He regretted that the Foreign Ministers could not meet at a neutral Court on occasions of ceremony. I think His Majesty believed that the members of the diplomatic corps were in the position of the heralds of the elder time—exempt, at least outwardly, from all the hatreds developed by the war, and ready to look on the enemy of to-day as their friend of to-morrow. This is good diplomacy; I agreed with His Majesty, but wondered whether, if His Majesty's country was in the position of Belgium, he would have instructed his Minister to be polite to the representative of the invader. I had my doubts, for if there were ever a king passionately devoted to his country, it is King Christian X. After the sinking of the Lusitania, my position would have been terribly difficult, if my German and Austrian colleagues had not acted in a way that made it possible for me to forget that I had said, on hearing of Bernstorff's warning, 'The day after an American is killed without warning at sea, we will declare war!' It was undiplomatic; but I had said it to Count Rantzau, to Prince Wittgenstein, to Count Raben-Levitzau, to Prince Waldemar, to the Princes, to other persons, and, I think, at the Foreign Office. A very distinguished German had replied, in the true Junker spirit, 'But your great Government would not bring a war on itself for the sake of the lives of a few hundred bourgeoisie.' And, when I stood, foolish and confounded, recognising that the time had not come for our Government to act, he said: 'You see you were wrong. Your Government is not so altruistic as you thought, nor so ready to bring new disasters on the world.'
Count Rantzau always took a moderate tone. When in difficulty he could switch the conversation to a passage in the Memoirs of St. Simon, or some other chronicle—a little frivolous—of the past. Count Szchenyi was hard hit—his brother-in-law, Mr. Vanderbilt, had perished among the bourgeoisie on the Lusitania; it was a subject to be avoided. Prince von Wittgenstein simply said that it was a pity that the Lusitania carried munitions of war, though they were not high explosives, but he made no excuses. It was evident that these gentlemen regretted the horrible crime.
The few Germans one met in society were inclined to blame what they called the stupidity of the captain of the steamship; they had the testimony of the hearing taken from the London Times, at their finger ends, and they knew 'the name of the firm in Lowell, Massachusetts, whose ammunition had been exported on the Lusitania.' Their opinions I always heard at second-hand. A great Danish lady, whose family the King of Prussia and the present Emperor had honoured, sent me from the country all the signed portraits of the Kaiser, torn to pieces. 'I could not write,' she said afterwards at dinner, 'I could not say what I thought,—I had promised my husband to be silent,—but you know what I meant,' and she added in Danish, 'damn little Willie!'
The only place in which representatives of the warring nations saw one another was in church, that is, in the church of St. Ansgar; but Count Szchenyi and Prince von Wittgenstein were always so deeply engaged in prayer that they could not see the French Minister or the Belgian. The English church—one of the most beautiful in Copenhagen—was frequented only by the English and a few Americans, so the Rector, the Rev. Dr. Kennedy, was never troubled about the position of his pews, nor was the Russian pope across the street from St. Ansgar's.
Mr. Francis Hagerup had been a model Dean. Everybody trusted and respected him; it seemed a pity that he should go away from Copenhagen, after such good service, without the usual testimonial from the diplomatic corps; but there were difficulties in the way. Would Sir Henry Lowther, the English, and Baron de Buxhoevenden, the Russian Minister, permit their names to go on a piece of plate with those of Count Brockdorff-Rantzau and Count Szchenyi? Count Szchenyi, always kindness itself, had his eye on two silver vegetable dishes of the true Danish-Rosenborg type. He consulted me as the Dean. I wanted Mr. Hagerup to have these beautiful things, and Szchenyi seemed to think that the matter could be arranged. I agreed to get the signatures to the proposition, expressed in French, that the dishes should be bought from the court jeweller, the famous Carl Michelsen, who had designed them. I doubt whether any of the Tiffanys have more foreign decorations than Michelsen; it is worth while being a jeweller and an artist in Denmark.
The gift was to show the unusual honour to an unusual Dean, offered by all the diplomatic corps in time of war. I had the opinion of the ladies sounded; they were all against it, especially one of the most intellectual ladies of the diplomatic corps, Madame de Buxhoevenden. She warned me that my attempt would be a failure. However, I sent the paper out, done in the most diplomatic French. Hans, our messenger, asked for the ladies first. If they were at home, he waited for another day. After I had all the signatures and they were engraved on the dishes, the Baroness de Buxhoevenden bore down on me, warlike.
'Quelle horreur,' she said. 'How did you get my husband's name?'
'When you were out!' I said.
'I think it disgraceful all the same, that my husband's name should appear on the same plate with those of the enemies of my country.'
'On the second plate, Madame, the enemies' appear,' I answered,—'there are two!'