TWO EVENINGS WITH BISMARCK.
IN TWO PARTS.—PART I.
The surprises that await the deputies and representatives of the North German League, when, after a hard day’s work and a late supper, they return, wearied in body and mind, to their Berlin penates, are not, as a rule, of a very cheering description. They generally consist of large unwieldy packets of printed matter, which contain the orders for the next day’s imperial Diet, and a mass of amendments on the coming motions, &c. Letters also, especially home ones, form no small portion of the evening’s recreation. One may judge, therefore, of the general surprise, when, amongst the pile of evening correspondence, a short note appears from Prince Bismarck to the effect that he would be ‘greatly obliged if Deputy or Privy-councillor So-and-so will give him the pleasure of his company every Saturday evening at nine o’clock, commencing from the 24th April, as long as the session of the imperial Diet lasts.’
What more natural than that the Chancellor should wish to assemble at his own familiar hearth, all those representatives of the nation who for the most part gladly accompany and support him on the rough and stony paths of German politics that he is treading, and to want to spend a few hours with them in pleasant social intercourse, after the many weary hours of heavy parliamentary work?
This same need was equally felt by most of the deputies and councillors and other members of the imperial Diet, who all equally looked forward to the coming evening.
As everything connected with the Diet is carried out with military precision, so here, also, the hour of nine had hardly finished striking, ere the guests began to arrive at the well-known modest two-storied building in the Wilhelmstrasse, which the Prussian government assigns to its Minister for Foreign Affairs as his official residence, and which Prince Bismarck inhabited in his threefold capacity of Minister for Lauenburg, Prussian President Minister, and Chancellor of the North German League. Here, on the ground-floor of the long unadorned building, are the workrooms of the Prussian ministerial officials. On the first floor are the work and reception rooms of Bismarck, as well as his private family apartments. At the back of the house, where the noise and turmoil of the great busy city never penetrate, lies one of those beautiful shady old timbered parks, such as the royal crown of Prussia possesses, between the Wilhelmstrasse and the Königstrasse, and also between the latter and the Leipzigerstrasse—in all about a hundred acres.
At the entrance are the inevitable constables, saluting the guests as they arrive. Numerous lackeys in black and white livery hand the visitor up the broad flight of stairs into an elegantly furnished anteroom, where those who wait to see the Chancellor on business can, while in the midst of the most harmonious surroundings of rich carpets, silken hangings, and luxurious seats, speculate as to what possible connection the stuffed hare, standing so prominently forward on the sideboard, can have with the family of Bismarck.
A more interesting sight, however, now greeted us. The Chancellor’s wife, a tall aristocratic-looking woman, with decided but pleasing features, and in an elegant though simple toilet, received each guest as he arrived with gracious affability. Standing close beside the open portières, past which the eye glanced into the family living-rooms, she was a true type of the position she holds both in home and public life. A noble wife and mother, she has faithfully stood by her husband’s side from the very commencement of his political career. A Chicago paper declares that Bismarck’s wife is her husband’s private secretary! How far this statement is true, we do not pretend to say; but an old friend of the family has repeatedly told us that during the saddest time that Germany has witnessed for the last fifty years, when Bismarck, disheartened and dispirited, retired to his small property of Schönhausen, there to vegetate as a small Prussian landowner, while brooding moodily over all his grand political schemes, his wife never for a moment lost heart, but was able to inspire her husband with ever fresh courage and hope.
A number of old friends and acquaintances quickly surrounded the noble hostess, while the remainder of the guests streamed on towards the billiard-room to the right, the windows of which look out on the street. In front of one of the sofas lies a handsome bearskin—the animal was slain by Bismarck’s own hand; and on a bracket stands the magnificent vase, with the king’s portrait and a view of his castle, which King William presented to the Prince after the wars of 1866. The crowd and the heat increased every moment. The Prince, we were told, was in the big saloon. Hurrying thither, we saw our noble host, standing just inside the door, in animated converse with some earlier arrivals, yet, notwithstanding, quite ready to greet every new-comer—sometimes even stretching out both hands to right and left with hearty welcome. How well and bright he looked! That was always the first thing that struck one on seeing this man. His face, from his long country sojourn at Varzin, has regained its healthy colouring; the eyes are no longer so deeply shadowed by the overhanging brows or the furrowed forehead of last year; his hair is of that light Saxon hue which defies both Time and impertinent curiosity; and the figure is as firm and upright as the youngest man there present. On this evening he also wore his favourite and most comfortable dress—that is, uniform, but not in strict accordance with Regulation.
Moltke’s fine thin lips are curved with an amused smile, as he observes the Prince’s unmilitary get-up. The short smart tunic is worn open, innocent of either sword or sword-belt, displaying an ordinary black cloth evening waistcoat underneath. Only the most necessary orders are worn; among them, some of those of the smaller states peep coquettishly forth. Are these meant to fascinate the hearts of the minor invited deputies?
Those who have only seen Bismarck in pictures or heard him speak in the Diet, or even met him in his walks, only know him from his official side, and as the great statesman and dignitary. But here, inside his own four walls, with ample leisure, and surrounded by celebrated and patriotic men, who all, more or less, have helped to advise, combat, or further his work, one learns to know and recognise in the Prince the real man and intelligent companion whose mighty intellect wields the affairs of nations. We have often heard visitors who were present at the sittings of the Diet declare that nothing surprised them so much as the intonation and pathos of Bismarck’s voice when speaking. His height, his brows, his forehead, his chest, his speeches, were all far greater and more powerful than they had imagined; but his voice, either when giving utterance to the driest details, or when startling his audience by some passionate appeal, had something marvellously soft and winning in it. And they are not far wrong. One can always tell from the Prince’s words, by the sound of his voice, what his feelings are at the time, no matter how moderate his speech may be; and never was this more distinct and vivid than on these Saturday evenings.
Now he approaches our circle. ‘I wished much to see you here, gentlemen. It is so much easier to talk and understand one another here, than in the Diet House!’—and he shook hands all round. ‘Besides, now, if you want to interpellate me, or one of the deputies or privy-councillors, you can do so quietly and at your ease in a corner, and settle the whole affair in a few minutes.’
The Prince was right. Never before had the necessity of familiar and friendly intercourse been more apparent than during this session. From various untoward causes, the most crying discords had arisen between the deputies and the Diet, chiefly owing to neither party thoroughly understanding the other.
From amid the rows of deputies and councillors, emerged the portly form of the brave ‘Red Becker,’ red in hair as well as in opinion, a living proof that even an inborn democrat and agitator can attain a very comfortable rotundity. Becker had surpassed himself that morning in the Diet. He, as the permanent reporter of the Chamber of Deputies and the Diet, on all postal, telegraphic, and railway matters, had drastically described the frightful misuse, on the part of the princely houses of Germany, of their right to free carriage and telegraph. He had shown how the whole of the royal bill of fare had been telegraphed free of charge; how endless telegraphic milliners’ and dressmakers’ orders had been sent free between the German courts and Paris; while the citizen’s despatch, on which probably hangs both life and property, must wait till the royal cook has ordered a dollar’s worth of parsley by telegraph; how, after that, all these huge parcels have to be sent carriage free to their destination; and finally, he had proved, to the great amusement of the House, by the genealogical almanac, that in Lippe alone, no fewer than sixty princes and princesses had this inborn right to postal freedom.
He now placed himself directly in front of the Chancellor, in his favourite attitude, with his hands behind his back, and looked up at him with an expression which seemed to say: ‘Now, had you any idea that this royal prerogative of free post and telegraph had been so shamefully abused?’
But Bismarck only laughed heartily, saying: ‘My dear Becker, believe me, I know of far worse things.’
‘Indeed! Pray, then, tell us some, Your Excellency!’ said ‘Red Becker’ with great animation.
‘Nay; that I cannot do,’ replied Bismarck. ‘My information comes from the Postmaster-general at Phillipsborn; and he knows far worse things than I do.’
A group of people had now come in between us and the speakers.
A servant handed round tea; but, strange to say, there was no rum, so little has Bismarck imbibed of Russian habits and tastes, in spite of his long sojourn at St Petersburg.
Here, again, in front of one of the couches, lay the head and skin of a splendid elk, another trophy of Bismarck’s prowess as a sportsman. The walls of this room were hung with yellow Gobelins of ‘Chinese patterns,’ and furniture to correspond. By degrees, all the guests had gradually congregated in this room—deputies, councillors, ministers, admirals, secretaries, all mingled together. There was none of that reserve and strict etiquette with which ministers usually love to surround themselves, like a wall of division between them and the people’s representatives, none of that exclusiveness and national party spirit which, as a rule, is always present in the Diet. Very few uniforms were visible among the guests. The nooks and corners, in which, according to Bismarck’s own words, the great affairs of the state could be settled and arranged in five minutes, were now all filled with eager talkative groups of deputies and councillors, or the leaders of the different parties. The conversation in our neighbourhood was carried on in a pretty loud and easy tone and without any reserve; for there did not lurk here, as there does behind every door and in every retiring-room of the imperial parliament, some insidious reporter for the press.
‘Who is that stout gentleman yonder, with the very elaborate shirt-front, blue coat with brass buttons, and a huge and perfectly new order of the Eagle of the third class? He tries in vain to disguise his eastern origin.’
‘Is it possible you do not know him?—this man, whom Bismarck’s son in his last pamphlet described as the greatest man of his century!—this father of millions of—railway shares! Do you really mean to say you do not know him? Well, then, my dear sir, you see before you Dr Strousberg, formerly Baruch Hirsch Strousberg, of the firm of Dr Ujest, Strousberg & Company!—Shall I introduce you?’
But the subject of this discourse had already joined that arch-satirist, Von Unruh Magdeburgh, the President of the Constitutional Prussian National Assembly. Beside him appeared the venerable head of Simson, the perpetual President of the German parliament.
‘Do you know the best way of enforcing respect into our noisy neighbours, the French?’ asked my vis-à-vis.—I thought of our millions of soldiers; but he continued: ‘You need only tell them that our three Presidents, Simson, Ujest, and Benningson, have twenty-seven children between them—nine each.’
Meanwhile, the servants again came round with refreshments for the guests; this time it was Maitrank,[1] in long Venetian glasses, and magnificent silver tankards filled with sparkling ale.
But the heat still continued to increase, and became almost unbearable. Lasker was the first to move an amendment, to dispense with kid gloves; and like most of Lasker’s motions, this proposition found plenty of support among the deputies, and in this instance, even among the councillors.
And now the intimate friends and relations of the Chancellor invite the guests to adjourn to the dining saloon, which is the last of the long row of apartments we had up till now passed through. This saloon, an oblong square, joins the apartment last described, at the right-hand corner; only its narrow side faces the street. The decorations and fittings-up of this dining saloon differ entirely from all the rest of the suite. It has been kept exactly the same as when Bismarck took it over from his predecessor; in fact, for fifty years this apartment has remained unchanged. There still hangs the same massive chandelier with its forty-eight candles; the same white panels with golden borders still cover the walls; the same shell-shaped mirrors, the same yellow marble mantel-pieces that were there under Hardenberg, Mannteuffel, and Schleichnitz, all remain unchanged.
‘The last time I was here I was under Mannteuffel,’ says old Count Schwerin, the head of the Liberal party, to me, standing in his favourite position with both his hands in his trousers’ pockets.
The first feeling of shyness having worn away, the various dainties, in the shape of cold game, saddle of venison, mayonnaises, Italian salads, &c., with which the long centre table was laden, were speedily done justice to. Even the modest Saxon privy-councillor, who three minutes before had retreated from the table and refused the invitation with a polite wave of the hand and a, ‘No, no; thank you!’ now followed in the war-path of the pioneers for food. There was no time or space to think of sitting down; each one helped himself to a plate from the piles, placed in readiness on the table, together with the necessary table requisites, and hastened to partake of the delicacies that had been prepared for his delectation. A party of Saxon and Rhenish gentlemen had succeeded in getting possession of a side-table, and there, seated at their ease, they intrenched themselves against the annexation tendencies of the North German League appetites; getting all their provisions through the proper constitutional channel of the Bismarckian domestics.
Meanwhile, as I have so often observed before, a saddle of venison is a most fruitful source for starting hunting adventures, and so it proved in this case. My old friend, worthy Dr Neubronner from Nassau, whom no one would have accused of being a bloodthirsty huntsman by nature, was no sooner presented to Bismarck, than he reminded the minister how, in former days, when he, Bismarck, was representative at Frankfort, they had hunted together in the neighbourhood of that town.
‘Of course I remember it; and very pleasant days they were,’ replied Bismarck; and he forthwith proceeded to describe, greatly to the amusement of the present deputies of the annexed province of Nassau, the celebrities and oddities of the Nassau and Frankfort of that day, with so much life and humour, that the merriment of this South German group attracted general attention. The account of ‘dicke (portly) Daumer’s’ intense fear of death, or anything connected therewith, specially amused the sons of the now Prussianised district of Wiesbaden. Bismarck continued: ‘One fine autumn morning, I was out hunting with “dicke Daumer” in the neighbourhood of Frankfort. After a long and tiring climb among the mountains, we sat down to rest on the edge of the forest, when, to my horror, I found I had brought no luncheon with me. “Dicke Daumer,” however, drew forth a mighty sausage, and, in the most noble and magnanimous manner, offered me half of it. Now, gentlemen, I frankly confess to having a very good appetite, which this morning excursion in the keen mountain air had by no means lessened. The whole sausage would barely have sufficed to satisfy my hunger. Our meal commenced; I saw the end of my piece of sausage approaching; I was getting desperate! Then suddenly turning to “dicke Daumer,” I ask in the most innocent manner possible: “Can you tell me, Herr Daumer, what that white thing down there among the plum-trees is?”
“Good gracious, Your Excellency, you quite take away one’s appetite!” said Daumer, who so dreaded his latter end. “Why, that is the churchyard!”
“Is it really, now? Why, Herr Daumer, it looks so pretty! let us go down and choose out some nice secluded shady nook! How calm and peaceful it must be to rest in so sweet a spot!”
“Oh, Your Excellency!—there—there,” and he put down the sausage: “I cannot touch another mouthful!”
‘And old Daumer remained firm in this. So you see, gentlemen, I had a good luncheon after all.’
Universal laughter greeted this anecdote.
‘How is it one never sees you now in the House?’ I ask a young Thuringian who has made a name for himself both as a government lawyer and a wit.
‘Oh, I am busy all day now in the European “Lint Congress,”’ he replied.
‘And pray, what may that be?’ I ask.
‘Why, my dear sir, did you not know that is the name the Berliner wits have given to the International Association for the care and nursing of wounded soldiers?’
Two of the greatest lawyers in the world stand close beside me deep in conversation. Every ten minutes, a fresh word is added to a paragraph for the future North German penal code. Braun-Wiesbaden approaches and joins the conclave, which is just discussing that much vexed question, the abolition of capital punishment.
‘You may make your minds easy, gentlemen, and settle to abolish capital punishment,’ he said.
‘Indeed! Have you, then, found a surrogate?’
‘I have.’
‘Well?’ ask the expectant lawyers with unbelieving curiosity.
‘Why, you have only to send the delinquents to the “North German Commission for the better Regulation of Trade”—that will settle them!’
But I hear Bismarck’s voice again close behind me. ‘Let us drink to the welfare of the old blue red and gold colours of the Hannovera of Göttingen!’ he called out to his old fellow-student, the Burgomaster Fromme of Lüneburg. And the two ‘old collegians,’ while emptying their glasses of sparkling Rhine wine, chat over the pleasant days of their youth.
Even as far back as that time, whenever Bismarck was asked what he was studying, his answer invariably was: ‘Diplomacy.’ He was then a very slight overgrown young student, with a fair sprouting moustache—known everywhere by his magnificent Newfoundland dog, and much feared on account of his skill with the sword, having, while still an undergraduate, come off victor in several duels with members of opposition corps; though the scar on his left cheek bears testimony to the uncertainty attending the fate of even the most skilful of fencers. The antagonist who inflicted this ‘quart’ now enjoys the confidence of a great part of the North German population, so much so, that he was elected representative for the Diet.
When he was first presented to Bismarck, the latter, pointing to the scar, asked: ‘Are you the one?’
‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
‘Well, you certainly did give it me rather hot.’
‘Yes, Your Excellency—that was what you said at the time; but the “duel-book” did not concur in it, and decided you gave as good as you got.’
But those diplomatic studies at Göttingen have borne visible fruits. It is only a pity that the multifarious duties of his threefold office of minister, Chancellor, and brandy-distiller—for he has been a distiller for over twenty years—prevent the Prince from coming forward as the advocate of practical diplomacy. Many a professor’s chair would be open to him.
The theme of the Prince’s diplomatic lecture this evening was ‘the blue-books,’ a subject he had already ventilated the day before in the Diet, urged thereto by Lasker.
‘Well, gentlemen, if you absolutely wish to have a “blue-book,” I will endeavour next year to provide one that will at least be harmless,’ he had said amid the laughter of the House.
Now he gave us an example of the doubtful value of these collective despatches. ‘Say, for example, Lord Augustus Loftus comes to me and asks me whether I am disposed to hear a private letter from his minister, Lord Clarendon. He then reads me a short epistle in the noble lord’s own handwriting, and we talk the matter over quietly for about an hour. Five days after, he is again announced. This time he comes armed with a huge official despatch from the English Foreign Office. He commences to read. “I beg your pardon, Your Excellency!” I interrupt him, “but you told me all that last Monday.”
“Yes, so I did; but now the despatch has to go into the blue-book.”
“Then I suppose I must now repeat my answer all over again, for the benefit of your blue-book?”
“Certainly, if Your Excellency sees no reason against it—that is what is required.”
“Well, I suppose I must let you have it;” and so I have to give up another hour to him just for the sake of the blue-book, and have in addition constantly to explain to the English ambassador: “This sentence is not meant for your blue-book,” as, for instance, that I look upon the blue-book as an essentially wordy and superfluous institution.’
But it is past eleven. Gradually the numerous guests take their leave of the Chancellor. He bids them all ‘Adieu, au revoir.’ Then passing through the apartment where his wife and daughters were seated, surrounded by a large circle of friends, we salute our noble hostess; and a quarter of an hour later sees us back at the Petersburger Hof, comfortably ensconced in the saloon of our hotel, and discussing the events of the evening under the soothing influence of the peaceful pipe.