pathy had made itself felt without words. That invisible but powerful affinity which draws two hearts of the same mould to each other with irresistible force had exerted its influence over her as well as over him, though she did not know it; and the peculiar circumstances which had thrown them together had been better calculated to strengthen and develop the sympathy which nature had formed them to feel for each other, than years of common intercourse could have been. Besides, she was yet too young, her heart was still far too warm and expansive for one sorrow, however deep and intense, to shut up all its beautiful life in “cold abstraction,” and freeze its abundant springs of life and love. The tears she shed as she scattered the flowers Keefe had helped her to gather, in her father’s coffin, were less bitter than those that had preceded them; already the young buds of hope were springing up beneath the memories of her past happiness.
PRINCE KAUNITZ.
Of the many quaint characters that flit through the history of the eighteenth century, not one affords a more marked individuality than the subject of my memoir. Most of the writers who have left accounts of this Austrian Prime Minister dwell maliciously on his foibles, and while we are told exactly of his multifarious cloaks and wigs, his vanity and ostentation, the better side of his character has been unduly neglected.
Wenceslaus Anthony von Kaunitz was born on February 4th, l7ll, and as he had any quantity of elder brothers he was, after the fashion of the good old times, destined for the Church. Fortunately for Austria nearly all his brothers died, and Kaunitz was called upon to represent the family. From the outset of his career we find him obeying two great purposes to which he adhered throughout life—the first being the expulsion of the Jesuits from Austria, the second a reconciliation between the Courts of France and Vienna. To effect the latter object Maria Theresa sent him as her ambassador to Versailles, where he paid assiduous court to the Pompadour, keeping her continually “posted up” as to the sarcasms of Frederick the Great. That monarch, as we all know, was not very choice in his expressions, and his imprudent remarks on the King of England and the Empress of Russia eventually led to the Seven Years’ War.
During his residence in Paris, Prince Kaunitz was an immense favourite: people began by laughing at his eccentricities, but ended by fearing his tongue. After a round of dissipation and extravagance, which brought the French Court entirely round to his views, Kaunitz returned to Vienna, where a more difficult task awaited him in breaking the stiffnecked pride of the old régime. It took him three years to induce Maria Theresa to surrender, and he only effected it at last by persuading the Empress that the French alliance would infallibly lead to the recovery of Silesia. Maria Theresa, the haughty Hapsburg, condescended to write a letter from Kaunitz’s dictation to the Pompadour, beginning, “Madam, my dear sister and cousin,” to which the Royal mistress very coolly replied, “My dear Queen.” When the Emperor heard of this correspondence he was furious; and, as he was only the husband of his wife, he vented his fury on the chairs and tables. Maria Theresa was quite astonished at this outburst, and simply remarked, “Did I not before this write to Farinelli, the singer?” A volume would not describe Maria Theresa’s character better than does this sentence. An offensive and defensive alliance between the two countries was formed, and the Jesuits, who feared the influence of French ideas in Austria, did their utmost to thwart it. Thus commenced the second great struggle in the life of Kaunitz.
The Prime Minister, knowing the people with whom he had to deal, henceforth took his precautions. From the moment of declaring hostilities with the ultramontanists, Kaunitz never touched a dish which was not prepared by his own maître d’hôtel, and served by a domestic entirely devoted to him. If invited to dinner by the Empress, or any personage of rank, he abstained from all food placed on the table; his faithful servant brought him his repast, including bread, wine, and water, and his great temperance was of service to him. After a desperate struggle in the dark Kaunitz gained the victory, but it was chiefly by working upon the ambassadors of the foreign powers at Vienna. Pombal, Aranda, and Choiseul, who expelled the Jesuits from Portugal, Spain, and France, had all three represented their nation at Vienna, and yielded to the influence of the great politician.
In private life the Prince was a strange compound of good and evil. Although thoroughly versed in diplomacy, he had an utter aversion from falsehood, and regarded it as an expedient employed by fools. I find in Dutens’ Memoirs that the Prince once held him in conversation for a long time, though he had nothing particular to say. When Dutens attempted to retire, Kaunitz stopped him. “Stay,” he said; “I see over there the Prince de : he is watching for the moment when I am alone, but he is a liar, and I cannot endure him.”
His imitation of French fashions the Prince carried to an inordinate extent: he sent to Paris for all the articles of his toilet, and he only spoke in French and honoured French literature. He was the first Austrian noble who recognised talent as a claim to distinction, though I am bound to add that be displayed his predilections in a peculiar way. Thus, on one occasion, he put off his dinner hour for Noverre, a French dancer of great repute, though on the previous day he had refused to wait for an ambassador who was behind his time.
According to the Baron von Gleichen, Kaunitz was tall and well built, and, although his peruke with its five rows of curls was rather comical, there was a certain look of grandeur about his person. This peruke, by the way, was the object of his worship. Being anxious that all the curls should be regularly powdered, servants wielding puffs were arranged in a double row, and the Prince walked up and down between them, reflecting on political affairs. Each servant sent