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It also acted as an inspiration and a focus to disaffected elements in other parts of Germany. The German nation’s impotence in the face of the arrogance of the French was underlined as the cost of the Continental System made itself felt. Wounded pride turned into grim determination in the minds of many German patriots, and it received its first encouragement with the news of Bailén in the summer of 1808. ‘The events in Spain have had a great effect and show what can be done by a nation which has force and courage,’ Stein wrote to a friend.⁷

Napoleon was well aware of the new spirit at work in Germany. He was not particularly concerned by it, but he did, during his stay in Erfürt and Weimar at the time of the meeting with Alexander in 1808, make a desultory effort to garner some popularity, inviting professors from the university of Jena to lunch with him. He decorated Goethe with the Légion d’Honneur. He had the poet Christoph Martin Wieland brought to Weimar, and spent upwards of two hours discussing German literature with him during a ball, while a circle of astonished guests looked on. He then walked over to Goethe and engaged him in conversation. The event was commented on in the court bulletin, which explained that ‘the hero of the age thereby gave proof of his attachment to the nation of which he is the protector, and that he esteems its language and literature, which are its national binding force’. But the next day he visited the battlefield of Jena, on which he had made the Germans build a small temple to commemorate his triumph over them.⁸

In 1802, the German philosopher Friedrich Schlegel had gone to Paris with the intention of founding an international institute of learning in this new Rome. Now he was looking more to Germany. Goethe, who wore his Légion d’Honneur with pride and used to refer to Napoleon as ‘my Emperor’, was also beginning to complain of the shameful state of submission into which Germany had been forced. The philosopher Johann Gottlieb Fichte, the writer Ernst Moritz Arndt and the theologian Friedrich Daniel Schleiermacher were among those who called for a national German revival and a rejection of the French hegemony. Many of those who had seen Napoleon as a liberator now saw in him nothing but an oppressor.

There had been a predictable surge of national feeling in Austria following her defeat by Napoleon in 1806, with papers and pamphlets calling for a united German front against the French. Austria’s natural desire to avenge the humiliating defeat and regain some of her losses had been powerfully reinforced by the many disgruntled mediatised counts and knights, the deposed north Italian and particularly Piedmontese nobles and the many German patriots from the Confederation of the Rhine who had taken refuge and in many cases service there. In January 1808 the Emperor Francis married for a third time. His bride, Maria Ludovica of Habsburg, was the daughter of the Captain-General of Lombardy, who had been thrown out by Napoleon, and this was not the least of her reasons for loathing the French.

The new government under Count Philip Stadion appointed by Francis in 1808 began preparing for a confrontation with France, instituting, amongst other things, a national militia, the Landwehr. This war of revenge, Stadion made clear, was to be a national, German one, aimed at expelling France and her influence from central Europe altogether. While Maria Ludovica and a poet and fitness enthusiast called Caroline Pichler reinvented a supposedly traditional German form of dress, the Tracht, the historian Johannes von Müller, the publicist Friedrich von Gentz and others underpinned the anti-French arguments with facts. They made much of what they saw as the struggle of the Spanish people against foreign domination, holding it up as an example for the Germans to follow. Authors of every kind were invited to police headquarters, where they would be asked to use their pens in the national cause, and publishers of periodicals were instructed to print patriotic poems and articles, on pain of having their publications closed down. Unbidden, the poet and dramatist Heinrich von Kleist published ‘Die Hermannschlacht’, a poetic appeal to Germans and Austrians alike to rise up against the French and to punish all pro-Napoleonic ‘traitors’.⁹

In April 1809, judging Napoleon to be bogged down in Spain, Austria invaded Bavaria and launched a war for the ‘liberation’ of Germany. ‘We fight to assert the independence of the Austrian monarchy, to restore to Germany the independence and national honour that belong to her,’ declared Stadion in his manifesto. The commander-in-chief Archduke Charles issued a proclamation penned by Friedrich Schlegel which dwelt on the pan-German character of the war, representing it as an opportunity for the redemption and regeneration of the nation.¹⁰

Their call did not go unanswered. A Prussian officer, Frederick Charles de Katt, attempted to seize Magdeburg with a gang of partisans, but failed and was forced to take refuge in Austrian Bohemia. Colonel Dornberg, a Hessian serving in King Jérôme’s royal guard who had been plotting with Stein, Gneisenau and Scharnhorst, intended to seize Jérôme and call the population to arms. In the event, he only managed to raise six to eight hundred men and was easily defeated. This was bad news for Major Schill, a Prussian officer who had distinguished himself in 1806–1807 by his determined defence of Kolberg. On 28 April 1809 he marched out of Berlin with his regiment, telling his men that he was going to invade Westphalia and evict the French from Germany. He was expecting to link up with Dornberg, who should by then have seized Jérôme, but he soon found himself facing superior forces and was obliged to retreat to the Baltic coast, where he hung on, vainly hoping for British seaborne support, until he was killed in a skirmish on 31 May.

An altogether more serious response came in the Tyrol, where resentment of the French ran much deeper. The area had traditionally been governed by the Habsburgs with much respect for local tradition and idiosyncrasies, but Bavaria, to which it was transferred by Napoleon in 1806, operated a more centralised administration. The locals were offended by higher rates of taxation and by enforced conscription. The parish clergy did not approve of the secularisation taking place in Bavaria, adding to the discontent. In January 1809 Andreas Hofer and a handful of other Tyrolese went to Vienna to prepare an insurrection to coincide with Austria’s invasion of Bavaria. On 9 April beacons were duly lit and the Tyrol rebelled. A Bavarian corps of two thousand men was forced to capitulate, and Austrian forces occupied Innsbrück. But they were soon ejected from it by the French under Marshal Lefèbvre.

On 21–22 May Napoleon fought the twin battles of Aspern-Essling against the Austrians under Archduke Charles. Although technically a French victory, they reverberated through Europe as a defeat. Napoleon suffered a personal loss in the death of Marshal Lannes, and had to bring Lefèbvre back to join the main army. This allowed the revolt in the Tyrol to erupt with renewed vigour, under the slogan ‘God and the Emperor’, which had enemies of Napoleon all over Europe rubbing their hands at what they thought was a new Spain.

At this point, the Duke of Brunswick-Oels appeared on the scene. His father had been ignominiously defeated at Auerstädt in 1806, and he had vowed eternal hatred to the French. He had gone to Vienna, where he obtained a subsidy in order to raise a 20,000-strong ‘Legion of Vengeance’ with which he intended to liberate northern Germany. He now sallied forth, defeated the Saxons at Zittau, seized Dresden on 11 June and Leipzig ten days after that. On 21 July he marched on, through Brunswick and Hanover, but he met with little enthusiasm, and was eventually forced to take refuge on a British man-of-war in the Baltic.

In the meantime, Napoleon had won the conclusive battle of Wagram, and Austria was forced to sign the Treaty of Vienna, which reduced it to a state of powerlessness. Her image as a potential liberator of Germany was shattered, and she settled down meekly within the Napoleonic system. Francis was only too happy to pay tribute by giving his favourite daughter to the Corsican ogre, and the marriage was hailed as a happy event by his people.

Austria’s failure stemmed in large measure from her inability to engage the support of Russia, and above all to draw Prussia into the war against the French. The pan-German plotters had been active in this respect, and Vienna had been in close touch with Stein, Hardenberg, Scharnhorst and the other Prussian reformers, who were doing everything to bounce Frederick William into declaring war. But the pusillanimous Prussian King was afraid. He was afraid of the French, and he was afraid of starting a ‘national’ war that might end up by costing him his own throne. It was only when, with Schill marching into Westphalia and popular opinion at a high pitch of excitement, he thought he might lose his throne if did not act that he considered going to war.

One of the stipulations of the Treaty of Vienna was that Francis had to banish all French émigrés, Piedmontese, and Germans from other states who had settled or taken service in Austria. A number, including Karl von Grolmann, a Prussian officer who had come to fight for Austria, now headed for Spain, where they could carry on their crusade against Napoleonic France. Many more took the St Petersburg road, already trodden by some of those German patriots who had gone to Prussia in the hope that she might become the champion of Germany. With both Prussia and Austria discredited, Alexander was beginning to look like the only alternative. He was still an ally of Napoleon, and had acted as such by sending an army to threaten Austria during the recent war. But he had done only the minimum demanded of him. Assisted by large doses of wishful thinking, many of those opposed to Napoleon and French hegemony had begun to see in Alexander a tutelary angel of their own particular cause.

One of the first to fall for Alexander, when she had met him in 1805, was Frederick William’s Queen, Louise, who saw him as ‘a Schiller hero come down to earth’. ‘In you, perfection is incarnate,’ she wrote to him; ‘one must know you to know perfection.’ The feeling did not go unrequited, which was probably what had saved Prussia from extinction at Tilsit. But there was little more that Alexander could do for her and her dismal husband. In January 1809 he invited them to St Petersburg, where he honoured and fêted them, thereby sending out a strong signal to all Napoleon’s enemies in Europe. The mutual esteem between Alexander and Louise grew. When he heard of her death in Prussia in July 1810, he saw her as a victim of Napoleon’s barbaric oppression and reacted with requisite chivalry. ‘I swear to you that I shall avenge her death and shall make certain that her murderer pays for his crime,’ he is alleged to have said to the Prussian Minister in St Petersburg.¹¹

Alexander was also viewed as a potential saviour by other humiliated or dispossessed monarchs and nobles, including the kings of France, Sardinia, the Two Sicilies, Spain, the Grand Master of the Order of Malta, a gaggle of dispossessed Germans, as well as hordes of French, Piedmontese, Spanish and other émigrés.

This did not prevent elements more or less violently opposed to the ancien régime from looking to him as well. Many of the Germans who placed their hopes in Alexander were republican or at least liberal nationalists in conflict with the Prussian monarchy. The same went for Tugendbunders and even the Freemasons, who were regarded by Frederick William as dangerous subversives. Among the Spaniards and Italians who placed their hopes in the Tsar were liberals who would in time be clamped in irons by their own monarchs.

Other unlikely members of the club were French liberal opponents of Napoleon, such as Benjamin Constant and Madame de Staël, who, while subscribing to most of the achievements of the French Revolution, hated him for his despotic tendencies and for the cultural arrogance with which he treated Europe. Her bestselling novel Corinne, published in 1807, was a thinly veiled criticism of French doings in Italy, while her treatise on German literature, De l’Allemagne, was so implicitly critical that the first printing was confiscated on Napoleon’s orders.

His behaviour and his policies were rapidly losing Napoleon the dominion over hearts and minds he had enjoyed in earlier years, while a great internationale of alienated people all over Europe was gathering, bound together only by their detestation of him. Even Wellington was beginning to see and to portray his war against Napoleon in Spain as a part of some kind of moral crusade.¹²

None of this was of any immediate consequence, and Napoleon’s position in Europe was still paramount. He controlled his vast imperium through a web of loyalty, beginning with his crowned brothers. He had created all over Europe a new international aristocracy beholden to him, endowed with fiefs which had fallen vacant through the mediatisation of the Holy Roman Empire or through conquest, and by 1812 the imperial almanac listed four princes, thirty dukes, nearly four hundred counts and over a thousand barons, not including the titles Napoleon had given to members of his own family.

It is also worth noting that he had many natural allies bound to him by self-interest of one sort or another. Frederick William and Hardenberg feared the social upheaval that might result from any national revival more than they resented Napoleon. Others in Germany and Europe as a whole feared the relentless onward march of Russian expansion and believed that a weakening of French influence would entail Russian hegemony, and distrusted Alexander’s motives.¹³

Napoleon’s spies nevertheless kept a close watch on potential subversives all over Germany and on the support they were receiving from Russia. By the summer of 1810 he was growing irritated by the numbers of Russians visiting European courts and capitals trying to incite people against France. In Vienna, the former ambassador Count Razumovsky, the salonière Princess Bagration and Napoleon’s old Corsican enemy Pozzo di Borgo, now in Russian uniform, made up a real propaganda network between them. Others were rallying anti-Napoleonic sentiment in the watering places of Germany. He asked Alexander to recall them all to Russia, but received scant satisfaction.

In November 1810 Talleyrand’s successor as Foreign Minister, Jean-Baptiste de Champagny, reported to Napoleon that ‘a vast revolution’ was brewing in Germany, fuelled by national hatred of France. This gathered in strength as tension between France and Russia mounted, and as the Continental System began to bite. Although he tended to make light of the threat, Napoleon was beginning to take more serious note of it, and declared his intention of ‘uprooting the German national spirit’. And the only way he would be able to ‘uproot’ this burgeoning growth was by cutting off its chief source of nourishment, which came from Russia.¹⁴

4
The Drift to War

At Erfürt, Napoleon had in an offhand way asked Caulaincourt what he thought Alexander might think of a dynastic union between the two empires. He did not seem to attach much importance to the matter, but came back to it a couple of times. This did not surprise Caulaincourt. Ever since Napoleon had assumed the imperial crown, the question of an heir had presented itself, and as the Empress Josephine was no longer of childbearing age, there had been much talk of a divorce. After Tilsit, gossip had it that he might marry one of the Tsar’s sisters to cement the new entente.

Alexander had two unmarried sisters, the Grand Duchess Catherine, who was charming, witty and highly regarded, and the Grand Duchess Anna, who was only fourteen years old. Before his assassination, their father had issued a special ukaz giving his consort, now the Dowager Empress, absolute power to decide whom their daughters married. She loathed Napoleon, and in 1808, no doubt alarmed by the gossip, quickly found a husband for Catherine. Shortly after Alexander’s return from Erfürt, the Grand Duchess was married to Prince George of Holstein-Oldenburg.

This did not bother Napoleon, who had anyway been thinking of the younger sister. He was in no hurry, and he wanted to keep his options open. It also suited Alexander, permitting him to express a degree of enthusiasm for the idea of the marriage, knowing that he need not commit himself for some years.

But as the cracks in the alliance began to show, Napoleon decided to paper them over with a dynastic union. At the end of November 1809 he instructed Caulaincourt to approach Alexander with a request for his sister’s hand. Alexander’s response was positive, but he took the matter no further. When Caulaincourt pressed him for a definite answer, he asked for two weeks to consider the matter and to gain his mother’s approval. At the end of the two weeks, he asked for another ten days. Then another week. At the beginning of February 1810 he was still stalling, saying that his mother objected on the grounds that Anna was too young. Napoleon, who felt insulted by the lack of enthusiasm he sensed in Alexander and was beginning to suspect that he would never agree to the match, decided to pre-empt the humiliation of a refusal by turning to Austria instead.

He had sounded out the Austrian court on the subject in a vague way in the previous year, so he could now act with speed. After reading the despatches from Caulaincourt describing Alexander’s negative response on the morning of 6 February, he summoned Prince Karl von Schwarzenberg, the Austrian ambassador in Paris, and pinned him down for a binding decision straight away. Schwarzenberg seized what he believed was a historic chance, and, overstepping his powers, gave him the reply he wanted. The courier bearing Napoleon’s letter to Alexander notifying him of the change of plan crossed with one from the Tsar bearing a letter in which he in effect refused Napoleon’s offer, explaining that his mother felt there could be no question of marrying off Anna for at least two years.

When he heard the news of Napoleon’s betrothal to Marie-Louise, Alexander assumed that he had been carrying on parallel negotiations with Austria all along, and was stung by the apparent duplicity. It is almost certain that Napoleon would have preferred to marry the Grand Duchess Anna, as it would have had tremendous resonance as a symbolic marriage of East and West reuniting the two halves of the Roman Empire. But as his marriage to Marie-Louise went ahead, absorbing the attention of Europe with its pomp and éclat, Alexander was made to look ridiculous in front of his own people. He had stood up for the entente with Napoleon in the face of almost universal opposition at home, only to end up in the role of jilted party. And the marital junketing going on in Paris appeared to hide a deeper threat.

At the marriage feast the Austrian Chancellor Count Metternich, who was representing his imperial master, stood up and raised his glass ‘To the King of Rome!’, thereby expressing the hope that Napoleon would produce an heir, and ceding the old imperial title to the house of Bonaparte. From St Petersburg it looked very much as though France and Austria were entering into an alliance even closer than the special relationship forged at Tilsit. An unpleasant sign of the way public opinion was swinging was that a Russian loan which Alexander was trying to float on the Paris exchange in order to raise much-needed funds suddenly found no subscribers. And the new situation had other implications.¹

When Alexander was approached on the subject of the marriage of his sister, he had let it be known that he would make his agreement conditional on a convention ruling out forever the restoration of a Kingdom of Poland. Napoleon had responded positively, quite happy to trade Poland for Anna. But now Alexander had lost his main bargaining counter in this matter of crucial importance.

Napoleon’s creation of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw in 1807 had, in effect, introduced the first material conflict of interest between France and Russia. The new political unit inevitably raised the possibility of a restoration of the Kingdom of Poland. Such a restoration would entail the loss by Russia of some if not all of her acquisitions at the expense of Poland in the partitions – an area of 463,000 square kilometres with a population of some seven million.

The creation of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw had also raised the spectre of another threat to Russia through the introduction of the Code Napoléon. This transformed social relationships and would lead to the full emancipation of the peasants. The landowners of Russia, 95 per cent of whose population were serfs, could not look on such a neighbour with equanimity.

The Poles, whether they were citizens of the Grand Duchy or not, certainly saw it as the nucleus of a restored Kingdom of Poland, and there was much dreaming and plotting in provinces still under Russian or Austrian rule. When Austria went to war with France in 1809, one of her armies had seized Warsaw but had then been obliged to fall back, pursued by the Poles, who proceeded to march into Galicia, a part of Poland annexed by Austria.

In the peace settlement, Napoleon had allowed the Poles to incorporate a small part of the liberated territory into the Grand Duchy of Warsaw. This alarmed the Austrians, who feared they might in time have to give up the rest, and annoyed the Poles, who felt they should have been allowed to take back the whole area they had liberated. They were, moreover, outraged by the fact that Napoleon had also ceded a piece of it to Russia as a sweetener.

But the Russians were not mollified. Caulaincourt reported that everyone in St Petersburg, from the Tsar down, was adamant that no part of Galicia should be added to the Grand Duchy, as this would set a dangerous precedent. ‘All the news coming from Moscow and the provinces confirms that this agitation is universal: it is necessary to take up arms and die, they are saying, rather than suffer the reunification of Galicia with the Grand Duchy,’ he wrote. And the issue transcended loyalty to the Tsar, whom many did not trust.^* ‘There is not the slightest restraint in the allegations being made against the Emperor Alexander; there is open talk of assassinating him,’ reported Caulaincourt. ‘I have not seen minds so agitated since my arrival in Petersburg.’²

Napoleon never had any intention of restoring Poland – all his statements to the contrary date from later, when he was trying to keep the Poles on his side or to pluck straws of self-justification from the wind. He therefore proposed to Alexander that they sign a joint convention binding themselves not to encourage the Poles in their dreams. As a sign of his discouragement of Polish aspirations, he sent the best units of the army of the Grand Duchy, the Legion of the Vistula, to fight in Spain.

But Alexander produced a draft convention which would excise the words ‘Poland’ and ‘Poles’ from all official correspondence, ban the wearing of Polish decorations and forbid the use of Polish emblems in the Grand Duchy. He wanted Napoleon to pledge that he would never allow the restoration of Poland, and that he would take up arms against the Poles if they attempted it. Napoleon replied that while he could declare his opposition to such a revival, he would not and could not undertake to hinder it. The wording suggested by Russia was nonsensical, as it bound France to pledges she would be in no position to carry out. He pointed out that he could have re-established Poland if he had wished to in 1807, and added the whole of Galicia to the Grand Duchy in 1809, but had not done so because he had no intention of doing so. Nevertheless, tens of thousands of Poles had fought loyally alongside the French for over a decade, inspired by their hopes of a free motherland and by France’s sympathy to their cause. To sign the text suggested by Russia would ‘compromise the honour and dignity of France’, as Napoleon put it to Champagny.³

Alexander continued to insist on his draft rather than the more general one proposed by Napoleon. Hoping to put pressure on the Emperor to acquiesce, he dropped hints that he might not find it so easy to keep up the blockade against Britain without wholehearted support from him. But his increasingly urgent insistence with regard to the convention, as well as the suspicions he voiced, revealed how little he trusted Napoleon, who began to wonder what lay behind it all. ‘One cannot conceive what aim Russia might have in mind in refusing a version which accords her everything she wants in favour of one which is dogmatic, irregular, contrary to common prudence, and which, ultimately, the Emperor cannot subscribe to without dishonouring himself,’ he wrote to Champagny on 24 April 1810.⁴

On 30 June, when Champagny brought a communication from St Petersburg with a list of complaints and a renewed demand that he sign the Russian draft of the convention, Napoleon lost his temper. He summoned the Russian ambassador, Prince Kurakin. ‘What does Russia mean by such language?’ he demanded. ‘Does she want war? Why these continual complaints? Why these insulting suspicions? If I had wished to restore Poland, I would have said so and would not have withdrawn my troops from Germany. Is Russia trying to prepare me for her defection? I will be at war with her the day she makes peace with England.’ He then dictated a letter to Caulaincourt in St Petersburg telling him that if Russia was going to start blackmailing him and using the Polish question as an excuse to seek a rapprochement with Britain, there would be war.⁵

It was the first time Napoleon had mentioned war, and it was a remark thrown out in the heat of the moment. The last thing he wanted was war with Russia. Russia, on the other hand, was increasingly looking forward to one. Russian society had been hostile to the French alliance from the start, and attitudes had only hardened over the years. The reasons were cultural and psychological rather than strategic.

Russia was a young society, and its upper echelons consisted of a rich social and ethnic mix. At court, in the administration and in the army old boyar families jostled with a new aristocracy whose origins lay in the political instability and culture of favouritism of the past century, which had produced grand aristocratic families such as the Razumovskys and the Orlovs, only a couple of generations from the servants’ quarters or the barrack room. To this, conquest and annexations had added Germanic Baltic barons, Polish nobles, Georgian and Balkan princes, while the need for talent in the rapidly expanding state had sucked in immigrants from many lands. It was a mobile society, highly dynamic, but also beset by cultural insecurity.

Over the past hundred years educated Russians had drawn heavily on French culture. To them more than to any other European society, France was the fount of civilisation. The nobility were brought up by French tutors on French literature, and spoke French amongst themselves.^* Few of them had any more Russian than was needed to give orders to servants. French books were as widely read in Moscow and St Petersburg as in Paris. Fluency in French was mandatory for anyone wishing to make a career in the army or the administration. The only senior officer in the Russian army in 1812 not to speak French fluently was General Miloradovich, who was of Serbian extraction, and Alexander prided himself on the fact that his French was better than Napoleon’s.⁶

Underpinning this francocentrism was a huge colony of teachers, artists, musicians, tailors, dressmakers, cabinetmakers, jewellers, dancing masters, hairdressers, cooks and servants, some of whose parents or grandparents had settled in Russia and established dynasties. From the beginning of the revolution in France they were joined by thousands of French émigrés, some from the highest aristocracy, many of whom took service in the Russian army.†

Knowledge of French meant much more than just a linguistic skill. It implied familiarity with the literature of the past hundred years and with the ideas of the Enlightenment, as well as with all the pseudo-spiritual and occult fads of the day. Freemasonry had spread through the upper reaches of Russian society, and its more spiritual offshoots, such as Martinism,‡ were embraced with enthusiasm. Alexander himself had close relations with many Masons, and even founded a lodge consisting of himself, Rodion Kochelev, a follower of Saint-Martin and Swedenborg, and Aleksandr Nikolaevich Galitzine (whom he had also appointed Procurator of the Holy Synod). This seemingly paradoxical situation was symptomatic of a wider malaise, for the dependence on French culture sat uneasily with a visceral attachment to traditional Orthodox values. And while French culture ruled and society spoke French, dressed French and aped the French in everything, there had always been a concurrent resentment of France herself. The revolution had magnified this resentment, and the events of 1805–1807 had turned it into something of a national movement.

For most young officers, military service had meant little more than attending parades (the non-commissioned officers did all the training, so all they had to do was lead their men) and court festivities. The rest of the time was given over to gaming, drinking and womanising. They underwent hardly any training or military instruction. ‘We had no sense of morality, an entirely false conception of honour, very little true education and, in almost every case, a surfeit of foolish high spirits which I can only call depraved,’ wrote Prince Sergei Volkonsky, a junior officer of the Chevaliergardes.⁷