That was the difficulty—to bring the army to Châlons. I am sure you do not suppose that the Germans were idle while the French were slowly moving along the crowded road to Gravelotte. As soon as King William heard of the fight at Colombey he ordered his 2nd army to cross the Moselle at a point nine or ten miles south of Metz, from which the Roman road runs by way of Verdun to Châlons. When the army reached the river it discovered that the bridges had not been destroyed, and was therefore able to cross unmolested and hasten forward to cut off the French retreat. Not a moment was wasted. On the morning of Tuesday, August 16th, the French army left Gravelotte, and found before it two roads, both running across the downs to Châlons, the one a few miles to the north of the other. One column travelled by the northern road, the other by the southern road.
Napoleon and the Prince Imperial sped along the more northern road in their carriage, and soon after bidding them farewell Bazaine learnt that great masses of Prussian troops were rapidly advancing northwards to cut him off. He halted some of his troops, and rode on towards the first village on the road—Rezonville.[131] At that time the leading cavalry of the French were at the village of Mars-la-Tour, some miles farther along the same road. One German corps struck at the left of the French line, while another tried to turn its flank at Mars-la-Tour. The battle was long and fierce, and both sides claimed the victory. Bazaine telegraphed to the Emperor: "The enemy left us masters of the battlefield;" while Moltke sent the following message to King William: "Our troops, worn out by a twelve hours' struggle, encamped on the victorious field, opposite the French lines."
The fight was largely between cavalry, and there were several magnificent charges. Two German cavalry regiments made a charge that day which is remembered in the Fatherland as we in Great Britain remember the charge of the "Six Hundred" at Balaclava. They dashed down on the French guns, and sabred or rode down all the gunners save one. Then they charged through a line of infantry, and turned to return. Out of 600 men who rode in that "death-ride," only 194 ever came back.
Next day the French retired to a line of hills lying north of the road from Gravelotte to Metz. Here they dug trenches and threw up embankments, and thus fortified themselves in a strong position. The Germans attacked this position, but again the battle was indecisive. The hardest fighting was near the village of St. Privat,[132] on the French right wing, where the line was fiercely bombarded for several hours. Attack after attack was made at this point, but none was successful until the French defenders ran short of cartridges. Even then they fought most stubbornly with the bayonet in and around the village, but were overcome at last, and the left wing was turned. This meant that the whole French army had to retire for protection to the forts of Metz.
Visitors to this battlefield need no guide to show them the line of heights which the Germans stormed so desperately and the French held so stubbornly on that day. All along the ridge are monuments and mounds marking the graves of the dead. Beneath some of the mounds hundreds of bodies lie buried. "They rise like green islands out of the growing corn or the ridges of the cultivated ground." A gigantic bronze statue of St. Michael,[133] leaning on a long sword, has been erected on the summit within a few hundred yards of the present frontier between France and Germany. This statue was unveiled by Kaiser William II., who said that he wished it to be a memorial not only to those who fought and died for the German Fatherland but to those equally brave men who gave their lives for France. In this terrible fight the loss of the French was 7,850 killed and wounded; that of the Germans, 19,640.
When Bazaine reached Metz with his army he discovered that the railway running north had been cut, and that he was surrounded. Two German armies, numbering 160,000 men, were left to hem him in and wait until starvation drove him to surrender. Two other armies were sent to meet MacMahon, who was supposed to be at Châlons. The cavalry, however, soon discovered that Châlons was deserted; MacMahon had marched north, with what purpose could only be guessed. The cavalry hunted the country for him, and at last found him trying to reach Metz so as to relieve Bazaine. Had he pushed on with all speed he might have relieved Metz, and, with the troops in that city, have formed a strong army which could have faced the German legions once more. But he had wasted ten precious days on the road, and this gave the Germans time to catch him up. They came upon him unawares, for his watch had been carelessly kept, and his men were cooking their dinners as the advance guards of the enemy burst upon them. MacMahon found to his dismay that the Germans were between him and Metz and that he was obliged to retreat. They drove him northwards to the town of Sedan,[134] which you will find on the Meuse, in a corner of the country from which there was no escape unless he crossed the Belgian border. He might have done this and avoided the onslaught of the Germans; but, as you know, the French had promised that they would not trespass on Belgian soil, and they kept their word, though it cost them dear.
Through the dark night, amidst a heavy downpour of rain, the men toiled along the heavy roads in great confusion, and reached Sedan at nine next morning. The Emperor, who was following MacMahon's army, arrived late at night, without baggage or escort, and walked almost alone from the railway station to the little town. Next day MacMahon tried to restore some sort of order in his ranks and prepare his forces to meet the enemy; but by nightfall the two German armies had so completely hemmed them in that he could neither hope to break through nor escape if defeated. His army was massed under the walls of Sedan in a valley known as the Sink of Givonne,[135] in a sort of horse-shoe line, concave to the enemy.
At five the next morning, on all the hills around, appeared the dark masses of the German troops. Two hundred and fifty thousand men were in a circle on the heights round the Sink of Givonne. They had come as stealthily as serpents. They were there when the sun rose, and when the French saw them they knew that all was over. The German guns commanded every part of the crowded valley, and when they opened fire the result was a massacre. One of the first to fall was MacMahon, who was struck down by a bursting shell, and was carried from the field. Another commander took his place, but no general, however great, could save the French army, which was now a helpless, beaten mob.
That night the miserable Emperor, worn out by fatigue and suffering, sent an aide-de-camp to the King of Prussia with a note containing this message: "Not having been able to die in the midst of my troops, it only remains for me to place my sword in the hands of your Majesty.—I am, your Majesty's good brother, Napoleon."
Next day the fallen Emperor and Bismarck met in a weaver's house upon the banks of the Meuse. Chairs were brought out, and they talked in the open air. It was a glorious autumn morning. The Emperor looked careworn, as well he might. He wished to speak with the King of Prussia before the terms of surrender were drawn up, but William refused to see him. When, however, terms had been arranged, the king visited the Emperor, who had taken refuge in a country house, and showed him much kindness. The next day the royal prisoner was sent to a palace in Germany, where he remained until the end of the war.
Thus, on September 2, 1870, 80,000 French soldiers yielded, and were marched as prisoners into Germany.
But what of Bazaine, who was shut up in Metz with 170,000 men? Several times he tried to break through the ring of steel surrounding him, but in vain. Famine and fever struck down his soldiers every day, and after ten weeks he too was obliged to yield. On the 27th of October he handed over the fortress, 170,000 prisoners, including three marshals of France, and more than 1,500 guns. From this second great blow France could not recover.
As soon as MacMahon's army had yielded at Sedan, the Germans without loss of time began their march on Paris. When the news of the disaster arrived, the Parisians deposed the Emperor and set up a republic. The new government at once determined to defend Paris to the last. Meanwhile, the Germans had entirely surrounded the city, and had begun to starve it into submission. They did not fire on the city. There was no need to do that, for hunger and disease were far more deadly weapons. During four months the Parisians held out. When all the meat in the city was consumed, they slaughtered the animals in the Zoological Gardens, and at length were so short of food that a sewer rat was a delicacy. From time to time balloons were sent up, and men and letters thus found their way to the outer world. Carrier pigeons were also used to carry messages, which were tucked into quills and concealed beneath their wings. The new French Government, which had its headquarters at Tours, called out every able-bodied man in the country, and strove with all its might to relieve Paris. But the new soldiers, though full of heroism, could not stand against the well-drilled and well-tried armies of Germany. One by one the new French armies were defeated, and all hope of relieving the capital vanished. At length Paris could hold out no longer. On January 30, 1871, she yielded, and the hosts of Germany marched through the streets in triumph and took possession of the city. The ruin of France was complete.
At this point let us pause a moment to notice with what great rapidity the French were overcome. On the 4th of August the Germans crossed the frontier; by the 22nd of the same month Bazaine was shut up in Metz; and on the 2nd of September Napoleon and 80,000 men surrendered at Sedan. Thirteen days later the siege of Paris began. Bazaine surrendered at Metz on the 27th of October, and when Paris fell on the 30th of January all was over. The whole campaign, from the moment the first gun was fired to the day Paris fell, lasted only six months. As we shall see later, the Germans believed that what they did in 1870-71 they could do again in 1914.
Before Paris fell, Bismarck's hour of triumph had arrived. The headquarters of the German armies around Paris was at Versailles,[136] where King William held his court in the palace of the French emperors. Early in December King Ludwig of Bavaria proposed that a German empire should be established, and that the King of Prussia should be its first emperor. All the leading states gladly agreed, and on January 18, 1871, an imposing ceremony took place in the great gallery of the palace at Versailles. Every regiment around Paris sent its colours in charge of an officer and two non-commissioned officers, and all the chiefs of the army were present. A chaplain read a special service, and then the king, ascending a dais, announced himself German Emperor, and called upon Bismarck to read a proclamation addressed to the whole German nation.
The Crown Prince, as the first subject of the empire, came forward and kneeled before his father in homage. The Emperor raised him, and clasped in his arms the son who had toiled and fought and borne so great a share in bringing about that unity which the German peoples had so long desired.
On the 24th of February terms of peace were arranged, and on the 15th of March peace was signed. Before I tell you how France was punished by her conqueror, I wish to introduce to you two men who fought in this war—the one a Frenchman, the other an Englishman. If you were to see the Frenchman to-day you would find him a sturdy, thick-set man, with a heavy white moustache, huge eyebrows, and teeth that flash when he speaks. His head is massive, his neck is short and thick, and he gives you the idea of a trustworthy watch-dog. He is General Joffre,[137] Commander-in-Chief of the French army.
He was a lad of eighteen, a cadet at a military school, when the Franco-German War broke out. At once he was promoted second lieutenant and attached to a regiment of artillery. During the siege of Paris he fought his gun bravely against the Germans. Since that time he has seen much fighting, and his countrymen know him to be strong and silent—"a great soldier and a great man." He now commands the armies of France against the foe with whom he fought as a boy of eighteen. France and her soldiers have laid to heart the lessons of those terrible days, and the present war sees them no less brave, but far better prepared to meet their old enemy.
When the war began, an English boy of twenty, a cadet of the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, was staying with his father in Brittany. Without waiting to consult his father or his masters at Woolwich, he enlisted in the French army as a private, and joined the 2nd Army of the Loire. An attack of pneumonia put an end to his services, but not before he had realized the terrible peril which a nation runs when unprepared for war. One of his experiences with the French army was a perilous ascent in a war balloon; forty-three years later he made his first aeroplane flight.
That boy is now Field-Marshal Earl Kitchener,[138] the British Secretary of State for War, the man whom we all regard as our organizer of victory. Since the days when he fought against the Germans in France he has seen warfare in many lands, especially in Africa. In 1898 he overcame the Mahdi[139] in the Sudan, and it was largely due to him that the Boers were forced to make peace after the long war of 1899-1902. A German general who was with him in the Sudan said: "Lord Kitchener was cool and perfectly calm; he gave his orders without in the least raising his voice; he always made the right arrangements at the right moment. He seemed to be absolutely indifferent to personal danger, and never did anything out of bravado. Acting is out of the question with him; he is always perfectly natural." Such is the man who is the Secretary for War at this time of national stress and anxiety. The Germans were his first foes. Let us hope that they will be his last.
France paid dearly for her defeat. Germany demanded £200,000,000, and ordained that a German army should remain on French soil until this huge sum was paid. It seemed at first sight quite impossible for France to find the money; but so rich is her soil, and so thrifty are her peasants, that the whole of it was paid by the end of the year 1874. To most Frenchmen this was by no means the heaviest blow which France suffered. When Germany took back Eastern Lorraine and Alsace, which, you will remember, had once been her own, there was the deepest shame and sorrow throughout the land, and thousands of Frenchmen swore they would never rest until these provinces had been recovered. Though forty-three years have come and gone since that black day, Frenchmen have never forgotten the shame which they then endured. They have mourned without ceasing for Alsace and Lorraine, and that is why the statue of Strassburg in the Place de la Concorde has been draped in black for so many years. Every patriotic Frenchman believes that, when the present war is over, the tricolour will once more wave from the towers of Alsace and Lorraine.
Most of the people in Alsace were French by descent and by sympathy, and they were greatly distressed when they found that they must become subjects of Germany. When the Germans tried to force the German language on them, they were reduced to despair. I think the best way to explain to you their feelings is to ask you to read the following pathetic little story, which was written by a great French novelist, named Alphonse Daudet.[140] It is entitled—
"The Last French Lesson."
"This morning I was late in going to school, and I was very much afraid of a reprimand, as Mr. Hamel had said he would question me on the participles, and I had not prepared a single word. For a moment I thought of playing truant; the day was warm and bright, the blackbirds were whistling, and the Prussian soldiers were at drill in the park. I managed to resist all these attractions, however, and hurried on to school.
"In passing the mayor's house, I saw that a new notice was posted up on the board, which every one stopped to read. Many a sad notice had been posted up there during the last two years—news of battles lost, and orders for men and money for the war. As I passed on, the blacksmith, who was standing there, called to me, 'Don't hurry, my boy; you will be at your school soon enough to-day.' I thought he was making fun of me, and ran on.
"When I reached the playground, I did not hear that buzz of noise which I had counted on to enable me to get to my place unnoticed. Everything was quiet. You may imagine how frightened I was at having to open the door and enter in the midst of this silence. But Mr. Hamel only looked at me, and said in a kindly voice, 'Hurry to your place, my little Franz; we were about to commence without you.'
"When I was seated at my own desk, I had time to notice that the master had on his handsome green coat, his finely-embroidered shirt-front, and his black silk skull-cap, all of which he wore in school only on examination days and at the distribution of prizes. But what surprised me most was to see the benches at the end of the room, which were usually unoccupied, filled by the old people of the town, all sitting silent like ourselves.
"Mr. Hamel took his seat, and in a grave, sweet voice he said, 'My children, this is the last time I shall teach you. The order has come from Berlin that nothing but German is to be taught in the schools of Alsace. The new master will come to-morrow. To-day is your last lesson in French. Be very attentive, I pray you.'
"Now I understood why he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and why the old men were seated at the end of the room. My last French lesson! Why, I could hardly write. How I regretted the time I had wasted in bird-nesting and in sliding on the Saar! My books, that I had found so wearisome, now seemed old friends that were about to leave me.
"I heard my name called. What would I not have given to be able to recite all those rules of the participles without a blunder! But I could only stand silent, with a swelling heart, not daring to look up.
"'I will not scold you, my little Franz,' said Mr. Hamel, in a sad tone; 'you are punished enough. Every day you have said, 'I have time enough—I will learn to-morrow;' and now what has happened? This putting off instruction till to-morrow has been the fault of us all in Alsace. Now the invaders say to us, 'How can you pretend to be French, when you cannot read and write your own language?'
"Mr. Hamel went on to speak of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful, the most polished, and the richest language in the world, and that we must now watch over each other and see that we never forgot it; for even when a people become slaves, while they keep their own language it is as if they held the key to their prison.
"Then he took up a grammar, and went over our lesson with us. I was astonished to find that I could understand it quite easily. I had never listened so eagerly, and the master had never explained so patiently. It seemed as if he wished to make all his knowledge enter our heads at once.
"Next we passed to writing. He had prepared an entirely new exercise for us, to be written in round hand: 'France, Alsace; France, Alsace.' How eagerly each one applied himself! Nothing could be heard but the scratching of the pens upon the paper. A butterfly entered, but no one stopped to watch it.
"Mr. Hamel sat silent in the chair he had occupied for forty years. To-morrow he would leave the country for ever; even now we could hear his sister in the room above packing the trunks. Yet he had the courage to go through the school work to the end.
"Suddenly the clock struck noon. At the same time the bugles of the Prussian soldiers sounded under our windows, where they had come to drill.
"Mr. Hamel rose, pale, but full of dignity.
"'My friends,' he said in a low voice—'my friends, I—' But he was not able to finish the sentence.
"He turned to the blackboard, and with a piece of chalk wrote, in letters that covered the whole board, 'Vive la France!'
"Then he stopped, leaned against the wall, and without saying a word, he waved his hand as if to say, 'The end has come; go!'"
I must now redeem the promise which I made to you at the beginning of Chapter III., and tell you the story of the present Kaiser. His father was that young prince whom we saw clasped in his father's arms at the great moment when the German Empire was proclaimed at Versailles. His mother was Princess Victoria, the eldest child of our own Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort. So you see that the Kaiser and King George are first cousins.
Princess Victoria was a clever, sprightly girl when the Crown Prince came to woo her at Balmoral, and Queen Victoria in her Journal gives the following charming account of how the two young people plighted their troth:—
"September 29, 1855.
"Our dear Victoria was this day engaged to Prince Frederick William of Prussia, who had been on a visit to us since the 14th. He had already spoken to us on the 20th of his wishes; but we were uncertain, on account of her extreme youth, whether he should speak to her himself, or wait till he came back again. However, we felt it better he should do so, and during our ride up Craig-na-Ban this afternoon he picked a piece of white heather (the emblem of 'good luck'), which he gave to her; and this enabled him to make an allusion to his hopes and wishes as they rode down Glen Girnock, which led to this happy conclusion."
The Princess was a little more than seventeen years of age when she thus became engaged, and her lover was twenty-four. At this time his uncle, Frederick William IV., was King of Prussia, and his father, afterwards the first German Emperor, was Crown Prince. The happy pair were married at Windsor with great pomp and circumstance on January 25, 1858. Three years later the bridegroom's uncle died, his father was crowned King of Prussia, and he became Crown Prince.
When the young bride arrived in Berlin her youth and happy disposition won her many friends; but Bismarck was not among them. He did not like her—first, because she was British, and secondly, because she was clever, and had a great influence over her husband. He thought with the present Kaiser that women should give all their attention to Kinder, Küche, Kirche,[141] and not meddle in matters of State. The Princess had come from a land where her mother reigned as queen, and she naturally expected to be something more than the mere mistress of a household. Bismarck did his best to keep her in the background, and no love was lost between them. As time went by, the Princess was much misunderstood.
Her first child—the present Kaiser—was born on January 27, 1859. When Queen Victoria heard the news, she telegraphed, "Is it a fine boy?" It was a fine boy, for an old field-marshal who saw him when he was but a few hours old declared that he was as strapping a recruit as one could ever wish for. There is a story told that when the little prince, still in long clothes, was shown by his proud father to a group of princes and generals and statesmen, one of them took out his watch to amuse the baby. Instantly the little fellow grabbed the prize, and would not let it go. "You see, gentlemen," said the father, "that when a Hohenzollern once gets hold of a thing he does not easily let it go."
Though the child was a fine boy, he had one defect—his left arm was shorter and weaker than his right, and even to this day he cannot raise it to his shoulder, though he can use it in driving or playing the piano. This withered arm has always been a great source of bitterness to him.
As a baby he had an English nurse, and his mother devoted herself to him. His early upbringing was far too English to suit many of the Germans, and all sorts of stories were told about the harshness of the Princess to her children. There was not a word of truth in them. The Princess loved her children greatly, and spared no pains to bring them up in the best possible way.
The boy was reared amidst wars and the rumours of wars. He was only a few months old when King William and Bismarck were struggling with the Parliament over the army law, which you read about on page 79. He was only five years old when the war broke out with Denmark, and seven years old when the Austrian War began. In his tenth year, according to the custom of his House, he was made second lieutenant of the 1st Foot Guards. A little more than a year later his regiment marched away to the war in France, and the little lieutenant was eager to accompany them. When his father told him that he was too young, he burst into tears. Many years later he said that he well remembered the day on which war was declared.
"It was at Potsdam. We were about to take our places at table for dinner, when my father, pale and much overcome, came suddenly into the room. 'It is all over,' he said, in a broken voice, as he embraced us. 'France wishes for war. Ah, my children, what a frightful misfortune!'"
I do not think that the children would be able to understand what their father meant when he spoke of the frightful misfortune of war. At Potsdam, the beautiful country place near Berlin where they lived, they saw only the bright and dashing side of war. Little William loved to strut with drawn sword by the side of his regiment, and try to keep pace with the long-legged guardsmen as they performed the high and prancing step in which the German army indulges. Especially did he love to be with his regiment when the king came to review the troops. His grandfather would pass in front of his soldiers and say, "Good morning, Uhlans, or Cuirassiers," as the case might be, and then would come a noise like thunder, as every man in the regiment shouted at the top of his voice, "Good morning, your Majesty!" How the boy's eyes flashed, and how his heart leaped within him at all this martial parade! One day, perhaps, he would command the German army, and then—.
Cannot you imagine how the boy swelled with pride as the story of victory after victory came to his ears? When they told him that his grandfather was now German Emperor, he could not fail to remember that some day he would be German Emperor too.
His grandfather had added great glory to the House of Hohenzollern. When his turn came to sit on the throne, he would give it even greater glory.
On his twelfth birthday he received as a present a wonderful panorama of the Franco-German War. He delighted in this toy, and no doubt it made him long more than ever to be a leader of armies and a victor in battle.
By this time it was clear to his parents and tutors that he was a very clever boy. He was exceedingly quick, and he took the greatest possible interest in his sports and studies. He desired to shine in them all. His mother determined that he should be brought up as an English boy, and that he should live an outdoor life, and learn to play outdoor games. A number of other boys were chosen as his playmates, and he and his brothers spent many merry hours in the park at Sans-Souci. He became a good fencer, a good shot, a good rider, a good swimmer, and a good oarsman. On horseback he accustomed himself to hold the reins with his weak left arm, so that he might have his sword-arm free.
His younger brother Henry was to become a sailor, so masts and rigging were set up in the park, and many a mimic battle was fought round this ship on dry land. Better still, on the lake there was a complete frigate mounted with guns, which the boys loved to fire. A little steam tender was provided to tow the frigate home in case the wind should fail, and a party of bluejackets was always on duty to look after the vessels.
This is what his English tutor wrote about him at this time:—
"After an experience of teaching many hundreds of English boys of the same age, I do not hesitate to say that Prince William could read English as well, and knew as much of English history and English literature, as boys of fifteen at an ordinary English public school. Since then I have given hundreds of lessons to many hundreds of boys, but a more promising pupil than Prince William, or more gentlemanly, frank, and natural boys than both Prince William and his younger brother I can honestly say it has never been my lot to meet."
When the Prince was fifteen he was sent to a German public school, where he was made to study very hard. This was the kind of day which he spent. He rose before six in the morning, and prepared his lessons until it was time to go to school. At twelve he returned home for lunch, and then went back to school until five. Bedtime was at nine. The rest of his time was taken up with lessons in French, English, music, shooting, and in riding or taking walks. Sometimes he and his brother were allowed to play with their schoolfellows, and this was a great treat to them. On their birthdays, and on the birthdays of their near relations, they were usually taken to a theatre. By way of pocket-money, Prince William received five shillings a week and Prince Henry two shillings and sixpence.
Though William was a clever and diligent lad, he was not a brilliant pupil. When the time came for him to leave school for the university he had to pass an examination; he was tenth out of seventeen candidates, and his certificate was marked "satisfactory." Shortly afterwards he was sent to a university.
At the University of Bonn he was accompanied by an aide-de-camp, who did everything in his power to foster the young man's already keen interest in soldiering. At this time he also received instruction from the three men who, more than any others, had made German history—the Emperor William, Bismarck, and Moltke. The Emperor taught him to reverence the name and fame of the Hohenzollerns; to believe himself chosen specially by God for his high office; to do his duty without fear or favour, and not to be turned from his path by the wishes of his people if he thought them wrong. Bismarck deeply impressed upon him the policy of "blood and iron;" taught him how to manage Parliament and the people; and how to deal with foreign countries, so that the name and fame of the Fatherland might grow in greatness. Moltke instructed him in the art of war.
The Crown Prince himself had none of the high and mighty notions of Bismarck. He had no desire to prevent the people from obtaining freedom to rule themselves, and many Germans believed that his wife had taught him that the British way of governing was the wisest and best. The upper classes in Germany, and especially the great land-owning nobles, hated these ideas of liberty for the people. They believed that the whole duty of the middle and working classes was to pay and obey, and they grew more and more angry with the Princess, who was supposed to be leading the Crown Prince astray. Meanwhile Bismarck was doing his best to teach Prince William that he must be a man of blood and iron. How well the young man learnt the lesson we now know—only too well.
While he was at Bonn he joined the "crack" fencing club, and proudly wore its colours and its white cap. He attended its beer-drinking bouts and "sing-songs," and watched his companions fighting duels. Though he did not fight himself, he greatly admired seeing others do so; and in later years, when he was old enough to know better, he hoped that the students would always take delight in handling the duelling blade, because it made them strong and courageous.
In the autumn of 1878 Prince William paid a visit to his royal grandmother at Balmoral. As he passed through London he met Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, who happened to be staying with her uncle in England, and on February 27, 1881, he married her. Bismarck approved of the marriage, for the bride's father had all along claimed Schleswig-Holstein[142] as his own, and had continually objected to Prussia's action in seizing these provinces. The marriage put an end to the Duke's claims, and was, in Bismarck's words, "the concluding act of joy in a drama otherwise rich in strife."
The Germans were specially pleased that the young Prince had chosen a German bride, and they cheered the happy pair to the echo. After the wedding the Prince and Princess made their home in the Marble Palace at Potsdam, and there, on May 6, 1882, their first son, the present Crown Prince, was born. When old King William heard the news, he cried, "God be praised and thanked! Four generations of kings!"
Prince William now threw himself with energy into his military duties. He became colonel of the famous Hussar regiment, the Garde du Corps, and was speedily renowned as a brilliant and dashing cavalry officer. When he led his regiment for the first time before the old Emperor at a review, his uncle, the famous "Red Prince," who was a man very difficult to please, said, "You have done very well; I should never have believed it."
Not only did the Prince give his nights and days to the study of war, but he also began to study the business arrangements of the Empire, and to make himself acquainted at first hand with the work of the Foreign Office. Old Bismarck watched his progress keenly. He believed that the young Prince would prove an emperor after his own heart; that he would care nothing for parliaments, and stand up for his imperial rights like a rock of bronze. So popular did he become, and so much was he admired, that the people began to overlook his father, the Crown Prince, altogether. Military men had never regarded the Crown Prince with favour, and he was now almost eclipsed by his strong-willed, eager, gifted son. The ruling classes of Prussia saw in him the man who would surely lead them on to military glory.
In the spring of 1887 a growth appeared in the Crown Prince's throat. It increased so rapidly that soon he could only speak in a strained, husky voice. He gradually grew worse, and an English doctor was summoned by the Crown Princess to examine him. She was much blamed for putting her faith in an English doctor rather than in German doctors, and many bitter things were said about her. When the old Emperor heard of his son's affliction he was overwhelmed with grief. "I have only one wish," he said, "which I should like to be gratified before I die, and that is to hear my poor son Fritz speak as clearly as he used to do." Alas! this was a wish never to be realized. The poor Crown Prince had lost his voice for ever.
At the first sign of his father's serious illness all eyes were turned to Prince William, who began to appear on all sorts of public occasions, and make speeches about the military glories of his house, and its bulwark, the Army. At this time there was some trouble with France and Russia, and the German army was increased by more than half a million men. Bismarck, who had made a secret treaty with Austria as far back as 1879, went to Parliament and explained the situation in what is thought to be his greatest speech. He thus concluded: "We Germans fear God, and nothing else in the world." There was no more delighted listener in the assembly than Prince William. This defiant speech exactly suited his temper of mind. He was all for military glory, and though in after years he constantly declared himself the friend of peace, and more than once strove to preserve it, we now know that towards the end of the year 1913 he was ready to stake all upon a war which would make him master of Europe.