On the evening of May 18, 1904, a wealthy retired American resident of Tangier named Ion Pedicaris sat in his dinner jacket drinking coffee in the wisteria-planted courtyard of his comfortable villa near the city. With him were his wife; his stepson, an Englishman named Varley; and his daughter-in-law, Mrs. Varley. Suddenly, shouts and then shots were heard from the back of the house. Varley and Pedicaris went to investigate. More shouts were heard. Fearfully, Mrs. Pedicaris and Mrs. Varley tiptoed to the servants’ quarters. There, they beheld their husbands, bound and gagged, seated on the backs of mules. Men in brown cloaks gesticulated and pointed rifles. A moment later, the two husbands jounced off into the darkness.
The kidnapper, a local chief named El-Raisuli, who was in permanent rebellion against the Sultan of Morocco, soon forwarded his conditions for release of the prisoners. He demanded the dismissal of the Governor of Tangiers, the withdrawal of the Sultan’s troops from the region, the cession to him of fifteen villages, the jailing of some of his enemies, the release from jail of some of his friends, and a ransom of ten thousand pounds. These conditions were granted and Mr. Pedicaris and Mr. Varley, after five weeks in a tent, returned to their wives. Mr. Pedicaris, having had enough of adventure, sold his villa and moved to Gloucestershire.
The seizure of two foreigners had terrified other Europeans in Morocco and affronted their governments. British and American warships had appeared in the harbor of Tangier. President Theodore Roosevelt had paced the White House and declared through clenched teeth that he wanted “Pedicaris alive1 or Raisuli dead.” To Europeans and Americans, the episode demonstrated that the Kingdom of Morocco, the last independent African state in the northern half of the continent, could no longer maintain law and order. An imperialist power would have to pick up this burden and—as far as most foreigners in Morocco were concerned—the sooner this happened, the better.
Three European powers had shown interest in Moroccan affairs: France, ruler of Algeria, with which Morocco shared an eight-hundred-mile border; Britain, possessor of Gibraltar, the western gateway to the Mediterranean; and Spain, which owned four settlements on the Moroccan coast across the Mediterranean from southern Spain. To avoid the dangers of a quarrel over Morocco between these or other powers, the Sultan’s kingdom had been specifically exempted from the “Scramble for Africa” by the Treaty of Madrid in 1880. The treaty, to which Germany and Italy were signatories along with France, Britain, and Spain, required that before one power overturned the agreement and seized political and economic power in Morocco, the other signatories had, at least, to be consulted. Imperial Germany had never expressed any ambitions in Morocco: indeed, when the Treaty of Madrid was signed, Bismarck had expressly declared that Germany had no significant interests in the kingdom. This German position had been restated in April 1904 when Bülow calmly reported the signing of the Anglo-French agreement to the Reichstag.
France, on the other hand, had desired for a long time to possess Morocco. In the nineteenth century French aspirations for a huge North African empire were partially fulfilled when Algeria (in the 1830s and 1840s) and Tunisia (in 1881) came under French control. Morocco managed to retain its independence because Great Britain opposed any European power obtaining a foothold on the Moroccan coast, which faced Gibraltar eight miles across the Straits. In 1880, the Sultan’s tenuous sovereignty was affirmed by the Treaty of Madrid. Britain continued, through the end of the century, to be the power with the greatest political and economic influence in Morocco. From 1899 to 1905, Great Britain supplied 44 percent of Morocco’s imports, France 22 percent, and Germany 11 percent. The commander of the Sultan’s army was Kaid Maclean, a small, rotund Scotsman with a little white beard. Maclean had served in the post for twenty years and his cultural affinities had become mixed: he relaxed by dressing in a turban and white burnoose and walking in his garden blowing a bagpipe.
The Sultan, in 1894, was a puffy, overfed boy of fourteen, Abdul-Aziz. A new British Minister, Sir Arthur Nicolson, presented himself to this adolescent ruler and delivered a gift from Queen Victoria: a Maxim gun, which the Sultan took to a nearby square where he opened fire on a row of bottles. As he grew older, Abdul-Aziz showed a predilection for British friends, “grooms, gardeners, electricians,2 plumbers, cinema operators, commission agents, and the man who repairs his bicycles. These men,” reported Nicolson, “show him photographs from the Illustrated London News of such things as lawn mowers, house boats, cigarette lighters, and gala coaches, and induce His Majesty to order such objects from London.” Despite this influence at court, the British Foreign Office had little interest in expanding Britain’s political role. In 1900, after five years at his post, Sir Arthur Nicolson was gloomy about Morocco’s future. He described Morocco as “this loose agglomeration3 of turbulent tribes, corrupt governors, and general poverty and distress,” and wrote to Lord Salisbury, “I do not believe4 that it is possible to reform this country from within. It is sad to admit it, but I fear that the country is doomed.” With the Boer War absorbing British resources, England shunned the labor of reorganizing Morocco as she had reorganized Egypt. Since France was willing to undertake the task, the British saw a solution. And if France was willing to pay for this privilege by terminating its twenty-year harassment of the British in Egypt, so much the better. One point on which Great Britain insisted—and it was written into the Anglo-French agreement in 1904—was that “in order to secure5 the free passage of the Strait of Gibraltar,” the stretch of African coast opposite the Rock was to remain unfortified.
France, by 1904, was eager to incorporate Morocco into its North African empire as soon as possible. In the months following the signing of the Anglo-French Convention, as the Sultan’s kingdom slid further into chaos, France offered the Sultan assistance in reorganizing his army. The Sultan declined. Over the winter, the Paris press and public began to demand French pacification of the Sultan’s kingdom. On February 21, 1905, the French Ambassador, M. René Taillandier, arrived in the royal city of Fez and demanded that the Sultan turn over his police and army to French officers and his customs houses to French inspectors. The Sultan, fearing for his throne and knowing that his English friends would no longer help him, called in the German Ambassador to inquire whether France spoke for Europe. The reply from Berlin, in sharp contrast to the position taken only ten months earlier by Chancellor Bülow, was a stinging slap at France and Foreign Minister Théophile Delcassé: the German government continued to recognize the independence of the Sultan’s government as guaranteed by the Treaty of Madrid.
Behind this reply to the Sultan lay a major, carefully planned German diplomatic offensive. At the time of the signing of the Anglo-French agreement assigning Morocco to France, Bülow had accepted it as a means of restoring “tranquillity and order” in the Sultan’s kingdom. First Counselor Holstein had disagreed, arguing that German commercial interests and German prestige both would be trampled by establishment of a French protectorate, but Bülow as Chancellor had prevailed. In the months that followed, Bülow had come around to Holstein’s view, Delcassé had acted hastily and arrogantly. Required by the Madrid treaty to consult all signatories before acting in Morocco, he had consulted all except Germany. Warned that he was trespassing on German rights and that Germany would not accept being pushed aside, the French Foreign Minister had blandly asserted that France had absolutely “nothing to fear from this [German] quarter.”
These slights were not the only, or the most serious, German concern. When Bülow had welcomed the Anglo-French agreement, he had not recognized its larger significance. With the passage of time, the implications of Delcassé’s achievement dawned: the French Foreign Minister was not simply attempting to remove points of colonial friction; he was trying to change the balance of power in Europe. His long-range objective was to create an Anglo-French-Russian Entente to confront the Triple Alliance of Germany, Austria, and Italy. Secretly, the Wilhelmstrasse believed, a policy of encirclement against Germany had been worked out; the authors were King Edward VII and Théophile Delcassé. Holstein was ready to admit that his belief that England would never join France had been mistaken. Now, in 1905, “when this danger was clear6 before my eyes, I became convinced that, before the ring of the Great Powers enclosed us, we ought to try with all our might to break through the ring, and we must not shrink from the most extreme measures.”
Circumstances favored a German diplomatic offensive. Imperial Russia, the ally on which France counted for military support against Germany, had suffered serious defeats in the Far East. Emboldened by Russia’s weakness and by the already overwhelming superiority of the German Army, Holstein and Bülow decided that the moment had come to humiliate France and demonstrate to Paris and the world that the Third Republic, despite its ties to Russia and Britain, remained essentially as it had been in Bismarck’s time: alone. British support would be shown to be, in Holstein’s word, “platonic,”7 and the Anglo-French Entente, unable to withstand the pressure from Berlin, would collapse.
Bülow’s first move was to push Germany forward as the champion of treaty rights, of the independence of small states, and of the principle of the Open Door. This principle—the equal right of all colonial powers to exploit what they perceived as backward, disintegrating kingdoms and empires—had already been established in China and enthusiastically supported by a new imperialist power, the United States. When Bülow demanded that the Open Door now be applied to Morocco, the German Ambassador in Washington passed along the comment of President Roosevelt: “That is just exactly8 what we also want.” Bülow triumphantly reported the President’s words to the Kaiser.
William supported Bülow’s position. France’s forward policy in Morocco seemed to treat the German Empire and the German Emperor alike as quantités négligeables in world affairs. Unveiling a statue of his father in Bremen on March 22, 1905, William announced that God had destined Germany for a great future and predicted “a world-wide dominion9 of the Hohenzollerns.” General Alfred von Schlieffen, Chief of the German General Staff, assured the government that France was unprepared for war in Europe; that Russia, overwhelmed by defeat in the Far East, was in no position to give support to her European ally; and that any aid Britain could give on land would be too small to make a difference. Schlieffen offered his opinion that “if the necessity of war10 with France should arise for us, the present moment would doubtless be favorable.” He urged “the earliest possible11 thorough cleaning up with France at arms. No waiting ten or twenty years for a world war, but so thorough a settlement that thereafter there should be no fear of a world war. France should be provoked until she had no course but to take up arms.”
Bülow did not seek war or intend to unleash Schlieffen. But the threat of war was a useful weapon; properly wielded, it could help him win almost as sweeping a triumph as could be achieved by war. Thus, when addressed by the Sultan of Morocco, Bülow’s answer was very different from the mellow acquiescence of ten months earlier. “In the face of this chain12 of aggressions,” Bülow said later, “it seemed to me necessary to remind Paris again of the German Empire. It was not only the extent of our economic and political interests in and about Morocco which decided me to advise the Kaiser to set his face against France, but also the conviction that in the interests of peace, we must no longer permit such provocations. I did not desire war with France either then or later. But I did not hesitate to confront France with the possibility of war because I had confidence in my own skill and caution. I felt that I could prevent matters coming to a head, cause Delcassé’s fall, break the continuity of aggressive French policy, knock the continental dagger out of the hands of Edward VII... and simultaneously preserve peace, preserve German honor, and improve German prestige.”
In preparing this challenge, Bülow decided that it must be dramatized in the most flamboyant possible way. The instrument he chose was Kaiser William.
Morocco had never interested William. He once told Eckardstein that “when, as Prince of Prussia,13 he had been attached to the Foreign Office for instruction, he had heard a lot of talk about Morocco, but he had never understood why so much importance was attached to it.” In March 1904, the Kaiser told King Alfonso of Spain that Germany had no special interest in Morocco and would concentrate solely on Europe. At the Kiel Regatta in June, William repeated to King Edward that Morocco had never interested him. After the signing of the Anglo-French Entente, the Emperor had told Bülow that “it was in Germany’s interest14 for France to engage and commit herself in Morocco. This would turn the eyes of Frenchmen away from the Vosges and they might, in time, forget Alsace-Lorraine.” To another diplomat he said that it would be “a good thing that France15 should have to pacify Morocco and work there to establish law and order. This pioneer work would cost [France] heavily in blood and treasure.”
William wanted to visit Tangier; “I have been to Asia16 [Jerusalem] and I would much like to set my foot on African soil [Tangier].” Bülow and Holstein decided to exploit this wish and use the Imperial traveler to assure the Sultan of German support for Moroccan independence. “Your Majesty’s visit17 will embarrass Delcassé, upset his plans, and foster our economic interests in Morocco,” Bülow wrote to the Kaiser. “Tant mieux!”18 (“So much the better”) noted the Kaiser in the margin, setting aside, in his eagerness to leap into the international limelight, his lack of interest in Morocco.
On March 28, 1905, the Kaiser embarked at Cuxhaven aboard the Hamburg-America steamer Hamburg. While he sailed down the Channel and around the coast of Spain, Europe heard rumors that he would land at Tangier. The Paris press rumbled that such a visit would be unfriendly to France. As he approached the Pillars of Hercules, William began to have doubts. He reflected that Bülow’s Moroccan policy was risky. He had been looking forward to visiting Gibraltar, where Queen Alexandra would be aboard her yacht and where there would be ceremonial occasions for him to wear his British admiral’s uniform. And there was the matter of his personal safety. Tangier had become a haven for many exiled European anarchists; an emperor—any emperor—made a tempting target. Perhaps, William wired to Bülow, a visit to Tangier would be undignified, even unsafe. Bülow quickly announced the impending landing to the German press and then telegraphed the Kaiser that it was too late; to back out now would give France a public victory and proclaim the German Emperor a coward.
Nevertheless, as the Hamburg lay off the port of Tangier on the morning of March 31, the Kaiser’s reluctance intensified. The ship was too big to dock in the harbor and a storm had churned up a heavy sea. Baron von Richard Kühlmann, the German Chargé d’Affaires in Tangier, coming out in a small boat to greet his sovereign, had to leap from the boat onto a rope ladder snaking along the Hamburg’s hull. From there, Kühlmann, costumed in the full-dress uniform of the Bavarian Lancers complete with tchapka, high boots, and spurs, had to come up hand over hand, drenched by spray, and present himself on deck standing in a pool of water. William, who had no stomach for such athletics, announced that he would not go. Then, quite suddenly, the wind and sea died down and the Kaiser decided to proceed with the visit.
He arrived at the dock to find not the Sultan to welcome him, but an aged uncle sent as a substitute. William gave the speech Bülow had written for him: Germany continued to recognize the Sultan as an independent monarch. Presented to the diplomatic corps, he told the French Minister that Germany stood for equal rights and an Open Door for trade by all nations as guaranteed in the Madrid Treaty. “When the Minister tried to argue19 with me, I said ‘Good morning’ and left him standing.” A white Barbary stallion was led forward. The horse, strange to its rider, unprepared for the fireworks and gun salutes which welcomed the Emperor, bucked, and William nearly fell off. Clinging to the saddle, he wondered which faces in the crowd belonged to anarchists; he was not reassured to know that the Sultan had ordered that “all were to be exterminated20 if the Kaiser came to any harm.” Later, William listed his complaints for Bülow: “I landed because21 you wanted me to in the interests of the Fatherland, mounted a strange horse in spite of the impediment my crippled left arm causes to my riding, and the horse was within an inch of costing me my life. I had to ride between Spanish anarchists because you wished it and your policy was to profit by it.”
The Kaiser remained in Tangier only a few hours. He returned to the Hamburg and sailed immediately for Gibraltar, only to find that Queen Alexandra had left, leaving him no message. One of his escort vessels in the process of mooring managed to ram a British cruiser. “The British generals and admirals22 stood stiffly and coldly to receive me without a single word more than was necessary,” he grumbled. He sailed into the Mediterranean. In the Sicilian castle of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II, he observed, “It is wonderful to think23 what this great Emperor achieved. If I were able to have people beheaded as easily as he could, I could do more.” Back in Berlin, he found Bülow “trembling with emotion24 and showing in every word and gesture his devotion and affection.” Bülow assured the Kaiser how much he had worried. “When the news reached me25 that Your Majesty had come away alive out of Tangier, I broke down and sat weeping at my desk while I uttered a thanksgiving to Heaven.”
“But why did you send me there?” the Kaiser asked.
“It was necessary for my policy,” the Chancellor replied. “Through Your Majesty I threw down the gauntlet to the French. I wanted to see whether they would mobilize.”
The German press quickly blossomed with Morocco stories describing the trampling of foreign rights by a grasping France, while noble, disinterested Germany stood up alone to defend the rights of all other nations. Europe was not fooled. It was unclear, however, what profit the Wilhelmstrasse wished to make from its challenge. Bülow gave substance to the German challenge by sending the Sultan a message offering German diplomatic support in his refusal to accept French officers. The Chancellor also suggested that the Sultan invite all governments signatory to the Madrid Treaty to a new international conference to reconfirm Moroccan independence. “I emphasized again26 that Germany was not seeking her own advantage in Morocco but only desired the maintenance of a treaty which had been violated,” Bülow declared. German ambassadors in London, St. Petersburg, and Vienna were instructed to inform their host governments that Germany had acted as she did because she “could not recognize27 the right of France, England and Spain to settle the Moroccan affairs independently.” German rights were not to be disposed of by anyone without German participation and consent. If foreigners probed deeper “about the purpose28 of the [Kaiser’s] visit,” Bülow’s instructions continued, “do not answer them but keep a serious and impassive face. Emulate the sphinx who, surrounded by tourists, reveals nothing.”
Germany’s silence as to its ultimate goals in Morocco and the refusal of German diplomats to provide any explanation for the Emperor’s dramatic landing at Tangier left European foreign offices confused and alarmed. Why, if the Wilhelmstrasse had been unhappy with the Anglo-French Moroccan understanding, had no complaint been made in 1904? Why, if it was believed that German rights were about to be trampled, had the matter not been addressed to the French government through diplomatic channels? Gradually, the larger purpose began to reveal itself: the Kaiser’s landing, the future of Morocco, were only factors in a German attempt to humiliate France. The collapse of Russia had provided the opportunity; France’s moves in Morocco provided the pretext.
In Paris, from the day the Kaiser landed at Tangier, Delcassé told the Chambre des Députés that the Imperial visit would not affect France’s policy in Morocco. When the German-encouraged invitation to an international conference arrived in Paris, Delcassé declined on behalf of France. The rest of the French Cabinet, especially the new Premier, a financier named Maurice Rouvier, was uneasy. Behind the German demand for a conference lay the threat of war. While the Russian Army was unavailable, France was not ready for war with Germany. The Sultan of Morocco, assured of German support, refused to turn his army and customs over to French officials. Delcassé found he was attacked on all sides. In the Chambre des Députés, Delcassé was condemned by the right for having given away Egypt without acquiring Morocco, and by the left for pushing the Republic to the brink of war. President Loubet continued to support Delcassé, but Rouvier and the Cabinet clearly wished the Foreign Minister to resign. Isolated and shaken, Delcassé belatedly attempted to mollify the Germans. After a dinner at the German Embassy on April 13, he told his host, Prince Radolin, that he desired to eliminate the misunderstanding. Coldly, Radolin told him that he had no instructions from Berlin but that it was too late for bilateral negotiations. Soon after, Delcassé told Loubet that he would resign. Loubet requested him not to act in haste.
At this point, the beleaguered Delcassé found an unexpected champion. King Edward VII’s view of the crisis had focussed first on what he considered the deplorable, operatic behavior of his nephew at Tangier, a performance the King described as “the most mischievous29 and uncalled-for event which the German Emperor has been engaged in since he came to the throne. He is no more nor less than a political enfant terrible.... Can there be anything more perfidious and stupid than the present policy of the Kaiser?” As the scope of the German demarche and the difficulties of M. Delcassé became more pronounced, the King rallied to the French Foreign Minister. On April 23, as he cruised on his yacht in the Mediterranean, he took the unprecedented step of personally telegraphing the French Foreign Minister and urging him not to resign. Before returning to England, the King spent a week in Paris. He saw Delcassé twice. Although the British government insisted that the King’s visit was private, Bülow and Holstein could not help regarding it as a conspiratorial gathering of the two leading proponents of encirclement.
The King’s support of France and her Foreign Minister reflected the view of the British people, press, and government. Lord Lansdowne, who had not anticipated that his colonial agreement with France would lead within a year to a European crisis, was wholly sympathetic to Delcassé. He understood that the German challenge was not simply a defense of legitimate German economic and treaty interests, but an attempt to smash the Entente. With Cabinet support, he refused to back away from Britain’s commitment to France. There was another factor in British policy. By the spring of 1905, many Britons were worried about the growth of the German Navy. The new First Sea Lord, Sir John Arbuthnot Fisher, had proclaimed that Great Britain had only one enemy at sea: the German Empire. Fisher’s reaction to the Morocco crisis was typically impetuous. “This seems a golden opportunity30 for fighting the Germans in alliance with the French, so I earnestly hope you may be able to bring this about,” the First Sea Lord wrote to Lansdowne on May 22. “Of course I don’t pretend to be a diplomat, but it strikes me that the German Emperor will greatly injure the splendid and growing Anglo-French Entente if he is allowed to score now in any way—even if it is only getting rid of M. Delcassé.... All I hope is that you will send a telegram to Paris that the English and French fleets are one. We could have the German Fleet, the Kiel Canal, and Schleswig-Holstein within a fortnight.”
Fisher’s belligerence was not government policy. When President Theodore Roosevelt offered to mediate the dispute between Britain and Germany, Lansdowne coldly telegraphed to Washington: “We have not, and never had,31 any intention of attacking Germany; nor do we anticipate that she will be so foolish as to attack us.” But Lansdowne fully agreed with Fisher on one point: Germany must not, as a result of the crisis, be allowed to obtain a naval base, or even a coaling station, on Morocco’s Atlantic coast, from which she could threaten the sealanes to South Africa and around the Cape. On April 25, Lansdowne sent a message to Delcassé that, if the Germans asked for a port, the British government would join France in opposition. Lansdowne never diluted his offer; indeed, on May 25, he suggested that the two countries discuss in confidence all contingencies. Delcassé believed he was on the verge of an Anglo-French military alliance.
Meanwhile, German pressure on France was mounting. The Cipher Department of the Quai d’Orsay routinely intercepted and deciphered communications between the Wilhelmstrasse and the German Embassy in Paris. As the crisis intensified, the decoded messages on the desks of French foreign ministers were increasingly belligerent. In Berlin, Bülow called in the French ambassador and informed his guest “in a friendly manner”32 that “if he was convinced that England would come to France’s aid, I did not wish to question this surmise.... I also acknowledged that England could deal our industry a heavy blow and could also destroy the fleet that was in the course of construction. But, as things stood in the war which I desired to avoid as much as... [the French Ambassador] himself, France would be the unfortunate who would suffer most. It is you who will pay les pots cassés, not because of our méchanceté but by the force of circumstances.” Under this pressure, Rouvier crumbled.
At dinner with Prince Radolin on April 26, the French Premier pleaded that France would do her best to be a good neighbor and that war over Morocco would be a crime. Delcassé had exceeded his authority, the Premier claimed. On May 7, Radolin passed along to Rouvier a declaration from the Wilhelmstrasse: good relations were possible only with a French foreign minister whom the German government could trust.
Convinced that the Germans were bluffing—as he had been convinced that the English were not bluffing at Fashoda—Delcassé struggled to stay in office. Paul Cambon was brought from London to tell President Loubet and Premier Rouvier that Great Britain might consider extending the Entente into an actual alliance. Rouvier listened and then demanded that all such negotiations be stopped immediately. “If the Germans find out33 about them, they will declare war,” he said. On June 3, the Sultan, pushed by the Germans, formally rejected France’s proposal for internal reform. Instead, as suggested by Bülow, he invited eleven European powers and the United States to attend a conference on his country’s future. France immediately refused; Great Britain, Italy, and Spain declared that their acceptance would be conditional on that of France. By the first of June, German patience was at an end. Prince Radolin passed a further message from Berlin to M. Rouvier: “The Chancellor of the German Empire34 does not wish to have any further dealings with Monsieur Delcassé.” On June 5, Delcassé was summoned to the Elysée Palace to meet the President and the Premier. Delcassé suggested sending French cruisers to Tangier to enforce France’s demands to the Sultan. “That would mean war35 with Germany,” said Rouvier. “Do not believe it, it is all bluff,” Delcassé responded. “Tomorrow, I will ask the Cabinet to choose between his policy and mine,” Rouvier told the President. “Tomorrow one of us will resign.”
At ten A.M. on June 6, the French Cabinet met, but not until eleven did the President enter the room, followed by the Premier and the Foreign Minister, both pale. Delcassé stressed the possibilities of an English alliance and declared that, if war came, a British army of a hundred thousand men could be landed in Schleswig-Holstein to divert the Germans from France’s eastern frontier. Rouvier noted that “the British Navy36 does not run on wheels” and that he doubted that British battleships “would be much help in keeping the German Army from reaching Paris.” His voice filled with emotion: “Are we in a condition37 to sustain a war with Germany? No! No! Even with the aid of the British Fleet we should be in for a worse catastrophe than in 1870. We should be criminals to indulge in such an adventure. France would not recover.” Delcassé hoped that Loubet would speak on his behalf, but the President remained silent. Rouvier called for a vote and every minister voted against Delcassé. The Foreign Minister immediately resigned and returned in tears to the Quai d’Orsay. Sixty-six days had passed since the Kaiser had landed at Tangier.
That night in Berlin, Bülow was sitting on a terrace outside his study, cooling himself from the heat which had settled on the city. The telephone rang at midnight. It was the Kaiser “telling me that he had just38 received news of Delcassé’s fall.” The following morning—the wedding day of the Emperor’s eldest son, Crown Prince William, to Grand Duchess Cecile of Mecklenburg—the Kaiser arrived at Bülow’s office. “You can’t escape me39 this time,” William chuckled. On the spot, he promoted his Chancellor to the rank of Prince of the German Empire.
Delcassé’s resignation was a German diplomatic victory, but Bülow and Holstein wanted more. There were still the fruits of Delcassé’s work to be destroyed: Morocco must be internationalized and the Entente must be demolished. Rouvier, ironically, was the first to realize what lay ahead. Having assumed the role of Foreign Minister in addition to that of Premier, he received the German Ambassador four days after the climactic meeting of the French Cabinet. All smiles, Rouvier said that he assumed that with Delcassé removed, Berlin would drop its demand for an international conference on Morocco. Prince Radolin gave him a nasty shock. Germany “absolutely insisted”40 on the conference, the Prince announced. Further, Radolin continued, “it is my duty to declare to you that if France were to attempt to change in any way whatever the status of Morocco, Germany would stand behind the Sultan with all its forces.” Rouvier was stunned and outraged, but given the state of the French Army, he could not protest. France would attend the conference.
The British government was dismayed by Delcassé’s resignation. Lansdowne had believed that the Entente was a colonial agreement which contained nothing harmful to other powers, including Germany. When the German offensive was launched, he was surprised; when the Foreign Minister with whom he had negotiated the agreement was forced to leave the French government, he was appalled. “The fall of Delcassé41 is disgusting and has sent the Entente down any number of points in the market,” the Foreign Secretary said. On June 8, two days after the event, Balfour drew gloomy conclusions in a letter to the King: “Delcassé’s dismissal42 or resignation under pressure from the German Government displayed a weakness on the part of France which indicated that she could not at present be counted on as an effective force in international politics. She could no longer be trusted not to yield to threats at the critical moment of a negotiation. If, therefore, Germany is really desirous of obtaining a port on the coast of Morocco, and if such a proceeding be a menace to our interests, it must be to other means than French assurance that we must look for our protection.” “Other means” meant, of course, the Royal Navy and, during the summer, measures were taken to display the navy’s strength and demonstrate Britain’s support of its Entente partner. In July, the British Atlantic Fleet was warmly welcomed when it visited Brest. The visit was returned in August when the French Northern Squadron called at Portsmouth. King Edward did everything possible to make the visit a success. He inspected the French flagship, reviewed the French squadron, invited the French admiral and his captains to dine aboard Victoria and Albert, gave a dinner at Windsor Castle, and saw to it that the French officers were given luncheons, first at the Guildhall and then by the Houses of Parliament.
On September 28, France and Germany agreed to the agenda of a conference which would open in mid-January 1906 in the Spanish town of Algeciras, across the bay from Gibraltar. The Germans could not hide their satisfaction. The Kaiser, unveiling a statue of Helmuth von Moltke, proclaimed, “You have seen43 in what position we found ourselves a few months ago before the world. Therefore, hurrah for dry powder and well-sharpened swords!” Bülow spoke of the superiority of the Teutonic character over the Gallic: “Peaceful, good-humored,44 rather naive, with little political insight in spite of otherwise great and splendid qualities, the German judges the Frenchman too much according to his own lights and underestimates the French ambition, the boundless French vanity, the French hardness and cruelty.”
As January approached, Bülow instructed Radolin to make sure that France understood that Germany expected French concessions at the conference. Bülow called in the French Ambassador in Berlin and advised France “not to linger45 on a road bordered by precipices and even abysses.” These constant threats hardened Rouvier. “I have had enough of German intrigues and recriminations,” he said. “If the Berlin people46 imagine they can intimidate me, they are mistaken. I will yield nothing more, come what may.”
The Algeciras Conference, the most important European diplomatic gathering since the Congress of Berlin twenty-eight years before, formally opened at Algeciras Town Hall on January 16, 1906. New red carpets had been laid in the corridors and on the stairways, and the long table at which the Municipal Council usually met was covered with fresh green baize. The diplomats representing the thirteen powers attending were senior ambassadors; at the suggestion of the German delegation, the Duke of Almodóvar, representing the host nation of Spain, was elected chairman. The Wilhelmstrasse had sent two senior diplomats, Herr von Radowitz, the German Ambassador in Madrid, and Count von Tattenbach, the former Minister to Morocco. Radowitz, appointed by Bülow, a man who—the Chancellor himself declared—“had a great future behind him,”47 was assigned to make certain that Germany remained at the head of the majority, and was not maneuvered by the French and British into a position of isolation. Tattenbach, appointed by Holstein, had a reputation as “the most violent48 of German diplomatists,” “a sergeant-major in face and voice, cracking rude jokes, waves of German national anger flushing the scalp under his upright, stubble hair.” His mission was to concentrate on the future of Morocco and to strip away France’s claim to exclusivity in the kingdom. M. Révoil, the French delegate, a small man with a waxed mustache, smiled at everyone except the Germans, whom he was determined to foil. The British delegate, Sir Arthur Nicolson, bent with arthritis, seemed even smaller than M. Révoil, until he began to speak. Then this shy, frail man, who had spent seven years as Minister to Morocco and was now British Ambassador to Spain, spoke with impressive authority.
Nicolson’s instructions were furnished by the new Liberal Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, who had replaced Lord Lansdowne in December when Balfour’s Unionist government resigned. Lansdowne’s policy had been reconfirmed by the Liberal Cabinet: Nicolson was to support France as agreed in Article IX of the Anglo-French Convention. The Liberals, like the Unionists, meant to interpret this article generously. “Tell us what you wish,49 on each point, and we will support you without restriction or reserve,” King Edward VII had said to Paul Cambon in London. Grey also told the German Ambassador, Count Metternich, that England would honor its commitment to France.
When the conference opened, Count Tattenbach went on the offensive. He declared that France could be permitted some authority to restore order in those parts of Morocco near the Algerian frontier, but that France’s wish for a mandate to establish order throughout the country was inadmissible. He described German policy as an attempt “to secure full guarantees for the open door,”50 and tried to persuade Nicolson that Britain should be supportive. If Britain arranged for France and M. Révoil to make concessions, Tattenbach continued, the threat to peace would quickly disappear and the conference promptly and successfully end. Nicolson replied that his country had special treaty obligations to France and that “it was not for me51 to urge concessions on my French colleague.” After this meeting, Nicolson wrote to his wife, “I felt really insulted52 and really furious... so that I could eat nothing afterwards.... He [Tattenbach] is a horrid fellow, blustering, rude, and mendacious. The worst type of German I have ever met.”
The central dispute was control of the Moroccan police: “He who has the police53 has Morocco,” Metternich told Grey. Germany insisted that the police force be internationalized. M. Révoil replied that France would prefer a continuation of the status quo to an internationalized force. The status quo, of course, meant continued kidnappings and chaos. The Germans would not yield; neither would the French. Premier Rouvier had sacrificed Delcassé and agreed to attending the conference; he was in no mood to concede anything else. “We are close to a rupture,”54 Nicolson wrote to his wife. “The Germans have behaved in a most disgraceful way. Their mendacity has been beyond words. I would not have thought Radowitz capable of such unblushing lying and double dealing.” Nicolson was not always comfortable with his French colleague, whom he found “changeable—sometimes55 firm and positive, at other times, weak and vacillating.”
During the conference, Gibraltar was visible from Algeciras, the gray granite mass looming above the mimosas and orange trees. On March 1, the combined British Atlantic and Mediterranean fleets appeared in the harbor: twenty battleships, dozens of cruisers and destroyers, an immense display of naval power. At Nicolson’s suggestion, Admiral Lord Charles Beresford, the British Commander-in-Chief, invited all of the delegates to dinner on board his flagship, King Edward VII. To avoid difficulties of protocol, no national anthems were performed and the single toast of the evening was to “All Sovereignties and Republics.” The massed bands of the fleet played and, as the diplomats were being ferried back to Algeciras, one hundred and forty fleet searchlights beamed into the night sky. Thereafter, when the delegates looked towards Gibraltar and saw the ships lying beneath the towering rock, Count Tattenbach’s bad temper seemed less threatening.
German diplomacy fared poorly at the conference. On March 3, Nicolson outmaneuvered Radowitz on a procedural vote and the Germans were defeated 10–3. Holstein, furious, wanted to threaten war against France, but Bülow drew back. Worried that, because the conference was going badly, Holstein in frustration might push Germany and France over a precipice, the German Chancellor forbade Holstein from having anything further to do with Morocco and the Algeciras Conference. A few days later, the Germans had one more chance. On March 7, Rouvier was defeated on a domestic issue in the Chambre des Députés and the French government resigned. “Tattenbach is again56 talking of war,” Nicolson wrote, but this talk faded quickly. Nicolson had become exasperated by Révoil: “This is the third time57 that I have raised his banner and on each occasion he has hid behind a bush and only come out when the fighting was over. He is so dreadfully weak and irresolute that he puts me in a false position and gives ground for the charge that the Germans are always bringing against me that I am more French than the French.” By the beginning of April, Bülow wanted only to end the Conference as quickly as possible. It was agreed that France should have special responsibilities for preserving order along the Moroccan-Algerian frontier, and should share with Spain the supervision of the police with a Swiss inspector general in command. The document was signed on April 7 and the Conference ended.
At first, because outright French predominance in Morocco had been postponed, some considered the conference a German victory. President Roosevelt congratulated the German Ambassador in Washington on the Kaiser’s “epoch-making success,”58 and said that “His Majesty’s policy59 has been masterly from beginning to end.” The Ambassador, Hermann Speck von Sternburg, passed the President’s compliment along to Berlin, although he added cautiously that the view from the White House “did not appear to agree60 with the facts.” In time, it became obvious that the Algeciras Conference was a significant defeat for German diplomacy. While France had not won the clear predominance she had sought in Morocco, she had gained something more precious, something of which M. Delcassé had dreamed: the active diplomatic support of Great Britain.
At Algeciras, Germany achieved the opposite of what she intended. She meant to break the Entente before it took on meaning and strength. Instead, German bullying succeeded in driving France and England closer together. Metternich saw clearly what was happening and, in the middle of the conference, reported from London: “The Moroccan Question61 is regarded by everyone here as a trial of strength with the Anglo-French Entente and our Moroccan policy as an attempt to smash it. Hence the determined opposition.” When the Conference was over, Metternich forwarded unwelcome news to Berlin: “The Entente Cordiale has stood62 its diplomatic baptism of fire and emerged strengthened.” Bülow and Holstein were responsible for this defeat. Had they been content with the fall of Delcassé and willing to negotiate their grievances in Morocco with Rouvier, the Algeciras Conference would not have been summoned and Article IX of the Convention never called into play. In the end, Delcassé had the final triumph: as a result of his policy, France acquired a second ally.
This was as clear in Germany as it was in the rest of Europe. Pan-Germans in the press and the Reichstag raised a storm over the meager results of Algeciras. Stung by this criticism, Bülow defended his policy in the Reichstag on April 5. “The treaty may not have given63 us all we wished,” he declared, “[but] it did represent the essentials of what we had striven to attain. It reaffirmed the sover-eighty of the Sultan.... France did not obtain the Protectorate at which she had aimed.... We had stood unshakeably by the great principle of the Open Door.... The attempt to exclude us from a great international decision had been successfully thwarted.” A number of other speakers followed Bülow to the rostrum and, during a violent attack on the Chancellor by the Socialist leader August Bebel, Bülow fainted. He was carried to his office, where he awoke to find his feet being rubbed and his fellow ministers discussing the question of his successor. The Kaiser hurried to the Reichstag, but was forbidden by Bülow’s doctor to see the Chancellor. Eventually, when it was determined that the cause was exhaustion and not a stroke, Bülow was sent home for three weeks to read French novels. “I got through a whole series64 of them,” he noted cheerfully. “Some of these seemed very well-written.”
The Chancellor’s collapse, later attributed to overwork, and sojourn at home proved the occasion for the political demise of First Counselor Friedrich von Holstein. Someone had to be blamed for the failure of the Bülow-Holstein Moroccan policy, and Bernhard von Bülow, having been made a Prince when success seemed to glitter, needed another to accept censure. Holstein was brought down by tactics he might have admired. The First Counselor throughout his career had gotten his way by threatening to resign. In January 1906, as the Algeciras Conference was convening, Secretary of State Oswald von Richthofen, Holstein’s nominal superior, died in office, and was replaced by Heinrich von Tschirschky. Holstein had approved Tschirschky’s appointment, but the two soon were at odds. At first, Holstein had continued to use the back door between his office and the State Secretary’s room. Then one day, he found that door locked. Tschirschky, Bülow explained, “was too emotional65 to be able to support with ease a continual threat of the sinister presence of Holstein discovered unexpectedly at his back. When, irritated by this exclusion, Holstein entered the room of the Secretary of State by the corridor, with a great bundle of documents under his arm, Tschirschky, in a cold discouraging voice, requested him to put them on the table and go outside and wait until he was called. With Holstein’s nature this could only lead to a breach. He at once handed in his resignation but was convinced I would prevent its being accepted.... Fritz von Holstein, though in the main his calculations were right, had forgotten one eventuality! that I might be taken ill and, by doctors’ orders, shut off from all enquiries and documents at the moment when his resignation was in the hands of Secretary of State Tschirschky who was now his enemy.” Tschirschky “in the most cold-blooded manner66 persuaded the Kaiser to accept the Privy Councilor’s resignation.” Bülow at a stroke had toppled a rival and provided a scapegoat. Enraged, Holstein left the Wilhelmstrasse, where he had worked for thirty years, and retreated to his rooms at the Grossbehrenstrasse to plot his revenge.