Besides, his vengeance would not fall on me alone. It would overtake and crush the count, whom he hated for his presumed influence over me. And this influence, how could they possibly understand it? People see only what they want to see. It is beyond their miserable comprehension to understand superior beings with lofty souls and aspirations, and they describe as infamy what in reality is sacrifice.
I will pass rapidly over the shame and the sorrow, and I will only relate as much as is necessary to make known to the world the high and pure character of the count, who, a Bayard without fear and without reproach, dauntlessly confronted a military tribunal.
I will confine myself to stating that in the unprecedented drama of incessant persecutions which I was forced to endure from the year 1897 until the victory of the Entente, the Imperial Houses of Berlin and Vienna were the prop and support of the different attacks, pressure, outrages, defamations and calumnies which would assuredly have overwhelmed me if public opinion had not instinctively revolted thereat.
And the public knew nothing of the rights and wrongs of the case.
Strengthened by public sympathy, I have been able to resist oppression. Justice is slow but sure.
The principal Austrian mental specialists refused to certify me as insane, and an asylum in Germany was found where I was destined to serve a life sentence. I then said to William II:
"As an accomplice of this crime, you will be eventually punished."
I reflected at this time that the man who was a party to the crime of thrusting a sane being into the abyss of madness was capable of other abominations. I did not believe that God would permit him to go unpunished.
He has been punished.
The same blow has struck the companion of his life, the wife who was so intolerant of the faults of others, so uncompromising from the height of her unchristian-like virtue. As the enemy of her neighbour, her influence would have been enough to bring about the war, since the worst of warlike tendencies is the spirit of intolerance.
It is not sufficiently well known, but it is a fact, that the awful conflict of 1914-1918 was simply the result of the pitiless and inhuman hate of Lutheran Prussia, which was devoured by the wish to dominate, to govern and to oppress.
Disbelief caused the war. Belief only will bring about lasting peace.
Belgium and France must understand that, although Prussia held and enriched Germany, Germany never liked Prussia.
Germany can only be won by confidence and by affection.
The Catholic section, who are no less generous than the Socialists, who although the greater part are sincere, are indifferent to Divine will, should show an example of reconciliation. The bishops would then have a great rôle to perform. Religious conferences and pilgrimages might afford occasions of meeting on a better footing, and before I die I should like to see Germans, Belgians and French united in the presence of the God of Love, in the same faith and in the same hope, and through the Love of His Law they would then exchange the kiss of peace.
CHAPTER XIII
The Courts of Munich and Old Germany
Each time I have stayed at the Court of Vienna I have regretted that I did not know Louis II personally. When I first saw him he had already taken refuge in his dreams and his dreamlike castles.
Like Rudolph, he had been seized with a great mistrust, not of humanity, but of those who directed human affairs. He did not, like Rudolph, find a way of escape in suicide. Louis II created for himself a paradise of art and beauty, where he endeavoured to lose himself, away from his people, whom he loved, and by whom he was loved in return.
I once caught sight of him in the park at Munich sitting alone in his state carriage, escorted by rather theatrical outriders. Behind the bevelled plate-glass windows framed in gold, he sat imposing and motionless.
He was an astonishing apparition, one which the crowd saluted without his seeming to take any notice.
After his extravagances the Court, forced to economize, easily adopted a more or less bourgeois existence.
I rejoiced to see the patriarchal customs of the Regent, Prince Luitpold. I had not then much experience of politics, and only saw the surface of things. The impatient insubordination of Bavaria to Prussia, from which a more intelligent and less divided Europe might have derived so much advantage, escaped me. I only saw in the Regent a character out of one of Topfer's stories.
He devoted the greater part of his time, even in his old age, to physical exercises. Shooting and swimming were his favourite pastimes. He bathed every day all the year round in one of the large ponds on his estate in Nymphenburg. And when he was not shooting he was walking. His outward appearance gave no indication of his rank. I met him one autumn day in Vienna in one of the little streets off the Prater behind the Lusthaus; he was in his shirt sleeves; his coat and top hat were hanging on the point of the walking-stick which he carried over his shoulder. He seemed happier than a king.
His inseparable companion, a poodle no less shaggy and hairy than his master, accompanied him. They looked exactly like one another. At a distance a nearsighted person might easily have mistaken the dog for the Regent and the Regent for the dog.
Louis III, his son and successor, inherited his father's simple tastes, which he believed he could simplify still more. But excess in anything is a mistake. His abuse of simplicity was practically his only way of making a mark in contemporaneous history. History will not preserve the memory of this mediocre King of Bavaria, but it will remember his unfashionable clothes, his concertina trousers, his square boots with rubber heels and his wrinkled socks, by which he wished to demonstrate his democratic tastes. He would have done better to have recollected that the duty of a king is to raise the man in the street to the level of the throne, and not to let the king descend to the level of the man in the street.
He was not popular, owing to his bad taste. In vain he paraded his love of beer, coarse jokes, sausages and skittles. The Bavarians remembered Louis II as a good king, and at the same time as a grandly spectacular king.
People are flattered when a king who is a king unbends to them, but if he looks like a carter they experience no pride in seeing him drive the chariot of State as if it were a cart.
The Court of Bavaria, which had slightly retrieved its former position before 1914, fell between Scylla and Charybdis when the Crown Prince of Bavaria and the Man of Berlin played with the thunderbolts of war. The Wittelsbachs vanished like smoke in the defeat of Prussian ambitions.
They might still have been at Munich if they had furthered legitimate Bavarian ambitions, and judged them from the exclusive point of view of the political and religious needs of their country.
It must be recollected, however, that the German thrones were threatened. Neither the rigid discipline of Berlin, the go-as-you-please rule of Munich, nor the mixed systems which existed between these two extremes could have kept up the anachronism of worn-out forms which the people instinctively rejected by paying more attention year by year to Socialism and Republicanism.
The German kings have vanished. It is not impossible that they may return; if not the same, others, perhaps better qualified to rule. Nations are restricted in their choice as to the methods of government. Monarchy is the form which pleases them, or rather which they tolerate, more often than any other. Monarchy originates from the family principle, which is an eternal principle. The true king is a father. Monarchy may be reborn in Germany and elsewhere, but its powers will be modified and restricted by the times. As it existed in Germany it has been condemned to extinction by reason of its archaism.
The Church alone has the privilege of not becoming obsolete, by the constant return of mankind to an immutable doctrine. Monarchies become obsolete owing to men of the same blood, the same name and the same race who aspire to exist uninfluenced by the constant changes of the conditions of life. When they fall exhausted, then comes the time of the Republic. But because the family principle is the foundation of social existence, and because a Republic favours the individual rather than the family, the Republic in its turn disappears and Monarchy reappears. Such is the way of the world.
Germany would be the first to admit this if she possessed any philosophical sense whatever. It is a popular legend that Germany possesses the philosophical spirit, and nothing is more invincible than a legend. But, as a matter of fact, there is no nation on earth at once more metaphysical and less philosophical than the German nation. Metaphysics alone help her people to dream and to accept these dreams for realities. In no way does it lead them to a condition of wise clear-sightedness.
The German nation has fallen into the pit dug for it by Imperial Prussia. Every Court, important or otherwise, was convinced that Berlin and the Hohenzollerns would be masters of the hour.
Certain showy Monarchies, feeling the pressure of a rather frock-coated Socialism, have tried to accommodate themselves to Social Democracy as Social Democracy adapts itself to them.
Nevertheless, one saw some maintaining their traditional ceremonial undisturbed.
Such a Monarchy was the little Court of Thurn and Taxis at Regensburg, the most picturesque and most amusing Court which I have known.
I have often played skittles at Regensburg; but what a spectacle we presented! We played skittles wearing our tiaras and our long-trained gowns. There was etiquette in handling and bowling a large ball. More than one tiara became insecure, and more than one player groaned in her jewels, silks and embroideries, not to mention her corsets. Luckily clothes were then capable of more resistance. If this had occurred nowadays, when women dress in transparencies which are as scanty as possible, what would not one have seen?
It must not be thought that this was a chance game of skittles which I played dressed in full Court toilette. It was the fashion. You did everything at Regensburg in a procession, preceded by a Master of the Ceremonies. And because and for all that, as Victor Hugo says somewhere, it was very droll.
Life at Regensburg was agreeable. The prince and princess entertained magnificently. The palace lent itself admirably to entertaining, as it was a superb residence, royally furnished and surrounded by gardens which were tended with love. The cooking equalled that of the cuisine dear to the heart of Ferdinand of Bulgaria. The charming part about it was that the antiquated ceremonial was so well ordered that certain exaggerations were quickly forgotten in the beauty of rhythm and arrangement, which recalled the dignity of bygone days.
We went to the races in splendid state barouches, preceded by equally well turned out outriders. The Count of Stanfferberg, Master of the Horse, an old Austrian officer, rode at the side of the prince's carriage, and the gentlemen-in-waiting were so attentive that, had there been no step to the carriage, every one of them would have supplied the place with their persons.
If we went to the theatre we went in full dress, preceded by torch-bearers to the princely box.
An etiquette of this description compelled one to maintain the dignity of one's station. But the prince and his wife liked this ceremonial; they only lived to prolong the pomp of past centuries.
It had been said that Princess Marguerite of Thurn and Taxis somewhat resembled Marie Antoinette. The prince, who believed in the said resemblance, wished to give his wife a set of diamonds which had once belonged to the unfortunate Queen of France. He bought them and the princess wore them. I was afraid that there might be some fatality in this, but there were no superstitions at the Court of Thurn and Taxis. The future was seen through rose-coloured glasses, and in order to make the appearance of the princess suit the historical diamonds the famous Lentheric was once sent for from Paris on the occasion of a Court ball, to arrange the princess's hair "à la frigate," and transform her into a quasi Marie Antoinette, whom one would have been very sorry to have seen starting for the scaffold.
When the wind of revolution swept over Germany the dethroned princes were spared this punishment. They departed for foreign countries, and not for the scaffold. Germany, left to herself and no longer intoxicated by Berlin, has not massacred a single one of her sovereigns of yesterday. And this fact alone should rightly afford food for reflection to all those who speak of Germany without really knowing her.
* * * * *
In the little Duchy of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha life was quite different from that at the Court of Thurn and Taxis. Here nature and art joined hands. There were no showy processions, no studied etiquette; only a charming and distinguished simplicity which exemplified the taste of this German prince of high and human culture—my uncle, the reigning Duke Ernest II, whose kindness to me I have already mentioned.
He never tired of spoiling me, and he wished me to feel that whenever I was at the palace I was a queen. His affection never changed. In his society and that of my aunt the duchess, who was also very affectionate and kind to me, I have often forgotten the misery of my marriage.
His stag-hunts in the beautiful country of Thuringia, through forests of firs and beeches, were for me an intoxicating pleasure.
I followed the duke's lead; he was a good shot and a good horseman; his years did not trouble him. Often, in the mountains, I rode a white mule, and the duke remarked on the touch of colour which my mount and I made in that rustic countryside.
In the evening, when the weather was fine, we dined under the big trees, which were lit up by well-arranged lanterns. I usually wore a light dress to please the duke, who also liked me to adorn myself with a garland of flowers which he himself made up every day, as an act of delicate homage from the most courteous of uncles.
When I stayed with the Duchess Marie at Rosenau, I also passed many happy hours. Her daughters were lovely girls. What a radiant apparition was Princess Marie, now Queen of Rumania! Once seen—she was never forgotten!
Coburg, the cradle of a family which has given to Europe so many kings and queens, princes and princesses, Royal and Imperial, has witnessed numerous gatherings of the present generation. A marriage, an engagement, or a holiday invariably brought the members of the Coburg family to their native country. Young and old were happy to return and forget some of the duties which their position demanded; others were glad to forget the burden of their studies. Each tried to be himself and to behave as an ordinary human being.
The delights of a normal existence are very attractive to those who are deprived thereof by their position and their duties. The general public has a false idea of royalty. It believes them to be different from what they are, while, as a matter of fact, they really wish to be the same as anyone else.
No doubt princes, like William II, are to be met with who think that they are composed of a different clay from the rest of mankind. They have lost their heads by posing before the looking-glass and by inhaling the incense of flattery. They are merely accidents. Any man who suffered similarly would be just as bad, no matter to what class he belonged. It is true that the disease would not then have the same social consequences. Again, Monarchism has become more and more under control and is practically limited to a symbolic function, since it depended more on one man than another. It could have been both efficacious and influential if the prince had possessed personality; but if he possessed mediocre qualities without serious influence of any sort he was merely a nonentity. After him would perhaps come a better ruler. But everything is a lottery, and universal suffrage and the elections of Parliaments are no less blind than fate.
At Coburg I was brought into close association with the Empress Frederick, who died with her ambitions unfulfilled, great in her isolation. She saw with an eye which knew no illusions the Royal and Imperial crown of Prussia and Germany pass swiftly from her husband to her son. The egotism and the vanity of the "Personage" aroused in her more fear than hope. And with what an expression of pity did her eyes rest on the mediocrity of her daughter-in-law!
The Romanoffs and their relations also remained faithful to Coburg. The grand dukes the brothers of the Duchess Marie, her sisters-in-law the Grand Duchesses Vladimir and Serge, who were both beautiful in a different style, brought with them echoes of the stately and complex Court of Russia, that Asiatic Court which I always felt was a thousand miles and a thousand years beyond the comprehension of the present century.
Amongst other memorable ceremonies which I have witnessed at the cradle of the family, I have retained the remembrance of the marriage of the Grand Duke of Hesse with Princess Melita, who became later the Grand Duchess Cyril. Happiness seemed to preside at the fête. Love had been invited—a rare guest at princely unions.
I will not say much about the betrothal of poor "Nick" with Alice of Hesse, which was also celebrated at Hesse.
He who was to become the Tsar Nicholas II, appeared a sad, timid, nervous and insignificant man, at any rate from a worldly point of view. His fiancée was distant in manner, absorbed and self-centred. Already her entourage was concerned about her visionary and rather eccentric tendencies.
She had replaced Princess Beatrice (who had married Henry of Battenberg) as Queen Victoria's reader and favourite companion. The Queen desired the throne of Russia for her granddaughter, and she brought about the marriage of which I witnessed the betrothal ceremonies. The old Queen presided. But everything lacked gaiety. If joy appeared to reign for a moment it seemed nevertheless to be forced. One felt depressed by the weight of some unknown calamity. Perhaps Destiny wished to warn Alice of Hesse and Nicholas of Russia of their impending fate.
CHAPTER XIV
Queen Victoria
Is it possible for me to mention the name of Queen Victoria without remembering that the Prince of Coburg and myself were often the guests of our aunt and cousin? One of the most hospitable of women, she revelled in the joys of domesticity, and liked nothing better than to gather her relatives around her, preferably the Coburgs, the family of which the Prince Consort was a member.
Although the Queen was extremely short, afflicted with a corpulency that was almost a deformity, and an excessively red face, she nevertheless possessed an air of great distinction when she entered the room, supported by one of the magnificent Indian servants who were her personal attendants. She usually carried a white handkerchief so arranged that the lace border showed, and she favoured a black silk gown with a small train, the corsage cut in V shape. She wore round her neck a locket containing a miniature of Prince Albert, her never-to-be-forgotten husband, on her head a widow's cap of white crêpe; she very rarely wore gloves. On special occasions the Koh-i-noor, that wonderful diamond, the treasure of treasures of India, sparkled with a thousand fires in the folds of the crêpe cap.
The Queen did not leave much impression of her personality, although she was most impressive in her movements, her tones and her look. Her nose had a curious way of trembling, which was almost an index of her thoughts. And how shall I describe that amazingly cold glance which she was wont to cast over the family circle? The slightest error in dress, the slightest breach of etiquette was instantly noticed. A hint or a reprimand followed in a voice that brooked no reply. Then her nose wrinkled, her lips became compressed, her face flushed a deeper scarlet, and the whole of the Royal Person appeared to be swept by the storm of anger.
But once the storm had passed, the Queen smiled her charming smile, as if she wished to efface the memory of her previous ill-humour.
In arriving or departing she always bowed to those around her with a curious little protective movement.
On one occasion I had the misfortune to displease her.
The Queen detested the curled fringes which hid the forehead and were then fashionable. This rather unbecoming mode is within the recollection of many. I admit I adopted it. Fashion is fashion. This style of coiffure greatly annoyed the Queen, who said to me one day: "You must dress your hair differently, and in a manner more suitable to a princess."
She was right. Unfortunately the Prince of Coburg, who equally disliked this curled coiffure, was present when our aunt made this remark. If she had given him the Koh-i-noor he could not have been better pleased. I was therefore treated to a sound scolding from my husband, which resulted in making me decide not to take any notice of the Queen's censure. My hair still remained in curls on my forehead.
At Windsor, as in the Isle of Wight, the Queen drove out every evening about 6 o'clock—no matter what the weather might be. We were usually honoured by accompanying her. Occasionally we were obliged to wait quite a long time for the Queen to make her appearance. At last, preceding the Queen, a plaid on his arm, a flask of whisky slung over his shoulder, came John Brown, the faithful Scotsman whose doings occupied such a prominent position in the Court Circular, and who, like many others of his kind, represents an unpublished feuilleton in the history of Courts.
He led the way, ensconced himself in the brake drawn by two grey horses, and the drive—which lasted about two hours—began.
Evening fell. John Brown moved about in his seat. He frequently turned his head, hopeful to receive the Queen's orders to return. Was this anxiety on account of his fear of rheumatism, or of some chill, which, notwithstanding the comforting properties of whisky, would have affected his health and prevented him fulfilling his duties to the Queen? I really cannot say. All I know is that John Brown detested twilight drives on a damp evening. They always affected his temper, and he did not attempt to conceal his feelings—but, for that matter, he never attempted to do anything contrary to his inclination.
Even the Queen's children experienced John Brown's autocracy.
It happened that the Prince of Wales, afterwards the great King Edward VII, once wanted to see his mother on urgent and unexpected business. But John Brown opened the door of the Queen's room and said decisively: "You cannot see the Queen, Sir."
If in the intimacy of her daily life Queen Victoria allowed herself some moments of relaxation, she was, nevertheless, a great Sovereign and an imposing figure. Her Jubilee, celebrated with a splendour which my contemporaries will easily remember, showed her real status in the world. The procession through London in the midst of a delirious and cheering populace, the cavalcade of kings, princes, rajahs, and other representatives of the Dominions, resplendent in their magnificent uniforms and blazing with precious stones, was a spectacle worthy of the "Arabian Nights."
We shall never look upon the like again. Men will never honour temporal power as they did when they thus exalted a woman who so nobly represented the Past, the Present and the Future of the United Kingdom, the Empire of India, and the Colonies.
Do not say "vanity of vanities." Pomp and Circumstance have their reasons for existence. A society which does not possess a theocracy, an aristocracy and a pomp in proportion to its institutions is a moribund society. It will always be necessary to return to the equivalents of Sovereignty, the Court and Divinity, without which the discrowned social edifice will be a barn or a ruin.
It was on the occasion of one of the great Jubilee entertainments that, owing to my annoying and incorrigible habit of unpunctuality, I arrived late to take my place in the Royal cortège. I will admit that I was often purposely late, because I knew that this enraged the Prince of Coburg beyond anything else, and he always began the day by saying that he knew beforehand I should not be punctual.
Women who read this book will understand how difficult it is to be quite punctual for an engagement when one is wearing a special gown for the first time. Men will never understand these feminine difficulties!
I frankly acknowledge that on this occasion I ought to have arranged matters differently; I did not wish to be in fault. State ceremonial exacted that nobody should be absent at the formation of the cortège. And, as owing to my marriage, my rank and position relegated me towards the end, quite a number of kings and queens had been obliged to wait until I made my appearance.
When I entered I was, naturally, in a state of extreme confusion. But at this period I was in the heyday of my beauty. I knew that I was beautiful and admired. I saw most eyes turned unsympathetically in my direction. The women looked cross, but happily the men, who at first seemed severe, were not long in softening towards me. I was dazzled by the light of these earthly suns!
But to hesitate was to be lost! It behoved me to derive instant advantage from the situation. Silence and impassiveness greeted the apparition of the culprit who had dared hold up the progress of the Queen of England and her illustrious suite. I realized that my entrance must be of the kind which succeeds only once in a lifetime.
I took my time—and I put all the grace imaginable into my curtsy to the Queen, and my bow to the assembled Court.
I approached to kiss my mother's hand, who, overjoyed to hear the flattering murmur which followed my method of asking pardon, drew me towards her, saying as she did so: "You were made to be a queen."
Even now a tear rises from my heart to my eyes. What a strange nature we possess! But when one has been metaphorically born on the steps of a throne, one feels the need for success, homage and ovations. One not only preserves their memory, but one also retains the wish for them and the regret when they no longer exist.
CHAPTER XV
The Drama of my Captivity and my Life as a Prisoner—The
Commencement of Torture
My misfortunes, alas! are known to the public all over the world. But it is not on me that they weigh most heavily.
If calumny and persecution, assisted by the most powerful influences, have continually added blow upon blow, one truth, at least, is patent: I was not—I am not—mad, and those who endeavoured to affirm that I was insane, did so to their shame, and, I also hope, to their sorrow.
"Nevertheless," it was said, "the princess is peculiar." Others, better informed, declared emphatically, "She is weak-minded."
Not that, thank Heaven!
My "expenditure," my "prodigality," my "debts," and "my relinquishing my interests and my will to my entourage" have all been objected to.
Let us briefly discuss these "peculiarities" and these "weaknesses."
It is perfectly true that at times I have been extravagant. I have said, and I still repeat, that this extravagance was a way of revenging myself for the constraints and pettiness of an oppressive avarice.
It is true, as I have also admitted, that, as in the natural order of events I thought I should inherit a considerable fortune, I have been weak in some things and I have not resisted certain temptations.
People talk of the fantastic sums of money which I have spent. I calculate that I have not disbursed ten millions of francs since 1897, the year when I made a bid for freedom. Higher figures have been given, but these are represented by the exaggerations of speculators and usurers sent by my enemies to help their case, and to bear witness of "follies" after having palmed off their worthless securities on me.
Everyone knows the edifying story of the German creditor who appeared before the Court at Brussels deputed to pay my debts out of the funds accruing to me from the inheritance of the King, and put in a claim for seven million marks, which was reduced to nothing after due inquiry and verification of what he had really advanced and received.
If I were to lower myself to write the story of the various manœuvres against my independence, all with one object of placing me in such a position that I could neither live nor act, my readers would say: "It is impossible, she is romancing."
But the most unlikely romances are not those which are published. Life alone reveals them.
Reflect; I had to choose between slavery, imprisonment in a madhouse, or flight and, in consequence, an active defence of my personal rights.
I fled, and I have defended myself. But, in order to capture and break me, my allowance was reduced to a mere pittance, and, later, even the means of getting my daily bread were cut off.
I had lost the best of mothers; the King, deceived and irritated, but more politic than I in all that concerned me, placed appearances above the obligations of his conscience, and took no further interest in the cruel fate of his eldest daughter.
From the time of my incarceration my sisters and the rest of my family sided with the King. I saw myself forgotten by my relatives, who for years never came near me in the asylum.
I was either mad or I was not mad. To abandon me thus showed that I was not.
The Press at last became indignant at this neglect. Then my relatives came, but oh, very rarely! It was so painful, so embarrassing for them—but it was not embarrassing for me.
When I escaped, their pretended pity gave way to open anger....
It was necessary, however, for me to live and to make as much return as I could for services which had been rendered me. At last I was compelled to go to law—a new crime!
My crime did not consist in my rebellion against a husband and a marriage of convenience that had become impossible.... Have I been the first woman to be forced into matrimony?... My crime consisted in showing that deplorable spirit which the world rarely pardons—the fighting spirit, the spirit of resistance.
The world dislikes a woman who defends herself, and I admit the mystery of procedure and the devious ways of the law have always been beyond me, but a woman who defends herself resolutely, for the sake of principle, honour and right, this woman is detestable.... She wishes to prove herself in the right against established authority; she creates a scandal; she cries: "I am not mad!" She cries: "I have been robbed!" Why, such a woman is a public nuisance.
As a rule, well-bred people who are imprisoned and robbed do not make much noise about it. But in the case of the daughter of a king and the wife of a prince who objects to being thought either demented or a dupe, it is unforgivable of her to create a scandal. Had she done the right thing she would not have been talked about. She would still be in the shadow of the lime trees of the Court; and, as she wants to dabble in literature, she could have written a book about the glory of human justice in Belgium and elsewhere.
Many thanks! My conscience is still my own. I will not yield it up. I will die misunderstood, slandered and robbed, my last word will be a word of protest. That for which I have been reproached must be vindicated; I will make good. I have nothing to be ashamed of as regards my past "extravagances."
God be thanked that my "victims" have always been paid in full, and always to their own advantage.
I should consider myself dishonoured had I caused anyone to lose anything due to him, no matter how small the sum. I would rather have settled with the cheats than have disputed with them.
Having written so fully about my expenditure, let me now turn to the so-called surrender of my fortune and my will to my entourage.
Let none be deceived! Touching this, slander has always attacked one person alone, he to whom I have consecrated my life as he has vowed his life to me. His enemies have credited him with their own base motives. They did not want to see, and they denied that he was, by his greatness of soul, far above all miserable calculations of self-interest.
In vain he threw into the abyss all that he had, all that he was likely to possess. What sublime abnegation, stifled by hate beneath its hideous inventions!
Oh, noble friend, what has not the howling and monstrous beast of hatred said of you?
No doubt you, like myself, were unable to struggle against fraudulent financiers, deceitful men of law and treacherous friends. But to dare to insinuate that you have ever subjugated my will, misled my steps, falsified my acts—ah! it is more absurd than infamous.
I have, I always have had, a power of resistance capable of sacrificing everything to an ideal of honour and liberty, otherwise I should have been a mere doll, or a weathercock responsive to every breath.
Full of consciousness as regards the essentials of human dignity, I should then be unconsciousness personified for things of secondary importance.
Is not that foolish?
But let us leave this topic and throw a new light on the subject of the incredible attempts of a hatred which nothing could disarm up to that day when another justice, not that of man, overthrew thrones so unworthily occupied and delivered me from the persecutions of which I was the object.
On the eve of their fall the German and Austro-Hungarian monarchs still believed they could do as they liked with me. The wrongs I suffered are only one example of what they dared do. What crimes have they not committed which still lie hidden! And what corruption clings even to their memory!
The commencement of the intrigues which brought about my fall is known to the world.
I was at Nice with my daughter. Dora, who represented alike my hope and my consolation, was taken from me by her fiancé, who was in league with the Prince of Coburg, and who broke the solemn promise he had given me.
The prince instinctively felt that I intended to make my escape, and he knew that with me would also vanish his hopes of possessing my inheritance from the King of the Belgians.
"She might get a divorce," he thought to himself. "She might marry again."
I had thought of divorce. This might well have to come much later. But if I could not help freeing myself from a promise to a man who had destroyed the reasons which were the basis of the spoken vow, I hesitated about freeing myself from my vows to an invisible and silent God, who does not corrupt, deceive or persecute.
The indissolubility of marriage is one thing; the severance of the ties of the flesh is another. The longer I live the more I have become convinced that divorce is a scourge. We must have courage to admit that individual cases ought to be considered of no account, the interest of the community must alone be considered. The higher the value that is set on marriage the better will society become. The marriage tie has become something excessively fragile, and as a result society possesses no solidity. The Church is right. But who among us does not stumble, and which of us does not disregard the fact that Divine law is essentially a human law?
The count received at Nice the seconds of the Prince of Coburg, to whom the Court of Francis Joseph had relegated this duty. The duel brought the two adversaries face to face in the Cavalry Riding School at Vienna in February, 1898. The lieutenant fired twice in the air, and twice the general fired at the lieutenant. They were then handed swords. The lieutenant continued to treat the general with respect and touched him lightly on the right hand.
He thus added to the feelings of hatred which the prince already had towards him. Three weeks later he was implicated in that abominable story of the forged bills of exchange which was entirely an invention, and to which, later, the Reichsrath accorded full justice.
The impossible judgment which pretended to dishonour one of the most noble of men would never have been pronounced if I had been called as a witness.
But my enemies hastened to have me incarcerated. My evidence was suppressed and the count was condemned.
A man still lives, silent and hidden, who, if I reckon rightly, must be seventy-five years old. I write these lines hoping that he will be able to read them before he disappears finally from the world.
Now, when my memory invokes him, I see him standing at the threshold of the madhouse into which his hatred had caused me to be thrown, and I see him at the gate of the prison where he had caused Count Geza Mattachich to be confined. But I should like him to know that his victims have pardoned him. They could, to-day, demand satisfaction from Austrian justice, now freed from the constraints of former years. His victims will spare him. Let Him who will judge us all, judge this old man. I do not even know who were the instruments of his vengeance.
Not long since in Vienna a poor creature three-parts blind and with one foot in the grave was pointed out to me, and I heard the name of the Jewish lawyer, now repudiated by all that is estimable in Jewry in Austria, who was the agent, the instigator, and the counsellor of the implacable hatred which determined on my destruction.
I looked back at him thinking that this same personage, so stubborn in his system of police severity, and in his service of the abuse of power, had also armed the hand of the woman who killed my son....
And greatly moved, I asked myself:
"Have they understood?"
Yes, perhaps. Doubtless they are no longer what they were. Life must also have changed them.
Can they, without pain, remember yesterday?
To speak candidly, we fled in order to escape these enemies; I did not stop to think, and I believed that they could have ordered our arrest. I also believed the word of emissaries in the pay of the prince. We were then in France where I ran no risk. I wished to leave for England and implore the help and protection of Queen Victoria who had given me so many evidences of her affection.
My faithful lady-in-waiting, Comtesse Fugger, shared my fears and accompanied me in my hasty flight.
We had scarcely reached London when we received all sorts of mysterious hints from pretended friends. We must go back at once or the count and I would be lost. We therefore left London without any attempt on my part to rejoin the Queen, whom we had passed on our journey, as she had just left England for the south of France.
We were not of the stuff of which criminals are made. They are more callous. Hemmed in by our own too-credulous imagination, we then thought of taking refuge with the count's mother at the Château de Lobor.
No one has ever understood why, and how, I brought myself to go to Croatia, to the house of Countess Keglevich.
Her second husband, the stepfather of Count Geza Mattachich, was a member of the Chamber of the Hungarian Magnates, a Deputy and friend of the Vassals of Croatia. I felt convinced that nobody would dare to carry me off whilst under his roof.
Our adventure was by this time a public topic. The papers of every country referred to it. The duel was the culminating point of this terrible publicity. And, since calumny and its manœuvres had not, as yet, had any effect, we were looked upon as romantic persons whose sincerity disarmed criticism and called forth feelings of sympathy.
When I think that since then I have been taxed with duplicity, I cannot help smiling. Few cases can be quoted of a more open existence than mine. I have never concealed from my friends what an exaction my life with my husband was to me, and when I was powerless, I never made any mystery of the help which I found in a chivalrous deliverer most providentially placed in my path.
But the world does not forgive those who will not wear a mask of duplicity, and who refuse to conceal the feelings of their heart.
So many people are compelled to hide their feelings. But we, but I ... truly, where is the crime?
I am quite prepared to die; I have no fear of the justice of God.
Strong in our common loyalty we were foolishly persuaded that in France, England, Germany and elsewhere we should be in danger; we had been warned that my husband's intention was to put me in an asylum—Gunther of Holstein had told me this, and had spoken of having me protected by his all-powerful brother-in-law.... What an unforgettable comedy! We arrived in Croatia feeling sure that under the Keglevich roof I should be safe.
The count confided me to his relatives for so long as it would take to obtain a separation from the Prince of Coburg. The talk died down. Public opinion was on my side, chiefly in Agram where the count and his family were regarded with affection. At Vienna even the inimical camarilla was disarmed. We were now only two creatures like so many others; the one bruised by her broken chains, the other willing to assist her. And this devotion perhaps, one day, would be sanctified by time.
Oh dreams! Oh hopes! We are your playthings. The awful reality rises up and rends us.
We had not foreseen the plot against us and what odious accusations would be levelled at the count.
Suddenly his stepfather, who was well known at Court and had influence in other directions, was separated from us. Apparently he had been told, in confidence, of the crime imputed to his stepson, and the accusation did its work.
This explanation of his change of manner is the most indulgent I can give.
The support of Count Keglevich thus failing us, the countess, torn between love of her son and her husband, was placed in a very delicate position, and our enemies had therefore a free field at Agram.
However, there were two parties; on our side were the students and the peasants, and against us were the police and the authorities.
Directly the count thought that we had the support of the students and the country people, he was afraid, and delivered us up. The prince's lawyer—this man whom I cannot name—was given full power. The Emperor consented to let him act as he thought best, and he had a pocket full of warrants.
I ought to say, on behalf of Francis Joseph, that he had been assured that the count wished to kill me. To which the Sovereign is said to have replied:
"I don't want a second Meyerling. Do what is necessary."
The prince and his hirelings were not lacking in inventive skill. Their measures were well taken and their plans well laid. A special train was kept in readiness at the station at Agram for the woman who was to be declared mad for reasons of State, and a cell in the military prison was prepared for the man who was to be made a criminal in the eyes of the world.
All Austria knew this, as well as many other things.
A doctor (an official whom I had never seen), with my certificate of lunacy in readiness, was waiting for me at Agram by order of the police, together with a nurse from the Doebling Lunatic Asylum.
These people and a posse of detectives lay in wait for a whole week. All depended on getting us to go into the town. They would not have dared to have arrested us at the Château of Lobor in the open country, where our defenders would have hastened to our succour in the twinkling of an eye.
The military authorities ordered the count to proceed to Agram, and being an officer on leave he was forced to obey.
We had a presentiment of some "coup." But our situation at the château had become awkward owing to the change of attitude of its owner, who had now left, taking Countess Keglevich with him. It seemed to us that nothing could be worse than this cruel estrangement. However, the count had to obey orders, so I, too, resolved to go to Agram. It was impossible for me to shun any danger that threatened him.
So we left. I went, with my devoted Countess Fugger, to the Hôtel Pruckner. The count went to the rooms retained for him, and I to mine. We arrived late at night.
In the morning, towards nine o'clock, when I was still in bed, the door of my room was forced open. The prince's lawyer entered, followed by men dressed and gloved in black—police officers in full dress. The doctor and the nurse from Doebling formed the background.
The special train was waiting with steam up in the station. Some hours later, without having a chance to collect myself, I was suddenly snatched from normal society and found myself in a cell at the Doebling Asylum on the outskirts of Vienna. By means of a grating in the door I could be constantly watched. The window was barred on the outside. I heard shouts and howls in the distance.
They had placed me in the part of the asylum reserved for those who were raving mad. I saw one patient who had been released for an airing running round a little sanded court, the walls of which were padded with mattresses. He was jumping and throwing himself about, uttering piercing shrieks.
I started back, horrified, covering my eyes and ears. I threw myself on my narrow bed and, sobbing bitterly, I tried to hide my head under the pillow and the bedclothes so as neither to hear nor see.
What might I not have become without the memory of the Queen and without the help of God? My faith sustained me and gave me the courage of martyrs.
Meanwhile at Agram, the count, also under arrest, was being told that by virtue of the Austrian Military Code of 1768 he was accused—by whom will soon appear—of having negotiated bills bearing the signatures of Princess Louise of Saxe-Coburg and the Archduchess Stéphanie.
I was to be declared mad, and he was to be proclaimed a forger!
The worst they did to me was nothing compared with what they brought against him.
Ah! this justice of the Court which revolution has since swept away! Ah! this code of an army, a slave to a throne and not the guardian of the country! What defiance of good sense at the dawn of the twentieth century!
And then we are astonished when the people rise!
The count was put in prison on the accusation of the same nameless individual who had interested himself as a police agent in my affairs. The Governor of Agram was under his orders. He believed the word—or appeared to do so—of this petty lawyer who stated that Count Geza Mattachich had forged my signature, and that of my sister Stéphanie, on bills which had already been nine months in the hands of the bill discounters of Vienna, who had suddenly (!) discovered the signatures to be forgeries.
My signature was in my own writing. This was why it was not advisable to allow me to speak.
My sister's signature was a forgery and added afterwards, but by whom and why?
It would have been most inadvisable to have allowed me to ask this. The count knew nothing about these bills and the use of the funds which they represented.
It would have been most inadvisable for me to have been on the scene. I was thoroughly well guarded.
The count, according to Austrian military justice, found himself in the presence of an auditor, a magistrate who was accuser, defender and judge combined.
All this may be deemed incredible. But there was worse to come. On December 22, 1898, the count was condemned to forfeit his rank and his title of nobility, and to undergo six years' cellular detention for having "swindled" about 600,000 florins from a "third person."
But on the preceding June 15, when the forged bills became due, the third person mentioned ... had been wholly reimbursed by the Prince of Coburg, who was entitled to act for me from the day I arrived at Doebling, and the count was lost. Yes, lost and for ever—at least so thought his executioner. But, although, thanks to zealous friends, the count had been able to obtain a declaration signed by the bill discounters attesting that they had no claims and that no harm had been done them by Count Geza Mattachich, this evidence was refused and held up by the auditor. It was not even on the register.
And the abominable judgment pretended to make the count, this gentleman amongst gentlemen, a forger and a thief, although he was innocent and everyone knew his innocence.
But I am dwelling on infamies which it is superfluous to recall. It is well known that the judgment was quashed four years later by the Reichsrath, thanks to the indignant Socialist party.[1] The count has been avenged from the height of the parliamentary tribunal, and the sort of justice that dishonoured the Austrian Army has ceased to exist, and has been swallowed up in the ruins of a Monarchy and a Court which was too long a criminal one.