‘Sobieski had one of the greatest gifts ever vouchsafed to a commander—the faculty of inspiring confidence in his troops. The Polish cavalry which came to the rescue of Vienna had no doubt a most martial look; they were mounted on the handsomest horses, and their arms were magnificent. This was by no means the case with the infantry; one regiment in particular was in such a sorry plight that Prince Lubomirski advised their crossing the Danube at night, for the sake of the nation’s honour. Sobieski simply smiled. “As you see them,” he said, “they are invincible: they have sworn not to change their clothes except for those taken from the enemy. In the last war they only wore the Turkish uniform.” Sobieski’s remark did not, perhaps, provide his soldiers with clothes; it did better than that: it ran from mouth to mouth, and the regiment performed deeds of unsurpassed valour. You are aware that after that brilliant feat of arms which was the signal for the relief of Vienna, they applied to the Polish hero the words of Pius V. with regard to Don Juan of Austria, after the battle of Lepanto: “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” What an admirable quotation!’ wound up the prince.
‘Austria had no doubt forgotten the application of that sentence of gratitude when, later on, she effaced from the rank of European nations the country of her deliverers!’ I remarked.
‘Go and remind her of it, and see what you’ll get for your pains. Furthermore, you must expect her to answer in the way of a set-off to the advocates of Poland: “You take care to remind us of your saving Vienna in 1683. We are certainly very grateful to you, but each time you mention it, we are bound to tell you that Austria delivered you out of the hand of Sweden, which had conquered you in the reign of Charles-Gustavus; hence, we are quits.”’
‘To this, prince, Poland could reply both in virtue of priority of age and of the number of her services, that the aid she lent to Austria, notably to her founder, Rudolph of Hapsburg, largely contributed to place Austria among the most powerful monarchies of Europe. Be that as it may, in this iniquitous proceeding, Austria plays the part of the dog in La Fontaine’s fable, who carries his master’s dinner round his neck: she interfered in order to take her share of the spoil; it would have been more noble to prevent the spoliation.’
By that time it was three o’clock, and we partook, in a small room adjoining the library, of the provisions which we had brought with us in the prince’s carriage. It was one of the most delightful collations I remember. The prince was fond of telling stories; his way of narrating them was so delightful and admirable that I was only too pleased to listen. This added to his own enjoyment, and his well-stored memory poured out tale after tale without the slightest effort.
‘One of my sweetest recollections,’ he said, ‘was my first journey to France as the bearer of the happy news of the battle of Maxen. My entrance upon the scene was entirely to my taste. I was received everywhere, in Paris, Versailles, and at the Trianon, by the Baron de Bezenval, the Comte de Vaudreuil, the Comte d’Adhémar, the Princesse de Lamballe, the fascinating Mme. Jules de Polignac; then at the beginning I was presented to La Harpe at Mme. du Barry’s, to D’Alembert at Mme. Geoffrin’s, to Voltaire at Mme. du Deffand’s. Mme. du Deffand was probably gifted with more natural grace and power of fascination than any woman of her time.’
After this he gave me some brilliant sketches of many of the celebrities who, during his long career, had honoured him with their friendship. Empress Catherine, whom he called ‘his living glory’; Emperor Joseph II., ‘his visible providence’; Frederick the Great, ‘his claim to immortality,’ and finally Marie-Antoinette, of whom he related many charming traits, always ‘harking back’ with the greatest delight to the Court of France, where he had met with such a distinguished welcome.
‘The love of pleasure and the attractions of society took me to Versailles,’ he said; ‘gratitude brought me back to it. My lad, judge for yourself how far I was justified in yielding to illusion, that ruler of the world. Presented to the Comte d’Artois, I naturally began by treating him like the king’s brother, and we finished up by his treating me as if I were his brother. Later on, I happened to be present at the meeting of Joseph II. and Frederick II. The latter notices my liking for great men, and he invites me to Berlin. My son Charles marries a Polish girl;[57] knowing that I am in the good books of Catherine, they imagine, perhaps, that I might make a King of Poland, and they confer the honour of Polish citizenship upon me. I arrive in Russia, and the grandeur and simplicity of Catherine win my heart. She selects me to accompany her to the Taurida, during that journey which seems to belong to fable rather than to history. In consequence of my taste for the “Iphigenias” of literature, she gives me the site of the temple where Agamemnon’s daughter officiated as priestess. Finally there is the paternal kindness of Emperor Francis I.; the maternal kindness of that grand Maria-Theresa, and the sometimes fraternal kindness of immortal Joseph II. There are the confidence and friendship of Landon and of Lasey; the familiar intercourse with Marie-Antoinette; the cordial intimacy of Catherine the Great; the goodwill of the great Frederick; my conversations with Jean-Jacques Rousseau; my stay at Ferney with Voltaire, and, fitly and gaily to wind up, after the great events of the last twenty years, the marvels and diversions of the Congress. Such in brief is my life. My memoirs would be most interesting. During the whole of that time I have seen calumny, ingratitude, and injustice assail everything I loved and admired.’
He seemed buried in thought for a few moments. ‘No,’ he said at last, ‘men’s idiocy and ill-nature respect nothing. In Catherine’s case these two have endeavoured to sully the grandeur one admires; in Marie-Antoinette the grace and beauty one worships. France has a few pages in her annals which one day she will wish to tear up. After having most grossly slandered the most beautiful and the most sympathetic of queens, whose goodness of heart, which was that of an angel, no one could appreciate better than I, and whose soul without reproach was as pure and as white as her face, the cannibals immolated her as an offering to their bloodthirsty liberty.’
At these words his voice grew low, and his eyes filled with tears. The tears of such a friend, of an old man and a wise one, were the most eloquent tribute to Marie-Antoinette’s memory.