respects. Of a sweet, yielding disposition, he possessed none of the
self-assurance of his haughty and imperious father. His private life was
not a happy one; he lost his eldest son, a charming youth, and he heard
the stifled murmurings of future revolutions rise around his throne. It
is a singular fact that it was under the reign of the first Russian
Czar who took a real interest in the fate of the lower classes, who
delivered the Russian peasant from servitude, that Nihilism should have
sprung up, and he, the magnanimous ruler, was almost its first victim.
Without having known Alexander I. personally, still I have heard much
about his character, ideas and conversation, as he made a long stay in
our country on two occasions during the Russo-Roumano-Turkish War. My
own father also had several opportunities of approaching the Czar at
Plevna, where our King, then only Prince of Roumania, was acting as
Commander-in-Chief to the Allied Armies. Much esteem and regret is felt
for his memory by those of my countrymen who met the Czar then as he
travelled from village to village, followed by an innumerable staff. An
immense host of servants preceded him, and tried hard to make the sordid
Bulgarian huts, where the Emperor had to pass the night, as comfortable
as possible. This produced a strange and almost painful contrast between
the miserable poverty of the scene, the clay floor, the mud walls, the
roof so low that it was almost impossible for a tall man to stand erect
under it, the narrow windows and look of indescribable wretchedness that
hung over the whole place; and the heavy gold plate upon which the
Emperor’s meals were served, the gorgeous livery of his retainers, the
richly embroidered counterpane thrown across the narrow bedstead--in a
word, the pompous array of splendid grandeur by which a Czar is ever
surrounded. Throughout the whole campaign people noted the unusual
expression of fatigue and sadness upon the Emperor’s countenance, though
his slim, handsome figure held itself erect as ever, and he tried to
smile when called upon to distribute praise or encouragement.
“It cannot be denied,” said my father, “that the Emperor was kind and
amiable, but what endeared him to all was his face, in which an
expression of pathetic sadness was always struggling with pride and
fortitude. He looked great indeed when I rode near him on the morning of
August 30, 1877. We were not three gunshots distance from Plevna. It was
St. Alexander’s Day, so to celebrate the Czar’s Feast Day a sudden
attack on Grivita--one of the enemy’s best defended fortresses--had been
planned, and we expected that the sun which rose in all its summer
fairness would set upon scenes of bloodshed and victory.
“Those few moments after dawn the sight of the army was splendid to
behold. As far as the eye could reach, swords, plumes and bayonets
glittered in the dazzling light of an Oriental morning. Flags fluttered,
trumpets sounded, and an air of festivity pervaded the warlike throng;
while above us, black against the dark blue sky, rose the menacing forms
of those towers from which death would fall upon us in a few hours.
Suddenly an intense silence fell upon the multitude, as one by one the
Orthodox priests advanced, magnificently attired in vestments of gold
and silver brocade. The Emperor’s own Chaplain took the lead, holding
the holy images of the Saints high above his head. At that moment from
the opposite side of the field appeared the Emperor, followed by his
Generals and Aides-de-Camp. He rode into the middle of the wide circle,
while frantic cheers rose from every side to greet him. The priest
lifted the Image and the Cross to the Imperial lips. The Emperor stooped
slightly to meet them and then took up his place in the centre of the
group of officers to which I was attached. I was only a few steps behind
him, and could see his every movement. The divine service began in the
high, grave tones of the Russian liturgy, hymns of praise to the
Almighty which we all repeated in our hearts in accents of earnest
entreaty, and whose meaning took such deep import from the place and the
circumstances in which they were uttered. The Emperor sat motionless in
his saddle; his face was stern and set, and he retained during the whole
ceremony the same air of pride and determination, but his large soft
eyes wandered along the dense lines of the regiments. No doubt his
thoughts ran in the same channel as ours, no doubt he was saying to
himself, ‘Only God knows how many of these brave fellows will be
senseless or plunged in agony before to-night,’ and I noticed that the
hand which held the rein trembled slightly, while the ‘White Father’
prayed for his Russian children as well as for their Roumanian friends.
“As the Emperor turned his charger’s head to leave the field he cast
another long, troubled look over the mass of uniforms, horses and
lances, and his lips moved murmuring words whose import I could not
catch as they were in Russian, words perhaps of leave-taking and
benediction, and then, amid a tempest of acclamations, the aged monarch
passed from our sight. The afternoon of that terrible day is one never
to be forgotten by those who, like myself, deafened by the roar of guns,
blinded by gunpowder, and drunk with the wild exaltation of the moment,
rushed to the assault. After losing our best officers and bravest
soldiers, we at length became masters of the place, but when, weary and
haggard, mere wrecks of humanity, we tried to regain our encampments, we
had to wade through a lake of blood in which corpses lay thick under the
starlit sky. The following morning the same religious ceremony took
place as had been held the previous day, but how altered were the
countenances, the attitude of those who, though victors, mourned the
loss of so many brothers and comrades! No Te Deum was to be sung, but a
solemn mass in honour of the glorious dead. Amidst the deep silence the
Emperor made his appearance, a strange pallor over-spreading his fine
features, while his eyes were cast down during the whole of the divine
service. I do not think I have ever seen such fervour and ardour as he
displayed while the priests slowly chanted the Requiem and raised their
hands to heaven. Almost immediately after the Mass the Te Deum was
rendered in thanksgiving for the possession of the Grivita Heights,
whose conquest was really a proud achievement for the Roumanian Army.
Again the Emperor tried to force a smile, but there was on his lips a
shade of sadness which made me in after years imagine that some strange
presentiment of his own tragic and untimely end must have crossed his
mind at that moment. We learned to love him well in the Bulgarian
Plains....”
Of the four Russian Emperors whom I find it necessary to mention here,
Alexander III. proved himself most faithful to the dictates and
sentiments of his race. He was a thorough Muscovite, the father and
apostle of Panslavism. A barbarian in many respects, he was a true
representative of his own predominant idea that Russia should rule
Europe by the strength of all that is most profoundly Russian or most
truly adapted to the Russian spirit. He it was who prescribed the almost
exclusive use at Court of the Russian language, which had been laid
aside in favour of French during the two preceding reigns. On this point
he insisted with obdurate persistency. He loved France and England well,
better indeed than any other nations, but he loved them for their own
sake, and refused to let his empire be influenced by ideas and facts and
books which did not have their roots deep in the Russian soil.
“I will not hear any language but my own spoken in my presence,” he
said, “so long as there are no foreigners in our country to whom we have
to be civil. Literature as well as everything else will benefit by the
gratification of my supreme desire to see the upper classes in Russia
resume studying the language of our forefathers.”
Though self-willed and sometimes violent in the development and
accomplishment of his political views, in private Alexander III. showed
a lively disposition. He was a kind and indulgent husband and father,
and simply worshipped his frail and delicate Empress, the charming
Princess Dagmar, whom he had received as an inheritance from his dying
brother, and whom he prized as a jewel more precious than any in his
Imperial crown. But at the very dawn of her beautiful and gracious
motherhood the sweet and adored Empress lost the stalwart companion of
her youth--Alexander III. went down to an early grave....
I would no more think of attempting to describe a personage, whether
royal or belonging to a less exalted rank, without making mention of his
ancestors, his education, and the atmosphere in which he had developed,
than I would launch into the endeavour to describe some landscape or
monument without mentioning the lights and shades by which it was
surrounded, and the people who have drawn comfort or distress from the
sight of it. In contrast to what I have related of his forefathers, the
present Emperor of Russia will stand out in striking relief. He is
neither haughty and imperious like his namesake Nicholas I., nor
melancholy and dreamy like Alexander II., nor does he in any way
resemble his father Alexander III., whose strong, wilful temper almost
verged on stubbornness, whose aspect was that of a giant, and whose
timidity was only equalled by his great kindness and the almost violent
grasp which he laid upon an idea, never allowing it to escape from him
till he had carried it out in its entirety. Nicholas II. takes after his
Danish mother, and, as every one knows, he is almost the double of the
Prince of Wales, his first cousin. I cannot, however, understand how
people can actually mistake the one for the other, since every time I
see the Prince of Wales I am struck by the thoroughly English expression
of his physiognomy, while in my opinion few faces are more
characteristic of the type of the clever young Russian student than that
of the Czar. He has besides the eager manner that belongs to this
particular type, though the education bestowed upon him as Hereditary
Grand Duke has done much towards giving him the gravity and dignity
necessary to his high rank. The Czar was still Czarewitch when I first
saw him, and he then gave me such a sense of youthful enthusiasm and
freshness of mind that it is with wonder I read now in the papers
accounts of ceremonies at which he has to preside with a countenance
suitable to the occasion, and I am dismayed to hear how silent and grave
he showed himself during his two visits to France. It is true I had
seen the Czarewitch on an occasion when he had no official part to play,
but simply showed a passing act of courteousness. On our way from one
train to another in a German station, he stopped to speak to our Queen,
who appreciated his delicate nature and fine intellectual qualities. I
cannot explain how it was that these two high personages, both
travelling _incognito_, came to meet in the dingy, stifling air of this
place, amid the deafening whistle of panting steam-engines, and should
thus be led to speak of literature and art, but the Czarewitch had not
been with us two minutes before he said:
“I love travelling but only when I can do it in my own way. I never
travel otherwise than at night, and spend my day visiting museums and
quaint old streets, bazaars when I am in the East, antiquarian shops
when I am in the North. I am more of an Asiatic than a European in my
tastes, and I have not only a vast collection of Indian curios and quite
an army of Buddhas large and small, but also a library composed of books
treating of Indian subjects alone, and another of books dealing with
Egyptian lore. Were I not--well, what I am--I should be the greatest
bookworm in the world.”
There was a flash of enjoyment in the large grey eyes as he mentioned
his favourite pursuits, then he went on:
“I should like to live half my life completely in Russia, hear only
Russian spoken, and see things that are solely Russian, then spend the
rest of the time in running over the world and bringing back its
treasures to my darling country.” A touch of his father’s patriotism
illumined the last words. “But then, one can never realise all one’s
castles in the air, and duty is a beautiful thing simply because it is
gilded over with the light of personal sacrifice. Besides, are we not
often most attached to the desires that we know we can never
accomplish?” The whirl of busy travellers eddied around us while I gazed
earnestly into the face of the future Czar, a face whose expression was
intense yet dreamy. A very slight brown moustache softened the outline
of his upper lip. His figure, his hands, his every movement, were
fragile and elegant, reminding us of those slim Marquises who at the
Court of Louis XIV. brushed the dust of the battlefield off the gilded
lace of their sleeves, and talked of bloodshed and perils as they glided
gracefully through the intricacies of a minuet. Yet the expression of
the Czarewitch’s face was marked with decision, and his features
recalled those of the Muscovite race. “What a pity,” I thought, as I
gazed upon his form and listened to his witty conversation, “what a pity
that one day this clever and buoyant personality must be chained to a
throne!... But how proudly he will wear a crown!” was my next reflection
as the light of patriotism dawned in his eyes and played round his
features--the gaze with which his ancestors looked down upon the
kneeling millions from the heights of palaces or the threshold of
altars.
But the Emperor who is an enthusiast as regards Asiatic religions and
Asiatic art, who loves Indian splendour and the glow of dying Byzantium,
is also the most European of all the three Emperors, his predecessors.
He does not strive to exclude modern ideas from his Empire, and is,
indeed, very liberal-minded, a quality he has acquired during his
numerous voyages and intimate intercourse with his English cousins. His
marriage with a Princess belonging to an enlightened family has
increased these tendencies.
The same year that I encountered the Czarewitch my good fortune brought
me in momentary contact with the beautiful Princess who was to be his
spouse. We were staying at Wiesbaden with our Queen, and one rainy
afternoon her Majesty had decided to call upon Bach and Beethoven in
place of regretting the absent sunshine. Strict orders were, therefore,
given that no one was to be admitted but the persons belonging to the
Queen’s most intimate circle. We were gathered round the piano listening
to the great master’s inspiration with rapt attention when a slight
sound at the door caused me to rise and inquire into the cause of the
disturbance. The Queen’s footman stood there with a troubled expression
on his face. “If you please, ma’am,” he said, “there are two ladies
downstairs; they wish to see the Queen immediately. I told them it was
impossible for them to do so, but they insist.”
“The Queen does not receive without being asked for the favour of an
audience.”
“I told them so, ma’am, but they are _so_ determined. They are very
pretty, they must be actresses....”
“Great ladies, perhaps, Princesses ...?” I put in.
“No, no, ma’am, actresses, of course. They are pretty and so simply
dressed. Besides,” and he drew himself up with dignity, “_I_ know all
the Royal Highnesses in the world.”
I could not then stop to interrogate him, but since then I have often
wanted to know why the man who knew all the Royal Highnesses of the
world should have decided that beauty and good taste in dress were the
exclusive privileges of actresses!
“Will you go and tell them that you have spoken to me and that I am very
sorry but that her Majesty is not in the habit of receiving in the
afternoon. And ask them to tell you their names.”
“I will go, ma’am, but all I say is of no use. There they have been in
front of the hotel for the last twenty minutes. They will not go!”
By this time my curiosity was aroused and I decided to go down myself
and have a peep at the pretty actresses. Opposite the front door was a
landau in which were two ladies clad in mourning dresses of thick serge,
who leaned forward as they perceived me. They seemed both very young and
very pretty indeed. The fairer of the two said in sweet, low, trembling
tones, “We are due to leave by the six o’clock train, so please let the
Queen know I must see her immediately.” There was an authoritative ring
in her gentle voice.
“But, madame, it is impossible. It seems to me that you can never have
approached a Queen before, to think that you can thus be admitted into
her Majesty’s presence without any notice!”
“The Queen will be delighted to see me,” and the unknown looked full
into my eyes with a mischievous and alluring smile, while the dimples
played in her rosy cheeks and her childish blue eyes were alive with
fun. I began to feel rather uncomfortable but went on expostulating
though feebly. Both ladies alighted, and I was returning in all haste to
relate the adventure to the Queen when, before I had time to cross the
threshold, the charming stranger had laid her hand on my arm.
“You see,” she said, “I know who you are, I even know your several
nicknames, and yet you cannot guess who I am. How amusing!” With these
words she tripped gently into the room, and I heard the glad exclamation
with which our Queen greeted her. “Dear, dear Irene, dear child--and
unannounced, how nice, how awfully nice of you! Come in, Hélène, I must
introduce you to the Princess Henry of Prussia, a young matron who is
not at all fond of her husband....”
“Your Queen is such a tease,” said the Princess, blushing. “Only think,
once she insisted that I wanted to enrol myself as a lady sailor, and
gather a fleet of ladies to follow our husbands when they go on long
voyages! I must admit that I am very unhappy when the Prince is away.
Without him everything is altered, life is _so_ grey, _so_ slow. But I
must tell you, Elizabeth, this young girl wanted to send me away in a
most disgraceful manner.”
“And the footman mistook her Royal Highness for an actress because she
was so pretty; he thought she could not be anything else,” I rejoined.
The Princess laughed, and I left her and the Queen in close conversation
while I entered the small parlour where my sister had already struck up
such a close friendship with the _dame d’honneur_ that I felt sure she
must be very amiable and clever. I always judge a princess by her
lady-in-waiting, and this time I was about to crown the high opinion I
had formed of the Princess Irene of Prussia by praising her choice of
her _dames d’honneur_ when I discovered that the lady in question
belonged to the Court of Darmstadt and was the constant companion of
Princess Alice of Hesse.
“Do come to Darmstadt,” said she. “The Princess will be delighted if you
will spend a few days with her. She is very remarkable, our young
Princess, so serious and sincere, so quiet and correct in her
appreciations of people. She has no taste for futilities, and dress,
balls, even sport do not appeal to her much. She prefers her books, the
study of her own soul, and the philosophy of human life. She is proud,
not of her birth, her rank, or her beauty as you might suppose, but of
the great effort she daily makes towards the development of the better
side of her instincts and talents. I wish you could see her and hear her
converse. At first she seems cold and reserved, but by-and-by when she
begins to feel in sympathy with her interlocutor her shyness and silence
disappear. Then she speaks out on any subject she happens to choose. She
has fairy hands and her needlework is extraordinary. I cannot help
thinking that she will have a brilliant future and an existence full of
splendid toil.” And the charming lady went on to relate scenes from the
quiet and serious Court life of Darmstadt till our one hope, our one
desire, was to visit her there. When she left with the Princess we were
quite excited over the subject till the Queen said:
“But, you stupid children, we are leaving for Roumania in two days.”
Our countenances fell. “Without seeing Princess Alice and the
incomparable _dame d’honneur_?”
“See them again,” said the Queen, “why, you shall do so this very day.
Put on your bonnets. We will accompany the Princess to the station.”
The train was already in when we reached the platform, and my heart beat
fast for fear we had missed the Princess. We were about to retrace our
steps when Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein came to my rescue by
saying to the Queen, “They have not left yet. The train is due to stop
twelve minutes longer, and I suppose that it will stop as long as we
like. There--Alix, Victoria and Irene are in the carriages. I will tell
them of your presence, and they will alight.” Kind Princess Christian
went to her nieces and in a few minutes they all alighted from the
carriage, declaring how surprised and delighted they were to see the
Queen. A very tall, slim girl stood shyly behind the Princess Irene and,
though the stately Princess Victoria of Battenberg towered high above
her, there was a touch of grandeur and dignity in her slender form which
I had never seen before in one so young. She wore a broad-brimmed black
hat from which hung a long feather of the same sable colour. The soft
colour of her chestnut hair cast a radiance over her pure white brow and
her haughty grey eyes glittered like the snow under a moonlit sky. The
contours of her cheeks, her chin and profile, were harmonious while her
lips firmly set spoke of a strong will though there was gentleness also
in their curves.
“I must introduce my sister Alix to you,” said Princess Irene, and the
proud beauty stepped forward and with a graceful movement stooped to
kiss the Queen’s hand which, however, the Queen suddenly drew back. This
gesture of graceful homage to one whose rank and years alike made her
venerable was accomplished by the Princess Alix without abating a jot of
her cold and imperious demeanour and no additional colour rose to her
faintly tinged face. The _dame d’honneur_ who was now at her elbow
pointed to us, and with a kindliness which changed her whole
countenance, giving it a childish expression of eagerness, the Princess
turned to us with outstretched hands.
“You will be able to manage this visit to Darmstadt, won’t you? From
what my lady-in-waiting says I am sure you would love our Court and that
I shall love you. Do come. We have such fine forests all around. I hear
you love music and poetry and recitations. We might get up theatricals,
though for my own taste I prefer a poem read aloud, and read well, to
the theatre. Poetry calms the soul and makes it strong. I am sorry we
are leaving so soon....”
“And we are leaving, too, madam.”
“For Roumania?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you are glad to return to your country?”
“Not this time, for we should have liked to go to Darmstadt so much. And
we know your Royal Highness would be such a pleasant, gay companion.”
“I am afraid this lady has been exaggerating as she always does when she
speaks about me. Of course, I am gay sometimes, and sometimes I can be
pleasant, I suppose, but I am rather a contemplative, serious being, one
who looks into the depths of all water, whether it be clear or dark.”
The expression of majesty and repose returned to the beautiful
countenance and reminded me again of snow-lit mountains where sunshine
and shade dwell by turns.
“Alix, take leave of the Queen and the ladies now. It is high time to do
so.” The words were spoken by the Princess Victoria of Battenberg and
her motherly glance dwelt fondly on the lovely face of her young sister.
The Princesses entered the railway carriage one by one, but Princess
Alix remained in the corridor waving her handkerchief till she was out
of sight and the last I saw of her as a Princess was that figure of
proud loveliness carried away into the glorious future, into the haze of
grandeur and happiness where she would still remain the cold and
beautiful lady who loves all that is pure and grave.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Brogi, Florence_
MARGHERITA DI SAVOIA, DOWAGER QUEEN OF ITALY]
MARGHERITA DI SAVOIA, DOWAGER QUEEN OF ITALY
After letting our eyes steep themselves in the pure abundant light that
bathes the Seven Hills, with soul weary from their long dwelling on
Rome’s historic past, and dazzled by the splendour of these ancient
glories which to-day lend a meaning to every step the clear-eyed
traveller takes in Rome, we return slowly to modern life, and our
carriage finds its place amongst the many vehicles wending their way
towards the Villa Borghese or the Villa Pamphili.