The Prater--The Carriages--The Crowd and the Sovereigns--The
Sovereigns’ Incognito--Alexander Ypsilanti--The Vienna
Drawing-Rooms--Princesse Bagration--The Narischkine Family
--A Lottery.
I had promised to meet Alexander Ypsilanti in the grand avenue of the
Prater, and at the appointed time I was there. To me the beautiful spot
teemed with delightful recollections; each scene reminded me of a fête,
of a love-tryst, or of a meeting with friends, of dreams, of hopes, of
illusions, perhaps gone for ever.
During a long pilgrimage in my younger days, I have seen all the
renowned public promenades of Europe, and everywhere the people
maintained that the one adorning their own capital was superior to
any other. I have always preferred the Vienna Prater to the Bois de
Boulogne, to Kensington Gardens, to the Wood at the Hague, to the
Cascines of Florence, and to all the other vaunted resorts whether at
Moscow, Petersburg, or Constantinople; for in the first-named spot are
united the beauties of nature that delight the eye, and the sight of a
happy condition, comforting and refreshing to the soul.
The Prater abuts on the faubourgs of Vienna. It is situated on one of
the islands of the Danube, which virtually constitutes its boundary.
It is throughout planted with century-old trees, affording a majestic
shade, and preventing the huge greensward from being scorched by the
sun. It is crossed in every direction by imposing avenues. As at
Schönbrunn, and at the majority of like resorts in Germany, herds
of deer browse peacefully on the heights or disport themselves in
the flatter parts, thus imparting life and motion to the delicious
solitude. These are properly the aspects of a mild and virgin nature,
but at the same time they are embellished by all the resources of
cultivation and art. To the left of the Prater, on entering it from the
city, there is an immense lawn, set apart for the display of fireworks;
to the right there is a circus capable of accommodating several
thousands of spectators; facing one, a large avenue of chestnuts,
bordered on each side by elegant constructions, including a number
of shops, cafés, and casinos where the Viennese can indulge to their
hearts’ content in their well-known love for music.
In the avenue of chestnuts, constantly filled with sumptuous carriages
and with riders managing their mounts of all breeds with that peculiar
Hungarian skill, the wealth and display of all the neighbour-states
of Austria seem to have forgathered. The emperor himself drives an
unpretending ‘turn-out’ with the simplicity of a well-to-do tradesman
bent upon an airing; while a hackney-cab, taken by the hour, and
fearing no competition, gets right into his imperial majesty’s road,
and is itself overtaken by the vehicle of a Bohemian magnate or by
a Hungarian palatine tooling a four-in-hand. In a lightly-built
_calèche_, drawn by horses with manes streaming in the breeze, are
seated women with complexions like lilies and roses, and presenting the
appearance of baskets of flowers. The constant variety of the scenes,
the animation of the pedestrians, the general bustle, increased by the
presence of numberless strangers, but tempered by the constitutional
gravity of the Germans themselves, constitute a most lovely and
stirring picture; it is a scene by Teniers, framed in a landscape by
Ruysdael.
The life of the Viennese in the Prater is a pretty faithful image of
their own government, a despotic government, no doubt, but which, for
all that, has only one aim--the welfare and material prosperity of the
country. Differing from other states, and notably from France, whose
administration, constantly libelled and insulted, takes its revenge by
making the ‘governed’ its enemy, the public powers in Austria, subject
to no control, assiduously endeavour to be the protector and the guide
of the people. That protection is accepted with joy; and if despotism
is now and again constrained to show its teeth, its dictates are, as it
were, carried out in the family circle and with the lesser or greater
consent of the calm and thoughtful people itself. Consequently, the
alien, watching them under those magnificently umbrageous pleasure
resorts, and beholding the emperor, his family, and his ministers
mingling with the crowd, unprotected either by guards or escorts, is
tempted to envy them such a genuine and solid happiness.
During the period of the Congress the Prater became more brilliant than
it had ever been before. Vienna was so full of strangers, coming from
all countries to be the eyewitnesses of an assembly supposed to be the
fitting termination to an epoch replete with prodigious events, that
the number of carriages had incredibly increased. There was an infinite
variety of dresses, Hungarian, Polish, and Oriental, an infinite number
of uniforms whose wearers hailed from every part of Europe, and who
dazzled the sight with their splendour. Masses of people, driving,
riding, and walking under the still warm rays of an autumn sun,
imparted to the beautiful spot even more than its ordinary animation.
What struck me most, at the first sight, was the great number of
carriages of the same shape and colour, and all drawn by two or four
horses. It was simply the result of another exquisitely courteous
attention of the emperor, who made it a point that the sovereigns and
the members of their suites should be provided solely from the imperial
stables, and as such ordered three hundred conveyances of an identical
form to be built and to be held, day and night, at the disposal of his
guests.
This living panorama enabled me to review, in the space of a few
minutes, all the sovereigns and celebrities contained within the walls
of Vienna. A prominent figure among these was Lord Stewart, the English
ambassador, himself driving a team of four horses which would have won
the approval of the _habitués_ of Hyde Park. Almost immediately behind
him, in an elegant chaise, came the Emperor Alexander, his charming
sister the Duchess of Oldenburg seated next to him; while on one side
of the conveyance Prince Eugène de Beauharnais, and on the other the
Crown Prince of Würtemberg, both on horseback, pay their court, though
for different motives, to the illustrious pair. Alexander had dispensed
with all his decorations, except one, that of ‘l’Épée’ of Sweden,
which, to speak the truth, shone with great elegance and brilliancy
on his dark green uniform. A little further on, in an open _calèche_,
I caught sight of Alexander’s second sister, the Grand-Duchess of
Saxe-Weimar, no less charming and graceful than her elder. Following
these comes Emperor Francis in an unpretending phaeton, accompanied
by his young and sweet consort, his third wife, Marie Louise of
Austria-Este, her comely features beaming with happiness.
At that moment, the crowd of pedestrians instinctively stops with a
feeling of pride and respect to watch Prince Charles (of Bavaria)
himself driving his family in an unpretentious conveyance.
Zibin, dressed in his brilliant uniform of hussars, is borne along
swiftly on a Ukrainian charger; his hat is surmounted by a plume
of feathers which might easily be mistaken for the tail of a
hirsute comet. The grand berline, with its panels decorated with
large--somewhat too large--scutcheons, contains Sir Sidney Smith,
conspicuous by the liberal display of his quarterings amidst this
very modest company. The King of Prussia gallops with a solitary
aide-de-camp, and close to him come the Prince of Hesse-Homburg and
Tettenborn, to both of whom I send a fraternal salute.
Lord Castlereagh showed his long-drawn face, with _ennui_ stamped on
every line of it, from a _coupé_. It did not even light up when a
hackney-cab ran into the _calèche_ of the Pasha of Widin. After this
came the carriages of the archdukes, keeping religiously in line, and,
as far as their amusements went, claiming no privileges beyond those of
simple private individuals. ‘Only using their rights when discharging
the duties attached to them,’ as Mme. de Staël expressed it.
At the turning of an avenue, I caught sight of Alexander Ypsilanti.
Five years had gone by since our parting at St. Petersburg, when he was
only an ensign in the regiment of the ‘Chevaliers Gardes,’ and now he
was a major-general, covered with well-earned orders, but minus an arm
lost at the battle of Bautzen. We strolled away from the crowd, the
better to enjoy the pleasure of our re-union. His good fortune had not
changed the qualities of his heart, ever open to noble feelings and
ever responsive to the words ‘friendship’ and ‘country.’ He was the son
of the Hospodar of Moldavia and Wallachia.[50] His father, overthrown
by one of those palace revolutions so frequent in Turkey, was obliged
to fly. Alexander, who was only sixteen, placed himself at the head of
a troop of Arnauts of eight hundred men, escorted his father across
the Carpathian mountains, and saved his life when escaping from the
eunuchs of the seraglio. He came to seek refuge in Russia. Educated
and brought up under the care and through the generosity of Emperor
Alexander, the young prince entered his service, and in a short time
opened a brilliant career for himself. His generous disposition, his
bold and enterprising mind, his open character strongly appealed to
me, and we became close friends. As a matter of course, we wished to
prolong the pleasure of this, practically our first meeting after many
years, so we went to dine at the tavern named the ‘Empress of Austria.’
This was the usual resort of most of the strangers who were not on
the budget of the Court or who wished to avoid the etiquette almost
inseparable from its hospitality. This gathering, almost unnoticed
at first, became soon afterwards a kind of debating centre, and had,
if not a voice in the deliberations of the Congress, at any rate, a
certain importance.
We took our seats at a table, already occupied by at least a score of
diners belonging to various nations. In spite of the difference of
interest and of position in a country distant from their own, strangers
were most eager to associate with each other: generals, diplomatists,
and simple travellers were mingled together at this impromptu banquet.
Some were ordnance officers of the sovereigns that had come to shear;
others, advocates of those who were being shorn. The first part of
the repast was, as usual, rather serious; people were taking stock of
each other, and the music of an excellent band made up for the lack of
conversation. They all seemed bent upon a diplomatic reserve.
I was seated near young Luchesini, who had arrived a few days
previously, and who was sent to Vienna by the Grand-Duchess of Tuscany
to concert measures with M. Aldini on the subject of Mme. Bacciochi’s
claims on the grand-duchy and of the principality of Lucca.[51] I had
seen M. Luchesini when he was very young at his mother’s in Paris;
but for the moment I did not recognise him. The notable changes, both
in his fortunes and in his person, were sufficient to justify my
lapse of memory. His father, the Marquis de Luchesini, for many years
the Prussian ambassador at the Court of Napoleon, had enjoyed great
consideration in Paris,[52] a consideration well deserved in virtue of
his conspicuous diplomatic talent and his intellectual attainments as a
private individual. He had paid great attention to the education of his
son, who, endowed with all the advantages calculated to ensure success,
started in life under the most auspicious circumstances. Presented
by his family at the new Court of Tuscany, and attracting the notice
of the sovereign of the hour, he was appointed grand equerry. It was
said that love, which abridges social distances, had made the young
favourite the happiest of mortals. I soon discovered that his delicate
position somewhat tied his tongue in his conversation with me. He
informed me that his family was living on their beautiful estate near
Lucca, and after a few general observations, we exchanged addresses,
promising to meet again.
To the hundred thousand strangers in Vienna, the Congress was rather
an immense pleasure-gathering than a political assembly. Truly, each
sovereign had his ambassadors and ministers, but each country had
also sent representatives of its best society. Upon the first-named
devolved the discussions of international interest and the settlement
of international problems; upon the second the more pleasant duty
of giving fêtes, entertainments, and holding receptions. Among the
plenipotentiaries of this drawing-room diplomacy stood foremost the
Comtesse Edmond de Périgord for France; for Prussia, the Princesse de
la Tour et Taxis (Thurn und Taxis); for England, Lady Castlereagh; for
Denmark, Comtesse de Bernstorff.
The upper stratum of German society was divided into several factions
or circles, and each had its particular shade and physiognomy. At the
Princesses Marie Esterhazy’s, de Colloredo’s, de Lichtenstein’s, and
at the Comtesse de Zichy’s, great courtesy and grace were added to the
minutest and numberless details of an ever-watchful hospitality. At
Mme. de Fuchs’s, the whole was on a less ceremonious footing; while,
on the contrary, the acme of ceremoniousness was attained at the
Princesse de Fürstenberg’s. Distinguished both for her learning and
for her energy, the princess’s habitual guests were princes many of
whom had become subjects. The handsome Duchesse de Sagan’s receptions
were eagerly attended. She was a most intellectual woman, and could
have exercised great influence on all serious affairs, inasmuch as her
judgment was considered in the light of an authority, but she rarely
made use of her advantages. The diplomatic celebrities forgathered
at M. de Humboldt’s or at M. de Metternich’s, the latter of whom,
undoubtedly, ought to have been named first. In fact, though his
residence was the central point of affairs, he still found it possible
to welcome strangers with the most indefatigable politeness.
The Russian drawing-room _par excellence_ was that of the Princesse
Bagration, the wife of the field-marshal of that name. She, as it
were, enacted, though informally, the part of principal hostess to
her countrymen who happened to be in Vienna. She was one of the most
brilliant stars in that number of constellations the Congress had
attracted. She seemed to have been singled out by the charm and the
distinction of her manners to transfer thither the polished form
and the aristocratic ease which at that time made the drawing-rooms
of St. Petersburg the foremost of Europe. In that respect no
minister-plenipotentiary would have used his opportunities to better
purpose.
The Princesse Bagration, who since then has been much admired in Paris,
was at that period in the zenith of her beauty. A young face, white
like alabaster and slightly tinted with pink, small features, a sweet,
though very feeling expression, to which her short-sightedness gave an
air of timidity and uncertainty; of average height though exquisitely
proportioned, and the whole of her personality pervaded by a kind of
Oriental languor joined to an Andalusian grace--such was, without
exaggeration, the charming hostess entrusted that evening with the
amusement of those illustrious personages often as much bored as the
‘unamusable’ lover of Mme. de Maintenon.
When Prince Koslowski and I entered the drawing-rooms, the Emperor
Alexander, the Kings of Prussia and of Bavaria, several other princes
and sovereigns, and a considerable number of strangers of distinction
had already arrived. The whole of the Russian aristocracy and the
Russian celebrities at that moment forgathered in Vienna seemed to have
appointed to meet there. MM. de Nesselrode, Pozzo di Borgo, the Comte
Razumowski, Russian ambassador to the Austrian Court, and the Prince
Volkonski were simply a trifle more conspicuous than the rest; but
among this crowd of familiar faces I might well have fancied myself
transferred to one of the hospitable palaces of St. Petersburg four
years previously.
Among this crowd of notabilities, special mention should be made, in
virtue of their high position and their intellectual charm, of the
various members of the Narischkine family.
The Narischkines are closely related to the Imperial House of Russia.
The mother of Peter the Great was a Narischkine; hence they consider
themselves of an origin too noble to have any need of titles. In fact,
that of ‘prince’ is so common in Russia as scarcely to constitute
a distinction. The elder of the two brothers enjoyed the reputation
of being the wittiest man at the Court of Emperor Alexander. His
conversation was as varied as it was amusing, and a collection of his
witticisms and epigrams would make a bulky volume, though they were
neither as subtle nor as brilliant as those of the Prince de Ligne,
not to mention those of Talleyrand; but when by chance, during the
Congress, these three men were together, then, unquestionably, there
was a real display of intellectual fireworks.
His daughter, the Princesse Hélène, had, in addition to great physical
beauty, a naturally brilliant intellect and a noble, sympathetic heart.
She married the son of the famous General Souvaroff, but her husband
was drowned during a journey in Wallachia. In spite of the warning of
his post-boy, he insisted upon crossing the little river Rimnik when
it was swollen by the rains and had become a downright torrent. He was
carried away by the current, without the slightest possibility of any
one coming to his aid. At the time of Paul I.‘s death, the princess’s
father occupied an apartment exactly under that of the emperor; she
herself was a mere babe. Awakened by the noise and tumult that followed
the assassination of Catherine the Great’s son, her nurse took her
into her arms, and in her fear hid her in an isolated and disused
sentry-box, where she was only found next morning.
The grand-chamberlain had been a favourite with Paul and managed to
preserve the favour of his son Alexander. The footing on which he
lived baffles description: he literally kept open house, the stir and
bustle of which never ceased; one could have called it a caravanserai
of princes. The plants, the flowers, the constant song of birds,
conveyed the impression, even in mid-winter, of a spring day in Italy.
He was as generous as he was lavish, and his prodigality often reduced
him to sore straits. The following is one instance among many.
Emperor Alexander had given him the star of the Order of St. Andrew,
magnificently set in diamonds. Being pressed for money, he had raised a
considerable sum upon it; and when the empress’s fête-day came round,
he felt in a terrible predicament, for he was unable to redeem his
pledge and he could not appear without it in full dress at the palace.
The only ‘plaque’ like it was that of the emperor himself. At an utter
loss to get out of the difficulty, he got hold of the emperor’s valet,
and by dint of promises, cajoling and the like, prevailed upon the
servant to lend him his master’s decoration. The man got frightened,
however, at the possible consequences of what he had done and informed
the sovereign.
Alexander did not breathe a single word, but as a punishment did
not take his eyes off the ‘plaque’ during the whole of the evening,
examining it minutely through his glasses whenever his chamberlain drew
near.
M. Narischkine accompanied Empress Elisabeth on her journey from St.
Petersburg to Vienna. When Alexander entrusted him with the mission,
fifty thousand roubles in paper were handed to his chamberlain,
together with directions for the route to be followed. A few days
later, the emperor took Narischkine aside. ‘You had the parcel I sent
you, cousin mine?’ asked the emperor.
‘Yes, sire, I received and read the first volume of the Itinerary.’
‘Already? And you are waiting for the second?’
‘A second edition, sire, rather than a second volume.’
‘I see what you mean. A second edition, revised and augmented.’
The second edition was handed to him a couple of hours afterwards.
His brother, the ‘grand veneur’ (say, ‘Master of the Buck Hounds’),
was the husband of that magnificent Marie Antonia, _née_ Princesse
Czerwertinska, one of the loveliest women in Europe, who for such a
long period held captive the heart of the handsome autocrat. Though
not endowed with as much wit as his elder, the younger Narischkine was
by no means devoid of it. He proved it by the philosophic manner with
which he bore his conjugal misfortunes. Often, in his replies to the
emperor, he put them in a naïve and diverting light. It was not the
grovelling acquiescence of a man who glories in his dishonour, but the
resignation to an evil which he could neither prevent nor mend.
One day Alexander was asking him for news of his children. ‘Of mine,
sire, or of those of the Crown?’ was the counter-query.
On another occasion, there was a similar inquiry about his family and
about his two daughters. The emperor, meeting him, made some kindly
reference to them. ‘But, sire, the second is yours,’ replied the ‘grand
veneur.’ Alexander’s sole retort was a smile.
Of course, the satire of the elder, which spared nobody, was not
particularly lenient with regard to the younger. The latter took
great pains with his hair, which was always dressed and curled with
the utmost care. Some one having made a remark to that effect in the
hearing of the grand-chamberlain, got his answer pat. ‘It is not
surprising; my brother’s head is arranged by the hands of a master.’[53]
During this long liaison, and notwithstanding the sway handsome Mme.
Narischkine exercised over her illustrious lover, the latter was
ever careful to save appearances. Amidst those quickly succeeding
entertainments and receptions at the period of the Congress, during
that daily and hourly existence of often relaxed etiquette. Empress
Elisabeth would have been necessarily and frequently brought face to
face with her rival, and would naturally have felt the slight. Mme.
Narischkine did not appear at the Congress.
Close by the Emperor of Russia sat the Princesse de la Tour et Taxis,
_née_ Mecklenburg-Strelitz, and sister-in-law to the King of Prussia.
That sovereign had practically transferred to her all the affection he
bore to his lost wife: the princess had a remarkable influence over
him, and she never requested a favour in vain. Gifted with a superior
intellect, and a beauty that had become proverbial, though it did not
equal that of her dead sister, the princess, by her charming manners,
even more than her stately bearing, compelled instantaneous admiration
and genuine respect. Among the many distinguished personages assembled
in Vienna, she shone with unusual brilliancy in virtue of her combining
every good quality.
I was placed close to Prince Koslowski and the Baron Ompteda, and felt
confident that among so numerous a company ample material would be
afforded to them for their faculties of clever observation.
‘Just cast your eye behind the chair of Emperor Alexander,’
remarked the Baron to me; ‘and look at his brother, the Grand-duke
Constantine. He is the third personage of the empire, and probably
the heir-presumptive to the throne. Nevertheless, observe his servile
attitude, and the affectation with which, as it were, he proclaims
himself the Czar’s first subject. One would think him permeated
with the sentiment of submission as others are with the feeling of
liberty. Personally, I fail to understand this voluptuous enjoyment
of obedience. And now,’ he went on, ‘glance at that other personage
close to him; that is the young Prince de Reuss, the twenty-ninth of
the name. In his case, it’s a horse of a different colour. He has
tumbled or drifted into the dreamland of I do not know what kind of
German sect or school, and has become imbued with a sort of affected
sentimentalism calculated to spoil the most sterling and happiest gifts
of nature. This vague sentimentality, which he professes in and out of
season, inspires him with the strangest ideas. A few days ago, he wrote
to a lady, seated not far away from us: “Hope constantly renewed and
equally constantly destroyed only keeps one alive to languish suspended
like Mahomet’s coffin between heaven and earth. It is for you to decide
... it is a question of your love or my death.” He has not had the
one given to him, and he has taken good care not to inflict the other
upon himself. And thus, from sheer lightness of heart, people adopt
ridiculous fads, far often less pardoned by the world at large than
real faults. His uncle, Henri XV. or Henri XVI., the actual civil and
military governor of Vienna, is somewhat more positive. Frederick the
Great one day asked him if the princes of his house were numbered like
hackney-carriages. “No, sire, not like hackney-carriages, but like
kings,” was the answer. Frederick must have been somewhat embarrassed
at the reply; nevertheless it pleased him, as everything witty and
spontaneous did, and from that moment Prince Henri always enjoyed his
favour and goodwill.’
Shortly afterwards Prince Koslowski drew my attention to a lady placed
near Empress Elisabeth. It was the Comtesse Tolstoy, _née_ Princesse
Baratynski, the wife of the grand-marshal. Her mother belonged to the
Holstein family, and was a cousin once removed of Catherine II.
‘You are probably aware,’ he said, ‘that the marshal is in disgrace?’
‘Yes, prince,’ I answered; ‘but I do not know the cause.’
‘The cause is this. Tolstoy, emboldened by the emperor’s indulgent
manner towards him, thought fit now and again to adopt a tone of
remonstrance which few sovereigns would have tolerated. He opposed
him in almost everything. Alexander often laughed at his fretful
remarks; at rare intervals he got angry, and retaliated in his own way.
When both happened to be travelling in an open sledge and Tolstoy’s
cavilling put the czar out of patience, he simply gave him a push which
sent him sprawling in the snow, and left him to run for a few minutes
after the light conveyance. When he considered that the punishment had
lasted long enough, he pulled up his horses, and the marshal, grumbling
all the while, resumed his seat by the side of his master, and the
matter was at an end. Convinced that things would go on for ever in
that way, Tolstoy raised an opposition to Alexander’s appearance at
the Congress. According to him, the emperor’s rôle there would not be
consistent with his dignity. Weary at last, the emperor this time took
the matter seriously and parted with his grand-marshal, who, it is
said, will not be comforted in his disgrace. The moral of all this is:
“Put not your trust in the friendship of princes.”’
In fact, a little while afterwards, the Comte Tolstoy, unable to
survive the loss of his sovereign’s favour, died at Dresden, whither he
had retired.
All at once a great silence fell upon the room. A young French
actress, Mme. L----, a pupil of Talma, and a protégée of the Princesse
Bagration, was going to recite. She had only recently arrived from
Paris. Though French tragic poetry stands essentially in need of the
illusion of the stage and the advantage of costume, that kind of
entertainment was not indulged in so lavishly as it is to-day; hence,
the handsome actress commanded great attention. She recited with much
feeling some strophes from _Zaïre_, and did great credit to her tutor
in the beautiful scene of the ‘_Songe d’Athalie_.’ She was cordially
applauded and complimented, and never had a _débutante_ such an
audience to judge her.
After this, the guests crowded round a table set out with rich
and elegant objects. There was to be a lottery, a kind of elegant
diversion revived from the Court of Louis XIV., whose love for Mlle.
de la Vallière had first suggested it to him. Then, as now, it was
a favourite recreation with women. Each sovereign contributed to
these lotteries one or more presents, which, falling to the lot of
the lucky ones, afforded these an opportunity of presenting them to
the ladies of their thought. That kind of amusement was frequently
repeated during the Congress. The most remarkable lotteries were those
drawn at the Princesse Marie Esterhazy’s and at Mme. Bruce’s, _née_
Moushkin-Poushkine. The mania for them spread from the drawing-rooms
to less distinguished places, and subsequently became the cause of an
adventure which aroused much excitement.
Some of the prizes were magnificent, the Grand-duke Constantine won two
magnificent vases contributed by the King of Prussia from the royal
porcelain works at Berlin. He offered them to our charming hostess.
The King of Bavaria won a handsome box in mosaic, which he begged
Princesse Marie Esterhazy to accept; and the Comte Capo d’Istria
drew a casket beautifully worked in steel, which he presented to the
Princesse Volkonski. Two small bronze candlesticks fell to the share
of Emperor Alexander. He gave them to Mlle. L----, to whom, it was
said, he had become very attentive. ‘His majesty’s love affairs are not
likely to entail any considerable draft on the imperial treasury,’ some
one whispered close to me. ‘He had just made Mlle. L---- a present,
by means of the candlesticks, of a few louis. This must be accounted
as a piece of tremendous generosity, for as a rule he receives more
than he gives. All the linen he wears is from the deft needle of Mme.
Narischkine; he not only accepts the workmanship, but he always forgets
to refund to her the cost of the material. The charming favourite makes
no secret of it. Louis XIV. frequently crops up in conversation in
connection with his fêtes at Versailles. Our sovereigns would do well
to imitate them. However artistically chased those candlesticks may
be, Mlle. L---- will not be prepared to think them as valuable as the
diamond bracelets the Grand Monarque won at Madame’s lottery and which
he offered in such an exquisite manner to La Vallière.’[54]
‘All this,’ said Prince Koslowski to me, ‘is certainly in excellent
taste, but these fêtes are absolutely nothing in comparison with those
given by Potemkin to Catherine in the Taurida and after the taking of
Oczakoff. Our mothers are never tired of talking of them. There was
also a kind of lottery, but skill instead of chance presided at it. In
the ball-room there was a long row of marble columns, positively hung
with garlands composed of jewels and trinkets. The dances were arranged
so that every gentleman passing near these columns could detach from
them some precious ornament which he offered to his partner. As you
may imagine, that courtly fashion of offering presents was intensely
relished by the fair sex, and Catherine herself discharged their debt
of gratitude by heaping still greater riches on her favourite. That’s
what I should call amusements fit for sovereigns. After all, we are
becoming very mean.’
A great many prizes of minor importance were subsequently drawn for,
and there was a kind of mild ‘give and take’ in connection with them.
The room was so crowded that I only caught sight of Ypsilanti when he
came forward to receive a sable cape which he offered to the Princesse
Souvaroff. Taking advantage of a momentary thinning of the crowd, I
drew up to them to say a few words to Princesse Hélène, whom I was
sincerely pleased to meet again. ‘I dare say we have a lot to tell each
other,’ she said. ‘Come with Ypsilanti to luncheon to-morrow. We’ll be
more at our ease than here, and by ourselves. We’ll have a talk about
bygone days.’ I accepted gladly, confident that her conversation would
remind me of my stay in Russia, which constituted one of the best
periods of my life.
When the sovereigns had retired, there were some music and dancing,
followed by an elegant supper, without restraint and during which one
could gossip to one’s heart’s content. It was, in short, one of those
series of fleeting hours which at Vienna seemed to be woven of gold and
silk by fairies in the loom of pleasure.