THE SILESIAN ADVENTURE, 1740–1742
The proceedings of Frederick in 1740, trivial as some of them are,
reveal him as a statesman, just as the events of 1730 revealed him as a
man. They therefore possess an interest such as hardly any other part
of his reign can claim. For a few months he is free to choose his own
path in life, guided only by instinct and education. Thus an element
of free-will is present which is to some extent lacking in two notable
crises of his fortunes—the tragedy of 1730 and the miracle of 1757.
This year sums up, as it were, the eight and twenty which had gone to
make Frederick what he was: it shapes his course in the six and forty
that were to follow.
In the story of Prussia, 1740 inevitably suggests comparison with 1640,
when the Great Elector likewise stood at the parting of the ways.
Then and for years afterwards the choice had lain between existence
and ruin; now it was between increase by natural growth and perhaps
speedier increase by speculation. For a century Prussia had seldom
departed from a policy of thrift and autocracy at home and opportunism
abroad. Would she now abandon it? Frederick’s early measures showed
that he intended no sweeping changes in domestic politics. We may
therefore postpone an examination of the system which he there
pursued. For us he is at present only the lord of ninety thousand of
the best-drilled troops in the world, entangled in no alliances and
hampered by no fears. What choice would be for him the wisest?
Calm reflection on the situation of Europe in 1740 seems to show that
Frederick’s strength was to sit still. Signs were abundant that the
peace which had prevailed almost from his birth could not endure much
longer. Apart from the problem of Austria, grave questions had arisen
which not even a Walpole and a Fleury could settle otherwise than by
the sword. France and England, it was felt, would soon resume the duel
which the Peace of Utrecht had but interrupted, and would struggle for
primacy in America and in the world. Spain and England were already at
war, and Europe knew that the Bourbon Kings of Spain and France, who
were uncle and nephew, were joined in close alliance. To strike at King
George without crossing the sea France must aim at Hanover, and the
sword of Frederick, the neighbour of Hanover, would be bid for by both
sides. According to the convenient theory then current, a prince could
hire out an army without committing his State to war, so that Frederick
stood to gain much,—money, military glory, experience for his men,
perhaps even territory for his House,—while he need stake nothing save
that which he had long desired to hazard,—his own life and the lives
of his soldiers.
A Hohenzollern was the last man in the world to undervalue what he
might wish to sell. Frederick strove to persuade Europe that in
him a new and greater Gustavus had appeared. He increased his army
ostentatiously and bade his representative at Versailles speak of his
active and impetuous way of thinking.
“You can say,” he continues, “that it is to be feared that this
increase kindles a fire which may set all Europe in a blaze;
that it is the way of youth to be adventurous, and that the
alluring visions of heroic fame may disturb and have disturbed
the peace of countless nations in the world.”
The prospect of acquisitions in the Rhineland seemed first to engage
his thoughts. In hopes of winning Berg he not only made overtures
to France, but even invited the help of Russia. The fruit of these
negotiations was small. Their significance, however, is great, since
they showed that Frederick intended to choose his allies without regard
to the tradition of his House in favour of Austria, and also that he
would not shrink from favouring Muscovite development by employing
Cossacks in Western Germany.
At the same time that he bargained in this spirit with foreign
Powers, Frederick compelled his brother Germans to mark the change of
accent which he was introducing into the old language of his House.
Brandenburg had taken up the informal protectorate of the German
Protestants when the Saxon Elector by becoming Romanist (1697) resigned
it. Frederick William devised a safe but effective method of checking
Romanist aggression. If any German prince persecuted Protestants, the
King of Prussia used forthwith to apply similar oppression to his own
papist subjects. Thus, without stirring from Berlin, he stayed the hand
of persecutors in the distant valleys of the Neckar and the Salzach.
His son soon proved himself ready to go to greater lengths.
Claims and counter-claims as to territory had arisen between one
of the great Romanist princes, the Archbishop of Mainz, and the
Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel, the heir of one of the earliest champions
of the Reformation. The former relied on his own troops and on those
of neighbouring bishops, while he also possessed the support of the
Emperor, whose right to judge the case had been challenged by his
opponent. The Landgrave appealed to the King of Prussia and to other
princes of the Empire. Frederick’s reply was immediate, emphatic,
and successful. “In case of need,” he wrote to his brother-Elector
of Mainz, “we should not know how to refrain from affording to the
aforementioned His Dilection the Lord Landgrave William the necessary
protection and help against unlawful force and disturbance.” At these
words the hostile coalition—Elector, bishops, and Emperor—melted away.
The young King, it was apparent, had entered the field of German
politics with _éclat_.
Equally peremptory and equally successful was Frederick’s verdict for
his own claims in a dispute with the Bishop of Liège with regard
to Herstal, a tiny barony lying on the Meuse to the westward of
Aix-la-Chapelle. The inhabitants had resisted the officers of his
father, who would gladly have sold Herstal to Liège, and the Bishop,
who wished to buy but could not come to terms, had egged them on.
Frederick, scorning the advice of his ministers, resolved to use his
strength as a giant. From Wesel he sent the following ultimatum to the
Bishop:
“Cousin! Knowing all the attacks that you have made upon my
unquestionable rights over my free barony of Herstal, and how
the seditious men of Herstal have been supported for some
years in their detestable disobedience to me, I have ordered
my privy-councillor Rambonnet to visit you on my behalf,
to demand from you in my name a sincere and categorical
explanation within the space of two days, whether you wish to
protect the mutineers of Herstal in their abominable disorder
and disobedience. In case you refuse, or delay that just reply
which I demand of right, you will render yourself solely
responsible before all the world for the consequences which
your refusal will inevitably bring after it. I am, etc.”
“This is strong, this is lively,” cried the ambassadors at Berlin when
they read it; “it is the language of Louis XIV.; it is a beginning
which shows what we must expect some day from this prince.” Their
prophecy was to be fulfilled sooner than they anticipated. In the
meantime the new diplomacy won another triumph. The Bishop made no
reply to the ultimatum and in a week’s time the Prussians, sowing
apologies broadcast over Europe, seized his county of Hoorn. The
apologies concluded with the assertion: “His Majesty will never put
from him a just and reasonable arrangement with the said prince, as
the sole end which his justice and moderation have in view in this
affair, these two invariable principles being the pole-star of all
his actions.” The “just and reasonable arrangement” proved to be the
payment of two hundred thousand thalers to the King.
Frederick could therefore congratulate himself that within five months
of his accession he had taught both Prussia and Europe that he was
stronger than his father. It was clear that he was resolved not to
be hoodwinked by man or woman. He had rejected the advice of his
cautious ministers with the pleasantry that when they spoke of war they
resembled an Iroquois talking of astronomy. The event had gone far
towards silencing the taunt of Europe that “the Prussians never shoot,”
and towards establishing the truth of Frederick’s well-known simile,
“The Emperor is an old phantom of an idol and has no longer any nerves.”
A king of Prussia with such a spirit as Frederick had already shown
was not likely to rest long upon his oars. But it was chance that
determined the course that he was next to steer. The Herstal treaty,
which confirmed his second diplomatic victory, was signed on October
20th. Six days later a swift courier brought to Rheinsberg the news
that on that same day the Emperor, Charles VI., had died. Frederick lay
ill of fever. He defied his doctors, took quinine, and was well. He
sent for his cautious minister Podewils and for the dauntless soldier
Schwerin, and wrote to Voltaire:
“The least expected event in the world forbids me this time
to open my soul to yours as is my wont.... I believe that in
June it will be powder, soldiers and trenches rather than
actresses, ballets and theatres.... This is the moment of the
entire transformation of the old system of politics: the stone
is loosed which Nebuchadnezzar beheld when it rolled upon the
image of four metals and destroyed it.”
Two days later he expressed himself with still greater confidence: “I
am not going to Berlin, a trifle like the Emperor’s death does not
demand great commotions. All was foreseen, all was thought out in
advance. So it is only a question of carrying out designs which I have
long had in my mind.”
These designs were, in brief, so to use the political situation created
by the death of Charles VI. as to add to Prussia the whole, or at
least the north-western part, of the Hapsburg province of Silesia—the
fertile basin of the upper Oder. In conception and in execution the
idea was Frederick’s own. It is the pediment of his fame as a hero of
his nation. All the world knows that the capture of Silesia converted
Frederick the Second into Frederick the Great. It is therefore
imperative that at this point, with judgment unclouded by the smoke of
battle and the incense of victory, we should address ourselves to the
double enquiry, Was it necessary? and Was it right? postponing but not
evading the further question, Was it wise?
[Illustration: THE RATHHAUS IN BRESLAU.
FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING.]
The plea that Silesia was necessary to Prussia, that the existence of
Prussia could only be prolonged or her people safeguarded or fed if
Silesia were hers, may be dismissed at once. Necessity is the usual
pillar of a claim to extend the area of dominion over lands lately
rescued from barbarism. The Law of Nations declares that, when under
such conditions two civilised states desire the same territory, one may
further its claim by showing that without this addition the territory
which it already has would be rendered worthless. But what might give a
good title to Fashoda would be absurd if applied to Breslau. Frederick
had himself investigated the subject nine years before when studying
under Hille at Cüstrin. He then concluded that Silesia did Prussia
commercial injury by exporting to her goods at lower rates than the
merchants of Brandenburg could afford to take. This state of things, he
and Hille thought, demanded a protective tariff. It could not by any
stretch of imagination dictate or justify the annexation of a province.
Nor from a military point of view was there imperative necessity for
acquiring Silesia. It was no doubt desirable for Prussia that she
should avert future danger by thrusting a wedge between Saxony and
Poland, and that more than one-fifth of the road from Vienna to Berlin,
by way of Breslau, should be in Prussian hands. But no Prussian could
maintain in 1740 that if Glogau and Breslau remained Austrian his state
would be imperilled in the same sense as the German Empire would have
been imperilled if Metz and Strasburg had remained French in 1871, or
as the British Empire would be imperilled to-day if Pretoria and
Johannesburg were still in hostile hands. The plea of hereditary right,
not that of necessity, was put forward by Frederick as the basis of his
claims. In 1740 the latter would have seemed equally absurd in law and
in fact.
The second question, Was it right for Prussia to attempt to acquire
Silesia for her own profit? may seem to have little claim to discussion
by Frederick’s biographers, because considerations of right and wrong
counted for little with Frederick himself. There seems to be no
evidence that Frederick either in his public or private life practised
the stale hypocrisies of truth and morality. What it seemed to him
profitable to do, that he did; what it seemed to him profitable to say,
that he said. “If there is anything to be gained by being honest, let
us be honest; if it is necessary to deceive, let us deceive,” are his
own words. In the case of Silesia, his avowal to Podewils, who urged
that some legal claim could be furbished up, is sufficiently explicit.
On November 7th the King writes: “The question of right (_droit_) is
the affair of the ministers; it is your affair; it is time to work at
it in secret, for the orders to the troops are given.” Two days later
he received the news of the death of the Empress of Russia, which was
worth more to him than a thousand title-deeds. Russia had no clear
rule of succession, and usually fell into anarchy at the demise of the
Crown. Frederick could therefore strike southward with confidence that
his flank was safe.
The question, Was it right? has, however, a deeper historical interest
than that involved in the biography of a king of Prussia. Frederick’s
indifference to all right renders it unnecessary to reflect in his
case upon the spectacle of a good man cheerfully doing evil in the
service of the State—of Sir Henry Wotton setting out with a jest “to
lie abroad,” or of Cavour exclaiming, “If we did for ourselves what we
do for Italy, what scoundrels we should be!” But it is to be borne in
mind that in 1740 it was impossible to lay down with certainty the duty
of a state towards its neighbours. The standard of right and wrong for
states in their dealings with one another was not yet fixed. Nearly a
quarter of a century later it was possible for Frederick to write, “The
jurisprudence of sovereigns is commonly the right of the stronger.” But
Maria Theresa was taught that sovereigns must rule their peoples as
branches of one Christian family.
Hitherto the old idea that a state was the property—the estate—of the
king had not lost all its influence. Even in England, which was already
the leader of the world in politics, the dynasty elected by the nation
had great weight in determining foreign policy. Without the knowledge
of any Englishman, William III. had committed England to the partition
of Spain, and in defiance of most Englishmen George II. was soon to
commit her to the defence of the Pragmatic Sanction. But if England
was not yet wholly free from the ancient notion, much more did Austria
and Prussia, bundles of Hapsburg and Hohenzollern lands, resemble the
estates of their rulers.
From this two consequences followed, vital in that day, almost
incomprehensible in ours. It was, in the first place, a maxim
universally accepted among the rulers of the Continent that the
inhabitants of a province had little or no share in choosing their
overlord. They might possess rights, even the right not to be divided
between several lords, but they could be sold or exchanged or given
away by one overlord to another without their own desire or even
consent. This maxim was accepted to the full by both Hapsburgs and
Hohenzollerns, whose fortunes had been made by the union of family
estates, and who never hesitated to barter those estates to advance
their own fortunes. Thus the fact that a province would be happier
under an overlord who professed the same religion with itself would,
according to the ideas prevalent in 1740, afford no good reason for
change. Religious oppression by a ruler, it was universally admitted,
entitled other rulers to interfere. But religious differences between
ruler and ruled gave no such right.
In so far, then, as States still resembled estates, the relations
between them varied according to the personal character of their
kings and princes. The nation ruled by an honourable king observed
its engagement strictly, at whatever inconvenience to itself. If a
State evaded its engagements the king’s honour was held to have been
tarnished. Unfortunately for Europe, this theory had been shaken, if
not shattered, by the reign of Louis XIV. The Apollo of France, the
cynosure of the Christian world, the king who was the very fount of
honour and in person the very pattern of chivalry, had in his dealings
with the Dutch and the Germans shown himself a kinsman of Machiavelli
and of Bismarck. His conspicuous severance of political from personal
morality shook the faith of the world, and in the corrupt generation
which followed Louis XIV. and nurtured Frederick even the standard of
personal morality sank low.
At the death of Charles VI., therefore, men were perplexed about
the source of law as between State and State. It seemed no longer
sufficient to trust in princes, and yet what new code could be set up?
Frederick’s attack upon Silesia struck a deadly blow at the remnant of
the old system. His whole career was to influence the new profoundly.
In answer to our two first questions it would therefore appear that the
attack upon Silesia was not dictated to Frederick by hard necessity,
and that, tried by the old standard of honour between princes, it was
clearly wrong. The third question—Was it wise?—is of a different order,
for it is far from certain that the wisdom or folly of Frederick’s
act has been sufficiently tested by time. A safe step towards the
truth, indeed, is to examine the international situation and calculate
Frederick’s chances of success, as a statesman would compute them
from the facts which lay before him in 1740. First of all, however,
we must account for the fact that Frederick, who was only the third
Hohenzollern to wear a crown, found himself in a position to assail the
dynasty which had held for centuries the foremost place in Germany.
The House of Hapsburg, perhaps to a greater extent than any other of
the ruling families in Europe, lay under the spell of its own past.
This was due in part to its native pride and sluggish blood, in part
to its long association with the oldest and most dignified institution
of the Christian world—the Holy Roman Empire. From 1438 onwards the
descendants of Rudolf of Hapsburg had been chosen in unbroken sequence
to fill the office which entitled its possessor to style himself Lord
of the World. The radiance of old Rome had gilded Vienna for so long a
time that it seemed to have transfigured the race that reigned there.
Thus the Hapsburgs grew proud with a pride which no other House could
rival, and no Hapsburg was prouder than Charles VI., the Anglo-Austrian
candidate in the War of the Spanish Succession. His pride was fatal,
for it banished him from the world of fact. He could never comprehend
how Europe could leave off fighting to make him King of Spain, nor
how the King of Prussia, who served him with towel and basin as Grand
Chamberlain of the Empire, could cherish aims and aspirations which
conflicted with his own. Pompous ceremonies and parchments made up
so large a part of his own life that he came to believe that they
expressed realities. Hence he made the cardinal error of his life. He
committed the future of his House to the Pragmatic Sanction. Domestic
economy was beneath his notice. While Frederick William was crying
out because his son’s tutors permitted an item “for the housemaids
at Wusterhausen,” to appear in the accounts, dishonest stewards were
debiting the Emperor with twelve buckets of the best wine for the
Emperor’s bath and two casks of old Tokay for Her Majesty’s parrots.
When Charles VI. died the treasury was almost empty; the army seemed
to have passed away with Prince Eugene; the ministers were blunderers
of seventy and the sovereign a woman of twenty-three.
Maria Theresa had, however, much in her favour. Though untried in
affairs of State, it was certain that her birth, her beauty, her piety,
her courage, her wifely devotion, and her unfailing goodness of heart
would win the affection of her subjects. And the realm of the Hapsburgs
needed only loyalty to be strong. Its broad and smiling provinces could
furnish inexhaustible supplies of men and food, and the rank and file
had proved their courage in a hundred wars. Besides, after all the
trouble and sacrifices of Charles VI., in what quarter could immediate
danger arise? The rulers of Bavaria, Saxony, Spain, and Sardinia had
each a claim to some part of his inheritance, but they could each and
all be confuted or bought off. A miscellaneous empire like that of the
Hapsburgs could never be wholly free from such disputes. What might
well give confidence for the future was the fact that France, so long
the moving spirit of Europe and the implacable foe of Austria, had in
1738 given to the Pragmatic Sanction the most ample guarantee that
the wit of man could devise. What her king had then undertaken, her
all-powerful minister had lately confirmed. In January, Fleury had
written to the Emperor:
“The King will observe with the most exact and inviolable
fidelity the engagements which he has made with you, and if
I may speak of myself after a name so worthy, I venture to
flatter myself that my pacific intentions are well enough known
for it to be supposed that I am very far from thinking of
setting Europe on fire.”
Both King and Cardinal were sincere, and the best proofs of their
sincerity were the signs of coming strife between them and England.
It was clearly to the interest of France that they should keep their
pledge.
If she had nothing to fear from France, Maria Theresa had everything
to hope from Prussia. It is hardly necessary to say that Frederick
William, the devoted vassal of the Emperor, had been among the first to
guarantee the Pragmatic Sanction. His son, so Austrian statesmen might
argue, had to thank the Emperor for protection when he lay in prison,
for secret supplies of money, for experience in the field, above all
for admission by way of marriage to the outer circle of the Imperial
family itself. Now he expressed himself in terms which convinced the
consort of the Queen, Francis of Lorraine, that his attitude towards
the young couple was that of a father. Francis even flattered himself
with expectations of Prussian support in his candidature for the office
of Emperor. Although the Austrian resident at Berlin wrote towards the
end of October, 1740, that the gossips spoke of dangerous designs upon
a portion of Silesia, and although, on November 19th, Maria Theresa
gave utterance to a fear that the price of Prussian protection would
be a slice of her hereditary dominions, still no one at Vienna had the
least suspicion of the blow that Frederick was preparing.
What was hidden from the victims was hidden also from Europe and
from Berlin. Till the end of November, the only clear fact was that
Prussia was arming fast. Envoys besieged Podewils and the King, and
even Voltaire journeyed to Rheinsberg in the hope of piercing the
veil. All their efforts were vain. The conviction that Silesia was
in danger gathered strength, but no one could be sure that Frederick
would move at all, or that if he moved it would not be towards the
Rhine. He astutely feinted in the direction of Berg by strengthening
the garrisons in Cleves and repairing the roads to the West. At the
same time he toiled hard to baffle official curiosity at home and
abroad and to feel the pulses of the Powers, especially that of France.
Wilhelmina, who saw her brother revelling in the social pleasures of
Rheinsberg, had no idea of what was in the wind.
At last, when secrecy was no longer profitable, the King’s design was
allowed to appear. On November 29th, the English ambassador wrote from
Berlin that the project of invading Silesia was as good as avowed.
Frederick had yet to meet and to brave the Marquis di Botta, who came
from Vienna on a special mission to the Prussian Court and encountered
the stream of troops flowing towards Silesia. At their meeting the King
dropped the mask of friendship. “I am resolved,” he said in effect,
“to safeguard my rights over parts of Silesia by occupying it. Yield
it to me and I will support the throne of Maria Theresa and procure
the imperial crown for her husband.” “Impossible for us,” urged the
Austrian, “and for you, criminal in the eyes of all Europe.” Argument
was plainly futile, and both fell to threats. “The Prussian troops make
a handsomer show than the Austrian,” said Botta, “but ours have smelt
powder.” “The Prussian troops will prove themselves as brave as they
are handsome,” replied the King. Three days later, on December 12th,
he attended a masquerade in the apartments of the Queen, questioned
the French ambassador with regard to the disposition of Fleury, and
afterwards supped in public. To the last moment the routine of pleasure
was performed.
Next morning Frederick set out for Silesia. He had first to shake
off two lads of fourteen and ten, his brothers Henry and Ferdinand,
the youngest colonels in his army, who seized the skirts of his coat
and begged him to take them to the war. A day’s drive brought him to
Frankfurt-on-Oder, and between Frankfurt and the frontier of Silesia
was encamped an army of 19,000 men with seventy-four guns. The heart
of the despot not yet twenty-nine years old beat high with lust of
adventure and with confidence of success. On the evening of December
16th, he wrote to Podewils from Silesian soil:
“I have crossed the Rubicon with waving banners and resounding
music; my troops are full of good-will, the officers ambitious
and our generals consumed with greed for fame; all will go as
we wish and I have reason to promise myself all possible good
from this undertaking.... I will either perish or have honour
from it.”
Frederick’s next step was to issue to the world a document, of which
one thousand copies had been printed in deepest secrecy exactly a month
before. This was designed to reassure the people of Silesia as to
the intentions of the King of Prussia. It was dated December 1st and
gave out that a general war was threatening, in which Silesia, “our
safeguard and outwork,” would be involved and the security of Prussia
threatened. To avert this peril the King saw himself compelled to
despatch troops to Silesia.
“This is by no means intended to injure Her Majesty of Hungary,
with whom and with the worshipful House of Austria we rather
most eagerly desire to maintain the strictest friendship and
to promote their true interest and maintenance according to
the example of our glorious forefathers in our realm and
electorate. That such is our sole intention in this affair,
time will show clearly enough, for we are actually in course of
explanation and agreement with Her Majesty.”
Commentary on this profession, if not sufficiently supplied by
Frederick’s interviews with Botta, was afforded two days after his
entry into Silesia. Then for the first time a Prussian representative,
Borcke, informed the rulers of Austria of his master’s proceedings.
Shamefaced and without hope of success, he began the unwelcome task
by offering to the Archduke Francis his master’s guarantee for the
Hapsburg lands in Germany, a place in the Prussian alliance with
England, Holland, and Russia, his vote at the Imperial election, and
a loan of two million florins. Then he named the price—the cession of
all Silesia. “Rather the Turks before Vienna,” cried the Archduke,
“rather the Netherlands to France, rather any concession to Bavaria and
Saxony.” And when he grew calmer and spoke of negotiation, the door
opened and Maria Theresa asked whether her husband was there.
Next day the subject was broached anew by a more Olympian
plenipotentiary, Oberhofmarschall Gotter, who had arrived after
Borcke’s message was made known. He found Vienna stirred to its depths
and the English ambassador declaring that if such a thing were done
Frederick would be excommunicated from the society of Governments. None
the less he took the high tone and strove to intimidate the pliable
Archduke.
“‘I bear,’ he said, ‘in one hand safety for the House of
Austria and in the other, for Your Highness, the Imperial
crown. The treasures of the King my master are at the service
of the Queen, and he brings her the succour of his allies,
England, Holland and Russia. As a return for these offers and
as compensation for the peril which he incurs by them, he asks
for all Silesia, and will take no less. The King’s resolve is
immovable. He has the will and the power to possess himself
of Silesia, and if it be not offered to him with a good grace
these same troops and treasures will be given to Saxony and
Bavaria, who are asking for them.’”
Gotter’s words seem to strike the keynote of the Silesian adventure.
His silence as to legal claim throws into strange relief the
preposterous character of the moral claim which he advances. Saxony and
Bavaria had made no overtures to Frederick, and Frederick, as soon
became apparent, was willing to accept much less than the whole of
Silesia. The spirit of Maria Theresa breathed in the calm and dignified
reply of the Archduke. Her high-minded confidence in Providence, her
allies, her people, and herself blunted all the weapons of Prussia—the
threats and cajolings addressed to the sovereign and the three hundred
thousand thalers offered to the ministers. Austria declared that
the invasion must cease or she would not even negotiate. Thereupon
Gotter and Borcke joined their voices to the loud and unceasing chorus
of remonstrance with which Prussia and Europe assailed the ears of
Frederick in vain.
The young King’s firmness may be ascribed in part to an overweening
confidence in his own talents and in part to the favourable progress of
his enterprise. He knew himself to be a cleverer man than his father
and he had boundless faith in prompt and decided action. His success
in the affairs of Mainz and Herstal could not but have augmented his
self-esteem. The sight of the well-found and eager army which a word
from him had assembled filled him with a sense of omnipotence. He
declared that it must not be said that the King of Prussia marched with
a tutor at his elbow. The minister of France, who admitted his great
power of becoming what he wished, smiled maliciously at what he wished
to become.
“Fully convinced of his superiority in every department, he
already thinks himself a clever statesman and a great general.
Alert and masterful, he always decides upon the spot and
according to his own fancy. His generals will never be anything
but adjutants, his councillors anything but clerks, his
finance-ministers anything but tax-gatherers, his allies among
the German princes anything but his slaves.”
Frederick’s whole career is a vindication of this estimate.
Already, both in Silesia and in Europe, good progress had been made.
No Austrian armies disputed Frederick’s advance, for Charles VI’s
grandiose projects had denuded his home provinces of troops. The
natural defences of Silesia, too, were all on the wrong side. Mountains
formidable though by no means impassable screened it from loyal Bohemia
and loyal Moravia, and thus blocked the direct paths to Vienna. Only
a few hills and streams barred an attack from the side of Saxony and
no natural obstacle intervened between Breslau and Berlin. The strong
portal looking towards Prussia was Glogau, which closed the Oder, the
great natural highway of Silesia. Breslau, the capital, a city which
Frederick could praise as the finest in Germany, was too big to be a
fortress by nature and too independent to be made one by art. In the
main Protestant, and therefore ill-disposed towards Austrian rule,
it stood firmly upon its right to provide for its own defence and
refused to receive a garrison. Glogau was therefore the only formidable
fortress in Lower Silesia, the half of Silesia where Protestant feeling
was strongest and which was most exposed to the Prussian invasion. The
south-eastern half, Upper Silesia, contained two other strong places
of high importance—Brieg, which commanded the upper Oder, and Neisse,
which secured the backdoor of the province towards Austria. But Glogau,
Brieg, and Neisse were all ill-supplied and undermanned. Without a
field army to use them as bases and supports they could not oppose a
serious obstacle to the army of the King.
[Illustration: THE BOARD OF FINANCES AT NEISSE.
FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING.]
Frederick’s worst foe, indeed, was the weather, which tested the
endurance of the Prussians and found it great. Torrents of rain fell
from the eighteenth of December to the twentieth.
“Waters all out,” says Carlyle of the latter day, “bridges
down, the country one wild lake of eddying mud. Up to the knee
for many miles together; up to the middle for long spaces;
sometimes even up to the chin or deeper, where your bridge was
washed away. The Prussians marched through it, as if they had
been slate or iron.... Ten hours some of them were out, their
march being twenty or twenty-five miles; ten to fifteen was the
average distance come.”
Their unshaken discipline was the trophy of Frederick William and the
best omen for the adventure of his son. On December 22d he knocked at
the door of Silesia and was not dismayed at finding it shut. Wallis,
the Governor of the province, had thrown himself into Glogau, had
worked manfully to make it defensible, and now stood firm. Without
siege-guns Frederick could hardly hope to take the place, and for a
few days his own command was brought to a standstill. He summoned the
reserve under the younger Prince of Anhalt-Dessau to join him at
Glogau and used the delay to organise a system by which Silesia should
feed his troops for the future, but should feed them with the minimum
of inconvenience and waste. Meanwhile the enterprise continued to be
fortunate. On December 27th Schwerin and the right wing surprised
Liegnitz, an industrial town within sight of the western wall of
mountains, and on the same day the Young Dessauer brought the reserve
to Glogau and set Frederick free. “Thou wilt shortly see Silesia ranked
in the list of our provinces,” wrote the King. “Religion and our brave
soldiers will do the rest.”
In Silesia and in Europe alike the philosopher-king counted much on
religion. He cheerfully accepted the rôle of Protestant hero assigned
him by the people, first of Berlin, then of Silesia, and finally of
England. Never was this rôle more serviceable than in his dealings with
Breslau. Leaving the Young Dessauer to blockade Glogau, he pressed on
to the capital and, aided by the frost, accomplished the journey of
seventy miles in three days. Much display of friendship and a little
sharp practice sufficed to win the city, and Frederick, gracious and
debonair, entered it in great state. Thus in three weeks from his
departure from Berlin the King destroyed the Austrian civil government
of Silesia. Half the province lay almost passive in his grasp, and he
had secured a base for the conquest of the other half.
The remainder of the month of January, 1741, was spent in pressing
home the advantage already won. The smaller towns, Ohlau, which would
be useful as a base till Brieg could be acquired, Ottmachau, and
Namslau, capitulated one by one. It was true that the activity of the
young Austrian general, Browne, produced an ever-increasing disposition
to resist, and that Glatz, hedged in by hills, defied the besiegers.
But the area under Prussian control was steadily increased. Brieg was
masked as Glogau had been, and Neisse, after a futile bombardment of
four days, was treated in the same way. Schwerin was set free to drive
Browne through the mountains into Moravia and to lead the army into
winter quarters. On the 29th of January, Frederick returned to Berlin
and plunged with zest into the whirlpool of diplomacy which had been
stirred to its depths by his adventure.
Great as was his trust in resolute action and in accomplished facts,
he could not disguise from himself the truth that on one side his
calculations had broken down. Austria, inspired by a Queen whose high
soul it was not in Frederick’s power to measure, was not one whit
nearer to compliance with his demands. Russia, as he foresaw, was
likely to do little to help her, but the action of the Western Powers
was less easy to calculate. Frederick felt sure of one thing above all
else—that under no circumstances would France and England be on the
same side. He therefore devoted himself to the task of winning the
alliance of one and the neutrality of the other.
Frederick’s simultaneous courtship of two Powers whose latent enmity
to each other was beginning to reappear throws valuable light on his
diplomatic methods and upon his regard for the truth.
“A veracious man he was, at all points,” says Frederick’s
greatest biographer; “not even conscious of his veracity; but
had it in the blood of him; and never looked upon ‘mendacity’
but from a very great height indeed. He does not, except where
suitable, at least he never should, express his whole meaning,
but you will never find him expressing what is not his meaning.
Reticence, not dissimulation.... Facts are a kind of divine
thing to Frederick; much more so than to common men; this is
essentially what Religion I have found in Frederick.”
By his verdict that Frederick was a “veracious” man and his seizure of
Silesia a righteous act, Carlyle robs the story of his life of half its
value. The plain meaning of the facts which he adduces seems to be that
he was an astute man, careless of truth and right. Hence we may enquire
with keen interest, How far can such means lead to lasting success?
In deference to a great name, however, two of Frederick’s letters may
be placed side by side. It will then be unnecessary to recur to this
ungracious topic. From this time forward it will be assumed that the
reader has formed his own opinion of Frederick’s truthfulness.
So soon as he realised that his negotiation with Austria might break
down, Frederick turned to France. On January 5, 1741, he wrote to
Fleury from Breslau:
“My dear Cardinal, I am deeply impressed by all the assurances
of friendship which you give me and I will always reply to them
with the same sincerity. It depends only upon you, by favouring
the justice of my title to Silesia, to make eternal the bonds
which will unite us. If I did not make you a sharer in my plans
at first it was through forgetfulness rather than for any other
reason. It is not everyone who is as unfettered amid his work
as yourself, and to Cardinal Fleury alone is it granted to
think of and to provide for everything.”
And in sending the letter he added:
“I ask nothing better than a close union with His Most
Christian Majesty, whose interests will always be dear to me,
and I flatter myself that he will have no less regard for mine.”
At the same time he was making proposals for a close union with the
natural enemy of France. In the same month, January, 1741, he addressed
the following sentences to George II.:
“My Brother! I am delighted to see that I have not deceived
myself in placing confidence in Your Majesty.
“As I have had no alliance with anyone I have not been able
to open my mind to anyone; but as I see Your Majesty’s good
intentions I regard you as already my ally, from whom I ought
in future to have nothing secret or concealed. Far from
desiring to disturb Europe, I demand only that heed be paid
to the justice of my uncontestable rights. I place unbounded
confidence in Your Majesty’s friendship and in the common
interests of Protestant princes, which require that those
oppressed for their religion should be succoured. The tyranny
under which the Silesians have groaned is frightful, and the
barbarity of the Catholics towards them inexpressible. If the
Protestants lose me they have no other resort.
“If Your Majesty desires to attach to yourself a faithful ally
of inviolable constancy, this is the time: our interests, our
religion, our blood is the same, and it would be sad to see
ourselves acting against each other: it would be still more
grievous to oblige me to concur in the great plans of France,
which I intend to do only if I am compelled.”
The question of alliances was still unsettled on February 19th, when
Frederick again left Berlin for the scene of war. Prussia might be
doomed to act alone; her safety lay in her own right hand. New armies
were set on foot, but a skirmish at Baumgarten, in which he narrowly
escaped capture, proved to Frederick that the Austrians were moving
and that his own troops were not all that could be desired. Nor was
the Prussian strategy above criticism. The Old Dessauer, the father of
the army, held up his hands in horror at the dispositions of Schwerin.
Weak detachments were cantoned everywhere and the mountain-passes not
secured, although Neisse, Brieg, and Glogau were still Austrian, and
the Prussians would be at the mercy of an army entering Silesia from
the Bohemian side.
But soon the King’s spirits, which had been depressed by the danger
of a European coalition against him, were raised and the military
situation greatly improved by a brilliant feat of the Young Dessauer.
Glogau, Frederick had been pleased to decree, must be taken. At
midnight on March 8th-9th, therefore, a combined assault was made with
that perfect organisation and cool courage which already distinguished
the Prussian infantry. In an hour the work was done, at a speed
which made the loss on each side the merest trifle. Frederick could
congratulate his lieutenant on “the prettiest military stroke that has
been done in this century,” and himself on the acquisition of an open
highroad to Breslau. The capital now became a safe central storehouse
for the Prussians, and its value as a base of operations was greatly
enhanced by the gain of control over the Oder. So far as Glogau itself
was concerned, it may be convenient to remark that the work had never
to be done a second time. In a wall near the northern portal may be
seen a stone inscribed F. R. 1741—a token of Prussian sovereignty which
from that day to this has suffered no erasure.
The next task was to secure Neisse, the Glogau of Upper Silesia. The
problem was complicated by the fact that the Austrians had succeeded
in flinging a thousand men into the fortress, and that a relieving
army under Marshal Neipperg was known to be on its way from Vienna.
Frederick therefore determined to turn the blockade into an active
siege, while one covering army was established to the westward., and
Schwerin received orders to concentrate another to the south-east. The
detachments were being called in for this purpose when the King had to
acknowledge a surprise which led to the first pitched battle of the
war and which might have ruined his whole enterprise. While Schwerin
was carefully shutting the south-eastern gate of Silesia in Neipperg’s
face, the marshal passed him on his right and, by a creditable march
over roads supposed to be impracticable, arrived at Neisse on April
5th. The advantage of this bold move was soon apparent. Frederick and
Schwerin, who had been within an ace of capture, were also marching
northwards, but they were separated from their friends by the river
Neisse and by a superior force of the enemy. Neipperg was strong in
cavalry and longed to follow up his advantage by crushing the Prussians
in detail.
Frederick was saved, however, by Neipperg’s ignorance of the strength
and position of his foes. With a force of less than sixteen thousand
men, the marshal’s plain duty was to use his temporary superiority
in numbers by meeting the enemy in the field and striving to destroy
him. Failing in this, he might make for Ohlau and the magazine. But
after crossing the Neisse, he lost touch with Frederick’s force
and believed himself to be between hostile armies on the north and
south-east. Snow and rain hampered his movements and chilled his men.
He therefore abandoned the initiative, and on April 9th sat down within
sight of friendly Brieg to await events. He was right in supposing
that a Prussian force lay to the south-east of him. It was the army
of Frederick and Schwerin, which had received reinforcements from
all sides. It was three times as strong as he believed it could be,
and it was within five miles of his camp. He was wrong, however, in
supposing that a stronger force lay to the north in Ohlau. Ohlau was
weak and Frederick was hastening thither to save his heavy artillery
and magazine. Neipperg lay right across his path and a battle was
inevitable. It would soon be proved whether the Prussian troops were
indeed as brave as they were handsome, or whether Europe was right in
thinking that Prussia would pay dear for the presumption of her King.
Frederick realised the importance of the crisis. For two days, it is
said, he could neither eat nor sleep. On April 8th he wrote to his
brother and heir, Prince Augustus William, bidding him farewell if the
next day should be his last. In that event he commended to his care
four of his friends, “those whom in life I have loved the most,” as
well as two of his servants. The next day, however, proved tempestuous
and the Prussian attack was postponed till April 10th. Then the morning
sun shone out upon a plain hardened by frost and covered to a depth of
two feet with snow. The Prussian baggage was packed at five o’clock,
and by nine the whole force had silently taken rank. An hour later,
the march northward began, the army pressing slowly through the snow
towards Ohlau, and feeling for the enemy who lay across their path. At
last the vanguard surprised an Austrian outpost, captured twenty men,
and learned that Neipperg lay encamped in and about Mollwitz, a village
less than two miles ahead.
How twenty-two thousand men could have approached so close to the
enemy unperceived, it is hard to understand. Neipperg, it is true,
did not expect to be attacked. There was some screen of woods between
the Prussians and Mollwitz, and the country-folk were Protestants who
volunteered information only to the Prussians. But the day was clear
and the scene as flat as the parade-ground at Potsdam; the Austrians
were particularly well supplied with scouts and their general’s
avowed plan was to shape his course according to the movements of his
opponents. None the less it was in fact not till after ten o’clock
that he received the alarm, and by that time the Prussians were
methodically ranking themselves for battle. Had the same opportunity
come to Frederick later in life, he would, as he himself declares, have
flung troops upon Mollwitz and the neighbouring villages and put the
Austrians to flight before they could form. But in this first fight
every traditional precaution was carefully observed, “the faithful
apprentice-hand,” says Carlyle, “still rigorous to the rules of the old
shop.”
While Neipperg was bustling and hurrying to collect his army from three
villages and to draw it up in front of Mollwitz, the Prussians were
manœuvring into place as though they were on parade. Two long lines
were formed across the plain. These were three hundred paces apart, so
that if the front were pierced, which was hardly supposed possible, the
rear could fire their flintlocks without massacring their comrades.
Heavy guns to the front, cavalry on the wings, were the orders, and,
as the enemy were superior in cavalry, Frederick copied an expedient
of the great Gustavus by placing two regiments of grenadiers between
the squadrons of horse on either wing. At length all was ready, and at
midday the Prussian cannonade began, galling the Austrian cavalry and
as yet unanswerable by the Austrian guns.
Neipperg had ordered the cavalry to wait till a general advance could
be made. But the left wing, refusing to be shot down like dogs,
suddenly defied their officers and dashed at the Prussian right. They
lost all formation, but they found a foe unschooled in their tactics.
First pistol-shot, then a stroke with a sabre as sharp as a razor right
at the head of the enemy’s horse, finally, as horse and man went down,
a thrust from the rear at the rider—such an attack was beyond the
experience of the Prussian cavalry, and they could not stand against
it. As often as Austrian horse met Prussian on the day of Mollwitz they
gained an easy victory. They captured some of the guns, plundered the
baggage, tore several gaps in the line, and drove the King himself in
headlong flight from his first battle.
[Illustration: PLAN OF MOLWITZ, APRIL 10, 1741.]
For some time Frederick was driven helplessly here and there amid his
ruined cavalry in a fight which was unlike anything that he had ever
seen and which he was impotent to control. His generals begged him to
quit the field. To his inexperienced eye all seemed lost, and at last
Schwerin confirmed his fears. “There is still hope,” said this tried
captain to his sovereign, “but in case of the worst it would be well
if your Majesty in person would bring troops from Ohlau and Strehlen.”
Bewildered and despairing, the King turned his back on the wreck of
all his hopes and fled far to the south-east. Distancing many of his
attendants in a swift ride of more than thirty miles, he arrived at
Oppeln on the Oder, only to be repulsed by the unexpected fire of a
party of Austrian hussars who had seized the town and who captured some
of his worse-mounted companions. To this check, for he then doubled
back towards his army, he owed the fact that at the close of a ride of
nearly fifty miles he received the news of victory without delay.
When Frederick left the field it was about four o’clock. The havoc in
the Prussian ranks had been wrought by unsupported charges of horse.
Schwerin could still count upon his infantry, which in the midst of
the whirlwind had stood firm as a rock and by sheer steadiness and
speed of firing had tumbled masses of cavalry into ruin. His first act
was to send to the Young Dessauer, who commanded the second line, an
exhortation to do his duty and to keep his men from firing volleys into
the backs of their comrades. The Young Dessauer, who hated Schwerin,
replied that he needed no judge save the King and that he would do his
duty without any reminders.
After this exchange of courtesies, Schwerin braced himself to the
task of retrieving the day. He assured his infantry that the King was
well, that no battle could be won or lost by cavalry alone, and that
he placed his trust in them. He then ordered his right wing forward
against the Austrian infantry. These were raw levies and gave signs of
unsteadiness before the Prussians came within range. Range, in days
of weak powder and clumsy muskets, was some forty-five paces, and the
sight of the enemy bearing down upon them, shoulder to shoulder, was
too much for undisciplined men to face. Neipperg drew supports from
his right, but even his victorious cavalry soon refused to face the
fire which was poured in by men perfectly trained and furnished with
the iron ramrods invented by the Old Dessauer. The Austrian infantry,
which was able at the best to fire less than half as fast as the enemy,
hid trembling one behind another and tried to endure a torment to which
they could not reply. As the sun was sinking Schwerin pressed his
advantage home. With sounding music and waving banners, in irresistible
advance, the Prussian left swept down upon the weakened Austrian right.
Neipperg saw that the battle was lost. He retreated first behind
Mollwitz then, seeing that his men would not stand, round the Prussian
left and eventually to Neisse.
Except that his magazine was saved and that he was soon able to capture
Brieg, Frederick derived little immediate military advantage from what
he describes as “one of the rudest battles fought within the memory of
man.” The chief profit of Neipperg’s march had evaporated before the
battle, at the moment when Frederick and Schwerin became superior in
numbers. In spite of Mollwitz the Austrian army remained on Silesian
soil, and it was better placed near Neisse than near Brieg. In killed
and wounded each side had lost about 4500 men, nearly one-fourth of the
combatants engaged. And in spite of Frederick’s hoarded millions and
well-filled regiments, it was clear that, if the contest were to remain
a duel between himself and Maria Theresa alone, the size and natural
wealth of Austria must tell in the long run. After Mollwitz, Frederick
would still have been glad to accept Lower Silesia as the price of his
alliance with Austria and a contribution to her exchequer.
Prussia’s greatest gain from Mollwitz was increase of prestige. Though
her cavalry did not regain their nerve for many a day, her infantry,
the backbone of the army, had proved that it was indeed as brave as it
was handsome. Frederick never alluded to his own departure from the
field. In later life he accustomed himself to inaugurate the Prussian
military year by celebrating the anniversary of the triumph which he
had not seen. Every fifth of April the Guards were twice ordered to
the charge and dismissed with the words, “Thus did your forefathers at
Mollwitz.” The traditional Austrian contempt for Prussia had received
its first signal rebuke. The story survives among the villagers of
Mollwitz that when the call to arms disturbed one of Neipperg’s
officers at dinner he called to the landlord to keep the dishes hot.
“We will come back soon,” he promised, “but we have to go and dust the
Prussians’ jackets for them.”
Victory in the field reconciled Prussian opinion to Frederick’s
Silesian adventure, but this was a small gain in comparison with its
effect on opinion in Europe, especially in France. At the Court of
Louis XV. the party opposed to Fleury and to peace had been gathering
strength day by day. Hot-headed men and women, blind to the true
interests of their country, could see in Austria only the hereditary
enemy from whom lands and laurels were to be won. Chief among them was
Marshal Belleisle, a man who conceived great schemes and advocated them
with eloquence and charm. His plan was that France should ally herself
with Prussia, procure the Imperial crown for Charles Albert of Bavaria,
and, in spite of all her pledges to support the Pragmatic Sanction,
endow both the Bavarian and Saxon claimants with Austrian lands. Having
thus humbled Austria and made the fortunes of Austria’s rivals, France
might gain the Netherlands and Luxemburg for herself and dictate to a
divided Germany for ever.
Before Mollwitz, Belleisle had progressed with this policy so far as to
be entrusted with a mission to the Diet which assembled at Frankfort
to elect an Emperor. Frederick’s victory encouraged all the enemies of
the Hapsburgs and thus lightened the task of Belleisle. In May, 1741,
Charles Albert accepted the rôle marked out for him, and early next
month the King of Prussia, despairing of an alliance with England, came
to terms with France. By a treaty signed at Breslau in the deepest
secrecy, he agreed to renounce his claims to Jülich-Berg, and undertook
to vote for Charles Albert at the Diet. France in return guaranteed
him in the possession of Lower Silesia, and undertook to safeguard
Prussia by sending an army to support Charles Albert within two months
and by stirring up Sweden to make war on Russia. The coalition against
Austria gathered strength as it proceeded, and with the exception of
the English and the Dutch no nation hesitated to desert the Pragmatic
Sanction.
The idea with which Frederick began the Silesian adventure was
at length realised. He had, as he anticipated, stirred up general
confusion, amid which the strong man who knew his own mind could hardly
fail to carry off some spoils. To France, as the moving spirit, he
was all gratitude and devotion. But his real design henceforward was
to leave his confederates to subdue Austria, while he himself devoted
all his powers to grasping what Prussia could hope to retain. What he
gained from Belleisle’s work was made manifest in the summer and autumn
of 1741. While the Bavarians and French were advancing in triumph down
the Danube towards Vienna, the Austrians could take no thought for
Silesia. Frederick, therefore, had leisure to train his cavalry and
consolidate his conquest. He treacherously destroyed the municipal
independence of Breslau, which he had bound himself to preserve, but
did little actual fighting. Neisse, protected by Neipperg’s army,
seemed still too strong to be attacked.
Meanwhile the extreme peril of Maria Theresa’s throne forced the
Queen to make trial of desperate remedies. By throwing herself upon
the generosity of the Hungarians, the traditional rebels against her
House, she more than doubled the force at her disposal. Her endeavour
to purchase France was futile, but a hint from Frederick was now
enough to inaugurate negotiations with Prussia. Early in October
these issued in the famous convention of Klein Schnellendorf. In deep
secrecy, for Fleury had written that the King of Prussia was false in
everything, even in his caresses, and the French ambassador kept a
watchful eye upon his movements, Frederick met Neipperg at a castle
in the neighbourhood of Neisse. Each was accompanied by one companion,
while the English ambassador, Lord Hyndford, who had arranged the
interview, acted as clerk and witness. There Frederick, who had just
written to Belleisle a letter full of encouragement, sold his allies
for his own profit. It was agreed that after a sham siege of Neisse
the Austrians should evacuate Silesia, and that Prussia should become
neutral in fact though not in show. To Neipperg, whose army would now
be free to act against the French in Bohemia, Frederick gave wise
counsel for the campaign. “Unite all your troops, then strike home
before they can strike you.” If the Austrians should succeed, Frederick
might join them; if not, he would be compelled to look to himself. To
deceive the French, the English ambassador was to report him as deaf to
all propositions. If any word of the convention got abroad, the King
declared he would deny all and regard all as void.
This conspiracy against Frederick’s allies was punctiliously carried
into effect so long as it was profitable to Prussia. For fifteen days
Neisse submitted to a bombardment and two hundred cannon-shot were
fired off by either side. After seven days Neipperg’s army made off,
attended by a Prussian corps in seeming pursuit, and at the time
appointed the strong fortress was surrendered. On the very same day
the King accepted a treaty for the partition of Austria. The Prussians
then, as arranged, went into winter quarters in Upper Silesia,
which Austria was eventually to retain, and from time to time sham
skirmishes took place to hoodwink the French.
At the beginning of November the King left Neisse for Berlin, pausing
on his way to view the scenes of all his triumphs. At Brieg and Glogau
he inspected the fortifications, but at Breslau he drove in state to
the grand old Rathaus and received the homage of Lower Silesia, the
province secretly ceded to him at Klein Schnellendorf. The ceremony
was immediately followed by the reorganisation of the Government in
Church and State. The province was simply made Prussian, with absolute
religious equality, heavy but not harsh taxation, and a regular system
of conscription.
At Klein Schnellendorf Frederick had hinted that if the Austrians were
not successful in Bohemia they could not expect him to do more than
stand neutral. The event soon showed what he meant. Before the end of
November Prague was stormed in brilliant fashion by the Bavarians,
French, and Saxons. Frederick’s allies had succeeded where he expected
them to fail. He at once proclaimed his intention of standing by the
winning side. “My fingers itch for brilliant and useful action on
behalf of my dear Elector,” he wrote to Belleisle. He broke all the
provisions of the convention of Klein Schnellendorf and derided the
suggestion that such a pact could ever have existed. “Should I be
so foolish as to patch up a peace with enemies who hate me in their
hearts, and in whose neighbourhood I could enjoy no safety?” the King
demanded. “The true principles of the policy of my House demand a
close alliance with France.” Such was the substance of the argument
which Frederick addressed to Fleury.
Lord Hyndford, however, had witnessed all that passed at Klein
Schnellendorf, and would not allow England to be duped by lies.
Frederick therefore told him frankly that he intended to set the
convention at defiance. The allies, he showed, had 150,000 men
against Austria’s 70,000 and could do with her what they would. If
she published the convention she would only expose her own folly,
and perhaps she would not be believed. Then, besides treating Upper
Silesia as his own and laying hands on the adjoining county of Glatz,
he ordered the conquest of Moravia. Ere the year was out Schwerin was
in Olmütz, the chief town of the North, and it seemed as though the
allies would filch yet another province from the Queen. “Alas!” wrote
the philosopher-king on one occasion to Voltaire, “trickery, bad faith
and double-dealing are the leading feature of most of the men who are
at the head of the nations and who ought to set them an example.”
Never was the fortitude of Maria Theresa more needed or more
illustrious than in these winter months. The earlier gleams of
light—Vienna spared and Frederick bought off—only made yet more
black the clouds which now gathered over her throne. Her father had
flattered himself that he bequeathed to her the support of united
Europe. Within a year of his death the greater part of Europe was
leagued to despoil her. France, Spain, Bavaria, Prussia, Saxony, the
Elector Palatine, the Elector of Cologne formed the coalition, and
the accession of Sardinia was the prelude to a severe struggle on the
side of Italy. The loss of Bohemia almost without a blow made the
Queen well-nigh forgetful of Silesia until the perfidy of Frederick
opened the former wound anew. At the same time a revolution at St.
Petersburg extinguished for the time being the Austrian influence in
Russia and thereby increased the King’s security. Then came the attack
upon Moravia, and before the end of January, 1742, the Imperial crown
passed from the Hapsburg family by the election of the head of a rival
House—Charles Albert of Bavaria.
Amid all these disasters, however, the courage of the young Queen,
rooted as it was in her belief that right must triumph, remained
unshaken. She organised new armies and inspired them with her own
spirit. Before the resurgent might of Austria the new-made Emperor sank
into impotence. Within a month of his election the Queen recovered her
cities on the Danube and overran the hereditary lands of the Bavarian.
_Et Cæsar et nihil_ laughed the wags. What would his allies, France,
Prussia, and Saxony, do to relieve him?
The position of affairs may be simply stated. Two Austrian armies
were in the field, one conquering Bavaria, the other protecting it
against an attack from the side of Bohemia, where the allies were
still masters of Prague. If this second army were driven back by
a superior force, the first would be recalled to support it. Thus
Bavaria and Bohemia, the actual and the pretended inheritance of
Charles Albert, would be freed from the Austrians together. At the
same time the French in Bohemia would be relieved from the fear of
being outnumbered and attacked, and the Saxons would have the simplest
march possible—straight into Bohemia by the natural highroad of the
Elbe. Every military consideration thus summoned Frederick to join in
clearing the kingdom of Austrian troops. But this plan promised no
special advantage for the King of Prussia and it opened no market in
which he might barter his allies. With infinite labour he therefore
secured the adoption of another, in which these defects were remedied.
This was that he should lead the Saxon army into Moravia to assist the
Prussians in conquering the province, and in thus creating a diversion
which, he maintained, would aid the Emperor as well as any other.
The Saxons reluctantly left their country with no force, save the
French, to guard its frontier against the Austrian army of Bohemia.
Frederick was therefore secure against treason on his flank and could
again stir the waters of politics in full confidence that his House
would gain some profit. Moravia might become to Silesia what Silesia
had now become to Brandenburg—a dependency and an outwork. Or if this
was too much to hope for, he as conqueror of Moravia might at least
dictate to Vienna the surrender of a Silesia augmented by cuttings from
the Bohemian kingdom, of which Frederick regarded the Emperor or the
Queen as lawful sovereign exactly according to his convenience at the
moment. At the worst Moravia might pass to the Saxon House, which was
a weaker and therefore a safer neighbour than the Hapsburg.
All these calculations were falsified by events. The invasion of
Moravia was a far more difficult task than the invasion of Silesia.
Instead of a level and fertile country inhabited in part by Protestant
well-wishers, Frederick found a rugged desert whose people hated the
Prussians and did them every mischief in their power. He devastated the
land by way of penalty, and dragged the grumbling Saxons through clouds
of guerillas to Brünn, the capital, where he induced them to join him
in a siege. As leader of a composite army, however, he was no longer
served with the prompt and unquestioning obedience which the unmixed
Prussian forces had displayed.
Brünn made a stout resistance and Prince Charles was deputed to march
to its relief. At this point the heroism of the Queen seemed to be
rewarded by a sudden change of fortune. Frederick tried once more to
sacrifice his allies to his own profit, but in vain. England, now
guided by Carteret in place of Walpole, was actively supporting Maria
Theresa. Sardinia deserted the coalition against her. At Vienna, men
regained a confidence which was heightened by the news from the North.
Prince Charles feinted against the French in Bohemia and Frederick
dismissed the Saxons to help them. This was but the first step towards
the abandonment of the whole venture. After a toilsome retreat and
countless skirmishes, the exhausted Prussians crossed safely into
Bohemia before the end of April and again the negotiators were set to
work. Once more they failed and the Prussians found themselves between
Prague and the army of Prince Charles, which was now making thither
from Moravia.
A conflict was inevitable. It took place at Chotusitz, near the Elbe,
within three marches of Prague, on May 17, 1742. This battle is
remarkable not only because seven thousand men fell in three hours, but
also because it is the first victory actually won by Frederick himself.
His imperious temper had cost him the services of Schwerin, the hero
of Mollwitz, while the Old Dessauer had been rebuked for disobedience
and sent to the rear. But the Prussian infantry were as steady as at
Mollwitz, the cavalry, who suffered terribly, much better, and the
King proved that he could seize the moment for decisive action on the
field as well as in the cabinet. Four thousand Prussians fell, but
casualties, captures, and desertion reduced Prince Charles’s force of
thirty thousand by one-half.
The victory of Chotusitz assisted Frederick once more to abandon his
allies. It added force to the diplomacy of England, whose policy
was to help Austria a great deal against the French, but not at all
against the Prussians. While the English ambassadors were urging the
Queen to submit to the loss of Silesia, the Austrian troops pressed
the French hard in Bohemia and thus forced Frederick to hurry on a
peace. Within four weeks of Chotusitz, victor and vanquished had come
to terms. Frederick withdrew from the war and received all Silesia
except a fringe on the south-west, as well as the county of Glatz in
full sovereignty for ever. On July 28th these terms were embodied in
the Treaty of Berlin, which closed the First Silesian War. In twenty
months, at a cost of two pitched battles, Frederick had added to
Prussia sixteen thousand square miles of fertile land and a million and
a quarter of inhabitants—a greater prize than any that his ancestors
had won. He was not yet thirty-one years of age.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]