Married
On the morrow of such a painful episode in the life of two newly married
people I witnessed with bitter grief the preparations for my departure
to Austria. Never was Belgium so dear to me; never had she appeared more
beautiful.
Concealing my tears, I said good-bye to all those who had known me as a
child and a young girl, and who had loved and served me, and to all the
familiar objects in the Château of Laeken, where everything appealed to
my affection. Little did I foresee that I should be looked upon one
day as a stranger there. What do I say--a stranger? No, as an "enemy,"
rather!
We departed, according to the expression sacred to custom, on our
honeymoon. But there are honeymoons and honeymoons.
I should have liked to have taken certain personal maids with me. I was
not allowed even to dream of such a thing. The Coburg Palace had its
own servants. It was explained to me that the introduction of a strange
element would break the domestic harmony of this high-toned abode. I had
therefore to content myself with a Hungarian maid, quite a proficient
person, but who was not like one of my own faithful servants.
And everything was the same. My tastes, my preferences only passed
muster after having been approved by a family council.
Unfortunately the austerity which prevailed in this family council
chamber did not reign in the palace at all hours and in all the rooms.
This I soon discovered.
But before arriving at the Coburg Palace we stayed at Gotha, where
Duke Ernest of Saxe-Coburg, the Prince Regent, and his wife, Princess
Alexandrine, gave their niece a warm welcome.
The duke was a true gentleman, one of the personalities of his time,
who became one of my favourite uncles. He spoke, with affection, of his
friend Count Bismarck, and then touched on less serious topics, as I was
curious to know about the people and things belonging to this Germany to
which I found myself so closely related by marriage.
I have already said that it was as natural for me to speak German as it
was for me to speak French, since it was the general rule to do so
at the Court of Brussels. Has not Belgium everything to gain by being
bi-lingual and by serving as an intermediary between the Latin and the
German countries? Less than Alsace and Luxembourg but nevertheless a
little like them, should she not benefit by the two diverse cultures?
On leaving Gotha we went to Dresden, thence to Prague, and finally to
Budapest and glowing Vienna.
Let us pass, however, from these princely visits and the sameness of
their receptions to more intimate things. The interest in speaking of
these consists in the necessity for me to lay bare my slandered life,
and to relate how, having fallen from heaven, I rose to a belief in
better things.
But years and years were destined to pass before my existence was again
embellished by a glimpse of the ideal, apart from the joys of maternity.
My first recollection of something amiss in my rôle of Princess of
Coburg is, that every evening at our formal banquets my husband took
care that I should be served abundantly with good wines. I ultimately
became capable of distinguishing a Volney from a Chambertin, a Voslaver
from a Villanyi, and one champagne from another.
The body thus trained to the practice of something more or less akin
to gluttony, the soul of necessity followed its example. I extended my
range of literature, and I became familiar with books which the Queen
and the Princess Clémentine would not have believed could have been
given me by the person by whom they were put into my hands.
In the days of my open rebellion people were scandalized by certain
liberties of speech and manner which I wilfully exaggerated. But who
first taught me them? And, once again, where should I have gone and what
would have become of me if God had not put in my way the incomparable
man who alone had the courage to say to me: "Madame, you are a King's
daughter. You are about to go astray. A Christian woman revenges herself
on infamy by rising above it and not by descending to its level."
And so, stunned and intoxicated in every way, I reviewed the family of
Coburg and their various palaces and castles. Finally I found the palace
in Vienna which was destined to be my principal residence.
I positively turned cold on entering it. The palace certainly looks
imposing from the outside, but the interior is most gloomy, especially
the staircase. I only like the _salon_ in "point de Beauvais" originally
intended for Marie Antoinette and her ladies-in-waiting.
My room made me shudder. What? Was this really the setting which had
been prepared to receive the freshness of my seventeen years! A student
of Bonn, where the prince had graduated, might have liked it, but a
girl, who had only recently become a young woman!... Impossible. Try,
then, to imagine a fairly large room, the walls fitted half-way up with
small cupboards of dark wood with glass doors, and blue curtains behind
which I never wished to look! Certain pieces of furniture were Gothic in
style. In the centre of this paradise stood an immense glass case full
of souvenirs of the prince's travels; stuffed birds with long beaks,
armour, bronzes, ivories, Buddhas and pagodas; my heart sickened at the
sight. And, worse than all, there was no private entrance or annexe,
only a narrow dark corridor, which was used by the servants. To get to
my room I had to pass through that of the prince, which was approached
through a kind of salon; all the rooms communicated and showed not a
vestige of taste. Massive old furniture upholstered in rep a century old
was offered to the eyes of youth! All was old, ordinary, sombre. Hardly
a flower, nothing comfortable, nothing matching. As to a bathroom, there
was not a sign of one. There were only two baths in the whole
palace; they were far away from each other, and of positively archaic
construction. And, as for the rest--it is better left unsaid!
My first active objection was to this anti-hygienic organization, and
the lack of necessities for my immediate use. This state of things
almost broke my heart. I was told, however, that the illustrious
grandparents were quite content with what had been given me.
One knows that use is a second nature. Princess Clémentine did not
notice the things which troubled me, and even the glass case with the
stuffed birds charmed her. She admired her son's collection, fortunately
without knowing or understanding all that it contained, as in our palace
of Budapest I saw some very unique pieces; souvenirs of Yoshivara which
a young woman could not look at without blushing, even after an expert
hand had lifted the veil from her inexperienced eyes.
What a school! However, thanks to the Bacchic régime organized by my
husband, things went on indifferently well after the storm of our début
in domesticity.
Our fundamental incompatibility first appeared at the Coburg Palace in
the presence of the Princess Clémentine, over a cup of café-au-lait.
On our honeymoon the prince had told me that a well-born person should
never drink black coffee. Such is the German conviction. Germany can no
more imagine coffee without milk than she can imagine the sun without
the moon. However, ever since I ceased to take nature's nourishment I
have never been able to drink milk, I have never drunk it, and I never
do. My husband took it into his head that he would make me drink
milk, especially in coffee, as, if he failed, the traditions, the
constitutions, and the foundations of all that was German would be
shattered.
The discussion took place before the Princess Clémentine, who always
drank milk in her coffee. But her affectionate kindness could not
overcome the stubbornness of my stomach. I could see that I was
offending her. Her son became furious to the extent of saying most
painful and unpleasant things, and I answered him in like manner. The
princess, although deaf, felt that something was the matter, and we
restrained ourselves on her account, but the blow had fallen; henceforth
we both had café-au-lait on the brain!
I relate little episodes like this because life is a mosaic of small
things which cement great desires or high sentiments, and which of
themselves express the daily necessities to which we are slaves. Human
existence is a tragedy or a comedy in two acts which take place in the
drawing-room and the bedroom. The rest is only accessory.
What a bungle nearly all people of exalted rank make in fulfilling the
obligations of appearing to live! We forget the words of Franklin: "Time
is the material of which life is made."
I reproach myself bitterly to-day for having led such an empty life,
for having lived such an existence of anguish of mind. I have not
sufficiently known the true life, which is that of the soul; if I
had realized this, with what distinguished personages I might have
associated, with what authors, scholars and artists have surrounded
myself!
But could I really have done so?
My highest desires were criticized, contradicted and repulsed.
The prince, my husband, from the standpoint of his superior age,
instructed me in everything.
People were afterwards astonished at my expenditure--at my numerous
gowns....
Oh, God! I nearly became mad through the force of this continual
restraint. One fine day I burst my bonds!
Oh! this palace of Coburg, this residence where the slightest frivolous
fancy, the smallest evidence of Parisian taste imported from Brussels,
provoked harsh words; this soupçon of a _décolletage_ which caused
jealousy; this desire to live a little for myself, without being
submissive to the rigorous routine of a barracks which aroused such
storms. Mon Dieu! when I think of all this--the stuffed birds, the
unhealthy books, the dirty jokes, and the daily miseries of my life--I
am at a loss to know how I endured it. I ask myself how I could have
resisted so long? It was worse in the long run than being shut up in the
madhouse. The crime is sometimes less horrible than the criminal. There
are moral deformities which constitute an offence at every turn, and
in the end one becomes exasperated with them. I do not know to what
extremes I should have gone if this life had continued. I have always
looked upon the strength which permitted me, at the age of twenty, to
break away from my princely cage as a direct help from Heaven. Even had
I been able to foresee to what excess hatred and fury would reach, I
would still have broken away. A palace can become a hell, and the worst
hell is that where one suffocates behind gilded windows. Titles count
for nothing--a bad household is a bad household. Two people are united,
the same chain holds them irrevocably together. Certain couples manage
to get on, others cannot. It is a question of temper and conditions.
Neither the prince nor I could accustom ourselves to the differences
which separated us. This permanent conflict, which was at first latent
and which afterwards became open war, daily widened the abyss between us
into which so much finally disappeared.
But amidst all this bitterness my days had their golden hours.
Everything was not disagreeable. Storms sometimes have a ray of
sunshine. But those I experienced were of the most devastating nature!
I have said that I respected Princess Clémentine and that I was
attracted to her, but her deafness, which sadly aggravated her natural
dignity, and her spirit of another age which made her always appear to
be living in state and etiquette, often repulsed my natural outbursts
of affection. Every time when the prince and I arrived at irreparable
differences, and my mother-in-law, because of her great age, submitted
to the influence of her son, I still could not help feeling towards her
the same sentiment of gratitude which I had for her former kindness and
her superiority of mind.
[Illustration: PRINCE PHILIP OF SAXE-COBURG]
Besides my husband, Princess Clémentine had two sons and two daughters.
One of her sons, Auguste of Saxe-Coburg, was to me what Rudolph of
Habsburg would have been, a brother-in-law who was a brother. Until his
death, which took place, if I remember rightly, in 1908 at Paris, where,
under the name of Count Helpa, he lived a life of pleasure and mixed in
the best society, he retained the same affection for me that I had for
him.
The three other Coburgs, Philip, Auguste and Ferdinand, did not resemble
one another either physically or morally. Auguste was like the Orleans
family. In him the blood of France triumphed over the blood of Germany.
In the veins of Ferdinand, who became the adventurous Tsar of Bulgaria,
I do not know what blood flowed. Let us pass on quickly. I shall have
occasion to return to him and his throne of surprises when I speak of
the Court of Sofia.
Of the two daughters, Clotilde and Amélie, the latter lives always in my
memory. A gentle victim of love for an excellent husband, she died after
losing him. United to Maximilian of Bavaria, the cousin of Louis II,
Amélie was a lily of France that strayed into Germany. She had the
good luck to meet a being worthy of herself in the patriarchal Court of
Munich, which Prussian folly has rendered so unhappy. They loved each
other and they lived for love, concealing their happiness as much as
possible. Maximilian died suddenly--thrown from his horse whilst riding.
Amélie was inconsolable and did not long survive him.
The idea never struck her brother Philip, her brother Ferdinand, or
above all her sister Clotilde, that one could die--or live--for love!
Our double connexion with the house of France brought me a happy
diversion from my troubles at the Coburg Palace, as well as in the
country, in the shape of visits of members of the Royal family whom I
had more or less known in my youth. The springtime of my life was full
of their marks of affection.
I have seen the birth of the hopes of my niece Dorothée, the daughter of
the Archduchess Clotilde, my sister-in-law, when she became engaged to
Duke Philip of Orleans.
I confess I had no faith in the future, being sceptical as to Royalist
France, and doubtless it was an effect of the general surroundings, but
I fancied that the gold lilies embroidered on the robe of the beautiful
bride would have vanished from her train long before she reached the
Elysée, the Tuileries or the Louvre. I could not, however, see without
emotion the closed crown which adorned the "queen" on the day of her
wedding.
Ah! this dream of a crown; how many heads it turns, or rather how many
heads it has turned! For now one is obliged to reflect on things in
general, and although I am a stranger to French politics I owe as
much recognition as consideration to the Republic, where I have found,
together with the security of just laws, the respect due to misfortune,
and the courtesy which Republicans know how to extend, even to
princesses. Still I cannot help following the career of the "King, in
anticipation"--my nephew the Prince of Orleans, with some degree of
curiosity.
For him everything happens on the banks of the Seine, the Garonne, the
Rhone, and the other watercourses of the most beautiful country on the
face of the earth; but the worst that I wish Philip of Orleans is that
he should never have to exchange his yachting cap, which becomes him so
well, for the crown of Saint Louis. He is certainly handicapped in life.
More than ever to-day when it is advisable for a king to have a queen.
But fate has willed that the great marriage of Philip of Orleans and
Marie Dorothée of Habsburg, which was one of the joys of the Coburg
Palace, and the occasion of the most gorgeous receptions, should turn
out contrary to what it promised.
On one occasion I counted the Royal or princely houses wherein the wind
of discontent already whispered. I arrived at a startling total. Taking
it all round in every kind of society, the average number of happily
married people is not very high. But the nearer one gets to the people,
and to their good sense and work, the better does family life become,
because they tolerate each other's failings much more wisely and agree
to help each other, until they finish by knowing a kind of happiness,
which is only achieved by the knowledge of common imperfections.
My life at Coburg would have been still more painful if from time to
time it had not been varied by changes of residence and travel.
In order not to digress from the family circle, I will only say a few
words about three towns where I had relations, and where I stayed with
them, or near them, as Princess of Coburg--Cannes, Bologna and Budapest.
First, I will mention Budapest, which was one of the most attractive
cities of the world, and will be again when the reign of Bolshevism is
over. In the old Buda the ancient East has left its traces; in Pest,
the modernity of the West has become apparent. I knew something of it in
1918.
I loved Budapest, and I preferred the small Coburg Palace in the
Hungarian capital and its charming receptions to our home and our
entertainments in the capital of Austria. The atmosphere was
different from that of Vienna, and I was pleased to find myself in the
neighbourhood of the good Archduke Joseph, my mother's brother, who
was so warm-hearted and so dear to me. His palace was at Buda, and
his château was some hours' distance from the town. They had no
disadvantages except as dwellings of my aunt and my sister-in-law
Princess Clotilde, who were very different from the affectionate and
sincere Amélie.
The archduke was a kind man who did not misjudge or censure my
extravagant fancies.
In the first year of our marriage my husband and I spent the anniversary
of my birthday, February 18, with the archduke at Alauth. There had
been a heavy fall of snow the day before, and I said, "I do not want any
presents, but please let me drive a sledge to-morrow; I have such a wild
wish to drive one; it will be my first experience!"
The Archduchess Clotilde was usually an open-hearted person, but she was
nevertheless endowed with certain straight-laced characteristics, and
she frowned severely.
It was no use to beg or to implore. The prince forbade the sledge drive.
They metaphorically relegated me to a dark cupboard with dry bread to
eat; they kept me under such close observation that I could not go out
at all, either on foot, on horseback, or in a sledge.
The archduke arrived on the scene. I was still furious.... Oh!
certainly, it is evident that I did not look on the bright side of
things; my character has always been one which resented foolishness and
wickedness.
The archduke questioned me. I told him the whole story. "Louise," he
cried, "you are right a hundred times; first of all because at your age
and when one is pretty, as you are, one is always right. We will go out
at once for a drive in the snow."
He rang, and ordered two Hungarian horses to be harnessed to a large
sledge fit for the chariot of Apollo, in which he seated me, wrapped in
my furs. He took the reins and we drove off at great speed, accompanied
by a confidential servant. I felt myself akin to the angels. My
puritanical sister-in-law and my puritanical husband dared not say a
word.
Society at Budapest was less submissive to Court ceremonial than that of
Vienna, and it was in consequence natural and more audacious. I remember
a certain ball on the Ile Marguerite, the pearl of the casket of the
Danube, when the prince was angry and did not wish me to waltz. I was
inundated with invitations, to which my husband replied by saying that
at the Court of Brussels I had only learned to dance the quadrille and
the minuet!
The quadrille! The minuet! People were quite worried. They understood
what it means to waltz in Hungary, and a waltz on the banks of the
Danube to the strains of gipsy violins is a thing which cannot be
surpassed. And now--now--they import from America dreary stuff, dull
and epileptic in movement, and they call it by all sorts of names after
trotting or galloping animals out of Noah's Ark. The waltz will always
remain as the incomparable queen of dances to those who know how to
dance.
One of those who asked me to dance was bolder than the rest, and, taking
no notice of the prince's excuse, he said: "But surely Her Highness
knows how to waltz," and at these words I was swept away from the domain
of authority by my audacious partner, a Magyar, who thus hurled me into
the whirlpool of the dance. I confess I never stopped dancing for
the remainder of the night. The prince was furious, but as he was
overwhelmed with compliments on my beauty and my success, he was
obliged, _nolens volens_, to smile!
I recall the scene which took place at our departure. Fortunately we
were asked to embark on a wonderfully illuminated boat which took us
along the beautiful river to the nearest point to our palace, and this
delightful journey was made to the sounds of the music, sometimes wild
and sometimes languorous, which can only be heard to perfection in this
country.
Had it the effect of Orpheus's lute? I was not condemned to die at
sunrise like poor Scheherazade. But why did she not dance instead of
relating stories?
At Bologna and Cannes I saw a section of society which has now
disappeared. This was to be met with at the residence of the Duchesse
de Chartres, and at the Duc de Montpensier's at the Caprara Palace. In
Italy certain of the greatest Italian aristocrats were surrounded by the
noblest names of France; on the Côte d'Azur it was more of a butterfly
world, in which shone some of the most resplendent Parisian beauties.
Where should I be if I allowed myself to evoke the shades of many of
those whom I have known during my lifetime? Already all is silent,
already forgetfulness has begun. Oh, vanity of vanities! But at least I
will say how much I was enchanted by Cannes, and by the refined taste of
French elegance. The war has transformed this town, once sought after by
the élite of society. I have read that, overrun and noisy, it has lost
the discreet _cachet_ which was once its particular character and charm.
What a pity!
There is everything and yet nothing to say about the life of worldly
people who are merely worldly people and nothing more. True, I could
fill a library were I to describe in detail the fashionable records of
my past. But of what interest would that be? I should but pander to
the social curiosity that is satisfied by the reports of the doings of
society, which, knowing the necessity of polishing its lustre daily in
order to retain its brightness, provides the newspapers with the
names of the people it receives, and the details of the receptions it
gives--merely to satisfy that commonplace curiosity which is, unhappily,
the foundation of human nature, and its desires and self-esteem.
It will be better perhaps for me to terminate this rough sketch of my
life as Princess of Coburg, before coming to the events which led to the
final _dénouement_, by a few facts concerning my children. I have been,
I believe, a good mother. I have wished to be, and I have, at least, the
feeling that I was a good mother for a very long time. I lavished much
care and tenderness upon my children.
This will only appear natural to women whom maternity makes true women,
and to whom it represents honour and glory. They must, however, allow me
to say that maternity is sometimes more difficult than one thinks,
when one has to consider the difficulties which are often raised by
the father of the child--there are situations when being a mother is a
constant trial.
Happy are those whom a peaceful and normal life allows leisure to watch
beside a cradle. Nevertheless, I knew happiness with my first-born son
Leopold, who saw the light in 1878 at our Château of Saint Antoine, in
Hungary.
The Queen was present, very delighted at being a grandmother. The
arrival of this child, a boy, heir to the titles, appendages and
functions of the family, temporarily appeased the quarrels between the
prince and myself. There was a lull in the storm, which lasted for some
little time. The influence of the Queen had its effect upon my husband.
I myself, absorbed by my maternal duties, made great resolutions to be
patient and wise in the future.
I dreamt wonderful dreams beside the cradle of my son.... Oh, cruel
fate, against which I was destined to be powerless. When he grew up, and
as the influence of environment exerted itself, Leopold became less and
less my child. I wished him to be loyal and courageous. Was he not to
carry a sword? What a knightly soul did I not wish to forge in him! But
his father claimed the right to guide him. Very soon he belonged to me
no longer.
Leopold reached the age of reason just when I had thrown off the
shackles of an existence which had become atrocious. He believed that,
having refused to continue to be the Princess of Coburg, I had thereby
appropriated the hundreds of millions which one day should have come to
him from his grandfather, and which I should throw to the winds by my
folly. So I have known the hatred which nature cannot conceive--the
hatred of a son for his mother. I have shed the tears which are shed by
mothers who are struck down by their own flesh and blood. But God knows
that each time my children, infatuated with the greed for money, which
is indeed the root of all evils, have made me suffer, I have always
forgiven them.
When Leopold died in such a frightful way that I cannot even mention it,
he had not belonged, in my belief, for a long time to this world; but it
was not I who was affected by this terrible punishment which terminated
the lineage of the eldest scion of the house of Saxe-Coburg. He who was
stricken was the father who had formed this misguided son in his own
likeness!
I think he has survived in order that he may have time for repentance.
When my daughter Dora was about to be born in 1881, I had such a
dread of the presence of her father that I did all I could to hide the
imminent hour of my deliverance. I did not wish the prince to be near me
at this painful moment; I wanted him to go out, in ignorance that I was
in the throes of travail. It happened in this way. The birth took place
in our palace at Vienna, and I quite succeeded in astonishing my world.
I evaded, during the time of my suffering, a presence which could only
have aggravated it. The midwife who was with me had not even time to go
and fetch the Royal Accoucheur, who arrived after it was all over.
Dora was my second and my last child. She promised to be a pretty girl;
she was taller than myself, very fair and rather shortsighted. She had
the misfortune to marry Duke Gunther of Schleswig-Holstein, brother of
the Empress Augusta, the wife of William II. "Misfortune?" my readers
will say; "that is the usual opinion of a mother-in-law." They will see
later that the word misfortune is conformable to the facts which touch
contemporary history. I will say nothing more.
My daughter has no children. If she had, they would have been told that
their grandmother was the most wicked of women, if not the maddest,
because she often said to her son-in-law, as well as to the Prince of
Coburg and certain dignitaries of Vienna and elsewhere, who were the
accomplices and agents of the persecution by which she was overwhelmed:
"You have only one end in view, and that is to take away all that
remains to me--my liberty. But there is justice and you will be
punished!"
They have been.
Ah! if instead of making me suffer martyrdom, or allowing me to be made
a martyr, some of my own relations had dared come to me, openly or in
secret!... I am a woman, I am a mother. I do not affirm that I was not
guilty of wrong. I only affirm this: they always lied to me. They always
talked to me of the honour and virtue of the family, but, above it all,
I heard the cry of "_Money! money! money!_"