CHAPTER V.
THE QUEEN'S TAILOR.
A dreary silence had reigned for some time in the usually gay and happy family circle of the worthy court tailor. No one dared to speak or laugh aloud. M. Pricker, the crown and head of the house, was sad and anxious, and the storm-cloud upon his brow threw a dark reflection upon the faces of his wife and two children, the beautiful Anna, and the active, merry Wilhelm, Even the assistants in the work-room were affected by the general gloom; the gay songs of the apprentices were silenced, and the pretty house-maids looked discontented and dull.
A tempest lowered over the house, and all appeared to tremble at its approach. When Wilhelm, the son and heir of the house, returned from his work, he hastened to his mother's room, and casting a curious glance upon the old woman, who was seated on a sofa, grim-looking, and supporting her head upon her hand, he said, mysteriously—
"Not yet!"
Mother Pricker shook her head, sighed deeply, and replied:
"Not yet!"
The beautiful Anna was generally in her elegant room, painting or singing, and did not allow herself to be disturbed; but now when the bell rang, or a strange step was heard, she hastened to her mother, and said:
"Well, has it come?"
Again Mother Pricker sighed, shook her head, and answered—
"Not yet!"
M. Pricker asked nothing, demanded nothing; silent and proud he sat in the midst of his family circle; stoically listened to the ringing of the bell, and saw strangers enter his counting-room, too proud to show any excitement. He wrapped himself in an Olympian silence, and barricaded himself from the curious questions of his children by the stern reserve of parental authority.
"I see that he suffers," said his wife to her daughter Anna; "I see that he looks paler every day, and eats less and less; if this painful anxiety endures much longer, the poor man will become dangerously ill, and the king will be answerable for the death of one of his noblest and best subjects."
"But why does our father attach such importance to this small affair?" said Anna, with a lofty shrug of her shoulders.
Mother Pricker looked at her with astonishment.
"You call this a small affair, which concerns not only the honor of your father, but that of your whole family; which affects the position and calling enjoyed by the Pricker family for a hundred years? It is a question whether your father shall be unjustly deprived of his honorable place, or have justice done him, and his great services acknowledged!"
Anna gave a hearty laugh.
"Dear mother, you look at this thing too tragically; you are making a camel of a gnat. The great and exalted things of which you speak have nothing to do with the matter; it is a simple question of title. The great point is, will our father receive the title of 'court tailor' to the reigning queen, or be only the tailor of the queen-dowager. It seems to me the difference is very small, and I cannot imagine why so much importance is attached to it."
"You do not understand," sighed Mother Pricker; "you do not love your family; you care nothing for the honor of your house!"
"Pshaw! to be the daughter of a tailor is a very poor and doubtful honor," said Anna, drearily, "even if he is the tailor of one or even two queens. Our father is rich enough to live without this contemptible business; yes, to live in style. He has given his children such an education as nobles only receive; I have had my governess and my music-teacher; my brother his tutor; my father has not allowed him to walk through the streets, fearing that he might fall into the hands of the recruiting-officers. We have each our private rooms, beautifully furnished, and are the envy of all our friends. Why, notwithstanding all this, will he condemn us to be and to continue to be the children of a tailor? Why does he not tear down the sign from the door; this sign, which will be ever a humiliation, even though 'court tailor' should be written upon it! This title will never enable us to appear at court, and the noble cavaliers will never think of marrying the daughter of a tailor, though many would seek to do so if our father would give up his needlework, buy a country seat, and live, as rich and distinguished men do, upon his estate."
"Child, child, what are you saying?" cried Mother Pricker, clasping her hands with anguish. "Thy father give up his stand, his honorable stand, which, for more than a hundred years, has been inherited by the family! Thy father demean himself to buy with his honorably-earned gold a son-in-law from amongst the poor nobles, who will be ever thinking of the honor done us in accepting thee and thy sixty thousand dollars! Thy father buy a country-seat, and spend in idleness that fortune which his forefathers and himself have been collecting for hundreds of years! That can never be, and never will your father consent to your marriage with any other man than an honest burgher; and he will never allow Wilhelm to have any other calling than that of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, a court tailor."
The beautiful Anna stamped involuntarily upon the floor, and a flush of scorn spread itself over her soft cheek. "I will not wed a burgher," said she, tossing her head proudly back, "and my brother Wilhelm will never carry on the business of his father."
"Then your father will disinherit you—cast you out amongst strangers to beg your bread," said the old woman, wringing her hands.
"God be thanked," said Anna proudly, "there is no necessity for begging our bread; we have learned enough to carry us honorably through the world, and when all else fails, I have a capital in my voice which assures me a glittering future. The king will found an opera-house, and splendid singers are so rare that Prussia will thank God if I allow myself to be prevailed upon to take the place of prima donna."
"Oh! unhappy, wretched child!" sobbed Mother Pricker, "you will dishonor your family, you will make us miserable, and cover us with shame; you will become an actress, and we must live to see our respectable, yes, celebrated name upon a play-bill, and pasted upon every corner."
"You will have the honor of hearing all the world speak of your daughter, of seeing sweet flowers and wreaths thrown before her whenever she appears, and of seeing her praises in every number of every journal in Berlin. I shall be exalted to the skies, and the parents called blessed who have given me life."
"These are the NEW ideas," gasped out her mother—"the new ideas which are now the mode, and which our new king favors. Alas! wailing and sorrow will come over our whole city; honor and principle will disappear, and destruction like that of Sodom and Gomorrah will fall upon Berlin! These are the alluring temptations with which Baron Pollnitz fills your ear and crushes in your heart the worthy and seemly principles of your family. That,"—suddenly she stopped and listened; it seemed to her the bell rung; truly there was a step upon the stairs, and some one asked for M. and Madame Pricker.
"Pollnitz," whispered Anna, and a glowing blush overspread her face, throat, and neck.
"The Baron Pollnitz, the master of ceremonies," said Madame Pricker, with a mixture of joy and alarm.
The door flew open, and with a gay, frolicsome greeting, Pollnitz danced into the room; Anna had turned to the window, and made no reply to his greeting. Madame Pricker stepped toward him, and greeted him with the most profound reverence, calling him master of ceremonies and master of the bed-chamber.
"Not so," said Pollnitz; "why so much reverence and so many titles? I am indeed master of ceremonies, but without the title. His majesty, the young king, has no special fondness for renewing the titles lent to us by his blessed father, and every prayer and every representation to that effect has been in vain; he considers titles ridiculous and superfluous."
Madame Pricker turned pale, and murmured some incomprehensible words. Anna, however, who had up to this time been turned toward the window, suddenly looked at the two speakers, and fixed her great eyes questioningly upon the baron.
"Ah, at last I have the honor to see you, fair, beautiful Anna!" said Pollnitz; "I knew well some magic was necessary to fix those splendid eyes on me. Allow me to kiss your hand, most honored lady, and forgive me if I have disturbed you." Ho flew with an elegant pirouette to Anna, and took her hand, which she did not extend to him, and, indeed, struggled to withhold; he then turned again to Madame Pricker, and bowing to her, said, with a solemn pathos: "I am not here to-day simply as the friend of the house, but as the ambassador of the king; and I beseech the honored Madame Pricker to announce to her husband that I wish to speak to him, and to deliver a message from the queen."
Madame Pricker uttered a cry of joy, and forgetting all other considerations, hastened to the counting-room of her husband, to make known to him the important information.
Baron Pollnitz watched her till the door closed, then turned to Anna, who still leaned immovable in the window. "Anna, dearest Anna," whispered he tenderly, "at last we are alone! How I have pined for you, how happy I am to see you once again!"
He sought to press her fondly to his heart, but the maiden waved him proudly and coldly back. "Have you forgotten our agreement?" said she, earnestly.
"No, I have held your cruelty in good remembrance; only, when I have fulfilled all your commands, will you deign to listen to my glowing wishes; when I have induced your father to employ for you another singing-master, and arranged for your glorious and heavenly voice to be heard by the king and the assembled court?"
"Yes," cried Anna, with glowing eyes and burning cheeks, "that is my aim, my ambition. Yes, I will be a singer; all Europe shall resound with my fame; all men shall lie at my feet; and princes and queens shall seek to draw me into their circles."
"And I will be the happiest of the happy, when the lovely nightingale has reached the goal. From my hand shall she first wing her flight to fame. But, when I have fulfilled my word, when you have sung in the royal palace before the queen and the court, then will YOU fulfil your promise? Then Pollnitz will be the happiest of mortals."
"I will fulfil my word," she said, as proudly and imperiously as if she were already the celebrated and grace-dispensing prima donna. "On the day in which I sing for the first time before the king—the day in which the tailor's daughter has purified herself from the dishonor of her humble birth, and becomes a free, self-sustaining, distinguished artist—on that day we will have no reason to be ashamed of our love, and we can both, without humiliation, present our hearts to each other. Baron Pollnitz can take for his wife, without blushing, the woman ennobled by art, and Prima Donna Anna Pricker need not be humbled by the thought that Baron Pollnitz has forgotten his rank in his choice of a wife."
Baron Pollnitz, courtier as he was, had not his features so completely under control as to conceal wholly the shock conveyed by the words of his beautiful sweetheart. He stared for a moment, speechless, into that lovely face, glowing with enthusiasm, ambition, and love. A mocking, demoniac smile appeared one moment on his lips, then faded quickly, and Pollnitz was again the tender, passionate lover of Anna Pricker. "Yes, my dearly-beloved Anna," whispered he, clasping her in his arms, "on that blessed and happy day you will be my wife, and the laurels entwined in your hair will be changed into a myrtle-wreath." He embraced her passionately, and she resisted no longer, but listened ever to his words, which, like sweet opium, poisoned both the ear and heart of the young girl. But Pollnitz released her suddenly, and stepped back, colder and more self-possessed than Anna. He had heard a light, approaching step. "Some one comes; be composed, dear one; your face betrays too much of your inward emotion." He danced to the open piano and played a merry strain, while Anna hid her blushes in the branches of a geranium placed in the window, and tried to cool her glowing cheeks on the fresh green leaves.
Madame Pricker opened the door, and bade the master of ceremonies enter the adjoining room, where M. Pricker awaited him.
CHAPTER VI.
THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTORS OF A TAILOR.
Pollnitz offered his arm to the lovely Anna, and followed Madame Pricker, laughing and jesting, into the next room. This was a long hall, which had an appearance of gloom and solemnity in its arrangements and decorations. The high walls, hung with dark tapestry, were poorly lighted by two windows. Several divans, covered with a heavy silken material, the same color as the tapestry, were placed against the sides of the room, and over them hung a few oil paintings in black frames, each representing the figure of a man with a most solemn expression and bearing. The remarkable resemblance which these pictures bore to each other convinced you that they must be the portraits of one family. In each appeared the same countenance, the same short, clumsy figure, and only the costumes served to point out by their various styles the different periods at which they had been painted. A figure, closely resembling the pictures, stood in the centre of the hall; it had the same countenance, the same short, clumsy figure, and even the same dress as that represented in one of the pictures. You might have supposed that some galvanic experiment had given life and motion to the painted form, and that as soon as this power was exhausted it would become lifeless, and return to its place among the other pictures. But this figure was certainly living, for it greeted the grand chamberlain, without, however, leaving the round table which stood in the centre of the room.
"I welcome you to the house of my fathers," it said, with great dignity. Pollnitz threw a laughing, jesting glance toward Anna, who had left his side on entering the room, and had withdrawn to one of the windows.
"Why are you so earnest and solemn to-day, my dear Pricker?" said he, turning to the old gentleman.
"Are you not here as the ambassador of the royal court?" he replied. "I wished to receive you with all honor, and therefore desired you to come into this hall, that I might hear the royal message in the midst of my ancestors. Tell me now how can I serve the house of my sovereign."
"You can serve it, my dear Pricker," said Pollnitz, smiling, as he displayed a large sealed paper, "by altering the sign upon your door. In the place of 'court tailor of the queen and princess royal,' it should read—'court tailor of the dowager and of the reigning queen.' Here is the patent, my dear sir."
The old man quietly took the paper; not a feature of his cold, solemn face moved.
Madame Pricker, however, could not conceal her joy. With a cry of delight she hurried to her husband, to embrace and congratulate him on his appointment.
Pricker waved her proudly back.
"Why do you congratulate me?" he said. "The house of Hohenzollern has only done justice to my house, that is all. The title of court tailor to the reigning queen has become an inheritance in my family, and it would be a great ingratitude in the house of Hohenzollern to withhold it from me. For more than a century the Hohenzollerns have been dressed by my family; we have prepared their apparel for every ball and wedding, every baptism or burial; and if they were arrayed with elegance, it was entirely owing to our taste and dexterity. The proverb says, 'The tailor makes the man,' and it is true. We made the coronation dresses of both the queens; it follows that they could not have been crowned without our assistance, for which we, of course, deserve their gratitude."
"I assure you, however, my dear friend," said Pollnitz, "that it was with much difficulty I obtained this appointment for you, and you owe me some acknowledgments. All of my eloquence was necessary to induce the queen to grant my prayer."
Pricker grew pale, and his countenance lost its calm dignity.
"Take back your patent," he said, proudly, handing the baron the sealed paper; "I will not accept this title if it is not given willingly."
"No, no, keep it," cried Pollnitz; "you merit it; it is your right; I only mentioned the difficulty with which I obtained it, that I might win your heart, and incline you to grant a request which I wish to make."
"I suppose you allude to the five hundred dollars which I lent you last month," said Pricker, smiling, "Speak of that no more—the debt is cancelled."
"Thank you," said Pollnitz, "but I was not thinking of that small affair; it was quite another request I wished to make."
"Let me hear it," said the tailor, with a most gracious inclination of the head.
"It concerns a young artist, who I would like to recommend to your protection," returned the crafty Pollnitz, with a side glance at Anna. "He is a young and talented musician, who desires to gain a livelihood by giving instruction, but unfortunately he is a stranger here, and has found but few patrons. I thought, therefore, that if you, who are so well known, would interest yourself in him, and give him your patronage, it would greatly benefit him, for doubtless many others would hasten to follow your example. If you will allow him to give singing-lessons to your daughter Anna, his fortune is assured."
"I grant your request," said Pricker, solemnly, not for an instant doubting the motive of the baron. "I will bestow my protection upon this young artist; he can give my daughter a daily lesson, that is, if Anna is willing to show this kindness to the poor young man."
Anna could scarcely restrain her laughter, as she replied:
"You have commanded it, and I will obey, as a daughter should do."
"Very well," said her father, majestically; "that matter is arranged. And now, baron, I beg you will inform me at what time the coronation will take place, that I may make my preparations, and not be the cause of any delay on that solemn occasion."
"The day of the coronation has not been decided, but it will certainly not be fixed before the first of August. You will have time to make all your preparations. Later we will hold a consultation with her majesty the queen, and decide the style, color, and material of the costumes. I will only give you a single word of counsel, my dear friend. Accommodate yourself to the new era. Remember that we have a new king, who is the counterpart of his father. The father hated and despised elegance and fashion—the son adores them; the father was the sworn enemy of French manners—the son has a perfect passion for them; and if you would please the son, you must lay aside your old German habits and customs, as we have all done, and walk in the new path. I tell you a new era is approaching, a period of glory and splendor. Every thing will be altered, but, above all, we will have new fashions. In the first place, you must rid yourself of your German apprentices, and replace them as quickly as possible with French workmen from Paris. That is the only means of retaining the court favor."
Pricker listened to all this with horror and astonishment. His cheeks were white, and his voice trembled with anger, as he cried:
"Never shall that happen! Never will I adopt the innovations which are now the fashion. Shall I lay aside my respectable dress, to replace it with a monkey-jacket, and become a laughing-stock to all honest men? Shall I so far forget my God, my forefathers, and my native land, as to call French workmen into my German work-room? Shame on me if I ever conduct myself in such a godless and unchristian manner! Never shall a French foot cross the threshold of my dwelling! never shall a French word be spoken there! I was born a German, and I will die a German. True to my fathers, and to the commands of my sainted sovereign, who hated and despised these frivolous French fashions, it shall be my pride to retain the good old German customs, and never shall a dress cut in the French style be made in my work-room."
"If you act in this manner, the time of your good fortune is past," said Pollnitz.
Pricker paid no attention to him, but looking at the pictures which hung on the wall, he bowed respectfully before one of them.
"Look!" he said, pointing to one of the portraits, "that is my great-great-grandfather. He was a German, and the best and ablest of men. With him began the connection between the houses of Hohenzollern and Pricker. For him the Prince George William created the title of court tailor, and he would wear no garment that was not made by his favorite. He remembered him in his will, and from that time began the importance of the Prickers.
"Then look at the next picture. It is the portrait of his son, who was the court tailor of Frederick William, the great elector. He made the suit worn by the elector at the battle of Fehrbellin; it was, however, the unhappy duty of his son to make the burial-dress of this great man.
"But with this portrait begins a new era for Prussia; this was the tailor of Frederick the Third, and he made the robe and mantle which Frederick wore on the day of his coronation. His son succeeded him, and now began a new era for the Prickers.
"The son did not follow the example of his father; he was of a softer, a more poetical nature. He loved flowers and poetry, and adored beauty; he therefore became a lady's tailor. The princess royal, Sophia Dorothea, appointed him her tailor. He made the coronation robe of the queen, and the wedding-dress of the Margravine of Baireuth.
"When he died he was succeeded by his son, the now living Pricker. I made the wedding-dress of the Duchess of Brunswick, and the mourning of the present dowager-queen. And now, in the very presence of my ancestors, you tempt me to become a traitor to them and to their customs. No, I am a German, and I remain a German, even should it cause my ruin!"
He bowed to the amused and astonished baron, and walked proudly through the hall to his work-room. His wife followed him with folded hands and heavy sighs.
Pollnitz and the lovely Anna were again alone.
"What an absurd man!" said Pollnitz, laughing. "If Moliere had known him he would have worked his character into a charming farce."
"You forget that this absurd man may soon be your father-in-law," said Anna, sternly, as she left his side.
"That is true," said Pollnitz, smiling; "we will spare him. Come, one last kiss, my beautiful Anna—one kiss as a reward for my successful acting. To-morrow you will have a singing-master, who is no poor wretch, but a celebrated and influential musician, who has undertaken to instruct you out of pure kindness for me, for he is not a teacher but a composer. Graun himself will be your instructor, and it rests with you to crown our love with the happiest results."
CHAPTER VII.
SOFFRI E TACI.
The most ardent desire of the young queen was about to be accomplished; she was to have a private and unconstrained interview with her husband. The days of resignation, of hope deferred, and of hidden sorrow, were now over. The dearly-beloved and longed-for husband had at last returned to her! She need no longer hide her head in shame from her own servants, who, she imagines, are secretly laughing at and mocking her, because the young king is so cold and indifferent. She need no longer envy the poor woman she saw in the street yesterday, carrying dinner to her laboring husband. She will also have a husband, and will feel the guiding and supporting arm of a strong man at her side. No longer will she be a poor, neglected queen, but a proud and happy wife, envied of all the world.
He had written that he desired to pay her a visit, and had requested her not to lock her door, as important business would prevent his coming until quite late. He would, however, certainly come, as he desired to have a private interview with her on this very evening.
How wearily the hours of this day have passed, how slowly the sun sank to rest! It is at last evening; night is coming on. Elizabeth can now dismiss her attendants, and retire to her private apartments to await her husband. He shall see how joyfully she will receive him, how happy he has made her. She will adorn herself, that he may be pleased; she will be beautiful, that he may smile upon her.
The queen, with the assistance of her astonished maids, attires herself for the first time in one of the charming negligees recently sent by the Empress of Austria; for the first time she dons her prettily-worked and coquettish little cap, and encloses her tiny feet in gold-embroidered white satin slippers. This neglige? is really charming, and the queen's waiting-maids assure her that she never looked better, and was never more becomingly attired. But the queen desires to assure herself of this fact, and stepping forward to the mirror, she examines her dress with the careful eye of a connoisseur; then bending down, she regards her face attentively, and an expression of satisfaction flits over her features. Elizabeth sees that she is young and pretty, and for the first time rejoices in her beauty. The maids regarded with astonishment these unusual preparations. Why was Elizabeth now so much rejoiced at the beauty of which she had never before seemed conscious?
The toilet is at an end; the queen seats herself on the light blue sofa, and dismisses her maids with a mute gesture. But when the first maid approaches the door, and as usual drew the key from the lock in order to secure it from the outside, Elizabeth awakes from her dreamy state and arises from her reclining position; a glowing color suffuses her cheek, and a happy smile plays around her lips.
"Do not lock the door to-day," said she, with emotion; "I await the king."
As if astonished at her new happiness, she sinks back on the cushions, and covers her glowing face with her handkerchief, as if to shut out the dazzling light. The waiting-maids courtesy respectfully, and leave the room. In the ante-chamber this respectful expression vanishes from their features, and they turn to each other with mocking and derisive laughter.
"Poor queen! she wishes to make us believe that the king, while he altogether neglects her in public, sometimes pays her a secret visit. She wishes to make us believe that she is really the wife of the handsome young king; and we all know—yes, we all know—"
And all three shrugged their shoulders derisively, and hurried off to their associates, to gossip with them about the poor, despised, neglected queen.
But what was that? Did they not hear a carriage driving into the inner court, and the guard presenting arms amid the rolling of drums? Could it be as the queen had said? was the king really coming to his wife? The waiting-maids stood and listened; they heard steps on the grand staircase. Yes, it was the king, who, preceded by his pages, carrying silver candelabras with wax candles, walked hastily down the corridor to his chambers, and from thence to those of the queen.
What the queen had said was therefore true. He did not despise her; perhaps he loved her! The astonished waiting-maids hurried off to inform their friends that the king loved his wife passionately, and the royal pair was the happiest couple on earth. Elizabeth Christine also heard the equipages drive in to the court. With a cry of delight she sprang from her seat and listened. A fervent glow of happiness shot through her veins. She pressed her hands to her heart to still its rapid beating; her countenance was illumined with joy. But these feelings were so novel they almost terrified her, and filled her heart with tremulous anxiety.
"My God," murmured she, "give me strength to bear this happiness, as I have borne misery!"
But her prayer died on her lips, for she heard the door of the corridor open. She was no longer the queen, no longer the resigned and timid wife; she was now the happy and joyful woman hurrying to meet the husband of her love. And with uplifted head and proud satisfaction she might now confess without shame that she loved him; for he loved her also. He had requested a rendezvous, and was coming as a lover-her first love meeting. She will not be shy and silent to-day, now that she knows he loves her; her tongue will no longer be chained; she will have courage to confess all, to tell him how ardently she loves him, and how long and vainly she has struggled with her heart; how the flames had ever broken out anew; how his glances had ever renewed the ardor of her love.
There—he knocked at the door—she could scarcely breathe; she could scarcely bid him enter; she could not move, and stood transfixed in the middle of the room; she could only stretch out her arms longingly, and welcome him with her smiles and tearful glances.
The door opened; now he entered. The light of the wax candles fell on his face. It was handsome as ever, but his eye was cold, and his lips uttered no loving greeting. He walked forward a few steps, stood still, and bowed in a stiff and formal manner. A chill of horror crept over Elizabeth; her arms sank down, and the smile vanished from her pallid face.
"Madame," said the king, and his voice sounded harsher and colder than she had ever before heard it—"madame, I must first beg your pardon for having disturbed you at so unseemly a time, and for having robbed you of an hour's sleep. But you see that I am a repentant sinner, and you will forgive me when I assure you that, as this is my first, it shall also be my last violation of your retirement!"
The queen uttered a low cry, and pressed her hand to her heart. She felt as if a sword had pierced her breast, as if she were dying.
The king raised his large blue eyes with a surprised look to the pale, trembling face of his wife.
"You are pale, you are ill," said he, "and my presence is undoubtedly annoying; I will retire and send your waiting-maids to your assistance."
While he was speaking the queen prayed to God for courage and strength; she called her womanly pride to her assistance, and struggled against her tears and her despair. The king, who in vain had waited for an answer, now hastily approached the door, murmuring a few impatient words.
But Elizabeth's courage had now returned, she had conquered her heart.
"Remain, sire," she said; "I beg you to remain; I feel well again. It was only a passing spasm from which I often suffer, and for which I crave your indulgence."
"If I may then remain," said the king, smiling, "permit me to conduct you to a seat."
She accepted the king's proffered arm and followed him to the sofa on which she had awaited him with such blissful anticipations, and on which he was now about to put her heart to the torture.
The king did not seat himself by her side, but rolling an arm-chair forward, seated himself at some distance in front of her.
"Madame," said he, "is it credible that we two have been married for seven long years, and still have never been as man and wife to each other? Our lips were forced to pronounce vows of which our hearts knew nothing. Having been forced into this marriage, you must have hated me. You can never have forgiven me for having led you to the altar. At the foot of the altar we did not vow eternal love to each other, but eternal coldness and indifference; and to this hour, madame, you, at least, have faithfully kept this vow."
The queen sank back, murmuring a few incomprehensible words, and her head fell wearily upon her breast.
The king continued: "I come to-day to solicit your forgiveness for the involuntary injustice which I committed. I have made you unhappy, for you were forced to give your hand to an unloved man, of whom you knew that he loved you not. Madame, it is unfortunately true, an abyss lies between us, and this abyss is filled with the blood of the dearest friend of my youth. Oh, madame, forgive me this wrong, for the sake of what I have suffered! I then had a soft and tender heart, but it was trodden under foot, and has become hardened. I placed full confidence in the world, and it has deceived me terribly. I have suffered more than the poorest beggar; I was forced to regard my own father as a cruel enemy, who watched me unceasingly, awaiting a favorable moment to give me a death-blow. It was necessary that I should be continually on my guard, for the smallest fault, the slightest thoughtlessness, a trifle, a mere nothing, was sufficient to condemn me. Oh, if you knew with what vermin I have been publicly calumniated and accused! After doing their utmost to make me odious to the world, and fearing they might perhaps still fail, they resorted to another expedient to compass my ruin, and endeavored to kill me with their ridicule. Soffri e taci, this Italian proverb was then the motto of my life. And believe me, it is hard to obey this seemingly so dry maxim; it has a grand significance."[12]
[12] The king's own words. See Oeuvres, etc., tom. xvi., p. 161.
The king, oppressed as it were by these reminiscences, leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily. With downcast eyes and in silence the queen still sat before him, charmed by the music of his words, which found an echo in her heart like the dying wail of her youth.
"I do not tell you this," continued the king, after a pause, "in order to play the role of a martyr in your sight, but because I wish you to understand by what means my spirit was at last broken, and my will made subservient to that of my father. I purchased my freedom, madam, by chaining you to myself. But in doing this, I vowed you should no longer be bound when it should be in my power to release you. This moment has come, and true to my vow, I am here. I know that you do not, cannot love me, madame. The question arises, is your aversion to me so great that you insist on a separation?"
The queen raised her head and looked wonderingly into the mild and sorrowful countenance of her husband. She could no longer restrain the cry which trembled on her lips, no longer stem the tide of tears which gushed in torrents from her eyes.
"My God! my God!" she exclaimed, with a plaintive wail, "he asks me if I hate him!"
There was something in the tone of her voice, in this despairing cry of her soul, which ought to have betrayed the long-hidden secret of her love to the king. But perhaps he knew it already, and did not wish to understand. Perhaps, in the nobility and native delicacy of his soul, he wished to represent the indifference and coldness which he experienced for his wife, as coming from herself. However, the king did not seem to notice her tears.
"No, madame," said he, "I did not ask if you hated me, for I well know that your noble and womanly heart is not capable of this passion. I merely asked if your aversion to me was so great that it demanded a separation. I pray you to give me a short and decisive answer."
But Elizabeth Christine had lost the power of speech; tears rained down her cheeks, and she could only give a mute assent.
"You are, then, willing to be my wife before the world?" asked the king. "You are willing to remain Queen of Prussia, and nominally the wife of the king? You do not demand that my reign shall be inaugurated with the exposure of our domestic misfortunes, and that your chaste and virtuous name shall be branded about with mine before the calumniating world?"
"No," said the queen, with feverish haste, for she feared her strength might fail her. "No, I do not demand it; I desire no separation!"
"I thank you for this word," said the king, gravely. "It is worthy of a queen. You then feel with me that we princes have not even the right to cast off the burden which weighs us down, but must bear it patiently if it serve to secure the stability of our throne. Enviable are those who dare complain of their sufferings, and show their scars. But it becomes us to wrap ourselves in silence, and not to show to the miserable, pitiful, and drivelling world, which envies and abuses, even while applauding us, that a king can also suffer. I thank you, madame, and from this hour you will find in me a true friend, a well-meaning brother, ever ready to serve you. Give me your hand to this contract, which shall be more lasting and holier than that blessed by priests, to which our hearts did not say amen."
In his proffered hand Elizabeth laid her own slowly and solemnly. But when he clasped it in his own with a firm pressure, Elizabeth started and a cry escaped her lips. She hastily withdrew her hand, and sinking back on the sofa, burst into tears. Frederick allowed her tears to flow, regarding her with a look of deep sympathy.
"You weep, madame," said he, after a long and painful pause. "I honor your tears; you weep for your lost youth; you weep because you are a queen, and because reason has conquered your heart and forbids you to make yourself free as any other woman except a princess might do. Weep on, madame, I cannot dry your tears, for like yourself I have been cheated of my happiness; like yourself I am well aware of the sacrifice which we are both making to our royal standing. Ah, madame, if we were only private individuals, if we were not the rulers of Prussia, but her subjects, we might now be happy. Feeling our own unhappiness, and desiring to save our subjects from a like misfortune, I have made a divorce more easily attainable."
Elizabeth arose from her reclining position and regarded the king with a mournful smile.
"I thank your majesty," said she. "It is noble in you to alleviate that misfortune for others, which you have determined to endure."
"Ah, madame," exclaimed the king, smiling, "you forget that I have in you a noble friend and sister at my side, who will help me to bear this evil. And then we are not altogether unhappy; if we do not love, neither do we hate each other. We are brother and sister, not by blood, but united by the word of the priest. But never fear, madame, I will regard you only as a sister, and I promise you never to violate the respect due to your virtue!"
"I believe you," murmured the queen, blushing, and inwardly ashamed of the charming and coquettish negligee in which she had received the king.
"Before the world we are still married, but I promise that this chain shall gall you as little as possible. In your private life you will only be reminded that you are still my wife, when it is absolutely unavoidable. At the coronation I must request your presence at my side. When this is over you will be as free and independent as circumstances will admit. You will have a court of your own, a summer and a winter residence, in which I shall never intrude."
"I shall then never see you again!" said the queen, in the sad voice of resignation, which is often produced by an excess of pain.
"Oh, I pray you, madame, to permit me to meet you at times when etiquette demands it; but I shall take care that these meetings take place on official and neutral ground, and not in our private houses. I will never enter your house without your permission, and then only on particular fete days—your birthday for instance; and I trust that you will not refuse to receive me on such occasions."
"No, I will not refuse," replied the queen, regarding her husband with a sad and reproachful look. But Frederick did not see this look, or would not see it.
"I beg," said the king, smiling, "that you will permit me to present you with the castle of Schonhausen, as a reminiscence of the hour in which you found a faithful brother, and I a noble sister. Accept this little gift as an earnest of our new bond of friendship. It has been fitted up and prepared as a summer residence for your use, and you can retire to it immediately after the coronation, if you are so inclined."
"I thank you," said the queen in so low a voice that her words could scarcely be distinguished. "I thank you, and I will go there on the day after the coronation;" a sigh, almost a sob, escaped her breast.
The king regarded with a clear and penetrating glance the meek woman who sat before him, who accepted her joyless and gloomy future with such heroic resignation. Her mute anguish excited his compassion. He wished to throw a sunbeam into her dark future, to warm her heart with a ray of happiness.
"Well," said he, "I am on the point of making a little journey incognito, in the meanwhile you can go to Schonhausen; but when I return I desire to spend a few weeks in Rheinsberg in my family circle, and, as a matter of course, madame, you are a member of my family. I beg, therefore, that you will accompany me to Rheinsberg."
Elizabeth's countenance was illumined with so beautiful and radiant a smile that even the king saw it and admired her beauty. She held out both her hands and greeted him with a loving glance, but her trembling lips refused to utter the words which her heart prompted.
The king arose. "I must no longer deprive you of your repose, and I also need rest. We must both keep ourselves well and strong for the sake of our country and our subjects, for we both have a grand task to accomplish. You will administer consolation to the miserable and suffering; you will diffuse happiness and reap blessings; you will shine as a model of nobility and feminine virtue before all other women, and through your example will give noble wives and mothers to Prussia's sons! And I," continued the king, a ray of enthusiasm lighting up his handsome face, "I will make my people great; my country shall have a place in the counsels of mighty nations. I will enlarge Prussia and make her strong and powerful. My name shall be engraven in golden letters in the book of history. As fate has destined me to be a king, and will not permit me to spend my days in retirement and philosophic tranquillity like other and happier mortals, I will at least endeavor to accomplish my mission with honor to myself and advantage to my people. You will be a ministering angel to the needy and suffering of our subjects, and I will extend the boundaries of Prussia and diffuse prosperity throughout the land! Farewell, Elizabeth! our paths will seldom meet, but if I were so fortunate as to believe in a hereafter, and your noble and gentle nature would almost persuade me to do so, I would say: 'In heaven we will perhaps meet oftener, and understand each other better.' Pray to God in my behalf. I believe in God and in the efficacy of the prayers of the good and pious. Farewell!"
He bowed deeply. He did not see the deathly pallor and convulsive trembling of the queen. He did not see how she, after he had turned from her and was advancing toward the door, hardly knowing what she did, stretched out her arms after him, and whispered his name in a plaintive and imploring tone. He hurried on, and without once turning left the room. On the outside he stood still for a moment, and drew a long breath of relief.
"Poor woman! unfortunate queen!" he murmured, returning slowly to his chambers. "But why pity her? Is not her lot mine, and that of all princes? A glittering misery—nothing else!"
A few minutes later and the royal equipage again drove through the court yard.
The king was returning to his summer residence at Charlottenburg. The queen, who was on her knees, crying and sobbing, heard the carriage as it drove off. "Gone! he is gone!" she exclaimed, with a cry of anguish; "he has deserted me, and I am a poor discarded woman! He despises me, and I—I love him!" And wringing her hands, she sobbed aloud. For a while she was tranquil and prayed, and then again burst into tears. Her soul, which had suffered so long in silence, once mora rebelled. The voice of her youth made itself heard, and demanded in heart-rending accents a little sunshine, a little of the joy and happiness promised to mankind.
She was at last quieted; she accepted her destiny, and bowed her head in humility and patience. Morning was already dawning when Elizabeth Christine arose from her knees, pale and trembling, but resigned. "Soffri e taci!" said she, sadly. "This was the motto of his youth, and this shall be the motto of my whole life! Soffri e taci! how sad, and yet how grave are these words! Oh! Frederick, Frederick! why do you condemn me to such torture; why has your heart no pity with me, no pity with my love? But no!" she exclaimed, firmly, "I will weep no more. He shall not despise me. I have accepted my destiny, and will bear it as beseems a queen. Be still, my heart, be still. Soffri e taci!"