The Castle of Laxemburg—Heron-Hawking—The Empress of Austria—A Royal Hunt—FÊte at the Ritterburg—A Recollection of Christina of Sweden—Constance and Theodore, or the Blind Husband—Poland—Scheme for her Independence—The Comte Arthur Potocki—The Prince de Ligne and Isabey—The Prince de Ligne’s House on the Kalemberg—Confidential Chats and Recollections—The Empress Catherine II.—Queen Marie-Antoinette—Mme. de StaËl—Casanova.

‘These sovereigns on their holidays,’ as the Prince de Ligne called them, had to be constantly amused, or at any rate prevented at all cost from being bored. The committee appointed by the emperor, and composed of the most eminent personages of the Austrian Court, cudgelled their brains to devise a new diversion for each day. They were, above all, very busy with the preparations for the great imperial tournament which, it was intended, should constitute a never-to-be-forgotten feature of the brilliant functions of the Congress. The cut, the shape, and the colour of the dresses were matters of incessant study; the horses were drilled every day; the champions spent many hours rehearsing the various movements and passes which were to remind all of us of the ancient days of chivalry; the ladies tried on the magnificent gowns and ornaments, the historical accuracy of which was to carry the suffrages of everybody by pleasing the eye. But pending the termination of those busy preparations, a big hunt had been organised in the woods and park of the imperial residence, Laxemburg, and numerous invitations issued.

Laxemburg is about six miles from SchÖnbrunn. The park is laid out on English models. There are densely-wooded plantations at irregular intervals, further on vast lawns leading to thick and sombre forests; swelling tracts of ground ingeniously arranged, and masses of rocks; everywhere the most varied and unexpected vistas. In one word, art has combined in a restricted space the different beauties of nature. The most conspicuous feature, though, is a magnificent piece of water, one might call it a lake, the aspect of which reminds one of the landscapes of Switzerland. On its limpid surface there lay at that period a miniature frigate with its cannon, masts and rigging, and other small craft, the brilliant bunting of which imparted life and colour to the rippling, dancing wavelets.

SchÖnbrunn had been the object of Maria-Theresa’s predilection, consequently Laxemburg had suffered as a residence at the cost of its neighbour. Emperor Francis made up for the undeserved neglect. On a slope some short distance from the lake, he erected the ‘Ritterburg,’ which has become one of the principal sights of Austria. It is an exact imitation of one of the sombre castles or forbidding manors of mediÆval feudalism. The massive walls, flanked by crenellated towers, are surrounded by a deep moat filled with water. The inner court, with its pavilions, its barriers, the whole arranged for single combats and tournaments, forms the lists. The halls are in keeping with the court; they are filled with stands of arms, coats of mail, breastplates, lances, etc. From its Gothic pillars hang panoplies; from its ogival arches are suspended banners, their staffs adjusted amidst turbans, richly embroidered, Oriental vestments, the spoil wrested from the infidels; in short, the relics of the victories that saved Christianity.

In another hall are preserved weapons, dresses, and other venerable remains of the heroes whose prowess founded the German Empire, of Rudolph of Hapsburg, of Maximilian I., and of Charles V. Still further on, there is a hall hung with the cloaks of the first Knights of the Golden Fleece. In a hall leading out of that one stand the white marble effigies of the emperors sprung from the House of Austria. These are succeeded by a series of vast reception rooms, several of which are most admirable in virtue of their decoration. There is no longer an attempt at imitating the Gothic style; they are filled with the marvels of art of the period itself—that is, the masterpieces spared by the hand of time, most exquisite specimens of sculpture, delicately-worked panels, whole ceilings. All these precious relics were collected from the convents suppressed at the period of the building of the ‘Ritterburg.’ Everything calculated to heighten the illusion was conveyed to the ‘Ritterburg.’ In one spot there is a narrow winding stair, leading to a dungeon, or rather a torture-chamber, with its massive doors, its irons and chains, and even its instruments of torture. Crouching against the further wall, there is the figure of an ill-fated prisoner, dressed as a Knight Templar and bending beneath the weight of his fetters. By some ingenious mechanism, he slowly and painfully drags himself with an effort from his sitting posture to hold out his arms to the spectator. The gruesome imitation is so perfect as to produce a shudder in the beholder.

The topmost story of that tower is a spacious room called the Hall of Judgment. Narrow ogival windows admit only a sparse light. Twelve stone seats are ranged in a circle along the walls. In the centre there is a round table with a circular hole in it, big enough to admit a human head and no more. On the day of his trial the accused man was bound to a chair; by means of a contrivance consisting of ropes and pulleys, he was quickly raised to the summit of the tower, and suddenly his head emerged from the hole in the board. Before the interrogatory, he was asked the whole truth; he replied, knowing that at the slightest sign from his judges the rope attached to his chair could be cut and he himself be flung from a height of two hundred feet on to the stones of his dungeon. Nothing could give a more striking idea of the terrible ‘proceedings’ of feudal justice in the Middle Ages than this mechanism.

The committee entrusted with the programme of the fÊtes had, it was said, entertained the idea of giving a representation of a judiciary ascension as described; the scene had even been cast. The Empress of Austria was, however, of opinion that such a picture of anguish and torture would only mar the brightness of the fÊte she was preparing for her guests.

The chapel of the ‘Ritterburg’ is not the least of its curiosities. It is the same which was constructed by St. Leopold in the twelfth century at Kloster-Neuburg. The materials were transferred piecemeal to its present site, and the monument is in perfect keeping with all those relics of past days.

Among the many works of art in the Castle of Laxemburg itself, there are several paintings by Canaletto; amongst others views of SchÖnbrunn, of the Graben, and the Church of the Capuchins.

Maria-Theresa came now and again to Laxemburg to exchange the cares of state for the relaxations of hawking. The ‘Ritterburg’ had not been built then.

When, amidst the difficulties of finding new recreations, the fÊtes committee conceived the project of bringing the guests of the Congress to Laxemburg and entertaining them there, the idea of ‘flying’ the hawk naturally presented itself. In the vicinity of that Gothic castle nothing could be more in harmony with the style of its construction than an amusement borrowed from the traditions and manners of the feudal ages.

The place of meeting was on the banks of the lake, not far from a marshy spot tenanted by numerous flocks of water-birds. Foremost among the company was the lovely Empress of Austria, famed for her love of sport and her marvellous skill, the graceful Elizabeth, Empress of Russia, Queen Caroline of Bavaria, her sister, and a number of ladies, several of whom wore the elegant costume of the sixteenth century. At the head of the sovereigns on horseback was Emperor Francis, unflaggingly hospitable. Amidst them, in a low-wheeled calÈche, is the enormous King of WÜrtemberg, famed for his former hunts and hunting exploits, and anxious to witness tranquil amusement, altogether unlike the fatigues and perils he was wont to court.

The huntsmen in their handsome uniforms, holding their dogs in leash, come first; then come the falconers with their hooded birds on their wrists, and behind these the eager mass of spectators.

At a spot where the reeds and rushes impede the view of the lake, there is a halt, and the dogs’ leashes are slipped to start the birds. The air rings with barking, and all eyes are strained upward in expectation of the struggle, somewhat novel to the majority. All of a sudden, a grey-plumaged heron takes its flight, at first slowly, heavily, and with listless movement; then spreading its wings it rises rapidly. At the sight of the bird, promising not an easy victory but a protracted struggle, the falconers get ready, encouraging their birds with their cries, awaiting a signal from the empress to give the first pursuer flight.

The signal is given, and in the twinkling of an eye the hood is removed from one of the hawks and it is set free. The falconer points to the fleeing heron, the impatient hawk shakes its pinions, utters a cry, and quick as lightning soars aloft. The affrighted heron tries in vain to rise higher than his pursuer, but the latter directs its flight in such a manner as to be constantly hovering above its quarry. Each attempt of the heron meets with a counter-move on the part of the hawk, compelling its victim to descend. If the heron shows signs of returning to the starting-point where the hunters are, the hawk, swift as a flash, bars its progress in that direction and forces it to take the opposite one; it keeps worrying the other bird, tiring it and practically dazzling it by the repeated beating of its pinions, until it finally brings it back to the point within an easy view of the spectators of the struggle. The heron at length determines upon resistance. Steadily pursuing its course, and apparently motionless, it presents its long bill, sharp like a sword, to its foe. The hawk, on its part, decides upon attack. Rapidly wheeling round and round the heron, it lowers its flight, then re-ascends and all at once grips the flanks of its victim. Then begins a veritable struggle at close quarters, with all its fury and all its rapidly changing incidents.

The heron has the first advantage; it aims a terrible stroke at its adversary, piercing it between the neck and one of its pinions as if with a dagger. The hawk, nevertheless, clings to the heron and rends the latter’s flesh with its beak. The heron quickly follows up its strokes; compelled to fight and at the same time to carry the weight of its foe, it multiplies its attack without getting rid of its assailant, and the blood of both stains their plumage crimson. In spite of this, the hawk looks like getting the worse of it. There is a longer interval between its attacks, which are neither as fierce nor as sure as heretofore, and the victory bids fair to remain with the heron, when the falconer despatches a second hawk from among those which, though hooded up to now, seem aware of the struggle going on, to judge by the flapping of their wings and the sudden stiffening of their feathers. The freshly-despatched combatant is a hen-bird, easily recognised by its beautiful brown plumage, for it is noteworthy that among this species the females are bigger, stronger, and bolder than the males. No sooner is the hood removed than the female rises into the air and, disdaining all preliminary evolutions, fastens its beak into the neck of the heron. The air is rent by the cries of the hunters, the barking of the dogs, and the braying of the horns. The heron’s resistance is, from that moment, useless. The new assailant virtually smothers it, and, moreover, digs its claws into the heron’s back, while the male, its strength revived by the timely aid of the female, renews its attacks. It becomes merely a question of seconds with the ill-fated heron. After a few spasmodic movements, rendered uncertain by the loss of blood, it finally closes its eyes and drops to the earth. The two hawks utter screeches of victory, tear their victim’s eyes out, and without letting go of it for a moment, drag it to the falconer’s feet.

According to the ancient usages of the chase, a huntsman stepped forward at that moment, and, plucking from the heron’s neck its fine and elegant plumage, constituting as it were a natural aigrette, he handed it to Emperor Alexander, who, in his turn, immediately offered it to the lovely Empress of Austria. The horns sounded ‘the death,’ while the birds devoured their quarry, and the illustrious guests crowded round the falconers to compliment them.

This, after all, was only the prelude to a more important sporting item of the programme. Every care had been taken to ensure its success. The signal for a new start was given, and we moved towards another part of the park, where on an immense lawn surrounded by trees a vast arena had been arranged for the guns. At one side there was a circular stand for the guests of the Court. The sovereigns and the high personages in whose honour the entertainment was given took up their positions, each one provided with four pages charged with loading the guns, in order to spare the principals the slightest fatigue.

The general beating-up had taken place on the previous night. At the word of command from the empress the circle of beaters drew in, and at the same moment from all the outlets of the wood, there emerged a numberless quantity of wild-boars, deer, hares, and game of all kind, which in a few moments were killed by the privileged marksmen, amidst the general applause of the lookers-on.

My friends and I had taken up our positions a little distance away from the Empress of Austria, who was using only a musket, loaded with ball, and who aimed exclusively at hares or small game, which she never missed.

This file-firing, or rather this kind of slaughter, only ceased when the number of animals killed amounted to several thousands. Once more the forest rang with the barking of the dogs, the cries of the spectators, mingled with the sound of hunting-horns. The ground literally disappeared under the heaped-up game, its blood still trickling. Truly, after the noble struggle we had just witnessed, it became difficult not to admit that the amusements of our fathers were superior to ours.

Ypsilanti seemed surprised at the remarkable skill of the Empress of Austria, and at the steadiness of her aim. Without for a moment wishing to detract from either, I told him what I had seen in the arsenal at Stockholm, namely, a long carabine which was loaded with a single pellet of the smallest shot, and with which, it is said, Queen Christina amused herself by bringing down the flies on the walls of her rooms without ever missing one.

Soon after the termination of the sport, night set in rapidly. Suddenly, as if at the touch of a magic wand, the lawn and the avenues of the park were lighted up by enormous ‘pitch-pots,’ known in Turkey as machala, the blaze of which carries very far. At the same moment, the inside of the ‘Ritterburg’ was illuminated from roof to basement for the reception of the illustrious guests who were going to assemble there. When Emperor Francis constructed the castle as an exact illustration of the ideas prevailing during the feudal era, he certainly did not foresee the forgathering under its roof in one day of such a number of illustrious personages, from emperors to knights. Though only those provided with invitations had been admitted to Laxemburg, their number was so great as to make perambulation in the various halls and reception rooms exceedingly difficult. The animated crowd, and the profusion of light constituted the strangest and most striking contrast to the sombre arches, the panoplies, the dresses and the ornaments of mediÆval times.

The lovely imperial hostess did the honours of the feudal manor with her usual grace. A magnificent collation was served, to which succeeded a concert of a peculiar kind. In a corner of the principal hall there was an enormous organ; its construction, sound, and ornaments faithfully recalling the machines with brass pipes and bellows with which the piety of our forefathers provided the cathedrals of the Middle Ages. The deep tones of the organ were accompanied by a band of wind instruments, played by musicians expressly brought from Bohemia, where instrumental music appears to have reached perfection. To complete the illusion, they had selected some of the old national melodies, the traditions of which have been preserved for centuries. In the intervals, huntsmen, placed on a tower overlooking the castle, played hunting tunes that sounded like an echo coming from the skies.

On several occasions during previous concerts, I had noticed a young man whose eyes were covered with a black bandage, and who was guided through the crowd by a young lady with an elegant figure, but whose face was hidden by a thick veil. This time they were close to the organ, and they evidently enjoyed the music greatly. I asked the Comte FranÇois de Palfi who were these young people, imparting an air of sadness to a fÊte rather than partaking of its joys. ‘That young man,’ he answered, ‘is the Comte Hadick, the young woman is his wife, and their story is most interesting.

‘Bound by a very close friendship, additionally cemented by long and important services to each other, the Comtes Hadick and Amady made up their minds to tighten these bonds still further by uniting in marriage their children, who were about the same age. ThÉodore Hadick, the only offspring of the illustrious family, was in consequence brought up with young Constance, who from her infancy bade fair to be as kind in disposition as she was beautiful in face and figure. At fifteen the feelings of these two young people were already what they would continue to be all their lives. The castles of the two magnates were practically adjacent to each other. Constance, by being present at the lessons of her young friend, easily learned all those exercises calculated to impart both bodily and mental gracefulness without being hurtful to beauty. What united them still more was their passionate fondness for music, which passion appears innate with the Hungarians. They were held up everywhere as models of perfection and virtue, and their fathers were already discussing the time of their wedding, when the war broke out.

‘As you are aware, the laws of Hungary compel every noble personally to fight for his country; and in the periods of great danger, when the whole of the nation rushes to arms, the magnates march with their banners at the head of their vassals. The Comte Hadick, jealous for the honour of his house, was very anxious for his son to share the forthcoming campaign. Constance, hiding her grief, and solely occupied with the future and the glory of her betrothed, watched with great courage the preparations for a parting which the chances of war might prolong and render eternal.

‘Theodore, impatient to devote himself to his country, hurried the moment that was to afford him the chance of showing himself still more worthy of the girl whom he loved, and the day of his departure was finally fixed upon. The previous evening, though, the betrothal took place at the castle, and it was with the certainty of Constance’s hand that the young count at the head of his vassals went to join the Hungarian army at Pesth. You know the result of the campaign. The Hungarians kept up their reputation for brilliant valour. ThÉodore, in virtue of several signal actions, deserved the cross conferred upon him by the chapter of the Order of Maria-Theresa, a distinction considered one of the foremost in the annals of chivalry.

‘But while the young man supped full with glory, Constance had been carried to the brink of the grave by a cruel illness. Stricken down by an attack of most virulent smallpox, she hovered for a long time between life and death. The doctors, while saving her, could not prevent the face which had been one of the most beautiful from becoming almost hideous. She was only allowed to look at herself when she was on the high road to recovery.

‘The sight, as you may imagine, filled her with despair, and, convinced that ThÉodore could no longer love her under such conditions, she ardently prayed for death.

‘In vain her father and the Comte Hadick tried to reassure her. Haunted by the horrible dread of being no longer worthy of her betrothed, she refused to be comforted, and the young girl was simply dying of despair, there being not the faintest hope left.

‘Nevertheless, one morning, when she was nestling in the arms of her father, who bade her live at least for him, the servant who had accompanied ThÉodore to the war suddenly rushed into the apartment, announcing the immediate coming of his master, whose voice, a moment afterwards, was heard outside.

‘“Constance, Constance, where art thou?”

‘At that voice so dear to her, the young girl, lacking the courage to fly, covered her face with her handkerchief and her hands.

‘“Do not come near me, ThÉodore, I have lost my beauty. I have no longer anything to offer thee but my heart.”

‘“What do I hear? But look at me, Constance!”

‘“No, no, thou wouldst only recoil at seeing me.”

‘“What does it matter, if thy love is the same, Constance. Constance, I can no longer see thee.”

‘She raises her eyes and looks. ThÉodore was blind. The charge of a musket had deprived him of his sight.

‘“God be praised!” exclaimed Constance, falling on her knees. “ThÉodore, we shall be united, for thou canst still love me. I shall be thy guide; yes, I shall be to thee as I was in the first moments of our love, and thou shalt be able to love me still.”

‘Shortly after that they were married. Never was there a couple so deserving of happiness more really happy than they. The comtesse takes her husband everywhere, never leaving his side for a moment. He is the object of her most delicate attentions; her love for him seems increased by his terrible affliction. She does not wear that veil to hide her scarred features, but because she is afraid that the remarks of the crowd on her vanished beauty may sadden the heart of the husband whom she worships.

‘The young comte’s passion for music appears to have increased since he lost his sight. He regularly attends every concert; and his faithful companion, who appears only to live for him, is always at his side.’

The concert came to an end just as the comte finished his touching story. Then the windows were opened and magnificent fireworks let off on the lake. The sheaves of fire crossing each other and being reflected in the water; the numerous craft, illuminated and streaming with bunting; the masses of light standing in relief against the sombre background of the forest; the sound of the horns mingling with the shells and fusees—all this combined produced a truly magical effect.

Finally, after this well-spent day we began to think of getting back to Vienna, probably to recommence next morning the pursuit of the apparently inexhaustible round of pleasure.

The next day, however, I had promised to spend with the Prince de Ligne at his house on the Kalemberg. When I got there, I found the prince in company with M. Nowosilitzoff, a Russian statesman of great ability and a trusty adviser of Emperor Alexander, who, it was said at the time, was deeply interested in the future of Poland. The constitution of that country, its organisation and its institutions, which were to reinstate her in her former rank among the European nations—in short, her destiny—was one of the gravest questions submitted to the deliberations of the Congress. A most confidential councillor of the czar and a member of the provisional government of Warsaw, M. Nowosilitzoff was at that period engaged in drawing up the constitution intended by the czar for his new kingdom.

The Prince de Ligne professed an ardent sympathy for Poland. He admired her chivalrous and hospitable customs, and above all that frankness which forms the chief trait of the Polish character. Added to this admiration was his gratitude to a nation which had formerly admitted him among the ranks of its nobility. Consequently, he sat listening attentively to the projects of Alexander, projects which just then inspired a certain belief. As for me, the subject appealed to me like everything connected with the country in which I spent some of the best years of my youth.

‘After so many unprecedented efforts, after so many disappointed hopes and useless sacrifices, Poland bids fair to breathe at last,’ said M. Nowosilitzoff. ‘Deceived for many years by the man who had the misfortune to consider his will as a ruling principle, his power as a proof of his statesmanship, and his success as a reason for it, the Poles were not altogether unjustified in believing in promises tending to reinstate them as a nation.’

‘There is no nation on the face of the earth who would not have made the same sacrifices for so noble an illusion,’ remarked the prince.

‘No doubt, but constantly letting their thoughts run back, as they do, to the brilliant periods of their history, they would fain see their country assume the proud and independent attitude it adopted under the Bathoris, the Sigismunds, and the Sobieskis; and in this beautiful dream of the past, and, moreover, deceived by the actual state of politics in Europe, they will not stop their ambition at the point imposed by their geographical position. They will only find a country in the strictest sense through us and with us,’ the councillor went on. ‘Poland, completely independent and organised on the very risky basis of its erewhile constitutions, would only secure an ephemeral existence; she would carry her own germ of destruction. Is she to form a permanent camp in the centre of pacified Europe, or shall she arm all her nomadic sons like the Sarmatians of old, in order to make up by living ramparts for the natural frontiers and fortresses she lacks? She must have a support in order to insure her independence. Truth, I know, can only triumph slowly over the power of prejudice; but what is there to oppose the fact which henceforth is only too palpable? The hope of a better future, a hope which can only be indulged by unthinking creatures whom the disasters of their country have failed to restore to reason and coolness of mind.’

‘Burke has said somewhere,’ replied the prince, ‘that the division of Poland would cost its authors very dear; he might have said the same of the defenders of the nation, for it is probable that the active share of Napoleon in the affairs of Poland has contributed in no small degree to his downfall. May the projects of Alexander remain exempt from a similar fatality! Everything will depend upon the guarantees given for the maintenance of the Polish nationality! A people may resign itself to having been vanquished; it will never resign itself to being humiliated.’

‘The solicitude of the emperor for his new subjects admits of no discussion,’ observed M. Nowosilitzoff. ‘To be convinced of this, you have only to glance at this manuscript. It is the draught of the Constitution of the Kingdom of Poland, and it is corrected by the hands of Alexander himself. If it be true that great thoughts proceed direct from the heart, there is ample evidence here of the nobleness of Alexander’s. The laws and the constitution of the kingdom will be the keystone of the peace of Europe.’

In fact, the few pages he read to us from the manuscript redounded as much to the honour of the statesman as to that of the philanthropist. Poland would indeed have been a happy country, if an erroneous policy had not struck all those dreams of a moment with utter barrenness.55

The commentary of M. Nowosilitzoff, which followed upon the reading of the document, was interrupted by the arrival of the Comte Arthur Potocki, the youthful friend of the Prince de Ligne. Though a Pole, and animated by the most generous feelings towards his country, his presence vexed the privy councillor to such an extent as to cause him instantly to roll up his manuscript without adding another word, and to leave us shortly afterwards.

The Comte Arthur Potocki, son of the Comte Jean of the illustrious family of that name, and one of the best educated men in Europe, had a noble face, an elegant figure, and a cultivated mind. At an age when most men spend their time in pleasure and frivolous pursuits, he was conspicuous for a sterling judgment, a wide knowledge, and the most exquisite politeness. It is not surprising then that he was one of the most notable men in Vienna society, and eminently fit to occupy a similar position everywhere. The Prince de Ligne was very fond of Arthur, whom he called his Alcibiades, and who in his turn worshipped the bright and witty octogenarian, so indulgent to young men.

‘Everything has been finally arranged for the imperial carrousel (musical ride), which is irrevocably fixed for next week,’ said the young comte, ‘and I have brought you the tickets which the Grand-Marshal Trauttmansdorff has told me to remit to you. It will be one of the most brilliant spectacles ever witnessed. To-morrow night everybody in Vienna laying claim to be somebody is going to the Court to see the “living pictures” arranged by Isabey. They will be followed by romances sung and enacted by the handsomest women of the Court, the lovely Duchesse de Sagan, the Princesse Paul Esterhazy, the Comtesse Zichy, and several of our most elegant fair ones. Do not fail to come, gentlemen; you had better take advantage of the joyous hours. It is rumoured that the Congress will terminate on the 15th December. Good-bye, until to-morrow. Let the thought of the closing of the Congress be with you every moment, as it is with me.’ Saying which, he took his departure.

The prince reminded me that I had promised to spend a few hours with him on that day at his house on the Kalemberg. Before going thither he wished to go to Isabey’s to sit for his portrait, and he asked me to accompany him.

‘During that hour of torture to me,’ he laughed, ‘you will have an opportunity of looking at a series of portraits from his brush. Isabey is the recorder of the Congress in pigments. And inasmuch as he is almost as clever with his tongue as with his brush, you’ll not waste your time.’

In a short time we reached the artist’s quarters in the Leopoldstadt. The front of the house was provided with a barrier to prevent the deadlock of the visitors’ carriages. Isabey’s arrival at Vienna had been preceded by his deserved reputation.56

Presented by the Duc de SÉrent to Marie-Antoinette, Isabey, at the age of twenty, painted the portrait of the lovely and ill-fated queen, who treated him with the utmost kindness, and always called him her little Lorrain. Subsequently, having become the painter-in-ordinary of Napoleon, he reproduced the features of all the celebrated men and all the handsome women of the Empire. It was he who superintended the fÊtes of that brilliant and short-lived era.

At Vienna, all the European celebrities solicited the distinction of reproduction by his brush, and he could scarcely comply with all their requests. The number of portraits he painted at that period is positively surprising, and supplies a proof of his talent having been as fertile as it is graceful. Whenever there was a question of organising this or that entertainment for which the Congress was the pretext, the artist who had drawn the designs for Napoleon’s coronation was, as may be imagined, considered in the light of a ‘God-send.’ Nothing was done without consulting him.

According to Isabey himself, it was M. de Talleyrand who had prompted the idea of his going to Vienna; and art is indebted to that journey for his remarkable and historical drawing of a ‘Sitting of the Plenipotentiaries at the Congress.’ The fall of Napoleon deprived Isabey of nearly all his functions. One day, in the study of the statesman who at that time was supposed to have mainly contributed to that catastrophe, the artist spoke regretfully of a restoration which, as far as he was concerned, spelt ruin. On one of the walls of the room hung an engraving of the ‘Peace of Munster,’ after Terburg. Pointing to it, Talleyrand said, ‘A Congress is to be held at Vienna. Why not go there?’ The few words were as a ray of light in the darkness to Isabey, and from that moment his mind was made up. Talleyrand did more than give a hint. He gave him a most cordial welcome, and proved a kindly and appreciative patron.

On Prince EugÈne’s arrival in Vienna, one of his first calls was upon Isabey. In his equivocal position, he felt only too glad to see somebody reminding him of his younger days. The painter by his bright recollections often dispelled the sadness of the prince. It was EugÈne who shortly afterwards took Isabey to Emperor Alexander. Isabey’s conversation was always interesting, but it became positively sparkling and historically valuable when recounting the marvellous details of the coronation, which, as has been said, were arranged by him. Isabey was not less delightful when recalling the familiar and every-day life at Malmaison.

Already in 1812, during a tour through Germany, Isabey, being in Prague, had made a sketch of the Prince de Ligne, which sketch he carefully preserved and which hangs to this day (1830) in his studio. Notwithstanding the seventy-and-eight years of the model, the sketch shows the noble and delicately cut features which to the end were the object of everybody’s admiration. At that period the Prince de Ligne only knew Isabey by reputation. One morning he called upon the artist, who happened to be out. But his album lay open near his easel. Instead of leaving his card, the prince took up a pen and wrote a dozen tripping and sparkling lines, describing Isabey’s talent, finishing up with:

This tribute to Isabey’s talent on the part of the Prince de Ligne is only one of the valuable testimonies contained in Isabey’s album. Every important personage in Europe, ministers, generals, artists, ladies of high degree, have equally considered it a pleasure to testify to their admiration and their esteem.

Isabey had been quartered magnificently, like Benvenuto Cellini in days of yore, at the Louvre. His studio, hung from floor to ceiling with sketches, drawings, and portraits in a more or less advanced stage of completion, impressed one with the idea of a magic lantern, representing in turns all the notable personages who at that moment had forgathered in Vienna.

The hour taken up with the prince’s sitting seemed short to me. Every now and again the work was interrupted by this or that subtle remark or lively reminiscence. The conversation ran principally on a little adventure in connection with the game of ‘leap-frog,’ which caused such a stir in Paris at the period of the Consulate, and which was obstinately believed in, in spite of Isabey’s denials. Here it is in its original version.

Bonaparte, as is well known, was in the habit of walking with his arms crossed upon his chest, and his head slightly bent forward. Isabey was at Malmaison, and he and some of the First Consul’s aides-de-camp were having a game of leap-frog on the lawn. Isabey had already jumped over the heads of most of them, when, at the turning of a path, he espied the last player who, in the requisite position, seemed to be waiting for the ordeal. Isabey pursued his course without looking, but took his flight so badly as only to reach the other’s shoulders, and both rolled over and over in the sand, and to Isabey’s consternation, his supposed fellow-player turned out to be Bonaparte. At that period, Bonaparte had probably not pondered the possibility of a ‘fall’; hence, it was said, refractory at this first lesson, he got up, foaming at the mouth with anger, and drawing his sword, pounced upon the unfortunate leaper. Isabey, luckily for himself better at running than at leaping, took to his heels, and jumping the ditches dividing the property from the high road, got over the wall and never stopped until, breathless, he reached the gates of the Tuileries. Isabey, it was added, went immediately to Mme. Bonaparte’s apartments, and she, after having laughed at the mishap, advised him to lie low for a little while. It was still further reported that it wanted all Josephine’s angelic goodness of heart and cleverness, besides her usual influence over Bonaparte, to appease the latter’s anger and to obtain the painter’s pardon. Bonaparte at that moment was only ‘Consul for Life,’ but people already foresaw the Empire, and the section of Paris society which was not too well pleased at the prospect of a possible return to former ideas naturally made the most of the anecdote of Malmaison. The denials of Isabey, who took good care to make short work of all the detailed rumours, found little or no belief; the adventure was considered extremely diverting, and Isabey’s contradiction of it had no effect.

In the course of our conversation with Isabey, the Prince de Ligne pressed him very closely on the subject, as if the definitive fall of Napoleon sufficed to restore to Isabey all his freedom of speech and all his frankness on the matter. Isabey, on the other hand, kept on defending himself with no less energy.

‘That adventure of Malmaison,’ he said, ‘is an invention from beginning to end. It is ridiculous, and one of those semi-historical exaggerations which have grieved me more than I can tell. Napoleon was made to play a part utterly at variance with his character. When that story was bruited in Paris, I had not set eyes upon him for more than six weeks. The moment I heard of it, and of the particulars with which it was embellished, I went to St. Cloud. As soon as he saw me, he came up to me, and I had no difficulty in convincing him that I had no share in the matter; it really seemed to aim at ruining me for ever in his estimation. He was exceedingly kind, and reminded me of the well-known rejoinder of Turenne, when his valet struck him by mistake, and apologised by saying he fancied it was a fellow-servant (called George). “And supposing it had been George, there was no need to strike so hard,” said Turenne. But,’ observed Isabey, ‘refuted or not, the stories that pander to people’s spitefulness are repeated, and finally remain as quasi-truths.’

‘Had I been in your place,’ said the prince, ‘I should not have taken the trouble to refute the fable. If it had been attributed to me, I should have accepted the part. It would have been rather interesting to jump like that on the shoulders of him who so unceremoniously jumped so well on the shoulders of others.’

Afterwards the conversation drifted to young Napoleon, whose portrait we had admired a few days previously at SchÖnbrunn.

‘That child,’ said Isabey, ‘has only one thought occupying his mind, the recollection of his father. One morning as he was sitting to me, there was the sound of bugles; the Hungarian Guards were passing down one of the courts. He immediately glides off his chair, runs to the window, comes back, and taking my hand, says, “Here are papa’s lancers going by.”’

The portrait of the Prince de Ligne was already sufficiently advanced to enable one to judge of the likeness, and I complimented Isabey upon it. All those who knew the admirable old man were struck with the marvellously faithful reproduction of him as a whole. In a few moments we gaily resumed the course of our little pilgrimage. The Kalemberg is a hill overlooking Vienna, and offering a most picturesque birdseye view of the city. The prince had established his summer quarters there some years ago, dividing his time in the delicious retreat between art, pleasure, and the delightful society his fame constantly attracted thither.

On our way we chatted about the pastimes and diversions of Vienna, and he gave me a rapid picture of them, for it could be said absolutely of him what he said of Casanova: ‘Each word is a sketch, and each thought is a book.’

‘Fitly to describe the fairy scenes succeeding each other here without interruption would want an Ariosto, that magician of poesy,’ he said. ‘In fact, I shall not be surprised at the festal committee shortly issuing a proclamation, to the sound of trumpets and through all the towns and villages of the monarchy, promising a prize to the fortunate man devising a new pleasure for the assembled sovereigns.’

‘Thoroughly to enjoy oneself in Vienna, prince, one ought to know German somewhat better than foreigners as a rule know it,’ I answered. ‘Their want of familiarity with the language prevents them from catching the subtle shades of the joys and manners of a class of the population which, though not the foremost, is unquestionably not the least interesting to study and to observe. In connection with this, I may be permitted to quote the reply of Bacon to a young man, who, not knowing any foreign language, consulted him on his plan of travels. “Go to school, young friend, and don’t go travelling,” remarked Bacon.’

‘What would he have said to Metastasio, who, after living for twenty years in Vienna, had not mastered as many words of German, which quantity he considered sufficient to save his life in case of need?’ laughed the prince. ‘Besides, you find your own tongue the only one adopted here, not only in society and at all the festive gatherings, but also at all the conferences of the Congress. That much, indeed, was due to its precision and its universal use. It was necessary to establish a general means of communication between so many strangers; without this the Congress would have become a Babel.’

‘And also, prince, because no language lends itself more easily to the biting epigrams and sparkling repartees which are, as it were, like a bottle of champagne that’s being “uncorked,”’ I replied. ‘The proof of it is in your recent answer to the Baron de ——, when he told you that the emperor had made him a general. “He has appointed you to be a general, he could not make you one,” is a fair sample of the pliability of French.’

Chatting like this about many trifles, which on his lips became interesting subjects, the prince rapidly reviewed the foremost figures of society, generals, statesmen, elegant women, etc.

‘This Congress, with its intrigues of all kinds hidden by fÊtes, is decidedly like Beaumarchais’ La Folle JournÉe. It is an imbroglio with ever so many Almavivas and Figaros. As for the Basilios, one runs against them at every turning. I sincerely trust people may not be compelled to exclaim by and by with the joyous barber: “Whom, after all, are they leading by the nose?”’

We soon got to the courtyard of his modest residence. The house was small, but comfortable, and the prince might have easily realised the wish of Socrates by filling it with true friends. It had been built on the site of a monastery founded in 1628: Leopold rebuilt it after the siege of Vienna; Joseph I. enlarged it; Joseph II. suppressed it. Since then, the prince had bought it. On the front door was engraved his favourite sentence:—QuÒ res cumque cadunt, semper stat linea recta.

‘I so thoroughly feel the barrenness of everything,’ he often said, ‘that there is no merit in my being neither envious nor spiteful, nor vainglorious.’

He began by taking me into his garden. ‘I should fail in all the traditions of ownership if I did not start by making you acquainted with all the details of my principality. Inasmuch as my house with its enclosure is scarcely more spacious than the domain allotted by the people to the president of the loftily perched republic of San-Martino, we’ll go the round of it in less time than an act of mental contrition would take. Nevertheless, such as it is, the place enables me to escape from the bustle of fÊtes, from the fatigue of pleasure, and from the crowd of majesties and highnesses. Here, and here alone, I am enabled to enjoy my own society. I come here to get the fresh air, and to recruit the strength I spend every evening on the incessant festivities of the Congress.’

At the end of the garden, he opened the door of a pavilion, positively suspended over the Danube, and from which the whole of Vienna could be taken in at a glance.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is the spot whence John Sobieski started at the head of his brave Poles, and with less than thirty thousand men saved the empire by routing all the Ottoman forces of the Grand-Vizir Kara-Mustapha. Sobieski’s faculty of instantly perceiving a situation was so sure and so thorough that at the sight of the enemy’s dispositions, he coolly said to the generals surrounding him that those dispositions were defective, and that infallibly he would beat his foes. It was impossible to say of him what is commonly said of kings, namely, that they have won a battle personally, when they have only looked at it from afar. They may have won the battle personally, but not by their presence. Sobieski won his battles in person, and by his presence.

‘I like the letter he wrote to the queen, his wife, on the day after the victory, which was dated from the tent of the grand-vizir himself. There is genuine greatness without the slightest admixture of false modesty in the following words: “Let Christendom rejoice and give thanks to the Lord; the infidels can no longer insult us by saying: ‘Where is now your God?’”

‘Sobieski had one of the greatest gifts ever vouchsafed to a commander—the faculty of inspiring confidence in his troops. The Polish cavalry which came to the rescue of Vienna had no doubt a most martial look; they were mounted on the handsomest horses, and their arms were magnificent. This was by no means the case with the infantry; one regiment in particular was in such a sorry plight that Prince Lubomirski advised their crossing the Danube at night, for the sake of the nation’s honour. Sobieski simply smiled. “As you see them,” he said, “they are invincible: they have sworn not to change their clothes except for those taken from the enemy. In the last war they only wore the Turkish uniform.” Sobieski’s remark did not, perhaps, provide his soldiers with clothes; it did better than that: it ran from mouth to mouth, and the regiment performed deeds of unsurpassed valour. You are aware that after that brilliant feat of arms which was the signal for the relief of Vienna, they applied to the Polish hero the words of Pius V. with regard to Don Juan of Austria, after the battle of Lepanto: “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” What an admirable quotation!’ wound up the prince.

‘Austria had no doubt forgotten the application of that sentence of gratitude when, later on, she effaced from the rank of European nations the country of her deliverers!’ I remarked.

‘Go and remind her of it, and see what you’ll get for your pains. Furthermore, you must expect her to answer in the way of a set-off to the advocates of Poland: “You take care to remind us of your saving Vienna in 1683. We are certainly very grateful to you, but each time you mention it, we are bound to tell you that Austria delivered you out of the hand of Sweden, which had conquered you in the reign of Charles-Gustavus; hence, we are quits.”’

‘To this, prince, Poland could reply both in virtue of priority of age and of the number of her services, that the aid she lent to Austria, notably to her founder, Rudolph of Hapsburg, largely contributed to place Austria among the most powerful monarchies of Europe. Be that as it may, in this iniquitous proceeding, Austria plays the part of the dog in La Fontaine’s fable, who carries his master’s dinner round his neck: she interfered in order to take her share of the spoil; it would have been more noble to prevent the spoliation.’

By that time it was three o’clock, and we partook, in a small room adjoining the library, of the provisions which we had brought with us in the prince’s carriage. It was one of the most delightful collations I remember. The prince was fond of telling stories; his way of narrating them was so delightful and admirable that I was only too pleased to listen. This added to his own enjoyment, and his well-stored memory poured out tale after tale without the slightest effort.

‘One of my sweetest recollections,’ he said, ‘was my first journey to France as the bearer of the happy news of the battle of Maxen. My entrance upon the scene was entirely to my taste. I was received everywhere, in Paris, Versailles, and at the Trianon, by the Baron de Bezenval, the Comte de Vaudreuil, the Comte d’AdhÉmar, the Princesse de Lamballe, the fascinating Mme. Jules de Polignac; then at the beginning I was presented to La Harpe at Mme. du Barry’s, to D’Alembert at Mme. Geoffrin’s, to Voltaire at Mme. du Deffand’s. Mme. du Deffand was probably gifted with more natural grace and power of fascination than any woman of her time.’ After this he gave me some brilliant sketches of many of the celebrities who, during his long career, had honoured him with their friendship. Empress Catherine, whom he called ‘his living glory’; Emperor Joseph II., ‘his visible providence’; Frederick the Great, ‘his claim to immortality,’ and finally Marie-Antoinette, of whom he related many charming traits, always ‘harking back’ with the greatest delight to the Court of France, where he had met with such a distinguished welcome.

‘The love of pleasure and the attractions of society took me to Versailles,’ he said; ‘gratitude brought me back to it. My lad, judge for yourself how far I was justified in yielding to illusion, that ruler of the world. Presented to the Comte d’Artois, I naturally began by treating him like the king’s brother, and we finished up by his treating me as if I were his brother. Later on, I happened to be present at the meeting of Joseph II. and Frederick II. The latter notices my liking for great men, and he invites me to Berlin. My son Charles marries a Polish girl;57 knowing that I am in the good books of Catherine, they imagine, perhaps, that I might make a King of Poland, and they confer the honour of Polish citizenship upon me. I arrive in Russia, and the grandeur and simplicity of Catherine win my heart. She selects me to accompany her to the Taurida, during that journey which seems to belong to fable rather than to history. In consequence of my taste for the “Iphigenias” of literature, she gives me the site of the temple where Agamemnon’s daughter officiated as priestess. Finally there is the paternal kindness of Emperor Francis I.; the maternal kindness of that grand Maria-Theresa, and the sometimes fraternal kindness of immortal Joseph II. There are the confidence and friendship of Landon and of Lasey; the familiar intercourse with Marie-Antoinette; the cordial intimacy of Catherine the Great; the goodwill of the great Frederick; my conversations with Jean-Jacques Rousseau; my stay at Ferney with Voltaire, and, fitly and gaily to wind up, after the great events of the last twenty years, the marvels and diversions of the Congress. Such in brief is my life. My memoirs would be most interesting. During the whole of that time I have seen calumny, ingratitude, and injustice assail everything I loved and admired.’

He seemed buried in thought for a few moments. ‘No,’ he said at last, ‘men’s idiocy and ill-nature respect nothing. In Catherine’s case these two have endeavoured to sully the grandeur one admires; in Marie-Antoinette the grace and beauty one worships. France has a few pages in her annals which one day she will wish to tear up. After having most grossly slandered the most beautiful and the most sympathetic of queens, whose goodness of heart, which was that of an angel, no one could appreciate better than I, and whose soul without reproach was as pure and as white as her face, the cannibals immolated her as an offering to their bloodthirsty liberty.’

At these words his voice grew low, and his eyes filled with tears. The tears of such a friend, of an old man and a wise one, were the most eloquent tribute to Marie-Antoinette’s memory.

‘This is my study,’ he said, opening another door, ‘and here I am free from the intrusion of all those parrots who besiege me in my little house on the wall. Here I let my pen wander as my imagination and whim prompt me.’ He showed me a great many works completed, and a number of unfinished manuscripts.

‘All this has been written for myself, to satisfy the cravings of my own heart. They are what actors would call “my asides.”’

I asked him if the world at large was not to benefit by his lessons of experience. ‘No, no,’ he replied, ‘I have too often had proof that here below a man’s reputation depends upon those who have none. And what, when all is said and done, is this glory before which one bows down, and which one pursues with all one’s might? The same day witnesses its birth and its death, so short, after all, is life. Ypsilanti, about whom we have chatted so often, has gloriously lost his arm. When at present he makes his appearance in a drawing-room, he is surrounded, he is pointed out to public curiosity, and people tell of the battle in which he distinguished himself. To-day he is a young hero; before many springs pass over our heads, and they pass very quickly, people will call him the old cripple.

‘Never had a woman a more glorious welcome than that accorded to Mme. de StaËl in Vienna six years ago. Her arrival and her stay constituted, as it were, a date, for people still say—“When Mme. de StaËl was here.” Well, the enthusiasm was soon succeeded by a spirit of criticism the reverse of good-natured. Nevertheless, if there be anything in this world which is not all vanity, assuredly it is the admiration one inspires; but how long does that admiration last? At the outset Mme. de StaËl carried all hearts, and conquered all minds.’

‘Not in virtue of her personal attractions, for even in her portraits she did not seem to me sufficiently good-looking to please.’

‘That’s true, she could never have possessed a pleasing face; her mouth and nose were ugly. But her magnificent eyes marvellously expressed everything that went on successively in that brain so rich in lofty or virile thoughts; her hands were beautifully shaped, hence the care she took to direct attention to them by her habit of constantly fingering a branch of poplar provided with a few leaves, the shaking of which, according to herself, was the necessary accompaniment to her words. Her conversation was simply dazzling; she discussed every subject with a marvellous facility; she expressed herself in an animated, brilliant and poetical manner. The larger her audience, the loftier did her genius soar. She was only at her ease with men capable of judging her, but on such occasions she was truly great.

‘Well, all those titles to admiration were soon made light of. The human mind, by an inevitable reaction, passes from enthusiasm to carping. In a short time people laid stress on Mme. de StaËl’s defects; her brilliant qualities were no longer taken into account. In general conversation, it was said, she showed herself more anxious to dazzle than to please; her monologues reduced her interlocutors to the roles of complacent listeners; when she addressed a question to some one, she rarely waited for the answer. She was fond of society in which she was calculated to shine, but she did not care for the society of women, which, as a rule, affords fewer resources to an intellect like hers than that of men. And the women have not forgiven her, however much her genius may have conferred honour on her own sex.

‘Hence, she gradually saw a diminution of her celebrity, a celebrity which had become necessary to her, and which, nevertheless, was not to her the road to happiness. She constantly regretted France, from which she was irrevocably exiled, in consequence of her opposition to the government; she had designated Bonaparte as Robespierre on horseback. It may therefore be said that she served her own cause when endeavouring to overtopple the obstacle to her return to Paris; and on the task she set herself, she brought to bear all the energy of a genius, stimulated by the hatred of a woman.

‘I have much admired Mme. de StaËl; I still admire her, and I strongly suspect that the author of the Dialogue sur l’enthousiasme wanted to paint me in the character of Cleon.’ The prince, when uttering those last words, glanced at me smiling. ‘She felt much vexed at some one daring to question merit which at that time everybody agreed in pronouncing incontestable. That little bit of criticism was the first. The author particularly censures her novel Corinne. In that respect he was wrong. Wishing to attack her, he had no business to attack her writings. That, assuredly, was not her vulnerable side. But he would have been justified in blaming the pretension to refer everything to herself, the inconstancy of opinion which was so dangerous to her friends who took her at her word, the pedagogic and biting tone, the histrionic elation, in the manner of Corinne, her neologism in intellectual matters, which was so utterly antipathetic to me, and the craving to appear on the boards, where she displayed not the slightest talent, inasmuch as her true vocation lay in acting in real life. On all those points he would have been justified in venting his spite either in prose or in verse. You are aware that we were within an ace of falling out for ever in consequence of a spiteful remark which was told to her as coming from me. After the performance of her tragedy, Agar dans le DÉsert, in which, to be frank, she seemed more ugly than usual, some one, who was not the Prince de Ligne, is reported to have said that the proper title of the piece ought to have been La Justification d’Abraham. She sulked for a long time, and I had much difficulty in convincing her of my innocence.’

After that the prince showed me a small manuscript, which has been published since, and which he had then just finished. Its subject was the Venetian Casanova. When that famous adventurer was tired of hawking about Europe his projects, his magic secrets, and his striking personality; when, in fact, he felt old age creeping over him and poverty staring him in the face, he applied to the Prince de Ligne. Almost as a matter of course, the latter made him welcome, bestirred himself on his behalf, and got him the post of librarian to his nephew, the Prince de Wallstein. Casanova’s curiously chequered career appealed to the imagination of the old marshal. He also had had many adventures during his existence. He liked the ready and biting wit of the Venetian, his profound and varied learning, and his philosophically-turned and ever fresh comments.

‘Yes,’ said the prince, ‘Casanova was the most diverting individual I have ever met with. It was he who said that a woman is never older than her lover fancies her to be. His inexhaustible recollections, his imagination, which was as vivid as it had been at twenty, his enthusiasm with regard to myself, won my heart. He often read his memoirs to me. They partake of the nature of those of a knight-errant and of the “Wandering Jew”; unfortunately they’ll never see the light.’58

His writing-table was littered with verses, the greater part unfinished.

‘You are looking at those sketches,’ he said. ‘It is because I am unable to work like the majority of poets. There are two dictionaries at their disposal, the dictionary of the heart and the rhyming dictionary. When there is no longer anything in the first, or when they can no longer read it, they open the second. When my heart no longer dictates, I leave off writing.’

We spent a little more time in examining several charming portraits of women with whom he had been in love, and a rich collection of letters written by the sovereigns and the most illustrious personages of Europe during half a century.

The hour for returning struck, and we left the delightful retreat which, one day, will become historical. But amidst those brilliant reminiscences of the Vienna Congress, my grateful memory could not omit that day wholly passed in familiar conversation with the Prince de Ligne.