Frederick the Great

by Nancy Mitford

  (In face of the storm and the threat of shipwreck I must think, live and die like a king.)

  He had never read and written so much verse as during the months which followed Kolin. He hardly slept, and sat up all night with his books—his favourite reading at this time was Racine’s Athalie, which he knew by heart. Much fun has been made of Frederick’s poetry; his most ferocious critics are Voltaire, whose attitude to Frederick is never impartial, who uses the worst of his poetry as a weapon against him, but who also says that some of it was not at all bad; and such nineteenth-century writers as Lord Macaulay, hardly qualified to criticize eighteenth-century French verse. Light verse is one of the most difficult forms of expression—even Voltaire, who was a genius, did not always succeed with it—and anybody taking the trouble to read Frederick’s must be rewarded by brilliant flashes here and there as well as an insight into the thoughts of a strange creature in an awful situation. As for his prose, when the Histoire de la Guerre de Sept Ans appeared, two years after his death, it was acclaimed in Paris as the work of a great French writer—Grimm said that there had been nothing comparable since Caesar’s Commentaries. Sainte-Beuve puts him in the first rank of French writers and modern historians. His letters are certainly among the most entertaining ever written. No doubt Frederick would be recognized now as a writer had he written in German. The fact that his works are all in French has deprived him of German readers, while the French public never greatly cares for the writing of foreigners and is not much interested in German history. So the literary work of Frederick the Great has fallen into oblivion.

  A little green isle in the deep, dark sea of misery was a visit to Gotha whose delightful Duchess, aged forty-seven, Frederick now met for the first time. He came to the château and had himself announced as the company was sitting down to dinner; embracing the Duke, he said he thought this was the least inconvenient way of arriving. The meeting was a pleasure to them all (the food, we know from Voltaire, would have been incomparable); Frederick and the Duchess practically fell in love—he certainly liked her better than any woman outside his own family. She was one of those who laugh and make fun of everything; she once told Frederick that a quarrel over some property with her brothers and sisters at Meiningen had ended in gales of laughter, which Frederick thought very unusual. Her Mistress of the Robes (of the Hearts, said Voltaire), Mme de Buchwald, was also a merry soul; indeed the court of Saxe-Gotha was most sunny, though for the moment the duchy was having a difficult time, with troops of every sort passing through it. Frederick said it would be worse for the Duke and Duchess if he left a force to defend them, and that, while he would always see to it that they were outside the battle area, they had better put up with temporary incursions. As a matter of fact, the Duchess was not averse from having French officers to supper occasionally—they could tell her the latest jokes and fashions from Paris. Once when she was enjoying such an evening Zieten and his Hussars put in an appearance. The guests, who thought the whole Prussian army was upon them, hurried off to rejoin their units and the party was ruined.

  Frederick’s pleasure in his new friend was cut short, for while he was at Gotha he heard that Winterfeldt had been killed during a small and unimportant action. The King was in no state to see anybody and had to leave without saying good-bye; nothing could have been more terrible for him than this death by which he lost his best and oldest friend and by very far his best general. The Duke of Brunswick-Bevern, now in sole charge of the army in Silesia, soon proved to be incompetent. Frederick seems to have had a premonition that Winterfeldt would be killed. When they parted, the General had asked for orders: Frederick was too much upset to give them and only said, ‘Keep yourself safe, for me.’

  At long last, on 5 November, Soubise gave battle at Rossbach near Leipzig, more or less forced to do so by his officers who were tired of marching about in a foreign land with much discomfort and no glory. His army, consisting of French and Imperial troops, was 41,000 strong against Frederick’s 21,000. He seemed to be retreating as usual, and the Prussians had pitched their camp, when an officer came in with the news that the enemy was near at hand. Frederick gave orders; the tents collapsed all together as if somebody had pulled a string, and the army fell in. He had the advantage of surprise, since Soubise thought he was retreating; the careful reconnaissance of the land, without which he never fought a battle if he could help it, was also an element on his side. Whereas his plans were laid with minute precision Soubise seemed to have no plan at all; his infantry regiments milled to and fro getting in each other’s way and hampering the cavalry. The battle, which began late in the afternoon, lasted only two hours; when darkness fell the French and Austrians were on the run, cluttering up all the roads in the neighbourhood—Soubise had given no orders in case of a retreat and it soon turned into a rout. Hundreds of prisoners were brought in to the Prussians by local peasants, including some of Frederick’s own subjects from Neuchâtel. They were allowed by their charter to fight against him but even so he was rather put out. ‘I see you know your charter very well!’ He wrote, more in sorrow than in anger, to complain to Milord Maréchal about them. That night he slept in the nearest country house, the Schloss of Verbergen; he found it full of wounded French officers and had his bed put in a pantry so as not to disturb them.

  The effect of Rossbach was prodigious. Voltaire said that German nationalism had been born on that day, thus changing the destiny of Germany. For the first time a German Protestant Prince was seen to inflict a humiliating defeat on Catholic Austria and France, eldest daughter of the Church. Frederick used to say that not even women cared any more about Calvin and Luther; he was forced to admit that he had been wrong. From now on simple folk regarded the war as a struggle for the Protestant religion, though Frederick, who regarded all religions as equally silly, could hardly see himself as a crusader. When his soldiers sang hymns before a battle he used to say, ‘I don’t like that—my buggers are frightened.’

  George II now thought that Frederick was worth backing; he refused to ratify the Convention of Kloster Zeven and recalled Cumberland; he then asked Frederick to put Ferdinand of Brunswick in command of the Anglo-Hanoverians. Frederick did so, but not gladly. He was short of good generals, and his brother-in-law had distinguished himself wherever he had been in action. Duke Ferdinand kept the French busy in the west and they never troubled Frederick again. The English Parliament voted a million pounds for Prussia and though Frederick hoped he would not have to draw on it, this was a welcome sign that his stock was rising.

  Having removed the French threat, he was at last free to go and see what was happening in Silesia, where the situation had deteriorated after the death of Winterfeldt. Frederick had told Brunswick-Bevern to keep the important town of Schweidnitz at all costs, but it had capitulated and Charles of Lorraine had collected much booty there. Then Brunswick-Bevern sheltered in Breslau, was obliged to evacuate his troops and was taken prisoner. Frederick thought he had given himself up and said if he had been in despair there was a more honourable way out. Maria Theresa magnanimously refused his ransom and sent him home. Frederick would neither answer his letters nor see him; he said he could go and govern Stettin, which he did; finally he distinguished himself there and was forgiven.

  The Austrians were now in possession of Silesia and Frederick considered that unless he could drive them out immediately he could count that province lost to him for ever. He left James Keith with a small troop to keep an eye on the defeated French and took his army to the Oder by a series of forced marches (twenty-six kilometres a day). His soldiers were so much exhilarated by Rossbach that he had no desertions at all, whereas Brunswick-Bevern had lost thousands by desertion. When Frederick arrived in Silesia it seemed clear that he would have to fight Kolin all over again and, with a handful of exhausted men, attack an army twice the size of his in a strongly defended position. Charles of Lorraine and Marshal Daun had taken up winter quarters in a fortified camp at Leuthen.

  On his way there Frede
rick picked up the remains of Brunswick-Bevern’s army; the soldiers were discouraged and saddened by their recent defeats. With two days in which to pull them together, he did the thing which was so difficult for him. He turned the sun of his enormous eyes upon the men and spoke to them. They wept freely and called him Fritz; he exchanged coarse jokes with them; played upon such words as honour and patriotism; reminded each regiment of its glorious past; he issued wine to all ranks and did everything imaginable to raise their morale. Such an exhibition, as he felt it to be, had never been seen before nor would be again. The soldiers who had fought and won at Rossbach mingled with the others and told them to take heart. A French prisoner was brought in whom the King recognized as having once deserted from his army. ‘What made you desert?’ ‘Oh, you know, the situation was so bad—’ ‘Tell you what,’ said Frederick, ‘come and fight today and if I lose we’ll both desert tomorrow!’

  On 5 December at sunrise, Frederick marched against the Austrians. He knew the country at Leuthen like the palm of his hand, having often held manœuvres there. Daun had only realized the day before, when the Prussians captured his bakeries, that they were upon him; he urged Prince Charles to remain on the defensive but Charles with a vast superiority of numbers thought that this was his opportunity to eliminate Frederick for ever. So he came out and faced him. Frederick advanced towards the Austrian right wing which was firmly entrenched in difficult terrain; Prince Charles sent reinforcements at the repeated request of the commander on the spot; but then Frederick led his army across the enemy’s front. He was hidden from their sight by little hills; Prince Charles, on the church tower at Leuthen, failed to understand what he was doing and Daun thought he was retreating. The Imperial left was in an even stronger position than the right but it was held by Bavarian and Württemberger contingents who, owing to an old inimity for Austria, were far from reliable; when Frederick attacked many of them fled, as well as some Austrians. Now Daun had to bring his main force round to confront the Prussians; the manœuvre was too difficult—Frederick’s army was probably the only one in the world which could have managed it in the time—and when the cavalry which had gone to bolster up the right finally arrived at the thick of the battle the ground was so covered with fugitives and their pursuers that it could not operate. The battle had begun at 1 p.m.; by 8 p.m. the Austrians were in full retreat; soon hundreds of prisoners were coming in and if Frederick had had two more hours of daylight he might have been able to knock out the enemy for ever.

  Very late that night he arrived at the castle of Lissa, almost alone. He pushed open the front door and was startled to find the hall crowded with Austrian officers. He thought he had better put a good face on it and said, ‘Good evening, gentlemen, would there be room for me here?’ They could easily have captured him: they bowed deeply and took themselves off. Presently the countryside was filled with a tremendous sound: the Prussian army, accompanied by its regimental bands, was singing the Lutheran hymn Nun danket alle Gott, mit Herzen, Mund und Händen (Now thank we all our God, with hearts and hands and voices).

  The mopping-up operations went on for another ten days. Thousands of Austrians fled into Breslau, where they soon capitulated; the remains of their army limped home, relentlessly pursued by Zieten who had had the honour of opening the battle and of fighting the last action in it. Prince Charles was relieved of his command and sent back to Brussels where, before the war, he and his dead wife had been governors of the Low Countries. He was a tragic figure, since all he cared for was soldiering and that was the end of it for him. The casualties at Leuthen were roughly: Prussians, 5,000 men; Austrians 300 officers, 21,000 soldiers, 134 guns, 59 standards; while at Breslau 13 generals, 680 officers and 18,000 soldiers were taken prisoner.

  Maria Theresa was past tears. She said: ‘In the end God will have pity on us and crush this monster.’

  17. Ma Sœur de Bayreuth

  15 December 1757:

  Divine Marquis, now that you’ve been in bed for eight months and must be feeling rested, could you come and spend the winter with me in Silesia? I’ve got nobody to chat to and no resources. You would stay in my house in Breslau and see Bernini’s mausoleum in the Cathedral. Of course bring Mme d’Argens if she likes.

  Even the selfish d’Argens could hardly refuse such a request—he went with Mme d’Argens and Frederick had rooms specially heated for them in all the inns on the road from Berlin. Frederick himself was unwell, feeling the strain of eight particularly exhausting months. His digestion was not functioning and he had become a skeleton—Voltaire heard rumours that he was both ill and mad. He was filled with forebodings. ‘If I have to face another year like this one I only hope it will be my last.’ He spent most of the time in his room; at night he had terrible dreams. His father came to him with six soldiers who put him in irons. ‘Why?’ he asked Wilhelmine. ‘Because you don’t love him enough.’ Frederick woke up bathed in sweat. Another time Frederick William and the Old Dessauer appeared to him. He asked the Dessauer if he had done well. ‘Yes.’ ‘I would rather have praise from you and my father than all the world.’

  For company at Breslau, as well as d’Argens, he had his unmarried sister Princess Amelia, his youngest brother Ferdinand, Sir Andrew Mitchell and Captain Guichard who had written a book on Greek and Roman warfare and whom Frederick always called Quintus Icilius. One day the King, who was very apt to get foreign names wrong, said something about a character in Guichard’s book, the centurion Quintus Icilius. ‘Quintus Caecilius’, Guichard corrected him. ‘Oh indeed,’ said the King, ‘in that case you shall be Quintus Icilius.’ He sent for the Army List, crossed out Captain Guichard and substituted Major Quintus Icilius. The name stuck and he was never called Guichard again. He began his life with the King as a sort of court jester, and Frederick played so many horrid tricks on him that at one time it seemed as if he might become a second Gundling. But he was a clever man with a good deal of character and furthermore a first-class soldier; Frederick was soon taking him seriously. He always teased him but in a friendly way, and they were on intimate terms until Quintus Icilius died in 1775.

  Another new friend, who joined him at the beginning of 1758, was a Swiss, Henri de Catt. They had met two years before in Holland, where, anxious to see the picture galleries of various rich Dutchmen, Frederick had gone, in a round black wig, disguised as ‘the King of Poland’s first musician’. This character does not seem to have inspired much confidence in the collectors, and doors remained shut, but on his way to Utrecht in a ship he picked up Catt and they had an interesting philosophical discussion. The next day Catt learnt that this musician who was so well-informed, lively, pugnacious and sure of himself was the King of Prussia. Presently he got a letter from Potsdam saying that if he would like to renew acquaintance with the traveller who had made him so angry he would be very welcome. But Catt could not go; he was ill. ‘One was kind enough to sympathize.’ Now, having fallen out with his reader, Frederick remembered the young Swiss and engaged him. When he arrived the King said, ‘Would you have recognized me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But how? I am so thin.’ ‘By your eyes.’ He said he only asked for honesty and discretion—Eichel would see about Catt’s salary. Catt was soon put in the picture.

  D’Argens:

  Our philosopher likes you very much—he makes up his mind about people once and for all. Don’t get flustered or get involved with jokes and teasing, or seem too much interested when he talks about his family. Above all, don’t criticize his writings. Never be familiar.

  Mitchell:

  The King likes you very much and I think you will like the post. You should talk chiefly about literature, philosophy, metaphysics and French poets, but let him do most of the talking. Only criticize his verse if he asks you to.

  (Mitchell told Lord Holderness that, of all the authors he had met, the Philosopher of Sans Souci bore criticism the best.)

  Frederick gave his own advice:

  People will be after you the whole time to try and find out what I a
m saying. The A.D.C.s are all right but one is jealous, another bloody-minded and the third discontented and gloomy. If they make trouble you must tell me. Don’t lend them money or gamble with them or go to their wild parties if you can help it. Mitchell is perfect.

  He asked what impression he had made at their first meeting. Catt said he had thought he must be a French nobleman. Almost at once he was faced with a tricky situation. Frederick had been making unkind fun of Quintus Icilius and asked Catt what he thought of the absurd Major.

  Catt said he seemed learned. ‘Yes, but he has no usage du monde.’ ‘But Your Majesty, who loves letters, ought to be indulgent to behaviour which is not exactly that of high society.’ Frederick went off at a tangent but no doubt felt the rebuke, as he always would when Catt scolded him. ‘The greatest genius’, he said, ‘is useless without virtue and good character—it is but sounding brass and tinkling cymbals (you see, I know the Scriptures). The world has never seen a greater genius than Voltaire, but I have a sovereign contempt for him because he is not honest.’ Then he showed Catt how to dance a minuet, saying he wished Daun and Prince Charles could see them now. Catt, who was a prig and had no sense of humour, felt sorry that the King should make such a fool of himself. But he came to love Frederick very much and his account of the next few years spent in his company throws a good deal of light on the nature of the King. When Catt became engaged to a girl in Berlin, Frederick told d’Argens that it seemed madness. D’Argens said he couldn’t live without his wife. Then the King wrote love poems for Catt to give his fiancée, as though they were his own.

  After two such smashing victories in the field, Frederick hoped that Mme de Pompadour, whom he affected to regard as all-powerful in France, and her great new friend Maria Theresa would be induced to make peace. One of his ways of teasing the Empress was by mocking at her alliance with the immoral Louis XV and his ‘Sultana’; he composed and broadcast a letter purporting to be from Maria Theresa to Mme de Pompadour in which she called her ‘cousin’; it was such a brilliant forgery that quite reputable historians, taking into account neither Maria Theresa’s character nor the usage of those days, have quoted it as if it were genuine. But although she never wrote to Mme de Pompadour she sent her an escritoire mounted in real gold and kept in close touch with her through the ambassadors. So far from thinking of peace the two ladies urged each other to make greater efforts to crush the monster; in any case Louis XV would have thought it dishonourable to abandon his new ally after only one campaign. It became evident to Frederick that he would have to face another difficult year.