to see were not at home. With a weary gesture the ex-King rose. In the
broad avenue he resumed his easy gait once more. When I went up to our
apartment I found his simple card, “Count de Takovo,” on the tray, and
thought no more of that afternoon’s impression till the day when I heard
of his untimely end at Vienna, where he had so passionately desired the
presence of his beloved Sacha, the ungrateful son who did not come.
As to my first meeting with Queen Nathalie, it took place a very little
time after her divorce, when she paid a visit to our Court. We all went
to the station to witness her arrival, as she was more especially
interesting and attractive to us because she did not belong to a Royal
family, and because she is through her mother related to a great number
of Roumanian families. Her husband’s relatives never spoke very kindly
of her, and in the long run we had fallen into the habit of considering
her as a most arrant upstart, who had always endeavoured to convince
every one that birth and not good looks and good luck had brought her to
the position she enjoyed. Rumours of her ambitious designs, her desire
to make the Servians detest their King, and, finally, to take his place
upon the throne, besides petty anecdotes about her pretensions, which
spread like wildfire, caused the repudiated Queen to be considered with
more curiosity than commiseration. Our King alone had stood by her, and
always referred to the great tact and courtesy with which she had
received him at Belgrade. So he would now, in her days of woe, do his
best to show her kindness and regard. When, as the train came in, the
ex-Queen, who was tasting the bitter cup of misfortune, saw the
Sovereign of the land waiting for her on the platform, she obviously
felt a glow of triumph and of gratitude. As he went up and offered her
his arm, the beautiful velvety black eyes of the Queen filled with
tears. Though of an aspect somewhat heavy and massive, she was then an
apparition of exultant beauty and health. But in every step and gesture
even a casual observer could detect a singular mixture of tremor and
resolution, the fear of losing an atom of her dignity, yet an anxiety to
appear perfectly at her ease; a terrible difficulty in discovering the
exact measure of condescension and familiarity which a queen is called
upon to distribute, and the certainty that this thought was ever in her
mind, “I am a Queen: I must act and feel and speak like a Queen.” She
wore a dress of black satin, thickly studded with jet stars and pearls.
Her beautiful raven locks waved on her shoulders and even round her neck
at every movement of her head. Her complexion, of a creamy hue and yet
rosy, one of the loveliest I have ever seen, gave her the aspect of a
sturdy mountain deity, a fairy made of less ethereal essence than
fairies are usually imagined to embody. A creature who lives in a land
of clouds and tempests must needs represent strength and valour: thus
Queen Nathalie gave the impression of being some wild goddess of rocks
and moors. But the mystery that education and, maybe, heredity
bestows--the _je ne sais quoi_ which makes queens and duchesses and
those happy few who are queens without ever approaching a throne and
duchesses without wearing a coronet--was not present to render the
Balkan beauty a distinct type of grandeur and misfortune. I cannot but
remember what a great writer once said: “It requires much intelligence
on the part of an unfortunate woman to wear her misfortunes like a
diadem and her tears like a crown.” And that sort of intelligence Queen
Nathalie never possessed, although her virtue is perfect and her heart
tender.
When, for instance, she entered the big drawing-room at the Castel
Polesch at Sinaïa by the side of our own Queen “Carmen Sylva,” great was
the difference visible. The Royal lady, from her infancy accustomed to
play the part of a public personage, could do so without the slightest
effort, and always succeeded in effacing her personality in her desire
to draw out the soul and thoughts of those to whom she spoke. Queen
Nathalie spoke only of herself, her ideas about Servia, its inhabitants,
the army, the Sovereigns whom she had met; and in those hours of
conversation the one awful mistake of all her life was conspicuous to
our eyes--a mistake which made us readily understand why her great
qualities, her purity and good intentions, had all proved useless. Queen
Nathalie, unlike every other Queen, has insisted upon treating her
private affairs, her disputes with her husband, her displeasure at being
forsaken for another, as affairs of State.
After the official luncheon both the Queens retired to the Oriental room
of the castle, where I was summoned to join them. The chamber was
fragrant with the odour of flowers, and the sound of the mountain
torrent was borne in upon the sultry air. We had left the doors open,
and the dazzling light kindled a fire of golden rays in its reflection
from the walls, which were hung with richly-embroidered silks, while
round the seats flashed gold and silver arrows.
Queen Nathalie in her black dress formed a contrast to the luxurious
display of Asiatic pomp. “Carmen Sylva’s” sweet countenance and soft
white Roumanian garb seemed like a flake of whiteness fallen from
Western skies into a room worthy the dreams of the Arabian nights. Queen
Nathalie played nervously with her fan, at a loss at first how to engage
in the conversation. Then all at once, as if moved by an irresistible
impulse, she said: “I have had no letter from Sacha this morning. I am
so thankful to spend this day of anxiety with your Majesty. When I am by
myself I can do nothing but walk to and fro and weep.”
“Does the child write to you every day?” said our Queen gently; “that is
a great consolation.”
“Every day? Oh, no, only once a week; but this is the day when the
letter ought to have come. I live all the days of the week in
expectation of this day.” Then she stopped and said: “May I shut the
door? The dreadful light is _so_ trying to my eyes.”
I had forestalled the poor Queen’s gesture, and as the door closed the
walls and furniture sank into a haze of reddish, sleepy splendour; the
glory of the summer day, the sense of joy, were shut out, and the
torrent was heard no more. Our Queen took up the last words: “You
expect--you wait. Oh, do not weep, so long as you have something to wait
for, something to look forward to.”
“Look,” said Queen Nathalie, “here is my boy at the age of seven, and
here he is as he looks now; a fine fellow, and _so_ fond of me. I am
afraid they may teach him to hate me--teach him to be hard and selfish,
and a coward. Oh, what do we desire our sons to become!--what heroes and
what saints!”
“As a hero he would die young,” answered Queen Elizabeth. “As a saint he
would go through much suffering before he became a saint. Wish him only
to be a good man. All human joy comes from goodness.”
“But he will be a King--a grand and striking figure.”
“Alas!” said “Carmen Sylva,” “is it not the grandest, the most striking
thing on earth to be a good King in a quiet way? Do you hope to see him
again soon?”
“Oh, yes, perhaps; but I shall never, never have him to myself again. He
will never be my own Sacha again.”
“A Queen’s child does not belong to the Queen, but to the people, who
will tend and cherish him; and to fate, and to God.”
“Yes, to the people, to fate, to God,” echoed Queen Nathalie. And no
presentiment crossed her brow as she lifted up her head with
determination.
The second time I saw the Queen of Servia was at a garden-party in
Paris--one of those assemblies which are but a pretence to show off
spring toilettes and listen to pleasant music. The big drawing-room
windows opened on to the lawn, where in the middle of a group of ladies
I recognised Queen Nathalie, and even found that she was little altered,
though that air of heaviness had now settled upon her and the rosy tint
of her complexion had been replaced by a more vivid hue. She looked more
depressed and more dignified than in Roumania.
I took a chair outside on to the terrace and watched the gay scene. I
had to wait for some friends who had given me an appointment there. Two
ladies drew their chairs close to the spot where I was seated. One of
them, a Frenchwoman, bowed; while the other, whom I did not know, turned
her back upon me. She wore a simple grey serge dress, and immediately
she spoke I recognised the long, trailing accent of Russians when they
speak the French language. It was Madame Draga Maschin, afterwards the
ill-starred Queen; and though at the time I did not know her, yet
unwittingly I became interested in her, and was even wishing for an
opportunity of seeing her face when the words struck me, pronounced in
sing-song tones: “_I_ marry! Oh, I could not dream of such a thing. I
am an old woman”--a low laugh accompanied the words--“I have finished
with Satan and his pomps. Besides, no one ever takes any notice of me.”
A mute protestation came from the other lady, and then the insinuating
voice went on. “I am not a coquette, nor a flirt, nor any of those
horrid amusing things! My sole ambition is centred on one thought--to
please _her_.” And she pointed to the spot on the lawn where Queen
Nathalie was standing.
“And you spend a pleasant life?”
“Yes; but a very quiet one. I have been _so_ unhappy, so misunderstood,
so ill-used by my husband’s family since his death that I only sigh
after repose. Biarritz is restful, and the Queen is so good that I have
become very much attached to her. I am more than a lady-in-waiting.” I
heard again that low, rippling laugh which betrayed a strong
personality, though the words tried to deny or veil it. “I am sometimes
even lady’s maid. I love to comb her beautiful black hair; and then we
relate the story of our lives to each other. She also has suffered. How
horrible, oh, how horrible, it must be to be a Queen! How can any
sensible woman envy a Queen?”
“Hush!” and the other lady whispered in her companion’s ear, and the
stranger turned brusquely round in her chair and looked me full in the
face. Her countenance was well calculated to charm though not to
command attention; the features though delicate, lacked refinement, and
there was about the nose a deficiency of classical lines, while the
mouth twitched in a nervous way as if moved to smile without the courage
to do so. The glossy black hair waved round a low forehead where furrows
were already settled, traced not by age but by stern, resolute thought
and action. The eyes and eyebrows alone were perfect, and spoke of an
Oriental houri’s power. They had a vacant gaze, as if intent upon a
far-off vision, yet when they fixed themselves upon the present scene
they shot a gleam of resolution and authority. The figure was frail and
the manner unassuming. The gaze that rested upon my face was soon
withdrawn, and the conversation began again in the same train.
Madame Draga Maschin again described the sorrows of her life and the
thousand details of Queen Nathalie’s goodness to her, while twilight was
slowly creeping over the Parisian garden, and an atmosphere of peace
settled around us. The hum of lively voices and the strains of military
music, servants gliding about laden with trays bearing fruit, ices, and
wines, the light touch of the sleepy sun falling upon the muslin
draperies and scarfs, all inclined to soothe the senses with an hour of
lulled content.
“Oh, we are so happy in France,” resumed Madame Draga, as she took a
glass of champagne and daintily raised it to her lips. “I would never go
to Servia again if I could help it.”
“But who, or what, could oblige you to go to that nasty country again?”
“Oh, it is not nasty; it is my country; but I have enemies there,
whereas here every one loves me. But you understand the Queen is such a
devoted mother. She will one day desire to see more of her son than she
does at Biarritz, where he comes only for a short time. She will return
to Belgrade, and then I shall have to accompany her, and if she settles
there--oh, then, farewell flirtations; farewell all hopes of marriage.
But I won’t marry again; I am too old and plain, and I don’t flirt.
Besides, I suppose I should have even forgotten my native language. I am
getting so cosmopolitan that, only think, the young King, when he came
to Biarritz this summer, discovered that there were many words in
Servian I did not understand, and he laughed--he teased me.”
“What is he like, the young King?”
“Not good-looking--a child still in thoughts and manners--very plain
even, one may call him, and _so_ short-sighted. We tried to teach him to
dance, but he looked as awkward as a bear dancing on red coals. A young
savage, too--he does not know how to bow, how to speak to a lady. But
then he is young--quite a child. He asked me to waltz with him because
he dared not trust himself to do it with any of the other ladies
present. Now, you know, I do not dance; I have not danced for years. I
said to the King, ‘Sire, I am too old to waltz,’ but the Queen insisted
on my guiding her son through the difficulties of the dance. But the
King made a false step; he almost fell, and I am sure we made every one
laugh.”
“Then, if you do not like dancing, if you do not like flirting, if you
do not like the idea of marrying again, what is there you do like?”
“My Queen, and a peaceful life by her side, and many other things:
music, for instance--military music. There is something so unrestrained,
so powerful in military music. Just listen to the band--it is just
playing--let us look at the programme. Oh! Schumann, is it? I dote upon
Schumann.”
Draga now had risen. She was of middle stature, and rested a small
well-gloved hand on the marble balustrade of the terrace. Night was
setting in, and on the delicate features a low streak of red light
lingered as the sinking sun sent a last farewell from among the distant
trees. Behind the slight tulle veil a smile flitted across the curving
lips, paled by the sudden chillness of the hour. Again into the eyes
that look of vacant fixity had entered, and they appeared to gaze far,
far into the future--far, far into the depths of the blood-red sun.
The languid Schumann melody came ebbing to our feet like the waters of a
melodious sea, and the ill-fated woman listened to the same music that
on the supreme morning of her life was to sound through the avenues and
gardens around the palace where, after the madness of despair and
useless struggle, the Royal pair lay stark and cold.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Cané, Rome_
POPE LEO XIII]
THE POPE LEO XIII
The fate which rules over human existence seems to delight in the most
violent contrasts, in scenes of woe and grandeur succeeding each other
with wonderful speed: hence we find recorded almost in the same month
the tragical disappearance of a royal couple who died midst floods of
blood and screams of terror, and the peaceful end of one of the greatest
Popes that the Roman Catholic Church has ever acknowledged as head. By
turns we shiver and dream and pray when we come to compare the events of
that fateful June night in Belgrade, its infuriated mob, its maddened
passions and fearful murder, with the moments which marked the entrance
into eternity of the White Ascetic, as some called him, the White Sage
and Pastor, Leo XIII.
A few years ago I had the honour of being received by the Pope on a
clear January morning, which the sun’s bright rays rendered as silvery
as the flight of the wheeling doves above St. Peter’s massive dome. The
breeze, freshened by the coolness of the night, blew lightly from the
Sabine Hills, bringing with it a scent of pagan flowers, a thrill of
pagan beauty, to the sacred precincts, as if to symbolise the eternal
fight ever to be fought between the loveliness of outward forms, the
glamour of light and colour, and the austerity of souls who have turned
to Heaven on finding the world void. Ample time for reflection was left
to me during the long interval we had to wait before entering the
Vatican, as an immense number of Tuscan pilgrims had to be received
before us--early as the hour had been at which we had driven through the
high stone gate. On alighting from the carriage we remained in the vast
court, which is surrounded with a graceful colonnade, and here our black
veils were nearly torn from our heads by the swift morning wind. Now and
then a busy _contadina_ paced quickly along the pavement and entered the
colossal church. In my bosom, though I tried to think only of the great
moment which was to follow, strife was raging; memories swift and
piercing as arrows crossed my mind, and I saw the mute forms--those
forms of bronze and marble that fill the Belvedere--rise in battle array
against the altar and the palace where the White Ascetic lived and
prayed. Extraordinary it seemed to me and almost appalling in that early
morning hour, when silvery doves cooed and circled--appalling and
extraordinary it seemed that the realms of immortal harmony should touch
the realm of immortal desires; that this religion, whose last vestiges
were scattered under the naked feet of rude fishermen, should reign in
close vicinity to its victor. Almost impiously I found myself imagining
that in the blue moonlit nights of the Latin Campagna scenes worthy of
northern ballads might again take place. I imagined the fettered Venus
and Apollo shaking off their slumber and leaving their pedestals to walk
through this same court of dreams and peace, then crossing the white
Vatican halls to go and gaze upon the features of Christ and the
Madonna, painted over and over again by Raphael and Fra Beato. And I
imagined them discovering that it was the same love of art which had
made them lovely and eternal in the memory of man, that made Jesus and
His holy Mother dear to reverence and faith; that there was a link
between them which ages could not destroy, and that they would again and
again return to their contemplation in the moonlit galleries. But what
could the stony multitude of gods and heroes say as they glided past the
chamber where the White Ascetic slept? What god or hero could they
compare with him who was neither God nor man, but a mortal fraught with
human weakness--a creature of clay, though adored as a deity; an old,
old man, with gestures weak as those of a little child, yet whose eyes
shone and glimmered like the eyes of those whose fate it is to rule and
to control?...
At this juncture in my reverie a flood of people streamed from the
Vatican doors. All were talking loudly, and all were in the humble
attire of Italian peasants or small bourgeois. The emotion of having
seen “Il Papa” made their tones shrill as each tried to prove that he
had seen him better than his neighbours. From such scattered sentences
as reached me I discovered that they had first heard Mass at St.
Peter’s, and had then been brought into the presence of his Holiness,
who had addressed a speech to them. He had also blessed the beads they
held in their hands or clasped eagerly to their bosoms. There was a hum
of happy excitement among them while we vainly tried to pierce the
crowd, and it was only after much difficulty that we succeeded in
reaching the short flight of steps leading to the great hall. Here an
idle group of soldiers allowed us to pass on showing our letter of
audience, and we ascended the main staircase. From hall to hall we were
ushered by footmen wearing the picturesque costume designed for them by
Michael Angelo at the request of his friend and patron Leo X. In these
vast echoing halls a large number of soldiers stood motionless, and
preceding us always was one of those _camerias di casa_ or _di spada_,
who are the Pope’s chamberlains, and who all belong to the most ancient
Roman families. Here the stately form of a monsignor, whose violet sash
relieved the uniformity of his black cassock, there the whispering
apparition of an archbishop surrounded by a small train of servitors and
friends, announced that we were in a place teeming with
tradition--perhaps the one place upon earth where tradition is still
living and still respected. With but few exceptions, the figures we saw
were the same as had graced these marble halls two centuries ago, and a
Pope of long gone ages might have risen from his tomb and found no
change in the Vatican but that of face or voice. Of all the Courts I had
visited this Court now seemed to me the most gorgeous and the best
arranged.
Upon a sign from one of the ushers we stopped to wait, and our emotion
grew intense. We had been told that as we did not belong to the Roman
Catholic Church, we should not have to kneel on entering the room where
the Pope would receive us, but make a very low curtsey, something like a
genuflexion, before approaching him. Although not as the head of our
religion, those of the Orthodox faith look upon him as the successor of
St. Peter and hold him in reverence, especially among the cultivated
classes. Among our peasantry I am ashamed to own that the fact of being
a Papist is tantamount to the confession of being a heathen; but in
Transylvania and even Roumania there are many of my countrymen who
profess the Catholic creed and are yet unmolested. Even in the immediate
vicinity of Bucharest there is a Roman Catholic settlement, and to this
fact the monsignor who held conversation with us while we waited made
allusion, asking us many questions about our native land.
A hasty summons, a noise of opening doors, and in a few seconds we found
ourselves in presence of the Pope. We had walked as in a dream, and I
would be embarrassed at this moment to tell whether we actually knelt or
forbore to do so, whether our curtseys and genuflexions were correct,
or were omitted altogether. I awoke to reality only when I noticed that
the Pope was showing us a seat by his side. He occupied a high chair,
where the extraordinary whiteness of his garb and his face made one
large luminous spot. I remembered having heard from some nun whose
special mission it was to weave and cut and sew the Pope’s vestments
that he never wore anything on his body that was not absolutely white.
As his pale thin hands rested on the woollen tunic, I saw that St.
Peter’s ring, the heavy gold circlet on his third finger, was the only
note of colour in that symphony of immaculate snow. A huge purple
amethyst contains St. Peter’s hair--a few threads only--which lend to
the ring its high significance. By that ring the Pope is Bridegroom of
the Church, her Spouse and her Beloved, as once the Doge of Venice was
the affianced of the Adriatic Sea, on throwing into the bosom of its
waters a huge symbolic ring. Slowly, with intent gaze, the Pope scanned
our countenances, and before speaking sank back in his high chair with
closed eyes as if weary beforehand of the coming exertion.
There was no trace of colour in his wan cheeks, not the least sign of
blood under the skin to mark the curve of the lips; his nostrils were
tinged by the hue of pale amber that floated on his forehead; he was
like a slumbering marble statue stretched on a mediæval tomb. His
inaudible breath did not stir the folds of his tunic, his heavy eyelids
fell like the petals of a faded flower, and he seemed already dead. We
could believe ourselves present at the great spectacle of a Pope’s dying
hour, and remained in awed terror till the motionless form moved,
stirred; and finally, as if the touch of the spirit from above had
inspired him with life and force, Leo XIII. opened his bright black
eyes, threw his hands apart, and took a long deep breath. His lips
trembled; but in tones whose steadfast clearness can never be forgotten
by those who have once heard them, he began speaking fluently as one
accustomed to question and treat of every subject.