“The things I have heard said to Joseph by the ladies of his society are simply inconceivable,” writes the Prince de Ligne. “One of them said, referring to the execution of a robber who had been hanged by his orders that day: ‘How could your Majesty condemn him after your robbery of Poland?’
“It was at the moment of the first division of that country.
“‘My mother, who enjoys all your confidence, ladies,’ he replied, ‘and who goes to Mass as often as you do, has long ago made up her mind on that question. I am only her first subject.’”
The Emperor was fond of receiving confidences, and was safe and discreet, though he was fond of meddling. His manners were agreeable, he had some brilliancy of conversation, a great deal of natural wit, and was a pleasant narrator. The following is an anecdote he was fond of repeating. When Marie-Thérèse was so closely pursued by her enemies that hardly a town was left to her in Germany, not knowing where to go for her confinement, she retired to Presburg and assembled the States. She was young and handsome, with a dazzling complexion, and appeared before the Hungarian paladins clad in a long mourning garment, which set off the radiancy of her beauty; her son, two or three years of age, was clasped in her arms. “I confide him to you,” she said, presenting the child, who began to cry. The Emperor, in telling this story, always added that his mother, who knew the way to produce an effect, gave him a sly pinch as she presented him to the Hungarians; touched by the cries of the child, who seemed to implore their compassion, “my bearded heroes drew their swords, and swore on their Turkish blades to defend both mother and son to the last drop of their blood.”[53]
The little group that met at the Belvédère did not represent the only society in Vienna; many other houses threw open their doors. The Princesse Lubomirska,[54] commonly called the Princesse Maréchale, held some of the most brilliant receptions. Her original and ready wit, and the piquancy of her manner, imparted a certain liveliness to the character of her “salon.” She forebade all talk of war or politics at her house. “No politics,” she said, “in the drawing-room, where the men are more women than we are.”
A great many balls were given in Vienna, and they were always very animated, for the Viennese were passionately fond of dancing. They waltzed so furiously and with such rapidity that at first Hélène, though a beautiful dancer, was made quite giddy by the pace. She, however, soon became accustomed, like others, never to rest for a moment as long as the waltz lasted.
The balls of the Princesse Lubomirska were delightful; they always began and ended with a polonaise, a kind of measured march, interrupted at intervals by a graceful balancé or swinging movement. “When the elderly people wish to join in the dance they ask for a polonaise,” says the Prince de Ligne, “and then the good people perform the figures, and move round with a contented smile on their faces, as they recollect the good old times, and the way they used to smile. The young people are entirely taken up with the present, of which they do not care to lose a moment.” This dance displayed to advantage the elegance and grace of the figure. Hélène excelled in it, and took a patriotic pride in carrying off the palm.
The Princesse Charles was passionately fond of music, and had a box at the Court theatre. Don Juan had just been given with great success at Prague, in honour of the visit of the Duchess of Tuscany, the wife of Leopold. Mozart had in person directed the rehearsals. The Emperor Joseph, about to leave for the army, pressed Mozart to return to Vienna to get up the opera there at once. The rehearsals were rapidly got through, and the representation was given before a large audience. Hélène was present, and all the Viennese nobility witnessed the performance. Don Juan was admirably sung, but the public, with few exceptions, of which Hélène was one, remained cold throughout. The Emperor, who thought the music admirable, was vexed at the indifference of the audience.
“It is a divine work,” he said to Mozart, whom he had summoned to his box, “but it is not the sort of thing for my Viennese!”
“We must give them time to appreciate it,” modestly replied the author. “It suited the Prague people better; but I composed it only for myself and my friends.”