My Beloved Belgium; my Family and Myself; Myself--as I Know Myself
If in an official procession the principal personage comes last, then
Belgium should come last in my pages, for it is about myself that I must
begin.
I decide to do so not without apprehension, for I remember
the descriptions of themselves which celebrated writers of
autobiography--Saint Simon, for instance--have given at the commencement
of their memoirs.
Far be it from me to wish to paint myself in glowing colours. That would
be a pretension from which the great writers who possessed the talent
necessary to describe themselves preserve me. I only hope, if possible,
to describe myself as I believe myself to be.
I often examine my heart. The older I grow the stronger this tendency
to self-analysis becomes. Formerly I used to like to know my
fellow-creatures; now I have discovered that one should always know
oneself before attempting to decipher other human enigmas.
The ancient precept of Delphes, which the King my father used to
quote, comes back to my memory, but I will not give it here. I do not
understand modern Greek, unlike Queen Sophie, that charming woman,
who was so misguided as to learn it; she lost her throne, so they say,
through trying to outwit the subtlety of Ulysses!
My predominant quality is a horror of all that is insincere, inaccurate,
formal and commonplace. My taste for simplicity in thought and actions
branded me long ago as a revolutionary in the eyes of my family. This
was when I rebelled in Vienna against the routine and what they called
the _esprit_ of the Court.
My passion for sincerity has brought me unity of thought. I am a woman
faithful to one vow which my heart admits freely.
I have known and loved few individuals well enough to allow myself to
approach them and know them thoroughly, but when once my confidence and
liking have been given and found to be justified, I have become deeply
attached to those on whom they were bestowed.
Many people would have liked to have seen me deprived of happiness, but
I possess at least this one jewel--faithfulness, and I have known the
sweetness thereof; not only the banal and material fidelity--always more
or less a passing phase as one generally understands it--but the pure
and noble fidelity which accompanies a vigilant and chivalrous mind; the
ideal of noble hearts, which is revolted by injustice and attracted
by misfortune. Diverse fidelities, although sisters, are marvellous
treasures in which one must be rich oneself to be enabled further to
enrich the future with precious gifts.
Firm in upholding my rights, and true to my convictions when I believe
them to be in accordance with honour and truth--which spring from a
divine essence--and are not inspired by hypocritical conventions, I am
afraid of nothing, and nothing can convince me against my will.
I have inherited these traits from my father and my mother; from my
mother I get the spiritual side, and from my father I get the material
side of my character. It is useless, therefore, to believe that I should
ever act against the dictates of my conscience.
If I am compelled to give way for a moment, I do so as one would yield
at the point of the bayonet.
Wickedness and compulsion do not create equity, they only create its
reservations, and redress to justice is from God alone and not from man.
This strength of resistance against evil and contempt of etiquette are,
so to speak, the salient characteristics of my life.
But in spite of my decided opinions I show marked nervousness in the
presence of strangers. When they are introduced to me I can hardly speak
to them, even though their personality appeals to me.
My beloved compatriots in Brussels, the friends who are always present
in my thoughts, used to say, "Princess Louise is proud!" What a mistake!
On the contrary, I should have much liked to respond to the affection
they offered me, and to have entered those Belgian homes that I knew
to be so hospitable. Ah! what happiness not to have been born a king's
daughter! One could then speak freely to fellow-creatures who merited
sympathy; but a princess cannot do as she pleases.
With my entourage I am sometimes as open and expansive as I am
silent and reserved with strangers. I mistrust fresh faces, and in
no circumstances do I ever indulge in gossip. I much prefer the
conversation of men who know something, to that of women who know
nothing.
I detest all that is unnatural in conversation; affectation is
insupportable to me. Idle remarks which annoy me easily suggest some
repartee or sarcastic comment such as the King knew so well how to use,
which always touched to the quick the person to whom it was addressed.
But the influence of the Queen's memory sometimes restrains me and keeps
me silent out of Christian charity.
Immovable in the convictions of my conscience and outwardly reserved, I
am, nevertheless, a woman of contradictions. When I am forced to act I
invariably rush to extremes. Soul extremes always result from contrasts,
just as the thunder of heaven results from the meeting of two storm
clouds. In me the storm is suppressed. I surprise people more than
anything else by my customary attitude of not being able to foresee the
decision which carries me away.
I do not regard existence from the ordinary standpoint; I regard it from
a much higher one. This is not due to any feeling of pride. I am carried
away by something within me past certain barriers and certain frontiers;
I live in a world of my own in which I can take refuge.
Many, many times during the implacable persecution which I have endured
for so long, I have stood in front of a mirror and tried to read the
soul within my eyes. I was a prisoner; I was "mad" for reasons of State.
I asked myself in cold blood, was I not really becoming mad--was I still
mistress of my reason?
"Yes," replied an inner voice, "you are mistress of your reason so long
as you are mistress of yourself, and you are mistress of yourself so
long as you remain faithful to your ideal of honour."
I will speak of this ideal later. Honest women will understand. But my
nature did not find in the conjugal abode the good, the pure and the
true, which it had dreamed of, hoped for, and desired. As the years
passed the atmosphere of my home changed, the growing children became
less of a safeguard. Help came in a day of chaos under an aspect which
the world condemns. Nothing stopped me then, and, henceforth, nothing
shall separate me from my ideal. I have done away with the gilded
splendour which to me is shameful. I live now with that which speaks to
me in a language I can understand, something which is morally beautiful.
This act of my inner self is now realized. I have not repented. I never
shall.
Dramas, plots, intrigues, treason follow each other--I struggle against
them without triumphing. It is the work of my outward self. I may appear
to fail, but my inner self turns away disgusted from the mud.
I was not made to conquer in the fray of human conflicts in a sphere
which is, perhaps, that of creatures predestined to show that the real
condition of man is not here below. The society that he extols, the
civilization that he admires, are but the poor and fragile conceptions
of his illusion of earthly sovereignty, and they will only bring
misfortune to him if he lives for them alone.
God was always present in my thoughts even when I believed myself
forgotten by man.
I have had, like every creature who has been crushed by false witness,
my hours of doubt and despair. The grievance against me at the Coburg
Palace and in Vienna was that I would not conform to the outward
practice of religion after I had seen all its double-facedness and mock
devotion. I often refused to go to the chapel and accept as fitting the
outward piety which to me was sacrilege. I went to seek God and the Holy
Virgin in some solitary and humble church far from the Hofburg and my
palace.
I have also known the time when at the bidding of my rebellious soul
I turned from heaven. Suffering, experience and meditation have led me
back to the Divine Master whose love was taught me by my beloved mother.
I believe I shall reach His presence by a road which resembles Calvary.
It is an uphill road, but He raises me; and so rugged is it, that at
every turning I forget the world a little more and I stretch out my arms
towards the love and justice of God.
* * * * *
They have said that I was beautiful. I inherit from my father my upright
figure, and I have also something of his features and his expression.
I inherit from my mother a certain capacity for dreaming, which enables
me to take refuge in myself, and when a conversation does not interest
me, or if anyone or anything troubles me, I instantly seek sanctuary in
the secret chamber of my soul.
But my eyes betray me, and the effort I make to return to everyday life
gives me the expression of a fugitive--this is a great peculiarity of
mine.
The colour of my eyes is a clear brown, which reflects those of the
Queen and the King, but more particularly those of the King. Like him,
I am able to change my voice from softness to a certain hard brilliance.
The golden ears of corn are not more golden than was once my golden
hair; to-day it is silver.
I speak like the King, but somewhat slower than he did, in the two
languages I chiefly employ--which are equally familiar to me--French and
German.
Like him I think in French or German, but when I write, I prefer to do
so in French.
So enamoured am I of simplicity and truth in relation to every condition
of life, that I think a woman, wherever she may be, should always keep
her position as a woman. Of course there must be degrees in everything,
and the differences among men are the outcome of their education and the
rules of social life.
Although I am utterly indifferent to false courtesy and hollow praise,
and the methods of the crafty and the claims of intriguers, I respect
merit, and when it is recognized and rewarded I esteem the honour which
is accorded to it.
Let us not look for outside honours but let us respect our own personal
honour. I do not forget, I have never forgotten, even in my worst hours
of misfortune, what I owe to my birth, to my dear departed ones and to
the ideas which were born in me.
I love Art, and, like the Queen, I have a preference for music. I also
inherit her love of horses. Sport seems to me a secondary thing in
comparison with the interest of horsemanship in all its varieties.
In Paris I was always to be seen in the Bois; in Vienna I was an
_habituée_ of the Prater. I still take great pleasure in picking out
carriages that are carriages and horsemen who are horsemen; they are
both rarer than one thinks.
I am a great reader and I make notes of my impressions. I read with
pleasure all the newspapers worth reading, and all the reviews that make
me think.
Politics never bore me, but to-day they astonish me and rend my heart;
the frightful upheaval in Europe, the universal trouble, fill me with
concern for the future.
Hostile to any excess of monarchical power which incites its favourites
to depravity, I think, nevertheless, that democrats will find it
difficult to conduct matters and govern to the betterment of general
interests. The etiquette of Power, the name of President, Consul,
Emperor or King signifies but one thing, and besides this the principle
of authority is always regulated by the influence of Woman.
This influence, supreme in the history of the world, is only paramount
in democracies when it exercises itself in secret, and it is generally
unlucky. In monarchies it is beneficial to the development of
aristocracy, except in the classic case of a drunken or perverse
favourite who by taking sensual possession of the prince also takes
possession of his authority.
In some instances it is not wise to lead men to good fortune. Those
of our epoch seem to be very far from attaining it through hatred,
ignorance and confusion, which the ruin of ancient Europe can only
aggravate.
With regard to books, I re-read more than I read. But I am attracted by
anything new which I hear spoken about--in which, by the way, I am so
often disappointed. I have read books on the war; I commiserate with the
men who cut each others throats--but I wish they would cease writing on
this barbarous subject.
Goethe is my favourite author; he is the friend and companion whom I
love at all times. I am familiar with the great French authors, but none
of them, in my opinion, attains the mental serenity of Goethe or gives
me so much repose of mind.
I have a penchant for the works of Chateaubriand which dates from my
youth. The character of René will always appeal to the hearts of women.
With regard to modern books.... But in speaking of literary men and
artists it is always necessary to exclude those who are living, so
I will say nothing about modern authors. I will only say that of all
theatrical plays (Shakespeare, like God in Heaven, alone excepted)
the French repertory, in my opinion, is the most varied and the most
interesting, and through the facilities which I have had of hearing
plays in the principal European languages, I think I am able to judge.
I am speaking now of the dramatic theatre. The works and the
representations of the lyric theatre appear generally more remarkable,
and the companies are more conscientious in Germany and Austria and even
in Italy, than in France.
Outside Paris and Monte Carlo it is difficult to find, even in the
most charming countries, what all unimportant German towns possess--a
comfortable theatre, good music, good singers.
How strange are different temperaments: this one is more musical, that
one is more learned, this one is more philosophical, that one is more
imaginative; it seems as though Providence, in creating diversities
in races and characters, had wished to instil into men's hearts the
necessity of amalgamating their different talents, in order to be happy
in this world. But Providence, whilst endowing men with genius, has
neglected to make them less foolish and less wicked.