FAMINE IN BOHEMIA.
The cry of distress from Bohemia reached Vienna, and came to the
knowledge of the emperor. Joseph hastened to bring succor and comfort to
his unhappy subjects.
The need great. Two successive years of short harvest had spread want
and tribulation throughout all Germany, especially in Bohemia and
Moravia, where a terrible inundation, added to the failure of the crops,
had destroyed the fruits and vegetables of every field and every little
garden.
The country was one vast desert. From every cottage went forth the wail
of hunger. The stalls were empty of cattle, the barns of corn. The
ploughs lay empty on the ground, for there was neither grain to sow nor
oxen to drive. There were neither men nor women to till the soil, for
there was no money to pay nor food to sustain them. Each man was alone
in his want, and each sufferer in the egotism of a misery that stifled
all humanity, complained that no one fed him, when all were fainting for
lack of food.
"Bread! bread!" The dreadful cry arose from hundreds of emaciated
beings, old and young, who, in the crowded cities, lay dying in the
streets, their wasted hands raised in vain supplication to the
passers-by.
"Bread! bread!" moaned the peasant in his hut, and the villager at the
way-side; as with glaring eyes they stared at the traveller, who, more
fortunate than they, was leaving Bohemia for happier climes, and,
surely, in gratitude for his own rescue, would throw a crust to the
starving wretches whom he left behind.
There they lay, watching for the elegant carriages, the horsemen, the
wagons, that were accustomed to pass there on their road to Prague. But
now the high-road was empty, for the famine had extended to Prague, and
no one cared to go thither.
And yet on either side of the road were hundreds of beings who long ago
had left their miserable huts, and now lay in heaps upon the ground, the
heavens their only shelter, the wide world their home. These were the
inhabitants of the mountains, who had come down to the neighboring
villages for help, but had been rudely driven away by those whose
sufferings had maddened them, and turned their hearts to stone.
They had lain there for a day, and yet not one trace of a traveller had
they seen. The mid-day sun had blistered their foreheads, but they had
not felt it, for the fiery pangs of hunger were keener than the sun; and
now the evening air that fanned their burning brows, brought no relief,
for fiercer and more cruel grew the gnawings of the fiend within.
"There is no help on earth," cried an old woman, the grandmother of a
whole generation of stalwart mountaineers who lay stricken around her.
There were her son and his wife, once such a stately pair, now reduced
to two pale spectres; there were troops of grandchildren, once
round-cheeked as the carved angels on the altar of the village chapel,
now hollow-eyed and skinny, with their blanched faces upturned
imploringly to the parents who were scarcely conscious of their presence
there. Hunger had extinguished youth, strength, beauty, and had almost
uprooted love. Not only had it destroyed their bodies, but it had even
corrupted their souls.
"There is no help on earth," cried the old woman again, with such energy
of despair that her voice found its way to the dull ear of every
sufferer around. And now from every hollow voice came back the mournful
chorus, "There is no help on earth!"
"There is no help in heaven!" shrieked an old man, who with his family
was lying in a hollow, whence their moans were heard as though coming
from the grave. "There is no God in heaven, else He would hear our
cries? There is no God!"
"There is no God!" echoed the maddened wretches, and many a wasted arm
was raised in defiance to heaven.
"Peace, peace, my friends!" cried the grandmother, "let us not sin
because we starve. We can but die, and the Lord will receive us!" And as
she spoke, she raised her trembling body and stretched forth her poor,
withered arms, as though she would have calmed the tempest she had
raised.
"Peace, Father Martin!" cried she, in a voice of authority. "There is a
God above, but He has turned away His face because of our sins. Let us
pray to see the light of His countenance. Come, friends, let its gather
up all our strength and pray."
She arose and knelt, while, inspired by her example, the multitude knelt
also. Old and young, men and women, all with one supreme effort lifted
up their hands to heaven.
But the prayer was over, the petitioners fell prostrate to the earth,
and still no sign of help from above!
"You see, Mother Elizabeth," groaned Father Martin, "your prayers are
all in vain. Heaven is empty, and we must die."
"We must die, we must die!" howled the famishing multitude, and,
exhausted by the might of their own despair, they fell to rise no more.
A long, tearful silence ensued. Here and there a faint moan struggled
for utterance, and a defiant arm was raised as though to threaten
Omnipotence; then the poor, puny creatures, whom hunger had bereft of
reason, shivered, dropped their hands, and again lay still.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the faint sound of carriage-wheels.
Nearer and more near it came, until the horses' heads were to be seen
through the clouds of dust that enveloped the vehicle. The poor peasants
heard, but scarcely heeded it. They stared in mute despair, or
murmured, "It is too late!"
Still the carriage rolled on, the dust grew thicker, and now it hid from
the travellers' view the miserable wretches that lay dying around them.
But. Heaven be praised, they stop!
There were two carriages, followed by outriders. The first carriage
contained three persons, all clad in dark, plain civilian's clothes; but
it was easy to recognize, in the youngest of the three, the most
important personage of all. It was he who had given the order to halt,
and now without waiting for assistance, he leaped from the carriage and
walked at once to the foremost group of sufferers. He bent down to, the
old woman, who, turning her fever-stricken face to him, moaned feebly.
"What is the matter?" said the traveller, in a gentle and sympathizing
tone. "How can I help you?"
The old mother made a violent effort and spoke. "Hunger!" said she. "I
burn--burn--hunger!"
"Hunger! hunger!" echoed the people around, shaking off their lethargy,
and awakening once more to hope.
"Oh, my God, this woman will die before we can succor her!" exclaimed
the young man, sorrowfully. "Hasten; Lacy, and bring me some wine."
"We have none," replied Lacy. "Your majesty gave away your last bottle
in the village behind."
"But she will die!" exclaimed the emperor, as bending over the poor old
woman, he took her skinny hand in his.
"We must die," murmured she, while her parched tongue protruded from her
mouth.
"Sire, you are in danger," whispered Lacy,
"Rise, your majesty," interrupted Rosenberg, "these unhappy people have
the typhus that accompanies starvation, and it is contagious."
"Contagious for those who hunger, but not for us," replied Joseph. "Oh,
my friends," continued he, "see here are three generations all dying for
want of food. Gracious Heaven! They have lost all resemblance to
humanity. Hunger has likened them to animals. Oh, it is dreadful to
think that a crust of bread or a sip of wine might awaken these
suffering creatures to reason; but flour and grain can be of no avail
here!"
"They may avail elsewhere, sire," said Rosenberg, "and if we can do
nothing for these, let us go on and help others."
"It is fearful," said the emperor, "but I will not leave until I have
made an effort to save them."
He signed to one of his outriders, and taking out a leaf of his
pocket-book, wrote something upon it. "Gallop for your life to Prague,"
said he, "and give this paper to the lord steward of the palace. He must
at once send a wagon hither, laden with food and wine, and that he may
be able to do it without delay, tell him to take the stores from the
palace and all the viands that are preparing in the kitchen for my
reception. This paper will be your warrant. As soon as you shall have
delivered your message, fill a portmanteau with old Hungarian wine and
gallop back to me. Be here within two hours, if you kill two of my best
horses to compass the distance."
The outrider took the paper and, setting spurs to his horse, galloped
off to Prague.
"And now, my friends," continued the emperor, "although we have no wine,
we have bread and meat. Not much, it is true, but I think it will save
these people from death."
The emperor hastened in the direction of his carriage. "Quick, Gunther,
hand me the camp-chest."
"But your majesty has not eaten a morsel to-day," urged Rosenberg,
following him. "I cannot consent to see the food prepared for you,
bestowed upon any one. You will lose your health if you fast for such a
length of time. You owe it to your mother, the empress, and to your
subjects, not to deprive yourself of food."
"Do you think I could eat in the presence of such hunger?" cried the
emperor, impatiently. "Come, Gunther, come all of you, and help me. Here
is a large fowl. Cut it into little morsels, and--oh, what a
discovery!--a jar of beef jelly. While you carve the fowl, I will
distribute the jelly. Come, Lacy and Rosenberg, take each a portion of
this chicken, and cut it up."
"Good Heaven, Lacy, come to my relief!" cried Rosenberg. "The emperor is
about to give away his last morsel. We both have had breakfast, but he
has not tasted food for a day."
"He is right, our noble emperor," replied Lacy, "in the presence of such
suffering he is right to forget himself; if he could not do so, he would
not be worthy to be a sovereign."
The emperor heard none of this; he was already with the sufferers,
distributing his food. With earnest look, and firm and rapid hand, he
put a teaspoonful of jelly between the parched, half-opened lips of the
grandmother, while Gunther, imitating him, did the same for her son.
For a moment the emperor looked to see the effect of his remedy. He saw
an expression of joy flit over the features of the poor old woman, and
then her lips moved, and she swallowed the jelly.
"See, see!" cried the emperor, overjoyed, "she takes it. Oh, Gunther,
this will save them until help comes from Prague! But there are so many
of them! Do you think we have a hundred teaspoonfuls of jelly in the
jar?"
And he looked anxiously at Gunther.
"It is a large jar, your majesty," said Gunther, "and I think it will
hold out."
"Be sparing of it at any rate, and do not heap up your spoons. And now,
not another word! We must go to work."
He stooped down and spoke no more, but his face was lit up by the fire
of the Christian charity that was consuming his noble heart. He looked
as must have looked his ancestor Rudolph of Hapsburg, who, once meeting
a footsore priest bearing the viaticum to a dying parishioner, gave up
his horse to the servant of God, and continued his way on foot.
While the emperor flew from group to group, resuscitating his expiring
subjects, Lacy and Rosenberg were carefully cutting up the fowl that had
been roasted for his dinner. A deep silence reigned around, all nature
seemed to be at peace, and over the reclining sufferers the evening sun
threw long rays of rosy light, that illumined their pallid faces with
the hue of hope and returning life.
Gradually there was motion in the scene. Here and there a head arose
from the ground, then a body, and presently a gleam of intelligence shot
athwart those glaring, bloodshot eyes. The emperor watched them with a
happy smile. His errand of mercy was at an end. The jar was empty, but
every one had received a share, and all were reviving.
"Now give them a morsel of chicken," said Joseph. "A small piece will
suffice, for after their long fast they can only eat sparingly of food;
and they will have had enough until help come to us from Prague."
"Then," said Rosenberg, affectionately, "I hope that your majesty, too,
will take something. There will certainly be enough left for you to eat
your dinner without remorse."
"Never mind me, Rosenberg," laughed the emperor. "I shall not die of
starvation, I promise you. When the creature cries out for nourishment,
I shall give it; but I think that my Maker will not love me the less for
having, voluntarily, felt the pangs of hunger for once in my life. I can
never forget this day in Bohemia; it has confirmed my resolution to
reign for the good of my people alone, and as God hears me, they shall
be happy when I govern them.--But your chicken is ready. To satisfy
you, I will go and beg my supper in yonder village, and, as there are
enough of you to attend to these poor sufferers, I will take Lacy to
keep me company. Come, Lacy."
He took the arm of the field-marshal, and both presently disappeared
behind the trees.