The most famous spokesman for looser money and easier credit was Williams Jennings Bryan, the populist congressman from the farm state of Nebraska. He campaigned tirelessly to break the privileged status of gold and to expand the base upon which credit was created by including silver as a reserve metal. At the Democratic convention of 1896 he made one of the great speeches of American history—a wonderfully overripe flight of rhetoric delivered in that deep commanding voice of his—in which, addressing Eastern bankers, he declared, “You came to tell us that the great cities are in favor of the gold standard; we reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile plains. Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic. But destroy our farms and the grass will grow in the city. . . . You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns. You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold.”
It was a message whose time had come and gone. Ten years before he delivered that speech, two gold prospectors in South Africa, while out for a Sunday walk on a farm in the Witwatersrand, stumbled across a rocky formation that they recognized as gold-bearing reef. It proved to be an outcrop of the largest goldfield in the world. By the time of Bryan’s speech, gold production had jumped 50 percent, South Africa had overtaken the United States as the world’s largest producer, and the gold drought was over. Prices for all goods, including agricultural commodities, once again began to rise. Bryan won the Democratic nomination then and twice more, in 1900 and 1908, but he was never elected president.
Though prices rose and fell in great cycles under the gold standard due to ebbs and flows in the supply of the precious metal, the slope of these curves was gentle and at the end of the day prices returned to where they began. While it may have succeeded in controlling inflation, the gold standard was incapable of preventing the sort of financial booms and busts that were, and continue to be, such a feature of the economic landscape. These bubbles and crises seem to be deep-rooted in human nature and inherent to the capitalist system. By one count there have been sixty different crises since the early seventeenth century—the first documented bank panic can, however, be dated to A.D. 33 when the Emperor Tiberius had to inject one million gold pieces of public money into the Roman financial system to keep it from collapsing.
Each of these episodes differed in detail. Some originated in the stock market, some in the credit market, some in the foreign exchange market, occasionally even in the world of commodities. Sometimes they affected a single country, sometimes a group of countries, very occasionally the whole world. All, however, shared a common pattern: an eerily similar cycle from greed to fear.
Financial crises would generally begin innocently enough with a surge of healthy optimism among investors. Over time, reinforced by cavalier attitudes to risk among bankers, this optimism would transform itself into overconfidence, occasionally even into a mania. The accompanying boom would go on for much longer than anyone expected. Then would come a sudden shock—a bankruptcy, a surprisingly large loss, a financial scandal involving fraud. Whatever the event, it would provoke a sudden and dramatic shift in sentiment. Panic would ensue. As investors were forced to liquidate into a falling market, losses would mount, banks would cut back their loans, and frightened depositors would start pulling their money out of banks.
If all that happened during these periods of so-called distress was that foolish investors and lenders lost money, no one else would have cared. But a problem in one bank raised fears of problems at other banks. And because financial institutions were so interconnected, borrowing large amounts of money from one another even in the nineteenth century, difficulties in one area would transmit themselves through the entire system. It was precisely because crises had a way of spreading, threatening to undermine the integrity of th
e whole system, that central banks became involved. In addition to keeping their hands on the levers of the gold standard, they therefore acquired a second role—that of forestalling bank panics and other financial crises.
The central banks had powerful tools to deal with these outbursts—specifically their authority to print currency and their ability to marshal their large concentrated holdings of gold. But for all of this armory of instruments, ultimately the goal of a central bank in a financial crisis was both very simple and very elusive—to reestablish trust in banks.
Such breakdowns are not some historical curiosity. As I write this in October 2008, the world is in the middle of one such panic—the most severe for seventy-five years, since the bank runs of 1931-1933 that feature so prominently in the last few chapters of this book. The credit markets are frozen, financial institutions are hoarding cash, banks are going under or being taken over by the week, stock markets are crumbling. Nothing brings home the fragility of the banking system or the potency of a financial crisis more vividly than writing about these issues from the eye of the storm. Watching the world’s central bankers and finance officials grappling with the current situation—trying one thing after another to restore confidence, throwing everything they can at the problem, coping daily with unexpected and startling shifts in market sentiment—reinforces the lesson that there is no magic bullet or simple formula for dealing with financial panics. In trying to calm anxious investors and soothe skittish markets, central bankers are called upon to wrestle with some of the most elemental and unpredictable forces of mass psychology. It is the skill that they display in navigating these storms through uncharted waters that ultimately makes or breaks their reputation.
PART ONE
THE UNEXPECTED STORM
AUGUST 1914
1. PROLOGUE
What an extraordinary episode in the economic progress of man that age was which came to an end in August 1914!
—JOHN MAYNARD KEYNES, The Economic Consequences of the Peace
IN 1914, London stood at the center of an elaborate network of international credit, built upon the foundations of the gold standard. The system had brought with it a remarkable expansion of trade and prosperity across the globe. The previous forty years had seen no big wars or great revolutions. The technological advances of the mid-nineteenth century—railways, steamships, and the telegraph—had spread across the world, opening up vast territories to settlement and trade. International commerce boomed as European capital flowed freely around the globe, financing ports in India, rubber plantations in Malaya, cotton in Egypt, factories in Russia, wheat fields in Canada, gold and diamond mines in South Africa, cattle ranches in Argentina, the Berlin-to-Baghdad Railway, and both the Suez and the Panama canals. Although every so often the system was shaken by financial crises and banking panics, depressions in trade were short-lived and the world economy had always bounced back.
More than anything else, more even than the belief in free trade, or the ideology of low taxation and small government, the gold standard was the economic totem of the age. Gold was the lifeblood of the financial system. It was the anchor for most currencies, it provided the foundation for banks, and in a time of war or panic, it served as a store of safety. For the growing middle classes of the world, who provided so much of the savings, the gold standard was more than simply an ingenious system for regulating the issue of currency. It served to reinforce all those Victorian virtues of economy and prudence in public policy. It had, in the words of H. G. Wells, “a magnificent stupid honesty” about it. Among bankers, whether in London or New York, Paris or Berlin, it was revered with an almost religious fervor, as a gift of providence, a code of behavior transcending time and place.
In 1909, the British journalist Norman Angell, then Paris editor of the French edition of the Daily Mail, published a pamphlet entitled Europe’s Optical Illusion. The thesis of his slim volume was that the economic benefits of war were so illusory—hence the title—and the commercial and financial linkages between countries now so extensive that no rational country should contemplate starting a war. The economic chaos, especially the disruptions to international credit, that would ensue from a war among the Great Powers would harm all sides and the victor would lose as much as the vanquished. Even if war were to break out in Europe by accident, it would speedily be brought to an end.
Angell was well placed to write about global interdependence. All his life he had been something of a nomad. Born into a middle-class Lincoln-shire family, he had been sent at an early age to a French lycée in St. Omer. At seventeen he became the editor of an English-language newspaper in Geneva, attending the university there, and then, despairing of the future of Europe, emigrated to the United States. Though only five feet tall and of slight build, he plunged into a life of manual labor, working in California for seven years variously as a vine planter, irrigation-ditch digger, cowpuncher, mail carrier, and prospector, before eventually settling down as a reporter for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat and the San Francisco Chronicle. Returning to Europe in 1898, he moved to Paris, where he joined the Daily Mail.
Angell’s pamphlet was issued in book form in 1910 under the title The Great Illusion. The argument that it was not so much the cruelty of war as its economic futility that made it unacceptable as an instrument of state power struck a chord in that materialistic era. The work became a cult. By 1913, it had sold more than a million copies and been translated into twenty-two languages, including Chinese, Japanese, Arabic, and Persian. More than forty organizations were formed to spread its message. It was quoted by Sir Edward Grey, the British foreign secretary; by Count von Metternich; and by Jean Jaurès, the French Socialist leader. Even Kaiser Wilhelm, better known for his bellicosity than his embrace of pacifism, was said to have expressed some interest in the theory.
Angell’s most prominent disciple was Reginald Brett, second Viscount Esher, a liberally minded establishment figure, and close confidant of King Edward VII. Though Lord Esher had been offered numerous high positions in government, he preferred to remain merely deputy constable and lieutenant governor of Windsor Castle while exerting his considerable influence behind the scenes. Most important, he was a founding member of the Committee of Imperial Defense, an informal but powerful organization formed after the debacles of the Boer War to reflect and advise on the military strategy of the British Empire.
In February 1912, the committee conducted hearings on issues related to trade in time of war. Much of the German merchant marine was then insured through Lloyds of London, and the committee was dumbfounded to hear the chairman of Lloyds testify that in the event of war, were German ships to be sunk by the Royal Navy, Lloyds would be both honor-bound and, according to its lawyers, legally obliged to cover the losses. The possibility that while Britain and Germany were at war, British insurance companies would be required to compensate the Kaiser for his sunken tonnage made it hard even to conceive of a European conflict.
It was no wonder that during a series of lectures on The Great Illusion delivered at Cambridge and the Sorbonne, Lord Esher would declare that “new economic factors clearly prove the inanity of war,” and that the “commercial disaster, financial ruin and individual suffering” of a European war would be so great as to make it unthinkable. Lord Esher and Angell were right about the meager benefits and the high costs of war. But trusting too much in the rationality of nations and seduced by the extraordinary economic achievements of the era—a period the French would later so evocatively call La Belle Époque—they totally misjudged the likelihood that a war involving all the major European powers would break out.
2. A STRANGE AND LONELY MAN
Britain: 1914
Anybody who goes to see a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined.
—SAMUEL GOLDWYN
ON TUESDAY, July 28, 1914, Montagu Norman, then one of the partners in the Anglo-American merchant banking firm of Brown Shipley, came up to London for the day. It was the height of the holiday season, and like almost everyone else of his class in Britain, he had spent much of the previous week in the country. He was in the process of dissolving his partnership and was required briefly in the City. That same afternoon it was reported that Austria had declared war on Serbia and was already bombarding Belgrade. Despite this news, Norman, “feeling far from well” under the strain of the painful negotiations, decided to return to the country.
Neither he nor almost anyone else in Britain imagined that over the next few days the country would face the most severe banking crisis in its history; that the international financial system, which had brought so much prosperity to the world, would completely unravel; and that, within less than a week, most of Europe, Britain included, would have stumbled blindly into war.
Norman, indeed most of his countrymen, had paid only cursory attention to the brewing European crisis over the previous month. The assassination in Sarajevo of the archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir presumptive to the Austrian Empire, and his wife Sophie by a comic-opera band of bomb-throwing Serbian nationalists on June 28 had seemed at the time to be just another violent chapter in the disturbed history of the Balkans. It did finally capture the news headlines in Britain when Austria issued an ultimatum to Serbia on July 24, accusing it of being complicit in the assassination and threatening war. But even then, most people blithely continued with their relaxed summer schedule. It was hard to get too concerned about a crisis in Central Europe when the prime minister himself, H. H. Asquith, felt sufficiently at ease to insist upon his weekend of golfing in Berkshire, and the foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey, had gone off, as he did every weekend in the summer, to his lodge in Hampshire for a spot of trout fishing.