The subject of the last piece in this series was the Hadrian, who is the third of the so-called “Five Good Emperors” who ruled the Roman Empire from A.D. 96 to 180 However, there is much about this 84-year-long period of rule that is unsavory. The reason for the positive reputation of “the Five Good Emperors” is surely that these rulers contrast so dramatically with the two emperors, Domitian and Commodus, by which they are bookended, and who are more typical of the authoritarian sort of ruler so often found in charge of the empire. This shows that in evaluating a leader’s quality, and indeed in various other areas, human judgments are more often comparative than absolute.
Germany fought in two long and highly bloody wars in the 20th century. The second one was initiated by Adolf Hitler, who, in its course, implemented horrific crimes against humanity. That has indirectly meant that the German ruler who led Germany into and through World War I, Kaiser Wilhelm II (1859-1941), the fifth of the famous travelers to Türkiye in this series, has appeared relatively benign in comparison. At the end of World War I, though, with the horrors of the future yet to be witnessed as a point of comparison, this was not how he was viewed. Instead, he was seen as a war criminal.
Whether the ruler who visited Türkiye in 1889, 1898 and during the war deserved this reputation must be examined, as the analysis will reveal much about the man himself. Basil Liddel Hart is an excellent source for an evaluation as he was the preeminent early British historian of World War I and fought in the war himself. Thus, he can hardly be expected to have a bias toward the kaiser. Indeed, in his 1930 history of the conflict, Liddel Hart avers that the “largest” degree of responsibility for the war lies with Wilhelm.
Nevertheless, Liddel Hart sees his responsibility resulting from his unusual character and not any desire to provoke conflict. Indeed, he credits Wilhelm with having a “distaste” for war. A depiction of Wilhelm as a warmonger is, for Liddel Hart, simply erroneous “historical propaganda.” The battle, ironically, is brought about by what Liddel Hart calls Wilhelm’s “erratic good intentions.” Despite their being “good,” Liddel Hart avers that they have “bad effects.” This is because Wilhelm is misunderstood. Liddel Hart notes that through “his contradictory utterances,” Wilhelm appears to be a man of “insincerity,” but ironically, the opposite is true. Liddel Hart believes that the inconsistency in Wilhelm’s declarations results from “his combination of excessive frankness with a quick-changing mind.”
So, Wilhelm is exonerated by Liddel Hart for intentionally causing the war. However, as Liddel Hart indicates, Wilhelm has constantly changing views. Nonetheless, at the moment he holds them, he keeps them sincerely. As such, he is a perhaps unusual figure in being fundamentally decent and mistakenly appearing to others who are more set in their course as insincere due to his lack of consistency.
Ironically, his inconsistency can be explained by one consistent and central element of his character. Much like his fellow German Heinrich Schliemann, he has a constant and deep-seated sense of worthlessness. Wilhelm’s birth was brutal, leaving him with a permanently disabled and shortened left arm. As ruler of a country where the military ideal was paramount, Wilhelm fell short of the model of physical soldierly perfection. This was especially unfortunate for him as he aspired to do it. Hence, to counterbalance this internal feeling of worthlessness, he required constant positive external validation. In each change of scene, he would seek new confirmation, thus making him appear inconsistent.
These inconsistencies were not of minor consequence for a man who was the leader of the most potent continental European power. On the contrary, in international relations, it caused the other controls to distrust him, which was a significant reason for the global instability before the outbreak of war in 1914.
Wilhelm visited Istanbul in 1889, 1898 and 1917. This shows a remarkable commitment to another country before the jet engine enabled brief diplomatic visits. The first visit of Wilhelm to Türkiye took place in 1889 when he was 30 years old and had only been on the throne for just over a year. From the deck of his imperial yacht, Wilhelm saw Türkiye for the first time, as had Schliemann over two decades earlier, at what is now the province of Çanakkale. As he passed through the straits into the Marmara, he saw each of the military forts raise the flag of his empire and heard them play his national anthem. At the narrowest point of the straits, he was also honored with a 101-gun salute.
Then, having crossed the Marmara to Istanbul, he was given an honored welcome by then-Ottoman ruler Abdülhamid II. In exchanging gifts, Wilhelm had not reckoned with traditional Turkish generosity, as what he would receive far overshadowed his impressive presents. He was hosted in a particularly sumptuous manner at Abdülhamid’s palace of Yıldız, which he had recently expanded to house his German guest. It is reported that at a “very elaborate” dinner with the sultan, the table was magnificently arranged” and that the guests “ate off nothing but gold.” What is more, he was presented with prestigious Ottoman honors.
In addition to staying at the palace of Yıldız, Wilhelm was brought to visit the other castles that Abdülhamid’s predecessors had built on the bank of the Bosphorus – those of Dolmabahçe and Beylerbeyi. Like many a modern tourist, he was also treated to a Bosphorus cruise. But, unlike the contemporary tourist, he was sedately rowed up this inimitable waterway by a 10-man crew in a caique. It is also to be noted that the press of Istanbul took an interest in the visitor that matched that of the sultan himself. For instance, Sabah, which that it was print even at that time testifies to its antiquity, dedicated its front page to welcoming the kaiser and his wife.
Wilhelm told Abdülhamid that he was “much moved by the feelings of cordiality and sympathy” he had experienced in Istanbul. Moreover, in a telegram to Germany, he refers to his “stay” as having been “like a dream” and also lauds “the magnificent hospitality” of the sultan. Moreover, if actions speak louder than words, the decision by the kaiser while in Istanbul to extend his official visit to four days is resounding.
His first visit revealed the positive sides of Wilhelm. As the historian Sean McMeekin notes, the trip revealed “Wilhelm’s childlike curiosity and capacity for wonder” and “his ability to be fascinated by new sights and sensations.” As such, he resembled the fourth traveler of this series, Hadrian, more than the other typical statesman of late 19th-century Europe, who behaved patronizingly toward the Ottoman Empire while hypocritically eyeing up its territory for themselves. It is no wonder that when Wilhelm, in contrast, so manifestly showed his openness to and appreciation of the culture of the Ottoman Empire, the residents of its capital responded in kind by being so exuberant about his visit. Nevertheless, it is not to be forgotten that Wilhelm’s enthusiastic mood was itself a response to his being the center of attention, which he needed to offset his fragile self-esteem.
Back in Germany, the Turcophilia of Wilhelm did not diminish, leading to a second visit to the empire in 1898. This time, the problematic side of his nature was more clearly revealed. His second visit began once again with a visit to Istanbul. From there, he became part of the sultan’s dominion in the Middle East. To see the problematic side of Wilhelm more clearly, it is necessary to follow him on his trip outside of what is Türkiye today but then he was still part of the Ottoman Empire.
In Ottoman Jerusalem, which he was visiting to assist in the foundation of a new Protestant church, the supposedly Protestant kaiser then, at the site at which Catholics believe that the Virgin Mary ascended into heaven, was moved to such a degree that he not only declared his protection of the site, but also, in his own words, “placed himself, his army and his empire in the service of the Mother of Christ.” On top of all this, he declared his support of the site of another Protestant sect and Zionism. Then, in nearby Beirut, Wilhelm was overcome by the enthusiastic welcome of the people and powerful romantic feelings raised by the city. This caused him to declare his undying friendship toward Abdülhamid II and the 300 million Muslims who recognized him as their caliph.
Undoubtedly, other European rulers had interfered in Ottoman affairs on behalf of specific religious groupings. Of course, in doing so, they were flagrantly violating the sovereignty of an independent state but looked at from the narrow perspective of their self-interest, these rulers provided themselves with a convenient cover under which to further their territorial ambitions, as well as enhance their status at home with the majority of their population who practiced the religion in question. For Wilhelm, though, there was no such selfish advantage in his pronouncements. He was not one of the rulers that sought territorial expansion at the expense of the Ottomans, and he did not act solely in the interests of the two dominant German religions. Rather, as McMeekin summarizes it: Here was a sovereign declaring a proprietary interest in nearly all the subjects of the Ottoman Middle East – no less than three Christian denominations, the Jews of Palestine, and all of the Muslims to foot.
It leads McMeekin to ask the question, “had Kaiser Wilhelm gone around the bend?” Indeed, a person who seeks to please everyone is at risk of pleasing nobody. Moreover, their behavior of Wilhelm was symptomatic of his approach to foreign policy in general. It is why his foreign policy has been described as “erratic and fumbling.” In this way, he created a powerful anti-German alliance between France, Russia and Great Britain, which would have seemed almost impossible at the outset of his reign. Indeed, it was powerful enough to prevent German victory when it came to war in 1914. Although Russia was forced out of the war by the revolution in 1917, the entry of the U.S. in the same year directly due to Wilhelm’s policies led to the defeat of Germany and Wilhelm’s abdication in 1918.
However, in September 1917, when the war’s outcome was still unclear, Wilhelm made his final trip to Istanbul. Even though he did visit the Yıldız Palace, where a banquet was laid on for him, his old friend Abdülhamid was no longer there, having been overthrown by Wilhelm’s new hosts, the Young Turks, in 1909. The war dragged on for so long and claimed many German and Ottoman lives; this was a far more somber affair than his earlier exuberant visits. Also, there was discontent in the background. As Stanford J. Shaw, one of the leading historians of modern Türkiye, puts it, “more and more people began to question openly why the Porte had become involved in such a long-drawn-out and disastrous war, and no clear answer could be given.” As such, it was a sad final visit for a ruler whose first visit to the city nearly thirty years earlier had seemed so pregnant with promise.
Two are especially noteworthy among other remnants of Wilhelm’s trips to Istanbul.
Among Sultanahmet’s even more incredible architectural wonders is a small, perfectly geometrical gem of a structure. This gift from Wilhelm to Abdülhamid is a compact architectural tribute to all that is beautiful in the traditions of Türkiye and Istanbul. It is a fountain, and as such, it is a highly well-chosen gift, with the foundation of fountains being a longstanding Turkish tradition. Being cupped by a dome, it seems to pay homage in miniature to the nearby architectural masterpieces of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Its octagonal shape seems to honor Sinan, the greatest of all Ottoman architects, whose masterpiece in Edirne has a dome supported by eight giant pillars. In decoration, the inside of the crown is of gold mosaic, a fascinating art form that epitomizes Byzantine art. Finally, to show that the gift was given in friendship from one ruler to another, there are eight medallions around the inner side of the dome. They form an interspersing series of the symbols of the two rulers, thus demonstrating the equality of the two sovereigns and their eternal friendship.
The second is a beautifully sunlit painting primarily taken up by a light blue Mediterranean sky and its reflection in the calm and lazy waters of the Bosporus. The image is by the Italian artist Fausto Zonaro, who will be featured later in this series of famous travelers to Türkiye. In the middle distance is the exquisite Dolmabahçe Mosque, and then behind it, the coast of Karakoy melts away into the rest of old Istanbul as if in a dream. In the foreground on the extreme right is the landing stage of Dolmabahçe Palace.
Although the ostensible subject of the painting is Kaiser Wilhelm, and he is visible in his Prussian greatcoat, having just emerged through a gate in the palace railings, he is a relatively minor figure because Zonaro has composed the work so that the main focus of it is, in fact, the caiques, and especially the first one, to the left of the kaiser that awaits him and his entourage on the gently lapping waters of the Bosphorus. These are particularly picturesque due to the contrast between the brown wood of the boats and the numerous rowers, kitted out but strikingly in identical flowing white robes and bright red fezes. Yet, while a group in the same clothing, each figure retains his individuality as they stand or sit, some with their oars resting on the quayside for their foreign visitor. In the stern of the first of the caiques and almost right in the center of the picture’s foreground, there is a miniature model of a golden crescent moon and, just behind it, an eagle figurine. These are the images of the two rulers whose friendship is celebrated in the painting and which was forged on that first visit back in 1889.
