THE DEATH OF THE MARTYR.
He had made his peace with the world and with God! He had taken leave of
his family, his friends, and his attendants. He had made his last
confession, and had received the sacraments of the church.
His struggles were at an end. All sorrow overcome, he lay happy and
tranquil on his death-bed, no more word of complaint passing the lips
which had been consecrated to the Lord. He comforted his weeping
relatives, and had a word of affectionate greeting for every one who
approached him. With his own feeble hand he wrote farewell letters to
his absent sisters, to Prince Kaunitz, and to several ladies for whom he
had an especial regard; and on the seventeenth of February signed his
name eighty times.
He felt that his end was very near; and when Lacy and Rosenberg, who
were to pass the night with him, entered his bedchamber, he signed them
to approach.
"It will soon be over," whispered he. "The lamp will shortly be
extinguished. Hush! do not weep--you grieve me. Let us part from each
other with fortitude."
"Alas, how can we part with fortitude, when our parting is for life!"
said Lacy.
The emperor raised his eyes, and looked thoughtfully un to heaven. "We
shall meet again," said he, after a pause. "I believe in another and a
better world, where I shall find compensation for all that I have
endured here below."
"And where punishment awaits those who have been the cause of your
sorrows," returned Rosenberg.
"I have forgiven them all," said the dying monarch. "There is no room in
my heart for resentment, dear friends. I have honestly striven to make
my subjects happy, and feel no animosity toward them for refusing the
boon I proffered. I should like to have inscribed upon my tomb, 'Here
lies a prince whose intentions were pure, but who was so unfortunate as
to fail in every honest undertaking of his life.' Oh, how mistaken was
the poet, who wrote,
`Et du trone au cerenell le passage est terrible!'
"I do not deplore the loss of my throne, but I feel some, lingering
regret that I should have made so few of my fellow-beings happy--so
many of them ungrateful. This, however, is the usual lot of princes!"
[Footnote: The emperor's own words.--"Characteristics of Joseph II.," p.
23.]
"It is the lot of all those who are too enlightened for their times! It
is the lot of all great men who would elevate and ennoble the masses!"
cried Lacy. "It is the fate of greatness to be the martyr of stupidity,
bigotry, and malice!"
"Yes, that is the word," said Joseph, smiling. "I am a martyr, but
nobody will honor my relics."
"Yes, beloved sovereign," cried Rosenberg, weeping, "your majesty's love
we shall bear about our hearts, as the devotee wears the relic of a
marytred saint."
"Do not weep so," said Joseph. "We have spent so many happy days
together, that we must pass the few fleeting hours remaining to us in
rational intercourse. Show me a cheerful countenance, Rosenberg--you
from whose hands I received my last cup of earthly comfort. What blessed
tidings you brought me! My sweet Elizabeth is a mother, and I shall
carry the consciousness of her happiness to the grave. I shall die with
ONE joy at my heart--a beautiful hope shall blossom as I
fall!--Elizabeth is your future empress; love her for my sake; you know
how unspeakably dear she is to me. And, now that I think of it, I have
not heard from her since this morning. How is she?"
The two friends were silent, and cast down their eves.
"Lacy!" cried the emperor, and over his inspired features there passed a
shade of human sorrow. "Lacy, speak--you are silent--O God, what has
happened? Rosenberg, tell me, oh tell me, how is my Elizabeth, my
darling daughter?"
So great were his anxiety and distress, that he half rose in his bed.
They would not meet his glance, but Rosenberg in a low voice replied:
"The archduchess is very sick. The labor was long and painful."
"Ah, she is dead!" exclaimed Joseph, "she is dead, is she not?"
Neither of his weeping friends spoke a word, but the emperor
comprehended their silence.
Falling back upon his pillow, he raised his wasted arms to heaven.
--"O God, Thy will be done! but my sufferings are beyond expression!
I thought that I had outlived sorrow: but the stroke which has come to
imbitter my last moments exceeds all that I have endured throughout a
life of uncheckered misery!" [Footnote: The emperor's own words.]
For a long time he lay cold and rigid. Then raising himself upon his
arm, he signed to Rosenberg to approach. His eyes beamed as of erst, and
his whole demeanor was that of a sovereign who had learned, above all
things, to control himself.
"She must be buried with all the tenderness and honor of which she was
deserving," said he. "Rosenberg, will you attend to this for me? Let her
body be exposed in the court-chapel to-morrow. After that, lay her to
rest in the imperial vaults, and let the chapel be in readiness to
receive my own remains." [Footnote: Joseph's own words.--See Hubner,
ii., p. 491.]
This was the last command given by the emperor. From that hour he was
nothing more than a poor, dying mortal, whose last thoughts are devoted
to his Maker. He sent for his confessor, and asked him to read something
appropriate and consolatory. With folded hands, his large violet eyes
reverently raised to heaven, he listened to the holy scriptural words.
Suddenly his countenance brightened, and his lips moved.
"Now here remain faith, hope, and love," read the priest.
The emperor repeated the three last words, "faith--hope" and when he
pronounced the word "love," his face was illumined with a joy which had
its source far, far away from earth!
Then all was silent. The prayer was over, and the dying emperor lay
motionless, with his hands folded upon his breast.
Presently his feeble voice was heard in prayer. "Father, Thou knowest my
heart--Thou art my witness, that I meant--to do--well Thy will be done!"
[Footnote: Ramshorn, p. 410]
Then all was still. Weeping around the bed stood Lacy, Rosenberg, and
the Archduke Francis. The emperor looked at them with staring eyes, but
he recognized them no longer. Those beautiful eves were dimmed forever!
Suddenly the silence was broken by a long, long sigh.
It was the death-sigh of JOSEPH THE SECOND!
Joseph died on the 20th of February, 1790. But his spirit outlived him
and survives to the present day. His subjects, who had so misjudged him,
deplored his loss, and felt how dear he had been to them. Now that he
was dead--now that they had broken his heart, they grieved and wept for
him. Poets sang his praises in eulogies, and wrote epitaphs laudatory of
him who may be considered the great martyr of political and social
enlightenment