A. Wess Mitchell: Great Power Diplomacy: The Skill of Statecraft from Attila the Hun to Henry Kissinger. Chapters Six and Seven. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2022.

 

It was the consolidation of the German states into one nation-state that rearranged European and, finally, world geopolitics in the second half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. Modern Germany had a larger population than any European state except Russia, a larger GDP than any European state except Britain, and occupied more territory than the Germany of today. The architect of that consolidation was Reich Chancellor Otto von Bismarck. Although Bismarck has been associated with the policy of ‘iron and blood,’ a phrase from his 1862 speech preparing Germans for wars against Denmark, Austria, and France, Mitchell shows that he was far from a simple militarist, but in fact a state builder and diplomat. As a state builder, he embraced no dogma except nationalism, no regime but monarchy; as a diplomat, he embraced no dogma but nationalist Realpolitik. When asked if he was pro-Russian or pro-Western, “I have always answered: I am a Prussian.”

As such, he understood that his Prussianized Germany could be no Austria, with a defensive strategy. Located squarely on the Great European Plain, Germany had no natural boundaries, no mountains to protect it from attackers. This lent Germans to militarism, as embodied by Field Marshall Helmuth von Moltke. Following the teachings of the Prussian military scholar Carl von Clausewitz, Moltke always sought the “decisive battle,” the one that would destroy the enemy army. He went so far as to reject Clausewitz’s preference for civilian control of the military during wartime, when “the job of politicians was to get out of the way.” His overall strategy was to defeat France first (which he did, in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71) and Russia, which he did not get the chance to do.

Bismarck opposed him on the Eastern Question. Beginning in 1887, when Russian troops reportedly began to move toward the Austria-Hungarian border, Moltke and the other generals wanted to continue the iron and blood strategy that had prevailed in the previous three wars. Bismarck saw that Russia was no small or medium-sized country. Twice the size of Germany, assured of an alliance with the French, with their ambitions for revanche against the humiliation of 1871, Russia could exploit the vulnerabilities of newly constituted Germany, “his new creation.” In the years since the victory over France, Bismarck forged and cultivated “an intricate system of alliances designed to avoid that scenario and give Germany the space she needed to develop as a great power,” a system centered on a triangular alliance with Austria-Hungary in the south, Russia in the east. All powers other than France should be put in a position to need Germany. Those needy powers should be “held apart from coalitions against us by their relations to each other,” relations governed by mutual distrust. To prevent Russian conquest of territory in Austria-Hungary, that shaky coalition needed to be preserved; France should be encouraged in their colonization of Africa, which kept them embroiled in distant lands; the Russian alliance needed constant maintenance, lest the czar align with France against Germany. “The heart of Bismarck’s disagreement with the generals” under these circumstances was his sense that “rather than making Germany more secure…military buildups and preventive war would bring about the very catastrophe they were meant to prevent,” terrifying the Austrians and the Russians instead of building their confidence in German bona fides. But no: “The secret to politics,” Bismarck insisted, is and will remain “a good treaty with Russia.” Such a treaty reinforced dynastic ties (Wilhelm I was Czar Alexander II’s uncle), financial ties (Russian railways were financed by German banks), and military ties (Germany was Russia’ main arms supplier). 

There was a flaw in this strategy. In expelling Austria from the German Confederation in 1866, ridding Prussia of its only possible rival for dominance therein, Austria had turned its geopolitical sights on the Balkans, putting it “into increased competition with Russia.” To prevent this competition from erupting into war, Bismarck first arranged a secret mutual defense pact with Russia, then a treaty with both Russia and Austria-Hungary whereby each pledged to the others to enter into tripartite consultations if any dispute arose. The League of the Three Emperors eventually became “a three-way pact for preserving peace in the Balkans.” Mitchell observes that this was similar to Metternich’s Holy Alliance of the first decades of the century, except that this time Berlin dominated Vienna. As the putative peacemaker in the Balkans, Germany could negotiate not only with its alliance partners but with the Ottomans and the British, who also had interests there.

The arrangement began to unravel in Moscow. The czar was unhappy with Bulgaria, which had aligned with the western powers. Not only did Alexander refuse to renew the League in 1887, but he also began to explore the alliance with France that Bismarck had hoped to head off. In his last three years as Chancellor, he increased military spending and moved toward closer relations with Britain and Italy in an effort to contain France. More, he undertook “the final grand diplomatic maneuver” of his tenure in office, the Reinsurance Treaty with Russia. This treaty mutually pledged “benevolent neutrality” between the two countries and joint efforts to “localize the conflict,” should either party “find itself at war with a third Great Power” unless the war occurred as a result of a German attack on France or a Russian attack on Austria-Hungary. Bismarck also conceded to Russia “preponderant and decisive influence in Bulgaria”—a small price to pay for Germany, if not for the Bulgarians. As Bismarck assured British Prime Minister Lord Salisbury, Germany could not afford to see Austria-Hungary conquered or chopped up by the Russians, as that would leave Germany exposed to a Franco-Russian assault. Salisbury was convinced and made an exception to Britain’s general preference for ‘splendid isolation’ from Continental affairs when it came to military security commitments. The crisis of 1887 had been averted. “That Europe didn’t go to war in 1887 or 1888 was primarily due to Bismarck’s diplomacy.” 

“What distinguished Bismarck from the generals is that he was enough of a realist to see that the German Empire would not be able to attain a lasting security by primarily military means.” While he had unhesitatingly backed military action in previous decades, “when it suited the state’s needs,” those needs had changed. A unified Germany had different fish to fry, and a different recipe with which to prepare them for its now more delicate appetite. Mitchell remarks that “military power was a crucial enabler to Bismarck’s diplomatic success,” but military power need not be expended in order to be effective. As an island country, Britain enjoyed the geographical foundation for a pick-and-choose foreign policy. What Britain had geographically, Bismarck aimed at through diplomacy: “What Germany got most through her treaties was the ability to exercise influence over other powers’ actions while maintaining flexibility in her own”—the “closest that a great power” on the European continent could get to a noncommittal foreign policy.” The flaw was the very intelligence of Bismarck, the intricacy of his secret arrangement. He was a suspect man. His Realpolitik turned unrealistic when suspicions of German intentions, and of Germany military power, intensified.

We cannot know if Bismarck could have kept the game going, or for how long. After his patron Wilhelm I died, “the strutting and insecure Wilhelm II” fired him. Wilhelm, along with the next generation of German generals—even more aggressive than the ones Bismarck had outmaneuvered [1]—frightened the rest of Europe sufficiently to put Europe on the path to the First World War, a war in which “Germany found herself embroiled, for the first time since Frederick the Great, in a war on two fronts.” By 1914, “Bismarck’s system failed not so much because his successors didn’t understand it but because they rejected it, opting instead for a simpler and seemingly more dignified military-intensive security.”

With this, Mitchell turns to British diplomacy in the years before each of the two world wars the Germans widened in the first instance and triggered in the second. With Germany’s consolidation and defeat of Austria and France, followed by its industrial and technological advances in the final three decades of the nineteenth century, British statesmen understood that they needed allies. But who? At the turn of the century, the Americans were still not friends and France might prefer alliance with Russia to alliance with Albion perfide. “Even if they never congealed into a hostile bloc, the presence of so many powerful states at so many points on the compass created the prospect of a multifront dilemma well beyond the country’s ability to manage.” It wasn’t as if Great Britain wasn’t great. The Empire ruled one-fourth of the world population—more than “those of the next four great powers combined.” It shared nearly a quarter of world trade and out-produced mainland Europe in steel. Its fleet ruled the seas, worldwide, in accordance with its “Two Power Standard”: “maintaining a navy at least as big as those of the next two most powerful states combined.” Its imperial holdings enabled it to support both its navy and its international shipping with a worldwide network of ports and coaling stations. All of this notwithstanding, the Boer War, which required 500,000 British and colonial troops to prosecute, showed that the far-flung British Empire had also stretched itself dangerously thin. To build a still bigger navy was untenable. Britain needed to reduce the number of potential enemies, then “focus its strength on the places that mattered most, which were the British home islands and the Mediterranean. That would require diplomacy.

Charles Henry Keith Petty-Fitzmorris, fifth Marquess of Lansdowne, succeed Lord Salisbury as foreign secretary. Salisbury had already gathered a capable Foreign Office staff of some fifty persons, each placed in one of six departments that oversaw the several major regions of the world. Those persons were smart and well-informed. “The Foreign Office represented Britain’s accumulated institutional memory a great power: the ‘digestive organ’ by which events could be conceptualized against the basis of Britain’s past experiences, and translated into practical policy.” Lansdowne himself came to office with substantial experience overseas, first as governor-general of Canada, then as viceroy of India. He understood “just how vulnerable the empire had become at its outermost frontiers.” He did not want to relinquish Britain’s independence of action in foreign matters, sometimes called its ‘splendid isolation’ from Europe’s continental broils. To avoid joining an alliance there, he preferred to “ameliorat[e] difficulties with as many rivals as possible.” “In these times,” he observed, “no nation which intends to take its part in the affair of the civilized world can venture to stand entirely alone.”

British diplomats first negotiated a naval treaty with the United States, so that the British navy could transfer its ships to more dangerous waters than those in the Western Hemisphere. They then approached Japan, forming a mutual defense treaty, enabling the British to concentrate their Asia-based fleet nearer to their biggest colony, India, and to assist its army, “bogged down in a long and grinding war in South Africa” against the Dutch settlers, the Boers. Colonial Secretary Joseph Chamberlain had maintained that Britain should work towards alliances or at least settlements with the United States, Germany, and Japan to contain any Franco-Russian combination. Lansdowne concurred. The resulting overtures resulted in the Hay-Paunceforte Treaty with the U.S. in 1901, recognizing exclusive American control of the Isthmus of Panama, and a naval treaty with Japan, but Germany balked, regarding Britain as an unsure ally in any future continental fight. Lansdowne then turned to France, and in April 1904 the two countries agreed to recognize their English rights in Egypt, French rights in Morocco. They also resolved colonial border disputes in Africa and Southeast Asia. In this, Landsdowne won the applause of the younger Foreign Office administrators, who viewed Germany as a more serious threat to Britain than France. As for Russia, its defeat by Japan in 1905 lowered its geostrategic standing in Asia, while increasing the threat of a Russo-German alliance, which Kaiser Wilhelm II was in fact seeking. Britain continued attempts to reconcile British and Russian interests in Central Asia, and these did work out, at the cost of relinquishing any claim to Tibet, geostrategically important in relation to India.

Overall, “Lansdowne’s diplomacy facilitated the concentration of naval power” without incurring “ruinous financial outlays.” Britain closed three of its nine overseas naval stations—the ones in America’s sphere of influence—and reduced the size of its Asian fleet, intensifying its assets in Europe in the years before the First World War. In addition to the Tibet concession, Britain also gave up on halting the Panama Canal project, “which its naval planners rightly foresaw would forever alter the balance of power in the Atlantic” by enabling the United States to move ships from coast to coast, even as the Mississippi River had long enabled it to move commercial shipping between north to south to and from the Gulf of Mexico. And in conceding naval dominance in East Asia to Japan, Britain relinquished “the status of top naval power to an Asiatic state without a long-term plan for regaining her position there”—with deadly results in the decades following the Great War. France came to dominate most of northern and equatorial Africa, while Russia benefited from trade routes it now indisputably controlled in Central Asia, leverage that resulted in political and economic advantages for the Soviet Union, whose existence no one beyond the small knot of Bolsheviks foresaw at the time. In the impending war, however, Britain enjoyed alliances with France, the United States, Russia, and Japan—just enough to defeat powerful Germany and the now-hapless Austro-Hungarians and Ottoman Turks. Under the terms of the 1919 peace treaties, “the German and Ottoman empires were disassembled, and big chunks, including choice portions of Africa and the Middle East, were transferred to Britain,” adding to the acquisition of German naval and merchant vessels, a year earlier. This gave Britain “the widest margin of naval superiority in her history.”

As has long been understood, the Woodrow Wilson-David Lloyd George notion of a new diplomacy, one of open covenants, openly arrived at, with disputes settled in a neo-Kantian League of Nations—all assuming not a balance but what Wilson called a “community of power”—simply didn’t work. “Where the old diplomacy had operated on the rule that ‘conferences only succeed when their results are arranged beforehand,’ the new diplomacy left everything to be settled at the conference, in a compressed timespan,” putting statesman under self-imposed pressure to “have something glitzy to show for their labors,” namely “elaborate communiques that masked disagreements and left the underlying problem,” whatever it might be, “to be resolved at a later date.” Mitchell comments, “Diplomacy, it turned out, was a good deal harder than the politicians had imagined.” 

Diplomacy of the new sort worked with the like-minded American regime and the not-so-like-minded but allied Japanese regime. The three countries met at the Washington Naval Conference in 1921-22, agreeing to freeze warship tonnage, halting the construction of navy ships for ten years and to scrap many of the existing ones. This gave Britain confidence that the U.S. would refrain from using its manufacturing power to build “a fleet far outstripping her own,” thereby enabling it to continue to police the British Empire. 

Unfortunately, Japan was less cooperative in reality than it was ‘on paper,’ moving to achieve dominance in East Asia on the basis of the supposed racial superiority of Japanese to Chinese, Koreans, Filipinos, and others. Communism in Russia, fascism in Italy, and finally Nazism in Germany were regime enemies of Britain, much closer to home. The British economy, saddled by war debt, left its land army weakened and its people “spiritually sapped,” largely pacifistic. And quite realistically, the British Admiralty told the cabinet that the navy could not fight a two-front war with Japan and “the strongest European naval Power,” which by 1934 was Nazi Germany. By 1937, the Chiefs of Staff implored the cabinet to “reduce the number of potential enemies,” just as the diplomats had done in the years prior to the Great War. With Japanese rulers intending to seize British and American territories in Asia, with the Soviet Union under Stalin an implacable enemy, with the worry that an alliance with France would only serve to provoke Germany, the decidedly more powerful of the two nearest continental great powers, British prospects had dimmed.

It was in line with all of this that Joseph Chamberlain’s son, Neville, famously pursued another policy of appeasement in 1938, this one based on a much thinner margin of error, a margin narrowed by economic depression and substantially weaker military strength. The political atmosphere had changed, too, with the Germans buoyant under the initial results of Nazism, the British, “most of whom had lost menfolk in the Great War,” eager for ‘peace in our time.’ For its part, the British ruling class, very much including its foreign policy establishment, wanted to give the Germans a break, mindful of “the harsh terms that they regretted imposing on Germany after the previous war.” This is not to say that the Brits imagined Hitler to be genuinely appeasable. They did suppose that they could buy a bit of time. 

Chamberlain himself saw that Germany, even in its condition of economic recovery from the Great Depression, had recovered on the basis of massive state investments in manufacturing, investments that by definition could not be sustained. Germany would need a short war. If Germany ventured to do so, “Chamberlain reckoned” that “he could trigger an Anglo-French-U.S. coalition whose industrial powers far outstripped those of the Reich.” Surely Hitler understood that. Therefore, the right strategy was to placate Hitler “at a reasonable price to Britain,” then turn to negotiations with Japan, “sequenc[ing] the strategic dangers facing the country while avoiding a military buildup on a scale that would overwhelm Britain’s fragile economy.” 

Chamberlain met with Hitler twice before the notorious meeting at Munich. In the aftermath of the useless agreement reached there, Hitler continued to seize territory, culminating in his attack on Poland, “where Chamberlain finally drew the line.” The British failure to stop Hitler with words led Stalin, in a way paradoxically, to negotiate his own pact with the Führer, with the same eventual result. While it is true that Chamberlain had made the correct prediction—Hitler could not sustain a long war—that war “came at the cost of eighty million lives and the ultimate demise of the British Empire.” Intending to “quiet Europe in order to concentrate attention on Asia,” he “achieved the opposite, emboldening Germany and thereby reducing the bandwidth that Britain could devote to Japan.” In terms of his negotiation strategy, his failure was to allow Hitler “to set the pace and parameters of negotiations,” and even to accept “Hitler’s aims as the basis for negotiation and abandoning his own positions at the slightest indication of displeasure.” He attempted “to change the mindset of a mercurial ruler,” as if “the problems in international relations are the result of misunderstandings that can be cleared up like disagreements between individuals.” Mitchell acutely observes that such a misguided diplomatic strategy and the equally misguided diplomatic techniques that followed from it typify a mindset easily fostered by “liberal democracy,” namely, that “conflicts arise not because the other side’s interests collide with one’s own but because he is misunderstood, and the corollary, that conflict can be avoided through the patient application of reason and goodwill.” But of course, Hitlerian tyranny, and many others, utterly despised reason and goodwill as defined by liberal democrats/commercial republicans, regarding them as signs of contemptible weakness of will and of character. In the case of Chamberlain, and indeed of the British people generally, the regime ethos had been exacerbated by “three decades of decline not only materially but spiritually.” 

In its overall geostrategic performance over two centuries, “Britain forms the connective tissue between the classical European states-system and the global power blocs of the 20th century” as “the last mistress of the balance of power and the first operator of worldwide collective security.” As it has happened, the United States has inherited “Britain’s role and the burdens it entailed.” And perhaps Russia, followed now by China, have set themselves in the place of Germany?

 

Note

1. See Charles de Gaulle: The Enemy’s House Divided. Robert Eden translation. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002.

A. Wess Mitchell: Great Power Diplomacy: The Skill of Statecraft from Attila the Hun to Henry Kissinger. Chapters Four and Five. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2022.

 

In 1515, Francis I, the recently crowned king of France, then under the Valois dynasty, was captured by the Austrians at the Battle of Pavia and imprisoned by the Hapsburg emperor, Charles I. The Queen Regent, Louise of Savoy, formally requested the intervention of the Ottoman sultan, Suleiman I, an entreaty that “scandalized Christendom.” Muslims were the enemy. But Mitchell sees in this policy “a blueprint for a continent-wide grand strategy rooted in the use of alliances and state interest that would culminate, a century later, in France’s rise to European preeminence and the creation of the modern states system under one of diplomacy’s greatest practitioners, Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal de Richelieu.”

Like Byzantium and Venice before it, France was surrounded by enemies. That pioneer of modern statebuilding, Henry VIII, plotted recovery of the territories England had ruled in northwestern France before the Hundred Years’ War. Elsewhere, the sprawling Hapsburg empire ruled substantial territories in Central Europe, Italy, and the Iberian peninsula. Charles V, king of Spain and emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, continued to exhibit “an iron determination to expand his inheritance by all means necessary,” and France was on the list. 

France had one advantage: compactness. French territory was not disjointed, as were the lands of Charles and Henry (who had more than one island in his kingdom). “French geography encouraged centralization,” that is, statism, thanks to its coherent river systems, north and south. No mountain ranges impeded movement of troops within it. But statism was still mostly potential, with monarchic rule “constrained by the particular privileges of towns and provinces, by the persistence of large ducal fiefs and foreign enclaves, and by the absence of a shared language and code of law”; most of the French didn’t speak French, and the Napoleonic Code was some three centuries distant. Still, the French understood the dangers all around them, and warfare is a great centralizer of governments. “The need to build and maintain larger armies spurred kings to assert greater central control over the resources of their realms, which meant reigning in the feudal lords with whom they had long shared power.” Centralization already had a foundation by Francis’s time, as the Estates-General did not wield the power of the purse; the king could collect taxes directly. The Parlement of Paris, which combined the judicial power with those of an upper legislative chamber, “derived its power from the king.” Francis could not rule as an ‘absolute’ monarch, as the Bourbon Louis XIV would do, but political writers had begun to ‘theorize’ monarchs as persons “bound neither by duty to the populace nor by obligations to the nobility, but only to the dictates of divine and natural law.” Those laws obligated them to defend the realm, not to promote “Christian virtue.” In this, “they were following in the footsteps of the Italians.” 

Charles V proposed exchanging Francis for French territories, transfer of territories in the north to England, and allowing the Duc de Bourbon, “Francis’s French rival,” to establish “a kind of state-in-miniature inside France.” That is, he proposed to subordinate France to himself. Louise refused to pay such an intolerable price for her son’s return, but in 1526 Francis agreed to the swap, which he seemed to guarantee by giving the Hapsburgs his sons as hostages. Once safely back on French soil, however, he reneged. That might well have provoked a disastrous war. But his mother had used the intervening decade-and-a-half to some advantage. France wasn’t the only European country worried by the Holy Roman Empire. 

“The hinge of Louise’s strategy was England.” She aimed at disengaging it from its alliance with the Hapsburgs, to eliminate the threat of a two-front war. Her argument to Henry was simple: instead of my territory, take my cash. This led to the Treaty of the More—a pun worthy of Shakespeare, their contemporary—which came with a promise from Henry to push for Francis’s release. Nor did Louise neglect the continent; “she sent agents to the German princes siding with Martin Luther in his escalating dispute with the emperor” and she appealed to Venice and Rome to form a coalition to remove the Habsburgs from Italy. And she reached out to the Ottomans. 

By the time of her son’s return, France had positioned itself to force Charles V to think twice about a punitive war. A scholar and patron of arts and letters, Francis readily justified his refusal to comply with the treaty “on the grounds that under natural law, a ruler could not give away any part of his demesne without obtaining the permission of his people.” He reinforced his mother’s diplomatic overtures by forging a formal alliance with England in the spring of 1527 and continued to court German Protestants, along with the ever-restive Poles. But it was “the breadth and audacity of the Franco-Ottoman alliance” that “shocked Europe,” this “blasphemous union of the lily and the crescent,” as its critics sniped. The renowned Italian writer Pietro Aretino exclaimed, “You have thrust the sword of the Ottoman into the heart of Christendom!” In the war itself, France fared poorly, saved “only by the military incompetence” of its enemies. But, Mitchell observes, the example of French diplomatic success stands as an example of a country confronted with military threats on several fronts “foist[ing] the problem back” onto his main rival, notwithstanding the religious differences between his country and a principal ally. In Francis’s reign “we see the stirrings of a French school of diplomacy geared to the conscious cultivation of a European states system.”

After Francis had passed from the scene, three Valois kings succeeded him, after which the male line of the dynasty died out. The first Bourbon, Henry IV, married a Valois, uniting the two rival families; he also attempted to unite French Catholics and the Huguenots. His reward was assassination. Henry’s son, Louis XIII, ascended the throne in 1610 as a child. His mother, a Medici, ruling in his stead, rather badly, and was exiled by him in 1617; her closest advisers were killed. The Thirty Years’ War, initially a civil war of religion within the Holy Roman Empire, broke out a year later. In 1624, Louis made the most important decision of his thirty-three-year reign, appointing Richelieu as his principal minister. The Empire was not only divided religiously but it had also been divided into Spanish and Austrian lines, with the Austrian Habsburgs looking east toward Central Europe and the Spanish Hapsburgs concentrating their attention on the New World. Spain was “the greater threat” to France, having invaded France a few years earlier in an attempt to overthrow Louis’s father. Although predominantly Catholic France might have supported the Hapsburgs in their civil war against Protestants, they could not do so, given the geopolitical threat the empire posed. 

Instead, Richelieu undertook la guerre couverte. Remaining formally at peace with Spain “for the time being,” Richelieu forged a system of alliances against the empire. He prudently “avoided Francis I’s mistake of being sucked into Italian affairs,” focusing instead on Germany and its Protestant states, intending to prevent Habsburg consolidation of power there. “If the Habsburgs could be stopped in Germany, they would remain, from France’s perspective, a largely peripheral empire confined to Spain and Austria.” ‘Germany’ was not united; unification of the some thirty-seven German states would only occur two centuries later. Richelieu encouraged German Protestants to remain “in the fight against the Hapsburgs” while working to pry German Catholic states away from “the Imperial cause.” In the event, he did sign a secret treaty with Bavaria, agreeing to a defensive alliance. At the same time, he made overtures to the Low Countries, Denmark, and Sweden, with whose monarch, Gustavus Adolphus, France entered into alliance in 1631. As the Byzantines and the Venetians knew, money lubricated good relations and were a lot less expensive than the cost of maintaining larger armies.

As with Byzantium and Austria, such a complex diplomatic strategy required the establishment of a foreign policy bureaucracy to assist in its management. “The very creation of such an entity gave institutional expression to diplomacy as a standing preoccupation of the state, distinct from war, with its own budget, staff, and voice in high policy.” Accordingly, Richelieu systematized French foreign policy, with its ambassadors abroad now “tightly tethered to a professional secretariat back home.” 

Richelieu’s aim was “a Europe of sovereign states Catholic and Protestant, whose rights would be enshrined in law and held together by an equilibrium underwritten by its largest powers,” among whom France would hold the balance. The smaller states would be protected. The balance of power would “ensure le repos de la chrétienté.” Mitchell knows that “what ultimately gave French diplomacy its compelling energy was the country’s capacity for large-scale military action.” When its envoys spoke, foreigners listened. But the threat of military intervention came with rational justification: Do you really want to descend into religious warfare, again? Do small states not deserve to have their rights, especially their “liberties” or self-government, respected as much as big states do? Does not the law of nations say that all states have such rights? “By appealing to custom and law as the basis for this policy, rather than the power principle, French kings elevated self-interest to a national mission.” Such arguments required that French statesmen practice what they preached. “The minute [France] switched to a policy of active conquest it would be seen not as a protector but as an opportunistic predator.” When Louis XIV took the throne a year after Richelieu’s death in 1642, he initially followed the advice of the Richelieu’s successor, Mazarin; the 1648 Peace of Westphalia ended the Thirty Years’ War and kept Europe at peace for a generation. But in the 1660s, Louis abandoned the Richelieu-Mazarin strategy, adopting a policy of “security through conquest,” which ended the peace of Europe. And the great power France had neutralized led the charge against France.

In 1755, after ninety years of intermittent war, Austria saw that Prussia, ruled by the brilliant and ruthless Frederick the Great, had arisen as a new danger to Europe generally and to Austria in particular, having seized and held Austria’s most valuable territory, Silesia, in two wars, with a third (also won by Prussia) to follow the next year. The Austrian empress, Maria Theresa, did not rule a thoroughly modernized state, as Austria consisted of “a wild assortment of territories, inhabited by more than a dozen ethnicities,” which “complicated its leaders’ ability to create a powerful central government capable of mobilizing resources for war.” And it was surrounded by enemies.

Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz-Rittburg was Maria Theresa’s most sagacious cabinet minister. In 1749, he wrote a memorandum proposing “nothing less than a comprehensive overhaul of Hapsburg foreign policy” in light of the Prussian menace. Austria needed allies. That required detente with France, hitherto Austria’s “archenemy”—a radical proposal, indeed, since “rivalry with the Bourbons was part of the fixed furniture of Habsburg statecraft,” and one that might easily Austria’s alliances with England and Holland. But those sea powers had proved inadequate for Austrian security. Austria needed the assistance of “nearby land powers—big players, with real military heft, like France and Russia.” 

Austria also needed a much more coherent foreign policy apparatus. Its Privy Conference had charge of national security, overseeing the Austrian Court Chancellery, headed by the Chancellor, effectively the foreign minister. In the second quarter of the eighteenth century, another institution was established, the Chancellery of State, headed by the State Secretary. This led to confusion, which Kaunitz set out to eliminate by “install[ing] modern administration on the French model”: a foreign minister (himself), a deputy minister, three department heads, all of whom practiced regular reporting from the ambassadors and routinized office functions. Foreign diplomats were no longer allowed to approach the empress’s advisors directly. The Chancellery, not the Privy Conference, became “the real locus of policy.” This enabled the empress and her foreign minister to implement a coherent new policy, which otherwise would have been stymied: to break with the maritime countries and ally with France and other Catholic countries against the Protestants of Prussia.

When the French and their Indian allies defeated and mortally wounded British General Edward Braddock in the July 1755 Battle of the Monongahela, Kaunitz seized the moment to persuade the Privy Conference to adopt his policy, implemented by offering Louis XV the part of the Austrian Netherlands now called ‘Belgium’ in exchange for French territories in Italy. The French were reluctant, at first, but when Frederick successfully treated with England the following year, they began to see merit in the offer, and in the reconstitution of their alliance structure. Louis pledged military aid to Austria, if the Habsburgs were attacked by a “third party”—obviously, Prussia. Mitchell judges that “it would be hard to find a more lopsidedly advantageous arrangement in diplomatic history.” Kaunitz had no use for the Austrian Netherlands, preferred the southern sphere of influence, Italy (well away from Prussia), and could hope for French military assistance to regain Silesia, if Prussia attacked. Further, France was unthreatened by Prussia and was sending troops needed in North America to a bordering country on continental Europe, instead. Kaunitz then reached out to the Holy Roman Empire, Russia, and the Ottomans in what was called his renversement des alliances. 

Now, Prussia was the isolated country. Its rival, Austria, had doubled the military strength it could field. Its new ally, England, was a naval power, unable to offer much military help on the continent. Unfortunately for the Austrians, their military officers were less skilled than their diplomatic corps. In the Seven Years’ War, the Habsburg coalition defeated Prussia repeatedly, driving its army back into its own territory, “but each time, cautious Austrian commanders frittered away their victories and allowed Frederick to bounce back.” When Czarina Elisabeth died and “her erratic son, Peter III,” succeeded her, he abandoned Austria and allied with Prussia, “allowing Frederick to focus his full attention on Austria” and to “force Maria Theresa to the negotiating table,” where she was unable to recover Silesia. Kaunitz’s balance-of-power system might have worked, had the other elements of the Austrian regime met the challenge. They didn’t. With the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which had buffered Austria from Russia, now in disarray, Austria could either do nothing other than watch Russia and Prussia carve it up or join in the carving. They chose the latter, agreeing to the first partition of Poland in 1772. Kaunitz thus added more than 30,000 square miles of territory and 2.65 million people to the empire—a mixed blessing, since now the acquisitions would need to be governed by the none-too-coherent Austrian state apparatus. He had avoided war, temporarily, at the cost of increased dependence upon Russia, which he had brought back into alliance with Austria; he needed it as a counterweight to Prussia, which had also gained territory and population. “As Europe’s sprawling middle power, Austria could never win in these games.”

And the games continued. The French Revolution and Napoleon made France a new menace to Austria, this time not only a threat to its territories but to its imperial structure and its regime. Austria lost some of its territory in 1797, but this was only a prelude to Napoleon’s dismantling of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806 and to the 1807 agreement between the French emperor and Czar Alexander I, which “divided Europe between them.” A last, desperate war Austria launched two years later “ended with her comprehensive defeat” and the loss of 32,000 square miles of territory along with independence. As an act of propitiation, “the Austrian emperor, Francis I, gave his eldest daughter, Marie Louise,” the great-niece of Marie Antoinette, in marriage “to the Corsican ogre.” And while Napoleon finally met his Waterloo, Austria suffered more combat fatalities than any other country, lost one-third of its population and territory, and incurred a huge war debt. 

Once again, diplomacy, so often the art of the weaker, proved Austria’s strongest feature. Klemens Wenzel Count von Metternich, the Austrian foreign minister, organized and hosted the Congress of Vienna, where the victorious powers met to negotiate the postwar settlement. Metternich aimed at what he described as “a long general peace” after “the pains of a two-and-twenty years’ war.” To do that, he recognized, would require the establishment of “a new state of affairs” in Europe “that conforms to all interests,” putting “the geographic and political relations of the powers on a just and therefore durable basis.” He went on to write that he wanted European statesmen to reject “the system of conquest” and to establish a “system of restitution and equivalents in the forming of kingdoms and states” in accordance with the law of nations. “The modern world,” he wrote inclines nations “to draw near to each other, and in some fashion to enter into a social league.” The ancients had only “prudence” to restrain international relations, but modern states might establish those relations “upon the basis of reciprocity, under the guarantee of respect for acquired rights, and the conscientious observance of plighted faith”—all of which requires steady diplomacy. Metternich did not imagine that the balance of power could be erased. It rather should be supplemented by “adherence to treaty rights”—those “acquired rights” he had cited—and an institutional structure that would enable the great powers to consult with one another and coordinate their actions. This went “well beyond Kaunitz’ conception of diplomacy,” as Metternich proposed “a political order in which peace would be preserved not on a reactive basis, through the cobbling-together of coalitions once a war had already broken out, but proactively, on the basis of binding obligations supervised by the great powers,” “an essentially federative arrangement rooted in collective security.” The Holy Roman Empire could provide Europeans with an example of such a structure, a precedent which collapsed not because it was too big but because it wasn’t big enough, did not encompass the whole of Europe. This, and Austria’s own vulnerability, “lent moral credibility to Austrian diplomacy”; the moral thing to do, the peacemaking thing to do, was the only thing contemporary Austria could do. Unlike the other great powers, its particular ‘is’ coincided with the universal ‘ought.’

Structurally, Metternich planned what his aide Friedrich von Gentz called a “central dike” consisting of a strengthened Habsburg monarchy, drawing revenues from territories it had lost to Germany, surrounded by smaller states tied to Austria politically, militarily, and economically. Austria would head a German Confederation, its states following the policy of ‘an attack on one is an attack on all.’ He also hoped that eventually the states within the Confederation would agree to common commercial policies and a transportation network. He also advocated a Quadruple Alliance consisting of Austria, Russia, Prussia, and Britain to contain France and the Holy Alliance consisting of Austria, Prussia, and Russia to uphold monarchic regimes against republics and republicanism, associated in Europe with secularism. A son of the Enlightenment himself, Metternich privately despised the Holy Alliance’s religious inflexion while regarding it as necessary to keep Orthodox Russia involved—which he wanted to do, because he envisioned of regular consultations among Alliance members as a means of restraining the Czar’s ambitions in Eastern and Central Europe. 

Generally, such consultation was the animating practice of all these constructs. He did not want any of them to have a professional executive body. That, “he believed, would have fueled the growth of a permanent bureaucracy with its own separate agenda.” Regular conferences or “congresses” charged with addressing specific interstate problems or questions were much preferable. 

In 1818, France joined the Quadruple Alliance. The new Quintuple Alliance proved fragile, as Britain “was drawn more and more to its traditional foreign policy of avoiding peacetime alliances on the European continent,” especially after George Canning replaced Metternich’s friend, foreign secretary Viscount Castlereagh in 1822, and as France also distanced itself after the appointment of Chateaubriand, who “saw France’s participation in the Vienna system as a national humiliation.” On Austria’s eastern and southern fronts, Russia coveted Ottoman territories in the Balkans “under the guise of protecting Orthodox Christians” and Ottoman power declined, especially under the pressure of the Greek independence movement. 

Metternich kept the alliance with Russia alive, nonetheless, and it was fortunate for Austria that he did. In the revolutionary period of 1848-49, the Habsburg family was threatened, Metternich fled the country, but Russia came to Austria’s aid and Prussia assisted in quelling the rebel forces within the German Confederation. “Metternich’s diplomacy helped ensure not only that Austria’s geopolitical rivalries were pacified but that the rivals themselves were active participants in her salvation.” 

War among the great powers did break out in the mid-1850s, when the ever-weakening Ottomans refused the Czar’s demand to make Russia the protectors of Orthodox Christian in the sultan’s empire. In retaliation, the Czar’s army occupied the Danubian Principalities—Moldavia and Wallachia—controlled by the Ottomans. In order to preserve what was now called the Concert of Europe, Britain and France sided with the Ottomans and defeated the Russian forces in 1856. Thanks to the Austrian system, however, the war did not become generalized, as it would in 1914. That was after “the impetuous young emperor Franz Joseph had discarded Metternich’s conservative methods in favor of a new grand strategy centered on offensive military power,” which left Austria “ranged against multiple rivals without a single ally.” The results “were catastrophic” both for Austria and for Europe.

Austria’s decline facilitated its expulsion from the German Confederation, a move precipitated by Prussia under the direction of its master geopolitician, Otto von Bismarck.

 

A. Wess Mitchell: Great Power Diplomacy: The Skill of Statecraft from Attila the Hun to Henry Kissinger. Chapters 1-3. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2025.

 

Greatness of power does not and cannot denote illimitable power, which God prudently reserves for Himself. There is never only one great power, although there may be at times a great power greater than others. A great power whose power doesn’t measure up to another, or to some hostile combination of others, needs to think in order to survive, to formulate a “grand strategy”—one commensurate with, or better, superior to, their potential enemies’ political, military, and economic greatness. Or, similarly, for a not-so-great power, a coalition of equals may counterbalance a threatening great power. In implementing that strategy, statesmen will call upon diplomacy, an art that “finds its highest and most enduring expression not as an agent of abstract peace or as a mere handmaiden to military power, but as an instrument of grand strategy that states use to rearrange power in space and time and avoid tests of strength beyond their ability to bear.” Under such circumstances, diplomats can build “coalitions of weaker states” to counter threats from the greatest power of their time and place. Diplomats “manipulat[e] the critical factor of time in competition,” “rearranging power in space and time so that the state voids tests of strength beyond its immediate ability to bear.” Diplomacy’s “most important outcome is the constraint of power.” 

Mitchell laments that “diplomacy has become something of a lost art in the modern world,” having given way to the soldier with his weapons, the lawyer plying international law, and the banker practicing financial manipulations. For the United States, this was no real loss at all in the years following the collapse of the Soviet empire, when it was the greatest power in the world, although diplomacy had figured significantly in America’s successful efforts to coexist with, then ruin that empire. In the 1990s, “the role of the Pentagon and Treasury in U.S. foreign policy steadily expanded while that of the State Department shrunk apace”; “peace became the science of administration,” of “getting the right mix of institutions in place, backed by just the right amount of aid, overseen by the proper authorities.” With the quasi-peaceful ‘rise of China,’ that time is gone. The need for diplomacy has returned. Its return can be hindered by the assumption that “human societies can only find true safety—and honor—in a preponderance of military power”; another is the more recent illusion that “humanity is progressing inexorably toward a liberal utopia,” or a utopia of some other sort.

“This book offers a meditation on diplomacy through the prism of strategy, from antiquity to the modern era”—an effort at re-educating those who think about statesmanship, very much including American statesmen themselves, in the lost art. Unlike many diplomats, who often deprecate the importance of the other geopolitical arts in a foolish attempt to draw esteem to their own and to put themselves in charge of their country’s statecraft (the U.S. State Department during the Cold War comes to mind), Mitchell carefully demonstrates the limitations as well as the strengths of diplomacy. He does so with a series of examples drawn from history, beginning with the Spartan King Archidamus II. In mining historical accounts, he insists that “we have to see the world as decision-makers at the time saw it,” to deliberate along with them, in effect training ourselves to think like statesmen.

He also offers some general lessons, across time, regimes, and civilizations. Everywhere and always, diplomacy operates by means of negotiation, which “is to diplomacy what skill in arms is to war.” He cautions that “negotiation is not deception.” Once burned, twice shy: “Because states deal with one another repeatedly over long time horizons, the diplomat must operate in some degree of good faith.” Force and fraud only get you so far. In terms of outcomes, “what the soldier defends with arms, the diplomat defends with treaties,” which exist “to lock in advantages gained in negotiations or war,” as seen, for example in the Peace of Westphalia. Treaties sometimes last a long time, although for the most part that eminent statesman, Charles de Gaulle, was right to compare them to jeunes filles, saying, perhaps with a Gallic shrug, “They last as long as they last.” As treaties accumulate, bureaucracy becomes necessary to maintain state archives and to employ “scribes needed to retain knowledge of foreign places and past agreements,” enabling statesmen to maintain vigilance “in competition with other states.” 

Archidamus provides a template for diplomacy. He ruled Sparta from 469 to 427 BC, leading troops into battle on several occasions. In 432 BC, the war party in Sparta—never politically weak, as the Spartan regime was designed for making war—urged an attack on Athens, which had engaged in provocations threatening Spartan interests. Archidamus spoke against war, arguing that “the first step in war is to make sure of your own strength” and at this time, “if we begin the war in haste, we will have many days before we end it, owing to our lack of preparations.” A diplomatic approach is preferable. Mitchell identifies “the heart of Archidamus’ logic” in the speech as “the idea that states can gain an advantage over adversaries by using diplomacy to impose certain kinds of constraints.” First among these are constraints on “one’s own emotions,” which were running too high; “this is not a counsel of cowardice but of prudence.” Another advantage to be gained from diplomacy is timing. “Don’t engage when the enemy wants it; engage when you are ready.” In addition to constraining your own soul, diplomacy can constrain the enemy. “Gathering states to one’s own side or even rendering them neutral denies their support to an adversary…. By building coalitions, states isolate an opponent and thereby reduce his options for profitable aggression while reducing the range of dangers against which their own resources have to be deployed at a given moment.” And finally, “diplomacy attempts to put limits on war itself,” an activity which tends to run out of control, particularly out of the control of civilian rulers. War is a means to achieve political ends, the purpose of the strategy that should govern military action, first and always. 

Archidamus’ argument didn’t carry the day. The war party won; Archidamus himself led to attack (the first Peloponnesian War is named after him: the Archidamian War). And, as he predicted, the war lasted many days, indeed years.

Mitchell takes his first two major examples from pre-modern Christendom: fifth-century Byzantium and fifteenth-century Venice. Byzantium’s main rival was Persia. It also had enemies or potential rivals to the south: Arabs, Ethiopians, the “Vandals” of North Africa. A balance of power had been established. This balance was threatened by the rise of the Huns; modern Hungary gets its name from them because that is the territory in which their rule was centered. Beginning in the previous century, they raided, then invaded the Empire’s Balkan provinces. By the 440s, under the command of the military genius Attila, they swept down “the full length of the Balkans,” crushing the Byzantine army at Chersonesus. The balance of power in the region had been overturned, with Byzantium now facing dangers on three fronts, with a two-front war against Persia and the Huns entirely possible. Theodosius the Younger, who had ruled the Empire since 401, needed to call upon his substantial experience to meet the threat. 

Byzantium’s regime was no simple tyranny. An imperial council, consisting of civilians and military officers sat “at the top” of the ruling body. Many members of the council were also senators, in which the top official, the magister officorum, ran the imperial bureaucracy. There were also praetorian prefects, the quaestor, a legal advisor, and the city prefect of the capital city, Constantinople. However, these officials had to reckon with the cubiculum, the emperor’s personal staff. Numbering among these was Chrysaphius, a eunuch “who appears to have held a predominant role in the empire’s foreign policy from 443 onward,” having won Theodosius’ favorable attention, partly for his looks (he was “extremely handsome”) and, crucially, for his strategic sense, which was compatible with the emperor’s own approach. For decades, Theodosius had preferred to deal with the Huns “through diplomacy rather than force, whenever possible,” effectively buying them off with the gold for which his capital was so justly famous. He knew how to measure out his treasure because his 15,000-man-strong bureaucracy not only kept records and received foreign envoys but included a substantial and highly competent spy apparatus, its gleanings collected and analyzed back in Constantinople by persons who “would have had access to a large body of didactic Latin and Greek literature on history and war,” including such authors as Polybius, Arrian, and Tacitus. 

Chrysaphius’ preference for diplomacy over war grated on “key elements of the Byzantine elite” and from the imperial generals, many of them Germans, descendants of the Goths and Visigoths “who had settled inside the empire over the past few generations.” The pro-war faction also included Pulcheria, the emperor’s sister, and Church leaders, who suspected Chrysaphius of un-Orthodox opinions. All regarded diplomacy as “a form of feckless surrender to the barbarians”; centuries later, that elegant Machiavellian, Edward Gibbon, concurred. They wanted to attack the Huns, not to bribe them. 

The problem the victory-lovers confronted was that “Attila’s armies were larger, faster, and more lethal than the forces of earlier enemies that had emerged from the Eurasian interior,” their cavalry capable of outmaneuvering and out-shooting anything the Byzantine forces could muster. They had also mastered the art of seigecraft. Against “an enemy unlike the Eastern Empire or indeed Roman civilization had ever faced,” Theodosius “did not have a viable military option for securing his northern frontier.” And Attila did not lack ambition, intending not only to conquer Byzantium but also Rome and Persia. War was inevitable. But it might be delayed, the time gained used to build up “the empire’s overall position.” 

That is what Theodosius and Chrysaphius proceeded to do. In response to each Hun campaign against Byzantium, they negotiated treaties with Persia, giving both empires the chance to strengthen their fortifications against the marauders. For the Persians had their own more immediate Hunnic problem; the Hephthalites or “White Huns,” who may or may not have been physically related to the Western Huns, ruled a substantial empire to the east of Persia, in what are now Uzbekistan and northern Afghanistan. The peace treaty between Byzantium and Persia would hold for more than six decades. This gave the Byzantines the chance not only to hold off the Huns but to pacify them “through exposure to, and assimilation into, Byzantine culture and economy”—as they had done with the Goths and Visigoths. Given their geopolitical encirclement, “the Byzantines needed to domesticate rather than dominate their opponents,” and their principal instrument for so doing was Christianity. 

“As pagans went, the Huns were not an easy lot to convert.” They had, after all, enjoyed signal military and political success while following their own religious practices, such as reading entrails and bones. And Byzantium “lacked the martial strength to pursue a religiously tinged military imperialism” in the manner of such future empires as the Ottomans, Spain, and the Muslims. Once again, diplomacy came to the forefront, guided by such prudential measures as “the use of foreign custom and even dress on diplomatic missions and willingness to accept non-Christian oaths at treaty signings.” Another instrument of attraction rather than repulsion was the Roman law, which gave Byzantium a stability barbarians (even the Huns) admired. “The crucial thing that Byzantine law could convey or withhold was legitimacy.” Rulers tend to want that; it makes ruling easier. And the results were visible. Constantinople’s “impregnable walls, broad pavilions, ornate palaces, churches, hippodrome, and baths made a profound impression on steppe visitors,” guided through “a carefully choreographed reception designed to emphasize the power, wealth, and majesty of Byzantine civilization.” Victory-loving, honor-loving foreign military officers also proved susceptible to splendid titles, which could be bestowed in exchange for peaceful behavior. After all, “only Christ’s vice regent, in the form of the Byzantine emperor, could make a cowherd a proper king.” All without forgetting the liberal but carefully designated handing-out of gold, patronage well informed by the empire’s foreign-policy well-read bureaucrats, in possession of information culled by its spies and diplomats. Attila put that gold to good imperial use, distributing it to his tribal chieftains, contenting them with his rule. And if he didn’t, Constantinople could distribute it directly to those chieftains, factionalizing Attila’s subordinates, turning them against one another or even against Attila himself. 

“In short, there was much more to Chrysaphius’s policy toward the Huns than the base appeasement alleged by his critics.” He deployed what we would now call ‘soft power’ (“religion, law, customs, gold”) “to keep a threat at bay that could not be handled on the basis of military force.” Chrysaphian dilatoriness rested on “the recognition that time changes things,” that tribes and rulers “come and go.” His chosen envoy, Anatolius, approached Attila with gifts and what a Byzantine observer called “gentle words,” the words Christians learn to use. “The outcome of Anatolius’s mission was an event that did not occur: another Hun invasion of Thrace.” Attila turned his untender attention to the west, toward Rome. After Theodosius died, Pulcheria had Chrysaphius killed, and the next emperor shifted to her make-war strategy, saved from his (and her) folly only because the brilliant Attila had also died. The Eastern Empire lasted far longer than the Western empire, “in part due to diplomacy.” While it “did not fill” the gap between political ends and available military means “on its own,” diplomacy served by “acting as a delivery mechanism for nonmilitary forms of power in the empire’s arsenal.” For its part, the bureaucracy preserved ‘institutional knowledge,’ as we now say, giving an emperor like Theodosius a counterweight to the military. Byzantium “shows what could be accomplished through the intelligent use of nonmilitary means to outwit or outlast martially superior opponents,” an aim “that would have been equally recognizable to Sun Tzu and Clausewitz.” This approach was adopted to Byzantium’s “one-time possession and protégé,” the Republic of Venice, a thousand years later.

When Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Turks in 1453, its close ally was unprepared for war, financially stressed, and threatened not only by the Ottomans in the east but Milan, allied with France, in the west. Even absent such a war, the Ottoman conquest threatened Venice, a commercial republic, with interference with its trade routes in the eastern Mediterranean. Confronting such prospects, the Venetian Senate authorized the diplomat Bartolomeo Marcello to give the Sultan twelve hundred ducats and assure him that Venice intended to abide by the peace treaty that the sultan’s father had signed. If the peace were confirmed, Venice respectfully requested the return of cargo ships seized in the war with Byzantium and “the return of such Venetian citizens as had not yet been decapitated.” In case the peace was not confirmed, the senators also moved to reinforce the Venetian colonies closest to Turkey. As for Milan, with which Venice had fought a series of wars beginning three decades earlier, such land wars were costly because Venice had no large army of its own and needed to pay mercenaries to prosecute them. 

The Senate was part of a set of Venetian ruling institutions that included the doge, essentially an elected constitutional monarch, the Council of Ten, “which effectively acted as the executive branch,” the Council of Forty, “which functioned as a kind of high court, and the Great Council, “which acted as a legislature.” This was not a democratic but an aristocratic republic; the officers came from “a tightknit circle of patrician families.” As a commercial republic, it had long maintained a banking network in foreign countries, eventually accompanied by consuls “to look after its economic interests.” The consuls knew the cities and countries to which they were assigned and regularly sent reports to the government, each a “full accounting of a foreign power’s political, geographical, and historical topography.” Such information was critically important not only for trade but also for political and military reasons, as Venice sat in what would soon become the Italy of Machiavelli, where “the idea of Christian universalism” had faded and diplomacy “was unabashedly secular in its aims,” the Italy that was a cockpit of rival city-states. However, diplomacy as practiced there was not entirely Machiavellian. As the contemporary Venetian diplomat Ermalao Barbaro wrote, an ambassador should “do, say, advise and think whatever may best serve the preservation and aggrandizement of his own state” while “win[ning] and preserv[ing] the friendship of princes.” Reputation mattered, and could not be upheld long-term by mere flattery and deception. 

The Ottomans signed the proffered treaty. Sultan Mehmed II also needed time—in his circumstance, time to “digest his most recent victim.” The Ottoman Empire also derived economic benefit by allowing the Venetians to continue carrying goods between the West and the East, at least until it had built up its naval and commercial fleet so that it no longer needed an intermediary. But the main diplomatic success was the negotiated end of the war with Milan.

The Venetian envoy who negotiated that treaty was an Augustinian prior from Padua, Simone de Camerino. The Peace of Lodi was “a diplomatic masterstroke for Venice.” Not only did it end the war, guaranteeing Venetian rule over lands the republic had acquired, but it led to a treaty among the other major Italian city-states establishing “a twenty-five-year truce during which they pledged to respect the newly agreed borders, set limits on the size of their armies, eschew bilateral alliances, and come to one another’s if attacked.” The Italian League enabled Venice to concentrate its attention on the Ottoman threat by obviating the need to pay for a large land army, thereby freeing monies for the fleet it would need to protect itself against the Ottomans. With its West-East commerce guaranteed for now, Venice could recover economically, while it watched, in the subsequent ten years, as the Ottomans under Mehmed seized non-Venetian islands in the Aegean, Athens and other Greek city-states, Wallachia, Bosnia, and the northern and southern shores of the Black Sea. The emperor carefully avoided attacking the Venetian colonies, but it was impossible to suppose that they were not future targets. “Behind the facade of trade treaties, Venetian diplomats were waging a quiet but determined effort across the Mediterranean and Anatolia to undermine Mehmed’s power, gain influence over his decisions, and build alliances for the coming conflict.”

The republic’s ever-increasing revenues lent substance to the effort. Now “at its apogee as the financial powerhouse of the Mediterranean,” its currency “served as an international currency,” preferred to that of the Ottomans, who could not yet “produce coinage of the same quality.” Venice’s bribes were actually worth something. Not only did bribery recruit allies, it also assisted in recruiting enemies to harass the sultan on the far side of his empire and it paid for the fourteen assassination attempts against Mehmed plotted in the years 1456-1479. Venice’s most important ally became Uzun Hasan, who led a Turkoman confederation called the White Sheep, which spanned “a wide swath of territories across Armenia, eastern Anatolia, and western Iran.” The Venetians also approached Balkan Christian communities, restive under the Islamic yoke. All of these entities shared a common enemy in the Ottomans. All of them provided what Venice had always lacked and the Ottomans had in abundance: land troops.

Unfortunately for Venice, it could not mobilize the Italian League against the Ottomans, as its members, while maintaining peace with Venice, resented its commercial dominance, some continuing allied with France or with the German emperors who controlled some parts of Italy. And when the pope urged a crusade, an effort that might have united the Italians against the Ottomans, Venice demurred, judging such a venture too dangerous to undertake. 

In 1460, the Ottomans were the ones to attack. The Venetians pulled together a set of non-Italian allies consisting of Hungary, Albania, and the White Sheep. They lost, after a fifteen-year fight that marked “the beginning of the end of Venice as a great power.” The Peace of Lodi kept Venice safe from Italian rivals, but in 1494 France conquered the once-powerful city-state. That is, Venetian diplomacy preserved its independence for forty years after its protector, Byzantium, had fallen to the Turks, and it did in fact avoid conquest by a Muslim power. 

Mitchell thus identifies the strengths and limitations of Venetian diplomacy. Diplomacy successfully temporized. But it “could only do so much to mitigate her material deficiencies; for all its cunning, the republic remained a small cluster of islands off the Po Delta, backed by a handful of holdings on the Italian mainland, pitted against an Ottoman land and sea empire that stretched from the Danube to the Euphrates.” To survive, it would have needed to “unit[e] Renaissance Christendom” against the Turks, and that wasn’t happening. Further, to do so would have been equally fatal to its status as a great power, for in bringing together the Christian powers against the Turks, Venice would ruin its commerce with the Ottomans, “on which her great-power status depended.” The “middle position between Christendom and the Turks” made Venice suspect to all. “In retrospect, it is obvious that a small maritime city-state with limited resources would eventually be eclipsed by the large, centralizing empires coalescing on either side of it.” Venice lacked what today’s writers call “strategic depth,” and the alliances its diplomats did cobble together as a substitute for such depth could hold only so long.

In Venice, Mitchell concludes, “we see diplomacy begin to take on something like a modern form, as an enterprise by the state for the state, carried out by accredited professionals on a standing basis.” In modernity, diplomacy has tended to commerce and to information gathering, thereby strengthening the modern state. Venetian diplomatic techniques, soon imitated by its neighbors, “ultimately spread to become the template in Europe and across the world, down to the present day.” At the same time, “Venetian diplomacy ultimately demonstrated beyond any doubt the limits of what can be achieved in international politics without the backing of adequate military power.” At least to some extent, Machiavelli is right to prefer being feared to being loved, although Mitchell also notes that Venice wasn’t much loved, either. In his next pair of chapters, France and Austria, he considers the diplomacy of two thoroughly modern, centralized states that wielded considerable military power.