Vienna, 1814: How the Conquerors of Napoleon Made Love, War, and Peace at the Congress of Vienna (19 page)

M
EANWHILE, ON
T
HURSDAY
afternoon, October 13, three days after touring the battlefield at Aspern-Essling outside Vienna where the Austrians defeated Napoleon in the summer of 1809, the Russian tsar made the dramatic move of paying a visit to Castlereagh’s headquarters. It was a breach of etiquette for a monarch to call upon the foreign minister of another power. But the matter was serious, and the tsar maneuvered around the formalities by officially visiting Emily Castlereagh. He then stayed on afterward for a chat with her husband—a tense hour-and-a-half talk.

The tsar was flabbergasted at Castlereagh’s opposition to his plans for re-creating Poland. Alexander claimed that his interest was not a matter of power politics, but rather “public morality.” The outrageous carving up of the country in the eighteenth century could now finally be corrected. He would, moreover, grant an enlightened constitution. Polish patriots were thrilled about the future, the tsar said, and he himself looked forward to the dawning of a new golden age for this ancient kingdom.

How could Great Britain possibly resist such an act of philanthropy, and besides, the tsar wondered, what business was it really of Castlereagh’s what he did in Poland, something so far removed from British national interests? Castlereagh was indeed placed in a difficult position. He feared that this Russian plan would threaten the balance of power, and hence the future peace of Europe, yet he had to show his opposition in an accurate manner without further upsetting the tsar, or violating the complicated rules of protocol that governed relations between a sovereign and a foreign minister.

Russia, of course, had rights, Castlereagh acknowledged, though he was quick to point out that these rights must be limited to what does not harm anyone else, particularly “the security of the Emperor’s neighbors.” Russia’s plan was liable to inspire the Poles who lived in neighboring countries, like Austria’s East Galicia, to want independence, which in turn could create much unrest in the region.

When the tsar replied that there was only one possible solution for Poland because his army already occupied it, Castlereagh countered that the tsar’s rights to territory must not be based on conquest alone.

It was becoming clear that Britain and Russia had serious differences of opinion, and personal diplomacy was not leading to any reconciliation. Later that day, Castlereagh handed the tsar a memorandum, a written summary of their discussion, which, like the protocol, remains another legacy of the Vienna Congress. He wrote that it was his “solemn conviction” that everything now depended on Alexander—that is, “whether the present Congress shall prove a blessing to mankind, or only exhibit a scene of discordant intrigue, and a lawless scramble for power.”

Then, while the tsar went over to Princess Bagration’s salon, staying until two in the morning, Castlereagh drew up a second memorandum. He reiterated his concerns that Russian policy in Poland “will plant the seeds of another war” and end by destroying “all hope, rest and real confidence and peace.” After writing these words, Castlereagh sent his memo to his fellow allies—all of them, that is, except the Russians.

A
S MANY HAD
predicted, Poland was clearly going to be a major stumbling block—the “aching tooth” of the peace conference. Russia and Britain had both refused to budge, and now the dispute was at a standstill. But there was something else that complicated the Polish question at the Vienna Congress. All discussion of Poland was closely tied to another bitter controversy: the future of the Kingdom of Saxony.

Geographically, the two regions were connected. The Polish plains rolled out into the south, merging without any clear or natural demarcation into the Saxon lowlands. Historically, the two territories had been united under the same ruling dynasty in the late seventeenth century. Although the links had been severed in the 1760s, Napoleon had rejoined them when he created both the Kingdom of Saxony and the Duchy of Warsaw—and then gave them both to the king of Saxony.

Diplomatically, too, there was a connection: If Poland were to be re-created as the tsar demanded, then the congress would have to remove territory from both Austria and Prussia. Now, quite simply, if Prussia lost its former Polish territories, it would then have to be compensated elsewhere to reach its population of 1805, as it had been promised, and the most obvious place was in Saxony. So, in other words, if the tsar would have his way in Poland, then the king of Prussia would most likely receive Saxony. That was the deal the two monarchs had struck and were now supporting with great vigor.

But, of course, many in Vienna were uncomfortable with this arrangement. For one, the king of Saxony refused to yield a single acre of his kingdom, though unfortunately for him, he was still locked up in a Prussian prison. The king of Saxony’s representative in Vienna, Count Friedrich Albrecht von Schulenburg, was also protesting, though he, too, had been marginalized. The Prussians had refused to recognize his credentials as an official delegate, and they pressured everyone else to do the same.

It was Talleyrand, then, who had taken it upon himself to lead the defense of the Saxon underdogs. Characteristically, he acted with flair. When the Prussians argued that they deserved Saxony because of the king of Saxony’s treachery to the Allied cause, Talleyrand replied simply: Was this not “a sin that we all have on our conscience?” Had not Austria, Russia, and Prussia all at one time or another sworn allegiance to Napoleon? Everyone in Vienna had at one point been loyal to the conqueror—everyone, that is, but a few exceptions like Castlereagh and the British. Why should the king of Saxony be singled out and punished?

From discussions in alcoves of salons to dinners at the embassy, Talleyrand was denouncing Prussian ambitions on seizing this region as a “breach of all public morality” and an “unspeakable crime.” It was also, he added, a dangerous folly. If Prussia gained Saxony with its many fortresses, palaces, estates, and rich farmland, then Europe would be creating a powerful state in the center of the Continent that might, Talleyrand warned, be a menace to France and the peace of Europe.

Most of the other German states and princes, in fact, agreed with Talleyrand. One defender, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, put this argument well, succinctly dismantling the basis for Prussian claims for seizing Saxony. Did they have a right of conquest? Not by international law. Was it on the basis of surrender? “The king has not ceded and never will cede his rights.” Was there a sentence or judgment from an international tribune or trial? No trial had been held, and the king should at least be allowed to defend himself.

What did the Saxon people want themselves? They wanted their king, their
legitimate
king, Frederick Augustus. Besides that, would the congress leaders really like to establish the precedent whereby an aggressive power could legally dethrone a fellow sovereign and seize his territory? How was this any different from Napoleon Bonaparte, and had they not learned anything from the violent chaos of the last twenty years?

But these arguments had almost no impact on the Prussians. They had, after all, not fought a terrible war and sacrificed blood and treasure only to be dictated to by the defeated enemy and some small princes under its influence. They also, for that matter, still had the support of the Russian tsar, who now seemed so frustrated at the diplomatic impasse that he had started threatening to take matters into his own hands. The Russian army had Saxony, Alexander reminded, and he might as well just hand it over to his Prussian ally.

Such a prospect was alarming, as the tsar was certainly not bluffing. Ironically, some of the most concerned were actually Prussia’s own ministers Hardenberg and Humboldt. Even though they would have liked to have Saxony, to say the least, neither wanted to receive the realm this way—a simple seizure of territory that would put them in the debt of Russia, and eventually, they feared, also at its mercy.

So with this dilemma in mind, Hardenberg had penned an urgent letter to the foreign ministers of Britain and Austria, appealing to them to act immediately. Prussia would readily support them against the tsar on Poland, he promised, provided that they assure him that Prussia would still be given Saxony. He needed something tangible to take to his king.

Castlereagh had no problem at all making such a concession, as he put it, “for the future tranquility of Europe.” Talleyrand, however, was appalled by Castlereagh’s “weakness” and warned him that he was about to make a terrible mistake. There was a much better way to save both Poland
and
Saxony: Open the congress at once. Force the aggressive powers to state their claims in front of all Europe, and watch their project collapse under the weight of its own unsustainability.

But the British minister’s mind was made up, and that left only one person in a position to resist, and that was Metternich, who was unfortunately very distracted at the moment. “Metternich is in love, he paints himself up, he writes notes, his Chancellery muddles along,” Talleyrand observed. Gentz, unfortunately, had to agree. He visited Metternich several times during this Saxon crisis, only to find that Austria’s foreign minister was consumed by the Duchess of Sagan, and that “unhappy liaison with Windischgraetz.”

One thing was certain: Unless something was done immediately, the Russian tsar was simply going to hand over an entire kingdom to his Prussian allies—with or without the permission of the Vienna Congress.

Chapter 12

S
IX
W
EEKS OF
H
ELL

Hiding behind velvet and purple robes, hostile spirits fight one another with the daggers of intrigue.

—K
ARL VON
N
OSTITZ, A
S
AXON SOLDIER IN
R
USSIAN SERVICE, LOOKING ON WITH FRUSTRATION AT THE CONGRESS

S
ummer seemed to linger a little longer for Vienna’s guests that autumn. On October 18, yet another brilliant sunny day, Metternich and the Festivals Committee staged the spectacular Peace Festival to mark the first anniversary of the Allied victory at the Battle of Leipzig. Valets and maids were sent all over town in search of the latest fashions. Hat shops, one said, “were mobbed like bakeries in a famine.”

Metternich had wanted this to be a celebration of peace with no military overtures—“No more soldiers!” he had insisted. But he had been overruled. At the last minute, Emperor Francis had preferred to showcase Austrian military strength and asked Field Marshal Prince Schwarzenberg to prepare something appropriate. Complaining in private about the “furious turmoil” that he had been placed in at such short notice, the aged field marshal nevertheless complied. The Vienna garrison, some sixteen thousand men strong, was quickly drilled for the parade.

Almost certainly, it was the growing tensions with Russia that inspired the emperor’s decision to march his troops. A little sword rattling just might convince the tsar to abandon his autocratic ways.

That afternoon, sovereigns, soldiers, and spectators assembled in the giant public park, the Prater, for the celebration of peace that now had a more martial air. Over the river, a branch of the Danube, the organizers had constructed a temporary bridge, complete with a rather unique handrailing: muskets captured from Napoleon’s armies at the Battle of Leipzig and strewn together with branches of a willow tree.

The focus of attention was a large structure in the center known as the Peace Tent. Trophies and battle standards adorned its columns, and red damask carpets lined the steps up to its altar, covered with a blanket of flowers. Velvet chairs were on the platform for Europe’s royalty.

With the crowds hushed into a respectful silence, and hats removed, the archbishop of Vienna led the monarchs, the soldiers, and the enormous throng of spectators in a public celebration of High Mass. The songwriter La Garde-Chambonas described the scene:

At the moment of blessing the Bread and the Wine, the guns thundered forth a salute to the God of Hosts. Simultaneously, all those warriors, princes, kings, soldiers, and generals fell on their knees, prostrating themselves before Him in whose hands rests victory or defeat.