Prince Eugène de Beauharnais--Recollections of the Prince
de Ligne--The Theatre of the ‘Ermitage’ and of Trianon
--The Baron Ompteda--some Portraits--The Imperial
_Carrousel_--The Four-and-twenty Paladins--Reminiscences of
Mediæval Tournaments--The Prowess of the Champion--Fête and
Supper at the Imperial Palace--The Table of the Sovereigns.
One morning, a few days after the last-described event, I called upon
Prince Eugène de Beauharnais. Our acquaintance dated from my youth,
and whenever circumstances brought us together either in Paris, Milan,
or Vienna, I, like all his other friends, had ever found him kind,
helpful and sympathetic. The bonds of sympathy so quickly contracted in
youth had never been severed by the difference in rank. It had not been
his fault that his rule in Italy had been fruitless to me as far as a
brilliant administrative career went. And these proofs of his affection
had made me deeply grateful to him.
On the occasion of my visit he was slightly ill, and it did not take me
long to discover that the cause of his indisposition was mental rather
than physical. It was not surprising, considering the misfortunes that
had accumulated around him. There were the disasters of France, the
fall of Napoleon, the loss of a brilliant position, and, to fill his
cup of grief, the death of his mother, whom he worshipped.
His position at Vienna was constrained and more or less false. His
reception there had been the subject of diplomatic discussions; but
for the persistence of his father-in-law, the King of Bavaria, and the
affection of Emperor Alexander, he would probably have been excluded.
In spite of this, the fact of his being the adopted son of Napoleon
could not be forgotten. It was, moreover, well known that his noble
character would never belie itself, and that he would bring all his
influence to bear in favour of the man who had been his benefactor.
Between the Powers celebrating France’s reverses with fêtes and the
representatives of the government of the Bourbons, he seemed isolated
amidst that crowd and in that whirlpool of pleasure.
He welcomed me in his cordial and amicable way. Glad to find somebody
with whom he could talk about his recollections, he referred to his
past, which was so brilliant and glorious. His attitude and the
expression of his face were stamped with a melancholy that could
not fail to win one’s heart. We went over the various phases of his
military career, when all at once he became most animated. Yielding
to a strong emotion, he carried me with him to Egypt, and began
to describe the loss of his first friend, killed by his side by a
cannon ball at the battle of the Pyramids. At the last words of that
mournful story I noticed his eyes filling with tears, which he vainly
endeavoured to repress. In order to divert his thoughts to brighter
subjects, I spoke to him of our first meeting at a luncheon given
by Mme. Récamier during the short-lived Peace of Amiens, a luncheon
graced by the presence of all the celebrities of France and England.
As a matter of course, our conversation drifted to all the gay doings
of Vienna during the last few weeks, and also of those to come. I
soon noticed, though, that all those functions, so intoxicating to
the majority of both actors and spectators, constantly reminded him
of the sad cause nearest to his heart. I was not sorry, then, when we
were interrupted by the servant announcing the Emperor of Russia, who,
according to his custom, came to take him, without any ceremony, for
a walk in the Prater. I took my leave of him, after he had made me
promise to come and see him often. I need not say that I gladly acceded
to his request, and that the duty really became a pleasure.
On leaving him, I went to pay my daily visit to the Prince de Ligne.
I delighted in giving him an account of my previous day’s doings.
Although at that happy period my occupations mainly consisted of a life
spent away from my own quarters and in consorting with my young friends
in the pursuit of pleasure, it was like a lullaby to me to go to him to
gather from his lips some of his witty and subtle sallies, and to study
in a familiar way a small section of that living panorama.
The little house was as full as it could hold, and the amiable
host was, as usual, dispensing large doses of wit and wisdom to
his visitors. His never-failing spirits and the brightness of his
recollections reminded his listeners that though the body might be
tottering, he prevented it from collapsing. No one conveyed a more
accurate idea of the sparkle and the almost indefinable grace of the
French intellectual qualities of former days. Hearing the Prince de
Ligne talk, I always fancied I was going back a century in the history
of French society.
The prince’s visitors were repeating to him some of the rumours with
which the amateur politicians of the Graben kept public curiosity
alive. After having distributed crowns and allotted states, the
quidnuncs and newsmongers had taken it into their heads to try their
hand at match-making. According to them, the King of Prussia was
reported one day to be betrothed to the Grand-Duchess of Oldenburg, the
next to one of the Austrian arch-duchesses.
‘Those gentlemen strangely put our credulity to the test,’ remarked
the Comte de Witt. ‘Nothing less will satisfy them than the divorce of
Marie-Louise, so that she may be joined in matrimony to his Majesty of
Prussia.’
‘Mirabeau was in the habit of saying that there is no piece of idiocy,
however crude, that may not find acceptance on the part of a clever
man, provided one gets his valet to repeat it to him every day for a
month,’ laughed the prince. ‘I am afraid, though, that the Viennese
journalists credit us with a somewhat too robust faith. I am not at all
certain how “Robinson” on his island of Elba would appreciate the joke?’
The conversation drifted to the theatrical performances the Empress of
Austria was offering at the Imperial Palace.
‘No stage can dispute the palm with yours,’ said the prince, turning
to me. ‘I have seen your pieces played everywhere. In Prussia before
the great Frederick they only performed the masterpieces of the French
stage; in Russia at the “Ermitage” theatre [the palace and museum of
the Hermitage at St. Petersburg] I have seen _Le Philosophe Marié_ and
_Annette et Lubin_ performed before Empress Catherine, whom nature
had eminently fitted to appreciate grace and subtlety as well as
grandeur and brilliancy. I well remember the select company of that
most brilliant Court when Ségur’s _Crispin Duègne_ was produced, and
Cobentzel gave his admirable interpretation. Then there was my own
play, _L’Amant Ridicule_, whose author, I am afraid, was, perhaps, more
ridiculous than the lover. The most amusing part of the entertainment,
however, was enacted in the house itself with its throng of cranks,
faddists, and eccentric characters, each of whom had supplied me with
a kind of model, and who, as everywhere, applauded like mad without
recognising themselves. Most vivid to my mind is the theatre at Ferney,
where Voltaire himself played before us the most comic scenes from
Molière, and was convulsed with laughter, which rather spoilt the
effect he aimed at. Then came Trianon, “Trianon with an angelic queen
playing royally badly before a crowd of courtiers intoxicated with her
beauty.”’
After that, with his essentially eighteenth century grace, he recounted
to us some of the conversations of Versailles, redolent of wit and
cleverness.
‘These are admirable recollections, prince,’ said the Comte de Witt.
‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘I have opened my eyes and ears a great deal, and
I have an excellent memory. My stories are only reproductions.’
That day was spent delightfully among friends. In the evening I went
to admire the expressive pantomime of Bigottini in _Nina_, and I wound
up by going to the Comtesse de Fuchs’s. Her drawing-room was crowded
as usual; fortunately I managed to find a seat near the Baron Ompteda.
With the serious face of an ancient augur, Ompteda was one of the most
originally clever men I have ever met. No one could sketch a portrait
in a few words better than he. People dreaded his tongue as much as his
sketches. But a staunch friend withal, whose epigrams were due to a
twist of the intellect rather than to a deficiency of heart.
While the crowd was buzzing around us on every side, Ompteda took to
reviewing some of our acquaintances that were there and also those who
entered subsequently.
‘Since you were last in Vienna,’ he said, ‘the capital has suffered a
siege and a foreign occupation; nevertheless, you’ll find few changes.
Matters lending themselves to ridicule are as plentiful as ever; they
are practically the image of the immobility of the Austrian government.
Only, they are becoming more apparent, in consequence of the century’s
progress.
‘The drawing-rooms of society are just as you left them. The one in
which we are seated has not ceased to be the special resort of the
friends of our charming _queen_. Never was a title more deserved, and
her subjects have never revolted against her yoke. I have seen few
women who have as many friends as she; but, what is more rare, she
has the talent of binding them so closely together that in spite of
events and absence they never become strangers to each other. A common
affection for her seems to be the basis of her government; our union is
its strength, and our happiness a guarantee of its duration. Honestly,
I do not think there is a more easy despotism than hers, or a code more
gentle to observe. In her empire, you’ll find, as always, politeness
without sham, frankness without abruptness, mutual regard without
flattery, and willingness to oblige without constraint.
‘There is, on the foremost plane, dear Major Fuchs, the happy and
peaceful possessor of this treasure. We all envy him. He continues, as
of old, the enthusiastic champion of the organisation of the Vienna
Militia, to which he owes his grade, and on which, he maintains, depend
the glory and the salvation of the Austrian monarchy.
‘Next comes the Comtesse Laure, his wife, ever the same, kind and good,
and wholly unaffected. Her girlish face seems to be the mirror of her
excellent heart. There are women whose features are more regularly
beautiful, but hers are stamped with a sweet and animated expression
which the mere art of pleasing would vainly endeavour to imitate. And
the real secret of keeping her friends attached to her for all time
lies probably in her conciliatory disposition, which, however, is not
marked by any weakness where firmness is required.
‘Here is the Chanoinesse Kinsky, whose expression of unaffected
kindness imparts a charm to her face to such a degree as to hide the
ravages of gradually advancing years.
‘Here are the Princesses de Courland. In the first place, the beautiful
Duchesse de Sagan, with her ardent admiration for everything that
is grand and heroic. Her exceeding loveliness is only the least of
her qualifications. Her sister, the Comtesse Edmond de Périgord,
presents an indefinable but charming whole by reason of her gait,
movements, bearing, and voice. Both her face and her figure possess the
irresistible charm without which the most perfect beauty is practically
powerless. It is a flower seemingly ignorant of the perfume it emits.
Finally, there is the third of the Courland Graces, the delightful
Duchesse d’Exerenza, in whose person are united all the admirable
attributes of the other two.
‘On the second plane stands Walmoden, who in spite of his being a
field-marshal to-day, has remained the simple and good-natured creature
of former times. The same may be said of the Prince de Hesse-Hombourg.
Military glory has not induced pride; his noble and stately manners
are altogether tempered by a sweet and affectionate disposition.
Prince Philippe is one of those men whom neither spite nor sarcasm can
touch. In his familiar intercourse with his fellow-mortals, he is as
distinguished for the noble impulses of his heart as he is famed on the
battle-field for his brilliant valour and his promptness of perception.
‘Reuss is always in the clouds; I do not pretend to follow him thither.
Not having travelled, he has had little opportunity of seeing things;
consequently, he mistakes the effects of his imagination for the
results of learning, his desire to know for the elements of science,
vagueness for tact. In short, he is the living proof that with much
cleverness and the germ of talent, a man may make himself unbearable in
society by the constant display of small defects calculated to irritate
those around him.
‘Just cast your eye in the direction of the Courland princesses,
to the Prince de Lichtenstein seated near them, who is as much at
home in the drawing-room as on the battle-field. They call him the
“monster-prince,” but I can assure you he is an Azor who has captivated
many Zémires.[67] He counts as many successes with the fair sex as
mentions in the “orders of the day.”
‘The Duc d’Exerenza, the happy husband of a charming woman, is one of
the mortals who, as Figaro has it, “gave themselves the trouble to be
born.” All things considered, he is not a “bad sort.”
‘De Gentz is the custodian of all the secrets of Europe, just as in a
short time he’ll possess all the orders of it. One of the many voices
of that silent being constitutes the Austrian government; what with his
manifestoes, his newspapers, and his proclamations, he has, perhaps,
been as formidable an opponent to Napoleon as the snow-bound steppes of
Russia. The honours and the ribands are, however, not exclusively the
things he wants. The sovereigns are also aware of his love of money,
and they simply gorge him with it. Overwhelmed with work and business,
satiated with pleasure, he has, nevertheless, flung himself into the
maëlstrom of society in the hope of finding some excitement which will
take him “out of himself.” It is most doubtful whether his road to
happiness lies in that direction.
‘Ferdinand de Palfi is as sprightly as a fairy figure: his cousin is a
living Pactolus. The first gambles, wins much money, and with his gains
has built himself a magnificent mansion, which people call “a house
of cards.” He welcomes his friends there with the happy face he wears
to-night, and his friends are legion. François is handsome among the
handsome, very lavish with women, who simply worship him. Both, it is
no exaggeration to say, are under a lucky star.
‘Prince Paul Esterhazy is kind and affectionate, but somewhat distant
in manner. He also has only to let life glide by without taking
trouble. Assuredly, he has a unique future before him. I asked Malfati
yesterday how Paul’s father, Prince Nicolas, who is no longer young,
can keep up with all these gay doings without impairing his health. “It
is his happiness that keeps him up,” replied the physician. Happiness
considered in that light is, unfortunately, not as yet a medical
prescription.’
Just as the baron had finished his portraits, supper was served.
The principal topic of conversation was the imperial _carrousel_ which
was to take place the next day. The young Comte de Woyna, who was to
be one of the twenty-four knights, gave us all the particulars of
the preparations, and was eagerly listened to, for the interest and
curiosity of the moment centred there. Even business and pleasure paled
before that memorable fête, which in itself was to condense all the
splendour of the Congress.
The day so much longed for broke at last. The preparations had
occupied so many weeks as to leave no doubt about the intentions of
the Court to display all the marvels of its pomp and the resources of
its wealth. The fête was to conjure up all the brilliant and poetical
traditions of the past. The last traces of the recreations of ancient
chivalry were effaced before the last vestiges of feudalism. Our age,
wholly practical in war as in love, no longer lends itself to those
ingenious and delightful theories of mediævalism. The enthusiasm of
the heart, the elevation of thought, and the abnegation of passion
have disappeared from our manners and customs, and been replaced by a
serious and polished selfishness. One is no longer the chosen knight
of this or that fair one. One no longer maintains, lance in hand, the
superiority of her charms against all comers; one no longer risks one’s
life for a scarf embroidered by her fingers. Love nowadays avoids
attracting attention; it is only an accessory of life, and its first
care is to wrap itself round as if with some mysterious veil.
The manners and customs of ancient chivalry are, nevertheless,
deserving of regret. Love, thus understood and openly professed, was
not only the life of the heart but the source of great thoughts and
noble passions. It must have been grand to proclaim one’s disinterested
courage, one’s contempt of danger, when the sole recompense hoped for
was a word or a smile from the woman beloved.
The fair sex especially must regret those changes in our social habits.
Ever since the levelling tendency of general civilisation lowered the
standard of our feelings, women have lost that ideal empire in which
they reigned as sovereigns; they have descended from a throne to be
confounded with the crowd. It is not difficult, then, to imagine their
interest in the preparations for a fête the object of which was to
bring back to the mind, and to revive, as it were, the forms and spirit
of the age of chivalry.
The Prince de Ligne had presented me with one of the tickets sent to
him by the great Marshal Trauttmansdorff. At seven we were on our way
together to the Burg.
‘Do not imagine,’ said the prince while we were trundling along, ‘that
you are going to witness a combat to the death. It will be neither a
_pas d’armes_ [the disputing of a passage by one or several knights],
nor, least of all, an appeal to “the judgment of God,” in which the
vanquished could only redeem his life by entering a monastery. Those
serious contests have been replaced by more graceful and less violent
exercises. Our modern redressers of wrongs in their tournaments uphold
the incomparable beauty of their lady by the power of their lances in
as peaceable a manner as the champions of old defended a thesis at the
“Courts of Love.” Hence, we need apprehend no fatal accident like that
which put an end to the life of Henri II., and caused the abolition of
the lists of the Middle Ages.’
Several officers, under the orders of the grand-master of the
ceremonies, the Comte de Wurmbrandt, were ready at the doors to conduct
the guests to their seats. General curiosity had reached so high as
to lead, it was said, to the forging of tickets, which were sold at
an enormous price. In consequence of this the police of Vienna had
been compelled to institute the most minute researches. The imperial
riding-school, constructed by Charles V., and ever since called the
‘Hall of the Carrousel,’ had been set apart for the function. The
structure, the vast interior of which is as spacious as an ordinary
church, has the form of a long parallelogram. All around it there runs
a circular gallery communicating with the apartments of the palace.
Seats for twelve hundred spectators rose in a magnificent sweep of
tiers. The gallery was divided into four-and-twenty sections by as
many Corinthian columns, against which were hung the scutcheons of the
knights with their arms and mottoes.
At each end of the vast arena two stands, occupying the whole length
of the building, had been erected. They were draped with the most
gorgeous textile stuffs; the one set apart for the sovereigns,
empresses, queens, and reigning princes; the other, exactly facing it,
intended for the ladies of the twenty-four paladins about to prove
that they were the fairest among the fair. Above these stands were the
orchestras, in which forgathered all that Vienna could boast in the way
of distinguished musicians.
One of the lateral galleries was reserved for the ambassadors, the
ministers, and the plenipotentiaries of Europe, for the military
celebrities, and for the illustrious foreign families. The Austrian,
Hungarian, and Polish nobles occupied the other gallery. Immediately
under the imperial stand was the row of rings to be carried away by
the competitors at full tilt. Ranged round the arena on pillars
were Turkish and Moorish heads with the traditional turban, equally
intended to serve as targets for the combatants. No doubt the hatred
of the Teuton warriors for their invaders and implacable foes was
kept up in days of yore by similar devices. Finally, in order to
prevent accidents, the floor of the riding-school was hidden beneath
a layer of fine sand, half-a-foot deep. At the door of the hall there
was a barrier, marking the entrance to the lists. Behind that door
were posted the heralds-of-arms with their trumpets and in gorgeous
costumes. Numberless lustres and candelabra holding wax candles shed
through this huge interior a light scarcely inferior to that of day.
We were seated between Field-marshal Walmoden and the Prince Philippe
de Hesse-Hombourg. Near us was the Prince Nicolas Esterhazy in his
uniform of the Hungarian hussars, the magnificent embroidery of
which was in itself sufficient to excite the greatest curiosity. The
first row of our gallery was occupied by the handsomest and most
eminent women of Viennese society: the Princesses Marie Esterhazy,
de Wallstein, Jean de Lichtenstein, de Stahremberg, de Colloredo, de
Metternich, de Schwartzenberg, the Comtesses Batthyani, de Durkeim,
etc. The opposite gallery held the foreign ladies. In the back rows,
the ‘highnesses,’ the diplomatic ‘excellencies’ of every country,
of every degree of importance, constituted an almost unbroken line
of glittering gold and diamonds in their Court dresses and uniforms
disappearing beneath their orders and embroideries. A relief was
afforded by the red of Cardinal Gonzalvi’s dress; and a little further
on by the turban of the Pasha of Widdin, the caftan of Mauroyeny[68]
and the colpack of Prince Manug, Bey of Murza. These seemed to supply a
kind of variant to this incomparable splendour.
‘Just look at Lady Castlereagh, close to the stand of the sovereigns,’
said the Prince de Ligne. ‘She is wearing her husband’s Garter in
diamonds as a kind of tiara. That is a little bit of facetious vanity,
not contemplated by courteous Edward III. when he picked up the blue
ribbon that fastened the stocking of the handsome Alice of Salisbury.
Pride, when it wishes to make itself conspicuous, often plays us some
scurvy tricks.’
At eight to the minute a blast of trumpets by the heralds announced the
arrival of the twenty-four ladies, escorted by their valiant champions.
They took their seats in the first row of their stand.
All, in virtue of their grace and beauty, deserved the name of ‘belles
d’amour’ that had been given to them. They were the Princesses Paul
Esterhazy, Marie de Metternich, the Comtesses de Périgord, Rzewuska,
Marassi, Sophie Zichy, etc. It is impossible to imagine a more gorgeous
and at the same time graceful spectacle. These ladies were divided into
four quadrilles, each distinguished by the colour of their dresses,
namely, emerald green, crimson, blue, and black. All their dresses were
made of velvet, trimmed with priceless lace and sparkling with precious
stones.
The whole of their costumes had been copied in the minutest details
from those of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The quadrille
that had adopted emerald green wore the Hungarian national dress.
It consisted of a long open tunic over a petticoat of white satin,
fastened from the bust to the knees with diamond pins. Placed at
regular intervals, the openings between these pins disclosed the satin,
the dazzling white and glimmer of which presented a most delicious
contrast to the rich green of the velvet. Other diamond hooks likewise
marked openings from the waist to the shoulder. The bodice itself,
flat-busted, was covered with valuable gems. A principal wide and
floating sleeve of velvet, opening from the shoulder, fell along the
arm; beneath was another ample sleeve of white satin, embroidered
like the bodice, but in gold and coloured jewels. On their heads they
wore velvet toques, entirely covered with precious stones. Finally, a
long gossamer veil, picked out with gold, fastened to the head-dress,
and descending as far as the feet, enwrapped the wearer in a kind of
beautiful haze.
The other quadrilles had chosen respectively the Polish, Austrian, and
French costumes of the Louis XIII. period. A glance at them easily
induced the belief that all the trinket-caskets of the Austrian
monarchy had been ransacked. The ornaments worn on that evening by
these two dozen fair ones were estimated at thirty millions of francs.
Those of the Princesse Esterhazy, _née_ Tour et Taxis, figured in that
estimate for about six millions.
As soon as the ‘love beauties’ had taken their seats, presenting, as
it were, a line of angelic faces, all eyes were turned towards them.
Motionless, and enveloped in their long, transparent veils, they seemed
to await with the utmost calm the moment of their triumph. A second
blast of trumpets announced the arrival of the sovereigns. At their
entrance everybody rose, the four-and-twenty ladies flung back their
veils, and stood forth revealed in all their beauty, and were greeted
with unanimous applause, mingled with the acclamations due to the
presence of the monarchs.
The Emperor of Austria took his seat in the centre of the stand, with
the two empresses by his side; the other sovereigns and reigning
princes being placed according to their precedence. The seats,
upholstered in velvet, were resplendent with gold and embroidery. The
Emperor of Russia, confined to his apartments through indisposition,
was not present at this fête, but another was given in his honour a
few days later, at which the details of the first were reproduced with
mathematical precision.
The illustrious guests of the Austrian Court in their most brilliant
uniforms, or with their most magnificent ornaments, constituted
an imposing sight. In the front row of the imperial stand, to the
right and to the left of the empresses, were the Queen of Bavaria,
the Duchesse Béatrice d’Este, the Grande-Duchesse d’Oldenbourg, and
her sister, Marie de Weimar; behind them sat the Kings of Prussia,
Würtemberg, and Denmark; the Princes of Prussia, Würtemberg, and
Bavaria, the Prince Eugène de Beauharnais, and finally the Arch-Dukes
Charles, Albert, Ferdinand, Maximilien d’Este, Jean, and Regnier.
There had been whispers to the effect that Marie-Louise and her young
son would be present at these fêtes, but they neither came to this
one nor to the other. Marie-Louise, in fact, was in such a false
position as to have considered it simply consistent with her dignity in
misfortune to live in retirement.[69] Consequently she rarely left the
Palace of Schönbrunn. The Prince de Ligne told me, however, that in the
company of her father and of her young sisters she had been present at
several of the rehearsals.
The sovereigns and the spectators being seated, the building
immediately rang with stirring military music, and the twenty-four
champions appeared at the barrier. They were the pick of the nobility
of Europe. The majority had gained their spurs elsewhere during the
recent wars. If all shone in virtue of their personal glory and their
illustrious birth, they were not less distinguished by their physical
advantages. It was said that there had been rivalry in earnest in
pursuit of the honour of filling a rôle in the scenes imitated from
ancient times. Finally the choice, which was tantamount to a patent of
elegance and grace, was fixed on the youngest and handsomest. Foremost
among them were the Princes Vincent Esterhazy, Antoine Kadziwill,
Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg, the Comtes Felix Woyna, Petersen, the Vicomte
de Wargemont, the Prince Charles de Lichtenstein, Louis de Schenye,
Louis de Schönfeldt, and young Trauttmansdorff, the son of the Master
of the Horse.
The dresses of these knights had been exactly modelled on those of the
reign of François I., _i.e._ of the period when ‘chivalry,’ after a
last short blaze, was extinguished for ever. Like their fair dames, the
knights were divided into four quadrilles, each being marked by the
colour adopted by the corresponding feminine quadrille. The dress was
composed of a velvet doublet, tight at the waist, with puffed sleeves,
and lappets lined with satin. The front of the doublet was fastened
with buttons and laces of gold; below this came the close-fitting hose
and trunks, with yellow boots reaching to the calves, and provided
with gilt spurs. The hands were cased in gloves of a similar colour,
embroidered with gold, and ending in gauntlets; while on their heads
they wore large hats turned up in front, with the plume of feathers
drooping from the side and fastened with a diamond buckle. The swords
were suspended from baldricks encrusted with precious stones. Each fair
one had presented her knight with an ample band of stuff embroidered
in silk and gold. The scarf was tied in a bow at the side of the
sword-hand. The knights bestrode Hungarian horses of the rarest beauty,
and remarkable for their quickness of movement and their perfect
training. Their sleek coats, black as ebony, were almost entirely
hidden beneath their rich caparisons. Each knight carried a long lance
‘in rest’ on his knee. Four-and-twenty pages with banners displayed
preceded them, while in their wake came an equal number of squires,
dressed Spanish fashion, their bucklers inscribed with emblems and
mottoes.
The pages and squires drew up in line on each side of the arena. The
four-and-twenty knights, two abreast, rode up first to the stand of
the sovereigns, and lowered their lances in sign of salutation and
obedience before the queens and empresses; the latter graciously
responded with a wave of their hands. Retracing their steps, the
knights direct their horses to the other stand, and offer similar
homage to their ladies, who, however, rise in response, and thus give
the spectators an opportunity of judging the beauty of their features,
the elegance of their figures, and the richness of their dresses. After
riding twice round the arena, all the paladins retire, awaiting a new
signal.
The heralds soon sound a joyous blast, which is answered by the
musicians in the orchestras. The lists are open, and the different
games intended to show the skill and strength of the competitors begin.
Six knights, followed by their pages and squires, appear. They begin
with the _pas de lance_ (tilting at the ring); the horses are put to
the gallop, and each knight, rapidly borne along, removes at the point
of his lance one of the rings suspended before the imperial stand. Each
quadrille repeats the same movement three times, until the rings have
mostly disappeared, and the dexterity of the competitors has been put
to a severe test. At the end of this first exercise the lances with
the rings carried by each upon them are handed to the squires, and the
second game begins. Each champion, armed with a short dart, flings it
with consummate skill at the Saracens’ heads, and without slackening
his pace picks from the ground, by means of a second curved javelin,
the dart he has just flung. After that, drawing their swords, and
bent on the necks of their cattle, the knights gallop towards their
motionless adversaries, and strike them, endeavouring, however, to cut
them down altogether.
Half-a-dozen different games followed, and the whole was wound up by a
cleverly simulated combat between the knights--so cleverly simulated
that the Prince de Lichtenstein bit the dust, and was carried away
unconscious. It was an accident which, but for the cries from the
ladies’ stand, would have passed unnoticed, for though the knights
endeavoured, as in the jousts of old, to dismount their rivals, certain
regulations strictly limiting the bounds of attack and defence had
been fixed, and the moment there was the faintest sign of their being
exceeded by this or that combatant, the heralds-of-arms interfered,
suspended the offender, and a new knight took his place.
The shrieks of the _belles d’amour_ were altogether spontaneous, for
they did not imitate their ancestresses, who in the tourneys of old
encouraged their champions by their cries to do battle for their renown
to the last; the modern dames and damsels confined themselves to the
bestowal of expressive looks and sweet smiles. Perhaps these contained
as much encouragement as the more noisy demonstrations of approval,
although the Prince de Ligne, to judge from his remarks, would have
fain seen the fair ones revert to the ancient customs, ‘What delights
me above all in these revivals of chivalric practices is the image
of valour and skill inspired by love,’ he said. ‘Unquestionably,
our ancestors understood the love-passion better than we do. They
introduced it into everything--into their games and into their combats.
The love-passion in those days must have been a grand and noble
feeling; it was the twin-sister of glory. With us, love is only a
matter of pleasure. Instead of making it, as of old, an incentive to
the dangers of war or to the splendid perils of the lists, our poets
and novelists have relegated it to a cottage. But “love in a cottage,”
as has been aptly said, “soon becomes a cottage without love.” The
modern taste for tournaments,’ he went on, ‘is no new thing. I did
not see the jousts organised by the great Catherine at St. Petersburg
in the first years of her reign, but I have often been told the
particulars. Their most remarkable feature was the active participation
of women. They competed as well as the men. The celebrated Marshal
Münnich[70] was principal umpire. The favourite, Gregory Orloff, and
his brother Alexis were at the heads of the quadrilles. The first prize
for skill and grace was won by the handsome Comtesse Bouturlin, the
daughter of the great Chancellor Woronzoff. When handing it to her,
the old marshal decided that she should distribute the rest of the
wreaths to the dames and knights. It really seemed as if Catherine had
exhausted all kinds of pleasure and splendour, but there is, after all,
something left.’
While the prince was talking the four-and-twenty knights, this time
actively assisted by their pages and squires, executed several
difficult evolutions, attesting their skill and perfect horsemanship,
and the whole was wound up by a kind of equine set-dance, in which the
quadrupeds disputed the palm with their riders. Then the knights made
the round of the arena, saluted the sovereigns and their own dames, and
disappeared in the same order as they had come.
The sovereigns themselves intimated by rising that the entertainment
was at an end, while the knights made their appearance in the stand
allotted to their dames, escorting them to the huge rooms of the
palace set apart for the ball and the supper. These rooms were filled
with flowers, and decorated with exquisite taste; a flood of light as
brilliant as the orb of day showed the women in all their resplendent
beauty; they and their champions became the centre of general
admiration, the sovereigns having resumed the incognito, some of them,
by the aid of dominos, disappearing altogether in the crowd.
In the principal room there was a chief table with its service entirely
of gold. It stood on a kind of platform a few feet from the ground, and
was reserved exclusively for the royal guests of the Congress. To its
left there was another table almost equally magnificent, set apart
for the princes, the archdukes, the chiefs of reigning houses, and the
ministers of the great Powers. To the right there was a third table of
forty-eight covers for the actors of the tournament. Around the room
and in the adjoining ones smaller tables were spread, at which the
guests took their seats without distinction of rank. The perfume of the
baskets of flowers, the glitter of the ornaments worn, the brilliancy
of the diamonds, mingling with the colours of the floral decorations,
and constituting, as it were, ever so many shifting rainbows, the
sheen of the golden fruit-baskets--in short, the whole presented the
most magnificent sight hitherto witnessed anywhere. The magic of that
picture transported the spectator to one of the fairy scenes created
by a poetic imagination. During the collation minstrels sang, to the
accompaniment of their harps, lays to the beauty of the dames and to
the valour of their knights.
At the royal board the Empress of Austria was seated between the Kings
of Prussia and Denmark. Emperor Francis had by his side respectively
the Empress Elizabeth and the Grande-Duchesse d’Oldenbourg. A little
further on was the charming Marie, Duchesse de Weimar, and by her
side the Prince Guillaume de Prusse [the future Wilhelm I. King of
Prussia and German Emperor]. The ‘immense’ King of Würtemberg looks,
as usual, pre-occupied. The table, in front of him, has been cut
away to accommodate his portly person. A glance at him causes one to
speculate upon the potentiality of nature in stretching the human
skin. King Frederick of Denmark supplies an instance to the contrary;
but his intellect, his never-failing animation, his tact and the rest
of his admirable qualities, which would have transformed an ordinary
individual into a remarkable man, have made of this monarch a being
worshipped by everybody. Excellent Maximilian of Bavaria shows on his
open face the genuine expression of satisfaction and kindness.
At the table occupied by the paladins, Mme. Edmond de Périgord is
seated by the young Comte de Trauttmansdorff, her knight. As remarkable
for her beauty as for her tasteful dress, she captivates everybody
by the charm of her remarks, both animated and clever. The other
feminine glories of the tournament vie with each other in keeping the
conversational ball rolling. After the banquet a move was made to the
ball-room. More than three thousand invitations had been issued. All
that Vienna contained in the shape of illustrious personages, whether
in virtue of their birth, rank, or functions were there forgathered.
No memory could recall so many names celebrated in this or that
respect. No pen could adequately describe all those statesmen to whom
Europe had confided the interests of her destiny. Here, the Comte de
Loevenhielm, M. de Bernstorff, and the Prince d’Hardemberg[71] calmly
discussing the claim submitted to the Congress by the deposed King
Gustavus-Adolphus--a claim supported by Admiral Sir Sidney Smith with
more perseverance than success. There, M. de Humboldt, the Duc de
Dalberg, the Baron de Wessemberg, familiarly debating the problems
connected with Saxony and Poland. Further on, the Commandeur Alvaro
Ruffo and M. de Palmella speculating upon the fate reserved for Italy.
Still further on, M. de Metternich and M. de Nesselrode in lively
conversation with Lord Castlereagh, and, to judge from the seriousness
of their faces, not commenting on the joke just perpetrated by the
Englishman [Irishman?] in connection with the temporary transformation
of the Garter into a tiara. While the fate of Naples, Sweden, and
Poland is apparently hanging in the balance, waltzing and dancing are
going on, without the least concern about all these questions. The
quadrilles had been arranged beforehand. In the centre of the principal
ball-room, the quadrilles of the ‘forty-eight’ notable figures formed
the chief attraction. The sun had appeared on the horizon before the
last guests left the Burg.