Once Herbert entered the Foreign Ministry, the Chancellor ensured choice assignments and quick promotions, while ruthlessly crushing Herbert’s independence. Herbert had been in love for a long time with a married woman, Princess Elisabeth Carolath. In the spring of 1881, when Herbert was thirty-two, Elisabeth divorced her husband, expecting to marry Herbert. German newspapers speculated openly and uncritically about the marriage; unlike in Britain, where divorce was unthinkable, divorce was no handicap in Imperial Germany. But Herbert’s decision stimulated violent antagonism in his father. Elisabeth Carolath was closely related to an old enemy of the Chancellor’s. More important, Bismarck feared that the elegant and cosmopolitan Elisabeth would weaken Herbert’s devotion to him. Using every available weapon, Bismarck threatened to discharge Herbert from the Foreign Ministry if he married Elisabeth; he persuaded the Emperor to decree that Varzin and Friedrichsruh could not pass to anyone who married a divorced woman; he sobbed that he would kill himself if the marriage took place. Herbert, subjected to this intimidation, torn between love and filial obligation, threatened with disgrace, disinheritance, and poverty, floundered helplessly. Eventually, Elisabeth, contemptuous, called off the marriage.
Shattered and surly, Herbert smothered his frustrations in drink. Bülow recalled staying up with him all night in Parisian cafés while Herbert drank bottles of heavy Romanée-Conti or dry champagne; then Herbert would appear at lunch the next day and finish off a bottle of port. First Counselor Holstein, who knew the Bismarck family intimately, observed: “Herbert’s character is unevenly developed.60 He has outstanding qualities, first-rate intelligence and analytical ability. His defects are vanity, arrogance, and violence.... He is an efficient worker, but is too vehement. His communications with foreign governments are too apt to assume the form of an ultimatum. Bismarck is afraid of his son’s vehemence. During our disputes with England over colonial affairs, Herbert once wrote [Georg Herbert von] Münster [German Ambassador to England] a dispatch which was, in tone, simply an ultimatum. The Chancellor laid the document aside, remarking that it was a bit too early to adopt that tone.”
In 1885, Bismarck decided to catapult his son into one of the Reich’s senior offices, the State Secretaryship for Foreign Affairs. Count Paul von Hatzfeldt, who preceded Herbert, was charming but weak; Herbert was already fulfilling many of the functions of the office. “Even now, the ambassadors seek out Herbert61 rather than Hatzfeldt because the latter is cautious and the former is talkative and informative and tells more than is good for us,” Holstein wrote in his diary. “The way to loosen Herbert’s tongue62 is to invite him to a morning meal or lunch and serve exquisite wines.” On May 16, Holstein observed: “Both father and son63 are at present pursuing the aim of making the son State Secretary, not just yet, but as soon as possible.” On June 28, he wrote of the Chancellor’s “eagerness to get rid of Hatzfeldt.64... My guess is that Hatzfeldt will have to go because Bismarck is firmly resolved that the post of State Secretary will fall vacant, come what may.... What is aimed at is a reshuffle of ambassadors in which something reasonable will be found for Hatzfeldt.” In the autumn, the reshuffle took place. Hatzfeldt became ambassador to England. And Herbert, at thirty-six, replaced Hatzfeldt as State Secretary.
As State Secretary, Herbert’s role was enhanced by his possession of his father’s confidence; in time, he was regarded almost as the Chancellor’s alter ego. Despite family closeness, official relations between father and son remained formal: Herbert addressed his father in official correspondence as “Your Highness.” Nor did he presume that the Chancellor would forgive a lax performance. Planning to take one day away from his post in Berlin, he wrote to his brother-in-law at Varzin: “Please do not say anything65 about this.... Papa could find in it a dereliction of duty.” In 1886, when Herbert became seriously ill and the Chancellor was told that his son’s decline was due to the demands of office, Bismarck replied, “In every great state66 there must be people who overwork themselves.”
Again, Herbert found solace in drink. In the evenings, the State Secretary was usually in a state of alcoholic befuddlement; in the mornings he suffered from debilitating hangovers. In restaurants, he was peevish, barking orders at waiters. Within a few weeks of becoming State Secretary, he lurched into the courtyard of the Foreign Ministry carrying a small rifle and began shooting at the windows of officials. Invited to Paris by the French Ambassador, he sneered, “I never go to Paris67 except in war time.” When the Emperor Frederick was dying of throat cancer, Herbert told the Prince of Wales, the Emperor’s brother-in-law, that “an emperor who could not talk68 was not fit to reign.” The Prince said afterwards that if he had not valued good relations between Germany and England, he would have thrown Herbert out of the room.
Herbert’s promotion to a key post in the Imperial Government seemed to mark him as the Chancellor’s intended political heir. Herbert himself, having participated in many important decisions, felt his succession natural. At the same time, he knew the weakness of his position: whatever his talents, it would be said he had succeeded only because of his father. But it was the Kaiser who would appoint Bismarck’s successor. There would, at least, be no further advancement under Kaiser William I, who had only reluctantly approved the appointment of the Chancellor’s son as State Secretary. Subsequently, the old Kaiser regretted his decision: “These audiences with young Bismarck69 always take a lot out of me,” he said. “He’s so stormy—even worse than his father. He has not a grain of tact.” Near the end of his life, William I said to a military aide, “Lately, it almost appears70 that the Prince would like to see Herbert take his place one day. That is quite impossible. As long as I live, I will never part from the Prince who will most probably, and as I hope, survive me. He is eighteen years younger than I am. Nor will my successors wish to make the Chancellor’s office an hereditary one. That won’t do.” Bismarck, despite his hopes for Herbert’s future, had no illusions about his son: “Herbert, who is not yet forty,71 is more unteachable and conceited than I, and I am over seventy. I have had a few successes.” To an official who praised Herbert’s industry as State Secretary, Bismarck said, “You need not praise him72 to me. I would have made him State Secretary even if he had not possessed all those qualities for which you praise him, since I want at my side a man in whom I can have complete confidence and whom it is easy for me to deal with. At my great age, when I have used up all my energies in the royal service, I think I have the right to ask that.”
fn1 Subsequently, the phrase was reversed to the more sonorous “blood and iron.”
Chapter 4
Bismarck’s Grand Design
Despite his gruff, militaristic image, Bismarck had no intention of leading his new empire into another war. Beginning in 1871, the aggressive statesman, who in eight years had overturned European politics, defeating two emperors and creating a third, turned his energy to preserving the status quo. War offered more risks than opportunities; what had been won so brilliantly and swiftly might be lost with equal suddenness. “We are satiated,”1 Bismarck said after the war with France. This opposition to war was not based on concern for human suffering. Rather, he considered war a clumsy way of settling international disputes. It took control away from him and placed it in the hands of the generals, whom he distrusted. “You know where a war begins2 but you never know where it ends,” he said. The subsequent restless, expansionist policies which dominated the German Empire under William II played no part in Bismarck’s design. Once he reached his goal of German unity, the maker of wars became a man of peace. And he succeeded: during Bismarck’s nineteen years as Imperial Chancellor, there were no wars among the Great Powers of Europe.
Bismarck’s tool was aggressive, ruthless diplomacy. He played a game of maneuver, constantly shifting tactics, smoothly alternating threats and blandishments, in pursuit of his twin goals of Continental peace and German hegemony. His technique of maintaining peace was not much different from the means he had employed in making wars: sowin
g suspicion and discord among other nations; provoking alarms, setting powers against one another as potential enemies, then offering one—or the other—or both—German support. His reputation made it easier: his achievement in creating the German Empire had been so extraordinary that other statesmen assumed that he possessed special powers, even special wisdom.
Bismarck had defeated each of his enemies—Denmark, Austria, and France—in isolation, but he realized that a powerful, united German Empire could not expect to fight another carefully insulated war. Between 1871 and 1890, there were five Great Powers in Europe—Germany, France, Austria, Russia, and Great Britainfn1—and the alignment of these five dictated the pattern of European diplomacy.
Great Britain, by choice, had isolated itself from peacetime Continental alliances; France, humiliated and embittered by defeat, also was isolated, although not by choice. That left three Great Powers: the empires of Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Russia. It was the purpose of Bismarck’s diplomacy to influence and guide the policies of all three empires in the interest of Germany. “You forget the importance3 of being a party of three on the European chessboard,” the Chancellor told the Russian Ambassador. “That is the object of all governments and above all of mine. Nobody wishes to be in a minority. All politics reduce themselves to this formula: try to be à trois in a world governed by five powers.”
Germany had nothing to do with Britain’s absence from the European chessboard; it bore a heavy responsibility for rendering France implacably hostile. King William I had had a chance of making with defeated France the same generous peace he had made with Austria; this time he rejected Bismarck’s advice. The people of France had been accustomed to centuries of military glory. Tumbled from this summit, France could neither forget nor forgive. The choice of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles as the site in which the new German Empire was proclaimed added a gratuitous insult. The heavy German war indemnity stimulated further resentment. In the years that followed, Bismarck and his successors periodically hoped that France might be reconciled to its losses and lured into the German diplomatic orbit. Always, the Germans were rebuffed. “We remember that they are waiting for us4 in Alsace-Lorraine,” said General Georges Boulanger, a French Minister of War and popular political figure in the 1880s.
The possibility of a France restored, powerful, and vengeful, in alliance with another power, haunted Bismarck. To keep France isolated, to seal her off from contact with other powers, to make her the pariah of Europe, became the cornerstone of the German Chancellor’s foreign policy. In 1873, while German occupation armies still camped on French soil, Bismarck created his first anti-French coalition, the League of Three Emperors (Dreikaiserbund). It was a grouping à trois of Europe’s three imperial dynasts, William I of Germany, Franz Josef of Austria-Hungary, and Alexander II of Russia. There was no formal alliance, merely an agreement to consult if circumstances warranted. The League was ideological rather than military, but in Bismarck’s mind it was a pledge of conservative, monarchical solidarity against the volatile ambitions of unstable, republican France.
Bismarck kept a close watch on France itself. When French policies, external or internal, displeased him, France was hectored and bullied. “Remember, I forbid you to take Tunis,”5 a German ambassador told a Foreign Minister of France. “Yes, I forbid you.” Nevertheless, France recovered rapidly from her defeat. When Bismarck had saddled the new republic with a war indemnity of 5 billion marks, he had expected this burden to keep France supine for many years. Instead, France had paid off the debt in two years and, by the end of 1873, in accordance with the terms of peace, the last soldier in the German occupation army had gone home. The French also had set about restoring the strength of their army.
The possibility of French attack on Germany was nonexistent, but signs of French vitality irritated Prince Bismarck. Moltke, in Berlin, talked incessantly of the dire consequences of French rearmament and the advantages of preventive war. To the British Ambassador, he explained his theory of responsibility for war: peace was not broken, he argued, by the nation that marched first; the state that provoked the necessity for the other to march was the guilty party. Bismarck’s policy trod a narrow line between peace and war. He never actually thought of unleashing Moltke, but he did attempt to intimidate France by showing that she was isolated and helpless in the face of German might.
In 1877, when Russia declared war on Turkey and marched on Constantinople, Austria and England combined to threaten Russia with war unless she drew back. When Count Julius Andrássy, the Austrian Foreign Minister, offered an international conference, Russia was wary. “If Vienna or London is chosen6 we shall not take part,” announced Prince Alexander Gorchakov, adding, however, that Russia “had no objection to Berlin.” Bismarck, eager to prevent a war between Austria and Russia which might entangle Germany, regarded the conference as a façade behind which the Russians could save face and offered his own services as an “Honest Broker.” Tsar Alexander II, relying on his warm personal ties with Kaiser William I, expressed complete confidence in Bismarck’s mediation. At the conclusion of the Congress of Berlin, when Russia was forced to give back many of the gains she had made at Turkey’s expense, the Tsar and the pan-Slavs in St. Petersburg were bitter. They had been betrayed, they felt, by Bismarck.
Russian bitterness and recrimination were much on Bismarck’s mind a year later when he arranged Imperial Germany’s first military alliance. His choice of Austria as a partner seemed at first unlikely. Bismarck had once fiercely opposed an alliance with Austria; in 1854 he had protested “tying our neat, sea-worthy Prussian frigate7 to Austria’s worm-eaten old galleon.” Again in 1876, when Austria confronted Russia in the Balkans, Bismarck had stated that Germany had no interest in the Eastern Question “that was worth the bones8 of a single Pomeranian grenadier.” His reason for change lay in the second axiom of the Chancellor’s imperial foreign policy. The first was to ensure the diplomatic isolation of France; the second was to preserve peace between the Reich’s two eastern neighbors, Austria and Russia. This had been the purpose of the League of Three Emperors, but in the crisis over the Russo-Turkish War, the League had disintegrated. As the Congress of Berlin concluded, Bismarck realized that antagonism between Austria and Russia in the Balkans was unlikely to disappear. His own effort to mediate had turned out badly; he had heard the grumbling and felt the growing estrangement from St. Petersburg. Better to begin with something solid: a defensive alliance with Austria. This could be used in two ways: it would ensure Germany’s southern flank in case of war with Russia, and it could also frighten the Russians into seeking a closer relationship with Germany.
The choice of Austria was made easier because the peace imposed on Austria after the 1866 war had been generous. There were no “lost provinces” like Alsace and Lorraine to keep Vienna embittered. Austria was suitable on ethnic grounds: the Austrian population of the Hapsburg empire was ethnically compatible with and spoke the same language as the Germans; if necessary, the alliance could be tuned to the theme of Teuton versus Slav. Bismarck’s larger purpose was to influence the relationship between Vienna and St. Petersburg as they moved towards a dangerous collision in the Balkans. To do this, he needed an ally he could dominate. Austria offered the better chance; Russia was too large, too remote, too far beyond his reach. “If I must choose,”9 he said, “I will choose Austria, a constitutionally governed, pacific state, which lies under Germany’s guns; whereas we cannot get at Russia.” Russia, nevertheless, remained a part of Bismarck’s equation. With Austria firmly in hand, he could reach out to Russia and offer her stability, managed and guaranteed by his iron hand in Berlin.
Bismarck’s principal opponent in making the Austro-German Treaty of 1879 was the Emperor William I. William saw no reason for making an alliance with Austria, his former enemy, against Russia, Prussia’s only permanent friend. Friendship between Hohenzollerns and Romanovs was a sacred bequest to William, handed down by his parents from the days of the Napoleonic wars. Ts
ar Alexander II was his uncle and his closest friend among European monarchs. Russia had stood by Prussia during Bismarck’s three wars of unification; from Versailles, the new Emperor William I had telegraphed Tsar Alexander II: “Never will Prussia forget10 that it is due to you that the war did not spread.” For Germany now to turn against Russia, the Kaiser said, would be a betrayal tantamount to treason. Bismarck, in order to influence William, said that Russian troops were moving towards the German frontier; he argued that a letter from the Tsar was offensively worded and portended an attack from the east. William, alarmed, hurried to meet Alexander at the frontier town of Alexandrovno. There, he assured the Tsar of his personal devotion and pledged German loyalty to a policy of friendship. Bismarck, meanwhile, proceeded to Vienna and, as if the Kaiser did not exist, drew up a treaty of alliance with Count Andrássy, the Austrian Foreign Minister.
When William returned to Berlin to find a telegram from Bismarck demanding his assent to a treaty with Austria, he was incredulous, then furious. “Prince Bismarck himself states11... that I shall find it difficult to ratify this treaty,” he said. “Not simply difficult but impossible: it would go against my conscience, my character, and my honor to conclude behind the back of my friend—my personal, my family, my political friend—a hostile alliance directed against him.” William fought stubbornly. He cited the historic friendship between Hohenzollern and Romanov, the services Alexander had rendered Prussia, the danger in isolating Russia of driving her into the arms of France. He said that he would rather abdicate than sign an alliance against Russia. Bismarck countered by threatening to resign unless the Kaiser agreed to sign. William gave way. His threat to abdicate was meaningless: if he stepped down, the Crown Prince, who favored the Austrian alliance, would become Kaiser and sign the treaty. “Bismarck is more necessary than I12 am,” said William, but added, “My whole moral strength is broken.” Signing the treaty, he wrote in the margin, “Those men who have compelled me13 to this step will be held responsible for it above.”
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