THE POLES AT VIENNA.
The three powers which had lived so long at variance, had united
themselves in one common cause--the pacification of Poland. In vain had
Stanislaus refused his assent to their friendly intervention. In vain
had he appealed to England and France for help. Neither of these powers
was willing, for the sake of unhappy Poland, to become involved in a war
with three nations, who were ready to hurl their consolidated strength
against any sovereign who would have presumed to dispute their joint
action.
In vain King Stanislaus began, by swearing, that sooner than consent to
the dismemberment of Poland, he would lose his right hand. The three
powers, tired of his impotent struggles, informed him, through their
envoys at Warsaw, that there were limits to the moderation which decorum
prescribed to governments; that they stood upon these limits, and
awaited his speedy acquiescence to the act of partition. [Footnote:
Raumer, "Contributions to Modern History," vol. iv., p 516.] The Russian
empress added that, if Stanislaus did not call a convention of the
Polish Diet to recognize the act, she would devastate his land, so that
he would not have a silver spoon left to him. [Footnote: Raumer,
"Contributions to Modern History," vol. i., p. 507.]
The unhappy king had no longer the nerve to brave such terrific threats.
He submitted to the will of his tyrants, and came in as a fourth power,
eager to obtain as much as he could for his own individual advantage.
The wretched Poles took no notice of the edicts of a king who had been
forced upon them by a strange sovereign. Only a few cowards and
hirelings obeyed the call for a convention; so that in all, there were
only thirty-six members, who, under the surveillance of Austrian and
Prussian hussars, signed their names to the act of partition.
The King of Prussia received Pomerelia, and the district of Nantz;
Russia took Livonia, and several important waywodeships; and Austria
obtained the county of Zips, a portion of Galicia and of Lodomeria, and
half of the palatinate of Cracow.
Here and there an isolated voice was raised to protest against the
stupendous robbery; but it was lost amidst the clash of arms and the
tread of soldiery. Whenever a word was spoken that fretted the
sensibilities of Austria or Prussia, Catharine said she was willing to
bear all the blame of the thing; and, laughing heartily, she called the
protests that were sent on the subject, "moutarde apres diner."
Frederick resorted to self-deception, proclaiming to the world, "that
for the first tune the King and the Republic of Poland were established
on a firm basis; that they could now apply themselves in peace to the
construction of such a government as would tend to preserve the balance
of power between proximate nations, and prevent them from clashing."
[Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions," p. 542.]
The Poles, in silent rancor, submitted to their fate, and took the oath
of allegiance to their oppressors. New boundary-lines were drawn, and
new names assigned to the sundered provinces of the dismembered
fatherland. The citadels were given over to their foreign masters, and
now the deed was consummated.
Even Maria Theresa rejoiced to know it, and whether to relieve her
burdened heart, or to pretend to the world that she approved of the
transaction, she ordered a solemn "Te Deum" to be sung in the cathedral
of St. Stephen, in commemoration of the event.
The entire court was to assist at this ceremony, after which the empress
was to receive the oath exacted from those of her new subjects who
desired to retain possession of their property.
The ladies of the court were in the anteroom, awaiting the entrance of
the sovereigns. Their handsome, rouged faces were bright with
satisfaction; for they had all suffered from the misery which, for a
year past, had been endured by their imperial mistress. Now they might
look forward to serene skies and a renewal of court festivities, and
they congratulated one another in triumph.
But they were cautious not to give too audible expression to their
hopes. They whispered their expectations of pleasure, now and then
casting stolen glances at a tall figure in black, which, sorrowful and
alone, stood tearfully regarding the crowds in the streets who were
hurrying to church to celebrate her country's downfall. This was the
Countess von Salmour, governess to the Archduchess Mariana. With the
other ladies of the palace, she was to accompany the empress to the
cathedral; but it was clear to all beholders that to her this was a day
of supreme humiliation.
The great bell of St. Stephen's announced to her people that the empress
was about to leave the palace. The folding-doors were flung open, and
she appeared leaning on the arm of the emperor, followed by the princes,
princesses, generals, and statesmen of her realms. Silently the ladies
of honor ranged themselves on either side of the room to let the
imperial family pass by. Maria Theresa's eyes glanced hastily around,
and fell upon the pale, wan features of the Countess von Salmour.
All eyes now sought the face of the unhappy lady, whose sad mourning
garments were in such striking contrast with the magnificent dresses of
the ladies around her.
"Madame von Salmour," said the empress, "I dispense you from your duties
for this day. You need not accompany the court to church."
The countess courtesied deeply, and replied: "Your majesty is right to
excuse me; for had I gone with the court to church, I might have been
tempted to utter treason to Heaven against the oppressors of my
country."
The company were aghast at the audacity of the rejoinder, but the
empress replied with great mildness:
"You are right; for the temptation would indeed be great, and it is
noble of you to speak the truth. I respect your candor."
She was about to pass on, but paused as if she had forgotten something.
"Is the Countess Wielopolska in Vienna?" asked she.
"She arrived yesterday, your majesty."
"Go to her while we are at church." said Maria Theresa, compassionately.
Madame von Salmour glanced toward the emperor, who, with an expression
of painful embarrassment, was listening to their conversation.
"Pardon me, your majesty," said the lady, "the Countess Wielopolska is
making preparations for a journey, and she receives no one. We parted
yesterday. To-morrow she leaves Vienna forever."
"I am glad that she intends to travel," said Maria Theresa; approvingly.
"It will divert her mind;" and with a friendly smile, she took leave of
the governess, and passed on.
Joseph followed with wildly throbbing heart; and neither the triumphant
strains of the Te Deum, nor the congratulatory shouts of his subjects,
could bring back serenity to his stormy brow. He knelt before the altar,
and with burning shame thought of his first entry into St. Stephen's as
Emperor of Austria. It had been the anniversary of the deliverance of
Vienna by John Sobieski and his Poles; and in the self-same spot where
the emperor had thanked God for this deliverance, he now knelt in
acknowledgment of the new principalities which were the fruits of his
own ingratitude to Poland.
From these painful and humiliating retrospections, the emperor's
thoughts wandered to the beautiful being, who, like a hamadryad, had
blended her life with the tree of Polish liberty. He thought of that
face whose pallid splendor reminded him of the glories of waning day;
and he listened through the long, dim aisles of memory, to the sound of
that enchanting voice, whose melody had won his heart long ago on that
first, happy evening at Neustadt.
The Countess Wielopolska was leaving Vienna forever, and yet there was
no message for him. A longing, that seemed to drown him in the flood of
its intensity, rushed over his soul. He would fly to her presence and
implore her to forgive the chant of victory that was rejoicing over her
country's grave! Oh, the crash of that stunning harmony, how it maddened
him, as kneeling, he listened to its last exultant notes!
It was over, and Joseph scarcely knew where he was, until his mother
laid her hand upon his shoulder and motioned him to rise.
In the great reception-room, with all the pomp of imperial splendor,
Maria Theresa sat upon her throne and received the homage of her new
subjects. Each one, as he passed, knelt before the powerful empress, and
as he rose, the chief marshal of the household announced his name and
rank. The ceremony over, Maria Theresa descended from the throne to
greet her Polish subjects in a less formal manner. No one possessed to a
greater degree than herself the art of bewitching those whom she desired
to propitiate; and to-day, though her youth and beauty were no longer
there to heighten the charms of her address, her elegant carriage, her
ever-splendid eyes, and graceful affability, were as potent to win
hearts as ever. Discontent vanished from the faces of the Poles, and by
and by they gathered into groups, in which were mingled Hungarians,
Italians, and Austrians, all the subjects of that one great empress.
The majority of the Poles had adopted the French costume of the day. Few
had possessed the hardihood to appear before their new sovereign in
their rich national dress. Among these few was an old man of tall
stature and distinguished appearance, who attracted the attention of
every one present.
While his countrymen unbent their brows to the sunshine of Maria
Theresa's gracious words, he remained apart in the recess of a window.
With scowling mien and folded arms, he surveyed the company; nor could
the empress herself, obtain from him more than a haughty inclination of
the head.
The emperor was conversing gayly with two Polish noblemen, whose
cheerful demeanor bore evidence to the transitory nature of their
national grief, when he observed this old man.
"Can you tell me," said he, "the name of yonder proud and angry
nobleman?"
The faces of the two grew scarlet, as following the direction of the
emperor's finger, they saw the eyes of the old man fixed, with scorn,
upon their smiling countenances.
"That," said one of them, uneasily, "is Count Kannienski."
"Ah, the old partisan leader!" exclaimed the emperor. "As he does not
seem inclined to come to me, I will go forward and greet him myself."
So saying, Joseph crossed over to the window where, the old count was
standing. He received him with a cold, solemn bow.
"I rejoice to meet Count Kannienski, and to express to him my esteem for
his character," began the emperor, reaching out his hand.
The count did not appear to perceive the gesture, and merely made a
silent bow. But Joseph would not be deterred from his purpose by a
hauteur which he knew very well how to excuse.
"Is this your first visit to Vienna?" asked he.
"My first and last visit, sire."
"Are you pleased with the Austrian capital?"
"No, your majesty, Vienna does not please me."
The emperor smiled. Instead of being irritated at the haughtiness with
which his advances were met, he felt both respect and sympathy for the
noble old man who disdained to conceal his discontent from the eyes of
the sovereign himself.
"I wonder that you do not like Vienna. It has great attractions for
strangers, and you meet so many of your countrymen here just now!--there
were never as many Poles in Vienna before."
An angry glance shot athwart the face of the old man. "There were many
more when John Sobieski delivered Vienna from the hands of her enemies,"
said he. "But that is almost a hundred years ago, and the memory of
princes does not extend so far to the obligations of the past.
[Footnote: This whole conversation is historical. It was often related
by the emperor who said that he had been so touched by Count
Kannienski's patriotism and boldness, that but for the fear of a
repulse, he would have embraced him. Swinburne, vol. i., page 349.]
But," continued he, more courteously, "I did not come here to speak of
my country. We must be resigned to the fate apportioned to us by
Providence, and you see how readily my countrymen adapt themselves to
the vicissitudes of their national life."
"And yet, count, their smiles are less pleasing to me than your frowns.
In spite of the present, I cherish the past, and honor those who mourn
over the misfortunes of their native land."
The old man was touched, and looked at the handsome, expressive face of
the emperor. "Sire," said he, sadly, "if Stanislaus had resembled you,
Poland would have been free. But I have not come hither to-day to whine
over the unalterable past. Nor did I come to pay homage to the empress."
"Nevertheless the empress would rejoice to become acquainted with the
brave Count Kannienski. Allow me, count, to present you."
Kannienski shook his gray locks. "No, sire, I came to Vienna purely for
the sake of a woman who will die under the weight of this day's anguish.
I came to console her with what poor consolation I have to bestow."
"Is she a Pole?" asked Joseph, anxiously.
"Yes, sire; she is the last true-hearted Polish woman left on earth, and
I fear she is about to die upon the grave of her fatherland."
"May I ask her name?"
"Countess Anna Wielopolska. She it is who sent me to the palace, and I
came because she asked of me one last friendly service."
"You bring me a message?" faltered the emperor.
"The countess begs to remind the emperor of the promise he made on the
day when the empress signed the act of--"
"I remember," interrupted the emperor.
"She asks, if mindful of his promise, he will visit her to-morrow
afternoon at six o'clock."
"Where shall I find her?"
"In the very same room which she occupied before. I have delivered my
message. Your majesty will, therefore, permit me to withdraw."
He bowed and turned away. Slowly and proudly he made his way through the
giddy crowd, without a word of recognition for the frivolous Poles who
saluted him as he passed.
"He is the last Polish hero, as she is the last Polish heroine," sighed
the emperor, as he followed the old man with his eyes. "Our destiny is
accomplished. She would bid me a last farewell."