Anecdotal Recollections of the Congress of Vienna

by Comte de Auguste Louis Charles La Garde-Chambonas

Among the crowd of notabilities grouped around the celebrities, such as M. de Metternich and the Field-Marshal Prince de Schwartzenberg, was the young Prince C—— de F——, the son of a king, the brother of a king to-be, yet who, nevertheless, was as simple and unaffected as he was handsome and clever. A circumstance most trifling in appearance had made him for the last few days the subject of all comments and the object of all observation. In the shape of a floral decoration, he wore simply a daisy in his buttonhole and nothing else. Of course, renewed each day, the modest village flower was a proof of careful search at a season when the snow-covered fields had none to offer to the rustic swain. No doubt some tender recollection, some thought proceeding direct from the heart, was hidden under this humble emblem. It was one of the many love-stories enacted while the Congress was supposed to be unravelling the tangled skein of Europe’s diplomacy. The air of Vienna seemed positively teeming with them, and their secrets were not difficult to read. The latest was no exception to the others. It was soon known that the modest flower of the field reminded the young prince of a cherished name, that of the Comtesse de ——. One day these two were strolling through the imperial hot-houses, and, love being superstitious, they hit upon the idea of consulting the future with regard to the duration and the depth of a feeling constituting their happiness. The comtesse plucked a daisy, interrogated it according to usage, and the last petal brings the ardently wished-for word ‘passionately.’ Naturally the word is welcomed by a mutual smile, there is an exchange of significant glances—of those glances that say as plainly as words, ‘You’re understood.’ The prince plucks another flower and fastens it into his buttonhole. The matter, however, did not end there; the oracle had been believed; heaven had received the pledges, while the head-gardener at Schönbrunn had received something more substantial in the shape of a hundred florins for the fortunate pot of daisies. A flower placed each morning near his heart reminded the lover of a pledge which, as a rule, is kept more faithfully in cottages than in Courts.

The band had struck up the usual polonaise, and Alexander, as was his habit, marched at the head of the line of dancers. His partner was the Comtesse de Paar, as distinguished by the graces of her person as by the accomplishments of her mind. Midnight struck and the new year had commenced. In Austria, as is well known, the delightful custom of our fathers of celebrating the first hour of January amidst mutual good wishes had been piously preserved. At the sound of the clock, the comtesse stopped, and, turning towards the emperor, said, ‘I am very happy, sire, to be the first to offer such a great sovereign the good wishes for the new year. Allow me also to be with your majesty the spokeswoman of all Europe for the maintenance of the peace and the union of peoples.’

Such wishes, expressed by such lips, could not fail to meet with an enthusiastic welcome. Alexander, then, accepted with much grace both the compliment and the request. He replied that all his hopes, and all his wishes tended in the direction of that much desired aim, and that no sacrifice would be considered too great by him to consolidate a peace which was the first need of humanity.

The guests had formed themselves into a large circle, and at the last words of the imperial reply, there were slight feminine cheers from all parts; a kind of ovation which did not seem to displease Alexander. For to some of the great qualities of the Grand Louis, he made it his constant study to add nobleness of manner and ever-watchful courtesy to the fair sex. The interlude being over, the orchestra took up the interrupted strain, and the polonaise was concluded amidst joyous murmurs and mild applause.

It was thus that commenced under the most happy auspices that year 1815 which a few months later was to witness a struggle more relentless than ever, terminating in the catastrophe of Waterloo. From early morn, and in spite of the biting cold, a considerable crowd had gathered on the Graben and on other public places. Every one seemed to be waiting for the announcement of that general peace, of that general reconciliation, which, according to certain newsmongers, was to mark the advent of the new year. People kept interrogating each other with an anxiety mixed with a constantly growing incredulity. All that could be gathered was the decision of the Austrian Court, which had suppressed the customary official receptions in order to save its guests the worry of new year’s compliments and the embarrassment of mendacious gratulations. As for the decisions of the Congress, they continued to be enveloped in as much secrecy as ever, and people remained free to pursue the daily comment on the dissensions of the Powers and the lukewarmness they were likely to impart to the fêtes announced for the month of January.

A great number of carriages traversed the city in all directions, and that of Lord Stewart, the English ambassador, eclipsed all the others in virtue of its elegance and its appointments. At an early hour Empress Marie-Louise had come from Schönbrunn to offer her good wishes to her august father. Standing aloof from everything that happened at Vienna, she never attended any entertainment, Court fête, or public ceremony. Nevertheless, the greatest deference was shown her everywhere. During the first months after her arrival at Schönbrunn, she had kept the imperial arms of France on the panels of her carriage, on the scutcheons of her harness, and on the buttons of her liveries. On the occasion of a famous visit to her father, some people in the street had loudly expressed themselves on what they chose to regard as a blunder in the matter of etiquette. Marie-Louise had heard the words, and from that day she had been careful to efface the last traces of her presence on the throne of France; and when we caught a glimpse of the conveyance we noticed a new monogram instead of the Napoleonic one, and a livery not only brand-new, but altogether different in colour from the old.

Nevertheless, in spite of the unfavourable predictions current on the Graben with regard to the turn of the discussions of the Congress, the Imperial Palace from nine that evening was scarcely able to hold the enormous crowd seeking admittance. The sovereigns, the political and diplomatic notabilities, had forgathered in what was called the Hall of the Ceremonies, where the Austrian Court was giving a state ball. Not far from there the big hall usually set apart for the large routs was filled with masks and dominos. Griffiths and I had repaired thither. It presented, as always, the most animated picture of all, and only one purpose seemed paramount, the pursuit of pleasure. After a few turns Griffiths and I left, surprised at such a total absence of care so rapidly succeeding and ousting most important preoccupations.

One of the most curious gatherings of the Congress and of Vienna was no doubt the ‘pic-nic dinner’ to which Admiral Sidney Smith invited the sovereigns and the political and other celebrities then within the walls of the capital. The idea of bringing together so many eminent personages, and of making each pay his share of the entertainment, could not fail to please them by its very sincerity amidst the constant gaiety which was gratuitously offered to them. Consequently, a great many had responded to the appeal.

Sir Sidney Smith had not been attracted to the Congress from simple motives of curiosity. His aim was political as well as philanthropic. And though not invested with any official mission, he had created for himself as many occupations as had the representative of the most influential Power. His projects in no way belied his adventurous life, the episodes of which savoured as much of a novel as of history.

A sailor from his boyhood, and without occupation after the American War, he passed into the service of Sweden, In consequence of the glorious naval engagement of 1791, he got the Grand Cross of the Order of the Sword, and shortly afterwards he offered his services to Turkey. Recalled after a few months by a proclamation of the King of England, he found himself, together with Lord Hood, at the siege of Toulon. In the course of 1796, while lying before Havre, he boarded a French corsair, which only a dead calm prevented him from taking in his wake. A sailor having secretly cut the cable of the craft, manned by English sailors in replacement of the French, the rising tide drove it into the Seine, where it was attacked by superior forces and was obliged to surrender. Taken to Paris, Smith was at first confined in the prison of l’Abbaye, then in that of the Temple. It was from the latter that his friends, by means of a forged order of the minister of the police, managed to effect his escape, a circumstance apparently very simple in itself, but which later on, under the walls of St. Jean d’Acre, contributed to frustrate most gigantic projects, and perhaps effectually prevented the revolution of the East. After that it becomes rather difficult to assign great causes to great events.