“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.’”3
“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.”
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.”5 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.6 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!”7
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.”8
“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!”
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.”