The archduke spent a large sum of money, some years ago, in endeavoring to turn the gypsies from their nomadic life, and to induce them to settle down, in order to devote their time and energies to the practice of the wonderful art of working metal, which they possess to so marked a degree, instead of roaming aimlessly about, and sometimes thieving, as is unfortunately their habit. He built a number of villages for them in the district surrounding Presburg, and organized gypsy settlements. But the scheme proved a failure. The Tziganes, true to the instincts that they have inherited from countless generations, abandoned the comfortable houses, the fields and blossoming gardens with which they had been provided by their imperial benefactor. They refused to till the soil, and commenced once more their interminable wanderings.
In spite of this fiasco, the archduke still continues to consider himself as the protector of the Romanys, and remains proud of his title of "Gypsy Prince," being sagacious enough to realize that it is impossible for a race to eradicate from their character, in a comparatively short space of time, traits that have been theirs for hundreds, nay thousands of years; for the origin of these gypsies is still shrouded in mystery and lost in the gloom of prehistoric ages, although it is probable that they are of Persian descent.
While Emperor William's taste as regards music meets with very widespread approval, and his gifts as a composer are very generally recognized, he has been less fortunate with regard to other branches of art; notably in the matter of painting, where he finds himself in frequent conflict with his people, especially with the great painters of his empire. Of all the muses there is none so truly democratic as that of pictorial art. The pictorial muse displays a truly republican intolerance of control on the part of either king or government. Hence it is only natural that Germany, which has produced in the past, and still possesses, so many world-famed painters and architectural designers, should strongly resent the kaiser's assumption of the supreme arbitership in all matters relating to art. His subjects submitted to his claim of "Regis voluntas suprema lex," in matters connected with the administration of the government, in diplomacy, in the drama, in music, and in literature, but they deny his power to impose upon them his taste in pictorial art.
It is no exaggeration to state that the emperor is in almost perpetual conflict, and at open war with the great majority of German painters and designers—a notable exception being the case of Professor von Menzel. Indeed, their discontent occasionally breaks forth with an intensity altogether new in the annals of German loyalty to the throne. A very remarkable instance thereof is the means which they adopted to show their disapproval of the emperor's treatment of Wallot, the designer of the palace of the imperial parliament. Wallot is universally recognized as the foremost architect of the age in Germany, and his original design for the building, as accepted by the authorities, was a very grandiose and magnificent conception. Financial considerations necessitated the modification of some of the features of the building, while others were forced upon the architect sorely against his will by the emperor, with the result that the palace is not quite so superb as originally projected. It remains, however, a magnificent and imposing pile, well worthy of the purpose for which it has been erected, and in no way a displeasing monument of German art and architecture as understood in the nineteenth century.
All the recognized authorities, both Teuton and foreign, in questions of art and architecture, have pronounced themselves in this sense, the only discordant note being that to which the emperor has given utterance. Not only has he publicly declared the new Reichshaus to be "the very acme of bad taste," but he even went to the length of striking the designer's name from the list of gold medalists at the exhibition of art and architecture held at Berlin shortly after the completion and inauguration of the building. The gold medal had been voted to Herr Wallot by a jury composed of all the most celebrated artists in Germany, whose verdict, representing that of the nation, might have been considered as definite and final. The kaiser, however, when the list was submitted to him for final approval, substituted, in lieu of the name of Professor Wallot, that of his favorite portrait painter, Madame Palma Parlaghy, whose work is, in the eyes of Germany's leading artists, so execrable that the hanging committee of the Berlin Academy have repeatedly refused to accord places to any of her pictures on its walls.
Madame Parlaghy is a pupil of Makart and of Lenbach, and a native of Hadji-Dóròg, in Hungary. She is between thirty and forty, possessed of glittering, enigmatic eyes, highly-colored cheeks and lips, and the almost too profuse head of hair that one sees so often on the shores of the Danube. Her beauty may, nevertheless, be described as majestic, and she conveys the idea of being a woman possessed of considerable strength of mind, as well as much diplomacy. She was first recommended to the emperor by the present Czarina of Russia, to whom she gave drawing lessons, prior to the marriage of the empress, and after William had obtained an idea of her skill by a very pleasing portrait which she painted of Field Marshal von Moltke, which was, however, rejected by the hanging committee of an art exhibition at Berlin, he purchased the picture in question for a large sum, and likewise gave her an order to paint several portraits of himself, declaring openly that if the judgment of the leading Berlin artists were to be final in the matter of admitting paintings to public galleries and exhibitions, there would never be a single work of art worthy of the name on view. Madame Parlaghy's portraits of the emperor, though questionable as works of art, are, it must be confessed, very flattering likenesses of his majesty.
It was shortly after this slight inflicted by the emperor on Professor Wallot, and the honor conferred upon Madame Parlaghy, that the National Society of Architects and the National Association of Artists, the two principal organizations of the kind in Germany—composed of all that is most eminent in the realms of architecture and art—jointly invited Professor Wallot to a great banquet in Berlin, at which over six hundred guests were present, in the course of which William was guyed in a most merciless manner! The chief ornament on the principal table was a model of the Reichshaus in "Schwarzbrod," cheese and confectionery. The dome consisted of a Dutch cheese, the "Germania" on the top was represented by a smartly aproned chambermaid on horseback, the horse being led by a footman in imperial livery, while the whole was labeled "Der gipfel des geschmack,"—the acme of taste. Another item of the programme was a sort of automatic machine, which, when a gold medal was placed in the slot, would perform "Der gesang an Ihr,"—the song to her—meaning, of course, Madame Parlaghy.
The joke, I need hardly say, consisted in the parodying of the title of the emperor's musical composition "Sang am Aegir!" The lustre hanging from the ceiling, which is known in Germany as a "Kronleuchter" was in the form of an old crinoline. At the entrance to the banqueting hall hung the representation of a gold medal, which a lady painter was trying in vain to grasp. The tone of the speeches throughout the evening was in thorough keeping with the decorations, and it is doubtful whether such a bold exhibition of independence, and even disloyalty towards the sovereign, has ever been seen in the Prussian capital. It speaks well for William's good sense that he should have refrained from proceeding against any of the organizers of the entertainment on the ground of lése majesté.
There is, as I stated above, one Prussian painter, however, of whom the kaiser is exceedingly fond, whose eminence in art is acknowledged, not only in Germany, but all the world over, and upon whom William has lavished the highest honors that it is in his power to bestow. The painter in question is Professor von Menzel; popularly known in Berlin as "His Little Excellency," owing to his diminutive size, his stature being about four feet nine inches! Professor Menzel, who is of the most humble origin, is to-day a Knight of the Order of the Black Eagle, which is the Prussian equivalent of the English Order of the Garter, or of the Austrian Order of the Golden Fleece, this decoration carrying with it a patent of hereditary nobility. He is now considerably over eighty, but from his twelfth year he has earned his living by means of his brush and palette. All his principal paintings are devoted to the illustration of historic episodes of Prussian history and of the reigning house of Hohenzollern. One of his masterpieces is entitled "The Flute Concert," and represents Frederick the Great in his palace at Sans-Souci, at a concert with the principal members of court and his household around him.
One evening the emperor sent for old Menzel, and asked him to join the royal family at Sans-Souci. When the little painter alighted he was conducted to the imperial presence, and was somewhat astonished to notice that the sentinels at the various doors instead of being arrayed in their ordinary uniform, wore the military garb of the time of Frederick the Great. But his surprise developed into downright amazement, when at length two folding-doors were thrown open, and he found himself in the same apartment which had furnished the scene of his painting of "The Flute Concert." The room was lighted, as in olden times, with wax candles, the old-time furniture was disposed identically as represented in his painting, and, moreover, the company assembled was composed of men in the costumes of the time of Frederick the Great, and of ladies attired in the picturesque dress of the middle of the last century. There advanced to welcome the astounded artist a personage who, but for the moustache, was the very image of Frederick the Great, and in whom the little professor had some difficulty to recognize the kaiser. William greeted him with old-fashioned courtesy, using the elaborate politeness of our great grandfathers, and after having presented the little painter to all the guests, the ladies curtsying deeply in the fashion of the Court of Versailles, and the men bowing low, Menzel was led by the emperor to a seat beside the empress, and the emperor's private band, whose uniforms were in perfect keeping with the costumes of the guests, played first of all several of Frederick the Great's compositions for the flute, and then a few of Bach's loveliest morceaux. The emperor himself remained standing beside the little painter's chair throughout the entire concert, the empress alone and some of her ladies being seated, while the remainder of the fair guests, as well as all the men, stood about the apartment endeavoring as far as possible to group themselves in the same way as the personages figuring in Menzel's painting. After the concert was finished, the company adjourned to an adjoining room, Menzel occupying the place of honor to the right of the empress, while the emperor toasted the little fellow with more than ordinary eloquence and cordiality.