He: “That is a sad case, and there are many to share your misfortune, all who had relatives on board the Cimbria.”
I: “But my son was engaged in his profession, in the fulfilment of his duty, and died bravely and conscientiously for his ship like a soldier for his flag.”
He reached me his hand, and said, “Auf Wiedersehen!” I had been with him fully three-quarters of an hour, and all this time good old Möller had to wait in the antechamber.
On returning home on the evening of the 3rd of February, I found lying on my table a letter from Count Bill, in which, at his father’s request, he enclosed a new photograph of the latter with a full white beard.
On the 24th of February I wrote to the Chancellor begging to be allowed to take leave of him personally, as I proposed to start for Leipzig on the following Thursday. I handed the letter to the porter at the palace at 11 A.M., and in about an hour and a half I received an invitation through Sachse to call upon the Prince at 3 o’clock. He was in the room behind his study, which opens on the garden. He was in an armchair, half sitting, half lying, and had beside him a small table covered with documents. After he had asked me how I was, he complained that he still felt very poorly. When one trouble left him another set in. The neuralgic faceache often prevented him from sleeping. If he could only go to the country, away from business, things might improve; but the King would not grant him leave, and “pestered him with all sorts of unimportant orders,” &c., as, for instance, with the question as to who should go to St. Petersburg to attend the coronation. “He thinks,” he continued, “that if I can manage to keep on my legs I shall live to be old,—and if not, why then I must die in the fulfilment of my duty.... And here in the Foreign Office I have no proper assistance. Look at that pile of documents which I must read through myself!” I said: “Of course there is not much to be done with Hatzfeldt. He has little ability, and still less inclination, to work. He only wants to amuse himself, and to draw a big salary for doing so.” “Yes,” he replied, “Hatzfeldt does little for his money, and has neither a good memory nor a taste for business.” He then continued: “The Crown Prince is also inconsiderate, and torments me with matters of no importance; and, in addition to that, the people in the Diet are committing all sorts of blunders. How abusive they have been during the past few days! But it is the same everywhere with Parliaments and Ministers.” I remarked: “Quite so, for instance in France.” “It is no better in England,” he rejoined. “The European is no longer making progress. There is nothing more to be done with him.” He repeated that he was sick of politics, and wanted quiet. He then spoke of the Kulturkampf, observing: “The Pope is really well disposed, but he is not so powerful and independent as one may think; he is dependent upon people who will have no peace. For some time it appeared as if a modus vivendi could be arrived at, but now that is at an end. On the signs of approaching fine weather Windthorst threatened to strike and resign the leadership of the Centre party. He wants a stormy sky for other purposes, for stirring up discontent and strife, and they on the other hand need him, or think they do. They accordingly became frightened in Rome, and now they are once more making themselves unpleasant.” I said: “Catholicism has always been a secondary consideration for Windthorst. He is, above everything else, the well-paid advocate of the Guelphs.”
He rejoined: “Ah, he believes in nothing whatever. He has absolutely no religion.”
He caught sight of an envelope which I had brought with me and laid on the table beside us containing an enlargement by Brasch of his photograph by Löscher. He asked: “What have you there?” I answered: “It usually happens that granting one request brings on another, and that is the case now. I have had your last portrait enlarged and mounted, and I would now beg your Serene Highness to write your name under it as a souvenir. Of course it can be done in pencil.” “No,” he said, “in ink.” He rang for the attendant and asked for “a pen to write my signature,” and then wrote under the photograph: “v. Bismarck, Berlin, 24 February, 1883.”
I thanked him and said: “It is then arranged, Serene Highness, that I may come here and address myself to you occasionally when anything of importance arises, particularly when there would seem to be anything on foot in which you might wish to have some one near you in whom you could repose special confidence? And as to the book, I may send you the proofs in a few months? We shall probably not begin printing before August.” He agreed to all this, and then said: “Well, good-bye, Busch. Auf Wiedersehen! Enjoy yourself in Leipzig ‘an der Pleisse.’” He pronounced these words with a true Saxon accent.
On the 13th of May I came from Leipzig to Berlin, and reported myself to the Chancellor by letter.... On the 15th Sachse sent me word that the Chancellor expected me at 3 o’clock. I presented myself punctually at the time appointed, and had to wait while the Chancellor had a short interview with Rottenburg.... The latter referred to Colonel Vogt’s Grenzboten article on Thibaudin, and mentioned that the Imperial Chancellor had remarked that it was no business of ours to point out to the French that their army was in bad hands. Count Rantzau also came across to shake hands with me. The Chief’s youngest grandchild, Heinrich, some five months old, was also in the antechamber, and he also gave me his little hand to shake.
I was then with the Prince from 3.5 to 4 P.M. He was in plain clothes, and sat at his ordinary double writing-table. He did not look ill, but complained as usual of his neuralgia. He said: “It now extends over the whole body, the chest and abdomen, and I can no longer exert myself to think or work for any length of time—two hours at the outside; then I must give up, or drink champagne or something of that kind to keep myself going for a while longer. I ought to get out of harness altogether, but the Emperor will not consent to this, and even when I go to the country, business and worry now follow at my heels.” I asked: “Worry with the gentlemen in Parliament?” “Ah, no,” he replied; “I no longer read their speeches and brawling. It is the Ministers. Scholz is all right, as also Bötticher and Maybach, although the latter is somewhat blunt,—but the others, and particularly those in the Foreign Office!” I said: “But surely Bucher and Busch are able and diligent.” “That is so,” he rejoined; “but Bucher is cross-tempered and soured, and Busch is sinking under his load of work. I was mistaken in Hatzfeldt. He is very good for negotiating with the King and the Crown Prince, but he thinks only of his own interest, and would like to be my successor; but he has no sense of duty and no love of work.” I added: “One or at most two hours’ work in the day, as formerly—and then to play a game of croquet or lawn tennis with Mrs. or Madame So-and-so.” “Yes,” he said, “that’s his way. Like Lucca. Unser Paulchen ist sehr faulchen (Our little Paul is very lazy). His Excellency Herr von Keudell also wanted to become Imperial Chancellor one day, and absurd as the notion was, he worked it through his friends in the press, who had to praise him up to the skies and represent him as your intimate adviser. But I always regarded him as quite insignificant in politics, and in addition to that he could never do any work. He found a difficulty in managing the most ordinary affairs. I was often obliged to do things for him, and once at Versailles Taglioni, the deciphering clerk, finished off no less than thirty documents for him with which he was in arrears. It is true that he was very clever in looking after his own interests.”