These embassy soirées, too, are good things in their way—a kind of terrestrial inferno, where all ranks and conditions of men enter—stately Prussians, wily Frenchmen, roguish-looking Austrians, stupid Danes, haughty English, swarthy, mean-looking Spaniards, and here and there some “eternal swaggerer” from the States, with his hair “en Kentuck,” and “a very pretty considerable damned loud smell” of tobacco about him. Then there are the “grandes dames,” glittering in diamonds, and sitting in divan, and the ministers’ ladies of every gradation, from plenipos’ wives to chargé d’àfaires, with their cordons of whiskered attachés about them—maids of honour, aides-de-camp du roi, Poles, savans, newspaper editors, and a Turk. Every rank has its place in the attention of the host: and he poises his civilities, as though a ray the more, one shade the less, would upset the balance of nations, and compromise the peace of Europe. In that respect, nothing ever surpassed the old Dutch embassy, at Dresden, where the maître d’hôtel had strict orders to serve coffee, to the ministers, eau sucrée, to the secretaries, and, nothing, to the attachés. No plea of heat, fatigue, or exhaustion, was ever suffered to infringe a rule, founded on the broadest views of diplomatic rank. A cup of coffee thus became, like a cordon or a star, an honourable and a proud distinction; and the enviable possessor sipped his Mocha, and coquetted with the spoon, with a sense of dignity, ordinary men know nothing of in such circumstances; while the secretary’s eau sucrée became a goal to the young aspirant in the career; which must have stirred his early ambition, and stimulated his ardour for success.
If, as some folk say, human intellect is never more conspicuous, than where a high order of mind can descend to some paltry, insignificant circumstance, and bring to its consideration all the force it possesses; certes diplomatic people must be of a no mean order of capacity.
From the question of a disputed frontier, to that of a place at dinner, there is but one spring from the course of a river towards the sea, and a procession to table, the practised mind bounds as naturally, as though it were a hop, and a step. A case in point occurred some short time since at Frankfort.
The etiquette in this city gives the president of the diet precedence of the different members of the corps diplomatique, who, however, all take rank before the rest of the diet.
The Austrian minister, who occupied the post of president, being absent, the Prussian envoy held the office ad interim, and believed that, with the duties, its privileges became his.
M. Anstett, the Russian envoy, having invited his colleagues to dinner, the grave question arose who was to go first? On one hand the dowager, was the Minister of France, who always preceded the others; on the other was the Prussian, a pro tempore president, and who showed no disposition to concede his pretensions.
The important moment arrived—the door was flung wide; and an imposing voice proclaimed—“Madame la Baronne est servie.” Scarce were the words spoken, when the Prussian sprang forward, and, offering his arm gallantly to Madame d’Anstett, led the way, before the Frenchman had time to look around him.
When the party were seated at table, M. d’Anstett looked about him in a state of embarrassment and uneasiness: then, suddenly rallying, he called out in a voice audible throughout the whole room—“Serve the soup to the Minister of France first!” The order was obeyed, and the French minister had lifted his third spoonful to his lips before the humbled Prussian had tasted his.
The next day saw couriers flying, extra post through all Europe, conveying the important intelligence; that when all other precedence failed, soup, might be resorted to, to test rank and supremacy.
And now enough for the present of ministers ordinary and extraordinary, envoys and plenipos; though I intend to come back to them at another opportunity.