Former colleagues who have risen to eminence—Kiderlin-Waechter—Aehrenthal—Colonel Klepsch—The discomfiture of an inquisitive journalist—Origin of certain Russian scares—Tokyo—Dulness of Geisha dinners—Japanese culinary curiosities—"Musical Chairs"—Lack of colour in Japan—The Tokugawa dynasty—Japanese Gardens—The transplanted suburban Embassy house—Cherry-blossom—Japanese Politeness—An unfortunate incident in Rome—Eastern courtesy—The country in Japan—An Imperial duck catching party—An up-to-date Tokyo house—A Shinto Temple—Linguistic difficulties at a dinner-party—The economical colleague—Japan defaced by advertisements.
Petrograd was the only capital at which I was stationed in which there was a diplomatic table d'hôte. In one of the French restaurants there, a room was specially set apart for the diplomats, and here the "chers collègues" foregathered nightly, when they had no other engagements. When a Spaniard and a Dane, a Roumanian and a Dutchman, a Hungarian and an Englishman dine together frequently, it becomes a subject of thankfulness that the universal use of the French language as a means of international communication has mitigated the linguistic difficulties brought about by the ambitious tower-builders of Babel.
Two men whom I met frequently at that diplomatic table d'hôte rose afterwards to important
{306}
positions in their own countries. They were Baron von Kiderlin-Waechter, the German, and Baron von Aehrenthal, the Austrian, both of whom became Ministers for Foreign Affairs in their respective countries, and both of whom are now dead. Kiderlin-Waechter arrived in Petrograd as quite a young man with the reputation of being Bismarck's favourite and most promising pupil. Though a South German by birth, Kiderlin-Waechter had acquired an overbearing and dictatorial manner of the most approved Prussian type. When a number of young men, all of whom are on very friendly terms with each other, constantly meet, there is naturally a good deal of fun and chaff passed to and fro between them. Diplomats are no exception to this rule, and the fact that the ten young men talking together may be of ten different nationalities is no bar to the interchange of humorous personalities, thanks to the convenient French language, which lends itself peculiarly to "persiflage."
Germans can never understand the form of friendly banter which we term chaff, and always resent it deeply. I have known German diplomats so offended at a harmless joke that they have threatened to challenge the author of it to a duel. I should like to pay a belated tribute to the memory of the late Count Lovendal, Danish Minister in Petrograd; peace to his ashes! This kindly, tactful, middle-aged man must during my time in Petrograd have stopped at least eight duels. People in trouble went straight to Count Lovendal, and this
{307}
shrewd, kind-hearted, experienced man of the world heard them with infinite patience, and then always gave them sound advice. As years went on, Count Lovendal came to be a sort of recognised Court of Honour, to whom all knotty and delicate points were referred. He, if anyone, should have "Blessed are the peacemakers" inscribed on his tomb. At least four of the duels he averted were due to the inability of Germans to stand chaff. Kiderlin-Waechter, for instance, was for ever taking offence at harmless jokes, and threatening swords and pistols in answer to them. He was a very big, gross-looking, fair-haired man; with exactly the type of face that a caricaturist associates with the average Prussian.
His face was slashed with a generous allowance of the scars of which Germans are so proud, as testifying to their prowess in their student-duelling days. I think that it was the late Sir Wilfrid Lawson who, referring to the beer-drinking habits of German students and their passionate love of face-slashing, described them as living in a perpetual atmosphere of "scars and swipes." Though from South Germany, Kiderlin snapped out his words with true "Preussische Grobheit" in speaking German. Fortunately, it is impossible to obtain this bullying effect in the French language. It does not lend itself to it. I should be guilty of exaggeration were I to say that Kiderlin-Waechter was wildly adored by his foreign colleagues. He became Minister for Foreign Affairs of the German
{308}
Empire, but made the same mistake as some of his predecessors, notably Count Herbert Bismarck, had done. They attributed Bismarck's phenomenal success to his habitual dictatorial, bullying manner. This was easily copied; they forgot the genius behind the bully, which could not be copied, and did not realise that Bismarck's tremendous brain had not fallen to their portion. Kiderlin-Waechter's tenure of office was a short one; he died very suddenly in 1912. He was a violent Anglophobe.
Baron von Aehrenthal was a very different stamp of man. He was of Semitic origin, and in appearance was a good-looking, tall, slim, dark young fellow with very pleasing manners. Some people indeed thought his manners too pleasant, and termed them subservient. I knew Aehrenthal very well indeed, and liked him, but I never suspected that under that very quiet exterior there lay the most intense personal ambition. He became Austro-Hungarian Minister for Foreign Affairs in 1907, being raised to the rank of Count next year. This quiet, sleepy-mannered man began embarking on a recklessly bold foreign policy, and, to the surprise of those who fancied that they knew him well, exhibited a most domineering spirit. The old Emperor Francis Joseph's mental powers were failing, and it was Aehrenthal who persuaded him to put an end to the understanding with Russia under which the status quo in the Balkan States was guaranteed, and to astonish Europe in 1908 by proclaiming the annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina
{309}
to the Austrian Empire. This step, owing to the seething discontent it aroused in Bosnia, led directly to the catastrophe of Sarajevo on June 28, 1914, and plunged Europe into the most terrible war of history. Aehrenthal, whether intentionally or not, played directly into the hands of the Pan-Germanic party, and succeeded in tying his own country, a pliant vassal, to the chariot-wheels of Berlin. It was Aehrenthal who brought the immemorially old Hapsburg Monarchy crashing to the ground and by his foreign policy caused the proud Austrian Empire to collapse like a house of cards. He did not live to see the final results of his work, for he died in 1912.
Colonel Klepsch, the Austro-Hungarian Military Attaché at Petrograd, another habitué of the diplomatic table d'hôte, was a most remarkable man. He knew more of the real state of affairs in Russia, and of the inner workings and intentions of the Russian Government, than any other foreigner in the country, and his information was invariably correct. Nearly all the foreign Ambassadors consulted Colonel Klepsch as to the probable trend of affairs in Russia, and at times he called on them and volunteered pieces of information. It was well known that his source of intelligence was a feminine one, and experience had proved that it was always to be relied upon. To this day I do not know whether this mysterious, taciturn man was at times used as a convenient mouthpiece by the Russian Government, at the instigation of a
{310}
certain person to whom he was devotedly attached; whether he acted on instructions from his own Ambassador, or if he took the steps he did on his own initiative. This tall, red-haired, silent man, with his uncanny knowledge of every detail of what was happening in the country, will always remain an enigma to me.
I mentioned earlier in these reminiscences that Lord Dufferin on one occasion accomplished the difficult feat of turning an English newspaper correspondent out of his house with the most charming courtesy.
After an interval of nearly forty years, I can without indiscretion say how this came about. The person in question, whom we will call Mr. Q., was an exceedingly enterprising journalist, the correspondent of a big London daily. He was also pretty unscrupulous as to the methods he employed in gathering information. It is quite obviously the duty of a newspaper correspondent to collect information for his paper. It is equally clearly the duty of those to whom official secrets are entrusted to prevent their becoming public property; so here we have conflicting interests. At times it happens that an "incident" arises between two Governments apparently trivial in itself, but capable of being fanned into such a fierce flame by popular opinion as to make it difficult for either Government to recede from the position they had originally taken up. The Press screams loudly on both sides, and every Government shrinks from
{311}
incurring the unpopularity which a charge of betraying the national interests would bring upon it. Experience has shown that in these cases the difficulties can usually be smoothed down, provided the whole matter be kept secret, and that neither the public nor the Press of either of the two countries concerned have an inkling of the awkward situation that has arisen. An indiscreet or hysterical Press can blow a tiny spark into a roaring conflagration and work up popular feeling to fever-pitch. It may surprise people to learn that barely twenty years ago such a situation arose between our own country and another European Power (not Germany). Those in charge of the negotiations on both sides very wisely determined that the matter should be concealed absolutely from the public and the Press of both countries, and not one word about it was allowed to leak out. Otherwise the situation might have been one of extreme gravity, for it was again one of those cases where neither Government could give way without being accused of pusillanimity. As it was, the matter was settled amicably in a week, and to this day very few people know that this very serious difficulty ever occurred.
Nearly forty years ago, just such a situation had arisen between us and the Russian Government; but the Ambassador was convinced that he could smooth it away provided that the whole thing were kept secret.
Mr. Q. was a first-rate journalist, and his flair
{312}
as a newspaperman told him that something was wrong. From the Russians he could learn nothing; they were as close as wax; so Mr. Q. turned his attention to the Chancery of the British Embassy. His methods were simple. He gained admission to the Chancery on some pretext or another, and then walking about the room, and talking most volubly, he cast a roving eye over any papers that might be lying about on the tables. In all Chanceries a book called the Register is kept in which every document received or sent out is entered, with, of course, its date, and a short summary of its contents. It is a large book, and reposes on its own high desk. Ours stood in a window overlooking the Neva. Mr. Q. was not troubled with false delicacy. Under pretence of admiring the view over the river, he attempted to throw a rapid eye over the Register. A colleague of mine, as a gentle hint, removed the Register from under Mr. Q.'s very nose, and locked it up in the archive press. Mr. Q., however, was not thin-skinned. He came back again and again, till the man became a positive nuisance. We always cleared away every paper before he was allowed admittance. I was only twenty-two or twenty-three then, and I devised a strictly private scheme of my own for Mr. Q.'s discomfiture. All despatches received from the Foreign Office in those days were kept folded in packets of ten, with a docket on each, giving a summary of its contents. I prepared two despatches for Mr. Q.'s private eye and, after much
{313}
cogitation, settled that they should be about Afghanistan, which did not happen to be the particular point in dispute between the two Governments at that time. I also decided on a rhyming docket. It struck me as a pleasing novelty, and I thought the jingle would impress itself on Mr. Q.'s memory, for he was meant to see this bogus despatch. I took eight sheets of foolscap, virgin, spotless, unblackened, folded them in the orthodox fashion, and docketed them in a way I remember to this day. It ran: first the particular year, then "Foreign Office No. 3527. Secret and Confidential. Dated March 3. Received March 11." Then came the rhyming docket,
"General Kaufman's rumoured plan
    To make Abdurrahman Khan
        Ruler of Afghanistan."
Under that I wrote in red ink in a different hand, with a fine pen,
"Urgent. Instructions already acted on. See further instructions re Afghanistan in No. 3534."
I was only twenty-two then, and my sense of responsibility was not fully developed, or I should not have acted so flightily. It still strikes me though as an irresistibly attractive baited hook to offer to an inquisitive newspaperman. I grieve to say that I also wrote a "fake" decypher of a purely apocryphal code telegram purporting to have come from London. This was also on the subject of
{314}
Afghanistan. It struck me at the time as a perfectly legitimate thing to do, in order to throw this Paul Pry off the scent, for the Ambassador had impressed on us all the vital importance of not disclosing the real matter in dispute. I put these flagrant forgeries in a drawer of my table and waited. I had not to wait long. My colleagues having all gone out to luncheon, I was alone in the Chancery one day, when Mr. Q.'s card was brought in to me. I kept him waiting until I had cleared every single despatch from the tables and had locked them up. I also locked up the Register, but put an eight-year-old one, exactly similar in appearance, in its place, opening it at a date two days earlier than the actual date, in order that Mr. Q. might not notice that the page (and "to-morrow's" page as well) was already filled up, and the bogus despatch and fake telegram from my drawer were duly laid on the centre table. At twenty-two I was a smooth-faced youth, in appearance, I believe, much younger than my real age. Mr. Q. came in. He had the "Well, old man" style, accompanied by a thump on the back, which I peculiarly detest. He must have blessed his luck in finding such a simple youth in sole charge of the Chancery. Mr. Q. pursued his usual tactics. He talked volubly in a loud voice, walking about the room meanwhile. The idiotic boy smoked cigarettes, and gaped inanely. Mr. Q. went as usual to the window where the Register lay in order to admire the view, and the pudding-brained youth noticed nothing, but lit
{315}
a fresh cigarette. That young fool never saw that Mr. Paul Pry read unblushingly half a column of the eight-year-old Register (How it must have puzzled him!) under his very eyes. Mr. Q. then went to the centre table, where he had, of course, noticed the two papers lying, and proceeded to light a cigar. That cigar must have drawn very badly, for Mr. Q. had occasion to light it again and again, bending well over the table as he did so. He kept the unsuspicious youth engaged in incessant conversation meanwhile. So careless and stupid a boy ought never to have been left in charge of important documents. Finally Mr. Q., having gained all the information for which he had been thirsting so long, left in a jubilant frame of mind, perfectly unconscious that he had been subjected to the slightest crural tension.
When the Councillor of Embassy returned, I made a clean breast of what I had done, and showed him the bogus despatch and telegram I had contrived. Quite rightly, I received a very severe reprimand. I was warned against ever acting in such an irregular fashion again, under the direst penalties. In extenuation, I pointed out to the Councillor that the inquisitive Mr. Q. was now convinced that our difficulty with Russia was over Afghanistan.
I further added that should anyone be dishonourable enough to come into the Chancery and deliberately read confidential documents which he knew were not intended for his eye, I clearly could not
{316}
be held responsible for any false impressions he might derive from reading them. That, I was told sharply, was no excuse for my conduct. After this "official wigging," the Councillor invited me to dine with him that night, when we laughed loudly over Mr. Q.'s discomfiture. That person became at length such a nuisance that "his name was put on the gate," and he was refused admission to the Embassy.
The great London daily which Mr. Q. represented at Petrograd published some strong articles on the grave menace to the Empire which a change of rulers in Afghanistan might bring about; coupled with Cassandra-like wails over the purblind British statesmen who were wilfully shutting their eyes to this impending danger, as well as to baneful Russian machinations on our Indian frontier. There were also some unflattering allusions to Abdurrahman Khan. I, knowing that the whole story had originated in my own brain, could not restrain a chuckle whilst perusing these jeremiads. After reading some particularly violent screed, the Councillor of Embassy would shake his head at me. "This is more of your work, you wretched boy!" After an interval of forty years this little episode can be recounted without harm.
Talking of newspaper enterprise, many years later, when the Emperor Alexander III died, the editor of a well-known London evening paper, a great friend of mine, told me in confidence of a journalistic "scoop" he was meditating. Alexander III
{317}
had died at Livadia in the Crimea, and his body was to make a sort of triumphal progress through Russia. The editor (he is no longer with us, but when I term him "Harry" I shall be revealing his identity to the few) was sending out a Frenchman as special correspondent, armed with a goodly store of roubles, and instructions to get himself engaged as temporary assistant to the undertaker in charge of the Emperor's funeral. This cost, I believe, a considerable sum, but the Frenchman, having entered on his gruesome duties, was enabled to furnish the London evening paper with the fullest details of all the funeral ceremonies.
The reason the younger diplomats foregathered so in Petrograd was that, as I said before, Petrograd was to all intents and purposes extra-European. Apart from its charming society, the town, qua town, offered but few resources. The younger Continental diplomats felt the entire absence of cafés, of music-halls, and of places of light entertainment very acutely; so they were thrown on each other's society. In Far Eastern posts such as Pekin or Tokyo, the diplomats live entirely amongst themselves. For a European, there are practically no resources whatever in Tokyo. No one could possibly wish to frequent a Japanese theatre, or a Japanese restaurant, when once the novelty had worn off, and even Geisha entertainments are deadly dull to one who cannot understand a word of the language. Let us imagine a party of Europeans arriving at some fashionable
{318}
Japanese restaurant for a Geisha entertainment. They will, of course, remove their shoes before proceeding upstairs. I was always unfortunate enough to find on these occasions one or more holes in my socks gaping blatantly. In time one learns in Japan to subject one's socks to a close scrutiny in order to make sure that they are intact, for everyone must be prepared to remove his shoes at all hours of the day. We will follow the Europeans up to a room on the upper floor, tastefully arranged in Japanese fashion, and spotlessly neat and clean. The temperature in this room in the winter months would be Arctic, with three or four "fire-pots" containing a few specks of mildly-glowing charcoal waging a futile contest against the penetrating cold.
The room is apparently empty, but from behind the sliding-panels giggles and titters begin, gradually increasing in volume until the panels slide back, and a number of self-conscious overdressed children step into the room, one taking her place beside each guest. These are "Micos"; little girls being trained as professional Geishas. The European conception of a Geisha is a totally wrong one. They are simply entertainers; trained singers, dancers, and story-tellers. The guests seat themselves clumsily and uncomfortably on the floor and the dinner begins. Japanese dishes are meant to please the eye, which is fortunate, for they certainly do not appeal to the palate. I invariably drew one of the big pots of flowers which always
{319}
decorate these places close up to me, and consigned to its kindly keeping all the delicacies of the Japanese cuisine which were beyond my assimilative powers, such as slices of raw fish sprinkled with sugar, and seasoned with salted ginger. The tiresome little Micos kept up an incessant chatter. Their stories were doubtless extraordinarily humorous to anyone understanding Japanese, but were apt to lose their point for those ignorant of the language. The abortive attempts of the Europeans to eat with chopsticks afforded endless amusement to these bedizened children; they shook with laughter at seeing all the food slide away from these unaccustomed table implements. Not till the dinner was over did the Geishas proper make their appearance. In Japan the amount of bright colour in a woman's dress varies in inverse ratio to her moral rectitude. As our Geishas were all habited in sober mouse-colour, or dull neutral-blue, I can only infer that they were ladies of the very highest respectability. They were certainly wonderfully attractive little people. They were not pretty according to our standards, but there was a vivacity and a sort of air of dainty grace about them that were very captivating. Their singing is frankly awful. I have heard four-footed musicians on the London tiles produce sweeter sounds, but their dancing is graceful to a degree. Unfortunately, one of the favourite amusements of these charming and vivacious little people is to play "Musical Chairs"—without any chairs! They made all the
{320}
European men follow them round and round the room whilst two Geishas thrummed on a sort of guitar. As soon as the music stopped everyone was expected to sit down with a bang on the floor, To these little Japs five feet high, the process was easy, and may have seemed good fun; to a middle-aged gentleman, "vir pietate gravis," these violent shocks were more than painful, and I failed to derive the smallest amusement from them. No Japanese dinner would be complete without copious miniature cups of sake. This rice-spirit is always drunken hot; it is not disagreeable to the taste, being like warm sherry with a dash of methylated spirit thrown in, but the little sake bottles and cups are a joy to the eye. This innately artistic people delight to lavish loving care in fashioning minute objects; many English drawing-rooms contain sake bottles in enamel or porcelain ranged in cabinets as works of art. Their form would be more familiar to most people than their use. Japanese always seem to look on a love of colour as showing rather vulgar tastes. The more refined the individual, the more will he adhere to sober black and white and neutral tints in his house and personal belongings. The Emperor's palace in Kyoto is decorated entirely in black and white, with unpainted, unlacquered woodwork, and no colour anywhere. The Kyoto palace of the great Tokugawa family, on the other hand, a place of astounding beauty, blazes with gilding, enamels, and lacquer, as do all the tombs and temples erected by this dynasty. The Tokugawas usurped power as
{321}
Shoguns in 1603, reducing the Mikado to a mere figure-head as spiritual Ruler, and the Shoguns ruled Japan absolutely until 1868, when they were overthrown, and Shogun and Mikado were merged into one under the title of Emperor. I fancy that the Japanese look upon the polychrome splendour of all the buildings erected by the Tokugawas as proof that they were very inferior to the ancient dynasty, who contented themselves with plain buildings severely decorated in black and white. The lack of colour in Japan is very noticeable on arriving from untidy, picturesque China. The beautiful neatness and cleanliness of Japan are very refreshing after slovenly China, but the endless rows of little brown, unpainted, tidy houses, looking like so many rabbit hutches, are depressing to a degree. The perpetual earthquakes are responsible for the low elevation of these houses and also for their being invariably built of wood, as is indeed everything else in the country. I was immensely disappointed at the sight of the first temples I visited in Japan. The forms were beautiful enough, but they were all of unpainted wood, without any colour whatever, and looked horribly neutral-tinted. All the famous temples of Kyoto are of plain, unpainted, unvarnished wood. The splendid group of temples at Nikko are the last word in Japanese art. They glow with colour; with scarlet and black lacquer, gilding, enamels, and bronzes, every detail finished like jewellers' work with exquisite craftmanship, and they are amongst the most
{322}
beautiful things in the world; but they were all erected by the Tokugawa dynasty, as were the equally superb temples in the Shiba Park at Tokyo. This family seemed determined to leave Japan less colourless than they found it; in their great love for scarlet lacquer they must have been the first people who thought of painting a town red.
The same lack of colour is found in the gardens. I had pictured a Japanese garden as a dream of beauty, so when I was shewn a heap of stones interspersed with little green shrubs and dwarf trees, without one single flower, I was naturally disappointed, nor had I sufficient imagination to picture a streak of whitewash daubed down a rock as a quivering cascade of foaming water. "Our gardens, sir," said my host, "are not intended to inspire hilarit .. ee, but rather to create ............