IM WASHINGTON
Meantime, the storm dreaded as so immediate by the administration
at Washington--the organization of a new political party, born of
the unrest over the slavery question--had spent its force, and,
temporarily, long since had muttered away in the distance, leaving
scarce a trace behind it on the political sky. Austria, England,
the Old World creeds of monarchies arrayed against popular
governments, had their way at our capital, where the birth of an
actual democracy impended. Active leadership by revolutionists
trained in Europe was suppressed, removed; as in one instance we
have seen. One abolitionist mass-meeting followed another in those
days, but the results of all were much the same. Protests and
declamation abounded, plan and leadership lacked. The strained
compromise held. Neither war nor a new party came as yet, disunion
was not yet openly attempted. Moreover, there was a deliberate
intent upon an era of good feeling. Whig and Democrat alike forced
themselves to settle down into the belief that peace had come. If
men were slaves, why, let them be slaves. At that time the
national reflex was less sensitive than it later became with
increased telegraphic and news facilities. Washington was not
always promptly and exactly advised of the political situation in
this or that more remote portion of the country. This very fact,
however, meant a greater stability in the political equilibrium.
Upon the western borders the feeling of unrest now became most
marked; and, more swiftly than was generally recognized, important
matters there were going forward; but even in that direction,
declared the prophets of peace, all now was more calm than it had
been for years.
Six years before this time Mr. Wilkins, secretary of war, had
proposed to organize Nebraska Territory and to extend thither the
army posts; and in that same year Stephen A. Douglas, then of the
House, had introduced a bill for the organization of Nebraska; but
neither effort had had result. Two years later, Douglas, then in
the Senate, once more sought to test the Squatter Sovereignty idea
regarding the new western lands, but once more a cold silence met
his attempts. Six months after that time the same bill, with the
intent of attaching Nebraska to the state of Arkansas, was killed
by Congress, because held to be dangerous. A third bill by
Douglas, later in the same year, was also recommitted. The
"Territory of the Platte" was the next attempt to be dropped. All
these crude attempts were merged in the great Compromise of 1850.
The might of party was brought to bear upon all questions of
principle, and the country was commanded to be calm; indeed for a
time was calm. It was the time of manacled hands and of manacled
minds. Our government was not a real democracy. The great West
had not yet raised its voice, augmented by new millions of voices
pealing the paean of liberty and opportunity for man.
In this era of arrested activities, the energies of a restless
people turned otherwhere for interest. To relieve the monotony of
political stagnation, popular attention was now turned toward the
affairs of Hungary. We could not solve our own problems, but we
were as ready to solve those of Europe as Europe was to offer us
aid in ours. Therefore, instant interest attached to the news that
a Hungarian committee of inquiry had landed upon our shores, with
the purpose of investigating a possible invitation from our
republic to the Hungarian patriot, Kossuth, then in exile in Turkey.
The leader of this mission was General Zewlinski, an officer of the
patriot army of Hungary, who brought with him a suite of some dozen
persons. These, late in the winter of 1850-51, arrived at
Washington and found quarters of somewhat magnificent sort in one
of the more prominent hotels of the national capital. At once
political and journalistic Washington was on the _qui vive_. The
Hungarians became the object of a solicitude, not to say a
curiosity, which must at times have tried their souls.
The first formal action of the Hungarian committee took the shape
of a return reception, to be held in the hotel parlors. The
invitations, liberal as they were, were sought for quite in excess
of the supply, and long before the doors were open, it was quite
assured that the affair would be a crush. The administration, for
which Mr. Webster, our secretary of state, had not hesitated to
write in most determined fashion to the attache Hulsemann regarding
the presumptuous Austrian demands upon our government, none the less
was much in a funk regarding "European obligations." Not wishing to
offend the popular fancy, and not daring to take decisive stand, the
usual compromise was made. Although no member of the administration
was sent officially to recognize these unofficial ambassadors, a
long suffering officer of the navy, with his wife and one or two
other ladies, were despatched quasi-officially to lend color to the
occasion.
Such splendor as could be arranged had been provided for the
setting of this event. A Hungarian orchestra, brought with these
commissioners, discoursed its peculiar music beyond a screen of
palms and flowers. One of the great parlors had been prepared for
those of the young who could not resist the temptation to dance.
At the head of the little line of these visitors, now themselves in
effect hosts, stood the old Hungarian general, Zewlinski, an
officer over six feet in height, with white hair and wide white
mustaches, a distinguished figure in the brilliant Hungarian
uniform. Those of his staff near by added additional vividness to
the picture. The ladies of the party, half of whom spoke English,
were costumed quite in keeping, and endeavored by the graciousness
of their manner to add to the good impression already formed by
their more brilliant companions. Here and there the more sober
uniform of an American army or navy officer might have been seen,
brought thither on demand of his lady. The ladies themselves were
out in force, and in their most brilliant array. The doors had not
been opened for a half hour before all prophecies were more than
fulfilled. The rooms were packed with a struggling mass of
humanity, all eager to grasp the hand of the representative of
Hungary and of the members of his company. Patriotism, liberty,
brotherly love were in the speech of all. Never has our country
been more full of zeal for liberty than then, never more
inconsistent, never more swiftly forgetful.
In these circumstances, the somewhat bewildered commissioners did
what they could graciously to discover to all their friendly
feeling toward this country. For more than an hour they stood in
line, bowing, smiling, accepting hands, offering greetings, a
little wondering perhaps, yet none the less well assured of the
attitude of this people toward their own country, and hoping there
might later be substantial financial proof of its sincerity.
It was at about this time that there entered at the door near the
head of the receiving line a young woman, for the time apparently
quite unattended. She was brilliantly robed, with jewels flashing
at neck and wrists, clad like a queen and looking one. Of good
height and splendid carriage, her dark hair and singularly striking
features might at first have caused the belief that she was one of
this party of foreigners, toward whom she now advanced. A second
glance would have shown her beauty to be of that universal
world-quality which makes its owner difficult to classify, although
assured of approval in any quarter of the world.
[Illustration: Clad like a queen and looking one.]
That this lady was acquainted with social pageants might have been
in the first instant quite evidenced by her comportment here. Many
eyes turned toward her as she approached the head of the line. She
was unconscious of all, lazily, half-insolently observant, yet
wholly unconcerned. Some observers choked back a sudden
exclamation. A hush fell in the great room, then followed a low
buzzing of curious or interested, wise or ignorant human bees.
There were many in Washington social circles who knew by sight or
by reputation Josephine, Countess St. Auban, no longer than six
months ago pronounced by one journal of the capital to be the most
beautiful and the most dangerous woman in Washington. Yet even the
most hostile of these suddenly suspended judgment as they saw her
advance met now by that of the old Hungarian general himself. With
the enthusiasm of a boy he fell upon her, both his hands extended.
"Countess--my dear child--at last you are here!" he exclaimed.
Taking her by the hand he led her back to the line of his official
company, volleying rapid exclamations in his native tongue. Eager
groups fell into line near at hand, seeking to know what was toward.
"You left us!" at length exclaimed the old general, politely
speaking in his best English, since these others were thus bound to
hear. "Where you had gone we did not know. It was as though the
heavens had opened. See then, Sir,"--he addressed the naval
officer who stood near at hand--"the Countess St. Auban was one of
the most important members of our little company--she was to come
in advance of us, who also are in advance of a greater number. For
a time we heard from her, then all was silent! She had
disappeared!--But now, at last, my dear Countess, you are here! We
shall succeed, it is certain; henceforth you will be of our party.
Is it not true?"
Political, social and journalistic Washington then and there begged
a sudden though silent pardon of the Countess St. Auban. A few
journalists left the room quickly. An attache of the Austrian
legation also hurriedly took his leave.
"But where have you been, my dear?" again demanded General
Zewlinski, his hand again affectionately grasping that of Josephine
St. Auban. "We have so missed you."
"I have been visiting some of the more remote parts of this
country," replied she in even tones.
"So, then, you have not forgotten our mission from Hungary! Well,
now we shall surely have the invitation for our Kossuth to come?
Is it not true?"
"Assuredly, my dear General. You will find this country eager to
meet him. But alas! I fear that Kossuth himself will find problems
also in this country."
"Our own problem--our cause, dear Countess?"
"Pardon, General, really it is also the cause of this country. We
think that in Hungary democracy is in peril. It is not less so
here."
"But, my dear child, you would not cast doubt upon our plans,--you
have not become lukewarm to our cause so soon, my dear?"
"No, no, General. But Europe does not understand America. America
does not understand herself. I ask only that the great men of that
country shall see the great problems of this. There we could win
freedom by sword and gun. Here also that must yet be done. The
time for such means has not yet arrived. Yet here also evil cries
aloud. Soon war must come, here also--bloody war. We ask funds
for Hungary. America soon will need funds for herself."
"Ah, you mean this problem of the North and South--of slavery."
The face of the old general became grave. "I have talked with
many," said he. "It seems incapable of solution. But have not
your brilliant faculties, my dear Countess, suggested any solution?
We learned to value your counsel over yonder."
"What could a mere woman do in a matter vast as this? My General,
not all the wisdom of this country has suggested a remedy. I am
but a woman and not wise. He who attempts to solve this slavery
question must do what no statesman in all history has been able to
do, what human wisdom here has failed to do for fifty years or
more. America has spent thirty years of statesmanship on this one
question, and is just where it started. This country, as Thomas
Jefferson said so long ago, still has the wolf by the ear, but has
not killed it and dare not let it go. Out there--where I have
been--in the West--there the new battle must be fought. Now, my
General, what difference, whether America shall help Europe. or
Europe shall help America? The battle for democracy must be
fought, in this generation, perhaps again in the next. What would
be the result of that war, if either section won to the destruction
of this Union? Ah! _there_, my General, is the danger to Hungary,
the danger to Europe, to the cause of freedom and humanity. As I
said, Kossuth will find things here to engage his best attention."
"I know your generosity," said Zewlinski, swiftly leading her apart
and gazing her straight in the face as he spoke, in low tones none
else might hear. "I know how you got your estates yonder--how wide
handed you have been with your revenues. I know your strange,
unhappy life, my dear. But have a care. Do not make that life
more unhappy. Do not let your penitence, your devotion, your
self-abnegation, carry you too far. Listen; times are very
troublous abroad. The nations are banding against us--even France.
He who gives may take. Let me tell you, be careful. Do not
involve yourself. Do not jeopardize the good will of Louis
Napoleon. Do not let your warm heart endanger your own good
fortune."
She laughed almost gaily. "You suggest an idea, my General!" she
said. "I still am rich. Since I advocate a measure, why should I
not enforce it to the best of my ability? Let Louis Napoleon do as
he likes with the widow of a man he murdered! Bring over our
friend Louis Kossuth, General, as soon as you like! Meantime, I
shall be busy here, seeking to set on foot certain little plans of
my own."
"My child, you will be lost! Forget these matters. Come back with
us to our own country. You are young, you are beautiful. You are
a woman. As a patriot we love you, but you are a woman, and we
would not rob you of your life. You are young. You did not love
old St. Auban, who took you from your American mother. You did not
love him--but you will love some other--some young, strong man.
Many have sought your hand, my dear."
"You call me a lost child, General? Ah, you remember the term! At
many battles there is what is known as the forlorn hope--those whom
the French call _Les enfants perdus_--The Lost Children. Perhaps
they perish. But at the next battle, at the crucial time, they
rise again from the dead. Always there is the band of the Lost
Children, ready to do what must be done. And always, at the last
moment, are battles won by those who remain devoted, whatever be
the cause."
Zewlinski nodded his gray head gravely. "It was thus my own sons
died in battle," said he. "It was as I would have had it. But
you--you are a woman! These things are not for you."
"See," she interrupted, gently tapping his arm with her fan. "We
must not be too much apart. Let us return."
As they turned back toward the head of the line, Josephine gave a
half-exclamation. Two figures were approaching, each of which
seemed to her familiar. An instant later she had recognized the
young northern officer, Carlisle, whom she had met under such
singular conditions. With him stalked the tall young German,
Kammerer. Their eyes lighted suddenly, as they fell upon her, and
both advanced eagerly. There was new dignity in her carriage now,
but she greeted them warmly.
[Illustration: Two figures were approaching.]
"When we may, I shall hope to compare notes with you," she smiled.
"You are still on parole to me."
"But you, Madam--you seem differently situated here. I am very
glad to find it so." Carlisle was eager, flushed, frankly admiring.
"Yes, I scarce know which side the sea I belong. You know, I am
half American, though my people lived abroad, in diplomatic work.
By President Taylor I was chosen as one of the members of the
Hungarian commission sent over by America to look into the cause of
Hungary. In return, last year I had the honor of being asked to
come to this country as one of the commission despatched to America
in the interest of Hungary. I came over a certain time in advance,
for reasons of my own. Meantime, I have had, it seems--well, call
them adventures! I am not eager they should be known here. But if
you like, you may call on me at my hotel--to-morrow?"
Both recognized a slight additional trace of hauteur in the
deportment of the woman whom they now accosted. She herself saw a
sort of hesitation on the part of Carlisle.
"I can't let you make any mistake about me," he began presently.
"How do you mean?"
"You are probably not advised about me. I'm a person of no
consequence."
"An officer of his country's army can not say that of himself."
"But, I am no longer an officer of any army. I have been
court-martialed--for my conduct there--you know--that fight at St.
Genevieve. My abolitionist tendencies have always made me _persona
non grata_ in my own mess. There's been all sort of pressure
brought on me to drop it. Now the government itself, not wishing
these things to come to a focus, has ordered me to a court-martial.
Very well, I've been sentenced. My parole is ended, for the law
has acted on my conduct. Rather than go back many steps in rank, I
have thrown up my commission. This morning I resigned. I am
wearing my uniform, I don't doubt, for the last time."
"And that, although you fought in the cause of freedom! Although
you have fought honorably in an earlier war! Is it not horrible!"
"I could not do otherwise," said he simply. "I have no regrets."
"But don't you see,"--she turned upon him suddenly--"it only leaves
you all the more free!"
"I can not understand you."
"Will it not give you and your friend, Lieutenant Kammerer here,
precisely the opportunity you've wished?"
"Still I do not follow you."
"My dear Countess," ventured the German, "I'll go anywhere under
your orders. You may be sure of that."
She turned from them. "Come to my hotel, will you not, to-morrow?
I may have something to say to you." Thus she passed back into the
throng, and into the arms of fickle and repentant Washington, which
marveled when she danced, flushed, excited, yet absorbed, with the
gallant old general, himself intoxicated by the music and by all
this warm talk of freedom, of equality, of democracy,--in
Washington!