Ypsilanti—Promenade on the Prater—First Rumour of the Escape of Napoleon—Projects for the Deliverance of Greece—Comte Capo d’Istria—The HÉtairites—Meeting with Ypsilanti in 1820—His Projects and Reverses.

I had missed Ypsilanti from his usual haunts for a considerable time, and on the rare occasions that I caught a glimpse of him, melancholy seemed to have taken him for its prey. I attributed this to a more than usually serious love affair, but I had no idea that his projects for the deliverance of Greece were the cause of his constant absence. At the moment when the Congress laboured at the consolidation of a general peace, the realisation of his generous plan seemed to recede further into the distance. It was improbable that Europe, even in the interests of Miltiades and Themistocles, would allow the equilibrium to be disturbed and risk once more the world’s repose. One morning I was riding through the Prater, after a stormy night which had burst over Vienna and occasioned much damage. The sky was bright, and the sun glinted through the trees. I saw Ypsilanti close to a path where I had seen him just five months previously, dawdling along, the reins on his horse’s neck, and, as usual, his face overcast with care. Thinking the moment opportune to ask him the cause of an estrangement I regretted, I rode up to him.

‘My mind,’ he said, ‘is occupied entirely by something which, as yet, is a secret that does not belong to me alone. I know your affection for me, and I will not hesitate to tell you my thoughts the moment I can do so without damage to a sacred cause, or without breaking my pledge.’

His solemn tone surprised me, and I asked him to speak plainly, but he opposed a determined silence. His head hung on his breast; his thoughts were engrossed by something he could not shake off. Suddenly, he beckoned to his attendant, jumped off his horse, and invited me to do the same. We strolled down a solitary avenue, and after a few steps stopped short. He fixed his piercing eyes on me, violently clutching my arm.

‘Napoleon has left Elba,’ he said.

‘Dear prince!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely!’ was the answer. ‘A courier despatched from Florence to the English Embassy brought the news this morning. Emperor Alexander and M. de Nesselrode were informed immediately. There were no further particulars.’

‘But this means Europe on fire once more, and a struggle more terrible than ever.’

‘Yes. We are about to quit opera for tragedy. The moment has come in which I feel bound to act. I have spoken to you of my plan to free Greece. Henceforth, favoured by this tremendous event, it will be my business to break her fetters, and to replace her in her former rank among the nations.’

‘A noble project. One might call it sublime. But have you calculated the means necessary to ensure success?’

‘I have no doubt about them. That dream of my very youth, that dream of my early years, will soon be a reality. War will set Europe again in a blaze; faithful friends as well as myself are only awaiting that signal.’

‘Dear Alexander! Your enthusiasm is nothing new to me, nor your military talents, nor your patriotic devotion, but I feel bound to point out to you the dangers of your project, and the impossibility of its success.’

I spoke to him for fully half an hour, without shaking his decision in the least, when suddenly at the winding of the path, we perceived two men on horseback. I fancied one of these was the Comte Capo d’Istria.

‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, ‘they have kept their word!’ and without another syllable he ran to his horse, flung himself on it, and disappeared. Returning to Vienna, I went to Prince Koslowski, naturally impatient to know the particulars of the news which was soon to engross the world’s attention—the departure of Napoleon from the island of Elba. Amidst the grave interests which were then paramount, the Greek question passed unperceived. But when it assumed the grand proportions it did assume, and aroused the sympathies of the whole of the civilised world, history carefully collected every particular connected with this glorious emancipation. History has revealed the secrets which Ypsilanti could not entrust to one of his dearest friends, and later on I knew the men on whom he counted to second his efforts. ‘We shall meet again,’ Ypsilanti had shouted as he disappeared. Alas! we were only to meet once more, five years later. It was in 1820, on my return from Carlsbad, when I was on my way to Louiseburg, near Alexanderbad, in Bavaria. I had been wandering at random for several hours about the somewhat melancholy spot, and had reached the summit of Louiseburg with its famous cross, when at the foot of the monument I perceived, seated, a fellow-wayfarer, wrapt in an ample cloak. He was writing in a book, which he closed as I drew near. He had, no doubt, been warned by the sound of my footsteps, for he turned round, and I recognised Ypsilanti. The five years that had gone by since that memorable morning towards the end of the Congress had left profound traces on his features. He was no longer the young and brilliant soldier, the life and soul of every drawing-room. But although the face was deeply lined, and the eyes were hollow set, there was still the lofty animation pervading the handsome physiognomy. He explained to me that his wounds had necessitated a journey to Carlsbad, and that while waiting for some friends, he had pushed as far as Louiseburg, at the recommendation of the King of Prussia. In a few moments, the subject ever present to his thoughts was on his lips. This time, for delivering his country from the foreign yoke, he counted on the sympathy of Alexander. I asked him if he had considered what would happen in the event of a reverse, and endeavoured to point out to him the improbability of Russia’s allowing an independent state to be carved out of some of the most beautiful provinces of the Turkish Empire. Nothing that I could say would induce him—not to abandon his enterprise, I had no sanguine expectations to that effect, but to postpone it until a more favourable moment. All he would do was to confide to me a manuscript setting forth the principal events of his life, but the narration of which does not come within the scope of this work.