In 1886, while he was stationed in St. Petersburg, Bülow married. While his numerous love affairs, described in detail in his memoirs, had been matters of passionate dalliance, his marriage, undertaken at thirty-six, was a matter of career. His bride was born Princess Maria Camporeale, the daughter of Donna Laura Minghetti, the grande dame of Roman society. She had married, almost in girlhood, an older German diplomat, Count Karl Dönhoff, with whom she had three children. Bülow met her in 1875 in Florence, then again in Vienna. He admired “her wonderful eyes, black eyes,”30 and her knowledge of German literature—“she had penetrated deeply into my pet philosopher, Schopenhauer.” In 1885 she divorced her husband, and in 1886 she married Bülow. “For once in his life,31 Bülow has met a more skillful intriguer than himself,” chortled Holstein. “This was the little Countess Dönhoff-Camporeale, who, after a marriage lasting sixteen years, divorced her husband to marry Bülow.... Bülow is certain that the little countess has never given a thought to anyone but him.” Wickedly, Holstein then proceeded to list her previous lovers.
The new Maria von Bülow took a hand in her husband’s career. In 1888, Herbert asked him whether he would prefer to go as minister to Bucharest or to Washington. Frau Bülow objected to the thought of a cold and stormy ocean between herself and her mother and children, so Bülow went to Bucharest for the next five years. There, he campaigned tirelessly for further advancement. His sights were set on Rome, where, through his wife, his connections were excellent. His stepfather-in-law ruled Roman society. King Humbert (Umberto) was persuaded to tell Kaiser William II that he would be pleased if the brilliant and charming Bernhard von Bülow became Ambassador in Rome.
On Monday morning, June 21, 1897, the beginning of a week during which newspapers in Rome were filled with descriptions of the celebrations in England of the old regina inglesa’s Diamond Jubilee, the German Ambassador, Bernhard von Bülow, found a telegram from Berlin lying on his desk at the Palazzo Caffarelli. The message commanded him to present himself as soon as possible to the Kaiser on board the Hohenzollern at Kiel. Bülow left Rome the next day. In Frankfurt, he changed trains, and while waiting the hour and a half for the train to Berlin, he had a conversation with Philip von Eulenburg, who had driven over from one of his Rhineland estates. The two men walked out of the station and sat beside a public fountain; Bülow remembered staring at a statue of Bacchus covered with vines. Eulenburg’s message was simple and urgent: his friend must accept the Kaiser’s commission and become State Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Assuming that Bülow would agree, Eulenburg added counsel on how to deal with the Emperor: “Only if you take the Kaiser32 in the right way can you be of use to your country.... William II takes everything personally.... He wants to teach others, but learns unwillingly himself.... He loves glory and is ambitious and jealous. In order to get him to accept an idea, you must act as though the idea was his. You must make everything easy for him. He readily encourages others to take bold steps but throws them overboard if they fail. Never forget that His Majesty needs praise.... He is as grateful for it as a good and clever child.”
Stopping over in Berlin, Bülow went to the Kaiserhof Hotel for a haircut and shampoo and then began a round of calls. Holstein, whom Bülow saw first, would have preferred that Marschall remain Secretary of State because Marschall was easy to manage. But Holstein knew William II was determined to be rid of Marschall, and the wily First Counselor preferred Bülow to other possible successors. Holstein’s fear was that the Kaiser might summon Herbert Bismarck. “Ever since his apostasy33 from the House of Bismarck,” Bülow wrote, “Holstein on sleepless nights had terrifying visions of Herbert, with his father like a wrathful Titan standing behind him.” Accordingly, Holstein begged Bülow to accept the office. Next, Bülow visited Marschall, whom he found in bad humor. Marschall was angry not at Bülow, but at those whom he suspected of undermining his position with the Emperor. Like Holstein, he declared himself pleased that the Ambassador in Rome would be his successor. If possible, he said, he would like to be sent as Ambassador to Constantinople or Rome itself. Bülow promised to do what he could. Then Bülow went to see the Chancellor. He found Prince Hohenlohe, at seventy-eight, “older and weaker34... with bowed head... his aged hand, with its very prominent bluish veins, caressing” a pale-brown dachshund. “Here I stand, a leafless trunk,” the Chancellor greeted Bülow in a whispery voice. He declared his own wish to leave the Chancellorship as soon as possible, and mentioned that he assumed that Bülow eventually would be his successor. Bülow replied that if this were true, he would be grateful for every day the Prince remained in office while he prepared himself. In fact, Hohenlohe continued another three years.
On Saturday, June 26, the day of the Diamond Jubilee Naval Review in England, Bülow arrived in Kiel and went on board the Hohenzollern. He found the Kaiser alone, pacing the upper deck. “My dear Bernhard,”35 William said, holding out his hand in welcome, “I’m sorry for you, but you must go to the front. The Badener [Marschall] has betrayed me.” He accused Marschall of intriguing behind his back with opposition parties in the Reichstag and with attempting to diminish Imperial prerogatives. The job of the next State Secretary, he said, would be “to build a fleet36 for our defense and security without becoming involved in a war with England through the building of this fleet.” “Not a very simple matter,” Bülow noted to himself, and asked for five weeks to make up his mind. “Dear me,” exclaimed the Kaiser, disappointed, “I thought we were going to be inseparable from now onwards.” He granted Bülow’s leave.
On August 3 Bülow reported again to the Kaiser at Kiel and accepted the office. William was in high spirits. “Now, what about my ships?”37 he asked, and the two men went ashore for a long walk among the sand hills to discuss the question. Bülow declared that he understood that the recent development of German industry, commerce, and shipping on the high seas must be protected. “Was that possible without coming to blows with England? It would certainly not be easy, as the policy of England towards economic competitors and especially seafaring competitors in the past had clearly shown. The best assurance of success would be a quiet, careful, and, if I might use the expression, elastic policy on our side.” “Agreed, agreed,”38 said the Kaiser, delighted. “Now that’s your job.”
Disingenuously protesting his sacrifice in leaving Rome, Bülow took up the job he had been seeking for years. He took to Berlin the French chef of the Palazzo Caffarelli and proclaimed the fellow’s remarkable loyalty. “When one has shared bright days39 with his masters,” Bülow quoted the chef as saying, “one does not quit them in their misery.” Bülow’s transition to Berlin was smooth. He was amiable, charming, always smiling, a splendid host, a talented raconteur. His wife was equally charming, elegant, and a close friend of the Dowager Empress Frederick. Bülow seemed to have no enemies. He had managed to remain close to the Bismarcks as well as to the Court. He had an excellent relationship with Hohenlohe. The Kaiser gushed in quick praise. “I adore him,”40 William wrote to Eulenburg on August 20, only two weeks after Bülow had moved into the Wilhelmstrasse. “My God, what a difference from the South German traitor [Marschall].” Two days later, Bülow gave Eulenburg his first impressions of his new master: “As a man,41 His Majesty [is] charming, touching, enchanting to the point of adoration. As a ruler, [he] is threatened by temperament, lack of nuance... by a preponderance of will... over calm, clear reflection... unless he is surrounded by wise and especially by completely loyal and trustworthy servants.” Six months later, Bülow waxed more eloquent to Eulenburg: “He is so bedeutend42 [distinguished]!! Of all the great kings and princes, he is by far the most significant Hohenzollern who has ever lived. He combines, in a manner such as I have never known before, geniality, the truest and most profound geniality, with the clearest good sense. He possesses a fantasy which raises me on eagle’s wings above all pettiness and thereby gives me the clearest appreciation of the possible and the realizable. And, added to that, what energy! What memory! What swiftness and
certainty of viewpoint! Today at the privy council I was simply overwhelmed!” William and Bülow each had found his man. The master had found the servant who would permit him his theatricality, overlook his casual attitude toward work, indulge his love of anecdote and gossip and keep him afloat on the tide of praise essential to his well-being. The servant had found a master whom he could manipulate without ever having to take an unpopular position or stand up and say no. “Bernhard the Obliging,” he became known as to those around him. Bülow did not contest this; better to prevent by suppleness than lose by firmness, he believed. Often, he did what he liked even when the Kaiser had said no, knowing that William often changed his mind or frequently forgot what he had said in the first place.
Bülow’s relationship with Hohenlohe never soured, partly because of Bülow’s charm, but more because the Chancellor, old, sick, indolent, and passive, chose to overlook that he was being ignored. Now it was Bülow whom the Kaiser called on every morning and the Chancellor on whom he called only occasionally. Previously, State Secretaries for Foreign Affairs had been only functionaries; foreign policy had been made by the Chancellor and the monarch. Now, Bülow took control, making policy with Holstein and William, sending instructions to ambassadors, filling diplomatic posts, all without consulting Prince Hohenlohe. The Chancellor, reported the Austrian ambassador in 1899, was now “leading a contemplative existence.”43
Within the Foreign Office, Bülow was welcomed. He was the first professional diplomat to take the reins since Bismarck. He gave the Wilhelmstrasse a sense of professionalism and energy which it had lacked under Marschall. The key figure was Holstein. Bülow and Holstein had known each other for a quarter of a century, since twenty-three-year-old Bernhard had entered the diplomatic service. Holstein had kept an eye on the young man, realizing that the son of a State Secretary might be put to use. Bülow was always aware of Holstein’s power and took care to propitiate it. Each understood that the other might be a powerful ally; neither wholly trusted the other. Bülow sensed that Holstein was keeping track of his own complicated efforts at self-promotion and he knew that the First Counselor disliked his continued relationship with the Bismarcks. In 1894, when Eulenburg first suggested to Bülow that he become State Secretary, Bülow emphatically declared that he would not accept the office as long as Holstein remained in the Wilhelmstrasse. When, in 1897, Bülow became State Secretary, Eulenburg, who was responsible for Bülow’s promotion, encouraged him to deal firmly with Holstein from the beginning. “Build your nest44 as you need and want it,” he urged. “Even the monster of the Labyrinth begins to moan, groveling before your feet.” Bülow’s position was strengthened by a coolness between the Kaiser and the reclusive First Counselor. In April 1897, William told Eulenburg that Holstein was “an old man full of specters45 and hallucinations for whom I broke many, many lances; a man who now and then had made the Wilhelmstrasse crazier than it already was.” The Kaiser was pleased when Bülow took charge of the Foreign Office. “The sway of the counselors46 has almost stopped,” he announced triumphantly to Eulenburg in 1899. “Who talks nowadays of Herr von Holstein? What is Herr von Holstein?... Since Bulow now has the reins in his hands, one no longer knows the names of his advisers.”
Early in October 1900, the Kaiser summoned Bülow to Hubertsstock, his hunting retreat. Taking the State Secretary for a walk on the bank of Lake Werbellin, William brought the subject around to Prince Hohenlohe’s health. The Chancellor’s heart trouble was worsening; he had suffered two bad attacks within a month; Hohenlohe considered himself absolutely unable to continue in office and was begging for dismissal. Turning to Bülow, the Kaiser asked him point-blank: “Would you accept47 the succession?” The great moment in Bülow’s life had come, but, knowing the prize was his, he turned coy. Had His Majesty considered other candidates? he asked. “Candidly, for me48 personally Phil Eulenburg would be much the most acceptable successor,” William replied. “He is my best friend. I am his ‘Highest.’ But I do not know whether he is equal to it. I have the impression that he himself doubts it.... He has used up too much of his nervous energy in my service to be able to appear before the Reichstag.” The State Secretary departed Hubertsstock having advised that William attempt to prolong Hohenlohe’s tenure as long as possible. When he departed, the Kaiserin gave him her hand and said softly, “Do accept.”49 There was not a chance that Bülow would not. Shortly afterward, on October 16, 1900, Bülow was called to the telephone in Berlin:
“Secretary of State Count Bülow speaking.”50
“Kaiser William speaking. Hohenlohe has told me that he cannot possibly carry on any longer. Come to Homburg.”
Bülow went immediately, and the Kaiser did him the honor of meeting his train on the platform. After a brief talk, William gave him a hearty handshake and declared ebulliently, “My dear Chancellor,51 we shall meet at luncheon.” Congratulations poured in. The Empress pressed his hand again and gave him fervent thanks. Herbert Bismarck wrote to express “satisfaction that Chlodwig, the old mummy,52 has finally been removed and that you have been appointed Chancellor.” As Chancellor, Bülow moved immediately to confirm control over German foreign policy. “Under Prince Hohenlohe,53 I had administered our foreign policy,” he wrote. Upon appointment as Chancellor he had no intention of allowing this critical role to fall into the hands of a new State Secretary at the Foreign Office. A replacement for himself as State Secretary was necessary; the position was first offered pro forma to Holstein, who, as Bülow confidently expected, declined. Holstein then made personnel suggestions which irritated Bülow: “Holstein... suggested54 several completely unqualified candidates as he hoped that the appointment of an ineffectual Secretary of State would give him a free hand in his swervings and intrigues.” Bülow quashed this by persuading the Kaiser to elevate his own stolid Under Secretary, Baron von Richthofen, a “traditional Prussian” known for his “sobriety, objectivity,55 bee-like industry, conscientiousness and loyalty.” Richthofen was exactly the kind of official the Kaiser could not bear listening to, but Bülow did not intend to permit the State Secretary to get anywhere near the Emperor. As in Bismarck’s time, the Chancellor would once again be the maker of German foreign policy; the State Secretary would return to the role of instrument of the Chancellor.
To avert the possibility of a clash at the Foreign Office between Richthofen and Holstein, Bülow quickly made clear that he considered the State Secretary far less useful and important than the First Counselor. Bülow’s support for Holstein contained a broad element of self-interest; Holstein could be far more destructive as an enemy outside the Foreign Office than while he remained at his desk in the Political Department. With Bülow’s permission, Holstein continued to write private letters and transmit confidential documents to German ambassadors without troubling to show them to the State Secretary. Privately, the old Geheimrat trumpeted his victory. “Bülow gives me his full trust56...,” he crowed in June 1905. “Richthofen is completely excluded, although he is useful to Bulow in parliamentary matters and as a intermediary with other ministries. From time to time, he inquires of me about the status of affairs.”
As Chancellor, Bülow gave up tobacco, coffee, beer, and after-dinner liqueur, and limited his intake of alcohol to a half-bottle of red wine at dinner. Every morning, he threw himself into thirty-five minutes of rigorous exercise, including twenty-five knee bends. In good weather he took a daily ride through the Tiergarten, and every Sunday afternoon he tramped for several hours through the woods outside Berlin. Bülow, who took enormous pride in his horsemanship, reported that one of his proudest days came in 1905 when, at age fifty-six, he led his old regiment, the King William I Hussars, past the Kaiser on parade, first at a trot, then at a gallop.fn2 At the close of this exercise, the Emperor handed him a brevet as Major General.
Bülow did not leave making a good impression entirely to charm. The Foreign Office press department was required to provide him with sketches of people he was to meet. In one such instance, the Chancello
r was dining with an important newspaper owner whose father had played a role in the events of 1848. Bülow, prepared by the briefing, greeted the son by declaring his regret that “decades had to pass57 before I might make the acquaintance of the son of a man whom I revered from childhood as a great patriot.” Following this meeting, the press lord and his newspaper lined up solidly behind the Chancellor. Bülow, meanwhile, laughingly confessed to his staff that he had never before heard of either the press lord or his father.
Bülow gave priority in his daily schedule to two concerns: his relationship with the Kaiser and his own comfort. Paperwork and staff discussions were limited to the hour between noon and one P.M. and visits from foreign ambassadors and other dignitaries to the hour between six P.M. and seven P.M. The morning was left free for the Kaiser, who when he was in Berlin paid the Chancellor a daily visit at nine A.M. to walk in the garden of the Chancellor’s palace. Bülow encouraged William to seek him out and pass along all his thoughts. William found this invitation irresistible and on certain days the Kaiser walked with Bülow in the morning, met him again for lunch, and dined with him in the evening. Where William was not concerned, the Chancellor bestirred himself less vigorously. Nothing was allowed to interrupt his lunch hour, his evening program, his night’s rest, or his vacations.