The next year, 1902, the Kaiser was again in England; and this time the visit was an utter failure. At Sandringham, to which the Kaiser was asked by his uncle to travel in plain clothes since it was ‘not customary to wear uniform in the country in England’, the most strenuous efforts were made to entertain the Kaiser and his suite. Musicians were brought up from London for him; Horace Goldin displayed his remarkable gifts as a conjurer; Albert Chevalier came to sing his funny songs; Sir Henry Irving arrived with a company of actors to perform Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s A Story of Waterloo; Arthur Bourchier and Violet Vanbrugh were in excellent form in a short piece entitled Dr. Johnson. There were shooting parties and there were large dinner parties to which distinguished soldiers and various members of the Cabinet were invited so that the Kaiser could talk to them.
But nothing seemed to please him very much. Whenever he attempted to talk to the King’s ministers about Anglo–German relations they were exasperatingly non-committal, while the King himself steadfastly declined to be drawn on the subject at all. If the Kaiser did not find the British congenial, they certainly did not find him so. They did not like the clothes he wore for shooting, which looked like a kind of uniform, though they had to admit that he shot well with the light gun he had to use because of his withered arm. They were appalled when some military members of his suite drew revolvers to shoot at the hares. And they were constantly irritated by his officious display of knowledgeability on every conceivable subject.
‘What petrol do you use?’ he asked on being shown the King’s new car. The King did not know. Potato spirit was the best, the polymath informed him. Had he ever tried that? The King had never even heard of it. The conversation ended there. But a few days later the King was astonished to discover an extraordinary assortment of glass bottles, retorts and jars on his table together with various mineral and vegetable substances: the Kaiser had sent to Germany for them so that he could demonstrate to his uncle the method of manufacture of his favoured motor fuel. No one was surprised when, as the Kaiser boarded the Hohenzollern, the King was heard to murmur, ‘Thank God, he’s gone!’
Thereafter relations between the King and the Kaiser rapidly deteriorated, reaching their nadir in 1905 when, in an attempt to break the entente cordiale, the Kaiser, having spoken at Bremen of a ‘world-wide dominion of the Hohenzollerns’, made a bombastic speech at Tangier, asserting Germany’s ‘great and growing interests in Morocco’. Castigating the Kaiser’s speech, which had been made at the instigation of von Bülow, as ‘the most mischievous and uncalled-for event which the German Emperor has ever been engaged in since he came to the throne’, the King, who was himself cruising in the Mediterranean at the time, landed at Algiers where he took the remarkable step of asking the French Governor-General to send, on his personal behalf, a telegram of encouragement to Théophile Delcassé, who was reported to have resigned when pressed to show a more conciliatory attitude towards Germany. Delcassé had already been persuaded not to resign by Loubet when the King’s message arrived; but as his country and Germany drifted close to war he was forced out of office, and French resistance to German demands for a conference on the future of Morocco collapsed.
The Germans badly mishandled the Morocco Conference, which not only left France the dominant power in the area, but also the prestige of the British, who had stood loyally by their partner, greatly enhanced. And the Kaiser, convinced that his uncle was plotting the destruction of Germany, was consequently more resentful of him than ever. ‘He is a Devil,’ he announced to three hundred guests at a banquet in Berlin.
‘You can hardly believe what a Devil he is.’ The King was no less uncomplimentary about the Kaiser. ‘The King talks and writes about [him] in terms that make one’s flesh creep,’ Lord Lansdowne wrote, ‘and the official papers which go to him, whenever they refer to His Imperial Majesty, come back with all sorts of annotations of a most incendiary character.’ Nor did the King confine himself to comments about the Kaiser: von Bülow was ‘badly informed’; the opinions of Baron von Holstein, head of the political section of the German Foreign Office, were as ‘absurd’ as they were ‘false’; in negotiating with Russia, Germany was ‘certain’ to act behind England’s back. In fact, the King was ‘inclined to agree’ with Francis Knollys that ‘all public men in Germany from the Emperor downwards [were] liars’.
The King’s displeasure with the Kaiser could be attributed to more than politics, the German Ambassador in London, Count Metternich, told von Bülow. ‘It is said that the Kaiser talked freely in yachting circles about the loose morals of English Society, and in particular about King Edward’s relationship with Mrs Keppel. King Edward is very touchy on this subject and this seems to have annoyed him especially.’
Nevertheless, in an effort to allay German suspicions about the entente cordiale and the Anglo–Russian détente, both of which the Wilhelmstrasse was endeavouring to break, the King wrote to the Kaiser on his fortyseventh birthday in 1906 to assure him that England ‘never had any aggressive feelings towards Germany’ and — less convincingly — that, since the sovereigns of the two countries were ‘such old friends and near relations’, the King felt sure that ‘the affectionate feelings’ which had ‘always existed’ would continue. The Kaiser replied in the same vein, reminding the King of the silent hours when they had both watched beside the deathbed of ‘that great sovereign lady’, Queen Victoria, ‘as she drew her last breath’ in her grandson’s arms; and affirming that the King’s letter, which ‘breathed such an atmosphere of kindness and warm sympathy’, constituted ‘the most cherished gift’ among his birthday presents.
When King and Kaiser met again the next year at Wilhelmshöhe both made an attempt to live up to these protestations of affection, the King — as Charles Hardinge told the Foreign Secretary, Edward Grey — ‘studiously avoiding all reference to political questions in which Great Britain and Germany [were] interested’. Afterwards the King wrote to tell Prince George how pleased with the Kaiser he had been. But ‘although the King was outwardly on the best of terms with the German Emperor, and laughed and joked with him’, Hardinge ‘could not help noticing that there was no [such] real intimacy between them’ as there was between the King and the old Emperor of Austria, whom the King described to Sir Lionel Cust as ‘a dear old man’. As Frederick Ponsonby observed, ‘there was always a feeling of thunder in the air whenever the King and the [Kaiser] were together … There were always forced jokes and the whole atmosphere seemed charged with electricity … Both were such big personalities that they each tended to dominate the conversation.’ Ponsonby was thankful ‘when the talk kept’ — as the King always endeavoured to keep it — ‘on family topics and things that did not matter’. The atmosphere during the return visit, which the Kaiser made to England the following year, was no less uneasy. At the last moment, either because he was offended by the reluctance of the English to accept an escort of German battleships at Portsmouth or because he feared that he might be embarrassed by remarks about the impending trial of his friend, Count Philipp Eulenburg, who was accused of homosexual offences, the Kaiser sent a telegram to say that ‘bronchitis’ and an ‘acute cough’ prevented him from coming. Persuaded to change his mind, the Kaiser arrived as planned on 11 November 1907, looking, as the King archly observed when proposing a toast to his guests at a banquet the next evening at Windsor, ‘in splendid health’.
As usual, the King tried to avoid all political discussion with his nephew; but the Kaiser found audiences elsewhere and profoundly affronted many of them.
There were reports of savagely anti-Semitic tirades. There were even more alarming accounts of long monologues at the Hampshire house which had been rented for him, Highcliffe Castle, where he propounded the eccentric view that it was by adopting his strategic plan that the British army had saved itself from ultimate disgrace in the Boer War. The Kaiser also maintained that, out of family loyalty, he had vetoed proposals at the beginning of the war for an anti-British coalition; that he had
stood almost alone in holding back the anti-British feelings in Germany; that he was England’s best friend; and that the English were ‘mad as March hares’ not to recognize it. When the gist of these remarks appeared in the Daily Telegraph of 28 October 1908, the King expressed the opinion that ‘of all the political gaffes’ which the Kaiser had made this was ‘the greatest’. Yet there was a worse one to come. A fortnight later the New York World provided a censored synopsis of an interview with the Kaiser which the New York Times had decided was ‘so strong’ that it could not be printed. And although he later repudiated the remarks attributed to him by the interviewer, W.B. Hale, the Kaiser was now on record as having said that war between England and Germany was inevitable, that the sooner it came, the better, that Great Britain was degenerate and her King corrupt. The King wrote in a profoundly aggrieved tone to Francis Knollys:
I know the E[mperor] hates me, and never loses an opportunity of saying so (behind my back) whilst I have always been civil and nice to him … I have, I presume, nothing more to do than to accept [his emphatic denial]. I am, however, convinced in my mind that the words attributed to the G[erman] E[mperor] by Hale are perfectly correct … As regards my visit to Berlin, there is no hurry to settle anything at present. The Foreign Office, to gain their own object, will not care a pin what humiliation I have to put up with …
Had he been able to please himself, the King, who knew very well that the Kaiser, in Eckardstein’s words, treated him ‘as a subject for schoolboy jokes’, would never have spoken to him again. But approached once more to meet him in an endeavour to smooth the path towards a better understanding between their two countries — and to halt competition in building up naval armaments — the King agreed to see the Kaiser on his way to Marienbad in 1908 and, on this occasion, to talk about important political matters rather than trivial family affairs. They met accordingly at Friedrichshof Castle one morning in August. The King had in his pocket a memorandum about naval expenditure which had been prepared for him by the Foreign Secretary. And as the morning wore on and the two sovereigns remained alone together, it began to be hoped that the basis for agreement was being prepared. Two hours passed, then three; and it was not until the early afternoon that the door was opened and the King and Kaiser emerged. All sorts of matters had been discussed, the King confided to Hardinge before luncheon, ‘with the exception of naval armaments’. He had ‘touched on the question and mentioned the document in his pocket’; but the Kaiser had ‘neither asked to see the paper nor to know its contents’, and the King had ‘therefore considered that it would be more tactful on his part not to force upon [him] a discussion which he seemed anxious to avoid’.
Thankful, as always, to have an excuse not to risk a scene with his nephew, who would certainly in the course of it have shown off his detailed knowledge of British and German naval construction, the King then left it to Hardinge to have further talks with the Kaiser during the afternoon and evening. In the course of these talks the Kaiser ‘made several satirical allusions to England’s policy and her new friends’, Hardinge reported to Edward Grey, ‘and endeavoured to show what a good friend he had been to England in the past.’ He again alleged that he had declined to enter a coalition against England, proposed by the Russian and French governments, during the Boer War and that he had, on the contrary, ‘threatened to make war on any Power that dared to make an unprovoked attack on England’. He referred once more to the plan of campaign which his general staff had drawn up for the guidance of the British army after its early reverses in that war, a plan which ‘had been followed by Lord Roberts in all its details’. And he complained that, whereas he was constantly sending his statesmen to London, no English statesman, with the exception of Lord Rosebery ‘many years ago and Mr Haldane quite recently’, was ever sent to Berlin.
Towards the end of the interview an aide-de-camp came to the Emperor and announced that the King was ready to leave for the railway station [Hardinge’s report concluded]. As I somewhat hurriedly rose and asked permission to go to fetch my coat and hat, the Emperor stopped me and said in a very emphatic manner: ‘Remember … the future of the world is in the hands of the Anglo– Teuton race. England, without a powerful army, cannot stand alone in Europe, but must lean on a continental Power, and that Power should be Germany.’ There was no time nor opportunity to continue what might have been an interesting discussion.
So the British diplomats left Cronenberg with the subject of German naval armaments still in unresolved dispute.
The following year, in Berlin, the King apparently did bring himself to broach the embarrassing subject with the Kaiser when they were alone together. But he did so just before his departure and in an extremely diffident way. ‘We are in a different position from other countries,’ he explained. ‘Being an island, we must have a fleet larger than all the other ones. But we don’t dream of attacking anybody.’
The Kaiser agreed that it was ‘perfectly natural that England should have a navy according to its interests and be able to safeguard them’. It was just the same with Germany, which also had no aggressive intentions. According to the Kaiser’s account of this conversation, the King immediately agreed with him:
He: Oh quite so, quite so, I perfectly understand it is your absolute right; I don’t for one moment believe you are designing anything against us.
I: This bill was published eleven years ago; it will be adhered to and exactly carried out, without any restriction.
He: Of course that is quite right, as it is a bill voted by the people and their parliament, I know that cannot be changed.
I: It is a mistake on the part of some Jingos in England that we are making a building race with you. That is nonsense. We only follow the bill.
He: Oh, I know that is quite an absurd notion, the situation is quite clear to me and I am in no way alarmed; that is all talk and will pass over.
This conversation took place in the ‘last minute before the King’s departure’; and it was with evident relief that he brought the unpleasant discussion to an end and boarded his train. It had not been an enjoyable visit from the beginning. Two days previously, the King, unaccompanied by the Kaiser, had attended a reception at the Rathaus where he had delighted the city’s businessmen and dignitaries by making a charming speech to the burgomaster’s little daughter, who had offered him a gold goblet of Rhenish wine, and had consequently been given a warmly gratifying reception. But otherwise this visit to Berlin in February 1909 was characterized by a succession of minor disasters.
The Kaiser had done his best to make it a success; and had gone so far as to have Danish books and pictures of Copenhagen placed in the Queen’s suite, as well as a concert piano, and, in the King’s suite, a portrait of Queen Victoria and a large print of ‘British Naval Victories’. But all his efforts were unavailing. On the outward journey the driver of the royal train had applied the brakes so suddenly that a footman serving dinner had lost his balance and upset a dish of quails over the Queen, leaving one bird suspended in her hair. She had made light of the accident and had kept Frederick Ponsonby and the rest of the suite ‘in roars of laughter describing how she would arrive in Berlin coiffée de cailles’. But she had been able to do nothing to lessen the tension when the train arrived at the frontier town of Rathenow before the King was dressed. The bandmaster had been told to strike up ‘God Save the King’ as the train drew to a halt and to continue playing until the King appeared on the platform. ‘For ten solid minutes’ the band kept up the British National Anthem until the King’s suite, standing to attention in full uniform, ‘all nearly screamed’. At last the King appeared, looking flustered and cross in the uniform of a German field marshal. In order to make up for lost time, he walked at an unusually brisk pace as he inspected the guard of honour and a regiment of hussars and became in consequence very much out of breath, succumbing to a fit of violent coughing on re-entering the train.
At the Lehrter Bahnhof in Berlin it was the Kaiser’s suite who were out of br
eath as they came ‘running down the platform in a most undignified way’ to greet the King, who appeared unexpectedly at the door of the Queen’s carriage which was a hundred yards further down the platform from his own. There were even more undignified scenes when the visitors left the station for the coaches waiting to transport them to the palace. Frightened by the booming cannon, the cheering crowds and waving flags, some of the horses jibbed and refused to move, while others threw their riders and galloped away loose. The Queen and the Empress were obliged to change carriages, which entailed everyone else behind them doing the same and the occupants of the last carriage having to walk.
Neither the state banquet held that evening nor the court ball on Wednesday was any more successful. At the banquet the King, coughing constantly, found great difficulty in getting through a short speech which, breaking with his usual practice, he read from a prepared text; while the Queen, an unwilling guest at the Kaiser’s table, did not endear herself to her host, who was picking at his food, by saying to him, ‘You ride, you work, you take a lot of trouble. Why don’t you eat? Eating is good for the brain.’ At the subsequent ball, so Ponsonby reported, there was ‘a proper row’ when two of the Kaiser’s sons and various princesses asked the band to play a two-step in defiance of the orders of the Kaiser, who, in accordance with his insistence that court balls were not held for amusement but to provide lessons in deportment, refused to allow any modern tunes to be played.
Edward VII: The Last Victorian King Page 40