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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Prince Otto, by Robert Louis Stevenson
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Prince Otto
a Romance
Author: Robert Louis Stevenson
Release Date: September 3, 2010 [eBook #372]
First Posted: November 25, 1995
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRINCE OTTO***
</pre>
<p>Transcribed from the 1905 edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org</p>
<h1>PRINCE OTTO—A ROMANCE</h1>
<p style="text-align: center">A ROMANCE</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<a href="images/p0b.jpg">
<img alt=
"Decorative graphic"
title=
"Decorative graphic"
src="images/p0s.jpg" />
</a></p>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">a new
edition</span></p>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br />
CHATTO & WINDUS<br />
1905</p>
<h2>TO NELLY VAN DE GRIFT<br />
(MRS. ADULFO SANCHEZ, OF MONTEREY)</h2>
<p>At last, after so many years, I have the pleasure of
re-introducing you to ‘Prince Otto,’ whom you will
remember a very little fellow, no bigger in fact than a few
sheets of memoranda written for me by your kind hand. The
sight of his name will carry you back to an old wooden house
embowered in creepers; a house that was far gone in the
respectable stages of antiquity and seemed indissoluble from the
green garden in which it stood, and that yet was a sea-traveller
in its younger days, and had come round the Horn piecemeal in the
belly of a ship, and might have heard the seamen stamping and
shouting and the note of the boatswain’s whistle. It
will recall to you the nondescript inhabitants now so widely
scattered:—the two horses, the dog, and the four cats, some
of them still looking in your face as you read these
lines;—the poor lady, so unfortunately married to an
author;—the China boy, by this time, perhaps, baiting his
line by the banks of a river in the Flowery Land;—and in
particular the Scot who was then sick apparently unto death, and
whom you did so much to cheer and keep in good behaviour.</p>
<p>You may remember that he was full of ambitions and designs: so
soon as he had his health again completely, you may remember the
fortune he was to earn, the journeys he was to go upon, the
delights he was to enjoy and confer, and (among other matters)
the masterpiece he was to make of ‘Prince Otto’!</p>
<p>Well, we will not give in that we are finally beaten. We
read together in those days the story of Braddock, and how, as he
was carried dying from the scene of his defeat, he promised
himself to do better another time: a story that will always touch
a brave heart, and a dying speech worthy of a more fortunate
commander. I try to be of Braddock’s mind. I
still mean to get my health again; I still purpose, by hook or
crook, this book or the next, to launch a masterpiece; and I
still intend—somehow, some time or other—to see your
face and to hold your hand.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, this little paper traveller goes forth instead,
crosses the great seas and the long plains and the dark
mountains, and comes at last to your door in Monterey, charged
with tender greetings. Pray you, take him in. He
comes from a house where (even as in your own) there are gathered
together some of the waifs of our company at Oakland: a
house—for all its outlandish Gaelic name and distant
station—where you are well-beloved.</p>
<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p>
<p><i>Skerryvore</i>,<br />
Bournemouth.</p>
<h2>BOOK I—PRINCE ERRANT</h2>
<h3>CHAPTER I—IN WHICH THE PRINCE DEPARTS ON AN
ADVENTURE</h3>
<p>You shall seek in vain upon the map of Europe for the bygone
state of Grünewald. An independent principality, an
infinitesimal member of the German Empire, she played, for
several centuries, her part in the discord of Europe; and, at
last, in the ripeness of time and at the spiriting of several
bald diplomatists, vanished like a morning ghost. Less
fortunate than Poland, she left not a regret behind her; and the
very memory of her boundaries has faded.</p>
<p>It was a patch of hilly country covered with thick wood.
Many streams took their beginning in the glens of Grünewald,
turning mills for the inhabitants. There was one town,
Mittwalden, and many brown, wooden hamlets, climbing roof above
roof, along the steep bottom of dells, and communicating by
covered bridges over the larger of the torrents. The hum of
watermills, the splash of running water, the clean odour of pine
sawdust, the sound and smell of the pleasant wind among the
innumerable army of the mountain pines, the dropping fire of
huntsmen, the dull stroke of the wood-axe, intolerable roads,
fresh trout for supper in the clean bare chamber of an inn, and
the song of birds and the music of the village-bells—these
were the recollections of the Grünewald tourist.</p>
<p>North and east the foothills of Grünewald sank with
varying profile into a vast plain. On these sides many
small states bordered with the principality, Gerolstein, an
extinct grand duchy, among the number. On the south it
marched with the comparatively powerful kingdom of Seaboard
Bohemia, celebrated for its flowers and mountain bears, and
inhabited by a people of singular simplicity and tenderness of
heart. Several intermarriages had, in the course of
centuries, united the crowned families of Grünewald and
Maritime Bohemia; and the last Prince of Grünewald, whose
history I purpose to relate, drew his descent through Perdita,
the only daughter of King Florizel the First of Bohemia.
That these intermarriages had in some degree mitigated the rough,
manly stock of the first Grünewalds, was an opinion widely
held within the borders of the principality. The charcoal
burner, the mountain sawyer, the wielder of the broad axe among
the congregated pines of Grünewald, proud of their hard
hands, proud of their shrewd ignorance and almost savage lore,
looked with an unfeigned contempt on the soft character and
manners of the sovereign race.</p>
<p>The precise year of grace in which this tale begins shall be
left to the conjecture of the reader. But for the season of
the year (which, in such a story, is the more important of the
two) it was already so far forward in the spring, that when
mountain people heard horns echoing all day about the north-west
corner of the principality, they told themselves that Prince Otto
and his hunt were up and out for the last time till the return of
autumn.</p>
<p>At this point the borders of Grünewald descend somewhat
steeply, here and there breaking into crags; and this shaggy and
trackless country stands in a bold contrast to the cultivated
plain below. It was traversed at that period by two roads
alone; one, the imperial highway, bound to Brandenau in
Gerolstein, descended the slope obliquely and by the easiest
gradients. The other ran like a fillet across the very
forehead of the hills, dipping into savage gorges, and wetted by
the spray of tiny waterfalls. Once it passed beside a
certain tower or castle, built sheer upon the margin of a
formidable cliff, and commanding a vast prospect of the skirts of
Grünewald and the busy plains of Gerolstein. The
Felsenburg (so this tower was called) served now as a prison, now
as a hunting-seat; and for all it stood so lonesome to the naked
eye, with the aid of a good glass the burghers of Brandenau could
count its windows from the lime-tree terrace where they walked at
night.</p>
<p>In the wedge of forest hillside enclosed between the roads,
the horns continued all day long to scatter tumult; and at
length, as the sun began to draw near to the horizon of the
plain, a rousing triumph announced the slaughter of the
quarry. The first and second huntsman had drawn somewhat
aside, and from the summit of a knoll gazed down before them on
the drooping shoulders of the hill and across the expanse of
plain. They covered their eyes, for the sun was in their
faces. The glory of its going down was somewhat pale.
Through the confused tracery of many thousands of naked poplars,
the smoke of so many houses, and the evening steam ascending from
the fields, the sails of a windmill on a gentle eminence moved
very conspicuously, like a donkey’s ears. And hard
by, like an open gash, the imperial high-road ran straight
sun-ward, an artery of travel.</p>
<p>There is one of nature’s spiritual ditties, that has not
yet been set to words or human music: ‘The Invitation to
the Road’; an air continually sounding in the ears of
gipsies, and to whose inspiration our nomadic fathers journeyed
all their days. The hour, the season, and the scene, all
were in delicate accordance. The air was full of birds of
passage, steering westward and northward over Grünewald, an
army of specks to the up-looking eye. And below, the great
practicable road was bound for the same quarter.</p>
<p>But to the two horsemen on the knoll this spiritual ditty was
unheard. They were, indeed, in some concern of mind,
scanning every fold of the subjacent forest, and betraying both
anger and dismay in their impatient gestures.</p>
<p>‘I do not see him, Kuno,’ said the first huntsman,
‘nowhere—not a trace, not a hair of the mare’s
tail! No, sir, he’s off; broke cover and got
away. Why, for twopence I would hunt him with the
dogs!’</p>
<p>‘Mayhap, he’s gone home,’ said Kuno, but
without conviction.</p>
<p>‘Home!’ sneered the other. ‘I give him
twelve days to get home. No, it’s begun again;
it’s as it was three years ago, before he married; a
disgrace! Hereditary prince, hereditary fool! There
goes the government over the borders on a grey mare.
What’s that? No, nothing—no, I tell you, on my
word, I set more store by a good gelding or an English dog.
That for your Otto!’</p>
<p>‘He’s not my Otto,’ growled Kuno.</p>
<p>‘Then I don’t know whose he is,’ was the
retort.</p>
<p>‘You would put your hand in the fire for him
to-morrow,’ said Kuno, facing round.</p>
<p>‘Me!’ cried the huntsman. ‘I would see
him hanged! I’m a Grünewald
patriot—enrolled, and have my medal, too; and I would help
a prince! I’m for liberty and Gondremark.’</p>
<p>‘Well, it’s all one,’ said Kuno.
‘If anybody said what you said, you would have his blood,
and you know it.’</p>
<p>‘You have him on the brain,’ retorted his
companion. ‘There he goes!’ he cried, the next
moment.</p>
<p>And sure enough, about a mile down the mountain, a rider on a
white horse was seen to flit rapidly across a heathy open and
vanish among the trees on the farther side.</p>
<p>‘In ten minutes he’ll be over the border into
Gerolstein,’ said Kuno. ‘It’s past
cure.’</p>
<p>‘Well, if he founders that mare, I’ll never
forgive him,’ added the other, gathering his reins.</p>
<p>And as they turned down from the knoll to rejoin their
comrades, the sun dipped and disappeared, and the woods fell
instantly into the gravity and greyness of the early night.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER II—IN WHICH THE PRINCE PLAYS
HAROUN-AL-RASCHID</h3>
<p>The night fell upon the Prince while he was threading green
tracks in the lower valleys of the wood; and though the stars
came out overhead and displayed the interminable order of the
pine-tree pyramids, regular and dark like cypresses, their light
was of small service to a traveller in such lonely paths, and
from thenceforth he rode at random. The austere face of
nature, the uncertain issue of his course, the open sky and the
free air, delighted him like wine; and the hoarse chafing of a
river on his left sounded in his ears agreeably.</p>
<p>It was past eight at night before his toil was rewarded and he
issued at last out of the forest on the firm white
high-road. It lay downhill before him, with a sweeping
eastward trend, faintly bright between the thickets; and Otto
paused and gazed upon it. So it ran, league after league,
still joining others, to the farthest ends of Europe, there
skirting the sea-surge, here gleaming in the lights of cities;
and the innumerable army of tramps and travellers moved upon it
in all lands as by a common impulse, and were now in all places
drawing near to the inn door and the night’s rest.
The pictures swarmed and vanished in his brain; a surge of
temptation, a beat of all his blood, went over him, to set spur
to the mare and to go on into the unknown for ever. And
then it passed away; hunger and fatigue, and that habit of
middling actions which we call common sense, resumed their
empire; and in that changed mood his eye lighted upon two bright
windows on his left hand, between the road and river.</p>
<p>He turned off by a by-road, and in a few minutes he was
knocking with his whip on the door of a large farmhouse, and a
chorus of dogs from the farmyard were making angry answer.
A very tall, old, white-headed man came, shading a candle, at the
summons. He had been of great strength in his time, and of
a handsome countenance; but now he was fallen away, his teeth
were quite gone, and his voice when he spoke was broken and
falsetto.</p>
<p>‘You will pardon me,’ said Otto. ‘I am
a traveller and have entirely lost my way.’</p>
<p>‘Sir,’ said the old man, in a very stately, shaky
manner, ‘you are at the River Farm, and I am Killian
Gottesheim, at your disposal. We are here, sir, at about an
equal distance from Mittwalden in Grünewald and Brandenau in
Gerolstein: six leagues to either, and the road excellent; but
there is not a wine bush, not a carter’s alehouse, anywhere
between. You will have to accept my hospitality for the
night; rough hospitality, to which I make you freely welcome;
for, sir,’ he added with a bow, ‘it is God who sends
the guest.’</p>
<p>‘Amen. And I most heartily thank you,’
replied Otto, bowing in his turn.</p>
<p>‘Fritz,’ said the old man, turning towards the
interior, ‘lead round this gentleman’s horse; and
you, sir, condescend to enter.’</p>
<p>Otto entered a chamber occupying the greater part of the
ground-floor of the building. It had probably once been
divided; for the farther end was raised by a long step above the
nearer, and the blazing fire and the white supper-table seemed to
stand upon a daïs. All around were dark, brass-mounted
cabinets and cupboards; dark shelves carrying ancient country
crockery; guns and antlers and broadside ballads on the wall; a
tall old clock with roses on the dial; and down in one corner the
comfortable promise of a wine barrel. It was homely,
elegant, and quaint.</p>
<p>A powerful youth hurried out to attend on the grey mare; and
when Mr. Killian Gottesheim had presented him to his daughter
Ottilia, Otto followed to the stable as became, not perhaps the
Prince, but the good horseman. When he returned, a smoking
omelette and some slices of home-cured ham were waiting him;
these were followed by a ragout and a cheese; and it was not
until his guest had entirely satisfied his hunger, and the whole
party drew about the fire over the wine jug, that Killian
Gottesheim’s elaborate courtesy permitted him to address a
question to the Prince.</p>
<p>‘You have perhaps ridden far, sir?’ he
inquired.</p>
<p>‘I have, as you say, ridden far,’ replied Otto;
‘and, as you have seen, I was prepared to do justice to
your daughters cookery.’</p>
<p>‘Possibly, sir, from the direction of Brandenau?’
continued Killian.</p>
<p>‘Precisely: and I should have slept to-night, had I not
wandered, in Mittwalden,’ answered the Prince, weaving in a
patch of truth, according to the habit of all liars.</p>
<p>‘Business leads you to Mittwalden?’ was the next
question.</p>
<p>‘Mere curiosity,’ said Otto. ‘I have
never yet visited the principality of Grünewald.’</p>
<p>‘A pleasant state, sir,’ piped the old man,
nodding, ‘a very pleasant state, and a fine race, both
pines and people. We reckon ourselves part
Grünewalders here, lying so near the borders; and the river
there is all good Grünewald water, every drop of it.
Yes, sir, a fine state. A man of Grünewald now will
swing me an axe over his head that many a man of Gerolstein could
hardly lift; and the pines, why, deary me, there must be more
pines in that little state, sir, than people in this whole big
world. ’Tis twenty years now since I crossed the
marshes, for we grow home-keepers in old age; but I mind it as if
it was yesterday. Up and down, the road keeps right on from
here to Mittwalden; and nothing all the way but the good green
pine-trees, big and little, and water-power! water-power at every
step, sir. We once sold a bit of forest, up there beside
the high-road; and the sight of minted money that we got for it
has set me ciphering ever since what all the pines in
Grünewald would amount to.’</p>
<p>‘I suppose you see nothing of the Prince?’
inquired Otto.</p>
<p>‘No,’ said the young man, speaking for the first
time, ‘nor want to.’</p>
<p>‘Why so? is he so much disliked?’ asked Otto.</p>
<p>‘Not what you might call disliked,’ replied the
old gentleman, ‘but despised, sir.’</p>
<p>‘Indeed,’ said the Prince, somewhat faintly.</p>
<p>‘Yes, sir, despised,’ nodded Killian, filling a
long pipe, ‘and, to my way of thinking, justly
despised. Here is a man with great opportunities, and what
does he do with them? He hunts, and he dresses very
prettily—which is a thing to be ashamed of in a
man—and he acts plays; and if he does aught else, the news
of it has not come here.’</p>
<p>‘Yet these are all innocent,’ said Otto.
‘What would you have him do—make war?’</p>
<p>‘No, sir,’ replied the old man. ‘But
here it is; I have been fifty years upon this River Farm, and
wrought in it, day in, day out; I have ploughed and sowed and
reaped, and risen early, and waked late; and this is the upshot:
that all these years it has supported me and my family; and been
the best friend that ever I had, set aside my wife; and now, when
my time comes, I leave it a better farm than when I found
it. So it is, if a man works hearty in the order of nature,
he gets bread and he receives comfort, and whatever he touches
breeds. And it humbly appears to me, if that Prince was to
labour on his throne, as I have laboured and wrought in my farm,
he would find both an increase and a blessing.’</p>
<p>‘I believe with you, sir,’ Otto said; ‘and
yet the parallel is inexact. For the farmer’s life is
natural and simple; but the prince’s is both artificial and
complicated. It is easy to do right in the one, and
exceedingly difficult not to do wrong in the other. If your
crop is blighted, you can take off your bonnet and say,
“God’s will be done”; but if the prince meets
with a reverse, he may have to blame himself for the
attempt. And perhaps, if all the kings in Europe were to
confine themselves to innocent amusement, the subjects would be
the better off.’</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ said the young man Fritz, ‘you are in
the right of it there. That was a true word spoken.
And I see you are like me, a good patriot and an enemy to
princes.’</p>
<p>Otto was somewhat abashed at this deduction, and he made haste
to change his ground. ‘But,’ said he,
‘you surprise me by what you say of this Prince Otto.
I have heard him, I must own, more favourably painted. I
was told he was, in his heart, a good fellow, and the enemy of no
one but himself.’</p>
<p>‘And so he is, sir,’ said the girl, ‘a very
handsome, pleasant prince; and we know some who would shed their
blood for him.’</p>
<p>‘O! Kuno!’ said Fritz. ‘An
ignoramus!’</p>
<p>‘Ay, Kuno, to be sure,’ quavered the old
farmer. ‘Well, since this gentleman is a stranger to
these parts, and curious about the Prince, I do believe that
story might divert him. This Kuno, you must know, sir, is
one of the hunt servants, and a most ignorant, intemperate man: a
right Grünewalder, as we say in Gerolstein. We know
him well, in this house; for he has come as far as here after his
stray dogs; and I make all welcome, sir, without account of state
or nation. And, indeed, between Gerolstein and
Grünewald the peace has held so long that the roads stand
open like my door; and a man will make no more of the frontier
than the very birds themselves.’</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ said Otto, ‘it has been a long
peace—a peace of centuries.’</p>
<p>‘Centuries, as you say,’ returned Killian;
‘the more the pity that it should not be for ever.
Well, sir, this Kuno was one day in fault, and Otto, who has a
quick temper, up with his whip and thrashed him, they do say,
soundly. Kuno took it as best he could, but at last he
broke out, and dared the Prince to throw his whip away and
wrestle like a man; for we are all great at wrestling in these
parts, and it’s so that we generally settle our
disputes. Well, sir, the Prince did so; and, being a weakly
creature, found the tables turned; for the man whom he had just
been thrashing like a negro slave, lifted him with a back grip
and threw him heels overhead.’</p>
<p>‘He broke his bridle-arm,’ cried
Fritz—‘and some say his nose. Serve him right,
say I! Man to man, which is the better at that?’</p>
<p>‘And then?’ asked Otto.</p>
<p>‘O, then Kuno carried him home; and they were the best
of friends from that day forth. I don’t say
it’s a discreditable story, you observe,’ continued
Mr. Gottesheim; ‘but it’s droll, and that’s the
fact. A man should think before he strikes; for, as my
nephew says, man to man was the old valuation.’</p>
<p>‘Now, if you were to ask me,’ said Otto, ‘I
should perhaps surprise you. I think it was the Prince that
conquered.’</p>
<p>‘And, sir, you would be right,’ replied Killian
seriously. ‘In the eyes of God, I do not question but
you would be right; but men, sir, look at these things
differently, and they laugh.’</p>
<p>‘They made a song of it,’ observed Fritz.
‘How does it go? Ta-tum-ta-ra . . .’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ interrupted Otto, who had no great anxiety
to hear the song, ‘the Prince is young; he may yet
mend.’</p>
<p>‘Not so young, by your leave,’ cried Fritz.
‘A man of forty.’</p>
<p>‘Thirty-six,’ corrected Mr. Gottesheim.</p>
<p>‘O,’ cried Ottilia, in obvious disillusion,
‘a man of middle age! And they said he was so
handsome when he was young!’</p>
<p>‘And bald, too,’ added Fritz.</p>
<p>Otto passed his hand among his locks. At that moment he
was far from happy, and even the tedious evenings at Mittwalden
Palace began to smile upon him by comparison.</p>
<p>‘O, six-and-thirty!’ he protested. ‘A
man is not yet old at six-and-thirty. I am that age
myself.’</p>
<p>‘I should have taken you for more, sir,’ piped the
old farmer. ‘But if that be so, you are of an age
with Master Ottekin, as people call him; and, I would wager a
crown, have done more service in your time. Though it seems
young by comparison with men of a great age like me, yet
it’s some way through life for all that; and the mere fools
and fiddlers are beginning to grow weary and to look old.
Yes, sir, by six-and-thirty, if a man be a follower of
God’s laws, he should have made himself a home and a good
name to live by; he should have got a wife and a blessing on his
marriage; and his works, as the Word says, should begin to follow
him.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, well, the Prince is married,’ cried Fritz,
with a coarse burst of laughter.</p>
<p>‘That seems to entertain you, sir,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ said the young boor. ‘Did you
not know that? I thought all Europe knew it!’
And he added a pantomime of a nature to explain his accusation to
the dullest.</p>
<p>‘Ah, sir,’ said Mr. Gottesheim, ‘it is very
plain that you are not from hereabouts! But the truth is,
that the whole princely family and Court are rips and rascals,
not one to mend another. They live, sir, in idleness
and—what most commonly follows it—corruption.
The Princess has a lover—a Baron, as he calls himself, from
East Prussia; and the Prince is so little of a man, sir, that he
holds the candle. Nor is that the worst of it, for this
foreigner and his paramour are suffered to transact the State
affairs, while the Prince takes the salary and leaves all things
to go to wrack. There will follow upon this some manifest
judgment which, though I am old, I may survive to see.’</p>
<p>‘Good man, you are in the wrong about Gondremark,’
said Fritz, showing a greatly increased animation; ‘but for
all the rest, you speak the God’s truth like a good
patriot. As for the Prince, if he would take and strangle
his wife, I would forgive him yet.’</p>
<p>‘Nay, Fritz,’ said the old man, ‘that would
be to add iniquity to evil. For you perceive, sir,’
he continued, once more addressing himself to the unfortunate
Prince, ‘this Otto has himself to thank for these
disorders. He has his young wife and his principality, and
he has sworn to cherish both.’</p>
<p>‘Sworn at the altar!’ echoed Fritz.
‘But put your faith in princes!’</p>
<p>‘Well, sir, he leaves them both to an adventurer from
East Prussia,’ pursued the farmer: ‘leaves the girl
to be seduced and to go on from bad to worse, till her
name’s become a tap-room by-word, and she not yet twenty;
leaves the country to be overtaxed, and bullied with armaments,
and jockied into war—’</p>
<p>‘War!’ cried Otto.</p>
<p>‘So they say, sir; those that watch their ongoings, say
to war,’ asseverated Killian. ‘Well, sir, that
is very sad; it is a sad thing for this poor, wicked girl to go
down to hell with people’s curses; it’s a sad thing
for a tight little happy country to be misconducted; but whoever
may complain, I humbly conceive, sir, that this Otto
cannot. What he has worked for, that he has got; and may
God have pity on his soul, for a great and a silly
sinner’s!’</p>
<p>‘He has broke his oath; then he is a perjurer. He
takes the money and leaves the work; why, then plainly he’s
a thief. A cuckold he was before, and a fool by
birth. Better me that!’ cried Fritz, and snapped his
fingers.</p>
<p>‘And now, sir, you will see a little,’ continued
the farmer, ‘why we think so poorly of this Prince
Otto. There’s such a thing as a man being pious and
honest in the private way; and there is such a thing, sir, as a
public virtue; but when a man has neither, the Lord lighten
him! Even this Gondremark, that Fritz here thinks so much
of—’</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ interrupted Fritz, ‘Gondremark’s
the man for me. I would we had his like in
Gerolstein.’</p>
<p>‘He is a bad man,’ said the old farmer, shaking
his head; ‘and there was never good begun by the breach of
God’s commandments. But so far I will go with you; he
is a man that works for what he has.’</p>
<p>‘I tell you he’s the hope of
Grünewald,’ cried Fritz. ‘He doesn’t
suit some of your high-and-dry, old, ancient ideas; but
he’s a downright modern man—a man of the new lights
and the progress of the age. He does some things wrong; so
they all do; but he has the people’s interests next his
heart; and you mark me—you, sir, who are a Liberal, and the
enemy of all their governments, you please to mark my
words—the day will come in Grünewald, when they take
out that yellow-headed skulk of a Prince and that dough-faced
Messalina of a Princess, march ’em back foremost over the
borders, and proclaim the Baron Gondremark first President.
I’ve heard them say it in a speech. I was at a
meeting once at Brandenau, and the Mittwalden delegates spoke up
for fifteen thousand. Fifteen thousand, all brigaded, and
each man with a medal round his neck to rally by.
That’s all Gondremark.’</p>
<p>‘Ay, sir, you see what it leads to; wild talk to-day,
and wilder doings to-morrow,’ said the old man.
‘For there is one thing certain: that this Gondremark has
one foot in the Court backstairs, and the other in the
Masons’ lodges. He gives himself out, sir, for what
nowadays they call a patriot: a man from East Prussia!’</p>
<p>‘Give himself out!’ cried Fritz. ‘He
is! He is to lay by his title as soon as the Republic is
declared; I heard it in a speech.’</p>
<p>‘Lay by Baron to take up President?’ returned
Killian. ‘King Log, King Stork. But
you’ll live longer than I, and you will see the fruits of
it.’</p>
<p>‘Father,’ whispered Ottilia, pulling at the
speaker’s coat, ‘surely the gentleman is
ill.’</p>
<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ cried the farmer, rewaking to
hospitable thoughts; ‘can I offer you anything?’</p>
<p>‘I thank you. I am very weary,’ answered
Otto. ‘I have presumed upon my strength. If you
would show me to a bed, I should be grateful.’</p>
<p>‘Ottilia, a candle!’ said the old man.
‘Indeed, sir, you look paley. A little cordial
water? No? Then follow me, I beseech you, and I will
bring you to the stranger’s bed. You are not the
first by many who has slept well below my roof,’ continued
the old gentleman, mounting the stairs before his guest;
‘for good food, honest wine, a grateful conscience, and a
little pleasant chat before a man retires, are worth all the
possets and apothecary’s drugs. See, sir,’ and
here he opened a door and ushered Otto into a little white-washed
sleeping-room, ‘here you are in port. It is small,
but it is airy, and the sheets are clean and kept in
lavender. The window, too, looks out above the river, and
there’s no music like a little river’s. It
plays the same tune (and that’s the favourite) over and
over again, and yet does not weary of it like men fiddlers.
It takes the mind out of doors: and though we should be grateful
for good houses, there is, after all, no house like God’s
out-of-doors. And lastly, sir, it quiets a man down like
saying his prayers. So here, sir, I take my kind leave of
you until to-morrow; and it is my prayerful wish that you may
slumber like a prince.’</p>
<p>And the old man, with the twentieth courteous inclination,
left his guest alone.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER III—IN WHICH THE PRINCE COMFORTS AGE AND BEAUTY
AND DELIVERS A LECTURE ON DISCRETION IN LOVE</h3>
<p>The Prince was early abroad: in the time of the first chorus
of birds, of the pure and quiet air, of the slanting sunlight and
the mile-long shadows. To one who had passed a miserable
night, the freshness of that hour was tonic and reviving; to
steal a march upon his slumbering fellows, to be the Adam of the
coming day, composed and fortified his spirits; and the Prince,
breathing deep and pausing as he went, walked in the wet fields
beside his shadow, and was glad.</p>
<p>A trellised path led down into the valley of the brook, and he
turned to follow it. The stream was a break-neck, boiling
Highland river. Hard by the farm, it leaped a little
precipice in a thick grey-mare’s tail of twisted filaments,
and then lay and worked and bubbled in a lynn. Into the
middle of this quaking pool a rock protruded, shelving to a cape;
and thither Otto scrambled and sat down to ponder.</p>
<p>Soon the sun struck through the screen of branches and thin
early leaves that made a hanging bower above the fall; and the
golden lights and flitting shadows fell upon and marbled the
surface of that so seething pot; and rays plunged deep among the
turning waters; and a spark, as bright as a diamond, lit upon the
swaying eddy. It began to grow warm where Otto lingered,
warm and heady; the lights swam, weaving their maze across the
shaken pool; on the impending rock, reflections danced like
butterflies; and the air was fanned by the waterfall as by a
swinging curtain.</p>
<p>Otto, who was weary with tossing and beset with horrid
phantoms of remorse and jealousy, instantly fell dead in love
with that sun-chequered, echoing corner. Holding his feet,
he stared out of a drowsy trance, wondering, admiring, musing,
losing his way among uncertain thoughts. There is nothing
that so apes the external bearing of free will as that
unconscious bustle, obscurely following liquid laws, with which a
river contends among obstructions. It seems the very play
of man and destiny, and as Otto pored on these recurrent changes,
he grew, by equal steps, the sleepier and the more
profound. Eddy and Prince were alike jostled in their
purpose, alike anchored by intangible influences in one corner of
the world. Eddy and Prince were alike useless, starkly
useless, in the cosmology of men. Eddy and
Prince—Prince and Eddy.</p>
<p>It is probable he had been some while asleep when a voice
recalled him from oblivion. ‘Sir,’ it was
saying; and looking round, he saw Mr. Killian’s daughter,
terrified by her boldness and making bashful signals from the
shore. She was a plain, honest lass, healthy and happy and
good, and with that sort of beauty that comes of happiness and
health. But her confusion lent her for the moment an
additional charm.</p>
<p>‘Good-morning,’ said Otto, rising and moving
towards her. ‘I arose early and was in a
dream.’</p>
<p>‘O, sir!’ she cried, ‘I wish to beg of you
to spare my father; for I assure your Highness, if he had known
who you was, he would have bitten his tongue out sooner.
And Fritz, too—how he went on! But I had a notion;
and this morning I went straight down into the stable, and there
was your Highness’s crown upon the stirrup-irons!
But, O, sir, I made certain you would spare them; for they were
as innocent as lambs.’</p>
<p>‘My dear,’ said Otto, both amused and gratified,
‘you do not understand. It is I who am in the wrong;
for I had no business to conceal my name and lead on these
gentleman to speak of me. And it is I who have to beg of
you that you will keep my secret and not betray the discourtesy
of which I was guilty. As for any fear of me, your friends
are safe in Gerolstein; and even in my own territory, you must be
well aware I have no power.’</p>
<p>‘O, sir,’ she said, curtsying, ‘I would not
say that: the huntsmen would all die for you.’</p>
<p>‘Happy Prince!’ said Otto. ‘But
although you are too courteous to avow the knowledge, you have
had many opportunities of learning that I am a vain show.
Only last night we heard it very clearly stated. You see
the shadow flitting on this hard rock? Prince Otto, I am
afraid, is but the moving shadow, and the name of the rock is
Gondremark. Ah! if your friends had fallen foul of
Gondremark! But happily the younger of the two admires
him. And as for the old gentleman your father, he is a wise
man and an excellent talker, and I would take a long wager he is
honest.’</p>
<p>‘O, for honest, your Highness, that he is!’
exclaimed the girl. ‘And Fritz is as honest as
he. And as for all they said, it was just talk and
nonsense. When countryfolk get gossiping, they go on, I do
assure you, for the fun; they don’t as much as think of
what they say. If you went to the next farm, it’s my
belief you would hear as much against my father.’</p>
<p>‘Nay, nay,’ said Otto, ‘there you go too
fast. For all that was said against Prince
Otto—’</p>
<p>‘O, it was shameful!’ cried the girl.</p>
<p>‘Not shameful—true,’ returned Otto.
‘O, yes—true. I am all they said of
me—all that and worse.’</p>
<p>‘I never!’ cried ‘Ottilia. ‘Is
that how you do? Well, you would never be a soldier.
Now if any one accuses me, I get up and give it them. O, I
defend myself. I wouldn’t take a fault at another
person’s hands, no, not if I had it on my forehead.
And that’s what you must do, if you mean to live it
out. But, indeed, I never heard such nonsense. I
should think you was ashamed of yourself! You’re
bald, then, I suppose?’</p>
<p>‘O no,’ said Otto, fairly laughing.
‘There I acquit myself: not bald!’</p>
<p>‘Well, and good?’ pursued the girl.
‘Come now, you know you are good, and I’ll make you
say so . . . Your Highness, I beg your humble pardon. But
there’s no disrespect intended. And anyhow, you know
you are.’</p>
<p>‘Why, now, what am I to say?’ replied Otto.
‘You are a cook, and excellently well you do it; I embrace
the chance of thanking you for the ragout. Well now, have
you not seen good food so bedevilled by unskilful cookery that no
one could be brought to eat the pudding? That is me, my
dear. I am full of good ingredients, but the dish is
worthless. I am—I give it you in one word—sugar
in the salad.’</p>
<p>‘Well, I don’t care, you’re good,’
reiterated Ottilia, a little flushed by having failed to
understand.</p>
<p>‘I will tell you one thing,’ replied Otto:
‘You are!’</p>
<p>‘Ah, well, that’s what they all said of
you,’ moralised the girl; ‘such a tongue to come
round—such a flattering tongue!’</p>
<p>‘O, you forget, I am a man of middle age,’ the
Prince chuckled.</p>
<p>‘Well, to speak to you, I should think you was a boy;
and Prince or no Prince, if you came worrying where I was
cooking, I would pin a napkin to your tails. . . . And, O Lord, I
declare I hope your Highness will forgive me,’ the girl
added. ‘I can’t keep it in my mind.’</p>
<p>‘No more can I,’ cried Otto. ‘That is
just what they complain of!’</p>
<p>They made a loverly-looking couple; only the heavy pouring of
that horse-tail of water made them raise their voices above
lovers’ pitch. But to a jealous onlooker from above,
their mirth and close proximity might easily give umbrage; and a
rough voice out of a tuft of brambles began calling on Ottilia by
name. She changed colour at that. ‘It is
Fritz,’ she said. ‘I must go.’</p>
<p>‘Go, my dear, and I need not bid you go in peace, for I
think you have discovered that I am not formidable at close
quarters,’ said the Prince, and made her a fine gesture of
dismissal.</p>
<p>So Ottilia skipped up the bank, and disappeared into the
thicket, stopping once for a single blushing bob—blushing,
because she had in the interval once more forgotten and
remembered the stranger’s quality.</p>
<p>Otto returned to his rock promontory; but his humour had in
the meantime changed. The sun now shone more fairly on the
pool; and over its brown, welling surface, the blue of heaven and
the golden green of the spring foliage danced in fleeting
arabesque. The eddies laughed and brightened with essential
colour. And the beauty of the dell began to rankle in the
Prince’s mind; it was so near to his own borders, yet
without. He had never had much of the joy of possessorship
in any of the thousand and one beautiful and curious things that
were his; and now he was conscious of envy for what was
another’s. It was, indeed, a smiling, dilettante sort
of envy; but yet there it was: the passion of Ahab for the
vineyard, done in little; and he was relieved when Mr. Killian
appeared upon the scene.</p>
<p>‘I hope, sir, that you have slept well under my plain
roof,’ said the old farmer.</p>
<p>‘I am admiring this sweet spot that you are privileged
to dwell in,’ replied Otto, evading the inquiry.</p>
<p>‘It is rustic,’ returned Mr. Gottesheim, looking
around him with complacency, ‘a very rustic corner; and
some of the land to the west is most excellent fat land,
excellent deep soil. You should see my wheat in the
ten-acre field. There is not a farm in Grünewald, no,
nor many in Gerolstein, to match the River Farm. Some
sixty—I keep thinking when I sow—some sixty, and some
seventy, and some an hundredfold; and my own place, six
score! But that, sir, is partly the farming.’</p>
<p>‘And the stream has fish?’ asked Otto.</p>
<p>‘A fish-pond,’ said the farmer. ‘Ay,
it is a pleasant bit. It is pleasant even here, if one had
time, with the brook drumming in that black pool, and the green
things hanging all about the rocks, and, dear heart, to see the
very pebbles! all turned to gold and precious stones! But
you have come to that time of life, sir, when, if you will excuse
me, you must look to have the rheumatism set in. Thirty to
forty is, as one may say, their seed-time. And this is a
damp cold corner for the early morning and an empty
stomach. If I might humbly advise you, sir, I would be
moving.’</p>
<p>‘With all my heart,’ said Otto gravely.
‘And so you have lived your life here?’ he added, as
they turned to go.</p>
<p>‘Here I was born,’ replied the farmer, ‘and
here I wish I could say I was to die. But fortune, sir,
fortune turns the wheel. They say she is blind, but we will
hope she only sees a little farther on. My grandfather and
my father and I, we have all tilled these acres, my furrow
following theirs. All the three names are on the garden
bench, two Killians and one Johann. Yes, sir, good men have
prepared themselves for the great change in my old garden.
Well do I mind my father, in a woollen night-cap, the good soul,
going round and round to see the last of it.
‘Killian,’ said he, ‘do you see the smoke of my
tobacco? Why,’ said he, ‘that is man’s
life.’ It was his last pipe, and I believe he knew
it; and it was a strange thing, without doubt, to leave the trees
that he had planted, and the son that he had begotten, ay, sir,
and even the old pipe with the Turk’s head that he had
smoked since he was a lad and went a-courting. But here we
have no continuing city; and as for the eternal, it’s a
comfortable thought that we have other merits than our own.
And yet you would hardly think how sore it goes against the grain
with me, to die in a strange bed.’</p>
<p>‘And must you do so? For what reason?’ Otto
asked.</p>
<p>‘The reason? The place is to be sold; three
thousand crowns,’ replied Mr. Gottesheim. ‘Had
it been a third of that, I may say without boasting that, what
with my credit and my savings, I could have met the sum.
But at three thousand, unless I have singular good fortune and
the new proprietor continues me in office, there is nothing left
me but to budge.’</p>
<p>Otto’s fancy for the place redoubled at the news, and
became joined with other feelings. If all he heard were
true, Grünewald was growing very hot for a sovereign Prince;
it might be well to have a refuge; and if so, what more
delightful hermitage could man imagine? Mr. Gottesheim,
besides, had touched his sympathies. Every man loves in his
soul to play the part of the stage deity. And to step down
to the aid of the old farmer, who had so roughly handled him in
talk, was the ideal of a Fair Revenge. Otto’s
thoughts brightened at the prospect, and he began to regard
himself with a renewed respect.</p>
<p>‘I can find you, I believe, a purchaser,’ he said,
‘and one who would continue to avail himself of your
skill.’</p>
<p>‘Can you, sir, indeed?’ said the old man.
‘Well, I shall be heartily obliged; for I begin to find a
man may practise resignation all his days, as he takes physic,
and not come to like it in the end.’</p>
<p>‘If you will have the papers drawn, you may even burthen
the purchase with your interest,’ said Otto.
‘Let it be assured to you through life.’</p>
<p>‘Your friend, sir,’ insinuated Killian,
‘would not, perhaps, care to make the interest
reversible? Fritz is a good lad.’</p>
<p>‘Fritz is young,’ said the Prince dryly; ‘he
must earn consideration, not inherit.’</p>
<p>‘He has long worked upon the place, sir,’ insisted
Mr. Gottesheim; ‘and at my great age, for I am
seventy-eight come harvest, it would be a troublesome thought to
the proprietor how to fill my shoes. It would be a care
spared to assure yourself of Fritz. And I believe he might
be tempted by a permanency.’</p>
<p>‘The young man has unsettled views,’ returned
Otto.</p>
<p>‘Possibly the purchaser—’ began Killian.</p>
<p>A little spot of anger burned in Otto’s cheek.
‘I am the purchaser,’ he said.</p>
<p>‘It was what I might have guessed,’ replied the
farmer, bowing with an aged, obsequious dignity. ‘You
have made an old man very happy; and I may say, indeed, that I
have entertained an angel unawares. Sir, the great people
of this world—and by that I mean those who are great in
station—if they had only hearts like yours, how they would
make the fires burn and the poor sing!’</p>
<p>‘I would not judge them hardly, sir,’ said
Otto. ‘We all have our frailties.’</p>
<p>‘Truly, sir,’ said Mr. Gottesheim, with
unction. ‘And by what name, sir, am I to address my
generous landlord?’</p>
<p>The double recollection of an English traveller, whom he had
received the week before at court, and of an old English rogue
called Transome, whom he had known in youth, came pertinently to
the Prince’s help. ‘Transome,’ he
answered, ‘is my name. I am an English
traveller. It is, to-day, Tuesday. On Thursday,
before noon, the money shall be ready. Let us meet, if you
please, in Mittwalden, at the “Morning
Star.”’</p>
<p>‘I am, in all things lawful, your servant to
command,’ replied the farmer. ‘An
Englishman! You are a great race of travellers. And
has your lordship some experience of land?’</p>
<p>‘I have had some interest of the kind before,’
returned the Prince; ‘not in Gerolstein, indeed. But
fortune, as you say, turns the wheel, and I desire to be
beforehand with her revolutions.’</p>
<p>‘Very right, sir, I am sure,’ said Mr.
Killian.</p>
<p>They had been strolling with deliberation; but they were now
drawing near to the farmhouse, mounting by the trellised pathway
to the level of the meadow. A little before them, the sound
of voices had been some while audible, and now grew louder and
more distinct with every step of their advance. Presently,
when they emerged upon the top of the bank, they beheld Fritz and
Ottilia some way off; he, very black and bloodshot, emphasising
his hoarse speech with the smacking of his fist against his palm;
she, standing a little way off in blowsy, voluble distress.</p>
<p>‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Gottesheim, and made as if he
would turn aside.</p>
<p>But Otto went straight towards the lovers, in whose dissension
he believed himself to have a share. And, indeed, as soon
as he had seen the Prince, Fritz had stood tragic, as if awaiting
and defying his approach.</p>
<p>‘O, here you are!’ he cried, as soon as they were
near enough for easy speech. ‘You are a man at least,
and must reply. What were you after? Why were you two
skulking in the bush? God!’ he broke out, turning
again upon Ottilia, ‘to think that I should waste my heart
on you!’</p>
<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ Otto cut in. ‘You
were addressing me. In virtue of what circumstance am I to
render you an account of this young lady’s conduct?
Are you her father? her brother? her husband?’</p>
<p>‘O, sir, you know as well as I,’ returned the
peasant. ‘We keep company, she and I. I love
her, and she is by way of loving me; but all shall be
above-board, I would have her to know. I have a good pride
of my own.’</p>
<p>‘Why, I perceive I must explain to you what love
is,’ said Otto. ‘Its measure is kindness.
It is very possible that you are proud; but she, too, may have
some self-esteem; I do not speak for myself. And perhaps,
if your own doings were so curiously examined, you might find it
inconvenient to reply.’</p>
<p>‘These are all set-offs,’ said the young
man. ‘You know very well that a man is a man, and a
woman only a woman. That holds good all over, up and
down. I ask you a question, I ask it again, and here I
stand.’ He drew a mark and toed it.</p>
<p>‘When you have studied liberal doctrines somewhat
deeper,’ said the Prince, ‘you will perhaps change
your note. You are a man of false weights and measures, my
young friend. You have one scale for women, another for
men; one for princes, and one for farmer-folk. On the
prince who neglects his wife you can be most severe. But
what of the lover who insults his mistress? You use the
name of love. I should think this lady might very fairly
ask to be delivered from love of such a nature. For if I, a
stranger, had been one-tenth part so gross and so discourteous,
you would most righteously have broke my head. It would
have been in your part, as lover, to protect her from such
insolence. Protect her first, then, from
yourself.’</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ quoth Mr. Gottesheim, who had been looking
on with his hands behind his tall old back, ‘ay,
that’s Scripture truth.’</p>
<p>Fritz was staggered, not only by the Prince’s
imperturbable superiority of manner, but by a glimmering
consciousness that he himself was in the wrong. The appeal
to liberal doctrines had, besides, unmanned him.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ said he, ‘if I was rude, I’ll
own to it. I meant no ill, and did nothing out of my just
rights; but I am above all these old vulgar notions too; and if I
spoke sharp, I’ll ask her pardon.’</p>
<p>‘Freely granted, Fritz,’ said Ottilia.</p>
<p>‘But all this doesn’t answer me,’ cried
Fritz. ‘I ask what you two spoke about. She
says she promised not to tell; well, then, I mean to know.
Civility is civility, but I’ll be no man’s
gull. I have a right to common justice, if I <i>do</i> keep
company!’</p>
<p>‘If you will ask Mr. Gottesheim,’ replied Otto,
‘you will find I have not spent my hours in idleness.
I have, since I arose this morning, agreed to buy the farm.
So far I will go to satisfy a curiosity which I
condemn.’</p>
<p>‘O, well, if there was business, that’s another
matter,’ returned Fritz. ‘Though it beats me
why you could not tell. But, of course, if the gentleman is
to buy the farm, I suppose there would naturally be an
end.’</p>
<p>‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Gottesheim, with a strong
accent of conviction.</p>
<p>But Ottilia was much braver. ‘There now!’
she cried in triumph. ‘What did I tell you? I
told you I was fighting your battles. Now you see!
Think shame of your suspicious temper! You should go down
upon your bended knees both to that gentleman and me.’</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IV—IN WHICH THE PRINCE COLLECTS OPINIONS BY THE
WAY</h3>
<p>A little before noon Otto, by a triumph of manoeuvring,
effected his escape. He was quit in this way of the
ponderous gratitude of Mr. Killian, and of the confidential
gratitude of poor Ottilia; but of Fritz he was not quit so
readily. That young politician, brimming with mysterious
glances, offered to lend his convoy as far as to the high-road;
and Otto, in fear of some residuary jealousy and for the
girl’s sake, had not the courage to gainsay him; but he
regarded his companion with uneasy glances, and devoutly wished
the business at an end. For some time Fritz walked by the
mare in silence; and they had already traversed more than half
the proposed distance when, with something of a blush, he looked
up and opened fire.</p>
<p>‘Are you not,’ he asked, ‘what they call a
socialist?’</p>
<p>‘Why, no,’ returned Otto, ‘not precisely
what they call so. Why do you ask?’</p>
<p>‘I will tell you why,’ said the young man.
‘I saw from the first that you were a red progressional,
and nothing but the fear of old Killian kept you back. And
there, sir, you were right: old men are always cowards. But
nowadays, you see, there are so many groups: you can never tell
how far the likeliest kind of man may be prepared to go; and I
was never sure you were one of the strong thinkers, till you
hinted about women and free love.’</p>
<p>‘Indeed,’ cried Otto, ‘I never said a word
of such a thing.’</p>
<p>‘Not you!’ cried Fritz. ‘Never a word
to compromise! You was sowing seed: ground-bait, our
president calls it. But it’s hard to deceive me, for
I know all the agitators and their ways, and all the doctrines;
and between you and me,’ lowering his voice, ‘I am
myself affiliated. O yes, I am a secret society man, and
here is my medal.’ And drawing out a green ribbon
that he wore about his neck, he held up, for Otto’s
inspection, a pewter medal bearing the imprint of a Phoenix and
the legend <i>Libertas</i>. ‘And so now you see you
may trust me,’ added Fritz, ‘I am none of your
alehouse talkers; I am a convinced revolutionary.’
And he looked meltingly upon Otto.</p>
<p>‘I see,’ replied the Prince; ‘that is very
gratifying. Well, sir, the great thing for the good of
one’s country is, first of all, to be a good man. All
springs from there. For my part, although you are right in
thinking that I have to do with politics, I am unfit by intellect
and temper for a leading rôle. I was intended, I
fear, for a subaltern. Yet we have all something to
command, Mr. Fritz, if it be only our own temper; and a man about
to marry must look closely to himself. The husband’s,
like the prince’s, is a very artificial standing; and it is
hard to be kind in either. Do you follow that?’</p>
<p>‘O yes, I follow that,’ replied the young man,
sadly chop-fallen over the nature of the information he had
elicited; and then brightening up: ‘Is it,’ he
ventured, ‘is it for an arsenal that you have bought the
farm?’</p>
<p>‘We’ll see about that,’ the Prince answered,
laughing. ‘You must not be too zealous. And in
the meantime, if I were you, I would say nothing on the
subject.’</p>
<p>‘O, trust me, sir, for that,’ cried Fritz, as he
pocketed a crown. ‘And you’ve let nothing out;
for I suspected—I might say I knew it—from the
first. And mind you, when a guide is required,’ he
added, ‘I know all the forest paths.’</p>
<p>Otto rode away, chuckling. This talk with Fritz had
vastly entertained him; nor was he altogether discontented with
his bearing at the farm; men, he was able to tell himself, had
behaved worse under smaller provocation. And, to harmonise
all, the road and the April air were both delightful to his
soul.</p>
<p>Up and down, and to and fro, ever mounting through the wooded
foothills, the broad white high-road wound onward into
Grünewald. On either hand the pines stood coolly
rooted—green moss prospering, springs welling forth between
their knuckled spurs; and though some were broad and stalwart,
and others spiry and slender, yet all stood firm in the same
attitude and with the same expression, like a silent army
presenting arms.</p>
<p>The road lay all the way apart from towns and villages, which
it left on either hand. Here and there, indeed, in the
bottom of green glens, the Prince could spy a few congregated
roofs, or perhaps above him, on a shoulder, the solitary cabin of
a woodman. But the highway was an international undertaking
and with its face set for distant cities, scorned the little life
of Grünewald. Hence it was exceeding solitary.
Near the frontier Otto met a detachment of his own troops
marching in the hot dust; and he was recognised and somewhat
feebly cheered as he rode by. But from that time forth and
for a long while he was alone with the great woods.</p>
<p>Gradually the spell of pleasure relaxed; his own thoughts
returned, like stinging insects, in a cloud; and the talk of the
night before, like a shower of buffets, fell upon his
memory. He looked east and west for any comforter; and
presently he was aware of a cross-road coming steeply down hill,
and a horseman cautiously descending. A human voice or
presence, like a spring in the desert, was now welcome in itself,
and Otto drew bridle to await the coming of this stranger.
He proved to be a very red-faced, thick-lipped countryman, with a
pair of fat saddle-bags and a stone bottle at his waist; who, as
soon as the Prince hailed him, jovially, if somewhat thickly,
answered. At the same time he gave a beery yaw in the
saddle. It was clear his bottle was no longer full.</p>
<p>‘Do you ride towards Mittwalden?’ asked the
Prince.</p>
<p>‘As far as the cross-road to Tannenbrunn,’ the man
replied. ‘Will you bear company?’</p>
<p>‘With pleasure. I have even waited for you on the
chance,’ answered Otto.</p>
<p>By this time they were close alongside; and the man, with the
countryfolk instinct, turned his cloudy vision first of all on
his companion’s mount. ‘The devil!’ he
cried. ‘You ride a bonny mare, friend!’
And then, his curiosity being satisfied about the essential, he
turned his attention to that merely secondary matter, his
companion’s face. He started. ‘The
Prince!’ he cried, saluting, with another yaw that came
near dismounting him. ‘I beg your pardon, your
Highness, not to have recognised you at once.’</p>
<p>The Prince was vexed out of his self-possession.
‘Since you know me,’ he said, ‘it is
unnecessary we should ride together. I will precede you, if
you please.’ And he was about to set spur to the grey
mare, when the half-drunken fellow, reaching over, laid his hand
upon the rein.</p>
<p>‘Hark you,’ he said, ‘prince or no prince,
that is not how one man should conduct himself with
another. What! You’ll ride with me incog. and
set me talking! But if I know you, you’ll preshede
me, if you please! Spy!’ And the fellow,
crimson with drink and injured vanity, almost spat the word into
the Prince’s face.</p>
<p>A horrid confusion came over Otto. He perceived that he
had acted rudely, grossly presuming on his station. And
perhaps a little shiver of physical alarm mingled with his
remorse, for the fellow was very powerful and not more than half
in the possession of his senses. ‘Take your hand from
my rein,’ he said, with a sufficient assumption of command;
and when the man, rather to his wonder, had obeyed: ‘You
should understand, sir,’ he added, ‘that while I
might be glad to ride with you as one person of sagacity with
another, and so receive your true opinions, it would amuse me
very little to hear the empty compliments you would address to me
as Prince.’</p>
<p>‘You think I would lie, do you?’ cried the man
with the bottle, purpling deeper.</p>
<p>‘I know you would,’ returned Otto, entering
entirely into his self-possession. ‘You would not
even show me the medal you wear about your neck.’ For
he had caught a glimpse of a green ribbon at the fellow’s
throat.</p>
<p>The change was instantaneous: the red face became mottled with
yellow: a thick-fingered, tottering hand made a clutch at the
tell-tale ribbon. ‘Medal!’ the man cried,
wonderfully sobered. ‘I have no medal.’</p>
<p>‘Pardon me,’ said the Prince. ‘I will
even tell you what that medal bears: a Phoenix burning, with the
word <i>Libertas</i>.’ The medallist remaining
speechless, ‘You are a pretty fellow,’ continued
Otto, smiling, ‘to complain of incivility from the man whom
you conspire to murder.’</p>
<p>‘Murder!’ protested the man. ‘Nay,
never that; nothing criminal for me!’</p>
<p>‘You are strangely misinformed,’ said Otto.
‘Conspiracy itself is criminal, and ensures the pain of
death. Nay, sir, death it is; I will guarantee my
accuracy. Not that you need be so deplorably affected, for
I am no officer. But those who mingle with politics should
look at both sides of the medal.’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness . . . ’ began the knight of the
bottle.</p>
<p>‘Nonsense! you are a Republican,’ cried Otto;
‘what have you to do with highnesses? But let us
continue to ride forward. Since you so much desire it, I
cannot find it in my heart to deprive you of my company.
And for that matter, I have a question to address to you.
Why, being so great a body of men—for you are a great
body—fifteen thousand, I have heard, but that will be
understated; am I right?’</p>
<p>The man gurgled in his throat.</p>
<p>‘Why, then, being so considerable a party,’
resumed Otto, ‘do you not come before me boldly with your
wants?—what do I say? with your commands? Have I the
name of being passionately devoted to my throne? I can
scarce suppose it. Come, then; show me your majority, and I
will instantly resign. Tell this to your friends; assure
them from me of my docility; assure them that, however they
conceive of my deficiencies, they cannot suppose me more unfit to
be a ruler than I do myself. I am one of the worst princes
in Europe; will they improve on that?’</p>
<p>‘Far be it from me . . .’ the man began.</p>
<p>‘See, now, if you will not defend my government!’
cried Otto. ‘If I were you, I would leave
conspiracies. You are as little fit to be a conspirator as
I to be a king.’</p>
<p>‘One thing I will say out,’ said the man.
‘It is not so much you that we complain of, it’s your
lady.’</p>
<p>‘Not a word, sir’ said the Prince; and then after
a moment’s pause, and in tones of some anger and contempt:
‘I once more advise you to have done with politics,’
he added; ‘and when next I see you, let me see you
sober. A morning drunkard is the last man to sit in
judgment even upon the worst of princes.’</p>
<p>‘I have had a drop, but I had not been drinking,’
the man replied, triumphing in a sound distinction.
‘And if I had, what then? Nobody hangs by me.
But my mill is standing idle, and I blame it on your wife.
Am I alone in that? Go round and ask. Where are the
mills? Where are the young men that should be
working? Where is the currency? All paralysed.
No, sir, it is not equal; for I suffer for your faults—I
pay for them, by George, out of a poor man’s pocket.
And what have you to do with mine? Drunk or sober, I can
see my country going to hell, and I can see whose fault it
is. And so now, I’ve said my say, and you may drag me
to a stinking dungeon; what care I? I’ve spoke the
truth, and so I’ll hold hard, and not intrude upon your
Highness’s society.’</p>
<p>And the miller reined up and, clumsily enough, saluted.</p>
<p>‘You will observe, I have not asked your name,’
said Otto. ‘I wish you a good ride,’ and he
rode on hard. But let him ride as he pleased, this
interview with the miller was a chokepear, which he could not
swallow. He had begun by receiving a reproof in manners,
and ended by sustaining a defeat in logic, both from a man whom
he despised. All his old thoughts returned with fresher
venom. And by three in the afternoon, coming to the
cross-roads for Beckstein, Otto decided to turn aside and dine
there leisurely. Nothing at least could be worse than to go
on as he was going.</p>
<p>In the inn at Beckstein he remarked, immediately upon his
entrance, an intelligent young gentleman dining, with a book in
front of him. He had his own place laid close to the
reader, and with a proper apology, broke ground by asking what he
read.</p>
<p>‘I am perusing,’ answered the young gentleman,
‘the last work of the Herr Doctor Hohenstockwitz, cousin
and librarian of your Prince here in Grünewald—a man
of great erudition and some lambencies of wit.’</p>
<p>‘I am acquainted,’ said Otto, ‘with the Herr
Doctor, though not yet with his work.’</p>
<p>‘Two privileges that I must envy you,’ replied the
young man politely: ‘an honour in hand, a pleasure in the
bush.’</p>
<p>‘The Herr Doctor is a man much respected, I believe, for
his attainments?’ asked the Prince.</p>
<p>‘He is, sir, a remarkable instance of the force of
intellect,’ replied the reader. ‘Who of our
young men know anything of his cousin, all reigning Prince
although he be? Who but has heard of Doctor Gotthold?
But intellectual merit, alone of all distinctions, has its base
in nature.’</p>
<p>‘I have the gratification of addressing a
student—perhaps an author?’ Otto suggested.</p>
<p>The young man somewhat flushed. ‘I have some claim
to both distinctions, sir, as you suppose,’ said he;
‘there is my card. I am the licentiate Roederer,
author of several works on the theory and practice of
politics.’</p>
<p>‘You immensely interest me,’ said the Prince;
‘the more so as I gather that here in Grünewald we are
on the brink of revolution. Pray, since these have been
your special studies, would you augur hopefully of such a
movement?’</p>
<p>‘I perceive,’ said the young author, with a
certain vinegary twitch, ‘that you are unacquainted with my
opuscula. I am a convinced authoritarian. I share
none of those illusory, Utopian fancies with which empirics blind
themselves and exasperate the ignorant. The day of these
ideas is, believe me, past, or at least passing.’</p>
<p>‘When I look about me—’ began Otto.</p>
<p>‘When you look about you,’ interrupted the
licentiate, ‘you behold the ignorant. But in the
laboratory of opinion, beside the studious lamp, we begin already
to discard these figments. We begin to return to
nature’s order, to what I might call, if I were to borrow
from the language of therapeutics, the expectant treatment of
abuses. You will not misunderstand me,’ he continued:
‘a country in the condition in which we find
Grünewald, a prince such as your Prince Otto, we must
explicitly condemn; they are behind the age. But I would
look for a remedy not to brute convulsions, but to the natural
supervenience of a more able sovereign. I should amuse you,
perhaps,’ added the licentiate, with a smile, ‘I
think I should amuse you if I were to explain my notion of a
prince. We who have studied in the closet, no longer, in
this age, propose ourselves for active service. The paths,
we have perceived, are incompatible. I would not have a
student on the throne, though I would have one near by for an
adviser. I would set forward as prince a man of a good,
medium understanding, lively rather than deep; a man of courtly
manner, possessed of the double art to ingratiate and to command;
receptive, accommodating, seductive. I have been observing
you since your first entrance. Well, sir, were I a subject
of Grünewald I should pray heaven to set upon the seat of
government just such another as yourself.’</p>
<p>‘The devil you would!’ exclaimed the Prince.</p>
<p>The licentiate Roederer laughed most heartily. ‘I
thought I should astonish you,’ he said. ‘These
are not the ideas of the masses.’</p>
<p>‘They are not, I can assure you,’ Otto said.</p>
<p>‘Or rather,’ distinguished the licentiate,
‘not to-day. The time will come, however, when these
ideas shall prevail.’</p>
<p>‘You will permit me, sir, to doubt it,’ said
Otto.</p>
<p>‘Modesty is always admirable,’ chuckled the
theorist. ‘But yet I assure you, a man like you, with
such a man as, say, Doctor Gotthold at your elbow, would be, for
all practical issues, my ideal ruler.’</p>
<p>At this rate the hours sped pleasantly for Otto. But the
licentiate unfortunately slept that night at Beckstein, where he
was, being dainty in the saddle and given to half stages.
And to find a convoy to Mittwalden, and thus mitigate the company
of his own thoughts, the Prince had to make favour with a certain
party of wood-merchants from various states of the empire, who
had been drinking together somewhat noisily at the far end of the
apartment.</p>
<p>The night had already fallen when they took the saddle.
The merchants were very loud and mirthful; each had a face like a
nor’west moon; and they played pranks with each
others’ horses, and mingled songs and choruses, and
alternately remembered and forgot the companion of their
ride. Otto thus combined society and solitude, hearkening
now to their chattering and empty talk, now to the voices of the
encircling forest. The starlit dark, the faint wood airs,
the clank of the horse-shoes making broken music, accorded
together and attuned his mind. And he was still in a most
equal temper when the party reached the top of that long hill
that overlooks Mittwalden.</p>
<p>Down in the bottom of a bowl of forest, the lights of the
little formal town glittered in a pattern, street crossing
street; away by itself on the right, the palace was glowing like
a factory.</p>
<p>Although he knew not Otto, one of the wood-merchants was a
native of the state. ‘There,’ said he, pointing
to the palace with his whip, ‘there is Jezebel’s
inn.’</p>
<p>‘What, do you call it that?’ cried another,
laughing.</p>
<p>‘Ay, that’s what they call it,’ returned the
Grünewalder; and he broke into a song, which the rest, as
people well acquainted with the words and air, instantly took up
in chorus. Her Serene Highness Amalia Seraphina, Princess
of Grünewald, was the heroine, Gondremark the hero of this
ballad. Shame hissed in Otto’s ears. He reined
up short and sat stunned in the saddle; and the singers continued
to descend the hill without him.</p>
<p>The song went to a rough, swashing, popular air; and long
after the words became inaudible the swing of the music, rising
and falling, echoed insult in the Prince’s brain. He
fled the sounds. Hard by him on his right a road struck
towards the palace, and he followed it through the thick shadows
and branching alleys of the park. It was a busy place on a
fine summer’s afternoon, when the court and burghers met
and saluted; but at that hour of the night in the early spring it
was deserted to the roosting birds. Hares rustled among the
covert; here and there a statue stood glimmering, with its
eternal gesture; here and there the echo of an imitation temple
clattered ghostly to the trampling of the mare. Ten minutes
brought him to the upper end of his own home garden, where the
small stables opened, over a bridge, upon the park. The
yard clock was striking the hour of ten; so was the big bell in
the palace bell-tower; and, farther off, the belfries of the
town. About the stable all else was silent but the stamping
of stalled horses and the rattle of halters. Otto
dismounted; and as he did so a memory came back to him: a whisper
of dishonest grooms and stolen corn, once heard, long forgotten,
and now recurring in the nick of opportunity. He crossed
the bridge, and, going up to a window, knocked six or seven heavy
blows in a particular cadence, and, as he did so, smiled.
Presently a wicket was opened in the gate, and a man’s head
appeared in the dim starlight.</p>
<p>‘Nothing to-night,’ said a voice.</p>
<p>‘Bring a lantern,’ said the Prince.</p>
<p>‘Dear heart a’ mercy!’ cried the
groom. ‘Who’s that?’</p>
<p>‘It is I, the Prince,’ replied Otto.
‘Bring a lantern, take in the mare, and let me through into
the garden.’</p>
<p>The man remained silent for a while, his head still projecting
through the wicket.</p>
<p>‘His Highness!’ he said at last. ‘And
why did your Highness knock so strange?’</p>
<p>‘It is a superstition in Mittwalden,’ answered
Otto, ‘that it cheapens corn.’</p>
<p>With a sound like a sob the groom fled. He was very
white when he returned, even by the light of the lantern; and his
hand trembled as he undid the fastenings and took the mare.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness,’ he began at last, ‘for
God’s sake . . . ’ And there he paused,
oppressed with guilt.</p>
<p>‘For God’s sake, what?’ asked Otto
cheerfully. ‘For God’s sake let us have cheaper
corn, say I. Good-night!’ And he strode off
into the garden, leaving the groom petrified once more.</p>
<p>The garden descended by a succession of stone terraces to the
level of the fish-pond. On the far side the ground rose
again, and was crowned by the confused roofs and gables of the
palace. The modern pillared front, the ball-room, the great
library, the princely apartments, the busy and illuminated
quarters of that great house, all faced the town. The
garden side was much older; and here it was almost dark; only a
few windows quietly lighted at various elevations. The
great square tower rose, thinning by stages like a telescope; and
on the top of all the flag hung motionless.</p>
<p>The garden, as it now lay in the dusk and glimmer of the
starshine, breathed of April violets. Under night’s
cavern arch the shrubs obscurely bustled. Through the
plotted terraces and down the marble stairs the Prince rapidly
descended, fleeing before uncomfortable thoughts. But,
alas! from these there is no city of refuge. And now, when
he was about midway of the descent, distant strains of music
began to fall upon his ear from the ball-room, where the court
was dancing. They reached him faint and broken, but they
touched the keys of memory; and through and above them Otto heard
the ranting melody of the wood-merchants’ song. Mere
blackness seized upon his mind. Here he was, coming home;
the wife was dancing, the husband had been playing a trick upon a
lackey; and meanwhile, all about them, they were a by-word to
their subjects. Such a prince, such a husband, such a man,
as this Otto had become! And he sped the faster onward.</p>
<p>Some way below he came unexpectedly upon a sentry; yet a
little farther, and he was challenged by a second; and as he
crossed the bridge over the fish-pond, an officer making the
rounds stopped him once more. The parade of watch was more
than usual; but curiosity was dead in Otto’s mind, and he
only chafed at the interruption. The porter of the back
postern admitted him, and started to behold him so
disordered. Thence, hasting by private stairs and passages,
he came at length unseen to his own chamber, tore off his
clothes, and threw himself upon his bed in the dark. The
music of the ball-room still continued to a very lively measure;
and still, behind that, he heard in spirit the chorus of the
merchants clanking down the hill.</p>
<h2>BOOK II—OF LOVE AND POLITICS</h2>
<h3>CHAPTER I—WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LIBRARY</h3>
<p>At a quarter before six on the following morning Doctor
Gotthold was already at his desk in the library; and with a small
cup of black coffee at his elbow, and an eye occasionally
wandering to the busts and the long array of many-coloured books,
was quietly reviewing the labours of the day before. He was
a man of about forty, flaxen-haired, with refined features a
little worn, and bright eyes somewhat faded. Early to bed
and early to rise, his life was devoted to two things: erudition
and Rhine wine. An ancient friendship existed latent
between him and Otto; they rarely met, but when they did it was
to take up at once the thread of their suspended intimacy.
Gotthold, the virgin priest of knowledge, had envied his cousin,
for half a day, when he was married; he had never envied him his
throne.</p>
<p>Reading was not a popular diversion at the court of
Grünewald; and that great, pleasant, sunshiny gallery of
books and statues was, in practice, Gotthold’s private
cabinet. On this particular Wednesday morning, however, he
had not been long about his manuscript when a door opened and the
Prince stepped into the apartment. The doctor watched him
as he drew near, receiving, from each of the embayed windows in
succession, a flush of morning sun; and Otto looked so gay, and
walked so airily, he was so well dressed and brushed and
frizzled, so point-device, and of such a sovereign elegance, that
the heart of his cousin the recluse was rather moved against
him.</p>
<p>‘Good-morning, Gotthold,’ said Otto, dropping in a
chair.</p>
<p>‘Good-morning, Otto,’ returned the
librarian. ‘You are an early bird. Is this an
accident, or do you begin reforming?’</p>
<p>‘It is about time, I fancy,’ answered the
Prince.</p>
<p>‘I cannot imagine,’ said the Doctor.
‘I am too sceptical to be an ethical adviser; and as for
good resolutions, I believed in them when I was young. They
are the colours of hope’s rainbow.’</p>
<p>‘If you come to think of it,’ said Otto, ‘I
am not a popular sovereign.’ And with a look he
changed his statement to a question.</p>
<p>‘Popular? Well, there I would distinguish,’
answered Gotthold, leaning back and joining the tips of his
fingers. ‘There are various kinds of popularity; the
bookish, which is perfectly impersonal, as unreal as the
nightmare; the politician’s, a mixed variety; and yours,
which is the most personal of all. Women take to you;
footmen adore you; it is as natural to like you as to pat a dog;
and were you a saw-miller you would be the most popular citizen
in Grünewald. As a prince—well, you are in the
wrong trade. It is perhaps philosophical to recognise it as
you do.’</p>
<p>‘Perhaps philosophical?’ repeated Otto.</p>
<p>‘Yes, perhaps. I would not be dogmatic,’
answered Gotthold.</p>
<p>‘Perhaps philosophical, and certainly not
virtuous,’ Otto resumed.</p>
<p>‘Not of a Roman virtue,’ chuckled the recluse.</p>
<p>Otto drew his chair nearer to the table, leaned upon it with
his elbow, and looked his cousin squarely in the face.
‘In short,’ he asked, ‘not manly?’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ Gotthold hesitated, ‘not manly, if
you will.’ And then, with a laugh, ‘I did not
know that you gave yourself out to be manly,’ he
added. ‘It was one of the points that I inclined to
like about you; inclined, I believe, to admire. The names
of virtues exercise a charm on most of us; we must lay claim to
all of them, however incompatible; we must all be both daring and
prudent; we must all vaunt our pride and go to the stake for our
humility. Not so you. Without compromise you were
yourself: a pretty sight. I have always said it: none so
void of all pretence as Otto.’</p>
<p>‘Pretence and effort both!’ cried Otto.
‘A dead dog in a canal is more alive. And the
question, Gotthold, the question that I have to face is this: Can
I not, with effort and self-denial, can I not become a tolerable
sovereign?’</p>
<p>‘Never,’ replied Gotthold. ‘Dismiss
the notion. And besides, dear child, you would not
try.’</p>
<p>‘Nay, Gotthold, I am not to be put by,’ said
Otto. ‘If I am constitutionally unfit to be a
sovereign, what am I doing with this money, with this palace,
with these guards? And I—a thief—am to execute
the law on others?’</p>
<p>‘I admit the difficulty,’ said Gotthold.</p>
<p>‘Well, can I not try?’ continued Otto.
‘Am I not bound to try? And with the advice and help
of such a man as you—’</p>
<p>‘Me!’ cried the librarian. ‘Now, God
forbid!’</p>
<p>Otto, though he was in no very smiling humour, could not
forbear to smile. ‘Yet I was told last night,’
he laughed, ‘that with a man like me to impersonate, and a
man like you to touch the springs, a very possible government
could be composed.’</p>
<p>‘Now I wonder in what diseased imagination,’
Gotthold said, ‘that preposterous monster saw the light of
day?’</p>
<p>‘It was one of your own trade—a writer: one
Roederer,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘Roederer! an ignorant puppy!’ cried the
librarian.</p>
<p>‘You are ungrateful,’ said Otto. ‘He
is one of your professed admirers.’</p>
<p>‘Is he?’ cried Gotthold, obviously
impressed. ‘Come, that is a good account of the young
man. I must read his stuff again. It is the rather to
his credit, as our views are opposite. The east and west
are not more opposite. Can I have converted him? But
no; the incident belongs to Fairyland.’</p>
<p>‘You are not then,’ asked the Prince, ‘an
authoritarian?’</p>
<p>‘I? God bless me, no!’ said Gotthold.
‘I am a red, dear child.’</p>
<p>‘That brings me then to my next point, and by a natural
transition. If I am so clearly unfitted for my post,’
the Prince asked; ‘if my friends admit it, if my subjects
clamour for my downfall, if revolution is preparing at this hour,
must I not go forth to meet the inevitable? should I not save
these horrors and be done with these absurdities? in a word,
should I not abdicate? O, believe me, I feel the ridicule,
the vast abuse of language,’ he added, wincing, ‘but
even a principulus like me cannot resign; he must make a great
gesture, and come buskined forth, and abdicate.’</p>
<p>‘Ay,’ said Gotthold, ‘or else stay where he
is. What gnat has bitten you to-day? Do you not know
that you are touching, with lay hands, the very holiest inwards
of philosophy, where madness dwells? Ay, Otto, madness; for
in the serene temples of the wise, the inmost shrine, which we
carefully keep locked, is full of spiders’ webs. All
men, all, are fundamentally useless; nature tolerates, she does
not need, she does not use them: sterile flowers!
All—down to the fellow swinking in a byre, whom fools point
out for the exception—all are useless; all weave ropes of
sand; or like a child that has breathed on a window, write and
obliterate, write and obliterate, idle words! Talk of it no
more. That way, I tell you, madness lies.’ The
speaker rose from his chair and then sat down again. He
laughed a little laugh, and then, changing his tone, resumed:
‘Yes, dear child, we are not here to do battle with giants;
we are here to be happy like the flowers, if we can be. It
is because you could, that I have always secretly admired
you. Cling to that trade; believe me, it is the right
one. Be happy, be idle, be airy. To the devil with
all casuistry! and leave the state to Gondremark, as
heretofore. He does it well enough, they say; and his
vanity enjoys the situation.’</p>
<p>‘Gotthold,’ cried Otto, ‘what is this to
me? Useless is not the question; I cannot rest at
uselessness; I must be useful or I must be noxious—one or
other. I grant you the whole thing, prince and principality
alike, is pure absurdity, a stroke of satire; and that a banker
or the man who keeps an inn has graver duties. But now,
when I have washed my hands of it three years, and left
all—labour, responsibility, and honour and enjoyment too,
if there be any—to Gondremark and
to—Seraphina—’ He hesitated at the name,
and Gotthold glanced aside. ‘Well,’ the Prince
continued, ‘what has come of it? Taxes, army,
cannon—why, it’s like a box of lead soldiers!
And the people sick at the folly of it, and fired with the
injustice! And war, too—I hear of war—war in
this teapot! What a complication of absurdity and
disgrace! And when the inevitable end arrives—the
revolution—who will be to blame in the sight of God, who
will be gibbeted in public opinion? I! Prince
Puppet!’</p>
<p>‘I thought you had despised public opinion,’ said
Gotthold.</p>
<p>‘I did,’ said Otto sombrely, ‘but now I do
not. I am growing old. And then, Gotthold, there is
Seraphina. She is loathed in this country that I brought
her to and suffered her to spoil. Yes, I gave it her as a
plaything, and she has broken it: a fine Prince, an admirable
Princess! Even her life—I ask you, Gotthold, is her
life safe?’</p>
<p>‘It is safe enough to-day,’ replied the librarian:
‘but since you ask me seriously, I would not answer for
to-morrow. She is ill-advised.’</p>
<p>‘And by whom? By this Gondremark, to whom you
counsel me to leave my country,’ cried the Prince.
‘Rare advice! The course that I have been following
all these years, to come at last to this. O, ill-advised!
if that were all! See now, there is no sense in beating
about the bush between two men: you know what scandal says of
her?’</p>
<p>Gotthold, with pursed lips, silently nodded.</p>
<p>‘Well, come, you are not very cheering as to my conduct
as the Prince; have I even done my duty as a husband?’ Otto
asked.</p>
<p>‘Nay, nay,’ said Gotthold, earnestly and eagerly,
‘this is another chapter. I am an old celibate, an
old monk. I cannot advise you in your marriage.’</p>
<p>‘Nor do I require advice,’ said Otto,
rising. ‘All of this must cease.’ And he
began to walk to and fro with his hands behind his back.</p>
<p>‘Well, Otto, may God guide you!’ said Gotthold,
after a considerable silence. ‘I cannot.’</p>
<p>‘From what does all this spring?’ said the Prince,
stopping in his walk. ‘What am I to call it?
Diffidence? The fear of ridicule? Inverted
vanity? What matter names, if it has brought me to
this? I could never bear to be bustling about nothing; I
was ashamed of this toy kingdom from the first; I could not
tolerate that people should fancy I believed in a thing so
patently absurd! I would do nothing that cannot be done
smiling. I have a sense of humour, forsooth! I must
know better than my Maker. And it was the same thing in my
marriage,’ he added more hoarsely. ‘I did not
believe this girl could care for me; I must not intrude; I must
preserve the foppery of my indifference. What an impotent
picture!’</p>
<p>‘Ay, we have the same blood,’ moralised
Gotthold. ‘You are drawing, with fine strokes, the
character of the born sceptic.’</p>
<p>‘Sceptic?—coward!’ cried Otto.
‘Coward is the word. A springless, putty-hearted,
cowering coward!’</p>
<p>And as the Prince rapped out the words in tones of unusual
vigour, a little, stout, old gentleman, opening a door behind
Gotthold, received them fairly in the face. With his
parrot’s beak for a nose, his pursed mouth, his little
goggling eyes, he was the picture of formality; and in ordinary
circumstances, strutting behind the drum of his corporation, he
impressed the beholder with a certain air of frozen dignity and
wisdom. But at the smallest contrariety, his trembling
hands and disconnected gestures betrayed the weakness at the
root. And now, when he was thus surprisingly received in
that library of Mittwalden Palace, which was the customary haunt
of silence, his hands went up into the air as if he had been
shot, and he cried aloud with the scream of an old woman.</p>
<p>‘O!’ he gasped, recovering, ‘Your
Highness! I beg ten thousand pardons. But your
Highness at such an hour in the library!—a circumstance so
unusual as your Highness’s presence was a thing I could not
be expected to foresee.’</p>
<p>‘There is no harm done, Herr Cancellarius,’ said
Otto.</p>
<p>‘I came upon the errand of a moment: some papers I left
over-night with the Herr Doctor,’ said the Chancellor of
Grünewald. ‘Herr Doctor, if you will kindly give
me them, I will intrude no longer.’</p>
<p>Gotthold unlocked a drawer and handed a bundle of manuscript
to the old gentleman, who prepared, with fitting salutations, to
take his departure.</p>
<p>‘Herr Greisengesang, since we have met,’ said
Otto, ‘let us talk.’</p>
<p>‘I am honoured by his Highness’s commands,’
replied the Chancellor.</p>
<p>‘All has been quiet since I left?’ asked the
Prince, resuming his seat.</p>
<p>‘The usual business, your Highness,’ answered
Greisengesang; ‘punctual trifles: huge, indeed, if
neglected, but trifles when discharged. Your Highness is
most zealously obeyed.’</p>
<p>‘Obeyed, Herr Cancellarius?’ returned the
Prince. ‘And when have I obliged you with an
order? Replaced, let us rather say. But to touch upon
these trifles; instance me a few.’</p>
<p>‘The routine of government, from which your Highness has
so wisely dissociated his leisure . . . ’ began
Greisengesang.</p>
<p>‘We will leave my leisure, sir,’ said Otto.
‘Approach the facts.’</p>
<p>‘The routine of business was proceeded with,’
replied the official, now visibly twittering.</p>
<p>‘It is very strange, Herr Cancellarius, that you should
so persistently avoid my questions,’ said the Prince.
‘You tempt me to suppose a purpose in your dulness. I
have asked you whether all was quiet; do me the pleasure to
reply.’</p>
<p>‘Perfectly—O, perfectly quiet,’ jerked the
ancient puppet, with every signal of untruth.</p>
<p>‘I make a note of these words,’ said the Prince
gravely. ‘You assure me, your sovereign, that since
the date of my departure nothing has occurred of which you owe me
an account.’</p>
<p>‘I take your Highness, I take the Herr Doctor to
witness,’ cried Greisengesang, ‘that I have had no
such expression.’</p>
<p>‘Halt!’ said the Prince; and then, after a pause:
‘Herr Greisengesang, you are an old man, and you served my
father before you served me,’ he added. ‘It
consists neither with your dignity nor mine that you should
babble excuses and stumble possibly upon untruths. Collect
your thoughts; and then categorically inform me of all you have
been charged to hide.’</p>
<p>Gotthold, stooping very low over his desk, appeared to have
resumed his labours; but his shoulders heaved with subterranean
merriment. The Prince waited, drawing his handkerchief
quietly through his fingers.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness, in this informal manner,’ said the
old gentleman at last, ‘and being unavoidably deprived of
documents, it would be difficult, it would be impossible, to do
justice to the somewhat grave occurrences which have
transpired.’</p>
<p>‘I will not criticise your attitude,’ replied the
Prince. ‘I desire that, between you and me, all
should be done gently; for I have not forgotten, my old friend,
that you were kind to me from the first, and for a period of
years a faithful servant. I will thus dismiss the matters
on which you waive immediate inquiry. But you have certain
papers actually in your hand. Come, Herr Greisengesang,
there is at least one point for which you have authority.
Enlighten me on that.’</p>
<p>‘On that?’ cried the old gentleman.
‘O, that is a trifle; a matter, your Highness, of police; a
detail of a purely administrative order. These are simply a
selection of the papers seized upon the English
traveller.’</p>
<p>‘Seized?’ echoed Otto. ‘In what
sense? Explain yourself.’</p>
<p>‘Sir John Crabtree,’ interposed Gotthold, looking
up, ‘was arrested yesterday evening.’</p>
<p>‘It this so, Herr Cancellarius?’ demanded Otto
sternly.</p>
<p>‘It was judged right, your Highness,’ protested
Greisengesang. ‘The decree was in due form, invested
with your Highness’s authority by procuration. I am
but an agent; I had no status to prevent the measure.’</p>
<p>‘This man, my guest, has been arrested,’ said the
Prince. ‘On what grounds, sir? With what colour
of pretence?’</p>
<p>The Chancellor stammered.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness will perhaps find the reason in these
documents,’ said Gotthold, pointing with the tail of his
pen.</p>
<p>Otto thanked his cousin with a look. ‘Give them to
me,’ he said, addressing the Chancellor.</p>
<p>But that gentleman visibly hesitated to obey.
‘Baron von Gondremark,’ he said, ‘has made the
affair his own. I am in this case a mere messenger; and as
such, I am not clothed with any capacity to communicate the
documents I carry. Herr Doctor, I am convinced you will not
fail to bear me out.’</p>
<p>‘I have heard a great deal of nonsense,’ said
Gotthold, ‘and most of it from you; but this beats
all.’</p>
<p>‘Come, sir,’ said Otto, rising, ‘the
papers. I command.’</p>
<p>Herr Greisengesang instantly gave way.</p>
<p>‘With your Highness’s permission,’ he said,
‘and laying at his feet my most submiss apologies, I will
now hasten to attend his further orders in the
Chancery.’</p>
<p>‘Herr Cancellarius, do you see this chair?’ said
Otto. ‘There is where you shall attend my further
orders. O, now, no more!’ he cried, with a gesture,
as the old man opened his lips. ‘You have
sufficiently marked your zeal to your employer; and I begin to
weary of a moderation you abuse.’</p>
<p>The Chancellor moved to the appointed chair and took his seat
in silence.</p>
<p>‘And now,’ said Otto, opening the roll,
‘what is all this? it looks like the manuscript of a
book.’</p>
<p>‘It is,’ said Gotthold, ‘the manuscript of a
book of travels.’</p>
<p>‘You have read it, Doctor Hohenstockwitz?’ asked
the Prince.</p>
<p>‘Nay, I but saw the title-page,’ replied
Gotthold. ‘But the roll was given to me open, and I
heard no word of any secrecy.’</p>
<p>Otto dealt the Chancellor an angry glance.</p>
<p>‘I see,’ he went on. ‘The papers of an
author seized at this date of the world’s history, in a
state so petty and so ignorant as Grünewald, here is indeed
an ignominious folly. Sir,’ to the Chancellor,
‘I marvel to find you in so scurvy an employment. On
your conduct to your Prince I will not dwell; but to descend to
be a spy! For what else can it be called? To seize
the papers of this gentleman, the private papers of a stranger,
the toil of a life, perhaps—to open, and to read
them. And what have we to do with books? The Herr
Doctor might perhaps be asked for his advice; but we have no
<i>index expurgatorius</i> in Grünewald. Had we but
that, we should be the most absolute parody and farce upon this
tawdry earth.’</p>
<p>Yet, even while Otto spoke, he had continued to unfold the
roll; and now, when it lay fully open, his eye rested on the
title-page elaborately written in red ink. It ran thus:</p>
<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">MEMOIRS<br />
OF A VISIT TO THE VARIOUS<br />
COURTS OF EUROPE,<br />
BY<br />
SIR JOHN CRABTREE, BARONET.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Below was a list of chapters, each bearing the name of one of
the European Courts; and among these the nineteenth and the last
upon the list was dedicated to Grünewald.</p>
<p>‘Ah! The Court of Grünewald!’ said
Otto, ‘that should be droll reading.’ And his
curiosity itched for it.</p>
<p>‘A methodical dog, this English Baronet,’ said
Gotthold. ‘Each chapter written and finished on the
spot. I shall look for his work when it appears.’</p>
<p>‘It would be odd, now, just to glance at it,’ said
Otto, wavering.</p>
<p>Gotthold’s brow darkened, and he looked out of
window.</p>
<p>But though the Prince understood the reproof, his weakness
prevailed. ‘I will,’ he said, with an uneasy
laugh, ‘I will, I think, just glance at it.’</p>
<p>So saying, he resumed his seat and spread the
traveller’s manuscript upon the table.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER II—‘ON THE COURT OF
GRÜNEWALD,’ BEING A PORTION OF THE TRAVELLER’S
MANUSCRIPT</h3>
<p>It may well be asked (<i>it was thus the English traveller
began his nineteenth chapter</i>) why I should have chosen
Grünewald out of so many other states equally petty, formal,
dull, and corrupt. Accident, indeed, decided, and not I;
but I have seen no reason to regret my visit. The spectacle
of this small society macerating in its own abuses was not
perhaps instructive, but I have found it exceedingly
diverting.</p>
<p>The reigning Prince, Otto Johann Friedrich, a young man of
imperfect education, questionable valour, and no scintilla of
capacity, has fallen into entire public contempt. It was
with difficulty that I obtained an interview, for he is
frequently absent from a court where his presence is unheeded,
and where his only rôle is to be a cloak for the amours of
his wife. At last, however, on the third occasion when I
visited the palace, I found this sovereign in the exercise of his
inglorious function, with the wife on one hand, and the lover on
the other. He is not ill-looking; he has hair of a ruddy
gold, which naturally curls, and his eyes are dark, a combination
which I always regard as the mark of some congenital deficiency,
physical or moral; his features are irregular, but pleasing; the
nose perhaps a little short, and the mouth a little womanish; his
address is excellent, and he can express himself with
point. But to pierce below these externals is to come on a
vacuity of any sterling quality, a deliquescence of the moral
nature, a frivolity and inconsequence of purpose that mark the
nearly perfect fruit of a decadent age. He has a worthless
smattering of many subjects, but a grasp of none. ‘I
soon weary of a pursuit,’ he said to me, laughing; it would
almost appear as if he took a pride in his incapacity and lack of
moral courage. The results of his dilettanteism are to be
seen in every field; he is a bad fencer, a second-rate horseman,
dancer, shot; he sings—I have heard him—and he sings
like a child; he writes intolerable verses in more than doubtful
French; he acts like the common amateur; and in short there is no
end to the number of the things that he does, and does
badly. His one manly taste is for the chase. In sum,
he is but a plexus of weaknesses; the singing chambermaid of the
stage, tricked out in man’s apparel, and mounted on a
circus horse. I have seen this poor phantom of a prince
riding out alone or with a few huntsmen, disregarded by all, and
I have been even grieved for the bearer of so futile and
melancholy an existence. The last Merovingians may have
looked not otherwise.</p>
<p>The Princess Amalia Seraphina, a daughter of the Grand-Ducal
house of Toggenburg-Tannhäuser, would be equally
inconsiderable if she were not a cutting instrument in the hands
of an ambitious man. She is much younger than the Prince, a
girl of two-and-twenty, sick with vanity, superficially clever,
and fundamentally a fool. She has a red-brown rolling eye,
too large for her face, and with sparks of both levity and
ferocity; her forehead is high and narrow, her figure thin and a
little stooping. Her manners, her conversation, which she
interlards with French, her very tastes and ambitions, are alike
assumed; and the assumption is ungracefully apparent: Hoyden
playing Cleopatra. I should judge her to be incapable of
truth. In private life a girl of this description embroils
the peace of families, walks attended by a troop of scowling
swains, and passes, once at least, through the divorce court; it
is a common and, except to the cynic, an uninteresting
type. On the throne, however, and in the hands of a man
like Gondremark, she may become the authoress of serious public
evils.</p>
<p>Gondremark, the true ruler of this unfortunate country, is a
more complex study. His position in Grünewald, to
which he is a foreigner, is eminently false; and that he should
maintain it as he does, a very miracle of impudence and
dexterity. His speech, his face, his policy, are all
double: heads and tails. Which of the two extremes may be
his actual design he were a bold man who should offer to
decide. Yet I will hazard the guess that he follows both
experimentally, and awaits, at the hand of destiny, one of those
directing hints of which she is so lavish to the wise.</p>
<p>On the one hand, as <i>Maire du Palais</i> to the incompetent
Otto, and using the love-sick Princess for a tool and mouthpiece,
he pursues a policy of arbitrary power and territorial
aggrandisement. He has called out the whole capable male
population of the state to military service; he has bought
cannon; he has tempted away promising officers from foreign
armies; and he now begins, in his international relations, to
assume the swaggering port and the vague, threatful language of a
bully. The idea of extending Grünewald may appear
absurd, but the little state is advantageously placed, its
neighbours are all defenceless; and if at any moment the
jealousies of the greater courts should neutralise each other, an
active policy might double the principality both in population
and extent. Certainly at least the scheme is entertained in
the court of Mittwalden; nor do I myself regard it as entirely
desperate. The margravate of Brandenburg has grown from as
small beginnings to a formidable power; and though it is late in
the day to try adventurous policies, and the age of war seems
ended, Fortune, we must not forget, still blindly turns her wheel
for men and nations. Concurrently with, and tributary to,
these warlike preparations, crushing taxes have been levied,
journals have been suppressed, and the country, which three years
ago was prosperous and happy, now stagnates in a forced inaction,
gold has become a curiosity, and the mills stand idle on the
mountain streams.</p>
<p>On the other hand, in his second capacity of popular tribune,
Gondremark is the incarnation of the free lodges, and sits at the
centre of an organised conspiracy against the state. To any
such movement my sympathies were early acquired, and I would not
willingly let fall a word that might embarrass or retard the
revolution. But to show that I speak of knowledge, and not
as the reporter of mere gossip, I may mention that I have myself
been present at a meeting where the details of a republican
Constitution were minutely debated and arranged; and I may add
that Gondremark was throughout referred to by the speakers as
their captain in action and the arbiter of their disputes.
He has taught his dupes (for so I must regard them) that his
power of resistance to the Princess is limited, and at each fresh
stretch of authority persuades them, with specious reasons, to
postpone the hour of insurrection. Thus (to give some
instances of his astute diplomacy) he salved over the decree
enforcing military service, under the plea that to be well
drilled and exercised in arms was even a necessary preparation
for revolt. And the other day, when it began to be rumoured
abroad that a war was being forced on a reluctant neighbour, the
Grand Duke of Gerolstein, and I made sure it would be the signal
for an instant rising, I was struck dumb with wonder to find that
even this had been prepared and was to be accepted. I went
from one to another in the Liberal camp, and all were in the same
story, all had been drilled and schooled and fitted out with
vacuous argument. ‘The lads had better see some real
fighting,’ they said; ‘and besides, it will be as
well to capture Gerolstein: we can then extend to our neighbours
the blessing of liberty on the same day that we snatch it for
ourselves; and the republic will be all the stronger to resist,
if the kings of Europe should band themselves together to reduce
it.’ I know not which of the two I should admire the
more: the simplicity of the multitude or the audacity of the
adventurer. But such are the subtleties, such the quibbling
reasons, with which he blinds and leads this people. How
long a course so tortuous can be pursued with safety I am
incapable of guessing; not long, one would suppose; and yet this
singular man has been treading the mazes for five years, and his
favour at court and his popularity among the lodges still endure
unbroken.</p>
<p>I have the privilege of slightly knowing him. Heavily
and somewhat clumsily built, of a vast, disjointed, rambling
frame, he can still pull himself together, and figure, not
without admiration, in the saloon or the ball-room. His hue
and temperament are plentifully bilious; he has a saturnine eye;
his cheek is of a dark blue where he has been shaven.
Essentially he is to be numbered among the man-haters, a
convinced contemner of his fellows. Yet he is himself of a
commonplace ambition and greedy of applause. In talk, he is
remarkable for a thirst of information, loving rather to hear
than to communicate; for sound and studious views; and, judging
by the extreme short-sightedness of common politicians, for a
remarkable provision of events. All this, however, without
grace, pleasantry, or charm, heavily set forth, with a dull
countenance. In our numerous conversations, although he has
always heard me with deference, I have been conscious throughout
of a sort of ponderous finessing hard to tolerate. He
produces none of the effect of a gentleman; devoid not merely of
pleasantry, but of all attention or communicative warmth of
bearing. No gentleman, besides, would so parade his amours
with the Princess; still less repay the Prince for his
long-suffering with a studied insolence of demeanour and the
fabrication of insulting nicknames, such as Prince Featherhead,
which run from ear to ear and create a laugh throughout the
country. Gondremark has thus some of the clumsier
characters of the self-made man, combined with an inordinate,
almost a besotted, pride of intellect and birth. Heavy,
bilious, selfish, inornate, he sits upon this court and country
like an incubus.</p>
<p>But it is probable that he preserves softer gifts for
necessary purposes. Indeed, it is certain, although he
vouchsafed none of it to me, that this cold and stolid politician
possesses to a great degree the art of ingratiation, and can be
all things to all men. Hence there has probably sprung up
the idle legend that in private life he is a gross romping
voluptuary. Nothing, at least, can well be more surprising
than the terms of his connection with the Princess. Older
than her husband, certainly uglier, and, according to the feeble
ideas common among women, in every particular less pleasing, he
has not only seized the complete command of all her thought and
action, but has imposed on her in public a humiliating
part. I do not here refer to the complete sacrifice of
every rag of her reputation; for to many women these extremities
are in themselves attractive. But there is about the court
a certain lady of a dishevelled reputation, a Countess von Rosen,
wife or widow of a cloudy count, no longer in her second youth,
and already bereft of some of her attractions, who unequivocally
occupies the station of the Baron’s mistress. I had
thought, at first, that she was but a hired accomplice, a mere
blind or buffer for the more important sinner. A few
hours’ acquaintance with Madame von Rosen for ever
dispelled the illusion. She is one rather to make than to
prevent a scandal, and she values none of those
bribes—money, honours, or employment—with which the
situation might be gilded. Indeed, as a person frankly bad,
she pleased me, in the court of Grünewald, like a piece of
nature.</p>
<p>The power of this man over the Princess is, therefore, without
bounds. She has sacrificed to the adoration with which he
has inspired her not only her marriage vow and every shred of
public decency, but that vice of jealousy which is so much dearer
to the female sex than either intrinsic honour or outward
consideration. Nay, more: a young, although not a very
attractive woman, and a princess both by birth and fact, she
submits to the triumphant rivalry of one who might be her mother
as to years, and who is so manifestly her inferior in
station. This is one of the mysteries of the human
heart. But the rage of illicit love, when it is once
indulged, appears to grow by feeding; and to a person of the
character and temperament of this unfortunate young lady, almost
any depth of degradation is within the reach of possibility.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER III—THE PRINCE AND THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER</h3>
<p>So far Otto read, with waxing indignation; and here his fury
overflowed. He tossed the roll upon the table and stood
up. ‘This man,’ he said, ‘is a
devil. A filthy imagination, an ear greedy of evil, a
ponderous malignity of thought and language: I grow like him by
the reading! Chancellor, where is this fellow
lodged?’</p>
<p>‘He was committed to the Flag Tower,’ replied
Greisengesang, ‘in the Gamiani apartment.’</p>
<p>‘Lead me to him,’ said the Prince; and then, a
thought striking him, ‘Was it for that,’ he asked,
‘that I found so many sentries in the garden?’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness, I am unaware,’ answered
Greisengesang, true to his policy. ‘The disposition
of the guards is a matter distinct from my functions.’</p>
<p>Otto turned upon the old man fiercely, but ere he had time to
speak, Gotthold touched him on the arm. He swallowed his
wrath with a great effort. ‘It is well,’ he
said, taking the roll. ‘Follow me to the Flag
Tower.’</p>
<p>The Chancellor gathered himself together, and the two set
forward. It was a long and complicated voyage; for the
library was in the wing of the new buildings, and the tower which
carried the flag was in the old schloss upon the garden. By
a great variety of stairs and corridors, they came out at last
upon a patch of gravelled court; the garden peeped through a high
grating with a flash of green; tall, old gabled buildings mounted
on every side; the Flag Tower climbed, stage after stage, into
the blue; and high over all, among the building daws, the yellow
flag wavered in the wind. A sentinel at the foot of the
tower stairs presented arms; another paced the first landing; and
a third was stationed before the door of the extemporised
prison.</p>
<p>‘We guard this mud-bag like a jewel,’ Otto
sneered.</p>
<p>The Gamiani apartment was so called from an Italian doctor who
had imposed on the credulity of a former prince. The rooms
were large, airy, pleasant, and looked upon the garden; but the
walls were of great thickness (for the tower was old), and the
windows were heavily barred. The Prince, followed by the
Chancellor, still trotting to keep up with him, brushed swiftly
through the little library and the long saloon, and burst like a
thunderbolt into the bedroom at the farther end. Sir John
was finishing his toilet; a man of fifty, hard, uncompromising,
able, with the eye and teeth of physical courage. He was
unmoved by the irruption, and bowed with a sort of sneering
ease.</p>
<p>‘To what am I to attribute the honour of this
visit?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘You have eaten my bread,’ replied Otto,
‘you have taken my hand, you have been received under my
roof. When did I fail you in courtesy? What have you
asked that was not granted as to an honoured guest? And
here, sir,’ tapping fiercely on the manuscript, ‘here
is your return.’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness has read my papers?’ said the
Baronet. ‘I am honoured indeed. But the sketch
is most imperfect. I shall now have much to add. I
can say that the Prince, whom I had accused of idleness, is
zealous in the department of police, taking upon himself those
duties that are most distasteful. I shall be able to relate
the burlesque incident of my arrest, and the singular interview
with which you honour me at present. For the rest, I have
already communicated with my Ambassador at Vienna; and unless you
propose to murder me, I shall be at liberty, whether you please
or not, within the week. For I hardly fancy the future
empire of Grünewald is yet ripe to go to war with
England. I conceive I am a little more than quits. I
owe you no explanation; yours has been the wrong. You, if
you have studied my writing with intelligence, owe me a large
debt of gratitude. And to conclude, as I have not yet
finished my toilet, I imagine the courtesy of a turnkey to a
prisoner would induce you to withdraw.’</p>
<p>There was some paper on the table, and Otto, sitting down,
wrote a passport in the name of Sir John Crabtree.</p>
<p>‘Affix the seal, Herr Cancellarius,’ he said, in
his most princely manner, as he rose.</p>
<p>Greisengesang produced a red portfolio, and affixed the seal
in the unpoetic guise of an adhesive stamp; nor did his perturbed
and clumsy movements at all lessen the comedy of the
performance. Sir John looked on with a malign enjoyment;
and Otto chafed, regretting, when too late, the unnecessary
royalty of his command and gesture. But at length the
Chancellor had finished his piece of prestidigitation, and,
without waiting for an order, had countersigned the
passport. Thus regularised, he returned it to Otto with a
bow.</p>
<p>‘You will now,’ said the Prince, ‘order one
of my own carriages to be prepared; see it, with your own eyes,
charged with Sir John’s effects, and have it waiting within
the hour behind the Pheasant House. Sir John departs this
morning for Vienna.’</p>
<p>The Chancellor took his elaborate departure.</p>
<p>‘Here, sir, is your passport,’ said Otto, turning
to the Baronet. ‘I regret it from my heart that you
have met inhospitable usage.’</p>
<p>‘Well, there will be no English war,’ returned Sir
John.</p>
<p>‘Nay, sir,’ said Otto, ‘you surely owe me
your civility. Matters are now changed, and we stand again
upon the footing of two gentlemen. It was not I who ordered
your arrest; I returned late last night from hunting; and as you
cannot blame me for your imprisonment, you may even thank me for
your freedom.’</p>
<p>‘And yet you read my papers,’ said the traveller
shrewdly.</p>
<p>‘There, sir, I was wrong,’ returned Otto;
‘and for that I ask your pardon. You can scarce
refuse it, for your own dignity, to one who is a plexus of
weaknesses. Nor was the fault entirely mine. Had the
papers been innocent, it would have been at most an
indiscretion. Your own guilt is the sting of my
offence.’</p>
<p>Sir John regarded Otto with an approving twinkle; then he
bowed, but still in silence.</p>
<p>‘Well, sir, as you are now at your entire disposal, I
have a favour to beg of your indulgence,’ continued the
Prince. ‘I have to request that you will walk with me
alone into the garden so soon as your convenience
permits.’</p>
<p>‘From the moment that I am a free man,’ Sir John
replied, this time with perfect courtesy, ‘I am wholly at
your Highness’s command; and if you will excuse a rather
summary toilet, I will even follow you, as I am.’</p>
<p>‘I thank you, sir,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>So without more delay, the Prince leading, the pair proceeded
down through the echoing stairway of the tower, and out through
the grating, into the ample air and sunshine of the morning, and
among the terraces and flower-beds of the garden. They
crossed the fish-pond, where the carp were leaping as thick as
bees; they mounted, one after another, the various flights of
stairs, snowed upon, as they went, with April blossoms, and
marching in time to the great orchestra of birds. Nor did
Otto pause till they had reached the highest terrace of the
garden. Here was a gate into the park, and hard by, under a
tuft of laurel, a marble garden seat. Hence they looked
down on the green tops of many elm-trees, where the rooks were
busy; and, beyond that, upon the palace roof, and the yellow
banner flying in the blue. I pray you to be seated,
sir,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>Sir John complied without a word; and for some seconds Otto
walked to and fro before him, plunged in angry thought. The
birds were all singing for a wager.</p>
<p>‘Sir,’ said the Prince at length, turning towards
the Englishman, ‘you are to me, except by the conventions
of society, a perfect stranger. Of your character and
wishes I am ignorant. I have never wittingly disobliged
you. There is a difference in station, which I desire to
waive. I would, if you still think me entitled to so much
consideration—I would be regarded simply as a
gentleman. Now, sir, I did wrong to glance at these papers,
which I here return to you; but if curiosity be undignified, as I
am free to own, falsehood is both cowardly and cruel. I
opened your roll; and what did I find—what did I find about
my wife; Lies!’ he broke out. ‘They are
lies! There are not, so help me God! four words of truth in
your intolerable libel! You are a man; you are old, and
might be the girl’s father; you are a gentleman; you are a
scholar, and have learned refinement; and you rake together all
this vulgar scandal, and propose to print it in a public
book! Such is your chivalry! But, thank God, sir, she
has still a husband. You say, sir, in that paper in your
hand, that I am a bad fencer; I have to request from you a lesson
in the art. The park is close behind; yonder is the
Pheasant House, where you will find your carriage; should I fall,
you know, sir—you have written it in your paper—how
little my movements are regarded; I am in the custom of
disappearing; it will be one more disappearance; and long before
it has awakened a remark, you may be safe across the
border.’</p>
<p>‘You will observe,’ said Sir John, ‘that
what you ask is impossible.’</p>
<p>‘And if I struck you?’ cried the Prince, with a
sudden menacing flash.</p>
<p>‘It would be a cowardly blow,’ returned the
Baronet, unmoved, ‘for it would make no change. I
cannot draw upon a reigning sovereign.’</p>
<p>‘And it is this man, to whom you dare not offer
satisfaction, that you choose to insult!’ cried Otto.</p>
<p>‘Pardon me,’ said the traveller, ‘you are
unjust. It is because you are a reigning sovereign that I
cannot fight with you; and it is for the same reason that I have
a right to criticise your action and your wife. You are in
everything a public creature; you belong to the public, body and
bone. You have with you the law, the muskets of the army,
and the eyes of spies. We, on our side, have but one
weapon—truth.’</p>
<p>‘Truth!’ echoed the Prince, with a gesture.</p>
<p>There was another silence.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness,’ said Sir John at last, ‘you
must not expect grapes from a thistle. I am old and a
cynic. Nobody cares a rush for me; and on the whole, after
the present interview, I scarce know anybody that I like better
than yourself. You see, I have changed my mind, and have
the uncommon virtue to avow the change. I tear up this
stuff before you, here in your own garden; I ask your pardon, I
ask the pardon of the Princess; and I give you my word of honour
as a gentleman and an old man, that when my book of travels shall
appear it shall not contain so much as the name of
Grünewald. And yet it was a racy chapter! But
had your Highness only read about the other courts! I am a
carrion crow; but it is not my fault, after all, that the world
is such a nauseous kennel.’</p>
<p>‘Sir,’ said Otto, ‘is the eye not
jaundiced?’</p>
<p>‘Nay,’ cried the traveller, ‘very
likely. I am one who goes sniffing; I am no poet. I
believe in a better future for the world; or, at all accounts, I
do most potently disbelieve in the present. Rotten eggs is
the burthen of my song. But indeed, your Highness, when I
meet with any merit, I do not think that I am slow to recognise
it. This is a day that I shall still recall with gratitude,
for I have found a sovereign with some manly virtues; and for
once—old courtier and old radical as I am—it is from
the heart and quite sincerely that I can request the honour of
kissing your Highness’s hand?’</p>
<p>‘Nay, sir,’ said Otto, ‘to my
heart!’</p>
<p>And the Englishman, taken at unawares, was clasped for a
moment in the Prince’s arms.</p>
<p>‘And now, sir,’ added Otto, ‘there is the
Pheasant House; close behind it you will find my carriage, which
I pray you to accept. God speed you to Vienna!’</p>
<p>‘In the impetuosity of youth,’ replied Sir John,
‘your Highness has overlooked one circumstance. I am
still fasting.’</p>
<p>‘Well, sir,’ said Otto, smiling, ‘you are
your own master; you may go or stay. But I warn you, your
friend may prove less powerful than your enemies. The
Prince, indeed, is thoroughly on your side; he has all the will
to help; but to whom do I speak?—you know better than I do,
he is not alone in Grünewald.’</p>
<p>‘There is a deal in position,’ returned the
traveller, gravely nodding. ‘Gondremark loves to
temporise; his policy is below ground, and he fears all open
courses; and now that I have seen you act with so much spirit, I
will cheerfully risk myself on your protection. Who
knows? You may be yet the better man.’</p>
<p>‘Do you indeed believe so?’ cried the
Prince. ‘You put life into my heart!’</p>
<p>‘I will give up sketching portraits,’ said the
Baronet. ‘I am a blind owl; I had misread you
strangely. And yet remember this; a sprint is one thing,
and to run all day another. For I still mistrust your
constitution; the short nose, the hair and eyes of several
complexions; no, they are diagnostic; and I must end, I see, as I
began.’</p>
<p>‘I am still a singing chambermaid?’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘Nay, your Highness, I pray you to forget what I had
written,’ said Sir John; ‘I am not like Pilate; and
the chapter is no more. Bury it, if you love me.’</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IV—WHILE THE PRINCE IS IN THE ANTE-ROOM . .
.</h3>
<p>Greatly comforted by the exploits of the morning, the Prince
turned towards the Princess’s ante-room, bent on a more
difficult enterprise. The curtains rose before him, the
usher called his name, and he entered the room with an
exaggeration of his usual mincing and airy dignity. There
were about a score of persons waiting, principally ladies; it was
one of the few societies in Grünewald where Otto knew
himself to be popular; and while a maid of honour made her exit
by a side door to announce his arrival to the Princess, he moved
round the apartment, collecting homage and bestowing compliments
with friendly grace. Had this been the sum of his duties,
he had been an admirable monarch. Lady after lady was
impartially honoured by his attention.</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ he said to one, ‘how does this
happen? I find you daily more adorable.’</p>
<p>‘And your Highness daily browner,’ replied the
lady. ‘We began equal; O, there I will be bold: we
have both beautiful complexions. But while I study mine,
your Highness tans himself.’</p>
<p>‘A perfect negro, madam; and what so fitly—being
beauty’s slave?’ said Otto.—‘Madame
Grafinski, when is our next play? I have just heard that I
am a bad actor.’</p>
<p>‘<i>O ciel</i>!’ cried Madame Grafinski.
‘Who could venture? What a bear!’</p>
<p>‘An excellent man, I can assure you,’ returned
Otto.</p>
<p>‘O, never! O, is it possible!’ fluted the
lady. ‘Your Highness plays like an angel.’</p>
<p>‘You must be right, madam; who could speak falsely and
yet look so charming?’ said the Prince. ‘But
this gentleman, it seems, would have preferred me playing like an
actor.’</p>
<p>A sort of hum, a falsetto, feminine cooing, greeted the tiny
sally; and Otto expanded like a peacock. This warm
atmosphere of women and flattery and idle chatter pleased him to
the marrow.</p>
<p>‘Madame von Eisenthal, your coiffure is
delicious,’ he remarked.</p>
<p>‘Every one was saying so,’ said one.</p>
<p>‘If I have pleased Prince Charming?’ And
Madame von Eisenthal swept him a deep curtsy with a killing
glance of adoration.</p>
<p>‘It is new?’ he asked. ‘Vienna
fashion.’</p>
<p>‘Mint new,’ replied the lady, ‘for your
Highness’s return. I felt young this morning; it was
a premonition. But why, Prince, do you ever leave
us?’</p>
<p>‘For the pleasure of the return,’ said Otto.
‘I am like a dog; I must bury my bone, and then come back
to great upon it.’</p>
<p>‘O, a bone! Fie, what a comparison! You have
brought back the manners of the wood,’ returned the
lady.</p>
<p>‘Madam, it is what the dog has dearest,’ said the
Prince. ‘But I observe Madame von Rosen.’</p>
<p>And Otto, leaving the group to which he had been piping,
stepped towards the embrasure of a window where a lady stood.</p>
<p>The Countess von Rosen had hitherto been silent, and a thought
depressed, but on the approach of Otto she began to
brighten. She was tall, slim as a nymph, and of a very airy
carriage; and her face, which was already beautiful in repose,
lightened and changed, flashed into smiles, and glowed with
lovely colour at the touch of animation. She was a good
vocalist; and, even in speech, her voice commanded a great range
of changes, the low notes rich with tenor quality, the upper
ringing, on the brink of laughter, into music. A gem of
many facets and variable hues of fire; a woman who withheld the
better portion of her beauty, and then, in a caressing second,
flashed it like a weapon full on the beholder; now merely a tall
figure and a sallow handsome face, with the evidences of a
reckless temper; anon opening like a flower to life and colour,
mirth and tenderness:—Madame von Rosen had always a dagger
in reserve for the despatch of ill-assured admirers. She
met Otto with the dart of tender gaiety.</p>
<p>‘You have come to me at last, Prince Cruel,’ she
said. ‘Butterfly! Well, and am I not to kiss
your hand?’ she added.</p>
<p>‘Madam, it is I who must kiss yours.’ And
Otto bowed and kissed it.</p>
<p>‘You deny me every indulgence,’ she said,
smiling.</p>
<p>‘And now what news in Court?’ inquired the
Prince. ‘I come to you for my gazette.’</p>
<p>‘Ditch-water!’ she replied. ‘The world
is all asleep, grown grey in slumber; I do not remember any
waking movement since quite an eternity; and the last thing in
the nature of a sensation was the last time my governess was
allowed to box my ears. But yet I do myself and your
unfortunate enchanted palace some injustice. Here is the
last—O positively!’ And she told him the story
from behind her fan, with many glances, many cunning strokes of
the narrator’s art. The others had drawn away, for it
was understood that Madame von Rosen was in favour with the
Prince. None the less, however, did the Countess lower her
voice at times to within a semitone of whispering; and the pair
leaned together over the narrative.</p>
<p>‘Do you know,’ said Otto, laughing, ‘you are
the only entertaining woman on this earth!’</p>
<p>‘O, you have found out so much,’ she cried.</p>
<p>‘Yes, madam, I grow wiser with advancing years,’
he returned.</p>
<p>‘Years,’ she repeated. ‘Do you name
the traitors? I do not believe in years; the calendar is a
delusion.’</p>
<p>‘You must be right, madam,’ replied the
Prince. ‘For six years that we have been good
friends, I have observed you to grow younger.’</p>
<p>‘Flatterer!’ cried she, and then with a change,
‘But why should I say so,’ she added, ‘when I
protest I think the same? A week ago I had a council with
my father director, the glass; and the glass replied, “Not
yet!” I confess my face in this way once a
month. O! a very solemn moment. Do you know what I
shall do when the mirror answers, “Now”?’</p>
<p>‘I cannot guess,’ said he.</p>
<p>‘No more can I,’ returned the Countess.
‘There is such a choice! Suicide, gambling, a
nunnery, a volume of memoirs, or politics—the last, I am
afraid.’</p>
<p>‘It is a dull trade,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘Nay,’ she replied, ‘it is a trade I rather
like. It is, after all, first cousin to gossip, which no
one can deny to be amusing. For instance, if I were to tell
you that the Princess and the Baron rode out together daily to
inspect the cannon, it is either a piece of politics or scandal,
as I turn my phrase. I am the alchemist that makes the
transmutation. They have been everywhere together since you
left,’ she continued, brightening as she saw Otto darken;
‘that is a poor snippet of malicious gossip—and they
were everywhere cheered—and with that addition all becomes
political intelligence.’</p>
<p>‘Let us change the subject,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘I was about to propose it,’ she replied,
‘or rather to pursue the politics. Do you know? this
war is popular—popular to the length of cheering Princess
Seraphina.’</p>
<p>‘All things, madam, are possible,’ said the
Prince; and this among others, that we may be going into war, but
I give you my word of honour I do not know with whom.’</p>
<p>‘And you put up with it?’ she cried.
‘I have no pretensions to morality; and I confess I have
always abominated the lamb, and nourished a romantic feeling for
the wolf. O, be done with lambiness! Let us see there
is a prince, for I am weary of the distaff.’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ said Otto, ‘I thought you were of
that faction.’</p>
<p>‘I should be of yours, <i>mon Prince</i>, if you had
one,’ she retorted. ‘Is it true that you have
no ambition? There was a man once in England whom they call
the kingmaker. Do you know,’ she added, ‘I
fancy I could make a prince?’</p>
<p>‘Some day, madam,’ said Otto, ‘I may ask you
to help make a farmer.’</p>
<p>‘Is that a riddle?’ asked the Countess.</p>
<p>‘It is,’ replied the Prince, ‘and a very
good one too.’</p>
<p>‘Tit for tat. I will ask you another,’ she
returned. ‘Where is Gondremark?’</p>
<p>‘The Prime Minister? In the prime-ministry, no
doubt,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘Precisely,’ said the Countess; and she pointed
with her fan to the door of the Princess’s
apartments. ‘You and I, <i>mon Prince</i>, are in the
ante-room. You think me unkind,’ she added.
‘Try me and you will see. Set me a task, put me a
question; there is no enormity I am not capable of doing to
oblige you, and no secret that I am not ready to
betray.’</p>
<p>‘Nay, madam, but I respect my friend too much,’ he
answered, kissing her hand. ‘I would rather remain
ignorant of all. We fraternise like foemen soldiers at the
outposts, but let each be true to his own army.’</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ she cried, ‘if all men were generous
like you, it would be worth while to be a woman!’
Yet, judging by her looks, his generosity, if anything, had
disappointed her; she seemed to seek a remedy, and, having found
it, brightened once more. ‘And now,’ she said,
‘may I dismiss my sovereign? This is rebellion and a
<i>cas pendable</i>; but what am I to do? My bear is
jealous!’</p>
<p>‘Madam, enough!’ cried Otto.
‘Ahasuerus reaches you the sceptre; more, he will obey you
in all points. I should have been a dog to come to
whistling.’</p>
<p>And so the Prince departed, and fluttered round Grafinski and
von Eisenthal. But the Countess knew the use of her
offensive weapons, and had left a pleasant arrow in the
Prince’s heart. That Gondremark was
jealous—here was an agreeable revenge! And Madame von
Rosen, as the occasion of the jealousy, appeared to him in a new
light.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER V—. . . GONDREMARK IS IN MY LADY’S
CHAMBER</h3>
<p>The Countess von Rosen spoke the truth. The great Prime
Minister of Grünewald was already closeted with
Seraphina. The toilet was over; and the Princess,
tastefully arrayed, sat face to face with a tall mirror.
Sir John’s description was unkindly true, true in terms and
yet a libel, a misogynistic masterpiece. Her forehead was
perhaps too high, but it became her; her figure somewhat stooped,
but every detail was formed and finished like a gem; her hand,
her foot, her ear, the set of her comely head, were all dainty
and accordant; if she was not beautiful, she was vivid,
changeful, coloured, and pretty with a thousand various
prettinesses; and her eyes, if they indeed rolled too
consciously, yet rolled to purpose. They were her most
attractive feature, yet they continually bore eloquent false
witness to her thoughts; for while she herself, in the depths of
her immature, unsoftened heart, was given altogether to manlike
ambition and the desire of power, the eyes were by turns bold,
inviting, fiery, melting, and artful, like the eyes of a
rapacious siren. And artful, in a sense, she was.
Chafing that she was not a man, and could not shine by action,
she had conceived a woman’s part, of answerable domination;
she sought to subjugate for by-ends, to rain influence and be
fancy free; and, while she loved not man, loved to see man obey
her. It is a common girl’s ambition. Such was
perhaps that lady of the glove, who sent her lover to the
lions. But the snare is laid alike for male and female, and
the world most artfully contrived.</p>
<p>Near her, in a low chair, Gondremark had arranged his limbs
into a cat-like attitude, high-shouldered, stooping, and
submiss. The formidable blue jowl of the man, and the dull
bilious eye, set perhaps a higher value on his evident desire to
please. His face was marked by capacity, temper, and a kind
of bold, piratical dishonesty which it would be calumnious to
call deceit. His manners, as he smiled upon the Princess,
were over-fine, yet hardly elegant.</p>
<p>‘Possibly,’ said the Baron, ‘I should now
proceed to take my leave. I must not keep my sovereign in
the ante-room. Let us come at once to a
decision.’</p>
<p>‘It cannot, cannot be put off?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘It is impossible,’ answered Gondremark.
‘Your Highness sees it for herself. In the earlier
stages, we might imitate the serpent; but for the ultimatum,
there is no choice but to be bold like lions. Had the
Prince chosen to remain away, it had been better; but we have
gone too far forward to delay.’</p>
<p>‘What can have brought him?’ she cried.
‘To-day of all days?’</p>
<p>‘The marplot, madam, has the instinct of his
nature,’ returned Gondremark. ‘But you
exaggerate the peril. Think, madam, how far we have
prospered, and against what odds! Shall a
Featherhead?—but no!’ And he blew upon his
fingers lightly with a laugh.</p>
<p>‘Featherhead,’ she replied, ‘is still the
Prince of Grünewald.’</p>
<p>‘On your sufferance only, and so long as you shall
please to be indulgent,’ said the Baron. ‘There
are rights of nature; power to the powerful is the law. If
he shall think to cross your destiny—well, you have heard
of the brazen and the earthen pot.’</p>
<p>‘Do you call me pot? You are ungallant,
Baron,’ laughed the Princess.</p>
<p>‘Before we are done with your glory, I shall have called
you by many different titles,’ he replied.</p>
<p>The girl flushed with pleasure. ‘But
Frédéric is still the Prince, <i>monsieur le
flatteur</i>,’ she said. ‘You do not propose a
revolution?—you of all men?’</p>
<p>‘Dear madam, when it is already made!’ he
cried. ‘The Prince reigns indeed in the almanac; but
my Princess reigns and rules.’ And he looked at her
with a fond admiration that made the heart of Seraphina
swell. Looking on her huge slave, she drank the
intoxicating joys of power. Meanwhile he continued, with
that sort of massive archness that so ill became him, ‘She
has but one fault; there is but one danger in the great career
that I foresee for her. May I name it? may I be so
irreverent? It is in herself—her heart is
soft.’</p>
<p>‘Her courage is faint, Baron,’ said the
Princess. ‘Suppose we have judged ill, suppose we
were defeated?’</p>
<p>‘Defeated, madam?’ returned the Baron, with a
touch of ill-humour. ‘Is the dog defeated by the
hare? Our troops are all cantoned along the frontier; in
five hours the vanguard of five thousand bayonets shall be
hammering on the gates of Brandenau; and in all Gerolstein there
are not fifteen hundred men who can manœuvre. It is
as simple as a sum. There can be no resistance.’</p>
<p>‘It is no great exploit,’ she said.
‘Is that what you call glory? It is like beating a
child.’</p>
<p>‘The courage, madam, is diplomatic,’ he
replied. ‘We take a grave step; we fix the eyes of
Europe, for the first time, on Grünewald; and in the
negotiations of the next three months, mark me, we stand or
fall. It is there, madam, that I shall have to depend upon
your counsels,’ he added, almost gloomily. ‘If
I had not seen you at work, if I did not know the fertility of
your mind, I own I should tremble for the consequence. But
it is in this field that men must recognise their
inability. All the great negotiators, when they have not
been women, have had women at their elbows. Madame de
Pompadour was ill served; she had not found her Gondremark; but
what a mighty politician! Catherine de’ Medici, too,
what justice of sight, what readiness of means, what elasticity
against defeat! But alas! madam, her Featherheads were her
own children; and she had that one touch of vulgarity, that one
trait of the good-wife, that she suffered family ties and
affections to confine her liberty.’</p>
<p>These singular views of history, strictly <i>ad usum
Seraphinæ</i>, did not weave their usual soothing spell
over the Princess. It was plain that she had taken a
momentary distaste to her own resolutions; for she continued to
oppose her counsellor, looking upon him out of half-closed eyes
and with the shadow of a sneer upon her lips. ‘What
boys men are!’ she said; ‘what lovers of big
words! Courage, indeed! If you had to scour pans,
Herr Von Gondremark, you would call it, I suppose, Domestic
Courage?’</p>
<p>‘I would, madam,’ said the Baron stoutly,
‘if I scoured them well. I would put a good name upon
a virtue; you will not overdo it: they are not so enchanting in
themselves.’</p>
<p>‘Well, but let me see,’ she said. ‘I
wish to understand your courage. Why we asked leave, like
children! Our grannie in Berlin, our uncle in Vienna, the
whole family, have patted us on the head and sent us
forward. Courage? I wonder when I hear
you!’</p>
<p>‘My Princess is unlike herself,’ returned the
Baron. ‘She has forgotten where the peril lies.
True, we have received encouragement on every hand; but my
Princess knows too well on what untenable conditions; and she
knows besides how, in the publicity of the diet, these whispered
conferences are forgotten and disowned. The danger is very
real’—he raged inwardly at having to blow the very
coal he had been quenching—‘none the less real in
that it is not precisely military, but for that reason the easier
to be faced. Had we to count upon your troops, although I
share your Highness’s expectations of the conduct of
Alvenau, we cannot forget that he has not been proved in chief
command. But where negotiation is concerned, the conduct
lies with us; and with your help, I laugh at danger.’</p>
<p>‘It may be so,’ said Seraphina, sighing.
‘It is elsewhere that I see danger. The people, these
abominable people—suppose they should instantly
rebel? What a figure we should make in the eyes of Europe
to have undertaken an invasion while my own throne was tottering
to its fall!’</p>
<p>‘Nay, madam,’ said Gondremark, smiling,
‘here you are beneath yourself. What is it that feeds
their discontent? What but the taxes? Once we have
seized Gerolstein, the taxes are remitted, the sons return
covered with renown, the houses are adorned with pillage, each
tastes his little share of military glory, and behold us once
again a happy family! “Ay,” they will say, in
each other’s long ears, “the Princess knew what she
was about; she was in the right of it; she has a head upon her
shoulders; and here we are, you see, better off than
before.” But why should I say all this? It is
what my Princess pointed out to me herself; it was by these
reasons that she converted me to this adventure.’</p>
<p>‘I think, Herr von Gondremark,’ said Seraphina,
somewhat tartly, ‘you often attribute your own sagacity to
your Princess.’</p>
<p>For a second Gondremark staggered under the shrewdness of the
attack; the next, he had perfectly recovered. ‘Do
I?’ he said. ‘It is very possible. I have
observed a similar tendency in your Highness.’</p>
<p>It was so openly spoken, and appeared so just, that Seraphina
breathed again. Her vanity had been alarmed, and the
greatness of the relief improved her spirits.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘all this is little to the
purpose. We are keeping Frédéric without, and
I am still ignorant of our line of battle. Come,
co-admiral, let us consult. . . . How am I to receive him
now? And what are we to do if he should appear at the
council?’</p>
<p>‘Now,’ he answered. ‘I shall leave him
to my Princess for just now! I have seen her at work.
Send him off to his theatricals! But in all
gentleness,’ he added. ‘Would it, for instance,
would it displease my sovereign to affect a headache?’</p>
<p>‘Never!’ said she. ‘The woman who can
manage, like the man who can fight, must never shrink from an
encounter. The knight must not disgrace his
weapons.’</p>
<p>‘Then let me pray my <i>belle dame sans
merci</i>,’ he returned, ‘to affect the only virtue
that she lacks. Be pitiful to the poor young man; affect an
interest in his hunting; be weary of politics; find in his
society, as it were, a grateful repose from dry
considerations. Does my Princess authorise the line of
battle?’</p>
<p>‘Well, that is a trifle,’ answered
Seraphina. ‘The council—there is the
point.’</p>
<p>‘The council?’ cried Gondremark.
‘Permit me, madam.’ And he rose and proceeded
to flutter about the room, counterfeiting Otto both in voice and
gesture not unhappily. ‘What is there to-day, Herr
von Gondremark? Ah, Herr Cancellarius, a new wig! You
cannot deceive me; I know every wig in Grünewald; I have the
sovereign’s eye. What are these papers about?
O, I see. O, certainly. Surely, surely. I wager
none of you remarked that wig. By all means. I know
nothing about that. Dear me, are there as many as all
that? Well, you can sign them; you have the
procuration. You see, Herr Cancellarius, I knew your
wig. And so,’ concluded Gondremark, resuming his own
voice, ‘our sovereign, by the particular grace of God,
enlightens and supports his privy councillors.’</p>
<p>But when the Baron turned to Seraphina for approval, he found
her frozen. ‘You are pleased to be witty, Herr von
Gondremark,’ she said, ‘and have perhaps forgotten
where you are. But these rehearsals are apt to be
misleading. Your master, the Prince of Grünewald, is
sometimes more exacting.’</p>
<p>Gondremark cursed her in his soul. Of all injured
vanities, that of the reproved buffoon is the most savage; and
when grave issues are involved, these petty stabs become
unbearable. But Gondremark was a man of iron; he showed
nothing; he did not even, like the common trickster, retreat
because he had presumed, but held to his point bravely.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘if, as you say, he prove
exacting, we must take the bull by the horns.’</p>
<p>‘We shall see,’ she said, and she arranged her
skirt like one about to rise. Temper, scorn, disgust, all
the more acrid feelings, became her like jewels; and she now
looked her best.</p>
<p>‘Pray God they quarrel,’ thought Gondremark.
‘The damned minx may fail me yet, unless they
quarrel. It is time to let him in. Zz—fight,
dogs!’ Consequent on these reflections, he bent a
stiff knee and chivalrously kissed the Princess’s
hand. ‘My Princess,’ he said, ‘must now
dismiss her servant. I have much to arrange against the
hour of council.’</p>
<p>‘Go,’ she said, and rose.</p>
<p>And as Gondremark tripped out of a private door, she touched a
bell, and gave the order to admit the Prince.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE PRINCE DELIVERS A LECTURE ON MARRIAGE,
WITH PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATIONS OF DIVORCE</h3>
<p>With what a world of excellent intentions Otto entered his
wife’s cabinet! how fatherly, how tender! how morally
affecting were the words he had prepared! Nor was Seraphina
unamiably inclined. Her usual fear of Otto as a marplot in
her great designs was now swallowed up in a passing distrust of
the designs themselves. For Gondremark, besides, she had
conceived an angry horror. In her heart she did not like
the Baron. Behind his impudent servility, behind the
devotion which, with indelicate delicacy, he still forced on her
attention, she divined the grossness of his nature. So a
man may be proud of having tamed a bear, and yet sicken at his
captive’s odour. And above all, she had certain
jealous intimations that the man was false and the deception
double. True, she falsely trifled with his love; but he,
perhaps, was only trifling with her vanity. The insolence
of his late mimicry, and the odium of her own position as she sat
and watched it, lay besides like a load upon her
conscience. She met Otto almost with a sense of guilt, and
yet she welcomed him as a deliverer from ugly things.</p>
<p>But the wheels of an interview are at the mercy of a thousand
ruts; and even at Otto’s entrance, the first jolt
occurred. Gondremark, he saw, was gone; but there was the
chair drawn close for consultation; and it pained him not only
that this man had been received, but that he should depart with
such an air of secrecy. Struggling with this twinge, it was
somewhat sharply that he dismissed the attendant who had brought
him in.</p>
<p>‘You make yourself at home, <i>chez moi</i>,’ she
said, a little ruffled both by his tone of command and by the
glance he had thrown upon the chair.</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ replied Otto, ‘I am here so seldom
that I have almost the rights of a stranger.’</p>
<p>‘You choose your own associates,
Frédéric,’ she said.</p>
<p>‘I am here to speak of it,’ he returned.
‘It is now four years since we were married; and these four
years, Seraphina, have not perhaps been happy either for you or
for me. I am well aware I was unsuitable to be your
husband. I was not young, I had no ambition, I was a
trifler; and you despised me, I dare not say unjustly. But
to do justice on both sides, you must bear in mind how I have
acted. When I found it amused you to play the part of
Princess on this little stage, did I not immediately resign to
you my box of toys, this Grünewald? And when I found I
was distasteful as a husband, could any husband have been less
intrusive? You will tell me that I have no feelings, no
preference, and thus no credit; that I go before the wind; that
all this was in my character. And indeed, one thing is
true, that it is easy, too easy, to leave things undone.
But Seraphina, I begin to learn it is not always wise. If I
were too old and too uncongenial for your husband, I should still
have remembered that I was the Prince of that country to which
you came, a visitor and a child. In that relation also
there were duties, and these duties I have not
performed.’</p>
<p>To claim the advantage of superior age is to give sure
offence. ‘Duty!’ laughed Seraphina, ‘and
on your lips, Frédéric! You make me
laugh. What fancy is this? Go, flirt with the maids
and be a prince in Dresden china, as you look. Enjoy
yourself, <i>mon enfant</i>, and leave duty and the state to
us.’</p>
<p>The plural grated on the Prince. ‘I have enjoyed
myself too much,’ he said, ‘since enjoyment is the
word. And yet there were much to say upon the other
side. You must suppose me desperately fond of
hunting. But indeed there were days when I found a great
deal of interest in what it was courtesy to call my
government. And I have always had some claim to taste; I
could tell live happiness from dull routine; and between hunting,
and the throne of Austria, and your society, my choice had never
wavered, had the choice been mine. You were a girl, a bud,
when you were given me—’</p>
<p>‘Heavens!’ she cried, ‘is this to be a
love-scene?’</p>
<p>‘I am never ridiculous,’ he said; ‘it is my
only merit; and you may be certain this shall be a scene of
marriage <i>à la mode</i>. But when I remember the
beginning, it is bare courtesy to speak in sorrow. Be just,
madam: you would think me strangely uncivil to recall these days
without the decency of a regret. Be yet a little juster,
and own, if only in complaisance, that you yourself regret that
past.’</p>
<p>‘I have nothing to regret,’ said the
Princess. ‘You surprise me. I thought you were
so happy.’</p>
<p>‘Happy and happy, there are so many hundred ways,’
said Otto. ‘A man may be happy in revolt; he may be
happy in sleep; wine, change, and travel make him happy; virtue,
they say, will do the like—I have not tried; and they say
also that in old, quiet, and habitual marriages there is yet
another happiness. Happy, yes; I am happy if you like; but
I will tell you frankly, I was happier when I brought you
home.’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ said the Princess, not without constraint,
‘it seems you changed your mind.’</p>
<p>‘Not I,’ returned Otto, ‘I never
changed. Do you remember, Seraphina, on our way home, when
you saw the roses in the lane, and I got out and plucked
them? It was a narrow lane between great trees; the sunset
at the end was all gold, and the rooks were flying
overhead. There were nine, nine red roses; you gave me a
kiss for each, and I told myself that every rose and every kiss
should stand for a year of love. Well, in eighteen months
there was an end. But do you fancy, Seraphina, that my
heart has altered?’</p>
<p>‘I am sure I cannot tell,’ she said, like an
automaton.</p>
<p>‘It has not,’ the Prince continued.
‘There is nothing ridiculous, even from a husband, in a
love that owns itself unhappy and that asks no more. I
built on sand; pardon me, I do not breathe a reproach—I
built, I suppose, upon my own infirmities; but I put my heart in
the building, and it still lies among the ruins.’</p>
<p>‘How very poetical!’ she said, with a little
choking laugh, unknown relentings, unfamiliar softnesses, moving
within her. ‘What would you be at?’ she added,
hardening her voice.</p>
<p>‘I would be at this,’ he answered; ‘and hard
it is to say. I would be at this:—Seraphina, I am
your husband after all, and a poor fool that loves you.
Understand,’ he cried almost fiercely, ‘I am no
suppliant husband; what your love refuses I would scorn to
receive from your pity. I do not ask, I would not take
it. And for jealousy, what ground have I? A
dog-in-the-manger jealousy is a thing the dogs may laugh
at. But at least, in the world’s eye, I am still your
husband; and I ask you if you treat me fairly? I keep to
myself, I leave you free, I have given you in everything your
will. What do you in return? I find, Seraphina, that
you have been too thoughtless. But between persons such as
we are, in our conspicuous station, particular care and a
particular courtesy are owing. Scandal is perhaps not easy
to avoid; but it is hard to bear.’</p>
<p>‘Scandal!’ she cried, with a deep breath.
‘Scandal! It is for this you have been
driving!’</p>
<p>‘I have tried to tell you how I feel,’ he
replied. ‘I have told you that I love you—love
you in vain—a bitter thing for a husband; I have laid
myself open that I might speak without offence. And now
that I have begun, I will go on and finish.’</p>
<p>‘I demand it,’ she said. ‘What is this
about?’</p>
<p>Otto flushed crimson. ‘I have to say what I would
fain not,’ he answered. ‘I counsel you to see
less of Gondremark.’</p>
<p>‘Of Gondremark? And why?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘Your intimacy is the ground of scandal, madam,’
said Otto, firmly enough—‘of a scandal that is agony
to me, and would be crushing to your parents if they knew
it.’</p>
<p>‘You are the first to bring me word of it,’ said
she. ‘I thank you.’</p>
<p>‘You have perhaps cause,’ he replied.
‘Perhaps I am the only one among your
friends—’</p>
<p>‘O, leave my friends alone,’ she
interrupted. ‘My friends are of a different
stamp. You have come to me here and made a parade of
sentiment. When have I last seen you? I have governed
your kingdom for you in the meanwhile, and there I got no
help. At last, when I am weary with a man’s work, and
you are weary of your playthings, you return to make me a scene
of conjugal reproaches—the grocer and his wife! The
positions are too much reversed; and you should understand, at
least, that I cannot at the same time do your work of government
and behave myself like a little girl. Scandal is the
atmosphere in which we live, we princes; it is what a prince
should know. You play an odious part. Do you believe
this rumour?’</p>
<p>‘Madam, should I be here?’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘It is what I want to know!’ she cried, the
tempest of her scorn increasing. ‘Suppose you
did—I say, suppose you did believe it?’</p>
<p>‘I should make it my business to suppose the
contrary,’ he answered.</p>
<p>‘I thought so. O, you are made of baseness!’
said she.</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ he cried, roused at last, ‘enough
of this. You wilfully misunderstand my attitude; you
outwear my patience. In the name of your parents, in my own
name, I summon you to be more circumspect.’</p>
<p>‘Is this a request, <i>monsieur mon mari</i>?’ she
demanded.</p>
<p>‘Madam, if I chose, I might command,’ said
Otto.</p>
<p>‘You might, sir, as the law stands, make me
prisoner,’ returned Seraphina. ‘Short of that
you will gain nothing.’</p>
<p>‘You will continue as before?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘Precisely as before,’ said she. ‘As
soon as this comedy is over, I shall request the Freiherr von
Gondremark to visit me. Do you understand?’ she
added, rising. ‘For my part, I have done.’</p>
<p>‘I will then ask the favour of your hand, madam,’
said Otto, palpitating in every pulse with anger. ‘I
have to request that you will visit in my society another part of
my poor house. And reassure yourself—it will not take
long—and it is the last obligation that you shall have the
chance to lay me under.’</p>
<p>‘The last?’ she cried. ‘Most
joyfully?’</p>
<p>She offered her hand, and he took it; on each side with an
elaborate affectation, each inwardly incandescent. He led
her out by the private door, following where Gondremark had
passed; they threaded a corridor or two, little frequented,
looking on a court, until they came at last into the
Prince’s suite. The first room was an armoury, hung
all about with the weapons of various countries, and looking
forth on the front terrace.</p>
<p>‘Have you brought me here to slay me?’ she
inquired.</p>
<p>‘I have brought you, madam, only to pass on,’
replied Otto.</p>
<p>Next they came to a library, where an old chamberlain sat half
asleep. He rose and bowed before the princely couple,
asking for orders.</p>
<p>‘You will attend us here,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>The next stage was a gallery of pictures, where
Seraphina’s portrait hung conspicuous, dressed for the
chase, red roses in her hair, as Otto, in the first months of
marriage, had directed. He pointed to it without a word;
she raised her eyebrows in silence; and they passed still forward
into a matted corridor where four doors opened. One led to
Otto’s bedroom; one was the private door to
Seraphina’s. And here, for the first time, Otto left
her hand, and stepping forward, shot the bolt.</p>
<p>‘It is long, madam,’ said he, ‘since it was
bolted on the other side.’</p>
<p>‘One was effectual,’ returned the Princess.
‘Is this all?’</p>
<p>‘Shall I reconduct you?’ he asking, bowing.</p>
<p>‘I should prefer,’ she asked, in ringing tones,
‘the conduct of the Freiherr von Gondremark.’</p>
<p>Otto summoned the chamberlain. ‘If the Freiherr
von Gondremark is in the palace,’ he said, ‘bid him
attend the Princess here.’ And when the official had
departed, ‘Can I do more to serve you, madam?’ the
Prince asked.</p>
<p>‘Thank you, no. I have been much amused,’
she answered.</p>
<p>‘I have now,’ continued Otto, ‘given you
your liberty complete. This has been for you a miserable
marriage.’</p>
<p>‘Miserable!’ said she.</p>
<p>‘It has been made light to you; it shall be lighter
still,’ continued the Prince. ‘But one thing,
madam, you must still continue to bear—my father’s
name, which is now yours. I leave it in your hands.
Let me see you, since you will have no advice of mine, apply the
more attention of your own to bear it worthily.’</p>
<p>‘Herr von Gondremark is long in coming,’ she
remarked.</p>
<p>‘O Seraphina, Seraphina!’ he cried. And that
was the end of their interview.</p>
<p>She tripped to a window and looked out; and a little after,
the chamberlain announced the Freiherr von Gondremark, who
entered with something of a wild eye and changed complexion,
confounded, as he was, at this unusual summons. The
Princess faced round from the window with a pearly smile; nothing
but her heightened colour spoke of discomposure.</p>
<p>Otto was pale, but he was otherwise master of himself.</p>
<p>‘Herr von Gondremark,’ said he, ‘oblige me
so far: reconduct the Princess to her own apartment.’</p>
<p>The Baron, still all at sea, offered his hand, which was
smilingly accepted, and the pair sailed forth through the
picture-gallery.</p>
<p>As soon as they were gone, and Otto knew the length and
breadth of his miscarriage, and how he had done the contrary of
all that he intended, he stood stupefied. A fiasco so
complete and sweeping was laughable, even to himself; and he
laughed aloud in his wrath. Upon this mood there followed
the sharpest violence of remorse; and to that again, as he
recalled his provocation, anger succeeded afresh. So he was
tossed in spirit; now bewailing his inconsequence and lack of
temper, now flaming up in white-hot indignation and a noble pity
for himself.</p>
<p>He paced his apartment like a leopard. There was danger
in Otto, for a flash. Like a pistol, he could kill at one
moment, and the next he might he kicked aside. But just
then, as he walked the long floors in his alternate humours,
tearing his handkerchief between his hands, he was strung to his
top note, every nerve attent. The pistol, you might say,
was charged. And when jealousy from time to time fetched
him a lash across the tenderest of his feeling, and sent a string
of her fire-pictures glancing before his mind’s eye, the
contraction of his face was even dangerous. He disregarded
jealousy’s inventions, yet they stung. In this height
of anger, he still preserved his faith in Seraphina’s
innocence; but the thought of her possible misconduct was the
bitterest ingredient in his pot of sorrow.</p>
<p>There came a knock at the door, and the chamberlain brought
him a note. He took it and ground it in his hand,
continuing his march, continuing his bewildered thoughts; and
some minutes had gone by before the circumstance came clearly to
his mind. Then he paused and opened it. It was a
pencil scratch from Gotthold, thus conceived:</p>
<blockquote><p>‘The council is privately summoned at
once.</p>
<p style="text-align: right">G. v. H.’</p>
</blockquote>
<p>If the council was thus called before the hour, and that
privately, it was plain they feared his interference.
Feared: here was a sweet thought. Gotthold,
too—Gotthold, who had always used and regarded him as a
mere peasant lad, had now been at the pains to warn him; Gotthold
looked for something at his hands. Well, none should be
disappointed; the Prince, too long beshadowed by the uxorious
lover, should now return and shine. He summoned his valet,
repaired the disorder of his appearance with elaborate care; and
then, curled and scented and adorned, Prince Charming in every
line, but with a twitching nostril, he set forth unattended for
the council.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VII—THE PRINCE DISSOLVES THE COUNCIL</h3>
<p>It was as Gotthold wrote. The liberation of Sir John,
Greisengesang’s uneasy narrative, last of all, the scene
between Seraphina and the Prince, had decided the conspirators to
take a step of bold timidity. There had been a period of
bustle, liveried messengers speeding here and there with notes;
and at half-past ten in the morning, about an hour before its
usual hour, the council of Grünewald sat around the
board.</p>
<p>It was not a large body. At the instance of Gondremark,
it had undergone a strict purgation, and was now composed
exclusively of tools. Three secretaries sat at a
side-table. Seraphina took the head; on her right was the
Baron, on her left Greisengesang; below these Grafinski the
treasurer, Count Eisenthal, a couple of non-combatants, and, to
the surprise of all, Gotthold. He had been named a privy
councillor by Otto, merely that he might profit by the salary;
and as he was never known to attend a meeting, it had occurred to
nobody to cancel his appointment. His present appearance
was the more ominous, coming when it did. Gondremark
scowled upon him; and the non-combatant on his right,
intercepting this black look, edged away from one who was so
clearly out of favour.</p>
<p>‘The hour presses, your Highness,’ said the Baron;
‘may we proceed to business?’</p>
<p>‘At once,’ replied Seraphina.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness will pardon me,’ said Gotthold;
‘but you are still, perhaps, unacquainted with the fact
that Prince Otto has returned.’</p>
<p>‘The Prince will not attend the council,’ replied
Seraphina, with a momentary blush. ‘The despatches,
Herr Cancellarius? There is one for Gerolstein?’</p>
<p>A secretary brought a paper.</p>
<p>‘Here, madam,’ said Greisengesang.
‘Shall I read it?’</p>
<p>‘We are all familiar with its terms,’ replied
Gondremark. ‘Your Highness approves?’</p>
<p>‘Unhesitatingly,’ said Seraphina.</p>
<p>‘It may then be held as read,’ concluded the
Baron. ‘Will your Highness sign?’</p>
<p>The Princess did so; Gondremark, Eisenthal, and one of the
non-combatants followed suit; and the paper was then passed
across the table to the librarian. He proceeded leisurely
to read.</p>
<p>‘We have no time to spare, Herr Doctor,’ cried the
Baron brutally. ‘If you do not choose to sign on the
authority of your sovereign, pass it on. Or you may leave
the table,’ he added, his temper ripping out.</p>
<p>‘I decline your invitation, Herr von Gondremark; and my
sovereign, as I continue to observe with regret, is still absent
from the board,’ replied the Doctor calmly; and he resumed
the perusal of the paper, the rest chafing and exchanging
glances. ‘Madame and gentlemen,’ he said, at
last, ‘what I hold in my hand is simply a declaration of
war.’</p>
<p>‘Simply,’ said Seraphina, flashing defiance.</p>
<p>‘The sovereign of this country is under the same roof
with us,’ continued Gotthold, ‘and I insist he shall
be summoned. It is needless to adduce my reasons; you are
all ashamed at heart of this projected treachery.’</p>
<p>The council waved like a sea. There were various
outcries.</p>
<p>‘You insult the Princess,’ thundered
Gondremark.</p>
<p>‘I maintain my protest,’ replied Gotthold.</p>
<p>At the height of this confusion the door was thrown open; an
usher announced, ‘Gentlemen, the Prince!’ and Otto,
with his most excellent bearing, entered the apartment. It
was like oil upon the troubled waters; every one settled
instantly into his place, and Griesengesang, to give himself a
countenance, became absorbed in the arrangement of his papers;
but in their eagerness to dissemble, one and all neglected to
rise.</p>
<p>‘Gentlemen,’ said the Prince, pausing.</p>
<p>They all got to their feet in a moment; and this reproof still
further demoralised the weaker brethren.</p>
<p>The Prince moved slowly towards the lower end of the table;
then he paused again, and, fixing his eye on Greisengesang,
‘How comes it, Herr Cancellarius,’ he asked,
‘that I have received no notice of the change of
hour?’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness,’ replied the Chancellor,
‘her Highness the Princess . . . ’ and there
paused.</p>
<p>‘I understood,’ said Seraphina, taking him up,
‘that you did not purpose to be present.’</p>
<p>Their eyes met for a second, and Seraphina’s fell; but
her anger only burned the brighter for that private shame.</p>
<p>‘And now, gentlemen,’ said Otto, taking his chair,
‘I pray you to be seated. I have been absent: there
are doubtless some arrears; but ere we proceed to business, Herr
Grafinski, you will direct four thousand crowns to be sent to me
at once. Make a note, if you please,’ he added, as
the treasurer still stared in wonder.</p>
<p>‘Four thousand crowns?’ asked Seraphina.
‘Pray, for what?’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ returned Otto, smiling, ‘for my own
purposes.’</p>
<p>Gondremark spurred up Grafinski underneath the table.</p>
<p>‘If your Highness will indicate the destination . . .
’ began the puppet.</p>
<p>‘You are not here, sir, to interrogate your
Prince,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>Grafinski looked for help to his commander; and Gondremark
came to his aid, in suave and measured tones.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness may reasonably be surprised,’ he
said; ‘and Herr Grafinski, although I am convinced he is
clear of the intention of offending, would have perhaps done
better to begin with an explanation. The resources of the
state are at the present moment entirely swallowed up, or, as we
hope to prove, wisely invested. In a month from now, I do
not question we shall be able to meet any command your Highness
may lay upon us; but at this hour I fear that, even in so small a
matter, he must prepare himself for disappointment. Our
zeal is no less, although our power may be inadequate.’</p>
<p>‘How much, Herr Grafinski, have we in the
treasury?’ asked Otto.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness,’ protested the treasurer,
‘we have immediate need of every crown.’</p>
<p>‘I think, sir, you evade me,’ flashed the Prince;
and then turning to the side-table, ‘Mr. Secretary,’
he added, ‘bring me, if you please, the treasury
docket.’</p>
<p>Herr Grafinski became deadly pale; the Chancellor, expecting
his own turn, was probably engaged in prayer; Gondremark was
watching like a ponderous cat. Gotthold, on his part,
looked on with wonder at his cousin; he was certainly showing
spirit, but what, in such a time of gravity, was all this talk of
money? and why should he waste his strength upon a personal
issue?</p>
<p>‘I find,’ said Otto, with his finger on the
docket, ‘that we have 20,000 crowns in case.’</p>
<p>‘That is exact, your Highness,’ replied the
Baron. ‘But our liabilities, all of which are happily
not liquid, amount to a far larger sum; and at the present point
of time it would be morally impossible to divert a single
florin. Essentially, the case is empty. We have,
already presented, a large note for material of war.’</p>
<p>‘Material of war?’ exclaimed Otto, with an
excellent assumption of surprise. ‘But if my memory
serves me right, we settled these accounts in January.’</p>
<p>‘There have been further orders,’ the Baron
explained. ‘A new park of artillery has been
completed; five hundred stand of arms, seven hundred baggage
mules—the details are in a special memorandum.—Mr.
Secretary Holtz, the memorandum, if you please.’</p>
<p>‘One would think, gentlemen, that we were going to
war,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘We are,’ said Seraphina.</p>
<p>‘War!’ cried the Prince, ‘and, gentlemen,
with whom? The peace of Grünewald has endured for
centuries. What aggression, what insult, have we
suffered?’</p>
<p>‘Here, your Highness,’ said Gotthold, ‘is
the ultimatum. It was in the very article of signature,
when your Highness so opportunely entered.’</p>
<p>Otto laid the paper before him; as he read, his fingers played
tattoo upon the table. ‘Was it proposed,’ he
inquired, ‘to send this paper forth without a knowledge of
my pleasure?’</p>
<p>One of the non-combatants, eager to trim, volunteered an
answer. ‘The Herr Doctor von Hohenstockwitz had just
entered his dissent,’ he added.</p>
<p>‘Give me the rest of this correspondence,’ said
the Prince. It was handed to him, and he read it patiently
from end to end, while the councillors sat foolishly enough
looking before them on the table.</p>
<p>The secretaries, in the background, were exchanging glances of
delight; a row at the council was for them a rare and welcome
feature.</p>
<p>‘Gentlemen,’ said Otto, when he had finished,
‘I have read with pain. This claim upon
Obermünsterol is palpably unjust; it has not a tincture, not
a show, of justice. There is not in all this ground enough
for after-dinner talk, and you propose to force it as a <i>casus
belli</i>.’</p>
<p>‘Certainly, your Highness,’ returned Gondremark,
too wise to defend the indefensible, ‘the claim on
Obermünsterol is simply a pretext.’</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ said the Prince. ‘Herr
Cancellarius, take your pen. “The council,” he
began to dictate—‘I withhold all notice of my
intervention,’ he said, in parenthesis, and addressing
himself more directly to his wife; ‘and I say nothing of
the strange suppression by which this business has been smuggled
past my knowledge. I am content to be in
time—“The council,”’ he resumed,
‘“on a further examination of the facts, and
enlightened by the note in the last despatch from Gerolstein,
have the pleasure to announce that they are entirely at one, both
as to fact and sentiment, with the Grand-Ducal Court of
Gerolstein.” You have it? Upon these lines,
sir, you will draw up the despatch.’</p>
<p>‘If your Highness will allow me,’ said the Baron,
‘your Highness is so imperfectly acquainted with the
internal history of this correspondence, that any interference
will be merely hurtful. Such a paper as your Highness
proposes would be to stultify the whole previous policy of
Grünewald.’</p>
<p>‘The policy of Grünewald!’ cried the
Prince. ‘One would suppose you had no sense of
humour! Would you fish in a coffee cup?’</p>
<p>‘With deference, your Highness,’ returned the
Baron, ‘even in a coffee cup there may be poison. The
purpose of this war is not simply territorial enlargement; still
less is it a war of glory; for, as your Highness indicates, the
state of Grünewald is too small to be ambitious. But
the body politic is seriously diseased; republicanism, socialism,
many disintegrating ideas are abroad; circle within circle, a
really formidable organisation has grown up about your
Highness’s throne.’</p>
<p>‘I have heard of it, Herr von Gondremark,’ put in
the Prince; ‘but I have reason to be aware that yours is
the more authoritative information.’</p>
<p>‘I am honoured by this expression of my Prince’s
confidence’ returned Gondremark, unabashed. ‘It
is, therefore, with a single eye to these disorders that our
present external policy has been shaped. Something was
required to divert public attention, to employ the idle, to
popularise your Highness’s rule, and, if it were possible,
to enable him to reduce the taxes at a blow and to a notable
amount. The proposed expedition—for it cannot without
hyperbole be called a war—seemed to the council to combine
the various characters required; a marked improvement in the
public sentiment has followed even upon our preparations; and I
cannot doubt that when success shall follow, the effect will
surpass even our boldest hopes.’</p>
<p>‘You are very adroit, Herr von Gondremark,’ said
Otto. ‘You fill me with admiration. I had not
heretofore done justice to your qualities.’</p>
<p>Seraphina looked up with joy, supposing Otto conquered; but
Gondremark still waited, armed at every point; he knew how very
stubborn is the revolt of a weak character.</p>
<p>‘And the territorial army scheme, to which I was
persuaded to consent—was it secretly directed to the same
end?’ the Prince asked.</p>
<p>‘I still believe the effect to have been good,’
replied the Baron; ‘discipline and mounting guard are
excellent sedatives. But I will avow to your Highness, I
was unaware, at the date of that decree, of the magnitude of the
revolutionary movement; nor did any of us, I think, imagine that
such a territorial army was a part of the republican
proposals.’</p>
<p>‘It was?’ asked Otto. ‘Strange!
Upon what fancied grounds?’</p>
<p>‘The grounds were indeed fanciful,’ returned the
Baron. ‘It was conceived among the leaders that a
territorial army, drawn from and returning to the people, would,
in the event of any popular uprising, prove lukewarm or
unfaithful to the throne.’</p>
<p>‘I see,’ said the Prince. ‘I begin to
understand.’</p>
<p>‘His Highness begins to understand?’ repeated
Gondremark, with the sweetest politeness. ‘May I beg
of him to complete the phrase?’</p>
<p>‘The history of the revolution,’ replied Otto
dryly. ‘And now,’ he added, ‘what do you
conclude?’</p>
<p>‘I conclude, your Highness, with a simple
reflection,’ said the Baron, accepting the stab without a
quiver, ‘the war is popular; were the rumour contradicted
to-morrow, a considerable disappointment would be felt in many
classes; and in the present tension of spirits, the most lukewarm
sentiment may be enough to precipitate events. There lies
the danger. The revolution hangs imminent; we sit, at this
council board, below the sword of Damocles.’</p>
<p>‘We must then lay our heads together,’ said the
Prince, ‘and devise some honourable means of
safety.’</p>
<p>Up to this moment, since the first note of opposition fell
from the librarian, Seraphina had uttered about twenty
words. With a somewhat heightened colour, her eyes
generally lowered, her foot sometimes nervously tapping on the
floor, she had kept her own counsel and commanded her anger like
a hero. But at this stage of the engagement she lost
control of her impatience.</p>
<p>‘Means!’ she cried. ‘They have been
found and prepared before you knew the need for them. Sign
the despatch, and let us be done with this delay.’</p>
<p>‘Madam, I said “honourable,”’ returned
Otto, bowing. ‘This war is, in my eyes, and by Herr
von Gondremark’s account, an inadmissible expedient.
If we have misgoverned here in Grünewald, are the people of
Gerolstein to bleed and pay for our mis-doings? Never,
madam; not while I live. But I attach so much importance to
all that I have heard to-day for the first time—and why
only to-day, I do not even stop to ask—that I am eager to
find some plan that I can follow with credit to
myself.’</p>
<p>‘And should you fail?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘Should I fail, I will then meet the blow
half-way,’ replied the Prince. ‘On the first
open discontent, I shall convoke the States, and, when it pleases
them to bid me, abdicate.’</p>
<p>Seraphina laughed angrily. ‘This is the man for
whom we have been labouring!’ she cried. ‘We
tell him of change; he will devise the means, he says; and his
device is abdication? Sir, have you no shame to come here
at the eleventh hour among those who have borne the heat and
burthen of the day? Do you not wonder at yourself? I,
sir, was here in my place, striving to uphold your dignity
alone. I took counsel with the wisest I could find, while
you were eating and hunting. I have laid my plans with
foresight; they were ripe for action; and then—‘she
choked—‘then you return—for a forenoon—to
ruin all! To-morrow, you will be once more about your
pleasures; you will give us leave once more to think and work for
you; and again you will come back, and again you will thwart what
you had not the industry or knowledge to conceive. O! it is
intolerable. Be modest, sir. Do not presume upon the
rank you cannot worthily uphold. I would not issue my
commands with so much gusto—it is from no merit in yourself
they are obeyed. What are you? What have you to do in
this grave council? Go,’ she cried, ‘go among
your equals? The very people in the streets mock at you for
a prince.’</p>
<p>At this surprising outburst the whole council sat aghast.</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ said the Baron, alarmed out of his
caution, ‘command yourself.’</p>
<p>‘Address yourself to me, sir!’ cried the
Prince. ‘I will not bear these
whisperings!’</p>
<p>Seraphina burst into tears.</p>
<p>‘Sir,’ cried the Baron, rising, ‘this
lady—’</p>
<p>‘Herr von Gondremark,’ said the Prince, ‘one
more observation, and I place you under arrest.’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness is the master,’ replied Gondremark,
bowing.</p>
<p>‘Bear it in mind more constantly,’ said
Otto. ‘Herr Cancellarius, bring all the papers to my
cabinet. Gentlemen, the council is dissolved.’</p>
<p>And he bowed and left the apartment, followed by Greisengesang
and the secretaries, just at the moment when the Princess’s
ladies, summoned in all haste, entered by another door to help
her forth.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VIII—THE PARTY OF WAR TAKES ACTION</h3>
<p>Half an hour after, Gondremark was once more closeted with
Seraphina.</p>
<p>‘Where is he now?’ she asked, on his arrival.</p>
<p>‘Madam, he is with the Chancellor,’ replied the
Baron. ‘Wonder of wonders, he is at work!’</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ she said, ‘he was born to torture
me! O what a fall, what a humiliation! Such a scheme
to wreck upon so small a trifle! But now all is
lost.’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ said Gondremark, ‘nothing is
lost. Something, on the other hand, is found. You
have found your senses; you see him as he is—see him as you
see everything where your too-good heart is not in
question—with the judicial, with the statesman’s
eye. So long as he had a right to interfere, the empire
that may be was still distant. I have not entered on this
course without the plain foresight of its dangers; and even for
this I was prepared. But, madam, I knew two things: I knew
that you were born to command, that I was born to serve; I knew
that by a rare conjuncture, the hand had found the tool; and from
the first I was confident, as I am confident to-day, that no
hereditary trifler has the power to shatter that
alliance.’</p>
<p>‘I, born to command!’ she said. ‘Do
you forget my tears?’</p>
<p>‘Madam, they were the tears of Alexander,’ cried
the Baron. ‘They touched, they thrilled me; I, forgot
myself a moment—even I! But do you suppose that I had
not remarked, that I had not admired, your previous bearing? your
great self-command? Ay, that was princely!’ He
paused. ‘It was a thing to see. I drank
confidence! I tried to imitate your calm. And I was
well inspired; in my heart, I think that I was well inspired;
that any man, within the reach of argument, had been
convinced! But it was not to be; nor, madam, do I regret
the failure. Let us be open; let me disclose my
heart. I have loved two things, not unworthily:
Grünewald and my sovereign!’ Here he kissed her
hand. ‘Either I must resign my ministry, leave the
land of my adoption and the queen whom I had chosen to
obey—or—’ He paused again.</p>
<p>‘Alas, Herr von Gondremark, there is no
“or,”’ said Seraphina.</p>
<p>‘Nay, madam, give me time,’ he replied.
‘When first I saw you, you were still young; not every man
would have remarked your powers; but I had not been twice
honoured by your conversation ere I had found my mistress.
I have, madam, I believe, some genius; and I have much
ambition. But the genius is of the serving kind; and to
offer a career to my ambition, I had to find one born to
rule. This is the base and essence of our union; each had
need of the other; each recognised, master and servant, lever and
fulcrum, the complement of his endowment. Marriages, they
say, are made in heaven: how much more these pure, laborious,
intellectual fellowships, born to found empires! Nor is
this all. We found each other ripe, filled with great ideas
that took shape and clarified with every word. We grew
together—ay, madam, in mind we grew together like twin
children. All of my life until we met was petty and
groping; was it not—I will flatter myself openly—it
<i>was</i> the same with you! Not till then had you those
eagle surveys, that wide and hopeful sweep of intuition!
Thus we had formed ourselves, and we were ready.’</p>
<p>‘It is true,’ she cried. ‘I feel
it. Yours is the genius; your generosity confounds your
insight; all I could offer you was the position, was this throne,
to be a fulcrum. But I offered it without reserve; I
entered at least warmly into all your thoughts; you were sure of
me—sure of my support—certain of justice. Tell
me, tell me again, that I have helped you.’</p>
<p>‘Nay, madam,’ he said, ‘you made me.
In everything you were my inspiration. And as we prepared
our policy, weighing every step, how often have I had to admire
your perspicacity, your man-like diligence and fortitude!
You know that these are not the words of flattery; your
conscience echoes them; have you spared a day? have you indulged
yourself in any pleasure? Young and beautiful, you have
lived a life of high intellectual effort, of irksome intellectual
patience with details. Well, you have your reward: with the
fall of Brandenau, the throne of your Empire is
founded.’</p>
<p>‘What thought have you in your mind?’ she
asked. ‘Is not all ruined?’</p>
<p>‘Nay, my Princess, the same thought is in both our
minds,’ he said.</p>
<p>‘Herr von Gondremark,’ she replied, ‘by all
that I hold sacred, I have none; I do not think at all; I am
crushed.’</p>
<p>‘You are looking at the passionate side of a rich
nature, misunderstood and recently insulted,’ said the
Baron. ‘Look into your intellect, and tell
me.’</p>
<p>‘I find nothing, nothing but tumult,’ she
replied.</p>
<p>‘You find one word branded, madam,’ returned the
Baron: ‘“Abdication!”’</p>
<p>‘O!’ she cried. ‘The coward! He
leaves me to bear all, and in the hour of trial he stabs me from
behind. There is nothing in him, not respect, not love, not
courage—his wife, his dignity, his throne, the honour of
his father, he forgets them all!’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ pursued the Baron, ‘the word
Abdication. I perceive a glimmering there.’</p>
<p>‘I read your fancy,’ she returned. ‘It
is mere madness, midsummer madness. Baron, I am more
unpopular than he. You know it. They can excuse, they
can love, his weakness; but me, they hate.’</p>
<p>‘Such is the gratitude of peoples,’ said the
Baron. ‘But we trifle. Here, madam, are my
plain thoughts. The man who in the hour of danger speaks of
abdication is, for me, a venomous animal. I speak with the
bluntness of gravity, madam; this is no hour for mincing.
The coward, in a station of authority, is more dangerous than
fire. We dwell on a volcano; if this man can have his way,
Grünewald before a week will have been deluged with innocent
blood. You know the truth of what I say; we have looked
unblenching into this ever-possible catastrophe. To him it
is nothing: he will abdicate! Abdicate, just God! and this
unhappy country committed to his charge, and the lives of men and
the honour of women . . .’ His voice appeared to fail
him; in an instant he had conquered his emotion and resumed:
‘But you, madam, conceive more worthily of your
responsibilities. I am with you in the thought; and in the
face of the horrors that I see impending, I say, and your heart
repeats it—we have gone too far to pause. Honour,
duty, ay, and the care of our own lives, demand we should
proceed.’</p>
<p>She was looking at him, her brow thoughtfully knitted.
‘I feel it,’ she said. ‘But how? He
has the power.’</p>
<p>‘The power, madam? The power is in the
army,’ he replied; and then hastily, ere she could
intervene, ‘we have to save ourselves,’ he went on;
‘I have to save my Princess, she has to save her minister;
we have both of us to save this infatuated youth from his own
madness. He in the outbreak would be the earliest victim; I
see him,’ he cried, ‘torn in pieces; and
Grünewald, unhappy Grünewald! Nay, madam, you who
have the power must use it; it lies hard upon your
conscience.’</p>
<p>‘Show me how!’ she cried. ‘Suppose I
were to place him under some constraint, the revolution would
break upon us instantly.’</p>
<p>The Baron feigned defeat. ‘It is true,’ he
said. ‘You see more clearly than I do. Yet
there should, there must be, some way.’ And he waited
for his chance.</p>
<p>‘No,’ she said; ‘I told you from the first
there is no remedy. Our hopes are lost: lost by one
miserable trifler, ignorant, fretful, fitful—who will have
disappeared to-morrow, who knows? to his boorish
pleasures!’</p>
<p>Any peg would do for Gondremark. ‘The
thing!’ he cried, striking his brow. ‘Fool, not
to have thought of it! Madam, without perhaps knowing it,
you have solved our problem.’</p>
<p>‘What do you mean? Speak!’ she said.</p>
<p>He appeared to collect himself; and then, with a smile,
‘The Prince,’ he said, ‘must go once more
a-hunting.’</p>
<p>‘Ay, if he would!’ cried she, ‘and stay
there!’</p>
<p>‘And stay there,’ echoed the Baron. It was
so significantly said, that her face changed; and the schemer,
fearful of the sinister ambiguity of his expressions, hastened to
explain. ‘This time he shall go hunting in a
carriage, with a good escort of our foreign lancers. His
destination shall be the Felsenburg; it is healthy, the rock is
high, the windows are small and barred; it might have been built
on purpose. We shall intrust the captaincy to the Scotsman
Gordon; he at least will have no scruple. Who will miss the
sovereign? He is gone hunting; he came home on Tuesday, on
Thursday he returned; all is usual in that. Meanwhile the
war proceeds; our Prince will soon weary of his solitude; and
about the time of our triumph, or, if he prove very obstinate, a
little later, he shall be released upon a proper understanding,
and I see him once more directing his theatricals.’</p>
<p>Seraphina sat gloomy, plunged in thought.
‘Yes,’ she said suddenly, ‘and the
despatch? He is now writing it.’</p>
<p>‘It cannot pass the council before Friday,’
replied Gondremark; ‘and as for any private note, the
messengers are all at my disposal. They are picked men,
madam. I am a person of precaution.’</p>
<p>‘It would appear so,’ she said, with a flash of
her occasional repugnance to the man; and then after a pause,
‘Herr von Gondremark,’ she added, ‘I recoil
from this extremity.’</p>
<p>‘I share your Highness’s repugnance,’
answered he. ‘But what would you have? We are
defenceless, else.’</p>
<p>‘I see it, but this is sudden. It is a public
crime,’ she said, nodding at him with a sort of horror.</p>
<p>‘Look but a little deeper,’ he returned,
‘and whose is the crime?’</p>
<p>‘His!’ she cried. ‘His, before
God! And I hold him liable. But
still—’</p>
<p>‘It is not as if he would be harmed,’ submitted
Gondremark.</p>
<p>‘I know it,’ she replied, but it was still
unheartily.</p>
<p>And then, as brave men are entitled, by prescriptive right as
old as the world’s history, to the alliance and the active
help of Fortune, the punctual goddess stepped down from the
machine. One of the Princess’s ladies begged to
enter; a man, it appeared, had brought a line for the Freiherr
von Gondremark. It proved to be a pencil billet, which the
crafty Greisengesang had found the means to scribble and despatch
under the very guns of Otto; and the daring of the act bore
testimony to the terror of the actor. For Greisengesang had
but one influential motive: fear. The note ran thus:
‘At the first council, procuration to be
withdrawn.—<span class="smcap">Corn</span>. <span
class="smcap">Greis</span>.’</p>
<p>So, after three years of exercise, the right of signature was
to be stript from Seraphina. It was more than an insult; it
was a public disgrace; and she did not pause to consider how she
had earned it, but morally bounded under the attack as bounds the
wounded tiger.</p>
<p>‘Enough,’ she said; ‘I will sign the
order. When shall he leave?’</p>
<p>‘It will take me twelve hours to collect my men, and it
had best be done at night. To-morrow midnight, if you
please?’ answered the Baron.</p>
<p>‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘My door is
always open to you, Baron. As soon as the order is
prepared, bring it me to sign.’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ he said, ‘alone of all of us you do
not risk your head in this adventure. For that reason, and
to prevent all hesitation, I venture to propose the order should
be in your hand throughout.’</p>
<p>‘You are right,’ she replied.</p>
<p>He laid a form before her, and she wrote the order in a clear
hand, and re-read it. Suddenly a cruel smile came on her
face. ‘I had forgotten his puppet,’ said
she. ‘They will keep each other company.’
And she interlined and initiated the condemnation of Doctor
Gotthold.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness has more memory than your servant,’
said the Baron; and then he, in his turn, carefully perused the
fateful paper. ‘Good!’ said he.</p>
<p>‘You will appear in the drawing-room, Baron?’ she
asked.</p>
<p>‘I thought it better,’ said he, ‘to avoid
the possibility of a public affront. Anything that shook my
credit might hamper us in the immediate future.’</p>
<p>‘You are right,’ she said; and she held out her
hand as to an old friend and equal.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IX—THE PRICE OF THE RIVER FARM; IN WHICH
VAINGLORY GOES BEFORE A FALL</h3>
<p>The pistol had been practically fired. Under ordinary
circumstances the scene at the council table would have entirely
exhausted Otto’s store both of energy and anger; he would
have begun to examine and condemn his conduct, have remembered
all that was true, forgotten all that was unjust in
Seraphina’s onslaught; and by half an hour after would have
fallen into that state of mind in which a Catholic flees to the
confessional and a sot takes refuge with the bottle. Two
matters of detail preserved his spirits. For, first, he had
still an infinity of business to transact; and to transact
business, for a man of Otto’s neglectful and
procrastinating habits, is the best anodyne for conscience.
All afternoon he was hard at it with the Chancellor, reading,
dictating, signing, and despatching papers; and this kept him in
a glow of self-approval. But, secondly, his vanity was
still alarmed; he had failed to get the money; to-morrow before
noon he would have to disappoint old Killian; and in the eyes of
that family which counted him so little, and to which he had
sought to play the part of the heroic comforter, he must sink
lower than at first. To a man of Otto’s temper, this
was death. He could not accept the situation. And
even as he worked, and worked wisely and well, over the hated
details of his principality, he was secretly maturing a plan by
which to turn the situation. It was a scheme as pleasing to
the man as it was dishonourable in the prince; in which his
frivolous nature found and took vengeance for the gravity and
burthen of the afternoon. He chuckled as he thought of it:
and Greisengesang heard him with wonder, and attributed his
lively spirits to the skirmish of the morning.</p>
<p>Led by this idea, the antique courtier ventured to compliment
his sovereign on his bearing. It reminded him, he said, of
Otto’s father.</p>
<p>‘What?’ asked the Prince, whose thoughts were
miles away.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness’s authority at the board,’
explained the flatterer.</p>
<p>‘O, that! O yes,’ returned Otto; but for all
his carelessness, his vanity was delicately tickled, and his mind
returned and dwelt approvingly over the details of his
victory. ‘I quelled them all,’ he thought.</p>
<p>When the more pressing matters had been dismissed, it was
already late, and Otto kept the Chancellor to dinner, and was
entertained with a leash of ancient histories and modern
compliments. The Chancellor’s career had been based,
from the first off-put, on entire subserviency; he had crawled
into honours and employments; and his mind was prostitute.
The instinct of the creature served him well with Otto.
First, he let fall a sneering word or two upon the female
intellect; thence he proceeded to a closer engagement; and before
the third course he was artfully dissecting Seraphina’s
character to her approving husband. Of course no names were
used; and of course the identity of that abstract or ideal man,
with whom she was currently contrasted, remained an open
secret. But this stiff old gentleman had a wonderful
instinct for evil, thus to wind his way into man’s citadel;
thus to harp by the hour on the virtues of his hearer and not
once alarm his self-respect. Otto was all roseate, in and
out, with flattery and Tokay and an approving conscience.
He saw himself in the most attractive colours. If even
Greisengesang, he thought, could thus espy the loose stitches in
Seraphina’s character, and thus disloyally impart them to
the opposite camp, he, the discarded husband—the
dispossessed Prince—could scarce have erred on the side of
severity.</p>
<p>In this excellent frame he bade adieu to the old gentleman,
whose voice had proved so musical, and set forth for the
drawing-room. Already on the stair, he was seized with some
compunction; but when he entered the great gallery and beheld his
wife, the Chancellor’s abstract flatteries fell from him
like rain, and he re-awoke to the poetic facts of life. She
stood a good way off below a shining lustre, her back
turned. The bend of her waist overcame him with physical
weakness. This was the girl-wife who had lain in his arms
and whom he had sworn to cherish; there was she, who was better
than success.</p>
<p>It was Seraphina who restored him from the blow. She
swam forward and smiled upon her husband with a sweetness that
was insultingly artificial.
‘Frédéric,’ she lisped, ‘you are
late.’ It was a scene of high comedy, such as is
proper to unhappy marriages; and her <i>aplomb</i> disgusted
him.</p>
<p>There was no etiquette at these small drawing-rooms.
People came and went at pleasure. The window embrasures
became the roost of happy couples; at the great chimney the
talkers mostly congregated, each full-charged with scandal; and
down at the farther end the gamblers gambled. It was
towards this point that Otto moved, not ostentatiously, but with
a gentle insistence, and scattering attentions as he went.
Once abreast of the card-table, he placed himself opposite to
Madame von Rosen, and, as soon as he had caught her eye, withdrew
to the embrasure of a window. There she had speedily joined
him.</p>
<p>‘You did well to call me,’ she said, a little
wildly. ‘These cards will be my ruin.’</p>
<p>‘Leave them,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘I!’ she cried, and laughed; ‘they are my
destiny. My only chance was to die of a consumption; now I
must die in a garret.’</p>
<p>‘You are bitter to-night,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘I have been losing,’ she replied.
‘You do not know what greed is.’</p>
<p>‘I have come, then, in an evil hour,’ said he.</p>
<p>‘Ah, you wish a favour!’ she cried, brightening
beautifully.</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I am about to found my
party, and I come to you for a recruit.’</p>
<p>‘Done,’ said the Countess. ‘I am a man
again.’</p>
<p>‘I may be wrong,’ continued Otto, ‘but I
believe upon my heart you wish me no ill.’</p>
<p>‘I wish you so well,’ she said, ‘that I dare
not tell it you.’</p>
<p>‘Then if I ask my favour?’ quoth the Prince.</p>
<p>‘Ask it, <i>mon Prince</i>,’ she answered.
‘Whatever it is, it is granted.’</p>
<p>‘I wish you,’ he returned, ‘this very night
to make the farmer of our talk.’</p>
<p>‘Heaven knows your meaning!’ she exclaimed.
‘I know not, neither care; there are no bounds to my desire
to please you. Call him made.’</p>
<p>‘I will put it in another way,’ returned
Otto. ‘Did you ever steal?’</p>
<p>‘Often!’ cried the Countess. ‘I have
broken all the ten commandments; and if there were more
to-morrow, I should not sleep till I had broken these.’</p>
<p>‘This is a case of burglary: to say the truth, I thought
it would amuse you,’ said the Prince.</p>
<p>‘I have no practical experience,’ she replied,
‘but O! the good-will! I have broken a work-box in my
time, and several hearts, my own included. Never a
house! But it cannot be difficult; sins are so
unromantically easy! What are we to break?’</p>
<p>‘Madam, we are to break the treasury,’ said Otto
and he sketched to her briefly, wittily, with here and there a
touch of pathos, the story of his visit to the farm, of his
promise to buy it, and of the refusal with which his demand for
money had been met that morning at the council; concluding with a
few practical words as to the treasury windows, and the helps and
hindrances of the proposed exploit.</p>
<p>‘They refused you the money,’ she said when he had
done. ‘And you accepted the refusal?
Well!’</p>
<p>‘They gave their reasons,’ replied Otto,
colouring. ‘They were not such as I could combat; and
I am driven to dilapidate the funds of my own country by a
theft. It is not dignified; but it is fun.’</p>
<p>‘Fun,’ she said; ‘yes.’ And then
she remained silently plunged in thought for an appreciable
time. ‘How much do you require?’ she asked at
length.</p>
<p>‘Three thousand crowns will do,’ he answered,
‘for I have still some money of my own.’</p>
<p>‘Excellent,’ she said, regaining her levity.
‘I am your true accomplice. And where are we to
meet?’</p>
<p>‘You know the Flying Mercury,’ he answered,
‘in the Park? Three pathways intersect; there they
have made a seat and raised the statue. The spot is handy
and the deity congenial.’</p>
<p>‘Child,’ she said, and tapped him with her
fan. ‘But do you know, my Prince, you are an
egoist—your handy trysting-place is miles from me.
You must give me ample time; I cannot, I think, possibly be there
before two. But as the bell beats two, your helper shall
arrive: welcome, I trust. Stay—do you bring any
one?’ she added. ‘O, it is not for a
chaperon—I am not a prude!’</p>
<p>‘I shall bring a groom of mine,’ said Otto.
‘I caught him stealing corn.’</p>
<p>‘His name?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘I profess I know not. I am not yet intimate with
my corn-stealer,’ returned the Prince. ‘It was
in a professional capacity—’</p>
<p>‘Like me! Flatterer!’ she cried.
‘But oblige me in one thing. Let me find you waiting
at the seat—yes, you shall await me; for on this expedition
it shall be no longer Prince and Countess, it shall be the lady
and the squire—and your friend the thief shall be no nearer
than the fountain. Do you promise?’</p>
<p>‘Madam, in everything you are to command; you shall be
captain, I am but supercargo,’ answered Otto.</p>
<p>‘Well, Heaven bring all safe to port!’ she
said. ‘It is not Friday!’</p>
<p>Something in her manner had puzzled Otto, had possibly touched
him with suspicion.</p>
<p>‘Is it not strange,’ he remarked, ‘that I
should choose my accomplice from the other camp?’</p>
<p>‘Fool!’ she said. ‘But it is your only
wisdom that you know your friends.’ And suddenly, in
the vantage of the deep window, she caught up his hand and kissed
it with a sort of passion. ‘Now go,’ she added,
‘go at once.’</p>
<p>He went, somewhat staggered, doubting in his heart that he was
over-bold. For in that moment she had flashed upon him like
a jewel; and even through the strong panoply of a previous love
he had been conscious of a shock. Next moment he had
dismissed the fear.</p>
<p>Both Otto and the Countess retired early from the
drawing-room; and the Prince, after an elaborate feint, dismissed
his valet, and went forth by the private passage and the back
postern in quest of the groom.</p>
<p>Once more the stable was in darkness, once more Otto employed
the talismanic knock, and once more the groom appeared and
sickened with terror.</p>
<p>‘Good-evening, friend,’ said Otto
pleasantly. ‘I want you to bring a corn
sack—empty this time—and to accompany me. We
shall be gone all night.’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness,’ groaned the man, ‘I have
the charge of the small stables. I am here
alone.’</p>
<p>‘Come,’ said the Prince, ‘you are no such
martinet in duty.’ And then seeing that the man was
shaking from head to foot, Otto laid a hand upon his
shoulder. ‘If I meant you harm,’ he said,
‘should I be here?’</p>
<p>The fellow became instantly reassured. He got the sack;
and Otto led him round by several paths and avenues, conversing
pleasantly by the way, and left him at last planted by a certain
fountain where a goggle-eyed Triton spouted intermittently into a
rippling laver. Thence he proceeded alone to where, in a
round clearing, a copy of Gian Bologna’s Mercury stood
tiptoe in the twilight of the stars. The night was warm and
windless. A shaving of new moon had lately arisen; but it
was still too small and too low down in heaven to contend with
the immense host of lesser luminaries; and the rough face of the
earth was drenched with starlight. Down one of the alleys,
which widened as it receded, he could see a part of the lamplit
terrace where a sentry silently paced, and beyond that a corner
of the town with interlacing street-lights. But all around
him the young trees stood mystically blurred in the dim shine;
and in the stock-still quietness the upleaping god appeared
alive.</p>
<p>In this dimness and silence of the night, Otto’s
conscience became suddenly and staringly luminous, like the dial
of a city clock. He averted the eyes of his mind, but the
finger rapidly travelling, pointed to a series of misdeeds that
took his breath away. What was he doing in that
place? The money had been wrongly squandered, but that was
largely by his own neglect. And he now proposed to
embarrass the finances of this country which he had been too idle
to govern. And he now proposed to squander the money once
again, and this time for a private, if a generous end. And
the man whom he had reproved for stealing corn he was now to set
stealing treasure. And then there was Madame von Rosen,
upon whom he looked down with some of that ill-favoured contempt
of the chaste male for the imperfect woman. Because he
thought of her as one degraded below scruples, he had picked her
out to be still more degraded, and to risk her whole irregular
establishment in life by complicity in this dishonourable
act. It was uglier than a seduction.</p>
<p>Otto had to walk very briskly and whistle very busily; and
when at last he heard steps in the narrowest and darkest of the
alleys, it was with a gush of relief that he sprang to meet the
Countess. To wrestle alone with one’s good angel is
so hard! and so precious, at the proper time, is a companion
certain to be less virtuous than oneself!</p>
<p>It was a young man who came towards him—a young man of
small stature and a peculiar gait, wearing a wide flapping hat,
and carrying, with great weariness, a heavy bag. Otto
recoiled; but the young man held up his hand by way of signal,
and coming up with a panting run, as if with the last of his
endurance, laid the bag upon the ground, threw himself upon the
bench, and disclosed the features of Madame von Rosen.</p>
<p>‘You, Countess!’ cried the Prince.</p>
<p>‘No, no,’ she panted, ‘the Count von
Rosen—my young brother. A capital fellow. Let
him get his breath.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, madam . . . ’ said he.</p>
<p>‘Call me Count,’ she returned, ‘respect my
incognito.’</p>
<p>‘Count be it, then,’ he replied. ‘And
let me implore that gallant gentleman to set forth at once on our
enterprise.’</p>
<p>‘Sit down beside me here,’ she returned, patting
the further corner of the bench. ‘I will follow you
in a moment. O, I am so tired—feel how my heart
leaps! Where is your thief?’</p>
<p>‘At his post,’ replied Otto. ‘Shall I
introduce him? He seems an excellent companion.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ she said, ‘do not hurry me yet.
I must speak to you. Not but I adore your thief; I adore
any one who has the spirit to do wrong. I never cared for
virtue till I fell in love with my Prince.’ She
laughed musically. ‘And even so, it is not for your
virtues,’ she added.</p>
<p>Otto was embarrassed. ‘And now,’ he asked,
‘if you are anyway rested?’</p>
<p>‘Presently, presently. Let me breathe,’ she
said, panting a little harder than before.</p>
<p>‘And what has so wearied you?’ he asked.
‘This bag? And why, in the name of eccentricity, a
bag? For an empty one, you might have relied on my own
foresight; and this one is very far from being empty. My
dear Count, with what trash have you come laden? But the
shortest method is to see for myself.’ And he put
down his hand.</p>
<p>She stopped him at once. ‘Otto,’ she said,
‘no—not that way. I will tell, I will make a
clean breast. It is done already. I have robbed the
treasury single-handed. There are three thousand two
hundred crowns. O, I trust it is enough!’</p>
<p>Her embarrassment was so obvious that the Prince was struck
into a muse, gazing in her face, with his hand still
outstretched, and she still holding him by the wrist.
‘You!’ he said at last. ‘How?’ And
then drawing himself up, ‘O madam,’ he cried,
‘I understand. You must indeed think meanly of the
Prince.’</p>
<p>‘Well, then, it was a lie!’ she cried.
‘The money is mine, honestly my own—now yours.
This was an unworthy act that you proposed. But I love your
honour, and I swore to myself that I should save it in your
teeth. I beg of you to let me save it’—with a
sudden lovely change of tone. ‘Otto, I beseech you
let me save it. Take this dross from your poor friend who
loves you!’</p>
<p>‘Madam, madam,’ babbled Otto, in the extreme of
misery, ‘I cannot—I must go.’</p>
<p>And he half rose; but she was on the ground before him in an
instant, clasping his knees. ‘No,’ she gasped,
‘you shall not go. Do you despise me so
entirely? It is dross; I hate it; I should squander it at
play and be no richer; it is an investment, it is to save me from
ruin. Otto,’ she cried, as he again feebly tried to
put her from him, ‘if you leave me alone in this disgrace,
I will die here!’ He groaned aloud.
‘O,’ she said, ‘think what I suffer! If
you suffer from a piece of delicacy, think what I suffer in my
shame! To have my trash refused! You would rather
steal, you think of me so basely! You would rather tread my
heart in pieces! O, unkind! O my Prince! O
Otto! O pity me!’ She was still clasping him;
then she found his hand and covered it with kisses, and at this
his head began to turn. ‘O,’ she cried again,
‘I see it! O what a horror! It is because I am
old, because I am no longer beautiful.’ And she burst
into a storm of sobs.</p>
<p>This was the <i>coup de grâce</i>. Otto had now to
comfort and compose her as he could, and before many words, the
money was accepted. Between the woman and the weak man such
was the inevitable end. Madame von Rosen instantly composed
her sobs. She thanked him with a fluttering voice, and
resumed her place upon the bench, at the far end from Otto.
‘Now you see,’ she said, ‘why I bade you keep
the thief at distance, and why I came alone. How I trembled
for my treasure!’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ said Otto, with a tearful whimper in his
voice, ‘spare me! You are too good, too
noble!’</p>
<p>‘I wonder to hear you,’ she returned.
‘You have avoided a great folly. You will be able to
meet your good old peasant. You have found an excellent
investment for a friend’s money. You have preferred
essential kindness to an empty scruple; and now you are ashamed
of it! You have made your friend happy; and now you mourn
as the dove! Come, cheer up. I know it is depressing
to have done exactly right; but you need not make a practice of
it. Forgive yourself this virtue; come now, look me in the
face and smile!’</p>
<p>He did look at her. When a man has been embraced by a
woman, he sees her in a glamour; and at such a time, in the
baffling glimmer of the stars, she will look wildly well.
The hair is touched with light; the eyes are constellations; the
face sketched in shadows—a sketch, you might say, by
passion. Otto became consoled for his defeat; he began to
take an interest. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I am no
ingrate.’</p>
<p>‘You promised me fun,’ she returned, with a
laugh. ‘I have given you as good. We have had a
stormy <i>scena</i>.’</p>
<p>He laughed in his turn, and the sound of the laughter, in
either case, was hardly reassuring.</p>
<p>‘Come, what are you going to give me in exchange,’
she continued, ‘for my excellent declamation?’</p>
<p>‘What you will,’ he said.</p>
<p>‘Whatever I will? Upon your honour? Suppose
I asked the crown?’ She was flashing upon him,
beautiful in triumph.</p>
<p>‘Upon my honour,’ he replied.</p>
<p>‘Shall I ask the crown?’ she continued.
‘Nay; what should I do with it? Grünewald is but
a petty state; my ambition swells above it. I shall
ask—I find I want nothing,’ she concluded.
‘I will give you something instead. I will give you
leave to kiss me—once.’</p>
<p>Otto drew near, and she put up her face; they were both
smiling, both on the brink of laughter, all was so innocent and
playful; and the Prince, when their lips encountered, was
dumbfoundered by the sudden convulsion of his being. Both
drew instantly apart, and for an appreciable time sat
tongue-tied. Otto was indistinctly conscious of a peril in
the silence, but could find no words to utter. Suddenly the
Countess seemed to awake. ‘As for your
wife—’ she began in a clear and steady voice.</p>
<p>The word recalled Otto, with a shudder, from his trance.
‘I will hear nothing against my wife,’ he cried
wildly; and then, recovering himself and in a kindlier tone,
‘I will tell you my one secret,’ he added.
‘I love my wife.’</p>
<p>‘You should have let me finish,’ she returned,
smiling. ‘Do you suppose I did not mention her on
purpose? You know you had lost your head. Well, so
had I. Come now, do not be abashed by words,’ she
added somewhat sharply. ‘It is the one thing I
despise. If you are not a fool, you will see that I am
building fortresses about your virtue. And at any rate, I
choose that you shall understand that I am not dying of love for
you. It is a very smiling business; no tragedy for
me! And now here is what I have to say about your wife; she
is not and she never has been Gondremark’s mistress.
Be sure he would have boasted if she had.
Good-night!’</p>
<p>And in a moment she was gone down the alley, and Otto was
alone with the bag of money and the flying god.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER X—GOTTHOLD’S REVISED OPINION; AND THE
FALL COMPLETED</h3>
<p>The Countess left poor Otto with a caress and buffet
simultaneously administered. The welcome word about his
wife and the virtuous ending of his interview should doubtless
have delighted him. But for all that, as he shouldered the
bag of money and set forward to rejoin his groom, he was
conscious of many aching sensibilities. To have gone wrong
and to have been set right makes but a double trial for
man’s vanity. The discovery of his own weakness and
possible unfaith had staggered him to the heart; and to hear, in
the same hour, of his wife’s fidelity from one who loved
her not, increased the bitterness of the surprise.</p>
<p>He was about half-way between the fountain and the Flying
Mercury before his thoughts began to be clear; and he was
surprised to find them resentful. He paused in a kind of
temper, and struck with his hand a little shrub. Thence
there arose instantly a cloud of awakened sparrows, which as
instantly dispersed and disappeared into the thicket. He
looked at them stupidly, and when they were gone continued
staring at the stars. ‘I am angry. By what
right? By none!’ he thought; but he was still
angry. He cursed Madame von Rosen and instantly
repented. Heavy was the money on his shoulders.</p>
<p>When he reached the fountain, he did, out of ill-humour and
parade, an unpardonable act. He gave the money bodily to
the dishonest groom. ‘Keep this for me,’ he
said, ‘until I call for it to-morrow. It is a great
sum, and by that you will judge that I have not condemned
you.’ And he strode away ruffling, as if he had done
something generous. It was a desperate stroke to re-enter
at the point of the bayonet into his self-esteem; and, like all
such, it was fruitless in the end. He got to bed with the
devil, it appeared: kicked and tumbled till the grey of the
morning; and then fell inopportunely into a leaden slumber, and
awoke to find it ten. To miss the appointment with old
Killian after all, had been too tragic a miscarriage: and he
hurried with all his might, found the groom (for a wonder)
faithful to his trust, and arrived only a few minutes before noon
in the guest-chamber of the Morning Star. Killian was there
in his Sunday’s best and looking very gaunt and rigid; a
lawyer from Brandenau stood sentinel over his outspread papers;
and the groom and the landlord of the inn were called to serve as
witnesses. The obvious deference of that great man, the
innkeeper, plainly affected the old farmer with surprise; but it
was not until Otto had taken the pen and signed that the truth
flashed upon him fully. Then, indeed, he was beside
himself.</p>
<p>‘His Highness!’ he cried, ‘His
Highness!’ and repeated the exclamation till his mind had
grappled fairly with the facts. Then he turned to the
witnesses. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you
dwell in a country highly favoured by God; for of all generous
gentlemen, I will say it on my conscience, this one is the
king. I am an old man, and I have seen good and bad, and
the year of the great famine; but a more excellent gentleman, no,
never.’</p>
<p>‘We know that,’ cried the landlord, ‘we know
that well in Grünewald. If we saw more of his Highness
we should be the better pleased.’</p>
<p>‘It is the kindest Prince,’ began the groom, and
suddenly closed his mouth upon a sob, so that every one turned to
gaze upon his emotion—Otto not last; Otto struck with
remorse, to see the man so grateful.</p>
<p>Then it was the lawyer’s turn to pay a compliment.
‘I do not know what Providence may hold in store,’ he
said, ‘but this day should be a bright one in the annals of
your reign. The shouts of armies could not be more eloquent
than the emotion on these honest faces.’ And the
Brandenau lawyer bowed, skipped, stepped back, and took snuff,
with the air of a man who has found and seized an
opportunity.</p>
<p>‘Well, young gentleman,’ said Killian, ‘if
you will pardon me the plainness of calling you a gentleman, many
a good day’s work you have done, I doubt not, but never a
better, or one that will be better blessed; and whatever, sir,
may be your happiness and triumph in that high sphere to which
you have been called, it will be none the worse, sir, for an old
man’s blessing!’</p>
<p>The scene had almost assumed the proportions of an ovation;
and when the Prince escaped he had but one thought: to go
wherever he was most sure of praise. His conduct at the
board of council occurred to him as a fair chapter; and this
evoked the memory of Gotthold. To Gotthold he would go.</p>
<p>Gotthold was in the library as usual, and laid down his pen, a
little angrily, on Otto’s entrance.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘here you are.’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ returned Otto, ‘we made a
revolution, I believe.’</p>
<p>‘It is what I fear,’ returned the Doctor.</p>
<p>‘How?’ said Otto. ‘Fear? Fear is
the burnt child. I have learned my strength and the
weakness of the others; and I now mean to govern.’</p>
<p>Gotthold said nothing, but he looked down and smoothed his
chin.</p>
<p>‘You disapprove?’ cried Otto. ‘You are
a weather-cock.’</p>
<p>‘On the contrary,’ replied the Doctor.
‘My observation has confirmed my fears. It will not
do, Otto, not do.’</p>
<p>‘What will not do?’ demanded the Prince, with a
sickening stab of pain.</p>
<p>‘None of it,’ answered Gotthold. ‘You
are unfitted for a life of action; you lack the stamina, the
habit, the restraint, the patience. Your wife is greatly
better, vastly better; and though she is in bad hands, displays a
very different aptitude. She is a woman of affairs; you
are—dear boy, you are yourself. I bid you back to
your amusements; like a smiling dominie, I give you holidays for
life. Yes,’ he continued, ‘there is a day
appointed for all when they shall turn again upon their own
philosophy. I had grown to disbelieve impartially in all;
and if in the atlas of the sciences there were two charts I
disbelieved in more than all the rest, they were politics and
morals. I had a sneaking kindness for your vices; as they
were negative, they flattered my philosophy; and I called them
almost virtues. Well, Otto, I was wrong; I have forsworn my
sceptical philosophy; and I perceive your faults to be
unpardonable. You are unfit to be a Prince, unfit to be a
husband. And I give you my word, I would rather see a man
capably doing evil than blundering about good.’</p>
<p>Otto was still silent, in extreme dudgeon.</p>
<p>Presently the Doctor resumed: ‘I will take the smaller
matter first: your conduct to your wife. You went, I hear,
and had an explanation. That may have been right or wrong;
I know not; at least, you had stirred her temper. At the
council she insults you; well, you insult her back—a man to
a woman, a husband to his wife, in public! Next upon the
back of this, you propose—the story runs like
wildfire—to recall the power of signature. Can she
ever forgive that? a woman—a young woman—ambitious,
conscious of talents beyond yours? Never, Otto. And
to sum all, at such a crisis in your married life, you get into a
window corner with that ogling dame von Rosen. I do not
dream that there was any harm; but I do say it was an idle
disrespect to your wife. Why, man, the woman is not
decent.’</p>
<p>‘Gotthold,’ said Otto, ‘I will hear no evil
of the Countess.’</p>
<p>‘You will certainly hear no good of her,’ returned
Gotthold; ‘and if you wish your wife to be the pink of
nicety, you should clear your court of
demi-reputations.’</p>
<p>‘The commonplace injustice of a by-word,’ Otto
cried. ‘The partiality of sex. She is a
demirep; what then is Gondremark? Were she a
man—’</p>
<p>‘It would be all one,’ retorted Gotthold
roughly. ‘When I see a man, come to years of wisdom,
who speaks in double-meanings and is the braggart of his vices, I
spit on the other side. “You, my friend,” say
I, “are not even a gentleman.” Well,
she’s not even a lady.’</p>
<p>‘She is the best friend I have, and I choose that she
shall be respected,’ Otto said.</p>
<p>‘If she is your friend, so much the worse,’
replied the Doctor. ‘It will not stop
there.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ cried Otto, ‘there is the charity of
virtue! All evil in the spotted fruit. But I can tell
you, sir, that you do Madame von Rosen prodigal
injustice.’</p>
<p>‘You can tell me!’ said the Doctor shrewdly.
‘Have you, tried? have you been riding the
marches?’</p>
<p>The blood came into Otto’s face.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ cried Gotthold, ‘look at your wife and
blush! There’s a wife for a man to marry and then
lose! She’s a carnation, Otto. The soul is in
her eyes.’</p>
<p>‘You have changed your note for Seraphina, I
perceive,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘Changed it!’ cried the Doctor, with a
flush. ‘Why, when was it different? But I own I
admired her at the council. When she sat there silent,
tapping with her foot, I admired her as I might a
hurricane. Were I one of those who venture upon matrimony,
there had been the prize to tempt me! She invites, as
Mexico invited Cortez; the enterprise is hard, the natives are
unfriendly—I believe them cruel too—but the
metropolis is paved with gold and the breeze blows out of
paradise. Yes, I could desire to be that conqueror.
But to philander with von Rosen! never! Senses? I
discard them; what are they?—pruritus!
Curiosity? Reach me my Anatomy!’</p>
<p>‘To whom do you address yourself?’ cried
Otto. ‘Surely you, of all men, know that I love my
wife!’</p>
<p>‘O, love!’ cried Gotthold; ‘love is a great
word; it is in all the dictionaries. If you had loved, she
would have paid you back. What does she ask? A little
ardour!’</p>
<p>‘It is hard to love for two,’ replied the
Prince.</p>
<p>‘Hard? Why, there’s the touchstone! O,
I know my poets!’ cried the Doctor. ‘We are but
dust and fire, too and to endure life’s scorching; and
love, like the shadow of a great rock, should lend shelter and
refreshment, not to the lover only, but to his mistress and to
the children that reward them; and their very friends should seek
repose in the fringes of that peace. Love is not love that
cannot build a home. And you call it love to grudge and
quarrel and pick faults? You call it love to thwart her to
her face, and bandy insults? Love!’</p>
<p>‘Gotthold, you are unjust. I was then fighting for
my country,’ said the Prince.</p>
<p>‘Ay, and there’s the worst of all,’ returned
the Doctor. ‘You could not even see that you were
wrong; that being where they were, retreat was ruin.’</p>
<p>Why, you supported me!’ cried Otto.</p>
<p>‘I did. I was a fool like you,’ replied
Gotthold. ‘But now my eyes are open. If you go
on as you have started, disgrace this fellow Gondremark, and
publish the scandal of your divided house, there will befall a
most abominable thing in Grünewald. A revolution,
friend—a revolution.’</p>
<p>‘You speak strangely for a red,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘A red republican, but not a revolutionary,’
returned the Doctor. ‘An ugly thing is a
Grünewalder drunk! One man alone can save the country
from this pass, and that is the double-dealer Gondremark, with
whom I conjure you to make peace. It will not be you; it
never can be you:—you, who can do nothing, as your wife
said, but trade upon your station—you, who spent the hours
in begging money! And in God’s name, what for?
Why money? What mystery of idiocy was this?’</p>
<p>‘It was to no ill end. It was to buy a
farm,’ quoth Otto sulkily.</p>
<p>‘To buy a farm!’ cried Gotthold. ‘Buy
a farm!’</p>
<p>‘Well, what then?’ returned Otto. ‘I have
bought it, if you come to that.’</p>
<p>Gotthold fairly bounded on his seat. ‘And how
that?’ he cried.</p>
<p>‘How?’ repeated Otto, startled.</p>
<p>‘Ay, verily, how!’ returned the Doctor.
‘How came you by the money?’</p>
<p>The Prince’s countenance darkened. ‘That is
my affair,’ said he.</p>
<p>‘You see you are ashamed,’ retorted
Gotthold. ‘And so you bought a farm in the hour of
our country’s need—doubtless to be ready for the
abdication; and I put it that you stole the funds. There
are not three ways of getting money: there are but two: to earn
and steal. And now, when you have combined Charles the
Fifth and Long-fingered Tom, you come to me to fortify your
vanity! But I will clear my mind upon this matter: until I
know the right and wrong of the transaction, I put my hand behind
my back. A man may be the pitifullest prince; he must be a
spotless gentleman.’</p>
<p>The Prince had gotten to his feet, as pale as paper.
Gotthold,’ he said, ‘you drive me beyond
bounds. Beware, sir, beware!’</p>
<p>‘Do you threaten me, friend Otto?’ asked the
Doctor grimly. ‘That would be a strange
conclusion.’</p>
<p>‘When have you ever known me use my power in any private
animosity?’ cried Otto. ‘To any private man
your words were an unpardonable insult, but at me you shoot in
full security, and I must turn aside to compliment you on your
plainness. I must do more than pardon, I must admire,
because you have faced this—this formidable monarch, like a
Nathan before David. You have uprooted an old kindness,
sir, with an unsparing hand. You leave me very bare.
My last bond is broken; and though I take Heaven to witness that
I sought to do the right, I have this reward: to find myself
alone. You say I am no gentleman; yet the sneers have been
upon your side; and though I can very well perceive where you
have lodged your sympathies, I will forbear the taunt.’</p>
<p>‘Otto, are you insane?’ cried Gotthold, leaping
up. ‘Because I ask you how you came by certain
moneys, and because you refuse—’</p>
<p>‘Herr von Hohenstockwitz, I have ceased to invite your
aid in my affairs,’ said Otto. ‘I have heard
all that I desire, and you have sufficiently trampled on my
vanity. It may be that I cannot govern, it may be that I
cannot love—you tell me so with every mark of honesty; but
God has granted me one virtue, and I can still forgive. I
forgive you; even in this hour of passion, I can perceive my
faults and your excuses; and if I desire that in future I may be
spared your conversation, it is not, sir, from
resentment—not resentment—but, by Heaven, because no
man on earth could endure to be so rated. You have the
satisfaction to see your sovereign weep; and that person whom you
have so often taunted with his happiness reduced to the last
pitch of solitude and misery. No,—I will hear
nothing; I claim the last word, sir, as your Prince; and that
last word shall be—forgiveness.’</p>
<p>And with that Otto was gone from the apartment, and Doctor
Gotthold was left alone with the most conflicting sentiments of
sorrow, remorse, and merriment; walking to and fro before his
table, and asking himself, with hands uplifted, which of the pair
of them was most to blame for this unhappy rupture.
Presently, he took from a cupboard a bottle of Rhine wine and a
goblet of the deep Bohemian ruby. The first glass a little
warmed and comforted his bosom; with the second he began to look
down upon these troubles from a sunny mountain; yet a while, and
filled with this false comfort and contemplating life throughout
a golden medium, he owned to himself, with a flush, a smile, and
a half-pleasurable sigh, that he had been somewhat over plain in
dealing with his cousin. ‘He said the truth,
too,’ added the penitent librarian, ‘for in my
monkish fashion I adore the Princess.’ And then, with
a still deepening flush and a certain stealth, although he sat
all alone in that great gallery, he toasted Seraphina to the
dregs.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER XI—PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE FIRST<br />
SHE BEGUILES THE BARON</h3>
<p>At a sufficiently late hour, or to be more exact, at three in
the afternoon, Madame von Rosen issued on the world. She
swept downstairs and out across the garden, a black mantilla
thrown over her head, and the long train of her black velvet
dress ruthlessly sweeping in the dirt.</p>
<p>At the other end of that long garden, and back to back with
the villa of the Countess, stood the large mansion where the
Prime Minister transacted his affairs and pleasures. This
distance, which was enough for decency by the easy canons of
Mittwalden, the Countess swiftly traversed, opened a little door
with a key, mounted a flight of stairs, and entered
unceremoniously into Gondremark’s study. It was a
large and very high apartment; books all about the walls, papers
on the table, papers on the floor; here and there a picture,
somewhat scant of drapery; a great fire glowing and flaming in
the blue tiled hearth; and the daylight streaming through a
cupola above. In the midst of this sat the great Baron
Gondremark in his shirt-sleeves, his business for that day fairly
at an end, and the hour arrived for relaxation. His
expression, his very nature, seemed to have undergone a
fundamental change. Gondremark at home appeared the very
antipode of Gondremark on duty. He had an air of massive
jollity that well became him; grossness and geniality sat upon
his features; and along with his manners, he had laid aside his
sly and sinister expression. He lolled there, sunning his
bulk before the fire, a noble animal.</p>
<p>‘Hey!’ he cried. ‘At last!’</p>
<p>The Countess stepped into the room in silence, threw herself
on a chair, and crossed her legs. In her lace and velvet,
with a good display of smooth black stocking and of snowy
petticoat, and with the refined profile of her face and slender
plumpness of her body, she showed in singular contrast to the
big, black, intellectual satyr by the fire.</p>
<p>‘How often do you send for me?’ she cried.
‘It is compromising.’</p>
<p>Gondremark laughed. ‘Speaking of that,’ said
he, ‘what in the devil’s name were you about?
You were not home till morning.’</p>
<p>‘I was giving alms,’ she said.</p>
<p>The Baron again laughed loud and long, for in his
shirt-sleeves he was a very mirthful creature. ‘It is
fortunate I am not jealous,’ he remarked. ‘But
you know my way: pleasure and liberty go hand in hand. I
believe what I believe; it is not much, but I believe
it.—But now to business. Have you not read my
letter?’</p>
<p>‘No,’ she said; ‘my head ached.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, well! then I have news indeed!’ cried
Gondremark. ‘I was mad to see you all last night and
all this morning: for yesterday afternoon I brought my long
business to a head; the ship has come home; one more dead lift,
and I shall cease to fetch and carry for the Princess
Ratafia. Yes, ’tis done. I have the order all
in Ratafia’s hand; I carry it on my heart. At the
hour of twelve to-night, Prince Featherhead is to be taken in his
bed and, like the bambino, whipped into a chariot; and by next
morning he will command a most romantic prospect from the donjon
of the Felsenburg. Farewell, Featherhead! The war
goes on, the girl is in my hand; I have long been indispensable,
but now I shall be sole. I have long,’ he added
exultingly, ‘long carried this intrigue upon my shoulders,
like Samson with the gates of Gaza; now I discharge that
burthen.’</p>
<p>She had sprung to her feet a little paler. ‘Is
this true?’ she cried.</p>
<p>‘I tell you a fact,’ he asseverated.
‘The trick is played.’</p>
<p>‘I will never believe it,’ she said.
‘An order in her own hand? I will never believe it,
Heinrich.’</p>
<p>‘I swear to you,’ said he.</p>
<p>‘O, what do you care for oaths—or I either?
What would you swear by? Wine, women, and song? It is
not binding,’ she said. She had come quite close up
to him and laid her hand upon his arm. ‘As for the
order—no, Heinrich, never! I will never believe
it. I will die ere I believe it. You have some secret
purpose—what, I cannot guess—but not one word of it
is true.’</p>
<p>‘Shall I show it you?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘You cannot,’ she answered. ‘There is
no such thing.’</p>
<p>‘Incorrigible Sadducee!’ he cried.
‘Well, I will convert you; you shall see the
order.’ He moved to a chair where he had thrown his
coat, and then drawing forth and holding out a paper,
‘Read,’ said he.</p>
<p>She took it greedily, and her eye flashed as she perused
it.</p>
<p>‘Hey!’ cried the Baron, ‘there falls a
dynasty, and it was I that felled it; and I and you
inherit!’ He seemed to swell in stature; and next
moment, with a laugh, he put his hand forward. Give me the
dagger,’ said he.</p>
<p>But she whisked the paper suddenly behind her back and faced
him, lowering. ‘No, no,’ she said.
‘You and I have first a point to settle. Do you
suppose me blind? She could never have given that paper but
to one man, and that man her lover. Here you
stand—her lover, her accomplice, her master—O, I well
believe it, for I know your power. But what am I?’
she cried; ‘I, whom you deceive!’</p>
<p>‘Jealousy!’ cried Gondremark. ‘Anna, I
would never have believed it! But I declare to you by all
that’s credible that I am not her lover. I might be,
I suppose; but I never yet durst risk the declaration. The
chit is so unreal; a mincing doll; she will and she will not;
there is no counting on her, by God! And hitherto I have
had my own way without, and keep the lover in reserve. And
I say, Anna,’ he added with severity, ‘you must break
yourself of this new fit, my girl; there must be no
combustion. I keep the creature under the belief that I
adore her; and if she caught a breath of you and me, she is such
a fool, prude, and dog in the manger, that she is capable of
spoiling all.’</p>
<p>‘All very fine,’ returned the lady.
‘With whom do you pass your days? and which am I to
believe, your words or your actions?’</p>
<p>‘Anna, the devil take you, are you blind?’ cried
Gondremark. ‘You know me. Am I likely to care
for such a preciosa? ’Tis hard that we should have
been together for so long, and you should still take me for a
troubadour. But if there is one thing that I despise and
deprecate, it is all such figures in Berlin wool. Give me a
human woman—like myself. You are my mate; you were
made for me; you amuse me like the play. And what have I to
gain that I should pretend to you? If I do not love you,
what use are you to me? Why, none. It is as clear as
noonday.’</p>
<p>‘Do you love me, Heinrich?’ she asked,
languishing. ‘Do you truly?’</p>
<p>‘I tell you,’ he cried, ‘I love you next
after myself. I should be all abroad if I had lost
you.’</p>
<p>‘Well, then,’ said she, folding up the paper and
putting it calmly in her pocket, ‘I will believe you, and I
join the plot. Count upon me. At midnight, did you
say? It is Gordon, I see, that you have charged with
it. Excellent; he will stick at nothing—’</p>
<p>Gondremark watched her suspiciously. ‘Why do you
take the paper?’ he demanded. ‘Give it
here.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ she returned; ‘I mean to keep
it. It is I who must prepare the stroke; you cannot manage
it without me; and to do my best I must possess the paper.
Where shall I find Gordon? In his rooms?’ She
spoke with a rather feverish self-possession.</p>
<p>‘Anna,’ he said sternly, the black, bilious
countenance of his palace <i>rôle</i> taking the place of
the more open favour of his hours at home, ‘I ask you for
that paper. Once, twice, and thrice.’</p>
<p>‘Heinrich,’ she returned, looking him in the face,
‘take care. I will put up with no
dictation.’</p>
<p>Both looked dangerous; and the silence lasted for a measurable
interval of time. Then she made haste to have the first
word; and with a laugh that rang clear and honest, ‘Do not
be a child,’ she said. ‘I wonder at you.
If your assurances are true, you can have no reason to mistrust
me, nor I to play you false. The difficulty is to get the
Prince out of the palace without scandal. His valets are
devoted; his chamberlain a slave; and yet one cry might ruin
all.’</p>
<p>‘They must be overpowered,’ he said, following her
to the new ground, ‘and disappear along with
him.’</p>
<p>‘And your whole scheme along with them!’ she
cried. ‘He does not take his servants when he goes
a-hunting: a child could read the truth. No, no; the plan
is idiotic; it must be Ratafia’s. But hear me.
You know the Prince worships me?’</p>
<p>‘I know,’ he said. ‘Poor Featherhead,
I cross his destiny!’</p>
<p>‘Well now,’ she continued, ‘what if I bring
him alone out of the palace, to some quiet corner of the
Park—the Flying Mercury, for instance? Gordon can be
posted in the thicket; the carriage wait behind the temple; not a
cry, not a scuffle, not a footfall; simply, the Prince
vanishes!—What do you say? Am I an able ally?
Are my <i>beaux yuex</i> of service? Ah, Heinrich, do not
lose your Anna!—she has power!’</p>
<p>He struck with his open hand upon the chimney.
‘Witch!’ he said, ‘there is not your match for
devilry in Europe. Service! the thing runs on
wheels.’</p>
<p>‘Kiss me, then, and let me go. I must not miss my
Featherhead,’ she said.</p>
<p>‘Stay, stay,’ said the Baron; ‘not so
fast. I wish, upon my soul, that I could trust you; but you
are, out and in, so whimsical a devil that I dare not. Hang
it, Anna, no; it’s not possible!’</p>
<p>‘You doubt me, Heinrich?’ she cried.</p>
<p>‘Doubt is not the word,’ said he. ‘I
know you. Once you were clear of me with that paper in your
pocket, who knows what you would do with it?—not you, at
least—nor I. You see,’ he added, shaking his
head paternally upon the Countess, ‘you are as vicious as a
monkey.’</p>
<p>‘I swear to you,’ she cried, ‘by my
salvation . . . ‘</p>
<p>‘I have no curiosity to hear you swearing,’ said
the Baron.</p>
<p>‘You think that I have no religion? You suppose me
destitute of honour. Well,’ she said, ‘see
here: I will not argue, but I tell you once for all: leave me
this order, and the Prince shall be arrested—take it from
me, and, as certain as I speak, I will upset the coach.
Trust me, or fear me: take your choice.’ And she
offered him the paper.</p>
<p>The Baron, in a great contention of mind, stood irresolute,
weighing the two dangers. Once his hand advanced, then
dropped. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘since trust is
what you call it . . .’</p>
<p>‘No more,’ she interrupted, ‘Do not spoil
your attitude. And now since you have behaved like a good
sort of fellow in the dark, I will condescend to tell you
why. I go to the palace to arrange with Gordon; but how is
Gordon to obey me? And how can I foresee the hours?
It may be midnight; ay, and it may be nightfall; all’s a
chance; and to act, I must be free and hold the strings of the
adventure. And now,’ she cried, ‘your Vivien
goes. Dub me your knight!’ And she held out her
arms and smiled upon him radiant.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ he said, when he had kissed her,
‘every man must have his folly; I thank God mine is no
worse. Off with you! I have given a child a
squib.’</p>
<h3>CHAPTER XII—PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE SECOND<br />
SHE INFORMS THE PRINCE</h3>
<p>It was the first impulse of Madame von Rosen to return to her
own villa and revise her toilette. Whatever else should
come of this adventure, it was her firm design to pay a visit to
the Princess. And before that woman, so little beloved, the
Countess would appear at no disadvantage. It was the work
of minutes. Von Rosen had the captain’s eye in
matters of the toilette; she was none of those who hang in Fabian
helplessness among their finery and, after hours, come forth upon
the world as dowdies. A glance, a loosened curl, a studied
and admired disorder in the hair, a bit of lace, a touch of
colour, a yellow rose in the bosom; and the instant picture was
complete.</p>
<p>‘That will do,’ she said. ‘Bid my
carriage follow me to the palace. In half an hour it should
be there in waiting.’</p>
<p>The night was beginning to fall and the shops to shine with
lamps along the tree-beshadowed thorough-fares of Otto’s
capital, when the Countess started on her high emprise. She
was jocund at heart; pleasure and interest had winged her beauty,
and she knew it. She paused before the glowing
jeweller’s; she remarked and praised a costume in the
milliner’s window; and when she reached the lime-tree walk,
with its high, umbrageous arches and stir of passers-by in the
dim alleys, she took her place upon a bench and began to dally
with the pleasures of the hour. It was cold, but she did
not feel it, being warm within; her thoughts, in that dark
corner, shone like the gold and rubies at the jewellers; her
ears, which heard the brushing of so many footfalls, transposed
it into music.</p>
<p>What was she to do? She held the paper by which all
depended. Otto and Gondremark and Ratafia, and the state
itself, hung light in her balances, as light as dust; her little
finger laid in either scale would set all flying: and she hugged
herself upon her huge preponderance, and then laughed aloud to
think how giddily it might be used. The vertigo of
omnipotence, the disease of Cæsars, shook her reason.
‘O the mad world!’ she thought, and laughed aloud in
exultation.</p>
<p>A child, finger in mouth, had paused a little way from where
she sat, and stared with cloudy interest upon this laughing
lady. She called it nearer; but the child hung back.
Instantly, with that curious passion which you may see any woman
in the world display, on the most odd occasions, for a similar
end, the Countess bent herself with singleness of mind to
overcome this diffidence; and presently, sure enough, the child
was seated on her knee, thumbing and glowering at her watch.</p>
<p>‘If you had a clay bear and a china monkey,’ asked
Von Rosen, ‘which would you prefer to break?’</p>
<p>‘But I have neither,’ said the child.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ she said, ‘here is a bright florin,
with which you may purchase both the one and the other; and I
shall give it you at once, if you will answer my question.
The clay bear or the china monkey—come?’</p>
<p>But the unbreeched soothsayer only stared upon the florin with
big eyes; the oracle could not be persuaded to reply; and the
Countess kissed him lightly, gave him the florin, set him down
upon the path, and resumed her way with swinging and elastic
gait.</p>
<p>‘Which shall I break?’ she wondered; and she
passed her hand with delight among the careful disarrangement of
her locks. ‘Which?’ and she consulted heaven
with her bright eyes. ‘Do I love both or
neither? A little—passionately—not at
all? Both or neither—both, I believe; but at least I
will make hay of Ratafia.’</p>
<p>By the time she had passed the iron gates, mounted the drive,
and set her foot upon the broad flagged terrace, the night had
come completely; the palace front was thick with lighted windows;
and along the balustrade, the lamp on every twentieth baluster
shone clear. A few withered tracks of sunset, amber and
glow-worm green, still lingered in the western sky; and she
paused once again to watch them fading.</p>
<p>‘And to think,’ she said, ‘that here am
I—destiny embodied, a norn, a fate, a providence—and
have no guess upon which side I shall declare myself! What
other woman in my place would not be prejudiced, and think
herself committed? But, thank Heaven! I was born
just!’ Otto’s windows were bright among the
rest, and she looked on them with rising tenderness.
‘How does it feel to be deserted?’ she thought.
‘Poor dear fool! The girl deserves that he should see
this order.’</p>
<p>Without more delay, she passed into the palace and asked for
an audience of Prince Otto. The Prince, she was told, was
in his own apartment, and desired to be private. She sent
her name. A man presently returned with word that the
Prince tendered his apologies, but could see no one.
‘Then I will write,’ she said, and scribbled a few
lines alleging urgency of life and death. ‘Help me,
my Prince,’ she added; ‘none but you can help
me.’ This time the messenger returned more speedily,
and begged the Countess to follow him: the Prince was graciously
pleased to receive the Frau Gräfin von Rosen.</p>
<p>Otto sat by the fire in his large armoury, weapons faintly
glittering all about him in the changeful light. His face
was disfigured by the marks of weeping; he looked sour and sad;
nor did he rise to greet his visitor, but bowed, and bade the man
begone. That kind of general tenderness which served the
Countess for both heart and conscience, sharply smote her at this
spectacle of grief and weakness; she began immediately to enter
into the spirit of her part; and as soon as they were alone,
taking one step forward and with a magnificent
gesture—‘Up!’ she cried.</p>
<p>‘Madame von Rosen,’ replied Otto dully, ‘you
have used strong words. You speak of life and death.
Pray, madam, who is threatened? Who is there,’ he
added bitterly, ‘so destitute that even Otto of
Grünewald can assist him?’</p>
<p>‘First learn,’ said she, ‘the names of the
conspirators; the Princess and the Baron Gondremark. Can
you not guess the rest?’ And then, as he maintained
his silence—‘You!’ she cried, pointing at him
with her finger. ‘’Tis you they threaten!
Your rascal and mine have laid their heads together and condemned
you. But they reckoned without you and me. We make a
<i>partie carrée</i>, Prince, in love and politics.
They lead an ace, but we shall trump it. Come, partner,
shall I draw my card?’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ he said, ‘explain yourself.
Indeed I fail to comprehend.’</p>
<p>‘See, then,’ said she; and handed him the
order.</p>
<p>He took it, looked upon it with a start; and then, still
without speech, he put his hand before his face. She waited
for a word in vain.</p>
<p>‘What!’ she cried, ‘do you take the thing
down-heartedly? As well seek wine in a milk-pail as love in
that girl’s heart! Be done with this, and be a
man. After the league of the lions, let us have a
conspiracy of mice, and pull this piece of machinery to
ground. You were brisk enough last night when nothing was
at stake and all was frolic. Well, here is better sport;
here is life indeed.’</p>
<p>He got to his feet with some alacrity, and his face, which was
a little flushed, bore the marks of resolution.</p>
<p>‘Madame von Rosen,’ said he, ‘I am neither
unconscious nor ungrateful; this is the true continuation of your
friendship; but I see that I must disappoint your
expectations. You seem to expect from me some effort of
resistance; but why should I resist? I have not much to
gain; and now that I have read this paper, and the last of a
fool’s paradise is shattered, it would be hyperbolical to
speak of loss in the same breath with Otto of
Grünewald. I have no party, no policy; no pride, nor
anything to be proud of. For what benefit or principle
under Heaven do you expect me to contend? Or would you have
me bite and scratch like a trapped weasel? No, madam;
signify to those who sent you my readiness to go. I would
at least avoid a scandal.’</p>
<p>‘You go?—of your own will, you go?’ she
cried.</p>
<p>‘I cannot say so much, perhaps,’ he answered;
‘but I go with good alacrity. I have desired a change
some time; behold one offered me! Shall I refuse?
Thank God, I am not so destitute of humour as to make a tragedy
of such a farce.’ He flicked the order on the
table. ‘You may signify my readiness,’ he added
grandly.</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you are more angry than you
own.’</p>
<p>‘I, madam? angry?’ he cried. ‘You
rave! I have no cause for anger. In every way I have
been taught my weakness, my instability, and my unfitness for the
world. I am a plexus of weaknesses, an impotent Prince, a
doubtful gentleman; and you yourself, indulgent as you are, have
twice reproved my levity. And shall I be angry? I may
feel the unkindness, but I have sufficient honesty of mind to see
the reasons of this <i>coup d’état</i>.’</p>
<p>‘From whom have you got this?’ she cried in
wonder. ‘You think you have not behaved well?
My Prince, were you not young and handsome, I should detest you
for your virtues. You push them to the verge of
commonplace. And this ingratitude—’</p>
<p>‘Understand me, Madame von Rosen,’ returned the
Prince, flushing a little darker, ‘there can be here no
talk of gratitude, none of pride. You are here, by what
circumstance I know not, but doubtless led by your kindness,
mixed up in what regards my family alone. You have no
knowledge what my wife, your sovereign, may have suffered; it is
not for you—no, nor for me—to judge. I own
myself in fault; and were it otherwise, a man were a very empty
boaster who should talk of love and start before a small
humiliation. It is in all the copybooks that one should die
to please his lady-love; and shall a man not go to
prison?’</p>
<p>‘Love? And what has love to do with being sent to
gaol?’ exclaimed the Countess, appealing to the walls and
roof. ‘Heaven knows I think as much of love as any
one; my life would prove it; but I admit no love, at least for a
man, that is not equally returned. The rest is
moonshine.’</p>
<p>‘I think of love more absolutely, madam, though I am
certain no more tenderly, than a lady to whom I am indebted for
such kindnesses,’ returned the Prince. ‘But
this is unavailing. We are not here to hold a court of
troubadours.’</p>
<p>‘Still,’ she replied, ‘there is one thing
you forget. If she conspires with Gondremark against your
liberty, she may conspire with him against your honour
also.’</p>
<p>‘My honour?’ he repeated. ‘For a
woman, you surprise me. If I have failed to gain her love
or play my part of husband, what right is left me? or what honour
can remain in such a scene of defeat? No honour that I
recognise. I am become a stranger. If my wife no
longer loves me, I will go to prison, since she wills it; if she
love another, where should I be more in place? or whose fault is
it but mine? You speak, Madame von Rosen, like too many
women, with a man’s tongue. Had I myself fallen into
temptation (as, Heaven knows, I might) I should have trembled,
but still hoped and asked for her forgiveness; and yet mine had
been a treason in the teeth of love. But let me tell you,
madam,’ he pursued, with rising irritation, ‘where a
husband by futility, facility, and ill-timed humours has
outwearied his wife’s patience, I will suffer neither man
nor woman to misjudge her. She is free; the man has been
found wanting.’</p>
<p>‘Because she loves you not?’ the Countess
cried. ‘You know she is incapable of such a
feeling.’</p>
<p>‘Rather, it was I who was born incapable of inspiring
it,’ said Otto.</p>
<p>Madame von Rosen broke into sudden laughter.
‘Fool,’ she cried, ‘I am in love with you
myself!’</p>
<p>‘Ah, madam, you are most compassionate,’ the
Prince retorted, smiling. ‘But this is waste
debate. I know my purpose. Perhaps, to equal you in
frankness, I know and embrace my advantage. I am not
without the spirit of adventure. I am in a false
position—so recognised by public acclamation: do you grudge
me, then, my issue?’</p>
<p>‘If your mind is made up, why should I dissuade
you?’ said the Countess. ‘I own, with a bare
face, I am the gainer. Go, you take my heart with you, or
more of it than I desire; I shall not sleep at night for thinking
of your misery. But do not be afraid; I would not spoil
you, you are such a fool and hero.’</p>
<p>‘Alas! madam,’ cried the Prince, ‘and your
unlucky money! I did amiss to take it, but you are a
wonderful persuader. And I thank God, I can still offer you
the fair equivalent.’ He took some papers from the
chimney. ‘Here, madam, are the title-deeds,’ he
said; ‘where I am going, they can certainly be of no use to
me, and I have now no other hope of making up to you your
kindness. You made the loan without formality, obeying your
kind heart. The parts are somewhat changed; the sun of this
Prince of Grünewald is upon the point of setting; and I know
you better than to doubt you will once more waive ceremony, and
accept the best that he can give you. If I may look for any
pleasure in the coming time, it will be to remember that the
peasant is secure, and my most generous friend no
loser.’</p>
<p>‘Do you not understand my odious position?’ cried
the Countess. ‘Dear Prince, it is upon your fall that
I begin my fortune.’</p>
<p>‘It was the more like you to tempt me to
resistance,’ returned Otto. ‘But this cannot
alter our relations; and I must, for the last time, lay my
commands upon you in the character of Prince.’ And
with his loftiest dignity, he forced the deeds on her
acceptance.</p>
<p>‘I hate the very touch of them,’ she cried.</p>
<p>There followed upon this a little silence. ‘At
what time,’ resumed Otto, ‘(if indeed you know) am I
to be arrested?’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness, when you please!’ exclaimed the
Countess. ‘Or, if you choose to tear that paper,
never!’</p>
<p>‘I would rather it were done quickly,’ said the
Prince. ‘I shall take but time to leave a letter for
the Princess.’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ said the Countess, ‘I have advised
you to resist; at the same time, if you intend to be dumb before
your shearers, I must say that I ought to set about arranging
your arrest. I offered’—she
hesitated—‘I offered to manage it, intending, my dear
friend—intending, upon my soul, to be of use to you.
Well, if you will not profit by my goodwill, then be of use to
me; and as soon as ever you feel ready, go to the Flying Mercury
where we met last night. It will be none the worse for you;
and to make it quite plain, it will be better for the rest of
us.’</p>
<p>‘Dear madam, certainly,’ said Otto.
‘If I am prepared for the chief evil, I shall not quarrel
with details. Go, then, with my best gratitude; and when I
have written a few lines of leave-taking, I shall immediately
hasten to keep tryst. To-night I shall not meet so
dangerous a cavalier,’ he added, with a smiling
gallantry.</p>
<p>As soon as Madame von Rosen was gone, he made a great call
upon his self-command. He was face to face with a miserable
passage where, if it were possible, he desired to carry himself
with dignity. As to the main fact, he never swerved or
faltered; he had come so heart-sick and so cruelly humiliated
from his talk with Gotthold, that he embraced the notion of
imprisonment with something bordering on relief. Here was,
at least, a step which he thought blameless; here was a way out
of his troubles. He sat down to write to Seraphina; and his
anger blazed. The tale of his forbearances mounted, in his
eyes, to something monstrous; still more monstrous, the coldness,
egoism, and cruelty that had required and thus requited
them. The pen which he had taken shook in his hand.
He was amazed to find his resignation fled, but it was gone
beyond his recall. In a few white-hot words, he bade adieu,
dubbing desperation by the name of love, and calling his wrath
forgiveness; then he cast but one look of leave-taking on the
place that had been his for so long and was now to be his no
longer; and hurried forth—love’s prisoner—or
pride’s.</p>
<p>He took that private passage which he had trodden so often in
less momentous hours. The porter let him out; and the
bountiful, cold air of the night and the pure glory of the stars
received him on the threshold. He looked round him,
breathing deep of earth’s plain fragrance; he looked up
into the great array of heaven, and was quieted. His little
turgid life dwindled to its true proportions; and he saw himself
(that great flame-hearted martyr!) stand like a speck under the
cool cupola of the night. Thus he felt his careless
injuries already soothed; the live air of out-of-doors, the quiet
of the world, as if by their silent music, sobering and dwarfing
his emotions.</p>
<p>‘Well, I forgive her,’ he said. ‘If it
be of any use to her, I forgive.’</p>
<p>And with brisk steps he crossed the garden, issued upon the
Park, and came to the Flying Mercury. A dark figure moved
forward from the shadow of the pedestal.</p>
<p>‘I have to ask your pardon, sir,’ a voice
observed, ‘but if I am right in taking you for the Prince,
I was given to understand that you would be prepared to meet
me.’</p>
<p>‘Herr Gordon, I believe?’ said Otto.</p>
<p>‘Herr Oberst Gordon,’ replied that officer.
‘This is rather a ticklish business for a man to be
embarked in; and to find that all is to go pleasantly is a great
relief to me. The carriage is at hand; shall I have the
honour of following your Highness?’</p>
<p>‘Colonel,’ said the Prince, ‘I have now come
to that happy moment of my life when I have orders to receive but
none to give.’</p>
<p>‘A most philosophical remark,’ returned the
Colonel. ‘Begad, a very pertinent remark! it might be
Plutarch. I am not a drop’s blood to your Highness,
or indeed to any one in this principality; or else I should
dislike my orders. But as it is, and since there is nothing
unnatural or unbecoming on my side, and your Highness takes it in
good part, I begin to believe we may have a capital time
together, sir—a capital time. For a gaoler is only a
fellow-captive.’</p>
<p>‘May I inquire, Herr Gordon,’ asked Otto,
‘what led you to accept this dangerous and I would fain
hope thankless office?’</p>
<p>‘Very natural, I am sure,’ replied the officer of
fortune. ‘My pay is, in the meanwhile,
doubled.’</p>
<p>‘Well, sir, I will not presume to criticise,’
returned the Prince. ‘And I perceive the
carriage.’</p>
<p>Sure enough, at the intersection of two alleys of the Park, a
coach and four, conspicuous by its lanterns, stood in
waiting. And a little way off about a score of lancers were
drawn up under the shadow of the trees.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER XIII—PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE THIRD<br />
SHE ENLIGHTENS SERAPHINA</h3>
<p>When Madame von Rosen left the Prince, she hurried straight to
Colonel Gordon; and not content with directing the arrangements,
she had herself accompanied the soldier of fortune to the Flying
Mercury. The Colonel gave her his arm, and the talk between
this pair of conspirators ran high and lively. The
Countess, indeed, was in a whirl of pleasure and excitement; her
tongue stumbled upon laughter, her eyes shone, the colour that
was usually wanting now perfected her face. It would have
taken little more to bring Gordon to her feet—or so, at
least, she believed, disdaining the idea.</p>
<p>Hidden among some lilac bushes, she enjoyed the great decorum
of the arrest, and heard the dialogue of the two men die away
along the path. Soon after, the rolling of a carriage and
the beat of hoofs arose in the still air of the night, and passed
speedily farther and fainter into silence. The Prince was
gone.</p>
<p>Madame von Rosen consulted her watch. She had still, she
thought, time enough for the tit-bit of her evening; and hurrying
to the palace, winged by the fear of Gondremark’s arrival,
she sent her name and a pressing request for a reception to the
Princess Seraphina. As the Countess von Rosen unqualified,
she was sure to be refused; but as an emissary of the
Baron’s, for so she chose to style herself, she gained
immediate entry.</p>
<p>The Princess sat alone at table, making a feint of
dining. Her cheeks were mottled, her eyes heavy; she had
neither slept nor eaten; even her dress had been neglected.
In short, she was out of health, out of looks, out of heart, and
hag-ridden by her conscience. The Countess drew a swift
comparison, and shone brighter in beauty.</p>
<p>‘You come, madam, <i>de la part de Monsieur le
Baron</i>,’ drawled the Princess. ‘Be
seated! What have you to say?’</p>
<p>‘To say?’ repeated Madame von Rosen, ‘O,
much to say! Much to say that I would rather not, and much
to leave unsaid that I would rather say. For I am like St.
Paul, your Highness, and always wish to do the things I should
not. Well! to be categorical—that is the
word?—I took the Prince your order. He could not
credit his senses. “Ah,” he cried “dear
Madame von Rosen, it is not possible—it cannot be I must
hear it from your lips. My wife is a poor girl misled, she
is only silly, she is not cruel.” “<i>Mon
Prince</i>,” said I, “a girl—and therefore
cruel; youth kills flies.”—He had such pain to
understand it!’</p>
<p>‘Madame von Rosen,’ said the Princess, in most
steadfast tones, but with a rose of anger in her face, ‘who
sent you here, and for what purpose? Tell your
errand.’</p>
<p>‘O, madam, I believe you understand me very well,’
returned von Rosen. ‘I have not your
philosophy. I wear my heart upon my sleeve, excuse the
indecency! It is a very little one,’ she laughed,
‘and I so often change the sleeve!’</p>
<p>‘Am I to understand the Prince has been arrested?’
asked the Princess, rising.</p>
<p>‘While you sat there dining!’ cried the Countess,
still nonchalantly seated.</p>
<p>‘You have discharged your errand,’ was the reply;
‘I will not detain you.’</p>
<p>‘O no, madam,’ said the Countess, ‘with your
permission, I have not yet done. I have borne much this
evening in your service. I have suffered. I was made
to suffer in your service.’ She unfolded her fan as
she spoke. Quick as her pulses beat, the fan waved
languidly. She betrayed her emotion only by the brightness
of her eyes and face, and by the almost insolent triumph with
which she looked down upon the Princess. There were old
scores of rivalry between them in more than one field; so at
least von Rosen felt; and now she was to have her hour of victory
in them all.</p>
<p>‘You are no servant, Madame von Rosen, of mine,’
said Seraphina.</p>
<p>‘No, madam, indeed,’ returned the Countess;
‘but we both serve the same person, as you know—or if
you do not, then I have the pleasure of informing you. Your
conduct is so light—so light,’ she repeated, the fan
wavering higher like a butterfly, ‘that perhaps you do not
truly understand.’ The Countess rolled her fan
together, laid it in her lap, and rose to a less languorous
position. ‘Indeed,’ she continued, ‘I
should be sorry to see any young woman in your situation.
You began with every advantage—birth, a suitable
marriage—quite pretty too—and see what you have come
to! My poor girl, to think of it! But there is
nothing that does so much harm,’ observed the Countess
finely, ‘as giddiness of mind.’ And she once
more unfurled the fan, and approvingly fanned herself.</p>
<p>‘I will no longer permit you to forget yourself,’
cried Seraphina. ‘I think you are mad.’</p>
<p>‘Not mad,’ returned von Rosen. ‘Sane
enough to know you dare not break with me to-night, and to profit
by the knowledge. I left my poor, pretty Prince Charming
crying his eyes out for a wooden doll. My heart is soft; I
love my pretty Prince; you will never understand it, but I long
to give my Prince his doll, dry his poor eyes, and send him off
happy. O, you immature fool!’ the Countess cried,
rising to her feet, and pointing at the Princess the closed fan
that now began to tremble in her hand. ‘O wooden
doll!’ she cried, ‘have you a heart, or blood, of any
nature? This is a man, child—a man who loves
you. O, it will not happen twice! it is not common;
beautiful and clever women look in vain for it. And you,
you pitiful schoolgirl, tread this jewel under foot! you, stupid
with your vanity! Before you try to govern kingdoms, you
should first be able to behave yourself at home; home is the
woman’s kingdom.’ She paused and laughed a
little, strangely to hear and look upon. ‘I will tell
you one of the things,’ she said, ‘that were to stay
unspoken. Von Rosen is a better women than you, my
Princess, though you will never have the pain of understanding
it; and when I took the Prince your order, and looked upon his
face, my soul was melted—O, I am frank—here, within
my arms, I offered him repose!’ She advanced a step
superbly as she spoke, with outstretched arms; and Seraphina
shrank. ‘Do not be alarmed!’ the Countess
cried; ‘I am not offering that hermitage to you; in all the
world there is but one who wants to, and him you have
dismissed! “If it will give her pleasure I should
wear the martyr’s crown,” he cried, “I will
embrace the thorns.” I tell you—I am quite
frank—I put the order in his power and begged him to
resist. You, who have betrayed your husband, may betray me
to Gondremark; my Prince would betray no one. Understand it
plainly,’ she cried, ‘’tis of his pure
forbearance that you sit there; he had the power—I gave it
him—to change the parts; and he refused, and went to prison
in your place.’</p>
<p>The Princess spoke with some distress. ‘Your
violence shocks me and pains me,’ she began, ‘but I
cannot be angry with what at least does honour to the mistaken
kindness of your heart: it was right for me to know this. I
will condescend to tell you. It was with deep regret that I
was driven to this step. I admire in many ways the
Prince—I admit his amiability. It was our great
misfortune, it was perhaps somewhat of my fault, that we were so
unsuited to each other; but I have a regard, a sincere regard,
for all his qualities. As a private person I should think
as you do. It is difficult, I know, to make allowances for
state considerations. I have only with deep reluctance
obeyed the call of a superior duty; and so soon as I dare do it
for the safety of the state, I promise you the Prince shall be
released. Many in my situation would have resented your
freedoms. I am not’—and she looked for a moment
rather piteously upon the Countess—‘I am not
altogether so inhuman as you think.’</p>
<p>‘And you can put these troubles of the state,’ the
Countess cried, ‘to weigh with a man’s
love?’</p>
<p>‘Madame von Rosen, these troubles are affairs of life
and death to many; to the Prince, and perhaps even to yourself,
among the number,’ replied the Princess, with
dignity. ‘I have learned, madam, although still so
young, in a hard school, that my own feelings must everywhere
come last.’</p>
<p>‘O callow innocence!’ exclaimed the other.
‘Is it possible you do not know, or do not suspect, the
intrigue in which you move? I find it in my heart to pity
you! We are both women after all—poor girl, poor
girl!—and who is born a woman is born a fool. And
though I hate all women—come, for the common folly, I
forgive you. Your Highness’—she dropped a deep
stage curtsey and resumed her fan—‘I am going to
insult you, to betray one who is called my lover, and if it
pleases you to use the power I now put unreservedly into your
hands, to ruin my dear self. O what a French comedy!
You betray, I betray, they betray. It is now my cue.
The letter, yes. Behold the letter, madam, its seal
unbroken as I found it by my bed this morning; for I was out of
humour, and I get many, too many, of these favours. For
your own sake, for the sake of my Prince Charming, for the sake
of this great principality that sits so heavy on your conscience,
open it and read!’</p>
<p>‘Am I to understand,’ inquired the Princess,
‘that this letter in any way regards me?’</p>
<p>‘You see I have not opened it,’ replied von Rosen;
‘but ’tis mine, and I beg you to
experiment.’</p>
<p>‘I cannot look at it till you have,’ returned
Seraphina, very seriously. ‘There may be matter there
not meant for me to see; it is a private letter.’</p>
<p>The Countess tore it open, glanced it through, and tossed it
back; and the Princess, taking up the sheet, recognised the hand
of Gondremark, and read with a sickening shock the following
lines:—</p>
<blockquote><p>‘Dearest Anna, come at once. Ratafia
has done the deed, her husband is to be packed to prison.
This puts the minx entirely in my power; <i>le tour est
joué</i>; she will now go steady in harness, or I will
know the reason why. Come.</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Heinrich</span>.’</p>
</blockquote>
<p>‘Command yourself, madam,’ said the Countess,
watching with some alarm the white face of Seraphina.
‘It is in vain for you to fight with Gondremark; he has
more strings than mere court favour, and could bring you down
to-morrow with a word. I would not have betrayed him
otherwise; but Heinrich is a man, and plays with all of you like
marionnettes. And now at least you see for what you
sacrificed my Prince. Madam, will you take some wine?
I have been cruel.’</p>
<p>‘Not cruel, madam—salutary,’ said Seraphina,
with a phantom smile. ‘No, I thank you, I require no
attentions. The first surprise affected me: will you give
me time a little? I must think.’</p>
<p>She took her head between her hands, and contemplated for a
while the hurricane confusion of her thoughts.</p>
<p>‘This information reaches me,’ she said,
‘when I have need of it. I would not do as you have
done, but yet I thank you. I have been much deceived in
Baron Gondremark.’</p>
<p>‘O, madam, leave Gondremark, and think upon the
Prince!’ cried von Rosen.</p>
<p>‘You speak once more as a private person,’ said
the Princess; ‘nor do I blame you. But my own
thoughts are more distracted. However, as I believe you are
truly a friend to my—to the—as I believe,’ she
said, ‘you are a friend to Otto, I shall put the order for
his release into your hands this moment. Give me the
ink-dish. There!’ And she wrote hastily,
steadying her arm upon the table, for she trembled like a
reed. ‘Remember; madam,’ she resumed, handing
her the order, ‘this must not be used nor spoken of at
present; till I have seen the Baron, any hurried step—I
lose myself in thinking. The suddenness has shaken
me.’</p>
<p>‘I promise you I will not use it,’ said the
Countess, ‘till you give me leave, although I wish the
Prince could be informed of it, to comfort his poor heart.
And O, I had forgotten, he has left a letter. Suffer me,
madam, I will bring it you. This is the door, I
think?’ And she sought to open it.</p>
<p>‘The bolt is pushed,’ said Seraphina,
flushing.</p>
<p>‘O! O!’ cried the Countess.</p>
<p>A silence fell between them.</p>
<p>‘I will get it for myself,’ said Seraphina;
‘and in the meanwhile I beg you to leave me. I thank
you, I am sure, but I shall be obliged if you will leave
me.’</p>
<p>The Countess deeply curtseyed, and withdrew.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER XIV—RELATES THE CAUSE AND OUTBREAK OF THE
REVOLUTION</h3>
<p>Brave as she was, and brave by intellect, the Princess, when
first she was alone, clung to the table for support. The
four corners of her universe had fallen. She had never
liked nor trusted Gondremark completely; she had still held it
possible to find him false to friendship; but from that to
finding him devoid of all those public virtues for which she had
honoured him, a mere commonplace intriguer, using her for his own
ends, the step was wide and the descent giddy. Light and
darkness succeeded each other in her brain; now she believed, and
now she could not. She turned, blindly groping for the
note. But von Rosen, who had not forgotten to take the
warrant from the Prince, had remembered to recover her note from
the Princess: von Rosen was an old campaigner, whose most violent
emotion aroused rather than clouded the vigour of her reason.</p>
<p>The thought recalled to Seraphina the remembrance of the other
letter—Otto’s. She rose and went speedily, her
brain still wheeling, and burst into the Prince’s
armoury. The old chamberlain was there in waiting; and the
sight of another face, prying (or so she felt) on her distress,
struck Seraphina into childish anger.</p>
<p>‘Go!’ she cried; and then, when the old man was
already half-way to the door, ‘Stay!’ she
added. ‘As soon as Baron Gondremark arrives, let him
attend me here.’</p>
<p>‘It shall be so directed,’ said the
chamberlain.</p>
<p>‘There was a letter . . . ’ she began, and
paused.</p>
<p>‘Her Highness,’ said the chamberlain, ‘will,
find a letter on the table. I had received no orders, or
her Highness had been spared this trouble.’</p>
<p>‘No, no, no,’ she cried. ‘I thank
you. I desire to be alone.’</p>
<p>And then, when he was gone, she leaped upon the letter.
Her mind was still obscured; like the moon upon a night of clouds
and wind, her reason shone and was darkened, and she read the
words by flashes.</p>
<blockquote><p>‘Seraphina,’ the Prince wrote,
‘I will write no syllable of reproach. I have seen
your order, and I go. What else is left me? I have
wasted my love, and have no more. To say that I forgive you
is not needful; at least, we are now separate for ever; by your
own act, you free me from my willing bondage: I go free to
prison. This is the last that you will hear of me in love
or anger. I have gone out of your life; you may breathe
easy; you have now rid yourself of the husband who allowed you to
desert him, of the Prince who gave you his rights, and of the
married lover who made it his pride to defend you in your
absence. How you have requited him, your own heart more
loudly tells you than my words. There is a day coming when
your vain dreams will roll away like clouds, and you will find
yourself alone. Then you will remember</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Otto</span>.’</p>
</blockquote>
<p>She read with a great horror on her mind; that day, of which
he wrote, was come. She was alone; she had been false, she
had been cruel; remorse rolled in upon her; and then with a more
piercing note, vanity bounded on the stage of
consciousness. She a dupe! she helpless! she to have
betrayed herself in seeking to betray her husband! she to have
lived these years upon flattery, grossly swallowing the bolus,
like a clown with sharpers! she—Seraphina! Her swift
mind drank the consequences; she foresaw the coming fall, her
public shame; she saw the odium, disgrace, and folly of her story
flaunt through Europe. She recalled the scandal she had so
royally braved; and alas! she had now no courage to confront it
with. To be thought the mistress of that man: perhaps for
that. . . . She closed her eyes on agonising vistas. Swift
as thought she had snatched a bright dagger from the weapons that
shone along the wall. Ay, she would escape. From that
world-wide theatre of nodding heads and buzzing whisperers, in
which she now beheld herself unpitiably martyred, one door stood
open. At any cost, through any stress of suffering, that
greasy laughter should be stifled. She closed her eyes,
breathed a wordless prayer, and pressed the weapon to her
bosom.</p>
<p>At the astonishing sharpness of the prick, she gave a cry and
awoke to a sense of undeserved escape. A little ruby spot
of blood was the reward of that great act of desperation; but the
pain had braced her like a tonic, and her whole design of suicide
had passed away.</p>
<p>At the same instant regular feet drew near along the gallery,
and she knew the tread of the big Baron, so often gladly welcome,
and even now rallying her spirits like a call to battle.
She concealed the dagger in the folds of her skirt; and drawing
her stature up, she stood firm-footed, radiant with anger,
waiting for the foe.</p>
<p>The Baron was announced, and entered. To him, Seraphina
was a hated task: like the schoolboy with his Virgil, he had
neither will nor leisure to remark her beauties; but when he now
beheld her standing illuminated by her passion, new feelings
flashed upon him, a frank admiration, a brief sparkle of
desire. He noted both with joy; they were means.
‘If I have to play the lover,’ thought he, for that
was his constant preoccupation, ‘I believe I can put soul
into it.’ Meanwhile, with his usual ponderous grace,
he bent before the lady.</p>
<p>‘I propose,’ she said in a strange voice, not
known to her till then, ‘that we release the Prince and do
not prosecute the war.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, madam,’ he replied, ‘’tis as I
knew it would be! Your heart, I knew, would wound you when
we came to this distasteful but most necessary step. Ah,
madam, believe me, I am not unworthy to be your ally; I know you
have qualities to which I am a stranger, and count them the best
weapons in the armoury of our alliance:—the girl in the
queen—pity, love, tenderness, laughter; the smile that can
reward. I can only command; I am the frowner. But
you! And you have the fortitude to command these comely
weaknesses, to tread them down at the call of reason. How
often have I not admired it even to yourself! Ay, even to
yourself,’ he added tenderly, dwelling, it seemed, in
memory on hours of more private admiration. ‘But now,
madam—’</p>
<p>‘But now, Herr von Gondremark, the time for these
declarations has gone by,’ she cried. ‘Are you
true to me? are you false? Look in your heart and answer:
it is your heart I want to know.’</p>
<p>‘It has come,’ thought Gondremark.
‘You, madam!’ he cried, starting back—with
fear, you would have said, and yet a timid joy. ‘You!
yourself, you bid me look into my heart?’</p>
<p>‘Do you suppose I fear?’ she cried, and looked at
him with such a heightened colour, such bright eyes, and a smile
of so abstruse a meaning, that the Baron discarded his last
doubt.</p>
<p>‘Ah, madam!’ he cried, plumping on his
knees. ‘Seraphina! Do you permit me? have you
divined my secret? It is true—I put my life with joy
into your power—I love you, love with ardour, as an equal,
as a mistress, as a brother-in-arms, as an adored, desired,
sweet-hearted woman. O Bride!’ he cried, waxing
dithyrambic, ‘bride of my reason and my senses, have pity,
have pity on my love!’</p>
<p>She heard him with wonder, rage, and then contempt. His
words offended her to sickness; his appearance, as he grovelled
bulkily upon the floor, moved her to such laughter as we laugh in
nightmares.</p>
<p>‘O shame!’ she cried. ‘Absurd and
odious! What would the Countess say?’</p>
<p>That great Baron Gondremark, the excellent politician,
remained for some little time upon his knees in a frame of mind
which perhaps we are allowed to pity. His vanity, within
his iron bosom, bled and raved. If he could have blotted
all, if he could have withdrawn part, if he had not called her
bride—with a roaring in his ears, he thus regretfully
reviewed his declaration. He got to his feet tottering; and
then, in that first moment when a dumb agony finds a vent in
words, and the tongue betrays the inmost and worst of a man, he
permitted himself a retort which, for six weeks to follow, he was
to repent at leisure.</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ said he, ‘the Countess? Now I
perceive the reason of your Highness’s disorder.’</p>
<p>The lackey-like insolence of the words was driven home by a
more insolent manner. There fell upon Seraphina one of
those storm-clouds which had already blackened upon her reason;
she heard herself cry out; and when the cloud dispersed, flung
the blood-stained dagger on the floor, and saw Gondremark reeling
back with open mouth and clapping his hand upon the wound.
The next moment, with oaths that she had never heard, he leaped
at her in savage passion; clutched her as she recoiled; and in
the very act, stumbled and drooped. She had scarce time to
fear his murderous onslaught ere he fell before her feet.</p>
<p>He rose upon one elbow; she still staring upon him, white with
horror.</p>
<p>‘Anna!’ he cried, ‘Anna!
Help!’</p>
<p>And then his utterance failed him, and he fell back, to all
appearance dead.</p>
<p>Seraphina ran to and fro in the room; she wrung her hands and
cried aloud; within she was all one uproar of terror, and
conscious of no articulate wish but to awake.</p>
<p>There came a knocking at the door; and she sprang to it and
held it, panting like a beast, and with the strength of madness
in her arms, till she had pushed the bolt. At this success
a certain calm fell upon her reason. She went back and
looked upon her victim, the knocking growing louder. O yes,
he was dead. She had killed him. He had called upon
von Rosen with his latest breath; ah! who would call on
Seraphina? She had killed him. She, whose irresolute
hand could scarce prick blood from her own bosom, had found
strength to cast down that great colossus at a blow.</p>
<p>All this while the knocking was growing more uproarious and
more unlike the staid career of life in such a palace.
Scandal was at the door, with what a fatal following she dreaded
to conceive; and at the same time among the voices that now began
to summon her by name, she recognised the
Chancellor’s. He or another, somebody must be the
first.</p>
<p>‘Is Herr von Greisengesang without?’ she
called.</p>
<p>‘Your Highness—yes!’ the old gentleman
answered. ‘We have heard cries, a fall. Is
anything amiss?’</p>
<p>‘Nothing,’ replied Seraphina ‘I desire to
speak with you. Send off the rest.’ She panted
between each phrase; but her mind was clear. She let the
looped curtain down upon both sides before she drew the bolt;
and, thus secure from any sudden eyeshot from without, admitted
the obsequious Chancellor, and again made fast the door.</p>
<p>Greisengesang clumsily revolved among the wings of the
curtain, so that she was clear of it as soon as he.</p>
<p>‘My God!’ he cried ‘The Baron!’</p>
<p>‘I have killed him,’ she said. ‘O,
killed him!’</p>
<p>‘Dear me,’ said the old gentleman, ‘this is
most unprecedented. Lovers’ quarrels,’ he added
ruefully, ‘redintegratio—’ and then
paused. ‘But, my dear madam,’ he broke out
again, ‘in the name of all that is practical, what are we
to do? This is exceedingly grave; morally, madam, it is
appalling. I take the liberty, your Highness, for one
moment, of addressing you as a daughter, a loved although
respected daughter; and I must say that I cannot conceal from you
that this is morally most questionable. And, O dear me, we
have a dead body!’</p>
<p>She had watched him closely; hope fell to contempt; she drew
away her skirts from his weakness, and, in the act, her own
strength returned to her.</p>
<p>‘See if he be dead,’ she said; not one word of
explanation or defence; she had scorned to justify herself before
so poor a creature: ‘See if he be dead’ was all.</p>
<p>With the greatest compunction, the Chancellor drew near; and
as he did so the wounded Baron rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>‘He lives,’ cried the old courtier, turning
effusively to Seraphina. ‘Madam, he still
lives.’</p>
<p>‘Help him, then,’ returned the Princess, standing
fixed. ‘Bind up his wound.’</p>
<p>‘Madam, I have no means,’ protested the
Chancellor.</p>
<p>‘Can you not take your handkerchief, your neck-cloth,
anything?’ she cried; and at the same moment, from her
light muslin gown she rent off a flounce and tossed it on the
floor. ‘Take that,’ she said, and for the first
time directly faced Greisengesang.</p>
<p>But the Chancellor held up his hands and turned away his head
in agony. The grasp of the falling Baron had torn down the
dainty fabric of the bodice; and—‘O Highness!’
cried Greisengesang, appalled, ‘the terrible disorder of
your toilette!’</p>
<p>‘Take up that flounce,’ she said; ‘the man
may die.’</p>
<p>Greisengesang turned in a flutter to the Baron, and attempted
some innocent and bungling measures. ‘He still
breathes,’ he kept saying. ‘All is not yet
over; he is not yet gone.’</p>
<p>‘And now,’ said she ‘if that is all you can
do, begone and get some porters; he must instantly go
home.’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ cried the Chancellor, ‘if this most
melancholy sight were seen in town—O dear, the State would
fall!’ he piped.</p>
<p>‘There is a litter in the Palace,’ she
replied. ‘It is your part to see him safe. I
lay commands upon you. On your life it stands.’</p>
<p>‘I see it, dear Highness,’ he jerked.
‘Clearly I see it. But how? what men? The
Prince’s servants—yes. They had a personal
affection. They will be true, if any.’</p>
<p>‘O, not them!’ she cried. ‘Take Sabra,
my own man.’</p>
<p>‘Sabra! The grand-mason?’ returned the
Chancellor, aghast. ‘If he but saw this, he would
sound the tocsin—we should all be butchered.’</p>
<p>She measured the depth of her abasement steadily.
‘Take whom you must,’ she said, ‘and bring the
litter here.’</p>
<p>Once she was alone she ran to the Baron, and with a sickening
heart sought to allay the flux of blood. The touch of the
skin of that great charlatan revolted her to the toes; the wound,
in her ignorant eyes, looked deathly; yet she contended with her
shuddering, and, with more skill at least than the
Chancellor’s, staunched the welling injury. An eye
unprejudiced with hate would have admired the Baron in his swoon;
he looked so great and shapely; it was so powerful a machine that
lay arrested; and his features, cleared for the moment both of
temper and dissimulation, were seen to be so purely
modelled. But it was not thus with Seraphina. Her
victim, as he lay outspread, twitching a little, his big chest
unbared, fixed her with his ugliness; and her mind flitted for a
glimpse to Otto.</p>
<p>Rumours began to sound about the Palace of feet running and of
voices raised; the echoes of the great arched staircase were
voluble of some confusion; and then the gallery jarred with a
quick and heavy tramp. It was the Chancellor, followed by
four of Otto’s valets and a litter. The servants,
when they were admitted, stared at the dishevelled Princess and
the wounded man; speech was denied them, but their thoughts were
riddled with profanity. Gondremark was bundled in; the
curtains of the litter were lowered; the bearers carried it
forth, and the Chancellor followed behind with a white face.</p>
<p>Seraphina ran to the window. Pressing her face upon the
pane, she could see the terrace, where the lights contended;
thence, the avenue of lamps that joined the Palace and town; and
overhead the hollow night and the larger stars. Presently
the small procession issued from the Palace, crossed the parade,
and began to thread the glittering alley: the swinging couch with
its four porters, the much-pondering Chancellor behind. She
watched them dwindle with strange thoughts: her eyes fixed upon
the scene, her mind still glancing right and left on the
overthrow of her life and hopes. There was no one left in
whom she might confide; none whose hand was friendly, or on whom
she dared to reckon for the barest loyalty. With the fall
of Gondremark, her party, her brief popularity, had fallen.
So she sat crouched upon the window-seat, her brow to the cool
pane; her dress in tatters, barely shielding her; her mind
revolving bitter thoughts.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, consequences were fast mounting; and in the
deceptive quiet of the night, downfall and red revolt were
brewing. The litter had passed forth between the iron gates
and entered on the streets of the town. By what flying
panic, by what thrill of air communicated, who shall say? but the
passing bustle in the Palace had already reached and re-echoed in
the region of the burghers. Rumour, with her loud whisper,
hissed about the town; men left their homes without knowing why;
knots formed along the boulevard; under the rare lamps and the
great limes the crowd grew blacker.</p>
<p>And now through the midst of that expectant company, the
unusual sight of a closed litter was observed approaching, and
trotting hard behind it that great dignitary Cancellarius
Greisengesang. Silence looked on as it went by; and as soon
as it was passed, the whispering seethed over like a boiling
pot. The knots were sundered; and gradually, one following
another, the whole mob began to form into a procession and escort
the curtained litter. Soon spokesmen, a little bolder than
their mates, began to ply the Chancellor with questions.
Never had he more need of that great art of falsehood, by whose
exercise he had so richly lived. And yet now he stumbled,
the master passion, fear, betraying him. He was pressed; he
became incoherent; and then from the jolting litter came a
groan. In the instant hubbub and the gathering of the crowd
as to a natural signal, the clear-eyed quavering Chancellor heard
the catch of the clock before it strikes the hour of doom; and
for ten seconds he forgot himself. This shall atone for
many sins. He plucked a bearer by the sleeve.
‘Bid the Princess flee. All is lost,’ he
whispered. And the next moment he was babbling for his life
among the multitude.</p>
<p>Five minutes later the wild-eyed servant burst into the
armoury. ‘All is lost!’ he cried.
‘The Chancellor bids you flee.’ And at the same
time, looking through the window, Seraphina saw the black rush of
the populace begin to invade the lamplit avenue.</p>
<p>‘Thank you, Georg,’ she said. ‘I thank
you. Go.’ And as the man still lingered,
‘I bid you go,’ she added. ‘Save
yourself.’</p>
<p>Down by the private passage, and just some two hours later,
Amalia Seraphina, the last Princess, followed Otto Johann
Friedrich, the last Prince of Grünewald.</p>
<h2>BOOK III—FORTUNATE MISFORTUNE</h2>
<h3>CHAPTER I—PRINCESS CINDERELLA</h3>
<p>The porter, drawn by the growing turmoil, had vanished from
the postern, and the door stood open on the darkness of the
night. As Seraphina fled up the terraces, the cries and
loud footing of the mob drew nearer the doomed palace; the rush
was like the rush of cavalry; the sound of shattering lamps
tingled above the rest; and, overtowering all, she heard her own
name bandied among the shouters. A bugle sounded at the
door of the guard-room; one gun was fired; and then with the yell
of hundreds, Mittwalden Palace was carried at a rush.</p>
<p>Sped by these dire sounds and voices, the Princess scaled the
long garden, skimming like a bird the starlit stairways; crossed
the Park, which was in that place narrow; and plunged upon the
farther side into the rude shelter of the forest. So, at a
bound, she left the discretion and the cheerful lamps of Palace
evenings; ceased utterly to be a sovereign lady; and, falling
from the whole height of civilisation, ran forth into the woods,
a ragged Cinderella.</p>
<p>She went direct before her through an open tract of the
forest, full of brush and birches, and where the starlight guided
her; and, beyond that again, must thread the columned blackness
of a pine grove joining overhead the thatch of its long
branches. At that hour the place was breathless; a horror
of night like a presence occupied that dungeon of the wood; and
she went groping, knocking against the boles—her ear,
betweenwhiles, strained to aching and yet unrewarded.</p>
<p>But the slope of the ground was upward, and encouraged her;
and presently she issued on a rocky hill that stood forth above
the sea of forest. All around were other hill-tops, big and
little; sable vales of forest between; overhead the open heaven
and the brilliancy of countless stars; and along the western sky
the dim forms of mountains. The glory of the great night
laid hold upon her; her eyes shone with stars; she dipped her
sight into the coolness and brightness of the sky, as she might
have dipped her wrist into a spring; and her heart, at that
ethereal shock, began to move more soberly. The sun that
sails overhead, ploughing into gold the fields of daylight azure
and uttering the signal to man’s myriads, has no word apart
for man the individual; and the moon, like a violin, only praises
and laments our private destiny. The stars alone, cheerful
whisperers, confer quietly with each of us like friends; they
give ear to our sorrows smilingly, like wise old men, rich in
tolerance; and by their double scale, so small to the eye, so
vast to the imagination, they keep before the mind the double
character of man’s nature and fate.</p>
<p>There sat the Princess, beautifully looking upon beauty, in
council with these glad advisers. Bright like pictures,
clear like a voice in the porches of her ear, memory re-enacted
the tumult of the evening: the Countess and the dancing fan, the
big Baron on his knees, the blood on the polished floor, the
knocking, the swing of the litter down the avenue of lamps, the
messenger, the cries of the charging mob; and yet all were far
away and phantasmal, and she was still healingly conscious of the
peace and glory of the night. She looked towards
Mittwalden; and above the hill-top, which already hid it from her
view, a throbbing redness hinted of fire. Better so: better
so, that she should fall with tragic greatness, lit by a blazing
palace! She felt not a trace of pity for Gondremark or of
concern for Grünewald: that period of her life was closed
for ever, a wrench of wounded vanity alone surviving. She
had but one clear idea: to flee;—and another, obscure and
half-rejected, although still obeyed: to flee in the direction of
the Felsenburg. She had a duty to perform, she must free
Otto—so her mind said, very coldly; but her heart embraced
the notion of that duty even with ardour, and her hands began to
yearn for the grasp of kindness.</p>
<p>She rose, with a start of recollection, and plunged down the
slope into the covert. The woods received and closed upon
her. Once more, she wandered and hasted in a blot,
uncheered, unpiloted. Here and there, indeed, through rents
in the wood-roof, a glimmer attracted her; here and there a tree
stood out among its neighbours by some force of outline; here and
there a brushing among the leaves, a notable blackness, a dim
shine, relieved, only to exaggerate, the solid oppression of the
night and silence. And betweenwhiles, the unfeatured
darkness would redouble and the whole ear of night appear to be
gloating on her steps. Now she would stand still, and the
silence, would grow and grow, till it weighed upon her breathing;
and then she would address herself again to run, stumbling,
falling, and still hurrying the more. And presently the
whole wood rocked and began to run along with her. The
noise of her own mad passage through the silence spread and
echoed, and filled the night with terror. Panic hunted her:
Panic from the trees reached forth with clutching branches; the
darkness was lit up and peopled with strange forms and
faces. She strangled and fled before her fears. And
yet in the last fortress, reason, blown upon by these gusts of
terror, still shone with a troubled light. She knew, yet
could not act upon her knowledge; she knew that she must stop,
and yet she still ran.</p>
<p>She was already near madness, when she broke suddenly into a
narrow clearing. At the same time the din grew louder, and
she became conscious of vague forms and fields of
whiteness. And with that the earth gave way; she fell and
found her feet again with an incredible shock to her senses, and
her mind was swallowed up.</p>
<p>When she came again to herself, she was standing to the
mid-leg in an icy eddy of a brook, and leaning with one hand on
the rock from which it poured. The spray had wet her
hair. She saw the white cascade, the stars wavering in the
shaken pool, foam flitting, and high overhead the tall pines on
either hand serenely drinking starshine; and in the sudden quiet
of her spirit she heard with joy the firm plunge of the cataract
in the pool. She scrambled forth dripping. In the
face of her proved weakness, to adventure again upon the horror
of blackness in the groves were a suicide of life or
reason. But here, in the alley of the brook, with the kind
stars above her, and the moon presently swimming into sight, she
could await the coming of day without alarm.</p>
<p>This lane of pine-trees ran very rapidly down-hill and wound
among the woods; but it was a wider thoroughfare than the brook
needed, and here and there were little dimpling lawns and coves
of the forest, where the starshine slumbered. Such a lawn
she paced, taking patience bravely; and now she looked up the
hill and saw the brook coming down to her in a series of
cascades; and now approached the margin, where it welled among
the rushes silently; and now gazed at the great company of heaven
with an enduring wonder. The early evening had fallen
chill, but the night was now temperate; out of the recesses of
the wood there came mild airs as from a deep and peaceful
breathing; and the dew was heavy on the grass and the tight-shut
daisies. This was the girl’s first night under the
naked heaven; and now that her fears were overpast, she was
touched to the soul by its serene amenity and peace. Kindly
the host of heaven blinked down upon that wandering Princess; and
the honest brook had no words but to encourage her.</p>
<p>At last she began to be aware of a wonderful revolution,
compared to which the fire of Mittwalden Palace was but the crack
and flash of a percussion-cap. The countenance with which
the pines regarded her began insensibly to change; the grass too,
short as it was, and the whole winding staircase of the
brook’s course, began to wear a solemn freshness of
appearance. And this slow transfiguration reached her
heart, and played upon it, and transpierced it with a serious
thrill. She looked all about; the whole face of nature
looked back, brimful of meaning, finger on lip, leaking its glad
secret. She looked up. Heaven was almost emptied of
stars. Such as still lingered shone with a changed and
waning brightness, and began to faint in their stations.
And the colour of the sky itself was the most wonderful; for the
rich blue of the night had now melted and softened and
brightened; and there had succeeded in its place a hue that has
no name, and that is never seen but as the herald of
morning. ‘O!’ she cried, joy catching at her
voice, ‘O! it is the dawn!’</p>
<p>In a breath she passed over the brook, and looped up her
skirts and fairly ran in the dim alleys. As she ran, her
ears were aware of many pipings, more beautiful than music; in
the small dish-shaped houses in the fork of giant arms, where
they had lain all night, lover by lover, warmly pressed, the
bright-eyed, big-hearted singers began to awaken for the
day. Her heart melted and flowed forth to them in
kindness. And they, from their small and high perches in
the clerestories of the wood cathedral, peered down sidelong at
the ragged Princess as she flitted below them on the carpet of
the moss and tassel.</p>
<p>Soon she had struggled to a certain hill-top, and saw far
before her the silent inflooding of the day. Out of the
East it welled and whitened; the darkness trembled into light;
and the stars were extinguished like the street-lamps of a human
city. The whiteness brightened into silver, the silver
warmed into gold, the gold kindled into pure and living fire; and
the face of the East was barred with elemental scarlet. The
day drew its first long breath, steady and chill; and for leagues
around the woods sighed and shivered. And then, at one
bound, the sun had floated up; and her startled eyes received
day’s first arrow, and quailed under the buffet. On
every side, the shadows leaped from their ambush and fell
prone. The day was come, plain and garish; and up the steep
and solitary eastern heaven, the sun, victorious over his
competitors, continued slowly and royally to mount.</p>
<p>Seraphina drooped for a little, leaning on a pine, the shrill
joy of the woodlands mocking her. The shelter of the night,
the thrilling and joyous changes of the dawn, were over; and now,
in the hot eye of the day, she turned uneasily and looked
sighingly about her. Some way off among the lower woods, a
pillar of smoke was mounting and melting in the gold and
blue. There, surely enough, were human folk, the
hearth-surrounders. Man’s fingers had laid the twigs;
it was man’s breath that had quickened and encouraged the
baby flames; and now, as the fire caught, it would be playing
ruddily on the face of its creator. At the thought, she
felt a-cold and little and lost in that great out-of-doors.
The electric shock of the young sun-beams and the unhuman beauty
of the woods began to irk and daunt her. The covert of the
house, the decent privacy of rooms, the swept and regulated fire,
all that denotes or beautifies the home life of man, began to
draw her as with cords. The pillar of smoke was now risen
into some stream of moving air; it began to lean out sideways in
a pennon; and thereupon, as though the change had been a summons,
Seraphina plunged once more into the labyrinth of the wood.</p>
<p>She left day upon the high ground. In the lower groves
there still lingered the blue early twilight and the seizing
freshness of the dew. But here and there, above this field
of shadow, the head of a great outspread pine was already
glorious with day; and here and there, through the breaches of
the hills, the sun-beams made a great and luminous entry.
Here Seraphina hastened along forest paths. She had lost
sight of the pilot smoke, which blew another way, and conducted
herself in that great wilderness by the direction of the
sun. But presently fresh signs bespoke the neighbourhood of
man; felled trunks, white slivers from the axe, bundles of green
boughs, and stacks of firewood. These guided her forward;
until she came forth at last upon the clearing whence the smoke
arose. A hut stood in the clear shadow, hard by a brook
which made a series of inconsiderable falls; and on the threshold
the Princess saw a sun-burnt and hard-featured woodman, standing
with his hands behind his back and gazing skyward.</p>
<p>She went to him directly: a beautiful, bright-eyed, and
haggard vision; splendidly arrayed and pitifully tattered; the
diamond ear-drops still glittering in her ears; and with the
movement of her coming, one small breast showing and hiding among
the ragged covert of the laces. At that ambiguous hour, and
coming as she did from the great silence of the forest, the man
drew back from the Princess as from something elfin.</p>
<p>‘I am cold,’ she said, ‘and weary. Let
me rest beside your fire.’</p>
<p>The woodman was visibly commoved, but answered nothing.</p>
<p>‘I will pay,’ she said, and then repented of the
words, catching perhaps a spark of terror from his frightened
eyes. But, as usual, her courage rekindled brighter for the
check. She put him from the door and entered; and he
followed her in superstitious wonder.</p>
<p>Within, the hut was rough and dark; but on the stone that
served as hearth, twigs and a few dry branches burned with the
brisk sounds and all the variable beauty of fire. The very
sight of it composed her; she crouched hard by on the earth floor
and shivered in the glow, and looked upon the eating blaze with
admiration. The woodman was still staring at his guest: at
the wreck of the rich dress, the bare arms, the bedraggled laces
and the gems. He found no word to utter.</p>
<p>‘Give me food,’ said she,—‘here, by
the fire.’</p>
<p>He set down a pitcher of coarse wine, bread, a piece of
cheese, and a handful of raw onions. The bread was hard and
sour, the cheese like leather; even the onion, which ranks with
the truffle and the nectarine in the chief place of honour of
earth’s fruits, is not perhaps a dish for princesses when
raw. But she ate, if not with appetite, with courage; and
when she had eaten, did not disdain the pitcher. In all her
life before, she had not tasted of gross food nor drunk after
another; but a brave woman far more readily accepts a change of
circumstances than the bravest man. All that while, the
woodman continued to observe her furtively, many low thoughts of
fear and greed contending in his eyes. She read them
clearly, and she knew she must begone.</p>
<p>Presently she arose and offered him a florin.</p>
<p>‘Will that repay you?’ she asked.</p>
<p>But here the man found his tongue. ‘I must have
more than that,’ said he.</p>
<p>‘It is all I have to give you,’ she returned, and
passed him by serenely.</p>
<p>Yet her heart trembled, for she saw his hand stretched forth
as if to arrest her, and his unsteady eyes wandering to his
axe. A beaten path led westward from the clearing, and she
swiftly followed it. She did not glance behind her.
But as soon as the least turning of the path had concealed her
from the woodman’s eyes, she slipped among the trees and
ran till she deemed herself in safety.</p>
<p>By this time the strong sunshine pierced in a thousand places
the pine-thatch of the forest, fired the red boles, irradiated
the cool aisles of shadow, and burned in jewels on the
grass. The gum of these trees was dearer to the senses than
the gums of Araby; each pine, in the lusty morning sunlight,
burned its own wood-incense; and now and then a breeze would rise
and toss these rooted censers, and send shade and sun-gem
flitting, swift as swallows, thick as bees; and wake a brushing
bustle of sounds that murmured and went by.</p>
<p>On she passed, and up and down, in sun and shadow; now aloft
on the bare ridge among the rocks and birches, with the lizards
and the snakes; and anon in the deep grove among sunless
pillars. Now she followed wandering wood-paths, in the maze
of valleys; and again, from a hill-top, beheld the distant
mountains and the great birds circling under the sky. She
would see afar off a nestling hamlet, and go round to avoid
it. Below, she traced the course of the foam of mountain
torrents. Nearer hand, she saw where the tender springs
welled up in silence, or oozed in green moss; or in the more
favoured hollows a whole family of infant rivers would combine,
and tinkle in the stones, and lie in pools to be a bathing-place
for sparrows, or fall from the sheer rock in rods of
crystal. Upon all these things, as she still sped along in
the bright air, she looked with a rapture of surprise and a
joyful fainting of the heart; they seemed so novel, they touched
so strangely home, they were so hued and scented, they were so
beset and canopied by the dome of the blue air of heaven.</p>
<p>At length, when she was well weary, she came upon a wide and
shallow pool. Stones stood in it, like islands; bulrushes
fringed the coast; the floor was paved with the pine needles; and
the pines themselves, whose roots made promontories, looked down
silently on their green images. She crept to the margin and
beheld herself with wonder, a hollow and bright-eyed phantom, in
the ruins of her palace robe. The breeze now shook her
image; now it would be marred with flies; and at that she smiled;
and from the fading circles, her counterpart smiled back to her
and looked kind. She sat long in the warm sun, and pitied
her bare arms that were all bruised and marred with falling, and
marvelled to see that she was dirty, and could not grow to
believe that she had gone so long in such a strange disorder.</p>
<p>Then, with a sigh, she addressed herself to make a toilette by
that forest mirror, washed herself pure from all the stains of
her adventure, took off her jewels and wrapped them in her
handkerchief, re-arranged the tatters of her dress, and took down
the folds of her hair. She shook it round her face, and the
pool repeated her thus veiled. Her hair had smelt like
violets, she remembered Otto saying; and so now she tried to
smell it, and then shook her head, and laughed a little, sadly,
to herself.</p>
<p>The laugh was returned upon her in a childish echo.</p>
<p>She looked up; and lo! two children looking on,—a small
girl and a yet smaller boy, standing, like playthings, by the
pool, below a spreading pine. Seraphina was not fond of
children, and now she was startled to the heart.</p>
<p>‘Who are you?’ she cried hoarsely.</p>
<p>The mites huddled together and drew back; and
Seraphina’s heart reproached her that she should have
frightened things so quaint and little, and yet alive with
senses. She thought upon the birds and looked again at her
two visitors; so little larger and so far more innocent. On
their clear faces, as in a pool, she saw the reflection of their
fears. With gracious purpose she arose.</p>
<p>‘Come,’ she said, ‘do not be afraid of
me,’ and took a step towards them.</p>
<p>But alas! at the first moment, the two poor babes in the wood
turned and ran helter-skelter from the Princess.</p>
<p>The most desolate pang was struck into the girl’s
heart. Here she was, twenty-two—soon
twenty-three—and not a creature loved her; none but Otto;
and would even he forgive? If she began weeping in these
woods alone, it would mean death or madness. Hastily she
trod the thoughts out like a burning paper; hastily rolled up her
locks, and with terror dogging her, and her whole bosom sick with
grief, resumed her journey.</p>
<p>Past ten in the forenoon, she struck a high-road, marching in
that place uphill between two stately groves, a river of
sunlight; and here, dead weary, careless of consequences, and
taking some courage from the human and civilised neighbourhood of
the road, she stretched herself on the green margin in the shadow
of a tree. Sleep closed on her, at first with a horror of
fainting, but when she ceased to struggle, kindly embracing
her. So she was taken home for a little, from all her toils
and sorrows, to her Father’s arms. And there in the
meanwhile her body lay exposed by the highwayside, in tattered
finery; and on either hand from the woods the birds came flying
by and calling upon others, and debated in their own tongue this
strange appearance.</p>
<p>The sun pursued his journey; the shadow flitted from her feet,
shrank higher and higher, and was upon the point of leaving her
altogether, when the rumble of a coach was signalled to and fro
by the birds. The road in that part was very steep; the
rumble drew near with great deliberation; and ten minutes passed
before a gentleman appeared, walking with a sober elderly gait
upon the grassy margin of the highway, and looking pleasantly
around him as he walked. From time to time he paused, took
out his note-book and made an entry with a pencil; and any spy
who had been near enough would have heard him mumbling words as
though he were a poet testing verses. The voice of the
wheels was still faint, and it was plain the traveller had far
outstripped his carriage.</p>
<p>He had drawn very near to where the Princess lay asleep,
before his eye alighted on her; but when it did he started,
pocketed his note-book, and approached. There was a
milestone close to where she lay; and he sat down on that and
coolly studied her. She lay upon one side, all curled and
sunken, her brow on one bare arm, the other stretched out, limp
and dimpled. Her young body, like a thing thrown down, had
scarce a mark of life. Her breathing stirred her not.
The deadliest fatigue was thus confessed in every language of the
sleeping flesh. The traveller smiled grimly. As
though he had looked upon a statue, he made a grudging inventory
of her charms: the figure in that touching freedom of
forgetfulness surprised him; the flush of slumber became her like
a flower.</p>
<p>‘Upon my word,’ he thought, ‘I did not think
the girl could be so pretty. And to think,’ he added,
‘that I am under obligation not to use one word of
this!’ He put forth his stick and touched her; and at
that she awoke, sat up with a cry, and looked upon him
wildly.</p>
<p>‘I trust your Highness has slept well,’ he said,
nodding.</p>
<p>But she only uttered sounds.</p>
<p>‘Compose yourself,’ said he, giving her certainly
a brave example in his own demeanour. ‘My chaise is
close at hand; and I shall have, I trust, the singular
entertainment of abducting a sovereign Princess.’</p>
<p>‘Sir John!’ she said, at last.</p>
<p>‘At your Highness’s disposal,’ he
replied.</p>
<p>She sprang to her feet. ‘O!’ she cried,
‘have you come from Mittwalden?’</p>
<p>‘This morning,’ he returned, ‘I left it; and
if there is any one less likely to return to it than yourself,
behold him!’</p>
<p>‘The Baron—’ she began, and paused.</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ he answered, ‘it was well meant,
and you are quite a Judith; but after the hours that have
elapsed, you will probably be relieved to hear that he is fairly
well. I took his news this morning ere I left. Doing
fairly well, they said, but suffering acutely.
Hey?—acutely. They could hear his groans in the next
room.’</p>
<p>‘And the Prince,’ she asked, ‘is anything
known of him?’</p>
<p>‘It is reported,’ replied Sir John, with the same
pleasurable deliberation, ‘that upon that point your
Highness is the best authority.’</p>
<p>‘Sir John,’ she said eagerly, ‘you were
generous enough to speak about your carriage. Will you, I
beseech you, will you take me to the Felsenburg? I have
business there of an extreme importance.’</p>
<p>‘I can refuse you nothing,’ replied the old
gentleman, gravely and seriously enough. ‘Whatever,
madam, it is in my power to do for you, that shall be done with
pleasure. As soon as my chaise shall overtake us, it is
yours to carry you where you will. But,’ added he,
reverting to his former manner, ‘I observe you ask me
nothing of the Palace.’</p>
<p>‘I do not care,’ she said. ‘I thought
I saw it burning.’</p>
<p>‘Prodigious!’ said the Baronet. ‘You
thought? And can the loss of forty toilettes leave you
cold? Well, madam, I admire your fortitude. And the
state, too? As I left, the government was
sitting,—the new government, of which at least two members
must be known to you by name: Sabra, who had, I believe, the
benefit of being formed in your employment—a footman, am I
right?—and our old friend the Chancellor, in something of a
subaltern position. But in these convulsions the last shall
be first, and the first last.’</p>
<p>‘Sir John,’ she said, with an air of perfect
honesty, ‘I am sure you mean most kindly, but these matters
have no interest for me.’</p>
<p>The Baronet was so utterly discountenanced that he hailed the
appearance of his chaise with welcome, and, by way of saying
something, proposed that they should walk back to meet it.
So it was done; and he helped her in with courtesy, mounted to
her side, and from various receptacles (for the chaise was most
completely fitted out) produced fruits and truffled liver,
beautiful white bread, and a bottle of delicate wine. With
these he served her like a father, coaxing and praising her to
fresh exertions; and during all that time, as though silenced by
the laws of hospitality, he was not guilty of the shadow of a
sneer. Indeed his kindness seemed so genuine that Seraphina
was moved to gratitude.</p>
<p>‘Sir John,’ she said, ‘you hate me in your
heart; why are you so kind to me?’</p>
<p>‘Ah, my good lady,’ said he, with no disclaimer of
the accusation, ‘I have the honour to be much your
husband’s friend, and somewhat his admirer.’</p>
<p>‘You!’ she cried. ‘They told me you
wrote cruelly of both of us.’</p>
<p>‘Such was the strange path by which we grew
acquainted,’ said Sir John. ‘I had written,
madam, with particular cruelty (since that shall be the phrase)
of your fair self. Your husband set me at liberty, gave me
a passport, ordered a carriage, and then, with the most boyish
spirit, challenged me to fight. Knowing the nature of his
married life, I thought the dash and loyalty he showed
delightful. “Do not be afraid,” says he;
“if I am killed, there is nobody to miss me.”
It appears you subsequently thought of that yourself. But I
digress. I explained to him it was impossible that I could
fight! “Not if I strike you?” says he.
Very droll; I wish I could have put it in my book. However,
I was conquered, took the young gentleman to my high favour, and
tore up my bits of scandal on the spot. That is one of the
little favours, madam, that you owe your husband.’</p>
<p>Seraphina sat for some while in silence. She could bear
to be misjudged without a pang by those whom she contemned; she
had none of Otto’s eagerness to be approved, but went her
own way straight and head in air. To Sir John, however,
after what he had said, and as her husband’s friend, she
was prepared to stoop.</p>
<p>‘What do you think of me?’ she asked abruptly.</p>
<p>‘I have told you already,’ said Sir John: ‘I
think you want another glass of my good wine.’</p>
<p>‘Come,’ she said, ‘this is unlike you.
You are not wont to be afraid. You say that you admire my
husband: in his name, be honest.’</p>
<p>‘I admire your courage,’ said the Baronet.
‘Beyond that, as you have guessed, and indeed said, our
natures are not sympathetic.’</p>
<p>‘You spoke of scandal,’ pursued Seraphina.
‘Was the scandal great?’</p>
<p>‘It was considerable,’ said Sir John.</p>
<p>‘And you believed it?’ she demanded.</p>
<p>‘O, madam,’ said Sir John, ‘the
question!’</p>
<p>‘Thank you for that answer!’ cried
Seraphina. ‘And now here, I will tell you, upon my
honour, upon my soul, in spite of all the scandal in this world,
I am as true a wife as ever stood.’</p>
<p>‘We should probably not agree upon a definition,’
observed Sir John.</p>
<p>‘O!’ she cried, ‘I have abominably used
him—I know that; it is not that I mean. But if you
admire my husband, I insist that you shall understand me: I can
look him in the face without a blush.’</p>
<p>‘It may be, madam,’ said Sir John; ‘nor have
I presumed to think the contrary.’</p>
<p>‘You will not believe me?’ she cried.
‘You think I am a guilty wife? You think he was my
lover?’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ returned the Baronet, ‘when I tore
up my papers, I promised your good husband to concern myself no
more with your affairs; and I assure you for the last time that I
have no desire to judge you.’</p>
<p>‘But you will not acquit me! Ah!’ she cried,
‘<i>he</i> will—he knows me better!’</p>
<p>Sir John smiled.</p>
<p>‘You smile at my distress?’ asked Seraphina.</p>
<p>‘At your woman’s coolness,’ said Sir
John. ‘A man would scarce have had the courage of
that cry, which was, for all that, very natural, and I make no
doubt quite true. But remark, madam—since you do me
the honour to consult me gravely—I have no pity for what
you call your distresses. You have been completely selfish,
and now reap the consequence. Had you once thought of your
husband, instead of singly thinking of yourself, you would not
now have been alone, a fugitive, with blood upon your hands, and
hearing from a morose old Englishman truth more bitter than
scandal.’</p>
<p>‘I thank you,’ she said, quivering.
‘This is very true. Will you stop the
carriage?’</p>
<p>‘No, child,’ said Sir John, ‘not until I see
you mistress of yourself.’</p>
<p>There was a long pause, during which the carriage rolled by
rock and woodland.</p>
<p>‘And now,’ she resumed, with perfect steadiness,
‘will you consider me composed? I request you, as a
gentleman, to let me out.’</p>
<p>‘I think you do unwisely,’ he replied.
‘Continue, if you please, to use my carriage.’</p>
<p>‘Sir John,’ she said, ‘if death were sitting
on that pile of stones, I would alight! I do not blame, I
thank you; I now know how I appear to others; but sooner than
draw breath beside a man who can so think of me, I
would—O!’ she cried, and was silent.</p>
<p>Sir John pulled the string, alighted, and offered her his
hand; but she refused the help.</p>
<p>The road had now issued from the valleys in which it had been
winding, and come to that part of its course where it runs, like
a cornice, along the brow of the steep northward face of
Grünewald. The place where they had alighted was at a
salient angle; a bold rock and some wind-tortured pine-trees
overhung it from above; far below the blue plains lay forth and
melted into heaven; and before them the road, by a succession of
bold zigzags, was seen mounting to where a tower upon a tall
cliff closed the view.</p>
<p>‘There,’ said the Baronet, pointing to the tower,
‘you see the Felsenburg, your goal. I wish you a good
journey, and regret I cannot be of more assistance.’</p>
<p>He mounted to his place and gave a signal, and the carriage
rolled away.</p>
<p>Seraphina stood by the wayside, gazing before her with blind
eyes. Sir John she had dismissed already from her mind: she
hated him, that was enough; for whatever Seraphina hated or
contemned fell instantly to Lilliputian smallness, and was
thenceforward steadily ignored in thought. And now she had
matter for concern indeed. Her interview with Otto, which
she had never yet forgiven him, began to appear before her in a
very different light. He had come to her, still thrilling
under recent insult, and not yet breathed from fighting her own
cause; and how that knowledge changed the value of his
words! Yes, he must have loved her! this was a brave
feeling—it was no mere weakness of the will. And she,
was she incapable of love? It would appear so; and she
swallowed her tears, and yearned to see Otto, to explain all, to
ask pity upon her knees for her transgressions, and, if all else
were now beyond the reach of reparation, to restore at least the
liberty of which she had deprived him.</p>
<p>Swiftly she sped along the highway, and, as the road wound out
and in about the bluffs and gullies of the mountain, saw and lost
by glimpses the tall tower that stood before and above her,
purpled by the mountain air.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER II—TREATS OF A CHRISTIAN VIRTUE</h3>
<p>When Otto mounted to his rolling prison he found another
occupant in a corner of the front seat; but as this person hung
his head and the brightness of the carriage lamps shone outward,
the Prince could only see it was a man. The Colonel
followed his prisoner and clapped-to the door; and at that the
four horses broke immediately into a swinging trot.</p>
<p>‘Gentlemen,’ said the Colonel, after some little
while had passed, ‘if we are to travel in silence, we might
as well be at home. I appear, of course, in an invidious
character; but I am a man of taste, fond of books and solidly
informing talk, and unfortunately condemned for life to the
guard-room. Gentlemen, this is my chance: don’t spoil
it for me. I have here the pick of the whole court, barring
lovely woman; I have a great author in the person of the
Doctor—’</p>
<p>‘Gotthold!’ cried Otto.</p>
<p>‘It appears,’ said the Doctor bitterly,
‘that we must go together. Your Highness had not
calculated upon that.’</p>
<p>‘What do you infer?’ cried Otto; ‘that I had
you arrested?’</p>
<p>‘The inference is simple,’ said the Doctor.</p>
<p>‘Colonel Gordon,’ said the Prince, ‘oblige
me so far, and set me right with Herr von
Hohenstockwitz.’</p>
<p>‘Gentlemen,’ said the Colonel, ‘you are both
arrested on the same warrant in the name of the Princess
Seraphina, acting regent, countersigned by Prime Minister
Freiherr von Gondremark, and dated the day before yesterday, the
twelfth. I reveal to you the secrets of the
prison-house,’ he added.</p>
<p>‘Otto,’ said Gotthold, ‘I ask you to pardon
my suspicions.’</p>
<p>‘Gotthold,’ said the Prince, ‘I am not
certain I can grant you that.’</p>
<p>‘Your Highness is, I am sure, far too magnanimous to
hesitate,’ said the Colonel. ‘But allow me: we
speak at home in my religion of the means of grace: and I now
propose to offer them.’ So saying, the Colonel
lighted a bright lamp which he attached to one side of the
carriage, and from below the front seat produced a goodly basket
adorned with the long necks of bottles. ‘<i>Tu spem
reducis</i>—how does it go, Doctor?’ he asked
gaily. ‘I am, in a sense, your host; and I am sure
you are both far too considerate of my embarrassing position to
refuse to do me honour. Gentlemen, I drink to the
Prince!’</p>
<p>‘Colonel,’ said Otto, ‘we have a jovial
entertainer. I drink to Colonel Gordon.’</p>
<p>Thereupon all three took their wine very pleasantly; and even
as they did so, the carriage with a lurch turned into the
high-road and began to make better speed.</p>
<p>All was bright within; the wine had coloured Gotthold’s
cheek; dim forms of forest trees, dwindling and spiring, scarves
of the starry sky, now wide and now narrow, raced past the
windows, through one that was left open the air of the woods came
in with a nocturnal raciness; and the roll of wheels and the tune
of the trotting horses sounded merrily on the ear. Toast
followed toast; glass after glass was bowed across and emptied by
the trio; and presently there began to fall upon them a luxurious
spell, under the influence of which little but the sound of quiet
and confidential laughter interrupted the long intervals of
meditative silence.</p>
<p>‘Otto,’ said Gotthold, after one of these seasons
of quiet, ‘I do not ask you to forgive me. Were the
parts reversed, I could not forgive you.’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ said Otto, ‘it is a phrase we
use. I do forgive you, but your words and your suspicions
rankle; and not yours alone. It is idle, Colonel Gordon, in
view of the order you are carrying out, to conceal from you the
dissensions of my family; they have gone so far that they are now
public property. Well, gentlemen, can I forgive my
wife? I can, of course, and do; but in what sense? I
would certainly not stoop to any revenge; as certainly I could
not think of her but as one changed beyond my
recognition.’</p>
<p>‘Allow me,’ returned the Colonel. ‘You
will permit me to hope that I am addressing Christians? We
are all conscious, I trust, that we are miserable
sinners.’</p>
<p>‘I disown the consciousness,’ said Gotthold.
‘Warmed with this good fluid, I deny your
thesis.’</p>
<p>‘How, sir? You never did anything wrong? and I
heard you asking pardon but this moment, not of your God, sir,
but of a common fellow-worm!’ the Colonel cried.</p>
<p>‘I own you have me; you are expert in argument, Herr
Oberst,’ said the Doctor.</p>
<p>‘Begad, sir, I am proud to hear you say so,’ said
the Colonel. ‘I was well grounded indeed at
Aberdeen. And as for this matter of forgiveness, it comes,
sir, of loose views and (what is if anything more dangerous) a
regular life. A sound creed and a bad morality,
that’s the root of wisdom. You two gentlemen are too
good to be forgiving.’</p>
<p>‘The paradox is somewhat forced,’ said
Gotthold.</p>
<p>‘Pardon me, Colonel,’ said the Prince; ‘I
readily acquit you of any design of offence, but your words bite
like satire. Is this a time, do you think, when I can wish
to hear myself called good, now that I am paying the penalty (and
am willing like yourself to think it just) of my prolonged
misconduct?’</p>
<p>‘O, pardon me!’ cried the Colonel.
‘You have never been expelled from the divinity hall; you
have never been broke. I was: broke for a neglect of
military duty. To tell you the open truth, your Highness, I
was the worse of drink; it’s a thing I never do now,’
he added, taking out his glass. ‘But a man, you see,
who has really tasted the defects of his own character, as I
have, and has come to regard himself as a kind of blind teetotum
knocking about life, begins to learn a very different view about
forgiveness. I will talk of not forgiving others, sir, when
I have made out to forgive myself, and not before; and the date
is like to be a long one. My father, the Reverend Alexander
Gordon, was a good man, and damned hard upon others. I am
what they call a bad one, and that is just the difference.
The man who cannot forgive any mortal thing is a green hand in
life.’</p>
<p>‘And yet I have heard of you, Colonel, as a
duellist,’ said Gotthold.</p>
<p>‘A different thing, sir,’ replied the
soldier. ‘Professional etiquette. And I trust
without unchristian feeling.’</p>
<p>Presently after the Colonel fell into a deep sleep and his
companions looked upon each other, smiling.</p>
<p>‘An odd fish,’ said Gotthold.</p>
<p>‘And a strange guardian,’ said the Prince.
‘Yet what he said was true.’</p>
<p>‘Rightly looked upon,’ mused Gotthold, ‘it
is ourselves that we cannot forgive, when we refuse forgiveness
to our friend. Some strand of our own misdoing is involved
in every quarrel.’</p>
<p>‘Are there not offences that disgrace the
pardoner?’ asked Otto. ‘Are there not bounds of
self-respect?’</p>
<p>‘Otto,’ said Gotthold, ‘does any man respect
himself? To this poor waif of a soldier of fortune we may
seem respectable gentlemen; but to ourselves, what are we unless
a pasteboard portico and a deliquium of deadly weaknesses
within?’</p>
<p>‘I? yes,’ said Otto; ‘but you,
Gotthold—you, with your interminable industry, your keen
mind, your books—serving mankind, scorning pleasures and
temptations! You do not know how I envy you.’</p>
<p>‘Otto,’ said the Doctor, ‘in one word, and a
bitter one to say: I am a secret tippler. Yes, I drink too
much. The habit has robbed these very books, to which you
praise my devotion, of the merits that they should have
had. It has spoiled my temper. When I spoke to you
the other day, how much of my warmth was in the cause of virtue?
how much was the fever of last night’s wine? Ay, as
my poor fellow-sot there said, and as I vaingloriously denied, we
are all miserable sinners, put here for a moment, knowing the
good, choosing the evil, standing naked and ashamed in the eye of
God.’</p>
<p>‘Is it so?’ said Otto. ‘Why, then,
what are we? Are the very best—’</p>
<p>‘There is no best in man,’ said Gotthold.
‘I am not better, it is likely I am not worse, than you or
that poor sleeper. I was a sham, and now you know me: that
is all.’</p>
<p>‘And yet it has not changed my love,’ returned
Otto softly. ‘Our misdeeds do not change us.
Gotthold, fill your glass. Let us drink to what is good in
this bad business; let us drink to our old affection; and, when
we have done so, forgive your too just grounds of offence, and
drink with me to my wife, whom I have so misused, who has so
misused me, and whom I have left, I fear, I greatly fear, in
danger. What matters it how bad we are, if others can still
love us, and we can still love others?’</p>
<p>‘Ay!’ replied the Doctor. ‘It is very
well said. It is the true answer to the pessimist, and the
standing miracle of mankind. So you still love me? and so
you can forgive your wife? Why, then, we may bid conscience
“Down, dog,” like an ill-trained puppy yapping at
shadows.’</p>
<p>The pair fell into silence, the Doctor tapping on his empty
glass.</p>
<p>The carriage swung forth out of the valleys on that open
balcony of high-road that runs along the front of Grünewald,
looking down on Gerolstein. Far below, a white waterfall
was shining to the stars from the falling skirts of forest, and
beyond that, the night stood naked above the plain. On the
other hand, the lamp-light skimmed the face of the precipices,
and the dwarf pine-trees twinkled with all their needles, and
were gone again into the wake. The granite roadway
thundered under wheels and hoofs; and at times, by reason of its
continual winding, Otto could see the escort on the other side of
a ravine, riding well together in the night. Presently the
Felsenburg came plainly in view, some way above them, on a bold
projection of the mountain, and planting its bulk against the
starry sky.</p>
<p>‘See, Gotthold,’ said the Prince, ‘our
destination.’</p>
<p>Gotthold awoke as from a trance.</p>
<p>‘I was thinking,’ said he, ‘if there is any
danger, why did you not resist? I was told you came of your
free will; but should you not be there to help her?’</p>
<p>The colour faded from the Prince’s cheeks.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER III—PROVIDENCE VON ROSEN: ACT THE LAST<br />
IN WHICH SHE GALLOPS OFF</h3>
<p>When the busy Countess came forth from her interview with
Seraphina, it is not too much to say that she was beginning to be
terribly afraid. She paused in the corridor and reckoned up
her doings with an eye to Gondremark. The fan was in
requisition in an instant; but her disquiet was beyond the reach
of fanning. ‘The girl has lost her head,’ she
thought; and then dismally, ‘I have gone too
far.’ She instantly decided on secession. Now
the <i>Mons Sacer</i> of the Frau von Rosen was a certain rustic
villa in the forest, called by herself, in a smart attack of
poesy, Tannen Zauber, and by everybody else plain Kleinbrunn.</p>
<p>Thither, upon the thought, she furiously drove, passing
Gondremark at the entrance to the Palace avenue, but feigning not
to observe him; and as Kleinbrunn was seven good miles away, and
in the bottom of a narrow dell, she passed the night without any
rumour of the outbreak reaching her; and the glow of the
conflagration was concealed by intervening hills. Frau von
Rosen did not sleep well; she was seriously uneasy as to the
results of her delightful evening, and saw herself condemned to
quite a lengthy sojourn in her deserts and a long defensive
correspondence, ere she could venture to return to
Gondremark. On the other hand, she examined, by way of
pastime, the deeds she had received from Otto; and even here saw
cause for disappointment. In these troublous days she had
no taste for landed property, and she was convinced, besides,
that Otto had paid dearer than the farm was worth. Lastly,
the order for the Prince’s release fairly burned her
meddling fingers.</p>
<p>All things considered, the next day beheld an elegant and
beautiful lady, in a riding-habit and a flapping hat, draw bridle
at the gate of the Felsenburg, not perhaps with any clear idea of
her purpose, but with her usual experimental views on life.
Governor Gordon, summoned to the gate, welcomed the omnipotent
Countess with his most gallant bearing, though it was wonderful
how old he looked in the morning.</p>
<p>‘Ah, Governor,’ she said, ‘we have surprises
for you, sir,’ and nodded at him meaningly.</p>
<p>‘Eh, madam, leave me my prisoners,’ he said;
‘and if you will but join the band, begad, I’ll be
happy for life.’</p>
<p>‘You would spoil me, would you not?’ she
asked.</p>
<p>‘I would try, I would try,’ returned the Governor,
and he offered her his arm.</p>
<p>She took it, picked up her skirt, and drew him close to
her. ‘I have come to see the Prince,’ she
said. ‘Now, infidel! on business. A message
from that stupid Gondremark, who keeps me running like a
courier. Do I look like one, Herr Gordon?’ And she
planted her eyes in him.</p>
<p>‘You look like an angel, ma’am,’ returned
the Governor, with a great air of finished gallantry.</p>
<p>The Countess laughed. ‘An angel on
horseback!’ she said. ‘Quick work.’</p>
<p>‘You came, you saw, you conquered,’ flourished
Gordon, in high good humour with his own wit and grace.
‘We toasted you, madam, in the carriage, in an excellent
good glass of wine; toasted you fathom deep; the finest woman,
with, begad, the finest eyes in Grünewald. I never saw
the like of them but once, in my own country, when I was a young
fool at College: Thomasina Haig her name was. I give you my
word of honour, she was as like you as two peas.’</p>
<p>‘And so you were merry in the carriage?’ asked the
Countess, gracefully dissembling a yawn.</p>
<p>‘We were; we had a very pleasant conversation; but we
took perhaps a glass more than that fine fellow of a Prince has
been accustomed to,’ said the Governor; ‘and I
observe this morning that he seems a little off his mettle.
We’ll get him mellow again ere bedtime. This is his
door.’</p>
<p>‘Well,’ she whispered, ‘let me get my
breath. No, no; wait. Have the door ready to
open.’ And the Countess, standing like one inspired,
shook out her fine voice in ‘Lascia ch’io
pianga’; and when she had reached the proper point, and
lyrically uttered forth her sighings after liberty, the door, at
a sign, was flung wide open, and she swam into the Prince’s
sight, bright-eyed, and with her colour somewhat freshened by the
exercise of singing. It was a great dramatic entrance, and
to the somewhat doleful prisoner within the sight was
sunshine.</p>
<p>‘Ah, madam,’ he cried, running to
her—‘you here!’</p>
<p>She looked meaningly at Gordon; and as soon as the door was
closed she fell on Otto’s neck. ‘To see you
here!’ she moaned and clung to him.</p>
<p>But the Prince stood somewhat stiffly in that enviable
situation, and the Countess instantly recovered from her
outburst.</p>
<p>‘Poor child,’ she said, ‘poor child!
Sit down beside me here, and tell me all about it. My heart
really bleeds to see you. How does time go?’</p>
<p>‘Madam,’ replied the Prince, sitting down beside
her, his gallantry recovered, ‘the time will now go all too
quickly till you leave. But I must ask you for the
news. I have most bitterly condemned myself for my inertia
of last night. You wisely counselled me; it was my duty to
resist. You wisely and nobly counselled me; I have since
thought of it with wonder. You have a noble
heart.’</p>
<p>‘Otto,’ she said, ‘spare me. Was it
even right, I wonder? I have duties, too, you poor child;
and when I see you they all melt—all my good resolutions
fly away.’</p>
<p>‘And mine still come too late,’ he replied,
sighing. ‘O, what would I not give to have
resisted? What would I not give for freedom?’</p>
<p>‘Well, what would you give?’ she asked; and the
red fan was spread; only her eyes, as if from over battlements,
brightly surveyed him.</p>
<p>‘I? What do you mean? Madam, you have some
news for me,’ he cried.</p>
<p>‘O, O!’ said madam dubiously.</p>
<p>He was at her feet. ‘Do not trifle with my
hopes,’ he pleaded. ‘Tell me, dearest Madame
von Rosen, tell me! You cannot be cruel: it is not in your
nature. Give? I can give nothing; I have nothing; I
can only plead in mercy.’</p>
<p>‘Do not,’ she said; ‘it is not fair.
Otto, you know my weakness. Spare me. Be
generous.’</p>
<p>‘O, madam,’ he said, ‘it is for you to be
generous, to have pity.’ He took her hand and pressed
it; he plied her with caresses and appeals. The Countess
had a most enjoyable sham siege, and then relented. She
sprang to her feet, she tore her dress open, and, all warm from
her bosom, threw the order on the floor.</p>
<p>‘There!’ she cried. ‘I forced it from
her. Use it, and I am ruined!’ And she turned
away as if to veil the force of her emotions.</p>
<p>Otto sprang upon the paper, read it, and cried out
aloud. ‘O, God bless her!’ he said, ‘God
bless her.’ And he kissed the writing.</p>
<p>Von Rosen was a singularly good-natured woman, but her part
was now beyond her. ‘Ingrate!’ she cried;
‘I wrung it from her, I betrayed my trust to get it, and
’tis she you thank!’</p>
<p>‘Can you blame me?’ said the Prince.
‘I love her.’</p>
<p>‘I see that,’ she said. ‘And
I?’</p>
<p>‘You, Madame von Rosen? You are my dearest, my
kindest, and most generous of friends,’ he said,
approaching her. ‘You would be a perfect friend, if
you were not so lovely. You have a great sense of humour,
you cannot be unconscious of your charm, and you amuse yourself
at times by playing on my weakness; and at times I can take
pleasure in the comedy. But not to-day: to-day you will be
the true, the serious, the manly friend, and you will suffer me
to forget that you are lovely and that I am weak. Come,
dear Countess, let me to-day repose in you entirely.’</p>
<p>He held out his hand, smiling, and she took it frankly.
‘I vow you have bewitched me,’ she said; and then
with a laugh, ‘I break my staff!’ she added;
‘and I must pay you my best compliment. You made a
difficult speech. You are as adroit, dear Prince, as I
am—charming.’ And as she said the word with a
great curtsey, she justified it.</p>
<p>‘You hardly keep the bargain, madam, when you make
yourself so beautiful,’ said the Prince, bowing.</p>
<p>‘It was my last arrow,’ she returned.
‘I am disarmed. Blank cartridge, <i>O mon
Prince</i>! And now I tell you, if you choose to leave this
prison, you can, and I am ruined. Choose!’</p>
<p>‘Madame von Rosen,’ replied Otto, ‘I choose,
and I will go. My duty points me, duty still neglected by
this Featherhead. But do not fear to be a loser. I
propose instead that you should take me with you, a bear in
chains, to Baron Gondremark. I am become perfectly
unscrupulous: to save my wife I will do all, all he can ask or
fancy. He shall be filled; were he huge as leviathan and
greedy as the grave, I will content him. And you, the fairy
of our pantomime, shall have the credit.’</p>
<p>‘Done!’ she cried. ‘Admirable!
Prince Charming no longer—Prince Sorcerer, Prince
Solon! Let us go this moment. Stay,’ she cried,
pausing. ‘I beg dear Prince, to give you back these
deeds. ’Twas you who liked the farm—I have not
seen it; and it was you who wished to benefit the peasants.
And, besides,’ she added, with a comical change of tone,
‘I should prefer the ready money.’</p>
<p>Both laughed. ‘Here I am, once more a
farmer,’ said Otto, accepting the papers, ‘but
overwhelmed in debt.’</p>
<p>The Countess touched a bell, and the Governor appeared.</p>
<p>‘Governor,’ she said, ‘I am going to elope
with his Highness. The result of our talk has been a
thorough understanding, and the <i>coup d’état</i>
is over. Here is the order.’</p>
<p>Colonel Gordon adjusted silver spectacles upon his nose.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the Princess: very
right. But the warrant, madam, was
countersigned.’</p>
<p>‘By Heinrich!’ said von Rosen. ‘Well,
and here am I to represent him.’</p>
<p>‘Well, your Highness,’ resumed the soldier of
fortune, ‘I must congratulate you upon my loss. You
have been cut out by beauty, and I am left lamenting. The
Doctor still remains to me: <i>probus</i>, <i>doctus</i>,
<i>lepidus</i>, <i>jucundus</i>: a man of books.’</p>
<p>‘Ay, there is nothing about poor Gotthold,’ said
the Prince.</p>
<p>‘The Governor’s consolation? Would you leave
him bare?’ asked von Rosen.</p>
<p>‘And, your Highness,’ resumed Gordon, ‘may I
trust that in the course of this temporary obscuration, you have
found me discharge my part with suitable respect and, I may add,
tact? I adopted purposely a cheerfulness of manner; mirth,
it appeared to me, and a good glass of wine, were the fit
alleviations.’</p>
<p>‘Colonel,’ said Otto, holding out his hand,
‘your society was of itself enough. I do not merely
thank you for your pleasant spirits; I have to thank you,
besides, for some philosophy, of which I stood in need. I
trust I do not see you for the last time; and in the meanwhile,
as a memento of our strange acquaintance, let me offer you these
verses on which I was but now engaged. I am so little of a
poet, and was so ill inspired by prison bars, that they have some
claim to be at least a curiosity.’</p>
<p>The Colonel’s countenance lighted as he took the paper;
the silver spectacles were hurriedly replaced.
‘Ha!’ he said, ‘Alexandrines, the tragic
metre. I shall cherish this, your Highness, like a relic;
no more suitable offering, although I say it, could be made.
“<i>Dieux de l’immense plaine et des vastes
forêts</i>.” Very good,’ he said,
‘very good indeed! “<i>Et du geôlier
lui-même apprendre des leçons</i>.” Most
handsome, begad!’</p>
<p>‘Come, Governor,’ cried the Countess, ‘you
can read his poetry when we are gone. Open your grudging
portals.’</p>
<p>‘I ask your pardon,’ said the Colonel.
‘To a man of my character and tastes, these verses, this
handsome reference—most moving, I assure you. Can I
offer you an escort?’</p>
<p>‘No, no,’ replied the Countess. ‘We go
incogniti, as we arrived. We ride together; the Prince will
take my servant’s horse. Hurry and privacy, Herr
Oberst, that is all we seek.’ And she began impatiently to
lead the way.</p>
<p>But Otto had still to bid farewell to Dr. Gotthold; and the
Governor following, with his spectacles in one hand and the paper
in the other, had still to communicate his treasured verses,
piece by piece, as he succeeded in deciphering the manuscript, to
all he came across; and still his enthusiasm mounted.
‘I declare,’ he cried at last, with the air of one
who has at length divined a mystery, ‘they remind me of
Robbie Burns!’</p>
<p>But there is an end to all things; and at length Otto was
walking by the side of Madame von Rosen, along that mountain
wall, her servant following with both the horses, and all about
them sunlight, and breeze, and flying bird, and the vast regions
of the air, and the capacious prospect: wildwood and climbing
pinnacle, and the sound and voice of mountain torrents, at their
hand: and far below them, green melting into sapphire on the
plains.</p>
<p>They walked at first in silence; for Otto’s mind was
full of the delight of liberty and nature, and still,
betweenwhiles, he was preparing his interview with
Gondremark. But when the first rough promontory of the rock
was turned, and the Felsenburg concealed behind its bulk, the
lady paused.</p>
<p>‘Here,’ she said, ‘I will dismount poor
Karl, and you and I must ply our spurs. I love a wild ride
with a good companion.’</p>
<p>As she spoke, a carriage came into sight round the corner next
below them in the order of the road. It came heavily
creaking, and a little ahead of it a traveller was soberly
walking, note-book in hand.</p>
<p>‘It is Sir John,’ cried Otto, and he hailed
him.</p>
<p>The Baronet pocketed his note-book, stared through an
eye-glass, and then waved his stick; and he on his side, and the
Countess and the Prince on theirs, advanced with somewhat quicker
steps. They met at the re-entrant angle, where a thin
stream sprayed across a boulder and was scattered in rain among
the brush; and the Baronet saluted the Prince with much
punctilio. To the Countess, on the other hand, he bowed
with a kind of sneering wonder.</p>
<p>‘Is it possible, madam, that you have not heard the
news?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘What news?’ she cried.</p>
<p>‘News of the first order,’ returned Sir John:
‘a revolution in the State, a Republic declared, the palace
burned to the ground, the Princess in flight, Gondremark
wounded—’</p>
<p>‘Heinrich wounded?’ she screamed.</p>
<p>‘Wounded and suffering acutely,’ said Sir
John. ‘His groans—’</p>
<p>There fell from the lady’s lips an oath so potent that,
in smoother hours, it would have made her hearers jump. She
ran to her horse, scrambled to the saddle, and, yet half seated,
dashed down the road at full gallop. The groom, after a
pause of wonder, followed her. The rush of her impetuous
passage almost scared the carriage horses over the verge of the
steep hill; and still she clattered further, and the crags echoed
to her flight, and still the groom flogged vainly in pursuit of
her. At the fourth corner, a woman trailing slowly up
leaped back with a cry and escaped death by a
hand’s-breadth. But the Countess wasted neither
glance nor thought upon the incident. Out and in, about the
bluffs of the mountain wall, she fled, loose-reined, and still
the groom toiled in her pursuit.</p>
<p>‘A most impulsive lady!’ said Sir John.
‘Who would have thought she cared for him?’ And
before the words were uttered, he was struggling in the
Prince’s grasp.</p>
<p>‘My wife! the Princess? What of her?’</p>
<p>‘She is down the road,’ he gasped. ‘I
left her twenty minutes back.’</p>
<p>And next moment, the choked author stood alone, and the Prince
on foot was racing down the hill behind the Countess.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IV—BABES IN THE WOOD</h3>
<p>While the feet of the Prince continued to run swiftly, his
heart, which had at first by far outstripped his running, soon
began to linger and hang back. Not that he ceased to pity
the misfortune or to yearn for the sight of Seraphina; but the
memory of her obdurate coldness awoke within him, and woke in
turn his own habitual diffidence of self. Had Sir John been
given time to tell him all, had he even known that she was
speeding to the Felsenburg, he would have gone to her with
ardour. As it was, he began to see himself once more
intruding, profiting, perhaps, by her misfortune, and now that
she was fallen, proffering unloved caresses to the wife who had
spurned him in prosperity. The sore spots upon his vanity
began to burn; once more, his anger assumed the carriage of a
hostile generosity; he would utterly forgive indeed; he would
help, save, and comfort his unloving wife; but all with distant
self-denial, imposing silence on his heart, respecting
Seraphina’s disaffection as he would the innocence of a
child. So, when at length he turned a corner and beheld the
Princess, it was his first thought to reassure her of the purity
of his respect, and he at once ceased running and stood
still. She, upon her part, began to run to him with a
little cry; then, seeing him pause, she paused also, smitten with
remorse; and at length, with the most guilty timidity, walked
nearly up to where he stood.</p>
<p>‘Otto,’ she said, ‘I have ruined
all!’</p>
<p>‘Seraphina!’ he cried with a sob, but did not
move, partly withheld by his resolutions, partly struck stupid at
the sight of her weariness and disorder. Had she stood
silent, they had soon been locked in an embrace. But she
too had prepared herself against the interview, and must spoil
the golden hour with protestations.</p>
<p>‘All!’ she went on, ‘I have ruined
all! But, Otto, in kindness you must hear me—not
justify, but own, my faults. I have been taught so cruelly;
I have had such time for thought, and see the world so
changed. I have been blind, stone-blind; I have let all
true good go by me, and lived on shadows. But when this
dream fell, and I had betrayed you, and thought I had
killed—’ She paused. ‘I thought I
had killed Gondremark,’ she said with a deep flush,
‘and I found myself alone, as you said.’</p>
<p>The mention of the name of Gondremark pricked the Princes
generosity like a spur. ‘Well,’ he cried,
‘and whose fault was it but mine? It was my duty to
be beside you, loved or not. But I was a skulker in the
grain, and found it easier to desert than to oppose you. I
could never learn that better part of love, to fight love’s
battles. But yet the love was there. And now when
this toy kingdom of ours has fallen, first of all by my demerits,
and next by your inexperience, and we are here alone together, as
poor as Job and merely a man and a woman—let me conjure you
to forgive the weakness and to repose in the love. Do not
mistake me!’ he cried, seeing her about to speak, and
imposing silence with uplifted hand. ‘My love is
changed; it is purged of any conjugal pretension; it does not
ask, does not hope, does not wish for a return in kind. You
may forget for ever that part in which you found me so
distasteful, and accept without embarrassment the affection of a
brother.’</p>
<p>‘You are too generous, Otto,’ she said.
‘I know that I have forfeited your love. I cannot
take this sacrifice. You had far better leave me. O,
go away, and leave me to my fate!’</p>
<p>‘O no!’ said Otto; ‘we must first of all
escape out of this hornet’s nest, to which I led you.
My honour is engaged. I said but now we were as poor as
Job; and behold! not many miles from here I have a house of my
own to which I will conduct you. Otto the Prince being
down, we must try what luck remains to Otto the Hunter.
Come, Seraphina; show that you forgive me, and let us set about
this business of escape in the best spirits possible. You
used to say, my dear, that, except as a husband and a prince, I
was a pleasant fellow. I am neither now, and you may like
my company without remorse. Come, then; it were idle to be
captured. Can you still walk? Forth, then,’
said he, and he began to lead the way.</p>
<p>A little below where they stood, a good-sized brook passed
below the road, which overleapt it in a single arch. On one
bank of that loquacious water a foot-path descended a green
dell. Here it was rocky and stony, and lay on the steep
scarps of the ravine; here it was choked with brambles; and
there, in fairy haughs, it lay for a few paces evenly on the
green turf. Like a sponge, the hillside oozed with
well-water. The burn kept growing both in force and volume;
at every leap it fell with heavier plunges and span more widely
in the pool. Great had been the labours of that stream, and
great and agreeable the changes it had wrought. It had cut
through dykes of stubborn rock, and now, like a blowing dolphin,
spouted through the orifice; along all its humble coasts, it had
undermined and rafted-down the goodlier timber of the forest; and
on these rough clearings it now set and tended primrose gardens,
and planted woods of willow, and made a favourite of the silver
birch. Through all these friendly features the path, its
human acolyte, conducted our two wanderers downward,—Otto
before, still pausing at the more difficult passages to lend
assistance; the Princess following. From time to time, when
he turned to help her, her face would lighten upon his—her
eyes, half desperately, woo him. He saw, but dared not
understand. ‘She does not love me,’ he told
himself, with magnanimity. ‘This is remorse or
gratitude; I were no gentleman, no, nor yet a man, if I presumed
upon these pitiful concessions.’</p>
<p>Some way down the glen, the stream, already grown to a good
bulk of water, was rudely dammed across, and about a third of it
abducted in a wooden trough. Gaily the pure water,
air’s first cousin, fleeted along the rude aqueduct, whose
sides and floor it had made green with grasses. The path,
bearing it close company, threaded a wilderness of briar and
wild-rose. And presently, a little in front, the brown top
of a mill and the tall mill-wheel, spraying diamonds, arose in
the narrows of the glen; at the same time the snoring music of
the saws broke the silence.</p>
<p>The miller, hearing steps, came forth to his door, and both he
and Otto started.</p>
<p>‘Good-morning, miller,’ said the Prince.
‘You were right, it seems, and I was wrong. I give
you the news, and bid you to Mittwalden. My throne has
fallen—great was the fall of it!—and your good
friends of the Phoenix bear the rule.’</p>
<p>The red-faced miller looked supreme astonishment.
‘And your Highness?’ he gasped.</p>
<p>‘My Highness is running away,’ replied Otto,
‘straight for the frontier.’</p>
<p>‘Leaving Grünewald?’ cried the man.
‘Your father’s son? It’s not to be
permitted!’</p>
<p>‘Do you arrest us, friend?’ asked Otto,
smiling.</p>
<p>‘Arrest you? I?’ exclaimed the man.
‘For what does your Highness take me? Why, sir, I
make sure there is not a man in Grünewald would lay hands
upon you.’</p>
<p>‘O, many, many,’ said the Prince; ‘but from
you, who were bold with me in my greatness, I should even look
for aid in my distress.’</p>
<p>The miller became the colour of beetroot. ‘You may
say so indeed,’ said he. ‘And meanwhile, will
you and your lady step into my house.’</p>
<p>‘We have not time for that,’ replied the Prince;
‘but if you would oblige us with a cup of wine without
here, you will give a pleasure and a service, both in
one.’</p>
<p>The miller once more coloured to the nape. He hastened
to bring forth wine in a pitcher and three bright crystal
tumblers. ‘Your Highness must not suppose,’ he
said, as he filled them, ‘that I am an habitual
drinker. The time when I had the misfortune to encounter
you, I was a trifle overtaken, I allow; but a more sober man than
I am in my ordinary, I do not know where you are to look for; and
even this glass that I drink to you (and to the lady) is quite an
unusual recreation.’</p>
<p>The wine was drunk with due rustic courtesies; and then,
refusing further hospitality, Otto and Seraphina once more
proceeded to descend the glen, which now began to open and to be
invaded by the taller trees.</p>
<p>‘I owed that man a reparation,’ said the Prince;
‘for when we met I was in the wrong and put a sore affront
upon him. I judge by myself, perhaps; but I begin to think
that no one is the better for a humiliation.’</p>
<p>‘But some have to be taught so,’ she replied.</p>
<p>‘Well, well,’ he said, with a painful
embarrassment. ‘Well, well. But let us think of
safety. My miller is all very good, but I do not pin my
faith to him. To follow down this stream will bring us, but
after innumerable windings, to my house. Here, up this
glade, there lies a cross-cut—the world’s end for
solitude—the very deer scarce visit it. Are you too
tired, or could you pass that way?’</p>
<p>‘Choose the path, Otto. I will follow you,’
she said.</p>
<p>‘No,’ he replied, with a singular imbecility of
manner and appearance, ‘but I meant the path was
rough. It lies, all the way, by glade and dingle, and the
dingles are both deep and thorny.’</p>
<p>‘Lead on,’ she said. ‘Are you not Otto
the Hunter?’</p>
<p>They had now burst across a veil of underwood, and were come
into a lawn among the forest, very green and innocent, and
solemnly surrounded by trees. Otto paused on the margin,
looking about him with delight; then his glance returned to
Seraphina, as she stood framed in that silvan pleasantness and
looking at her husband with undecipherable eyes. A weakness
both of the body and mind fell on him like the beginnings of
sleep; the cords of his activity were relaxed, his eyes clung to
her. ‘Let us rest,’ he said; and he made her
sit down, and himself sat down beside her on the slope of an
inconsiderable mound.</p>
<p>She sat with her eyes downcast, her slim hand dabbling in
grass, like a maid waiting for love’s summons. The
sound of the wind in the forest swelled and sank, and drew near
them with a running rush, and died away and away in the distance
into fainting whispers. Nearer hand, a bird out of the deep
covert uttered broken and anxious notes. All this seemed
but a halting prelude to speech. To Otto it seemed as if
the whole frame of nature were waiting for his words; and yet his
pride kept him silent. The longer he watched that slender
and pale hand plucking at the grasses, the harder and rougher
grew the fight between pride and its kindly adversary.</p>
<p>‘Seraphina,’ he said at last, ‘it is right
you should know one thing: I never . . .’ He was
about to say ‘doubted you,’ but was that true?
And, if true, was it generous to speak of it? Silence
succeeded.</p>
<p>‘I pray you, tell it me,’ she said; ‘tell it
me, in pity.’</p>
<p>‘I mean only this,’ he resumed, ‘that I
understand all, and do not blame you. I understand how the
brave woman must look down on the weak man. I think you
were wrong in some things; but I have tried to understand it, and
I do. I do not need to forget or to forgive, Seraphina, for
I have understood.’</p>
<p>‘I know what I have done,’ she said.
‘I am not so weak that I can be deceived with kind
speeches. I know what I have been—I see myself.
I am not worth your anger, how much less to be forgiven! In
all this downfall and misery, I see only me and you: you, as you
have been always; me, as I was—me, above all! O yes,
I see myself: and what can I think?’</p>
<p>‘Ah, then, let us reverse the parts!’ said
Otto. ‘It is ourselves we cannot forgive, when we
deny forgiveness to another—so a friend told me last
night. On these terms, Seraphina, you see how generously
<i>I</i> have forgiven myself. But am not I to be
forgiven? Come, then, forgive yourself—and
me.’</p>
<p>She did not answer in words, but reached out her hand to him
quickly. He took it; and as the smooth fingers settled and
nestled in his, love ran to and fro between them in tender and
transforming currents.</p>
<p>‘Seraphina,’ he cried, ‘O, forget the
past! Let me serve and help you; let me be your servant; it
is enough for me to serve you and to be near you; let me be near
you, dear—do not send me away.’ He hurried his
pleading like the speech of a frightened child. ‘It
is not love,’ he went on; ‘I do not ask for love; my
love is enough . . .’</p>
<p>‘Otto!’ she said, as if in pain.</p>
<p>He looked up into her face. It was wrung with the very
ecstasy of tenderness and anguish; on her features, and most of
all in her changed eyes, there shone the very light of love.</p>
<p>‘Seraphina?’ he cried aloud, and with a sudden,
tuneless voice, ‘Seraphina?’</p>
<p>‘Look round you at this glade,’ she cried,
‘and where the leaves are coming on young trees, and the
flowers begin to blossom. This is where we meet, meet for
the first time; it is so much better to forget and to be born
again. O what a pit there is for sins—God’s
mercy, man’s oblivion!’</p>
<p>‘Seraphina,’ he said, ‘let it be so, indeed;
let all that was be merely the abuse of dreaming; let me begin
again, a stranger. I have dreamed, in a long dream, that I
adored a girl unkind and beautiful; in all things my superior,
but still cold, like ice. And again I dreamed, and thought
she changed and melted, glowed and turned to me. And
I—who had no merit but a love, slavish and
unerect—lay close, and durst not move for fear of
waking.’</p>
<p>‘Lie close,’ she said, with a deep thrill of
speech.</p>
<p>So they spake in the spring woods; and meanwhile, in
Mittwalden Rath-haus, the Republic was declared.</p>
<h2>BIBLIOGRAPHICAL POSTSCRIPT TO COMPLETE THE STORY</h2>
<p>The reader well informed in modern history will not require
details as to the fate of the Republic. The best account is
to be found in the memoirs of Herr Greisengesang (7 Bände:
Leipzig), by our passing acquaintance the licentiate
Roederer. Herr Roederer, with too much of an author’s
licence, makes a great figure of his hero—poses him,
indeed, to be the centre-piece and cloud-compeller of the
whole. But, with due allowance for this bias, the book is
able and complete.</p>
<p>The reader is of course acquainted with the vigorous and
bracing pages of Sir John (2 vols., London: Longman, Hurst, Rees,
Orme and Brown). Sir John, who plays but a tooth-comb in
the orchestra of this historical romance, blows in his own book
the big bassoon. His character is there drawn at large; and
the sympathy of Landor has countersigned the admiration of the
public. One point, however, calls for explanation; the
chapter on Grünewald was torn by the hand of the author in
the palace gardens; how comes it, then, to figure at full length
among my more modest pages, the Lion of the caravan? That
eminent literatus was a man of method; ‘Juvenal by double
entry,’ he was once profanely called; and when he tore the
sheets in question, it was rather, as he has since explained, in
the search for some dramatic evidence of his sincerity, than with
the thought of practical deletion. At that time, indeed, he
was possessed of two blotted scrolls and a fair copy in
double. But the chapter, as the reader knows, was honestly
omitted from the famous ‘Memoirs on the various Courts of
Europe.’ It has been mine to give it to the
public.</p>
<p>Bibliography still helps us with a further glimpse of our
characters. I have here before me a small volume (printed
for private circulation: no printer’s name; n.d.),
‘Poésies par Frédéric et
Amélie.’ Mine is a presentation copy, obtained
for me by Mr. Bain in the Haymarket; and the name of the first
owner is written on the fly-leaf in the hand of Prince Otto
himself. The modest epigraph—‘Le rime
n’est pas riche’—may be attributed, with a good
show of likelihood, to the same collaborator. It is
strikingly appropriate, and I have found the volume very
dreary. Those pieces in which I seem to trace the hand of
the Princess are particularly dull and conscientious. But
the booklet had a fair success with that public for which it was
designed; and I have come across some evidences of a second
venture of the same sort, now unprocurable. Here, at least,
we may take leave of Otto and Seraphina—what do I say? of
Frédéric and Amélie—ageing together
peaceably at the court of the wife’s father, jingling
French rhymes and correcting joint proofs.</p>
<p>Still following the book-lists, I perceive that Mr. Swinburne
has dedicated a rousing lyric and some vigorous sonnets to the
memory of Gondremark; that name appears twice at least in Victor
Hugo’s trumpet-blasts of patriot enumeration; and I came
latterly, when I supposed my task already ended, on a trace of
the fallen politician and his Countess. It is in the
‘Diary of J. Hogg Cotterill, Esq.’ (that very
interesting work). Mr. Cotterill, being at Naples, is
introduced (May 27th) to ‘a Baron and Baroness
Gondremark—he a man who once made a noise—she still
beautiful—both witty. She complimented me much upon
my French—should never have known me to be
English—had known my uncle, Sir John, in
Germany—recognised in me, as a family trait, some of his
<i>grand air</i> and studious courtesy—asked me to
call.’ And again (May 30th), ‘visited the
Baronne de Gondremark—much gratified—a most
<i>refined</i>, <i>intelligent</i> woman, quite of the old
school, now, <i>hélas</i>! extinct—had read my
<i>Remarks on Sicily</i>—it reminds her of my uncle, but
with more of grace—I feared she thought there was less
energy—assured no—a softer style of presentation,
more of the <i>literary grace</i>, but the same firm grasp of
circumstance and force of thought—in short, just
Buttonhole’s opinion. Much encouraged. I have a
real esteem for this patrician lady.’ The
acquaintance lasted some time; and when Mr. Cotterill left in the
suite of Lord Protocol, and, as he is careful to inform us, in
Admiral Yardarm’s flag-ship, one of his chief causes of
regret is to leave ‘that most <i>spirituelle</i> and
sympathetic lady, who already regards me as a younger
brother.’</p>
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