The Daughter of an Empress [76]
turn away the horrible curse that Eleonore had hurled at her child.
Alexis Razumovsky stood by her bedside, weeping. Overcome, as it seemed, by his sorrow, another left the death-chamber of the empress, and rushed to his horse, standing ready in the court below! This other was Count Rasczinsky, the confidant of the empress.
The bells rang in St. Petersburg, the cannon roared; there were both joy and sorrow in what the bells and cannon announced!
The Empress Elizabeth was dead; the Emperor Peter III. ascended the throne of the czars as absolute ruler of the Russian realm. The first to bow before him was his wife. With her son of five years old in her arms, she had thrown herself upon her knees, and touching the floor with her forehead, she had implored grace and love for herself and her son; and Peter, raising her up, had presented her to the people as his empress.
In St. Petersburg the bells rang, the cannon thundered--"The empress is dead, long live the emperor!"
Before the villa stopped a foam-covered steed, from which dismounted a horseman, who knocked at the closed door. To the porter who looked out from a sliding window he showed the written order of Elizabeth for his admission. The porter opened the door, and with the loud cry, "Natalie, Natalie!" the Count Rasczinsky rushed into the hall of the house.
The bells continued to ring, the cannon to thunder. There was great rejoicing in St. Petersburg.
Issuing from the villa, Count Rasczinsky again mounted his foaming steed.
Like a storm-wind swept he over the plain--but not toward St. Petersburg, not toward the city where the people were saluting their new emperor!
Away, away, far and wide in the distance, his horse bounded and panted, bleeding with the spurs of his rider. Excited constantly to new speed, he as constantly bounds onward.
Like a nocturnal spectre flies he through the desert waste; the storm- wind drives him forward, it lifts the mantle that enwraps him like a cloud, and under that mantle is seen an angel-face, the smile of a delicate little girl, two tender childish arms clasping the form of the count, a slight elfish form tremblingly reposing upon the count's breast.
"You weep not, my angel," whispered the count, while rushing forward with restless haste.
"No, no, I neither weep nor tremble, for I am with you!" breathed a sweet, childish voice.
"Cling closer to me, my sweet blossom, recline your head against my breast. See, evening approaches!--Night will spread its protecting veil over us, and God will be our conductor and safeguard! I shall save you, my angel, my charming child!"
The steed continues his onward course.
The child smilingly reclines upon the bosom of the rider, over whom the descending sun sheds its red parting beams.
Like a phantom flies he onward, like a phantom he disappears there on the border of the forest. Was it only a delusive appearance, a /fata morgana/ of the desert?
No, again and again the evening breeze raises the mantle of the rider, and the charming angelic brow is still seen resting upon the bosom of the count.
No, it is no dream, it is truth and reality!
Like a storm-wind flies the count over hill and heath, and on his bosom reposes Natalie, /the daughter of the empress/!
THE CHARMED GARDEN
One must be very happy or very unhappy to love Solitude, to lean upon her silent breast, and, fleeing mankind, to seek in its arms what is so seldom found among men, repose for happiness or consolation for sorrow! For the happy, solitude provides the most delightful festival, as it allows one in the most enjoyable resignation to repose in himself, to breathe out himself, to participate in himself! But it also provides a festival for the unhappy--a festival of the memory, of living in the past, of reflection upon those long-since vanished joys, the loss of which has caused the sorrow! For the children of the world, for the striving, for the seeker of inordinate enjoyments, for the ambitious, for the sensual, solitude is but ill-adapted--only for the happy, for the sorrow-laden,
Alexis Razumovsky stood by her bedside, weeping. Overcome, as it seemed, by his sorrow, another left the death-chamber of the empress, and rushed to his horse, standing ready in the court below! This other was Count Rasczinsky, the confidant of the empress.
The bells rang in St. Petersburg, the cannon roared; there were both joy and sorrow in what the bells and cannon announced!
The Empress Elizabeth was dead; the Emperor Peter III. ascended the throne of the czars as absolute ruler of the Russian realm. The first to bow before him was his wife. With her son of five years old in her arms, she had thrown herself upon her knees, and touching the floor with her forehead, she had implored grace and love for herself and her son; and Peter, raising her up, had presented her to the people as his empress.
In St. Petersburg the bells rang, the cannon thundered--"The empress is dead, long live the emperor!"
Before the villa stopped a foam-covered steed, from which dismounted a horseman, who knocked at the closed door. To the porter who looked out from a sliding window he showed the written order of Elizabeth for his admission. The porter opened the door, and with the loud cry, "Natalie, Natalie!" the Count Rasczinsky rushed into the hall of the house.
The bells continued to ring, the cannon to thunder. There was great rejoicing in St. Petersburg.
Issuing from the villa, Count Rasczinsky again mounted his foaming steed.
Like a storm-wind swept he over the plain--but not toward St. Petersburg, not toward the city where the people were saluting their new emperor!
Away, away, far and wide in the distance, his horse bounded and panted, bleeding with the spurs of his rider. Excited constantly to new speed, he as constantly bounds onward.
Like a nocturnal spectre flies he through the desert waste; the storm- wind drives him forward, it lifts the mantle that enwraps him like a cloud, and under that mantle is seen an angel-face, the smile of a delicate little girl, two tender childish arms clasping the form of the count, a slight elfish form tremblingly reposing upon the count's breast.
"You weep not, my angel," whispered the count, while rushing forward with restless haste.
"No, no, I neither weep nor tremble, for I am with you!" breathed a sweet, childish voice.
"Cling closer to me, my sweet blossom, recline your head against my breast. See, evening approaches!--Night will spread its protecting veil over us, and God will be our conductor and safeguard! I shall save you, my angel, my charming child!"
The steed continues his onward course.
The child smilingly reclines upon the bosom of the rider, over whom the descending sun sheds its red parting beams.
Like a phantom flies he onward, like a phantom he disappears there on the border of the forest. Was it only a delusive appearance, a /fata morgana/ of the desert?
No, again and again the evening breeze raises the mantle of the rider, and the charming angelic brow is still seen resting upon the bosom of the count.
No, it is no dream, it is truth and reality!
Like a storm-wind flies the count over hill and heath, and on his bosom reposes Natalie, /the daughter of the empress/!
THE CHARMED GARDEN
One must be very happy or very unhappy to love Solitude, to lean upon her silent breast, and, fleeing mankind, to seek in its arms what is so seldom found among men, repose for happiness or consolation for sorrow! For the happy, solitude provides the most delightful festival, as it allows one in the most enjoyable resignation to repose in himself, to breathe out himself, to participate in himself! But it also provides a festival for the unhappy--a festival of the memory, of living in the past, of reflection upon those long-since vanished joys, the loss of which has caused the sorrow! For the children of the world, for the striving, for the seeker of inordinate enjoyments, for the ambitious, for the sensual, solitude is but ill-adapted--only for the happy, for the sorrow-laden,