Adam Frans van der Meulen - Louis XIV Arriving in the Camp in front of Maastricht.
The Peace of Saint-Germain provides only one of many
examples of what can reasonably be called the hegemony of France during the
second half of the seventeenth century, ‘hegemony’ here being used in the
dictionary sense of ‘leadership, predominance, preponderance; especially the
leadership or predominant authority of one state of a confederacy or union over
the others’. As we have seen, out of the French monarchy’s trials and
tribulations of the 1640s and 1650s there developed an apparatus effective
enough to make France’s overwhelming demographic and material advantage tell.
No other country was blessed with human material resources so deep and so varied.
The power that resulted was given majestic visual expression in the Salon of
War at Versailles, whose decorative scheme was begun in 1678. The room is
dominated by an enormous bas-relief by Antoine Coysevox, depicting ‘Louis XIV
on horseback, trampling on his enemies and crowned by glory’, while a smaller
bas-relief below shows the muse Clio dutifully recording his exploits for
posterity. On the ceiling, the central fresco by Charles Le Brun depicts
‘France in arms, sitting on a cloud surrounded by victories’, and holding a
shield bearing the image of the Sun King. This is surrounded by four further
frescoes identifying the vanquished: an impotently menacing Spain, a collapsing
Dutch Republic, a grovelling Germany and a subdued spirit of civil strife. As if
that were not enough, next door in the Hall of Mirrors, seventeen of the
twenty-seven ceiling paintings are devoted to victories in war and diplomacy.
Well might Saint-Simon lament in 1695 that this sort of gloating triumphalism
had played a significant part in uniting the rest of Europe against the
hegemon: ‘have they not played a little part in irritating all of Europe and
causing it once again to league against the person of the king and his
kingdom?’
Louis XIV’s power, which had allowed him to reverse the
verdict of five years of warfare between Sweden and Brandenburg, rested on
several foundations. One was the settlement that brought the Thirty Years War
to an end in 1648. The Peace of Westphalia gave France very little in terms of
territory–ten towns in Alsace and the fortress of Breisach–but a great deal in
terms of security. The formal recognition of Dutch independence by Spain
greatly diminished, if it did not entirely dispel, the nightmare dating back to
the late fifteenth century of encirclement by Habsburg territory. The agreement
with the German princes forced on the Emperor Ferdinand III meant that his
father’s dreams of turning the Holy Roman Empire into a monarchical state had
receded half-way to oblivion. The soft centre of Europe was to remain soft and,
now that both France and her Swedish satrap were guarantors of the Westphalian
settlement, the way was open for future intervention in German affairs to make
sure that it stayed that way. The French diplomat who remarked that the Peace
of Westphalia was ‘one of the finest jewels in the French crown’ would have
enjoyed reading Geoffrey Barraclough’s later verdict: ‘broken, divided,
economically weak, and lacking any sense of national unity, Germany became
virtually a French protectorate: even in the imperial diet at Regensburg the
dominant voice was that of the French ambassador’.
As we shall see later, that contemptuous dismissal of the
Holy Roman Empire is at the very least exaggerated. In the short term too, the
French voice everywhere in Europe was stifled by the civil disturbances known
as the Frondes, which began just a few months after the conclusion of the Peace
of Westphalia and lasted for the best part of five years. One reason for their
prolongation was their cross-fertilization with the continuing war between
France and Spain, the only major international conflict not to have been
resolved in 1648. Neatly encapsulating this interaction between foreign and
domestic strife was the final major battle of the war, outside Dunkirk on 14
June 1658, when the French army was commanded by the vicomte de Turenne,
younger son of the duc de Bouillon, and the Spanish army by the prince de
Condé, Louis XIV’s cousin. Both men had served on both sides during the
Frondes. Moreover, on the French side there was a substantial force of English
soldiers, sent by Lord Protector Cromwell, and on the Spanish side a
substantial force of English (and Irish) soldiers, commanded by the Duke of
York, brother of the exiled Charles II. The ‘battle of the Dunes’ ended in a
decisive victory for the Anglo-French forces and paved the way for the Peace of
the Pyrenees, signed in November the following year. This took France’s
southern frontier to the eponymous mountain range by the acquisition of
Roussillon and Cerdagne, while the northern frontier was extended by the
acquisition of Artois and some fortified towns in Flanders. The prospect of far
greater gains in the future was also opened up by the marriage of Philip IV’s
daughter Maria Theresa to Louis XIV. Although she formally gave up all claims
to the Spanish throne, her renunciation was conditional on a substantial dowry
being paid, a remote contingency in view of endemic Spanish insolvency. Not
that anyone supposed that such a pledge would be allowed to interfere with the
prosecution of French interests. Back in 1646 when such a match was first
mooted, Cardinal Mazarin had stated bluntly, ‘once the Infanta marries His
Majesty, we can hope for the succession to the Spanish thrones, whatever
renunciations she has to make’.
Two years later, when Mazarin died, Louis took personal
control of his country. What is perhaps most surprising about his personal rule
is that he took so long to start throwing his weight about. In 1664 the
Pensionary of Holland, Johan de Witt, composed a prescient memoir in which he
observed that as France now had ‘a twenty-six-year-old king, vigorous of body
and spirit, who knows his mind and who acts on his own authority, who possesses
a kingdom populated by an extremely bellicose people and with very considerable
wealth’, war was inevitable, for such a king would have to ‘have an
extraordinary and almost miraculous moderation, if he stripped himself of the
ambition which is so natural to princes…to extend his frontiers’. De Witt was
the most important official of the most dynamic and prosperous republic in
Europe, but his belief that monarchs had an inbuilt expansionist streak was
well-founded. As John Lynn has argued, war was not a means to an end but an
essential attribute of sovereignty, to be pursued by a king for its own sake.
For only success in war could bestow the ‘gloire’ that formed the core of the
royal and aristocratic value-system. As Cardinal de Retz put it: ‘that which
makes men truly great and raises them above the rest of the world is the love
of la belle gloire’.
When Mazarin told his protégé that ‘it is up to you to
become the most glorious king that has ever been’, he did not have social
welfare or economic prosperity in mind. Louis got his first opportunity to
achieve martial glory when Philip IV of Spain died. On behalf of his wife,
Louis claimed parts of the Spanish Netherlands (Brabant, the marquisate of
Antwerp, Limburg, Malines, Upper Gelders, Namur) and a third of Franche-Comté
under the local ‘law of devolution’, by which the daughters of a first marriage
took precedence over the sons of a subsequent union. In fact, the right of
devolution was a private not a public law, as the Spanish could easily
demonstrate. Undeterred, in 1667 Louis prosecuted this claim by sending an army
under Turenne into the Netherlands in May and another under Condé (now back in
favour) into Franche-Comté the following February. As if to emphasize the royal
virility exemplified by this exercise, he himself set off for war in a carriage
containing, among others, his wife and two mistresses. Military success was
total, but it provoked a less agreeable diplomatic response in the shape of a
hostile triple alliance of the Dutch Republic, Sweden and England. At the Peace
of Aachen, signed on 2 May 1668, Franche-Comté had to be handed back, but
several towns in the north were gained: Bergues, Furnes, Armentières,
Oudenaarde, Courtrai, Douai, Tournai, Binche, Ath, Charleroi and–most
importantly–Lille.
This was a triumph sufficient to unleash a torrent of odes,
medals, paintings and statues, but the manner in which his progress had been
checked clearly stuck in Louis’ craw. In particular, he was outraged by the
‘ingratitude, bad faith and insupportable vanity’ of the Dutch, traditionally
France’s ally but now taking the view that a flaccid Spain was a more
attractive neighbour than a rampant France: Gallicus amicus sed non vicinus
(France as a friend but not as a neighbour). As the ‘royal historiographer’
Racine put it, the Dutch Republic had been ‘blinded by prosperity, [and so] it
failed to recognize the hand that so many times had strengthened and supported
it. Leagued with the enemies of France, it preferred to give the law to Europe
and prided itself on limiting the conquests of the King.’ To add insult to
injury, French suggestions that the two countries might partition the Spanish
Netherlands went unheeded. There were also commercial considerations at stake,
for Colbert believed that whereas the Dutch had 15–16,000 ships and the English
had 3–4,000, the French had just 600 and that, as a result, Dutch shipping
annually drained 4,000,000 livres from France. Dutch retaliation for the
protective tariffs imposed in 1667 by banning imports of wines and spirits from
France was another bone of contention.
After the slippery Charles II of England had been detached
from the Triple Alliance by the secret Treaty of Dover of 1670, the eastern
frontier had been secured by the occupation of the Duchy of Lorraine in 1670,
and the support of two strategically important German ecclesiastical states
(Cologne and Münster) had been purchased, Louis declared war on the Dutch in
April 1672. At first, the enormous French army of around 130,000, led by
Turenne, Condé and the duc de Luxembourg under the overall command of the King
in person, carried all before it, not surprisingly as it enjoyed a numerical
advantage of four to one. In twenty-two days they captured forty towns and were
within striking distance of Amsterdam, defended by a garrison of just 20,000.
Then things went wrong. Indeed, with the advantage of hindsight, it might even
be argued that this was the turning point of the reign. For Louis now committed
the same cardinal sin that was to preordain the failure of Napoleon: he forgot
that war should be nothing more than the continuation of policy by other means
and allowed military success to dictate his war aims. With total victory
apparently certain, he dictated terms to the Dutch that were ‘as brutal and
uncompromisingly vindictive as any that European powers have inflicted on each
other in the course of their history as nation states’ (Simon Schama). They
amounted to territorial, financial, economic, religious and military
subjection. As a reminder of their subservient status, a Dutch delegation was
to attend the King of France each year, bearing a medallion giving visual
expression to their repentance, subjection and gratitude for being allowed to
retain even a vestige of their independence. Just to rub it in, the cathedral
of Utrecht was reconsecrated as a Catholic place of worship and the first Mass
for a hundred years was celebrated with suitable triumphalist pomp.
In this crisis the Dutch leadership did not distinguish
itself, although victory at sea over a combined French and English fleet on 6
June showed that their enemies were not invincible. On land, the dykes were
breached to create a defensive ‘water line’ running from Muiden before
Amsterdam to Gorcum on the river Waal. Yet the mood in the councils remained
defeatist and Louis XIV might well have secured a surrender if the common
people of the towns had not risen to demand resistance and the appointment of
William of Orange to lead it. On 2 and 3 July, William was proclaimed
Stadtholder of Zealand and Holland respectively. Although the war went badly
for some months to come, the corner had been turned. And not just for the Dutch
Republic: for the first time, a major European state was in the hands of a
ruler with the necessary intelligence, determination and resources to arrest
the French juggernaut. This is one of the great might-have-beens of world
history. If Jonathan Israel is correct in his view that the ‘water line’ could
have been crossed easily for two weeks after it was flooded, because a dry
summer had reduced water levels, a final French advance might well have brought
the permanent subjection of the Dutch Republic, its navy, its commerce and its
overseas empire.
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