A Court Function—The Empress of Austria—The Troubadours—Amateur Theatricals—The Empress of Russia—The Prince Leopold of Saxe-Cobourg—Tableaux-Vivants—Queen Hortense’s Songs—The Moustaches of the Comte de Wurbna—Songs in Action—The Orphan of the Prisons—Diplomacy and Dancing—A Ball and a Supper at Court.

The fÊtes succeeded each other uninterruptedly; the time not given to pleasure was looked upon as wasted. Every week there was a grand reception and ball at the Court. Taking their cue from highest quarters, the foremost members of Austrian society also had their appointed days for welcoming in their drawing-rooms the numberless strangers whom business or pleasure had brought to Vienna. On Mondays the Princesse de Metternich threw open her house; on Thursdays the Master of the Horse, the Prince de Trauttmansdorff, did the same, and on Saturdays, the beautiful Comtesse Zichy followed suit. As a return for this gracious hospitality, the ambassadors and representatives of the great Powers on their side gave most brilliant entertainments. In virtue of this constant exchange of magnificent functions, the days went by without counting, and everybody appeared to have adopted the maxim—the first necessity of mankind is to be happy.

The Empress of Austria was practically the soul of that succession of balls, banquets, receptions and masques. Born in Italy, and sprung from that illustrious House of Este, sung by Ariosto and by Tasso, she had, as it were, inherited from her ancestors the taste and the instinctive feeling for everything pertaining to art. Her goodness of heart was beyond compare, her youthful and fresh imagination took a delight in the arrangement of all those joyous details. She was admirably seconded by two French artists, M. Isabey and M. Moreau—the latter a most talented architect—who were her usual auxiliaries. She invented and ordained; their task consisted in faithfully reproducing and carrying out her bright ideas.

One of her favourite pleasures was the giving of theatrical performances in her apartments. Defying the difficulties attached to the rÔle of impresario, she had succeeded in recruiting and composing a company of amateur actors. Some among these would have done credit to any stage, no matter where. In this company figured the most aristocratic names: the Comtes Ojarowski, Stanislas Potocki, de Wallstein, Woyna, Mmes. Edmond de PÉrigord and Flora Wurbna, shone in comedy; opera had its interpreters in the Prince Antoine Radziwill, the Marquis de Salvox, the Comtes Petersen de Bombelles,59 the Comtesses d’Apponyi, Charles Zichy, de Woyna, and the Princesse Yblonowska; while German tragedy fell to the lot of the Comtesse Julie Zichy, the Comtesse Esterhazy and the Comte Zichy. Our theatrical literature, so rich in all genius, was especially laid under contribution; often there was a mixed performance of German and French pieces. At one of those performances, Schiller’s Wallenstein and the charming comedy of Rivaux d’eux-mÊmes were played with really remarkable casts.

Some young men, as a relief from the arid labours of diplomacy, which at that period, it was said, constituted by no means a lively pursuit, had organised among themselves an artistic gathering, which was called the ‘company of Troubadours.’ Foremost among these were the Prince Radziwill, the Comtes Batthyani, Zichy, and the Prince Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg. It was a graceful revival of the chivalrous and poetic customs of the Middle Ages. There was, furthermore, the ‘Festal Committee,’ appointed by the emperor, and composed of the foremost personages of the Court. It really did appear as if the whole of society was wrapped round by a vast association, the bright network of which spread everywhere, and which had but one aim—the pursuit of pleasure.

The entertainment offered by the Court on that particular evening was of an entirely novel kind as far as the majority of the spectators were concerned. It consisted of the representation of pictures and of songs put into action by living personages. The Prince de Ligne and I went early to the Imperial Palace. Though the performance had not commenced, the rooms were full. Thanks to the Comte Arthur Potocki, we were enabled to get to the seats he had reserved for us between the Princesse Marie Esterhazy and the Prince Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg. It was the first time I met this young man in society; he was known to the Prince de Ligne, who soon made us acquainted with each other. At that time, he seemed to me as timid as he was handsome. Never did noble birth and blood show themselves more conspicuously than in the distinguished air and easy bearing of this scion of an illustrious house. At that period he was doubtlessly far from foreseeing the fortunate position destiny had in store for him, by uniting him at first to a great princess, by placing him afterwards on the throne of regenerated Belgium, and finally by giving him as consort an accomplished princess from the blood royal of France. To-day the future happiness of two families, of perhaps two peoples, is centred in him.60

After having exchanged a few courteous words, Prince Leopold left us to prepare for his part in one of the tableaux; we remained with the Princesse Esterhazy.

The illustrious and princely House of Esterhazy has so often been described as to render the task of adding anything fresh to those descriptions a difficult one. Everybody knows that its noble origin is virtually lost in the mist of ages, and that its power equals that of kings. Its magnificence, its wealth, and the splendour of its establishment are such as to convey but a faint idea to those who have not seen them, and those who have are tempted to consider them as so many parts of a fairy dream induced by the reading of some fabulous story. Its territorial possessions comprise more than a hundred villages and burghs, something like forty townships and over thirty castles and fortresses.61 The country seats which constitute, as it were, the capitals of those veritable states comprise an enormous number of apartments, picture-galleries and theatres. The Hungarian hussar’s dress, entirely embroidered with pearls, which is transmitted in the family from father to son, is estimated at four millions of florins, and costs twelve thousand florins to repair each time it is worn. On those vast domains the Esterhazys exercise the power of life and death; they have troops and guards in their own pay. Moreover, an imperial decree, dating from 1687, conferred upon them the right to mint their own money and to grant patents of nobility. Many sovereigns would be tempted to exchange their crowns for the lot of such subjects.

The Princesse Marie Esterhazy, nÉe Princesse de Lichtenstein, though at that period no longer in the flush of youth, was still possessed of a charming grace. She was above all endowed with that winning kindness which imparts a charm to women who physically are least attractive. Her equable temperament and her fascinating kindness induced me to seek her society on all possible occasions. Some years before I had met her husband, the Prince Nicolas,62 in Paris, at Mme. RÉcamier’s, that friend of my childhood, the most beautiful of women and the most worthy of admiration and respect. An enthusiastic and enlightened amateur of every branch of art, and above all of music, the prince was the MÆcenas of literary men and artists. He treated them as a connoisseur and rewarded them like a king.

I was very fond of the society of Prince Paul, their son, whose senior I was by a few years. Our tastes and habits were pretty well the same. I often met him at the house of Mme. de Fuchs, who was the friend of both. Since then called in virtue of his name and his solid attainments to most important diplomatic positions. Prince Paul63 has shown a constant moderation and a rectitude of thought and judgment which only belong to a noble disposition and a superior intellect. He is one of the men who during the recent negotiations have contributed most to the preservation of peace in Europe.

Our conversation with the Princesse Marie turned on the kind of amusement the Court of Austria was providing for us that evening. She told us that she had often organised similar tableaux at Eisenstadt in a rotunda constructed for the purpose in the midst of a lake, and that during the performances Haydn, the director of her private band, improvised on the organ some pieces in keeping with the optical effects, and which added marvellously to the illusion.

The sovereigns gradually made their appearance and took the seats reserved for them, the Emperor of Russia being as usual by the side of the Empress of Austria. By a curious freak of nature, both were somewhat hard of hearing, the emperor on one side, the empress on the opposite side. Etiquette required their being seated side by side in such a manner as not to be able to hear each other; consequently, they always seemed to be playing at ‘cross purposes.’ Alexander at that period was remarkable for the beauty of his face and the elegance of his figure; and he was by no means indifferent to the flattering remarks addressed to him on the subject. On the other hand, it would have argued an inexperience of Courts to betray either by word or sign the knowledge of his auricular infirmity.

By the Emperor of Austria’s side sat the Empress Elizabeth of Russia. That angel on earth had everything calculated to insure her husband’s happiness and hers.64 She was endowed with a charming face, her eyes reflecting the purity of her soul. She had magnificent auburn hair, which, as a rule, was allowed to fall loose on her shoulders. Her figure was elegant, lithe, and supple, and even when she wore a mask, her walk revealed her identity in a moment. No woman realised more thoroughly the line of Virgil:

To a most delightful disposition there were added a cultivated and quick intellect, a passionate love of art, and a boundless liberality in money matters. The graceful elegance of her person, her noble bearing, and her inexhaustible kindness won her all hearts. Neglected almost from the first hour of her union by a husband whom she worshipped, her solitude and grief had bred a kind of melancholy. Stamped on every feature, that feeling lent to the accents of her voice and to her slightest movements an irresistible charm.

A symphony for horns and harps preceded the rise of the curtain. The candles in the house were extinguished in order to give greater brilliancy to the light thrown on to the stage. The first picture was the reproduction of a subject painted by a young Viennese artist, ‘Louis XIV. kneeling at Mme. de la ValliÈre’s feet.’ The actors of that scene were the young Comte de Trauttmansdorff, son of the grand-marshal, and the charming Comtesse de Zichy. Both were so eminently attractive, there was such an ardent expression of love on the face of the young noble, and so much modesty, fear, and innocence on the delicious face of the comtesse, as to make the illusion complete.

The second picture was a reproduction of GuÉrin’s beautiful composition, ‘Hippolytus refuting Phedra’s accusation before Theseus.’ The Princesse Yblonowska represented the daughter of Minos, and the young Comte Woyna, Hippolytus. The eyes and features of the one were stamped with ardent passion struggling against remorse, while the other, by his calm and classical attitude, by the signs of his respectful grief, only seemed to invoke for his defence the purity of his heart. Though shorn of the charm of its magnificent poetry, Racine’s conception had never more eloquent interpreters than these two.

The subjects of these pictures, reproduced by the most distinguished personages of the Court, the brilliant and accurate dresses, the perfectly arranged light, the whole of the ensemble so artistically arranged, produced the most lively admiration on the part of the spectators.

After this, the stage was got ready for the songs to be enacted; an orchestra, composed of the most celebrated instrumentalists of Germany, played symphonies by Haydn and Mozart.

The first song was the ‘Partant pour la Syrie,’ the charming music of which, by Queen Hortense, has become popular throughout Europe. Mlle. Goubault, a young Belgian, who to an agreeable face added a charming and expressive voice, sang the words, while the Princesse de Hesse-Philipstadt and the young Comte de SchÖnfeldt represented the characters. At the verse of the marriage, a chorus of the most beautiful personages of the Court grouped themselves around the principal actors. This profusion of delicious faces, the perfect unison of the voices, and the expressive pantomimic action of the two lovers—in short, the whole tableau, was enthusiastically applauded.

I was too far away from Emperor Alexander to hear what he said to Prince EugÈne, who was seated close to him by the side of his father-in-law, the King of Bavaria. I could, however, easily perceive by the face of EugÈne, beaming with pleasure and gratitude, that the praise bestowed by the emperor on the musical composition was accompanied by flattering and kindly expressions concerning his sister.

The second song was that of Coupigny, a ‘Young Troubadour singing and making war.’ It was represented by the Comte de SchÖnborn and the Comtesse Marassi. The third song was again one of Queen Hortense’s, ‘Do what you ought, let come what may.’ It was as well sung as ably mimed by the handsome Comtesse Zamoyska, a daughter of Marshal Czartoryski, and by the young Prince Radziwill. Like the first, it was enthusiastically listened to and greatly praised. The author’s name was on the lips of every one, and vociferous applause frequently broke forth.

‘This is a sceptre which will not be broken in the hands of Mlle. de Beauharnais,’ said the Prince de Ligne. ‘She is still a queen in virtue of her talent and her charm when she has ceased to be one by the grace of God. I confess to a liking for women who are fond of music, and above all for those who compose music, as she does. Music is a universal language, harmoniously recounting to all of us the sensations of our lives. Only the malicious and spiteful could have said evil of the sometime Queen of Holland, and only imbeciles could have attached any belief to what they said. As for me, I am always glad to applaud and to give homage to fallen greatness, especially if the fallen ones have done honour to the rank in which fate placed them.’

‘I cordially agree with you, prince,’ I said. ‘I often had the opportunity of seeing Queen Hortense at the beginning of her grandeur. During the rapid advances of her fortunes she did not change, and amidst all the imperial pomp and splendour she remained natural and unaffected. She seems to have been born with an instinctive feeling for art and with the germs of talent; she sings and plays on several instruments the charming music of her own composition. She draws with rare perfection. More precious than all this, though, is her sprightly kindness, which her mother appears to have transmitted to her. Both, while attaining the highest positions it is given to mortals to reach, lost none of the qualities which compel affection in the most obscure conditions.’

‘I am pleased to hear you speak like that. I am of opinion that the most admirable quality of mankind is the faculty for admiring. I detest people who are always looking for the interest underlying a good action. Bear this in mind: only grovelling natures seek to disparage talent; and fools only applaud the envious.’

The curtain had been lowered to set the final picture which was to conclude the whole of the spectacle in a most brilliant manner. It was to represent Olympus with all the mythological divinities. Nothing had been neglected to make the execution worthy of the grandeur of the subject. There had, nevertheless, been a temporary apprehension with regard to the smooth progress of its course. There had been for two whole days negotiations far more difficult and delicate in their nature than those usually pending between diplomatic celebrities; and it wanted nothing less than an intervention from high quarters to settle a question which the sapient assembly would probably have failed to bring to a satisfactory conclusion.

The facts were as follows: All the rÔles of the tenants on Olympus had been distributed. Prince Leopold de Saxe-Cobourg, in consequence of his remarkably handsome presence, had been cast for the part of Jupiter. Comte Zichy was to represent Mars. The company was, however, short of Apollo; and among the troubadours the young Comte de Wurbna was the only one who could efficiently fill the part. It had been offered to him and accepted. But the Comte, who combined in every respect the requisite qualities for the brilliant impersonation allotted to him, had unfortunately something not contemplated in the programme. His upper lip was ornamented by a delightful pair of moustachios, and he valued them as one values things that do not detract from one’s appearance. It was very certain, though, that whether taken in connection with his luminous chariot or in the simple guise of a shepherd, no one could conceive the god of day with this hirsute ornament of a captain of hussars.

The stage manager entrusted with the carrying out of the tableau bore the name of Omer, which lent itself marvellously to all kind of witticisms. Omer, then, was deputed to enter into negotiations with the young Comte and to induce him to part with the inconvenient ornament. In spite of his poetical name (irrespective of its orthography), Omer found but an indifferent listener in the young man. In vain did he cajole, argue, and supplicate. In vain did he point out to the young man the impossibility of representing the tableau. His words did not produce the slightest effect. Inexorable, like Achilles sulking in his tent, young Wurbna seemed to have taken an oath not to part with his moustachios while alive.

The rumour of this curious obstinacy spread with the rapidity of bad tidings; there is great agitation and anxiety, people are inquiring of each other the latest particulars of the affair, every other pleasure is forgotten; the Congress, too, would have been forgotten if any one had thought it worth while to remember that there was a Congress. Those moustachios have become the subject of every conversation and of universal concern.

Finally, in view of the gravity of the circumstances, recourse is being had to a supreme appeal: the empress is informed of the affair. Entering frankly into the plot, the charming princess, on the very evening, so effectively cajoled the young recalcitrant Comte that, vanquished, or rather won over, he absented himself for a moment, to reappear with a clean and smooth upper lip like that of a young girl. Thus fell, at a single word from Louis XIV., the woods interrupting the view from the seat of Petit-Bourg. Truly, sovereigns, and especially female sovereigns, have for the purpose of upraising or cutting down magic and powerful words, denied to other mortals.

The sacrifice was consummated, and we knew that, thanks to the happy conclusion of that negotiation, Omer had been enabled to carry out to the best of purposes his Olympian production. At last the curtain rose, and the assembly of the gods met the eager gaze of the spectators. The queen of the gods was represented by the daughter of Admiral Sir Sidney Smith, Venus by Mme. de Wilhem, a lady of honour to the Princesse de la Tour et Taxis, and Minerva by the lovely Comtesse Rosalie Rzewuska. The eyes of the spectators, delighted at first by the matchless beauty of the picture, finally contemplate nobody but Apollo, standing forth in all his glory, and well rewarded for his obedience by sweet and august smiles.

During the representation of that tableau, a young Frenchman, the Baron Thierry, attached to the Portuguese Legation, played a solo on the harp. The young fellow, who was brought up in England, whither he had accompanied his parents at the time of the emigration, had assiduously practised that instrument, and attained a degree of perfection on it which at that period was very rare. He was well built, with an interesting face, and one of the most admired of strangers in Viennese society. His solo, played with all the perfection his instrument would permit, produced the greatest effect, and was cordially applauded, the signal for the applause coming from the royalties themselves. Even Olympus itself appeared to be moved by it. Finally the curtain fell amidst unanimous signs of approval; the sovereigns rose, and we passed into an adjoining hall sumptuously arranged for the ball.

‘You probably do not know the story of the beautiful Comtesse Rzewuska, whom you have just admired in the character of Minerva. She is the daughter of the Princesse Rosalie Lubomirska, who was guillotined during the Terror. The child, after the death of her mother, on the 12th Messidor of the Year II. (30th June 1794), was taken home and brought up by a laundress, and by the merest accident discovered by her uncle, the Comte ChodkÏewicz, who had been in search of her for many years, and finally taken back to Poland. It is the most startling drama in real life.’65

Meanwhile dancing had commenced, and I went to offer my arm to the Princesse Esterhazy, whom I had the honour to escort during part of the evening. She conversed about art with the greatest facility, her remarks being emphasised by eminently just quotations altogether exempt from the slightest pedantry. Her comments on society were marked by a similar justness of observation, none the less just for being tempered by great forbearance. Her beautiful features bore the unmistakable signs of her being an irreproachable wife, a most affectionate mother, and a most devoted and sincere friend. As a consequence, her conversation seemed to me infinitely preferable to the somewhat boisterous amusements of that evening. All those who had taken part in the tableaux and in the illustrations of the songs had retained their costumes. There was a considerable number of them. They organised quadrilles which lent a new attraction to that fÊte, namely, that of variety. It seemed as if grace, that divine part of beauty, had been equally divided, though under different forms, among the dwellers in every climate. Never was this fact more pertinently felt than at those fÊtes of the Congress, at which the most remarkable women of the various countries of Europe shone with equal, though distinct, splendour.

We, the Prince de Ligne and I, wandered through those drawing-rooms, ablaze with light, passing in review those delicious faces, representing all kinds of beauty as they successively went by. The Princesse Marie de Metternich and the Comtesse Batthyani, with wistful and somewhat melancholy features, tall, slight, and flexible like reeds; the two charming sisters ElÉonore and Pauline de Schwartzenberg, beaming with youth and freshness; the Princesse Yblonowska, the Comtesses Sophie de Woyna and Louise de Durkeim, both distinguished by their slightly dreamy looks; the Comtesse Julie Zichy, captivatingly graceful; the Comtesses de Marassi, d’Urgate, de SchÖnborn, and the Princesse HÉlÈne Souvaroff, whose portrait I have already sketched; and the Comtesse de Paar. In short, we feasted our eyes on delightful faces, lighted up every now and again by rapid smiles, or positively basking in the full light of careless joy and happiness—faces that soothed the mind and captivated all glances.

Emperor Alexander had opened the ball with the Empress of Austria with a ‘polonaise,’ a kind of dancing march, the regular preamble to every Court ball. In an adjoining room some members of the corps diplomatique were gravely engaged at whist, a recreation which also seemed an indispensable part of the European transactions in progress. The ‘polonaise,’ though, soon interfered with the silence necessary to the game. The band had given the signal and, too cramped in the principal room, the long file of dancers marched along under the guidance of the czar, invaded the whole of the palace, and twined round and round the serious quartets of the players, and by an enormously round-about way returned to its starting-point in perfect order, never ceasing the course of its graceful evolutions. Towards the end of the evening, the guests formed themselves here and there into groups. Some young men arranged pleasure parties for the next morning, while the representatives of Europe gravely discussed the burning questions of the moment.

In one part of the room, M. de Talleyrand, ensconced in an armchair, is talking to the Prince Leopold of Naples, while M. de Labrador, the Chevalier de Los Rios and the Cardinal Gonzalvi, the Marquis de Marialva, the young Comte de Luchesini and Charles de Rechberg, in a circle, are standing around. The conversation runs on King Murat. With his habitual phlegm, M. de Talleyrand drops some of those grave and prophetic sentences which, rightly interpreted, might be considered the forerunner of that improvised sovereign’s fall.66

M. de la Tour du Pin, the ambassador of France, was the centre of another group, composed of his colleague, M. Alexis de Noailles, MM. de Wintzingerode, Pozzo di Borgo, the Marquis de Saint Marsan, the Comte de Rossi, etc.

Lord Castlereagh, erect and leaning against a mantelpiece, seems to listen with a glacial air to the King of ——. The crowd has retired to a respectful distance. His majesty, on the other hand, appears to speak with a certain warmth, although his attitude is that of a petitioner, or rather a pleader, intent upon convincing his judge. One can catch the words, ‘Poland—indemnity—Treaty of Kalitsch.’ His lordship vouchsafes only few words in reply to his august interlocutor. Looking at them, one is reminded that if the Coalition has had the victory, it was England who paid the soldiers.

Lord Stewart wanders listlessly from one room to another. He is simply anxious to be seen, and they have bestowed on him the sobriquet of ‘the golden peacock.’

At midnight a magnificent supper was served. Of course, the sovereigns occupied the table set apart for them, but the other guests seated themselves wherever they liked, without the slightest ceremony or considerations of etiquette. The gaiety of that collation, absolutely free from restraint, afforded greater facilities for confidential and familiar talk. All those banquets were alike. Always the same display of apparently inexhaustible wealth and the same magnificence; consequently, although the Congress was but a few days old, people had ceased to estimate the expenses of the Court.

To make up for that, they freely spoke of the number of strangers who, either on business or pleasure, were located in Vienna. We know the means by which Colbert filled the empty coffers of his master. But what, after all, were the carrousels of Louis XIV. compared to this magnificent series of fÊtes?

The hour for retiring struck at last, and people went home to recruit their strength for the next day by much-needed sleep.