Pickup from old film
Reality and Myth
I
Banking,” the 3rd Lord Rothschild once remarked, “consists essentially of facilitating the movement of money from Point A, where it is, to Point B, where it is needed.” There is a certain elementary truth in this aperçu, even if it did reflect Victor Rothschild’s personal lack of enthusiasm for finance. But if the history of the firm founded by his great-great-grandfather two centuries ago consisted of nothing more than getting money from A to B, it would make dull reading. It should not.
All banks have histories, though not all have their histories researched and written; only the Rothschilds, however, have a mythology. Ever since the second decade of the nineteenth century, there has been speculation about the origins and extent of the family’s wealth; about the social implications of their meteoric upward mobility; about their political influence, not only in the five countries where there were Rothschild houses but throughout the world; about their Judaism. The resulting mythology has proved almost as long-lived as the firm of N. M. Rothschild & Sons itself. The name “Rothschild” (which translates from the original German as “Redshield”) may be less well known today than it was a hundred years ago, when, as Chekhov remarked, a moribund Russian coffin-maker could use it ironically as a nickname for a poor Jewish musician.1 But most readers will recognise it, if only from its still fairly regular appearances in the press. The bank may not be the financial giant it was in the century after 1815 and the family may be a great deal more dispersed and diffuse, but the name continues to attract attention—some of it prurient. Even those who know nothing about finance and care less are likely to have come across it at least once in their lives. Thanks to an apparently hereditary aptitude for zoology and horticulture, there are no fewer than 153 species or sub-species of insect which bear the name “Rothschild,” as well as fifty-eight birds, eighteen mammals (including the Baringo Giraffe, Giraffa camelopardalis rothschildi) and fourteen plants (including a rare slipper orchid, Paphiopedilum rothschildianum and a flame lily, Gloriosa rothschildiana)—to say nothing of three fish, three spiders and two reptiles. The family’s almost equally recurrent enthusiasm for the pleasures of the table has also bestowed the name on a soufflé (made with glacé fruit, brandy and vanilla) and a savoury (prawns, cognac and Gruyère on toast). There are towns and numerous streets named after members of the family in Israel, Rothschild-owned vineyards at Mouton and Lafite whose wines are drunk the world over, numerous Rothschild-built houses from the Vale of Aylesbury to the Riviera—and there is even a Rothschild Island in the Antarctic. Pieces of music have been dedicated to Rothschilds by Chopin and Rossini, as have books by Balzac and Heine. The family is as famous in the art world for its many collections (some of which can be seen in public galleries) as it is in horse-racing circles for its past Derby winners. In the course of writing this book, I have met few people who had not heard at least one Rothschild anecdote—most commonly the myth of the immense profits Nathan Mayer Rothschild made by speculating on the outcome of the battle of Waterloo; almost as often the story of the purchase of the Suez Canal shares which Disraeli did his best to make famous. And, for those who know no history, books of Jewish humour still contain Rothschild jokes. There have even been two Rothschild films, a play2 and a bizarre, though moderately successful, Broadway musical.
It should be said right away that this book has very little to say about giraffes, orchids, soufflés, vintage wines or islands in the Antarctic. It is primarily a book about banking; and here some words of explanation and reassurance are in order for those readers who are more interested in what rich families do with their wealth than in how they get it.
In fact, the firm of N. M. Rothschild & Sons was not technically a bank at all—at least not according to that great Victorian financial journalist Walter Bagehot’s definition in his Lombard Street (1873). “A foreigner,” he wrote, “would be apt to think that they [the Rothschilds] were bankers if anyone was. But this only illustrates the essential difference between our English notions of banking and the continental”:
Messrs Rothschild are immense capitalists, having, doubtless, much borrowed money in their hands. But they do not take £100 payable on demand, and pay it back in cheques of £5 each, and that is our English banking. The borrowed money they have is in large sums, borrowed for terms more or less long. English bankers deal with an aggregate of small sums, all of which are repayable on short notice, or on demand. And the way the two employ their money is different also. A foreigner thinks “an Exchange business”—that is, the buying and selling bills on foreign countries—a main part of banking . . . But the mass of English country bankers . . . would not know how carry through a great “Exchange operation” . . . They would as soon think of turning silk merchants. The Exchange trade is carried on by a small and special body of foreign bill-brokers, of whom Messrs Rothschild are the greatest . . . [The] family are not English bankers, either by the terms on which they borrow money, or the mode in which they employ it.
Having begun his business career in England as a textile exporter, Nathan Mayer Rothschild was technically a merchant who came to specialise in various financial services. He himself said in 1817: “[M]y business . . . consists entirely in Government transactions & Bank operations”—but by the latter he probably meant operations with the Bank of England. He did not mean the kind of deposit banking which Bagehot called “our English banking” and which remains the principal activity of the big high-street banks today.
Nor can N. M. Rothschild & Sons really be regarded as an autonomous firm: until some time between 1905 and 1909 it was one of a group of Rothschild “houses” run by a family partnership—though the London house is the only one of these which has had an uninterrupted existence until the present day (Rothschild & Cie Banque is only an indirect descendant of the original Paris house, which was nationalised in 1981). At its zenith from the 1820s until the 1860s, this group had five distinct establishments. In addition to Nathan’s in London, there was the original firm of M. A. Rothschild & Söhne in Frankfurt (after 1817, M. A. von Rothschild & Söhne), which his eldest brother Amschel took over when their father Mayer Amschel died; de Rothschild Frères in Paris, founded by his youngest brother James; and two subsidiaries of the Frankfurt house, C. M. von Rothschild in Naples, run by the fourth of the brothers, Carl, and S. M. von Rothschild in Vienna, managed by the second-born Salomon. Up until the 1860s, the five houses worked together so closely that it is impossible to discuss the history of one without discussing the history of all five: they were, to all intents and purposes, the component parts of a multinational bank. Even as late as the first decade of the twentieth century, the system of partnerships continued to function in such a way that “English” Rothschilds had a financial stake in the Paris house and “French” Rothschilds a stake in the London house. Unlike modern multinationals, however, this was always a family firm, with executive decision-making strictly monopolised by the partners who (until 1960) were exclusively drawn from the ranks of male Rothschilds.
Perhaps the most important point to grasp about this multinational partnership is that, for most of the century between 1815 and 1914, it was easily the biggest bank in the world. Strictly in terms of their combined capital, the Rothschilds were in a league of their own until, at the earliest, the 1880s. The twentieth century has no equivalent: not even the biggest of today’s international banking corporations enjoys the relative supremacy enjoyed by the Rothschilds in their heyday—just as no individual today owns as large a share of the world’s wealth as Nathan and James as individuals owned in the period from the mid-1820s until the 1860s (see appendix 1). The economic history of capitalism is therefore incomplete until some attempt has been made to explain how the Rothschilds became so phenomenally rich. Was there a “secret” to their unparalleled success? There are numerous apocryphal business maxims attributed to the Rothschilds—for example, to hold a third of one’s wealth in securities; a third in real estate; and a third in jewels and artworks, to treat the stock exchange like a cold shower (“quick in, quick out”); or to leave the last 10 per cent to someone else—but none of them has any serious explanatory value.
What exactly was the business the Rothschilds did? And what use did they make of the immense economic leverage they could exercise? To answer these questions properly it is necessary to understand something of nineteenth-century public finance; for it was by lending to governments—or by speculating in existing government bonds—that the Rothschilds made a very large part of their colossal fortune.
II
All nineteenth-century states occasionally ran budget deficits and some almost always did—that is, their tax revenues were usually insufficient to meet their expenditures. In this, of course, they were little different from eighteenth-century states. And, as before 1800, it was war and the preparation for war which generally precipitated the biggest increases in expenditure; poor harvests (or troughs in the trade cycle) also caused periodic revenue shortfalls by reducing receipts from taxes. These deficits, though often relatively small in relation to national income, were not easily financed. National capital markets were not very developed and an internationally integrated capital market was only gradually taking shape with its first real centre in Amsterdam. For most states, borrowing was expensive—that is, the interest they had to pay on loans was relatively high—because they were perceived by investors as unreliable creditors. Budget deficits were thus often financed either by the sale of royal assets (land or offices), or by inflation if the government was in a position to debase the currency. A third possibility, of course, was to raise new taxes, but, as had been the case in the seventeenth century and as was to be the case throughout the nineteenth century too, major changes in tax regimes generally necessitated some kind of political consent via representative institutions. The French Revolution was precipitated by just such a bid for new revenue from the Estates General, after all other attempts at fiscal reform had failed to keep up with the costs of the crown’s military activities. One exception to the rule was the British state, which since the later seventeenth century had developed a relatively sophisticated system of public borrowing (the national debt) and monetary management (the Bank of England). Another exception was the small German state of Hesse-Kassel, which was effectively run by its ruler at a profit through the hiring out of his subjects as mercenaries to other states. Involvement in the management of his huge investment portfolio was one of the first steps Mayer Amschel Rothschild took in order to become a banker rather than a mere coin dealer (his original business).
The period 1793-1815 was characterised by recurrent warfare, the fiscal side-effects of which were profound. Firstly, unprecedented expenditures precipitated inflation in all the combatants’ economies, the most extreme form of which was the collapse of the assignat currency in France. The European currencies—including the pound sterling after 1797—were thrown into turmoil. Secondly, the disruptions of war (for example, the French occupation of Amsterdam and Napoleon’s Continental System) created opportunities for making large profits on highly risky transactions such as smuggling textiles and bullion and managing the investments of exiled rulers. Thirdly, the transfer of large subsidies from Britain to her continental allies necessitated innovations in the cross-border payments system which had never before had to cope with such sums. It was in this highly volatile context that the Rothschilds made the decisive leap from running two modest firms—a small merchant bank in Frankfurt and a cloth exporters in Manchester—to running a multinational financial partnership.
Nor did the final defeat of Napoleon end the need for international financial services; on the contrary, the business of settling the debts and indemnities left over from the war dragged on for most of the 1820s. Moreover, new fiscal needs quickly arose from the political crises which beset the Spanish and Ottoman Empires in this period. At the same time, fiscal retrenchment and monetary stabilisation in Britain created a need for new forms of investment for those who had grown accustomed to putting their money in high-yielding British bonds during the war years. It was this need which Nathan and his brothers successfully met. The system they developed enabled British investors (and other rich “capitalists” in Western Europe) to invest in the debts of those states by purchasing internationally tradeable, fixed-interest bearer (that is, transferable) bonds. The significance of this system for nineteenth-century history cannot be over-emphasised. For this growing international bond market brought together Europe’s true “capitalists”: that elite of people wealthy enough to be able to tie up money in such assets, and shrewd enough to appreciate the advantages of such assets as compared with traditional forms of holding wealth (land, venal office and so on). Bonds were liquid. They could be bought and sold five and a half days out of seven (excluding holidays) on the major bourses of Europe and traded informally at other times and in other places. And they were capable of accruing large capital gains. Their only disadvantage was, of course, that they were also capable of suffering large capital losses.
What determined the ups and downs of the nineteenth-century bond market? The answer to this question is central to any understanding of the history of the Rothschild bank. Obviously, economic factors played an important part—in particular, the conditions for short-term borrowing and the appeal of alternative private securities. But the most important factor was political confidence: the confidence of investors (and especially of big market-making investors like the Rothschilds) in the ability of the bond-issuing states to continue to meet their obligations—that is, to pay the interest on their bonds. There were only really two things which might cause them not to do so: war, which would increase their expenditures and decrease their tax revenues; and internal instability, ranging from a change of ministry to full-blown revolution, which would not only dent their revenues but might also bring to power a new and fiscally imprudent government. It was for indications of either of these possible crises, with their intimations of default, that the markets—and the Rothschilds more than anybody—watched.
This explains the importance they always attached to having up-to-date political and economic news. Three things would give an investor an edge over his rival: closeness to the centre of political life, the source of news; the speed with which he could receive news of events in states far and near; and the ability to manipulate the transmission of that news to other investors. This explains why the Rothschilds spent so much time, energy and money maintaining the best possible relations with the leading political figures of the day. It also explains why they carefully developed a network of salaried agents in other key financial markets, whose job it was not only to trade on their behalf but also to keep them supplied with the latest financial and political news. And it explains why they constantly strove to accelerate the speed with which information could be relayed from their agents to them. From an early stage, they relied on their own system of couriers and relished their ability to obtain political news ahead of the European diplomatic services. They also occasionally used carrier-pigeons to transmit the latest stock prices and exchange rates from one market to another. Before the development of the telegraph (and later the telephone), which tended to “democratise” news by making it generally available more rapidly, the Rothschilds’ communications network gave them an important advantage over their competitors. Even after they lost this edge, they continued to exercise an influence over the financial press through which news reached a wider public.
Information about the chances of international or domestic instability fed directly into the bond market, leading to the daily fluctuations in prices and yields which investors followed so closely. However, the relationship between politics and the bond market went the other way too. For the movements of prices of existing government stock—the products of past fiscal policy—had an important bearing on present and future policy. To put it simply, if a government wished to borrow more by issuing more bonds, a fall in the price (rise in the yield) of its existing bonds was a serious discouragement. For this reason, bond prices had a significance which historians have too seldom spelt out. They were, it might be said, a kind of daily opinion poll, an expression of confidence in a given regime. Of course, they were an opinion poll based on a highly unrepresentative sample by modern, democratic standards. Only the wealthy—the “capitalists”—got to vote. But then political life in the nineteenth century was itself undemocratic. Indeed, the kind of people who held government bonds were, very roughly speaking, the people who were represented politically, even if there was sometimes tension between those property owners whose assets were held primarily in the form of land or buildings and the bondholders whose portfolios were composed mainly of paper securities. These capitalists were thus to a large extent Europe’s political class and their opinions were the opinions that mattered in a stratified, undemocratic society. If investors bid up the price of a government’s stock, that government could feel secure. If they dumped its stock, that government was quite possibly living on borrowed time as well as money.
The singular beauty of the bond market was that virtually every state (including, as the century advanced, all the new nation states and colonies) had, sooner or later, to come to it; and most states had sizeable amounts of tradable debt in circulation. The varying fortunes of government bonds provide a vital insight into the political history of the period. They are also the key to understanding the extent and limits of the power of a bank like Rothschilds, which for much of the nineteenth century was the prime market-maker for such bonds. Indeed, it can be argued that, by modifying the existing system for government borrowing to make bonds more easily tradable, the Rothschilds actually created the international bond market in its modern form. As early as 1830 a German writer observed how, thanks to innovations in the form of bonds introduced by the Rothschilds since 1818,
each possessor of state paper [can] . . . collect the interest at his convenience at several different places without any effort. The House of Rothschild in Frankfurt pays the interest on the Austrian metalliques, the Neapolitan rentes and the interest of the Anglo-Neapolitan obligations in either London, Naples or Paris, wherever it suits.
At the core of this book, then, is the international bond market which the Rothschilds did so much to develop, though due attention is also paid to the many other forms of financial business the Rothschilds did: bullion broking and refining, accepting and discounting commercial bills, direct trading in commodities, foreign exchange dealing and arbitrage, even insurance. In addition to the inevitable web of credits and debits with other firms which arose from these activities, the Rothschilds also offered to a select group of customers—usually royal and aristocratic individuals whom they wished to cultivate—a range of “personal banking services” ranging from large personal loans (as in the case of the Austrian Chancellor Prince Metternich) to a first class private postal service (as in the case of Queen Victoria). Contrary to Bagehot’s impression, they sometimes took deposits from this exclusive clientele. And the Rothschilds were also major industrial investors—an aspect of their business which has often been underestimated. When the development of railways raised the possibility of transforming Europe’s transport system in the 1830s and 1840s, the Rothschilds were among the leading financial backers of lines, beginning in France, Austria and Germany. Indeed, by the 1860s James de Rothschild had built up something like a pan-European railway network extending northwards from France to Belgium, southwards to Spain and eastwards to Germany, Switzerland, Austria and Italy. From an early stage, the Rothschilds also had major mining interests, beginning in the 1830s with their acquisition of the Spanish mercury mines of Almadén and expanding dramatically in the 1880s and 1890s when they invested in mines producing gold, copper, diamonds, rubies and oil. Like their original financial business, this was an authentically global operation extending from South Africa to Burma, from Montana to Baku.
The primary concern of this book is therefore to explain the origins and development of one of the biggest and most unusual businesses in the history of modern capitalism. Nevertheless, it is not intended as a narrowly economic history. For one thing, the history of the firm is inseparable from the history of the family: the phrase “the House of Rothschild,” which has often been used by previous historians (and film-makers) was used by contemporaries, including the Rothschilds themselves, to convey this unity. While the regularly revised and renewed partnership agreements regulated the management of the Rothschilds’ collective business activities and the distribution of the profits which accrued, of equal importance were the nuptial agreements which, at the height of the family’s success, systematically married Rothschild to Rothschild, thus keeping the family’s capital united—and safe from the claims of “outsiders.” When Rothschild women did marry outside the family, their husbands were prohibited from having a direct involvement in the business, as were the female Rothschilds themselves. The partners’ wills were also designed to ensure the perpetuation and growth of the business by imposing the wishes of one generation on the next. Inevitably, there were conflicts between the collective ambitions of the family, so compellingly spelt out by Mayer Amschel before he died, and the wishes of the individuals who happened to be born Rothschilds, few of whom shared the founder’s relentless appetite for work and profits. Fathers were disappointed by sons. Brothers resented brothers. Love was unrequited or prohibited. Marriage was imposed on unwilling cousins, and husbands and wives quarrelled. In all this, the Rothschilds had much in common with the large families which populate so much nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century fiction: Thackeray’s New-comes, Trollope’s Pallisers, Galsworthy’s Forsytes, Tolstoy’s Rostovs and Mann’s Buddenbrooks (though not, happily, Dostoevsky’s Karamazovs). The nineteenth century, of course, was an era of large families—the birth rate was high and, for the rich, the death rate fell—and perhaps in this sense alone the Rothschilds were not (as Heine once called them) “the exceptional family.”
Because they were so rich, the Rothschilds could plainly claim a material equivalence with the European aristocracy; their success in overcoming the various legal and cultural obstacles to full equivalence of status is one of the most remarkable case studies in nineteenth century social history. As men whose father had been prohibited from owning property outside the cramped and squalid Frankfurt Judengasse, the five brothers had an understandable interest in the acquisition of land and spacious residences; though it was the third generation3 who were responsible for building most of the spectacular palaces and town houses which are the family’s most impressive monuments. At the same time, the Rothschilds energetically pursued and acquired decorations, titles and other honours, securing the ultimate prize—an English peerage—in 1885. The third generation also threw themselves into hunting and horse-racing, those quintessentially aristocratic pastimes. A similar process of social assimilation is detectable in their cultural engagement. James and his nephews had a passion for collecting art, ornaments and furniture which they passed on to many of their descendants. They also extended their patronage to include writers (Benjamin Disraeli, Honoré de Balzac and Heinrich Heine), musicians (notably Fryderyk Chopin and Gioachino Rossini) as well as architects and artists. In more ways than one, they were the nineteenth century’s Medicis.
Yet it would be wrong to see them as the archetype of the “feudalised” bourgeois family, “aping” the manners of the landed elite. For the Rothschilds brought to the aristocratic milieu patterns of behaviour which were distinctively commercial in origin. Initially, they bought land as an investment which they expected to pay an economic return. They regarded the large houses they built at least partly in functional terms, as private hotels for dispensing corporate hospitality. Nathan’s sons and grandsons even saw the purchase of horses as a form of enjoyably speculative investment and placed bets on horse-races in much the same way that they engaged in stock market “specs.” To put it cynically, mixing with members of the aristocracy was essential if it was they who governed, and almost as much political information came from informal socialising as from formal meetings with ministers.
At the same time, there is a sense in which the Rothschilds more closely resembled royalty than either the aristocracy or the middle classes. This was not just because they consciously imitated the many crowned heads they came to know. Like the extended family which provided so many of Europe’s monarchs, the Rothschilds were extreme in their preference for endogamy. They relished the sense that they were sans pareil—at least within the European Jewish elite. In this sense, phrases like “Kings of the Jews” which contemporaries applied to them contained an important element of truth. That was exactly the way the Rothschilds saw and conducted themselves—as phrases like “our royal family” in their letters show—and the way they were treated by many other less wealthy Jews.
This relationship to Judaism and the Jewish communities of Europe and the Middle East is unquestionably one of the most fascinating themes of the family’s history. For the Rothschilds, as for so many Jewish families who migrated westwards in the nineteenth century, social assimilation or integration in the countries where they settled posed a challenge to their faith, although the relaxation of discriminatory legislation allowed them to acquire not only money but many of the desirable things it could buy. Yet no matter how sumptuous their houses and how well educated their children, they constantly encountered anti-Jewish sentiment, ranging from the aggression of the Frankfurt mob to the subtle disdain of aristocrats and Gentile bankers for “the Jew.” Many other wealthy Jewish families opted to convert to Christianity partly in response to such pressures. But the Rothschilds did not. They remained firmly committed to Judaism, playing an important role in the affairs of the various Jewish communities of which they were members. Moreover, they sought, from their earliest days, to use their financial leverage over individual states to improve the legal and political position of the Jews living there. They did this not only in their home town of Frankfurt, but consistently in almost every state where they did business thereafter as well as in some countries (for example, Rumania and Syria) where they had no economic interests. At least some members of the family saw such altruistic activities as in some sense linked to their own material success: by remaining true to the faith of their ancestors and remembering their “poorer co-religionists” the Rothschilds not only demonstrated their gratitude for their good fortune but ensured that it continued.
Finally, and perhaps most important, this is a political as much as it is a financial history: there are few major political figures in nineteenth-century history who do not feature in the index of this book. From the very earliest days, the Rothschilds appreciated the importance of proximity to politicians, the men who determined not only the extent of budget deficits but also the domestic and foreign policies which so influenced the financial markets; and politicians soon came to realise the importance of proximity to the Rothschilds, who at times seemed indispensable to the solvency of the states the politicians governed and who could always be relied upon to provide up-to-the-minute political news. Mayer Amschel’s cultivation of the Elector of Hesse-Kassel’s chief financial adviser Karl Buderus and later of Karl Theodor Anton von Dalberg, Prince-Primate of Napoleon’s Rhenish Confederation, were the prototypes of countless relationships his sons cultivated with politicians throughout Europe. Beginning in 1813, Nathan became intimate with the British Commissary-General, John Charles Herries, the man responsible for financing Wellington’s invasion of France. Another early Rothschild “friend” in England was Charles Stewart, brother of the Foreign Secretary Lord Castlereagh and the British delegate at the Congresses of Vienna, Troppau, Laibach and Verona. Nathan was also in direct contact with the Prime Minister Lord Liverpool and his Chancellor of the Exchequer Nicholas Vansittart in the early 1820s, and gave the Duke of Wellington important financial advice during the Reform crisis of 1830-32.
Rothschild influence extended to royalty as well. Nathan first came into contact with British royalty thanks to his father’s purchase of outstanding debts owed by George, Prince Regent (later King George IV) and his brothers. These tenuous links were enhanced by careful cultivation of Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, who married George IV’s daughter Charlotte and later became King Leopold I of the Belgians. Nor was his nephew Albert above turning to the Rothschilds for financial assistance after he became Queen Victoria’s Prince Consort. In turn, Victoria and Albert’s eldest son was on friendly terms with many members of the family before and after he succeeded his mother as Edward VII. The list of Victorian politicians who were close to the Rothschilds is a long one: Lionel’s campaign for admission to the House of Commons in the 1840s and 1850s enjoyed support from Whigs like Lord John Russell and Peelites like Gladstone, but also Protectionist Tories like Disraeli and Lord George Bentinck. Later, as his sons grew disillusioned with Gladstone, they were attracted not only to Disraeli but also to Lord Randolph Churchill, Joseph Chamberlain and Arthur Balfour. In the 1880s and 1890s their advice on imperial matters was sought by both the Marquess of Salisbury and the Earl of Rosebery, Gladstone’s successor as Liberal Prime Minister. Indeed, Rosebery was married to a Rothschild: Mayer’s daughter Hannah.
The French Rothschilds also took a direct role in politics. They were close to the comte de Villèle in the early 1820s, shifted their allegiance skilfully to Louis Philippe in 1830, managed to survive the 1848 revolution by cultivating leading republicans, and subtly undermined the rule of Napoleon III, whose foreign adven turism they disliked. They also had a firm friend in the Third Republic in the person of Léon Say, four times French Finance Minister. In Germany and Austria, the close relationship between Salomon and Metternich was of immense importance in the years 1818-48, but it was far from unique. Other “friends” of the Restoration era included Count Apponyi, the Austrian ambassador in Paris, and members of the Esterházy family; as well as (in Prussia) Prince Hardenberg, the State Chancellor, Wilhelm von Humboldt, the educational reformer and diplomat, and Christian Rother, the finance official who rose to become president of the Prussian royal bank. Links with Bismarck proved harder to forge, though by the 1870s Mayer Carl was able to act as a channel of diplomatic communication between “old B.” and the governments in London and Paris. The Emperor William II awarded Alfred de Rothschild a medal for his diplomatic services and regarded his brother Natty as “an old and much respected acquaintance.”
A central aim of this book is to illuminate these relationships. As Fritz Stern said in his pioneering study of the relationship between Bismarck and Gerson Bleichröder, historians used to be shy of acknowledging the role of financial factors in the policies of the great statesmen of the nineteenth century. Strangely, the many historians of a Marxist persuasion who were once so influential did hardly anything to rectify this, preferring to assert rather than to demonstrate that the interests of the ruling class were essentially the same as (or subordinate to) those of “finance capital.” In recent years, historians of British imperialism have done much to refine our understanding of the relationship between the City and the Empire. But the model of “gentlemanly capitalism” advanced by Cain and Hopkins does not quite fit the Rothschild case; and, given the sheer scale of the Rothschilds’ role in nineteenth-century finance, this is an exception which may do more than prove the rule. The Rothschilds after the second generation may have acted like gentlemen when they were in the West End or the country. But in the “counting house” they were unalloyed capitalists, applying rules and precepts of business which had their origins in the Frankfurt Judengasse.
III
The above is a sketch of what might be called the reality of Rothschild history which this book describes in detail. In itself, it is an absorbing story. Yet it becomes doubly so when juxtaposed with the extraordinary mythology which has grown up around the family since they first began to be noticed by contemporaries as “exceptional.”
The origins of the Rothschild myth—as far as surviving published records go—can be traced back to 1813, the year after the death of the founder of the firm. Despite its eulogistic title and tone, it would be wrong to describe S. J. Cohen’s memoir, The Exemplary Life of the Immortal Banker Mr Meyer Amschel Rothschild, as an authorised biography. Nevertheless, it set the tone for what might broadly be described as the sympathetic (if not the official) explanation for the Rothschilds’ financial success, essentially portraying it as a morality tale of virtue rewarded. Not only was Mayer Amschel a pious and observant Jew, Cohen argued, but his life “proved beyond doubt that a Jew, as a Jew, can be religious and at the same time an excellent man and a good citizen.” Like the authors of so many later works of homage, Cohen said very little about Mayer Amschel’s business career. But the strong implication was that his success as a banker was a sign of divine approbation.
Some thirteen years later a more precise but comparably moralistic explanation was published. The General German Encyclopaedia for the Educated Classes produced by the Leipzig publisher F. A. Brockhaus was a typical example of the secular reference work of the Biedermeier era. It was popular, selling around 80,000 copies; but, though similar in form to the French encyclopaedias which had been associated with the pre-Revolutionary Enlightenment, its content was monitored by the conservative authorities. Indeed, the man who wrote the entry for “Rothschild” first published in the 1827 edition of the encyclopaedia was Friedrich von Gentz, secretary to Metternich; and the positive tone of the piece reflected the Rothschilds’ growing influence over both Austrian public finance and Gentz’s private affairs. This was an article which the family not only approved of but paid for: prior to publication Gentz read it aloud to Leopold von Wertheimstein, one of the Vienna house’s senior clerks, and ten days later received his “actual reward” from Salomon von Rothschild himself.
Though he said little about their origins in the Frankfurt ghetto in the four columns which Brockhaus published—indeed, he did not mention their religion at all—Gentz implied that they had only recently become “the greatest of all business firms.” This success had its roots, he suggested, in Mayer Amschel’s “hard work and parsimony . . . knowledge and proven integrity.” Likewise his five sons were celebrated for “the reasonableness of their demands . . . the punctiliousness with which they carry out their duties . . . the simplicity and clarity of their schemes, and the intelligent way in which they are put into operation.” Apart from their skill as businessmen, Gentz also laid considerable emphasis on “the personal moral character of each of the five brothers” as “a determining factor in the success of their undertakings”:
It is not difficult to create a party for oneself when one is powerful enough to draw many people into one’s interest. But to unite the support of all parties and . . . to win the esteem of great and small, requires the possession not merely of material resources, but also of spiritual qualities which are not always found in association with wealth and power. Doing good works on all sides, never refusing help to one in need, always willing to fulfil the requests of anyone who asks for help, without regard to his class, and performing the most important services in the most gracious manner: by these means each of the five branches of the family has achieved a real popularity, and not in a calculated way but out of a natural philanthropy and kindness.
Such reflections had a faintly standardised quality to them, of course: paid hacks had been writing in such glowing terms about their wealthy patrons since ancient times. Privately, Gentz was more ambivalent. His first comment on the family (in response to a suggestion by his friend Adam Müller in 1818 that he write just such an essay) had been decidedly backhanded. They were, he agreed, “a distinct species plantarum with its own characteristic features:” to be precise, they were “common, ignorant Jews, who exercise their craft quite naturalistically [that is, instinctively], with no idea of the more elevated relationships between things.” On the other hand, they were also “gifted with a remarkable instinct which causes them always to choose the right and of two rights the better.” Their enormous wealth was “entirely the result of this instinct, which the public are wont to call luck.” In a section of his “Biographical Notes on the House of Rothschild” which was only published posthumously, Gentz elaborated on this last point—the relationship between ability (“virtue”) and circumstances (“luck”)—in a Machiavellian vein:
There is a truth, which, although not quite new, is generally not properly understood. The word luck as commonly used in the history of famous individuals or eminent families, becomes bereft of all meaning when we endeavour to dissociate it entirely from the personal or eminent factors in each case. There are circumstances and events in life in which good or ill luck may be a determining although not an exclusive factor in human destiny. Lasting success, however, and constant failure are always . . . attributable to the personal virtue or the personal failings and shortcomings of those who are blessed by the one or damned by the other. Nevertheless, the most outstanding personal qualities may sometimes require exceptional circumstances and world-shattering events to come to fruition. Thus have the founders of dynasties established their thrones, and thus has the House of Rothschild become great.
The readers of Brockhaus’s Encyclopaedia were spared these somewhat hackneyed philosophical reflections. Instead—in the form of a footnote inserted by Gentz’s editor—they were given a specific and hitherto unpublicised episode which was intended to illustrate precisely the relationship between virtue and luck which Gentz was driving at:
When the late Elector of Hesse had to flee in 1806 as the French approached, his large private fortune very nearly became Napoleon’s booty. R. rescued a substantial part of it by his courage and cleverness, although not without risk to himself, and conscientiously took care of it.
In the 1836 version, the story was elaborated on. Now, it was said, the Elector had:
left the recovery of his private possessions to Rothschild, their value amounting to many million gulden. It was only by sacrificing the whole of his own property and at considerable personal risk that Rothschild contrived to save the property that had been entrusted to him. The well-known fact that all Rothschild’s possessions had been confiscated by the French led the exiled Elector to believe that his own property had been lost too. Indeed he does not even appear to have thought it worth while to make enquiries about it.
But he underestimated the virtuous Mayer Amschel:
When matters had settled down again, Rothschild immediately proceeded to resume business with the property he had saved . . . When the Elector returned to his states in 1813, the House of Rothschild not merely offered immediately to return to him the capital sums with which they had been entrusted; they also undertook to pay the customary rate of interest from the day when they had received them. The Elector, positively astonished by such an example of honesty and fair dealing, left the whole of his capital for several more years with the firm, and refused any interest payments in respect of the earlier period, accepting a low rate of interest only as from the time of his return. By recommending the House of Rothschild [to others], especially at the Congress of Vienna, the Elector certainly assisted greatly in extending their connections.
This, then, was “the decisive factor in the enormous . . . development of [Mayer Amschel’s] business.” Few stories in financial history have been more frequently repeated, and the Rothschilds themselves did their share of the propagation. Nathan gave a potted version to the Liberal MP Thomas Fowell Buxton over dinner in 1834, while the version in the 1836 edition of Brockhaus was read by Carl von Rothschild and probably expanded by his sons’ tutor Dr Schlemmer. The story was even the subject of two small paintings by Moritz Daniel Oppenheim which the family commissioned in 1861.
Yet Gentz did not portray the morality tale of the Elector’s treasure as the sole explanation for the Rothschilds’ subsequent success: he also had some illuminating points to make about the Rothschilds’ business methods. “Success in all great transactions,” he argued, “does not depend purely on the choice and exploitation of the favourable moment, but much more on the application of consciously adopted and fundamental maxims.” Besides their “shrewd management and the advantageous circumstances,” it was these “principles” which the Rothschilds had to thank for the greatest part of their success. One of these principles obliged:
the five brothers to conduct their combined businesses in an uninterrupted community [of interest] . . . any proposal, no matter where it comes from, is the object of collective discussion; each operation, even if it is of minor importance, is carried out according to an agreed plan and with their combined efforts; and each of them has an equal share in its results.
As in the case of the Elector’s treasure, the notion of perfect fraternal harmony was very probably inspired by the brothers themselves. When they submitted a design for a coat of arms in 1817 (following their ennoblement by the Austrian Emperor), the fourth quarter depicted an arm bearing five arrows, the symbol of the unity of the five brothers which the firm of N. M. Rothschild & Sons Ltd continues to use on its notepaper to this day. The motto later adopted by the brothers—“Concordia, integritas, industria”—was intended to depict precisely the virtues listed in Brockhaus’sEncyclopaedia.
Gentz was the first of many writers to write about the Rothschilds in essentially friendly (if not sycophantic) terms. Perhaps the best of the more affectionate representations of the Rothschilds can be found in the novels of Benjamin Disraeli, who came to know the family intimately (and was also, like Gentz, not uninterested in their wealth). In Disraeli’s Coningsby (1844), for example, the resemblance between Sidonia and Lionel de Rothschild is close (though not complete). Sidonia’s father is described as having made money in the Peninsular War: he then “resolved to emigrate to England, with which he had, in the course of years, formed considerable commercial connections. He arrived here after the peace of Paris, with his large capital. He staked all on the Waterloo loan; and the event made him one of the greatest capitalists in Europe.” After the war, he and his brothers lent their money to the European states and he “became lord and master of the money-market of the world.” The younger Sidonia too has all the skills of a banker: he is an accomplished mathematician and “possessed a complete mastery over the principal European languages.” InTancred (1847), the Rothschild-inspired Jewess Eva asks: “[W]ho is the richest man in Paris?” to which Tancred replies: “The brother, I believe, of the richest man in London.” They are, of course, of her “race and faith.” Admittedly, Disraeli’s Rothschild-based characters often act as mouthpieces for the author’s own somewhat idiosyncratic reflections on the place of Jews in the modern world: in no sense can they be regarded as “realistic” portraits of individual Rothschilds. Nevertheless, there are enough traces of his original models to give the novels a genuine value to the historian.
Other “positive” fictional representations are less substantial. An Austrian novella of the 1850s, for example, portrayed Salomon von Rothschild as a kind of Viennese Santa Claus, benignly siding with a carpenter’s daughter who wants to marry her rich father’s gifted but poor apprentice. A later example of the same genre is Oscar Wilde’s short story “The Model Millionaire, a note of admiration” (1887), which describes how an impoverished man-about-town is helped to marry the girl he loves by the generosity of “Baron Hausberg.” Such fairy stories, in which Rothschild-inspired characters are cast as benign dispensers of largesse, have echoes in some of the twentieth-century popular works about the family, particularly the books by Balla, Roth, Morton, Cowles and Wilson. The consciously (and sometimes cloy ingly) positive tenor of such works can be inferred even from their titles: The Romance of the Rothschilds, The Magnificent Rothschilds, A Family Portrait, A Family of Fortune, A Story of Wealth and Power. The 1969 musical about Mayer Amschel and his sons represents the reductio ad absurdum of this sycophantic tendency. Here the family’s early history is transformed into a sentimental yarn of good Jewish boys overcoming the deprivation and degradation of a South German version of Hell’s Kitchen: in a word, kitsch.
Yet such positive representations account for a relatively small part of the Rothschild myth. Indeed, it is not too much to say that for every writer who has been willing to attribute at least part of the Rothschilds’ financial success to their virtues, there have been two or three who have taken the opposite view.
At first, in the 1820s and 1830s, it was not as easy to attack the Rothschilds in print as it later became, especially in Germany; for one of the other favours Friedrich Gentz did for his “friends” was to send instructions to newspapers like the Allgemeine Zeitung that the Rothschilds should not be criticised. Even in 1843 the radical republican Friedrich Steinmann still found it impossible to find a publisher for his detailed and highly critical history, The House of Rothschild, Its History and Transactions ; it did not appear for another fifteen years. The most that could safely be indulged in were mild digs of the sort published in 1826 by the German economist and journalist Friedrich List, whose brief report of a theft from the Paris house gratuitously described James de Rothschild as “the mighty lord and master of all the coined and uncoined silver and gold in the Old World, before whose money-box Kings and Emperors humbly bow, [the] King of Kings.” Even in relatively liberal England, the earliest criticisms of the Rothschilds were made in the form of allegorical cartoons like Cruikshank’s The Jew and the Doctor, or under the protection of parliamentary privilege, like Thomas Duncombe’s contemporaneous allusion in 1828 to “a new, and formidable power, till these days unknown in Europe; master of unbounded wealth, [who] boasts that he is the arbiter of peace and war, and that the credit of nations depends upon his nod.”
It was not untypical, therefore, that the earliest critique of the Rothschilds published in France took the form of fiction. In The House of Nucingen (1837-8), Honoré de Balzac portrayed a roguish German-born banker who had made his fortune from a series of bogus bankruptcies, forcing his creditors to accept depreciated paper in repayment. The resemblances between the overbearing, ruthless and coarse Nucingen and James de Rothschild were too numerous to be coincidental; and in his Splendours and Sorrows of Courtesans (1838-47), Balzac drew a famous conclusion which applied not only to Nucingen but also, by implication, to James: “All rapidly accumulated wealth is either the result of luck or discovery, or the result of a legalised theft.”
It may also have been Balzac who originated or at least disseminated what rapidly became one of the favourite stories in the anti-Rothschild canon; for in The House of Nucingen he describes Nucingen’s second greatest business coup as a massive speculation on the outcome of the battle of Waterloo. This story was repeated nine years later in Georges Dairnvaell’s scurrilous pamphlet, The Edifying and Curious History of Rothschild I, King of the Jews (1846), which claimed that, by obtaining the first news of Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, Nathan had been able to make a huge sum of money by speculating on the stock exchange. In later versions of the story, Nathan was said to have witnessed the battle himself, risking a Channel storm to reach London ahead of the official news of Wellington’s victory and thereby pocketing between £20 and £135 million. Other accounts have him bribing the French General Grouchy to ensure Wellington’s victory; and then deliberately misreporting the outcome in London in order to precipitate panic-selling.
Of course, it is possible for modern writers to retell the Waterloo legend as an illustration of Nathan’s business acumen—indeed, that is what most people today seem to infer from the anecdote. According to a later American banker, Bernard Baruch, it even inspired him to make his first million. However, the idea of a huge speculative profit made on the basis of advance news of a military outcome was a shocking one to many contemporaries: indeed, it epitomised the kind of “immoral” and “unhealthy” economic activity which both conservatives and radicals disliked when they contemplated the stock exchange. In refusing Gladstone’s request to make Lionel de Rothschild a peer, Queen Victoria explicitly questioned whether “one who owes his great wealth to contracts with Foreign Govts. for loans, or to successful speculations on the Stock Exchange can fairly claim a British peerage” as this seemed to her “not the less a species of gambling, because it is on a gigantic scale—and far removed from that legitimate trading which she delights to honour . . .”
Another contemporary interpretation of the Waterloo story was as an illustration of Rothschild political neutrality: by implication, if Napoleon had won, Nathan would have been a bear rather than a bull of British bonds. Some writers, however, chose to see his speculation as evidence of positive support for the coalition against Napoleon. To French critics especially, the Waterloo story symbolised the “unpatriotic” (sometimes German, sometimes British) sympathies of the family. As Dairnvaell put it, “The Rothschilds have only ever gained from our disasters; when France has won, the Rothschilds have lost.” That the Rothschilds gave their financial support to the opponents of Napoleon could equally well be taken as a sign of their political conservatism; as could the fact that they floated loans for Austria, Prussia and Bourbon France after 1815. Indeed, for radical opponents of the legitimist regimes restored at the Vienna Congress, the Rothschilds were notoriously the “chief ally of the Holy Alliance.” To the German writer Ludwig Börne, they were “the nation’s worst enemies. They have done more than any to undermine the foundations of freedom, and it is unquestionable that most of the peoples of Europe would by this time be in full possession of liberty if such men as Rothschild . . . did not lend the autocrats the support of their capital.”
Nevertheless, it was not always easy to sustain the notion that the Rothschilds were politically biased towards conservative regimes. As early as 1823, in the twelfth canto of Don Juan, Byron had asked “Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign O’er Congress, whether royalist or liberal?” and answered: “Jew Rothschild, and his fellow Christian Baring.” The crucial point is that Byron saw “Rothschild” as influential over both royalist and liberal regimes, his power stretching as far afield as the republics of Latin America. Even before the 1830 revolutions, the idea was gaining currency that the Rothschilds were more than merely bankrolling the legitimist regimes; consciously or unconsciously, they were acquiring a power of their own which rivalled and perhaps might even replace that of the monarchs and emperors. The events of 1830, when Charles X was toppled from the French throne but James de Rothschild survived unscathed, seemed to confirm this notion of a new financial royalty. “Would it not be a great blessing for the world,” asked Börne sarcastically in 1832, “if all the kings were dismissed and the Rothschild family put on their thrones?” William Makepeace Thackeray joked that “N. M. Rothschild, Esq. . . . play[ed] with new kings as young Misses with dolls.” Heinrich Heine described Nathan sitting as if on a throne and speaking “like a king, with courtiers all around him.” The same point underlies Heine’s vision of a children’s fancy-dress ball given by Salomon:
The children wore lovely fancy dress, and they played at making loans. They were dressed up like kings, with crowns on their heads, but there was one of the bigger lads who was dressed exactly like old Nathan Rothschild. He played his part very well, kept both hands in his trouser-pockets, rattled his money and shook with bad temper when one of the little kings wanted to borrow off him . . .
Elsewhere, Heine analysed the ambivalent nature of the Rothschilds’ power in more detail. He acknowledged that in the short term it served to shore up the reactionary regimes because “revolutions are generally triggered off by deficiency of money” and “the Rothschild system . . . prevent[ed] such deficiencies.” However, he insisted that the Rothschild “system” was also potentially revolutionary in itself:
No one does more to further the revolution than the Rothschilds themselves . . . and, though it may sound even more strange, these Rothschilds, the bankers of kings, these princely pursestring-holders, whose existence might be placed in the gravest danger by a collapse of the European state system, nevertheless carry in their minds a consciousness of their revolutionary mission.
“I see in Rothschild,” he went on, “one of the greatest revolutionaries who have founded modern democracy”:
Rothschild . . . destroyed the predominance of land, by raising the system of state bonds to supreme power, thereby mobilising property and income and at the same time endowing money with the previous privileges of the land. He thereby created a new aristocracy, it is true, but this, resting as it does on the most unreliable of elements, on money, can never play as enduringly regressive a role as the former aristocracy, which was rooted in the land, in the earth itself.
Not only had the Rothschilds replaced the old aristocracy; they also represented a new materialist religion. “[M]oney is the god of our time,” declared Heine in March 1841, “and Rothschild is his prophet.”
Nothing seemed to illustrate better the revolutionary significance of the Rothschilds than their role as railway developers. When the Rothschild-financed lines to Orléans and Rouen were opened in 1843, Heine wrote breathlessly of a social “tremor” with unforeseeable implications. By this time, however, a new note of scepticism can be detected in his allusions to the growing power of the “ruling aristocracy of money” and the apparent convergence of their interests with those of the old landed aristocracy. In the course of the 1840s a growing number of journalists began to express a more pronounced hostility than Heine ever dared—indebted as he was (and hoped to remain) to the Rothschilds. In particular, James’s securing of the rail concession to link Paris and Belgium incensed more radical critics of the July Monarchy. Thus Alphonse Toussenel’s The Jews, Kings of the Epoch: A History of Financial Feudalism (1846) was primarily directed against the financial terms under which the concession had been granted.
At one level, Toussenel was a kind of socialist who believed that the French rail network should be owned and managed by the state. However, his critique of the Rothschilds as capitalists was inseparably linked to an argument about their Jewishness. France had been “sold to the Jews” and the railways were directly or indirectly controlled by “Baron Rothschild, the King of Finance, a Jew ennobled by a very Christian King.” It was this aspect of Toussenel’s book which inspired the most imitation. Like Toussenel, the anonymous author of Judgement Passed against Rothschild and Georges Dairnvaell equated Judaism and capitalism: James was “the Jew Rothschild, king of the world, because today the whole world is Jewish.” The name Rothschild “stands for a whole race—it is a symbol of a power which extends its arms over the entirety of Europe.” At the same time, in “exploiting all that is exploitable,” the Rothschilds were merely “the model of all the bourgeois and mercantile virtues.” The connections between tracts like these and what later developed into Marxism are well known. In his notorious 1844 essay “On the Jewish Question,” Karl Marx himself spelt out his view of “the real Jew,” by which he meant the capitalist, irrespective of his religious background. When, in the wake of the 1848-9 revolutions, the Rothschilds seemed to emerge intact along with the majority of the regimes temporarily overthrown, the moral was obvious to Marx: “[E]very tyrant is backed by a Jew, as is every Pope by a Jesuit.”
By the 1850s, then, Heine’s notion that the Rothschilds were in some sense the allies of revolutionary change seemed to have been comprehensively discredited and replaced by a critique of the Rothschilds not only as defenders of the political status quo, but also as archetypal capitalists and therefore economic exploiters. It tended to be writers on the revolutionary left in the 1840s who were most keen to equate this with their Judaism—though it was never really explained why Jews should have such different attitudes towards economic activity from Gentiles. (For a coherent—if largely fanciful and self-referential—explanation of Rothschild business success as a function of their religion and their race, we need to turn back to Disraeli’s Coningsby and Tancred.)
Further distinctions were possible. In the France of the Second Empire, some contemporaries differentiated between the Rothschilds and other Jews—between the conservative haute banque, personified by the Rothschilds, and the “new” bank, embodied by the Crédit Mobilier which the Saint-Simonian Pereire brothers had established. Thus the Crédit Mobilier was portrayed by many writers as a primarily political challenge to the dominance of the Rothschilds over French public finance—Napoleon III’s bid to “free himself” from Rothschild tutelage. Unlike most of the overtly anti-Semitic critiques of the Rothschilds, this has proved a more respectable line of argument: the Crédit Mobilier is still sometimes portrayed as a revolutionary new kind of bank, pursuing industrialisation as a developmental strategy in contradistinction to the “old” and implicitly parasitical private banks led by the Rothschilds. But contemporaries—notably the financier Jules Isaac Mirès—sometimes attributed this difference in style to the different cultural backgrounds of the two families (the Pereires were Sephardic Jews, originally from Spain, the Rothschilds Ashkenazim). Others conceived of the difference in more traditional political terms: Rothschild represented “the aristocracy of money” and “financial feudalism” while his rivals stood for “financial democracy” and an economic “1789.” In those terms, the decline and fall of the Crédit Mobilier in the 1860s seemed to be more than just a financial event: it was a harbinger of the collapse of the Second Empire itself. Even in modern historiography, James’s famous epigram, “L’Empire, c’est la baisse,” is often cited as the death-knell for the Bonapartist regime and a reassertion of the haute banque’s political supremacy in France.
The advent of a republic in 1870 did nothing to dam the stream of French anti-Rothschild literature, however. All that happened was that the attacks now came from the right rather than the left. To those snobbish salon conservatives, the Goncourt brothers, the Rothschilds seemed to be the “Pariah kings of the world . . . coveting everything and controlling everything.” Under the veil of republicanism, absolutism had been restored; but it was a corrupt and alien absolutism quite unlike the monarchical and imperial versions which had gone before. The catalyst for a fresh explosion of publications hostile to the Rothschilds was the collapse of the Union Générale bank in 1882, which its founder bitterly blamed on “Jewish finance” and its ally “governmental freemasonry.” In his novelL’Argent, Emile Zola portrayed the affair as a triumph for the Rothschildian figure of Gundermann, “the banker king, the master of the bourse and of the world . . . the man who knew [all] secrets, who made the markets rise and fall at his pleasure as God makes the thunder . . . the king of gold.” But Zola at least acknowledged that there had been a conscious attempt by anti-Jewish Catholics to overthrow Gundermann. It took the twisted mind of Edouard Drumont to argue—in his Jewish France (1886)—that the Union Générale had itself been established by the Jews to rob Catholics of their savings. “The God Rothschild,” Drumont concluded, was the real “master” of France. Another purveyor of similar libels was Auguste Chirac, whose Kings of the Republic (1883) and The Speculation of 1870 to 1884 (1887) denounced the subjugation of the Republic to “a king named Rothschild, with a courtesan or maid called Jewish finance.”
Such polemics against the social and political power wielded by the Rothschilds were probably most numerous in France, but they had their counterparts elsewhere. In Germany, for example, the Rothschilds were attacked in books like The Frankfurt Jews and the Mulcting of the People’s Well-being published by “Germanicus” in 1880, Max Bauer’s crudely racialist pamphlet Bismarck and Rothschild (1891), or Friedrich von Scherb’s 1893 History of the House of Rothschild. Such works found an echo in the rhetoric of the anti-Semitic “People’s” and “Christian Social” parties which enjoyed moderate electoral success in parts of Germany and Austria; Social Democrats also sometimes talked in this way. Indeed, so all-pervasive did the idea of Rothschild power become that the academically respected (though since discredited) Werner Sombart could assert in his book The Jews and Economic Life (1911): “[T]he modern stock exchange is Rothschildish (and thus Jewish).”
English examples can also be found. There, as on the continent, “anti-Rothschildism” was as likely to come from the left as from the right. A good illustration is John Reeves’s book The Rothschilds: The Financial Rulers of Nations (1887), which returns a typical verdict: “The Rothschilds belong to no one nationality, they are cosmopolitan . . . they belonged to no party, they were ready to grow rich at the expense of friend and foe alike.”
Reeves’s argument that the Rothschilds wielded international as well as internal political power was nothing new. As early as the 1830s, an American magazine could marvel: “Not a cabinet moves without their advice. They stretch their hand, with equal ease, from Petersburg to Vienna, from Vienna to Paris, from Paris to London, from London to Washington.” They were, according to the English diarist Thomas Raikes, “the metallic sovereigns of Europe.” Alexandre Weill’s essay “Rothschild and the Finances of Europe” (1841) went even further (in Reeves’s translation):
There is but one power in Europe and that is Rothschild. His satellites are a dozen other banking firms; his soldiers, his squires, all respectable men of business and merchants; and his sword is speculation. Rothschild is a consequence that was bound to appear; and, if it had not been a Rothschild, it would have been someone else. He is, however, by no means an accidental consequence, but a primary consequence, called into existence by the principles which have guided the European states since 1815. Rothschild had need of the states to become a Rothschild, while the states on their side required Rothschild. Now, however, he no longer needs the State, but the State still has want of him.
An anonymous German cartoonist made essentially the same point (though more vividly) in 1845 when he portrayed a grotesquely caricatured Jew—manifestly a composite Rothschild—as “Die Generalpumpe,” a monstrous engine pumping money around the world, with tentacles extending to control monarchs and ministers as far away as Spain and Egypt. A similar image appeared in Wilhelm Marr’s Mephistopheles in 1850, portraying “Rothschild” surrounded by the kings of Europe, all holding out their hands for money, and again in 1870, when Lionel was depicted in the same pose by the Period. Twenty-four years later, the American populist “Coin” Harvey envisioned “Rothschilds” as a vast, black octopus stretching its tentacles around the world. The French cartoonist Léandre likewise portrayed Alphonse de Rothschild as a giant vampire, grasping the world in his claws.
The crucial question, however, was what use the Rothschilds made of this ubiquitous financial power. Was it merely an end itself, the result of a pathological appetite for interest and commissions? Perhaps the most frequent contemporary answer to this question was that it enabled the Rothschilds to prevent wars. As early as 1828 Prince Pückler-Muskau referred to “Rothschild . . . without whom no power in Europe today seems able to make war.” Three years later Ludwig Börne explicitly argued that Rothschild sales of Austrian government bonds had prevented Metternich from intervening to check the spread of revolution in Italy and Belgium. He also implied strongly that the Rothschilds were keen to see France adopt a more pacific policy towards Austria. Similar claims were made by political insiders too, for example by the Austrian diplomat Graf Prokesch von Osten in December 1830: “It is all a question of ways and means and what Rothschild says is decisive, and he won’t give any money for war.” After the Polish crisis of 1863, Disraeli claimed that “the peace of the world has been preserved, not by the statesmen, but by the capitalists.” Even a hostile writer like Toussenel took the same line: “The Jew speculates on peace, that is on a rise, and that explains why peace in Europe has lasted for fifteen years.” Later authors have echoed this time and again. Chirac purported to quote a Rothschild saying: “There will be no war because the Rothschilds do not want it.” According to Morton, the five sons of Mayer Amschel were “the most militant pacifists ever.” And few writers omit the anecdote which attributes to Gutle Rothschild the declaration: “It won’t come to war; my sons won’t provide money for it.”
To modern readers, it is axiomatic that the avoidance of war is a good thing, even if we have come to doubt the ability of bankers to achieve it. However, in the era of military conflicts which began with the Crimean War and ended with the Franco-Prussian War, there were often those who questioned the Rothschilds’ motivations in seeking to preserve peace. At the time of the wars of Italian unification—which it was believed they were anxious to avert—the Earl of Shaftesbury found it “strange, fearful, humiliating” that “the destinies of this nation are the sport of an infidel Jew!” The Rothschilds’ New York agent August Belmont was widely attacked in the North during the American Civil War because he favoured a negotiated peace with the South and supported General George McClellan’s nom ination as Democrat candidate in 1864. In much the same way, the Prussian government was irked by the Rothschilds’ efforts to avert military confrontation during the “wars of unification,” when Bismarck actively desired it. Similar criticisms of Rothschild “pacifism” can be found in the diplomatic and political correspondence of the great powers before and after the turn of the century. To give a final hostile example, the foreign editor (and later editor) of The Times, Henry Wickham Steed, described Natty’s efforts to avert a war between Germany and Britain in July 1914 as “a dirty German-Jewish international financial attempt to bully us into advocating neutrality.”
Yet other commentators—on both Left and Right—often took the opposite line: that the Rothschilds positively fomented wars. In 1891 the Labour Leader denounced the Rothschilds as a
blood-sucking crew [which] has been the cause of untold mischief and misery in Europe during the present century, and has piled up its prodigious wealth chiefly through fomenting wars between States which ought never to have quarrelled. Wherever there is trouble in Europe, wherever rumours of war circulate and men’s minds are distraught with fear of change and calamity, you may be sure that a hook-nosed Rothschild is at his games somewhere near the region of the disturbance.
The case was put in a more sophisticated form by the left-leaning Liberal J. A. Hobson, author of the classic Imperialism: A Study (1902). Like many radical writers of the period, Hobson regarded the Boer War as having been engineered “by a small group of international financiers, chiefly German in origin and Jewish in race.” The Rothschilds, in his view, were central to this group: “Does anyone seriously suppose,” he asked in Imperialism, “that a great war could be undertaken by any European State, or any great State loan subscribed, if the house of Rothschild and its connexions set their face against it?” Scherb had made much the same point from a German nationalist perspective in his History: “The House of Rothschild has arisen from the quarrels between states, has become great and mighty from wars [and] the misfortune of states and peoples has been its fortune.”
War or peace? There was, however, another possibility: that the Rothschilds saw their financial power as a means to advance the interests of their fellow Jews. To poorer Jews throughout Europe, Nathan Rothschild’s extraordinary rise to riches had an almost mystical significance—hence the legend of the “Hebrew talisman,” the magical source of his good luck, which became associated with him in Jewish lore. This extraordinary story—a version of which was published by an anonymous author in London just four years after Nathan Rothschild’s death—imagined that the source of Nathan’s financial success was his possession of a magical talisman. His wealth was in fact intended for a higher purpose: “to avenge the wrongs of Israel” by securing “the re-establishment of Judah’s kingdom—the rebuilding of thy towers, Oh! Jerusalem!” and “the restoration of Judea to our ancient race.”
The notion that the Rothschilds had a design to reclaim the Holy Land for the Jewish people was frequently canvassed in more serious terms than these. As early as 1830 an American journal suggested that “the pecuniary distress of the sultan” might lead him to sell Jerusalem to the Rothschilds. The French socialist Charles Fourier raised the same possibility in his book The False Industry in 1836. Disraeli too spoke in 1851 of the Jews being “restor[ed] . . . to their own land” with the help of Rothschild money. And the same idea can be found in popular stories from the Russian Pale of Settlement like “The Czar in Rothschild’s Castle.”
The other possibility (also raised in this story) was that the Rothschilds might use their financial power to force the Tsar to cease his persecution of the Russian Jews. This illustrated the choice which East European Jews had to contemplate throughout the nineteenth century: should one emigrate to some remote promised land, or stay and seek equality before the law? In the early part of the century, West European Jews had faced the same dilemma. Significantly, the author of the Hebrew Talisman concluded his tract by accusing Nathan of preferring the comforts of social assimilation in England to the rigours of his holy mission. Indeed, he claimed that Nathan’s death was the result of his decision to seek political emancipation in England—and a peerage for himself—rather than continuing to strive for the restoration of Jerusalem.
The central dilemma which confronted the Rothschilds lay here: because of their wealth, other Jews looked to them for leadership in their pursuit of equal civil and political rights. As we shall see, this leadership was forthcoming from a remarkably early stage, beginning with Mayer Amschel’s efforts to achieve civil rights for the Frankfurt Jews in the era of the Napoleonic Wars, and continuing with his grandson Lionel’s campaign to secure the admission of Jews to the House of Commons in the 1840s and 1850s. It was a strategy which suited the Rothschilds well, allowing them to pursue their own familial strategy of penetrating the social and political elites where they lived without converting from Judaism; and allowing them to do good works on behalf of their “co-religionists” while at the same time acquiring quasi-royal status in the eyes of other Jews. However, the more the Rothschilds sought to pursue emancipation as an international objective—intervening on behalf of Jewish communities in Syria, Rumania and Russia as well as in the countries where they themselves resided—the more they encouraged the argument of anti-Semites that the Jews were a cosmopolitan race with no real national attachment. At the same time, when other Jews, despairing of assimilation as an objective, began to press for some kind of return to the Holy Land, the Rothschilds’ position was further compromised; for they themselves had no desire to forsake their palatial town and country residences for barren Palestine. But that was just what their anti-Semitic enemies desired. Hostile cartoons from the 1840s and 1890s depicted the Rothschilds in a throng of Jews leaving Germany for the Holy Land—travelling first class, but leaving nonetheless. Commenting on Lionel’s campaign for admission to the House of Commons, Thomas Carlyle asked: “[H]ow can a real Jew, by possibility, try to be a Senator, or even a Citizen of any country, except his own wretched Palestine, whither all his thoughts and steps and efforts tend?”
This was broadly the argument (though not the language) of the early Zionists like Theodor Herzl, who came to believe that the only “solution to the Jewish question” was indeed for the Jews to leave Europe and found their own Judenstaat. Herzl made a succession of attempts to win the support of the Rothschilds in the belief that they were about to “liquidate” their vast capital as a response to anti-Semitic attacks. But his sixty-six-page address “to the Rothschild Family Council” was never sent, as he concluded from an initial rebuff that they were “vulgar, contemptuous, egoistical people.” The Rothschilds, he later declared, were “a national misfortune for the Jews”; he even threatened to “liquidate” them or to “wage a barbaric campaign” against them if they opposed him.
If a Zionist could use such language in the 1890s, it is perhaps not surprising that the radical anti-Semites who flourished in the defeated states of Central Europe after the First World War did so too, albeit with a very different rationale. Indeed, perhaps the most interesting thing about early National Socialist or völkisch propaganda directed against the Rothschilds is its very lack of originality. A good example is Dietrich Eckart’s address “To All Working People” of 1919:
The House of Rothschild owns forty billion! . . . [They] only need to administer their wealth, to see that it is nicely placed, they do not need to work, at least not what we understand by work. But who provides them and their like with such an enormous amount of money? . . . Who does this? You do it, nobody but you! That’s right, it is your money, hard-earned through care and sorrow, which is drawn as if magnetically into the coffers of these insatiable people.
This was little different from the kind of thing radicals had been saying in France as well as in Germany since the 1840s. Another early National Socialist who cited the Rothschilds as examples of the “Jewish problem” he pledged to “solve” was Adolf Hitler. In an article in the Nazi Völkische Beobachter in May 1921, for example, he named them as one of a group of Jewish “capitalists” who controlled the socialist press. On at least two occasions in 1922 he gave speeches in which he referred to “the significant difference between the achievements of a man like Alfred Krupp, who has bequeathed an immense national achievement through his indefatigable work as an innovator, and the rapacity of a Rothschild, who financed wars and revolutions and brought the peoples into interest-servitude through loans.” Alfred Rosenberg made a similar point in his book The Myth of the Twentieth Century.
Hitler’s use of the past tense was not accidental, for by the 1920s there was no longer a Rothschild bank in Frankfurt, and even the three remaining Rothschild houses in London, Paris and Vienna had ceased to play a major role in the German economy. Yet that did not stop the Nazis from repeatedly using the Rothschilds as a subject for their anti-Semitic propaganda once they came to power: the old myths were recycled and embroidered to illustrate the various racial characteristics which Hitler so detested. For example, Eberhard Müller’s play Rothschild Wins at Waterloo(1936) portrayed Nathan on the field of battle, intoning lines like: “My money is everywhere, and my money is friendly. It is the friendliest power in the world, fat, round as a bullet and smiling”; “My Fatherland is the London Stock Exchange”; and “The wealth of England is in my hands.” Similar themes were taken up in May 1938 when Julius Streicher’s anti-Jewish exhibition was sent to Vienna with a room devoted exclusively to the House of Rothschild. A later version in Frankfurt put on display forged “facsimiles of letters” by Mayer Amschel to “an English banker” which appeared to explain “how he planned to send his five sons all over Europe for the purpose of dominating all Gentile commerce and finance.”
The culmination of the Nazis’ anti-Rothschild propaganda was Erich Waschnek’s film Die Rothschilds, which was screened for the first time in July 1940 and then re-released after further editing a year later with the sub-title Aktien auf Waterloo (“Shares in Waterloo”). This was one of a trio of films designed to prepare the German population for harsher measures against the Jews: the others were Jud-Süss and the notorious “documentary” Der ewige Jude (“The Eternal Jew”). It is true that the Waterloo legend presented problems for the Propaganda Ministry at a time of uncertainty about the correct “line” to take towards Britain. While some British characters (Wellington and the “Finance Minister” Herries) are portrayed as corrupt and morally degenerate, others—in particular the banker “Turner” and his Irish wife—are cast sympathetically as victims of the Rothschilds’ machinations. But the portrayal of the Rothschilds themselves is unambiguous enough, as the plot summary drafted by the Allies after the war shows:
In 1806 the “Landgraf ” of Hesse escaping Napoleon has to entrust his fortune of £6,000,000 to somebody for safekeeping. He deposits the money with the Jewish banker, Meyer Amschel Rothschild in Frankfurt. The abusive use of this money becomes the foundation for the power of the Rothschilds. Amschel Rothschild sends the money to his son Nathan who is not respected by his business rivals. But Nathan ruthlessly outwits all of them. He gets money to Wellington in Spain with the help of his brother in Paris—Nathan is the first to receive news that Napoleon has escaped from Elba and the only one to gamble all he possesses on the reinstatement of Louis of Orleans [sic]. He is a joke in Society—nobody takes him seriously but his Jewish hirelings and the British Ministry of Finance. “Lord” Wellington is again sent to fight Napoleon. He has very little time to prepare for the war—the ladies keep him busy! But he has time enough (just as Fouché does in Paris) to confer with Rothschild who implies that Wellington will be well rewarded if Rothschild is the first to know the outcome of the battle. The moment Rothschild hears that Napoleon is beaten he spreads news that the English cause is lost. A panic follows—everybody sells Government Bonds—Rothschild buys them. The poor lose their money. The few honourable rich Englishmen (one of them is pictured as extremely decent due to the fact that he is married to an Irish woman!) lose all they own. The star of David lies over England—over the part of the world that Nazi Germany fights.
All the themes of Nazi anti-Semitism are here. The Jews have no allegiance to the countries where they live and merely wish to profit from the sufferings of others: “You can only make a lot of money with a lot of blood!” Mayer Amschel (Erich Ponto) tells Nathan (Karl Kuhlmann). Under their direction, “International Jewry” engages in “gigantic speculations” while “soldiers bleed to death on the battlefields.” The Jews are physically different and repellent: Mayer Amschel sports a kaftan and ringlets, while his oleaginous son lusts grotesquely after the wife of his Aryan rival—a typical Goebbels touch. Despite the Propaganda Minister’s apparent dissatisfaction with the film, it appears to have been relatively popular: the secret police reported excitement when it was first released in Berlin and surrounding districts and it also played to large audiences in occupied France. When a British prisoner-of-war was leafing through a German newspaper in January 1945, he was so amazed to find a version of the story on the front page that he translated it and took it home when the war was over.
It is instructive to compare Waschnek’s film with its American precursor and model, The House of Rothschild, directed by Darryl Zanuck in 1934 and starring George Arliss as both Mayer Amschel and Nathan. In the earlier film, the Rothschilds are portrayed sympathetically: their rise from rags to riches is a version of the “American dream” (complete with a wholesome romance between a Rothschild daughter and the dashing young British officer who brings the news of victory at Waterloo), while the obstacles they confront—the sinister Prussian Minister Baron Ledrantz (Boris Karloff) and rioting mobs in Frankfurt—allude to contemporary developments in Germany. Yet even the American version of the Rothschild story is largely myth, much of which could be construed in a less sympathetic light. Mayer Amschel may be a lovable old man with a twinkle in his eye and matinée idols for children; but he still has a plan for world domination. Indeed, in places the films are like mirror images of one another. In Waschnek’s version, Nathan draws a map of Europe to show the centres of Rothschild power and a family tree which, when its branches are connected, forms a Star of David; the flaming star is then superimposed over a map of England with the accompanying title: “As this film was being completed, the last members of the Rothschild family are leaving Europe as refugees and escaping to their allies in England. The fight against British plutocracy continues!” The Zanuck film uses very similar imagery: on his deathbed, Mayer Amschel tells his five sons to go to the various European cities. These are then depicted on a map, and a Star of David is again superimposed. However, the concluding sequence of the film emphasises the parallel between Nazi anti-Jewish policy and the “Hep” riots against the Frankfurt Jews in 1818. In essence, then, the two films tell the same story, albeit with the moral signs pointing in opposite directions.
This Janus-faced quality to the cinematic representations of the Rothschilds’ early history is symptomatic of a more general ambiguity. For there is a sense in which all the various Rothschild legends can be thought of as a single myth—a myth of immense wealth; of meteoric social ascent; of limitless political and diplomatic power; and of some enigmatic ultima ratio, connected with the family’s religion. Usually, the myth is told in pejorative terms: the wealth is ill-gotten, the social ascent unsuccessful, the power based on corruption and the objective sinister. But it can equally well be told in the Hollywood style, as a tale of economic over-achievement, social success, legitimate power and moral ends. Other subjects exploited by the Nazis for their propaganda have, of course, since become taboo—and in some countries even illegal. But the ambivalent quality of the Rothschild myth seems to guarantee its constant replication and modification. This is perhaps most obvious in France. Parts of the special edition of the magazine Crapouillotpublished in 1951 were undoubtedly anti-Semitic, reproducing the stories (and cartoons) from the nineteenth century radical and right-wing literature; but other “grandees” included in the magazine were not Jewish, and the tone of the text as a whole was relatively temperate. As the work of writers like Coston and Peyrefitte shows, it was possible in the atmosphere of the Fourth Republic to repeat more or less verbatim the old legends about the “200 families who rule France” with only a slight modification of tone. Typically, when the former de Rothschild Frères director Georges Pompidou became Prime Minister in April 1962 (and later President in 1969), le Canard enchaîné commented simply: “RF = République française = Rothschild frères.” However, similar echoes of the Rothschild myth can be found in the British press too. Hostile inferences were sometimes drawn in the 1980s from the fact that a number of Conservative politicians had worked for N. M. Rothschild & Sons Limited either before or after their political careers, at a time when the firm was handling a number of important privatisations. Indeed, the Labour Shadow Chancellor Roy Hattersley went so far as to allege a “correlation between contribution to the Tory party and the receipt of business from Government” following the first Rothschild privatisation—an allegation he was later forced to withdraw.
Nowhere is the continuing vitality of the Rothschild myth on the lunatic fringe more apparent than in the writings of David Icke, the erstwhile environmentalist turned “New Age” evangelist. According to Icke, the Rothschilds are members of the “Global Elite or Brotherhood”—also referred to as the “All-Seeing Eye Cult” and the “Prison Warders”—which secretly rules the world. Ever since the time of Mayer Amschel, they have “manipulated governments and worked through the Brotherhood network to create wars and revolutions.” They are the hidden power which “controls” other well-known banks such as Warburgs, Schroders and Lazards, as well as being “behind” American financiers such as J. P. Morgan, the Rockefellers, Kuhn, Loeb & Co. (an “obvious Rothschild front”), the Speyers and the Lehmans—not to mention the Bank of England and the Federal Reserve system. Through this network of global power, they have been responsible for, among other things: the murder of Abraham Lincoln; the Boer War; the creation of Israel (a gambit to control the oil of the Middle East); the Russian revolution (“a coup on Russia by the United States financial arm of the Global Elite largely controlled by the Rothschilds”); the financing of Hitler; and even the floating of the dollar by President Nixon. Today, Icke alleges, they and their associates in the Conservative party and the press are plotting to monopolise the world’s energy supplies—hence their interest in electricity, coal and gas privatisation.
A cursory search of the Internet reveals a plethora of equally bizarre conspiracy theories. A “Study of Corporate and Banking Influence” by Don Allen purports to show the “linear connection” between the Rothschilds, the Bank of England and the Federal Reserve. The “A-albionic Research Weekly” by James Daugherty claims to have identified “The ‘World Money Cartel’ or ‘Empire of the City (of London)’ operated for the ‘Crown’ by the ‘legendary’ Merchant Bankers of the Bank of England, including the Warburgs, Rothschilds [and] Barings.” “Scriptures for America” gives a more elaborate version of Icke’s claims about the economic rationale behind Rothschild support for Zionism, “the single purpose” of which is supposedly “to secure permanent and secure access to [the] vast natural resources in the Far East.” In a similar vein, Sherman H. Skolnick’s “Conspiracy Nation” repeats the claim that the Rothschilds “arranged the murder of President Lincoln,” as his “post-war policies would have wrecked [their] commodity speculations.” Skolnick also repeats the allegation that “the Rothschilds . . . financed the rise of Hitler as a bulwark against the Soviet Union,” adding by way of “explanation” that “the Rothschilds are interwoven with the Catholic Church and, jointly with the traditional mafia and the American CIA, interlocked with the Vatican Bank, which was pro-Nazi.”
Such surreal libels are not confined to the Internet. The television preacher and Republican politician Pat Robertson’s book The New World Order (published in 1991) states that the Rothschilds were “polluted by the occultism of . . . Illuminated Freemasonry” and that “Paul Warburg, architect of the Federal Reserve System, was a Rothschild agent.” From a completely different political milieu, Khalid Muhammad—a former assistant to Louis Farrakhan, the leader of the radical African-American organisation Nation of Islam—has repeated the suggestion that “the Rothschilds . . . financed Hitler” and “aided” his anti-Semitic policies; as well—needless to say—as “gaining control of” the Bank of England and the Federal Reserve system. It might be thought that a serious banking history should scrupulously avoid reference to this kind of nonsense. Yet it is impossible to appreciate the need for a scholarly history of the subject if one blithely pretends such myths do not exist.
IV
Part of the purpose of this book, then, is to supplant Rothschild mythology with historical reality, in so far as that can be “reconstructed” from surviving documentary evidence. It might be wondered why this has not been done before; why only a tiny fraction of the books which purport to be about the Rothschilds are in fact based on serious archival scholarship. Part of the answer, of course, lies in the enduring appeal of a rich and successful family to hack writers, who are always able to turn a penny by rehashing the myths and anecdotes already in print. Another reason is that, until recently, it was far from easy to gain access to the relevant documentary material. Tragically, the vast archive of the Frankfurt house—which also included all that had been kept of the Naples house’s papers—was largely destroyed in 1912, with the exception of a very few early documents which were sent to Paris.4 Part of the archive of the Vienna house was confiscated by the Nazis in 1938 and passed into Soviet hands at the end of the war along with various papers belonging to members of the French family which were seized during the German occupation. This material lay buried in the Moscow “trophy” archive of the KGB throughout the Cold War and became available to outside researchers at the Centre for the Preservation of Historical Documents only in 1990.5 When Count Corti wrote his two-volume study of the “Rise” and “Reign” of the Rothschilds in 1927-8, he had to rely mainly on the Austrian state archives and the published correspondence, memoirs and diaries of nineteenth-century politicians. The archive of the London house was not generally open to scholars before 1978, though members of the family and “insiders” like Lucien Wolf made use of documents there to produce a number of important monographs.
On the other hand, the archive of the French house—the basis of Bertrand Gille’s monumental two-volume study published in the 1960s—was deposited in the Archives Nationales following the nationalisation of Banque Rothschild in 1981. Considering the wealth of material which has been available in both Paris and London since the family began to relax its restrictions on access, it is remarkable how little serious research has been done. A mainly social and political history of the English family and a handful of articles and monographs on quite specialised subjects is a relatively low yield for such important—indeed, in many ways unique—documentary collections. Even the volume of essays produced to coincide with the successful 1994-5 exhibition at the Frankfurt Jewish Museum entitled The Rothschilds: A European Family contains relatively few contributions based on new archival research. Pauline Prevost-Marcilhacy’s volume on Rothschild architecture is the only book to date which has made use of all the major Rothschild document collections in London, Paris and Moscow.
There is, however, a further explanation for this relative lack of scholarship, and that is the intractability of so much of the material. There is a vast amount of it. “We Rothschilds are inveterate scribblers,” wrote Charlotte de Rothschild to her children in 1874, “and cannot live without letter writing and letter receiving.” It was only too true. The most important letters in the London archive are the so-called “private letters” (the XI/109 series) between the partners in the bank, which cover the years from 1812 to 1898. Altogether, these fill 135 boxes. Of these letters, I have referred to around 5,000 in the text. (To give an idea of the relative importance of this series, the final database of letters which I and my researchers wholly or partially transcribed from all archives contains around 13,000 entries.) The frequency of this private correspondence—which was private in the sense that, with a few exceptions, only the partners and the scribes they occasionally used saw it—varied enormously, depending on the volume of business, political news, the number of partners in the various offices and the time of year. Sometimes the partners in Paris might send out only two or three letters in a quiet week; but at peaks of activity, three partners might write one or sometimes two letters a day. To give a single example, in March 1848, the London partners received at least sixty important private letters from their partners on the continent. These letters were often quite lengthy, especially in the early years of the partnership, when Amschel and Salomon routinely sent their brothers five or six sides, mingling political news, financial information, business enquiries and answers with family gossip and personal grumblings. These were, it might be said, the telephone calls of the nineteenth-century, in that they contain the kind of information businessmen today rarely commit to paper. They were also, it should be stressed, untypical by nineteenth century standards. Firstly, because their partners were not so geographically dispersed, few if any of the Rothschilds’ rivals corresponded in this way on a regular basis. It is unlikely that a comparable series of letters exists in any other banking archive. Secondly, because the Rothschilds were exceptionally well connected, the political intelligence their letters contain was usually of a very high quality. James did not exaggerate when he spoke in the 1840s of being able to see King Louis Philippe “daily”: at times of political crisis, he could do just that. His letters to London—the series which I have used most fully—constitute one of the most remarkable sources for nineteenth-century financial and diplomatic history.
There are only two causes for regret. There is a substantial and unexplained gap in the XI/109 series for the period 1854 to 1860, and after 1879 it trails off (though the letters from Paris in the series XI/101 continue up until 1914). More seriously, nearly all the copies of the outgoing letters fromthe London partners (in so far as these were made at all) were destroyed at the orders of successive senior partners. All that survive are eight tantalising boxes covering the period 1906-14. We therefore have precious few letters by Nathan compared with the thousands from his brothers which have survived; only a frustratingly small number from his eldest son Lionel; and next to nothing from his grandsons for the period before 1906. It should also be said that relatively few non-business letters by the partners were preserved; indeed, the first Lord Rothschild insisted that all his private correspondence be burnt after his death (though I have been able to find a number of letters in the archives of politicians to whom he wrote). If at times the history of N. M. Rothschild & Sons seems to have been written from the point of view of their continental relatives, that is an unavoidable consequence of this imbalance in the sources. We are fortunate that Nathan’s sons (especially Nat) spent a good deal of time on the continent and that their letters “home” to their parents and brothers have been preserved; but these are no substitute for the letters written from London. By comparison, I have been unable to do more than take occasional samples from the even more voluminous general and private correspondence from the various Rothschild agents—particularly those in the major agencies in Madrid, Brussels, St Petersburg, New York, Mexico and San Francisco. There is an equally huge amount of mostly routine business letters from less important firms who merely acted as “correspondents” or did occasional business with the Rothschilds: again, I have had time only to dip into these letters, which came from as far afield as Calcutta, Shanghai, Melbourne and Valparaiso.
A further difficulty—which explains why the XI/109 files have never before been fully utilised by historians—is that, up until the late 1860s, all of the second generation and a number of key figures in the third generation of partners (as well as a few of the firm’s agents) corresponded with one another primarily in Judendeutsch: German written in Hebrew characters. This was partly because it was the family’s first language. But it was also partly to ensure that prying eyes would not be able to read the firm’s private correspondence. The difficulty which even Hebrew readers find in deciphering the relatively archaic script used by the brothers has deterred previous scholars, who have been content to rely on the highly selective English extracts translated somewhat freely by a group of refugees from Germany employed as researchers in the 1950s (the so-called “T” files), or on the letters written by Nathan’s children in easily legible English. However, the heroic work of Mordechai Zucker in translating or reading aloud the original letters on to tape has removed this obstacle for me, making available for the first time a “virgin” historical source of the very first importance.
The great benefit is that, partly because their letters were so hard for outsiders to read, the Rothschilds were able to write to one another with more or less complete candour. As a result, their correspondence has a uniquely direct and intimate quality. The partners were frank—sometimes even abusive—with one another, and made no secret of their opinions of the monarchs and ministers they had to deal with, which were rarely flattering. Their tone is colloquial, sometimes crudely so. The contrast could hardly be greater with the formal, functional business letters sent from one Rothschild house to another, or the much more carefully crafted letters they addressed to political friends and business associates outside the closed circle of the partnership and family. When used in conjunction with the other archival sources listed in the bibliography, the Rothschild letters reveal a reality which is in many ways more fascinating than even the most fantastic myth.
V
Academic historians like to contribute to historiographical debates. The Rothschilds are relevant to so many that it would be tedious to do more than merely list them, which I dutifully do now. The five Rothschild houses constitute an early version of what later became known as the “multinational:” business historians may find it illuminating to learn more about the way in which the firm worked as an international private partnership. Economic historians have for many years sought to assess the contribution of banks to industrialisation; there is ample material here on that question, especially as regards the role of the Rothschilds in the development of continental railways. The history of the Rothschilds also helps to illuminate the long-running debate about the differences between British, French and German banking, for the obvious reason that the various Rothschild houses worked in similar though not identical ways in each country. There is some new light too on the much-debated question of European capital export: those still concerned with the Hobson/Lenin paradigm may like to contrast it with the realities presented here. I would like to think that the book will also contribute, albeit indirectly, to some of the more technically sophisticated debates in the still-young specialism of financial history. I fear this is not a “model” history of a bank. I am conscious that I have not written anything about “asymmetrical information,” “credit rationing” and “portfolio management,” but I hope that those interested in such things will not be wholly disappointed by the sections of the book which concentrate on profits, losses and balance sheets. If nothing else, these data can now usefully be compared with those in other published bank histories—a task I have been able only to begin here.
Social historians will find this, I hope, a useful contribution not only to the old debates about class, but also to more voguish controversies about family structure and relations between the sexes within the wealthy elite: although the partners in the bank were exclusively male, I have taken care not to neglect their mothers, wives and daughters, who were often (as Miriam Rothschild recently pointed out) as capable as the Rothschild men, if not more so.
Specialists in Jewish history may be suspicious of yet another book written about a family which has always loomed uncomfortably large in their field; I can only hope that as an atheist from a Calvinist background I have not misunderstood too much the exceedingly complicated relationship between the “exceptional family” and their “co-religionists.” I do not think I am guilty of overestimating the very important role the Rothschilds have played in modern Jewish history. Though it is not my forte, I have endeavoured to satisfy cultural historians by paying due attention to the contemporary allusions to the Rothschilds in high and low literature, and by doing my best to summarise the family’s contribution as art collectors and as patrons of some of the nineteenth century’s most distinguished architects, writers and composers. The book should also be of use to political historians, especially those with an interest in France, Britain and Germany. I am conscious that I have probably misinterpreted some of the more obscure allusions to the high politics of nineteenth-century France in the letters of James and his nephews; but I look to French historians to correct me by doing their own research on the relevant correspondence. Perhaps, on reflection, the book will give most satisfaction to those unfashionable scholars who continue to be interested in diplomatic history. There is more here than I had originally expected to write about Belgian neutrality, Schleswig-Holstein, the Eastern Question and the origins of the various wars which were fought (or averted) in the century between Waterloo and the Marne. But after finance—or rather inseparable from it—diplomacy was what the Rothschilds themselves regarded as important.
To all these different readerships, I offer apologies for sins of omission: because the book was supposed to be written in three years (it took nearer five) there are letters which I did not read, books I merely skimmed, archives I did not visit. In deciding what not to do, I have tried to give priority to documents hitherto unknown or only partially known. Where an archive has apparently been well sifted by a previous historian, I have elected not to re-sift, at the risk of perpetuating error. This volume should thus be regarded as something of a research agenda: the London archive in particular cries out for further investigation, and I hope to see a steady stream of monographs in the coming years, correcting my broad-brush interpretations and doubtless many points of detail.
The fact that a book can at least pretend to be relevant to so many different spe cialisms should in itself reassure the non-academic reader, who I hope will forgive those passages of the book which betray the author’s profession, just as those readers who are themselves bankers or Jews will forgive the errors and false notes which doubtless remain. If this book does something to help reintegrate economic, social, cultural, political and diplomatic history, and in the process to make both the nineteenth century world and the “exceptional family” more intelligible, it will have got the author from Point A, where he began, to Point B, where he wished to end up.