Читать книгу Secret Diplomacy: How Far Can It Be Eliminated? - Paul S. Reinsch - Страница 5

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During the eighteenth century, diplomatic action was dominated entirely by the tactics and stratagems of war. Diplomacy was a continuous struggle for political advantage and power, seeking to accomplish the purposes of war through keen intriguing; it was war pursued in the council chamber. The temper of diplomacy was not that of a commercial transaction, or of coöperation in the works of peace and betterment; but it was intent upon selfish advantage—power, prestige, preferment, and all the outward evidences of political success. It did not have the conscience of peaceful enterprise and coöperation, but on the contrary emulated the keen, restless, alert, and all-suspecting spirit of the military commander in action. All the ruses, deceptions, subterfuges, briberies and strategies which the struggle for existence in war appears to render justifiable, diplomacy made use of. It was essentially a political secret service informed with the spirit of life-and-death competition. As, among individuals in that society, all action was dominated by the constantly overhanging hazard of private duel, bringing into life something of the keenness and cruelty of the tempered blade; so among nations warlike rivalry inspired all political action. War was either going on or impending and being prepared for; humanity was living true to the old adage: “Man a wolf to man.”

Diplomacy was personal in that the ambassador was held to be an alter ego of the monarch. It was surrounded with the glamor of high state and important enterprise, and inspired with a great pride of office. The fact that he represented absolute power in its contact with the absolute power of others, gave the diplomat a sense of high importance. The monarchs, themselves, were generally governed by personal motives and considerations. They looked upon politics as a keen game for personal or family power in which populations of subjects, territory, and war indemnities were the stakes, and human lives the pawns; the highest happiness and good fortune of the subject was supposed to be the right to die for his king. The diplomatic representatives quite naturally fell into the same way of regarding affairs of state from the viewpoint of political power to be gained, maintained and constantly increased. It was a rather narrow game as seen by the rank and file of the diplomatic world; only a few far-seeing and statesmanlike minds could at that time appreciate the broad underlying human foundation of all political action.

Such broader insight would often have been a real obstacle to the success of the keen and clever player of the game. The mastery of underlying principles which made Grotius famous for all ages did not contribute to his success as a diplomat. The wheel of fortune turned fast, and fleeting advantage had to be caught by quick, clever though often superficial, machinations. Even as late as 1830, John Quincy Adams observed that deep insight and unusual ability was something of a hindrance to a diplomat. Yet the keen edge of the successful diplomats of the powdered wig period is in itself one of the noteworthy qualities of that sociable though unsocial age.

Throughout this period Machiavelli’s Prince may be taken as the fitting commentary on political action. The men of this age had not yet grown up to the realization which Machiavelli already had of the nature and importance of the national principle; but Machiavelli’s thought concerning the means by which, in a period of unrest and sharp rivalry, political power may be established, built up and preserved, with total disregard of every feeling and ideal and the single-minded pursuit of political success,—that thoroughly explains the spring of action of this period.

In reading the memoirs and letters of this time, one will encounter a great many protestations of conventional morality, as well as an understanding of human nature and a comprehensive grasp of the details of international rivalry. But far-seeing ideals of wisdom, moderation, and justice, and of human coöperation will not frequently be met with; there is no searching vision of realities. Nor will one gain from these memoirs very specific information about the actual methods of doing diplomatic business. These methods, even the particularly unscrupulous ones, were probably considered almost as natural processes, to be passed by without mention. But incidentally, one may receive hints, even in the correspondence of the most correct and guarded diplomat, sufficient to reconstitute their current manner of thought and action.

We encounter there all the artifices of a secret service versed in the stratagems and tricks through which information can be obtained,—the stealing of documents, bribery of public officials, general misrepresentation and deceit. Matters are often so inextricably complicated that it must have required the greatest effort to remember what each participant in that particular intrigue knew or was supposed not to know, what he could be told and what must be kept from him. These are still the more venial methods; but when the welfare of the state required, it might even be necessary, as in the case of war, to dispose of inconvenient and obstructive individuals by wrecking their reputation or even by putting them out of the way altogether.

Even the learned and dignified authorities on international law could not entirely ignore the methods employed in actual diplomatic intercourse. Grotius held that “amphibologies”—a term apparently coined by him to designate statements, which could be understood in several ways—were admissible, except in certain cases where there existed a duty to unmask, as in matters involving the “honor of God,” or charity towards a neighbor, or the making of contracts, or others of like nature. His successor, Vattel, draws a distinction between a downright lie, “words of him who speaks contrary to his thoughts on an occasion when he is under obligation to speak the truth”; and a “falsiloquy,” which he considers venial, and which is “an untrue discourse to persons who have no right to insist on knowing the truth in a particular case.” This distinction gives a rather ample latitude to the discretion of a diplomat in the matter of truthfulness. According to the good and learned Vattel, the duty of any one to tell the truth was binding only towards another who had the right to demand that the truth be spoken. In his day, very few people indeed could claim the right of demanding an insight into diplomatic affairs, so that his rule did not put the diplomat under a very severe moral constraint. Even to the present day there have been known individual envoys whose utterances plainly are made in the spirit of Vattel’s distinction.

Callières, who wrote on the Practice of Diplomacy, in the year 1716, is full of admiration of all that a shrewd, clever diplomat may accomplish in stirring up trouble and confounding things generally in the state to which he is accredited. To the question, “What can be achieved by a negotiator?” Callières answers, “We see daily around us its definite effects—sudden revolutions favorable to a great design of state, use of sedition and fermenting hatreds, causing jealous rivals to arm, so that the third party may rejoice (ut tertius gaudeat), dissolution by crafty means of the closest unions. A single word or act may do more than the invasion of whole armies, because the crafty negotiator will know how to set in motion various forces native to the country in which he is negotiating and thus may spare his master the vast expense of a campaign.... It frequently happens that well chosen spies contribute more than any other agency to the success of great plans. They are not to be neglected. An ambassador is an honorable spy because it is his function to discover great secrets. He should have a liberal hand.” That admiration of successful deceit and mental cleverness in obtaining results that could only be gained by force through great sacrifice of life, inspired also the Italian admiration for clever deceit, such as shown by Machiavelli in his eulogy of Pope Alexander VI for his unrivaled eminence in prevarication.

It is remarkable that the famous witticism of Sir Henry Wotton that “an ambassador is a person sent abroad to lie for the good of his country,” did not occur to some one much earlier; but though the bon mot had not been coined, the idea itself was quite familiar. Louis XI quite bluntly instructed his embassies, “If they lie to you, lie still more to them.” But through all this period the virtue of sincerity and of truthfulness also had their admirers: Callières, speaking of the successful diplomat, says, “Deceit is but the measure of smallness of mind and intelligence. A diplomat should have a reputation for plain and fair dealing and should observe the promises he has made.” It may, however, be suspected that the good writer here contemplates the dangers of unsuccessful deceit and of too transparent ruses, rather than the positive value of truth itself.

James Harris, Lord Malmesbury, who was certainly conversant with all the ins and outs of eighteenth century diplomacy, wrote in a letter of advice (April 11, 1813) addressed to Lord Camden: “It is scarce necessary to say that no occasion, no provocation, no anxiety to rebut an unjust accusation, no idea, however tempting, of promoting the object you have in view, can need, much less justify, a falsehood. Success obtained by one is a precarious and baseless success. Detection would ruin, not only your own reputation for ever, but deeply wound the honor of your Court.” In this sage advice, too, the dominant idea seems to be that detection is ruinous. The homage which is thus paid to the ideal of truth and sincerity is compatible with the use of quite opposite methods provided they are successful and so cleverly guarded that they are not discovered.

However, at all times there must have existed, among the people at large and even among those playing the game of politics, men who had a natural inborn desire for truth and a simplicity of nature which brought them closer to the true underlying forces than were the common run of courtiers and politicians. The ever recurring admiration expressed for the diplomacy of Cardinal d’Orsat, the envoy of Henry IV to the Pope, indicates a real appreciation, even among the profession, of high standards of straightforwardness in diplomatic negotiations. Cardinal d’Orsat seems to have disdained all shallow devices of deceptive cleverness. He relied upon simple reasonableness and honesty in proposing an arrangement mutually beneficial, to win after others had exhausted all possible tricks and stratagems. In discussing diplomacy, Mably says that such methods alone are calculated to secure positive and permanent results while the devices of clever deceit can only serve to delay and confuse.

Several statesmen have discovered that the telling of the actual truth often exerts a somewhat befuddling effect on diplomats, so that they may easily be misled by telling them real facts which they will interpret in a contrary sense. This method has usually been associated with the name of Bismarck who on one occasion said, “It makes me smile to see how puzzled all these diplomats are when I tell them the truth pure and simple. They always seem to suspect me of telling them fibs.” The discovery had, however, been made by many statesmen before Bismarck. As early as 1700, de Torcy had arrived at the conclusion that the best way of deceiving foreign courts is to speak the truth. Lord Stanhope said quite complacently that he could always impose upon the foreign diplomats by telling them the naked truth, and that he knew that in such cases they had often reported to their courts the opposite to what he had truthfully told them to be the facts. At a later date, Palmerston also prided himself on being able to mislead by the open and apparently unguarded manner in which he told the truth. It would, however, manifestly be difficult to use this method successfully more than in spots; it would have to be interspersed from time to time with a judicious amount of prevarication, in order to throw the other party off the scent.

To appear simple and true has always been greatly desired of diplomats. Count Du Luc, French Ambassador to Vienna, said in a letter, “My great desire, if I may be permitted to speak about myself, is to appear simple and true. I flatter myself that I possess the latter qualification; but you know my method of manœuvering.” The appearance of frankness has indeed been most valuable to diplomats in all ages; though one naturally suspects the man who in and out of season explicitly declares and protests that virtue. Diplomatic frankness is a part of that elaborate and complicated system of self-control and coolness together with a mastery of all the outward expressions of different affections and passions, which notable diplomats have sought to achieve. It would not take an expert to advise against pomposity. Callières counsels, “Be genial. Avoid the sober, cold air. An air of mystery is not useful.”

In that century in which keenness and cleverness were so intensively cultivated with the high pitch of the personal duel transferred to affairs of state, the complete self-control of diplomats, their quickness and their gift of taking advantage of any favorable turn in the situation, are certainly worthy of admiration, as we reanimate in our minds the life portrayed in these old memoirs and letters. Occasionally a mishap occurs like that of the British Minister, Mr. Drake, who boasted to Mehée de la Touche of the very careful precautions he had taken to guard his secret correspondence; which vainglory resulted quite disastrously to his collection of secrets. Instances of delightful cleverness and cool-headedness are frequent. Cardinal Mazarin, who in his methods and principles was quite the opposite to Cardinal d’Orsat and who was particularly free from any scruples whatsoever concerning the truth, won his first striking diplomatic success through a ruse. What a quick mind and daring spirit his, when on his first mission to the court of the Duke of Feria, as a very young man, he attained his object so completely. How otherwise could he have ascertained the true opinion of His Highness on the matter of great importance to the Court of France which Mazarin was especially sent to ascertain, as there were great doubts about it and the duke entirely unwilling to express himself? A keen observer, Mazarin had soon learned that the duke was irascible and unguarded when in anger; but few would have followed him in suddenly, out of the clear sky, deliberately, so stirring the duke to anger that he, entirely off his guard, blurted out things which unmistakably gave a clue to his real opinions on the important matter of state in question. What a vivid satisfaction the young man must have had, which, however, he needs must carefully conceal to feign grief and despair because he had been hapless enough to arouse the ill will of His Highness. Mazarin was throughout his life noted for a perfect command of the expressions of all the moods, sentiments and passions, used by him at will so that it was impossible for any one to penetrate his mask. The same achievement was attained in a notable manner by the great diplomats of the old school, Talleyrand and Metternich, who held the stage at the beginning of the nineteenth century; and it has been emulated in greater or less perfection by successive generations of Ministers, Counselors, and Secretaries.

When Cromwell had allowed himself to be tangled up in double-faced negotiations with the Spanish and the French courts of which the latter had obtained complete knowledge, the French envoy, DeBass, very cleverly rebuked him for the inconstancy and disingenuousness of his action. The envoy related to Cromwell in complete detail, but as an “unauthenticated report,” all the facts of the dubious negotiation, and then asked the Protector kindly to extricate him from this labyrinth. Cromwell was entirely taken aback and took his departure abruptly on urgent business, leaving his secretary to make excuses. The star performance of Metternich was when Napoleon, returning from a hunt in a fit of heated excitement, in the presence of the other foreign representatives, rushed up to him shouting, “What the deuce does your Emperor expect of me?” Metternich replied with the greatest composure, “He expects his ambassador to be treated with respect.”