and we alone have the right to read their hearts. They are ours, and the
greatest creations of our dreams would fall to dust did they appear in
our songs. From the days of her early youth we have recognised as our
own the radiant Empress who came from the dim Bavarian forests bearing
in her disdainful heart a thirst for pain and for happiness. She turned
her eyes from all joys but those which nature affords, the rising of
dawn upon the silence-wrapped sea, the noble calm of high peaks when the
last rays of the sun strike them with purple daggers. And he, the ardent
son of the wild Empress, he belonged to us, he belonged to the poet who
loves brilliant accesses of force and desire, passionate thrillings of
souls ever ready to court peril. From his mother he inherited a craving
for liberty which conventional restraints turned to rebellion and
desolation. From her came his strong spirit ever ready to conquer or
perish. Even before his birth it seems as if he were dedicated to some
frightful destiny whose vengeful power would drive him to his fate. She
herself once compared him to the son of Thetis and she wept over him in
the same way as the Queen of the Sea wept over her hero son. In
remembrance of her grief she had a statue of Achilles erected on the
banks of the Greek Sea, where among myrtle boughs and roses Thetis
lives again in the waves and mourns for ever the lost warrior and king.
Ah, what a throng of shadows, what a murmur of sobs and distraught words
follows the gentle Emperor! Yet his step is firm and his smile as
unvarying as if he heard and saw them not, while the benevolent light in
his blue eyes gains every heart. Those who approach him say with truth
that he is a very miracle of fortitude.
When, a few centuries ago, the German Emperor Maximilian fled like a
hunted animal from province to province of his vast realm, ever pursuing
a wild chase with hounds and horn, he was in reality endeavouring to
escape from his own terror-haunted soul. He suffered from what we should
now call a nervous complaint only to be relieved by violent exercise.
When Juana la Loca--mad Queen Joan--wandered all over Spain in her huge
black coach of ebony and velvet drawn by stalwart black horses, she said
she was fleeing from the grasp of death that she feared would snatch her
handsome young husband from her arms. He had long been dead but her fond
madness found relief in the hallucination. Her son, Charles V., feeling
across his life the dark shadow of his mother’s madness, retired to a
convent. He thought to escape the dread inheritance by seeking that
comfort and repose that prayer and solitude alone afford.
Thus many sovereigns of this fated race have fled before visions and
fears that made the blood curdle in their veins. Franz-Josef, Emperor
of Austria, has never entertained the idea of flight. He has not felt
the strange desire to carry with him into the depths of a desert or into
the silence of a tomb the shadows whose wailing voices he must have ever
in his ears. He bravely and resolutely bids them follow and even help
him as he struggles along in the path of duty. They sit at his table and
dwell under his roof, never leaving him for a moment, yet cheerfulness
and conviviality reign at his meals and labour and unwavering attention
to the cares of State fill his hours. Like an untamed captive, chained
yet unconquered, the Emperor takes a pride in bearing his misery
lightly. He allows no one to guess how much he suffers when, amid the
dazzling splendour of Royal functions, he sees the empty places once
graced by the presence of his beloved ones. What effort must be
required, what terrible strength of will, to bring a smile to those lips
which have been so often pressed to the cold cheek of the dead, and to
those eyes in which the image of death has so many times been mirrored!
Once he was indeed a happy man. Though the mysterious Empress sometimes
deserted his home--for even before her great misfortune she showed a
taste for roaming--she would return to Vienna from time to time and even
make her appearance at State balls once or twice in the year. Upon such
occasions the proud husband never left her side and seemed happy in
watching the effect created on all beholders by her beauty. The Empress
used to wear her long hair loose on her shoulders and the young Heir
Apparent, a boy in his teens, notwithstanding the strictness of Austrian
court etiquette and the solemnity of the occasion, would tease his
mother by stepping on the rich waves of flowing gold, at which the
Emperor scolded a little and laughed much, while the proud Imperial lady
gazed dreamily on the dancers or went from one noble guest to another,
letting the words fall drowsily from her lips. For her own particular
use she invented a manner of speaking afterwards imitated by the
Austrian Archdukes and Princesses, which reduced the tones of the voice
to a sort of muffled cooing sound. The Empress affected this peculiarity
because, detesting the pomp and ceremonial of pageants and State
functions, she declared that it was not worth while to take the trouble
to speak when she was only permitted to say meaningless nothings. In
private she became less reserved, but the habit of speaking in a low
tone is a family tradition with the Bavarian Princesses. The sister of
the deceased Empress, Queen Sophia of Naples, whom I saw lately in
Paris, never raises her voice above a whisper, which peculiarity renders
her resemblance to the Empress still more striking.
Three or four years before I met the Emperor of Austria at Vienna, I had
the opportunity of spending an hour in the company of his only son,
Archduke Rudolf, a circumstance which I remember the more vividly
because it clings to me with the strong hold which events of our
childhood take upon us. I was then a little girl, occupied by turns with
books and butterflies. Sometimes on a Sunday to reward us for steadfast
obedience during the week our Queen would invite us--my sister, a few
companions of our own age and myself--to the royal palace at Bucharest,
where we were allowed to chat and play under her Majesty’s indulgent
eyes. But on the particular afternoon of which I am speaking I was
alone. I had been taken to the palace by my governess for the special
purpose of reciting some childish verses I had composed. Although the
heir to the Austrian throne was then on a visit to our court, yet the
Queen found some minutes to spare for me. She had been warmly interested
by hearing that on moonlight evenings I used to stroll about the grounds
of our country house and climbing on a swing sing long ballads to the
moon, while the swift movement bore me high into the air or brought me
down again to the level of the silver bespangled sward. In vain my
parents remonstrated with me concerning this dangerous exercise. I cried
and begged to be allowed one hour for solitary dreaming after the
twilight had set in, and to this day when the sense of soft cadence
flutters through my soul, I feel around me again the balmy radiance of
the evening hour and hear the creaking moan of the swing as it nestled
for one swift second in the topmost branches of the tree or came down to
rest in the grass where the moon’s rays lay like the wings of a dove.
The Queen was most curious and impatient to judge of my early
inspirations, and I had scarcely entered her gorgeous apartments than
she took my hand in hers, saying:
“Now be a brave girl. You are not afraid of me, are you? I want to hear
your last poem, the one about the nightingale who quarrels with the moon
because she is mute and the nightingale sings with all his might to
force the moon to sing also.”
“Yes, madame, they quarrel all through the night, but at morning the sun
settles matters by chasing away the nightingale and making the moon so
pale that she hides herself in the sky.”
“What a shame both for the nightingale and the moon!” said the Queen.
“Don’t you pity them? But I cannot stop long, so please begin.” And
swinging myself to and fro in the big chair I delivered the innocent
speech, the colloquy that on my childish lips took such deep import. The
Queen seemed delighted. It was a clear day at the beginning of spring.
The palm trees in the neighbouring conservatory seemed to gasp for a
breath of the fresh air that brought perfume and coolness from the
garden. “Stay here a moment,” she said. “I am going to find something
that will give you pleasure. Stay here while I go and fetch it for you
from my dressing-room.” I was well acquainted with her Majesty’s
apartments and felt pleased whenever the opportunity was afforded me of
wandering amongst the costly furniture and precious objects they
contained.
“Please don’t touch my desk nor approach my writing table, but you may
run about till I return, and then--then I will show you my parrots. One
of them is such a queer, weird bird. He mopes and frets from morning
till night. He is a beautiful creature, so gaudy and yet so prim, with
plumage like stained glass. He seems to hate every one. I call him the
unlucky parrot. You shall see him and all my other birds.”
The Queen was gone and with thoughts intent upon the cheering promise I
crossed the long music gallery that looked dark and severe because the
folding doors opened into the green conservatory where the huge palms
longed in vain for liberty to sigh and wave like the happy trees in the
garden. Suddenly the sound of breathing caught my ear. It was regular
and loud as if the bosom from which it issued were oppressed or very
full of air. I entered the conservatory and my light step did not
disturb the unknown, who was reclining in front of me in one of the easy
chairs under the quiet palms. His arms hung lazily and his hands seemed
almost to touch the stone pavement. His image rises before me as I saw
him then, his face set in an expression of firm resolve and nervous
restraint. His was one of those faces to which even a smile brings no
relief. His head was upturned so that I could only perceive the close
reddish beard round his cheeks and chin.
How thrilling and terrible appears to us, looking back into the past,
the moment when unwittingly we broke upon the solitary reverie of a
being whose story has since been steeped in blood, to reflect that
perhaps we disturbed their silent converse with self just at the time,
the exact second when some glimpse of the future might have risen before
them, when some voice from the depths of the abyss cried “Beware!”
These reflections which lead me now to consider that day with awe and
solemnity did not trouble the happy young girl who listened under the
palm trees that clear afternoon in an atmosphere of peaceful luxury and
magnificence. I was then myself on the threshold of life and could not
understand all the pathos which in after years was attached to the
memory of the Archduke. To-day the graceful presence perceived that day
in the royal palace at Bucharest is illumined in my mind by the
flickering light of the candle placed on the fatal supper table at
Mejerling, in that small hunting box--since become a cloister where
pious nuns pray day and night.
When I remember the slender nervous fingers that played with the arm of
the garden chair, I cannot repress a shudder at the thought that,
destined to hold a sceptre, they should have been so early lost in the
folds of a shroud.
At first I was taken aback and wondered what would be the consequences
of my intrusion, and who the young man was who made himself so much at
home with the chairs of the Queen’s conservatory. At last I made up my
mind what to do and coughed lightly. The sound made him start a little,
and then I said abruptly, “I want to see the parrots, that’s why I came
in.” The stranger looked so supercilious and so thoroughly at his ease
that I wanted to make him understand that my entrance had nothing to do
with him. To my astonishment he paid me such scanty attention that I
mentally dubbed him a monster, and took a dislike to him on the spot,
for I was accustomed to have great attention paid to my dishevelled
hair, rosy cheeks, and boisterous speech.
“Oh, the parrots. They are not far from here, judging by their screams.”
These words, uttered in a soft yet distinct voice, fell lazily from the
full lips. The man who spoke allowed each syllable to escape languidly
as if he disdained his own thoughts and words. Then, closing his eyes,
he gave a half yawn and sank back to repose and reverie. My indignation
knew no bounds. Who was this fellow? How dared he lounge in a place
where the Queen might at any moment make her appearance? How dared he
disparage her parrots? But soon I should be revenged, the Queen would
come directly, and then my fine gentleman would have to rise and offer
apologies, while I should be present at the scene. He should see how the
Queen treated me and the parrots, he should learn to respect me.
Meanwhile, a terrible obstacle lay before me. He had pointed to the
place whence the screams of the birds proceeded, but he kept his legs
stretched across the floor like two rods of iron. They looked hard and
unyielding, and in order to cross the small space between himself and
the table I should either have to ask him to draw his legs back or else
to jump over them. I was on the point of accomplishing this ungraceful
act when the Queen came to my rescue. Now, I thought, he will leap to
his feet, implore forgiveness, humble himself by proffering excuses----
Alas! certainly he made a movement which evinced some vague intention of
leaving his chair, but he showed such poor alacrity that the Queen had
time to interpose, saying, with outstretched arms: “Please, please, dear
Rudolf, do not disturb yourself. I am so pleased to see you enjoying
half an hour’s rest. You love my dear palm trees, don’t you? We will
have tea presently. First, I must take this little girl to see the
parrots. Do you know that she is a poet, this child?” This time the
languid eyes quivered with an expression almost of disgust, and the
Archduke turned his head away. But the Queen continued, “She is such a
chatterbox, a fit rival for the birds there, and _so_ gay.”
“That’s right,” he said, in the curious voice that seemed to soothe and
prick by turns. “That’s right. I love gay women. Oh dear, how tedious
some women can be! You cannot imagine. Women bore me to death when they
are not laughing or singing. As a matter of fact, are they good for
anything else?”
“For a great many other things,” answered the Queen. “But let us away,
dear child, because I must soon return for tea.”
At the further end of the conservatory a small fountain, hidden among a
forest of trees, gave forth a low gurgling sound. The gorgeous birds in
their golden cages flapped their wings and shrieked with joy on
perceiving the Queen. They were indeed beautiful, these prisoners, and
their splendours made my young eyes sparkle with delight. One of them
bore on his back shades of tender grey intermingled with rosy streaks,
another was all yellow with a red collar round his neck, a third seemed
as if bespangled with gold with a bosom like the rainbow. The perfume of
tropical seas and islands, the gladness that descends at morn on the
forests and the wilds in regions unexplored save by our fancy, the
entrancing colours of exotic skies hovered about the place, and the
birds filled the air with screams and clamour.
“Here is the unlucky bird,” said the Queen. “He is a ridiculous yet
pathetic figure. Colonel Voinesco brought him from Brazil. He was born
in freedom, and I suppose he detests us for keeping him here.” The
parrot before which the Queen had stopped was smaller than the others,
but far prettier. His plumage was blue and green--such deep green and
intense blue that it glittered like lightning in dewy grass. On his
small, well-poised head he had a huge tiara of blue feathers which
moved to and fro and swung like the swift gleam of a knife blade. His
jet-black beady eyes darted a hostile look at us, as with ruffled wings
he silently retreated to the bottom of his cage.
“Do look at him,” said the Queen. “What would he not give to be able to
bite us if he could, if only some one were to open his cage and touch
him, but his beak is so sharp he might give a bad wound, and no one
cares to make the experiment. No one dares----”
“Indeed! Does no one dare? How foolish!” It was the mellow yet caustic
voice of the Archduke that pronounced these words with an ironical
inflection lurking under the purring tones. We turned and saw him
advancing briskly towards us. His movements showed extraordinary harmony
and grace, and his bounding step seemed hardly to touch the ground.
There was something airy, almost weird, about his figure and bearing,
and I have never been able to forget the pleasure I experienced at the
sight of the admirable contour of his form.
Cautiously the Archduke crept to the other side of the cage, and the
Queen gave a scream almost of terror when she saw him open the cage door
with one swift movement and plunge his fingers in the parrot’s
glittering feathers. The slow caress lingered voluptuously in the warmth
and colour of the close plumage, and the bird seemed as if caught in the
power of a spell, remaining motionless while the slender hand travelled
to and fro over his glorious wings and shoulders. All at once the bird
turned his gorgeous little head to bite, but almost as suddenly he
unfolded his wings and sounds of distress issued from his struggling
bosom. The Archduke laughed--a low, rippling laugh. “Ah,” said he, “I’ll
not kill you this time, you cantankerous little beauty. But this will
teach you to be less treacherous. Parrots are like all other creatures,
one has to be always on one’s guard with them.” And then we saw that
while he was playing with the bird he had kept his thumb and first
finger round the parrot’s neck, so that at a moment’s notice he could
have mastered and even strangled it.
The Queen often spoke of the Archduke’s penetrating intellect and strong
qualities of sagacity and prudence; moreover, she used to tell us how
well versed he was in every language spoken in the vast empire which was
one day to be his. Later, when the heartrending tragedy of his untimely
death lent a new interest to his personality, many tales were told about
the ill-fated young Prince. But to me he has remained pictured as I saw
him that day under the lofty palms, lost in languid and melancholy
thought, while maybe even then the grim future rose before him in the
blue atmosphere of that spring afternoon.
The Emperor of Austria was still in mourning for his unfortunate son and
heir when I gazed for the first time upon his dear mild features. From
the very windows of the Hotel Muntsch, where the Emperor came to call
upon our Sovereigns immediately they arrived in Vienna, the chapel, or
rather the wall of the chapel where the Archduke was buried, could be
seen. While our King introduced the ladies and gentlemen present one
after another the Emperor had to keep his eyes from straying towards the
familiar spot, the Church of the Capucins, beneath which lay the vault
full of coffins.
On reaching the spot where I was standing the Emperor politely exchanged
with me the unvarying formula on such occasions. “Is it your first visit
to Austria? Do you like Vienna? I hope so....” But my thoughts were
running wild, traversing the narrow street, and I wondered if the
Emperor’s mind followed the same track. His slim figure, as supple and
well-knit in its pure white uniform as that of any young officer in his
army, reminded me of the flexible grace I had once observed in the
figure and walk of the dead Prince. Again, there was a striking likeness
between the father’s withered hand, with its long delicate fingers, and
the youthful hand which I had seen resting on the parrot’s bright
plumage dallying with the bird’s life. But the father’s eyes were light
blue, so clear and soft that no trace could be found in them of those
greenish orbs where light and shadow had mingled like the dark forms of
ships passing in drowsy haze at night.
The Emperor spoke again. “Have you visited any of our monuments at
Vienna yet?” and I could not help expressing my thoughts in words:
“Yes, I have seen the Imperial vault. But I went to see the tomb of the
poor young King of Rome, the Duke of Reichstadt, I mean. His was such an
unhappy fate, though scarcely more unfortunate than that of his father.”
“Kings and Emperors must be unhappy because they are human. I do not
mean that they are more unhappy than other people, but their position
forces them to endure many things which add to their common sorrows.
When you go to Schönbrunn be sure to visit the Duke of Reichstadt’s
apartments....” The voice had not faltered, nor the gentle eyes lost
their calm serenity, as I uttered the imprudent speech I would have
given worlds to recall, but the slender figure trembled and the thin
hands were clenched.
It is an extraordinary coincidence that I should have been brought into
touch first with the Archduke, afterwards with the Emperor, and later
still with the Empress, in circumstances rendered similar by the fact
that they came upon me unawares and in such manner that I failed to
recognise them. How this happened with the Emperor and later on with his
Consort I will now relate.... On our return from a long journey in
Germany, the Queen, my sister and myself again stopped for a few days in
Vienna, where “Carmen Sylva” had given appointments to many of her
relations and friends among the Archduchesses. Moreover, a drama written
by the royal authoress was on this occasion to be handed to the actors
of the Imperial Burg Theatre. The Queen was travelling in the strictest
_incognito_, but scarcely had we reached the hotel and finished lunch
than her Majesty said: “I must make haste and dress. We are going to
Schönbrunn. This time I have made it a point of honour to forestall the
Emperor. He is always so kind and polite that he calls upon me directly
he knows of my presence in Vienna. I want to be beforehand with him for
once. Order a carriage now and I will be down in ten minutes.”
I was pacing the long hall of the hotel, waiting for the Queen and
watching the ebb and flow of travellers whose faces I could not well
distinguish because of my short sight and the half twilight, when all at
once a gentleman walked up to me and, lifting his hat, politely said,
pointing to a tray on the table at my side where he had laid a card:
“This card is for the Queen of Roumania; will you see that it is taken
up to her Majesty directly? I hope you have had a good journey.”
“It is of no use to send the card up now. The Queen would not receive
any one. She is in a great hurry. She has made a wager with herself that
she will call upon the Emperor before he has time to come to the hotel.
Of course she will win, because the Emperor could not come at such short
notice unless he has the fastest horses in the world and any amount of
energy.”
“Maybe he has both,” answered the gentleman, whose lithe figure, dressed
in a plain black coat, seemed to have the vigour and grace of youth, but
whose visage I could not see as his back was turned to the light. He
went on: “But what would you say if the Emperor were even more
fleet-footed than his horses and had come on foot from the Burg to see
the Queen?”
“Impossible at his age and in such a crowd. Why, every one would
recognise him and gather round him. He is so _much_ beloved by his
people--and you cannot imagine how much our Sovereigns like him.”
“So you think that every one would recognise the Emperor?”
“Of course--even I would anywhere, at any moment. His face is not a
peculiar one, but he has a remarkable expression of kindness, and it
could never happen that I should have the pleasure of conversing with
him without knowing who he was, as I once did in the case of his nephew
and son.”
“Don’t be so sure when you say ‘never.’ The Emperor is very keen on
giving pleasure. There is nothing he enjoys more. But I must take leave
of you. May I venture to ask you to carry that card yourself to the
Queen? I am very anxious that her Majesty should have it at once.
Good-bye.” The charming gentleman stretched out his hand to me and
vanished amid the crowd of travellers. I saw his tall, supple form cross
the threshold and mingle with the passers-by.
Turning to give effect to his wish I took up the card and read the
simple inscription in French: “L’Empéreur d’Autriche, Roi de Hongrie.”
The Queen’s defeat, my own adventure, the Emperor’s pleasant manner and
voice all tended to give me wings as I flew upstairs. “Too late, too
late!” I cried on perceiving her Majesty who stood with bonnet and
gloves on. “The Emperor has been here. He gave me his card himself. I
actually talked to him and he knows that your Majesty wanted to prove
yourself even more courteous than he.”
“Still, we must go to Schönbrunn all the same,” said the Queen.