CHAPTER XIII.
There had been a time when two nations in Europe could fight each other to the death without disturbing their neighbors, but since there had developed in the sixteenth century that larger unity of European states, there was no such isolated security.
So when, in 1755, England and France came into collision over the boundaries of their American colonies, the shock was felt all over Europe. Just as the earthquake which swallowed up Lisbon at that very time had made the shores of Lake Ontario tremble, so the peace of Germany, which had lasted for eleven years, was broken by an event in far-off Canada.
The two contending parties, England and France, began after the fashion of the time to look about for allies. Maria Theresa, who had invitations from both countries to join them, was considering which could best serve her own private interests. England, since 1714, had been ruled by Hanoverian kings, which practically annexed her to Hanover. It was by no means sure that she could get assistance from that nation in recovering Silesia—which was to be the price of her alliance. She decided that her best policy was to secure the aid of Louis XV., who would be glad to help her in her plans against Frederick, in return for the assistance of Austria in this war with England.
As astute and profound as any statesman in Europe, this wonderful Empress adopted means and methods entirely feminine to carry out her immense design.
She knew that Elizabeth, Empress of Russia, was mortally offended with the King of Prussia, on account of some disparaging remarks he had made about her, so she deftly used that to her own advantage. Then—perfectly understanding how to reach the enslaved Louis XV.—she wrote a flattering letter to Mme. de Pompadour, then in the full tide of her ascendency over the king.
With the greatest secrecy these negotiations were carried on, and at last the compact between the three great powers was concluded and everything ready to commence a war upon Prussia in the spring of 1757; even to the agreement as to the way in which they should cut up and divide among themselves the kingdom of Prussia!
Frederick, through secret agents, was perfectly well informed of their plans. He saw that his ruin was determined upon, and could only be prevented by unhesitating courage. He determined to anticipate them. Before the allied armies were ready, he made one of his catlike leaps into the neutral territory of Saxony, and was in Dresden, half way to Prague, with seventy thousand men.
This so disconcerted the plans of the allies that there was a pause, and conferences were held, in which it was concluded to ask Sweden to join the coalition. Finally, that almost forgotten body, the Diet of the German Empire, formally declared war against Prussia, and the Third Silesian War, or the Seven Years' War, had commenced.
As the avowed object of this great combination was not the recovery of Silesia but the dismemberment of the kingdom, to deprive Frederick of his royal title, and to reduce him to a simple Margrave of Brandenburg, it is easy to see the incentive he had to great deeds.
England and a few small German States were his allies; but, as George II. heartily disliked him, he received small assistance from him, and stood practically alone with half of Europe allied against him.
There were great victories and great defeats during the seven years which followed. There were times when the cause of Prussia seemed lost, and other times when that of the Allies appeared hopeless. But the tide of victory more often set toward Frederick's standard than that of his adversaries. He defeated the Austrians at Prague; the Imperial and French army at Rossbach; a Russian army at Zorndorf; and these and a hundred other names stand in the annals of Prussia for monumental courage, daring, and sacrifice.
In the confused narrative of advancing and retreating armies, of battles and of slaughter, but one distinct impression remains. That is amazement—amazement that so many thousands were willing at the bidding of one ambitious man to die, to lay down their bodies in that heap of dead, for Prussia's greatness to rise upon! That not one was ready to reproach him for having brought these calamities upon them for the sake of Silesia; but instead, with twenty thousand still lying unburied upon one field, that they respond with infatuated enthusiasm to his appeal for more!
But Prussia owes her rise to just such infatuation as this. Acquisition and conquest are written on her foundation stones, the chief of which were laid by her Great Frederick.
It is pleasant to tell of peace once more. The Allies, wearied of the long war, gradually withdrew from Austria. Being unable to carry it on alone, Maria Theresa was compelled to abandon her dream of ruining Frederick. With bitterness of heart and humiliation she consented to give up Silesia forever as the price of a peace she did not desire. In 1763, the articles were signed (the Peace of Hubertsburg) and the Seven Years' War was over.
Frederick was now called "the Great" throughout Europe; and Prussia took her place among the "Five Great Powers."
The next thing to be done was to repair the desolation left by seven years of war. Nearly fifteen thousand houses were in ashes. So many men had been consumed in the army that there were not enough left to till the fields, nor horses to draw the harvest.
The practical King, anticipating this, had been enforcing the cultivation of the much despised potato; and this useful tuber saved Prussia and Silesia from famine, and some of their neighbors as well. For as many as twenty thousand famishing people came from the trampled and burnt corn-fields of Bohemia to feed upon the Prussian potato and live.
Again the people set about the oft-repeated task of repairing the devastation of war. Indeed for 150 years they had always been either enduring the horrors of a great conflict, or healing its wounds and building up the waste places it had made. Can we wonder that they were strong and serious? The weaklings were winnowed out by these great storms, and the chastened souls of those who survived knew little of pleasure. Religion, which had once been their solace and refuge, had lost much of its power on account of the bitterness of sectarian strife.
A few men groping for a solution of the problems of sin and suffering, and for the meaning of this troubled existence, thought they had found it in the new philosophy. France, under the teachings of Voltaire and Rousseau, had cast off the restraints of religious faith without providing any substitute, but Germany, more provident, was building a spacious house for the soul's refuge when the old was demolished; untrammeled freedom of thought was inscribed upon its doors, and PHILOSOPHY was enshrined within!
All this tumultuous inner life was growth: the growth and unfolding of a great and earnest soul; and the awakening of new capacities for being and doing. There was a rapturous surprise in discovering these capacities, and speculative thought and literature became an absorbing passion.