A Court Function--The Empress of Austria--The Troubadours--
Amateur Theatricals--The Empress of Russia--The Prince
Leopold of Saxe-Cobourg--Tableaux-Vivants--Queen Hortense’s
Songs--The Moustaches of the Comte de Wurbna--Songs in
Action--The Orphan of the Prisons--Diplomacy and Dancing--
A Ball and a Supper at Court.
The fêtes succeeded each other uninterruptedly; the time not given
to pleasure was looked upon as wasted. Every week there was a grand
reception and ball at the Court. Taking their cue from highest
quarters, the foremost members of Austrian society also had their
appointed days for welcoming in their drawing-rooms the numberless
strangers whom business or pleasure had brought to Vienna. On Mondays
the Princesse de Metternich threw open her house; on Thursdays the
Master of the Horse, the Prince de Trauttmansdorff, did the same, and
on Saturdays, the beautiful Comtesse Zichy followed suit. As a return
for this gracious hospitality, the ambassadors and representatives of
the great Powers on their side gave most brilliant entertainments. In
virtue of this constant exchange of magnificent functions, the days
went by without counting, and everybody appeared to have adopted the
maxim--the first necessity of mankind is to be happy.
The Empress of Austria was practically the soul of that succession of
balls, banquets, receptions and masques. Born in Italy, and sprung from
that illustrious House of Este, sung by Ariosto and by Tasso, she had,
as it were, inherited from her ancestors the taste and the instinctive
feeling for everything pertaining to art. Her goodness of heart was
beyond compare, her youthful and fresh imagination took a delight in
the arrangement of all those joyous details. She was admirably seconded
by two French artists, M. Isabey and M. Moreau--the latter a most
talented architect--who were her usual auxiliaries. She invented and
ordained; their task consisted in faithfully reproducing and carrying
out her bright ideas.
One of her favourite pleasures was the giving of theatrical
performances in her apartments. Defying the difficulties attached
to the rôle of _impresario_, she had succeeded in recruiting and
composing a company of amateur actors. Some among these would have
done credit to any stage, no matter where. In this company figured the
most aristocratic names: the Comtes Ojarowski, Stanislas Potocki, de
Wallstein, Woyna, Mmes. Edmond de Périgord and Flora Wurbna, shone in
comedy; opera had its interpreters in the Prince Antoine Radziwill, the
Marquis de Salvox, the Comtes Petersen de Bombelles,[59] the Comtesses
d’Apponyi, Charles Zichy, de Woyna, and the Princesse Yblonowska;
while German tragedy fell to the lot of the Comtesse Julie Zichy, the
Comtesse Esterhazy and the Comte Zichy. Our theatrical literature,
so rich in all genius, was especially laid under contribution; often
there was a mixed performance of German and French pieces. At one of
those performances, Schiller’s _Wallenstein_ and the charming comedy of
_Rivaux d’eux-mêmes_ were played with really remarkable casts.
Some young men, as a relief from the arid labours of diplomacy,
which at that period, it was said, constituted by no means a lively
pursuit, had organised among themselves an artistic gathering, which
was called the ‘company of Troubadours.’ Foremost among these were
the Prince Radziwill, the Comtes Batthyani, Zichy, and the Prince
Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg. It was a graceful revival of the chivalrous
and poetic customs of the Middle Ages. There was, furthermore, the
‘Festal Committee,’ appointed by the emperor, and composed of the
foremost personages of the Court. It really did appear as if the whole
of society was wrapped round by a vast association, the bright network
of which spread everywhere, and which had but one aim--the pursuit of
pleasure.
The entertainment offered by the Court on that particular evening was
of an entirely novel kind as far as the majority of the spectators
were concerned. It consisted of the representation of pictures and of
songs put into action by living personages. The Prince de Ligne and
I went early to the Imperial Palace. Though the performance had not
commenced, the rooms were full. Thanks to the Comte Arthur Potocki,
we were enabled to get to the seats he had reserved for us between
the Princesse Marie Esterhazy and the Prince Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg.
It was the first time I met this young man in society; he was known
to the Prince de Ligne, who soon made us acquainted with each other.
At that time, he seemed to me as timid as he was handsome. Never did
noble birth and blood show themselves more conspicuously than in the
distinguished air and easy bearing of this scion of an illustrious
house. At that period he was doubtlessly far from foreseeing the
fortunate position destiny had in store for him, by uniting him at
first to a great princess, by placing him afterwards on the throne
of regenerated Belgium, and finally by giving him as consort an
accomplished princess from the blood royal of France. To-day the future
happiness of two families, of perhaps two peoples, is centred in
him.[60]
After having exchanged a few courteous words, Prince Leopold left us
to prepare for his part in one of the tableaux; we remained with the
Princesse Esterhazy.
The illustrious and princely House of Esterhazy has so often been
described as to render the task of adding anything fresh to those
descriptions a difficult one. Everybody knows that its noble origin
is virtually lost in the mist of ages, and that its power equals that
of kings. Its magnificence, its wealth, and the splendour of its
establishment are such as to convey but a faint idea to those who have
not seen them, and those who have are tempted to consider them as so
many parts of a fairy dream induced by the reading of some fabulous
story. Its territorial possessions comprise more than a hundred
villages and burghs, something like forty townships and over thirty
castles and fortresses.[61] The country seats which constitute, as
it were, the capitals of those veritable states comprise an enormous
number of apartments, picture-galleries and theatres. The Hungarian
hussar’s dress, entirely embroidered with pearls, which is transmitted
in the family from father to son, is estimated at four millions of
florins, and costs twelve thousand florins to repair each time it is
worn. On those vast domains the Esterhazys exercise the power of life
and death; they have troops and guards in their own pay. Moreover, an
imperial decree, dating from 1687, conferred upon them the right to
mint their own money and to grant patents of nobility. Many sovereigns
would be tempted to exchange their crowns for the lot of such subjects.
The Princesse Marie Esterhazy, _née_ Princesse de Lichtenstein, though
at that period no longer in the flush of youth, was still possessed of
a charming grace. She was above all endowed with that winning kindness
which imparts a charm to women who physically are least attractive. Her
equable temperament and her fascinating kindness induced me to seek
her society on all possible occasions. Some years before I had met her
husband, the Prince Nicolas,[62] in Paris, at Mme. Récamier’s, that
friend of my childhood, the most beautiful of women and the most worthy
of admiration and respect. An enthusiastic and enlightened amateur of
every branch of art, and above all of music, the prince was the Mæcenas
of literary men and artists. He treated them as a connoisseur and
rewarded them like a king.
I was very fond of the society of Prince Paul, their son, whose senior
I was by a few years. Our tastes and habits were pretty well the same.
I often met him at the house of Mme. de Fuchs, who was the friend of
both. Since then called in virtue of his name and his solid attainments
to most important diplomatic positions. Prince Paul[63] has shown a
constant moderation and a rectitude of thought and judgment which only
belong to a noble disposition and a superior intellect. He is one of
the men who during the recent negotiations have contributed most to the
preservation of peace in Europe.
Our conversation with the Princesse Marie turned on the kind of
amusement the Court of Austria was providing for us that evening. She
told us that she had often organised similar tableaux at Eisenstadt
in a rotunda constructed for the purpose in the midst of a lake,
and that during the performances Haydn, the director of her private
band, improvised on the organ some pieces in keeping with the optical
effects, and which added marvellously to the illusion.
The sovereigns gradually made their appearance and took the seats
reserved for them, the Emperor of Russia being as usual by the side
of the Empress of Austria. By a curious freak of nature, both were
somewhat hard of hearing, the emperor on one side, the empress on
the opposite side. Etiquette required their being seated side by side
in such a manner as not to be able to hear each other; consequently,
they always seemed to be playing at ‘cross purposes.’ Alexander at
that period was remarkable for the beauty of his face and the elegance
of his figure; and he was by no means indifferent to the flattering
remarks addressed to him on the subject. On the other hand, it would
have argued an inexperience of Courts to betray either by word or sign
the knowledge of his auricular infirmity.
By the Emperor of Austria’s side sat the Empress Elizabeth of Russia.
That angel on earth had everything calculated to insure her husband’s
happiness and hers.[64] She was endowed with a charming face, her eyes
reflecting the purity of her soul. She had magnificent auburn hair,
which, as a rule, was allowed to fall loose on her shoulders. Her
figure was elegant, lithe, and supple, and even when she wore a mask,
her walk revealed her identity in a moment. No woman realised more
thoroughly the line of Virgil:
‘Incessu patuit Dea....’
To a most delightful disposition there were added a cultivated and
quick intellect, a passionate love of art, and a boundless liberality
in money matters. The graceful elegance of her person, her noble
bearing, and her inexhaustible kindness won her all hearts. Neglected
almost from the first hour of her union by a husband whom she
worshipped, her solitude and grief had bred a kind of melancholy.
Stamped on every feature, that feeling lent to the accents of her voice
and to her slightest movements an irresistible charm.
[Illustration: ALEXANDER I.]
A symphony for horns and harps preceded the rise of the curtain.
The candles in the house were extinguished in order to give greater
brilliancy to the light thrown on to the stage. The first picture
was the reproduction of a subject painted by a young Viennese
artist, ‘Louis XIV. kneeling at Mme. de la Vallière’s feet.’ The
actors of that scene were the young Comte de Trauttmansdorff, son of
the grand-marshal, and the charming Comtesse de Zichy. Both were so
eminently attractive, there was such an ardent expression of love on
the face of the young noble, and so much modesty, fear, and innocence
on the delicious face of the comtesse, as to make the illusion complete.
The second picture was a reproduction of Guérin’s beautiful
composition, ‘Hippolytus refuting Phedra’s accusation before Theseus.’
The Princesse Yblonowska represented the daughter of Minos, and the
young Comte Woyna, Hippolytus. The eyes and features of the one
were stamped with ardent passion struggling against remorse, while
the other, by his calm and classical attitude, by the signs of his
respectful grief, only seemed to invoke for his defence the purity
of his heart. Though shorn of the charm of its magnificent poetry,
Racine’s conception had never more eloquent interpreters than these two.
The subjects of these pictures, reproduced by the most distinguished
personages of the Court, the brilliant and accurate dresses, the
perfectly arranged light, the whole of the _ensemble_ so artistically
arranged, produced the most lively admiration on the part of the
spectators.
After this, the stage was got ready for the songs to be enacted; an
orchestra, composed of the most celebrated instrumentalists of Germany,
played symphonies by Haydn and Mozart.
The first song was the ‘Partant pour la Syrie,’ the charming music
of which, by Queen Hortense, has become popular throughout Europe.
Mlle. Goubault, a young Belgian, who to an agreeable face added a
charming and expressive voice, sang the words, while the Princesse
de Hesse-Philipstadt and the young Comte de Schönfeldt represented
the characters. At the verse of the marriage, a chorus of the most
beautiful personages of the Court grouped themselves around the
principal actors. This profusion of delicious faces, the perfect
unison of the voices, and the expressive pantomimic action of the two
lovers--in short, the whole tableau, was enthusiastically applauded.
I was too far away from Emperor Alexander to hear what he said
to Prince Eugène, who was seated close to him by the side of his
father-in-law, the King of Bavaria. I could, however, easily perceive
by the face of Eugène, beaming with pleasure and gratitude, that
the praise bestowed by the emperor on the musical composition was
accompanied by flattering and kindly expressions concerning his sister.
The second song was that of Coupigny, a ‘Young Troubadour singing and
making war.’ It was represented by the Comte de Schönborn and the
Comtesse Marassi. The third song was again one of Queen Hortense’s,
‘Do what you ought, let come what may.’ It was as well sung as ably
mimed by the handsome Comtesse Zamoyska, a daughter of Marshal
Czartoryski, and by the young Prince Radziwill. Like the first, it was
enthusiastically listened to and greatly praised. The author’s name
was on the lips of every one, and vociferous applause frequently broke
forth.
‘This is a sceptre which will not be broken in the hands of Mlle.
de Beauharnais,’ said the Prince de Ligne. ‘She is still a queen in
virtue of her talent and her charm when she has ceased to be one by the
grace of God. I confess to a liking for women who are fond of music,
and above all for those who compose music, as she does. Music is a
universal language, harmoniously recounting to all of us the sensations
of our lives. Only the malicious and spiteful could have said evil of
the sometime Queen of Holland, and only imbeciles could have attached
any belief to what they said. As for me, I am always glad to applaud
and to give homage to fallen greatness, especially if the fallen ones
have done honour to the rank in which fate placed them.’
‘I cordially agree with you, prince,’ I said. ‘I often had the
opportunity of seeing Queen Hortense at the beginning of her grandeur.
During the rapid advances of her fortunes she did not change, and
amidst all the imperial pomp and splendour she remained natural and
unaffected. She seems to have been born with an instinctive feeling
for art and with the germs of talent; she sings and plays on several
instruments the charming music of her own composition. She draws with
rare perfection. More precious than all this, though, is her sprightly
kindness, which her mother appears to have transmitted to her. Both,
while attaining the highest positions it is given to mortals to reach,
lost none of the qualities which compel affection in the most obscure
conditions.’
‘I am pleased to hear you speak like that. I am of opinion that the
most admirable quality of mankind is the faculty for admiring. I detest
people who are always looking for the interest underlying a good
action. Bear this in mind: only grovelling natures seek to disparage
talent; and fools only applaud the envious.’
The curtain had been lowered to set the final picture which was to
conclude the whole of the spectacle in a most brilliant manner. It was
to represent Olympus with all the mythological divinities. Nothing had
been neglected to make the execution worthy of the grandeur of the
subject. There had, nevertheless, been a temporary apprehension with
regard to the smooth progress of its course. There had been for two
whole days negotiations far more difficult and delicate in their nature
than those usually pending between diplomatic celebrities; and it
wanted nothing less than an intervention from high quarters to settle a
question which the sapient assembly would probably have failed to bring
to a satisfactory conclusion.
The facts were as follows: All the rôles of the tenants on Olympus had
been distributed. Prince Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg, in consequence of his
remarkably handsome presence, had been cast for the part of Jupiter.
Comte Zichy was to represent Mars.
The company was, however, short of Apollo; and among the troubadours
the young Comte de Wurbna was the only one who could efficiently
fill the part. It had been offered to him and accepted. But the
Comte, who combined in every respect the requisite qualities for the
brilliant impersonation allotted to him, had unfortunately something
not contemplated in the programme. His upper lip was ornamented by a
delightful pair of moustachios, and he valued them as one values things
that do not detract from one’s appearance. It was very certain, though,
that whether taken in connection with his luminous chariot or in the
simple guise of a shepherd, no one could conceive the god of day with
this hirsute ornament of a captain of hussars.
The stage manager entrusted with the carrying out of the tableau
bore the name of Omer, which lent itself marvellously to all kind of
witticisms. Omer, then, was deputed to enter into negotiations with the
young Comte and to induce him to part with the inconvenient ornament.
In spite of his poetical name (irrespective of its orthography), Omer
found but an indifferent listener in the young man. In vain did he
cajole, argue, and supplicate. In vain did he point out to the young
man the impossibility of representing the tableau. His words did not
produce the slightest effect. Inexorable, like Achilles sulking in his
tent, young Wurbna seemed to have taken an oath not to part with his
moustachios while alive.
The rumour of this curious obstinacy spread with the rapidity of bad
tidings; there is great agitation and anxiety, people are inquiring of
each other the latest particulars of the affair, every other pleasure
is forgotten; the Congress, too, would have been forgotten if any one
had thought it worth while to remember that there was a Congress.
Those moustachios have become the subject of every conversation and of
universal concern.
Finally, in view of the gravity of the circumstances, recourse is
being had to a supreme appeal: the empress is informed of the affair.
Entering frankly into the plot, the charming princess, on the very
evening, so effectively cajoled the young recalcitrant Comte that,
vanquished, or rather won over, he absented himself for a moment, to
reappear with a clean and smooth upper lip like that of a young girl.
Thus fell, at a single word from Louis XIV., the woods interrupting the
view from the seat of Petit-Bourg. Truly, sovereigns, and especially
female sovereigns, have for the purpose of upraising or cutting down
magic and powerful words, denied to other mortals.
The sacrifice was consummated, and we knew that, thanks to the happy
conclusion of that negotiation, Omer had been enabled to carry out to
the best of purposes his Olympian production. At last the curtain rose,
and the assembly of the gods met the eager gaze of the spectators. The
queen of the gods was represented by the daughter of Admiral Sir Sidney
Smith, Venus by Mme. de Wilhem, a lady of honour to the Princesse de la
Tour et Taxis, and Minerva by the lovely Comtesse Rosalie Rzewuska. The
eyes of the spectators, delighted at first by the matchless beauty of
the picture, finally contemplate nobody but Apollo, standing forth in
all his glory, and well rewarded for his obedience by sweet and august
smiles.
During the representation of that tableau, a young Frenchman, the Baron
Thierry, attached to the Portuguese Legation, played a solo on the
harp. The young fellow, who was brought up in England, whither he had
accompanied his parents at the time of the emigration, had assiduously
practised that instrument, and attained a degree of perfection on
it which at that period was very rare. He was well built, with an
interesting face, and one of the most admired of strangers in Viennese
society. His solo, played with all the perfection his instrument would
permit, produced the greatest effect, and was cordially applauded,
the signal for the applause coming from the royalties themselves. Even
Olympus itself appeared to be moved by it. Finally the curtain fell
amidst unanimous signs of approval; the sovereigns rose, and we passed
into an adjoining hall sumptuously arranged for the ball.
‘You probably do not know the story of the beautiful Comtesse Rzewuska,
whom you have just admired in the character of Minerva. She is the
daughter of the Princesse Rosalie Lubomirska, who was guillotined
during the Terror. The child, after the death of her mother, on the
12th Messidor of the Year II. (30th June 1794), was taken home and
brought up by a laundress, and by the merest accident discovered by her
uncle, the Comte Chodkïewicz, who had been in search of her for many
years, and finally taken back to Poland. It is the most startling drama
in real life.’[65]
Meanwhile dancing had commenced, and I went to offer my arm to the
Princesse Esterhazy, whom I had the honour to escort during part of
the evening. She conversed about art with the greatest facility, her
remarks being emphasised by eminently just quotations altogether exempt
from the slightest pedantry. Her comments on society were marked by a
similar justness of observation, none the less just for being tempered
by great forbearance. Her beautiful features bore the unmistakable
signs of her being an irreproachable wife, a most affectionate
mother, and a most devoted and sincere friend. As a consequence,
her conversation seemed to me infinitely preferable to the somewhat
boisterous amusements of that evening.
All those who had taken part in the tableaux and in the illustrations
of the songs had retained their costumes. There was a considerable
number of them. They organised quadrilles which lent a new attraction
to that fête, namely, that of variety. It seemed as if grace, that
divine part of beauty, had been equally divided, though under different
forms, among the dwellers in every climate. Never was this fact more
pertinently felt than at those fêtes of the Congress, at which the most
remarkable women of the various countries of Europe shone with equal,
though distinct, splendour.
We, the Prince de Ligne and I, wandered through those drawing-rooms,
ablaze with light, passing in review those delicious faces,
representing all kinds of beauty as they successively went by. The
Princesse Marie de Metternich and the Comtesse Batthyani, with wistful
and somewhat melancholy features, tall, slight, and flexible like
reeds; the two charming sisters Eléonore and Pauline de Schwartzenberg,
beaming with youth and freshness; the Princesse Yblonowska, the
Comtesses Sophie de Woyna and Louise de Durkeim, both distinguished by
their slightly dreamy looks; the Comtesse Julie Zichy, captivatingly
graceful; the Comtesses de Marassi, d’Urgate, de Schönborn, and the
Princesse Hélène Souvaroff, whose portrait I have already sketched;
and the Comtesse de Paar. In short, we feasted our eyes on delightful
faces, lighted up every now and again by rapid smiles, or positively
basking in the full light of careless joy and happiness--faces that
soothed the mind and captivated all glances.
Emperor Alexander had opened the ball with the Empress of Austria
with a ‘polonaise,’ a kind of dancing march, the regular preamble
to every Court ball. In an adjoining room some members of the corps
diplomatique were gravely engaged at whist, a recreation which also
seemed an indispensable part of the European transactions in progress.
The ‘polonaise,’ though, soon interfered with the silence necessary
to the game. The band had given the signal and, too cramped in the
principal room, the long file of dancers marched along under the
guidance of the czar, invaded the whole of the palace, and twined round
and round the serious quartets of the players, and by an enormously
round-about way returned to its starting-point in perfect order, never
ceasing the course of its graceful evolutions. Towards the end of the
evening, the guests formed themselves here and there into groups. Some
young men arranged pleasure parties for the next morning, while the
representatives of Europe gravely discussed the burning questions of
the moment.
In one part of the room, M. de Talleyrand, ensconced in an armchair,
is talking to the Prince Leopold of Naples, while M. de Labrador,
the Chevalier de Los Rios and the Cardinal Gonzalvi, the Marquis de
Marialva, the young Comte de Luchesini and Charles de Rechberg, in a
circle, are standing around. The conversation runs on King Murat. With
his habitual phlegm, M. de Talleyrand drops some of those grave and
prophetic sentences which, rightly interpreted, might be considered the
forerunner of that improvised sovereign’s fall.[66]
M. de la Tour du Pin, the ambassador of France, was the centre of
another group, composed of his colleague, M. Alexis de Noailles, MM. de
Wintzingerode, Pozzo di Borgo, the Marquis de Saint Marsan, the Comte
de Rossi, etc.
Lord Castlereagh, erect and leaning against a mantelpiece, seems to
listen with a glacial air to the King of ----. The crowd has retired to
a respectful distance. His majesty, on the other hand, appears to speak
with a certain warmth, although his attitude is that of a petitioner,
or rather a pleader, intent upon convincing his judge. One can catch
the words, ‘Poland--indemnity--Treaty of Kalitsch.’ His lordship
vouchsafes only few words in reply to his august interlocutor. Looking
at them, one is reminded that if the Coalition has had the victory, it
was England who paid the soldiers.
Lord Stewart wanders listlessly from one room to another. He is simply
anxious to be seen, and they have bestowed on him the sobriquet of ‘the
golden peacock.’
At midnight a magnificent supper was served. Of course, the sovereigns
occupied the table set apart for them, but the other guests seated
themselves wherever they liked, without the slightest ceremony or
considerations of etiquette. The gaiety of that collation, absolutely
free from restraint, afforded greater facilities for confidential
and familiar talk. All those banquets were alike. Always the same
display of apparently inexhaustible wealth and the same magnificence;
consequently, although the Congress was but a few days old, people had
ceased to estimate the expenses of the Court.
To make up for that, they freely spoke of the number of strangers who,
either on business or pleasure, were located in Vienna. We know the
means by which Colbert filled the empty coffers of his master. But
what, after all, were the _carrousels_ of Louis XIV. compared to this
magnificent series of fêtes?
The hour for retiring struck at last, and people went home to recruit
their strength for the next day by much-needed sleep.