Vienna, 1814: How the Conquerors of Napoleon Made Love, War, and Peace at the Congress of Vienna (27 page)

Some thousand to twelve hundred people, it was estimated, packed the good seats in the two main galleries. One section was reserved for the high nobility of the Austrian empire, and another for the ambassadors, diplomats, and ranking plenipotentiaries at the congress. Even Wilhelm von Humboldt had set aside his enormous stacks of paper to attend the Carousel. Talleyrand had run into him that evening, and could not resist teasing him: “Does Your Excellency prefer horse-riding to statistics?”

What a sight it must have been: “an almost unbroken line of glittering gold and diamonds in their Court dresses and uniforms disappearing beneath their orders and embroideries.” Dresses had been selected with the greatest care, and jewel boxes ransacked for gems that, in many cases, had been hidden since the turmoil of the French Revolution. One goldsmith in attendance confessed that he could not begin to estimate the worth of all the jewels on display. Princess Esterházy’s dress alone was probably valued at 6 million francs. “I do indeed believe,” said Dorothée, swept away in the enthusiasm, “we shall wear every pearl and diamond to be found in Hungary, Bohemia, and Austria.”

Standing out in the audience, too, with his scarlet hat and silk habiliments, was the pope’s delegate, Cardinal Consalvi, along with the sultan’s representative, Mavrojény, in his turban and caftan. Castlereagh’s wife, Emily, was also conspicuous, once again wearing her husband’s Order of the Garter “as a kind of tiara” in her hair.

At eight o’clock, heralds blasted their trumpets to announce the arrival of the Queens of Love. Prince Metternich’s seventeen-year-old daughter Marie had been chosen, along with the Duchess of Sagan, her sister Dorothée, Sophie Zichy, and Princess Pauline Esterházy. Each “queen” wore an exquisite velvet dress, La Garde-Chambonas observed, “trimmed with priceless lace, and sparkling with precious stones.” Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires reflected the glow of the chandeliers with a dazzling brilliance.

“My God,” one Prussian had exclaimed with surprise at the ostentation, “three campaigns could be fought with that.”

After the ladies promenaded through the arena, their long gossamer veils flowing behind, and reached their seats, the heralds sounded their horns again for the arrival of the Austrian emperor, the empress, and the train of sovereigns. Everyone stood. The Queens of Love removed their veils and the riding school erupted with “a storm of applause.”

Scanning the crowds that evening revealed a number of conspicuous absences. Despite persistent rumors that she would attend, Napoleon’s wife, Marie Louise, did not show. Notably absent, too, was Metternich. He could not bear watching his beloved Duchess of Sagan, a Queen of Love in her striking green velvet dress with matching jewel-encrusted green velvet cap. Worse still, her champion in the tournament was Prince Alfred von Windischgrätz.

The most obvious no-show, however, was the Russian tsar. Officially, Alexander was sick, though some speculated that this was just a convenient excuse for him to boycott the Austrian-sponsored entertainment. To those gossipers, the tsar’s absence suggested deep divisions among the Great Powers, and probably also a sign of the congress’s imminent rupture.

But despite this interpretation, plausible enough given the tensions of the moment, it seems that the tsar was in fact sick that night. A few days before the tournament, Alexander had been dancing in one of the ballrooms at the popular Mehlgrube on the Neuer Markt, and then suddenly collapsed on the dance floor. The fall had been so unexpected that many started speculating that the tsar had been poisoned (and one cook in the Hofburg kitchens was fired for his alleged involvement in this plot). Instead, the tsar was probably just exhausted from his long hours, his lack of sleep, and the overall stress from the congress. He had reportedly danced some thirty nights in a row. The night of the Carousel, the tsar was in bed at the Hofburg.

As the orchestra on the top floor of the Spanish Riding School struck up a martial piece, the tournament’s twenty-four knights trotted out on powerful black Hungarian chargers, hoofs stomping the matted sand, which had been poured onto the floor to help break the fall of any unseated knight.

To be selected a champion, as La Garde-Chambonas put it, was “tantamount to a diploma in grace and elegance.” The champions were generally from the old landed families. There was Prince Vincent Esterházy, Prince Anton Radziwill, and the Duchess of Sagan’s lover, Prince Alfred von Windischgrätz. Another knight selected was Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, the future king of Belgium.

The Carousel at the Vienna Congress was, of course, an imitation of chivalry as it had flourished in a late revival, long after its heyday. The knights looked closer, if anything, to the early sixteenth century than the high Middle Ages. Hence, there were more trunks, hose, and snug velvet doublets with puffed sleeves than hot and heavy plate armor. Instead of cumbersome helmets, too, each knight wore a large diamond-buckled, broad-reamed hat, complete with a “plume of feathers drooping from the side.”

The whole procession of champions, joined by squires carrying shields and pages waving large unfurled banners, made its way around the arena, stopping just in front of the sovereigns. The knights did homage, standing in the stirrups, turning to bow to the assembled monarchs, and then “dipping their lances” respectfully to the queens and empresses in the gallery. Then, after paying homage to their Queens of Love at the other end of the hall, they prepared to begin the games.

The first challenge was the so-called
pas de lance,
a “tilting at the rings,” which involved champions charging on horseback and lowering the lance to pierce rings hanging from ribbons. Among other events, the knights tossed javelins at fake Saracen heads, or charged forward, scimitar in hand, to slice an apple dangling by a ribbon from the ceiling.

Then it was time for the main event, the mock combat of a joust. This was not like the tournaments of the Middle Ages, when soldiers could and indeed did die on the field, like the unfortunate tournament in 1240 that ended with some eighty knights dead. The Carousel at the Congress, by contrast, was intended to be a highly stylized simulation. The knights were to ride in a gallop and try to unseat their opponent, but the judges had urged that they show the utmost civility. The event did, in fact, go well. The only incident was when Prince Liechtenstein was unhorsed and carried off the field unconscious.

After some further displays of horsemanship, the knights riding to “a kind of dance to the rhythm of the music,” the sovereigns, the Queens of Love, and their champions then led the way out of the riding school and into the palace for a banquet. The sovereigns had their own special table, where everything was gilded, from the forks to the fruit baskets. In large rooms, circulating around the banquet tables, acrobats tumbled, jesters juggled, and minstrels, with harp in hand, serenaded the guests. The evening culminated in a grand ball for some three thousand guests.

The Festivals Committee had attempted to create “a never-to-be-forgotten feature of the brilliant” congress, and they had certainly put on a show. The organizers pledged to present another “precise replica” of the tournament for the absent tsar. The details might not have been strictly correct historically, but the sovereigns were happy. The committee had even created a special place for the large king of Württemberg, “five feet in height and six in girth.” As few diaries fail to recount, the committee had cut a “large half-moon” shape from the dining table to “accommodate his fabulous paunch.”

And so, as kings, queens, champions, and the revelers glided and twirled across the parquet floors, the “dazzling Carousel” drowned out the diplomatic difficulties of the moment.

Chapter 17

“T
HE
G
LORIOUS
M
OMENT
”

We make but slow progress in our affairs and yet we are not idle.

—T
ALLEYRAND

N
o amount of glitter, however, could obscure the troubles, and the baron’s informants detected considerable grumbling outside the palaces, ballrooms, and haunts of the exclusive society at play. The “thinkers and idlers” congregating on the Graben were loudly criticizing the congress for its unrestrained indulgence. Why couldn’t the delegates put the same energies into ironing out a just peace as they did in organizing tournaments? Would diplomats ever really have an incentive to wrap up negotiations as long as Emperor Francis continued to open house so freely and set out fifty banquet tables almost every night?

Austrian patriots worried about the great expenses for this lavish entertainment, and wondered how the emperor would ever be able to pay for it all. They also disliked the glaring contrast between the generous Vienna hosts and the countless houseguests, who seemed ungrateful to say the least. Some of the allies from the war, like the Russian tsar, even behaved more like enemies. One spy reported the sentiment that Austria’s generosity threatened to cripple its economy if not bankrupt the state: “This is a new way to wage war: eat your enemy.”

All the frustration and resentment was only compounded by the exclusiveness of the club of diplomats meeting behind closed doors, and the apparent ridiculousness of some disputes. The leaders were bickering over who entered or left a room first, who sat where at a dinner, who signed a document first. There is a legend that Metternich had several extra doors cut into his office to allow the negotiators to enter and leave at the same time. This is not true, but the issues were real enough.

Protocol was a reflection of power and prestige, especially as diplomats at this time represented monarchs, rather than the state, and everyone could be highly sensitive to any slight. Famously, in September 1661, when a Swedish envoy arrived in London, the Spanish ambassador refused to follow France in the welcoming procession and raced ahead, nearly causing a riot, a scandal, and a declaration of war.

At the congress, business had literally stalled over such issues. The declaration of October 8, which postponed the opening of the congress until November 1, for instance, had been unsigned, in part, because the plenipotentiaries could not agree over the order of signatures. The German Committee experienced countless troubles as its members jostled for precedence—that is, until it stopped meeting entirely.

Perhaps standardizing the rules governing diplomatic transactions would help ease tensions that sometimes bedeviled negotiations. There was no consensus, however, on how to achieve this goal. How much, for instance, should protocol at a negotiation be based on a state’s power? What distinctions, if any, should be drawn between representatives of a kingdom and representatives of a republic? What about between the Continent’s oldest and most legitimate dynasties, and the newest creations spawned by the sword of Bonaparte? The Congress of Vienna’s most recent committee, the Committee on Diplomatic Precedence, which would be meeting by the middle of December under the leadership of Spain’s Labrador, was established to sort out those questions.

Still other concerns were heard in Vienna’s drawing rooms. Some of the older generation believed that all this hobnobbing with kings would only damage royal prestige. How unbecoming it was, even Talleyrand remarked, “to meet three or four kings, and a still greater number of princes at balls and teas at the houses of private individuals.” The situation had almost degenerated into a farce. The Geneva banker Jean-Gabriel Eynard confessed that one night at a party he saw the king of Prussia standing alone against the wall, and confused him with a waiter. He nearly asked the king to fetch him a glass of champagne.

For a number of reasons, many were unhappy with the conference, and the city’s discontented sought out places to vent and exchange news. The tavern-inn Empress of Austria was a favorite for a cosmopolitan group of thinkers, who wanted to escape the rigors of court etiquette and speak more freely. Another spot, the Three White Lions Café, was popular especially with many young Germans who met for heated debate over wine and oysters.

Interestingly, some of the most popular centers for information and criticism were churches in the city. Many of the people in town crowded into wherever the energetic priest Zacharias Werner happened to be preaching his provocative and often highly unpredictable sermons. From the pulpit, this tall and thin man with long hair that had been compared to a lion’s mane would consistently blast the Vienna Congress as a sorry spectacle of vanity and frivolity. This general theme could be elaborated and varied at will. Most recently, he had preached about how the mob of emperors, kings, and princes in town had clearly fallen under the spell of another ruler, the real ruler of the Vienna Congress: King Foolishness.