Louisa of Prussia and Her Times: A Historical Novel
by L. Mühlbach · English · Gutenberg #3693 · 1,346,307 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Louisa of Prussia and Her Times: A Historical Novel
Author: L. Mühlbach
Release date: January 1, 2003 [eBook #3693]
Most recently updated: October 14, 2016
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOUISA OF PRUSSIA AND HER TIMES: A HISTORICAL NOVEL ***
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
NAPOLEON IN GERMANY
LOUISA OF PRUSSIA AND HER TIMES
A Historical Novel
By Louise Muhlbach
Translated From The German By F. Jordan
CONTENTS
CAMPO FORMIO.
CHAPTER I. DREADFUL TIDINGS.
CHAPTER II. MINISTER VON THUGUT.
CHAPTER III. THE INTERVIEW.
CHAPTER IV. THE TWO MINISTERS.
CHAPTER V. THE HOUSE IN THE GUMPENDORFER SUBURB.
CHAPTER VI. JOSEPH HAYDN
CHAPTER VII. GENERAL BONAPARTE
CHAPTER VIII. THE TREATY OF CAMPO FORMIO.
THE YOUNG QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.
CHAPTER IX. QUEEN LOUISA.
CHAPTER X. THE KING’S RECOLLECTIONS.
CHAPTER XI. THE YOUNG KING.
CHAPTER XII. FREDERICK GENTZ.
CHAPTER XIII. THE INTERVIEW WITH THE MINISTER OF FINANCE.
CHAPTER XIV. THE MEMORIAL TO FREDERICK WILLIAM III
CHAPTER XV. THE WEDDING.
CHAPTER XVI. MARIANNE MEIER.
CHAPTER XVII. LOVE AND POLITICS.
FRANCE AND GERMANY.
CHAPTER XVIII. CITOYENNE JOSEPHINE BONAPARTE.
CHAPTER XIX. BONAPARTE AND JOSEPHINE.
CHAPTER XX. THE RECEPTION OF THE AMBASSADORS.
CHAPTER XXI. FRANCE AND AUSTRIA.
CHAPTER XXII. THE BANNER OF GLORY.
CHAPTER XXIII. MINISTER THUGUT.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE FESTIVAL OF THE VOLUNTEERS.
CHAPTER XXV. THE RIOT.
LAST DAYS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
CHAPTER XXVI. VICTORIA DE POUTET.
CHAPTER XXVII. RASTADT.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE JUSTIFICATION.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE ASSASSINATION.
CHAPTER XXX. JEAN DEBRY.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE COALITION.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE FRIEND OF PEACE.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LEGITIMATE WIFE.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE EIGHTEENTH OF BRUMAIRE.
THE PEACE OF LUNEVILLE
CHAPTER XXXV. JOHANNES MULLER.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THUGUT’S FALL.
CHAPTER XXXVII. FANNY VON ARNSTEIN.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE RIVALS.
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE LEGACY.
CHAPTER XL. THE FIRST CONSUL.
CHAPTER XLI. TWO GERMAN SAVANTS.
THE THIRD COALITION.
CHAPTER XLII. THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON.
CHAPTER XLIII. NAPOLEON AND THE GERMAN PRINCES.
CHAPTER XLIV. QUEEN LOUISA’S PIANO LESSON.
CHAPTER XLV. THE CONFERENCE.
CHAPTER XLVI. THE OATH AT THE GRAVE OF FREDERICK THE GREAT.
THE FALL OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE.
CHAPTER XLVII. EVIL TIDINGS.
CHAPTER XLVIII. BEFORE THE BATTLE.
CHAPTER XLIX. “GOTT ERHALTE FRANZ DEN KAISER!”
CHAPTER L. PATRIOTISM.
CHAPTER LI. JUDITH.
CHAPTER LII. NAPOLEON AND THE PRUSSIAN MINISTER.
CHAPTER LIII. JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES
CHAPTER LIV. THE FALL OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE.
THE BATTLE OF JENA.
CHAPTER LV. A GERMAN BOOKSELLER AND MARTYR.
CHAPTER LVI. THE ARREST.
CHAPTER LVII. A WIFE’S LOVE.
CHAPTER LVIII. THE WOMEN OF BRAUNAU.
CHAPTER LIX. THE LAST HOUR.
CHAPTER LX. PRUSSIA’S DECLARATION OF WAR.
CHAPTER LXI. A BAD OMEN.
CHAPTER LXII. BEFORE THE BATTLE.
CHAPTER LXIII. THE GERMAN PHILOSOPHER.
CAMPO FORMIO.
CHAPTER I.
DREADFUL TIDINGS.
The population of Vienna was paralyzed with terror; a heavy gloom
weighed down all minds, and the strength of the stoutest hearts seemed
broken. Couriers had arrived today from the camp of the army, and
brought the dreadful tidings of an overwhelming defeat of the Austrian
forces. Bonaparte, the young general of the French Republic, who, in the
course of one year (1796), had won as many battles and as much glory
as many a great and illustrious warrior during the whole course of an
eventful life--Bonaparte had crossed the Italian Alps with the serried
columns of his army, and the most trusted military leaders of Austria
were fleeing before him in dismay. The hero of Lodi and Arcole had won
new victories, and these victories constantly diminished the distance
between his army and the menaced capital of Austria.
Archduke Charles had been defeated by Massena, and driven back to
Villach; Bernadotte had reached Laybach; the citadels of Goritz,
Triest, and Laybach had surrendered; Klagenfurth, after a most desperate
struggle, had been forced to open its gates to the conquerors; Loudon,
with his brave troops, had been dispersed in the Tyrol; Botzen had
opened its gates to General Joubert, who, after a brief sojourn, left
that city in order to join Bonaparte, who, in his victorious career, was
advancing resistlessly toward Vienna.
Such were tidings which the couriers had brought, and these tidings were
well calculated to produce a panic in the Austrian capital. While the
court and the nobility were concealing their grief and their sorrows
in the interior of their palaces, the populace rushed into the streets,
anxiously inquiring for later intelligence, and still hopeful that God
in His mercy might perhaps send down some ray of light that would dispel
this gloom of anguish and despair.
But a pall covered Vienna, and everybody looked sad and dejected.
Suddenly some new movement of terror seemed to pervade the crowd that
had gathered on the Kohlmarkt. [Footnote: Cabbage Market.] As if a storm
were raising up the waves of this black sea of human figures, the dense
mass commenced to undulate to and fro, and a wail of distress arose,
growing louder and louder, until it finally broke out into the terrible
cry: “The emperor has deserted us! the emperor and the empress have fled
from Vienna!”
While the masses were bewailing this new misfortune with the
manifestations of despair, while they assembled in small groups to
comment vociferously on this last and most dreadful event of the day,
all of a sudden Hungarian hussars galloped up and commanded the people,
in the most peremptory manner, to stand aside and to open a passage
for the wagons which were about to enter the market from one of the
adjoining streets.
The people, intimidated by the flashing swords and harsh words of the
soldiers, fell back and gazed with an expression of anxious suspense
upon the strange procession which now made its appearance.
This procession consisted of twelve wagons, apparently not destined to
receive living men, but the remains of the dead. The broad and heavy
wheels were not surmounted by ordinary carriage-boxes, but by immense
iron trunks, large enough to enclose a coffin or a corpse; and these
trunks were covered with heavy blankets, the four corners of which
contained the imperial crown of Austria in beautiful embroidery. Every
one of these strange wagons was drawn by six horses, mounted by jockeys
in the imperial livery, while the hussars of the emperor’s Hungarian
bodyguard rode in serried ranks on both sides.
The horses drew these mysterious wagons slowly and heavily through the
streets; the wheels rolled with a dull, thundering noise over the uneven
pavement; and this noise resounded in the ears and hearts of the
pale and terrified spectators like the premonitory signs of some new
thunderstorm.
What was concealed in these mysterious wagons? What was taken away from
Vienna in so careful a manner and guarded so closely? Everybody was
asking these questions, but only in the depth of his own heart, for
nobody dared to interrupt the painful and anxious silence by a loud
word or an inquisitive phrase. Every one seemed to be fascinated by the
forbidding glances of the hussars, and stunned by the dull rumbling of
the wheels.
But, when finally the last wagon had disappeared in the next street,
when the last horseman of the hussar escort had left the place, the eyes
of the anxious spectators turned once more toward the speakers who had
previously addressed them, and told them of the misfortunes of Austria,
and of the brilliant victories of the youthful French General Bonaparte.
“What do those wagons contain?” shouted the crowd. “We want to know it,
and we must know it!”
“If you must know it, why did you not ask the soldiers themselves?”
shouted a sneering voice in the crowd.
“Yes, yes,” said another voice, “why did you not approach the wagons and
knock at the trunks?--may be the devil would have jumped out and shown
you his pretty face!”
The people paid no attention to these sneering remarks. The painful
uncertainty, the anxious excitement continued unabated, and everybody
made surmises concerning the contents of the wagons.
“The trunks contain perhaps the coffins of the imperial ancestors, which
have been removed from the Kapuzinergruft, in order to save them from
the French,” said an honest tailor to his neighbor, and this romantic
idea rolled immediately, like an avalanche, through the vast crowd.
“They are removing the remains of the old emperors from Vienna!” wailed
the crowd. “Even the tombs are no longer safe! They are saving the
corpses of the emperors, but they are forsaking us--the living! They
abandon us to the tender mercies of the enemy! All who have not got the
money to escape are lost! The French will come and kill us all!”
“We will not permit it!” shouted a stentorian voice. “We want to keep
the remains of Maria Theresa and of the great Emperor Joseph here in
Vienna. As long as they lived they loved the people of the capital, and
they will protect us in death. Come, brethren, come; let us follow the
wagons--let us stop them and take the bodies back to the Kapuzinergruft
[Footnote: Vaults of the Capuchins]”.
“Yes, let us follow the wagons and stop them,” yelled the crowd, which
now, when it could no longer see the flashing and threatening weapons of
the soldiers, felt exceedingly brave.
Suddenly, however, these furious shouts and yells were interrupted by
a powerful voice which ordered the people to desist, and they beheld a
tall man who, with cat-like agility, climbed upon the iron lamp-post in
the centre of the square.
“Stop, stop!” roared this man, extending his arms over the crowd as
if, a new Moses, he wanted to allay the fury of the sea and cause it to
stand still.
The crowd instantly obeyed this tremendous voice, and all these
indignant, anxious, and terrified faces now turned toward the speaker
who stood above them on top of the lamp-post.
“Don’t make fools of yourselves,” said he--“don’t give these
Hungarians--who would be only too glad to quench their present rage in
German blood--a chance to break your bones. Have you any arms to compel
them to show you the wagons and their contents? And even if you were
armed, the soldiers would overpower you, for most of you would run away
as soon as a fight broke out, and the balance of you would be taken to
the calaboose. I will do you the favor, however, to tell you all about
those wagons. Do you want to know it?”
“Yes, yes, we do!” shouted the crowd, emphatically. “Be quiet over
there!--Stop your noise!--Do not cry so loud!--Hush!--Let us hear what
is in the wagons.--Silence, silence!”
Profound silence ensued--everybody held his breath and listened.
“Well, then, listen to me. These wagons do not contain the remains of
the former emperors, but the gold and the jewels of the present emperor.
It is the state treasure which those hussars are escorting from Vienna
to Presburg, because the government deems it no longer safe here. Just
think of what we have come to now-a-days! Our imperial family, and even
the state treasure, must flee from Vienna! And whose fault is it that we
have to suffer all this? Who has brought these French down upon us? Who
is inundating all Austria with war and its calamities? Shall I tell you
who is doing it?”
“Yes, tell us, tell us!” shouted the crowd. “Woe unto him who has
plunged Austria into war and distress, and caused the flight of the
emperor and the removal of the treasure from Vienna!”
The speaker waited until the angry waves of the people’s wrath had
subsided again, and then said in the clear, ringing tones of his
powerful voice: “It is the fault of our prime minister, Baron von
Thugut. He don’t want us to make peace with the French. He would rather
ruin us all than to make peace with the French Republic.”
“But we don’t want to be ruined!” shouted the crowd--“we don’t want to
be led to the shambles like sheep. No, no; we want peace--peace with
France. Prime Minister Thugut shall give us peace with France!”
“You had better go and inform the proud minister himself of what you
want,” said the speaker with a sneer. “First compel him to do what the
emperor and even our brave Archduke Charles wanted to be done--compel
the omnipotent minister to make peace.”
“We will go and ask him to give us peace,” said several voices in the
crowd.
“Yes, yes, we will do that!” shouted others. “Come, come; let us all go
to the minister’s house and ask him to give us back the emperor and the
state treasure, and to make peace with Bonaparte.”
The speaker now descended hurriedly from the lamp-post. His tall,
herculean figure, however, towered above the crowd even after his feet
had touched the pavement.
“Come,” said he to the bystanders in a loud and decided tone, “I will
take you to the minister’s house, for I know where he lives, and we will
shout and raise such a storm there until the proud gentleman condescends
to comply with our wishes.”
He led the way rapidly, and the crowd, always easily guided and pliable,
followed its improvised leader with loud acclamations. Only one idea,
only one wish, animated all these men: they wanted peace with France,
lest Bonaparte might come to Vienna and lay their beautiful capital in
ashes in the same manner in which he had treated so many Italian cities.
Their leader walked proudly at the head of the irregular procession;
and as the crowd continued to shout and yell, “Peace with France!” he
muttered, “I think I have accomplished a good deal to-day. The archduke
will be satisfied with what I have done, and we may compel the minister
after all to make peace with France.”
CHAPTER II.
MINISTER VON THUGUT.
The prime minister, Baron von Thugut, was in his cabinet, in eager
consultation with the new police minister, Count von Saurau, who had
given him an account of the safe removal of the imperial state treasure
which, like the emperor and the empress, had set out for Hungary.
“All right! all right!” said Thugut, with a sinister chuckle. “In
Hungary both will be safe enough, for I think I have intimidated the
Hungarians so much that they will remain very quiet and very humble.”
“Your excellency refers to the conspiracy which we discovered there, two
years ago,” said Count Saurau, smiling, “and which the accursed traitors
expiated on the gallows!”
“De Mortuir Nil Nisi Bene!” exclaimed Thugut. “We are under many
obligations to these excellent traitors, for they have enabled us to
render the Hungarians submissive, just as the traitors who conspired
here at Vienna two years ago enabled us to do the same thing to the
population of the capital. A conspiracy discovered by the authorities is
always a good thing, because it furnishes us with an opportunity to
make an example, to tell the nation through the bloody heads of the
conspirators: ‘Thus, thus, all will be treated who dare to plot against
the government and against their masters!’ The Viennese have grown very
humble and obedient since the day they saw Hebenstreit, the commander
of the garrison, on the scaffold, and Baron Riedel, the tutor of the
imperial children, at the pillory. And the Hungarians, too, have learned
to bow their heads ever since the five noble conspirators were beheaded
on the Generalwiese, in front of the citadel of Ofen. Believe me, count,
that day has contributed more to the submissiveness of Hungary than all
the favors and privileges which the Emperors of Austria have bestowed
upon the Magyars. Nations are always frivolous and impudent children: he
who tries to educate them tenderly is sure to spoil them; but raise them
in fear and trembling, and they will become quiet and obedient men. And
for that reason, I tell you once more, don’t call those men, now that
they are dead, accursed traitors, for they have been very useful to us;
they have been the instrument with which we have chastised the whole
overbearing people of Austria and Hungary, and those were blessed days
for us when we mowed down the high-born traitors of both countries. The
sword of our justice performed a noble work on that day, for it struck
down a savant and a poet, a count and a distinguished prelate. Oh, what
a pity that there was no prince among them!”
“Well, a prince might have been found likewise,” said Count Saurau,
“and perhaps he may get into our meshes on some other occasion. Your
excellency is an adroit hunter.”
“And you are an excellent pointer for me. You scent such things on
the spot,” Count Thugut exclaimed, and broke out into a loud burst of
laughter.
Count Saurau laughed also, and took good care not to betray how cruelly
the joke had wounded his aristocratic pride. The Austrian aristocracy
was accustomed to such insults at the hands of the powerful and proud
prime minister, and everybody knew that Thugut, the son of a poor
ship-builder, in the midst of his greatness, liked to recall his
modest descent, and to humble the nobility through the agency of the
ship-builder’s son.
“Your excellency will permit me to render myself at once worthy of the
praise you have kindly bestowed upon me,” said the police minister,
after a short pause. “I believe we have discovered another conspiracy
here. True, it is only an embryo as yet, but it may grow into something
if we give it the necessary time.”
“What is it, Saurau?” said Thugut, joyfully--“tell me at once what it
is! A conspiracy--a good, sound conspiracy?”
“Yes, a most malignant and important conspiracy! A conspiracy against
your excellency’s life!”
“Bah!--is that all?” said Thugut carelessly, and with evident
disappointment. “I was in hopes that by this time you would hand over to
me some high-born aristocrats who had held secret intercourse with that
execrable French Republic. It would have been a splendid example for
all those hare-brained fools who are so fond of repeating the three
talismanic words of the republican regicides, and who are crazy with
delight when talking of Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite. I would have
liked to chastise a few of these madmen, in order to put a stop to the
prevailing republican enthusiasm. But instead of that, you talk to me of
a conspiracy only aimed at myself!”
“Only at yourself!” repeated the count, with great indignation. “As
if it were not the most dreadful calamity for Austria if she should be
deprived of your services. You know that we are standing on the verge
of a precipice; in the interior, the liberal and seditious desires which
the senseless reforms of the Emperor Joseph have stirred up, are still
prevalent, and the people only submit with reluctance and with spiteful
feelings to the reforms which your excellency has inaugurated with a
view to the best interests of Austria. Abroad, on the other hand, the
blood-stained French Republic incites the malecontents to imitate its
own infamies; they would like to see the victorious banners of General
Bonaparte here in order to have his assistance in establishing a
republican government in Austria.”
“It is true,” said Thugut, “the Austrian empire, at the present time, is
exposed to great dangers from within and without; the reins must be held
very firmly in order to conduct the ship of state safely through the
breakers, and I believe I am the man to do it. You see, count, I do not
underrate my own importance. I know only too well that Austria needs
me. Still, the plots and conspiracies that are merely directed against
myself, make me laugh. For let me tell you, my dear little count, I
really fancy that my person has nothing to fear either from daggers,
or from pistols, or from poisoned cups. Do you believe in a Providence,
count? Ah!--you look surprised, and wonder how such a question could
fall from infidel lips like mine. Yes, yes, I am an infidel, and I
honestly confess that the heaven of Mohammed, where you are smoking
your chibouk, seated on cushions of clouds, while houris, radiant with
beauty, are tickling the soles of your feet with rosy fingers, appears
to me by far more desirable than the Christian heaven where you are to
stand in eternal idleness before the throne of God Almighty, singing
hymns, and praising His greatness. Ah! during the happy days of my
sojourn at Constantinople, I have had a slight foretaste of the heaven
of Mohammed; and again, in the tedious days of Maria Theresa, I have had
a foretaste of the heaven of Christianity!”
“And which Providence did your excellency refer to?” asked Saurau. “I
pray your excellency to tell me, because your faith is to be the model
of mine.”
“I believe in a Providence that never does any thing in vain, and
never creates great men in order to let them be crushed, like flies,
by miserable monkeys. That is the reason why I am not afraid of any
conspiracy against myself. Providence has created me to be useful
to Austria, and to be her bulwark against the surging waves of the
revolution, and against the victorious legions of General Bonaparte. I
am an instrument of Providence, and therefore it will protect me as long
as it needs me. But if, some day, it should need me no longer, if it
intended then that I should fall, all my precautions would be fruitless,
and all your spies, my dear count, would be unable to stay the hand of
the assassin.”
“You want me to understand, then, that no steps whatever are to be taken
against the criminals conspiring against your excellency’s life?”
“By no means, count--indeed, that would be an exaggeration of fatalism.
I rely greatly on your sagacity and on the vigilance of your servants,
count. Let them watch the stupid populace--see to it that faux freres
always attend the meetings of my enemies, and whenever they inform you
of conspiracies against myself, why, the malefactors shall be spirited
away without any superfluous noise. Thank God, we have fortresses and
state prisons, with walls too thick for shrieks or groans to penetrate,
and that no one is able to break through. The public should learn as
little as possible of the fate of these criminals. The public punishment
of an assassin who failed to strike me, only instigates ten others to
try if they cannot hit me better. But the noiseless disappearance of a
culprit fills their cowardly souls with horror and dismay, and the ten
men shrink back from the intended deed, merely because they do not know
in what manner their eleventh accomplice has expiated his crime. The
disappearance of prisoners, the oubliettes, are just what is needed.
You must quietly remove your enemies and adversaries--it must seem as
if some hidden abyss had ingulfed them; everybody, then, will think this
abyss might open one day before his own feet, and he grows cautious,
uneasy, and timid. Solely by the wisdom of secret punishments, and
through the terror inspired by its mysterious tribunals, Venice has been
able to prolong her existence for so many centuries. Because the spies
of the Three were believed to be ubiquitous--and because everybody was
afraid of the two lions on the Piazzetta, the Venetians obeyed these
invisible rulers whom they did not know, and whose avenging hand was
constantly hanging over them.”
“Now, however, it seems that a visible hand, a hand of iron, is going
to strike away the invisible hands of the Three,” said Count Saurau,
quickly. “Bonaparte seems to desire to force Venice, too, into the pale
of his Italian republics. The city is full of French emissaries, who, by
means of the most eloquent and insidious appeals, try to bring about a
rising of the Venetians against their rulers, in order--but hark!” said
the count, suddenly interrupting himself. “What is that? Don’t you hear
the clamor in the street, right under our window?”
He paused, and, like the minister, turned his eyes and ears toward the
window. A confused noise, loud shouts and yells, resounded below.
The two ministers, without uttering a word, arose from their arm-chairs
and hurried to one of the windows, which looked upon the wide street
extending from the Kohlmarkt to the minister’s palace. A vast mass of
heads, broad shoulders, and uplifted arms, was visible there, and the
angry roar of the excited populace was approaching already the immediate
neighborhood of the palace.
“It seems, indeed, as if these honorable representatives of the people,
intended to pay me a visit,” said Thugut, with great composure. “Just
listen how the fellows are roaring my name, as if it were the refrain of
some rollicking beer-song!”
“Why, it is a regular riot!” exclaimed the police minister, angrily.
“Your excellency will permit me to withdraw--”
He left the window hastily, and took his hat, but Thugut’s vigorous hand
kept him back.
“Where are you going, count?” said he, smiling.
“To the governor of Vienna,” said Saurau. “I want to ask him why he
permits this nonsense, and order him to disperse the rabble in the most
summary manner!”
“Pray, stay here,” said Thugut, quietly. “The governor of Vienna is a
man of great sagacity, who knows perfectly well how we have to treat the
people. Why, it would be an unparalleled tyranny if the poor people were
not even allowed to give the prime minister their good advice, and
tell him what they think of the state of affairs. Just give them this
permission, and they will believe they have performed a most heroic
deed, and it will seem to them as if they could boast of great liberty.
True political wisdom, my dear little count, commands us to give the
people a semblance of liberty; we thereby succeed in dazzling their
eyes so well that they do not perceive that they have no real liberty
whatever.”
The clamor and noise in the street below had increased in fury.
The people, whose dense masses now entirely obstructed the street,
impetuously moved up to the portal of the ministerial palace, the front
door of which had been locked and barred already by the cautious
porter. Vigorous fists hammered violently against the door, and as an
accompaniment to this terrible music of their leaders, the people howled
and yelled their furious refrain: “We want to see the minister! He shall
give us peace! peace! peace!”
“Ah! I know what it means!” exclaimed Count Saurau, gnashing his teeth.
“Your enemies have instigated these scoundrels. The party that would
like to overthrow you and me, that wants to make peace with France at
any price, and to keep Belgium united with Austria--this party has hired
the villains below to get up a riot. They want to compel your excellency
either to resign or to comply with the wishes of the people, and make
peace with the French Republic.”
Thugut laughed. “Compel ME!” said he, laconically.
At that moment the mob yelled louder than ever, and the shout--“Peace!
we want peace!” shook the windows.
Simultaneously the furious blows against the front door redoubled in
violence.
“Assuredly, I cannot stand this any longer!” exclaimed the police
minister, perfectly beside himself. “I ought not to listen quietly to
this outrage.”
“No,” said Thugut, very quietly, “we won’t listen to it any longer. This
is my breakfast-hour, and I invite you to be my guest. Come, let us go
to the dining-room.”
He took the count’s arm, and proceeded with him to the adjoining room.
Breakfast for eight persons was served in this room, for Baron Thugut
was in the habit of keeping every day open table for seven uninvited
guests, and his intimate acquaintances, as well as his special
favorites, never failed to call on the minister at least once a week
during his well-known breakfast and dinner hours.
To-day, however, the minister’s rapid and inquisitive glances did
not discover a single guest. Nobody was in the room except the eight
foot-men who stood behind the chairs. Well aware of their master’s stern
and indomitable spirit, they occupied their usual places, but their
faces were very pale, and their eyes turned with an expression of
extreme anxiety toward the windows which, just then, trembled again
under the heavy, thundering blows levelled at the front door.
“Cowards!” muttered Thugut, while walking to his chair at the upper end
of the table and beckoning Count Saurau to take a seat at his side.
At this moment, however, the door was hastily opened, and the steward,
pale and with distorted features, rushed into the room.
CHAPTER III.
THE INTERVIEW.
“Excuse me, your excellency,” said he, “but this time they are assuredly
in earnest. The people are storming the front door--the hinges are
beginning to give way, and in fifteen minutes, at the latest, the
scoundrels will have forced an entrance!”
“You had no business to close the door,” said the minister. “Who ordered
you to do so? Who ordered you to barricade the house, as if it were a
fortress--as if we had a bad conscience and were afraid of the people?”
The steward looked aghast, and did not know what to reply.
“Go down-stairs at once,” continued the minister; “order the porter to
open the door, and admit everybody. Show the people up-stairs; and you
rascals who are standing there with pale faces and trembling knees,
open the two folding-doors so that they can get in without hurting each
other. Now do what I have told you.”
The steward bowed with a sigh expressive of the agony he felt, and
hurriedly left the room.
The footmen, meanwhile, hastened to open the folding-doors of the
dining-room, as well as those of the antechamber. The two gentlemen
at the table obtaining thereby a full view of the landing of the large
staircase, directly in front of the open door of the first room.
“And now, Germain,” said Thugut to the footman behind his chair,
“now let us have our breakfast. Be wise, my dear count, and follow my
example; take some of this sherbet. It cools the blood, and, at the same
time, is quite invigorating. Drink, dear count, drink! Ah! just see, my
cook has prepared for us to-day a genuine Turkish meal, for there is a
turkey boiled with rice and paprica. The chief cook of the grand vizier
himself furnished me the receipt for this exquisite dish, and I may
venture to assert that you might look for it everywhere in Vienna
without finding it so well prepared as at my table.”
Heavy footsteps and confused voices were now heard on the staircase.
“They are coming--they really dare to enter here!” said Count Saurau,
trembling with anger. “Pardon me, your excellency; I admire your heroic
equanimity, but I am unable to imitate it. It is an utter impossibility
for me to sit here calmly and passively, while a gang of criminals is
bold enough to break into your house!”
“I beg your pardon, count; these people did not break into my house, but
I voluntarily opened the door to admit them,” said Baron Thugut, coolly.
“And as far as your official position is concerned, I pray you to forget
it for half an hour, and remember only that I have the honor of seeing
you--a rare guest--at my table. Let me beg you to take some of that
fowl; it is really delicious!”
Count Saurau, heaving a loud sigh, took a piece of the fowl which
Germain presented to him, and laid it on the silver plate that stood
before him. But just as he was going to taste the first morsel, he
hesitated, and looked steadily through the open doors. Several heads
with shaggy hair and flashing eyes emerged above the railing of the
staircase; many others followed--now the entire figures became visible,
and in the next moment, from twenty to thirty wild-looking men reached
the landing, behind whom, on the staircase, a dense mass of other heads
rose to the surface.
But the loud shouts, the fierce swearing and yelling, had ceased; the
awe with which the intruders were filled by the aristocratic appearance
of every thing they beheld, had hushed their voices, and even the
intrepid orator, who previously, on the Kohlmarkt, had excited the
people to commit acts of violence, and brought them to the minister’s
house--even he stood now hesitating and undecided, at the door of the
dining-room, casting glances full of savage hatred and rage into the
interior.
Thugut took apparently no notice whatever of what was going on; his
breakfast entirely absorbed him, and he devoted his whole attention to a
large piece of the turkey, which he seemed to relish greatly.
Count Saurau merely feigned to eat, and looked steadfastly at his plate,
as he did not want the rioters to read in his eyes the furious wrath
that filled his breast.
The men of the people did not seem to feel quite at ease on beholding
this strange and unexpected scene, which all of a sudden commenced to
cool their zeal and heroism, like a wet blanket. They had triumphantly
penetrated into the palace, shouting vociferously, and quite sure that
the minister would appear before them trembling and begging for mercy;
and now, to their utter amazement, they beheld him sitting very calmly
at the breakfast-table!
There was something greatly embarrassing for the poor men in this
position. They suddenly grew quite sober, and even intimidated, and
many of those who had ascended the staircase so boisterously and
triumphantly, now deemed it prudent to withdraw as quietly as possible.
The number of the heads that had appeared above the balusters was
constantly decreasing, and only about twenty of the most resolute and
intrepid remained at the door of the ante-room.
At length, the speaker who had addressed them on the Kohlmarkt,
conscious of his pledges and of the reward promised to him, overcame his
momentary bashfulness and stepped boldly into the ante-room, where the
others, encouraged by his example, followed him at once.
Baron Thugut now raised his eyes with an air of great indifference from
his plate and glanced at the men who with noisy steps approached through
the anteroom. Then turning to the footman behind him, he said, in a loud
voice:
“Germain, go and ask these gentlemen if they want to see me? Ask them
likewise whom you will have the honor to announce to your master?”
The men, overhearing these words, grew still more confused when the
servant in his gorgeous livery stepped up to them, and, with a most
condescending smile, informed them of the errand his master had given to
him.
But now it was out of the question to withdraw, as there was nothing
left to them but to arm themselves with whatever pluck and boldness they
had at their command in order to carry out the role they had undertaken
to play in the most becoming manner.
“Yes,” said the speaker of the Kohlmarkt, loudly and resolutely, “we
want to see the minister; and as for our names, I am Mr. Wenzel, of the
tailors’ guild; my neighbor here is Mr. Kahlbaum, also a tailor; and
others may mention their own names, so that this polite gentleman may
answer them to his excellency.”
But none of the other men complied with this request; on the contrary,
all looked timidly aside, a misgiving dawning in their minds that such a
loud announcement of their names might not be altogether without danger
for them.
Germain did not wait for the final conclusion, but hastily returned to
his master, in order to inform him of what he had heard.
“Mr. Wenzel, of the tailors’ guild, Mr. Tailor Kahlbaum, and the other
gentlemen, whatever their names may be, are welcome.” said the minister,
aloud, but without interrupting his meal for a single moment.
The men thereupon advanced to the door of the dining-room. But here a
proud and imperious glance from the minister caused them suddenly to
halt.
“I believe you have breakfasted already?” asked Thugut.
“Yes, we have breakfasted already,” replied Mr. Wenzel, in a surly
voice.
“Well, unluckily, I have not, and so I request you to let me finish
my breakfast first,” said Thugut, attacking once more the wing of the
turkey on his plate.
A long pause ensued. The men stood in the most painful embarrassment
at the door, where the minister’s stern glance had arrested them, and a
most unpleasant apprehension of what might be the result of this scene
began to take hold of their minds. Flashing sword-blades and muskets
aimed at their breasts would not have frightened them so much as the
aspect of the calm, proud, and forbidding figure of the minister, and
the utter indifference, the feeling of perfect security with which he
took his breakfast in full view of a seditious mob filled the rioters
with serious apprehensions for the safety of their own persons.
“I am sure a good many soldiers and policemen are hidden about the
palace,” thought Mr. Wenzel, “and that is the reason why he permitted us
to enter, and why he is now so calm and unconcerned; for as soon as we
get into the dining-room, those fine-looking footmen will lock the door
behind, and the soldiers will rush out of that other door and arrest
us.”
These pleasant reflections were interrupted by another terrible glance
from the minister, which caused poor Mr. Wenzel to tremble violently.
“Now, gentlemen, if you please, come in; I have finished my breakfast.”
said Thugut with perfect coolness. “I am quite ready and anxious to hear
what you wish to say to me. So, come in, come in!”
The men who stood behind Mr. Wenzel moved forward, but the tall,
herculean figure of the member of the tailors’ guild resisted them and
compelled them to stand still.
“No, I beg your excellency’s pardon,” said Mr. Wenzel, fully determined
not to cross the fatal threshold of the dining-room, “it would not
become poor men like us to enter your excellency’s dining-room. Our
place is in the anteroom--there we will wait until your excellency will
condescend to listen to us.”
This humble language, this tremulous voice, that did not tally at all
with the air of a lion-hearted and outspoken popular leader, which Mr.
Wenzel had assumed in the street, struck terror and consternation into
the souls of the men who had so rashly followed him into the palace.
The minister rose; his broad-shouldered figure loomed up proudly, a
sarcastic smile played on his angular and well-marked features; his
shaggy white eyebrows convulsively contracted up to this moment--the
only outward symptom of anger which Thugut, even under the most
provoking circumstances, ever exhibited--relaxed and became calm and
serene again, as he approached the men with slow and measured steps.
“Well, tell me now what you have come for? What can I do for you?” asked
Thugut, in the full consciousness of his power.
“We want to implore your excellency to give us peace. The poor people--”
“Peace with whom?” calmly asked the minister.
“Peace with France, your excellency--peace with General Bonaparte,
who is said to be a magician, bewitching everybody, and capable of
conquering all countries by a glance, by a motion of his hands, whenever
he wishes to do so. If we do not make peace, he will conquer Austria
too, come to Vienna, and proclaim himself emperor; whereupon he will
dismiss our own wise and good ministers, and give us French masters. But
we would like to keep our emperor and our excellent ministers, who take
care of us so paternally. And that is the only reason why we have come
here--just to implore your excellency to have mercy with the poor people
and make peace, so that the emperor may return to Vienna, and bring his
state treasury back to the capital. Yes, men, that is all we wanted, is
it not? We just wanted to pray your excellency to give us peace!”
“Yes, your excellency,” shouted the men, “have mercy with us, and give
us peace!”
“Well, for angels of peace, you have penetrated rather rudely into
my house,” said the minister, sternly. “You got up a riot in order to
obtain peace.”
“It was merely our anxiety that made us so hasty and impetuous,” said
Mr. Wenzel, deprecatingly. “We ask your excellency’s pardon if we have
frightened you.”
“Frightened me!” echoed Thugut, in a tone of unmeasured contempt. “As if
you were the men to frighten ME! I knew that you would come, and I knew,
too, who had bribed you to do it. Yes, yes, I know they have paid you
well, Mr. Wenzel, to get up a riot--they have given you shining ducats
for leading a mob into my house. But will their ducats be able to get
you out of it again?”
Mr. Wenzel turned very pale; he uttered a shriek and staggered back a
few paces.
“Your excellency knew--” he said.
“Yes, I knew,” continued Thugut, sternly, “that men who have no regard
for the honor and dignity of their country--men who are stupid enough to
believe that it would be better to submit voluntarily to the dominion of
the French Republic, instead of resisting the demands of the regicides
manfully and unyieldingly--that these men have hired you to open your
big mouth, and howl about things which you do not understand, and which
do not concern you at all.”
At this moment, shrieks of terror and loud supplications, mingled with
violent and threatening voices, and words of military command were heard
outside.
The men turned anxiously around, and beheld with dismay that the
staircase, which only a few minutes ago was crowded with people, was now
entirely deserted.
Suddenly, however, two men appeared on the landing, who were little
calculated to allay the apprehensions of the rioters, for they wore
the uniform of that dreaded and inexorable police who, under Thugut’s
administration, had inaugurated a perfect reign of terror in Vienna.
The two officers approached the door of the anteroom, where they were
met by Germain, the footman, who conversed with them in a whisper.
Germain then hastened back to the door of the dining-room and walked in,
scarcely deigning to cast a contemptuous glance on the dismayed rioters.
“Well, what is it?” asked Thugut.
“Your excellency, the chief of police sends word that his men are posted
at all the doors of the palace, and will prevent anybody from getting
out. He has cleared the streets, besides, and dispersed the rioters. The
chief of police, who is in the hall below, where he is engaged in taking
down the names of the criminals who are yet in the house, asks for your
excellency’s further orders.”
“Ah, he does not suspect that his own chief, the minister of police is
present,” said Thugut, turning with a smile to Count Saurau, who, being
condemned to witness this scene in the capacity of an idle and passive
spectator, had withdrawn into a bay-window, where he had quietly
listened to the whole proceedings.
“My dear count, will you permit the chief of police to come here and
report to yourself?” asked Thugut.
“I pray you to give him this permission,” replied the count, approaching
his colleague.
Germain hastened back to the policemen in the anteroom.
“And what are we--?” asked Mr. Wenzel, timidly.
“You will wait!” thundered the minister. “Withdraw into yonder corner!
may be the chief of police will not see you there.”
They withdrew tremblingly into one of the corners of the ante-room,
and did not even dare to whisper to each other, but the glances they
exchanged betrayed the anguish of their hearts.
The two ministers, meanwhile, had likewise gone into the ante-room, and,
while waiting for the arrival of the chief of police, conversed in a
whisper.
In the course of a few minutes, the broad-shouldered and erect figure
of the chief of the Viennese police appeared in the official uniform so
well known to the people of the capital, who, for good reasons, were in
the utmost dread of the terrible functionary. When the rioters beheld
him, they turned even paler than before; now they thought that every
thing was lost, and gave way to the most gloomy forebodings.
Count Saurau beckoned the chief to enter; the latter had a paper in his
right hand.
“Your report,” said the count, rather harshly. “How was it possible
that this riot could occur? Was nobody there to disperse the seditious
scoundrels before they made the attack on his excellency’s palace?”
The chief of police was silent, and only glanced anxiously at Baron
Thugut. The latter smiled, and turned to the count:
“I beg you, my dear count, don’t be angry with our worthy chief of
police. I am satisfied he has done his whole duty.”
“The whole house is surrounded,” hastily added the chief. “Nobody can
get out, and I have taken down the names of all the criminals.”
“Except these here,” said Thugut, pointing at Mr. Wenzel and his
unfortunate companions, who vainly tried to hide themselves in their
corner. “But that is unnecessary, inasmuch as they have given us their
names already, and informed us of their wishes Then, sir, the
whole honorable meeting of the people is caught in my house as in a
mouse-trap?”
“Yes, we have got them all,” said the chief. “Now, I would like to
know of his excellency, the minister of police, what is to be done with
them.”
“I beg you, my dear count,” said Thugut, turning to Count Saurau,
“let me have my way in this matter, and treat these men in a spirit of
hospitality. I have opened them the doors of my palace and admitted
them into my presence, and it would be ungenerous not to let them depart
again. Do not read the list of the names which the chief holds in his
hand, but permit him to give it to me, and order him to withdraw his
men from my house, and let the prisoners retire without molestation, and
with all the honors of war.”
“Your will shall be done, of course, your excellency,” said the count,
bowing respectfully. “Deliver your list to the prime minister, and go
down-stairs to carry out the wishes of his excellency.”
The chief delivered the list of the captured rioters, and left the room,
after saluting the two dignitaries in the most respectful manner.
“And we--? may we go likewise, your excellency?” asked Mr. Wenzel,
timidly.
“Yes, you may go,” said Thugut. “But only on one condition. Mr. Wenzel,
you must first recite to me the song which the honorable people were
howling when you came here.”
“Ah, your excellency, I only know a single verse by heart!”
“Well, then, let us have that verse. Out with it! I tell you, you will
not leave this room until you have recited it. Never fear, however; for
whatever it may be, I pledge you my word that no harm shall befall you.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Wenzel, desperately. “I believe the verse reads as
follows:”
“‘Triumph! triumph! es siegt die gute Sache!
Die Turkenknechte flieh’n!
Laut tont der Donner der gerechten Sache,
Nach Wien und nach Berlin.’”
[Footnote:
“Triumph! triumph! the good cause conquers
The despots’ minions flee!
The thunders of the just cause Reach Vienna and Berlin!”
This hymn was universally sung at that time (1797) in all the German
States, not merely by the popular classes, but likewise in the exclusive
circles of the aristocracy. It is found in a good many memoirs of that
period.]
“Indeed, it is a very fine song,” said Thugut, “and can you tell me who
has taught you this song?”
“No, your excellency, I could not do it. Nobody knows it besides. It was
printed on a small handbill, and circulated all over the city. A copy
was thrown into every house, and the working-men, when setting out early
one morning, found it in the streets.”
“And did you not assist in circulating this excellent song, my dear Mr.
Wenzel?”
“I? God and the Holy Virgin forbid!” exclaimed Mr. Wenzel, in dismay.
“I have merely sung it, like all the rest of us, and sung it to the tune
which I heard from the others.”
“Well, well, you did right, for the melody is really pleasing. Such
songs generally have the peculiarity that not a single word of them is
true; people call that poetry. Now, you may go, my poetical Mr. Wenzel,
and you others, whom the people sent with this pacific mission to me.
Tell your constituents that I will this time comply mercifully with
their wishes, and give them peace, that is, I will let them go, and not
send them to the calaboose, as they have abundantly deserved. But if you
try this game again, and get up another riot, and sing that fine song
once more, you may rest assured that you will be taken to jail and
taught there a most unpleasant lesson. Begone now!”
He turned his back on the trembling citizens, and took no notice of
the respectful bows with which they took leave of him, whereupon they
retired with soft but hasty steps, like mice escaping from the presence
of the dreaded lion.
“And now, my dear count, as we have finished our breakfast, let us
return to my cabinet, for I believe we have to settle some additional
matters.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE TWO MINISTERS.
Baron Thugut took the count’s arm and led him back to his cabinet.
“I read a question in your eyes,” he said, smiling; “may I know what it
is?”
“Why, yes, your excellency,” replied Count Saurau.
“Let me ask you, then, what all this means? Why did you excuse the chief
of police, who evidently had not done his duty and been guilty of a lack
of vigilance? And why did you let these rascals go, instead of having
them whipped to death?”
“You were away from Vienna, count? You were absent from the capital
because you accompanied their majesties on their trip to Presburg, and
have returned only an hour ago. Am I right?”
“Perfectly right, your excellency.”
“Then you could not be aware of what has happened meanwhile here in
Vienna, and the chief of police could not have informed you of the
particulars. Well, then, he came to me and told me that an insurrection
had been planned against the two emperors--(I believe you know that the
people does us the honor of calling us the two emperors of Vienna), and
that the faction hostile to us was going to make an attempt to overthrow
us. A great deal of money had been distributed among the populace.
Prince Carl von Schwarzenburg himself had dropped some indiscreet
remarks. In short, the faction which hates me because I do not deem
seditious Belgium a priceless jewel of the crown of Austria, and do
not advise the emperor to keep that remote province at any price--the
faction which detests both of us because we do not join its enthusiastic
hymns in honor of the French Republic and the republican General
Bonaparte--this faction has hired the miserable rabble to represent the
people, to break my windows, and frighten me sufficiently to make me
ready and willing to adopt its insane policy. The chief of police came
to see me yesterday. He gave me an account of the whole affair, and
declared himself fully prepared to protect my palace, and to nip the
riot in the bud. I begged him not to do any thing of the kind, but to
look on passively and attentively, and only come to my palace after the
mob had entered it. I was very anxious for once to find out something
definite about the strength, courage, and importance of the opposing
faction. It is always desirable to know one’s adversaries, and to learn
as accurately as possible what they are capable of. Besides, it was a
splendid opportunity for the police to discover the sneaking demagogues
and ringleaders of the mob, and to take down their names for the purpose
of punishing them by and by, as we Europeans unfortunately cannot
imitate the example of that blessed Queen of Egypt, who took a thousand
conspirators by the tails, and, holding them in her left hand, cut off
their thousand seditious heads with one stroke of the sword in her right
hand. Unfortunately, we have to act by far more cautiously.”
“But why did you dismiss all the rioters this time without giving them
into custody?” asked the count, moodily.
“Why, we have them all by the tails, anyhow,” laughed Thugut, “for have
not we got the list of the names here? Ah, my dear little count, perhaps
you thought I would have gone in my generosity so far as to tear this
list, throw the pieces away, and avert my head, like the pious bishop
who found a murderer under his bed, permitted him to escape, and averted
his head in order not to see the fugitive’s face and may be recognize
him on some future occasion? I like to know the faces of my enemies,
and to find out their names, and, depend upon it, I shall never, never
forget the names I read on this list.”
“But for the time being, these scoundrels, having escaped with impunity,
will go home in triumph, and repeat the same game as soon as another
occasion offers.”
“Ah, I see you do not know the people at all! Believe me, we could not
have frightened them worse than by letting them go. They are perfectly
conscious of their guilt. The very idea of not having received any
punishment at our hands fills them with misgivings, and they tremble
every moment in the expectation that they will have to suffer yet for
their crime. Remorse and fear are tormenting them, and THEY are the best
instruments to rule a people with. My God, what should be done with
a nation consisting of none but pure and virtuous men? It would be
perfectly unassailable, while its vices and foibles are the very things
by which we control it. Therefore, do not blame the people on account of
its vices. I love it for the sake of them, for it is through them that
I succeed in subjecting it to my will. The idea of acting upon men by
appealing to their virtues, is simply preposterous. You must rely on
their faults and crimes, and, owing to the latter, all these fellows
whom we dismissed to-day without punishment have become our property.
The discharged and unpunished criminal is a sbirro--the police has only
to hand him a dagger, and tell him, ‘Strike there!’ and he will strike.”
“Your excellency believes, then, that even the ringleaders should not be
punished?”
“By no means. Of course some of them should be chastised, in order
to increase the terror of the others. But for God’s sake, no public
trials--no public penalties! Wenzel should be secretly arrested and
disposed of. Let him disappear--he and the other ringleaders who
were bold enough to come up here. Let us immure them in some strong,
thick-walled prison, and while the other rioters are vainly tormenting
their heavy skulls by trying to guess what has become of their leaders,
we shall render the latter so pliable and tame by all kinds of tortures
and threats of capital punishment, that when we finally set them free
again, they will actually believe they are in our debt, and in their
gratitude become willing tools in our hands to be used as we may deem
best.”
“By the eternal, you are a great statesman, a sagacious ruler!”
exclaimed Count Saurau, with the gushing enthusiasm of sincere
admiration. “Men grow wise by listening to you, and happy and powerful
by obeying you! I am entirely devoted to you--full of affection and
veneration--and do not want to be any thing but your attentive and
grateful pupil.”
“Be my friend,” said Thugut. “Let us pursue our career hand in hand--let
us always keep our common goal in view, and shrink back from no step in
order to reach it.”
“Tell me what I am to do. I shall follow you as readily as the blind man
follows his guide.”
“Well, if you desire it, my friend, we will consider a little how we
have to steer the ship of state during the next months in order to get
her safely through the breakers that are threatening her on all sides.
During the few days of your absence from the capital, various events
have occurred, materially altering the general state of affairs. When
you departed, I advised the emperor not to make peace with France
under any circumstances. We counted at that time on the regiments of
grenadiers whom we had sent to the seat of war, and who, under the
command of Archduke Charles, were to defend the defiles of Neumarkt
against the advancing columns of the French army. We knew, besides, that
the French troops were worn out, exhausted, and anxious for peace,
or that General Bonaparte would not have addressed that letter to the
Archduke Charles, in which he requested the latter to induce the Emperor
of Austria to conclude peace with France. In accordance with our advice,
the archduke had to give Bonaparte an evasive answer, informing him
that, in case of further negotiations, he would have to send to Vienna
for fresh instructions.”
“But, your excellency, you were firmly determined not to make peace with
France!”
“So I was, and even now I have not changed my mind; but we are
frequently compelled to disguise our real intentions, and events have
occurred, which, for the present, render peace desirable. You need not
be frightened, my dear count--I merely say, for the present. In my heart
I shall never make peace with France, and my purpose remains as fixed as
ever--to revenge Austria one day for the humiliations we have suffered
at her hands. Never forget that, my friend; and now listen to me. Late
dispatches have arrived. Massena, after a bloody struggle with our
troops, has taken Friesach, and advanced on the next day to attack the
fresh regiments of our grenadiers in the gorges of Neumarkt. Archduke
Charles had placed himself at the head of these regiments, firing the
courage of the soldiers by his own heroic example. But he was confronted
by the united French forces from Italy and Germany, and in the evening
of that disastrous day the archduke and his grenadiers were compelled
to evacuate Neumarkt, which was occupied by the victorious French. The
archduke now asked the French general for a cessation of hostilities
during twenty-four hours in order to gain time, for he was in hopes
that this respite would enable him to bring up the corps of General von
Kerpen, and then, with his united forces, drive the enemy back again.
But this little General Bonaparte seems to possess a great deal of
sagacity, for he rejected the request, and sent a detached column
against Von Kerpen’s corps, which separated the latter still farther
from our main army. Bonaparte himself advanced with his forces as far as
Fudenberg and Leoben. In order to save Vienna, there was but one course
left to the archduke: he had to make proposals of peace.”
“Did he really do so?” asked Count Saurau, breathlessly.
“He did. He sent two of our friends--Count Meerveldt, and the Marquis de
Gallo--to Bonaparte’s headquarters at Leoben, for the purpose of opening
negotiations with him.”
“Did your excellency authorize the archduke to do so?” asked the count.
“No, I did not, and I might disavow it now if it suited me, but it does
not--it would not promote our interests--and I know but one policy, the
policy of interest. We should always adopt those measures which afford
us a reasonable prospect of gain, and discard those which may involve us
in loss. Power alone is infallible, eternal, and divine, and power has
now decided in favor of France. Wherefore we must yield, and don the
garb of peace until we secure once more sufficient power to renew
hostilities. We must make peace! Our aim, however, should be to render
this peace as advantageous to Austria as possible--”
“You mean at the expense of France?”
“Bah!--at the expense of Germany, my dear little count. Germany is to
compensate us for the losses which peace may inflict. If we lose any
territory in Italy, why, we shall make it up in Germany, that is all.”
“But in that case, there will be another terrible hue and cry about
the infringement of the rights of the holy German empire,” said Count
Saurau, smiling; “Prussia will have a new opportunity of playing the
defender of the German fatherland.”
“My dear count, never mind the bombastic nonsense in which Prussia is
going to indulge--we shall take good care that nothing comes of it.
Prussia has no longer a Frederick the Great at her head, but the fat
Frederick William the Second--”
“But his life,” said the count, interrupting him, “I know for certain,
will last but a few days, at best for a few weeks; for his disease,
dropsy of the chest, you know, does not even respect kings.”
“And when Prussia has lost her present fat king, she will have another,
Frederick William--a young man twenty-seven years of age, volia tout!
He is just as old as General Bonaparte, and was born in the same year as
this general whose glory already fills the whole world; but of the young
heir of the Prussian throne the world has heard nothing as yet, except
that he has a most beautiful wife. He is not dangerous, therefore, and I
hope and believe that Austria never will lack the power to humiliate and
check this Prussian kingdom--this revolutionary element in the heart of
the German empire. The danger, however, that threatens us now, does not
come from Prussia, but from France, and especially from this General
Bonaparte, who, by his glory and his wonderful battles, excites the
wildest enthusiasm for the cause of the revolution, and delights the
stupid masses so much that they hail him as a new messiah of liberty.
Liberty, detestable word! that, like the fatal bite of the tarantula,
renders men furious, and causes them to rave about in frantic dances
until death strikes them down.”
“This word is the talismanic charm with which Bonaparte has conquered
all Italy, and transformed the Italians into insurgents and rebels
against their legitimate sovereigns,” said Count Saurau, mournfully.
“All Italy? Not yet, my friend. A portion of it still stands firm. The
lion of St. Mark has not yet fallen.”
“But he will fall. His feet are tottering already.”
“Well, then, we must try to make him fall in a manner which will entitle
us to a portion of the spoils. And now, my dear little count, we
have reached the point which claims our immediate attention. The
preliminaries of the peace have been concluded at Leoben, and until
peace itself is established, we should pursue such a policy that the
peace, instead of involving Austria in serious losses, will give her a
chance to increase her strength and enlarge her territory. We must keep
our eyes on Bavaria--for Bavaria will and must be ours as soon as a
favorable opportunity offers. If France should object and refuse to let
us seize our prey, why, we will be sure to revive the old quarrel about
Belgium, which will render her willing and tame enough.”
“But what shall we do if Prussia should support the objections of
France? Shall we satisfy her, too, by giving her a piece of Germany?”
“On the contrary, we shall try to take as much as possible from her; we
shall try to humiliate and isolate her, in order to deprive her of the
power of injuring us. We shall endeavor so to arrange the peace we are
going to conclude with France as to benefit Austria, and injure Prussia
as much as we can. In the north, we shall increase our territory by the
acquisition of Bavaria; in the south, by the annexation of Venice.”
“By the annexation of Venice!” ejaculated Count Saurau, greatly
astonished at what he had heard. “But did you not just tell me that
Venice still stood firm?”
“We must bring about her fall, my dear count; that is our great task
just now; for, I repeat, Venice is to compensate us on our southern
frontier for our losses elsewhere. Of course, we ought to receive some
substantial equivalent for ceding Belgium to France, and if it cannot be
Bavaria, then let it be Venice.”
“Nevertheless, I do not comprehend--”
“My dear count, if my schemes were so easily fathomed, they could not
be very profound. Everybody may guess the game I am playing now; but
the cards I have got in my hand must remain a secret until I have played
them out, or I would run the risk of losing every thing. But this time
I will let you peep into my cards, and you shall help me win the game.
Venice is the stake we are playing for, my dear count, and we want to
annex her to Austria. How is that to be brought about?”
“I confess, your excellency, that my limited understanding is unable
to answer that question, and that I cannot conceive how a sovereign and
independent state is to become an Austrian province in the absence of
any claims to its territory, except by an act of open violence.”
“Not exactly, my dear count. Suppose we set a mouse-trap for Venice, and
catch her, like a mouse, in it? Listen to me! We must encourage Venice
to determine upon open resistance against the victor of Lodi, and make
war upon France.”
“Ah, your excellency, I am afraid the timid signoria will not be bold
enough for that, after hearing of our late defeats, and of the new
victories of the French.”
“Precisely. It is of the highest importance, therefore, that the
signoria should hear nothing of it, but believe exactly the reverse,
viz., that our troops are victorious; and this task, my friend,
de-devolves upon you. Pray dispatch, at once, some reliable agents
to Venice, and to other parts of the Venetian territory. Inform the
signoria that the French have been defeated in the Tyrol and in
Styria, and was now in the most precarious position. Through some other
confidential messenger send word to Count Adam Neipperg, who, with some
of our regiments occupies the southern Tyrol in close proximity to
the Venetian frontier, that Venetia is ready to rise and needs his
assistance, and order him to advance as far as Verona. The Venetians
will look upon this advance as a confirmation of the news of our
victories. The wise little mice will only smell the bait, and, in their
joy, not see the trap we have set for them. They will rush into it, and
we shall catch them. For a rising in Venice will be called nowadays a
rebellion against France, and France will hasten to punish so terrible
a crime. The Venetian Republic will be destroyed by the French Republic,
and then we shall ask France to cede us Venice as a compensation for the
loss of Belgium.”
“By the Eternal! it is a splendid--a grand scheme!” exclaimed Count
Saurau--“a scheme worthy of being planned by some great statesman. In
this manner we shall conquer a new province without firing a gun, or
spilling a drop of blood.”
“No. Some blood will be shed,” said Thugut, quietly. “But it will not be
Austrian blood--it will be the blood of the Venetian insurgents whom we
instigate to rise in arms. This bloodshed will glue them firmly to us,
for no cement is more tenacious than blood. And now, my dear count,
as you know and approve of my plans, I pray you to carry them out as
rapidly as possible. Dispatch your agents without delay to Venice and to
the Tyrol. We have no time to lose, for the preliminaries of Leoben
only extend to the eighteenth of April, and until then Venice must have
become a ripe fruit, which, in the absence of hands to pluck it, will
spontaneously fall to the ground.”
“In the course of an hour, your excellency, I shall have executed your
orders, and my most skilful spies and agents will be on their road.”
“Whom are you going to send to the Venetian signoria?”
“The best confidential agent I have--Anthony Schulmeister.”
“Oh, I know him; he has often served me, and is very adroit, indeed. But
do not forget to pay him well in order to be sure of his fidelity, for
fortunately he has a failing which renders it easy for us to control
him. He is exceedingly covetous, and has a pretty wife who spends a
great deal of money. Pay him well, therefore, and he will do us good
service. And now, farewell, my dear count. I believe we understand each
other perfectly, and know what we have to do.”
“I have found out once more that the Austrian ship of state is in the
hands of a man who knows how to steer and guide her, as no other ruler
does,” said Count Saurau, who rose and took his hat.
“I have inherited this talent, perhaps, my dear count. My father, the
ship-builder, taught me all about the management of ships. Addio, caro
amico mio.”
They cordially shook hands, and Count Saurau, with a face radiant
with admiration and affection, withdrew from the cabinet of the prime
minister. A smile still played on his features when the footman in the
anteroom assisted him in putting on his cloak, whereupon he rapidly
descended the magnificent marble staircase which an hour ago had been
desecrated by the broad and clumsy feet of the populace. But when the
door of his carriage had closed behind him, and no prying eyes, no
listening ears were watching him any longer, his smile disappeared as if
by magic, and savage imprecations burst from his lips.
“Intolerable arrogance! Revolting insolence!” said he, angrily. “He
thinks he can play the despot, and treat all of us--even myself--worse
than slaves. He dares to call me ‘his little count!’ His little count!
Ah, I shall prove to this ship-builder’s son one day that little Count
Saurau is, after all, a greater man than our overbearing and conceited
prime minister. But patience, patience! My day will come. And on that
day I shall hurl little Thugut from his eminent position!”
CHAPTER V.
THE HOUSE IN THE GUMPENDORFER SUBURB.
Vienna was really terribly frightened by the near approach of the French
army, and the conviction of their dangerous position had excited
the people so fearfully that the Viennese, generally noted for their
peaceful and submissive disposition, had committed an open riot--for the
sole purpose, however, of compelling the all-powerful prime minister to
make peace with France. Archduke Charles had been defeated--the emperor
had fled to Hungary.
None of all these disastrous tidings had disturbed the inmates of
a small house on the outskirts of the Gumpendorfer suburb, in close
proximity to the Mariahilf line. This little house was a perfect image
of peace and tranquillity. It stood in the centre of a small garden
which showed the first tender blossoms of returning spring on its neatly
arranged beds. Dense shrubbery covered the white walls of the house with
evergreen verdure. Curtains as white and dazzling as fresh snow, and,
between them, flower-pots filled with luxuriant plants, might be seen
behind the glittering window-panes. Although there was nothing very
peculiar about the house, which had but two stories, yet nobody passed
by without looking up to the windows with a reverential and inquisitive
air, and he who only thought he could discover behind the panes the
fugitive shadow of a human being, made at once a deep and respectful
bow, and a proud and happy smile overspread his features.
And still, we repeat, there was nothing very peculiar about the house.
Its outside was plain and modest, and the inside was equally so. The
most profound silence prevailed in the small hall, the floor of which
had been sprinkled with fresh white sand. A large spotted cat--truly
beautiful animal--lay not far from the front door on a soft, white
cushion, and played gracefully and gently with the ball of white yarn
that had just fallen from the woman sitting at the window while she was
eagerly engaged in knitting. This woman, in her plain and unassuming
dress, seemed to be a servant of the house, but at all events a servant
in whom entire confidence was reposed, as was indicated by the large
bunch of keys, such as the lady of the house or a trusted housekeeper
will carry, which hung at her side. An expression of serene calmness
rendered her venerable features quite attractive, and a graceful smile
played on her thin and bloodless lips as she now dropped her knitting
upon her lap, and, with her body bent forward, commenced watching
the merry play of the cat on the cushion. Suddenly the silence was
interrupted by a loud and shrill scream, and a very strange-sounding
voice uttered a few incoherent words in English. At the same time a door
was opened hastily, and another woman appeared--just as old, just as
kind-looking, and with as mild and serene features as the one we have
just described. Her more refined appearance, however, her handsome
dress, her beautiful cap, her well-powdered toupet, and the massive gold
chain encircling her neck, indicated that she was no servant, but the
lady of the house.
However, peculiarly pleasant relations seemed to prevail between the
mistress and the servant, for the appearance of the lady did not cause
the latter to interrupt her merry play with the cat; and the mistress,
on her part, evidently did not consider it strange or disrespectful, but
quietly approached her servant.
“Catharine,” she said, “just listen how that abominable bird, Paperl,
screams again to-day. I am sure the noise will disturb the doctor, who
is at work already.”
“Yes, Paperl is an intolerable nuisance,” sighed Catharine. “I cannot
comprehend why the Kapellmeister--I was going to say the doctor--likes
the bird so well, and why he has brought it along from England. Yes, if
Paperl could sing, in that case it would not be strange if the Ka--,
I mean the doctor, had grown fond of the bird. But no, Paperl
merely jabbers a few broken words which no good Christian is able to
understand.”
“He who speaks English can understand it well enough, Catharine,” said
the lady, “for the bird talks English, and in that respect Paperl knows
more than either of us.”
“But Paperl cannot talk German, and I think that our language,
especially our dear Viennese dialect, sounds by far better than that
horrid English. I don’t know why the doctor likes the abominable noise,
and why he suffers the bird to disturb his quiet by these outrageous
screams.”
“I know it well enough, Catharine,” said the doctor’s wife, with a
gentle smile. “The parrot reminds my husband of his voyage to England,
and of all the glory and honor that were showered upon him there.”
“Well, as far as that is concerned, I should think it was entirely
unnecessary for my master to make a trip to England,” exclaimed
Catharine. “He has not returned a more famous man than he was already
when he went away. The English were unable to add to his glory, for
he was already the most celebrated man in the whole world when he went
there, and if that had not been the case, they would not have invited
him to come and perform his beautiful music before them, for then they
would not have known that he is such a splendid musician.”
“But they were delighted to see him, Catharine, and I tell you they
have perfectly overwhelmed him with honors. Every day they gave him
festivals, and even the king and queen urged him frequently to take
up his abode in England. The queen promised him splendid apartments in
Windsor Castle, and a large salary, and in return my husband was to do
nothing but to perform every day for an hour or so before her majesty,
or sing with her. Nevertheless, he had the courage to refuse the
brilliant offers of the king and queen, and do you know, Catharine, why
he rejected them?”
Catharine knew it well enough; she had frequently heard the story from
her mistress during the two years since the doctor had returned from
England, but she was aware that the lady liked to repeat it, and she
liked it very much, too, to hear people talk about her beloved master’s
fame and glory, having faithfully served him already for more than
twenty years. Hence she said, with a kind-hearted smile:
“No, indeed, I don’t know it, and I cannot comprehend why the doctor
said no to the king and queen of England.”
“He did so for my sake, Catharine!” said the lady, and an expression of
joyful pride shed a lustre of beauty and tenderness over her kind old
face. “Yes, I tell you, it was solely for my sake that my husband came
home again. ‘Remain with us!’ said the king to him. ‘You shall have
every thing the queen has offered you. You shall live at Windsor, and
sing once a day with the queen. Of you, my dear doctor, I shall not be
jealous, for you are an excellent and honest German gentleman.’ And when
the king had told him that, my husband bowed respectfully, and replied:
‘Your majesty, it is my highest pride to maintain this reputation. But
just because I am an honest German, I must tell you that I cannot stay
here--I cannot leave my country and my wife forever!’”
“‘Oh, as far as that is concerned,’ exclaimed the king, ‘we shall send
for your wife. She shall live with you at Windsor.’ But my husband
laughed and said: ‘She will never come, your majesty. She would not
cross the Danube in a skiff, much less make a trip beyond the sea. And,
therefore, there is nothing left to me but to return myself to my little
wife.’ And he did so, and left the king, and the queen, and all the
noble lords and ladies, and came back to Vienna, and to his little wife.
Say, Catharine, was not that well done of him?”
“Of course it was,” said Catharine; “the fact was, our good doctor loved
his wife better than the queen, and all the high born people who treated
him so well in England. And, besides, he knew that people hereabouts
treat him with as much deference as over there, and that if he only
desired it, he could hold daily intercourse with the emperor, the
princes, and the highest dignitaries in the country. But he does not
care for it. The fact is, our master is by far too modest; he is always
so quiet and unassuming, that nobody, unless they knew him, would
believe for a single moment that he is so far-famed a man; and then he
dresses so plainly, while he might deck himself with all the diamond
rings and breast-pins, the splendid watches and chains, which the
various sovereigns have given to him. But all these fine things he keeps
shut up in his desk, and constantly wears the old silver watch which he
has had already God knows how long!”
“Why, Catharine, that was the wedding-present I gave him,” said the good
wife, proudly; “and just for that reason my husband wears it all the
time, although he has watches by far more beautiful and valuable. At the
time I gave him that watch, both of us were very poor. He was a young
music-teacher, and I was a hairdresser’s daughter. He lived in a small
room in my father’s house, and as he often could not pay the rent, he
gave me every day a lesson on the piano. But in those lessons, I did not
only learn music--I learned to love him, too. He asked me to become his
wife, and on our wedding-day, I gave him the silver watch, and that is
just the reason why he wears it all the time, although he has by far
better ones. His wife’s present is more precious to him than what kings
and emperors have given to him.”
“But he might wear at least a nice gold chain to it,” said Catharine.
“Why, I am sure he has no less than a dozen of them. But he never wears
one of them, not even the other day when the Princess Esterhazy called
for him with her carriage to drive with him to the emperor. The doctor
wore on that occasion only a plain blue ribbon, on which his own name
was embroidered in silver.”
“Well, there is a story to that ribbon,” said the mistress,
thoughtfully. “My husband brought it likewise from Loudon, and he got it
there on one of his proudest days. I did not know the story myself, for
you are aware my husband is always so modest, and never talks about his
great triumphs in Loudon, and I would not have learned any thing about
the ribbon if he had not worn it the other day when he accompanied
the princess to the emperor. Ah, Catharine, it is a very beautiful and
touching story!”
Catharine did not know this story at all; hence she asked her mistress
with more than usual animation to tell her all about the ribbon.
The doctor’s wife assented readily. She sat down on a chair at
Catharine’s side, and looked with a pleasant smile at the cat who had
come up to her, and, purring comfortably, lay down on the hem of her
dress.
“Yes,” said she, “the story of that ribbon is quite touching, and I do
not know really, Catharine, but I will have to shed a few tears while
telling it. It was in Loudon, when my husband had just returned from
Oxford, where the university had conferred upon him the title of Doctor
of--”
“Yes, yes, I know,” grumbled Catharine, “that is the reason why we
now have to call him doctor, which does not sound near as imposing and
distinguished as our master’s former title of Kapellmeister.”
“But then it is a very high honor to obtain the title of doctor of music
in England, Catharine. The great composer Handel lived thirty years in
England without receiving it, and my husband had not been there but a
few months when they conferred the title upon him. Well, then, on the
day after his return from Oxford, he was invited to the house of a
gentleman of high rank and great wealth, who gave him a brilliant party.
A large number of ladies and gentlemen were present, and when my husband
appeared among them they rose and bowed as respectfully as though he
were a king. When the doctor had returned the compliment, he perceived
that every lady in the room wore in her hair a ribbon of blue silk, on
which his name had been embroidered in silver. His host wore the same
name in silver beads on his coat-facings, so that he looked precisely as
if he were my husband’s servant, and dressed in his livery. Oh, it was
a splendid festival which Mr. Shaw--that was the gentleman’s name--gave
him on that day. At length Mr. Shaw asked the doctor to give him a
souvenir, whereupon he presented him with a snuff-box he had purchased
in the course of the day for a few shillings; and when my husband
requested the lady of the house, whom he pronounces the most beautiful
woman on earth, to give him likewise a souvenir; Mrs. Shaw thereupon
took the ribbon from her head and handed it to him; and my husband
pressed it to his lips, and assured her he would always wear that ribbon
on the most solemn occasions. You see, Catharine, he keeps his promise
religiously, for he wore the ribbon the other day when he was called
to the imperial palace. But my story is not finished yet. Your master
called a few days after that party on Mr. Shaw, when the latter showed
him the snuff-box he had received from my husband. It was enclosed in a
handsome silver case, a beautiful lyre was engraved on the lid, with an
inscription stating that my great and illustrious husband had given him
the box. [Footnote: The inscription was: “Ex dono celeberrimi Josephi
Haydn.”] How do you like my story, Catharine?”
“Oh, it is beautiful,” said the old servant, thoughtfully; “only, what
you said about that beautiful Mrs. Shaw did not exactly please me. I am
sure the doctor got the parrot also from her, and for that reason likes
the bird so well, although it screeches so horribly, and doubtless
disturbs him often in his studies.”
“Yes, he got the bird from Mrs. Shaw,” replied her mistress, with a
smile. “She taught Paperl to whistle three airs from my husband’s finest
quartets, singing and whistling the music to the bird every day during
three or four weeks for several hours, until Paperl could imitate them;
and when my husband took leave of her, she gave him the parrot.”
“But the bird never whistles the tunes any more. I have only heard
Paperl do it once, and that was on the day after the doctor’s return
from England.” “I know the reason why. The bird hears here every day
so much music, and so many new melodies which the doctor plays on his
piano, that its head has grown quite confused, and poor Paperl has
forgotten its tunes.”
“It has not forgotten its English words, though,” murmured Catharine.
“What may be the meaning of these words which the bird is screaming all
the time?”
“That beautiful Mrs. Shaw taught Paperl to pronounce them, Catharine. I
do not know their precise meaning, but they commence as follows: ‘Forget
me not, forget me not--’ Good Heaven! the bird has commenced screaming
again. I am sure it has not had any sugar to-day. Where is Conrad? He
ought to attend to the bird.”
“He has gone down town. The doctor has given him several errands.”
“Good Heaven! the screams are almost intolerable. Go, Catharine, and
give poor Paperl a piece of sugar.”
“I dare not, madame; it always snaps at me with its abominable beak, and
if the chain did not prevent it from attacking me, it would scratch out
my eyes.”
“I am afraid of it, too,” said the lady, anxiously; “nevertheless we
cannot permit the bird to go on in this manner. Just listen to it--it
is yelling as though it were going to be roasted. It will disturb
my husband, and you know the doctor is composing a new piece. Come,
Catharine, we must quiet the bird. I will give him the sugar.”
“And I shall take my knitting-needles along, and if it should try to
bite, I will hit it on the beak. Let us go now, madame.”
And the two women walked boldly across the anteroom, toward the door of
the small parlor, in order to commence the campaign against the parrot.
The cat followed them gravely and solemnly, and with an air as though
it had taken the liveliest interest in the conversation, and thought it
might greatly assist them in pacifying the screaming bird.
CHAPTER VI
JOSEPH HAYDN
While the parrot’s screams had rendered the mistress and her maid so
uneasy, the most profound stillness and quiet reigned in the upper rooms
of the little house. Not a sound interrupted the silence of this small,
elegantly-furnished sitting-room. Even the sun apparently dared only to
send a few stealthy beams through the windows, and the wind seemed to
hold its breath in order not to shake the panes of the small chamber
adjoining, venerated by all the inmates of the house as a sacred temple
of art.
In this small chamber, in this temple of art, a gentleman, apparently
engaged in reading, was seated at a table covered with papers and
music-books, close to an open piano. He was no longer young; on the
contrary, beholding only the thin white hair hanging down on his
expansive and wrinkled forehead, and his stooping form, it became
evident that he was an old man, nearly seventy years of age. But as soon
as he raised his eyes from the paper, as soon as he turned them toward
heaven with an air of blissful enthusiasm, the fire of eternal youth and
radiant joyousness burst forth from those eyes; and whatever the white
hair, the wrinkled forehead, the furrowed cheeks and the stooping
form might tell of the long years of his life, those eyes were full of
youthful ardor and strength--only the body of this white haired man was
old; in his soul he had remained young--a youth of fervid imagination,
procreative power, and nervous activity.
This venerable man with the soul, the heart, and the eyes of a youth,
was Joseph Haydn, the great composer, whose glory, even at that time,
filled the whole world, although he had not yet written his greatest
masterpieces--the “Creation” and the “Seasons.”
He was working to-day at the “Creation.” [Footnote: Haydn commenced the
“Creation” in 1797, and finished it in April, 1798.] The poem, which had
been sent to him from England, and which his worthy friend Von Swieten
had translated into German, lay before him. He had read it again and
again, and gradually it seemed as if the words were transformed into
music; gradually he heard whispering--low at first, then louder, and
more sublime and majestic--the jubilant choirs of heaven and earth, that
were to resound in his “Creation.”
As yet he had not written a single note; he had only read the poem, and
composed in reading, and inwardly weighed and tried the sublime melodies
which, when reduced to time and measure, and combined into an harmonious
whole, were to form the new immortal work of his genius. While thus
reading and composing, the aged musician was transformed more and more
into a youth, and the glowing enthusiasm which burst forth from his eyes
became every moment more radiant, surrounding his massive forehead with
a halo of inspiration, and shedding the purple lustre of ecstatic joy
upon his furrowed cheeks.
“Yes, yes, it will do. I shall succeed!” he exclaimed suddenly, in a
loud and full voice. “God will give me the strength to complete this
work; but it must be commenced with Him--strength and inspiration come
from Him alone!”
And Joseph Haydn, perhaps not quite conscious of what he was doing,
knelt down and with folded hands, and beaming eyes lifted up to heaven,
he prayed: “O, Lord God, give me Thy blessing and Thy strength, that I
may gloriously and successfully carry out this work, which praiseth
Thee and Thy creation. Breathe Thy Holy Spirit into the words which Thou
speakest in my work. Speak through me to Thy creatures, and let my music
be Thy language!”
He paused, but remaining on his knees, continued to look up to heaven.
Then he rose slowly, and like a seer or a somnambulist, with eyes opened
but seeing nothing, he went to his piano without knowing what he was
doing. He sat down on the stool, and did not know it; his hands touched
the keys and drew magnificent chords from them, and he did not hear
them. He only heard the thousands of seraphic voices which in his breast
chanted sublime anthems; he only heard the praise of his own winged
soul which, in divine ecstasy, soared far into the realm of eternal
harmonies.
Louder and louder rolled the music he drew from the keys; now it burst
forth into a tremendous jubilee, then again it died away in melancholy
complaints and gentle whispers, and again it broke out into a swelling,
thundering anthem.
At length Haydn concluded with a sonorous and brilliant passage, and
then with youthful agility jumped up from his seat.
“That was the prelude,” he said, aloud, “and now we will go to work.”
He hastily threw the white and comfortable dressing-gown from his
shoulders and rapidly walked toward the looking-glass which hung over
the bureau. Every thing was ready for his toilet, the footman having
carefully arranged the whole. He put the cravat with lace trimmings
around his neck and arranged the tie before the looking-glass in
the most artistic manner; then he slipped into the long waistcoat of
silver-lined velvet, and finally put on the long-tailed brown coat with
bright metal buttons. He was just going to put the heavy silver watch,
which his wife had given him on their wedding-day, into his vest-pocket,
when his eye fell upon the blue ribbon embroidered with silver, which,
ever since his visit to the imperial palace, had lain on the bureau.
“I will wear it on this holiday of mine,” said Haydn, with great warmth,
“for I think the day on which a new work is begun is a holiday, and we
ought to wear our choicest ornaments to celebrate it.”
He attached the ribbon to his watch, threw it over his neck, and slipped
the watch into his vest-pocket.
“If that beautiful Mrs. Shaw could see me now,” he whispered, almost
inaudibly, “how her magnificent eyes would sparkle, and what a heavenly
smile would animate her angelic features! Yes, yes, I will remember her
smile--it shall find an echo in the jubilant accords of my Creation. But
let us begin--let us begin!”
He rapidly walked toward his desk, but stopped suddenly. “Hold on!” said
he; “I really forgot the most important thing--my ring. While looking at
the precious ribbon of my beautiful English friend, I did not think of
the ring of my great king--and still it is the talisman without which I
cannot work at all.”
Returning once, more to the bureau, he opened a small case and took
from it a ring which he put on his finger. He contemplated the large and
brilliant diamonds of the ring with undisguised admiration.
“Yes,” he exclaimed--“yes, thou art my talisman, and when I look at
thee, it seems to me as if I saw the eyes of the great king beaming down
upon me, and pouring courage and enthusiasm into my heart. That is the
reason, too, why I cannot work unless I have the ring on my finger.
[Footnote: Haydn had dedicated six quartets to Frederick the Great,
who acknowledged the compliment by sending him a valuable diamond ring.
Haydn wore this ring whenever he composed a new work, and it seemed to
him as though inspiration failed him unless he wore the ring. He
stated this on many occasions.] But now I am ready and adorned like a
bridegroom who is going to his young bride. Yes, yes, it is just so with
me. I am going to my bride--to St. Cecilia!”
When he now returned to his desk, his features assumed a grave and
solemn expression. He sat down once more at the piano and played
an anthem, then he resumed his seat at the desk, took a sheet of
music-paper and commenced writing. He wielded his pen with the utmost
rapidity, and covered page after page with the queer little dots and
dashes which we call notes.
And Haydn’s eyes flashed and his cheeks glowed, and a heavenly smile
played on his lips while he was writing. But all of a sudden his pen
stopped, and a slight cloud settled on his brow. Some passage, may be
a modulation, had displeased him, in what he had just composed, for he
glanced over the last few lines and shook his head. He looked down sadly
and dropped the pen.
“Help me, O Lord God--help me!” he exclaimed, and hastily seized the
rosary which always lay on his desk, “Help me!” he muttered once more,
and, while hurriedly pacing the room, he slipped the beads of the rosary
through his fingers and whispered an Ave Maria.
His prayer seemed to have the desired effect, for the cloud disappeared
from his forehead, and his eyes beamed again with the fervor of
inspiration. He resumed his seat and wrote on with renewed energy. A
holy peace now settled on his serene features, and reigned around him in
the silent little cabinet.
But all at once this peaceful stillness was interrupted by a loud noise
resounding from below. Vociferous lamentations were heard, and heavy
footsteps ascended the staircase.
Haydn, however, did not hear any thing--his genius was soaring far away
in the realm of inspiration, and divine harmonies still enchanted his
ears.
But now the door of the small parlor was opened violently, and his wife,
with a face deadly pale and depicting the liveliest anxiety, rushed into
the room. Catharine and Conrad, the aged footman, appeared behind her,
while the cat slipped in with her mistress, and the parrot ejaculated
the most frantic and piercing screams.
Haydn started in dismay from his seat and stared at his wife without
being able to utter a single word. It was something unheard of for him
to be disturbed by his wife during his working hours, hence he very
naturally concluded that something unusual, something really terrible
must have occurred, and the frightened looks of his wife, the pale faces
of his servants, plainly told him that he was not mistaken.
“Oh, husband--poor, dear husband!” wailed his wife, “pack up your
papers, the time for working and composing is past. Conrad has brought
the most dreadful tidings from the city. We are all lost!--Vienna is
lost! Oh, dear, dear! it is awful, and I tell you I am almost frightened
out of my senses!”
And the old lady, trembling like an aspen-leaf, threw herself into an
arm-chair.
“What in Heaven’s name is the matter?” asked Haydn--“what is it that has
frightened you thus? Conrad, tell me what is the news?”
“Oh, my dear master,” wailed Conrad, approaching the doctor with folded
hands and shaking knees, “it is all up with us! Austria is lost--Vienna
is lost--and consequently we are lost, too! Late dispatches have arrived
from the army. Ah! what do I say?--army? We have no longer an army--our
forces are entirely dispersed--Archduke Charles has lost another
battle--old Wurmser has been driven back--and General Bonaparte is
advancing upon Vienna.”
“These are sad tidings, indeed,” said Haydn, shrugging his shoulders,
“still they are no reason why we should despair. If the archduke has
lost a battle--why, all generals have lost battles--”
“Bonaparte never lost one,” replied Conrad, with a profound sigh, “he
wins every battle, and devours all countries he wants to conquer.”
“We must pack up our things, Joseph,” said Mrs. Haydn--“we must bury
our money, our plate, and especially your jewels and trinkets, so that
those French robbers and cannibals will not find them. Come, husband,
let us go to work quickly, before they come and take every thing from
us.”
“Hush, wife, hush!” said Haydn, mildly, and a gentle smile overspread
his features. “Never fear about our few trifles, and do not think that
the French just want to come to Vienna for what few gold snuff-boxes and
rings I have got. If they were anxious for gold and jewels, coming as
they do as enemies, they might simply open the imperial treasury and
take there all they want.”
“Yes, but they would not find any thing,” said Conrad. “The treasury
is empty, doctor, entirely empty. Every thing is gone; there is not a
single crown, not a single precious stone left in the treasury.”
“Well, and where is the whole treasure then, you fool?” asked Haydn,
with a smile.
“They have taken it to Presburg, master. I saw the wagons
myself--soldiers rode in front of them, soldiers behind them. All
streets, all places were crowded with people, and a riot broke out,
and oh! such lamentations, such wails!--and finally the people became
desperate, and roared and yelled that the government should make peace,
and prevent the French from corning to Vienna and bombarding the city;
and in their desperation they grew quite bold and brave, and thousands
of them marched to the house of Minister Thugut, whom they call the real
emperor of Vienna, and tried to compel him to make peace.”
“Sad, sad tidings, indeed!” sighed Haydn, shaking his head. “Worse than
I thought. The people riotous and rebellious--the army defeated--and
the enemy marching upon Vienna. But don’t despair--courage, courage,
children; let us put our trust in God and our excellent emperor. Those
two will never forsake us--they will guard and protect Vienna, and never
suffer a single stone to be taken from its walls.”
“Ah, husband, don’t count any longer upon the emperor,” said his wife.
“For that is the worst part of the news, and shows that every thing is
lost: the emperor has left Vienna.”
“What!” exclaimed Haydn, and his face grew flushed with anger. “What,
they dare to slander the emperor so infamously as that! They dare to
assert that the emperor has forsaken his Viennese when they are in
danger? No, no, the emperor is an honest man and a faithful prince; he
will share good and evil days alike with his people. A good shepherd
does not leave his flock, a good prince does not leave his people.”
“But the emperor has forsaken us,” said Conrad; “it is but too true,
master. All Vienna knows it, and all Vienna mourns over it. The emperor
is gone, and so are the empress and the imperial children. All are gone
and off for Presburg.”
“Gone! the emperor gone!” muttered Haydn, mournfully, and a deadly
paleness suddenly covered his cheeks. “Oh, poor Austria! poor people!
Thy emperor has forsaken thee--he has fled from thee!”
He sadly inclined his head, and profound sighs escaped from his breast.
“Do you see now, husband, that I was right?” asked his wife. “Is it not
true that it is high time for us to think of our property, and to pack
up and bury our valuables?”
“No!” exclaimed Haydn, raising his head again; “this is no time to think
of ourselves, and of taking care of our miserable property. The emperor
has left--that means, the emperor is in danger; and therefore, as his
faithful subjects, we should pray for him, and all our thoughts and
wishes should only be devoted to his welfare. In the hour of danger we
should not be faint-hearted, and bow our heads, but lift them up to
God, and hope and trust in Him! Why do the people of Vienna lament and
despair? They should sing and pray, so that the Lord God above may hear
their voices--they should sing and pray, and I will teach them how!”
And with proud steps Haydn went to the piano, and his hands began to
play gently, at first, a simple and choral-like air; but soon the
melody grew stronger and more impressive. Haydn’s face became radiant;
instinctively opening his lips, he sang in an enthusiastic and ringing
voice words which he had never known before--words which, with the
melody, had spontaneously gushed from his soul. What his lips sang was
a prayer, and, at the same time, a hymn of victory--full of innocent and
child-like piety:
“Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser,
Unsern guten Kaiser Franz,
Lange lebe Franz den Kaiser
In des Gluckes hellem Glanz!
Ihm erbluhen Lorbeerreiser,
Wo er geht, zum Ehrenkranz!
Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser,
Unsern guten Kaiser Franz!”
[Footnote: The celebrated Austrian hymn, “God save the Emperor
Francis.”]
Profound silence prevailed while Haydn was singing, and when he
concluded with a firm and ringing accord and turned around, he saw that
his wife, overcome with emotion, with folded hands and eyes lifted up
to heaven, had sunk down on her knees, and that old Catharine and Conrad
were kneeling behind her, while the cat stood between them listening to
the music as it were, and even the parrot below seemed to listen to the
new hymn, for its screams had ceased.
A smile of delight played on Haydn’s lips and rendered his face again
young and beautiful. “Now, sing with me, all three of you,” he said.
“Sing loudly and firmly, that God may hear us. I will commence again at
the beginning, and you shall accompany me.”
He touched the keys vigorously, and sang once more, “God save the
Emperor Francis!” and carried away by the melody so simple and yet so
beautiful, the two women and the old footman sang with him the tender
and artless words.
“And now,” said Haydn, eagerly, “now, I will write down the melody on
the spot, and then you shall run with it to Councillor von Swieten. He
must add a few verses to it. And then we will have it copied as often as
possible--we will circulate it in the streets, and sing it in all public
places, and if the French really should come to Vienna, the whole
people shall receive them with the jubilant hymn, ‘God save the Emperor
Francis!’ And God will hear our song, and He will be touched by our
love, and He will lead him back to us, our good Emperor Francis.”
He sat down at his desk, and in youthful haste wrote down the music.
“So,” he said then, “take it, Conrad, take it to Herr von Swieten;
tell him it is my imperial hymn. Oh, I believe it will be useful to the
emperor, and therefore I swear that I will play it every day as long
as I live. My first prayer always shall be for the emperor.” [Footnote:
Haydn kept his word, and from that time played the hymn every day. It
was even the last piece of music he performed before his death. On the
26th of May, 1809, he played the hymn three times in succession. From
the piano he had to be carried to his bed, which he never left again.
When Iffland paid him a visit in 1807, Haydn played the hymn for him. He
then remained a few moments before the instrument--placed his hands on
it, and said, in the tone of a venerable patriarch: “I play this hymn
every morning, and in times of adversity have often derived consolation
and courage from it. I cannot help it--I must play it at least once
a day. I feel greatly at ease whenever I do so, and even a good while
afterward.”--“Iffland’s Theatrical Almanac for 1855,” p. 181.]
“And now run, Conrad, and ask Herr von Swieten to finish the poem
quickly, and you, women, leave me. I feel the ideas burning in my head,
and the melodies gushing from my heart. The hymn has inspired me with
genuine enthusiasm; and now, with God and my emperor, I will commence my
Creation! But you, you must not despair--and whenever you feel dejected,
sing my imperial hymn, and pour consolation and courage into your
hearts--into the hearts of all Austrians who will sing it. For not only
for you, but for Austria, I have sung my hymn, and it shall belong to
the whole Austrian people!”
CHAPTER VII
GENERAL BONAPARTE
At length peace was to be concluded. For several weeks had the three
Austrian plenipotentiaries been at Udine; the Austrian court having sent
with Count Meerveldt and Count Louis Cobenzl the Marquis de Gallo, who,
although Neapolitan ambassador at Vienna, and therefore, not in the
imperial service, acted as their adviser.
General Bonaparte was at Passeriano: he alone had been authorized by the
great French Republic to conclude peace with Austria, or to renew the
war, just as he saw fit.
The eyes of France and Germany, nay of all Europe, were riveted upon
this small point on the border of Germany and Italy, for there the
immediate future of Europe was to be decided; there the dice were to
fall which were to bring peace or war to the world.
Austria wanted peace; it was a necessity for her, because she did not
feel strong enough for war, and was afraid of the dangers and losses
of continued defeats. But she did not want peace, coute qui coute;
she wanted to derive substantial advantages from it--she intended
to aggrandize herself at the expense of Italy, at the expense of
Prussia--and, if need be, at the expense of Germany.
But what did France want, or rather, what did General Bonaparte want?
None but himself knew. None could read his thoughts in his marble
countenance. None could decipher his future actions from his laconic
utterances. None could tell what Bonaparte intended to do and what aim
his ambition had in view.
The negotiations with Austria had been going on for months. For several
weeks the Austrian plenipotentiaries and General Bonaparte had had daily
interviews of many hours’ duration, which alternately took place at
Udine and at Passeriano, but the work of pacification would not come to
a satisfactory conclusion. Austria demanded too much, and France would
not yield enough. These conferences had frequently assumed a very
stormy character, and often, during the debates, Bonaparte’s voice had
resounded in thundering tones, and flashes of anger had burst forth
from his eyes. But the Austrian plenipotentiaries had not been struck
by them. The flashes from the great chieftain’s eyes had recoiled
powerlessly from their imperturbable smile. When his voice thundered at
them, they had lowered their heads only to raise them slowly again as
soon as the general was silent.
To-day, on the thirteenth of October, another interview was to take
place, at the hotel of Count Cobenzl, and perhaps that was the reason
why General Bonaparte had risen at an unusually early hour in the
morning. He had just finished his toilet; the four valets who had
assisted him had just concluded their task. As usual, Bonaparte had
suffered them to dress and wash him like a child. [Footnote: “Memoires
de Constant, premier valet de chambre de l’Empereur Napoleon,” vol. i.,
p. 180.] With a silent gesture he now ordered the servants to withdraw,
and called out, “Bourrienne!”
The door was opened at once, and a tall young man, in the citizen’s
dress of that period, stepped in. Bonaparte, greeting his youthful
secretary with a slight nod of his head, pointed with his hand at the
desk.
Bourrienne walked noiselessly to the desk, sat down, took a pen and some
blank paper, and waited for what the general would have to dictate.
But Bonaparte was silent. With his hands folded on his back, he
commenced rapidly walking up and down. Bourrienne, holding the pen
in his hand and momentarily ready to write, enjoyed this pause, this
absorbed pondering of the general, with genuine delight; for it afforded
him leisure to contemplate Bonaparte, to study his whole appearance, and
to engrave every feature, every gesture of the conqueror of Italy upon
his mind.
Bourrienne was an old friend of Bonaparte; they had been together at
the military academy; they had met afterward at Paris--and poor young
Lieutenant Bonaparte had often been glad enough to accept a dinner at
the hands of his wealthier friend.
Only a few years had elapsed since that time, and now Lieutenant
Bonaparte had become already an illustrious general; while Bourrienne,
whom the Terrorists had proscribed, thankfully accepted the protection
of his old comrade, and now filled the position of private secretary
under him.
He had been with him in this capacity only two days--for two days he
had seen Bonaparte every hour, and yet he contemplated with ever
new surprise this wonderful countenance, in which he vainly tried
to recognize the features of the friend of his youth. True, the same
outlines and contours were still there, but the whole face was an
entirely different one. No traces of the carelessness, of the harmless
hilarity of former days, were left in these features. His complexion
was pale almost to sickliness; his figure, which did not rise above the
middle height, was slender and bony. Upon looking at him, you seemed at
first to behold a young man entirely devoid of strength, and hopelessly
doomed to an early death. But the longer you examined him, the more his
features seemed to breathe vitality and spirit, and the firmer grew
the conviction that this was an exceptional being--a rare and strange
phenomenon. Once accustomed to his apparent pale and sickly homeliness,
the beholder soon saw it transformed into a fascinating beauty such
as we admire on the antique Roman cameos and old imperial coins. His
classical and regular profile seemed to be modelled after these antique
coins; his forehead, framed in on both sides with fine chestnut hair,
was high and statuesque. His eyes were blue, but brimful of the most
wonderful expression and sparkling with fire, a faithful mirror of his
fiery soul, now exceedingly mild and gentle, and then again stern and
even harsh. His mouth was classically beautiful--the finely-shaped
lips, narrow and slightly compressed, especially when in anger; when he
laughed, he displayed two rows of teeth, not faultlessly fine, but of
pearly white. Every lineament, every single feature of his face was as
regular as if modelled by a sculptor; nevertheless there was something
ugly and repulsive in the whole, and in order to be able to admire it,
it was necessary first to get accustomed to this most extraordinary
being. Only the feet and the small white hands were so surpassingly
beautiful that they enlisted at once the liveliest admiration, and this
was perhaps the reason why General Bonaparte, who otherwise observed the
greatest simplicity in his toilet, had adorned his hands with several
splendid diamond rings. [Footnote: Memoires de Constant, vol. i, p. 52]
Bourrienne was still absorbed in contemplating the friend of his youth,
when the latter suddenly stood still before him and looked at him with a
pleasant smile.
“Why do you stare at me in this manner, Bourrienne?” he asked in his
abrupt and hasty tone.
“General. I only contemplate the laurels which your glorious victories
have woven around your brow, since I saw you the last time,” said
Bourrienne.
“Ah, and you find me a little changed since you saw me the last time,”
replied Bonaparte, quickly. “It is true, the years of our separation
have produced a great many changes, and I was glad that you had the
good taste to perceive this, and upon meeting me under the present
circumstances, to observe a becoming and delicate reserve. I am under
obligations to you for it, and from to-day you shall be chief of my
cabinet, my first private secretary.” [Footnote: Memoires de Monsieur de
Bourrienne, vol. 1., p. 33.]
Bourrienne rose to thank the young general by bowing respectfully, but
Bonaparte took no further notice of him, and walked again rapidly up and
down. The smile had already vanished from his face, which had resumed
its immovable and impenetrable expression.
Bourrienne quietly sat down again and waited; but now he dared no longer
look at Bonaparte, the general having noticed it before.
After a lengthy pause, Bonaparte stood still close to the desk. “Have
you read the dispatches which the Directory sent me yesterday through
their spy, M. Botot?” asked the general, abruptly.
“I have, general!”
“They are unreasonable fools,” exclaimed Bonaparte, angrily, “they want
to direct our war from their comfortable sofas in the Luxembourg, and
believe their ink-stained hands could hold the general’s baton as well
as the pen. They want to dictate to us a new war from Paris, without
knowing whether we are able to bear it or not. They ask us to conclude
peace with Austria without ceding Venice to her as compensation for
Belgium. Yes, Talleyrand is senseless enough to ask me to revolutionize
the whole of Italy once more, so that the Italians may expel their
princes, and that liberty may prevail throughout the entire peninsula.
In order to give them liberty, they want me to carry first war and
revolution into their midst. These big-mouthed and ignorant Parisians
do not know that Italy will not belong to us in reality until after the
restoration of peace, and that the Directory, even at the first dawn of
peace, will rule her from the mountains of Switzerland to the capes of
Calabria. Then, and only then, the Directory will be able to alter the
various governments of Italy, and for this very reason we have to attach
Austria to our cause by a treaty of peace. As soon as she has signed
it, she will no longer molest us: first, because she is our ally; and
principally because she will apprehend that we might take back from her
what we generously gave, in order to win her over to our side. The
war party at Vienna, however, will not submit without hoping for some
counter-revolution--a dream which the emigres and the diplomacy
of Pillnitz still cherishes with the utmost tenacity. [Footnote:
Bonaparte’s own words. See “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. iv., p.
578.] And these unreasonable gentlemen of the Directory want war and
revolution, and they dare to accuse me of selfish motives. Ah, I am
yearning for repose, for retirement--I feel exhausted and disgusted,
and shall for the third time send in my resignation, which the Directory
twice refused to accept.”
He had said all this in a subdued and rapid voice, apparently only
talking to himself--the only man worthy of learning the most secret
thoughts of his soul--and still with proud disdain toward him who could
overhear every word he said. He felt as though he were alone, and he
only spoke and consulted with himself, notwithstanding the secretary’s
presence.
Another long pause ensued. Bonaparte pacing the room once more with
rapid steps. Violent and impassioned feelings seemed to agitate his
breast; for his eyes became more lustrous, his cheeks were suffused with
an almost imperceptible blush, and he breathed heavily; as if oppressed
by the closeness of the room, and in want of fresh air, for he stepped
up to the window and opened it violently.
An expression of amazement escaped from his lips, for the landscape,
which yesterday was clad in the gorgeous hues of autumn, now offered an
entirely different aspect. Hoar-frost, dense and glittering, covered the
trees and the verdure of the meadows; and the Noric Alps, which crowned
the horizon with a majestic wreath, had adorned themselves during the
night with sparkling robes of snow and brilliant diadems of ice.
Bonaparte looked at the unexpected spectacle long and thoughtfully.
“What a country!” He then whispered, “Snow and ice in the first part
of October! Very well! we must make peace!” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own
words. Bourrienne, vol. 1., p. 313.]
He closed the window and returned to the desk.
“Give me the army register,” he said to Bourrienne, and took a seat at
his side.
Bourrienne laid the books and papers in succession before him, and
Bonaparte read and examined them with close attention.
“Yes,” he then said, after a long pause, “it is true, I have an army
of nearly eighty thousand men; I have to feed and pay them, but, on
the battle-field, I could not count on more than sixty thousand men.
I should win the battle, but lose again twenty thousand men in killed,
wounded, and prisoners. How, then, should I be able to resist the united
Austrian forces, which would hasten to the assistance of Vienna? It
would take the armies on the Rhine more than a month to come up in
supporting distance, and in the course of two weeks the snow will have
blocked up all roads and mountain-passes. I am determined, therefore, to
make peace. Venice must pay for the war, and the frontier of the
Rhine. The Directory and the learned lawyers may say what they
please.[Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--“Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,”
vol. iv., p. 558.] Write, Bourrienne, I will now dictate my reply.”
Bourrienne took his pen; Bonaparte arose from his seat, and folding his
arms on his breast, he resumed his promenade across the room, dictating
slowly and clearly, so that every word dropped from his lips like a
pearl, until gradually the course of his speech grew more rapid and
rolled along in an unbroken, fiery, and brilliant torrent.
“We shall sign the treaty of peace to-day,” he dictated, in his
imperious tone, “or break off the negotiations altogether. Peace will
be advantageous to us--war with Austria will injure us; but war with
England opens an extensive, highly important and brilliant field of
action to our arms.”
And now he explained to the Directory the advantages of a treaty of
peace with Austria, and of a war with England, with logical acuteness
and precision. His words were no less pointed and sharp than the edge of
his sword, and as brief, stern, and cold as the utterances of a Cato.
He then paused for a moment, not in order to collect his thoughts,
but only to give his secretary a few seconds’ rest, and to get a
breathing-spell for himself.
“Let us go on now,” he said, after a short interval, and dictated in an
enthusiastic voice, and with flaming eyes: “If I have been mistaken in
my calculations, my heart is pure, and my intentions are well meaning. I
have not listened to the promptings of glory, of vanity and ambition;
I have only regarded the welfare of the country and government. If they
should not approve of my actions and views, nothing is left to me but
to step back into the crowd, put on the wooden shoes of Cincinnatus,
and give an example of respect for the government, and of aversion to
military rule, which has destroyed so many republics, and annihilated
so many states.” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--“Memoires d’un Homme
d’Etat,” vol. iv., p. 558.]
“Are you through?” asked Bonaparte, drawing a long breath.
“Yes, general, I am.”
“Then take another sheet, my friend. We are going to write now to the
sly fox who generally perceives every hole where he may slip in, and
who has such an excellent nose that he scents every danger and every
advantage from afar. But this time he has lost the trail and is entirely
mistaken. I will, therefore, show him the way. ‘To Citizen Talleyrand,
Minister of Foreign Affairs.’ Did you write the address?”
“Yes, general.”
“Well, go on.”
And without stopping a single time, and even without hesitating,
Bonaparte dictated the following letter:
“In three or four hours, citizen minister, every thing will be
decided--peace or war. I confess that I shall do every thing to make
peace, in consequence of the advanced season and the slim prospect of
achieving important successes.”
“You know very little about the nations of the peninsula; they do not
deserve that forty thousand French soldiers should be killed for their
sake. I see from your letter that you always argue from unfounded
premises. You fancy that liberty would make a great impression upon a
lazy, superstitious, cowardly, and degraded people.”
“You ask me to do miracles, and I cannot perform them. Ever since I came
to Italy, the nation’s desire for liberty and equality was not my ally,
or at best it was but a very feeble one. Whatever is merely good to be
mentioned in proclamations and printed speeches is worth no more than a
novel.”
“Hoping that the negotiations will have a favorable issue, I do not
enter upon further details to enlighten you about many matters which
apparently have been misunderstood. Only by prudence, sagacity, and
determination we are able to realize great objects and surmount all
obstacles; otherwise all our efforts will prove unavailing. Frequently
there is but a single step from victory to ruin. In highly critical
times, I have always noticed that a mere nothing decided the most
important events.”
“It is characteristic of our nation to be too rash and fiery in
prosperity. If we adopt a sagacious policy, which is nothing but the
result of the calculation of combination and chances as a base for our
operations, we shall long remain the greatest nation and most powerful
state in Europe--nay, more, we shall hold the balance of power, we
shall make it incline wherever we desire, and if it were the will of
Providence, it would be no impossibility to achieve in the course of a
few years those great results which a glowing and excited imagination
perhaps foresees, but which only a man of extraordinary coolness,
perseverance, and prudence is able to accomplish if--” [Footnote:
“Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. iv., p. 581.]
Bonaparte paused suddenly as if he had been about to betray a profound
secret, and stopped exactly when it was not yet too late to keep it
buried within his own breast.
“It is enough,” he then said, “erase the last word and close the letter.
What makes you look at me so strangely, Bourrienne?”
“I beg your pardon, general, I had a vision. It seemed to me as if an
oriflamme were burning on your head, and I believe if all nations and
all men could behold you as I saw you just now, they would believe once
more in the fables of pagan mythology, and feel satisfied that Jove the
Thunderer had deigned to descend once more into our human world.”
Bonaparte smiled, and this smile lighted up his face, previously so
stern and rigid.
“You are a flatterer and a courtier,” he said, playfully pinching
Bourrienne’s ear so violently that the latter was scarcely able to
conceal a shriek of pain under a smile. “Yes, indeed, you are a regular
courtier, and the republic has done well to banish you, for flattery
is something very aristocratic, and injurious to our stiff republican
dignity. And what an idea, to compare me to Jove appearing on earth!
Don’t you know, then, you learned scholar and flatterer, that Jove,
whenever he descended from Olympus, was in pursuit of a very worldly and
entirely ungodly adventure? It would only remain for you to inform my
Josephine that I was about to transform myself into an ox for the sake
of some beautiful Europa, or drop down in the shape of a golden rain to
gain the love of a Danae.”
“General, the sagacious and spirited Josephine would believe the former
to be impossible, for even if you should succeed in performing all the
miracles of the world, you could never transform yourself into an ox.”
“What! you compared me a minute ago with Jove, and now you doubt already
whether I could accomplish what Jove has done!” exclaimed Bonaparte,
laughing. “Ah, flatterer, you see I have caught you in your own meshes.
But would my Josephine believe, then, that I could transform myself into
a golden rain for the purpose of winning a Danae, you arrant rogue?”
“Yes, general, but she always would take good care to be that Danae
herself.”
“Yes, indeed, you are right,” replied Bonaparte, laughing even louder
than before. “Josephine likes golden rains, and should they be ever so
violent, she would not complain; for if they should immerse her up to
the neck, in the course of a few hours she would have got rid of the
whole valuable flood.”
“Your wife is as liberal and generous as a princess, and that is the
reason why she spends so much money. She scatters her charities with
liberal hands.”
“Yes, Josephine has a noble and magnanimous heart,” exclaimed Napoleon,
and his large blue eyes assumed a mild and tender expression. “She is
a woman just as I like women--so gentle and good, so childlike and
playful, so tender and affectionate, so passionate and odd! And at the
same time so dignified and refined in her manners. Ah, you ought to
have seen her at Milan receiving the princes and noblesse in her
drawing-room. I assure you, my friend, the wife of little General
Bonaparte looked and bore herself precisely like a queen holding a
levee, and she was treated and honored as though she were one. Ah, you
ought to have seen it!”
“I DID see it, general. I was at Milan before coming here.”
“Ah, yes, that is true. I had forgotten it. You lucky fellow, you saw
my wife more recently than I did myself. Josephine is beautiful, is she
not? No young girl can boast of more freshness, more grace, innocence,
and loveliness. Whenever I am with her, I feel as contented, as happy
and tranquil as a man who, on a very warm day, is reposing in the shade
of a splendid myrtle-tree, and whenever I am far from her--”
Bonaparte paused, and a slight blush stole over his face. The young
lover of twenty-eight had triumphed for a moment over the stern,
calculating general, and the general was ashamed of it.
“This is no time to think of such things,” he said, almost indignantly.
“Seal the letters now, and dispatch a messenger to Paris. Ah,
Paris! Would to God I were again there in my little house in the Rue
Chantereine, alone and happy with Josephine! But in order to get there,
I must first make peace here--peace with Austria, with the Emperor of
Germany. Ah, I am afraid Germany will not be much elated by this treaty
of peace which her emperor is going to conclude, and by which she may
lose some of her most splendid fortresses on the Rhine.”
“And the Republic of Venice, general?”
“The Republic of Venice is about to disappear,” exclaimed Bonaparte,
frowning. “Venice has rendered herself unworthy of the name of a
republic--she is about to disappear.”
“General, the delegates of the republic were all day yesterday in your
anteroom, vainly waiting for an audience.”
“They will have to wait to-day likewise until I return from the
conference which is to decide about war or peace. In either case, woe
unto the Venetians! Tell them, Bourrienne, to wait until I return. And
now, my carriage. I cannot let the Austrian plenipotentiaries wait any
longer for my ultimatum.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE TREATY OF CAMPO FORMIO.
The Austrian plenipotentiaries were at the large Alberga of Udine,
waiting for General Bonaparte. Every thing was prepared for his
reception; the table was set, and the cooks were only looking for the
arrival of the French chieftain in order to serve up the magnificent
dejeuner with which to-day’s conference was to begin.
Count Louis Cobenzl and the Marquis de Gallo were in the dining-room,
standing at the window and looking at the scenery.
“It is cold to-day,” said Count Cobenzl, after a pause in the
conversation. “For my part, I like cold weather, for it reminds me of
the most memorable years of my life--of my sojourn at the court of
the Russian Semiramis. But you, marquis, are probably reminded by this
frosty weather even more sensibly of your beautiful Naples and the
glowing sun of the south. The chilly air must make you homesick.”
“That disease is unknown to me, count,” said the marquis. “I am at home
wherever I can serve my king and my country.”
“But to-day, my dear marquis, you have to serve a foreign prince.”
“Austria is the native country of my noble Queen Caroline,” said the
marquis, gravely, “and the empress is my king’s daughter. The Austrian
court, therefore, may command my whole power and ability.”
“I am afraid that we are going to have hard work to-day, marquis,”
remarked Count Cobenzl, gloomily. “This French general is really a
sans-culotte of the worst kind. He is entirely devoid of noblesse, bon
ton, and refinement.”
“My dear count, for my part I take this Bonaparte to be a very
long-headed man, and I am sure we must be greatly on our guard to be
able to wrest a few concessions from him.”
“Do you really believe that, marquis?” asked the count, with an
incredulous smile. “You did not see, then, how his marble face lighted
up when I handed him the other day that autograph letter from his
majesty the emperor? You did not see how he blushed with pleasure while
reading it? Oh, I noticed it, and, at that moment, I said to myself:
‘This republican bear is not insensible to the favors and affability
of the great.’ Flattery is a dish which he likes to eat; we will,
therefore, feed him with it, and he will be ours, and do whatever we may
want without even noticing it. The great Empress Catharine used to
say: ‘Bears are best tamed by sweetmeats, and republicans by titles and
decorations.’ Just see, marquis, how I am going to honor him! I let him
drink his chocolate to-day from my most precious relic from this cup
here, which the great empress gave to me, and which you see contains the
czarina’s portrait. Ah, it was at the last festival at the Ermitage that
she handed me the cup with chocolate, and, in order to give it its real
value, she touched the rim of the cup with her own sublime lips, sipped
of the chocolate, and then permitted me to drink where she had drunk.
This cup, therefore, is one of my most cherished reminiscences of
St. Petersburg, and little General Bonaparte may be very proud to
be permitted to drink from Catharine’s cup. Yes, yes, we will give
sweetmeats to the bear, but afterward he must dance just as we please.
We will not yield, but HE must yield to US. Our demands ought to be as
exorbitant as possible!”
“By straining a cord too much, you generally break it,” said the
Italian, thoughtfully. “General Bonaparte, I am afraid, will not consent
to any thing derogatory to the honor and dignity of France. Besides,
there is another bad feature about him--he is incorruptible, and even
the titles and decorations of the Empress Catharine would not have tamed
this republican. Let us proceed cautiously and prudently, count. Let us
demand much, but yield in time, and be content with something less in
order not to lose every thing.”
“Austria can only consent to a peace which extends her boundaries, and
enlarges her territory,” exclaimed Cobenzl, hastily.
“You are right, certainly,” replied the Marquis de Gallo, slowly; “but
Austria cannot intend to aggrandize herself at the expense of France.
What is that so-called Germany good for? Let Austria take from her
whatever she wants--a piece of Bavaria, a piece of Prussia--I would not
care if she even gave to France a piece of Germany, for instance the
frontier of the Rhine. In the name of Heaven, I should think that the
so-called German empire is decayed enough to permit us to break off a
few of its pieces.”
“You are very unmerciful toward the poor German empire,” said Count
Cobenzl, with a smile, “for you are no German, and owing to that, it
seems you are much better qualified to act as Austrian plenipotentiary
in this matter. Nevertheless it is odd and funny enough that in these
negotiations in which the welfare of Germany is principally at stake,
the Emperor of Germany should be represented by an Italian, and the
French Republic by a Corsican!”
“You omit yourself, my dear count,” said the marquis, politely. “You are
the real representative of the German emperor, and I perceive that the
emperor could not have intrusted the interests of Germany to better
hands. But as you have permitted me to act as your adviser, I would beg
you to remember that the welfare of Austria should precede the welfare
of Germany. And--but listen! a carriage is approaching.”
“It is General Bonaparte,” said Count Cobenzl, hastening to the window.
“Just see the splendid carriage in which he is coming. Six horses--four
footmen on the box, and a whole squadron of lancers escorting him! And
you believe this republican to be insensible to flattery? Ah, ha! we
will give sweetmeats to the bear! Let us go and receive him.”
He took the arm of the marquis, and both hastened to receive the
general, whose carriage had just stopped at the door.
The Austrian plenipotentiaries met Bonaparte in the middle of the
staircase and escorted him to the dining-room, where the dejeuner was
waiting for him.
But Bonaparte declined the dejeuner, in spite of the repeated and most
pressing requests of Count Cobenzl.
“At least take a cup of chocolate to warm yourself,” urged the count.
“Drink it out of this cup, general, and if it were only in order to
increase its value in my eyes. The Empress Catharine gave it to me, and
drank from it; and if you now use this cup likewise, I might boast of
possessing a cup from which the greatest man and the greatest woman of
this century have drunk!”
“I shall not drink, count!” replied Bonaparte, bluntly. “I will have
nothing in common with this imperial Messalina, who, by her dissolute
life, equally disgraced the dignity of the crown and of womanhood. You
see I am a strong-headed republican, who only understands to talk of
business. Let us, therefore, attend to that at once.”
Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down on the divan close to the
breakfast-table, and, with a rapid gesture, motioned the two gentlemen
to take seats at his side.
“I informed you of my ultimatum the day before yesterday,” said
Bonaparte, coldly; “have you taken it into consideration, and are you
going to accept it?”
This blunt and hasty question, so directly at the point, disconcerted
the two diplomatists.
“We will weigh and consider with you what can be done,” said Count
Cobenzl, timidly. “France asks too much and offers too little. Austria
is ready to cede Belgium to France, and give up Lombardy, but in return
she demands the whole territory of Venice, Mantua included.”
“Mantua must remain with the new Cisalpine Republic!” exclaimed
Bonaparte, vehemently. “That is one of the stipulations of my ultimatum,
and you seem to have forgotten it, count. And you say nothing about the
frontier of the Rhine, and of the fortress of Mentz, both of which I
have claimed for France.”
“But, general, the Rhine does not belong to Austria, and Mentz is
garrisoned by German troops. We cannot give away what does not belong to
us.”
“Do not I give Venice to you?” exclaimed Bonaparte--“Venice, which, even
at the present hour, is a sovereign state, and whose delegates are at my
headquarters, waiting for my reply! The Emperor of Germany has certainly
the right to give away a German fortress if he choose.”
“Well, Austria is not indisposed to cede the frontier of the Rhine to
France,” remarked the Marquis de Gallo. “Austria is quite willing and
ready to form a close alliance with France, in order to resist the
ambitious schemes of Prussia.”
“If Austria should acquire new territory in consequence of an
understanding with France, she must be sure that no such right of
aggrandizement should be granted to Prussia,” said Count Cobenzl,
hastily.
“France and Austria might pledge themselves in a secret treaty not to
permit any further aggrandizement of Prussia, but to give back to her
simply her former possessions on the Rhine,” said De Gallo.
“No digressions, if you please!” exclaimed Bonaparte, impatiently. “Let
us speak of my ultimatum. In the name of France, I have offered you
peace, provided the territories on the left bank of the Rhine with
their stipulated boundaries, including Mentz, be ceded to France, and
provided, further, that the Adige form the boundary-line between Austria
and the Cisalpine Republic, Mantua to belong to the latter. You
cede Belgium to France, but, in return, we give you the continental
possessions of Venice; only Corfu and the Ionian Islands are to fall to
the share of France, and the Adige is to form the frontier of Venetian
Austria.”
“I told you already, general,” said Count Cobenzl, with his most winning
smile, “we cannot accept the last condition. We must have Mantua,
likewise; in return, we give you Mentz; and not the Adige, but the Adda,
must be our frontier.”
“Ah! I see--new difficulties, new subterfuges!” exclaimed Bonaparte, and
his eyes darted a flash of anger at the diplomatist.
This angry glance, however, was parried by the polite smile of the
count. “I took the liberty of informing you likewise of OUR ultimatum,
general,” he said, gently, “and I am sorry to be compelled to declare
that I shall have to leave this place unless our terms be acceded to.
But in that case, I shall hold YOU responsible for the blood of the
thousands which may be shed in consequence.”
Bonaparte jumped up, with flaming eyes, and lips quivering with rage.
“You dare to threaten me!” he shouted, angrily. “You resort to
subterfuge after subterfuge. Then you are determined to have war? Very
well, you shall have it.”
He extended his arm hastily and seized the precious cup which the
Empress Catharine had given to Count Cobenzl, and, with an impetuous
motion, hurled it to the ground, where it broke to pieces with a loud
crash.
“See there!” he shouted in a thundering voice. “Your Austrian monarchy
shall be shattered like this cup within less than three months. I
promise you that.”
Without deigning to cast another glance upon the two gentlemen, he
hurried with rapid steps to the door, and left the room.
Pale with anger and dismay, Count Cobenzl stared at the debris of the
precious cup, which so long had been the pride and joy of his heart.
“He is leaving,” muttered the Marquis de Gallo. “Shall we let him go,
count?”
“How is that bear to be kept here?” asked the count, sighing, and
shrugging his shoulders.
At this moment Bonaparte’s powerful voice was heard in the anteroom,
calling out:
“An orderly--quick!”
“He calls out of the window,” whispered the marquis. “Let us hear what
he has got to say.”
The two plenipotentiaries slipped on tiptoe to the window, cautiously
peeping from behind the curtains. They saw a French lancer galloping up
below, and stopping and saluting under the window of the adjoining room.
Again they heard Bonaparte’s thundering voice. “Ride over to the
headquarters of Archduke Charles,” shouted Bonaparte. “Tell him on
my behalf that the armistice is at an end, and that hostilities will
recommence from the present hour. That is all. Depart!”
Then they heard him close the window with a crash, and walk with loud
steps through the anteroom.
The two plenipotentiaries looked at each other in dismay. “Count,”
whispered the marquis, “listen! he leaves and has threatened to shatter
Austria. He is the man to fulfil his threat. My God, must we suffer him
to depart in anger? Have you been authorized to do that?”
“Will you try to command the storm to stand still?” asked Count Cobenzl.
“Yes, I will try, for we must not break off the negotiations in this way
and recommence hostilities. We must conciliate this terrible warrior!”
He rushed out of the room, and hastened through the anteroom and
down-stairs to the front door.
Bonaparte had already entered his carriage; his escort had formed in
line, the driver had seized the reins and whip in order to give the
impatient horses the signal to start.
At this moment, the pale and humble face of the Marquis de Gallo
appeared at the carriage door. Bonaparte did not seem to see him.
Leaning back into the cushions, he gloomily looked up to heaven.
“General,” said the marquis, imploringly, “I beseech you not to depart!”
“Marquis,” replied Bonaparte, shrugging his shoulders, “it does not
become me to remain peaceably among my enemies. War has been declared,
for you have not accepted my ultimatum.”
“But, general, I take the liberty to inform you that the Austrian
plenipotentiaries have resolved to accept your ultimatum.” Bonaparte’s
marble countenance did not betray the slightest emotion of surprise and
joy; his large eyes only cast a piercing glance upon the marquis.
“You accept it without subterfuge or reserve?” he asked, slowly.
“Yes, general, precisely as you have stated it. We are ready to sign the
treaty of peace, and accept the ultimatum. Just be kind enough to alight
once more, and continue the conference with us.”
“No, sir,” said Bonaparte, “nulla vestigia retrorsam! Being already in
my carriage, I shall not return to you. Besides, the delegates of the
Venetian Republic are waiting for me at Passeriano, and I believe it
is time for me to inform them too of my ultimatum. At the end of
three hours, I ask you, marquis, and Count Cobenzl to proceed to my
headquarters at Passeriano. There we will take the various stipulations
of the treaty into consideration, and agree upon the public and secret
articles.”
“But you forget, general, that your orderly is already on the way to
the Austrian headquarters in order to announce the reopening of
hostilities.”
“That is true,” said Napoleon, quietly. “Here, two orderlies. Follow the
first orderly, and command him to return. You see, marquis, I believe in
the sincerity of your assurances. In three hours, then, I shall expect
you at Passeriano for the purpose of settling the details of the treaty.
We shall sign it, however, on neutral ground. Do you see that tall
building on the horizon?”
“Yes, general, it is the decayed old castle of Campo Formio.”
“Well, in that castle, the treaty shall be signed. In three hours, then.
Until then, farewell.”
He nodded carelessly to the marquis, who, as humble as a vassal, at
the feet of the throne, stood at the carriage door, constantly bowing
deeply, and waving his plumed hat.
“Forward!” shouted Bonaparte, and the carriage, followed by a brilliant
suite, rolled away. Bonaparte, carelessly leaning into the corner,
muttered, with a stealthy smile: “It was a coup de theatre, and it
had evidently great success. They had to accept peace at my hands as a
favor. Ah, if they had guessed how much I needed it myself! But these
men are obtuse; they cannot see any thing. They have no aim; they only
live from minute to minute, and whenever they find a precipice on their
route, they stumble over it, and are lost beyond redemption. My God, how
scarce real men are! There are eighteen millions in Italy, and I have
scarcely found two men among them. I want to save these two men, but the
rest may fulfil their destiny. The Republic of Venice shall disappear
from the earth--this cruel and bloodthirsty government shall be
annihilated. We shall throw it as a prey to hungry Austria; but when the
latter has devoured her, and stretched herself in the lazy languor of
digestion, then it will be time for us to stir up Austria. Until then,
peace with Austria--peace!”
Three hours later the treaty between Austria and France was signed
at the old castle of Campo Formio. France, by this treaty, acquired
Belgium, the left bank of the Rhine, and the fortress of Monte. Austria
acquired the Venetian territory. But to these acquisitions, which were
published, secret articles were added. In these secret articles, France
promised, in case Prussia should demand an enlargement of her dominions,
like Austria, not to consent to it.
The Emperor of Austria, on his part, pledged himself to withdraw his
troops, even before the conclusion of the treaty with the German empire,
to be agreed upon at Rastadt, from all the fortresses on the Rhine--in
other words, to surrender the German empire entirely to its French
neighbors.
Austria had enlarged her territory, but, for this aggrandizement,
Germany was to pay with her blood, and finally with her life. Austria
had made peace with France at Campo Formio, and it was stipulated in
the treaty that the German empire likewise should conclude peace with
France. For this purpose, a congress was to meet at Rastadt; all German
princes were to send their ambassadors to that fortress, in order to
settle, jointly, with three representatives of the French Republic, the
fate of the empire.
CHAPTER IX.
QUEEN LOUISA.
The most noble Countess von Voss, mistress of ceremonies at the court
of Prussia, was pacing the anteroom of Queen Louisa in the most excited
manner. She wore the regular court dress--a long black robe and a large
cap of black crape. In her white hands, half covered with black silk
gloves, she held a gorgeous fan, which she now impatiently opened and
closed, and then again slowly moved up and down like a musical leader’s
baton.
If anybody had been present to observe her, the noble mistress of
ceremonies would not have permitted herself such open manifestations
of her impatience. Fortunately, however, she was quite alone, and under
these circumstances even a mistress of ceremonies at the royal court
might feel at liberty to violate the rules of that etiquette which on
all other occasions was the noble lady’s most sacred gospel. Etiquette,
however, was just now the motive of her intense excitement, and in its
interest she was going to fight a battle on that very spot in Queen
Louisa’s anteroom.
“Now or never!” she murmured. “What I was at liberty to overlook as long
as Frederick William and Louisa were merely ‘their royal highnesses, the
crown prince and crown princess,’ I cannot permit any longer now that
they have ascended the royal throne. Hence I am determined to speak
to the young king on this first day of his reign [Footnote: footnote:
November 17, 1797.] in as emphatic and sincere a manner as is required
by a faithful discharge of my responsible duties.”
Just at that moment the large folding doors were opened, and a tall and
slender young man in a dashing uniform entered the room. It was young
King Frederick William III., on his return from the interior palace-yard
where he had received the oath of allegiance at the hands of the
generals of the monarchy.
The noble and youthful countenance of this king of twenty-seven years
was grave and stern, but from his large blue eyes the kindness and
gentleness of his excellent heart was beaming, and his handsome and
good-natured features breathed a wonderful spirit of serenity and
sympathy.
He crossed the room with rapid and noiseless steps, and, politely bowing
to the mistress of ceremonies, approached the opposite door. But the
mistress of ceremonies, evidently anxious to prevent him from opening
that door, placed herself in front of it and gravely said to him:
“Your majesty, it is impossible. I cannot permit etiquette to be
violated in this manner, and I must beg your majesty to inform me most
graciously of what you are going to do in these rooms?”
“Well,” said the king, with a pleasant smile, “I am going to do to-day
what I am in the habit of doing every day at this hour--I am going to
pay a visit to my wife.”
“To your WIFE!” exclaimed the mistress of ceremonies, in dismay. “But,
your majesty, a king has no WIFE!”
“Ah! in that case a king would be a very wretched being,” said the king,
smiling, “and, for my part, I would sooner give up my crown than my
beloved wife.”
“Good Heaven, your majesty, you may certainly have a wife, but let me
implore you not to apply that vulgar name to her majesty in the presence
of other people. It is contrary to etiquette and injurious to the
respect due to royalty.”
“My dear countess,” said the young king, gravely, “I believe, on the
contrary, that it will only increase the respect which people will feel
for us, if her majesty remains a woman in the noblest and truest meaning
of the word, and my wife--I beg your pardon, I was going to say the
queen--is such a woman. And now, my dear countess, permit me to go to
her.”
“No,” exclaimed the mistress of ceremonies, resolutely. “Your majesty
must first condescend to listen to me. For an hour already I have been
waiting here for your majesty’s arrival, and you must now graciously
permit me to speak to you as frankly and sincerely as is required by my
duty and official position.”
“Well, I will listen to you, my dear countess,” said the king, with an
inaudible sigh.
“Your majesty,” said the mistress of ceremonies, “I consider it my duty
to beseech your majesty on this memorable day to confer upon me the
power of enforcing the privileges of my office with more severity and
firmness.”
“And to submit myself to your sceptre. That is what you want me to do, I
suppose, dear countess?” asked the king, smiling.
“Sire, at all events it is impossible to keep up the dignity and majesty
of royalty if the king and queen themselves openly defy the laws of
etiquette.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the king, sharply, “not a word against the queen, if you
please, my dear mistress of ceremonies! You may accuse me just as much
as you please, but pray let me hear no more complaints about my Louisa!
Well, then, tell me now what new derelictions I have been guilty of.”
“Sire,” said the countess, who did not fail to notice the almost
imperceptible smile playing on the king’s lips--“sire, I perceive that
your majesty is laughing at me; nevertheless, I deem it incumbent on me
to raise my warning voice. Etiquette is something sublime and holy--it
is the sacred wall separating the sovereign from his people. If that
ill-starred queen, Marie Antoinette, had not torn down this wall, she
would probably have met with a less lamentable end.”
“Ah! countess, you really go too far; you even threaten me with the
guillotine,” exclaimed the king, good-naturedly. “Indeed, I am afraid I
must have committed a great crime against etiquette. Tell me, therefore,
where you wish to see a change, and I pledge you my word I shall grant
your request if it be in my power to do so.”
“Sire,” begged the mistress of ceremonies, in a low and impressive
voice, “let me implore you to be in your palace less of a father and
husband, and more of a king, at least in the presence of others. It
frequently occurs that your majesty, before other people, addresses
the queen quite unceremoniously with ‘thou,’ nay, your majesty even in
speaking of her majesty to strangers or servants, often briefly calls
the queen ‘my wife.’ Sire, all that might be overlooked in the modest
family circle and house of a crown prince, but it can-not be excused in
the palace of a king.”
“Then,” asked the king, smiling, “this house of mine has been
transformed into a palace since yesterday?”
“Assuredly, sire, you do not mean to say that you will remain in this
humble house after your accession to the throne?” exclaimed the mistress
of ceremonies, in dismay.
“Now tell me sincerely, my dear countess, cannot we remain in this
house?”
“I assure your majesty it is altogether out of the question. How would
it be possible to keep up the court of a king and queen in so small a
house with becoming dignity? The queen’s household has to be largely
increased; hereafter we must have four ladies of honor, four ladies of
the bedchamber, and other servants in the same pro-portion. According
to the rules of etiquette, Sire, you must like-wise enlarge your own
household. A king must have two adjutant-generals, four chamberlains,
four gentlemen of the bedchamber, and--”
“Hold on,” exclaimed the king, smiling, “MY household fortunately
does not belong to the department of the mistress of ceremonies, and
therefore we need not allude to it. As to your other propositions and
wishes, I shall take them into consideration, for I hope you are through
now.”
“No, your majesty, I am not. I have to mention a good many other things,
and I must do so to-day--my duty requires it,” said the mistress of
ceremonies, in a dignified manner.
The king cast a wistful glance toward the door.
“Well, if your duty requires it, you may proceed,” he said, with a loud
sigh.
“I must beseech your majesty to assist me in the discharge of my onerous
duties. If the king and queen themselves will submit to the rigorous
and just requirements of etiquette, I shall be able to compel the whole
court likewise strictly to adhere to those salutary rules. Nowadays,
however, a spirit of innovation and disinclination to observe the
old-established ceremonies and customs, which deeply afflicts me, and
which I cannot but deem highly pernicious, is gaining ground everywhere.
It has even now infected the ladies and gentlemen of the court. And
having often heard your majesty, in conversation with her majesty the
queen, contrary to etiquette, use the vulgar German language instead
of the French tongue, which is the language of the courts throughout
Germany, they believe they have a perfect right to speak German whenever
they please. Yes, it has become a regular custom among them to salute
each other at breakfast with a German ‘Guten Morgen!’ [Footnote: Vide
Ludwig Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol, ii.] That is an innovation
which should not be permitted to anybody, without first obtaining the
consent of her majesty’s mistress of ceremonies and your majesty’s
master of ceremonies.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the king, gravely, “as to this point, I
altogether differ from you. No etiquette should forbid German gentlemen
or German ladies to converse in their mother tongue, and it is unnatural
and mere affectation to issue such orders. In order to become fully
conscious of their national dignity, they should especially value and
love their own language, and no longer deign to use in its place the
tongue of a people who have shed the blood of their king and queen, and
whose deplorable example now causes all thrones to tremble. Would to God
that the custom of using the German language would become more and more
prevalent at my court, for it behooves Germans to feel and think and
speak like Germans; and that will also be the most reliable bulwark
against the bloody waves of the French Republic, in case it should
desire to invade Germany. Now you know my views, my dear mistress of
ceremonies, and if your book of ceremonies prescribes that all court
officers should converse in French, I request you to expunge that
article and to insert in its place the following: ‘Prussia, being a
German state, of course everybody is at liberty to speak German.’ This
will also be the rule at court, except in the presence of persons not
familiar with the German language. Pray don’t forget that, my dear
countess, and now, being so implacable a guardian of that door, and of
the laws of etiquette, I request you to go to her majesty the queen, and
ask her if I may have the honor of waiting upon her majesty. I should
like to present my respects to her majesty; and I trust she will
graciously grant my request.” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--Vide
Charakterzuge und Historische Fragmente aus dem Leben des Konigs von
Preussen, Friedrich Wilhelm III. Gesammelt und herausgegeben von B. Fr.
Eylert, Bishop, u.s.w. Th. ii., p. 21.] The mistress of ceremonies
bowed deeply, her face radiant with joy, and then rapidly entered the
adjoining room.
The king looked after her for a moment, with a peculiar smile.
“She has to pass through six large rooms before reaching Louisa’s
boudoir,” he murmured: “this door, however, directly leads to her
through the small hall and the other anteroom. That is the shortest road
to her, and I shall take it.”
Without hesitating any longer, the king hastily opened the small side
door, slipped through the silent hall and across the small anteroom, and
knocked at the large and heavily-curtained door.
A sweet female voice exclaimed, “Come in!” and the king immediately
opened the door. A lady in deep mourning came to meet him, extending her
hands toward him.
“Oh, my heart told me that it was you, my dearest!” she exclaimed, and
her glorious blue eyes gazed upon him with an indescribable expression
of impassioned tenderness.
The king looked at her with a dreamy smile, quite absorbed in her
aspect. And indeed it was a charming and beautiful sight presented by
this young queen of twenty years.
Her blue eyes were beaming in the full fire of youth, enthusiasm, and
happiness; a sweet smile was always playing on her finely-formed mouth,
with the ripe cherry lips. On both sides of her slightly-blushing cheeks
her splendid auburn hair was flowing down in waving ringlets; her noble
and pure forehead arose above a nose of classical regularity, and her
figure, so proud and yet so charming, so luxuriant and yet so chaste,
full of true royal dignity and winning womanly grace, was in complete
harmony with her lovely and youthful features.
“Well?” asked the queen, smiling. “Not a word of welcome from you, my
beloved husband?”
“I only say to you, God bless you on your new path, and may He preserve
you to me as long as I live!” replied the king, deeply moved, and
embracing his queen with gushing tenderness.
She encircled his neck with her soft, white arms, and leaned her head
with a happy smile upon his shoulder. Thus they reposed in each other’s
arms, silent in their unutterable delight, solemnly moved in the
profound consciousness of their eternal and imperishable love.
Suddenly they were interrupted in their blissful dream by a low cry,
and when they quickly turned around in a somewhat startled manner, they
beheld the Countess von Voss, mistress of ceremonies, standing in the
open door, and gloomily gazing upon them.
The king could not help laughing.
“Do you see now, my dear countess?” he said. “My wife and I see each
other without any previous interruption as often as we want to do so,
and that is precisely as it ought to be in a Christian family. But you
are a charming mistress of ceremonies, and hereafter we will call you
Dame d’Etiquette. [Footnote: The king’s own words.--Vide Eylert, part
ii., p. 98.] Moreover, I will comply with your wishes as much as I can.”
He kindly nodded to her, and the mistress of ceremonies, well aware of
the meaning of this nod, withdrew with a sigh, closing the door as she
went out.
The queen looked up to her husband with a smile.
“Was it again some quarrel about etiquette?” she asked.
“Yes, and a quarrel of the worst kind,” replied the king, quickly. “The
mistress of ceremonies demands that I should always be announced to you
before entering your room, Louisa.”
“Oh, you are always announced here,” she exclaimed, tenderly; “my
heart always indicates your approach--and that herald is altogether
sufficient, and it pleases me much better than the stern countenance of
our worthy mistress of ceremonies.”
“It is the herald of my happiness,” said the king, fervently, laying his
arm upon his wife’s shoulder, and gently drawing her to his heart.
“Do you know what I am thinking of just now?” asked the queen, after a
short pause. “I believe the mistress of ceremonies will get up a large
number of new rules, and lecture me considerably about the duties of a
queen in regard to the laws of etiquette.”
“I believe you are right,” said the king, smiling.
“But I don’t believe she is right!” exclaimed the queen, and, closely
nestling in her husband’s arms, she added: “Tell me, my lord and king,
inasmuch as this is the first time that you come to me as a king, have I
not the right to ask a few favors of you, and to pray you to grant my
requests?”
“Yes, you have that right, my charming queen,” said the king, merrily; “and
I pledge you my word that your wishes shall be fulfilled, whatever they
may be.”
“Well, then,” said the queen, joyfully, “there are four wishes that I
should like you to grant. Come, sit down here by my side, on this small
sofa, put your arm around my waist, and, that I may feel that I am
resting under your protection, let me lean my head upon your shoulder,
like the ivy supporting itself on the trunk of the strong oak. And now
listen to my wishes. In the first place, I want you to allow me to be a
wife and mother in my own house, without any restraint whatever, and
to fulfil my sacred duties as such without fear and without regard to
etiquette. Do you grant this wish?”
“Most cordially and joyfully, in spite of all mistresses of ceremonies!”
replied the king.
The queen nodded gently and smiled. “Secondly,” she continued, “I beg
you, my beloved husband, on your own part, not to permit etiquette to do
violence to your feelings toward me, and always to call me, even in the
presence of others, your ‘wife,’ and not ‘her majesty the queen.’ Will
you grant that, too, my dearest friend?”
The king bent over her and kissed her beautiful hair.
“Louisa,” he whispered, “you know how to read my heart, and, generous as
you always are, you pray me to grant what is only my own dearest wish.
Yes, Louisa, we will always call each other by those most honorable of
our titles, ‘husband and wife.’ And now, your third wish, my dear wife?”
“Ah, I have some fears about this third wish of mine,” sighed the queen,
looking up to her husband with a sweet smile. “I am afraid you cannot
grant it, and the mistress of ceremonies, perhaps, was right when she
told me etiquette would prevent you from complying with it.”
“Ah, the worthy mistress of ceremonies has lectured you also today
already?” asked the king, laughing.
The queen nodded. “She has communicated to me several important sections
from the ‘book of ceremonies,’” she sighed. “But all that shall not
deter me from mentioning my third wish to you. I ask you, my Frederick,
to request the king to permit my husband to live as plainly and modestly
as heretofore. Let the king give his state festivals in the large royal
palace of his ancestors--let him receive in those vast and gorgeous
halls the homage of his subjects, and the visits of foreign princes, and
let the queen assist him on such occasions. But these duties of royalty
once attended to, may we not be permitted, like all others, to go home,
and in the midst of our dear little family circle repose after the
fatiguing pomp and splendor of the festivities? Let us not give up our
beloved home for the large royal palace! Do not ask me to leave a house
in which I have passed the happiest and finest days of my life. See,
here in these dear old rooms of mine, every thing reminds me of you, and
whenever I am walking through them, the whole secret history of our love
and happiness stands again before my eyes. Here, in this room, we saw
each other for the first time after my arrival in Berlin, alone and
without witnesses. Here you imprinted the first kiss upon your wife’s
lips, and, like a heavenly smile, it penetrated deep into my soul, and
it has remained in my heart like a little guardian angel of our love.
Since that day, even in the fullest tide of happiness, I always feel so
devout and grateful to God; and whenever you kiss me, the little angel
in my heart is praying for you, and whenever I am praying, he kisses
you.”
“Oh, Louisa, you are my angel--my guardian angel!” exclaimed the king,
enthusiastically.
The queen apparently did not notice this interruption--she was entirely
absorbed in her recollections. “On this sofa here,” she said, “we were
often seated in fervent embrace like to-day and when every thing around
us was silent, our hearts spoke only the louder to each other, and often
have I heard here from your lips the most sublime and sacred revelations
of your noble, pure, and manly soul. In my adjoining cabinet, you were
once standing at the window, gloomy and downcast; a cloud was covering
your brow, and I knew you had heard again sorrowful tidings in your
father’s palace. But no complaint ever dropped from your lips, for you
always were a good and dutiful son, and even to me you never alluded to
your father’s failings. I knew what you were suffering, but I knew also
that at that hour I had the power to dispel all the clouds from your
brow, and to make your eyes radiant with joy and happiness. Softly
approaching you, I laid my arm around your neck, and my head on your
breast, and thereupon I whispered three words which only God and my
husband’s ears were to hear. And you heard them, and you uttered a loud
cry of joy, and before I knew how it happened, I saw you on your knees
before me, kissing my feet and the hem of my garment, and applying a
name to me that sounded like heavenly music, and made my heart overflow
with ecstasy and suffused my cheeks with a deep blush. And I don’t know
again how it happened, but I felt that I was kneeling by your side,
and we were lifting up our folded hands to heaven, thanking God for the
great bliss He had vouchsafed to us, and praying Him to bless our child,
unknown to us as yet, but already so dearly beloved. Oh, and last, my
own Frederick, do you remember that other hour in my bedroom? You were
sitting at my bedside, with folded hands, praying, and yet, during
your prayer, gazing upon me, while I was writhing with pain, and yet
so supremely happy in my agony, for I knew that Nature at that hour was
about to consecrate me for my most exalted and sacred vocation, and that
God would bless our love with a visible pledge of our happiness. The
momentous hour was at hand--a film covered my eyes, and I could only see
the Holy Virgin surrounded by angels, on Guido Reni’s splendid painting,
opposite my bed. Suddenly a dazzling flash seemed to penetrate the
darkness surrounding me, and through the silence of the room there
resounded a voice that I had never heard before--the voice of my child.
And at the sound of that voice I saw the angels descending from the
painting and approaching my bedside in order to kiss me, and the Mother
of God bent over me with a heavenly smile, exclaiming: ‘Blessed is the
wife who is a mother!’ My consciousness left me--I believe my ineffable
happiness made me faint.”
“Yes, you fainted, beloved wife,” said the king, gently nodding to
her; “but the swoon had not dispelled the smile from your lips, nor
the expression of rapturous joy from your features. You lay there as if
overwhelmed with joy and fascinated by your ecstatic bliss. Knowing that
you were inexpressibly happy, I felt no fear whatever--”
“Well, I awoke soon again,” added the queen, joyfully. “I had no time to
spare for a long swoon, for a question was burning in my heart. I turned
my eyes toward you--you were standing in the middle of the room, holding
the babe that, in its new little lace dress, had just been laid into
your arms. My heart now commenced beating in my breast like a hammer. I
looked at you, but my lips were not strong enough to utter the question.
However, you understood me well enough, and drawing close to my bedside,
and kneeling down and laying the babe into my arms, you said, in a voice
which I shall never forget, ‘Louisa, give your blessing to your son!’
Ah, at that moment it seemed as if my ecstasy would rend my breast. I
had to utter a loud scream, or I should have died from joy. ‘A son!’ I
cried, ‘I have given birth to a son!’ And I drew my arms around you and
the babe, and we wept tears--oh, such tears--”
She paused, overwhelmed with emotion, and burst into tears.
“Ah!” she whispered, deprecatingly, “I am very foolish--you will laugh
at me.”
But the king did not laugh, for his eyes also were moist; only he was
ashamed of his tears and kept them back in his eyes. A pause ensued, and
the queen laid her head upon the shoulder of her husband, who had drawn
his arm around her waist. All at once she raised her head, and fixing
her large and radiant eyes upon the deeply-moved face of the king, she
asked: “My Frederick, can we leave a house in which I bore you a son and
crown prince? Will we give up our most sacred recollections for the sake
of a large and gorgeous royal palace?”
“No, we will not,” said the king, pressing his wife closer to his heart.
“No, we will remain in this house of ours--we will not leave it. Our
happiness has grown and prospered here, and here it shall bloom and bear
fruit. Your wish shall be fulfilled; we will continue living here as
man and wife, and if the king and queen have to give festivals and to
receive numerous guests, then they will go over to the palace to comply
with their royal duties, but in the evening they will return to their
happy home.”
“Oh, my friend, my beloved friend, how shall I thank you?” exclaimed the
queen, encircling his neck with her arms, and imprinting a glowing kiss
upon his lips.
“But now, dear wife, let me know your fourth wish,” said the king,
holding her in his arms. “I hope your last wish is a real one, and
not merely calculated to render ME happy, but one that also concerns
yourself?”
“Oh, my fourth wish only concerns myself,” said the queen, with an arch
smile. “I can confide it to you, to you alone, and you must promise
to keep it secret, and not to say a word about it to the mistress of
ceremonies.”
“I promise it most readily, dear Louisa.”
“Well,” said the queen, placing her husband’s hand upon her heart, and
gently stroking it with her fingers. “I believe during the coming winter
we shall often have to be king and queen. Festivals will be given to us,
and we shall have to give others in return; the country will do homage
to the new sovereign, and the nobility will solemnly take the oath of
allegiance to him. Hence there will be a great deal of royal pomp,
but very little enjoyment for us during the winter. Well, I will not
complain, but endeavor, to the best of my ability, to do honor to my
exalted position by your side. In return, however, my beloved lord and
friend--in return, next summer, when the roses are blooming, you must
give me a day--a day that is to belong exclusively to myself; and on
that day we will forget the cares of royalty, and only remember that we
are a pair of happy young lovers. Of course, we shall not spend that day
in Berlin, nor in Parez either; but like two merry birds, we will fly
far, far away to my home in Mecklenburg, to the paradise of my early
years--to the castle of Hohenzieritz; and no one shall know any thing
about it. Without being previously announced, we will arrive there, and
in the solitude of the old house and garden we will perform a charming
little idyl. On that day you only belong to me, and to nobody else. On
that day I am your wife and sweetheart and nothing else, and I shall
provide amusement and food for you. Yes, dearest Frederick, I shall
prepare your meals all alone, and set the table and carve for you. Oh,
dear, dear friend; give me such a day, such an idyl of happiness!”
“I give it to you and to myself, most joyfully; and let me confess,
Louisa, I wish the winter were over already, and the morning of that
beautiful day were dawning.”
“Thanks--thousand thanks!” exclaimed the queen, enthusiastically. “Let
the stiff and ceremonious days come now, and the sneaking, fawning
courtiers and the incense of flattery. Through all the mist I shall
constantly inhale the sweet fragrance of the roses of the future, and on
the stiff gala-days I shall think of the idyl of that day that will dawn
next summer and compensate me for all the annoyances and fatigues of
court life.”
The king placed his right hand on her head, as if to bless her, and with
his left, lifted up her face that was reposing on his breast. “And you
really think, you charming, happy angel, that I do not understand you?”
he asked, in a low voice. “Do you think I do not feel and know that you
want to offer me this consolation and to comfort me by the hope of
such a blissful day for the intervening time of care, fatigue, and
restlessness? Oh, my dear Louisa, you need no such consolation, for God
has intended you for a queen, and even the burdens and cares of your
position will only surround you like enchanting genii. You know at all
times how to find the right word and the right deed, and the Graces have
showered upon you the most winning charms to fascinate all hearts, in
whatever you may be doing. On the other hand, I am awkward and ill at
ease. I know it only too well; my unhappy childhood, grief and cares of
all kinds, have rendered my heart reserved and bashful. Perhaps I am not
always lacking right ideas, but I fail only too often to find the right
word for what I think and feel. Hereafter, my dear Louisa, frequent
occasions will arise when you will have to speak for both of us. By
means of your irresistible smile and genial conversation you will have
to win the hearts of people, while I shall be content if I can only win
their heads.”
“Shall I be able to win their hearts?” asked the queen, musingly. “Oh,
assist me, my dearest friend. Tell me what I have to do in order to be
beloved by my people.”
“Remain what you are, Louisa,” said the king, gravely--“always remain
as charming, graceful, and pure as I beheld you on the most glorious two
days of my life, and as my inward eye always will behold you. Oh, I also
have some charming recollections, and although I cannot narrate them in
words as fascinating and glowing as yours, yet they are engraved no less
vividly on my mind, and, like beautiful genii, accompany me everywhere.
Only before others they are bashful and reticent like myself.”
“Let me hear them, Frederick,” begged the queen, tenderly leaning her
beautiful head on her husband’s shoulder. “Let us devote another hour to
the recollections of the past.”
“Yes, let another hour be devoted to the memories of past times,”
exclaimed the king, “for can there be any thing more attractive for me
than to think of you and of that glorious hour when I saw you first?
Shall I tell you all about it, Louisa?”
“Oh, do so, my beloved friend. Your words will sound to me like some
beautiful piece of music that one likes better and understands better
the more it is heard. Speak, then, Frederick, speak.”
CHAPTER X.
THE KING’S RECOLLECTIONS.
“Well,” said the king, “whenever I look back into the past, every thing
seems to me covered with a gray mist, through which only two stars and
two lights are twinkling. The stars are your eyes, and the lights are
the two days I alluded to before--the day on which I saw you for the
first time, and the day on which you arrived in Berlin. Oh, Louisa,
never shall I forget that first day! I call it the first day, because
it was the first day of my real life. It was at Frankfort-on-the-Main,
during the campaign on the Rhine. My father, the king, accompanied by
myself, returned the visit that the Duke of Mecklenburg, your excellent
father, had paid on the previous day. We met in a small and unpretending
villa, situated in the midst of a large garden. The two sovereigns
conversed long and seriously, and I was listening to them, in silence.
This silence was, perhaps, disagreeable to my father the king.”
“‘What do you think, your Highness?’ he suddenly asked your father.
‘While we are talking about the military operations, will we not permit
the young gentleman there to wait upon the ladies? As soon as we are
through, I shall ask you to grant me the same privilege.’”
“The duke readily assented, and calling the footman waiting in the
anteroom, he ordered him to go with me to the ladies and to announce my
visit to them. Being in the neighborhood of the seat of war, you know,
little attention was paid to ceremonies. I followed the footman, who
told me the ladies were in the garden, whither he conducted me. We
walked through a long avenue and a number of side-paths. The footman,
going before me, looked around in every direction without being able
to discover the whereabouts of the ladies. Finally, at a bend in
the avenue, we beheld a bower in the distance, and something white
fluttering in it.”
“‘Ah, there is Princess Louisa,’ said the footman, turning to me, and
he then rapidly walked toward her. I followed him slowly and listlessly,
and when he came back and told me Princess Louisa was ready to receive
me, I was perhaps yet twenty yards from the rose-bower. I saw there a
young lady rising from her seat, and accelerated my steps. Suddenly my
heart commenced pulsating as it never had done before, and it seemed to
me as if a door were bursting open in my heart and making it free, and
as if a thousand voices in my soul were singing and shouting, ‘There
she is! There is the lady of your heart!’ The closer I approached, the
slower grew my steps, and I saw you standing in the entrance of the
bower in a white dress, loosely covering your noble and charming figure,
a gentle smile playing on your pure, sweet face, golden ringlets flowing
down both sides of your rosy cheeks, and your head wreathed with the
full and fragrant roses which seemed to bend down upon you from the
bower in order to kiss and adorn you, your round white arms only half
covered with clear lace sleeves, and a full-blown rose in your right
hand which you had raised to your waist. And seeing you thus before me,
I believed I had been removed from earth, and it seemed to me I beheld
an angel of innocence and beauty, through whose voice Heaven wished to
greet me. [Footnote: Goethe saw the young princess at the same time, and
speaks of her “divine beauty.”] At last I stood close before you, and in
my fascination I entirely forgot to salute you. I only looked at you.
I only heard those jubilant voices in my heart, singing, ‘There is
your wife--the wife you will love now and forever!’ It was no maudling
sentimentality, but a clear and well-defined consciousness which, like
an inspiration, suddenly moistened my eyes with tears of joy. [Footnote:
The king’s own words, vide Bishop Eylert’s work, vol. ii., p. 22.]
Oh, Louisa, why am I no painter to perpetuate that sublime moment in a
beautiful and glorious picture? But what I cannot do, shall be tried
by others. A true artist shall render and eternize that moment for me,
[Footnote: This painting was afterward executed, and may now be seen at
the royal palace of Berlin. The whole account of the first meeting of
the two lovers is based upon the communication the king made himself to
Bishop Eylert] so that one day when we are gone, our son may look up to
the painting and say: ‘Such was my mother when my father first saw her.
He believed he beheld an angel, and he was not mistaken, for she was the
guardian angel of his whole life.’”
“Oh! you make me blush--you make me too happy, too happy!” exclaimed the
queen, closing her husband’s lips with a burning kiss.
“Don’t praise me too much, lest I should become proud and overbearing.”
The king gently shook his head. “Only the stupid, the guilty, and the
base are proud and overbearing,” he said. “But, whoever has seen you,
Louisa, on the day of your first arrival in Berlin, will never forget
your sweet image in its radiance of grace, modesty, and loveliness.
It was on a Sunday, a splendid clear day in winter, the day before
Christmas, which was to become the greatest holiday of my life. A vast
crowd had gathered in front of the Arsenal Unter den Linden. Every one
was anxious to see you. At the entrance of the Linden, not far from
the Opera-Place, a splendid triumphal arch had been erected, and here a
committee of the citizens and a number of little girls were to welcome
you to Berlin. In accordance with the rules of court etiquette, I was to
await your arrival at the palace. But my eagerness to see you would not
suffer me to remain there. Closely muffled in my military cloak, my cap
drawn down over my face, in order not to be recognized by anybody, I had
gone out among the crowd and, assisted by a trusty servant, obtained
a place behind one of the pillars of the triumphal arch. Suddenly
tremendous cheers burst forth from a hundred thousand throats, thousands
of arms were waving white handkerchiefs from the windows and roofs of
the houses, the bells were rung, the cannon commenced thundering,
for you had just crossed the Brandenburger Gate. Alighting from
your carriage, you walked up the Linden with your suite, the wildest
enthusiasm greeting every step you made, and finally you entered the
triumphal arch, not suspecting how near I was to you, and how fervently
my heart was yearning for you. A number of little girls in white, with
myrtle-branches in their hands, met you there; and one of them, bearing
a myrtle-wreath on an embroidered cushion, presented it to you and
recited a simple and touching poem. Oh, I see even now, how your eyes
were glowing, how a profound emotion lighted up your features, and how,
overpowered by your feelings, you bent down to the little girl, clasped
her in your arms and kissed her eyes and lips. But behind you there
stood the mistress of ceremonies, Countess von Voss, pale with
indignation, and trembling with horror at this unparalleled occurrence.
She hastily tried to draw you back, and in her amazement she cried
almost aloud, ‘Good Heaven! how could your royal highness do that just
now? It was contrary to good-breeding and etiquette!’ Those were harsh
and inconsiderate words, but in your happy mood you did not feel hurt,
but quietly and cheerfully turned around to her and asked innocently and
honestly. ‘What! cannot I do so any more?’ [Footnote: Eylert, vol. ii.,
p.79.] Oh, Louisa, at that moment, and in consequence of your charming
question, my eyes grew moist, and I could hardly refrain from rushing
out of the crowd and pressing you to my heart, and kissing your eyes and
lips as innocently and chastely as you had kissed those of the little
girl.”
“See,” said the king, drawing a deep breath, and pausing for a minute,
“those are the two great days of my life, and as you ask me now, what you
ought to do in order to win the love of your people, I reply to you
once more: Remain what you are, so that these beautiful pictures of you,
which are engraved upon my heart, may always resemble you, and you will
be sure to win all hearts. Oh, my Louisa, your task is an easy one, you
only have to be true to yourself, you only have to follow your faithful
companions the Graces, and success will never fail you. My task,
however, is difficult, and I shall have to struggle not only with the
evil designs, the malice, and stupidity of others, but with my own
inexperience, my want of knowledge, and a certain irresolution,
resulting, however, merely from a correct appreciation of what I am
lacking.”
The queen with a rapid gesture placed her hand upon the king’s shoulder.
“You must be more self-reliant, for you may safely trust yourself,”
she said, gravely. “Who could be satisfied with himself, if you were to
despair? What sovereign could have the courage to grasp the sceptre, if
your hands should shrink back from it?--your hands, as free from guilt
and firm and strong as those of a true man should be! I know nothing
about politics, and shall never dare to meddle with public affairs
and to advise you in regard to them; but I know and feel that you will
always be guided by what you believe to be the best interests of your
people, and that you never will deviate from that course. The spirit of
the Great Frederick is looking upon you; he will guide and bless you!”
The king seemed greatly surprised by these words.
“Do you divine my thoughts, Louisa?” he asked. “Do you know my soul
has been with him all the morning--that I thus conversed with him and
repeated to myself every thing he said to me one day in a great and
solemn hour. Oh, it was indeed a sacred hour, and never have I spoken
of it to anybody, for every word would have looked to me like a
desecration. But you, my noble wife, you can only consecrate and
sanctify the advice I received in that momentous hour; and as I am
telling you to-day about my most glorious reminiscences, you shall hear
also what Frederick the Great once said to me.”
The queen nodded approvingly, raising her head from his shoulder and
folding her hands on her lap as if she were going to pray.
The king paused for a moment, and seemed to reflect.
“In 1785,” he then said, “on a fine, warm summer day, I met the king in
the garden at Sans-Souci. I was a youth of fifteen years at that time,
strolling carelessly through the shrubbery and humming a song, when I
suddenly beheld the king, who was seated on the bench under the large
beech-tree, at no great distance from the Japanese palace. He was alone;
two greyhounds were lying at his feet, in his hands he held his old
cane, and his head reposed gently on the trunk of the beech-tree. A
last beam of the setting sun was playing on his face, and rendered his
glorious eyes even more radiant. I stood before him in reverential awe,
and he gazed upon me with a kindly smile. Then he commenced examining me
about my studies, and finally he drew a volume of La Fontaine’s ‘Fables’
from his pocket, opened the book and asked me to translate the fable
on the page he showed me. I did so--but when he afterward was going to
praise me for the skill with which I had rendered it, I told him it was
but yesterday that I had translated the same fable under the supervision
of my teacher. A gentle smile immediately lighted up his face, and
tenderly patting my cheeks, he said to me, in his sonorous, soft voice:
‘That is right, my dear Fritz, always be honest and upright. Never try
to seem what you are not--always be more than what you seem!’ I never
forgot that exhortation, and I have always abhorred falsehood and
hypocrisy.”
The queen gently laid her hand upon his heart. “Your eye is honest,”
she said, “and so is your heart. My Frederick is too proud and brave to
utter a lie. And what did you say to your great ancestor?”
“I? He spoke to me--I stood before him and listened. He admonished me
to be industrious, never to believe that I had learned enough; never
to stand still, but always to struggle on. After that he arose and,
conversing with me all the time, slowly walked down the avenue leading
to the garden gate. All at once he paused, and leaning upon his cane,
his piercing eyes looked at me so long and searchingly, that his glance
deeply entered into my heart. ‘Well, Fritz,’ he said, ‘try to become a
good man, a good man par excellence. Great things are in store for you.
I am at the end of my career, and my task is about accomplished. I
am afraid that things will go pell-mell when I am dead. A portentous
fermentation is going on everywhere, and the sovereigns, especially the
King of France, instead of calming it and extirpating the causes that
have produced it, unfortunately are deluded enough to fan the flame.
The masses below commence moving already, and when the explosion finally
takes place, the devil will be to pay. I am afraid your own position
one day will be a most difficult one. Arm yourself, therefore, for the
strife!--be firm!--think of me! Watch over our honor and our glory!
Beware of injustice, but do not permit any one to treat you unjustly!’
He paused again, and slowly walked on. While deeply moved and conscious
of the importance of the interview, I inwardly repeated every word
he had said, in order to remember them as long as I lived. We had now
reached the obelisk, near the gate of Sans-Souci. The king here gave
me his left hand, and with his uplifted right hand he pointed at the
obelisk. ‘Look at it,’ he said, loudly and solemnly; ‘the obelisk is
tall and slender, and yet it stands firm amid the most furious storms.
It says to you: Ma force est ma droiture. The culmination, the highest
point overlooks and crowns the whole; it does not support it, however,
but is supported by the whole mass underlying it, especially by the
invisible foundation, deeply imbedded in the earth. This supporting
foundation is the people in its unity. Always be on the side of the
people, so that they will love and trust you, as they alone can render
you strong and happy.’ He cast another searching glance upon me, and
gave me his hand. When I bent over it in order to kiss it, he imprinted
a kiss on my forehead. ‘Don’t forget this hour,’ he said kindly, nodding
to me. He turned around, and accompanied by his greyhounds, slowly
walked up the avenue again. [Footnote: The king’s own account to Bishop
Eylert, in the latter’s work, vol. i., p. 466.] I never forgot that
hour, and shall remember it as long as I live.”
“And the spirit of the great Frederick will be with you and remain with
you,” said the queen, deeply moved.
“Would to God it were so!” sighed the king. “I know that I am weak and
inexperienced; I stand in need of wise and experienced advisers; I--”
A rap at the door interrupted the king, and on his exclaiming,
“Come in!” the door was opened and the court marshal appeared on the
threshold.
“I humbly beg your majesty’s pardon for venturing to disturb you,” he
said, bowing reverentially; “but I must request your majesty to decide a
most important domestic matter--a matter that brooks no delay.”
“Well, what is it?” said the king, rising and walking over to the
marshal.
“Your majesty, it is about the bill of fare for the royal table, and
I beseech your majesty to read and approve the following paper I have
drawn up in regard to it.”
With an obsequious bow, he presented a paper to the king, who read it
slowly and attentively.
“What!” he suddenly asked, sharply, “two courses more than formerly?”
“Your majesty,” replied the marshal, humbly, “it is for the table of a
KING!”
“And you believe that my stomach has grown larger since I am a king?”
asked Frederick William. “No, sir, the meals shall remain the same as
heretofore, [Footnote: Vide Eylert, vol. i., p. 18] unless,” he said,
politely turning to the queen, “unless you desire a change, my dear?”
The queen archly shook her head. “No,” she said, with a charming smile;
“neither has my stomach grown larger since yesterday.”
“There will be no change, then,” said the king, dismissing the marshal.
“Just see,” he said to the queen, when the courtier had disappeared,
“what efforts they make in order to bring about a change in our simple
and unassuming ways of living; they flatter us wherever they can, and
even try to do so by means of our meals.”
“As for ourselves, however, dearest, we will remember the words of your
great uncle,” said the queen, “and when they overwhelm us on all sides
with their vain and ridiculous demands, we will remain firm and true to
ourselves.”
“Yes, Louisa,” said the king, gravely, “and whatever our new life may
have in store for us, we will remain the same as before.”
Another rap at the door was heard, and a royal footman entered.
“Lieutenant-Colonel von Kockeritz, your majesty, requests an audience.”
“Ah, yes, it is time,” said the king, looking at the clock on the
mantel-piece. “I sent him word to call on me at this hour. Farewell,
Louisa, I must not let him wait.”
He bowed to his wife, whose hand he tenderly pressed to his lips, and
turned to the door.
The footman who had meantime stood at the door as straight as an arrow,
waiting for the king’s reply, now hastened to open both folding-doors.
“What!” asked the king, with a deprecating smile, “have I suddenly
grown so much stouter that I can no longer pass out through one door?”
[Footnote: Ibid., p. 19]
The queen’s eyes followed her husband’s tall and commanding figure with
a proud smile, and then raising her beautiful, radiant eyes with an
indescribable expression to heaven, she whispered: “Oh, what a man I my
husband!” [Footnote: “O, welch em Mann! mem Mann!”--Eylert, vol. ii., p.
107]
CHAPTER XI.
THE YOUNG KING.
The king rapidly walked through the rooms and across the hall,
separating his own apartments from those of the queen. He had scarcely
entered his cabinet, when he opened the door of the ante-room, and
exclaimed:
“Pray, come in, my dear Kockeritz.”
A corpulent little gentleman, about fifty years of age, with a kind,
good-natured face, small, vivacious eyes, denoting an excellent heart,
but little ability, and large, broad lips, which never perhaps had
uttered profound truths, but assuredly many pleasant jests, immediately
appeared on the threshold.
While he was bowing respectfully, the king extended his hand to him.
“You have received my letter, my friend?” he asked.
“Yes, your majesty. I received it yesterday, and I have been studying it
all night.”
“And what are you going to reply to me?” asked the king, quickly. “Are
you ready to accept the position I have tendered to you? Will you become
my conscientious and impartial adviser--my true and devoted friend?”
“Your majesty,” said the lieutenant-colonel, sighing, “I am afraid your
majesty has too good an opinion of my abilities. When I read your truly
sublime letter, my heart shuddered, and I said to myself, ‘The king is
mistaken about you. To fill the position he is offering to you, he needs
a man of the highest ability and wisdom. The king has confounded your
heart with your head.’ Yes, your majesty, my heart is in the right
place; it is brave, bold, and faithful, but my head lacks wisdom and
knowledge. I am not a learned man, your majesty.”
“But you are a man of good common sense and excellent judgment, and
that is worth more to me than profound learning,” exclaimed the king.
“I have observed you for years, and these extended observations have
confirmed my conviction more and more that I was possessing in you a man
who would be able one day to render me the most important services by
his straightforwardness, his unerring judgment, his firm character, and
well-tried honesty. I have a perfect right to trust you implicitly. I am
a young man, as yet too ignorant of the world to rely exclusively upon
myself, and not to fear lest dishonest men, in spite of the most earnest
precautions, should deceive me. Hence every well-meant advice must be
exceedingly welcome to me, and such advice I can expect at your hands.
I pray you, sir, remain my friend, do not change your bearing toward me,
become my adviser. [Footnote: Vide “A letter to Lieutenant-Colonel von
Kockeritz, by Frederick William III.”] Kockeritz, will you reject my
request?”
“No,” exclaimed Herr von Kockeritz; “if that is all your majesty asks
of me, I can promise it and fulfil my promise. Your majesty shall always
find me to be a faithful, devoted, and honest servant.”
“I ask more than that,” said the king, gently. “Not only a faithful
servant, but a devoted FRIEND--a friend who will call my attention to my
short-comings and errors. Assist me with your knowledge of men and human
nature. For nobody is more liable to make mistakes in judging of men
than a prince, and it cannot be otherwise. To a prince no one shows
himself in his true character. Every one tries to fathom the weaknesses
and inclinations of rulers--and then assumes such a mask as seems best
calculated to accomplish his purposes. Hence, I expect you to look
around quietly, without betraying your intentions, for honest and
sagacious men, and to find out what positions they are able to fill in
the most creditable manner.” [Footnote: Ibid.]
“I shall take pains, your majesty, to discover such men,” said Herr von
Kockeritz, gravely. “It seems to me, however, sire, that fortunately you
have got many able and excellent men close at hand, and for that reason
need not look very far for other assistants.”
“To whom do you allude?” exclaimed the king, sharply, and with a slight
frown.
Herr von Kockeritz cast a rapid glance upon the king’s countenance and
seemed to have read his thoughts upon his clouded brow.
“Your majesty,” he said, gravely and slowly, “I do not mean to say any
thing against Wollner, the minister, and his two counsellors, Hermes and
Hiller, nor against Lieutenant-General von Bischofswerder.”
The frown had already disappeared from the king’s brow. Stepping up
to his desk, he seized a piece of paper there, which he handed to his
friend.
“Just read that paper, and tell me what to do about it.”
“Ah, Lieutenant-General von Bischofswerder has sent in his resignation!”
exclaimed Herr von Kockeritz, when he had read the paper. “Well, I must
confess that the general has a very fine nose, and that he acted most
prudently.”
“You believe, then, I would have dismissed him anyhow?”
“Yes, I believe so, your majesty.”
“And you are right, Kockeritz. This gloomy and bigoted man has done a
great deal of mischief in Prussia, and the genius of our country had
veiled his head and fled before the spirits which Bischofswerder had
called up. Oh, my friend, we have passed through a gloomy, disastrous
period, and seen many evil spirits here, and been tormented by them. But
not another word about it: It does not behoove me to judge the past, for
it does not belong to me. Only the future is mine; and God grant when
it has, in turn, become the past, that it may not judge ME!
Lieutenant-General von Bischofswerder was the friend and confidant of
my lamented father, the king, and in that capacity I must and will honor
him. I shall accept his resignation, but grant him an ample pension.”
“That resolution is highly honorable to your majesty’s heart,” exclaimed
Herr von Kockeritz, feelingly.
“As to Minister Wollner,” said the king, frowning, “in respectful
remembrance of my lamented father’s partiality for him, I shall not at
once dismiss him, but leave it to himself to send in his resignation.
Let him see if he will be able to reconcile himself to the new era,
for a new era, I hope, is to dawn for Prussia--an era of toleration,
enlightenment and true piety, that does not seek faction in mere
lip-service and church-going, but in good and pious deeds. Religion is
not an offspring of the church, but the reverse is true; the church
is an offspring of religion, and the church therefore, ought to be
subordinate to religion, and never try to place itself above it.
Henceforth there shall be no more compulsion in matters of faith, and
all fanatical persecutions shall cease. I honor religion myself; I
devoutly follow its blessed precepts, and under no circumstances would
I be the ruler of a people devoid of religion. But I know that religion
always must remain a matter of the heart and of personal conviction,
and if it is to promote virtue and righteousness, it must not, by a
mere methodical constraint, be degraded to an empty and thoughtless
ritualism. Hereafter Lutheran principles shall be strictly adhered to in
religious affairs, for they are entirely in harmony with the spirit and
Founder of our religion. No compulsory laws are necessary to maintain
true religion in the country and to increase its salutary influence upon
the happiness and morality of all classes of the people. [Footnote:
Vide “Menael’s Twenty Years of Prussian History,” p. 534.] These, I am
afraid, are principles which Minister Wollner cannot adopt; and if he
is an honest man, he will consequently send in his resignation. If he
should not do so in the course of a few weeks, of course I shall dismiss
him. You see, Kockeritz, I am speaking to you frankly and unreservedly,
as if you were a true friend of mine, and I am treating you already as
my adviser. Now tell me who are the men of whom you wished to speak, and
whom you believe to be able and reliable.”
The face of Herr von Kockeritz assumed an embarrassed and anxious air,
but the king was waiting for an answer, and therefore he could not
withhold it any longer.
“Well, your majesty,” he said, somewhat hesitatingly, “I alluded to the
minister of foreign affairs, Herr von Haugwitz, whom I believe to be
an honest man, while I am equally satisfied that his first assistant,
Lombard, is a man of excellent business qualifications and great
ability.”
The king nodded his assent. “I am entirely of your opinion,” he said;
“Minister von Haugwitz is not only an honest man, but an able-minded and
skilful diplomatist, and an experienced statesman. I stand in need of
his experience and knowledge, and as I moreover believe him to be a good
patriot, he may remain at the head of his department.”
A gleam of joy burst from the eyes of Herr von Kockeritz, but he quickly
lowered them, in order not to betray his feelings.
“As to Lombard,” said the king, “you are likewise right; he is an
excellent and most able man, though a little tinctured with Jacobinism.
His French blood infects him with all sorts of democratic notions. I
wish he would get rid of them, and I shall assist him in doing so, in
case he should prove to be the man I take him for. His position is too
exalted and important that I should not deem it desirable to see him
occupy a place in society in accordance with the old established
rules. I want him to apply for letters of nobility. I shall grant the
application at once. Please, tell him so.”
Herr von Kockeritz bowed silently.
“Is there anybody else whom you wish to recommend to me?” asked the king
with an inquiring glance.
“Your majesty,” said Kockeritz, “I do not know of anybody else. But I
am sure your majesty will always find the right man for the right place.
Even in my case, I trust, your majesty has done so, for if it is of
importance for you to have a faithful and devoted servant close to your
person, who values nothing in the world so greatly, who loves nothing so
fervently, and adores nothing so much as his young king, then I am the
right man, and in thi
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