A little later the President changed his mind, but it was then too late and war was declared. Once the die was cast, Germany could only with propriety have interfered, provided she had reason to believe her mediation would be accepted by both parties: otherwise her conduct would not be mediation, but be regarded, in accordance with diplomatic usage, as intervention with coercive measures in the background. For such a policy Germany had no disposition, for it meant running the risk of a diplomatic defeat on the one hand and of an armed conflict with England on the other.
As regards the visit of the President to Berlin and the Emperor's refusal to receive him, the Chancellor asked would a reception have done any good either to the President or to Germany, and he answered his own question with an emphatic negative. To the President an audience would have been of no more use than the ovations and demonstrations he was greeted with in Paris. To Germany a reception would have meant a shifting of international relations to the disadvantage of the country: in other words, would have meant the risk, almost the certainty, of war. "Wars," said the Chancellor in this connexion,
"are much more easily unchained through elementary popular passions, through the passionate excitation of public opinion, than in the old days through the ambitions of monarchs or through the jealousies of Ministers."
And he concluded:
"With regard to England we stand entirely independent of her: we are not a hair's-breadth more dependent on England than England is on us. But we are ready on the basis of mutual consideration and complete equality—about this obvious preliminary condition for a proper relation between two Great Powers we have never left any Power in doubt: I say, we are ready on this basis to live with England in peace, friendship, and harmony. To play the Don Quixote and to lay the lance in rest and attack wherever in the world English windmills are to be found, for that we are not called upon."
But just then there was little prospect of "peace friendship, and harmony" with England. The world remembers, and unfortunately the English people do not forget, that they had nowhere more bitter and offensive critics than in Germany. One refined method of opprobrium was the unprohibited sale in the main streets of Berlin of spittoons bearing the countenance of the English Colonial Minister, Mr. Chamberlain. A war with England would at that moment have been highly popular in Germany, but as the Chancellor wisely reminded the Parliament, it was the duty of the statesman to protect international relations from disturbance by intrigue or by popular demonstration.
Finally the Chancellor dealt with a report widely current in England and Germany at the time, to the effect that the Emperor's refusal to receive President Kruger was due to the influence of his uncle, King Edward. The Chancellor emphatically denied that any pressure of the kind from the English Court, or from any other source, had been employed, and ended by saying:
"To suppose that his Majesty the Kaiser could allow himself to be influenced by family relations shows little understanding of his character, or of his love of country. For his Majesty solely the national standpoint is decisive, and if it were otherwise, and family relations or dynastic considerations determined our foreign policy, I would not remain Minister a day longer."
A precisely similar and unfounded charge, it will be remembered, was made against King Edward VII in 1902, to the effect that it was Court influence, not the deliberate judgment of the Cabinet, that was the efficient cause of the co-operation of the British with the German fleet in the demonstration off the coast of Venezuela.
A recent writer, Dr. Adolf Stein, gives an account of the sending of the famous telegram which corroborates that of Prince von Bülow. The telegram, according to this version, was a well-considered answer to a question from the Transvaal Government put to the German Government a month before the Raid occurred, and when the Transvaal Government got the first inkling of the preparations being made for it. President Kruger asked what attitude Germany would adopt in case of a war between England and the Boer republics. The answer given to the person who made the inquiry on behalf of the Transvaal Government was that President Kruger might rest assured of Germany's
"diplomatic support in so far as it was also Germany's interest that the independence of the Boer States should be maintained, but that for anything beyond this he should not reckon on Germany's assistance or that of any Great Power."
This answer, Dr. Stein says, was in course of transmission by the post when the Raid occurred.
The Raid was made on January 1st. The event was at once telegraphed to Berlin, where Prince Hohenlohe was Chancellor, with Freiherr Marschall von Bieberstein, afterwards German Ambassador in Constantinople and London, as his Foreign Secretary. According to Dr. Stein, they drew up a telegram to President Kruger, and on the morning of the 3rd laid it before the Emperor, who had come early from Potsdam for consultation on the matter. The Chancellor, it should be mentioned, had been at Potsdam the day previous, but at that time the news of the Raid had not reached the Emperor. The Emperor, Chancellor, and Foreign Secretary now decided that a telegram congratulating President Kruger for having repulsed the Raid "without foreign aid" was the best non-committal form to adopt. The Emperor, Dr. Stein continues, raised some objections, but was over-persuaded by Prince Hohenlohe and von Bieberstein.
As confirming this version, a little note in Lord Goschen's Biography may be recalled, in which Lord Goschen confides to a friend a few weeks before the Raid that the "Germans were taking the Boers under their wing, as the Americans had done with the Venezuelans."
Enough perhaps has been said to show that the sending of the telegram had nothing to do with the Emperor's "impulsive" character, and it will only be fair to him to let the notion that it had drop finally out of contemporary history. As an act of State it was in consonance with German policy at the time. That policy, if it did not look to acquiring possession of the Transvaal, may very well have looked to enlisting the sympathies and friendship of the Dutch in South Africa, and finding in them and their country a field for German enterprise and a market for German goods; and there was therefore nothing impulsive, however mistaken the act may have been as a matter of foreign policy, in the German Government's congratulating President Kruger on successful resistance to a private raid.
We have suggested that the telegram was partly due to a certain element of chivalry in the Emperor's character. The Emperor was well acquainted with other forms of government and other social systems besides his own, and though a Hohenzollern could put himself in the position of the chief of the little Boer republic, threatened as he was with annihilation by a mighty and powerful opponent. Moreover, there is always to be remembered the sympathy of view, particularly of religious view, that existed in the two men as regarded their attitude and duties to their respective "folk." The President had appealed to the Emperor for help. The Emperor had had to refuse it, but had wired that he would do all he could "diplomatically." He knew that this was but a poor sort of assistance, but it was something, and when the Raid occurred he gave the diplomatic assistance he had promised by sending a telegram of congratulation. In any case—tempi passati. Foreign policy is not concerned with sympathies or antipathies, and the whole episode should be ignored, or, better still, forgotten.
The Kruger telegram, it turned out, was to usher in a long period of tension between two countries of the same race, singularly alike in their ideals of whatever is sound and praiseworthy in Christian civilization, and almost equally mutual admirers of the fundamental features of each other's national character. Unfortunately, along with these fundamental features of the English and German national characters, the love of money, the auri sacra fames, has to be reckoned with, and in the race of nations for wealth and power the fundamental qualities are apt, for a time, to be overborne and cease to act. The rise of the modern German Empire to power and prosperity, and the new world-situation thus created, largely by the Emperor, is at the bottom of Anglo-German tension. As a main contributory cause of both the power and the prosperity, was the creation of the German navy at the period of which we write.
The following is a parable which he who runs may read:—
In a certain town, with a large and heterogeneous population, there was once a "monster" shop. The firm (there were three partners) had been established for hundreds of years, had thrown out several branches, and by hard work, enterprise, and honesty had acquired a leading position in the trade of the town: so much so, indeed, that as time went on it had also come to do the carriage and delivery of goods for most of the smaller shops, though some of these were large houses themselves and the majority of them in a fair way of business. The smaller shops were naturally a little jealous of the "monster," and it was the dream of every owner of them to enlarge his premises and become the proprietor of an equally great emporium as the "monster." One day, therefore, a little cluster of shops, at some distance from the "monster," suddenly resolved to form a combination, and after settling a dispute with a neighbour in consideration of a sum of money and a fruitful tract of land, issued the prospectus of the new company and began to do business on modern lines.
Almost from the very beginning the new company was a great success: its situation was central; the company inspired its members with enterprise and spirit; it was industrious, energetic, and splendidly organized; and at last it began to cut into the trade of the old-established "monster." Competition might have gone on in the ordinary way had not the new company made a departure in business methods that gradually roused special uneasiness among the members of the "monster" firm. Hitherto the latter had its delivery vans travel all over the town, and so well was this part of its system carried on that the firm acquired all but a monopoly of carrying and delivery. The new company, however, now began to do a little in the same line, whereupon the "monster" took to building a superior type of van much more powerful and imposing, if also much more expensive, than the one previously in use. The new company naturally followed suit, and in a surprisingly short time had built, or had under construction, several vans of an exactly similar kind. The "monster" saw the new departure of their rivals at first with curiosity, then with contempt, then with anxiety, and finally with suspicion and alarm. At the time of writing the alarm appears to have abated, but a good deal of the suspicion remains. The town is the world, the "monster" Great Britain, and the rival company the modern German Empire.
It would require the Emperor himself properly to tell the story of his creation of the modern German navy, and if he has a right to call any part of his people's property his own, he is justified in speaking, as he invariably does, of "my navy." As Prince William, his interest in the subject may have been originally due, as has been seen, to his partly English parentage, his frequent visits to England, and the fact that his physical disability threatened to prevent him taking an active part in the more strenuous duties of the soldier. It is very probable that it was in the region that cradled the British navy the idea of a great German navy was conceived by him. We have seen that the Emperor, as Prince William, showed his enthusiasm in the matter by delivering lectures on it in military circles, though it was not his lot, but that of his brother Henry, to be assigned the navy as a profession. In his Order to the Navy on ascending the throne, he spoke of the "lively and warm interest" that bound him to the navy, shortly afterwards issued directions for a new marine uniform on the English model, and caused the introduction into the Lutheran Church service of a special prayer for the arm. He gave a parliamentary soirée at the New Palace in Potsdam, and before allowing his Conservative and National Liberal guests to sit down to supper, made them listen to a lecture which occupied two hours, giving particular attention, with the aid of maps and plans, to the battle of the Yalu between the fleets of China and Japan. He founded the Technical Shipbuilding Society, and took, and takes, an animated part in its proceedings, suggesting positions for the guns, the disposition of armour, the dimensions of submarines, and a hundred other details. In 1908 he delivered an after-dinner lecture at the "Villa Achilleion" in Corfu on Nelson and the battle of Trafalgar, based on the writings of Captain Mark Kerr of the Implacable, at which the situations of the French, English, and Spanish fleets were sketched by the imperial hand. To his admiration for the writings of Captain Mahan his persistence in enlarging the fleet is said largely to be due. He is, of course, assisted by a host of able experts, among whom Admiral von Tirpitz—the ablest German since Bismarck, many Germans say—is the most distinguished; but as he is his own Foreign Minister and own Commander-in-Chief, he is, in the fullest sense, his own First Lord of the Admiralty.
The Emperor closed one of his naval lectures with an anecdote which the papers reported next day as being received with "stormy amusement." It was about the metacentrum, the centre of gravity in ship construction. The Emperor told of his having asked an old sea lieutenant to explain to him the metacentrum. "I received the answer," said the Emperor, "that he did not know very exactly himself—it was a secret. 'All I can say is,' the old seaman went on, 'that if the metacentrum was in the topmast, the ship would over-turn.'" The success of a jest, one is told, lies in the ear of the hearer. Possibly something of the "stormy amusement" may have been called forth by the reflection that the imperial metacentrum had on occasion got misplaced.
In addition to the natural and accidental predispositions of the Emperor, certain general considerations, which imposed themselves irresistibly on all men's attention as the century drew to its close, impelled him to more energetic action. A student of the history of other countries as well as his own, and a watchful observer of the tendencies of the time, he felt that the young Empire was incomplete as long as it was without a navy corresponding in size and power to its army, the organization of which had been completed. With its army alone he regarded the Empire as a colossus, no doubt, but a colossus standing on one leg, and was convinced that if the Empire was to be a success it must have a navy at least able to withstand attack by any of his continental neighbours and potential enemies.
On ascending the throne the Emperor was naturally most occupied with the internal situation of his new inheritance, and spent a good deal of his time railing at Social Democracy and the press, explaining the nature of his Heaven-appointed kingship, and rousing his somewhat lethargic people to a sense of their power and possibilities; but he found a moment in 1891 to write under a photograph he gave the retiring Postmaster-General Stephan:
"The world, at the end of the nineteenth century, stands under the star of commerce; commerce breaks down the barriers which separate the peoples and creates new relations between the nations."
Then the idea slumbered in his mind for a few years, while he continued to make his own people restless with criticism, perhaps deserved, of their sluggishness, their pessimism, their party strife, and foreign peoples equally restless with phrases like "nemo me impune lacessit"; until the idea came suddenly to utterance in 1897, when, on seeing the figure of Neptune on a monument to the Emperor William, he broke out: "The trident should be in our grip!" From this time, and for the next few years, the growth of the navy may be said to have never long been far from his thoughts. In sending Prince Henry to Kiautschau at the close of 1898 he made the remark that "imperial power means sea power, and sea power and imperial power are dependent on each other." Nine months afterwards at Stettin he used a phrase alone sufficient to keep his name alive in history: "Our future lies on the water!"
At Hamburg, in 1899, he laid emphasis on the changes in the world which justify a naval policy one can see now was almost inevitable.
"A strong German fleet," he said, "is a thing of which we stand in bitter need." And he continued:
"In Hamburg especially one can understand how necessary is a powerful protection for German interests abroad. If we look around us we see how greatly the aspect of the world has altered in recent years. Old-world empires pass away and new ones begin to arise. Nations suddenly appear before the peoples and compete with them, nations of whom a little before the ordinary man had been hardly aware. Products which bring about radical changes in the domain of international relations, as well as in the political economy of the people, and which in old times took hundreds of years to ripen, come to maturity in a few months. The result is that the tasks of our German Empire and people have grown to enormous proportions and demand of me and my Government unusual and great efforts, which can then only be crowned with success when, united and decided, without respect to party, Germans stand behind us. Our people, moreover, must resolve to make some sacrifice. Above all they must put aside their endeavour to seek the excellent through the ever more-sharply contrasted party factions. They must cease to put party above the welfare of the whole. They must put a curb on their ancient and inherited weakness—to subject everything to the most unlicensed criticism; and they must stop at the point where their most vital interests become concerned. For it is precisely these political sins which revenge themselves so deeply on our sea interests and our fleet. Had the strengthening of the fleet not been refused me during the past eight years of my Government, notwithstanding all appeals and warnings—and not without contumely and abuse for my person—how differently could we not have promoted our growing trade and our interests beyond the sea!"
Perhaps; but perhaps, too, it was as well for the peace of the world that Germany had no great war fleet during those eight years of troubled international relations, and that the gentle and adjusting hand of Providence, not the mailed fist of the Emperor, was guiding the destinies of nations.
Previous to the opening of the reign a German navy can hardly be said to have existed. Yet it should not be forgotten that Germany also has maritime traditions of no small interest, if of no great importance, to the world. The Great Elector, the ancestor of the Emperor who ruled Brandenburg from 1640 to 1688, was fully conscious of the profit his people might acquire by sea commerce, and the little navy of high-sea frigates which he built stood manfully, and often successfully, up to the more powerful navies of Sweden and Spain. This fleet was known, too, far away from Brandenburg, for the records tell how the Pope and the Maltese Knights and Louis XIV willingly admitted it to their harbours.
But there was lacking what until lately has always hemmed German progress—money; and the commercially-minded Dutch, a people themselves with many German characteristics, kept the Germans from the sea. Then came Frederick the Great, who ruled from 1740 to 1786, and those Germans who are fond of claiming Shakespeare for their own will also tell you that the plan drawn up by Frederick for Pitt's seven years' struggle with France—that plan so unfortunately imitated afterwards by the Emperor in his correspondence with Queen Victoria during the Boer War—was the foundation-stone of British naval supremacy! Frederick, too, saw the advantage of possessing a fleet, but he had his hands full with France and Russia, and reluctantly had to decline the offer of the French naval hero, Labourdonnais, to build him a battle-fleet. At this period, and in the Great Elector's time, Emden was the Plymouth of Prussia. When Frederick died, there followed that time of which Germans themselves are ashamed—the hole-and-corner time, the time when the parochial spirit was abroad and no German burgher saw beyond the village church and the village pump; the Biedermeier time (that comic figure of the German Punch), the time of genuine German philistinism, when the people were lapped in an idyllic repose and were content, as many are to-day, with the smallest and simplest pleasures.
This spirit continued until the early quarter of the nineteenth century, when Professor Frederick List roused the attention of his countrymen, and notably that of Bismarck, to the necessity of an independent national existence and a national economic policy. In 1836 a committee recommended naval coast protection, but it was not until 1848, when Denmark blockaded the German coast, that anything was done to provide for it. In that year the National Assembly of delegates from various German Diets, which met at Frankfort, voted for the marine a million sterling to be levied on the German States, but only one-half of the money could be collected. Still, three steam frigates, one large and six small steam corvettes, and two sailing corvettes were got together, but in 1852, owing to the poverty of the States, two of the ships were sold to Prussia for £60,000 and the rest disposed of by auction at less than a fourth of their value. The officers and men were disbanded with a year's pay.
To this humiliating state of things Bismarck refers in his "Gedanken und Erinnerungen." "The German fleet," he writes,
"and Kiel harbour as a foundation for its institution, were from 1848 on one of the most burning thoughts at whose fire German aspirations for unity were accustomed to warm themselves and to concentrate. Meanwhile, however, the hatred of my parliamentary opponents was stronger than the interest for a German fleet, and it seemed to me that the Progressive party at that time preferred to see the newly-acquired rights of Prussia to Kiel, and the prospect of a maritime future founded on its possession, rather in the hands of the auctioneer, Hannibal Fischer, than in those of a Bismarck Ministry."
From this on naval development in Prussia was slow; there was no interest for a marine either among the governing classes or the people; but it was not wholly neglected, for Wilhelmshaven was acquired from the Duchy of Oldenburg, a small fleet was sent to the Orient with a view to obtaining commercial treaties and concessions, and a sum of £320,000 was devoted annually to naval requirements. During the Danish War of 1864 a fleet of three screw corvettes, two paddle steamers, and a few gunboats was considered sufficient to protect the coasts and make a blockade impossible.
From 1885 onwards there had been several Navy Proposals, but it was in that of 1889, a year after the Emperor's accession, that the beginning of Germany's naval policy is to be found. In that Proposal it was announced that the Government intended to depart from the previous principles of naval policy which had "become antiquated owing to the progress of science and the character of future naval warfare, as also owing to the extension of Germany's oversea relations." Up to this time German maritime needs had invariably been postponed to military requirements. The necessity for a fleet was indeed recognized, but only for purposes of coast defence and the prevention of a blockade of the ports on the North Sea and Baltic. To this end no large fleet was considered needful, particularly as the war with France had demonstrated the futility of coast attack. During that war two small fleets were sent from Cherbourg to blockade the North Sea and Baltic coasts, but the admirals in charge found the task "impossible" and returned to France after a few single engagements with divided honours had occurred. At that time the German people felt entirely secure on the score of invasion. The numerous espionage incidents of more recent times prove that this feeling of security has entirely passed away, and all countries are now armed as though they were to be invaded to-morrow.
Emperor William I did something, though not much, for the German navy. Moltke was interested in it and proposed an armoured cruiser fleet, but he was thinking chiefly of coast defence. Roon also took up the matter and laid a Navy Bill before the Diet in 1865, but it was rejected because, in Virchow's words, the Diet thought "the Constitution more important than the development of the army and navy." The war of 1866 showed the necessity of a fleet, and this time the Diet accepted Roon's proposals. Still, however, the object was coast defence; and when Emperor William I died the navy was relatively of no consideration. In the ten years between 1881 and 1891 only one armoured cruiser, the Oldenburg, was launched. With the accession of the Emperor, however, began a new, and for the Emperor and the Empire—why not candidly admit it?—a glorious chapter in German naval history.
An incident during the reign which really touched German national pride, and was one of the reasons which caused the Emperor to accelerate the building of a powerful fleet, was the eviction, if the term is not too strong, of the German admiral, Diedrich, by the Americans from the harbour of Manila in the course of the Spanish-American War. Admiral Dewey was in command of a blockading fleet at Manila. The ships of various nationalities, and among them some German warships, were in the harbour. Various causes of irritation arose between the Germans and Americans. There was talk of Spain's being desirous of selling the Philippines to Germany, and the impression got abroad in America that the Germans were inclined to behave as if they were already the new masters of the islands. The German warships kept going in and out of the harbour of Millesares, a village close to Manila, in connexion with the exchange of time-expired men, using search-lights, the American admiral thought, in an unnecessary way, and doing other acts which he considered might give information to blockade-running vessels.
In accordance with custom, the Germans, had at first supplied themselves with permits from the American admiral for crossing the blockade lines, but as time went on the German ships began to cross the line without them. Admiral Dewey thereupon issued an order that permits must be obtained. The German admiral sent his flag-lieutenant to Admiral Dewey to protest, on the ground that warships are exempt from blockade regulations. The American admiral's reply was to bring his fist down on his cabin table and say,
"Tell Admiral Diedrich, with my compliments, that he must obtain permits, and that if a German ship breaks the blockade lines without one it spells war, for I shall fire on the first vessel that attempts it."
The flag officer went back with the message, and Admiral Diedrich took his ships, which were greatly inferior in number to those of the Americans, out of the harbour.
The German navy, in contrast to the army, is a purely imperial institution—an institution, according to the Constitution, "entirely under the chief command of the Kaiser," consequently in no respect administered or controlled by the federated kingdoms and states. One speaks of the "royal" army, but of the "imperial" navy. The Emperor is officially described as the navy's "Chef," superintends its organization and disposition, with his brother Prince Henry as Inspector-General, and appoints its officials and officers. He exercises his functions through the Marine Cabinet, a creation of his own, which serves as a connecting link between the Emperor and the Admiralty.
The legislative stages of the growth of the German navy have so far been five in number. The first Navy Law passed the Reichstag on third reading, on March 28, 1898, 212 members voting for it and 139 against, in a Parliament of 397 members. It provided for the building of a fleet of seventeen battleships within a certain time, and fixed the age of the ships at twenty-five years. The new ships were divided into ships-of-the-line (a new designation), large armoured cruisers, and small armoured cruisers. This fleet, however, was not large enough to have any influence on sea politics or seaborne trade, and the occurrences of the Spanish-American War, just now begun and finished, determined the Emperor to make further proposals. A great agitation for the navy was started throughout the Empire, and on January 25, 1900, Admiral Tirpitz laid the second Navy Bill (a "Novelle," as it is called) before the Reichstag.
The new measure demanded a doubling of the fleet. The first fleet was intended chiefly with a view to coast defence, while the new fleet was to assure "the economic development of Germany, especially of its world-commerce." If the first Navy Bill had excited surprise and uneasiness in England, the sensations roused by the second may be imagined, not altogether because of the increase of German naval power, but of the power that would result when the new German navy was combined with the navies of Germany's allies of the Triplice. The third Navy Bill was a consequence of the Russo-Japanese War and of the lesson taught by the sea-fight of Tsuschima. It was laid before the Reichstag on November 28, 1905, for "a stronger representation of the Empire abroad." Its main object was to increase by almost one-half the size of the battleships, thus following the lead of England, which had decided on the new and famous "Dreadnought" class of vessel, remarkable for its five revolving armoured turrets (instead of two previously) and the number of its heavy guns. Hitherto English warships had had an average tonnage of about 14,000 tons: the tonnage of the original "Dreadnought" was 18,300 tons. Notwithstanding the enormous nature of the financial demand (£47,600,000 within eleven years) the Reichstag passed the Bill on May 19, 1905. A torpedo fleet of 144 boats, in 24 divisions, was additionally provided for in this Bill.
The fourth Navy Bill was brought in in 1908, with the diminution of the age of the German battleship from twenty-five to twenty years as its principal aim. As a result the number of new ships to be built by 1912 was raised from six to twelve. The fifth and last Navy Bill was passed last year, 1912, creating a third active squadron as reserve, made up of existing vessels and three new battleships. The German navy now consists of 41 battleships of the line, 12 large armoured cruisers, and 30 small armoured cruisers, the cruisers being for purposes of reconnaissance; the foreign-service fleet of 8 large and 10 small armoured cruisers; and an active reserve fleet of 16 battleships, 4 large and 12 small armoured cruisers.
Like sailors everywhere, the German sailor is a frank and hearty type of his race, and welcome wherever he goes. The German naval officer is usually of middle-class extraction, while a slightly larger proportion of the officers of the army is taken from the noblesse. He is a fine, frank, and manly fellow as a rule, and, like the Emperor, perfectly willing to admit that his navy is closely modelled on that of Great Britain. Moreover, in addition to a thorough knowledge of his profession, he is able, in two cases out of three, to converse with useful fluency in English, French, and in some cases Italian as well.
The navy, like the army, is recruited by conscription, but active service is for three years, as in the German cavalry and artillery, while only two years in the German infantry. Naturally young men of an adventurous turn of mind frequently elect for the navy, as they hope thereby to see something of the world. At the end of their third year of service they may go back to civil life as reservists or may "capitulate," that is, continue in active service for another year, and renew their "capitulation" thenceforward from year to year. The ordinary sailor receives (since 1912) the equivalent of 14s. 6d. in cash monthly and 9s. for clothing, but when at sea additional pay of 6s. a month. The result of the system of conscription is that about 40 per cent. of the fleet's crews consist of what may be called seasoned sailors, the remainder being three-year conscripts. The officer class is recruited from young men who have passed a certain school standard examination and enter the navy as cadets. The one-year-volunteer system (Einjähriger Dienst) only partially obtains in the navy, for purposes, namely, of coast defence and other services on land. After two years the cadet becomes a midshipman, and with five or six other middies serves for a year or so on board ship, when he becomes a sub-lieutenant and is promoted by seniority to full lieutenant, captain-lieutenant (the English naval lieutenant with eight years' service), corvette-captain (the English naval commander, with three stripes), frigate-captain (corresponding in rank to a lieutenant-colonel in the English army), and finally captain-at-sea (with four stripes), when he may get command of a battleship. To reach this great object of the German naval officer's ambition takes on an average twenty-four years, or about the same period as in the British navy.
The upper ranks, in ascending order, are contre-admiral (the English rear-admiral), vice-admiral, admiral, grand-admiral (English Admiral of the Fleet). There are only four grand-admirals in Germany, namely, the Emperor (as "Chef" of the navy), his brother Prince Henry (as inspector-general), retired Admiral von Koester (president of the Navy League), and Admiral von Tirpitz (Secretary of Admiralty and the only "active" grand-admiral). King George V of England is an admiral of the German navy, as the Emperor is an admiral of the British navy.
Salutes are a matter of international agreement. They are: 33 guns (simultaneously from all ships) for the Emperor and foreign monarchs, 21 for the Crown Prince of Germany or of a foreign country, 19 for a grand-admiral or an ambassador, 17 for an admiral, the Secretary of Admiralty or inspector-general, 15 for a vice-admiral, 13 for contre-admiral, and so descending. 101 guns are fired on the Emperor's birthday or on the birth of an imperial prince. 66 guns is the salute when a German monarch ascends the imperial throne, and 101 when a German Emperor dies.
The yearly salaries of German naval officers are as follows: Admiral, £1,294 (of which £699 is "pay"), vice-admiral, £897 (£677 "pay"), contre-admiral, £772 (£677 "pay"), captain-at-sea, £520 (£438 "pay"), corvette-captain, £396 (£280 "pay"), full lieutenant, £174 (£120 "pay"), and so on downwards. Jews are not allowed to become officers of the navy, thus following the practice in the army. There is no law to prevent Jews becoming officers in either army or navy, but, as a matter of tradition or prejudice, no regimental or naval commander is willing to accept an Israelite among his officers.
It is time, however, to return to the personal doings of the Emperor. He is responsible for Germany's foreign policy, and his duties in connexion with it and with the navy must often have suggested to him the desirability of seeing with his own eyes something of the Orient, the new battlefield of the world's diplomacy, and possibly a new Eldorado for European merchants and engineers. His journey to the East, now undertaken, was, however, chiefly a religious one, though it had also something of a chivalric character, since much of every German's imagination is concerned with the Crusades, the Order of Knight Templars, and similar historical or legendary incidents and personalities in the early stages of the struggle between the Christian and the Saracen. The birthplace of Christ has special interest for a Hohenzollern who holds his kingship by divine grace, and in the Emperor's case because his father had made the journey to Jerusalem thirty years before. The Emperor, lastly, cannot but have been glad to escape, if only for a time, such harassing concerns as party politics, scribbling journalists, long-winded ministerial harangues, and Social Democrats.
The journey of the Emperor and Empress to Palestine occupied about a month from the middle of October, 1898, to the middle of the following November, and while it was one of the most delightful and picturesque experiences of the Emperor, it entailed some unforeseen and not altogether agreeable consequences. It was very much criticized in Germany as an exhibition of a theatrical kind, of the "decorative in policy," as Bismarck used to say, who saw no utility in decoration, and evidently did not agree with Shakspeare that the "world is still deceived by ornament." It was objected that the Emperor should have stayed at home to look after imperial business, that such a journey must excite suspicion in England and France—in the former because England is an Oriental power, and in the latter because France is supposed to claim special protective rights over Christianity in the East.
The Englishman who reads what German writers say about the journey gets the impression that the criticism was an expression of jealousy—jealousy, as we know from Bismarck and Prince Bülow, being a national German failing. Every German ardently desires to see Italy and the Orient, but until of late years few Germans had the means of gratifying the wish. In one point, however, the critics were right. The Emperor, when in Damascus, after saying that he felt "deeply moved at standing on the spot where one of the most knightly sovereigns of all times, the great Sultan Saladin, stood," went on to say that Sultan Abdul "and the three hundred million Mohammedans who, scattered over the earth, venerated him as their Caliph, might be assured that at all times the German Emperor would be their friend." It was a harmless and vague remark enough, one would think, but political writers in all countries have made great capital out of it ever since whenever Germany's Oriental policy is discussed. At the risk of repetition it may be said that that policy is, in the East as elsewhere, a purely economic one. The Emperor's mistake perhaps chiefly lay in raising hopes in Turkish minds which were very unlikely to be realized.
The Emperor's allusion to Saladin as the most knightly sovereign of all times was a bad blunder. He was doubtless carried away by a combination, in his probably at this time somewhat excited imagination, of the chivalrous figures of the crusading times with thoughts of the German Knight Templars and other soldierly characters. Saladin was a brave man physically, and fond of imperial magnificence, as is only natural and necessary for an Oriental potentate to be; and a good deal of Eastern legend grew up about him on that account. Legend was enough for the Emperor in his then romantic mood. He forgot, or did not know, that Saladin, from the point of view of a modern and in reality far more knightly age, was a sanguinary and fanatic ruffian, who showed no mercy to his Christian prisoners—killed, in fact, one of them, Rainald de Chatillon, with his own hand, sacked Jerusalem, turned the Temple of Solomon into a mosque, after having it "disinfected" with rose-water, and killed Pope Urban III, who died, the chronicles tell, of sorrow at the news.
The journey was, as has been said, a delightful and picturesque experience for the Emperor and the Empress. They passed through Venice with its marble palaces, sailed over the sapphire waters of the Adriatic, and were received with great demonstrations of welcome by the Sultan in Constantinople. When they were leaving, the Sultan gave the Emperor a gigantic carpet, and the Emperor gave the Sultan a gold walking-stick, an exact imitation of the stick Frederick the Great used to lean on, and sometimes, very likely, apply to the backs of his trusty but stupid lieges.
Before disposing of the events of this period of the Emperor's life mention may be made of two or three occurrences which must have been a source of political interest or social entertainment to him. From among them we select the Dreyfus case and the historic scene arranged for the painter, Adolf Menzel, in Sans Souci.
The Dreyfus case, though its investigation brought to light no fact implicating the German authorities, naturally aroused interest throughout Germany. The interest was felt equally in the army, notwithstanding that it contains no Jewish officer, and among the civil population. In France, it will be remembered, the case acquired its importance from the charge, made by the anti-Semite Drumont and his journal La Libre Parole, that the Jews were exploiting the Government and the country. There is an anti-Semite party in Germany, founded by the Court preacher Stoecker in 1878, but possibly owing to the prudence and good citizenship of the Jews in Germany, it has gained little weight or momentum since.
The "affaire," as it was universally known, was only once referred to in the German Parliament, in January, 1898, when Chancellor von Bülow declared "in the most positive way possible" that there had "never been any traffic or relations of any kind whatsoever between Dreyfus and any German authority," adding that the alleged finding of an official German communication in the wastepaper basket of the German Embassy in Paris was a fiction. The Chancellor concluded by saying that the case had in no respect ever troubled relations between Germany and France.
The incident most often cited as evidence of the Emperor's love of recalling the days of his great ancestor, Frederick the Great, is the concert he arranged at Sans Souci on June 13, 1895, to gratify, we may be sure, as well as surprise, the famous painter. The incident and its origin are described in a work already mentioned, the "Private Lives of William II and His Consort," by a lady of the Court. The account given below is illustrative of the unfriendly sentiments which are evident throughout the work, but the lady is probably fairly accurate as regards the incident, and in any case her gossip will give the reader some notion, though by no means an entirely faithful one, of the Court atmosphere at the time. Talk at the palace during afternoon tea having turned on the fact that Adolf Menzel, the painter, would shortly celebrate his eightieth birthday, some one remarked on the refusal by the Court marshal in the previous reign to allow him to see the scene of his celebrated "Flute Concert at Sans Souci," which he was then composing, lighted up. The conversation, according to the lady writer, continued thus:—
"'Maybe he was frightened at the prospect of furnishing a
couple of dozen wax candles,' sneered the Duke of Schleswig.
"'More likely he knew nothing of Menzel's growing
reputation,' suggested Begas, the sculptor.
"The Emperor overheard the last words. 'Are you prepared to say that my grand-uncle's chief marshal failed to recognize the genius of the foremost Hohenzollern painter?' he asked sharply.
"'I would not like to libel a dead man,' answered Begas, 'but appearances are certainly against the Count. I have it from Menzel's own lips that the Court marshal refused him all and every assistance when he was painting the scenes of life in Sans Souci. The rooms of the chateau were accessible to him only to the same extent as to any other paying visitor or the hordes of foreign tourists, and he had to make his sketches piece-meal, gathering corroborative and additional material in museums and picture-galleries.'
"Quick as a flash the Kaiser turned to Count Eulenburg. 'I shall repay the debt Prussia owes to Menzel,' he spoke, not without declamatory effect. 'We will have the representation of the Sans Souci flute concert three days hence. Your programme is to be ready tomorrow morning at ten. Menzel, mind you, must know nothing of this: merely command him to attend us at the Schloss at supper and for a musical evening.' And, turning round, he said to her Majesty: 'You will impersonate Princess Amalia, and you, Kessel' (Adjutant von Kessel, then Commander of the First Life Guards), 'engage all your tallest and best-looking officers to enact the great King's military household.'
"Again the Kaiser addressed Count Eulenberg: 'Be sure to have the best artists of the Royal Orchestra perform Frederick the Great's compositions, and let Joachim be engaged for the occasion.' Saying this, he took her Majesty's arm, and bidding his guests and the Court a hasty good-night, strode out of the apartment."
A description of the Empress's costume for the concert follows.
"Her Majesty's dress consisted of a petticoat of sea-green satin, richly ornamented with silver lace of antique pattern and an overdress of dark velvet, embroidered with gold and set with precious stones. On her powdered hair, amplified by one of Herr Adeljana, the Viennese coiffeur's, most successful creations, sat a jaunty three-cornered hat having a blazing aigrette of large diamonds in front, the identical cluster of white stones which figured at the great Napoleon's coronation, and which he lost, together with his entire equipage, in the battle of Waterloo. In her ears her Majesty wore pearl ornaments representing a small bunch of cherries. Like the aigrette, they are Crown property, and that Auguste Victoria thought well enough of the jewels to rescue them from oblivion for this occasion was certainly most appropriate."
The Emperor's costume is also described.
"He wore the cuirassier uniform of the great Frederick's period, a highly ornamented dress that suited the War Lord, who was painted and powdered to perfection, extremely well, especially as Wellington boots, a very becoming wig and his strange head-gear really and seemingly added to his figure, while his usually stern face beamed pleasantly under the powder and rouge laid on by expert hands."
The arrival of Menzel is then narrated and the reception by the Emperor, who took the part of an adjutant of Frederick the Great's, and in that character "bombarded the helpless master," as the chronicler says,
"with forty stanzas of alleged verse, in which the deeds of Prussia's kings and the masterpieces that commemorate them were extolled with a prosiness that sounded like an afterclap of William's Reichstag and monument orations."
A real concert followed, and supper was taken in the Marble Hall adjoining. The authoress concludes as follows:—
"I was contemplating these reminiscences (the pictures of La
Barberini) in silent reverie when the door opened and the
Kaiser came in with little Menzel.
"'I have a mind to engage Angeli to paint her Majesty's
picture in the costume of Princess Amalia,' said the Emperor
'What do you think of it?'
"'Angeli is painter to many emperors and kings,' replied the Professor, and I saw him smile diplomatically as he moved his spectacles to get a better view of the allegorical canvas on the left wall that exhibits the nude figure of the famous mistress in its entirety.
"'I am glad you agree with me on that point,' said the Emperor, impatient to execute the idea that had crossed his mind. 'I will telegraph to him to-night.'
"And when, five minutes later, Menzel bent over my hand to take formal leave, I heard him murmur in his dry, absent-minded manner—'Pesne … Angeli … Frederick the Great … William II!"
We have spoken of the Court atmosphere of this time. The following extracts from the Memoirs of ex-Chancellor Prince Hohenlohe will assist the reader, perhaps even better than a connected account, to enter, in imagination at all events, into it. The conversations cited between the Emperor and the Prince turn on all sorts of topics—the pass question in Alsace (where Hohenlohe was then Statthalter), the possibility of war with Russia, pheasant shooting, projected monuments, the breach with Bismarck, the Triple Alliance, and a hundred more of the most different kinds. Once talking domestic politics, the Emperor said:
"It will end by the Social Democrats getting the upper hand.
Then they will plunder the people. Not that I care. I will
have the palace loop-holed and look on at the plundering.
The burghers will soon call on me for help;"
and on another occasion, in 1889, Hohenlohe tells of a dinner at the palace, and how after dinner, when the Empress and her ladies had gone into another salon, the Emperor, Hohenlohe, and Dr. Hinzpeter (the Emperor's old tutor) conversed together for an hour, all standing. "The first subject touched on," relates the Prince, was the gymnasia (high schools), the Emperor holding that they made too exacting claims on the scholars, while Hohenlohe and Hinzpeter pointed out that otherwise the run on the schools would be too great and cause danger of a "learned proletariat." Prince Hohenlohe concludes:
"In the whole conversation, which never once came to a
standstill, I was pleased by the fresh, lively manner of the
Emperor, and was in all ways reminded of his grandfather,
Prince Albert."
Next year the Prince was present at an official dinner in the Berlin palace. He writes:—
"BERLIN, 22 March, 1890.
"At seven, dinner in the White Salon (at the palace). I sat opposite the Empress and between Moltke and Kameke. The former was very communicative, but was greatly interfered with by the continuous music, and was very angry at it. Two bands were placed facing each other, and when one ceased the other began to play its trumpets. It was hardly endurable. The Emperor made a speech in honour of the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward, present on the occasion of the investiture of his son Prince George, now King George V, with the Order of the Black Eagle), and mentioned his nomination as English admiral (whose uniform he was wearing) and the comradeship-in-arms at the battle of Waterloo; he also hoped that the English fleet and the German army would together maintain peace. Moltke then said to me: 'Goethe says, "a political song, a discordant song."'
"He also said he hoped the speech wouldn't get into the papers."
(It did, however.)
The next extract describes a conversation Prince Hohenlohe had with the Emperor at Potsdam the following year. It gives an idea of the ordinary nature of conversations between the Emperor and his high officials on such occasions.
"BERLIN, 13 December, 1891.
"Yesterday forenoon was invited to the New Palace at Potsdam. Besides myself were the Prince and Princess von Wied, with the Mistress of the Robes and the Court marshal. Emperor and Empress very amiable. The Emperor spoke of his hunting in Alsace, and supposed it would be some years before the game there would be abundant. Then he expressed his satisfaction at my acquisition of Gensburg, and when I told him there was not much room in the castle he said, no matter, he could nevertheless pass a few days there with a couple of gentlemen very pleasantly. Passing to politics, he gave vent to his displeasure at the attitude of the Conservative party, who were hindering the formation of a Conservative-monarchical combination against the Progressives and Social Democrats. This was all the more regrettable as the Progressives, if now and then they opposed the Social Democrats, still at bottom were with them. The Emperor approves of the commercial treaties and seemed to have great confidence in Caprivi generally. As we came to speak of intrigues and gossip, the Emperor hinted that Bismarck was behind them. He added that people were urging him from many quarters to be reconciled with Bismarck, but it was not for him to take the first step. He seemed well informed about the situation in Russia and considered it very dangerous. When I asked the Emperor how he stood now with the Czar, he replied 'Badly. He went through here without paying me a visit, and I only write him ceremonious letters. The Queen of Denmark prevented him coming to Berlin, for fear he should go to Potsdam. She has gone now with him to Livadia on the pretext of the silver wedding, but in reality to keep him away from Berlin.'"
Writing of a lunch at Potsdam, under date Berlin, November 10, 1892, the Prince notes:—
"The Emperor came late and looked tired, but was in good spirits. We went immediately to table. Afterwards the conversation turned on Bismarck. 'When one compares what Bismarck does with that for which poor Arnim had to suffer!' He would do nothing, he said, against Bismarck, but the consequences of the whole thing were very serious. Waldersee and Bismarck couldn't abide one another. They had, however, become allies out of common hatred of Caprivi, whose fall Bismarck desired. What might happen afterwards neither cared."
The following was penned after the old Chancellor's visit of reconciliation:—
"BERLIN, 27 January, 1894.
"To-night gala performance at the opera. Between the acts I talked first with different monarchs, the King of Württemberg, the King of Saxony, the Grand Duke of Oldenburg, and so on. Then I was sent for by the Empress, of whom I took leave. The Emperor came shortly afterwards. We spoke of Bismarck's visit the day before and the good consequences for the Emperor it would have. 'Yes,' said the Emperor, 'now they can put up triumphal arches for him in Vienna and Munich, I am all the time a length ahead. If the press continues its abuse it only puts itself and Bismarck in the wrong.' I mentioned that red-hot partisans of Bismarck were greatly dissatisfied with the visit, and said the Emperor should have gone to Friedrichsruh (Bismarck's estate near Hamburg). 'I am well aware of it,' said the Emperor,'but for that they would have had a long time to wait. He had to come here.' On the whole the Emperor spoke very sensibly and decisively, and I did not at all get the impression that he now wants to change everything."
Prince Hohenlohe was summoned to Potsdam in October, 1894, by a telegram from the Emperor. All the telegram said was that "important interests of the Empire" were concerned. Hohenlohe was only aware of the dismissal of Caprivi from a newspaper he read in Frankfort on his way to Potsdam. The Emperor met him at the station (Wildpark) and conveyed him to the New Palace, where the Prince agreed to accept the Chancellorship "at the Emperor's earnest request." Princess Hohenlohe was decidedly against her husband, who was now seventy-five, accepting the post, and even ventured to telegraph to the Empress to prevent it.
The Prince has a note on his intercourse with his imperial master. He is writing to his son, Prince Alexander:—
"BERLIN, 17 October, 1896.
"It is a curious thing—my relations to his Majesty. I come now and then to the conclusion, owing to his small inconsideratenesses, that he intentionally avoids me and that things can't continue so. Then again I talk with him and see that I am mistaken. Yesterday I had occasion to report to him, and he poured out his heart to me and took occasion in the friendliest way to ask my advice. And thus my distrust is dissipated."
Hunting with the Emperor:—
"15 December, 1896.
"Yesterday I obeyed the royal invitation to hunt at Springe. I had to leave Berlin as early as 7 a.m. to catch the royal train at Potsdam. From Springe railway station we passed immediately into the hunting district. Only sows were shot. I brought down six. Then we drove to the Schloss, rested for a few hours and then dined. The Emperor was in very good humour and talked incessantly; in addition the Uhlan band and the usually noisy conversation."
When presenting his resignation to the Emperor at Hamburg in October, 1900, the Prince, who had evidently been for some time aware that his term of office was drawing to a close, describes his conversation with the Emperor:—
"At noon, as I came to the Emperor, he received me in a very friendly way. We first settled about summoning the Reichstag, and then his Majesty said, 'I have received a very distressing letter'—an allusion to the Chancellor's official letter of resignation, which he had placed in the Emperor's hands through Tschirschky, Foreign Minister. 'As I then,' continued Hohenlohe, 'explained the necessity of my resignation on the ground of my health and age the Emperor, apparently quite satisfied, agreed, so that I could see he had already expected my request and consequently that it was high time I should make it. We talked further over the question of my successor, and I was agreeably surprised when he forthwith mentioned Bülow, who certainly at the moment is the best man available. His Majesty then said he would telegraph to Lucanus (Chief of the Civil Cabinet) to bring Bülow to Homburg so that we might consult about details. I breakfasted with their Majesties and went calmly home.'"
Writing to his daughter next day Prince Hohenlohe, in words that do equal credit to himself and the imperial family, says:
"It is always a pleasure to me when on such occasions I can convince myself of the Christian disposition of the imperial family. In our for the most part unbelieving age this family seems to me like an oasis in the desert."
Prince Hohenlohe was succeeded as Chancellor by Prince von Bülow, who had held the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs for the preceding two years, and practically conducted the Emperor's foreign policy during that time. He had served as Secretary of Embassy in St. Petersburg, Vienna, and Athens, was a Secretary to the Congress of Berlin, fought in the war with France and after seven years as Minister in Bucharest spent four years as Ambassador in Rome. Here he married a divorced Italian lady, the Countess Minghetti. After acting as deputy Foreign Secretary for the late Baron Marschall von Bieberstein, he was appointed permanent Foreign Secretary, and on October 17, 1900, was called by the Emperor to the most responsible post in the Empire next to his own, that of Imperial Chancellor. The Emperor's choice was fully justified, for the new Chancellor proved himself to be the most brilliant diplomatist and parliamentarian since Bismarck.
IX
THE NEW CENTURY
1900-1901
German writers, commenting on the turn of the century, claim to discover a change in the Emperor's character about this period. He has lost much of his imaginative, his Lohengrin, vein, and has become more practical, more prosaic and matter-of-fact. To use the German word, he is now a Realpolitiker, one who deals in things, not words or theories, and drawing his gaze from the stars makes them dwell more attentively on the immediate practical considerations of the world about him. His nature has not changed, of course, nor his manner, but he has begun to see that he must employ means and ways different from those he employed previously. He has not become a Bismarck, for he still pursues his aims more in the spirit of the colonel of a regiment leading his men to the attack with banners flying, drums beating, swords rattling in their scabbards and mailed gauntlets held threateningly aloft, than in that of the cool and calculating politician ruminating in his closet on the tactics of his opponents, and deliberating how best to meet and confound them; but he gives more thought to what is going on about him, to party politics, to the economic necessities of the hour, and to modern science and its inventions.
What strikes the Englishman perhaps as much as anything in the Emperor's character at this time is the Cromwellian trait in it. This is a side of his Protean nature which never seems to have been adequately recognized in England, yet in a singularly baffling character-composition it is one of the fundamental elements. The view of Prussian monarchy, inherited from one Hohenzollern to another for generation after generation, that the race of people to which he belonged (with any other race he could include by conquest in it) has been handed over by Heaven for all eternity to his family, naturally predisposes him to take a religious, a patriarchal, one might say an Hebraic, view of government; but in addition we find the warrior spirit at all times going hand in hand with the religious spirit, almost as strongly as in the case of Mahomet with the Koran in one hand and the sword in the other.
There was nothing in the Emperor's youth to show the existence of deeply religious conviction, but as soon as he mounted the throne, and all through the reign up to the close of the century, indeed some years beyond it, his speeches, especially when he was addressing his soldiery, were filled with expressions of religious fervour. "Von Gotten Gnaden," he writes as a preface for a Leipzig publication appearing on January 1, 1900,
"is the King; therefore to God alone is he responsible. He must choose his way and conduct himself solely from this standpoint. This fearfully heavy responsibility which the King bears for his folk gives him a claim on the faithful co-operation of his subjects. Accordingly, every man among the people must be thoroughly persuaded that he is, along with the King, responsible for the general welfare."
It may be noted in passing that Cromwell and the Emperor are alike in being the founders of the great war navies of their respective countries.
On the date mentioned (New Year's Day), in the Berlin arsenal when consecrating some flags, he addressed the garrison on the turn of the year:
"The first day of the new century finds our army, that is our folk in arms, gathered round its standards, kneeling before the Lord of Hosts—and certainly if anyone has reason to bend the knee before God, it is our army."
"A glance at our standards," the Emperor continued,
"is sufficient explanation, for they incorporate our history. What was the state of our army at the beginning of the century? The glorious army of Frederick the Great had gone to sleep on its laurels, ossified in pipeclay details, led by old, incapable generals, its officers shy of work, sunk in luxury, good living, and foolish self-satisfaction. In a word, the army was no longer not only not equal to its task, but had forgotten it. Heavy was the punishment of Heaven, which overtook it and our folk. They were flung into the dust, Frederick's glory faded, the standards were cast down. In seven years of painful servitude God taught our folk to bethink itself of itself, and under the pressure of the feet of an arrogant usurper (Napoleon) was born the thought that it is the highest honour to devote in arms one's life and property to the Fatherland—the thought, in short, of universal conscription."
The word for conscription, it may be here remarked, is in German Wehrpflicht, the duty of defence. To most people in England it means simply "compulsory military service." It is important to note the difference, as it explains the German national idea, and the Emperor's idea, that all military and naval forces are primarily for defence, not offence. This is, indeed, equally true of the British, or perhaps any other, army and navy; but how many Englishmen, when they think of Germany, can get the idea into the foreground of their thoughts or accustom themselves to it?
However, we have not yet done with the Emperor's baffling character. There was a third element that now developed in it—the modern, the twentieth-century, the American, the Rockefeller element. It is intimately connected with his Weltpolitik, as his Weltpolitik is with his foreign policy in general—indeed one might say his Weltpolitik is his foreign policy—a policy of economic expansion, with a desperate apprehension of losing any of the Empire's property, and a determination to have a voice in the matter when there is any loose property anywhere in the world to be disposed of. To the Hebraic element and the warrior element (an entirely un-Christlike combination, as the Emperor must be aware) there now began to be added the mercantile, the modern, the American element—the interest in all the concerns of national material prosperity, in the national accumulation of wealth, the interest in inventions, in commercial science, in labour-saving machinery, the effort to win American favour, to facilitate intercourse and establish close and profitable relations with that wealthy land and people.
We know that the Emperor has English blood in him, greatly admires England, and is immensely proud of being a British admiral. We have seen him exhibiting traits of character that remind one of Lohengrin or Tancred. He has played many parts in the spirit of a Hebrew prophet and patriarch, of a Frederick the Great, a Cromwell, a Nelson, a Theodore Roosevelt. Preacher, teacher, soldier, sailor, he has been all four, now at one moment, now at another. We shall find him anon as art and dramatic critic, to end—so far as we are concerned with him—as farmer. Is it any wonder if such a man, mediæval in his nature and modern in his character, defies clear and definite portrayal by his contemporaries?
Taking the year 1900 as the first year of the new century, not as some calculators, and the Emperor among them, take it, as the last year of the old, the twentieth century may be said to have opened with a dramatic historical episode in which the Emperor and his Empire took very prominent parts—the Boxer movement.
Little notice has been taken in our account of Germany's spacious days of her relations to China and the Far East generally. They were, nevertheless, all through that period intimately connected with her expansion or dreams of expansion. About 1890 the Flowery Land awoke to the benefits of European civilization and in particular of European ingenuity; and in 1891, for the first time in Chinese history, foreign diplomatists were granted the privilege of an annual reception at the Chinese Court. So exclusive was the Manchu dynasty—the Hohenzollerns of China in point of antiquity; yet not a score of years later the Manchu monarchy had been quietly removed from its five-thousand-year-old throne, and China, apparently the most conservative and monarchical people on earth, proclaimed itself a republic—a regular modern republic!—an operation that among peoples claiming infinite superiority to the Chinese would have cost thousands of lives and a vast expenditure of money.
Naturally, once China showed a willingness to abandon its axenic attitude towards foreign devils and all things foreign-devilish, the European Powers turned their eyes and energies towards her, and a strenuous commercial and diplomatic race after prospective concessions for railways, mines, and undertakings of all kinds began. Each Power feared that China would be gobbled up by a rival, or that at least a partition of the vast Chinese Empire was at hand. Consequently, when China was beaten in her war with Japan, and made the unfavourable treaty of Shimonoseki, the European Powers were ready to appear as helpers in time of need. Russia, Germany, and France got the Shimonoseki Treaty altered, and the Laotung Peninsula with Port Arthur given back, and in return Russia acquired the right to build a railway through Manchuria (the first step towards "penetration" and occupation), French engineers obtained several valuable mining and railway concessions, and Germany got certain privileges in Hankow and Tientsin.
Meantime the old, deeply-rooted hatred of the foreign devil, the European, was spreading among the population, which was still, in the mass, conservative. Missionaries were murdered, and among them, in 1897, two German priests. Germany demanded compensation, and in default sent a cruiser squadron to Kiautschau Bay. Russia immediately hurried a fleet to Port Arthur and obtained from China a lease of that port for twenty-five years. England and France now put in a claim for their share of the good things going. England obtained Wei-hai-Wei, France a lease of Kwang-tschau and Hainan. China was evidently throwing herself into the arms of Europe, when, in 1898, the Dowager Empress took the government out of the hands of the young Emperor and a period of reaction set in. The appearance of Italy with a demand for a lease of the San-mun Bay in 1899 brought the Chinese anti-foreign movement to a head, and the Boxer conspiracy grew to great dimensions.
The movement was caused not merely by religious and race fanaticism, but by the popular fear that the new European era would change the economic life of China and deprive millions of Chinese of their wonted means of livelihood. The Dowager Empress and a number of Chinese princes now joined it. Massacres soon became the order of the day, and it is calculated that in the spring of 1900 alone more than 30,000 Christians were barbarously done to death. Among the victims were reckoned 118 English, 79 Americans, 25 French, and 40 of other nationalities. The Ambassadors and Ministers of all nations, conscious of their danger, applied to the Tsungli Yamen (Foreign Office), demanding that the Imperial Government should crush the Boxer movement. The Government took no steps, the diplomatists were beleaguered in their embassies, and were only saved by friendly police from being murdered.
This, however, was but a temporary respite, and it became necessary to bring marines from the foreign ships of war lying at the mouth of the Pei-ho River just out of range of the formidable Taku Forts. These troops, 2,000 in all, were led by Admiral Seymour. They tried to reach Pekin, but failed owing to the destruction of the railway, and retired to Tientsin, from whence, however, on June 16th, a detachment set out to capture the Taku Forts. The capture was effected, the German gunboat Iltis, under Captain Lans, playing a conspicuously brave part. Tientsin was now in danger from the Boxer bands, but was relieved by a mixed detachment of Russians and Germans under General Stoessel, the subsequent defender of Port Arthur.
The alarm meantime at Pekin was intense. The Chinese Government, throwing off all disguise, ordered the diplomatists to leave the city. They refused, knowing that to leave the shelter of the embassies meant torture and death. One of them, however, the German Minister, Freiherr von Ketteler, ventured from his Legation and was killed in broad daylight on his way to the Chinese Foreign Office. Only one of the Minister's party escaped, to stagger, hacked and bloody, into the British Legation with the news. This Legation, as the strongest building in the quarter, became the refuge of the entire diplomatic corps, with their wives, children, and servants. It was straightway invested and bombarded by the Boxers, and as the days and weeks went on the other Legation buildings were burned, and the refugees in the British Legation had to look death at all hours in the face.