The Prince de Ligne’s Song of the Congress—Life on the Graben—The Chronicle of the Congress—Echoes of the Congress—A Companion Story to the Death of Vatel—Brie, the King of Cheese—FÊte at Arnstein the Banker’s—The FÊte at Prince Razumowski’s—The Prince Royal of WÜrtemberg—Russian Dances—Retrospection.

The smaller ball-room usually reserved for the masked routs was filled to overflowing. That gathering, like all those that had preceded it, was the living image of a society devoted to pleasure, to flirting, and seductive pastimes of every description.

‘We have got a new guest, and, moreover, one who’ll be by no means welcome at the Congress,’ remarked the Prince de Ligne.

‘Some deposed sovereign, prince?’ I asked.

‘No; a guest who means to have his share of all these rejoicings; not to mince words, the plague. At this moment it is raging in Servia, and threatens to make its entrance here in proper person and without plenipotentiaries. You may, however, make your mind easy; all precautions are taken, and we shall want neither conferences nor treaties against the unwelcome visitor.

‘Since yesterday,’ he went on, ‘this important assembly of the greatest monarchs and their august deliberations have inspired me to write, not a philosophical treatise or a serious work of any kind, either political or otherwise, but a song. At any rate, it will be a song to some, though it may be a lesson to others. It’s a popular ditty without the least pretension; I wrote it in a quarter of an hour. We may add that it was written with one of the pens of the great Frederick, the only thing I brought away with me from Sans-Souci. The quill possesses the further merit of having traced some plans of battle, and some verses which were no better than mine.’

I complimented him, laughing.

‘Don’t laugh,’ he rejoined. ‘The history of the Congress is not unlike the history of France, which, as MÉnage averred, might be written with a collection of light comedies interspersed with song, to guide the author.’

Then, after a few moments of silence, ‘I’ll not admit the paternity of this trifle, except to my friends. I have not forgotten the Duchesse de Boufflers’ reward of the cocksure vanity of the Comte de Tressan.77 I have nothing to oppose to the thousands of bayonets of the occupants of thrones but so many words marshalled in line. The struggle would not be equal.’

‘But to whom, prince, if not to you, should belong the privilege of telling the truth?’

‘You mean in virtue of my age?’

I quickly changed the subject. This excellent prince always came back to his regrets at being more or less put into the shade by men who had only recently made good their names, and his comments on current events, though devoid of all bitterness, were stamped with a kind of sadness. I began talking to him about his military writings, which he liked best of all, and to which he attached the greatest importance. Posterity has judged differently. It has allotted the foremost place to his clever witticisms, to his remarks on the society, the manners and customs, and the artistic questions of his time, in the writing of which his imagination found full play. The soldier is almost entirely forgotten, but the sprightly and pungent literary man, the impartial and quick observer, is admired as much as ever.

‘I have left my works to my company of Trabans. They are the reflections of an old soldier whose experience has been deemed superfluous. At any rate, people will profit by it after my death.’

It was evident that the prince was in one of the fretful moods that now and again assailed him as a set-off to his youthful gaiety. His features became clouded, he took my arm; we had a short stroll round the rooms, then went out and walked silently to his little house on the rampart.

Next morning when I called I found him, contrary to his custom, out of bed and seated in his library, which was at the same time his bed- and reception-room, and which, smiling, he had named the last bar of his perch.

‘You have come for the song. Just listen to it.’ And in a by no means feeble voice he began to sing the trifle which was soon taken up by all classes of society, including the sovereigns themselves.78 ‘Take this copy with you,’ said the prince; ‘my heirs will be none the worse for this liberality on my part. It is different with regard to these two manuscripts which I am just touching up. One deals with considerations on the disastrous Austrian campaigns during the first years of the French Revolution; the other treats of the campaigns in Italy up to Marengo. Both are not without interest. But,’ interrupting himself, ‘while I am making songs on the Congress, what becomes of it? Have you got any news?’ ‘None, prince, not a syllable of what transpires leaks out. To tell the truth, people do not appear to concern themselves much with regard to it. There is, however, a great deal of talk about a ball Emperor Alexander proposes to give to the sovereigns at Prince Razumowski’s mansion on St. Catherine’s night, the fÊte-day of the Grand-Duchess of Oldenburg.’

‘That’s right, those poor kings ought to have a holiday. I am not certain, though, that at the end of all these entertainments any of the monarchs will be able to say to himself what my dear Joseph II. said. When he had worked the whole of the day at the reforms which, while immortalising his name, contributed to the happiness of the empire, he said, lightly tapping his cheek, “And now, go to bed, Joseph, I am pleased with your day’s work.” ‘Amidst this cross-fire of different pretensions, have you heard anything of a claim of another kind? Trifling though it may be, it is calculated to provide some occupation for the archons of the Congress. It is a note presented by Louis Buon-Compagni, Prince of Lucca and Piombino, claiming sovereign rights over the island of Elba. He considers the investment of Napoleon with that sovereignty out of order and out of place. His claim is supported by a document, in which Emperor Ferdinand acknowledges to have received from one of his ancestors, Nicolas Ludovisi, Duc de Venosa, more than a million of florins for the investiture of Elba and Piombino, granted to him and his descendants. Here’s a pretty business—the man who ruled the world threatened with ejectment by another Robinson Crusoe! If Louis [Ludovico] Buon-Compagni would come down to the rÔle of Friday, matters might be arranged. But he wants his island, and wants it all to himself. Trifling as the incident may appear, it would lend itself to a very curious chapter. It would be the height of absurdity to see the man who distributed crowns without a stone on which to put his heroic head in an unknown island.’

Coming back to his favourite topic, the prince referred once more to warlike matters, and in a manner as enthusiastic as if he were twenty. At such moments his tall and beautiful figure drew itself up to its full height, his features became animated, his eyes positively brilliant. ‘Don’t imagine, my dear boy, that during two days I have done nothing but concoct rhymes or epigrams on the Congress. You see these two volumes; well, I have spent the night in reading them.’

He pointed to a military work entitled Principes de StratÉgie appliquÉs aux Campagnes de 1796 en Allemagne. Its author, Arch-Duke Charles, had sent them to him.

‘In this book, full of curious details and profound views,’ he said, ‘there is only one mistake as far as I can judge. The author is too severe upon himself. There is not the faintest doubt about the transcendent military worth of Prince Charles, but it is marked by so much modesty and such simplicity of manner as to seem scarcely reconcilable with his reputation. He is not only the greatest captain of Austria, but more than once he has proved himself a counter-balance to the genius of your Napoleon. In his valour, in his faculty of inspiring both respect and obedience in his soldiers, he is like Frederick; in his virtues, his strict integrity, and his unalterable love of duty, he is the living image of the Prince Charles of Lorraine. The frankness of his soul is reflected in his face. Some time ago I attempted to draw his portrait in verse. I sent it to him anonymously, knowing as I did that direct praise was apt to displease him. In some way, I do not know how, he guessed the authorship. No doubt my feelings got the better of my style, and I presume that the books he sent me are intended as a reply. I have just finished reading them. I feel certain of their becoming classical, for admiration instinctively follows a public man admitted, as he is, to be possessed of a grand and noble character.’

Then he drifted to the famous captains of his time and to their notable exploits; and gradually I felt his enthusiasm gaining upon me. His own genius was discernible in his looks, and electrified me. The conversation of such men as he is more apt to enlighten one and to speak louder than their books. Inasmuch as I had made up my mind religiously to garner every literary scrap from the pen of this encyclopedic man, I asked him to give me his verses on Prince Charles, and I added them to my precious collection.

‘We’ll meet at Razumowski’s,’ he said, ‘seeing that, guided by pleasure only, we are evidently advancing towards the great result of this sapient assembly amidst balls, fÊtes, carrousels, and games. No doubt the day will come when we shall be allowed to know the fate of Europe. Manifestly, though, experience does not appear to convey any valuable lesson either to men’s passions or to their ambition; and our era seems to have quickly forgotten a very recent past.

‘I must leave you, to preside at a chapter of the Order of Maria-Theresa;79 the Commandeur-GÉnÉral, Ouwaroff, is to be invested to-day. From there I am going to dine with your great diplomatist.’

Since the cold weather had set in, making the Prater somewhat too chilly for idlers and loungers on foot, the latter foregathered on the Graben. The newspaper writers thronged the public resort, and, in default of genuine particulars of the Congress, retailed their so-called political information and Court stories, as devoid of probability, not to say of truth, as the rest. Outdoor life had assumed such proportions that one might have safely said to one’s friends in the evening, ‘I looked for you on the Graben to-day. I failed to find you, so I left my card.’ The Graben was to the majority of strangers what the Square of St. Mark is to the Venetians. They spent the greater part of their time there. It was a kind of open-air club; everybody received and returned calls there; the life of the capital was practically regulated on that spot; folk appointed to meet there to discuss their future movements, and to organise pleasure parties for the evening. Hence, it would be no exaggeration to say that people lived in common on the Graben, amidst an immense group of ‘loafers,’ idlers, ‘spouters,’ and disputants.

There was another kind of store-house for news, epigrams, witty sallies, and satirical observation; a kind of ‘lion’s mouth’ À la VÉnitienne, less the secret denunciations. Or rather, the place was like the Marforio in Rome, I mean the statue at the foot of which there was a constant flow of criticism both on the governors and on the governed. The second spot was the big room of the ‘Empress of Austria’ tavern, which I have already mentioned. Every day, at the dinner-hour, the place was thronged with illustrious and important personages, anxious to escape from the magnificent but somewhat solemn banquets of the Austrian Court. At a ‘round table’ the occupants vied with each other in challenges—not like those of the ancient knights of King Arthur, but in wit-combats, sarcastic lunges, and epigrams, all of them tempered by the perfect tone of Courts and of the best society.

The constant variety of its patrons invested this improvised club with the greatest interest. Among the habituÉs were the Chevalier de Los Rios, Ypsilanti, Tettenborn, MM. Achille Rouen, Koreff, Danilewski, the Prince Koslowski, Gentz, the secretary of the Congress, the Comte de Witt, Carpani, the poet, ever so many generals, ambassadors, and very often some royal highnesses. Narischkine, the great-chamberlain, came now and again, treating the company to his biting and dreaded sallies. In short, there was a never-failing muster of all that Vienna held within its walls in the way of political, artistic, and social celebrities.

The stories told there could have rightly been called the ‘Chronicle of the Congress,’ and even the ‘Chronicles of Europe’; everybody of note, or of erewhile renown, being apparently responsible for his doings and sayings to the jurisdiction of the caustic Areopagus of that tavern.

Although the fare was in keeping with the company and the conversation, prices were comparatively modest. In spite of the number of strangers in Vienna at that moment, in spite of their rank and their wealth, the cost of most things, except of lodgings, was moderate. The Dutch ducat was worth twelve florins in paper, which fact, doubling its value in money, increased the resources of a stranger in that ratio. The whole may be judged from the fact that meals, profusely served and supplemented with several kinds of wine, were supplied at the rate of five florins per head.

Griffiths and I took our seats at one of the tables. They were talking about the preparations for the fÊte next day at Razumowski’s, and of the honour the emperor had bestowed upon him by creating him a prince.

‘He deserved the distinction,’ said Koslowski. ‘The new prince, since he has been our ambassador at Vienna, has made many valuable friends. In the recent discussions on Poland, he was instrumental in restoring harmony, and in putting an end to the little pecking which threatened to become serious.’

‘Added to this,’ remarked the representative of a German princelet, ‘there is a prerogative attached to his new title. Henceforth, when going out at night he can have torch-bearers running in front of him.’

The new prince having become the momentary target for the remarks of everybody, there were, of course, many references to his enormous fortune, which, when all was said and done, was only a fraction of the wealth of his father, the marshal, who, greatly favoured by Empress Elizabeth, became the wealthiest private individual of Europe.80 He and Frederick had a curious little scene one day. When the marshal was in Berlin the king held in his honour a review of the troops who had gone through a score of campaigns. In Russia all the dignities and functions are assimilated to corresponding military grades, from the lowest to the topmost rung of the ladder; nevertheless, the marshal had never seen a battlefield.

‘I trust you are pleased, marshal,’ said the King of Prussia at the termination of the manoeuvres.

‘Much pleased indeed, sire, although the whole of it is altogether beyond my competence; I am only a civil marshal.’

‘You are indeed very civil, marshal; unfortunately we have no such grades in our army,’ replied Frederick.

Political gossip formed the main item of our conversation that evening. ‘The intervention of Razumowski,’ remarked one of a group, ‘and his conciliatory efforts throughout have by no means been rewarded too highly. The quarrel was getting envenomed, I have been told. One of the most eminent of European plenipotentiaries expressed himself in the course of the discussion with great firmness upon Alexander’s pretensions to the throne of Poland. The Grand-Duke Constantine got angry, and showed his anger by a somewhat too energetic gesture, after which he left in hot haste. According to well-informed people, the diplomatist is meditating a piece of revenge. Considering that he is a man of wit, we may expect something odd.’

‘No,’ replied another, ‘that’s not the cause of the grand-duke’s abrupt departure. The minister in question wrote to Prince Hardenberg some sentences calculated to displease the Russian monarch. By a strange fatality the document fell into the hands of Alexander, and this led to very lively explanations. Lord Castlereagh sided with Austria. Matters reached such a point that one of the monarchs, forgetting his usual reserve, flung his glove on the table.

‘“Would your majesty wish for war?” asked the English plenipotentiary.

‘“Perhaps, monsieur.”

‘“I was not aware,” Castlereagh replied, “that any war was to be undertaken without English guineas.” And appeasement,’ added the speaker, ‘has not progressed an inch, in spite of the kindly efforts of our new prince.’81

‘Will the King of Saxony be reinstated in his kingdom in spite of Prussia, which covets it? King Friedrich-Wilhelm is very angry with M. de Talleyrand,’ said a third interlocutor. ‘The king lately remonstrated with M. de Talleyrand for too warmly espousing the cause of the Saxon monarch, that sole traitor, as he put it, to the cause of Europe.

‘“Traitor!” echoed Talleyrand. “And from what date, sire?” Honestly, Frederick-Augustus ought to be forgiven everything, if there be anything to forgive, if for no other reason than the justice of the repartee.’

‘That excellent prince has done much better than that,’ replied an interlocutor. ‘Lest some untoward event should happen, he has taken care to make a little purse for himself, from which he has detached a few millions for the benefit of two personages disposing of a great deal of influence in Vienna. This golden key will open the doors of his kingdom much more quickly than all the protocols of the Congress.’

All at once, and without the least transition, the talk turned on Lord Stewart and on some mishaps due to his overweening conceit. ‘For the last four days,’ said some one, ‘his lordship has not been seen on foot or in his magnificent carriage. According to rumour, his face has been more or less damaged. He had a quarrel on the Danube bridge with a couple of hackney drivers, and immediately jumping off his seat, his excellency, waving his arms like the sails of a windmill, challenged his adversaries to an English boxing match. The Vienna coachman, however, knows nothing, either theoretically or practically of “fisticuffs,” and consequently our two AutomÉdons’ [the French equivalent for our ‘Jehu,’ and an allusion to Achilles’ charioteer] ‘bravely grasped their whips, and first with the thongs and afterwards with the handles, belaboured his lordship with blows, without the least respect for his “pretty” face. They left him lying on the ground, bruised all over, and disappeared as quickly as their horses would take them.

‘Milord has bad luck, but his conceit seems incorrigible. Lately, on leaving the theatre, he happened to be behind the daughter of the Comtesse Co—— on the grand staircase. There was a great crush, and, taking advantage of it, his lordship was guilty of an act of impudent familiarity, which he might have found to his cost could only be washed out with blood. Without being in the least disconcerted, the young, handsome, and innocent girl quietly turned round and gave him a sound box on the ears, as a warning to leave innocence and beauty alone. Naturally, his lordship has been the laughing-stock of everybody, as he often is, for nothing waits so surely upon conceit and fatuous vanity as derision.’

‘Have the Genoese envoys obtained an audience at last?’ asked some one, ‘Or have they been driven away from all the diplomatic doors at which they knocked for a hearing.’

‘They ought to be well pleased,’ was the answer. ‘Weaned with their applications, M. de Metternich has given them the desired interview and overwhelmed them with his politeness. They wish to constitute themselves into an independent State. The minister listened to every word they said, and when they left off speaking, told them that Genoa would be incorporated with Piedmont. Our Genoese objected violently. M. de Metternich told them that the affair was settled, irrevocably settled, and bowed them out even more politely than he “bowed them in.” He might have saved them their breath.’

‘The Duchesse de ——, not to be behindhand with the Princesse de ——, who has made her lover an ambassador, has made hers a general, though he has never seen a battle. It’s of no consequence, seeing that the Congress, in virtue of its wisdom, is to put an end to all war both in the immediate and distant future.’

‘Love turns other heads besides these,’ chimed in the first speaker. ‘A great personage happened to see a Viennese work-girl somewhere on the ramparts, and has fallen a victim to her rosy face and elegant figure. There’s no doubt about it; he is thoroughly in love; he lavishes presents on his very easy conquest, and altogether forgetting his rÔle of sovereign, he has thrown all reserve to the winds, and given her his portrait set with diamonds. In days gone by the Court ladies would have objected to such a mÉsalliance.’

Some one threw in a word about the balls given by Lady Castlereagh, and this led to remarks on his lordship’s pronounced love for dancing. ‘The taste is easily explained, it belongs to all times and all ages,’ was the comment. ‘Aspasia taught Socrates to dance; and when he was fifty-six years old Cato the Censor danced even more often than his lordship. It is doubtful whether either of these made himself as ridiculous as that lank body of his lordship dancing a jig, and lifting his long spindle-shanks, keeping time to the music. It is indeed a diverting spectacle. What a windfall this would be to those clever English caricaturists, if one could only get them to come to Vienna! At any rate, the dancing master of his lordship, in case of his becoming prime minister, will have no occasion to repeat what the dancing master of the [Earl?] of Oxford said on learning that Elizabeth had made his pupil her great-chancellor: “Truly, I fail to see what merit the queen could find in this Barclay? I had him in hand for two years, and was unable to make anything of him.”’

‘In spite of the express declaration of the sovereigns, who have settled among themselves the questions of rank and precedence in accordance with their age, disagreements on the subject crop up every day,’ said somebody who had hitherto been silent. ‘The bickering between the minister of WÜrtemberg and the Hanoverian minister is without importance; nothing has come of it save the retirement of the WÜrtemberger and the appointment of the Comte de Wintzingerode in his stead. But the quarrel between the Princesse de Lichtenstein and the Princesse Esterhazy is not so trivial. The one claims precedence over the other in virtue of her husband being the most ancient prince of the empire.’

‘It would be easy enough to settle that matter,’ was the reply from the other side of the table. ‘Let them apply to those ladies the rule adopted by the sovereigns; in other words, let age rule precedence, and you may be sure that neither of them will want to go first.’

‘Here is a strange pendant to the adventure of the too conscientious Vatel, whose disappointment and death have been immortalised by Mme. de SÉvignÉ. The chef at Chantilly killed himself because the fish for the dinner failed him; the Baron de —— killed himself through having eaten too much fish.’

‘What’s the good of joking about such a sad event?’

‘I am not joking, I am telling you the unvarnished truth. The poor deceased was a slave to etiquette, and having partaken too freely of some delicious fish, he felt thoroughly uncomfortable in consequence. He was invited to make a fourth at a rubber of whist with the Grand-Duke of Baden, a Princesse de C——, and his Majesty of Bavaria; and in spite of his bodily and moral agony, he dared not refuse. But the ordeal proved too much, and when concealment of the situation was no longer possible he rushed away, went home, and shot himself. Everybody regrets his death, because he was a general favorite.’82

‘Your great diplomatist, this time in thorough agreement with the majority of the plenipotentiaries, made another king yesterday,’ said an opposite neighbour, addressing me directly.

‘Is it Prince EugÈne?’ I exclaimed spontaneously.

‘Not exactly; it’s the cheese called “Brie.”’

‘You are trying to mystify me.’

‘I should not presume to do so on so slight an acquaintance, but I can assure you that it is a fact. M. de Talleyrand gave a dinner party, and at the dessert, all the political questions were pretty well exhausted. When the cheese was on the table, the conversation drifted in the direction of that dainty. Lord Castlereagh was loud in praise of Stilton; Aldini was equally loud in praise of the Strachino of Milan; Zeltner naturally gave battle for his native GruyÈre, and Baron de Falck, the Dutch minister, could not say enough for the product of Limburg, of which Peter the Great was so fond as to dole himself a certain quantity measured with his compasses, lest he should take too much. Talleyrand’s guests were as undecided as they are on the question of the throne of Naples, which, according to some, will be taken from Murat, while, according to others, he’ll be allowed to keep it. At that moment a servant entered the room to inform the ambassador of the arrival of a courier from France. “What has he brought?” asked Talleyrand. “Despatches from the Court, your excellency, and Brie cheeses.” “Send the despatches to the chancellerie, and bring in the cheeses at once.”

‘The cheese was brought in. “Gentlemen,” said M. de Talleyrand, “I abstained just now from breaking a lance in favour of a product of the French soil, but I leave you to judge for yourselves.” The cheese is handed round, tasted, and the question of its superiority is put to the vote, with the result I have told you: Brie is proclaimed to be the king of cheeses.’

The clever little story was the last, and the company dispersed. Griffiths and I were due at the Baron Arnstein’s, who gave a fÊte in his magnificent mansion on the Melgrub.

At that period, the principal Austrian bankers would not be behindhand with the Court in their hospitality to the illustrious strangers at the Congress. Of course, the enormous influx of these brought into the bankers’ hands large sums of money, a considerable percentage of which remained with them. Among those princely houses of finance there were, besides Baron Arnstein, the Gey-Mullers, the Eskeleses, and the Comte de Fries. They practically kept open house to strangers. The splendour of their hospitality was only equalled by its cordiality. The mansion of the Comte de Fries, on the Joseph-Platz, was one of the most beautiful in Vienna, and in no way inferior to the most magnificent palaces. Its owner himself was as famed for his personal elegance and his charming manners as for his immense wealth. The fÊtes that were given in those mansions were remarkable even among those of the Congress; and on the evening in question, the scene at Baron Arnstein’s was positively fairy-like. The rarest flowers from every clime hung in profusion about the staircases and the rooms, including the ball-room, and spread their exquisite perfumes, while their tints mingled harmoniously with the thousands of wax candles in crystal sconces, and the silk and gold of the hangings. The music of a band such as at that time only Vienna could produce fell gratefully upon the ear. In short, the whole presented one of those incomparable results only to be obtained by great wealth seconded by taste.

The best society of Vienna had forgathered there: all the influential personages of the Congress, all the strangers of distinction, all the heads of the princely houses made a point of being present; only the sovereigns themselves were absent. As a matter of course, all the charming women of which Vienna boasted at that period had responded to the invitation, and among these aristocratic beauties the hostess herself, the Baronne Fanny d’Arnstein, and Mme. Gey-Muller, whom people had named ‘la fille de l’air,’ on account of her ethereal face and tall, slight figure, carried off the palm for attractiveness.

The entertainment began with a concert by the foremost artists of Vienna; the concert was followed by a ball, and the ball by a supper, in the providing for which the host seemed to have made it a point to defy both distance and season. He had positively brought together the products of every country and of every climate. The supper rooms were decorated with trees bearing ripe fruit, and it was really a curious experience, in the middle of the winter, to watch people pluck cherries, peaches, and apricots as in an orchard in Provence. It was the first attempt of the kind that had ever been made, and we went home, less astonished perhaps at the ingenuity displayed than at the constant craving for the entirely unprecedented in the way of enjoyment.

The palace of Prince Razumowski was blazing with light; every room was crowded with guests. Emperor Alexander had borrowed his ambassador’s residence for a fÊte offered to the sovereigns in honour of his sister’s birthday. The utmost interest was always evinced in the charming Catherine of Oldenburg, and perhaps the more because the Prince Royal of WÜrtemberg was constantly by her side. At every gathering, these two young people, rarely far apart, reminded one of the couple figuring so conspicuously in the opening pages of Mme. de Genlis’s novel Mademoiselle de Clermont.

Love unquestionably owed a good turn to this sweet, pretty, and graceful young woman, to indemnify her for the very unpleasant episodes of her first marriage. In 1809, there had been a question of an alliance between France and Russia, an alliance which would have consolidated peace in Europe. The young sister of the Czar was to be the pledge of that alliance. Napoleon, who at that period was justified in looking upon Alexander as a friend, caused diplomatic overtures to be made. The Russian monarch freely gave his consent,83 but all at once a hitherto unthought-of obstacle arose, in the shape of the invincible repugnance of the dowager-empress to Napoleon, a repugnance that ought to have been removed by Napoleon’s magnanimous conduct to her son. When Alexander wished to sound his mother on that marriage by evincing a kind of partiality for it, she replied that it was henceforth out of the question, that two days previously she had given her word to the Grand-Duke of Oldenburg, to whom Catherine’s hand was promised. Alexander was a most respectful and submissive son. He offered no objections; negotiations were broken off; the marriage of Napoleon with an Austrian arch-duchess was concluded, and there was a prospective sovereign for the island of Elba.

Sacrificed to a feeling of political repugnance, Catherine became Grand-Duchess of Oldenburg and established her Court at Tiver, a pretty town between Moscow and St. Petersburg—a small Court, recalling those of Ferrara and Florence during the most brilliant days of their artistic glory. Art, however, does not invariably contribute to a woman’s happiness. United to a man whom she could not love, the grand-duchess fretted under her lot. At first people sympathised with her, finally they took no heed of, or became used to, her grief. Then, as if to realise sweeter dreams, came on the one hand the death of her husband, and on the other the love of a prince, young, handsome, brave, and amiable—a prince placed on the steps of a throne.

By a strange coincidence, the Prince Royal of WÜrtemberg had been similarly compelled to contract a marriage against his inclination. Napoleon’s will, all-powerful at that time over the king’s mind, united the son, in spite of himself, to a Bavarian princess, a political alliance intended to make an end of all dissensions between the two states. From the first day of their union an unconquerable estrangement and a constant coolness had sprung up between the young couple, and consequently, at the fall of Napoleon, they were divorced. The Princess Charlotte of Bavaria returned to her father’s Court. Unappreciated by a husband whose affection she had been unable to gain, she never uttered a word of reproach; her angelic temper and her unalterable kindness never failed her. Later on, the imperial crown of Austria was offered to her,84 and eventually she shared one of the most powerful thrones of Europe. When her first husband learnt the news of the unexpected elevation of the woman he had neglected, but whose noble heart he had never misjudged, he exclaimed, ‘I’ll have, at any rate, one more friend at the Court of Vienna.’ Catherine of Russia and Wilhelm of WÜrtemberg both became free. From that moment a mutual and strong affection took possession of their hearts, which, constrained so long by the will of others, had learnt to appreciate the delights of natural attraction. How often in the shady glades of the Prater, or on the banks of the majestic stream flowing at its foot, have I seen them, emancipated for a little while from the etiquette of Courts, and yielding like ordinary mortals to the feeling that animated them. Far from the pomp and splendour of their ordinary surroundings, they perhaps confidentially made plans for the future, in the hope of a union which bade fair to be happy—the prince, young, manly, with a noble disposition and reputed for his brilliant courage; the grand-duchess conspicuous for her intellectual and physical grace. Now and again a third came to interrupt this ‘dual solitude’; but his presence evidently made no difference; for the third comer was not only a brother, but a friend—no less a personage than Alexander himself, who appeared to be supping full with glory and happiness.

The fÊte given by the czar in honour of his charming sister was worthy in every respect of his brotherly affection and of its object. All the sovereigns, all the illustrious guests of the Congress, had repaired to it, and with him had come all the Russians of distinction: Nesselrode, Gagarine, Dolgorouki, Galitzin, Capo d’Istria, Narischkine, Souvaroff, Troubetzkoy, the two Volkonskis, Princesses Souvaroff, Bagration, Gagarine, and many others equally remarkable for their birth, wealth, beauty, and their distinguished manners. Practically, I found myself among all those magnificent Muscovite beings who had compelled my admiration at Moscow, St. Petersburg, and at Tulczim, at the Comtesse Potocka’s, where the year seemed to be made up of three hundred and sixty-five fÊtes.

The rooms at Prince Razumowski’s were lighted with a profusion that reminded one of the resplendent rays of the sun. A vast riding-school had been converted into a ball-room; and to impart variety to the entertainment, the corps de ballet of the Imperial Theatre had organised a Muscovite divertissement, the minutest details of which were carried out with scrupulous exactness. Towards the middle of the ball, they made their appearance dressed as gipsies, and performed dances with which those supposed descendants of the Pharaohs enhance the fÊtes of the rich and sensuous boyards. These dances, in virtue of their graceful movements and the picturesqueness of the postures, are, according to that great traveller Griffiths, much superior to those of the bayadÈres of India.

The ball was opened by the inevitable and methodical polonaise. The fÊte was, however, marked in particular by a Russian dance, by one of the Court ladies of Empress Elizabeth and General Comte Orloff, one of the aides-de-camp of Emperor Alexander.85 Both wore the Russian dress, the comte that of a young Muscovite, namely, a close-fitting caftan, tied round the waist by a cashmere scarf, a broad-brimmed hat, and gloves like those of the ancient knights; his partner was dressed like the women of Southern Russia, whose costumes vie in richness with those of all other nations. On her head, the hair arranged in flat bands in front and falling in long plaits behind, she wore a tiara of pearls and precious stones. The ornament harmonised perfectly with the rest of the costume, composed, as usual, of exceedingly bright-coloured material.

This Russian dance is absolutely delightful, representing as it does the pantomimic action of a somewhat impassioned courtship. It is like the Galatea of Virgil. The performers acquitted themselves in the most delightful manner, and were amply rewarded by the enthusiastic applause of the spectators.

The Russian dance was followed by mazurkas, a kind of quadrille, originally hailing from Massow. Among ball-room dances none demand greater agility and none lend themselves to more statuesque movements. In order that nothing might be wanting to the magnificence of this fÊte, there was, in accordance with the latest fashion in Vienna, a lottery. The prizes were many and handsome to a degree. An apparently trivial circumstance lent an unexpected interest to the proceedings. Custom had decreed that each cavalier, if favoured by luck, should offer his prize to a lady. A rich sable cape fell to the lot of the Prince of WÜrtemberg: he immediately offered it to her in whose honour the entertainment was given. Verily, he had his reward. Handsome Grand-Duchess Catherine wore in her bosom a posy of flowers, fastened by a ribbon. She unfastened it, and presented it to the donor of the cape. The whole scene, which practically emphasised in public the existence of a quasi-secret attachment, elicited murmurs of approval and wishes for the young people’s happiness. ‘Hail to the future Queen of WÜrtemberg,’ remarked Prince Koslowski to me; ‘queen when it shall please the crowned Nimrod to vacate the place. In reality, no crown will have ever graced a more beautiful brow.’ The episode, and the conjectures to which it gave rise, added another charm to this fÊte marked by so many.

The dancing had ceased, and the prince and I strolled through the vast rooms of the palace, which might easily have been mistaken for a temple erected to art, so numerous were the masterpieces collected there by its owner. Here pictures by the greatest painters of every school: Raphaels by the side of Rubenses, Van Dycks in juxtaposition to Correggios; there, a library filled to overflowing with most precious books and rare manuscripts; in a third spot a cabinet containing most exquisite specimens of ancient art and modern carving. The majority of the guests, however, seemed to prefer a gallery set apart for the marvels of the sculptor’s chisel, among which was some of the best handiwork of Canova. The gallery was lighted by alabaster lamps, the soft glow of which seemed to throw into relief the perfection of those statues apparently endowed with life.

About two in the morning they threw open the huge supper-room, lighted by thousands of wax candles. It contained fifty tables, and by that alone the number of guests might be estimated. Amidst banks of flowers was displayed all that Italy, Germany, France, and Russia had to offer in the way of rare fruit and other edibles: such as sturgeon from the Volga, oysters from Ostend and Cancale, truffles from PÉrigord, oranges from Sicily. Worthy of note was a pyramid of pine-apples, such as had never before been served on any board, and which had come direct from the imperial hothouses at Moscow for the czar’s guests. There were strawberries all the way from England, grapes from France, looking as if they had just been cut from the trailing vine. Still more remarkable, on each of the fifty tables there stood a dish of cherries, despatched from St. Petersburg, notwithstanding the December cold, but at the cost of a silver rouble apiece. Regarding these events many years after their occurrence, I am often tempted to mistrust to a certain extent my recollections of all this lavish display.

This fÊte, which really deserved precedence among all the daily pomp and splendour of the Congress, was prolonged till dawn, when a breakfast was served and dancing was resumed. Only the need of rest made us regretfully bend our steps homeward and leave that magnificent palace where so many fair women and brave men had forgathered in the pursuit of pleasure. Many years have gone by since that memorable night. The charming woman in whose honour the fÊte was given became the Queen of WÜrtemberg. Death claimed her prematurely as his victim. The Prince Koslowski, who had been, like myself, an eye-witness of that charming love-episode at Vienna, and who was subsequently despatched as ambassador to her Court, saw her die of the same disease that carried away her brother, the emperor. And only a short time ago the son of Marie-Louise and the Comte de Neipperg86 married the daughter of this Catherine of Russia who had been asked in marriage by Napoleon. How very truly Shakespeare exclaims: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’

As for me, when my thoughts go back to that period of happiness and freedom from care called the Congress of Vienna, I always picture to myself sweet Catherine, not amidst all those fÊtes, but strolling in the dusky glades of the Prater, where I so often saw her, proud of her love for the Prince Royal of WÜrtemberg and of her tender affection for her brother.