Читать книгу My Own Affairs - Princess of Belgium Louise - Страница 4

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If in an official procession the principal personage comes last, then Belgium should come last in my pages, for it is about myself that I must begin.

I decide to do so not without apprehension, for I remember the descriptions of themselves which celebrated writers of autobiography—Saint Simon, for instance—have given at the commencement of their memoirs.

Far be it from me to wish to paint myself in glowing colours. That would be a pretension from which the great writers who possessed the talent necessary to describe themselves preserve me. I only hope, if possible, to describe myself as I believe myself to be.

I often examine my heart. The older I grow the stronger this tendency to self-analysis becomes. Formerly I used to like to know my fellow-creatures; now I have discovered that one should always know oneself before attempting to decipher other human enigmas.

The ancient precept of Delphes, which the King my father used to quote, comes back to my memory, but I will not give it here. I do not understand modern Greek, unlike Queen Sophie, that charming woman, who was so misguided as to learn it; she lost her throne, so they say, through trying to outwit the subtlety of Ulysses!

My predominant quality is a horror of all that is insincere, inaccurate, formal and commonplace. My taste for simplicity in thought and actions branded me long ago as a revolutionary in the eyes of my family. This was when I rebelled in Vienna against the routine and what they called the esprit of the Court.

My passion for sincerity has brought me unity of thought. I am a woman faithful to one vow which my heart admits freely.

I have known and loved few individuals well enough to allow myself to approach them and know them thoroughly, but when once my confidence and liking have been given and found to be justified, I have become deeply attached to those on whom they were bestowed.

Many people would have liked to have seen me deprived of happiness, but I possess at least this one jewel—faithfulness, and I have known the sweetness thereof; not only the banal and material fidelity—always more or less a passing phase as one generally understands it—but the pure and noble fidelity which accompanies a vigilant and chivalrous mind; the ideal of noble hearts, which is revolted by injustice and attracted by misfortune. Diverse fidelities, although sisters, are marvellous treasures in which one must be rich oneself to be enabled further to enrich the future with precious gifts.

Firm in upholding my rights, and true to my convictions when I believe them to be in accordance with honour and truth—which spring from a divine essence—and are not inspired by hypocritical conventions, I am afraid of nothing, and nothing can convince me against my will.

I have inherited these traits from my father and my mother; from my mother I get the spiritual side, and from my father I get the material side of my character. It is useless, therefore, to believe that I should ever act against the dictates of my conscience.

If I am compelled to give way for a moment, I do so as one would yield at the point of the bayonet.

Wickedness and compulsion do not create equity, they only create its reservations, and redress to justice is from God alone and not from man.

This strength of resistance against evil and contempt of etiquette are, so to speak, the salient characteristics of my life.

But in spite of my decided opinions I show marked nervousness in the presence of strangers. When they are introduced to me I can hardly speak to them, even though their personality appeals to me.

My beloved compatriots in Brussels, the friends who are always present in my thoughts, used to say, "Princess Louise is proud!" What a mistake! On the contrary, I should have much liked to respond to the affection they offered me, and to have entered those Belgian homes that I knew to be so hospitable. Ah! what happiness not to have been born a king's daughter! One could then speak freely to fellow-creatures who merited sympathy; but a princess cannot do as she pleases.

With my entourage I am sometimes as open and expansive as I am silent and reserved with strangers. I mistrust fresh faces, and in no circumstances do I ever indulge in gossip. I much prefer the conversation of men who know something, to that of women who know nothing.

I detest all that is unnatural in conversation; affectation is insupportable to me. Idle remarks which annoy me easily suggest some repartee or sarcastic comment such as the King knew so well how to use, which always touched to the quick the person to whom it was addressed. But the influence of the Queen's memory sometimes restrains me and keeps me silent out of Christian charity.

Immovable in the convictions of my conscience and outwardly reserved, I am, nevertheless, a woman of contradictions. When I am forced to act I invariably rush to extremes. Soul extremes always result from contrasts, just as the thunder of heaven results from the meeting of two storm clouds. In me the storm is suppressed. I surprise people more than anything else by my customary attitude of not being able to foresee the decision which carries me away.

I do not regard existence from the ordinary standpoint; I regard it from a much higher one. This is not due to any feeling of pride. I am carried away by something within me past certain barriers and certain frontiers; I live in a world of my own in which I can take refuge.

Many, many times during the implacable persecution which I have endured for so long, I have stood in front of a mirror and tried to read the soul within my eyes. I was a prisoner; I was "mad" for reasons of State. I asked myself in cold blood, was I not really becoming mad—was I still mistress of my reason?

"Yes," replied an inner voice, "you are mistress of your reason so long as you are mistress of yourself, and you are mistress of yourself so long as you remain faithful to your ideal of honour."

I will speak of this ideal later. Honest women will understand. But my nature did not find in the conjugal abode the good, the pure and the true, which it had dreamed of, hoped for, and desired. As the years passed the atmosphere of my home changed, the growing children became less of a safeguard. Help came in a day of chaos under an aspect which the world condemns. Nothing stopped me then, and, henceforth, nothing shall separate me from my ideal. I have done away with the gilded splendour which to me is shameful. I live now with that which speaks to me in a language I can understand, something which is morally beautiful. This act of my inner self is now realized. I have not repented. I never shall.

Dramas, plots, intrigues, treason follow each other—I struggle against them without triumphing. It is the work of my outward self. I may appear to fail, but my inner self turns away disgusted from the mud.

I was not made to conquer in the fray of human conflicts in a sphere which is, perhaps, that of creatures predestined to show that the real condition of man is not here below. The society that he extols, the civilization that he admires, are but the poor and fragile conceptions of his illusion of earthly sovereignty, and they will only bring misfortune to him if he lives for them alone.

God was always present in my thoughts even when I believed myself forgotten by man.

I have had, like every creature who has been crushed by false witness, my hours of doubt and despair. The grievance against me at the Coburg Palace and in Vienna was that I would not conform to the outward practice of religion after I had seen all its double-facedness and mock devotion. I often refused to go to the chapel and accept as fitting the outward piety which to me was sacrilege. I went to seek God and the Holy Virgin in some solitary and humble church far from the Hofburg and my palace.

I have also known the time when at the bidding of my rebellious soul I turned from heaven. Suffering, experience and meditation have led me back to the Divine Master whose love was taught me by my beloved mother. I believe I shall reach His presence by a road which resembles Calvary. It is an uphill road, but He raises me; and so rugged is it, that at every turning I forget the world a little more and I stretch out my arms towards the love and justice of God.

* * * * *

They have said that I was beautiful. I inherit from my father my upright figure, and I have also something of his features and his expression.

I inherit from my mother a certain capacity for dreaming, which enables me to take refuge in myself, and when a conversation does not interest me, or if anyone or anything troubles me, I instantly seek sanctuary in the secret chamber of my soul.

But my eyes betray me, and the effort I make to return to everyday life gives me the expression of a fugitive—this is a great peculiarity of mine.

The colour of my eyes is a clear brown, which reflects those of the Queen and the King, but more particularly those of the King. Like him, I am able to change my voice from softness to a certain hard brilliance. The golden ears of corn are not more golden than was once my golden hair; to-day it is silver.

I speak like the King, but somewhat slower than he did, in the two languages I chiefly employ—which are equally familiar to me—French and German.

Like him I think in French or German, but when I write, I prefer to do so in French.

So enamoured am I of simplicity and truth in relation to every condition of life, that I think a woman, wherever she may be, should always keep her position as a woman. Of course there must be degrees in everything, and the differences among men are the outcome of their education and the rules of social life.

Although I am utterly indifferent to false courtesy and hollow praise, and the methods of the crafty and the claims of intriguers, I respect merit, and when it is recognized and rewarded I esteem the honour which is accorded to it.

Let us not look for outside honours but let us respect our own personal honour. I do not forget, I have never forgotten, even in my worst hours of misfortune, what I owe to my birth, to my dear departed ones and to the ideas which were born in me.

I love Art, and, like the Queen, I have a preference for music. I also inherit her love of horses. Sport seems to me a secondary thing in comparison with the interest of horsemanship in all its varieties.

In Paris I was always to be seen in the Bois; in Vienna I was an habituée of the Prater. I still take great pleasure in picking out carriages that are carriages and horsemen who are horsemen; they are both rarer than one thinks.

I am a great reader and I make notes of my impressions. I read with pleasure all the newspapers worth reading, and all the reviews that make me think.

Politics never bore me, but to-day they astonish me and rend my heart; the frightful upheaval in Europe, the universal trouble, fill me with concern for the future.

Hostile to any excess of monarchical power which incites its favourites to depravity, I think, nevertheless, that democrats will find it difficult to conduct matters and govern to the betterment of general interests. The etiquette of Power, the name of President, Consul, Emperor or King signifies but one thing, and besides this the principle of authority is always regulated by the influence of Woman.

This influence, supreme in the history of the world, is only paramount in democracies when it exercises itself in secret, and it is generally unlucky. In monarchies it is beneficial to the development of aristocracy, except in the classic case of a drunken or perverse favourite who by taking sensual possession of the prince also takes possession of his authority.

In some instances it is not wise to lead men to good fortune. Those of our epoch seem to be very far from attaining it through hatred, ignorance and confusion, which the ruin of ancient Europe can only aggravate.

With regard to books, I re-read more than I read. But I am attracted by anything new which I hear spoken about—in which, by the way, I am so often disappointed. I have read books on the war; I commiserate with the men who cut each others throats—but I wish they would cease writing on this barbarous subject.

Goethe is my favourite author; he is the friend and companion whom I love at all times. I am familiar with the great French authors, but none of them, in my opinion, attains the mental serenity of Goethe or gives me so much repose of mind.

I have a penchant for the works of Chateaubriand which dates from my youth. The character of René will always appeal to the hearts of women.

With regard to modern books.... But in speaking of literary men and artists it is always necessary to exclude those who are living, so I will say nothing about modern authors. I will only say that of all theatrical plays (Shakespeare, like God in Heaven, alone excepted) the French repertory, in my opinion, is the most varied and the most interesting, and through the facilities which I have had of hearing plays in the principal European languages, I think I am able to judge. I am speaking now of the dramatic theatre. The works and the representations of the lyric theatre appear generally more remarkable, and the companies are more conscientious in Germany and Austria and even in Italy, than in France.

Outside Paris and Monte Carlo it is difficult to find, even in the most charming countries, what all unimportant German towns possess—a comfortable theatre, good music, good singers.

How strange are different temperaments: this one is more musical, that one is more learned, this one is more philosophical, that one is more imaginative; it seems as though Providence, in creating diversities in races and characters, had wished to instil into men's hearts the necessity of amalgamating their different talents, in order to be happy in this world. But Providence, whilst endowing men with genius, has neglected to make them less foolish and less wicked.