The Kaiser

by Virginia Cowles

  However, Eulenburg did not escape all humiliation. The Kaiser had a passion for uniform, and when he visited Eulenburg at his country estate, Liebenberg, he solemnly invested him with a “Court shooting dress” which he had designed himself and insisted that all his friends should wear. “It is quite indescribably uncomfortable,” wrote the Count, “being in shape like a regular uniform coat and having a high collar. But as I am very frankly a civilian and intend to remain one, the military collar oppresses me not only because it inevitably recalls those utterly unbearable hours with foul-mouthed riding-masters and still fouler-mouthed commanding officers, but also because I feel perfectly sick when I have convulsively to fasten the infamous choker. And why, to complete the shooting-dress, high brown boots with silver spurs! should be worn, is to me an enigma… To have to prance about in my old Liebenberg, when the Emperor visits me, got-up like that, making my reports to him in my peaceful room with clinking spurs, singing songs!! No; it is like spiritual cod-liver oil to me. And I will not be dressed like the ‘Imperial Household.’ I am something other than that.”[115] Yet in the end he submitted and wore the uniform with no further grumbling.

  Eulenburg’s most thankless task was to try and curb the Kaiser’s indiscretions. His passion for making speeches often seemed to end in trouble, for although he was a remarkable orator his pronouncements seem to stem from another century and were studded with references to the glories of monarchical rule “by the Grace of God”; to greatness, obedience, sacrifice, vengeance, and duty. “Him who opposes me will I smash,” he declared on one occasion, and “I will lead you to days of glory,” on another. When a newspaper referred to him disobligingly, he closed down the press. “A spirit of insubordination is abroad in the land; it takes many glittering and alluring disguises, thus confusing the minds of my people and those who are devoted to me; it presses into its service oceans of printers’ ink and paper”

  However, it was not only speech-making that got him into trouble. When he went to Munich in the autumn of 1891 he wrote his name in the Golden Book, dashing off the inscription “Regis voluntas suprema lex” As the King of Bavaria was mad, this drew forth sharp rebuke from Eulenburg. “The phrase has given much offence in the highest quarters because here regis voluntas is — insanity! And also because the people, quite apart from this, thought to perceive as it were an Imperial will predominant over the Bavarian will. All parties without exception have been offended by Your Majesty’s inscription.” However, when Eulenburg wrote so sharply, he found that the Kaiser did not answer, so he tried to cloak his admonitions in flattery. After the “paths of glory” speech he wrote: “In Your Majesty’s gift of eloquence there lies a danger — that Your Majesty may make too great use of it — If Your Majesty would be more economical of such a gift, it would be a hundredfold more efficacious… If Your Majesty speaks on every occasion, Your Majesty squanders your advantage in having so fine a talent.” Frequently the Kaiser’s pronouncements brought him worldwide publicity. In 1891 he was so incensed by a few mild Socialist demonstrations that he forgot his declaration to Bismarck of only the year before, about wishing to be King of the Poor, and made an extraordinary address to a group of new army recruits. “You have sworn loyalty to me; that means, children of my guard, that you are now my soldiers, you have given yourself to me body and soul; there is for you but one enemy, and that is my enemy. In view of the present socialist agitations it may come to pass that I shall command you to shoot your own relatives, brothers, yes, parents — which God forbid — but even then you must follow my command without a murmur.”[116] The speech created a sensation on the continent and drew from Tolstoy, the Russian novelist, the comment that the Kaiser obviously had a diseased mind.

  The Emperor made disturbing mistakes in handling the members of his own entourage. In 1892 a scandal blew up at Court. All ranks of society, including the Empress, began receiving anonymous letters in the same handwriting, telling of scandals and intrigues taking place among the courtiers. Pornographic pictures were enclosed in which the heads were cut off and replaced by photographs of well-known people. Despite every effort to find the guilty party, the letters continued to arrive for two years. It was obvious that they were written by someone in the inner circle, for the allegations bore semblance to the truth. The Kaiser had two Masters of Ceremonies, Baron von Schrader and Count von Kotze. The austere Schrader hated the convivial Kotze, and one day was excited to find on Kotze’s desk two sheets of blotting paper bearing handwriting which, he claimed, was identical with that of the letters. He took the blotting paper to the Kaiser and convinced him of his case. Kotze was visiting his mother at his country house. He returned to the Palace next day to find himself under arrest “in the King’s name.” Although he hotly asserted his innocence, he was taken to the Military Prison to await trial.

  He was denied paper and pencil and kept under close guard. A few days later more anonymous letters were received at Court. The Kaiser realised that he had acted too hastily; a mistake had been made. Only then did he bother to consult a graphologist who told him that Kotze’s handwriting bore no resemblance to that of the pornographic letters. Nevertheless there was no stopping the trial. “I have nothing to do with this business,” said the Emperor. “The investigation is now being conducted by the Judge Advocate of the Court.” By this time the scandal had spread far and wide, and the name “Kotze” had become a synonym for pornography. Although the Judge finally acquitted him, he had received a stigma which he could not shake off. Only the Kaiser could have repaired his damaged reputation by a strong public apology. But William was not so inclined. Instead he merely sent him an Easter gift — an egg, made of flowers. Kotze challenged von Schrader to a duel and killed him. Then he retired from Berlin, his career ruined, and buried himself in the country.

  Eulenburg tried to counter the military influence surrounding the Kaiser by urging him to behave less autocratically and more “constitutionally.” What did he mean? Was Germany not an autocracy; and what, in fact, were the Kaiser’s powers? The truth was that the position was not altogether clear. Prince Bismarck had drawn up the Constitution of 1871 to suit his own requirements. He had designed it to give himself dictatorial powers in the name of the Emperor and at the same time to persuade the liberals that he was planting the seeds of parliamentary rule. Thus the result was a mixture of anomalies; an autocracy which had to keep an eye on public opinion, dominated by an ill-defined partnership between Emperor and Chancellor.

  There were two separate water-tight branches of Government beneath the Emperor: military and civil. The civil head was an Imperial Chancellor, appointed by the Emperor and responsible only to the Emperor. The legislative body was a Reichstag, dominated by an Upper Chamber composed of the princely rulers of the German states. These gentlemen, presided over by the Imperial Chancellor, initiated all legislation; and since the Chancellor usually was Prime Minister of Prussia as well — and Prussia could always muster a majority vote — the German Empire plainly appeared to be a dictatorship in the hands of the Emperor. Yet it was not as simple as that. Unless the Chancellor carried the princes by persuasion there was always the danger of separatist movements. Furthermore, there was the Lower Chamber to consider.

  This assembly was elected by universal male suffrage, a privilege which very few countries in Europe enjoyed. However, their powers were almost illusory. They could not initiate legislation, and had no say over such vital matters as foreign affairs or declarations of war; and although their approval was necessary before bills became law very little of importance came before them as the Government was not dependent on them for votes of money. Revenue was raised by indirect taxation fixed by royal decree. However, Bismarck had been obliged to give them one trump card. They had the right to approve or reject the military budget submitted to them every five years. Thus they could control the size of the German Army. Although the Kaiser could dissolve the Reichstag whenever he liked, and keep on dissolving it, the public could show their disapproval
by sending back the same deputies. This nearly happened in 1893 when Caprivi’s army estimates were rejected, a new election was held, and the bill only passed by a majority of eleven votes.

  The very fact that the Reichstag, despite its limited powers, served as a mirror of public opinion caused Eulenburg to beg the Emperor not to ride over it rough-shod but to treat it with respect. “Blockheads,” declared William irritably. They passed the Army Bill by the narrowest margin and refused to contemplate an increase in the navy. They could not seem to understand the necessity for a navy. Even Bismarck had shown a lack of comprehension when William, still a prince, had raised the matter with him. “I pointed out that steps must be taken towards the construction of a fleet, in order that German foreign interest should not be without protection; that since the prince had unfurled the German flag in foreign parts, and the people stood behind it, there must also be a navy behind it. But the prince turned a deaf ear to my statements and merely used his pet phrase: ‘If the English should land on our soil, I should have them arrested.’ His idea was that the colonies would be defended by us at home.” William II felt that Bismarck’s lack of understanding was simply old age; Germany was entering a new era and until his deputies grasped the necessity of a fleet and showed their willingness to pass a fleet bill, they would remain “fools and blockheads.”

  Eulenburg also tried to persuade the Emperor not to interfere too much in the work of his ministers. Although there was no clear division, constitutionally, between the Chancellor’s authority and the royal prerogative, most Germans believed that they were treading a path towards parliamentary rule. They would be shocked if they felt that they were returning to the days of monarchical absolutism. Therefore the Kaiser must avoid all acts or even gestures which gave an impression of “personal rule.”

  Eulenburg’s words, however, had little effect on William for they were drowned by the military environment in which the Kaiser lived. The Imperial Palace overflowed with army officers. The Kaiser’s household was headed by General von Plessen and almost all the Court officials were soldiers with an occasional admiral thrown in. Under the German Constitution the army was responsible directly to the Emperor who, in time of war, automatically became Supreme War Lord. The elite Officers Corps constituted a privileged class above the law, akin in some ways to a mediaeval Order of Knighthood. Its members could not be tried by civilian courts, nor apprehended by the public police. They could be punished only by their own Court of Honour. As a result officers, and particularly Prussian officers, were inclined to regard themselves as demi-gods. They did not consider themselves servants of the State but servants of the Emperor — knightly paladins bound to their All-Highest Sovereign by the romantic, mystical oath of fealty which they swore to his person. Consequently, most of them despised civilian institutions in general and democratic institutions in particular. The Reichstag and the press aroused their deepest contempt, and they not only delighted the Kaiser but encouraged his autocratic tendencies by their eagerness for “strong action.” Once, when a spate of articles critical of the Kaiser appeared in the press, General von Plessen was asked how he would handle the editors. “We must train the guns on them. Then they will shut up.” The Kaiser contemplated sending his A.D.C.’s to challenge the editors, but finally thought better of it.

  In his efforts to undermine A.D.C. influence, Eulenburg occasionally overstepped the mark. When Colonel Engelbrecht, the German military attache in Rome, sent personal reports to the Emperor directly contrary to Foreign Office advice, Eulenburg protested to William but received a sharp rebuke. “As to Engelbrecht you’ve been mistaken all along. I expressly desire you to warn the Foreign Office against any further attacks on him. He has given me complete satisfaction… and is my brother officer and A.D.C. If there is any more of this kind of thing in the Foreign Office, I shall have something to say about it. Once and for all, I intend to have ‘discipline on board;’ else no useful work can possibly be done.” Eulenburg commented gloomily in a memorandum: “And now comes the spectre of that monstrous Prussian Hohenzollern atavism peculiar to the First Guards Regiment, in the guise of the poor dear Emperor’s letter… For a Sovereign of the Emperor’s impetuosity (called vigorous action) to be drawn once more into the atmosphere of guardsmen’s rant, when with the infinite trouble and sacrifice of my own time and energy he had been at last in some degree removed from it, is melancholy indeed.’[117]

  Eulenburg, at least, had the consolation that the fire-brand Chief of Staff, Count von Waldersee, had been removed from the scene. Waldersee had been bitterly disappointed not to receive the Chancellorship and had grown careless in his talk against the Emperor. Furthermore, when the Sovereign took part in the two-day annual manoeuvres in the autumn of 1890, von Waldersee criticised the disposition of His Majesty’s forces in front of all the princes. A few months later, in January 1891, William sent for the Count, decorated him with the Grand Commander of the Hohenzollern Order, and told him that he had an important new appointment for him — Command of an army corps. The fall from Chief of the German Staff to a Corps Commander was so great, Waldersee could find no words in reply. He went home fuming, talked it over with his army friend and decided to resign. William pleaded with him to reconsider. “I was not to mind what the world might say about it,” wrote Waldersee in his diary, “but be satisfied with his friendship. He would give proof of it and show the world what it meant to be the friend of the German Kaiser. Whoever dared to say a word against me should be shattered; he would keep the press in order, and so on and so on. Finally he went so far as to entreat me in the tenderest tones. He took my hand and said: ‘You will accept, won’t you? Your Kaiser asks you.’ I remained adamant, however, and I thank God that He gave me strength to do so.”[118]

  In the end Waldersee accepted the post of Corps Commander at Altona; he decided that the best course was to try and win back the Kaiser’s favour, for no plums were to be had in Germany without the consent of The All Highest.

  In the spring of 1894 General Caprivi threatened to resign. The Kaiser was trying to force him to introduce anti-Socialist legislation of which he disapproved, and he decided that he was sick of the whole business of being Chancellor. When Holstein heard rumours that he intended to go, he flew into a panic for fear Bismarck might return. Ever since he had played traitor to the Iron Chancellor, this contingency — which was only a figment of his imagination — had caused him constant anxiety, and he did everything he could to keep alive the Emperor’s hostility. Events played into his hands, for Bismarck did not retire gracefully. He attacked the Emperor, the Government, and the Foreign Office in a series of anonymous articles which appeared in the Hamburger Nachtrichten. He ridiculed William for having exchanged Zanzibar for a “rock” — as he called it — in the North Sea. And he hinted darkly that things were not well with German policy, emphasising that Germany was only secure when she had a firm understanding with Russia.

  The Government was flustered by the attacks, and many people urged the Emperor to silence the old man by a reconciliation. Bismarck stood for the Reichstag in 1891, then complained that he couldn’t take his seat because he didn’t have a house in Berlin. The Emperor was advised to offer him one of his palaces, but when Holstein heard of the plan he wrote an agitated letter to Eulenburg. “The intrigues about ‘Bismarck’s rehabilitation’ are being carried on with the most remarkable skill and a fair prospect of success. Just imagine that H.M. told the Chancellor, who told me to-day, that he was thinking of offering Prince Bismarck, should he be elected to the Reichstag, an abode in Bellevue Palace!… The moment he takes the first step toward Bismarck he ceases to be the first man in the Empire — Bismarck becomes that… Could you not come here to warn the Emperor before he slides into the abyss?… Think of the consequences if H.M. lets himself be outwitted — he will never in his life recover from the effect.”[119] Eulenburg obediently wrote to William pointing out the danger of such a reinstatement but apparently the Kaiser had never seriously entertaine
d the idea, for he telegraphed breezily: “The premises are absolutely and completely false. I am steady as the Northern Star. Philip, don’t you fall into every fool’s trap. William.” The upshot of all this was that although Bismarck won his seat, he did not take it.

  A year later, in 1892, Holstein seized the opportunity of striking a more resounding blow at Bismarck. The old Prince decided to travel to Vienna to attend the wedding of his son, Herbert, to an Austrian lady, and wrote to his friend, Prince Reuss, the German Ambassador, requesting an audience with the Emperor Franz Joseph. As soon as Holstein learned of this he drew up a minute for Reuss and persuaded General Caprivi to sign it. The Ambassador was not to attend the wedding ceremony and he was to let the Viennese Foreign Minister know that since Bismarck was travelling in a private capacity the German Government expected the official world to receive him with the “greatest possible reserve.” Above all, the audience with the Emperor was to be prevented.

  William readily lent himself to this shabby affair. “Bismarck,” he wrote to Franz Joseph, “is to be in Vienna at the end of this month… in order to arrange for systematic ovations by his admirers… You also know that one of his masterpieces was the secret treaty a double finds with Russia, concluded behind your back, and abrogated by me. Ever since he retired, the Prince has waged war in the most perfidious manner against Me, Caprivi, and My Ministers… The climax of his programme in this affair is the idea of an audience with you. I would therefore beg of you not to increase the difficulties in this country by receiving that disobedient subject before he has approached me with his peccavi.”[120]

  The Austrians did as they were bid. The Emperor refused to receive him, and his old acquaintances were “indisposed,” “away in the country” or “not at home.” Bismarck sensed what had happened and was consumed with wrath. To be insulted by a fatuous group of pygmies — the same men who by dropping the treaty with Russia were busy knocking down the walls of security which he so laboriously had erected around the Fatherland — was more than flesh and blood could stand. The Czar not only was cool towards Germany but turning towards Germany’s implacable enemy France. Only twelve months earlier, in 1891, the French Fleet had visited the Russian port of Kronstadt, and the Czar had stood to attention while the hated revolutionary Marseillaise was played. It was obvious what was coming, but the Wilhelmstrasse, dominated by the crazy Holstein, sat back in smug contentment, unaware of the implications involved. Bismarck was so infuriated that he was stung into giving an interview to the Neue Freie Presse which, in an age of secret treaties, bordered on treachery. First, he took a crack at Holstein, then he hinted at the draft from Russia. “… In our Country such men have come to the front as I was careful to relegate to their native obscurity, precisely because they would be sure to change and upset the whole course of affairs… More assuredly I am now absolved from any personal obligations whatever towards the dominating personalities of the moment, as well as towards my successor. Every bridge between us is broken down… In Berlin there is neither personal authority nor confidence. The Russian wire is cut — we are estranged.”