The Castle of Laxemburg--Heron-Hawking--The Empress of Austria
--A Royal Hunt--Fête at the Ritterburg--A Recollection
of Christina of Sweden--Constance and Theodore, or the
Blind Husband--Poland--Scheme for her Independence--The
Comte Arthur Potocki--The Prince de Ligne and Isabey--
The Prince de Ligne’s House on the Kalemberg--Confidential
Chats and Recollections--The Empress Catherine II.--Queen
Marie-Antoinette--Mme. de Staël--Casanova.
‘These sovereigns on their holidays,’ as the Prince de Ligne called
them, had to be constantly amused, or at any rate prevented at all cost
from being bored. The committee appointed by the emperor, and composed
of the most eminent personages of the Austrian Court, cudgelled their
brains to devise a new diversion for each day. They were, above all,
very busy with the preparations for the great imperial tournament
which, it was intended, should constitute a never-to-be-forgotten
feature of the brilliant functions of the Congress. The cut, the
shape, and the colour of the dresses were matters of incessant study;
the horses were drilled every day; the champions spent many hours
rehearsing the various movements and passes which were to remind all of
us of the ancient days of chivalry; the ladies tried on the magnificent
gowns and ornaments, the historical accuracy of which was to carry the
suffrages of everybody by pleasing the eye. But pending the termination
of those busy preparations, a big hunt had been organised in the woods
and park of the imperial residence, Laxemburg, and numerous invitations
issued.
Laxemburg is about six miles from Schönbrunn. The park is laid out
on English models. There are densely-wooded plantations at irregular
intervals, further on vast lawns leading to thick and sombre forests;
swelling tracts of ground ingeniously arranged, and masses of rocks;
everywhere the most varied and unexpected vistas. In one word, art has
combined in a restricted space the different beauties of nature. The
most conspicuous feature, though, is a magnificent piece of water, one
might call it a lake, the aspect of which reminds one of the landscapes
of Switzerland. On its limpid surface there lay at that period a
miniature frigate with its cannon, masts and rigging, and other small
craft, the brilliant bunting of which imparted life and colour to the
rippling, dancing wavelets.
Schönbrunn had been the object of Maria-Theresa’s predilection,
consequently Laxemburg had suffered as a residence at the cost of its
neighbour. Emperor Francis made up for the undeserved neglect. On a
slope some short distance from the lake, he erected the ‘Ritterburg,’
which has become one of the principal sights of Austria. It is an
exact imitation of one of the sombre castles or forbidding manors of
mediæval feudalism. The massive walls, flanked by crenellated towers,
are surrounded by a deep moat filled with water. The inner court, with
its pavilions, its barriers, the whole arranged for single combats and
tournaments, forms the lists. The halls are in keeping with the court;
they are filled with stands of arms, coats of mail, breastplates,
lances, etc. From its Gothic pillars hang panoplies; from its ogival
arches are suspended banners, their staffs adjusted amidst turbans,
richly embroidered, Oriental vestments, the spoil wrested from the
infidels; in short, the relics of the victories that saved Christianity.
In another hall are preserved weapons, dresses, and other venerable
remains of the heroes whose prowess founded the German Empire, of
Rudolph of Hapsburg, of Maximilian I., and of Charles V.
Still further on, there is a hall hung with the cloaks of the first
Knights of the Golden Fleece. In a hall leading out of that one stand
the white marble effigies of the emperors sprung from the House of
Austria. These are succeeded by a series of vast reception rooms,
several of which are most admirable in virtue of their decoration.
There is no longer an attempt at imitating the Gothic style; they are
filled with the marvels of art of the period itself--that is, the
masterpieces spared by the hand of time, most exquisite specimens
of sculpture, delicately-worked panels, whole ceilings. All these
precious relics were collected from the convents suppressed at the
period of the building of the ‘Ritterburg.’ Everything calculated to
heighten the illusion was conveyed to the ‘Ritterburg.’ In one spot
there is a narrow winding stair, leading to a dungeon, or rather a
torture-chamber, with its massive doors, its irons and chains, and even
its instruments of torture. Crouching against the further wall, there
is the figure of an ill-fated prisoner, dressed as a Knight Templar and
bending beneath the weight of his fetters. By some ingenious mechanism,
he slowly and painfully drags himself with an effort from his sitting
posture to hold out his arms to the spectator. The gruesome imitation
is so perfect as to produce a shudder in the beholder.
The topmost story of that tower is a spacious room called the Hall of
Judgment. Narrow ogival windows admit only a sparse light. Twelve stone
seats are ranged in a circle along the walls. In the centre there is
a round table with a circular hole in it, big enough to admit a human
head and no more. On the day of his trial the accused man was bound to
a chair; by means of a contrivance consisting of ropes and pulleys, he
was quickly raised to the summit of the tower, and suddenly his head
emerged from the hole in the board. Before the interrogatory, he was
asked the whole truth; he replied, knowing that at the slightest sign
from his judges the rope attached to his chair could be cut and he
himself be flung from a height of two hundred feet on to the stones of
his dungeon. Nothing could give a more striking idea of the terrible
‘proceedings’ of feudal justice in the Middle Ages than this mechanism.
The committee entrusted with the programme of the fêtes had, it was
said, entertained the idea of giving a representation of a judiciary
ascension as described; the scene had even been cast. The Empress of
Austria was, however, of opinion that such a picture of anguish and
torture would only mar the brightness of the fête she was preparing for
her guests.
The chapel of the ‘Ritterburg’ is not the least of its curiosities. It
is the same which was constructed by St. Leopold in the twelfth century
at Kloster-Neuburg. The materials were transferred piecemeal to its
present site, and the monument is in perfect keeping with all those
relics of past days.
Among the many works of art in the Castle of Laxemburg itself, there
are several paintings by Canaletto; amongst others views of Schönbrunn,
of the Graben, and the Church of the Capuchins.
Maria-Theresa came now and again to Laxemburg to exchange the cares of
state for the relaxations of hawking. The ‘Ritterburg’ had not been
built then.
When, amidst the difficulties of finding new recreations, the fêtes
committee conceived the project of bringing the guests of the Congress
to Laxemburg and entertaining them there, the idea of ‘flying’ the
hawk naturally presented itself. In the vicinity of that Gothic castle
nothing could be more in harmony with the style of its construction
than an amusement borrowed from the traditions and manners of the
feudal ages.
The place of meeting was on the banks of the lake, not far from a
marshy spot tenanted by numerous flocks of water-birds. Foremost among
the company was the lovely Empress of Austria, famed for her love of
sport and her marvellous skill, the graceful Elizabeth, Empress of
Russia, Queen Caroline of Bavaria, her sister, and a number of ladies,
several of whom wore the elegant costume of the sixteenth century.
At the head of the sovereigns on horseback was Emperor Francis,
unflaggingly hospitable. Amidst them, in a low-wheeled _calèche_, is
the enormous King of Würtemberg, famed for his former hunts and hunting
exploits, and anxious to witness tranquil amusement, altogether unlike
the fatigues and perils he was wont to court.
The huntsmen in their handsome uniforms, holding their dogs in leash,
come first; then come the falconers with their hooded birds on their
wrists, and behind these the eager mass of spectators.
At a spot where the reeds and rushes impede the view of the lake, there
is a halt, and the dogs’ leashes are slipped to start the birds. The
air rings with barking, and all eyes are strained upward in expectation
of the struggle, somewhat novel to the majority. All of a sudden, a
grey-plumaged heron takes its flight, at first slowly, heavily, and
with listless movement; then spreading its wings it rises rapidly. At
the sight of the bird, promising not an easy victory but a protracted
struggle, the falconers get ready, encouraging _their_ birds with their
cries, awaiting a signal from the empress to give the first pursuer
flight.
The signal is given, and in the twinkling of an eye the hood is removed
from one of the hawks and it is set free. The falconer points to the
fleeing heron, the impatient hawk shakes its pinions, utters a cry, and
quick as lightning soars aloft. The affrighted heron tries in vain to
rise higher than his pursuer, but the latter directs its flight in such
a manner as to be constantly hovering above its quarry. Each attempt of
the heron meets with a counter-move on the part of the hawk, compelling
its victim to descend. If the heron shows signs of returning to the
starting-point where the hunters are, the hawk, swift as a flash, bars
its progress in that direction and forces it to take the opposite one;
it keeps worrying the other bird, tiring it and practically dazzling it
by the repeated beating of its pinions, until it finally brings it back
to the point within an easy view of the spectators of the struggle.
The heron at length determines upon resistance. Steadily pursuing its
course, and apparently motionless, it presents its long bill, sharp
like a sword, to its foe. The hawk, on its part, decides upon attack.
Rapidly wheeling round and round the heron, it lowers its flight, then
re-ascends and all at once grips the flanks of its victim. Then begins
a veritable struggle at close quarters, with all its fury and all its
rapidly changing incidents.
The heron has the first advantage; it aims a terrible stroke at its
adversary, piercing it between the neck and one of its pinions as
if with a dagger. The hawk, nevertheless, clings to the heron and
rends the latter’s flesh with its beak. The heron quickly follows up
its strokes; compelled to fight and at the same time to carry the
weight of its foe, it multiplies its attack without getting rid of
its assailant, and the blood of both stains their plumage crimson. In
spite of this, the hawk looks like getting the worse of it. There is a
longer interval between its attacks, which are neither as fierce nor
as sure as heretofore, and the victory bids fair to remain with the
heron, when the falconer despatches a second hawk from among those
which, though hooded up to now, seem aware of the struggle going on,
to judge by the flapping of their wings and the sudden stiffening of
their feathers. The freshly-despatched combatant is a hen-bird, easily
recognised by its beautiful brown plumage, for it is noteworthy that
among this species the females are bigger, stronger, and bolder than
the males. No sooner is the hood removed than the female rises into the
air and, disdaining all preliminary evolutions, fastens its beak into
the neck of the heron. The air is rent by the cries of the hunters,
the barking of the dogs, and the braying of the horns. The heron’s
resistance is, from that moment, useless. The new assailant virtually
smothers it, and, moreover, digs its claws into the heron’s back, while
the male, its strength revived by the timely aid of the female, renews
its attacks. It becomes merely a question of seconds with the ill-fated
heron. After a few spasmodic movements, rendered uncertain by the loss
of blood, it finally closes its eyes and drops to the earth. The two
hawks utter screeches of victory, tear their victim’s eyes out, and
without letting go of it for a moment, drag it to the falconer’s feet.
According to the ancient usages of the chase, a huntsman stepped
forward at that moment, and, plucking from the heron’s neck its fine
and elegant plumage, constituting as it were a natural aigrette, he
handed it to Emperor Alexander, who, in his turn, immediately offered
it to the lovely Empress of Austria. The horns sounded ‘the death,’
while the birds devoured their quarry, and the illustrious guests
crowded round the falconers to compliment them.
This, after all, was only the prelude to a more important sporting item
of the programme. Every care had been taken to ensure its success. The
signal for a new start was given, and we moved towards another part of
the park, where on an immense lawn surrounded by trees a vast arena
had been arranged for the guns. At one side there was a circular stand
for the guests of the Court. The sovereigns and the high personages in
whose honour the entertainment was given took up their positions, each
one provided with four pages charged with loading the guns, in order to
spare the principals the slightest fatigue.
The general beating-up had taken place on the previous night. At the
word of command from the empress the circle of beaters drew in, and
at the same moment from all the outlets of the wood, there emerged a
numberless quantity of wild-boars, deer, hares, and game of all kind,
which in a few moments were killed by the privileged marksmen, amidst
the general applause of the lookers-on.
My friends and I had taken up our positions a little distance away
from the Empress of Austria, who was using only a musket, loaded with
ball, and who aimed exclusively at hares or small game, which she never
missed.
This file-firing, or rather this kind of slaughter, only ceased when
the number of animals killed amounted to several thousands. Once
more the forest rang with the barking of the dogs, the cries of the
spectators, mingled with the sound of hunting-horns. The ground
literally disappeared under the heaped-up game, its blood still
trickling. Truly, after the noble struggle we had just witnessed, it
became difficult not to admit that the amusements of our fathers were
superior to ours.
Ypsilanti seemed surprised at the remarkable skill of the Empress
of Austria, and at the steadiness of her aim. Without for a moment
wishing to detract from either, I told him what I had seen in the
arsenal at Stockholm, namely, a long carabine which was loaded with a
single pellet of the smallest shot, and with which, it is said, Queen
Christina amused herself by bringing down the flies on the walls of her
rooms without ever missing one.
Soon after the termination of the sport, night set in rapidly.
Suddenly, as if at the touch of a magic wand, the lawn and the avenues
of the park were lighted up by enormous ‘pitch-pots,’ known in Turkey
as _machala_, the blaze of which carries very far. At the same
moment, the inside of the ‘Ritterburg’ was illuminated from roof to
basement for the reception of the illustrious guests who were going
to assemble there. When Emperor Francis constructed the castle as an
exact illustration of the ideas prevailing during the feudal era, he
certainly did not foresee the forgathering under its roof in one day
of such a number of illustrious personages, from emperors to knights.
Though only those provided with invitations had been admitted to
Laxemburg, their number was so great as to make perambulation in the
various halls and reception rooms exceedingly difficult. The animated
crowd, and the profusion of light constituted the strangest and most
striking contrast to the sombre arches, the panoplies, the dresses and
the ornaments of mediæval times.
The lovely imperial hostess did the honours of the feudal manor with
her usual grace. A magnificent collation was served, to which succeeded
a concert of a peculiar kind. In a corner of the principal hall
there was an enormous organ; its construction, sound, and ornaments
faithfully recalling the machines with brass pipes and bellows with
which the piety of our forefathers provided the cathedrals of the
Middle Ages. The deep tones of the organ were accompanied by a band
of wind instruments, played by musicians expressly brought from
Bohemia, where instrumental music appears to have reached perfection.
To complete the illusion, they had selected some of the old national
melodies, the traditions of which have been preserved for centuries.
In the intervals, huntsmen, placed on a tower overlooking the castle,
played hunting tunes that sounded like an echo coming from the skies.
On several occasions during previous concerts, I had noticed a young
man whose eyes were covered with a black bandage, and who was guided
through the crowd by a young lady with an elegant figure, but whose
face was hidden by a thick veil. This time they were close to the
organ, and they evidently enjoyed the music greatly. I asked the Comte
François de Palfi who were these young people, imparting an air of
sadness to a fête rather than partaking of its joys.
‘That young man,’ he answered, ‘is the Comte Hadick, the young woman is
his wife, and their story is most interesting.
‘Bound by a very close friendship, additionally cemented by long and
important services to each other, the Comtes Hadick and Amady made up
their minds to tighten these bonds still further by uniting in marriage
their children, who were about the same age. Théodore Hadick, the
only offspring of the illustrious family, was in consequence brought
up with young Constance, who from her infancy bade fair to be as kind
in disposition as she was beautiful in face and figure. At fifteen
the feelings of these two young people were already what they would
continue to be all their lives. The castles of the two magnates were
practically adjacent to each other. Constance, by being present at
the lessons of her young friend, easily learned all those exercises
calculated to impart both bodily and mental gracefulness without being
hurtful to beauty. What united them still more was their passionate
fondness for music, which passion appears innate with the Hungarians.
They were held up everywhere as models of perfection and virtue, and
their fathers were already discussing the time of their wedding, when
the war broke out.
‘As you are aware, the laws of Hungary compel every noble personally
to fight for his country; and in the periods of great danger, when
the whole of the nation rushes to arms, the magnates march with their
banners at the head of their vassals. The Comte Hadick, jealous for
the honour of his house, was very anxious for his son to share the
forthcoming campaign. Constance, hiding her grief, and solely occupied
with the future and the glory of her betrothed, watched with great
courage the preparations for a parting which the chances of war might
prolong and render eternal.
‘Theodore, impatient to devote himself to his country, hurried the
moment that was to afford him the chance of showing himself still
more worthy of the girl whom he loved, and the day of his departure
was finally fixed upon. The previous evening, though, the betrothal
took place at the castle, and it was with the certainty of Constance’s
hand that the young count at the head of his vassals went to join the
Hungarian army at Pesth. You know the result of the campaign. The
Hungarians kept up their reputation for brilliant valour. Théodore, in
virtue of several signal actions, deserved the cross conferred upon him
by the chapter of the Order of Maria-Theresa, a distinction considered
one of the foremost in the annals of chivalry.
‘But while the young man supped full with glory, Constance had been
carried to the brink of the grave by a cruel illness. Stricken down
by an attack of most virulent smallpox, she hovered for a long time
between life and death. The doctors, while saving her, could not
prevent the face which had been one of the most beautiful from becoming
almost hideous. She was only allowed to look at herself when she was on
the high road to recovery.
‘The sight, as you may imagine, filled her with despair, and, convinced
that Théodore could no longer love her under such conditions, she
ardently prayed for death.
‘In vain her father and the Comte Hadick tried to reassure her. Haunted
by the horrible dread of being no longer worthy of her betrothed,
she refused to be comforted, and the young girl was simply dying of
despair, there being not the faintest hope left.
‘Nevertheless, one morning, when she was nestling in the arms of
her father, who bade her live at least for him, the servant who had
accompanied Théodore to the war suddenly rushed into the apartment,
announcing the immediate coming of his master, whose voice, a moment
afterwards, was heard outside.
‘“Constance, Constance, where art thou?”
‘At that voice so dear to her, the young girl, lacking the courage to
fly, covered her face with her handkerchief and her hands.
‘“Do not come near me, Théodore, I have lost my beauty. I have no
longer anything to offer thee but my heart.”
‘“What do I hear? But look at me, Constance!”
‘“No, no, thou wouldst only recoil at seeing me.”
‘“What does it matter, if thy love is the same, Constance. Constance, I
can no longer see thee.”
‘She raises her eyes and looks. Théodore was blind. The charge of a
musket had deprived him of his sight.
‘“God be praised!” exclaimed Constance, falling on her knees.
“Théodore, we shall be united, for thou canst still love me. I shall be
thy guide; yes, I shall be to thee as I was in the first moments of our
love, and thou shalt be able to love me still.”
‘Shortly after that they were married. Never was there a couple so
deserving of happiness more really happy than they. The comtesse takes
her husband everywhere, never leaving his side for a moment. He is
the object of her most delicate attentions; her love for him seems
increased by his terrible affliction. She does not wear that veil to
hide her scarred features, but because she is afraid that the remarks
of the crowd on her vanished beauty may sadden the heart of the husband
whom she worships.
‘The young comte’s passion for music appears to have increased since he
lost his sight. He regularly attends every concert; and his faithful
companion, who appears only to live for him, is always at his side.’
The concert came to an end just as the comte finished his touching
story. Then the windows were opened and magnificent fireworks let
off on the lake. The sheaves of fire crossing each other and being
reflected in the water; the numerous craft, illuminated and streaming
with bunting; the masses of light standing in relief against the sombre
background of the forest; the sound of the horns mingling with the
shells and fusees--all this combined produced a truly magical effect.
Finally, after this well-spent day we began to think of getting back
to Vienna, probably to recommence next morning the pursuit of the
apparently inexhaustible round of pleasure.
The next day, however, I had promised to spend with the Prince de Ligne
at his house on the Kalemberg. When I got there, I found the prince in
company with M. Nowosilitzoff, a Russian statesman of great ability
and a trusty adviser of Emperor Alexander, who, it was said at the
time, was deeply interested in the future of Poland. The constitution
of that country, its organisation and its institutions, which were
to reinstate her in her former rank among the European nations--in
short, her destiny--was one of the gravest questions submitted to
the deliberations of the Congress. A most confidential councillor of
the czar and a member of the provisional government of Warsaw, M.
Nowosilitzoff was at that period engaged in drawing up the constitution
intended by the czar for his new kingdom.
The Prince de Ligne professed an ardent sympathy for Poland. He admired
her chivalrous and hospitable customs, and above all that frankness
which forms the chief trait of the Polish character. Added to this
admiration was his gratitude to a nation which had formerly admitted
him among the ranks of its nobility. Consequently, he sat listening
attentively to the projects of Alexander, projects which just then
inspired a certain belief. As for me, the subject appealed to me like
everything connected with the country in which I spent some of the best
years of my youth.
‘After so many unprecedented efforts, after so many disappointed hopes
and useless sacrifices, Poland bids fair to breathe at last,’ said
M. Nowosilitzoff. ‘Deceived for many years by the man who had the
misfortune to consider his will as a ruling principle, his power as
a proof of his statesmanship, and his success as a reason for it, the
Poles were not altogether unjustified in believing in promises tending
to reinstate them as a nation.’
‘There is no nation on the face of the earth who would not have made
the same sacrifices for so noble an illusion,’ remarked the prince.
‘No doubt, but constantly letting their thoughts run back, as they do,
to the brilliant periods of their history, they would fain see their
country assume the proud and independent attitude it adopted under the
Bathoris, the Sigismunds, and the Sobieskis; and in this beautiful
dream of the past, and, moreover, deceived by the actual state of
politics in Europe, they will not stop their ambition at the point
imposed by their geographical position. They will only find a country
in the strictest sense through us and with us,’ the councillor went
on. ‘Poland, completely independent and organised on the very risky
basis of its erewhile constitutions, would only secure an ephemeral
existence; she would carry her own germ of destruction. Is she to form
a permanent camp in the centre of pacified Europe, or shall she arm all
her nomadic sons like the Sarmatians of old, in order to make up by
living ramparts for the natural frontiers and fortresses she lacks? She
must have a support in order to insure her independence. Truth, I know,
can only triumph slowly over the power of prejudice; but what is there
to oppose the fact which henceforth is only too palpable? The hope
of a better future, a hope which can only be indulged by unthinking
creatures whom the disasters of their country have failed to restore to
reason and coolness of mind.’
‘Burke has said somewhere,’ replied the prince, ‘that the division of
Poland would cost its authors very dear; he might have said the same of
the defenders of the nation, for it is probable that the active share
of Napoleon in the affairs of Poland has contributed in no small degree
to his downfall. May the projects of Alexander remain exempt from a
similar fatality! Everything will depend upon the guarantees given
for the maintenance of the Polish nationality! A people may resign
itself to having been vanquished; it will never resign itself to being
humiliated.’
‘The solicitude of the emperor for his new subjects admits of no
discussion,’ observed M. Nowosilitzoff. ‘To be convinced of this,
you have only to glance at this manuscript. It is the draught of the
Constitution of the Kingdom of Poland, and it is corrected by the
hands of Alexander himself. If it be true that great thoughts proceed
direct from the heart, there is ample evidence here of the nobleness of
Alexander’s. The laws and the constitution of the kingdom will be the
keystone of the peace of Europe.’
In fact, the few pages he read to us from the manuscript redounded as
much to the honour of the statesman as to that of the philanthropist.
Poland would indeed have been a happy country, if an erroneous policy
had not struck all those dreams of a moment with utter barrenness.[55]
The commentary of M. Nowosilitzoff, which followed upon the reading
of the document, was interrupted by the arrival of the Comte Arthur
Potocki, the youthful friend of the Prince de Ligne. Though a Pole,
and animated by the most generous feelings towards his country, his
presence vexed the privy councillor to such an extent as to cause him
instantly to roll up his manuscript without adding another word, and to
leave us shortly afterwards.
The Comte Arthur Potocki, son of the Comte Jean of the illustrious
family of that name, and one of the best educated men in Europe, had a
noble face, an elegant figure, and a cultivated mind. At an age when
most men spend their time in pleasure and frivolous pursuits, he was
conspicuous for a sterling judgment, a wide knowledge, and the most
exquisite politeness. It is not surprising then that he was one of
the most notable men in Vienna society, and eminently fit to occupy
a similar position everywhere. The Prince de Ligne was very fond of
Arthur, whom he called his Alcibiades, and who in his turn worshipped
the bright and witty octogenarian, so indulgent to young men.
‘Everything has been finally arranged for the imperial _carrousel_
(musical ride), which is irrevocably fixed for next week,’ said
the young comte, ‘and I have brought you the tickets which the
Grand-Marshal Trauttmansdorff has told me to remit to you. It will be
one of the most brilliant spectacles ever witnessed. To-morrow night
everybody in Vienna laying claim to be somebody is going to the Court
to see the “living pictures” arranged by Isabey. They will be followed
by romances sung and enacted by the handsomest women of the Court, the
lovely Duchesse de Sagan, the Princesse Paul Esterhazy, the Comtesse
Zichy, and several of our most elegant fair ones. Do not fail to
come, gentlemen; you had better take advantage of the joyous hours.
It is rumoured that the Congress will terminate on the 15th December.
Good-bye, until to-morrow. Let the thought of the closing of the
Congress be with you every moment, as it is with me.’ Saying which, he
took his departure.
The prince reminded me that I had promised to spend a few hours with
him on that day at his house on the Kalemberg. Before going thither he
wished to go to Isabey’s to sit for his portrait, and he asked me to
accompany him.
‘During that hour of torture to me,’ he laughed, ‘you will have an
opportunity of looking at a series of portraits from his brush. Isabey
is the recorder of the Congress in pigments. And inasmuch as he is
almost as clever with his tongue as with his brush, you’ll not waste
your time.’
In a short time we reached the artist’s quarters in the Leopoldstadt.
The front of the house was provided with a barrier to prevent the
deadlock of the visitors’ carriages. Isabey’s arrival at Vienna had
been preceded by his deserved reputation.[56]
Presented by the Duc de Sérent to Marie-Antoinette, Isabey, at the age
of twenty, painted the portrait of the lovely and ill-fated queen,
who treated him with the utmost kindness, and always called him her
little Lorrain. Subsequently, having become the painter-in-ordinary of
Napoleon, he reproduced the features of all the celebrated men and all
the handsome women of the Empire. It was he who superintended the fêtes
of that brilliant and short-lived era.
At Vienna, all the European celebrities solicited the distinction
of reproduction by his brush, and he could scarcely comply with all
their requests. The number of portraits he painted at that period
is positively surprising, and supplies a proof of his talent having
been as fertile as it is graceful. Whenever there was a question of
organising this or that entertainment for which the Congress was the
pretext, the artist who had drawn the designs for Napoleon’s coronation
was, as may be imagined, considered in the light of a ‘God-send.’
Nothing was done without consulting him.
According to Isabey himself, it was M. de Talleyrand who had prompted
the idea of his going to Vienna; and art is indebted to that journey
for his remarkable and historical drawing of a ‘Sitting of the
Plenipotentiaries at the Congress.’
The fall of Napoleon deprived Isabey of nearly all his functions.
One day, in the study of the statesman who at that time was supposed
to have mainly contributed to that catastrophe, the artist spoke
regretfully of a restoration which, as far as he was concerned, spelt
ruin. On one of the walls of the room hung an engraving of the ‘Peace
of Munster,’ after Terburg. Pointing to it, Talleyrand said, ‘A
Congress is to be held at Vienna. Why not go there?’ The few words were
as a ray of light in the darkness to Isabey, and from that moment his
mind was made up. Talleyrand did more than give a hint. He gave him a
most cordial welcome, and proved a kindly and appreciative patron.
On Prince Eugène’s arrival in Vienna, one of his first calls was
upon Isabey. In his equivocal position, he felt only too glad to see
somebody reminding him of his younger days. The painter by his bright
recollections often dispelled the sadness of the prince. It was Eugène
who shortly afterwards took Isabey to Emperor Alexander. Isabey’s
conversation was always interesting, but it became positively sparkling
and historically valuable when recounting the marvellous details of the
coronation, which, as has been said, were arranged by him. Isabey was
not less delightful when recalling the familiar and every-day life at
Malmaison.
Already in 1812, during a tour through Germany, Isabey, being in
Prague, had made a sketch of the Prince de Ligne, which sketch he
carefully preserved and which hangs to this day (1830) in his studio.
Notwithstanding the seventy-and-eight years of the model, the sketch
shows the noble and delicately cut features which to the end were the
object of everybody’s admiration. At that period the Prince de Ligne
only knew Isabey by reputation. One morning he called upon the artist,
who happened to be out. But his album lay open near his easel. Instead
of leaving his card, the prince took up a pen and wrote a dozen
tripping and sparkling lines, describing Isabey’s talent, finishing up
with:
‘He constitutes as great an honour to art as to his country;
And in virtue of this impromptu, I also am a painter.’
This tribute to Isabey’s talent on the part of the Prince de Ligne is
only one of the valuable testimonies contained in Isabey’s album. Every
important personage in Europe, ministers, generals, artists, ladies of
high degree, have equally considered it a pleasure to testify to their
admiration and their esteem.
Isabey had been quartered magnificently, like Benvenuto Cellini in
days of yore, at the Louvre. His studio, hung from floor to ceiling
with sketches, drawings, and portraits in a more or less advanced
stage of completion, impressed one with the idea of a magic lantern,
representing in turns all the notable personages who at that moment had
forgathered in Vienna.
The hour taken up with the prince’s sitting seemed short to me. Every
now and again the work was interrupted by this or that subtle remark
or lively reminiscence. The conversation ran principally on a little
adventure in connection with the game of ‘leap-frog,’ which caused
such a stir in Paris at the period of the Consulate, and which was
obstinately believed in, in spite of Isabey’s denials. Here it is in
its original version.
Bonaparte, as is well known, was in the habit of walking with his arms
crossed upon his chest, and his head slightly bent forward. Isabey was
at Malmaison, and he and some of the First Consul’s aides-de-camp were
having a game of leap-frog on the lawn. Isabey had already jumped over
the heads of most of them, when, at the turning of a path, he espied
the last player who, in the requisite position, seemed to be waiting
for the ordeal. Isabey pursued his course without looking, but took his
flight so badly as only to reach the other’s shoulders, and both rolled
over and over in the sand, and to Isabey’s consternation, his supposed
fellow-player turned out to be Bonaparte. At that period, Bonaparte
had probably not pondered the possibility of a ‘fall’; hence, it was
said, refractory at this first lesson, he got up, foaming at the mouth
with anger, and drawing his sword, pounced upon the unfortunate leaper.
Isabey, luckily for himself better at running than at leaping, took to
his heels, and jumping the ditches dividing the property from the high
road, got over the wall and never stopped until, breathless, he reached
the gates of the Tuileries. Isabey, it was added, went immediately
to Mme. Bonaparte’s apartments, and she, after having laughed at the
mishap, advised him to lie low for a little while. It was still further
reported that it wanted all Josephine’s angelic goodness of heart and
cleverness, besides her usual influence over Bonaparte, to appease
the latter’s anger and to obtain the painter’s pardon. Bonaparte at
that moment was only ‘Consul for Life,’ but people already foresaw the
Empire, and the section of Paris society which was not too well pleased
at the prospect of a possible return to former ideas naturally made the
most of the anecdote of Malmaison. The denials of Isabey, who took good
care to make short work of all the detailed rumours, found little or no
belief; the adventure was considered extremely diverting, and Isabey’s
contradiction of it had no effect.
In the course of our conversation with Isabey, the Prince de Ligne
pressed him very closely on the subject, as if the _definitive_ fall of
Napoleon sufficed to restore to Isabey all his freedom of speech and
all his frankness on the matter. Isabey, on the other hand, kept on
defending himself with no less energy.
‘That adventure of Malmaison,’ he said, ‘is an invention from
beginning to end. It is ridiculous, and one of those semi-historical
exaggerations which have grieved me more than I can tell. Napoleon
was made to play a part utterly at variance with his character. When
that story was bruited in Paris, I had not set eyes upon him for more
than six weeks. The moment I heard of it, and of the particulars with
which it was embellished, I went to St. Cloud. As soon as he saw me,
he came up to me, and I had no difficulty in convincing him that I had
no share in the matter; it really seemed to aim at ruining me for ever
in his estimation. He was exceedingly kind, and reminded me of the
well-known rejoinder of Turenne, when his valet struck him by mistake,
and apologised by saying he fancied it was a fellow-servant (called
George). “And supposing it had been George, there was no need to strike
so hard,” said Turenne. But,’ observed Isabey, ‘refuted or not, the
stories that pander to people’s spitefulness are repeated, and finally
remain as quasi-truths.’
‘Had I been in your place,’ said the prince, ‘I should not have taken
the trouble to refute the fable. If it had been attributed to me, I
should have accepted the part. It would have been rather interesting to
jump like that on the shoulders of him who so unceremoniously jumped so
well on the shoulders of others.’
Afterwards the conversation drifted to young Napoleon, whose portrait
we had admired a few days previously at Schönbrunn.
‘That child,’ said Isabey, ‘has only one thought occupying his mind,
the recollection of his father. One morning as he was sitting to me,
there was the sound of bugles; the Hungarian Guards were passing down
one of the courts. He immediately glides off his chair, runs to the
window, comes back, and taking my hand, says, “Here are papa’s lancers
going by.”’
The portrait of the Prince de Ligne was already sufficiently advanced
to enable one to judge of the likeness, and I complimented Isabey upon
it. All those who knew the admirable old man were struck with the
marvellously faithful reproduction of him as a whole.
In a few moments we gaily resumed the course of our little pilgrimage.
The Kalemberg is a hill overlooking Vienna, and offering a most
picturesque birdseye view of the city. The prince had established
his summer quarters there some years ago, dividing his time in the
delicious retreat between art, pleasure, and the delightful society his
fame constantly attracted thither.
On our way we chatted about the pastimes and diversions of Vienna, and
he gave me a rapid picture of them, for it could be said absolutely of
him what he said of Casanova: ‘Each word is a sketch, and each thought
is a book.’
‘Fitly to describe the fairy scenes succeeding each other here without
interruption would want an Ariosto, that magician of poesy,’ he said.
‘In fact, I shall not be surprised at the festal committee shortly
issuing a proclamation, to the sound of trumpets and through all the
towns and villages of the monarchy, promising a prize to the fortunate
man devising a new pleasure for the assembled sovereigns.’
‘Thoroughly to enjoy oneself in Vienna, prince, one ought to know
German somewhat better than foreigners as a rule know it,’ I answered.
‘Their want of familiarity with the language prevents them from
catching the subtle shades of the joys and manners of a class of the
population which, though not the foremost, is unquestionably not the
least interesting to study and to observe. In connection with this, I
may be permitted to quote the reply of Bacon to a young man, who, not
knowing any foreign language, consulted him on his plan of travels. “Go
to school, young friend, and don’t go travelling,” remarked Bacon.’
‘What would he have said to Metastasio, who, after living for twenty
years in Vienna, had not mastered as many words of German, which
quantity he considered sufficient to save his life in case of need?’
laughed the prince. ‘Besides, you find your own tongue the only one
adopted here, not only in society and at all the festive gatherings,
but also at all the conferences of the Congress. That much, indeed,
was due to its precision and its universal use. It was necessary to
establish a general means of communication between so many strangers;
without this the Congress would have become a Babel.’
‘And also, prince, because no language lends itself more easily to the
biting epigrams and sparkling repartees which are, as it were, like a
bottle of champagne that’s being “uncorked,”’ I replied. ‘The proof
of it is in your recent answer to the Baron de ----, when he told you
that the emperor had made him a general. “He has appointed you to be a
general, he could not make you one,” is a fair sample of the pliability
of French.’
Chatting like this about many trifles, which on his lips became
interesting subjects, the prince rapidly reviewed the foremost figures
of society, generals, statesmen, elegant women, etc.
‘This Congress, with its intrigues of all kinds hidden by fêtes, is
decidedly like Beaumarchais’ _La Folle Journée_. It is an imbroglio
with ever so many Almavivas and Figaros. As for the Basilios, one runs
against them at every turning. I sincerely trust people may not be
compelled to exclaim by and by with the joyous barber: “Whom, after
all, are they leading by the nose?”’
We soon got to the courtyard of his modest residence. The house was
small, but comfortable, and the prince might have easily realised the
wish of Socrates by filling it with true friends. It had been built on
the site of a monastery founded in 1628: Leopold rebuilt it after the
siege of Vienna; Joseph I. enlarged it; Joseph II. suppressed it. Since
then, the prince had bought it. On the front door was engraved his
favourite sentence:--_Quò res cumque cadunt, semper stat linea recta_.
‘I so thoroughly feel the barrenness of everything,’ he often said,
‘that there is no merit in my being neither envious nor spiteful, nor
vainglorious.’
He began by taking me into his garden. ‘I should fail in all the
traditions of ownership if I did not start by making you acquainted
with all the details of my principality. Inasmuch as my house with its
enclosure is scarcely more spacious than the domain allotted by the
people to the president of the loftily perched republic of San-Martino,
we’ll go the round of it in less time than an act of mental contrition
would take. Nevertheless, such as it is, the place enables me to escape
from the bustle of fêtes, from the fatigue of pleasure, and from the
crowd of majesties and highnesses. Here, and here alone, I am enabled
to enjoy my own society. I come here to get the fresh air, and to
recruit the strength I spend every evening on the incessant festivities
of the Congress.’
At the end of the garden, he opened the door of a pavilion, positively
suspended over the Danube, and from which the whole of Vienna could be
taken in at a glance.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is the spot whence John Sobieski started at the
head of his brave Poles, and with less than thirty thousand men saved
the empire by routing all the Ottoman forces of the Grand-Vizir
Kara-Mustapha. Sobieski’s faculty of instantly perceiving a situation
was so sure and so thorough that at the sight of the enemy’s
dispositions, he coolly said to the generals surrounding him that those
dispositions were defective, and that infallibly he would beat his
foes. It was impossible to say of him what is commonly said of kings,
namely, that they have won a battle personally, when they have only
looked at it from afar. They may have won the battle personally, but
not by their presence. Sobieski won his battles in person, and by his
presence.
‘I like the letter he wrote to the queen, his wife, on the day after
the victory, which was dated from the tent of the grand-vizir himself.
There is genuine greatness without the slightest admixture of false
modesty in the following words: “Let Christendom rejoice and give
thanks to the Lord; the infidels can no longer insult us by saying:
‘Where is now your God?’”
‘Sobieski had one of the greatest gifts ever vouchsafed to a
commander--the faculty of inspiring confidence in his troops. The
Polish cavalry which came to the rescue of Vienna had no doubt a most
martial look; they were mounted on the handsomest horses, and their
arms were magnificent. This was by no means the case with the infantry;
one regiment in particular was in such a sorry plight that Prince
Lubomirski advised their crossing the Danube at night, for the sake
of the nation’s honour. Sobieski simply smiled. “As you see them,” he
said, “they are invincible: they have sworn not to change their clothes
except for those taken from the enemy. In the last war they only wore
the Turkish uniform.” Sobieski’s remark did not, perhaps, provide his
soldiers with clothes; it did better than that: it ran from mouth to
mouth, and the regiment performed deeds of unsurpassed valour. You are
aware that after that brilliant feat of arms which was the signal for
the relief of Vienna, they applied to the Polish hero the words of Pius
V. with regard to Don Juan of Austria, after the battle of Lepanto:
“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” What an admirable
quotation!’ wound up the prince.
‘Austria had no doubt forgotten the application of that sentence of
gratitude when, later on, she effaced from the rank of European nations
the country of her deliverers!’ I remarked.
‘Go and remind her of it, and see what you’ll get for your pains.
Furthermore, you must expect her to answer in the way of a set-off to
the advocates of Poland: “You take care to remind us of your saving
Vienna in 1683. We are certainly very grateful to you, but each time
you mention it, we are bound to tell you that Austria delivered you
out of the hand of Sweden, which had conquered you in the reign of
Charles-Gustavus; hence, we are quits.”’
‘To this, prince, Poland could reply both in virtue of priority of age
and of the number of her services, that the aid she lent to Austria,
notably to her founder, Rudolph of Hapsburg, largely contributed to
place Austria among the most powerful monarchies of Europe. Be that as
it may, in this iniquitous proceeding, Austria plays the part of the
dog in La Fontaine’s fable, who carries his master’s dinner round his
neck: she interfered in order to take her share of the spoil; it would
have been more noble to prevent the spoliation.’
By that time it was three o’clock, and we partook, in a small room
adjoining the library, of the provisions which we had brought with us
in the prince’s carriage. It was one of the most delightful collations
I remember. The prince was fond of telling stories; his way of
narrating them was so delightful and admirable that I was only too
pleased to listen. This added to his own enjoyment, and his well-stored
memory poured out tale after tale without the slightest effort.
‘One of my sweetest recollections,’ he said, ‘was my first journey
to France as the bearer of the happy news of the battle of Maxen.
My entrance upon the scene was entirely to my taste. I was received
everywhere, in Paris, Versailles, and at the Trianon, by the Baron de
Bezenval, the Comte de Vaudreuil, the Comte d’Adhémar, the Princesse de
Lamballe, the fascinating Mme. Jules de Polignac; then at the beginning
I was presented to La Harpe at Mme. du Barry’s, to D’Alembert at Mme.
Geoffrin’s, to Voltaire at Mme. du Deffand’s. Mme. du Deffand was
probably gifted with more natural grace and power of fascination than
any woman of her time.’
After this he gave me some brilliant sketches of many of the
celebrities who, during his long career, had honoured him with their
friendship. Empress Catherine, whom he called ‘his living glory’;
Emperor Joseph II., ‘his visible providence’; Frederick the Great, ‘his
claim to immortality,’ and finally Marie-Antoinette, of whom he related
many charming traits, always ‘harking back’ with the greatest delight
to the Court of France, where he had met with such a distinguished
welcome.
‘The love of pleasure and the attractions of society took me to
Versailles,’ he said; ‘gratitude brought me back to it. My lad, judge
for yourself how far I was justified in yielding to illusion, that
ruler of the world. Presented to the Comte d’Artois, I naturally
began by treating him like the king’s brother, and we finished up
by his treating me as if I were his brother. Later on, I happened
to be present at the meeting of Joseph II. and Frederick II. The
latter notices my liking for great men, and he invites me to Berlin.
My son Charles marries a Polish girl;[57] knowing that I am in the
good books of Catherine, they imagine, perhaps, that I might make a
King of Poland, and they confer the honour of Polish citizenship upon
me. I arrive in Russia, and the grandeur and simplicity of Catherine
win my heart. She selects me to accompany her to the Taurida, during
that journey which seems to belong to fable rather than to history.
In consequence of my taste for the “Iphigenias” of literature, she
gives me the site of the temple where Agamemnon’s daughter officiated
as priestess. Finally there is the paternal kindness of Emperor
Francis I.; the maternal kindness of that grand Maria-Theresa, and
the sometimes fraternal kindness of immortal Joseph II. There are
the confidence and friendship of Landon and of Lasey; the familiar
intercourse with Marie-Antoinette; the cordial intimacy of Catherine
the Great; the goodwill of the great Frederick; my conversations with
Jean-Jacques Rousseau; my stay at Ferney with Voltaire, and, fitly and
gaily to wind up, after the great events of the last twenty years, the
marvels and diversions of the Congress. Such in brief is my life. My
memoirs would be most interesting. During the whole of that time I have
seen calumny, ingratitude, and injustice assail everything I loved and
admired.’
He seemed buried in thought for a few moments. ‘No,’ he said at
last, ‘men’s idiocy and ill-nature respect nothing. In Catherine’s
case these two have endeavoured to sully the grandeur one admires;
in Marie-Antoinette the grace and beauty one worships. France has
a few pages in her annals which one day she will wish to tear up.
After having most grossly slandered the most beautiful and the most
sympathetic of queens, whose goodness of heart, which was that of an
angel, no one could appreciate better than I, and whose soul without
reproach was as pure and as white as her face, the cannibals immolated
her as an offering to their bloodthirsty liberty.’
At these words his voice grew low, and his eyes filled with tears. The
tears of such a friend, of an old man and a wise one, were the most
eloquent tribute to Marie-Antoinette’s memory.
‘This is my study,’ he said, opening another door, ‘and here I am free
from the intrusion of all those parrots who besiege me in my little
house on the wall. Here I let my pen wander as my imagination and whim
prompt me.’ He showed me a great many works completed, and a number of
unfinished manuscripts.
‘All this has been written for myself, to satisfy the cravings of my
own heart. They are what actors would call “my asides.”’
I asked him if the world at large was not to benefit by his lessons of
experience.
‘No, no,’ he replied, ‘I have too often had proof that here below a
man’s reputation depends upon those who have none. And what, when all
is said and done, is this glory before which one bows down, and which
one pursues with all one’s might? The same day witnesses its birth
and its death, so short, after all, is life. Ypsilanti, about whom we
have chatted so often, has gloriously lost his arm. When at present he
makes his appearance in a drawing-room, he is surrounded, he is pointed
out to public curiosity, and people tell of the battle in which he
distinguished himself. To-day he is a young hero; before many springs
pass over our heads, and they pass very quickly, people will call him
the old cripple.
‘Never had a woman a more glorious welcome than that accorded to Mme.
de Staël in Vienna six years ago. Her arrival and her stay constituted,
as it were, a date, for people still say--“When Mme. de Staël was
here.” Well, the enthusiasm was soon succeeded by a spirit of criticism
the reverse of good-natured. Nevertheless, if there be anything in this
world which is _not_ all vanity, assuredly it is the admiration one
inspires; but how long does that admiration last? At the outset Mme. de
Staël carried all hearts, and conquered all minds.’
‘Not in virtue of her personal attractions, for even in her portraits
she did not seem to me sufficiently good-looking to please.’
‘That’s true, she could never have possessed a pleasing face; her mouth
and nose were ugly. But her magnificent eyes marvellously expressed
everything that went on successively in that brain so rich in lofty or
virile thoughts; her hands were beautifully shaped, hence the care she
took to direct attention to them by her habit of constantly fingering
a branch of poplar provided with a few leaves, the shaking of which,
according to herself, was the necessary accompaniment to her words. Her
conversation was simply dazzling; she discussed every subject with a
marvellous facility; she expressed herself in an animated, brilliant
and poetical manner. The larger her audience, the loftier did her
genius soar. She was only at her ease with men capable of judging her,
but on such occasions she was truly great.
‘Well, all those titles to admiration were soon made light of. The
human mind, by an inevitable reaction, passes from enthusiasm to
carping. In a short time people laid stress on Mme. de Staël’s defects;
her brilliant qualities were no longer taken into account. In general
conversation, it was said, she showed herself more anxious to dazzle
than to please; her monologues reduced her interlocutors to the roles
of complacent listeners; when she addressed a question to some one, she
rarely waited for the answer. She was fond of society in which she was
calculated to shine, but she did not care for the society of women,
which, as a rule, affords fewer resources to an intellect like hers
than that of men. And the women have not forgiven her, however much her
genius may have conferred honour on her own sex.
‘Hence, she gradually saw a diminution of her celebrity, a celebrity
which had become necessary to her, and which, nevertheless, was not
to her the road to happiness. She constantly regretted France, from
which she was irrevocably exiled, in consequence of her opposition
to the government; she had designated Bonaparte as Robespierre on
horseback. It may therefore be said that she served her own cause when
endeavouring to overtopple the obstacle to her return to Paris; and
on the task she set herself, she brought to bear all the energy of a
genius, stimulated by the hatred of a woman.
‘I have much admired Mme. de Staël; I still admire her, and I strongly
suspect that the author of the _Dialogue sur l’enthousiasme_ wanted
to paint me in the character of Cleon.’ The prince, when uttering
those last words, glanced at me smiling. ‘She felt much vexed at some
one daring to question merit which at that time everybody agreed in
pronouncing incontestable. That little bit of criticism was the first.
The author particularly censures her novel _Corinne_. In that respect
he was wrong. Wishing to attack her, he had no business to attack her
writings. That, assuredly, was not her vulnerable side. But he would
have been justified in blaming the pretension to refer everything to
herself, the inconstancy of opinion which was so dangerous to her
friends who took her at her word, the pedagogic and biting tone,
the histrionic elation, in the manner of Corinne, her neologism in
intellectual matters, which was so utterly antipathetic to me, and the
craving to appear on the boards, where she displayed not the slightest
talent, inasmuch as her true vocation lay in acting in real life. On
all those points he would have been justified in venting his spite
either in prose or in verse. You are aware that we were within an ace
of falling out for ever in consequence of a spiteful remark which was
told to her as coming from me. After the performance of her tragedy,
_Agar dans le Désert_, in which, to be frank, she seemed more ugly
than usual, some one, who was not the Prince de Ligne, is reported to
have said that the proper title of the piece ought to have been _La
Justification d’Abraham_. She sulked for a long time, and I had much
difficulty in convincing her of my innocence.’
After that the prince showed me a small manuscript, which has been
published since, and which he had then just finished. Its subject
was the Venetian Casanova. When that famous adventurer was tired
of hawking about Europe his projects, his magic secrets, and his
striking personality; when, in fact, he felt old age creeping over
him and poverty staring him in the face, he applied to the Prince de
Ligne. Almost as a matter of course, the latter made him welcome,
bestirred himself on his behalf, and got him the post of librarian to
his nephew, the Prince de Wallstein. Casanova’s curiously chequered
career appealed to the imagination of the old marshal. He also had
had many adventures during his existence. He liked the ready and
biting wit of the Venetian, his profound and varied learning, and his
philosophically-turned and ever fresh comments.
‘Yes,’ said the prince, ‘Casanova was the most diverting individual
I have ever met with. It was he who said that a woman is never older
than her lover fancies her to be. His inexhaustible recollections,
his imagination, which was as vivid as it had been at twenty, his
enthusiasm with regard to myself, won my heart. He often read his
memoirs to me. They partake of the nature of those of a knight-errant
and of the “Wandering Jew”; unfortunately they’ll never see the
light.’[58]
His writing-table was littered with verses, the greater part unfinished.
‘You are looking at those sketches,’ he said. ‘It is because I am
unable to work like the majority of poets. There are two dictionaries
at their disposal, the dictionary of the heart and the rhyming
dictionary. When there is no longer anything in the first, or when they
can no longer read it, they open the second. When my heart no longer
dictates, I leave off writing.’
We spent a little more time in examining several charming portraits of
women with whom he had been in love, and a rich collection of letters
written by the sovereigns and the most illustrious personages of Europe
during half a century.
The hour for returning struck, and we left the delightful retreat
which, one day, will become historical. But amidst those brilliant
reminiscences of the Vienna Congress, my grateful memory could not omit
that day wholly passed in familiar conversation with the Prince de
Ligne.