Parallel with this development runs the second process making for change: the increasing responsibility of diplomacy to public opinion. To discuss all the momentous issues involved in this is impossible; but the subject is too important to be altogether passed over, since it is one of the main problems of modern international intercourse, and concerns every one who by his vote may influence the policy of the state to which he belongs. The question, broadly speaking, is: how far has the public discussion of international affairs affected the legitimate functions of diplomacy for better or for worse? To the diplomatist of the old school the answer seems clear. For him diplomacy was too delicate and too personal an art to survive the glare and confusion of publicity. Metternich, the last representative of the old haute diplomatie, lived to moralize over the ruin caused by the first manifestations of the “new diplomacy,” the outcome of the rise of the power of public opinion. He had early, from his own point of view, unfavourably contrasted the “limited” constitutional monarchies of the west with the “free” autocracies of the east of Europe, free because they were under no obligation to give a public account of their actions. He himself was a master of the old diplomatic art, of intrigue, of veiling his purpose under a cloud of magniloquence, above all, of the art of personal fascination. But public opinion was for him only a dangerous force to be kept under control; and, even had he realized the necessity for appealing to it, he had none of the qualities that would have made the appeal successful. In direct antagonism to him was George Canning, who may be called the great prototype of the “new diplomacy,” and to Metternich was a “malevolent meteor hurled by divine providence upon Europe.” Canning saw clearly the immense force that would be added to his diplomatic action if he had behind him the force of public opinion. In answer to Metternich’s complaint of the tone of speeches in parliament and of the popular support given in England to revolutionary movements, he wrote, “Our influence, if it is to be maintained abroad, must be secure in its sources of strength at home: and the sources of that strength are in the sympathy between the people and the government; in the union of the public sentiment with the public counsels; in the reciprocal confidence of the House of Commons and the crown.”[2]
It would be a mistake to jump to the conclusion that Canning was wholly right and Metternich wholly wrong. The conditions of the Habsburg monarchy were not those of Great Britain,[3] and even if it had been possible to speak of a public opinion in the Austrian empire at all, it certainly possessed no such organ as the British parliament. But the argument may be carried yet further. In the abstract the success of the policy of a minister in a democratic state must ultimately rest upon the support of public opinion; yet the necessity for this support has in the conduct of foreign affairs its peculiar dangers. In the difficult game of diplomacy a certain reticence is always necessary. Secret sources of information would be dried up were they to be lightly revealed; a plain exposition of policy would often give an undue advantage to the other party to a negotiation. Thus, even in Great Britain, the diplomatic correspondence laid before parliament is carefully edited, and all governments are jealous of granting access to their modern archives. Yet a representative assembly is apt to be resentful of such reservations. Its members know little or nothing of the conditions under which foreign affairs are conducted, and they are not unnaturally irritated by explanations which seem to lack candour or completeness. Canning himself had experience of this in the affair of the capture of the Danish fleet at Copenhagen; and Castlereagh’s diplomacy was hampered by the bitter attacks of an opposition which accused him, with little justice, of pursuing a policy which he dared not reveal in its full scope to parliament. Moreover, the appeal to public opinion may be used as a diplomatic weapon for ends no less “selfish” than any aimed at by the old diplomacy. Bismarck, whose statesmanship was at least as cynical as that of Metternich, was a master of the art of taking the world into his confidence—when it suited him to do so; and the “reptile press,” hired to give a seemingly independent support to his policy, was one of his most potent weapons. So far the only necessary consequence of the growth of the power of public opinion on the art of diplomacy has been to extend the sphere of its application; it is but one more factor to be dealt with; and experience has proved that it is subject to the wiles of a skilful diplomatist no less than were the princes and statesmen with whom the old diplomacy was solely concerned.
The third factor making for change—the revolution in the means of communication which has brought all the world into closer touch—remains to be discussed. It is obvious that before the invention of the telegraph, the diplomatic agent was in a far more responsible position than he is now, when he can, in most cases, receive immediate instructions from his government on difficult questions as they arise. When communication was still slow there was often no time to await instructions, or the instructions when they arrived were not seldom already out of date and had to be set aside on the minister’s own responsibility. It would, however, be easy to exaggerate the importance of this change as affecting the character and status of diplomatic agents. It is true that the tendency has been for ministers of foreign affairs to hold the threads of diplomacy in their own hands to a far greater extent than was formerly the case; but they must still depend for information and advice on the “man on the spot,” and the success of their policy largely depends upon his qualities of discretion and judgment. The growth of democracy, moreover, has given to the ambassador a new and peculiar importance; for he represents not only the sovereign to the sovereign, but the nation to the nation; and, as a succession of notable American ambassadors to Great Britain has proved, he may by his personal qualities do a large amount to remove the prejudices and ignorances which stand as a barrier between the nations. It marks an immense advance in the comity of international intercourse when the representatives of friendly powers are no longer regarded as “spies rather than ambassadors,” to be “quickly heard and dismissed,” as Philippe de Commines would have them, but as agreeable guests to be parted from with regret.
As to the qualifications for an ambassador, it is clearly impossible to lay down a general rule, for the same qualities are obviously not required in Washington as in Vienna, nor in Paris as in Pekin. Yet the effort to depict the ideal ambassador bulks largely in the works of the earlier theorists, and the demands they make are sufficiently alarming. Ottaviano Maggi, himself a diplomatist of the brilliant age of the Renaissance, has left us in his De legato (Hanoviae, 1596) his idea of what an ambassador should be. He must not only be a good Christian but a learned theologian; he must be a philosopher, well versed in Aristotle and Plato, and able at a moment’s notice to solve in correct dialectical form the most abstruse problems; he must be well read in the classics, and an expert in mathematics, architecture, music, physics and civil and canon law. He must not only know how to write and speak Latin with classical refinement, but he must be a master of Greek, Spanish, French, German and Turkish. He must have a sound knowledge of history, geography and the science of war; but at the same time is not to neglect the poets, and never to be without his Homer. Add to this that he must be well born, rich and of a handsome presence, and we have a portrait of a diplomatist whose original can hardly have existed even in that age of brilliant versatility. The Dutchman Frederikus de Marselaer, in his κηρυκεῖον sive legationum insigne (Antwerp, 1618), is scarcely less exacting than the Venetian. His ideal ambassador is a nobleman of fine presence and in the prime of life, famous, rich, munificent, abstemious, not violent, nor quarrelsome, nor morose, no flatterer, learned, eloquent, witty without being talkative, a good linguist, widely read, prudent and cautious, but brave and—as he adds somewhat superfluously—many-sided.
With these theoretical perfections one or two instances of the qualifications demanded by the exigencies of practical politics may be cited by way of illuminating contrast. At the court of the empress Elizabeth of Russia good looks were a surer means of diplomatic success than all the talents and virtues, and the princess of Zerbst (mother of the empress Catherine II.) wrote to Frederick of Prussia advising him to replace his elderly ambassador by a handsome young man with a good complexion; and the essential qualification for an ambassador to Switzerland, Germany, Poland, Denmark and Russia used to be that he should be able to drink the native diplomatists, seasoned from babyhood to strong liquors, under the table.
History.—In its widest sense the history of diplomacy is that of the intercourse between nations, in so far as this has not been a mere brute struggle for the mastery;[4] in a narrower sense, with which the present article is alone concerned, it is that of the methods and spirit of diplomatic intercourse and of the character and status of diplomatic agents. Earlier writers on the office and functions of ambassadors, such as Gentilis or Archbishop Germonius, conscientiously trace their origin to God himself, who created the angels to be his legates; and they fortify their arguments by copious examples drawn from ancient history, sacred and profane. But, whatever the influence upon it of earlier practice, modern diplomacy really dates from the rise of permanent missions, and the consequent development of the diplomatic hierarchy as an international institution. Of this the first beginnings are traceable to the 15th century and to Italy. There had, of course, during the middle ages been embassies and negotiations; but the embassies had been no more than temporary missions directed to a particular end and conducted by ecclesiastics or nobles of a dignity appropriate to each occasion; there were neither permanent diplomatic agents nor a professional diplomatic class. To the evolution of such a class the Italy of the Renaissance, the nursing-ground of modern statecraft, gave the first impetus. This was but natural; for Italy, with its numerous independent states, between which there existed a lively intercourse and a yet livelier rivalry, anticipated in miniature the modern states’ system of Europe. In feudal Europe there had been little room for diplomacy; but in northern and central Italy feudalism had never taken root, and in the struggles of the peninsula diplomacy had early played a part as great as, or greater than, war. Where all were struggling for the mastery, the existence of each depended upon alliances and counter-alliances, of which the object was the maintenance of the balance of power. In this school there was trained a notable succession of men of affairs. Thus, in the 13th and 14th centuries Florence counted among her envoys Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio, and later on could boast of agents such as Capponi, Vettori, Guicciardini and Machiavelli. Papal Rome, too, as was to be expected, had always been a fruitful nursing-mother of diplomatists; and some authorities have traced the beginnings of modern diplomacy to a conscious imitation of her legatine system.[5]
It is, however, in Venice, that the origins of modern diplomacy are to be sought.[6] So early as the 13th century the republic, with a view to safeguarding the public interests, began to lay down a series of rules for the conduct of its ambassadors. Thus, in 1236, envoys to the court of Rome are forbidden to procure a benefice for anyone without leave of the doge and little council; in 1268 ambassadors are commanded to surrender on their return any gifts they may have received, and by another decree they are compelled to take an oath to conduct affairs to the honour and advantage of the republic. About the same time it was decided that diplomatic agents were to hand in, on their return, a written account of their mission; in 1288 this was somewhat expanded by a law decreeing that ambassadors were to deposit, within fifteen days of their return, a written account of the replies made to them during their mission, together with anything they might have seen or heard to the honour or in the interests of the republic. These provisions, which were several times renewed, notably in 1296, 1425 and 1533, are the origin of the famous reports of the Venetian ambassadors to the senate, which are at once a monument to the political genius of Venetian statesmen and a mine of invaluable historical material.[7]
These are but a few examples of a long series of regulations, many others also dating to the 13th century, by which the Venetian government sought to systematize its diplomatic service. That permanent diplomatic agencies were not established by it earlier than was the case is probably due to the distrust of its agents by which most of this legislation of the republic is inspired. In the 13th century two or three months was considered over-long a period for an ambassador to reside at a foreign court; in the 15th century the period of residence was extended to two years, and in the 16th century to three. This latter rule continued till the end of the republic; the embassy had become permanent, but the ambassador was changed every three years.
The origin of the change from temporary to permanent missions has been the subject of much debate and controversy. The theory that it was due, in the first instance, to the evolution of the Venetian consulates (bajulats) in the Levant into permanent diplomatic posts, and that the idea was thence transferred to the West, is disproved by the fact that Venice had established other permanent embassies before the baylo (q.v.) at Constantinople was transformed into a diplomatic agent of the first rank. Nor is the first known instance of the appointment of a permanent ambassador Venetian. The earliest record[8] is contained in the announcement by Francesco Sforza, duke of Milan, in 1455, of his intention to maintain a permanent embassy at Genoa[9]; and in 1460 the duke of Savoy sent Eusebio Margaria, archdeacon of Vercelli, as his permanent representative to the Curia.[10] Though, however, the early records of such appointments are rare, the practice was probably common among the Italian states. Its extension to countries outside Italy was a somewhat later development. In 1494 Milan is already represented in France by a permanent ambassador. In 1495 Zacharia Contarini, Venetian ambassador to the emperor Maximilian, is described by Sanuto (Diarii, i. 294) as stato ambasciatore; and from the time of Charles V. onwards the succession of ambassadors of the republic at the imperial court is fairly traceable. In 1496 “as the way to the British Isles is very long and very dangerous,” two merchants resident in London, Pietro Contarini and Luca Valaressa, were appointed by the republic subambasciatores; and in June of the same year Andrea Trevisano arrived in London as permanent ambassador at the court of Henry VII.[11] Florence, too, from 1498 onwards, was represented at the courts of Charles V. and of France by permanent ambassadors.
During the same period the practice had been growing up among the other European powers. Spain led the way in 1487 by the appointment of Dr Roderigo Gondesalvi de Puebla as ambassador in England. As he was still there in 1500, the Spanish embassy in London may be regarded as the oldest still surviving post of the new permanent diplomacy. Other states followed suit, but only fitfully; it was not till late in the 16th century that permanent embassies were regarded as the norm. The precarious relations between the European powers during the 16th century, indeed, naturally retarded the development of the system. Thus it was not till after good relations had been established with France by the treaty of London that, in 1519, Sir Thomas Boleyn and Dr West were sent to Paris as resident English ambassadors, and, after the renewed breach between the two countries, no others were appointed till the reign of Elizabeth. Nine years before, Sir Robert Wingfield, whose simplicity earned him the nickname of “Summer-shall-be-green,” had been sent as ambassador to the court of Charles V., where he remained from 1510 to 1517; and in 1520 the mutual appointment of resident ambassadors was made a condition of the treaty between Henry VIII. and Charles V. In 1517 Thomas Spinelly, who had for some years represented England at the court of the Netherlands, was appointed “resident ambassador to the court of Spain,” where he remained till his death on the 22nd of August 1522. These are the most important early instances of the new system. Alone of the great powers, the emperor remained permanently unrepresented at foreign courts. In theory this was the result of his unique dignity, which made him superior to all other potentates; actually it was because, as emperor, he could not speak for the practically independent princes nominally his vassals. It served all practical purposes if he were represented abroad by his agents as king of Spain or archduke of Austria.