When that kingly old man, Emperor William, sank at last under the
weight of years, the crown so brilliantly won at Versailles in 1871
rested on the head of Unser Fritz--no longer in the flush of victorious
youth, but a poor, stricken man. The tardy honors had come too late.
In vain he struggled against the inevitable, striving to inaugurate the
beneficent policy which had been the dream of his life. Unhappy
Frederick! His death-chamber seemed the playground for every hateful
human passion, and the Furies to have made it their abode, as his
unfulfilled life slipped away from his loosening grasp! At last it was
ended. The untarnished soul and the tortured body parted company, and
William II. reigned in his stead.
The sensibilities of the world had been shocked by the unfilial conduct
of this youth, and it was with little respect that he was seen
restlessly flitting from one court to another, displaying his imperial
trappings like a child with new toys. People laughed to think they had
ever been afraid of this aimless boy. Upon one point only was he
relentless. Man or newspaper breathing faintest whisper of praise for
the dead Frederick came swift under the political guillotine! Did he
wish to efface his father's memory from the hearts of his people?
Would he really, if he could, tear that brief, sad chapter from his
nation's history? It seemed so. Europe watched him much as one does a
headlong boy, who, with the confidence born of vanity and ignorance,
plays with deadly weapons, and imperils his own and his neighbors'
safety. The peace of the continent lay more than ever in the hand of
Bismarck, who alone had power to restrain this dangerous young ruler.
But when William II. posed as the friend of the workingman and ally of
the socialist, the absurdity and the unexpectedness were amusing. What
did he care for industrial problems and the condition of the laboring
classes? The idea uppermost in his restless brain was that he was a
predestined hero, not fitted for the _role_ of a Merovingian king, with
a _maire du palais_. He would be the artificer of his own policy, and
be enrolled among the great sovereigns of history.
There were rumors of dissension with his chancellor, whom finally he
removed, and said practically, "_l'etat, c'est moi_." There was
nothing now to restrain his restless vagaries, and a catastrophe seemed
at hand.
This is the way it looked a few months ago. But writing current
history is much like drawing pictures upon the sand, which the incoming
tide effaces.
The man who had long held the destinies of Europe in his hand sat in
the retirement of Schoenhausen, complacently smoking and waiting for the
catastrophe, and the recall which would surely come. But he was not
needed. Was the _Zeit Geist_ penetrating the iron-encrusted empire?
William had forgotten his toys and was inaugurating
reforms--industrial, educational, social, which touched the lowest
stratum of his people.
We cannot yet forget those visits to San Remo, the cruel intriguing
over his father's death-bed; but greatness lies in the path he has
taken. His intelligence, quicker than his sympathies, sees, perhaps,
that the forces of the future are industrial, not militant. His hand
has grown less nervous, but steadier in its grasp, more human in its
touch. The figure is filling out in stronger lines, with unexpected
promise that it may become heroic.
He was not a pleasant youth, not a nice boy; but we can forgive much to
a sovereign who desires to bring about a general disarmament of Europe!
The early chapters of his biography will never be pleasant reading, but
we will not linger over them if the concluding ones tell of a Germany
brought into line with the world's highest and best development.
Europe to-day is like a field closely packed with explosives, with a
plentiful sprinkling throughout the mass of that giant powder,
nihilism. People step carefully, lest they jar the hostile elements,
and "let loose the dogs of war." The slightest change in position of
the little package marked Bulgaria, and it may be too late.
This province, which ten or twelve years ago was set up by the Great
Powers with an autonomy of its own, lying athwart the coveted pathway
to the Mediterranean, has, like Schleswig-Holstein, greatness thrust
upon it. The plaything of diplomacy, with only a semblance of
self-government, its _role_ in European politics is both tragic and
comic. Its king must await not alone confirmation by Turkey, but
ratification by the Great Powers, and little care they who ascends its
slippery little throne, except as he will further or obstruct the
private political ends of each; and Russia, thinking only of expansion
toward the sea, is especially paternal toward the forlorn little state.
While this diplomatic game is enacting, there is a pause. Is it the
hush which precedes the storm?
All eyes are fixed upon the Russian bear, cautiously and stealthily
prowling toward the south and east.--Austria hungrily watches the
Balkan provinces, over which the paw of the bear already
hovers.--Italy, with hate and suspicion, has eyes riveted upon her
hereditary enemy, Austria.--France, never for a moment forgetting
Alsace and Lorraine, watches her opportunity with Germany, and draws
into closer affinity with Russia--England, with gaze fixed upon an open
pathway to India, suspects them all--and Germany, conscious that
disaster is always imminent while the French thirst for revenge, and
the Russian thirst for the waters of the Mediterranean are unabated,
strengthens her defences and sleeps with hand upon her sword.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Evolution of an Empire, by Mary Parmele