Vienna, 1814: How the Conquerors of Napoleon Made Love, War, and Peace at the Congress of Vienna (7 page)

D
OROTHÉE’S
C
HOICE

It is essential to make the French embassy a pleasant place.

—T
ALLEYRAND

D
espite the distance of the journey, the British had been one of the first official delegations to roll into town. The leader was Lord Castlereagh, tall, blond, and looking twenty years younger than his actual age of forty-five. His thin, almost frail frame was usually draped in black; his somber choice in clothes, it was said, often matched his mood. His long, angular face gave the impression of aristocratic detachment, or, as some dryly noted, made him appear to be in a state of perpetual boredom. It was certainly a champion poker face, which would serve him well both at Vienna’s diplomacy and gambling tables.

Castlereagh and his team had reached the Austrian capital back on the thirteenth of September, and immediately hunted down their designated headquarters, a house tucked away in the narrow Milchgasse. The rooms had actually been rented some years before to a young musician named Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. While living there in the early 1780s, Mozart had worked on his first full German opera,
Die Entführung aus dem Serail (The Abduction from the Seraglio),
and carried on an affair with the landlady’s daughter, Constanze, whom he married in 1782. The cozy flat may have proven a happy place for Mozart and his opera, but its cramped size hardly suited the delegation representing Great Britain, proud financier of Allied victory.

Castlereagh would indeed seek out a new place to stay, and within a week move into a twenty-two-room suite on the Minoritenplatz, an elegant cobbled square lined with aristocratic mansions and the fourteenth-century Church of the Friars Minor. The British delegation was now just a few steps away from both Metternich’s offices on the Ballhausplatz and the Hofburg Palace itself. Castlereagh and his wife, Lady Emily, were housed on the top floor, the diplomatic staff on the first floor, and the ground floor was reserved for entertainment. The Castlereaghs would enjoy setting the mood for some evening soirees with the hauntingly ethereal sounds of the glass harmonium, a musical instrument invented by Benjamin Franklin.

Unlike the other major delegations at the peace conference, Britain was actually still at war, fighting across the ocean against the young republic of the United States. In American history, this is known as the War of 1812; in British history, it has not received its own name, generally submerged into the wider conflict with Napoleon. Battles still raged across a number of fronts in Canada, on the Great Lakes, and on the Atlantic. Indeed, just a few weeks before Castlereagh arrived in Vienna, British troops had landed at Chesapeake and burned Washington to the ground, destroying the Treasury, the Library of Congress, and even the President’s Palace. James and Dolley Madison had fled, and the war showed no signs of abating.

While this meant that their attention would be divided between America and Europe, Britain clearly prioritized the conference at Vienna, and felt confident in its position. Castlereagh’s country had earned immense prestige as the only power that had hung on for the entire struggle against Napoleon, sometimes facing the foe all alone. They had the world’s largest navy, its richest economy, and colonial possessions already dotting the globe from South Africa to India. During the war, they had scooped up other colonies from the French and their allies. All of this would, they figured, translate into a strong negotiating position.

National hopes were centered on securing freedom of the seas, so important to the Royal Navy, and one of the many issues in the war with the States. Castlereagh also wanted to make sure that the flatlands and coasts of the area known today as Belgium would not, under any circumstances, fall again into the hands of a hostile country. This meant, above all, that it should be kept away from France. The port of Antwerp was a potential launching pad for an invasion—“the loaded pistol held to England’s head.”

Castlereagh was pushing for handing over this port, and in fact all of Belgium, to the newly created Kingdom of the Netherlands, whose monarch, William I of the House of Orange, was a good ally of Britain. Actually, Castlereagh had already been assured of success on this point. The handover of territory had been decided as part of a secret clause attached to the Treaty of Paris, and the British foreign minister fully expected that the signing would be a mere formality, no matter how spirited Belgian opposition might turn out to be.

Otherwise, as far as Britain’s goals were concerned, Castlereagh was content to promote the general balance of power, a policy that he felt would best serve the interests of world peace. This policy would also, he knew, serve Britain’s own commercial interests, the island power already well on its way to becoming the “workshop of the world.”

As he saw it, following in a line of politicians including his mentor, former prime minister William Pitt, no single power, or group of powers, should be allowed to dominate the continent, and if any seemed on the verge of surpassing the others, Britain would interfere to restore the “just equilibrium.” Traditionally, the biggest threat to this balance had come from France, which had off and on challenged it for the last 150 years. Now, though, with the defeat of Napoleon, there was a potential new menace.

This was Russia, which had been Britain’s ally in the last years of the war. While several countries had pretensions of being a Great Power, Great Britain and Russia were the only countries in a league of their own. Russia, of course, was a giant, boasting the continent’s largest landmass, equal to some seventy times the size of Great Britain. It had the largest army in the world, and it was now occupying much of the former French empire, including Poland, Saxony, and Holstein, bordering on Denmark. Castlereagh, for one, was worried about the quick rise of Russia—a country whose prestige had been enhanced by its smashing victories, and whose ruler was not exactly known for his moderation.

Prior to his career as foreign minister, Castlereagh had studied at St. John’s College at Cambridge, though he left before receiving a degree. He had returned instead to his home in Ireland, Standford Lough in the heart of County Down in the northwest, where he had been elected to the Irish Parliament at age twenty-one. He rose quickly. At every stage in his ascent, as minister of trade, minister of war, and then, in 1812, foreign secretary, Castlereagh had shown himself to be confident, and rather brave in facing stiff opposition. He was dogged in a Churchillian way, and about as stubborn as one might find in the political arena.

Lord Castlereagh had played a pivotal role in founding the modern British Foreign Office. When he had assumed responsibilities two years before, Britain had six diplomatic missions, and only one of them was
not
ruled by a government in exile, prison, or some other greatly reduced state. As Napoleon’s empire started to crumble, however, Britain could again establish embassies in the liberated countries. Castlereagh had been in the right place at the right time; he had appointed almost the entire Diplomatic Service of Great Britain.

Castlereagh had also been the first British foreign secretary ever to visit the Continent on an official mission—back in January 1814, during the last stages of the war. Now on his second trip, Castlereagh was bringing one of the larger teams to the peace conference. There were fourteen assistants, including the indefatigable Lord Clancarty, who had previously served as minister to the Hague and would advise on many matters, including the Netherlands, and Lord Cathcart, the former soldier and specialist on Russia, brought along for his good relationship with the tsar. There was also the undersecretary of state, Edward Cooke, and Castlereagh’s private secretary, Joseph Planta, both of whom were hardworking assistants loyal to their leader.

Clearly, the most notorious resident of the British embassy was Sir Charles Stewart, a thirty-six-year-old ambassador to Vienna and a veteran of the Spanish campaigns. Loud and obnoxious, Lord Stewart had an outlandish sense of humor better suited to the barrack rooms than the salons, and many critics doubted his diplomatic abilities, to say the least. Far too often, it seemed, after a few drinks, Stewart would stalk around “out to kick everybody in the teeth.” His bright yellow boots and extravagant mannerisms would earn him a new nickname, Lord Pumpernickel. Stewart was only there, many thought, because he was Castlereagh’s half brother.

U
PON HIS ARRIVAL
at Kaunitz Palace, Talleyrand began paying his courtesy visits to the embassies scattered around town. He had a new title on his calling card, Prince de Talleyrand, an honor awarded by King Louis XVIII just before his departure from Paris. The French foreign minister no longer had to use the title Prince de Bénévent, which had been granted by Napoleon. Talleyrand needed to distance himself and his country as far away from Bonaparte as possible.

Although France had happily, as he put it, “escaped destruction” in the Treaty of Paris, Talleyrand knew that the Allied powers had been severely criticized for not being a great deal more demanding. For many, France was still the same reckless and dangerous power full of crusading fanatics simply incapable of allowing their neighbors to live in peace. The congress would run more smoothly without its participation.

Such a negative image, of course, threatened to undermine the efforts of French diplomacy, and this was unfortunate because Talleyrand had many objectives that he hoped to obtain. For one, just as Louis XVIII had been restored as king of France, he wanted to see another member of the Bourbon family, Ferdinand IV, returned to the throne in Naples, which had been lost in 1808 and was now occupied by one of Napoleon’s flamboyant marshals, Joachim Murat. As Talleyrand would argue, the Bourbon was the legitimate king, and the best hope for any peace on that peninsula.

Another high priority was saving the king of Saxony, Frederick Augustus, who was in danger of losing both his crown and his country. The king was a cousin of Louis XVIII, an ally of France, and, most important, a counterweight to the rising power of Prussia, which, Talleyrand feared, wanted to dominate all of Germany. Prussian ambitions must be curbed, Talleyrand argued, or that kingdom “would in a few years form a militarist monarchy that would be very dangerous for her neighbors.”

That first week in town, Talleyrand would lay the basis for his diplomatic campaign, attending fashionable salons, and calling upon Emperor Francis, the imperial family, the Great Powers, and many of the smaller delegations that were often neglected. He had a good eight or ten days of visits ahead, and it was a task that, he mused, “would weary better legs than mine.”

To help achieve his goals, Talleyrand had selected a team of diplomats, experts, and support staff to join him in Vienna. One of the most prominent was an old friend, Emmerich, the Duke of Dalberg, a young man who came from one of the oldest aristocratic families in Germany with considerable property in the Rhineland, especially between Speyer and Worms. Dalberg could be unscrupulous and untrustworthy, not to mention an indiscreet boaster. Talleyrand was not unaware of this fact: Dalberg was chosen, he said, “so that he might broadcast those of my secrets that I want everyone to know.”

Talleyrand brought along two other prominent plenipotentiaries, as the chief delegates were called (from the Latin word meaning “someone invested with full authority”). The first was his old friend Gouvernet, the Marquis de la Tour du Pin, a former ambassador to Holland and a handsome and harmless pleasure-seeker who would not be saddled with too many responsibilities. “He will do,” Talleyrand said, “for stamping the passports.” The second, Comte Alexis de Noailles, an extreme royalist, was selected primarily because he was a well-known informer for the royal family, particularly the king’s brother. “If one must be spied upon,” Talleyrand explained, “it’s best to be surveyed by an agent I have chosen myself.”

While these three appointments might not sound the most qualified for complex international negotiations, they had strengths as measured by the standards of early nineteenth-century diplomacy. Each was a nobleman, familiar with the intricacies of drawing-room politics, and boasted many social connections within Europe’s cosmopolitan aristocracy, all of which would come in handy at the Vienna Congress.

The best choice for dealing with the hard foreign policy questions was Jean-Baptiste de Gouey, Comte de la Besnardière, a forty-nine-year-old plucked from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. According to Talleyrand, he had earned a reputation as the department’s most promising talent. Besnardière would certainly help with the workload, serving as the unsung coauthor of many of the French delegation’s papers.

In addition to these selections, Talleyrand also brought along a team of valets, barbers, hairdressers, cooks, and other staff who would keep the embassy running. Among them was the thirty-six-year-old personal assistant and piano player Sigismund Neukomm. An Austrian from Salzburg and a former student of Joseph Haydn, Neukomm’s soft, dreamy keys would help Talleyrand focus, relax, or just escape into his own world of plots and counterplots.

Talleyrand’s greatest success in the tricky area of staff selection, however, was arguably his choice of hostesses. He picked a twenty-one-year-old niece by marriage, Dorothée de Talleyrand-Périgord, an intelligent, beautiful woman who, it turns out, was also the Duchess of Sagan’s younger sister.