THE IMPERIAL FAMILY, COURT, AND GOVERNMENT.
I.
It is generally admitted that the family and personal associates of a
sovereign, either by their counsels and intrigues, or merely by the
fact of living together with him and constantly exchanging ideas, often
exercise an influence, for good or evil, on his political decisions. To
this rule, however, there are notable exceptions; among recent rulers,
Leopold II. is a case in point. The old Belgian monarch, with his
haughty and unsocial spirit, his scorn of advice and his consciousness
of superiority, loved to work out his boldest African designs in the
seclusion of his palace, without any help from civil or military
officials. But the difference between the founder of the Congo Free
State and the German Emperor is the difference between a great man
and one who is merely talented, and they cannot be said to resemble
each other in any particular. Did the family of the Kaiser, the old
dignitaries of his Court, the chosen companions of his travels and his
shooting parties, wield any influence upon his decisions before the
war, and can they be made to some extent answerable for its origin? An
interesting question, which to-day we are at Liberty to discuss.
Women, with the sole exception of the Empress, play no part in the
Emperor’s life. His marriage was due to reasons of State, having been
suggested by Bismarck as an act that would soothe the feelings of the
bride’s family. It will be remembered that in 1864, with a view to
supporting the claims of her father, the Duke of Augustenburg, to the
Schleswig-Holstein succession, the Diet of the Germanic Confederation
declared war on Christian IX. of Denmark. By the final settlement of
the Treaty of Prague, Prussia acquired the two Duchies for herself.
Later on, the Duchess of Augustenburg had the barren honour of seeing
her daughter invited to share the Hohenzollern throne. This political
match has proved a well-assorted one, in the middle-class sense of the
term. Its happiness seems to have been assured by the usual law of
contrasts, by temperamental differences: the one partner being entirely
lacking in reserve, passionately fond of noise and publicity; the
other, quiet, modest, and well-balanced.
Neither in her physical nor in her mental attributes does the Empress
bear any resemblance to the celebrated Louisa, the wife of Frederick
William III. of Prussia, that vain and commonplace ruler, of whom
Napoleon, always contemptuous of the Hohenzollerns, said that he
looked like a tailor in the midst of kings. The two queens are alike
only in the large number of princes with whom they have enriched a
stock that is nowhere near extinction. Madame de Staël, while staying
in Berlin, described Queen Louisa in a letter to her father as the most
beautiful woman of her Court. Yet some years later this beauty, more
appealing than ever through the unkind strokes of fate, was unable
to soften the marble heart of the victor of Jena. No figure is more
popular in modern Germany, more glorified by her admirers, historians
and poets, painters and sculptors. Will the same fortune befall the
Empress Augusta Victoria? We may be pardoned for doubting this. At
the utmost, she will attract only the official brush or chisel. But
should dark days come for the Imperial house, should Germanic Cæsarism,
after a premature blaze of glory, suffer a “Twilight of the Gods” and
a stormy downfall, the Empress, with her steadfast devotion, will no
doubt, like Queen Louisa, find words of comfort for her disconsolate
husband; she will help him to endure the misfortunes that he will have
deserved only too well.
It is in the vast white ball-room of the palace, when a Court ball
is being given, that the “august lady” (as the Berlin newspapers
reverently call her) shows up to the best advantage. The function is
drawing to a close. The couples, officers of the Guards and high-born
damsels, who have been performing the intricate old-world dances with
military precision, assemble for a last figure, before dispersing
merrily into the supper-rooms. At the sound of the royal march they
bow several times respectfully, each time drawing closer together in
their semi-circular rows, in front of the platform on which stands
the solitary figure of the Empress. She gives no little impression
of majesty as she receives the homage and thanks of her youthful
guests—still erect in bearing and well-proportioned, with her white
hair set off by a diamond tiara, a rope of priceless pearls around her
neck, the yellow ribbon of the Black Eagle athwart her bosom, and a
kindly smile playing on her lips.
At the same time she is an excellent mother and a good German
housewife, carefully looking after her husband’s health, and more
absorbed in her children than in her subjects. As mistress of the
house she has a great deal to do. Her task it is to allay the petty
storms that arise at Court, to reconcile the Crown Prince with his
father after each fresh escapade of that unruly heir, or to secure
the Emperor’s consent to the morganatic marriage of another son,
who has fallen madly in love with a mere maid-of-honour. Every
December it is her chief delight to prepare the Christmas tree in the
_Muschelsaal_, the grotto in the rococo palace at Potsdam. Her great
aim is to make the family life in the royal residences as cosy and
homely (_gemütlich_) as that of a humble Prussian squire. Like other
royalties, she looks upon works of patronage and Christian benevolence
as a formal duty, and this duty she carries out to the full. She even
presides at charity bazaars, where her presence adds a spur to the
generosity of the more laggard purchasers. But it is no use to expect
from her any of those charming acts of impulse or of delicate sympathy
that distinguish such a sovereign as the Queen of the Belgians, when
some misfortune or some talent has attracted her notice. The Empress’s
artistic tastes are faithfully modelled on those of her husband; she
sees only through his eyes, and cannot sincerely admire anything unless
he deigns to signify his approval.
The distinctive feature of her character is a rigid, uncompromising
Protestantism, which will not tolerate the presence of any Catholic,
either among her ladies-in-waiting or among the household servants
of the palace. As a staunch defender of a creed that is steadily
losing ground even in the country of Luther, she has set herself to
stem the rising tide of atheism, to combat the free thought that
wraps itself like a winding-sheet about the expiring faith of the
great cities. The uprooting of the religious sense is partly due to
Social Democracy, which pursues the work with great success among the
labouring classes, while at the same time it undermines monarchical
institutions. The Empress endeavours to beat back this relentless foe
of the old German beliefs by building a large number of churches.
One sees them rising in the principal squares of the new quarters of
Berlin, red brick temples of a vague or distorted Gothic, hopelessly
void of architectural distinction. In no single instance does the
architect succeed in giving a faithful reproduction of the beautiful
Christian models. The finest modern church in Berlin, the “Kaiser
Wilhelm Memorial Church” (this edifice, for once in a way, is built
entirely of stone), is nothing but a rather unwieldy mixture of
Roman and Byzantine. Nor can it be said that, with all this wealth
of new sanctuaries, religion has gained what art has lost. In the
manufacturing towns, to the great grief of the Empress, the march of
atheism and of indifference in matters of faith keeps pace with that of
Socialism.
It would be a mistake to suppose that this admirable wife and mother,
this incarnation of Protestant Germany on the Imperial throne, is in
any way a pacifist. When the Emperor, after twenty-five years of his
reign had passed, abruptly left the straight and tranquil path that
he had marked out for the happiness of his subjects, his consort, we
may be quite sure, made no effort to hold him back. In spite of her
placid femininity, German patriotism, with its dreams of domination,
continually haunts her brain. The horrors of war, that bane to
mothers—_bella matribus detestata_—do not dismay the wife of William
II. During the crisis of Agadir, when the Court of Berlin was chafing
with impatience to measure its strength with France on another field
than that of diplomacy, the Empress shared the impulse which she felt
throbbing in the air around her. In a tone of reproach she said to
Herr von Kiderlen-Wächter, whom she disliked: “Are we always going to
retreat before the French and put up with their insolence?”
II.
For some years past the Crown Prince has been talked about a great
deal, a fact which has certainly not been displeasing to him. He has
been credited with a decisive influence on the course of events at the
moment when the threatenings of war became critical. It was alleged
that this young man of thirty-two, acting behind the scenes, was the
real _deus ex machina_ of the whole drama; that he, the idol of the
army, had imposed his will and that of the officers’ corps on his
father, while the latter’s mind was not yet made up. The Crown Prince
deserves
“Nor such wild honour nor such brand of shame.”[4]
In physique, he is an officer of light infantry: slender of waist
and narrow of chest, he cuts a smart figure, especially on horseback.
He does not in any way resemble the usual Hohenzollern type, with its
broad shoulders and regular features. His face is extremely youthful,
with a certain vagueness in its outlines; his forehead recedes; his
eyes show no sign of a lively intelligence, and his body has a look of
suppleness rather than of strength and fitness for war. Appearances in
this case are deceptive. The Prince is a tough soldier and an ardent
sportsman. Polo, tennis, football, hockey, golf, yachting—there is no
sport that he does not practise. Before the war, he liked to imitate
the English, and posed as a German Anglomaniac. His father had to
forbid him to ride in steeplechases, because an heir-apparent must on
no account run the risk of a dangerous fall, but was unable to prevent
him from going in for aviation. Of all William II.’s sons, the Crown
Prince seems to be the most soldierly; but this does not mean that he
will ever make a capable army leader.
At a first glance he does not seem to bear any resemblance to the
Emperor, but after a time one finds out several parallel traits in
their characters. Less well-informed, less cultured, less versatile,
but just as self-willed, the son has inherited his father’s impetuous
spirit and incurable propensity for freely uttering his thoughts.
A line of impulsive rulers is what the modern Hohenzollerns, very
different from their ancestors, have given to Germany.
The Crown Prince has the soul of a fighter, or at any rate he prides
himself on that quality. At an official dinner, where he sat next to
the wife of an ambassador from one of the Entente Powers, he could not
think of anything more clever and gallant to say than that it was his
cherished dream to make war and to lead a charge at the head of his
regiment. His militarism, however, does not prevent him from venturing
into certain intellectual and even literary fields. A diary of his
hunting-tour in India, published in his name, has given us a detailed
account of his feats as a Nimrod. Less commonplace and more personal
is a brief passage, eagerly reproduced in the German Press, in which,
on leaving Danzig, he bade farewell to his regiment of Death’s Head
Hussars. His spirit reveals itself here in a certain vein of martial
poetry. If any German pacifists—of whom there is a very large number,
whatever the world may think—read this rhapsody in honour of Bellona,
they must have felt considerable misgivings.
The relations between the Emperor and his son ceased to be very cordial
from the day when the young Prince, brimming over with ambition and
desire for popularity, tried to get himself talked about by dabbling
in politics. His first open interference in State affairs is worth
recalling, because it is a striking testimony to his feelings with
regard to France. It took place in 1911, at that meeting of the
Reichstag where Herr von Heydebrand, the spokesman of the Prussian
Junkers, delivered a trenchant criticism of German policy in Morocco,
of the treaty of 4th November, and of the way in which the Chancellor
had defended the interests of the Empire. During this philippic, the
Crown Prince, sitting by himself in the Imperial box, made repeated
signs of approval. Since then he has become the hope of the reactionary
party and of the military caste. Encouraged by this success, he has
never omitted, on any important occasion, to express his ideas or to
convey them by some mouthpiece, even when these ideas were in conflict
with those of his father, as represented by the Chancellor. It would
be superfluous to quote these various demonstrations. A congratulatory
telegram to the hero of the Zabern affair finally won for the Prince
the hearts of those who in Prussia wear the “King’s garb”—in other
words, the officers of the army.
If only he had always remained on the neutral ground that lies
between politics and the army! His want of tact and good feeling
in this respect is shown by the way in which he tried to baulk the
efforts of the Imperial Government in the settlement of the Brunswick
succession. The oath of loyalty to the Emperor tendered by Duke Ernest
of Cumberland, heir to the Duchy and son-in-law to His Majesty, on
entering the army, did not seem to the Crown Prince (or, for the
matter of that, to a good many typical Prussians) sufficient reason
for admitting his brother-in-law to the last Guelph inheritance, to
which he was the legitimate successor. The Crown Prince held that Duke
Ernest should further be required to make a formal renunciation of his
claims to the Hanoverian throne. The Emperor proved more shrewd and
more politic, and the young ducal couple was enabled to enter Brunswick
amid general acclamation. A section of the German Press, disgusted
at the Crown Prince’s perpetual meddling with affairs that did not
concern him, drily reminded him that he had no special status under
the Prussian or Imperial constitution, and that he could only claim
the right, enjoyed by every citizen, of stating his opinion as a mere
private individual.
This endless hunting after personal popularity led to family scenes
which the palace walls in Berlin and Potsdam, impenetrable though they
are as a rule, could not altogether keep secret from an inquisitive
public. The banishment of the Crown Prince to Danzig was solely due
to his intemperate language in speech and writing. The Emperor sent
him, for his sins, to a remote corner of Prussia, under the pretext of
making him learn his duties as a regimental commander. After a time it
became evident that in his distant fortress he was more embarrassing
and less easy to watch than in Berlin. He was therefore recalled and
put upon the General Staff, nominally that he might be initiated into
the mysteries of Prussian strategy and tactics, really that he might
remain under his father’s eye. In point of fact, we must not make
too much of his escapades, which are traditional among heirs to the
Hohenzollern throne. Frederick the Great, famous before his accession
for his quarrels with his brutal sire, was not the first Prussian
heir-apparent who rebelled against paternal authority. Later on, in
the last century, the Emperor William I., when he was next in the line
of succession to his brother, Frederick William IV., held, during the
latter’s reign, a little princely Court that was a hotbed of criticism
and opposition. And the present Emperor? Who will believe that in his
passionate self-assertiveness he would not have caused just as much
vexation and embarrassment to his father, if the Emperor Frederick had
reigned for more than a few months?
We should misjudge William II. if we attributed to him any jealousy of
his son’s growing popularity. He has too exalted an idea of his own
worth for that, and he cannot cherish any illusions as to the real
capacity of his heir. To insinuate that the Emperor took time by the
forelock owing to his fear of this popularity, which threatened to
eclipse his own, would be tantamount to saying that the Crown Prince
was the _causa causans_, the prime mover of the appeal to arms; and
this would be assigning to him an importance and an influence which he
has never at any time possessed. His incitements to war and his martial
ardour would never have succeeded in making any impression on the
Emperor, if the latter had not himself resolved to forge ahead, and to
risk the great gamble in which the fate of Germany and of Europe was at
stake.
The German Empire as Bismarck conceived it, with a single minister
bearing on his own shoulders, like some Atlas, the whole weight of the
vast governmental machine, was cut to the measure of its founder. If
this system is to last, the nation must always have at its head either
a great Chancellor, or a great monarch under whom the Chancellor merely
acts as his deputy. So long as Bismarck was at the helm, he steered
the ship of Empire with an unfaltering hand through all the reefs of
internal politics—_Kulturkampf_, anti-Socialist legislation, party
divisions, unstable majorities in the Reichstag. After the dismissal
of the great man, and under the powerful impetus that he had given
her, the vessel kept on her course for some time, having for her pilot
the Sovereign himself, who made up for his lack of genius by his ample
self-confidence. In this way she safely passed many rocks, borne
along by the swelling tide of national prosperity, but occasionally
threatened with disaster for want of a submissive majority to vote
credits in the Imperial Parliament.
It is not difficult to imagine what would become of the Empire under
the Crown Prince’s rule. He too, like his father, but with less
intelligence, will wish to be at the helm, and, by the sheer force
of his will as monarch by divine right, to stem the rising tide of
popular demands, growing ever hungrier and stormier under the sweeping
blast of Socialism. The conception of liberty that Treitschke shadowed
forth for his countrymen about 1870—a liberty having its roots in
the idea of duty, that is to say, where politics are concerned, in
obedience to the powers that be—will not prevail in the Germany of
the future. In my opinion, it is not even accepted by the majority of
Germans to-day. Their conception is that of a liberty based on the
idea of justice rather than of duty: in other words, on the nation’s
right to share, through its representatives, in the government of the
Empire. Thus there is a prospect of bitter struggles between a ruler of
the Crown Prince’s type and a Reichstag that is half or three-fourths
Socialist, assuming indeed that these struggles do not begin long
before he comes to the throne.
III.
The five remaining sons of the Emperor give little food for public
discussion. Like happy nations, they have no history. Political
ambitions and the chase for popularity they leave to their eldest
brother. Their lives are passed in a pleasant round of military
service (less arduous for princes than for ordinary officers), social
amusements, and sport. Only one of them has entered the navy, where
work is certainly harder than in the army. Three others, as officers
of the Guards, used to do garrison duty at Potsdam, spending the season
of festivities in Berlin. One, on leaving the University of Strassburg,
was sent off to a provincial station.
From time to time, in winter, one or more of the young princely couples
were to be seen in diplomatic drawing-rooms. It must not be imagined,
however, that they were anxious to consort with ambassadors and foreign
ministers. They have no particular respect for those who represent the
countries of the Old World or the New, and in general, like Alfred de
Musset’s hero, they profess
“A high disdain for peoples and for kings.”
Their horizon is bounded by Germany, nay it is even restricted to the
frontiers of Prussia. The idea of gaining enlightenment, from good
sources, as to the political institutions, the internal situation, or
the state of public opinion in other countries, leaves them entirely
cold, just as it fails to attract the Crown Prince. As a rule, a quick
hand-shake, without words, was all that they accorded to the heads of
foreign legations. But as soon as one of our confraternity got together
a small band of musicians for a ball or an informal dance, the princes
were glad to do him the honour of letting themselves be invited. The
diplomatic drawing-rooms were in their eyes nothing but rendezvous for
dancing and flirtation.
Their stiffness showed itself most plainly of all in their relations
with the other German princes. Any one who watched them at official
functions, weddings, funerals, the unveiling of monuments or the laying
of foundation-stones, when members of the royal or princely families
of the Empire were present, must have been struck with their attitude.
They did not mix with the others, but formed a group apart, as if to
impress the public with the fact that they were the dominant race, and
the rest mere vassals or creatures of the herd. This lofty opinion that
they had of themselves and of the greatness of their house did not
indeed prevent them from sometimes behaving quite humanly towards the
scions of certain families that enjoyed the inestimable privilege of
being connected by blood with the Hohenzollerns.
The foreigner who is interested in the future of Germany is naturally
inclined to raise the question: Is it an advantage or merely a burden
for the Prussian State to possess so large a royal family? He need only
ask any honest German who is not afraid to say what he thinks, whether
princes who live a life apart, cut off from modern ideas and interests,
and antagonistic to every Liberal tendency, are a blessing or a curse
to their dynasty and their country. There can be little doubt as to the
answer he will receive.
A more interesting personality is that of Prince Henry, the Emperor’s
brother. One can say of this capable second fiddle to the Kaiser,
that he is a model of fraternal devotion. In appearance he exhibits
a striking contrast with his brother, and in mental qualities the
difference between them is still more marked. Taller, slimmer, and
stronger, with a complexion tanned by the Baltic breezes, he is simple
and frank in intercourse. He has a natural affability, and shows no
trace of haughtiness or affectation. He never stayed long at Court;
hardly had he been announced there before he was off again to resume,
at Kiel, his duties as Grand Admiral and Inspector-General of the
Fleet, since the sedentary life of the capital has no charm for his
active spirit.
Sailor, diplomat, and sportsman—these are the three phases in which
he has appeared before the world. As squadron commander, he devoted
himself chiefly to training the infant German navy, to making the “High
Sea Fleet” of Dreadnoughts, torpedo-boats, and submarines a formidable
arm in the power of its ships, the efficiency of its officers, and the
discipline of its crews. His connection with the royal family of Great
Britain afforded him a pretext for frequent visits to the neighbour
island; there he learnt something of the strong and the weak points of
that British navy which he was preparing to fight one day. He liked to
call himself the comrade and admirer of English sailors—until he had a
chance of torpedoing their vessels and of attempting to destroy their
maritime supremacy.
In sending Prince Henry on a special mission to the United States,
under delicate circumstances—a coolness had arisen between the
two countries, owing to an incident in the Philippines during the
Hispano-American War—William II. entrusted him with the task of
inaugurating his American policy of conciliation and friendship. No
other Prussian royalty would have been so skilful as Prince Henry in
winning the sympathies of the journalists of New York and Chicago by
his democratic simplicity and frankness of manner. He acquitted himself
with equal success in his difficult missions to Russia and Japan. Quite
recently the Emperor sent him to the South American Republics, this
time to prepare the way for flooding the markets of Brazil, Argentina,
and Chili with the innumerable products of German industry.
The Prince has also become a zealous propagandist of the sports which
aim at training the German youth for war. A motorist from the earliest
days of motoring, he has applied himself to spreading the use of this
rapid means of transport. His alert brain was one of the first to grasp
the military value of aviation. While he has had no obvious place among
the Emperor’s advisers, all his efforts have been directed towards
equipping the nation for a struggle which he himself regarded as
imminent. In this way he has borne his share in making it inevitable.
IV.
When a ruler, like some conspicuous star, rivets the attention of the
civilized world, his satellites, careful not to shed any light that
may dim the radiance of their lord, are content to remain in modest
obscurity. This principle holds good at the Court of Berlin. The high
executive posts are filled by competent men of suave manners. None of
them enjoys any special prominence, although they all are or have been
members of the army, and belong to the landed gentry. They have always
espoused the doctrines of the Prussian military caste and Conservative
party, and share the hatred of these reactionaries for France and
for the Powers that have thrown in their lot with the Republic. In
their conversation with their master, it was inevitable that _Delenda
est Gallia_ should be the perpetual refrain. This harmony of feeling
among those around him would have impressed the mind of William II.,
even if he had not been so ready to assimilate their views. The Court
functionary who, before the war, was said to possess most credit
with the Kaiser was the Mistress of the Empress’s Household, a stern
guardian of Prussian etiquette and tradition. There is no likelihood
that she used her power to counteract the baneful influence of her
fellow-courtiers of the other sex.
The same truth applies to a high-born aristocrat of Austrian origin,
Prince Max Egon von Fürstenberg, who to-day, in the Emperor’s circle
of friends, holds the place formerly occupied by the fascinating
but depraved Philip von Eulenburg. He is the obvious favourite, the
Kaiser’s indispensable confidant, addressed by his master with the
“thou” of intimacy. He was given one of the great ornamental Court
posts, that of Grand Marshal, as a prelude, it was whispered, to a
far more important position in the Government. But how could this
newcomer, half German and half Austrian, who migrated to Berlin after
inheriting vast estates from Karl Egon, his cousin of the elder branch,
ever have undertaken anything but a sinecure, since he was unable to
manage his own property? Instead of quietly enjoying the princely
income derived from his patrimony, Prince Egon took it into his head
that he had a genius for business, like Herr von Gwinner, the director
of the Deutsche Bank, or Herr Ballin, the king of Germany’s mercantile
marine. With another moneyed grandee of equal inexperience, Prince von
Hohenlohe-Oeringen, he founded the famous Princes’ Trust, a unique
example, I believe, of an aristocratic ring boldly competing with the
lords of finance, industry, and commerce. In a few years this trust
piled one enterprise upon another, beginning with magnificent hotels in
Berlin and Hamburg. The crash was not long in coming; to-day, Prince
von Hohenlohe is ruined, and his associate has been compelled to
mortgage his ancestral estates to the tune of over £1,000,000.
Like many of his peers—laughter being an attribute of kings as of other
mortals—William II. requires to be amused. Prince Egon is a sparkling
companion, with a happy knack in telling good stories; he has all
the untiring fluency of the Viennese. This, obviously, is enough to
explain his success. In certain circles, however, people persist in
crediting him with a mysterious sway over his Imperial master, and in
regarding him as the power behind the throne who whispers advice into
the Sovereign’s ear. That he may have served now and then as a link
between Vienna and Berlin, between the Archduke Ferdinand and William
II., is not unlikely. At the close of the Balkan War, the Kaiser seemed
to have abandoned his ally during the latter’s vain efforts to secure
the revision of the Treaty of Bucharest. Fürstenberg may have been used
immediately afterwards to set the connection upon its former footing
of intimacy and confidence; before the murder of the Archduke, he may
have acted as a go-between for the two cronies, when they drew up the
plan of a war of revenge which, while compensating Austria for her
disappointments, was to set up the supremacy of Germany in Continental
Europe. To assign Prince Egon a more important rôle would be overrating
his mental capacity. We may safely acquit him of any share in the
direct responsibility for the war.
V.
By the terms of the 1871 Constitution, the Empire is a congeries of
federated States. The Emperor, at the head of the other reigning
princes, should properly be nothing but the _primus inter pares_, the
first among his peers, invested with very wide prerogatives and powers.
At a banquet given by the German Chamber of Commerce on the occasion of
Tsar Nicholas’s coronation, the present King of Bavaria (Prince Ludwig
as he then was) made a vigorous attack upon a speaker who had alluded
to the royalties attending this function as being in the retinue of
Prince Henry of Prussia, representing his august brother. In emphatic
terms, Prince Ludwig reminded his hearers that the German princes were
not the vassals, but the federal partners of the Emperor. The incident
has not yet been forgotten in Berlin, and this spirited protest won
great popularity for its author in South Germany. But was he justified
in what he said?
In sober truth, the King of Bavaria, who under a homely exterior hides
a most keen and subtle mind; the King of Saxony, with his loud voice,
sonorous laugh, and martial gait; the King of Würtemberg, that model of
a polished gentleman; the amiable Grand Duke of Baden, and the other
lesser gods of the modern German Valhalla—all these rulers are the
very humble servants of the Kaiser. In vain do they assume a tone of
equality when exchanging with him telegrams in which the affectionate
“thou” is part of the official style; in vain do they flit like busy
bees about their dominions, make a vast quantity of speeches to their
subjects, and honour public ceremonies with their presence; in the
eyes of German statesmanship, they are mere instruments of the will of
their master who lives in Berlin. Similarly, in the Federal Council,
their delegates receive the word of command from the Chancellor and the
Imperial Ministers, and on every important occasion vote submissively
with their Prussian colleagues. The shadow of the Emperor lies over
all Germany; the work of unification proceeds, gradually draining the
life-blood from the moribund body of separatism, while the Reichstag,
by its encroachments on the powers and privileges of the local Diets,
strives to become the sole deliberative assembly that can boast any
real authority.
Must we infer from this that the reigning houses are useless, and that
the first Emperor would have done well to suppress them, if such had
been his will and pleasure, after the victories of 1870? I do not think
so. When Bismarck, setting his face against the plea for centralization
put forward by the Prussian heir-apparent, succeeded in inducing old
King William to adopt his plan of a federal Empire such as exists
to-day, he did not foresee, perhaps, that these potentates, although
retaining but a shadow of their sovereignty, would be the solid pillars
of the monarchical principle in the new Germany. If they had been
entirely dispossessed, the Socialist and republican propaganda would
have made giant strides wherever the Prussian régime was detested.
The peoples of the different States, having been governed in paternal
fashion for some centuries by these local dynasties, have for the most
part maintained their loyalty to the ruling houses. The Hohenzollerns,
in their capacity as Emperors, have not yet struck their roots deep
into the country; they are loved only as Kings of Prussia, in their
ancestral provinces to the east of the Elbe.
It is difficult to believe that the news of the declaration of war was
received with delight by all these pseudo-sovereigns, who had not been
consulted as to its necessity. For form’s sake, the rulers of Bavaria,
Saxony, Würtemberg, and Baden were apprised throughout of the hurried
march of events. For some, the war interfered with old, comfortable
habits; so long as it lasted, there was no possibility of travels
abroad, of visits to watering-places, or even of hunting parties.
Almost all were faced with the prospect of family losses. Yet each of
them, from discipline or from a thrill of genuine patriotism, thought
it his duty to hail the news with enthusiasm. The Kings of Bavaria and
Saxony delivered speeches no less warlike than those of the Emperor.
All hastened to swim with the stream. It is worth while pointing out,
indeed, since some have wrongly held the contrary view, that the war
was greeted with no less acclamation in the rest of Germany than in
Prussia itself. The earliest demonstrations in Munich were as noisy
as those in Berlin. In Dresden, the mob, with at least as much frenzy
as the good folk of the Prussian capital, broke the windows of the
British legation. This state of feeling shows, in the first place, that
in southern Germany, with its placid inhabitants, a section of public
opinion (the section that made itself so prominent) had been quite as
much perverted, quite as deeply tainted with the pan-Germanic virus,
as the corresponding class in northern Germany, who had long been
infatuated with the notion of their own military superiority; and, in
the second place, that German unity is now considered by all Germans to
be an essential condition of their national existence.
It was Bismarck who, in order to win popular approval for that German
unity which he had forged, conceived the masterly idea of tempering it
in a war with a foreign enemy. An attempt to break the chain would, in
my opinion, be unwise; the links, if snapped asunder for the moment by
an external force, would become welded again of their own accord. In
a conquered Germany, however, the federal rulers, who yesterday bowed
down low before the Emperor, would to-morrow perhaps be the first to
raise their heads, and to deny their humbled Cæsar that pre-eminence
which he had used so ill.
VI.
The rise of Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg to the position of Chancellor
of the Empire has been a triumph for the bureaucracy. In looking for
shoulders strong enough to bear the massive heritage of Bismarck, the
Emperor, after applying in turn to the army, to the higher aristocracy,
and to diplomacy, was bound to fall back upon the Prussian official
caste. The fifth Chancellor has passed his whole career in the Civil
Service, beginning as assessor, and advancing through the grades of
district president, Prussian Minister of the Interior, and Imperial
Secretary of State for Home Affairs, a post that carries with it the
duties of Chancellor’s deputy. In less than twenty-five years he has
thus managed to climb every rung of the administrative ladder, and
to become the greatest man in the State after the Emperor. The fact
that he was a fellow-student of William II.’s at Bonn University has
presumably done nothing to retard this rapid promotion. Just as in
France every conscript carries a field-marshal’s baton in his knapsack,
so in Prussia, if the example of Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg is anything
to go by, every official at the outset of his career will be able to
say that he carries with him his nomination to the post of Chancellor.
What are the striking qualities that determined the Emperor’s choice
and gained for this favoured mandarin the honour of succeeding the
brilliant Prince von Bülow? So far as his mind is concerned, when we
have praised his honesty, his application to work, his intellectual
culture and his strict religious principles, there is nothing more
to say. If we add to this a frank, open face, a gigantic frame, and
a genial manner, the portrait will be complete. Friend and foe alike
declare that his private life is irreproachable, and all were sincerely
sorry for the Chancellor when his wedded bliss was cut short by death.
It must be admitted, however, that for a statesman who has to play the
leading part among his colleagues in Europe, all the above qualities
are of secondary importance. Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg is certainly
not without his personal views on politics, although they are far from
easy to discover. They might perhaps be defined as follows: for home
affairs, a Conservatism tempered with doctrinaire leanings, or, if you
prefer, a Conservative system that does not exclude some very moderate
Liberal tendencies; and as regards foreign policy, an extensive
development of German influence, culture, and language, in rivalry
with the French and the English, who—as he stated in an “inspired”
letter published by the Berlin newspapers—know better than the Germans
how to spread their national civilization beyond their own borders.
The Chancellor lacks two gifts that would seem to be essential to his
functions: a native eloquence and a firm will.
He is first and foremost the Emperor’s right-hand man, or rather
the Emperor’s proxy; for the real Chancellor, although the fact is
disguised by constitutional fictions, is the Sovereign himself.
Caprivi, with his independent nature, and Bülow, with his keen desire
to maintain his personal prestige, had disappointed William II. From
Bethmann-Hollweg, it would seem, there is nothing of the sort to fear.
He will always attempt to shield the Emperor’s actions with his own
constitutional responsibility. He would cheerfully go to the stake
and become a burnt-offering to public opinion, if such a sacrifice
were needed for the saving of his master’s reputation. In Berlin he
is known as the philosopher of Hohen-Finow, this being the name of
his estate. A philosopher, if you will, in the equanimity with which
he bears the failures of his administration, and with which he will
arm himself in his retirement, when the hour of disgrace has struck;
but above all a philosopher in his indifference or want of resolution
where ethics and politics are concerned. His readiness to bow to the
fiats of the Imperial will might more properly earn him the name of
courtier-philosopher. For the matter of that, they are all courtiers in
Berlin—all, that is to say, who on any rung of the ladder seek to be
honoured with the favour or the confidence of the Sovereign.
In his position with regard to the Reichstag and his influence on that
heterogeneous assembly, Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg cannot be compared
with his predecessor. He has lived and still lives as a being apart,
amid the indifference or hostility of the middle-class (otherwise
known as monarchical) parties. The Liberals expected him to carry out
a promised reform of the Prussian electoral law; but, finding the
measure indefinitely postponed, they view him with suspicion, in the
Landtag (or Prussian Diet) no less than in the Imperial Parliament.
The Catholic Centre cannot forgive this unbending Protestant for his
refusal to restore the right to teach to the Jesuit Order, and on the
other hand he is not reactionary enough to please the Conservatives.
The latter reproached him most bitterly of all, three years ago, for
the weakness with which he abandoned his scheme for the financial
working of the recent military law and supported the Radical
counter-scheme put forward by the Reichstag Committee. In fact, at the
beginning of 1914, it seemed that Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg’s days as
a minister were numbered, when suddenly the war came to interrupt all
party strife, and the roar of the guns drowned the voice of criticism
both in Press and in Parliament.
Officially, the Chancellor is Foreign Minister for the Empire. But the
domain of world-politics as conceived by Prince von Bülow is so vast
that his successor, better versed in the handling of home affairs,
would have lost himself in it, had he not let himself be guided by an
expert professional diplomat invested with the title of Secretary of
State. The first of these guides was Baron von Schoen, followed by Herr
von Kiderlen-Wächter, and the present Foreign Secretary is Herr von
Jagow. On certain occasions, however, the Chancellor was compelled to
make a statement on the foreign situation in the Reichstag. He painted
his pictures with a broad brush, and presented the leading events of
the day in a carefully thought out chiaroscuro well distributed over
the canvas. His speeches, which he had learnt by heart, seemed tame
and colourless, as is no doubt inevitably the case with this type of
literary effort. They were entirely lacking in that singular clearness
and note of sincerity that marked the kindred utterances of Sir Edward
Grey in the House of Commons.
Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg is a man of conciliatory temper, and a
large blend of pacifism certainly enters into his nature. The need
of a long spell of peace, to complete the splendid commercial and
industrial expansion of Germany, could not have escaped his clear
vision. This explains why he was the object of frequent appeals,
outside the formal discussions, from the eminent diplomat who opposed
Herr von Kiderlen-Wächter in the dangerous game that was being played
in connection with Morocco. The French Yellow Book for 1911 contains
a report of some conversations that M. Jules Cambon had with the
Chancellor, and the impression they give is that the latter really
wished to arrive at a final understanding. It was to the Chancellor,
again, that the Ambassador turned when the time came for settling other
thorny questions, such as the delimitation of railway concessions and
spheres of influence in Asia Minor, and when the German negotiators
proved too refractory. In other quarters, a genuine improvement in his
country’s relations with Great Britain was Bethmann-Hollweg’s most
cherished dream, without any latent thought (such as would perhaps have
occurred to Prince von Bülow) of afterwards giving the death-blow,
at the favourable moment, to England’s naval supremacy. There is no
reason to believe that Herr von Jagow was not speaking the language of
sincerity, when he expressed to Sir Edward Goschen,[5] in the course of
their last, painful interview, “his poignant regret at the crumbling of
his entire policy and that of the Chancellor, which had been to make
friends with Great Britain, and through Great Britain to get closer to
France.”
Is this regret compatible with Bethmann-Hollweg’s wavering attitude in
the Austro-Serbian crisis? I think so. His personal preferences made
him lean towards a peaceful solution, but this weak man let his hand
be forced by the war party, and bowed, as usual, to the will of the
Emperor. He was all the more ready to take this course in that he was
nothing but a tool, and probably unaware of the real designs at the
back of the Imperial brain. When he saw where this reckless policy
was leading Germany, he should have stood out and protested; instead
of this, his wrath turned against England, who had shattered the fond
illusions of Berlin by refusing to look on quietly while the neutrality
of Belgium was violated. The philosopher of Hohen-Finow was transformed
into an irascible Teuton; all the Prussian violence that ran in his
veins, mingled with his Frankfort blood, suddenly came to the surface,
and the professional calm of the statesman, accustomed to control his
nerves, gave place to a dramatic outburst of anger.
From the spirited account given by Sir Edward Goschen in his dispatch
to Sir Edward Grey, we can readily picture to ourselves the historic
scene that took place in the Chancellor’s room at the German Foreign
Office on the 4th of August 1914, after England had declared war.
We can call up the attitude of the two actors: the Chancellor, his
gray-bearded face purple with rage, his tall form leaning towards the
British Ambassador, while the latter’s pale features maintain the
habitual coolness of his race. In voicing his indignation, the German
hit upon phrases more vivid and picturesque than would have been
expected from him.
“Belgian neutrality, a scrap of paper!” These unlucky words will
stick for ever to the memory of Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg. This man
of wide culture, with a more exalted sense of justice than many of
his countrymen, has shown us that respect for treaties no longer
existed for him, so long as strategic considerations demanded that
they should be broken. The inviolability of small States, their
independence and their right to live, had no more value in his eyes
than the international agreements that sanction these principles. On
the same day, in the Reichstag, the Chancellor admitted, without any
subterfuges—a frankness which he regrets to-day—that the Imperial
Government, by the invasion of Belgium, had transgressed the law of
nations. But, he pointed out, necessity knows no law, and he tried to
excuse himself by attributing, without any probability or material
proof, a similar design to the French. Belgium should quietly have let
herself be invaded; she would have been indemnified later on!
It was a sad disillusion for those who, thinking that they knew
Bethmann-Hollweg, would never have regarded him as an unscrupulous
politician. If he could not be a great minister, he might at least
have endorsed Prussia’s signature and guarded the honour of the young
German Empire. A mere nod from the Emperor was enough to make him the
zealous vindicator of a crime. His language in this tragic crisis was
that of a court sycophant without courage or conscience, not that of a
statesman. In spite of his philosophy, he resigned himself to an act
that disgraced Germany, and thus played the part, not of a patriotic
and independent thinker, but of a courtier-philosopher.
VII.
To leave Rome for Berlin; to exchange the fine Caffarelli Palace
on the Capitol for the modest residence that houses the Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs; to pass from the cloudless skies and
bright sunshine of the Roman Campagna to the chill mists of the
Spree; and, worst of all, to lose an almost independent position,
and become the hard-working servant of the Kaiser and the recognized
mentor of the Chancellor—all this is a severe test of self-denial for
a German diplomat who, while still in the prime of life, has reached
the height of his ambitions and the zenith of his career. We can
realize, therefore, that Herr von Jagow did not accept ministerial
honours without a struggle, and that he only assumed the mantle of
Kiderlen-Wächter in obedience to repeated orders from his master.
The new Secretary of State appears to have been the spoilt child of
Roman society. One may question, however, whether he possessed the
difficult art of reading the souls of Italian statesmen and fathoming
their secrets. The expedition to Tripoli was planned without the
knowledge of the ambassador from the most important member of the
Triplice. Like his colleagues, he did not learn of the scheme until
it was beyond the range of discussion, so greatly did the Consulta
dread that the Imperial Government would place its veto upon this first
step towards the dismemberment of Turkey, the client and protégée of
Germany. In spite of this, after Herr von Jagow’s return to Berlin,
the credit of Italy there seemed on a firmer basis than ever. She now
possessed, it was said, two representatives in Berlin instead of one:
the ambassador of His Majesty King Victor Emmanuel, and the Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs, who adhered faithfully to his Italian
sympathies.
This great friendship between Rome and Berlin did not prevent the
Cabinet of the Quirinal from remaining neutral at first in the
world-war, before resolutely opposing the Central Empires. It is
true that Herr von Jagow had paid the Italians in their own coin, by
not informing them of the plot hatched against Serbia, a plot that
was certain to endanger their interests in the Balkan Peninsula,
and to disturb the balance between Austrian ambitions and their own
aspirations. Vienna and Rome were bound by a clause in the alliance
to come to an understanding beforehand with regard to any alteration
of the _status quo_ in the Balkans. Italy protested against this
neglect of treaty obligations, while at the same time pleading that the
defensive character of the Triplice justified her in holding aloof from
a struggle in which the aggressors were indubitably her allies.
At the Wilhelmstrasse, Herr von Jagow at first appeared to be slightly
out of his element. His manner towards the foreign diplomatic corps was
reserved; he almost stood on the defensive, as if fearing indiscreet
questions. In point of fact, the European situation was full of
uncertainty and danger. The Balkan War was at its height. The Imperial
Government, in response to German public opinion, seemed anxious to
maintain harmony between the Great Powers, which were acting as uneasy
spectators of Turkey’s collapse. The Foreign Secretary’s wits were
set vigorously to work, first of all in restraining and reprimanding
Austria, and then in helping her, in concert with Italy, to obtain
compensations that would look like diplomatic triumphs: the exclusion
of Serbia from the Adriatic, the abandonment of Scutari by Montenegro,
and the setting-up of an independent Albania. He did not part company
with Austria until the moment when she tried in vain to raise
trouble once more in the Balkans, after the treaty of peace had been
definitively signed at Bucharest.
In relation to France Herr von Jagow, presumably in compliance with
orders from above, showed himself far from cordial. When a question
was asked in the Reichstag about the Nancy incident, his reply went
beyond the legitimate tone of official displeasure. In his hasty and
uncharitable judgment of facts that were not yet established, we may
perhaps trace a secret desire to humour the hostile feelings towards
France entertained by the majority in the Reichstag, and to win the
favour of that majority. The maiden speech of the new Secretary of
State fell rather flat. He himself openly confessed his nervousness
at having to speak in public. Like most of his colleagues in the
diplomatic profession, he lacks the gift of eloquence, and is readier
with his pen than with his tongue.
This sagacious little man, with his strikingly youthful appearance
(although he is now well on in the fifties), his carefully groomed
person, his marked politeness of manner, and his artistic tastes,
is the antithesis of Herr von Kiderlen-Wächter. The latter,
a broad-shouldered Suabian, very deficient in breeding, but
thoroughly good-natured, had a disconcerting abruptness that was
sometimes redeemed by a flash of genial humour. In one aspect of
their characters, however, these two Germans, the Prussian and the
Würtemberger, were alike: in their disregard of small nationalities
and their profound contempt for second-rate Powers. Punctually every
Thursday, there used to arrive at each legation a letter written by the
Secretary of State’s own hand, expressing his deep regret that he could
not receive the minister on the Friday, which was the day set apart
for the reception of envoys extraordinary. In other countries, no
distinction is made between ambassadors and ministers plenipotentiary;
the latter have the same access as their great colleagues to the head
of the Foreign Office, whose time is quite as precious as that of the
Foreign Secretary for the German Empire. “What is the use,” Herr von
Jagow no doubt said to himself, as Herr von Kiderlen-Wächter had said
before him, “of receiving this small fry of the diplomatic world? If
they have any urgent business to transact, let them telephone to ask
for an audience. But when it comes to discussing the condition of
Europe with them every week, having to listen to their questions and
to make replies—what a waste of time! How can the broader aspects of
politics interest these gentry? As for asking them about what is going
on in their paltry capitals, there is no need for me to do that; I get
all I want from the excellent reports sent me by our agents at the
inferior Courts.”
“No, sir,” one of those diplomats might object, “you were wrong in
relying solely on those agents of yours. If you had been better
acquainted with the state of feeling in Belgium, with the passionate
devotion of the Belgians to their free institutions, with their
unflinching resolve to resist all external pressure, from whatever
source it might come, and to fight to the death for their neutrality
and their independence, as precious in their eyes as national unity
in those of the Germans—if you had known all this, you would perhaps
have put your Emperor on his guard against miscalculations, against
the danger of hastily invading a friendly little neighbour-country.
You, personally, are not supposed to be of a pugnacious turn. On the
other hand, you have too much insight and experience not to have seen,
better than the professional soldiers of the General Staff, to what
developments in the European crisis their policy would lead. You will
say, perhaps, that you were not summoned to Berlin in order that you
might give advice. Your function was to carry out the instructions
of your Sovereign. It is just because you consented to play so
self-effacing a rôle in the world-wide upheaval set in motion by the
Emperor’s statesmanship, that you will be severely blamed, when the
responsibility of each actor in the drama is finally settled.”
There is one matter on which Herr von Jagow could never see eye to eye
with the representative of Belgium—to wit, the colonial question, which
gave the German Foreign Office much food for anxious thought. One day,
some months before the war, the Secretary of State, in the course of
an informal conversation, expressed the opinion that King Leopold had
been treated too indulgently over the partition of Central Africa at
the Berlin Conference. Bismarck had been too generous; Belgium was not
rich enough properly to develop the vast empire bequeathed her by her
great king; it was an enterprise beyond her powers of expansion and her
financial means, and she would find herself compelled to give it up.
Germany, on the other hand, in view of her capacity for colonizing, her
boundless resources, and her commercial requirements, had obtained far
too small a share of African territory, and a fresh partition therefore
seemed to be necessary. Herr von Jagow, in dilating upon this theme,
tried to imbue his visitor with his own contempt for the title-deeds
of small States. According to him, only the great Powers had the right
and the ability to colonize. He even revealed what lay at the back of
his mind—that in the changes which were passing over Europe to the
advantage of the stronger nationalities, the small States could no
longer enjoy the independent existence that they had hitherto been
allowed to lead; they were doomed to disappear, or to gravitate towards
the orbit of the Great Powers.
These disquieting suggestions were not made, of course, to the Belgian
minister, but to the ambassador of another country. At the back of the
diplomatic stage in a great capital, however, everything leaks out
sooner or later; the personal views of the man who nominally directs
foreign policy cannot be kept secret from interested parties. This was
especially the case in Berlin, where, among the heads of legations,
a certain number held more or less closely together, according as
their countries were more or less exposed to the menace of the German
colossus, whose growth and appetites they watched with a very natural
vigilance.
If we append these remarks of Herr von Jagow to those made at his
final interview with Sir Edward Goschen, in which he lamented the
bankruptcy of his plans for friendship with England and reconciliation
with France, we can readily guess what terms he and Herr von
Bethmann-Hollweg, those two pacifists, would have demanded for the
formation of such an agreement. The two Western Powers would have
been forced cheerfully to abandon to Germany the little States which
obstruct her development along the North Sea coast and prevent her
from breathing freely. They would have been compelled to allow Germany
eventually to make these States, willing or unwilling, enter the
Germanic federation, which would thus have become the great Empire, the
heir of its remote mediæval prototype, ever present in the dreams of
the German intellectuals.
VIII.
As you walk along the Wilhelmstrasse, coming from Unter den Linden,
you see, to the right, a long building of only one story, in the
obsolete style of the early nineteenth century. It looks very bare
and unpretentious by the side of the eighteenth century mansions that
flank it right and left and the palatial Government offices, of more
recent construction, that lie opposite. This venerable edifice is no
other than the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, the _Auswärtiges Amt_, of
the Empire. Here, fifty years ago, were planned the changes that the
Hohenzollerns wrought with their swords in the map of Europe; here is
the real starting-point of their Imperial power. As you enter and go up
the marble staircase, you catch the musty smell that comes from masses
of papers and documents in an old and ill-ventilated building. Follow
the main corridor which cuts it in half, and a polite attendant will
escort you to a room that is scarcely any larger than a monastic cell.
You go in, and find yourself face to face with the Under-Secretary of
State.
Herr Zimmermann is a blond Teuton, with a military moustache and a
pleasant smile that gives promise of a cordial welcome. This high
official is a self-made man in the full sense of the term. He won
such distinction by his services as consul in the Far East that the
authorities recalled him and gave him an appointment at Foreign Office
headquarters. Here, by sheer merit, he has risen to the exalted post
in which his capacity for work and his sound judgment have won him the
confidence of the Chancellor and of two successive Foreign Secretaries,
as well as the good graces of the Emperor. Every one in Berlin thinks
that Herr Zimmermann, who has gone so far, is likely to go still
further.
He might reasonably be called a godsend to diplomats. Heads of
legations and _chargés d’affaires_, looking for news or short
of information, apply to him, in order to be able to apprise
their Government of matters in which they are interested. The
Under-Secretary of State merely says what has to be said, without
betraying any secrets of the Imperial Chancellery; but this is enough
to put his hearers on the right track, for his communications are
always accurate.
Is it possible for us to divine his personal feelings with regard to
the war? Would it be impugning his patriotism to doubt whether he was
firmly convinced of its necessity? These questions are not easy to
answer, for on this topic no German capable of frankness, unless he is
hopelessly saturated with Pan-Germanism, will speak out nowadays before
a stranger. What I can say, without fear of contradiction, is this:
that the Under-Secretary of State was not a wholehearted supporter of
the policy of alliances bequeathed by Bismarck, since he realized all
the entanglements and dangers that they involved. How often, during
the Balkan crisis, was he seen to express his impatience with the
Cabinet of Vienna, when the latter turned a deaf ear to the good advice
telegraphed from Berlin! When I took leave of him, before returning to
my unhappy country, which had already been invaded by the advance-guard
of the German army, he said to me, in a tone of unfeigned regret: “Ah,
this war means the end of the policy of alliances!” What a world of
sorrow and disappointment lay in this avowal!
His constant relations with the directors of great companies, with
commercial and industrial magnates, who were invited to his bachelor
table together with foreign diplomats, led the latter to suppose that
their host shared the pacific ideas of their fellow-guests. A prolonged
era of peace was required, if the vigorous development of the national
resources was to continue. This is an incontestable truth, which cannot
be repeated too often. Moreover, a prolonged era of peace would have
enabled the Germans, by virtue of their genius for organizing, their
methodical ways, and their capacity for hard work, to become the
leading nation in almost every sphere of international competition,
owning the main sources of industrial production, and holding the
unquestioned economic supremacy of Europe. Yet they have been mad
enough to make a bid for this supremacy by a war that is utterly at
variance with the progress of civilization! It is difficult to see
how so enlightened a man as Herr Zimmermann, one so closely in touch
with the needs of industrial Germany, could have been anything but a
pacifist.
The principal task of those who direct foreign affairs is the same
in all great capitals. One must be a Bismarck to plan one war after
another a long time in advance, while conducting the foreign policy
of the State. Bismarck’s excuse lies in the fact that these wars were
essential for German unity. Once his end was gained, the all-powerful
minister put Prussia’s sword back in its sheath, and devoted himself
to consolidating the glory and the conquests that had been won. The
Berlin Foreign Office cannot really be suspected of having worked in
the dark against the maintenance of a peace policy, such as was pursued
during the last twenty years of the Iron Chancellor. To avoid needless
conflicts, to scatter the clouds as soon as they gathered at any
point on the horizon, to ward off the frightful perils of a European
conflagration—this has been the noble duty and the thankless task of
diplomats throughout the last few years, in the positions of watchmen
or pilots which they have held in foreign countries or at the head of
the home department. At the Wilhelmstrasse, as elsewhere, the officials
were faced with the duty of trying to fulfil these lofty moral
obligations; they did so with a mixture of civility and gruffness, and
their changes of mood were too obvious, but they undoubtedly meant well.
Here arises a difficult question. In view of the definite aspirations
of a large element in the German nation, with their manifest desire for
expansion, how did the Foreign Office propose to satisfy them? Was it
merely aiming at a vague peace policy, or had it any tangible schemes
in view?
A book and a pamphlet published in 1913, when a festival was held to
celebrate the twenty-fifth year of William II.’s reign, gives us the
key to the riddle. They throw a discreet but sufficient light upon the
policy of expansion recommended at the Wilhelmstrasse.
The book—_Imperial Germany_—is by Prince von Bülow, who thus broke the
silence he had observed since the day of his retirement. He reviews the
political history of the Empire for the past quarter of a century, and
points to the path which it ought to follow in the future both at home
and abroad.
According to the ex-Chancellor, the Germany of to-day can no longer
cling to Bismarck’s Continental policy or obey the precepts handed
down by him to his successors. She must open out for herself new
and broader tracks, corresponding to the progress achieved in the
last thirty years. During this period, the population has increased
by twenty million souls, and her industry, fostered by an enormous
growth in labour-power, has crossed the seas in order to distribute
over the entire globe those products which the home markets were no
longer capable of absorbing. This vast industrial output has made it
necessary to build a mercantile marine, to which more and more units
are added every year, and this commercial fleet has brought in its
train the construction of an imposing navy. The last-named enterprise
was fraught with difficulties; for we could not avoid exciting the
jealousy of England, and in order to succeed it was essential to beware
of arousing her hostility. England looks with no friendly eye on the
rise of a foreign naval power, which might seek one day to contend
with her the mastery of the seas. Germany has no intention of issuing
such a challenge to England, as the France of Louis XIV. and the
United Provinces did in days gone by. Although the German navy has
become, in the course of a few years, the second in the world, its sole
mission is to watch over German trade and German interests, to see that
they are not obstructed in any way. Just as German industry, after
being exclusively domestic and national not long since, has become
world-wide, so German statesmanship, which was exclusively European in
the days of Bismarck—for it then had no other object than to secure for
Germany her rightful place in the first rank of Continental Powers—has
likewise been raised to a world-wide plane. Prince von Bülow is careful
to insist upon the purely defensive rôle that the Imperial fleet has
marked out for itself, and, in order to reassure us as to the peaceful
aims of the new statesmanship, he quotes the following passage from a
speech made by him in the Reichstag on 6th November 1906: “It is the
duty of our generation to uphold our position on the Continent, which
is the basis of our international position; to protect our interests
abroad; and to pursue a sober, judicious, and far-sighted international
policy, limited in such a way that the safety of the German people
shall incur no risks and the future of the nation shall not be
jeopardized.”
Sage counsels these! But to our Latin mind, with its passion
for clearness, the phrases “international policy,” “transmarine
policy,” “world policy,” which are so plentifully sprinkled about
the ex-Chancellor’s pages, convey no very precise meaning. Was it
world-policy that involved, for instance, the sending of a few cruisers
to the Mexican coast to protect German trade and German residents
during the war between Huerta and Carranza? Was it the same policy
that brought about the dispatch of a squadron to the China Seas, in
order to seize Kiauchau and Tsingtau, and to obtain by main force from
the Chinese Government the concession of a naval station and a rich
mining territory, with the right of erecting formidable defence-works?
Prince von Bülow has himself felt the need of throwing a little light
for his readers upon the dark recesses of his thought. He gives us
to understand that Germany now possesses the means, not only of
safeguarding her interests, of resisting any attack, but also of
extending her influence everywhere, especially in Asia Minor and Africa.
The pamphlet entitled _Die Weltpolitik und kein Krieg_ (“A World-policy
without War”) is more explicit. It bears no signature, but according
to the view generally accepted in the best-informed political circles
in Berlin, it was issued under the auspices of the Foreign Office. The
latter has not denied its paternity.
The nameless author first of all sets forth the reasons why a
Continental war is apparently no longer to be feared. The Balkan League
has dissolved in blood, and, no less than Turkey, those allies of
yesterday who are implacable foes to-day will need time for healing
their wounds and recruiting their strength. France has her hands so
full with the pacification of Morocco that she does not wish to cause
any complications in Europe. Russia is turning her eyes more and more
towards Central Asia. Anglo-German relations are improving every day.
Germany is devoting herself to the expansion of her commercial and
industrial power; she has invested large sums of capital in her railway
enterprises in Asia Minor, but she must not extend these enterprises
indefinitely, since it might not be feasible for her to protect them
in the event of war. Germany is not yet a Mediterranean power; to
defend the concessions granted to her subjects in Syria and Asia Minor,
her fleet would have to pass under the guns of Gibraltar, Malta, and
Bizerta.
There remains Africa. Sir Edward Grey has stated in Parliament that
Britain will not oppose the advance of German colonization, for she
herself has no thought of acquiring fresh colonies. Portugal and
Belgium are not in a position to colonize their African territories:
the former, because of her financial weakness and her internal
dissensions; the latter, because she does not wish to spend the sums
needed for developing the Congo, which she annexed in the delusive
hope that it would cost her no sacrifices. German capital and the
aptitude of the German race for colonizing, its commercial ability,
and its spirit of enterprise, are the only factors capable of spreading
civilization in the heart of the Dark Continent and exploiting its
wealth. The co-operation of Germany, therefore, is essential both
for the Belgians and for the Portuguese. She might occupy a position
in their colonies similar to that of France in Tunis and Morocco, or
to that of Russia in Persia. It would be a peaceful penetration and
development, in which the Belgians, with their keen business instinct,
would be willing to take part, even if the Portuguese did not clearly
understand its necessity.
This is something definite to go upon. The international or world
policy, as conceived by the Wilhelmstrasse in 1913, was a colonial
expansion, proceeding on peaceful lines.
In the ensuing winter the Imperial Government opened negotiations with
the London Cabinet for the demarcation of British and German spheres
of influence in the African colonies of Portugal; the former was to
have comprised Mozambique, the latter Angola. Without waiting for the
conclusion of these negotiations, a committee of research was formed in
Hamburg, for the purpose of investigating the agricultural and mineral
wealth of Angola, and great German banks tried to obtain control of the
Lobito Bay railway, which runs from the coast of the Portuguese colony
to Katanga in the Belgian Congo.
In the foregoing pages, while sketching the portraits of those who
direct Germany’s foreign policy, I have tried to summarize the views of
each, as they appear to me in the light of their acts, their private
statements, and their occasional public declarations. We have seen how
the Chancellor nursed the hope of maintaining friendly relations with
England, come what might; how Herr von Jagow set little store by the
national life of small States; and how the more practical minds of
the Under-Secretary and the Foreign Office staff contented themselves
with immediate colonial expansion and the opening up of new fields for
the activities of the German race. All these individual aspirations,
however, were overshadowed by the will, as yet inscrutable, of the
Emperor. When that will was revealed in the tragic last days of July,
these men all hastened to obey its bidding with equal alacrity.