CHAPTER XI

THE WINTER OF 1863-4

There is an old saying and a true one, that in Russia you see the winter and in Italy you feel it. In the one case the houses are so beautifully warmed and so many precautions are taken, that men can laugh at the climate; in Italy, on the other hand, the equipment is all for summer, and winter may torture as it pleases.

In St. Petersburg the year 1863 died a glorious death. The month of December was brilliant and we “saw the winter” in all its beauty. Two or three blizzards had brought the roads into ideal condition. Smoothly and noiselessly the sledges flew over the white velvet of the yet undefiled virgin snow; the crisp air was full of energy generously dispensed; the cheery cries of the fat coachmen, made still fatter by the padding under their heavy furs, their beards frozen stiff and stark; the tinkling bell-music of the Orloff trotters; the monotonous chants of the _mujiks_ sitting in their sleigh-carts; the sparkling city hung with festoons of ice-opals flashing back the glory of the short-lived winter sun; great ladies dashing past in their _troikas_, nothing to be seen of any one of them but just a little pink nose peeping out of the muffling sea-otter furs and sables; the glittering shops full of customers choosing _étrennes_—everybody busy and eager, making ready to speed the parting, welcome the coming year.

Far away in the ice-bound morasses of Lithuania, in the gloomy forests of Poland, there might still be here and there the crack of a rifle, some desultory fighting, some hunting of rebels and murderers instead of wolves and bears; but the capital of Peter the Great was deaf and blind to all tragedy. There could be no gayer city in the world; certainly none where the foreign diplomatists were so hospitably treated; our lives were a round of festivities in the very home of joyous revelry.

In the daytime, on those rare occasions when we were not busy at the Embassy, there were skating parties, picnics to the Islands, and the chance of breaking our necks on the Montagnes Russes. The gardens of the Tauride, which were reserved for the Imperial Family and a few—very few—grandees, were open to us. In the evening we dined and danced and supped and danced again. The opera and the French Théâtre Michel were a perfect blaze of jewels, smart dresses, the masterpieces of Paris, brilliant uniforms and decorations; the black coats of Ambassadors and civilian Ministers sprinkled here and there the only sad notes.

On the 12th of January I was invited by Princess Kotchoubey to “await the new year,” which, of course, is, according to the old style, our 13th. Curiously enough, the old style was observed even in the English Church, so that the Christmas Day services were held on the 7th of January, according to our reckoning. I have told elsewhere of the magnificence of the Princess’ palace, but this entertainment quite exceeded anything that I had ever seen or heard of. There were only about fifty guests, but these were all the chief personages of St. Petersburg, including Prince Gortchakoff, who, as was his wont, appropriated to himself the youngest and prettiest lady present, for the old Vice-Chancellor was a great flirt. He was not yet Chancellor, for at the death of Count Nesselrode in March, 1862, the Tsar would not fill the office. His Majesty was reported to have said that “Nesselrode was one thing, Gortchakoff another.” This was a great mortification to the Prince, and gave occasion to some wit for the saying, that Prince Gortchakoff was the man of the most virtuous inclinations in the whole Empire, “parcequ’il cherche toujours à se débarrasser de son Vice.” Another great celebrity who was present was Count Schuvaloff, the grand marshal of the Court, a noble old man, the father of Count Peter Schuvaloff who was afterwards Ambassador in London and with Prince Gortchakoff represented Russia at the Congress of Berlin.

On the stroke of midnight came a procession of gorgeous footmen, bearing trays with glasses filled with champagne, and we all clinked our goblets together, drinking prosperity to the New Year. Then followed a pretty old Russian custom. Every guest went up to the hostess and kissed her hand, and she went through the form of pretending to kiss each of her friends on the forehead in return. It seemed a pity not to carry out so graceful and picturesque a tradition in its entirety. But though Princess Kotchoubey did no more than bow over her guests’ foreheads as they stooped to kiss her hand, her reception of them was grace itself. She was a Queen in her palace, and we, her subjects for the nonce, did willing homage to her.

It seemed little short of a miracle to step out of the iron grip of a Russian New Year’s Eve into a fairyland in which all the treasures of the world were sampled—the diamonds of Golconda, the rubies of Burmah, the turquoises of Persia, pearls from the Eastern Seas, tapestries of the Gobelins, gold and silver masterpieces of famous Florentine and French artists, flowers and fruit of June and July, the warmth of summer with not a fire to be seen, lighted up by myriads of candles disposed in a way of which Russia alone seemed to have the secret. And in all this magnificence there was only one tiny omission, one little blot to remind us that we were human, and that humanity is imperfect: there were no salt-spoons!

After supper I had some talk with Prince Gortchakoff, who was always very kind to me, and often used to come up and have a little chat when we met in society. We naturally talked about the New Year’s Day festivities, and he went on to expatiate on the religiosity of the Russian mind, and how to every man in the country Russia was _Holy_ Russia.

He said that few people knew how deeply this feeling was ingrained in the minds of the _mujiks_, to whom it was a horror to think that they might be buried anywhere but in their own country. He gave as an instance of this the case of a Russian who, when the Prince was Secretary of Legation in London, was coachman in the service of the Duke of Devonshire. The man asked for him one day at the Legation. On the Prince inquiring what he wanted, he said that he wanted to go back home. “What!” said the Prince, “leave so good a place and so good a master. Of what have you to complain?” The man said, “Of nothing—but I am afraid lest I should die here and be buried out of Holy Russia.” So close was his attachment to the sacred soil that though there was no other cause for nostalgia, and he was perfectly happy where he was, he must go home for fear of this terrible thing happening. It reminded one of the Chinese travelling to California with their coffins for the return journey to the Middle Kingdom. These things make a man think.

Three days afterwards, to my great surprise, I was invited by the Prince to a great diplomatic dinner at which all the Ambassadors and Ministers were present, with certain members of the Government. There were no ladies invited.

Of course the conversation turned chiefly upon the Danish question, which was reaching a very acute stage. When the time to leave arrived, Prince Gortchakoff detained Lord Napier with the Prussian, Austrian, Swedish and French representatives for a private conference.

I am not a resurrectionist and find little relish in digging among the graves of dead questions. The disputes over the Danish duchies are long since dead and buried, though the ambitions of the men who lit the torch of war still live, and the torch is still blazing. Those disputes were the opportunity of one master mind, the puzzle of others, and the joy of many dullard diplomatists who loved to flounder choking among the shoals and whirlpools of a sea of troubles; at that time, they were the despair of those slaves of the pen, of whom I, so long as I was at the Foreign Office, was one, whose task it was to cover reams upon reams of foolscap with reports of endless conversations with Princekins and Ministers at small German courts, retailed by minor diplomatic lights with all the ineptitude of pompous verbosity.

The Governments which really played a part in the wrangles were those of France, Russia, Prussia and in a lesser degree Austria, which, though very half-hearted, was not for the last time being towed by Prussia _im schlepptau_, as a German publicist put it. She was dragged in by the fear of losing in the Diet an influence which had already been seriously undermined, if not exploded, by Bismarck.

The real arbiter in the case was England. Upon the conduct of England depended the issues of peace or war. Unfortunately her course was being steered by a pilot unskilled, fickle, timid and obstinately vain; a man who, as the conduct of the Polish question had shown, undeterred by more than one sordid repulse, was full of brag and bluster, till the critical moment should come—then collapsing like a soap-bubble. It was their appreciation of Lord Russell that made foreign statesmen tremble for the fate of Denmark, nor was it long before this want of faith in him was fully justified.

In the case of the Danish duchies question, as in the case of the Polish insurrection, in order rightly to understand what was taking place at St. Petersburg, it is well to consider for a moment what was the condition of international affairs. We may leave to those who are curious in such political puzzles the complicated intrigues which now have only an academic or historic interest.

The question of the incorporation of Schleswig, its unity with Holstein, the position of the infinitesimally small Duchy of Lauenburg, the great language dispute and the so-called “wrongs” of the Schleswigers and the Holsteiners, together with the claims of the Duke of Augustenburg—all these are ghosts long since laid; they were never anything more than pretexts, nor can anything else be said of Prussia’s plea that her hand was being forced by the small German States; it is enough for the politician of to-day to know what was the true objective of the war; that question still lives with us, growing in importance every day. Had the duchies lain inland, far away from the coast, the right to their possession would never have disturbed Europe. Kiel was the Naboth’s vineyard—Kiel with the seaboard of the Baltic, and the North Sea—Kiel with the possibility of a German military and commercial Navy. That, as we shall see presently, is an incontrovertible fact; we have it out of the mouths of German statesmen themselves—out of the mouth of Lord Palmerston.

The glorious dream of the nationalist party in Prussia was a United Fatherland, strong by sea as by land, taking its place at the council board of Europe as a Power of the first magnitude. Until she should have a navy fitted to cope with that of any other nation, this was a position which Germany could not hope to hold. This planet of ours is so built that in many cases the sea determines the possession of the land and the power of states. By land Prussia was already strong indeed, as she was soon to prove in 1866 and 1870. At sea she did not exist. She had practically no seaboard, for what is a seaboard lacking harbours? So long as this want remained there must be many international questions in which the voice of Germany would be of no account. Kiel would solve the difficulty—it was foredoomed, and indeed the project of a new Suez Canal, since realized, was already in the air.

There is a curious letter of the old Kaiser William when he was Prince of Prussia, written to his cousin, Prince Adalbert of Prussia, on the 16th of August, 1853—curious when we compare what was with what is:

“How sorry I was to miss you yesterday in order to give you a few pieces of information which Steinäcker (his aide-de-camp) told me you wished for, and to tell you something of the grand naval review. You will have heard all details by now. What a pity that you could not hit it off! _I cannot tell you how great was my emotion, especially when for the first time I passed by our ship, saw our battle-flag, our uniform and Pickelhaube (helmet) and heard our drums on board a man of war_” (the italics are mine), “and that too in the middle of an English Fleet! The visit of the Queen on board the _Gefion_ was too friendly and gracious. I was delighted with the ships, and found our soldiers making a goodly show.”[40]

The occasion was the great naval review held by Queen Victoria on the 11th of August, 1853, off Spithead, at which the Prince of Prussia was present. The words which I have underlined are significant. The sight of _a_ German man-of-war would now hardly be a novelty creating so great emotion!

The position of the three Powers, England, France and Russia, which might have combined to save Denmark and defeat the ambitious efforts of Germany, was peculiar. Louis Napoléon had proposed a congress to consider the affairs of Europe, and having been snubbed by Lord Russell, was sulking in his tent. In Russia there was certainly no desire for war; the memory of the Crimea was still fresh in men’s minds, the Polish business was not yet settled, and the country was longing for quiet—according to Prince Gortchakoff’s famous _mot_, “La Russie ne boude pas, elle se recueille,” but a marriage had recently been arranged between the Tsarevitch[41] and the Princess Dagmar, the second daughter of the King of Denmark, so the Court (which at that time was still Russia), with Prince Gortchakoff, eager for an English alliance, and a great number of ministers and nobles, were strong partisans of the Danes; and the whole chivalry of the country would have donned its armour to do battle for the father of their future Empress.

They only waited for England. As to the attitude of England there should have been no doubt. The declaration of her statesmen had been explicit, showing not only their sense of an injustice which was to be perpetrated, but beyond that a right knowledge of the real objects which Bismarck had at heart. The national party in Germany made no secret of them. Two quotations taken from Lord Salisbury’s article in the _Quarterly Review_ of January, 1864, are clear in their testimony. There was a debate on the Danish Question in the Prussian Chamber on the 1st of December, 1864. Herr von Twesten, Chairman of the Committee appointed to consider the Augustenburg claims, made the following candid remark:

“The Duchies are for Germany and Prussia a strong bulwark under all circumstances against any attack coming from the North. This, as well as their maritime position, are advantages which Prussia can never relinquish.”

Dr. Loewe, a conspicuous man in the National Verein, speaks with even less affectation of concealment:

“What interest has Prussia in the maintenance of the London Protocol? (The Treaty of 1852 by which the Powers, including Prussia, settled the succession to the Danish throne.) Since the time of the Great Elector, Prussian policy has always been rightly directed towards gaining the North German Peninsula for Germany.”

The North German Peninsula! Look at the map and then say whether any more arrogant pretension was ever brought forward in a national Parliament. Lord Salisbury was not the only Englishman who knew what were the motives urging on Germany. Lord Palmerston, at the end of the session of 1863, spoke plainly on the subject. Mr. Seymour Fitzgerald, who had been Conservative Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, had asked a question in the House of Commons as to what was the policy of Her Majesty’s Government in regard to the Danish Question—Lord Palmerston’s answer was as follows:

“There is no use in disguising the fact that what is at the bottom of the German design, and the desire of connecting Schleswig with Holstein, is the dream of a German fleet and the wish to get Kiel as a German seaport. That may be a good reason why they should wish it; but it is no reason why they should violate the rights and independence of Denmark for an object which, even if it were accomplished, would not realize the expectation of those who aim at it. The hon. gentleman asks what is the policy and course of Her Majesty’s Government with regard to that dispute.

“As I have already said, we concur entirely with him, and I am satisfied, with all reasonable men in Europe, including those in France and Russia, in desiring that the independence and integrity and the rights of Denmark may be maintained. We are convinced, I am convinced at least, that if any violent attempt were made to overthrow those rights and interfere with that independence, those who made the attempt would find in the result that it would not be Denmark alone with which they would have to contend.”

Could language be clearer than this pronouncement _urbi et orbi_ of the Prime Minister of England? But that was not all. Lord Russell in despatch after despatch, many of which are quoted by Lord Salisbury in his famous article, gave it to be understood at Paris, Berlin, Vienna and St. Petersburg that an attack on Denmark would lead to a rupture of relations between England and Germany. “Her Majesty could not see with indifference a military occupation of Holstein,” etc. “Should it appear that Federal troops had entered the Duchy on international grounds, Her Majesty’s Government may be obliged to interfere.”

To Count Bernstorff, the Prussian Ambassador in London, Lord Russell said, “that Her Majesty’s Government could not wonder that the King of Denmark was ready to defend Schleswig and to consider its hostile occupation as a fatal blow to the integrity of his dominions. But I could not doubt that he would be assisted by Powers friendly to Denmark in that defence ... I said that since the month of May, Great Britain had warned Austria of these dangers, that Russia and Germany had likewise been warned, but that the voice of England was unheeded,” etc., etc. Acting on instructions from the Foreign Secretary, Lord Napier told Prince Gortchakoff that “the pressing necessity for arresting warlike preparations, and combining the Powers less directly interested in the controversy for a mediation, was proved by the fact that an attack upon Schleswig seemed imminent, and that if that attempt was made it seemed not improbable that the Germans might find themselves confronted by the armed intervention of Great Britain.”

It was not “the voice of England” that was unheeded, as Lord Russell put it, but his own. He was like Bottom the weaver, “Let me play the lion too; I will roar that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me; I will roar that I will make the Duke say, ‘Let him roar again, let him roar again.’” Then lest he should frighten the Duchess and the ladies—“I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an ’twere any nightingale.”

The publication by the French Foreign Office of the report by M. Reinack of the Commission charged to inquire into “Les Origines Diplomatiques de la Guerre de 1870” has thrown a flood of light upon the negotiations which took place in regard to the Danish Question of 1863-4; it is not pleasant reading for Englishmen; a review of the first two volumes of these revelations in the _Figaro_ of the 6th of September, 1910, by the Comte d’Haussonville shows the position to which England had fallen in the Councils of Europe. “L’Angleterre s’agite” (this is, of course, the historic present), “mais ce n’est pas un Dieu qui la mène. Ce n’est personne. On ne sent point, comme à certains moments de son histoire, la main ferme d’un véritable homme d’état: au début du dix-neuvième siècle un Pitt; à la fin un Disraeli qui sait ce qu’il se propose et où il veut conduire son pays.”

Nobody was frightened by Lord Russell’s roaring, least of all Bismarck—he knew how soon the voice would be “aggravated.” “L’Angleterre ne fera pas la guerre,” he said to M. de Talleyrand, the French Ambassador at Berlin. Foreign statesmen knew that Lord Palmerston was now grown old. He was no longer the doughty champion of the Don Pacifico days, when he electrified the House of Commons and the world with the famous _Civis Romanus sum_ speech; moreover, he was hampered by the shufflings of his Foreign Secretary, and in the background was the Queen, never a negligible quantity in foreign affairs, whom all men knew to be a strong ally of Germany, and who, still animated by the spirit of the dead Prince Consort, naturally felt with Germany. Read what the Prince Consort wrote to the King of Prussia on the 12th March, 1861: “My hope, like that of most German patriots, rests upon Prussia, rests upon you” (“Life of the Prince Consort,” Vol. V., p. 314). Those words in the mouth of the Prince were intelligible enough, but why should Lord Russell be a German patriot?

And so we drifted, whither we knew not, though others did. M. de Massignac, a clever diplomatist, a man whom I knew well, who was French Chargé d’Affaires at St. Petersburg, on the 9th of February, 1864, sent a despatch to M. Drouyn de Lhuys in which he recorded certain confidential talks which he had had with some of his German colleagues upon the situation. He urged that if the Duchies were to unite themselves with Prussia, it would be unwise for France to interfere, because such a territorial extension would enable Germany to create a navy, which in given circumstances might unite with the fleets of the other Continental Powers to destroy England’s preponderant power at sea! (“Origines Diplomatiques,” etc.).

Meanwhile, England and Prussia were both courting Louis Napoléon. Palmerston expressed to the Prince de la Tour d’Auvergne, the French Ambassador in London, his regret that Great Britain and France could not come to a complete understanding, but Lord Russell kept the same Ambassador in a state of mystification. Bismarck, on the other hand, was maintaining such intimate relations with M. de Talleyrand as to draw from Drouyn de Lhuys the warmest congratulations. The Emperor stroked his _barbiche_ and held the balance. Poor Emperor! It was for him that the witches’ cauldron was bubbling.

And Denmark? In the Spring of 1863, King Frederic the Seventh had died, and King Christian, the father of our Queen Alexandra, ruled in his stead. Seldom has a monarch been called to the throne in more untoward circumstances. Only eleven years had passed since all the great Powers—Prussia and Austria, of course, included—gathered together in conclave in London, had solemnly bound themselves to guarantee the integrity of his dominions.

Such engagements we are now told by the German Chancellor are “scraps of paper!” Only eleven years! It was no archaic instrument which the decay of many decades had rendered obsolete. What had occurred in the meantime to make it invalid? Nothing, absolutely nothing! Yet in spite of the most sacred obligations of the Powers which had pledged themselves to maintain his succession and the rights of his kingdom, two of those very Powers were invading his country to despoil him of his territory, and the rest treacherously and cowardly deserted him. It was a cruel betrayal, and as if to accentuate it by a stroke of bitter irony, France sent General Fleury, the Emperor’s confidential friend, England Lord Wodehouse, on special missions to congratulate the new King on his accession. Fleury, the dandy courtier, passing through Berlin, was handsomely flattered and fooled by Bismarck; Lord Wodehouse carried pouches full of excellent advice from Lord Russell—advice the neglect of which King Christian was assured might lead to dire consequences. The King acted according to Lord Russell’s advice, but none the less, when the great catastrophe came, he was left to his fate.

Such, briefly sketched, was the position of the Danish negotiations at the end of 1863 and the beginning of 1864. The details can easily be filled in from our own Blue Books, from Lord Salisbury’s masterly essays, and from the “Origines Diplomatiques de la Guerre de 1870.” I have only tried to say so much as should serve to make intelligible what follows.

It must have been about the 9th or 10th of February: I did not note the exact date in my papers: a cruel blizzard, cruel even for St. Petersburg, lasting many hours, had swept the streets clear of all passenger traffic. Only the direst necessity would goad men to face it. As good luck would have it, there was for a wonder no function or entertainment that night, so I hugged my comfort in my rooms and went to bed early, thinking with a sense of superiority tempered by pity of the poor wretches who must be outside wrestling with the bitterness of the weather. Hardly had I laid myself down when there came a violent knocking at my outer door. My servant had long since gone home, so there was nothing for it but to get up and see what was the matter. It was the Chancery messenger, shivering and smothered from head to foot with snow, bringing me a note from my chief, Lord Napier: “Please come at once.”

I went back into my bedroom and dressed again, looking regretfully at my warm bed, in which only a few minutes earlier I had been pitying the victims of whom now I was to be one. When I got outside I was almost blinded by the snow, driven by a wind which it was hard to stand against. It seemed more than doubtful whether I should be able to reach the Embassy, which was about half a mile off. All at once, out of the unwholesome, yellow, almost lurid darkness my good angel sent a belated Isvoshtchik crawling along, visible only a few yards off. I hailed him, hardly hoping that he would come to my call; however, the promise of a good _pourboire_ tempted him, and we crept miserably through the storm to the Embassy. I never was out in so weird a night. As I left the little sleigh I shook off many pounds’ weight of snow from fur cap and coat.

I found Lord Napier walking about his room in his dressing-gown, evidently rather uneasy; he seemed to have a sort of forewarning of something out of the common and disagreeable. A telegraphic despatch in cypher had come in, and he wished to have it deciphered immediately. It was truly a momentous document—nothing less than an instruction to call upon Prince Gortchakoff at once and to let him know that England would not interfere on behalf of Denmark. Lord Napier was eagerly watching over my shoulder as one by one the fateful words revealed themselves, and when the telegram was fully before us we looked at one another in dismay.

“But,” said my chief, “only yesterday when I saw the Prince I told him that I believed that there was no change in the policy of Her Majesty’s Government, and now I have to give him this message. It is very embarrassing! Where is the Prince? Do you know?”

“He is at Tsarskoe Selo,” I answered.

“Well, I shall have to go out by the first train to-morrow morning.”

It was a very awkward moment for Lord Napier and he felt the falseness of the position acutely, but he was so truly attached to Lord Russell personally that he never would say a word against him.

The next day I was in the Chancery when Lord Napier came back from Tsarskoe Selo. He beckoned me into his private room.

“Well,” I asked, “what did the Prince say?”

“It was not a pleasant interview,” answered my chief. “When the Prince had read the telegram he folded it up and handed it back to me, saying, ‘Alors, milord, je mets de côté la supposition que l’Angleterre fasse jamais la guerre pour une question d’honneur.’ Pretty words for an English Ambassador to listen to!”

Lord Napier was deeply moved, as well he might be. They were indeed “pretty words,” and in them, I think, we may see what lay at the bottom of Prince Gortchakoff’s subsequent foreign policy—especially in Central Asia—until he was finally checkmated by Lord Beaconsfield, at the Berlin Congress in 1878. On that morning of February, 1864, the Prince’s well-known keenness for an alliance with England died the death; in his estimation England need no longer be taken into account.

Bismarck had now a free hand. His carefully laid schemes, of which the war in the Duchies was only an instalment, were all to bear their fruit. Austria was to be crippled, France to be humbled and dismembered, Germany to be a naval Power of the first magnitude. And England?

That is how the keel of the first Dreadnought was laid at St. Petersburg in the month of February, 1864. The Baltic and the North Sea are united as Siamese twins. Germany, possessed of ports and a huge navy, is straining every nerve to wrest the trident from the hands of Great Britain, and the tragedy of 1914, which sooner or later was bound to come, is even now upon us. Black is the ingratitude of mankind! There is no statue of Lord Russell, the great benefactor, the true founder of the German navy, standing unter den Linden in Berlin.