“THE PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE OF THE KAISER”--WANGENHEIM OPPOSES THE SALE
OF AMERICAN WARSHIPS TO 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’ 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
reorganizing 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’ arrival it had been announced
that he was to take command of the first Turkish army corps, and that
General Bronssart 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’ 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 representatives 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’ elevation. The Turkish Cabinet hemmed and hawed in the usual
way, protested that the change was not important, but finally it
withdrew Von Sanders’ 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 Pasha, 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 and that, so far as Russia was concerned, the Von Sanders affair
had not ended. I remember writing to my family that, in this mysterious
Near-Eastern 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 how
seriously 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, hardly said 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’ 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’ name appears with
the numerals “13” against it. I must admit, however, that “the 13th
chair” did bring him pretty well to the foot of the table.
I explained the situation to Von Mutius and asked M. 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’ rank at number 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 had done 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 _stationnaire_ 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, I think that she at least will mobilize 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 where he 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 Prussianized.
What in January had been an undisciplined, ragged rabble was now
parading with the goose step; the men were clad in German field gray,
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 instruction. I did not have the slightest question
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
approached 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 promote Greek national aims. 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 coöperate with it.
Since Germany, however, had her own plans for
[Illustration: TALAAT PASHA, EX-GRAND VIZIER OF TURKEY
In 1914, when the war broke out, Talaat was Minister of the Interior and
the most influential leader in the Committee of Union and Progress, the
secret organization which controlled the Turkish Empire. A few years ago
Talaat was a letter-carrier, and afterward a telegraph operator in
Adrianople. His talents are those of a great political boss. He
represented Turkey in the peace negotiations with Russia and his
signature appears on the Brest-Litovsk treaty.]
[Illustration: TURKISH INFANTRY AND CAVALRY
In January, 1914, the Turkish Army was a ragged, undisciplined force.
These troops, drilled by German military instructors, show the result of
six months’ training.]
Asia Minor, inevitably 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. Any one who has read even cursorily the literature of
Pan-Germania is familiar with the peculiar 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, she
has applied to Belgium, to Poland, to Serbia; 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 afterward
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 seashore.” The
German motive, Admiral Usedom said, was purely military. Whether Talaat
and his associates realized 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 employees
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 organization 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 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 has a
protecting interest in them. The Turks 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 dreadnaught which was then under construction in England. The
government had ordered also a second dreadnaught 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 dreadnaught 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 against 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 dreadnaughts. 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 dreadnaughts had been finished, but to
attack as soon as they received these American ships. Djemal’s point, of
course, had no legal validity. However great the threat of war might be,
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 sometime 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 dreadnaughts
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 realizes 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 13th; 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 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 objections 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 take up the matter
directly with the President. They acted on this advice, but the Greeks
again got ahead of them. At two o’clock, June 22d, 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 authorization 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 realized from the sale to the
construction of a great modern dreadnaught, the _California_. Mr.
Gauntlett transferred the ships to the Greek Government. Rechristened
the _Kilkis_ and the _Lemnos_, those battleships immediately took their
places as the most powerful vessels of 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-story 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
[Illustration: BUSTÁNY EFFENDI
Ex-Minister of Commerce and Agriculture in the Turkish Cabinet. He came
to Mr. Morgenthau in January, 1914, seeking American assistance in
financially rehabilitating Turkey]
[Illustration: MOHAMMED V, LATE SULTAN OF TURKEY
His majesty was a kind-hearted old gentleman, entirely ignorant of the
world and lacking in personal force and initiative. The lower picture
shows the Sultan’s carriage at the American Embassy, waiting to take Mr.
Morgenthau to an imperial audience]
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 four 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 to
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 _stationnaires_, dancing and flirting, seemed to
think that the whole proceeding had been arranged solely for their
amusement. And to realize, 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 realize 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 Archduke 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
realized 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 _Frankfurter 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
Archduke’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
pretentions, and that probably a punitive expedition into Serbia would
be necessary to prevent such outrages as the murder of the Archduke.
Herein I had my first intimation of the famous ultimatum of July 22d.
The entire diplomatic corps attended the requiem mass for the Archduke
and Archduchess, celebrated at the Church of Sainte Marie on July 4th.
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 symbolized 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 Archduke, 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; 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 ambassadorial group at the church and, afterward, 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.