The Prince de Ligne’s Study--A Swimming Exploit--Travelling
by Post--A Reminiscence of Mme. de Staël--Schönbrunn--
The Son of Napoleon--His Portrait--Mme. de Montesquiou--
Anecdotes--Isabey--The Manœuvring-Ground--The People’s
Fête at Augarten.
When I went to pay my daily visit to the prince, he was still in
bed, and I made my way to his library, where they had placed his
couch. The room in which a famous man spends the greater part of his
time is always interesting. The signs of his particular tastes are
everywhere; the special character of his genius reveals itself in the
smallest details; and the objects surrounding him supply food for our
curiosity or attract our attention. With his books and manuscripts
scattered here, there, and everywhere, the Prince de Ligne gave one the
impression of a general in his tent among the trophies of his victories
and the weapons worn in everyday life.
Abusing somewhat the licence accorded to poets, with whom ‘a beautiful
disorder’ is accounted an artistic effect, the prince lived amidst a
kind of litter which was not altogether devoid of gracefulness. Here,
Rousseau and Montesquieu lying open beside a batch of love-letters;
there, scraps of paper covered with verses close to a couple of
military volumes of Archduke Charles; further on, letters just begun,
and poems and works of strategy in a similarly initial condition. An
admirable amalgam of the grand seigneur, the soldier, and the man of
wit, the Prince de Ligne presented a type the like of which we shall
not see again; now captivating the most distinguished women by the
charms of a most brilliant conversation, then astounding the most
consummate generals by the justness of his conceptions; and again
delighting the greatest intellects by the subtlety and the truth of his
comments.
He had a writing-desk before him when I came in. His intellect,
aglow with a wholly youthful imagination, just as his heart was
aglow with kindness, seemed to live against time; hence, no day ever
passed without his throwing on to paper some judicious or playful,
some brilliant or profound remarks, such as those with which his
conversation was studded.
‘I’m going to Schönbrunn to-day,’ he said, ‘and I should like you to
accompany me. I am performing _ad honores_ the office of introducer to
the little duke who was born a king. I only want to finish this chapter
on the events of the moment, and then I am at your disposal.
‘I’m throwing my thoughts on to paper anyhow lest they should escape my
memory,’ he added. ‘The grand picture we constantly have before us has
the faculty of inspiring me; I fancy that amidst all these delirious
joys a thought may now and again strike me which in days to come will
either give pleasure or be productive of some good. Though yielding to
this whirl of phantasms, I have not ceased to observe. Though an actor
in the piece which is being played, I consider the whole of what is
passing around me a simple kick in an ant-hill.’
Saying which he resumed writing. All of a sudden, being apparently in
want of a reference of some kind, he looked up. ‘Be kind enough to give
me that manuscript volume on the third shelf.’ I got up, but uncertain
which volume to take, I hesitated for a moment. Thereupon he jumped out
of bed and hauled himself up by the cornice of the bookcase, got hold
of the book, and was back again between the sheets in less time than it
takes to tell; I looking on in sheer surprise at the agility of a man
of his years. ‘The fact is,’ he said, ‘I have been most nimble all my
life, and my nimbleness has been exceedingly useful. During that kind
of fairy journey when I accompanied the great Catherine to the Taurida,
the imperial yacht was doubling the promontory of Parthenizza, where,
according to tradition, the Temple of Iphigenia formerly stood. We were
discussing the greater or lesser probability of that tradition, when
Catherine, stretching forth her arms towards the coast, said: “Prince
de Ligne, I’ll bestow upon you that contested territory.” No sooner
had the words dropped from her lips than I was in the water, in full
uniform, my hat on my head, and in a few moments I stood on _terra
firma_. “Majesty,” I cried, drawing my sword, “I am taking possession.”
Since then that Taurida rock is named after me, and I keep the land.
‘This, my young friend, shows that bodily agility may be attended
with excellent results, and that there is nothing in life like prompt
resolution. A few years before the outbreak of the Revolution, I
happened to be in Paris. In the happiness of the hour, and with
the carelessness of youth, I had committed a few excesses; I had,
moreover, forgotten the state of my finances, and my purse was as
empty of coin as my heart was full of joy and my mind of illusion.
Nevertheless, I was expected in Brussels the next day to dine with the
archduchess-governess of the Southern Netherlands. A total stranger in
the vast city, I felt sorely embarrassed. I was on terms of intimate
friendship with Prince Max, the present King of Bavaria, at that time
a colonel in the French service.[43] You are aware of his generous
and devoted disposition. During the whole of his life he was willing
to share with his friends whatever he possessed. Naturally I went to
him, but our excellent Max was not at that period a king, and had no
minister of finances to direct and to take care of his savings. It just
happened that his purse was as light as mine. What was to be done? A
post-boy is the most inexorable of men, and at each stage he comes
pitilessly, though hat in hand, to claim his salary. I was told that my
cousin, the Duc d’Aremberg, much more sober in conduct, was starting
that same evening for Brussels. I immediately made up my mind what
to do. “I shall be there before him,” I said; and without a moment’s
delay I transformed myself into a forerunner, and, booted and spurred,
presented myself at the posting-office. I told them to give me a horse,
and set off at a gallop to the next stage to order relays. In that way
I performed the journey to Brussels, always a few minutes in advance
of him, and seeing to the providing of his horses all along the route.
My cousin, who had not despatched a forerunner, was unable to make out
the providential arrangement to which was due the promptitude that thus
shortened his journey. At his arrival I told him the ruse, at which we
both laughed heartily, and thanks to which I managed to dine with the
archduchess.’
While talking, he had dressed himself. When he had finished putting
on his uniform of colonel of trabans, and had hung half-a-dozen grand
crosses and ribands of various orders upon his breast, he suddenly
stopped.
‘If illusion could provide me to-day with its mirror,’ he said, ‘how
gladly would I exchange all this splendour for the simple dress of an
ensign in my father’s regiment! I was only sixteen when I donned that
dress for the first time; I imagined then that at thirty one must be
very old. Time changes everything. To-day, at eighty, I think myself
still young, although some cavillers say that I am too young. It
does not matter, I am doing all I can to prove that I am still young
enough. After all, my career has been a happy one, and neither remorse
nor ambition, nor jealousy has troubled its course. I have steered my
barque pretty evenly, and until I enter that of Charon I shall continue
to fancy myself, in spite of those who insist upon considering me as
old.’
Even while bantering himself in that way, there was a charm about his
words of which it is difficult to convey an idea. I kept telling him
that age had glided off him without leaving a mark, and that time
honoured him by forgetting him. He believed my words, and his handsome
face was lighted up with happiness.
On going downstairs we found some of the savants who constantly worried
him, and his features lost their happy expression, although he managed
to dismiss the intruders with a few polite remarks, and went on his
way. ‘How I detest those savants of verbosity, those gatherers of
clever sayings, those walking dictionaries, whose sole stock-in-trade
in the matter of genius is their memory! The best book to study is the
world itself, but that book will always be a closed one to them,’ he
said.
In a few moments we were rumbling in the direction of Schönbrunn.
Unfortunately, the prince’s carriage did not deserve the compliment I
had just addressed to the prince himself. It was impossible to believe
that the vehicle had ever been young, and its springs piteously cried
out to be exchanged for a set more elastic and in keeping with the
requirements of our own time. I can still picture the cumbrous, grey
conveyance drawn by two bony white horses. The panels displayed the
prince’s scutcheon, surmounted by the motto of the House of Egmont,
whence the prince sprung:
‘_Quô res cumque cadunt, semper stat linea recta._’
Behind this ancient coach stood a kind of footman, an old Turk, six
feet high, a present from Prince Potemkin at the assault of Ismaël,
and who bore the name of the conquered town. The marshal, however, had
the art of abridging distances, just as he had the art of supplying
the scantiness of his dinner-entertainments, by his conversation. The
journey of nearly an hour seemed very short, and it was with some
surprise that I beheld the gates of the imperial country-seat.
Schönbrunn, the building of which was begun by the princes of the House
of Austria, was the object of Maria-Theresa’s particular affection. It
was she who completed it, and, in order to accelerate the work, part
of it was done by torchlight. The castle is delightfully situated on
the right bank of the Wien. The majestic _ensemble_ of its architecture
proclaims it at once to be a royal residence. The gardens, nobly
and most gracefully planned, interspersed with sheets of limpid
water skilfully disposed, planted with trees of the most luxuriant
vegetation, and studded with most precious marble and bronze statuary,
harmonise most imposingly with the magnificence of the palace itself.
The park is alive with deer of all kinds, the peaceful tenants of those
beautiful spots, and they, as it were, seem to invite the approach of
the visitors. Every day and at all hours these glades and avenues are
open to the public. Numberless carriages and horsemen are constantly
there. The park is surrounded by pleasaunces, the inmates of which in
the milder season are the eye-witnesses of a succession of fêtes and
rejoicings. The sound of those rejoicings pierces the walls of the
imperial habitation, and adds by its animation to the charms of the
noble pile.
The apartments of the palace are spacious and furnished with exquisite
taste. There are several rooms entirely draped with black: they have
remained in that condition since the death of Maria-Theresa’s husband.
A small study is decorated with drawings by the various archduchesses.
This is the room where Napoleon, during his sojourn at Schönbrunn,
retired to work. It is there he beheld for the first time the portrait
of Marie-Louise, and perhaps conceived the idea of a union which had
such an influence on his destiny.[44]
A staircase leads from that room into the garden. On a wooded height
stands a charming pavilion built by Maria-Theresa, and called ‘La
Gloriette’; that elegant structure of fairy-like design, composed of
arcades, colonnades, and trophies, bounds the vista and constitutes
one of the most delightful pieces of decorative architecture. It is at
the same time a palace and a triumphal arch. It is reached by a double
staircase. The view from the principal drawing-room defies description:
there are immense masses of green as far as the eye can reach, and
at the horizon are the city of Vienna, the course of the Danube, and
finally the high mountains whose outlines constitute the background of
the magnificent landscape. It is difficult to imagine a more splendid
panorama.
The greenhouses of Schönbrunn are perhaps the most beautiful in Europe.
They contain precious samples of the vegetation of the universe. It was
there that Emperor Francis, who had a particular liking for botanical
pursuits, himself attended to the rarest plants.
[Illustration: MARIA LOUISA, ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA.]
Not far from there is the zoological collection, disposed in a circle
around a pavilion forming the centre, as it were, of the various
sheltered enclosures for the animals. Each species has its _habitat_
and its garden, with the plants and trees proper to the country of its
birth. There, though prisoners, the animals apparently enjoy their
liberty.
Close to the castle there was a small railed-off plot, carefully
tended, which was the garden of the son of Napoleon. It was there that
the young prince cultivated the flowers which each morning he gathered
into bouquets for his mother[45] and his governess.
While crossing the courts, which are very spacious, the prince pointed
out the spot where, while Napoleon was inspecting some troops, a young
fanatic attempted to kill him about the time of the battle of Wagram.
If a crime of that nature is calculated to inspire anything but a
feeling of indignation, that young fellow might have been pitied in
virtue of the courage and fortitude he showed at the moment of his
death.
It was in those courts that, at the same period, Napoleon gave orders
to his ordnance-officer, the Prince de Salm, to put through its drill
a regiment of the Germanic Confederation, and to give the command in
German. The Viennese came down in shoals, this little amenity on the
part of the victor having made them forget that their capital was in
the hands of the enemy.
In the hall a French servant, still wearing the Napoleonic livery, came
towards us. He knew the marshal, and immediately went to inform Mme. de
Montesquiou of his arrival.
‘I trust we’ll not have to wait,’ said my companion, ‘for, as I
have told you, I am almost like the Comte de Ségur of Schönbrunn.’
He alluded to the position of grand-master of the ceremonies that
nobleman, whom he had known at the Court of Catherine, had occupied
near the person of Napoleon.
A few moments later Mme. de Montesquiou came to apologise for being
unable to introduce us immediately. ‘The little prince,’ she said, ‘is
sitting for his portrait to Isabey, which is intended for the Empress
Marie-Louise. As he is very fond of the marshal, the sight of him
would only make him restless. I’ll see that the sitting is as short as
possible.’
‘You know what happened at my first visit?’ remarked the prince, after
Mme. de Montesquiou had left us. ‘When they told the child that Marshal
Prince de Ligne had come to see him, he exclaimed: “Is it one of the
marshals who deserted papa? Don’t let him come in.” They had a good
deal of trouble in making him understand that France is not the only
country where they have marshals.’
A short while afterwards Mme. de Montesquiou took us to the apartments.
When young Napoleon caught sight of the Prince de Ligne he slid off
his chair, and flung himself into the arms of the old soldier. He
was indeed as handsome a child as one could wish to see, and the
likeness to his ancestress Maria-Theresa was positively striking. The
cherub-like shape of his face, the dazzling whiteness of the skin, the
eyes full of fire, and the pretty fair curls drooping on his shoulders,
made up one of the most graceful models ever offered to Isabey. He was
dressed in a richly embroidered uniform of hussars, and wore on his
dolman the star of the Legion of Honour, ‘_Bon jour, monsieur_,’ said
the little lad, ‘I like the French very much.’
Remembering the words of Rousseau to the effect that people do not like
to be questioned, and least of all children, I stooped down and kissed
him.
The son of Napoleon is no more; pitiless Death cut short at twenty-two
a life begun on a throne; and at the moment when the brilliant
qualities of the prince bade fair to make that life illustrious, and
when his noble sentiments had begun to win all hearts. Everything
connected with this offspring of so much glory, a victim from his
cradle of a fatal and unprecedented destiny, only presents itself to
the memory with a deep respect mingled with a tender pity.
His intellect was quick and precocious; all his words struck the
listener by their justness. Both his memory and his faculty for
acquiring knowledge were astounding; he learned German in a short time,
and after that spoke it with the same ease as French. His character was
firm, and his resolutions, only arrived at after serious reflection,
were unshakable; his slightest movements were stamped with grace; his
gestures, when he wished to emphasise his words, were already grave
and solemn. His liking for the science of warfare showed itself both
in his eyes and in his speech. ‘I want to be a soldier,’ he said,
‘I’ll lead the charge.’ They suggested that bayonets might oppose his
progress. ‘But surely,’ was the answer, ‘I’ll have a sword to put aside
the bayonets.’ His curiosity with regard to the history of his father
was extreme; the Emperor, his grandfather, convinced that truth must
constitute the basis of every education, and notably that of a prince,
determined not to leave him in ignorance upon any subject.[46] The
child listened eagerly to the story of a life which, in the space of
twenty years, seemed to have exceeded the measure of both belief and of
history. The exuberance of his joys, his impatience at being baulked of
his wishes and of all opposition to his will, were those of a child,
while his intense anxiety to learn, his habitual calm and reflection,
attested a more advanced age. Everything in him led to the belief in
the theory of hereditary genius.
His instinct, as is well known, showed itself under memorable
circumstances. On the 29th March, 1814, when the Empress Marie-Louise
abandoned the Tuileries for Rambouillet, and when they wished to take
the child to his mother, who was waiting for him, he opposed a stout
resistance to being removed; shouted that they were betraying his papa,
and refused to stir. Mme. de Montesquiou’s moral influence over the lad
was brought to bear in vain; she only succeeded by force, and even then
she had to promise to bring him back soon. The poor lad guessed, as it
were, that he would never more behold the Tuileries.
His quickness of intellect showed itself in everything connected with
his illustrious and ill-fated sire. On the day before our visit, the
English commodore, Sir Neil Campbell, who accompanied Napoleon to
Elba, was presented to his son. ‘Are you not pleased, prince, to see
this gentleman, who left your father only a few days ago?’ asked Mme,
de Montesquiou, presenting the officer. ‘Yes,’ was the answer, ‘I am
pleased.’ Then, putting his finger to his lips, he added, ‘But we must
not say so.’
The commodore took the child into his arms. ‘Your papa has told me to
kiss you for him,’ he said, suiting the action to the word, after which
he gently put him down. The child had a German top in his hands. He
flung it down with such force as to break it to pieces. ‘Poor papa!’ he
gasped, bursting into tears.[47]
What were the thoughts that moved him, and how, at his tender age,
could he grasp the whole extent of the ambiguous and false position
of the son of Napoleon being a prisoner, as it were, in the Austrian
palace of Schönbrunn!
With regard to the loss of the sovereignty bestowed upon him at his
birth, he expressed himself with a melancholy and touching resignation.
‘I see very well that I am no longer a king,’ he repeated during his
journey from Rambouillet to Vienna; ‘I have no longer any pages.’[48]
The Prince de Ligne having shown him some medals struck on the occasion
of his birth, he remarked, ‘I remember them; they were made when I was
king.’
This plucky resignation, which was the most conspicuous trait of his
character, abided with him up to his last moments. When, at the age
of twenty-two, undermined by a most painful malady, he was dying at
that same palace of Schönbrunn, and beheld Death advancing slowly but
surely, he, handsome, young, talented, and the offspring of a great
man, talked of his impending end with those surrounding him, taking, as
it were, a cruel pleasure in dispelling all the illusions of hope.
We stepped up to Isabey, who had just put the finishing touches to
the portrait of the young prince. It was a striking likeness, and, in
common with all his works, pervaded by an exquisite grace. It was the
identical picture he presented to Napoleon on the latter’s return from
Elba in the following year. ‘What I like best in this portrait is its
wonderful resemblance to that of Joseph II. when he was a child, which
was given to me by Maria-Theresa. After all, this resemblance to a
great man is a happy augury for the future.’
Then the prince complimented the painter on the perfect finish of his
work, adding a few happily-chosen words on his European reputation.
‘I came to Vienna, M. le Maréchal,’ replied Isabey, ‘with the hope of
being allowed to reproduce the features of all the celebrities that are
here, and without doubt I ought to have started with yours.’
‘Assuredly, seeing that, in virtue of my age, I am the dean.’
‘No,’ retorted Isabey, who was also known for his ready wit, ‘not in
virtue of your age, but as the model of all that is illustrious in this
century.’
Meanwhile, young Napoleon had gone to a corner of the room in search
of a regiment of wooden Uhlans which his grand-uncle Archduke Charles
had sent him a few days previously. Set in motion by a piece of simple
mechanism, the troopers, stuck on movable pins, imitated every military
evolution, breaking the ranks, deploying into line, forming into
columns, etc.
‘Time to begin our manœuvres, prince!’ shouted the marshal in a tone of
command. Immediately the Uhlans were taken from their box and disposed
in battle order. ‘Attention,’ cried the marshal, drawing his sword and
assuming the attitude of a general on parade.
Stolidly attentive and grave, like a Russian grenadier, the child took
up his position to the right of his troop, his hand on the spring.
No sooner has the word of command left the old soldier’s lips than
the movement is carried out with the utmost precision. A second order
meets with similarly prompt obedience; the chief and the subaltern are
equally grave. To watch the charming face of the child lighting up at
this mimic piece of drill, and, on the other hand, to watch the aged
and illustrious relic of the wars of the past becoming animated at the
child’s grave demeanour, was a sight never to be forgotten. It looked
as if the one had inherited the irresistible passion of his sire for
the science of warfare; as if the other, suddenly growing younger by
a couple of decades, was going to recommence his glorious campaigns.
It was a delicious contrast, fit to inspire the genius of our greatest
painters.
The grand manœuvres were interrupted by the announcement of the
empress’s coming. She liked to be alone with her son, whose education
she superintended.[49] Hence we retired, leaving Isabey to show her
his work.
No sooner were we seated in our carriage, still deeply moved by what
we had seen, than the Prince de Ligne said: ‘When Vienna surrendered
to Napoleon at Schönbrunn, when he planned his memorable campaign of
Wagram there, when in those spacious courts he reviewed his victorious
phalanxes in the presence of the astounded Viennese, little did he
foresee that in this same palace the son of the victor and the daughter
of the vanquished would be held as hostages by one whose fate was
then in his hands. In my long career I have seen many instances of
extraordinary glory, and nearly as many of crushing reverses, but
nothing to compare to the history of which we have just witnessed a
chapter.’
As we were crossing the glacis between the faubourgs and the city, we
espied an open carriage, very low on its wheels. There seemed scarcely
room enough in it to hold its one huge occupant.
‘Let us stop and perform our salutations,’ said the prince. ‘There goes
another majesty by the grace of God and of Robinson Crusoe (Napoleon).
There goes the King of Würtemberg.
‘Up to the present,’ he went on, ‘you have only seen royal fêtes.
To-morrow I mean to take you to an entertainment for the people. So
much has been accomplished through the people that they can well afford
to do something for it. I’ll see you to-morrow.’
The people’s fête is one of the most brilliant solemnities of Vienna.
It had been eagerly looked forward to for some time.
Anxious to profit by the invitation of my illustrious guide, I was
at his place before midday. Shortly afterwards we set out for the
Augarten, where the fête was to take place.
The Augarten is situated on the same island of the Danube as the
Prater, by which it is bound on the east. The park, with its
thickly-wooded retreats and clumps of trees, presented the most varied
and beautiful vegetation, interspersed in all directions by magnificent
avenues. The palace, due to Joseph II., is a specimen of simple and
elegant architecture. An inscription over the front entrance tells the
fact that this amiable prince-philosopher gave up the building for the
amusement of the nation.
There was an immense crowd; the weather was splendid; the stands
erected for the sovereigns and the celebrities of the Congress were
filled with most elegantly dressed spectators of both sexes. The Prince
de Ligne preferred to mingle with the crowd, and I was glad of it.
The Austrian veterans, to the number of four thousand, had been invited
to the fête. To the strains of military music they marched past the
stand of the sovereigns, and afterwards took possession of a number of
spacious tents, set apart for their special use. There were military
sports at frequent intervals throughout the day.
They opened with foot races, after which came races with small Eastern
horses, after the manner of the Barbary horses that contest for speed
in the Corso in Rome. In an open-air circus, the trick-riders and
acrobats of Bach, who are the rivals of Franconi and Astley of London,
performed all kinds of exercises on foot and on horseback. Further
on, the Turnplatz was occupied by young men who, to the delight of
the spectators, went through a series of gymnastics. To the left of
the palace, on a magnificent greensward, there stood a pole a hundred
feet high, surmounted by a huge wooden bird with outspread wings. It
served as a target to a company of Tyrolese archers, experts with the
cross-bow. The prize was a beautiful silver-gilt vase. It was hotly
contested for, and finally fell to a son of the celebrated Tyrolese
Hofer.
Finally, an enormous balloon rose in the air. The aeronaut’s name
was Kraskowitz, and he proved a worthy emulator of Garnerin and
Blanchard, for a short time after his ascent he soared majestically
above the crowd, waving a number of flags of the various nations whose
representatives had forgathered in Vienna.
An hour later, the aeronaut, after a unique view of a splendid scene,
came gently down in the island of Lobau, the spot connected with one of
the remarkable military feats of modern history.
Then there was an interruption of the games. Sixteen large tables
were spread on a vast lawn, the four thousand veterans sat down to a
profusely served repast, while from several bandstands, decorated with
standards and panoplies of war, there uprose the strains of military
symphonies. In another part of the park, four elegantly decorated tents
in which companies of Bohemians, Hungarians, Austrians, and Tyrolese
respectively, in the picturesque dresses of their countries, performed
national dances to the sound of their own particular instruments,
diversified by their patriotic songs.
The sovereigns during the whole of the time wandered about, unescorted,
taking stock of everything, and chatting familiarly with the veterans,
many of whose faces were absolutely riddled with scars. There was
something patriarchal in their thus mingling with the crowd, which eyed
them curiously, respectfully following them everywhere.
When night fell, a hundred thousand lamps converted the Augarten
into a blaze of light, and then there were magnificent fireworks in
front of the palace. The principal pieces represented the monuments
of Milan, Berlin, and St. Petersburg. There was an immense crowd in
the avenues of the Augarten, but at no moment was order disturbed in
the slightest. This popular rejoicing was marked by a serious and
thoughtful calm, for which the German character alone, perhaps, can
offer a model.
At the termination of the fireworks, the sovereigns strolled through
the streets, and were everywhere hailed with unanimous cheers. Then the
entire Court repaired to the theatre of the Carinthian Gate to witness
the performance of the ballet _Flore et Zéphire_. All the palaces,
mansions, and private dwellings were most brilliantly illuminated; and
‘transparencies,’ bearing enthusiastic mottoes, had not been spared.
Dancing and music went on throughout the whole of the night; it was,
in fact, an uninterrupted scene of magnificence and happiness. Joy
prevailed everywhere, a joy due less perhaps to the fête that had been
offered to the people than to the hope of a durable peace, the price of
which had been paid by many years of constant sacrifices.