THE LAST FAREWELL.
Countess Anna Wielopolska was alone in her room, which, like herself,
was decked to receive some great and distinguished guest. A rich carpet
covered the floor, flowers bloomed in costly vases, the piano was
opened, and the music on the stand showed that the countess still found
consolation in her genius. But she herself was strangely altered since
the day on which she had thrown her bouquet to the emperor in Neustadt.
Nevertheless she wore the same dress of black velvet, the same jewels,
and in her bosom the same bouquet of white roses, bound with a long
scarlet ribbon.
Her heart beat high, and her anxious eyes wandered to the little bronze
clock that stood upon a console opposite. The clock struck six, and her
pale cheek flushed with anticipated happiness.
"It is the hour," said she. "I shall see him once more." And as she
spoke, a carriage stopped, and she heard his step within the vestibule
below. Trembling in every limb, she approached the door, and bent her
ear to listen.
"Yes, he comes," whispered she, while, with a gesture of extreme
agitation she drew from her pocket a little case, whence she took a tiny
flask, containing a transparent, crimson liquid. She held it for a few
seconds to the light, and now she could hear the sound of his voice, as
he spoke with Matuschka in the anteroom. The steps came nearer and
nearer yet.
"It is time," murmured she; and hastily moving the golden capsule that
covered the vial, she put it to her lips and drank it to the last drop.
"One hour of happiness," said she, replacing the vial in her pocket, and
hastening back to the door.
It was opened, and the emperor entered the room. Anna met him, with both
hands outstretched, and smiled with unmistakable love as he came forward
to greet her. Silent, but with visible agitation, the emperor looked
into those eyes, which were already resplendent with the glory of
approaching death. Long they gazed upon each other without a word, yet
speaking love with eyes and lips.
Suddenly the emperor dropped her hands, and laying his own gently upon
her cheeks, he drew down her head, and rested it upon his breast. She
left it there, and looked up with a tender smile.
"Do not speak, love," said he. "I am an astrologer, who looks into his
heaven to read the secrets there. And, oh," sighed he, after he had
gazed for a time. "I see sorrow and suffering written upon that snowy
brow. Tears have dimmed the splendor of my stars, but they have not been
able to lessen their beauty. I know you again, my queen of the night, as
you first appeared to me at Neustadt. You are still the same proud
being, Anna."
"No, dearest, no. I am a trembling woman, craving nothing from earth
save the glance of my beloved, and the privilege of dying in his
embrace."
"She who loves, desires to live for her lover," said he, pressing her
again and again to his heart.
"Death is the entrance to eternal life, and she who truly loves will
love throughout eternity."
"Speak not of death in this hour of ecstasy, when I have found you once
more as I had pictured you in dreams. Oh, Anna, Anna! will you part me
from you again? Have you indeed brought me hither to cheat me with
visions of love, and then to say farewell, forever!"
"No, Joseph, I bid you eternal welcome. Oh, my lover, my soul has gone
forth to meet yours, and nothing shall ever part us again."
"And are you mine at last!" cried Joseph, kissing her passionately. "Has
the statue felt the ray of love, and uttered its first sweet sound? Oh,
how I longed to hear that sound! I have gone about by day, wearing the
weight of sovereignty upon my fainting shoulders; and by night I have
wept like a lovesick boy for your sake, Anna; but no one suspected it.
No one knew that the emperor was unhappy."
"I knew it," whispered she--"I knew it; for your sorrows have all been
mine."
"No, no!" cried Joseph, awaking from his dream of bliss, "you told me
that Poland was dearer to you than I. I remember it now You refused me
your hand, and forsook me for the sake of your country."
"But, now, beloved," said she, clinging to him, "now I am but a woman--a
woman who abandons her fatherland with all its memories, and asks but
one blessing of Heaven--the blessing of living and dying in her lover's
arms."
"Oh, if you would not kill me, speak no more of dying, Anna! Now you are
mine--mine for life; and my heart leaps with joy as it did when first I
heard your heavenly voice. Let me hear it once more. Sing to me, my
treasure."
She went to the harpsichord, and the emperor bent over her, smiling as
he watched the motion of her graceful hands upon the keys. She struck a
few full chords, and then glided into a melody of melancholy sweetness.
The emperor listened attentively; then, suddenly smiling, he recognized
the song which she had sung before the King of Prussia and himself.
The words were different now. They represented Poland as a beggared
queen, wandering from door to door, repulsed by all. She is starving,
but she remembers that death will release her from shame and hunger.
The countess was singing these lines--
"If life to her hath brought disgrace,
Honor returns with death's embrace--"
when she stopped and her hands fell powerless from the instrument. The
emperor raised her head, and saw with alarm that her face was distorted
by pain. Without a word, he took her in his arms, and, carrying her
across the room, laid her gently upon the sofa. She raised her loving
eyes to his, and tried to steal her arm around his neck, but it fell
heavily to her side. Joseph saw it, and a pang of apprehension shook his
manly frame.
"Anna!" groaned he, "what means this?"
"Honor returns with death's embrace," whispered she.
The emperor uttered a savage cry, and raised his despairing arms to
heaven. "And it was false," cried he, almost mad with grief--"it was
false! She had not forgotten Poland. Oh, cruel, cruel Anna!" and he
sobbed piteously, while she strove to put her trembling hand upon his
head.
"Cruel to myself, Joseph, for I have just begun to value life. But I
swore to my mother that I would not outlive the disgrace of Poland; and
you would have ceased to love me had I violated my oath. Forgive the
pain I inflict upon you, dearest. I longed for one single hour of
happiness, and I have found it here. With my dying breath I bless you."
"Is there no remedy?" asked he, scarcely able to speak.
"None," said she, with a fluttering smile. "I obtained the poison from
Cagliostro. Nay--dear one, do not weep: you see that I could not live.
Oh, do not hide your face from me; let me die with my eyes fixed upon
yours!"
"And," cried Joseph, "must I live forever?"
"You must live for your subjects--live to be great and good, yet ever
mistrusted, ever misunderstood. But onward, my prince, and the blessing
of God be upon you! Think, too, that the Poles, my brethren, are among
your subjects, and promise me to love and cherish them?"
"I promise."
"Try to reconcile them to their fate--do not return their ill-will;
swear to me that you will be clement to my countrymen?"
"I swear! I swear to respect their misfortunes, and to make them happy!"
One last, beaming illuminated her face. "Thank you--dearest," said she,
with difficulty. "My spirit shall look out from the eye of every Pole,
to whom you will have given--one moment--of joy! Oh, what agony!
Farewell!"
One more look--one shudder--and all was still.
The emperor fell upon his knees by the body, and prayed long and
fervently. The little clock struck seven. The hour of happiness had
passed away forever.
The following day, Joseph, pale, but perfectly calm, sought an interview
with his mother.
"I come to ask leave of absence of your majesty," said he, languidly.
"Leave of absence, my son? Do you wish to travel again so soon?"
"I must travel, your majesty. I must make a journey to Galicia, to
become acquainted with our new subjects."
"Perhaps it might be as well for us to show them some consideration at
this period. I had already thought of this; but I have been told that
Galicia is rather an uncivilized country, and that the people are
ill-disposed toward us."
"We cannot expect them to love their oppressors, your majesty."
"No--but it is a dreadful country. No roads--no inns--miles and miles of
uninhabited woods, infested by robbers. Oh, my son, postpone your
journey to a milder season! I shall be trembling for your safety."
"There is no danger, your majesty. Give me your consent; I am very, very
desirous of visiting Poland."
"But no vehicle can travel there at this time of year, my son."
"I will go on horseback, your majesty."
"But where will you get provisions, Joseph? Where will you rest at
night?"
"I will rest wherever night overtakes me, either in a cottage, on my
horse, or on the ground. And as for food, mother, if there is food for
our people, there will be some for me; and if there should be scarcity,
it is but just that I should share their hardships. Let me go, I entreat
you."
"Go, then, my son, and God's blessing be with you," said the empress,
kissing her son's forehead.
"Joseph!" said she, as he was leaving the room, "have you heard that the
poor young Countess Anna has committed suicide on account of the
troubles in Poland?"
"Yes, your majesty," replied Joseph, without flinching.
"Perhaps you had better defer your journey for a day to attend her
funeral. All the Poles will be there; and as we both knew and admired
her, I think it would propitiate our new subjects if we gave some public
mark of sympathy by following the body to the grave. I have forbidden
mention to be made of the manner of her death, that she may not be
denied a resting-place within consecrated ground."
How she probed his wound until the flesh quivered with agony!
"The Countess Wielopolska is not to be interred in Austria, your
majesty," said he. "Count Kannienski will accompany the body to Poland.
Near Cracow there is a mound wherein it is said that Wanda, the first
Queen of Poland, was buried. Anna Wielopolska will share her tomb. Her
heroic spirit could rest nowhere save in Poland. When I visit Cracow I
will go thither to plant flowers upon her grave, that the white roses
she loved may grow from the consecrated earth that lies upon her heart."