Thile gave me the following particulars of the agreement with Russia in 1863: “Bismarck risked a great deal thereby. We might have got ourselves into a war with France, who would have begun by attacking us. Napoleon was furious, because he had heard nothing beforehand. Goltz wrote that he might be pacified if the treaty were communicated to him. This was done. Bismarck sent the treaty to Goltz, with instructions to read it to the Emperor alone. Even the Ministers were to know nothing of it. Napoleon was astounded at its contents, and exclaimed, ‘Why, this is worse than I had anticipated!’ It had no further consequences however.”
On Sunday, the 31st of May, I found in the Daily Telegraph of the 29th a leading article on the Emperor’s indisposition, in which the alteration in the policy of Prussia which would result from the approaching change in the occupation of the throne was regarded as full of hope for England. It was asserted among other things that Prince Bismarck would no longer exercise the influence which he now did upon the Sovereign. I immediately called upon Bucher with the paper, which I handed to him in order that he might communicate the article to the Chief. He cast a glance at the principal passages underlined by me, and promised to cut out the article and send it to the Chancellor without delay, mentioning at the same time that I had brought it. He would doubtless deal with it in some way—probably get me to write an article on the subject in the Grenzboten. But he was going to leave Berlin on Tuesday (the 2nd of June). Bucher went on to say that it would really seem as if the Emperor were not at all well just now. I asked him what was the meaning of Lord Rosebery’s visit. He replied: “It is in the main as the newspapers represent it. He has been instructed to find out what the Chief’s views are on various questions. No negotiations have taken place. I was invited by the Prince to dine with them one day, and the conversation turned on indifferent matters, such as dogs, &c. Rosebery said nothing on the main question, namely, Afghanistan. It was the Chief who first turned the conversation on to it.” I suggested: “But the present understanding will doubtless be merely provisional?” He: “I believe the matter will come up again in about five years, when the railways are finished. The Russians expect to have the line from Kisil-Arwat to Askabad ready by 1886, and it will then be carried on to Merv and to the Oxus in the direction of Samarcand. The English are building their line from the Indus to Candahar, by a détour viâ Pishin, and not through the Bolan Pass, which is the shortest route, but where it would run for twelve (German) miles through defiles which the natives would be able to block by simply rolling rocks down. But on the Pishin route also they will meet with great difficulties, and will not be ready for a long time.... Rosebery’s visit was brought about by Herbert, who, by the way, has not shown particular skill in the recent African negotiations. He can be very offensive at times, which is useful, but he has not sufficiently mastered these colonial questions. He does not understand, for instance, that colonies require a coast if they are to prosper, and so he made concessions which we are now trying to alter. He allows himself to be won over too easily. Rosebery had been particularly successful in that, and has quite mesmerised him.”
Speaking of the Emperor once more, he said: “His death will be a bad thing for us. Rottenburg believes that the Chief will not retain office under the new Emperor, and in that case it is not impossible that Keudell may become Chancellor. He is in high favour at the Crown Prince’s. They stay with him in Rome, and people believe him far more capable than he really is. He has provided for that in the press; as, for instance, through Meding, at considerable cost to his own or the Embassy funds.” (...)
At 12 o’clock (I had called on Bucher with the Daily Telegraph article at 9 A.M.) a servant from the Chancellor’s palace came to my lodgings to inquire whether I could call upon the Prince at 3 o’clock. At a quarter past 3 I was shown into the Chancellor’s study, and did not leave until ten minutes past 4.
He was dressed in black with a military stock, and, as usual, sat at his writing-table. He first quieted Tiras, who sprang out and wanted to fly at me, shook hands with his accustomed friendliness, and after I had taken a seat opposite him, asked me how I was, observing: “You still look exactly the same, not a bit changed.” He mentioned that during the time he had not seen me he had been overloaded with work. “Even to-day I have been sitting here since 8 o’clock in the morning,” he continued; “and it is the same from week’s end to week’s end. The only break is at lunch time, and, as you know, I also work then, reading despatches and telegrams and giving instructions, &c. I must do almost everything myself. Hatzfeldt is an excellent ambassador, and he is also very good here at receiving the diplomatists,—clever and intelligent, but ailing and incapable of serious continuous work, impatient of routine, and in addition to that he is frivolous and has a poor memory. Busch is no longer of any use either, and must get out of harness. Bojanowski is ruined, and his Councillors are intriguing against him. My son is not yet sufficiently trained, and has much to learn.” I said: “But Busch was an excellent worker and knew the business!” “Yes,” he replied, “but that is no longer the case. The clock will no longer work. Latterly he has been constantly unwell.... Herbert is getting on very well in many things, but he must yet, as the French say, faire ses caravanes, or, as it is better expressed in English, ‘sow his wild oats.’ Faire ses caravanes, you know, originally meant to join one of the campaigns against the infidels, in which one had to take part before becoming a knight of Malta. It therefore signifies to get through one’s blundering as a beginner and to grow wise by experience.”
He then took up the Daily Telegraph article which Bucher had pasted on a sheet of paper and enclosed in a letter, which also lay on the table. He said: “You have sent me this. I thank you for it.”
I: “I thought it would interest you, particularly one passage, as Bucher asked me a few weeks ago for a leader of the same kind for you, as he knows I receive the paper. I had not kept that number, but I afterwards came across it elsewhere, and the article was translated for the Emperor. I therefore thought you would be glad to see this one immediately.”
He: “Yes, and it is of interest. But it would hardly do to write anything against or upon it just now. It would have to be done very cautiously, and at the present moment in particular it would not look at all well. The old gentleman is in a very critical state, and you know it seems to me almost like the case of a woman whose husband is dangerously ill, and who talks to people about what she will do afterwards; or, more correctly, as if my wife were dying and I were to say how I should act after her death, and whether I should marry again or not. We must wait until the hour has come for a decision to be taken. It appears that the Crown Prince wishes to retain me, but I must carefully consider whether I ought to remain with him. There are many arguments against it, and many also in favour of it; but at present I am more disposed to go and have no share in his experiments. But I might look at it as Götz von Berlichingen did when he joined the peasants—it will not be so bad; and if I remain many things can be prevented or rendered less harmful. But what if I were then not to have a free hand?—to have colleagues like Forckenbeck and George Bunsen, and ceaseless worries with them; while latterly the old gentleman allowed me to do what I thought proper, and even to select Ministers and replace them by others? Besides, there is the co-regency of the Crown Princess, who influences and completely governs him. Yet what will the result be if I leave them to themselves? The entire position of the Empire depends upon the confidence which I have acquired abroad. In France, for instance, where their attitude is based exclusively upon the faith they place in my word. The King of the Belgians said recently that a written and signed contract would do less to put his mind at ease than a verbal assurance from me that such and such a course would be followed. It is the same with Russia, where the Emperor trusts entirely to me. I still remember at the Danzig meeting how he conversed with me for a long time in his cabin and listened to my opinion. The Emperor (William) was not over pleased at his taking no notice of the parade and the various celebrations; but he left us alone all the same. And the Empress—the Danish Princess—said to me: ‘Our whole confidence rests upon you. We know that you tell the plain truth, and perform what you promise.’... Of course I could retire and see how they got on without me, and then when they called me back after their experiment had failed, I could bring things back into the old course. It would then have been proved that affairs could not be conducted in that way. He doubtless would not venture upon such experiments if he had not got me in reserve. It was just the same with the new era when the King gave Liberalism a trial, because he had me to turn to eventually. But I am an old man, over seventy, and for twenty-nine years I have exhausted my strength in the service of the State, and can no longer do what I once did. I can no longer accompany the King wherever he goes—on journeys, shooting parties and to watering places. I can no longer ride to manœuvres and parades, so as to prevent his being alone with others, and to take immediate measures against the intrigues and influence of opponents. If I were to persist in that sort of work my illness would return, and I should soon be dead.”
He drew out from among the books on his right a letter from Dr. Schweninger, who had written to him that he had escaped a dangerous illness through regular diet and the greatest possible abstinence from mental exertion; but that if a recurrence of it were to be averted he must continue to follow the same course. He then said: “The Crown Princess is an Englishwoman. That is always the case with us. When our Princesses marry abroad they doff the Prussian, and identify themselves with their new country,—as for example the Queen of Bavaria, who ultimately went so far as to become a Catholic; and the lady in Darmstadt (it is obvious that this was a slip of the tongue, and that he meant Karlsruhe), as well as the consort of the Emperor Nicholas. Here, however, they bring their nationality with them, and retain it, preserving their foreign interests.... Our policy must not necessarily be anti-English, but if it were to be English it might prove to be very much against our interest, as we have always to reckon with the Continental Powers.” He further observed that the Crown Prince would be influenced in his liking for England by consideration for Queen Victoria, and (here he mimicked the act of counting money) her generosity. He has but a slight knowledge of State affairs, and little interest in them, and he lacks courage. I reminded the Chief that he, too, had had to infuse courage into his father on the railway journey from Jueterbogk to Berlin during the period of conflict. He then related that incident once more, and added: “He said that I should first come to the scaffold—at that time I was called the Prussian Strafford; but I replied: ‘What finer death could a man have than to die for his King and his right?’”
He then came to speak of the Emperor’s illness, for which—as he asserted—“the women were to blame, with their desire to give themselves importance. He was already ill, hoarse, when they talked him over into driving with them to church. And then the Grand Duchess wants to play the loving daughter before people, and so she accompanies him when he, like every one who works a great deal, would prefer to drive out alone; and at the same time she argues with him, even when the wind is in their faces, so that he catches cold if he answers her. It was only his daughter’s persuasion that induced him to go to Hatzfeldt’s dinner. He ought not to have done that. (Probably according to Lauer’s opinion.) As he sits at work, Augusta sticks her head into the room and asks in a caressing voice, ‘Do I disturb you?’ When he, always gallant in his treatment of ladies, and particularly of Princesses, replies ‘No,’ she comes in and pours out all sorts of insignificant gossip to him, and scarcely has she at last gone away than she is back again knocking at the door with her, ‘I am again disturbing you’; and so she again wastes his time chattering. Now that he is ill—you know what his complaint is—she is a real embarrassment and plague to him. She sits there with him, and when he wants to be left alone he does not venture to tell her, so that in the end he gets quite red from pain and restraint; and she notices it. That is not love, however, but pure play-acting, conventional care and affection. There is nothing natural about her—everything is artificial, inwardly as well as outwardly.”