Nicholas and Alexandra

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Kaiser’s Advice

IN the early years of the reign, along with his mother, the tutor Pobedonostsev and his uncles, Nicholas was also taken in hand by his cousin Kaiser William II of Germany. From the first months, William peered over the Tsar’s shoulder, tapped him on the elbow, flattered him, lectured him and dominated him. William was nine years older than Nicholas and had become Kaiser in 1888, six years before Nicholas became Tsar. He thus had the advantage of experience as well as age, and he used it vigorously. For ten years, 1894–1904, the Kaiser manipulated Russian foreign policy by influencing the youthful, susceptible Tsar. Eventually, an older and wiser Nicholas shook off this meddlesome influence. But the harm was done. Urged on by William, Russia had suffered a military catastrophe in Asia.

In character, the two Emperors were totally unlike. Nicholas was gentle, shy and painfully aware of his own limitations; the Kaiser was a braggart, a bully and a strutting exhibitionist. Nicholas hated the idea of becoming a sovereign; William all but wrenched the crown from the head of his dying father, Frederick III. As Tsar, Nicholas tried to live quietly with his wife, avoiding fuss. William delighted in parading about in high black boots, white cloak, a silver breastplate and an evil-looking spiked helmet.

William II’s thin face, bleak gray eyes and light-colored curly hair were partially masked behind his proudest possession, his mustache. This was a wide, brushy business with remarkable upturned points, the creation of a skillful barber who appeared at the palace every morning with a can of wax. In part, this elegant bush helped to compensate for another physical distinction, one which William tried desperately to hide. His left arm was miniaturized, a misfortune believed to have been caused by the excessive zeal with which an obstetrical surgeon used forceps at William’s birth. William arrived in the world with his arm pulled almost from its socket; thereafter the arm grew much too slowly. As much as possible, he kept this damaged limb out of sight, tucking it into especially designed pockets in his clothes. At meals, the Kaiser could not cut his meat without the aid of a dinner companion.

In the military atmosphere of the Prussian court in which he grew up, William’s bad arm had a pronounced effect on his character. A Prussian prince had to ride and shoot. William drove himself to do both expertly and went on to become a swimmer, rower, tennis player as well. His good right arm became extraordinarily powerful, and its grip was as strong as iron. William increased the sensation of pain in those he greeted by turning the rings on his right hand inward, so that the jewels would bite deep into the unlucky flesh.

When he was nineteen and a student in Bonn, William fell in love with Princess Elizabeth of Hesse, the Empress Alexandra’s older sister. William often visited in Darmstadt with the Hessian family of his mother’s sister. Even as a guest, he was selfish and rude. First he demanded to ride, then he wanted to shoot or row or play tennis. Often he would throw down his racket in the middle of a game or suddenly climb off his horse and demand that everybody go with him to do something else. When he was tired, he ordered his cousins to sit quietly around him and listen while he read aloud from the Bible. Alix was only six when these visits occurred, and she was ignored. But Ella was a blossoming fourteen, and William always wanted her to play with him, to sit near him, to listen closely. Ella thought he was dreadful. William left Bonn, burning with frustration, and four months later he became engaged to another German princess, Augusta of Schleswig-Holstein. After Ella married Grand Duke Serge of Russia, the Kaiser refused to see her. Later he admitted that he had spent most of his time in Bonn writing love poetry to his beautiful cousin.

William’s restless temperament, his vanities and delusions, his rapid plunges from hysterical excitement to black despair kept his ministers in a state of constant apprehension. “The Kaiser,” said Bismarck, “is like a balloon. If you don’t keep fast hold of the string, you never know where he’ll be off to.” William scribbled furiously on the margins of official documents: “Nonsense!” “Lies!” “Rascals!” “Stale fish!” “Typical oriental procrastinating lies!” “False as a Frenchman usually is!” “England’s fault, not ours!” He treated his dignitaries with an odd familiarity, often giving venerable admirals and generals a friendly smack on the backside. Visitors, official and otherwise, were treated to dazzling displays of verbosity, but they could never be sure how much to believe. “The Kaiser,” explained a dismayed official of the German Foreign Ministry, “has the unfortunate habit of talking all the more rapidly and incautiously the more a matter interests him. Hence it happens that he generally has committed himself … before the responsible advisors or the experts have been able to submit their opinions.” To witness the Kaiser laughing was an awesome experience. “If the Kaiser laughs, which he is sure to do a good many times,” wrote one observer, “he will laugh with absolute abandonment, throwing his head back, opening his mouth to the fullest possible extent, shaking his whole body, and often stamping with one foot to show his excessive enjoyment of any joke.”

William was convinced of his own infallibility and signed his documents “The All Highest.” He hated parliaments. Once, at a colonial exhibition, he was shown the hut of an African king, with the skulls of the king’s enemies impaled on poles. “If only I could see the Reichstag stuck up like that,” blurted the Kaiser.

William’s bad manners were as offensive to his relatives as to everyone else. He publicly accused his own mother, formerly Princess Victoria of England, of being pro-English rather than pro-German. Writing to her mother, Queen Victoria of England, the Princess said of her twenty-eight-year-old son, “You ask how Willy was when he was here. He was as rude, as disagreeable and as impertinent to me as possible.” Tsar Alexander III snubbed William, whom he considered “a badly brought up, untrustworthy boy.” When he spoke to the Kaiser, Alexander III always turned his back and talked over his shoulder. Empress Marie loathed William. She saw in him the royal nouveau riche whose empire had been made in part by trampling over her beloved Denmark and wrenching away the Danish provinces of Schleswig-Holstein. Marie’s feeling was that of her sister Alexandra, who was married to King Edward VII. “And so my Georgie boy has become a real, live, filthy, blue-coated Pickelhaube German soldier. I never thought I would live to see the day,” Queen Alexandra wrote to her son, later King George V, when George became an honorary colonel in one of the Kaiser’s regiments. When it came Russia’s turn to make the Kaiser an admiral in the Russian navy, Nicholas tried to tell Marie gently. “I think, no matter how disagreeable it may be, we are obliged to let him wear our naval uniform; particularly since he made me last year a Captain in his own navy.… C’est à vomir!” After another visit from the Kaiser, he wrote, “Thank God the German visit is over.… She [William’s wife] tried to be charming and looked very ugly in rich clothes chosen without taste. The hats she wore in the evening were particularly impossible.” The Empress Alexandra could barely be civil to William. She turned away when he made his heavy jokes, and when the Kaiser picked up her daughters in his arms, she winced. A mutual loathing of William was perhaps the point of closest agreement between the young Empress and her mother-in-law.

Nicholas himself was both repelled and attracted by the Kaiser’s flamboyance. From the first, William managed to restore the old custom of former monarchs who kept personal attachés in each other’s private retinues. This, the Kaiser pointed out, would enable Nicholas “to quickly communicate with me … without the lumbering and indiscreet apparatus of Chancelleries, Embassies, etc.”

The famous “Willy-Nicky” correspondence began. Writing in English and addressing himself to his “Dearest Nicky” and signing himself “Your affectionate Willy,” the Kaiser drenched the Tsar with flattery and suggestions. Delighted by Nicholas’s “senseless dreams” address to the Tver Zemstvo, he hammered on the importance of maintaining autocracy, “the task which has been set us by the Lord of Lords.” He advised that “the great bulk of the Russian people still place their faith in their … Tsar and worship his hallowed person,” and predicted that “the people will … cheer you and fall on their knees and pray for you.” When they met in person, William tapped Nicholas on the shoulder and said, “My advice to you is more speeches and more parades.”

Using this private channel, William bent himself to undo the anti-German alliance between Russia and France. Nicholas had been Tsar less than a year when the Kaiser wrote to him: “It is not the friendship of France and Russia that makes me uneasy, but the danger to our principle of monarchism from the lifting up of the Republicans on a pedestal.… The Republicans are revolutionaries de nature. The French Republic has arisen from the source of the great revolution and propagates its ideas. The blood of their Majesties is still on that country. Think—has it since then ever been happy or quiet again? Has it not staggered from bloodshed to bloodshed and from war to war, till it soused Europe and Russia in streams of Blood? Nicky, take my word, the curse of God has stricken that people forever. We Christian kings have one holy duty imposed on us by Heaven: to uphold the principle of the Divine Right of Kings.”

Russia’s alliance with France withstood these assaults, but on another theme the Kaiser’s exhortations had a striking success. William hated Orientals, and often raved about “the Yellow Peril.” In 1900, bidding farewell to a shipload of German marines bound for China to help disperse the Boxer revolutionaries, the Kaiser shouted blood-curdling instructions: “You must know, my men, that you are about to meet a crafty, well-armed, cruel foe! Meet him and beat him. Give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Kill him when he falls into your hands. Even as a thousand years ago, The Huns under King Attila made such a name for themselves as still resounds in terror through legend and fable, so may the name of German resound through Chinese history a thousand years from now.…”

In writing to the Tsar, William elevated his prejudice to a loftier pedestal. Russia, he declared, had a “Holy Mission” in Asia: “Clearly, it is the great task of the future for Russia to cultivate the Asian continent and to defend Europe from the inroads of the Great Yellow Race. In this you will always find me on your side, ready to help you as best I can. You have well understood the call of Providence … in the Defense of the Cross and the old Christian European culture against the inroads of the Mongols and Buddhism.… I would let nobody try to interfere with you and attack from behind in Europe during the time you were fulfilling the great mission which Heaven has shaped for you.”

William pursued the theme into allegorical art. He sent the Tsar a portrait showing himself in shining armor, gripping a huge crucifix in his raised right arm. At his feet crouched the figure of Nicholas, clothed in a long Byzantine gown. On the Tsar’s face, as he gazed up at the Kaiser, was a look of humble admiration. In the background, on a blue sea, cruised a fleet of German and Russian battleships. In 1902, after watching a fleet of real Russian battleships steam through naval maneuvers, William signaled from his yacht to the Tsar aboard the Standart, “The Admiral of the Atlantic salutes the Admiral of the Pacific.”

William’s hatred of Orientals was genuine, but there was more to his game than simple prejudice. For years, Bismarck had urgently promoted Russian expansion in Asia as a means of diminishing Russian influence in Europe. “Russia has nothing to do in the West,” said the crafty German Chancellor. “There she can only catch Nihilism and other diseases. Her mission is in Asia; there she represents civilization.” By turning Russia away from Europe, Germany decreased the danger of war in the Balkans between Russia and Austria, and Germany herself was left a free hand with Russia’s ally, France. In addition, wherever Russia moved in Asia, she was certain to get into trouble: either with Britain in India or with Japan in the Pacific. William II enthusiastically revived Bismarck’s design. “We must try to tie Russia down in East Asia,” he confided to one of his ministers, “so that she pays less attention to Europe and the Near East.”

The Kaiser was not the only man filling Nicholas’s head with expansionist dreams; many Russians were equally anxious to go adventuring in Asia. The temptations were strong. Russia’s only Pacific port, Vladivostock, was imprisoned in ice three months a year. Southward, the decrepit Chinese Empire stretched like a rotting carcass along the Pacific. In 1895, to Russia’s chagrin, the vigorous, newly Westernized island empire of Japan occupied several Chinese territories which Russia coveted, among them the great warm-water port and fortress of Port Arthur. Six days after Japan had swallowed Port Arthur, Russia intervened, declaring that Japan’s new arrangements “constituted a perpetual menace to the peace of the Far East.” Japan, unwilling to risk a war, was forced to disgorge Port Arthur. Three years later, Russia extracted a ninety-nine-year lease on the port from the helpless Chinese.

The occupation of Port Arthur was heady stuff in St. Petersburg. “Glad news …,” wrote Nicholas. “At last we shall have an ice-free port.” A new spur of the Trans-Siberian was constructed directly across Manchuria, and when the railroad was finished, the Russian workmen and Russian railway guards remained behind. In 1900, during the Boxer Rebellion, Russia “temporarily” occupied Manchuria. Only one further prize remained on the entire North Pacific coast, the peninsula of Korea. Although Japan clearly regarded Korea as essential to her security, a group of Russian adventurers resolved to steal it. Their plan was to establish a private company, the Yalu Timber Company, and begin moving Russian soldiers into Korea disguised as workmen. If they ran into trouble, the Russian government could always disclaim responsibility. If they succeeded, the empire would acquire a new province and they themselves would have vast economic concessions within it. Witte, the Finance Minister, vigorously opposed this risky policy. But Nicholas, impressed by the leader of the adventurers, a former cavalry officer named Bezobrazov, approved the plan, whereupon Witte in 1903 resigned from the government. Predictably, Kaiser William chimed in, “It is evident to every unbiased mind that Korea must and will be Russian.”

The Russian advance into Korea made war with Japan inevitable. The Japanese would have preferred an agreement: Russia to keep Manchuria, leaving Japan a free hand in Korea. But the Mikado’s ministers could not stand by and watch the Russians swarm along the whole coast of Asia, planting the Tsar’s double-headed eagle in every port and promontory facing their islands. In 1901, the greatest of Japanese statesmen, Marquis Ito, came to St. Petersburg to negotiate. He was treated shamefully. Ignored, finding no one to talk to, he put his requests in writing; replies were delayed for days on trifling pretexts. Eventually, he left Russia in despair. Through 1903, the permanent Japanese Minister in St. Petersburg, Kurino, issued urgent warnings and begged in vain for an audience with the Tsar. On February 3, 1904, bowing grimly, Kurino also left Russia.

In Russia, it was taken for granted that if war came, Russia would win easily. It would not be necessary for the Russian army to fire even a single shot, gibed the drawing-room generals. The Russians would annihilate the Japanese “monkeys” simply by throwing their caps at them. Vyacheslav Plehve, the Minister of Interior, wrestling with a growing plague of rebellious outbursts, openly welcomed the idea of “a small victorious war” to distract the people. “Russia has been made by bayonets, not diplomacy,” he declared.

Nicholas, lulled into belief in Russia’s overwhelming superiority, assumed that the decision was his, that war would not come unless Russia began it. Foreign ambassadors and ministers, gathered for the annual gala diplomatic reception on New Year’s Day, heard the Tsar talk grandly of Russia’s military power and beg that there would not be a test of his patience and love of peace. Nevertheless, during the month of January 1904, Nicholas’s indecision kept the Kaiser in a state of constant alarm. He wrote, urging that Russia accept no settlement with Japan, but go to war. He was appalled when Nicholas replied, “I am still in good hopes about a calm and peaceful understanding.” William showed this letter to his Chancellor, von Bülow, and complained bitterly about the Tsar’s unmanly attitude. “Nicholas is doing himself a lot of harm by his flabby way of going on,” said the Kaiser. Such behavior, he added, was “compromising all great sovereigns.”

Japan made a Russian decision unnecessary. On the evening of February 6, 1904, Nicholas returned from the theatre to be handed a telegram from Admiral Alexeiev, Russian Viceroy and Commander-in-Chief in the Far East:

“About midnight, Japanese destroyers made a sudden attack on the squadron anchored in the outer harbor of Port Arthur. The battleships Tsarevich, Retvizan and the cruiser Pallada were torpedoed. The importance of the damage is being ascertained.” Stunned, Nicholas copied the text of the telegram into his diary and added, “This without a declaration of war. May God come to our aid.”

The next morning, huge, patriotic crowds filled the streets of St. Petersburg. Students carrying banners marched to the Winter Palace and stood before it singing hymns. Nicholas went to the window and saluted. Amid the rejoicing, he was depressed. He had flirted with war and tried to bluff his enemies, but the idea of bloodshed revolted him. The people now looked forward to a quick Russian victory; Nicholas knew better. As confidential reports of the damage at Port Arthur continued to arrive, Nicholas set down his “sharp grief for the fleet and for the opinion that people will have of Russia.”

The disaster that followed was far greater than even Nicholas had feared. In scarcely a single generation, Japan had leaped from feudalism to modern industrial and military power. Military instructors from France and naval instructors from England had helped create an efficient army with skilled, imaginative commanders. In the two years since Ito returned, humiliated, from St. Petersburg, Japan’s generals and admirals had perfected their plans for war against Russia. The moment further negotiations seemed futile, they struck.

From the beginning, the match was unequal. Although the Japanese army consisted of 600,000 men and the Russian army numbered almost three million, Japan threw 150,000 men into battle at once on the Asian mainland. There they faced only 80,000 regular Russian soldiers, along with 23,000 garrison troops and 30,000 railway guards. Japanese supply lines stretched back to the homeland over only a few hundred miles of water, and losses could be quickly replaced. The Russians had to haul guns, munitions, food and reinforcements four thousand miles over the single track of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Even the railroad was not complete; around the mountainous southern end of Lake Baikal, a gap of a hundred miles yawned in the track. In summer, the gap was bridged by lake ferries; in the winter, every soldier and shell had to be moved across the ice in horse-drawn sledges.

The Russian Far Eastern Fleet and the Imperial Japanese Navy were more equal in size; the Russians actually had more battleships and cruisers, the Japanese more destroyers and torpedo boats. But with their first surprise attack, the Japanese seized the initiative and gained command of the sea. Russian ships which survived the war’s first blow were hemmed in by Japanese minefields and harassed at their moorings by further torpedo attacks. When Russia’s most distinguished admiral, Makarov, sortied from the harbor of Port Arthur on April 13, his flagship, the battleship Petropavlovsk, hit a mine and sank with a loss of seven hundred men, Makarov included. “This morning came news of inexpressible sadness …,” Nicholas wrote of the disaster. “All day long I could think of nothing but this terrible blow.… May the will of God be done in all things, but we poor mortals must beg mercy of the Lord.”

With the sea secured, Japanese expeditionary forces were free to land where they chose along the mainland coast. One army came ashore in Korea, overwhelmed five Siberian regiments, crossed the Yalu River and marched north into Manchuria. Another Japanese force landed at the head of the Yellow Sea and laid siege to Port Arthur with monster eleven-inch siege cannons. Through the summer and fall of 1904, the Japanese infantry stormed one fortified height around Port Arthur after another; by January 1905, when Port Arthur finally surrendered, it had cost Japan 57,780 men and Russia 28,200.

From St. Petersburg, Nicholas watched with dismay. His first instinct had been to go to the front and place himself at the head of his beleaguered troops. Once again, his uncles overruled his inclination. To his mother the Tsar wrote: “My conscience is often very troubled by my staying here instead of sharing the dangers and privations of the army. I asked Uncle Alexis yesterday what he thought about it: he thinks my presence with the army in this war is not necessary—still, to stay behind in times like these is very upsetting to me.”

Instead, Nicholas toured military encampments, reviewing troops and passing out images of St. Seraphim to soldiers about to entrain for the Far East. The Empress canceled all social activities and turned the huge ballrooms of the Winter Palace into workrooms where hundreds of women of all classes sat at tables, making clothing and bandages. Every day Alexandra visited these rooms and often sat down herself to sew a dressing or a hospital shirt.

As the grim prospect of a Russian defeat seemed ever more likely, Nicholas, urged on by William, ordered the Russian Baltic Fleet to travel around the world to restore Russian naval supremacy in the Pacific. Admiral Rozhdestvensky, the fleet commander, viewed the project without much hope, but once the Tsar had commanded, he placed himself on his bridge and ordered his ships made ready for sea. In October 1904, Nicholas took the final salute from the deck of the Standart. As the fleet of gray battleships and cruisers slowly left its anchorage and steamed out into the Baltic, he wrote, “Bless its voyage, Lord. Permit that it arrive safe and sound at its destination, that it succeed in its terrible mission for the safety and happiness of Russia.”

Unfortunately, long before he got anywhere near Japan, Admiral Rozhdestvensky almost involved Russia in a war with England. The Admiral had been much impressed by Japan’s surprise torpedo attack on the fleet at Port Arthur. Assuming that such wily tactics would have a sequel, he suspected that Japanese ships flying false colors might slip through neutral European waters to deliver another frightful blow to the Russian navy. No man to be tricked, the Admiral ordered extra lookouts posted from the moment his ships left home port. Steaming at night through the North Sea in this trigger-happy state, Russian captains suddenly found themselves surrounded by a flotilla of small boats. Without asking questions, Russian guns sent shells crashing into the frail hulls of British fishing boats in the waters of Dogger Bank. After the first salvos, the Russians realized their mistake. Such was the Admiral’s fear, however, that, rather than stopping to pick up survivors, he steamed off into the night.

Only one boat had been sunk and two men killed, but Britain was outraged. Nicholas, already irritated by Britain’s diplomatic support of Japan, was in no mood to apologize. “The English are very angry and near the boiling point,” he wrote to Marie. “They are even said to be getting their fleet ready for action. Yesterday I sent a telegram to Uncle Bertie, expressing my regret, but I did not apologize.… I do not think the English will have the cheek to go further than to indulge in threats.”

The Russian Ambassador in London, Count Benckendorff, more accurately assessed the extent of Britain’s anger and quickly recommended that both parties submit the matter to the International Court at The Hague. Nicholas reluctantly agreed, and eventually Russia paid £65,000 in damages.

Leaving this nasty crisis in his wake, Admiral Rozhdestvensky steamed into the Atlantic, bound for the Cape of Good Hope, the Indian Ocean and the Pacific. He stopped and lay at anchor for three months at the French island of Madagascar while Russian diplomatic agents scoured the world’s shipyards seeking to buy extra battleships to reinforce the fleet. The Kaiser ordered German merchant vessels to fuel the Russian squadron. At secluded anchorages in Madagascar and Camranh Bay, Indochina, German seamen transferred hundreds of tons of coal into the bunkers of Admiral Rozhdestvensky’s weatherbeaten ships.

At two o’clock in the afternoon on May 27, 1905, the Russian fleet, led by eight battleships steaming in columns, appeared in the Strait of Tsushima between Japan and Korea. Admiral Togo, the Japanese commander, ranged his ships seven thousand yards across the head of the Russian columns, bringing his guns to bear first on one Russian ship, then another. As this blizzard of Japanese shells ripped though them, Russian warships exploded, capsized or simply stopped and began to drift. Within forty-five minutes it was over. Togo flashed his torpedo boats to attack and finish the cripples. All eight Russian battleships were lost, along with seven of Rozhdestvensky’s twelve cruisers and six of his nine destroyers.

Tsushima, the greatest sea battle since Trafalgar, had a powerful impact on naval thinking everywhere. It confronted Britain, whose whole existence depended on the Royal Navy, with the appalling prospect of losing a war in one afternoon in a general fleet engagement. The Kaiser, who cherished his High Seas Fleet, became equally frightened. As a result, during the four years of the First World War the huge British and German navies collided only once, at Jutland. In the United States, Tsushima convinced President Theodore Roosevelt that no nation could afford to divide its battle fleet as the Russians had done. Roosevelt immediately began pressing ahead with his plan to build a canal through Panama to link the two oceans that washed American shores.

The Tsar was traveling aboard the Imperial train when the news of the disaster reached him. He sent for the Minister of War, General Sakharov, who remained alone with him for a lengthy discussion. Returning to the lounge car where the staff was waiting to learn Nicholas’s reaction, Sakharov declared, “His Majesty showed that he thoroughly recognized the problems ahead of us and he sketched a very sensible plan of action. His composure is admirable.” In his diary that night, Nicholas wrote, “Definite confirmation of the terrible news concerning the almost complete destruction of our squadron.”

Recognizing that Russia no longer had a chance of winning the war, Nicholas sent for Sergius Witte and dispatched him to America to make the best of a peace conference which Roosevelt had offered to mediate. Although the war was ending as he had predicted, Witte accepted the assignment grudgingly. “When a sewer has to be cleaned, they send for Witte,” he grumbled. “But as soon as work of a cleaner and nicer kind appears, plenty of other candidates spring up.”

Crossing the Atlantic on the German liner Wilhelm der Grosse accompanied by a swarm of European journalists, Witte struck a pose as the “representative of the greatest empire on earth, undismayed by the fact that that mighty empire had become temporarily involved in a slight difficulty.” Arriving in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the scene of the peace conference, to find Americans filled with admiration for the “plucky little Japs,” Witte set out to reverse this image. “I may say that I succeeded in swerving American public opinion over to us,” he noted afterward. “I gradually won the press over to my side.… In this regard, the Japanese plenipotentiary Komura committed a grave blunder.… He rather avoided the press.… I took advantage of my adversary’s tactlessness to stir up the press against him and his cause.… My personal behavior may also partly account for the transformation of American public opinion. I took care to treat all the Americans with whom I came in contact with the utmost simplicity of manner. When traveling, whether on special trains, government motorcars or steamers, I thanked everyone, talked with the engineers and shook hands with them—in a word, I treated everybody, of whatever social position, as an equal. This behavior was a heavy strain on me as all acting is to the unaccustomed, but it surely was worth the trouble.”

Maneuvered by Witte into the role of villains, the Japanese envoys had difficulty in pressing all of their demands. Finally Nicholas—knowing that Japan was financially unable to continue the war—told his Foreign Minister: “Send Witte my order to end the parley tomorrow in any event. I prefer to continue the war, rather than to wait for gracious concessions on the part of Japan.” Komura, who had come as victor, accepted a compromise.

Lunching after the conference with President Theodore Roosevelt at Sagamore Hill in Oyster Bay, Long Island, Witte described the meal as “for a European, almost indigestible. There was no tablecloth and ice water instead of wine.… Americans have no culinary taste and … they can eat almost anything that comes their way.” He was “struck by … [Roosevelt’s] ignorance of international politics.… I heard the most naïve judgments.” Nor did Roosevelt care much for Witte. “I cannot say that I liked him,” said the President, “for I thought his bragging and bluster not only foolish, but shockingly vulgar when compared with the gentlemanly restraint of the Japanese. Moreover, he struck me as a very selfish man, totally without ideals.”

Returning to Russia, Witte was pleased with himself. “I acquitted myself with complete success,” he wrote, “so that in the end the Emperor Nicholas was morally compelled to reward me in an altogether exceptional manner by bestowing upon me the rank of count. This he did in spite of his and especially Her Majesty’s personal dislike for me, and also in spite of all the base intrigues conducted against me by a host of bureaucrats and courtiers whose vileness was only equalled by their stupidity.”

In fact, Witte had handled the negotiations brilliantly; “no diplomat by profession could have done it,” said Alexander Izvolsky, who was soon to become Russia’s Foreign Minister. Nicholas received the returning hero on his yacht in September 1905. “Witte came to see us,” wrote the Tsar to his mother. “He was very charming and interesting. After a long talk, I told him of his new honor. I am creating him a Count. He went quite stiff with emotion and then tried three times to kiss my hand!”

Tsushima abruptly ended Russia’s “Holy Mission” in Asia. Beaten and humiliated by the Japanese “monkeys,” the Russian giant staggered back toward Europe. In Berlin, as he watched events unfold, the Kaiser was not displeased. With a sullen, defeated army, no navy and a disillusioned, embittered people, the Tsar was no longer a neighbor to fear. William assumed that he still possessed Nicholas’s friendship. He soothed the Tsar, reminding him that even Frederick the Great and Napoleon had suffered defeats. He strutted in the loyalty he had shown to Russia by “guarding” Russia’s frontier in Europe—presumably from his own ally, Austria. Now, stepping smoothly over the ruins of the Far Eastern adventure he had done so much to promote, the Kaiser reverted to his original purpose: breaking the Russian alliance with France by seducing Nicholas into a new alliance of autocrats between Russia and Germany.

This last spectacular attempt by the Kaiser to manipulate the Tsar was the episode at Björkö on the coast of Finland in July 1905. It had its immediate origins in the international furor arising from the incident at Dogger Bank. The British press, loudly advocating that the Royal Navy prevent German steamers from coaling the Russian warships, had driven the Kaiser to frenzy. Nicholas replied to a letter from William by saying, “I agree fully with your complaints about England’s behavior … it is certainly high time to put a stop to this. The only way, as you say, would be that Germany, Russia and France should at once unite to abolish Anglo-Japanese arrogance and insolence. Would you like to lay down and frame the outlines of such a treaty? As soon as it is accepted by us, France is bound to join as an ally.”

William was overjoyed and feverishly began to draw up the treaty. The following summer, the Kaiser privately telegraphed the Tsar, inviting him to come as a “simple tourist” to a rendezvous at sea. Nicholas agreed and left Peterhof one afternoon without taking any of his ministers. The two Imperial yachts, Hohenzollern and Standart, anchored that night in the remote Finnish fjord and the two Emperors had dinner together. The next morning William reached into his pocket and “by chance” found the draft of a treaty of alliance between Russia and Germany. Among its provisions was an agreement that France was to be told only after Russia and Germany had signed and then invited to join if she wished. Nicholas read it and, according to William, said, “That is quite excellent. I agree.”

“Should you like to sign it,” said the Kaiser casually, “it would be a very nice souvenir of our interview.”

Nicholas signed and William was jubilant. With tears of joy, he told Nicholas that he was sure that all of their mutual ancestors were looking down on them from heaven in ecstatic approval.

Upon returning to their respective capitals, both Emperors received unpleasant shocks. Von Bülow, the German Chancellor, criticized the treaty as useless to Germany and threatened to resign. The deflated Kaiser wrote his Chancellor a hysterical letter: “The morning after the arrival of your letter of resignation would no longer find your Emperor alive. Think of my poor wife and children.” In St. Petersburg, Lamsdorf, the Russian Foreign Minister, was aghast; he could not believe his eyes and ears. The French alliance, he pointed out to Nicholas, was the cornerstone of Russian foreign policy; it could not be lightly thrown aside. France, said Lamsdorf, would never join an alliance with Germany, and Russia could not join such an alliance without first consulting France.

Eventually William was informed that, as written, the treaty could not be honored. The Kaiser responded with an impassioned plea to the Tsar to reconsider: “Your Ally notoriously left you in the lurch during the whole war, whereas Germany helped you in every way.… We joined hands and signed before God who heard our vows. What is signed is signed! God is our testator!” But the Björkö treaty was never invoked, and the private Willy-Nicky correspondence soon dwindled away. Thereafter, the Kaiser’s influence over the Tsar also faded rapidly. But Nicholas’s eyes were opened late. By 1905, he had lost a war and his country was rushing full tilt into revolution.