“GOTT ERHALTE FRANZ DEN KAISER!”
For three days the utmost uneasiness and commotion had reigned in
Vienna. Nobody wanted to stay at home. Everybody hastened into the
street, as if he hoped there to hear at an earlier moment the great news
which the people were looking for, and as if the fresh air which had
carried to them three days ago the thundering echoes
of the cannon, would waft to them to-day the tidings of the brilliant
victory supposed to be achieved by the Emperors Francis and Alexander.
But these victorious tidings did not come; the roar of the cannon had
a quicker tongue than the courier who was to bring the news of the
victory. He did not come, and yet the good people of Vienna were waiting
for him with impatience and, at the same time, with proud and joyful
confidence. It is true no one was able to state positively where the
battle had been fought, but the people were able to calculate the spot
where the great struggle had probably taken place, for they knew that
the allies had occupied the immediate environs of Olmutz, and then
advanced toward Brunn and Austerlitz, where the French army had
established itself. They calculated the time which the courier would
consume in order to reach Vienna from the battle-field, and the
obstacles and delays that might have possibly impeded his progress
were taken into consideration. But no one felt anxious at his prolonged
absence; no one doubted that the allies had obtained a great victory.
For their two armies were by far superior to the French army, and
Napoleon himself had not hoped for a victory this time; he had fallen
back with his army because he wished to avoid a battle with the superior
forces of the enemy; he had even gone so far in his despondency as to
write to the Emperor of Russia and to sue for peace.
How could people think, therefore, that Napoleon had won the battle, the
thunders of which had filled the Viennese three days ago with the utmost
exultation?
No, fate had at length stopped the onward career of the conqueror, and
it was on Austrian soil that his eagles were to be struck down and his
laurels to wither.
Nobody doubted it; the joyful anticipation of a great victory animated
every heart and beamed from every eye. They longed for the arrival of
the courier, and were overjoyed to celebrate at length a triumph over
those supercilious French, who had latterly humiliated and angered the
poor people of Vienna on so many occasions.
It is true the French embassy had not yet left Vienna. But that was
only a symptom that it had not yet been reached by a courier from the
battle-field; else it would have fled from Vienna in the utmost haste.
But the people did not wish to permit the overbearing French to depart
from their city in so quiet and unpretending a manner; they wanted
to accompany them at least with loud jeers, with scornful shouts and
curses.
Thousands, therefore, surrounded the house of the French embassy, where
Talleyrand, Napoleon’s minister of foreign affairs, had been staying for
some days, and no longer did they swallow their wrath and hatred, but
they gave vent to it loudly; no longer did they threaten only with their
glances, but also with their fists, which they raised menacingly toward
the windows of the French minister.
And while thousands had gathered around the embassy building, other
thousands strolled out toward Mohringen, and stared breathlessly down
the road, hoping to behold the longed-for messenger who would announce
to them at length the great victory that had been won.
All at once something in the distance commenced stirring on the road; at
times glittering objects, resembling twinkling stars, were to be seen,
and then motley colors were discerned; it came nearer and nearer.
No doubt it must be a column of soldiers; perhaps some of the heroic
regiments which had defeated the French army were already on their
homeward march.
Ah, the proud and sanguine people of Vienna regretted now exceedingly
that there were no longer any French regiments in the capital, and that
they had left their city only a week ago and rejoined Napoleon’s army.
Now there would have been an opportunity for them to take revenge for
the hospitality which they had been compelled for the last two weeks to
extend to the French. Now they would have chased the French soldiers
in the most ignominious manner through the same streets which they had
marched hitherto with so proud and confident a step.
The soldiers drew nearer and nearer; the people hastened to meet them
like a huge boa constrictor with thousands and thousands of movable
rings, and thousands and thousands of flashing eyes.
But all at once these eyes became fixed and dismayed; the joyful hum,
which hitherto had filled the air as though it were a vast multitude of
gnats playing in the sun, died away.
Those were not the uniforms of the Austrians, nor of the Russians
either! Those were the odious colors of France. The soldiers marching
toward Vienna were French regiments.
And couriers appeared too, the longed-for couriers! But they were no
Austrian couriers; the tri-colored sash was wrapped around their waists,
they did not greet the people with German words and with fraternal
German salutations. They galloped past them and shouted “VICTOIRE!
VICTOIRE! VIVE L’EMPEREUR NAPOLEON!”
The people were thunderstruck; they did not stir, but stared wildly and
pale with horror at the regiments that now approached to the jubilant
music of their bands, and treated the Viennese to the notes of the
Marseillaise and the air of Va-t-en-guerrier; they stared at the sullen,
ragged men who marched in the midst of the soldiers, like the Roman
slaves before the car of the Triumphator. These poor, pale men wore no
French uniforms, and the tri-colored sash was not wrapped around their
waists, nor did they bear arms; their hands were empty, and their eyes
were fixed on the ground. They were prisoners, prisoners of the French,
and they wore Russian uniforms.
The people saw it with dismay. The good Viennese had suddenly been
hurled from their proud hopes of victory into an abyss of despair, and
they were stunned by the sudden fall, and unable to speak and to
collect their thoughts. They stood on the road, pale and breathless,
and witnessed the spectacle of the return of the victorious columns with
silent despondency.
All at once the brilliant column, which had filed through the ranks of
the people, halted, and the band ceased playing. An officer galloped up
and exchanged a few words with the colonel in command. The colonel made
a sign and uttered a few hurried words, whereupon four soldiers stepped
from the ranks, and forcing a passage through the staring crowd, walked
directly toward a small house situated solitary and alone on the road,
in the middle of a garden.
Every inhabitant of Vienna knew this house and the man living in it, for
it was the residence of Joseph Haydn.
When the four soldiers approached the door of the popular and well-known
maestro, the people seemed to awake from their stupefaction, a unanimous
cry of rage and horror resounded, and thousands and thousands of voices
shouted and screamed, “Father Haydn! They want to arrest Father Haydn!”
But, no. The four soldiers stopped at the door, and remained there as a
guard of honor.
And the band of the next regiment, which had just come up, halted on the
road too, and, in stirring notes, the French musicians began to play a
melody which was well known to everybody, the melody of the great hymn
from the “Creation,” “In verdure clad.” [Footnote: Historical.]
It sounded to the poor Viennese like a cruel mockery to hear a band
of the victorious French army play this melody composed by a German
maestro, and tears of heart-felt shame, of inward rage, filled many an
eye which had never wept before, and a bitter pang seized every breast.
The French musicians had not yet finished the tune, when a window in
the upper story of the house was opened, and Joseph Haydn’s venerable
white-haired head appeared. His cheeks were pale, and his lips trembled,
for his footman, who had just returned home, had brought him the
news that the French had been victorious again, and that Napoleon had
defeated the two emperors at Austerlitz.
Joseph Haydn, the old man, was pale and trembling, but Joseph Haydn,
the genius, was courageous, joyful, and defiant, and he was filled with
noble anger when he heard that the trumpeters of the French conqueror
dared to play his German music.
This anger of the eternally-young and eternally-bold genius now burst
forth from Haydn’s eyes, and restored to his whole bearing the vigor and
elasticity of youth.
Leaning far out of the window, he beckoned the people with both arms,
while they were looking up to him and waving their hats to salute him.
“Sing, people of Vienna!” he shouted, “oh, sing our favorite hymn!”
The music had just ceased, and Joseph Haydn now commenced singing in a
loud, ringing voice, “GOTT ERHALTE FRANZ DEN KAISER, UNSERN GUTEN KAISER
FRANZ!”
And thousands of voices sang and shouted all at once, “GOTT ERHALTE FRAN
DEN KAISER, UNSERN GUTEN KAISER FRANZ!”
Joseph Haydn stood at the window, and moved his arm as though he were
standing before his orchestra and leading his choir.
The people sang their favorite hymn louder and more jubilantly, and to
the notes of this prayer of a whole people, of this jubilant hymn, by
which the Viennese honored their unfortunate, vanquished emperor in the
face of the conquering army, the French marched up the road toward the
interior of the city.
Joseph Haydn was still at the window; he led the choir no longer; he
sang no more. He had folded his hands and listened to the majestic
anthem of the people, and the tears, filling his eyes, glistened like
diamonds.
The people continued shouting and singing, in spite of the French, the
hymn of “GOTT ERHALTE FRANZ DEN KAISER, UNSERN GUTEN KAISER FRANZ!”
And the victorious French marched silently through the opened ranks of
the people.