proclaimed to Europe, in the words of the English Prime Minister, that
"the map of Eastern Europe had to be recast," it is none the less true
that the cause of the Turk was doomed from the moment when Balkan
discord ceased, and when the Greek, the Bulgarian, the Serb, and the
Montenegrin agreed to sink their differences and to act together against
the common enemy. Who was it who accomplished this miracle? Mr. Miller
says, "the authorship of this marvellous work, hitherto the despair of
statesmen, is uncertain, but it has been ascribed chiefly to M.
Venezélos." All, therefore, that can now be said is that it was the
brain, or possibly brains, of some master-workers which gave liberty to
the Balkan populations as surely as it was the brain of Cavour which
united Italy.[82]
Although these and possibly other points will, without doubt, eventually
receive more ample treatment at the hands of some future historian, Mr.
Miller has performed a most useful service in affording a guide by the
aid of which the historical student can find his way through the
labyrinthine maze of Balkan politics. He begins his story about the time
when Napoleon had appeared like a comet in the political firmament, and
by his erratic movements had caused all the statesmen of Europe to
diverge temporarily from their normal and conventional orbits, one
result being that the British Admiral Duckworth wandered in a somewhat
aimless fashion through the Dardanelles to Constantinople, and had very
little idea of what to do when he got there. Mr. Miller reminds us of
events of great importance in their day, but now almost wholly
forgotten: of how the ancient Republic of Ragusa, which had existed for
eleven centuries and which had earned the title of the "South Slavonic
Athens," was crushed out of existence under the iron heel of Marmont,
who forthwith proceeded to make some good roads and to vaccinate the
Dalmatians; of how Napoleon tried to partition the Balkans, but found,
with all his political and administrative genius, that he was face to
face with an "insoluble problem"; of how that rough man of genius,
Mahmoud II., hanged the Greek Patriarch from the gate of his palace, but
between the interludes of massacres and executions, brought his "energy
and indomitable force of will" to bear on the introduction of reforms;
of how the Venetian Count Capo d'Istria, who was eventually
assassinated, produced a local revolt by a well-intentioned attempt to
amend the primitive ethics of the Mainote Greeks--a tale which is not
without its warning if ever the time comes for dealing with a cognate
question amongst the wild tribes of Albania; and of how, amidst the
ever-shifting vicissitudes of Eastern politics, the Tsar of Russia, who
had heretofore posed as the "protector" of Roumans and Serbs against
their sovereign, sent his fleet to the Bosphorus in 1833 in order to
"protect" the sovereign against his rebellious vassal, Mehemet Ali, and
exacted a reward for his services in the shape of the leonine
arrangement signed at Hunkiar-Iskelesi. And so Mr. Miller carries us on
from massacre to massacre, from murder to murder, and from one
bewildering treaty to another, all of which, however, present this
feature of uniformity, that the Turk, signing of his own free will, but
with an unwilling mind--ἑκὼν ἀέκοντί γε θυμῷ--made on each occasion
either some new concession to the ever-rising tide of Christian demand,
or ratified the loss of a province which had been forcibly torn from his
flank. Finally, we get to the period when the tragedy connected with the
name of Queen Draga acted like an electric shock on Europe, and when
the accession of King Peter, "who had translated Mill _On Liberty_," to
the blood-stained Servian throne, revealed to an astonished world that
the processes of Byzantinism survived to the present day. Five years
later followed the assumption by Prince Ferdinand of the title of "Tsar
of the Bulgarians," and it then only required the occurrence of some
opportunity and the appearance on the scene of some Balkan Cavour to
bring the struggle of centuries to the final issue of a death-grapple
between the followers of aggressive Christianity and those of stagnant
Islamism.
The whole tale is at once dramatic and dreary, dramatic because it is
occasionally illumined by acts of real heroism, such as the gallant
defence of Plevna by Ghazi Osman, a graphic account of which was written
by an adventurous young Englishman (Mr. W.V. Herbert) who served in the
Turkish army, or again as the conduct of the Cretan Abbot Máneses who,
in 1866, rather than surrender to the Turks, "put a match to the
powder-magazine, thus uniting defenders and assailants in one common
hecatomb." It is dreary because the mind turns with horror and disgust
from the endless record of government by massacre, in which, it is to be
observed, the crime of bloodguiltiness can by no means be laid
exclusively at the door of the dominant race, whilst Mr. Miller's
sombre but perfectly true remark that "assassination or abdication,
execution or exile, has been the normal fate of Balkan rulers," throws a
lurid light on the whole state of Balkan society.
But how does the work of diplomacy, and especially of British diplomacy,
stand revealed by the light of the history of the past century? The
point is one of importance, all the more so because there is a tendency
on the part of some British politicians to mistrust diplomatists, to
think that, either from incapacity or design, they serve as agents to
stimulate war rather than as peace-makers, and to hold that a more
minute interference by the House of Commons in the details of diplomatic
negotiations would be useful and beneficial. It would be impossible
within the limits of an ordinary newspaper article to deal adequately
with this question. This much, however, may be said--that, even taking
the most unfavourable view of the results achieved by diplomacy, there
is nothing whatever in Mr. Miller's history to engender the belief that
better results would have been obtained by shifting the responsibility
to a greater degree from the shoulders of the executive to those of
Parliament. The evidence indeed rather points to an opposite conclusion.
For instance, Mr. Miller informs us that inopportune action taken in
England was one of the causes which contributed to the outbreak of
hostilities between Greece and Turkey in 1897. "An address from a
hundred British members of Parliament encouraged the masses, ignorant of
the true condition of British politics, to count upon the help of Great
Britain."
It is, however, quite true that a moralist, if he were so minded, might
in Mr. Miller's pages find abundant material for a series of homilies on
the vanity of human wishes, and especially of diplomatic human wishes.
But would he on that account be right in pronouncing a wholesale
condemnation of diplomacy? Assuredly not. Rather, the conclusion to be
drawn from a review of past history is that a small number of very
well-informed and experienced diplomatists showed remarkable foresight
in perceiving the future drift of events. So early as 1837 Lord
Palmerston supported Milosh Obrenovitch II., the ruler of Servia,
against Turkey, as he had "come to the conclusion that to strengthen the
small Christian States of the Near East was the true policy of both
Turkey and Great Britain." Similar views were held at a later period by
Sir William White, and were eventually adopted by the Government of Lord
Beaconsfield. An equal amount of foresight was displayed by some Russian
diplomatists. In Lord Morley's _Life of Gladstone_ (vol. i. p. 479) a
very remarkable letter is given, which was addressed to the Emperor
Nicholas by Baron Brunnow, just before the outbreak of the Crimean War,
in which he advocated peace on the ground that "war would not turn to
Russian advantage.... The Ottoman Empire may be transformed into
independent States, which for us will only become either burdensome
clients or hostile neighbours." It may be that, as is now very generally
thought, the Crimean War was a mistake, and that, in the classic words
of Lord Salisbury, we "put our money on the wrong horse." But it is none
the less true that had it not been for the Crimean War and the policy
subsequently adopted by Lord Beaconsfield's government, the independence
of the Balkan States would never have been achieved, and the Russians
would now be in possession of Constantinople. It is quite permissible to
argue that, had they been left unopposed, British interests would not
have suffered; but even supposing this very debatable proposition to be
true, it must be regarded, from an historical point of view, as at best
an _ex post facto_ argument. British diplomacy has to represent British
public opinion, and during almost the whole period of which Mr. Miller's
history treats, a cardinal article of British political faith was that,
in the interests of Great Britain, Constantinople should not be allowed
to fall into Russian hands. The occupation of Egypt in 1882 without
doubt introduced a new and very important element into the discussion.
The most serious as also the least excusable mistake in British
Near-Eastern policy of recent years has been the occupation of Cyprus,
which burthened us with a perfectly useless possession, and inflicted a
serious blow on our prestige. Sir Edward Grey's recent diplomatic
success is in a large measure due to the fact that all the Powers
concerned were convinced of British disinterestedness.
[Footnote 81: _The Ottoman Empire_, 1801-1913. By W. Miller. Cambridge:
At the University Press. 7s. 6d.]
[Footnote 82: This article was, of course, written before the war which
subsequently broke out between the Bulgarians and their former allies,
the Greeks and the Servians.]
XV
WELLINGTONIANA[83]
_"The Spectator," June 21, 1913_
In dealing with Lady Shelley's sprightly and discursive comments upon
the current events of her day, we have to transport ourselves back into
a society which, though not very remote in point of time, has now so
completely passed away that it is difficult fully to realise its
feelings, opinions, and aspirations. It was a time when a learned
divine, writing in the _Church and State Gazette_, had proved entirely
to his own satisfaction, and apparently also to that of Lady Shelley,
that a "remarkable fulfilment of that hitherto incomprehensible prophecy
in the Revelations" had taken place, inasmuch as Napoleon Bonaparte was
most assuredly "the seventh head of the Beast." It was a time when
Londoners rode in the Green Park instead of Rotten Row, and when, in
spite of the admiration expressed for the talents of that rising young
politician, Mr. Robert Peel, it was impossible to deny that "his birth
ran strongly against him"--a consideration which elicited from Lady
Shelley the profound remark that it is "strange to search into the
recesses of the human mind."
Lady Shelley herself seems to have been rather a _femme incomprise_. She
had lived much on the Continent, and appreciated the greater deference
paid to a charming and accomplished woman in Viennese and Parisian
society, compared with the boorishness of Englishmen who would not
"waste their time" in paying pretty compliments to ladies which "could
be repaid by a smile." She records her impressions in French, a language
in which she was thoroughly proficient. "Je sais," she says, "qu'en
Angleterre il ne faut pas s'attendre à cultiver son esprit; qu'il faut,
pour être contente à Londres, se résoudre à se plaire avec la
médiocrité; à entendre tous les jours répéter les mêmes banalités et à
s'abaisser autant qu'on le peut au niveau des femmelettes avec
lesquelles l'on vit, et qui, pour plaire, affectent plus de frivolité
qu'elles n'ont réellement. Le plaisir de causer nous est défendu."
Nevertheless, however much she may have mentally appreciated the
solitude of a crowd, she determined to adapt herself to her social
surroundings. "C'est un sacrifice," she says, "que je fais à mon Dieu et
à mon devoir comme Anglaise." Impelled, therefore, alike by piety and
patriotism, she cast aside all ideas of leading an eremitic life,
plunged into the vortex of the social world, and mixed with all the
great men and women of the day. Of these the most notable was the Duke
of Wellington.
Lady Shelley certainly possessed one quality which eminently fitted her
to play the part of Boswell to the Duke. The worship of her hero was
without the least mixture of alloy. She had a pheasant, which the Duke
had killed, stuffed, and "added to other souvenirs which ornamented her
dressing-room"; and she records, with manifest pride, that "amongst her
other treasures" was a chair on which he sat upon the first occasion of
his dining with her husband and herself in 1814. It was well to have
that pheasant stuffed, for apparently the Duke, like his great
antagonist, did not shoot many pheasants. He was not only "a very wild
shot," but also a very bad shot. Napoleon, Mr. Oman tells us,[84] on one
occasion "lodged some pellets in Masséna's left eye while letting fly at
a pheasant," and then without the least hesitation accused "the faithful
Berthier" of having fired the shot, an accusation which was at once
confirmed by the mendacious but courtierlike victim of the accident.
Wellington also, Lady Shelley records, "after wounding a retriever early
in the day and later on peppering the keeper's gaiters, inadvertently
sprinkled the bare arms of an old woman who chanced to be washing
clothes at her cottage window." Lady Shelley, who "was attracted by her
screams," promptly told the widow that "it ought to be the proudest
moment of her life. She had had the distinction of being shot by the
great Duke of Wellington," but the eminently practical instinct of the
great Duke at once whispered to him that something more than the moral
satisfaction to be derived from this reflection was required, so he very
wisely "slipped a golden coin into her trembling hand."
For many years Lady Shelley lived on very friendly and intimate terms
with the Duke, who appears to have confided to her many things about
which he would perhaps have acted more wisely if he had held his tongue.
When he went on an important diplomatic mission to Paris in 1822, she
requested him to buy her a blouse--a commission which he faithfully
executed. All went well until 1848. Then a terrific explosion occurred.
It is no longer "My dearest Lady! Mind you bring the blouse! Ever yours
most affectionately, Wellington," but "My dear Lady Shelley," who is
addressed by "Her Ladyship's most obedient humble servant, Wellington,"
and soundly rated for her conduct. The reason for this abrupt and
volcanic change was that owing to an indiscretion on the part of Lady
Shelley a very important letter about the defenceless state of the
country, which the Duke had addressed to Sir John Burgoyne, then the
head of the Engineer Department at the Horse Guards, got into the
newspapers. The Duke's wrath boiled over, and was expressed in terms
which, albeit the reproaches were just, showed but little chivalrous
consideration towards a peccant but very contrite woman. He told her
that he "had much to do besides defending himself from the consequences
of the meddling gossip of the ladies of modern times," and he asked
indignantly, "What do Sir John Burgoyne and his family and your Ladyship
and others--talking of old friendship--say to the share which each of
you have had in this transaction, which, in my opinion, is disgraceful
to the times in which we live?" What Sir John Burgoyne and his family
might very reasonably have said in answer to this formidable
interrogatory is that, although no one can defend the conduct of
Delilah, it was certainly most unwise of Samson to trust her with his
secret. It is consolatory to know that, under the influence of Sir John
Shelley's tact and good-humour, a treaty of peace was eventually
concluded. Sir John happened to meet the Duke at a party.
"'Good-evening, Duke,' said Sir John, in his most winning manner. 'Do
you know, it has been said, by some one who must have been present, that
the cackling of geese once saved Rome. I have been thinking that perhaps
the cackling of my old Goose may yet save England!' This wholly
unexpected sally proved too much for the Duke, who burst out into a
hearty laugh. 'By G----d, Shelley!' said he, 'you are right: give me
your honest hand.'" The Duke then returned to Apsley House and "penned a
playful letter to Lady Shelley."
It is not to be expected that much of real historical interest can be
extracted from a Diary of this sort. It may, however, be noted that when
the _Bellerophon_ reached the English coast "it was only by coercion
that the Ministers prevented George IV. from receiving Bonaparte. The
King wanted to hold him as a captive." Moreover, Brougham, who was in a
position to know, said, "There can be little doubt that if Bonaparte had
got to London, the Whig Opposition were ready to use him as their trump
card to overturn the Government."
The main interest in the book, however, lies in the light which it
throws on the Duke's inner life and in the characteristic _obiter dicta_
which he occasionally let fall. Of these, none is more characteristic
than the remark he made on meeting his former love, Miss Catherine
Pakenham, after an absence of eight years in India. He wrote to her,
making a proposal of marriage, but Miss Pakenham told him "that before
any engagement was made he must see her again; as she had grown old, had
lost all her good looks, and was a very different person to the girl he
had loved in former years." The story, which has been frequently
repeated, that Miss Pakenham was marked with the smallpox, is
untrue,[85] but, without doubt, during the Duke's absence, she had a
good deal changed. The Duke himself certainly thought so, for, on first
meeting her again, he whispered to his brother, "She has grown d----d
ugly, by Jove!" Nevertheless he married her, being moved to do so, not
apparently from any very deep feelings of affection, but because his
leading passion was a profound regard for truth and loyalty which led
him to admire and appreciate the straightforwardness of Miss Pakenham's
conduct. Lady Shelley exultingly exclaims, "Well might she be proud and
happy, and glory in such a husband." That the Duchess was proud of her
husband is certain. Whether she was altogether happy is more doubtful.
One of the stock anecdotes about the Duke of Wellington is that when on
one occasion some one asked him whether he was surprised at Waterloo, he
replied, "No. I was not surprised then, but I am now." We are indebted
to Lady Shelley for letting us know what the Duke really thought on this
much-debated question. In a letter written to her on March 22, 1820, he
stated, with his usual downright common sense, all that there is to be
said on this subject. "Supposing I _was_ surprised; I won the battle;
and what could you have had more, even if I had not been surprised?"
It is known on the authority of his niece, Lady Burghersh, that the Duke
"never read poetry," but his "real love of music," to which Lady Shelley
alludes, will perhaps come as a surprise to many. Mr. Fortescue,
however,[86] has told us that in his youth the Duke learnt to play the
violin, and that he only abandoned it, when he was about thirty years
old, "because he judged it unseemly or perhaps ill-sounding for a
General to be a fiddler." The Duke is not the only great soldier who has
been a musical performer. Marshal St. Cyr used to play the violin "in
the quiet moments of a campaign," and Sir Hope Grant was a very fair
performer on the violoncello.
It was characteristic of the Duke to keep the fact of his being about to
fight a duel with Lord Winchelsea carefully concealed from all his
friends. When it was over, he walked into Lady Shelley's room while she
was at breakfast and said, "Well, what do you think of a gentleman who
has been fighting a duel?"
It appears that during the last years of his life the Duke's great
companion-in-arms, Blücher, was subject to some strange hallucinations.
The following affords a fitting counterpart to those "fears of the
brave" which Pope attributed to the dying Marlborough. On March 17,
1819, Lady Shelley made the following entry in her diary:
We laughed at poor Blücher's strange hallucination, which, though
ludicrous, is very sad. He fancies himself with child by a
Frenchman; and deplores that such an event should have happened to
him in his old age! He does not so much mind being with child, but
cannot reconcile himself to the thought that he--of all people in
the world--should be destined to give birth to a _Frenchman_! On
every other subject Blücher is said to be quite rational. This
peculiar form of madness shows the bent of his mind; so that while
we laugh our hearts reproach us. The Duke of Wellington assures me
that he knows this to be a fact.
Finally, attention may be drawn to a singular and interesting letter
from Sir Walter Scott to Shelley, giving some advice which it may be
presumed the young poet did not take to heart. He was "cautioned against
enthusiasm, which, while it argued an excellent disposition and a
feeling heart, requires to be watched and restrained, though not
repressed."
[Footnote 83: _The Diary of Frances, Lady Shelley_ (1818-1873). London:
John Murray. 10s. 6d.]
[Footnote 84: _History of the Peninsular War_, vol. iii. p. 209.]
[Footnote 85: Maxwell's _Life of Wellington_, vol. i. p. 78]
[Footnote 86: _British Statesmen of the Great War_, p. 241.]
XVI
BURMA[87]
_"The Spectator," June 28, 1913_
The early history of the British connection with Burma presents all the
features uniformly to be found in the growth of British Imperialism.
These are, first, reluctance to move, coupled with fear of the results
of expansion, ending finally with a cession to the irresistible tendency
to expand; secondly, vagueness of purpose as to what should be done with
a new and somewhat unwelcome acquisition; thirdly, a tardy recognition
of its value, with the result that what was first an inclination to make
the best of a bad job only gradually transforms itself into a feeling of
satisfaction and congratulation that, after all, the unconscious
founders of the British Empire, here as elsewhere, blundered more or
less unawares into the adoption of a sound and far-seeing Imperial
policy.