Autobiography of Andrew Dickson White — Volume 1

by Andrew Dickson White

At the risk of repeating a twice-told tale, I may refer here to his visit to Bismarck when the latter complained that he was bothered to death with bores who took his most precious time, and asked Lord Odo how he got rid of them. After making some reply, the latter asked Bismarck what plan he had adopted. To this the chancellor answered that he and Johanna (the princess) had hit upon a plan, which was that when she thought her husband had been bored long enough, she came in with a bottle and said, ``Now, Otto, you know that it is time for you to take your medicine.'' Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when in came the princess with the bottle and repeated the very words which her husband had just given. Both burst into titanic laughter, and parted on the best of terms.

At court festivities, Lord Odo frequently became very weary, and as I was often in the same case, we from time to time went out of the main rooms together and sat down in some quiet nook for a talk. On one of these occasions, just after he had been made a peer with the title of Baron Ampthill, I said to him, ``You must allow me to use my Yankee privilege of asking questions.'' On his assenting to this pleasantly, I asked, ``Why is it that you are willing to give up the great historic name of Russell and take a name which no one ever heard of?'' He answered, ``I have noticed that when men who have been long in the diplomatic service return to England, they become in many cases listless and melancholy, and wander about with no friends and nothing to do. They have been so long abroad that they are no longer in touch with leading men at home, and are therefore shelved. Entrance into the House of Lords gives a man something to do, with new friends and pleasing relations. As to the name, I would gladly have retained my own, but had no choice; in fact, when Lord John Russell was made an earl, his insisting on retaining his name was not especially liked. Various places on the Russell estates were submitted to me for my choice, and I took Ampthill.''

Alas! his plans came to nothing. He died at his post before his retirement to England.

Among those then connected with the British Embassy at Berlin, one of the most interesting was Colonel (now General) Lord Methuen, who, a few years since, took so honorable a part in the South African War. He was at that time a tall, awkward man, kindly, genial, who always reminded me of Thackeray's ``Major Sugarplums.'' He had recently lost his wife, and was evidently in deep sorrow. One morning there came a curious bit of news regarding him. A few days before, walking in some remote part of the Thiergarten, he saw a working-man throw himself into the river, and instantly jumped into the icy stream after him, grappled him, pulled him out, laid him on the bank, and rapidly walked off. When news of it got out, he was taxed with it by various members of the diplomatic corps; but he awkwardly and blushingly pooh-poohed the whole matter.

One evening, not long afterward, I witnessed a very pleasant scene connected with this rescue. As we were all assembled at some minor festivity in the private palace on the Linden, the old Emperor sent for the colonel, and on his coming up, his Majesty took from his own coat a medal of honor for life-saving and attached it to the breast of Methuen, who received it in a very awkward yet manly fashion.

The French ambassador was the Count de St. Vallier, one of the most agreeable men I have ever met, who deserved all the more credit for his amiable qualities because he constantly exercised them despite the most wretched health. During his splendid dinners at the French Embassy, he simply toyed with a bit of bread, not daring to eat anything.

We were first thrown especially together by a representation in favor of the double standard of value, which, under instructions from our governments, we jointly made to the German Foreign Office, and after that our relations became very friendly. Whenever the Fourth of July or Washington's Birthday came round, he was sure to remember it and make a friendly call.

My liking for him once brought upon me one of the most embarrassing mishaps of my life. It was at Nice, and at the table d'h<o^>te of a great hotel on the Promenade des Anglais, where I was seated next a French countess who, though she had certainly passed her threescore years and ten, was still most agreeable. Day after day we chatted together, and all went well; but one evening, on our meeting at table as usual, she said, ``I am told that you are the American minister at Berlin.'' I answered, ``Yes, madam.'' She then said, ``When I was a young woman, I was well acquainted with the mother of the present French ambassador there.'' At this I launched out into praises of Count St. Vallier, as well I might; speaking of the high regard felt for him at Berlin, the honors he had received from the German Government, and the liking for him among his colleagues. The countess listened in silence, and when I had finished turned severely upon me, saying, ``Monsieur, up to this moment I have believed you an honest man; but now I really don't know what to think of you.'' Of course I was dumfounded, but presently the reason for the remark occurred to me, and I said, ``Madam, M. de St. Vallier serves France. Whatever his private opinions may be, he no doubt feels it his duty to continue in the service of his country. It would certainly be a great pity if, at every change of government in France, every officer who did not agree with the new r<e'>gime should leave the diplomatic service or the military service or the naval service, thus injuring the interests of France perhaps most seriously. Suppose the Comte de Chambord should be called to the throne of France, what would you think of Orleanists and republicans who should immediately resign their places in the army, navy, and diplomatic service, thus embarrassing, perhaps fatally, the monarchy and the country?'' At this, to my horror, the lady went into hysterics, and began screaming. She cried out, ``Oui, monsieur, il reviendra, Henri Cinq; il reviendra. Dieu est avec lui; il reviendra malgr<e'> tout,'' etc., etc., and finally she jumped up and rushed out of the room. The eyes of the whole table were turned upon us, and I fully expected that some gallant Frenchman would come up and challenge me for insulting a lady; but no one moved, and presently all went on with their dinners. The next day the countess again appeared at my side, amiable as ever, but during the remainder of my stay I kept far from every possible allusion to politics.

The Turkish ambassador, Sadoullah Bey, was a kindly gentleman who wandered about, as the French expressively say, ``like a damn<e'>d soul.'' Something seemed to weigh upon him heavily and steadily. A more melancholy human being I have never seen, and it did not surprise me, a few years later, to be told that, after one of the palace revolutions at Constantinople, he had been executed for plotting the assassination of the Sultan.

The Russian ambassador, M. de Sabouroff, was a very agreeable man, and his rooms were made attractive by the wonderful collection of Tanagra statuettes which he had brought from Greece, where he had formerly been minister. In one matter he was especially helpful to me. One day I received from Washington a cipher despatch instructing me to exert all my influence to secure the release of Madame ——, who, though married to a former Russian secretary of legation, was the daughter of an American eminent in politics and diplomacy. The case was very serious. The Russian who had married this estimable lady had been concerned in various shady transactions, and, having left his wife and little children in Paris, had gone to Munich in the hope of covering up some doubtful matters which were coming to light. While on this errand he was seized and thrown into jail whereupon he telegraphed his wife to come to him. His idea, evidently, was that when she arrived she also would be imprisoned, and that her family would then feel forced to intervene with the money necessary to get them both out. The first part of the programme went as he had expected. His wife, on arriving in Munich, was at once thrown into prison, and began thence sending to the Secretary of State and to me the most distressing letters and telegrams. She had left her little children in Paris, and was in agony about them. With the aid of the Russian ambassador, who acknowledged that his compatriot was one of the worst wretches in existence, I obtained the release of the lady from prison after long negotiations. Unfortunately, I was obliged to secure that of her husband at the same time; but as he died not long afterward, he had no opportunity to do much more harm.