Charles VI died at a bad moment for the success of his plans. Maria Theresa was practically unknown in her father’s dominions and her marriage was not popular. The Emperor had intended to have Francis elected King of the Romans when he had a son and had acquired some military prestige. But at present the young couple only had two daughters, and Francis had done particularly badly in the recent war against the Turks. The Emperor left an empty treasury and the little cash he had was seized by his widow. The army was in a poorer way even than when Frederick had seen it; most of the generals, including Seckendorf, were in prison for having failed to win battles. Nobody in Vienna wanted to be governed by a young woman at such a critical juncture, and Maria Theresa knew that people were saying it would be better to have Charles Albert. Her father’s ministers were dried-up, ancient creatures, all over seventy; even if they were not ready to betray her they regarded her situation as desperate. Thomas Robinson, the English Ambassador, wrote of them: ‘The Turks seemed to them already in Hungary, the Hungarians themselves in arms [against Vienna], the Saxons in Bohemia, the Bavarians at the gates of Vienna and France the soul of the whole.’ However, Maria Theresa summoned them to a council, and with a brilliant display of royal authority she touched their old hearts and won them round. Francis, who never left her, was amiable to everybody, and by degrees public opinion came down on their side. The only danger now seemed to come from Charles Albert, should he be backed by the French. Neither Maria Theresa, nor her husband, nor her ministers looked nervously towards Berlin. Frederick had been most friendly to Francis when they met and had kept in touch with him by letter. It was often said that he owed his life to the late Emperor’s intervention after the escape. The many snubs which Charles VI had administered to Frederick William, his bad faith over Jülich and Berg and the fact that he had prevented the English marriages were forgotten. Frederick was supposed to be the protector of the young couple. ‘He is like a father to us.’
Death was thought to be getting very uppish in 1740. Having gathered Frederick William and Pope Clement XII he waited only eight days after reaping the Emperor to pounce upon the Empress Anne of Russia. Keyserling’s school-friend Biron ruled the country for three weeks, until a coup d’état sent him to do a stint of twenty-two years in Siberia; after that for quite a long time the Russians were too much occupied with their own affairs to trouble about the rest of Europe.
Berlin was now the centre of wild activity. The King spent most of the day with his generals; troops were at the ready, and depots of arms and provisions were being laid in the direction of the frontier with Silesia. The foreign courts were naturally anxious to know what all this was about. Maria Theresa, serene in the knowledge that her husband’s great friend would do nothing disagreeable to her, nevertheless felt a mild curiosity and sent Marchese Botta to see what he could discover. Less trustful than his mistress, he thought Silesia was the target, and during his audience with the Prussian King he ventured to remark that the roads there were terrible. Frederick said he had heard they were rather muddy. Botta said he hoped the King would never underestimate the Austrian army—the Prussian troops looked splendid but the Austrians had seen the wolf.
Guy Dickens boldly asked Frederick why his soldiers were marching about in such a sinister way. ‘Do I ask you what you intend to do with your navy? Certainly not. I hold my tongue and pray you won’t get a thrashing from the Spaniards.’* When Dickens mentioned the possibility of a guarantee for Jülich and Berg Frederick said he was not interested in the Rhine country, ‘but on the other frontier the Maritime Powers would not interfere’.
Cardinal Fleury had two envoys in Berlin, the Marquis de Valory and the Marquis de Beauvau, both completely at sea, though Beauvau warned Fleury that Frederick hated the French and longed to humiliate them. Fleury now sent Voltaire to see what he could find out. Voltaire wrote enthusiastic letters to Paris: ‘There may be greater kings but there are few more amiable men. What a miracle that the son of a crowned ogre, brought up with the beasts of the field, should understand the graces and subtleties of Paris. He is made for society.’ Frederick took time off from preparing his war to prove that his court was indeed, as Voltaire called it, the modern Athens. He showed him the pictures he was buying, mostly Watteaus (pronounced by Voltaire, behind his back, to be fakes); he played the flute; he chatted for hours on end with his philosopher. They exchanged tender notes calling each other coquette and mâitresse. The atmosphere at Frederick’s court was now homosexual. A male party was given by Valory, the fat French minister, where tendre Algarotti and beau Lugeac, Valory’s secretary, behaved oddly indeed; it was immortalized by Voltaire in a poem.
Voltaire rather spoilt the ambiance by demanding the expenses for his journey. Frederick, who knew quite well that he had come to spy, thought this went too far. ‘As court jesters go, this one is rather dear.’ Valory says that Voltaire was too free and easy with the King and passed too quickly from excessive reverence to excessive familiarity. He certainly did not mind what he said about him, and in a letter to Maupertuis he called Frederick a respectable, singular and lovable whore. However, the atmosphere was friendly to the end of the visit, though the mission was a failure, and Voltaire left Berlin no wiser than when he had arrived.
The reader has certainly guessed by now that Frederick’s warlike preparations were no joke and that his objective was the beautiful province of Silesia, one of the richest of the Habsburg possessions. But Maria Theresa still regarded Frederick as a loyal vassal. To do him justice, he felt a certain shame when he thought of this, and in his Histoire de Mon Temps he speaks frankly about it. He says he went to war in order to acquire reputation and to increase the power of his country. He chose Silesia because the French, the English and the Dutch would have no reason to stop him and because it would be a great addition to his domains with its agricultural and industrial riches and largely Protestant population. (The poor, on the whole, were Protestants and the rich Catholics.) Besides, he said, his family had a claim to it. There was a sort of claim which Frederick had not bothered to investigate; he was uninterested in it as in all German history. He told Podewils to cook up some legal nonsense—‘that’s the work of a good charlatan’—and then issued a proclamation: ‘Having, as is well known, interests in Silesia, I propose to take charge of it and keep it for the rightful owner.’ He gave a masked ball in Berlin on 13 December and the next day he set out at the head of his troops. The only person who told him that he was committing a sin and a folly was Jordan, but then he was a pacifist. The King told him to be sure and let him know what people were saying in Berlin.
Extracts from Jordan’s letters, 14–20 December 1740:
Everybody here is waiting for an event of which few can determine either the reason or the object. I am charmed to see that many of Your Majesty’s subjects are in a state of pyrrhonism—a catching disease. Those who, like theologians, are always in the right, tell me that Your Majesty is awaited with a religious impatience by the Protestants while the Roman Catholics hope to see a reduction in their taxes. Some critics think that this venture is in direct contradiction to the last chapter of the Anti-Machiavel.
Beauvau says, ‘Can’t imagine who put it into his head to invade, but it’s not such a bad idea.’
The Queen of Hungary has died in childbirth.
Everybody says, without knowing why, that Your Majesty’s rights are incontestable.
All say it’s a Protestant crusade.
Frederick to Jordan, Ottomachaw, 14 January 1741:
My dear M. Jordan, my sweet M. Jordan, my calm M. Jordan, my good, my benign, my pacific, my most humane Jordan, I announce to Your Serenity the conquest of Silesia.
He had met with practically no resistance. He arrived at the frontier in drenching rain—the roads, as Botta had truly observed, were terrible—and found it touchingly undefended. Two local barons called on him to protest against the invasion; Frederick kept them to dinner, fascinated them, and the next night stayed with one and dined wi
th the other. Maria Theresa’s Irish Governor of Silesia, Wallis of Carrighmain, shut himself up in Glogau with about 1,000 men, reinforced its defences, burnt down its suburbs, to the great disgust of their inhabitants, and awaited the siege. Browne, her general of Irish descent, having done all he could with the tiny force at his disposal, retreated to Moravia. The native population seemed, on the whole, to welcome a change. The Habsburgs had not exactly maladministered Silesia nor had they persecuted the Protestants, though they had some difficulty with their children’s education. But there was no loyalty to the Empire. Frederick rode into Breslau with a small bodyguard, lodged in the house of the Cardinal Primate, who had fled, and gave a ball there. A few Catholic dowagers stayed at home but on the whole it was well attended.
Rather late he remembered the rules of international behaviour and sent an envoy, Count Gotter, to Vienna. He had an interview with Francis of Lorraine—Maria Theresa was behind the door, listening. Gotter said his master was at her entire disposition; would support her rightful claims with his last man and his last ducat; would also ensure the election of Francis as Emperor, if he could have the whole of Silesia. Francis kept his head and said that, even if the Queen wanted to do so, she had no authority to give away bits of the dominions entailed on herself and her heirs. Gotter said in that case he must go back to Berlin. Francis asked if Frederick was already in Silesia and Gotter admitted that he was. At that point Maria Theresa put her head round the door and said that Francis must come away—she refused to treat with the King of Prussia while he was in her dominions with an army. The Austrian courtiers told Gotter what they thought of him and his master, and he seemed to feel a certain shame.
At the end of January Frederick was back in Berlin, having taken Silesia in seven weeks. Horror and indignation at the invasion was felt all over Europe—Frederick said the general view was that only a man who did not believe in God would dare to attack Austria—but nobody was prepared to send help to the Queen of Hungary. In Vienna she was the only person who was not paralysed. Although in an advanced state of pregnancy she acted with the energy of rage. She had riding lessons. She brought Marshal Neipperg out of prison, where her father had put him for delivering Belgrade to the Turks, and gave him the command of her troops in Moravia; somehow she managed to raise enough money to equip them—possibly from the English secret service funds. She inspired her subjects with her own courage; confidence began to creep back. That spring she had a piece of luck: she gave birth to the greatly desired son, the future Emperor Joseph II.
In February 1741 Frederick returned to Silesia taking Jordan, Maupertuis and Algarotti for chat. Valory, of whom he was getting very fond, was also there. Glogau fell without any trouble. In April Neipperg and his army advanced into Silesia and on the 10th battle was joined at Mollwitz, not far from Breslau. On the night before his first battle Frederick had thoughts of death. He wrote to Augustus William, his heir, now known as the Prince of Prussia, whom he had left at Breslau with Jordan, ‘I recommend to you, in dying, those whom I have loved the most in life: Keyserling, Jordan, Wartensleben [once a Captain of the giants, now Frederick’s A.D.C.], Hacke who is a very honest man, Fredersdorf and Eichel in whom you can have confidence.’ He asked the Prince to give souvenirs to all their brothers and sisters, especially Wilhelmine. ‘Do not forget a brother who has loved you very tenderly.’ To Jordan: ‘If my destiny is over, remember a friend who always loved thee tenderly.’
Unlike many great generals, Frederick never could sleep before an engagement or when campaigning if things went badly; he used to spend the night reading, generally Racine, and writing poetry. Before Mollwitz he had two wakeful nights because the day after he wrote his letters there was a blinding snowfall which made it impossible to fight. He knew that Neipperg had a superior force and that if he won the battle he would be in a position to cut the Prussian communications. Frederick was nervous and anxious. On the morning of the 10th the snow had stopped falling and lay hard and deep. Frederick marched his army in five columns to the enemy’s camp. Neipperg, who had not known that the Prussians were so near, was taken by surprise, but Frederick, instead of attacking at once, as he would have done later in life, carefully disposed his army in battle order. The operation was ill conceived and badly carried out. The Austrian cavalry, under continuous fire, made a premature charge which put the Prussian cavalry to flight. The inexperienced Frederick, carried hither and thither in the uncontrollable mass of horses, thought the day was lost. Field Marshal von Schwerin, who wanted to be left to fight in his own way, urged him to leave the battlefield, saying that if he stayed he would probably be captured. So Frederick rode away accompanied by Maupertuis, a French valet and a few soldiers. At midnight they arrived at the little town of Oppeln; the gates were opened by Austrians. Frederick said, ‘Good-bye friends, I am better mounted than all of you’, and galloped off, leaving the others to their fate. It was not very terrible. Maupertuis was taken as a prisoner of war to Vienna, where high society made a fuss of him, and Francis, learning that he had lost a Graham watch, gave him his own, also a Graham.
As for Frederick, some soldiers sent after him by Schwerin soon told him that the battle was won, and he rejoined his army at daybreak, having ridden over fifty miles. Frederick William’s infantry, his methods and his friend had turned Frederick’s defeat into victory. Ten years later Frederick, who never made excuses and never suffered from delusions, described the Battle of Mollwitz to the Comte de Gisors: ‘Our soldiers were willing and disciplined but few of them had seen active service. I was a complete novice and the only person who could guide me, Field Marshal von Schwerin, was not on speaking terms with me. Without him I should have been done for; he alone repaired the mistakes and won the battle.’ At the beginning of his reign Frederick had trouble with Schwerin and the Old Dessauer, who had dandled him on their knees and who, furthermore, were universally recognized as the best living European generals; they were not always able to accept his orders without argument. In a very short time, however, they learnt their place. Frederick always held a review of his troops on the anniversary of Mollwitz and in old age would say to the men, ‘Try and be as good as your grandfathers were.’ As for his running away, it gave a great deal of pleasure and gave rise to many a good joke; Voltaire said Frederick never felt gratitude to any living creature but the horse which bore him from Mollwitz.
At the news of Mollwitz, Maria Theresa wept. Robinson told the English Foreign Secretary, ‘Vienna is in flat despair but without the strength to be desperate.’
Frederick having raised the wind, Europe was now in a ferment. Charles Albert of Bavaria claimed the Empire; the Pope, Piacenza and Parma; Philip of Spain and Charles Emmanuel of Savoy, the Milanese. The French made no claim but their activities were portentous. They were directed at giving Louis XV the position hitherto occupied by the Emperor: that of overlord and mentor to the German states. This vast scheme originated with the Comte de Belle-Isle, the grandson of Fouquet, Louis XIV’s minister, imprisoned for treasonable activities. Fouquet’s son, Belle-Isle’s father, had lived in voluntary exile, but when the Comte de Belle-Isle grew up old Louis XIV received him at Versailles and made him Captain of the Musketeers attached to his person. People said that Mme de Maintenon had not forgotten Fouquet’s generosity to her first husband, Scarron. Belle-Isle was wounded at Blenheim and again at Lille, where he nearly died; after that he was given a regiment. He became a general under Louis XV and got the Saint-Esprit for gallantry at Philippsburg. As governor of Metz he greatly beautified that town, laying out new streets, quays and gardens. Belle-Isle had cosmopolitan relations through his wife, a Béthune: she was connected with John Sobieski; one of her uncles was a Radziwill and another a Jablonowski; so he knew Europe and its problems better than most French people.
A tall thin man of fifty-six, Belle-Isle was Ambassador Extraordinary to the Reichstag (or Diet) of German princes, assembled at Frankfurt to elect the new Emperor. His mission was to induce them to postpone their del
iberations, and eventually to elect Charles Albert. Germany could then be divided into four parts: Bavaria, Saxony, Prussia and Austria, all in the French sphere of influence. Bavaria was an old ally of the French—Charles Albert’s father had fought with Louis XIV against Marlborough and Eugene and the grandmother of Louis XV was a Bavarian princess. Charles Albert was a good, sweet man greatly loved by all who knew him and esteemed by posterity as the builder of beautiful Amalienburg. But he had little political sense and was very poor; he could easily be put into French leading-strings. This was Belle-Isle’s scheme and his alone. Cardinal Fleury knew that it was against nature and impracticable, but he was now ninety and had lost influence of late to the belligerent young sparks of the young King’s little set. Louis XV was pacific by nature; he lived for the arts and really believed what Frederick was always saying, that ‘peace cannot fail to make art and science flourish’. He had all the territory he wanted, internal troubles of a religious nature and a weak economy. But Belle-Isle and his arguments were very convincing.