THE WINTER OF 1863-4
There is an old saying and a true one, that in Russia you see the winter
and in Italy you feel it. In the one case the houses are so beautifully
warmed and so many precautions are taken, that men can laugh at the
climate; in Italy, on the other hand, the equipment is all for summer,
and winter may torture as it pleases.
In St. Petersburg the year 1863 died a glorious death. The month of
December was brilliant and we “saw the winter” in all its beauty. Two or
three blizzards had brought the roads into ideal condition. Smoothly and
noiselessly the sledges flew over the white velvet of the yet undefiled
virgin snow; the crisp air was full of energy generously dispensed; the
cheery cries of the fat coachmen, made still fatter by the padding under
their heavy furs, their beards frozen stiff and stark; the tinkling
bell-music of the Orloff trotters; the monotonous chants of the _mujiks_
sitting in their sleigh-carts; the sparkling city hung with festoons of
ice-opals flashing back the glory of the short-lived winter sun; great
ladies dashing past in their _troikas_, nothing to be seen of any one of
them but just a little pink nose peeping out of the muffling sea-otter
furs and sables; the glittering shops full of customers choosing
_étrennes_—everybody busy and eager, making ready to speed the parting,
welcome the coming year.
Far away in the ice-bound morasses of Lithuania, in the gloomy forests
of Poland, there might still be here and there the crack of a rifle,
some desultory fighting, some hunting of rebels and murderers instead of
wolves and bears; but the capital of Peter the Great was deaf and blind
to all tragedy. There could be no gayer city in the world; certainly none
where the foreign diplomatists were so hospitably treated; our lives were
a round of festivities in the very home of joyous revelry.
In the daytime, on those rare occasions when we were not busy at the
Embassy, there were skating parties, picnics to the Islands, and the
chance of breaking our necks on the Montagnes Russes. The gardens of
the Tauride, which were reserved for the Imperial Family and a few—very
few—grandees, were open to us. In the evening we dined and danced and
supped and danced again. The opera and the French Théâtre Michel were
a perfect blaze of jewels, smart dresses, the masterpieces of Paris,
brilliant uniforms and decorations; the black coats of Ambassadors and
civilian Ministers sprinkled here and there the only sad notes.
On the 12th of January I was invited by Princess Kotchoubey to “await the
new year,” which, of course, is, according to the old style, our 13th.
Curiously enough, the old style was observed even in the English Church,
so that the Christmas Day services were held on the 7th of January,
according to our reckoning. I have told elsewhere of the magnificence
of the Princess’ palace, but this entertainment quite exceeded anything
that I had ever seen or heard of. There were only about fifty guests, but
these were all the chief personages of St. Petersburg, including Prince
Gortchakoff, who, as was his wont, appropriated to himself the youngest
and prettiest lady present, for the old Vice-Chancellor was a great
flirt. He was not yet Chancellor, for at the death of Count Nesselrode in
March, 1862, the Tsar would not fill the office. His Majesty was reported
to have said that “Nesselrode was one thing, Gortchakoff another.” This
was a great mortification to the Prince, and gave occasion to some wit
for the saying, that Prince Gortchakoff was the man of the most virtuous
inclinations in the whole Empire, “parcequ’il cherche toujours à se
débarrasser de son Vice.” Another great celebrity who was present was
Count Schuvaloff, the grand marshal of the Court, a noble old man, the
father of Count Peter Schuvaloff who was afterwards Ambassador in London
and with Prince Gortchakoff represented Russia at the Congress of Berlin.
On the stroke of midnight came a procession of gorgeous footmen, bearing
trays with glasses filled with champagne, and we all clinked our goblets
together, drinking prosperity to the New Year. Then followed a pretty
old Russian custom. Every guest went up to the hostess and kissed her
hand, and she went through the form of pretending to kiss each of her
friends on the forehead in return. It seemed a pity not to carry out so
graceful and picturesque a tradition in its entirety. But though Princess
Kotchoubey did no more than bow over her guests’ foreheads as they
stooped to kiss her hand, her reception of them was grace itself. She was
a Queen in her palace, and we, her subjects for the nonce, did willing
homage to her.
It seemed little short of a miracle to step out of the iron grip of a
Russian New Year’s Eve into a fairyland in which all the treasures of the
world were sampled—the diamonds of Golconda, the rubies of Burmah, the
turquoises of Persia, pearls from the Eastern Seas, tapestries of the
Gobelins, gold and silver masterpieces of famous Florentine and French
artists, flowers and fruit of June and July, the warmth of summer with
not a fire to be seen, lighted up by myriads of candles disposed in a
way of which Russia alone seemed to have the secret. And in all this
magnificence there was only one tiny omission, one little blot to remind
us that we were human, and that humanity is imperfect: there were no
salt-spoons!
After supper I had some talk with Prince Gortchakoff, who was always very
kind to me, and often used to come up and have a little chat when we met
in society. We naturally talked about the New Year’s Day festivities, and
he went on to expatiate on the religiosity of the Russian mind, and how
to every man in the country Russia was _Holy_ Russia.
He said that few people knew how deeply this feeling was ingrained in the
minds of the _mujiks_, to whom it was a horror to think that they might
be buried anywhere but in their own country. He gave as an instance of
this the case of a Russian who, when the Prince was Secretary of Legation
in London, was coachman in the service of the Duke of Devonshire. The
man asked for him one day at the Legation. On the Prince inquiring what
he wanted, he said that he wanted to go back home. “What!” said the
Prince, “leave so good a place and so good a master. Of what have you
to complain?” The man said, “Of nothing—but I am afraid lest I should
die here and be buried out of Holy Russia.” So close was his attachment
to the sacred soil that though there was no other cause for nostalgia,
and he was perfectly happy where he was, he must go home for fear of
this terrible thing happening. It reminded one of the Chinese travelling
to California with their coffins for the return journey to the Middle
Kingdom. These things make a man think.
Three days afterwards, to my great surprise, I was invited by the Prince
to a great diplomatic dinner at which all the Ambassadors and Ministers
were present, with certain members of the Government. There were no
ladies invited.
Of course the conversation turned chiefly upon the Danish question, which
was reaching a very acute stage. When the time to leave arrived, Prince
Gortchakoff detained Lord Napier with the Prussian, Austrian, Swedish and
French representatives for a private conference.
I am not a resurrectionist and find little relish in digging among the
graves of dead questions. The disputes over the Danish duchies are long
since dead and buried, though the ambitions of the men who lit the torch
of war still live, and the torch is still blazing. Those disputes were
the opportunity of one master mind, the puzzle of others, and the joy of
many dullard diplomatists who loved to flounder choking among the shoals
and whirlpools of a sea of troubles; at that time, they were the despair
of those slaves of the pen, of whom I, so long as I was at the Foreign
Office, was one, whose task it was to cover reams upon reams of foolscap
with reports of endless conversations with Princekins and Ministers at
small German courts, retailed by minor diplomatic lights with all the
ineptitude of pompous verbosity.
The Governments which really played a part in the wrangles were those of
France, Russia, Prussia and in a lesser degree Austria, which, though
very half-hearted, was not for the last time being towed by Prussia _im
schlepptau_, as a German publicist put it. She was dragged in by the fear
of losing in the Diet an influence which had already been seriously
undermined, if not exploded, by Bismarck.
The real arbiter in the case was England. Upon the conduct of England
depended the issues of peace or war. Unfortunately her course was being
steered by a pilot unskilled, fickle, timid and obstinately vain; a man
who, as the conduct of the Polish question had shown, undeterred by more
than one sordid repulse, was full of brag and bluster, till the critical
moment should come—then collapsing like a soap-bubble. It was their
appreciation of Lord Russell that made foreign statesmen tremble for the
fate of Denmark, nor was it long before this want of faith in him was
fully justified.
In the case of the Danish duchies question, as in the case of the Polish
insurrection, in order rightly to understand what was taking place at St.
Petersburg, it is well to consider for a moment what was the condition
of international affairs. We may leave to those who are curious in such
political puzzles the complicated intrigues which now have only an
academic or historic interest.
The question of the incorporation of Schleswig, its unity with Holstein,
the position of the infinitesimally small Duchy of Lauenburg, the great
language dispute and the so-called “wrongs” of the Schleswigers and the
Holsteiners, together with the claims of the Duke of Augustenburg—all
these are ghosts long since laid; they were never anything more than
pretexts, nor can anything else be said of Prussia’s plea that her
hand was being forced by the small German States; it is enough for the
politician of to-day to know what was the true objective of the war;
that question still lives with us, growing in importance every day. Had
the duchies lain inland, far away from the coast, the right to their
possession would never have disturbed Europe. Kiel was the Naboth’s
vineyard—Kiel with the seaboard of the Baltic, and the North Sea—Kiel
with the possibility of a German military and commercial Navy. That,
as we shall see presently, is an incontrovertible fact; we have it out
of the mouths of German statesmen themselves—out of the mouth of Lord
Palmerston.
The glorious dream of the nationalist party in Prussia was a United
Fatherland, strong by sea as by land, taking its place at the council
board of Europe as a Power of the first magnitude. Until she should have
a navy fitted to cope with that of any other nation, this was a position
which Germany could not hope to hold. This planet of ours is so built
that in many cases the sea determines the possession of the land and
the power of states. By land Prussia was already strong indeed, as she
was soon to prove in 1866 and 1870. At sea she did not exist. She had
practically no seaboard, for what is a seaboard lacking harbours? So
long as this want remained there must be many international questions in
which the voice of Germany would be of no account. Kiel would solve the
difficulty—it was foredoomed, and indeed the project of a new Suez Canal,
since realized, was already in the air.
There is a curious letter of the old Kaiser William when he was Prince of
Prussia, written to his cousin, Prince Adalbert of Prussia, on the 16th
of August, 1853—curious when we compare what was with what is:
“How sorry I was to miss you yesterday in order to give you a
few pieces of information which Steinäcker (his aide-de-camp)
told me you wished for, and to tell you something of the
grand naval review. You will have heard all details by now.
What a pity that you could not hit it off! _I cannot tell you
how great was my emotion, especially when for the first time
I passed by our ship, saw our battle-flag, our uniform and
Pickelhaube (helmet) and heard our drums on board a man of
war_” (the italics are mine), “and that too in the middle of an
English Fleet! The visit of the Queen on board the _Gefion_ was
too friendly and gracious. I was delighted with the ships, and
found our soldiers making a goodly show.”[40]
The occasion was the great naval review held by Queen Victoria on the
11th of August, 1853, off Spithead, at which the Prince of Prussia was
present. The words which I have underlined are significant. The sight of
_a_ German man-of-war would now hardly be a novelty creating so great
emotion!
The position of the three Powers, England, France and Russia, which
might have combined to save Denmark and defeat the ambitious efforts of
Germany, was peculiar. Louis Napoléon had proposed a congress to consider
the affairs of Europe, and having been snubbed by Lord Russell, was
sulking in his tent. In Russia there was certainly no desire for war; the
memory of the Crimea was still fresh in men’s minds, the Polish business
was not yet settled, and the country was longing for quiet—according
to Prince Gortchakoff’s famous _mot_, “La Russie ne boude pas, elle
se recueille,” but a marriage had recently been arranged between the
Tsarevitch[41] and the Princess Dagmar, the second daughter of the King
of Denmark, so the Court (which at that time was still Russia), with
Prince Gortchakoff, eager for an English alliance, and a great number of
ministers and nobles, were strong partisans of the Danes; and the whole
chivalry of the country would have donned its armour to do battle for the
father of their future Empress.
They only waited for England. As to the attitude of England there should
have been no doubt. The declaration of her statesmen had been explicit,
showing not only their sense of an injustice which was to be perpetrated,
but beyond that a right knowledge of the real objects which Bismarck
had at heart. The national party in Germany made no secret of them. Two
quotations taken from Lord Salisbury’s article in the _Quarterly Review_
of January, 1864, are clear in their testimony. There was a debate on the
Danish Question in the Prussian Chamber on the 1st of December, 1864.
Herr von Twesten, Chairman of the Committee appointed to consider the
Augustenburg claims, made the following candid remark:
“The Duchies are for Germany and Prussia a strong bulwark under
all circumstances against any attack coming from the North.
This, as well as their maritime position, are advantages which
Prussia can never relinquish.”
Dr. Loewe, a conspicuous man in the National Verein, speaks with even
less affectation of concealment:
“What interest has Prussia in the maintenance of the London
Protocol? (The Treaty of 1852 by which the Powers, including
Prussia, settled the succession to the Danish throne.) Since
the time of the Great Elector, Prussian policy has always been
rightly directed towards gaining the North German Peninsula for
Germany.”
The North German Peninsula! Look at the map and then say whether any more
arrogant pretension was ever brought forward in a national Parliament.
Lord Salisbury was not the only Englishman who knew what were the motives
urging on Germany. Lord Palmerston, at the end of the session of 1863,
spoke plainly on the subject. Mr. Seymour Fitzgerald, who had been
Conservative Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, had asked
a question in the House of Commons as to what was the policy of Her
Majesty’s Government in regard to the Danish Question—Lord Palmerston’s
answer was as follows:
“There is no use in disguising the fact that what is at the
bottom of the German design, and the desire of connecting
Schleswig with Holstein, is the dream of a German fleet and
the wish to get Kiel as a German seaport. That may be a good
reason why they should wish it; but it is no reason why they
should violate the rights and independence of Denmark for an
object which, even if it were accomplished, would not realize
the expectation of those who aim at it. The hon. gentleman asks
what is the policy and course of Her Majesty’s Government with
regard to that dispute.
“As I have already said, we concur entirely with him, and I am
satisfied, with all reasonable men in Europe, including those
in France and Russia, in desiring that the independence and
integrity and the rights of Denmark may be maintained. We are
convinced, I am convinced at least, that if any violent attempt
were made to overthrow those rights and interfere with that
independence, those who made the attempt would find in the
result that it would not be Denmark alone with which they would
have to contend.”
Could language be clearer than this pronouncement _urbi et orbi_ of the
Prime Minister of England? But that was not all. Lord Russell in despatch
after despatch, many of which are quoted by Lord Salisbury in his famous
article, gave it to be understood at Paris, Berlin, Vienna and St.
Petersburg that an attack on Denmark would lead to a rupture of relations
between England and Germany. “Her Majesty could not see with indifference
a military occupation of Holstein,” etc. “Should it appear that Federal
troops had entered the Duchy on international grounds, Her Majesty’s
Government may be obliged to interfere.”
To Count Bernstorff, the Prussian Ambassador in London, Lord Russell
said, “that Her Majesty’s Government could not wonder that the King
of Denmark was ready to defend Schleswig and to consider its hostile
occupation as a fatal blow to the integrity of his dominions. But I could
not doubt that he would be assisted by Powers friendly to Denmark in
that defence ... I said that since the month of May, Great Britain had
warned Austria of these dangers, that Russia and Germany had likewise
been warned, but that the voice of England was unheeded,” etc., etc.
Acting on instructions from the Foreign Secretary, Lord Napier told
Prince Gortchakoff that “the pressing necessity for arresting warlike
preparations, and combining the Powers less directly interested in the
controversy for a mediation, was proved by the fact that an attack upon
Schleswig seemed imminent, and that if that attempt was made it seemed
not improbable that the Germans might find themselves confronted by the
armed intervention of Great Britain.”
It was not “the voice of England” that was unheeded, as Lord Russell put
it, but his own. He was like Bottom the weaver, “Let me play the lion
too; I will roar that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me; I will
roar that I will make the Duke say, ‘Let him roar again, let him roar
again.’” Then lest he should frighten the Duchess and the ladies—“I will
aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking
dove; I will roar you an ’twere any nightingale.”
The publication by the French Foreign Office of the report by M. Reinack
of the Commission charged to inquire into “Les Origines Diplomatiques
de la Guerre de 1870” has thrown a flood of light upon the negotiations
which took place in regard to the Danish Question of 1863-4; it is not
pleasant reading for Englishmen; a review of the first two volumes of
these revelations in the _Figaro_ of the 6th of September, 1910, by the
Comte d’Haussonville shows the position to which England had fallen in
the Councils of Europe. “L’Angleterre s’agite” (this is, of course, the
historic present), “mais ce n’est pas un Dieu qui la mène. Ce n’est
personne. On ne sent point, comme à certains moments de son histoire, la
main ferme d’un véritable homme d’état: au début du dix-neuvième siècle
un Pitt; à la fin un Disraeli qui sait ce qu’il se propose et où il veut
conduire son pays.”
Nobody was frightened by Lord Russell’s roaring, least of all Bismarck—he
knew how soon the voice would be “aggravated.” “L’Angleterre ne fera
pas la guerre,” he said to M. de Talleyrand, the French Ambassador at
Berlin. Foreign statesmen knew that Lord Palmerston was now grown old.
He was no longer the doughty champion of the Don Pacifico days, when he
electrified the House of Commons and the world with the famous _Civis
Romanus sum_ speech; moreover, he was hampered by the shufflings of
his Foreign Secretary, and in the background was the Queen, never a
negligible quantity in foreign affairs, whom all men knew to be a strong
ally of Germany, and who, still animated by the spirit of the dead Prince
Consort, naturally felt with Germany. Read what the Prince Consort wrote
to the King of Prussia on the 12th March, 1861: “My hope, like that of
most German patriots, rests upon Prussia, rests upon you” (“Life of the
Prince Consort,” Vol. V., p. 314). Those words in the mouth of the Prince
were intelligible enough, but why should Lord Russell be a German patriot?
And so we drifted, whither we knew not, though others did. M. de
Massignac, a clever diplomatist, a man whom I knew well, who was French
Chargé d’Affaires at St. Petersburg, on the 9th of February, 1864, sent a
despatch to M. Drouyn de Lhuys in which he recorded certain confidential
talks which he had had with some of his German colleagues upon the
situation. He urged that if the Duchies were to unite themselves with
Prussia, it would be unwise for France to interfere, because such a
territorial extension would enable Germany to create a navy, which in
given circumstances might unite with the fleets of the other Continental
Powers to destroy England’s preponderant power at sea! (“Origines
Diplomatiques,” etc.).
Meanwhile, England and Prussia were both courting Louis Napoléon.
Palmerston expressed to the Prince de la Tour d’Auvergne, the French
Ambassador in London, his regret that Great Britain and France could
not come to a complete understanding, but Lord Russell kept the same
Ambassador in a state of mystification. Bismarck, on the other hand, was
maintaining such intimate relations with M. de Talleyrand as to draw from
Drouyn de Lhuys the warmest congratulations. The Emperor stroked his
_barbiche_ and held the balance. Poor Emperor! It was for him that the
witches’ cauldron was bubbling.
And Denmark? In the Spring of 1863, King Frederic the Seventh had
died, and King Christian, the father of our Queen Alexandra, ruled
in his stead. Seldom has a monarch been called to the throne in more
untoward circumstances. Only eleven years had passed since all the
great Powers—Prussia and Austria, of course, included—gathered together
in conclave in London, had solemnly bound themselves to guarantee the
integrity of his dominions.
Such engagements we are now told by the German Chancellor are “scraps of
paper!” Only eleven years! It was no archaic instrument which the decay
of many decades had rendered obsolete. What had occurred in the meantime
to make it invalid? Nothing, absolutely nothing! Yet in spite of the most
sacred obligations of the Powers which had pledged themselves to maintain
his succession and the rights of his kingdom, two of those very Powers
were invading his country to despoil him of his territory, and the rest
treacherously and cowardly deserted him. It was a cruel betrayal, and
as if to accentuate it by a stroke of bitter irony, France sent General
Fleury, the Emperor’s confidential friend, England Lord Wodehouse, on
special missions to congratulate the new King on his accession. Fleury,
the dandy courtier, passing through Berlin, was handsomely flattered and
fooled by Bismarck; Lord Wodehouse carried pouches full of excellent
advice from Lord Russell—advice the neglect of which King Christian was
assured might lead to dire consequences. The King acted according to Lord
Russell’s advice, but none the less, when the great catastrophe came, he
was left to his fate.
Such, briefly sketched, was the position of the Danish negotiations at
the end of 1863 and the beginning of 1864. The details can easily be
filled in from our own Blue Books, from Lord Salisbury’s masterly essays,
and from the “Origines Diplomatiques de la Guerre de 1870.” I have only
tried to say so much as should serve to make intelligible what follows.
It must have been about the 9th or 10th of February: I did not note the
exact date in my papers: a cruel blizzard, cruel even for St. Petersburg,
lasting many hours, had swept the streets clear of all passenger traffic.
Only the direst necessity would goad men to face it. As good luck would
have it, there was for a wonder no function or entertainment that night,
so I hugged my comfort in my rooms and went to bed early, thinking with
a sense of superiority tempered by pity of the poor wretches who must
be outside wrestling with the bitterness of the weather. Hardly had I
laid myself down when there came a violent knocking at my outer door. My
servant had long since gone home, so there was nothing for it but to get
up and see what was the matter. It was the Chancery messenger, shivering
and smothered from head to foot with snow, bringing me a note from my
chief, Lord Napier: “Please come at once.”
I went back into my bedroom and dressed again, looking regretfully at
my warm bed, in which only a few minutes earlier I had been pitying
the victims of whom now I was to be one. When I got outside I was
almost blinded by the snow, driven by a wind which it was hard to stand
against. It seemed more than doubtful whether I should be able to reach
the Embassy, which was about half a mile off. All at once, out of the
unwholesome, yellow, almost lurid darkness my good angel sent a belated
Isvoshtchik crawling along, visible only a few yards off. I hailed him,
hardly hoping that he would come to my call; however, the promise of a
good _pourboire_ tempted him, and we crept miserably through the storm to
the Embassy. I never was out in so weird a night. As I left the little
sleigh I shook off many pounds’ weight of snow from fur cap and coat.
I found Lord Napier walking about his room in his dressing-gown,
evidently rather uneasy; he seemed to have a sort of forewarning of
something out of the common and disagreeable. A telegraphic despatch in
cypher had come in, and he wished to have it deciphered immediately. It
was truly a momentous document—nothing less than an instruction to call
upon Prince Gortchakoff at once and to let him know that England would
not interfere on behalf of Denmark. Lord Napier was eagerly watching over
my shoulder as one by one the fateful words revealed themselves, and when
the telegram was fully before us we looked at one another in dismay.
“But,” said my chief, “only yesterday when I saw the Prince I told him
that I believed that there was no change in the policy of Her Majesty’s
Government, and now I have to give him this message. It is very
embarrassing! Where is the Prince? Do you know?”
“He is at Tsarskoe Selo,” I answered.
“Well, I shall have to go out by the first train to-morrow morning.”
It was a very awkward moment for Lord Napier and he felt the falseness
of the position acutely, but he was so truly attached to Lord Russell
personally that he never would say a word against him.
The next day I was in the Chancery when Lord Napier came back from
Tsarskoe Selo. He beckoned me into his private room.
“Well,” I asked, “what did the Prince say?”
“It was not a pleasant interview,” answered my chief. “When the Prince
had read the telegram he folded it up and handed it back to me, saying,
‘Alors, milord, je mets de côté la supposition que l’Angleterre fasse
jamais la guerre pour une question d’honneur.’ Pretty words for an
English Ambassador to listen to!”
Lord Napier was deeply moved, as well he might be. They were indeed
“pretty words,” and in them, I think, we may see what lay at the bottom
of Prince Gortchakoff’s subsequent foreign policy—especially in Central
Asia—until he was finally checkmated by Lord Beaconsfield, at the Berlin
Congress in 1878. On that morning of February, 1864, the Prince’s
well-known keenness for an alliance with England died the death; in his
estimation England need no longer be taken into account.
Bismarck had now a free hand. His carefully laid schemes, of which the
war in the Duchies was only an instalment, were all to bear their fruit.
Austria was to be crippled, France to be humbled and dismembered, Germany
to be a naval Power of the first magnitude. And England?
That is how the keel of the first Dreadnought was laid at St. Petersburg
in the month of February, 1864. The Baltic and the North Sea are
united as Siamese twins. Germany, possessed of ports and a huge navy,
is straining every nerve to wrest the trident from the hands of Great
Britain, and the tragedy of 1914, which sooner or later was bound to
come, is even now upon us. Black is the ingratitude of mankind! There is
no statue of Lord Russell, the great benefactor, the true founder of the
German navy, standing unter den Linden in Berlin.