CHAPTER IV
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.