Read the book: «The Secret Memoirs of Bertha Krupp», page 8
The number, of course, referred to a Secret Service man. They have no names so far as the Government knows, or wants to know, and, despite their usefulness, are looked upon as mauvais sujets. To make up for this their pay is rather better than that of the average German official. They get a little less than the equivalent of £4 a week and 10s. a day for expenses. These sums constitute the retaining fee; their main income depends on the jobs they are able to pull off. They get paid for all business transacted, in accordance with its importance. When on a foreign mission, they may send in bills up to £2 per day for personal expenses, but in all ordinary circumstances the 10s. per diem must suffice.
The War Lord turned once more to Bülow. "You said: 'Make him work for us.' I would willingly sentence him for life to the treadmill. What's your idea of work for Franz?"
"I refer to Your Majesty's complaint that the Austrian army is in a state of unreadiness, of unpreparedness for war. Now, while I have no opinion whatever as to Herr von Este's capacity as a general, I do know that organisation and discipline are ruling passions with him."
"He would rather beat a recruit than go to Mass," interpolated Udo.
"The right spirit," approved the War Lord, "and it shall serve my purposes. I taught the Bavarians to out-Prussian the Prussian; the Austrians shall follow suit, or Franz will know the reason why.
"A drill-ground bully by nature and inclination, he will know how to make an end to Blue Danube saloperie; and if strap and rod won't do, he will use scorpions, like that ancient King of Judea – or did he hail from Mecklenburg, Bülow?" Autocratically ruled Mecklenburg is Bülow's own particular fatherland.
"I am sure the riding-whip always sufficed in our domains," smiled the Chancellor; "but Your Majesty is right: rose water wouldn't make much impression on Slovaks and Croatians."
"Well then," said the War Lord, "here is the programme: No more about Lutheran popeship, Holy Roman Empire of German nationality, future of the Holy See and so forth. Nauseate him, on the other hand, with Austrian military schweinerei(piggishness), which ought to disappear from the face of the earth in the shortest possible order to make room for the glories of Prussian drill, discipline and efficiency.
"With von der Goltz knocking the Turk into shape and Franz Este driving the devil of irresolution and maniana out of the Dual Monarchy, we will be in a position to defy the world – and to fight it, too."
CHAPTER XVIII
A SECRET SERVICE EPISODE
No. 103 Arrives – The Spy's Report – The Archduke and the Cardinal – The Ruling of the Church
Count von Wedell's office on Königgratzerstrasse.
Royal coupé driving up and down the opposite side of the street. No groom – dismounted chasseur with feather hat stands guard at the big oaken door entrance.
Long-legged brown horses, evident habitat: England. As a rule, the War Lord drives with blacks or greys; likewise the wheel-spokes of the vehicles used by him are gilded. Those of the carriage we observe are chocolate colour, with just a thin silver line. Wilhelm sometimes travels incog. in his own capital. By the way, why always chocolate-coloured carriages when royalty does not wish to radiate official lustre? In the reminiscences of the third Napoleon "the little brown coupé" figured largely when the Emperor of the French went poaching on strange preserves, and other monarchs had the same preference.
Inside the Imperial office building: sentinels with fixed bayonets at each corridor entrance; over the coco-nut mat, covering the right-hand passage, a thick red Turkey runner; Secret Service men in top-hats and Prince Albert coats every ten paces. At the extreme end a big steel double door.
"No. 103," whispered the speaking-tube into Count Wedell's ear.
"Three minutes late," snarled that official; "but I will pay him back."
"No. 103," in faultless evening dress (though it is nine in the morning), is conducted through the right-hand passage. He is at home here, but no one recognises him. Secret Service rule: No comradeship with other agents of the Government. You are a number, no more.
As he is ushered through the lines of sentinels, the royal chasseur, drawn broadsword in his right, opens the door with his left hand. Count Wedell meets him on the threshold.
"Kept Majesty waiting," grumbled the Privy Councillor sotto voce.
"Cab broke down, Excellency," No. 103 excused himself.
"Don't let it happen again. You will stand under the chandelier facing the inner room. Attention!" commanded the chief.
And at attention, every nerve vibrating with excitement and expectancy, No. 103 stood like a statue in the Avenue of Victory, but with rather more grace, for no man living could imitate the War Lord's marble dolls without provoking murder. Wedell had gone into the inner room, the entrance of which was framed by heavy damask portières with gold lace set a jour.
"Portholes," thought No. 103, sizing up the decorations; and, keyhole artist that he is, he soon met a pair of eyes gazing at him through the apertures.
"Majesty taking a peep," he reflected. "I wonder what he thinks of the man who went back on his native Nero for filthy lucre."
Whether he thought well of him or not, the War Lord kept No. 103 standing full twenty-five minutes. If in his youth he had not had a particularly cruel drill-ground sergeant, he could not have endured the pain and fatigue.
Suddenly the portières parted: the War Lord, seated at a "diplomat's" writing-desk; Count Wedell, toying with a self-cocking six-shooter, stood at his left.
"If that thing goes off and accidentally hits me," thought No. 103, "there is a trap-door under this rug, and a winding staircase leading to a sewer, I suppose, as in the Doge's Palace." Comforting thought, but who cares for a spy?
"Approach," ordered the War Lord in a high-pitched voice. When No. 103 was within three paces of the Majesty, Wedell held up his hand.
"His Majesty wants to know all about last night," said the Privy Councillor.
"Did Herr von Este really look under the bed?" queried the War Lord, tempering the essential by the ridiculous.
"He did indeed," replied No. 103; "and I nearly betrayed my presence between the sheets watching him."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, Your Majesty; just a thought passing through my mind."
"Out with it," cried the War Lord, when No. 103 stopped short.
The agent provocateur looked appealingly at Count Wedell. "I humbly beg to be excused."
"I command you!"
"Well then, Your Majesty, it occurred to me that I ought to have planted a mark's worth of asafoetida under that bed."
Did the stern Majesty laugh? He guffawed and roared enough to split his sides – the lines between the sublime and the low are not tightly drawn in Berlin.
"This fellow has wit," said the War Lord to Udo. "When you come to think of it, asafoetida is mighty appropriate ammunition to use against the Jesuit disciple." Then, with a look to No. 103: "Proceed."
"Details and all," commanded von Wedell.
"The minutest," emphasised the War Lord.
"May it please Your Majesty, I was in that bed three hours before the parties came into the room. The Cardinal had hired Suite 18 expressly for the meeting, his lodgings being elsewhere in the hotel. He was first to arrive, and swore lustily because there was no crucifix or prie-Dieu, as ordered.
"Cursed like a trooper, eh?" cried the War Lord. "Make a note of that, Udo. When I am Lutheran pope I will visit the grand bane upon any cardinal guilty of saying naughty words."
"Your Majesty will have the All Highest hands full," remarked von Wedell. "What about Prince Max?"
"I shall take devilish good care that the Saxon idiot never achieves the red hat. Making eyes at Warsaw and a friend at the Curia! What next?" To No. 103: "Proceed."
"An impromptu altar was quickly set up, and when Herr von Este was announced – "
"What name?" interrupted the War Lord.
"Ritter von Wognin, Your Majesty."
Count von Wedell promptly explained: "One of the minor Chotek titles."
"I always said he was his wife's husband," affirmed the War Lord, with an oath. Then, to No. 103: "Well?"
"The Cardinal had taken his stand at the side of the crucifix, and when the Ritter walked in elevated his hand pronouncing the benediction, whereupon the Austrian heir dropped on his knees. The Cardinal seemed in no hurry to see him rise, but finally held out his hand, saying: 'In the name of the Holy Church I welcome thee, my son.'
"And Este kissed his hand, didn't he?" cried the War Lord.
"He certainly bent over the Cardinal's hand, and I heard a smack," replied No. 103.
"That settles it," said the War Lord; "the foot-kiss for me when I am pope of the Lutheran Church."
"May it please Your Majesty," continued No. 103, "the two gentlemen then settled down in easy chairs and engaged in a long, whispered conversation in which alleged sayings of Your Majesty were freely quoted by Herr von Este."
"Enough," interrupted the War Lord; and at a sign from Wedell No. 103 backed towards the door, which opened from outside. "You will await a possible further summons in here," said Count Wedell's secretary, ushering No. 103 into a waiting-room.
"How much has that fellow got on credit?" demanded the War Lord.
Wedell pulled out a card index drawer. "Upwards of thirteen thousand marks."
"He knows that he'll lose it to the last pfennig if he squeals?"
"The case of our man who exchanged Barlinnie Jail for the service of Sir Edward Grey brought that home with peculiar force to everybody in the Wilhelmstrasse and Königgrätzerstrasse," replied Udo.
It should be interpolated here that German spies receive only two-thirds of the bonuses accruing to them. One-third of all "extras" remain in the hands of the Government at interest, to be refunded when his spyship is honourably discharged. If he is caught and does not betray his trust, then these savings par order de mufti are paid over to his family or other heirs; if he betrays his Government, then the Government gets even with him by confiscating the spy's accumulated savings, which arrangement gives the Secret Service office a powerful hold on its employees.
"Very well, recall the millionaire-on-good-behaviour," quoth the Majesty.
No. 103 proved the possession of a marvellously retentive memory. Quoting His Highness's confidences to the Cardinal, he repeated almost word for word the War Lord's conversation with Franz, both at the Schloss and at the General Staff office.
"Any memoranda used?" demanded Wilhelm abruptly.
"None, Your Majesty."
"Did the Cardinal take notes?"
"No, Your Majesty. When Herr von Este urged him to do so, he said it was unnecessary, since he never forgot matters of importance; in fact, could recite a text verbatim after tens of years."
"Curse their stenographic memories," said the War Lord. "I hope you were careful to note what Schlauch said," he added in a stern, almost threatening voice.
"I memorised his talk to the dotlets on the i's," replied the Secret Service man, bowing low. "Quite an easy matter, for His Eminence used words sparingly —
"To conceal his thoughts, of course." This from the War Lord.
Then No. 103 read the "notes" from his mental memorandum pad. The Cardinal, it appears, laid down three rules "for the guidance of his 'dear son' and all other Catholic princes:
"I. Agreements with heretic sovereigns do not count unless they serve the interests of the Church.
"II. If the proposed Slav Empire would bring about the submission of the orthodox heretics to the Church of Rome, no amount of blood and treasure spent in so laudable a cause may be called extravagant, the sacrifice being for God Almighty.
"III. But if there should be a by-product" (our own term, the Cardinal's being too circumstantial) "a by-product in the shape of a heretic pope – pardon the blasphemous word – then Franz's ambition would be a stench in the nostrils of the Almighty, excommunication would be his fate in this world, the deepest abyss of hell in the other."
Count von Wedell, misinterpreting his master, thought "it was to laugh," but a look upon the War Lord's face caused him to change his attitude.
"Pay No. 103 five thousand marks, half in cash, half in reserve," said Wilhelm, disregarding the one-third clause for a purpose, no doubt. "I have no further commands for him at present."
Count Wedell stepped forward from the inner room, and the portières automatically closed before No. 103 had finished his obeisance.
CHAPTER XIX
BERTHA AND FRANZ
On Forbidden Ground – A Talk on Brain-Curves – Bertha is Afraid – Shades of Krupp – "Charity Covers – " – A Dramatic Exit
"Oh, Franz, tell me what it all means!"
If Bertha and the chief engineer had been real lovers, and had selected the moon for a place of rendezvous, they could not have been safer from intrusion than in the late Frederick Krupp's library with the door unlocked, for the "room sacred to His Majesty" was a sort of Bluebeard chamber into which no eye but the War Lord's and Bertha's must look.
Bertha had shown her mother a parcel of documents which Uncle Majesty had ordered her to read carefully. "I will go to the library, where I will be undisturbed," she said in her decisive tone, while the butler was serving early strawberries sent from Italy. Strawberries in January in a little Rhenish town! It reminds us that when Charles V., warrior and gourmet-gourmand, sucked an orange in winter-time, his Court was prostrate with astonishment and admiration.
And Alexis Orloff won Catherine the Great from his brother Gregory – temporarily, at least – by sending to the Semiramis of the North a plate of strawberries for the New Year. Yet nowadays any well-to-do person can indulge all the year round in the luxuries that made Charles and Catherine the envied of their Imperial class.
Bertha was in the War Lord's chair, for she felt very Olympian since she had returned from the Berlin Court, while Franz sat on the tabouretaffected by the Krupp heiress during the interviews with her guardian.
"What did Zara really mean?" repeated Bertha.
"Are you prepared to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" queried Franz.
Bertha Krupp moved uneasily in her high seat. Her mental stature had advanced rapidly under the War Lord's teachings, disguised as coaxings, and while the sound principles implanted in her bosom by a good mother were at bottom unimpaired, she was beginning to learn the subtle art of putting her conscience to sleep when occasion demanded – a touch of Machiavellism!
Just now she would have loved to shut up Franz, as she was wont to silence her mother by a word or look, though less rudely, perhaps, but her fondness for the man – though she was not at all in love with Franz – forced her to be frank with him.
"Speak as a friend to a friend," she said warmly.
"Well then – " began Franz.
Bertha covered his mouth with her hand. "A moment, please. May I tell Uncle Majesty?"
"What I have to say is no secret of mine and certainly it is not news to the War Lord. By all means tell him if you dare."
"If I dare?" echoed Bertha.
"My own words."
Franz spoke very earnestly, almost solemnly: "Will you hear me to the end, whether you like the tune or not?"
"If it relates to Zara's prophecies, I will," said Bertha. "But," she added falteringly, "you know I mustn't listen to criticism of my guardian."
Franz shrugged. "I quite understand. Forbidden ground even for your Mother."
Bertha felt the sting of reproval keenly, and did not like it. Indeed, at the moment she would have given up gladly a considerable portion of her wealth to be restored to Franz's unconditional and unrestricted good graces. So, humbling herself, she temporarily abandoned her high estate and again became the unsophisticated girl whom Franz used to call sister. "Do go on," she urged; "it was all so romantic, so strange, so mysterious, and you know I love to feel creepy."
Franz had risen and approached the great central window. "May I draw the curtains?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
"They must not see you. I will."
Bertha tugged the golden cords. "Working overtime again?" she queried, as she observed the blazing smoke-stacks.
"More's the pity, for every pound of steam going up those chimneys means so many lives lost, and for all those lives, Bertha, you will have to account to God."
"Old wives' tales," commented the Krupp heiress, as if the War Lord in person played souffleur. "On the contrary, as you well know, war preparedness means peace, means preservation; and with us in particular it means happiness and prosperity to the ten thousands of families in this favoured valley. It spells education, arts, music, care of children and of the sick and disabled. It means cheerfulness, such as ample wage and a future secured confer; it means care-free old age." As she recounted these benefits her enterprises were actually dispensing Bertha looked at the chief engineer with a slightly supercilious air.
"Well rehearsed," remarked Franz dryly.
"Oh, if you want to be rude – "
"I do," said Franz, taking hold of her wrist; "I am sick of all this lying palaver about good coming out of evil, and I want you to be sick of it too, Bertha."
The Krupp heiress leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "At the American Embassy I heard rather a quaint saying day before yesterday: 'Go as far as you like.'
"A most apt saying," admitted Franz. "Thank you for the licence. As I was going to point out, you did attach too little significance to Zara's words, thought them mere piffle of the kind for sale in necromancers' tents. There is enough of that, God knows, but do not lose sight of the fact that at all times and in all walks of life there have existed persons having the gift of prophecy. Who knows but Zara has?"
Bertha was now rigid with attention. She had moved knee from knee; her feet were set firmly on the carpet, while the upper part of her body straightened out. "I don't follow," she said almost pleadingly.
"Let me explain," continued Franz. "You and I and the vast majority of people can look into the past – a certain curvature of our brain facilitating the privilege. Another similar or dissimilar set of brain-cells, or a single curvature, might lift for us the veil that now obscures the future."
"The future?" gasped Bertha.
"Indeed, the future; and, practically considered, there is nothing so very extraordinary about it, for what will happen to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow, is in the making now. If, for instance, the Krupp works were going into bankruptcy a year hence, the unfavourable conditions that constitute the menace to our prosperity would be at their destructive work now. Do you follow?" added Franz.
"I think I do," said Bertha.
"Hence I say the gift of prophecy presupposes a correct interpretation of the past and present as well as the peculiar gift of extraordinary brain development – a rare gift, so sparsely distributed that in olden times prophets were credited with interpreting the will of the Almighty."
"Franz," cried Bertha, her face pallid and drawn, her hands twitching. "Oh, my God!" she screamed, as if nerve-shattered by an awful thought suddenly burst upon her; "you don't believe – no, you can't – ! Tell me that you do not think it was God's voice speaking through Zara?" And, as if to shut out some horrible vision, the Girl-Queen of Guns covered her face with both hands.
"It is not for me to pronounce on things I don't know," replied Franz. "Judged by what you have told me, Zara suited her prophecy for the most part to facts and to existing tendencies, conditions and ambitions on the part of political parties and high personages."
"She called me the coming arch-murderess of the age, insisted that the warrior-queens of past times, even the most heartless and most cruel, had been but amateurs compared with me in taking human lives – Oh, Franz, tell me it is not true! She was romancing, was she not? She lied to frighten me and to get a big trinkgeld."
"I wish it were so," said Franz earnestly; "but, unfortunately, she had a clear insight into the future as it may develop, unless you call a halt to incessant, ever-increasing, ever-new war preparations."
Many years ago I read a manuscript play by a Dutch author, in the opening scenes of which a Jew tried to sell another Jew a bill of goods. Shylock number two wanted the stuff badly, but calculated that by a show of indifference he might obtain them for a halfpenny less. On his part, Isaac was as eager to sell as the other was to buy, but the threatened impairment of his fortune called for strategy. So he feigned that he did not care a rap whether the goods changed hands or not, and the two shysters remained together a whole long act engaging in a variety of business that had nought to do with the original proposition, each, however, watching for opportunity to re-introduce it, now as a threat, again as a bait, and the third and seventh and tenth time in jest. So Bertha, having once disposed of the war preparation bogey, according to Uncle Majesty's suggestion, now returned to it in slightly different form. She was determined to discount Zara's prophecies at any cost.
Getting ready to fight was tantamount to backing down; spending billions for guns and ammunition and chemicals and fortifications and espionage and war scares and whatnots was mere pretext for keeping the pot boiling in the workman's cottage, and the golden eagles rolling in the financier's cash drawer, and so on ad infinitum. When Bertha had finished she thought Zara's prophecies very poor stuff.
Franz came in for the full quota of that sort of argument out of a bad conscience so warped by hypocrisy. Our Lady of the Guns no doubt believed every word she said, or rather repeated – dear woman's way! She always firmly trusts in what suits her, logic, proof to the contrary, stubborn facts notwithstanding. Instinct or intuition, she calls it.
"That is no way to dispose of so grave a subject," said Franz.
"But what can I do?"
"Prevent more wholesale family disintegration, forestall future mass-murder, future dunging of the earth with blood and human bones."
Franz put both hands on the girl's shoulders. "Bertha," he said impressively, "make up your mind not to sign any more death-warrants, stop making merchandise intended to rob millions of life and limb and healthy minds, while those coming after them are destined physical or moral cripples that one man's ambition may thrive."
"Shut down the works, you mean?" cried Bertha; and, womanlike, indulged once more the soothing music of self-deception: "It would ruin the Ruhr Valley, throw a hundred thousand and more out of work; and what could they do, being skilled only in the industries created by my father and grandfather?
"Papa, Uncle Alfred, the first Krupp – God bless their souls! – were they founders of murder-factories, as you suggest? No, a thousand times no. Their skill, their genius, their enterprise has been the admiration of the world. Everybody admits that they were men animated by the highest motives and principles. They made Germany."
"I don't deny it; I underline every word you have said, Bertha. The foundations for Germany's greatness were laid within a stone's throw of this window; much of her supremacy in politics and economics was conceived between these four walls. But now that the goal is achieved, that the Fatherland enjoys unprecedented wealth and prosperity – let well enough alone."
"You talk as if I were the War Lord!" cried Bertha.
"You are his right hand: the War Lady."
"He is my guardian, my master."
"Only for a while. You don't have to submit to his dictation when of age."
Carried away by emotion, Franz had spoken harshly at times, but now his tone became coaxing.
"When you come into your own, promise me, Bertha, to accept no more orders for armament and arms of any kind. Dedicate the greatest steel plant of the world to enterprises connected with progress, with the advancement of the human race! Build railways, Eiffel towers for observation, machinery of all sorts, ploughs and other agricultural implements, but for God's sake taboo once and for all preparations for murder and destruction!"
Bertha covered her ears. "Don't use such words; they are uncalled for, inappropriate." Then, with a woman's ill-logic, she repeated the last. "'Destruction' – you don't take into consideration what your 'destructive' factors have done for my people, what they are doing for humanity right along. Auntie Majesty thinks our charities and social work superior to Rockefeller's, and God forbid that I ever stop or curtail them."
"Yes! Think of your charities," said Franz; "take the Hackenberg case. What is he – a soldier blasted and crippled in mind and body by the war of 1870. Essen's industry made a wreck of Heinrich, and he costs you one mark a day to keep for the rest of his life; three hundred and sixty-five marks per year, paid so many decades, what percentage of your father's profits in the war of 1870-71 does the sum total represent?"
"A fraction of a thousandth per cent., perhaps. Another fraction pays for the son Johann's keep, another for that of the two younger boys, another for Gretchen, etc., etc."
"But if there had been no war, Heinrich would not have been disabled, and consequently would not have burdened charity with human wreckage! Do you see my point?"
"Go on," said Bertha.
"Because you are used to it, maybe the Hackenberg case does not particularly impress you. You were not born when Heinrich sallied forth in the name of patriotism. But reflect: there are thousands of charitable institutions like yours, not so richly endowed, not so splendid to look upon, but charnel-houses for Essen war victims just the same. And all filled to overflowing – even as the Krupp treasury is. Yet that Franco-German war, that made the Krupps and necessitated the asylums and hospitals, was Lilliputian compared with the Goliath war now in the making – partly thanks to you, Bertha."
"But I have told you time and again there will be no war, that I have the highest authority for saying so!" cried Bertha angrily.
"Authority," mocked Franz. "The French of 1870 had the no-war 'authority' of Napoleon III., the Germans that of William I., before the edict went forth to kill, to maim, to destroy, to strew the earth with corpses and fill the air with lamentations! So it will be this month, this year, next year – for history ever repeats itself – until the hour for aggression, which will be miscalled a defence of our holiest principles and interests, has struck.
"The air pressure has increased," continued Franz, parting the window curtains; "see the lowering clouds! And watch the storm coming up, lashing them in all directions. West and east they are spreading, and, look, north too! They are falling on Northern France, on the Lowlands and Russia like a black pall."
"You prophesy a universal war?" shrieked Bertha.
"The answer is in your ledger. For thirty and more years your firm has been arming the universe. Since your father's death you have distributed armaments on a vaster scale than ever, and now, I understand, the pace that killeth is to be still more increased.
"When you have furnished Germany with all the guns, the ammunition, the chemicals, the flying machines, the cruisers, the submarines, the hand grenades – what then? Presto! a pretext of the 1870 pattern, or something similar, and Zara's prophecy will come true as sure as light will burst from this Welsbach now."
Franz touched a button.
"Voilà, Madame War Lady," he said, bowing himself out.
