“I will permit the artist who shall produce, before this day month, the most beautiful vase of Berlin china, to marry or not to marry, whomsoever he or she shall think proper, and to return to Saxony with all imaginable expedition. If the successful artist choose to remain at Berlin, I will add a reward of 500 crowns. The artist’s name shall be inscribed on the vase, which shall be called the Prussian Vase.” No sooner had Sophia Mansfeld read these words, than she seemed animated with new life and energy. She was likely to have many competitors; for, the moment the king’s intentions were made known in the manufactory, all hands and heads were at work. Some were excited by the hope of regaining their liberty; others stimulated by the mention of 500 crowns; and some were fired with ambition to have their name inscribed on the Prussian Vase. But none had so strong a motive for exertion as Sophia. She was indefatigable. The competitors consulted the persons whom they believed to have the best taste in Berlin and Potzdam. Sophia’s designs were shown, as soon as they were sketched, to the Countess Laniska, whose advice was of material use to her.
At length, the day which was to decide her fate arrived. The vases were all ranged, by the king’s order, in his gallery of paintings at Sans Souci; and in the evening, when Frederick had finished the business of the day, he went thither to examine them. Laniska and some others were permitted to accompany him: no one spoke, whilst Frederick was comparing the works of the different competitors.
“Let this be the Prussian Vase,” said the king. It was Sophia Mansfeld’s. Laniska just stayed to show her name, which was written underneath the foot of the vase, and then he hurried away to communicate the happy news to Sophia, who was waiting, with her lover, at the house of the Countess Laniska, in Potzdam, impatient to hear her fate. She heard it with inexpressible joy; and Laniska’s generous heart sympathized in her happiness. It was settled that she should the next morning be married to her lover, and return with him to her father and mother in Saxony. The happy couple were just taking leave of the young count and his mother, when they were alarmed by the sound of many voices on the great staircase. Some persons seemed to be disputing with the countess’s servants for admittance. Laniska went out to inquire into the cause of the disturbance. The hall was filled with soldiers.
“Are you the young Count Laniska?” said an officer to him, the moment he appeared.
“I am the young Count Laniska,” replied he, in a firm tone. “What do you want with me? and why this disturbance in my mother’s house at this unseasonable hour?”
“We come here by the king’s orders,” replied the soldier. “Is not there in this house a woman of the name of Sophia Mansfeld?”
“Yes,” replied Laniska: “what do you want with her?”
“She must come with us; and you are our prisoner, count,” replied the soldier.
It was in vain to ask for further explanation. The soldiers could give none; they knew nothing, but that their orders were to convey Sophia Mansfeld immediately to Meissen in Saxony, and to lodge Count Laniska in the castle of Spandau, a state prison.
“I must know my crime before I submit to punishment,” cried Laniska, in a passionate voice; but he restrained the natural violence of his temper, on seeing his mother appear, and, at her request, yielded himself up a prisoner without resistance, and without a murmur. “I depend on your innocence, my son, and on the justice of the king,” said the countess; and she took leave of him without shedding a tear. The next day, even before the king arrived at Potzdam, she went to the palace, determined to wait there till she could see him, that she might hear from his own lips the cause of her son’s imprisonment. She waited a considerable time—for, without alighting from horseback, Frederick proceeded to the parade, where he was occupied for some hours; at length he alighted, and the first person he saw, on entering his palace, was the Countess Laniska.