Besides my husband, Princess Clémentine had two sons and two daughters. One of her sons, Auguste of Saxe-Coburg, was to me what Rudolph of Habsburg would have been, a brother-in-law who was a brother. Until his death, which took place, if I remember rightly, in 1908 at Paris, where, under the name of Count Helpa, he lived a life of pleasure and mixed in the best society, he retained the same affection for me that I had for him.
The three other Coburgs, Philip, Auguste and Ferdinand, did not resemble one another either physically or morally. Auguste was like the Orleans family. In him the blood of France triumphed over the blood of Germany. In the veins of Ferdinand, who became the adventurous Tsar of Bulgaria, I do not know what blood flowed. Let us pass on quickly. I shall have occasion to return to him and his throne of surprises when I speak of the Court of Sofia.
Of the two daughters, Clotilde and Amélie, the latter lives always in my memory. A gentle victim of love for an excellent husband, she died after losing him. United to Maximilian of Bavaria, the cousin of Louis II, Amélie was a lily of France that strayed into Germany. She had the good luck to meet a being worthy of herself in the patriarchal Court of Munich, which Prussian folly has rendered so unhappy. They loved each other and they lived for love, concealing their happiness as much as possible. Maximilian died suddenly—thrown from his horse whilst riding. Amélie was inconsolable and did not long survive him.
The idea never struck her brother Philip, her brother Ferdinand, or above all her sister Clotilde, that one could die—or live—for love!
Our double connexion with the house of France brought me a happy diversion from my troubles at the Coburg Palace, as well as in the country, in the shape of visits of members of the Royal family whom I had more or less known in my youth. The springtime of my life was full of their marks of affection.
I have seen the birth of the hopes of my niece Dorothée, the daughter of the Archduchess Clotilde, my sister-in-law, when she became engaged to Duke Philip of Orleans.
I confess I had no faith in the future, being sceptical as to Royalist France, and doubtless it was an effect of the general surroundings, but I fancied that the gold lilies embroidered on the robe of the beautiful bride would have vanished from her train long before she reached the Elysée, the Tuileries or the Louvre. I could not, however, see without emotion the closed crown which adorned the "queen" on the day of her wedding.
Ah! this dream of a crown; how many heads it turns, or rather how many heads it has turned! For now one is obliged to reflect on things in general, and although I am a stranger to French politics I owe as much recognition as consideration to the Republic, where I have found, together with the security of just laws, the respect due to misfortune, and the courtesy which Republicans know how to extend, even to princesses. Still I cannot help following the career of the "King, in anticipation"—my nephew the Prince of Orleans, with some degree of curiosity.
For him everything happens on the banks of the Seine, the Garonne, the Rhone, and the other watercourses of the most beautiful country on the face of the earth; but the worst that I wish Philip of Orleans is that he should never have to exchange his yachting cap, which becomes him so well, for the crown of Saint Louis. He is certainly handicapped in life. More than ever to-day when it is advisable for a king to have a queen. But fate has willed that the great marriage of Philip of Orleans and Marie Dorothée of Habsburg, which was one of the joys of the Coburg Palace, and the occasion of the most gorgeous receptions, should turn out contrary to what it promised.
On one occasion I counted the Royal or princely houses wherein the wind of discontent already whispered. I arrived at a startling total. Taking it all round in every kind of society, the average number of happily married people is not very high. But the nearer one gets to the people, and to their good sense and work, the better does family life become, because they tolerate each other's failings much more wisely and agree to help each other, until they finish by knowing a kind of happiness, which is only achieved by the knowledge of common imperfections.
My life at Coburg would have been still more painful if from time to time it had not been varied by changes of residence and travel.
In order not to digress from the family circle, I will only say a few words about three towns where I had relations, and where I stayed with them, or near them, as Princess of Coburg—Cannes, Bologna and Budapest.
First, I will mention Budapest, which was one of the most attractive cities of the world, and will be again when the reign of Bolshevism is over. In the old Buda the ancient East has left its traces; in Pest, the modernity of the West has become apparent. I knew something of it in 1918.
I loved Budapest, and I preferred the small Coburg Palace in the Hungarian capital and its charming receptions to our home and our entertainments in the capital of Austria. The atmosphere was different from that of Vienna, and I was pleased to find myself in the neighbourhood of the good Archduke Joseph, my mother's brother, who was so warm-hearted and so dear to me. His palace was at Buda, and his château was some hours' distance from the town. They had no disadvantages except as dwellings of my aunt and my sister-in-law Princess Clotilde, who were very different from the affectionate and sincere Amélie.
The archduke was a kind man who did not misjudge or censure my extravagant fancies.
In the first year of our marriage my husband and I spent the anniversary of my birthday, February 18, with the archduke at Alauth. There had been a heavy fall of snow the day before, and I said, "I do not want any presents, but please let me drive a sledge to-morrow; I have such a wild wish to drive one; it will be my first experience!"
The Archduchess Clotilde was usually an open-hearted person, but she was nevertheless endowed with certain straight-laced characteristics, and she frowned severely.
It was no use to beg or to implore. The prince forbade the sledge drive. They metaphorically relegated me to a dark cupboard with dry bread to eat; they kept me under such close observation that I could not go out at all, either on foot, on horseback, or in a sledge.
The archduke arrived on the scene. I was still furious.... Oh! certainly, it is evident that I did not look on the bright side of things; my character has always been one which resented foolishness and wickedness.
The archduke questioned me. I told him the whole story. "Louise," he cried, "you are right a hundred times; first of all because at your age and when one is pretty, as you are, one is always right. We will go out at once for a drive in the snow."
He rang, and ordered two Hungarian horses to be harnessed to a large sledge fit for the chariot of Apollo, in which he seated me, wrapped in my furs. He took the reins and we drove off at great speed, accompanied by a confidential servant. I felt myself akin to the angels. My puritanical sister-in-law and my puritanical husband dared not say a word.
Society at Budapest was less submissive to Court ceremonial than that of Vienna, and it was in consequence natural and more audacious. I remember a certain ball on the Ile Marguerite, the pearl of the casket of the Danube, when the prince was angry and did not wish me to waltz. I was inundated with invitations, to which my husband replied by saying that at the Court of Brussels I had only learned to dance the quadrille and the minuet!
The quadrille! The minuet! People were quite worried. They understood what it means to waltz in Hungary, and a waltz on the banks of the Danube to the strains of gipsy violins is a thing which cannot be surpassed. And now—now—they import from America dreary stuff, dull and epileptic in movement, and they call it by all sorts of names after trotting or galloping animals out of Noah's Ark. The waltz will always remain as the incomparable queen of dances to those who know how to dance.
One of those who asked me to dance was bolder than the rest, and, taking no notice of the prince's excuse, he said: "But surely Her Highness knows how to waltz," and at these words I was swept away from the domain of authority by my audacious partner, a Magyar, who thus hurled me into the whirlpool of the dance. I confess I never stopped dancing for the remainder of the night. The prince was furious, but as he was overwhelmed with compliments on my beauty and my success, he was obliged, nolens volens, to smile!
I recall the scene which took place at our departure. Fortunately we were asked to embark on a wonderfully illuminated boat which took us along the beautiful river to the nearest point to our palace, and this delightful journey was made to the sounds of the music, sometimes wild and sometimes languorous, which can only be heard to perfection in this country.
Had it the effect of Orpheus's lute? I was not condemned to die at sunrise like poor Scheherazade. But why did she not dance instead of relating stories?
At Bologna and Cannes I saw a section of society which has now disappeared. This was to be met with at the residence of the Duchesse de Chartres, and at the Duc de Montpensier's at the Caprara Palace. In Italy certain of the greatest Italian aristocrats were surrounded by the noblest names of France; on the Côte d'Azur it was more of a butterfly world, in which shone some of the most resplendent Parisian beauties.
Where should I be if I allowed myself to evoke the shades of many of those whom I have known during my lifetime? Already all is silent, already forgetfulness has begun. Oh, vanity of vanities! But at least I will say how much I was enchanted by Cannes, and by the refined taste of French elegance. The war has transformed this town, once sought after by the élite of society. I have read that, overrun and noisy, it has lost the discreet cachet which was once its particular character and charm. What a pity!
There is everything and yet nothing to say about the life of worldly people who are merely worldly people and nothing more. True, I could fill a library were I to describe in detail the fashionable records of my past. But of what interest would that be? I should but pander to the social curiosity that is satisfied by the reports of the doings of society, which, knowing the necessity of polishing its lustre daily in order to retain its brightness, provides the newspapers with the names of the people it receives, and the details of the receptions it gives—merely to satisfy that commonplace curiosity which is, unhappily, the foundation of human nature, and its desires and self-esteem.
It will be better perhaps for me to terminate this rough sketch of my life as Princess of Coburg, before coming to the events which led to the final dénouement, by a few facts concerning my children. I have been, I believe, a good mother. I have wished to be, and I have, at least, the feeling that I was a good mother for a very long time. I lavished much care and tenderness upon my children.
This will only appear natural to women whom maternity makes true women, and to whom it represents honour and glory. They must, however, allow me to say that maternity is sometimes more difficult than one thinks, when one has to consider the difficulties which are often raised by the father of the child—there are situations when being a mother is a constant trial.
Happy are those whom a peaceful and normal life allows leisure to watch beside a cradle. Nevertheless, I knew happiness with my first-born son Leopold, who saw the light in 1878 at our Château of Saint Antoine, in Hungary.
The Queen was present, very delighted at being a grandmother. The arrival of this child, a boy, heir to the titles, appendages and functions of the family, temporarily appeased the quarrels between the prince and myself. There was a lull in the storm, which lasted for some little time. The influence of the Queen had its effect upon my husband. I myself, absorbed by my maternal duties, made great resolutions to be patient and wise in the future.
I dreamt wonderful dreams beside the cradle of my son.... Oh, cruel fate, against which I was destined to be powerless. When he grew up, and as the influence of environment exerted itself, Leopold became less and less my child. I wished him to be loyal and courageous. Was he not to carry a sword? What a knightly soul did I not wish to forge in him! But his father claimed the right to guide him. Very soon he belonged to me no longer.
Leopold reached the age of reason just when I had thrown off the shackles of an existence which had become atrocious. He believed that, having refused to continue to be the Princess of Coburg, I had thereby appropriated the hundreds of millions which one day should have come to him from his grandfather, and which I should throw to the winds by my folly. So I have known the hatred which nature cannot conceive—the hatred of a son for his mother. I have shed the tears which are shed by mothers who are struck down by their own flesh and blood. But God knows that each time my children, infatuated with the greed for money, which is indeed the root of all evils, have made me suffer, I have always forgiven them.
When Leopold died in such a frightful way that I cannot even mention it, he had not belonged, in my belief, for a long time to this world; but it was not I who was affected by this terrible punishment which terminated the lineage of the eldest scion of the house of Saxe-Coburg. He who was stricken was the father who had formed this misguided son in his own likeness!
I think he has survived in order that he may have time for repentance.
When my daughter Dora was about to be born in 1881, I had such a dread of the presence of her father that I did all I could to hide the imminent hour of my deliverance. I did not wish the prince to be near me at this painful moment; I wanted him to go out, in ignorance that I was in the throes of travail. It happened in this way. The birth took place in our palace at Vienna, and I quite succeeded in astonishing my world. I evaded, during the time of my suffering, a presence which could only have aggravated it. The midwife who was with me had not even time to go and fetch the Royal Accoucheur, who arrived after it was all over.
Dora was my second and my last child. She promised to be a pretty girl; she was taller than myself, very fair and rather shortsighted. She had the misfortune to marry Duke Gunther of Schleswig-Holstein, brother of the Empress Augusta, the wife of William II. "Misfortune?" my readers will say; "that is the usual opinion of a mother-in-law." They will see later that the word misfortune is conformable to the facts which touch contemporary history. I will say nothing more.
My daughter has no children. If she had, they would have been told that their grandmother was the most wicked of women, if not the maddest, because she often said to her son-in-law, as well as to the Prince of Coburg and certain dignitaries of Vienna and elsewhere, who were the accomplices and agents of the persecution by which she was overwhelmed:
"You have only one end in view, and that is to take away all that remains to me—my liberty. But there is justice and you will be punished!"
They have been.
Ah! if instead of making me suffer martyrdom, or allowing me to be made a martyr, some of my own relations had dared come to me, openly or in secret!... I am a woman, I am a mother. I do not affirm that I was not guilty of wrong. I only affirm this: they always lied to me. They always talked to me of the honour and virtue of the family, but, above it all, I heard the cry of "Money! money! money!"
Since defeat has overthrown in one day thrones which were the foundation of the world of Germany, I sometimes pass from the Ring towards the Graben by the Hofburg, the ancient Imperial Palace of this city of Vienna where I am now writing. I can see from the Fransenplatz (the large inner court) the windows of the rooms which formerly saw me received by the guards and chamberlains with the honours due to my rank. These windows are now closed, empty and silent. In Vienna everything seems dead. The old Hofburg has ceased to exist. The new Hofburg, an outward symbol of vanished hopes, is an unfinished building. It bears witness to the downfall of an Empire.
Of all the princesses and archduchesses belonging to the vanished Court, I am the only one remaining in Vienna, loved, I believe, by the people, and respected by those in authority.
There is one city in the world in which I have lived for a long time. It has been the scene of my "crimes." This city, after it abandoned all pretence of honour, truth and virtue, has now reserved for me my right to speak, and, whilst abolishing titles, has left me mine. I stand alone in the ruins of a Power which was cruel to me.
I have known the "justice" of the Court and that of the Emperor Francis Joseph. I have learned that a princess has not the same legal rights as the rest of the world. For her, secret arrangements exist which are applied without the judges having anything to say, or, if they do, they only carry out certain orders. They disguise these with all kinds of pretexts. In my case the excuse was that of madness.
It would be impossible to-day to tax a rebellious conscience with insanity. It would be impossible to accuse a victim of causing impossible scandals if she dared appeal for help. No one can be thrown by force into a madhouse, where the superintendent says that you are not mad and yet is obliged to keep a guard over you. He had his orders! They called these "une affaire de cour!"
I do not think it would require many criminal attempts of this nature to obtain a sentence from a Divine justice which no hypocrisy of words or deeds and no machinery of human power can deceive.
But why should not those who were guilty of an immoral and cowardly policy be the only ones to expiate their faults? A whole nation is at this moment expiating the decadence and the downfall of the Court of Vienna. Yes, the poor people, who are so good, so duped, so resigned, so industrious and so much to be pitied, are now expiating the crimes of their rulers!
When I arrived at the Austrian Court in 1875 Francis Joseph was forty-five years old.
He was always distinguishable at a distance by his gallant bearing in uniform. At close quarters he gave one the impression of possessing a certain amount of good humour, which was contradicted by the severity of his glance. He was a narrow-minded man, full of false and preconceived ideas, but he possessed from his upbringing and from the traditions of Austrian politics certain formulas and mannerisms, which enabled him to keep afloat for a long time before he was finally engulfed in the sea of blood in which the Imperial galley ultimately foundered. But, stripped of his rank and ceremonial, devoid of routine or receptions, audiences and speeches, he was nothing but a fool. At his birth, Nature deprived him of a heart. He was an emperor but he was not a man. He is best described as an automaton dressed as a soldier.
The Emperor at first made a great impression on me when my husband presented me to him as the new Princess of Coburg. I listened to his amiable and polished phrases, which I found difficult to answer becomingly. They were usually so banal that almost before leaving his presence I had already forgotten what he had said. It was almost always like this, except on one memorable occasion which I will describe later.
I do not know anyone who remembers a single word uttered by Francis Joseph that was worth repeating. His conversation in the Imperial circle was disconcertingly cold and poor. He never became animated except when talking scandal, but that was generally in the apartment of Madame Schratt, who constituted alike his refuge and his relaxation, where he was really "at home" and where he was simply "Franz" or "Joseph."
I have seen Madame Schratt at the Burg Theatre. Her influence (if she ever had any, other than that of permitting the Emperor to escape from the insufficiencies which constituted the fatalities of his life) was not injurious to any living soul.
An actress at the Comédie Française of Vienna, pretty, and honest by nature, Katti Schratt was a "Brohan," and her gaiety of heart at least pleased the Sovereign. He first gave her a peaceful and an assured position, and then one fine evening he quietly introduced her to the Court, where the Empress resigned herself admirably to this Imperial audacity. She was quite satisfied in knowing that Francis Joseph was now methodical in his passions, had curtailed his excesses and had chosen a confidante who did not pretend to be anything more than a recreation for him. There was a great difference between Madame Schratt and Madame de Maintenon. There was a still greater difference between Francis Joseph and Louis XIV.
But so far as actual looks went, the Emperor might easily have been taken for his maître d'hôtel had it not been for his uniform and his surroundings. Seen at close quarters he was a very ordinary person. Two bad habits, however, were noticeable in him: at the least perplexity he pulled and massaged his side-whiskers, and at dinner he frequently looked at his reflection in the blade of his knife. As for the rest of his actions, he ate, he drank, he slept, he walked, he hunted, he spoke according to the accepted ritual laid down by the circumstances of the hour, the day, and the calendar. These mannerisms were hardly disturbed by revolutions, wars or misfortunes. He greeted his calamities with the same expression with which he noticed if it were raining when he was about to leave for Ischl.
When his son killed himself, when his wife was assassinated, he did not lose one ounce of flesh; his step was as firm as ever, and his hair just as faultlessly dressed.
The funeral ceremonies over, nothing changed in Austria. Francis Joseph still continued to speak in just the same tones of the love of his people towards himself, and of his love for them.
And that same evening he was with Madame Schratt. To this man devoid of brilliance, without courage, and without justice, I owe the misfortunes of my life.
At the time when he should have filled his place as Sovereign and head of the house where I was concerned, he did not do so because he was afraid.
On two occasions only he behaved differently à propos of what concerned me; these circumstances were not, however, decisive. A man is not judged by the way he helps you out of a carriage, but by his behaviour in a big fire; he does not draw back before the flames in his effort to save you!
Francis Joseph was incapable of throwing himself into the fire in order to save anyone. He could not be depended upon for any help in danger. He would have been afraid of spoiling his uniform, or of disarranging his whiskers!
Ah! I can easily understand the despair of his son and his wife, whose only thought in life was to escape from this nonentity.
The Emperor's brother, the Archduke Louis Victor, was the instigator of the hatred of which I was the victim. This man was later to know the tortures of a dishonourable exile, and he died dishonoured. God has punished him. I have seen His might strike this guilty man, who started the persecutions from which I had to suffer.
For many years he laid his devotion at my feet. All Vienna knew it; the Emperor included, and he better than most people, because scandal was his daily bread. To him it was almost an affair of State to know whether the Archduke Louis Victor would succeed in vanquishing the citadel of my virtue.
Nevertheless, the prince could be pleasing when he chose; his was an ardent nature, the excessive inquisitiveness of which dragged him eventually into the scandal of public punishment.
I resigned myself to receive his compliments and his flowers with patience. We all know the exigencies of the world. I had to endure the assiduity of an archduke, the brother of the Emperor, with a smile. But the smile has been especially given by Nature to woman in order to enable her occasionally to conceal her thoughts!
Unfortunately Louis Victor, jealous of the worthy sentiments with which another, who was not a "prince," had inspired me, lost his patience, and from being the object of his love I became the object of his hatred. I own that I had a taste for satirical repartee which I had inherited from the King and which made me many enemies. Was the archduke offended at a little plain speaking? Wounded vanity is prompt to avenge itself. I had henceforth in him an open enemy. He swore that he would force me to leave the Court.
I had inspired jealousy. What woman has not? My rivals ensconced themselves around my former admirer. The usual intrigues began. My freedom of life was attacked by some charitable souls whose only thought was to destroy it, aided by a rejected Don Juan. The archduke was not long in arranging the necessary details. People commenced to talk of the notice which I took of that honourable man, the only person who has filled my life. I have always given him my whole confidence and esteem.
The Archduke Louis Victor went to his brother and told him that he had seen me with his own eyes in a popular restaurant at night, tête-à-tête with a Uhlan officer.
Carried away by indignation at such forgetfulness of my rank, three noble Furies, whom I will not mention, and who possessed exclusive rights to represent virtue on earth, made it known to His Majesty that if I were allowed to attend the coming State ball they would turn their backs upon me in the presence of the Imperial circle.
My sister, who was told of this uproar, questioned me and warned me. I had no difficulty in discovering whence the plot emanated, and I protested my innocence to Stéphanie. On the evening when the Archduke Louis Victor had told his brother he had seen me at the restaurant, I had not quitted the palace. I may add that I have never, never, never sat in a restaurant tête-à-tête with anyone. When I have had occasion to appear at a dinner or supper in public I have always been accompanied by one or more persons of my entourage.
And what was more, at the identical hour mentioned by my calumniator I was with the prince my husband, and we were having one of those discussions which constituted the daily storms of our existence. The prince was there to witness this, besides which, the servants could attest that I had not given any orders for my carriage and that I had not left the palace. So nothing would have been easier than to have contradicted the archduke and his virtuous friends.
My sister was quite convinced, but, not wishing to place herself between the devil and the deep sea, she said that she thought it would be as well if I appealed to the Emperor in person. The cabal, however, acted quickly. Francis Joseph forestalled my request by summoning me. I saw him in Stéphanie's room. I was in such a state of righteous rage that, alas! I was unable to control myself in the presence of this infamous man.
First of all I thanked the Sovereign for his audience, and I said (mastering my temper with difficulty) that he ought to defend me and take my part; that I was the butt of the attacks of a miserable cabal, and he ought to put an end to it by punishing the slanderer. I asked him to make an inquiry, as I had a perfect right to one. The rest of my words may be left to the imagination. As the Emperor knew what defence I should probably put forward, he had prepared his answer according to the formula of one of the heads of the Imperial Chancellery who had trained him in his youth. This is what he said: "Madam, all that has nothing to do with me; you have a husband; it is his affair. I think, however, that for the present you had better take a trip somewhere, and not appear at the next State ball."
"But, Sire, I am a victim; you make me out a criminal."
"Madam, I have listened to my brother, and when Victor has spoken..." He finished with a sign which was Imperial and definite.
I was not the kind of woman to suffer such iniquity in silence. But I managed to conceal my contempt, and replied:
"The future will reveal, Sire, which of us has lied, the Archduke or I." I then made my regulation curtsy, and the Emperor left the room.
On my return to the Coburg Palace I went to my husband and told him that I trusted to his honour to destroy the abominable plot in which I was involved, and that he must send his seconds to the Archduke Victor.
The Prince of Coburg coldly answered that if I had lost the Imperial favour he had no wish to lose it by fighting a duel with an archduke who was the brother of the Sovereign.
After the chivalrous Emperor I had indeed encountered another Galahad; I was furious, but I could do nothing. My fury, however, brought about unlooked-for results. The prince did not wish to remember that I was at the palace on this particular evening. He declared that he would not contradict the assertion made by my slanderer. This was the last straw. From that hour my mind was made up. I would not remain any longer with a husband who had abandoned me in this disgraceful manner. I would listen to the voice that said: "Madam, you are lost in the world where you live; it is cowardly and perverse." But my family feeling proved stronger than my anger. I said to the prince: "We must separate and regain our liberty. But we have children. Let us avoid a scene. Let us travel for a year, and if at the end of that time we have not found a better way of living together we will part; you must go your way and I will go mine."
To the mind of a man such as the Prince of Coburg these words were the most awful imaginable. The prospect of a separation or a divorce would be known to millions of people, to the King and others, and not only to the father of my children; such a thing was impossible. He said I should hear more about this. And I did.
Since I am telling the whole story from the beginning I must give the other reasons for Francis Joseph's inconceivable attitude towards me. These were more or less political, and I do not wish to dwell on politics, and still less on any affecting him. But at the same time I am writing for the purpose of adding a few fresh facts to the history of this time, as well as for the purpose of defending myself from false accusations.
Francis Joseph refused to help me, and he abandoned me from the first moment because he was obliged to be cautious; he therefore left my husband complete liberty to do as he pleased. The Prince of Coburg knew the secret of Meyerling and the termination of Rudolph's despair. Moreover, the prince had a brother Ferdinand who was quartered at the outpost of Nach Oste in Bulgaria. The Coburgs were a power in themselves. Francis Joseph bowed down to them. He chose the lesser of two evils and sacrificed me.
I only knew him to adopt a chivalrous attitude on two occasions. Once when I asked him to change a gentleman-in-waiting attached to my person and that of my husband who made common cause with the Archduke Victor, he immediately granted me my request. Again, when I had entered upon a new life, and was living up to a higher ideal and disregarding the most sinister proofs of an atrocious calumny, it happened that the Prince of Coburg found himself face to face with a man of honour who was ready to give him satisfaction. My husband put on an air of supreme disdain. The Emperor then reminded him that the uniform of a soldier was intended for more than purposes of show. He advised the Prince of Coburg to fight; he fought.
I believe this was the only military victory that Francis Joseph gained over anyone; and as for the prince, an Austrian general, it was the only battle in which he was personally engaged.
* * * * *
I often think that Providence was very merciful to the Empress in not letting her attain old age, riveted as she was to the chain which dragged the Empire into the abyss of human foolishness and ferocity.
Shall I say that my thoughts go out to her in prayer? She, too, was a martyr; she is only second to the Queen in my daily meditations. The difference in my age and rank kept me, to my great grief, farther apart from her than I should have liked. At the time when I could have drawn nearer to her, I was torn between my yearning for the ideal, and the vanities of the world. If she was a serene empress I was a distressed princess! But I had, however, something in common with her; the love of nature and freedom and the taste for Heinrich Heine.
Without putting this writer on the same pedestal as Goethe, the mind by which I have tried to vivify my own, I have enjoyed many happy hours reading Heine, and the older I have grown the more I have learned to know and admire the poet who was both an inspired humorist and a philosopher. He was the De Musset of Prussia and Judea, the wit par excellence of Europe—Heine had taken from France and given her a unity of gifts, the blending of which promises a race of men, freed from race barriers, moved by the same love of eternal beauty. An indication of the reconciliation which the future will perhaps see.
It is possible that he was a Jew; the Apostles were also Jews. But I understand and appreciate the sentiments of the Empress in going to see him at Hamburg, continuing to be on friendly relations with his sister after his death, and lastly in erecting a monument to him at Corfu. Rudolph once said of his mother: "She is a philosopher on a throne." She had truly a great mind.
The day on which I had the honour of being received privately by the Empress was an exciting one for me. I knew that she only wore black, white, grey or violet, so I arranged my toilette without invoking the help of a dressmaker, and if I am to believe the flattery of the Rue de la Paix, I knew how to dress myself; but I confess that, confident as I had now become in matters of dress, I took my time in deciding what to wear on this occasion. In the end I chose a violet gown most tastefully trimmed with grebe and a little velvet toque. I can say without boasting that my toilette was remarked upon and generally admired.
The Empress was delightful. She spoke of the Queen in well chosen, simple terms, as of a friend dear to her. This was her way of speaking about almost everything. Her conversation was of a high order, but at the same time it was absolutely natural. She scarcely ever spoke harshly, and always in low and pure tones. She possessed a soulful voice—muffled crystal, but crystal all the same. I have never seen a smile like hers; it was like a smile from Heaven; it enchanted me and it affected me, it was at the same time both sweet and grave. She was beautiful, a celestial beauty with something ethereal in the purity of her features and the lines of her figure. No one walked like Elizabeth of Austria; the movement of her limbs was imperceptible, she glided; she seemed to float on the ground. I have often read that some celebrated and adored woman was endowed with "inimitable grace." The Empress Elizabeth truly possessed this inimitable grace. And her large eyes seemed to speak and express a noble language peculiarly their own, which embodied the three virtues, Faith, Hope and Charity.
Bavaria, her birthplace, has retained throughout the ages the essential elements of the Celtic race established as far as the Danube. South Germany also has this ancient European blood in abundance. The Empress represented the most refined characteristics of Celtic beauty. She was not a German type—at least not a type of Central Germany—she expressed to perfection, both morally and physically, all that separated and will continue to separate Munich and Vienna from Berlin.
* * * * *
Recollections crowd upon me when I return in thought to the Hofburg. I must record some of the most striking.
Thus, I will think of the Archduke John, who was afterwards known as John Orth, the name of one of Maria Theresa's castles on the Danube, the spot preferred of all others by this strange being.
Like Rudolph, with whom he was on terms of great friendship and certain understanding, the Archduke John could not breathe the air of Courts. He once said to me: "You and I, Louise, in many respects are not made to live here."
He interested me, but I did not like his sarcastic spirit. He had none of Rudolph's high ideals. When he disappeared I believed him to be living somewhere in secret, and that there was a possibility of his reappearance. I read in the papers not long ago that a person who might easily have been the Archduke John had just died in Rome, where he had lived for twenty years in seclusion. Rome attracts the solitary and disillusioned souls of the world. If this unknown man was really John Orth, he was indeed able to meditate on the grandeur and decadence of empires.
I will leave this mysterious shadow and speak of two others who have passed, whose existence touches us more closely and constitutes a problem of State to minds interested in this subject.
I see in imagination the ball where Francis Ferdinand d'Este showed by his attachment to the Countess Chotek what would eventually come to pass between them. He loved her and she loved him; they were married. This was a great event. The countess was clever and intelligent, and she was not personally displeasing to the Emperor. She knew better than to offend this narrow-minded being. But her rôle in the political events of central Europe, from the day when the death of Rudolph allowed her to dream of a throne (even though it was only that of Hungary), was more important than one imagined.
It has occurred to me more than once, that if France had known and would have put up with an Austrian policy, she would have found that the Countess Chotek, raised to the rank of Duchess of Hohenberg, had far different ideas from those of Berlin. Unfortunately France committed the fault (and she will forgive me for daring to say so, en passant) of separating politics from religion, and of forgetting that religion is the first of all politics. She bound her own hands, bandaged her own eyes, and advanced on Europe. There was very little chance for her to reach the Danube, the most important of all the European routes.
I knew how much the King of the Belgians deplored the blindness of France, and what he said on this subject to more than one distinguished Frenchman. It was to the effect that the disadvantage of democratic governments was that they were obliged to provide numerous schools of thought before they possessed the small number of principles which constitute the foundation and the whole secret of government. The religious principle is not the least of these.
In a country in which statesmen formerly abounded, and which has ended politically through corrupt foolishness, that destroyer of characters and convictions, Countess Chotek, the woman of solid beliefs, came into prominence through the possession of a political brain.
She made Ferdinand d'Este a man capable of action and energy. Her chief fault and that of her husband was that through fear of showing weakness, they did not know how to show kindness. The hereditary archduke and his wife were strict in maintaining their landed possessions, and they taxed the people with great severity.
It needed little to aggravate the latent hatred against the heir to the thrones in a state divided against itself, and, added to this rivalry, jealousy and general restlessness existed, and certain trifling matters due to the severity of Francis Ferdinand and the Duchess of Hohenberg were perfidiously exploited against them. The day of their death was decided, the way was prepared, and the instruments selected. But I must pass over the terrible events of yesterday, the result of which does not justify me to speak.
The hereditary archduke and his wife had a powerful camarilla against them. They were not in need of partisans and they could have opposed cabal after cabal, but their adversaries, who were nearly all hidden, had plans outside the Monarchy.
This is not the place or the moment to discuss the conflict of influences of which Vienna was the battlefield. It will be the work of some penetrating and impartial genius who will perhaps be in a position to enlighten the world as to the general worthlessness of the Court of Austria during the ten or fifteen years before 1914. He will then make known to the world the history of one of the most formidable conflicts of self-interest and vanity which the world has ever known.
At the Court of Vienna there was a camarilla consisting of a group of men, more or less filled with ambition, who gathered around the Sovereign, guarding every approach to him, and they exploited the Prince to the best of their hatred and avidity. As the Emperor became more and more of a figure-head the old favourites saw themselves confronted with the coming power. This power, for the less important reasons which are known, and for others greater than these, recognized the morganatic marriage of Francis Ferdinand, and the ardent Catholicism of the Duchess of Hohenberg, who, owing to her character and her ambitious dreams for her children, possessed both interior and exterior enemies. There resulted, therefore, a third camarilla, the most secret and the most redoubtable, for the simple reason that, in a Court where individuals fight amongst themselves, they indirectly fight the whole world. They do not betray merely this one and that one—they betray their whole country.
My younger sister spent a happy girlhood at Brussels. At the age of nineteen she was a radiant beauty. Without knowing whom she was eventually to marry, she had been encouraged to look forward to making a more advantageous marriage than her eldest sister.
The King had never been very enthusiastic over my marriage with the Prince of Coburg. He had higher ambitions for me. My mother, however, desired the marriage. I have already given her reasons.
To avenge himself for his disappointed hopes, the King intended Stéphanie to marry an heir to a throne. He had thought of Rudolph of Habsburg as a possible husband for her, and the Queen agreed with him. What a daring idea! For however honourable the Royal House of Belgium might be, it did not rank so high as that of Austria.
I was not in ignorance, as I shall shortly relate, of the project of this marriage which began under the most dazzling auspices, and terminated in the most appalling tragedy.
History has been more interested in the final catastrophe than in the story of the early days of the married life of Rudolph of Habsburg and Stéphanie of Belgium. I, too, will discuss the finale and describe Rudolph as I knew him on the eve of his death.
Rudolph was then thirty years old. He might easily have called himself "the beloved of the gods." A great Court was at his feet; the most beautiful town in the world, after Paris, was an abode where all might have belonged to him. The people of the Monarchy placed their hopes of the future in him. He had a wife whom everyone envied; a daughter whom he overwhelmed with caresses; a noble and good mother whom he worshipped; and lastly, a father whose great Empire would revert to him; but Rudolph, the ill-fated and unhappy, preferred to die.
Let us, once for all, finish with the legends of Meyerling, and as far as it is possible have done with the lies connected with it. Rudolph of Habsburg committed suicide!
It is said that there is no proof of this. This is wrong; the proof exists. I am able to give it.
The history of the liaison which led Rudolph of Habsburg and Mary Vetsera to the grave has often been told. I will therefore confine myself to relating a few points which are but little known.
There was in the love of the hereditary archduke for Mary Vetsera either a lurid fatality or a sinister influence....
When I was in Vienna shortly before I decided to write these pages, I was sorting some private papers which recalled me to the period when I was the confidante and friend of Rudolph. Having finished my task, I went for a drive.
At the turning of a crowded street my attention was attracted by the sight of a melancholy looking old woman dressed in a dark costume. My carriage was going slowly at the time, so I could not fail to notice that she seemed crushed by numerous calamities, bent to the ground under the weight of a heavy burden, and she walked close to the buildings, almost touching the walls as she passed. Her face showed utter dejection and horror, and it was seared with innumerable tragic wrinkles. In this funereal apparition I recognized the mother of Mary Vetsera.
What had happened to the smart woman of the world whom I had been accustomed to meet chaperoning her daughter, then in the full bloom of her bewitching youth?
I have only to close my eyes in order to see Mary Vetsera—superb and glowing as she appeared at an evening entertainment given by the Prince of Reuss, the German Ambassador—the last sensational appearance in Viennese society of the girl who was about to become the heroine of the "bloody enigma" of Meyerling.
But the enigma is very simple.