all great peoples. It is a hard saying that any one people has a monopoly of them. The contribution of every great nation to the common stock of great ideals is incalculable, and it would be interesting to investigate which nation is most successfully working out its great ideals in practice.
The truth is the German ideal of beauty in art is not, generally speaking, the same as that of the Anglo-Saxon or Latin foreigner. The art ideals of the Anglo-Saxon and Latin races in this respect are for the most part Greek, while those of the German race are for the most part Roman; and in each case the ideals are the outcome of the spirit which has had most influence on the mind and manners of the different races. The Greek philosophic and aesthetic spirit has chiefly influenced Anglo-Saxon and Latin art ideals: the Roman spirit, particularly the military spirit and the spirit of law, have chiefly influenced German ideals: and, as a result, arrived at through ages during which events of epoch-making importance caused many successive modifications, while the Anglo-Saxon and Latin races are most impressed by such qualities as lightness and delicacy of outline, round and softly-flowing curves and elegance of ornamentation, the German appears, to the Anglo-Saxon and Latin, to be more impressed by the elaborate, the gigantic, the Gothic, the grotesque, the hard, the made, the massive, and the square. In both styles are to be found “beauty and harmony, the aesthetic,” to quote the Emperor, but they appeal differently to people of different national temperaments. To the Anglo-Saxon and Latin in general, therefore, German art, and particularly German sculpture and architecture, while impressive and admirable, lack for most foreigners the entirely indescribable quality we have called “charm.”
The true artist, the Emperor says, needs no advertisement, no press, no patronage. The Emperor is right. The true artist, once he begins to produce first-rate work, will obtain instant recognition, and his work will begin to sell, not perhaps at prices the same kind of work may bring later, but at prices sufficient to support the artist and his family in reasonable comfort. If it does not, he is not producing good work and had better turn his attention to something else. As a matter of fact very few true artists do advertise, use the press, or seek patronage. The artist does not go to the press or the patron, for nowadays, the moment the artist does excellent work, the press and the patron go to him, and, when he is very exceptionally good, he is advertised and patronized until he is sick of both advertisement and patronage.
Naturally it is different in the case of the artist who is not excellently good, but the Emperor was not considering such. These artists too, however, insist on living and must find a market for their wares. It is an age of advertisement, the growth of new economic conditions, for advertisement creates as well as reveals new markets. Hence the vast host of mediocrities, not only in art but in almost every field of human activity, nowadays advertise and seek patronage because only in this way can they find purchasers and live. These artists, often men of talent, dislike having to advertise; they would rather work for art’s sake, but having to do so need not hinder them from working for art’s sake, since all that is meant by that much misused phrase is that while the artist is working he shall not think of the reward of his work, but simply and solely of how to do the best work he can.
Before leaving the Emperor’s speech one is tempted to inquire what should be the attitude of a sovereign towards art and artists. For the Englishman the doctrine of Individualism—the thing he is so apt to make a fetish of—gives an answer, and, it may be, the right one. The Englishman will probably say that if in any one province of life more than in another freedom should be allowed to originality of conception regarding the form as well as the substance, the manner as well as the matter, it is in the province of art, always provided, of course, that the artist is sane and not guilty of indecency. The artist, like the poet, is born not made; you cannot make an artist, you can only make an artisan. The artist, who represents the Creator, the creative faculty, can influence man: man cannot, and should not try to, influence the artist, but can, and should only, offer him the materials for his art, smooth the way for his endeavour, encourage him in it by sympathetic yet candid criticism, and above all, when he can afford it, by buying the result of his endeavour when it is successful.
This should be the attitude of both monarch and Maecenas: it is an attitude of benevolent neutrality. “I know,” such a Maecenas might say to the artist,
“that your artistic faculties move in an atmosphere above as well as on the earth, as I know that above the atmosphere of oxygen and hydrogen which envelops the earth there is an ethereal, a rarefied atmosphere, which stretches to worlds of which all we know is that they exist. If your spirit can soar above this earthly atmosphere, well and good. I, for one, shall do nothing to limit or hinder it: I shall only welcome and applaud and reward whatever effort you make to bring our inner being a step, long or short, nearer to the source of celestial light. Consequently, I offer you no instructions and put no fetters on your imagination.”
It takes all sorts of art to make an artistic world, as it takes all sorts of people to make the human world: a world with only classic art in it would be as uninteresting and unthinkable as a world in which every one was of the same character, occupation, and dress.
But it is time to consider the Emperor a little more in detail in relation to his connexion with the arts. If he were not a first-rate monarch he would probably be a first-rate artist. He said once that if he were to be an artist, he would be a sculptor. But if he is not a professional artist he is a connoisseur, a dilettante in the right sense, a lover of the arts, an art-loving prince. The painter Salzmann tells us how he used to go to the Villa Liegnitz in Potsdam to give Prince William lessons, and how the Empress, then Princess William, used to sit with the pupil and his teacher, discussing technical and art questions. A result of the teaching, in addition to the pictures mentioned elsewhere, was an oil-painting, a sea-fight, which still hangs in the Ravene Gallery in Berlin.
In the spring of 1886 the Prince sent his teacher a sketch for criticism. Salzmann wired his opinion to Potsdam, and a telegram came back, “What does ‘wind too anxious’ mean? is it so stormily painted that you shuddered at it, or is it not stormy enough?” Salzmann is also authority for the statement that the Prince sent in a sea-piece to the annual Berlin Art Exhibition. It was placed ready to be judged, but suddenly disappeared. The Emperor William, it appeared, had decided that it would not do for a future Emperor to compete with professional artists or run the risk of sarcastic public criticism. Naturally since he came to the throne the Emperor has never had time to cultivate his talent as a painter, but has always fed his eyes and mind on the best kind of painting, and brings his sense of form and colour to bear on everything he does or has a voice in.
That the Emperor’s own taste in painting is of a “classical” kind in a very catholic sense was shown by the personal interest he took in getting together and having brought to Berlin the exhibition of old English masters in 1908. At his request the English owners of many of these treasures agreed to lend them for exhibition in Germany, submitting thereby to the risk of loss or damage, displaying an unselfish disposition to aid in elevating the taste of a foreign people, and at the same time giving Germans a better and more tangible idea of the nation which could produce artists of such nobility of feeling and marvellous technical capacity. The Emperor paid several visits to the exhibition and thousands of Berlin folk followed his example, so that the beauty of the works of Gainsborough, Raeburn, Lawrence, Hoppner, and Romney was for months a topic of enthusiastic conversation in the capital.
Encouraged by this success, the Emperor next caused a similar exhibition of French painters to be arranged. The Rococo period was now chosen, many lovely specimens of the art of Watteau, Lancret, David, Vigee, Lebrun, Fragonnard, Greuze, and Bonnat were procured, and again the Berliner was given an opportunity not only of enjoying an artistic treat of a delightful kind, but of comparing the impressions made on him by the art spirits of two other nations. The opening of this French exhibition was made by the Emperor the occasion of emphasizing his conciliatory feelings towards France, for he attended an evening entertainment at the French Embassy given specially in honour of the occasion.
A third art exhibition followed in 1910—that of two hundred American oil paintings brought to Berlin and shown in the Royal Academy of Arts on the Panser Platz. They included works by Sargent, Whistler, Gari Melchior, Leon Dabo, Joseph Pennell, and many others. The suggestion for this exhibition did not proceed from the Emperor, but in all possible ways he gave the exhibition his personal support. On returning from inspecting it he telegraphed to the American Ambassador in Berlin, Dr. D. J. Hill, to express the pleasure he had derived from what he had seen. Nor was such a mark of admiration surprising. The exhibition was nothing short of a revelation, going far to dissipate the German belief—perhaps the English belief also—that America possesses no body of painters of the first rank.
Again we have recourse to the marine painter, Herr Salzmann. Wired for by the Emperor, the painter got to the palace at 10.15 PM. When he arrived the Emperor cried out, “So, at last! Where have you been hiding yourself? I have had Berlin searched for you.” The Emperor and Empress and suite had just returned from the theatre and were standing about the room. It turned out that the Emperor wanted the painter to help him sketch a battleship of a certain design he had in mind, to see how it would look on the water. In the middle of the room an adjutant stood and read out a speech made by a Radical deputy in the Reichstag that day, and the Emperor made occasional remarks about it, though at the same time he was engaged with the ship. The painter does not forget to add that he “was provided with a good glass of beer.”
The Emperor is reported to be a capital “sitter.” He had the French painter Borchart staying with him at Potsdam to paint his portrait. Borchart describes him as an ideal model, so still and patiently did he sit, and this at times for more than two hours. He talked freely during the sittings. “I don’t want to be regarded as a devourer of Frenchmen,” was a remark made on one of these occasions; on another he praised President Loubet; and on a third he had a good word even for the Socialist Jaures. When Borchart had finished and naively expressed satisfaction with his own work the Emperor said, “Na, na, friend Borchart, not so proud; it is for us to criticize.”
As the Emperor is a lover of the “classical” in painting and sculpture, it is not strange to find him an admirer of the classical in music and recommending it to his people as the best form of musical education. He holds that there is much in common between it and the folk-songs of Germany. At Court he revived classical dances like the minuet and the gavotte. He is devoted to opera and never leaves before the end of the performance. Concerts frequently take place in the royal palaces at Potsdam and Berlin, items on the programme for them being often suggested by the Emperor. The programme is then submitted to him and is rarely returned without alteration. Not seldom the concert is preceded by a rehearsal, which the Emperor attends and which itself has been carefully rehearsed beforehand, as the Emperor expects everything to run smoothly. At these rehearsals he will often cause an item to be repeated. Bach and Handel are his prime favourites. He is no admirer of Strauss. Wagner he often listens to with pleasure, and especially the “Meistersinger,” which is his pet opera. Of Italian operas Verdi’s “Aida” and Meyerbeer’s “Huguenots” are those he is most disposed to hear.
He has been laughed at for once attempting musical composition. The “Song to Aegir,” which he composed in 1894 at the age of thirty-five (when he should have known better), was, he told the bandmaster of a Hannoverian regiment, suggested to him by the singing of a Hannoverian glee society. It is a song twenty-four lines long, with the inevitable references to the foe, and the sword and shield, and whales and mermaids, and the God of the waves, who is called on to quell the storm. The lady-in-waiting who wrote the “Private Lives of the Emperor and His Consort” tells with much detail how the song was really written, not by the Emperor, but almost wholly by a musical adjutant. It does not greatly matter, but it is likely that the Emperor is responsible for the text if he did not compose the music.
One of the best and most interesting descriptions of his kindly and characteristic way of treating artists is that given by the late Norwegian composer, Eduard Grieg.
“The other day,” writes the composer,
I had a chance to meet your Kaiser. He had already expressed a desire last year to meet me, but I was ill at that time. Now he has renewed his wish, and therefore I could not decline the invitation. I am, as you know, little of a courtier. But I said to myself, ‘Remember Aalesund’ (for which the Emperor had sent a large sum after a great fire), and my sense of duty conquered. Our first meeting was at breakfast at the German Consul’s house. During the meal we spoke much about music. I like his ways, and—oddly enough—our opinions also agreed. Afterwards he came to me and I had the pleasure of talking with him alone for nearly an hour. We spoke about everything in heaven and earth—about poetry, painting, religion, Socialism, and the Lord knows what besides.
“He was fortunately a human being, and not an Emperor. I was therefore permitted to express my opinions openly, though in a discreet manner, of course. Then followed some music. He had brought along an orchestra (!), about forty men. He took two chairs, placed them in front of all the others, sat down on one, and said, ‘If you please, first parquet’; and then the music began—Sigurd Jorsalfar, Peer Gynt, and many other things.
“While the music was being played he continually aided me in correcting the tempi and the expression, although as a matter of course I had not wanted to do such a thing. He was very insistent, however, that I should make my intentions clear. Then he illustrated the impression made by the music by movements of his head and body. It was wonderful (goettlich) to watch his serpentine movements a la Orientalin while they played Anitra’s dance, which quite electrified him.
“Afterwards I
had to play for him on the piano, and my wife,
who sat nearest him,
told me that here too he illustrated
the impression made
on him, especially at the best places.
“I played the
minuet from the pianoforte sonata which he
found ‘very Germanic’
and powerfully built: and the ’Wedding
Day at Troldhaugen,’
which piece he also liked.
“On the following day there was a repetition of these things on board the Hohenzollern, where we were all invited to dinner at eight o’clock. The orchestra played on deck in the most wondrously bright summer night while many hundreds—nay, I believe thousands—of rowboats and small steamers were grouped about us. The crowd applauded constantly and cheered enthusiastically whenever the Kaiser became visible. He treated me like a patient: he gave me his cloak and sent to fetch a rug, with which he covered me carefully.
“I must not forget to relate that he grew so enthusiastic over ‘Sigurd Jorsalfar,’ the subject of which I explained to him as minutely as possible, that he said to von Hiilsen, the intendant of the royal theatres, who sat next to him: ’We must produce this work! (This was not done, however.)
“I then invited von Hiilsen to come to Christiania to witness a performance of it, and he said he was very eager to so. All in all this meeting was an event and a surprise in the best sense. The Kaiser, certainly, is a very uncommon man, a strange mixture of great energy, great self-reliance, and great kindness of heart. Of children and animals he spoke often and with sympathy, which I regard as a significant thing.”
On the New Year’s Day following the Emperor sent the composer a telegram reading: “To the northern bard to listen to whose strains has always been a joy to me I send my most sincere wishes for the new year and new creative activity.” In 1906, Grieg, having once more been the Emperor’s guest, writes to a friend:
“He was greatly pleased with having become once more a grandfather. He called to me across the table (referring to ’Sigurd’), ‘Is it agreeable if I call the child Sigurd?’ It must be something Urgermanisch.”
The following anecdote may remind the reader of the amusing scene in Offenbach’s “Grand Duchesse of Gerolstein,” where the Grand Duchess, talking to the guardsman whose athletic proportions she admires, addresses him with a rising scale of “corporal” ... “sergeant” ... “lieutenant” ... “captain” ... “colonel,” and so on, as she talks, only, however, later cruelly to re-descend the scale to the very bottom when her courtship is ineffectual. The Emperor is at an organ recital in the Kaiser William Memorial Church; the recital is over and the Court party are about to go when he greets the organist, Herr Fischer: “My cordial thanks for the great pleasure you have given us, Herr Professor.” “Pardon, your Majesty,” replies the organist, with commendable presence of mind: “May I venture to thank your Majesty for the great mark of favour?” “What mark of favour?” asks the Emperor, a little puzzled. “The fact is your Majesty
The Emperor is particularly fond of “my Americans” among his operatic artists. A good deal of jealousy has at times been shown by the German employees of the opera towards the American artists entertained there and a deputy has more than once protested in the Reichstag against the number employed; but the jealousy rarely results in harm, and on the whole harmony—as it should—prevails.
Every year brings hundreds of American girl students to Berlin, Munich, or Dresden to learn singing and perhaps carry off the great prize of a “star” engagement at one or the other of the German royal opera houses. The experiences of some of these students are tragedies on a small scale, and in one or two instances have been known to end in death, destitution, or dishonour. The explanation is simple. Such students, filled with the high hopes inspired by artistic ambition and the artist’s imagination, fail to ask themselves before going abroad if nature has endowed them with the qualities and powers requisite for one of the most laborious and, for a girl, exposed professions in the world; and do not learn until it is too late that they lack the resolute character, the robust health, and the talent which, not singly but all three combined, are essential to success.
Such a girl often starts on her enterprise poorly supplied with means to pay for her board, lodging, clothes, recreation, and instruction; she changes from the dearer sort of pension to the cheaper, finding her company and surroundings at each remove more doubtful and more dangerous; she grows disappointed and disheartened, perhaps physically ill; comes under bad influences, male or female; until finally the curtain falls on a sufferer rescued at the last moment by relatives or friends, or on a young life blasted. Such tragic cases, it should be said, are far from common, but they occur, and the possibility of their occurrence ought to be taken into account at the outset by the intending music or art student.
Happily there is another and brighter side to the picture, and the intending student with money and friends will enjoy and gain advantage from a few years of continental life, even though exceptional strength and genuine talent be wanting. Perhaps this is the experience of the great majority of art students in Germany. Freedom from the restraints and conventions of life at home compensates for the inconveniences arising from narrow means. Novelty of scenery and surroundings has a charm that is constantly recurring. The kindness and helpfulness of fellow-countrymen and countrywomen make the wheels of daily life roll smoothly. The freemasonry of art, its optimism and hope, and the pleasure and interest of its practice, investigation, and discussion wing the hours and spur to effort.
But to return to the Emperor. As a lad at Cassel he was fond of playing charades, and is reported to have had a knack of quickly sketching the scenario and dramatis personae of a play which he and his young companions would then and there proceed to act. One of these plays had Charlemagne for its subject, with a Saxon feudatory, whose lovely daughter, Brunhilde, scorns her father for his submission. A banquet, ending in a massacre of Charlemagne’s followers, is one of the scenes, and as Brunhilde is in love with Charlemagne’s son she helps him to escape from the massacre. The Play ends with the suicide of Brunhilde. As he grew up the Emperor’s interest in the theatre increased, and, as has been seen, when he succeeded to the throne he resolved to make use of it for educating and elevating the public mind. As patriotism consists largely in knowing and properly appreciating history he has always encouraged dramatists who could portray historic scenes and events, particularly those with which the Hohenzollerns were connected. Hence his support of Josef Lauff, Ernst von Wildenbruch and Detlev von Liliencron. Not long ago he arranged a series of performances at Kroll’s Theatre intended for workmen only. The performances were chiefly of the stirring historical kind—Schiller’s “Wilhelm Tell,” Goethe’s “Goetz von Berlichingen,” Kleist’s “Prince von Hornburg,” and others that require huge processions and a crowded stage. The general public were not supposed to attend the performances, but tickets were sent to the factories and workshops for sale at a low price.
In 1898 the Emperor publicly stated his views about the theatre. “When I mounted the throne ten years ago,” he said,
“I was, owing to my paternal education, the most fervent of idealists. Convinced that the first duty of the royal theatres was to maintain in the nation the cultivation of the idealism to which, God be thanked, our people are still faithful, and of which the sources are not yet nearly exhausted, I determined to myself to make my royal theatres an instrument comparable to the school or the university whose mission it is to form the rising generation and to inculcate in them respect for the highest moral traditions of our dear German land. For the theatre ought to contribute to the culture of the soul and of the character, and to the elevation of morals. Yes, the theatre is also one of my weapons.... It is the duty of a monarch to occupy himself with the theatre, because it may become in his hands an incalculable force.”
If the Emperor has any special gift it is an eye for theatrical effect in real life as well as on the stage. He had a good share of the actor’s temperament in his younger years, and until recently showed it in the conduct of imperial and royal business of all kinds. He still gives it play occasionally in the royal opera houses and theatres. The Englishman, whose ruler is a civilian, is not much impressed by
Accordingly we find the Emperor artistically arranging everything and succeeding particularly well in anything of an historical and especially of a military nature. The spring and autumn parades of the Berlin garrison on the Tempelhofer Field—an area large enough, it is said, to hold the massed armies of Europe—with their gatherings of from 30,000 to 60,000 troops of all arms, serve at once to excite the Berliner’s martial enthusiasm, while at the same time it obscurely reminds him that if he treats the dynasty disrespectfully he will have a formidable repressive force to reckon with. Hence at manoeuvres the Emperor is accompanied by an enormous suite; whenever he motors down Unter den Linden it is at a quick pace, which impresses the crowd while it lessens the chances of the bomb-thrower or the assassin. The scene of the reception of Prince Chun at the New Palace was a great success as an artistic performance, and the pageants at the restoration of the Hohkoenigsburg and at the Saalburg festival were of the same artistic order.
The Emperor’s theatrical interest and attention when in Berlin are concentrated on the Berlin Royal Opera and the Berlin Royal Theatre (Schauspielhaus), and when in Wiesbaden on the Royal Festspielhaus at that resort. When in his capital he goes very rarely to any other place of theatrical entertainment. His interest in the royal opera and theatre both in Berlin and Wiesbaden is personal and untiring, and he has done almost as much or more for the adequate representation of grand opera in his capital as the now aged Duke of Saxe-Meiningen did, through his famous Meiningen players, for the proper presentation of drama in Germany generally. The revivals of “Aida” and “Les Huguenots” under the Emperor’s own supervision are accepted as faultless examples of historical accuracy in every detail and of good taste and harmony in setting.
In a well-informed article in the Contemporary Review Mr. G. Valentine Williams writes:
“Once the rehearsals of a play in which the Emperor is interested are under way he loses no time in going to the theatre to see whether the instructions he has appended to the stage directions in the MS. are being properly carried out. Some morning, when the vast stage of the opera is humming with activity, the well-known primrose-coloured automobile will drive up to the entrance and the Emperor, accompanied only by a single adjutant, will emerge. In three minutes William II will be seated at a big, business-like table placed in the stalls, before him a pile of paper and an array of pencils. When he is in the house there is no doubt whatever in anyone’s mind as to who is conducting the rehearsal. His intendant stands at his side in the darkened auditorium and conveys his Majesty’s instructions to the stage, for the Emperor never interrupts the actors himself. He makes a sign to the intendant, scribbles a note on a sheet of paper, while the intendant, who is a pattern of unruffled serenity, just raises his hand and the performance abruptly ceases. There is a confabulation, the Emperor, with the wealth of gesture for which he is known, explaining his views as to the positions of the principals, the dresses, the uniforms, using anything, pencil, penholder, or even his sword to illustrate his meaning. Again and again up to a dozen times the actors will be put through their paces until the imperial Regisseur is entirely satisfied that the right dramatic effect has been obtained.
“All who have witnessed the imperial stage-manager at work agree that he has a remarkable flair for the dramatic. Very often one of his suggestions about the entrances or exits, a piece of ‘business’ or a pose, will be found on trial to enhance the effect of the scene. A story is told of the Emperor’s insistence on accuracy and the minute attention he pays to detail at rehearsal. After his visit to Ofen-Pest some years ago for the Jubilee celebration, which had included a number of Hungarian national dances, the Emperor stopped a rehearsal of the ballet at the Berlin opera while a Czardas was in progress and pointed out to the balletteuses certain minor details which were not correct.
“In his attitude to the Court actors and actresses he displays the charm of manner which bewitches all with whom he comes in contact. He calls them ‘meine Schauspieler,’ which makes one think of ‘His Majesty’s Servants’ of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. This practice sometimes has amusing results. Once when the Theatre Royal comedian, Dr. Max Pohl, was suddenly taken ill the Emperor said to an acquaintance, ‘Fancy, my Pohl had a seizure yesterday;’ and the acquaintance, thinking he was referring to a pet dog replied, commiseratingly: ‘Ah, poor brute!’ After rehearsal the Emperor often goes on to the stage and talks with the actors about their parts.
“A Hohenzollern must not be shown on the stage without the express permission ofPage 148
the Emperor, and in general, if politics are mixed up in an objectionable way with the action of the drama, the play will be forbidden. Above all the Emperor will not tolerate indecency, nor the mere suggestion of it, in the plays given at the royal theatres. An anecdote about Herr Josef Lauff’s Court drama ’Frederick of the Iron Tooth,’ dealing with an ancestor, an Elector of Brandenburg, and on which Leoncavallo, at the Emperor’s request, wrote the opera ‘Der Roland von Berlin,’ shows the Emperor’s strictness in this respect. Frederick of the Iron Tooth is a burgher of Berlin who leads a revolt against the Elector. In order to heighten Frederick’s hate, Lauff wove in a love theme into the drama. The wife of Ryke, burgomaster of Berlin, figured as Frederick’s mistress and egged on her lover against the Elector, because the latter had hanged her brothers, the Quitzows, notorious outlaws of the Mark Brandenburg. The Emperor cut out the whole episode when the play was submitted to him in manuscript. The marginal note in his big, bold handwriting ran: ’Eine Courtisane kommt in einem Hohenzollerstueck nicht vor’ (A courtesan has no place in a Hohenzollern drama).”
The Emperor’s constant change of uniform is often said to be a sign of his liking for the theatrical, and writers have compared him on this account with lightning-change artists like the great Fregoli. Rather his respect for and reliance on the army, a sense of fitness with the occasion to be celebrated, a feeling of personal courtesy to the person to be received, are the motives for such changes. The Paris Temps published the following incident apropos of the Emperor’s visit to England in November, 1902. When, on arriving at Port Victoria, the royal yacht Hohenzollern came in view, the members of the English Court sent to welcome the Emperor saw him through their glasses walking up and down the captain’s bridge wearing a long cavalry cloak over a German military uniform. When they stepped on board they found him in the undress uniform of an English admiral. They lunched with him, and in the afternoon, when he left for London, he was wearing the uniform of an English colonel of dragoons. Arrived in London, he left for Sandringham, and must have changed his dress en route, for he left the train in a frock-coat and tall hat.
Perhaps the most notable theatrical event of the reign hitherto was the production at the Royal Opera in 1908 of the historic pantomime “Sardanapalus.” The Emperor’s idea, as he said himself, was to “make the Museums speak,” to which a Berlin critic replied, “You can’t dramatize a museum.” The ballet, for it was that as well as a pantomime, engrossed the Emperor’s time and attention for several weeks. He spent hours with the great authority on Assyriology, Professor Friedrich Delitzsch, going over reliefs and plans taken from the Kaiser Friedrich Museum or borrowed from museums in Paris, London, and Vienna, decided on the
Professor Delitzsch, with a wealth of recondite learning, showed, on the contrary, that Sardanapalus was a wise and liberal-minded monarch, who, rather than fall into the hands of the Medes, built himself a pyre in a chamber of his palace and perished on it with his wives, his children, and his treasure. The whole four acts, with the various ballets, gave a perfectly faithful representation of the period as described by Diodorus and Herodotus, and as plastically shown on the reliefs discovered at Nineveh by Sir Henry Layard and subsequently by German excavators. Over L10,000 was spent upon the production, and the public were worked up to a great pitch of curiosity concerning it. But it was a complete failure as far as the public were concerned. “Heavens!” exclaimed one critic, “what a bore!” This, however, was not the fault of the Emperor, but was due to want of interest on the part of a public whose enthusiasm for the events and characters of times so remote could only be kindled by a genius, and a dramatic one. The Emperor is no such genius, nor had he one at command.
THE NEW CENTURY (continued)
1902-1904
King George V has hardly been sufficiently long on the English throne for a contemporary to judge of the personal relations that exist between his Majesty and the Emperor as chief representatives of their respective nations. The King of England was, until June, 1913, hindered by various circumstances from paying a visit to the Court of Berlin, and rumours were current that relations between the two rulers were not as friendly as they might and should be. There is now every indication that though the relations of people to people and Government to Government vary in degrees of coolness or warmth, the two monarchs are on perfectly good terms of cousinship and amity.
A visit paid by King George, when Prince of Wales, to the Emperor in Potsdam at the opening of 1902 testified to the goodwill that then subsisted between them. It was the evening before the Emperor’s birthday, when the Emperor, at a dinner given by the officers of King Edward’s German regiment, the 1st Dragoon Guards, addressed the English Heir Apparent in words of hearty welcome. The address was not a long one, but in it the Emperor characteristically seized on the motto of the Prince of Wales, “Ich dien” (I serve), to make it the text of a laudatory reference to his young guest’s conduct and career. In its course the Emperor touched
With 1902 may be said to have begun the Emperor’s courtship (as it is often called in Germany) of America. His advances to the Dollar Princess since then have been unremitting and on the whole cordially, if somewhat coyly, received.
The growth of intercourse of all kinds between Germany and the United States is indeed one of the features of the reign. There are several reasons why it is natural that friendly relationship should exist. It has been said on good authority that thirty millions of American citizens have German blood in their veins. Frederick the Great was the first European monarch to recognize the independence of America. German men of learning go to school in America, and American men of learning go to school in Germany. A large proportion of the professors in American universities have studied at German universities. The two countries are thousands of miles apart, and are therefore less exposed to causes of international jealousy and quarrel between contiguous nations. On the other hand, the new place America has taken in the Old World, dating, it may be said roughly, from the time of her war with Spain (1898); the increase of her influence in the world, mainly through the efforts of brave, benevolent, and able statesmen; the expansion of her trade and commerce; the increase of the European tourist traffic;—these factors also to some extent account for the growth of friendly intercourse between the peoples.
Nor should the bond between the two countries created by intermarriage be overlooked. If the well-dowered republican maid is often ambitious of union with a scion of the old European nobility, the usually needy German aristocrat is at least equally desirous of mating with an American heiress notwithstanding the vast differences in race-character, political sentiment, manners, and views of life—and especially of the status and privileges of woman—that must fundamentally separate the parties. Great unhappiness is frequently the result of such marriages, perhaps it may be said of a large proportion of international marriages, but cases of great mutual happiness are also numerous, and help to bring the countries into sympathy and understanding. Prince Buelow, when Chancellor, reminded the Reichstag, which was discussing an objection raised to the late Freiherr Speck von Sternburg, when German Ambassador to America, that he had married an American lady, that though Bismarck had laid down the rule that German diplomatists ought not to marry foreigners, he was quite ready to make exceptions in special cases, and that America was one of them. The Emperor is well known to have no objection to his diplomatic representative at Washington being married to an American, but rather to prefer it, provided, of course, that the lady has plenty of money.
A difficulty between Germany and Venezuela arose in 1902 owing to the ill-treatment suffered by German merchants in Venezuela in the course of the civil war in that country from 1898 to 1900.
The merchants complained that loans had been exacted from them by President Castro and his Government, and that munitions of war and cattle had been taken for the use of the army and left unpaid for. The amount of the claim was 1,700,000 Bolivars (francs), a sum that included the damage suffered by the merchants’ creditors in Germany. Similar complaints were made by English and Italian merchants. After several efforts on the part of Germany to obtain redress had failed, negotiations were broken off, the diplomatic representative of Germany was recalled, and finally the combined fleets of England, Germany, and Italy established a blockade of the Venezuelan coast. The difficulty was eventually referred to the Hague Court of Arbitration, which allowed the claims and directed payment of them on the security of the revenues of the customs ports of La Guayra and Puerto Cabella.
For a time the action of the Powers caused discussion of the Monroe doctrine on both sides of the Atlantic. On this side it was pointed out that American susceptibilities had been respected by the conduct of the Powers in not landing troops, while on the other side there were not wanting voices to exclaim that the naval demonstration went too near being a breach of the hallowed creed—“hands off” the Western Hemisphere. The Monroe doctrine, it may be recalled, was contained in a message of President James Monroe, issued on February 2, 1823. It was drawn up by John Quincey Adams, and declared that the United States “regarded not only every effort of the Holy Alliance to extend its system to the Western Hemisphere as dangerous to the peace and freedom of the United States, but also every interference with the object of subverting any independent American Government in the light of unfriendliness towards America”; and it went on to declare that “the Continents of America should no more be regarded as fields for European colonization.”
The day, of course, may come when the American claim to the control, if not physical possession, of half the earth will be questioned by the Powers of Europe; but at present, as far as Germany is concerned, and notwithstanding the absurd idea that Germany plans the seizure one day of Brazil, the doctrine is of merely academic interest. For a few days four years later it became the subject of lively discussion in Germany and America owing to the first American Roosevelt professor, Professor Burgess, referring to it in his inaugural lecture before the Emperor and Empress as an “antiquated theory.” As soon, however, as it became apparent that Professor Burgess was giving utterance to a purely personal opinion, and was not in any sense the bearer of a message on the subject from the President, the discussion dropped.
Another American episode of the year was the visit of Prince Henry, the Emperor’s brother, to the United States. Prince Henry left for America in February. The visit was in reality made in pursuance of the Emperor’s world-policy of economic expansion, but there were not a few politicians in England and America to assert that it was part of a deep scheme of the Emperor’s to counteract too warm a development of Anglo-American friendship. However that may be, the visit was a striking one, even though it gave no great pleasure to Germans, who could not see any particular reason for it, nor any prospect of it yielding Germany immediate tangible return for trouble and expense. Prince Henry, it is said, though the most genial and democratic of Hohenzollerns, was a little taken back at the American freedom of manners, the wringing of hands, the slapping on the back, and other republican demonstrations of friendship; but he cannot have shown anything of such a feeling, for he was feted on all sides, and soon developed into a popular hero.
One of the incidents of the visit, previously arranged, was the christening of the Emperor’s new American-built yacht, Meteor III, by Miss Alice Roosevelt, the President’s daughter. On February 25th the Emperor received a cablegram from Prince Henry: “Fine boat, baptized by the hand of Miss Alice Roosevelt, just launched amid brilliant assembly. Hearty congratulations;” and at the same time one from the President’s daughter: “To his Majesty the Kaiser, Berlin—Meteor successfully launched. I congratulate you, thank you for the kindness shown me, and send you my best wishes. Alice Roosevelt.”
During the visit the Emperor cabled to President Roosevelt his thanks and that of his people for the hospitable reception of his brother by all classes, adding:
“My outstretched hand was grasped by you with a strong, manly, and friendly grip. May Heaven bless the relations of the two nations with peace and goodwill! My best compliments and wishes to Alice Roosevelt.”
Reference to this cordial electric correspondence may close with mention of a telegram sent in reply to a message from Mr. Melville Stone, of the American Associated Press:
“Accept my thanks for your message. I estimate the great and sympathetic reception (it was a banquet) given to my dear brother by the newspaper proprietors of the United States very highly.”
Prince Henry returned to Germany on March 17th, a Doctor of Law of Harvard University.
There have been moments when people in America were influenced by other sentiments than those of entirely respectful admiration for the Emperor. It was with mixed feelings that the American public heard the news of his telegraphed offer to President Roosevelt in May, 1902, when, as the telegram said, the Emperor was “under the deep impression made by the brilliant and cordial reception” given to his brother,
Irritation in England was still strong against Germany on account of the latter’s easily understood race-sympathy with the Boers during the war just over, but the fact did not prevent the Emperor from accepting King Edward’s invitation to spend a few days at Sandringham with him in November this year on the occasion of his birthday. The Emperor took the Empress and two of his sons with him. The hostile temper of the time, both in England and Germany, was alluded to in a sermon preached in Sandringham Church by the then Bishop of London. It was notable for its insistence on the necessity of friendlier relations between England, Germany, and America, the three great branches of the Teutonic race. After the service the Emperor is reported to have exclaimed to the Bishop: “What you said was excellent, and is precisely what I try to make my people understand.”
As a proof that this was no merely complimentary utterance, but the expression of a thought which is constantly in the Emperor’s mind, an incident which happened at Kiel regatta in the month of June previously may be recalled. The American squadron, under the late Admiral Cotton, was paying an official visit to the Emperor during the Kiel “week” as a return honour for the visit of the Emperor’s brother, Prince Henry of Prussia, to the United States the year before. There was a constant round of festivities, and among them a lunch to the Emperor on board the Admiral’s flagship, the Kearsarge. Lunch over, the Emperor was standing in a group talking with his customary vivacity, but, as customary also, with his eyes taking in his surroundings like a well-trained journalist. Suddenly he noticed a set of flags, those of America, Germany, and England, twined together and mingling their colours in friendly harmony. He walked over, gathered the combined flags in his hand, and turning to the Admiral exclaimed in idiomatic American: “See here, Admiral; that is exactly as it should be, and is what I am trying for all the time.”
While in England the Emperor, in company with Lord Roberts and Sir Evelyn Wood, inspected his English regiment, the 1st Royal Dragoons. A curious and amusing feature of the visit was a lecture before the Royal Family at Sandringham by a German engineer, for whom the Emperor acted as interpreter, on a novel adaptation of spirit for culinary, lighting, and laundry purposes. The Emperor’s practical illustration of the use of the new heating system, as applied to the ordinary household flatiron, is said to have caused great merriment among his audience.
Germany’s home atmosphere about this time was for a moment troubled by an exhibition of the Emperor’s “personal regiment” in the form of a telegram to the Prince Regent of Bavaria, known in Germany as the “Swinemunde Despatch.” The Bavarian Diet, in a fit of economy, had refused its annual grant of L5,000 for art purposes. The Emperor was violently angry, wired to the Prince Regent his indignation with the Diet and offered to pay the L5,000 out of his own pocket. It was not a very tactful offer, to be sure, though well intended; and as his telegram was not an act of State, “covered” by the Chancellor’s signature, while the Bavarians in particular felt hurt at what they considered outside interference, Germans generally blamed it as a new demonstration of autocratic rule.
One or two other art incidents of the period may be noted. A domestic one was the gift to the Emperor by the Empress of a model of her hand in Carrara marble, life-sized, by the German sculptor, Rheinhold Begas. The Emperor, it is well known, has no special liking for the companionship of ladies, but he confesses to an admiration for pretty feminine hands. Another incident was the Emperor’s order to the painter, Professor Rochling, to paint a picture representing the famous episode in the China campaign, when Admiral Seymour gave the order “Germans to the Front.” It is to the present day a popular German engraving. The year was also remarkable for a visit to Berlin of Coquelin aine, the great French actor. The Emperor saw him in “Cyrano de Bergerac,” was, like all the rest of the play-going world, delighted with both play and player, and held a long and lively conversation with the artist. Lastly may be mentioned a telegram of the Emperor’s to the once-famed tragic actress, Adelaide Ristori, in Rome, congratulating her on her eightieth birthday and expressing his regret that he had never met her. A basket of flowers simultaneously arrived from the German Embassy.
We are now in 1903. During the preceding years the Emperor’s thoughts, as has been seen, were occupied with art as a means of educating his folk, purifying their sentiments, and, above all, making them faithful lieges of the House of Hohenzollern. By a natural association of ideas we find him this year thinking much and deeply about religion; for, though artists are not a species remarkable for the depth or orthodoxy of their views on religious matters, art and religion are close allies, and probably the greater the artist the more real religion he will be found to have.
In this year, accordingly, the Emperor made his remarkable confession of religious faith to his friend, Admiral Hollmann. He had just heard a lecture by Professor Delitzsch on “Babel und Bibel,” and as he considered the Professor’s views to some extent subversive of orthodox Christian belief, he took the opportunity to tell his people his own sentiments on the whole matter. In writing to Admiral Hollmann he instructed him to make the “confession” as public as possible, and it was published in the October number of the Grenzboten, a Saxon monthly, sometimes used for official pronouncements. The Emperor’s letter to Admiral Hollmann contained what follows:—
“I distinguish between two different sorts of Revelation: a current, to a certain extent historical, and a purely religious, which was meant to prepare the way for the appearance of the Messiah. As to the first, I should say that I have not the slightest doubt that God eternally revealed Himself to the race of mankind He created. He breathed into man His breath, that is a portion of Himself, a soul. With fatherly love and interest He followed the development of humanity; in order to lead and encourage it further He ‘revealed’ Himself, now in the person of this, now of that great wise man, priest or king, whether pagan, Jew or Christian. Hammurabi was one of these, Moses, Abraham, Homer, Charlemagne, Luther, Shakespeare, Goethe, Kant, Kaiser William the Great—these He selected and honoured with His Grace, to achieve for their peoples, according to His will, things noble and imperishable. How often has not my grandfather explicitly declared that he was an instrument in the hand of the Lord! The works of great souls are the gifts of God to the people, that they may be able to build further on them as models, that they may be able to feel further through the confusion of the undiscovered here below. Doubtless God has ‘revealed’ Himself to different peoples in different ways according to their situation and the degree of their civilization. Then just as we are overborne most by the greatness and might of the lovely nature of the Creation when we regard it, and as we look are astonished at the greatness of God there displayed, even so can we of a surety thankfully and admiringly recognize, by whatever truly great or noble thing a man or a people does, the revelation of God. His influence acts on us and among us directly.
“The second sort of Revelation, the more religious sort, is that which led up to the appearance of the Lord. From Abraham onward it was introduced, slowly but foreseeingly, all-wisely and all-knowingly, for otherwise humanity were lost. And now commences the astonishing working of God’s Revelation. The race of Abraham and the peoples that sprang from it regard, with an iron logic, as their holiest possession, the belief in a God. They must worship and cultivate Him. Broken up during the captivity in Egypt, the separated parts were brought together againPage 156
for the second time by Moses, always striving to cling fast to monotheism. It was the direct intervention of God that caused this people to come to life again. And so it goes on through the centuries till the Messiah, announced and foreshadowed by the prophets and psalmists, at last appears, the greatest Revelation of God to the world. Then he appeared in the Son Himself; Christ is God; God in human form. He redeemed us, He spurs us on, He allures us to follow Him, we feel His fire burn in us, His sympathy strengthens us, His displeasure annihilates us, but also His care saves us. Confident of victory, building only on His word, we pass through labour, scorn, suffering, misery and death, for in His Word we have God’s revealed Word, and He never lies.
“That is my view of the matter. The Word is especially for us evangelicals made the essential thing by Luther, and as good theologian surely Delitzsch must not forget that our great Luther taught us to sing and believe—’Thou shalt suffer, let the Word stand.’ To me it goes without saying that the Old Testament contains a large number of fragments of a purely human historical kind and not ’God’s revealed Word.’ They are mere historical descriptions of events of all sorts which occurred in the political, religious, moral, and intellectual life of the people of Israel. For example, the act of legislation on Sinai may be regarded as only symbolically inspired by God, when Moses had recourse to the revival of perhaps some old-time law (possibly the codex, an offshoot of the codex of Hammurabi), to bring together and to bind together institutions of His people which were become shaky and incapable of resistance. Here the historian can, from the spirit or the text, perhaps construct a connexion with the Law of Hammurabi, the friend of Abraham, and perhaps logically enough; but that would no way lessen the importance of the fact that God suggested it to Moses and in so far revealed Himself to the Israelite people.
“Consequently it is my idea that for the future our good Professor would do well to avoid treating of religion as such, on the other hand continue to describe unmolested everything that connects the religion, manners, and custom of the Babylonians with the Old Testament. On the whole, I make the following deductions:—
“1. I believe in One God.
“2. We humans
need, in order to teach Him, a Form,
especially for our children.
“3. This Form has been to the present time the Old Testament in its existing tradition. This Form will certainly decidedly alter considerably with the discovery of inscriptions and excavations; there is nothing harmful in that, it is even no harm if the nimbus of the Chosen People loses much thereby. The kernel and substance remain always the same—God, namely, and His work.
“Never was religion
a result of science, but a gushing out
of the heart and being
of mankind, springing from its
intercourse with God.”
It is anticipating by a few months, but part of a speech the Emperor made in Potsdam at the confirmation of his two sons, August Wilhelm and Oscar—two Hohenzollerns as yet not distinguished for anything in particular—may be quoted in this connexion. Naturally he began by comparing his sons’ spiritual situation with that of a soldier on the day he takes the oath of allegiance: they were vorgemerkt, that is, predestined as “fighters for Christ.” “What is demanded of you,” the imperial father went on, “is that you shall be personalities. This is the point which, in my opinion, is the most important for the Christian in daily life. For there can be no doubt that we can say of the person of the Lord, that He is the most ‘personal personality’ who has ever wandered among the sons of men.... You will read of many great men—savants, statesmen, kings and princes, of poets also: but nevertheless no word of man has ever been uttered worthy of comparison with the words of Christ; and I say this to you so that you may be in a position to bear it out when you are in the midst of life’s turmoil and hear people discussing religion, especially the personality of Christ. No word of man has ever succeeded in making people of all races and all people enthusiastic for the same cause, namely, to imitate Him, even to sacrifice their lives for Him. The wonder can only be explained by assuming that what He said were the words of the living God, which are the source of life, and continue to live thousands of years after the words of the wise have been forgotten. That is my personal experience and it will be yours.
“The pivot and turning-point,” he continued,
“of our mortal life, especially of a life full of responsibility and labour—that is clearer and clearer to me every year I live—lies simply and solely in the attitude a man adopts towards his Lord and Saviour;”
and he concludes by exhorting his sons to disregard what people may say about the cult of Christ being irreconcilable with the tasks and responsibilities of “modern” life, but simply to do their best, whatever their occupation, to become a personality after Christ’s example.
This is a sound and just statement of Christian faith, and it is quoted here to justify the view that the Emperor’s soldiers and his Dreadnoughts, his mailed fist and shining armour, are built and put on in the spirit of precaution and defence. The attitude, it cannot of course be denied, is based on the un-Christlike assumption that all men (and particularly all peoples and their governments and diplomatists) are liars; but in his favour it may be urged that for that saying the Emperor could cite Biblical authority. And yet there is an inconsistency; for the saying is that of one of those same wise men whose words, the Emperor admits, are transitory and mortal.
It is possible that the Emperor had a presentiment of some kind that his life was now in danger, and that the presentiment may have attuned his thoughts to meditation on Christ’s life and teaching; for it is a fact, well worthy of remark, that in the fear of death man’s one and only relief and consolation is the knowledge that there was, and is, a mediator for him with his Creator. The address at his sons’ confirmation was delivered on October 17th, and on Sunday morning, November 8th all the world, it is hardly too much to say, was astonished and pained to learn, by a publication in the Official Gazette, that the Emperor the day before had had to submit to a serious operation on his throat. The announcement spoke of a polypus, or fungoid growth, which had had to be removed; but all over the world the conclusion was come to that the mortal affliction of the father had fallen on the son and that the Emperor was a doomed man. Most providentially and happily it was nothing of the sort. On the 9th the Emperor was out of bed and signing official papers, on the 15th he was allowed to talk in whispers, and on the 17th it was declared by the physicians that all danger was over and that no more bulletins would be issued. On December 14th the Emperor received a congratulatory visit from the President of the Reichstag, who reported to Parliament his impression that “the Emperor had completely recovered his old vigour (great applause) and that his voice was again clear and strong.”
The Emperor had passed through what one may suppose to have been the darkest hour of his life. He was naturally in high spirits, and a few days after went to Hannover, where he made a martial speech in which he toasted the German Legion for having “by its unforgettable heroism, in conjunction with Bluecher and his Prussians, saved the English army from destruction at Waterloo,” a view, of course, which to an Englishman has all the charm of novelty.
One or two further memorable incidents of 1903 may be recorded. Theodore Mommsen, the now aged historian of Rome, the greatest scholar of his time, died in November. He was in his day a Liberal parliamentarian of no mean ability; but for such men there is no career in Germany. However, as it turned out, the German people’s loss proved to be all the world’s gain. A son of the historian now represents a district of Berlin in the Reichstag. Two years before the historian’s death an exchange of telegrams in Latin took place between him and the Emperor. The occasion was the Emperor’s laying the foundation-stone of a museum on the plateau where the old Roman castle, known as the Saalburg, stands. The Emperor telegraphed:
“Theodoro Mommseno, antiquitatum romanarum investigatori incomparabili, praetorii Saalburgensis fundamenta jaciens salutem dicit et gratias agit Guilelmus Germanorum Imperator.”
To which the historian, with a modesty equal to his courtesy, replied: “Germanorum principi, tam majestate quam humanitate, gratias agit antiquarius Lietzelburgensis.”
Mention may also be made of a very characteristic speech of the Emperor’s this year at Cuestrin, where he was unveiling a monument to a favourite Hohenzollern, the Great Elector. Cuestrin, it will be remembered, is the town where Frederick the Great, another of the Emperor’s favourites, was imprisoned by an angry father, along with his friend Lieutenant Katte, when Frederick was trying to escape the parental cruelty and violence.
Referring to Frederick’s declaration that he was the “first servant of the State,” the Emperor said:—
“He could only learn to be so by subordination, by obedience, in a word by what we Prussians describe as discipline. And this discipline must have its roots in the King’s house as in the house of the citizen, in the army as among the people. Respect for authority, obedience to the Crown, and obedience to parental and paternal influence—that is the lesson the memories of to-day should teach us. From these attributes spring those which we call patriotism, namely the subordination of the individual ego, of the individual subject, to the welfare of all. It is what is particularly needed at the present time.”
The Emperor was, of course, thinking of the Social Democrats. Having finished his speech, he went and for a while stood thoughtfully at the historic window of Cuestrin Castle, from which Frederick watched the execution of his unfortunate companion, Katte.
Only the year 1904 separates us from the Emperor’s Morocco adventure. The economic ideas which have been referred to as the basis of German foreign policy were germinating in his mind, and the plans for at least a partial realization of them were working in his head. Addressing the chief burgomaster of Karlsruhe in April, just a year before he started for Tangier, he spoke of Weltpolitik. “You are right,” he told the burgomaster,
“in saying that the task of the German people is a hard one.... I hope our peace will not be disturbed, and that the events that are now happening will open our eyes, steel our courage, and find us united, if it should be necessary for us to intervene in world-policy.”
The Emperor had, no doubt, specially in mind the birth of the Anglo-French Entente and the war between Russia and Japan, both events forming the dominant factors of the political situation at this time. The Russo-Japanese War arose primarily from the unwillingness of Russia to evacuate Manchuria after the Boxer troubles in China. The incidents of the war are still fresh in public memory.
It need only be recalled here that Germany was neutral throughout the conflict, that both President Roosevelt and the Emperor offered their services as mediators in its course, and that on the capture of Port Arthur by Admiral Nogi, in January, 1905, the Emperor telegraphed his bestowal of the Ordre pour le Merile on General Stoessel, the Russian defender of Port Arthur, and on Admiral Nogi.
In the troubled history of Anglo-German relations is to be recorded the presence, in June of this year, of King Edward VII at Kiel with a squadron of battleships to pay an official visit to his nephew. The two fleets, those sunny days, formed a splendid spectacle—the two mightiest police forces, the Emperor would probably agree in saying, the world could produce. In fact, the Emperor had some such thought in mind, for he addressed King Edward as follows:—
“Your Majesty has been welcomed by the thunder of the guns of the German fleet. It is the youngest navy in the world and an expression of the reviving sea-power of the new German Empire, founded by the late great Emperor, designed for the protection of the Empire’s trade and territory, and intended, equally with the German army, for the preservation of peace.”
One or two other incidents of interest in the Emperor’s life may close the record of this year. One of them was the arrival of the Italian composer, Leoncavallo, in Berlin, to hand the Emperor the text of the opera “Der Roland von Berlin,” Leoncavallo had composed at the Emperor’s express request. Roland was a “strong, valiant and pious” knight of Charlemagne’s time—like the Emperor, let us say—who originally hailed from Brittany—that lone and lovely Cinderella of France—and afterwards, for some unexplained reason, came to be the type of municipal independence in Germany.
During the summer the Emperor and the Empress made an excursion, when on the Saalburg, to the statues of the Roman Emperors Hadrian and Severus. Did the Emperor recall, one wonders, as he stood before the figure of Hadrian, that pagan monarch’s address to his soul:—
“Animula vagula,
blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quae nunc abibis in
loca,
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nee, ut soles, dabis
jocos?”
It sounds a little gloomy as a quotation, but, fortunately for Germany and the Emperor, for “nunc” can be put, pace the poet, the indefinite, yet all too definite, “aliquando.”
MOROCCO
1905
The Emperor started for Tangier towards the end of March, but before that he had got through imperial business of a miscellaneous kind which exemplifies the life he leads practically at all times.
In January he had exchanged telegrams with the Czar and the Mikado concerning his bestowal of the Order of Merit on Generals Stoessel and Nogi, asking permission to bestow the Order and receiving expressions of consent. Another telegram went to the composer Leoncavallo in Naples, congratulating him on the success there of his “Roland von Berlin.” In February, the Emperor opened an international Automobile Exhibition in Berlin, received Prince Charles, Infanta of Spain, and the King of Bulgaria, unveiled a monument to his ancestor, Admiral Coligny, who was killed in the Bartholomew
Just before starting for Morocco the Emperor made the speech in which he claimed that Germans are the “salt of the earth.” In the same speech he had previously declared that as the result of his reading of history he meant never to strive after world-conquest. “For what,” he asked,
“has become of the so-called world-empires? Alexander the Great, Napoleon the First, all the great warrior heroes swam in blood and left behind them subjugated peoples, who at the first opportunity rose and brought their empires to ruin. The world-empire which I dream of will be, above all, the newly established German Empire, enjoying on every side the most absolute confidence as a peaceable, honest, and quiet neighbour, not founded on conquest by the sword, but on the mutual confidence of nations, striving for the same objects.”
While on the way to Morocco the Emperor put in at Lisbon to pay a visit to the King of Portugal, and with the latter attended a meeting of the Geographical Society. From Lisbon he went to Gibraltar, and from thence, after a few hours’ stay, he started for Tangier.
The Morocco incident, as it is often too lightly called, should rather be regarded as a phase in the world’s economic history and an occurrence of moment for the future peace of all nations than the mere game on the diplomatic chess-board many writers appear to consider it. According to French critics, and they may be taken as representative of the feeling everywhere prevalent during the seven years the incident lasted, its origin was a matter of alliances and the balance of power. Germany, according to these writers, wanted to preserve the position of hegemony in Europe she had obtained under Bismarck, and consequently felt annoyed by the Triple Entente, which robbed her of her traditional friend Russia and set up an effective counterpoise to the Triple Alliance of which Germany was the leading Power, and on which she could, or believed she could, rely for support in case of war with France. In going, therefore, to Tangier, at the moment when her defeat by Japan rendered Russia for the time being of little or no account in the considerations of diplomacy, the Emperor, according to these writers, in reality was making a determined attempt to break the Entente combination and protect his Empire from political isolation or inferiority.
It is quite possible that such were the motives of the Emperor’s action, but if so he was building better than he knew. The vicissitudes of the Moroccan episode are described briefly below, yet some remarks of a general nature as to the whole episode considered in its historical perspective may be permitted in advance. But first, what is historical perspective? It may perhaps be defined as that view of history which shows in its true proportions the relative importance of an event to other events which strongly and permanently leave their mark on the character and development of the period or generation in which they occur. Regarded from this standpoint the Morocco incident can claim an exceptional position, for it was the first occasion in modern diplomatic history on which a Great Power officially proclaimed urbi et orbi the doctrine of the “open door,” the doctrine of equal economic treatment for all nations for the benefit of all nations, and was willing to go to war in support of it.
It was not, of course, the first time the demand for the open door had been made; loudly and bloodily, too; since most wars from those of Greece and Rome to the war between Russia and Japan of recent years were waged with the intention, or in the hope, of opening, by conquest or contract, territory of the enemy to the mercantile enterprise of the victors. But this was the open door in a very selfish and restricted sense, and though many isolated events had occurred of late years, the international agreements regarding China among them, proving that the idea of the open door was gaining strength as a right common to all nations, it was not until the Emperor went to Tangier that a Great Power risked a great war in order to exemplify and enforce it.
The Emperor and his advisers were probably not moved by any altruistic sentiments in the matter, and their sole reason for action may have been to see that German subjects should not be excluded from Moroccan markets. It may also be that Germany was resolved that if there was to be a seizure of Morocco she should get her share of the territory to be distributed, notwithstanding her refusal, revealed by the late Foreign Secretary, Kiderlen-Waechter, in the Reichstag’s confidential committee, to accede to Mr. Chamberlain’s proposal, made some time before the incident, for a partition of the Shereefian Empire. But the acquisition of territory does not seem to have been the mainspring of her policy, while from the beginning to the end of the incident, however theatrical and questionable her diplomatic conduct may have been at moments during the negotiations, she was throughout consistent and successful in her demand for economic equality all round. This is a great gain for the future, for, with the world nearly all parcelled out, economic considerations, which are almost in all cases adjustable, are now the most weighty factors in international relations.
Apart from this view of the incident, it is clear that Germany was pursuing her claim to a “place in the sun,” and she did so to the unconcealed annoyance of nations which up to then had never thought of her in a role she appeared to be aspiring to, that of a Mediterranean Power. To these nations she seemed an intruder in a sphere to which she neither naturally nor rightfully belonged. Evidently she had no political or historical claims in Morocco, while her commercial interests were less than 10 per cent of Morocco trade.
A narration of the incident may, for the sake of convenience, though involving some anticipation of the future, be dealt with in three sections: from the Anglo-French Agreement of 1904, and the Emperor’s visit to Tangier in March, 1905, to the Act of Algeciras a year subsequently; from the Act of Algeciras to the Franco-German Agreement of 1909; and from that to the—let it be hoped—final settlement by the Franco-German Agreement of November 5, 1911.
The Anglo-French Agreement of 1904 gave France a free hand in Morocco in consideration of France giving England a similar position in Egypt and the Nile Valley. The state of things in Morocco at this time was one of discord and rebellion. In the midst of it, the Sultan, El Hassan, died, and was succeeded by Abdul Aziz, a minor. On coming of age Abdul Aziz showed his inability to rule, the country fell again into disorder and Abdul turned for help to France. Meantime England and France had been negotiating without the knowledge of Germany, and in April, 1904, the Anglo-French Agreement was signed. It was accompanied by an official declaration that France had no intention of changing the political status of Morocco, but only contemplated a policy there of “pacific penetration and reforms.” Thereupon Prince von Buelow, the German Chancellor, stated in the Reichstag that the German Government had no reason to assume that the Agreement was directed against any Power and that “it appeared to be an attempt by England and France to come to a friendly understanding respecting their colonial differences.”
“From the standpoint of German interests,” continued the Chancellor, “we have no objections to raise to it.” No parliamentary reference was made to Morocco until March, 1905, when the Chancellor spoke of the approaching visit of the Emperor to Tangier, and it became evident that the Emperor and his advisers had come to the conclusion that, as France seemed about assuming a full protectorate over Morocco, as she had tried to do in Tunis, and that this, in accordance with French policy, would result in the exclusion of other nationals from commerce and the development of the country, Germany must take action. Prince von Buelow explained that “his Majesty had, in the previous year, declared to the King of Spain that Germany pursued no policy of territorial acquisition in Morocco.” He continued:
“Independent of the visit, and independent of the territorial question, is the question whether we have economic interests to protect in Morocco. That we have certainly. We have in Morocco, as in China, a considerable interest in the maintenance of the open door, that is the equal treatment of all trading nations.”
And he concluded by saying:
“So far as an attempt is being made to alter the international status of Morocco, or to control the open door in the economic development of the country, we must see more closely than before that our economical interests are not endangered. Our first step, accordingly, is to put ourselves into communication with the Sultan.”
The visit came off as announced, and the Emperor, on arriving at Tangier, made a speech which caused a sensation in every diplomatic chancellery; indeed, in all parts of the world. The Emperor’s speech, which was addressed to the German colonists on March 31, 1905, was as follows:—
“I rejoice to make acquaintance with the pioneers of Germany in Morocco and to be able to say to them that they have done their duty. Germany has great commercial interests there. I will promote and protect trade, which shows a gratifying development, and make it my care to secure full equality with all nations. This is only possible when the sovereignty of the Sultan and the independence of the country are preserved. Both are for Germany beyond question, and for that I am ready at all times to answer. I think my visit to Tangier announces this clearly and emphatically, and will doubtless produce the conviction that whatever Germany undertakes in Morocco will be negotiated exclusively with the Sultan.”
The result of these unmistakable declarations was that the Sultan rejected proposals made to him by the French, and shortly afterwards, on the advice of Germany, came forward with suggestions for a European conference. M. Delcasse, the French Foreign Minister, opposed the proposal, and for a time war between France and Germany appeared inevitable; but France was not in a military position to ignore Germany’s threatening language, M. Delcasse had to resign, the French Cabinet under M. Rouvier agreed to the conference, and it met at Algeciras in January, 1906. At the conference Great Britain, in consonance with the Entente, supported France; Austria adhered loyally to her Triplice engagements and proved the “brilliant second” to Germany the Emperor subsequently described her; Italy, on the other hand, gave her Teutonic ally only lukewarm support.
In fairness, however, should be quoted here the explanation of Italy’s attitude given by Chancellor von Buelow when discussing the conference in Parliament next year. The impression is general, both in and out of Germany, that Italy is only a half-hearted political ally. It is based on the temperamental difference between the Latin and the Teutonic races, on the popular sympathy between the French and Italian peoples, and to the supposedly reluctant support lent by Italy to Germany during the critical time of the conference, the extra-tour, as Prince Buelow, using a metaphor of the ballroom, termed it, she took with France on that occasion. Prince Buelow now endeavoured to dissipate or correct the impression, at any rate, as regarded Algeciras. “Italy,” he said,
“found herself in a difficult position there. Various agreements between Italy and France regarding Morocco had come into existence anterior to the conference, but Germany was satisfied that they were not inconsistent with Italy’s Triplice engagements; in fact, Germany had, several years ago, officially told Italy she must use her own judgment and act on her own responsibility in dealing with her French neighbour in Africa and the Mediterranean.”
When it was settled that a conference should be held, Italy, the Chancellor continued, “gave Germany timely information as to the extent to which her support of Germany could go, and as a matter of fact she supported Germany’s views in the bank and police questions.” So far the German official explanation, but the impression of Italian lukewarmness as a member of the Triplice has lost none of its universality thereby. How well or ill founded the impression is, it will be for the future to disclose.
The summoning of the conference had been a triumph for German diplomacy, but its results were disappointing to her; for while the proceedings showed that among all nations she could only fully rely on the sympathy and support of Austria, they ended in an acknowledgment by Germany of the special position of France in Morocco. The Act of Algeciras, which was dated April 7, 1906, stated that the signatory Powers recognized that “order, peace, and prosperity” could only be made to reign in Morocco
“by means of the introduction of reforms based upon the triple principle of the sovereignty and independence of his Majesty the Sultan, the integrity of his States, and economic liberty without any inequality.”
Then followed six Declarations regarding the organization of the police, smuggling, the establishment of a State bank, the collection of taxes, and the finding of new sources of revenue, customs, and administrative services and public works. For the organization of the police, French and Spanish officers and non-commissioned officers were to be placed at the disposal of the Sultan by the French and Spanish Governments. Tenders for public works were to be adjudicated on impartially without regard to the nationality of the bidder. The effect of the Act was to give international recognition to the special position of France and Spain in Morocco, while safeguarding the economic interests of other Powers.
The attitude taken up by Germany relative to the conference was set forth in a speech delivered by Prince von Buelow in the Reichstag in December, 1905. It was based, he explained, on the provisions of the Madrid Convention of 1880, in which all the Great Powers and the United States had taken part. The Chancellor claimed that Germany sought no special privileges in Morocco, but favoured a peaceful and independent development of the Shereefian Empire. He denied that German rights could be abrogated by an Anglo-French Agreement, and pointing out that Morocco in 1880 had
The Act of Algeciras, however, proved to have brought only temporary relief to European tension. Disturbances continued in Morocco, French subjects were murdered at Marakesch in 1907, and France occupied the province of Udja with troops until satisfaction should be given. Owing to riots at Casablanca in 1908, in which French as well as Spanish and Italian labourers were killed, she decided to occupy the place, and sent a strong military and naval force thither. A French warship bombarded the town, and by June, 1908, the French army of occupation numbered 15,000 men. Meanwhile internal commotions and intrigues had led to the deposition of Abdul Aziz and his replacement on the throne by his brother, Muley Hafid, with the support of Germany. France and Spain refused to recognize the new ruler unless he gave guarantees that he would respect the Act of Algeciras. Muley gave the required guarantees, and in March, 1909, France “declared herself wholly attached to the integrity and independence of the Shereefian Empire and decided to safeguard economic equality in Morocco.” Germany on her side declared she was pursuing in Morocco only economic interests and, “recognizing that the special political interests of France in Morocco are closely bound up in that country with the consolidation of order and of internal peace,” was “resolved not to impede those interests.”
The German idea of not impeding French special political interests in Morocco was disclosed little more than two years later by the dispatch of the German gunboat Panther (of “Well done, Panther!” fame) on July 3, 1911, to the “closed” port of Agadir on the south Moroccan coast.
It was as dramatic a coup as the Emperor’s visit to Tangier and caused as much alarm. The fact is that the march of French troops to Fez, which had taken place a few months before, convinced the Emperor and his Government that France, relying on the support of her Entente friend England, was bent on the Tunisification of Morocco. The Emperor, Chancellor von Bethmann-Hollweg, and Foreign Secretary Kiderlen-Waechter met at the Foreign Office on May 21st, and it was decided to send a ship of war, as at once a hint and a demonstration, to Agadir or other Moroccan port. Germany, of course, in accordance with diplomatic strategy, did
In France, on the other hand, it was asserted that the step was not in conformity with the spirit of the Franco-German Agreement of 1909, in which Germany resolved not to impede French special interests, that there were no Germans at Agadir, and that only nine months previously Germany had angrily protested at the calling of a French cruiser at the same port. The reference was to the visit of the French cruiser Du Chaylu in November, 1910, when the captain paid a visit to the local pasha. The German Foreign Secretary eventually said Germany had no objection to France using her police rights even in a closed port, and the admission was taken as a fresh renunciation on the part of Germany of any right to interference. Feeling ran high for a time both in France and Germany, while the German action added to the sentiment of hostility to Germany in England, and English political circles perceived in it a design on Germany’s part of acquiring a port on the Moroccan coast. The word “compensation,” which afterwards was to prove the solution of Franco-German differences was now first mentioned by Germany.
After England’s determination to support France had been made plain by ministerial statements, the entire Morocco episode was closed by the Franco-German Agreement signed on November 5, 1911, as “explanatory and supplementary” to the Franco-German Agreement of 1909. The effect of the new Agreement was practically to give France as free a hand in Morocco as England has in Egypt, with the reservation that “the proceedings of France in Morocco leave untouched the economic equality of all nations.” The Agreement further gives France “entire freedom of action” in Morocco, including measures of police. The rights and working area of the Morocco State bank were left as they stood under the Act of Algeciras. The sovereignty of the Sultan is assumed, but not explicitly declared. The compensation to Germany for her agreement to “put no hindrances in the way of French administration” and for the “protective rights” she recognizes as “belonging to France in the Shereefian Empire” was the cession by France to Germany of a large portion of her Congo territory in mid-Africa, with access to the Congo and its tributaries, the Sanga and Ubangi.
While the ground-idea of Germany’s policy of economic expansion, and the source of all her trouble with England, is her insistence on her “place in the sun,” the difficulty attending it for other nations is to determine the place’s nature and extent, so that every one shall be comfortable and prosperous all round.
The alterations in conditions among civilized nations during the last half-century, more especially in all that relates to international intercourse—political, financial, commercial, social—makes it reasonable to suppose that changes must follow in the conduct of their foreign policies. The fact also, recognized by no country more clearly than by Germany, that the profitable regions of the earth are already appropriated makes an economic policy for her all the more advisable. An economic policy, moreover, is, notwithstanding her apparent militarism, most in harmony with the peaceful and industrious character of her people. Unfortunately, the stage in progress where the political and commercial interests of all nations have become defined and adjusted has not yet been reached, though the numerous agreements between the Great Powers of recent years go far towards clearing the way for so desirable a consummation. Unfortunately, too, it is in the very process of finding bases for such agreements that international jealousies and misunderstandings arise; and hence in securing peace, governments and peoples are at all times nowadays most in jeopardy of war. This consideration alone might very well be used to justify nations in keeping their military and naval forces strong and ready. Perhaps some day such forms of force will not be wanted, though admittedly the great majority of people still refuse to believe that the changes which have occurred have altered the fundamental attitude of countries to each other, and remain firmly convinced that to-day, as yesterday and the day before, great nations are moved by an irresistible desire to add to their territories and in every way aggrandize themselves, by diplomacy if possible, and if diplomacy fails, by force.
It is, of course, impossible to say with certainty what the real designs of the Emperor and his Government in this regard were during the Morocco episode, or are now. Some believe that their designs have always aimed, and still aim, at depriving Great Britain of her position of superiority in respect of territory, maritime dominion, and trade. Others hold that they seek and will have, coute que coute, new territory for Germany’s increasing population, and look with greedy eyes towards South America and even Holland. Others yet again represent them as incessantly on the watch to seize a harbour here or there as a coaling station for warships and a basis of attack. But an unbiased survey of the annals of the Emperor’s reign hitherto does not bear out any of these assertions. A policy of territorial expansion as such, mere earth-hunger, cannot be proved against him. Prince Bismarck was no colonial enthusiast, though he passes for being the founder of Germany’s present colonial policy; and even to-day the colonial party in Germany, though a very noisy, is not a very large or influential one. Samoa—East Africa—Kiao-tschau—the Carolines—Heligoland—the Cameroons: how can the acquisition of comparatively insignificant and unprofitable places like these be used for proving that the might of Germany is or has been directed towards territorial conquest?
What, it may however be asked, of the Morocco adventure? Of the speech at Tangier? Of the sending of the Panther to Agadir? Of the demand for compensation in Central Africa? Until the Morocco question arose, all the quarrels amongst the Powers regarding territory were caused by the territorial ambition of France, or Russia, or Italy—not of Germany; and it was not until France showed openly, by sending her troops to Fez, and thus ignoring the Act of Algeciras, that Germany put forward claims for territorial compensation in connection with Morocco. The visit of the Emperor to Tangier in 1905, a year after the Anglo-French Agreement, was doubtless an unpleasant surprise for both England and France. And not without good cause; for England and France are naturally and historically Mediterranean Powers—the one as guardian of the route to her Eastern possessions, the other as the owners of a large extent of Mediterranean coast; while England, in addition, was justified in seeing with uneasiness the possibility of a German settlement at Tangier or elsewhere on the Morocco seaboard. But the Tangier visit and all that followed it was the consequence, not of an adventurous policy of territorial conquest, but of a legitimate, and not wholly selfish, desire for economic expansion.
Taken, then, as a whole, the Emperor’s foreign policy has been, as it is to-day, almost entirely economic and commercial. The same might, no doubt, be said in a general way of all civilized Occidental governments, but there never has yet been a country of which the foreign policy was so completely directed by the economic and mercantile spirit as modern Germany. The foreign policy of England has also been commercial, but it has been influenced at times by noble sentiment and splendid imagination as well. The first question the German statesman, in whose vocabulary of state-craft the word imagination does not occur, asks himself and other nations when any event happens abroad to demand imperial attention is—how does it affect Germany’s economic and commercial interests, future as well as present? What is Germany going to get out of it? The manner in which on various occasions during the reign the question has been propounded has excited criticism bordering on indignation abroad, but it should be recognized that it has invariably been answered in the long run by Germany in the spirit of compromise and conciliation.
However, all civilized nations nowadays see that war is the least satisfactory method of adjusting national quarrels, and the tendency is happily growing among them to pursue a commercial, an economic policy, a policy of peace. This is true Weltpolitik, true world-policy. Time was when wars were the unavoidable result of conditions then prevailing; but conditions have greatly altered, and war, as there is abundant evidence to show, is to-day, in almost every case, avoidable by all civilized peoples. Formerly war deranged and disturbed at any rate for the time being,
We have done with Morocco, but to round off the record for 1905 mention should be made of an incident in the Emperor’s life which was a source of great pleasure to him after his return from his journey thither. The marriage of his eldest son, the Crown Prince, took place in the Chapel Royal of the Berlin palace on June 15, 1905, to the young Duchess Cecile of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, whose character has been alluded to elsewhere and whom all Germans look forward with pleasure to seeing one day their Empress. The marriage naturally was attended by rejoicings in Berlin similar to those shown when the Emperor was married in 1881. Their chief popular feature, now as then, was the formal entry into the capital, and its chief domestic feature a grand wedding breakfast at the Emperor’s palace. On the occasion of the latter, the Emperor, rising from his seat and using the familiar Du and Dich (thou and thee), addressed his newly-made daughter-in-law as follows:—
“My dear daughter Cecilie,—Let me, on behalf of my wife and my whole House, heartily welcome you as a member of my House and my family circle. You have come to us like a Queen of Spring amid roses and garlands, and under endless acclamations of the people such as my Residence city has not known for long. A circle of noble guests has assembled to celebrate this high and joyful festival with us, but not only those present, but also those who are, alas, no more, are with us in spirit: your illustrious father and my parents.
“A hundred thousand beaming faces have enthusiastically greeted you; they have, however, not merely shone with pleasure, but whoever can look deeper into the heart of man could have seen in their eyes the question—a question which can only be answered by your whole life and conduct, the question, How will it turn out?
“You and your husband are about to found a home together. The people has its examples in the past to live up to. The examples which have preceded you, dear Cecilie, have been already eloquently mentioned—Queen Louise and other Princesses who have sat on the Prussian throne. They are the standards according to which the people will judge your life, while you, my dear son, will be judged according to the standard Providence set up in your illustrious great-grandfather.
“You, my daughter, have been received by us with open arms and will be honouredPage 171
and cherished. To both of you I wish from my heart God’s richest blessings. Let your home be founded on God and our Saviour. As He is the most impressive personality which has left its illuminating traces on the earth up to the present time, which finds an echo in the hearts of mankind and impels them to imitate it, so may your career imitate His, and thus will you also fulfil the laws and follow the traditions of our House.
“May your home be a happy one and an example for the younger generation, in accordance with the fine sentence which William the Great once wrote down as his confession of faith; ’My powers belong to the world and my country.’ Accept my blessing for your lives. I drink to the health of the young married couple.”
The record of this memorable year may be closed with mention of an institution which is not only a special care of the Emperor’s, but is also a landmark in the relation of Germany and America which may prove to be the forerunner, if it has not already done so, of similar interchange of ideas and information between nations which only require mutually to understand each other in order to be the best of friends.
The system of an annual exchange of professors between America and Germany was suggested, it is believed, to the Emperor in this year by Herr Althoff, the Prussian Minister of Education. The Emperor took up the idea with enthusiasm, and after discussing it with Dr. Nicholas Murray Butler, President of Columbia University, who was invited to Wilhelmshohe for the purpose, had it finally elaborated by the Prussian Ministry of Education which now superintends its working.
The original idea of an exchange only between Harvard and Berlin University professors was, thanks to the liberality of an American citizen, Mr. Speyer, extended almost simultaneously by the establishment of what are known as “Roosevelt” professorships. The holders of these positions, unlike the original “exchange” professors between Harvard and Berlin only, may be chosen by the trustees of Columbia University from any American university and can exchange duties for two terms, instead of one in the place of the exchange professors, with the professors of any German University. Harvard professors have been succesively: Francis G. Peabody, Theodore W. Richards, William H. Scofield, William M. Davis, George F. Moore, H. Munsterberg, Theobald Smith, Charles S. Minog; and Roosevelt professors: J.W. Burgess, Arthur T. Hadley, Felix Adler, Benj. Ide Wheeler, C. Alphonso Smith, Paul S. Reinsch, and William H. Sloane.
Writing to the German Ambassador in Washington, Baron Speck von Sternburg, in November, 1905, the Emperor said:
“Express my fullest sympathy with the movement regarding the exchange of professors. We are very well satisfied with Professor Peabody, the first exchange professor, and thankful to have him. He comes to me in my house, an honourable and welcome guest. My hearty thanks also to Mr. Speyer, for his fine gift for the erection of a professorship in Berlin. The exchange of the learned is the best means for both nations to know the inner nature of each other, and from thence spring mutual respect and love, which are securities for peace.”
The idea of the exchange, as described by Professor John W. Burgess, of Columbia University, the first Roosevelt professor to Germany, is
“an exchange of educators which has for its purpose the bringing of the men of learning of one country into other countries and by a comparison of fundamental ideas to arrive at a world-philosophy and a world-morality upon which the world’s peace and the world’s civilization may finally and firmly rest.”
The conception of a world-philosophy and a world-morality upon which the world’s peace and civilization may rest is not new, being now a little over 1900 years old, and, moreover, educators and men of science in all countries are constantly exchanging ideas by personal visits, correspondence, and publications; but in any case, the Emperor’s exchange system has the advantage that it brings the educators into touch with large numbers of the rising generation in America and Germany and undoubtedly helps towards a better mutual understanding of the relations, and in especial the economic relations, of the two countries.
It has worked well, and the Emperor has encouraged it by showing constant hospitality to the American professors who have come to Berlin since the system was instituted. One or two episodes have given rise to a diplomatic question as to whether or not exchange professors and their wives have the privilege of being presented at Court. The question has practically been decided in the negative. This, however, does not prevent the Emperor entertaining the professors at his palace, or making the acquaintance of the professors’ wives on other than Court ceremonious occasions.
BEFORE THE “NOVEMBER STORM”
1906-1907
In the domestic life of the Emperor during these years fall two or three events of more than ordinary interest. From the dynastic point of view was of importance the birth of a son and heir to the Crown Prince in the Marble Palace at Potsdam.
The Emperor was at sea, on his annual northern trip, when the birth occurred. As the ship approached Bergen the town was seen to be gaily decorated with flags. As it happened, everybody on board knew of the birth except the Emperor, but none of the officers round him ventured to congratulate him, because they supposed he knew of it already and were waiting for him to refer to it. At Bergen the German Minister, Stuebel, and German Consul, Mohr, came on board. The Minister, being a diplomatist, said nothing, but the Consul, as Consuls will, spoke his mind and ventured his congratulations. “What? I am a grandfather!” exclaimed the Emperor. “Why, that’s splendid! and I knew nothing about it!” The captain of the ship then asked should he fire the salute of twenty-one guns usual on such occasions. “No,” said the Emperor, “that won’t do. Mohr is a great talker. Let us first see the official despatches from Berlin.” The party, including the Emperor, went down into the cabin to await the despatches, which were being brought from Bergen.
On their arrival a basketful of State papers was placed before the Emperor. The first one he took out was a telegram from the Sultan of Turkey with congratulations (great merriment); the second from an unknown lady in Berlin, with a name corresponding to the English “Brown,” with four lines of congratulatory poetry; and it was not until more than a hundred despatches had been opened that they came to one from the Minister of the Interior and another from the Empress announcing the birth. Popular reports at the time represented the Emperor as boiling over with anger at his being kept or left in ignorance of the happy event. As a matter of fact, he was in high good-humour, and himself mentioned a similar occurrence at Metz in 1870, when an important movement of the French army was not reported because it was assumed that it was already known to the Intelligence Department. As a public sign of his satisfaction he amnestied the half-dozen of his subjects who happened to be in gaol as punishment for lese majeste.
Another domestic event at this time was the celebration by the Emperor and Empress of their silver wedding. Berlin, of course, was illuminated and beflagged. There was a great gathering of royal relatives, a State banquet, and a special parade of troops. At the latter were remarkable for their huge proportions two former grenadiers of the regiment of Guards the Emperor commanded in his youth. They were now settled in America, but came over to Germany on the Emperor’s particular invitation and, of course, at his private expense.
The last item of domestic interest this year (1906) worth record was the marriage of Prince Eitel Frederick, the Emperor’s second son, with Princess Sophie Charlotte of Oldenburg. In his speech to the bridal pair on their wedding-day the Emperor referred to the personal likeness the young Prince bore to his great-grandfather, Emperor William, and expressed the hope that the Prince might grow more like him in character from year to year.
Meantime the Emperor had to pass through a season of great annoyance owing to the scandal which arose in connection with the so-called “Camarilla.” The existence of a small and secret group of viciously minded men among the Emperor’s entourage was disclosed to the public by the well-known pamphleteer, Maximilian Harden, a Jew by birth named Witowski, who as a younger man had been on semi-confidential terms with Prince Bismarck and subsequently with Foreign Secretary von Holstein. As a result of Harden’s disclosures some highly placed friends of the Emperor were compromised and had ultimately to disappear from public life as well as from the Court. It was perfectly evident throughout that the Emperor had been totally ignorant of the private character of the men forming the “Camarilla,” and nothing was proved to show that the group which formed it had ever unduly, or indeed in any fashion, influenced him.
An allusion made to the scandal by a deputy in the Reichstag brought the Chancellor, Prince von Buelow, to his feet in defence of the monarch. “The view,” he said,
“that the monarch in Germany should not have his own opinions as to State and Government, and should only think what his Ministers desire him to think, is contrary to German State law and contrary to the will of the German people”
("Quite right,” on the Right). “The German people,” continued the Chancellor,
“want no shadow-king, but an Emperor of flesh and blood. The conduct and statements of a strong personality like the Emperor’s are not tantamount to a breach of the Constitution. Can you tell me a single case in which the Emperor has acted contrary to the Constitution?”
The Chancellor concluded:
“As to a Camarilla—Camarilla is no German word. It is a hateful, foreign, poisonous plant which no one has ever tried to introduce into Germany without doing great injury to the people and to the Prince. Our Emperor is a man of far too upright a character and much too clear-headed to seek counsel in political things from any other quarter than his appointed advisers and his own sense of duty.”
The Camarilla scandal was all the more painful as it was made a ground for insinuations disgraceful to German officers as a body. Such insinuations were, as they would be to-day, entirely unfounded.
Another thing that annoyed the Emperor this year was the publication of ex-Chancellor Prince Hohenlohe’s Memoirs. The publication drew from him a telegram to a son of the ex-Chancellor in which he expressed his “astonishment and indignation” at the publication of confidential private conversations between him and Prince Hohenlohe regarding Prince Bismarck’s dismissal. “I must stigmatize,” the Emperor telegraphed,
“such conduct as in the last degree tactless, indiscreet, and entirely inopportune. It is a thing unheard-of that occurrences relating to a sovereign reigning at the time should be published without his permission.”
Germans as a people are passionately fond of dancing, and though everybody knows that the people of Vienna bear away the palm in this respect, claim to be the best waltzers in the world. The Emperor, accordingly, won great popularity among the dancers of his realm this year by lending a favourable ear to the sighing of the young ladies of the provincial town of Crefeld for a regiment which would provide them with a supply of dancing partners. The Emperor took occasion to visit the town, and brought with him a regiment of the Guards from Duesseldorf to form part of the new garrison. He was received by the city authorities, and was at the same time, doubtless, greeted from balcony and window by multitudes of fair-haired Crefeld maidens, who looked with delightful anticipations on the gallant soldiers, who were to relieve the tedium of their evenings, riding by. “To-day,” the Emperor told the assembled city fathers, “I have kept my word to the town of Crefeld, and when I make a promise I keep it too (stormy applause). I have brought the town its garrison and the young ladies their dancers.” The “stormy applause” was again renewed—amid, one may imagine, the enthusiastic waving of pocket-handkerchiefs from the windows and the balconies.
The salient feature of foreign politics just now was, naturally, the close on March 31st of the Conference of Algeciras. Its results have been referred to in the chapter on Morocco, and mention need only be made here of the famous telegram regarding it sent by the Emperor on April 12th of this year (1906) to the Foreign Minister of Austria, Count Goluchowski. “A capital example of good faith among allies!” he telegraphed to the Count, meaning Austria’s support of Germany at Algeciras. “You showed yourself a brilliant second in the tourney, and can reckon on the like service from me on a similar occasion.”
Internal affairs, and particularly the parliamentary situation in Germany, had during the three or four years before that of the “November Storm” demanded a good deal of the Emperor’s attention. The everlasting fight with the rebel angels of the Hohenzollern heaven, the Social Democracy, had been going on all through the reign. Now the Emperor would fulminate against it, now his Chancellor, Prince von Buelow, would attack it with brilliant ability and sarcasm in Parliament. Still the Social Democratic movement grew, still the Vorwaerts, the party organ, continued to rail at industrial capitalists and the large landowners alike, still Herr Lucifer-Bebel bitterly assailed every measure of the Government. The fact seems to be that the people were getting restive under the imperial burdens the Emperor’s world-policy entailed. The cost of living, partly
The parliamentary situation was, as usual, at the mercy of the Centrum party, which, with its hundred or more members, can always make a majority by combining with Liberal parties of the Left (including the Socialists) or Conservative parties of the Right. In December, 1906, when the Budget was laid before Parliament, it was found to contain a demand for about L1,500,000 for the troops in South-west Africa. The Centrum refused to grant more than L1,000,000, and required, moreover, an undertaking that the number of troops in the colony should be reduced. The Social Democrats, with a number of Progressives and other Left parties sufficient to form a majority, joined the Centrum, and the Government demand was rejected by 177 to 168 votes. On the result of the voting being declared, Chancellor von Buelow solemnly rose and drew a paper from his pocket. It was an order from the Emperor dissolving Parliament.
The general elections were to be held in January following, and great efforts were made by the Emperor and Chancellor to secure a Government majority against the combined Centrists and Socialists. The country was appealed to to say whether Germany should lose her African colonies or not; a patriotic response was made, and, though the Centrum, as always, came back to Parliament in undiminished strength, the Socialists lost one-half of their eighty seats.
The Emperor, needless to say, was tremendously gratified. On the night the final results were announced he gave a large dinner-party at the Palace, and read out to the Royal Family and his guests the bulletins as they came in. Towards one o’clock in the morning the official totals were known. The streets were knee-deep in snow, but the people were not deterred from making a demonstration in their thousands before the palace. By and by lights were seen moving hurriedly to and fro along the first floor containing the Emperor’s apartments. A general illumination of the suite of rooms followed, a window was thrown up, and the Emperor, bare-headed, was seen in the opening. Instantly complete stillness fell on the vast square, and the Emperor, leaning far out over the balcony, and evidently much excited, spoke in stentorian tones and with a dramatic waving of his right arm as follows: “Gentlemen!”—the “gentlemen” included half the hooligans of Berlin, but such are the accidents of political life—
“Gentlemen! This fine ovation springs from the feeling that you are proud of having done your duty by your country. In the words of our great Chancellor (Bismarck), who said that if the Germans were once put in the saddle they would soon learn to ride, you can ride and you will ride, and ride down, any one who opposes us, especially when all classes and creeds stand fast together. Do not let this hour of triumph pass as a moment of patriotic enthusiasm, but keep to the road on which you have started.”
The speech closed with a verse from Kleist’s “Prince von Homburg,” a favourite monarchist drama of the Emperor’s, conveying the idea that good Hohenzollern rule had knocked bad Social-Democratic agitation into a cocked hat.
The result of the elections enabled the Chancellor to form a new “bloc” party in Parliament, consisting of conservatives and Liberals, on whose united aid he could rely in promoting national measures. As the Chancellor said, he did not expect Conservatives to turn into Liberals and Liberals into Conservatives overnight nor did he expect the two parties to vote solid on matters of secondary interest and importance; but he expected them to support the Government on questions that concerned the welfare of the whole Empire.
Before 1907, the year we have now reached, Franco-German and Anglo-German relations had long varied from cool to stormy. They had not for many years been at “set-fair,” nor have they apparently reached that halcyon stage as yet. During the Moroccan troubles it was generally believed that on two or three occasions war was imminent either between France and Germany or between Germany and England. That there was such a danger at the time of M. Delcasse’s retirement from the conduct of French foreign affairs just previous to the Algeciras Conference is a matter of general conviction in all countries; but there is no publicly known evidence that danger of war between England and Germany has been acute at any time of recent years. Nor at any time of recent years has the bulk of the people in either country really desired or intended war. There has been international exasperation, sometimes amounting to hostility, continuously; but it was largely due to Chauvinism on both sides, and was in great measure counteracted by the efforts of public-spirited bodies and men in both countries, by international visits of amity and goodwill, and by the determination of both the English and German Governments not to go to war without good and sufficient cause.
Among the most striking testimonies to this determination was the visit of the Emperor to England in November, 1907.
The visit was made expressly an affair of State. The Emperor was accompanied by the Empress, and the visit became a pageant and a demonstration—a pageant in respect of the national honours paid to the imperial guests and a demonstration of national regard and respect for them as friends of England. Nothing could have been simpler, or more tactful or more sincere than the utterances, private as well as public, of the Emperor throughout his stay. His very first speech, the few words he addressed to the Mayor of Windsor, displayed all three qualities. “It seems to me,” he said, “like a home-coming when I enter Windsor. I am always pleased to be here.” At the Guildhall subsequently, referring to the two nations, he used, and not for the first time, the phrase “Blood is thicker than water.”
At the Guildhall, on this occasion, the Emperor reminded his hearers that he was a freeman of the City of London, having been the recipient of that honour from the hands of Lord Mayor Sir Joseph Savory on his accession visit to London in 1891. He then referred to the visit of the Lord Mayor, Sir William Treloar, to Berlin the year previous, and promised a similar hearty welcome to any deputation from the City of London to his capital. “In this place sixteen years ago,” continued the Emperor,
“I said that all my efforts would be directed to the preservation of peace. History will do me the justice of recognizing that I have unfalteringly pursued this aim. The main support, however, and the foundation of the world’s peace is the maintenance of good relations between our two countries. I will, in future also, do all I can to strengthen them, and the wishes of my people are at one with my own in this.”
The procession that followed upon the visit to the Guildhall made a special impression on the Emperor. “I was so close to the people,” he said afterwards,
“who were assembled in hundreds of thousands, that I could look straight into their eyes, and from the expression on their faces I could see that their reception of the Empress and myself was no artificial welcome but an out-and-out sincere one. That stirred us deeply and gave us great satisfaction. The Empress and I will take back with us recollections of London and England we shall never forget.”
While at Windsor the Emperor received a deputation of sixteen members of Oxford University, headed by Lord Curzon, who came to present him with the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws voted him by the University while he was still on his way to England. It was a picturesque scene: the members of the University in their academic robes were surrounded by a brilliant company representing the intellect of the country; and the Emperor, with the doctor’s hood over his field-marshal’s uniform, was the cynosure of all eyes.
The Emperor’s reply to Lord Curzon’s address, highly complimentary to the University though it was, was perhaps chiefly remarkable for the expression of his expectations from the Rhodes’ Scholarship foundation. “The gift of your great fellow-countryman, Cecil Rhodes,” he said,
“affords an opportunity to students, not only from the British colonies, but also from Germany and the United States, to obtain the benefits of an Oxford education. The opportunity afforded to young Germans during their period of study to mix with young Englishmen is one of the most satisfactory results of Rhodes’s far-seeing mind. Under the auspices of the Oxford alma mater, the young students will have an opportunity of studying the character and qualities of the respective nations, of fostering by this means the spirit of good comradeship, and creating an atmosphere of mutual respect and friendship between the two countries.”
The Emperor had always admired the Colossus of South Africa, discerning in him no doubt many of those attributes which he felt existed in himself or which he would like to think existed; and the admiration stood the test of personal acquaintance when Cecil Rhodes visited Berlin in March, 1899, in connexion with his scheme for the Cape to Cairo railway. It does not sound very complimentary to his own subjects, the “salt of the earth,” but it is on record that the Emperor then said to Rhodes that he wished “he had more men like him.” At the close of the visit the Empress returned to Germany, while the Emperor took a much needed rest-cure for three weeks at Highcliffe Castle, a country mansion in Hampshire he rented for the purpose from its owner, Colonel Stuart-Wortley.
In the course of this work, it may have been noticed, no particular attention has been devoted to the Emperor in his military capacity. The reason is, because it is taken for granted that all the world knows the Emperor in his character as War Lord, that he is practically never out of uniform, and that his care for the army is only second—if it is second—to that for the stability and power of his monarchy. The two things in fact are closely identified, and, from the Emperor’s standpoint, on both together depend the security, and to a large extent the prosperity, of the Empire. He knows or believes that Germany is surrounded by hordes of potential enemies, as a lighthouse is often surrounded by an ocean that, while treacherously calm, may at any time rage about the edifice; that round the lighthouse are gathered his folk, who look to it for safety; and that the monarchy is the lighthouse itself, a rocher de bronze, towering above all.
In this connexion it may be noted that the army in Germany is not a mercenary body like the English army, but is simply and solely a certain portion of the people, naturally the younger men, passing for two or three years, according as they serve in the infantry or cavalry, through the ranks. The system of recruiting, as everybody knows, is called conscription; it ought rather to be described as a system of national education, whereby the rude and raw youth of the country is converted into an admirable class of well-disciplined, self-respecting and healthy, as well as patriotic, citizens. The Emperor believes, contrary to the opinion of many English army officers, that a man to be a good soldier must also be a good Christian, and thus we find him enforcing, or trying to enforce, among his officers the moral qualities which Christianity is meant to foster.
Among these qualities is simplicity of life, and as a result of simplicity of life, contentment with simple and not too costly pleasures. We saw the Emperor as a young colonel forbidding his officers to join a Berlin club where gambling was prevalent. This year, after a luxurious lunch at one of the regimental messes, he issues an order, or rather an edict, expressing his wish that officers in their messes should content themselves with simpler food and wines, and in particular that when he himself is a guest, the meal should consist only of soup, fish, vegetables, a roast and cheese. Ordinary red or white table-wine, a glass of “bowl” ("cup"), or German champagne should be handed round. Liqueurs, or other forms of what the French know as “chasse-cafe,” after dinner were best avoided. The edict of course caused amusement as well as a certain amount of discontent with what was felt to be a kind of objectionable paternal interference, and it is doubtful whether it has had much lasting effect. Even now, the German officer laughingly tells one that when the Emperor dines at an officers’ mess either French champagne (which is infinitely superior to German) is poured into German champagne bottles, or else the French label is carefully shrouded in a napkin that swathes the bottle up to the neck. Apropos of German champagne, a story is current that Bismarck, one day dining at the palace, refused the German champagne being handed round. The Emperor noticed the refusal and said pointedly to Bismarck: “I always drink German champagne, because I think it right to encourage our national industries. Every patriot should do so.” “Your Majesty,” replied the grim old Chancellor, “my patriotism does not extend to my stomach.”
In the domain of aesthetics this year the Emperor had some pleasant and some painful experiences. Joachim, the great violinist, and a great favourite of his, died in August, and his death was followed next month, September, by that of the composer Grieg, the “Chopin of the North,” as the Emperor called him, whose friendship the Emperor had acquired on one of his Norwegian trips. Quite at the end of the year his early tutor, Dr. Hinzpeter, for whom he always had a semi-filial regard, passed away.
On the other hand, among the Emperor’s pleasant experiences may be reckoned the visit of Mr. Beerbohm Tree and his English company to the German capital. Their repertory of Shakespearean drama greatly delighted the Emperor, who expressed his pleasure to Mr. Tree and his fellow-players personally, and did not dismiss them without substantial tokens of his appreciation.
Earlier in the year the French actress, Suzanne Depres, visited Berlin and appealed strongly to the Emperor’s taste for the “classical” in music and drama. Inviting the actress to the royal box, he said to her:
“You have shown us such a natural, living Phaedra that we were all strongly moved. How fine a part it is! As a youngster I used to learn verses from ‘Phaedra’ by heart. I am told that in France devotion to classical tradition is growing weaker, and that Moliere and Racine are more and more seldom played. What a pity! Our people, on the contrary, remain faithful to their great poets and enjoy their works. After school comes college, and after college—the theatre. It should elevate and expand the soul. The people do not need any representation of reality—they are well acquainted with that in their daily lives. One must put something greater and nobler before them, something superior to ‘La Dame aux Camelias.’”
A month later, however, he made one of his extremely rare visits to an ordinary Berlin theatre to see—“The Hound of the Baskervilles”!
Meanwhile in domestic politics Chancellor von Buelow’s famous “bloc” continued to work satisfactorily, notwithstanding difficulties arising from the conflicting interests of industry and agriculture, Free Trade and Protection and differences of creed and race. At the end of this year it was near falling asunder in connection with the question of judicial reform, but Prince von Buelow kept it together for a while by an impassioned appeal to the patriotism of both parties. In the course of the speech he told the House how, when he was standing at Bismarck’s death-bed, he noticed on the wall the portrait of a man, Ludwig Uhland, who had said “no head could rule over Germany that was not well anointed with democratic oil,” and drew the conclusion from the contrast between the dying man of action and the poet that only the union of old Prussian conservative energy and discipline with German broad-hearted, liberal spirit could secure a happy future for the nation. The “bloc,” as we shall see, broke up in 1909 and Prince von Buelow resigned. The Chancellor afterwards attributed his fall entirely to the Conservatives, but it is possible, even probable, that it was in at least some measure due to the events of the annus mirabilis, 1908, which now opened.
THE NOVEMBER STORM
1908
The “November Storm” was a collision between the Emperor and his folk, a result of his so-called “personal regiment.”
In a general way the latter phrase is intended to describe and characterize the method of rule adopted by the Emperor from the very beginning of his reign, especially as exhibited in his semi-official utterances, public and private, in his correspondence, private conversation, and public and private conduct generally. According to the popular interpretation of the Imperial Constitution—the nearest thing to a Magna Charta in Germany—the Emperor should observe, in his words and acts, a reserve which would prevent all chance of creating dissension among the federated
The device is known as the Chancellor’s “responsibility,” which was regarded, and is still regarded in Germany, as at once “covering” the Emperor and offering to his folk a safeguard against unwisdom or caprice on his part. The nature of this responsibility which is evidenced by the Chancellor signing the Emperor’s edicts and other official statements, is so frequently discussed by German politicians, the position of the Chancellor—the Grand Vizier of Germany he has been picturesquely called—is so influential, and the intercourse between the Emperor and the Chancellor is so close, exclusive, and confidential, that an examination of the meaning of the term “responsibility” in this connexion is desirable.
Whenever the Emperor does anything important or surprising, especially in foreign policy, the first question asked by his subjects is, has he taken the step with the knowledge, and therefore with the joint responsibility, of the Chancellor? If the answer is in the negative, it is the “personal regiment” again, and people are angry: if the latter, they may disapprove of the step and grumble at it, but it is covered by the Chancellor’s signature and they can raise no constitutional objection. Hence the demand usually made on such occasions for an Act of Parliament once for all defining fully and clearly the Chancellor’s responsibilities. According to Prince von Buelow, and it is doubtless the Emperor’s own view, the responsibility mentioned in the Constitution is a “moral responsibility,” and only refers to such acts and orders of the Emperor as immediately arise out of the governing rights vested in him, not to personal expressions of opinion, even though these may be made on formal occasions; and the Prince goes on to say that if a Chancellor cannot prevent what he honestly thinks would permanently and in an important respect be injurious to the Empire, he is bound to resign.
The Chancellor, then, takes responsibility of some kind. But responsibility to whom? To the Emperor? To the Parliament? To the people? The answer is, solely to the Emperor, for it is the Emperor who appoints and dismisses him as well as every other Minister, imperial or Prussian, and the Emperor is only responsible to his conscience. In parliamentarily ruled countries like England Ministers are responsible to Parliament, which expresses its disapproval by the vote of a hostile majority, or in certain circumstances by a vote of censure or even
There is no struggle for government in Germany between the Crown and the people: Germans have no ancient Magna Charta, no Habeas Corpus, no Declaration of Rights to look back to on the long road to liberty. In the protracted struggle for government between the English people and their rulers, the people’s victory took the form of parliamentary control while retaining the monarch as their highest and most honoured representative. Socially he is their master, politically their servant, the “first servant of the State.” In Germany there has never, save for a few months in 1848, been any struggle of a similar political extent or kind. German monarchs including the Emperor, have applied the expression “first servant of the State” to themselves, but they did not apply it in the English sense. They applied it more accurately. In Germany the State means the system, the mechanism of government, inclusive of the monarch’s office: in England the word “State” is more nearly equivalent to the word “people.” To serve the system, the government machinery, is the first duty of the monarch, and government is not a changing reflection of the people’s will, but a permanent apparatus for maintaining the power of the Crown, harmonizing and reconciling the sentiments and interests of all parts of the Empire, and for conducting foreign policy.
It may be objected that legislation is made by the Reichstag, that the Reichstag has the power of the purse, and that it is elected by universal suffrage; but in Germany the Government is above and independent of the Reichstag; legislation is not made by the Reichstag alone, since it requires the agreement of the Federal Council and of the Emperor, and—what is of great practical importance—Government issues directions as to how legislation shall be carried into effect. The law of 1872 passed against the Jesuits forbade the “activity” of the Order, but the interpretation of the word “activity,” and with it the effects of the law, were left to the Government.
Kings of Prussia and German Emperors have never shown much affection for their Parliaments: Parliaments are apt to act as a check upon monarchy, and in Prussia in particular to interfere with the carrying out of the divinely imposed mission. This is not said sarcastically; and the Emperor, like some of his ancestors, has more than once expressed the same thought. Parliaments in Germany only date from after the French Revolution. After that event there came into existence in Germany the Frankfurt Parliament (1848), the Erfurt Parliament (1850), and the Parliament of the German Customs Union (1867). These, however, were not popularly elected Parliaments like those of the present day, but gatherings of class delegates from the various Kingdoms and States composing the Germany and Austria of the time. Since the Middle Ages there had always been quasi-popular assemblies in Prussia, but they too were not elected, and only represented classes, not constituencies. The present Parliaments in Prussia and the Empire are Constitutional Parliaments in the English sense, elected by universal suffrage, the one indirectly, the other directly.
The present Prussian Diet dates from the “First Unified Diet,” summoned by Frederick William IV in 1847, which was transformed next year under pressure of the revolutionists into a “national assembly.” This was treated a year after by General Wrangel almost exactly as Cromwell treated the Rump. The General entered Berlin with the troops which a few weeks before had fought against the revolutionists of the “March days.” He passed along the Linden to the royal theatre, where the “national assembly” was in session, and was met at the door by the leader of the citizens’ guard with the proud words, “The guard is resolved to protect the honour of the National Assembly and the freedom of the people, and will only yield to force.”
Wrangel took out his watch—one can imagine the old silver “turnip”—and with his thumb on the dial replied:
“Tell your city guard that the force is here. I will be responsible for the maintenance of order. The National Assembly has fifteen minutes in which to leave the building and the city guard in which to withdraw.”
In a quarter of an hour the building was empty, and next day the city guard was dissolved. A month later the King, Frederick William IV, granted his octroyierte Constitution—that is, a concession of his own royal personal will—which established the Diet as it is to-day.
Emperor William I, as King of Prussia, had a good deal of trouble with his Parliament, and in 1852 wanted to abdicate rather than rule in obedience to a parliamentary majority—it was the “conflict time” about funds for army reorganization. Bismarck dissuaded him from doing so by promising to become Minister and carry on the government, if need were, without a parliament and without a budget. He actually did so for some years, but there was no change in the Constitution as a result.
Nor has there been any constitutional change in the relations of Crown to Parliament during the present reign. As a young man, the Emperor had of course nothing to do with Parliament, Prussian or Imperial, and since his accession, though there is always latent antagonism and has been even friction at times, he has, generally speaking, lived on “correct,” if not friendly terms with it. There is little, if any, of the devoted affection one finds for the monarch in the English Parliament.
And not unnaturally. Early in his reign, in 1891, he made a reference to Parliament little calculated to evoke affection. “The soldier and the army,” he said to his generals at a banquet in the palace, “not parliamentary majorities and decisions, have welded together the German Empire. My confidence is in the army—as my grandfather said at Coblenz: ‘These are the gentlemen on whom I can rely.’” Again, a year or two afterwards he dissolved the Reichstag for refusing to accept a military bill and did not conceal his anger with the recalcitrant majority. In 1895 he telegraphed to Bismarck his indignation with the Reichstag for refusing to vote its congratulations on the old statesman’s eightieth birthday. In 1897, speaking of the kingship “von Gottes Gnaden” he took occasion to quote his grandfather’s declaration that “it was a kingship with onerous duties from which no man, no Minister, no Parliament, no people” could release the Prince. In 1903 his Chancellor, Prince Buelow, had to defend in Parliament his action in the case of the Swinemunde despatch already mentioned. Attention was called to the telegram in the Reichstag and the Chancellor defended the Emperor. He denied that the telegram was an act of State—it was a personal matter between two sovereigns, the statement of a friend to a friend. “The idea,” said the Chancellor, who contended that the Emperor had a right to express his opinions like any citizen,
“that the monarch’s expression of opinion is to be limited by a stipulation that every such expression must be endorsed with the signature of the Chancellor is wholly foreign to the Constitution.”
Next day the Chancellor had again occasion to defend his imperial master against a charge of being “anti-social,” brought by the Socialist von Vollmar, who coupled the charge with insinuations of absolutism and Caesarism. Prince Buelow said:
“Absolutism is not a German word, and is not a German institution. It is an Asiatic plant, and one cannot talk of absolutism in Germany so long as our circumstances develop in an organic and legal manner, respecting the rights of the Crown, which are just as sacred as the rights of the burgher; respecting also law and order, which are not disregarded ‘from above,’ and will not be disregarded. If ever our circumstances take on an absolute, a Caesarian, form, it will be as the consequence of revolution, of convulsion. For on revolution follows Caesarism as W follows U—thatPage 186
is the rule in the A B C of the world’s history.”
There is no harm in reminding Prince Buelow that the letter V—which may be a very important link in the chain of events—comes between U and W. It is clear also that the Chancellor must have forgotten his English history for the moment, for though Cromwell’s rule may be called Caesarism of a kind, the reign of William III, of “glorious, pious, and immortal memory,” which followed the revolution of 1688, could not fairly be so named.
Three years later, in 1906, Prince Buelow found it necessary to defend the Emperor on the score of the “personal regiment.” “The view,” Prince Buelow said,
“that the monarch should have no individual thoughts of his own about State and government, but should only think with the heads of his Ministers and only say what they tell him to say, is fundamentally wrong—is inconsistent with State rights and with the wish of the German people”;
and he concluded by challenging the House to mention a single case in which the Emperor had acted unconstitutionally. None of these bickerings between Crown and Parliament went to the root of the constitutional relations between them, but they betrayed the existence of popular dissatisfaction with the Emperor, which in a couple of years was to culminate in an outbreak of national anger.
An occurrence calls for mention here, not only as a kind of harbinger of the “storm,” but as one of the chief incidents which in the course of recent years have troubled Anglo-German relations. The incident referred to is that of the so-called “Tweedmouth Letter,” which was an autograph letter from the Emperor to Lord Tweedmouth, First Lord of the British Admiralty at the time, dated February 17, 1908, and containing among other matters a lengthy disquisition on naval construction, with reference to the excited state of feeling in England caused by Germany’s warship-building policy. The letter has never been published, but it is supposed to have been prompted by a statement made publicly by Lord Esher, Warden of Windsor Castle, in the London Observer, to the effect that nothing would more please the German Emperor than the retirement of Sir John Fisher, the originator of the Dreadnought policy, who was at the time First Lord of the Admiralty; and to have contained the remark that “Lord Esher had better attend to the drains at Windsor and leave alone matters which he did not understand.” The Emperor was apparently unaware that Lord Esher was one of the foremost military authorities in England.
The sending of the letter became known through the appearance of a communication in the London Times of March 6th, with the caption “Under which King?”—an allusion to Shakespeare’s “Under which king, Bezonian, speak or die”—and signed “Your Military Correspondent.” The writer announced that it had come to his knowledge that the German Emperor had recently addressed a letter
Everywhere opinion was divided as to the defensibility of the Emperor’s action; in France the division was reported by the Times correspondent to be “bewildering.” All the evidence available to prove the Emperor’s impulsiveness was recalled—the Kruger telegram, the telegram to Count Goluchowski, the Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs, after the Morocco Conference, characterizing him as a “brilliant second (to Germany) in the bout at Algeciras,” the premature telegram conferring the Order of Merit on General Stoessel after the fall of Port Arthur, and other evidence, relevant and irrelevant. Reuter’s agent in Berlin telegraphed on official authority that the Emperor “had written as a naval expert.”
On the whole, continental opinion may be said to have leaned in favour of the Emperor. Mr. Asquith, the English Prime Minister, at once made the statement that the letter was a “purely private communication, couched in an entirely friendly spirit,” that it had not been laid before the Cabinet, and that the latter had come to a decision about the Estimates before the letter arrived.
All eyes and ears were now turned to Lord Tweedmouth, and on March 10th he briefly referred to the matter in the House of Lords. He received the letter, he said, in the ordinary postal way; it was “very friendly in tone and quite informal”; he showed it to Sir Edward Grey, who agreed with him that it should be treated as a private letter, not as an official one; and he replied to it on February 20th, “also in an informal and friendly manner.” A discussion, in which Lord Lansdowne and Lord Rosebery took part, followed, the former—to give the tone, not the words of his speech—handing in a verdict of “Not guilty, but don’t do it again,” against the Emperor, and laying down the principle that “such a communication as that in question must not be allowed to create a diplomatic situation different from that which has been established through official channels and documents”; and Lord Rosebery, while he recognized the importance of the incident, seeking to minimize its effects by an attitude of banter. The treatment of the incident by the House of Commons as a whole gave considerable satisfaction in Germany, where all efforts were directed to showing malevolent hostility to Germany on the part of the Times.
Prince von Buelow dealt with the letter in a speech on the second reading of the Budget on March 24, 1908. After referring to the Union Internationale Interparlementaire, which was to meet in a few months in Berlin, and to the “very unsatisfactory situation in Morocco,” he said:—
“From various remarks which have been dropped in the course of the debate I gather that this honourable House desires me to make a statement as to the letter which his Majesty the Kaiser last month wrote to Lord Tweedmouth. On grounds of discretion, to the observance of which both the sender and receiver of a private letter are equally entitled, I am not in a position to lay the text of the letter before you, and I add that I regret exceedingly that I cannot do so. The letter could be signed by any one of us, by any sincere friend of good relations between Germany and England (hear, hear). The letter, gentlemen, was in form and substance a private one, and at the same time its contents were of a political nature. The one fact does not exclude the other; and the letter of a sovereign, an imperial letter, does not, from the fact that it deals with political questions, become an act of State (’Very true,’ on the Right).
“This is not—and deputy Count Kanitz yesterday gave appropriate instances in support—the first political letter a sovereign has written, and our Kaiser is not the first sovereign who has addressed to foreign statesmen letters of a political character which are not subject to control. The matter here concerns a right of action which all sovereigns claim and which, in the case of our Kaiser also, no one has a right to limit. How his Majesty proposes to make use of this right we can confidently leave to the imperial sense of duty. It is a gross, in no way justifiable misrepresentation, to assert that his Majesty’s letter to Lord Tweedmouth amounts to an attempt to influence the Minister responsible for the naval budget in the interests of Germany, or that it denotes a secret interference in the internal affairs of the British Empire. Our Kaiser is the last person to believe that the patriotism of an English Minister would suffer him to accept advice from a foreign country as to the drawing up of the English naval budget (’Quite right,’ hear, hear). What is true of English statesmen is true also of the leading statesmen of every country which lays claim to respect for its independence (’Very true’). In questions of defence of one’s own country every people rejects foreign interference and is guided only by considerations bearing on its own security and its own needs (’Quite right’). Of this right to self-judgment and self-defence Germany also makes use when she builds a fleet to secure the necessary protection for her coasts and her commerce (’Bravo!’). This defensive, this purely defensive character of our naval programme cannot, in view of the incessant attempts to attribute to us aggressive views withPage 189
regard to England, be too often or too sharply brought forward (’Bravo!’). We desire to live in peace and quietness with England, and therefore it is embittering to find a portion of the English Press ever speaking of the ’German danger,’ although the English fleet is many times stronger than our own, although other lands have stronger fleets than us and are working no less zealously at their development. Nevertheless it is Germany, ever Germany, and only Germany, against which public opinion on the other side of the Channel is excited by an utterly valueless polemic (’Quite right’).
“It would be, gentlemen,”
the Chancellor continued,
“in the interests of appeasement between both countries, it would be in the interest of the general peace of the world, that this polemic should cease. As little as we challenge England’s right to set up the naval standard her responsible statesmen consider necessary for the maintenance of British power in the world without our seeing therein a threat against ourselves, so little can she take it ill of us if we do not wish our naval construction to be wrongly represented as a challenge against England (hear, hear, on the Right and Left). Gentlemen, these are the thoughts, as I judge from your assent, which we all entertain, which find expression in the statements of all speakers, and which are in harmony with all our views. Accept my additional statement that in the letter of his Majesty to Lord Tweedmouth one gentleman, one seaman, talks frankly to another, that our Kaiser highly appreciates the honour of being an admiral of the British navy, and that he is a great admirer of the political education of the British people and of their fleet, and you will have a just view of the tendency, tone, and contents of the imperial letter to Lord Tweedmouth. His Majesty consequently finds himself in this letter not only in full agreement with the Chancellor—I may mention this specially for the benefit of Herr Bebel—but, as I am convinced, in agreement with the entire nation. It would be deeply regrettable if the honourable opinions by which our Kaiser was moved in writing this letter should be misconstrued in England. With satisfaction I note that the attempts at such misconstruction have been almost unanimously rejected in England (’Bravo!’ on the Right and Left). Above all, gentlemen, I believe that the admirable way in which the English Parliament has exemplarily treated the question will have the best effect in preventing a disturbance of the friendly relations between Germany and England and in removing all hostile intention from the discussions over the matter (agreement, Right and Left).
“Gentlemen, one more observation of a general nature. Deputies von Hertling and Bassermann have recommended us, in view of the suspicions spread about us abroad, a calm and watchful attitude of reserve, and for the treatment of the country’s foreign affairs consistency,Page 190
union, and firmness. I believe that the foreign policy we must follow cannot be characterized better or more rightly (applause).”
A German saying has it that one is wiser coming from, than going to, the Rathaus, the place of counsel. It is easy to see now that it would have been better had the Emperor not written the letter, better had the Times not brought it to public notice, better, also, had the Emperor or Lord Tweedmouth or Sir Edward Grey—for one of them must have spoken of it to a third person—not let its existence become known to anyone save themselves, at least not until the international situation which prompted it had ceased. As regards the Emperor in particular, judgment must be based on the answer to the question, Was the letter a private letter or a public document? The Times regarded it as the latter, and many politicians took that view, but probably nine people out of ten now regard it as the former. For such, the reflection that it was part of a private correspondence between two friendly statesmen, both well known to be sincere in their views that a country’s navy—that all military preparations—are based on motives of national defence, not of high-handed aggression, must absolve the Emperor from any suspicion of political immorality. It was unfortunate that the letter was written, unfortunate that it was made known publicly, but, as it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, the episode may profit monarchs as well as meaner folk as an object lesson in the advantages of discretion.
Discussion of the Tweedmouth letter had hardly ceased when the whole question of the “personal regiment” was again, and as it now, five years after, appears, finally thrashed out between the Emperor and his folk. Before, however, considering the Daily Telegraph interview and the Emperor’s part in it, something should be said as to the state of international ill-feeling which caused him to sanction its publication.
The ill-feeling was no sudden wave of hostility or pique, but a sentiment which had for years existed in the minds of both nations—a sentiment of mutual suspicion. The Englishman thought Germany was prepared to dispute with him the maritime supremacy of Great Britain, the German that England intended to attack Germany before Germany could carry her great design into execution. The proximate cause of the irritation—for it has not yet got beyond that—was the decision, as announced in her Navy Law of 1898, to build a fleet of battleships which Germany, but especially the Emperor, considered necessary to complete the defences, and appropriate for affirming the dignity, of the Empire.
This was the origo, but not the fons. The source was the Boer War and the Kruger telegram, though the philosophic historian might with some reason refer it in a large measure also to the surprise and uneasiness with which the leading colonial and commercial, as well as maritime, nation of the world saw the material progress, the waxing military power, and the longing for expansion of the not yet forty-year-old German Empire. Forty years ago the word “Germany” had no territorial, but only a descriptive and poetical, significance; certainly it had no political significance; for the North German Union, out of which the modern German Empire grew, meant for Englishmen, and indeed for politicians everywhere, only Prussia. Prussia was less liked by the world then than she is now, when she is not liked too well; and accordingly there was already in existence the disposition in England to criticize sharply the conduct of Prussia and to apply the same criticism to the Empire Prussia founded. In this condition of international feeling England’s long quarrel with the Transvaal Republic came nearer to the breaking-point; at the same time there was an idea prevalent in England that Germany was coquetting with the Boers—if not looking to a seizure of Transvaal territory, at least hoping for Boer favour and Boer commercial privileges. The Jameson Raid was made and failed; the Emperor and his advisers sent the fateful telegram to President Kruger; and the peace of the world has been in jeopardy ever since!
The “storm” arose from the publication, in the London Daily Telegraph of October 28, 1908, of an interview coming, as the editor said in introducing it, “from a source of such unimpeachable authority that we can without hesitation commend the obvious message which it conveys to the attention of the public.” As to the origin and composition of the interview a good deal of mystery still exists. All that has become known is that some one, whose identity has hitherto successfully been concealed, with the object of demonstrating the sentiments of warm friendship with which the Emperor regarded England, put together, in England or in Germany, a number of statements made by the Emperor and sanctioned by him for publication. Whether the Emperor read the interview previous to publication or not, no official statement has been made; it is, however, quite certain that he did. At all events it was sent, or sent back, to England and published in due course. The immediate effect was a hubbub of discussion, accompanied with general astonishment in England, a storm of popular resentment and humiliation in Germany, and voluminous comment in other countries, some of it favourable, some of it unfavourable, to the Emperor.
The text of the interview in the Daily Telegraph was introduced, as mentioned, with the words:—
We have received the following communication from a source of such unimpeachable authority that we can without hesitation commend the obvious message which it conveys to the attention of the public.
And continued as follows:—
Discretion is the first and last quality requisite in a diplomatist, and should still be observed by those who, like myself, have long passed from public into private life. Yet moments sometimes occur in the history of nations when a calculated indiscretion proves of the highest public service, and it is for that reason that I have decided to make known the substance of a lengthy conversation which it was my recent privilege to have with his Majesty the German Emperor. I do so in the hope that it may help to remove that obstinate misconception of the character of the Kaiser’s feelings towards England which, I fear, is deeply rooted in the ordinary Englishman’s breast. It is the Emperor’s sincere wish that it should be eradicated. He has given repeated proofs of his desire by word and deed. But, to speak frankly, his patience is sorely tried now that he finds himself so continually misrepresented, and has so often experienced the mortification of finding that any momentary improvement of relations is followed by renewed out-bursts of prejudice, and a prompt return to the old attitude of suspicion.
As I have said, his Majesty honoured me with a long conversation, and spoke with impulsive and unusual frankness. “You English,” he said,
“are mad, mad, mad as March hares. What has come over you that you are so completely given over to suspicions quite unworthy of a great nation? What more can I do than I have done? I declared with all the emphasis at my command, in my speech at Guildhall, that my heart is set upon peace, and that it is one of my dearest wishes to live on the best of terms with England. Have I ever been false to my word? Falsehood and prevarication are alien to my nature. My actions ought to speak for themselves, but you listen not to them but to those who misinterpret and distort them. That is a personal insult which I feel and resent. To be for ever misjudged, to have my repeated offers of friendship weighed and scrutinized with jealous, mistrustful eyes, taxes my patience severely. I have said time after time that I am a friend of England, and your Press—or, at least, a considerable section of it—bids the people of England refuse my proffered hand, and insinuates that the other holds a dagger. How can I convince a nation against its will?”
“I repeat,” continued his Majesty,
“that I am the friend of England, but you make things difficult for me. My task is not of the easiest. The prevailing sentiment among large sections of the middle and lower classes of my own people is not friendly to England. I am, therefore, so to speak, in a minority in my own land, but it is a minority of the best elements, just as it is in England with respect to Germany. That is another reason why I resent your refusal to accept my pledged word that I am the friend of England. I strive without ceasing to improve relations, and you retort that I am your arch-enemy. You makePage 193
it very hard for me. Why is it?”
Thereupon I ventured to remind his Majesty that not England alone, but the whole of Europe had viewed with disapproval the recent action of Germany in allowing the German Consul to return from Tangier to Fez, and in anticipating the joint action of France and Spain by suggesting to the Powers that the time had come for Europe to recognize Muley Hand as the new Sultan of Morocco.
His Majesty made a gesture of impatience. “Yes,” he said,
“that is an excellent example of the way in which German action is misrepresented. First, then, as regards the journey of Dr. Vassel. The German Government, in sending Dr. Vassel back to his post at Fez, was only guided by the wish that he should look after the private interests of German subjects in that city, who cried for help and protection after the long absence of a Consular representative. And why not send him? Are those who charge Germany with having stolen a march on the other Powers aware that the French Consular representative had already been in Fez for several months when Dr. Vassel set out? Then, as to the recognition of Muley I Hand. The Press of Europe has complained with much acerbity that Germany ought not to have suggested his recognition until he had notified to Europe his full acceptance of the Act of Algeciras, as being binding upon him as Sultan of Morocco and successor of his brother. My answer is that Muley Hafid notified the Powers to that effect weeks ago, before the decisive battle was fought. He sent, as far back as the middle of last July, an identical communication to the Governments of Germany, France, and Great Britain, containing an explicit acknowledgment that he was prepared to recognize all the obligations towards Europe which were incurred by Abdul Aziz during his Sultanate. The German Government interpreted that communication as a final and authoritative expression of Muley Hand’s intentions, and therefore they considered that there was no reason to wait until he had sent a second communication, before recognizing him as the de facto Sultan of Morocco, who had succeeded to his brother’s throne by right of victory in the field.”
I suggested to his Majesty that an important and influential section of the German Press had placed a very different interpretation upon the action of the German Government, and, in fact, had given it their effusive approbation precisely because they saw in it a strong act instead of mere words, and a decisive indication that Germany was once more about to intervene in the shaping of events in Morocco. “There are mischief-makers,” replied the Emperor,
“in both countries. I will not attempt to weigh their relative capacity for misrepresentation. But the facts are as I have stated. There has been nothing in Germany’s recent action with regard to Morocco which runs contrary to the explicit declaration of my love of peace which I made both at Guildhall and in my latest speech at Strassburg.”
His Majesty then reverted to the subject uppermost in his mind—his proved friendship for England. “I have referred,” he said,
“to the speeches in which I have done all that a sovereign can to proclaim my goodwill. But, as actions speak louder than words, let me also refer to my acts. It is commonly believed in England that throughout the South African War Germany was hostile to her. German opinion undoubtedly was hostile—bitterly hostile. The Press was hostile; private opinion was hostile. But what of official Germany? Let my critics ask themselves what brought to a sudden stop, and, indeed, to absolute collapse, the European tour of the Boer delegates who were striving to obtain European intervention? They were feted in Holland; France gave them a rapturous welcome. They wished to come to Berlin, where the German people would have crowned them with flowers. But when they asked me to receive them—I refused. The agitation immediately died away, and the delegation returned empty-handed. Was that, I ask, the action of a secret enemy?
“Again, when the struggle was at its height, the German Government was invited by the Governments of France and Russia to join with them in calling upon England to put an end to the war. The moment had come, they said, not only to save the Boer Republics, but also to humiliate England to the dust. What was my reply? I said that so far from Germany joining in any concerted European action to put pressure upon England and bring about her downfall, Germany would always keep aloof from politics that could bring her into complications with a Sea Power like England. Posterity will one day read the exact terms of the telegram—now in the archives of Windsor Castle—in which I informed the Sovereign of England of the answer I had returned to the Powers which then sought to compass her fall. Englishmen who now insult me by doubting my word should know what were my actions in the hour of their adversity.
“Nor was that all. Just at the time of your Black Week, in the December of 1899, when disasters followed one another in rapid succession, I received a letter from Queen Victoria, my revered grandmother, written in sorrow and affliction, and bearing manifest traces of the anxieties which were preying upon her mind and health. I at once returned a sympathetic reply. Nay, I did more. I bade one of my officers procure for me as exact an account as he could obtain of the number of combatants in South Africa on both sides, and of the actual position of the opposing forces. With the figures before me, I worked out what I considered to be the best plan of campaign under the circumstances, and submitted it to my General Staff for their criticism. Then I dispatched it to England, and that document, likewise, is among the State papers at Windsor Castle, awaiting the serenely impartial verdict of history. And, as a matter of curious coincidence, let me add that the plan which I formulated ran very much on the same lines as that which was actually adopted by Lord Roberts, and carried by him into successful operation.Page 195
Was that, I repeat, the act of one who wished England ill? Let Englishmen be just and say!
“But, you will say, what of the German navy? Surely that is a menace to England! Against whom but England are my squadrons being prepared? If England is not in the minds of those Germans who are bent on creating a powerful fleet, why is Germany asked to consent to such new and heavy burdens of taxation? My answer is clear. Germany is a young and growing Empire. She has a world-wide commerce, which is rapidly expanding, and to which the legitimate ambition of patriotic Germans refuses to assign any bounds. Germany must have a powerful fleet to protect that commerce, and her manifold interests in even the most distant seas. She expects those interests to go on growing, and she must be able to champion them manfully in any quarter of the globe. Germany looks ahead. Her horizons stretch far away. She must be prepared for any eventualities in the Far East. Who can foresee what may take place in the Pacific in the days to come—days not so distant as some believe, but days, at any rate, for which all European Powers with Far Eastern interests ought steadily to prepare? Look at the accomplished rise of Japan; think of the possible national awakening of China; and then judge of the vast problems of the Pacific. Only those Powers which have great navies will be listened to with respect when the future of the Pacific comes to be solved; and if for that reason only Germany must have a powerful fleet. It may even be that England herself will be glad that Germany has a fleet when they speak together on the same side in the great debates of the future.”
Such was the purport of the Emperor’s conversation. He spoke with all that earnestness which marks his manner when speaking on deeply pondered subjects. I would ask my fellow-countrymen who value the cause of peace to weigh what I have written, and to revise, if necessary, their estimate of the Kaiser and his friendship for England by his Majesty’s own words. If they had enjoyed the privilege, which was mine, of hearing them spoken, they would doubt no longer either his Majesty’s firm desire to live on the best of terms with England or his growing impatience at the persistent mistrust with which his offer of friendship is too often received.
There are more indiscretions than one in the interview, but the most important and most dangerous was the Emperor’s statement that at the time of the Boer War the Governments of France and Russia invited the German Government to join with them “not only to save the Boer Republics, but also to humiliate England to the dust.” Such a revelation coming from the Emperor ought, one would suppose, to have caused serious trouble between Great Britain and her Entente friends. That it did not is at once testimony to the cynicism of Governments and the reality and strength of the Entente engagement. In private life, if a fourth person confidentially
The excitement in Germany caused by the publication of the interview soon took the shape of a determination on the part of the Chancellor and the Federal Council, for once fully identifying themselves with the feelings of Parliament, Press, and people, that “something must be done,” and it was decided that the Chancellor should go to Potsdam, see the Emperor, and try to obtain from him a promise to be more cautious in his utterances on political topics for the future. The Chancellor went accordingly, being seen off from the railway terminus in Berlin by a large crowd of people, among whom were many journalists. To Dr. Paul Goldmann, who wished him God-speed, he could only reply that he hoped all would be for the best. He looked pale and grave, as well he might, since he was about to stake his own position as well as convey a mandate of national reproach.
What passed at Potsdam between the Emperor and his Chancellor has not transpired. Naturally there are various accounts of it, one of them representing the Emperor as flying into a passion and for long refusing to give the required guarantees; but as yet none of them has been authenticated. It should not be difficult to imagine the mental attitudes of the two men on the occasion, and especially not difficult to imagine the sensations of the Emperor, a Prussian King, on being impeached by a people—his people—for whom, his feeling would be, he had done so much, and in whose best interests he felt convinced he had acted; but whatever occurred, it ended in the Emperor bowing before the storm and giving the assurances required.
The Chancellor’s countenance and expressions on his return to Berlin showed that his mission had been successful, and there was great satisfaction in the capital and country. The text of these assurances, which was published in the Official Gazette the same evening, was as follows:
“His Majesty, while unaffected by public criticism which he regards as exaggerated, considers his most honourable imperial task to consist in securing the stability of the policy of the Empire while adhering to the principle of constitutional responsibility. The Kaiser accordingly endorses the statements of the Imperial Chancellor in Parliament, and assures Prince von Buelow of his continued confidence.”
After returning to Berlin, Prince Buelow gave in the Reichstag his impatiently awaited account of the result of his mission, and made what defence he could of his imperial master’s action in allowing the famous interview to be published. Before giving the speech, which was delivered on November 10, 1908, it will be as well to quote the five interpellations introduced in Parliament on the subject, as showing the unanimity of feeling that existed in all parts of the House:—
1. By Deputy Bassermann (leader of the National Liberals):
“Is the Chancellor prepared to take constitutional responsibility for the publication of a series of utterances of his Majesty the Kaiser in the Daily Telegraph and the facts communicated therein?”
2. By Deputy Dr. Ablass (Progressive Party):
“Through the publication of utterances of the German Kaiser in the Daily Telegraph, and through the communication of the real facts in the Norddeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung caused by the Chancellor, matters have become known which demonstrate serious short-comings in the treatment of foreign affairs, and are calculated to influence unfavourably the relations of the German Empire to other Powers. What does the Chancellor propose to do to devise a remedy and to give full effect to the responsibility attributed to him by the Constitution of the German Empire?”
3. By Deputy Albrecht (Socialist):
“What is the Chancellor prepared to do to prevent such occurrences as have become known through the Daily Telegraph’s communications regarding acts and utterances of the German Kaiser?”
4. By Deputy von Norman (Conservative Party):
“Is the Chancellor
prepared to submit further information
regarding the circumstances
which led to the publication of
utterances of his Majesty
the Kaiser in the English Press?”
5. By Prince von Hatzfeldt and Freiherr von Gamp (Imperial Party—Conservative):
“Is the Chancellor
willing to take precautions that such
occurrences as that
brought to light by the publication in
the Daily Telegraph
shall not recur?”
In reply to the interpellations Prince von Buelow said:—
“Gentlemen, I shall not apply myself to every point which has just been raised by previous speakers. I have to consider the effect of my words abroad, and will not add to the great harm already caused by the publication in the Daily Telegraph (hear, hear, on the Left and Socialists).
“In reply to the
interpellations submitted, I have to
declare as follows:—
“His Majesty the Kaiser has at different times, and to different private English personalities, made private utterances which, linked together, have been published in the Daily Telegraph. I must suppose that not all details of the utterances have been correctly reproduced (hear, hear, on the Right). One I know is not correct: that is the story about the plan of campaign (hear, hear, on the right). The plan in question was not a field campaign worked out in detail, but a purely academic (laughter among the Socialists)—Gentlemen, we are engaged in a serious discussion. The matters on which I speak are of an earnest kind and of great political importance—be good enough to listen to me quietly: I will be as brief as possible. I repeat therefore: the matter is not concerned with a field campaign worked out in detail, but with certain purely academic thoughts—I believe they were expressly described as ’aphorisms’—about the conduct of war in general, which the Kaiser communicated in his interchange of correspondence with the late Queen Victoria. They are theoretical observations of no practical moment for the course of operations and the issue of the war. The chief of the General Staff, General von Moltke, and his predecessor, General Count Schlieffen, have declared that the General Staff reported to the Kaiser on the Boer War as on every war, great or small, which has occurred on the earth during the last ten years. Both, however, have given assurances that our General Staff never examined a field plan of campaign, or anything similar, prepared by the Kaiser in view of the Boer War, or forwarded such to England (hear, hear, on the Right and Centre). But I must also defend our policy against the reproach of being ambiguous vis-a-vis the Boers. We had—the documents show it—given timely warning to the Transvaal Government. We called its attention to the fact that in case of a war with England it would stand alone. We put it to her directly, and through the friendly Dutch Government in May, 1899, peacefully to come to an understanding with England, since there could be no doubt as to the result of a war.
“In the question of intervention the colours in the article of the Daily Telegraph are too thickly laid on. The thing itself had long been known (hear, hear). It was some time previously the subject of controversy between the National Review and the Deutsche Revue. There can be no talk of a ‘revelation.’ It was said that the imperial communication to the Queen of England, that Germany had not paid any attention to a suggestion for mediation or intervention, is a breach of the rules of diplomatic intercourse. Gentlemen, I will not recall indiscretions to memory, for they are frequent in the diplomatic history of all nations and at all times (’Quite right,’ on the Right). The safest policy is perhaps that which need fear no indiscretion (’Quite right,’ on the Left).Page 199
To pass judgment in particular cases as to whether or not a breach of confidence has occurred, one must know more of the closely connected circumstances than appears in the article of the Daily Telegraph. The communication might be justified if it were attempted in one quarter or another to misrepresent our refusal or to throw suspicion on our attitude; circumstances may have previously happened which make allusion to the subject in a confidential correspondence at least intelligible. Gentlemen, I said before that many of the expressions used in the Daily Telegraph article are too strong. That is true, in the first place, of the passage where the Kaiser is represented as having said that the majority of the German people are inimically disposed towards England. Between Germany and England misunderstandings have occurred, serious, regrettable misunderstandings. But I am conscious of being at one with this entire honourable House in the view that the German people desire peaceful and friendly relations with England on the basis of mutual esteem (loud and general applause)—and I take note that the speakers of all parties have spoken to-day in the same sense (’Quite right’). The colours are also too thickly laid on in the place where reference is made to our interests in the Pacific Ocean. It has been construed in a sense hostile to Japan. Wrongly: we have never in the Far East thought of anything but this—to acquire and maintain for Germany a share of the commerce of Eastern Asia in view of the great economic future of this region. We are not thinking of maritime adventure there: aggressive tendencies have as little to say to our naval construction in the Pacific as in Europe. Moreover, his Majesty the Kaiser entirely agrees with the responsible director of foreign policy in the complete recognition of the high political importance which the Japanese people have achieved by their political strength and military ability. German policy does not regard it as its task to detract from the enjoyment and development of what Japan has acquired.
“Gentlemen, I am, generally speaking, under the impression that if the material facts—completely, in their proper shape—were individually known, the sensation would be no great one; in this instance, too, the whole is more than all the parts taken together. But above all, gentlemen, one must not, while considering the material things, quite forget the psychology, the tendency. For two decades our Kaiser has striven, often under very difficult circumstances, to bring about friendly relations between Germany and England. This honest endeavour has had to contend with obstacles which would have discouraged many. The passionate partisanship of our people for the Boers was humanly intelligible; feeling for the weaker certainly appeals to the sympathy. But this partisanship has led to unjustified, and often unmeasured, attacks on England, and similarly unjust and hateful attacks have beenPage 200
made against Germany from the side of the English. Our aims were misconstrued, and hostile plans against England were foisted on us which we had never thought of. The Kaiser, rightly convinced that this state of things was a calamity for both countries and a danger for the civilized world, kept undeviatingly on the course he had adopted. The Kaiser is particularly wronged by any doubt as to the purity of his intentions, his ideal way of thinking, and his deep love of country.
“Gentlemen, let us avoid anything that looks like exaggerated seeking for foreign favour, anything that looks like uncertainty or obsequiousness. But I understand that the Kaiser, precisely because he was anxious to work zealously and honestly for good relationship with England, felt embittered at being ever the object of attacks casting suspicion on his best motives. Has one not gone so far as to attribute to his interest in the German fleet secret views against vital English interests—views which are far from him. And so in private conversation with English friends he sought to bring the proof, by pointing to his conduct, that in England he was misunderstood and wrongly judged.
“Gentlemen, the perception that the publication of these conversations in England has not had the effect the Kaiser wished, and in our own country has caused profound agitation and painful regret, will—this firm conviction I have acquired during these anxious days—lead the Kaiser for the future, in private conversation also, to maintain the reserve that is equally indispensable in the interest of a uniform policy and for the authority of the Crown (’Bravo!’ on the Right).
“If it were not
so, I could not, nor could my successor,
bear the responsibility
(’Bravo!’ on the Right and National
Liberals).
“For the fault which occurred in dealing with the manuscript I accept, as I have caused to be said in the Norddeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, entire responsibility. It also goes against my personal feelings that officials who have done their duty all their lives should be stamped as transgressors because, in a single case, they relied too much on the fact that I usually read and finally decide everything myself.
“With Herr von Heydebrand I regret that in the mechanism of the Foreign Office, which for eleven years has worked smoothly under me, a defect should on one occasion occur. I will answer for it that such a thing does not happen again, and that with this object, without respect to persons, though also without injustice, what is needful will be done (’Bravo!’).
“When the article in the Daily Telegraph appeared, its fateful effect could not for a moment be doubtful to me, and I handed in my resignation. This decision was unavoidable, and was not difficult to come to. The most serious and most difficult decision which I everPage 201
took in my political life was, in obedience to the Kaiser’s wish, to remain in office. I brought myself to this decision only because I saw in it a command of my political duty, precisely in the time of trouble, to continue to serve his Majesty the Kaiser and the country (repeated ’Bravo!’). How long that will be possible for me, I cannot say.
“Let me say one thing more: at a moment when the fact that in the world much is once again changing requires serious attention to be given to the entire situation, wherever it is matter of concern to maintain our position abroad, and without pushing ourselves forward with quiet constancy to make good our interests—at such a moment we ought not to show ourselves small-spirited in foreign eyes, nor make out of a misfortune a catastrophe. I will refrain from all criticism of the exaggerations we have lived through during these last days. The harm is—as calm reflection will show—not so great that it cannot with circumspection be made good. Certainly no one should forget the warning which the events of these days has given us (’Bravo!’)—but there is no reason to lose our heads and awake in our opponents the hope that the Empire, inwardly or outwardly, is maimed.
“It is for the chosen representatives of the nation to exhibit the prudence which the time demands. I do not say it for myself, I say it for the country: the support required for this is no favour, it is a duty which this honourable House will not evade (loud applause on the Right, hisses from the Socialists).”
Prince Buelow’s speech requires but little comment—its importance for Germany is the fact that it brought to a head the country’s feeling, that if the Emperor’s unlimited and unrestrained idea of his heaven-sent mission as sole arbiter of the nation’s destinies was not checked, disaster must ensue. The speech itself is rather an apology and an explanation than a defence, and in this spirit it was accepted in Germany. It is fair to say that the Emperor has faithfully kept the engagement made through Prince Buelow with his people so far, and unless human nature is incurable there seems no reason why he should not keep it to the end of the reign. More than four years have passed since the incidents narrated occurred. The storm has blown over, the sea of popular indignation has gone down, and at present no cloud is visible on the horizon.
Besides the Tweedmouth Letter and the “November Storm” there were one or two other notable events in the parliamentary proceedings of the year. The Reichstag dealt with Prussian electoral reform and the attitude of Germany towards the question of disarmament. As to the first, the Government refused to regard it as an imperial concern, though the popular claim was and is that the suffrage should be the same in Prussia as in the Empire, viz., universal, direct, and secret. This claim the Emperor will not listen to, on the ground that it would
“an organic further development, which should correspond to the economic progress, the spread of education and political understanding, and the strengthening of the feeling of State responsibility.”
No reform, however, has yet been effected by legislation.
As to disarmament, Germany’s position is simply negative, though it may be noticed by anticipation that she has recently (1913) expressed her disposition to accept the proportion of ten German to sixteen English first-class battleships suggested by Sir Edward Grey in 1912 as offering the basis of a possibly permanent arrangement. At the time now dealt with, however, Chancellor von Buelow asserted that no proposal that could serve as a basis had ever been submitted to his Government, and added that even if such a proposal were made it was doubtful if it could be accepted. It was not merely the number of ships, he said, that was involved; there were a host of technical questions—standards, criteria of all sorts, which could not be expressed in figures, economic progress abroad and the possible effect of new scientific inventions—to be considered. Lastly there were the navy laws, which the Government was pledged to carry out. As for military disarmament, the Emperor and his advisers regard it as impossible, considering the unfavourable strategic situation of Germany in the midst of Europe, with exposed frontiers on every side.
This year the Emperor and his family took up their quarters for the first time in their new Corfu spring residence “Achilleion.” They were met by the Royal Family of Greece, who showed them over the Castle, and in the evening were welcomed by the mayor of Corfu, who, in a flight of metaphor, said his people desired to wreathe the Emperor’s “Olympic brow” with a crown of olive. That the Emperor did not pass his days wholly in admiring the beauty of the scenery was shown by the fact that a few days after his arrival he delivered a lecture in the Castle on “Nelson and the Battle of Trafalgar,” being prompted thereto by a book on the subject by Captain Mark Kerr, of H.M.S. Implacable. The Emperor illustrated his lecture with sketches drawn by himself of the positions of the united French and Spanish fleets during the battle.
Almost every year sees some specialty produced at the Royal Opera in Berlin. This year it was Meyerbeer’s “Les Huguenots,” performed in the presence of the French Ambassador in Berlin, Monsieur Jules Cambon, and two directors of the Paris Opera. The Emperor told Monsieur Messager, one of the latter, that he had taken an infinity of trouble to get the right character, colour, and movement of the period of the opera, and explained his interest in the work by the fact that he had lost two of his ancestors, Admiral Coligny and the Prince of Orange, in the historic massacre. This opera, with Verdi’s “Aida,” are still, as given at the Royal Opera, the favourite operas of the Berlin public.
Americans, like all other people, regard the Emperor with friendly feelings, but for a time this year their respect for him suffered some diminution owing to what was known as the Tower-Hill affair. When the American Ambassador in Berlin, Mr. Charlemagne Tower, resigned his post in 1908, the Washington authorities found difficulty in choosing a suitable successor. Mr. Tower was a wealthy man, who by his personal qualities, aided by a talented wife, whom the Emperor once described as “the Moltke of society,” and by frequent entertainments in one of the finest houses of the fashionable Tiergarten quarter, had fully satisfied the Emperor of his fitness to represent a great nation at the Court of a great Empire. The Emperor has a high opinion of his country, and, in small things as in great, will not have it treated as a quantite negligeable: consequently a millionaire was not too good for Berlin. The impression produced by Mr. Tower on Republican America was not quite the same. When Ambassador in St. Petersburg, Mr. Tower had invented a Court uniform for himself and staff of a highly ornate, not to say fantastic, kind, and when in Berlin was thought to take too little trouble to win popularity among his American fellow-colonists. This non-republican attitude, as it seemed to be, met with a good deal of adverse criticism in America, and the Washington authorities, for that or for some other reason, considered it advisable to choose as Mr. Tower’s successor a man of another type. Their choice fell on Dr. David Jayne Hill, American Minister at Berne, a former President of Rochester University, the author of a standard work on the History of Diplomacy, and as renowned for the amiability of his character as for his academic attainments. A further reason for choosing him was that he had been attached to the service of the Emperor’s brother, Prince Henry, during the latter’s visit to the United States some years before. Dr. Hill spoke German excellently, was able and distinguished, and, if not a man of great means, was sufficiently well-to-do to represent his country becomingly at the Court of Berlin. His selection was in due course communicated for agrement to the German Foreign Office, and by it, also in due course, transmitted to the Emperor. The Emperor without more ado signed the agrement and the arrival of Dr. Hill in Berlin was daily expected.
Just at this time, however, Mr. Tower gave a farewell dinner to the Emperor, and invited to it specially from Rome the American Ambassador to Italy, Mr. Griscom. Mr. Griscom was accompanied by his clever and attractive wife. The dinner-party assembled, and Mr. Griscom and his wife were placed in the immediate neighbourhood of the Emperor. Before dinner was over it was evident that the Griscoms had made a most favourable impression on the imperial guest. Accordingly, so the story goes, when towards the end of dinner the Emperor, in his impulsive way, exclaimed, “Now, why didn’t America send me the Griscoms instead of the Hills?” or words to that effect, the company was not completely taken by surprise. When, however, the Emperor went on to suggest to his host to telegraph to President Roosevelt to make the change, it became evident that an international incident of exceptional delicacy had been created. Mr. Tower, who would perhaps have acted with better judgment had he declined to adopt the Emperor’s suggestion, cabled to President Roosevelt, and at the same Mr. Griscom wrote to him privately. Before Mr. Griscom’s letter arrived, perhaps before Mr. Roosevelt was in possession of Mr. Tower’s telegram, the words of the Emperor had become known in Berlin, were cabled to the American Press, and much indignation at the Emperor’s conduct was aroused in all parts of America. The two Governments, as well as Dr. Hill, were placed in a position of great embarrassment. In view of the state of public opinion in America, and in view also of the American Government’s engagement vis a vis Dr. Hill, the Washington authorities could not withdraw a nominee who had been already signalled to it from Germany as persona grata. The only way possible out of the difficulty was to employ the machinery of the official dementi, and this was accordingly done. It was denied by the Foreign Office that the Emperor had expressed dissatisfaction with Dr. Hill’s appointment, and the incident closed with the carrying out of the original arrangements and the arrival of Dr. Hill in Berlin. Subsequent events proved that had the Emperor known Dr. Hill personally he would never have thought of expressing dissatisfaction at the prospect of seeing him as Ambassador at his Court, for Dr. Hill, during the two years of his stay, fully vindicated the wisdom of the Washington Government’s choice, and before he left his post had earned the Emperor’s complete respect, if not his cordial friendship.
AFTER THE STORM
1909-1913
Next year, 1909, was the year of the famous finance reform measure which, though finally carried through, led to the resignation of Chancellor von Buelow. It had been obvious for some years that a reorganization of the imperial system of finance with a view to meeting the growing expenses of the Empire, and in especial those of the army and navy, was necessary if imperial bankruptcy was to be avoided. The practice of taking what were known as matricular contributions from the separate States to make up for deficits in the imperial budgets, and of burdening posterity by State loans, had one day to cease. At the beginning of the reign the National Debt was 884 million marks (L44,200,000), and in 1908 over 4,000 million marks (L200,000,000). A year before this Prince Buelow had made his first proposals for reform, including new taxes on beer, wine, tobacco, and succession duties on property.
All parties in Parliament, except of course the Social Democrats, admitted that fresh imposts were inevitable, but, very naturally, no party was willing to bear them. The Conservatives would not hear of an inheritance tax and the Liberals would not hear of duties on popular consumption. The result was to make the Centrum masters of the political field and place the Conservative-Liberal “bloc” at its mercy. After long discussion, the Government proposals were put to the vote on June 24th, and as the Centrum threw in its lot with the Conservatives, the proposals were rejected by 195 votes to 187. Prince Buelow thereupon went to Kiel and tendered his resignation to the Emperor, but at the latter’s urgent request consented to remain in office until financial reform in one shape or another had been effected. This result was attained a month later, after much compromising and discussion. The Chancellor renewed his request for retirement, and the Emperor agreed. On the same day, July 14th, that the resignation took effect, it was officially announced that Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg, who had hitherto been Minister of the Interior, was appointed to succeed Prince von Buelow as Imperial Chancellor.
An impression prevails widely in Germany that Prince Buelow’s retirement was due to the loss of the Emperor’s favour owing to the Prince’s attitude towards the monarch during the “November storm.” Prince Buelow, very properly, has always refused to say anything about his relations with his royal master, but a lengthy statement he made to a newspaper correspondent referring his resignation to the conduct of the Conservatives, and a letter from the Emperor gratefully thanking the Prince in the warmest terms for his “long and intimate co-operation,” and conferring upon him at the same time the highest Order in the Empire, that of the Black Eagle, should be sufficient evidence to disprove the supposition. It is more probable that the Prince was weary of the cares of office and of the strife of party. Moreover, he had, in the state of his health, a strong private reason for retirement. Four years before, on April 5, 1906, he had fallen unconscious from his seat on the ministerial bench during the proceedings in the Reichstag, and although he was back again in Parliament, perfectly recovered, in the following November, the attack was an experience which warned him against too great a prolongation of such heavy work and responsibility as the Chancellorship entails.
The retirement of Prince Buelow meant the disappearance of the most notable figure in German political life since the beginning of the century. In ability, wit, and those graces of a refined and richly cultivated mind which have so often distinguished great English statesmen, he was a head and shoulders above any of his fellow-countrymen; while the mere fact that he was able to maintain his position for almost twelve years (he had been, as Foreign Secretary for over two years, the Emperor’s most trusted counsellor and the real executive in foreign policy) is a convincing proof of his tact and diplomatic talent, as well as of his statesmanship.
His successor, the present Chancellor, Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg, is a man of another and very different type. He incorporates the spirit of Prussian patriotism of the most orthodox kind in its worthiest and best manifestations, but as yet he has given no proofs of possessing the breadth of view, the oratorical talent, or the urbanity which distinguished his predecessor. Prince von Buelow’s career as a German diplomatist in foreign capitals made him an acute and highly polished man of the world. The present Chancellor has spent all his life within the comparatively narrow confines of Prussian administrative service. It is, of course, too soon to pass final judgment on him as German Prime Minister.
The visit of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra to Berlin in February, 1909, disposed finally of the idea, which had prevailed in Germany as well as abroad for two or three years, that England was pursuing a policy aiming to bring about the “isolation” of Germany in world-politics. The visit was an official one, paid, of course, chiefly to the Emperor; but its most remarkable feature politics apart, was the friendly relations which King Edward established with the Berlin City Fathers at a reception in the Town Hall. It was not that he said anything out of the way to the assembled burghers; but his simple manner, genial remarks, and perhaps especially the sympathetic way in which he handled the loving-cup offered by his hosts, made an instantaneous and strong impression.
The controversy that raged round the so-called “Flora Bust” contributed not a little to the gaiety of nations towards the close of this year. The bust, an undraped wax figure, reproducing the features of Leonardo da Vinci’s famous “La Joconde,” was bought by Dr. Wilhelm Bode, Director of the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin, for L8,000 from a London dealer as an authentic work of the celebrated Italian painter, dating from about the year 1500. It was brought with a great flourish of trumpets to Berlin, and a chorus of self-congratulation was raised in Germany on the successful carrying off of such a prize from England. The harmony, however, was rudely disturbed by the publication of a letter from Mr. F.C. Cooksey, art critic of the Times, stating that the bust was not by da Vinci at all, but was in reality the work of Mr. R.C. Lucas, an artist of some note forty or fifty years ago, and that it had for long occupied a pedestal in Lucas’s suburban garden.
The Emperor, whose curiosity as well as patriotism was aroused, spent half an hour on November 11th discussing the bust with Dr. Bode and examining an album containing photographs of the works of Lucas. At the close of his inspection the Emperor expressed great delight at the acquisition, as to the genuineness of which he declared he “had not the slightest doubt,” and said he did not regard the price paid as extremely high. Unfortunately for the Emperor’s conviction, a letter now appeared in the Times from Mr. A.C. Lucas, a son of R.C. Lucas, who said he recollected the making of the bust, and suggested that there might be found in its interior a piece of cloth, probably a part of an old waistcoat of his father’s, which had been used as a sort of filling. In the presence of such a statement there was only one thing left to be done: to examine the interior of the bust. First of all it was subjected to the Roentgen rays, the result being to show that the interior was not homogeneous. A few days after, there was a great gathering of experts at the Museum, a hole was cut in the wax at the back of the bust, a bent wire was introduced, and the search for the famous piece of waistcoat began. It was a dramatic moment as Professor Latghen with his wire explored the interior of the bust, and the tension reached its highest point when the Professor, drawing from the bust what was evidently a piece of cloth, exclaimed, “Hier ist die Veste!” On being further withdrawn the substance proved to be about two square inches of a grey, canvas-like material, feeling soft and velvety to the touch. It was a disagreeable discovery for the Germans, but it was got over by the suggestion that the original bust had been entrusted to Lucas for repair, and that in this way the waistcoat had got into it. The “poor English newspapers,” Dr. Bode said, referring to the sarcastic comments on the discovery from the other side of the Channel, “had had, without any acquaintance with our bust or with the work of its alleged forger, to give this particular form of expression to their ill-humour at the sale.” As a matter of fact, the bust, whoever made it, is a lovely work of art, as every one who has seen it readily admits.
The Emperor’s friendship with Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, which was now to be confirmed by personal acquaintance, throws a side light on his own character, and testifies to his desire to keep in touch with the rulers of other countries—another illustration, by the way, of his consistency, since he laid down the policy of cultivating friendly relations with foreign rulers at the very commencement of his reign. Probably many letters in the large characteristic handwriting of both men have passed between them, and there probably always existed a desire on the part of the wielder of the mailed fist to make the personal acquaintance of the advocate of the big stick. The meeting occurred in May, 1910, after Mr. Roosevelt had shot wild beasts in Africa, visited Egypt, London, Vienna, Rome, and other continental cities, with a cohort of newspaper correspondents, and caused by his speeches political, if fortunately harmless, disturbance almost everywhere he went. When in Berlin he was to have lodged at the Emperor’s palace; but the Emperor’s hospitable intent was frustrated by the death of King Edward VII, which prevented all entertainment in the home of his German nephew.
The Roosevelt party, consisting of the ex-President, Mrs. Roosevelt, and Miss Ethel Roosevelt, arrived in Berlin on May 11th from Stockholm, and at noon the same day were taken by royal train to Potsdam. At the New Palace the party were heartily greeted by the Emperor, whom they found standing on the steps waiting to receive them. After shaking hands the Emperor led his guests into a small reception-room, where they were introduced to the Empress, the Crown Prince and Crown Princess, and other members of the imperial family. The Emperor then took them to the Shell Room, so called from its being inlaid with shells and rare stones, and here were found some of the Emperor’s high officials, including Admiral von Mueller, chief of the Marine Cabinet, and one of the most able and amiable of the Emperor’s entourage, who had met Mr. Roosevelt when on his trip to America with Prince Henry several years before. Luncheon followed at six small tables in the Jasper Gallery, the Emperor taking his seat between Mrs. Roosevelt and the Crown Princess, while the Empress had Mr. Roosevelt on her left and her eldest son, the Crown Prince, on her right. Princess Victoria Louise, the Emperor’s only daughter, occupied a seat on Mr. Roosevelt’s left. After lunch was over the guests went back to the Shell Room, and here the Emperor, taking Mr. Roosevelt apart, began a conversation so long and animated that the shades of evening began to fall before it ended. The Roosevelts did not return to Berlin by train, but were first driven by the Emperor to inspect Sans Souci, and were afterwards whirled back to Berlin in the yellow imperial motors.
Only two other incidents of the visit need be mentioned. One of them was a lecture on “The World Movement,” delivered by Mr. Roosevelt in very husky tones (for he was suffering badly from hoarseness) at Berlin University, in the presence of the Emperor and Empress. The other was a parade of 12,000 troops, arranged by the Emperor at Doeberitz, the great military exercise camp near Potsdam, which Mr. Roosevelt, clad in a khaki coat and breeches, and wearing brown leather gaiters and black slouch hat, observed from horseback beside the Emperor. As the troops went by at the close of the review the Emperor and Mr. Roosevelt saluted in military fashion simultaneously.
Immediately after the visit of the Roosevelts, the Emperor was called to England to attend the funeral of King Edward VII. The imperial yacht Hohenzollern, with the Emperor on board, arrived in England on May 19th. Next day the Emperor travelled to Victoria terminus, where he was received and warmly embraced by King George. They proceeded to Buckingham Palace, where the Emperor’s first call was made on the widowed Queen Alexandra. On the 21st took place the funeral of King Edward, the procession to Westminster Abbey, where the service was held, being headed by King George with the Emperor on his right and the Duke of Connaught on his left. Both the Emperor and the Duke were dressed in Field-Marshal’s uniform and carried the batons of their rank. The countenance of the Emperor is described by a chronicler of the time (and the Times) as wearing “an expression grave even to severity.”
The procession moved slowly on to the famous Abbey, the Emperor riding a grey horse, saluting at intervals as he rode along. On arrival at the Abbey an incident occurred. As soon as Queen Alexandra’s carriage arrived and drew up, the Emperor, according to the accounts of eyewitnesses, ran to the door of the carriage with so much alacrity that he had reached it before the royal servants, and when it appeared that her Majesty was not to alight from that side of the carriage, the Emperor motioned the lacqueys round to the other door, and was there before them to assist her Majesty. This he did, after himself opening the door. The Emperor remained in England only a very few days after the funeral, seeing old friends, among them Lord Kitchener.
As of interest to both Englishmen and Germans may be mentioned the tour through India undertaken by the Crown Prince in November. Steele once happily said of a Lady Hastings that “to love her was a liberal education”; to make a tour through India, it might similarly be said, is an education in the extent and character of British imperial power and administration. The Crown Prince naturally devoted a goodly share of his time to the delights of sport, including tiger-shooting and pig-sticking, but he must also have learned much of England’s fine imperial spirit from his intercourse with an official hierarchy as honest and conscientious as that of his own country. The Crown Prince, on his return home, published a volume of hunting reminiscences which does no small credit to him as an author.
The Emperor’s “shining armour” political remark dates from this period. He was on a visit to his Triplice ally, Kaiser Franz Josef, in September, 1910, and made a speech at the Vienna Town Hall on the 21st which contained a reference to the loyal conduct he claimed Germany had observed when the action of Austria-Hungary in annexing Bosnia and Herzegovina, despite the wording of the Treaty of Berlin, had raised an outcry in other countries, and in particular strained Austrian relations with Russia. After thanking his audience for the personal reception given him, he continued:
“On the other hand, it seems to me I read in your resolution the agreement of the city of Vienna with the action of an ally in taking his stand in shining armour at a grave moment by the side of your most gracious sovereign.”
The outcry caused in the world by Austria’s high-handed annexation, and especially in Russia, theoretically always Austria’s most probable enemy, owing to conflicting interests in the Balkans, subsided, we know, as suddenly as it was raised. The reason, it is currently believed, and the form in which the rays of the shining armour acted, was an intimation from the Emperor to the Czar that, if necessary, Germany was prepared to fight for Austria.
Peoples are said to have the institutions, and husbands the wives, they deserve; but if German cities, and especially Berlin, have the police they deserve, the fact speaks very uncomplimentarily for their inhabitants. Foreigners in Germany, coming from countries where manners are more natural and obliging, frequently use the adjectives “brutal” and “stupid” when speaking of the Prussian constable. The proceedings of the Berlin police during the Moabit riots in the capital in September this year are often quoted as an example of their brutality, while, as to stupidity, it is enough to say that a stranger in Berlin, discussing its mounted police, naively remarked that what most struck him about them was the look of intelligence on the faces of the horses. Judgments of this kind are too sweeping. It should be remembered that Germany is surrounded by countries of which the riff-raff is at all times seeking refuge in it or passing through it, that polyglot swindlers of every kind, the most refined as well as the most commonplace, abound, and that Anarchists are not yet an extinct species. For the Prussian police, moreover, there is a Social Democrat behind every bush.
Possibly to this condition of things, and to the suspicion that Social Democratic organizers were about, was due the gallant charge made by half a dozen policemen, with drawn swords in their hands and revolvers at their belts, on four inoffensive English and American journalists during the Moabit riots. Towards midnight of September 29th the journalists were seated in an open taximeter cab, in a brilliantly lighted square, which some little time before had been swept of rioters—rioters from the Berlin police point of view being any one, man, woman, or child, who is, with guilty or innocent intent, it makes no difference, in or near a theatre of disturbance. Suddenly half a dozen burly policemen, led on by a police spy, as he afterwards turned out to be, charged the cab and laid about them with their swords. They probably only intended to use the flat of their weapons, but one of them succeeded in slashing deeply the hand of Reuter’s representative, who was of the party. The other journalists escaped with contusions and bruises, thanks chiefly to the sides of the cab impeding the sword-play of the attackers.
The journalists naturally complained to their Ambassadors, who took up their cause with commendable readiness. Without immediate effect, however; the authorities, though themselves very strong on the point of duty, wondered much at journalists being in a place where duty alone could have brought them, and refused any sort of apology or other satisfaction. The Government, however, eventually expressed its “regret,” and a year or two after, possibly in the spirit of conciliation and compensation, agreed to give foreign journalists in Berlin the passe-partout, or coupe-fil, as it is known in France, which is one of the privileges most valued by the journalist, native and foreign, in Paris.
Among the international agreements of the year was a commercial one between Germany and America. Commercial relations between the two countries have never been quite satisfactory to either, and if there is no tariff war, occasions of tariff tension, with consequent disturbance of trade, constantly arise. Germany’s European commercial treaties have secured her a sufficiency of raw material for her industry. Her chief object now is not so much perhaps to facilitate imports of material from other countries as to find markets, in America as elsewhere, for her industry’s finished products. Consequently she strongly dislikes the high tariff barriers of the United States, inaugurated by the Dingley tariff of 1897, and has in addition certain grievances against that country regarding customs administration in respect of appraisement, invoices, and the like. Her commercial connexion with America dates from the treaty of “friendship and commerce” made by Frederick the Great, and having the most-favoured-nation treatment as its basis; a regular treaty of the same kind between Prussia and America was entered into in 1828; and since then commercial relations have been regulated provisionally by a series of short-term agreements which, however, America claims, do not confer on Germany unrestricted right to most-favoured-nation treatment. By the agreement now in force, concluded this year (1910), America and Germany grant each other the benefit of their minimum duties.
Since the “November storm” the Emperor had made no reference to the doctrine of Divine Right, nor given any indication of a desire to exercise the “personal regiment” which is the natural corollary to it. It has been seen that the doctrine, viewed from the English standpoint, is a species of mental malady to which Hohenzollern monarchs are hereditarily subject. It recurs intermittently and particularly whenever a Hohenzollern monarch speaks in Koenigsberg, the Scone of Prussia, where Prussian Kings are crowned. When at Koenigsberg this year the Emperor suffered from a return of the royal idee fixe. “Here my grandfather,” he said,
“placed, by his own right, the crown of the Kings of Prussia on his head, once again laying stress upon the fact that it was conferred upon him by the Grace of God alone, not by Parliament, by meetings of the people, or by popular decisions; and that he considered himself the chosen instrument of Heaven and as such performed his duties as regent and as ruler.”
Speaking of himself on the occasion he said:
“Considering myself as an Instrument of the Lord, without being misled by the views and opinions of the day, I go my way, which is devoted solely and alone to the prosperity and peaceful development of our Fatherland.”
The Emperor, by the way, on this occasion made what sounds like an indirect reference to the Suffragette craze. “What shall our women,” he asked, after mentioning the pattern Queen of Prussia, Queen Louise,
“learn from the Queen? They must learn that the principal task of the German woman does not lie in attending public meetings and belonging to societies, in the attainment of supposed rights in which women can emulate men, but in the quiet work of the home and in the family.”
The Emperor’s reference to his divine appointment did not pass without a good deal of popular criticism in Germany, but nearly all Germans were at one with the Emperor in his view of the proper sphere for womanly activities.
The Emperor’s domestic life for the last two or three years, including the early months of the present year, have passed without special cause of interest or excitement, if we except the visit he and the Empress made to London in May, 1911, to be present at the unveiling of Queen Victoria’s statue, and the announcement he was able to make a few months ago that his only daughter, Princess Victoria Louise, had become engaged to Prince Ernest August, Duke of Cumberland, the still persisting claimant to the Kingdom of Hannover, absorbed by Prussia in 1866. The visit to London lasted only five days and produced no incident particularly worthy of record. The engagement of Princess Victoria Louise, while generally believed to be a love-match, possesses also political significance for Germany, not indeed as putting an end to the claim of the Duke of Cumberland, but as practically effecting a reconciliation between the Hohenzollerns and Guelphs. The young Duke of Brunswick had already implicitly renounced his claim to Hannover by entering the German army and taking the oath of allegiance to the Emperor as War Lord, so that, when his father dies, the Guelph claim to Hannover will die with him.
It is difficult to determine whether the Government’s abandonment of its design to amend the Prussian franchise system in 1910, its submissive attitude towards the Pope’s Borromeo Encyclical in 1911, the rapid rise in food prices which marked both years, or finally, the Emperor’s failure to secure a slice of Morocco for Germany had most antagonizing effect on German popular feeling; but whatever the cause, the general elections of January, 1912, proved a tremendous Socialist victory, which must have been, and still remains, gall and wormwood to the Emperor. Notwithstanding official efforts, over one-third of the votes polled at the first ballots went for Social Democratic candidates. The number of seats thus obtained was 64, and this number, after the second ballots, rose to 110, thus making the Socialist party numerically the strongest in the Reichstag. Up to the present, however, Herr Bebel and his cohorts appear to be happy in possessing power rather than in using it.
Before completing the Emperor’s domestic chronicle of more recent years, a few lines may be devoted to the role in which he has last appeared before the public—that of farmer. On February 12, 1913, he attended a meeting of the German Agricultural Council in Berlin, and with only a few statistical notes to help him narrated in lively and amusing fashion his experiences as owner of a farm, the management of which he has been personally supervising since 1898. The farm is part of the Cadinen Estate, bequeathed to him by an admirer and universally known for the majolica ware made out of the clay found on the property. The Emperor was able to show that he had achieved remarkable success with his farm, and particularly with a fine species of bull, Bos indicus major, he maintained on it. A year or two before, at a similar meeting, when speaking of the same breed of bull, he caused much hilarity among the military portion of his audience by jokingly remarking that it had “nothing to do with the General Staff.” On the present occasion he also caused laughter by recounting how he had “fired,” to use an American expression exactly equivalent to the German word employed by the Emperor, a tenant who “wasn’t any use.” The Emperor, however, would, as it turned out, have done better by not mentioning the incident, for the Supreme Court at Leipzig a few days subsequently quashed the Emperor’s order of ejectment on the tenant and condemned him to pay all the costs in the case. The role of farmer, it may be added, is one which, had he been born a country gentleman like Bismarck, the Emperor would have filled with complete success. But in what role would he not have done well?
Foreign politics everywhere for the last three or four years have been full of incident, outcry, and bloodshed. The state of things, indeed, prevailing in the world for some time past is extraordinary. A visitant from another planet would imagine that normal peace and abnormal war had changed places, and that civilized mankind now regard peace as an interlude of war, not war as an interlude of peace. He would be wrong, of course, but the race in armament, which threatens to leave the nations taking part in it financially breathless and exhausted, might easily lead him astray. On some of the situations with which these politics are concerned we may briefly touch.
For the last three or four years the dominant note in the music of what is called the European Concert, taking Europe for the moment to include Great Britain, has been the state of Anglo-German relations. There have been times, as has been seen, when public feeling in both England and Germany was strongly antagonized, but all through the period there has been evident a desire on the part of both Governments to adopt a mutually conciliatory attitude, and if the war in the Balkans does not lead to a general international conflagration, which at present appears improbable, the two countries may arrive at a permanent understanding.
The tension between England and Germany of late years has been tightened rather than relaxed by ministerial speeches as well as by newspaper polemics in both countries. One of the most disturbing of the former was the speech delivered by Mr. Lloyd George at the Mansion House on July 21, 1911. Doubtless with the approval of the Prime Minister, Mr. Asquith, Mr. Lloyd George said:
“I believe it is essential, in the highest interest not merely of this country, but of the world, that Britain should at all hazards maintain her place and her prestige amongst the Great Powers of the world. Her potent influence has many a time been in the past, and may yet be in the future, invaluable to the cause of human liberty. It has more than once in the past redeemed continental nations, which are sometimes too apt to forget that service, from overwhelming disasters and even from national extinction. I would make great sacrifices to preserve peace. I conceive that nothing would justify a disturbance of international goodwill except questions of the gravest national moment. But if a situation were to be forced upon us in which peace could only be preserved by the surrender of the great and beneficent position Britain has won by centuries of heroism and achievement, by allowing Britain to be treated, where her interests are vitally affected, as if she were of no account in the cabinet of nations, then I say emphatically that peace at that price would be a humiliation intolerable for a great country like ours to endure.”
These rhetorical platitudes were uttered at the time of the “conversations” between the French and German Foreign Offices about the compensation claimed by Germany for giving France, once for all, a free hand in Morocco. Germany was apparently making demands of an exorbitant character, and what Mr. Lloyd George really meant was that if Germany persisted in these demands England would fight on the side of France in order to resist them. As a genuinely democratic speaker, however, he followed the rule of many publicists, who are paid for their articles by the column and say to themselves, “Why use two words when five will do?”
Another unfortunate remark that may be noted in this connexion was that made by Mr. Winston Churchill in referring to the German navy as “to some extent a luxury.” The remark, though true (also to a certain extent), was unfortunate, for it irritated public opinion in Germany, where it was regarded as a species of impertinent interference.
As evidence of the desire on the part of the Emperor and his Government for a friendly arrangement with England may be quoted the statement made in December, 1910, by the German Chancellor, Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg, to the following effect:—
“We also meet England in the desire to avoid rivalry in regard to armaments, and non-binding pourparlers, which have from time to time taken place, have been conducted on both sides in a friendly spirit. We have always advanced the opinion that a frank and sincere interchange of views, followed by an understanding with regard to the economic and political interests of the two countries, offers the surest means of allaying all mistrust on the subject of the relations of the Powers to each other on sea and land.”
The Chancellor went on to explain that this mistrust had manifested itself “not in the case of the Governments, but of public opinion.”
With regard, in particular, to a naval understanding between England and Germany, Chancellor von Buelow, in a Budget speech in March, 1909, declared that up to that time no proposals regarding the dimensions of the fleets or the amount of naval expenditure which could serve as a basis for an understanding had been made on the side of England, though non-binding conversations had taken place on the subject between authoritative English and German personalities. In March last year (1912) such proposals may be said to have been made in the form of a suggestion by Sir Edward Grey during the Budget debate that the ratio of 16 to 10 (i.e., 50 per cent. more and 10 per cent. over) should express the naval strength of the two countries. The suggestion was “welcomed” by Admiral von Tirpitz on behalf of Germany in February, 1913. And there the matter rests.
A perhaps inevitable result of the tension between England and Germany during the period under consideration has been the amount of mutual espionage discovered to be going on in both countries. An incident that attracted wide attention was the arrest in 1910 of Captains Brandon and Trench, the former of whom was arrested at Borkum and the latter at Emden. They were tried before the Supreme Court at Leipzig, and were both sentenced to incarceration in a fortress for four years. Many other arrests, prosecutions, and sentences have taken place both in England and Germany since then, with the consequence that English travellers in Germany and German travellers in England, particularly where the travellers are men of military bearing and are in seaside regions, are now liable, under very small provocation, to a suspicion of being spies. An English lady recently made the acquaintance of a German in England. He was a very nice man, she said, and went on to relate how they were talking one day about Ireland. She happened to mention Tipperary. “Oh, I know Tipperary,” the German officer said; “it is in my department.” “It was a revelation to me,” the lady concluded when repeating the conversation to her friends. As a matter of fact, the Intelligence Departments of the army in both Germany and England are well acquainted with the roads, hills, streams, forts, harbours, and similar details of topography in almost all countries of the world besides their own.
In regard to 1911 should be recorded the journey of the Crown Prince and Crown Princess to England to represent the Emperor at the coronation of King George in June; the outbreak in September of the Turco-Italian War, which placed the Emperor in a dilemma, of which one fork was his duty to Italy as an ally in the Triplice and the other his platonic friendship with the Commander of the Faithful; and, lastly, the suspicion of the Emperor’s designs that arose in connexion with the fortification of Flushing at a cost to Holland of some L3,000,000. The Emperor was supposed to have insisted on the fortification in order to prevent the use of the Netherlands by Great Britain as a naval base against Germany. Like many another scare in connexion with foreign policy, the supposition may be regarded only as a product of intelligent journalistic “combination.”
Finally, among subsidiary occurrences, should be mentioned the meeting of the Emperor and the Czar in July, 1912, at Port Baltic in Finnish waters, accompanied by their Foreign Ministers, with the official announcement of the stereotyped “harmonious relations” between the two monarchs that followed; and the premature prolongation, with the object of showing solidarity regarding the Balkan situation, of the Triple Alliance, which, entered into, as mentioned earlier, in the year 1882, had already been renewed in 1891, 1896, and 1902. The next renewal should be in 1925, unless in the meantime an international agreement to which all Great Powers are signatories should render it superfluous.
The war in the Balkans need only be referred to in these pages in so far as it concerns Germany. The position of Germany in regard to it, so far, appears simple; she will actively support Austria’s larger interests in order to keep faith with her chief ally of the Triplice, and so long as Austria and Russia can agree regarding developments in the Balkan situation, there is no danger of war among the Great Powers. People smiled at the declaration of the Powers some little time ago that the status quo in the Balkans should be maintained; but it should be remembered that the whole phrase is status quo ante bellum, and that, once war has broken out, the status, the position of affairs, is in a condition of solution, and that no new status can arise until the war is over and its consequences determined by treaties. The result of the present war, let it be hoped, will be to confine Turkey to the Orient, where she belongs, and that the Balkan States, possibly after a period of internecine feud, will take their share in modern European progress and civilization.
The amount of declaration, asseveration, recrimination (chiefly journalistic), rectification, intimidation, protestation, pacification, and many other wordy processes that have been employed in almost all countries with the avowed object of maintaining peace during the last four years is in striking contrast to the small progress actually made in regard to a final settlement of either of the two great international points at issue—the limitation of armaments and compulsory arbitration.
Enough perhaps has been said in preceding pages to show the attitude of the Emperor, and consequently the attitude of his Government, towards them. A history of the long agitation in connexion with them is beyond the scope of this work. The agitation itself, however, may be viewed as a step, though not a very long one, on the way to the desired solution, and it is a matter for congratulation that the two subjects have been, and are still being, so freely and copiously and, on the whole, so sympathetically and hopefully ventilated. The great difficulty, apparently, is to find what diplomatists call the proper “formula”—the law-that-must-be-obeyed. Unfortunately, the finding of the formula cannot be regarded as the end of the matter; there still remains the finding of what jurists call the “sanction,” that is to say, the power to enforce the formula when found and to punish any nation which fails to act in accordance with it. Nothing but an Areopagus of the nations can furnish such a sanction, but with the present arrangements for balancing power in Europe, to say nothing of the ineradicable pugnacity, greed, and ambition of human nature, such an Areopagus seems very like an impossibility. Time, however, may bring it about. If it should, and the Golden Age begin to dawn, an epoch of new activities and new horizons, quite possibly more novel and interesting than any which has ever preceded it, will open for mankind.
THE EMPEROR TO-DAY
What strikes one most, perhaps, on looking back over the Emperor’s life and time, are two surprising inconsistencies, one relating to the Emperor himself, the other to that part of his time with which he has been most closely identified.
The first arises from the fact that a man so many-sided, so impulsive, so progressive, so modern—one might almost say so American—should have altered so little either in character or policy during quarter of a century. This is due to what we have called his mediaeval nature. He is to-day the same Hohenzollern he was the day he mounted the throne, observing exactly the same attitude to the world abroad and to his folk at home, tenacious of exactly the same principles, enunciating exactly the same views in politics, religion, morals, and art—in everything which concerns the foundations of social life. He still believes himself, as his speeches and conduct show, the selected instrument of Heaven, and acts towards his people and addresses them accordingly. He still opposes all efforts at political change, as witness his attitude towards electoral reform, towards the Germanization of Prussian Poland, towards the Socialists, towards Liberalism in all its manifestations. He is still, as he was at the outset of his reign, the patron of classical art, classical drama, and classical music. He is still the War Lord with the spirit of a bishop and a bishop with the spirit of the War Lord. He is still the model husband and father he always has been. Most men change one way or another as time goes on. With the Emperor time for five-and-twenty years appears to have stood still.
The inconsistency relating to his time arises from the contrast between the real and the seeming character of the reign. For, strikingly and anomalously enough, while the Emperor has been steadily pursuing an economic policy, a policy of peace, his entire reign, as one turns over the pages of its history, seems to resound, during almost every hour, with martial shoutings, confused noises, the clatter of harness, the clash of swords, and the tramp of armies. From moment to moment it recalls those scenes from Shakespearean drama in which indeed no dead are actually seen upon the stage, but at intervals the air is filled with battle cries, “with excursions and alarms,” with warriors brandishing their weapons, calling for horses, hacking at imaginary foes, and defying the world in arms.
And yet in reality it has been a period of domestic peace throughout. Though there has been incessant talk of war, and at times war may have been near, it never came, unless the South West African and Boxer expeditions be so called. Commerce and trade have gone on increasing by leaps and bounds. The population has grown at the rate of nearly three-quarters of a million a year. Emperor William the First’s social policy has been closely followed. The navy has been built, the army strengthened, the Empire’s finances reorganized; in whatever direction one looks one finds a record of solid and substantial and peaceful progress and prosperity. A great deal of it is owing, admittedly, to the Germans themselves, but no small share of it is due to the “impulsive” Emperor’s consistency of character and conduct.
Probably the inconsistencies are only apparent. Germany and her Emperor have grown, not developed, if by development is meant a radical alteration in structure or mentality, and if regard is had to the real Germany and the real Emperor, not to the Germany of the tourist, and not to the Emperor of contemporary criticism. It has been seen that the Emperor’s nature and policy have not altered. The Constitution of Germany has not altered, nor her Press, nor her political parties, nor her social system, nor, indeed, any of the vital institutions of her national life. With one possible exception—the navy. The navy is a new organic feature, and, like all organisms, is exerting deep and far-reaching influences. Germany, of course, is in a process of development, a state of transition. But nations are at all times in a state of transition, more or less obvious; and it will require yet a good many years to show what new forms and fruits the development now going on in Germany is to bring. The Emperor, it is safe to say, will remain the same, mediaeval in nature, modern in character, to the end of his life.
The main thing, however, to be noted both about Germany and the German Emperor is what they stand for in the movement of world-ideas at the present time. Germans cause foreigners to smile when they prophesy that their culture, their civilization, will become the culture and the civilization of the world. The sameness of ideas that prevailed in mediaeval times about life and religion—about this life and the life to come—was succeeded, and first in Germany, by an enormous diversity of ideas about life and religion, beginning with the Rationalism (or “enlightenment,” as the Germans call it) which set in after the Reformation and the Renaissance; and this diversity again promises—let us at least hope—to go back, in one of the great circles that make one think human thought, too, moves in accordance with planetary laws, to a sameness of views among the nations in regard to the real interests of society, which are peace, religious harmony through toleration, commercial harmony through international intercourse, and the mutual goodwill of governments and peoples. For all this order of ideas the Emperor, notwithstanding his mailed fist and shining armour, stands, and in this spirit both he and the German mind are working.
More than half a century has passed over the Emperor’s head; let us look a little more closely at him as the man and the monarch he is to-day. Time appears to have dealt gently with him; the heart, one hears it said, never grows bald, and in all but years the Emperor is probably as young and untiring as ever.
His personal appearance has altered little in the last decade. An observer, who had an opportunity of seeing him at close quarters in 1902, describes him, as he then appeared, as follows:—
“I was standing within arm’s length of him at Cuxhaven, where we were waiting the landing of Prince Henry, his brother, on his return from America. The Deutschland had to be warped alongside the quay, and the Emperor, in the uniform of a Prussian general of infantry, meanwhile mixed with the suite and chatted, now to one, now to another, with his usual bonhomie. I was speaking to the American attache, Captain H——, when the Emperor came up, and naturally I stood a little to one side.
“The thing that most struck me was the Emperor’s large grey eyes. As they looked sharply into those of Captain H—— or glanced in my direction, they seemed to show absolutely no feeling, no sentiment of any kind. Not that they gave the notion of hardness or falsity. They were simply like two grey mirrors on which outward things made no impression.
“Two other features did not strike me as anything out of the ordinary, but the whole face had an air of ability, cleverness, briskness, and health. The Emperor is about middle height, with the body very erect, the walk firm, and is very energetic in his gestures. I did not notice the shortness of the left arm, butPage 220
that may have been because his left hand was leaning on his sword-hilt. Captain H—— told me he could not put on his overcoat without assistance, and that the hand is so weak he can do very little with it. There was nothing of a Hohenzollern hanging under-lip.”
The following judgment was formed a year or two ago by an American diplomatist: “I have often met him,” the diplomatist said,
“and only speak of the impression he made on me. I would describe him as intelligent rather than intellectual. He appreciates men of learning and of philosophic mind, and while not learned and philosophic himself, enjoys seeing the learned and philosophic at work, and gladly recognizes their merit when their labours are thorough and well done. His mind is marvellously quick, but it does not dwell on anything for long at a time. It takes in everything presented to it in, so to speak, a hop, skip, and jump.
“In company he is never at rest, and surprises one by his lively play of features and the entirely natural and unaffected expression of his thoughts. He is sitting at a lecture, perhaps, when a notion occurs to him, and forthwith indicates it by a humorous grimace or wink to some one sitting far away from him. He is always saying unexpected things. On the whole, he is a right good fellow, and I can imagine that, though he can come down hard on one with a heavy hand and stern look, he does not do so by the instinct of a despot, but acting under a sense of duty.”
Another diplomatist has remarked the Emperor’s habit in conversation of tapping the person he is talking to on the shoulder and of scrutinizing him all over—“ears, nose, clothes, until it makes one feel quite uncomfortable.”
The next sketch of him is as he may be seen any day during the yachting week in June at Kiel:—
“The Emperor is in the smoking-room of the Yacht Club, dressed in a blue lounge suit with a white peaked cap. He is sitting carelessly on the side of a table, dangling his legs and discussing with fellow-members and foreign yachtsmen the experience of the day, now speaking English, now French, now German. He seems quite in his element as sportsman, and puts every one at ease round him. His expression is animated and his voice hearty, if a little strident to foreign ears. His right hand and arm are in ceaseless movement, emphasizing and enforcing everything he says. He asks many questions and often invites opinion, and when it differs from his own, as sometimes happens, he takes it quite good-humouredly.”
To-day the Emperor is outwardly much the same as he has just been described. He is perhaps slightly more inclined to stoutness. His features, though they speak of cleverness and manliness, are forgotten as one looks into the keen and quickly moving grey eyes with their peculiar dash of yellow. He is well set up, as is proper for a soldier ever actively engaged in military duties, and his stride continues firm and elastic. He is still constantly in the saddle. His hair, still abundant, is yet beginning to show the first touches of the coming frost of age, and the reddish brown moustache, once famous for its haughtily upturned ends, has taken, either naturally or by the aid of Herr Haby, the Court barber, who attends him daily, a nearly level form.
In public, whether mounted or on foot, he preserves the somewhat stern air he evidently thinks appropriate to his high station, but more frequently than formerly the features relax into a pleasant smile. The colour of the face is healthy, tending to rosiness, and the general impression given is that of a clever man, conscious, yet not overconscious, of his dignity. The shortness of the left arm, a defect from birth, is hardly noticeable.
The extirpation of a polypus from the Emperor’s throat in 1903, which must have been one of the severest trials of his life when the history of his father’s mortal illness is remembered, might lead one to suppose that his vocal organs would always suffer from the effects of the operation. It has fortunately turned out otherwise. His voice was originally strong by nature, and remains so. It never seems tired, even when, as it often does, it pleases him to read aloud for his own pleasure or that of a circle of friends. It frequently occurs that he will pick up a book, one of his ancient favourites, Horace or Homer perhaps, Mr. Stewart Houston Chamberlain’s “Foundations of the Nineteenth Century”—a work he greatly admires—or a modern publication he has read of in the papers, and read aloud from it for an hour or an hour and a half at a time. Nor is his reading aloud confined to classical or German books. He is equally disposed to choose works in English or French or Italian, and when he reads these he is fond of doing so with a particularly clear and distinct enunciation, partly as practice for himself, and partly that his hearers may understand with certainty. This is not all, for there invariably follows a discussion upon what has been read, and in it the Emperor takes a constant and often emphatic part. It has been remarked that at the close of the longest sitting of this character his voice is as strong and sonorous as at the beginning.
He is still the early riser and hard worker he has always been; still devotes the greater part of his time to the duties that fall to him as War Lord; still races about the Empire by train or motor-car, reviewing troops, laying foundation-stones, unveiling statues, dedicating churches, attending manoeuvres, encouraging yachting at Kiel by his presence during the yachting week, or hurrying off to meet the monarch of a foreign country. He still enjoys his annual trip along the shores of Norway or breaks away from the cares of State to pass a few weeks at his Corfu castle, dazzling in its marble whiteness and overlooking the Acroceraunian mountains, or to hunt or shoot at the country seat of some influential or wealthy subject. In fine, he is still engaged with all the energy of his nature, if in a somewhat less flamboyant fashion than during his earlier years, in his, as he believes, divinely appointed work of guiding Prussia’s destiny and building up the German Empire.
It is because he is an Empire-builder that his numerous journeys abroad and restlessness of movement at home have earned for him the nickname of the “travelling Kaiser.” The Germans themselves do not understand his conduct in this respect. If one urges that Hohenzollern kings, and none of them more than the Great Elector and Frederick the Great, were incessant travellers, they will reply that their kings had to be so at a time when the Empire was not yet established, when rebellious nobles had to be subdued, and when the spirit of provincialism and particularism had to be counteracted. Hence, they say, former Hohenzollerns had to exercise personal control in all parts of their dominions, see that their military dispositions were carried out, and study social and economic conditions on the spot; but nowadays, when the Empire is firmly established, when the administration is working like a clock and the post and telegraph are at command, the Emperor should stay at home and direct everything from his capital.
The Emperor himself evidently takes a different view. He does not consider the forty-year-old Empire as completed and consolidated, but regards it much as the Great Elector or Frederick the Great regarded Prussia when that kingdom was in the making. He believes in propagating the imperial idea by his personal presence in all parts of the Empire, and at the same time observing the progress that is being made there. He is, finally, a believer in getting into personal touch, as far as is possible, with foreign monarchs, foreign statesmen, and foreign peoples, for he doubtless sees that with every decade the interests of nations are becoming more closely identified.
In connexion with the subject of the Emperor’s travelling, mention may be made of the fact that many years ago he thought it necessary to explain himself publicly in reference to the idea, prevalent among his people at the time, that he was travelling too much. “On my travels,” he said,
“I design not only to make myself acquainted with foreign countries and institutions, and to foster friendly relations with neighbouring rulers, but these journeys, which have been often misinterpreted, have high value in enabling me to observe home affairs from a distance and submit them to a quiet examination.”
He expresses something in the same order of thought in a speech telling of his reflections on the high sea concerning his responsibilities as ruler:
“When one is alone on the high sea, with only God’s starry heaven above him, and holds communion with himself, one will not fail to appreciate the value of such a journey. I could wish many of my countrymen to live through hours like these, in which one can take reckoning of what he has designed and what achieved. Then one would be cured of over self-estimation—and that we all need.”
When the Emperor is about to start on a journey, confidential
All the carriages, with the exception of the saloon dining-car, are of the corridor type. A table runs down the centre of the dining-car; the Emperor takes his seat in the centre, while the rest of the suite and guests take their places at random, save that the elder travellers are supposed to seat themselves about the Emperor. If the Emperor has guests with him they naturally have seats beside or in the near neighbourhood of their host. Breakfast is taken about half-past eight, lunch at one, and dinner at seven or eight. The Emperor is always talkative at table, and often draws into conversation the remoter members of the company, occasionally calling to them by their nickname or a pet name. He sits for an hour or two after dinner, with a glass of beer and a huge box of cigars before him, discussing the incidents of the journey or recalling his experiences at various periods of his reign.
The Emperor’s disposition of the year remains much what it was at the beginning of the reign. The chief changes in it are the omission of a yachting visit to Cowes, which he made annually from 1889 to 1895, and, since 1908, the habit of making an annual summer stay at his Corfu castle, “Achilleion,” instead of touring in the Mediterranean and visiting Italian cities. January is spent in Berlin in connexion with the New Year festivities, ambassadorial and other Court receptions, drawing-rooms, and balls, and the celebration of his birthday on the 27th. The Berlin season extends into the middle of February, so that part of that month also is spent in Berlin.
In music, as we know, he retains the classical tastes he has always cultivated and sometimes dictatorially recommended. Good music, he has said, is like a piece of lace, not like a display of fireworks. He still has most musical enjoyment in listening to Bach and Handel. The former he has spoken of as one of the most “modern” of composers, and will point out that his works contain melodious passages that might be the musical thought of Franz Lehar or Leo Fall. He has no great liking for the music of Richard Strauss, and his admiration of Wagner, if certain themes, that must, one feels, have been drawn from the music of the spheres, be excepted, is respectful rather than rapturous. Of Wagner’s works the “Meistersingers” is “my favourite.”
A faculty that in the Emperor has developed with the years is that of applying a sense of humour, not originally small, to the events of everyday life. He is always ready to joke with his soldiers and sailors, with artists, professors, ministers—in short, with men of every class and occupation. Several stories in illustration of his humour are current, but a homely example or two may here suffice. He is sitting in semi-darkness in the parquet at the Royal Opera House. “Le Prophete” is in rehearsal, and it is the last act, in which there is a powder cask, ready to blow everything to atoms, standing outside the cathedral. Fraulein Frieda Hempel, as the heroine, appears with a lighted torch and is about to take her seat on the cask. Suddenly the imperial voice is heard from the semi-gloom: “Fraulein Hempel, it is evident you haven’t had a military training or you wouldn’t take a light so near a barrel of gunpowder.”
The German takes his theatre as he takes life, seriously. To cough during a performance attracts embarrassing attention, a sneeze almost amounts to misdemeanour. To the German the theatre is a part of the machinery of culture, and accordingly he is not so easily bored as the Anglo-Saxon playgoer, who demands that drama shall contain that great essential of all good drama, action. To the Anglo-Saxon, the more plentiful and rapid the action is, the better. The German, differing from most Anglo-Saxons, likes historical scenes, great processions, costume festivals, the representation of mediaeval events in which his monarchs and generals played conspicuous parts. The Emperor has the same disposition and taste.
Yet both national taste and disposition, like other of the nation’s characteristics, are slowly altering with the growth of the modern spirit, and Germans now begin to require something of a more modern kind, a more social order, something that comes home more to their business and bosoms. Greater variety in subject is asked for, more laughter and tears, more representations of scenes and life dealing with everyday doings and the fate of the people as distinguished from the doings and fate of their rulers and the upper classes. The Emperor has not followed his people in the new direction. He regards the stage as a vehicle of patriotism, an instrument of education, a guider of artistic taste, an inculcator of old-time morality. Its aim, he appears to think, is not to help to produce, primarily, the good man and good citizen, but the good man and good monarchist, and—perhaps—not so much primarily the good monarchist as the liege subject of the Hohenzollern dynasty. Having secured this, he looks for the elevation of the public taste along his own lines. He assumes that the public taste can be elevated from without, from above, when it can only be elevated proportionately with its progress in general education and its purification from within. Consequently he is for the “classical,” as in the other arts. But apart from its aims and uses, the theatre has always appealed to him. His fondness for it is a Hohenzollern characteristic,
The Emperor treats all artists, male and female, in the same friendly and unaffected manner. There is never the least soupcon of condescension in the one case or flirtation in the other, but in both a lively and often unexpectedly well-informed interest in the play or other artistic performance of the occasion, and in the actors’ or actresses’ personal records. The nationality of the artist has apparently nothing to do with this interest. The Emperor invites French, Italian, English, American or Scandinavian artists to the royal box after a performance as often as he invites the artists of his own country, and, once launched on a conversation, nothing gives him more pleasure than to expound his views on music, painting, or the drama, as the case may be. “Tempo—rhythm—colour,” he has been heard to insist on to a conductor whom in the heat of his conviction he had gradually edged into a corner and before whom he stood with gesticulating arms—“All the rest is Schwindel.” At an entertainment given by Ambassador Jules Cambon at the French Embassy after the Morocco difficulty had been finally adjusted, he became so interested while talking to a group of French actors that high dignatories of the Empire, including Princes, the Imperial Chancellor and Ministers, standing in another part of the salon, grew impatient and had to detach one of their number to call the Emperor’s attention to their presence. Since then, it is whispered, it has become the special function of an adjutant, when the occasion demands it, diplomatically and gently to withdraw the imperial causeur from too absorbing conversation.
Several anecdotes are current having reference to the Emperor as sportsman. One of them, for example, mentions a loving-cup of Frederick William III’s time, kept at the hunting lodge of Letzlingen, which is filled with champagne and must be emptied at a draught by anyone visiting the lodge for the first time. This is great fun for the Emperor, who a year or two ago made a number of Berlin guests, including Chancellor von Bethmann-Hollweg, the Austrian Ambassador, Szoghenyi-Marich, the Secretary for the Navy, Admiral von Tirpitz, and the Crown Prince of Greece stand before him and drain the cup. As the story goes, “the attempts of the guests to drink out of the heavy cup, which is fixed into a set of antlers in such a way as to make it difficult to drink without spilling the wine, caused great amusement.”
The principles of sport generally, it may be here interpolated, are not quite the same in Germany as in England, though no country has imitated England in regard to sport so closely and successfully as Germany. Up to a comparatively few years ago the Germans had neither inclination nor means for it, and though always enthusiastic hunters, hunting—not the English fox-hunting, but hunting the boar and the bear, the wolf and the deer—was almost the sole form of manly sport practised. Turnen, the most popular sort of German indoor gymnastics, only began in 1861, a couple of years after the birth of the Emperor. There are now nearly a dozen cricket clubs alone in Berlin, football clubs all over the Empire, tennis clubs in every town, rowing clubs at all the seaports and along the large rivers, nearly all following English rules and in numerous cases using English sporting terms. At the same time sport is not the religion it is in England—indeed, to keep up the metaphor, hardly a living creed.
The German attitude towards sport is not altogether the same as the English attitude. In England the object of the game is that the best man shall win, that he shall not be in any way unfairly or unequally handicapped vis-a-vis his opponent, and the honour, not the intrinsic value of the prize, is the main consideration. These principles are not yet fully understood or adopted in Germany, possibly owing to the early military training of the German youth making the carrying off the prize anyhow and by any means the main object. It is Realpolitik in sport, and a Realpolitik which is not wholly unknown in England; but while the spirit of Realpolitik is still perceivable in German sport, it is equally perceivable that the standard English way of viewing sporting competition is becoming more and more approached in Germany.
The Emperor is an enthusiastic patron of sport of all healthy outdoor kinds, not as sympathizing with the English youth’s disposition to regard play as work and work as play, to give to his business any time he can spare from his sport, but because he estimates at its full value its place in the national health-budget. His personal likings are for bear-shooting, deer-stalking, and yachting, but he also wields the lawn-tennis racket and the rapier with fair skill. The names of several of his hunting lodges—–Rominten, Springe, Hubertusstock, and so on—are familiar to many people in all countries. Rominten preserve is in East Prussia, and embraces about four square miles, with little lakes and some rising ground. September is the Emperor’s favourite month for visiting it. Here one year he shot a famous eight-and-twenty-ender antelope, which had come across from Russian territory. Before the present reign the deer, or pig, or other wild animal used to be beaten up to the royal sportsman of the day, but that practice has long ceased, and the Emperor has to tramp many a mile, and at times crawl on all fours for hundreds of yards, to get a shot.
We have seen that the Emperor’s position as King and Emperor renders inevitable his adoption, either of natural bent, which is extremely probable, or from a policy in harmony with the wishes of his people, of a view of the monarch’s office that to perhaps most Englishmen living under parliamentary rule must seem antiquated, not to say absurd. This attitude apart, the Emperor possesses, as it is hoped has been sufficiently shown, as modern and progressive a spirit as any of his contemporaries. His instant recognition of all useful modern appliances, particularly, of course, those of possible service in war, is a prominent feature of his mentality. He went, doubtless, too far in heralding Count Zeppelin, in 1909, as “the greatest man of the century,” but the very words he chose to use marked his appreciation of the new aeronautical science Count Zeppelin was introducing. Similarly, the moment the automobile had entered on the stage of reliability it won a place in the imperial favour, and is now his most constant means of locomotion. He has never, it is true, emulated the enterprise of his son, the Crown Prince, whom Mr. Orville Wright had as a companion for a quarter of an hour in the air at Potsdam three years ago, but his interest in the aeroplane is none the less keen because he is too conscious of his responsibilities to subject his life to unnecessary risk.
Before closing our sketch of the Emperor as a man by quoting appreciations written by two contemporary writers, one German and the other English, it may be added that there is a statesman still—it is pleasant to think—alive who could, an he only would, draw the Emperor’s character perfectly, both as man and monarch. Indeed, as has been seen, he has more than once sketched parts of it in Parliament, but only parts—the whole character of the Emperor, on all its sides and in all its ramifications, has yet to be revealed. Here need only be quoted what Chancellor Buelow—and also, by the way, Princess Buelow—publicly said about the Emperor as man. The Prince’s most noteworthy statement was made in the Reichstag in 1903, when, in answer to Leader-of-the-Opposition Bebel, the Prince said, “One thing at least, the Emperor is no Philistine,” and proceeded to explain, rather negatively and disappointingly, that the Emperor possesses what the Greeks call megalopsychia—a great soul. One knows but too well the English Philistine, that stolid, solid, self-sufficient bulwark of the British Constitution. The German Philistine is his twin brother, the narrow-minded, conservative burgher. Other epithets the Prince applied to the imperial character were “simple,” “natural,” “hearty,” “magnanimous,” “clear-headed,” and “straightforward”; while Princess Buelow, during a conversation her husband was having with the French journalist, M. Jules Huret, in 1907, interjected the remark that he was “a person of good birth, fils de bonne maison, the descendant of distinguished ancestors, and a modern man of great intelligence.”
But let us see how the Emperor appears to his contemporaries. Dr. Paul Liman, who has made the most serious attempt to sketch the character of the Emperor that has yet appeared in German, writes:—
“We see in him a nature whose ground-tone is enthusiasm, phantasy, and a passionate impulse towards action. Filled with the highest sense of the imperial rights and duties assigned to him, convinced that these are the direct expression of a divine will, he has inwardly thrown off the bonds of modern constitutional ideas and in words recently spoken, where he claimed responsibility for fifty-eight million people, converted these ideas into a formula that, while unconstitutional, is yet moral and deeply earnest. These words were doubly valuable as giving insight into the soul of a man who can be mistaken in his conclusions and means, but not in his motives, since these are directed to the general weal. Here, too, we find the explanation of the fact that at one time he comes before us surrounded with the blue and hazy nimbus of the romantic period, and at another as the most modern prince of our time. Out of the rise in him of the consciousness of majesty there grows a greater sense of duty, and instead of keeping watch from his turret over his people he loses himself in detail. And precisely here must he fail, because modern life with its development is far too rich in complications and activities to admit of its submitting to patriarchal benevolence. And because an artistic strain and a strong fantasy simultaneously work in him, he moves joyfully beyond the limits of the actual to raise before our eyes the highly coloured dream of the picture of a time in which all men, all nations, will be friendly and reconciled—an artist’s dream. Here is something characteristic, something unusual, to give particular charm to a personality which has no parallel in the history of the dynasty hitherto. There may be concealed in it the seed of illustrious deeds, but only too often disappointment and contempt lie scornfully in wait when the deed is accomplished. For the heaven we erect on earth always comes to naught, and the idealist is always vanquished in the strife with fact.”
So far, Dr. Liman. Mr. Sydney Brooks, in a sketch in Maclure’s Magazine for July, 1910, writes:—
“The drawback to any and to every regime of paternal absolutism is that the human mind is limited. The Kaiser will not admit it, but his acts prove it. It is not given to one man to know more about everything than anybody else knows about anything; and the Kaiser, who is a good deal of a dilettante, and believes himself omniscient, at times speaks from a lamentable half-knowledge, and occasionally has to call in the imperial authority to back up his verdicts against the judgments of experts.
“Unquestionably his mind is of an unusual order. It is a facile, quickly moving instrument; it works in flashes; it assimilatesPage 230
seemingly without effort, and it is at its best under the highest pressure. The Kaiser is not to be laughed at for wanting to know all there is to be known, but he may justly be criticized for failing to distinguish between the attempt and its failure....
“Is it all charlatanerie? Is it all of a part with his speech in Russian to the regiment of which the Czar made him honorary colonel, a studied trumpery effort, designed for a momentary effect? Is the Kaiser just glitter and tinsel, impulse and rhapsody, with nothing solid beneath? Is it his supreme object to make an impression at any cost, to force, like another Nero, the popular applause by arts more becoming to a cabotin than a sovereign? Vanity, restlessness, a consuming desire for the palm without the dust—an intense and theatrical egotism—are these the qualities that give the clue to his character and actions?
“I do not think so altogether. The Kaiser has scattered too much. In an age of specialists on many subjects he speaks like an amateur. He is always the hero, and often the victim, of his own imagination; like a star actor, he cannot bear to be outshone; he is morbidly, almost pruriently, conscious of the effect he is producing. And on all matters of intellect and taste his influence makes for blatant mediocrity. But he is not meretricious; at bottom he is not by any means as superficial and insincere as he often seems. He is one of those men in whom an instinct becomes an immutable truth, an idea a conviction, and a suspicion a certainty, by an almost instantaneous process; and, the process completed, action follows forthwith. The Kaiser is always resolved to do the right thing; the right thing, by some quaint but invariable coincidence, is whatever he is resolved to do.”
These appreciations from afar may be as sound as they are brilliant, but they rather refer to the non-essential parts of the character of the Emperor in the first flush of imperial glory than to the essential character as it has developed with the years.
As a man—he will be dealt with as monarch presently—his essential character must be judged from his conduct, and conduct extending over a good many years. One might say, conduct and reputation, but that reputation is so often the result of a confused mixture of superficial observation, gossip, tittle-tattle, envy, hatred and uncharitableness, and, in the case of an Emperor, of merely picturesque and effective writing.
There is another source which would materially help us in forming a judgment, but it is wholly wanting in the case of the Emperor. No private correspondence of his is, as yet, available to the world.
Again, a man’s character is determined by his motives, if it is not the other way about; in any case, a man’s motives are for the most part inscrutable and can only be deduced from conduct, while the world usually makes the mistake of explaining conduct by attributing its own motives. Tried, then, by the standard of conduct, the only one available, the Emperor, as a man, shows us a high type of humanity. It may not, probably does not, appeal to Englishmen wholly, but there are features of it which must command, and do command, the respect of people of all nationalities. And, first of all, he is a good man; good as a Christian, good as a husband, good as a father, good as a patriot. With all the power and temptation to gratify his inclinations, he has no personal vices of the baser sort. He is moderate in the satisfaction of his appetites, whether for food or wine. He is no debauchee, no voluptuary, no gambler. He is faithful to old friends and comrades. He has high ideals, and is not ashamed of them. He is neither indolent nor fussy; neither a cynic, nor an intriguer, nor a fool; he is neither wrong-headed nor stubborn; he is honest and sincere to a degree that does him honour as a man, if it has sometimes proved perilous and blameworthy in him as a monarch. He is optimistic, and on good grounds. He is no physical or intellectual giant, but he is a man of more than average all-round intelligence and capacity. If this appreciation is correct, or even approximately correct, it is a testimonial, whatever may be its worth, to great merit.
Yet the Emperor as man has his failings and drawbacks, though they are such as time is almost sure to diminish or eradicate. Notably in his earlier years he lacked judgment, the power of balancing considerations and arriving at conclusions from them which men more gifted with poise would endorse as logical and inevitable. He does not, like spare Cassius, see quite through the deeds of men, as his friendship for Count Phili Eulenburg and the malodorous “Camarilla” go to show, and his choice of Imperial Chancellors, his grand viziers, has not in every instance been happy. He has less tact than character, as he showed once in Vienna, where he greatly pained the Foreign Minister, Count Goluchowski, one day at a club by calling to him, “Golu, Golu, come and sit beside your Kaiser.” He has the German masculine enjoyment in a kind of humour which would have delighted Fox and the three-bottle men, but would sadly shock the susceptibilities of an Oxford aesthete. He has a share of personal vanity, but it springs from the desire to look the Emperor he is, not because he supposes for a moment that he is an Adonis. He is theatrical in exactly the same spirit—the desire imperially to impress his folk in the sense of the German word imponieren, a word that needs no translation. If he has lost much of Dr. Liman’s “romantik,” he still retains the “scatteredness” of Mr. Sidney Brooks, though the Emperor would rather hear it called “many-sidedness.” En resume he has the defects of his qualities, but to no man or woman’s unmerited loss or injury, and if we weigh the good qualities with the bad, we find a fine balance remaining to his credit as a man.
The fierce light which beats upon a throne, if it is apt to dazzle the bystander, helps those at a distance, especially in these days of the still fiercer light of modern publicity, to judge fairly the throne’s occupant. The character of the Emperor as monarch ought, therefore, as far as is possible in the absence of archives marked “secret and confidential” and yet lying in the ministries of all countries, to disclose itself nowadays with reasonable clearness. Yet, even still, different and conflicting opinions regarding it are to be gathered in Germany and out of it.
Indeed, his own people are among the severest critics. One of them, Professor Quidde, early in the reign, made an extraordinarily ingenious, but quite unjustifiable, comparison of him to Caligula, which, though only consisting of classical quotations and making no mention of the Emperor, was seen by everybody to refer to him and has caused discussion ever since. While many foreign critics have done the Emperor justice, others in turn have made him out to be arrogant, snobbish, bombastic, superficial, incompetent, and insincere. To writers of this class he is always the German War Lord, ready to pounce, like a highwayman or pirate, on any unprotected person or property he may come across, regardless of treaty obligations, of international disaster, or of the dictates of humanity. One day they announce he is planning the annexation of Holland in order to get a further set of naval bases, the next that he means to take Belgium to make a road for his armies into France, a third that he is about to set at naught the Monroe doctrine and with his Dreadnoughts seize Brazil. All these things are conceivable and not impossible, but they are in the very highest degree improbable, and, as yet at least, ought not to be considered seriously. To sensible and better-informed people everywhere he is a Prussian king of the best type, a sincere friend of peace, with a mania for pushing the maxim “Si vis pacem para bellum” to extremes, politically the most influential man in Europe, and, with all his faults, one of the greatest Germans of his time.
The character of the Emperor, as monarch, is reflected very largely in the character of the Germany of to-day.
Germany is optimistic, ardently desirous of peace, bent on worthily maintaining the great place she has won, and deserved to win, among the nations, and so materially prosperous as to make many Germans tremble at the thought that the prosperity may be too great to last. This, however, is not to assert that in Germany everything is couleur de rose. There are not a few things in the Empire’s social and political conditions which are antiquated or promise no good. Noxious as well as beneficial forces have been introduced into the social life of the country and are beginning to make themselves felt. German home-life is ceasing to be the admirable and exemplary thing it was before the present era of class rivalry,
It would be difficult to mention any of the greater tasks of imperial administration to which the Emperor does not continue to devote personal attention. He is the life and soul of the army and navy, though it should not be forgotten that as regards the latter he has in Admiral Tirpitz an executive talent worthy of his own directive. His interest in the mercantile marine remains what it was when in 1887, as Prince William, he drew up an expert opinion which decided the Hamburg-Amerika Company to build their fast ocean-going steamers at home instead of abroad, and by the success of the experiment commenced the modern development of Germany’s shipbuilding industry. Indeed, his attention to the Hamburg line, familiarly known as the “Hapag” line, from the initial letters of its legal title, “Hamburg-Amerika Packetfahrt-Aktien Gesellschaft,” and to the Norddeutsche line from Bremen, has given rise to the unfounded belief that he is heavily interested in their financial success. Herr Albert Ballin, the Director of the Hamburg line, though a Jew, is among his intimates and advisers, and the Emperor is said to have caused umbrage more than once to Court officials and the aristocracy by giving directors of both lines precedence at his table. Without the Emperor’s personal support it is probable that neither the firm of Krupp at Essen nor the splendid shipbuilding yards at Hamburg, Bremen, Stettin and elsewhere would continue to progress as they are doing. He neglects no opportunity of stimulating Germany’s internal and external trade. He is at all times ready to encourage the introduction of useful achievements of modern science and invention. And lastly, by tactful treatment of other German rulers, and a wise policy of non-interference with their States, he is promoting a feeling of federal solidarity.
The Emperor’s conception of his relations to the people remains to-day what he was brought up in and what it was when he mounted the throne. In England, America, and France the people are the real rulers, and their monarch or president is their highest official servant and representative. The idea is not perhaps constitutionally expressed, but it is universally and deeply felt in the countries named. In Germany the opposite theory obtains—for how long it must be left to the future to say. In Germany the Emperor is the real ruler, the genuine monarch, and the people are his subjects, the country his country. Hence, while an English king in an official document or public statement would not think of putting himself first and the people or country second, the German Emperor’s official statements and speeches constantly repeat such expressions as “I and my people,” “I and the army,” “my capital,” “me and the Fatherland,” and a score more; so that Anglo-Saxons and other foreigners acquire the impression that the word “my” is no figure of rhetoric or pride, but a simple claim of ownership or possession. And the official relation between monarch and people is reflected in the people’s ordinary life. To the foreigner it continually appears that the public are the servants of the official, not the contrary, whether officialism takes the shape of a post-office clerk, a tramcar conductor, a shop salesman, a policeman, or a waiter. All these functionaries are the possessors of an authority which the citizen is expected to, and usually does, obey. The explanation of such a state of things is a little abstruse, but an attempt may be made at giving it.
The period immediately preceding the reign of Frederick the Great was a period of absolute monarchy in Germany, a system introduced from France, where Louis XIV had proclaimed the doctrine L’etat, c’est moi, according to which the lives and property of the subject belonged to the Prince, whose will was to be obeyed without question or demur. There were now four hundred courts in Germany in imitation of the Court of Versailles, and the smaller the principality the greater the absolutism. Absolutism, however, required an army to support it; hence the establishment of standing and mercenary armies and the disuse of arms by the citizen. The result, to quote Professor Ernst Richard’s work on “German Civilization,” was that
“the pride of the burgher and the peasant was broken. A submissive servility hopelessly pervaded the masses, and even the best had lost all social and national feeling, all sense of being part of a greater body.... The luxurious life and the arrogance of the ruling classes were accepted as a matter of course, one might say as a divine institution. Thus those traits of character, which had come to light under the cruel stress of the Thirty Years War, fostered by the rule of despotism and the worst vices, took deeper root. To these belong that greed for social position, for titles andPage 235
the smiles of the great; servility towards those who hold a higher position as bearers of official titles and dignity, a fear of publicity, above all a rather remarkable inclination to a peevish, petty, and sceptical attitude as regards the knowledge and ability of others. The exaltation of the position of the prince extended to his Court and his officials, as well as to the nobility, which had long since become a Court nobility.”
But absolutism had to go with the changes in human thought under the influence of Rationalism, which brought with it the idea of the State, not the absolute prince, as ruler. This idea was embodied in the Rechtstaat, or State based on law, which was introduced by Frederick the Great, the “first servant of the State.” The State, he said, exists for the sake of the citizens. “One must be insane,” he wrote,
“to imagine that men should have said to one of their equals, ’We will raise you so that we may be your slaves, we will give you the power to guide our thoughts according to yours.’ They rather said: ’We need you in order to execute our laws, that you show us the way, and defend us. But we understand that you will respect our liberties.’”
The Rechtstaat exists in Germany to the present day, the Emperor is at the head of it, and the people are content to live within its confines. It is not, as has been seen, coterminous with the whole liberty of the subject, but is yet a vast bundle of rights and obligations which in public, and much of private, life leaves as little as possible to the unaided or undirected intelligence or goodwill of the citizen. It is an exaggeration, but still expresses a popular feeling even in Germany itself—and certainly describes an impression made on the Anglo-Saxon—to say that outside this bundle of laws and regulations, which, clearly and logically paragraphed, orders to a nicety all the public, and many of the private, relations of the citizens, everything is forbidden or discouraged by authority. Yet, as has been said, the people are satisfied with it, and it must be admitted that if it confines individual liberty within what to the Anglo-Saxon seem narrow limits, still, by directing the individual to common ends, it works great public advantage. It is in truth a very intelligent and practical form of Socialism, infinitely less oppressive to the people than would be the socialism of the professed Socialist.
It left, however, the German caste system of Frederick’s day undisturbed; as Professor Richard says:
“The nobility retained its privileged position. It was considered a law of nature that the noblemen should assist the monarch in the administration of the State and as leaders of the army; the peasant should cultivate the fields and provide food; the commoner should provide money through industry and commerce.”
To the Anglo-Saxon, of course, brought up with individualistic
The German conception of the Rechtstaat entails, as one of its consequences, a sharp contrast between the rights and privileges of the Crown and the rights and privileges of the people; and therefore, while the Emperor is never without apprehension that the people may try to increase their rights and privileges at the expense of those of the Crown, the people are not without apprehension that the Crown may try to increase its rights and privileges at the expense of the political liberties of the people. To this apprehension on the part of the people is to be attributed their widespread dissatisfaction with the Emperor’s so-called “personal regiment,” which, until recently, was the chief hindrance to his popularity. In truth the Emperor is in a difficult position. To be popular with the people he must be popular with the Parliament, but if he were to seek popularity with the Parliament he would lose popularity and prestige with the aristocracy and large landowners, who have still a good deal of the old-time contempt for the mere “folk,” the burgher, and he would lose it with the military officer class, which is aristocratic in spirit, and is, as the Emperor is constantly assuring it, the sole support of throne and Empire. In addition to this it has to be remembered that a large majority of South Germany is Catholic, and, generally speaking, no great lover of Prussia, its people, and their airs of stiff superiority.
The personal relations of the Emperor to his people, and in especial to the vast burghertum, are precisely those to be expected from his traditional and constitutional relations. He is not popular, but he is widely and sincerely respected. His preference for the army, intelligible though it is, and the cleavage that separates Government and people, explain to some extent the want of popularity, using that word in its “popular” sense; while the consciousness of all the nation owes to his “goodwill,” his initiative and energy, his conscientiousness in all directions, is quite sufficient to account for the respect. It is, in truth, in part at least, the respect which excludes the popularity. No one is ever likely to be popular, anywhere, who is constantly endeavouring to teach people how to live and what to think, and at the same time seems to have no social weaknesses to reconcile him with those—no small number—who are fond of cakes and
Certainly for the present, Germans, with rare exceptions, are satisfied with him. They are prospering under him. The shoe pinches here and there, and if it pinches too hard they will cry out and perhaps do more than cry out. They do not consider the Emperor perfect, but they forgive his errors, and particularly the errors of his impetuous youth, even though on three or four occasions they brought the country into danger. Monarchy has been defined as a State in which the attention of the nation is concentrated on one person doing interesting things: a republic, as a State in which the attention is divided between many who are all doing uninteresting things: Germans find their Emperor interesting, and that is a stage on the road to popularity.
The imperial ego, which is quite consistent with the German view of monarchical rule and conformity with the Rechtstaat, is specially advertised by the pictures and statues of the Emperor which are to be found all over Germany, to the apparent exclusion of the pictures and statues of national and local men of distinction. The Emperor’s picture almost monopolizes the walls of every public and municipal office, every railway-station refreshment-room, every shop, every restaurant throughout the Empire. Wherever it turns the eye is confronted by the portrait or bust of the Emperor, and if it is not his portrait or bust, it is the portrait or bust of one or other of his ancestors. An exception should be made in the case of Bismarck, the reproduction of whose rugged features, shaggy eyebrows, and bulky frame are not infrequent; statues and portraits, too, of Moltke and Roon, though much more rarely met with than those of Bismarck, are to be seen, while those of Goethe, Schiller, Kant, Lessing, Wagner, or other German “Immortal,” are still rarer. Only once, or perhaps twice, in all Germany is there to be found a public statue of Heine—for Heine was a Jew and said many unpleasant, because true, things about his country. The travelling foreigner in Germany after a while begins to wonder if he is
A similar lesson is taught by the Emperor’s speeches. In England the King rarely speaks in public, and then with well-calculated brevity and reserve. In five words he will open a museum and with a sentence unveil a monument. The Emperor’s speeches fill four stout volumes—and he is only fifty-four. The speeches deal with every sort of topic, and have been delivered in all parts of the Empire—now to Parliament, now to his assembled generals, now at the celebration of some national or individual jubilee, now at the dedication of a building or the opening of a bridge. The style is always clear and logical, in this respect contrasting favourably with the German style of twenty years ago, when the language wriggled from clause to clause in vermiform articulations until the thought found final expression in a mob of participles and infinitives. Metaphors abound in the speeches, some of them slightly far-fetched, but others of uncommon beauty, appropriateness, and pith. There is no brilliant employment of words, but not seldom one comes across such terse and happy phrases as the famous “We stand under the star of commerce,” “Our future lies on the water,” “We demand a place in the sun.”
On the English reader the speeches will be apt to pall, unless he is thoroughly saturated with Prussian historic, military, and romantic lore and can place himself mentally in the position of the Emperor. The tone, never quite detached from consciousness of the imperial ego, hardly ever descends to the level of familiar conversation nor rises to heights of eloquence that carry away the hearer. With three or four exceptions, there is no argumentation in the speeches, for they are not meant to persuade or convince, but to enjoin and command. They do not contain any of the important and interesting facts and figures of which, nevertheless, the Emperor’s mind must be full, and they are wanting in wit and humour, though nature has endowed the Emperor with both.
On the other hand, it should be remembered that they are the speeches of an Emperor, not of a statesman. The speeches have no political timeliness or object save that of rousing and directing imperial spirit among the people by appeals to their imagination and patriotism. Had the Emperor been actuated by the spirit of a Minister or statesman, he would have been far more alive to the fact than he appears to have been, that every word he uttered would instantly find an echo in the Parliament, Press, and Stock Exchange of all other countries.
The Emperor’s fundamental mistakes, as disclosed by his speeches, appear to an Englishman to have been in assuming when they were made that the Empire was in a less advanced stage of consolidation and settlement than it in fact was, and in underrating the intelligence, knowledge, and patriotism of his people. From this point of view his early speeches in particular sound jejune or superfluous. What would the Englishman say to a king who began his reign by a series of homilies on Alfred the Great or Elizabeth or Queen Victoria; by using strong language about the Labour party or the Fabian Society; by appeals to throne and altar; by describing to Parliament the chief duties of the monarch; by recommending the London County Council to build plenty of churches; by calling journalists “hunger-candidates”; by frequent references to the battles of Waterloo and Trafalgar? Yet, mutatis mutandis, this is not so very unlike what the young Emperor did, and not for a year or two, but for several years after his accession. To an Englishman such addresses would appear rather ill-timed academic declamation.
Yet there was much, and perhaps is still much, to account for, if not quite justify, the Emperor’s rhetoric. The peculiarity of Germany’s monarchic system placed, and places, the monarch in a patriarchal position not very different from that of Moses towards the Israelites—a leader, preacher, and prophet. Again, the Empire, when the Emperor came to the throne, was not a homogeneous nation inspired by a centuries-old national spirit, but suffered, as it still in a measure suffers, from the particularism of the various kingdoms and States composing it: in other words, from too local a patriotism and stagnation of the imperial idea. Thirdly, the Empire had no navy, while an Empire to-day without a navy is at a tremendous and dangerous disadvantage in world-politics, and the mere conception that a navy was indispensable had to be created in a country lying in the heart of Europe and with only one short coast-line.
The Englishman is as loyal to his King as the German is to his Emperor, and England, as little as Germany, is disposed to change from monarchy to republicanism. But the Englishman’s political and social governor, guide, and executive is not the King, but the Parliament; because while in the King he has a worthy representative of the nation’s historical development and dignity, in the Parliament he sees a powerful and immediate reflection of himself, his own wishes, and his own judgments. Moreover, with the spread of democratic ideas, the position of a monarch anywhere in the civilized world to-day is not what it was fifty years ago. The general progress in education since then; the drawing together of the nations by common commercial and financial interests; the incessant activity of writers and publishers; the circulation and power of the Press—themselves almost threatening to become a despotism—such facts as these tend to change the relations between kings and peoples. Monarchs and men are changing places; the ruler becomes the subject, the subject ruler; it is the people who govern, and the monarch obeys the people’s will.
Such is not the view of the German Emperor nor of the German people. To both the monarch is no “shadow-king,” as both are fond of calling the King of England, but an Emperor of flesh and blood, commissioned to take the leading part in decisions binding on the nation, responsible to no one but the Almighty, and the sole bestower of State honours. There are, it is true, three factors of imperial government constitutionally—the Emperor, the Federal Council, and the Imperial Parliament; but while the Council has only very indirect relations with the people, the Parliament, a consultative body for legislation, is not the depositary of power or authority, or an assembly to which either the Emperor, or the Council, or the Imperial Chancellor is responsible. It must be admitted that, while such is the constitutional theory, the actual practice is to a considerable extent different. The Emperor is no absolute monarch, even in the domain of foreign affairs, as he is often said to be, but is influenced and guided, certainly of late years, both by the Federal Council and by public opinion, the power of which latter has greatly augmented in recent times. Whether the Reichstag really represents public opinion in the Empire is a moot-point in Germany itself. It can hardly be denied that it does so, at least in financial matters, since with regard to them it has all the powers, or almost all, possessed by the English House of Commons in this respect. Where its powers fail, it is said, is in regard to administration; for though it deliberates on and passes legislation, it is left by the Constitution to the Emperor and his Ministers to issue instructions as to how legislation is to be carried into effect. The result is to throw excessive power over public comfort and convenience into the hands of the official class of all degrees, which naturally employs it to maintain its own dignity and privileged position.
Towards one class of the population, and that a highly important and exceptional one, the Emperor’s attitude of unprejudiced goodwill has never varied. Israelites form only a small proportion—about 1 per cent.—of the whole people, and are to be found in very large numbers only in Berlin and Frankfurt; but to their financial and commercial ability Germany owes a debt one may almost describe as incalculable. There is a strong national prejudice against them in all parts of the Empire, as there probably is in all countries, and it must be admitted that the manners and customs of the lower-class Jew, his unpleasant and insistent curiosity, his intrusiveness where he is not desired, his want of cleanliness, his sharpness at a bargain, his oily bearing to those he wishes to propitiate and his ruthless sweating of the worker in all fields when in his power, are all disagreeable personal qualities. There is also, as a concomitant of the nation’s growth in wealth of every sort, and mostly perhaps to be found in the capital a class of Jewish parvenu, remarkable for snobbishness, ostentation, and affectation.
But one must distinguish; and of a large percentage of the educated class of Jew in Germany it would be difficult to speak too highly. Germans may be the “salt of the earth,” as the Emperor once told them they were, but Jewish talent can with quite as much, perhaps more, justice be called the salt of German prosperity. And not alone in the region of finance and commerce. Some of the best intellect, most of the leading enterprise in Germany, in all important directions, is Jewish. Many of her ablest newspaper proprietors and editors are Jews. Many of her finest actors and actresses are Jews and Jewesses. Many of her cleverest lawyers, doctors, and artists are Jews. The career of Herr Albert Ballin, the Jewish director of the Hamburg-Amerika line, the Emperor’s friend, to whom Germany owes a great deal of her mercantile marine expansion, is a long romance illustrative of Jewish organizing power and success.
The Emperor’s friendship for Herr Ballin is obviously not entirely disinterested, but the interest at the root of it is an imperial one. In this spirit he cultivates to-day, as he has done since he took over the Empire, the society of all his subjects, German or Jew, who either by their talents or through their wealth can contribute to the success of the mighty task which occupies his waking thoughts, and for all one knows, his sleeping thoughts—his dreams—as well. Accordingly, the wealthy German is quite aware that if he is to be reckoned among the Emperor’s friends he must be prepared to pay for the privilege, since the Emperor is neither slow nor shy about using his influence in order to make the more fortunate members of the community put their hands deeply into their pockets for national purposes. A little time ago he invited a number of merchant princes and captains of industry, as American papers invariably call wealthy Germans, to a Bier-abend at the palace. When the score or so of guests were seated, he announced that he was collecting subscriptions for some public object—the national airship fund, perhaps—and sent a sheet of paper to Herr Friedlander Fuld, the “coal-king” of Germany, to head the list. Herr Fuld wrote down L5,000, and the paper was taken back to the Emperor. “Oh, this will never do, lieber Fuld,” he exclaimed, on seeing the amount. “At this rate people will be putting down their names for L50. You must at least double it.” And Herr Fuld had to do so. A few weeks afterwards there was another invitation to the palace, and the same sort of scene took place. A little later still Herr Fuld got a third invitation, and as an imperial invitation is equivalent to a command, he had to go. When he arrived he noticed his fellow-industrials looking uneasy, not to say sad. The Emperor noticed it too, for his first words were: “Dear gentlemen, to-night the beer costs nothing.”
Throughout the reign Germany has made it her constant policy to cultivate friendly relations with the United States. Chancellor von Buelow, in 1899, apropos of Samoa, said in the Reichstag: “We can confidently say that in no other country has America during the last hundred years found better understanding and more just recognition than in Germany.” This is true of the educated classes, professional, professorial, and scientific; but the ordinary European German, who does not know and understand America, still displays no particular love for the ordinary American. At the same time he probably prefers him to the people of any other nation. American outspokenness in politics, for example, must be refreshing to minds penned within the limits of the Rechtstaat. He sees in them, too, millionaires, or at least people who come from a country where money is so abundant that, as many country-people still think, you have only to stoop to pick it up. When it comes to business, however, he is a little afraid of their somewhat too sanguine enterprise, and is given to suspect that a “bluff” of some sort is behind the simplest business proposition. Much of this, of course, is due to ignorance heightened by yellow journalism, for as a rule only the vastly interesting, but mostly untrue, “stories” regarding Germany printed in the yellow press come back to the Fatherland.
The German, again, is made uneasy by what he thinks the hasty manners of the Americans; he considers them uncivil. So, let it be admitted, they sometimes appear to be to people of other nationalities; but then as a rule Americans who jar on European nerves will be found to hail from places where life, to use the American expression, is “woolly,” or too strenuous to allow of the delicacies of real refinement. The ordinary idea of the German in Germany, held by the stay-at-home American, is a vague species of dislike, founded on the conviction that the American, not the German, is the salt of the earth; that the German regard for tradition makes them a slow and slowly moving race; and that the Emperor as War Lord—for he is almost solely known to him in that capacity—must be ever desirous of war, in particular wishes to seize a coaling-station or even a country, in South America, and, generally speaking, set at naught the Monroe doctrine. The Governments on both sides, of course, know and understand each other better. In November, 1906, Prince Buelow publicly thanked America for her attitude at Algeciras, implying that it was due to her representative’s conciliatory and reconciliatory conduct that the Conference did not end in a fiasco. “This,” said the Chancellor, “was the second great service to the world rendered by America; the other,” he added, “being the bringing about of peace between Russia and Japan.”
A great deal of the increased intercourse between the two countries is due to the personal endeavours of the Emperor. What his motives are may be conjectured with fair accuracy from a general knowledge of his “up-to-date” character, the commercial policy of his Empire, and the events of recent years. He has a whole-hearted admiration for the American character and genius, so akin in many ways to his own character and genius; and if he refuses to recommend for Germans similar institutions to those in States, federated in a manner somewhat analogous to that of the kingdoms and States composing his own Empire, it is not from want of liberality of mind, but because they are wholly opposed to Prussian tradition, because his people do not demand them, and because he honestly believes that in respect of topographical situation, climate, historical development, and race feelings and sentiment, the safeguards and requirements of Germany are widely different from those of America.
As a young man he naturally had very little to do with America or Americans, though among his schoolboy playmates was a young American, Poulteney Bigelow, who afterwards wrote an excellent appreciation of the fine traits in the Emperor’s character. At the same time the Emperor himself has stated that the country always interested him, and recent visitors bear out the statement fully. In 1889, a year after his accession, he expressed his admiration for America, when receiving the American Ambassador, Mr. Phelps. “From my youth on,” the Emperor said,
“I have had a great admiration for that powerful and progressive commonwealth which you are called on to represent, and the study of its history in peace and war has had for me at all times a special interest. Among the many distinguished characteristics of your people, which draw to them the attention of the whole world, are their enterprising spirit, their love of order, and their talent for invention. The predominant sentiment of both peoples is that of affinity and tested friendship, and the future can only strengthen the heartiness of their relations.”
More than twenty years have elapsed since the words were uttered, and the prediction has been fulfilled.
Scores of anecdotes, it need hardly be said, are current in connexion with the Emperor and American friends. One of them is that of an American, Mr. Frank Wyberg, the husband of a lady who, with her children, used often to visit Mr. and Mrs. Armour on their yacht Uttowana at Kiel, there met the Emperor, and was invariably kindly greeted by him. Mr. Wyberg was summoned with his friend, General Miles, to an audience of the Emperor in Berlin. Before going to the palace Mr. Wyberg went to a well-known picture-dealer in the city and bought a small but artistic painting costing about L1,000. He had the picture neatly done up, and carried it off under his arm to the hotel where he was to meet General Miles. As they were
Another anecdote refers to an American naval attache, a favourite of the Emperor’s. Dinner at the palace was over, and the attache, wishing to keep a memento of the occasion, took his large menu card and concealed it, as he thought, between his waistcoat and his shirt. Unfortunately, when taking leave of the Emperor, the card slipped down and part of it became visible. The Emperor’s quick eye immediately noticed it. “Hallo! H——,” he exclaimed; “look out, your dickey’s coming down!” The story shows the Emperor’s acquaintance with English slang as well as his geniality.
The Emperor seems to take pleasure in displaying himself to Americans in as republican a light as possible, and when he desires the company of an American friend, stands on no sort of ceremony. The American’s telephone bell may ring at any hour of the day or evening, and a voice is heard—“Here royal palace. His Majesty wishes to ask if the Herr So-and-So will come to the palace this evening for dinner.” On one occasion this happened to Professor Burgess. The telephone at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin rang up from Potsdam about six in the afternoon, and there was so little time for the Professor to catch his train that he was forced to finish his dressing en route. Or the invitation may be for “a glass of beer” after dinner, about nine o’clock.
If it is a dinner invitation, the guest, in evening clothes, with his white tie doubtless a trifle more carefully adjusted than usual, drives or walks to the palace. He enters a gate on the south side facing the statue of Frederick the Great, and under the archway finds a doorway with a staircase leading immediately to the royal apartments on the first floor. In an ante-room are other guests, a couple of Ministers, the Rector Magnificus of the university, and perhaps a “Roosevelt” or “exchange” professor; and if the party is not one of men only, such as the Emperor is fond of arranging, and the Empress is expected, the wives also of the invited guests. Without previous notice the Emperor enters, an American lover of slang might almost say “blows in,” with quick steps and a bustling air that instantly fills the room with life and energy, and showing a cheery smile of welcome on his face. The guests are standing round in a half or three-quarter circle, and the Emperor goes from one to the other, shaking hands and delivering himself of a sentence or two, either in the form of a question or remark, and then passing on. When it is not a bachelors’ party, the Empress comes in later with her ladies. A servant in the royal livery of red and gold, on a signal from the Emperor, throws open a door leading to the dining-room, and the Emperor and Empress enter first. The guests take their places according to the cards on the table. If it is a men’s party of, say, four guests, the Emperor will seat them on his right and left and immediately opposite, with an adjutant or two as makeweights and in case he should want to send for plans or books. On these occasions he is usually in the dark blue uniform of a Prussian infantry general, with an order or two blazing on his breast. He sits very upright, and starts and keeps going the conversation with such skill and verve that soon every one, even the shyest, is drawn into it. There is plenty of argument and divergence of view. If the Emperor is convinced that he is right, he will, as has more than once occurred, jestingly offer to back his opinion with a wager. “I’ll bet you”—he will exclaim, with all the energy of an English schoolboy. He enjoys a joke or witticism immensely, and leans back in his chair as he joins in the hearty peal about him. When cigars or cigarettes are handed round, he will take an occasional puff at one of the three or four cigarettes he allows himself during the evening, or sip at a glass of orangeade placed before him and filled from time to time. When he feels disposed he rises, and having shaken hands with his guests, now standing about him, retires into his workroom. A few moments later the guests disperse.
Conversation, both in England and Germany, sometimes turns on the question whether or not the Emperor will be known to future generations as William “the Great.” It is agreed on all sides that he will not take a place among the mediocrities or sink into oblivion. We have, though only negatively and indirectly, his own view of the matter, if, that is, it may be deduced from the fact that he has more than once tried to attach this epitheton ornans to the memory of his grandfather. At Hamburg in 1891 he desired a statue to the Emperor William I to bear the inscription “William the Great.” The cool common sense of the cautious Hamburgers refused to anticipate the decision of posterity and placed on the pedestal the simple words “William the First.” In deference to the Emperor’s well-known wishes, if not at his request, the Hamburg-Amerika line of steamers christened one of their ocean greyhounds Wilhelm der Grosse. The mere fact that people discuss the question in his lifetime is of happy augury for the Emperor. Perhaps some other epithet will be found for him. “Puffing Billy” is one of his titles among English officers, taken from the name given locally to Stephenson’s first locomotive. But history has many ranks in her peerage and many epithets at her disposal—great, good, fair, lionhearted, silent—that the Emperor will not have—and a host more. Maybe the greatest rulers were those whom history, as though in despair of finding a single term with which to do them justice, has refrained from decorating. Timur, Akbar, Attila, Julius Caesar, Elizabeth, Victoria, Napoleon have no epithets, and need none. However, it is clear that a verdict on the Emperor’s deserts is premature. Suppose him at the bar of history. The case is still proceeding, the evidence is not complete, counsel have not been heard, and—most obvious defect of any—the jury has not been impanelled.
More than half a century has passed since the Emperor was born. How time flies!
“Alas, alas, O
Postumus, Postumus,
The years glide by and
are lost to us, lost to us.”
But not the memories they enshrine. It is, let us imagine, the night of the Emperor’s Jubilee, and he lies in the old Schloss, still awake, reflecting on the past. What a multitude of happenings, gay and grave, throng to his recollection, what a glorious and crowded canvas unrolls itself before his mental vision! The toy steamer on the Havel; the games in the palace corridors, with the grim features of the Great Elector betrayed, one is tempted to think, into a half-smile as he watches the innocent gaiety of the romping children from the old wainscoted walls; the irksome but disciplinary hours in the Cassel schoolroom; the youthful escapades with those carefree Borussian comrades at the university on the broad bosom of Father Rhine; the excursions and picnics among the Seven Hills; the visits to England, its crowded and bustling capital, its country seats with their pleasant lawns and stately oaks; the war-ships in the Solent, with their black mass and frowning guns, as they towered, like Milton’s Leviathan, above his head.
What a good time it was, and how rich in manifold and picturesque impressions!
The canvas continues to unroll and a literary period opens—that age between youth and manhood, of all ages most passionate and ideal, when we are enthralled and moved by what we read—by those studies which
“adolescentiam agunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis perfugium ac solatium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris; pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.”
It was the Lohengrin period, when, filled with the ardour and imaginativeness of high-souled youth, the future Emperor was dimly thinking of all he would do in the days to come for the happiness and prosperity of his people, nay, of all mankind.
Another tableau presents itself. Life has now become real and the Emperor’s soldiering days have begun—never to conclude! His regiment is his world; parades and drills, the orderly-room and the barrack square occupy his time; and would seem monotonous and hard but for the little Eden with its Eve close beside them.
The Emperor turns uneasily, for his thoughts recur to the painful circumstances of his accession; but calmness soon succeeds as the curtain rises on the splendid panorama of the reign. He sees himself, a young and hitherto unknown actor, leaving the wings and taking the very centre of the stage, while the vast audience sits silent and attentive, as yet hardly grasping the significance of his words and gestures, emphatic though they are. And then he recalls the years of Sturm und Drang, the growth of Empire in spite of grudging rivals and of fellow-countrymen as yet not wholly conscious of their destinies, which one can now see constituted a whole drama in themselves, fraught with great consequences to the world.
But we are keeping the Emperor awake when he should be left to well-deserved repose. He has doubtless half forgotten it all; the Bismarck episode is one of those
“... old, unhappy,
far-off things
And battles long ago”
of which the poet sings. One unquiet political care excepted, all the rest must be pleasant for him to remember—the rising with the dawn, the hurried little breakfast with the Empress, the pawing horses of the adjutants and escort in the courtyard of the palace; the constant travelling in and far beyond the Empire; the incessant speech-making, with its appeals to the past and its promises, nobly realized, of “splendid days” in the future—its calls to the people to arms, to the sea, to the workshop, to school, to church, to anything praiseworthy, provided only it was action for the common good; the dockyards in Kiel and Danzig, with their noise of “busy hammers closing rivets up”; the ever-swelling trade statistics; and the proud feeling that at last his country was coming into her own.
Even the sensation the Emperor caused from time to time in other countries must have had a certain charm for him—endless telegrams, endless scathing editorials, endless movement and excitement. There is no fun like work, they say. The Emperor worked hard and enjoyed working. It was the “personal regiment,” maybe, and it could not last for ever; but while it did it was doubtless very gratifying, and, notwithstanding all his critics say, magnificently successful.
Those strenuous times are long over, and if strenuous times have yet to come they will find the Emperor alert and knowing better how to deal with them. He has, one may be sure, no thoughts of well-earned rest or dignified repose—he probably never will, with his strong conception of duty and his interest in the fortunes of his Empire. Still, he is a good deal changed. Time has taught him more than his early tutor, worthy Dr. Hinzpeter, ever taught him; and if his spring was boisterous, and his summer gusty and uncertain, a mellow autumn gives promise of a hale and kindly winter.
Abdul Aziz, 259.
Absolutism, 2, 295, 368 seq.
Accession, date, I; period, 69 seq.
Achilleion, 317.
Aegir, Song to, 224.
Agadir, 264 seq.
Alexandra, Queen, 327.
Algeciras Conference, 261 seq.;
Act of, 262.
Alsace-Lorraine, 84 seq.
America,
art exhibition, 222;
Germany and, 238;
Frederick the Great and, 242;
squadron at Kiel, 244;
commercial relations with, 331, 380 seq.
Anarchism, 42 seq.
Anglo-French Agreement, 1904, 259 seq.
Anglo-German Agreement,
1890, 140;
1904, 335;
relations, 4-7, 243, 282, 335 seq.
Anglo-Japanese Agreement, 201.
Anti-Semites, 178.
Arbitration, compulsory, 340.
Aristocracy, German, 114.
Armament, limitation of, 340.
Army,
accession speech to, 69;
importance of, 71;
true character of, 285;
Emperor and, 294.
Art, Emperor on, 202, 205 seq.;
speech to sculptors, 207;
German ideals, 218.
Attempt on,
Emperor, 202;
on William I, 42.
Augusta, Empress, wife of William I, 43, 45.
Auguste, Victoria, present Empress, 37 seq.
“Babel und Bibel,” 246.
Baghdad railway, 200.
Balkans, 339.
Ballin, 367.
Battenberg affair, 55.
Bebel, August, 58, 90, 359. See Social Democracy
Bennigsen, von, 13.
Berlin palace (Schloss), 114.
Bethmann Hollweg, 322 seq.
Biedermeier time, 167.
Bismarck, 13;
Empress Fred. and, 44;
William I and, 43 seq.;
on Divine Right, 60 seq.;
on foreign policy, 76;
resignation, 104,133;
Emperor and, 49, 131;
“blood and iron” speech, 128;
Emperor’s account of quarrel with,
135;
journey to Vienna, 141;
death, 143.
“Bloc” party, 281, 288, 322.
Boer war, German policy and, 156, 303.
Bonn, Emperor at, 29; address at, 203.
Borussia, 30, 36, 203.
Bosnia and Herzegovina, 329.
Boulanger, 52, 76.
Boxer troubles, 46, 194 seq.
Brandon, 338.
“Brilliant second” speech, 279.
Brooks, Sydney, 361.
Buelow, Prince von, 47;
succeeds Hohenlohe, 187;
fainting fit, 322;
resignation, 322.
Burgess, Prof., 241.
Butler, Dr. Nicholas Murray, 272.
Byzantinism, 121 seq.
Cadinen, 334.
Camarilla, 277
Caprivi, von, 141;
treaties, 141, 152 seq.;
chancellorship, 151.
Caroline Islands, 151.
Casablanca, 264.
Centrum, 3, 280.
Chamberlain, Mr., 158, 258.
Chamberlain, Stewart, 348.
Chancellor, “responsibility,” 289 seq.
China,
relations with, 193;
Boxer indemnity, 197.
Chun, Prince, 197 seq.
Churchill, Winston, 337.
Colonial development, 148 seq.
Commercial treaties, 152; American, 331.
Conscription, 191.
Constitution, German and British compared, 57.
Corps, student, 30 seq.
Crefeld, 278.
Crown Prince, 14, 18;
income, 112;
marriage, 270;
Indian tour, 328;
at English coronation, 339;
in aeroplane, 359.
Court,
comparison with English, 109;
nobility, 113.
Cowes, 75.
Daily Telegraph,
interview, 302 seq.;
text of, 304;
Buelow and, 311 seq.;
Emperor’s undertaking, 310.
Delcasse, 261, 282.
Delitzsch, Prof., 246.
Dewey, Admiral, 170.
Dictator Paragraph, 86.
Diedrich, Admiral, 170.
Dingley tariff, 331.
Disarmament, 317.
Divine Right, 331 seq.
Dreibund, see Triple Alliance.
Dreyfus case, 178.
Dual Alliance.
(Germany and Austria), 79;
(Russia and France), 141.
Duel, see Mensur.
Dynasty, see Hohenzollern.
Education, Emperor on, 98 seq.
Edward VII,
at Kiel, 253;
visits Berlin, 323;
funeral, 327.
Elector, Great, 64, 72.
Emperor,
birth, 12;
marriage, 37;
brothers and sisters, 18;
offspring, 40;
first visit England, 20;
at Bonn, 29;
on Art, 207;
and theatre, 355;
on religion, 246;
character, 363 seq.;
and people, 368, 372.
Empress,
present, marriage, 37;
character, 39.
Farmer, Emperor as, 334.
Finance reform, 321.
Fleet, English, at Kiel, 253;
American, 244. See Navy.
Flora bust, 324 seq.
Foreign policy, in Orient, 199 seq.;
Emperor’s, 269.
France, and Germany, 51;
Franco-German Agreement, 1911, 266.
Frankfort, treaty of, 153.
Frederick the Great,
death, 120;
tomb, 121;
and navy, 167;
statue, 242;
Emperor and, 251.
Frederick III, 14;
as Crown Prince, 45;
last illness, 54.
Frederick, Empress, 15 seq.;
Bismarck and, 44;
death, 204.
Future, “Our future lies on the water,” 203.
General Elections, 280, 333.
“Germans to the Front,” 245.
Germany,
“Greater,” 146;
to-day, 366;
foreign policy, 199, 269.
George V, 174, 237, 339.
George, Lloyd, speech, 336.
Goluchowski, Count, 279.
Goschen, Lord, 160.
Government, dynastic not democratic, 56 seq.
Great Elector,
Emperor and, 72;
German navy and, 166.
Grey, Sir Edward, 338.
Grieg, composer, 225; death, 287.
Griscom, ambassador, 319.
Guelphs, 333.
Guildhall, speech at,
1891, 75;
1907, 283.
Hamburg-Amerika line, 367.
Hannover, 333.
Harvard University, 272.
Heine, 13, 374.
Heligoland, 150.
Henry, Prince, 18;
sent Kiautschau, 165;
visits America, 241.
Highcliffe Castle, 285.
Hill, Dr. D.J., 318 seq.
Hinzpeter, Dr., 287.
Hoedel, attempt, 43.
Hohenlohe-Schillingsfuerst, Prince, 47;
character, 153;
chancellor, 185;
resigns, 187.
Hohenzollern, 2, 11, 17, 23, 41, 56, 72;
Divine Right and, 62 seq., 332.
Iltis, gunboat, 195.
Italy, 261 seq.
Jameson raid,
Emperor’s telegram on, 154;
date of, 159.
Jews, Emperor and, 378.
Journalists, attack on, 329.
Junker, 123.
Ketteler, von, murder of, 195.
Kiautschau, 145, 150.
Kiel, canal, 144;
first regatta, do.;
harbour, 168;
American squadron at, 244;
Edward VII at, 253.
Koenigsberg, speech at, 332.
Kruger, telegram, the, 154 seq.;
European tour, 155.
Kulturkampf, Emperor and, 50.
Labourdonnais, 167.
Labour Party, 93.
Leoncavallo, 253.
Liberalism, Emperor and, 126.
Liman, Dr. Paul, 62, 360.
Limitation of armaments, 340.
List, Prof., 168.
Lloyd George, speech, 336.
Louise, Queen, 41.
Luderitz, 149.
Mackenzie, Sir Morell, 16, 54.
Madrid Convention, 263.
Magna Charta, Germany’s, 1.
Mahan, Captain, 164.
Manila, 170.
Marakesch, 264.
Marble Palace, 118.
“March Days,” 128 seq.
Mensur, 29 seq.
Menzel,
painter, 179;
death, 255.
Moabit riots, 329.
Mommsen, Emperor and, 251.
Monroe doctrine, 240.
Morocco, 255 seq.
Navy, German,
First Navy Law, 145;
Prince William and, 163;
early history of, 166;
auctioned, 168;
early proposals, 169 seq.;
legislative stages, 171;
Grey’s proposal, 317.
New Palace, Potsdam, 116.
Nobiling, attempt, 42, 90.
“November Storm,” 289 seq.
Open door, The, 257.
“Our future lies on the water,” 203.
Oxford university, 284.
Palestine, 145;
journey to, 176.
Panther, 264.
Parliament, introduction;
parliamentary rule, 58;
chancellor and, 291;
Emperor and, 294;
See Reichstag.
“Personal regiment,” 289, 296, 371.
Peters, Carl, 149.
“Place in the sun,” 204.
Polypus, removed, 250.
Potsdam, 199.
Prussia, at Emperor’s birth, 12;
Diet, 293;
electoral reform in, 316.
Quinquennat, 152.
Raid, Jameson, 159.
Rationalism, 344, 369.
Reaction, 123.
Realpolitik, see Weltpolitik;
in sport, 357.
Rechtstaat, 369 seq.
Reichstag, introduction, 280, 292 333, 377.
Reinsurance treaty, 133.
Religion, Emperor on, 246.
Rhodes, Cecil, 284.
Richard, Prof., 370.
“Roland von Berlin,” 253.
Roosevelt, Alice, 241;
president, 253;
visits Berlin, 325 seq.;
professorships, 272.
Russia and Germany, relations, 80.
Russo-Japanese war, 252.
Saladin, 177.
Samoa, 151.
Sans Souci, 119, 179.
Sardanapalus, 235.
Septennat, 53, 152.
Seymour, Admiral, 195.
Shimonoseki, treaty of, 193.
“Shining armour,” 328.
Social Democracy, introduction;
Emperor and, 87;
history of, 89;
programme, 91;
causes of, 94.
Socialist laws, 103, 279 seq.
Socialism, 92; See Social Democracy.
Sport, in Germany, 357.
“Star of commerce,” phrase, 165.
State, German interpretation of, 292.
Stein, Dr. Adolf, 158.
Stoessel, General, 195, 253.
Stone, Melville, 242.
Suffragettes, Emperor and, 332.
Sultan, promise to, 145, 177.
Swinemunde despatch, 244.
Taku Forts, 195.
Tangier, 256, 259;
Emperor’s speech at, 260, 268.
Theatre, Emperor on, 230;
Germans and the, 254.
“Times,” the, 297, 299, 301, 324.
Tirpitz, von, Admiral, 338.
Tower, ambassador, 318.
Trade Unionism, 92 seq.
Transvaal, 156 seq.; 303.
Tree, Sir Beerbohm, 287.
Treitschke, von, on Divine Right, 59;
on Bismarck, 125.
Trench, Captain, 338.
Triple Alliance, Emperor on, 77;
history of, 78;
provisions, 79;
renewals, 38, 339.
“Urias Letter,” 142.
Universities, England and Germany compared, 98.
“Unser Fritz,” 14.
Venezuela, 158, 239.
Victoria Louise, Princess, 333.
Victoria, Queen, 167;
death, 201.
“Von Gottes Gnaden,” 56 seq.;.
doctrine to-day, 68.
Waldersee, Countess, 45;
Count, 46, 196.
Weihaiwei, 194.
Weltpolitik, 51, 144;
Buelow on, 147;
open door and, 201;
foreign policy and, 201, 192, 201, 203.
William I,
career, 42;
character, 43;
death, 54;
parliament and, 294.
Williams, George Valentine, 232.
Wyberg, Frank, 383.
Zeppelin, Count, 358.