My recollections

Preface

THIS book has no pretensions to be anything else but a simple narration of things I have seen, and descriptions of people I have met. It does not aspire to be considered as a volume of memoirs destined to clear up historical points of interest. It is merely a little book of recollections which perhaps may amuse those who have lived through the same scenes, and moved in the same circles that I have done in various parts of Europe. Existence nowadays is such a rush that the events of yesterday are just as much forgotten as those of a century ago, and I dare say that very few men and women will be found who give a thought to what happened ten or twenty years ago. Everything changes so quickly that it has seemed to me it would be interesting to fix the remembrance of those last days of the century which so recently came to an end. The whole aspect of the political and social world was then so entirely different from what it has become since the commanding personality of Prince Bismarck was withdrawn from the stage

of this world's affairs.

vii

PREFACE

When I entered society, the German Empire had been scarcely three years in existence. PVance was writhing still in the convulsions of her late defeat ; Russia was slowly trying to recover the many advantages of which the Crimean war had deprived her. Motor-cars were unknown, electric light was still spoken of as something quite extraordinary, and the telephone was not yet one of the resources of civilisation. Manners, too, were different from those which prevail to-day. The hunt after notoriety had not transformed individuals into self-advertising personages of a stamp which is only too familiar. Society was quieter, more sedate ; adventurers had still a bad time of it, and the American element had not altogether invaded us. Whilst I was writing this book, I often asked myself whether it was possible that I had lived in times so entirely different from the present.

It is because society has altered that this book

may amuse some people and bore others. The

only merit I will claim for it is, that it is a

true account of events of which I am cognisant.

Personal feeling has played such an important

part ahke in the German and Russian Courts

that it is only by knowing people that one can

understand political incidents. I have tried to

make the book just in its appreciation of indi-

viii

PREFACE

viduals, and if I have wounded any susceptibilities such has been far from my intention. I have met with many kindnesses in the world, and after all I have not found it such a bad one; perhaps because I have never asked much from it, having tried to practise the maxim of Beaumarchais, that it is better to laugh than to cry. I have come across bad people, of course, but I have also met characters such as those of the late Emperor and Empress Frederick, who alone would convince the greatest of misanthropes to acknowledge the more lofty claims of humanity. My book, I hope, will be accepted by its readers for what I have meant it to be — a tribute of gratitude to some people and of kind feehngs to others. More than that it does not profess to be.

CATHERINE RADZIWILL.

London, August 17th, 1904.

IX

I

i CONTENTS.

j - CHAPTER I.

PAGE

My Birth and Ancestry— The Family Curse — The Golden- Bearded Hetman — My Family Home— My Father and his First Wife — Korsoun — My Father's Brothers — A Dangerous Mission — Emperor Nicholas I. — A Family Ghost Story— The Empress Eugenie — The New Emperor — 'The Burial Ground of the Czars '—My Father's Noble Character 1-91

CHAPTER n.

My Aunts— Madame Lacroix' Deception — Her Salon— The Bibliophile Jacob— M. de St. Araand — Madame de Balzac — The True Story of the Balzacs -What is Happiness ? — The Hotel Balzac — L'Abbe Constant— The Commune — * Madame ' and ' Citoyenne ' 22-38

CHAPTER HI.

My Mother's Family — The PaschkofFs Reminiscence of the Polish Mutiny — Attempt on the Czar's Life — Character of Alexander H. The Beautiful Princess Dagmar — Franco-Prussian War — The Surrender of Sedan — In Paris after the Commune — I am Engaged to be Married — My Presentation at Court — My Wedding 39-60

CHAPTER IV.

Berlin After the War — Emperor or King? — The Old Radziwill Palace — Family Parties — The Emperor William's First Love — I meet Von Moltke — My First State Dinner — Am Presented to the Empress — The Prince and Princess Charles — The Red Prince — A Court in Mourning — ' Un Cadeau de la Reine ' — Entertainments at Court — The Beautiful Duchess of Manchester — I dine with the Emperor 61-87

Contents

CHAPTER V,

PAGB

The Real Emperor William I. — His Tact and Unselfishness as a

Chapter I

My Birth and Ancestry — The Family Curse — The Golden-bearded Hetman — My Family Home — My Father ami his First Wife — Korsoun — My Father'' s Brothers — A Dangerous Mission — Emperor Nicholas I. — A Family Ghost Story — The Empress Eugenie — The New Emperor — ^The Burial-grou/nd of the Czars'' — My Father'' s Nolle Character.

I WAS born on the 30th of March, 1858, in St. Petersburg. My father. Count Adam Rzewuski, belonged to one of the oldest, and most illustrious families of Poland. One of his aunts had been the wife of King Stanislas Leszczinski (not Leczinski, as the French generally speU it), the father of the consort of Louis XV. His great-grandfather is remembered to this day as one of the heroes of Polish History; he was among the few nobles whom Catherine II. of Russia complimented by having them seized one night and carried off to Siberia, so thoroughly did she fear their opposition to her favourite. King Stanislas Poniatowski. One of my ancestors had besieged the Kremlin at Moscow, and taken it by storm at the time of the false Demetrius, during the reign of King Sigismund Augustus. Another had died from wounds received at the famous siege i Vienna by Kara Mustapha. He was a personal friend of King John Sobieski, and he left behind him the memory of a great name and an unblemished reputation. We came of a strong, clever, brave race, famous for personal courage and remarkable intelligence; indeed there is a proverb which says 'the wit of a Rzewuski,' just as one speaks in France of 'I'esprit des Mortemart,' but we were never a lucky or a happy race. The shadow of a curse lay upon us — a curse which like the secret of the Strathmores has been transmitted from father to son, and darkened the lives of all those who bore our name. Tradition says that in bygone days a Rzewuski walled up his mother alive in one of the towers of their old castle, and that she cursed all their descendants, and prophesied for them ill luck in all they would attempt to do, and either a violent or a sudden death. The prediction has been strangely fulfilled, for scarcely a member of my family has died in his or her bed, and certainly misfortune has dogged their footsteps. Gifted with singular personal beauty, with the rarest qualities of heart and mind, they have never kno^vn what happiness was, and led, most of them, miserable lives. One of my aunts was a friend of the ill-fated Queen Marie Antoinette, and like her, perished on the scaffold. People say that as she was about to be seized by the executioner, she turned round, and facing the angiy crowd for the last time, shouted out in a loud voice, 'Vive la Reine ! '

Her daughter, rescued later on by my grandfather, married her cousin, Wenceslas Rzewuski, who also met with a strange fate. He was one

A FAMILY ROMANCE

of the leaders of the great Polish mutiny of the year 1830, and disappeared mysteriously during the battle of Daszow. A legend says he made his escape to the East, and lived there for many years in the mountains of Libanus. He had been before that a great traveller in Syria and an admirer of Lady Hester Stanhope, and among his family papers my father had curious letters from her addressed to the golden-bearded Hetman, as he is called to this day in Little Russia, where minstrels still wander, singing ballads about him and his exploits. His sword was picked up on the battlefield by a Russian officer, who was killed himself at the siege of Sevastopol, and when dying gave it to my father, who always looked upon it as one of his most precious possessions. It bears the following inscription in Polish : ' Sewerin Rzewuski, second Hetman of the Republic, son of Wenceslas Rzewuski, great Hetman of the Republic, grandson of Stanislas Rzewuski, great Hetman of the Republic, gives this sword to his son and comrade Wenceslas Sewerin, for the defence of faith and liberty.' What became of the owner of the weapon no one knows, and he rests in his unconsecrated grave, far away from all his kindred, from all those he loved and who loved him.

He left three sons: the youngest entered the Russian service and was killed in the Caucasus. The eldest, Stanislas, was at one time a candidate for the throne of Belgium, and died from a fall from his horse. The only one who survived sold the old family castle to Prince Sanguszko in the hope, he said, of doing away with the curse, and it is still one of the show places of Poland. The bones of our murdered ancestress were, it seems, found by him, during some reparations done to the walls, but how far this is true I know not. My father was always very touchy on the point, and never liked to hear it mentioned in his presence. He had quarrelled with his cousin in consequence of this sale, the latter having refused to dispose of the property to one of his own family in spite of their having repeatedly made him offers to buy it, and though they made it up at last, yet relations between them were never very cordial. I don't remember having seen my uncle, though I have a very faint remembrance of his mother, my aunt Rosahe, the daughter of Marie Antoinette's friend. She died in 1865, and I was taken to see her a year before that at Warsaw, where she lived, and where she occupied a position almost regal in its importance. She was a tall, thin old woman, with piercing eyes, and a wig which deeply impressed my childish imagination. She had been a great friend of my mother's, in spite of the disparity in their ages, and I found among the latter's papers a great number of letters from her which told me a good deal about our family history. She had an immense reputation for cleverness, and was perhaps more feared than liked. Her only daughter, Calixte, married the Duke of Sermoneta, and was the mother of the present holder of the title, the husband of the once lovely Miss Wilbraham. She died young, regretted by all who knew her, leaving

A GRAND SEIGNEUR

behind her the sweet remembrance of one of those beings almost too perfect for this* world. Her son has inherited a great deal of her personal charm and good looks, and he is undoubtedly one of the few very clever men Italy can boast of at the present time.

The Duchess of Sermoneta and her brother were the last representatives of the elder branch of our house. It is now extinct, and my father with his sisters were the only survivors of all that generation. He was himself the second son of the last ambassador the Polish Republic sent to London and to Copenhagen, where his portrait may be seen in the public picture gallery. My gi*andfather must have been a remarkably handsome man; his face and figure appear singularly expressive as they detach themselves from the canvas. The eyes have a dreamy expression, and the smile a mixture of mockery and mournfulness, which makes it strangely attractive. It is the image of a grand Seigneur of the olden times, and the haughtiness one sees behind the grace of the attitude, makes one realise and understand the character of a man who, if we are to believe the reputation he left behind him, was always faithful to the motto of his race, ' Offend not, and do not forgive offences.'

Our family has always played a great part in politics ; since the fifteenth century my ancestors' names figure in all the important events and crises which finally led to the partition of Poland. As unfortunately was but too often the case in that country, they were often divided amongst themselves, and one brother was fighting on one side whilst the other gave his adherence to the opposite party^ My great-uncle, the grandfather of the Duchess of Sermoneta, was one of the nobles who signed the famous confederation of Targowice, which practically gave up the country to the Russians. He was naturally hated by his countrymen, but subsequent events have proved that he was right, and had his advice been followed the Republic might have preserved a good many of its liberties, and acquired a strength it sadly needed. But as is usually the case with the wise he was not listened to, and ta this day his political role is not understood by many people. His brother, who in opposition ta him was one of the members of the Confederation of Bar, married an heiress, the daughter of Prince Michael Radziwill, and of the last descendant of the famous Prince Jeremiah Wiszniowiecki. She brought into our family the old fortress which had been stormed at such sacrifice of human life by the bloody Prince. It stands to this day almost in the same condition as it did at the time of the great Cossack rebellion, which he crushed so ruthlessly, only the drawbridges have been replaced by permanent ones, and the ditches are planted with flowers and shrubs. But there is still standingan old pavilion which was used as a gunpowder magazine ; under the long old house exist underground passages leading to the open plain, and in the park may be seen a brick column erected on the spot where Prince Jeremiah caused three hundred Cossacks to be put to the stake in one day. The place

MY FATHER

reeks with blood, and everywhere may be seen the traces of the terrible struggle which so very nearly saw the end of the Polish Republic. It has got the traditional ghost or ghosts, and under the vault of the church all my ancestors sleep their last slumber. There rests my father, with his brothers and parents ; there lie all those who have given or added something towards the reputation of our race. We are all devoted to this home of ours ; we all remember the days when as children we used to run in those old rooms, and look curiously upon the old pictures of the men and women whose example we were told to follow.

My father was an exceedingly proud man — one who loved to look back upon the heroic deeds of those whose blood ran in his veins. He also was un homme d' autrefois^ with a certain amount of prejudice, but gifted with unusual courage, and perfectly fearless as regards the opinions of the world. He was born at the very beginning of last century, on Christmas Eve, 1801. Brought up first at the Jesuit College of Lemberg, then at the Military Academy at Vienna, he entered quite young the Austrian military service, which, however, he very soon left, and in 1821 was admitted as officer in a Russian cavalry regiment. His father died in 1825, and in virtue of an arrangement with his elder brother, who did not care to take upon himself the burden of heavily encumbered family estates, he came into possession of the old home of his race. He fought brilliantly in the Turkish campaign of 1828, was wounded, and upon his return married a lady twenty-two years older than himself, who held an immense position at the Russian Court, and, if we are to believe the letters of Princess Lieven, was at one time the flame of the Emperor Alexander I., Madame Gerebtsoff, born Princess Lapoukhyn, the sister of that Prince Lapoukhyn, who was the husband of the beautiful Madame d'Alopeus, of the ' Recit d'une Soeur ' fame. Madame Gerebtsoff was gifted with unusual loveliness, to which her portraits which I have seen abundantly testify. She was also a most clever woman, who through her tact succeeded in neither making herself nor her husband ridiculous, which would have been easy considering the disparity in their ages. My father certainly owed to her the brilliant career he made, and he used always to say that she was the woman he had loved the most in his life. They had one daughter, who died young, but with her first husband Madame Gerebtsoff had had a girl one year older than my father, who, at the time of her mother's marriage, was herself the wife of Count (afterwards Prince) OrlofF, the famous favourite of the Emperor Nicholas I., and one of the signatories of the Paris Treaty, whose son was afterwards for so many years Ambassador to the third Republic. I remember old Princess OrlofF when I was a little girl. She had settled permanently at Florence, and there she died in 1876 or 1877. She was a formidable old lady, very clever, and who could be amiable when she liked. Her relations with my father remained always cordial, though stiff.,

8 \

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD

He had behaved with extreme delicacy in money matters after his wife's death, and both Princess Orloff and her husband showed themselves grateful, but my father, strange to say for a man of his character, stood always a little in awe of his stepdaughter, and, as far as I can remember, never felt quite at his ease in her presence ; she was the only person who could cow him, and I have never been able to make out whether it was embarrassment or the memory of his dead wife which used to influence his behaviour towards the Princess. The old Prince I never saw — he died when I was quite a baby ; but I can conjure to my mind ■one of Madame GerebtsofTs sisters. Countess KoutaissofF, and can just remember having been taken to Korsoun, the country seat of the Lapoukhyns, and having been petted by a very old lady, who I was told was the mother of Alexandrine de La Ferronays. The circumstance which impressed her on my childish mind, was that in order to be shown to her I had been kept out of bed until eleven o'clock at night, which was the only time she appeared, having the strange habit of sleeping the whole day, and only getting up when everybody else was thinking of doing the reverse. She and her husband used to Uve in almost kingly state on their magnificent estate — one of the show places of Southern Russia. It has now passed into the possession of a nephew of the old Prince, who has been allowed to resuscitate the title, but the brilliant days of Korsoun are no more, and probably will never be revived

It is when I think of all these links with a past which has already become a part of history that I realise how old I am, and how very Uttle I have got to do with the present generation. All these people whose doings and sayings formed part of my childish days, are forgotten even by their own descendants, and in telling their story it is hard for me to believe I am also relating my own.

My father had two brothers. The elder. Count Henry Rzewuski, has made for himself a name as one of the most famous authors of fiction of his time in Poland. His novels, historical ones, in the style of Sir Walter Scott's, are to the present day almost as popular as Scott's ; he also wrote a few French books, but these were not of the fii'st rank,, and are now forgotten. One of them was the story of our family curse, and I remember once a discussion my father had with his brother on the subject, when I heard for the first time the words which since that day have been so often repeated in my presence whenever a new misfortune happened to one of our family, * We owe this again to the " Kunicka," ' this being the maiden name of our dreaded ancestress.

My uncle Henry was one of the wittiest men in his country; there are innumerable sayings of his which have become public property, and which are quoted whenever the occasion arises. He died at a very advanced age in 1867; he was about fifteen or twenty years older than my father, and, consequently, all my remembrances;

LINKS WITH THE PAST

of him are those of a very old man, walkingwith great difficulty. He had an immense head, piercing eyes, with bushy eyebrows, and a generally unkempt appearance. Between him and my father there existed a great affection, although they were always quarrelUng upon one subject or another. My uncle was the only ugly member of a singularly handsome family ; my father, on the contrary, was one of the best-looking men of his time, and when the two brothers found nothing else to nag about, they used to start a discussion about the influence beauty has or has not on the lives of men. As they were both most brilliant talkers, it was intensely amusing to Hsten to their conversations, which I only regret I was too youngto appreciate as they ought to have been.

My uncle died from heart disease quite suddenly, at the last, though he had been ill for a long time. He left no son, only two daughters, one of whom became the mother of that lovely Madame de Kolemine, whose marriage with the Grand Duke of Hesse, followed as it was the next day by a divorce, made such a stir at the time it happened. I shall have a good deal to say about it later on.

My father's younger brother, who, if not quite so briUiant as the other members of the family, was nevertheless a very clever man, died in the early sixties. I don't remember having seen much of him ; but his son, who perished during the Turkish campaign of 1877-78, was a frequent visitor at our house. He left no male posterity, so I will have nothing further to say about him, except that he had the reputation of being one of the handsomest men, as well as one of the bravest officers, in the Czar's service.

To come back to my father, I will say that after his marriage with Madame Gerebtsoff he settled in St. Petersburg, and in a very short time became not only a general favourite in society, but also of the Emperor Nicholas I., who, up to his death, reposed in him the greatest confidence, and several times entrusted him with missions of importance abroad.

During the Pohsh mutiny of 1830 my father was aide-de-camp to Field -Marshal Diebitch, in command of the Russian army. At one time the position of the Russian troops was most critical. The Army Corps commanded by General Rudiger was completely cut off from its communication with headquarters, and the insurgents commanded by General Dwernicki caught every one of the officers sent by the Field-Marshal with orders to Oeneral Rudiger. The situation was becoming very serious, when Count Diebitch sent for my father, and, after warning him that were he to be taken prisoner, it would not mean for him captivity but death, on account of his Polish nationality, he asked him whether he would undertake to cross the hnes of the insurgents, and transmit verbal orders to the invested General. My father at once accepted the mission, and, disguising himself as a pedlar, succeeded after three weeks, in making his way through the whole of the Polish army without

POLAND IN 1830

being recognised, and, reaching General Rudiger, gave him the information which allowed the latter to take once more the offensive, and to join the headquarters, with the result that Dwernicki, together with Ramorino, another leader of the mutineers, was compelled to seek refuge across the Austrian frontier, and to lay down their arms there. I have often heard my father relate the details of this adventurous journey, during which he risked his life the whole time ; for there is little doubt he would have met with no mercy at the hands of the Poles. His name would have singled him out for a swift retribution. This daring deed had, I believe, much to do with the ultimate success of his career, though he would never himself own it was the case, and it had a sequel, which I must relate, as it honours my father just as much as it does that much-caluminated sovereign, the Emperor Nicholas I.

It is not generally known that he was passionately attached to his Polish army, and not only did he keenly feel the treason with which his good intentions were repaid, but he was particularly incensed at the fact of his former troops having sought refuge in Austria, instead of trusting to his own generosity. When the mutiny was at last suppressed he had the colours of the few regiments who had not been able to cross the frontier put up in the Kremlin at Moscow, with an inscription saying that these were the flags of the traitorous Polish army, who had broken all its oaths to its sovereign. My father happened to hear of this intention of the Emperor's a few days before it was actually executed, and he wrote to him a letter begging him to reconsider his decision, and not to give way to his resentment in a manner which would harm him before history and posterity. It was a beautiful letter, full of feeling and respect for his sovereign, but at the same time one of the most daring epistles that has ever been addressed by a subject to a monarch. After making an allusion to his own fidelity to his oath, he ended with the words, ' I beg your Majesty not to sully his glory by an act of mean revenge, and to remember that it is preferable for a sovereign to have on his brow a stain of blood than one of mud.' I will repeat the words in French, as they are more expressive, and convey their meaning better than in an English translation : ' Je supplie Votre Majeste de se souvenir qu'il est parfois preferable pour un Souverain d'avoir sur son front une tache de sang qu'une tache de boue.' If one remembers what kind of monarch was Nicholas, and at what time that letter was written, one can only marvel at the courage of a young man in thus addressing him ; but the Emperor was one of these generous souls who understand nobility and generosity in others. He rose to the occasion, and sent the letter to my father's wife, with the remark, ' Je vous renvoie la lettre de votre mari, Madame ; comme Souverain je devrais punir, comme ami, je veux oublier.'

Few historical personages have been more maligned than the Emperor Nicholas, and to me,

THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS

Vfho have had the opportunity to hear the truth, it is often a wonder to read and listen to all the lies that are told about him. In reality the Emperor was one of the most generous of men, and he was simply worshipped by all those who had ever had anything to do with him. I will describe in another book life at the court of that northern potentate, and how different it was from what is commonly known about it. The anecdote I have just related will perhaps change some people's minds about the great-grandfather of my present sovereign.

During this same Polish campaign a curious adventure befell my father, which perhaps will interest all lovers of the supernatural. In order to make people understand it, I must say that one of my ancestors, the same one who was seized and thrown into captivity by the great Catherine, had died and been buried in a little town in the kingdom of Poland called Chelm. The condition of the country was so troubled at the time that it was not possible to convey the body to the family burial-ground. Now, on the eve of the battle of Grochow, one of the important engagements of the war, my father, who in the meanwhile had been promoted to the command of the Cuirassier Regiment of Prince Albert of Prussia, was asleep in his tent and dreamed that he saw an old man, whom he recognised from the pictures he had seen to be his great-grandfather, enter his tent. He noticed that he wore the old Pohsh dress, with yellow boots worn out at the toes. The ghost, if one may call it by that name, sat down beside his bed, and told him he was his ancestor, and that the vault in which he was buried had that very night been broken open by the mutineers, and his body taken out of its coffin and put against the wall. He added that my father was to go to Chelm and to bring it to the family grave to be reburied there, and also to erect two crosses in memory of the event, one in the park, and another in a spot which he carefully indicated at the turning of the high road leading to the house on the family property. He added that my father would be wounded the next day. Well, that next day the battle took place, and my father was shot in the leg. He was ill for a long time, and, it must be owned, forgot all about his dream. More than ten years later he happened to be at Chelm with the Emperor for some manoeuvres, and curiosity led him to the church. It had been closed ever since the mutiny, but my father insisted upon the vault being opened for him, and when he entered it he saw his grandfather's body standing erect against the wall, in the very dress and the same worn-out boots he had seen him in, on the night of his dream. He had the body removed and buried it on his estate, and the two crosses stand to this day as a commemoration of an event which, to say the very least, must be called singular.