Vienna, 1814: How the Conquerors of Napoleon Made Love, War, and Peace at the Congress of Vienna (50 page)

Even assuming for the moment that this was a worthwhile war aim, the tsar was troubled by the fact that his Russian army, stationed mainly on the other side of the Vistula in the new Kingdom of Poland, was far away from the likely center of action, and would likely be relegated to reserve functions. He had lost his bid to be supreme commander as well. All these concerns nagged at the tsar as he sat alone late one night in early June at his study in the Rauch’sche Palais. It was perfectly clear, at least to him, that he was being punished for all the decadence of the Vienna Congress.

Suddenly, about two that morning, there was a knock on his door, and his aide-de-camp, Prince Volkonski, entered, visibly troubled and apologetic for disturbing the tsar at that hour. He had a message, admittedly strange, to relay to the tsar. There was a woman who insisted on seeing the tsar. It was Julie von Krüdener.

“You can imagine my surprise,” Alexander later said. He had just then been thinking about Baroness Krüdener as he contemplated a passage in the book of Revelation: “And there appeared a great wonder in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun.” Now the woman who he believed could help him most was standing at the door.

I thought I was dreaming. I received her immediately, and as if she had read my soul, she spoke strong consoling words which calmed the inner turmoil which had obsessed me for so long.

It was an extraordinary three-hour visit in the middle of the night. The prophetess could illuminate certain passages in the Holy Scriptures that baffled the tsar, and then explain their meaning in the context of the difficulties that he faced. Above all, she assured him that the “white angel” (the tsar) would “conquer the Dragon” (Napoleon). She had a mystic faith in an upcoming apocalypse that, with the tsar’s help, would envelop the world with “a great explosion of love.”

In the meantime, she explained why inner peace had been so elusive to the Tsar of All the Russias: “You have not renounced your sins and have not humbled yourself before Christ,” she said. You must approach God, she further instructed the tsar, “like a criminal begging for mercy.”

Few had spoken to the tsar with such blunt criticism of his sins and mistakes before (his favorite sister, Grand Duchess Catherine, was one who did). But Baroness Krüdener knew exactly what she was doing, and Alexander was entranced. She moved into a nearby hut, and during the tense summer, on the eve of hostilities, she came over to visit the tsar virtually every night for study, usually beginning about six and continuing until two in the morning. The tsar’s main advisers, on the other hand, were not invited to take part in this spiritual quest.

B
Y
J
UNE, EVERYONE
knew that war might begin at any moment. There was a flurry of activity among those remaining in Vienna to complete the negotiations as soon as possible. The king of Saxony had finally accepted the congress’s solution about the fate of his country, and thereby removed one of the last obstacles that the German Committee faced in its deliberations. Its members now went forward in finalizing their decisions, and their series of meetings behind closed doors, seven in all from late May to early June, were among the stormiest of the entire congress.

In discussing the future of the states of Germany, the committee wrangled over everything from writing a constitution to establishing an army. The delegates wrestled with difficult questions about the exact nature of the freedoms that should be granted in the new constitution. Freedom of press, freedom of worship, and freedom of movement, including the right to attend a university, figured prominently on the list for many on the committee. At one point, the Austrian representative noted that he had no fewer than forty-six different drafts of a constitution on his desk.

One of the hotly debated topics in these sessions was the treatment of Jewish minorities in the new German Confederation. The relations varied widely from state to state, but generally, in places the French conquered, occupied, or exerted considerable influence, conditions were better for the Jewish communities. In many places, old laws discriminating against Jews had been repealed, and new laws guaranteeing equality enacted. But now that the French had been defeated, many cities and states wanted the new laws tossed out, along with the unpopular French. Some of the most progressive places, like Westphalia, Frankfurt, and the Hanseatic towns, were now at risk of a vehement backlash.

The Jewish delegations had worked the last eight months behind the scenes in salons like Fanny von Arnstein’s to rally support for their cause. Humboldt was a staunch supporter of Jewish rights, joined by the Prussian chancellor Hardenberg. The two had, of course, cooperated well before on this question. Humboldt penned a remarkable treatise calling for full civic equality in 1809, and Hardenberg enacted the law in 1812 that emancipated Prussian Jews. The king of Prussia, less committed personally, had gone along with the reforms.

On January 4, 1815, Chancellor Hardenberg had taken time away from the impending Saxon crisis to appeal for the full equality of Jews. He argued the case well, citing every reason from the humane to the self-seeking; the Jews had made “sacrifices of every kind” in the war, showing “true courage and vaunted disregard of the perils of war.” The Jews, he added, had also played a valuable role in the “system of credit and commerce of the various German states.” A return to repression would only encourage them to move away, bringing their talents and assets with them.

Another source of support was Prince Metternich and the Austrian team. Friedrich von Gentz was a particularly valuable asset to the Jewish delegates; his diary shows his regular meetings with them that spring. Unlike Metternich and Humboldt, who refused to accept gifts for their support, including fine rings and silver plate, Gentz had no qualms. At meetings with Simon Edler von Lämel of Prague, for instance, Gentz accepted first an unnamed “beautiful present,” then another 1,000 ducats, and then another 2,000 ducats, which prompted him to marvel about how all his “financial affairs are working out wonderfully.” The Rothschilds had also made appeals on behalf of Jewish rights, both at the Congress of Vienna as well as in London, where the family had played a large role managing the British war effort and financing the huge subsidies that the British government dispensed to enemies of Napoleon.

Opposition, however, came from many circles, including the delegates of Bavaria, Württemberg, Frankfurt, and the former Hanseatic towns of Hamburg, Bremen, and Lübeck. Jacob Grimm’s boss, Count Dorotheus Ludwig Keller of Hesse-Cassel, was another opponent. Indeed, when the question of Jewish rights was first officially proposed in the German Committee in late May, the Bavarian delegate, Count Aloys von Rechberg, had started laughing, and, as one eyewitness described it, the laughter ominously became infectious, spreading through the many hostile men in the room.

After many long sessions, however, Humboldt, Hardenberg, Metternich, and their allies had prevailed, and an article guaranteeing Jewish rights would be inserted into the new German constitution. Article XVI specifically instructed the future confederation to find ways to protect its Jewish minorities. In the meantime, all the privileges already granted in the states were to be safeguarded. The Vienna Congress was again launching into a pioneering discussion of human rights at a peace conference. Unfortunately, however, there was a problem that passed unnoticed and soon undermined this victory.

The representative of Bremen, Senator Johann Smidt, had managed to insert a small change in the actual wording of the article. At the last minute, he changed the phrase “[all the rights] granted
in
the several states” to “[all the rights] granted
by
the several states” (italics added). This single preposition would have dire consequences. German states would soon be able to argue that this constitutional guarantee specifically excluded laws passed by outside authorities, like the French. Within one year of the congress, some states were ignoring the rights supposedly guaranteed, and other towns, such as Bremen and Lübeck, even expelled their Jewish populations.

The delegates for the publishing houses and booksellers would also soon be disappointed. After the initial success in October, there had been a long spell without any action. Carl Bertuch’s memorandum of April 14 had not restored any momentum. Now, too, as the German Committee deliberated on the constitution, there was a call to postpone a decision about the press and intellectual property rights until the new diet of the German Confederation met later in Frankfurt. This was barely defeated, and discussions continued for several meetings.

On the third of June, another last-minute change was inserted to the draft of Article XVIII, which was to safeguard freedom of the press and literary copyrights. Authors and publishers were still to be protected against forgeries of their works, but the stipulation guaranteeing freedom of the press was quietly dropped, and replaced by a pledge of uniform governmental regulation that would at least level the playing field. The minutes of the meeting do not reveal who initiated this change.

W
HILE THE
G
ERMAN
Committee labored, leaders of the congress had decided to write one general treaty that would include every decision of the Vienna Congress. This was important, it was believed, to increase the stability of the agreement. Future aggressors were seen as less likely to break a single treaty signed by all the powers than several dozen separate agreements, each contracted by only a couple of interested powers.

Three people were placed in charge of assembling the document: Friedrich von Gentz, the Duke of Dalberg, and Lord Clancarty. The latter two had been added at the last minute after two other delegates declined: Russia’s Count Anstett was suffering too much from his gout to focus completely on writing this important treaty, and Talleyrand’s assistant, Comte de la Besnardière, was too preoccupied by Napoleon’s seizure of his personal property.

The task of this three-man committee was colossal. They were supposed to incorporate the endless committee meetings, negotiations, and resolutions of eight months into one coherent document. And given Napoleon’s stunning successes, this was indeed a race against time.

Recently, too, Gentz and his colleagues had encountered another unexpected obstacle. Critics and opponents of a general treaty were coming out en masse. Would not attempting to write such a single document, some asked, give rise to endless dissension among a group of powers that, in wartime, should be united? Even if unity were somehow preserved, would not the war—always full of unexpected consequences—likely end up creating a whole new set of conditions that would make the agreements irrelevant, or worse? The peace treaty could be outdated the very day it was signed.

In the end, the plenipotentiaries decided to take this risk, reasoning that this general treaty would indeed be better for the future security of Europe. Twenty-six secretaries, with scratching quills, labored around the clock on completing the 121-article treaty.

The favorite name for this encompassing document was not at first settled. Some called it simply the Treaty, the “European Treaty,” or the “Grand European Treaty,” though these were not the most appropriate names for a treaty that not all of Europe had participated in, and many states had only a vague idea of its contents. Others proposed the “New Charter for Europe.” Eventually, the name that gained the most acceptance was the “Final Act,” which was, as Gentz explained, conceived of as the final act of the victorious coalition against Napoleon.

On June 9, 1815, the delegates to the Vienna Congress gathered in the reception hall of the imperial palace to sign the Final Act—the closest, in fact, that the congress ever came to convening. Even then, it was not exactly a congress, and not everyone was invited to sign. Only the powers on the Committee of Eight would sign, and the rest would be asked to “accede separately.” This decision had again insulted and infuriated the many excluded powers, who were once more denied a voice.

Ironically, many of the key figures at the congress were not even present. The host himself, Emperor Francis, had already left for the field of battle. Tsar Alexander and King Frederick William of Prussia were not there, either, having left about two weeks before. As for the British team, Castlereagh was long gone and the Duke of Wellington was somewhere outside Brussels. With the exception of Metternich and Talleyrand, two genuine survivors, none of the main leaders actually signed the treaty that concluded the Vienna Congress. And Talleyrand had only been able to stay for the signature by deliberately and repeatedly disobeying the king’s orders.

Cardinal Consalvi had criticized the congress earlier as a Tower of Babel. The diplomats had begun with grand aspirations, but, in the end, they literally could not speak the same language. Consalvi would now issue a formal protest against the Congress of Vienna for its treatment of the pope. Although the Papal States had been restored, the pope had not received his due—either Avignon or Ferrara—Consalvi argued.

Another person who was upset was the Spanish delegate Pedro de Labrador, and he refused to sign the treaty. His government could not sanction the transfer of the Spanish royal territory of Parma to the wife of the detested usurper Bonaparte, nor agree to hand over the town of Olivenza to Portugal, as the congress had demanded. At this point, the delegates refused to make any more changes, either removing articles or adding in qualifications. Labrador would not budge, either. Each of the representatives of the other seven powers, in the meantime, took plume in hand, dipped the tip of the quill in the silver inkwell, and signed one of the most influential documents of the century. Spain would only accept the terms two years later, in May 1817.