Wir ehren ihn durch Thaten, nicht durch Klagen,
Und lassen unsre Liebe nie erkalten:
Was wir verloren, kann kein Blick ermessen,
Was wir gehabt, das bleibe unvergessen.
The old Emperor was at Ems at the same time, and so was the Emperor Alexander of Russia. It was a surprise to me to see these two Emperors walking together in the crowd, and fetching their glass of water at the spring, apparently without any protection. The people did not much crowd round them, but neither were they kept back by the police officers. I asked one of the higher officials how they managed to keep out any dangerous Poles or Frenchmen, who might have shot the two Emperors with a double-barrelled pistol at any moment. The place was swarming with people of every nationality; but he said that there was no one at Ems who was not known. I confess it was a riddle to me. The good old Emperor, who had heard of my presence, asked me to dine, and he also thanked me for my advocacy of Germany in The Times. What a change since I ran against him in Bunsen’s room! Abeken, who during the war had been Bismarck’s right hand, was there, and I learnt from him that the famous Ems telegram had been written by him, though, of course, inspired and approved of by Bismarck. This is now well known, and has become ancient history. Great as was the enthusiasm at Ems, it was heart-breaking to see the invalided soldiers, looking young and vigorous, but without arms or legs, their only wish being to catch a glimpse of the Emperor or the Crown Prince. Some of them had been blinded in the war; others walked about on crutches, some with both arms cut off, and using iron forks instead of hands and fingers. All was done that could be done for them, and the Emperor and the Crown Prince shook hands with as many of them, officers or privates, as they could. The Crown Prince had sent me word that he wished to see me once more; but his surroundings evidently thought that I had been favoured quite enough, and our meeting again was cleverly prevented. No doubt princes must be protected against intruders, but should they be thwarted in their own wishes? I had another happy glimpse, however, of the Crown Prince in his family circle, in 1876.
In the year 1879 the Crown Prince came once more to Oxford, this time with his young son, the present German Emperor, and accompanied by the Prince of Wales. He had not forgotten his former visit, when he was not much older than his son was then, and he reminded me of what had happened to us in the Examination Schools on his former visit. The Prince had preserved the strictest incognito, but when we entered the schools his appearance, and that of several foreign-looking gentlemen, had attracted some attention. However, we sat down and listened to the examination. It was in Divinity, and one of the young men had to translate a chapter in the Gospel of St. John. He translated very badly, and the Prince, not accustomed to the English pronunciation of Greek, could not follow. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter. The Prince did not perceive that it was due to a really atrocious mistranslation. He turned to me and said: “Let us go; they are laughing at us.” When we were outside I explained to him what had happened; but it was really so bad that I must not repeat it here. The passage was St. John, iv., 9: Λέγει οὔν αὐτῷ ἡ γυνὴ ἡ Σαμαρειτῖς.
The young Prince, the present Emperor, who was with his father, was very much pleased with what he saw of Oxford, of the river, and of the life of the young men. He would have liked to spend a term or two at Oxford, but there were objections. Fears of English influence had begun to show themselves at Berlin. Several young ladies tried their powers of persuasion on the young Prince, who told me at the time, in true academic German, “In all my life I have not been canvassed so much” (In meinem Leben bin ich noch nicht so gekeilt worden).
It is well known how warm an interest the young Prince, now the German Emperor, has always taken in the success of Oxford, and for how many years he has always sent his congratulations by telegram to the successful, and now almost charmed, Oxford crew.
When the Crown Prince with his son and the Prince of Wales honoured my College (All Souls’) with their presence at luncheon, I remember presenting to them three tumblers of the old ale that is brewed in the College, and is supposed to be the best in the University, very drinkable (süffig), but very strong. One year when several men from Cambridge were passing their long vacation at Oxford (one of them was Lightfoot, afterwards Bishop of Durham, another Augustus Vansittart), they were made free of all the common-rooms at Oxford, and constituted examiners of the beers brewed in the different Colleges. All Souls’ came out at the head of the tripos, but there was to be a new examination in the year following, and competitors were invited to send their essays to F. M. M., Professor of Comparative Palaeontology, at All Souls’. I took a tumbler of the old ale myself and drank to the health of “The three Emperors.” The Crown Prince did not see what I meant, and asked again and again, “But how so (Wie so)?” “The future German Emperor,” I said, “the future Emperor of India (the Prince of Wales), and, in the very distant future, the third Emperor of Germany.” The Crown Prince smiled, but an expression of seriousness or displeasure passed over his face, showing me that I touched a sensitive nerve. The Crown Prince was a curious mixture. In his intercourse with his friends he liked to forget that he was a Prince, he spoke most freely and unguardedly, and enjoyed a good laugh about a good joke. He allowed his friends to do the same, but suddenly, if any of his friends made a remark that did not quite please him, he drew back, and it took him some time to recover himself. He was a noble and loyal nature. He knew Bismarck, he knew his strong, and he knew his very weak, and more than weak, points; but such was his gratitude for what the old statesman had done for Prussia and Germany that he never said an unkind word against him. I believe he would never have parted with him, though he was quite aware of the danger of a major domus in the kingdom of Frederick the Great. History will have much to say about those years, and will teach us once more the old lesson—how small the great ones of the earth can be.
Once more I met the Prince at Venice, when he was enjoying himself with the Crown Princess and some of his daughters. He was then incognito, and he had the best cicerone in his learned and charming wife. They worked hard together from morning till evening. At last the people of Venice found out who he was, and crowded round him to that extent that he had to take refuge in the royal palace. What struck me at the time was a sadness and far greater reticence in the Prince. Still, at times, the old joyous smile broke out, as if he had forgotten how serious life had become to him.