Diplomat on the run

A Chinese residence in the late 19th century / Robert Neff Collection

By Robert Neff

In 1888, the vice consul in Shanghai for the United Kingdoms of Sweden and Norway was an Austrian businessman named S. Krips. In the past, countries that did not have diplomats in a distant port would sometimes assign consular positions to citizens of their own country or to trusted people of foreign nationality, usually businesspeople. Krips, an auctioneer and consignment merchant, was one of these "trusted" foreign businesspeople.

We don't know much about his consular activities (nor do we know his full name) but we do know about his business activities and the level of his trustworthiness. He frequently did business with the British merchant enterprise Gibbs, Livingston & Co., and sold their goods on consignment in the Shanghai region. They entrusted him with a great deal of goods and for the most part he always fulfilled his contracts with them, but sometime in the late 1880s, greed ― and perhaps a sense of adventure ― got the better part of him, and rather than follows his instructions, he decided to speculate.

Instead of selling goods for the price specified by Gibbs, Livingston & Co., he decided to hold on to them in the belief they could be sold for a much higher price. He was wrong. The market collapsed and Krips was forced to sell the goods at a great loss. Instead of telling the British merchants about his poor speculation, he kept it a secret with the hopes that he could pay it back before anyone knew of his failure.

Chinese laborers in Chefoo (Yantai), China, in the late 19th century / Robert Neff Collection

He used the money from the goods to purchase the Anshin Maru, a newly built 45-meter-long steamship. The Austro-Hungarian government was probably quite pleased, as there were few merchant vessels in this part of China flying the national flag. But the Austro-Hungarian flag probably never graced the Anshin Maru's mast, for Krips did not own the vessel for long. This venture, like the earlier one in speculation, failed spectacularly, and he lost not only the money he had embezzled but also incurred more debts. He applied for a second mortgage with the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank but was refused.

The world was collapsing in around him. Creditors hounded him, seeking payments on his increasing debts, and his health began to fail. At the end of August 1890, he announced that a change of scenery was needed, and that he would make a short trip to Chefoo (modern Yantai) for a few days of rest.

Accompanied by his trusted Chinese servant, he spent a short time in Chefoo before he vanished suddenly. China, at this time, was still a relatively dangerous place for foreigners, so the local authorities began an extensive search that lasted for a couple of days. However, no trace of Krips or his servant could be found. Some, knowing of his situation, may have suspected suicide, but the servant's disappearance also suggested another dark scenario ― not murder but rather flight.

A Chinese junk in the Yellow Sea in the late 19th century / Robert Neff Collection

People claimed that Krips and his servant, despite making an effort to remain inconspicuous, were seen boarding a junk that left port shortly afterwards bound for Korea.

Joseph Hass, the Austro-Hungarian consul in Shanghai, had notices posted throughout the city proclaiming that Vice-Consul Krips was to be arrested immediately and be tried in the consular court. Consul Haas also had missives sent to Korea, asking the various foreign representatives to keep a lookout for the runaway diplomat.

The rumors were true. Krips and his servant had taken passage aboard the junk and had successfully escaped China but not from karma. Near the Korean coast, the junk was grounded and he was forced to walk ashore barefooted over the sharp stones, and then walk several kilometers to Jemulpo (the former name for Incheon). This journey took a great toll upon Krips, and by the time he arrived in the Korean port he was barely able to walk.

Jemulpo, at this time, had a very small Western population and it was somewhat difficult to remain inconspicuous ― the only option available to Krips was to avoid the General Foreign Settlement (where he would likely be recognized) and seek sanctuary in the Chinese Settlement. For nearly five days he hid ― nursing his injured feet and slowly losing his feeble grip on reality ― until his Chinese servant was able to secure them passage on another junk bound for Japan.

Jemulpo harbor in the early 1900s / Courtesy of Diane Nars Collection

On the morning of their scheduled departure, Krips (dressed in Chinese clothing) and the Chinese servant were recognized as they made their way to the junk. The Chinese consul was notified and he promptly sent a number of consular police, armed with sticks, to apprehend Krips. According to one English-language newspaper in Japan, "His arrest was effected by the Chinese Consular police, after considerable resistance on his part."

According to the Chinese authorities, when Krips realized that the consular police were there to arrest him, he pulled out a revolver and fired six shots at them, but missed. The only way they could disarm him was to beat him severely with their long sticks. Krips and his servant denied the fact that shots had been fired and insisted that the Chinese beat them for no reason.

He and his servant were then handed over to the German consul at Jemulpo until a British constable arrived from Shanghai and escorted the two fugitives back to China aboard a Chinese steamship. There was a great deal of concern about Krips' mental state, and so the cabin in which he was confined was made suicide-proof: the windows were barricaded with wooden planks so that he could not jump out and drown, and his meals were passed to him through the door, with his only silverware a spoon. Throughout the passage to China, he was delirious and often babbled about having hundred-dollar banknotes in his luggage, but everyone knew he was broke.

Jemulpo in the late 19th century / Robert Neff Collection

Word of his apprehension spread quickly. When the steamship arrived in China, large crowds of people ― many of whom were undoubtedly creditors ― waited to get a glimpse of this runaway businessman-diplomat.

Finally, after several hours, the patience of the spectators was rewarded. The once-proud vice consul was barely able to walk and wore a helmet over his bandaged head. He was nothing more than a broken-down shell of a man barely grasping reality. He was taken from the ship to a waiting carriage and conveyed to the Austro-Hungarian consulate.

After a short interview with Consul Haas, Krips was taken to the police station where he was placed in a cell. Even though he was no longer a vice-consul, he was not treated as a common criminal. The door to his cell was kept open during the daylight hours, but at all times he was guarded by a policeman who stood in front of the entrance. He was provided with medical attention and supplied with books to keep him mentally active as he awaited his trial.

His trial was held in October and November of 1890, and it was determined that he was guilty (in fact, he confessed) of inappropriate business practices, which had caused his creditors great losses. In his own defense, he confessed that he could not bear to admit to his business partners and creditors that he had failed, and so he kept it secret from them. As to his financial state, he admitted, "At present I do not possess a cent, and there are only a few dollars owing to me."

Krips was eventually hospitalized, and what property he still had left was liquidated. His fate afterwards is unknown; perhaps he was sentenced to prison (either in China or his home country), or, perhaps more charitably, he was allowed to return to Europe a free man, shackled by nothing more than shame.

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books including, Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.

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