The Story of Mankind [139]
for every penny they
had lost at the hands of the unspeakable Jacobins who had
dared to kill their anointed king, who had abolished wigs and
who had discarded the short trousers of the court of Versailles
for the ragged pantaloons of the Parisian slums.
You may think it absurd that I should mention such a
detail. But, if you please, the Congress of Vienna was one
long succession of such absurdities and for many months the
question of ``short trousers vs. long trousers'' interested the
delegates more than the future settlement of the Saxon or
Spanish problems. His Majesty the King of Prussia went so
far as to order a pair of short ones, that he might give public
evidence of his contempt for everything revolutionary.
Another German potentate, not to be outdone in this noble
hatred for the revolution, decreed that all taxes which his subjects
had paid to the French usurper should be paid a second
time to the legitimate ruler who had loved his people from afar
while they were at the mercy of the Corsican ogre. And so on.
From one blunder to another, until one gasps and exclaims
``but why in the name of High Heaven did not the people
object?'' Why not indeed? Because the people were utterly
exhausted, were desperate, did not care what happened or how
or where or by whom they were ruled, provided there was
peace. They were sick and tired of war and revolution and
reform.
In the eighties of the previous century they had all danced
around the tree of liberty. Princes had embraced their cooks
and Duchesses had danced the Carmagnole with their lackeys
in the honest belief that the Millennium of Equality and
Fraternity had at last dawned upon this wicked world. Instead of
the Millennium they had been visited by the Revolutionary
commissary who had lodged a dozen dirty soldiers in their parlor
and had stolen the family plate when he returned to Paris to
report to his government upon the enthusiasm with which the
``liberated country'' had received the Constitution, which the
French people had presented to their good neighbours.
When they had heard how the last outbreak of revolutionary
disorder in Paris had been suppressed by a young officer, called
Bonaparte, or Buonaparte, who had turned his guns upon the
mob, they gave a sigh of relief. A little less liberty, fraternity
and equality seemed a very desirable thing. But ere long, the
young officer called Buonaparte or Bonaparte became one of
the three consuls of the French Republic, then sole consul and
finally Emperor. As he was much more efficient than any
ruler that had ever been seen before, his hand pressed heavily
upon his poor subjects. He showed them no mercy. He impressed
their sons into his armies, he married their daughters
to his generals and he took their pictures and their statues to
enrich his own museums. He turned the whole of Europe
into an armed camp and killed almost an entire generation of
men.
Now he was gone, and the people (except a few professional
military men) had but one wish. They wanted to be let alone.
For awhile they had been allowed to rule themselves, to vote
for mayors and aldermen and judges. The system had been a
terrible failure. The new rulers had been inexperienced and
extravagant. From sheer despair the people turned to the
representative men of the old Regime. ``You rule us,'' they
said, ``as you used to do. Tell us what we owe you for taxes
and leave us alone. We are busy repairing the damage of the
age of liberty.''
The men who stage-managed the famous congress certainly
did their best to satisfy this longing for rest and quiet.
The Holy Alliance, the main result of the Congress, made the
policeman the most important dignitary of the State and held
out the most terrible punishment to those who dared criticise a
single official act.
Europe had peace, but it was the peace of the cemetery.
The three most important
had lost at the hands of the unspeakable Jacobins who had
dared to kill their anointed king, who had abolished wigs and
who had discarded the short trousers of the court of Versailles
for the ragged pantaloons of the Parisian slums.
You may think it absurd that I should mention such a
detail. But, if you please, the Congress of Vienna was one
long succession of such absurdities and for many months the
question of ``short trousers vs. long trousers'' interested the
delegates more than the future settlement of the Saxon or
Spanish problems. His Majesty the King of Prussia went so
far as to order a pair of short ones, that he might give public
evidence of his contempt for everything revolutionary.
Another German potentate, not to be outdone in this noble
hatred for the revolution, decreed that all taxes which his subjects
had paid to the French usurper should be paid a second
time to the legitimate ruler who had loved his people from afar
while they were at the mercy of the Corsican ogre. And so on.
From one blunder to another, until one gasps and exclaims
``but why in the name of High Heaven did not the people
object?'' Why not indeed? Because the people were utterly
exhausted, were desperate, did not care what happened or how
or where or by whom they were ruled, provided there was
peace. They were sick and tired of war and revolution and
reform.
In the eighties of the previous century they had all danced
around the tree of liberty. Princes had embraced their cooks
and Duchesses had danced the Carmagnole with their lackeys
in the honest belief that the Millennium of Equality and
Fraternity had at last dawned upon this wicked world. Instead of
the Millennium they had been visited by the Revolutionary
commissary who had lodged a dozen dirty soldiers in their parlor
and had stolen the family plate when he returned to Paris to
report to his government upon the enthusiasm with which the
``liberated country'' had received the Constitution, which the
French people had presented to their good neighbours.
When they had heard how the last outbreak of revolutionary
disorder in Paris had been suppressed by a young officer, called
Bonaparte, or Buonaparte, who had turned his guns upon the
mob, they gave a sigh of relief. A little less liberty, fraternity
and equality seemed a very desirable thing. But ere long, the
young officer called Buonaparte or Bonaparte became one of
the three consuls of the French Republic, then sole consul and
finally Emperor. As he was much more efficient than any
ruler that had ever been seen before, his hand pressed heavily
upon his poor subjects. He showed them no mercy. He impressed
their sons into his armies, he married their daughters
to his generals and he took their pictures and their statues to
enrich his own museums. He turned the whole of Europe
into an armed camp and killed almost an entire generation of
men.
Now he was gone, and the people (except a few professional
military men) had but one wish. They wanted to be let alone.
For awhile they had been allowed to rule themselves, to vote
for mayors and aldermen and judges. The system had been a
terrible failure. The new rulers had been inexperienced and
extravagant. From sheer despair the people turned to the
representative men of the old Regime. ``You rule us,'' they
said, ``as you used to do. Tell us what we owe you for taxes
and leave us alone. We are busy repairing the damage of the
age of liberty.''
The men who stage-managed the famous congress certainly
did their best to satisfy this longing for rest and quiet.
The Holy Alliance, the main result of the Congress, made the
policeman the most important dignitary of the State and held
out the most terrible punishment to those who dared criticise a
single official act.
Europe had peace, but it was the peace of the cemetery.
The three most important