“THE PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE OF THE KAISER”--WANGENHEIM OPPOSES THE SALE
OF AMERICAN WARSHIPS IN GREECE
But even in March, 1914, the Germans had pretty well tightened their
hold on Turkey. Liman von Sanders, who had arrived in December, had
become the predominant influence in the Turkish Army. At first von
Sanders’s appointment aroused no particular hostility, for German
missions had been called in before to instruct the Turkish Army, notably
that of von der Goltz; and an English naval mission, headed by Admiral
Limpus, was even then in Turkey attempting the difficult task of
reorganising the Turkish Navy. We soon discovered, however, that the Von
Sanders military mission was something quite different from those which
I have named. Even before Von Sanders’s arrival it had been announced
that he was to take command of the First Turkish Army Corps, and that
General Broussart von Schnellendorf was to become Chief of Staff. The
appointments signified nothing less than that the Kaiser had almost
completed his plans to annex the Turkish Army to his own. To show the
power which von Sanders’s appointment had given him, it is only
necessary to say that the First Army Corps practically controlled
Constantinople. These changes clearly showed to what an extent Enver
Pasha had become a cog in the Prussian system. Naturally the
representations of the Entente Powers could not tolerate such a
usurpation by Germany. The British, French, and Russian Ambassadors
immediately called upon the Grand Vizier and protested with more warmth
than politeness over von Sanders’s elevation. The Turkish Cabinet hummed
and hawed in the usual way, protested that the change was not important,
but finally withdrew von Sanders’s appointment as head of the First Army
Corps, and made him Inspector-General. However, this did not greatly
improve the situation, for this post really gave Von Sanders greater
power than the one which he had held before. Thus, by January, 1914,
seven months before the Great War began, Germany held this position in
the Turkish Army: a German general was Chief of Staff; another was
Inspector-General; scores of German officers held commands of the first
importance, and the Turkish politician who was even then an outspoken
champion of Germany, Enver Bey, was Minister of War.
After securing this diplomatic triumph Wangenheim was granted a
vacation--he had certainly earned it--and Giers, the Russian Ambassador,
went off on a vacation at the same time. Baroness Wangenheim explained
to me--I was ignorant at this time of all these subtleties of
diplomacy--precisely what these vacations signified. Wangenheim’s leave
of absence, she said, meant that the German Foreign Office regarded the
von Sanders episode as closed--and closed with a German victory. Giers’s
furlough, she explained, meant that Russia declined to accept this point
of view, end that, so far as Russia was concerned, the von Sanders
affair had not ended. I remember writing to my family that, in this
mysterious Balkan diplomacy, the nations talked to each other with acts,
not words, and I instanced Baroness Wangenheim’s explanation of these
diplomatic vacations as a case in point.
An incident which took place in my own house opened all our eyes to the
seriousness with which von Sanders regarded this military mission. On
February 18th I gave my first diplomatic dinner; General von Sanders and
his two daughters attended, the general sitting next to my daughter
Ruth. My daughter, however, did not have a very enjoyable time; this
German Field-Marshal, sitting there in his gorgeous uniform, his breast
all sparkling with medals, did not say a word throughout the whole meal.
He ate his food silently and sulkily, all my daughter’s attempts to
enter into conversation evoking only an occasional surly monosyllable.
The behaviour of this great military leader was that of a spoiled child.
At the end of the dinner von Mutius, the German _chargé d’affaires_,
came up to me in a high state of excitement. It was some time before he
could sufficiently control his agitation to deliver his message.
“You have made a terrible mistake, Mr. Ambassador,” he said.
“What is that?” I asked, naturally taken aback.
“You have greatly offended Field-Marshal von Sanders. You have placed
him at the dinner lower in rank than the foreign Ministers. He is the
personal representative of the Kaiser, and as such is entitled to equal
rank with the Ambassadors. He should have been placed ahead of the
Cabinet Ministers and the Foreign Ministers.”
So I had affronted the Emperor himself! This, then, was the explanation
of von Sanders’s boorish behaviour. Fortunately, my position was an
impregnable one. I had not arranged the seating precedence at this
dinner; I had sent the list of my guests to the Marquis Pallavicini, the
Austrian Ambassador and dean of the diplomatic corps, and the greatest
authority in Constantinople on such delicate points as this. The Marquis
had returned the list, marking in red ink against each name the order of
precedence--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc. I still possess this document, as it
came from the Austrian Embassy, and General von Sanders’s name appears
with the numerals “13” against it. I must admit, however, that “the
thirteenth chair” did bring him pretty well to the foot of the table.
I explained the situation to von Mutius and asked Mr. Panfili,
_conseiller_ of the Austrian Embassy, who was a guest at the dinner, to
come up and make everything clear to the outraged German diplomat. As
the Austrians and Germans were allies, it was quite apparent that the
slight, if slight there had been, was unintentional. Panfili said that
he had been puzzled over the question of von Sanders’s position, and had
submitted the question to the Marquis. The outcome was that the Austrian
Ambassador had himself fixed von Sanders’s rank at No. 13. But the
German Embassy did not let the matter rest there, for afterward
Wangenheim called on Pallavicini, and discussed the matter with
considerable liveliness.
“If Liman von Sanders represents the Kaiser, whom do you represent?”
Pallavicini asked Wangenheim. The argument was a good one, as the
Ambassador is always regarded as the _alter ego_ of his Sovereign.
“It is not customary,” continued the Marquis, “for an Emperor to have
two representatives at the same Court.”
As the Marquis was unyielding, Wangenheim carried the question to the
Grand Vizier. But Saïd Halim refused to assume responsibility for so
momentous a decision and referred the dispute to the Council of
Ministers. This body solemnly sat upon the question and rendered this
verdict: von Sanders should rank ahead of the Ministers of foreign
countries, but below the members of the Turkish Cabinet. Then the
foreign Ministers lifted up their voices in protest. Von Sanders not
only became exceedingly unpopular for raising this question, but the
dictatorial and autocratic way in which he did it aroused general
disgust. The Ministers declared that, if von Sanders were ever given
precedence at any function of this kind, they would leave the table in a
body. The net result was that von Sanders was never again invited to a
diplomatic dinner. Sir Louis Mallet, the British Ambassador, took a
sardonic interest in the episode. It was lucky, he said, that it had not
happened at his Embassy; if it had, the newspapers would have had
columns about the strained relations between England and Germany!
After all, this proceeding did have great international importance. Von
Sanders’s personal vanity had led him to betray a diplomatic secret; he
was not merely a drill master who had been sent to instruct the Turkish
Army; he was precisely what he had claimed to be--the personal
representative of the Kaiser. The Kaiser had selected him just as he had
selected Wangenheim, as an instrument for working his will in Turkey.
Afterward von Sanders told me, with all that pride which German
aristocrats manifest when speaking of their imperial master, how the
Kaiser had talked to him a couple of hours the day he had appointed him
to this Constantinople mission, and how, the day that he had started,
Wilhelm had spent another hour giving him final instructions. I reported
this dinner incident to my Government as indicating Germany’s growing
ascendancy in Turkey, and I presume the other Ambassadors likewise
reported it to their Governments. The American military attaché, Major
John R. M. Taylor, who was present, attributed the utmost significance
to it. A month after the occurrence he and Captain McCauley, commanding
the _Scorpion_, the American _stationaire_ at Constantinople, had lunch
at Cairo with Lord Kitchener. The luncheon was a small one, only the
Americans, Lord Kitchener, his sister, and an _aide_ making up the
party. Major Taylor related this incident, and Kitchener displayed much
interest.
“What do you think it signifies?” asked Kitchener.
“I think it means,” Major Taylor said, “that when the big war comes,
Turkey will probably be the ally of Germany. If she is not in direct
alliance, at least I think that she will mobilise on the line of the
Caucasus and thus divert three Russian army corps from the European
theatre of operations.”
Kitchener thought for a moment and then said, “I agree with you.”
And now for several months we had before our eyes this spectacle of the
Turkish Army actually under the control of Germany. German officers
drilled the troops daily--all, I am now convinced, in preparation for
the approaching war. Just what results had been accomplished appeared
when, in July, there was a great military review. The occasion was a
splendid and a gala affair. The Sultan attended in state; he sat under a
beautifully decorated tent and held a little court, and the Khedive of
Egypt, the Crown Prince of Turkey, the Princes of the imperial blood and
the entire Cabinet were also on hand. We now saw that, in the preceding
six months, the Turkish Army had been completely Prussianised. What in
January had been an undisciplined, ragged rabble was now parading with
the goose-step; the men were clad in German field-grey, and they even
wore a casque-shaped head-covering, which slightly suggested the German
_pickelhaube_. The German officers were immensely proud of the
exhibition, and the transformation of the wretched Turkish soldiers of
January into these neatly-dressed, smartly-stepping, splendidly
manœuvring troops was really a creditable military achievement. When
the Sultan invited me to his tent I naturally congratulated him upon the
excellent showing of his men. He did not manifest much enthusiasm; he
said that he regretted the possibility of war; he was at heart a
pacifist. I noticed certain conspicuous absences from this great German
fête, for the French, British, Russian, and Italian Ambassadors had kept
away. Bompard said that he had received his ten tickets but that he did
not regard that as an invitation. Wangenheim told me, with some
satisfaction, that the other Ambassadors were jealous, and that they did
not care to see the progress which the Turkish Army had made under
German tutelage. I did not have the slightest doubt that these
Ambassadors refused to attend because they had no desire to grace this
German holiday; nor did I blame them.
Meanwhile I had other evidences that Germany was playing her part in
Turkish politics. In June the relations between Greece and Turkey
reached the breaking-point. The Treaty of London (May 30, 1913) had left
Greece in possession of the islands of Chios and Mitylene. A reference
to the map discloses the strategic importance of these islands. They
stand there in the Ægean Sea like guardians controlling the Bay and the
great port of Smyrna, and it is quite apparent that any strong military
nation which permanently held these vantage points would ultimately
control Smyrna and the whole Ægean coast of Asia Minor. The racial
situation made the continued retention of these islands by Greece a
constant military danger to Turkey. Their population was Greek and had
been Greek since the days of Homer; the coast of Asia Minor itself was
also Greek; more than half the population of Smyrna, Turkey’s greatest
Mediterranean seaport, was Greek; in its industries, its commerce, and
its culture the city was so predominantly Greek that the Turks usually
referred to it as _giaour Ismir_--“infidel Smyrna.” Though this Greek
population was nominally Ottoman in nationality, it did not conceal its
affection for the Greek fatherland, these Asiatic Greeks even making
contributions to the Greek Government. The Ægean islands and the
mainland, in fact, constituted _Graecia Irredenta_, and that Greece was
determined to redeem them, precisely as she had recently redeemed Crete,
was no diplomatic secret. Should the Greeks ever land an army on this
Asia Minor coast, there was little question that the native Greek
population would welcome it enthusiastically and co-operate with it.
Since Germany, however, had her own plans for Asia Minor, naturally the
Greeks in this region formed a barrier to Pan-German aspirations. As
long as this region remained Greek it formed a natural obstacle to
Germany’s road to the Persian Gulf, precisely as did Serbia. Anyone who
has read even cursorily the literature of Pan-Germania is familiar with
the peculiar German method which German publicists have advocated for
dealing with populations that stand in Germany’s way. That is, by
deportation. The violent shifting of whole peoples from one part of
Europe to another, as though they were so many herds of cattle, has for
years been part of the Kaiser’s plans for German expansion. This is the
treatment which, since the war began, Germany has applied to Belgium, to
Poland, to Serbia, and its most hideous manifestation, as I shall show,
has been to Armenia. Acting under Germany’s prompting, Turkey now began
to apply this principle of deportation to her Greek subjects in Asia
Minor. Three years afterwards the German Admiral Usedom, who had been
stationed in the Dardanelles during the bombardment, told me that it was
the Germans “who urgently made the suggestion that the Greeks be moved
from the sea-shore.” The German motive, Admiral Usedom said, was purely
military. Whether Talaat and his associates realised that they were
playing the German game I am not sure, but there is no doubt that the
Germans were constantly instigating them in this congenial task.
The events that followed foreshadowed the policy adopted in the Armenian
massacres. The Turkish officials pounced upon the Greeks, herded them in
groups and marched them toward the ships. They gave them no time to
settle their private affairs, and they took no pains to keep families
together. The plan was to transport the Greeks to the wholly Greek
islands in the Ægean. Naturally the Greeks rebelled against such
treatment, and occasional massacres were the result, especially in
Phocaea, where more than fifty people were murdered. The Turks demanded
that all foreign establishments in Smyrna dismiss their Greek
employés--and replace them with Moslems. Among other American concerns,
the Singer Manufacturing Company received such instructions, and though
I interceded and obtained sixty days’ delay, ultimately this American
concern had to obey the mandate. An official boycott was established
against all Christians, not only in Asia Minor, but in Constantinople,
but this boycott did not discriminate against the Jews, who have always
been more popular with the Turks than have the Christians. The officials
particularly requested Jewish merchants to put signs over their doors
indicating their nationality and trade--such signs as “Abraham the Jew,
tailor,” “Isaac the Jew, shoemaker,” and the like. I looked upon this
boycott as illustrating the topsy-turvy national organisation of Turkey,
for here we had a nation engaging in a commercial boycott against its
own subjects.
This procedure against the Greeks not improperly aroused my indignation.
I did not have the slightest suspicion at that time that the Germans had
instigated these deportations, but I looked upon them merely as an
outburst of Turkish ferocity and chauvinism. By this time I knew Talaat
well; I saw him nearly every day and he used to discuss practically
every phase of international relations with me. I objected vigorously to
his treatment of the Greeks; I told him that it would make the worst
possible impression abroad and that it affected American interests.
Talaat explained his national policy; these different _blocs_ in the
Turkish Empire, he said, had always conspired against Turkey; because of
the hostility of these native populations, Turkey had lost province
after province--Greece, Serbia, Rumania, Bulgaria, Bosnia, Herzegovina,
Egypt, and Tripoli. In this way the Turkish Empire had dwindled almost
to the vanishing point. If what was left of Turkey was to survive, added
Talaat, he must get rid of these alien peoples. “Turkey for the Turks”
was now Talaat’s controlling idea. Therefore he proposed to Turkify
Smyrna and the adjoining islands. Already 40,000 Greeks had left, and he
asked me again to urge on American business houses to employ only Turks.
He said that the accounts of violence and murder had been greatly
exaggerated, and suggested that a commission be sent to investigate.
“They want a commission to whitewash Turkey,” Sir Louis Mallet, the
British Ambassador, told me. True enough, when this commission did bring
in its report, it exculpated Turkey.
The Greeks in Turkey had one great advantage over the Armenians, for
there was such a thing as a Greek Government, which naturally had a
protecting interest in them. The Turks
[Illustration: Baron Wangenheim, German Ambassador
[_To face p. 32._
]
[Illustration: M. Tocheff, Bulgarian Minister at Constantinople]
knew that these deportations would precipitate a war with Greece; in
fact, they welcomed such a war and were preparing for it. So
enthusiastic were the Turkish people that they had raised money by
popular subscription and had purchased a Brazilian dreadnought which was
then under construction in England. The Government had ordered also a
second dreadnought in England, and several submarines and destroyers in
France. The purpose of these naval preparations was no secret in
Constantinople. As soon as they obtained these ships, or even the one
dreadnought which was nearing completion, Turkey intended to attack
Greece and take back the islands. A single modern battleship like the
_Sultan Osman_--this was the name the Turks had given the Brazilian
vessel--could easily overpower the whole Greek Navy and control the
Ægean Sea. As this powerful vessel would be finished and commissioned in
a few months we all expected the Greco-Turkish war to break out in the
fall. What could the Greek Navy possibly do in face of this impending
danger?
Such was the situation when, early in June, I received a most agitated
visitor. This was Djemal Pasha, the Turkish Minister of Marine, and one
of the three men who then dominated the Turkish Empire. I have hardly
ever seen a man who appeared more utterly worried than was Djemal on
this occasion. As he began talking excitedly to my interpreter in
French, his whiskers trembling with his emotions and his hands wildly
gesticulating, he seemed to be almost beside himself. I knew enough
French to understand what he was saying, and the news which he
brought--this was the first I had heard of it--sufficiently explained
his agitation. The American Government, he said, was negotiating with
Greece for the sale of two battleships, the _Idaho_ and the
_Mississippi_. He urged that I should immediately move to prevent any
such sale. His attitude was that of a suppliant; he begged, he implored
that I should intervene. All along, he said, the Turks regarded the
United States as their best friend. I had frequently expressed my desire
to help them; well, here was the chance to show our good feeling. The
fact that Greece and Turkey were practically on the verge of war, said
Djemal, really made the sale of the ships an unneutral act. Still, if
the transaction were purely a commercial one, Turkey would like a chance
to bid. “We will pay more than Greece,” he added. He ended with a
powerful plea that I should at once cable my Government about the
matter, and this I promised to do.
Evidently the clever Greeks had turned the tables on their enemy. Turkey
had rather too boldly advertised her intention of attacking Greece as
soon as she had received her dreadnought. Both the ships for which
Greece was now negotiating were immediately available for battle! The
_Idaho_ and _Mississippi_ were not indispensable ships for the American
Navy; they could not take their place in the first line of battle; they
were powerful enough, however, to drive the whole Turkish Navy from the
Ægean. Evidently the Greeks did not intend politely to postpone the
impending war until the Turkish dreadnought had been finished, but to
attack as soon as they received these American ships. Djemal’s legal
point, of course, had no validity. However much war might threaten,
Turkey and Greece were still actually at peace. Clearly Greece had just
as much right to purchase warships in the United States as Turkey had to
purchase them in Brazil or England.
But Djemal was not the only statesman who attempted to prevent the sale;
the German Ambassador displayed the keenest interest. Several days after
Djemal’s visit Wangenheim and I were riding in the hills north of
Constantinople. Wangenheim began to talk about the Greeks--to whom he
displayed a violent antipathy--about the chances of war, and the
projected sale of American warships. He made a long argument about the
sale, his reasoning being precisely the same as Djemal’s--a fact which
aroused my suspicions that he had himself coached Djemal for his
interview with me.
“Just look at the dangerous precedent you are establishing,” said
Wangenheim. “It is not unlikely that the United States may some time
find itself in a position like Turkey’s to-day. Suppose that you were on
the brink of war with Japan; then England could sell a fleet of
dreadnoughts to Japan. How would the United States like that?”
And then he made a statement which indicated what really lay back of his
protest. I have thought of it many times in the last three years. The
scene is indelibly impressed on my mind. There we sat on our horses; the
silent, ancient forest of Belgrade lay around us, while in the distance
the Black Sea glistened in the afternoon sun. Wangenheim suddenly became
quiet and extremely earnest. He looked in my eyes and said:
“I don’t think that the United States realises what a serious matter
this is. The sale of these ships might be the cause that would bring on
a European war.”
This conversation took place on June 13; this was about six weeks before
the conflagration broke out. Wangenheim knew perfectly well that Germany
was rushing preparations for this great conflict, and he also knew that
the preparations were not yet entirely complete. Like all the German
Ambassadors, Wangenheim had received instructions not to let any crisis
arise that would precipitate war until all these preparations had been
finished. He had no objection to the expulsion of the Greeks, for that
in itself was part of these preparations; he was much disturbed,
however, over the prospect that the Greeks might succeed in arming
themselves and disturbing existing conditions in the Balkans. At that
moment the Balkans were a smouldering volcano. Europe had gone through
two Balkan wars without becoming generally involved, and Wangenheim knew
that another would set the whole continent ablaze. He knew that war was
coming, but he did not want it just then. He was simply attempting to
influence me at that moment to gain a little more time for Germany.
He went so far as to ask me to cable personally to the President,
explain the seriousness of the situation, and to call his attention to
the telegrams that had gone to the State Department on the proposed sale
of the ships. I regarded his suggestion as an impertinent one and
declined to act upon it.
To Djemal and the other Turkish officials who kept pressing me I
suggested that their Ambassador in Washington should directly take up
the matter with the President. They acted on this advice, but the Greeks
again got ahead of them. At two o’clock, June 22nd, the Greek _chargé
d’affaires_ at Washington and Commander Tsouklas, of the Greek Navy,
called upon the President and arranged the sale. As they left the
President’s office the Turkish Ambassador entered--just fifteen minutes
too late!
I presume that Mr. Wilson consented to the sale because he knew that
Turkey was preparing to attack Greece and believed that the _Idaho_ and
_Mississippi_ would prevent such an attack and so preserve peace in the
Balkans.
Acting under the authorisation of Congress, the Administration sold
these ships on July 8, 1914, to Fred J. Gauntlett for $12,535,276.98.
Congress immediately voted the money realised from the sale to the
construction of a great modern dreadnought, the _California_. Mr.
Gauntlett transferred the ships to the Greek Government. Rechristened
the _Kilkis_ and the _Lemnos_, these battleships immediately took their
places as the most powerful vessels in the Greek Navy, and the
enthusiasm of the Greeks in obtaining them was unbounded.
By this time we had moved from the Embassy to our summer home on the
Bosphorus. All the summer Embassies were located there, and a more
beautiful spot I have never seen. Our house was a three-storey
building, something in the Venetian style; behind it the cliff rose
abruptly, with several terraced gardens towering one above the other.
The building stood so near the shore and the waters of the Bosphorus
rushed by so rapidly that when we sat outside, especially on a moonlight
night, we had almost a complete illusion that we were sitting on the
deck of a fast sailing-ship. In the daytime the Bosphorus, here little
more than a mile wide, was alive with gaily-coloured craft. I recall
this animated scene with particular vividness because I retain in my
mind the contrast it presented a few months afterward, when Turkey’s
entrance into the war had the immediate result of closing this strait.
Day by day the huge Russian steamships, on their way from Black Sea
ports to Smyrna, Alexandria, and other cities, made clear the importance
of this little strip of water, and explained the bloody contests of the
European nations, extending over a thousand years, for its possession.
However, these early summer months were peaceful; all the Ambassadors
and Ministers and their families were thrown constantly together; here
daily gathered the representatives of all the Powers that for the last
three years have been grappling in history’s bloodiest war, all then
apparently friends, sitting around the same dining-tables, walking
arm-in-arm upon the porches. The Ambassador of one Power would most
graciously escort into dinner the wife of another whose country was
perhaps the most antagonistic to his own. Little groups would form after
dinner; the Grand Vizier would hold an impromptu reception in one
corner, Cabinet Ministers would be whispering in another; a group of
Ambassadors would discuss the Greek situation out on the porch; the
Turkish officials would glance quizzically upon the animated scene and
perhaps comment quietly in their own tongue; the Russian Ambassador
would glide about the room, pick out someone whom he wished to talk to,
lock arms and push him into a corner for a surreptitious _tête-à-tête_.
Meanwhile our sons and daughters, the junior members of the diplomatic
corps, and the officers of the several _stationaires_, dancing and
flirting, seemed to think that the whole proceeding had been arranged
solely for their amusement. And to realise while all this was going on
that neither the Grand Vizier nor any of the other high Turkish
officials would leave the house without outriders and bodyguards to
protect them from assassination--whatever other emotions such a
vibrating atmosphere might arouse, it was certainly alive with interest.
I felt also that there was something electric about it all; war was ever
the favourite topic of conversation; everyone seemed to realise that
this peaceful, frivolous life was transitory, and that at any moment
might come the spark that was to set everything aflame.
Yet, when the crisis came, it produced no immediate sensation. On June
29th we heard of the assassination of the Grand Duke of Austria and his
consort. Everybody received the news calmly; there was, indeed, a
stunned feeling that something momentous had happened, but there was
practically no excitement. A day or two after this tragedy I had a long
talk with Talaat on diplomatic matters; he made no reference at all to
this event. I think now that we were all affected by a kind of emotional
paralysis--as we were nearer the centre than most people, we certainly
realised the dangers in the situation. In a day or two our tongues
seemed to have been loosened, for we began to talk--and to talk war.
When I saw von Mutius, the German _chargé_, and Weitz, the
diplomat-correspondent of the _Frankfürter Zeitung_, they also discussed
the impending conflict, and again they gave their forecast a
characteristically Germanic touch; when war came, they said, of course
the United States would take advantage of it to get all the Mexican and
South American trade!
When I called upon Pallavicini to express my condolences over the Grand
Duke’s death, he received me with the most stately solemnity. He was
conscious that he was representing the imperial family, and his grief
seemed to be personal; one would think that he had lost his own son. I
expressed my abhorrence and that of my nation for the deed, and our
sympathy with the aged Emperor.
“_Ja, ja, es ist sehr schrecklich_” (Yes, yes, it is very terrible), he
answered, almost in a whisper.
“Serbia will be condemned for her conduct,” he added. “She will be
compelled to make reparation.”
A few days later, when Pallavicini called upon me, he spoke of the
nationalistic societies that Serbia had permitted to exist and of her
determination to annex Bosnia and Herzegovina. He said that his
Government would insist on the abandonment of these societies and these
pretensions, and that probably a punitive expedition into Serbia would
be necessary to prevent such outrages as the murder of the Grand Duke.
Herein I had my first intimation of the famous ultimatum of July 22nd.
The entire diplomatic corps attended the requiem mass for the Grand Duke
and Duchess, celebrated at the Church of Sainte Marie on July 4. The
church is located in the Grande Rue de Pera, not far from the Austrian
Embassy; to reach it we had to descend a flight of forty stone steps. At
the top of these stairs representatives of the Austrian Embassy,
dressed in full uniform, with crêpe on the left arm, met us, and
escorted us to our seats. All the Ambassadors sat in the front pew; I
recall this with strange emotions now, for it was the last time that we
ever sat together. The service was dignified and beautiful; I remember
it with especial vividness because of the contrasting scene that
immediately followed. When the stately, gorgeously-robed priests had
finished, we all shook hands with the Austrian Ambassador, returned to
our automobiles, and started on our eight-mile ride along the Bosphorus
to the American Embassy. For this day was not only the day when we paid
our tribute to the murdered heir of this medieval autocracy; it was also
the Fourth of July. The very setting of the two scenes symbolised these
two national ideals. I always think of this ambassadorial group going
down those stone steps to the church to pay their respect to the Grand
Duke, and then going up to the gaily-decorated American Embassy to pay
their respect to the Declaration of Independence. All the station ships
of the foreign countries lay out in the stream, decorated and dressed in
honour of our national holiday; and the Ambassadors and Ministers called
in full regalia. From the upper gardens we could see the place where
Darius crossed from Asia with his Persian hosts 2,500 years before--one
of those ancient autocrats the line of which is not yet entirely
extinct. There also we could see magnificent Robert College, an
institution that represented America’s conception of the way to
“penetrate” the Turkish Empire. At night our gardens were illuminated
with Chinese lanterns and good old American fireworks, lighting up the
surrounding hills and the Bosphorus, and the American flag flying at the
front of the house seemed almost to act as a challenge to the plentiful
reminders of autocracy and oppression which we had had in the early part
of the day. Not more than a mile across the water the dark and gloomy
hills of Asia, for ages the birthplace of military despotisms, caught a
faint, and, I think, a prophetic, glow from these illuminations.
In glancing at the little ambassadorial group at the church, and later
at our reception, I was surprised to note that one familiar figure was
missing. Wangenheim, Austria’s ally, was not present. This somewhat
puzzled me at the time, but afterward I had the explanation from
Wangenheim’s own lips. He had left some days before for Berlin. The
Kaiser had summoned him to an Imperial Council, which met on July 5th,
and which decided to plunge Europe into war.