The Prater—The Carriages—The Crowd and the Sovereigns—The Sovereigns’ Incognito—Alexander Ypsilanti—The Vienna Drawing-Rooms—Princesse Bagration—The Narischkine Family—A Lottery.

I had promised to meet Alexander Ypsilanti in the grand avenue of the Prater, and at the appointed time I was there. To me the beautiful spot teemed with delightful recollections; each scene reminded me of a fÊte, of a love-tryst, or of a meeting with friends, of dreams, of hopes, of illusions, perhaps gone for ever.

During a long pilgrimage in my younger days, I have seen all the renowned public promenades of Europe, and everywhere the people maintained that the one adorning their own capital was superior to any other. I have always preferred the Vienna Prater to the Bois de Boulogne, to Kensington Gardens, to the Wood at the Hague, to the Cascines of Florence, and to all the other vaunted resorts whether at Moscow, Petersburg, or Constantinople; for in the first-named spot are united the beauties of nature that delight the eye, and the sight of a happy condition, comforting and refreshing to the soul.

The Prater abuts on the faubourgs of Vienna. It is situated on one of the islands of the Danube, which virtually constitutes its boundary. It is throughout planted with century-old trees, affording a majestic shade, and preventing the huge greensward from being scorched by the sun. It is crossed in every direction by imposing avenues. As at SchÖnbrunn, and at the majority of like resorts in Germany, herds of deer browse peacefully on the heights or disport themselves in the flatter parts, thus imparting life and motion to the delicious solitude. These are properly the aspects of a mild and virgin nature, but at the same time they are embellished by all the resources of cultivation and art. To the left of the Prater, on entering it from the city, there is an immense lawn, set apart for the display of fireworks; to the right there is a circus capable of accommodating several thousands of spectators; facing one, a large avenue of chestnuts, bordered on each side by elegant constructions, including a number of shops, cafÉs, and casinos where the Viennese can indulge to their hearts’ content in their well-known love for music.

In the avenue of chestnuts, constantly filled with sumptuous carriages and with riders managing their mounts of all breeds with that peculiar Hungarian skill, the wealth and display of all the neighbour-states of Austria seem to have forgathered. The emperor himself drives an unpretending ‘turn-out’ with the simplicity of a well-to-do tradesman bent upon an airing; while a hackney-cab, taken by the hour, and fearing no competition, gets right into his imperial majesty’s road, and is itself overtaken by the vehicle of a Bohemian magnate or by a Hungarian palatine tooling a four-in-hand. In a lightly-built calÈche, drawn by horses with manes streaming in the breeze, are seated women with complexions like lilies and roses, and presenting the appearance of baskets of flowers. The constant variety of the scenes, the animation of the pedestrians, the general bustle, increased by the presence of numberless strangers, but tempered by the constitutional gravity of the Germans themselves, constitute a most lovely and stirring picture; it is a scene by Teniers, framed in a landscape by Ruysdael.

The life of the Viennese in the Prater is a pretty faithful image of their own government, a despotic government, no doubt, but which, for all that, has only one aim—the welfare and material prosperity of the country. Differing from other states, and notably from France, whose administration, constantly libelled and insulted, takes its revenge by making the ‘governed’ its enemy, the public powers in Austria, subject to no control, assiduously endeavour to be the protector and the guide of the people. That protection is accepted with joy; and if despotism is now and again constrained to show its teeth, its dictates are, as it were, carried out in the family circle and with the lesser or greater consent of the calm and thoughtful people itself. Consequently, the alien, watching them under those magnificently umbrageous pleasure resorts, and beholding the emperor, his family, and his ministers mingling with the crowd, unprotected either by guards or escorts, is tempted to envy them such a genuine and solid happiness.

During the period of the Congress the Prater became more brilliant than it had ever been before. Vienna was so full of strangers, coming from all countries to be the eyewitnesses of an assembly supposed to be the fitting termination to an epoch replete with prodigious events, that the number of carriages had incredibly increased. There was an infinite variety of dresses, Hungarian, Polish, and Oriental, an infinite number of uniforms whose wearers hailed from every part of Europe, and who dazzled the sight with their splendour. Masses of people, driving, riding, and walking under the still warm rays of an autumn sun, imparted to the beautiful spot even more than its ordinary animation.

What struck me most, at the first sight, was the great number of carriages of the same shape and colour, and all drawn by two or four horses. It was simply the result of another exquisitely courteous attention of the emperor, who made it a point that the sovereigns and the members of their suites should be provided solely from the imperial stables, and as such ordered three hundred conveyances of an identical form to be built and to be held, day and night, at the disposal of his guests.

This living panorama enabled me to review, in the space of a few minutes, all the sovereigns and celebrities contained within the walls of Vienna. A prominent figure among these was Lord Stewart, the English ambassador, himself driving a team of four horses which would have won the approval of the habituÉs of Hyde Park. Almost immediately behind him, in an elegant chaise, came the Emperor Alexander, his charming sister the Duchess of Oldenburg seated next to him; while on one side of the conveyance Prince EugÈne de Beauharnais, and on the other the Crown Prince of WÜrtemberg, both on horseback, pay their court, though for different motives, to the illustrious pair. Alexander had dispensed with all his decorations, except one, that of ‘l’ÉpÉe’ of Sweden, which, to speak the truth, shone with great elegance and brilliancy on his dark green uniform. A little further on, in an open calÈche, I caught sight of Alexander’s second sister, the Grand-Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, no less charming and graceful than her elder. Following these comes Emperor Francis in an unpretending phaeton, accompanied by his young and sweet consort, his third wife, Marie Louise of Austria-Este, her comely features beaming with happiness.

At that moment, the crowd of pedestrians instinctively stops with a feeling of pride and respect to watch Prince Charles (of Bavaria) himself driving his family in an unpretentious conveyance.

Zibin, dressed in his brilliant uniform of hussars, is borne along swiftly on a Ukrainian charger; his hat is surmounted by a plume of feathers which might easily be mistaken for the tail of a hirsute comet. The grand berline, with its panels decorated with large—somewhat too large—scutcheons, contains Sir Sidney Smith, conspicuous by the liberal display of his quarterings amidst this very modest company. The King of Prussia gallops with a solitary aide-de-camp, and close to him come the Prince of Hesse-Homburg and Tettenborn, to both of whom I send a fraternal salute.

Lord Castlereagh showed his long-drawn face, with ennui stamped on every line of it, from a coupÉ. It did not even light up when a hackney-cab ran into the calÈche of the Pasha of Widin. After this came the carriages of the archdukes, keeping religiously in line, and, as far as their amusements went, claiming no privileges beyond those of simple private individuals. ‘Only using their rights when discharging the duties attached to them,’ as Mme. de StaËl expressed it.

At the turning of an avenue, I caught sight of Alexander Ypsilanti. Five years had gone by since our parting at St. Petersburg, when he was only an ensign in the regiment of the ‘Chevaliers Gardes,’ and now he was a major-general, covered with well-earned orders, but minus an arm lost at the battle of Bautzen. We strolled away from the crowd, the better to enjoy the pleasure of our re-union. His good fortune had not changed the qualities of his heart, ever open to noble feelings and ever responsive to the words ‘friendship’ and ‘country.’ He was the son of the Hospodar of Moldavia and Wallachia.50 His father, overthrown by one of those palace revolutions so frequent in Turkey, was obliged to fly. Alexander, who was only sixteen, placed himself at the head of a troop of Arnauts of eight hundred men, escorted his father across the Carpathian mountains, and saved his life when escaping from the eunuchs of the seraglio. He came to seek refuge in Russia. Educated and brought up under the care and through the generosity of Emperor Alexander, the young prince entered his service, and in a short time opened a brilliant career for himself. His generous disposition, his bold and enterprising mind, his open character strongly appealed to me, and we became close friends. As a matter of course, we wished to prolong the pleasure of this, practically our first meeting after many years, so we went to dine at the tavern named the ‘Empress of Austria.’ This was the usual resort of most of the strangers who were not on the budget of the Court or who wished to avoid the etiquette almost inseparable from its hospitality. This gathering, almost unnoticed at first, became soon afterwards a kind of debating centre, and had, if not a voice in the deliberations of the Congress, at any rate, a certain importance.

We took our seats at a table, already occupied by at least a score of diners belonging to various nations. In spite of the difference of interest and of position in a country distant from their own, strangers were most eager to associate with each other: generals, diplomatists, and simple travellers were mingled together at this impromptu banquet. Some were ordnance officers of the sovereigns that had come to shear; others, advocates of those who were being shorn. The first part of the repast was, as usual, rather serious; people were taking stock of each other, and the music of an excellent band made up for the lack of conversation. They all seemed bent upon a diplomatic reserve.

I was seated near young Luchesini, who had arrived a few days previously, and who was sent to Vienna by the Grand-Duchess of Tuscany to concert measures with M. Aldini on the subject of Mme. Bacciochi’s claims on the grand-duchy and of the principality of Lucca.51 I had seen M. Luchesini when he was very young at his mother’s in Paris; but for the moment I did not recognise him. The notable changes, both in his fortunes and in his person, were sufficient to justify my lapse of memory. His father, the Marquis de Luchesini, for many years the Prussian ambassador at the Court of Napoleon, had enjoyed great consideration in Paris,52 a consideration well deserved in virtue of his conspicuous diplomatic talent and his intellectual attainments as a private individual. He had paid great attention to the education of his son, who, endowed with all the advantages calculated to ensure success, started in life under the most auspicious circumstances. Presented by his family at the new Court of Tuscany, and attracting the notice of the sovereign of the hour, he was appointed grand equerry. It was said that love, which abridges social distances, had made the young favourite the happiest of mortals. I soon discovered that his delicate position somewhat tied his tongue in his conversation with me. He informed me that his family was living on their beautiful estate near Lucca, and after a few general observations, we exchanged addresses, promising to meet again.

To the hundred thousand strangers in Vienna, the Congress was rather an immense pleasure-gathering than a political assembly. Truly, each sovereign had his ambassadors and ministers, but each country had also sent representatives of its best society. Upon the first-named devolved the discussions of international interest and the settlement of international problems; upon the second the more pleasant duty of giving fÊtes, entertainments, and holding receptions. Among the plenipotentiaries of this drawing-room diplomacy stood foremost the Comtesse Edmond de PÉrigord for France; for Prussia, the Princesse de la Tour et Taxis (Thurn und Taxis); for England, Lady Castlereagh; for Denmark, Comtesse de Bernstorff.

The upper stratum of German society was divided into several factions or circles, and each had its particular shade and physiognomy. At the Princesses Marie Esterhazy’s, de Colloredo’s, de Lichtenstein’s, and at the Comtesse de Zichy’s, great courtesy and grace were added to the minutest and numberless details of an ever-watchful hospitality. At Mme. de Fuchs’s, the whole was on a less ceremonious footing; while, on the contrary, the acme of ceremoniousness was attained at the Princesse de FÜrstenberg’s. Distinguished both for her learning and for her energy, the princess’s habitual guests were princes many of whom had become subjects. The handsome Duchesse de Sagan’s receptions were eagerly attended. She was a most intellectual woman, and could have exercised great influence on all serious affairs, inasmuch as her judgment was considered in the light of an authority, but she rarely made use of her advantages. The diplomatic celebrities forgathered at M. de Humboldt’s or at M. de Metternich’s, the latter of whom, undoubtedly, ought to have been named first. In fact, though his residence was the central point of affairs, he still found it possible to welcome strangers with the most indefatigable politeness.

The Russian drawing-room par excellence was that of the Princesse Bagration, the wife of the field-marshal of that name. She, as it were, enacted, though informally, the part of principal hostess to her countrymen who happened to be in Vienna. She was one of the most brilliant stars in that number of constellations the Congress had attracted. She seemed to have been singled out by the charm and the distinction of her manners to transfer thither the polished form and the aristocratic ease which at that time made the drawing-rooms of St. Petersburg the foremost of Europe. In that respect no minister-plenipotentiary would have used his opportunities to better purpose.

The Princesse Bagration, who since then has been much admired in Paris, was at that period in the zenith of her beauty. A young face, white like alabaster and slightly tinted with pink, small features, a sweet, though very feeling expression, to which her short-sightedness gave an air of timidity and uncertainty; of average height though exquisitely proportioned, and the whole of her personality pervaded by a kind of Oriental languor joined to an Andalusian grace—such was, without exaggeration, the charming hostess entrusted that evening with the amusement of those illustrious personages often as much bored as the ‘unamusable’ lover of Mme. de Maintenon.

When Prince Koslowski and I entered the drawing-rooms, the Emperor Alexander, the Kings of Prussia and of Bavaria, several other princes and sovereigns, and a considerable number of strangers of distinction had already arrived. The whole of the Russian aristocracy and the Russian celebrities at that moment forgathered in Vienna seemed to have appointed to meet there. MM. de Nesselrode, Pozzo di Borgo, the Comte Razumowski, Russian ambassador to the Austrian Court, and the Prince Volkonski were simply a trifle more conspicuous than the rest; but among this crowd of familiar faces I might well have fancied myself transferred to one of the hospitable palaces of St. Petersburg four years previously.

Among this crowd of notabilities, special mention should be made, in virtue of their high position and their intellectual charm, of the various members of the Narischkine family.

The Narischkines are closely related to the Imperial House of Russia. The mother of Peter the Great was a Narischkine; hence they consider themselves of an origin too noble to have any need of titles. In fact, that of ‘prince’ is so common in Russia as scarcely to constitute a distinction. The elder of the two brothers enjoyed the reputation of being the wittiest man at the Court of Emperor Alexander. His conversation was as varied as it was amusing, and a collection of his witticisms and epigrams would make a bulky volume, though they were neither as subtle nor as brilliant as those of the Prince de Ligne, not to mention those of Talleyrand; but when by chance, during the Congress, these three men were together, then, unquestionably, there was a real display of intellectual fireworks.

His daughter, the Princesse HÉlÈne, had, in addition to great physical beauty, a naturally brilliant intellect and a noble, sympathetic heart. She married the son of the famous General Souvaroff, but her husband was drowned during a journey in Wallachia. In spite of the warning of his post-boy, he insisted upon crossing the little river Rimnik when it was swollen by the rains and had become a downright torrent. He was carried away by the current, without the slightest possibility of any one coming to his aid. At the time of Paul I.‘s death, the princess’s father occupied an apartment exactly under that of the emperor; she herself was a mere babe. Awakened by the noise and tumult that followed the assassination of Catherine the Great’s son, her nurse took her into her arms, and in her fear hid her in an isolated and disused sentry-box, where she was only found next morning.

The grand-chamberlain had been a favourite with Paul and managed to preserve the favour of his son Alexander. The footing on which he lived baffles description: he literally kept open house, the stir and bustle of which never ceased; one could have called it a caravanserai of princes. The plants, the flowers, the constant song of birds, conveyed the impression, even in mid-winter, of a spring day in Italy. He was as generous as he was lavish, and his prodigality often reduced him to sore straits. The following is one instance among many. Emperor Alexander had given him the star of the Order of St. Andrew, magnificently set in diamonds. Being pressed for money, he had raised a considerable sum upon it; and when the empress’s fÊte-day came round, he felt in a terrible predicament, for he was unable to redeem his pledge and he could not appear without it in full dress at the palace. The only ‘plaque’ like it was that of the emperor himself. At an utter loss to get out of the difficulty, he got hold of the emperor’s valet, and by dint of promises, cajoling and the like, prevailed upon the servant to lend him his master’s decoration. The man got frightened, however, at the possible consequences of what he had done and informed the sovereign.

Alexander did not breathe a single word, but as a punishment did not take his eyes off the ‘plaque’ during the whole of the evening, examining it minutely through his glasses whenever his chamberlain drew near.

M. Narischkine accompanied Empress Elisabeth on her journey from St. Petersburg to Vienna. When Alexander entrusted him with the mission, fifty thousand roubles in paper were handed to his chamberlain, together with directions for the route to be followed. A few days later, the emperor took Narischkine aside. ‘You had the parcel I sent you, cousin mine?’ asked the emperor.

‘Yes, sire, I received and read the first volume of the Itinerary.’

‘Already? And you are waiting for the second?’

‘A second edition, sire, rather than a second volume.’

‘I see what you mean. A second edition, revised and augmented.’

The second edition was handed to him a couple of hours afterwards.

His brother, the ‘grand veneur’ (say, ‘Master of the Buck Hounds’), was the husband of that magnificent Marie Antonia, nÉe Princesse Czerwertinska, one of the loveliest women in Europe, who for such a long period held captive the heart of the handsome autocrat. Though not endowed with as much wit as his elder, the younger Narischkine was by no means devoid of it. He proved it by the philosophic manner with which he bore his conjugal misfortunes. Often, in his replies to the emperor, he put them in a naÏve and diverting light. It was not the grovelling acquiescence of a man who glories in his dishonour, but the resignation to an evil which he could neither prevent nor mend.

One day Alexander was asking him for news of his children. ‘Of mine, sire, or of those of the Crown?’ was the counter-query.

On another occasion, there was a similar inquiry about his family and about his two daughters. The emperor, meeting him, made some kindly reference to them. ‘But, sire, the second is yours,’ replied the ‘grand veneur.’ Alexander’s sole retort was a smile.

Of course, the satire of the elder, which spared nobody, was not particularly lenient with regard to the younger. The latter took great pains with his hair, which was always dressed and curled with the utmost care. Some one having made a remark to that effect in the hearing of the grand-chamberlain, got his answer pat. ‘It is not surprising; my brother’s head is arranged by the hands of a master.’53

During this long liaison, and notwithstanding the sway handsome Mme. Narischkine exercised over her illustrious lover, the latter was ever careful to save appearances. Amidst those quickly succeeding entertainments and receptions at the period of the Congress, during that daily and hourly existence of often relaxed etiquette. Empress Elisabeth would have been necessarily and frequently brought face to face with her rival, and would naturally have felt the slight. Mme. Narischkine did not appear at the Congress.

Close by the Emperor of Russia sat the Princesse de la Tour et Taxis, nÉe Mecklenburg-Strelitz, and sister-in-law to the King of Prussia. That sovereign had practically transferred to her all the affection he bore to his lost wife: the princess had a remarkable influence over him, and she never requested a favour in vain. Gifted with a superior intellect, and a beauty that had become proverbial, though it did not equal that of her dead sister, the princess, by her charming manners, even more than her stately bearing, compelled instantaneous admiration and genuine respect. Among the many distinguished personages assembled in Vienna, she shone with unusual brilliancy in virtue of her combining every good quality.

I was placed close to Prince Koslowski and the Baron Ompteda, and felt confident that among so numerous a company ample material would be afforded to them for their faculties of clever observation.

‘Just cast your eye behind the chair of Emperor Alexander,’ remarked the Baron to me; ‘and look at his brother, the Grand-duke Constantine. He is the third personage of the empire, and probably the heir-presumptive to the throne. Nevertheless, observe his servile attitude, and the affectation with which, as it were, he proclaims himself the Czar’s first subject. One would think him permeated with the sentiment of submission as others are with the feeling of liberty. Personally, I fail to understand this voluptuous enjoyment of obedience. And now,’ he went on, ‘glance at that other personage close to him; that is the young Prince de Reuss, the twenty-ninth of the name. In his case, it’s a horse of a different colour. He has tumbled or drifted into the dreamland of I do not know what kind of German sect or school, and has become imbued with a sort of affected sentimentalism calculated to spoil the most sterling and happiest gifts of nature. This vague sentimentality, which he professes in and out of season, inspires him with the strangest ideas. A few days ago, he wrote to a lady, seated not far away from us: “Hope constantly renewed and equally constantly destroyed only keeps one alive to languish suspended like Mahomet’s coffin between heaven and earth. It is for you to decide ... it is a question of your love or my death.” He has not had the one given to him, and he has taken good care not to inflict the other upon himself. And thus, from sheer lightness of heart, people adopt ridiculous fads, far often less pardoned by the world at large than real faults. His uncle, Henri XV. or Henri XVI., the actual civil and military governor of Vienna, is somewhat more positive. Frederick the Great one day asked him if the princes of his house were numbered like hackney-carriages. “No, sire, not like hackney-carriages, but like kings,” was the answer. Frederick must have been somewhat embarrassed at the reply; nevertheless it pleased him, as everything witty and spontaneous did, and from that moment Prince Henri always enjoyed his favour and goodwill.’

Shortly afterwards Prince Koslowski drew my attention to a lady placed near Empress Elisabeth. It was the Comtesse Tolstoy, nÉe Princesse Baratynski, the wife of the grand-marshal. Her mother belonged to the Holstein family, and was a cousin once removed of Catherine II.

‘You are probably aware,’ he said, ‘that the marshal is in disgrace?’

‘Yes, prince,’ I answered; ‘but I do not know the cause.’

‘The cause is this. Tolstoy, emboldened by the emperor’s indulgent manner towards him, thought fit now and again to adopt a tone of remonstrance which few sovereigns would have tolerated. He opposed him in almost everything. Alexander often laughed at his fretful remarks; at rare intervals he got angry, and retaliated in his own way. When both happened to be travelling in an open sledge and Tolstoy’s cavilling put the czar out of patience, he simply gave him a push which sent him sprawling in the snow, and left him to run for a few minutes after the light conveyance. When he considered that the punishment had lasted long enough, he pulled up his horses, and the marshal, grumbling all the while, resumed his seat by the side of his master, and the matter was at an end. Convinced that things would go on for ever in that way, Tolstoy raised an opposition to Alexander’s appearance at the Congress. According to him, the emperor’s rÔle there would not be consistent with his dignity. Weary at last, the emperor this time took the matter seriously and parted with his grand-marshal, who, it is said, will not be comforted in his disgrace. The moral of all this is: “Put not your trust in the friendship of princes.”’

In fact, a little while afterwards, the Comte Tolstoy, unable to survive the loss of his sovereign’s favour, died at Dresden, whither he had retired.

All at once a great silence fell upon the room. A young French actress, Mme. L——, a pupil of Talma, and a protÉgÉe of the Princesse Bagration, was going to recite. She had only recently arrived from Paris. Though French tragic poetry stands essentially in need of the illusion of the stage and the advantage of costume, that kind of entertainment was not indulged in so lavishly as it is to-day; hence, the handsome actress commanded great attention. She recited with much feeling some strophes from ZaÏre, and did great credit to her tutor in the beautiful scene of the ‘Songe d’Athalie.’ She was cordially applauded and complimented, and never had a dÉbutante such an audience to judge her.

After this, the guests crowded round a table set out with rich and elegant objects. There was to be a lottery, a kind of elegant diversion revived from the Court of Louis XIV., whose love for Mlle. de la ValliÈre had first suggested it to him. Then, as now, it was a favourite recreation with women. Each sovereign contributed to these lotteries one or more presents, which, falling to the lot of the lucky ones, afforded these an opportunity of presenting them to the ladies of their thought. That kind of amusement was frequently repeated during the Congress. The most remarkable lotteries were those drawn at the Princesse Marie Esterhazy’s and at Mme. Bruce’s, nÉe Moushkin-Poushkine. The mania for them spread from the drawing-rooms to less distinguished places, and subsequently became the cause of an adventure which aroused much excitement.

Some of the prizes were magnificent, the Grand-duke Constantine won two magnificent vases contributed by the King of Prussia from the royal porcelain works at Berlin. He offered them to our charming hostess. The King of Bavaria won a handsome box in mosaic, which he begged Princesse Marie Esterhazy to accept; and the Comte Capo d’Istria drew a casket beautifully worked in steel, which he presented to the Princesse Volkonski. Two small bronze candlesticks fell to the share of Emperor Alexander. He gave them to Mlle. L——, to whom, it was said, he had become very attentive. ‘His majesty’s love affairs are not likely to entail any considerable draft on the imperial treasury,’ some one whispered close to me. ‘He had just made Mlle. L—— a present, by means of the candlesticks, of a few louis. This must be accounted as a piece of tremendous generosity, for as a rule he receives more than he gives. All the linen he wears is from the deft needle of Mme. Narischkine; he not only accepts the workmanship, but he always forgets to refund to her the cost of the material. The charming favourite makes no secret of it. Louis XIV. frequently crops up in conversation in connection with his fÊtes at Versailles. Our sovereigns would do well to imitate them. However artistically chased those candlesticks may be, Mlle. L—— will not be prepared to think them as valuable as the diamond bracelets the Grand Monarque won at Madame’s lottery and which he offered in such an exquisite manner to La ValliÈre.’54

‘All this,’ said Prince Koslowski to me, ‘is certainly in excellent taste, but these fÊtes are absolutely nothing in comparison with those given by Potemkin to Catherine in the Taurida and after the taking of Oczakoff. Our mothers are never tired of talking of them. There was also a kind of lottery, but skill instead of chance presided at it. In the ball-room there was a long row of marble columns, positively hung with garlands composed of jewels and trinkets. The dances were arranged so that every gentleman passing near these columns could detach from them some precious ornament which he offered to his partner. As you may imagine, that courtly fashion of offering presents was intensely relished by the fair sex, and Catherine herself discharged their debt of gratitude by heaping still greater riches on her favourite. That’s what I should call amusements fit for sovereigns. After all, we are becoming very mean.’

A great many prizes of minor importance were subsequently drawn for, and there was a kind of mild ‘give and take’ in connection with them. The room was so crowded that I only caught sight of Ypsilanti when he came forward to receive a sable cape which he offered to the Princesse Souvaroff. Taking advantage of a momentary thinning of the crowd, I drew up to them to say a few words to Princesse HÉlÈne, whom I was sincerely pleased to meet again. ‘I dare say we have a lot to tell each other,’ she said. ‘Come with Ypsilanti to luncheon to-morrow. We’ll be more at our ease than here, and by ourselves. We’ll have a talk about bygone days.’ I accepted gladly, confident that her conversation would remind me of my stay in Russia, which constituted one of the best periods of my life.

When the sovereigns had retired, there were some music and dancing, followed by an elegant supper, without restraint and during which one could gossip to one’s heart’s content. It was, in short, one of those series of fleeting hours which at Vienna seemed to be woven of gold and silk by fairies in the loom of pleasure.