We slowly went in the direction of his house, and on the way his conversation betrayed the feeling of slighted pride; his words were marked by a tinge of melancholy which was new to me.
‘I am inclined to believe that in life reflection comes as a last misfortune,’ he said. ‘Up to the present I have not been among those who think that growing old is in itself a merit. At the dawn of life love’s dream balances its illusions on the spring within us. One carries the cup of pleasure to one’s lips; one imagines it’s going to last for ever, but years come, time flies and delivers its Parthian darts; from that moment disenchantment attends everything, the colours fade out of one’s existence. Ah me, I must get used to the idea.’
‘But, prince, you attach too much importance to a trifling disappointment. You must put it down to the exactions of society, which those who are in it cannot always disregard.’
‘No, no, there’s an end of my illusions; everything warns me of the years accumulating behind me. I am no longer considered good for anything. In days gone by, at Versailles, I was consulted on this, that, and the other, on balls, fêtes, theatres, and so forth. At present my advice is dispensed with. My time is past, my world is dead. You’ll tell me that no man is a prophet in his own country. A company of comedians has invaded the stage to drive me from it, or to hiss should I persist in remaining. My prophecies miss fire on account of the prophet’s age. Tell me honestly, what is the worth of young men nowadays to justify the world in lavishing its favours on them? Envy has never entered my heart until this moment.’ Then he harked back to his past, impelled by the kind of melancholy pleasure we all experience in retracing our road through life, even if it is beset with thorns.
‘I had an intense admiration and passionate love for the science of warfare,’ he added, ‘and I may safely say that from the day I joined the regiment of dragoons from Ligne, I have won all my grades at the point of my sword. That science has been the occupation of my life; my labours have gained me many sterling friends. As a soldier and as a general I have done my duty.’
‘History will forget neither the taking of Belgrade nor the battle of Maxen, and your glorious share in both. It will also remember the brilliant welcome you received at Versailles when Maria-Theresa sent you thither bearing the news.’
‘Yes, these are memories of which no one will be able to deprive me, and henceforth I’ll exclusively wrap myself up in them. When the body threatens ruin, memory alone supports the structure, but merely as a hint of our being still alive. To my last moments, as a compensation for the vicissitudes of my own existence I shall be proud of having been on terms of intimate friendship with men upon whom the eyes of the universe were fixed. I may confess to having always been fond of glory; indifference to it is a mere pretence. Well, every succeeding day I become more and more convinced of the emptiness of what people conventionally call celebrity.’ Then he drifted to the happy moments of his life.
‘I have also passed through that delicious period of life when youth gets intoxicated with all kinds of flattering promises, which a riper age rarely keeps, and which old age altogether disperses. At that period, days fly like moments, and the moments are worth centuries. Happy he who knows how to profit by them! Life is a limpid cup which becomes troubled while one drinks from it; the first drops are like ambrosia; but the lees are at the bottom; the more agitated one’s life is, the more bitter does the draught become at last. The loss, when all is said and done, is perhaps not so great. Man gets to his grave as the absent-minded get to their house. Here’s the door of mine. Good-night, my dear lad. You, who are beginning your career, take care to employ every minute to the greatest advantage, and don’t forget that the saddest days of our lives are counted in the tale of our years just as much as the happiest. Delille was right when he said, “Our best days go first.”’
And I took my leave of this excellent prince, of this extraordinary man, whose only weakness consisted in not making his pleasures fit in with his age, and in persisting in keeping up a struggle with time, that invincible athlete whom, as yet, no one has conquered. Alas, he believed in the fable of Anacreon, whose love-affairs still provided wreaths of roses for his hoary locks at eighty.
This love-tryst of the Prince de Ligne was to be his last. When he talked thus of man’s arriving at the brink of the grave without thinking of it, he was far from perceiving that he himself already had one foot therein. Since then I have often reflected on the melancholy sadness of all his words, but the Prince de Ligne never seriously considered the idea of death. Not that he was afraid of it. At no time of his life did fear approach within an arm’s length of him. If now and again he spoke of old age with a kind of melancholy, it was because he dreaded the idea of not being in unison with the new generations around him, as he had been in unison with the friends of his youth. Thinking of all this, I continued my nocturnal stroll by myself, repeating the verses the prince had improvised on the subject, and I reached the hotel, the ‘Roman Emperor,’ just as the Comte Z—— was going in. To dispel the sad thoughts induced by the prince’s remarks, I accepted Count Z——‘s offer of a glass of punch and accompanied him to his apartments.