It was not wise of Bülow to antagonize the one British politician who until now had been Germany’s greatest friend. The consequences were swift. “On February 8th,” wrote Baron von Eckardstein, “there was a big official dinner at Marlborough House, where King Edward was still living, which was attended by all the British Ministers and the Foreign Ambassadors. As my Ambassador was at the moment ill in the country I was invited as representative of the German Embassy by the express command of King Edward. While we were smoking and drinking coffee, after dinner, I suddenly saw Chamberlain and Cambon go off into the billiard room. I watched them there and noted that they talked together for exactly 28 minutes in the most animated manner. I could not of course catch what they said and only heard two words ‘Morocco’ and ‘Egypt—’
“As soon as the French Ambassador had left Chamberlain I entered into conversation with the latter. He complained very much of the bad behaviour of the German press towards England and himself. He also referred to the Chancellor’s speech in the Reichstag, and said: ‘It is not the first time that Count Bülow has thrown me over in the Reichstag… Now I have had enough of such treatment and there can be no more question of an association between Great Britain and Germany.”[209]
Just as Eckardstein was leaving Marlborough House he was interrupted by an equerry who said that the King would like to see him in his study. Edward VII poured out a whisky and soda and told his guest gloomily that he could not look with confidence on future relations between Great Britain and Germany. “You know, of course, what has happened of late. If the Kaiser now writes me long letters assuring me of his friendship for England, I cannot, I am sorry to say, give much weight to what he says. The renewed abuse of England in the German press and the unfriendly and sarcastic remarks of Count Bülow in the Reichstag have aroused so much resentment among my Ministers and in public opinion that for a long time at least there can be no more any question of Great Britain and Germany working together in any conceivable matter. We are being urged more strongly than ever by France to come to an agreement with her in all colonial disputes, and it will probably be best in the end to make such a settlement, because England only wants peace and quiet and to live on a friendly footing with all other countries. As you very well know both I and the majority of my Ministers would very gladly have gone with Germany in all colonial and other questions, but it can’t be done. In any arrangement that we may make with other countries in future, it would of course be our principle to avoid any menace against Germany. We only want, as I say, peace and quiet for ourselves and for the world.”
In January 1902 Britain signed a treaty with Japan. The Germans were delighted, for they believed that the alliance would bring Britain into conflict with Russia. They did not perceive that Britain had taken her first decisive step away from Germany; that her long period of isolation was at an end.
Chapter 9. The Kaiser and the Czar
“God knows everything,” said Berliners, “but the Kaiser knows better.” The Monarch’s belief in his own infallibility was not surprising, for although criticism flowed behind his back in private letters and diaries, his person was deluged with flattery. Great officials, generals, sailors, industrialists, and princes bent their efforts to titivating the imperial fancy, feeding the imperial vanity, and bolstering the imperial will. Count Bülow continued to set the pace. “No one could fail to admire — although it shook one’s confidence — the inconceivable skill with which he would almost imperceptibly shift his ground whenever he had inadvertently expressed an opinion which did not quite find favour with the Emperor, and veer to his side,” wrote Count Zedlitz-Trutzschler, Controller of the Royal Household, in his diary in 1903. Later, in a letter to his father he was more vehement. “What can one expect from a Chancellor like Bülow? One day the Emperor said to him on the Hohenzollern, ‘Your light trousers are enough to upset the best weather forecast,’ and he immediately retired to his cabin and put on a darker pair. At other moments he scribbles notes on his shirt cuffs, for fear of forgetting the least of His Majesty’s wishes. Whenever by any oversight he expresses an opinion in direct disagreement with that of the Emperor he remains silent for a few minutes and then says the exact contrary of what he has said before, with the preface: ‘As Your Majesty so wisely remarked just now, the matter stands so and so.’ The policy of a Chancellor who can do such things, must, for all his brilliant gifts, and in spite of the inexhaustible resources of the country, be the worst in the world…”[210]
Even the boastful dynamic Tirpitz and the modest, hard-working General Moltke, a future Chief of the German General Staff, were afraid to argue with him. When the Kaiser visited the shipbuilding yards in 1904 he noticed that deck semaphore, a device which he had helped to introduce into the navy as a means of communicating with other ships, was no longer being used. He demanded an explanation and four admirals, including Tirpitz, replied that newer and better methods had been discovered. The Kaiser seemed to feel that his judgement was being questioned and ordered it to be put back. After luncheon, which took place on board one of the ships, the admirals gathered in an agitated group to consider how to get round this foolish command, when the Emperor appeared on deck, sensed the criticism, and approached them angrily. “What is the meaning of all this talk? Are my commands obeyed in the Navy or not?” That evening the admirals reported that the semaphore had been re-installed in every ship in the fleet.
The industrialists and professors were even more sycophantic. Herr Ballin, head of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, and the Mendelssohn brothers, leading Berlin bankers, described the Kaiser as a “genius,” while Professor Slaby, of the Charlottenburg Technical High School, frequently assured the Emperor that everybody who had ever dared to resist the All Highest had been obliged to confess himself wrong in the end. “The natural result was that the Emperor said: ‘Well, that is so. My subjects ought to do what I tell them, but they always want to think for themselves, and that always leads to trouble! ’”[211] William II did not read the newspapers. He preferred to spare himself unnecessary labour by having cuttings prepared by the Foreign Office. Every day columns of newsprint were pasted on to large, gilt-edged sheets and sent to the palace. Valentine Chirol, The Times correspondent in Berlin, saw the Press Bureau at work when a member of the Foreign Office invited him to his office and showed him the assortment of news to be sent to the Emperor. “I observed that they did not include an important article which I had read elsewhere,” wrote Chirol, “and he replied rather sententiously: ‘My dear Sir, you do not seem to understand that such matters have to be laid before Majestat according to plan, and the article you mention might disturb the impression to be produced on the “All Highest’s mind.”’”[212]
William revelled in the illusion of autocracy, unaware that his advisers regarded him as a problem child who, with skilful handling, usually could be made to do as he was told. Count Bülow, despite his air of subservience, knew exactly how to compose the cloying phrases that brought his master into line. Nevertheless things did not always turn out as the Chancellor expected. William was so impulsive that even when he saw eye to eye with his advisers he frequently took matters into his own hands and by an impetuous speech or a sudden conversation gave events an emphasis or a startling twist that had not been planned. Furthermore, on certain subjects the Emperor was adamant; no one could advise him on his relations with the Czar. Although he was willing to accept Bülow’s broad policy he would brook no interference in the execution of it, insisting that it could only be carried out by his personal impact on Nicholas.
Who, then, ruled in Berlin? Foreign governments can be forgiven for finding German policy bewildering, and for constant speculation as to who, in truth, held the reins of power. Baron von Holstein’s views dominated the scene but since he had no authority he could not be held responsible; Bülow had the authority but he did not dare to claim it openly for fear of offending Holstein or the Kaiser; and when things went wrong he denied it altogether. “Bülow has often declared qu
ite innocently in regard to measures which have called forth excitement: ‘I have nothing to do with it, that is all the Kaiser’s doing!’ and so forth,” wrote Count von Waldersee in 1902. “He admits quietly therefore that he is not Chancellor at all, but that the Kaiser is doing the work.”[213]
This recognition suited the Kaiser. Very occasionally, when he was in an expansive mood he gave credit to Bülow; in July 1901 he wrote to Eulenburg: “I allow Bernard to rule. Since I have had him I can sleep in peace. I leave everything to him and know it’s all right.” (Eulenburg scribbled on the margin: “All very fine if the dear thing only did.”) Usually, however, William took the opposite line declaring that he, and he alone, controlled the realm. In December 1901 he wrote to Edward VII: “I am the sole arbiter and master of German Foreign Policy and the Government and country must follow me even if I have to ‘face the music.’ May your government never forget this…”[214] Yet when mistakes were made he shed responsibility as quickly as Bülow did, and fell back on the excuse that he was only a constitutional monarch. In his memoirs he explains the disastrous Kruger telegram, saying: “The Imperial Chancellor… remarked that I, as a constitutional ruler, must not stand out against the national consciousness and against my constitutional advisers…”[215]
Who ruled in Berlin? The Kaiser ruled, swayed by Bülow, who, in turn, was directed by Holstein; and everyone blamed everyone else when things went wrong. However, all of them agreed that Britain would never succeed in reaching an understanding with the nations of the Dual Alliance; so when this proved false, no one could fasten the blunder on the other — at least not for a while.
Nineteen hundred and three. This was the year when the Kaiser referred to God as “the Great Ally.” Certainly it seemed that God was smiling on Germany. This was the golden year, when there was scarcely a cloud on the horizon; the German Army stood supreme, the German Navy was expanding, German wealth multiplying, German arrogance swelling. The political situation was more than satisfactory. Germany and her two partners, Austria and Italy, were stronger than Russia and France, and the hope was growing that Russia might be drawn away from France altogether. As for Britain, she was isolated. All she had was her alliance with Japan and that was leading her towards hostility with Russia. Germany was always well off when Britain quarrelled with Russia, and the Kaiser rubbed his hands in glee. Eventually Britain would be forced to approach him cap in hand; but he would not show much enthusiasm until his fleet was built, then he might condescend to an alliance, with Germany as the dominant partner. So in June 1903 William II praised God as the champion of the German cause. “Raise your eyes! Lift up your heads! Look to the heights, bend your knee to the Great Ally, who has never forsaken the Germans and who, if He has at times allowed them to be sorely tried and discouraged, has again raised them from the dust.”
Scarcely four weeks before this speech King Edward VII had paid a visit to Paris which had been hailed on both sides of the Channel as a brilliant success. Feeling in France against England was still bitterly hostile; the interests of the two countries clashed in Egypt and the Sudan, and the subject of the Boer war continued to arouse passion. When the King entered Paris sullen crowds lined the streets and ruffians booed and catcalled, but Edward only smiled. For the next three days, wherever he went, to the races, the opera, official luncheons and dinners, he took delight in praising “French genius,” “French grace,” and “French spirit.” By bonhomie and good manners alone he won over Paris; when he departed the crowds gathered again, but this time to give him an ovation. The German Ambassador described the visit in a dispatch to the Wilhelmstrasse as “a most odd affair.”
The Germans had known for over a year that the French and British were holding conversations. In January 1902 Count Hatzfeldt had telegraphed: “I learn in strict confidence that for about ten days negotiations have been proceeding between Chamberlain and the French Ambassador for the settlement of all outstanding differences between France and England in colonial questions.”[216] No one in Berlin worried. Although the talks had been eagerly welcomed by the French Foreign Minister, M. Delcasse (who was regarded in Berlin as Germany’s arch enemy because of his desire for a rapprochement with Britain), Bülow and Holstein were confident that they would not come to anything.
It was not until the King’s visit to Paris that Bülow began to take the warnings of Hatzfeldt and Eckardstein seriously. “The news received here,” he wired the German Ambassador in St. Petersburg, “of a general Anglo-French understanding which, according to Baron Eckardstein, is to initiate the new Triple Entente, is by no means optimistic…”[217]
However, in the next few months events took a turn which lessened German fears. Russia not only refused to move out of Manchuria but appeared to have designs on Korea as well, so Japan began to prepare for war in earnest. The Kaiser did all he could to encourage the Czar to defend his “rights,” declaring that it was the duty of Holy Russia to lead a religious crusade against heathen races. He sent more paintings executed by Herr Knackfuss and designed by himself; one depicted William, dressed in glittering armour, holding a huge crucifix in his raised right arm, while the Czar crouched at his feet, clothed in a Byzantine garment that looked like a dressing-gown, gazing at him with humble admiration. German and Russian battleships cruised in the background. The Kaiser’s paintings were accompanied by enthusiastic letters which were signed “Admiral of the Atlantic,” and always referred to Nicholas as “Admiral of the Pacific.” On December 4th, 1903, he gave the Czar technical advice about his ships and guns and enclosed a report describing the secret aid that the Japanese were receiving from the Chinese. “I hope the Admiral of the Pacific will not be angry at the signals of the Admiral of the Atlantic, who is always on the look-out. Ta, ta, best love to Alix from your devoted friend and cousin toujours en vedette. Willy.”[218]
The Kaiser’s motives in urging Russia forward were partly idealistic, for he had returned to his theme of the Yellow Peril and talked about it with deep emotion. However, he had other reasons as well. Britain was Japan’s ally, pledged to help her militarily if she found herself at war with more than one power. That meant that if France came to Russia’s support Britain would be obliged to aid Japan, and the two seconds, far from arriving at a permanent understanding, would be brought into conflict with one another. Britain was on the hook, and the more she struggled, the firmer she was caught; at least that is how it looked to Berlin, and that is why Baron Holstein described the situation as “highly advantageous.”
The Germans may be forgiven for doubting British policy and, even more, for finding it inexplicable as it did not follow any familiar pattern. Unlike the Germans, the English had little faith in the written word; indeed they avoided it whenever possible for it meant dotting too many i’s and crossing too many t’s which, they had discovered, often led to unpleasant complications. They hated to tie themselves down to unforeseen commitments, preferring to improvise as they went along. That was why they had refused to join the Triple Alliance. They saw nothing illogical in their present position for they regarded their expediency as logical in itself. They were also eager to clear up colonial problems with France, so they opened talks; and if at a later date they could get on better terms with Russia, why not? None of this struck them as strange or irrational, merely as common sense.
Britain therefore ran her two policies in separate harness. In February 1904 the Russo-Japanese war broke out, and two months later London imperturbably announced the signing of the Anglo-French entente. It was stressed that the agreement was not military, merely a settlement of disputes in Newfoundland, Siam, Africa, and the New Hebrides. The only point that attracted much attention was France’s renunciation of Egypt in return for a free hand in a large part of Morocco. And since this was the same bait that Germany had turned down in 1901 Berlin could scarcely make a fuss about it. Furthermore, the German Ambassador in London, Count Metternich, was reassuring. “I am convinced that the British Government, by the progressive reconcilia
tion with France, which has fallen so neatly into their lap, means no contrary implication as regards Germany…,”[219] So the German Government instructed the semi-official newspaper, Norddeutsche Algemeine Zeitung, to announce that there was nothing in the convention to which Germany could take umbrage. Bülow sounded the same note in the Reichstag. “From the point of view of German interest we have no objection to make against it… we are interested in this country, as in fact the rest of the Mediterranean, principally from the economic point of view…”
This unusual docility sprang from the fact that the Germans still hoped that the entente would lead Britain, and certainly France, into trouble with Russia. Holstein wrote that it could even split the Dual Alliance. His reasoning might have proved correct if one factor had not gone wrong: the Russo-Japanese war did not proceed according to plan. Russia’s huge population and unlimited resources had always induced Europe to regard her as a formidable opponent, and military experts had predicted a crushing defeat for Japan. Instead, the reverse took place. Japan began the war by a surprise attack on Russian warships lying off Port Arthur and sank three of them;[220] in August she destroyed Russia’s Pacific fleet, a few weeks later her Vladivostock squadron, which left only the Baltic fleet at large; and in the autumn she scored a decisive military victory near Mukden. This situation altered the whole political outlook. There was no danger of Britain being drawn into the conflict, and France, who had never shown any desire to become mixed up in it, was less anxious than ever to be involved. More important still, Russia was in no position to dictate to anyone.
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