Some Original Types at the Congress--M. Aïdé--A Witticism of
the Prince de Ligne--Mme. Pratazoff--Mr. Foneron--The
Old Jew--His Noblesse and his Moral Code--Mr. Raily--His
Dinners and his Companions--The Two Dukes--The End of a
Gambler--The Sovereigns’ Incognito--Mr. O’Bearn--Ball
at the Apollo--Zibin and the King of Prussia--Charles de
Rechberg and the King of Bavaria--The Minuet--The King of
Denmark--Story of the Bombardment of Copenhagen--The German
Lesson.
This unique scene of the Congress seemed a composition of thousands of
pictures forming a general view. Each separate actor was a complete
novel, and the lives of most of them would have offered material for
long poems. As may be easily imagined, extraordinary personalities were
not wanting in this motley gathering; their presence did not constitute
the least conspicuous singularity.
Among the types not easily forgotten by the visitors to Vienna
in 1814-15 stood first and foremost M. Aïdé. He was one of those
cosmopolitans who make up for the lack of genuine credentials and
ascertained pedigree by an overweening amount of assurance. His career
was a problem and his fortune an enigma. Born at Smyrna, he came to
Vienna years before the Congress and while very young. His Eastern
costume and the title of Prince du Liban, which he flourished somewhat
ostentatiously about then, attracted some notice. At the time of the
Congress he had become more modest; he had discarded both the Mussulman
dress and the princely title. He was to be met with everywhere; no
drawing-room or reception seemed complete without him. Very amiable and
obliging, he apparently belonged to no camp or party, though perfectly
at home in every one. It was, nevertheless, noticed that he was a
guest at Lord Castlereagh’s more frequently than elsewhere, and it was
tacitly admitted that his lordship favoured him for the sake of his
private secretary, between whom and M. Aïdé there had formerly existed
some commercial relations at Smyrna.
The particular mania of M. Aïdé was to obtain presentations to any and
every one. The moment a new drawing-room was opened, M. Aïdé’s fixed
idea was to find an introducer to facilitate his admission to it. He
often addressed himself to that effect to people with whom he could
scarcely claim acquaintance; and it was exceedingly difficult to shake
him off. The Prince de Ligne, whose kindness he had often laid under
contribution in this way, finally got tired of the thing, and one
day, when badgered as usual, he introduced the obstinate Greek in the
following words: ‘I present to you a man very much presented and very
little presentable.’
The excellent prince often said that he was sorry for what he had done,
for the sentence was repeated, and drew still greater attraction to M.
Aïdé without curing him of his mania. Some years afterwards, while he
was travelling in England, the elegant manners he had acquired in his
constant intercourse with good society captivated, during his stay at
Cheltenham, a young and exceedingly rich girl, whom he married. The
uncertainty of his existence seemed, as it were, at an end, when he got
involved in a quarrel with the young Marquis of B---- at a ball at Mr.
Hope’s. The cause, it was said, was most trifling--an introduction. A
duel was the result, and M. Aïdé was killed on the spot.
A not less curious individuality, notably for the memories she
recalled, was the old Comtesse Pratazoff, the favourite of Catherine
II., near whom she had occupied a most intimate if not most important
position. In Vienna she was accounted a celebrity. I was indebted
for a glimpse of that relic of the past to the Prince de Ligne. ‘Our
acquaintance dates from very long ago,’ he said, while taking me to
her temporary residence one day. ‘She also belonged to the company
during that famous Crimean journey, not because she had any particular
functions, but because the empress had got so used to talk to her,
especially in the morning and in the evening, as to be unable to
dispense with her. Royal favour often springs from nothing more than a
mere habit on the part of the sovereign of seeing a certain person near
him. In the Comtesse Pratazoff’s case it was, however, something more
than that.’
Catherine the Great’s intimate friend had taken up her quarters at the
inn. On entering the room I saw, seated on a couch, a voluminous mass
filling the whole of its space. To judge from the quantity of jewels
she wore, she might have passed muster as an Indian idol. From the top
of her head to her waist, she was literally covered with necklets,
diadems, bracelets, pendants, brooches, earrings, etc. This jeweller’s
shop seemed to me about seventy.
On our entering the apartment, she made an attempt to rise, but fell
back into her original position, trying, not, however, without great
difficulty, to find room for the prince on the sofa beside her. Having
become aware of my presence, she welcomed me with some of those
ultra-polished, not to say finical, phrases the whole vocabulary of
which was a very open book to the educated Russians of her time. Then
the conversation drifted on to the halcyon days of the fêtes of the
Hermitage. The past was dignified and the present vilified. The most
curious feature of this hour’s visit was the prince’s seeming oblivion
of the thirty years that had passed since that journey to the Crimea,
and his persistent effort to treat this enormous dowager as a young and
skittish thing, calling her ‘my dear’ and ‘my little girl’; and her
absolutely serious acceptance of this kind of flirting by mincing and
mouthing in a most ridiculous, though to her evidently natural, manner.
When we left her, I promptly repaired home to inscribe on my notes the
portrait of that puppet who had come to show Europe in Vienna the sight
of her decrepit old person, her ancient jewels, and her superannuated
pretensions.
Another ‘character’ was an Englishman named Foneron. He had been for a
long time a banker at Leghorn, and had amassed a great fortune there,
after which he migrated to Austria. As humpbacked as Æsop, as careful
as the Phrygian, and nevertheless endowed with a sensitive heart, he
had strenuously calculated the discomforts of a union with a fair one
of any thing like Circassian stature. With admirable foresight, he had
looked for and found a young girl with a most charming face, but more
deformed than he. He offered his hand, which was accepted, for the girl
was poor. The marriage took place secretly, but there were still too
many witnesses, for never assuredly was there a more strangely assorted
marriage. A host with an excellent wine-cellar and an almost matchless
cook is sure to meet with indulgence from every one. Mr. Foneron had
both, and in spite of the far from good-natured remarks about himself
and his wife, made a point during the Congress of giving the most
exquisite dinners. Few strangers admitted to his sumptuous board have
forgotten the Friday’s fare, and the classic beefsteaks forming part
of it. They might have called Mr. Foneron the cook of the Congress.
Amidst that crowd of pretenders and petitioners, he asked for nothing,
claimed neither indemnity nor titles, nor orders. His titles and orders
were his dinners. His sole ambition might have been to preside at the
Beefsteak Club of London.
At one of those receptions I met M. Ank----, a Jew by birth, who did
not belie the instinct of his race for gold. He had a great quantity
of it, he was literally bursting with it; but his reputation for
avarice at least equalled his reputation for wealth. He took it into
his head to invite me to breakfast. Curious to verify the proverb to
the effect that there is nothing more lavish than a miser, I accepted
the invitation. Both the size and the tidiness of the whole of his
apartment produced as it were a cold shiver. There was scarcely any
fire, few carpets, and some hard-worn furniture. As a kind of penance,
no doubt, for the many glorious banquets I had partaken of during the
preceding months, he offered me a little dubious black liquid which he
called chocolate. When I had courageously swallowed the Lacedemonian
broth, he took to showing me his artistic treasures. M. Ank---- was a
numismatist; he had one of the richest and most complete collections
of medals in Vienna, rivalling that most celebrated one of the Comte
Vitzay. After this he showed me some rather good pictures and then
a heap of bric-à-brac, collected less for the love of art than from
the wish for gain, for he put a madly exaggerated price on all that
old rubbish. I had accepted the chocolate, I had drunk it, and I
swallowed the rest of the bitter cup. When he had shown me everything,
he drew from an iron chest a portfolio full of drafts to order, bills
of exchange, and bills at sight. They represented an immense amount
of money. ‘These are no family parchments,’ he said, ‘or emblazoned
scutcheons, but patents of nobility calculated to blanch the cheeks of
the world’s aristocracies, and patents of nobility which shall never
derogate. There are neither misalliances nor hereditary stains of gold
in that book. Gold, from the day it was first purified by fire, is the
only pure genealogy, the only one retaining its pride, the only one
whose brightness cannot be dimmed. Find me an aristocracy capable of
vying in multiplicity of quarterings and services rendered with that
one, and I’ll kneel down and worship.’
And he stroked the bills of exchange, and waved the flimsy bits of
paper in the air, to prove to me the enormous total of those patents of
nobility of his imagination. ‘With all this,’ he went on, ‘the world
is an immense Garden of Eden, where no fruit is forbidden. Whatever
the moralists of the school of Seneca may pretend, here you behold
the motive of all virtue, and also the motive of all pleasure. I hold
the whole of it in this hand without trouble, without confusion,
without remorse--the whole of it, from the most sumptuous palace, the
most exquisitely appointed carriages, the most exquisitely prepared
banquets, to the most divinely beautiful woman.’ Saying which, he
strained his ‘bill case’ to his heart with more fervour than the old
man hugs his purse in the ‘Scène du Déluge’ of Girodet.
‘I think I have heard enough, M. Ank----,’ I said; ‘you not only make
an end of all virtue, but you would justify crime. Why should not a
brigand adopt your plea after killing you, by saying that he also
wishes to judge whether the reality your gold would procure could not
weigh up against all your illusions?’
As may be imagined, I had had enough, and more than enough, of the man,
of his breakfast, of his code of morals, and of his bill-book, and I
bade him good-bye with the firm intention of never seeing him again.
Another Englishman who at that time contended with Mr. Foneron for
the honour of entertaining both strangers and his countrymen was Mr.
Raily. Thanks to his enormous expenditure, he was, according to some,
soon enabled to beat the exquisite comfort of the family dinners of
his rival. Not feeling particularly anxious to swell the number of
Mr. Raily’s guests, I had persistently neglected every opportunity of
procuring for myself invitations, of which Mr. Raily was not sparing.
‘I wish you to make his acquaintance,’ Griffiths said to me one day:
‘an observer must see everything and study everything. Mr. Raily, as
well as several other “characters,” will figure very well in your
recollections; at any rate, there will be the merit of variety.’
I let Griffiths have his way, only asking him a few questions on the
personage we were going to visit.
‘Mr. Raily,’ answered Griffiths, ‘seems to me one of those mysterious
and strange individuals, like the Comte de Saint Germain[98] and
Cagliostro, who appear to me to live upon everything except their
incomes. When you have seen him, I’ll give you a more detailed
biography. In all my journeys I have invariably met him living upon a
footing either implying the possession of great wealth or the clever
means of getting it. The first time I met him was at Lord Cornwallis’s
in India; since then I have seen him in Hamburg, in Sweden, in Moscow,
in Paris at the period of the Peace of Amiens, when he told me he
had just arrived from Spain. And now, he is here in Vienna, where
he outshines the most opulent. One is almost tempted to say that he
seeks to forget or to hide the origin of his wealth. His dinners are
much run after; his guests are of the highest rank, for he seems to
set particular store upon their quality and titles. A duke seated at
his board fills him with joy, an excellency produces merely a glowing
sensation of comfort; but a royal highness produces a kind of feeling
no mortal pen can describe. If etiquette permitted their majesties to
visit him, Mr. Raily would in a few days be bereft of his reason. You
shall judge of it for yourself, for I dare say he’ll invite us, if only
from sheer ostentation.’
Mr. Raily had taken up his temporary quarters in the magnificent
mansion of the Comte de Rosenberg. He welcomed us with the exaggerated
courtesy common to all those who are not affable either by instinct or
constant habit. He was very important about his house, the furniture,
his horses and carriages and the servants, which provided, as it were,
the conversational transition to the dinners, and became a bore to
the guests. He enumerated the highnesses and the celebrities that had
partaken of his hospitality, or were about to do so, and, as Griffiths
had foreseen, wound up by saying:
‘If you do not mind an invitation at such a short notice, gentlemen, I
shall be delighted if you’ll dine with me to-day with the hereditary
princes of Bavaria and Würtemberg, the Grand-Duke of Baden, Admiral Sir
Sidney Smith, several ambassadors and _chargés_ and other personages of
distinction whom you doubtless know.’
Feeling that the gathering would present a piquant picture, Griffiths
promptly accepted; and we left the happy master of the house
superintending the preparations for his _serenissimo_ banquet. At six
o’clock we were once more in the magnificent apartments, and dinner was
served shortly after. The table had been laid in a long gallery, at the
end of which there was a kind of English sideboard, _i.e._ a buffet in
tiers. The plate, both gold and silver, and the crystal on it attested
wealth rather than taste. The host, positively beaming, had the Prince
Royal of Bavaria on his right, and the Prince Royal of Würtemberg on
his left; the rest, highnesses, generals, ministers, etc., took their
seats according to their own sweet pleasure. A lucky chance placed me
next to Admiral Sidney Smith, and his interesting conversation, ranging
over a period of ever so many years, opportunely broke the monotony of
the banquet. For though it is difficult to imagine a more sumptuous
banquet than that, the hours went wearily, and, in spite of the
abundance and the delicacy of the dishes, the aroma of the wines, and
the profusion of everything, the guests seemed anxious to come to the
end of it all. No one tried to enliven the conversation, or to make
it general. The majority of the eminent personages whom curiosity or
the importunity of their host had gathered round the table seemed, as
it were, more or less embarrassed by their position. As for Mr. Raily
himself, he felt convinced that a repast graced almost exclusively by
princes, diplomatists, and grand seigneurs must necessarily be one of
the finest things the world had to offer. The coffee and ices were
served in one of the great drawing-rooms, and, according to a Russian
custom, which Mr. Raily had no doubt brought back with him from Moscow,
several tables were covered with jewels, precious objects, and trifles
from the many lands Mr. Raily had visited. As it happened, the display
caused the impression of a bazaar rather than that of a drawing-room
of good society. Nor did the music of a well-selected and numerous
band succeed in checking the _ennui_ and removing the constraint which
had manifestly fallen upon everybody. It was nine o’clock when we rose
from the table; at ten all these noble guests had left Mr. Raily’s.
In an adjoining drawing-room, the host had put up some whist tables,
which kept in countenance those most bored. A small group had gathered
round a tall, upright old man, with a pair of bright eyes and a skin
as dry as a chip. It was Mr. O’Bearn, who bore the reputation of being
the oldest, and was probably still the foremost, gambler in Europe.
He had made gaming the occupation of his life, his sole study; he had
lived by it, and was still living by it. He was fond of recounting
some of his gambling stories, and even his hopeless Irish accent could
not rob them of their charm. ‘For many years,’ he said, ‘the Duke of
H---- was anxious to pit himself against me. Personally, I was willing
enough to give him that little gratification. He chose piquet; we
began our game at nine in the evening, and the next morning when the
sun streamed through the windows I had gained more gold off his grace
than his father had ever gathered during his Governor-Generalship of
India. After the last hand, which was for an enormous stake, and which,
like the rest, he lost, the duke got up and said: “Mr. O’Bearn, I am
afraid the whole of my fortune will not be sufficient to pay you. I’ll
send you my steward, he’ll settle with you and hand you the titles to
my estates.” “Very well, sir,” I answered, “these are the words of an
honourable man. But do not for a moment imagine that I am going to
let you ruin yourself in that way. It shall not be said of me that I
reduced the bearer of one of our most historic names in the House of
Lords to beggary. On the other hand, as I do not wish to have wasted my
night, a thing I am not in the habit of doing, I’ll ask you to send for
a priest and for a solicitor. Before the priest you shall take an oath
never to touch another card in your life; the solicitor shall draw up
a settlement giving me a thousand pounds sterling annually for life.”
I need scarcely tell you,’ added the old gambler, ‘that my conditions
were accepted and strictly carried out. The Duke of H---- has never
touched a card since, and for nearly half a century I have been
enjoying my income.’
Then the veteran gamester told us another story, not less
characteristic. ‘Shortly before the Revolution, I came to Paris, and
as usual took up my quarters at the Hôtel d’Angleterre. The play was
very high there in those days. On the evening of my arrival, I went
to the drawing-room. The tables were set out, and I sat down to one
of them. Two gentlemen were playing piquet. The Duc de Gramont, who
was then the king of fashion, the type of everything that was elegant
and extravagant, took a seat opposite me. He looked very fixedly at
me, and then, intentionally or not, he said: “We hear a great deal of
Englishmen who risk enormous sums either at cards or betting. Here we
never catch sight of them.” I did not answer, and a few moments later
the game took an unexpected turn. “I’d bet on monsieur’s hands,” said
the duc, pointing to one of the players. “Very well,” I replied, “I’ll
take the other side for eight thousand pounds sterling.” “How much,
monsieur, did you say?” asked the duc. I repeated the sum in French
money, and the duc felt that he could not draw back. “I take the bet,”
he said. In another moment I was the winner: the duc rose and came
towards me, saying, “Milord----” “My name is Mr. O’Bearn,” I said; “I
have no title. What is your pleasure?” “I may not be able to discharge
this considerable sum at a moment’s notice.” “Pray do not mention
it, your grace, take your own time. But please to remember that when
I play, I always have the money handy in my valise.” A little while
afterwards, he paid me,’ Mr. O’Bearn went on, ‘and from that moment
he was perhaps a little less hasty in giving his opinions about the
English. As for me, it has always been a delightful recollection, this
deserved lesson to the Duc de Gramont.’
While Mr. O’Bearn was telling us his stories, the tables had gradually
become deserted, and now the small group of his listeners took their
leave on this or that pretext. We went away endeavouring to attract
no notice, asking ourselves how people could take so much trouble and
lavish so much money to arrive at a result absolutely _nil_. Each
member of this gathering had appeared to ask himself during and after
the dinner: ‘How and why am I here?’
‘Well, have you got the key to the puzzle?’ said Griffiths, as we were
leaving the house. ‘This man, whose opulence causes surprise even here,
where everything is pomp and splendour and extravagance--this man is
simply a gambler. We have still got in England some samples of those
characters of the bygone century. After Charles II. left to his people
the terrible gambling mania, to be a gamester became, as it were, an
avowable profession. You know all that has been said of the youth of
the Prince of Wales, of his passion for gambling, which for him had
such terrible consequences. The most deplorable effect of this passion
was to gather around his royal highness a set of people whose bow it
would have taken some courage to acknowledge outside the precincts of
Carlton House. It was sufficient to be a gambler, and what they called
a magnificent gambler, to have the doors of the royal residence thrown
open to you. These gentlemen, after the journeys they made annually
through England, much as the magistrates went on circuit each session,
as a rule took their flight thence for their European tours. They
brought back immense harvests. Mr. Raily and his guest, Mr. O’Bearn,
belong to the number.
‘Mr. Raily was born at Bath, that city enjoying the foremost reputation
among our celebrities of fashion. Having started life with small
means, he modelled himself upon a certain Mr. Nash, his predecessor in
that career. That personage, who was called Beau Nash, was for forty
years the arbiter of all that was elegant at Bath. His authority in
that respect was boundless, and his verdicts without appeal. They
finally gave him the sobriquet of ‘the King of Bath.’ In imitation
of his master, Mr. Raily posed as the prince of the drawing-rooms
and boudoirs. He, however, soon grew weary of more or less romantic
love-adventures, and began to cast about for something more profitable.
From his native city, he went to the capitals of the United Kingdom
and then to those of Europe. He exploited them very cleverly and very
luckily. At present, he has just returned from St. Petersburg. He
has brought back from it all the gold plate you saw, the profusion
of pearls and diamonds which convey the impression of his being a
jeweller, and in addition to all this, it is said, a credit of a
million of florins at the banker Arnstein’s. All this seems, indeed,
most fabulous. Let us trust that there will not be a verification
of the old proverb: “He who wants to make a fortune in a month is
generally hanged during the first week.”’
Mr. Raily had a somewhat longer shrift than that, because it was fully
three years before I met with him again, and then it was in Paris. But
all his wealth was gone, and all the brilliant illusions, if ever he
fostered any, were replaced by the most sombre reality. When he called
upon me, there was no longer the confidence resulting from well-filled
pockets, but the saddening humility of an empty stomach. I had scarcely
time to question him; he forestalled my queries by telling me that
everything was gone.
‘Furniture, plate, diamonds, your infernal “Salon des Étrangers”
has swallowed every bit of them,’ he said, and then he gave me a
description of the quickly following phases of the life of a gambler.
‘I have exhausted everything,’ he wound up; ‘look at that bracelet,
it is made of the hair of my wife; it would have gone the road of the
rest, if your pawnbrokers would have condescended to lend me a crown on
it.’
‘But, Mr. Raily, why did you not apply to all those celebrities you
entertained so right royally at Vienna?’
‘I have written to all; I have not had an answer from any.’
I offered him some pecuniary assistance, and a few years later I learnt
that this man whose lavishness had astonished Vienna itself at the
period of the Congress, and at whose board royalty had sat, had died of
starvation.
* * * * *
Since his gambling adventure I had often seen Z----ki. The disaster
and my attempts to minimise the consequences had undoubtedly drawn
us closer together. After a dinner at the ‘Empress of Austria,’ he
proposed to take me to a ball which had recently been established in a
newly-erected, magnificent building, called the Apollo Hall. In a few
moments we were on our way thither.
Everything projected at that period in Vienna bore the grand stamp
worthy of the time and of the guests intended to be honoured. In spite
of this, to convey anything like an accurate idea of the beauty of the
new establishment would require a writer capable of reproducing some of
the chapters of the _Arabian Nights_, which delighted our youth. The
Apollo Hall, the work of M. Moreau, the French architect, is, no doubt
one of the most curious constructions of the capital of Austria. The
interior, occupying an enormous space, contained sumptuous galleries
and halls like those of a palace, and was practically in keeping with
the noble and tasteful proportions of the outside. Emerging from these
galleries, one came gently upon the rustic arbours of a garden, and
from these upon a Turkish kiosk, and further on still upon a Lapland
hut. Gravelled walks, bordered by magnificent greensward planted with
roses and fragrant plants, lent throughout a most charming variety. In
the centre of the huge supper-room, there was an immense rock, whence,
from among flowers, there sprang a fall of natural water into basins
teeming with various kinds of fish. Every style of architecture had its
ordained part in this huge space, and everything calculated to please
the eye had been brought to bear upon the enhancing of these styles;
such as, for instance, the glint of innumerable candles on thousands
of different-coloured crystal sconces. Farther on, the whole became
chastened by alabaster lamps shedding their gentle light, and inviting
the more reposeful guests. And while without the snow covered the
earth, within spring seemed to have come once more, bringing the most
delightful scent of its earliest harbingers.
There was already a considerable crowd when we entered; it was said
there were between nine and ten thousand persons. I am bound to admit
that at no festive gathering during the Congress had I seen a more
brilliant, and at the same time a stranger throng; it was a truly
unique spectacle, a world in miniature. Gradually, every one seemed to
settle down in his wished-for place, and circulation grew more or less
easy. The first person whom I caught sight of was Zibin, promenading
with the King of Prussia. Zibin was treated in that familiar fashion by
his Majesty in virtue of his height. As he happened to be very short,
and his Majesty very tall, Zibin’s head came exactly under the king’s
arm. In spite of the discomfort of the position, my young courtier
seemed to be so thoroughly delighted with it as to have preferred it
to one on the most luxurious Eastern divan. Z----ki had left me for
some friends he had met immediately after he came in, and who were
evidently expecting him. I was looking out for some one to replace him,
when I ran up against General Tettenborn and the Prince Philippe de
Hesse-Hombourg. I always felt much at home with them. We went the round
of the whole place, and afterwards sat down at the entrance of the big
ball-room to watch at our ease the new arrivals, comprising nearly
all the sovereigns. The latter relished the liberty attached to their
_incognito_, and immeasurably preferred it to the ceremonious etiquette
of the Court entertainments of that description. In fact, in all those
public gatherings the monarchs dropped their reserve, and seemed
practically grateful to those who within certain limits would follow
their example.
The King of Bavaria was one of the last arrivals. He was accompanied by
his two sons, and his chamberlain, the Comte Charles de Rechberg, was
in attendance. The last caught a glimpse of us, and leaving his Majesty
for a moment, came towards us. But as his duties did not allow him to
keep away for long, he pressed us to sup with him when the king should
have retired. Naturally, he used every argument he could think of, and
finally gave us a peroration which was, however, cut short by some one
pinching his ear. ‘Come along, gadabout,’ said Maximilian Joseph, and
as a matter of course, on perceiving him, we rose. ‘Don’t, gentlemen,’
he said in his kindest voice; ‘but wherever I go I have to look after
him, while, unless I am mistaken, it’s his duty to look after me.’
Rechberg pleaded our unexpected meeting, and from the tone in which
the plea was allowed, it was not difficult to guess the affection
subsisting between these two men. Immediately after he had gone, Comte
de Witt appeared on the scene. ‘You can be our guide,’ he exclaimed on
seeing me. ‘You know all about the place, for you have been here at
least an hour.’ We wandered about, talking of his mother’s place in the
Ukraine, and finally landed into a kind of Chinese pagoda, where there
was a billiard table occupied by the King of Denmark and a chamberlain.
Ypsilanti hailed me as we came in, and the king on hearing my name
turned round and recognised me at once, although I had not seen him
since his accession to the throne. ‘Have you learned German since your
departure from Copenhagen?’ he asked me with a smile.
‘No, sire, but I have not forgotten the brief lesson you were good
enough to give me.’ The king then inquired with the greatest interest
after my family, questioning me as to their whereabouts, and showing by
each of his questions that the cultivation of a good memory is one of
the foremost requisites of an amiable ruler.
Frederick VI. was a pattern of amiability and frankness combined. He
was hail-fellow-well-met with the humblest without ever losing his
dignity, and his learning was manifold and solid. He took greater
trouble to please people than the most obtrusive courtier. Advancing
age had produced no change outwardly. He was then, as he always had
been, very slight, with a pale face, a very long nose, and hair
almost bordering on white, though in reality fair, which militated
against his appearance. It was, in fact, the same figure which some
years previously had aroused both my mirth and my fear. But while his
features reminded me of a painful circumstance of my life, they also
recalled a memorable episode, and an act of generosity and indulgence
on his part, both of which will sketch him better than a volume of
praise could do.
‘What did you mean by talking to the king about your first German
lesson?’ asked the Comte de Witt, when his Majesty had gone. ‘I am not
surprised at his recognising you as if he had left you a week ago; as
a rule, sovereigns have excellent memories, but what about that German
lesson?’
‘The king has just reminded me of a circumstance the story of which
would be somewhat long. Allow me to postpone the telling of it until
to-morrow.’
After this we went into the great ball-room, where, mingling with
the crowd, there were kings, generals, ordinary individuals of the
middle class, and statesmen, rubbing shoulders with working men,
flirting with little shop-girls, but all seemingly very happy, notably
the illustrious personages playing at Almavivas, and evidently more
flattered by the preference of some ingenuous Rosinas than by the
studied glances of admiration from the most expert Court beauties.
Zibin, who had succeeded in getting his head out of the royal hug of
his Majesty of Prussia, soon joined us, and I complimented him upon
the particular attention of which he had been the object. In order to
swell his pride, and give him the opportunity of having the delicate
juxtaposition renewed, I cited some of the recommendations of the
Prince de Ligne, our common master. ‘Be moderate in your praise. Kings
are no longer caught with words. The only thing to which they are not
absolutely proof is a peculiar kind of look of admiration. But that’s
all. The sort of praise so lavishly used by Lauzun would not seduce our
modern Louis XIV.’
In company with several ‘majesties’ we stood watching some of the
worthy knights of Vienna going through the traditional minuet. ‘Who
would believe,’ said Zibin, ‘that this dance saw the light in a
village? To watch its ponderous monotony no one would imagine that
in principle it was exceedingly bright and gay. Introduced to the
Court, its sprightliness has been changed into gravity, and now it is
sufficiently doleful to make people ill with melancholy.’
‘If that incomparable Prince de Ligne had not been taken away from us,
he would recall for us the minuets he danced at the Grand Trianon with
the charming Marquise de Coigny,’ said the Comte de Witt.
‘The Prince de Ligne himself voted the minuet a bit of _stupid_
gracefulness,’ replied Zibin.
‘His qualification dated from the period previous to his having danced
it himself,’ I remarked. ‘I am inclined to think, with you, that they
acquitted themselves somewhat better at it at the Court of France than
they do to-day in Vienna. But be assured that the old traditions of
stately dances are not lost beyond redemption.’
‘But where is one to look for the traditions?’ was the general cry
around me.
‘Well, if it will afford you any pleasure, I shall enable you to
judge’; saying which, I took a few steps to the young Princesse de
Hesse-Philippstadt, of whom I had just caught sight, accompanied by her
mother. ‘Princess,’ I said, walking up to her and holding out my hand,
‘will you do me the honour to convince these gentlemen that the Court
minuet is not altogether a lost art?’
The princess accepting, Zibin lent me his hat, and, mindful of the
lessons of Abraham, who had been her teacher as well as mine, we
went through the figures of that character-dance with a good deal of
precision. As for my charming partner, the suppleness and grace of her
steps might have tempted another Juan of Austria to come _incognito_
all the way from Brussels to see her perform them, as the original one
came all the way to the Louvre for Marguerite de Bourgogne. Our critics
were not sparing in their praise, and were obliged to acknowledge that
the much-abused minuet was not as yet dethroned.
Meanwhile, the Comte de Rechberg, who was trying to find his
supper-guests, had no idea of my upholding in the centre of the
principal ball-room the prestige of classic dancing. When I had taken
the young princess back to her mother, he, so to speak, dragged us to
the supper-room. At the table next to us were the Prince Koslowski,
Alfred and Stanislas Potocki, some Russians from Emperor Alexander’s
suite, and a little further on, Nostiltz, Borel, Palfi, and the Prince
Esterhazy. There were many toasts and many clever sallies, wit sparkled
on the lips as champagne sparkled in the glasses.
The two princes of Bavaria supped with us. Chance had placed me near
the younger, Prince Charles, who, as a youth, had the most charming
face imaginable, although he evidently set little store on this
physiognomical advantage, and seemed rather inclined to place his trust
in the mental powers with which he was liberally endowed. Thanks to my
former stay at Munich, I was enabled to converse with him about men
and things interesting to both of us. I reminded him of that terrible
disaster of the Isar bridge being carried away by the stream, and in
which he himself under my very eyes had played so glorious a part.
Then we began talking about Vienna, its pleasures, and the charming
women gracing it at that moment, although I knew that there was a girl
of sixteen at Munich whose image could not be ousted from the young
prince’s heart.
The Prince Royal of Bavaria, the present king, was seated next to his
father’s chamberlain. Though he was less handsome and less brilliant
than his brother, his knowledge was very profound and varied, and he
also cultivated the Muses.[99]
With such auxiliaries, Rechberg found no difficulty in making his
supper-party very lively. Before breaking up, our company was
reinforced by the two tables next to us, and the fresh supply of liquor
being decidedly in proportion to the number of the recruits, the
retreat was not sounded until three in the morning.
Z----ki and I got separated from each other in the crowd. As I was
crossing the by no means deserted ball-room, I caught a glimpse of
him and of a companion, a tall, slight, and elegant woman. Their
conversation seemed most animated. I waved my hand to him from the
distance, wishing him all the compensations love is supposed to reserve
for unlucky gamblers.
In the morning, the Comte de Witt was true to his appointment. ‘You
promised to explain to me,’ he said, ‘the meaning of his Majesty
of Denmark’s words about your progress in the German language.’
‘You know,’ I replied, ‘that often a word, a movement, or a simple
inflection of a voice suddenly recalls scenes of our life which had
practically vanished from our memory. The past starts up vividly with
all its colours; the impressions that had gone to sleep awaken there
and then, and their power is such as to give a kind of voluptuous or
sensuous delight in retracing the most painful episodes and the most
cruel losses. Nay, the very tears caused by these seem sweet. That’s
what I felt yesterday.
‘During the course of the French Revolution, my father, or the one who
stood me in stead, had constantly refused to emigrate. Proscribed for
being guilty of (the wrong) patriotism and devotion, he only managed
to save his head from the guillotine by hiding in a friend’s house.
When the delirium of blood was over, he considered himself justified
in claiming his nationality, which he had never forsaken by abandoning
his country. But placed once more on the fatal lists of _émigrés_,
pursued by blind and relentless hatred, once more proscribed after 18th
Fructidor, he was obliged to fly in order to escape an equally horrible
death. We managed to get as far as Hamburg, where we experienced
all the privations attached to that kind of voluntary and hurriedly
projected exile. Invited by the Comte de Fersen to come to Sweden, we
left the Hanseatic city, and made our way on foot across the flats of
Holstein to Copenhagen. Our exceedingly restricted resources did not
admit of any other mode of travelling.
‘My “father,” at the period of his tenure of the portfolio of Foreign
Affairs, had been most intimate with the Comte de Lowendahl in
Paris, and he welcomed us with every mark of goodwill. In his former
diplomatic relations with Denmark my “father” had been enabled to make
himself particularly agreeable to that Court, and on the strength
of this he ventured to request from the prince royal some pecuniary
assistance, urgently needed in consequence of our precarious position.
The comte offered to present me to his royal highness and to second
our petition as far as lay in his power. On the day previous to the
promised audience, I was strolling by myself in the park of the royal
residence, Fredericksborg. At the bend of a path, I suddenly caught
sight of a young man dressed in light grey, skipping about rather than
walking, carrying an umbrella under one arm, the other being held by a
very pretty young woman. The face of the young man seemed so peculiar
to me that, my French levity and my schoolboy gaiety getting the better
of me, I stopped to contemplate him at my case, and immediately a
fit of uncontrollable laughter ringing out loud informed him of the
result of my examination. His angry look ought to have told me of his
resentment of this impertinent scrutiny on my part, but the angrier he
got the more ridiculous his face became to me, and my insolent laughter
did not cease until the couple were fairly out of sight.
‘Next morning, on the recommendation of the Comte de Lowendahl, I was
to have my audience at the palace. The guards let me pass, and in a
little while, crossing a series of resplendent galleries, I reached a
velvet curtain giving access to a drawing-room. A page-in-waiting led
me into the throne-room, adjoining the private audience-chamber of the
prince, and then, my petition in my hand, I waited to be admitted to
his royal highness’s presence. In a few moments the doors were thrown
open, and a chamberlain called out my name and beckoned me across the
threshold. All at once, at the end of the apartment, I beheld, standing
upright, the young man I had so grossly insulted the previous day.
There could be no mistake about it. It was the same face, the same
grey Court dress, but the embroidered star on his breast and his wide
blue sash left no doubt about his being the Prince Royal of Denmark.
I need not try to depict my feelings to you. Struck with terror, as
if I had stepped on a serpent, I recalled both my unseemly laughter
and the anger it had aroused. Standing stock-still, and undecided
whether I ought to advance or retreat, I was almost expecting immediate
punishment for my ill-timed levity of the previous day. I cannot say
how long I should have remained in this position, notwithstanding the
repeated signals of the chamberlain to draw closer to his highness.
Luckily, the young girl to whom the prince had given his arm the
previous day, and who was none other than his charming sister, the
Princesse d’Augustembourg, just then crossed the room on her way to the
inner apartments of her brother. More or less reassured by her angelic
face. I practically followed in her footsteps, trusting to make her, as
it were, a shield against a stern reprisal, which, in our condition,
would have absolutely filled the cup of our misfortunes.
‘Crimson with confusion and with drooping eyes, I tremblingly held out
the petition given to me by my “father.” The prince looked fixedly
at me and undoubtedly recognised me, but not a muscle of his face
testified as much. On the contrary, he attentively read the document,
then handing it to his sister he said, “One more victim of that French
Revolution.”
‘After that he asked for some particulars about our situation, and
equally kindly inquired about our resources and plans. Emboldened by
his kind tone, I told him all we had suffered since our departure from
France, our painful pilgrimage across Germany, our intention to get to
Sweden, and our hope of securing the goodwill of the Comte de Fersen in
my “father’s” behalf.
‘The princess had listened with the utmost attention to the recital
of our misfortunes. When I came to the description of the journey on
foot and to the enumeration of all our privations, the prince asked me,
“But, no doubt, you know German?” “Alas, no,” I was obliged to answer,
“and that’s what made our travels so terrible.” “Poor child,” said the
princess, “you are somewhat too young to have suffered so much, and
those dreary roads across our sandy plains must have seemed wellnigh
endless to you.”
‘There were tears in her voice as she asked me other questions about
my family, my education, and recollections of my country. The prince
himself had meanwhile written some words on my petition. “I’ll reply
to-morrow to your father,” he said, returning the document to me. “If
you will go from here to my ‘privy purse office,’ they’ll give you a
hundred golden Fredericks, which will enable you to proceed a little
more comfortably.” “And I, monsieur,” added the princess, “I wish you
every happiness; but should you fail to find some of it in Sweden,
return to Denmark for an asylum, and you will, at any rate, find rest.”
‘The prince called his chamberlain to intimate that the interview was
at an end, and told him to take me to his treasury. You may imagine
that this lesson of a prince thus avenging himself for the impertinence
of a stranger was not lost upon me. Young though I was, I promised
myself never to give way again to such exhibitions of offensive
hilarity, and I have kept my word.’
‘I can see the lesson in politeness,’ said the Comte de Witt, ‘but I
fail to see the lesson in German.’
‘I am coming to it. A few days later, my “father” booked our passage
for Stockholm, but contrary winds delayed our departure. In the night
of the 2nd April 1802, we were suddenly awakened by the noise of a
well-sustained bombardment. Naturally, we all got out of bed and
went on deck to make inquiries. The slowly-coming dawn confirmed our
uncertainty. The whole of the English fleet, under the command of
Admirals Parker and Nelson, and favoured by the wind and tide, had
defied the batteries of Kronenburg and forced the passage of the Sound,
an enterprise hitherto deemed impossible. The formidable squadron,
perfectly visible from the city which it could shatter to pieces, came
to summon Denmark to give up her fleet or to dissolve there and then
her treaty with Sweden and Russia.
‘Consternation became general among us; it only wanted a sign from the
English admiral to capture or to sink us. Nelson scorned such a cheap
victory, and during the _pourparlers_ sloops were sent to tug in the
merchant craft. A few moments later we were in port, and immediately
afterwards the naval engagement began. If the attack was headlong and
well-directed, the defence was not less heroic. Every inhabitant rushed
to arms to repulse the odious aggression; all ranks commingled; there
seemed no difference between noble and artisan, merchant and ordinary
burgher. They were full of zeal; their hats displayed the motto: “All
for one; one for all.” The royal prince showed the greatest courage
during this bloody struggle, a struggle so little expected by him. A
descendant in a direct line from the English sovereign, his capital and
fleet were suddenly threatened by the orders of his uncle without there
having been anything hostile to lead up to this catastrophe. As far as
the peace of states is concerned, there does not seem much to be gained
by family alliances and ties of blood.
‘It would have been dangerous not to take part in this enthusiastic
resistance, and the moment we had regained our inn I asked my “father”
to let me have my share of the fighting, to which proposal he offered
not the slightest objection. Armed with a sword which might well have
dated from the period of King Knut, which had been lent to me by our
hostess, I repaired to the jetty. It was from that point I beheld a
naval battle in port, the most horrible spectacle, I should say, the
imagination could conceive.
‘Never had Denmark been engaged in such a murderous struggle; never,
perhaps, had the Danes an occasion to display their national courage
more nobly. Ardent and indefatigable, to judge by the enthusiasm that
animated them, they might easily have been mistaken for a population of
heroes. As for me, standing stock-still at the far end of the jetty,
my long sword, which might well have served as a lance, balanced on
my shoulder, I felt that I was doing outpost duty. No one seemed
surprised. Younger lads than I contended for the honour of being
entrusted with such perilous positions.
‘The city was in flames; it rained shells everywhere. The Danish
war-sloops answered bravely to the fire of the English vessels.
Suddenly a shell struck the Danish craft _Indfoedstretten_, and blew it
up. A horrid, lurid light illuminated the sky, and immediately both the
sea and the shore were covered with human and different wreckage, the
blood of the former tinging the green waves. Had the explosion occurred
a few moments earlier we also should have been victims of it, for while
they were towing our Dutch vessel into port, we had been compelled to
go on board the _Indfoedstretten_ to have our passports examined.
‘Meanwhile, the fighting became more terrible and relentless, and
I, scarcely more than a lad, stood looking on, rooted to the spot
and spell-bound, when suddenly some one tapped me on the shoulder,
addressing me in German at the same time. I looked round and beheld the
prince royal, who, in the confusion of the moment, had got separated
from his suite. He still had his grey dress on. When he recognised me,
he addressed me in French. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I
am trying to acquit part of my debt, monseigneur,” I answered. “Very
well,” he retorted; “try to get this paper to Captain Albert Turach.
Look, follow my finger. He is standing there on the shore, ready to
take the command of a floating battery. Run as fast as you can, and
remember the word _Augenblicklich_.”
‘“How did you say it, prince?”’
‘“_Augenblicklich._ It signifies instanter. You’ll simply tell him the
word, and hand him my order.”’
‘I was already on the run. Turach received the order, and flung himself
into a skiff whose men were only waiting for a leader to push off.
When I came back to my former vantage-point, the prince royal was
gone. I noticed him on a floating battery, whence he contemplated the
action and animated by his presence and example the proud and generous
populace ready to give their lives under his eyes. To me personally,
the sight of this young and valiant prince was practically a second
expiation of my mocking laughter in the park of Fredericksborg.
‘I need not remind you of the results of that action; the Danes covered
themselves with glory, but the slaughter was terrible. More than six
thousand men perished in it. The city was burning in ever so many
places. Burghers, soldiers, students harnessed themselves to the pumps,
carried barrels of water, and unsuccessfully tried to extinguish the
flames. Finally, Nelson, to stop the bloodshed, and to prevent the
wholesale destruction of Copenhagen, sent a _parlementaire_ to the
prince royal.
‘The prince promptly sent his reply, and at once the sanguinary drama,
which had the port and the city as its _locale_, ceased. Nelson came on
shore, and repaired to the palace between two lines of an exasperated
populace. Calm and proud, he walked along as if he were still on his
own battleship. Following in his footsteps, I managed to elbow my
way through the crowd, and succeeded in getting inside the private
apartments. The prince royal took Nelson to his father, whose mental
state, however, prevented him from knowing and from appreciating the
disasters of the capital.
‘There was no alternative but to accept the conditions imposed by
England. The offensive and defensive treaty between Denmark, Sweden,
and Russia was rescinded. The prince royal showed himself as noble and
dignified during the conferences as he had shown himself courageous and
resourceful during the battle.
‘Since then Frederick has ascended the throne, and though, by the side
of the vast kingdoms that have sprung up, Denmark can scarcely claim to
be more than a magnificent, lordly domain, enhanced by a royal crown,
all these various events have not impaired the excellent prince’s
memory. You noticed for yourself how he remembered an apparently
frivolous circumstance, but one which remains indelible in my mind.’