Chapter XXII Paying the Price
What Edward VII. Thought—No Room for Art—A Vision of Threadneedle Street
Bülow, who loved being Chancellor, hated Phili Eulenburg.
However, the Imperial ex-Ambassador at the Hofburg was then in the zenith of his ill-gotten empire over Majesty, and to incur his displeasure spelt disgrace or enforced resignation.
At the moment the grand old man’s thunderbolts were under lock and key in Harden’s Grunewald villa, and the exalted personages marked for lightning carried things with a high hand, using the German Empire like an entailed estate.
Pretty evenly parcelled out this fidei commissum favoured by the Prussian Constitution, which makes suffrage a mockery. Phili, of late enriched by Hertefeld, the Rhenish domain that guarantees him an independent income of £5,000 sterling a year and by a couple of millions cash, which Baron Nathan Rothschild, of Vienna, left him. Phili was practically the overseer of the Government personnel, and of the diplomatic corps in particular. His card index of prominent men and women, reinforced by reams and reams of correspondence, characterised each person—diplomats, deputies, ministers, councillors, governors, politicians, commanding generals and aspirants for high honours in the army or navy—according to his own viewpoint, the avowed object being to people the highest offices within the gift of the Crown with people like-minded with himself.
And it must be admitted that Phili pretty thoroughly succeeded, since the War Lord, seeing everybody through Eulenburg’s eyes, selected in the main only persons of mediocre intellect, or plain bullies, as his representatives abroad and at home. The reference to Eulenburg’s optics, by the way, recalls another Bismarck sally: “One look at Phili’s eyes is enough to spoil the most elaborate dinner for me!”
Could gourmet-gourmand express himself more emphatically? What the Iron Chancellor thought of ambassadors appointed under that régime has already been quoted; it coincides with the reputation for clumsiness and inefficiency the War Lord’s diplomatic servants have in all quarters of the world. In ante bellum days few of them were “honest men sent abroad to lie”; the great majority were liars intent upon bulldozing or deceiving the personages who mistook them for gentlemen. Of course, “like master, like servant.” The late King Edward maintained that Wilhelm was vulgar and ungentlemanly; hence Baron H or Count Y might think it presumptuous to be otherwise. Besides, the Berlin Foreign Office will employ nobles only, and we have the authority of Gunther, Count von der Schulenburg, Lord of Castle Oest, Rhineland, for the illuminating fact that every tenth German aristocrat is unspeakable. So much for the German diplomatic service.
General Count Kuno von Moltke presided over another self-gratifying clique—that of the Army; and if Germany had invaded Belgium ten years previous to toying with the scrap of paper, she would probably have been overthrown in short order, for at that time the Commander of Imperial Headquarters held the same sinister sway over the military as Phili did over the civil branches of the Government.
“Lovey,” “sweetheart,” “my soul,” “my all” (Kuno Moltke’s epistolary titles for Majesty), “hears as much of affairs as I want him to know, no more,” was Moltke’s boast, according to the sworn evidence of Frau von Ende, Count Moltke’s former wife, in the famous Harden slander case.
Yet though Moltke lost his case, the War Lord declared “there is nothing definite against Moltke, but he must remain on half-pay.”
Can you imagine King George V. so flaunting the decisions of Old Bailey and thereafter saddling the British public with a life pension of about £500 per annum in favour of the guilty party?
Can you imagine why such “sweet affection for the All Highest” should make up for lack of military qualities in a general officer slated for supreme command in the field?
For his crusade Maximilian Harden won much praise from English writers, but if he had let it flourish in high places for a decade longer, Great Britain would be richer in blood and treasure.
Another of these coteries of men who dispensed high offices among themselves for their own ends existed in the Imperial Court—aye, it lodged there, not in the Schloss or Neues Palais exactly, but—oh, irony!—in the Princess’s Palace, the hideous dependance of the Crown Prince Palais, Unter den Linden, the apartments granted for life to Royal Chamberlain Count von Wedell being its headquarters.
Oh, the jolly tea-parties they enjoyed in the great high-ceilinged rococo chambers, full of discarded furniture and appointments of the Frederick the Great and Watteau period; Louis Quatorze and Quinze, Boule and Chippendale, Empire, here and there—antique regularity and capricious bizarrerie, gems of Art some, also pieces chipped and disjointed.
Carlyle called Frederick “the last of the Kings”; he was certainly the last of Prussian kings possessed of an appreciation of the beautiful. The present War Lord kicked from his palaces—none were built since the eighteenth century—all objets d’art that would please the eye of anybody not a German boor, substituting unmentionables of the goose-step type, square-jointed, clumsy, coarse, and wholly mauvais goût.
What the “majestic” chambers lack, then, those of the Excellencies nolens volens boast. Wedell’s rooms in particular contained a variety of eighteenth century chef d’oeuvres selected by the Count himself from heaps of “ancient rubbish” sent from the Neues Palais and Sans-Souci by order of Court Marshal von Liebenau, a corporal dignified by a gold stick.
No doubt the Knights of Wedell’s Round Table enjoyed what was “caviare to the general.” At any rate, their tea-parties seem to have been a delight to “high and low,” for no one admitted to the charmed circle ever sent his regrets.
We find there General of Cavalry Count Wilhelm von Hohenau, son of the War Lord’s uncle, the late Prince Albrecht of Prussia, and Sailor Trost, of His Majesty’s yacht Hohenzollern; the gentleman already introduced, Count Kuno von Moltke, also Lord of the Cathedral and Private Riedel of the Uhlans; Count Lynar, brother-in-law of the Grand Duke of Hesse and Colonel of His Majesty’s Horse Guards, and Gus Steinhauer, midshipman; Count Frederick von Hohenau, brother of Wilhelm, and Court Councillor Kestler, who rose from the ranks to gentlemanly estate and high honours in His Majesty’s service; His Serene Highness Prince Philip of Eulenburg, Right Honourable Privy Councillor to the Prussian Crown, member of the House of Lords, etc., and Raymond Lecomte, French chargé d’affaires. These men were regular attendants, under the presidency of the noble-born host, of course, but there was a fair sprinkling of counts and barons and so on in this royal palace connected by a covered archway with the town residence of the Crown Prince and his family!
That was strange enough—audacity to the point of recklessness, one might call it—but stranger still is the fact that all these men were in the War Lord’s good graces, if not on intimate terms with him like Eulenburg.
With the Hohenaus he was on “Willy” and “Freddy” footing; Count Johannes von Lynar he called “Jeanie”; and His Excellency Lieutenant-General Kuno von Moltke was his “Tütü”—with dots over both u’s, if you please.
Nor were Wedell and Moltke the only tea-party members admitted to high positions at Court. Wilhelm Hohenau was governor to His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince, and, on Moltke’s recommendation, Count Lynar was about to be gazetted personal adjutant to His Majesty—an office giving him apartments at the royal residence—when he was vulgarly “pinched” and lugged off to jail for the crime of—being found out.
Because he was the War Lord’s “Jeanie,” Lynar would not listen to “Tütü’s” and “Willy’s” and “Freddy’s” hints about the Bank of England as a safe depository.
“Some day,” he used to bluster, “a few weeks or a month after ‘The Day,’ I will ride up Threadneedle Street and straight into the vaults of that venerable pile, and leap my charger over mountains of gold—will be quite a change, don’t you know, from jumping fences at Hoppegarten.”
As to the others, Sailor Trost and ditto Gustav Steinhauer each enjoyed a meteoric career, rising in quick order to petty officership—impossible to advance them higher, because they were men without education; and whenever and wherever an excuse could be found for employing them in that extraordinary capacity, they were given charge of the Imperial person. Thus Gustav Steinhauer always acted as chief guardian of the War Lord’s lodging in Castle Liebenberg when the Majesty visited his beloved Phili.
Kestler was a miserable subaltern, destined to starve on a daily wage of four marks, when Eulenburg discovered and introduced him to Majesty. Under the War Lord’s favour, he was transferred to a more lucrative department in the service, and decorated!
Yet why the Pour le Merite for Kestler, and for Eulenburg, Wedell, etc.? What were their peculiar merits? Has anyone ever been able to discover?
To-day Eulenburg, twice tried, is a prisoner for life on his estate; the two Hohenaus are banished from Germany, and dare not come back on pain of arrest; Count Kuno von Moltke is a pensioner of the German people on foreign soil; Count Wedell forfeited the two gold buttons on the tails of his frac and his residence at the Princess’s palace.
Why did they get off so easily in comparison when the crash came?
The answer is obvious enough. These persons had been careful to deposit in London, E.C., the letters they had received from a certain exalted party who shall be nameless, and Count Lynar, prisoner No. 5429 at Siegburg Jail, had neglected that simple precaution.