Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/272

[A semi-official message from Berlin to the Cologne Gazette contends that "the independent national life of the neutrals in the Balkans" is threatened by English and Russian ambitions. German and Austria, on the other hand, are fighting for "the independence of the small nations... for the conceptions of nationality and culture."]

Very Dear Brother and Most Powerful Friend,—Prince von Bülow has just left me after a most exhausting interview, and in the few moments of calm which remain to me before he returns for another visit (the ten thousandth, I think, in one short week), I venture to solace myself by writing direct to you. I want to tell you that this von Bülow of yours is a tremendous fellow and has fully earned any reward you may think fit to offer him on the completion—may the time be soon!—of his mission. Certainly, he seizes time by every available forelock, and is never tired of singing your praises and of pouring contempt on those who are unfortunate enough to be at war with you. England, he says, is so strictly blockaded that not an ounce of food can be imported into that detestable country, and both her absurd army and her incompetent fleet—I quote his words—are on the point of surrendering to you. He affirms that France is continuing to fight merely in virtue of an arrangement made by you so as to enable you to win a crushing victory at the gates of Paris, after which you are to annex the whole country. As for Russia, she is at the last gasp, and her whole Empire is shortly to be divided up between yourself and the Emperor Francis Joseph and your glorious friend the Sultan of Turkey.

Such are the stories which he relates to me every day. If I venture to ask for details he hints that I am doubting his princely word and produces letters from you in which you confirm by anticipation all that he has said to me. For the sake of a quiet life I do not push the controversy any further, but allow him to remain under the conviction that I believe every word of his statements. The fact is that, on aesthetic grounds, I cannot bear to see a German gentleman in a state of anger. The convulsive movements of his limbs and the deep purple tint which spreads over his face are highly disagreeable to me. These symptoms do not, of course, frighten me—nobody could possibly be frightened at so painful a spectacle—but they produce a disgust which is not favourable to the continuance of rational and friendly intercourse. I content myself, therefore, with a cursory mention of the bombardment of the Dardanelles, or of the French campaign in Alsace, or of the battle of Przasnysz, and as soon as poor Bülow begins to fume in the German manner I declare the interview at an end.

At the same time I am bound to admit that your Ambassador is a generous—I might almost say, an extravagantly generous man. He doesn't confine himself to threatening that Italy will have to be treated in the humane and justly celebrated style applied to Belgium. He offers in the most reckless and open-handed way to transfer to Italy various provinces now in the possession of Austria. If Italy can only make up her mind to join the German Powers she is to have the Trentino and heaven knows what besides as the price of her compliance. I note, however, that when I broach these subjects with the Austrian Ambassador he invariably changes the conversation and begins to talk about such matters as the disgraceful ingratitude of Serbia in fighting against those whose only desire is to confer on her the blessings of Germanic civilisation. You see we Italians know something of Austria and her fashion of dealing with those whom she thinks she can bully, and we are not likely to be taken in by soft words. Germany offers us Austrian provinces, but is Germany in a position to hand over the goods?

For the moment we are satisfied to remain as we are. The French, the Russians and the English are our good friends. Why should we seek to harm them? Austria we detest, and Germany—I am forced to say it—we distrust. "Italy will tread with no uncertain steps the glorious path of her destiny," or "When the King gives the word Italy will advance as one man where honour and necessity point out the way." By some such statement of policy we are still guided. I leave you and Bülow to draw what comfort you can from it.

Yours in fraternal friendship,

A very poignant story reaches Mr. Punch indirectly from the trenches. A gallant Tommy, having received from England an anonymous gift of socks, entered them at once, for he was about to undertake a heavy march. He was soon a prey to the most excruciating agony in the big toe, and when, a mere cripple, he drew off his foot-gear at the end of a terrible day, he discovered inside the toe of the sock what had once been a piece of stiff writing-paper, now reduced to pulp; and on it appeared in bold feminine hand the almost illegible benediction:—"God bless the wearer of this pair of socks!"

"To Army Contractors.—I have for Sale, Horses, Rifles, Barbed Wire Blankets, Socks, Boots, &c., and invite inquiries from buyers."

Advt. in "Daily Telegraph."

These must be the blankets referred to by Sister Susie's soldiers, who would "sooner sleep in thistles."

"The searchlight of the Turks failed to discover the small warship which were able to enter the Dardanelles by the light of the moon and sweep up the wines."—Western Mail.

Good luck to them, and may they soon get to the Sublime Porte.