shape and size stand thick; some of them are of simple appearance,
bearing on their massive silver lids merely the name of the dead Prince
or Princess inscribed on a slab of reddish copper. But the Empress Maria
Theresa, the Emperors Joseph II., Ferdinand, and many other potentates
who have ruled the nation, repose in big silver tombs ornamented with
crosses, angels and garlands. Around them sleep the children they
nurtured and loved. Against the wall we saw the plain glittering coffin
in which the remains of the Archduke Rudolf are enclosed. It differs
from the others in the fact that it is always covered with wreaths of
flowers. The difference between one recently dead and those of an
earlier period is also marked by the ever burning lamp which sheds a
hesitating golden light on the dull grey metal. Nowhere could the soul
be more deeply impressed with the power and solemnity of death than
beside that heavy silver case. Nowhere does the human tongue whisper in
tones more awed and low: “If he could but speak, he who now sleeps for
ever in his tomb of triple metal! If he could speak, what might he not
relate, what mysteries might he not unveil?” A few paces away, on a
coffin now blackened by the dusty fingers of time, a thrilling
inscription rivets the eye: “Here lies the Duke of Reichstadt, Archduke
of Austria, son of Napoleon I. and of his spouse Marie Louise,
Archduchess of Austria and Duchess of Parma.” Stronger than the tie of
blood the relationship of a dire fate links together across the abyss of
years the mysterious Rudolf and this lonely child, the sole love of the
Giant Warrior, the mighty conqueror who fell from such giddy heights.
Last month I spent half an hour in the Capuciner Gruft, as the Imperial
vault is called in Vienna. By the side of the Archduke now rests his
mother, and the same soft lamp glimmers above both coffins. Garlands and
ribbons lie at her feet. My heart bled within me at the sight and I said
aloud: “This is no place for thee, for such a lover of all that was
bright and fair upon earth. Alas for thee, O wandering Empress, to be
laid here in darkness! But for thy soul which now perhaps floats
through gardens more beautiful even than those which thy fancy traced
upon the edge of the Grecian sea, I could weep to behold thy remains
imprisoned in this gloomy spot where the dust of the high and mighty
keeps aloof, disdaining to be contaminated by the touch of Mother Earth,
mouldering and crumbling to ashes without paying to Nature the tribute
of fertilisation which is her due. Alas for thee!”
As I spoke my voice, though subdued, created a strange lugubrious echo
in the dank atmosphere that hangs over the dead, and the day when I had
met the Empress rose before my mind, a day in early March at Wiesbaden.
I had started from my hotel to pay my respects to H.R.H. Princess
Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, Princess of Great Britain and Ireland.
Her daughters, the Princesses Louise and Victoria, had kindly invited me
to tea, but when I got downstairs I found on looking at the clock that I
had an hour to spare. To pass the time I strolled out into the street.
By-and-by I got into a long avenue leading out of the town to a plain
with a charming little forest where the fresh gusts of the breeze
brought me the first whiff of green verdure. But spring had not yet
arrived, and the trunks and branches, bereft of foliage, stood out like
dark threads against the light grey sky. Though the Rhine was invisible
yet the landscape bore that look of fluidity and freshness which marks
the neighbourhood of a great river. So charmed was I with the light
colouring of the sky and landscape, with the timid efforts of the
breeze in its endeavours to hasten the coming of spring, that I did not
notice how far I had walked nor how near the time was approaching for my
visit to the Princesses, and when I turned to retrace my steps I found
to my despair that I had completely lost my way. There were more than
twenty footpaths and it was impossible to tell which led back to
Wiesbaden and which to the Rhine and the bridge. At this juncture a lady
made her appearance on the other side of the road. She was very tall,
and wore a plain grey dress that clung closely to her slim figure. A
huge feather fan, black and glossy, hung down from her wrist. In her
other hand she bore a white parasol to which her black sailor hat was
suspended by an elastic so that the hat trembled and danced at each step
she took. She stood still not far from me with her head uncovered,
revealing hair so fine, so silken, that notwithstanding the thickness of
the tresses piled on her head they seemed as light as vapour touched by
the sun at sunset, as if composed of nothing more substantial than air
and colour.
She made a gesture of brusque protestation as I opened my lips to speak.
“Pardon, madam,” I said, “but I have lost my way. Could you tell me
which of all these roads and footpaths leads back to Wiesbaden? I want
to return to the town.”
“And you are going towards the Rhine,” she answered.
“Then it must be the attraction of the water, the voice of the gay
Dryads, that calls me.”
“The attraction of the water?” she repeated. “I am a slave of the
Dryads, and the Nereids too. I should like to live and to die among
them.” Her voice, her presence, her every gesture was sad and restless.
She lifted her huge black fan and held it across her face, the feathers
almost kissed her eyes, and in those eyes I saw lights and shadows
pass.... “Go that way,” she said. “_I_ shun cities, and I wish that I
could turn my back for ever upon all the cities of the world.” With
these words she passed through the bare trunks of the trees towards the
river.
A few minutes’ brisk walking brought me back to the town, and I hurried
on to the hotel where I passed a delightful hour with the kind and
clever Princesses. After tea as we were sitting in the broad window
whence we could see the passers-by, Princess Victoria said: “Quick,
quick, take your eyeglass. Look, there is the Empress of Austria. That
tall lady in grey!” I saw the unknown lady I had met in the forest, who
was now passing amongst the crowd, her black hat shading her whole
visage.
The Empress never learnt my name though she afterwards showed a special
interest in my work. She kept up a regular exchange of letters with our
Queen--not, it is true, the easy correspondence which becomes an
everyday intercourse between friends, but whenever the Empress found a
flower, a stone, a passage in a poem which thrilled her, she sent the
cause of her emotion to the Queen, and in like manner the Queen apprised
her of any discovery she made in the field of literature, art, or
sentiment. Thus the Empress was the first to appreciate the collection
of Roumanian songs, and immediately on receiving an early copy she
wrote: “Send me as many of these ballads as you can. Do not take the
trouble to copy them out for me, send me the originals with the mistakes
and corrections, and keep the good copies for yourself and Hélène. I
call her by her name because I like it. It is a Greek name which means
beauty and strife.”
Among the many shadows which haunt the aged Emperor’s footsteps hers is
the sweetest and the grandest, and _her_ name, like the Greek name she
loved, has already been inscribed on the pages of history as meaning
Beauty, Grief, and a fierce desire for Space and Liberty.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Reichard & Lindner, Berlin_
EMPEROR WILLIAM II. OF GERMANY]
THE GERMAN EMPEROR
If to speak of oneself, and to cause oneself to be spoken of, on every
possible occasion suffices to make a man great, then the German Emperor
is a great man. If to handle every instrument, to dabble with every
art--possessing the conviction that one understands them better than
those who have applied both time and mind to their technique--suffices
to constitute him a genius, then William of Germany is a genius indeed.
If to startle and shock public opinion, and even at times to dominate
it, can suffice to proclaim a monarch more powerful than any other, then
the German Emperor is the most powerful monarch of the day. If to be an
admirable artist it suffices to display or put into force as many
original and incoherent ideas as possible, the German Emperor is an
admirable artist. Finally, if to be a hero it suffices to hold complete
sway over the imagination of millions, the German Emperor may well boast
of being the ideal heroic personage to whom all turn in wonder and
admiration; and he must take pride in the conviction that he possesses
worshippers and detractors as numerous and untiring as the waves of the
sea.
Upon the horizon of contemporary events his strange, aggressive
silhouette stands out erect and clear. In a century where each
individual seems to have seen and known everything and everybody, he yet
remains amongst the few personalities whose names create a sensation
when one can say: “I have actually seen him, I have spoken with William
the Second.” The perpetual transformation of his various attitudes of
mind as of his costumes has perhaps helped to make him more popular even
than his other characteristics, which are always extraordinary, though
they appear natural because they are his. Proteus alone in the realm of
mythological lore, and Shakespeare in the domain of creative emotion,
had hitherto accustomed us to the wonderful changes which may be wrought
in human souls and bodies in one brief moment. But whereas Proteus, who
became in turn a stream, a living flame, a tempest, and a wild beast,
was meant to incarnate the subtle power of the natural elements; and
whereas Shakespeare represented in the varying moods of his characters
the symbols of our destiny, the Emperor’s intentions are neither so
subtle nor so deep on his appearance thrice a day in three diverse
uniforms. He belongs to an age when rapidity of action is deemed a
virtue, and his chief wish is to stand as the faithful image of his
time. How many kings, queens, heroes, or heroines are there who, like
Mary Queen of Scots, still hold sway over the imagination, whose
memories from the darkest depths of bygone ages still arise to thrill us
with the grandeur and the sadness of their fate! How many yet rule the
imagination of poets and philosophers, and can never die while our
interest, our pity, or our worship keep them alive! William of Germany
wishes, like these chosen few, to survive in the memory of his people.
In every way and in every sense of the word he is ambitious. And his
larger ambitions are fair and pure, although at times some may border on
petty vanity. But how often does he cast a glance into the future to
challenge that mute crowd called posterity, how many times does he
whisper to himself in the silence of his sleepless nights: “Shall I be
among those whose memory is ever remembered and ever revered? Will my
deeds be recorded in the same loud tones in which my speeches and
commands are uttered?” Of course no one can tell what William the Second
thinks in these matters, but what may be safely asserted is that thought
or fear of death never enters his soul. He lives in the security that he
cannot die.
I never fail to read his innumerable speeches, because of the utter
candour for which they are remarkable. The author has perfect faith in
himself and in his infallibility, and this he proclaims in every word.
In order to enjoy them the more completely, I recall the days when I was
present to hear the Emperor utter his pompous or his simple phrases. I
see again his imperious glance, his firm mouth and clenched fists, I
hear his voice as it falls with the dry sound of an iron hammer upon
each syllable. The strong assurance that he cannot in any case be
interrupted must always endow an orator with a firm grasp of his own
sentiments and those of his audience. In this mastery the Emperor
revels, and I believe that when all his speeches are collected and
published in one enormous volume, the literature of the world will be
enriched by a masterpiece of self-reliance and didactic eloquence. His
mystic and warlike rhapsodies are as complete, as violent, and as great
in their way as the sermons of Bossuet, the dreams of Shakespeare, and
the famous love-letters of Mademoiselle de l’Espinasse. But, unlike
Bossuet before the mortal remains of Louis XIV. saying: “My brethren,
God alone is great,” the Emperor ever says: “I alone, I am great, O my
people.”
Notwithstanding these strictures and any to be made hereafter, I
sincerely hope that my readers will discern that I am an admirer of the
German potentate and hero--for he is a hero, and this all but unique
quality will suffice to place him far above every living sovereign of
our day. He is a hero, and in his desire to remain a hero he knows
neither rest nor fear. All who follow his career step by step must allow
that in the warmth and accomplishment of this desire lies the secret of
his force. For the achievements of a man must appear heroic and sublime
when he not only does his best and his utmost to attain his ideal every
hour of the day, but when we see him breathe as freely and as eagerly
the cold air of the high summits on which he is placed as if there were
on his shoulders no weight of an imperial mantle. Every one must allow
that a hero who draws continual heroism out of the smallest actions of
everyday existence is a poet worthy of the name though unconscious of
his calling. He may be said to be the wealthiest amongst the wealthy; he
tastes a joy that others will never know, since that art which caused
Leonardo da Vinci equally with Cæsar Borgia to pursue and attain the
pitch of real emotions, to learn and teach the pleasures of eternal
pursuit, the Emperor of Germany possesses in its entirety; and in this
respect he may be said also to resemble the manly heroes of the Italian
Renaissance.
Each of his intellectual gifts is inherited from his mother; he is
likest his father when in a gracious mood and boyish in words and
bearing. It is necessary to make occasional reference to mythology in
describing him, because he forms a parallel to the ancient myth that
represents Phaëton, whose father Apollo entrusted him for a whole day
with the glorious duty of driving the chariot of the sun along its
golden pathway. Like Phaëton’s chariot, the one that William guides with
hands and eyes unmoved is fiery and magnificent, but over the taut
stretched reins his nervous fingers are closed with a sure grasp, and
the firm gaze of the imperial sungod is not abased before the brilliant
rays which concentrate their fierce light upon him. In the history of
nations as of individuals mankind is divided into two classes: on one
side are the sowers, on the other the reapers; there are those who toil
and dig and those who gather and enjoy. The German Emperor is a reaper,
an eager, hopeful reaper, who leaves not a sheaf unturned, not a grain
in the furrow behind him. The double images above his head, images of
the sower, the grandfather who always smiles, and of the stern Count who
always frowns, have been unable to deter him from the pursuance of his
self-set task.
What land does the German Emperor not know? under what sky has he not
passed? what town has not received him with flags and honours? what
historic city has not acclaimed him? He has roamed in the Holy Land, has
heard the muezzin call from Egyptian towers, watched the violet twilight
die in the northern skies, and for him the palm forests of Arabia have
lulled the moon to sleep among their branches in the softness of an
oriental night. He has stepped into the dusky coolness of learned and
worm-eaten universities, and basked in the pagan beauty of Florence,
Sicily and Naples. He has lingered among the divine marbles of the
Parthenon, and the eternal divinity of their form and grace lives in his
soul. Rome has watched him as he passed through her streets and suburbs
away from the din of the city. In Europe one land alone he has
forgotten, the land that is dear to me because it is mine. It is an
extraordinary fact that in all his wanderings the German Emperor has
never returned the numerous visits paid him by the Roumanian King,
never even sent a representative of royal blood, though he has at all
times been aware that he would be a welcome guest to this country....
The German Emperor has played all the parts in an historical repertoire:
he has been in turn a pontiff without consecration, a warrior without
battles or foes, a dramatist without drama; but he has always remained
the same imperious, subtle personage in all his diverse incarnations. He
possesses in a supreme degree the art of pleasing, and yet at the same
time hurting people’s feelings. Gaiety and wrath are not with him, as
with Napoleon, instruments ready to hand, but his humour varies from one
moment to the other, and so rapidly that in the same hour he may be kind
or obstinately cruel. He may appear to some entirely hard-hearted or
entirely kind. In truth he is neither; he is the Emperor--that is to
say, a being impatient, haughty, eager to please and astonish,
strong-minded, omniscient, omnipresent. To complete the circle but one
thing is lacking--the charm of mystery, that enchantment which is spread
like a spell, and which lived in the magic force of the Sphinx of the
Pharaohs, in the shrine where Isis was adored, and even threw a halo of
romance around such a monarch as Philip the Second of Spain. The German
Emperor does not possess it. He is of all living monarchs the least
mysterious and the least invisible. He loves pageants and outward
ceremonies as if he were filled with a desire to demonstrate with what
ease he can summon armies and splendour around him.
It is interesting to note the impression he creates in France. In Paris
especially the discussion he arouses is ever keen and alert, and to
bring his name into conversation in a Paris _salon_ is always an
excellent means of arousing violent controversy. “He is a genius!” says
one. “No, a prig, a _cabotin_,” says another. “He is the finest orator
of the day, and if he wrote the leading articles in some of our papers,
who could compete with him?”--“Bah! do you believe him capable of any
serious work? _Allons donc!_”--“But look at his portrait--what a face,
what eyes! He ought to have been a French general or the Emperor of
France. He loves _le panache_, and so do we.”--“It is a disgrace for a
Frenchman to utter such words!”--“But, _mon cher_, I simply meant that
he ought to have been born and educated in France.... He is not a
Teuton; no, he has many qualities belonging to the Latin race.” And at
this point a person intervenes who immediately becomes the centre of the
debate: he says, “I have seen the Emperor, and enjoyed long
conversations with him.” Then every one present is eager to listen, and
detractors and admirers alike await in fervid silence the opinion of the
person who has actually met the ruler of Germany face to face.
Above all things the Emperor hates the small commonplaces of ordinary
conversation, even within the restricted space of a Court circle where
all are bent on finding whatever he says clever and gracious.
I shall never forget the three days I spent under the same roof with the
Imperial German pair at the princely castle of Sigmaringen. Sigmaringen
Schloss has for many hundred years belonged to the Catholic branch of
the Hohenzollern family, who bear no relationship whatever to the
younger and more prosperous line--those Protestant Hohenzollerns who are
now masters of the German realm. The oldest Hohenzollerns bow in deep
worship before the fortune of their cadets, and are ever anxious to
proclaim blood ties which may not in reality exist, while the younger
branch occasionally deign to admit the vague kinship now lost in the
darkness of bygone days. The King and Queen of Roumania had arrived at
the castle beforehand in order to receive their imperial guests. The
Royal abode was full to overflowing. A great number of German Princes
and Princesses were assembled, together with Prince and Princess Leopold
of Hohenzollern, in mingled fear and pleasure at the honour of meeting
the German Emperor, who was related to most of them by some distant tie.
Many of them were petty potentates who, while trembling to appear as his
vassals, yet struggled against the secret conviction that such is the
case. However, a great display of military pomp generally conceals all
such emotions.
As soon as I entered the suite of apartments destined for me in the
castle, I found on the large table a complete programme of the
festivities which were to follow the arrival of the Imperial pair,
wherein also the exact dresses to be worn at the station and in the
evening were defined. All around us the atmosphere vibrated with the
excitement of the approaching visit, but during the afternoon I had a
few moments which I could call my own. Gazing from the windows far away
over the dark curving hills of the unknown land, I looked back into the
past and remembered that the castle where we now found ourselves was in
the hands of a Prince descended in the direct female line from the Murat
and the Beauharnais families, who thus bore in his veins the blood of
the French _bourgeoisie_ and of the glorious soldier who was at one time
inn-keeper and waiter. This visit paid by the German Emperor to the old
feudal fortress somehow represented the visit of the present victor to
the victories of the past, to the great Napoleon himself, by whose stern
will German princes had in years gone by been forced to marry young
girls of little importance such as “la petite Stephanie et la petite
Murat.”
At the station next day I felt disappointed to find such an immense
crowd of Princes, officers, and high personages in gaudy uniforms, that
I realised at once how utterly impossible it would be to catch even a
glimpse of the Emperor. Bugles were sounded, troops were marshalled and
paraded by, Court trains trailed along over thick red carpets; a high
wall of human forms, all very tall and pompous, rose between me and the
place where the train would stop. Yet, when at last it did arrive, I
actually saw the Emperor. I saw him in the narrow interstice left
between the shoulder of a silk-clad Royal Highness and the sleeve of a
hussar! But it was only as in a flash I saw the pale cold visage, the
flaming eyes and stern mouth. In another moment the Emperor had sprung
lightly to the ground, followed closely by the Empress, whose rippling
laugh I heard quite near to me, while much kissing went on and
affectionate greetings were exchanged. We all hastened to the _perron_,
as we wanted to see the Emperor enter the carriage and bow to the crowd.
After several minutes spent in a short promenade in front of the troops,
he made his appearance at a spot where I stood only a few steps from
him. The twilight was falling softly, and in the first glimmer of the
evening shadows he appeared to me even more extraordinarily pale than at
first sight. No smile parted his lips as he threw his eyes to the centre
of the multitude gathered in his honour, and whose repeated and joyful
exclamations seemed to leave him quite unmoved; but that look as it
lingered and plunged to the very depths of the assembled people made
every nerve thrill like the muscles of the Arabian steed who feels his
master’s fingers creep lazily through his mane.
The Emperor wore a black uniform set off by white metal buttons and
silver ornaments; his black helmet, too, was bordered with silver. The
Empress was in a soft white dress. We followed in the rear of the
gorgeous procession, and as we ascended the narrow streets of the small
city to the roar of cannon, the chiming of church bells, and the hum of
human cheers repeated from window to window, we seemed to wend our way
through an ocean of harmonious sounds, while above towered the huge
Castle with its terraces and balconies all ablaze.