On another occasion, there was a similar inquiry about his family and about his two daughters. The emperor, meeting him, made some kindly reference to them. ‘But, sire, the second is yours,’ replied the ‘grand veneur.’ Alexander’s sole retort was a smile.
Of course, the satire of the elder, which spared nobody, was not particularly lenient with regard to the younger. The latter took great pains with his hair, which was always dressed and curled with the utmost care. Some one having made a remark to that effect in the hearing of the grand-chamberlain, got his answer pat. ‘It is not surprising; my brother’s head is arranged by the hands of a master.’[53]
During this long liaison, and notwithstanding the sway handsome Mme. Narischkine exercised over her illustrious lover, the latter was ever careful to save appearances. Amidst those quickly succeeding entertainments and receptions at the period of the Congress, during that daily and hourly existence of often relaxed etiquette. Empress Elisabeth would have been necessarily and frequently brought face to face with her rival, and would naturally have felt the slight. Mme. Narischkine did not appear at the Congress.
Close by the Emperor of Russia sat the Princesse de la Tour et Taxis, née Mecklenburg-Strelitz, and sister-in-law to the King of Prussia. That sovereign had practically transferred to her all the affection he bore to his lost wife: the princess had a remarkable influence over him, and she never requested a favour in vain. Gifted with a superior intellect, and a beauty that had become proverbial, though it did not equal that of her dead sister, the princess, by her charming manners, even more than her stately bearing, compelled instantaneous admiration and genuine respect. Among the many distinguished personages assembled in Vienna, she shone with unusual brilliancy in virtue of her combining every good quality.
I was placed close to Prince Koslowski and the Baron Ompteda, and felt confident that among so numerous a company ample material would be afforded to them for their faculties of clever observation.
‘Just cast your eye behind the chair of Emperor Alexander,’ remarked the Baron to me; ‘and look at his brother, the Grand-duke Constantine. He is the third personage of the empire, and probably the heir-presumptive to the throne. Nevertheless, observe his servile attitude, and the affectation with which, as it were, he proclaims himself the Czar’s first subject. One would think him permeated with the sentiment of submission as others are with the feeling of liberty. Personally, I fail to understand this voluptuous enjoyment of obedience. And now,’ he went on, ‘glance at that other personage close to him; that is the young Prince de Reuss, the twenty-ninth of the name. In his case, it’s a horse of a different colour. He has tumbled or drifted into the dreamland of I do not know what kind of German sect or school, and has become imbued with a sort of affected sentimentalism calculated to spoil the most sterling and happiest gifts of nature. This vague sentimentality, which he professes in and out of season, inspires him with the strangest ideas. A few days ago, he wrote to a lady, seated not far away from us: “Hope constantly renewed and equally constantly destroyed only keeps one alive to languish suspended like Mahomet’s coffin between heaven and earth. It is for you to decide ... it is a question of your love or my death.” He has not had the one given to him, and he has taken good care not to inflict the other upon himself. And thus, from sheer lightness of heart, people adopt ridiculous fads, far often less pardoned by the world at large than real faults. His uncle, Henri XV. or Henri XVI., the actual civil and military governor of Vienna, is somewhat more positive. Frederick the Great one day asked him if the princes of his house were numbered like hackney-carriages. “No, sire, not like hackney-carriages, but like kings,” was the answer. Frederick must have been somewhat embarrassed at the reply; nevertheless it pleased him, as everything witty and spontaneous did, and from that moment Prince Henri always enjoyed his favour and goodwill.’
Shortly afterwards Prince Koslowski drew my attention to a lady placed near Empress Elisabeth. It was the Comtesse Tolstoy, née Princesse Baratynski, the wife of the grand-marshal. Her mother belonged to the Holstein family, and was a cousin once removed of Catherine II.
‘You are probably aware,’ he said, ‘that the marshal is in disgrace?’
‘Yes, prince,’ I answered; ‘but I do not know the cause.’
‘The cause is this. Tolstoy, emboldened by the emperor’s indulgent manner towards him, thought fit now and again to adopt a tone of remonstrance which few sovereigns would have tolerated. He opposed him in almost everything. Alexander often laughed at his fretful remarks; at rare intervals he got angry, and retaliated in his own way. When both happened to be travelling in an open sledge and Tolstoy’s cavilling put the czar out of patience, he simply gave him a push which sent him sprawling in the snow, and left him to run for a few minutes after the light conveyance. When he considered that the punishment had lasted long enough, he pulled up his horses, and the marshal, grumbling all the while, resumed his seat by the side of his master, and the matter was at an end. Convinced that things would go on for ever in that way, Tolstoy raised an opposition to Alexander’s appearance at the Congress. According to him, the emperor’s rôle there would not be consistent with his dignity. Weary at last, the emperor this time took the matter seriously and parted with his grand-marshal, who, it is said, will not be comforted in his disgrace. The moral of all this is: “Put not your trust in the friendship of princes.”’