Yes, even princes must die, glorious and lofty as they are, proudly as
they stand over their trembling subjects! Even to them comes the dark
hour in which all the borrowed and artistically-combined tinsel of their
lives falls from them; a dark hour, in which they tremble and repent,
and pray to God for what they seldom granted to their fellow-men--mercy!
Mercy for those false tales which they have imposed upon the people,
for those false tales of the higher endowments of princes, of inherited
wisdom which raises them above the rest of mankind--mercy for their
arbitrariness, their pride, and their insolence--mercy for a poor
beggar, who, until then, had called himself a rich and powerful prince.
And this hour came for Elizabeth. After twenty years of splendor, of
absolute, unlimited power, of infallibility, of likeness to the gods,
came the depressing hour in which Elizabeth ceased to be an empress, and
became only a trembling earth-worm, imploring mercy, aid, amelioration
of her sufferings from her Creator!
She suffered much, this poor empress, dethroned by death; she suffered,
although reposing upon silken cushions, with a gold-embroidered covering
for her shaking limbs.
And she was yet so young, hardly fifty, and she loved life so intensely!
Oh, she would have given half of her empire for a few more years of life
and enjoyment. But what cares Death for the wishes of an empress?
Here ends her earthly supremacy! Groaning and writhing, the earth-worm
tremblingly submits.
Where, now, were all her favorites--those high lords of the court, those
grand noblemen, created from soldiers, grooms, lackeys, and serfs--where
were they now? Why stood they not around the death-bed of their empress?
Why were they not there, that the remembrance of the benefits conferred
upon them might drive away those terrible reminiscences of the torments
she had inflicted upon others? Where were they, her counts, barons,
field-marshals, and privy councillors, whom she had raised from nothing
to the first positions in the realm?
None were with her! They had all hastened thence for the preservation
of their ill-gotten wealth, to crawl in the dust before Peter, to be the
first to pay him homage, that he might pardon their greatness and their
possessions! From the death-bed they had fled to Peter, and kneeling
before him, they praised God for at length bestowing upon the happy
realm the noblest and best ruler, Peter III.!
But where were Elizabeth’s more particular friends, who had made her an
empress?
Where was Lestocq?
Him the empress had banished to Siberia. Yielding to the prayers and
calumnies of his enemies, which she was too weak to withstand, she had
given him up; she had sacrificed him to procure peace and quiet for
herself, and in the same hour in which she had tenderly pressed
his hand, and called him her friend, had she signed his sentence of
banishment! Lestocq had for nine years languished in Siberia.
Where was Grunstein? Banished, cast off, like Lestocq.
Where was Alexis Razumovsky?
Ah, well for her! He stood at her bedside, he pressed her cold hand in
his; he yet, in the face of death, thanked her for all the benefits she
had heaped upon him. But alas! she was also surrounded by others--by
wild, pale, terrible forms, which were unseen by all except the dying
empress! She there saw the tortured face of Anna Leopoldowna, whom she
had let die in prison; there grinned at her the idiotic face of Ivan,
whose mind she had destroyed; there saw she the angry-flashing eyes and
bloody form of Eleonore Lapuschkin, and, springing up from her bed, the
empress screeched with terror, and folded her trembling hands in prayer
to God for grace and mercy for her daughter, for Natalie, that He would
turn away the horrible curse that Eleonore had hurled at her child.
Alexis Razumovsky stood by her bedside, weeping. Overcome, as it seemed,
by his sorrow, another left the death-chamber of the empress, and rushed
to his horse, standing ready in the court below! This other was Count
Rasczinsky, the confidant of the empress.
The bells rang in St. Petersburg, the cannon roared; there were both joy
and sorrow in what the bells and cannon announced!
The Empress Elizabeth was dead; the Emperor Peter III. ascended the
throne of the czars as absolute ruler of the Russian realm. The first to
bow before him was his wife. With her son of five years old in her arms,
she had thrown herself upon her knees, and touching the floor with her
forehead, she had implored grace and love for herself and her son; and
Peter, raising her up, had presented her to the people as his empress.
In St. Petersburg the bells rang, the cannon thundered--“The empress is
dead, long live the emperor!”
Before the villa stopped a foam-covered steed, from which dismounted a
horseman, who knocked at the closed door. To the porter who looked out
from a sliding window he showed the written order of Elizabeth for his
admission. The porter opened the door, and with the loud cry, “Natalie,
Natalie!” the Count Rasczinsky rushed into the hall of the house.
The bells continued to ring, the cannon to thunder. There was great
rejoicing in St. Petersburg.
Issuing from the villa, Count Rasczinsky again mounted his foaming
steed.
Like a storm-wind swept he over the plain--but not toward St.
Petersburg, not toward the city where the people were saluting their new
emperor!
Away, away, far and wide in the distance, his horse bounded and panted,
bleeding with the spurs of his rider. Excited constantly to new speed,
he as constantly bounds onward.
Like a nocturnal spectre flies he through the desert waste; the
storm-wind drives him forward, it lifts the mantle that enwraps him like
a cloud, and under that mantle is seen an angel-face, the smile of a
delicate little girl, two tender childish arms clasping the form of
the count, a slight elfish form tremblingly reposing upon the count’s
breast.
“You weep not, my angel,” whispered the count, while rushing forward
with restless haste.
“No, no, I neither weep nor tremble, for I am with you!” breathed a
sweet, childish voice.
“Cling closer to me, my sweet blossom, recline your head against my
breast. See, evening approaches!--Night will spread its protecting veil
over us, and God will be our conductor and safeguard! I shall save you,
my angel, my charming child!”
The steed continues his onward course.
The child smilingly reclines upon the bosom of the rider, over whom the
descending sun sheds its red parting beams.
Like a phantom flies he onward, like a phantom he disappears there on
the border of the forest. Was it only a delusive appearance, a _fata
morgana_ of the desert?
No, again and again the evening breeze raises the mantle of the rider,
and the charming angelic brow is still seen resting upon the bosom of
the count.
No, it is no dream, it is truth and reality!
Like a storm-wind flies the count over hill and heath, and on his bosom
reposes Natalie, _the daughter of the empress_!