Metternich- The First European

by Desmond Seward

  After Verona, the chancellor went to the Emperor's 'good city of Venice' for the Tsar's visit. He was amused by Alexander's raptures—'He thinks the Giudecca is like the Neva and the Doge's Palace like some of the Moscow palaces.' He himself did not care for Venetian palazzi, finding them too large and cold. 'However, I have good accommodation, plenty of sun and even stoves; also a splendid state-bed, which seems more suited for a Danaë than to me, so I've had my little camp-bed put up.' What he liked was not the canals but the little streets with their pretty shops. He went to Cimarosa's Il Matrimonio Segreto at the Venice theatre—'the story of a marriage so secret that I'm hanged if I understood it'. Rossini called on him, complaining of his first tenor, an Irishman who had been learning Italian, and of 'an English ambassador who thinks he's a maestro di capella'—a reference to the musical Lord Burghersh.

  On the Emperor's orders Metternich returned to Vienna by way of Munich, to give the Bavarian King an account of what had happened at Verona. His visit gave rise to absurd rumours; the King of Württemberg was to have Poland in exchange for his kingdom, which would be annexed by Bavaria; Bavarian troops were to be sent to fight the Turks; and the Bavarian constitution would be suspended. These fantastic stories demonstrate the extent of his hold over Germany.

  He may have seemed all-powerful but the Alliance was doomed. Early in 1823 he received the unwelcome news that Rene de Chateaubriand had become France's foreign secretary, an appointment as ill-omened as that of Canning. A famous writer, not even a politician let alone a diplomat, and inordinately vain, Chateaubriand saw his 'ministry' in terms of personal and national glory. He was supremely indifferent to the Alliance. 'I was faced by an anti-Bourbon France and two great foreign ministers, Prince Metternich and Mr Canning,' he would recall in Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe. His country was burning to avenge the humiliations of the previous decade. He saw the chance of a dramatic gesture which would demonstrate that the French were still the Grande Nation. Accordingly, on 6 April an expeditionary force under the Duc d'Angoulême crossed the Bidassoa and by August had crushed all liberal resistance, freeing Ferdinand VII from his rebellious Cortes. So swift a success showed that Metternich had been correct in thinking the Spanish liberals weak and unpopular, that all that was needed to remove them was diplomatic pressure, not invasion.

  Liberal historians of Metternich have described gleefully how he was 'trapped' by his conservatism into depending on Russia. No doubt many High Tories in pre-Reform Bill Britain had vague reservations about intervention, but these were due to Olympian insularity, not to a rejection of the old order; they agreed with Metternich more than they disagreed—had he lived, Castlereagh would have papered over the cracks instead of widening them. Indeed, some cabinet ministers openly approved of the French invasion of Spain, as did the King. They were deeply concerned by the growing rift between Britain and her continental allies, a rift which Canning was now making unbridgeable. The Austrian chancellor did not trap himself; he was left in the lurch by two chauvinist foreign ministers, Canning and Chateaubriand.

  His diplomacy cannot be faulted. Henry Kissinger gives a professional assessment, defining Metternich's outstanding gifts in this field as tact and a sensitivity to nuance; Kissinger also credits him with a knack of identifying the fundamentals of a situation together with a psychological insight which enabled him to dominate opponents—'And because the end result of Metternich's policy was stability and Austria's gain was always intangible, his extraordinary cynicism, his cold-blooded exploitation of the beliefs of his adversaries did not lead to a disintegration of all restraint, as the same tactics were to do later in the hands of Bismarck.' It was this desire for stability which made him so effective.

  Yet Kissinger is far from uncritical:

  Whenever Metternich operated within a fixed framework, when an alliance had to be constructed or a settlement negotiated, his conduct was masterly. Whenever he was forced to create his own objectives, there was about him an aura of futility . . . Because he never fought a battle he was not certain of winning, he failed in becoming a symbol. He understood the forces at work better than most of his contemporaries, but this knowledge proved of little avail, because he used it almost exclusively to deflect their inexorable march, instead of placing it into his service for a task of construction.

  This is too subjective a judgement. It begs the entire question of Metternich's conservatism, damns him for not being a man before his time. He 'created his own objectives' for the Congress System and, as has been seen, was clearly far from futile in doing so.

  No one can query his industry. Throughout his career he shouldered a huge work load, paying meticulous attention to detail. As far as possible he made close friends with every foreign ambassador to Vienna, entertaining each one by himself at the Ballhausplatz or at the villa on the Rennweg, asking each one to stay at his country houses, holding interminable conversations. He built up dossiers on all foreign ministers, their qualities and views, their strengths and weaknesses. His own envoys received exact instructions, minutely detailed but of the utmost clarity; much of his working day was spent in drafting dispatches. There were three types: the official dispatch, which might be shown to the foreign minister of the power concerned, and published if necessary; the 'reserved' dispatch, whose contents might be communicated privately; and the secret letter, which identified aims and laid down what tactics were to be used. He was interested only in achieving clearly identified objectives, never in showy diplomatic 'triumphs'; he took immense pains to avoid humiliating opponents, always trying to leave them a way out. Few foreign ministers can have been more successful. Yet in 1819 he had written wearily to Darya Lieven, 'The great game of diplomacy leads to more disappointments than successes, to more trouble than glory.'

  His Europeanism has been queried. In 1824 he would tell the Duke of Wellington, 'For a long time now Europe has had for me the value of a mother country (patrie).' 'By this he simply meant that as an aristocrat he could fit into aristocratic society anywhere in Europe,' observes Dr Sked, with too much cynicism. Some other historians (A. J. P. Taylor and Paul W. Schroeder) dismiss his Europeanism as a smokescreen for Austrian self-interest. Here, however, Sked disagrees, stressing that Metternich saw Austrian and European interests as identical, citing his comment, 'There exists in Europe only one issue of any moment and that is revolution.'

  Metternich's own version of how he had seen the Alliance carries conviction. 'I never thought that it had any purpose other than to give solidarity to the leading European powers in maintaining the common peace,' he would confide in 1830 to Count Ficquelmont, one of his most trusted men. 'The basis of the Alliance, its watchword and daily concern, was respect for the genuine independence of all states, the preservation of friendly relations between all governments, the plea for an open explanation . . . whenever some grave problem endangered the maintenance of peace, and finally emphatic respect for all rights, for everything which has a legal existence.' There is no need to doubt his sincerity.

  Like Winston Churchill, Clemens von Metternich considered 'jaw-jaw better than war-war', and he always believed that the Alliance had offered the best means of ensuring peace. Until the end of his career he would strive to resurrect the Concert of Europe.

  13

  The End of the Alliance: The Congress of St Petersburg

  That miserable Eastern Question is again coming to the fore.

  METTERNICH, October 1824

  'Neither the Turks nor the Greeks want us to intervene: very well then, we withdraw' . . . if one considers that the withdrawal breaks the last bond uniting England to the policy of the Continent, then the matter takes on a different complexion. It means a complete revolution in the political system of Europe; it means the breaking up of the Alliance; in a word, it means that Mr Canning gets his own way.

  PRINCESS LIEVEN, November 1824

  Prince Metternich began the New Year of 1823 with less cause for optimism than at any time in the last decade. George Canning had replace
d a British foreign secretary who was his friend, while at Paris Chateaubriand was equally antagonistic. He would soon see the Triple Alliance sundered inexorably by the 'Eastern Question'. It was to be a period of failure and discouragement, compounded by ill health and bereavement.

  He would be fifty in May. Although his hair had turned white and his face was thin and lined, he remained young for his age, full of energy and enthusiasm, despite an air of cynicism, of world weariness. He was still handsome, just as much an 'homme à femmes' as ever, delighting physically and mentally in women's company. But he was approaching a species of midlife crisis. An alarming work load, together with constant travel and a demanding social life, was taking its toll.

  The first great problem was the invasion of Spain. Unlike the Duke of Wellington, who prophesied that '300,000 men' could not subdue the Spaniards, Metternich never had any doubts about the outcome. At the end of April he noted that the Viennese were applauding the French troops' triumphant advance across the Bidassoa as if they were Austrians. He felt a certain pleasure at the rage of the British; the French were reconquering the peninsula less than ten years after Wellington had ejected them. 'My first priority amid the upheaval must be to save the principle, and that principle is the Alliance,' he wrote to Prince Esterházy in London. But he was nervous about Chateaubriand's grandiose ambitions.

  Chateaubriand was no less uneasy about Metternich, if for very different reasons. In 1821 the Duc de Caraman had reported from Vienna that the Austrian chancellor was 'a dangerous enemy, a subtle intriguer . . . he controls a thousand levers, which he operates very cleverly, circulating rumours . . . destroying statesmen.' More than one Gallic historian has shuddered at his supposed skill in ruining opponents with libel and slander.

  Darya Lieven sent a steady stream of letters from England, dwelling on Mr Canning's enormities. It has been generally thought that she had no ulterior motive, yet as a top-flight Russian agent who was far subtler and far more intelligent than her country's foreign minister, let alone her sovereign, she realized that it was no bad thing for Russia if the Austrian chancellor and the British foreign secretary should be on bad terms; the close links between Metternich and Castlereagh had always worried St Petersburg. If Russia was to have her way in the Eastern Question, it was wholly desirable that Metternich and Canning should detest each other. Nor is it inconceivable that she depicted Wellington as a bumbling idiot from the same motive; it was expedient that Austria should despair of her last real friend in Britain. She certainly tried to discredit Esterházy, making out that he was a fool and that the King disliked him. At the same time she was careful to pass on much accurate and extremely valuable information. She was in an excellent position to do so, being on almost amorous terms with George IV, frequently staying with him at Windsor and Brighton, a friend of the Duke of York (heir presumptive to the throne) and of Lord Grey, the Whig leader; even Mr Canning himself danced attendance on her.

  It was not hard to widen the rift with Canning. In August Canning told the prime minister that the British government must reconsider 'how we stand towards the Alliance' and 'the part which we will, or will not, take in these periodical sessions of legislation for the world'. Eager to restore the prestige of a Britain humiliated by France, and in any case antipathetic towards the Congress System, he believed she could benefit from a disunited rather than a united Europe; individual countries would be easier to deal with. A convinced Tory, in no sense a sympathiser with revolution, he was not averse to other nations adopting a constitution modelled on that of Great Britain. His policy enjoyed widespread popular support, whipped up by his rousing speeches—which made gloomy reading at the Ballhausplatz.

  In March Canning had formally acknowledged that the Greeks were belligerents. Metternich regarded this as tantamount to recognising revolutionaries; Gentz complained bitterly that Britain had never really been committed to the European Concert—it was vital to counter her baneful influence. However, in the summer Canning announced that Britain would remain neutral in the struggle between Greeks and Turks. Meanwhile, Russia was sabrerattling, having broken off diplomatic relations with the Porte in August the previous year. But by September 1823 Turkey had met all the Russian demands, apart from withdrawing Turkish troops from the Danubian principalities. Then the Sultan refused to evacuate his garrisons in Moldavia and Wallachia under any circumstances.

  In August Metternich had observed, 'Turkey doesn't worry me, only France and Spain.' Yet he was very relieved when the Tsar invited the Emperor to meet him on the border to discuss the Turkish situation.

  The meeting was to take place early in October at the Austrian town of Czernowitz (today Chernovtsy, capital of Soviet Moldavia). In Metternich's view, 'Quite apart from the importance of its agenda, the meeting itself will make an impact like firing heavy guns.' He set out on 20 September, admiring the road through the mountains to Galicia and the wooded Galician plain, if shocked by the poverty of landowner and peasant alike. At Przemysl he awoke with an attack of rheumatic fever. He insisted on being driven back to Lemberg (Lvov), where he collapsed. It was the same illness which had plagued him so often before; he thought that it had been brought on partly by cold, partly by worry at the meeting ahead. He was laid up for a fortnight, unable to sleep. Emperor Francis came and sat by his bed, later in his sickroom when he was convalescing, chatting amiably but avoiding politics to stop him fretting. When Count Mercy arrived from Vienna to take his place, Francis laughed and told Mercy, 'We ought to make a fine job of it—I know very little about the subject, while you knew nothing till yesterday!'

  Dr Jäger rushed out to tend the invalid, who was frantic with worry. 'Just imagine my position,' Metternich wrote to Eleanor. 'The only man who understands the business at all left in bed at Lemberg while the two Emperors are at Czernowitz with only two possible outcomes: immediate war between Russia and the Porte or immediate peace. And here I am, peace in my grasp and knowing just how to get it, lying ill in bed!' Then he learnt it was to be peace—'everything is arranged in marvellous fashion, the triumph total'. In his absence the Tsar had paid him every possible compliment. He travelled back slowly at the end of October, orders having been left for him to be housed en route 'like the Emperor himself. When he reached Moravia he was struck by the contrast with Galicia:

  Two days ago I saw peasants working in the fields with no clothing save a shirt, children as old as four sitting naked in the fields their parents were tilling. The first little Silesian I met had on a nice cap and frock, and was carried by a mother in a good coat with thick red worsted stockings and stout shoes. I could have cried over the first and hugged the others.

  But as soon as he got to Vienna he collapsed. Jäger told him it was due to worry and that he must give up work. His lungs were still affected. He was depressed by news from England and about Canning's behaviour. 'He's certainly a very awkward opponent but I've faced much more dangerous.' (A few weeks later he observed, 'What irritates me about the English is that they're all slightly mad, something we have to put up with, pretending not to notice the ridiculous side.') Deep despondency set in just before Christmas—'It's a sad fate for a statesman always to have to battle his way through never ending storms.'

  He was irritated by news of the Monroe Doctrine. In his Message to Congress of 2 December 1823 President Monroe—inspired by Secretary John Quincy Adams—had declared that America was for the Americans and that intervention by the Alliance to recover Spain's former American colonies would be seen as 'the manifestation of an unfriendly disposition towards the United States'. Metternich wrote to Baron Lebzeltern that there had come to pass what he had long feared:

  The New World has announced that it has broken with the Old, a break which is neither optional, temporary nor conditional but a real break which separates the states of Europe from the Republic of North America, just as natural incompatibility causes a break between bodies of a rather different sort.

  Ironically, although Canning was largely responsible for t
he attitude of Americans such as Monroe and Adams, privately he shared some of Metternich's regret; he once defined 'the line of demarcation which I most dread—America versus Europe'.

  Optimism returned with improving health. In January Metternich commented, 'At St Petersburg everything goes very well, very well.' He was especially pleased by Nesselrode's promotion to privy counsellor, since he regarded Nesselrode as pliable. He seems to have been fully restored by 2 February because we know that when he visited the secret police's headquarters at Vienna that evening he was on his way to a ball.

  At 7.00 p.m. the 'Grand Inquisitor of Europe', as his enemies were now calling him, entered the cell of Count Federigo Gonfalonieri, who had requested an interview. A leader of the Milanese Carbonari, the Count had been arrested in 1821 and condemned to death, his sentence being commuted to fifteen years imprisonment; he was about to leave for the Spielberg, the prison-fortress in Moravia. Metternich hoped to learn details of the 'European conspiracy' to which Confalonieri had claimed to belong; here, at last, might be a clue to that 'grand revolutionary committee' at Paris. However, the Count could tell him nothing, since the 'European conspiracy' had been a mere piece of boastful rhetoric. Sir Llywellyn Woodward, if admitting that the chancellor had made no 'deliberate attempt to take advantage of the nervous strain which had been put upon a delicate and gently nurtured man', blames him for taking no interest in what happened to prisoners at the Spielberg. Their fate was touchingly described by Confalonieri's fellow Carbonaro Silvio Pellico, in Le mie Prigioni, which was intended to arouse sympathy for the Risorgimento. The Austrian chancellor is portrayed as a relentless persecutor.

  In 1846 a French historian, Jacques Crétineau-Joly, began work on a study of the Carbonari and an Austrian official presented him with a parcel sent by Metternich. He was astonished to find a copy of Le mie Prigioni with a written dedication to the chancellor 'in homage, with the respectful gratitude of the author, Silvio Pellico'. There were also letters from various inmates of the Spielberg, all of them political prisoners—including Confalonieri—thanking Metternich. Crétineau-Joly called on the chancellor to ask for an explanation. He was told: