The Fire at the Razumowski Palace--The Prince’s Great Wealth
--The Vicissitudes of Court Favour in Russia--Prince
Koslowski--A Reminiscence of the Duc d’Orléans--A Remark of
Talleyrand--Fête at the Comtesse Zichy’s--Emperor Alexander
and his Ardent Wishes for Peace--New Year’s Day, 1815--
Grand Ball and Rout--Sir Sidney Smith’s Dinner-Party at the
Augarten--His Chequered Life, his Missions and his Projects
at the Congress--The King of Bavaria without Money--
Departure and Anger of the King of Würtemberg--The Queen of
Westphalia--The Announcement of a Sleighing-Party--A Ball
at Lord Castlereagh’s.
It seemed as if every species of amusement had been exhausted for the
gratification of the illustrious gathering at Vienna. Balls, hunts,
banquets, _carrousels_ were only a few of the forms pleasure had
adopted in its pursuit. The new year was drawing near, and in order
to inaugurate it under similar auspices of gaiety and happy freedom
from care, the Austrian Court had announced sixteen grand fêtes or
new assemblies for the forthcoming month of January. Suddenly, on a
moonless night, the palace of Prince Razumowski caught fire, and in
consequence of a rather stiff breeze the mischief spread rapidly, and
in a short time looked like Vesuvius in full blast. The excitement
spread in due proportion, and everybody wished to catch a glimpse of
the spectacle, worthy of the brush of a great artist. In a short time
the roads leading to the structure were simply black with people.
At daybreak I also repaired to the spot. The Emperor of Austria had
gone thither at the first news of the disaster. Several battalions
of infantry, animated by his presence, preserved order, and did all
they could to check the progress of the flames, without much apparent
success. From amidst the snow-covered roofs arose dense clouds of
smoke, which in turns hid and lighted up the burning building itself.
Every now and again an explosion more violent than the rest literally
caused burning beams to drop from on high. A shower of smaller flames
threatened the various parts of the pile with total destruction. The
yawning walls suddenly disclosed vast rooms, superb galleries crammed
with precious furniture and art-treasures, which almost immediately
became a prey to the fast-advancing monster. The pictures and the
statues were flung headlong into the gardens and into the courts. If
they escaped destruction by fire, they were shattered to pieces on the
flagstones or saturated with the jets of water and the molten snow,
which had converted the ground into a kind of quagmire. One magnificent
gallery, decorated with a number of statues by Canova, could not
be saved. Its floor had given way; and at that moment a feeling of
profound consternation seemed to have taken possession of the enormous
crowd. It was not surprising, for the Razumowski Palace constituted one
of the sights of Vienna. It had taken twenty years to build it. Several
times since the opening of the Congress, Emperor Alexander had borrowed
it of his ambassador. It was in these vast apartments that he had given
some of the fêtes rivalling in pomp and splendour those of the Austrian
Court; it was at the Razumowski Palace that he had gathered around a
table of seven hundred covers all the political celebrities of Europe;
it was at the Razumowski Palace that, but three weeks previously, he
had so fitly celebrated the birthday of his sister, the Grand-Duchess
of Oldenburg. Such, in short, were the splendour and charm of this
magnificent palace that Empress Elizabeth had, it was said, seriously
thought of renting it during the spring as her private residence.
For many, many years Razumowski had made a point of embellishing
the place with every art-treasure that wealth could buy. The rooms
themselves were decorated with as much taste as sumptuousness. Side by
side with galleries containing masterpieces of pictorial and statuary
art, there was a library, perhaps matchless anywhere, inasmuch as
the rarest manuscripts and books were collected there. In short, the
building was a unique specimen of Asiatic magnificence, carefully toned
down by European taste.
In the costly ornamentation of that palace, Razumowski had spent a
considerable part of his fortune: it was even said that his fortune had
been impaired by it. That wealth, which was enormous, came to him from
his father, Cyril Razumowski, the field-marshal, and the brother of
that famous Alexis who was the favourite and subsequently the husband
of Empress Elizabeth, who secretly married him at Perowo, near Moscow.
The vagaries of luck, which has played so important a part in the
history of Russia, were for Cyril what they were for the brother of
Catherine I. When the erewhile chorister-lad of the imperial chapel,
Alexis Razumowski, had sprouted into the lover and minister of Empress
Elizabeth, it all at once recurred to him that he had a brother. Alexis
decided upon having him sent for, in order to give him a share of some
of the good things that had come to himself. The brother herded flocks
somewhere in Little Russia, and had no presentiment of the marvellous
destiny in store for him. On the contrary, he was inclined to look
upon the imperial emissaries who had come in search of him as so many
recruiting-sergeants bent on converting him into a soldier. In his
opinion, the wallet in which he carried his bread while tending his
flock was a thousand times preferable to the grenadier’s knapsack;
hence, at the approach of the men in quest of him, he escaped, and
hid himself in the woods. As a matter of course, they were on his
track in a few days, and after a most obstinate resistance, he was
bound and laden with fetters, and in that condition he made his first
appearance at the Imperial Palace, whence he issued very soon, laden
with wealth and favours, a field-marshal, and invested with the
restored commandership of the Cossacks, a rank abolished by Peter
the Great in consequence of the Mazeppa conspiracy. In addition to
the most extensive powers, the latter office conferred upon him the
right of levying tithes upon all the revenues of the provinces of his
government; and this naturally became the source of one of the most
enormous fortunes of Europe.
Exceedingly tactful and devoid of prejudice, Cyril Razumowski
succeeded in maintaining himself in his great position during the
reign of Catherine II., to whose elevation he was supposed to have
contributed in no mean degree. The pomp and splendour with which he
surrounded himself, as well as his personal kindness of heart, seemed
to have rendered him fully worthy of such unprecedented favours.
Many traits are recorded of him proving his generosity as well as
his nobleness of character. He had a steward, who for many years had
managed his affairs, and who had acquired great influence over him. A
poor gentleman of Little Russia, a neighbour of the marshal, was at
loggerheads with the business man about some land, which, though of
little or no importance to the wealthy Court dignitary, practically
constituted the whole of the other’s patrimony. The steward insisted
upon the surrender of the property. The gentleman was thoroughly
aware of Razumowski’s inherent sense of right and justice, and,
instead of trusting his all to the chances of a lawsuit--always
uncertain in Russia, and notably where one’s opponent happens to be
very powerful--he made up his mind to go and find the marshal at St.
Petersburg, and to plead his cause with him. The steward, having got
wind of the affair, is beforehand, and on his arrival in the capital
stigmatises the claim of the gentleman as an utterly unfounded
pretension, and extracts from his master a promise to yield neither to
solicitations nor prayers, but to remain firm. A short time afterwards
the poor gentleman arrives upon the scene and explains his case, and
succeeds in convincing the marshal so completely of the justice of his
claim as thoroughly to move him. The picture of the other’s total ruin
is by no means to his taste; the promise to his steward is forgotten,
and without saying a syllable he leaves the room for a small one
adjoining it, and there in a few lines he draws up a document granting
the contested land to his adversary. At the sight of the paper, the
latter drops on his knees, where the steward, entering at the same
moment by another door, finds him. ‘You see,’ said Razumowski smiling,
‘where I have brought him to.’ The scene is worthy to figure by the
side of that of Sully and Henri IV. at Fontainebleau, when the king
said to his friend the minister, ‘Rise, Rosny, these people might
imagine that I was granting you a pardon for something.’
André Razumowski, his son, who had only received his princely title
some short time before from Alexander as a reward for important
services, had inherited several of those qualities which seem such
dignified accompaniments to great wealth. He also had a remarkable and
enlightened taste for art. The genuine type of the grand seigneur, he
was at the same time wholly familiar with the less redundant graces
of diplomatic courtesy. Most expensive in his taste and grandiose in
his projects, he noticed one day that he might shorten the distance
separating him from the Prater, and had a bridge thrown over an arm of
the Danube. As the ambassador to the Austrian Court, he was on the most
confidential footing with Prince de Metternich, the presiding spirit;
and more than once, Razumowski, by his cleverness, had dissipated the
clouds gathering over the discussions of the Congress.
The fire had meanwhile been got under, but that part of the palace
looking out upon the gardens was irrevocably gone. Among the crowd of
lookers-on, I noticed the Prince Koslowski. After the death of the
Prince de Ligne, an instinctive feeling of friendship, and perhaps
sympathy also, seemed to draw me nearer to that other friend. If, in
the case of the old marshal, I had admired the treasures of experience
and reason and that subtle and delicate appreciation of society, in
the case of the Russian prince I found a loftiness of views, an entire
independence of judgment and expression about men and political events,
too rare, perhaps, among diplomatists. His sprightly conversation bound
many people to him, while at the same time his frankness commanded
affection.
‘This,’ he said, when I got up to him, ‘is a chapter to add to the
vicissitudes of courtly favour and disgrace in Russia. Razumowski
may consider himself fortunate to be quits at the cost of a palace
half burnt down. He also has known the ups and downs of favour and
disgrace; he also has known the sweets of power and the bitterness
of exile. The history of my country could indeed be made into a
most philosophical novel; it would, above all, provide a series of
excellent moral lectures on the danger of vainglory and the frequency
of revolutions. The last century has offered any number of examples.
There is Menschikoff, a pastry cook’s lad, who becomes a prince and a
general, and is suddenly exiled, dying a couple of years after, without
individually recovering his position. Biren, a servant, is raised to
sovereign rank, and is practically master of the empire for nine years,
until the day that Münnich, his rival, claps the fetters on him in
the presence of his own guards, petrified with fear. Biren, however,
regains favour, while Münnich himself expiates his sudden rise with
twenty years’ banishment to Siberia. Surgeon Lestocq, after having
overthrown the Regent Anne, practically puts the crown on Elizabeth’s
head, and remains one of her principal advisers during her reign. He
is, nevertheless, flung into prison, then set free, and finally almost
entirely forgotten. The Princesse Daschkoff, the supposed soul of the
plot that dragged Peter III. from his throne to place his wife there,
is soon misjudged by her whose plans she imprudently boasted to have
inspired, and to whose grandeur she professed to have contributed.
Finally, the plotters who took Paul I.‘s life and crown are treated
with the utmost harshness by him who owes his present power to them.
‘Well,’ he went on, after we had left the scene of the fire, ‘the
elevations are often as strange in their causes as the catastrophes are
terrible in their effects. Judge for yourself. In consequence of my
relationship to Prince Kourakine, I began my career in the secretarial
department of the great chancellor Romanzoff. One day the latter was
dictating an important despatch to me. I do not know how I managed it,
but in my hurry, instead of emptying the pounce over the document, I
emptied the inkstand over the beautiful white kerseymeres of the chief.
That inkpot, so indiscriminately emptied, decided my fate. Romanzoff,
as you may imagine, did not care to keep near him a secretary with such
a distinct tendency to spoil his clothes, so he gave him a position
as a state-councillor, where there was a good deal to control, but
little to write. But for this trifling circumstance, I’d probably be
vegetating now among the subalterns.’
Few men combined like the Prince Koslowski the liking for work, and
the intelligent appreciation of it, joined to a remarkable and fiery
eloquence. His learning was very varied and extensive, his memory most
admirable. History had no secrets for him; he had mastered all the
diplomatic transactions which for many centuries had regulated the
fate of Europe. His manner of judging men was that of a philosophic
statesman. All the political questions so often twisted out of their
natural shape by private interest he regarded in the light of a friend
of humanity. A staunch partisan of all progress, he was fond of telling
how he, like another illustrious personage already mentioned, had
received equally deserved chastisement at the hands of an Austrian
postillion. While travelling, when very young, on the frontiers of
Prussia, he had struck the driver, whose horses did not keep pace with
the traveller’s impatience. The driver vigorously applied his whip to
the back of the ’prentice diplomatist. ‘Well, it was that Austrian who
gave me my first lesson in liberalism,’ said the prince, laughing, a
decade later.
Koslowski quickly climbed the first rungs of the diplomatic ladder.
Minister-plenipotentiary to the King of Sardinia, he had the good
fortune to save the lives of several shipwrecked Frenchmen who had been
made prisoners. Napoleon immediately sent the Legion of Honour to the
representative of a sovereign with whom at that very moment he happened
to be at war. The reward redounded as much to the honour of the Russian
ambassador as to that of the French Emperor. It was at Cagliari, about
the same period, that the Prince Koslowski became acquainted with the
Duc d’Orléans, afterwards the King of the French. A similar love of
knowledge, a similar desire for fathoming most things, drew these two
together. Both had spent their earlier years in serious and assiduous
studies. The chequered and adventurous life of the French prince had
strengthened the studies with the experience derived from misfortune.
These two took long walks by the sea-shore, and passed in review the
gigantic events of which practically they were the eye-witnesses.
Sometimes they read Shakespeare, whose language and whose beauties were
equally familiar to them; and those readings were rarely interrupted
except by the cries of admiration of the Russian diplomatist or the
subtle and learned comments of the French exile.
Very often during the Congress I heard Koslowski refer to the
particulars of that familiar intercourse, of which, despite the
difference in their years--for that difference consisted of a
decade--he cherished a lively recollection. ‘The learning of the Duc
d’Orléans surprises and confounds me; on no matter what subject,
whether it be a scientific, an historical, or a politico-economical
one, he not only holds his own with me, but beats me. What, however,
I admire most in him is his courage in misfortune, and his profound
knowledge of men. He sees them as they are; nevertheless, he judges
them without the slightest bitterness. Proscribed from his country, he
constantly has his eyes turned towards it, and has steadfastly refused
to join those who would reconquer it by force of arms. The saying:
“They have learnt nothing; they have forgotten nothing,” does not apply
to him. Both as a man and as a prince, he belongs to his time.’
The Comtesse Zichy gave a grand ball, which was to be honoured by the
presence of the sovereigns. The sole topic of conversation in the
capital was the fire of the previous night, which had robbed the city
of one of its handsomest ornaments. The damage, estimated at several
millions, was absolutely irreparable from the point of view of art.
But oblivion came quickly in those days, and by evening the excitement
had largely subsided, and the courtiers’ greatest interest seemed to
be the study of the sovereigns’ faces, inasmuch as the rumour ran
that the most important questions had been settled, that the sweetest
accord reigned between those rulers of the world, and that the opening
of the new year would be signalised by the proclamation of some great
decisions and the declaration of a general peace.
Among the crowd of notabilities grouped around the celebrities, such
as M. de Metternich and the Field-Marshal Prince de Schwartzenberg,
was the young Prince C---- de F----, the son of a king, the brother of
a king to-be, yet who, nevertheless, was as simple and unaffected as
he was handsome and clever. A circumstance most trifling in appearance
had made him for the last few days the subject of all comments and the
object of all observation. In the shape of a floral decoration, he wore
simply a daisy in his buttonhole and nothing else. Of course, renewed
each day, the modest village flower was a proof of careful search at
a season when the snow-covered fields had none to offer to the rustic
swain. No doubt some tender recollection, some thought proceeding
direct from the heart, was hidden under this humble emblem. It was
one of the many love-stories enacted while the Congress was supposed
to be unravelling the tangled skein of Europe’s diplomacy. The air of
Vienna seemed positively teeming with them, and their secrets were
not difficult to read. The latest was no exception to the others. It
was soon known that the modest flower of the field reminded the young
prince of a cherished name, that of the Comtesse de ----. One day these
two were strolling through the imperial hot-houses, and, love being
superstitious, they hit upon the idea of consulting the future with
regard to the duration and the depth of a feeling constituting their
happiness. The comtesse plucked a daisy, interrogated it according
to usage, and the last petal brings the ardently wished-for word
‘passionately.’ Naturally the word is welcomed by a mutual smile, there
is an exchange of significant glances--of those glances that say as
plainly as words, ‘You’re understood.’ The prince plucks another flower
and fastens it into his buttonhole. The matter, however, did not end
there; the oracle had been believed; heaven had received the pledges,
while the head-gardener at Schönbrunn had received something more
substantial in the shape of a hundred florins for the fortunate pot of
daisies. A flower placed each morning near his heart reminded the lover
of a pledge which, as a rule, is kept more faithfully in cottages than
in Courts.
The band had struck up the usual polonaise, and Alexander, as was his
habit, marched at the head of the line of dancers. His partner was
the Comtesse de Paar, as distinguished by the graces of her person as
by the accomplishments of her mind. Midnight struck and the new year
had commenced. In Austria, as is well known, the delightful custom of
our fathers of celebrating the first hour of January amidst mutual
good wishes had been piously preserved. At the sound of the clock,
the comtesse stopped, and, turning towards the emperor, said, ‘I am
very happy, sire, to be the first to offer such a great sovereign the
good wishes for the new year. Allow me also to be with your majesty
the spokeswoman of all Europe for the maintenance of the peace and the
union of peoples.’
Such wishes, expressed by such lips, could not fail to meet with an
enthusiastic welcome. Alexander, then, accepted with much grace both
the compliment and the request. He replied that all his hopes, and all
his wishes tended in the direction of that much desired aim, and that
no sacrifice would be considered too great by him to consolidate a
peace which was the first need of humanity.
The guests had formed themselves into a large circle, and at the last
words of the imperial reply, there were slight feminine cheers from all
parts; a kind of ovation which did not seem to displease Alexander.
For to some of the great qualities of the Grand Louis, he made it his
constant study to add nobleness of manner and ever-watchful courtesy
to the fair sex. The interlude being over, the orchestra took up the
interrupted strain, and the polonaise was concluded amidst joyous
murmurs and mild applause.
It was thus that commenced under the most happy auspices that year 1815
which a few months later was to witness a struggle more relentless
than ever, terminating in the catastrophe of Waterloo. From early
morn, and in spite of the biting cold, a considerable crowd had
gathered on the Graben and on other public places. Every one seemed
to be waiting for the announcement of that general peace, of that
general reconciliation, which, according to certain newsmongers, was
to mark the advent of the new year. People kept interrogating each
other with an anxiety mixed with a constantly growing incredulity. All
that could be gathered was the decision of the Austrian Court, which
had suppressed the customary official receptions in order to save its
guests the worry of new year’s compliments and the embarrassment of
mendacious gratulations. As for the decisions of the Congress, they
continued to be enveloped in as much secrecy as ever, and people
remained free to pursue the daily comment on the dissensions of the
Powers and the lukewarmness they were likely to impart to the fêtes
announced for the month of January.
A great number of carriages traversed the city in all directions,
and that of Lord Stewart, the English ambassador, eclipsed all the
others in virtue of its elegance and its appointments. At an early
hour Empress Marie-Louise had come from Schönbrunn to offer her good
wishes to her august father. Standing aloof from everything that
happened at Vienna, she never attended any entertainment, Court fête,
or public ceremony. Nevertheless, the greatest deference was shown her
everywhere. During the first months after her arrival at Schönbrunn,
she had kept the imperial arms of France on the panels of her carriage,
on the scutcheons of her harness, and on the buttons of her liveries.
On the occasion of a famous visit to her father, some people in the
street had loudly expressed themselves on what they chose to regard as
a blunder in the matter of etiquette. Marie-Louise had heard the words,
and from that day she had been careful to efface the last traces of
her presence on the throne of France; and when we caught a glimpse of
the conveyance we noticed a new monogram instead of the Napoleonic one,
and a livery not only brand-new, but altogether different in colour
from the old.
Nevertheless, in spite of the unfavourable predictions current on the
Graben with regard to the turn of the discussions of the Congress, the
Imperial Palace from nine that evening was scarcely able to hold the
enormous crowd seeking admittance. The sovereigns, the political and
diplomatic notabilities, had forgathered in what was called the Hall of
the Ceremonies, where the Austrian Court was giving a state ball. Not
far from there the big hall usually set apart for the large routs was
filled with masks and dominos. Griffiths and I had repaired thither. It
presented, as always, the most animated picture of all, and only one
purpose seemed paramount, the pursuit of pleasure. After a few turns
Griffiths and I left, surprised at such a total absence of care so
rapidly succeeding and ousting most important preoccupations.
One of the most curious gatherings of the Congress and of Vienna was
no doubt the ‘pic-nic dinner’ to which Admiral Sidney Smith invited
the sovereigns and the political and other celebrities then within the
walls of the capital. The idea of bringing together so many eminent
personages, and of making each pay his share of the entertainment,
could not fail to please them by its very sincerity amidst the constant
gaiety which was gratuitously offered to them. Consequently, a great
many had responded to the appeal.
Sir Sidney Smith had not been attracted to the Congress from simple
motives of curiosity. His aim was political as well as philanthropic.
And though not invested with any official mission, he had created for
himself as many occupations as had the representative of the most
influential Power. His projects in no way belied his adventurous life,
the episodes of which savoured as much of a novel as of history.
A sailor from his boyhood, and without occupation after the American
War, he passed into the service of Sweden, In consequence of the
glorious naval engagement of 1791, he got the Grand Cross of the
Order of the Sword, and shortly afterwards he offered his services to
Turkey. Recalled after a few months by a proclamation of the King of
England, he found himself, together with Lord Hood, at the siege of
Toulon. In the course of 1796, while lying before Havre, he boarded a
French corsair, which only a dead calm prevented him from taking in
his wake. A sailor having secretly cut the cable of the craft, manned
by English sailors in replacement of the French, the rising tide drove
it into the Seine, where it was attacked by superior forces and was
obliged to surrender. Taken to Paris, Smith was at first confined in
the prison of l’Abbaye, then in that of the Temple. It was from the
latter that his friends, by means of a forged order of the minister of
the police, managed to effect his escape, a circumstance apparently
very simple in itself, but which later on, under the walls of St. Jean
d’Acre, contributed to frustrate most gigantic projects, and perhaps
effectually prevented the revolution of the East. After that it becomes
rather difficult to assign great causes to great events.
On his return to England, Sidney Smith got the command of the _Tiger_,
four-and-twenty guns, and was instructed to watch the coast of Egypt.
After having bombarded Alexandria, he set sail for Syria, where his
presence and his advice induced the pasha to defend St. Jean d’Acre.
It was owing to his aid and obstinate resistance that the siege had to
be raised. It was on that occasion that he was presented by the sultan
with an aigrette of great price, and received from Napoleon the not
less flattering remark: ‘This devil of a Sidney Smith has made me miss
my fortune.’
On his return to London he received the freedom of the City, in
addition to a magnificent sword of honour. Elected to the Commons,
he kept his seat up to the Peace of Amiens, when he obtained a new
command, and in 1805 took Capri after a siege of a few hours. When, in
1807, Napoleon had deposed the House of Braganza, he took the Prince
Regent of Portugal and his family to the Brazils. Since then he had
remained inactive, though, as may be easily imagined, inactivity
did not suit his temperament. The Congress of Vienna offered him a
magnificent opportunity for displaying his mental energy, and, as a
consequence, he was one of the first to arrive. He represented himself
as being vested with full powers by the former King of Sweden, Gustavus
IV., who, under the title of the Duc de Holstein, had entrusted him
with a claim relative to the throne he had lost. That very honourable
mission had been bestowed upon him in virtue of his being a former
Swedish naval officer and a knight of the ‘Order of the Sword.’
At the very opening of the conferences, Sir Sidney Smith had submitted
to the supreme tribunal of Europe the declaration of his august client.
The moment seemed well chosen. Justice, reparation, legitimacy,
were religiously invoked watchwords in Vienna. In appealing to the
conscience of sovereigns, the deposed monarch brought their own
arguments to bear upon them. In his note, Gustavus-Adolphus reminded
them that he had been deposed only by the influence of Napoleon, with
whom he had declined all relationship, especially since the death of
the Duc d’Enghien. He furthermore pointed out that the Swedish nation,
in excluding him from the throne, had only yielded to a political
necessity and to the threats of the great Powers; that at the moment of
his abdication he was a prisoner; that since then he had always refused
to renounce the rights of his son; that he felt confident of this
prince, when he arrived at his majority, proving himself worthy of his
birth, of the Swedish nation, and of his illustrious forefathers; and
that, finally, he did not claim the throne on his own account.
In politics, however, the most logical arguments are not always the
most valid ones. The days and months went by without there being the
slightest question of restoring his sceptre to the deposed monarch.
Practically sent away without having produced the least impression as
far as his embassy was concerned, Sidney Smith was, however, not at all
discouraged. ‘If, contrary to all possibility, I fail with this august
tribunal,’ he said, ‘I’ll bring it without the slightest fear before
the tribunal of my own country. As long as we have a Parliament in
England, there will be a court of justice for the whole of Europe. I’ll
ask why a legitimate king comes to be deprived of his rights; I’ll ask
to know the reason of the most relentless enemy of Bonaparte falling a
victim to his intrigues; of the abandoning to misfortune of the man who
was the first to attack the Colossus with all the ardour of a knight of
olden times. Do not people know that Napoleon never forgave Gustavus
for having reproached him with the murder of the Duc d’Enghien, and for
having sent back to the King of Prussia the Order of the Black Eagle,
which he, Gustavus, declined to wear in common with Bonaparte?
‘If it be objected that Gustavus signed his abdication, I’ll answer
that he was not a free man, that a father cannot sign away the rights
of his son, that a sovereign cannot depose his dynasty. Ought not this
descendant of the great Gustavus, of Charles XII., to inspire in this
spot the interest inseparable from such magnificent memories? When
on every side the principles of equity are loudly evoked, will they
dare by the strangest contradiction to reject the most sacred, those
of an inheritance founded on glory and hallowed by ages? In fine, if
history is henceforth to be the sole judge of arbitrary acts, it
is to history that Gustavus-Adolphus shall appeal. Posterity, more
equitable than this Congress of kings, shall say of the prince that if
certain brilliant peculiarities made him, perhaps, an object of envy
and enmity, it is very rarely that vice does not avenge itself upon
a brilliant destiny with calumny. As for myself,’ added the admiral,
‘a constant courtier to fallen grandeur, I shall remain true to my
affections and to my principles, and defend until the end the rights of
legitimacy and evil fortune.’
In vain they told him that the interest of the nations themselves, the
pledges given, and the need for peace, had also to be considered; that
Europe could not annul solemn acts, and perhaps least of all those
secret treaties that assured to Bernadotte and his dynasty the peaceful
possession of the throne of Sweden; that Europe would never reward the
eminent services he had rendered to the common cause by a spoliation;
that Europe would not expel him from the prominent place of honour to
which the general wish of the Swedes had lifted him in order to impose
upon them the monarch they had rejected; that the sad position of
Gustavus-Adolphus rendered it imperative in him to bear his misfortunes
with dignity; and that, finally, when a monarch is deposed, he could
only arouse compassion by avoiding to draw attention to his case. In
spite of the indifference of the Congress and of the public, Sidney
Smith, nevertheless, did not leave a stone unturned in favour of a
cause henceforth lost.
The negotiations with regard to his pic-nic dinner had met with fewer
obstacles. In Vienna, it was easier to organise a pleasure-party
than to obtain the restitution of a throne in an assembly which had
seemingly taken it as a principle to despoil the feeble in favour of
the strong. The aim of this general convocation was a subscription, at
the head of which the admiral had placed his name. The proceeds, it
was said, were to be devoted to the purchase of an immense silver lamp
for the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. But it was also soon known that
the sums Sidney Smith hoped to collect would be used for the repurchase
of the Christians kept prisoners in Barbary. He had already proposed
to the Congress a naval expedition for the purpose of annihilating
those Barbary powers, of putting an end to their brigandage, and of
destroying the disgraceful white-slave traffic in Africa for ever.
Naturally, he was to take the command of this anti-piratic army.
The Congress had, however, other things to think about than the
organisation of a crusade, and this new Peter the Hermit had fain to
be content with the simpler means of redeeming the slaves with the
gold taken from the purses of the votaries of pleasure. Transplanting
English usages into Austria, a dinner seemed to him the suitable bond
for this humanitarian work.
A great number of tickets were sold and the day was fixed. The
Augarten, eminently suited for such a function, had been chosen. Yan,
the _restaurateur par excellence_, had undertaken all the culinary
details of that philanthropic gala fête. The price of the tickets had
been fixed at three Dutch ducats, that for the ball to follow at ten
florins. The dinner was to be on the table at five o’clock in the
beautiful hall so often used by Maria-Theresa and Joseph II. The
table itself was in the shape of an elongated horse-shoe; the walls
of the apartments had practically disappeared under the standards of
all nations. An orchestra had been erected at each end. The sovereigns
had not only approved, but approved with great alacrity. The grand
personages of the Congress, ministers, generals, and ambassadors, had
been equally eager to contribute their ducats. Among the hundred and
fifty guests there were as many highnesses as semi-sovereigns, great
captains, and illustrious statesmen. Trumpeters on horseback, posted
at intervals, announced the monarchs’ arrival by loud blasts. Those
‘glorious entrances’ as they are practised on the English stage proved
that the admiral had not forgotten the theatre of Shakespeare.
Yan had done his best, and though that best was good, and Bohemia,
Hungary, and the Hereditary States had provided their most delicate
edibles, a dinner at the Court would no doubt have been more perfect in
every respect. It was, however, a tavern repast, where every one paid
his own share; and that novelty had seemed so strange to the crowned
heads, or to the heads fated to wear a crown, that no one was absent.
It was, indeed, a strange and curious spectacle.
Every one remembers the banquet where Voltaire made Candide dine with
seven deposed kings at Venice. Since then, no one had ever seen so
many forgathered in a tavern or restaurant. If the number of those who
sat down at the Augarten was not absolutely the same, at least they
were not deposed, but crowned in real earnest, and very resplendent.
The inverse comparison, in fact, presented itself to everybody’s mind.
Involuntarily also, the mind reverted to some of those functions where
the kings pressed around Napoleon the victorious; a few spoke about it,
but in nothing louder than a whisper.
During the first part of the repast, the music played the national
airs of the different countries. At the second course, the admiral,
like the good Englishman he was, and faithful to the traditions of
his country, got on his legs, and spared neither the toasts nor the
speeches. The subject of his own was, naturally, in connection with the
object of the gathering; and though it dragged, no member of the ‘Order
of Mercy’ could have preached with greater unction the redemption of
the slaves. The result of his eloquence was calculated to flatter him,
for it amounted to several thousands of ducats. The emperors had each
subscribed a thousand, and the others according to their fortunes or
their philanthropy.
Sidney Smith had concluded his speech, the dishes had run their course,
the wines of Hungary, the Rhine, and Italy had been tasted, sipped, and
lauded, according to their merit, and we were about to rise from the
table, when suddenly there appeared the manager of Yan, who, between
two symphonies of Haydn, claims of each of the guests the sum of three
golden ducats, the price fixed for the banquet, the music, and the
lights, the total amounting to about five thousand four hundred francs.
Some months later, I happened to be in London at the dinner offered to
the sovereigns by the City. The number of guests, truth to tell, was
somewhat more considerable; the ball may also have been somewhat more
numerously attended. The expense, though the fête was in nearly every
respect similar, came to twenty thousand pounds. A different spot, a
different total.
A trivial circumstance which lent some gaiety to the banquet in the
Augarten was entirely lacking in London. It was an episode which, in
itself, was worth a whole book, and recalls that so facetiously told by
Voltaire. Not that it deals with a king tracked by bailiffs like the
poor, ill-fated Theodore of Corsica, but with that most charming and
most delightful of reigning kings, Maximilian Joseph of Bavaria.
Yan’s manager had begun his collection, and had put the money of
the Emperor Alexander and the King of Denmark in the silver dish
he was carrying. When he got to his Bavarian majesty, Boniface’s
representative boldly presented the dish, already ornamented with the
six ducats in question. The excellent Maximilian carried his hand to
one waistcoat pocket, then to the other, then to the pocket of his
coat. The search is absolutely fruitless--pockets, fobs, receptacles
are as completely empty of money as in the days when joyous Prince
Max failed to find any money-lender in Paris to line those pockets
with gold. It is more than probable that this king, this very model
king, had emptied the contents of his purse into some hand stretched
out to him, as invariably happened at Munich, where some unhappy
wretches always posted themselves on his route. At any rate, a second
examination of the pockets brought the unalterable conviction that his
majesty of Bavaria had not a red cent upon him.
Rather embarrassed by the situation, the king began to scan the whole
length of the board, and caught sight of his chamberlain, the Comte
Charles de Rechberg, at the very end of it. He felt sure that his
embarrassment was at an end. Rechberg, who was there on his own account
and for his own money, had not the remotest intention of attending upon
his royal master in this kind of ‘Liberty Hall,’ and was, moreover,
deeply engaged in conversation with M. de Humboldt. Rechberg had
just published an important book upon Russia, which publication,
he fain hoped, would give him a foremost rank among distinguished
_littérateurs_, and, naturally, he was talking enthusiastically about
it to the great savant. Consequently, he did not see the signals of
distress from his sovereign, and equally, as a matter of course, failed
to answer them. The head-waiter, meanwhile, did not budge, holding out
the silver dish for the money due to him. The king kept one eye on the
collector, the other on Rechberg, and his confusion gradually became
such as to attract the notice of those around him. In a little while
a kind of titter was running round the table like an electric spark.
To give the scene a somewhat complete likeness to the royal banquet at
Venice, it only wanted a few bailiff’s officers at the door, watching
King Theodore. How King Maximilian would have got out of his quandary
without the help of his neighbours, it would be difficult to say, for
the stolid head-waiter refused to budge. A far better money-collector
than courtier, he kept jingling his money against the dish, till Prince
Eugène, who had been the last to get an inkling of the situation, was
about to satisfy his claim. He was, however, forestalled by Alexander,
who, recalling the inexorable creditor, about to move at a sign from
the prince, emptied his purse into the dish, shaking, meanwhile,
with uncontrollable laughter, in which the others joined. Good King
Maximilian continued to look confused for a few moments, but, finally,
was as amused as the others at an episode which perhaps reminded him of
his youth.
At the conclusion of the dinner, and the subscriptions having been
settled, we passed into the ball-room. It was a real pell-mell, less
animated than a rout, less solemn than a Court ball, but infinitely
more curious to the ordinary observer. There were few ladies of high
degree; they were already satiated with fêtes; on the other hand,
there were a great many dames of the bourgeoisie who counted upon
nothing less than a highness or an ambassador for a minuet or a waltz.
Unfortunately, nearly all had spoilt their fresh and charming looks by
ornaments the reverse of tasteful. Though, unquestionably, bought at
a high price, these ornaments suited their charming figures far less
than the classic golden cap of Phrygian shape. The sovereigns retired
almost immediately after the ball opened, and the most illustrious
guests followed their example very shortly. As a consequence, the young
bourgeoises waited in vain for the hoped-for aristocratic partners,
and they had to be content with the new arrivals in that capacity.
They did not seem to mind it, for they had the full value of their
ticket: daylight was streaming in before they made up their minds to
leave. The whole expense of the dinner and ball combined was reported
not to have exceeded fifteen thousand florins. Eight months later,
the fête given by the London merchants to the sovereigns, to which I
have already referred, cost twenty thousand pounds. And yet people
complained about the excessive dearness of everything in Vienna! What
would it have been if the Congress had been held in London? This was
the fête which enabled Sidney Smith to make a long speech and to add
to his titles, already more or less showy, that of President of the
Noble Knights. In reality, it was a pity to see a man with real claims
to distinction constantly seeking opportunities of no value as far as
he was concerned and often altogether insignificant.[97] It was said
that, as an auxiliary to the pursuit of his humanitarian object, he had
solicited and obtained a brief from the Pope authorising him to found
a society for the purpose of abolishing slavery for evermore. What was
something more practical was the aid of the Powers and their money.
All the sovereigns had promptly proclaimed their adhesion to these
philanthropic projects by their subscriptions and their presence at his
picnic; all but two, the Emperor Francis and the King of Würtemberg.
The first, confined to his room by a somewhat serious indisposition,
had sent a donation of a thousand ducats; the second had, two days
previously, left Vienna, and his abrupt departure formed the subject of
every conversation.
Naturally imperious and irascible, the very corpulent King Frederick
chafed and fretted against the slowness of the diplomatic discussions.
In the state-gatherings, he always seemed to be grumbling or devoured
with care. He was not the only one, for it was generally felt that the
ordinary passions were pursuing their course under all those floral
ornaments and decorations. There came an opportunity, however, for
his impetuous character to show itself in all its violence. Among the
many conflicting claims submitted to the Congress, the landed nobility
of Germany herself had deemed it advisable to join the petitioners,
and it had sent its deputies entrusted with the claim for recovering
its ancient position and rights. During a conference attended by his
majesty of Würtemberg, that claim was discussed, and there was also a
good deal of desultory talk about the restoration of the Holy Roman
Empire. The king was scarcely able to contain himself, and when it
became a question of measures that might restrict the prerogatives of
sovereigns, he rose in great anger. Before him there was a table which,
unlike the boards at the imperial banquets, had not been scooped out to
accommodate his majesty’s enormous corpulence. In his sudden movement
the abdominal prominence of the king lifted the table off its legs and
it fell with a crash. The mishap naturally aggravated the temper of
the king, who quickly regained his own apartments, and in the evening
left the capital of Austria, after having strenuously recommended his
plenipotentiaries systematically to reject every demand on the part of
the nobles. As for his son Wilhelm, he remained much more concerned
with the handsome eyes of the Grande-Duchesse d’Oldenbourg than with
the questions of the Congress.
This overbearing character the King of Würtemberg showed just as much
in his relations with his family as in the exercise of his royal power.
There was an instance of it when he forced his son into a marriage
against his will. He acted in a similar manner with regard to his
daughter when he made her marry Jérôme, King of Westphalia, the brother
of Napoleon. No sooner had the latter fallen than Frederick wished
the marriage to be dissolved. Attached by a sincere affection to her
husband, and at any rate to her child, the Queen of Westphalia opposed
a stubborn refusal to her father’s demands. ‘United by bonds due to
politics,’ she wrote to him, ‘I am not going to recount the happiness
of seven years; but if he had been the worst of husbands, you, my
dear father, by consulting the real principles of honour, could only
command me not to leave him now that misfortune has overtaken him, and
considering that this misfortune is not of his own making. My first
idea, my first impulse, was to go and fling myself into your arms,
but accompanied by him, the father of my child. Where, in fact, would
be my tranquillity if I did not share it now with him to whom are
due more than ever all my powers of consolation?’ In another letter,
she expressed herself as follows: ‘Though I married for political
reasons, it seemed ordained that I should become the happiest woman in
existence. I bear my husband three feelings combined, love, tenderness,
and esteem. A time will come, I trust, when you will be convinced of
having judged him wrongly; and when that time arrives you shall find in
him and in me the most respectful and affectionate children.’ Such a
noble resistance ended by disarming the father, whose children had both
been forced by him into unions which were in the end to prove happy in
the case of his daughter, the reverse in the case of his son.
This departure of the King of Würtemberg put an end to all the hopes
of the German noblesse. A few days afterwards, the deputies, tired of
being deluded with promises that had no prospect of realisation, did
not wait until they were positively bowed out, but left the Austrian
capital of their own accord. As a matter of course, the epigrams which
generally accompany failure were not spared to them; their going was
attributed to their exhausted finances, and the next morning they were
forgotten.
People were merely talking about a new entertainment, namely, a
sleighing party. The snow, which lay thick, and the sharp frost, which
seemed to have set in for good during the last few days, favoured that
kind of amusement, borrowed from the stern climate of St. Petersburg
and Moscow. The Austrian Court made immense preparations, and the
magnificence to be displayed was to rival that of the imperial
_carrousel_.
[Illustration: ROBERT LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH, MARQUESS OF
LONDONDERRY.]
Pending those preparations, the fêtes and amusements announced for
the month of January suffered no interruption. The fêtes which, on
account of the serious turns of the discussions, were to languish,
seemed, on the contrary, to be more brilliant than ever. At that
period Lord Castlereagh gave a great gala-ball. At Vienna, all the
entertainments bore their particular stamp. Generally the private balls
given by the illustrious diplomatic personages, though apparently
modelled on the same pattern, were dissimilar in their general
physiognomy or in their minute details. One might have called Lord
Castlereagh’s a ‘vanity ball,’ for if on the one hand it was very
sumptuous, on the other it was serious, like pride itself, and cold,
like overweening pretension. Yes, one really felt inclined to say that
the pride and the pretension which Lady Castlereagh had displayed in
attaching to her brow the Garter of her husband had followed her into
the gilded and brilliant halls of her residence, redolent with the
scent of many flowers. The sumptuousness of the supper failed to thaw
the iciness of the affair. As for the host, according to his habit
amidst all those animated fêtes where everything was given over to
pleasure, he seemed pre-occupied and smitten with care. Even when his
lordship danced, he seemed to be bent upon giving his serious thoughts
the slip by the accelerated movement of his legs, disporting himself in
an Irish jig or a Scotch reel. Did Lord Castlereagh really endeavour
to get away from the disappointments of an insidious and miscarried
policy? Did he already ponder the last scene of the political drama of
his life, when the stoicism of Cato, added to the sombre results of
his spleen, made him escape by suicide from tardy and by then useless
regrets? History has as yet not given the key to that enigma.