My Stay in Vienna--Joseph II--My Departure for Venice
Arrived, for the first time, in the capital of Austria, at the age of
eight-and-twenty, well provided with clothes, but rather short of
money--a circumstance which made it necessary for me to curtail my
expenses until the arrival of the proceeds of a letter of exchange which
I had drawn upon M. de Bragadin. The only letter of recommendation I had
was from the poet Migliavacca, of Dresden, addressed to the illustrious
Abbe Metastasio, whom I wished ardently to know. I delivered the letter
the day after my arrival, and in one hour of conversation I found him
more learned than I should have supposed from his works. Besides,
Metastasio was so modest that at first I did not think that modesty
natural, but it was not long before I discovered that it was genuine, for
when he recited something of his own composition, he was the first to
call the attention of his hearers to the important parts or to the fine
passages with as much simplicity as he would remark the weak ones. I
spoke to him of his tutor Gravina, and as we were on that subject he
recited to me five or six stanzas which he had written on his death, and
which had not been printed. Moved by the remembrance of his friend, and
by the sad beauty of his own poetry, his eyes were filled with tears, and
when he had done reciting the stanzas he said, in a tone of touching
simplicity,'Ditemi il vero, si puo air meglio'?
I answered that he alone had the right to believe it impossible. I then
asked him whether he had to work a great deal to compose his beautiful
poetry; he shewed me four or five pages which he had covered with
erasures and words crossed and scratched out only because he had wished
to bring fourteen lines to perfection, and he assured me that he had
never been able to compose more than that number in one day. He confirmed
my knowledge of a truth which I had found out before, namely, that the
very lines which most readers believe to have flowed easily from the
poet's pen are generally those which he has had the greatest difficulty
in composing.
"Which of your operas," I enquired, "do you like best?"
"'Attilio Regolo; ma questo non vuol gia dire che sia il megliore'."
"All your works have been translated in Paris into French prose, but the
publisher was ruined, for it is not possible to read them, and it proves
the elevation and the power of your poetry."
"Several years ago, another foolish publisher ruined himself by a
translation into French prose of the splendid poetry of Ariosto. I laugh
at those who maintain that poetry can be translated into prose."
"I am of your opinion."
"And you are right."
He told me that he had never written an arietta without composing the
music of it himself, but that as a general rule he never shewed his music
to anyone.
"The French," he added, "entertain the very strange belief that it is
possible to adapt poetry to music already composed."
And he made on that subject this very philosophical remark:
"You might just as well say to a sculptor, 'Here is a piece of marble,
make a Venus, and let her expression be shewn before the features are
chiselled.'"
I went to the Imperial Library, and was much surprised to meet De la Haye
in the company of two Poles, and a young Venetian whom his father had
entrusted to him to complete his education. I believed him to be in
Poland, and as the meeting recalled interesting recollections I was
pleased to see him. I embraced him repeatedly with real pleasure.
He told me that he was in Vienna on business, and that he would go to
Venice during the summer. We paid one another several visits, and hearing
that I was rather short of money he lent me fifty ducats, which I
returned a short time after. He told me that Bavois was already
lieutenant-colonel in the Venetian army, and the news afforded me great
pleasure. He had been fortunate enough to be appointed adjutant-general
by M. Morosini, who, after his return from his embassy in France, had
made him Commissary of the Borders. I was delighted to hear of the
happiness and success of two men who certainly could not help
acknowledging me as the original cause of their good fortune. In Vienna I
acquired the certainty of De la Haye being a Jesuit, but he would not let
anyone allude to the subject.
Not knowing where to go, and longing for some recreation, I went to the
rehearsal of the opera which was to be performed after Easter, and met
Bodin, the first dancer, who had married the handsome Jeoffroi, whom I
had seen in Turin. I likewise met in the same place Campioni, the husband
of the beautiful Ancilla. He told me that he had been compelled to apply
for a divorce because she dishonoured him too publicly. Campioni was at
the same time a great dancer and a great gambler. I took up my lodgings
with him.
In Vienna everything is beautiful; money was then very plentiful, and
luxury very great; but the severity of the empress made the worship of
Venus difficult, particularly for strangers. A legion of vile spies, who
were decorated with the fine title of Commissaries of Chastity, were the
merciless tormentors of all the girls. The empress did not practise the
sublime virtue of tolerance for what is called illegitimate love, and in
her excessive devotion she thought that her persecutions of the most
natural inclinations in man and woman were very agreeable to God. Holding
in her imperial hands the register of cardinal sins, she fancied that she
could be indulgent for six of them, and keep all her severity for the
seventh, lewdness, which in her estimation could not be forgiven.
"One can ignore pride," she would say, "for dignity wears the same garb.
Avarice is fearful, it is true; but one might be mistaken about it,
because it is often very like economy. As for anger, it is a murderous
disease in its excess, but murder is punishable with death. Gluttony is
sometimes nothing but epicurism, and religion does not forbid that sin;
for in good company it is held a valuable quality; besides, it blends
itself with appetite, and so much the worse for those who die of
indigestion. Envy is a low passion which no one ever avows; to punish it
in any other way than by its own corroding venom, I would have to torture
everybody at Court; and weariness is the punishment of sloth. But lust is
a different thing altogether; my chaste soul could not forgive such a
sin, and I declare open war against it. My subjects are at liberty to
think women handsome as much as they please; women may do all in their
power to appear beautiful; people may entertain each other as they like,
because I cannot forbid conversation; but they shall not gratify desires
on which the preservation of the human race depends, unless it is in the
holy state of legal marriage. Therefore, all the miserable creatures who
live by the barter of their caresses and of the charms given to them by
nature shall be sent to Temeswar. I am aware that in Rome people are very
indulgent on that point, and that, in order to prevent another greater
crime (which is not prevented), every cardinal has one or more
mistresses, but in Rome the climate requires certain concessions which
are not necessary here, where the bottle and the pipe replace all
pleasures. (She might have added, and the table, for the Austrians are
known to be terrible eaters.)
"I will have no indulgence either for domestic disorders, for the moment
I hear that a wife is unfaithful to her husband, I will have her locked
up, in spite of all, in spite of the generally received opinion that the
husband is the real judge and master of his wife; that privilege cannot
be granted in my kingdom where husbands are by far too indifferent on
that subject. Fanatic husbands may complain as much as they please that I
dishonour them by punishing their wives; they are dishonoured already by
the fact of the woman's infidelity."
"But, madam, dishonour rises in reality only from the fact of infidelity
being made public; besides, you might be deceived, although you are
empress."
"I know that, but that is no business of yours, and I do not grant you
the right of contradicting me."
Such is the way in which Maria Teresa would have argued, and
notwithstanding the principle of virtue from which her argument had
originated, it had ultimately given birth to all the infamous deeds which
her executioners, the Commissaries of Chastity, committed with impunity
under her name. At every hour of the day, in all the streets of Vienna,
they carried off and took to prison the poor girls who happened to live
alone, and very often went out only to earn an honest living. I should
like to know how it was possible to know that a girl was going to some
man to get from him consolations for her miserable position, or that she
was in search of someone disposed to offer her those consolations?
Indeed, it was difficult. A spy would follow them at a distance. The
police department kept a crowd of those spies, and as the scoundrels wore
no particular uniform, it was impossible to know them; as a natural
consequence, there was a general distrust of all strangers. If a girl
entered a house, the spy who had followed her, waited for her, stopped
her as she came out, and subjected her to an interrogatory. If the poor
creature looked uneasy, if she hesitated in answering in such a way as to
satisfy the spy, the fellow would take her to prison; in all cases
beginning by plundering her of whatever money or jewellery she carried
about her person, and the restitution of which could never be obtained.
Vienna was, in that respect a true den of privileged thieves. It happened
to me one day in Leopoldstadt that in the midst of some tumult a girl
slipped in my hand a gold watch to secure it from the clutches of a
police-spy who was pressing upon her to take her up. I did not know the
poor girl, whom I was fortunate enough to see again one month afterwards.
She was pretty, and she had been compelled to more than one sacrifice in
order to obtain her liberty. I was glad to be able to hand her watch back
to her, and although she was well worthy of a man's attention I did not
ask her for anything to reward my faithfulness. The only way in which
girls could walk unmolested in the streets was to go about with their
head bent down with beads in hand, for in that case the disgusting brood
of spies dared not arrest them, because they might be on their way to
church, and Maria Teresa would certainly have sent to the gallows the spy
guilty of such a mistake.
Those low villains rendered a stay in Vienna very unpleasant to
foreigners, and it was a matter of the greatest difficulty to gratify the
slightest natural want without running the risk of being annoyed. One day
as I was standing close to the wall in a narrow street, I was much
astonished at hearing myself rudely addressed by a scoundrel with a round
wig, who told me that, if I did not go somewhere else to finish what I
had begun, he would have me arrested!
"And why, if you please?"
"Because, on your left, there is a woman who can see you."
I lifted up my head, and I saw on the fourth story, a woman who, with the
telescope she had applied to her eye, could have told whether I was a Jew
or a Christian. I obeyed, laughing heartily, and related the adventure
everywhere; but no one was astonished, because the same thing happened
over and over again every day.
In order to study the manners and habits of the people, I took my meals
in all sorts of places. One day, having gone with Campioni to dine at
"The Crawfish," I found, to my great surprise, sitting at the table
d'hote, that Pepe il Cadetto, whose acquaintance I had made at the time
of my arrest in the Spanish army, and whom I had met afterwards in Venice
and in Lyons, under the name of Don Joseph Marcati. Campioni, who had
been his partner in Lyons, embraced him, talked with him in private, and
informed me that the man had resumed his real name, and that he was now
called Count Afflisio. He told me that after dinner there would be a faro
bank in which I would have an interest, and he therefore requested me not
to play. I accepted the offer. Afflisio won: a captain of the name of
Beccaxia threw the cards at his face--a trifle to which the self-styled
count was accustomed, and which did not elicit any remark from him. When
the game was over, we repaired to the coffee-room, where an officer of
gentlemanly appearance, staring at me, began to smile, but not in an
offensive manner.
"Sir," I asked him, politely, "may I ask why you are laughing?"
"It makes me laugh to see that you do not recognize me."
"I have some idea that I have seen you somewhere, but I could not say
where or when I had that honour."
"Nine years ago, by the orders of the Prince de Lobkowitz, I escorted you
to the Gate of Rimini."
"You are Baron Vais:"
"Precisely."
We embraced one another; he offered me his friendly services, promising
to procure me all the pleasure he could in Vienna. I accepted gratefully,
and the same evening he presented me to a countess, at whose house I made
the acquaintance of the Abbe Testagrossa, who was called Grosse-Tete by
everybody. He was minister of the Duke of Modem, and great at Court
because he had negotiated the marriage of the arch-duke with Beatrice
d'Este. I also became acquainted there with the Count of Roquendorf and
Count Sarotin, and with several noble young ladies who are called in
Germany frauleins, and with a baroness who had led a pretty wild life,
but who could yet captivate a man. We had supper, and I was created
baron. It was in vain that I observed that I had no title whatever: "You
must be something," I was told, "and you cannot be less than baron. You
must confess yourself to be at least that, if you wish to be received
anywhere in Vienna."
"Well, I will be a baron, since it is of no importance."
The baroness was not long before she gave me to understand that she felt
kindly disposed towards me, and that she would receive my attentions with
pleasure; I paid her a visit the very next day. "If you are fond of
cards," she said, "come in the evening." At her house I made the
acquaintance of several gamblers, and of three or four frauleins who,
without any dread of the Commissaries of Chastity, were devoted to the
worship of Venus, and were so kindly disposed that they were not afraid
of lowering their nobility by accepting some reward for their kindness--a
circumstance which proved to me that the Commissaries were in the habit
of troubling only the girls who did not frequent good houses.
The baroness invited me to introduce, all my friends, so I brought to her
house Vais, Campioni, and Afflisio. The last one played, held the bank,
won; and Tramontini, with whom I had become acquainted, presented him to
his wife, who was called Madame Tasi. It was through her that Afflisio
made the useful acquaintance of the Prince of Saxe-Hildburghausen. This
introduction was the origin of the great fortune made by that contrabrand
count, because Tramontini, who had become his partner in all important
gambling transactions, contrived to obtain for him from the prince the
rank of captain in the service of their imperial and royal majesties, and
in less than three weeks Afflisio wore the uniform and the insignia of
his grade. When I left Vienna he possessed one: hundred thousand florins.
Their majesties were fond of gambling but not of punting. The emperor had
a creature of his own to hold the bank. He was a kind, magnificent, but
not extravagant, prince. I saw him in his grand imperial costume, and I
was surprised to see him dressed in the Spanish fashion. I almost fancied
I had before my eyes Charles V. of Spain, who had established that
etiquette which was still in existence, although after him no emperor had
been a Spaniard, and although Francis I. had nothing in common with that
nation.
In Poland, some years afterwards, I saw the same caprice at the
coronation of Stanislas Augustus Poniatowski, and the old palatine
noblemen almost broke their hearts at the sight of that costume; but they
had to shew as good a countenance as they could, for under Russian
despotism the only privilege they enjoyed was that of resignation.
The Emperor Francis I. was, handsome, and would have looked so under the
hood of a monk as well as under an imperial crown. He had every possible
consideration for his wife, and allowed her to get the state into debt,
because he possessed the art of becoming himself the creditor of the
state. He favoured commerce because it filled his coffers. He was rather
addicted to gallantry, and the empress, who always called him master
feigned not to notice it, because she did not want the world to know that
her charms could no longer captivate her royal spouse, and the more so
that the beauty of her numerous family was generally admired. All the
archduchesses except the eldest seemed to me very handsome; but amongst
the sons I had the opportunity of seeing only the eldest, and I thought
the expression of his face bad and unpleasant, in spite of the contrary
opinion of Abbe Grosse-Tete, who prided himself upon being a good
physiognomist.
"What do you see," he asked me one day, "on the countenance of that
prince?"
"Self-conceit and suicide."
It was a prophecy, for Joseph II. positively killed himself, although not
wilfully, and it was his self-conceit which prevented him from knowing
it. He was not wanting in learning, but the knowledge which he believed
himself to possess destroyed the learning which he had in reality. He
delighted in speaking to those who did not know how to answer him,
whether because they were amazed at his arguments, or because they
pretended to be so; but he called pedants, and avoided all persons, who
by true reasoning pulled down the weak scaffolding of his arguments.
Seven years ago I happened to meet him at Luxemburg, and he spoke to me
with just contempt of a man who had exchanged immense sums of money, and
a great deal of debasing meanness against some miserable parchments, and
he added,--
"I despise men who purchase nobility."
"Your majesty is right, but what are we to think of those who sell it?"
After that question he turned his back upon me, and hence forth he
thought me unworthy of being spoken to.
The great passion of that king was to see those who listened to him
laugh, whether with sincerity or with affectation, when he related
something; he could narrate well and amplify in a very amusing manner all
the particulars of an anecdote; but he called anyone who did not laugh at
his jests a fool, and that was always the person who understood him best.
He gave the preference to the opinion of Brambilla, who encouraged his
suicide, over that of the physicians who were directing him according to
reason. Nevertheless, no one ever denied his claim to great courage; but
he had no idea whatever of the art of government, for he had not the
slightest knowledge of the human heart, and he could neither dissemble
nor keep a secret; he had so little control over his own countenance that
he could not even conceal the pleasure he felt in punishing, and when he
saw anyone whose features did not please him, he could not help making a
wry face which disfigured him greatly.
Joseph II. sank under a truly cruel disease, which left him until the
last moment the faculty of arguing upon everything, at the same time that
he knew his death to be certain. This prince must have felt the misery of
repenting everything he had done and of seeing the impossibility of
undoing it, partly because it was irreparable, partly because if he had
undone through reason what he had done through senselessness, he would
have thought himself dishonoured, for he must have clung to the last to
the belief of the infallibility attached to his high birth, in spite of
the state of languor of his soul which ought to have proved to him the
weakness and the fallibility of his nature. He had the greatest esteem
for his brother, who has now succeeded him, but he had not the courage to
follow the advice which that brother gave him. An impulse worthy of a
great soul made him bestow a large reward upon the physician, a man of
intelligence, who pronounced his sentence of death, but a completely
opposite weakness had prompted him, a few months before, to load with
benefits the doctors and the quack who made him believe that they had
cured him. He must likewise have felt the misery of knowing that he would
not be regretted after his death--a grievous thought, especially for a
sovereign. His niece, whom he loved dearly, died before him, and, if he
had had the affection of those who surrounded him, they would have spared
him that fearful information, for it was evident that his end was near at
hand, and no one could dread his anger for having kept that event from
him.
Although very much pleased with Vienna and with the pleasures I enjoyed
with the beautiful frauleins, whose acquaintance I had made at the house
of the baroness, I was thinking of leaving that agreeable city, when
Baron Vais, meeting me at Count Durazzo's wedding, invited me to join a
picnic at Schoenbrunn. I went, and I failed to observe the laws of
temperance; the consequence was that I returned to Vienna with such a
severe indigestion that in twenty-four hours I was at the point of death.
I made use of the last particle of intelligence left in me by the disease
to save my own life. Campioni, Roquendorf and Sarotin were by my bedside.
M. Sarotin, who felt great friendship for me, had brought a physician,
although I had almost positively declared that I would not see one. That
disciple of Sangrado, thinking that he could allow full sway to the
despotism of science, had sent for a surgeon, and they were going to
bleed me against my will. I was half-dead; I do not know by what strange
inspiration I opened my eyes, and I saw a man, standing lancet in hand
and preparing to open the vein.
"No, no!" I said.
And I languidly withdrew my arm; but the tormentor wishing, as the
physician expressed it, to restore me to life in spite of myself, got
hold of my arm again. I suddenly felt my strength returning. I put my
hand forward, seized one of my pistols, fired, and the ball cut off one
of the locks of his hair. That was enough; everybody ran away, with the
exception of my servant, who did not abandon me, and gave me as much
water as I wanted to drink. On the fourth day I had recovered my usual
good health.
That adventure amused all the idlers of Vienna for several days, and Abbe
Grosse-Tete assured me that if I had killed the poor surgeon, it would
not have gone any further, because all the witnesses present in my room
at the time would have declared that he wanted to use violence to bleed
me, which made it a case of legitimate self-defence. I was likewise told
by several persons that all the physicians in Vienna were of opinion that
if I had been bled I should have been a dead man; but if drinking water
had not saved me, those gentlemen would certainly not have expressed the
same opinion. I felt, however, that I had to be careful, and not to fall
ill in the capital of Austria, for it was likely that I should not have
found a physician without difficulty. At the opera, a great many persons
wished after that to make my acquaintance, and I was looked upon as a man
who had fought, pistol in hand, against death. A miniature-painter named
Morol, who was subject to indigestions and who was at last killed by one,
had taught me his system which was that, to cure those attacks, all that
was necessary was to drink plenty of water and to be patient. He died
because he was bled once when he could not oppose any resistance.
My indigestion reminded me of a witty saying of a man who was not much in
the habit of uttering many of them; I mean M. de Maisonrouge, who was
taken home one day almost dying from a severe attack of indigestion: his
carriage having been stopped opposite the Quinze-Vingts by some
obstruction, a poor man came up and begged alms, saying,
"Sir, I am starving."
"Eh! what are you complaining of?" answered Maisonrouge, sighing deeply;
"I wish I was in your place, you rogue!"
At that time I made the acquaintance of a Milanese dancer, who had wit,
excellent manners, a literary education, and what is more--great beauty.
She received very good society, and did the honours of her drawing-room
marvellously well. I became acquainted at her house with Count
Christopher Erdodi, an amiable, wealthy and generous man; and with a
certain Prince Kinski who had all the grace of a harlequin. That girl
inspired me with love, but it was in vain, for she was herself enamoured
of a dancer from Florence, called Argiolini. I courted her, but she only
laughed at me, for an actress, if in love with someone, is a fortress
which cannot be taken, unless you build a bridge of gold, and I was not
rich. Yet I did not despair, and kept on burning my incense at her feet.
She liked my society because she used to shew me the letters she wrote,
and I was very careful to admire her style. She had her own portrait in
miniature, which was an excellent likeness. The day before my departure,
vexed at having lost my time and my amorous compliments, I made up my
mind to steal that portrait--a slight compensation for not having won the
original. As I was taking leave of her, I saw the portrait within my
reach, seized it, and left Vienna for Presburg, where Baron Vais had
invited me to accompany him and several lovely frauleins on a party of
pleasure.
When we got out of the carriages, the first person I tumbled upon was the
Chevalier de Talvis, the protector of Madame Conde-Labre, whom I had
treated so well in Paris. The moment he saw me, he came up and told me
that I owed him his revenge.
"I promise to give it to you, but I never leave one pleasure for
another," I answered; "we shall see one another again."
"That is enough. Will you do me the honour to introduce me to these
ladies?"
"Very willingly, but not in the street."
We went inside of the hotel and he followed us. Thinking that the man,
who after all was as brave as a French chevalier, might amuse us, I
presented him to my friends. He had been staying at the same hotel for a
couple of days, and he was in mourning. He asked us if we intended to go
to the prince-bishop's ball; it was the first news we had of it. Vais
answered affirmatively.
"One can attend it," said Talvis, "without being presented, and that is
why we intend to go, for I am not known to anybody here."
He left us, and the landlord, having come in to receive our orders, gave
us some particulars respecting the ball. Our lovely frauleins expressing
a wish to attend it, we made up our minds to gratify them.
We were not known to anyone, and were rambling through the apartments,
when we arrived before a large table at which the prince-bishop was
holding a faro bank. The pile of gold that the noble prelate had before
him could not have been less than thirteen or fourteen thousand florins.
The Chevalier de Talvis was standing between two ladies to whom he was
whispering sweet words, while the prelate was shuffling the cards.
The prince, looking at the chevalier, took it into his head to ask him,
in a most engaging manner to risk a card.
"Willingly, my lord," said Talvis; "the whole of the bank upon this
card."
"Very well," answered the prelate, to shew that he was not afraid.
He dealt, Talvis won, and my lucky Frenchman, with the greatest coolness,
filled his pockets with the prince's gold. The bishop, astonished, and
seeing but rather late how foolish he had been, said to the chevalier,
"Sir, if you had lost, how would you have managed to pay me?"
"My lord, that is my business."
"You are more lucky than wise."
"Most likely, my lord; but that is my business."
Seeing that the chevalier was on the point of leaving, I followed him,
and at the bottom of the stairs, after congratulating him, I asked him to
lend me a hundred sovereigns. He gave them to me at once, assuring me
that he was delighted to have it in his power to oblige me.
"I will give you my bill."
"Nothing of the sort."
I put the gold into my pocket, caring very little for the crowd of masked
persons whom curiosity had brought around the lucky winner, and who had
witnessed the transaction. Talvis went away, and I returned to the
ball-room.
Roquendorf and Sarotin, who were amongst the guests, having heard that
the chevalier had handed me some gold, asked me who he was. I gave them
an answer half true and half false, and I told them that the gold I had
just received was the payment of a sum I had lent him in Paris. Of course
they could not help believing me, or at least pretending to do so.
When we returned to the inn, the landlord informed us that the chevalier
had left the city on horseback, as fast as he could gallop, and that a
small traveling-bag was all his luggage. We sat down to supper, and in
order to make our meal more cheerful, I told Vais and our charming
frauleins the manner in which I had known Talvis, and how I had contrived
to have my share of what he had won.
On our arrival in Vienna, the adventure was already known; people admired
the Frenchman and laughed at the bishop. I was not spared by public
rumour, but I took no notice of it, for I did not think it necessary to
defend myself. No one knew the Chevalier de Talvis, and the French
ambassador was not even acquainted with his name. I do not know whether
he was ever heard of again.
I left Vienna in a post-chaise, after I had said farewell to my friends,
ladies and gentlemen, and on the fourth day I slept in Trieste. The next
day I sailed for Venice, which I reached in the afternoon, two days
before Ascension Day. After an absence of three years I had the happiness
of embracing my beloved protector, M. de Bragadin, and his two
inseparable friends, who were delighted to see me in good health and well
equipped.