Amidst the sightseeing, revolution was never far from Metternich's thoughts. After the conference at Aix, Capo d'Istria had visited Naples, horrifying the royal ministers by the 'Jacobin' tone of his conversation and remarks 'highly abusive of the Austrian Government'; undoubtedly Russians were encouraging the Carbonari to demand a constitution. However, the British envoy to Tuscany, Sir Robert Gordon, met Metternich in Rome and reported that Metternich was much too worried about Russian agents. In Gordon's view, shared by many British observers until the Risorgimento, Italy was in a thoroughly peaceful condition.
The Tsar's conversion to conservatism had not gone unnoticed in Germany. At Mannheim on 23 March August von Kotzebue, a mediocre playwright known to be a Russian agent, was stabbed to death by a theology student, Karl Sand, from the University of Jena. The entire faculty, professors and students alike, was suspected. Gentz wrote frantically to Metternich that 'the revolutionary rabble's hatred of Kotzebue was of long standing, had many causes, and was fostered with devilish art'. The foreign minister was calmer, if accepting that Gentz's fears were 'more reasonable than many others he has had during the last few years'. Metternich agreed that 'Kotzebue's assassination is more than an isolated instance. Gradually this is going to be recognised on all sides, and I won't be the last to make use of it.' Gentz and Adam Müller bombarded Metternich with letters advising that strong action was indispensable, such as stricter control over every university faculty in Germany. But he would not be hurried, waiting to see how the German sovereigns would react. His letter about the Roman flowers had been to stop Gentz from losing his head.
Metternich's instinct was amply justified. Everyone in authority began to fear they might be murdered—even the Grand Duke of Weimar panicked, proposing that all German universities should be supervised, much as Gentz and Müller had proposed. Nothing could be wider of the mark than to suggest, as have some historians, that Metternich wavered. He waited calmly while alarm grew. In June he explained to Gentz that there was no immediate danger from the German universities, the threat from the press being far more serious. What was needed was a conference of the principal German states to discuss measures to deal with the situation; informality was everything. Gentz was ecstatic in his relief—'I see the only man in Germany who can still act freely and firmly.'
As soon as Metternich left Italy in July he went to Teplitz, to meet the King of Prussia. After the Kotzebue affair Frederick William III accepted his views totally. 'Six years ago we could fight the enemy out in the open,' the King admitted. 'Now he sneaks and hides. You know what confidence I have in your opinions. You have been warning me for a long admitted time and everything which you said has come true.' The admission was a triumph for Metternich, as the King had been toying with the idea of granting his subjects a constitution since 1815. In addition, the foreign minister had been well aware that while the 'revolution' was organised openly in Weimar alone, the men behind it were operating from Berlin.
Frederick William agreed that the federal Diet should be used to combat the Jacobins, while on 1 August the Prussian chancellor Prince Hardenberg and the Austrian foreign minister signed the Convention of Teplitz, pledging their countries to joint action. When ministers of the German states assembled at Carlsbad five days later, they were presented with an antirevolutionary programme, which included stricter censorship of books and newspapers, a ban on all political meetings, a purge of professors and students, and surveillance of universities. The Burschenschaften were dissolved, Gentz having advised that they were so dangerous that no trace of them must be left. In October the 'Carlsbad Decrees' were approved by the federal Diet. However repressive the decrees may seem, Metternich was undoubtedly justified when, referring to the universities, he warned his Emperor, 'A whole class of future officials, professors and would-be literary men is there, which is ripening for revolution'. He completed his counteroffensive in December with the 'Schlussaktè (Final Acts), which stressed the power of sovereigns throughout the Confederation and insisted that no parliament must ever be permitted to endanger public order in any German state. Gentz described the Bund's acceptance of these new articles as 'a victory greater than the battle of Leipzig'.
It is only justice to stress that Metternich's dislike of German liberalism stemmed from more than fear that constitutional monarchies might take power away from the aristocracy. He genuinely believed that they were merely preludes to revolution. He was also convinced that they would increase the likelihood of war, especially in Germany—he foresaw nationalist fanatics in these assemblies thundering out demands for the return of Alsace.
Among the liberal 'martyrs' of the Carlsbad Decrees was Ludwig Jahn, a pioneer of group calisthenics and founder of the gymnast movement who believed fervently in the overwhelming worth of the ordinary German Volk and detested noblemen and foreigners. Dr Pieter Viereck was among the first to argue (in 1941) that the liberalism of men like Jahn was not quite the same creed as the gentle Anglo-Saxon variety:
Jahn—and later, Richard Wagner—are the two nineteenth century Germans in whose writings the entire Nazi ideology appears point by point, long before any Treaty of Versailles.
Jahn was the first to use the word ''Volkstum' (folkdom) so beloved by Hitler and was much admired by Alfred Rosenberg. 'Germany needs a war of her own in order to feel her own power; she needs a feud with Frenchmen to develop her national way of life in all its fullness,' he ranted. 'This occasion will not fail to come.' He was one of the earliest German racialists, writing, 'A state without a Volk is nothing, a lifeless frivolous phantom like the vagabond gypsies and Jews.' Anticipating the Führer, he wished to absorb into Germany such blood brothers as the Danes, Dutch and Swiss. His 'gymnasts'—many of whom had been members of the Freikorps he had helped to raise in 1813—roamed the streets of their local towns like storm troopers, beating up those who looked 'Un-German'. He was to be lionised by nationalists during the Revolution of 1848, and he would be virtually canonised under the Third Reich.
Jahn had organised and led the Wartburg demonstration in 1817, foreshadowing a more infamous 'burning of the books'. Metternich had complained to Berlin about Jahn's activities in 1818. 'The gymnastic institution is the real training ground for the university mischief,' he wrote. 'The inventor, the invention and the execution come from Prussia.' Another such 'martyr' was a popular professor at Bonn University, Ernst Arndt. Besides the need for constitutions, he preached hatred of the French in his lectures, composing savage songs of vengeance which were roared out by his students. The chancellor was well aware that what he called 'National Jacobins' were different animals from the Carbonari.
A peculiarly unpleasant aspect of German nationalism was its anti-Semitism. In August 1819 news of what was being debated at Carlsbad resulted in riots, during which mobs attacked the Jews of Würzburg, Bamberg, Frankfurt and other cities, looting their houses. Metternich complained to the Frankfurt senate, not for the last time.
Gentz, who possessed a keen nose for political danger, had been certain the situation was very serious. In July he had warned that the unity of the German confederation might be at stake and that a frightful revolution was threatening all Europe. His master shared his apprehension up to a point—'an entire class of future civil servants, dons and literary men are being trained for revolution'—but was confident that he could handle the crisis. 'By God's help I hope to defeat the German Revolution just as I vanquished the conqueror of the world. The German revolutionaries thought me far away because I was a hundred miles off [in Italy]. They deceive themselves. I shall be back in the middle of them, dealing out blows.' His blows proved so effective that he would have no more trouble from German revolutionaries for a generation.
In a mere three weeks Metternich had secured the adoption throughout Germany of measures he had hoped to bring in since 1813. He succeeded because of the absence of the man whom he privately termed 'that infernal Tsar'. He wrote to Eleanor, 'If the Kaiser thinks he's no longer Emperor of Germany, he's mistaken
.' Francis I had more power over the German confederation than ever Joseph II had over the Holy Roman Empire.
Britain was highly critical of the Carlsbad Decrees. Admittedly the cabinet had introduced the 'Six Acts' to put down disturbances of the sort which had recently erupted at Peterloo—including restrictions on political meetings and mild censorship. But the British disapproved of other countries bringing in such measures. Secretly Castlereagh thought that the decrees were justified, but he dared not say so in public. A realist, he accepted that British public opinion was vehemently opposed to putting down revolution in other countries, even if he sympathised with Metternich's position. In May 1820 he drafted a state paper which was redrafted by the cabinet. An ominous sentence declared that the Alliance had never been 'intended as a Union for the government of the world, or for the superintendence of the internal affairs of other states'.
Tsar Alexander's reaction was bewildering. He told Lebzeltern, Austrian ambassador at St Petersburg, that the decrees were needed because of 'the spirit of corruption and immorality which exists in Germany'. Yet almost simultaneously, Capo d'Istria circulated a memorandum in the Tsar's name attacking the decrees as a bid to impose 'the ridiculous pretensions of absolute power'. There was ample reason for Austria to fear Capo d'Istria's influence over Alexander; as a Greek nationalist, he had the ear of an absolute ruler who saw himself as heir to the Byzantine Emperors and dreamt of riding into Constantinople. Metternich believed that if ever the Ottoman Empire disappeared, the Monarchy would soon follow it—which in the end was precisely what happened.
Events seemed to justify Metternich's warnings of danger throughout Europe. Even before the Teplitz meeting with Frederick William, the first minister of Nassau (ironically enough a German state granted a constitution) had been assassinated. In February 1820 the Duc de Berry, Louis XVIII's nephew, was stabbed to death in Paris; shortly after came the discovery of a Bonapartist plot by discontented officers. England was not immune; in February the Cato Street conspirators were caught plotting to murder the cabinet and set up a republic. Southern Europe erupted in the spring; when Ferdinand VII was forced to give the Spaniards a constitution, the Portuguese and Neapolitans followed suit. 'We have come to one of those fatal epochs when one can't count on anything,' observed Gentz grimly.
After his exertions at Carlsbad and Frankfurt, Metternich opened a conference at Vienna to complete the 'great German business'. It lasted until the following May. Its principal achievements were to give to each of the confederation's sovereigns a right of appeal to the Diet for help against a rebellious assembly, and to forbid assemblies to discuss public security. No other German state could hope to defy the Austro-Prussian partnership. As Metternich reminded the Emperor, Austria's word was law throughout Germany.
For much of the Vienna conference Metternich knew that his sixteen-year-old daughter, Clémentine, was dying. 'Nothing breaks me down like a sick child,' he wrote after she had been suffering from bouts of fever for two months. In April he realized, 'We can no longer to hope to save her.' He attended lengthy meetings every day, though occasionally he rebelled—when someone asked him about the 'Rhine tolls' just as he was about to see the doctors, 'I insisted on going, even if the Rhine flowed back to its source.' She died on 11 May 1820. 'Fortunately I have the gift of concealing my feelings even when my heart is half broken,' he confessed in a letter the next day. 'The thirty men with whom I sit at the conference table every day can certainly never have guessed just what I was going through.'
He went off to Königswart by himself. 'It rains here as it always does.' He had gone to arrange for the building of a new family vault, and was grateful for the company of Prince Schönburg, 'a keen sportsman and a cheerful young fellow—a very agreeable guest in a lonely house'. Unusually for a man of his class and time, Metternich himself neither shot nor hunted; he was sorry for the dead game when it was brought in, wondering how people could kill such beautiful creatures. He was so fond of animals that he placed lumps of sugar next to the mouse holes in his library.
On the way back, news reached him from England of Queen Caroline's divorce. 'A really horrible woman,' he remarked. 'If people knew what I do about her they would be amazed by her audacity.' He added that her trial was 'a piece of dirt which one can't touch without defiling oneself. He thought that 'Castlereagh and company have not behaved very cleverly'.
He returned to Vienna to find another tragedy. Ten weeks after Clémentine's death, Marie—his favourite daughter—died of consumption at twenty-three. 'For many years she has been my best friend' was his epitaph for her. 'Even on the day of my daughter's death I had to sit for six hours in a ministerial meeting and then for another eight at my desk.' Perhaps he was grateful for it. When Clémentine died he had written, 'I soon return to my work which builds a barrier between me and myself.'
Five days before Marie's death on 20 July he had been called away from her bedside by news of 'the Neapolitan catastrophe'. He expected, wrongly, that much blood would flow. 'A semi-barbarous people, of absolute ignorance and boundless credulity, hot blooded as the Africans, a people who can neither read nor write, whose last word is the dagger—such a people offer fine material for constitutional principles!' he observed. Even if he did not understand the Neapolitans and there was little bloodshed, he had reason to worry. He had counted on controlling Italy as he controlled Germany; when her sovereigns refused to join with Lombardy-Venetia in an Italian confederation on the German model, fearing for their independence, he had embarked on a programme of close links with each court individually—the reason for the Emperor's state visits in 1819. If the new Neapolitan ministers were former supporters of Murat, they posed no military threat. Nor was their chaotic regime in any sense a Terror, although some of the Carbonari leaders were murderous enough. However, they detested Austria, removing half of the peninsula from her control. Worse still, the Carbonari began to spread all over Italy and even into France. As Metternich put it at the end of the year, 'The Naples affair threatened Italy, Austria and Europe equally.'
On 21 July Darya Lieven reported what the Duke of Wellington had said to her:
Devil take me, Prince Metternich must march. He must advance all his troops against Naples. It will be five or six weeks before they are in a position to act. Meanwhile he will warn his allies of what he is going to do. They will give their consent. He must crush this Italian revolution; but he must come out of it with clean hands, do you understand. He can play a splendid part.
However, as Metternich admitted later, 'Our fire-engines were not full in July, otherwise we should have set to work immediately.'
Amid this crisis which required such delicate handling, Metternich remained shattered by the loss of his daughters. He wrote:
I sit at my desk like some bankrupt in a tavern. He drinks to forget the loss of his goods. I work to drown my distress of mind . . . I am more of a stranger to myself than the people who pass my window. In the evening, looking at the work I've done, I realize that life is still in me yet in no way do I feel alive.
He suffered from a sense of hopelessness. 'I have to spend my life propping up a mouldering building,' he told Darya. (By 'mouldering building' he meant the Europe restored in 1815, not the Habsburg monarchy—as suggested by some historians.)
At the beginning of September it was agreed that there should be another congress at the end of October, at Troppau in Austrian Silesia (now Czech Opava). 'The issue at Troppau is who is stronger, Alexander or Capo d'Istria' was how Gentz summed up what was at stake. Capo d'Istria still hoped to persuade his employer to use collective intervention to introduce liberal constitutions all over Europe. Arguing that if any revolution were suppressed it must be replaced by 'national independence and political liberty', he was so eloquent that Metternich grew seriously alarmed. Then on 9 November news reached Alexander that the Semenovsky Guards had mutinied at St Petersburg. It was in fact a rebellion against a brutal colonel, but Metternich convinced the Tsar that it was the work of li
beral agitators. He noted smugly that Alexander suspected they were trying to panic him into abandoning the congress.
The mutiny was the start of the Tsar's conversion. 'I am on the same footing with him as in 1813, going to see him whenever I want, and we talk for hours together without ever disagreeing,' Metternich reported. They drank tea endlessly. 'If only that aromatic beverage could cure Capo d'Istria's brains!' he joked. 'Good heavens, what a cargo of tea I would have sent from China!' Every day he showed Alexander fresh evidence of underground activity in Italy, warning him that Europe was menaced by a new French Revolution: 'It is in Paris, Sire, that the great furnace exists for the most vast conspiracy that ever threatened society.'
Metternich asserted, indirectly, Austria's right to invade Naples, by declaring that there should be no intervention in another country unless it was in such disorder as to endanger others in close proximity. Capo d'Istria argued that it could only be justified if needed to preserve the 1815 settlement and must take place in the name of all the Allies. He would sanction Austrian occupation of Naples if it upheld political liberty; he commended the French constitution of 1814 in place of the unworkable Spanish model adopted by the Neapolitans. However, there must first be mediation, perhaps by the Papacy.
Austria then insisted that the real question was how to restore King Ferdinand to his rightful powers. Capo d'Istria had to abandon any idea of reconstructing the Neapolitan constitution, outmanoeuvred by Metternich's proposal that Ferdinand should come in person and, as the legitimate ruler of Naples, decide what to do. Lebzeltern, the Austrian ambassador to Russia, succeeded in winning over the Tsar, partly by convincing him that Capo d'Istria's plan was unworkable. Prussia was firmly on Austria's side. A 'Preliminary Protocol' was signed by Austria, Prussia and Russia in which they recognised the need to intervene in any country where a revolution threatened others. The Austrians were authorised to occupy Naples, though their troops must be accompanied by observers from the other powers.
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