Rites of Peace: The Fall of Napoleon and the Congress of Vienna

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George Gordon, Earl of Aberdeen, was only twenty-eight years old and had no diplomatic experience. He had a poor command of French, in which all international business was conducted. And he was not a natural negotiator. A classical scholar whose Grand Tour had taken him to Greece and Asia Minor in the early 1800s, he had been unjustly vilified by Byron as an accomplice of Lord Elgin, when his only role had been to recommend that the marbles which the latter had stripped off the Parthenon in Athens and brought to London in 1806 should be acquired for the nation and placed in the British Museum. He was a man of homely tastes and a good landlord, managing to plant over fourteen million trees during his lifetime. He had been deeply in love with his wife Catherine, whose death from tuberculosis in 1812 had left him devastated. He had been drawn into politics by Pitt, whom he admired as much as Castlereagh, and had been offered the embassy to Russia and that to the court of Naples in Sicily, but had declined both as well as the governorship of the Ionian Islands. It was with extreme reluctance that he agreed to undertake this mission, citing, in a letter to his father-in-law the Earl of Abercorn, ‘a disinclination’ to leave his children ‘joined to a feeling approaching contempt for the whole diplomatic profession in general’. But he did not, fortunately, follow his father-in-law’s advice that ‘An undisguised personal and national haughtiness (with a sweet sauce of studied, unremitting, ceremonious, condescending politeness and attention) is much more advantageous than is supposed or guessed’ in an ambassador.

Aberdeen’s instructions were vague, and his mission consisted principally of penetrating Metternich’s real intentions. His route lay through Sweden, Berlin, Frankfurt an der Oder, Breslau – where he narrowly missed capture by the French – and Prague to Toeplitz. Along the way he had been naïvely delighted by the sight of detachments of Bashkir irregulars following in the wake of the Russian advance. ‘They have the Chinese face, and are exactly like the fellows one sees painted on tea-boxes,’ he informed his sister-in-law. But his amusement turned to horror when he came upon evidence of their unruliness and brutality. He was similarly dismayed, on reaching Toeplitz, by the conditions in the overcrowded town, and belatedly realised that he had brought the wrong kit, anticipating that he would be fulfilling the role of an ambassador at court, not at a military headquarters on campaign. ‘I never expected to be in such a scrape,’ he wrote to Castlereagh on arrival.

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Aberdeen presented his credentials on 5 September, four days before the signature of the Treaties of Toeplitz by Russia, Prussia and Austria. He liked the Emperor Francis, and found himself drawn to Metternich, with whom he discussed opera and collecting works of art. He found Alexander ‘agreeable and rather clever, but shewing off’, and most of his generals despondent and eager to go home. He quickly appreciated that this put Austria in a vulnerable position; he expressed the fear that if Napoleon were to inflict one decisive defeat on it, the coalition would fall apart. And such a defeat appeared more than likely. ‘The evils of divided command are everywhere apparent,’ he reported to Castlereagh on arrival. ‘The vigour of every measure is paralysed, the wisdom of every proposition is almost rendered abortive, by the delay which is necessary to procure the approbation of the different Sovereigns and their advisers.’

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Aberdeen did not like Cathcart, who returned the feeling frankly. And although he took an immediate liking to Stewart, he realised that he was not up to his job. He was so appalled by everything he saw and heard that within a few days of his arrival he was actually thinking of resigning his post.

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He nevertheless concluded the subsidy treaty which had already been agreed, providing Austria with £1 million, to be paid at a rate of £100,000 per month, and then went on to discuss wider issues with Metternich. As instructed, he expressed his disapproval that Britain’s priorities had been ignored in the treaties between the other allies. He also voiced Castlereagh’s misgivings about Metternich’s policy of trying to detach Murat from Napoleon’s camp by the offer of guaranteeing his survival as King of Naples.

The Austrian chancellor explained that the British approach, which was to put all British demands on the table and expect them to be accepted prior to any negotiation, was unhelpful. He stressed the need for a degree of elasticity and warned against statements or actions that forced people or states into the enemy camp. A good example was what had happened with Denmark.

Until 1807 Denmark had been a prosperous power of the second rank, comprising Norway, Schleswig, Holstein, Iceland, Greenland and the Faroe Islands, as well as a string of colonies in the West Indies, India and Africa. She had always embraced neutrality where possible, but maintained an alliance with Russia aimed at protecting her from Sweden. In 1807 her King, Frederick VI, had, like Alexander, been forced into alliance with Napoleonic France, which resulted in the bombardment of Copenhagen by the British fleet, the capture or burning of her own fleet, and the subsequent loss of most of her colonies. In 1808–09 she had been obliged to go to war with Sweden in defence of Norway, and while she had managed to hang on to her province, it was her ally Russia that had gained from the affair, by acquiring Finland from Sweden.

When compounded by the necessity of applying Napoleon’s Continental System, all this had brought Denmark to the verge of bankruptcy. Inflation reached such levels that Frederick was obliged to put his own gold plate at the disposal of the bank. In 1812 Alexander proposed an alliance to Frederick, but it was hardly an alluring one. He suggested that Denmark hand over Norway to Sweden (which would compensate Sweden for Finland, lost to Russia in 1809). In return, Frederick would, when Napoleon was finally defeated, be given Hamburg, Lübeck, Bremen and the whole North Sea coast of Germany, and as much of Holland as he wished. Although things were not going well for him in Russia, Napoleon was still the master of Europe, and the idea that Alexander would ever find himself in a position to dispose of swathes of Germany and Holland was absurd. At the same time, Frederick and most Danes regarded Norway, which had been united with Denmark for over four centuries, as an essential part of their country.

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Frederick was a straightforward, honest man with a keen sense of duty. It was for these qualities as much as for his unaffected bonhomie that he was so much loved by his people. Although his natural sympathies had lain with Britain (he was the son of a princess of the English royal house), and although he had joined the alliance with Napoleon only out of necessity, he was inclined to stand by his ally. But as the magnitude of Napoleon’s defeat in Russia became evident at the beginning of 1813, he came under increasing pressure to abandon him. Even his cousin Christian Frederick, who would later rule Denmark as Christian VIII, began to advocate switching alliances and joining Russia, Sweden and Britain.

Frederick’s Foreign Minister, Count Niels Rosenkrantz, who had spent a long time in Russia and married a Russian aristocrat, and who had many contacts in Britain, also advocated switching alliances. He sent an envoy to Russian headquarters at Kalisch and made overtures to Britain, offering to join the coalition against Napoleon. His conditions were that Russia guarantee Frederick’s continued possession of Norway, and that Britain give back his fleet and some of his colonies, as well as some cash with which to fit out an army.

Alexander encouraged Frederick to turn against Napoleon, but all he offered was a ‘deferment’ of the decision on Norway. The British cabinet informed Frederick that Norway had already been promised to Sweden, and that he would save everyone a great deal of trouble if he handed it over immediately and joined the allies unconditionally. Metternich did everything he could to make Britain take a more accommodating line, arguing that Denmark would be a useful ally, and should be ‘rescued’ from its alliance with France, but his arguments fell on deaf ears.

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In the face of British and Russian intransigence, Frederick had no choice but to fall back into the arms of the one power which was prepared to stand up for his rights, and on 10 July 1813 he signed a new alliance with Napoleon. Metternich did not give up, and sent a secret envoy to Copenhagen in order to keep a door open for Denmark to join the allies. There was little more he could do while Russia, Sweden and Britain did not support him.

On 3 September Denmark duly declared war on Russia for supporting Sweden’s claim to Norway, and on 22 September on Sweden itself. Frederick was motivated in equal measure by his sense of loyalty to Napoleon and by his mistrust of Sweden and Russia. Like many Danes, he suspected that they would not keep to any treaty they signed with him, and were bent on partitioning Denmark and establishing a Russian dependency there (Castlereagh himself would later come to share these fears).

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Aberdeen quickly came to see that, viewed from the Continent, some of Britain’s attitudes and actions looked a good deal less reasonable than they did from London. One of the first things he realised was that far from being a power to be feared, Austria was in many respects Britain’s natural ally. He wrote to Castlereagh explaining this, but the Foreign Secretary remained sceptical and dismissive of Metternich. The conduct of the Tsar also appeared different at close quarters, and did not accord with some of the myths held dear in Downing Street.

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Alexander always celebrated the anniversary of his coronation, on 27 September, with pomp, and all those assembled at Toeplitz joined in the festivities. After a service of thanksgiving they rode out to Kulm, where the unfortunate Vandamme had been defeated. There they sat down to a banquet for two hundred in a specially erected pavilion decorated with laurels and ribbons. Back in Toeplitz that evening, a select party assembled in Lord Cathcart’s quarters for the ceremony of investing Alexander with the Order of the Garter. ‘One could not imagine anything more magnificent and more imposing than this chivalrous ceremony,’ recorded one of the Tsar’s French aides-de-camp, but Alexander’s behaviour ‘disgusted every Englishman present’, according to Jackson. He arrived late, behaved flippantly, and did not for a moment wipe the ‘broad grin’ from his face. ‘The whole thing was treated, in fact, as a sort of farcical entertainment.’ The Tsar compounded this by appearing at dinner the following day with the garter around his thigh.

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Alexander’s sense of destiny, fanned and flattered wherever he went in Bohemia and Germany by the sycophancy of numerous petitioners and the adulation of even more numerous ladies, had turned him into a problematic ally. Treated by many as the Agamemnon of the coalition, he not surprisingly acted more and more on his own initiative and in pursuit of his personal vision.

A case in point was the ambitions he had encouraged in the Crown Prince of Sweden, the former French Marshal Bernadotte. Bernadotte had been placed in command of the allied forces operating in northern Germany, which included a Russian contingent, Walmoden’s German volunteers and a Prussian corps under Blücher as well as his own Swedish troops. It was soon noted that he used the Prussians and Russians to fight the French, while keeping his Swedes ready in Pomerania poised for an attack on Denmark. There were also suspicions, unfounded as it happens, that he might make a separate peace with Napoleon. As well as being perceived as an unreliable ally, Bernadotte was also viewed as an unpleasant upstart, or, to quote Hardenberg, ‘as a bastard that circumstances had obliged us to legitimise’.

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Alexander, however, did not share these reservations. Back in August 1812, when he had met Bernadotte at Åbo to negotiate their alliance, he had dangled before him the idea that if Napoleon were to be defeated, he, Bernadotte, might replace him as ruler of France. He had brought the matter up more than once since then, and encouraged Bernadotte to prepare the ground.

While Bernadotte adopted the role of king-in-waiting, he did not wish to spoil his chances in the event of a restoration of the exiled Bourbons, so he made contact with them, representing himself as a potential strong arm, a kind of French General Monck. Nor did he neglect to court French revolutionaries who loathed the Emperor in Napoleon and longed for a return to the republic. For their sake he posed as a latter-day Cromwell, and kept up secret contacts with various of the marshals across the battle lines. He released captured French officers on parole, hoping they would provide him with a sympathetic following in France. A natural braggart, he attempted to enhance his appeal by aping Murat in fanciful dressing up, particularly on the battlefield.

Bernadotte’s attempts to gain popularity were not crowned with much success. When his forces besieged Stettin, he had tried to win over the commander of the French garrison, but his efforts were met with insults. He was nearly hit by a specifically aimed shell as he inspected his outposts, and sent an angry protest (it was not done to try to kill enemy commanders in such inglorious ways), to which he received the reply that the gunner had spotted a French deserter riding along and had acted in accordance with regulations.

But he was encouraged by the support of Alexander’s former tutor, the Swiss philosopher Frédéric César de La Harpe, and by people such as the writer Madame de Staël, who had decided that he would make the ideal ruler for France, a new William of Orange who would introduce constitutional monarchy with a strong hand, and, at her prompting, by Benjamin Constant. ‘Remember,’ Madame de Staël wrote to Bernadotte from London on 11 October 1813, ‘that Europe depends upon you for its deliverance.’ His head swelled to such a degree that at one stage he actually suggested that he might take the title of Duke of Pomerania, which he had occupied, and as such assume the imperial crown of Germany if for one reason or another it did not go to either Austria or Prussia.

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Castlereagh was so alarmed by reports of Bernadotte’s waywardness that he instructed Stewart to go to his headquarters to keep an eye on him. Stewart’s reports only served to deepen that anxiety. General Pozzo di Borgo, whom Alexander had sent to Bernadotte’s headquarters, was shocked by the manner in which he was hedging his bets. When Pozzo had taxed him with this, ‘The scene that followed would have warranted calling a doctor,’ he reported to Alexander. ‘I do not believe that I have ever in my whole life had to make such an effort to remain silent as I listened to so much vulgarity, brutishness and nonsense.’

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The reports Castlereagh was receiving from his three envoys at allied headquarters confirmed his worst fears as to the fragile state of the coalition, which raised the possibility that some or all of the allies might make peace with Napoleon without Britain if it suited them. All his efforts had gone into binding them together with obligations not to do so. On 3 October Aberdeen had signed a treaty with Austria whose only specific clause excluded either party entering into any negotiations, talks, armistices, ceasefires or other suspensions of hostilities without mutual agreement. But that was not good enough for Castlereagh, who feared Metternich’s propensity for negotiating.

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In August Castlereagh had begun work on a project for a comprehensive treaty that would solve the problem once and for all. In a letter to Cathcart on 18 September he wondered whether ‘a greater degree of union and consistency may not be given to the Confederacy against France than results from the several Treaties which have been successively signed between the respective Powers’. He attached his ‘Project for a Treaty of Alliance Offensive and Defensive against France’, which he thenceforth referred to as his ‘grand design’.

This set out the principal allied war aims, and suggested inviting powers such as Spain and Portugal into the coalition. It not only proposed to make it illegal for any one of the contracting parties to withdraw from the alliance or enter into any communication with the enemy, but repeated the old recommendation of Czartoryski and Pitt that after the conclusion of peace a perpetual defensive alliance would be maintained for the preservation of that peace.

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In a second letter to Cathcart written on the same day, Castlereagh instructed him to show the project to Alexander first, stressing that Russia was Britain’s natural partner in such matters. He reminded Cathcart that Britain’s maritime rights must be kept out of the discussion, as, were they to become part of the general negotiation, the French would sooner or later seize on them with a view to splitting the coalition.

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Conditions were hardly favourable for any kind of diplomatic transactions, and the chances of pinning the allies down to anything as definite as Castlereagh’s ‘grand design’ were slight as the allied armies took the field and the three sovereigns and their ministers set off in their wake.

Metternich had improvised a mobile chancellery, the Reiseabteilung, with a number of assistants and secretaries in carriages followed by wagons with desks and chairs, papers, books, maps and even a printing press. The Russians had a similar outfit, but it had come under strain by this stage.

Alexander’s First Minister Admiral Shishkov was being bundled around in a carriage with two secretaries and no escort. ‘You cannot imagine how sad I am,’ he wrote to his wife. ‘I am sick, I am terrified, and to cap it all, there is the weather! It is grey, misty and rainy, and the sky is covered from morning till evening with black and purple clouds, as though it were representing the horrors of war.’ One moment he would find himself alone on deserted roads fearing capture by the French, then he would run into a jam as he encountered the Tsar’s kitchen wagons or a concentration of troops. He often had to beg for a corner of some hut to sleep in. Count Ioannis Capodistrias, a Russian diplomat attached to the general staff and ordered to deal with all diplomatic problems raised by the campaign, found himself sharing roadside hovels with the Russian commander Barclay de Tolly. While the General worked on operational plans, the diplomat wrote out manifestos and memoranda on the same table.

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Aberdeen, who had succumbed to ‘a severe attack of Cholera morbus’, was appalled at the conditions and complained that even in the comparative safety of Toeplitz, which he described as a ‘vile hole’, they had to pack up everything each morning so as to be ready for a quick getaway in the event of a French attack. He was deeply distressed by the sufferings of the soldiers he saw all around him, but lifted his spirits by admiring the landscape and regaling his correspondents with plentiful dendrological observations.

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‘We cannot help laughing as we go about from the early morning in full dress, with swords, decorations and all our finery,’ noted Humboldt in a letter to his wife after a meeting with Metternich, explaining that if they did not wear full uniform at all times they would be pushed into the ditch by marching columns or trampled by the horses of cavalry. Humboldt was remarkably impervious to the carnage, and enjoyed the opportunity this haphazard existence gave him of indulging his taste for raddled whores and fat lower-class women. Metternich was also surprisingly unaffected by the horrors of war, but complained bitterly of its discomforts. ‘What roads, my God!’ he wrote to Wilhelmina on 1 November. ‘I travelled along with 200 cannon, partly on horseback, partly on foot and partly in a carriage. I left in a carriage because it was pouring with rain. I was spilled, so I gave orders for my horses to follow and mounted the most reliable-looking one, but he collapsed, so I walked, and I fell.’ He was always chasing after Alexander, who insisted on playing the soldier rather than remaining at headquarters.

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And if conditions were unfavourable to the conclusion of the ‘grand alliance’, the project itself betrayed Castlereagh’s ignorance of what was going on in Europe. Alexander, Metternich and Frederick William had far more important things on their minds than the question of whether or not to include Spain or Britain’s maritime rights in their treaties. They were more concerned at this juncture with what was happening in the crucial area of Germany, not in the Iberian peninsula or beyond the seas. It was what happened there that might split the coalition.