CHE FARO SENZA EURYDICE.
The funeral rites were ended, and Isabella of Parma slept in St.
Stephen's, in the tomb of the kaisers.
Joseph had refused to attend the funeral. From the hour his
consciousness had returned to him he had locked himself within his
apartments, and night and day he was heard pacing the floor with dull
and measured tread. Not even the empress, who had stood imploring at the
door, could obtain a word in answer to her entreaties. For two days and
nights lie remained within. On the third day the emperor knocked at the
door, and announced to his son that all was now ready for the funeral,
and his presence was indispensable.
Joseph opened the door, and, without a word, leaned upon his father's
arm, and traversed the long suite of apartments hung in black, until
they reached the room where lay the body of his wife. There, amid
burning wax-lights, was the hideous coffin that enclosed his beloved
one, and was about to bear away forever his life, his love, and his
happiness. When he saw the coffin, a stifled cry arose from his breast.
He darted with open arms toward it, and, bending down, hid his face upon
the lid.
At this moment the doors of the room were opened, and the empress
entered, attended by her daughters, all in deep mourning. Their faces
were wan with weeping, as were those of all who followed the bereaved
sovereign. Meanwhile Joseph neither saw nor heard what passed around
him. The ceremonies began, but while the priest performed the funeral
rites, the archduke murmured words which brought tears to the eyes of
his father and mother.
Maria Theresa approached her stricken son. She kissed his hair, and laid
her hand lovingly upon his shoulder.
"My son," said she, with quivering lip, "arise and be a man. Her soul is
with God and with us; let us give her body to the earth that bore it."
While the empress spoke, the bells of the churches began to toll, and
from the streets were heard the beating of muffled drums, and the
booming of the cannon that announced to Vienna the moving of the funeral
procession.
"Come, my son, come," repeated the empress. "Our time of trial is at
hand."
Joseph raised his head from the coffin, and stared wildly around. He saw
the priests, the acolytes with their smoking censers, the weeping
attendants of his wife; he saw the black hangings, the groups of
mourners, and his father and mother standing pale and sad beside him; he
heard the tolling of the bells and the dull sound of the funeral drum;
and now, now indeed he felt the awful reality of his bereavement, and
knew that as yet he had suffered nothing. Tears filled his eyes, and he
sank upon his father's breast. Sobs and wailings filled the funeral
hall, while without the inexorable knell went on, the drums still beat,
the cannon roared, all calling for the coffin, for whose entrance the
imperial vault lay open.
Once more Joseph approached this dreadful coffin. He kissed it, and
taking from it one of the roses with which it had been decked, he said,
"Farewell, my wife, my treasure; farewell, my adored Isabella!" Then
turning toward the empress, he added, "Thank you, dearest mother, for
the courage which bears you through this bitter trial; for me, I cannot
follow you. Greet my ancestors and say to them that never came a nobler
victim to the grave than the one which you bear thither to-day."
"You will not go with us!" said the empress, astounded.
"No, mother, no. Mingle dust with dust, but do not ask me to look into
my Isabella's grave."
He turned, and without a word or another look at the coffin, he left the
room.
"Let him go," whispered the emperor. "I believe that it would kill him
to witness the funeral ceremony."
The empress gave a sign, and the cortege moved with the coffin to the
catafalque, which, drawn by twelve black horses, awaited the body in
front of the palace.
Joseph once more retreated to his room, and there, through the stillness
of the deserted palace, might be heard his ceaseless tramp, that sounded
as though it might be the hammer that was fashioning another coffin to
break the hearts of the imperial family. At least it seemed so to the
sorrowing empress, who listened to the dull sound of her son's footsteps
with superstitious fear. She had gone to him, on her return from the
funeral, to console him with her love and sympathy. But the door was
locked, and her affectionate entreaties for admission were unanswered.
She turned to the emperor. "Something must be done to bend the obstinacy
of this solitary grief," said she anxiously. "I know Joseph. His is a
passionate and obdurate nature, strong in love as in hate. He had
yielded his whole soul to his wife, and now, alas! I fear that she will
draw him with her to the grave. What shall we do, Franz, to comfort him?
How shall we entice him from this odious room, which he paces like a
lion in his cage?"
"Go once more and command him to open the door. He will not have the
courage to defy you," said the emperor.
Maria Theresa knocked again, and cried out, "My son Joseph, I command
you, as your sovereign and mother, to open the door."
No answer. Still the same dull, everlasting tread.
The empress stood awhile to listen; then, flushing with anger, she
exclaimed, "It is in vain. We have lost all control over him. His sorrow
has made him cruel and rebellious, even toward his mother."
"But this is unmanly," cried the emperor with displeasure. "It is a
miserable weakness to sink so helpless under grief."
"Think you so?" said the empress, ready to vent upon the emperor her
vexation at the conduct of her son. "In your pride of manhood you deem
it weak that Joseph grieves for his wife. I dare say that were your
majesty placed in similar circumstances, you would know full well how to
bear my loss like a man. But your majesty must remember that Joseph has
not your wisdom and experience. He is but a poor, artless youth, who has
been weak enough to love his wife without stint. This is a fault for
which I crave the emperor's indulgence."
"Oh, your majesty," replied the emperor, smiling, "God forbid that he
should ever grow less affectionate! I was only vexed that the voice of
Maria Theresa should have less power over my son than it has over his
father; that silvery voice which bewitched me in youth, and through life
has soothed my every pang."
The empress, completely softened, reached out her hand.
"Would you, indeed, mourn for me, Franz?" said she tenderly. "Would you
refuse to listen to father or mother for my sake? My dearest, you would,
I believe. From our childhood we were lovers, we will be lovers in our
old age, and when we part the one that is left will mourn as deeply as
Joseph. Let us, then, be lenient with his grief, until our love and
forbearance shall have won him to come and weep upon his mother's
breast."
"If your majesty permit," said Christina, stepping forward, "I will try
to soften his grief."
"What can you do, dear child?" asked the empress of her favorite
daughter.
"I have a message for him," replied Christina. "I swore to Isabella that
no one but myself should reveal it to Joseph. I know that it will prove
consolatory, and Isabella also knew it. For this reason she intrusted it
to me."
"Try, then my daughter, try if your voice will have more power than
mine. Meanwhile I will essay the power of music. It over-came him once
when he was a boy. We will try him with the music that Isabella loved
best."
She called a page and spoke with him in a low voice. In conclusion she
said, "Let the carriage go at once and bring him hither in a quarter of
an hour."
The page withdrew, and the imperial family were again alone. "Now, my
daughter," said the empress, "see if he will speak to you."
Christina approached the door. "My brother Joseph," said she, "I beseech
you open the door to me. I come from Isabella; it is she who sends me to
you."
The bolt was withdrawn, and for a moment the pale face of Joseph
appeared at the door.
"Come in," said he, waving his hand to Christina. She followed him into
the room where so many, many tears had been shed. "Now speak," said he,
"what did Isabella say to you?"
His sister looked with pity upon his ghastly face and those hollow eyes
grown glassy with weeping. "Poor, poor Joseph!" said she softly, "I see
that your love for her was beyond all bounds."
He made a motion of impatience. "Do not pity me," said he. "My grief is
too sacred for sympathy. I do not need it. Tell me at once, what said
Isabella?"
Christina hesitated. She felt as if the balm she was about to bring
would prove more painful than the wounds it was intended to heal.
"Speak, I tell you," cried Joseph angrily. "If you have made use of
Isabella's name to gain access to my presence, it is a trick for which I
will never forgive you. Why did you disturb me? I was with her,"
continued he, staring at the divan where so often they had sat together.
"She wore her white dress and the pink roses, and she smiled with her
enchanting smile. I lay at her feet, I looked into her eyes, I heard the
melody of her voice."
"Did she ever say that she loved you?" asked Christina.
He looked at her intently and grew thoughtful. "I do not know," said he
after a pause, "whether she ever told me so in words. But there needed
no words. I saw her love in every glance, in every smile. Her whole life
was love, and oh! I have lost it forever!"
"You have not lost it, for you never possessed it," said Christina
Joseph drew back and frowned. "What is that?" said be hastily
Christina approached him, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, she
looked into his face until her eyes filled with tears.
"I say," whispered she in a tremulous voice, "do not mourn any longer,
dear brother. For she for whom you grieve, she whom you call your
Isabella, never loved you."
"That is not true," cried Joseph vehemently. "It is a lie, a wicked lie
that you have devised to lessen my grief."
"It is nothing but the truth, and I promised Isabella to tell it to
you."
Joseph sank almost insensible upon the divan. Christina seated herself
near him, and throwing her arms around him, sobbed, "My brother, my
darling brother, think no more of the dead, but turn your heart toward
us; for we love you, and Isabella never did. She merely endured your
love."
"Endured my love!" murmured Joseph, and his head sank powerless upon
Christina's bosom. But suddenly he rose, and looking with a beseeching
expression at his sister's beautiful face, he said
"Bethink you, Christina, of what you do. Think that I love Isabella with
all the strength and glow of my heart; think that for me she was the
embodiment of all beauty, goodness, and purity. Do not seek to comfort
me by destroying my faith in the truth of the only woman I have ever
loved. In whom shall I have faith, if not in her? If HER love was a lie,
is there love in this world? Oh, Christina, in mercy say that you have
sought to comfort by deceiving me!"
"I have sought to comfort you, by telling you the truth. If you will not
believe me, believe her own words."
She drew a paper from her dress and handed it to Joseph. "It is a
letter," said she, "which Isabella gave me, and she made me swear that I
would fulfil its behests. Read, and be satisfied."
Joseph unfolded the letter. "It is her handwriting," said he to himself,
and he tried to read it but in vain; his hand trembled, and his eyes
filled with tears.
He gave it back to Christina, who read it aloud:
"My Christina--confidant of my sufferings and sorrow--hear my dying
request. To you I leave the task of consoling my husband. His noble
tears shall not be shed over the grave of one who is unworthy of them.
Tell him the truth, tell him all you know, show him this letter, and bid
him not grieve for one who never loved him. Do this for me, it is my
last request. ISABELLA."
Suddenly, from the adjoining room, the sweet tones of music were heard;
the air was tremulous with melody, which at first soft and low, swelled
louder and louder until it filled the room with a gush of harmony that
stirred the hearts of those who listened with sweetest and holiest
emotions.
Joseph bent eagerly forward. He knew those strains so well! He
remembered the night when Isabella's tears had fallen among the
rose-leaves, and he had kissed them away. He saw her once more in the
pride of her beauty, looking at him from the depths of those glorious
dark eyes which he had so madly loved. The music gave life and being to
these memories, and its glamour brought back the dead from her grave! He
remembered how he had asked her if she loved him, and how, avoiding the
words so difficult to speak, she had answered with the witching tones of
her violin. Oh, that heavenly evening hour upon the balcony! She had
said, "Love has its own language: come and listen." And Christina said
SHE HAD NOT LOVED! He could not, would not believe her!
He took the letter from Christina's hand and kissed the paper. "I do not
believe you," he said softly. "My trust in her is like my sorrow--for
eternity!"
This imperturbable faith had the effect of hardening Christina, and
making her cruel. "You shall believe me," said she hastily. "You shall
see in her own handwriting that she loved another."
"ANOTHER! "cried the wretched husband. "I will kill him!"
"He died before you ever knew her," said Christina, frightened at the
effect of her own heartlessness.
A smile overspread his face. "Dead, before I knew her! Then she forgot
him when I loved her." He took up the letter and read it again. "Oh,"
said he, "see how magnanimous was my Isabella. She has been false to her
own heart that she might save me from sorrow. She thought it would dry
my tears to think that she did not love me. Oh, beloved, I see through
thy noble falsehood--in death as in life I know every working of that
unselfish heart!"
Christina said nothing, but she grew more inflexible in her purpose. "He
shall be convinced," said she to herself. "I will give him her letters
to me, and then he will know that he never has been loved."
Again pealed forth the sounds of that heavenly music. Now the violin,
mingling with the tones of the harpsichord, glide into a melody of
divinest beauty; and the full, rich tones of a woman's voice warbled the
complaint of Orpheus: "Che faro senza Eurydice!"
Joseph sighed convulsively, and a faint color tinged his pale cheeks.
This was Isabella's favorite air; and once more the vision started up
before him, once more he saw the tears, he kissed them, and looked into
the depths of those starry eyes!
He rose from the divan, and, drawn thither by a power which he could not
contend, he left the room, and followed the music that was calling him
from madness back to reason.
At the harpsichord sat Ritter Gluck, and by him stood the Archduchess
Elizabeth, whose rich and beautiful voice had exorcised the evil spirit.
The emperor and empress, with all their children, came forward to meet
the unhappy one, and all with tearful eyes kissed and welcomed him with
tender words of love.
Gluck alone seemed not to have seen the archduke. He was chiding
Elizabeth for singing falsely, and called upon her to repeat her song.
Nevertheless, while he corrected his pupil, the big tears were coursing
one another down his cheeks, and fell upon his hands, as they wandered
over the instrument, enrapturing every ear.
Elizabeth began again; and again were heard the heart-breaking tones of
"Che faro senza Eurydice!"
All eyes turned upon the bereaved Orpheus. The empress opened her arms,
and completely subdued, he darted to his mother's heart, and cried out,
"Che faro senza Eurydice!"
Again and again the mother kissed her weeping son. The emperor folded
them both to his loving heart. The brothers and sisters wept for mingled
grief and joy. Elizabeth's voice failed her, and she sang no more. But
Gluck played on, his hands weaving new strains of harmony such as earth
had never heard before. His head thrown back, his eyes upturned toward
heaven, his face beaming with inspiration, he listened to his music,
while from Joseph's anguish was born the wonderful song in Alceste, "No
crudel, no posso vivere, to to sai, senza de te."
The melody went on, the parents caressed their child, and on his
mother's bosom Joseph wept the last tears of his great youthful sorrow.
The dream of love was over! Grief had made of him a man.
KING OF ROME.