Chapter XXIII How Von Bohlen was Chosen
The First Step—Prussian Manners—The War Lord Finds His Man—Putting Bülow to the Test—Discussing the Husband to Be—von Bohlen is Chosen
On the morning after the Bavarian debate in the Chancellor’s palace the War Lord and Prince Phili met early in Sans-Souci Park for an hour’s horseback exercise and scandalmongering. Be sure that chronique scandaleuse was thoroughly discussed, as well as the personnel of Phili’s favourites, and if there was anybody at Court and in Society, in high official places and in the royal theatres whose ears did not tingle with the calumnies or malicious tittle-tattle launched, the gossipers’ memory was at fault, not their capacity for impertinent innuendo.
These personages were walking their horses in a secluded avenue of the woods beyond Klein Glienecke when they heard galloping behind. “My courier,” said the War Lord; “we’ll wait.” They drew rein, and presently a red-coat shot by them in a parallel road. When some fifty paces ahead, the courier leaped his horse across the intervening ditch, then stopped short at the imminent risk of being thrown, and waited, hat in hand.
“Get the mail bag,” commanded Wilhelm curtly, after the style of Napoleon, who thought nothing of ordering a king to see how dinner was progressing. Phili trotted off, and presently returned with a red morocco leather portfolio. A silver-gilt key dangling on the War Lord’s bracelet gave access to the contents: two letters, both postmarked Essen.
“From Bertha,” said the War Lord, glancing at the bigger envelope, and put it into his pocket. The other he tore open in great haste. “Wonder what the Baroness wants from me?” he muttered.
Phili having returned the portfolio, the courier was dismissed by a wave of the hand, and Wilhelm plunged into the epistle sans cérémonie.
“The devil!” he cried, before he had finished the first page, and drove his horse so hard against Eulenburg’s side that Phili could not suppress an outcry.
“Listen to this: Bertha has fallen in love with Franz, sort of foster-brother, you know; they were children together.”
“The electrical expert you told me about?”
“Precisely. But I won’t allow it; she might as well aspire to be wife No. 777 to our friend Abdul. But here comes the Baroness and pleads that the dear child may have her way, Franz being such a good young man; marriages are arranged in heaven, and her blessed Frederick will be tickled to death, etc., and more tommy rot like that.”
“You don’t think Franz exactly the right person?”
“Phili,” cried the War Lord, “if you were not such an old sinner and bald-headed and married and the father of children of marriageable age, I would order you to marry her.”
“Another woman—are there none but women in the world?” groaned the ex-ambassador. “Besides, I have not the least talent for bigamy; try Kiderlen-Waechter.”
“Would be the right sort, but he is nearly as old as you.”
Once more Extase’s flank squeezed Phili. “I’ve got it,” Wilhelm exclaimed suddenly. “When you get back home, browse for an hour or two on your card index, picking out the most desirable and up-to-date Benedicts in the thirties or thereabout, preferably men in the diplomatic service. Got everybody’s photo up there, haven’t you?”
“At Your Majesty’s service, the whole gallery.”
“Pictures and personalia you’ll bring to the Neues Palais this afternoon, and maybe I will run over to Essen in the night to show the crème de votre crème to the Baroness. This folly about Franz must be nipped in the bud, and with a girl the better and handsomer man does the trick every time.”
The War Lord wheeled his horse around and trotted off in the direction of his residence. He never takes the trouble of telling his riding companions of his intentions. “Let them keep their eyes open and do as I do.” The Queen herself fares no better when out riding with him. If her harness gets out of order or something of that sort, and she has to dismount, Wilhelm presses on unconcernedly. “Let the Master of Horse look after her.”
Phili, arrived at his apartments, had no sooner got into his dressing-jacket of flowered silk, when the telephone rang furiously. “I command,” admonished a hard voice.
“Here, Phili, at Your Majesty’s service.”
“Are you at work on the cards?”
“Head over heels,” lied Phili.
“And in this connection—has nothing occurred to you?”
The obsequious courtier was in a quandary. Woe to him if he attempted to be wiser than his master!
“The old story; I have to think of everything,” the War Lord thundered. “Can’t you see you must take your selection of names to Bülow and pretend to get advice on the candidates from him? If you don’t, he will be offended.”
“Like the old woman he is,” ventured Eulenburg.
“Don’t you criticise my Chancellor.” There was a brutal emphasis on the “my,” and Phili stuttered a dozen excuses for his slip of the tongue.
“Never mind, to work, Prince! It was Louis XIV. who almost waited on one particular occasion. Remember, Phili, I don’t want to repeat his experience.”
Phili rang for Jaroljmek, his secretary.
“I do wish Majesty could get along without me for a day or two,” he said. “More pressing business. All the young men in the diplomatic service to be inquired into, liver and kidneys. At once, of course! Beastly bore unless I may count on your assistance.”
“Of course, Serene Highness.”
“Have the maids bring in the card index, then.”
“With Highness’s permission, I will ask the butler to help me. It’s too heavy for girls.”
“Not at all. Women were put into the world to wait on such as you and I. The woods are full of girls, while nice boys are few and far between. And you vulgarise a high-stepping horse by hard work.”
So two nine-stone girls were ordered to carry in from an upper storey the great wooden case weighing a hundredweight, while His Highness and secretary looked on and, moreover, increased their task by foolish directions.
“The smaller legations where I am sending the unlicked cubs—fellows without an inkling of Greek art and antique beauty—we’ll go through those first,” said the Prince.
“May I ask Highness the purpose of our research?”
“Majesty is trying to find a hubby for—Nomina sunt odiosa. However, you know the party.”
“Rich?”
“Wealthiest girl in the world.”
“Old Frederick’s daughter! I heard some queer stories about Papa.”
“Naughty boy!” with an indulgent smile from Phili. “Well, Majesty wants a Benedict for Bertha who will paddle the War Lord’s canoe even more enthusiastically than his wife’s baby-carriage.”
“Why doesn’t Majesty consult von Treskow and Kopp?” said the secretary.
“Don’t mention those rude plebeians.”
And so the pretty pair went on. They selected a round dozen should-be aspirants for Bertha’s hand.
These the Emperor examined later.
“Receding chin,” announced the War Lord disdainfully, reviewing the first few while the friends sipped their China tea.
“All the ear marks of the wife-beater,” he commented on an attaché accredited to the Court of St. James’s. “That fellow is sure to give trouble,” he commented on photo No. 4. No. 5 was dismissed with a contemptuous: “Meddlesome snout.” He continued to throw the photographs on the carpet, but suddenly sat up straight as a bolt.
“My man!” he cried. “Get Bülow on the ’phone. No; order Augustus to have an extra train ready for the Chancellor to leave Potsdamer Bahnhof in half an hour at the latest.”
The Court Marshal ‘phoned back that a regular train was leaving at the time prescribed, and that a saloon carriage might be attached for Count Bülow.
“Very well, but express—Neues Palais first stop. Now call up Bülow.” The War Lord was continually filling his teacup and absorbing large quantities of cucumber sandwiches. He had his mouth full when the red disc annunciator reported Bülow at the other end, and emptied it with a gulp.
Yes—immediately. Most important. Would not he bring the Princess? His wife would be delighted.
In an hour’s time a royal landau and four set Chancellor von Bülow and his Princess down in the Sandhof, the War Lord stepping from one of the tall door-windows of his study on to the terrace to welcome them, and Countess Brockdorff, Mistress of the Robes, receiving Her Serene Highness on Her Majesty’s behalf.
Do these august ladies love each other? Assuredly—after the fashion of Empress Eugenie and Princess Pauline Metternich. The Princess thought herself as good as the Empress any day, and never hesitated to say so, and when on one occasion Eugenie’s tantrums were excused on the plea that she had an uncle in the strait-jacket, Pauline quickly responded: “There are a few lunatics in my family too.”
So the Princess Camporeale, whose husband was to be “princed” a few weeks hence, regarded herself as good as the née Schleswig-Holstein, arguing that the Beccadello were more ancient than Her Majesty’s family. And her Margraviate of Altavilla was worth more in lires and centimes than Her Majesty’s title of Margravine of Brandenburg.
So the Princess Maria told Countess Brockdorff she could not move until the ladies of her Court arrived from the station, and the House Marshal was warned that Her Highness’s lackeys must not be allowed in the palace canteen. German beer and sausage always upset them.
Four exceedingly pretty Italian women came in the second carriage. “My governess, Marchesa ——.” “My reader, the Countess ——.” “My maids of honour, Contezzina —— and Baroness ——“—all members of former sovereign or semi-sovereign houses.
Bülow beamed in his animated fashion when he did not see Eulenburg, whom he rather expected to find, since he was always where least wanted.
“And what may be Your Majesty’s pleasure?” he asked in his courtly way, when they were alone in the study.
“I want your opinion on the husband I’ve selected for a certain young lady.” The War Lord had quite forgotten his own admonition to Phili. “Look!” He laid a hand partly over the photograph on the table, allowing only the forehead to be seen.
“Good, capable forehead,” observed Bülow; “something behind that.”
“No obstinacy, I hope,” said the War Lord. Next he let the photograph’s eyes be seen.
“Cold, steadfast, may be some disposition for cruelty,” was Bülow’s verdict.
“A good nose, mouth disdainful, somewhat high cheekbones—it’s von Bohlen und Halbach!” cried the Chancellor.
“You know him?”
“To some extent, both officially and unofficially. Never had any chance to distinguish himself, but decidedly adaptable, yet not lacking executive ability, I believe.”
The War Lord was delighted with the endorsement his own views received.
“Look at that chin,” he said; “firm isn’t the word for it—bulldog, regular bulldog. He will lead you the deuce of a dance, Bertha!”
At the mention of the name the Chancellor winced perceptibly. “I endorsed his capacity for business; I know nothing about his personal character,” he ventured, adding: “He must be at least fifteen years older than Bertha.”
The War Lord consulted Phili’s notes. “Old enough to vote, as they say in the States—to vote for me, nota bene, at directors’ meetings. Call up your office and find out what kind of subordinate he is.”
“I looked at his papers only the other day. He seems to give his chief no trouble, carrying out orders punctually and painstakingly; never harasses the minister with original suggestions, but is quite content to do his duty and say naught about it.”
“Is his family good enough?”
“Gentle born,” explained the Chancellor; “father was Baden Minister, mother not of noble birth—Sophie Bohlen—but she had money, I believe. The present Councillor of Legation is university bred, of course, and belongs to the Guard Hussars, Landwehr, Chef d’escadron, says the army ‘Who’s Who.’ Nevertheless,” concluded the Chancellor in his most persuasive style, “I don’t think him the right sort of husband for Bertha.”
“Right sort for me,” cried the War Lord.
Bülow, conscious that His Majesty at the time could not afford to quarrel with him, risked a none too gentle rebuke by disregarding the interruption.
“She is so young,” he went on, “and, as I pointed out before, there is the making of a cruel master in his face. Think of the wealthiest girl in the world tied to a man who will not let her have her own way—a sort of drill-sergeant husband. Your Majesty is too whole-hearted, too generous, too gallant,” he added with a smile, “to impose a husband of that kind upon your ward.”
In response the War Lord dropped the high falsetto of command which had marked his interruptions, and said in a more conciliatory tone: “There is not a man alive against whose choice as a husband objections may not be marshalled à la advocatus diaboli. Now, for a change, listen to the advocatus Dei, please: It goes without saying that I have my ward’s happiness very much at heart. Indeed, if she was of my own flesh and blood, I could not cherish more tender feelings for her. I love her like one of my own children, and haven’t I accepted Cecile much as I loathe her mother? But with Bertha it’s not a mere matter of getting married and preserving her unexampled wealth, if you will——” The War Lord stopped short, but after a moment’s thought continued: “It will be more public spirited for Bertha to marry the man of my selection than to imperil the Fatherland’s right arm. Where would we be if she chose for lord and master one of those fool-pacifists, some von Suttner milksop, seeing that without Krupp’s loyal co-operation our great war would go to pot—that even a mere defensive war would better be avoided.”
“If Fraulein Krupp or her husband went to extremes, the State could step in and take over the Krupp works,” objected the Chancellor.
“And do you suppose that our agents in Brussels, Lisbon, Rome, the South Americas and so forth would be allowed to buy guns from the King of Prussia?” The War Lord answered his own question with an emphatic “No!” then suggested slyly:
“To sell the enemy war materials is part of our ante-war programme, is it not?”
After walking the length and breadth of the room, he planted himself firmly before Bülow, whom, by the way, he had not asked to be seated.
“I command,” he said with an air of finality; “Bohlen is the man. Your own suggestion, you can’t escape from it,” he quickly added, when Bülow protested. “You said the fellow, though capable, is not self-opinionated—no swelled head—always obeys orders—in short: adaptable. That kind of man we need at the head of the Krupp establishment to do the Fatherland’s work according to my directions—hence Bertha will marry him and no one else.”
Then, to forestall further arguments: “Let’s join the ladies now.”
He rang for an orderly. “The Grand Master,” he commanded.
Count Augustus zu Eulenburg had evidently anticipated that he would be wanted, as he stood waiting in the Shell Grotto, facing the park. The walls and ceiling of this gorgeous entrance hall are clad with semi-precious stones in their natural growth: mountain-crystal and malachite, coral trees and amethyst rocks, agate and garnets, gold and silver ore; presents from royal friends for the most part.
“I’ll leave for Essen to-night. Wire Frau Krupp to expect me for breakfast. The small entourage, and warn messieurs my humble servants not to take too many lackeys. I am tired of carting their households around.”
“At Your Majesty’s orders.” The Marshal bowed low. Then in a whisper: “Is Phili to be of the party?”
“Certainly not,” replied the War Lord so Bülow might hear him. “Report to me later,” he added in an undertone.
“Later” the following tripotage was overheard:
War Lord: “Phili hasn’t left?”
“He is awaiting Your Majesty’s further commands.”
“Tell him to get ready for Essen.”
“He begs to remind Your Majesty that he is not in the Baroness’s good graces.”
“Am I not painfully aware of that? She would prefer the measles to a morning call from Phili.”
“Then he is to stay on the train while Your Majesty visits Villa Huegel?”
“Until I require him. He may be needed to quicken her ladyship’s decision about matters in hand, as under pressure of his presence she will consent more readily, just to get your precious cousin out of the house.”