The Secret Memoirs of Bertha Krupp

Majesty, it seems, was deeply concerned about a certain titled member of the German Embassy in London who had befouled his record by spying. This pretty gentleman attended the Essex manoeuvres in the fall of 1904, notebook in hand, and sent elaborate reports, accompanied by sketches and diagrams, to the Berlin General Staff, acting the part of Secret Service agent no less treacherously, but rather more clumsily, than the German aristocrat who was convicted at Edinburgh in 1911.

Subsequently, of course, no British Army officer could afford to know this individual, and Mayfair, too, showed a decided inclination to cut dead the chevalier d'espionnage.

"Quite naturally!" Prince Bülow saved himself by adding: "From the English standpoint."

The telephone fairly "zizzled" as the War Lord shouted back:

"What? Ostracise a man who has done nothing but his – duty toward me and the Fatherland. Intolerable! – !! He must be reinstated in clubs and Society. He must be able to hold up his head in Piccadilly as proudly as in Unter den Linden. I command it. Speak to Lascelles about it, and have this boycott ended at once.

Of course Bülow promised – with his left hand on his back, which, as explained, allows a good German to vow one thing and mean another.

CHAPTER XXVI

EXPLAINING "THE DAY"

The True Wilhelm – The War Lord is Angry – More Disclosures – Bülow Sums Up – Dreams of Conquest – The Subjugation of England – Peace Must Wait on War – The New Big Gun – von Bohlen is Dense

Prince Bülow emptied a small phial of double-distilled extract of eau de Cologne on his handkerchief, for a message from the palace said that the War Lord's ear trouble had again become acute, and that, consequently, all windows and doors must be hermetically shut during his visit at the Chancellery. Again he was called up. Wilhelm had dismissed his Chasseur, with a record of twenty years' faithful service, because the man kept the carriage door open while he asked whether a hot-water bag was wanted. "Instanter!" Wouldn't suffer him to take his place on the box again.

"Pleasant evening in store for us, Herr von Bohlen," said the Prince to Bertha's fiancé.

He rang for his adjutant. "You would not like to go back to Brandenburg?" he began pleasantly.

"Nor to any other provincial hole, Your Highness," answered the Baron Reiff, clicking his heels together.

"In that case see that His Majesty does not complain of draughts while here."

The adjutant raised a hand to his left ear. Bülow nodded. "I will have to hold you responsible, Reiff," he said in tones of unwonted severity.

The Chancellor's palace was en fête. The brilliantly lit corridors and stairs were alive with guests, eager to pay homage to Princess Maria: Scions of Royalty and mere beggar counts, as the great Frederick used to style poor nobles; masters of statecraft and prima donnas; generals and blue-blooded cornets, courtiers and members of the hierarchy. And as many lackeys in blue and silver as visitors.

Most of the guests longed for sight of the Chancellor, and would have given much to have a peep at the room where Bismarck bullied and ruled Europe, but the glass doors leading to the grand garden salon were guarded inside and out by Secret Service men, while Baron Reiff flitted to and fro, scrutinising faces and keeping an eye on everybody.

In the grand salon of the Bel Etage, Enrico Caruso was exchanging notes of purity for the immaculate ones of the Bank of England, when the siren of the royal automobile cried shame on Verdi. Three blasts and a half. Her Highness's master of ceremony, at the foot of the staircase, rapped frantically; the doorkeeper rushed forward with an enormous umbrella, though the sky was clear; Baron Reiff looked daggers, and conversation was cut as by the executioner's axe.

Narrow lips frozen together under a carroty-greyish moustache with points threatening the white of his eyes; face a dead yellow; a masterful, defiant chin thrust forward; eyes flashing, but dark of aspect in general appearance despite his white, red and silver accoutrements, the War Lord strode into the Chancellor's room.

He looked so stony, a stranger both to joy and pity, that Herr von Bohlen told Bertha afterwards that the War Lord seemed, to him, like a man whose veins were clogged with salt and clay instead of running warm blood.

A stiff, mechanical salute, squaring of shoulders, inflating of chest, pecking at the two men, who nearly bent double. Wilhelm acted as if his spine were paralysed. No graven image of his own design appears stiffer, more jointless. Somebody has likened him to a coloured plate out of a book of etiquette. He certainly looked it, for etiquette taboos smiles, real courtesy, humanity itself.

While his eyes swept the room, the silver helmet came crashing down on a table. He would have given much to discover reasons for complaint, and Prince Bülow's precautions against draughts discomforted him more than his negligence would have done; it robbed him of the chance for flying into a passion.

"Pretty goings on at Downing Street and Quai d'Orsay," he snarled. "Yesterday it was Kiau-chau. To-day it's German Belgium and Northern France they ask. Any additional insults since then?"

"All the dispatches are in Your Majesty's hands," replied the Chancellor, looking significantly at Herr von Bohlen.

"Report." If the Lord of Statecraft and gentleman born and bred, Chancellor and Prince, had been a thieving valet, Wilhelm could not have spoken with more contemptuous severity.

"Will Your Majesty be pleased to be seated?" This with another questioning look at Bertha's fiancé. Prince von Bülow had more than a little respect for the dignity of his office.

"Without reserve," muttered the War Lord, dropping into an arm-chair. "I want him to know, and knowing, to understand the imperativeness of his duties as head of the Krupp works. Report, sir."

The Chancellor, who wore Hussar uniform with the insignia of Major-General and more decorations than the most beloved of cotillon favourites at 2 A.M., bowed ceremoniously, then stood bolt upright and somewhat constrainedly.

"May it please Your Majesty," he began, weighing a parcel of dispatches in his hand, but not looking at them. "The Paris disclosures just made seem to be the direct outcome of the friendly understanding between Great Britain and France – "

"The abortion called Entente Cordiale," interrupted the War Lord – a red rag to a bull already wounded.

The Chancellor continued: "The British assume that we are planning the destruction of France, and, that accomplished, the invasion of England. British statesmen recognise that the French army is no match for ours, that even with the assistance of the English Yeomanry – "

"Miserable hirelings, whom the German Boers thrashed four years in succession," cried Wilhelm, rising and stamping his foot.

"Even with their assistance Germany would remain supreme on land," resumed Prince Bülow. "Hence Quai d'Orsay's overtures to Downing Street: Paralyse German land supremacy by supremacy on sea, and – "

"Steal my colonies, that's their game," thundered the War Lord, addressing Bohlen. "Do you know what that means, sir? That the Hohenzollern wouldn't have a stone to lay his head on when the Reds have their way. To me colonies are entailed estates, on which to fall back when the civil list at home fails us. Suppose Germany – which God forbid – turned republic. Off we are to Africa like a shot, there to await our chance to return at the proper time. And there won't be any doffing the chapeau to the mob if we do come back, I warrant you."2

"It must be conceded, though," said the Chancellor, with a conciliatory smile, "that the British are profoundly pacific and that there is no itch for war in the Island Kingdoms. If ever there was, it lies buried somewhere on the African veld. Neither is France likely to provoke war."

"She knows better," cried Wilhelm. "French women don't want children."

"So much for the Entente Cordiale," continued Prince Bülow – the War Lord had sat down on the edge of a table, swinging his right leg to and fro – "British statesmanship contending that Europe needs a strong France, and that a blow struck at France is a blow aimed at England."

"Donnersmarck's talk. If it was not for his money and his age, I would muzzle the old fool. But as I told him only the other day, he will be punished sure enough."

Donnersmarck is a Prince of the War Lord's creation, better known by his hereditary title of Count Henckel. The family achieved the lower grades of nobility at the beginning of the seventeenth century, and has always been noted for considerable landed possessions. Prince Guido is one of the richest men on the Continent, and the King of Prussia sometimes uses him as a speaking tube, never scrupling of course to disavow his utterances when it suits the Majesty-souffleur. In the disclosures referred to, Donnersmarck and Professor Schiemann had boldly announced in Paris that, if France contracted an alliance with England, Germany would fall upon her, crush her and exact a staggering indemnity, enough to pay for all damage the British fleet could possibly do to the German merchant marine and trade.

These threats were not repudiated at the time (the latter half of June) and the War Lord had considered them quite legitimate clubs for pounding French opinion while the Entente Cordiale pourparlers were on.

Professor Schiemann is a publicist, a historian and a lecturer on military academics. He is held responsible for some of the misinformation on historic topics the War Lord frequently betrays in his public utterances.

"We now come to the Anglo-Japanese Alliance," said Prince Bülow.

"Aiming at Kiau-chau," finished the War Lord grimly.

"Which Your Majesty's foresight will preserve for the Fatherland," declaimed Bülow, who ought to have been a great courtier instead of an indifferent chancellor. But the War Lord was not in the mood for compliments. He was out to smash things.

"By Heaven!" he vowed, "I would rather turn the Pacific and the Yellow Seas into Red Seas and exterminate those brown devils to the last than allow a stone to be touched in my glorious colony of Kiau-chau."

"Spoken like an emperor," seconded Bülow. Then, with a look at the clock: "May it please Your Majesty, I would submit that our young friend here must not be misled by the statements in the Press. I have here a copy of the agreement, stating clearly that the Alliance becomes operative only by reason of attack or aggressive action resulting in war against either England or Japan."

"Words, words!" cried the War Lord contemptuously. "I suppose Herr von Bohlen's heard of Bismarck's editing of the Ems dispatch! But proceed."

Bülow cleared his throat before he approached the momentary cause célèbre.

"To-day it is reported from Paris, Tokyo, London and Petersburg – in the leading journals, though not officially – that a quadruple alliance is about to be ratified, terminating once and for all the seemingly interminable quarrels between Great Britain and Russia, and drawing each empire's own ally into close relations with the other: Britain's ally, Japan, automatically becomes Russia's ally, while Russia's brother-in-arms, France, becomes England's, and all four have agreed to defend either when driven to war by unprovoked attack."

"Four to three," mused the War Lord gloomily, "and number three as unreliable as a girl with nerves."

"Majesty is pleased to forget Turkey."

"What's an ally without a navy in a conflict with Great Britain?" demanded Wilhelm. "That old thief, Abdul, rather invests in Circassian beauties than cruisers. But" (impatiently) "sum up, Bülow, sum up!"

The Prince resumed his lecture: "It is argued that Japan, being bound to give military support to Great Britain under certain eventualities, is of course interested in maintaining amicable relations between the other three empires and joined as a logical consequence of her alliance with England."

"England, always England," cried the War Lord. "Ostertag writes that it was on the advice of England that the fortifications of Antwerp and the Meuse were strengthened before and after the Morocco trouble." (Ostertag, German military attaché at the Court of St. James's.) "Bohlen," he continued abruptly, "is there anything in the situation that is not quite clear to you?"

The Councillor of Legation with the bulldog jaw and the cruel eyes answered modestly, but firmly: "May it please Your Majesty, I think I understand fully."

"Then you also understand what is expected of you as future head of the Krupp works," quoth the War Lord, laying his heavy right hand on Bohlen's shoulder.

"To obey Your Majesty's instructions and carry them out as a Prussian officer should."

The only great king Prussia boasts, Frederick, said on his death-bed: "I am tired of ruling slaves." His successor would have his Prime Minister une âme damnée, and never tires of telling about his "great, his inestimable reward" to a sentinel who murdered a man. The latter was drunk, German fashion, and did not at once respond to the sentinel's "Who goes there?" Bang, bang popped the sentinel's gun, and the man in mufti was ready for the undertaker.

"Next day, while a vile Press was assailing the soldier," said the War Lord, "I had him called before the ranks, promoted him, decorated him and, as a supreme honour, shook him by the hand."

"Obey Your Majesty's instructions." The War Lord, who would tell the Deity what to do, had expected as much of course, but Bohlen's evident sincerity, nay, enthusiasm, was not to be despised, particularly since it outweighed the latent fear that, after all, Bertha, when of age, might elect to take the bit between her teeth and make trouble.

"My advice and commands shall never fail you," said Wilhelm, with the air of a great Lord conferring £500 for life upon a dustman. "Now to Germany's aims – the grand future in store for her under my guidance. When you know my plans, you will begin to realise the magnitude of the work expected of Essen – of you."

"At Your Majesty's orders," saluted von Bohlen.

The War Lord was too excited to accept the gilded and crowned arm-chair Bülow offered, thereby obliging the older man in tight-fitting accoutrements and high boots to remain standing. "We must have an adequate seaboard," he poured forth; "the waters between the English, French and Belgian coasts and the harbours, fortresses and towns commanding that area will do for a start. That means Calais and Dover, Portsmouth and Boulogne, Antwerp and perhaps Havre, for Germany's future lies on the water, as I have said time and again, and those few miles of wet element circumscribe the focus of the world's trade, which must be ours by reason of superior military, scientific and commercial achievements – by our Kultur."

"Your Majesty orders a further extension of the Germania shipyards," submitted Bohlen.

"Everything in time," corrected the War Lord. "We may lay down ships as fast as our utmost resources permit, or faster. Still those confounded English can beat us. A great navy we will have, of course a greater and a better one even than the skunks of the London gutter Press credit my imagination with, but not to be knocked to bits. We will keep it safe, and at the end of the war will augment it by the French fleet and the fleets of the minor countries. Then good-bye for ever, British Sea Power!

"Of course," continued Wilhelm, "the French and Belgians will have to be forced before they recognise my claims to those parts of their territory that formerly belonged to Germany. Flanders is German to the core, Liége and Limburg provinces were never anything but German, while the southern half of the Netherlands belonged to Germany since Charles the Fat, even as Alsace and Lorraine. Franche Comté is German of course, and Toul and Verdun were once German Free Cities like Metz."

As he dilated on his claims the War Lord grabbed a walking-stick leaning against von Bülow's desk, and tapped and stabbed at the map of Europe on the wall, puncturing and piercing it in places he particularly coveted.

"Montbeliard," he continued, "is Moempelgard, an old-time apanage of Würtemberg. My title to the principality of Orange is more legitimate than King Edward's as Emperor of India, and who will deny that Bourgogne is German Burgund, and that the original Burgunders came from the Mark and West Prussia? Not to have inserted Duc de Bourgogne in the grand title of the roi de Prusse is a mistake, for which its maker ought to be kicked."

He had nearly ruined the map, when his fury changed to an attitude of calm deliberation. With an air of magnanimity, he said: "However, as to France, I am willing to exchange these inland territories for the coast departments, from Dieppe to Dunkirk, provided we do not find it necessary, from a strategic standpoint, to annex Havre too."

He paused, and von Bülow tried to curry favour by suggesting: "Your Majesty intends the absolute conquest of France?"

"As a preliminary to the subjugation of England," said the War Lord solemnly.

"I am half-English myself," he continued, "and have no illusions whatever as to Great Britain's submission. After our victory the Wilhelmstrasse and Downing Street will have to enter into a gentleman's agreement: Myself, Admiral of the Atlantic; the United Kingdom to retain home-rule; Germany to be confirmed in the possession of the whole Continental shore of the Straits of Dover and in that of the French and Belgian Colonies; we, on the other hand, to guarantee England's occupation of India.

"Now to the part Essen will play in the coming upheaval."

Wilhelm was facing von Bohlen, and took hold of a button of his silver-braided Hussar jacket, the button nearest the throat. If he had intended to throttle Bertha's future husband, his grip and mien could not have been more menacing.

"We will probably have less than ten years to prepare; it's time that you get to work, young man," he said. "How do you stand with Bertha? Has she agreed to leave business to you?"

"Everything, according to Your Majesty's wishes. She promised me only to-day. We have divided our kingdom. I to be regent of the works under Your Majesty's guidance; Bertha to devote herself exclusively to social work and charities."

"Approved," said Wilhelm like a schoolmaster handing out diplomas. "When is the wedding to be?"

"May it please Your Majesty, we fixed on the second week of October next year."

"It doesn't please me a bit. Why lose so much time postponing?"

"Her ladyship will not have Bertha marry before her twentieth birthday."

"The Baroness, of course," cried the War Lord, with an oath. "When it comes to doing things, there is always a woman in the way. But I will thwart her. You shall take virtual, if not active, control of the Krupp works at once. Your resignation as my Councillor of Legation is accepted as from to-day," he added, with a look at Bülow.

The Chancellor smiled. "I submit that Herr von Bohlen is entitled to six months' leave of absence."

"Six months for making yourself solid with my ward, and prepare for the greatest job ever entrusted to one man," decided the War Lord. "Now listen:

"I've already told you that I will hack my way to Calais and crush France absolutely. Essen's business, then, is to make all so-called works of peace wait upon the necessities of war – all, everything I say. Is that clear?"

"We are to attend only to orders from the German General Staff," replied von Bohlen.

"They come first, of course," said the War Lord, "but foreign orders for guns and ammunition must also be attended to if Berlin so advises. On that point there will be special instructions. But it's only the beginning – an obvious one, and the Krupp's have always been more than equal to regular demands from my War Office. However, in future these are sure to increase immeasurably, out of all proportion both in size and in variety."

Exhausted by the intense mobility of his ideas, the War Lord abruptly threw himself into the armchair, held in readiness for him by the obsequious Bülow, crossed his legs and struck a match. He carried it to his lips, holding it there; then, having burnt his fingers and moustache, dropped it, cursing madly. He now took a cigarette out of the silver gilt box offered him for the tenth time or oftener, but was too busy to light it.

"Krupp," he said, "I mean Bohlen – Krupp von Bohlen, a good name, we'll stick to it – Krupp, I want you to make me a gun capable of mowing down Dover Castle from Calais. Can't be done? It will have to be done!" And he brought his fist down on the table with a bang.

"I looked in at the Photographic Society the other day," he proceeded, "and saw an Adolf Menzel photo enlarged five times the original size. The operator just extended a piece of framework. I don't suppose it's quite as easy to double or treble the size or range of cannon, but the mind and energy now experimenting with my new twelve-inch howitzer should be capable of turning out a seventeen-inch or twenty-inch howitzer, and that's what you will have to do, Krupp."

The ex-Councillor of Legation, just renamed, bowed low. "I assure Your Majesty that, as head of the Krupp works, I will not rest until such a war machine is produced," he vowed.

"And take my word that I won't let you go to sleep." The War Lord's tone was a cross between banter and threat, but its brutal meaning was photographed on the speaker's face. "You will now make your bow to Madame la Princess," he continued, pulling out his watch: "Return in fifteen minutes.

"Bertha's husband must not know everything at the start," he said, when the door closed behind Krupp von Bohlen. "As to that twelve-inch howitzer, I did not have a chance to talk to you about my recent clandestine visit to Meppen, where we had the final test. The twelve-inch howitzer quite suffices for Calais if the plans for longer range guns miscarry or war comes quicker than we calculated. At Calais, you know, the Channel narrows to a width of twenty-two and a half miles, and the new twelve-incher covers fourteen miles."

"That means Kent is safe for the present," the Chancellor made bold to comment.

"It is easy to see that you are a general of cavalry and not of artillery," he was immediately corrected, "else you would perceive that a howitzer of the range given, planted at Calais, will allow our warships to advance within eight and a half miles of the English coast and pound everything into muck and pulp there. Where – what will your Kent be then? A heap of rubbish and scrap-iron!"

"I presume Tirpitz is satisfied that there can be no blockade?"

"We will guard against that by mine fields and destroyers, submarines, cruisers, scouts and Zeppelins," explained Wilhelm. "Old Zep's Echte" (alluding to the cigar-like shape of Zeppelins) "will be as safe in our French harbours – for we will probably take Havre and Dieppe at the same time as Calais – as in Kiel Canal."

The War Lord was going strong on technical details when the return of Krupp von Bohlen was announced.

"So the ladies dismissed you!" he cried, at the same time unbending enough to ask von Bülow to be seated, while the younger man must remain standing. "Got the howitzer-Calais-Dover question pat, have you not? Well, the twenty-three miles' range gun is only one of the achievements you owe me and the Fatherland. In addition, the Krupp works and associated interests must extend their facilities for mines and mine-laying a hundred-fold, for we will have to cut Portsmouth and Plymouth off from the North Sea and provide safety zones for our warships the whole breadth of the Channel.

"Thirdly, Essen will have to turn out submarines at a much faster rate than your firm is doing now; have to arm the numerous forts we will set up along the French-Belgian coast with the heaviest of artillery, and furnish air fleets to prosecute a guerilla war against English trade and – stomachs."

Von Bohlen looked puzzled. He had imbibed enough of the Krupp spirit to encourage him in the belief that he might rival an earthquake as a destroyer of life and property, but his ambition had never extended to interference with other people's digestion.

"Explain, Bülow," ordered the War Lord, considering it beneath his dignity to give information on so trifling a subject.