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Title: Kings and queens I have known
Author: Hélène Vacaresco
Release date: October 8, 2026 [eBook #79743]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Harper & Brothers, 1904
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79743
Credits: Peter Becker, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KINGS AND QUEENS I HAVE KNOWN ***
KINGS AND QUEENS
I HAVE KNOWN
[Illustration:
_Photo by Mandy, Bucharest_
HÉLÈNE VACARESCO]
KINGS AND QUEENS
I HAVE KNOWN
BY
HÉLÈNE VACARESCO
[Illustration: colophon]
WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON AND NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS
45 ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1904
TO THEIR IMPERIAL AND ROYAL MAJESTIES
THE KINGS AND QUEENS, TO THEIR
IMPERIAL AND ROYAL HIGHNESSES THE
PRINCES AND PRINCESSES WHOSE NAMES,
VISAGES AND WORDS ARE HERE CELEBRATED
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK IN TOKEN
OF DEEP GRATITUDE FOR ALL THE
PERSONAL KINDNESS THE AUTHOR HAS
RECEIVED FROM THEM
HÉLÈNE VACARESCO
CONTENTS
QUEEN ELIZABETH OF ROUMANIA (CARMEN SYLVA) _Page_ 1
KING EDWARD VII. 51
QUEEN ALEXANDRA 69
THE EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA 89
THE GERMAN EMPEROR 117
THE CZAR AND CZARINA 143
MARGHERITA DI SAVOIA, DOWAGER QUEEN OF ITALY 167
KING VICTOR EMMANUEL III. AND QUEEN HELENA 185
QUEEN MARIA CHRISTINA AND KING ALFONSO XIII. OF SPAIN 213
WILHELMINA I., QUEEN OF THE NETHERLANDS 235
THE SOVEREIGNS OF SERVIA 255
THE POPE LEO XIII. 277
QUEEN VICTORIA 291
INDEX 317
ILLUSTRATIONS
Hélène Vacaresco _Frontispiece_
Queen Elizabeth of Roumania (Carmen Sylva) _Facing page_ 1
King Edward VII. and Queen Alexandra " 51
The Emperor of Austria " 89
The German Emperor " 117
The Czar and Czarina " 143
Margherita di Savoia, Dowager Queen of Italy " 167
King Victor Emmanuel III. and Queen Helena " 185
Queen Maria Christina and King Alfonso XIII. of Spain " 213
Wilhelmina I., Queen of the Netherlands " 235
The Pope Leo XIII. " 277
Queen Victoria " 291
[Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH OF ROUMANIA (CARMEN SYLVA)]
QUEEN ELIZABETH OF ROUMANIA
(CARMEN SYLVA)
As far as the other Queens and Royal Princesses mentioned in my writings
are concerned, I have had the honour of approaching them only at times
when prepared for any striking impressions they might make. I carried
into their presence a heart eager to receive all the emotions of the
moment and a spirit aglow with desire to note as much, hurriedly as
possible, from what might pass during such thrilling interviews. I have
met almost all the reigning sovereigns of modern Europe and their
Consorts, and have much to relate about them, since I soon became a keen
observer of every Court I stepped into; yet, whatever I have said or
thought of Kings and Queens I have known is derived from the experience
of some transitory event, and gathered in the strained mood into which
we are apt to fall whenever something extraordinary happens to us.
On the other hand, the image of the Queen of Roumania has shed a
radiance over my whole life. From my earliest childhood, all that is
good and noble and true I have learnt to revere from her words and in
her eyes. The beauty of nature and of human labour, the careful study of
my own soul, piety, the joy dwelling in forms of harmony and grace, I
have gathered from her as with generous hands she threw her thoughts
like flowers in my path. To her I am indebted for my brightest hours, as
for the love that lies hidden in days of gloom.
Were “Carmen Sylva” only a Queen and not a poet too, the study of her
personality would prove a difficult task even to me who have spent so
much time by her side and who am more intimately acquainted with her
ideas and pursuits than her other biographers can be. These last are
innumerable, but, different as each appreciation of their wonderful
subject may appear, though they have seen her from widely varying
standpoints, the same enthusiasm, sincere and thrilling, animates all
their descriptions. And every one of these images is true, because
Elizabeth of Roumania is an individuality so multiplex that almost any
historian can offer at least an acceptable clue to the problem presented
by such a soul. For instance, some are used to considering her in the
light of a romantic Princess whose mistake it is to be, in our
matter-of-fact century, a dreamer and a theorist as elusive as her own
tales of the fairies that haunt the vine-clad mountains near the Rhine.
Others have been accustomed to compare this all-absorbing Queen with the
refined, cultivated ladies of the Italian Renaissance who still enthral
our imagination as we read about their grace, their love of beautiful
poems and pictures; the fluent talk and harmonious verse whereby their
Courts were rendered centres of intellectual activity. There is a third
picture of her, where she is depicted in a wild yet familiar attitude,
scouring the wide forests of the Karpathian mountains and listening with
mingled delight and awe to the torrents amidst the rocks. And not one of
these sketches, not one of these interpretations is untrue, because the
Queen of Roumania in some degree resembles them all; she might even
suggest a much larger number of illustrations and prove each of them to
be a genuine portrait.
No living Sovereign may be said to fill the modern world with so much
curiosity and admiration as does the Crowned Poetess, who will always to
herself as well as to others remain a startling and divine enigma, a
sweet and dolorous mystery. Endowed with every virtue that soars high in
the domain of spiritual strength, the Queen is yet weak as a new-born
infant when she has to struggle in the realms of reality. Thence
terrible misunderstandings are apt to arise between her and those who
judge her after their own custom of reducing spiritual processes to
material action. The Queen is supposed to be good by nature, blind to
evil by instinct, generous and forgiving in a spontaneous, facile way:
few guess the real grandeur of such goodness, or from what warm source
of human love and celestial aspirations the blindness and forgiveness
spring. Every heart lies bare before the clairvoyant eye, the quick,
observant spirit, and severe struggles and long reflection are necessary
for one who can succeed in giving to the result of moral labour so much
apparently intuitive candour that it passes for that inborn, unwitting
kindness to which no gratitude seems due. Every human soul may be called
a silent battle-field; the artist’s duty is to find the victors and the
dead; and in my survey of the Queen’s inward conflicts I have ever found
indignation and desire of vengeance defeated, while sympathy, pity, and
every quality that can make a woman royal daily triumphed in her breast.
The existence of Carmen Sylva in every moment of her busy days is
divided between two conflicting forces, for ever waging war as to which
shall obtain the upper hand. First, her calling as a poet with the
fervent attachment she feels for every art and for an artist’s life,
then her duties as a queen. Hence while endlessly craving after leisure
and daydreaming, she is obliged to bestow unceasing attention on her
words and smiles, her every gesture; full of desire to run headlong in
the track of her imagination, she chafes under the necessity of
restraint and must show indifference to all that most attracts her. And
this everlasting strife, this enforced duality, has always prevented
complete adoration from being accorded her by those who want her to be a
perfect queen, as by those who wish her to be wholly given up to
poetical talent. The freedom of her tastes and opinions is in violent
contradiction with the quiet manners, the subdued tones she is obliged
to assume, and thus, bound to control the strongest and most audacious
emotions, the Queen of Roumania is a living prey to the mingled elements
of Fate.
No one will ever be able to tell whether queen or artist has suffered
the more in this extraordinary blending of situations. Does the crown,
besprinkled with a shower of rubies and diamonds, which once belonged to
Josephine, wife of Napoleon I., weigh too heavy on her head, that she
should take it off with such a sigh of relief, passing her slight hands
through her hair as if to remove all trace of the massive symbol while
yet her forehead is flushed from the exertion of wearing it? How often
have I seen that crown rest on the bureau in her dressing-room, after an
official dinner-party or ball; how often have I wondered whether its
owner reproached it for keeping her so long from the cool peace of her
private apartment! And then I have imagined the Queen also at times
turning her wrath on the white sheets of paper and the long slender pen,
of whose beckoning she has been aware while occupied in distributing her
smiles amongst the expectant crowd gathered to witness one of those
spectacles of pomp and dignity which they are ever happy to gaze upon.
How often have I seen that splendid crown and the humble pen lie side by
side in companionship so close that I could scarce remember they were
bitter antagonists, whose imperious demands filled a Queen’s soul in
turn with anguish and with awe. One special evening the Queen said to
me:
“Oh, if that crown could only speak, what tales it would tell of the
brief but splendid reign of Napoleon the Great, and of the thoughts of
his Creole Empress, as her coquettish fingers lifted the ruby circlet to
her brow!”
“Nay,” thought I, “if that crown could speak it would forget Josephine
Beauharnais and the Tuileries and entertain us with tales of Carmen
Sylva. Then perhaps we might realise that the artist would have been
less ardent in the end had she not as Queen been perpetually conscious
of robbing the hours that might have been given up to the pen; that the
Queen would have possessed less grace and majesty, were not her every
endeavour stimulated by the knowledge that in accomplishing her task she
was sacrificing a part of her very being.”
The Queen’s childhood was indeed a sad one, and on this period of her
life she is apt to dwell, the tears often streaming down her cheeks as
she recalls those dark days of trial and despondency. Weary years of
seclusion by the side of her sick brother and her dying father did much
toward developing the faculties of her wonderful imagination; but the
anguish, the feverish expectancy of joys that never came, all the glory
and trials of a crowned consort, all the secret drudgery and apparent
triumphs of her exalted place--none have been able to work an essential
change in the mind of the Queen. She remains still the impetuous, dreamy
girl she was in her native castle by the banks of the Rhine, the
childish princess who ran on the career of her fancies as fast as the
waters carried past the windows of her palace the fleet boats whence
laughter and music floated on the wind. To this moment the light in her
eyes is as fresh and pure as in those days when her mother called her
“my wild rose,” and marvelled to discover how far the daring young
spirit had travelled into the realms of fairy lore or history, and how
glowing were the impressions caught by her youthful love of poetry and
research.
The early home of Princess Elizabeth of Wied was, as I have said,
darkened by the shadow of death. Her little brother Otto was slowly
fading before her eyes, cut off from all the joys of his age by the
awful malady with which he was born; while her father, the last roselike
tint that dulls the sky before the sun is set, lingered on, and though
growing more weary and feeble every day, still poured upon his child the
treasures of his clear intellect and gentle heart. The soft splendour
and hidden martyrdom of his gradual decline overspread all the days of
her youth. “The image of my father,” says the Queen, “stands immortal in
the memories of every hour; when I remember my girlhood I cling to him
yet. I cannot turn my head towards the past without seeing him. I thrust
aside the branches of the big trees that surround our summer home. I
perceive the big white house as it glimmers amidst the foliage, and I
am ready to run from one open window to the other and cast a hungry
glance into each familiar room; but there is one window where I must
ever stop, one spot to which my glance is chained. My father’s
window--my father’s room! There he sits; his thin bluish hands are
resting on his knees or on an open book, but his eyes wander far away or
look deep into my own. The image of my father fills all the past for me.
He was so learned that he believed many extraordinary things which make
the ignorant man shrug his shoulders and laugh. He believed in miracles
because creation and humanity were alike miracles to him. He felt
humbled and dazzled before the power of life and the power of God, and,
like a man seated at the confluence of two dashing rivers, he was placed
between life and immortality, and looked upon everything with serenity
and faith. At twilight the mighty forest would endeavour to sleep and
forget the departure of the sun: then it was that he would call me to
his side and talk to me. I watched his pallid face become whiter and
whiter, like a cool stream where the moon is about to rise. On each of
his sunken features death’s sign was announcing that his frail being
belonged to the tomb; but the calm strong spirit triumphed openly over
death. How distinctly one could note that my dreamy, delicate Father
came from an ancient race who thus completed in a being rich in thought
and dreams, its long lineage of those who had won distinction through
great actions and gallant deeds. His blue eyes and his movements,
graceful and flexible as those of a reed, revealed that he came from
those old Border families who embody in their members all the strength
and charm of their native Rhine. And his soul also resembled in beauty
and vigour the light vine-crowned hills whose harmonious lines are
reflected in the glittering river. My father was a real Rhenan
Prince--not one of those princes history loves to celebrate, a lord
eager to conquer and possess, but a prince who desired the realms of
Heaven beyond all earthly good or earthly ambitions. In a land where the
past survives only in the form of the horizon and the cities spread
among the hills, he was like the last tendril of that past, and on the
summit of his soul he bore the supreme flowers whose soft perfume had
been accumulated by generations of heroes. In the wide range of thought
he produced what his forefathers had produced in the domain of action.”
Princess Elizabeth’s mother was the eldest daughter of the Duke of
Nassau, and sister to the present Duke of Luxembourg and the Queen of
Sweden. Pretty, lively and intelligent, she had been brought up in the
gay Court which flourished in that smiling land justly called the Garden
of Germany. Its remains may still be found in the castle of Biebrick, a
kind of German Trianon, once the centre of lively parties and
entertainments; but since the departure of its sovereigns it rises like
a phantom, and seems to weep on the border of a deserted park, relating
to the Rhine, that sighs in turn, all the festivities of the past. Very
soon after marriage the life of pretty Princess Marie of Wied knew
sorrow and trouble. After the birth of her eldest son and daughter
Elizabeth, another son was born, a charming child, who from the hour of
his birth was claimed by pain and suffering: he bore on his frail body
an ever-open, ever-bleeding wound, and frequent operations were needed
to prolong his martyred life. Queen Elizabeth has written a few tragic
pages in which she relates the short life of the little Prince Otto, and
the simple pathos of the narrative has given the book a high place
amongst works dear to humanity as well as to art. Surely Prince Otto was
a little saint. In all that Queen Elizabeth recalls when she tells of
his oft-repeated tortures, his blankets ever soaked in blood, and his
frame always shivering from contractions and pains, there is not a word
which does not speak of patience and faith. The reader vibrates with
revolt against Nature who could so cruelly mingle the sound of repressed
sobs and deep grief with the gentle prattle of an infant over his first
toys; who could bid the age of careless pleasure and happiness be for
him the age of despair, though the child himself never despaired nor
murmured reproach against his fate or his God.
Princess Elizabeth thus saw citadels of grief rise one after another and
wall her in on all sides. She contemplated them with eyes full of
eagerness and tender curiosity, just as she watched the Rhine, and
regarded the tall forests and the beautiful legends of their soil. But
the accumulation of early sorrows in a youthful soul is like the mass of
leaves that covers the ground in autumn: under the thick stratum of dead
foliage, the sap of hidden plants is fermenting, waiting to spring forth
in stems and blossoms. The perfume of spring mingles with the moist dull
odour of decay, and when the April wind brings sunlight and shower, the
dead leaves are pushed aside by the vigour of the blossoms that have
grown under them. Thus a gush of sunlit breeze swept through the
existence of Princess Elizabeth, and darkness and despair were for a
time forgotten while her energy awoke to new life. Her maternal aunt,
the Grand Duchess Helena of Russia, suddenly decided to take care of the
distant young niece whom she equally pitied and admired.
“Send me your dear child,” wrote the Great Duchess to the Princess of
Wied. These words proved the Open Sesame which revealed a new world to
Princess Elizabeth, and bore her far away from the dreary circle of home
troubles.
“I cried bitterly as I took leave of my father, and he also shed tears,
but mine were tears of hope, whereas he well knew that he would never
see me again on earth. He liked the Great Duchess Helena, and he was
charmed with my prospects of seeing new places and new faces; but his
eyes looked a last farewell upon me as I tore myself from his trembling
arms, and a long time passed before I could get over the sad
impression.”
But afterwards the flashing splendours of the Russian Court, the
attraction exercised on a glowing imagination by the fresh beauties and
vanities which every hour brought under her eyes, chased the dark
phantoms from her memory. She wrote to her father letters so cheerful
and vibrating with life that when the dying Prince replied his daughter
little guessed how high his pulse beat or how dizzy his brain felt while
he was penning words of encouragement and wisdom.
“This Russia is such a dazzling, interesting country; the light of Asia
seems to dwell upon the Imperial Court,” wrote the Queen, in speaking of
the two winters she spent in Petersburg. “The fairies and the moon-clad
elves I loved so much appeared too shy to haunt my sleep while my waking
hours were filled with such visions of magnificence and power. My aunt
lived in her dead husband’s beautiful palace, the Palais Michel, and
entertained some two thousand persons under her roof, many of whom she
had never even seen. The immense luxury with which she was surrounded in
no way altered her simple tastes or the easy refinement of her manners,
and she held that high personages should live with much outward pomp,
since brilliant pageants and solemn ceremonies give pleasure to the
public, counting as favours bestowed upon them by their sovereigns and
princes. But it was the Great Duchess who taught me to discover all the
misery hidden under the folds of ermine-lined purple, and so convinced
did I become of the truth of what she said, that had I then heard a
prophetic voice say ‘You will be a Queen!’ I should have wept and
trembled in despair. I know some of you may doubt or smile, as you
perhaps believe that young Princesses fill their daydreams with bowing
multitudes, triumphal arches, crowns, sceptres, and royal trains. But
you are mistaken. We possess an instinct that bids us beware. We know
that these things may come, and we are afraid. But in general it is not
Kings’ daughters who become Queens. On the contrary, the less
conspicuous among Royal Princesses are perhaps most exposed to the
perilous fate.... The Great Duchess Helena, the Northern Juno as she was
called, was a singularly strong-minded, good woman. All the practical
qualities which I acquired and have since tried to display, I owe to her
patient teaching; for instance, the unfailing interest I can show in and
extract from individuals whose mere aspect repels and checks good-will.
She has convinced me that no human creature exists who cannot be induced
to speak eloquently, or perform good deeds. When she travelled, our
temporary home at once became a centre of intellectual company and
congenial spirits. With her I visited Paris and the French Court,
Napoleon III. being at that time in the full glow of his splendour. I
attended a great ball at the Tuileries, and saw the lovely Empress enter
the great reception-rooms by the side of the Grand Duchess, who, though
already an elderly woman, looked more regal in her simple attire than
the beautiful woman who walked arm-in-arm with her while murmurs of
adulation and enthusiasm excited by her beauty followed her every step.
‘You are exactly like a rose-bud,’ said the Empress to me in passing,
and although she repeated the compliment to every young girl present,
the amiable words sent a thrill through my heart, as they reminded me of
my mother’s endearing name, ‘My Wild Rose.’ The French Empress left in
my memory a vision of harmony and youthfulness which not all the
following days, when I have thought with pity of her woes, have been
able to efface....”
On her return from Russia Princess Elizabeth of Wied found a tomb under
the glossy lime-trees on the hill overlooking the Rhine. Her beloved
father was dead, and from that moment the pain of his loss has been
intermingled with every moment of her life; she has never kneaded
anything with her hands as an artist which tears for her father’s loss
have not impregnated.
If I were writing the Queen of Roumania’s whole life instead of trying
merely to give a correct idea of her personality, I should be obliged to
follow her step by step. This I have promised her majesty to do one day,
and then I will tell you all that she has endured, and many things I
have heard her say. At Venice one evening while we were both gazing upon
the dim lagoon whence the last slanting rays of the sun were fast
departing, the Queen stretched out her arms towards the horizon, and
said suddenly:
“No, no, no one knows, no one could tell like you what my heart and my
thoughts contain. No one has seen all and felt my sorrows as you have
done. The story of my life, divested of the errors entwined around it by
others, my soul whose emotions and impulses you can note, and whose past
I have shown you--promise me that they will be revealed by you one day,
when the propitious hour arrives. You promise?”
“Yes, madam, be assured I will obey you, so help me God.”
Like a blood-red necklace the purple tinge that darkened the twilight
sky was sinking into the water, and the broad lagoon closed upon the
setting sun. Thus do the waves of my heart hold enclosed the sacred
promise which will one day spring to life and vigour.
I am convinced that Carmen Sylva’s biographers, past, present and
future, will one and all be angry with me for now destroying one of
their favourite illusions, an innocent error, but still an error, which
has been again and again recorded. The Queen of Roumania’s marriage was
no love affair. It is understood, of course, that all royal marriages
are brought about by love, and when some one dares to assert the
contrary he or she is at once accused of heresy. No sooner is a royal
marriage announced than newspapers and magazines start a regular
steeplechase amongst them in associating the projected union with a
medley of anecdotes, and they vie with each other as to which shall be
most fortunate in securing thrilling accounts of the mutual love binding
the happy couple. Why this absurd habit has taken hold of tradition I
have never been able to find out. Do nations really desire to be ruled
only by happy sovereigns and loving husbands and wives? If this idea
does indeed exist, why not rather credit their kings and queens with
virtues or qualities sufficiently attractive to render them capable of
acquiring in the course of their married lives the love that it is not
their lot to gain when they exchange their rings? I can truthfully
assert that I do not know of more than one or two real love marriages
between royal pairs, whereas I have seen many royal couples become
extremely attached and even devoted to each other in the end, and in my
opinion this result is more to their credit than if all the legendary
romances which are circulated on the slightest rumour of an illustrious
betrothal were true. The Queen of Roumania herself is always willing to
relate how she became acquainted with her future husband, and how her
marriage, without being in the least a romance, was from beginning to
end treated in a very matter-of-fact way.
“I am afraid some writers have tried to make us out a very idyllic and
rather ridiculous couple, and I still shudder when I read that old tale
of the staircase, as worn and haunting now as a ghost story. I have
quite lost the courage to deny it, as it has been repeated so many, many
times!... At Berlin, while on a visit to the Queen of Prussia,
afterwards Empress Augusta of Germany, I had just caught a glimpse of
the Prince of Hohenzollern, who is now your King and my husband. Then
many years went past, finding me sad and despondent. My youth had been
blighted by the presence of suffering and death, but my soul felt warm
and rich with such impulses of self-devotion as would have made me an
excellent nurse or an excellent mother. I longed to find some means of
employing my suppressed energies, and lived on in the hope of seeing
more of the world and its struggles. Many princes proposed to me at that
time, but only one amongst all the potentates who sued for my hand
tempted my fancy, though I had never seen him. He was a widower and the
father of many children. Many children--I could immediately satisfy my
heart’s desire.... But my mother was against the match, and the whole
affair was dropped.... The Great Duchess Helena often wrote to my
mother, and I learned afterwards that together they had laid out many
plans for my future of which I was kept in complete ignorance. One day
at Cologne, where we had gone to spend a few hours and listen to a
Beethoven Festival, we met, by _mere accident_, as I was hastily
informed by my mother, the reigning Prince of Roumania, Prince Charles
of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen. We were staying that afternoon at the
Hotel du Nord which can be seen as the train crosses the Cologne
station--I never pass on my way to Germany without remembering vividly
every word of the interview there which settled my fate. I was very glad
to meet the Prince of Roumania again, as he had been much talked about
in my presence of late, and I knew he had won his way to the throne
among political perils almost as great as the perils of war. He had
crossed Austria in disguise because the Austrian Government had objected
strongly to his election. In the small garden of the Hotel du Nord,
where the beautiful towers of the cathedral threw their shadows upon us,
I poured eager questions into his ears without even casting a glance at
his refined and regular features, and he patiently answered every one of
my inquiries. He told me about his difficult task, and about the exotic
country that had become his own, its wide plains and savage mountains,
its white-clad peasantry, frugal, grave, and endowed with weird powers
of untaught eloquence and poetry. He spoke long and well, while I
listened breathlessly, rapt in astonishment and delight. He described
the great masters of the land, those boyards, cultivated yet barbarous
in mind and customs, whose souls were alive with the blended charm of
the Byzantine influence and the hot blood of old Latin descent. I envied
the young sovereign who had taken up a sceptre whose maintenance
required as firm a grasp as a sword, and I said to him openly: ‘You are
a happy man.’
“‘And the concert?’ asked my mother as we went up to our rooms. ‘You
were so impatient to go to the concert before we met the Prince.’
“‘The concert?’ I repeated in utter amazement. I had forgotten all about
the concert! ‘O Mother, you can’t guess how deeply interesting, how
thrilling is the conversation of the Prince of Roumania, and how I envy
him his beautiful task! Just imagine, he rules a nation quite new to the
world, but at the same time ancient in blood and history; and he has to
understand them and to make them happy. A splendid mission indeed!’
“‘Well, my child, that task, that mission, might be yours also. The
Prince of Roumania wants to marry you. He has come here with the sole
purpose of meeting you. This is no chance encounter, as you believe. You
have but one word to say....’
“I remained perfectly bewildered for a few seconds, then, as if urged on
by the resistless impulse of my destiny, I answered:
“‘Yes, I will marry him. I will help him and follow him to that
wonderful land.’
“Half an hour afterwards the Prince of Hohenzollern came up to our
private sitting-room. He kissed my hand as he entered, and my lips
trembled timidly for one moment on his bowed forehead. Then he knew that
he was my accepted future husband. This time he did all the talking
himself: I was abashed and silent, but still intent on his every word.
Not one syllable of love, not one stray compliment, was uttered during
those hours whose meaning has since thrown a light over my whole
existence. Ours was no love marriage, but it was a union based on
self-devotion, duty, and a fervent desire to do our best towards each
other and towards the nation that I already loved.
“That very evening the Prince went back to Roumania; he was to return in
three weeks and then take me back with him as his wife. Once he had
gone, the spell was broken. I passed sleepless nights and restless days
pondering upon the step I had so rashly taken, and wondering what the
future would be by the side of one all but unknown to me in an unknown
country, far from all my relatives and friends--so desperately far! I
had seen so little of him. In my memory even his face and his voice were
not clearly engraved, and for hours I studied his portrait and tried to
read his soul in his eyes. What would the descendant of the stern
Hohenzollerns be like in feelings and opinions, and would not mine
startle and even offend him? In secret I was a poet already, and I had
acquired, by frequent communion with clever people in my own home and
the home circle of the Grand Duchess Helena, the liberal ideas of
equality and democracy which nowadays bear the name of Socialism. I
understood how startled the Prince of Roumania might be when he realised
all this, since the chains of tradition were strongly entwined about his
principles and the traditions of his race, so that these reflections
well-nigh appalled me.”
But, had she reflected more deeply than she did at that period of her
betrothed life, Princess Elizabeth of Wied would perhaps have discovered
that there must exist in the soul of Prince Charles ground open to the
influx of democratic feelings. She would have remembered that he was not
only of a lineage high among the highest and proud among the proudest, a
family made glorious by the great events of history; he represented not
only the Hohenzollerns stern and brave, but also the glory and lustre
gathered on modern battle-fields by warriors of humble birth if splendid
renown, and that the strain of commoner French blood flows in the veins
of Roumania’s King. Only a few years before the beginning of the
nineteenth century, his French great-grandmother, Fanny Mouchard, played
a conspicuous and not always dignified part in the French Revolution,
being mixed up with all the riotous people of the time. Her wit and
amiability, however, with the fact of her becoming related to the
Emperor through Josephine’s marriage, won for her a position such as her
birth and conduct alone could never have acquired. She often drove
Napoleon wild with her off-hand manners and _évaporé_ airs, with her
habit of writing verse of her own composition, such as this:
“Eglé belle et poëte hélas! n’a qu’un travers
Elle fait son visage et ne fait pas ses vers.”
That this bizarre heroine should have become the mother of a line of
Kings is one of the marvellous incidents of the epic-comedy played in
France by the Revolution and the First Empire.
Again, the King, through his paternal grandmother, belongs to the
stalwart peasantry of France, whence her finest heroes have sprung. His
grandmother was a Murat, sister of the gallant King of Naples who, as
every one knows, was once a stable-boy in a country inn of the Aveyron
department. That inn still exists, and many are the travellers who stop
there and dream about the wondrous fate of the stable-boy who became a
King, only to die the death of a forsaken man at the Calabrian wells.
Thus the Queen might have been almost sure of her husband’s sympathy.
The great-grandson of Fanny Mouchard could not but love poets and
poetry; the great-grandson of the Aveyron stable-boy must have inherited
from his ancestor the democratic ideals which changed a Revolution into
a Republic and then into an Empire.
Has Elizabeth of Roumania kept the promise registered in her heart on
that early autumn day when she was first acquainted with her future
husband and her fate? Now that so many years have gone by, her subjects,
without a dissentient voice, can answer ‘Yes.’ From the moment of her
arrival in her new country to this hour her life has been a constant
effort, a constant labour of love on behalf of her people. Patiently and
without ceasing she listens to the throbbing of their veins, to the
wants and aspirations of a race she has tried so hard to understand
that she has almost become a Roumanian herself. When she reached the
banks of the Danube, when before her dazzled sight white-clad peasants
made their appearance, wearing carved silver knives in their belts and
big peacock feathers on their high fur caps; when in brilliant costumes
the women rushed forth to meet her, veils thin as the mountain mists
floating round their proud features, and distaffs trembling on their
bosoms; when the gaily attired village beauties danced the national
dances before her to the sound of a rude violin; when dishevelled and
ragged tziganes played tunes a thousand years old, yet fresh with the
eternal youth of innocence, then Elizabeth believed her own life would
be like an eternal _pastorale_. And at once she gave her heart to the
rustic crowds whose welcome was showered upon her, who blessed her
winning smile and her ready curiosity to learn more about them and their
village homes. Remembrance came to her of the fair and simple Queens of
the Iliad, who, seated in the midst of their waiting-maids, kept virgins
and young matrons aloof from evil company or bad thoughts, by teaching
them to weave, to spin, to twist golden and silken threads and sew
stirring devices on banners destined for brave warriors or the altar.
She bore in her mind that thus the ancient Roumanian Princesses and
wives of illustrious boyards had reared around them damsels and dames of
gentle blood, that while the spindle flew and the wind carried the
sound of bugle and church-bells, they had chanted ballads and had kept
alive the memory of their glorious dead; and her poetic soul found joy
in the resurrection of a noble past. No one will ever know or appreciate
the whole extent of the labour that from morning to eve made her stoop
towards the soil from which she drew the secrets of the race, or raise
her head to the sky whence faith and inspiration descended upon her
sacred toil.
When I met the Queen for the first time, or rather when I first
approached her, I was quite a child. I had often seen her in the streets
of our capital, and on such occasions, though only five or six years
old, I felt a sharp sensation, as of mingled pain and joy, and all my
small being vibrated to the shock. The flashing smile, the tender and
compassionate blue eyes, the thick wavy mass of hair whose movement was
as eloquent as the surging tide, and perhaps also the big white plume of
the _chasseur_ seated at the back of the carriage, floated before me
like a vision of grandeur and delight, whose tracings left deep golden
furrows in my mind. Children sometimes adore secret idols whose forms
loom high above their playthings and dolls, and when playthings and
dolls are quite forgotten, thought of the ruling god or goddess thrills
their memory. At the dawn of my eighth year, having just escaped from an
illness so dangerous that the doctors had given me up and I had remained
as one dead for some hours, the Queen expressed a desire to know the
little girl who during six weeks had filled her parents’ souls with
fear, and interested the whole of Bucharest society, which at that time
formed one large family. With shorn hair and trembling knees that could
scarcely bear the frail load of my meagre body, pulling hard on my
mother’s hand, I mounted the great staircase of the Palace. I had
completely forgotten in delirium and fever the radiant image which had
enchanted my childish drives. How often now do I live again that happy
moment when with panting breath and wild and eager joy that must have
transfigured my pale face, I found the idol and I recognised the object
of my earliest dreams. How clearly I can stir the chords of dormant
sensations and revive the moist perfume of those vast rooms with green
plants climbing along the golden trellis of a screen, or the soft murmur
of the water splashing from a fountain whose waves rippled into a stone
vase and fell among the leaves. But all the vivid hues of hangings and
foliage seemed to concentrate themselves in a tall, slender form that
stood in their midst. The Queen wore a moss-green velvet dress, and
along the bottom of the skirt and round her sleeves and neck ran a
trimming of downy grey feathers which trembled with every movement,
every breath--I can see even now the fluttering of those silvery plumes.
The radiant face stooped towards me; she opened her arms and I flew to
her bosom like a young bird to its nest. Ah! had we known then what a
pledge of deep affection was thus exchanged between the royal lady and
the child that death had almost carried away,--had we known all the love
and the pain lurking in the dim future, would the grasp of my little
hands round her neck have relaxed, would she have ceased kissing my thin
cheeks? Notwithstanding all the pain that that future has brought, I can
with truth say, No! and the Queen’s answer is the same.
I remember every word of that interview, and how charmed she was
because, when she wished to stop the fountain in order that I might hear
the birds sing better, I exclaimed:
“Oh, please don’t! I suppose the dear birds sing only to please the
fountain, and they would feel wretched if its waters were hushed.”
Then the Queen caressed my shorn head, and I told her with tears in my
eyes how my long hair had been cut off with big scissors that made a
shiver run over my skin; that mother had put them under my pillow, and
how I caressed them.
“Never mind,” answered Carmen Sylva, “you are a good little girl, and
good little girls’ hair grows very fast. You will soon get your long
hair back again.”
“But I love it--I won’t have any other long hair because the hair that
has been cut off might be grieved to see me loving other long hair.”
The Queen laughed softly at these words, and murmured: “She is indeed a
poet’s grand-daughter.”
After this visit a long time elapsed before I saw the Queen again; we
went to Paris for my education, and there several years were spent.
When I had arrived at the age of sixteen, however, every summer found us
spending three weeks with the Queen in the Castel Polesch at Sinaïa, a
mansion built by the King, whose aspect presents a startling contrast to
the surrounding landscape. The stern-looking German _schloss_ looks like
a challenge thrown defiantly to the mountains, whose dazzling heights
overtop its turrets. The heavy edifice of grey stone and red brick
proclaims that a strong will rather than artistic taste has been at work
in the depths of the dark Karpathians. Like some mad anachronism, Castel
Pelesch rises in the forest, a seal of taciturn power affixed to the
wild beauty and primitive glory of its surroundings, the seal of the
Middle Ages and the burgraves from whom the King draws his descent. In
the interior the same silent war is waging between the decorations of
the rooms and the personages who inhabit them. The contrast is such as
the Crusaders must have created when in the sunlit palaces of Asia they
strode through glittering halls to the silvery note of a hundred
fountains in their steel armour and tall white plumes.
At that time a sense of logical and refined art was not mine, and to me
the loveliness of the Sinaïa summer dwelling was unsurpassed. Even now,
when I can judge of all its defects, I cannot dwell upon the sweetness
of the spot and the spell it threw upon my mind without feeling again
the thrill of pleasure and gladness with which I traversed its rooms
and gazed upon the rich Rembrandtesque colouring of wood and velvet. On
the windows ballads and fairy tales appear in the deep purple and azure
of stained glass; near by a high waterspout rises and falls, whose voice
is associated with so many emotions and dreams that it seems to sing its
answering song to me. The Queen loved her mountain home, and lightly
paced its crimson-carpeted corridors, lit up here and there with the
twinkle of a golden star on wall or ceiling; her white veil trailing
behind her, beautiful and serene, she would talk in gay tones of the
latest wish of her poet’s or her Queen’s soul.
At the age when youth leads us to the brink of every desire, at the age
of ardent labour and gentle idleness, at the age when every event sinks
into the depths of our being, I became the Queen’s lady-in-waiting and
companion chosen from amongst a large number, and beloved from that hour
as if I had never been beloved before. This implied almost complete
separation from my mother and family, to whom I was fervently attached,
yet I scarcely wept, though I saw them weep, for the Queen’s society,
the Queen’s words, the Queen’s smiles meant all to me. Numberless are
the entertainments, numberless the ties, the aims I have willingly given
up for her, and never have I grudged the moments snatched from what
others thought my duty; I have regretted nothing, for to see and hear
her, to have taken an active part in the activity of such a life, to
this day forms the pride of my existence.
Many have loved the Queen--some for mere joy in receiving favours from a
queen, some for her clear intelligence, her kindness, her gaiety. I
loved her and love her still for the many hours I have spent listening
to the outpourings of her spirit, watching her daring mind as it soared
from one summit to another, borne on the wings of an imagination vivid
and varied as the hues of a gigantic rainbow. At that time she led an
existence which literally overflowed with activity and of which she lost
not a second: and her splendid health allowed her to indulge in an
exuberant extravagance of labour.
“But your Majesty is an intellectual ogre,” said the great German
sculptor Begag one day to the Queen, and in those few words he expressed
the perpetual cravings for art and emotion which devour the Queen.
At Sinaïa the quantity of work, and especially of writing, she would
achieve far surpassed what even the keenest amongst us could attain to.
Many a time have I found her, at eight in the morning, seated in her
dressing-room before a bureau covered with a huge heap of sheets whereon
her bold writing had traced close lines, the lamp she had failed to
extinguish at sunrise still burning by her side. Near the manuscript
twenty letters would lie filling the grey envelopes on which, disdainful
of royal crown or arms, the simple words “Carmen Sylva” were engraved in
glossy black letters. White and slim in the folds of her snowy garments
the Queen would rise, pass her hand across her brow, as if to chase
away the visions that had arisen there, and with a quick, impatient
gesture, open the double doors that led to the balcony, letting in the
fresh morning breeze, laden with sunshine and pine-wood fragrance. Wide
awake to her duties as a sovereign, she would eagerly plunge her hands
into thick masses of paper newly strewn on the sofa--requests,
entreaties, desires, passionate demands for help, pity, or favour--that
like a flood mounted each morning from the bosom of the nation to the
heart of the august lady who was its ruler’s spouse. With a look of
scrutiny and unwavering concern she would examine and enter into all the
details of the different matters presented for her decision.
“What did the two women you received yesterday afternoon want from me?
Have you been able to discover why one of my ladies looked depressed
while we were having tea, and did you inquire whether the medicine I had
prepared myself and sent to the second footman, who seemed so fagged,
has done him any good? And the porter’s little boy--does he still
suffer? Here is a book with large pictures and nice fairy tales for
him--wait, I will write my name upon it--let him know it comes from
_Mama Regina_--Mother Queenie.... I should just love to play one or two
of Bach’s preludes now, and even to sing a little, but we have so much
work here, and it must be attended to. See ... what does this poor
prisoner require? Liberty, a breath of fresh air, I suppose. Oh! to
think that there are captives on such a day as this, when we drink so
freely of the balmy air!... And this--this is from a widow--so wretched,
so poor--and she has five children--they are actually starving--five
children!”
A sigh, and the Queen turns her head away. I read her thoughts: “Five
children and poverty, and I, who possess palaces and millions, had only
one little child, and it was taken away from me.”
But the saddening reflection is checked, the burning desire crushed, and
the Queen toils through the morning’s work with earnest care. Then
suddenly she rises and steps across the compartment and comes back
again--almost the only morning exercise in which she indulges. And while
thus going to and fro, she stops from time to time, urged by her
artist’s instinct to move here a fold in the drapery, there a pillow on
the arm-chair, or a picture in a bad light, with the result that every
day her apartment wears a different aspect though the furniture remains
the same.
A tray laden with grapes and figs lies on the corner of a massive
_bahut_. The Queen would sometimes pull one or two out of the crimson or
golden bunches and ask: “Don’t you want some? They taste so fresh and
are quite ripe.” Then she returns to her literary pursuits, in which the
thought of making Roumanian folk-lore and Roumanian valour known all
over the world is uppermost.
“I am about to compose a ballad, and think I have caught a beautiful
idea.... A young girl embroiders a red sash for her betrothed, who has
gone to the war. The sash must be so red that nothing in nature can be
redder than it. So she takes the juice of all the red fruits, and the
colour of the flames, willingly yielded up to her. At night an old woman
comes and offers her a liquid as red as the flame and as the juice of
fruit. She drinks it, but lo! at that very hour her betrothed is killed.
The old woman was none other than grim Death, and it was the life-blood
of the brave soldier she gave. But what shall I call the young girl?
Dimistra, or Stana, rather. I cannot find quite the right name for her.
Do search in an almanac, or in Alexander’s legends....”
“Pardon, Madam, but your Majesty will be late. It is almost one.” These
words are demurely said by the Queen’s first maid, as the worthy dame
lifts up the heavy curtains separating the boudoir from the bed-room.
“Nearly one, and we have such a lot of people to lunch! This is
distressing. Run and dress, little girl, and tell all the others to
dress quickly, as I shall myself”; and the Queen disappears in haste.
Through the wide corridors there is a rush and a scurrying, and we do
not stop to breathe till we reach our chambers. Without a second’s
hesitation our maids dash forward, undress and dress us again in the
space of a few minutes. They do their office so nimbly that the
intricacies of Roumanian costumes are speedily vanquished, and we are
amazed to find ourselves fully dressed before the mirrors in the
brilliant garb of village maidens, with spangled skirts and blue
necklaces, while many-coloured flowers dance in our tresses.
We had scarcely taken our places in the large reception-room when the
King and the Queen enter, the Queen dressed in the rich costume of a
rustic matron, but on her lithe form the vestments took on an appearance
of Byzantine pageantry, and she looked more like an Empress than a
wealthy Roumanian dame. No one would guess that her day’s task was not
begun at that moment, nor could she have seemed more animated, more
interested in the conversation of her neighbours at table, had she,
instead of being awake with the lark, but just finished her toilet and
commenced the irksome duties of hostess and Queen.
Two hours later, dressed in a short mountain costume of dark green
velvet, she is scouring the pine-clad heights around the castle, running
along the steep paths with step so light that it sometimes proved
difficult to follow her. She would wander along the deep arcades of fir
and hazel-trees, try to run as fast as the torrent, and taunt its
laughing waters; then, when her forces were well-nigh spent, she would
sit down on a well and gather us around her. Then she would open wide
the portals of her soul, and speak of life and of all the people she had
known and loved. Once I remember she told us about her first meeting
with the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who afterwards became her close
friend.
“I was newly married and very shy. We went to pay a visit to the Emperor
at Buda Pesth, in the old castle he inhabits when in his Hungarian
capital. I was feeling quite miserable at the prospect of meeting the
lovely, brilliant Empress, and I dared not lift up my eyes when her
husband took me to her. When at last I did look, I discovered that the
beautiful lustrous eyes were gazing into mine with an expression of
timidity and distress equal to my own, and we smiled on guessing our
common plight, and at once fell into easy talk. I liked her strange
words and her strange ways, and she came to see me here. Just imagine,
when she arrived at the station and saw the crowd that was waiting for
her, she would not alight from the train! She hated fuss, and the King
had to insist. Then when she saw our little horses--you know the dear
yellow creatures that look exactly like the palfreys of Odin and
Thor--she exclaimed:
“‘I’ll go on foot. I am afraid to go with those horses; I am afraid of
driving in a carriage.’
“‘But the castle is a long way off.’ ...
“‘It does not matter.’
“I smiled to see this brave horse-woman terrified of my sturdy ponies,
but on foot we had to go, followed by all the people, and feeling quite
dismayed at giving our Imperial visitor such a welcome. Yet she liked it
better than she would have done a gorgeous train.”
After the strolls in the mountain forests we would return to the
castle, and then the Queen would assemble us in the music-hall, a lofty
chamber, solemn and peaceful as a cathedral, where she read verse or
prose aloud to us, and made the organ thrill beneath her fingers. Her
ladies in dazzling attire would sit in an erect yet dreamy position on
the high wooden chairs, listening till the rich sounds entered their
hearts and made them images of fervour and rapt attention.
“To-day I will have nothing to do with all the others; to-day I belong
to Beethoven,” she would say. “Can you understand his remaining so open
to human passions when he was so near to God?” Then after Beethoven had
given us the keenest pangs of his genius, Carmen Sylva would take up a
book, and in her mellow, harmonious tones let stanza after stanza drop
on our delighted ears. And the evenings of these glorious days were calm
and sweet. They brought us moments Carmen Sylva consecrated specially to
each of us in turn. She encouraged us to speak of what was nearest to
us, our homes, our family affairs, our hopes and difficulties; she
guided and counselled us; she drew us out so that each in turn could
have sworn that the Queen had been peculiarly touched by her
conversation.
Court life and society have such an established reputation for scandal
and intrigue that they seem beyond redemption, and this much I must
admit, that in Carmen Sylva’s _entourage_ falseness, backbiting and
ill-will are ever at work and ever finding a new victim. Carmen Sylva
is perfectly aware of everything that takes place around her; she is
awake to the slightest manifestation of spite amongst her companions,
but she holds her head high above the abyss whence the angry murmurs
arise, and by dint of appearing to ignore the presence of evil, she
succeeds in destroying its near effects. She is by no means naturally of
a forgiving disposition, but her reason and the rectitude of her heart
have taught her that a Queen cannot exhibit rancour without descending
to the same level as those who have merited her anger. She has achieved
a victory over herself in never punishing an offence inflicted by
jealousy amongst those she loves, but she tries hard to enlighten the
weakened conscience as to its failure and to punish the guilty only by
showing them how disgraceful are their faults. In acting thus, Carmen
Sylva seems to indicate that she has to deal only with refined natures
and high characters merely a little spoilt by pride or envy. This, alas!
is not always the case.
Accustomed to find her own emotions in the pure domain of spirituality,
the Queen imagines that in inflicting spiritual punishments or granting
spiritual rewards she has done her best towards ensuring justice. I have
often been the mute and amused spectator of such deeds as have proved
the grandeur of her nature but sorely disappointed those who expected
some material recompense. In the same manner she would act when
displeased. One time a young girl amongst the maids of honour had won
from her Royal mistress, who had been almost a mother to her, marks of
disapproval, and I had often noticed how worried the Queen felt by the
conduct of the unruly damsel. She did not scold but looked grieved,
though this did not suffice to keep the culprit away from the forbidden
ground.
“Oh, I am going to punish her--I have found such a punishment for her. I
am going to be a wicked, wicked Queen.” These words, though said in
mellow tones, made me tremble, as I had never heard her speak thus,
moreover, her Majesty went about with such a mysterious air that I more
than once begged her to spare my young companion, but she only went on
saying tenaciously to the tune of a nigger song: “A wicked Queen, a
wicked revengeful Queen.” My curiosity and my anguish increased. I could
not discover what the terrible vengeance was to be or when the dreadful
day prophesied by the “wicked Queen” would come.
And when it did come, oh, shall I ever forget the humiliation of that
hour! “Here is my vengeance,” said the Queen, and she raised in her
uplifted hands a large sheet of paper. “A letter,” I thought to myself,
“a dismissal, cruel indeed, and harsh,” and tears rushed to my eyes as I
thought of the rash girl, a lonely orphan, who would be torn from luxury
and affection, and sent out again into the dreary world. I waited in
dumb silence.
“I have been sitting up for twelve nights to get it ready sooner and
make it more beautiful. Look.” And she placed the large paper on my
knee. It was an immense piece of parchment on which she had daintily
painted miniature pictures representing scenes from the New Testament:
these formed a frame round the text written in golden letters.
“Oh how she will feel the scourge and bitterness of my wrath,” said the
Queen, “and how she will repent when she finds out that while she was
giving me such dire trouble I was working for her, I was toiling for the
benefit of her soul. This will prove her greatest treasure on earth. It
is the Sermon on the Mount, the Divine lesson preached by our Saviour
himself. But why do you kneel? Yes, the pictures are small, you are
short-sighted.”
“Very short-sighted, Madam, and I must see every one of them,” and I
went on looking at the beautiful painting and the gilded text. The Queen
little guessed that I was kneeling before her own beautiful soul that
now stood revealed in all its splendour before me.
Carmen Sylva, who sometimes laughingly calls herself “Donna Quixota,”
takes a real pleasure in humiliating her enemies by the generosity of
her forgiveness. Thus she says: “I am not as good as I appear, I assure
you. I am exactly like the Pope’s mule in that charming little tale of
Alphonse Daudet. The mule only kicked her foe seven years after he had
inflicted bitter injury upon her. I kick--after seven years’ silence and
sometimes more--but I never kick vigorously. My favourite vengeance is
a very harmless one. I force people to act as they speak, to live up to
their principles; I take every word they say for a sincere expression of
their desires. This means some cruelty on my part, because in our
presence they don not only their best dresses but their most high-flown
sentiments. They give vent to a lot of noble aspirations which are
carefully put aside in everyday life. The most frivolous young dame
pretends she loves solitude, books, and the company of her husband and
children; the ambitious tell me that they simply desire modest incomes
and a place of quiet retirement; so whenever I am able to do so I give
the giddy young woman an excellent opportunity of looking carefully
after her home and spending studious afternoons; I force the ambitious
man to content himself with the joys of the existence whose charms he
described to me.” But the Queen makes a great mistake when she declares
herself capable of hurting a human soul; this I have never seen her do
either by act or word, and she is absolutely good, good to such an
extent that those who feel really attached to her are often wont to be
more indignant with her equanimity than moved by her unspeakable
kindness.
The Queen’s constancy to her friends is absolute, no one can undo her
attachments, and she remains faithful to those she loves even when she
has not seen them for years. One of the great secrets of her deep
affection for me--an affection which the Queen has been pleased to call
one of the most fervent in her life--lies in the comprehension I gained
of her peculiar habits of mind. From the very beginning of our
intercourse I understood that the only means of keeping up the warm
interest she showed me lay in the trouble I took to put aside all
personal animosities and never to mention any one in her presence as
having done a bad deed or as being distasteful to me. She has never been
able to suspect me of a pang of jealousy or fit of ill-will towards my
equals or my inferiors. For this effort to resemble her in some way, for
the perpetual strain imposed on my feelings and aversions, I have been
thanked and rewarded a thousand times by the acknowledgment and
appreciation of the Queen.
“I bless you, my child,” she said one day, and she crossed her slim
fingers upon my head, “I bless you because you have never cut off a
single ray of warmth and light that I have poured out of my heart.” And
of this I may truly declare that I am proud, for have I not respected in
the Queen’s soul all the errors of her beautiful altruism, all her
ideals, however dangerous I may have found them, however certain I might
have felt that they were being imposed upon her by impostors and
mischief-doers?
In every life there is generally one predominating misfortune, one
ruling pain in which all other misfortunes take their source, and by
which every intervening pain is fed. The tragedy of Carmen Sylva’s life
dates from a day when the winter dawn was about to gild the roof of the
Royal Palace in Bucharest. The oppressed city was not sleeping, it felt
an infant’s heavy breathing lie on its bosom and the breasts of
thousands heaved with fervent prayer. All the land was praying that the
Royal child might be saved, and the parents spared the awful anguish of
losing her. And in the room where the first glimmerings of the March
morning penetrated, by the bedside of her darling the mother knelt and
whispered: “My God, my God, can’st Thou not spare me the bitterness of
this bitter hour? I know that this is Passion Thursday; all over this
land, with the prayers that go up to Thee for my child’s life, we pray
Thee to remember that on this very day Thou suffered for us and wept as
I now weep, and wiped the drops from Thy brow as I now wipe them from
mine. Wilt Thou take her from me? Must I lose her? My God, my God, Thy
will be done, and yet, and yet it seems too hard.”
And as the mother spoke, the dying child murmured softly: “It is _so_
sweet, so beautiful, Mother dear. I see a garden and all the gardens I
have loved, all the gardens of this darling land, I see them.... I am so
thirsty--bring me water from Sinaïa--show me the tapering towers of the
Cotrocius Church--they are like spiders.... I am so happy. O my darling,
darling Roumania!” And the child went forth into the gardens that she
saw and drank from the source of Eternal Life the cool mountain water
for which she thirsted.
The red tinged hour of dawn had now spread its glory over the bewildered
city. The day was indeed a Passion Thursday, and the nation who were
mourning for their God mourned also over the little child they had loved
so well that no other Royal child will ever reign in our people’s heart
with the same supremacy as did “Little Princess Marie.” The small
vivacious body, whose lightness and glee had been in the eyes of all
like a sun-ray dancing on the water; the pure angelic head where masses
of golden hair rippled; the fragile dwelling of a marvellous bright
soul, were laid to rest on the summit of a hill within Cotrocius Park
where she had loved to play. There in the bosom of the earth, whose
slumber is ever lulled by the distant murmur of the town, a chapel was
built wherein a marble statue reposes showing the rounded limbs, the
small feet whose steps wandered such a short time in the gardens of
life, the eager little hands which gathered so few flowers among the
flowers of earth. On the grassy mound outside a white cross throws its
straight shadow, and on the shadow of that cross Queen Elizabeth’s heart
is crucified. Like the green mould cut in twain by that shadow, her
heart is cut in twain by the form of that simple cross. Her bosom bears
the load of that stone, and the little mound of Roumanian soil where her
child is buried rises high before her eyes, higher than the highest
mountain, till it has hidden all the future from her view.
But, armed with desire to be stronger than the strength of her fate,
the Queen has lived on and done her duty as if from that hour all her
hours had not been void of hope and light; as if the smiles fond mothers
lavish upon their children and receive from them again did not sink as
deeply into her wounded flesh as the form of that heavy marble cross
which lies so cold upon her life. She to whom such a portion of human
bliss has been denied, has at least tasted all the savour of heroism and
mute despair. Sometimes it seems to have made her seek the means of
suffering more and more.
“Oh, the first children’s ball at which I presided after her
death--scarcely one year after! Oh, the music of that ball--it whirls
yet in my memory. The pattering of the little feet struck on my heart
like a rain of fire. And I held my arms open and the little children
came to me and nestled in my bosom. Each of them reminded me of her--one
had her way of kissing, another almost spoke with the accents of her
voice; yet in each of them I missed her grace, the smile, the vivacity
which were her own. Oh, I was meant to be a mother! I was created to
create a human creature, to sustain and love a human soul derived from
my own soul. I see nothing in nature or in living beings that is not
destined to be continued and to love itself in another being born of its
own essence.”
We often spent hours, the Queen and I, at the top of the small hill
where the chapel rises, above the gardens open to the last dying blasts
of winter winds or the first warm breezes of summer. On such occasions
the Queen would silently point out a bench to me, whilst she stayed
beside the mound cut in twain by the shadow of the cross. The crows
shrieked madly around us, the din of the city mounted like the murmur of
a lazy sea, and the fitful clamour of bugles and trumpets rose lightly
on the air. In the circular path that winds thrice round the tomb the
Queen walked slowly, looking into her own heart and unravelling the
Past.
“To think that I have been that happy woman who was a mother while she
lived. To think I was almost the same as I am to-day, and I walked
towards her with these same feet that now carry me to her tomb, that I
held her little neck with these same hands that now stoop towards the
dust where she reposes. To think I was that woman I see in the Past who
held her little girl on her knees and showed her the sun and the moon
and the carriages in the streets--I was that woman, and I did not scream
aloud with joy!... Oh! I know she is not here--she is where mystery
abides and supreme bliss, and yet she is here with me, she is in me as
much as in the days when I bore the happy weight of her unknown
sweetness.”
Apart from the sadness ever reigning in her soul, Carmen Sylva is
cheerful, while the force and resistance of her nerves is astonishing.
She brings to bear upon everything that comes in her way a most
astounding amount of interest, pity or enthusiasm. In a word, she
represents the most constant human vibration that womanhood may boast
of. Her powers of absorption and production are equal. When she listens
to music it is wonderful to note on her face the sensations roused in
her soul by the different instruments till she herself becomes a part of
the harmony expressed.
Most of the Queen’s misfortunes have been due to her ignorance or
disdain of the rude realities of life; yet whenever she has had to face
them, she proved a match for circumstances whether dreadful or pleasant.
During the 1877-78 Russo-Roumano-Turkish war she proved an admirable
sister of charity, tending the wounded with the same care as the
professional nurses who aided the surgeons in the dreary hospital wards.
One bright autumn afternoon, as we were sitting round the Queen while
she painted some Biblical scene in a small prayer-book, she was brought
to talk of the days when she first began her apprenticeship as a nurse.
“I was at home anxiously waiting for news from Plevna. All at once some
one rushed in and said: ‘They have arrived!’ ‘Who? New soldiers going to
Plevna?’ ‘No, the wounded, those who have been cured and those who must
die.’
“I immediately understood that my help would be necessary. In a few
moments I had caused all the wine that was in our cellars to be taken to
them, and had my own sleigh piled with counterpanes and pillows and all
I could secure in the way of wrappings. It was a bitter afternoon. The
snow fell in large heavy flakes as our horses travelled swiftly, and the
blast cut our eager, trembling faces.... Oh, the frightful scene that we
saw when we reached the hospital! All the yard was full of carts whence
the poor sufferers were being borne up-stairs--some of them lay on the
steps and moaned--blood was spreading over the newly fallen snow.
Surgeons and nurses went from one group to the other. I followed
them.... A little later we had succeeded in establishing a long row of
beds in the upper hall, and here I worked as hard as the others, so that
the wounded soon considered me as a nurse. Rank and etiquette were quite
forgotten. Very often my dress was stained with the same blood that had
been so freely spilt on the Bulgarian plains, and my shoulders were
often sore from uplifting the heads of the dying. O poor, poor children!
How many of them I saw depart; and while I gently crossed their hands on
their bosoms I would think of the anxious mothers and wives awaiting
them in the snowy villages afar off and with weary fingers counting the
days of that woeful winter which took so many heroes away.”
While the Queen was speaking, the glorious beauty of that autumn
afternoon had reached its climax. All around, as far as the eye could
see, light danced upon the sunlit branches and into the dazzling
mountain wells. A strong perfume came from the earth and the trees, and
the force of the Roumanian soil was in that perfume, and while the
Queen spoke it seemed to answer:
“Blessed be thou, O Queen! Can my children ever forget those days when
thou wert a mother to them? Wilt thou ever cease to be thy people’s
Mother, a Queen beloved amongst all other Queens? Blessed be thou for
the red drops that decked the snow-white purity of thy dress, blessed be
thou for the sacred bruises the heads of the dying pressed into thy
gentle bosom. What Queen of the Past or what future Queen will be
through history alike unto thee, O blessed Queen!”
[Illustration:
_Photo by Downey_
KING EDWARD VII. AND QUEEN ALEXANDRA]
KING EDWARD VII
The arrival of a Royal visitor at a foreign Court is always an event of
much importance, especially if, as in the case of King Edward’s visit to
Roumania a few years ago, the illustrious guest be unknown to the august
couple who are to entertain him during several days. Moreover, the
Prince of Wales, as he then was, had chosen a season when the presence
of foreign Sovereigns at our Court was unusual, and the problem was a
hard one--how to make him spend his time pleasantly in the summer
residence of the King? Of course, the usual official programme would
have to be adhered to, but our Queen felt strongly that the Prince of
Wales should be received with some novel form of entertainment, so that
he might carry back with him a pleasing recollection of a country whose
situation and destinies had hitherto been so widely different from those
of all other European nations. Besides, her Majesty was always anxious
to spare her fellow sufferers--that is to say Royal Princes and
Princesses--the monotonous process of seeing the same festivities
everywhere, and thus gathering from their travels little genuine
delight.
On the other hand, we did not know much about the Prince of Wales,
although we had read frequent descriptions of his tastes and habits. But
as we were all aware that a Prince’s character is familiar only to those
who approach him daily, and that there is little reliable information to
be gathered on this subject from newspapers and reports, the heir to the
English throne was quite a stranger to us. No one could tell what kind
of entertainment would be most agreeable to one who had seen half the
world, who had visited India, and spent several months every spring in
the French capital. When asked to give my opinion of the arrangements
made for the Prince’s visit I was much perplexed, and I was reduced to
declaring that to my mind nothing seemed more natural or more courteous
than to pursue the usual course--that is, to offer his Royal Highness as
many excellent dinners and gorgeous luncheons as he could swallow during
his short stay, show him a fair number of military pageants, take him
for as many walks and drives through the beautiful forest as he would
care to undertake, and then close the whole series of receptions by a
big party. Moreover, the weather was sultry, though October was at hand.
The Prince would certainly feel grateful for not being put out by new
arrangements, and would no doubt prefer the familiar, though monotonous,
formalities with which he had been acquainted since his childhood.
The Queen looked daggers at me as I wound up by saying that we should
probably discover also that we were all incapable of inventing anything
new or attractive enough in the way of theatricals, dances, or picnics.
Her Majesty immediately arose and declared that, if the heat had
deprived us of all our initiative and courage, she herself was not
disposed to fall asleep or to allow the Prince to find his sojourn in
Roumania dull and tedious. In vain I argued; in vain I pointed out that
the date of the Royal visit came close upon the day when the Queen was
due at the manœuvres, where the King specially desired her presence; in
vain did I try to prove how delighted the Prince would be by the
surrounding landscape, by the wildness of the rocks and mountains under
their floods of golden sunshine. The Queen’s face wore a look of
determination whose meaning I could guess.
I did not, therefore, feel astonished when next morning, a few minutes
after sunrise, I was summoned to her apartments. For these early
interviews the Queen was in the habit of striking a few notes on the
piano, and, as my sitting-room was situated just above her Majesty’s
boudoir, I immediately obeyed and ran downstairs. The Queen was standing
in the middle of the room, her face full of joy.
“Eureka!” she cried. “Oh, I am _so_ pleased. I have hit on such a
beautiful idea! And without your help, too! On the contrary, you lazy
thing, you tried to thwart and discourage me. But now I will have my own
way.”
“And what is this marvellous idea, madam, may I ask?”
“Tableaux vivants.”
“Tableaux vivants?” I repeated, in a subdued voice, yet in tones of
respectful criticism.
“Yes, tableaux vivants.”
“But the Prince of Wales must have seen thousands of tableaux vivants in
his life.”
“Don’t be silly! These tableaux vivants will be quite unlike any he has
ever seen, or any one else either.”
I failed to understand and said so.
“Wait till I explain. The tableaux will represent a charade, and the
initials of the words of the charade will be our guest’s own
title--‘Prince of Wales.’ The subject of each tableau will begin with
one of the letters of those three words. There are thirteen letters in
the words; therefore you will have thirteen tableaux, and a fourteenth
which will represent the Prince of Wales himself, or one of his
predecessors, because all the subjects of these tableaux will be taken
from the history of England or from English fiction. Now go back to your
room and let me work.”
In the calm solitude upstairs, where I could look out upon the
neighbouring forest, whose dark green foliage was already reddened by
the twofold colour of the autumn leaves and the sunlight striking softly
down the sloping glades and pathways, my first care was to take down the
two volumes of Macaulay’s “History of England” and cast a glance over
their engrossing pages. But my search, though careful, was without
result, as I could find no personages who seemed suitable for parts to
be played in our projected tableaux. As I let the books fall upon the
carpet, and was about to turn to some other occupation, the Queen, whose
light tread I had not heard, appeared at my side, holding in her
outstretched hands a heap of papers on which her firm, bold writing had
traced something which resembled nothing so much as a plan of battle.
“Look here! Each tableau will represent an episode from one of
Shakespeare’s plays. See! All the initials of the names will form the
letters of the three words ‘Prince of Wales’: Perdita, Richard III.,
Imogen, and so on. Now, telegraph to all the people who are likely to
accept our invitations. Here is also a list of the people I want you to
ask to help us. Tell them to come to Sinaïa by the next train. There is
no time to lose.”
“And the manœuvres, madam? I suppose your Majesty intends to give up the
manœuvres?”
“By no means. I never give up an iota of what I deem my duty--we shall
be able to arrange everything beautifully, I assure you.”
“And what says the King?”
“The King allows us to arrange the performance, but under one
condition--rather a severe one. He must totally ignore our doings; the
official life of the castle must remain perfectly undisturbed, and when
the Prince of Wales arrives, should he feel at all fatigued, the
representation must not be even mentioned. The tableaux vivants are not
to be put down in the official programme. ‘Dura lex, sed lex,’” said the
Queen; and she sighed softly.
I was quite taken aback, not to say terror-stricken, at these words. If
the Prince’s curiosity should fail to be awakened, our plans, our
labour, which I imagined might prove hard, would be perfectly useless,
and I vowed to myself that in some way such a catastrophe could and
should be avoided. The great day was fast approaching. First was to come
the Queen’s visit to the vast plain where the manœuvres took place. Then
the King’s intention was to proceed to Bucharest and show his capital to
the Prince of Wales. Afterwards the Prince was due at Sinaïa, where our
grand reception was being prepared.
While the train was briskly carrying us to the field of the manœuvres we
were--both the Queen and myself--absorbed in thought, deep and serious
indeed, but in no way connected with military pursuits. On one side of
the carriage stood the King, surrounded by generals, colonels, and
equerries-in-waiting, expounding the merits of a new cannon or a new
gun. On the other side, but a few steps apart, the Queen was exchanging
with me such typical remarks as these: “Has Mr. V---- received his wig?”
“Miss Z---- does not hold her head well; and the flower in her hair
should be red, not blue.” “We must tell Othello to look just a little
bit more savage.”
A couple of minutes in a swift landau brought us on to the plain, where
bayonets and sabres were glistening under the glare of the scorching
sun. But neither the sound of trumpets echoing from hill to hill, nor
the mad rush of cavalry, nor the roar of the cannon could divert our
minds from their preoccupation. Flags waved, shrill commands pierced the
sultry air, regiments were poured like water from the distant horizon
till they reached the landau where the Queen sat waiting and waving her
handkerchief, but we saw nothing before our eyes save the little theatre
where, even during our absence, the improvised actors were busy. Even
when the Queen followed the King along the pathway opened for the Royal
pair amid the cheering soldiers, the Queen, without ceasing for one
moment to bow and to appear interested in everything she saw, turned to
me and muttered: “We have no Falstaff yet. Do try and discover among
your acquaintances some one who might be a good Falstaff. I am afraid we
shall not be back before evening, but I hope they are doing their best
without us. But it _is_ annoying to have been compelled to leave the
castle on the eve of such a day. Now, I suppose, we shall be obliged to
sit up the whole night.”
Towards twilight the Royal train bore us back to the castle, while the
King proceeded to Bucharest. Slowly in the soft haze of the evening
light we ascended the steep route: a cool wind was rising, and the
new-born moon floated in the gorgeous autumn sky. Between the station
and the castle, notwithstanding the pace at which the postillion was
driving his four stalwart horses, we found the road long, and gave a
sigh of relief as the castle, illuminated like some fairy vision, at
last burst upon our sight. The postillion sang a wild song, and joyful
greetings came from trumpets and voices to tell the sleepy mountain
forests that their Queen was returning to them under the rays of the
young moon.
We stop upon the threshold--the huge doors are wide open--the Queen
suddenly arrests her steps, and an exclamation of amazement and delight
falls from her lips. I follow quickly upon her heels. The sight she
beholds is a glorious one indeed, and one which I shall never forget.
There in the high hall, where knights in armour form a range of
spectators against the gilded walls, all the glory, all the glamour of
the past seems to rise before our dazzled eyes. There is Mary Queen of
Scots, and quite close to her, heedless of all anachronism, seeing that
she is but the daughter of a poet’s dream, there is Perdita. Here
Richard III. stands grim and resolute, while Shylock turns a friendly
smile upon him. Cleopatra, in gorgeous robes of purple and yellow, walks
hand in hand with Oberon; the gay group of the Merry Wives of Windsor
cluster round King Lear, and Cordelia leans upon the arm of Mary Tudor.
In the case of two of the tableaux we have been obliged to abandon
Shakespeare for Schiller and Victor Hugo; thus is explained the
presence of Queen Elizabeth, Mary Stuart, and Mary Tudor.
As “Carmen Sylva” had foretold, we slept very little that night. When I
went up to my room, instead of seeking repose after the awful fatigues
of the day, I had to sit down and compose the French verses to be
recited before each tableau; and the first grey streaks of dawn decked
the sky before the final stanzas were committed to paper. Overcome by
weariness, giddy and dazed, I fell asleep and dreamed of a vast
battlefield, through the expanse of which a man dressed in glistening
red armour rode at full speed. I awoke to hear bugles and trumpets
sounding a shrill march under our windows. The troops in the castle were
now astir. Already in the hall my companions, dressed in crisp white
muslin, were awaiting my arrival, and were afraid that I might be too
late. “Make haste! make haste!” they cried: “we are soon going to the
station.” It was even warmer than yesterday; the night had brought no
coolness. How we pitied the unfortunate Prince, who had to travel and
perform so many wearisome details of etiquette in such a furnace! “It
will remind him of India, perhaps,” we said. “Let us give him flowers
and look our gayest; the sight of white dresses, joyous faces, and
bright flowers may refresh him.”
The arrival of the Prince took place in the usual manner, to the
accompaniment of music, military salutes, speeches, and official
greetings. We were all presented to the heir of Queen Victoria, and we
noticed that he looked courteous and pleasant in spite of the
circumstances. Then we were immediately told that the Prince would lunch
and take tea with the King and Queen, and that we should see nothing of
him before dinner. So we had the whole afternoon to ourselves, and great
was our delight when we returned to the quiet of our cool apartments and
felt free to taste a few hours of well-earned repose.
My dog, a beautiful yellow setter, lay stretched on the carpet at my
feet, and my mother was sitting on the threshold of the balcony, intent
on a piece of dainty embroidery. Ada (that was the dog’s name) did not
inhabit the Royal stable, but was a daily visitor there. We were now,
however, anxious to keep her from running about the staircases and
perhaps meeting the King, to whom her presence might cause annoyance.
But on that particular afternoon Ada looked the picture of utter
laziness and comfort, and her golden eyes gazed at us with an air of
perfect tranquillity and content. We little guessed the important part
she was to be called upon to play, and were chatting about the reception
and the Prince of Wales, wondering whether in the end he would express
any desire to seethe tableaux vivants. “It _is_ a shame,” I was saying,
“that the Prince should be unaware of all the worry the rehearsals have
caused. I am convinced that he would insist on seeing the representation
if he only knew----” I had not time to finish the sentence before Ada
darted towards the door, pushed it open, and rushed along the corridor,
followed by our distressed but vain appeals. “Ada, come back!” we cried;
“come back instantly!” We dared not call too loud, because the castle
was plunged in absolute stillness; but we followed the truant
downstairs, and arrived in time to see her throw herself down at the
feet of a gentleman dressed in a plain grey suit, who was smoking a
cigar at an open window, and whom I mistook for one of the Prince’s
equerries. The dog began to overwhelm the unknown gentleman with
caresses, and I must say that her impertinence seemed to give him
pleasure. Suddenly he cast a glance upon us as we stood panting and
aghast before him, and he immediately took in the situation.
“You want to get this beautiful creature back to her room, do you not?
Please let me help you. Dogs are fond of me, and perhaps even this one
will obey me better than you.”
There was so much easy grace and composure in the tone in which these
words were spoken that I felt startled, lifted my eyes to the stranger’s
visage, and recognised the Prince of Wales!
I made a low curtsey. “Miss Vacaresco, if I am not mistaken,” said his
Royal Highness; “and this is Madame Vacaresco, your mother, I am sure,
for you are so very much alike.”
And as I expressed my surprise that the Prince remembered my name, which
he had heard mentioned only once that morning at the station, he said,
“I have an excellent memory--a real treasure for a Prince. Now, Ada, go
back with your mistress. You _must_ go back; I am accustomed to be
obeyed. You have seen me, caressed me, delighted me--you are one of the
smartest young ladies I have met. Is not that compliment enough? Now go
back.” And with quiet authority the Prince touched the dog’s collar.
Ada, as if mesmerised by the words and action, crept back to her place
by our side and seemed willing to follow us. So we had nothing more to
do but to thank and curtsey, and leave the Prince to his reverie and
cigar. He extended his hand, and we were on the point of retiring when,
with some hesitation, the Prince advanced again toward us.
“There is something I want to say to you,” he said. “This is--I must
call it so--a most fortunate incident. I see you love dogs. I have a dog
here with me--my little Beatie, whom I call Beatie ‘the Traveller,’
because he always accompanies me on my journeys. But now the poor little
thing is an invalid. Will you come and see him? He is lying in my
sitting-room. His paw was caught in the door of the railway-carriage,
and he has suffered dreadfully. He has had to be left a good deal alone,
and he loves society.”
The Prince opened the door of his large, comfortable sitting-room, and
here little Beatie came to meet us and make friends with Ada. The
animal, a charming white lupetto, limped badly, and his paw was
carefully bandaged.
“Could you not let Ada stay with him while we are having tea?” inquired
the Prince.
“Certainly, sir,” answered my mother. “Besides I can remain here with
them, as I do not care much about functions and official receptions.”
“Ah!” replied the Prince, “What would you say if you were in _my_
place?”
Beatie was now on my knees, and feeling quite at home with us. A sudden
inspiration seized me, and I began to talk to the dog. “Does Beatie know
that we have prepared a beautiful series of tableaux vivants for
Beatie’s master to enjoy, and that, if Beatie’s master does not express
his desire to see them, the tableaux will not be represented, and we
should feel very disappointed indeed?”
These words, apparently idly said, seemed to be as idly listened to, but
when, a few hours later, we saluted the Prince of Wales downstairs, I
noticed that the Queen’s brow wore a gleam of triumph, and she said:
“You know, my children” (she always addressed her young maids-of-honour
as “my children”), “the Prince says he has brought a very clever little
dog called Beatie to Roumania, and Beatie has asked the Prince, ‘My
master, how are you going to spend the evening of your first day in
Sinaïa?’ And this question the Prince has repeated to me. I suppose you
all guess what I have answered.” The witty and delicate way in which he
had arranged matters at once made the Prince dear to all the juvenile
party assembled round him.
The famous tableaux vivants proved an immense success, the more so
because his Royal Highness, who almost from the beginning had guessed
the words of the charade, graciously pretended to be at his wits’ end
and completely puzzled. At last the closing scene brought Falstaff and
the Prince of Wales (afterwards Henry V.) under his eyes, and the
following lines were recited:
“Toi qui comme ton peuple en buvant dans son verre,
O Prince allègre et sage, O vainqueur d’Agincourt,
Regarde un autre Prince, espoir de l’Angleterre,
Ainsi que toi digne de son amour.”
The Prince was deeply moved and thanked me heartily.
“I will never forget you,” said he; “you have loved my dog, and you know
the proverb, ‘Love me, love my dog.’ And the lines in which you so
strongly bring out a resemblance between myself and one of England’s
most glorious Kings appeal so strongly to my soul that I should like to
keep them as one of the best omens I have ever known. Please write them
down for me. I must have them written in your own hand, and I will show
them to my mother and to the Princess; they will both be as grateful to
you for them as I am. You are well aware, if you have heard anything of
myself and my character, that these words in my mouth are not idle
words.” In fact, the very next day, during a long walk we took in the
mountains, the Prince more than once came and walked by my side, asking
me many questions about my country and my own pursuits, and telling me a
good deal about himself and his own experiences as a traveller and as a
Royal heir.
“Yes,” he said, “I have been a most fortunate man--heir to a great
throne and yet able to enjoy liberty. I have an admirable mother, an
exquisite wife and charming children, a whole nation--nay, many nations
in one--to love and please. I sometimes wonder how I manage not to
become selfish and hard-hearted. Yet I pity misery and want, and when I
have seen an anxious and worried face I cannot sleep before I have
inquired into the cause of the poor creature’s distress. I catch very
vivid impressions when I travel, and I daily write to the Princess such
descriptions of landscapes and people as I can well cram into a letter
of reasonable length. She keeps these, and could one day make a book out
of my travelling notes. I wish you could see the Princess. She possesses
a soul as perfect as her face, which you must know is very sweet and
beautiful.”
How strenuous would prove the efforts of the new King in the interests
of his people, how high his ideal of a monarch would rise, I was able to
discover in the course of many conversations with his Majesty. “No one
can tell,” he said, “the vast difference which the change of position
must create between an Heir-Apparent and the Sovereign he afterwards
becomes. I feel persuaded that even my face will change when I become a
king. I fervently desire that the moment will be long in coming. I know
I am in many ways rendering real service to my country as Heir-Apparent.
I thus become acquainted not only with the people of England, but with
all the interesting people abroad. I have learnt the organisation of
every State, and many a foreign politician has developed his plans and
methods and views in my presence. There is nothing like travelling to
form the mind of a Prince, and I have always loved going from land to
land. How your country has reminded me of India! The feeling that I
shall never go to India again is very strong within me, and it saddens
me. You cannot imagine, even in your dreams, the beauty of India and its
lasting splendour. My mother, the first Empress of that marvellous
Empire, has never visited it, though in her heart she has often desired
to do so.”
Then, while the Prince thus spoke, I put a sudden question which somehow
seemed to startle him:--
“Sir, dare I ask your Royal Highness to tell me this: are Princes
happier than other men?”
“What is your own opinion?” he replied. “Before I answer I should like
to hear it.”
“O sir, I am convinced they are a thousand times happier, though, of
course, grief must come to them through the same causes as to others.
But the cares of the Crown and the people are not, I am sure, a load
added to affliction. On the contrary, greatness helps to bear
affliction. Greatness brings with it a strong desire for life, a keen
enjoyment of its cares and toils.”
“You are perfectly right,” answered the Prince. “I do not think that
Princes are more liable to feel grief than other mortals; nor, indeed,
to feel it to the same extent. You see, if we are really awake to the
calls of our position and its innumerable duties, we have no time to
nourish our emotions; and then there is a great consolation in the
certainty that so many share your sorrows or your joys. For instance, I
have on the whole been a very happy man--a perfectly happy man; yet this
does not mean that I have not often mourned and grieved.”
These and similar reflections revealed King Edward’s strong and cheerful
mind; a mind which openly rejects hypocrisy, cultivates gaiety and
self-possession, deems the best courage to be that kind of moral courage
to which every hour and duty of the day is precious--the highest quality
of a Sovereign.
The Prince left after three days’ sojourn among the Karpathians. “I
shall never forget you,” said he again, before he mounted the steps of
his railway carriage; “I shall never forgot your words and their good
omen.”
The remembrance of these scenes, to which memory clings so warmly, was
strong upon me when I saw the King and Queen enter the choir of
Westminster Abbey on the glorious morning of their Coronation. As I
stood there and gazed upon the admirable scene I prayed with fervour for
the happiness of both Sovereigns, while the august and radiant pair
received the blessings of Heaven on their bowed heads, and while the
mingled voices of cannon, bells, and organs were bearing the good news
from village to borough all over the land and beyond the seas.
QUEEN ALEXANDRA
Almost all the Queens of Europe possess an individuality of their own,
are celebrated for some peculiar quality which springs up before the
mind as soon as their names are mentioned. Unfortunate indeed is that
sovereign lady who takes her place in history by virtue of her office
alone, who has not succeeded in winning the real popularity so lavishly
accorded a Queen or Queen Consort of essential beauty or individuality
of character. Whatever may be her official virtues, her private merit,
“for her no minstrel’s bosom swells”: she has no hold on the imagination
of a people.
We are accustomed to connect with the late Empress of Austria her wild
desire for liberty and space, her solitary walks through glades and
mountain paths, her love of the sea and of castles lost amid parks as
wild as those which protected the unhaunted slumber of the Sleeping
Beauty. The name of Queen Elizabeth of Roumania can scarcely be
mentioned without its recalling the tall white form of a Royal poet,
awake from early dawn to gather material for her songs by long gazing on
the towering heights of the Karpathians, that encircle her beautiful
dwelling. Maria Christina of Spain, again, is the sagacious, prudent
Queen, the devoted mother, the resolute Sovereign of a land difficult to
rule. It would, indeed, have been impossible to trace a portrait of her
without some touches of austerity had we not found she presented such a
contrast between the smiling gentleness of her eyes and speech and the
iron fetters which Fate has bound around her, that all we had heard
about her was instantly forgotten in the presence of the radiant vision
upon which we gazed one summer day at Miramare. Again, the name of Queen
Margherita of Italy suggests at once beauty and grace. She has become
the very symbol of that sunny land where her first appearance was
greeted as the vision of a fair-haired Madonna.
Some of the younger Royal consorts, such as the present Empress of
Russia and Queen Helena of Italy, have not as yet acquired a hold of the
public imagination: they do not enjoy the power of embodying a legend.
This must, no doubt, be attributed to their youth, and perhaps also to
the retiring nature of both. Yet one of them, the Empress of Russia, is
Princess of the Rhine--a title worthy of any ballad and one which in
itself lends attraction to its owner; while the second, the young
Italian Queen, was born and bred in a poetic home hidden amongst the
rocks of the wild Tchernagora. The Queen Consort of Greece is celebrated
for her boundless generosity to the poor, and the young Queen of
Portugal for the tender care with which she tends little children. Her
Majesty has, in fact, given and collected the means wherewith to build a
large hospital, where she spends a few hours every day, and at times,
being herself a clever and experienced physician, even takes an active
part in surgical operations.
Queen Alexandra of Great Britain and Ireland is celebrated throughout
the world for her rare beauty and for the love which she has been able
to kindle in the hearts of her subjects. Though a number of them have
the honour and pleasure of frequently approaching the presence of their
lovely Queen, and even to some extent of sharing her existence, it was
my lot--and one of which I feel especially proud--to become an immediate
object of interest and sympathy to her from the very moment of our first
encounter. This interest and sympathy, I am happy to say, her Majesty
has continued to evince, rightly guessing how deep and fervent a
worshipper she had found in the young Roumanian girl who was first
presented to her on a rainy autumn morning in Queen Victoria’s
sitting-room at Balmoral. I remember how startled I then was to discover
that the lovely youthful face, the luminous blue eyes--blue as the water
of fjords and mountain lakes--the slim form, and the indescribable grace
belonged to one who was the mother of grown-up children. Her very speech
was full of that glee and curiosity so rarely the appanage of maturer
years, since in the autumn of life the soul loses its eagerness for new
impressions and new experiences.
How charmed the Princess declared herself to be that day, when she heard
we had come to Scotland for the first time, and with what gracious
sympathy she began to describe the customs of the Highlands. From one
window to the other she led us, pointing out all the details of the
landscape as it lay before us, clad in its glory of purple heather,
veiled by thin bluish mists, weird with the magic of unknown, mysterious
influences.
“I can hardly imagine,” said the fairy of the land, “that your
Karpathians, gorgeous though they be, are ever clad with such a rich
mantle of violet and dark red, or that your trees can rustle so gently
as ours to the tune of the swift, clear river. But the Prince has told
me of the dazzling sunshine as it rests on rocks and forests, and how
strongly the colour of the Roumanian sky, the blinding whiteness spread
above its azure depths, reminded him of India. The Prince always gives
me such a vivid account of his travels that ever since his return I have
been dreaming of your Queen’s visit to England and to us, and, somehow,
I was sure you would accompany her. I know all about you and about the
tableaux vivants in Sinaïa.... I hope you will like your room here--we
have paid special attention to its situation. As you are a poet you will
delight in the fine view it commands. You will soon be able, even
without going out, to become acquainted with our woods and glens, and
perhaps some day you will give us a description of them. Oh, if you
would write a poem here! Doesn’t inspiration come when you call her,
like one of those tame godmothers we read of in fairy-tales, who at the
touch of a magic wand appear upon the threshold and scatter jewels and
flowers as they walk? Oh, please just send a message to me when you feel
disposed to work, and I will sit by very quietly and watch you, as quiet
as a mouse. I should love to sit by a poet when she is writing.”
“Then I need not wait for inspiration,” I replied, “and I want no magic
wand. Your Royal Highness would represent the fairy, and I would gather
the flowers and precious gems that fall from a Princess’s eyes and
tongue.”
Although this sounded very like a banal Court compliment, the Princess’s
aspect, the bright gaze of her tender blue eyes, the easy harmony of her
every gesture as she stood there, leaning a little out of the open
window, made a true comment on my little speech. The voice of the river
mingled with the soft rustling of the trees below, and to me it seemed
as if the sweet feminine vision had risen from among them to complete
the glamour of the hour. She was gazing far off to the distant hills,
tracing their curves with hands so soft and supple that no thought could
come of the day when they must hold the triple sceptre--heavier far than
the wand of beauty they waved that day over the heaving forests of the
Highlands.
“You will wear your Roumanian costumes to-night at dinner?” continued
the Princess. “I shall be so glad to see them. We once found a doll at a
fancy fair dressed in Roumanian costume; but we could not tell whether
the costume was really like the picturesque garb worn by your peasants.”
A few hours later, as we were about to prepare for dinner, we were
having a lively discussion with our maid as to which among the numerous
costumes we had better wear--the maid, of course, proposing the most
showy, the one that sparkled most and was decked the most heavily with
gold and spangles. I had suggested that we should refer the question to
our Queen and had written a note asking her Majesty’s advice on the
subject, to which the Queen had answered: “I consider the white and
silver one is the prettiest you possess.” A soft knock at the door
interrupted our survey of the different belts and aprons. I went myself
to open it, expecting that the Queen had sent a second note, when I saw
a slender form, clad in a plain, tailor-made blue serge dress. Seeing
that I failed to recognise her in the rather dim light, the lady
advanced into the middle of the room, saying quietly: “I am the Princess
of Wales. You know me now, don’t you? I have come to see all your
costumes, and to find out whether you are comfortable in your rooms, and
to watch how you arrange the different parts of this glistening attire,”
and she pointed to a large divan on which in splendid array lay all the
pride of Oriental embroideries and colouring.
One after the other the belts and veils and skirts were handed to the
Princess, but when she perceived that this was no easy task--they were
so numerous--she said:
“Please do not take the trouble of showing them to me, I will look over
all these bright things by myself--indeed, I prefer doing so, but you
must give me all the explanations I want.” And many and eager were the
questions she asked.
“This veil--do you wear it round your shoulders or on your head?”
“I do not wear it at all, madam; in fact, I could not do so. The veil is
a symbol, the sign of the dignity to which a woman rises by marriage,
and the sign of slavery, too. A married woman must cover her hair--no
man may ever see her hair except her husband. They are very strict about
this in our villages.”
“Indeed!” answered the Princess; “but I do not approve of the
restriction--they must look so fascinating with the veil. I suppose that
it is a precaution against coquettishness and vanity. And this
belt--why, how long it is!”
“The village girls wear it twisted twelve times round their waists.”
“Which is the costume you intend to wear this evening?”
“This one, the white and silver, madam.”
“It is very beautiful indeed, but rather heavy and gaudy for you,” said
the Princess, lifting the red skirts and snowy bodices one after another
and holding them up, with exclamations of amusement. Then she uttered a
cry of admiration. “Oh, how nice! Why do not you wear this? It is so
simple, yet so tasteful. I am sure this coarse red skirt embroidered
with thick yellow flowers, with a gleam of gold thread seen only here
and there, must bear some charming meaning. There is something in this
costume that appeals to my imagination.”
“Your Royal Highness has guessed aright. This is the costume sometimes
worn in our country by the wandering Tziganes. The rough linen, the
coarse tissue of the skirt were once woven on purpose for the reckless
girls of those strange tribes who may be seen at sunset lighting their
fires before their ragged tents, which before daybreak will be carried
away by their possessors, who know and desire neither rest nor settled
home. Once upon a time the Tzigane beauties were accustomed to make
themselves look dainty as they traversed the broad roads leading from
one village to another; but now they do not care for any other dress
than such as are, like these, made up of scraps of coloured finery. This
garment, which interests your Royal Highness, is very old indeed; in
fact, it was found buried in a green wooden box at the foot of a forest
tree some fifty years ago, and no one can tell how long it had remained
underground.”
“How exciting!” exclaimed the Princess, as with breathless attention she
followed my narrative. “Please go on. Is no one aware of the cause that
forced the possessor of the Tzigane dress to bury it underground?”
“No, madam; on that point legends and popular imagination are allowed
full sway. Some assert that the damsel who thus concealed her finery did
so from despair--a love affair, of course. Others are convinced that she
had made a vow to abandon all she held most precious in order to obtain
a favour from the mysterious deities of the Tzigane race. But, however
that may be, I prefer this costume to all the others. And if your Royal
Highness will deign to look more closely, here in the belt is the little
pocket where the young Tzigane kept a shell, and here the pocket for her
little flute, and there a pocket again where this small dagger lay.”
“But what did she keep a shell for?”
“Ah! That requires an explanation. Every Tzigane is a sibyl. She reads
the future in the stars, in the summer foliage, in the sound of the
summer streams; she listens, and voices heard by herself alone speak to
her. But most of all do those mysterious voices sing to her in the
depths of sea-shells. Thus no real Bohemian worthy of the name can go
anywhere without a sea-shell. To tell the truth, madam, I secretly
desired to wear this particular costume at dinner, but on reflection I
feared that it was hardly suitable--it lacks decorum.”
“But what if I forbid you to appear in any other?” said the Princess.
“I will obey you with the utmost pleasure, madam.”
So delighted did the Princess seem with all that was novel to her in our
conversation that she prolonged her visit, astonishing us by her deep
knowledge of English and Scottish popular lore, and giving such advice
about our trip to Ireland as proved how well she had learnt to know the
Green Island which it was our intention to see.
It was growing late and the Princess still stood among the Oriental
ornaments spread around her, while the mountain twilight was falling
fast in the small sitting-room, where her figure now formed the one
luminous point.
“You must come to Abergeldie, our Highland home, to-morrow,” said she;
“but first I will tell you all about Abergeldie and the quiet,
refreshing life we lead there. Refreshing is the real word to express
our autumn stay amongst these dear purple hills, where we seem to forget
completely that we are Royalties, and only remember the fact when we
discover the pleasure our presence bestows upon the people here.”
But these records of Abergeldie I was destined not to hear, for at that
moment a slight knock was heard at the door. I rushed to prevent the
invasion of an intruder, and as I pulled the door open found myself
confronted by a footman.
“Hush!” said I, without allowing him to speak, “The Princess of Wales
is here; I must attend to her Royal Highness. Any message you have to
deliver must wait.”
But the undaunted footman simply said: “The Queen desires you to go to
her immediately.”
“Oh, I see. Then kindly tell her Majesty that I cannot obey her for the
moment, as the Princess of Wales is giving me the honour of her presence
in my room.”
The footman stood perplexed, then made a movement to retire, but the
Princess now stepped to my side.
“You are making a terrible mistake,” she said. “You believe he means
_your_ Queen, the Queen of Roumania, and I know she would be willing to
dispense with your company in my favour. But this man means Queen
Victoria. There is but one Queen--to us, at least, there is but one
Queen here, the Queen of England, and she can brook neither delay nor
excuse, so run quickly.” Then, noticing that the footman had vanished,
she added, “Oh, do not give him time to forestall you. Can you change
your stately Court step into a good run? Here, give me your hand, I will
show you the way,” and with a swift, graceful motion the Princess moved
beside me, holding my fingers between her own till we reached the doors
of Queen Victoria’s apartments.
When I found myself face to face with the aged Queen I could speak of
nothing but the Princess of Wales, and her Majesty stood nodding in
pleased appreciation of my enthusiasm.
“And you have seen only one side of her various gifts: you should follow
her life step by step. For many years the Princess has tried hard to
spare me the strain and fatigue of great functions. She opens bazaars,
attends concerts, visits hospitals in my place, and she always gives me
such full and vivid accounts of people and places that I almost seem to
have been present. I sometimes laughingly tell her that she is a
dictionary in which is inscribed every variety of adjective connected
with the words ‘good’ and ‘true.’ However terrible the load which I lay
upon her slender shoulders, she not only never complains, but endeavours
to prove that she has enjoyed what to another would be a nuisance or a
tiresome duty. She even declares that a Drawing Room is a most
entertaining sight, and that it does not make her feel dizzy or
distressed when she glances from one face to another, without ever
overlooking one of them. For my part I must own how interested I felt in
my early youth in young faces and fresh _débutantes_; later on matrons
and maturer ladies were the great point of attraction to me; and now I
do so pity old ladies who have to wear the three feathers and go through
the tiresome ceremony which, notwithstanding its irksome length and
etiquette, I love to witness, as it is one of the characteristic English
traditions, and must always remain dear to the hearts of British
Sovereigns.... Princess Alexandra holds a Drawing Room beautifully, and
I am gratified to feel secure that, when I am no more, a Queen of
England worthy of England’s throne will grace it.”
That very evening, in honour of our Queen, a Highland reel was danced in
front of Balmoral Castle. The spectacle was new to us and somewhat
bewildering. The glare of the torches, whose flames were shaken by the
strong north wind, the loud, guttural sounds that escaped from that
group of wild men, clad in the picturesque costume so often described by
Walter Scott, sent a thrill through our imagination as we stood there on
the stone threshold with the illumined hall behind us. Tartans flew
high, and from head to foot the wild dancers appeared to be seized with
a frenzy of cadence and clamour. Our Queen had insisted on getting as
near the dance as possible, and presently, to complete the weird poetry
of the scene, the gentle wail of distant bagpipes floated from the
neighbouring hills, as if a chorus of mysterious and invisible beings
were sending forth the welcome of the dim Highland glades to the
strangers entranced by their pathetic charm.
A lady, enveloped in a plain grey woollen mantle, was standing by the
side of our Queen. In the darkness, when the red streaks of the waving
torches traced long furrows of flames, I could scarcely discern her
form, and her face was hidden by a grey cap which descended low on her
forehead. The cold was bitter, but we scarcely felt how sharply the
night breeze blew, penetrating the thin tissue of our evening dresses.
We should indeed have felt our light summer cloaks unable to protect us
from the biting atmosphere had we bestowed a thought upon ourselves,
instead of remaining entranced, with eyes and ears intent on losing not
a movement or a sound. Presently that silent lady in grey, whose form
seemed to mingle with the rising mist, glided softly away, and I had
forgotten her when the slender figure again appeared by the side of our
Queen, and, raising her arm to the shoulders of the Royal guest, wrapped
round her a fleecy white shawl, which I guessed to be welcome, and which
I heartily envied. But I had barely time to do so before the graceful
apparition had performed for me the same silent kindness. I lifted up my
eyes and recognised the Princess of Wales. She had no leisure to listen
to my grateful thanks, as her arms were laden with shawls, which one by
one she deposited in the hands of the ladies present. Then quietly the
gentle benefactress resumed her place, which she left only now and again
in order to explain to us the different meanings of the words and
dances.... The tartan flew, the bagpipes moaned and twittered, the
torches spread their flames abroad in the dark night air, and the humid
scent of the heather mingled with the smell of the river and the trees.
That moment will remain alive in my memory for ever.
When we returned to the hall, where the Royalties had preceded us, the
Princess of Wales was seated on a bench against the white stone wall.
Her woollen cap lay on her knees, and she had clasped her hands around
it in a reverie which no one dared disturb. Then she rose and said: “Did
you not love to hear those distant bagpipes?--did it not seem to you as
if the spirit of the mountains breathed upon us from afar? That was my
idea. Oh, try not to forget our Highland songs and dances!” And
fervently in my heart I declared that I could never forget them, and
that one of the impressions of that wild scene which I should most
vividly remember would be the form of the shadowy lady in grey who stood
so long by the side of our Queen.
I believe that amongst the many qualities ascribed to Queen Alexandra
the one which she possesses in the most conspicuous degree is the
quality which we are accustomed to admire in the heroines of history,
whose valour, purity, intelligence, or grace have attracted the worship
of multitudes--a knowledge which no learning can bestow--the secret, the
magical power of being in sympathy with the souls with whom destiny
connects them.
My destiny it was to meet the Princess again and again, in widely
differing circumstances. In Rome one day in the gay bustle of a Sunday
crowd, when the scent of crushed flowers and the odour of surrounding
gardens rose in the sunlight and blue air, I met a figure so sweetly
wrapped in sadness, so immersed in grief, that the cry of “Mater
dolorosa” rose to my lips. No stronger image of maternal desolation,
none more thrilling, could have struck upon my sight than did the set
expression of pain which paled the lovely vision of the northern fairy
whom I had once seen so smiling, so light-hearted. Not with the hour of
gaiety under the bright splendour of the Roman sky was Princess
Alexandra in harmony that day, but with the hour which is filled with
the dying perfume of crushed flowers--the hour which had bruised her
soul and robbed her of her eldest born.
Later, again, we met at Marlborough House. The smiling Princess, the
sorrow-stricken mother, had become a Queen, and a new majesty adorned
her.
“Do you remember Balmoral?” she said. “Do you remember Rome? And now I
am in black again--and black would be for ever in keeping with my
thoughts if the people of this land were not so close to my heart. Then
I have the comfort of my faith; I have my husband and my children. But,
oh, at first I thought that I should never overcome my grief! Then I
lost my own mother. We were not only mother and daughter, but such close
friends. Then Queen Victoria----” And in low, subdued tones she told me
of the days of gloom, of the day that preceded Queen Victoria’s death,
and the last hours of that glorious life.
“And I have to leave this dear old place, though I cling to it as I
clung to my title of Princess of Wales, which I bore through so many
happy days. As Princess of Wales I was a young wife and a young mother
and a young figure to the people, and I shall remain to them and to
myself the Princess of Wales long after being a crowned Queen. There is
so much to achieve and to cherish,” she continued, “in the paths of duty
and love. And who can deny the blessings of prayer?... Now tell me all
about your work--I love poetry. Speak, and I will listen.”
And the moments glided by while I spoke and the Queen listened; then
again light came into the beautiful, unchanged face as she unravelled
the skeins of memory, till through the melancholy of her tones faith and
hope shone like stars amid dark foliage.
I had completely forgotten how long I had been there when an equerry or
usher stepped forward, and in a respectful whisper reminded her Majesty
of the hour. “Ah! yes,” and the Queen rose to her feet, “I have quite
forgotten the time. It is,” and she turned to me, “a deputation from the
town of Chester, which gave me a casket containing an address of loyalty
on the day of our marriage--and now they come to congratulate us on our
accession. But where are your books which I asked you to bring?”
I pointed to a low stool, and with a swift and graceful movement the
Queen knelt before the humble volumes.
“Oh, thank you, thank you! I shall love them; you may be sure I shall.”
And thus I left her. She rose to say good-bye again, the trembling
green shadows poured upon her form by the great trees encircling her
head like an aureola of emerald, a wreath of hope.
And, though since then I have seen England’s Alexandra again--seen her
in the glory and emotion of that Coronation hour at Westminster Abbey
whose surpassing greatness held enshrined all the hours of her
illustrious existence--that image of the new Queen in her old
Marlborough home remains with me one of unrivalled beauty and sweetness,
an image harmonious, fair, and dazzling, like the name and title of the
exalted lady whose rank is eclipsed by virtues as countless as the gems
of her crown.
[Illustration:
_Photo by C. Pietzner, Vienna_
FRANCIS JOSEPH, EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA]
THE EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA
It has been the destiny of few human beings to drain to the dregs so
many varied cups of misfortune as the present Emperor of Austria. Few
men have known as he has all the troubles that fate may pour on the head
of a chosen victim. Whenever thought of the venerable sovereign arises
within us, wherever his name is mentioned, it is not the image of his
greatness, not the light of his benevolent smile nor the clear depths of
his gentle blue eyes that appears before the interior gaze of our
imagination. Instead of seeing him enthroned in a palace, surrounded by
a throng of adoring nations gathered to greet their beloved lord and
master, we find him encircled by a crowd of shadows, a funereal throng,
each figure bearing a black urn filled with ashes and tears. Dark
mourning garlands of dead flowers hang heavy on their brows as they
advance with slow and faltering steps, and like Dante on the threshold
of Hell questioning the mighty Poet whose white garb was the only ray in
the thick darkness, we murmur to ourselves:
“Whence come these women so sad and so distressed? Whence the wounds
and the blood we behold? Why does that man whose looks betoken goodness
bear a gap in his side? And the Royal Lady who walks not far from him,
why has she stains of blood on her bosom and about her dress, though her
demeanour is free and proud and her beauty more wonderful than the first
dawn of day upon the sea? Who is the young man in the glow of youth
whose features are gory and red as the sun at its setting, and why do we
see knives in the air around him with all their points at his heart? Who
are they? And who is that form standing out from the others in the
mournful pageant, whose every gesture betokens a madness as sacred and
mysterious as that of Hamlet?”
When our gaze has rested fully on the bewildering scene, like Dante
again we question the Past.
“What was their story? It must have been singularly tragic and
thrilling? Lay your hand on that lady’s shoulder; touch her long hair
that she may turn her head and show us those eyes in which one may read
all the horror of despair, all the beauty of heaven and earth. Stay for
an instant that other one, that illustrious sister of Hamlet, while she
speaks to us of the distant land where her beloved spouse perished at
the hands of those who should have sheltered and protected him. And if,
O luminous guide, thou canst give tongue and speech to the most mute of
all the taciturn throng, let that young man reveal the terror of the
hour when he stood face to face with death!”
They belong to us, each one of these phantoms. They belong to the poets,
and we alone have the right to read their hearts. They are ours, and the
greatest creations of our dreams would fall to dust did they appear in
our songs. From the days of her early youth we have recognised as our
own the radiant Empress who came from the dim Bavarian forests bearing
in her disdainful heart a thirst for pain and for happiness. She turned
her eyes from all joys but those which nature affords, the rising of
dawn upon the silence-wrapped sea, the noble calm of high peaks when the
last rays of the sun strike them with purple daggers. And he, the ardent
son of the wild Empress, he belonged to us, he belonged to the poet who
loves brilliant accesses of force and desire, passionate thrillings of
souls ever ready to court peril. From his mother he inherited a craving
for liberty which conventional restraints turned to rebellion and
desolation. From her came his strong spirit ever ready to conquer or
perish. Even before his birth it seems as if he were dedicated to some
frightful destiny whose vengeful power would drive him to his fate. She
herself once compared him to the son of Thetis and she wept over him in
the same way as the Queen of the Sea wept over her hero son. In
remembrance of her grief she had a statue of Achilles erected on the
banks of the Greek Sea, where among myrtle boughs and roses Thetis
lives again in the waves and mourns for ever the lost warrior and king.
Ah, what a throng of shadows, what a murmur of sobs and distraught words
follows the gentle Emperor! Yet his step is firm and his smile as
unvarying as if he heard and saw them not, while the benevolent light in
his blue eyes gains every heart. Those who approach him say with truth
that he is a very miracle of fortitude.
When, a few centuries ago, the German Emperor Maximilian fled like a
hunted animal from province to province of his vast realm, ever pursuing
a wild chase with hounds and horn, he was in reality endeavouring to
escape from his own terror-haunted soul. He suffered from what we should
now call a nervous complaint only to be relieved by violent exercise.
When Juana la Loca--mad Queen Joan--wandered all over Spain in her huge
black coach of ebony and velvet drawn by stalwart black horses, she said
she was fleeing from the grasp of death that she feared would snatch her
handsome young husband from her arms. He had long been dead but her fond
madness found relief in the hallucination. Her son, Charles V., feeling
across his life the dark shadow of his mother’s madness, retired to a
convent. He thought to escape the dread inheritance by seeking that
comfort and repose that prayer and solitude alone afford.
Thus many sovereigns of this fated race have fled before visions and
fears that made the blood curdle in their veins. Franz-Josef, Emperor
of Austria, has never entertained the idea of flight. He has not felt
the strange desire to carry with him into the depths of a desert or into
the silence of a tomb the shadows whose wailing voices he must have ever
in his ears. He bravely and resolutely bids them follow and even help
him as he struggles along in the path of duty. They sit at his table and
dwell under his roof, never leaving him for a moment, yet cheerfulness
and conviviality reign at his meals and labour and unwavering attention
to the cares of State fill his hours. Like an untamed captive, chained
yet unconquered, the Emperor takes a pride in bearing his misery
lightly. He allows no one to guess how much he suffers when, amid the
dazzling splendour of Royal functions, he sees the empty places once
graced by the presence of his beloved ones. What effort must be
required, what terrible strength of will, to bring a smile to those lips
which have been so often pressed to the cold cheek of the dead, and to
those eyes in which the image of death has so many times been mirrored!
Once he was indeed a happy man. Though the mysterious Empress sometimes
deserted his home--for even before her great misfortune she showed a
taste for roaming--she would return to Vienna from time to time and even
make her appearance at State balls once or twice in the year. Upon such
occasions the proud husband never left her side and seemed happy in
watching the effect created on all beholders by her beauty. The Empress
used to wear her long hair loose on her shoulders and the young Heir
Apparent, a boy in his teens, notwithstanding the strictness of Austrian
court etiquette and the solemnity of the occasion, would tease his
mother by stepping on the rich waves of flowing gold, at which the
Emperor scolded a little and laughed much, while the proud Imperial lady
gazed dreamily on the dancers or went from one noble guest to another,
letting the words fall drowsily from her lips. For her own particular
use she invented a manner of speaking afterwards imitated by the
Austrian Archdukes and Princesses, which reduced the tones of the voice
to a sort of muffled cooing sound. The Empress affected this peculiarity
because, detesting the pomp and ceremonial of pageants and State
functions, she declared that it was not worth while to take the trouble
to speak when she was only permitted to say meaningless nothings. In
private she became less reserved, but the habit of speaking in a low
tone is a family tradition with the Bavarian Princesses. The sister of
the deceased Empress, Queen Sophia of Naples, whom I saw lately in
Paris, never raises her voice above a whisper, which peculiarity renders
her resemblance to the Empress still more striking.
Three or four years before I met the Emperor of Austria at Vienna, I had
the opportunity of spending an hour in the company of his only son,
Archduke Rudolf, a circumstance which I remember the more vividly
because it clings to me with the strong hold which events of our
childhood take upon us. I was then a little girl, occupied by turns with
books and butterflies. Sometimes on a Sunday to reward us for steadfast
obedience during the week our Queen would invite us--my sister, a few
companions of our own age and myself--to the royal palace at Bucharest,
where we were allowed to chat and play under her Majesty’s indulgent
eyes. But on the particular afternoon of which I am speaking I was
alone. I had been taken to the palace by my governess for the special
purpose of reciting some childish verses I had composed. Although the
heir to the Austrian throne was then on a visit to our court, yet the
Queen found some minutes to spare for me. She had been warmly interested
by hearing that on moonlight evenings I used to stroll about the grounds
of our country house and climbing on a swing sing long ballads to the
moon, while the swift movement bore me high into the air or brought me
down again to the level of the silver bespangled sward. In vain my
parents remonstrated with me concerning this dangerous exercise. I cried
and begged to be allowed one hour for solitary dreaming after the
twilight had set in, and to this day when the sense of soft cadence
flutters through my soul, I feel around me again the balmy radiance of
the evening hour and hear the creaking moan of the swing as it nestled
for one swift second in the topmost branches of the tree or came down to
rest in the grass where the moon’s rays lay like the wings of a dove.
The Queen was most curious and impatient to judge of my early
inspirations, and I had scarcely entered her gorgeous apartments than
she took my hand in hers, saying:
“Now be a brave girl. You are not afraid of me, are you? I want to hear
your last poem, the one about the nightingale who quarrels with the moon
because she is mute and the nightingale sings with all his might to
force the moon to sing also.”
“Yes, madame, they quarrel all through the night, but at morning the sun
settles matters by chasing away the nightingale and making the moon so
pale that she hides herself in the sky.”
“What a shame both for the nightingale and the moon!” said the Queen.
“Don’t you pity them? But I cannot stop long, so please begin.” And
swinging myself to and fro in the big chair I delivered the innocent
speech, the colloquy that on my childish lips took such deep import. The
Queen seemed delighted. It was a clear day at the beginning of spring.
The palm trees in the neighbouring conservatory seemed to gasp for a
breath of the fresh air that brought perfume and coolness from the
garden. “Stay here a moment,” she said. “I am going to find something
that will give you pleasure. Stay here while I go and fetch it for you
from my dressing-room.” I was well acquainted with her Majesty’s
apartments and felt pleased whenever the opportunity was afforded me of
wandering amongst the costly furniture and precious objects they
contained.
“Please don’t touch my desk nor approach my writing table, but you may
run about till I return, and then--then I will show you my parrots. One
of them is such a queer, weird bird. He mopes and frets from morning
till night. He is a beautiful creature, so gaudy and yet so prim, with
plumage like stained glass. He seems to hate every one. I call him the
unlucky parrot. You shall see him and all my other birds.”
The Queen was gone and with thoughts intent upon the cheering promise I
crossed the long music gallery that looked dark and severe because the
folding doors opened into the green conservatory where the huge palms
longed in vain for liberty to sigh and wave like the happy trees in the
garden. Suddenly the sound of breathing caught my ear. It was regular
and loud as if the bosom from which it issued were oppressed or very
full of air. I entered the conservatory and my light step did not
disturb the unknown, who was reclining in front of me in one of the easy
chairs under the quiet palms. His arms hung lazily and his hands seemed
almost to touch the stone pavement. His image rises before me as I saw
him then, his face set in an expression of firm resolve and nervous
restraint. His was one of those faces to which even a smile brings no
relief. His head was upturned so that I could only perceive the close
reddish beard round his cheeks and chin.
How thrilling and terrible appears to us, looking back into the past,
the moment when unwittingly we broke upon the solitary reverie of a
being whose story has since been steeped in blood, to reflect that
perhaps we disturbed their silent converse with self just at the time,
the exact second when some glimpse of the future might have risen before
them, when some voice from the depths of the abyss cried “Beware!”
These reflections which lead me now to consider that day with awe and
solemnity did not trouble the happy young girl who listened under the
palm trees that clear afternoon in an atmosphere of peaceful luxury and
magnificence. I was then myself on the threshold of life and could not
understand all the pathos which in after years was attached to the
memory of the Archduke. To-day the graceful presence perceived that day
in the royal palace at Bucharest is illumined in my mind by the
flickering light of the candle placed on the fatal supper table at
Mejerling, in that small hunting box--since become a cloister where
pious nuns pray day and night.
When I remember the slender nervous fingers that played with the arm of
the garden chair, I cannot repress a shudder at the thought that,
destined to hold a sceptre, they should have been so early lost in the
folds of a shroud.
At first I was taken aback and wondered what would be the consequences
of my intrusion, and who the young man was who made himself so much at
home with the chairs of the Queen’s conservatory. At last I made up my
mind what to do and coughed lightly. The sound made him start a little,
and then I said abruptly, “I want to see the parrots, that’s why I came
in.” The stranger looked so supercilious and so thoroughly at his ease
that I wanted to make him understand that my entrance had nothing to do
with him. To my astonishment he paid me such scanty attention that I
mentally dubbed him a monster, and took a dislike to him on the spot,
for I was accustomed to have great attention paid to my dishevelled
hair, rosy cheeks, and boisterous speech.
“Oh, the parrots. They are not far from here, judging by their screams.”
These words, uttered in a soft yet distinct voice, fell lazily from the
full lips. The man who spoke allowed each syllable to escape languidly
as if he disdained his own thoughts and words. Then, closing his eyes,
he gave a half yawn and sank back to repose and reverie. My indignation
knew no bounds. Who was this fellow? How dared he lounge in a place
where the Queen might at any moment make her appearance? How dared he
disparage her parrots? But soon I should be revenged, the Queen would
come directly, and then my fine gentleman would have to rise and offer
apologies, while I should be present at the scene. He should see how the
Queen treated me and the parrots, he should learn to respect me.
Meanwhile, a terrible obstacle lay before me. He had pointed to the
place whence the screams of the birds proceeded, but he kept his legs
stretched across the floor like two rods of iron. They looked hard and
unyielding, and in order to cross the small space between himself and
the table I should either have to ask him to draw his legs back or else
to jump over them. I was on the point of accomplishing this ungraceful
act when the Queen came to my rescue. Now, I thought, he will leap to
his feet, implore forgiveness, humble himself by proffering excuses----
Alas! certainly he made a movement which evinced some vague intention of
leaving his chair, but he showed such poor alacrity that the Queen had
time to interpose, saying, with outstretched arms: “Please, please, dear
Rudolf, do not disturb yourself. I am so pleased to see you enjoying
half an hour’s rest. You love my dear palm trees, don’t you? We will
have tea presently. First, I must take this little girl to see the
parrots. Do you know that she is a poet, this child?” This time the
languid eyes quivered with an expression almost of disgust, and the
Archduke turned his head away. But the Queen continued, “She is such a
chatterbox, a fit rival for the birds there, and _so_ gay.”
“That’s right,” he said, in the curious voice that seemed to soothe and
prick by turns. “That’s right. I love gay women. Oh dear, how tedious
some women can be! You cannot imagine. Women bore me to death when they
are not laughing or singing. As a matter of fact, are they good for
anything else?”
“For a great many other things,” answered the Queen. “But let us away,
dear child, because I must soon return for tea.”
At the further end of the conservatory a small fountain, hidden among a
forest of trees, gave forth a low gurgling sound. The gorgeous birds in
their golden cages flapped their wings and shrieked with joy on
perceiving the Queen. They were indeed beautiful, these prisoners, and
their splendours made my young eyes sparkle with delight. One of them
bore on his back shades of tender grey intermingled with rosy streaks,
another was all yellow with a red collar round his neck, a third seemed
as if bespangled with gold with a bosom like the rainbow. The perfume of
tropical seas and islands, the gladness that descends at morn on the
forests and the wilds in regions unexplored save by our fancy, the
entrancing colours of exotic skies hovered about the place, and the
birds filled the air with screams and clamour.
“Here is the unlucky bird,” said the Queen. “He is a ridiculous yet
pathetic figure. Colonel Voinesco brought him from Brazil. He was born
in freedom, and I suppose he detests us for keeping him here.” The
parrot before which the Queen had stopped was smaller than the others,
but far prettier. His plumage was blue and green--such deep green and
intense blue that it glittered like lightning in dewy grass. On his
small, well-poised head he had a huge tiara of blue feathers which
moved to and fro and swung like the swift gleam of a knife blade. His
jet-black beady eyes darted a hostile look at us, as with ruffled wings
he silently retreated to the bottom of his cage.
“Do look at him,” said the Queen. “What would he not give to be able to
bite us if he could, if only some one were to open his cage and touch
him, but his beak is so sharp he might give a bad wound, and no one
cares to make the experiment. No one dares----”
“Indeed! Does no one dare? How foolish!” It was the mellow yet caustic
voice of the Archduke that pronounced these words with an ironical
inflection lurking under the purring tones. We turned and saw him
advancing briskly towards us. His movements showed extraordinary harmony
and grace, and his bounding step seemed hardly to touch the ground.
There was something airy, almost weird, about his figure and bearing,
and I have never been able to forget the pleasure I experienced at the
sight of the admirable contour of his form.
Cautiously the Archduke crept to the other side of the cage, and the
Queen gave a scream almost of terror when she saw him open the cage door
with one swift movement and plunge his fingers in the parrot’s
glittering feathers. The slow caress lingered voluptuously in the warmth
and colour of the close plumage, and the bird seemed as if caught in the
power of a spell, remaining motionless while the slender hand travelled
to and fro over his glorious wings and shoulders. All at once the bird
turned his gorgeous little head to bite, but almost as suddenly he
unfolded his wings and sounds of distress issued from his struggling
bosom. The Archduke laughed--a low, rippling laugh. “Ah,” said he, “I’ll
not kill you this time, you cantankerous little beauty. But this will
teach you to be less treacherous. Parrots are like all other creatures,
one has to be always on one’s guard with them.” And then we saw that
while he was playing with the bird he had kept his thumb and first
finger round the parrot’s neck, so that at a moment’s notice he could
have mastered and even strangled it.
The Queen often spoke of the Archduke’s penetrating intellect and strong
qualities of sagacity and prudence; moreover, she used to tell us how
well versed he was in every language spoken in the vast empire which was
one day to be his. Later, when the heartrending tragedy of his untimely
death lent a new interest to his personality, many tales were told about
the ill-fated young Prince. But to me he has remained pictured as I saw
him that day under the lofty palms, lost in languid and melancholy
thought, while maybe even then the grim future rose before him in the
blue atmosphere of that spring afternoon.
The Emperor of Austria was still in mourning for his unfortunate son and
heir when I gazed for the first time upon his dear mild features. From
the very windows of the Hotel Muntsch, where the Emperor came to call
upon our Sovereigns immediately they arrived in Vienna, the chapel, or
rather the wall of the chapel where the Archduke was buried, could be
seen. While our King introduced the ladies and gentlemen present one
after another the Emperor had to keep his eyes from straying towards the
familiar spot, the Church of the Capucins, beneath which lay the vault
full of coffins.
On reaching the spot where I was standing the Emperor politely exchanged
with me the unvarying formula on such occasions. “Is it your first visit
to Austria? Do you like Vienna? I hope so....” But my thoughts were
running wild, traversing the narrow street, and I wondered if the
Emperor’s mind followed the same track. His slim figure, as supple and
well-knit in its pure white uniform as that of any young officer in his
army, reminded me of the flexible grace I had once observed in the
figure and walk of the dead Prince. Again, there was a striking likeness
between the father’s withered hand, with its long delicate fingers, and
the youthful hand which I had seen resting on the parrot’s bright
plumage dallying with the bird’s life. But the father’s eyes were light
blue, so clear and soft that no trace could be found in them of those
greenish orbs where light and shadow had mingled like the dark forms of
ships passing in drowsy haze at night.
The Emperor spoke again. “Have you visited any of our monuments at
Vienna yet?” and I could not help expressing my thoughts in words:
“Yes, I have seen the Imperial vault. But I went to see the tomb of the
poor young King of Rome, the Duke of Reichstadt, I mean. His was such an
unhappy fate, though scarcely more unfortunate than that of his father.”
“Kings and Emperors must be unhappy because they are human. I do not
mean that they are more unhappy than other people, but their position
forces them to endure many things which add to their common sorrows.
When you go to Schönbrunn be sure to visit the Duke of Reichstadt’s
apartments....” The voice had not faltered, nor the gentle eyes lost
their calm serenity, as I uttered the imprudent speech I would have
given worlds to recall, but the slender figure trembled and the thin
hands were clenched.
It is an extraordinary coincidence that I should have been brought into
touch first with the Archduke, afterwards with the Emperor, and later
still with the Empress, in circumstances rendered similar by the fact
that they came upon me unawares and in such manner that I failed to
recognise them. How this happened with the Emperor and later on with his
Consort I will now relate.... On our return from a long journey in
Germany, the Queen, my sister and myself again stopped for a few days in
Vienna, where “Carmen Sylva” had given appointments to many of her
relations and friends among the Archduchesses. Moreover, a drama written
by the royal authoress was on this occasion to be handed to the actors
of the Imperial Burg Theatre. The Queen was travelling in the strictest
_incognito_, but scarcely had we reached the hotel and finished lunch
than her Majesty said: “I must make haste and dress. We are going to
Schönbrunn. This time I have made it a point of honour to forestall the
Emperor. He is always so kind and polite that he calls upon me directly
he knows of my presence in Vienna. I want to be beforehand with him for
once. Order a carriage now and I will be down in ten minutes.”
I was pacing the long hall of the hotel, waiting for the Queen and
watching the ebb and flow of travellers whose faces I could not well
distinguish because of my short sight and the half twilight, when all at
once a gentleman walked up to me and, lifting his hat, politely said,
pointing to a tray on the table at my side where he had laid a card:
“This card is for the Queen of Roumania; will you see that it is taken
up to her Majesty directly? I hope you have had a good journey.”
“It is of no use to send the card up now. The Queen would not receive
any one. She is in a great hurry. She has made a wager with herself that
she will call upon the Emperor before he has time to come to the hotel.
Of course she will win, because the Emperor could not come at such short
notice unless he has the fastest horses in the world and any amount of
energy.”
“Maybe he has both,” answered the gentleman, whose lithe figure, dressed
in a plain black coat, seemed to have the vigour and grace of youth, but
whose visage I could not see as his back was turned to the light. He
went on: “But what would you say if the Emperor were even more
fleet-footed than his horses and had come on foot from the Burg to see
the Queen?”
“Impossible at his age and in such a crowd. Why, every one would
recognise him and gather round him. He is so _much_ beloved by his
people--and you cannot imagine how much our Sovereigns like him.”
“So you think that every one would recognise the Emperor?”
“Of course--even I would anywhere, at any moment. His face is not a
peculiar one, but he has a remarkable expression of kindness, and it
could never happen that I should have the pleasure of conversing with
him without knowing who he was, as I once did in the case of his nephew
and son.”
“Don’t be so sure when you say ‘never.’ The Emperor is very keen on
giving pleasure. There is nothing he enjoys more. But I must take leave
of you. May I venture to ask you to carry that card yourself to the
Queen? I am very anxious that her Majesty should have it at once.
Good-bye.” The charming gentleman stretched out his hand to me and
vanished amid the crowd of travellers. I saw his tall, supple form cross
the threshold and mingle with the passers-by.
Turning to give effect to his wish I took up the card and read the
simple inscription in French: “L’Empéreur d’Autriche, Roi de Hongrie.”
The Queen’s defeat, my own adventure, the Emperor’s pleasant manner and
voice all tended to give me wings as I flew upstairs. “Too late, too
late!” I cried on perceiving her Majesty who stood with bonnet and
gloves on. “The Emperor has been here. He gave me his card himself. I
actually talked to him and he knows that your Majesty wanted to prove
yourself even more courteous than he.”
“Still, we must go to Schönbrunn all the same,” said the Queen.
Next day we went down into the Imperial vault, where coffins of every
shape and size stand thick; some of them are of simple appearance,
bearing on their massive silver lids merely the name of the dead Prince
or Princess inscribed on a slab of reddish copper. But the Empress Maria
Theresa, the Emperors Joseph II., Ferdinand, and many other potentates
who have ruled the nation, repose in big silver tombs ornamented with
crosses, angels and garlands. Around them sleep the children they
nurtured and loved. Against the wall we saw the plain glittering coffin
in which the remains of the Archduke Rudolf are enclosed. It differs
from the others in the fact that it is always covered with wreaths of
flowers. The difference between one recently dead and those of an
earlier period is also marked by the ever burning lamp which sheds a
hesitating golden light on the dull grey metal. Nowhere could the soul
be more deeply impressed with the power and solemnity of death than
beside that heavy silver case. Nowhere does the human tongue whisper in
tones more awed and low: “If he could but speak, he who now sleeps for
ever in his tomb of triple metal! If he could speak, what might he not
relate, what mysteries might he not unveil?” A few paces away, on a
coffin now blackened by the dusty fingers of time, a thrilling
inscription rivets the eye: “Here lies the Duke of Reichstadt, Archduke
of Austria, son of Napoleon I. and of his spouse Marie Louise,
Archduchess of Austria and Duchess of Parma.” Stronger than the tie of
blood the relationship of a dire fate links together across the abyss of
years the mysterious Rudolf and this lonely child, the sole love of the
Giant Warrior, the mighty conqueror who fell from such giddy heights.
Last month I spent half an hour in the Capuciner Gruft, as the Imperial
vault is called in Vienna. By the side of the Archduke now rests his
mother, and the same soft lamp glimmers above both coffins. Garlands and
ribbons lie at her feet. My heart bled within me at the sight and I said
aloud: “This is no place for thee, for such a lover of all that was
bright and fair upon earth. Alas for thee, O wandering Empress, to be
laid here in darkness! But for thy soul which now perhaps floats
through gardens more beautiful even than those which thy fancy traced
upon the edge of the Grecian sea, I could weep to behold thy remains
imprisoned in this gloomy spot where the dust of the high and mighty
keeps aloof, disdaining to be contaminated by the touch of Mother Earth,
mouldering and crumbling to ashes without paying to Nature the tribute
of fertilisation which is her due. Alas for thee!”
As I spoke my voice, though subdued, created a strange lugubrious echo
in the dank atmosphere that hangs over the dead, and the day when I had
met the Empress rose before my mind, a day in early March at Wiesbaden.
I had started from my hotel to pay my respects to H.R.H. Princess
Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, Princess of Great Britain and Ireland.
Her daughters, the Princesses Louise and Victoria, had kindly invited me
to tea, but when I got downstairs I found on looking at the clock that I
had an hour to spare. To pass the time I strolled out into the street.
By-and-by I got into a long avenue leading out of the town to a plain
with a charming little forest where the fresh gusts of the breeze
brought me the first whiff of green verdure. But spring had not yet
arrived, and the trunks and branches, bereft of foliage, stood out like
dark threads against the light grey sky. Though the Rhine was invisible
yet the landscape bore that look of fluidity and freshness which marks
the neighbourhood of a great river. So charmed was I with the light
colouring of the sky and landscape, with the timid efforts of the
breeze in its endeavours to hasten the coming of spring, that I did not
notice how far I had walked nor how near the time was approaching for my
visit to the Princesses, and when I turned to retrace my steps I found
to my despair that I had completely lost my way. There were more than
twenty footpaths and it was impossible to tell which led back to
Wiesbaden and which to the Rhine and the bridge. At this juncture a lady
made her appearance on the other side of the road. She was very tall,
and wore a plain grey dress that clung closely to her slim figure. A
huge feather fan, black and glossy, hung down from her wrist. In her
other hand she bore a white parasol to which her black sailor hat was
suspended by an elastic so that the hat trembled and danced at each step
she took. She stood still not far from me with her head uncovered,
revealing hair so fine, so silken, that notwithstanding the thickness of
the tresses piled on her head they seemed as light as vapour touched by
the sun at sunset, as if composed of nothing more substantial than air
and colour.
She made a gesture of brusque protestation as I opened my lips to speak.
“Pardon, madam,” I said, “but I have lost my way. Could you tell me
which of all these roads and footpaths leads back to Wiesbaden? I want
to return to the town.”
“And you are going towards the Rhine,” she answered.
“Then it must be the attraction of the water, the voice of the gay
Dryads, that calls me.”
“The attraction of the water?” she repeated. “I am a slave of the
Dryads, and the Nereids too. I should like to live and to die among
them.” Her voice, her presence, her every gesture was sad and restless.
She lifted her huge black fan and held it across her face, the feathers
almost kissed her eyes, and in those eyes I saw lights and shadows
pass.... “Go that way,” she said. “_I_ shun cities, and I wish that I
could turn my back for ever upon all the cities of the world.” With
these words she passed through the bare trunks of the trees towards the
river.
A few minutes’ brisk walking brought me back to the town, and I hurried
on to the hotel where I passed a delightful hour with the kind and
clever Princesses. After tea as we were sitting in the broad window
whence we could see the passers-by, Princess Victoria said: “Quick,
quick, take your eyeglass. Look, there is the Empress of Austria. That
tall lady in grey!” I saw the unknown lady I had met in the forest, who
was now passing amongst the crowd, her black hat shading her whole
visage.
The Empress never learnt my name though she afterwards showed a special
interest in my work. She kept up a regular exchange of letters with our
Queen--not, it is true, the easy correspondence which becomes an
everyday intercourse between friends, but whenever the Empress found a
flower, a stone, a passage in a poem which thrilled her, she sent the
cause of her emotion to the Queen, and in like manner the Queen apprised
her of any discovery she made in the field of literature, art, or
sentiment. Thus the Empress was the first to appreciate the collection
of Roumanian songs, and immediately on receiving an early copy she
wrote: “Send me as many of these ballads as you can. Do not take the
trouble to copy them out for me, send me the originals with the mistakes
and corrections, and keep the good copies for yourself and Hélène. I
call her by her name because I like it. It is a Greek name which means
beauty and strife.”
Among the many shadows which haunt the aged Emperor’s footsteps hers is
the sweetest and the grandest, and _her_ name, like the Greek name she
loved, has already been inscribed on the pages of history as meaning
Beauty, Grief, and a fierce desire for Space and Liberty.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Reichard & Lindner, Berlin_
EMPEROR WILLIAM II. OF GERMANY]
THE GERMAN EMPEROR
If to speak of oneself, and to cause oneself to be spoken of, on every
possible occasion suffices to make a man great, then the German Emperor
is a great man. If to handle every instrument, to dabble with every
art--possessing the conviction that one understands them better than
those who have applied both time and mind to their technique--suffices
to constitute him a genius, then William of Germany is a genius indeed.
If to startle and shock public opinion, and even at times to dominate
it, can suffice to proclaim a monarch more powerful than any other, then
the German Emperor is the most powerful monarch of the day. If to be an
admirable artist it suffices to display or put into force as many
original and incoherent ideas as possible, the German Emperor is an
admirable artist. Finally, if to be a hero it suffices to hold complete
sway over the imagination of millions, the German Emperor may well boast
of being the ideal heroic personage to whom all turn in wonder and
admiration; and he must take pride in the conviction that he possesses
worshippers and detractors as numerous and untiring as the waves of the
sea.
Upon the horizon of contemporary events his strange, aggressive
silhouette stands out erect and clear. In a century where each
individual seems to have seen and known everything and everybody, he yet
remains amongst the few personalities whose names create a sensation
when one can say: “I have actually seen him, I have spoken with William
the Second.” The perpetual transformation of his various attitudes of
mind as of his costumes has perhaps helped to make him more popular even
than his other characteristics, which are always extraordinary, though
they appear natural because they are his. Proteus alone in the realm of
mythological lore, and Shakespeare in the domain of creative emotion,
had hitherto accustomed us to the wonderful changes which may be wrought
in human souls and bodies in one brief moment. But whereas Proteus, who
became in turn a stream, a living flame, a tempest, and a wild beast,
was meant to incarnate the subtle power of the natural elements; and
whereas Shakespeare represented in the varying moods of his characters
the symbols of our destiny, the Emperor’s intentions are neither so
subtle nor so deep on his appearance thrice a day in three diverse
uniforms. He belongs to an age when rapidity of action is deemed a
virtue, and his chief wish is to stand as the faithful image of his
time. How many kings, queens, heroes, or heroines are there who, like
Mary Queen of Scots, still hold sway over the imagination, whose
memories from the darkest depths of bygone ages still arise to thrill us
with the grandeur and the sadness of their fate! How many yet rule the
imagination of poets and philosophers, and can never die while our
interest, our pity, or our worship keep them alive! William of Germany
wishes, like these chosen few, to survive in the memory of his people.
In every way and in every sense of the word he is ambitious. And his
larger ambitions are fair and pure, although at times some may border on
petty vanity. But how often does he cast a glance into the future to
challenge that mute crowd called posterity, how many times does he
whisper to himself in the silence of his sleepless nights: “Shall I be
among those whose memory is ever remembered and ever revered? Will my
deeds be recorded in the same loud tones in which my speeches and
commands are uttered?” Of course no one can tell what William the Second
thinks in these matters, but what may be safely asserted is that thought
or fear of death never enters his soul. He lives in the security that he
cannot die.
I never fail to read his innumerable speeches, because of the utter
candour for which they are remarkable. The author has perfect faith in
himself and in his infallibility, and this he proclaims in every word.
In order to enjoy them the more completely, I recall the days when I was
present to hear the Emperor utter his pompous or his simple phrases. I
see again his imperious glance, his firm mouth and clenched fists, I
hear his voice as it falls with the dry sound of an iron hammer upon
each syllable. The strong assurance that he cannot in any case be
interrupted must always endow an orator with a firm grasp of his own
sentiments and those of his audience. In this mastery the Emperor
revels, and I believe that when all his speeches are collected and
published in one enormous volume, the literature of the world will be
enriched by a masterpiece of self-reliance and didactic eloquence. His
mystic and warlike rhapsodies are as complete, as violent, and as great
in their way as the sermons of Bossuet, the dreams of Shakespeare, and
the famous love-letters of Mademoiselle de l’Espinasse. But, unlike
Bossuet before the mortal remains of Louis XIV. saying: “My brethren,
God alone is great,” the Emperor ever says: “I alone, I am great, O my
people.”
Notwithstanding these strictures and any to be made hereafter, I
sincerely hope that my readers will discern that I am an admirer of the
German potentate and hero--for he is a hero, and this all but unique
quality will suffice to place him far above every living sovereign of
our day. He is a hero, and in his desire to remain a hero he knows
neither rest nor fear. All who follow his career step by step must allow
that in the warmth and accomplishment of this desire lies the secret of
his force. For the achievements of a man must appear heroic and sublime
when he not only does his best and his utmost to attain his ideal every
hour of the day, but when we see him breathe as freely and as eagerly
the cold air of the high summits on which he is placed as if there were
on his shoulders no weight of an imperial mantle. Every one must allow
that a hero who draws continual heroism out of the smallest actions of
everyday existence is a poet worthy of the name though unconscious of
his calling. He may be said to be the wealthiest amongst the wealthy; he
tastes a joy that others will never know, since that art which caused
Leonardo da Vinci equally with Cæsar Borgia to pursue and attain the
pitch of real emotions, to learn and teach the pleasures of eternal
pursuit, the Emperor of Germany possesses in its entirety; and in this
respect he may be said also to resemble the manly heroes of the Italian
Renaissance.
Each of his intellectual gifts is inherited from his mother; he is
likest his father when in a gracious mood and boyish in words and
bearing. It is necessary to make occasional reference to mythology in
describing him, because he forms a parallel to the ancient myth that
represents Phaëton, whose father Apollo entrusted him for a whole day
with the glorious duty of driving the chariot of the sun along its
golden pathway. Like Phaëton’s chariot, the one that William guides with
hands and eyes unmoved is fiery and magnificent, but over the taut
stretched reins his nervous fingers are closed with a sure grasp, and
the firm gaze of the imperial sungod is not abased before the brilliant
rays which concentrate their fierce light upon him. In the history of
nations as of individuals mankind is divided into two classes: on one
side are the sowers, on the other the reapers; there are those who toil
and dig and those who gather and enjoy. The German Emperor is a reaper,
an eager, hopeful reaper, who leaves not a sheaf unturned, not a grain
in the furrow behind him. The double images above his head, images of
the sower, the grandfather who always smiles, and of the stern Count who
always frowns, have been unable to deter him from the pursuance of his
self-set task.
What land does the German Emperor not know? under what sky has he not
passed? what town has not received him with flags and honours? what
historic city has not acclaimed him? He has roamed in the Holy Land, has
heard the muezzin call from Egyptian towers, watched the violet twilight
die in the northern skies, and for him the palm forests of Arabia have
lulled the moon to sleep among their branches in the softness of an
oriental night. He has stepped into the dusky coolness of learned and
worm-eaten universities, and basked in the pagan beauty of Florence,
Sicily and Naples. He has lingered among the divine marbles of the
Parthenon, and the eternal divinity of their form and grace lives in his
soul. Rome has watched him as he passed through her streets and suburbs
away from the din of the city. In Europe one land alone he has
forgotten, the land that is dear to me because it is mine. It is an
extraordinary fact that in all his wanderings the German Emperor has
never returned the numerous visits paid him by the Roumanian King,
never even sent a representative of royal blood, though he has at all
times been aware that he would be a welcome guest to this country....
The German Emperor has played all the parts in an historical repertoire:
he has been in turn a pontiff without consecration, a warrior without
battles or foes, a dramatist without drama; but he has always remained
the same imperious, subtle personage in all his diverse incarnations. He
possesses in a supreme degree the art of pleasing, and yet at the same
time hurting people’s feelings. Gaiety and wrath are not with him, as
with Napoleon, instruments ready to hand, but his humour varies from one
moment to the other, and so rapidly that in the same hour he may be kind
or obstinately cruel. He may appear to some entirely hard-hearted or
entirely kind. In truth he is neither; he is the Emperor--that is to
say, a being impatient, haughty, eager to please and astonish,
strong-minded, omniscient, omnipresent. To complete the circle but one
thing is lacking--the charm of mystery, that enchantment which is spread
like a spell, and which lived in the magic force of the Sphinx of the
Pharaohs, in the shrine where Isis was adored, and even threw a halo of
romance around such a monarch as Philip the Second of Spain. The German
Emperor does not possess it. He is of all living monarchs the least
mysterious and the least invisible. He loves pageants and outward
ceremonies as if he were filled with a desire to demonstrate with what
ease he can summon armies and splendour around him.
It is interesting to note the impression he creates in France. In Paris
especially the discussion he arouses is ever keen and alert, and to
bring his name into conversation in a Paris _salon_ is always an
excellent means of arousing violent controversy. “He is a genius!” says
one. “No, a prig, a _cabotin_,” says another. “He is the finest orator
of the day, and if he wrote the leading articles in some of our papers,
who could compete with him?”--“Bah! do you believe him capable of any
serious work? _Allons donc!_”--“But look at his portrait--what a face,
what eyes! He ought to have been a French general or the Emperor of
France. He loves _le panache_, and so do we.”--“It is a disgrace for a
Frenchman to utter such words!”--“But, _mon cher_, I simply meant that
he ought to have been born and educated in France.... He is not a
Teuton; no, he has many qualities belonging to the Latin race.” And at
this point a person intervenes who immediately becomes the centre of the
debate: he says, “I have seen the Emperor, and enjoyed long
conversations with him.” Then every one present is eager to listen, and
detractors and admirers alike await in fervid silence the opinion of the
person who has actually met the ruler of Germany face to face.
Above all things the Emperor hates the small commonplaces of ordinary
conversation, even within the restricted space of a Court circle where
all are bent on finding whatever he says clever and gracious.
I shall never forget the three days I spent under the same roof with the
Imperial German pair at the princely castle of Sigmaringen. Sigmaringen
Schloss has for many hundred years belonged to the Catholic branch of
the Hohenzollern family, who bear no relationship whatever to the
younger and more prosperous line--those Protestant Hohenzollerns who are
now masters of the German realm. The oldest Hohenzollerns bow in deep
worship before the fortune of their cadets, and are ever anxious to
proclaim blood ties which may not in reality exist, while the younger
branch occasionally deign to admit the vague kinship now lost in the
darkness of bygone days. The King and Queen of Roumania had arrived at
the castle beforehand in order to receive their imperial guests. The
Royal abode was full to overflowing. A great number of German Princes
and Princesses were assembled, together with Prince and Princess Leopold
of Hohenzollern, in mingled fear and pleasure at the honour of meeting
the German Emperor, who was related to most of them by some distant tie.
Many of them were petty potentates who, while trembling to appear as his
vassals, yet struggled against the secret conviction that such is the
case. However, a great display of military pomp generally conceals all
such emotions.
As soon as I entered the suite of apartments destined for me in the
castle, I found on the large table a complete programme of the
festivities which were to follow the arrival of the Imperial pair,
wherein also the exact dresses to be worn at the station and in the
evening were defined. All around us the atmosphere vibrated with the
excitement of the approaching visit, but during the afternoon I had a
few moments which I could call my own. Gazing from the windows far away
over the dark curving hills of the unknown land, I looked back into the
past and remembered that the castle where we now found ourselves was in
the hands of a Prince descended in the direct female line from the Murat
and the Beauharnais families, who thus bore in his veins the blood of
the French _bourgeoisie_ and of the glorious soldier who was at one time
inn-keeper and waiter. This visit paid by the German Emperor to the old
feudal fortress somehow represented the visit of the present victor to
the victories of the past, to the great Napoleon himself, by whose stern
will German princes had in years gone by been forced to marry young
girls of little importance such as “la petite Stephanie et la petite
Murat.”
At the station next day I felt disappointed to find such an immense
crowd of Princes, officers, and high personages in gaudy uniforms, that
I realised at once how utterly impossible it would be to catch even a
glimpse of the Emperor. Bugles were sounded, troops were marshalled and
paraded by, Court trains trailed along over thick red carpets; a high
wall of human forms, all very tall and pompous, rose between me and the
place where the train would stop. Yet, when at last it did arrive, I
actually saw the Emperor. I saw him in the narrow interstice left
between the shoulder of a silk-clad Royal Highness and the sleeve of a
hussar! But it was only as in a flash I saw the pale cold visage, the
flaming eyes and stern mouth. In another moment the Emperor had sprung
lightly to the ground, followed closely by the Empress, whose rippling
laugh I heard quite near to me, while much kissing went on and
affectionate greetings were exchanged. We all hastened to the _perron_,
as we wanted to see the Emperor enter the carriage and bow to the crowd.
After several minutes spent in a short promenade in front of the troops,
he made his appearance at a spot where I stood only a few steps from
him. The twilight was falling softly, and in the first glimmer of the
evening shadows he appeared to me even more extraordinarily pale than at
first sight. No smile parted his lips as he threw his eyes to the centre
of the multitude gathered in his honour, and whose repeated and joyful
exclamations seemed to leave him quite unmoved; but that look as it
lingered and plunged to the very depths of the assembled people made
every nerve thrill like the muscles of the Arabian steed who feels his
master’s fingers creep lazily through his mane.
The Emperor wore a black uniform set off by white metal buttons and
silver ornaments; his black helmet, too, was bordered with silver. The
Empress was in a soft white dress. We followed in the rear of the
gorgeous procession, and as we ascended the narrow streets of the small
city to the roar of cannon, the chiming of church bells, and the hum of
human cheers repeated from window to window, we seemed to wend our way
through an ocean of harmonious sounds, while above towered the huge
Castle with its terraces and balconies all ablaze.
We saw nothing more of the Imperial guests till evening, because they
retired to rest and afterwards dined privately with the Princes present
in the Castle; but at nine o’clock we all assembled in the vast
stateroom, and as each took his or her allotted place in the circle
hearts were beating high, eyes kindled with impatience and eagerness.
Fans and flowers trembled in small nervous hands, and ever and anon we
turned towards the door whence the Royal _cortège_ would descend into
the hall by the three steps separating it from the state room. Yet I was
not so lost in contemplation of the stately threshold for the remark
suddenly to occur to me that I was the only person in that immense
circle who belonged to the Latin race. But all the _dames d’honneur_ and
officials proved exceedingly kind and courteous, and if somewhat shocked
by the freedom of my words or manners, never showed it, but treated the
youthful foreigner like an honoured guest, telling me I must occupy
first place in the circle as I belonged to a kingly court, and stationed
me quite close to the door where two ushers stood on guard like two
statues of gold and silver.
The first chamberlain enters and strikes thrice upon the ground with a
long golden rod, reminding one of the three sharp blows given on the
floor of the stage in French theatres when the curtain is about to rise.
Then a great silence, a long pause, the door is thrown open, and the
Emperor of Germany appears. The Queen of Roumania is leaning on his arm,
and they stop for a few seconds before descending the three steps. His
head, proudly thrown back, is resplendent in the full light concentrated
on the spot by lamps and chandeliers. His military costume is of
dazzling white, relieved only by the crimson ribbon of the Roumanian
order across his breast, and he looks radiant though very grave. The
Queen of Roumania glides along by his side in a dress airily traversed
with threads of silver, which give it the effect of billows at rest
under the gaze of the moon. The Emperor’s face is serene, but it wears
no smile, and again I admire those large wonderful eyes, eyes whose
colour and depth and sternness can be compared to jewelled Toledo
blades, where gold and iron blend like blazing rays of the sun and cold
flashes of stormy lightning. With those eyes the Emperor of Germany
might wander _incognito_ and wearing a mask, yet never fail to be
recognised. Taking care to keep his spurs from touching the fleecy
clouds of the Queen’s fragile train, he advances with measured steps,
though his tread is elastic, impatient like that of a boy. The Empress,
our King, the Count and Countess of Flanders, all follow in due order,
but I cannot spare a glance for their entrance. The Emperor and Queen
have stopped suddenly right in front of us. I believe I really looked as
startled as I felt, wretchedly embarrassed, yet so eager, so tumultuous
in the way I made my reverence, that before addressing me the Emperor
laughed, highly amused, and the Queen said to him: “Here’s a little girl
to whom this hour is of such deep meaning that she has not slept all
night for thought of the honour and joy awaiting her. You can see how
moved she is.” ... “Why so?” asked the Emperor briskly, throwing back
his head, while a sense of fun crept over his open countenance. “Why so?
This very young and imposing lady has already known so many great, so
many remarkable men, far greater and more remarkable than myself. She
has seen Emperors, too, I hear, so one more or one less cannot be of
much account. I am told, madam”--and he spoke in grave tones--“that you
have as a child enjoyed the rare privilege of spending long evenings
with Victor Hugo in his home. Your Queen says that you have many
interesting tales to tell about him. So how can you be moved in my
presence when you have been in the presence of Genius?”
As I could not for the life of me find an answer the Emperor resumed.
“You could never have believed, would you, that you possess over me a
superiority which indeed I envy you? I have enjoyed almost all the
sight-seeing worth the trouble, but I never saw Victor Hugo nor met any
real literary genius. Was he very much bowed down by old age? Did he
speak distinctly? What were his favourite topics?”
By this time I had almost recovered my composure; the Queen smiled
encouragement, and the Emperor drew me out little by little. He
interrupted almost every sentence twice or thrice, putting sharp
interrogations, which he uttered in an affirmative tone--questions such
as this: “Am I not mistaken when I think”--whose clear meaning was--“I
cannot be mistaken!” And he repeatedly bit his under-lip with teeth so
sharp that the traces of them were seen on the pale skin, an imperious
nervous habit which conveyed the idea of peremptory force and impatient
wilfulness, an order to go on in a rapid way without bothering him with
hesitation or useless details. He seemed to hold between his fingers an
iron thread that guided my words. “You write in French, don’t you?
You’ll finish by writing in your own language, won’t you? I know you
love writing French and speaking English. It is why I have addressed you
in the language which is pleasantest for conversation--at least one of
the pleasantest”--the Emperor corrected himself.
“English is also fast becoming the language of Courts,” said I. A quick
frown warned me that I was treading upon forbidden ground, and the
Emperor cut me short in a murmured apology. “Well, we will talk of
Paris, literature, and your own pursuits to-morrow. You see,” and he
turned towards the immense circle that watched his every gesture, “I
have all these people to entertain, many friends and acquaintances among
them,” and with hasty step he walked off. In the meantime our Queen had
also lost herself in the group of Princesses, and I tried in vain to
discover the place where her Majesty stood, as I wanted to thank her for
having called the Emperor’s attention to me. The German Empress was also
the centre of a crowd of ladies, so I wandered listlessly through the
gaudy multitude, when a light tap on my shoulder made me start, and I
found myself face to face with my Queen.
“You have not been introduced to the Empress, and it is getting late,
come along,” so I followed obediently. Clad in a charming dress of
yellow silk, the Empress, with face wreathed in smiles, was telling the
ladies around her some incident that had happened in a Berlin hospital
which she patronised and visited twice a week--some difference between
nurses and doctors. She beckoned to us in a gracious manner, and, after
shaking hands with me, continued her easy, lively narrative, after
giving the newcomers a rapid description of the first part of her story.
The German Empress is called all over the realm “Die echte Deutsche
Frau,” and no appellation could better describe her sweet placid
countenance, her fair complexion, and the extreme modesty and _naïveté_
of her speech and manner. There is something fresh and genuine about her
which reminds one of the simple heroines celebrated by German poets in
_lieder_ and ballads. When about to retire she said: “I have asked your
Queen to send me her translation of your Roumanian ballads. I am so
sorry you have not the book with you. I am passionately fond of
folk-lore; that is what I call practical literature, and I like learning
to know nations through the songs of the people.... No, I am not at all
tired”; the Empress answered a question put by the Countess of Flanders.
“Dear Marie, we travel _so_ comfortably, and we see cheerful faces and
feel the warmth of glad hearts whenever we cease to look upon our sweet
German forests and hills and rivers. So travelling is quite a treat to
us. The Emperor also likes travelling abroad, but my preference is for
these journeys where at every turn of the road we find ourselves at
home.” The Empress was moving away and before her steps the crowd
respectfully receded. “Have you noticed the diamond her Majesty wears in
her hair--that solitary stone set high like a trembling star--or a
tear?” asked one of the Princes of me, as I returned to my place. “It is
a pathetic and precious gem, a relic indeed--the diamond which shone in
Napoleon’s triangular hat, _le petit chapeau du caporal_, when it was
found by Blucher’s troops under a tree after the battle of Waterloo. Go
and have a good look at it.” In haste I returned to where the Empress
was, and, standing behind, tried in vain to perceive the huge diamond.
Her Majesty was about to reach the door and disappear, when, turning
round, she perceived me, and with astonishing intuition exclaimed:
“Now, you desire to see my jewels--don’t be frightened, but come in
front of me. These pearls are lovely, but too big. Look at the diamond;
I always wear it.” But it was in vain that I waited to hear from the
Empress’ lips any confirmation of what I had been told.
Next morning I awoke with that delightful and rare consciousness that
something very bright and unusual had happened, and was about to happen
again. An hour after I was walking briskly along the banks of the river,
and as I watched the Danube glide peacefully by, the prospect of meeting
the Emperor again fell on my soul as gently as the rays of the ascending
sun. It was a cool, crisp morning, and streaks of blue mist hung round
the trees and above the waters, and I said to the Danube: “Alack, dear
rivulet, thou knowest not under what clear skies thy waves will ripple
before reaching their goal. Thou flowest towards my own native land,
dear little river, and there thou becomest as great and powerful as the
sea. No wet mornings, no mists to lie heavily upon thee thus. Thou
flowest fast to reach my native land.”
After a long constitutional I decided, before returning to the Castle,
to take a turn in the avenue called Prinzen Allee, where all the
royalties and most of the inmates of the Castle were strolling about
after early breakfast. Sovereigns and Princes were there, Princesses,
Generals and Aides-de-camp, and ladies in all varieties of costume. The
Empress was in a light grey morning blouse, the Emperor in a shooting
jacket; they talked to every one as each stopped to salute or curtsey.
The Empress smilingly inquired how I had begun the day, whether by
visiting or eating? and when I answered that I had preferred the latter
exercise, she said: “You look too healthy and rational ever to become a
starving poet.” The Emperor was in high spirits, pointing at the trees,
giving advice as to the training of dogs, and crossing the sward to
pluck some wild flowers. Showing them to me, he said: “They are not so
grand as your laurels, but very pretty. Now tell the truth, you have
been near the river to freshen up your laurels?” ...
In the afternoon we took a drive through the beautiful dark forests that
encircle Sigmaringen in a ring of sombre verdure. There in the soft
silence of the wood we were startled to hear the sound of bugles, and a
troop of horsemen rode rapidly past preceding a small group of riders.
In the midst of the group rode the Emperor, clothed in the black uniform
of the Todthussaren and mounted on a black charger. Again that set
resolute expression hardened his visage, again his eyes looked far into
the darkness of the forest with an awe-inspiring light in their dilated
pupils. Like a statue of stone, like an image of Fate, he passed on
heedless of our presence, casting never a glance on the carriages or
their occupants. Later on I heard that the Emperor had that very day
been much disturbed and angered by news received from Westphalia, where
great strikes had broken out among the workmen. Yet when again at five
o’clock we took tea with the Royalties in the splendid museum of
Sigmaringen Castle, to my unspeakable surprise another change of dress,
another change of face and humour, was presented by the Emperor for our
admiration. On both sides the old hall was adorned with glass cases
containing marvels of ancient art gathered together by the rare taste of
the late Prince of Hohenzollern. William II. then and there declared
that he worshipped Albrecht Durer, and showed in his praise of old vases
and skilfully chiselled silver, considerable proficiency in matters dear
to antiquaries and connoisseurs. No object, however small, however
darkened by the twilight of ages, escaped his shrewd scrutiny. He was
utterly different from the Emperor I had seen in the morning, that
imposing and gloomy black rider of the forest, yet to an acute observer
the sternness of eye and visage were still there, glossed over for a few
moments only.
“I teased you about those laurels this morning,” said he, as he
approached a corner where I had come upon a lovely Renaissance cup,
whose dainty ornamentation had captivated my attention. “By-the-bye,
where is the famous crown? I am quite disappointed. As soon as I arrive
people hasten to inform me that I will meet with an extraordinary
creature--a young girl who is _not_ a Queen and _not_ a Princess, yet
wears a crown--a crown of laurels, a crown given by the French Academy;
and when I expect to see a real laurel crown for the first time in my
life, here is the young person in question daring to show herself
bare-headed in the evening, and wearing stupid bonnets in the daytime!
Now, where is that crown? Do you keep it hanging over your bedstead, or
put it out at the window for passers-by to admire?”
“Sire, Emperors and Kings wear their crowns on great occasions, but not
even in the greatest moment of their existence are poets allowed to do
so, or your Majesty would have seen mine yesterday and to-day. Our
crowns are invisible--in fact they do not exist but in imagination; thus
the wealth and realms which we possess are beyond the reach of mortal
eye.”
“And you are not exposed to the danger of losing them!” said the
Emperor. “But do you mean to say you are going to remain a poet all your
life? Will not the malady pass off like the measles? Oh, I don’t
joke--to me a woman who writes is a being who is absurd, ridiculous.”
“I have been told before that your Majesty abhorred clever women, or the
interference of women in any but domestic affairs.”
“Oh, I don’t go such lengths. Clever women are dangerous women, one and
all, who ought to be muzzled before they can bite, but do you believe it
is necessary to be a clever woman to be a woman who writes? On the
contrary, women’s cleverness consists in avoiding ridicule, and clever
women are those who care for their good looks. Now can a woman who
writes remain pretty? The gestures, the attitude of a woman scrawling
away with all her might must utterly rout every æsthetical effort on her
part. Can a woman remain pretty when she is obliged to put on that
particularly stern frown with which one pursues an idea, or studies any
serious and important subject?” The Emperor stopped, evidently waiting
for a confused or a spirited answer, then he resumed: “Now, you are very
intelligent, much more than I could have believed a woman who writes
would prove. You are actually as smiling, as cool, as unaffected as if I
had not wounded your highest notions of womankind--perhaps your own
self-love.”
“I have no self-love, sir, but very firm convictions that nothing can
defeat.”
“Anyhow you are very good-natured and neither pretentious nor forward. I
am going to concede one or two points to you, though you do not seem to
care whether I consider womankind pushing or not. Music and painting may
render a woman’s existence very happy--even beneficial to her family,
and--I will allow that a woman is not quite unsexed for being a poet.
Women are unreasonable, so are poets: women are born to comfort and to
enhance the joy of living, and so are poets. Well, a poet you may remain
without exasperating me completely!”
“I thank your Majesty for his gracious permission.” The Emperor laughed,
and as the Empress came to his side he added: “I have been giving this
poor young lady a bit of my mind about femininism and women who write
novels.”
“The Emperor is the friend of poets, whether they be men or women,” said
the gentle lady, “and I must give him the Roumanian ballads to read.”
At dinner that day the Emperor proposed a toast in honour of the
Hohenzollern family and the Royalties, his cousins and peers assembled
there--with whom, said he, the Empress and himself had been so pleased
to spend hours which they would never forget. The speech, though short
and simple, was eloquent and full of vigorous sympathy; flame-like it
spread from soul to soul, and, delivered in a voice whose ring fell like
metal on the ear, it resounded through our hearts, and gave every one
present the sensation that each was in direct communion with the
speaker.
Before the Imperial pair left the Castle, such persons as had been
admitted to conversations of any length with them took private leave of
their Majesties. Thus I was ushered into a little blue drawing-room,
where the Emperor and Empress were waiting to bestow a parting word.
“I wish you good luck,” said William II., “and heaps of laurel
crowns--so many that your hair and brows may be quite hidden under them.
Is not that a kind wish?”
“No, no,” corrected the Empress, “I wish you happiness in whatever form
you may like to enjoy it, and peace.”
I stooped low to kiss the proffered hands, and then joined the ladies
and officials who were waiting in the hall. Presently from every door
Princes and Princesses came pouring in, and the German Sovereigns, who
had already bidden these adieu, glided simply through the circle, bowing
right and left. The _Heit die in Sieges Kranz_ struck up, and thus they
passed from our view.
Many a time since then have I met the two Imperial travellers, many a
time at the Italian Court, and many a time had to approach them. But
nowhere as in that straggling fortress of the obscure Middle Ages
nowhere as in those woods and gardens, did the real character of William
II. reveal itself to my attentive eyes. Nowhere better than in the
sombre forest, by the banks of the young Danube, did I learn to judge
what is strange, and to admire what is admirable, in the Emperor of the
German Realm.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Levitsky, St. Petersburg_
THE CZAR AND CZARINA AND THEIR FAMILY]
THE CZAR AND CZARINA
No three monarchs belonging to the same dynasty could have differed more
than the Emperors of Russia who successively occupied the Muscovite
throne during Queen Victoria’s long reign.
Every one knows what a haughty and violent though melancholy ruler was
the Czar Nicholas I., and how often he repeated the famous words which
revealed his imperious temper: “There is but one person in Russia, the
man to whom I speak, at the moment I am speaking to him.” (_Il n’y a
qu’un homme en Russie, celui auquel je parle, au moment où je lui
parle._) He was preceded on the throne by his brother, the dreamy and
mysterious Alexander I., the irreconcilable enemy of Napoleon, though
more than one effort did Bonaparte make to win his friendship. Many
strange and marvellous things are related concerning the Czar Alexander
I. He possessed very strong religious feelings, and the recent
publication of his correspondence with the famous Madame de Kruchner
shows how vivid was the interest that he took in the connection between
the visible and invisible worlds, and that he put the greatest faith in
the declarations of mediums as to their communication with the spirits
of the dead. His extreme piety, together with his sweet and gentle
disposition, gave birth to many legends, one of which still remains dear
to the hearts of his people.
It is a common belief amongst the lower classes of Russia, especially
the priests and monks, that the Emperor Alexander I. did not die on the
day on which he is supposed to have breathed his last, but that an empty
coffin was lowered into the vault where the remains of the Romanoff
family repose. This was done by his own expressed wish, in which his
wife, the Empress Elizabeth, acquiesced, and while the whole nation was
praying for the soul of the departed potentate, a quiet, plainly-attired
moujik stole away from the crowd of courtiers gathered round the new
Czar. Protected by the robe and hood of a wandering pilgrim, he
travelled on and on until he reached a solitary spot in the midst of the
vast Russian plain. There for many years he lived like the anchorites of
old. It was only once a year during the Easter festivities that he made
his appearance in the capital, and then he used to go straight to the
Imperial Palace. His stature was so erect, his bearing so dignified and
noble, his look so gentle yet so commanding, that no one ever dared
refuse him admittance. He would walk from hall to hall, his arms and
feet bare, and his long white hair and beard sweeping over his neck,
stopping only when he reached the threshold of the Czar’s private
apartments. The chamberlain who ushered him in never closed the folding
doors behind the silent visitor without waiting to observe that the
Czar, worshipped like a demi-god by all, yet stooped low when the
stranger entered and reverently kissed his shrivelled hand. The hermit
in time became a well-known figure, but no prayers or entreaties could
ever detain him more than one day in St. Petersburg, and when at last he
died he was buried there beside his forefathers in the fortress chapel.
The legend is quite affirmative as regards the latter point, and the
Emperor Alexander I. is cited by the monks as an example to those who
live in austerity and who aspire to holiness. This interpretation of
Alexander I.’s somewhat sudden illness and death shows that the worship
rendered by his subjects to the Ruler of the Russian Empire is loyal and
sincere, not only because his realm is as boundless as that of any
monarch of legend, and his dominions resemble those of King Philip II.
of Spain, upon which the sun never set, but simply from the mere fact
that the reigning Muscovite Czar is supreme head of the Russian Orthodox
Church. He is the sole representative to his subjects of God upon earth,
endowed, as were the Kings of France during the Middle Ages, with the
gift of healing by his touch and of curing maladies and all distress by
his presence. Superstition has raised this spiritual power to a supreme
point, and often when the Czar drives through the streets of Kief or
Moscow moujiks, women, and children fall frantically on their knees
before the horses of his state carriage, begging the coachman to let the
hoofs and wheels pass over their bodies, that they may in some way enter
into touch with the “Little Father” from whom all blessings spring.
Nicholas I. entertained an almost supernatural idea of his absolute
power and constant communion with the Almighty. He was, therefore,
dumfounded to find during the Crimean War that the Lord of Hosts had
apparently abandoned one who was in such close relationship to heaven.
He remembered with bitterness how different was the fate of Russia
during his brother’s reign, when victory was obtained against the Great
Victor, the French Emperor, before whom all Europe had trembled, yet
whose glory was scattered like the flakes of snow under which his army
was buried. Then the will of the Almighty had been clearly manifested;
Nicholas I. marvelled why he should now be defeated and humiliated; and,
still pondering upon the strangeness of the case, he died soon after the
conclusion of the war.
His son and successor, Alexander II., was unlike his father in many
respects. Of a sweet, yielding disposition, he possessed none of the
self-assurance of his haughty and imperious father. His private life was
not a happy one; he lost his eldest son, a charming youth, and he heard
the stifled murmurings of future revolutions rise around his throne. It
is a singular fact that it was under the reign of the first Russian
Czar who took a real interest in the fate of the lower classes, who
delivered the Russian peasant from servitude, that Nihilism should have
sprung up, and he, the magnanimous ruler, was almost its first victim.
Without having known Alexander I. personally, still I have heard much
about his character, ideas and conversation, as he made a long stay in
our country on two occasions during the Russo-Roumano-Turkish War. My
own father also had several opportunities of approaching the Czar at
Plevna, where our King, then only Prince of Roumania, was acting as
Commander-in-Chief to the Allied Armies. Much esteem and regret is felt
for his memory by those of my countrymen who met the Czar then as he
travelled from village to village, followed by an innumerable staff. An
immense host of servants preceded him, and tried hard to make the sordid
Bulgarian huts, where the Emperor had to pass the night, as comfortable
as possible. This produced a strange and almost painful contrast between
the miserable poverty of the scene, the clay floor, the mud walls, the
roof so low that it was almost impossible for a tall man to stand erect
under it, the narrow windows and look of indescribable wretchedness that
hung over the whole place; and the heavy gold plate upon which the
Emperor’s meals were served, the gorgeous livery of his retainers, the
richly embroidered counterpane thrown across the narrow bedstead--in a
word, the pompous array of splendid grandeur by which a Czar is ever
surrounded. Throughout the whole campaign people noted the unusual
expression of fatigue and sadness upon the Emperor’s countenance, though
his slim, handsome figure held itself erect as ever, and he tried to
smile when called upon to distribute praise or encouragement.
“It cannot be denied,” said my father, “that the Emperor was kind and
amiable, but what endeared him to all was his face, in which an
expression of pathetic sadness was always struggling with pride and
fortitude. He looked great indeed when I rode near him on the morning of
August 30, 1877. We were not three gunshots distance from Plevna. It was
St. Alexander’s Day, so to celebrate the Czar’s Feast Day a sudden
attack on Grivita--one of the enemy’s best defended fortresses--had been
planned, and we expected that the sun which rose in all its summer
fairness would set upon scenes of bloodshed and victory.
“Those few moments after dawn the sight of the army was splendid to
behold. As far as the eye could reach, swords, plumes and bayonets
glittered in the dazzling light of an Oriental morning. Flags fluttered,
trumpets sounded, and an air of festivity pervaded the warlike throng;
while above us, black against the dark blue sky, rose the menacing forms
of those towers from which death would fall upon us in a few hours.
Suddenly an intense silence fell upon the multitude, as one by one the
Orthodox priests advanced, magnificently attired in vestments of gold
and silver brocade. The Emperor’s own Chaplain took the lead, holding
the holy images of the Saints high above his head. At that moment from
the opposite side of the field appeared the Emperor, followed by his
Generals and Aides-de-Camp. He rode into the middle of the wide circle,
while frantic cheers rose from every side to greet him. The priest
lifted the Image and the Cross to the Imperial lips. The Emperor stooped
slightly to meet them and then took up his place in the centre of the
group of officers to which I was attached. I was only a few steps behind
him, and could see his every movement. The divine service began in the
high, grave tones of the Russian liturgy, hymns of praise to the
Almighty which we all repeated in our hearts in accents of earnest
entreaty, and whose meaning took such deep import from the place and the
circumstances in which they were uttered. The Emperor sat motionless in
his saddle; his face was stern and set, and he retained during the whole
ceremony the same air of pride and determination, but his large soft
eyes wandered along the dense lines of the regiments. No doubt his
thoughts ran in the same channel as ours, no doubt he was saying to
himself, ‘Only God knows how many of these brave fellows will be
senseless or plunged in agony before to-night,’ and I noticed that the
hand which held the rein trembled slightly, while the ‘White Father’
prayed for his Russian children as well as for their Roumanian friends.
“As the Emperor turned his charger’s head to leave the field he cast
another long, troubled look over the mass of uniforms, horses and
lances, and his lips moved murmuring words whose import I could not
catch as they were in Russian, words perhaps of leave-taking and
benediction, and then, amid a tempest of acclamations, the aged monarch
passed from our sight. The afternoon of that terrible day is one never
to be forgotten by those who, like myself, deafened by the roar of guns,
blinded by gunpowder, and drunk with the wild exaltation of the moment,
rushed to the assault. After losing our best officers and bravest
soldiers, we at length became masters of the place, but when, weary and
haggard, mere wrecks of humanity, we tried to regain our encampments, we
had to wade through a lake of blood in which corpses lay thick under the
starlit sky. The following morning the same religious ceremony took
place as had been held the previous day, but how altered were the
countenances, the attitude of those who, though victors, mourned the
loss of so many brothers and comrades! No Te Deum was to be sung, but a
solemn mass in honour of the glorious dead. Amidst the deep silence the
Emperor made his appearance, a strange pallor over-spreading his fine
features, while his eyes were cast down during the whole of the divine
service. I do not think I have ever seen such fervour and ardour as he
displayed while the priests slowly chanted the Requiem and raised their
hands to heaven. Almost immediately after the Mass the Te Deum was
rendered in thanksgiving for the possession of the Grivita Heights,
whose conquest was really a proud achievement for the Roumanian Army.
Again the Emperor tried to force a smile, but there was on his lips a
shade of sadness which made me in after years imagine that some strange
presentiment of his own tragic and untimely end must have crossed his
mind at that moment. We learned to love him well in the Bulgarian
Plains....”
Of the four Russian Emperors whom I find it necessary to mention here,
Alexander III. proved himself most faithful to the dictates and
sentiments of his race. He was a thorough Muscovite, the father and
apostle of Panslavism. A barbarian in many respects, he was a true
representative of his own predominant idea that Russia should rule
Europe by the strength of all that is most profoundly Russian or most
truly adapted to the Russian spirit. He it was who prescribed the almost
exclusive use at Court of the Russian language, which had been laid
aside in favour of French during the two preceding reigns. On this point
he insisted with obdurate persistency. He loved France and England well,
better indeed than any other nations, but he loved them for their own
sake, and refused to let his empire be influenced by ideas and facts and
books which did not have their roots deep in the Russian soil.
“I will not hear any language but my own spoken in my presence,” he
said, “so long as there are no foreigners in our country to whom we have
to be civil. Literature as well as everything else will benefit by the
gratification of my supreme desire to see the upper classes in Russia
resume studying the language of our forefathers.”
Though self-willed and sometimes violent in the development and
accomplishment of his political views, in private Alexander III. showed
a lively disposition. He was a kind and indulgent husband and father,
and simply worshipped his frail and delicate Empress, the charming
Princess Dagmar, whom he had received as an inheritance from his dying
brother, and whom he prized as a jewel more precious than any in his
Imperial crown. But at the very dawn of her beautiful and gracious
motherhood the sweet and adored Empress lost the stalwart companion of
her youth--Alexander III. went down to an early grave....
I would no more think of attempting to describe a personage, whether
royal or belonging to a less exalted rank, without making mention of his
ancestors, his education, and the atmosphere in which he had developed,
than I would launch into the endeavour to describe some landscape or
monument without mentioning the lights and shades by which it was
surrounded, and the people who have drawn comfort or distress from the
sight of it. In contrast to what I have related of his forefathers, the
present Emperor of Russia will stand out in striking relief. He is
neither haughty and imperious like his namesake Nicholas I., nor
melancholy and dreamy like Alexander II., nor does he in any way
resemble his father Alexander III., whose strong, wilful temper almost
verged on stubbornness, whose aspect was that of a giant, and whose
timidity was only equalled by his great kindness and the almost violent
grasp which he laid upon an idea, never allowing it to escape from him
till he had carried it out in its entirety. Nicholas II. takes after his
Danish mother, and, as every one knows, he is almost the double of the
Prince of Wales, his first cousin. I cannot, however, understand how
people can actually mistake the one for the other, since every time I
see the Prince of Wales I am struck by the thoroughly English expression
of his physiognomy, while in my opinion few faces are more
characteristic of the type of the clever young Russian student than that
of the Czar. He has besides the eager manner that belongs to this
particular type, though the education bestowed upon him as Hereditary
Grand Duke has done much towards giving him the gravity and dignity
necessary to his high rank. The Czar was still Czarewitch when I first
saw him, and he then gave me such a sense of youthful enthusiasm and
freshness of mind that it is with wonder I read now in the papers
accounts of ceremonies at which he has to preside with a countenance
suitable to the occasion, and I am dismayed to hear how silent and grave
he showed himself during his two visits to France. It is true I had
seen the Czarewitch on an occasion when he had no official part to play,
but simply showed a passing act of courteousness. On our way from one
train to another in a German station, he stopped to speak to our Queen,
who appreciated his delicate nature and fine intellectual qualities. I
cannot explain how it was that these two high personages, both
travelling _incognito_, came to meet in the dingy, stifling air of this
place, amid the deafening whistle of panting steam-engines, and should
thus be led to speak of literature and art, but the Czarewitch had not
been with us two minutes before he said:
“I love travelling but only when I can do it in my own way. I never
travel otherwise than at night, and spend my day visiting museums and
quaint old streets, bazaars when I am in the East, antiquarian shops
when I am in the North. I am more of an Asiatic than a European in my
tastes, and I have not only a vast collection of Indian curios and quite
an army of Buddhas large and small, but also a library composed of books
treating of Indian subjects alone, and another of books dealing with
Egyptian lore. Were I not--well, what I am--I should be the greatest
bookworm in the world.”
There was a flash of enjoyment in the large grey eyes as he mentioned
his favourite pursuits, then he went on:
“I should like to live half my life completely in Russia, hear only
Russian spoken, and see things that are solely Russian, then spend the
rest of the time in running over the world and bringing back its
treasures to my darling country.” A touch of his father’s patriotism
illumined the last words. “But then, one can never realise all one’s
castles in the air, and duty is a beautiful thing simply because it is
gilded over with the light of personal sacrifice. Besides, are we not
often most attached to the desires that we know we can never
accomplish?” The whirl of busy travellers eddied around us while I gazed
earnestly into the face of the future Czar, a face whose expression was
intense yet dreamy. A very slight brown moustache softened the outline
of his upper lip. His figure, his hands, his every movement, were
fragile and elegant, reminding us of those slim Marquises who at the
Court of Louis XIV. brushed the dust of the battlefield off the gilded
lace of their sleeves, and talked of bloodshed and perils as they glided
gracefully through the intricacies of a minuet. Yet the expression of
the Czarewitch’s face was marked with decision, and his features
recalled those of the Muscovite race. “What a pity,” I thought, as I
gazed upon his form and listened to his witty conversation, “what a pity
that one day this clever and buoyant personality must be chained to a
throne!... But how proudly he will wear a crown!” was my next reflection
as the light of patriotism dawned in his eyes and played round his
features--the gaze with which his ancestors looked down upon the
kneeling millions from the heights of palaces or the threshold of
altars.
But the Emperor who is an enthusiast as regards Asiatic religions and
Asiatic art, who loves Indian splendour and the glow of dying Byzantium,
is also the most European of all the three Emperors, his predecessors.
He does not strive to exclude modern ideas from his Empire, and is,
indeed, very liberal-minded, a quality he has acquired during his
numerous voyages and intimate intercourse with his English cousins. His
marriage with a Princess belonging to an enlightened family has
increased these tendencies.
The same year that I encountered the Czarewitch my good fortune brought
me in momentary contact with the beautiful Princess who was to be his
spouse. We were staying at Wiesbaden with our Queen, and one rainy
afternoon her Majesty had decided to call upon Bach and Beethoven in
place of regretting the absent sunshine. Strict orders were, therefore,
given that no one was to be admitted but the persons belonging to the
Queen’s most intimate circle. We were gathered round the piano listening
to the great master’s inspiration with rapt attention when a slight
sound at the door caused me to rise and inquire into the cause of the
disturbance. The Queen’s footman stood there with a troubled expression
on his face. “If you please, ma’am,” he said, “there are two ladies
downstairs; they wish to see the Queen immediately. I told them it was
impossible for them to do so, but they insist.”
“The Queen does not receive without being asked for the favour of an
audience.”
“I told them so, ma’am, but they are _so_ determined. They are very
pretty, they must be actresses....”
“Great ladies, perhaps, Princesses ...?” I put in.
“No, no, ma’am, actresses, of course. They are pretty and so simply
dressed. Besides,” and he drew himself up with dignity, “_I_ know all
the Royal Highnesses in the world.”
I could not then stop to interrogate him, but since then I have often
wanted to know why the man who knew all the Royal Highnesses of the
world should have decided that beauty and good taste in dress were the
exclusive privileges of actresses!
“Will you go and tell them that you have spoken to me and that I am very
sorry but that her Majesty is not in the habit of receiving in the
afternoon. And ask them to tell you their names.”
“I will go, ma’am, but all I say is of no use. There they have been in
front of the hotel for the last twenty minutes. They will not go!”
By this time my curiosity was aroused and I decided to go down myself
and have a peep at the pretty actresses. Opposite the front door was a
landau in which were two ladies clad in mourning dresses of thick serge,
who leaned forward as they perceived me. They seemed both very young and
very pretty indeed. The fairer of the two said in sweet, low, trembling
tones, “We are due to leave by the six o’clock train, so please let the
Queen know I must see her immediately.” There was an authoritative ring
in her gentle voice.
“But, madame, it is impossible. It seems to me that you can never have
approached a Queen before, to think that you can thus be admitted into
her Majesty’s presence without any notice!”
“The Queen will be delighted to see me,” and the unknown looked full
into my eyes with a mischievous and alluring smile, while the dimples
played in her rosy cheeks and her childish blue eyes were alive with
fun. I began to feel rather uncomfortable but went on expostulating
though feebly. Both ladies alighted, and I was returning in all haste to
relate the adventure to the Queen when, before I had time to cross the
threshold, the charming stranger had laid her hand on my arm.
“You see,” she said, “I know who you are, I even know your several
nicknames, and yet you cannot guess who I am. How amusing!” With these
words she tripped gently into the room, and I heard the glad exclamation
with which our Queen greeted her. “Dear, dear Irene, dear child--and
unannounced, how nice, how awfully nice of you! Come in, Hélène, I must
introduce you to the Princess Henry of Prussia, a young matron who is
not at all fond of her husband....”
“Your Queen is such a tease,” said the Princess, blushing. “Only think,
once she insisted that I wanted to enrol myself as a lady sailor, and
gather a fleet of ladies to follow our husbands when they go on long
voyages! I must admit that I am very unhappy when the Prince is away.
Without him everything is altered, life is _so_ grey, _so_ slow. But I
must tell you, Elizabeth, this young girl wanted to send me away in a
most disgraceful manner.”
“And the footman mistook her Royal Highness for an actress because she
was so pretty; he thought she could not be anything else,” I rejoined.
The Princess laughed, and I left her and the Queen in close conversation
while I entered the small parlour where my sister had already struck up
such a close friendship with the _dame d’honneur_ that I felt sure she
must be very amiable and clever. I always judge a princess by her
lady-in-waiting, and this time I was about to crown the high opinion I
had formed of the Princess Irene of Prussia by praising her choice of
her _dames d’honneur_ when I discovered that the lady in question
belonged to the Court of Darmstadt and was the constant companion of
Princess Alice of Hesse.
“Do come to Darmstadt,” said she. “The Princess will be delighted if you
will spend a few days with her. She is very remarkable, our young
Princess, so serious and sincere, so quiet and correct in her
appreciations of people. She has no taste for futilities, and dress,
balls, even sport do not appeal to her much. She prefers her books, the
study of her own soul, and the philosophy of human life. She is proud,
not of her birth, her rank, or her beauty as you might suppose, but of
the great effort she daily makes towards the development of the better
side of her instincts and talents. I wish you could see her and hear her
converse. At first she seems cold and reserved, but by-and-by when she
begins to feel in sympathy with her interlocutor her shyness and silence
disappear. Then she speaks out on any subject she happens to choose. She
has fairy hands and her needlework is extraordinary. I cannot help
thinking that she will have a brilliant future and an existence full of
splendid toil.” And the charming lady went on to relate scenes from the
quiet and serious Court life of Darmstadt till our one hope, our one
desire, was to visit her there. When she left with the Princess we were
quite excited over the subject till the Queen said:
“But, you stupid children, we are leaving for Roumania in two days.”
Our countenances fell. “Without seeing Princess Alice and the
incomparable _dame d’honneur_?”
“See them again,” said the Queen, “why, you shall do so this very day.
Put on your bonnets. We will accompany the Princess to the station.”
The train was already in when we reached the platform, and my heart beat
fast for fear we had missed the Princess. We were about to retrace our
steps when Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein came to my rescue by
saying to the Queen, “They have not left yet. The train is due to stop
twelve minutes longer, and I suppose that it will stop as long as we
like. There--Alix, Victoria and Irene are in the carriages. I will tell
them of your presence, and they will alight.” Kind Princess Christian
went to her nieces and in a few minutes they all alighted from the
carriage, declaring how surprised and delighted they were to see the
Queen. A very tall, slim girl stood shyly behind the Princess Irene and,
though the stately Princess Victoria of Battenberg towered high above
her, there was a touch of grandeur and dignity in her slender form which
I had never seen before in one so young. She wore a broad-brimmed black
hat from which hung a long feather of the same sable colour. The soft
colour of her chestnut hair cast a radiance over her pure white brow and
her haughty grey eyes glittered like the snow under a moonlit sky. The
contours of her cheeks, her chin and profile, were harmonious while her
lips firmly set spoke of a strong will though there was gentleness also
in their curves.
“I must introduce my sister Alix to you,” said Princess Irene, and the
proud beauty stepped forward and with a graceful movement stooped to
kiss the Queen’s hand which, however, the Queen suddenly drew back. This
gesture of graceful homage to one whose rank and years alike made her
venerable was accomplished by the Princess Alix without abating a jot of
her cold and imperious demeanour and no additional colour rose to her
faintly tinged face. The _dame d’honneur_ who was now at her elbow
pointed to us, and with a kindliness which changed her whole
countenance, giving it a childish expression of eagerness, the Princess
turned to us with outstretched hands.
“You will be able to manage this visit to Darmstadt, won’t you? From
what my lady-in-waiting says I am sure you would love our Court and that
I shall love you. Do come. We have such fine forests all around. I hear
you love music and poetry and recitations. We might get up theatricals,
though for my own taste I prefer a poem read aloud, and read well, to
the theatre. Poetry calms the soul and makes it strong. I am sorry we
are leaving so soon....”
“And we are leaving, too, madam.”
“For Roumania?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you are glad to return to your country?”
“Not this time, for we should have liked to go to Darmstadt so much. And
we know your Royal Highness would be such a pleasant, gay companion.”
“I am afraid this lady has been exaggerating as she always does when she
speaks about me. Of course, I am gay sometimes, and sometimes I can be
pleasant, I suppose, but I am rather a contemplative, serious being, one
who looks into the depths of all water, whether it be clear or dark.”
The expression of majesty and repose returned to the beautiful
countenance and reminded me again of snow-lit mountains where sunshine
and shade dwell by turns.
“Alix, take leave of the Queen and the ladies now. It is high time to do
so.” The words were spoken by the Princess Victoria of Battenberg and
her motherly glance dwelt fondly on the lovely face of her young sister.
The Princesses entered the railway carriage one by one, but Princess
Alix remained in the corridor waving her handkerchief till she was out
of sight and the last I saw of her as a Princess was that figure of
proud loveliness carried away into the glorious future, into the haze of
grandeur and happiness where she would still remain the cold and
beautiful lady who loves all that is pure and grave.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Brogi, Florence_
MARGHERITA DI SAVOIA, DOWAGER QUEEN OF ITALY]
MARGHERITA DI SAVOIA, DOWAGER QUEEN OF ITALY
After letting our eyes steep themselves in the pure abundant light that
bathes the Seven Hills, with soul weary from their long dwelling on
Rome’s historic past, and dazzled by the splendour of these ancient
glories which to-day lend a meaning to every step the clear-eyed
traveller takes in Rome, we return slowly to modern life, and our
carriage finds its place amongst the many vehicles wending their way
towards the Villa Borghese or the Villa Pamphili.
A sudden motion in the crowd announces an event of such importance that,
tired and dazed as we may be, we rouse ourselves and look with eager eye
to discover the cause of the commotion. Windows fly open on every side,
handkerchiefs are waved, the faces of the passers-by assume an
expression of mingled satisfaction and devotion, while in vehement tones
the passionate Italian words ring out: “La benedetta Regina--la nostra
Margherita--Il nostro poi”--“The blessed Queen--Our own Margaret--Our
own flower.” And on the high seat of an immense landau we see the
gracious lady whose august yet familiar name resounds above the uproar.
Four lackeys, in livery red as the embers of a winter fire, tower above
the fair head, which moves in unceasing salutation, while a smile
flickers like a flame upon the parted lips. Her complexion is so pale
and clear that every vein may be traced on the temples and firm rounded
cheeks, while the aquiline nose gives a touch of pride to the sweet
features. The high landau advances, and the Queen continues to bow right
and left with the same charming air of concern, while the smile flickers
and varies but is never extinguished for a second. Yet while thus
occupied with the passers-by, and occasionally lifting her eyes to the
windows, the Queen does not cease to talk to the lady who is her
neighbour or the gentleman-in-waiting seated in front of her. From what
ancestress, from what tradition slumbering in her blood, has Queen
Margherita learnt the science of a smile so subtle, so pure, so
lavishingly spent?--a smile at the same time fascinating and haughty,
careful to betray royal serenity, yet anxious to hold the popular
favour, a jewel which the lowest and most obscure might find on the road
to daily labour, as welcome as bread or flowers.
In passing from the Rome of bygone centuries to the Rome of to-day, a
vision seems thus to send our thoughts back to the glory celebrated by
chronicler and poet. No personage is more eloquent in favour of the
strenuous efforts by which Italy has gained her unity and freedom than
the niece and daughter-in-law of the great King Victor Emmanuel. Except
Queen Victoria, no queen of the nineteenth century could boast like
Margherita of embodying in her one personality the fate of her people at
once with the fate of her dynasty, since she was twice a _Savoia_ and
twice an Italian Princess before becoming Queen of Italy. She is the
only one amongst Royal Consorts who has had no need to search for a
throne in another country than her own; she alone can speak to her
subjects in the language of her childhood, and she treasures in her
heart all the faults and qualities of their race. She alone has given
them a King of pure native descent. In his splendid “History of France”
Michelet says: “A king’s children must always, according to the nature
of royal marriages, be as strangers in the land.” From this imputation,
at least, the King of Italy is exempt.
Every one knows how beautiful the life of Queen Margherita has been and
how warmly she is beloved in every corner of her country. In the
smallest Piedmontese village, as in the gorgeous towns of Southern
Italy, every _contaddina_ calls her “Our own Margherita,” while the
highest circles of society declare their King’s mother to be
accomplished in every art: to those who have never known her this
sentiment may indeed seem akin to infatuation, since it pervades every
class and finds not a contradictory echo to mar its sincerity. I do not
seek here to relate the numerous anecdotes told about her, to describe
her daily occupations, nor to trace her biography. My chief aim in these
pages is to render my impressions of kings and queens whom I have met
and talked with, to describe as clearly as possible their
characteristics, the very essence of their souls such as they were
revealed to me on frequent occasions when the august personages with
whom I was brought into close contact displayed before the eyes of a
writer and poet sentiments they believed they were expressing in the
presence of a mere woman of the world.
During the few months I spent in Rome--where my parents had passed part
of the summer and autumn before my arrival, my father at that time
representing his country at the Italian Court--my mother and he often
spoke in fervent admiration of Queen Margherita and King Humbert, whom
they frequently visited. But the terrible grief, the dire misfortune
which had brought me to our temporary home in the fold of the Seven
Hills, held my mind aloof from every distraction but my own trouble. Not
all the glamour of the divine city, or the severe beauty o’erspreading
its famous _agra romana_; not the gentle light that descended from a sky
fair as the bosom of a summer sea, nor the grandeur of the historic
_palazzi_; not the beautiful twilights floating over the Palatine and
the Janicule; not even the keen interest abroad in Rome in watching the
struggle between spiritual and temporal powers, could succeed to divert
me from my sorrow, or draw me out of the abyss of tears into which I
sank deeper every hour. The image of Queen Margherita dwelt in my mind
only among the many images of beauty whose power was incapable of
soothing my distress. Vainly when we met her in the streets would my
mother say:
“There is the Queen--do look at her. See how she smiles; she has often
spoken so nicely of you to me.... She receives us in a low dress
always--it is the habit at this Court to receive foreign ambassadors in
full dress. In many ways it is a very simple Court, but on the other
hand its etiquette is rather complicated.... The Prince of Naples has
told his mother a great deal about his visit to Roumania and about
you.... Mother and son are so fond of each other. When he is away he
writes to her every day and even twice a day sometimes. Do look at her.”
But I scarcely raised my eyes and remained in my attitude of depression
and indifference as the carriage passed our own, though the royal smile
more than once alighted on my face, the vivid blue eyes searching deep
into mine. I felt that the Queen knew and desired to show me more than a
passing moment’s interest, but the sight of the pompous emblems of her
rank, even her compassionate glance, thrilled me with a sentiment of
pain and stirred all the bitter pangs of memory in my soul. But Queen
Margherita’s kindness and Queen Margherita’s will are not easily
thwarted. In the early autumn my mother had a long audience from the
Queen. I thought that after this merely ceremonious interview my mother
would return from the Quirinal delighted of course, but with no new
experience, and that the burning subject of myself would have been
carefully avoided by both. But my knowledge of the ways of the Italian
Court was completely at fault.
“The Queen understands you so well,” said my mother, “and she pities you
so much. Without making any open allusion to the cause of your trouble,
she spoke of it--beginning the conversation first, of course, as I
should never have dreamt of her expressing sympathy in a case which so
directly touches the laws and traditions of monarchy. These I do not
think she would ever sacrifice. She is a Queen from head to foot, but
she realises the extent of your sufferings; she says you are to her a
pathetic sight as she meets you in her daily drives and sees you always
in the same state of depression. She seems to see everything.”
A few days after my mother’s audience a lady belonging to the diplomatic
circle came to me and said:
“Listen, dear child. Queen Margherita would very much like to see
you--but a queen cannot invite people before they ask leave to present
their homage to her. You required a hint, did you not? Well, I have come
to suggest this: write to the Marchesa di Villamarina and beg the favour
of an audience. The Queen will receive you immediately. I speak almost
as if I were entrusted with an official message. Believe me I do not
speak lightly. Write.”
Here the Queen’s tact and delicacy had discovered a means of
accomplishing her will without allowing her dignity to suffer, so it was
without a moment’s hesitation that I wrote to the Marchesa di
Villamarina, the Queen’s dearest friend and a lady worthy of the
affection and confidence bestowed upon her by her royal mistress.
The very next day we were, my mother and I, invited to call upon the
Queen at two o’clock P.M. This was a somewhat hasty summons, and at a
less conventional time than usual. Awake to the emotions of the hour, I
considered the situation and tried with some dismay to guess what the
Queen would say; I had been told that she was very fond of asking
questions. In what light did she regard me and my thwarted fate? What
could the Queen--who was twice a Queen by right of birth and right of
marriage, and who always laid such stress on the right of Royal
blood--find to say to one who might have been a Queen without possessing
any of those rights?
These thoughts and many of the same kind rapidly crossed my brain as we
saw the huge statues of Castor and Pollux flash past us as we drove
through the large court of the Palace, environed on every side by its
huge yellow buildings with a single beam of sunshine lying along the
grey stones like a road of watery light. In the hall a line of tall
soldiers with glistening swords and helmets gave us the salute, and we
mounted the soft staircase whose steps were so low and easy under our
feet that we scarcely felt the ascent. In the large, wood-panelled
antechamber were some ten or twelve lackeys clad in the same
flame-coloured livery that we see on the Royal equipages in Rome and
London. A short exchange of polite remarks took place with one of the
_principessa romana_, who that day was the lady-in-waiting, and who
kindly endeavoured to attract my attention to the valuable paintings
collected in the blue drawing-room into which we were ushered. Then the
Marchesa di Villamarina makes her appearance. This was the sign of a
favour precious indeed, as the Marchesa is very busy and rarely receives
the Queen’s visitors, yet it was the Marchesa herself who beckoned to us
and showed us the open door leading to the Royal apartment.
A vision of white and gold dazzled my sight as if we had suddenly come
upon a landscape of sunlit snow, and the Queen’s white dress and the
Queen’s fair hair seemed to throw all around a radiance of white and
gold. In her hand she held a book which was slowly dropped on a stool,
and while she signed my mother towards a low armchair, she drew me to
her and placed me on the sofa by her side. Then, with a graceful yet
determined movement, she swerved backwards to the other end of the sofa,
and, still holding my hand, said:
“I want to look at you well. I have had so many pictures of you but not
one is like. There is nothing like Nature after all--nothing like the
living impression we receive from the living individuality.”
Her neck and fingers were heavy with pearls and diamonds, and the flash
of coloured gems trembled in her hair and descended over her brow; in
the folds of her garments and around her the Latin Queen displayed
richness worthy of a Byzantine Empress. The snowy whiteness of the
sunlit chamber, the silk and velvet embroidered with golden flowers and
silvery tracings, all the glistening splendour of her surroundings,
revealed how highly the Queen placed the demands and glory of her rank
and its attributes. Yet the contrast was singularly refreshing between
so much pomp and the pleasant familiar voice that murmured on, swinging
from one subject to another like a bird between the branches of a
forest; vivacious and inquisitive, yet tinged with a variety of
information and personal experience which showed plainly her leisure
hours have not been given up to dreaming. Indeed, Queen Margherita’s
conversation is so attractive and full of point that it could be
compared to the verses of those poets whose lyrics take to sudden flight
among the stars, then all at once alight gaily upon the ground, and
speak again of earthly matters with the same liquid language employed in
their intercourse with the stars.
With marvellous ability Queen Margherita avoided entering into the cause
of my grief, yet not for a moment did she cease to talk of the sorrow
for which she had seen tears upon my face.
“You should not, oh, you should not be so depressed. You are young and
you are a poet. I love your writings, and so do all who read them. Then,
is there anything more enchanting to a woman, or more soothing to her
soul, than to hear these words murmured as she passes: ‘She is a poet’?
Do not think, though, that I am addressing myself to your feminine
vanity. I speak to your reason, to your soul, to your sense of duty. How
often I have vainly wished to be a poet myself! When in the blue mists
of an autumn morning I follow the steep mountain paths I love, something
in me sings a hymn of beauty and gratitude I am doomed never to utter in
words.... You love Venice?” she continued. “Venice must make every one
feel a poet: what, then, must a real poet feel in Venice? I followed all
your movements while you were staying in Venice with your dear Queen. It
is such a pity I could not come to you at that time. Venice is lovely,
is it not?”
“Yes, madam, it is the city of joy.”
“The city of joy--and you say so, you who have suffered and mourned in
Venice? Why, there is a breath of unutterable sadness in the breeze
among the lagoons, in the gentle murmur of the oars as they touch the
stone staircases at night. You have not seen Venice with the eyes of
Lord Byron.”
“No, madam, but with the eyes of Titian, with the eyes of the sun, who
seems himself astonished at the gorgeous beauty which he awakens on the
bosom of the waters before he sinks below them. It seems to me as if a
mellow tune of laughter and joy glided over the lagoons between the high
palaces....”
“Yes, Titian, Veronese, the sunshine of Venice--_they_ are elements of
joy indeed! And Tintoretto--I worship Tintoretto, the glorious giant.
The Giant’s Staircase should be called so because of him. There are so
many admirable descriptions of Venice, such a vast number of them, it
seems as if the city shed the same glamour over all who attempt to
describe it; but almost best of all others I love Pierre Loti’s
rendering of Venetian spells, Venetian charms. I read his pages over and
over again when he speaks of Venice--he thrills me as keenly as
Chateaubriand.” Then she began to speak of our Roumanian Queen. “Oh,
your Queen--how I love and admire her! I saw her often this autumn in
Pallanza. Sometimes I would go to pay her a visit quite early while she
was still in bed, and thus spent with her moments so delicious that I
will never forget them. She is extraordinary. Her sufferings have not
altered the sweetness of her nature. You don’t know Pallanza, where she
stays, do you? It is a charming little place, and she seems to like it
very much. Shall I describe it to you? Look--here is the lake, and a
long row of hotels are on this side.” And Queen Margherita, with hands
busily engaged in tracing the lines of the distant Italian landscape,
succeeded in making every detail of the small town live before our
eyes, while her words made such vivid comments on her gestures that I
could imagine the bright colours of the water and the trees, the soft
splash of the oars, and the chime of the bells at evening as they echoed
over the sunlit lake from village to village. Thus also I imagined her
arrival on those autumn mornings whose softness bathes the Italian lakes
in rich and mellow hues. In fancy I could see the fair Queen’s barge
approach the blue shore, and the breeze playing with her hair and veil;
the crowds assembled in spite of the early hour, and their hearty
greetings; and how she would enter Carmen Sylva’s bedroom where the
shadows of night still lingered, and how, dazzled by the light from
within, she would at first scarcely distinguish the form of her royal
sister. And I could almost follow the thoughts exchanged between these
two in the course of a _tête-à-tête_ which personages of their rank
seldom enjoy, and the gay peals of laughter which would resound through
the dim chamber.
“How gracefully, how majestically your Queen walks! Although she has now
a little difficulty in moving fast, there is a cadence and suppleness in
her every step. Yet she is not very strong; she says she feels as if her
feet were in fetters or bound to the ground, and that she has a good
deal of trouble in lifting them up. But her body is as straight as the
flame of a torch....”
We rose to take our leave. “You will come back to see me, won’t you?
Now that you are in Rome I cannot content myself with the pleasure of
only reading your works. Do come again.... Ah! I had almost forgotten
the most important part of my duty, which I ought to have gone through
at the very beginning of our conversation.” And in a voice which she
tried to make ceremonious and cold, the Queen said: “I hope you will
enjoy your stay here, and be pleased with every one and everything in
Italy.... Do come again,” she said, resuming her natural tones. “You
see, I often forget the teachings of etiquette, but really I am sure
your visit to me has done you good. There is such a glow on your cheeks,
and quite a light in your eyes--I am an excellent doctor. Come again;
come soon.”
Notwithstanding these gracious injunctions, I spent many months without
expressing a wish to return to the Quirinal, though the memory of the
Queen’s charm and her sympathetic kindness dwelt with me, and had indeed
created a powerful diversion in my life. Members of my family had at
that time the honour of approaching her Majesty very often, and on such
occasions she never failed to inquire after me. I may say that scarcely
a week passed without my receiving from the august lady such tokens of
interest as go straight to the heart. When we made up our minds to leave
Rome, as my father desired to return to our Roumanian home, the prospect
of our departure was terrible to me in every way. I loved Rome with that
passionate love which makes us cling to places where we have tasted
pain or hope most keenly; besides, “the city of the soul” had wrought
its spells upon my mind, and I felt at my ease amongst its beauties and
all the sadness of its palaces and stones. Added to the other pangs of
separation, sorrow at leaving Queen Margherita’s neighbourhood, having
to sacrifice the daily consolation of her smile and the soothing
influence of her presence, weighed me down completely. Besides, every
one had shown me great kindness, in the highest society as well as in
the humbler classes, and into the solitude and silence of my life such
sympathy had come that the idea of bidding farewell to the places and
beings amongst whom my grief had found consolation, proved a terrible
trial. And I had to say farewell to the Queen. In my farewell to the
idol of the nation all other farewells would be comprised.
The Queen knew we had asked for this audience in order to take leave of
her. She smiled sadly.
“So you are going? Oh how I pity you. No one who is able to understand
Rome can depart from this glorious city without bitter regret. Every
cloud in our skies, every blade of grass under our feet has a
significance of its own. I pity you. Must you really go?”
“Alas, madam, yes.”
I had never seen Queen Margherita look so beautiful as that day. Her
eyes really were of the violet hue of Mediterranean gulfs, and her
violet dress besprinkled with golden flowers fell around her like the
shades of a Roman twilight on its gardens and terraces.
“I have come to your Majesty just before our departure. I have craved
the honour of this interview not only from a desire to thank the Queen
for her sympathy and graciousness, but to thank the Italian nation and
all the people of this land. I want to thank them in the person of the
lady whom the nation adores. Your Majesty is the symbol, the idol of the
land, and at her feet will I lay my thanks. Every one has been so good,
so attentive to me--to the stranger who came bearing with her a world of
sorrow and despair.”
“Yes, I know, I am certain that every one has been kind to you, but this
I pray you to remember,” and the Queen proudly raised her head, while
the diamonds in her hair shone so brightly that the aureola of several
crowns seemed to encircle it; “this I beg of you to remember--Italy has
not been kind to you through mere kindness. Italy is still the land of
chivalry and romance. You are a woman and a poet, and you are
unfortunate, abandoned and weak. To become a heroine in our country
nothing more is required than the wounds inflicted by Fate or love. Had
you come to us in prosperity you would not perhaps have been received
thus, and might not have been able to understand all the generosity of
this nation. But when this happens, when you _are_ happy again--and you
_will_ be happy--return to Rome and let Rome see you smile as Rome has
seen your tears.”
“The King--how can we prove our devotion and gratitude to the King? Can
we ever forget his concern and his goodness!”
“Oh the King, he is the most chivalrous among them all! I will repeat to
him all you have said about Italy and himself, and he will be delighted,
but more pleased because of Italy than on his own account.”
The room where white and gold gleamed like sunlit snow was now bathed by
the last rays of a dying autumn afternoon. The windows were open, and in
the silvery haze of the coming twilight the whole city lay; like a
fortress St. Peter’s dome stood high above all the other church spires,
and I thought of its spiritual import, and said in my heart that in the
Palace, too, a spiritual force was dwelling, pure as the pure robes of
the aged Pope. That the Queen who so proudly proclaimed her joy in being
the wife of a chivalrous King in a chivalrous land should one day weep
in the horror of a tragic hour, and see him meet a doom of violence,
nothing then seemed to foresay. Peace was in her and all around her when
she smiled her farewell to us in that sunny chamber on the heights of
the Quirinal hill.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Guigoni & Bossi, Milan_
KING VICTOR EMMANUEL III. AND QUEEN HELENA]
KING VICTOR EMMANUEL III. AND QUEEN HELENA
It is singular to note that although all the encomiums usually bestowed
upon Princes have been accorded to the present King of Italy, and
although his reign is already three years old, very little is known
about his real personality. Anecdotes and descriptions have endeavoured
to make of him a familiar figure, but in vain. There is a lurking vein
of mystery about his personality which extends even to his exterior
aspect. He converses very little with strangers, and his political
_entourage_ cannot boast of obtaining from him many definite
pronouncements which might give a precise idea of his opinions and
tastes. In Italy more particularly, complete ignorance prevails
regarding the temperament and aspirations of the young King. Ability is
the one thing every one allows him to possess; and from Rome to Palermo,
from Milan to Naples, public report agrees in depicting him a perfect
soldier, as well able to command as he formerly was to obey. But the
special quality which has endeared the House of Savoy to the Italian
people, the quality which the nation prefers to all other
characteristics of that ancient race, seems somewhat wanting in the
King, though he is intelligent, far-sighted, brave, and worthy in most
respects of his glorious descent.
In every spot where the noble House of Savoy has left traces of its
brilliancy and heroism, in cities both of Italy and France, pictures are
to be found which portray Knights, Earls and Dukes belonging to this
race, which boasts a lineage more ancient and more glorious than even
that of the Hapsbourgs. The Savoy Princes appear to have been especially
careful in bequeathing to future centuries the presentment of their
countenances and their garb--the latter intended to adorn a Court
pageant or dazzle the troops in the gay sunlight of a battlefield; while
their Princesses look down upon us in haughty disdain, or smiling
complacency from the walls of innumerable museums and palaces. Beneath
these portraits inscriptions tell us that the beautiful dame represented
was a Queen by marriage, or perchance the mother of a King. Thus Francis
I., one of the most valorous and most popular rulers of France, was the
son of a Savoyard Princess, the famous Duchess Louise of Angoulême, who
for years lived in fear that her beloved son might miss the throne,
should a child be born to the old King of France, Louis XII., he having,
after the death of his first wife, married Mary Tudor, sister to Henry
VIII. Another Princess of this race was the young Duchess of Burgundy,
who came to Versailles before she was ten years of age to marry Louis
XIV.’s grandson, and whose sad history has been told at length by one of
the most famous French historians. Yet no historical sketch, no legend
relating the past splendour and valiant deeds of this chivalrous and
gallant dynasty, can in any way compare with the accounts given of them
by the present King of Italy himself when he takes up the subject
casually in conversation. He possesses, in addition, a wonderfully
accurate knowledge of the individual character of each personage among
his ancestors. Their great deeds, their perilous adventures and
misfortunes, their triumphs and glory, are made to live again as soon as
in his own feverish manner he takes up the tale and begins to wax
eloquent.
During my extensive travels I have come across many documents and
pictures connected with the House of Savoy--“la casa di Savoia” as it is
called in Italy--and many a time has my heart been stirred while poring
over dusty folios or wandering through long galleries, where paintings
endowed with the eternal youth of art hang on each side like a phantom
army. Yet two vivid impressions remain in my mind which, while I live,
will shed a splendid lustre over the simple word “Savoy” in my thoughts.
The first was the occasion when I heard Victor Emmanuel III. recall to
memory one after another the warriors and princes to whom he owes his
illustrious blood. The second impression is a very recent one. It came
to me in one of my rambles through the archæological treasures of
France. I had gone to see one of the many gems of architecture raised by
piety in that fair land, and while I wandered through the church, white
and luminous as the cathedrals of Italy where a feeling for pagan beauty
has not been obliterated by the thrill of adoration and awe so
impressive in Gothic aisles, the living language of the eloquent Prince
seemed to mingle with the silence that enshrouded the snowy tombs, and
in my imagination the Royal words seemed allied to what the silence
said.
On the stained-glass window knelt a Duke of Savoy, so deep in prayer
that he had let his gauntlet fall on a cushion by his side, and did not
even see behind him the form of his patron saint listening to the
deathless orisons. For centuries the handsome young Duke has prayed on
in that church, little witting that the territory on which it stands has
passed away from his line, oblivious to everything save his devotions.
Not far from the altar is the place where his dust is laid. Never more
will he take up his gauntlet again, nor cover his fair curls with the
heavy helmet clasped to his breast, yet still he prays on.
In that church the tombs all round speak more of love than of death.
Gazing on the sculptured masterpieces whose outlines seem to melt into
the silvery twilight, we forget that the Princess who built the shrine,
the dreamer whose vision is here pictured in stone and coloured glass,
was a powerful, strong-souled woman, daughter of a German Cæsar, aunt to
Charles V., and Governor of the Netherlands. Hers was no life of prayer
and solitude, but an ever active existence, bent on political power and
deep designs. More than once, we are told, she armed herself and rode on
horseback to make or unmake treaties and alliances--a woman alike feared
and honoured in Council and among the nations under her sway.
In the convent Church of Urm it is her love-story that alone appears--a
romance to thrill the poet and the traveller. To these Margherita di
Savoia, wife of Philibert the Handsome, is a truly pathetic figure.
Betrothed to the young French Dauphin, who sent her back to her father
because he wished to marry the wealthy Duchess of Brittany, she
afterwards became the widow of King Juan of Castille. Fate seemed to
pour its bounties at her feet when she espoused the Duke of Savoy and
settled with him in the wealthiest part of his rich dukedom, but ill
fortune again intervened, for the beloved husband died after two years
of happiness. Despair took possession of her, and in memory of the man
she loved the proud, sorrowing Princess built the church where the royal
lovers now rest side by side. She caused the image of her dead husband
to be carved and painted three times, and her love has prevailed over
the waves of time and discord, so that to-day the gem of art stands
erect and beautiful shining from amongst the trees to tell its tale of
fidelity and immortal affection.
It is in the handsome features of Duke Philibert, thrice repeated in
stone and glass, that the characteristics of the race of Savoy may be
best seen and traced to their source. The languor yet extreme manliness
of the features, the firmness of the strong hands closed over the
helmet, the look that the Prince lifts to the holy Cross before which he
is kneeling--all bear testimony to the vigour, the ardour and the piety
bequeathed by the dynasty to its descendants. Between the fervent spirit
of the kneeling Duke and the soul of the present King of Italy, how many
different personalities have intervened, what powerful hereditary
tendencies have been mingled in his blood by unions with almost every
royal house in Europe! His fathers have been allied with the families of
Austria and Bourbon, and with the families of Italian Princes of races
now extinct, yet a near parentage survives which links him to the figure
of that silent worshipper in the church at Urm, as well as to the heroes
whose deeds have graced the records of the Casa di Savoia. Any one who
has the honour of approaching Queen Margherita’s son may easily trace in
him such remains of mediæval feeling mingled with modern ideas as may
serve to render him interesting to those who look to find in the living
the relics of the long dead past.
Victor Emmanuel III. may be called the child of joy and happy
expectation. Born at a moment when every heart was bent upon the triumph
of Italian Unity, he acquired from both his father and mother the blood
of the same glorious ancestors, for Queen Margherita and King Humbert
were first cousins. Naples, that city where joy raises her altars under
the fairest sky that poets can sing, the beautiful city crowned with
flowers and over-shadowed by her graceful volcano--Naples gave him her
name. When the twenty-second boom of the cannon announced that
Margherita, then Crown Princess of Italy, had given birth to a son, the
population of the sunlit town went wild with exultation. Men greeted
each other in the streets with “Italia ha un Re” (Italy has a King), and
the shouts reached the Palace of Castelamai standing high above the
gulf, where the proud young mother caught the happy strain, while the
father, looking out from the marble balconies over the glistening
waters, smiled and blessed the glorious day. Thus Victor Emmanuel was
pledged to a brilliant future. “We do not want our King to be an artist
or a warrior. We simply require him to be intelligent, good, and a true
Italian,” said the people. King Humbert’s goodness was well known and he
proved himself an Italian to the last, even on that fatal eve when he
refused to listen to the prayers of the Queen when she begged him not to
tire himself by presiding at the meeting on returning from which he met
his death.
That Victor Emmanuel is as kind, as thoroughly Italian in heart, word
and manners as his father was, many of his subjects seemed to doubt at
the opening of his reign, since the Prince had always been very guarded
in his speech and ways, and no one appeared to know much about him.
Although rumour had reached our Court of the interesting and excellent
education he had received, it was with great indifference that we looked
forward to his visit to Bucharest. We were accustomed to derive but
little benefit from the presence and conversation of Royal visitors. We
remembered the many Imperial and Royal Highnesses we had met in Roumania
and abroad, who had favoured us only with such languid questions
concerning our health, &c., as clearly proved their possession of an
unvarying vocabulary whose monotonous phrases they distributed by the
way, beginning afresh whenever they found themselves in presence of new
acquaintances.
I must allow that I have seen many Court ladies and gentlemen gratified
and delighted with the crumbs thrown to them by the supercilious
politeness of royalty, but to this standard of Court perfection I have
never been able to attain. I have always entertained a profound
reverence for monarchy and its representatives, for the Right Divine of
the being graced by God and the nation with a crown, as for every member
of their families; but these sentiments of loyalty and traditional
respect have been shaken when the scanty courtesy of a stiff German
_Höchheit_ or obscure _Durchlaut_ has affected my instinctive feeling
that the duty to show not only politeness, but interest and sympathy,
towards all with whom they come in contact should be numbered amongst
the dearest attributes of royalty. I am ashamed to say how often I must
have astonished those haughty Princes and Princesses who scarcely deign
to move lips or eyelids when addressing their inferiors in rank, by
casting on them such looks of amused irony or surprise that I received
in exchange glances which clearly said, “Impertinent little thing!” I
must, however, be sincere and add that it is only the minor potentates
who indulge in the pleasure of leaving behind them a row of courtiers
thunderstruck at the honour they have received of listening to these
low, drawling tones.
The Prince of Naples had not been an hour the guest of our King before
all apprehension as to his amiability and sympathy was stilled. He
displayed such conversational powers as are rarely found not alone among
his equals, but even among those beneath him whose professional task it
is to be eloquent. On every subject he seemed well-informed. In order to
give her son the benefit of a thorough training in Court etiquette,
Queen Margherita had devised the plan of setting up a circle of empty
chairs in a large drawing-room. Upon each of these was inscribed the
name and title of some personage belonging to the Church or State. She
would then make her son, at that time only nine years of age, converse
with the empty seats, bearing labels with names such as “Archbishop of
Milan,” “Minister of Justice,” “General G.,” “The French Ambassador,”
&c. In this manner the child quickly learned the different ways in which
he ought to address the absent officials and ladies without allowing
conversation to slacken or drop for a moment. But beyond this, his
erudition in all that regards historical and military matters is really
remarkable, while to describe fully his tastes and instincts we should
have to recall some of the rulers among his ancestors, those ancient
Dukes who, together with the ordinary accomplishments of Princes, had
the gift of sagacity bestowed upon them from their cradles.
The years which to many are numbered among the happiest of life, those
of early childhood, were spent by the Prince of Naples in labour and
study so severe that had not his mother soothed the toil of those early
days with her gentleness and affection, he might have become hardened by
excess of study and reflection and turned into a solitary bookworm.
Fortunately he loved sport, and notwithstanding the efforts he had to
make to obtain from his weak body a perfect obedience to his commands,
all his impulses urged him to action and violent exercise. He loved to
follow his Alpine soldiers along steep paths of mountain and glen, or to
run beside the _bersaglieri_ regiments at the wild pace which makes them
so fascinating to behold. It is almost incredible that a Prince who
boasts that he desires nothing better upon earth than days spent among
his troops in glade or forest, should be at the same time the keen
observer whose chief pleasure it is to study every one he meets, and to
whom no creature upon earth has ever appeared indifferent or
uninteresting. It is this keen scrutiny of his fellow men which prevents
the Prince from putting forward his own opinions at the beginnings of
acquaintance, because he is so much occupied with the minds and feelings
of others.
Although he adores riding good horses, running races, and marching
alongside of his soldiers as much as he dotes on historical lore, he has
escaped the double peril of becoming a mere trooper on the one hand or a
gloomy scholar--what the French call a _rat de bibliothèque_--on the
other. Either alternative might have ruled in his case, as his tutors
have had to deal with a character passionately attracted towards certain
ideas and habits. Unlike many Princes who, lacking both energy and
intelligence, yet try to imitate the life of great soldiers or to rival
learned men, the present King of Italy would have made a brilliant
warrior or an accomplished historian had not the balance been ably kept
between his tastes and his abilities.
But we must return to the first impression created by his presence in
Bucharest, an impression afterwards completed at Rome where I had
frequent opportunities of seeing him. It was with almost a shudder of
apprehension we had learned that the heir of the Italian throne was to
spend three or four days at our Court, and on glancing over the
programme of the entertainments prepared for him we discovered that,
owing to the fact that he was in deep mourning, he had expressed a
desire that hardly any official receptions should take place. There were
therefore to be no gala representations, no races, no balls. We noted
that he would pass the afternoons in the company of the Queen in her
Majesty’s music room or study, where most of our time was spent.
When the Prince of Naples on the day of arrival, after a visit to the
barracks and a drive in the Chaussée or public garden of Bucharest,
entered the precincts sacred to the arts and poetry, he threw around him
a sharp glance of inquiry. His gaze took in at once pictures, furniture
and individuals, and seemed to penetrate into the remotest corners of
our minds, tearing off the veil that hides thought and sentiments. The
eyes, keen and interrogating, travelled from one face to another noting
each detail of gesture or smile, yet controlled by a strict politeness
and quickly averted if he noticed the slightest uneasiness on the part
of the person who was the object of his scrutiny.
“This will not be a tedious week,” I said to myself, as the Prince went
on bowing and looking round him with all his attention given to this
silent observation. Then, all at once, noting a smile of amusement on
the Queen’s face, he said:
“Your Majesty must find me very singular and almost rude. I must first
take in impressions of faces and landscapes before I can enjoy the
simple natural pleasures of conversation, of grasping at people’s
thoughts through their words. I must first handle my impressions a
little before I allow them to take hold upon me and throw a haze of
illusion over my imagination. The first thing I do on arriving in a
foreign country is to look about and reflect and write down my
reflections, so that gradually by accumulating facts in my mind and
diary I am becoming a sort of dictionary. I have an excellent memory in
which I am sure you would find almost every person, every place I have
seen, each in its proper position, in good order and array, bearing a
clear notification of its value and beauty.”
“And this is an amusement to you?” asked the Queen.
“Scarcely an amusement. It is an absolute necessity to me. I could not
do without it, even if I wished to. I have already noted many remarkable
traits in your Roumanian peasants on my way from the frontier. What has
struck me much more than their costume is the way in which they hold
their heads.... Yes, they bear their heads high, a thing unusual among
people who stoop all day long over agricultural work. But this has a
peculiar significance with them. It shows that they belong to a nation
long oppressed yet full of courage, whose favourite gesture for
generations has been to lift the head while thinking of the oppressor,
interrupting the daily toil with such reflections as ‘We shall one day
be a free people. We shall be delivered from tyranny and suffering.’ And
the women, how calm and dignified they are! They remind me of Samaritans
gathered round the well of an evening.” Then turning abruptly towards
me, he said: “Why do you go on writing?... I have been watching you for
the last ten minutes. Your pen flies on as if there were nothing more
important to do than to write just at this moment, when I am here....”
I felt completely taken aback.... “Sire, this must leave by the five
o’clock mail. Her Majesty has given me permission to write in her room
when I am in a great hurry. I have been writing, but I have listened
with great interest to every word of your Royal Highness’s
conversation.”
“Things done by halves never succeed; you cannot have listened with real
attention, or if you have, your work must have been badly done. Now tell
me, have you travelled much? Do you know I was trying to find out where
you have been educated, while I spoke to you as you were introduced....
Thus far I am sure I am not mistaken; you have not been brought up in
Roumania. Now I am going to guess the country and the city where you
spent some of your earliest years. Let me see.... Every one here speaks
French beautifully, German too, but you speak English almost like an
Englishwoman, there is not the slightest difference between your
English and your French. And yet.... Ah! How stupid of me not to see it
immediately. You were brought up in Paris. There is no mistake about
that. You need not try to deny it.”
“I do not, but may I ask your Royal Highness what reasons led you to
form that conclusion, which is a correct one?”
“Of course,” answered the Prince triumphantly. “Paris, Paris only could
have taught you....”
“What has Paris taught her which makes her French education so
conspicuous in her?” questioned the Queen.
“Can your Majesty not guess? She is very young yet, in perfect
possession of the conviction, so widespread in France, that woman is on
a footing of equality with if not of superiority to man. She has a
quiet, authoritative way of giving her opinions, as if feeling
absolutely sure that her every word will be taken into consideration.
Now in Germany, where man prevails, a woman would speak in tones of
humility and feel so much astonished at being consulted that at first
she would find no words to answer, even if she were extremely clever or
learned.”
“In the upper classes, perhaps,” answered the Queen. “But I cannot let
you ignore the many remarkable women in Germany--how well armed they are
with clever arguments and fluent speech.”
“Your Majesty misunderstands me. I simply mean the way of putting forth
ideas, the security of mind and tone, that is French.... Then the other
trait, a very striking one also, you went on writing while we were
speaking.”
“But your Royal Highness does not mean to say that ‘Time is money’ is a
French proverb or an exclusively Parisian saying?”
“No, but the French prefer ideas to sentiment, and of course you were
following up an idea which you were afraid of losing. What were you
writing ... a poem ... or a prose tale?”
“A letter to my mother.”
A tender smile passed over the Prince’s features. “And do you write
often to her?”
“Every day.”
“So do I to the Queen.”
“And as my mother will feel very anxious to hear all about your Royal
Highness’s visit, and I have a good deal of work to do for the Queen, I
thought I might try to finish this letter.”
“And I have been unkind enough to hinder you.... Well, let me atone....
Please tell your dear mother you are writing under dictation and write
this: ‘The Prince of Naples is delighted with Roumania, loves and
admires its Queen, and thanks you for having given your daughter such an
excellent education (though she is uncivil enough to write to you while
I am present), taught her so many languages and inspired her with the
same great affection as he has for his own mother.’ When I had finished
the sentence, the Prince took the pen and traced these words at the
foot of the page, ‘Witnessed and signed by me: _Vittorio Emmanuele di
Savoia_.’”
“Now all of you take care what you say,” said the Prince laughingly when
a few minutes later we were gathered round the tea-table. “I write down
everything, and there is not a word that I do not remember. I am a
phonograph.... But my diary is locked. It contains portraits which I
draw on the flyleaf in order to make physiognomies speak for
themselves.”
Every time he returned from the sightseeing expeditions to which the
King regularly conducted him, the Prince of Naples came to the Queen’s
sitting-room as one accustomed to be on intimate terms with her Majesty,
and continued to give abundant proofs of his intelligent appreciation of
the courtesy shown him. The numerous hospitals scattered in and about
Bucharest, and their vast proportions, struck the Prince strongly and
led him to question us much on the subject.
“Why are there more hospitals in Bucharest than in any other town?”
“Our ancestors built them.... Our forefathers were inspired with a
mysticism almost as deep and ardent as the faith of the Middle Ages. In
order to obtain mercy for their sins they created hospitals and endowed
them with immense wealth. These hospitals own many of the greatest
estates in the country.”
“Oh, the miracles of faith!” answered the Prince. “You should see the
pilgrims clustering round the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem to understand
the power and beauty of faith. You should see the stones there which are
always bathed with tears, almost black like the stones upon which rain
perpetually falls.”
“Yes,” I answered. “They are the tears of my brethren of the Orthodox
religion, the Russian pilgrims who cross the vast Asiatic desert on foot
to reach the tomb of the Saviour. Yes, the Orthodox pilgrims know how to
show their love for Him.”
“They do not love Him any better than the Catholics,” answered the
Prince with a flash of indignation. “You are quite mistaken. You speak
from hearsay, whereas I have seen.... But we must not have a religious
dispute on the subject.”
“No,” interposed the Queen. “Postpone the subject to another time, or I
might be tempted to put in a word or two in favour of the Protestants,
and discord would reign in this spot where harmony should hold sway. Do
you know that the Prince is so kind as to compare my Court to the Court
of Ferrara? But will not your Royal Highness return to the Jerusalem
journey? What did you feel when you came in sight of the Holy City?”
“An emotion so terrible that it seemed to me that I had not been
prepared for it, though I expected much. The culminating point of my
voyage was when, at the foot of the mountain where our Lord preached
the sermon of love and contrition, we saw the clouds that hid the summit
roll away one by one, recalling to us the veil of the sanctuary that was
rent in twain when Jesus Christ died. Thus the clouds divided and we
perceived against the clear sky the form of a shepherd standing
motionless in an attitude of solemn communion with the elements and God.
It seemed to us that the Good Shepherd Himself had come back to the
mountain on which His immortal prayer was first uttered, ‘Our Father who
art in Heaven.’ ...”
We sat silent, awed and touched by the eloquent interpretation of this
unique scene, when, passing to another topic, the Prince referred to our
soldiers. “Though they belong to the Latin race they look graver than
our Italian troopers, our own dear soldiers. I love them, I love them,
_come la mia ciele_, like my own skies. Ah, how gay, how brave, how
tireless are our _bersaglieri_! They move as swiftly as deer and the
tufts on their shoulders dance in the wind. How charming and how unlike
all other music are the marches that lead them in their quick race!
Shall I whistle and sing them to you?” And to our great delight the
Prince began to imitate the sound of fifes and flutes and bugles. Soon
all the glamour of Italy crept over us. In a vision, quick as the joyous
and warlike cadences, we saw the regiments passing through the Campagna
Romana or along the streets of some quaint Italian town. There he stood
lifting up his energetic head, the slender, nervous hands crossed on
his knees, singing the songs he loved--the songs through which all the
eager movement, the untiring youthful effort that leads modern Italy
towards civilisation seemed to roll before our eyes. All the hurried,
exultant progress of Italy seemed to stir before us in the person of
this young Prince, who would one day hold the sway of the realm in those
same restless hands in whose veins ran the blood of Garibaldi’s royal
friend and comrade--the first Italian King....
“We shall all feel very sad when the Prince of Naples leaves us,” said
the Queen one day. “Do you know what he did this morning? At dawn, while
his aide-de-camp was still asleep, he got up quietly and slipped out,
hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take him through the poorest
suburbs of the town. When his officers rose and found that the Prince
had disappeared, imagine their distress. He has only just returned, a
few minutes before breakfast.”
At that moment the Prince came into the room. “I can see that your
Majesty is relating my morning’s excursion, and a very pleasant one it
was, too. Now I am well acquainted with every feature of your city. On
the way I spoke to several peasants and to a soldier. They all
understood me, Roumanian is so like Italian. You could not expect me to
content myself, could you, with official accounts and interpretations of
this country? The coachman had no idea who I was, so I could converse
freely with him all the time.”
That evening one of Molière’s plays was performed in the Palace. After
the performance the Prince came up to me.
“Molière is a fine fellow,” he said. “So genuinely witty and caustic.
But I prefer Shakespeare to all the other great geniuses of the world. I
know the English language almost as well as my own and love it. No
language can express humour and terse irony better. Do you know I often
write to my mother in English? When you come to Italy you will hear so
much about me that is untrue that I am delighted that you should have
seen me abroad.”
In this respect the Prince of Naples was mistaken, as I believe that the
best experience one can have of a person, more especially if that person
happen to be a Prince, is acquired by observing him in his own land; and
when, a few years later, I met the Prince suddenly and unexpectedly, I
discovered in him many qualities that he had not had an opportunity of
displaying in Roumania.
It was on a sultry afternoon. Pisa slept in a haze of mellow light and
the grass lay yellow around the Campo Santo and the tall white
Cathedral. We had wandered from the Church to the Baptistery, and were
about to enter the Campo Santo when a stern official interposed.
“It is impossible to visit the Campo Santo to-day. The Prince of Naples
is in Pisa and is coming here. The Campo Santo is closed to travellers
and visitors.”
In great distress we remained assembled in a group trying to convince
the man that we would not disturb the Prince, that we only wanted to see
Oscagna’s frescoes, and would move about as softly as mice. He refused
even to listen to us, and we were making up our minds to give up all
idea of seeing the frescoes, though we could not tell when we might
return to Pisa, when all at once I recognised one of the royal
aides-de-camp who was coming towards us. I explained our position to
him, he gave an order, and in another moment we had entered the
forbidden precincts. From tomb to tomb, from inscription to inscription
we strolled, keenly alive to the calm glory of the place. The roses were
in full bloom on the plot of holy earth brought from Jerusalem, and a
soft silence, steeped in the profound drowsiness of the summer air, lay
upon the place.
Suddenly the sharp sound of bugles and military music burst upon the
ancient, dreamy Campo Santo. The strains of the royal march echoed
through the slender marble colonnades. I remembered hearing the Prince
of Naples whistle that same national anthem which now ushered him into
our view. How unchanged and yet how different he seemed amid that
brilliant cortège in the attitude of one now ready to condescend and
bestow favours. On recognising us, he bade us follow, and going from
tomb to tomb as we had done, he awoke the very soul of history, here
with a quotation, there with a remark, touching with his fine nervous
hands the rusty old chains which still bear testimony to the days when
Pisa was a port and mirrored her beauty on the bosom of the faithless
sea....
For a Prince so accomplished and so singularly original, for a sovereign
as learned and wise as he is, disdainful of light pleasures and
pursuits, a spouse was needed who would herself bring strength and
talents to the royal house.
“I will not marry a doll or a stick. I will not make a match to suit
popular desires or general custom, but a marriage that will bring me
complete happiness, because if I am happy so will be my parents and the
nation. And if I find the wife of my dreams, and if your poetic ideals
approve my choice, I wish you to be the first to congratulate me,
remember that....”
Thus had the Prince spoken at Bucharest on the March evening that had
preceded his departure, and the Queen laughed as I promised. When the
Princess of Naples, a radiant bride, came out of the church amid songs
and flowers leaning on her husband’s arm, and receiving eager
congratulations from every side, a friend of mine, a lady whose exalted
position made the task easy, stepped forward and congratulated the
Prince in my name.
For one instant only he remained confounded, then in a flash he
remembered and answered:
“Yes, my ideal is beautiful; indeed she is quite right,” and with all
his heart in his voice he fervently returned his thanks.
I met Queen Elena of Italy in Naples before she became a Queen. My
family had been closely associated with the princely family of
Montenegro, and long before that Florentine morning her sweet, pensive
face had been familiar to me. I had heard about the wild Tchernagora,
where she was educated and where she herself gave lessons to her little
sisters, and was the joy of her father’s house. Therefore, when I gazed
at the pallid countenance, the sleepy black eyes whose glances thrilled
into life whenever her husband stooped towards her or spoke, as I
watched her listening somewhat despondently while in the new Etruscan
Museum a professor versed in the mysteries of that ancient race
delivered a most interesting speech--it appeared to me that a mystery
greater than the spells written in that language whose secret is for
ever dead, lay in the slim person of the Tchernagora maiden who had so
recently become an Italian Princess, passing from the eagle’s nest to a
halcyon land.
After the speech was delivered the Princess rose; there was a kind of
graceful apathy in her movements which spoke more of Oriental ease than
mountain sturdiness, but the moment she opened her lips the energy of
her forefathers was to be detected in the luminous orbs of black velvet
shining between the dark lashes.
“Oh, is not Florence lovely? I am trying to discover which Italian town
I love most. But directly I stay two or three days in one, I am
unfaithful to the one I have just left. Italy is to me an ocean of
flowers, pictures, and smiles. But is it not sad that no way can be
found to decipher these Etruscan inscriptions? How awful to think that a
whole race can thus perish completely!” The Princess shuddered. “In our
dear Tchernagora we believe that as long as a song survives the
remembrance of a nation cannot be lost--I mean a song of heroism,
relating some brave deed. But the Etruscans have left more than a song,
they have left statues, urns, arms, records of their customs, the tombs
where their kings lie in glistening array, yet to us they are quite dead
because not a record from them ever crosses the ages to reach our
souls.... It really seems true that the human word contains the only
real life.”
Elena of Italy and Montenegro stood there amidst the remnants of
Etruscan civilisation and art. She seemed taller than the other ladies
present, and her pale face shone, while through the open windows the
Florentine breeze brought the perfume of roses and the murmur of the
busy city. All the vigour and promise of Spring quivered through the
hall, avoiding the soulless urns and statues to centre round the
daughter of the Minstrel Prince, of the Warrior-Singer, Nicholas of
Montenegro.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Franzen, Madrid_
QUEEN MARIA CHRISTINA AND KING ALFONSO XIII. OF SPAIN]
QUEEN MARIA CHRISTINA AND KING ALFONSO XIII. OF SPAIN
As one follows the rocky road that leads to Madrid, through plains
desolate and bereft of trees or verdure, leaving far behind one the
green softness of the Guipujera provinces and the fairness of Burgos,
that weird old city clad in its mantle of foliage, haunted of a moonlit
night by the phantom of the national hero, the marvellous warrior, Cid
Campeador, a sense of loneliness akin to terror fills the soul. On each
side of the railway stretch grey stones and brown earth far as the eye
can reach, and the wandering herds, whose slow steps alone disturb the
dreary solitude, have difficulty in finding a morsel of grass or wild
herb to graze upon. And when through the thick folds of the morning mist
the Escurial with its numberless turrets bursts suddenly upon the view,
the sight is by no means calculated to relieve the imagination or dispel
the mournful impressions created on the way. How black and how menacing
a mountain can look only those can realise who have gazed upon the dark
slopes and darker summit that towers above that melancholy palace. Of
course, at the very first glance, it is easy to infer that not a single
room can exist within that palace whose walls, floor and ceiling are not
over-shadowed by its high neighbour the Sierra. Indeed, from earliest
times the mountain appears to have cherished the impossible ambition of
entering the building, and in the meantime cast upon pavement, court and
garden signs, as it were, of mute wrath, like the distant aspect of a
thundercloud before the storm speaks from within its folds.
Notwithstanding all the pains that a modern Spanish monarch (one of the
Bourbon dynasty) took to lighten the gloomy atmosphere of the Escurial
salons by placing in them gay furniture and tapestry worked in bright
and varied colours, the forbidding presence of Philip II. still lurks
behind its high wooden doors. It was he who built the palace in one of
the few rare moments of cheerfulness and grace known to that grim
potentate. On the eve of the Battle of St. Quentin’s, in which his
troops overcame the French army, he swore that if the Spaniards proved
victorious he would build a huge convent dedicated to St. Lawrence, the
Saint under whose patronage he had placed the fate of the campaign. Now
as St. Lawrence was a martyr, and had been burnt to death on a gridiron,
the king tried to give the cloister the appearance of that instrument of
torment by building eleven courtyards separated by as many suites of
cells and apartments; each of these was to represent one of the rods of
the gridiron, and the courts were meant to symbolise the space between
the rods, while the King’s own suite of chambers formed the handle.
Almost the whole line of sovereigns belonging to the Austrian dynasty
have borne some affinity for this strange abode, where amidst dismal
prayers and cruel designs were spent the days of the most illustrious
among them, Philip the Second. Into every corner of the land they poured
as it were, like an ocean of lead and blood, the dread sensation of
their invisible presence. Unseen by the people, who knew only that the
King of Spain lived surrounded by an etiquette whose strict laws had
changed him from a living human being into a shadow bowed down by his
own grandeur, the throne came to be surrounded more by awe than love.
Scenes of horror and fear formed around it an atmosphere as funereal and
heavy as the odours of the dim _Pudrideiro_, where after death the
monarch’s corpses were preserved till the slow drops of water falling
upon them achieved the work of destruction. These awful images may well
typify a race whose last representative, pale, haughty, and worn out by
generations of terrible ancestors, appear to be kept from dropping like
a faded leaf only by the pride which still survives in their clear and
languid blue eyes.
From such memories, well in keeping with the landscape of brown earth
and grey stones, from such gruesome associations, does Madrid--lively
and beautiful Madrid--rouse the traveller as, dazed by the din and the
sunlight, he rolls through her indolent and crowded streets. Who would
think longer of Philip II. or remain pondering over the painful past?
Mirth and noise, the bustle of impatient tradesmen, the slim figures of
_toreros_ in their everyday garb, the rich equipages of the wealthy and
the merry laugh of the poor, these express in outward appearance what
Madrid means to her happy children, and why they deem their own city
fair above every other in the world. At any hour of the day or night,
whatever be the season or the weather, the streets are ever full to
overflowing, and, carried on by the torrent of wild enjoyment and eager
movement, the mind of the calmest, the gravest person retains only the
power necessary to ask in a timid _sotto voce_ manner: “Who cooks their
dinners for them, who looks after the children, the little ones that
they are obliged to leave at home?”--for the idea that there can be any
one left in the houses seems preposterous. As to the habit in Madrid
society of driving to the Castellana every afternoon, it is so
inveterate that one day when I had desisted from following the universal
example, because I could not tear myself away from a thrilling book, all
our friends left cards, feeling sure that one of us must be ill, if not
both. There is something touching, in many ways worthy of perfect
approval, in the fact that at the hour of the Angelus, with just the
same hasty, elastic step, the same buoyant exuberance, the whole
population, not an individual excepted, rushes for a few moments into
the ever-open churches to pray.
Over the chaos and turmoil of faces, carriages, screams, chatter,
clatter and patter, like a great white bird the Royal Palace spreads its
long wings. One is rather bewildered to find it has an air as modern as
the furniture in the Escurial, nay, even more up-to-date. And it is
needful to remember how unchanged are the traditions still revered
behind the massive walls, or one would experience a sense almost of
disappointment since the grandeur of the Spanish monarchy seems
inseparable from the legends of the Camerera major--the dreaded Court
officers and severe Court dames--and the Court of Spain could no longer
boast of being the strictest Court in Europe if it did not remain
faithful to all its terrible rules. In some details the stern etiquette
has had to be modified, as fear of ridicule overcame the dread of losing
the lustre which centuries alone can bestow. But to this day the visitor
ascending the tall flight of stairs leading to the upper hall is told
that after the first ten steps he must take his hat off, and the ladies
who accompany him must bow, because from that spot he is supposed to
perceive a fold or stray glimmer of one of the three sacred banners
which belonged to the three ancient orders of chivalry in Spain. He also
learns, if his guide knows anything of the usages of the Court, that all
grandees have a right to enter the Palace unbidden and at any hour to
ask for an interview with the monarch, who calls every grandee his
cousin; and that no nobleman has the right to bear his titles on
succession until the King has given him permission to do so. This takes
place only after a very curious and intricate ceremony, at which all the
other grandees are present, wearing their traditional robes and huge
feathered hats, which they hold in their hands till the King, after
having questioned the new Duke or Count as to the origin and merits of
his forefathers, tells him to don his headgear, while the grandees
gathered around him do the same, and all stand with heads covered in the
presence of their sovereign--a privilege very dear to the Spanish
nobility.
To atone for the absence of feudal grandeur, the Royal Palace of Madrid
abounds in art treasures, reminding one that the Bourbon ancestor of the
present King was grandson to the French monarch whose taste for
splendour and elegance in his surroundings was so remarkable. That the
young Sovereign belongs to the Latin race is quite apparent in the cut
of his clear features, the vivacity of his glance, and the eagerness
with which he follows the scenes that come under his eyes. Were it not
for his thick lips, a characteristic feature in the Hapsbourg family, it
would be difficult to remember that his mother is an Austrian
archduchess, and calls her son “Bubb” (little boy) exactly as does every
other Viennese mother, be she noblewoman or shopkeeper.
The task which lay before the Queen of Spain in rearing her child was a
hard one. From the very moment of his birth the infant came into the
world a King, and his first screams were respectfully checked by his
nurses with the soft remonstrance “Will your Majesty deign to be quiet?”
The Royal mother had to struggle against the wild desire which possessed
the Spanish nation to approach their Sovereign, and yet try to make the
baby understand how dear he was to them. She insisted in keeping him
away as much as possible from the places and pursuits that would recall
his rank to him; she wished his childhood to be as happy as that of any
ordinary mortal, and yet she might not lose sight of the necessity of
teaching him the privileges and duties of a Sovereign.
Books on almost every subject the human mind can refer to have been
written, but a really useful, comprehensive book dealing with the
education it would be fitting to bestow on a Prince does not exist, nor
will it ever be written, since cases must always vary according to race
and climate. For instance, the Austrian Empire needs a ruler taciturn,
courteous, and grave, who shows himself to his subjects on rare
occasions, and with a few simple words will thread his way through all
the conflicts astir in the different countries gathered under his
sceptre. An Emperor of Russia must appear strong as iron, speak in tones
of absolute self-control and self-reliance, and never seem to ask for
advice. Somewhat mystical and melancholy, the King of the young Italian
realm should love eloquence, travelling, Parliamentary discussions, and
be ever on the move, like the ideals of the fair land which stands
between the two seas. King Edward VII. gives us the example of a true
British Monarch, and acts well up to the standard required to make him
take a high place in the history of his country.
The demands of the Spaniards as to what they expect their King to be and
do for them are numerous and varied as they are difficult to define.
King Alfonso XII., the father of the present King, seems to have
satisfied them in many ways, and in speaking of the deceased Monarch
they always say: “He was not only a perfect Spaniard but a perfect King
of Spain”--though why and how he should have succeeded in obtaining this
double title at once they themselves would perhaps be embarrassed to
explain. This much I have been able to infer: that a real Spaniard must
be lively, love bullfights, _tressilio_, and his pride, spend money
lavishly, be familiar with the haughty and haughty with the familiar;
and that a King of Spain has to imitate a real Spaniard in order to
become a perfect King. Yet in this very imitation lies the danger he
incurs, because, while he is exactly like all other Spaniards around
him, he might forget, or allow them to forget, that he is King; if the
temptation took hold of him to remind them of the fact, he would
instantly lose the above-mentioned qualities. Now it appears that King
Alfonso XII. could with wonderful success play both parts in turn, or
even in the same moment, and his son is expected to resemble him. His
Austrian mother had many a time to fight with her own instincts and the
principles dearest to her heart when she felt this desire of the nation
rise behind her child’s footsteps to urge him on. But the young King of
Spain is a real Spaniard, and every inch a real King. A few touches of
Hapsbourg dignity blend with the Bourbon grace and render his slight
figure and youthful face attractive, although he cannot truthfully be
called handsome.
Traces of the enormous wealth and luxury of the ancient Kings of Spain
are to be found in the long range of Royal stables, where one may spend
many interesting hours. Besides the great number of gala carriages
panelled with ivory, ebony and gold, or painted by the greatest artists
of their time, the horses, of high pedigree and quick blood, belonging
to the King, the Queen Mother and the Infantas, attract our admiration;
while stablemen and grooms in bright liveries stand like statues before
each stall, keeping watch over the noble animals and ready at an
instant’s notice to saddle the hunter or cob under their charge. A hall
vast as that of a museum is full of harness of all sorts, old and new,
to be used either on ordinary occasions or for pageants. Here we saw the
bright red lace and blue fringe which adorned the mules dear to poor
young Queen Mercedes, and her small saddles reminded us how the
beautiful Princess loved to gallop at full speed under the shadow of
the trees in the Royal parks. She died on the morning of her eighteenth
birthday, and the roar of the cannons intended to salute the joyful
anniversary echoed round the Palace where she lay in state, with the
delicate bloom that settles on the face of those who go down to an early
grave.
But however unhappy the fate of Queen Mercedes may have been, no heroine
in the history of Spain, except Ximena, appeals so strongly to the
imagination as Juana la Loca, Mad Queen Joan, mother of the Emperor
Charles V., who was married to Philip the Fair, so called from his
handsome face and graceful bearing. He was chivalrous, kind and brave,
and Juana adored her husband. When she saw the pallor of his last hour
settle on his countenance, when she found that no fond embrace could
warm his chilly hands, she lost her reason. Her grief vanished and her
senses became steeped in delusions. Sinking on her knees before her
husband’s corpse she began screaming with all her might, uttering in
turn words of endearment and menace. “Wake, wake! My noble Lord, my
spouse, my King! Who dares to say thou art dead? Thy falcon and palfrey
await thee in the court below, while menials loiter here and trouble me
with trifling tales. Thou canst not die. How should Death dare to touch
thy forehead, thy golden hair, thy hand whose strength can lift the
heaviest sword, thy breast that never yet quailed beneath the weight of
heavy armour? Wake, and we will send to dark dungeons those who dare to
speak such dreadful words. Am I not thy Queen, mistress of this Palace
and this land? Should I have permitted Death to enter my dominions and
take thee from me, my King?”
For days she repeated these wild words while her ladies and courtiers
entreated her to believe the truth. At last she consented to have the
corpse laid in a coffin and travelled with it by her side, from palace
to palace, from cloister to cloister, without allowing it to be buried.
Sometimes she would stop the long train of knights and dames and then
the coffin would be taken down and Queen Joan would stand beside it in
the dusty road expecting the dead to awaken. The wind blew her raven
hair around her face and the sun scorched her delicate skin, but nothing
awoke her from her dream. One day her people in pity took advantage of a
deep torpor into which she had fallen to carry off the coffin and
deposit it in its tomb; when the Queen awoke she did not miss it but
went on imagining her husband lay beside her in the great black coach
she had ordered to be made for herself. Black leather cushions deck the
interior, and even the window panes are sprinkled with black spots, so
that it recalls the famous chariot in which Pluto stole away Persephone
while she was gathering the first spring flowers with her companions.
This fantastic carriage of Juana la Loca is still to be seen in Madrid,
and Queen Maria Christina and King Alphonse were surprised to hear that
I longed to mount up into the funereal vehicle if only for a moment.
“I do not care even to think of it,” said Maria Christina, “though of
course I am not greatly interested in Queen Joan.”
Aranjuez, like the other Royal Palaces of Spain, is devoid of historical
interest, because the old furniture and tapestries have been set aside
in favour of light coloured hangings. The place is but a pale and feeble
imitation of Versailles. The garden, tended with special care, reminded
me at every step of those avenues and shrubberies where Louis XIV.
strolled with his courtiers, whereas I had hoped to find traces of the
times of Don Carlos who, according to Schiller’s tragedy, is supposed to
have loved Aranjuez, or seen in it the summer residence of Philip II.,
which was deemed a place of such enchantment. It is here that the memory
of Queen Mercedes is most vivid, since it was from that Palace that she
went forth a happy bride, wearing those robes of purity and light which
no woman dons twice in her lifetime. But the future must thrust aside
the past, and even the sunlit memory of the Queen-Bride fades before the
fact that in the large drawing-room overlooking the Tagus was placed the
cradle of King Alphonse III. when he first came to Aranjuez. Here the
infant monarch loved to lie and listen to the rush of the river. When at
the age of three he eagerly inquired where the impetuous torrent went
to in such a hurry, and received the answer that the Tagus wanted to get
out of Spain and grow big in another land, the child cried bitterly,
asking again and again if no one could prevail upon the river to stay
and grow big in Spain. On this occasion his nurse, perhaps unwittingly,
made him the same answer as that which Victor Hugo caused the _duena_ to
give to an infanta: “Everything on earth belongs to Princes, except the
wind”--though this time it was the water that failed to respond to his
demand.
I had spent two months in Madrid and had only seen the Royal Family in
places of public resort such as the Castellana, the Casa di Campo or
Royal Park, and at the Opera. Once indeed I saw the Queen and her son
watching with deep interest a national game called _pelota_, an open-air
exercise very popular in the northern provinces of Spain; but though I
tried to catch as much of their features and expression as possible, all
I had been able to gather was that the young King was the merriest boy
of his age I had ever seen, and that his mother’s pathetic face became
young and happy again when she answered some saying of his by a smile.
Very amusing remarks they seemed to be to judge from the laughter going
on in the royal box, and once or twice the Queen put her handkerchief
over her mouth to stifle her hilarity, while the King plucked
desperately at his gloved fingers and assumed an air of portentous
seriousness while his mischievous eyes danced.
We were about to leave Madrid on account of the approach of the summer
season, but the friends with whom we were staying, who represented their
King at the Court of Spain, could not take their annual holiday without
first calling upon the Queen, a duty which they knew was as irksome to
her Majesty as to themselves, but which, nevertheless, had to be
performed. We had settled that our departure should take place the day
following that fixed on by the Queen, in announcing that she would
receive them in the afternoon. We did not expect them to have anything
very thrilling or new to report, as we had already heard from them every
detail concerning the Court. Yet, when they returned from the Palace,
they seemed greatly excited.
“The Queen, like us, is leaving to-morrow. Her Majesty wishes to see
_you_, Hélène. She cannot let you leave Spain without having been at the
Palace. She loves your poems, and is rather astonished that you have
never asked for the favour of an introduction, as she would have granted
it immediately. She is so curious, and asked us _so_ many questions
about your appearance and ideas. I assured her Majesty you would be
delighted to stop twenty-four hours in St. Sebastian if you were invited
to Miramar, and said you would follow the Royal party, as you are rather
anxious to return to Roumania without delay. This will also give you an
opportunity of seeing Miramar.”
Two days afterwards we arrived at St. Sebastian by the morning train,
and, according to the instructions we had received, at once sent a
messenger to Miramar, begging the lady-in-waiting to apprise the Queen
that my mother and myself were awaiting her Majesty’s commands. A young
attaché on the staff of the Spanish Foreign Office brought us the answer
that it was her Majesty’s pleasure to receive us that same day at three
o’clock. We had not an instant to lose, so ordering a carriage we drove
to Miramar. The place seemed to us at first devoid of all royal pomp or
solemnity, and a charming atmosphere of peace pervaded the wainscoted
hall, while the drawing-room into which we were ushered looked straight
upon the sunlit sea, whose soft summer tints seemed to be reflected from
the light hued walls and furniture. We had not much leisure to look
round us, as the equerry in waiting announced that her Majesty was
waiting to receive us. We followed him through a small door, and the
Queen Regent of Spain, for such was her title at that moment, stood
before us. I was startled to find her so slim and tall, while her
resemblance to the Austrian Archduchess struck me so forcibly that I
jumped to the conclusion our visit would prove a very tame affair,
interesting only because the personage who admitted us to her presence
was a queen.
Before, however, I could reach one of the low chairs to which her
Majesty pointed with open fan, I found myself obliged to change my
opinion, and muster all my faculties in the course of an interview in
which I felt it would require some exertion on my part to appear with
advantage. The Queen, with firm and easy grasp, had directed the
conversation into channels likely to reveal the trend of our personal
feelings, and events likely to prove of interest to her. She began, as
is usual with sovereigns when talking to foreigners, by praising our
country, and saying how greatly she appreciated Carmen Sylva’s talents
as a poet, and her virtues as a woman and queen. The manner in which she
discussed both subjects displayed such an inner knowledge of Roumania as
well as of the life and works of our Queen, that I held my breath from
sheer astonishment, and could scarcely refrain from asking, “But where
did your Majesty obtain so much information?”
Then passing to other topics, the Queen displayed the same accuracy of
knowledge, the same grasp of people, laws, and events which I had till
then regarded as out of the range of royal or feminine interest. Gentle
movements of the head and hands accompanied each observation, and when
she questioned, with soft, gay voice and merry brown eyes, there was a
kind of eager, childish expectation on her face, marked though it was
with furrows traced by tears.
“You cannot imagine how often or how much I have wept in my life, nor
how lonely I used to feel when my children were too little to be
companions to me. But as they began to play I used to play with them
too, and would frolic with them for hours, and thus gather courage and a
clear head for the Cabinet Councils at which I had to preside. I had
such a happy youth, and I tried to recall the memory of those days, till
gradually my mind became like a rainbow which smiles between two storms
till, smothered by clouds, it disappears only to reappear once more. It
is made up of sunlight and tears like my soul.... Don’t you love St.
Sebastian, though you can have been here only a few hours? It is a sweet
place, and the sea does the children a world of good. As to Alfonso, I
feel sure that if he were not a king he would have been a sailor, and
come ashore only for the _corridas_ (big bull-fights) and _pelotas_. Yet
he adores riding, and when he was quite little he would make regular
scenes when the time arrived to alight from his horse. I used to be
quite ashamed of him!... I am so disappointed that you cannot stay one
day longer here--are you really sure you cannot?--I had invited Pierre
Loti to lunch with you here at Miramar. He is our neighbour and lives at
Hendaye. He is _so_ kind and true and such a genius. I call his
descriptions of Brittany and of the Basque provinces quite remarkable.
He moves me even more than Chateaubriand, whom I used to adore before I
read Loti’s works. And then what a refined and gentle character he has.
I feel perfect trust in him and look up to him, his quiet manner, his
unobtrusive ways are such a contrast to his ardent soul, ever turned
towards thoughts of death and immortality.”
The Queen cast a long, lingering glance over the bright sea, whose
subdued murmur crept in between her words, then she resumed.
“I am keeping you a very long time, and I do not ask you whether you
have anything else or anything better to do, though I suppose Heaven
knows when you will return to Spain. You are young, yet what a number of
people you have seen whom I love and admire and shall never meet
again--many, too, whom I have never met or seen only once in my life.
For instance, Queen Victoria and the Princess of Wales. Tell me what
they are like now--describe your visit to England, and your stay at
Balmoral. You cannot understand what a treat this is to me. Of course I
hear from other Sovereigns through official despatches and through their
ambassadors, but one can seldom obtain personal details.... Now, I
suppose you want to see my children. They will be back from the shore in
ten minutes.... Am I very different from what you imagined me to be? You
see I am short-sighted, and short-sighted people look ten times more
cold and disagreeable than they are in reality. It is such a nuisance,
such a drawback to be short-sighted--I notice that you, too, wear
eye-glasses.”
“Yes, Madame, I am almost blind, though my eyes are excellent when I
look closely at an object, but I cannot distinguish things, or faces, or
landscapes even at a short distance. But I do not consider this defect
as a calamity, and fail to share your Majesty’s opinion.”
“Why?”
“Because my short sight has spared me many a disagreeable impression, a
cross mien, a look bent in harshness or anger upon me. I am thus enabled
to ignore most of the ugly sides of life, and with the help of a strong
imagination and a cheerful disposition I always keep in view the
illusion that the earth holds only beauty and grace.”
At this juncture, just as the Queen was about to reply, the doors were
thrown open, an usher announced “the King,” and the Infantas entered,
dressed in stiff white frocks, their charming young faces tanned by the
sea-breezes. The King followed close behind. Rushing forward and putting
his sisters aside, he almost dashed into his mother’s chair, but all at
once, becoming aware of our presence, he put on an air of dignity which
I could not have believed so young a boy capable of assuming. With
outstretched hands he advanced towards us.
“I have often seen you. Do you like Spain? Which do you prefer, the
bull-fights, the _pelota_, or a military display? I don’t know which of
these delightful things stands nearest my heart. A review, I suppose.”
He talked with a fluent amiability while the Infantas listened to the
Queen’s explanation of my theory concerning the benefits of short sight.
They laughed, and at that moment the family group formed a picture of
such perfect harmony and bliss that I said to the Queen: “I am so
pleased to have seen your Majesty thus standing in the sunshine before
the sparkling sea, with the rays of her life around her.”
The Queen’s brown eyes filled with tears, while a rainbow-like smile
played on her lips. “When will you come to Spain again? And you are
leaving this evening.”
“This evening?” said the King. “Mamma, I will not allow them to cross
our frontiers,” he added in his gay, defiant voice. His eyes shone at
that moment like those of his Austrian mother, but there was so much
Spanish grace and Spanish chivalry in the bearing of his lithe, supple
figure that I murmured: “A real Spaniard indeed, and a real King of
Spain.”
[Illustration:
_Photo by Wegner & Mottu, Amsterdam_
WILHELMINA I., QUEEN OF THE NETHERLANDS]
WILHELMINA I. QUEEN OF THE NETHERLANDS
There is something attractive and rather pathetic about the fate of this
young Queen, destined from the very hour of her birth to embody the most
fervent wish of her nation, when that nation had little expected the
boon of possessing a direct heir or heiress to the dynasty. Long before
the author of Cyrano de Bergerac called her “The little lily Queen who
reigns over the Kingdom of Tulips,” she was to the inhabitants of the
Netherlands a precious treasure; poets sang and fairies wooed her long
before the days when she became a smiling, girlish bride, whose hands
unlocked themselves from a bridegroom’s clasp in order to beg for mercy
and peace, who stood watching with anxious eyes for the olive branch
wafted across the seas from the land where the rush and din of battle
waged.
It is well known that after the death of his first wife and of his son,
Queen Wilhelmina’s father seemed to have abandoned all ideas of a second
marriage, and his subjects mourned to think that the throne of Holland
would find no successor in the direct line. Queen Sophia, born Princess
of Wurtemberg, was a very amiable, learned, and even somewhat pedantic
Princess. Her chief enjoyment lay in reading and travelling about from
place to place within her Kingdom, poring over all the old volumes she
could find in public libraries. Sometimes she would escape from the
solemnity of Court etiquette, and go to spend a few quiet months in
Paris, where she lived the existence of a wealthy _bourgeoise_,
insisting that no homage whatever should be paid to her, entering into
the views of the clever people with whom she associated, and always
being foremost when a great literary discussion was astir. Her dearest
ambition was to gain a place among the distinguished women whose _bons
mots_ still found worshippers after their death; and when some
well-informed courtier or friend would compare her with Madame de Stael,
Madame du Deffant or Madame Geoffrin, she thought but little of all the
privileges conferred by rank. Her husband approved of his wife’s
tastes--he was himself a very intellectual Prince, and had learnt the
art of dramatic elocution from the celebrated French actor _Talma_. When
he received a Royal visitor or a member of his family at the Palace, the
King was unable to conceive any greater attention to bestow on his guest
than the favour of hearing some famous piece of French tragedy uttered
by the Royal lips. As age came on, bringing the loss of teeth, the
shrill tones exacted by comical or pathetic scenes would rise to a
howl, the King’s eyes would roll furiously; and a Royal personage who
had been favoured with a representation told me how severe the ordeal
proved because it was so difficult on these occasions to forbear from
laughing, which the King would never have forgiven. At the end of the
recitations he would add: “_Povvero_ Talma! _He_ always said to me that
had I not been born a Prince, I would have proved his most dangerous
rival.” To the last year of his life the late King of Holland kept up
his love of tragedy, and often the courtiers who, trembling, heard him
scream aloud through the vast saloons of his palace were delighted to
find that instead of the Royal admonitions they feared to hear, he was
merely hurling at them Corneille’s famous “Qu’il mourut,” or the story
of Hippolyte’s last day....
Mirth and hope at his Court had died away on the death of the King’s
last son. The nation looked forward only to a continuation of these
gloomy days till their monarch in his turn should go and join his Queen
and his children in the Royal vault at Delft. It is therefore easy to
imagine with what joy the news of a second marriage was hailed, although
the prospect seemed unlikely that the Royal circle might regain its
former brightness and confer happiness again upon the land.
The deep attachment that the Hollander race has ever shown to the
dynasty of its rulers is one of the most admirable traits of their
national character, and is something quite apart from the loyalty
extant in many other countries. In Holland the sentiment is more one of
honoured affection than of reverence; in each member of the
Orange-Nassau family the people have recognised their favourite hero,
onward from the Saviour of the Netherlands, the Blest Conqueror, their
own William, as they even now call him, heedless that he has for some
centuries been laid in his tomb. The love they bestow upon those who
still bear his valorous blood in their veins is an eternal thanksgiving
for what the illustrious _stadtholder_ achieved.
It mattered little whether the King’s expected child should be a son or
a daughter; the dynasty was about to resume its unchecked career;
another descendant of the great William of Orange was coming to claim
the devotion of thousands. Thus it was that Wilhelmina tasted the cup of
popularity with the very first drop of milk which trembled on her infant
lips. “All the fairies are attending her cradle; she is going to receive
the most beautiful presents the fairies can bestow,” cried the
enthusiastic voice of the multitude, but another voice, firm and low,
seemed to answer: “She needs not the presents of fairies; her people
will pray for her welfare and these prayers must prove better than fairy
gifts and praise.” These words, full of wisdom and tenderness, were
uttered by one whose name will ever remain associated with Wilhelmina’s
dazzling fate, by a princess, young and fair, the Royal infant’s
mother, who, herself still almost a child, was delighted and awed when
the Court called her, “Our Queen,” and whose rosy cheek became a hue
redder when they said: “Your Majesty!” in answer to her slightest
question.
Emma, Princess of Waldeck-Pyrmont, had been brought up in one of those
dear old German castles where imagination can feel sure of meeting the
ghosts of loreleis or knights, and of hearing ballads sung at midnight
under the moon as it pours through the windows and bastioned towers. The
pretty Princess dreamt neither of foreign lands nor thrones; she enjoyed
her life, almost rustic in its simplicity, yet highly aristocratic in
the way of breeding; she learnt to use the distaff and the spindle, to
paint beautiful pictures on the margin of manuscripts and prayer-books,
to worship God’s children in every creature unfortunate or poor that she
met around the castle’s gates or in the park. Such was the bride that
the aged King of Holland had chosen for himself among all the Princesses
who would willingly have accepted the offer of being his Queen. Princess
Emma was only nineteen at the time she heard the King’s proposal from
her mother’s mouth.... She cried bitterly....
“And do you want me to accept him ... do you order me to do so?” ...
“No, no, dear, dear child, that is left completely to your own choice,
only the King is lonely and unhappy....”
“Unhappy?...” and the sobbing face became lovelier than usual, illumined
by a smile of compassion and sudden interest. When she had heard the
whole tale, she said: “I will go to him and to them”--meaning her future
subjects. “And I will do my duty to them all, so help me God!”
How well the fair Princess kept her promise is now clear to all eyes.
She soon stood high in the favour of her husband and of all the nation,
who looked up to her and admired her gentle visage, but her demeanour
remained as modest and quiet as before her marriage. And she proved the
best mother that Wilhelmina’s best friends could have asked Providence
to endow her with. Queen Emma’s task was by no means an easy one. The
child was petted by her father, and adored by all who approached her;
the nation idolised the heiress to the throne, and universal approval
smiled upon her every movement, her every step. The King forbade his
wife to thwart the little girl’s early caprices; and Wilhelmina seemed
to have inherited from her glorious ancestors no small portion of their
energy and natural wilfulness, which she was always ready to show off,
since every trait of the Orange temperament exhibited by the young
Princess drew forth outbursts of enthusiasm, genuine though imprudent.
Her defects were as much praised as her qualities, because they
represented all the splendid vitality of her race.
Against these defects Queen Emma did not endeavour to wage open war.
She interfered very little, even when one of the child’s whims was
instantly complied with by her father, but her presence, silent and
grave, sometimes weighed with the sensitiveness of Wilhelmina’s
conscience more heavily than the hardest rebuke. The rash girl would
turn from the eyes that looked tenderly upon her to read nothing but
disapproval and regret in her mother’s looks, and would burst into
tears, saying: “I am naughty, mamma says so with her eyes!” No one can
well imagine or recount how moving and arduous was this mute
interference, how much Queen Emma had to thank her own severe training
for having given her habits of discipline and fortitude. An anecdote,
among many others that I know, will prove to what extent her ability was
put forth to help her child and save her from the snares that render a
spoilt girl harmful to herself and others, the more so if that girl be
destined to become a ruler of men.
Wilhelmina is endowed with the gift of observation--nothing escapes her
quick eye. But the ready tact which is an instinct prominent in Royal
blood often prevented her from giving utterance to the result of her
vivid impressions. The Queen well knew when this quality was at work in
the young soul, because then Wilhelmina proved restless and
feverish--seemed to struggle with the desire of speaking and the fear of
doing something against her own opinion of good behaviour. One day she
brusquely asked the Queen: “Mamma, tell me how old are you?” The Queen,
who had at that time scarcely reached her thirtieth year, complied with
the request; she then saw Wilhelmina walk rapidly to and fro and make
some very serious calculation on the tip of her fingers. “How old is
papa, mother?” “Over seventy.” “Poor papa! But, mother, how happy he
must feel to have such a pretty young wife as you are, and such a little
girl as I am! And how I thank you for loving and tending papa, although
he is old. To me papa is young and handsome, but may-be he really looks
old to others and even to you.” “Oh! do not repeat this conversation to
your father, darling. You see now that I never scold you in his
presence, because old people do not know when little girls are naughty,
and should he discover me to be displeased with you, he would become
older still....” “Would he? Oh! how dreadful! Then, mamma, do go on
hiding all about me from him. I will try not to be naughty, but when I
cannot help myself, be prudent, mamma. Only think, he is over seventy
already....”
And from that day, when Wilhelmina was encouraged by the King in her
petty freaks, she would turn an imploring eye upon the Queen, and,
winking with a knowing air, put her tiny fingers upon her mouth.
Still the habit of command took complete hold of her nature, and Queen
Emma resolutely turned over another leaf in the book of practical
education to be given to a future Queen. She determined to keep the
pure, tumultuous soul aloof from the abundance of temptations that
enveloped its dawn, to guard the true heart against the adulation and
applause aroused by the child’s slightest action. Such indulgence would
in the long run mar the inward harmony, turn aside the current of
serious thought, and render Wilhelmina a danger to those who most relied
upon her. And she found a judicious if strange means of effecting this.
Instead of trying to deprive her of any of the joys she coveted, the
Queen allowed her daughter to wear jewels, costly dresses, pearls, and
gaudy costumes like any grown-up lady; to indulge in all the greedy
wishes of childhood; to see piles of toys heaped up in her nursery; to
run about with her dogs as much as she pleased, till Wilhelmina slowly
got tired of all that wealth could give. Such things she came to
understand would always be hers. She thrust the jewels and the toys
aside; she disdained dress and costly array; she sought what every
craving creature, every noble-minded nature is athirst after; she looked
into the souls and lives of those surrounded her. Pomp and luxury became
vain words in her ears; she knew that she would have to put up with them
all her life, but they no longer played any active part in her
existence. To some of her relatives, who raised their eyebrows when they
saw Princess Wilhelmina wearing a heavy necklace of jewels worth the
ransom of a rajah, the Queen replied:
“She must get accustomed to these jewels, so that she may try to
discover others more precious in her own soul. I do not want her when
she is grown up to pounce with avidity upon all the beautiful objects of
luxury she can get so easily. I want her then to be free from what other
girls dream about, because her dreaming will be of more importance than
the common dreams of girlhood.... Then Wilhelmina will love her duty
because the austere side of life will prove more attractive to one who
has learned to grasp at the real meaning of human efforts and aims.”
Notwithstanding all her mother’s efforts, the child’s strong will still
manifested itself on many occasions; the little Princess could not lose
entire consciousness of her rank and her rights. Any attempt to veil her
personality under the disguise of an incognita enraged her, and she
thought this habit, current with sovereigns, to be a kind of
humiliation, and a dreadful blow given to truth. Wilhelmina hates
falsehood in words as well as in action. The necessity or convenience of
travelling incognita she failed to comprehend.
At nine years of age, during her sojourn with her maternal aunt, the old
Princess of Wied, Queen Emma sent the young heiress to the Hollander
throne on a few hours’ trip with a little cousin and their respective
governesses. Deeming official pomp inadvisable in the circumstances, she
told the ladies who accompanied the children to travel exactly like all
the tourists they should meet on the banks of the Rhine, and not to
betray the real quality of the small personages under their charge. “If
the people were to know my daughter,” said the Queen, “your journey
would be spoiled, and, besides, we should have to order special trains,
lose a good deal of time, and you could not be back before late evening.
So be very careful, and do not allow Wilhelmina to enter into
conversation with any one--she would immediately say who she is....”
The ladies promised to obey, and at the beginning of the excursion all
went off very well. The little Princesses enjoyed themselves immensely,
and as the party numbered several persons they contrived to have a
carriage to themselves till they reached a small station where they had
to alight and wait for another train. This incident, and the necessity
of awaiting on the platform the arrival of a train, which was completely
new to her, puzzled Wilhelmina immensely. Some suspicion of the truth
began to dawn upon her. She had never in her life left a carriage before
arriving at her destination, where she would be greeted by hundreds of
eager faces. But now----! She poured angry questions on the ladies who
accompanied them. “What is amiss, is there an accident?” Her
_gouvernante_ felt embarrassed. “No, Princess--only the train is rather
late, I am sorry to say....” But she had not time to finish her
sentence. Quick as lightning Wilhelmina had darted to the spot where the
station-master stood, and addressing him in sharp, peremptory tones,
said: “I am afraid, sir, that you are negligent in your service. I am
much displeased, and I am not accustomed to wait. If it is thus when I
am one of the travellers on this line, how much must others have to
complain! Please take care that this does not happen another time.”
The station-master stood aghast. There was something so peremptory, so
dignified, so self-confident in the tones of the little girl that he
instinctively took off his hat. “I am the Princess of the Netherlands,
sole heiress to the throne,” added the child with a proud toss of her
fair head. “But I forgive you,” and she gave the bewildered man her hand
to kiss, while the ladies who had from afar watched the scene, rushed
up, though feeling themselves unable to thwart her.
When the train dashed into the station, Wilhelmina with royal demeanour
stepped into a carriage, and the incident having been related on all
sides, she was respectfully cheered and saluted by the crowd while she
stood at the window graciously waving her handkerchief to them. The rest
of the journey became a real royal progress. “Do not be angry with me,
mamma,” said Wilhelmina when Queen Emma, hearing all about her
daughter’s rash conduct, was inclined to chide. “You see we must not
cheat those who meet us out of the pleasure they derive from the mere
fact of winning smiles and nods from us. If we cannot do more for them
we can at least bestow our presence upon them. I am sure that
station-master and all the tourists are happy because I spoke to them or
saluted them, whereas had I been completely obedient what would they
remember now of the little girl who took a trip on the banks of the
Rhine!...”
The death of the King proved a great blow to the maturing nature of his
much loved little girl. My father, who had the honour of representing
his Sovereign at the royal funeral, often recalls how when paying his
official visit to kind and gentle Queen Emma, he was moved by the
woe-stricken face and red eyes of the new little Queen as he met her
young Majesty in one of the halls of the Palace.
Queen Emma was then in the prime of womanhood and honoured by all for
her wisdom and graciousness. To me her features are familiar, as well as
her heart, and I have always heard her praised in our home, because we
learned to know, during our parents’ stay in Holland, all the beautiful
qualities of a firm, straightforward nature. While her mother was daily
learning to unravel the mysteries of a statesman’s duty, little Queen
Wilhelmina became more and more absorbed in her lessons; she worked hard
from dawn to twilight, and as she already spoke French, German, and
English fluently, she was taught the history of all these nations in
their own language. The philosophy of history was the branch of study
that Queen Emma was most anxious her young daughter should know, and
they often discussed together the thrilling incidents and characters
whose appearance mid the pages of her school-room books made the
Princess’s cheeks glow and her eyes shine. On these occasions Queen Emma
always found means to illustrate the past with examples from the
present, and then very subtly she would initiate the future Sovereign of
the realm into the secrets of modern diplomacy and the laws and
constitution of her country. In this special study Queen Wilhelmina also
had many professors, who at first felt quite embarrassed in talking of
such serious matters to a mere child; but they soon understood that the
little girl had been reared in an atmosphere of serious thought and
labour, and noted how rapidly she followed them through the intricacies
of their science.
Her subjects were well aware that their beloved little Queen was toiling
hard in order to be able to rule them one day with care and ability, but
it always brought them a joyful relief to see her sauntering gaily
through the streets of The Hague by the side of her English governess,
Miss Winter. When Miss Winter first took her pupil under her guidance
(Miss Winter enjoyed Queen Emma’s full confidence, justified it, and to
this day is treated like a friend by both the Queens) she had great
hesitation as to the title by which she should call her Royal pupil. A
too ceremonious title was completely out of the question, and on the
other side Miss Winter declared she might feel awkward or discourteous
were she obliged to call the Queen by her name. Wilhelmina herself found
a solution to the problem. “Call me _darling_,” said she, “and I hope
to deserve the name.”
Every one knows how proudly the Hollander nation watched the childish
Queen bloom into charming girlhood till that day, blessed among all
days, when she took the solemn oath to be a good Queen to them. “I have
prayed two nights and two days before my coronation,” said Wilhelmina,
“I hope God will help me. I have not asked from Heaven anything for
myself. I have asked the Almighty to send happiness to my people through
me.” In such a chastened spirit she approached the holy table and
stretched out her little hand across the big Bible, with a clear,
distinct voice pronouncing the sacred vow.
Court etiquette is very severe in Holland, and Queen Wilhelmina desires
that it should be maintained thus. She holds that the democratisation of
monarchy only can prevail when sovereigns open their souls to new ideas
and not their Courts to new customs, and though she leads a very quiet
private life, pomp and ceremony are never forgotten when the moment
comes for her to appear in public. She often says that to respect
traditions is an indirect but true manner of honouring the dead who have
created them through centuries of toil and labour.
“I wish I could make a love-marriage,” said she to her mother when
approached on this subject, to which her own thoughts had never before
reverted. “Although I have already made a love-match--I mean my deep
union with my people--I should like to marry a young Prince, like the
princes of ballads and fairy tales.”
“Life is neither a ballad nor a fairy tale,” answered her mother. “But
you will be allowed to choose, and if your choice is a good one----”
Prince Henry of Mecklenburg-Schwerin is a distant relative of the young
Queen’s relatives, and the two had often met. Wilhelmina’s heart,
perhaps unwittingly, already clung to his image, and it was his name she
pronounced first when asked to speak out her desires. As in Queen
Victoria’s case, Wilhelmina had to act in an open and independent way,
but she knew well the nation would approve her decision, because they
had placed all their confidence in her. So the news of her betrothal was
hailed in every Hollander home as if the daughter of each family had
become a bride, and every one talked of her happy look when she went to
meet her future husband on the day of his arrival and of his tender gaze
as it settled on the bashful young Queen. “May her hearth be a happy
one, may little children soon gather round her knees.” This was the wish
uttered by every tongue on the brilliant wedding-day when the gentle
wife took the place of the radiant Queen.
Queen Wilhelmina is middle-sized, and very graceful in gait and
demeanour, though somewhat inclined to grow stout. Hers is a very
childish face, where the big, deep blue eyes alone denote serious
reflection and inward strength. Her conversational powers are excellent,
though she cannot be called a great talker. But she knows how to draw
people out, and without questioning she has the knack of learning all
she wants to know. One sees that she struggles hard to keep her dignity
above the genuineness of her nature and to prevent her young soul from
over-leaping the limits assigned to the amiability of a Queen. She is
well read in English literature and loves America, as she feels for that
mighty Republic a sentiment of curiosity mingled with admiration.
“American girls are so pretty and they look so feminine that, were
ultra-femininism to invade all the world, the grace and power of our sex
would be saved by them.”
She was quite charmed with Kruger because he did not look awed by the
mere fact of approaching a Queen, as most people generally are, thus
making the poor Queens and Princesses much more uncomfortable than their
interviewers. She likes to receive as many people as possible and then
to recount their conversation and describe their looks to her husband,
asking him to do the same thing in his turn, as they generally give
their audiences apart, then meet and take tea together before going out
for a daily drive in state. Queen Wilhelmina is not in any degree
sentimental; her every word betrays perfect insight into events and
facts as they are, and her most strenuous efforts are made towards
acquiring a hold over the imaginative qualities which so often become
defects in women compelled to act a leading part in politics and
society.
She prefers nature to art and loves a gorgeous landscape much better
than the rare and valuable pictures she possesses, on account of which
the Royal Palace in The Hague might well be called a museum. In that
palace she suffers nothing to be changed; even when a chair is moved
from its right place her eye is afflicted, whereas in her own apartment
much apparent disorder seems to reign, a disorder which, as Boileau
says, is “un effet de l’art.” Her love for her native country is so
strong that when travelling in Italy, and later in the South of France,
she would never fully allow that the scenery she saw was beautiful
unless she had said beforehand: “Excepting Holland, this place is one of
the prettiest I have gazed upon,” and when away from home she pined
after The Hague, Scheveningen, and Het Loo.
In every way does Queen Wilhelmina deserve the love of her devoted
subjects. She is like the flower of their soil and their history, like
the very emblem of a loyal and valiant country; a gentle face wherein
good spirits and excellent health combine to make a sweet physiognomy;
she is a Queen, strong yet gentle, as all reigning Queens should be. The
distance is immense which separates a Queen Consort from a Queen in her
own right: Wilhelmina is the real type of what a reigning Queen should
be. She is in many points very different from Queen Victoria, nor does
she dream of taking the great Queen as a model, because, as a
strong-willed Princess, she loves to tread a path all her own, and she
cares only to represent her own race and her own people.
She is not--and now I must again refer to Rostand--“a lily reigning over
tulips:” she is herself a tulip, stalwart and splendid, whose high stem
and bright colours shed their glory over the whole realm.
THE SOVEREIGNS OF SERVIA
In the awful light of the most appalling drama, not excepting that of
Meyerling, which has been played in Royal houses for more than two
centuries, the hitherto insignificant personalities of King Alexander of
Servia and his Consort Queen Draga make instant appeal to our
imagination. The lurid glow of disaster and blood now illumines their
memory, and in time, far from sinking into the oblivion which might have
enshrouded them had they died a natural and peaceful death, they will
join those victims of fatality whose stories are the most thrilling in
history or romance. They will sit side by side with Macbeth at the
haunted supper-table, with Hamlet on the terrace of Elsinore, with
Richard III. in the supreme battlefield, with Œdipus, Jocasta, and
Hecuba, on the heights of a terrible destiny--so terrible that all their
faults will be obliterated by the greatness of their sufferings and the
horror of their last moments upon earth.
Belgrade is situated in one of the most picturesque landscapes in the
world. The Danube and the Save join below the town, which, by people
accustomed to our Occidental cities, might easily be called a village,
although here and there large modern houses rise from the midst of huts
and modest buildings. Dwellings whose strange aspect defies every
attempt at description, straggling cottages adorned with low wooden
balconies, line the streets, where dust, dogs, and pigs are more
abundant than passers-by, and seem more masters of the place than any
human creature. Here and there a low-roofed church adorned with rough
and vivid paintings, a large courtyard teeming with poultry, oxen, and
domestic animals, or an upholsterer’s tiny shop, cuts the line of other
buildings. Upholsterers are more numerous in Belgrade than in any other
town--at any rate, they seem here to play a more conspicuous part--and
the striking feature of the work they achieve is shown in the immense
number of coffins exposed to public view. These by no means contribute
to delights of the eye, and it is with a feeling akin to relief that, as
the driver hurries the jostled carriage along the rough pavement in a
glory of silvery dust, one comes upon the sight of trees and grass and
water.
The park of Topschideri, a beautifully wild garden, almost as rich and
wild as the famous Paradon described by Zola, was the witness of a
tragedy which happened in the Obrenovitch family. It was in these woods
that the predecessor of King Milan was murdered. It appears that this
Prince had given great offence to the Servians by his projected
marriage with Catherine Constantinovitch. This lady was his first
cousin, and the Orthodox religion strictly forbids such unions. The
Prince, determined to brave public opinion, took his bride for a drive
among these woods and was there assassinated by a band of conspirators.
They also wounded Catherine Constantinovitch, but not seriously, for she
afterwards recovered and ultimately married a wealthy Servian. She still
resides in Belgrade, and the recent tragic death of King Alexander and
his Queen must have brought vividly to her mind the romantic
circumstances and terrible end of her first betrothal.
Prince Milan, the nephew of the murdered Sovereign, succeeded to the
throne left vacant by the tragic end of an idyll whose circumstances are
still alive in the minds of the Servians and are yet sung by their
poets.
King Milan’s father was an officer in the Roumanian army--a tall,
handsome, swaggering, kind-hearted, and good-natured soul, who was not
very well off, and never dreamt that his son would one day be a King, as
his first cousin, Miloch, was always expected to have an heir. In the
meanwhile Captain Miloch Obrenovitch, a cavalry officer in the Roumanian
army, had married one of the most beautiful women who ever
existed--Mlle. Marie Catargi. Marie Catargi belonged to a good, though
neither illustrious nor very ancient, Roumanian family. She represented
the finest type of Moldavian beauty, and the classical purity of her
features, the wondrous colour and expression of her large green eyes,
the graceful poise of her small head, and the sweetness of her manner,
are still alive in the conversation of such of her surviving
contemporaries as knew her.
It happened that during the earliest years of my childhood I heard King
Milan’s name so often that he became quite a familiar personage with me
long before I met him. We had had the same governess. Our Scotch
instructress, Miss Allen, had, many years before coming to us,
superintended his education in the Roumanian home of his mother and
maternal grandmother. Thus tales of his natural vivacity and boisterous
habits, of his kind and generous heart, were daily related to us, while
our schoolroom walls were covered with portraits of Prince Milan in his
first boy’s dress, of King Milan at the age of eight in top boots, of
King Milan in Servian costume, and, finally, in the uniform of a Servian
general. But Miss Allen had left him at an early age, and he then passed
into the hands of professors. He was quick-witted, handsome, and clever,
but very much spoilt; well aware, besides, that his destiny was not to
be like that of his cousins. One day we were walking in the streets of
Bucharest--Miss Allen and myself. I was then a girl of about thirteen,
in all the bashful glory of dawning teens, and thinking little of the
fact that my governess’s former pupil was then paying a visit to our
country and our King, when the whirl of a long row of carriages, the
patter of hoofs, the glittering array of a cavalry escort attracted our
attention. We were in front of the palace, and, as is usual on such
occasions, a crowd of curious gazers had assembled to see the Royal
guest enter. King Milan’s equipage stopped in front of the flight of
steps, and he seemed about to enter the palace, when all at once he
turned abruptly round, pushed aside the throng of officers gathered near
him, and, making his way towards us, bowed and said, “Are you not Miss
Allen? I am sure you are. I could not mistake your face, even after so
many years. I have never forgotten you and how you took me to Baneaza,
and how I clung to you because they had told me such terrible wolf
stories, and I was so afraid the wolf would come and spring upon me.”
King Milan was tall, robust, broad-shouldered, and as he spoke his young
face flushed, while between the sentences he bit his lips and scarcely
waited for an answer. The white feather of his high military casque
threw a soft shadow on his face--there were fun, good-humour and
happiness in his eyes. This was my first vision of him; and later on,
amid rumours of his dashing career, his imprudent actions, his growing
cruelty and love of money, I could but think of him as I had seen him
that day, doing one of those little acts of spontaneous kindness and
courtesy which cast a lustre on a monarch’s life more surely than other
more brilliant deeds.
The second time I met King Alexander’s father was in Carlsbad, the very
year before his death. So much of the glamour and joy of youth had died
out of his features and bearing that I should never have recognised him
had not my parents, with whom he was well acquainted, and who had often
spoken to me of his charm of manner, pointed out to me the still
stalwart figure as he walked towards us between the trees of the park,
where we were seated, taking our afternoon _café au lait_, as is the
habit in Bohemia. He approached, and, in a quiet, smiling way,
immediately asked to be introduced to me. He began a conversation on
literature and art in which, after some remarks which showed that the
King was a keen connoisseur of books, especially poetry, the talk
quickly turned on more particular topics, on the politics of our
respective countries, and finally on the tedium of the life of a King.
With a short ironical laugh he alluded to all the shams and tricks of
the position, saying: “You cannot imagine how delighted I should feel to
be perfectly free. It has always been my dream to lead an independent
life, and I have enough Roumanian blood in my veins to have even
regretted not being able to live in gay and lively Bucharest, and to
roll through its populous streets at the brisk pace of your excellent
horses. I shall never be rid of the trouble and annoyance which are
brought upon an individual by his connection with a throne, even now
that I have succeeded in getting rid of my position. I shall always be
tied to it because of Sacha--I mean my son, the King.” His voice
softened, and the twinkle in the pleasant eye grew tender. “He is a
clever boy, but as short-sighted mentally as he is in the material
sense--and he is almost blind, you know. He has to use the strongest
glasses you can think of. He is too good--he loves to trust people--he
hates to distrust, which I do not; and in our Servian realm I would not
trust any man when he had once crossed my threshold, even though he were
my best friend. Then Sacha has been brought up in such a singular way;
so spoilt on the one hand, so roughly treated on the other. It was
somewhat hard on him to be deprived first of his mother, then of
myself--_un orphélin artificiel_ (an artificial orphan) I sometimes call
him, poor little one. But the people love him well. They have seen him
grow up under their eyes, they have watched him as he became every day
more like them and less like me. Faugh! What a life would be his if he
knew, as I do, how one is obliged to keep awake for nights together--to
plan, to unravel intrigues!”
For a few seconds King Milan’s good-humoured smile vanished, his eyes
took on a more hawkish expression, and lines of bitterness and strong
decision curved about his mouth. But the smile soon returned and the
talk flowed into another channel.
All that evening I could speak of nothing but the ex-King’s charm and
easy erudition, and again all the evil legends and all the whirl of
gossip and slander which had been set afloat in my presence whenever his
name was mentioned vanished completely. The next day, as I was sitting
in the hotel garden, I noticed the same tall form among the trees, not
far from the bench where I was resting. King Milan, after having sent in
his card to the hotel, took a seat near mine. He did not perceive me,
and remained plunged in reverie--one of those sad moods which often
overtake human creatures when in the company of their own souls. A
creeping sense of depression had apparently fallen upon him. His lax
hand let the thick walking-stick fall unheeded upon the gravel. He had
taken off his broad-brimmed hat, and there was so much sadness gathered
on his forehead that an unconscious emotion of pity struck my heart, and
I sat as still as possible for fear of disturbing the day-dream of that
care-stricken man.
Perhaps at that hour some presentiment, some fear for the future of his
beloved son Sacha, the bereaved young King, at Belgrade, far from father
and mother; perhaps some shadow of his own approaching end had fallen
upon that stalwart being, who had loved enjoyment, revelry, and money so
well.
The servant returned to tell “the gentleman” that the persons he desired
to see were not at home. With a weary gesture the ex-King rose. In the
broad avenue he resumed his easy gait once more. When I went up to our
apartment I found his simple card, “Count de Takovo,” on the tray, and
thought no more of that afternoon’s impression till the day when I heard
of his untimely end at Vienna, where he had so passionately desired the
presence of his beloved Sacha, the ungrateful son who did not come.
As to my first meeting with Queen Nathalie, it took place a very little
time after her divorce, when she paid a visit to our Court. We all went
to the station to witness her arrival, as she was more especially
interesting and attractive to us because she did not belong to a Royal
family, and because she is through her mother related to a great number
of Roumanian families. Her husband’s relatives never spoke very kindly
of her, and in the long run we had fallen into the habit of considering
her as a most arrant upstart, who had always endeavoured to convince
every one that birth and not good looks and good luck had brought her to
the position she enjoyed. Rumours of her ambitious designs, her desire
to make the Servians detest their King, and, finally, to take his place
upon the throne, besides petty anecdotes about her pretensions, which
spread like wildfire, caused the repudiated Queen to be considered with
more curiosity than commiseration. Our King alone had stood by her, and
always referred to the great tact and courtesy with which she had
received him at Belgrade. So he would now, in her days of woe, do his
best to show her kindness and regard. When, as the train came in, the
ex-Queen, who was tasting the bitter cup of misfortune, saw the
Sovereign of the land waiting for her on the platform, she obviously
felt a glow of triumph and of gratitude. As he went up and offered her
his arm, the beautiful velvety black eyes of the Queen filled with
tears. Though of an aspect somewhat heavy and massive, she was then an
apparition of exultant beauty and health. But in every step and gesture
even a casual observer could detect a singular mixture of tremor and
resolution, the fear of losing an atom of her dignity, yet an anxiety to
appear perfectly at her ease; a terrible difficulty in discovering the
exact measure of condescension and familiarity which a queen is called
upon to distribute, and the certainty that this thought was ever in her
mind, “I am a Queen: I must act and feel and speak like a Queen.” She
wore a dress of black satin, thickly studded with jet stars and pearls.
Her beautiful raven locks waved on her shoulders and even round her neck
at every movement of her head. Her complexion, of a creamy hue and yet
rosy, one of the loveliest I have ever seen, gave her the aspect of a
sturdy mountain deity, a fairy made of less ethereal essence than
fairies are usually imagined to embody. A creature who lives in a land
of clouds and tempests must needs represent strength and valour: thus
Queen Nathalie gave the impression of being some wild goddess of rocks
and moors. But the mystery that education and, maybe, heredity
bestows--the _je ne sais quoi_ which makes queens and duchesses and
those happy few who are queens without ever approaching a throne and
duchesses without wearing a coronet--was not present to render the
Balkan beauty a distinct type of grandeur and misfortune. I cannot but
remember what a great writer once said: “It requires much intelligence
on the part of an unfortunate woman to wear her misfortunes like a
diadem and her tears like a crown.” And that sort of intelligence Queen
Nathalie never possessed, although her virtue is perfect and her heart
tender.
When, for instance, she entered the big drawing-room at the Castel
Polesch at Sinaïa by the side of our own Queen “Carmen Sylva,” great was
the difference visible. The Royal lady, from her infancy accustomed to
play the part of a public personage, could do so without the slightest
effort, and always succeeded in effacing her personality in her desire
to draw out the soul and thoughts of those to whom she spoke. Queen
Nathalie spoke only of herself, her ideas about Servia, its inhabitants,
the army, the Sovereigns whom she had met; and in those hours of
conversation the one awful mistake of all her life was conspicuous to
our eyes--a mistake which made us readily understand why her great
qualities, her purity and good intentions, had all proved useless. Queen
Nathalie, unlike every other Queen, has insisted upon treating her
private affairs, her disputes with her husband, her displeasure at being
forsaken for another, as affairs of State.
After the official luncheon both the Queens retired to the Oriental room
of the castle, where I was summoned to join them. The chamber was
fragrant with the odour of flowers, and the sound of the mountain
torrent was borne in upon the sultry air. We had left the doors open,
and the dazzling light kindled a fire of golden rays in its reflection
from the walls, which were hung with richly-embroidered silks, while
round the seats flashed gold and silver arrows.
Queen Nathalie in her black dress formed a contrast to the luxurious
display of Asiatic pomp. “Carmen Sylva’s” sweet countenance and soft
white Roumanian garb seemed like a flake of whiteness fallen from
Western skies into a room worthy the dreams of the Arabian nights. Queen
Nathalie played nervously with her fan, at a loss at first how to engage
in the conversation. Then all at once, as if moved by an irresistible
impulse, she said: “I have had no letter from Sacha this morning. I am
so thankful to spend this day of anxiety with your Majesty. When I am by
myself I can do nothing but walk to and fro and weep.”
“Does the child write to you every day?” said our Queen gently; “that is
a great consolation.”
“Every day? Oh, no, only once a week; but this is the day when the
letter ought to have come. I live all the days of the week in
expectation of this day.” Then she stopped and said: “May I shut the
door? The dreadful light is _so_ trying to my eyes.”
I had forestalled the poor Queen’s gesture, and as the door closed the
walls and furniture sank into a haze of reddish, sleepy splendour; the
glory of the summer day, the sense of joy, were shut out, and the
torrent was heard no more. Our Queen took up the last words: “You
expect--you wait. Oh, do not weep, so long as you have something to wait
for, something to look forward to.”
“Look,” said Queen Nathalie, “here is my boy at the age of seven, and
here he is as he looks now; a fine fellow, and _so_ fond of me. I am
afraid they may teach him to hate me--teach him to be hard and selfish,
and a coward. Oh, what do we desire our sons to become!--what heroes and
what saints!”
“As a hero he would die young,” answered Queen Elizabeth. “As a saint he
would go through much suffering before he became a saint. Wish him only
to be a good man. All human joy comes from goodness.”
“But he will be a King--a grand and striking figure.”
“Alas!” said “Carmen Sylva,” “is it not the grandest, the most striking
thing on earth to be a good King in a quiet way? Do you hope to see him
again soon?”
“Oh, yes, perhaps; but I shall never, never have him to myself again. He
will never be my own Sacha again.”
“A Queen’s child does not belong to the Queen, but to the people, who
will tend and cherish him; and to fate, and to God.”
“Yes, to the people, to fate, to God,” echoed Queen Nathalie. And no
presentiment crossed her brow as she lifted up her head with
determination.
The second time I saw the Queen of Servia was at a garden-party in
Paris--one of those assemblies which are but a pretence to show off
spring toilettes and listen to pleasant music. The big drawing-room
windows opened on to the lawn, where in the middle of a group of ladies
I recognised Queen Nathalie, and even found that she was little altered,
though that air of heaviness had now settled upon her and the rosy tint
of her complexion had been replaced by a more vivid hue. She looked more
depressed and more dignified than in Roumania.
I took a chair outside on to the terrace and watched the gay scene. I
had to wait for some friends who had given me an appointment there. Two
ladies drew their chairs close to the spot where I was seated. One of
them, a Frenchwoman, bowed; while the other, whom I did not know, turned
her back upon me. She wore a simple grey serge dress, and immediately
she spoke I recognised the long, trailing accent of Russians when they
speak the French language. It was Madame Draga Maschin, afterwards the
ill-starred Queen; and though at the time I did not know her, yet
unwittingly I became interested in her, and was even wishing for an
opportunity of seeing her face when the words struck me, pronounced in
sing-song tones: “_I_ marry! Oh, I could not dream of such a thing. I
am an old woman”--a low laugh accompanied the words--“I have finished
with Satan and his pomps. Besides, no one ever takes any notice of me.”
A mute protestation came from the other lady, and then the insinuating
voice went on. “I am not a coquette, nor a flirt, nor any of those
horrid amusing things! My sole ambition is centred on one thought--to
please _her_.” And she pointed to the spot on the lawn where Queen
Nathalie was standing.
“And you spend a pleasant life?”
“Yes; but a very quiet one. I have been _so_ unhappy, so misunderstood,
so ill-used by my husband’s family since his death that I only sigh
after repose. Biarritz is restful, and the Queen is so good that I have
become very much attached to her. I am more than a lady-in-waiting.” I
heard again that low, rippling laugh which betrayed a strong
personality, though the words tried to deny or veil it. “I am sometimes
even lady’s maid. I love to comb her beautiful black hair; and then we
relate the story of our lives to each other. She also has suffered. How
horrible, oh, how horrible, it must be to be a Queen! How can any
sensible woman envy a Queen?”
“Hush!” and the other lady whispered in her companion’s ear, and the
stranger turned brusquely round in her chair and looked me full in the
face. Her countenance was well calculated to charm though not to
command attention; the features though delicate, lacked refinement, and
there was about the nose a deficiency of classical lines, while the
mouth twitched in a nervous way as if moved to smile without the courage
to do so. The glossy black hair waved round a low forehead where furrows
were already settled, traced not by age but by stern, resolute thought
and action. The eyes and eyebrows alone were perfect, and spoke of an
Oriental houri’s power. They had a vacant gaze, as if intent upon a
far-off vision, yet when they fixed themselves upon the present scene
they shot a gleam of resolution and authority. The figure was frail and
the manner unassuming. The gaze that rested upon my face was soon
withdrawn, and the conversation began again in the same train.
Madame Draga Maschin again described the sorrows of her life and the
thousand details of Queen Nathalie’s goodness to her, while twilight was
slowly creeping over the Parisian garden, and an atmosphere of peace
settled around us. The hum of lively voices and the strains of military
music, servants gliding about laden with trays bearing fruit, ices, and
wines, the light touch of the sleepy sun falling upon the muslin
draperies and scarfs, all inclined to soothe the senses with an hour of
lulled content.
“Oh, we are so happy in France,” resumed Madame Draga, as she took a
glass of champagne and daintily raised it to her lips. “I would never go
to Servia again if I could help it.”
“But who, or what, could oblige you to go to that nasty country again?”
“Oh, it is not nasty; it is my country; but I have enemies there,
whereas here every one loves me. But you understand the Queen is such a
devoted mother. She will one day desire to see more of her son than she
does at Biarritz, where he comes only for a short time. She will return
to Belgrade, and then I shall have to accompany her, and if she settles
there--oh, then, farewell flirtations; farewell all hopes of marriage.
But I won’t marry again; I am too old and plain, and I don’t flirt.
Besides, I suppose I should have even forgotten my native language. I am
getting so cosmopolitan that, only think, the young King, when he came
to Biarritz this summer, discovered that there were many words in
Servian I did not understand, and he laughed--he teased me.”
“What is he like, the young King?”
“Not good-looking--a child still in thoughts and manners--very plain
even, one may call him, and _so_ short-sighted. We tried to teach him to
dance, but he looked as awkward as a bear dancing on red coals. A young
savage, too--he does not know how to bow, how to speak to a lady. But
then he is young--quite a child. He asked me to waltz with him because
he dared not trust himself to do it with any of the other ladies
present. Now, you know, I do not dance; I have not danced for years. I
said to the King, ‘Sire, I am too old to waltz,’ but the Queen insisted
on my guiding her son through the difficulties of the dance. But the
King made a false step; he almost fell, and I am sure we made every one
laugh.”
“Then, if you do not like dancing, if you do not like flirting, if you
do not like the idea of marrying again, what is there you do like?”
“My Queen, and a peaceful life by her side, and many other things:
music, for instance--military music. There is something so unrestrained,
so powerful in military music. Just listen to the band--it is just
playing--let us look at the programme. Oh! Schumann, is it? I dote upon
Schumann.”
Draga now had risen. She was of middle stature, and rested a small
well-gloved hand on the marble balustrade of the terrace. Night was
setting in, and on the delicate features a low streak of red light
lingered as the sinking sun sent a last farewell from among the distant
trees. Behind the slight tulle veil a smile flitted across the curving
lips, paled by the sudden chillness of the hour. Again into the eyes
that look of vacant fixity had entered, and they appeared to gaze far,
far into the future--far, far into the depths of the blood-red sun.
The languid Schumann melody came ebbing to our feet like the waters of a
melodious sea, and the ill-fated woman listened to the same music that
on the supreme morning of her life was to sound through the avenues and
gardens around the palace where, after the madness of despair and
useless struggle, the Royal pair lay stark and cold.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Cané, Rome_
POPE LEO XIII]
THE POPE LEO XIII
The fate which rules over human existence seems to delight in the most
violent contrasts, in scenes of woe and grandeur succeeding each other
with wonderful speed: hence we find recorded almost in the same month
the tragical disappearance of a royal couple who died midst floods of
blood and screams of terror, and the peaceful end of one of the greatest
Popes that the Roman Catholic Church has ever acknowledged as head. By
turns we shiver and dream and pray when we come to compare the events of
that fateful June night in Belgrade, its infuriated mob, its maddened
passions and fearful murder, with the moments which marked the entrance
into eternity of the White Ascetic, as some called him, the White Sage
and Pastor, Leo XIII.
A few years ago I had the honour of being received by the Pope on a
clear January morning, which the sun’s bright rays rendered as silvery
as the flight of the wheeling doves above St. Peter’s massive dome. The
breeze, freshened by the coolness of the night, blew lightly from the
Sabine Hills, bringing with it a scent of pagan flowers, a thrill of
pagan beauty, to the sacred precincts, as if to symbolise the eternal
fight ever to be fought between the loveliness of outward forms, the
glamour of light and colour, and the austerity of souls who have turned
to Heaven on finding the world void. Ample time for reflection was left
to me during the long interval we had to wait before entering the
Vatican, as an immense number of Tuscan pilgrims had to be received
before us--early as the hour had been at which we had driven through the
high stone gate. On alighting from the carriage we remained in the vast
court, which is surrounded with a graceful colonnade, and here our black
veils were nearly torn from our heads by the swift morning wind. Now and
then a busy _contadina_ paced quickly along the pavement and entered the
colossal church. In my bosom, though I tried to think only of the great
moment which was to follow, strife was raging; memories swift and
piercing as arrows crossed my mind, and I saw the mute forms--those
forms of bronze and marble that fill the Belvedere--rise in battle array
against the altar and the palace where the White Ascetic lived and
prayed. Extraordinary it seemed to me and almost appalling in that early
morning hour, when silvery doves cooed and circled--appalling and
extraordinary it seemed that the realms of immortal harmony should touch
the realm of immortal desires; that this religion, whose last vestiges
were scattered under the naked feet of rude fishermen, should reign in
close vicinity to its victor. Almost impiously I found myself imagining
that in the blue moonlit nights of the Latin Campagna scenes worthy of
northern ballads might again take place. I imagined the fettered Venus
and Apollo shaking off their slumber and leaving their pedestals to walk
through this same court of dreams and peace, then crossing the white
Vatican halls to go and gaze upon the features of Christ and the
Madonna, painted over and over again by Raphael and Fra Beato. And I
imagined them discovering that it was the same love of art which had
made them lovely and eternal in the memory of man, that made Jesus and
His holy Mother dear to reverence and faith; that there was a link
between them which ages could not destroy, and that they would again and
again return to their contemplation in the moonlit galleries. But what
could the stony multitude of gods and heroes say as they glided past the
chamber where the White Ascetic slept? What god or hero could they
compare with him who was neither God nor man, but a mortal fraught with
human weakness--a creature of clay, though adored as a deity; an old,
old man, with gestures weak as those of a little child, yet whose eyes
shone and glimmered like the eyes of those whose fate it is to rule and
to control?...
At this juncture in my reverie a flood of people streamed from the
Vatican doors. All were talking loudly, and all were in the humble
attire of Italian peasants or small bourgeois. The emotion of having
seen “Il Papa” made their tones shrill as each tried to prove that he
had seen him better than his neighbours. From such scattered sentences
as reached me I discovered that they had first heard Mass at St.
Peter’s, and had then been brought into the presence of his Holiness,
who had addressed a speech to them. He had also blessed the beads they
held in their hands or clasped eagerly to their bosoms. There was a hum
of happy excitement among them while we vainly tried to pierce the
crowd, and it was only after much difficulty that we succeeded in
reaching the short flight of steps leading to the great hall. Here an
idle group of soldiers allowed us to pass on showing our letter of
audience, and we ascended the main staircase. From hall to hall we were
ushered by footmen wearing the picturesque costume designed for them by
Michael Angelo at the request of his friend and patron Leo X. In these
vast echoing halls a large number of soldiers stood motionless, and
preceding us always was one of those _camerias di casa_ or _di spada_,
who are the Pope’s chamberlains, and who all belong to the most ancient
Roman families. Here the stately form of a monsignor, whose violet sash
relieved the uniformity of his black cassock, there the whispering
apparition of an archbishop surrounded by a small train of servitors and
friends, announced that we were in a place teeming with
tradition--perhaps the one place upon earth where tradition is still
living and still respected. With but few exceptions, the figures we saw
were the same as had graced these marble halls two centuries ago, and a
Pope of long gone ages might have risen from his tomb and found no
change in the Vatican but that of face or voice. Of all the Courts I had
visited this Court now seemed to me the most gorgeous and the best
arranged.
Upon a sign from one of the ushers we stopped to wait, and our emotion
grew intense. We had been told that as we did not belong to the Roman
Catholic Church, we should not have to kneel on entering the room where
the Pope would receive us, but make a very low curtsey, something like a
genuflexion, before approaching him. Although not as the head of our
religion, those of the Orthodox faith look upon him as the successor of
St. Peter and hold him in reverence, especially among the cultivated
classes. Among our peasantry I am ashamed to own that the fact of being
a Papist is tantamount to the confession of being a heathen; but in
Transylvania and even Roumania there are many of my countrymen who
profess the Catholic creed and are yet unmolested. Even in the immediate
vicinity of Bucharest there is a Roman Catholic settlement, and to this
fact the monsignor who held conversation with us while we waited made
allusion, asking us many questions about our native land.
A hasty summons, a noise of opening doors, and in a few seconds we found
ourselves in presence of the Pope. We had walked as in a dream, and I
would be embarrassed at this moment to tell whether we actually knelt or
forbore to do so, whether our curtseys and genuflexions were correct,
or were omitted altogether. I awoke to reality only when I noticed that
the Pope was showing us a seat by his side. He occupied a high chair,
where the extraordinary whiteness of his garb and his face made one
large luminous spot. I remembered having heard from some nun whose
special mission it was to weave and cut and sew the Pope’s vestments
that he never wore anything on his body that was not absolutely white.
As his pale thin hands rested on the woollen tunic, I saw that St.
Peter’s ring, the heavy gold circlet on his third finger, was the only
note of colour in that symphony of immaculate snow. A huge purple
amethyst contains St. Peter’s hair--a few threads only--which lend to
the ring its high significance. By that ring the Pope is Bridegroom of
the Church, her Spouse and her Beloved, as once the Doge of Venice was
the affianced of the Adriatic Sea, on throwing into the bosom of its
waters a huge symbolic ring. Slowly, with intent gaze, the Pope scanned
our countenances, and before speaking sank back in his high chair with
closed eyes as if weary beforehand of the coming exertion.
There was no trace of colour in his wan cheeks, not the least sign of
blood under the skin to mark the curve of the lips; his nostrils were
tinged by the hue of pale amber that floated on his forehead; he was
like a slumbering marble statue stretched on a mediæval tomb. His
inaudible breath did not stir the folds of his tunic, his heavy eyelids
fell like the petals of a faded flower, and he seemed already dead. We
could believe ourselves present at the great spectacle of a Pope’s dying
hour, and remained in awed terror till the motionless form moved,
stirred; and finally, as if the touch of the spirit from above had
inspired him with life and force, Leo XIII. opened his bright black
eyes, threw his hands apart, and took a long deep breath. His lips
trembled; but in tones whose steadfast clearness can never be forgotten
by those who have once heard them, he began speaking fluently as one
accustomed to question and treat of every subject.
He spoke French with a strong Italian accent and nasal aspirations which
rendered his voice peremptory and even piercing. Thousands of small
wrinkles marked his sunken face and seemed to pass from one feature to
another like the shadows on an autumn stream. His kindness and his ready
smile gave him a benevolent expression which might almost have meant
weakness but for the piercing look of the restless coal-black eyes that
wandered like living torches. The voice, accustomed to scatter orisons
and benedictions, now spoke of everyday events, and I could not help
remembering how I had once been thrilled at a large function under St.
Peter’s dome on hearing the “pater” said by that white old man who now
turned towards us with such sweet familiarity and inquired:
“Are you going to stay long in Rome? I would advise you to spend the
Easter holidays with us. You cannot know the real beauty, the real
holiness of Rome, if you have not heard the Easter functions in our
basilica and at St. Jean de Lateran. Have you visited St. Paolo fuori le
Mura?”
“Yes, Holy Father,” and I remained a little embarrassed.
This the Pope quickly noticed, and guessing the cause of my hesitation,
said in an easy natural tone:
“You have been told, haven’t you, that my desire is to be buried there?”
Then turning to another topic: “I am very much interested in Roumania,
and in all the spiritual children I have there--Roumanians make very
good Roman Catholics.”
“Of course, Holy Father, once they are Roman Catholics they are true to
the faith....”
“And all would be true, every one of you, if you could but understand
and fulfil my great desire--the union of the Churches.”
“Oh, that seems to me impossible, Holy Father.”
“To you, but not to me. The Shepherd longs to bring back the vagrant
lamb to the fold....”
“But, Holy Father, if the lamb does not know it is vagrant, and is
convinced that it is he who belongs to the true fold ...?”
A flash of indignation shot from the curiously keen black eyes. Then the
Pope sank back into his chair to resume that attitude of utter
prostration which he assumed twice or three times during our visit. It
seemed as if he fell into a trance, during which inspirations from
above visited him, but now a sign from his fingers urged me to speak on.
“Besides, your Holiness knows much better than myself that the
differences between our religions lies only in outward signs, that we
enjoy the blessings of Communion, that the Holy Virgin is adored by us
with the same fervour as by the Roman Catholics. The great impediment to
the Union of the Churches would arise from the fact--from the
fact”--here I stammered slightly, and then stopped short as I had begun
a sentence which in presence of the Pope I could not well finish. The
great impediment which I was about to be so imprudent as to mention was
the certainty that our Orthodox creed would never recognise the
supremacy and infallibility of the Pope.
Again he sat erect, again the strange gleaming eyes kindled with a vivid
flame. “You err, and you need tuition. Security and life are to be found
here only, in the place where I stand and upon which the Church is
built. But I have been told you are a poet, and therefore much more
versed in the gentle art of Horace and Virgil than in theological
discussion.” The voice softened; an amused smile crossed the thin lips.
“I am a poet also, and I will repeat to you the Latin verse I composed
this morning after Mass, just before I received the faithful pilgrims of
Tuscany.” Closing his eyes the Pope slowly recited two verses in praise
of the Virgin Mary and of Spring. Then he inquired about the climate of
our country, and said:
“You live near the place where Ovid was exiled and where he regretted
Rome.”
“Not very near, but your Holiness is not mistaken; the town where Ovid
spent the latter years of his life, with his eyes ever turned towards
the sea where he expected to perceive the vessel that would bear him
home, is situated within the Roumanian kingdom.”
“Oh, then I hope when you return to Roumania you will be like Ovid and
sigh after Rome, and I sincerely pray Heaven that your desire to see the
Holy City again may be fulfilled. Carry my benediction to all my
spiritual children you may meet there, and I will remember you in my
prayers, notwithstanding--” and at that moment the smile that curved the
pale lips reminded me of a similar expression I had seen in a portrait
of Cardinal Richelieu,--“I will remember you in my prayers,
notwithstanding that terrible impediment you were about to mention, but
did not dare to name....”
When we descended the broad staircase it was almost noon, and the full
light of the Roman sunshine flooded the marbles and the pictures all
around. The shrill clear sound of that imperious voice, the white
reclining form, and the start with which the great Pope returned to
signs of life and interest after appearing to be plunged in meditation
and repose--all the particulars of that memorable interview still dwell
with me, though often since then have I beheld the august figure of the
Pope carried high above the crowd, and often heard the peremptory tones
call to Heaven or murmur prayers and benedictions. On such occasions Leo
XIII. was more than a priest, more than the Head of a Church, more than
a human creature; he became the very symbol of faith and spirituality,
whereas during that half-hour in that chamber of the Vatican Palace, he
seemed to me an image of pure and real kindliness, one to whom the
humblest could come for comfort and advice. For a time the little lamp
was extinguished which used to be seen from every part of Rome, and to
which the people would point saying, “Look, there is the Pope’s lamp!”
It soon shone again, but the grand white figure of the Pope, whose title
“Lumen in cœlo” had been pronounced by predictions four hundred years
before his day, the towering spirit of Leo XIII. is no more. So white,
so pale, so bereft of flesh, yet so strong; so near to death, yet so
fully alive to every manifestation of his calling, he seemed immortal,
though ever on the verge of the tomb. He loved the poor with an almost
fierce affection, and had many a hard fight to defend them against those
who believed that the Pope’s duty lay on the side of the prosperous and
the powerful.
“I have sent the richest wine which was sent me to my family this
morning,” said he one day. Some one answered: “Then Count Pecci and
Count Moroni will be able to appreciate the good presents your Holiness
has received and given them.”
“Pecci, Moroni?” repeated the Pope, “I know not what you mean. My family
walks barefoot, and lies in hospitals or sultry dens stretched upon hard
pallets. Pecci, Moroni--they are Joachim Pecchi’s nephews; but the
others, the orphans and the exiled, the wanderers and the exhausted,
they are mothers, sisters, and brothers to me.”
[Illustration:
_Photo by G. & W. Morgan, Aberdeen_
QUEEN VICTORIA]
QUEEN VICTORIA
However numerous and interesting may be the descriptions of personages
who have come in touch with the great Queen, however thrilling the
narratives in connection with her public and private life, still, every
one who had the honour of approaching that illustrious lady may feel
justified in hoping that yet more remains to be told of one whose every
movement, whose every word, now belongs to history. When, as in the case
of the present writer, the emotion which arises from the presence of so
revered a sovereign is felt at an age when enthusiasm and desire unite
to make heart and soul ardent and eager, it is a joy to catch each sign
of feeling, to cherish the lightest impression, to retain even the
smallest detail. I am not afraid, therefore, to appear daring, or
lacking in modesty and common sense, when I say that my own experience
of Queen Victoria’s kindness and intellectual power may prove a novelty
even to those who have read the innumerable books and biographies that
have been written concerning her.
All the circumstances of our journey to Scotland, whither I accompanied
Queen Elizabeth of Roumania (“Carmen Sylva”), are yet so fresh in my
mind that I am scarcely able to realise how far off those days are now,
beyond our reach for ever. Methinks I see again the little station of
Ballater, gaily decorated with foliage and wild flowers, as our Royal
train rushed in, then came to a sudden stop in front of the eternal red
carpet. Red carpets and white gloves are so associated with official
receptions, so familiar and so loathsome to travelling Royalty, that
“Carmen Sylva” always says: “Oh, what would my travels be like, how
joyous and charming, without those obnoxiously new red carpets and those
awful white gloves! What would I not give to see bare stones and bare
hands before me!”
Methinks I can hear again the shrill notes of the bagpipes as the
Highland regiments burst into sight, playing a glad salute. The doors of
our compartment are flung open; the Prince of Wales mounts a few steps
and helps our Queen to alight. We know well that everything will pass
off in the conventionally ceremonious way which renders one Royal
interview so much like another; every movement, every syllable is
studied and decided beforehand; every one seems delighted, and declares
this moment to be eventful and entrancing. How natural, how free from
constraint, how simple and sincere they all seem to be while
accomplishing the dismal duty! How difficult even for the closest
observer to detect the slightest hesitation or passing shade of
annoyance on the well-trained countenance; how impossible, if one is not
aware of the truth, to discover that the conversations obey the same
unflinching rules and never vary; how striking appears the merit of
those who can give to them such a semblance of life that at times even
the Princes themselves forget they are playing a part! Now, as a matter
of course, all these ceremonies and salutes are a serious drawback if
any person present has a secret desire to gather information, or is bent
on some psychological inquiry dear to that spirit of philosophy which
the true soul pursues everywhere. The visages, serene and courteous,
wear a silken mask; as with the red carpet and the white gloves, a glare
and gloss is cast upon things whose nakedness would otherwise be too
apparent, but which makes them perfectly monotonous.
“Don’t you believe it must be always the same red carpet we see at every
station where I have to alight?” asks the Queen.
Yet we feel obliged to confess that leisure and an agreeable freedom are
obtained by the facilities attendant on Royal arrivals. No porter to
scream after, no anxiety about the luggage, no rough old gentleman to
elbow his way just between one’s innocent self and a foot-warmer, no
grating quarrels, in fact none of the thousand nuisances that often
change the station of a big city into a corner of Dante’s hell.
So there we were, in the grey mist of a raw September morning, bowing
and curtseying right and left. This was for the moment our only serious
duty; when we had done so for at least ten minutes, in a methodical and,
I must say, most elegant way, we could easily look round and try to
recognise all the illustrious personages who had come to meet us. These
were the Princess of Wales, the Princess of Battenberg, her husband,
Prince Henry, the late Duke of Clarence, Princess Victoria of Wales. Our
Queen walked lightly from one to the other, and, leaning on the arm
which the Prince of Wales had proffered, they now exchanged quite a
volley of affectionate compliments.
“How kind of you to have come so far! We really did not dare ask you to
come.”
“But how could I be twelve hours distant from Queen Victoria without
doing my utmost to see her?”
“But we really are so agreeably surprised, so charmed to greet you here.
Till the very last moment we were afraid you would not make the
journey.”
Yet we were all aware that the meeting between Roumania’s Queen and the
Queen of England had been arranged long before we left Roumania. I was
convinced that I should see very little of Queen Victoria during the two
days we were to spend at Balmoral, and I was already making plans for
scouring the Highland hills and glens, in the company of the amiable
ladies-in-waiting whose acquaintance we had just made, and who spoke
gaily of their drives and walks. When I bent low over the Queen’s
proffered hand, my sole idea was to cast a hasty glance at her face. My
glance quickly took in the whole countenance,--the clear azure of her
childish eyes, the complexion rosy instead of red as I had always
supposed her skin to be, and the extreme candour of her looks and smile;
an expression so strange in the physiognomy of an aged grandmother, that
I kept pondering over the fact and immediately wrote in my Journal de
Voyage: “La reine a un visage limpide--ses rides sont jeunes.” (The
Queen has a limpid countenance--her wrinkles are young.)
My expectations were completely at fault; no leisure was to be left for
an afternoon in the forest or the park round the castle; we were told
after luncheon that the Queen invited us all to tea. The hours fled
swiftly as we sat in the billiard room talking gaily and hearing the
other ladies tell all about the Court of England, while in our turn we
described to them the customs of our own. There is always between _dames
d’honneur_ an exchange of opinions regarding etiquette which constitutes
a subject of conversation unknown in other circles of society. In this I
have always found the greatest amusement, since personal feelings and
inveterate patriotism are bound to enter the lists; and it is seldom
that the friendly talk ends without some acrimony on both sides, each
party being intent on proving the superiority of its particular Court
and Sovereign. The typical _hof-dame_, however, only exists in Germany.
In England the ladies who have the honour of attending upon their Queen
still preserve sentiments, opinions, and nerves of their own; whereas
German Court ladies soon become mere machines, give themselves up
blindly to their duty, and preserve so little of their individuality
that it is impossible to distinguish one of them from another. They are
not human beings, they are mechanical imitations bent upon maintaining
propriety and fine manners, with the humble conviction that it is an
immense distance which separates a King from his subjects.
Prince Henry of Battenberg came himself to apprise us that tea would
soon be served, and he showed us the way to the Queen’s drawing-room. We
followed duly upon his steps, and when he pushed open a door we found
ourselves in the presence of the Royal family. All the Princesses were
standing; Queen Victoria alone sat in a large armchair. She makes a
slight movement as we advance towards her, and asks whether we have not
found our first day in the Highlands too dreary and too long. Her voice
is clear though not very strong, the French syllables tremble a little,
yet she speaks the language well, with a very slight accent. She knows
she can address me in English:
“Take a chair and sit by my side,” she says, waving the others away and
indicating a sofa not far off. I know that a seat must be close by, but
I am short-sighted and in great confusion, so remain motionless, while
Princess Beatrice, pitying my embarrassed countenance, wheels round a
chair and places me somewhat behind the Queen but still very near, where
I shall be able to see and hear her every movement, her very
breathing.... To hear the breathing of a living creature, to listen
eagerly for the regular return of that slight sound, has ever impressed
me with an emotion deeper than that which even the heaving of the sea,
or the pulsations of a clock, can give. Thus while listening to the
faint movements of that gentle breast, my thoughts flew towards the
moment when millions would hang anxiously on the feeble sighs which
should announce the approach of death. I pictured to myself what the
nations, what the whole world, would say when the blood, stirred into
action by the weak breathing whose cadence now stirred my hair, would be
growing colder and colder, and when the shadows of mourning should fall
upon kingdoms and empires heavier far than the shadows of night. Then
the high meaning, the symbolism of monarchy burst upon my soul as I sat
there so near the Queen; and I smiled to see how different from my
vagrant dreams were these surroundings; how familiar and old-fashioned
the aspect of the faded drawing-room, the tints of the huge furniture
whose coverings had not been changed for years; how quaint and even
rustic the few trifling objects decorating the shelves and tables. No
trace of grandeur, no hint of the exalted state of the illustrious
owner lurked there.
Through the open window a sharp evening wind was beginning to blow right
in our faces; the twilight hour was fast coming. Still, the hills were
fair to look upon, in the silvery rays of the wet atmosphere. The Queen
of Roumania and the Duchess of Albany were merrily turning over the
leaves of a large music album and pointing out their favourite songs to
a beautiful young girl who stood by the open piano. The unknown damsel
appeared neither moved nor fluttered. The firm and perfect lines of her
profile, her cold smile, and the respectful silence with which she
received the eager words of the royal ladies, made a striking contrast
with their playful condescension, and I could not make out who the girl
was till Princess Beatrice advanced towards her mother and said:
“Mamma, she will sing three songs--Elizabeth has chosen them. I am told
her voice is excellent and very well trained.”
“Is it really so? You know, dear, she has to be a good singer, a perfect
artist, if she sings before Elizabeth,” answered Queen Victoria--and I
comprehended that no small anxiety was felt by the august hostess on
account of our own Queen’s musical gifts and reputation.
“Yes, mamma, you may feel perfectly easy. Helen (the Duchess of Albany)
and my husband have heard her sing this morning. Is your seat
comfortable, mother? Does not the light disturb you?” And into the eyes
of the Princess Beatrice came a look of unutterable tenderness and
solicitude. She was at that time in the prime of robust and healthy
womanhood; her lips and her eyes spoke of happiness, and though she
could not be called pretty or fascinating, had no pretensions whatever
to either of these adjectives, her cordial smile, her fine figure, her
amiable conversation, and above all the unceasing care she took to make
every one at ease and content, rendered her most attractive.
“Mamma, don’t you think she should begin to sing?” she asked. “Just a
little song to begin with? Henry, go and tell her to sing the shortest
of the three little songs.”
“But Alsa has not come yet,” said the Queen. “I will have no singing
till Alsa is here. Of course the young girl will be as delighted to sing
before Alsa as before myself.” The voice of the Queen lingered
caressingly on the name “Alsa.” She alluded to Alexandra, the Princess
of Wales, and as she laid particular stress on the last sentences, a
sense of the grandeur which had hitherto been missing in the scene, took
hold of me--not because of mere affection, the attachment of a mother to
her daughter-in-law--but because of this instinctive homage rendered by
the actual Queen to the future Queen-Consort, a tribute of respect to
the Heiress of the Throne, the lady on whom the hopes of the realm were
centred. The proud consciousness of her own grandeur already reflected
in the grandeur of the dynasty lit up Queen Victoria’s eyes and gave
those few broken sentences a significance which went far beyond their
apparent meaning.
“Of course Alsa knows she must come--but as Bertie (the Prince of Wales)
is going off by the five o’clock train and she accompanies him to the
station, she will be somewhat late perhaps. So, if it please you, the
young girl will sing immediately.”
“No singing for the moment,” replied the Queen. “We will wait for the
Princess of Wales.” And to cut short all further remark, while the Queen
of Roumania was lightly touching the open pianoforte and delighting the
Princesses who lingered near by playing some Roumanian airs, Queen
Victoria turned her head towards me and beckoned me to pull my chair
still nearer. There was a gentle calmness in her gesture, in fact all
that happened appeared to be at the same time as strange and as familiar
as those dreams whose memory takes us back to the spots we have
cherished and are sure never to see again.
Her Majesty questioned me closely as to my musical tastes and
preferences. When I mentioned that my favourite composers were Mozart
and Wagner:
“How wide apart lie your ideals!” she said. “I am so fond of music
myself; and I love reading the biography of the great musicians. They
have all had such sad and thrilling experiences. I have till quite
lately played on the piano and even practised whenever I found time
enough to do so, because I always remember the happy days when my
darling husband used to open the instrument himself and lead me to the
music stool and then find a book of Mendelssohn--he loved
Mendelssohn--and point out the passages he wanted to hear. Now I am
rather ashamed to play, I am such an old woman. One day one of my
youngest granddaughters caught me practising and laughed outright. ‘Why,
grandmamma,’ she said, ‘how can _you_ practise now, and what for?’ Her
remark struck me.... I left off playing for some time. But then you see
my dear husband taught me to love all things beautiful and good--I
learnt to seek them for his sake--now I return to them often in memory
of him. You cannot guess to what extent my life is interwoven with the
life of the dead. I only feel alive when in close communion with the
dead. My prayers lead me toward them. Their spirits and their power
guide me. I am sure that the dead we have loved pray constantly on
behalf of the living!”
I then took occasion to relate to Her Majesty how touching and true was
the love which the villagers in Roumania bestow on their dead, and how
many touching ceremonies and songs point out this particular trait of
our national instincts. The Queen said:
“I am beginning to get quite fond of Roumania. Roumania is happy indeed
to possess such a Queen as yours is. I never could have believed before
meeting her that I was liable to get so rapidly attached to a mere
stranger. Everything she says and does is charming; I am so attracted by
her goodness, her intelligence--and what a voice she has! She must be
idolised in your country, is she not? I beg of you to tell all who take
any interest in your visit to Scotland that I admire your Queen
exceedingly. I want her and her subjects to know it. I am not of an
enthusiastic nature, nor does my temperament impel me to exaggerate.
This time I am enthusiastic and eloquent--how queer the words sound on
my lips those who have not lived by my side cannot understand.”
The light blue eyes looked more and more deeply into mine, as if they
sought in my soul the secrets of my race and of the distant land from
which I came. “Tell me more about Roumania,” she said. “It is a country
whose mysteries authors and guidebooks have not yet exhausted. I am
astonished that British travellers do not oftener seek pleasure and
exotic surroundings in your country. Do write a book on Roumania--invite
the English to your native land; they do so much good to all the
countries whose climate and scenery lure them to long excursions and
frequent visits. Just think how much Italy and Switzerland owe to the
English. Do invite them to the banks of the Danube--I would be _so_
pleased to observe the result, and I have many reasons for wishing it.
They like best those parts of the globe in which they can either create
history, or call to life again historical deeds of long-forgotten days.
So search your records well through, stir up your sleeping heroes, and
the English will come to you. But you must also offer them trout-fishing
and mountain climbing as an inducement.... Some of your national legends
remind me of Indian folk-lore. I am studying Hindustani just now. Don’t
laugh--I am very old, but I have always lived up to a precept which I
advise you to remember: We must always live as if we were immortal.”
In my opinion all the power and the happiness of Queen Victoria’s life
and influence are explained in those words. With a quiet, melancholy
smile she added:
“Then death will come to us like a radiant surprise, a most wonderful
and unlooked-for boon; then will the joy of seeing again those we have
loved be most startling and complete.”
A slight rustling, a soft sound filled the room, and Queen Victoria
tried to rise as she sought the help of her thick ebony walking-cane.
All the other persons were standing, as, beautifully clad in a dark red
velvet gown, her small head illumined by a haze of gold, the Princess of
Wales advanced. The swan-like whiteness of her visage and bare arms were
visible in the dimness of the silvery twilight as, with steps that
glided as softly as the sea foam on the beach, she came to the aged
Queen, and after fondly embracing her, arranged the folds of the black
dress and replaced the ebony cane on the arm of the chair. Her
mother-in-law said in low tones:
“Dear child, we have been looking forward to your presence. I have
invited a young and lovely Irish girl to sing us some Irish songs.
Beatrice says she has an excellent voice, and I want Elizabeth to be
pleased. We are one and all delighted with Elizabeth. But I am talking
away and the girl must begin to sing.”
Then the young voice went forth pure and powerful, while all the rest of
the room lay in darkness; two candles only flickered on the piano and
stood out like big pins of light. The harmony wandered on, like a rush
of warriors in the glare of the rising sun, then moaned over the
bleeding throng, and returned bruised and weary under the cold gaze of
the moon. Ever and anon a piercing cry came from the musician’s lips.
These were songs of wild rebellious Erin she was singing; the clamour of
her soul shrieking for liberty was lifted up in woe. A solemn stillness
had fallen upon the august listeners, on the group of mighty ladies and
lords, as the voice threw out its imperious flood of protestation and
defiance, thrusting its music into the silence of that hallowed room as
with daggers, like the flashes of a spear.
We all knew that the hour was one of great import to the young singer,
perhaps the hour which would decide all her after-life, the
culminating-point of her career, her fate. She sang in the presence of
her Queen; and as the silvery notes rang through the azure twilight, we
thought we could hear the mad throbbings of her heart, the beatings of
her blood against temples and veins. All at once the headlong cadence
fell and died away. A few words were murmured, words carefully uttered
in hushed tones amid the empty spaces, so that the contrast between the
Irish girl’s excitement, the extraordinary force and talent she had
displayed, and the apparent coldness with which her rendering of the
song was received, would have seemed cruel had not the Princess of Wales
approached and said some kind words of congratulation to the beautiful
artist, whose strikingly hard, audacious profile seemed cut out clearly
by the side of the soft fair visage that smiled encouragingly and voiced
thanks for all.
“Carmen Sylva” in her turn said: “How well you sing, madame; and how
very near your heart this music must be, because I cannot suppose any
one could offer us a nobler specimen of the Irish fervour and emotions.”
The lamps had now been brought, but large shades prevented them from
bathing the whole room with light, and most of the people present
remained invisible. Suddenly, in loud distinct tones, Queen Victoria
said:
“I want to hear ‘The Wearing of the Green.’”
The title bore no significance whatever to our ears, but an
uncomfortable murmur floated through the audience, and I could even
discern a few whispered words such as: “Oh, no, impossible ...
here....” However, the Queen repeated her request.
“Sing that song, please. I wish to hear it very much indeed. Will you do
that for me?”
“Yes, madame,” answered the beautiful Irish girl firmly. Her face was
set, and her eyes shone with a strange glow. From the very instant she
began to sing I grasped the meaning of the constraint and uneasiness
with which the Queen’s proposition had been received. In the full glare
of a neighbouring lamp the lovely young woman, whose features were now
fully revealed in the glory of an audacious perfection, began to sing.
Her voice swelled out in accents as fiery and glowing as the flames of
lurid torches, as furious as the harsh cries of multitudes raised up by
wrath to a pitch of passion; fearful indeed, but magnificent.
The song she sang was a popular anthem, a shriek for mercy and pity, a
defiant challenge from the weak to the strong--something startling and
appalling like a thunderbolt that falls on the bosom of the tempestuous
sea and awakens thousands of echoes from its billows. All these waves of
vengeance, all the cries, all the withering rage which that young voice
poured forth, came to die like foam at the feet of the quiet Queen. Once
again I saw that peculiar expression in her eyes, that expression of
clearness and limpidity, as if those eyes were made of fresh air and
water and could blow away or wipe out each tear, all anguish, every one
of the complaints uttered by the desperate song. It was evidently
hastening towards its end--the stanzas quickened their faltering pace,
and each measure was full to the brim of vehement desire for justice and
victory. We were then one and all wrapped up in the same thought: what
would we say after the young girl had ceased--who would dare to break
the silence this time? What would follow?
When the dreaded pause came we almost held our breath; no word was
spoken, no sound heard. Then an incident, unexpected as it was charming,
took place. With dignified yet affectionate alacrity the Queen of
Roumania came over and knelt by the side of Queen Victoria’s huge chair,
and taking both her hands caressingly between her own, said:
“What a very great Queen you must be, and how sure of the affection of
your subjects, to be able to hear such a song sung in your presence! In
fact, were you not really a great Queen, no one would have dared to obey
you to-day.”
“But the song is splendid,” said Queen Victoria, “and I wanted you to
hear it. Besides, I am very fond of the Irish, you may be sure of that;”
then, turning towards the young girl, “I thank you with all my heart, my
dear. You have given me great pleasure and been the occasion of my
receiving from the Queen of Roumania a compliment which I shall never
forget.”
At dinner that evening I was seated by the side of the Duke of Clarence,
not far from the Queen, whose right-hand neighbour was “Carmen Sylva.”
The Princess of Wales beamed radiantly upon us from the opposite side of
the table on the left of her Royal mother-in-law. Queen Victoria spoke
little, but followed the conversation with evident interest.
“Mamma,” said the Princess of Wales, “look well at Mdlle. Vacaresco, and
try to remember who she is like--remember Florence and the ladies you
have seen there. _I_ judge of the likeness from a photograph.”
Queen Victoria’s glance rested on my face. “Yes, Alsa dear, I see what
or rather who you mean. But would Mdlle. Vacaresco care about resembling
that lady--almost one of her own countrywomen? I have noticed when
abroad that people belonging to the same race appear to be very like
each other.”
“The lady that we allude to is very handsome,” said the Princess of
Wales to me with ready tact, “so you need not be offended.”
“Surely, dear, that lady is handsome--much handsomer than you, my child.
I guess you already know to whom I refer. Yet I read disappointment in
your face. You do not like the idea of being compared to her.”
I bowed in mute acquiescence. The Queen continued.
“Her face is beautiful, it is true, but it lacks life and expression,
which yours does not, though it is less striking and harmonious. And you
prefer wearing your soul in your face to any perfection mere beauty can
confer--I would do the same in your place. I do not like vacuous or
expressionless faces; yet the ideal in England and most of the northern
countries is in favour of a countenance which is drilled to hide every
emotion, even the natural curiosity of an intellect athirst for
knowledge and comprehension. The southern poets would laugh outright at
_our_ heroines, whose secret aspirations no one can read in face or
gesture.”
When we passed into the drawing-room after the meal, the conversation
around us waxed rapid and full of spirit, though in a key of discreet
undertone. Lord Rosse was at that moment the Minister in attendance on
the Queen, and told us how hard he had worked with her Majesty in the
morning, as he was the one member in the Cabinet who had the management
of the Indies. “So you are the Ministre _pour les Indes_” said I. “Oh!
then you might accomplish my warmest dream. I wish to be Vice-Queen of
the Indies in my own right, if only for a few days. I want to ride on a
white elephant, who would kneel to drink in the Ganges; to see the land
of splendour and diamonds, the land of fakirs and innumerable temples.
Oh, I have hesitated long between the fascinations of the extremely
modern and the excessively old civilisations, the two opposite poles of
the world as to history and religion. I had ardently desired to become
Empress of the United States, Empress of North America altogether. But
since I am here, and such a good opportunity is offered me, why I
prefer the Indies.”
At this Lord Rosse laughed, and we took up the sentence and repeated the
words: “Empress of the United States!” in tones so loud that all the
company were startled, and to our great confusion _our_ Queen put a
finger on her lips, while the Princess of Wales smiled approval, saying:
“Oh, no, do not stop, the Queen likes young people to be merry. Look,
here is my mother, who is coming to inquire into the cause of your
mirth.”
Surely, the Princess was right. Queen Victoria herself came up to Lord
Rosse and asked:
“What have these little girls been saying which makes you all so gay,
Lord Rosse? May I not know?”
“Certainly, madam, here is a young lady who desires me to ask your
Majesty to nominate her Vice-Queen of the Indies for a few days, or even
a few hours.”
“What for?” asked the Queen, in an amused and eager way.
I explained to her my childish day-dream, and how often I had longed to
see and thoroughly explore that distant realm of light, the empire whose
gentle, placid Empress stood before me, modestly clad in a plain black
silk gown.
“These stones are from India,” said the Queen, as she pointed to the
huge diamond necklace which glittered on her bosom. “A gift from the
town of Bombay. You are right, my child,” she continued. “Like you, I
too have longed to see those lands so far away and so marvellous. I am
the ruler, but no more than you have I enjoyed the sight of my subjects,
of the beautiful cities with their rivers where big elephants kneel to
drink. Your wish must be granted. You are a poet, so you will have all
that you desire. Sleep quietly this night, and while you sleep I will
sign an invisible decree which will give you the power to fly towards
the distant paradise of your dreams and be a queen there, and you shall
play with the birds and rubies and feel you possess them all, much more
than I possess them myself.”
“Is your Majesty aware,” interposed Lord Rosse, “that Mdlle. Vacaresco
had just thought also of becoming Empress of the United States?”
“Oh, what a singular, what an unexpected title!” exclaimed the Queen. “I
am gratified to have heard these extraordinary words coupled together:
Empress--United States. Is it a presage? Oh, how could it come about?
The United States and Empire! Could you live to see that?” The Queen
stood dumb-struck, plunged in serious thought, then turned away slowly,
still murmuring: “Empress of the United States--what an extraordinary
idea! What a title, is it a prophecy? the United States a monarchy!”
“My mother wishes you to remember all your life that you spent your
birthday with her,” said Princess Beatrice next morning, as I entered
her drawing-room. “Your Queen has told us that this is your birthday
...” and the Princess pointed to a big volume on the table. “This is the
Queen’s Journal. She has written a dedication and her autograph on the
flyleaf.”
I ran up to my room with my treasure. In the corridor I was startled to
meet Queen Victoria herself, and I endeavoured to thank her.
“Please don’t,” said the Queen. “I have a boon to ask from you. I want
you to write some verses of yours in an album, verses appropriate to the
book. But I am keeping you here. Run upstairs; you must have letters to
write, and I also am in a hurry.”
“My maid is lucky to-day, madam,” said I. “She has had but one idea
since she left Roumania--to catch a glimpse of Queen Victoria; and there
she is at the end of the gallery, looking at your Majesty with greedy
eyes.”
“I will say a word to her, poor thing;” and before I could prevent the
Queen from taking so much trouble, she had briskly walked towards the
terrified maid, and was actually saying to her:
“I have come to ask you whether you like my home, and if you have all
you require here.”
The woman, whose utterance was choked by tears of gratitude, could find
no answer; and when the Queen turned to go she saw that my own eyes were
moist at being witness to an act of such gracious sympathy.
The Queen took leave of us in the evening. “We shall see very little of
each other to-morrow morning. Do not forget Balmoral. I will send my
album up to your room, and remember that what you write in it will
create a lasting link between the ancient Queen of England and the girl
poet of Roumania.”
I sat alone in my chamber pondering over the events of the past two
days, and felt a pang at the thought of leaving this hospitable
dwelling. Around me, one by one, the inmates of the Castle were sinking
to sleep. There I stood in the darkness with clasped hands and a heart
full of reverence and regret.
A slight tap at the door aroused me, and a footman walked in, bearing a
black leather book. A tiny key fell from its lock as I tried to open it.
I lit my lamp and entered into communion with the slumbering souls whose
memory lingered within its covers. The book was a cemetery, and as the
passing winds arouse the murmur of leaves above the graves, so as I
turned these pages a rustling sound awakened the dead. I knew them
almost all by name. Here was the Emperor Frederick III., his last letter
and his tomb; here, too, the Grand Duchess of Hesse, verses written by
her hand, and several letters from her; here also memorial stones were
represented which bore the names of all those whom the Queen had mourned
and loved--the same tribute was paid to the humblest as to the greatest.
A few verses from “In Memoriam” were written in Tennyson’s own hand; a
tender missive from the mother of the Queen to her daughter; withered
flowers, a tuft of heather taken from the wedding bouquet presented by
Prince Albert to his wife, and two of the flowers that had been placed
under his hand before he was laid in his coffin--all the homage rendered
by a soul at anchor in the harbours of faith and hope, to the souls who
travel and float in eternal bliss, was visible on the pages of that
moving little book. My whole night was spent in its perusal; this small
volume gave the final touches to the portrait of Queen Victoria which
was to remain for ever in my mind....
“You have written exactly what I would have liked you to write,” she
said when I stooped over her hand next morning in the white hall of
Balmoral Castle, and her Majesty gently kissed my forehead, saying,
“Thank you for _their_ sake and for mine.”
So we passed away from the stately but homelike Castle. The mists were
so thin that the whole landscape danced before our eyes. I turned my
head to look behind and kept my gaze fixed on the massive tower where
the standard of England floated.
Something was working in my thoughts, something that waved to and fro
like that glorious standard whose vivid colour soared so high. Something
spoke in my heart, and questioning said: “Have I not seen two women in
one, two queens in a single queen? and which of these two women do the
English most revere? The grandmother, ever ready to receive and
distribute affection, or the quiet guardian of the little cemetery, that
small black book I had loved so much: and which of the two queens is the
truest queen--the one who toils till midnight, till the abundant oil in
her lamp is spent, allowing no fault or flaw in her government to be
overlooked, or the indulgent sovereign who listened in serene enjoyment
to the rebellious song that had endeavoured to kindle revolution?”
I had seen two women in one, two queens in a single queen.
INDEX
Abergeldie, 78
Albert Edward Prince of Wales--_see_ Edward VII.
Alexander I. of Russia, 143, 147
Alexander II. of Russia, 146
Alexander III. of Russia, 151
Alexander of Servia: The memorable tragedy, 255, 273,
described by “Madam Draga,” 271;
learning to waltz, 272
Alfonso XIII. of Spain: His appearance, 218;
early training, 219;
necessary qualities of a Spanish King, 220;
Royal stables, 221;
his infancy, 224;
boyish pursuits, 229;
a real King of Spain, 232
America, 251, 309
American women, 251
Arabia, 122
Aranjuez, 224
Austrian Court, 94
Austrian Imperial vault, 108
Balmoral, 71, 81, 294
Belgrade, 256, 263, 271
Berlin, 17, 132
Biarritz, 271
Biebrick, 9
Bourbons, 214, 218
Bucharest, 195, 196, 201, 258, 260
Budapesth, 34
Bullfights, 220, 229
Capuciner Gruft--_see_ Austrian Imperial vault
Carlsbad, 259
“Carmen Sylva”--_see_ Queen of Roumania
Carpathians--_see_ Karpathians
Catherine Constantinovitch, 257
Charles V. of Spain, 92
Cologne, 17
Court Life: Scandal and intrigue, 35;
Royal visits, 51, 126;
etiquette of the Austrian Court, 94;
Roumanian Court, 129;
Italian Court, 171;
Spanish Court, 217;
Court of Holland, 249;
Roman Pontifical Court, 281;
“red carpet and white gloves,” 292;
ladies of honour and international etiquette, 295;
German Court, 296
Crimean War, 146
Czar--_see_ Nicholas II. of Russia
Czarina, 70, 156
Danube, 23, 134, 140, 255
Darmstadt, 162
Divine Right of Kings, 192
Duchess of Albany, 298
Duke of Luxembourg, 9
Duke Philibert “the handsome,” 189, 190
Duke of Reichstadt, 105, 109
Dutch Court Ceremonies, 249
Education of Princes, 219
Edward VII.: Visit to Roumania when Prince of Wales, 51;
fondness for dogs, 62;
converses on the happiness of princes, 66;
coronation, 67;
a true British Monarch, 220
Emperor of Austria (Franz Josef): His chequered career, 89;
his fortitude, 93;
death of Prince Rudolf, 103;
calls on the Queen of Roumania, 106
Empress of Austria (Elizabeth), 34, 69, 91, 93, 109, 112
Empress Maria Theresa of Austria, 108
Empress of Russia--_see_ Czarina
English as the language of Courts, 131
English Court ceremonies, 80
Escurial, 213, 217
Etiquette--_see_ Court Life
Etruscan relics, 209
Fanny Mouchard, 21, 22
Ferdinand, Emperor of Austria, 108
Florence, 122, 208
France and Kaiser Wilhelm II., 124
French Court under Napoleon III., 13
French Revolution, 21
German Court, 296
German Ladies of Honour, 296
German Women, 199
Grand Duchess Helena of Russia, 11, 13
Hague, 248, 252
Hapsbourg Family, 218, 221
Highland reel at Balmoral, 81
Humbert, King of Italy, 170, 191
India, 72, 154, 156, 310
Ireland, 78
Italian Court, 171
Italian Renaissance, 2, 136
Jerusalem, 202
Joseph II. of Austria, 108
Josephine, wife of Napoleon I., 5, 126
Karpathians, 3, 67, 72
Kief, 145
Kruger, 251
London, 174
Louis XIV. of France, 120, 155, 187
Madrid, 213, 215
Margherita di Savoia, 189
Marie Catargi, 257
Marie Louise, Archduchess of Austria, 109
Maximilian, 92
Mejerling, 98, 255
Milan, King of Servia, 257, 259
Miramar, 70, 226, 229
Moscow, 145
Murat, 22, 126
Naples, 122, 191
Napoleon I., 126, 133, 143
Napoleon III., 13
Nicholas I. of Russia, 143, 146
Nicholas II. of Russia: Favourite pursuits, 154;
interest in India, 154, 156;
love of travel, 154;
personal appearance, 155;
marriage, 156;
intercourse with English cousins, 156
Nihilism, 147
Obrenovitch Family, 256, 257
Palais Michel, 12
Palermo, 185
Panslavism, 151
Paris, 199, 268
Parthenon, 122
Philip II. of Spain, 123, 145, 214, 216, 224
Pierre Loti, 177, 229
Pisa, 205, 207
Plevna, 45, 147, 148
Pope Leo XIII.: Receives Tuscan pilgrims, 278;
ceremonies of the Pontifical Court, 280;
his immaculate dress and appearance, 282, 284;
St. Peter’s ring, 282;
“the true fold,” 284;
doctrine of infallibility, 285;
as poet, 285;
his love of the poor, 287
Prince Charles of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen (afterwards King
of Roumania), 17;
his ancestry, 21, 22, 126
Prince Henry of Battenberg, 294
Prince Henry of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, 250
Prince Otto of Wied, 10
Prince Rudolf of Austria, 91, 98, 100, 102, 108, 255
Princess Beatrice, 297
Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, 110, 160, 255
Princess Elizabeth of Wied, 7--_see_ also Queen of Roumania
Princess Henry of Prussia, 158
Princess Irene of Prussia, 159
Princess Mary of Wied, 10
Princess Victoria of Battenberg, 161, 163
Princess of Wales (Alexandra)--_see_ Queen Alexandra
Queen Alexandra, 71;
love of poetry, 72, 85;
admires Roumanian costumes, 75;
knowledge of English and Scottish popular lore, 78;
death of Prince Albert Victor, 84;
coronation, 86;
with Queen Victoria at Balmoral, 299
Queen Draga of Servia: The memorable tragedy, 255, 273;
at a Paris garden party, 268;
her devotion to Queen Nathalie, 269
Queen Emma of Holland, 239, 241, 246
Queen Helena of Italy, 70
Queen Juana la Loca of Spain, 92, 222
Queen Margherita of Italy: Her appearance, 70, 168, 171;
beloved of her people, 169;
etiquette of Italian Court, 171;
visits Queen of Roumania, 177;
describes Italian people, 181;
training her son, 191
Queen Maria Christina of Spain: Her character, 70;
training of Alphonso XIII., 219;
love of poetry, 226;
conversation, 228
Queen Mercedes of Spain, 224
Queen Nathalie of Servia, 263, 269
Queen of Roumania (“Carmen Sylva”): Her varied pursuits, 2, 30;
her crown, 5;
early life, 6;
visit to the Russian Court, 11;
the French Court and Napoleon III., 13;
her father’s death, 14;
her marriage, 15;
betrothal, 19;
Castel Polesch at Sinaïa, 27;
her poetry, 31, 69;
visit to Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, 34;
love of music, 35;
punishes her maids of honour, 37;
death of her infant, 41;
nursing the sick during the Russo-Roumano-Turkish War, 45;
prepares tableaux vivants for the Prince of Wales--Edward VII., 54;
Rudolf of Austria’s visit, 94;
Queen Nathalie’s visit, 265
Queen Sophia of Naples, 94
Queen of Sweden, 9
Queen Victoria: Her views on Court ceremonies, 80;
love for Princess Alexandra, 80, 299;
her last hours, 84;
kindness and intellectual power, 291;
“Carmen Sylva’s” visit, 292;
her appearance, 295;
simple tastes at Balmoral, 297;
love of music, 300;
Prince Consort, 301;
studying Hindustani, 303;
“the Wearing of the Green,” 305;
wish to visit India, 311
Queen Wilhelmina of Holland: Birth and parentage, 235, 238;
descendant of William of Orange, 238;
childhood, 240;
training, 243;
dislike to incognita, 244;
excursion down the Rhine, 244;
death of her father, 247;
her studies, 247;
coronation, 249;
her betrothal and marriage, 249;
personal characteristics, 250;
visit of Kruger, 251
Rhine, 2, 7, 9, 11, 14, 110, 244, 247
Roman Catholic Church in Roumania, 281, 284, 286
Roman Pontifical Court, 280
Rome, 83, 167, 170, 180, 182, 277, 286
Roumania and the British traveller, 302
Roumanian costumes and manners, 23, 74, 197
Roumanian Court, 35, 196
Roumanian folk-lore and ballads, 31, 113, 133, 139
Royal love marriages, 16
Russian Church, 145
Russian Court, 12
Russo-Roumano-Turkish War, 45, 147
Savoy, House of, 186, 187, 188
Scheveningen, 252
Schönbrunn, 105, 106, 108
Sicily, 122
Sigmaringen, 125, 135
Spanish Court, 217
Spanish bullfights, 220, 229
St. Petersburg, 12, 145
St. Sebastian, 226
Tchernagora, 70, 209
Tuileries, 6
Tzigane costumes and manners, 76
Venice, 176
Versailles, 224
Victor Emmanuel of Italy, 169
Victor Emmanuel III.: As soldier, 185;
ancestry, 190;
birth, 191;
visits Roumanian Court, 192, 195;
love of sport, 194;
notes on travel, 197, 202;
marriage, 207
Victor Hugo, 130
Vienna, 94, 104
Waterloo, 133
“Wearing of the Green,” 305
Wiesbaden, 111, 156
Wilhelm II., German Emperor: His varied pursuits, 117, 123;
ambitions, 119;
as orator, 120, 124;
his travels, 122;
French opinion, 124;
visit to King and Queen of Roumania, 125;
English as the language of Courts, 131;
statuesque appearance, 135;
antiquary and connoisseur, 136;
opinion of clever women, 137
William, Prince of Orange, 238
Women of America, 251
Women of Germany, 199
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
London & Edinburgh
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
Castel Polesch and Castel Pelesch are both used
The tableax vivants=> The tableaux vivants {pg 56}
Royal Higness has=> Royal Highness has {pg 76}
flash he rememberd=> flash he remembered {pg 207}
But the Estruscans=> But the Etruscans {pg 209}
Helène. She cannot let=> Hélène. She cannot let {pg 226}
palace her eye=> place her eye {pg 252}
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