Volume 2 / Part 2 — CHAPTER XLIII A LAST WORD

Since my memory of what took place at St. Petersburg in 1864 was made ready for the printer, the storm which some of us foresaw as the inevitable consequence, sooner or later, of the shameless betrayal of Denmark in that year, has burst upon the world in all the fulness of its fury. Never have the vials of wrath been poured upon mankind with such remorseless cruelty; of that cup of a poison which has been brewing for fifty years we now have to drink the bitter dregs.

How clearly does every link in the chain of villainy stand out! In 1864 a scrap of paper, signed by Prussia in 1852, assuring the inviolability of Denmark, is torn up. England, after much bluster and many threats, stands by and looks on unconcerned. Remember the words of Prince Gortchakoff: “I put on one side the supposition that England will ever make war for a question of honour” (see pages 241-245). Then followed 1866, when the robbers quarrelled over their booty. Then 1870, when France paid the bill for the mistakes of her Emperor.

The foreign policy of Louis Napoléon was not fortunate. He never altogether recovered the prestige which he lost in Mexico—an unhappy venture if ever there was such—but how bitterly he must have repented his attitude in 1864, when for an affront to his vanity he stood aloof. Yet mortified vanity was not the only motive power which goaded him to his ruin. He hated Austria—as he proved by his actions. But in the beginning of his reign he had a great predilection for Prussia. I have been told by a distinguished Frenchman who knew intimately all that occurred behind the scenes in the late fifties and early sixties that at a banquet which took place at the Tuileries the ambition of Prussia came under discussion. The French Emperor professed unbounded admiration for the North German character, in contrast to that of the Southern German and Austria. He said that he considered that Prussia stood for progress, culture and civilization. The Empress, on the contrary, made no secret of her preference for Austria.

What an answer to Louis Napoléon’s infatuation are the tragedies of Liége, Louvain, Reims, Arras, Ypres; and how true the prophetic words of the mad German philosopher-poet, Nietzsche: “There are political and social fanatics who zealously and eloquently call for an overthrow of all institutions, believing that the proudest temple of a beautiful humanity would then rise automatically ... unfortunately we know by historical experience that every such overthrow revives the wildest energies, the long-buried horrors and excesses of remote ages.” The last institution to be overthrown has been that of international rights and the honour-compelling force of treaties. We have seen the consequences.

Even worse than the folly of Louis Napoléon was that of those Frenchmen of fifty years ago who, seeing that Kiel would give Germany a navy, urged that it would be good policy for France to further, even by her inactivity, the ambition of Bismarck. Would it not lead to the lowering of England’s sea-power, and, as M. de Massignac—no visionary, but a sober diplomatist—put it—“would not that be for the advantage of France?” (see page 241).

How would France stand to-day were the German fleet not locked up, fearing to move out of its mine-protected harbour, stolen from Denmark? What would be the condition of the French towns on the shores of the North Sea?

Being a trustee of the Anglo-German Foundation, that more than princely gift which Sir Ernest Cassel dedicated to the memory of King Edward the Seventh, I had to go to Berlin on business, in the month of October, 1913. My colleagues and myself were treated to a right royal reception—right royal in every sense of the words. I had the opportunity of talking with all the leading men, from the highest downward. There was one subject upon which they all dwelt without exception, and that was the embarrassment of the English Government in the face of the difficulties in Ireland, the rights of women, colonial and Indian discontent. Of course the conversation took the shape of disinterested discussion: subsequent events showed that in reality my hypocritical entertainers had not been above trying to pick the brains even of so inconspicuous a person as myself. Nothing pleased them more than speculating upon the possible attitude of individual members of our Government and of the Opposition, discussing them all one by one. Was the North of Ireland really determined? Would Ulster fight, and if so, how far could the army be relied upon? How far would the influence of Sir Edward Carson prevail? Would the Government deal firmly with the suffragists, and if so how? What fiscal sop would have to be thrown to the Colonies? Was India disloyal? It was impossible not to be touched by the sympathy shown by the kindly and disinterested Teuton in the troubles of England!

The very able and interesting article signed “Americanus” in the Spectator of August 7th, 1915, after pointing out the preparations made by Germany for four decades and “her practical anticipation for at least two years of the present alignment of the nations,” goes on to say: “The avowed surprise of German statesmen as to the intervention of this country in behalf of Belgium is thus shown to be a diplomatic affectation,” and he indicates that the evidence brought forward in the Beck case at Boston “establishes in the most practical way the expectation of Germany for over two years that her own ambitions might bring her at any time into conflict with England, Russia and France.”

The surprise was no affectation. It was very real. The German Excellencies, it is true, were well aware that all England’s sympathies would be with France and Russia, and that she would bitterly resent any violation of Belgian territory. Their ultimate objective, moreover, was, as we now know, England. All their preparations had been made with the intention of destroying our naval supremacy. The surprise lay in the discovery that England was ready to put all internal trouble on one side and to throw her whole might into the scale with her allies. But when the mere declaration of war swept away every trace of disagreement and served only to knit together into the closest bonds of union England, Ireland, discontented women, India, and the Colonies—all the elements of distraction—and to act as an amalgam, welding together the British Empire into a solid fusion such as no man had ever dreamed of—then their indignation knew no bounds. The Germans believed that they had found their Day for crushing Russia and devastating France, with such subsidiary advantages as the annexation of Belgium and Holland. After that should come the turn of England—England without a friend, an ally, or a lover. The psychological moment had arrived when England’s hands were, as they thought, tied, and she would be compelled to renounce her honour.

Here I can add a piece of evidence which has probably escaped attention. Straws show which way the current is set. The Kaiser, firmly convinced that all would go on as usual in an England apathetic in all matters save those relating to sport, on the 10th of July entered his yacht for the Cowes Regatta, and as usual sent the great cup which he gave annually to the Royal Yacht Squadron. Prince Henry of Prussia was expected at Cowes, was actually in England, and only telegraphing his excuses to his host and hostess on the Saturday morning hurried back to Germany. On the 3rd of August the Royal Yacht Squadron held a meeting and by special desire of the King we abandoned the Regatta. On the 4th of August England declared war. The disillusion must have been mortifying. As for the Meteor, she remained at Kiel, where, with the rest of the Kaiser’s ships—as harmless as herself—she still lies.

THE END

Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.