retired to rest and afterwards dined privately with the Princes present
in the Castle; but at nine o’clock we all assembled in the vast
stateroom, and as each took his or her allotted place in the circle
hearts were beating high, eyes kindled with impatience and eagerness.
Fans and flowers trembled in small nervous hands, and ever and anon we
turned towards the door whence the Royal _cortège_ would descend into
the hall by the three steps separating it from the state room. Yet I was
not so lost in contemplation of the stately threshold for the remark
suddenly to occur to me that I was the only person in that immense
circle who belonged to the Latin race. But all the _dames d’honneur_ and
officials proved exceedingly kind and courteous, and if somewhat shocked
by the freedom of my words or manners, never showed it, but treated the
youthful foreigner like an honoured guest, telling me I must occupy
first place in the circle as I belonged to a kingly court, and stationed
me quite close to the door where two ushers stood on guard like two
statues of gold and silver.
The first chamberlain enters and strikes thrice upon the ground with a
long golden rod, reminding one of the three sharp blows given on the
floor of the stage in French theatres when the curtain is about to rise.
Then a great silence, a long pause, the door is thrown open, and the
Emperor of Germany appears. The Queen of Roumania is leaning on his arm,
and they stop for a few seconds before descending the three steps. His
head, proudly thrown back, is resplendent in the full light concentrated
on the spot by lamps and chandeliers. His military costume is of
dazzling white, relieved only by the crimson ribbon of the Roumanian
order across his breast, and he looks radiant though very grave. The
Queen of Roumania glides along by his side in a dress airily traversed
with threads of silver, which give it the effect of billows at rest
under the gaze of the moon. The Emperor’s face is serene, but it wears
no smile, and again I admire those large wonderful eyes, eyes whose
colour and depth and sternness can be compared to jewelled Toledo
blades, where gold and iron blend like blazing rays of the sun and cold
flashes of stormy lightning. With those eyes the Emperor of Germany
might wander _incognito_ and wearing a mask, yet never fail to be
recognised. Taking care to keep his spurs from touching the fleecy
clouds of the Queen’s fragile train, he advances with measured steps,
though his tread is elastic, impatient like that of a boy. The Empress,
our King, the Count and Countess of Flanders, all follow in due order,
but I cannot spare a glance for their entrance. The Emperor and Queen
have stopped suddenly right in front of us. I believe I really looked as
startled as I felt, wretchedly embarrassed, yet so eager, so tumultuous
in the way I made my reverence, that before addressing me the Emperor
laughed, highly amused, and the Queen said to him: “Here’s a little girl
to whom this hour is of such deep meaning that she has not slept all
night for thought of the honour and joy awaiting her. You can see how
moved she is.” ... “Why so?” asked the Emperor briskly, throwing back
his head, while a sense of fun crept over his open countenance. “Why so?
This very young and imposing lady has already known so many great, so
many remarkable men, far greater and more remarkable than myself. She
has seen Emperors, too, I hear, so one more or one less cannot be of
much account. I am told, madam”--and he spoke in grave tones--“that you
have as a child enjoyed the rare privilege of spending long evenings
with Victor Hugo in his home. Your Queen says that you have many
interesting tales to tell about him. So how can you be moved in my
presence when you have been in the presence of Genius?”
As I could not for the life of me find an answer the Emperor resumed.
“You could never have believed, would you, that you possess over me a
superiority which indeed I envy you? I have enjoyed almost all the
sight-seeing worth the trouble, but I never saw Victor Hugo nor met any
real literary genius. Was he very much bowed down by old age? Did he
speak distinctly? What were his favourite topics?”
By this time I had almost recovered my composure; the Queen smiled
encouragement, and the Emperor drew me out little by little. He
interrupted almost every sentence twice or thrice, putting sharp
interrogations, which he uttered in an affirmative tone--questions such
as this: “Am I not mistaken when I think”--whose clear meaning was--“I
cannot be mistaken!” And he repeatedly bit his under-lip with teeth so
sharp that the traces of them were seen on the pale skin, an imperious
nervous habit which conveyed the idea of peremptory force and impatient
wilfulness, an order to go on in a rapid way without bothering him with
hesitation or useless details. He seemed to hold between his fingers an
iron thread that guided my words. “You write in French, don’t you?
You’ll finish by writing in your own language, won’t you? I know you
love writing French and speaking English. It is why I have addressed you
in the language which is pleasantest for conversation--at least one of
the pleasantest”--the Emperor corrected himself.
“English is also fast becoming the language of Courts,” said I. A quick
frown warned me that I was treading upon forbidden ground, and the
Emperor cut me short in a murmured apology. “Well, we will talk of
Paris, literature, and your own pursuits to-morrow. You see,” and he
turned towards the immense circle that watched his every gesture, “I
have all these people to entertain, many friends and acquaintances among
them,” and with hasty step he walked off. In the meantime our Queen had
also lost herself in the group of Princesses, and I tried in vain to
discover the place where her Majesty stood, as I wanted to thank her for
having called the Emperor’s attention to me. The German Empress was also
the centre of a crowd of ladies, so I wandered listlessly through the
gaudy multitude, when a light tap on my shoulder made me start, and I
found myself face to face with my Queen.
“You have not been introduced to the Empress, and it is getting late,
come along,” so I followed obediently. Clad in a charming dress of
yellow silk, the Empress, with face wreathed in smiles, was telling the
ladies around her some incident that had happened in a Berlin hospital
which she patronised and visited twice a week--some difference between
nurses and doctors. She beckoned to us in a gracious manner, and, after
shaking hands with me, continued her easy, lively narrative, after
giving the newcomers a rapid description of the first part of her story.
The German Empress is called all over the realm “Die echte Deutsche
Frau,” and no appellation could better describe her sweet placid
countenance, her fair complexion, and the extreme modesty and _naïveté_
of her speech and manner. There is something fresh and genuine about her
which reminds one of the simple heroines celebrated by German poets in
_lieder_ and ballads. When about to retire she said: “I have asked your
Queen to send me her translation of your Roumanian ballads. I am so
sorry you have not the book with you. I am passionately fond of
folk-lore; that is what I call practical literature, and I like learning
to know nations through the songs of the people.... No, I am not at all
tired”; the Empress answered a question put by the Countess of Flanders.
“Dear Marie, we travel _so_ comfortably, and we see cheerful faces and
feel the warmth of glad hearts whenever we cease to look upon our sweet
German forests and hills and rivers. So travelling is quite a treat to
us. The Emperor also likes travelling abroad, but my preference is for
these journeys where at every turn of the road we find ourselves at
home.” The Empress was moving away and before her steps the crowd
respectfully receded. “Have you noticed the diamond her Majesty wears in
her hair--that solitary stone set high like a trembling star--or a
tear?” asked one of the Princes of me, as I returned to my place. “It is
a pathetic and precious gem, a relic indeed--the diamond which shone in
Napoleon’s triangular hat, _le petit chapeau du caporal_, when it was
found by Blucher’s troops under a tree after the battle of Waterloo. Go
and have a good look at it.” In haste I returned to where the Empress
was, and, standing behind, tried in vain to perceive the huge diamond.
Her Majesty was about to reach the door and disappear, when, turning
round, she perceived me, and with astonishing intuition exclaimed:
“Now, you desire to see my jewels--don’t be frightened, but come in
front of me. These pearls are lovely, but too big. Look at the diamond;
I always wear it.” But it was in vain that I waited to hear from the
Empress’ lips any confirmation of what I had been told.
Next morning I awoke with that delightful and rare consciousness that
something very bright and unusual had happened, and was about to happen
again. An hour after I was walking briskly along the banks of the river,
and as I watched the Danube glide peacefully by, the prospect of meeting
the Emperor again fell on my soul as gently as the rays of the ascending
sun. It was a cool, crisp morning, and streaks of blue mist hung round
the trees and above the waters, and I said to the Danube: “Alack, dear
rivulet, thou knowest not under what clear skies thy waves will ripple
before reaching their goal. Thou flowest towards my own native land,
dear little river, and there thou becomest as great and powerful as the
sea. No wet mornings, no mists to lie heavily upon thee thus. Thou
flowest fast to reach my native land.”
After a long constitutional I decided, before returning to the Castle,
to take a turn in the avenue called Prinzen Allee, where all the
royalties and most of the inmates of the Castle were strolling about
after early breakfast. Sovereigns and Princes were there, Princesses,
Generals and Aides-de-camp, and ladies in all varieties of costume. The
Empress was in a light grey morning blouse, the Emperor in a shooting
jacket; they talked to every one as each stopped to salute or curtsey.
The Empress smilingly inquired how I had begun the day, whether by
visiting or eating? and when I answered that I had preferred the latter
exercise, she said: “You look too healthy and rational ever to become a
starving poet.” The Emperor was in high spirits, pointing at the trees,
giving advice as to the training of dogs, and crossing the sward to
pluck some wild flowers. Showing them to me, he said: “They are not so
grand as your laurels, but very pretty. Now tell the truth, you have
been near the river to freshen up your laurels?” ...
In the afternoon we took a drive through the beautiful dark forests that
encircle Sigmaringen in a ring of sombre verdure. There in the soft
silence of the wood we were startled to hear the sound of bugles, and a
troop of horsemen rode rapidly past preceding a small group of riders.
In the midst of the group rode the Emperor, clothed in the black uniform
of the Todthussaren and mounted on a black charger. Again that set
resolute expression hardened his visage, again his eyes looked far into
the darkness of the forest with an awe-inspiring light in their dilated
pupils. Like a statue of stone, like an image of Fate, he passed on
heedless of our presence, casting never a glance on the carriages or
their occupants. Later on I heard that the Emperor had that very day
been much disturbed and angered by news received from Westphalia, where
great strikes had broken out among the workmen. Yet when again at five
o’clock we took tea with the Royalties in the splendid museum of
Sigmaringen Castle, to my unspeakable surprise another change of dress,
another change of face and humour, was presented by the Emperor for our
admiration. On both sides the old hall was adorned with glass cases
containing marvels of ancient art gathered together by the rare taste of
the late Prince of Hohenzollern. William II. then and there declared
that he worshipped Albrecht Durer, and showed in his praise of old vases
and skilfully chiselled silver, considerable proficiency in matters dear
to antiquaries and connoisseurs. No object, however small, however
darkened by the twilight of ages, escaped his shrewd scrutiny. He was
utterly different from the Emperor I had seen in the morning, that
imposing and gloomy black rider of the forest, yet to an acute observer
the sternness of eye and visage were still there, glossed over for a few
moments only.
“I teased you about those laurels this morning,” said he, as he
approached a corner where I had come upon a lovely Renaissance cup,
whose dainty ornamentation had captivated my attention. “By-the-bye,
where is the famous crown? I am quite disappointed. As soon as I arrive
people hasten to inform me that I will meet with an extraordinary
creature--a young girl who is _not_ a Queen and _not_ a Princess, yet
wears a crown--a crown of laurels, a crown given by the French Academy;
and when I expect to see a real laurel crown for the first time in my
life, here is the young person in question daring to show herself
bare-headed in the evening, and wearing stupid bonnets in the daytime!
Now, where is that crown? Do you keep it hanging over your bedstead, or
put it out at the window for passers-by to admire?”
“Sire, Emperors and Kings wear their crowns on great occasions, but not
even in the greatest moment of their existence are poets allowed to do
so, or your Majesty would have seen mine yesterday and to-day. Our
crowns are invisible--in fact they do not exist but in imagination; thus
the wealth and realms which we possess are beyond the reach of mortal
eye.”
“And you are not exposed to the danger of losing them!” said the
Emperor. “But do you mean to say you are going to remain a poet all your
life? Will not the malady pass off like the measles? Oh, I don’t
joke--to me a woman who writes is a being who is absurd, ridiculous.”
“I have been told before that your Majesty abhorred clever women, or the
interference of women in any but domestic affairs.”
“Oh, I don’t go such lengths. Clever women are dangerous women, one and
all, who ought to be muzzled before they can bite, but do you believe it
is necessary to be a clever woman to be a woman who writes? On the
contrary, women’s cleverness consists in avoiding ridicule, and clever
women are those who care for their good looks. Now can a woman who
writes remain pretty? The gestures, the attitude of a woman scrawling
away with all her might must utterly rout every æsthetical effort on her
part. Can a woman remain pretty when she is obliged to put on that
particularly stern frown with which one pursues an idea, or studies any
serious and important subject?” The Emperor stopped, evidently waiting
for a confused or a spirited answer, then he resumed: “Now, you are very
intelligent, much more than I could have believed a woman who writes
would prove. You are actually as smiling, as cool, as unaffected as if I
had not wounded your highest notions of womankind--perhaps your own
self-love.”
“I have no self-love, sir, but very firm convictions that nothing can
defeat.”
“Anyhow you are very good-natured and neither pretentious nor forward. I
am going to concede one or two points to you, though you do not seem to
care whether I consider womankind pushing or not. Music and painting may
render a woman’s existence very happy--even beneficial to her family,
and--I will allow that a woman is not quite unsexed for being a poet.
Women are unreasonable, so are poets: women are born to comfort and to
enhance the joy of living, and so are poets. Well, a poet you may remain
without exasperating me completely!”
“I thank your Majesty for his gracious permission.” The Emperor laughed,
and as the Empress came to his side he added: “I have been giving this
poor young lady a bit of my mind about femininism and women who write
novels.”
“The Emperor is the friend of poets, whether they be men or women,” said
the gentle lady, “and I must give him the Roumanian ballads to read.”
At dinner that day the Emperor proposed a toast in honour of the
Hohenzollern family and the Royalties, his cousins and peers assembled
there--with whom, said he, the Empress and himself had been so pleased
to spend hours which they would never forget. The speech, though short
and simple, was eloquent and full of vigorous sympathy; flame-like it
spread from soul to soul, and, delivered in a voice whose ring fell like
metal on the ear, it resounded through our hearts, and gave every one
present the sensation that each was in direct communion with the
speaker.
Before the Imperial pair left the Castle, such persons as had been
admitted to conversations of any length with them took private leave of
their Majesties. Thus I was ushered into a little blue drawing-room,
where the Emperor and Empress were waiting to bestow a parting word.
“I wish you good luck,” said William II., “and heaps of laurel
crowns--so many that your hair and brows may be quite hidden under them.
Is not that a kind wish?”
“No, no,” corrected the Empress, “I wish you happiness in whatever form
you may like to enjoy it, and peace.”
I stooped low to kiss the proffered hands, and then joined the ladies
and officials who were waiting in the hall. Presently from every door
Princes and Princesses came pouring in, and the German Sovereigns, who
had already bidden these adieu, glided simply through the circle, bowing
right and left. The _Heit die in Sieges Kranz_ struck up, and thus they
passed from our view.
Many a time since then have I met the two Imperial travellers, many a
time at the Italian Court, and many a time had to approach them. But
nowhere as in that straggling fortress of the obscure Middle Ages
nowhere as in those woods and gardens, did the real character of William
II. reveal itself to my attentive eyes. Nowhere better than in the
sombre forest, by the banks of the young Danube, did I learn to judge
what is strange, and to admire what is admirable, in the Emperor of the
German Realm.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Levitsky, St. Petersburg_
THE CZAR AND CZARINA AND THEIR FAMILY]
THE CZAR AND CZARINA
No three monarchs belonging to the same dynasty could have differed more
than the Emperors of Russia who successively occupied the Muscovite
throne during Queen Victoria’s long reign.
Every one knows what a haughty and violent though melancholy ruler was
the Czar Nicholas I., and how often he repeated the famous words which
revealed his imperious temper: “There is but one person in Russia, the
man to whom I speak, at the moment I am speaking to him.” (_Il n’y a
qu’un homme en Russie, celui auquel je parle, au moment où je lui
parle._) He was preceded on the throne by his brother, the dreamy and
mysterious Alexander I., the irreconcilable enemy of Napoleon, though
more than one effort did Bonaparte make to win his friendship. Many
strange and marvellous things are related concerning the Czar Alexander
I. He possessed very strong religious feelings, and the recent
publication of his correspondence with the famous Madame de Kruchner
shows how vivid was the interest that he took in the connection between
the visible and invisible worlds, and that he put the greatest faith in
the declarations of mediums as to their communication with the spirits
of the dead. His extreme piety, together with his sweet and gentle
disposition, gave birth to many legends, one of which still remains dear
to the hearts of his people.
It is a common belief amongst the lower classes of Russia, especially
the priests and monks, that the Emperor Alexander I. did not die on the
day on which he is supposed to have breathed his last, but that an empty
coffin was lowered into the vault where the remains of the Romanoff
family repose. This was done by his own expressed wish, in which his
wife, the Empress Elizabeth, acquiesced, and while the whole nation was
praying for the soul of the departed potentate, a quiet, plainly-attired
moujik stole away from the crowd of courtiers gathered round the new
Czar. Protected by the robe and hood of a wandering pilgrim, he
travelled on and on until he reached a solitary spot in the midst of the
vast Russian plain. There for many years he lived like the anchorites of
old. It was only once a year during the Easter festivities that he made
his appearance in the capital, and then he used to go straight to the
Imperial Palace. His stature was so erect, his bearing so dignified and
noble, his look so gentle yet so commanding, that no one ever dared
refuse him admittance. He would walk from hall to hall, his arms and
feet bare, and his long white hair and beard sweeping over his neck,
stopping only when he reached the threshold of the Czar’s private
apartments. The chamberlain who ushered him in never closed the folding
doors behind the silent visitor without waiting to observe that the
Czar, worshipped like a demi-god by all, yet stooped low when the
stranger entered and reverently kissed his shrivelled hand. The hermit
in time became a well-known figure, but no prayers or entreaties could
ever detain him more than one day in St. Petersburg, and when at last he
died he was buried there beside his forefathers in the fortress chapel.
The legend is quite affirmative as regards the latter point, and the
Emperor Alexander I. is cited by the monks as an example to those who
live in austerity and who aspire to holiness. This interpretation of
Alexander I.’s somewhat sudden illness and death shows that the worship
rendered by his subjects to the Ruler of the Russian Empire is loyal and
sincere, not only because his realm is as boundless as that of any
monarch of legend, and his dominions resemble those of King Philip II.
of Spain, upon which the sun never set, but simply from the mere fact
that the reigning Muscovite Czar is supreme head of the Russian Orthodox
Church. He is the sole representative to his subjects of God upon earth,
endowed, as were the Kings of France during the Middle Ages, with the
gift of healing by his touch and of curing maladies and all distress by
his presence. Superstition has raised this spiritual power to a supreme
point, and often when the Czar drives through the streets of Kief or
Moscow moujiks, women, and children fall frantically on their knees
before the horses of his state carriage, begging the coachman to let the
hoofs and wheels pass over their bodies, that they may in some way enter
into touch with the “Little Father” from whom all blessings spring.
Nicholas I. entertained an almost supernatural idea of his absolute
power and constant communion with the Almighty. He was, therefore,
dumfounded to find during the Crimean War that the Lord of Hosts had
apparently abandoned one who was in such close relationship to heaven.
He remembered with bitterness how different was the fate of Russia
during his brother’s reign, when victory was obtained against the Great
Victor, the French Emperor, before whom all Europe had trembled, yet
whose glory was scattered like the flakes of snow under which his army
was buried. Then the will of the Almighty had been clearly manifested;
Nicholas I. marvelled why he should now be defeated and humiliated; and,
still pondering upon the strangeness of the case, he died soon after the
conclusion of the war.