The Kaiser

by Virginia Cowles

  Throughout 1907 the Kaiser’s stock continued to drop while Edward VII was hailed by foreign embassies as “the most astute diplomat in Europe.” That year England signed a convention with Russia which was regarded as another triumph for the King. Although the Anglo-Russian agreement was not a military alliance, only a modest, rather precarious accord over trouble spots such as Persia and Afghanistan, it was regarded quite rightly as a stepping stone to bigger things, and neutral diplomats gloated at the uneven duel being fought out between uncle and nephew. The Kaiser had failed to divide Britain and France at Algeciras, failed to ensnare the Czar at Bjorko, and now Edward VII was stepping in and snatching off the prizes.

  This impression was heightened in 1908 when the King paid a visit to the Czar at Reval. Although it was only a courtesy call, and nothing of political importance was discussed, the English sovereign’s reputation as a master-mind had become so inflated that the Germans looked upon it as a portentous occasion. “It is amusing how England — of course it is only the King — knows how to get everything it wants,” wrote Prince Gottfried Hohenlohe, an Austrian diplomat, to the Princess of Pless. “He wanted to be friends with Russia and he knew awfully well how to manage Izvolsky, the Russian Minister, who is a fearful snob and likes de poser Anglais. It really makes me laugh after all that the Emperor of Russia told me about, I mean against England. I wrote to some Russian ladies asking if they had already little Saints Edouards in the corners of their rooms. As you know, the Russian must always be putting some new saint into the corner of the walls — ceilings and so on.”[269]

  The Kaiser’s personality which until now had been regarded as an asset, at least by the Germans, began to be widely criticised. Forgotten was “the undeniable charm” which Bülow had praised, “the great and original spirit” which the Princess of Pless had admired. Indeed, the Princess now complained that he “was terribly tactless, loud and theatrical. He has no manners,” she wrote in her diary, “he cannot choose his friends… he is bourgeois and loud and yet sometimes he has the charm of youth…”[270] Other Enghsh ladies joined the chorus, complaining that he was most frightening when he was in a jocular mood, that he gripped their hands until they winced in pain, then exclaimed merrily: “Ha Ha! The mailed fist! What!” Even German ladies found his jokes tiring. When his sister-in-law coughed at dinner he slapped her back so hard saying “That will cure you” that she was nearly knocked off her chair. More than ever, Count Zedlitz lamented that he offended his high dignitaries by calling them “donkeys” and “noodles” and “mutton-heads”: and when he was in a playful mood humiliated his generals by rolling them in the snow or smacking them across the backside with his Field Marshal’s baton.

  William II was oblivious of the effect his personality had on other people. That was the price of being a king. He moved in a world of open adulation and secret complaint. Miss Anne Topham, the English governess who joined the Kaiser’s household in 1902 to tutor the nine-year-old Princess Victoria Louise, tells us that none of his courtiers really liked him or were at ease with him. They were alarmed by his explosive temperament and lived in fear of the sudden demands that he frequently put upon them. On the other hand, when he was pleased with the world no one was less pompous or more engagingly uninhibited. He often teased Miss Topham about England. He was a regular reader of Punch and sometimes in the evenings, when she sat sewing with the Empress, he would jump up, stride over to her with the magazine in his hand, and show her a political cartoon of himself, invariably with a spiked helmet and bristling upturned mustachios — frequently as a sea-serpent. “What do you think of that?” he would say. “Nice, isn’t it? Good likeness, eh?” To which the poor woman had no answer.

  The Emperor’s sense of humour was always unpredictable. Once he took a walk with the Empress outside the palace grounds at Potsdam. When he returned a new sentry had been placed at the gate. The soldier addressed him as “Herr Lieutenant” and refused to let him enter. However, “Herr Lieutenant” finally persuaded the guard that he had official business with the Emperor’s aide-de-camp, and the gate was opened. William II found the incident inexpressibly funny. “Considering the number of picture postcards of the German Emperor in circulation,” he laughed, “where can that man have been all his life?”

  On another day, however, the same incident might infuriate him. Frequently he lost his head over unavoidable mishaps. When King Edward and Queen Alexandra visited Berlin, the horses drawing the state carriage were frightened by the gun salute and broke out of line. William was so angry that he went out of his way to introduce his Master of the Horse to the King saying: “This is the man who bungled up the procession.”

  The Kaiser’s sons were just as frightened of him as his courtiers. Although William was often praised as a model husband and father his family life, in fact, was almost non-existent. In 1907 the Crown Prince and Prince Frederick held commissions in the army, Prince Adalbert was serving in the navy, Prince August Wilhelm and Prince Oscar were at the University, Prince Joachim finishing his military training at Pion. Only the fifteen-year-old Princess Victoria Louise could still be described as a child. Yet all six sons were tongue-tied in their father’s presence. Like most Victorian parents William refused to tolerate familiarity, but it was not this — nor the religious discourses, nor the puritanical strictures — that clamped them in painful silence. It was the fact that William refused to allow them any personality. The Princess was the only exception for she idolised her “papa” and therefore managed to win a slightly favoured position. But the boys were kept in their place. If any of them ventured an opinion the Emperor was apt to rebuke them for impertinence; or worse still, to cover them with derision against which there was no redress. The Empress comforted them in private, but she never intervened for she still looked upon William as a divine oracle. He gave his views, unchallenged and expansive, on every subject under the sun from music to guns, from archaeology to plumbing. He even posed as an expert on ladies’ millinery. Every year he selected a dozen hats for the Empress as a birthday present. They were large picture hats adorned with fruit and feathers, lace and flowers. Before they could be removed to her wardrobe they were placed on display in one of the reception rooms, so that the entourage could congratulate the Emperor on his exceptional taste. The submissive Empress welcomed this annual gesture as a sign of her husband’s felicity.

  The key-note of the Kaiser’s personality was his restlessness. He seemed to burn with an all-consuming flame. Even when he carried on a trivial conversation he threw his whole body into the talk, nodding his head, rocking from one leg to another, and wagging his finger in the listener’s face. His lack of repose kept him almost perpetually on the move. Although he looked upon the New Palace at Potsdam as his home, he owned over thirty castles and schlosses in Germany, and made a point of visiting a third of them every year. Sometimes it was only for a week-end, for what he seemed to like best was to climb aboard his cream and gold train and hurtle through Germany in the darkness of the night. This pleasure was not shared by his entourage who regarded the imperial train as nothing less than a form of torture. It seemed to roar and jerk and sway more than any train in the kingdom. The ladies found it so impossible to dress or undress (particularly to lace their stays or do up their hair) that most of them slept in their clothes, and faced the world wan and haggard in the morning.

  Even more dreaded than the train, however, was the Emperor’s annual August holiday at Wilhelmshöhe. As there was neither shooting nor sailing to occupy him, he worked off his energy in fairly rugged exercise; and as he never did anything alone, the entourage was compelled to do likewise. Everyone had to be up at 6.30 to ride with him. After breakfast there was tennis (which apparently was a severe strain, for the aides were so afraid of driving a ball into the imperial stomach that they scarcely gave him a game), and after this an hour or two of excavation in the Roman ruins near the castle. Then came lunch, always served out of doors no matter how cold the weather, and always a formal af
fair with the ladies in satin dresses and trains! The afternoons were even more exhausting for they were devoted to mountain-climbing or long hikes through the woods. “We are like the Israelites at the Pass-over,” complained one of the ladies-in-waiting. “We must always have our loins girt, our shoes on our feet — shoes suitable for any and every occasion, fit for walking on palace floors or down muddy roads — our staff in our hand; nobody dare relax or settle down to be comfortable.”[271]

  If the Kaiser’s restlessness, his nerves, his moods, bewildered the members of his own entourage it is small wonder that they puzzled and alarmed the outside world. “Sometimes,” wrote the English governess, “he falls into Napoleonic attitudes, and occasionally he attempts to pinch the ear of a particular friend.” This was the man with whom Europe had to deal. It is not surprising that diplomats used oceans of ink trying to analyse and fathom his being. “Too much attention cannot be paid to the character of the Emperor,” wrote Mr. Cartwright, the British Minister at Munich and Stuttgart, on January 12, 1907, to his Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey. “His moods and thoughts are the pivot on which German home and foreign policy turn… There seems to be a conviction among well-informed people ‘that the strain to which His Majesty’s nervous system has been exposed during recent years has brought about a physical condition in the Kaiser which is much to be deplored and to which must be attributed the ups and downs of his moods, passing from exultant optimism to deep depression.’… By his habit of selecting for his entourage men of colourless opinions, he has put himself into the unfortunate position of being unable to probe seriously below the surface of questions and to learn the reality of things by encouraging contradiction. At moments, however, he begins to realise that there is danger ahead and he feels disheartened, though his confidence in himself is so great that he cannot bring himself to believe that he has really engaged on a wrong path; then, in despair, he makes speeches like the one he delivered at Breslau at the late autumn manoeuvres, where in vigorous terms he denounced all those who were opposed to him as pessimists and enemies of the nation. It is this uncertainty of his moods and humours — hidden in great part from the public — which render it so difficult to follow all the turns and twists of German politics…”[272] In this atmosphere of nervousness, jealousy, and recrimination the two monarchs met twice in 1907; once in Germany, and once in England when the Kaiser and Kaiserin paid a state visit in November — the visit that William so nearly cancelled because of the Eulenburg scandal. It was something of a miracle that both meetings were harmonious for the Kaiser talked freely, in between times, of his uncle’s nefarious attempts to encircle Germany. However, when he reached England he made a moving little speech at the Guildhall saying that “the main prop and base for peace in the world is the maintenance of good relations between our two countries. Blood is thicker than water. The German nation’s wishes coincide with mine.” Then he went to Highcliffe, near Bournemouth, to snatch a few weeks’ recreation with his friend, Colonel Stuart-Wortley. While there he talked a great deal about being “misunderstood” and “the misconception of his character” and his feelings towards England. He returned to London, lunched with King Edward at Buckingham Palace, and left for Germany. The day after his departure the German Government announced its intention of replacing battleships every twenty years instead of every twenty-five, thus increasing the strength of the German Fleet by twenty per cent. The harmony induced by the Emperor’s visit vanished overnight.

  The Emperor knew that large naval increases were about to be announced and rejoiced in them. In the early days he had regarded his fleet as a glamorous toy, a prestige symbol that would wrest begrudging admiration from his English relations. “What William II most desired,” Bülow wrote cattily, “…was to see himself, at the head of a glorious German fleet, starting out on a peaceful visit to England. The English Sovereign, with his fleet, would meet the German Kaiser in Portsmouth. The two fleets would file past each other, the two monarchs, each wearing the naval uniform of the other’s country… would then stand on the bridge of their flagships. Then, after they had embraced in the prescribed manner, a gala dinner with lovely speeches would be held in Cowes.”[273]

  These might have been the Kaiser’s emotions at the turn of the century, but in 1908 he had persuaded himself that the very dignity and future of Germany hinged upon the fleet. Every move that tightened the entente against him, every diplomatic success scored by Edward VII, convinced the Kaiser that sea-power was what really mattered. It was impossible to have an effective voice in world affairs without a navy. When he met King Victor Emmanuel of Italy in Naples he remarked sourly that his colleagues, the European monarchs, had paid little attention to what he said despite his long reign; but he was confident that a mighty German fleet would secure a proper attention for the words of the German Emperor.

  Until 1908 the British Government had not tried to reach an agreement with Germany on shipbuilding. In 1906 King Edward had asked his nephew if he thought it would be possible for the two countries to reach an understanding, and William had given an unequivocal no. So the matter had not been pursued and the British Admiralty had concentrated on reorganising and strengthening its own navy. Old ships were scrapped, the Atlantic and the Channel Fleets were amalgamated into a Home Fleet and the first dreadnought, a super-battleship bigger than anything seen before, was launched. “We shall be thirty per cent more efficient,” declared Sir John Fisher, the First Sea Lord, “and we shall be ready for instant war.”

  The German supplement of 1907, however, came as a stunning shock. Not only was Admiral Tirpitz increasing the German Fleet by twenty per cent but he was embarking on a programme of dreadnought building which threatened to equal, if not to surpass, the British effort. He would launch four dreadnoughts a year from 1908 to 1911, and after that, two a year to 1917. Suddenly the monster battleship, devised to ensure British supremacy once and for all, was recognised as a terrible mistake; for the Admiralty now declared that its appearance had made all other battleships obsolete. If this was so, and Germany and England were neck and neck in the new race, British supremacy was a thing of the past.

  Panic swept the country. All the half-formed suspicions of the past few years hardened into accusations. Why, everyone asked, did Germany want a huge navy when she had an army of 4,000,000 men? Why, if she needed a navy for defence, was it designed as a fighting force? Why did it sit at home glowering at the island empire? Whom could it be directed against except Britain?[274] The “danger-zone” that Admiral Tirpitz had predicted in 1900 had been reached, but it took a very different form than he had envisaged. Far from seizing the offensive and contemplating an attack on the German Fleet, the British public decided that Germany was planning an invasion of England and began to cry loudly for adequate defence. The Conservative opposition made impassioned speeches in Parliament, the press howled unremittingly, and even fiction writers and playrights caught the fever. The panic was extraordinary. German spies were believed to be everywhere; soon stories were going around about 40,000 trained agents disguised as waiters, about ships coming up the Humber, and a mysterious aircraft which made nightly visits to England. The cheap magazines abounded in hair-raising adventures entitled “The Swoop of the Teutonic Vulture,” “The Great Raid,” “The War Inevitable,” “The Invaders,” “How the Germans took London,” “While Britain Slept,” and “A Story of Invasion that will stir Britain to its Depths.” Meanwhile a play appeared on the London stage entitled An Englishmans Home. It depicted a household where nothing but amusement and sport was discussed. “Suddenly the ‘home’ was surrounded by a strange army whose uniforms were taken at first for English. What army was it? The army of the ‘Emperor of the North.’ One of the heroes of the piece snatched a sporting rifle to defend himself and was shot on the spot for his breach of the laws of war. The territorial army came on the scene only to cover itself with ridicule. Finally, the regular army arrived and saved the situation but everyone knew that the ending was conventional
and the author’s real attitude one of hopeless pessimism.” [275]

  The Kaiser and Admiral Tirpitz genuinely were astonished by England’s fear of invasion. Invasion was not part of their programme; indeed it was regarded as an utterly absurd proposition. Tirpitz told the British military attache that no nation in its right mind could contemplate an invasion without overwhelming sea superiority; even then, he did not see how the invading army could be supplied across miles of sea. And the Kaiser took the unusual step of picking up his pen and writing personally to Lord Tweedmouth, the British First Lord of the Admiralty. He described “this perpetual quoting of ‘the German Danger ’” as “something nearly ludicrous.” “The foreigners in other countries,” he continued, “might easily conclude that the Germans must be an exceptionally strong lot, as they seem able to strike terror into the hearts of the British, who are five times their naval superiors.” He could not resist taking a crack at Lord Esher, a courtier who had been placed in charge of King Edward’s royal establishments, and who had written a letter to The Times on naval matters. Apparently, William did not know that Esher also was a member of the Committee of Imperial Defence, for he asked acidly “if the supervision of the foundations and drains of the Royal Palaces is apt to qualify somebody for the judgement of naval affairs in general?” Lord Tweedmouth replied politely but Edward VII was outraged by the Kaiser’s presumption and sent an icy letter to his nephew. “Your writing to my First Lord of the Admiralty is a ‘new departure’ and I do not see how he can prevent our press from calling attention to the great increase in building of German ships of war, which necessitates our increasing my own navy also! Believe me, your affectionate uncle, Edward R.”[276] The Kaiser, however, was nonplussed. When he ran into Sir Frank Lascelles, the British Ambassador, at a reception, he explained cheerfully that he had felt free to write to Tweedmouth as he held the rank of “Admiral of the British Fleet.”