the block stood, between the prison and the river Oder. Then Katte
appeared, a minister on each side of him, holding his hat under his arm.
As he passed the window he looked up, and Frederick flung himself across
the bars, crying 'Katte! Katte! forgive me.'
'There is nothing to forgive, my prince,' answered Katte, bowing; and he
walked steadily on to his place in the centre of the little group of
soldiers, where his sentence was read. He took off his wig, replacing it
with a white cap, and opened his shirt collar. A soldier came forward to
bind his eyes, but he motioned him away, and knelt quietly on the sand
before him, waiting for the sword to fall. But Frederick did not 'see
well,' for he had fainted.
In a few days whispers were heard in the court of Berlin that the crown
prince had been 'pardoned' by his father for his wickedness in trying to
run away—which he never would have thought of doing had he not suffered
such abominable treatment. He remained for a little time yet at Cüstrin,
but was allowed to have books—and better light to read them by. No
doubt the king took for granted that, after the severe lesson his son
had received, the 'books' would be works on fortifications or strategy,
or something useful of that kind. Had he known that philosophical
treatises, Aristotle's 'Poetica' and Molière's plays, were among them,
another explosion would probably have occurred. And what would he have
said if it had reached his ears that the prince had written a long poem
in French called 'Advice to Myself,' dedicated to Grumkow, whom he
hated? The poem is really not bad, considering, and one cannot help
wondering if Grumkow guessed that the royal prisoner was making fun of
him. In a little while he was set free, and even nominated to a seat on
the council of war, but he was not yet admitted to Berlin. Poor boy! he
was only nineteen even now, but he had learned that if he was ever to
live at peace with his father he must give up all his own tastes and
pleasures, and submit body and soul to the king's will.
During these dreadful months Wilhelmine had been kept entirely in her
room, and if we may believe her own account, which perhaps it is better
not to do altogether, she was half starved, and thankful to eat a crust
which a crow had left on the window-sill. 'In general,' she says, 'the
dinner of myself and my lady-in-waiting consisted of bones without any
meat on them, and plain water.' Besides her anxiety about the fate of
her brother, the princess had been tormented with fears as to her own
marriage, for the king had made up his mind that she should no longer be
on his hands. The queen still obstinately clung to the old project of
having the prince of Wales as her son-in-law; but the king contrived to
break off the negotiations, greatly to the wrath of Sophia Dorothea, as
well as of Wilhelmine herself, who shared her mother's opinion that to
accept any husband who was not of royal birth would be impossible to one
of her rank.
But who the bridegroom was really to be was a question that remained
undecided. Sometimes it seemed as if the choice would fall upon a member
of the House of Brandenburg, the margrave of Schwedt; but at the very
moment when this appeared most likely the king sent a message to
Wilhelmine, by his porter, announcing that she was to become the wife of
the fat and elderly duke of Weissenfeld, a prince of the Empire. The
princess was terribly upset—partly by the news itself and partly by the
messenger whom the king had chosen to break it to her; but the next
morning her anger was redoubled, on receiving a second visit from the
porter, while she was still in bed, informing her that he had been
ordered by His Majesty to prepare her trousseau! Wilhelmine was
speechless with rage, and refused to send any answer. Then, shutting
herself into her boudoir, or _cabinet_, as it was called, she began to
play on her spinet, in order to calm herself a little.
'Four gentlemen are below, madame, and beg that you will do them the
honour of seeing them alone,' cried madame von Sonsfeld, suddenly
opening the door. The princess rose, feeling that something of serious
importance was about to happen, and there entered Grumkow, followed by
three other ministers. He declared solemnly (what she knew already) that
the English marriage was abandoned, and that the king was forced to
choose a husband for her from another house; that the fate of the crown
prince, now undergoing a strict imprisonment at Cüstrin, depended on the
willingness of the princess to obey His Majesty's desire, which Grumkow
earnestly hoped she would do, as otherwise it would be his painful duty
to carry her off at once to the fortress of Memel. Finally, he announced
that the king's choice had fallen on the hereditary prince of
Baireuth—rich, young, and a cousin of her own. After begging for a
short time for consideration, Wilhelmine agreed to do as her father
wished, and on his return to Berlin, a few days later, he behaved to her
with much affection—for the first time for many years. The queen, on
the contrary, vowed she would no longer look on Wilhelmine as a
daughter, and on the sudden appearance at Berlin of the prince of
Baireuth, on the eve of a great review, was so rude to him that he told
her politely, but with spirit, that if she objected so much to receiving
him into her family he would withdraw his request for the hand of her
daughter. The queen saw that she had met her match, and accordingly
changed her behaviour.
When she had once seen the prince, Wilhelmine's sadness began to
disappear, and she began to think that her future life might be
tolerably happy. The bridegroom had a pleasant, frank face, and good
manners; he was besides tall and well-made, and had a good education.
The betrothal took place at seven o'clock on June 3, 1731, in the
palace, and the king, who had got his own way, was quite charming and
affectionate, and gave his daughter a magnificent toilette service of
gold, besides other presents. The marriage itself was not to be till
November—for what reason we are not told, but most probably the delay
was owing to some underhand schemes of the queen, who hoped that it
might still be broken off. However, the prince of Baireuth was appointed
colonel of a Prussian regiment, which gave him an excuse for staying in
the neighbourhood, and the morning after the betrothal he asked
Wilhelmine if he might see her alone. The few words that he spoke did
him honour, and must have sounded strange indeed in the ears of the
princess. He only wished, he said, for her happiness, and would do all
in his power to secure it, and to deserve the trust which she and her
father had given him. Affection had hitherto played such a small part in
Wilhelmine's life, that she did not know what to answer; but it must
have thawed her poor frozen heart a little, for that evening at supper
she 'pulled a cracker' with the prince. But this sign of good spirits
was more than the queen could bear, and she bade her daughter follow her
out of the room, scolding her roundly, as they went, for her want of
modesty.
The long months passed somehow, and to the relief of everybody (except
the queen) the wedding-day (fixed for November 20) arrived. 'When dinner
was over,' says Wilhelmine, 'the king ordered the queen to begin to
dress me, for it was already four o'clock, and the ceremony was fixed
for seven. The queen declared that she meant to do my hair herself, but
she was not clever with her fingers, and could not manage it. Then her
ladies tried their hands, but as soon as they had dressed it properly
the queen would pull it about, so that it had to be done all over again.
At last, however, between them they contrived to make twenty-four large
curls, each as thick as your arm, with a royal crown poised on top. The
weight was dreadful, and I could hardly hold my head up. Then they put
on my dress, which was of cloth of silver, trimmed with Spanish point
picked out with gold, my train, twelve yards long, being held up by four
ladies.' Hardly able to stir under all this grandeur, the bride moved as
best she could through six magnificent galleries, in the last of which
the ceremony was performed. A ball then followed, but as Wilhelmine
could not possibly have danced to save her life owing to the weight of
her clothes, the bridegroom opened it with her sister the margravine of
Anspach.
The festivities were kept up for several days, and on the 23rd another
ball took place, at which seven hundred people were present. This time
Wilhelmine who, as we know, loved dancing, did not allow her dress to
interfere, and she was in the middle of a minuet when Grumkow approached
her.
'Your feet seem to dance of themselves, madame,' he said roughly; 'don't
you see that strangers are present?'
Wilhelmine stopped and stared at a young man whose face was unknown to
her.
'Go and embrace the crown prince,' said Grumkow.
And she went.
[Illustration: BROTHER & SISTER MEET AGAIN]
_UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE_
ON the day that the whole of Lisbon was convulsed by the most terrible
earthquake that Europe has ever seen—and by the tidal wave that
followed after it—a little daughter was born, far away in Vienna, to
the empress Maria Theresa. The baby, who bore the names of Marie
Antoinette Josepha Jeanne, was the youngest of several children; and
three of her brothers, as well as her father Francis, wore the Imperial
crown. From the first she was her father's favourite, and, as far as he
was able to find leisure for her, his companion. Of course, being
emperor, there were a great many duties which he had to perform, but he
was not so clever at business as his wife, who was the heiress of
Austria and Hungary.
'We will die for our _king_ Maria Theresa,' shouted the Hungarian
parliament, when she first appeared before them; and a 'king' she was
till the day of her death.
The empress was a good mother, and was very fond of her children; but
she could not have them much with her when they were little. Sometimes a
whole week would slip by without her seeing them, but they had an
excellent doctor of their own, who visited them daily, and made careful
reports about their health. Maria Theresa was also most anxious about
their being properly taught, but unluckily she was deceived in their
governesses, who were good-natured, lazy people. 'The children were so
clever,' these ladies would say one to the other, 'they really could do
without learning lessons like other girls. And besides, were they not
princesses, and what need had they to be always poring over books?' So
Marie Antoinette and her sisters bade fair to grow up in perfect
ignorance of everything except Italian, in which Metastasio the poet was
their master.
[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE AND MOZART.]
This state of things might have gone on much longer had not Marie
Antoinette remarked one day, in her mother's hearing, that her copies
were always pencilled for her before she wrote them. This startled the
empress, and, in her usual energetic manner, she began making inquiries
as to the methods of teaching pursued by her daughter's governesses. The
end of it was that these ladies were dismissed, and the Comtesse de
Brandès, a clever and trustworthy woman, took charge of the education of
the young archduchess. The change was very much for the better, but it
came rather late for Marie Antoinette. She had never been forced to fix
her attention steadily upon anything, or to do anything that she did not
like. The slightest sound would distract her thoughts, and she would
break off in the midst of the 'History of the Thirty Years' War,' or the
account of the appearance of John Sobieski before the walls of Vienna,
to wonder if she would be allowed to appear at the approaching fête, or
what operas would be given in the coming week. For Marie Antoinette,
like all her family, was extremely fond of music, and though she could
never play well herself on any instrument, she had a sweet voice, which
was carefully cultivated. When she was nearly seven years old there was
great excitement in the palace of Schönbrünn, near Vienna, at the news
that a little boy called Mozart, younger even than Marie Antoinette, was
coming from Salzburg to play to them. 'What instrument did he play on?
Oh! both the harpsichord (a sort of piano), and the violin. And he could
_compose_ too! Think of that, at six years old! Would Wednesday never
come, that they might hear him!'
Wednesday _did_ come, after long waiting, and there entered a little
figure in court dress, with a wig and sword all complete. He was
followed by his father and mother, and sister Marianne, who, though five
years older than himself, was far more shy than he was. Wolfgang,
indeed, was not shy at all: it was his music he was thinking of, not
himself; he came forward towards the harpsichord, stopping, when he
remembered his manners, to make a funny little bow right and left. The
archdukes and their sisters gazed at him as if he was a being from
another world, and could hardly contain their delight when the emperor
mentioned a short composition which the boy was to play with one finger.
It could not have been very interesting, but it was a very difficult
thing to do, and Wolfgang did it to perfection. When it was over, he
wriggled down off his high stool, and bowed three times, waiting for the
emperor to tell him what he wished for next. Francis praised his
cleverness, then, taking up a piece of silk from a chair, he said: 'See,
I will arrange this over the keys, and you must play me a minuet without
looking at the notes.' This was just the sort of thing that pleased
Wolfgang; he gave a little laugh of satisfaction, and wriggled on to his
stool again. In a moment the notes rang out clear, and the children
looked at each other and longed to dance to them.
'Well done, my boy,' cried the emperor; 'now you shall choose.' Then
Wolfgang turned to a composer attached to the court who had been eagerly
watching his fingers.
'I will play a concerto of yours, and you must turn over for me.' And
when the concerto was over, and the Emperor inquired how he had liked
the performance, the musician answered in the heartiest tones, that
never had it sounded so well.
'I think so, too,' said the empress, and signed to the child to go over
to her. In his haste to obey he slipped on the shining floor, and fell
down, his sword clattering as if it had been a man's. Marie Antoinette,
who was nearest to him, ran to pick him up, and he thanked her with a
smile, saying: 'You are very kind; I should like to marry you.' Then,
without waiting for a reply, walked with careful steps up to the
empress, and jumped on her lap.
Wolfgang was a great man when he returned to Salzburg, and everybody he
saw asked the same questions about the imperial family.
'And when you had finished, what did her majesty say to you?'
'She said, "Are you tired?"'
'And what did you answer?'
'I said "No, your majesty."'
'Did she say nothing more?'
'She said "You play very well."'
'And what did you reply to _that_?'
'I said, "Thank you, your majesty."'
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For some time after little Mozart went away the beautifully painted
stool in front of the harpsichord was never empty; but by-and-by the
children's zeal wore off, and their mother was too busy to see that they
practised daily. They passed most of their time at Schönbrünn, which
both the emperor and empress preferred to Vienna, and it was so near the
capital that ministers and ambassadors could easily drive out to consult
them when needful. In their leisure moments, which were few, it rested
them to watch the growth of their flowers, or to plan alterations in
their garden, while the empress would sometimes go to see the poor in
their cottages, and take Marie Antoinette with her.
But, in the summer of 1765, when the little archduchess was nine years
old, a break suddenly occurred in their peaceful, happy life. The
emperor was obliged to go to Innsprück, and had already bidden farewell
to his family and entered his carriage, when he suddenly ordered the
coachman to stop.
'Be kind enough to bring me, the Archduchess Marie Antoinette,' he said
to the equerry; and soon the little girl was flying down the road.
'Good-bye, my darling, good-bye,' he whispered, taking her in his arms;
'now run home again.' And as she disappeared round a corner he remarked
to his equerry: 'I just wanted to see her once more.'
It was as if he had guessed what would befall him, for, shortly after,
news was received that he had died on his journey. The empress had loved
her husband dearly, but she was not the sort of person to shut herself
up with her grief, and before the year was out an event happened which
occupied all her thoughts. This was a hint let fall by Louis XV., king
of France, of a marriage, by-and-bye, between his grandson the dauphin
and Marie Antoinette. The plan was to be kept entirely secret for the
present, but the empress was greatly pleased, unlike the bridegroom's
mother, or his aunt the strong-willed madame Adelaide. The dauphine,
mother of the young Louis, was a Saxon princess, and wished her son to
marry his Saxon cousin. The dauphin, a good-natured, heavy, ill-mannered
youth, did not wish to marry anybody, or indeed do anything except
hunt—but he was not consulted. Still, out of respect to his
daughter-in-law (and perhaps because he was a little afraid of her), the
French king kept a profound silence on the matter to all but the
empress, till things were suddenly altered by the death of the dauphine
in 1767. Then, no one knew how, the marriage began to be spoken of in
Paris, and much more openly at Vienna, to the great embarrassment of the
French ambassador. Louis XV. had already an Austrian great-granddaughter,
for the emperor Joseph II. had some years before married the Infanta
Isabel, and they had one little girl, named Maria Theresa, after
her grandmother. Unfortunately the young empress was seized with
smallpox, which was the scourge of those times, and died, while her
sister-in-law, the Archduchess Josepha, likewise fell a victim to the
same disease a few days later, just as she was starting off to be
married. Joseph, in terror lest his little girl should be the next
victim, had her inoculated, as people were before vaccination was
introduced, and wrote to tell Louis XV., who was very anxious about
her, that she was getting on very well. With his letter went one from
the little archduchess herself.
'I know, dear grandpapa, that you love me, so I write to tell you that I
am quite well, and that I had only fifty spots, which I am very glad of.
How I wish I could show them to you, and hug you, for I am very fond of
you.'
Now, although not a word had been said to Marie Antoinette as to the
fate that was in store for her, she was quite clever enough to guess a
great deal that was happening. In the first place two French actors
arrived in Vienna to teach her how to speak clearly and prettily. They
were followed by the abbé de Vermond, who instructed her in the history
of France and its literature, while the celebrated Noverre gave her
lessons in dancing and the French mode of curtseying, which was far more
difficult to learn than the curtsey practised in Vienna. Marie
Antoinette delighted in the hours she spent over her dancing, and those
passed in playing on the clavecin, under Glück, whose opera of 'Orfeo'
had just been finished; but her new teachers found the same fault that
the old ones had done, that she must have everything told her like a
child if it was to dwell in her memory. She never got impatient or
cross, in fact she tried to turn everything into a joke; but the abbé
discovered her to be ignorant and inattentive, and though she had plenty
of good sense, she disliked being made to think. And in all this she was
not different from a hundred thousand other little girls!
[Illustration: She delighted in her dancing lessons]
At length, in September 1768, the King of France made a formal proposal
for the hand of the archduchess, who was not yet thirteen years old, and
the empress wrote to count Mercy d'Argenteau, her ambassador in Paris,
to give orders for the trousseau, on which she was prepared to lay out
16,000_l._ As the wedding was not to take place for a year and a half at
any rate, this seems a little early to begin, but there was so much
beautiful lace to be made, and wonderful embroidery to be done, that the
workers did not think the time any too long. Then her brother Joseph II.
often came into her private sitting-room in the evening and talked to
her about European politics, of which, he truly said, she ought to know
something, or the abbé de Vermond was bidden to join the family in the
evening and relate the lives of the French queens, and the genealogy of
the Bourbons and Valois, besides the names of the chief officers of
state and of the great nobles. All these things Marie Antoinette picked
up quickly; and as for the army, the abbé used to say she would soon
know every colonel of every regiment. Besides this sort of education,
the empress felt that her daughter must learn how to take her place in
the world, so once or twice a week she was allowed to have parties of
ten or twelve in her own rooms, at which she presided, and here they
would play _cavagnol_ or other fashionable card games, for in those days
cards were played every night, and large sums were staked.
The wedding-day drew nearer and nearer, and the empress's heart
sometimes failed her at the thought of the child she was sending forth
alone. As she was very busy all day, she made her daughter sleep during
the last weeks in her room at night, and here she warned her against all
the temptations she might find in the court, and read to her out of a
little book which her husband had once written for his children. Very
useful was the counsel he gave, the dangers he foresaw being mostly
those which beset Marie Antoinette during her married life, and led to
her downfall. 'Beware,' he said 'of making friends quickly, or of
allowing pleasure to become a business when it should only be an
amusement. Beware of flattering tongues, and of persuading yourself that
things may be innocent when really they are harmful. Do not let the
world absorb you, till you forget that you are mortal, but put aside two
days in every year to think of death.'
As the young archduchess read these words her soul grew serious within
her, and she promised her mother that she would keep the book always,
and strive to act as her father would have wished. And so she did; but
she was young and alone, and if court life is difficult everywhere, in
France it was harder than anywhere else.
For three days in Holy Week Marie Antoinette went into retreat, and when
she returned to the palace for Easter she had to give audience to the
principal Austrian and Hungarian nobles, and to reply in Latin (probably
carefully learnt for the occasion) to an address of the University.
Next, the empress held a crowded court, and in the midst of it the
French ambassador presented the archduchess with a letter from the
dauphin, together with his portrait set in diamonds, which was hung at
once round her neck by the countess of Trautmannsdorf, who was in
attendance. Then, much to the relief of the bride, they went to the
theatre, to see a French play. There only remained one more ceremony to
be performed, and this, considering that the archduchess was the
youngest of a very large family, was merely formal, and in the presence
of a number of witnesses she signed a paper renouncing her claim to any
Austrian, Hungarian, or Bohemian territory. This done, a few balls and
banquets were given in her honour, and, on April 19, her marriage by
proxy took place in the church of the Augustinians, her brother, the
archduke Ferdinand, taking the oaths instead of the bridegroom. The
papal nuncio, or special envoy, gave the blessing, and little Marie
Antoinette was dauphine of France.
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