Book Review: Wellington, Waterloo and the Fortunes of Peace

Wellington: Waterloo and the Fortunes of Peace, 1814-1852by Rory MuirYale University Press, 2015“The real Wellington was never a dull paragon of worthiness, driven only by a sense of selfless duty,” Rory Muir writes in his massive new book, Wellington: Waterloo and the Fortunes of Peace, 1814-1852, the follow-up to his Wellington: The Path to Victory, 1769-1814, “and the deference paid to his memory obscured the nature of both the man and the role he played in shaping the course of British history in the years between 1814 and 1852.” Muir's book, after a rousing 100 pages dealing with Napoleon Bonaparte's 100 Days, the Battle of Waterloo, and the two-year occupation of France that ended in 1818, spends its remaining 650 pages giving readers the fullest and most engaging account of Wellington's long life in national politics ever written for a general audience. It doesn't break entirely new ground – Elizabeth Longford conducted a long and successful sympathetic re-evaluation of Wellington's political career half a century ago in her Wellington: Pillar of State – but its sweep is unrivaled. We shall not (a proclamation or a desperate plea? Readers can judge for themselves) need another full-dress Wellington biography for a very long time.Muir's organizing idea is that the veneration bestowed on Wellington by the Victorians as the very model of a modern major general has been warping perceptions of his non-military career ever since, and if true, it's certainly an easy contrast to make: Wellington the superlative commander, the tough and austere-looking figure (captured with such self-conscious perfection in several portraits by Thomas Lawrence), the general who never lost a major engagement, stands in such marked relief from Wellington the plodding Conservative MP and Cabinet minister, a placeholding Prime Minister tailor-made for the caricatures of Punch, a magnate who erred always on the side of power and precedence.About this political characterization, Muir asserts that “After more than one hundred and fifty years of hearing just one side of the argument it is time to look again at the other side, and to question whether things were really as simple and clear-cut as they seemed to the rising generation of 1852,” and although again this isn't quite the invention of the wheel (Countess Longford has not been the Duke's only defender in that 150 years), it's never been done with more spirit or in more searching detail. The waning years of Hanoverian England come alive under Muir's handling – which is no mean feat for such a murky and dispiriting time – and the dawn of the Victorian era is handled with marvelous energy. Alongside all the exhaustive detail, Muir's best achievement is to show how the phenomenon of Wellington - “no British monarch, soldier or statesman had achieved such power, influence and fame in Europe since Henry V after Agincourt” - adjusted itself to English life, and vice versa.Muir is also such a steady, authoritative presence throughout the long haul of the book that even minor incidents in the Duke's long career become briefly fascinating in Muir's contemplation of them, as in the case of Wellington's contemplated resignation in May of 1830:

The moment passed and Wellington dropped the idea of retiring when the King died. It was an odd, uncharacteristic incident. Clearly it arose from the weariness and disillusionment with politics which Wellington had been feeling ever since the passage of Catholic Emancipation, but why had he been so affected? Part of the explanation may be the cumulative effect of ten years in high office, with only a brief, tumultuous break in 1827. Part may have been a sense of getting old; Wellington turned sixty-one in May, no great age, but Liverpool, Canning, Castlereagh, Pitt and Wellington's own father had all died before they reached it, while the dying King, whose decline Wellington was witnessing at close quarters, was only sixty-seven. And part may have been a sense of frustration because he could not personally confront the government's opponents in the Commons, but had to rely upon proxies. But this is speculation and it is impossible to be sure just what prompted Wellington to think about kicking over the traces, and what made him settle back into harness and trot forward with his accustomed energy and self-confidence.

The narrative winds its way through Corn Laws and Reform Acts and disputations in the House of Lords; it winds its way through the rules of two idiot kings and one genius Prime Minister (Sir Robert Peel, who hasn't had a big two-volume biography like this since the magnificent job Norman Gash did 50 years ago and isn't likely to get another, since he has no Waterloos in his resume); it winds its way through a procession of the age's society women, all of whom were smarter and better-opinioned than Wellington, who knew it and was usually their eager audience. And through it all there's the man himself, constantly griping about being little more than a beast in harness but also (as Muir shrewdly notices) constantly seeming to enjoy the work. Wellington's increasing deafness inexorably shrank the borders of his life as he grew older; he was too acute about making other people uncomfortable to inflict his deaf presence on the country house retreats and dinner parties he so loved.He died at the age of 83 in 1852 (having lived long enough to have his photograph taken – a fact that always quietly astonishes somehow) and was given an enormous state funeral and a brace of forbidding monuments, and an inevitable part of Muir's book is taken up in the attempt to find the beating heart of the man underneath all the marble. And since the 200^th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo is only a fortnight away, it would hardly do for a conscientious biographer to sum up much differently than Muir does:

The real Wellington was never particularly cold, reserved or inscrutable; his moods, both good and bad, were palpable; he had a hot temper and a propensity to wounding sarcasm and exaggerated grumbling, while he showed little stoicism in the face of disappointment. But he could also be very considerate, was quick to apologise – at least to trusted friends – and was unexpectedly kind and tolerant, as well as playful with children. He loved the company of bright, intelligent women, and while he thoroughly enjoyed their admiration, he also listened to what they had to say and took their opinions seriously. He was frequently asked to settle family disputes, acting as peacemaker in many delicate private matters where his discretion and generosity both proved thoroughly reliable.

Read in outline thus, it doesn't quite seem to tally up to something that justifies almost 2000 pages and almost 20 years out of the life of a very talented biographer, but then, we don't study Wellington for his personality, however kind he may have been to children. We study him to learn and re-learn how soldiers beat dictators and how they avoid becoming dictators, and in this Wellington: Waterloo and the Fortunes of Peace excels.