Bismarck

Before resuming the extracts from my diary I beg to be allowed to present the reader with a picture of the house in which the Chancellor resided during his stay in Berlin at the time when I had the honour of working under his instructions, and to add a few words upon the life of which that house was the centre.

I purpose to do this in some detail, not omitting even matters of secondary interest, and regardless of the question whether it may be to the taste of certain critics, as I hope the public will come to a very different conclusion, and will welcome my description.

In spite of the Radical newspapers of Berlin, and of the old women who write in the National Zeitung, and of the parliamentarian spirit which hovers over the turbid waters of the press, No. 76 Wilhelmstrasse is, in the highest sense of the word, a house of historic interest. Under its roof and in its rooms German history has been made, and—(as the new-born Germany, now raised to the position which is her due, may be regarded, without boastfulness, as one of the leading European Powers)—also a great, and perhaps the best part of the political history of the Continent. It has been the scene of great thoughts and deeds; and to give as precise an account of such a place as discretion will permit, enabling the reader to form a distinct picture of it in his mind’s eye, appears to me to be a praiseworthy undertaking, particularly when, as in the present instance, the house in question has already undergone important changes, and will in time altogether disappear.

What was the dwelling of the political regenerator of our people? how did he live at the time when he began his work and carried the most important part of it into execution? and what were the instruments which he employed? Our great-grandchildren and their grandchildren will ask these questions, and so will the following generations, as we now do respecting the heroes of the two preceding periods of regeneration in the life of the German people, respecting Luther, who liberated and rejuvenated our spiritual life, and respecting Goethe and Schiller, the two central suns of the days when, in the literary sphere, clear morning rose upon a world of night and twilight. The cell in which Brother Martin, the Augustinian monk of Wittenberg, in October, 1517, drew up the ninety-five Propositions with which he delivered the first powerful blow against the Papacy; the house and room where Faust and Gretchen and Wilhelm Meister’s apprenticeship were completed, and that in which the powerful tragedy of the “Friedlaender” sprang from the poet’s imagination, have been maintained by pious hands in the condition in which they were when occupied by those great spirits. That is also the case with Sans Souci, the château of the Great Frederick. No. 76 Wilhelmstrasse does not stand under such favourable auspices. During the lifetime of the former occupant of this house, and immediately after his removal into the neighbouring palace which had been built for him, the inner apartments underwent considerable alterations, as the upper floor was also to be used for offices. Later, however, and perhaps at no very distant date, workmen will come with pick and shovel to tear down and cart away these historic walls. The stones and woodwork which, as a house, once sheltered the greatest statesman of our time, the windows through which he saw the sun shine upon his most important labours, will be applied to vulgar uses. The wall papers which witnessed momentous councils and interviews will be scattered to the winds, and after the rubbish heaps have been cleared away, a pretentious palatial building of two or three stories will rise on the site, and cause the old house to be forgotten.

Reason says it must be so. The little house in which he lived may disappear, if only the great structure which he erected remains filled with his spirit. But for those to whom the house has become as closely identified with its occupants as the shell with its inlying mother-of-pearl, sentiment also has its claims, and if those claims are to be discharged, care must be taken that when destruction overtakes it, our hero’s dwelling place shall at least continue to live in the printed annals of our race.

No. 76 Wilhelmstrasse, which, during the decade and a half spent by Bismarck under its roof has been the most distinguished and finally the most influential Foreign Office in the world, was, both externally and internally, one of the most insignificant looking and uncomfortable of buildings. The Prefecture of a French provincial town, such, for instance, as that of Versailles or Nancy, is, as a general rule, both more roomy and imposing than the narrow and old-fashioned tenement in which the Chancellor of the German Empire and the officials of the Political Department of the Foreign Office were housed for almost sixteen years. Chosen as the residence of the Minister at a time when Prussia was only occasionally reckoned among the effectually great Powers of Europe, it may not merely have sufficed for its purpose so long as that period lasted, but have been, to some extent, an adequate symbol of her slight importance in the eyes of the outer world. After Prussia had taken a higher rank and compelled the world’s attention, after her diplomacy had developed into fuller activity, it was, if not materially indispensable, at least fitting and expedient, that something better should be provided. The fact that this was only done at a late period is due mainly to the simple tastes of Prince Bismarck, who, as we have already seen, contented himself throughout his campaigns with scanty shelter, quite incommensurate with his rank.

The former residence of the Imperial Chancellor was built in the first half of the last century, and in 1819, when it was purchased by the Treasury, was in the possession of Alopaeus, the Russian Minister of that time. It is situated not far from the Wilhelmsplatz, and nearly opposite to the palace of Prince Charles. It is flanked on the one side by a palace which belonged to Prince Radziwill until about four years ago, when, having passed into the possession of the German Empire, it was transformed into a residence for Prince Bismarck, and the Imperial Chancellerie, while on the other side is the building formerly occupied by Decker’s printing establishment, which has also been for some time the property of the State. Behind the house is a spacious garden, which reaches as far as the Königgrätzer Strasse—the only beautiful feature of the whole residence. Looked at from the front, No. 76 Wilhelmstrasse is a grey stucco house of moderate size. To the left on the ground floor is a carriage entrance, while to the right extends a row of eleven windows. On the first floor there are thirteen windows, and above a small flat gable projects from the tiled roof, beneath which are four pilasters in low relief, with Corinthian capitals rising between the middle windows. There is no other ornamentation of any kind. Whoever wishes may add to the picture, according to his own fancy, a few Chancery messengers with leather portfolios; Leverstroem, the “Black Horseman” (who acts as the bearer of hurried messages, inquiries and invitations); or one or other of the Ministers or foreign representatives stepping out of his carriage to pay the Chancellor a visit.

If we pull the bell of the outer door it opens for us, only to close immediately behind our backs. We find ourselves in a gateway which opens on a small passage between two walls, behind which a portion of the garden is visible. On the right there is a window, behind the panes of which a watchful eye studies our appearance. Further on we come to the steps of a stone staircase, and a landing with a chessboard pattern in red and white; then a yellow folding screen before a glass door between two grey Doric columns. On either side right and left of the staircase crouches a sphinx—mute, deep-gazing, and doubtless profoundly wise, which the stranger may regard as an intimation that he stands on the threshold of a mysterious region, inaccessible to most mortals. The watchful one awaits the visitor outside the small door, which opens on to the landing behind one of the sphinxes, scrutinises him closely, and inquires whom he wishes to see. This is Herr Linstedt, the Porter of the Foreign Office.

Let us suppose that the stranger is in a position to satisfy this strict, though polite, janitor as to his right to visit all the mysterious chambers behind the screen (which, by the way, Prince Napoleon on his visit to Bismarck is understood not to have been able to do without some delay), and let us further suppose that our stroll through the building takes place in one of the three years from February, 1870, to March, 1873. These are among the most important years of the last decades; and since then, as already indicated, alterations have been made both in the arrangement of the rooms and in the personnel employed there. Finally, it may perhaps be well to remember before entering, and to bear constantly in mind, that this is not the office of the Imperial Chancellor—a misunderstanding which to my knowledge was formerly very frequent, and which may occur occasionally even now; but the Foreign Office, or, to be still more precise, the first or political department of the Foreign Office, which works immediately under the control of the Imperial Chancellor. The Imperial Chancellerie, properly so called, is now located in the palatial building, Nos. 1 and 2 Wilhelmsplatz; while during the period here referred to it was also rather poorly housed. The Imperial Chancellerie, which is to a certain extent the Ministry of the Interior for Germany, at that time under the control of Herr Delbrück, was, and is, both actually and for purposes of business, about as distinct from the Foreign Office as is the Ministry of War and the Admiralty.

An ominous twilight prevails in the chambers behind the screens. A door to the right leads into the room occupied by the deciphering clerks. To the left a rather broad staircase, which receives its light from a small cupola decorated with green and gold arabesques, leads to the first floor, on which is situated the official residence of the Imperial Chancellor. For the present we pass by these carpeted stairs in order to continue our inspection of the lower regions. A few paces further on, and we find ourselves in a small dark passage, which is lighted with hanging lamps, even in the day time. It ends at a folding door leading into a large chamber occupied by the Secretary of State, which looks out on to the back-yard and the garden. On the left-hand side of the passage a second door opens into the room of the Chancery attendants. Passing through this to a third door we enter a small dimly-lighted antechamber, which might—if it were possible to compare the Foreign Office to the Temple at Jerusalem—correspond to the Forecourt of the Gentiles, or be described as the space where the Proselytes of the Gate collected together. In other words, here the minor officials of the Ministry receive and despatch business with outsiders, i.e., with persons who do not belong to the Foreign Office. Behind the folding doors visible to the right and left of this antechamber is holy ground, unapproachable for the profane world, and only accessible to the Levites and priests. On the right Secretaries cipher, decipher, and copy despatches. To the left those who are initiated and have the right of entry find themselves first in the Central Bureau, the headquarters of the Secretaries for confidential correspondence, and then in a small labyrinth of rooms, cells, and partitions, in which officials of various grades in the diplomatic hierarchy are engaged with the secrets of the house, mostly seated a few paces, and sometimes hardly three feet, from each other.

The impression left by this series of chambers is not at all a pleasant one, especially if the visitor has been previously in the Ministry of Commerce or the Imperial Chancellerie, and is able and disposed to make comparisons. In such circumstances one may perhaps think of Faust’s “drangvoll fuerchterliche Enge”:

Such is the oppressive sultriness, particularly when the visit takes place in the evening, and the steam of a dozen oil lamps is added to the smell of documents, printer’s ink, and the close air, revolting the nose and distressing the lungs, that one cannot help wondering how it is that lamps can possibly burn in such an atmosphere, and that such an accumulation of evil gases does not lead to explosions and accidents as in ill-ventilated mines.

This is no exaggeration. Man becomes accustomed to everything upon this earth, even to eating arsenic and to the poisonous air of overcrowded rooms. Such rooms, however, do not on that account become any the pleasanter to live in. Another and almost equally serious inconvenience to which several of those engaged there have perforce to become reconciled, is that of having to work so close together in small rooms, sometimes only divided by a papered partition, through which every conversation not conducted in a whisper interrupts the course of their own thoughts, and (I refer of course to the period above specified, though I quote from my diary in the present tense) the inconvenience is not diminished by the circumstance that some of the gentlemen employed there seem unable to speak in a low voice.

The furniture, which includes some fossils from the primeval Alopaeus period, is made of every kind of wood grown in our forests and gardens, and constructed in every fashion and style of cabinet-making, reaching back to the last century. Yellow plum-tree, dark mahogany, common deal, japanned, polished and merely planed wood, writing-tables, standing and cylinder desks, document cupboards, open shelves for books, journals and papers, and, in the furthest chambers of the labyrinth, a few sofas, each of which almost invariably differs in shape and material from its neighbour, are arranged along the walls in motley array. Several of these have the dignity of age. Not the most ancient of these grey and antique relics is a desk at which some official has, I believe for thirty years, always sharpened his pencil on the same spot, until at length his penknife has dug a hole right through the inch and a half thickness of the wood. These venerable survivals are calculated to provoke many thoughts both serious and humorous; but there is one in particular which they all suggested, at any rate to me. How it must have worried these ancient pieces of furniture, after so many years and decades of fruitless but comfortable routine, to find themselves suddenly roused in 1862 by the new spirit that had entered and filled the house! Can they ever have grown reconciled to that swift, exacting, imperious and not very considerate genius, even when they saw the fruits, the immense success, of the organisation which he introduced? One must assume that furniture has no interest in or understanding of such matters.

It would be a pleasant addition if I were at liberty to complete my description of these rooms with characteristic portraits of their occupants. They would be as statues and pictures in the house which I have built with words, and it is possible that a couple of original figures would be found among the number. There are, however, certain grounds for hesitation, of which I will only mention the following—that as a rule dignity will not suffer a jest; furthermore, that a member of the non-official world runs some risk of forming an incorrect or unfair opinion of an official; and that the latter—if he is of the right sort—wishes neither to be praised nor blamed by persons outside his own circle, nor indeed even mentioned oftener than is necessary. Such an one desires simply to do his duty, and contents himself with his own legitimate sense of personal worth, which in this instance is all the more praiseworthy, as those whose portraits I should here have to attempt are officials of rank and title.

These considerations made me hesitate. Finally, however, others forced themselves upon me. The picture of the Chancellor’s life must be made as complete as possible; and the truth, which through machinations in the press has been in many instances seriously obscured and disfigured, must no longer suffer violence. I therefore adopt a middle course, and take from my diary, where they have been preserved till now for the purpose of private reference, certain of the above-mentioned statues and pictures, the originals of which have in the meantime either died or been placed in an entirely false light in the public mind. These I exhibit partly here and partly in the later chapters. History, to which these fellow-workers of the Chancellor now belong, must know how they appear to an impartial observer. To this necessity all other considerations must give way. Of the other gentlemen I only give the names, recall their titles, mention in general that they are more or less richly provided with the usual decorations, and indicate in a few words some of their principal features.

We had remained in the first room to the left of the dusky antechamber already described, which I took the liberty of comparing to the Forecourt of the Gentiles. Under the windows are the writing-tables and desks of the Secretaries of the Central Bureau, who, if I am rightly informed, occupy the first rank among the minor officials of the Empire. Geheimer Hofrath Roland, the Chief of the Bureau, has his place under the furthest window, in the region of the Councillors of Embassy. He is an elderly gentleman, who entered at a time when these positions were mainly or exclusively occupied by members of the French colony, and when the principal business of the Central Bureau, namely, the registration of all documents despatched and received, was conducted in the French language. He is a paragon of registrars, although just a little brusque, and he might perhaps also be described as a good calculator, in a certain sense. Nine orders and medals decorate his meritorious breast, when on festive occasions he dons his uniform of a lieutenant of the Reserve. Thoroughly well versed in the etiquette of official intercourse, he would, in writing to the Minister, never subscribe himself other than “most obedient humble servant”; to the Secretary of State, “obedient”; to an Ambassador, “most dutiful”; or to an Envoy, “most respectful.” In writing to Bülow and Keudell, he signs himself “your most obedient,” possibly because they are Kassenraethe, or perhaps because of their titles of nobility. To Bucher and the other Privy Councillors he is only “your obedient,” to officials of equal rank “most humble,” and to inferiors “humble.” The next in place and rank is “Hofrath” Hesse, formerly a theologian, and also advanced in years. Then come Herr Boelsing, also for some time past a “Hofrath,” and the “Geheim Sekretär,” Wollmann, who has not yet been awarded the higher predicate.

I wish again to call attention to the fact that these descriptions and names refer to the period of 1873.

As already cursorily noted, the Central Bureau is the despatching and registering department of the Foreign Office. It is the centre from which all the ideas and orders of the Chancellor, as worked up by the Councillors in the form of notes, despatches, telegrams, instructions, &c., radiate out into the world, and it is the point at which all those coming in from outside, such as documents, reports, and letters addressed to the Minister personally, or to the Ministry, are opened, registered according to their contents, communicated to the Chief, and, after use—so far as it is desirable to retain them—arranged in bundles and pigeon-holed in the presses which line the walls, until they ultimately find their way into the State archives.

Adjoining the room occupied by the Geheim Sekretäre, is a narrow, one-windowed cell, with book shelves, newspaper cupboards, and other furniture, including the patient writing desk above mentioned, with its counterpart to the proverb that “Constant dropping wears the stone,” which has made the clearest and most lasting impression upon my memory, as it was assigned to me as my place of work. Next to this little chamber, which at the same time served as a thoroughfare to the larger room of the Secretaries, was a still smaller one, not more than two good paces in breadth, which was divided from the former by a thin wooden partition papered over. Within these narrow confines two Räthe (Councillors), the antipodes of each other, Lothar Bucher and Aegidi, were from the summer of 1871 driven to seek elbow-room and a few feet of space to move about in, and, what is still stranger, they managed to find it. A full account must be given of the first mentioned of these. One day, when the secret history of the Bismarckian era can be written, the name of this little, unpretentious man in the modest cell will have to occupy a prominent, and perhaps, indeed, the first place among the Chancellor’s fellow-labourers. And with justice! I do not exaggerate when I assert that of the assistants who co-operated in the work of our political regenerator, Bucher was in every respect the most gifted and the best informed, while at the same time he was unquestionably the man of strongest character, conscientiousness, unselfishness and loyalty among them. He was a man of genuine distinction, and with his clear and fine understanding, his wealth of knowledge, his skill in political affairs, and his great power of work, he was, in short—to borrow the words in which our master once spoke of him to me—“a real pearl.” Space fails me to show this at due length, and indications and outlines, with a few illustrations of his worth, must suffice in some degree to give an idea of this rare character. His name will recur repeatedly in the diary, which will, as far as possible, make up for what may be lacking here.

Adolph Lothar Bucher was born at Neustettin, on the 25th of October, 1817. When he was two years of age his family moved to Koeslin in Further Pomerania, where his father, a Saxon of the Electorate, and much respected as a philologist and geographer, was Professor and Pro-Rector of the Gymnasium or High School. Here the boy received his earliest instruction and his first conscious impressions of the world and life. The fact that his father was a friend of Ludwig Jahn’s must have had some influence on his riper youth. The subjects for which he showed the greatest aptitude at school were mathematics and natural philosophy; and as the time for choosing a profession drew near he first wished to become a sailor and afterwards an architect. His parents on the other hand preferred one of the learned professions; and he decided to adopt the study of the law, for which purpose he went to Berlin University. Here he found in progress the well known conflict between the historical and philosophical schools, between Savigny and Gans. He threw in his lot with the latter, and occupied himself diligently with the study of Hegel, their chief master. Subsequently, however, his inclination for philosophy cooled down, and he devoted himself exclusively to jurisprudence. From 1838 to 1843 he was engaged in the chief Provincial Court at Koeslin, and in the latter year was appointed Assessor in the Court at Stolp, which town returned him as its representative to the Prussian National Assembly in March, 1848, and a year later to the Parliament which had in the meantime been created. Up to 1840 there had practically been no public life in Prussia in the present sense of the words. The new representative from Further Pomerania was a jurist, whose education had been in the main confined to civil law, and who had had no experience whatever of affairs of State. Moreover he had read Rotteck and Welcker in his leisure hours, and had with his inborn thoroughness assimilated their views on history and politics. It was therefore almost a matter of course, particularly when the revolutionary spirit is taken into account, which at that time swept like a stormy west wind through the German States, shaking all the trees and loosening every joint, that Bucher should have taken his seat upon the Left benches and devoted his gifts as a jurist and as a speaker to the service of Radicalism. It should be observed however that he did not belong to the Waldeck party, which despised the rules of polite conduct, and just as little to those who delighted in the art of pathetic oratory. Speaking of him in his “Denkwuerdigkeiten” General von Brandt says: “I have never heard any one speak with more talent and moderation than Bucher on this occasion (the debate in Committee on the so-called Habeas Corpus Act). His blond hair and dispassionate attitude reminded me strongly of pictures of St. Just. Bucher was a ruthless leveller of all existing institutions, rank and property. He was one of the most consistent members of the National Assembly, and was determined to take every step which seemed to lead towards the attainment of his object, namely virtue as the principle, and fraternal affection in the conduct of affairs. With no knowledge of society and devoted to sterile legal abstractions, he was fully convinced that the salvation of the world could only be secured by the sudden and violent destruction of the existing State and social arrangements. He helped to organise the public opposition, and in particular to spur on the ambitious and turbulent fraction of the National Assembly to seize a Dictature. The ironical contempt with which he treated the existing authorities and evinced his hatred of the old constitution of the State, his dogma of the sovereignty of the people, whom he intoxicated with their own Radical chimeras, together with the ability which he displayed for the rôle of a demagogue would have enabled him in time to surpass all the members of his party in his strictly logical endeavours.”

In Parliament Bucher was particularly active in promoting the various measures of reorganisation. He played an especially important part as the reporter on the motion by Waldeck, calling upon the Ministry to raise the state of minor siege which had been declared against Berlin on the 12th of November, 1848. He found no difficulty on this occasion, when he again spoke mainly as a jurist, in proving the illegality of the measure, as there could be no doubt that it was impossible to justify it by Article 110 of the Constitution, which only came into force three weeks later, and the more so as this article only dealt with the suspension of certain fundamental rights in case of war or revolution. Neither the one nor the other existed in Berlin on the 12th of November, and the Minister had not only suspended the fundamental rights, but had subjected citizens to the jurisdiction of courts martial, of which there was no mention in Article 110, and for which older laws also contained no provision. The resolution passed by the House on that occasion led to its dissolution, followed on the 4th of February by the so-called Refusal of Taxes Trial.... The special hatred of Bucher in the higher circles, as evinced in the course of this trial, was due to his above-mentioned report on the illegality of the state of siege. The proceedings ended in the acquittal of most of the accused. Bucher and three others were, however, found guilty and sentenced to three months’ confinement in a fortress, with the usual additions, namely loss of civic rights, and, for officials, dismissal from the service of the State.

This turn of affairs, and still more the vexations with which he was threatened by the police after the termination of his imprisonment, decided Bucher to go abroad. He settled permanently in London. Here began for him a period of enlightenment, which resulted in the gradual transformation of the juridical theorist and idealist into a practical politician. He occupied himself at first with the study of politics and political economy, and with the observation of English methods and customs, whereby he found himself in many respects disappointed with his former ideals, and filled with repugnance and contempt of things and persons which he, like other Liberals, had previously admired. Among the acquaintances which he made here were Urquhart, and afterwards Mazzini, Ledru Rollin and Herzen. The last three in particular contributed to his further transformation by openly speculating in his presence on sundry strips of German territory in the South, West and East, which were required in satisfaction of the doctrine of nationalities. This aroused a certain distrust in Bucher’s mind, which in this respect did not suffer from the disease of “principle.” His untainted patriotism warned him of the desirability of prudence. The experience and the convictions which he obtained in this way were, together with other material, utilised by him in the German press, and particularly in the National Zeitung, to which he for several years contributed political articles, which attracted widespread attention by the thorough knowledge of the subjects dealt with, their wealth and depth of thought, and the highly original views of which they gave evidence. He also wrote for the same paper some excellent reports of the London Industrial Exhibition, on English household arrangements worthy of imitation, and on other practical matters. He did eminent service in the enlightenment of such Liberal minds as were not closed to argument by his letters on English Parliamentarism, a brilliant criticism, which indirectly hit upon the weak points of Parliamentarism in general, and confuted the current heresy that the German popular representation should be modelled in every particular on the British system. He produced convincing arguments that the English Constitution was not a manufactured article but a growth, the product of the English State and social life and character, and further that Constitutional arrangements cannot be everywhere the same, but must correspond with the fundamental character, history and prevailing conditions of each separate country. To this was added evidence, which was then necessary, but is now no longer required by any sensible man, showing that the English art of government, so far as foreign affairs are concerned—when the ornamental veil of fine phrases is torn off—is nothing more than a commercial policy of the most self-seeking kind, devoid of all ideal motives and historical breadth. In these letters the difficulties and the seamy side of English Parliamentary life and the weaknesses of their leaders, Palmerston, Gladstone, the “Doctor supernaturalis” Cobden, and the whole gang of hypocritical and egotistic apostles of English Free Trade were illuminated by a light of truly electric brilliancy and clearness. It was a ruthless exposure of a kind that has rarely been witnessed.[1]

In 1860 Bucher, probably tired of working for the press, thought of emigrating to Central America, where he had acquired a piece of land (which was still in his possession twenty years later), in order to become a coffee planter under his own palms and mangrove bushes. Fate decided, however, that he belonged to growing Germany, and the amnesty of that year permitted his return to Berlin. Here he renewed his former friendship with Rodbertus, and made the acquaintance of Lassalle, to whom his intercourse soon became indispensable, while Bucher on his side felt attracted in many ways towards Lassalle. The Socialist agitator was a very different character to his heirs of to-day, a man of the highest ability, with whom Bismarck himself did not disdain to correspond, a respected savant who was highly esteemed by Bockh, and a resolute patriot who was only led into folly by his boundless ambition. As a follower of Hegel, he belonged to a different school of thought to Bucher, but was yet in agreement with the latter in his belief in the “iron law of wages,” and like him convinced that the State alone could reform the evils from which the labouring classes suffered. Bucher’s former political associates on the other hand belonged to the Manchester school, considering that the true way of salvation lay in “laisser-faire” and free competition, that is to say, in the destruction of the weak by the strong. They further swore by the principle of the Nationalverein, and detesting the idea of war for this purpose, they wished to unite Germany under Prussia by “moral” means, by a “popular policy,” speeches, and leading articles, and by athletic, singing and prize-shooting festivals. In this respect also Bucher, as a practical politician and contemner of phrases, was of a decidedly different opinion to his friends of the National Zeitung, and the difference in their views led gradually to an estrangement which was accompanied by an inward approach to Bismarck’s standpoint in the German question, resulting ultimately in the co-operation of the two. Bucher had severed his connection with the National Zeitung, and was by no means satisfied with the position which he afterwards took in Wolf’s Telegraph Agency. He therefore thought of seeking work as a lawyer, and wrote to the Minister of Justice on the subject. Bismarck heard of his plans through the latter. He asked Bucher to see him, and offered him occupation at the Foreign Office, which was accepted after some little hesitation. Bucher, the whilom Democrat, the former member of the Prussian party of the Mountain, who had hurled oratorical bombshells at the Minister, had been cured by a sound understanding, experience and change of air; and, in 1864, he was already in full and fruitful activity at No. 76 Wilhelmstrasse, where he continued for two decades. He did excellent service to the new German world in the most various ways, as lawyer, diplomatist and publicist, and fully justified the confidence of him who had chosen him as a fellow worker. In the years 1865 to 1867 he was chiefly entrusted with the administration of Lauenburg, a difficult task, as this Duchy when it came into the possession of Prussia was two centuries behind the times, both in its legal institutions and in its methods of administration. During the same period, in 1866, he drew up for his Chief the Constitution of the North German Confederation (the principal articles of which agree in the main with that of the German Empire). Bismarck of course had given him the main lines for his task, which Bucher, by the way, completed within twenty hours. He was afterwards repeatedly engaged in the preparation and execution of important political work and regulations, and discharged with skill and success several diplomatic missions, including two of universal historical importance. He became so indispensable to the Minister that the latter took him to Varzin for several summers while on holiday. During the war with France Bucher was working with the Chancellor at headquarters from the end of September up to the preliminaries of peace, and also in 1871 on the conclusion of the definitive treaty at Frankfurt. He kept the minutes of the Berlin Congress in 1878. He wrote a great number of the most important despatches and memorials, as well as a pamphlet on the Cobden Club, for which he had collected material in England. The Chancellor very seldom made any alterations in his work. As a matter of fact Bucher had from the beginning understood him, and easily assimilated his views of things in individual cases, while he had the further advantage of being able to take down verbal communications in shorthand.

While in his official life Bucher enjoyed the high esteem and full confidence of the Chief, whose example was followed more or less willingly by others, he experienced in later years considerable bitterness and neglect, principally, but not exclusively, under the Secretaries of State, von Bülow and Hatzfeldt. He finally asked for his discharge, not merely on account of age and illness, which were the ostensible motives. His request was acceded to. He declined the proposal of the Prince that he should retire into private life with the title of Excellency, because “he could not then have continued to stitch on his own buttons, or to stroll about the Jungfernhaide with a botanist’s impedimenta on his back.” Bucher, who was one of the truest of the true, paid several long visits to the Prince after the fatal 18th of March, 1890, and helped him to prepare his “Memoirs,” of which, so long as he was engaged upon them, his valuable assistance materially enhanced the trustworthiness.

It may be added that Bucher remained unmarried, and that, considering his position, he had little intercourse during recent years with his fellows. His friends in diplomatic circles included Schloetzer, Limburg-Stirum, and Kusserow; and in the financial and industrial world, Hansemann and Werner Siemens. The bond between him, Victor Hehn, and myself was our common veneration for the Chancellor and our equally deep contempt for hypocrisy and place hunting. His character in company was that of a sober, taciturn man, who was, nevertheless, by no means devoid of poetic feeling and humour, who could tell many a good story in an effective manner, and who sometimes talked also in very pleasant fashion of his canaries and the Alpine flowers in his herbarium. His ideas and feelings were expressed in a low tone, without being wanting in energy. A cool head, but a warm heart; still water, but clear and deep. I have given more time and space to his picture than I had intended at first, but I believe I shall have thereby compensated for the mischief done by others to his memory; for I remember that Count Caprivi’s menials, who had the preparation of the Reichsanzeiger, thought it sufficient to devote three dry lines to his departure when he passed into eternity at Glion, on the Lake of Geneva, on the 12th of October, 1892.

I propose to deal with Keudell later. Of Bülow I will only remark that he is a man of routine, of moderate ability, and is understood to be not altogether free from an inclination to intrigue. Geheimrath Hepke, a lean, wizened man in the fifties, is not a very pleasant personage. He has something in him of the Privy Councillor as he exists in the popular imagination—great self-conceit, a consciousness that he knows practically everything considerably better than the rest of the world, and doubtless also a high opinion of his own rank and title.

Leaving the room where Geheimrath Hepke works, and proceeding to the right along the adjoining narrow passage, we reach the small room containing the reference library of the Ministry. Here at a window which opens on the court another Privy Councillor of Embassy, Count Hatzfeldt, (afterwards promoted to the position of Minister in Madrid, then representative of the Empire at the Porte, and in 1880 appointed Secretary of State under the Imperial Chancellor,) spends a few hours daily. In the next room we hear the scratching of the ever ready pen of his older colleague, Abeken, whose gifts and character must now be dealt with. While the Chancellor himself selected Lothar Bucher as his fellow worker, Abeken came to him by inheritance. Heinrich Abeken may be regarded in almost every respect as the type of the official of the old school. His whole being and inclinations belong to that epoch in our history which may be described as the literary-æsthetic era, a time when political affairs were of secondary interest to poetry, philosophy, philology treated from an artistic standpoint, and other scientific questions. He enjoyed himself most, and felt himself most at home, in a circle of ideas which, previous to the appearance of Bismarck, chiefly attracted the attention of the Court, the upper classes, the higher bourgeoisie and persons of education. Indeed, he has hardly ever for a single moment thoroughly thrown himself into politics. Even at times when the welfare of his country appeared to be at stake he seemed to be more interested in some æsthetic question than in measures more closely connected with the sphere to which his office assigned him. It happened not infrequently that while others were anxiously awaiting the outcome of a political crisis his thoughts were occupied by an entirely different subject, so that for instance the verses of some old or new poet kept running through his head, and were usually recited by him with much pathos, although they had no visible connection with the situation of the moment. Abeken, who hailed from Osnabrück, was born in 1809. His education was conducted by his uncle Bernhard Rudolf Abeken, the philologist and writer on æsthetics, who lived at Weimar in Schiller’s time, and who had assimilated the style of sentiment which then prevailed there. The nephew afterwards studied theology, and in 1834 held the position of Chaplain to the Prussian Embassy in Rome under Josias Bunsen. He there married an Englishwoman, who was taken from him by death a few months later. A friend of Bunsen, whom he followed to London on his transfer to that post in 1841, and whose views and aspirations in ecclesiastical matters he shared, Abeken even at that time devoted himself so far to diplomacy that he drew up a memorandum on the creation of an evangelical bishopric in Jerusalem. This idea was regarded with lively sympathy in the most exalted quarters in Berlin, although, later on, under William I., it would scarcely have occurred to any one, or have served as a recommendation for its originator. In this connection we meet Abeken again among those who accompanied Professor Lepsius on his exploring tour through Upper Egypt in 1842, when he also visited the Holy Land. He entered the Foreign Office under Heinrich von Arnim, and there he remained until his death in August, 1872, notwithstanding the important changes that had occurred in the meantime, a model of loyalty and attachment, even though his virtues recalled in many ways those of the venerable old furniture to which I alluded just now.

The extracts from the diary during the war have already given some instances of the exceptional and occasionally comic attraction which everything connected with the Court and other princely circles seemed to exercise upon Abeken, and the subsequent chapters will contain a few more. In this respect he was the very antitype of his colleague Bucher, as also in the fact that he was particularly sociable and talkative. It was to satisfy the longing which he felt for intercourse with persons of rank that he used to frequent the circles which made the Radziwill Palace their headquarters. He was unable to forego these visits even when the society that collected there formed the centre of the ultramontane opposition to the ecclesiastical policy of the Chancellor. Apart from such social gatherings as the above, the old gentleman must have felt himself most at home at the weekly meetings of the Graeca, a society “consisting chiefly of former Romans,” the rules of which excluded all political discussions, its sole object in addition to its social aims being of a philological and æsthetic character.

With regard to Abeken’s business capacity and the limitations of his usefulness I would first recall the circumstance that our Chief, at the time when he described Bucher to me as a “real pearl,” is understood to have spoken of Abeken as a “true strawchopper”—a comparison which is less flattering than appropriate. Unquestionably Abeken was a very meritorious worker in the routine of the Foreign Office, but he was by no means such a prominent one as many outsiders thought. Owing to his long service thoroughly acquainted with all the ins and outs of official business, he had become a virtuoso in red tape. Provided with an ample store of phrases which, when he received his instructions, ran from his fingers’ ends without much thinking, and with a knowledge of several languages just about sufficient for his task, it was as if he had been specially created for the purpose of putting into shape the ideas given to him by the Chief with the readiness of a sewing machine. In addition to this he was an indefatigable worker, and would deliver in the course of the day astonishing quantities of well-written documents for the messengers and despatch bags. But when he had to deal with questions of importance, he was scarcely in a position to draw for the material upon his own resources. It was not, however, at all necessary that he should do so. The ready writer with a good knowledge of traditional forms was sufficient. It was the Minister’s genius and knowledge of men and things that provided the substance for his work, and sometimes also improved the form. He is understood to have worked with more independence under Bismarck’s predecessor, and among other things to have drafted the treaty of Olmütz. I have heard it asserted that he drew up on his own initiative documents of great political importance under the First Imperial Chancellor, and prepared speeches from the throne—but this is a baseless legend. On many occasions, however, when the Minister was out of temper with the King, Abeken acted for weeks at a time, entrusted as the mouthpiece of his Chief, and, of course, under instructions from the latter, reported to his Majesty on current affairs. He also on various occasions accompanied the monarch, in an official capacity, to bathing resorts, as for instance to Ems in the early summer of 1870, where he made himself useful during the last days of his stay and earned the thanks of the Chancellor. In the adjoining salon his Excellency the Secretary of State, von Thile, receives the diplomatists whom the Chancellor himself is unable to see. He suddenly resigned, if I remember rightly, on the 2nd of October, 1872, and retired into private life. I will, later on, give some particulars of the motives for this step. He was opposed to the Kulturkampf, and longed for the return of the peace of former times. He was exceptionally amiable as a superior. For a short time after his retirement his position was filled by von Balan, the German Minister at the Belgian Court. A definitive successor was then appointed in the person of von Bülow of Mecklenburg, who (I am also writing for the lay public), as Minister of State and Excellency, must not be confounded with his namesake mentioned above. Count Bismarck-Bohlen and Baron von Gundlach only put in an appearance here occasionally. The former, a cousin of the Chancellor’s, was a lieutenant in the Dragoon Guards and a Councillor of Embassy, and had charge of all sorts of personal affairs of the Chief, principally such as were of little importance. He was also the medium for the Minister’s communications with the Literary Bureau in the Ministry of State, and with Stieber, the chief of the Berlin detective force. Naturally good-natured he was addicted to bragging, played the heathen and the roué on a small scale, and indulged in jokes and puns which were not always bad; but he never carried weight with any one, even the Secretaries upon whom he occasionally tried to shift some of his work shrugging their shoulders at him. All that is to be said of Gundlach, a lean and sickly gentleman, who afterwards died at Lisbon as Chargé d’Affaires, is that he put in an appearance daily for half, or sometimes a whole, hour, glanced at the Journal des Debats, The Times, &c., chatted for a while, coughed a little, chatted again, and for these labours drew an allowance of six thalers a day. For some time after the war Count Wartensleben, a young and amiable nobleman, who was preparing himself for the diplomatic service, in which he died of cancer in 1880, and Count Solms-Sonnenwalde, who had previously been attached to the Embassy in Paris, and who afterwards acted as Minister first in Brazil, then in Dresden, and finally in Madrid,[2] passed in and out amongst us for a time.

It is hardly necessary to point out that notwithstanding the narrowness and discomfort of the Foreign Office there is plenty of hard and good work done there, particularly by Bucher and Abeken. The Chancellor demands it, and gives a good example of it in his own person. The strictest order prevails from top to bottom, unconditional obedience is the rule, and, as is right and proper, every one obeys without protest or contradiction, whatever his own opinion may be. At times one or other of the distinguished gentlemen who sit here kicks against the pricks, fancies he should do a little more or a little less, argues about some special instruction given to him, gnashing his teeth and clenching his fist—in his pocket. He prudently abstains, however, from giving expression to his dissatisfaction otherwise than in soliloquies within the walls of his own room. Everything downstairs moves at the bidding of one will, that which comes from upstairs, and every one works to the best of his ability. Whoever does not care to work within the broader or narrower sphere prescribed for him by the genius who rules here may take himself off. Discipline must be maintained, and absolute subordination, so that every wheel of the machine shall work readily and promptly and in its proper time and place. There must be no stoppage caused by this or that individuality. Acquiescence is the first and highest law.

Formerly things were different, but no great harm was done. Those who are acquainted with the history of Prussia prior to Bismarck’s entry into office know why. To-day when a fertile mind and an energetic will preside here, and matters of the greatest moment are at stake, there is nothing for it but to obey orders. The Councillors have no longer to offer counsel, but simply to regard themselves as instruments of the Chancellor’s will, who, like other instruments, Chargés d’Affaires, Ministers, and Ambassadors, have to use their knowledge and ability in carrying his ideas and intentions into execution. Strong self-consciousness is not compatible with the necessity of maintaining a continuous and homogeneous policy.

This was called “Ministerial despotism” by Count Harry Arnim. I call it the maintenance of an absolutely essential devotion to duty under a great leader. Arnim was offended at the expression made use of on one occasion by the Chancellor: “My Ambassadors must wheel round like non-commissioned officers at the word of command without knowing why.” I, on the contrary, consider it quite an excellent description of the relations which should always exist between the leading spirit of the Foreign Office and its branches at foreign Courts, especially when a man of highly original character and quite exceptional ideas and principles is in charge of the administration. With the kind permission of the Excellencies and Grand Crosses in question I should not have objected even if in that expression of the Chancellor’s they had been described as his senior clerks. The more they subordinate to him their own views, tastes and wills, regarding themselves as his staff sergeants, or clerks, and acting accordingly, the better services will they render, and the better will be their work. If, in addition thereto, they should prove to be impartial, clear-sighted observers and diligent reporters, with a sense of what is of importance, and a distaste for phrasemongering and smart writing (of these attributes, by the way, the only one with which Count Arnim could be credited was a desultory industry), they will have done pretty well everything that can be fairly expected of them.

I ought now to conduct the reader upstairs under the green and gold cupola to the first floor and there show him the rooms occupied by the Imperial Chancellor and his family. I prefer, however, first to pay a visit to the park behind the courtyards and the smaller outbuildings. It is a stately and pleasant fragment of the Thiergarten, which formerly extended to this spot, and of which many fine groups of beautiful old shady trees are still preserved behind the Wilhelmstrasse, where the nightingales beneath their spreading branches celebrate the budding springtime and the sunrise. The long avenue which runs in a straight line to the left, shaded by elm trees or white beech, and which finishes not far from the further end of the garden, narrowing more and more in perspective, I always thought to be specially charming and indeed fairy like. Exceptionally beautiful in the first days of summer with the green shadows falling athwart the branches in the foreground while the far end is bathed in a soft green light, it remains beautiful even in winter, when the fine lichens and mosses lend a greenish sheen to the stems of the trees. I believe the garden is one of the Chancellor’s favourite walks, and I hope that this, at least, will be preserved when the house is pulled down. A further reason for hoping so is that many a deep plan was thought out, and many a decision of great moment taken here. The Minister had often strolled up and down here at a late hour of the evening awaiting news from the King at times when important measures were under consideration. Here on the night of the 14th and 15th of June, in the Year of Victory, 1866, the idea occurred to him of inducing Moltke to order the Prussian forces to cross the frontier, and thereby the Rubicon, twenty-four hours earlier than had been originally intended; and here, in 1870, about the time of the declaration of war, he was to be seen repeatedly pacing up and down that evergreen avenue in a meditative mood, swinging a big stick, and from time to time sending the messenger in waiting to summon one of his assistants in order to give instructions for despatches, telegrams, or newspaper articles.

Returning from the garden behind No. 76 Wilhelmstrasse, we observe that the two wings in which the house ends at this side contain only work rooms, servants’ apartments, stables, &c., and that the courtyard between them is shaded by a broad branched nut-tree.

Proceeding up the stairs behind the screen in the main building, and passing through the glass door at the top, we enter a small antechamber. When the Chancellor is in Berlin, servants in livery and Chancery attendants in black swallow-tail coats await here the arrival of visitors and of those who are to be received in audience, or have to make verbal reports to the Chancellor. A door to the left leads into a second small antechamber, while another to the right brings us into a large oval drawing-room, which extends almost throughout the entire depth of the building. We are told that this was once the ball-room of the Minister Alopaeus, while it now serves as a dining-room when big dinners are given, and for the buffets at the well-known Parliamentary evenings.[3]

From this room we pass into a somewhat smaller one, the four windows of which open on to the Wilhelmstrasse.... The whole room leaves a bright and pleasant impression. It is elegant, but by no means sumptuous, and indeed might be described as comparatively simple. The lack of pictures, and the entirely white ceiling, gives it a certain emptiness and loneliness, while the old-fashioned arrangements for lighting it are not quite in harmony with the remainder of the apartment. In this respect, also, the Chancellor is more unassuming and indifferent to luxury and elegance than his colleagues of the diplomatic world. Not to speak of those who live nearer home, let us imagine how the French Minister for Foreign Affairs would have his residence furnished by the State!

This drawing-room is used for receptions, but sometimes the Chancellor also dines here with his family. This reminds me of a characteristic remark of his. On the 6th of April, 1878, I had the honour to be invited to dine with him. Having in the course of the conversation referred to himself as an “old man,” the Princess remonstrated: “Why, you are only sixty-three!” He replied: “Yes, but I have always lived at high pressure, and paid hard cash for everything.” (Ja, aber ich habe immer schnell und baar gelebt.) Then, turning to me, he added: “Hard cash—that means that I have always put my whole heart into my work: I have paid with my strength and my health for whatever has been achieved.” The German people should be grateful to him for this, instead of allowing themselves to be represented in the Reichstag by men who in their vanity and self-will vie with each other in ingratitude.

The Chinese Salon is about twenty-two paces in length by twelve in breadth, and has three folding doors. One of these opens into the dining-room, another into the second antechamber mentioned above, and the third into the billiard-room, which also looks out on the Wilhelmstrasse. The latter is of the same depth as the room just described, and is about three paces less in length. This room is full of historic memories, the spirit of decisive conferences. The decisive interview with the “Duke of Schleswig-Holstein” took place here in 1864, at which he, with his tenacious self-seeking and narrow-mindedness, suddenly found himself transformed into a modest “Hereditary Prince of Augustenburg.” In the last month preceding the war of 1866 the walls of this chamber listened to a fateful exchange of views between Herr von Bismarck and the Austrian Minister. Some time afterwards Prince Napoleon was received here; and in the spring of 1870 the slight figure of Benedetti might be observed waiting in this room for the Minister with whom he was to enter into negotiations.

If we now pass through the folding doors which open opposite those leading into the Chinese Salon, we find ourselves in the Chancellor’s study, a room about eleven paces long by ten broad.

There is no lack of pictures in this room. If we turn to the wall on the right of the door through which we have entered we observe over a sofa covered in dark red woollen stuff, a number of portraits in gilt frames. The uppermost of these is a portrait, either lithographed or in crayon, of the Emperor in plain clothes, then that of his sister, the Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, and two small photographs of the Emperor in the uniform of a general. In front of this sofa there lay in 1870 the skin of a white lioness, in whose head gleamed two bright glass eyes. On the next wall, not far from the sofa, we find, again in a gilt frame, the portrait of the King of Bavaria in the dress of a civilian; and under this, framed in black, is a small water-colour portrait of the King of Italy, as a permanent guest in the Chancellor’s room. This picture has an interesting history, which will be given in a subsequent chapter on the Prince’s own authority. Victor Emmanuel, who is represented in uniform, has written a dedication under it. Then follows a small mahogany table with books, a carved tobacco chest, a white earthenware stove and a fireplace, together with a narrow door, papered over. Turning towards the third door we observe in a corner a carved pipe-rack, in which are a number of cherry-stick and jasmin stems and thick unmounted meerschaum heads, without mounts. Next to these is a cupboard with a mirror, and resting against it the full-length portrait of a lady, in a carved oak frame. This is the consort of Prince Charles, who died a few years ago. Behind this hang a plaster medallion, in a black frame, giving the bust of Moltke in profile, and above it the Great Elector and the Only Frederick look down upon us in life-size lithograph half-length portraits framed in gold. Further on we find a standing desk with maps, which, like all the furniture in this room, is made of mahogany, and a photograph of Princess Bismarck, also in a gilt frame. Near this a second papered door leads into the Chancellor’s bedroom. On the wall to the left of the door through which we entered is the only oil painting in the room, a life-size portrait, in an oval gilt frame, of the Prince’s daughter, in a ball dress. Beneath it on a cylinder desk stands a deer and a wild boar in cast iron, and a thermometer in the form of an advertisement pillar, and on a smaller adjoining table lies a collection of gloves and white and red military caps.

The Minister’s writing-table, which our descendants will doubtless find in some historical museum, occupies nearly the middle of the room. It is about two and a half metres long by two in width, and is so placed that the person sitting at it has his face turned towards the wall with the oil painting which I have just described. Over it hangs a red woollen bell pull, which many a time and oft has called the Chancery attendant before the door, in order to summon me to make my appearance before the Chief. On such occasions one hurried upstairs instantly, leaving everything just as it happened to lie, stood before the Chief at attention like a lieutenant before his general, all ear and memory, and then rushed off again to his place to commit the orders received to paper as speedily as possible. It was not permissible to misunderstand; and questions as to what had been said were, for the most part, also excluded, while the suggestion that something could not be done met with an angry retort. It had to be done, and as a matter of fact was done in most cases. A severe school, but he who would enjoy the honour of having direct intercourse with a great man, of serving him and his country, and of learning from him, must be able to overlook a certain hardness in his nature. In the present instance this was all the easier, as the Chancellor never bore a grudge, and could be most amiable when off duty. Moreover, others, and some of very high position, fared no better. “I am always frightened when I am obliged to go up to him,” said his Excellency von Thile to me one evening.

Alongside the writing desk and its belongings stand two chairs covered like the sofa, in one of which the Prince is accustomed to sit on the appearance of a visitor, while he invites his guest to occupy the other. At work he uses the oak armchair, with a low open back, which stands behind the writing-table. On his right-hand side is an etagère, upon the top of which rests the bronze figure of a greyhound, and some writing paper and envelopes, lower down some leather portfolios with documents, and quite at the bottom four or five thick folio volumes. On the left of the writer is another stand, with some handbooks. On a visit which I paid to the room in 1873, I found among these books the thick volumes of the “List of Orders” from 1862 to 1868, a number of Petermann’s “Mittheilungen,” Marten’s “Guide Diplomatique,” a collection of Hymns, “Hymnarium, Bluethen lateinischer Kirchenpoesie” (Halle, 1868), Gottfried Cohn’s “Constitution and Procedure of the British Parliament,” Joel’s “Lessons in the Russian Language according to Ollendorff’s System,” and Schmidt’s “Small Russian and German Dictionary.” On the green baize cover of the writing-table usually lies a fold of red blotting paper on which the Chancellor writes. To the right of this under a glass shade we notice a gilt clock, on which a painter in Spanish costume sits with a pencil and drawing board. We also observe on the green cloth a plain white porcelain writing stand with a little gilding, four or five lead pencils of the largest variety, such as the Minister now principally uses, and half-a-dozen quill pens with the feathers cut short, which are prepared by the artistic hand of Hofrath Willisch, one of the decipherers, a paper knife, a seal, a couple of sticks of sealing wax, and a candlestick with two candles.

In 1873 various additions were made: a paper-weight, with a piece of the famous colossal zinc lion that stood up to 1864 in the churchyard of Flensburg as a monument of the Danish victory at Idstedt, and which has now been added to the trophies in the Berlin Zeughaus, and two other paper-weights made of thick metal discs, one of which had been cast from an Austrian cannon captured in 1866, and the second from one of the French cannon taken in 1870; a pen-wiper in black, red, and white; two columnar cigar-cutters; an ash-tray, in the form of a large flower like a tulip, which, together with the two objects last mentioned, have now been removed, as the Prince has given up smoking for several years past on account of his health. Besides these, some old Roman bronze lamps with handles formed of green serpents, a terra-cotta pot with the figures of Massinissa and Sophonisba; and finally, at that time, a few books lay on the table: the red bound “Army List,” Hirth’s “Parlaments-almanach,” the Gotha handbooks, a railway guide, and Henry Wheaton’s “Commentaire du Droit international.”

What tales could be told by that writing-table if it had understanding, memory, and speech! What secrets, what mental struggles, what inspiration and illumination, what slow development of ideas, what sudden energetic decisions; what prayers, perhaps, may those pictures on the walls have witnessed! How the eyes of old Fritz and of the great Elector must have gleamed when they looked over the writer’s shoulder as he drafted bold and far-reaching measures which were to recast the German world, and with it the entire relations of Europe!

The creative mind that ruled here has departed, never to return. To-day perhaps some unimportant but pretentious Herr von So-and-so, the possessor of three high-sounding titles and three times three exalted orders, makes himself at home in his old workshop, for this part of the house has also been altered, and what was formerly on the ground floor has now been shifted upstairs. In our thoughts, however, he still occupies his old place. The Minister is now far away, but, as we feel, only for a time. We, at any rate, feel his invisible presence. We cannot picture to ourselves this historic chamber without thinking of him as its occupant. We pass through it silently, and hold our breath as if we might disturb him. We seem to be standing within sacred precincts. And these must be the feelings of every one, even after years and tens of years, who brings with him a sense of greatness and of hero-worship. The house will one day disappear, and with it this chamber. Otherwise the visitor who might come here a hundred years hence would be still more deeply impressed than we are to-day, and an inner voice would whisper to him, “Hush, this place is sacred ground!”

Continuing our tour of inspection through the front rooms, which were occupied by Prince Bismarck up to 1878, we pass through the papered door into the bed-chamber. Here the walls are covered with a white paper. There is but one window with two curtains, one white and the other of woollen stuff, with a black and red arabesque pattern. The bed is shut in by a screen, covered with red cloth, and on an adjoining shelf stand some cloth slippers and a pair of huge wooden shoes, with the colours of the Empire painted across the instep, a present from a simple-minded but skilful and patriotic patten-maker. A sofa in green stuff stands against the wall opposite the bed, and near it a table and a couple of cushioned armchairs. An old woodcut over the sofa, representing two knights with horses and hounds, and a white earthenware stove complete the fittings of the chamber.

As we return to the study previous to paying a short visit to the back rooms of the residence, we may recall the circumstance that in 1873 a large portrait of General Grant, in a handsome carved oak frame, rested on a chair near the sofa in the former chamber, doubtless an indication of the Prince’s liking for Americans. Their substantial qualities, their practical character, which, however, neither excludes idealism nor the power of self-sacrifice in its pursuit, their youthful audacity combined with far-seeing shrewdness in all their public and private undertakings, inspired the Prince with a hearty admiration, to which he frequently gave expression in my presence.

Of the rooms at the back of the house, the windows of which open on the courtyard with its nut-tree and on the garden, we need only inspect, and quite cursorily, those in the main building. We enter first of all a small sitting-room used by the Princess, in which hangs an excellent picture of Bismarck in his Frankfurt days; and then we pass into a larger room behind the billiard-room, which contains some oil paintings of the Prince’s ancestors, amongst others his grandfather, to whom as a youth he is said to have borne a striking resemblance.

The most interesting piece of furniture is a small mahogany table, which conveys a faint echo of the historic deeds and events that fill the stillness of the front rooms into the cosy comfort of these family apartments. We read on a metal plate that has been inserted into it: “The Preliminary Treaty of Peace between Germany and France was signed upon this table on the 26th of February, 1871, at No. 14 Rue de Provence, Versailles.” I may add that the gold pen set with diamonds which the Chancellor received for the purpose from one of his admirers in the Grand Duchy of Baden, was really used in signing this instrument. If I am not mistaken the Treaty with Bavaria, which was the keystone in the building of the German Empire, was not signed upon this table. Of course the owner of this otherwise comparatively worthless piece of furniture, to which the Chancellor had thus given value and importance, was provided with an exactly similar article.

Adjoining the tea-room is the chamber in which the Prince is accustomed to take lunch, and where the family also occasionally dines. It lies behind one half of the Chinese Salon, and like the latter is furnished with a Turkish carpet, red-cushioned chairs and gilt mirrors, and decorated with a few oil paintings, including a picture of Frederick the Great and a portrait of Frederick William III. It may be mentioned that the rooms just described play a not unimportant part in the orders of the day for the official world below.

Towards 10 o’clock in the morning, sometimes later, seldom earlier, one of the Chancery attendants comes into the Central Bureau and calls out “The Prince is in the breakfast-room.” That is the réveille, the first signal for action of the Chancellor’s little army of assistants, to whom the departmental secretaries now hand all the despatches and documents received for him through the post or otherwise. Some time afterwards the second signal follows: “The Chancellor is in the study”—a sign that the higher officials who have communications to make may report themselves to the Chief, and that the others should hold themselves in readiness to be summoned to him.

Finally, in busy seasons late at night, as a general rule about 10 P.M., those who have been kept at their desks by their work (—while the Chancellor is in Berlin the faithful Lothar Bucher is always amongst the last of these) hear the retreat sounded: “The Chancellor is in the tea-room.” That puts an end to the day’s work, or to the obligation of sitting booted and spurred, awaiting orders. The workers put on their hats and leave, the shutters are closed, and the Chancery servant puts out the lights.