More than any other country at midcentury Britain was a manufacturing nation. Factories sprang up in the Midlands, and coal from Wales and Newcastle helped fuel this new industrial behemoth that produced steel for railways, turned jute from India or cotton from the United States and Egypt into clothing, and then sold those finished products at a healthy profit in India, Argentina, China, and Europe. Soon, other countries would begin to emulate the British model. But whereas the United States could industrialize with domestic raw materials, Britain did not possess sufficient resources. It had to trade in order to support its industrial economy, and in the world of competing states, that required an aggressive, independent foreign policy and the means to enforce it. For Palmerston and for British society, command of the seas was the oxygen that the empire breathed.2
In France, industry and progress were cultural mantras for much of the middle class. In England, these notions were somewhat offset by a streak of pessimism. It wasn’t that the English believed any less fervently in the cult of progress, but there was a sense that it could all go terribly awry at any moment if the wrong policies were pursued. Too little democracy, and power would corrupt; too much, and chaos would ensue. In literature, popular culture, and newspapers, and in the speeches and statements of leading politicians and businessmen, the British exuded a belief that their empire was destined to expand, that their moral purity was unparalleled, and that liberal virtues gave the empire strength and fortitude. But there was also a current of unease. Queen Victoria could exclaim, at the opening of the Crystal Palace Exhibition in London in 1851, that under one vast roof “was displayed all that is useful or beautiful in nature or in art.” The hand of God, she continued, was visible in the many wonders of human artifice assembled there. Britain was blessed among all nations, and the future beckoned with unimagined wonders. And yet, in the midst of this celebration, many questioned the materialism of the empire and worried that it would be England’s undoing. The poet Matthew Arnold considered affluence a weakness. All the innovations of the modern age, he concluded sadly, formed a flimsy defense against the dragons of anarchy.3
Not fully trusting human nature, Palmerston was skeptical of democracy and tried to keep the reform movement from consolidating the gains it had made in the 1830s. He opposed the liberals of “the Manchester school,” who held that free trade was an unalloyed good. He did not believe that trade without import duties would strengthen the empire, and thought instead that it would flood Great Britain with cheap manufactures and destroy the foundations of the economy. He distrusted foreign advocates of free trade even more. A foreigner who spoke of liberalism, free trade, and progress was simply dressing up competition and animosity in pretty words. And when Ferdinand de Lesseps and the partisans of the Suez Canal claimed that its construction would benefit not just France and Egypt, but England especially, Palmerston suspected a forked tongue and dark motives.
His attitude was shared by Lord Stratford Canning de Redcliffe in Constantinople. Stratford was a force of nature in his own right, and, like every other British foreign-policy official in these years, he opposed the Suez Canal from the moment he heard about it. Like Palmerston, in portraits he often seemed to be scowling, and in his diplomacy he was fierce and intimidating. Carrying the confidence of Her Majesty’s Government, he was a respected and feared presence in Constantinople. His influence was so great that he was known, and not affectionately, as Sultan Stratford or Abdul-Canning.
Stratford perceived himself the arbiter of the affairs of the Ottoman Empire. The sultan and his officials saw things differently, but they knew that their best interests lay in stroking Stratford’s vanity. They respected his authority and the power of Great Britain, but they viewed the British as one of several pieces of the strategic puzzle. In the spring of 1855, the Ottomans allied themselves with the British and the French against the Russians in the Crimean War, named for the Black Sea peninsula where much of the fighting took place. Between the defeat of Napoleon in 1815 and the outbreak of World War I in 1914, the Crimean War was the only time the powers of Europe engaged in long and protracted confrontation, and it was a conflict without strong passions or clear reasons. Ostensibly, the war was caused by Russian and French competition over the Holy Lands. Both nations vied to be the official protectors of the Christians who lived in Jerusalem. But that was only one spark. Russian attempts to exert control over the Slavic Christians of the Balkans angered the Ottomans. The British, for their part, sought to limit Russian naval power. Even though these were all issues of concern, they did not justify the carnage that ensued. The Crimean War did give Western civilization the charge of the Light Brigade, the evolution of the Red Cross as Florence Nightingale tended to the troops in Scutari, and a biting George Bernard Shaw satire. It also went down as a war of folly and unnecessary bloodshed.
While Britain and France may have temporarily allied with each other and with the Ottomans, that didn’t mean there were strong or lasting ties between the three. Stratford was as wary of the French as he had always been, and his colleagues in London concurred. The Ottomans understood that neither the British nor the French would hesitate to occupy Constantinople if they could, and that the alliance was purely the result of European balance-of-power politics. That the siege of Sebastopol was being run ineptly only added to the tension.
Lesseps would have faced an uphill struggle regardless of the situation in the world at large, but the Crimean War did not make his task any easier. Yet, though the British government of Lord Aberdeen had just fallen and been replaced by Palmerston, and though Constantinople was rife with speculation about the future course of the war, Lesseps found it relatively simple to arrange meetings. This was partly because he arrived with a letter from Said asking that the bearer be treated as the viceroy’s emissary; but, more to the point, Lesseps himself had the respect of the diplomatic corps. He had been one of them, and they had interpreted his disgrace in 1848 as one of those unfortunate moments when a diplomat is made a scapegoat for the failings of generals and princes.
However, though he was welcomed in the salons of Constantinople, neither the British nor the Ottoman officials planned to give him what he wanted. Stratford had both strategic and personal reasons for opposing the canal. Personally, he was connected to factions involved in railroad projects, and he favored Robert Stephenson and the railway between Alexandria and Cairo. Strategically, he saw the railroad as a route that could be controlled by Britain, and he considered the canal project a French scheme that would enhance Napoleon III. He also doubted that Lesseps would be able to act on his own as a lone entrepreneur. Like Frederick Bruce, the consul general in Egypt, he believed that the French government would eventually throw its support to the canal, and its completion would become a matter of French honor. Stratford hoped to kill the idea before it developed momentum.4
But he worried that Lesseps would persuade the Porte to countenance the plan. The Ottomans had no vested interest one way or the other, and the sultan would be loath to offend the French. To his frustration, Stratford was also constrained in what he could say. He could insinuate that the project presented multiple problems, but he had been instructed by his government not to object officially. As antagonistic as the British were, Palmerston wasn’t prepared to jeopardize the alliance with France. But, while avoiding direct confrontation, the British concluded that it wasn’t necessary to take a public stance against the canal. All they had to do was make sure that the Ottomans did not formally permit Said to go forward.
Within days of his arrival, Lesseps recognized the bind that he was in. The Ottomans were annoyed at Said for granting the concession without consultation; the British were determined to make the road arduous without provoking a diplomatic crisis; and the French were not willing to create an incident with the British over what amounted to an overly ambitious idea by a private French citizen.
Lesseps had come looking for a decision that no one was willing to make. In response, he personalized the contest. In
dealing with the Ottomans, he contended that the viceroy did not need the permission of the sultan to grant a concession for the canal, any more than he had to have permission for the other large-scale public-works projects that had been carried out in past years. Lesseps acknowledged that a blessing from the Porte was desirable, but he never accepted that it was legally required. He claimed instead that the canal was a contract between Said and himself, and that was all he needed to form the company and begin the canal.
In his dealings with the British government, Lesseps began to argue that the opposition of Stratford and Palmerston did not represent either British public opinion or, for that matter, Britain’s best interests. Dismissing the attitude of Stratford as a “personal objection” rather than a legitimate reflection of the stance of the British, Lesseps asserted that Britain, as the dominant force in world trade, would gain the most from the canal’s construction. He also strongly hinted in his meetings with Stratford that it would be foolish to stand in the way, since it was only a matter of time before the sultan approved. He could not have been sure of that, of course, but the bluster unsettled Stratford and, by extension, Palmerston.5
Both men became convinced that Lesseps harbored “ulterior motives.” Some of their paranoia was merited. As Lesseps wrote to an ally in March, “England does not like to confess the motives for her opposition; but she must be persuaded that she can no longer monopolize the commerce of the world, or the domination of all the seas.” He may have believed that the canal would benefit everyone, but he did not mind if it increased French power at the expense of the British.
Even while sparring with the British, Lesseps was thinking ahead to the eventual shape of the company and to how the venture might be financed. He had already committed himself to the idea of a company owned by shareholders throughout Europe and Egypt. More specifically, he thought that it should be owned not by a few wealthy individuals but, rather, by “the greatest possible number of small shareholders.” Otherwise, the large bankers of Europe would demand a voice in the management of the company and the construction of the canal, and Lesseps was no more willing to cede control to bankers than he was to Enfantin and the engineers of the Study Group. Though there was little precedent for funding a project of this scale by the flotation of shares to thousands of people scattered throughout two continents, Lesseps proceeded with the same blithe confidence in financial matters that he had in engineering. Without a deep understanding of either, he was able to arrive at a course of action that eluded those who knew better.6
During the next months, Lesseps traveled constantly. Indeed, that was to be his pattern for the next fourteen years. The diplomatic template established in the spring of 1855 did not change significantly, and the British only ceased their relentless opposition when Palmerston died in 1865. During the intervening years, however, the situation in Egypt, Constantinople, and France changed substantially, sometimes to the advantage of Lesseps and the canalistes, sometimes not.
Lesseps left Constantinople without any tangible results, except that he was now more aware of the obstacles in his way. Meanwhile, his visit had widened the fissure between Said and the sultan, as well as between Said and those who opposed the canal in Egypt. The merchants of Alexandria organized to prevent the canal from being built. They were getting rich from increased trade with Europe, and the completion of the railroad promised more riches in the future. The canal, especially a direct canal through the isthmus, would bypass them. Several members of Said’s court had close ties to the merchant community, including Kiamil Pasha, his brother-in-law. Kiamil was whispering that the canal was a bad idea. He then wrote to Said stating his objection, which led the viceroy to return a sharp response. “Your letter,” Said replied, “would imply that I inclined toward the French, and you think that the canal originated in my wish to do something agreeable to them; while at the same time you confirm the statement that you are all in great fear and mortal terror of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe and the English.” He then concluded with a staunch defense of his actions and his integrity. “I am convinced of the great and special advantages of the undertaking for Islam and for Egypt itself, and I have behaved in this matter like a good Turk.”7
Said rarely invoked Islam. It was understood that he was the ruler of Egypt and, as such, the defender of Egyptian Islam in much the same way that the British crown was the defender of Anglicanism. Yet religion was hardly ever a factor in his decisions, and the days when Middle Eastern societies would be challenged by fundamentalists lay far in the future. There was no formal separation of church and state because there was no church, and Muslim clerics did not meddle with affairs of state. Neither Said nor his father was especially devout, and though Said liked the idea of improving the position of Muslims in world affairs, he was driven by dynastic interests rather than by the Koran. Whether or not he worried about his standing in the eyes of God, he cared deeply whether the Turkish elite of Egypt believed he was conducting himself with the honor befitting a Turkish prince. As stern as he was in response to Kiamil, the domestic opposition troubled him, and over the coming months his initial enthusiasm for the canal began to dissipate. Lesseps had spun a fantasy that was proving much more complicated in reality.
Lesseps, recognizing that Said’s ardor was cooling, spent several weeks in Egypt working on plans with Linant and Mougel and providing Said with moral support. But he was eager to return to France and then go to England. Hearing of Enfantin’s attempts to get the emperor to stop the project, Lesseps felt it was important to make his own case in person. With the help of the empress, Ferdinand trusted that he would be granted an audience so that he could answer Enfantin’s objections.
He was not particularly worried. Having studied the career of Louis-Napoleon, Lesseps concluded that the emperor would ultimately support the canal. In letters to his mother-in-law, he talked of how Louis-Napoleon, while still in prison and then in exile, had developed a fascination with canals, especially with a canal through Nicaragua to connect the Atlantic and the Pacific. The emperor had even written a memo about the virtues of such a waterway, in which he said: “War and commerce have civilized the world. Commerce is still following up its conquests. Let us open up a new route for it.” Lesseps was confident that Napoleon would see Suez in the same light.8
In March and April, two articles appeared in the influential Revue des deux mondes. The journal covered topics of interest throughout the world, with essays on everything from the American circus man P. T. Barnum to the mores of the Bedouins of Syria. The two articles portrayed Lesseps as a fool and the direct route as misconceived. One, by Paulin Talabot, reiterated the stance of the Study Group, and stressed that Lesseps was a neophyte who refused to learn from the wisdom of past canal builders. Talabot used the example of the ancient Ptolemies as a rebuke: previous canals had used Nile water and not sea water, yet the direct route would force a mingling of two different seas, with different currents and tides. The result, warned Talabot, could be flooding and rapid erosion. The other article, by J. J. Baude, was wildly positive about a Suez Canal, but not about Lesseps’s plan. Yes, Baude acknowledged, the canal was a magnificent idea, one that would enrich the French Empire in Algeria and beyond and even revitalize poor Venice, which had been so sadly eclipsed by the route around the Cape of Good Hope in the sixteenth century. But, Baude cautioned, the canal was an international issue that would affect every major state and several minor ones. It was not appropriate for a lone individual such as Lesseps to arrogate to himself the power to decide the fate of millions. A canal would have universal consequences, and the decisions about its shape and scope should be made by the powers of Europe in consultation with the many private and public parties who would be affected.9
These attacks criticized Lesseps, but at least they supported construction. That was half the battle. The British, however, were opposed to any canal, not just the one proposed by Lesseps. Before leaving for England in June, Lesseps returned to France and was finally permitted
to meet with the emperor. Officially, Napoleon demurred. He told Lesseps that now was not the time to confront the British and that the Crimean War and considerations of European politics made it unwise to risk a breach over what still amounted to a scheme. He urged Lesseps to take his case directly to the British, and warned that the active opposition of London was not something that he as ruler of France wished to challenge.
That was Napoleon’s stated position. According to Lesseps, however, Eugénie privately broached the subject with her husband. The emperor told her that he thought that the canal was a wonderful idea, and that he hoped that Lesseps would succeed. His public demurral, he assured her, did not reflect his personal opinion, and he said that though he could not actively lend his support, he certainly would do nothing to prevent the project from moving forward. Relieved that he would not face problems in Paris, Lesseps went to London to confront Palmerston directly.10
CHAPTER NINE
HITHER AND YON
LORD PALMERSTON WAS prime minister of the most powerful country in the world in June 1855, yet, within days of arriving in London, Lesseps had an invitation to call at the viscount’s home. True, the world was a smaller place in the middle of the nineteenth century. The circles of influence and power consisted of close-knit groups, and though gaining entry was difficult, meeting others once entry had been gained was not. Still, even by the standards of the time, Lesseps had an uncanny ability to see whomever he needed whenever he needed to. And that summer in London, it was Palmerston’s turn to be seduced.
Much to Lesseps’s dismay, Palmerston proved immune. Not for the last time, a passionate Frenchman found that his charm was lost on the English. Lesseps came armed with the same arguments that had proved so persuasive in France and with Said, but the reaction in England was skeptical. Palmerston had always viewed the French as prone to unrealistic dreams that created havoc for their neighbors. Though he did not think that Lesseps was as dangerous as Robespierre or Napoleon, he still saw the canal as the latest in a series of bad French ideas that were best left unrealized.
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