Another target for the Kaiser’s disapproval was his wife’s younger sister, Princess Louise Sophie, who had married his second cousin, Prince Frederick Leopold. This little couple, young and gay, offended William by their independence. Sometimes he commanded his wife to reprimand her younger sister, sometimes he did it himself. Once, at a Court function, the Princess wore a cream-coloured satin dress with red poppies painted on it. “What!” exclaimed the Emperor. “A perfect flower garden.” Next day she received a message forbidding her to appear in such a striking frock.
The couple objected to the spying and tittle-tattle that went on between members of their own household and the Imperial Court, and the bad feeling, engendered by spiteful ladies-in-waiting, provided the background for a fantastic episode which occurred in the winter of 1895. The Princess lived at Glienecke, not far from Berlin. One day, when her husband was away, she decided to go skating. She was not supposed to leave the house without both a lady and a gentleman in attendance, and the gentleman had gone home on leave. However, since the lake was close and it was unlikely anyone would notice, she summoned her lady and set forth. They planned to skate to the other side, but the Princess had not gone more than a hundred yards before the ice broke and she fell in. Her companion tried to help her and fell in too. An old man saw them and came running to pull them out. Then he fell in.
Luckily a group of farm workers were near the bank and shouted that they would fetch a ladder. It took them nearly twenty minutes to get it, and when the three victims were finally pulled out they were more dead than alive. The Princess was given brandy, wrapped in blankets and driven home. A doctor was summoned from Berlin and while she lay in bed, still shivering convulsively, a servant announced that her sister, the Empress, had called to see her. Knowing that she would get into trouble for having gone out accompanied only by a lady, she sent a message that she was in bed with a cold, and begged to be excused. Unfortunately news of the adventure appeared in the evening papers. The Princess immediately scribbled a note to her sister explaining that she had felt unable to receive her as she was still suffering from shock. But the harm was done. Although the Princess woke up the next day with inflammation of the veins, there was to be no forgiveness.
Two days later the Emperor’s A.D.C. appeared with a letter from his royal master to the Prince: “In spite of frequent admonitions you have not been lucky enough to guide and keep your wife in the conception of life proper to a Prussian Princess, which she has the high honour to be. I am, therefore, forced to use severe measures to make you both comprehend that, in virtue of my office as Chief and Head of the Family, I have the power to insist on the observance of laws of traditions, decency and custom.
“Your Court will be secluded from every communication from the outer world for fourteen days. You are to regard yourself as under arrest and to deliver your sword to my Adjutant. An officer will patrol Glienecke. From now onwards your wife is not allowed to leave the garden without a Gentleman and a Lady; the Mistress of the Robes is to be received daily by her for a short time and, as it should be, treated like a lady. Also, to ride without a Lady is forbidden! The arrest applies to your wife as well as yourself. I think fourteen days of quiet thinking will make clear to her that it is better to accommodate herself to the existing statutes. Wilhelm R.”
“Those indeed were a sad fourteen days passed by us,” wrote the Princess, “labouring under a sense of injustice for which there was no redress, days which neither my husband nor I could ever forget. I must confess that the first thing I did was to climb on a chair and take down the only portrait of the Emperor we had, tear it to pieces and throw it into the fire. After that I felt decidedly better.”[109]
Once the old Chancellor had departed, William II was consumed by one overwhelming desire: to win fame for the House of Hohenzollern by overshadowing Bismarck’s achievements with even more glorious achievements of his own. Bismarck had unified Germany and forged it into the greatest power on the continent, and now William, with all the restless ambition of youth, desired to take her a step farther along the path of greatness and build her into an international power. His mother’s gibes at German provincialism had not been lost on him; secretly he admired and envied the sophisticated internationalism that stemmed from Britain’s world-wide authority. The great imperial capital of London, nerve-centre of trade and finance, extending like a giant web over the face of the globe, excited his imagination, and provoked a deep and painful jealousy. This is what he wanted for Germany. He had no thought of war, but aspired to a voice that could be heard across the oceans of the world. He would throw the Hohenzollern gauntlet into the arena by expanding his colonial possessions and building a navy. His first act after Bismarck’s departure was to swap Germany’s Zanzibar, off the coast of Africa, for Britain’s Heligoland, in order to secure an important naval base. “The course remains the same,” he told Eulenburg cheerfully, ‘Full steam ahead’ is the order.”
But was the course the same? Bismarck had become cautious in his old age, and increasingly impressed by the advantages of peace and retrenchment. Germany, he decided, must remain inside the frontiers he had drawn for her, and so in his latter years he had bent all his energies to insuring and reinsuring the permanence of those frontiers. He not only had guarded himself by the treaty with Russia — abandoned by William — and by the Triple Alliance with Italy and Austria, but had built up a barricade of lesser agreements. For instance, in order to increase harmony with Britain he had persuaded Italy and Austria to sign ententes with London, pledging themselves to observe the status quo of Turkey and the Mediterranean. And he even dropped the idea of building a colonial empire because, he said, it would bring him into too much conflict with England. Although in the eighties he had acquired German New Guinea and territories in Africa known as German West Africa, German South West Africa, and the German Cameroons, he did nothing to develop them and at the end of the decade spoke of them with contempt as “a burden and an expense,” not worth England’s hostility. “Here is France and here is Russia with Germany in the middle,” he once remarked to a famous explorer. “That is my map of Africa.”
However, this careful conservative Bismarck of advanced years was not an image with which the public was familiar, for his cautious views — like many of his treaties — were cunningly hidden beneath the bluff exterior. The public only knew the Bismarck who had given Germany the finest army in Europe, the Bismarck of blood and iron, the Bismarck who as late as 1888 had thrilled the Reichstag, in his last speech, by declaring: “We Germans fear God and nothing else in the world.” Even the ministers who served under him were scarcely aware of his preoccupation with safety; for had he not, only a few weeks before his resignation, been pressing the young Kaiser to tear up the Constitution, abolish universal suffrage, and, if necessary, fight the Socialists with bullets?
If William II’s course was not the same as Bismarck’s, at least his reign was the natural, almost inevitable result of the Bismarck philosophy and the Bismarck success. Indeed, it is doubtful whether Bismarck himself could have continued to rule by a policy of restraint, for he had kindled desires in the hearts of his countrymen which could not easily be extinguished. William II could almost be described as the Chancellor’s own creation, for who but Bismarck had inflamed the young Prince’s mind with the glory of monarchy, the desirability of autocracy, the power of intimidation? The Empress Frederick had foreseen the eventual consequences and for years bemoaned them to her mother. “Prince Bismarck has so much that is brutal and cynical in his nature, so little that is noble and upright, he is so completely a man of another century than ours, that as an example of an ideal he becomes very dangerous,” she had written in 1887. “He is a patriot and a genius but as a school, there could not be a worse one! Opinions such as William holds are very much the fashion nowadays in Germany — they have half-created the immense power Bismarck possesses and he had half-created them…”[110] The most striking differences between the two regimes was that
Bismarck’s rule was competent and William’s was not. Although the young Kaiser was a highly political animal — a fact that the old Chancellor had not fully appreciated — he was not capable of serious application. He disliked routine and even refused to set aside a regular day a week for consultation with his Chancellor. He preferred to rule by impulse and interference. Indeed, this was the only way he was capable of ruling, for although he had a quick mind and a wide range of interests, although he could assimilate facts with astonishing rapidity and often amazed scientists, artists, philosophers, and business men with his grasp of their problems, he lacked the patience to reflect and the power to reason. His head was full of information but he could not work out a logical course, or even adhere to one; invariably he gave way to the whim of the moment, changing his opinions with bewildering frequency. So he scribbled impetuous comments on the margins of state papers, wrote private letters to his fellow monarchs, held indiscreet conversations with foreign military attaches, and, when he felt inclined, made sensational pronouncements. He adored public ceremonies. He liked uniforms, decorations, crowds, and splendour. Best of all, he liked making speeches. Every time he unveiled a statue, inspected a regiment, or launched a ship he seized the opportunity to address his people; he made over 400 speeches during the first ten years of his reign.
The substitution of William’s erratic gestures for Bismarck’s purposeful grip created an uncertainty which was soon exploited by cliques and personalities vying with each other for the Kaiser’s favour. The new Imperial Chancellor, General Caprivi, and the new State Secretary, Baron von Marschall, who had taken Count Herbert Bismarck’s place, could do little to control events, for both were political novices. Caprivi made his position clear in his opening speech to the Reichstag when he said: “I am here by the orders of my Supreme Lord, and I will carry on the business of the Empire as he wishes, so long as I am able to enjoy his confidence and receive his commands.” Marschall was scarcely more robust, for he began by ingratiating himself to the Kaiser’s friend, Count Eulenburg. Despite the fact that Eulenburg, as a member of the diplomatic corps, was Marschall’s direct subordinate, the latter wrote to him “with the heartfelt request that you will help me further by work and deed… as also by unhesitating criticism.”
The most formidable figure to step into the Bismarck vacuum was Baron von Holstein of the Foreign Office. Both Caprivi and Marschall were so inexperienced that they regarded Holstein as indispensable. Although they were aware of his sinister reputation and abnormal mind, the fact that he had been trained by Bismarck and knew more about Germany’s intricate network of treaties than anyone else gave him undisputed authority in their eyes. It did not seem to occur to them that a man with so twisted an outlook might draw false deductions and proffer unsound judgements. Instead they regarded him as an oracle. They accepted without demur his denunciation of the Reinsurance Treaty with Russia, and persuaded the Kaiser to do likewise. And by this act alone they handed him the mastery of the Foreign Office. No one except Bismarck — and he was not entirely objective — foresaw what a disaster he would prove for Germany. On the contrary, his benign, scholarly, bespectacled appearance, and above all his modesty, created an air of confidence. He refused promotion and continued to cling to the protective shadows of the back rooms. He even avoided meeting the Kaiser. “Only once,” wrote William II, “did he consent to dine with me at the Foreign Office.” Instead he worked in the devious ways congenial to him, using Philip Eulenburg to impress his views — the Government’s views as he put it — upon the Emperor.
Eulenburg’s magic for the Emperor was undiminished. “When he set foot in our Potsdam home,” wrote William, “it was as if the common day was flooded with sunshine.”[111] No one could transform the imperial spirits or smooth away the scowls as quickly as he. The Emperor referred to him as his best friend, and always begged him to accompany him on his trips. The Count had many good qualities. He had no malice, he was warm-hearted, hard-working, shrewd, and genuinely devoted to his master. Undoubtedly he was the best influence William ever had. His greatest fault was his dislike of responsibility. Like Holstein, he shrank from direct control. He might have become Foreign Secretary in 1893 but he rejected the idea, saying that “perpetual intercourse with the Emperor would impair my influence… only while I represent the Emperor’s friend, whom he is glad to see again, whose letters he likes and attends to, am I serviceable to him and the Fatherland”[112]
So he chose to work in a feminine way, delighting the Kaiser with his witty talk, wrapping his criticisms in silky words, and always watching and waiting for the right moment to cajole and persuade. Holstein soon regarded Eulenburg as indispensable. Although officially the Count performed the duty of Prussian Ambassador to Oldenburg, unofficially — as Holstein put it — he was German Ambassador to the Emperor. He must keep up a close correspondence with William; see him as much as possible; and report back every reaction. Apart from this, Holstein bombarded him with instructions. “Waldersee [Chief of the Imperial General Staff] must go. He would be an inconvenience in case of war, for the Emperor does not respect him. But he mustn’t be made ambassador either, for then he would be dangerous to Caprivi. Also you must utter a warning against Count Wedel, who is trying for the Petersburg Embassy. In general, take a stand against the idea that military men are more reliable than civilians,” or: “You might suggest to H.M. that he… should show a special mark in favour of Koch. It will gain H.M. a great deal of approbation, and give that conceited Birchov, that bull in the scientific china-shop, a nasty slap in the face,” or: “Please get some shifting done — Rantzau to Stockholm, Busch to Stuttgart. You could tell Rantzau that, if he likes, he might be held en disposition for Brussels, the Hague, or Madrid.”[113] On the margin on this letter Eulenburg wrote: “I should not dream of putting a finger against Rantzau.” Eulenburg could only be pushed so far, for he was loyal to his royal master and refused to carry out instructions if he disagreed with them.
Holstein’s interests were not only confined to personalities and soon he was asking Eulenburg to relay advice to the Kaiser on matters ranging from army reform to education bills, from suggestions for speeches to methods of handling the Reichstag. This may seem a curious role for a diplomat but as Germany was a federation of semi-autonomous states, ruled by hereditary princes, it had long been a tradition of the Foreign Office to consider any major issue within its province, and to meddle in anything it liked. Eulenburg’s life became particularly arduous when he accompanied the Emperor abroad, for Holstein’s telegrams were persistent and feverish and as the Count had no secretariat he often sat up, drafting replies, until the small hours of the morning. He had to conceal his labours from the Emperor for it would never do to allow work to interfere with the imperial pleasure; his was the role of the eternally light-hearted companion. When he travelled on the Kaiser’s yacht to Italy in 1894, he wrote in his diary: “Every moment come dispatches which I have to attend to… and then I must go to the Emperor and change my clothes between whiles. In the morning a lounge suit; for lunch frock coat; if we are yachting, yachting dress; for dinner evening dress and a black tie. It is often such a rush that I dictate the most important dispatches while I am washing my hands… I am like a wretched beetle that has fallen into an ant hill!” However, there was no escape, for Eulenburg’s influence rested on always being a stimulating and agreeable companion. “Although I am pretty well fed-up with the everlasting tennis and the ‘Christabel,’ I should only injure myself to the Emperor’s disadvantage if I insisted on working instead. That is precisely why he lets me say anything I like to him about politics… because I play tennis with him and in between rallies and pauses have a good-humoured ear at my disposal, ready to listen to tiresome matters because he is in high spirits.”[114]
There were other aspects of his role that Eulenburg disliked. He loathed the Kaiser’s entourage. Sensitive and imaginative, he found the crude, hide-bound mentality of the Prussian “Junker” almost unendurable. Yet t
hese were the men the Emperor felt at ease with, basking in their sycophantic remarks, roaring with laughter at their coarse jokes, invariably alluding to them as “brother officers.” Every July the Kaiser organised a male yachting trip to Norway with only a dozen picked men-friends on board. For Eulenburg these excursions were an ordeal. In the evening the guests were called upon to amuse the Sovereign. Count Goerz was a great success because he could make animal noises; Count Kiderlen, Holstein’s adjutant at the Foreign Office, delighted the Emperor with dirty jokes; Count Hulsen did conjuring tricks, and some of the other guests performed song and dance acts, two of them dressing up as the Siamese twins, connected by an enormous sausage. In the mornings the Kaiser insisted on all his guests doing physical exercises on deck. It amused him to walk behind them when they were squatting and topple them over. “The old boys professed to be greatly delighted by this attention but clenched their fists in their pockets, and afterwards abused the Emperor like fishwives,” wrote Kiderlen.
Eulenburg was not only bored by the company, but repelled by William’s liking for “horseplay.” This tendency grew more pronounced as the years advanced until Count Zedlitz, a Court official, was afraid it might give rise to unpleasant stories. The Emperor, he said, was “accustomed to amuse himself quite innocently, but still childishly, with certain people. He has for a long time past been treating von Neumann as a sort of Clown and Court fool, and he tickles and pinches Lieutenant Commander von H… until he makes the oddest noises.” Almost all the members of the Kaiser’s entourage had to submit to these indignities but Count Eulenburg was an exception. “The Emperor has never touched me — he knows that I would not suffer it,” he wrote.
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