In August 1913, after ten months and with the signing of the Treaty of Bucharest, the Conference ended. “There was no formal finish,”4 Grey said. “Nobody went home, we were not photographed in a group; we had no votes of thanks; no valedictory speeches; we just left off meeting. We had not settled anything, not even all the details of Albanian boundaries; but we had served a useful purpose. We had been something to which point after point could be referred; we had been a means of keeping all the six Powers in direct and friendly touch. The mere fact that we were in existence, and that we should have to be broken up before peace was broken, was in itself an appreciable barrier against war. We were a means of gaining time and the longer we remained in being the more reluctance was there for us to disperse. The Governments concerned got used to us and to the habit of making us useful. When we ceased to meet, the present danger to the peace of Europe was over; the things that we did not settle were not threatening that peace; the things that had threatened the relations between the Great Powers in 1912–13 we had deprived of their dangerous features.”
Grey modestly described his part in the Conference as “very drab and humdrum,”5 but his prestige soared. It was clear to his confreres and to their governments that Grey was not interested in personal prestige or a triumph for British diplomacy; he worked to preserve the peace of Europe. After the war, Grey noted sadly the hope engendered by the Conference of London and the disappointment of that hope which lay ahead:
“In 1912–13 the current of European affairs6 was setting towards war. In agreeing to a Conference... it was as if we all put out anchors to prevent ourselves from being swept away. The anchors held. Then the current seemed to slacken and the anchors were pulled up. The Conference was allowed to dissolve. We seemed to be safe. In reality it was not so; the set of the current was the same, and in a year’s time we were all swept into the cataract of war.”
The London Conference had scarcely begun when Alfred von Kiderlen-Waechter died. To replace him, Bethmann-Hollweg summoned from the German Embassy in Rome a diminutive Prussian nobleman primarily known in Berlin for self-effacement and preoccupation with health. Gottlieb von Jagow was a protégé of Bülow. In 1895, when Bülow was ambassador to Italy, he had received a letter from an old regimental comrade, Hermann von Jagow. Jagow’s younger brother, Gottlieb, a nervous, puny man in poor health, yearned to be a diplomat. Could Bernhard, his old comrade in arms, find a place for him? Bülow, in the spirit of regimental camaraderie, cleared it with the Foreign Office and invited the young man to join his staff at the Palazzo Caffarelli. Bülow’s invitation was “the fulfillment of Gottlieb’s7 wildest dreams and hopes” and the new diplomat reported for duty where, Bülow reported, he was treated “as a son.”
When Bülow left Rome for the State Secretaryship in Berlin, his patronage of Gottlieb continued. Jagow was assigned wherever he wanted to go: to Hamburg, to Munich, then back for a prolonged stay in Rome. In 1906, he was summoned for a tour of duty in the Wilhelmstrasse. Jagow promptly went to see Bülow, then Chancellor. Pleading the strain of office work on his delicate health, Jagow asked for a Ministry abroad; Bülow gave him Luxembourg, where work was minimal. In 1909, Bülow suggested him as Ambassador to Italy. The Kaiser was astonished. He and Jagow had been members of the same exclusive student Corps at Bonn University; both were entitled to wear the peaked Stürmer cap and black and white ribbon of the elite Borussia Corps; bystanders were often surprised to hear the emperor addressing Jagow by the intimate Du used between Corpsbrüder. But the fraternal relationship had not affected William’s low opinion of Jagow. “What?”8 he said when Bülow proposed to send Jagow to Rome. “Do you really want to send that little squirt out into the world as an ambassador?” Bülow persisted and William agreed. Jagow was ecstatic. “My love for Your Highness9 will never cease as long as I live,” he said to Bülow and joyfully went off to Rome.
Jagow’s four years as ambassador were pleasant; thus his summons to Berlin to replace Kiderlen was unwelcome. In the State Secretaryship, he saw hard work combined with innumerable opportunities for failure. No ambassador since Bülow had willingly given up an embassy to take the Wilhelmstrasse and, of the four State Secretaries who preceded Jagow, two had died in office. Accordingly, Jagow resisted his new assignment, arguing that he lacked physical strength and professional ability. In vain. On January 5, 1913, he wrote to Bülow, who was then retired: “Nothing has helped.10 I am appointed.”
At the Wilhelmstrasse, Jagow was the opposite of his predecessor. Kiderlen was large and robust, Jagow small and frail. Kiderlen’s behavior fluctuated between warm good humor and coarse rudeness, and he considered his arrangement with Frau Krypke nobody’s business but his own. At forty-nine, Jagow was unmarried; he was cool, elitist, and insecure, glancing up furtively to check people’s reactions to himself. His purpose, during the eighteen months he held the State Secretaryship before the war, was to maintain the reputation he had achieved in Rome and to accommodate his two masters, the Chancellor and the Kaiser. He attempted no diplomatic initiatives; indeed, Jagow’s arrival signified that foreign policy, which had been in Kiderlen’s hands until the failure at Agadir, had passed to Bethmann. The Chancellor’s ambition was to improve relations with England. On February 7, 1913, only a fortnight after moving into the Wilhelmstrasse, Jagow said in the Reichstag:
“The intimate exchange of opinion11 which goes on between us and the English Government [Jagow referred to the London Conference] has done a great deal to remove difficulties of many kinds.... We have now seen that not only have we points of contact of a sentimental kind with England, but that common interests exist as well. I am no prophet, but I indulge in the hope that, on the ground of common interest which in politics is the most fruitful ground, we can continue to work with England and perhaps reap the harvest. But I must point out to you that we are dealing here with tender plants; we must not destroy them by premature acts or words.”
Jagow managed to please the Kaiser. Only a month after the new State Secretary’s arrival, William said to Müller, “He’s becoming admirably seasoned.12 The little man says he would be the first to recommend war to His Majesty if anyone tried to dispute Germany’s rights in Asia Minor.”
German diplomacy, in the years after Agadir, changed tactics. Although the Haldane mission had been rebuffed and Churchill’s Naval Holiday proposals turned aside, German policy toward Britain had been, in Churchill’s words, “not only correct but considerate.13... The personalities who expressed the foreign policy of Germany seemed for the first time to be men to whom we could talk and with whom common action was possible.” “The Kaiser was very cautious14 throughout the Balkan Wars,” Bethmann reported, “and remarked to me in November [1912] that ‘I shall not march against Paris or Moscow for the sake of Albania or Durazzo.’” William could not prevent himself from issuing snorts of disgust during the Conference about “eunuch-like statesmen”15 with their “everlasting talk about peace,” but on the whole his behavior was temperate, and Anglo-German relations were more cordial than they had been since before the Boer War.
This era of good feelings coincided with the arrival in London of the new German Ambassador, Prince Karl Max Lichnowsky. The Prince, sent to succeed the stricken Marschall von Bieberstein, reached London in November 1912, shortly before the opening of the London Conference. Lichnowsky’s wealth and social position set him apart from most German diplomats. He had spent twenty years in the diplomatic corps, serving in Bucharest, London, and Vienna and, for five years (1899–1904), as personnel director at the Wilhelmstrasse. He was responsible for choosing among applicants who wished to enter the service. Lichnowsky’s preference was for young men of good family. “I made it a practice16 to watch the candidate as he entered the room,” he explained. “Then I knew pretty well with whom I had to deal.” In the internal wars between Bülow and Holstein, Lichnowsky sided with Bülow, under whom he had served in Bucharest. Holstein responded by labelling Lichnowsky “a muddlehead”;17 Lichnowsky descri
bed Holstein as a man “who by his intimates18 was considered to be not quite normal.”
In 1904, Lichnowsky wearied of this squabbling and retired to look after his estates, spending eight years in Silesia surrounded by “flax and turnips,19 among meadows and horses.” To the end of his life, he said, he had no idea why William II suddenly plucked him from country life and sent him to London. When Bethmann, who was not consulted, expressed doubts, the Kaiser grew angry: “I send only my ambassador20 to London, who has my confidence, obeys my will, fulfills my orders with my instructions,” he told the Chancellor. Once Lichnowsky was installed in the massive German Embassy, he threw open the doors which the reclusive Metternich had kept closed. Invitations to luncheons, dinners, and balls flooded out to London society. The German Ambassador became a regular speaker before British commercial and financial audiences. He stressed the common needs of German and British business and trading interests. He was given the freedom of cities; in June 1914, Oxford University made him an honorary Doctor of Laws.
Lichnowsky’s opinions of the English were straightforward:
“The King, although not a genius,21 is a simple and well-meaning man with sound common sense....
“An Englishman either is a member of society or he would like to be one....
“British gentlemen of both parties have the same education, go to the same colleges and universities, have the same recreations—golf, cricket, lawn tennis, or polo—and spend the weekend in the country....
“The Briton loathes a bore, a schemer, and a prig; he likes a good fellow....”
Lichncwsky never cared for Asquith, whom he described as “a jovial bon vivant,22 fond of the ladies, especially the young and pretty ones... partial to cheerful society and good cooking... favoring an understanding with Germany, treated all questions with a cheery calm...” Nor was Asquith partial to Prince or Princess Lichnowsky, complaining to Venetia Stanley that the Ambassador’s voice was “raucous” and “querulous,” that an evening with the Lichnowsky couple was “rather trying23... he is loquacious and inquisitive about trifles... she took possession of the piano stool and strummed and drummed infernal patches of tuneless music for the rest of the evening.” Margot Asquith, however, liked Princess Lichnowsky and wrote, “In spite of black socks,24 white boots and her crazy tiaras, I could not but admire her.”
Lichnowsky’s favorite Englishman was Sir Edward Grey: “The simplicity and honesty25 of his ways secured him the esteem even of his opponents.... His authority was undisputed.... On important occasions he used to say, ‘I must first bring it before the Cabinet’; but this always agreed with his views.” From their first meeting at the Foreign Office on November 14, 1912, the two diplomats worked “hand in hand”26 to bring their countries closer together. To the annoyance of Berlin, and particularly the Kaiser, who had selected Lichnowsky as “my ambassador,” the Prince reported to Berlin truths it did not wish to hear. “Sir Edward Grey said27 that he wished above all that there might be no repetition of... 1909 [i.e., the Bosnian Crisis],” the Ambassador reported on the eve of the London Conference. “For he was convinced—and this sentence he twice repeated with special emphasis—that Russia would not a second time beat a retreat but would rather take up arms.... If a European war were to arise through Austria’s attacking Serbia, and Russia, compelled by public opinion, were to march... rather than again put up with a humiliation like that of 1909, thus forcing Germany to come to the aid of Austria, France would inevitably be drawn in and no one could foretell what further developments might follow [emphasis Lichnowsky’s].... England’s policy towards us is one of peace and friendship, but... no British Government could reconcile it with the vital interests of the country if it permitted France to be still further weakened. This attitude is based neither on secret treaties nor on the intrigues of Edward VII, nor on the after-effects of the Morocco crisis, but solely on the consideration... that after a second collapse of France like that of 1870, the British nation would find itself confronted by one single all-powerful Continental nation, a danger that must be avoided at all costs.”
During Lichnowsky’s embassy, the long-standing dispute about German penetration of the Middle East via the Berlin-to-Baghdad Railway was settled when Britain withdrew her opposition to the railway. In return for this concession, British traders were granted the same privileges as Germans on all parts of the railway. Control of navigation on the Tigris River and in the Persian Gulf was awarded to Britain. The treaty was initialled on June 15, 1914, and announced by Grey in the House of Commons on June 29, the day after the assassination at Sarajevo.
In April 1914, a shadow fell over Anglo-German relations. Since 1908, the German government, fearful of “encirclement,” had worried that Great Britain would extend the ententes with France and Russia to the status of full military alliances. In the spring of 1914, these apprehensions, constantly stirred by rumors of talks between French and British military staffs, were aggravated by reports that Britain and Russia were about to begin naval conversations. The reports were true.
The Russians had wanted a closer military connection with England. They had been rebuffed. In 1912, when Sergei Sazonov, the Russian Foreign Minister, suggested an Anglo-Russian naval understanding, Grey politely ignored the suggestion. In February 1914, Tsar Nicholas II proposed an Anglo-Russian defensive alliance to Sir George Buchanan, the British Ambassador in St. Petersburg. Buchanan replied that Parliament would not permit a peacetime alliance. The Tsar proposed a naval convention similar to the one between England and France. Again, Buchanan demurred. The Russians persisted. In mid-April, King George V, making the first ceremonial visit of his reign, travelled to Paris, capital of Britain’s principal Continental partner. Grey accompanied the sovereign; it was the first time the Foreign Secretary had been out of England in nine years of office. The weather was superb; the horse chestnuts were in flower. Grey rode in the procession in a carriage with the French Premier, Domergue, who did not speak English. Grey’s French was soon exhausted. They travelled in silence, occasionally waving to the crowds, and Grey had a good chance to study the two French cavalrymen who rode close beside the carriage. One was “swarthy... thick-set,28 sturdy... a typical son of the soil.... The other was fair, slender, almost frail in body, [with] a sensitive face, suggesting a possible artist or poet.... His helmet sat uneasily on him.... It brought home to me, as I had never felt it before, what conscription meant.... Each of these young men, at the age when life should be developing in different ways... must be trained to kill or be killed in defence of his country.”
On the last morning of the visit, Grey met the French Foreign Minister at the Quai d’Orsay and was confronted with an urgent request. On behalf of their Russian ally, the French Minister urged Grey to pay heed to the Tsar’s plea for a naval convention. Grey took the entreaty home with him for consideration. The strategic issues involved were easily dealt with: the Admiralty did not consider the Russian Fleet a valuable or even a useful potential ally. Most of the Tsar’s fleet had been annihilated at Port Arthur or Tsushima, and although the Duma had voted a new five-year program of battleship construction in 1912, these ships still were mostly blueprints. Geography was an additional barrier. “To my mind,”29 Grey said, “it seemed that in a war with Germany, the Russian fleet would not get out of the Baltic and the British fleet would not get into it.” Dealing with the diplomatic side of the proposal was more delicate. A flat refusal would offend the Russians by giving the impression that they were not being treated equally with the French. It was important, Grey believed, “to reassure Russia30 and keep her loyal.” In mid-May, on the understanding that there were to be no commitments which could drag Britain into a Continental war, the Cabinet reluctantly assented to secret naval conversations. Benckendorff informed Sazonov in St. Petersburg.
Since 1909, a German spy in the Russian Embassy in London had been reporting to Berlin all of Count Benckendorff’s correspondence with Count Sazonov. The spy’s report of the impending conversati
ons alarmed the Wilhelmstrasse. German strategists were much less sure than Grey that in wartime a British fleet would not attempt to penetrate the Baltic to support a seaborne Russian invasion of Pomerania. Knowing that many in Britain would be opposed to any closer relationship between England and Russia, the Wilhelmstrasse decided to make public the news its spy had provided, in the hope that the talks might be frustrated before they started. Accordingly, the Berliner Tageblatt was given the story, although the source was protected. The London press picked up the Tageblatt story, and Grey, to his chagrin, was told that there would be questions in the Commons. On June 11, the Foreign Secretary was asked whether any conversations with a view to a naval agreement had taken place. Grey’s reply, true in the narrowest sense, was deliberately misleading: “No such negotiations31 are in progress and none are likely to be entered upon, as far as I can judge.” He went on to promise that the government would not involve itself in talks “which would restrict or hamper the freedom of the Government or of Parliament to decide whether or not Great Britain should participate in a war.”
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