THE COUNTESS WIELOPOLSKA.
"You really think that he will come, Matuschka?" asked the Countess
Wielopolska of her waiting-woman, who, standing behind the chair, was
fastening a string of pearls in her lady's dusky hair.
"I know he will come, your ladyship," replied Matuschka.
"And you have seen the emperor and spoken to him!" exclaimed the
countess, pressing her delicate white hands upon her heart, as though
she strove to imprison its wild emotions.
"Indeed I have, my lady."
"Oh, tell me of it again, Matuschka; tell me, that I may not fancy it a
dream!" cried the countess, eagerly.
"Well, then, my lady, I took your note to the palace, where the emperor
has given positive orders that every one who wishes it shall be admitted
to his presence. The guard before the door let me pass into the
antechamber. One of the lords in waiting told me that the emperor would
be there before a quarter of an hour. I had not waited so long when the
door opened and a handsome young man in a plain white uniform walked in.
I should never have taken him for the emperor, except that the lord
stood up so straight when he saw him. Then I knelt down and gave the
letter. The emperor took it and said: 'Tell your lady that I am not
prepared to receive ladies in my palace; but since she wishes to see me,
I will go to her. If she will be at home this evening, I will find time
to call upon her myself.'"
"Ah!" cried the countess, "he will soon be here. I shall see him--speak
to him--pour out the longings of my bursting heart! Oh, Matuschka, as
the moment approaches, I feel as if I could fly away and plunge into the
wild waters of the Vistula that bear my husband's corpse, or sink
lifeless upon the battle-field that is reddened with the blood of my
brothers."
"Do not think of these dreadful things, dear lady," said Matuschka,
trying to keep back her tears; "it is twilight, and the emperor will
soon be here. Look cheerful--for you are as beautiful as an angel when
you smile, and the emperor will be much more apt to be moved by your
smiles than by your tears."
"You are right, Matuschka," cried the countess, rising hastily from her
seat. "I will not weep, for I must try to find favor in the emperor's
eyes."
She crossed the room and stood before a Psyche, where for some time she
scrutinized her own features; not with the self-complacency of a vain
woman, but with the critical acuteness of an artist who contemplates a
fine picture. Gradually her eyes grew soft and her mouth rippled with a
smile. Like a mourning Juno she stood in the long black velvet dress
that sharply defined the outlines of her faultless bust and fell in
graceful folds around her stately figure. Her bodice was clasped by an
agrafe of richest pearls; and the white throat and the jewel lay
together, pearl beside pearl, each rivalling the snowy lustre of the
other. Had it not been for those starry eyes that looked out so full of
mournful splendor, her face might have seemed too statuesque in its
beauty; but from their dark depths all the enthusiasm of a nature that
had concentrated its every emotion into one master-passion, lit up her
face with flashes that came and went like summer lightning.
"Yes, I am beautiful," whispered she, while a sad smile played around
her exquisite month. "My beauty is the last weapon left me wherewith to
battle for Poland. I must take advantage of it. Life and honor, wealth
and blood, every thing for my country!"
She turned to her waiting-woman as a queen would have done who was
dismissing her subjects.
"Go, Matuschka," said she, "and take some rest. You have been laboring
for me all day, and I cannot bear to think that the only friend left me
in this world should be overtasked for me. Sometimes you look at me as
my mother once did; and then I dream that I feel her hand laid lovingly
upon my head, and hear her dear voice exhorting me to pray that God
would bless me with strength to do my duty to my bleeding country."
Matuschka fell upon her knees and kissed the hem of her mistress's robe.
"Do not give way," sobbed she, "do not grieve now."
The countess did not hear. She had thrown back her head and was gazing
absently above. "Oh, yes, I am mindful of my duty," murmured she. "I
have not forgotten the vow I made to my mother and sealed upon her dying
lips with my last kiss! I have been a faithful daughter of my
fatherland. I have given every thing--there remains nothing but myself,
and oh, how gladly would I give my life for Poland! But God has forsaken
us; His eyes are turned away!"
"Accuse not the Lord, dear lady," prayed Matuschka. "Put your trust in
Him, and take courage."
"It is true. I have no right to accuse my Maker," sighed the
countess. "When the last drop of Polish blood is spent and the last
Polish heart is crushed beneath the tramp of the enemy's hosts, then it
will be time to cry to Heaven! Rise, Matuschka, and weep no more. All is
not yet lost. Let us hope, and labor that hope may become reality, and
Poland may be free!"
She reached her hand to Matuschka and passed into an adjoining room. It
was the state apartment of the inn, and was always reserved for
distinguished guests. It had been richly furnished, but the teeth of
time had nibbled many a rent in the old-fashioned furniture, the faded
curtains, and the well-worn carpet. Matuschka, however, had given an air
of some elegance to the place. On the carved oak table in the centre
stood a vase of flowers; and, that her dear mistress might have
something to remind her of home, Matuschka had procured a piano, to
which the countess, when weary of her thoughts, might confide the hopes
and fears that were surging in her storm-tossed heart.
The piano was open, and a sheet of music lay on the desk. As the
countess perceived it, she walked rapidly toward the instrument and sat
down before it.
"I will sing," said she. "The emperor loves music, above all things the
music of Gluck."
She turned over the leaves, and then said, softly:
"`Orpheus and Eurydice!' La, Bernasconi told me that this was his
favorite opera. Oh, that I knew which aria he loved the best?"
She struck a few chords, and in a low voice began to sing. Gradually her
beautiful features lost their sadness, she seemed to forget herself and
her sorrows, and to yield up her soul to the influence of Gluck's
heavenly music. And now, with all the power, the melody, the pathos of
her matchless voice, she sang, "Che faro senza Eurydice!"
The more she sang, the brighter grew her lovely face. Forgetful of all
things around, she gave herself wholly up to the inspiration of the
hour, and from its fountains of harmony she drew sweetest draughts of
consolation and of hope.
The door had opened, and she had not beard it. On the threshold stood
the emperor, followed by Matuschka, while the countess, all unmindful,
filled the air with strains so divine, that they might have been the
marriage-hymns of Love wedded to Song.
The emperor had stopped for a moment to listen. His face, which at first
had worn an expression of smiling flippancy, now changed its aspect. He
recognized the music, and felt his heart heat wildly. With a commanding
gesture, he motioned Matuschka to withdraw, and noiselessly closed the
door.
CHAPTER LXYI.
THE EMPEROR AND THE COUNTESS.
The countess continued to sing, although Joseph had advanced as far as
the centre of the room. The thickness of the carpet made his footfall
inaudible. He stood with his right hand resting upon the oak table,
while he leaned forward to listen, and one by one the dead memories of
his youthful love came thronging around his heart, and filling it with
an ecstasy that was half joy and half sorrow.
More and more impassioned grew the music, while the air was tremulous
with melody. It softened and softened, until it melted away in sobs. The
hands of the enchantress fell from the keys; she bowed her head, and
leaning against the music, burst into tears. The emperor, too, felt the
tear-drops gather in his eyes; he dashed them away, and went rapidly up
to the piano.
"Countess," said he, in his soft, mellow tones, "I felt it no
indiscretion to listen unseen to your heavenly music, but no one save
God has a right to witness your grief."
She started, and rising quickly, the emperor saw the face of the lady
who had thrown him the wreath.
"It is she!" cried he, "the beautiful Confederate! I thank you from my
heart for the favor you have done me, for I have sought you for some
days in vain."
"Your majesty sought me?" said she, smiling. "Then I am sure that you
are ready to sympathize with misfortune."
"Do you need sympathy?" asked he, eagerly.
"Sire, I am a daughter of Poland," replied she.
"And the Wielopolskas are among the noblest and richest of Poland's
noble families."
"Noble! Rich! Our castles have been burned by the Russians, our fields
have been laid waste, our vassals have been massacred, and of our
kinsmen, some have died under the knout, while others drag out a life of
martyrdom in Siberia."
"One of the Counts Wielopolska was a favorite of the king, was he not?"
asked Joseph, much moved.
"He was my husband," replied she, bitterly. "Heedless of his
countrymen's warnings, he believed in the patriotism of Stanislaus. When
he saw his error, he felt that he merited death, and expiated his fault
by self-destruction. His grave is in the Vistula."
"Unhappy wife!" exclaimed the emperor. "And had you no other kinsman?"
"I had a father and three brothers."
"You had them?"
"Yes, sire, but I have them no longer. My brothers died on the field of
battle; my father, oh, my father!--God grant that he be no more among
the living, FOR HE IS IN SIBERIA!"
The emperor raised his hands in horror; then extending them to the
countess, he took hers, and said in a voice of deepest sympathy "I thank
you for coming to me. Tell me your plans for the future, that I may
learn how best I may serve you."
"Sire, I have none," sighed she. "Life is so mournful, that I long to
close my eyes forever upon its tragedies, but--"
"But what?"
"I should then be robbed of the sight of him who has promised succor to
my fatherland," cried she, passionately, while she sank upon her knees
and clasped her hands convulsively together.
Joseph bent over, and would have raised her from the floor. "It ill
becomes such beauty to kneel before me," said he, softly.
"Let me kneel, let me kneel!" exclaimed she, while her beautiful eyes
suffused with tears. "Here, at your feet, let me implore your protection
for Poland! Have mercy, sire, upon the Confederates, whose only crime is
their resistance to foreign oppression. Reach out your imperial band to
THEM, and bid them be free, for they must either be slaves, or die by
their own hands. Emperor of Austria, save the children of Sobieski from
barbarous Russia!"
"Do not fear," replied Joseph, kindly. "I promised the Confederates that
Austria would recognize their envoy, and I will redeem my word. Rise,
countess, I implore you, rise, and may the day not be distant when I
shall extend my hand to Poland as I now do to you. You have a pledge of
my sincerity, in the fact that we have both a common enemy, and it will
not be my fault if I do not oppose her, sword in hand. Still, although
men call me emperor, I am the puppet of another will. The crown of
Austria is on my mother's head; its shadow, alone, is upon mine. I speak
frankly to you; but our acquaintance is peculiar, and, by its nature,
has broken down the ordinary barriers of conventional life. Your songs
and your tears have spoken directly to my heart recalling the oniy happy
days that I have ever known on earth. But I am growing sentimental. You
will pardon me, I know, for you are a woman, and have known what it is
to love."
She slowly shook her head. "No, sire," replied she, "I have never known
what it was to love."
The emperor looked directly in her eyes. SHE! Beautiful and majestic as
Hera,--SHE, not know what it was to love! "And your husband--" asked he.
"I was married to him as Poland was given to Stanislaus. I never saw him
until he became my husband."
"And your heart refused allegiance?"
"Sire, I have never yet seen the man who was destined to reign over my
heart."
"Ah, you are proud! I envy him who is destined to conquer that
enchanting domain."
She looked for one moment at the emperor, and then said, blushing:
"Sire, my heart will succumb to him who rescues Poland. With rapture it
will acknowledge him as lord and sovereign of my being."
The emperor made no reply. He gazed with a significant smile at the
lovely enthusiast, until she blushed again, and her eyes sought the
ground.
"Ah, countess," said Joseph, after a pause, "if all the women of Poland
were of your mind, a multitudinous army would soon flock to her
standard."
"Every Polish woman is of one mind with me. We are all the daughters of
one mother, and our love for her is stronger than death."
The emperor shook his lead. "Were this true," replied he, "Poland would
never have fallen as she has done. But far be it from me to heap
reproaches upon the unfortunate. I will do what it lies in my power to
do for the Poles, provided they are willing to second my efforts for
themselves. If they would have peace, however, with other nations, they
must show strength and unity of purpose among themselves. Until they can
stand before the world in the serried ranks of a national unanimity,
they must expect to be assailed by their rapacious neighbors. But let us
forget politics for a moment. I long to speak to you of yourself. What
are your plans? How can I serve you?"
"Sire, I have no plans. I ask nothing of the world but a place of
refuge, where I can sorrow unseen."
"You are too young, and, pardon me, if I add, too beautiful, to fly from
the world. Come to Vienna, and learn from me how easy it is to live
without happiness."
"Your majesty will allow me to go to Vienna?" cried the countess,
joyfully. "Ever since I have felt that I could do nothing for Poland, I
have longed to live in Vienna, that I might breathe the same atmosphere
with your majesty and the Empress Maria Theresa. You are the only
sovereigns in Europe who have shown any compassion for the misfortunes
of my country, and before your generous sympathy my heart bows down in
gratitude and admiration."
"Say you so, proud heart, that has never bowed before?" exclaimed the
emperor, smiling, and taking the countess's white hand in his. "Come,
then, to Vienna, not to do homage, but to receive it, for nothing
becomes your beauty more than pride. Come to Vienna., and I will see
that new friends and new ties awaken your heart to love and happiness."
"I have one relative in Vienna, sire, the Countess von Salmour."
"Ah! one of the empress's ladies of honor. Then you will not need my
protection there, for the countess is in high favor with the empress;
and I may say, that she has more influence at court than I have."
"Sire," said the countess, raising her large eyes with an appealing
look, "I shall go to Vienna, if I go under your majesty's protection and
with your sanction."
"You shall have both," replied Joseph, warmly. "I will write to my
mother to-day, and you shall present my letter. When will you leave? I
dare not ask you to tarry here, for this is no place for lovely and
unprotected women. Moreover, the King of Prussia has no sympathy with
Poland, and he will like you the less for the touching appeal you made
in her behalf when you sang at the concert. Greet the empress for me,
and let me hope that you will stir her heart as you have stirred mine.
And now farewell. My time has expired: the King of Prussia expects me to
supper. I must part from you, but I leave comforted, since I am enabled
to say in parting, 'Au revoir.'"
He bowed, and turned to quit the room. But at the door he spoke again.
"If I ever win the right to claim any thing of you, will you sing for me
the aria that I found you singing to-night?"
"Oh! your majesty," said the countess, coming eagerly forward. "you have
already earned the right to claim whatsoever you desire of me. I can
never speak my gratitude for your condescension; perhaps music will
speak for me. How gladly, then, will I sing when you command me!"
"I shall claim the promise in Vienna," said he, as he left the room.
The countess remained standing just where he had met her, breathlessly
listening to his voice, which for a while she heard in the anteroom, and
then to the last echoes of his retreating steps.
Suddenly the door was opened, and Matuschka, with joyful mien, came
forward with a purse in her hand.
"Oh, my lady," exclaimed she, "the emperor has given me this purse to
defray our expenses to Vienna!"
The countess started, and her pale face suffused with crimson shame.
"Alms!" said she, bitterly. "He treats me like a beggar!"
"No, lady," said Matuschka abashed; "the emperor told me that he had
begged you to go to Vienna for business of state, and that he had a
right to provide the expenses of our journey there. He said--"
The countess waved her hand impatiently. "Go back to the emperor," said
she haughtily. "Tell him that you dare not offer this purse to your
lady, for you know that she would rather die than receive alms, even
from an emperor."
Matuschka cast down her eyes, and turned away. But she hesitated, and
looked timidly at her mistress, whose great, glowing eyes were fixed
upon her in unmistakable displeasure.
"My lady," said she, with embarrassment, "I will do your bidding, but
you who have been so rich and great, know nothing of the troubles of
poverty. Your money is exhausted. I would rather melt my own heart's
blood into gold than tell you so; but indeed, dear lady, if you refuse
the emperor's gift you wilt be without a kreutzer in your purse."
The countess raised her hands to her hair and unfastened the pearl
wreath with which Matuschka had decorated it in anticipation of the
emperor's visit.
"There--take this and sell it. You will readily find a jeweller who
understands its value, and if he pays us but the half, it will be twice
the sum which you hold in the emperor's purse."
"My lady, would you sell your family jewels? Have you forgotten that
your family are pledged not to sell their heirlooms?"
"God will forgive me if I break my vow. It is more honorable to part
with my ancestral jewels than to receive alms. I have no heirs, and no
one will be wronged by the act. I have but my mother--Poland. For her I
am ready to sacrifice the little I possess, and when nothing else
remains, I shall yield my life. Go, Matuschka, go!"
Matuschka took the wreath and wept. "I go, lady," sobbed she. "This will
last you for half a year, and then the armlets, then the diadem of
brilliants, the bracelets, and the necklace, must all go. God grant you
may live so long on these family treasures, that old Matuschka may be
spared the humiliation of selling the rest! I have lived too long, since
I must chaffer with a base-born tradesman for the jewels that were the
royal gift of John Sobieski to my lady's noble ancestors."
She raised the countess's robe to her lips, and left the room. Her
mistress looked after her, but her thoughts were wandering elsewhere.
Slowly sinking on her knees, she began to pray, and the burden of her
prayer was this:
"Oh, my God, grant that I may win his love!"