1
It was after the opening of the new parliament. The sun streamed as
though with square patches of molten gold along the white palaces of the
town, touching with blue what was shadow in the corners.
Two regiments of grenadiers, red and blue, stood in two double lines,
drawn up along the principal streets which led from the Parliament House
to the Imperial. The crowd pressed and tossed and cheered; all the
windows, open wide, swarmed with heads; people looked on from every
balcony. A shot thundered from Fort Wenceslas on the sea; the emperor
returned; the grenadiers presented arms in company after company....
* * * * *
The lancers lead the van, blue and white, with streaming pennants at the
points of their lances, six squadrons of them. The whole strength of the
throne-guards, white, with breastplates of glittering gold flashing in
the sunlight above the black satin skins of the stallions, ride halberd
on thigh, surrounding the gently swaying state-carriages, scintillating
with rich gilding and bright crystal and two of them crowned with the
imperial crown, with teams of six and eight plumed greys. The horses
foam over their bits, impatient, nervously pawing the ground, prancing
because of the slow, ceremonious pace along the blinding, flagged
roadway. In the first coach, the master of ceremonies, the Count of
Threma; in the second, with the crown and the team of eight--and the
roar of the cheering rises from behind the hedge of soldiers--the
emperor, his uniform all gold, his robes of scarlet and ermine, his
crown upon his head. It is the only time that the people have seen their
emperor wear his crown.
And they cheer. But the emperor makes no acknowledgment: through the
glass of the coach he looks out, to left and right in turns, at the
crowd, with a proud smile of self-consciousness and victory; and his
face, full of race, full of force, cold with will, proud with authority,
is inaccessible in its smile as that of a Roman emperor on his triumphal
entry.
It is a triumphal entry, this return from the Parliament House to his
Imperial: a triumph over that which they denied him and upon which he
has now laid his heavy hand, showing them all that his mere will can
bend them to his word and purpose. And the cheers rise louder and louder
from that capricious crowd, restrained like a woman by a ruler whom it
now adores for his strength and admires for his imperial might, upon
which he leans, as he passes from the Parliament House to his own
palace, as though it were a whole army that lived upon his nod; and
louder and louder, louder and louder the cheers ring out that sunny
afternoon over the marble houses; and the emperor smiles continually, as
though his smile meant:
"Cheer away! What else can you do but cheer?..."
In the next coach rides the Duke of Xara, robed, crowned; he stares
rigidly over the vociferating crowd with the same glance that his mother
reserves for the populace. In the next to that, the new governor-general
of the capital, the head of the emperor's military household, the Duke
of Mena-Doni, a rougher soldier than the Marquis of Dazzara and a less
practised courtier, under whose military fist the white capital, like a
beaten slave, crouched low during the martial law proclaimed after a
single hour of disturbance that ventured to follow upon the emperor's
decision to dissolve the house of deputies. His coarse, sensual mouth
smiles with the same smile as that of the emperor, whose rude force he
seems to impersonate; and he too seems to say:
"Cheer away, shout hurrah!"
Then the following carriages: the imperial chancellor, Count Myxila; the
ministers: seven of them forming part of the twelve who wished to
resign, the others chosen from among the most authoritative of the old
nobility in the house of peers itself!
Cheer away, shout hurrah!
Behind the coaches of the higher court-officials, the Xara cuirassiers,
the crown-prince's own regiment; behind them, a regiment of colonials:
Africans, black as polished ebony, with eyes like beads, their thick
mouths thrust forwards, clad in the muslin-like snow of their burnouses;
behind them, two regiments of hussars on heavy horses, in their long,
green, gold-frogged coats and their tall busbies.
Was ever parliament opened thus before, with such a display of military
force? And outside the town, on the high parade-grounds, do not the
people know that there are troops drawn together from every province,
camping there for the manoeuvres, the date of which has been
accelerated? And the increased garrisons of the forts, the squadron in
the harbour? Do the people themselves feel that they can do nothing else
than cheer and is that why they are cheering now, happy once more in
their cheering, with Roman docility and southern submission, enamoured
of the emperor because of the weight of his crushing fist, loving the
crown-prince for the attractive charm of his attitude in the north, or
perhaps because they think him interesting after an unsuccessful attempt
on his life?
And they seem not to feel that, through the grenadiers presenting arms,
they see neither the emperor nor the crown-prince saluting; they cheer
away, loving them in spite, perhaps because, of their indifference; they
cheer away like madmen....
Slowly the procession wends its way along the interminable main streets.
The whole city, despite its marble, trembles with the clatter of the
horses' hoofs upon the flagged pavement. Between the front escort and
the endless escort in the rear, the state-carriages, with their
glittering throne-guards, shimmer like a kind of jewel, small, rare,
carefully guarded. The cavalry are at this moment the soul of Lipara,
their echoing step its heart-beat; and between the grenadiers and the
tall houses the massed and cheering populace seems to have hardly room
to breathe.
The procession approaches the Imperial. Along the immense marble
fore-court the lancers and cuirassiers range themselves on three sides,
before the wings and along the front. Outside them the guards are drawn
up in line. The Africans close off the courtyard....
The carriages pull up; and the emperor alights. With the crown-prince by
his side, he goes through the vestibule up the stairs. The corridors of
the palace swarm with gold-laced uniforms; a packed suite crowds up
behind Oscar and Othomar. The master of the robes, with twelve grooms of
the bed-chamber, comes towards the emperor, who takes off his crown, as
does the crown-prince; their robes are unfastened for them.
They go to the great white hall, white with the Corinthian columns with
gilt capitals. The empress and the Princess Thera are there, surrounded
by their ladies. It is a great day: in this sun-apotheosis of the
opening of parliament the monarchy is triumphing over the threats of the
future and deferring that future itself. The empress, in her trailing
pale-mauve velvet, steps towards her spouse and curtseys before him
ceremoniously. The princess, the mistress of the robes, all the ladies
curtsey....
Outside, in front, the square is now filled by the multitude; an excited
popular clamour surges up against the immovable palace, as it were the
sea against a rock. The doors of the centre balcony are opened. The
emperor and the prince will show themselves....
"Only just salute once," whispers the emperor to his son, sternly.
The sun outside rains down gold upon the swarming mass, tinging it with
many-changing, chameleon, southern tints between the white, motionless
wings of the Imperial, whose caryatids look down placidly. The imperial
pair step on the balcony. Hats are thrown up towards them; the yelling
bellows with a shout as from a single noisy, vulgar throat and echoes
through the open doors against the gilt ceiling and columns of the white
hall. The empress is frightened by it, turns pale; her breath
catches....
On the balcony the Emperor of Liparia salutes his excited people with a
solitary wave of the hand; the Duke of Xara bows his head slightly.
2
There was no more talk of a revision of the constitution and reform of
the hereditary house of peers. The constitutional majority of
three-fourths which is required in the house of deputies before such a
proposal can be taken into consideration, though there at first, no
longer existed after the new elections. Oscar, immediately after his
return from Altara, had shown them his daring strength. Lipara was
surrounded with troops: this was as well, for the manoeuvres, for the
King of Syria, who was expected. The forts were strengthened, the fleet
lay in the harbour; then came the imperial decree that the house of
deputies should simply ... be dissolved. What an outcry, after the
promulgation of that decree, in the newspapers and in the streets! For
one moment, at night, there was an abortive riot. But the emperor,
furious with the Marquis of Dazzara for his delay in taking prompt and
energetic measures, had next day affirmed his august dissatisfaction.
The marquis was shown that there were moments when the emperor was not
to be trifled with; the emperor dismissed him personally, on the spot,
and told him he could go. Crushed, his eyes full of despair, the marquis
left the Imperial; in the fore-court his carriage crossed that of the
Duke of Mena-Doni, lieutenant-general of the hussars; he saw the duke's
sensual, Neronic head, covetous with ambition, staring up at the front
of the palace. The marquis threw himself back in his carriage, wringing
his hands and weeping like a child....
That same morning martial law was proclaimed at Lipara and the Duke of
Mena-Doni appointed governor of the capital. With a great military
display and a speech of three words the emperor dissolved the house of
deputies. The people trembled, beaten off, thrashed, reduced to
crouching at the imperial feet. The decree was issued for the general
election. Must the people be chastised to make them attached to their
emperor? Was it because of the innumerable articles in the newspapers of
the northern provinces--Altara, Vaza and Lycilia--which bestowed all
their sympathy upon their most charming, charitable crown-prince,
indefatigable, omnipresent, mitigating what suffering he could? Was it
because of the colossal, fabulous presents of millions contributed from
the imperial privy purse to the fund for the victims of the disaster?
The result of the elections became known: the new house of deputies
contained a bare, impotent majority of constitutionals. What did it
profit that the liberal papers shrieked of intrigue and undue pressure?
Without and within the city lay the army; each day the emperor showed
himself, with by his side the Duke of Mena-Doni....
The emperor invited the old ministry to remain in office, but dismissed
those of the ministers who were not absolutely authoritative.
The crisis was at an end. The great spring manoeuvres were to take place
on the parade-ground so soon as the King and Queen of Syria arrived at
Lipara.
In Othomar there sprang up a vast admiration for his father. He did not
love him with the fondness, the intimacy, the still almost childish
dependence with which he loved the empress; he had always looked up to
him; as a child he had been afraid of him. Now, after the personal
courage which he had seen the emperor display, the sovereign power which
he had watched him exercise, his majesty rose higher before Othomar's
eyes, as it were the statue of a demi-god. He felt himself a lowly
mortal beside him, when he thought:
"What should _I_ have done, if I had had to act in this case? Should I
have dared to take the prompt decision to dissolve the house of deputies
and should I not have feared an immediate revolution in every corner of
the country? Should I, after the disturbances, have dared to dismiss the
Marquis of Dazzara at once, like a lackey, attached as he was to our
house and descended from our most glorious nobility? Should I have dared
to summon that duke, that swashbuckler, with his cruel face, even before
I had dismissed the marquis, so that the one arrived as the other
departed?"
And he already saw himself hesitating in imagination, not knowing what
would be best, above all not knowing what would be most just; he
pictured himself advised by old Count Myxila, at last determined to
dissolve the deputies, but not dismissing the marquis, not declaring
martial law in Lipara and assembling the troops too late and seeing the
revolution burst out at all points simultaneously, with bomb upon
bomb....
To do what was most just, this seemed to him the most difficult thing
for a sovereign.
But the emperor's monarchic triumph had this result, that, clearly as
Othomar saw his own weakness, a reflex of strength and determination was
cast upon him from his father himself, by whose side he stood. Moreover,
he had not much time for brooding. Each day brought its special duties.
Scarcely was he able to allow himself one hour of solitary repose. He
was accustomed to this life of constant movement, of constant public
appearances, now here, now there, so thoroughly accustomed to it that he
did not feel the fatigue which was already exhausting him before his
tour in the north and which had now eaten into his nerves and marrow. He
gave this fatigue no thought, regarded it perhaps as an organic languor,
a transitory symptom, which was bound to pass. And each day brought its
own fatigue. Thus he had grown accustomed to rise early, at seven every
morning; Lipara then still lay white and peaceful in its rosy slumber of
the dawn; he rode out on his thorough-bred Arab, black Emiro, with his
favourite collie close behind him, galloping with him, its pointed nose
poked out, its shaggy collar sticking up; unaccompanied by equerries, he
rode through the park of the Imperial to the Elizabeth Parks, in the
afternoon the resort of elegant carriages and horsemen, but in the
morning peaceful, wide and deserted, with barely a solitary early rider,
who made way respectfully for the prince and took his hat off low. Then
he rode along the white quays with their villas and palm-trees, their
terraces and aloes; and the incomparable harbour lay before him, always
growing an intenser blue beneath the pink morning light, which became
cruder. Higher up, the docks, the ships, the hum of industry already
audible. Slowly he walked his horse along the harbour; in the porticoes
of the villas he sometimes caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, saw her
eyes following him through roses and clematis. He loved this ride
because of the soft, fresh air, because of his horse, his dog, because
of his solitude with these two, because of the long, silent quays, the
wide, silent sky, the distant horizon still just enveloped in latest
morning mist. The morning breeze blew against his forehead under his
uniform cap; thoughts wandered at random through his brain. Then he
shook himself free from this voluptuousness, rode back to the town and
went to the Xaverius Barracks, occupied by the lancers; to the Wenceslas
Barracks occupied by the grenadiers; or to the Berengar Barracks,
occupied by the hussars. Here he enquired, investigated, inspected; and
here he found his equerries, Dutri and Leoni; he rode back with them to
the palace, and repaired to his father's room. This was the hour when
Count Myxila came to the emperor and when affairs of state were
discussed with the imperial chancellor; lately the crown-prince had
assisted at these meetings. Next he visited the empress, who was
expecting him: it was generally a most delightful moment, this which
they spent confidentially together before lunch, a moment full of charm
and intimacy. He sat close by her on a low chair, took her hand, poured
out to her the burdens of his heart, communicated to her his anxiety
about the future, about himself when later he himself would wear the
crown. At such times his eyes peered up through their lashes, with their
dark melancholy; his voice was querulous and begged for comfort. And she
encouraged him: she told him that nothing happened but what had to
happen; that everything was inevitable in the world's great chain of
events, joined link by link; that he must wait for what might come, but
at the same time do his duty; and that he must not unnerve himself with
such endless pondering, which led to nothing. He told her how he feared
his own hesitation and how he suspected that his decisions would always
come too late; and she, gently laughing, replied that, if he knew his
own faults so well, he should train himself to make his mind. He
questioned her about justice--the one thing that seemed impossible to
him on earth--and she referred him to his own feeling, as a human soul.
But yet, intensely sweet as these hours were, he felt that he remained
the same under their interchange of words and that, though words had
been exchanged, nothing was changed within him. Wherefore he thought
himself wicked and was afraid that he did not love his mother enough,
with enough conviction. Then he looked at her, saw her smiling, divined
beneath her smile the nervous dread which would never again relinquish
its grasp of her and felt that she spoke like this only for his sake, to
cheer him, and not from conviction. And his thoughts no longer wandered
discursively about him, as on his morning ride along the quays: they
fell like fine mists one upon the other in his imagination and formed
his melancholy.
Lunch was taken privately. After lunch he sat for an hour to Thera, who
was painting his portrait. In the afternoon there were always different
things to do: exhibitions, charities, institutions of all kinds to be
visited, a foundation-stone to be laid, a man-of-war to be launched.
Every minute was filled; and each day filled his minutes differently
from the day before. Dinner was always a meal of great etiquette and
splendour; every day there were numerous guests: diplomatists, high
officials, officers. It lasted long; it was an emperor's daily
ceremonial banquet. Then in the evening the parties at court, or at the
houses of the ambassadors or dignitaries; the theatres and concerts. The
prince, however, never stayed late. He then read or worked for a couple
of hours in his own room; at twelve o'clock he went to bed.
He was used to this life of monotonous variety, had grown up in it. So
soon as he returned from Lycilia to Lipara--the city was then still
under martial law--he found it waiting for him busier than ever; the
opening of parliament had followed close upon his return. The emperor
was pleased with the crown-prince's conduct in the north, perhaps
because of the praise which the northern newspapers bestowed upon the
Duke of Xara for his ready sympathy, because of his moment of
popularity. He wanted to let his son take more and more part in affairs
of state and discussed them with him more frequently either alone or in
the company of the imperial chancellor. But the stern measures of
drastic violence which the Duke of Mena-Doni had taken--he himself at
Lipara, his officers at Thracyna: furious charges of hussars against the
threatening crowds--these revolted Othomar; he had heard of them with
anguish and despair, though he knew that there was nothing to be
achieved by gentleness. And with his veneration for the emperor, as for
a demi-god of will and force, there was mingled a certain antipathy and
grudge, which divided him from his father and made any interchange of
thought between them difficult.
Now, after the opening of parliament, the town, the whole country had
quieted down; the troops, however, remained on the parade-ground, for
the approaching manoeuvres. The arrival of the King and Queen of Syria
was fixed. Othomar's days succeeded one another as before. He was
entertained at banquets by the officers of the throne-guards and of the
other regiments to which he belonged. Yes, this was his hour of
popularity. It was already said that his surname one day would be
Othomar the Benevolent. It was at this time that he laid the
foundation-stone of a great alms-house, to whose establishment the will
of an immensely wealthy, childless duke--one of the oldest Liparian
families, which had become extinct--had contributed millions.
Othomar's gentleness was in amiable contrast with Oscar's justly exerted
but rough force. He himself, however, was inwardly very much astonished
at this talk of benevolence: he liked to do good, but did not feel the
love of doing good as a leading feature in his character.
After the dinner given to him by the staff-officers, Othomar was to go
in the evening with Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni to the Duke of Yemena, to
thank the court marshal officially for the hospitality shown him at
Castel Vaza. The duke occupied at Lipara a large, new house; his old
family-residence was at Altara.
* * * * *
It is nine o'clock; the crown-prince is not yet expected. The duke and
duchess, however, are already receiving their guests; the duchess sent
out numerous invitations when Othomar announced his visit. The spacious
reception-rooms fill up: almost the whole of the diplomatic corps is
present, as are some of the ministers and great court-officials with
their wives, old Countess Myxila and her daughters and a number of
officers. They form the intimate circle of the Imperial. A jaunty
familiarity prevails among them, with the _sans-gêne_ in vogue.
Near the duchess stands Lady Danbury, the wife of the British first
secretary, and the Marquis of Xardi, the duke's son. They are talking
busily about the Dazzaras:
"I've seen them," says Lady Danbury. "It's shocking, shocking. They're
living at Castel Dazzara, that old ruin in Thracyna, with their five
daughters, poor things! The ceilings are falling in. Three crooked old
men in livery; and the liveries even older than the servants. And debts,
according to what I hear, debts! I was astonished to see how old the
marchioness had grown; she has taken it terribly to heart, it seems."
"Grown old?" asks the duchess. "I thought she looked quite young still,
last time I saw her...."
She detests Lady Danbury, who is tall, thin and sharp-featured, her
appearance rather suggesting that of a graceful adder. And she
continues:
"She still looked so well; she is slender, but she has a splendid neck
and shoulders.... I really cannot understand how she can have grown so
old...."
And, as though brooding over this puzzle, the duchess stares at the lean
shoulders of Lady Danbury.
Xardi's eyes glitter; he expects a skirmish.
"They say that the marquis _used_ to be one of your intimates, don't
they?" the Englishwoman insinuates.
But that hateful "used to be" grates on Xardi's nerves.
"I am very fond of the Dazzaras," says the duchess; "but"--and she
laughs mysteriously and meaningly--"he was always an unlucky bird...."
"His excellency the Duke of Mena-Doni," the butler announces.
"The rising sun!" Xardi whispers to Lady Danbury.
Mena-Doni bows before the duchess, who smiles upon him. Lady Danbury,
standing by Xardi's side, continues:
"And the lucky bird?"
"Oh no!" says Xardi, with decision. "At least, not altogether...."
They look at each other and laugh:
"Imperial eagles are the finest birds, after all, don't you think?" says
Lady Danbury, jestingly.
"What do you know about it?"
"Alas, I am too unimportant to know anything! Before I get so far in my
zoological studies...."
"But what have you heard?"
"What everybody hears when Dutri can't hold his tongue."
"What about?"
"About a certain tender parting at Castel Vaza...."
The Marquis of Xardi bursts out laughing. Lady Danbury suddenly clutches
his arm:
"I say, Xardi, I know less slender people than the Marchioness of
Dazzara who would fall into a decline if they lost the imperial favour.
_Et toi?_"
The marquis laughs loudly and:
"Even the crown-princely favour," he whispers, behind Lady Danbury's
Watteau fan.
And they chuckle with laughter together.
"His imperial highness the Duke of Xara; their excellencies Count
Ducardi, Prince Dutri and the Marquis of Leoni!" are announced, slowly
and impressively.
There is a slight movement in the groups. The room divides into two
rows; a couple of ladies get entangled in their trains and laugh. Then
they all wait.
Othomar appears at the open door; Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni are behind
him. The old duke hastens towards the prince; the Marquis of Xardi
hurriedly thrusts Lady Danbury's fan into her hand and joins his father.
The old duke is a well-knit, elegant man, full of racial refinement,
with a clean-shaven face; he is dressed simply in evening-clothes, with
the broad green riband of a commander of the Imperial Orb slanting
across his breast and the grand cross of St. Ladislas round his neck.
Othomar wears his full-dress uniform as colonel of the Xara Cuirassiers,
silver, red and white; he holds his plumed helmet under his arm; he
presses the duke's hand, he addresses him with genial words; but, in the
ingenuousness of his youthful soul, he feels bitter remorse gnawing at
his conscience now that he speaks of Castel Vaza, now that he listens to
the cordial protestations of the duke. Othomar also shakes hands with
the Marquis of Xardi.
Then the duchess approaches and greets the crown-prince with her famous
curtsey. Lady Danbury envies her her grace and asks herself how it is
possible, with those statuesque lines; she cannot deny that the Duchess
of Yemena is a splendid woman.... Between the duke and the duchess, the
prince walks down the row of bowing guests; the Marquis of Xardi follows
with the equerries.
Othomar has seen the duchess once or twice at the Imperial since his
return to Lipara, but never alone. They now exchange courteous phrases,
with official voices and intonations. The groups form once more, as at
an intimate rout.
The duchess walks on with Othomar, till they reach the long
conservatory, dimly lighted, dusky-green, with the stately palm-foliage
of the tall plants, with the delicate tracery of the bamboos, which
exude beads of dew against the square panes. They are silent for a
moment, looking at each other; and Othomar feels that his emotions for
this woman are nothing more than fleeting moments, cloudlets in his
soul. The unknown has opened out to him, but has turned to disillusion.
Nevertheless he is thankful to her for what she gave him: the
consolation of her passion, while his eyes were still moist with tears.
She strengthened him by this consolation and made him discover his
manhood. But everything in life is twofold; and his gratitude has a
reverse of sin. He sees the duke in the distance holding an animated
conversation, underlined with elegant, precise gestures, with Ducardi;
and remorse softly pierces his boyish soul.
And next to his gratitude he feels his disillusion. Love! Is this
love?... He feels nothing; nothing new has come into his heart. He sees
how deliciously beautiful the duchess is in her ivory brocade, her train
edged with dark fur, her bodice cut square, a string of pearls round her
neck. The half-light drifts past her through the plants, a faery green,
with a gentle slumbering and with shadows full of mystery; her face,
with its delicate smile, stands out against the background of blurred
darkness. He recalls her kiss and the mad embrace of her arms. Yes, it
was a blissful enervation, an intoxication of the flesh, an unknown
giddiness, a physical comfort. But love: was it love?... And he has to
make up his mind: perhaps it is love; and, though he feels something
lacking in his soul, he makes up his mind for all that: yes, perhaps
that is what it is ... love.
"And when shall I see your highness again?" she whispers.
The question is put crudely and surprises him. But this single second of
momentary solitude is so precious to the duchess that she cannot do
otherwise. She observes his surprise and adores him for his innocence;
and her eyes gaze so beseechingly that he replies:
"To-morrow I am dining with the French ambassador; after that I am going
to the opera.... Can I find you here at eleven o'clock?"
He is surprised at the logical sequence of his thoughts, at his
question, which sounds so strangely in his ears. But she answers,
laughing disconcertedly:
"For God's sake, highness, not here, at eleven o'clock! How could we!...
But ... come to ... Dutri's...."
She stammers; she remembers the equerry's luxurious flat and sees
herself there again ... with others. And in her confusion she does not
perceive that she has wounded him deeply and torn his sensitiveness as
though with sharp claws; she fails all the more to perceive this,
because he answers, confusedly:
"Very well...."
They return, laughing, with their official, colourless voices; they walk
slowly: he, so young in his silver uniform, with the helmet, with its
drooping plume, under the natural grace of his rounded arm; she, with
her expansive brilliancy, trailing her ivory train, waving her fan of
feathers and diamonds to and fro against her Carrara-marble bosom. All
eyes are turned in their direction and observe the duchess' triumph....
And Othomar now knows that his "love" will become what is called a
_liaison_, such as he has heard of in connection with this one and that,
or read of in novels. He had not yet imagined such an arrangement. He
does not know how he is to tell Dutri that he has made an assignation
with the duchess in his rooms; and, when he thinks of the equerry,
something of his innate sovereignty is chipped off as little pieces of
marble or alabaster might be from a frail column....
Joining the duke and the general, he talks of the approaching
manoeuvres. He now sees the duchess standing at a distance and Mena-Doni
bending his Neronic head close to her face. His great antipathy for this
man is mingled with jealousy. And, while he smiles and listens to the
Duke of Yemena, he feels that he now knows for certain that his love
after all _is_ love, because jealousy plays a part in it.
3
Next morning, when Othomar rode out alone, he was thinking the whole
time of Dutri. The difficulty of broaching the subject to his equerry
struck him as unsurmountable. His heart beat when he met Dutri waiting
for him in the Xaverius Barracks. But the young officer had the tact to
whisper to him, very calmly and courteously, as though it were the
simplest matter in the world:
"I was talking with the Duchess of Yemena, highness.... Her excellency
told me that your highness wished to speak to her in private and did me
the honour.... Will your highness take this key?..."
Othomar mechanically accepted the key. His face remained rigid and
serious, but inwardly he felt much annoyed with the duchess and did not
understand how and why she could drag Dutri into their secret. The ease
and simplicity with which she had evidently done so flashed across him
as something alarming. A confusion seemed to whirl through his head, as
though the duchess and Dutri had, with one breath, blasted all sorts of
firm convictions of his youth. He thought of the old duke. He considered
all this wrong. He knew that Dutri was a young profligate; he was in the
habit of hearing the whole gazette of court scandal from him, but he had
never believed one-half of what Dutri related and had often told the
equerry bluntly that he did not like to hear ill spoken of people whom
they saw daily, people attached to his house. Now it seemed to him that
everything that Dutri had said might be true and that yet worse things
might well take place. This key, offered with such simple politeness,
with such libertine ease, appeared to him as an object of searing
dishonour. He was already ashamed of having put the thing in his
pocket....
He went on, however. The key burnt him while he spoke with General
Ducardi and, on his return to the Imperial, with his father and Myxila.
Before going to visit the empress, who was awaiting him, he locked it
away in his writing-table; then slowly, his forehead overshadowed, step
by step he went through the long galleries to the empress' apartments.
In the anteroom the lady-in-waiting rose, curtseyed, knocked at the door
and opened it:
"His highness the Duke of Xara...."
Othomar silently made the sign of the Cross, as though he were entering
a church:
"May God and His Mother forgive me!" he murmured between his lips.
Then he entered the empress' room.
She was sitting alone in the large drawing-room, at one of the open
windows overlooking the park. She wore a very simple, smooth, dark
dress. It struck him how young she looked; and he reflected that she was
younger than the duchess. An aureole of delicate purity seemed to quiver
around her tall, slender form like an atmosphere of light and gave her a
distinction which other women did not possess. She smiled to him; and he
came up slowly and kissed her hand.
She had not yet seen him that day; she took his head between her cool,
slim hands and kissed him.
He sat down on a low chair by her side. Then she passed her hand over
his forehead:
"What's the matter?" she asked.
He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected
nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded
forehead. She stroked it once more:
"I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said.
He looked up at her.
"He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea
that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with
you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement,
sometimes, upon various political questions."
This opinion of his father's surprised him.
"And about what did you promise to talk to me?"
"About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile.
"About your marriage, Othomar."
"My marriage?..."
"Yes, my boy.... You will soon be twenty-two. Papa married much later in
life, but he had many brothers. They are dead. Uncle Xaverius is in his
monastery. And we--papa and I--are not ever likely to have any more
children, Othomar."
She put her arms about him and drew him to her. She whispered:
"We have no one but you, my boy, and our little Berengar. And ... papa
therefore thinks that you ought to marry. We want an hereditary prince,
a Count of Lycilia...."
His eyes became moist; he laid his head against her:
"Two to become emperor? Berengar, if I should be gone before him: is not
that enough, mamma?"
She smilingly shook her head in denial. No, that was not certainty
enough for the house of Czyrkiski-Xanantria.
"Mamma," he said, gently, "when sociologists speak of the social
question, they deplore that so many children are born among the
proletariate and they even hold the poor parents, who have nothing else
but their love, responsible for the greater social misery which they
cause through those children. Does not this reproach really affect us
also? Or do you think an emperor so happy?"
Her brow became overcast.
"You are in one of your gloomy moods, Othomar. For God's sake, my boy,
do not give way to them. Do not philosophize so much; accept life as it
has been given to you. That is the only way in which to bear it. Do not
reflect whether you will be happy, when you are emperor, but accept the
fact that you must become emperor in your turn."
"Very well, for myself: but why children, mamma?"
"What sovereign allows his house to die out, Othomar? Do not be foolish.
Cling to tradition: that is all in all to us. Don't have such strange
ideas upon this question. They are not those of a future--I had almost
said--autocrat; they are not those of a monarch. You understand,
Othomar, do you not? You must, you must marry...."
Her voice sounded more decided than usual, sounded almost hard.
"And, dearest boy," she continued, "thank the circumstances and marry
now, as quickly as possible. Our relations with foreign countries are at
this moment such that there are no particular indications as to whom you
ought to marry. You can more or less pick and choose. For you are the
crown-prince of a great empire, my boy, of one of the greatest empires
in Europe...."
He tried to speak; she continued, hurriedly:
"I repeat, you can--very nearly--choose. You don't know how much that
means. Appreciate this, appreciate the circumstances. Travel to all the
courts of Europe that are worth considering. Use your eyes, make your
choice. There are pretty princesses in England, in Austria...."
Othomar closed his eyes an instant, as though exhausted with weariness:
"Later on, mamma," he whispered.
"No, my boy," said the empress, "do not speak of later on, do not put
off. Think it over. Think how you will order your journey and whom you
will take with you and then talk it over with papa and Myxila. Will you
promise?"
He just pressed his head against her and promised, with a weary smile.
"But what's the matter with you, my boy?" she asked. "What is it?"
His eyes grew moist.
"I don't know, mamma. I am so tired sometimes...."
"Aren't you well?"
"Yes, I'm all right, but I am so tired...."
"But why, my child?"
He began to sob softly:
"Tired ... of everything ... mamma."
She looked at him for a long time, shook her head slowly,
disapprovingly.
"Forgive me, mamma," he stammered, wiping his eyes. "I shan't give way
like this again...."
"You promised me that once before, Othomar dear."
He leant his head against her once more, like a child:
"No, really," he declared, caressingly, "I really will resist it. It is
not right of me, mamma. I will employ myself more, I shall grow
stronger. I swear to you I shall grow stronger for your sake...."
She again looked long in his eyes, with her pure smile. Utter tenderness
went out from her to him; he felt that he would never love any one so
much as his mother. Then she took him in her arms and pressed him close
against her:
"I accept your promise and I thank you ... my poor boy!" she whispered
through her kiss.
At this moment there came a buzz of young voices, as though from birds
set free, out of the park, through the open windows. The tripping of
many little feet grated on the gravel. A high, shrill, childish voice
suddenly rang with furious words from among the others; the others were
silent....
The empress started with a shock that was electric. She drew herself up
hastily, deadly pale:
"Berengar!" she cried; and her voice died away.
"And I shall tell his majesty what a scoundrel you are and then we'll
see! Then we'll see, then we'll see!..."
The empress trembled as she leant out of the window. She saw ten or
eleven little boys; they looked perplexed.
"Where is his highness?" she asked.
"His highness is over there, ma'am!" shyly answered a little count,
pointing to the back-court, which the empress could not see.
"But what is happening? What a noise to make! Send his highness here at
once! Berengar! Berengar!"
His highness, Berengar, was called and came. He passed through the
little dukes and counts and looked up at the window through which his
mother was leaning. He was a small, sturdily built, vigorous little
chap; his face was crimson with indignation, his two small, furious eyes
were like two black sparks.
"Berengar, come here!" cried the empress. "What is all this? Why can't
you play without quarrelling?"
"I'm not quarrelling, mamma, but ... but I shall tell papa ... and ...
and then we'll see! Then we'll ..."
"Berengar, come in here at once, through the palace, at once!" commanded
the empress.
Othomar looked out from behind the empress at the group of boys. He saw
Berengar speak a word of apology to the biggest little duke and
disappear through the back-court.
A minute later, the boy entered the room.
"Berengar," said the empress, "it's very bad manners to make such a
noise in the park ... and just behind the palace too."
The boy looked at her with his serious little crimson face:
"Yes, mamma," he assented, gently.
"What happened?"
Berengar's lips began to tremble.
"It was that beastly sentry ..." he began.
"What about the sentry?"
"He ... he didn't present arms to me!"
"Didn't the sentry present arms to you? Why not?"
"I don't know!" cried Berengar, indignantly.
"But surely he always does?"
"Yes, but this time he did not. He did the first time when we passed,
but not the second time.... We were playing touch and, when we ran past
him the second time, he didn't present arms!"
Othomar began to scream with laughter.
"There's nothing to laugh at!" cried Berengar, angrily. "And I shall
tell papa and then you shall see."
"But, Berengar," said the empress, "did you expect the man to present
arms to you every time you ran past him while you were playing touch?"
Berengar reflected:
"He might at least have done it the second time. If it had been three,
or four, or five times, I could have understood.... But only the second
time!... What can the boys have thought of me?"
"Listen, Berengar," said the empress, "whatever happens, it is not at
all proper for you to call people names, whoever they may be, nor to
make such a noise in the park, right behind the palace. An emperor's son
never calls names, not even to a sentry. So now you must go straight to
that sentry and tell him you are sorry you lost your temper so."
"Mamma!" cried the child, in consternation.
The empress' face was inflexible:
"I insist, Berengar."
The boy looked at her with the greatest astonishment:
"But am I to say that ... to the sentry, mamma?"
"Yes."
Evidently Berengar at this moment failed to understand the order of the
universe; he suspected for an instant that the revolution had broken
out:
"But, mamma, I can't do that!"
"You must, Berengar, and at once."
"But, mamma, will papa approve of it?"
"Certainly, Berengar," said Othomar. "Whatever mamma tells you to do
papa of course approves of."
The boy looked up at Othomar helplessly; his little face grew long, his
sturdy little fists quivered. Then he burst into a fit of desperate
sobbing.
"Come, Berengar, go," the empress repeated.
The child was still more dismayed by her severity: that was how he
always saw her stare at the crowd, but not at her children. And he threw
himself with the small width of his helpless little arms into her
skirts, embraced her and sobbed, with great, gulping sobs:
"I can't do it, mamma, I can't do it!"
"You must, Berengar...."
"And ... and ... and I _shan't_, I _shan't!_" the boy screamed, in a
sudden fury, stamping his foot.
The empress did nothing but look at him, very long, very long. Her
reproachful glance crushed the boy. He sobbed aloud and seemed to forget
that his little friends outside would be sure to hear his highness
sobbing. He saw that there was nothing to be done, that he must do it.
He must! His imperial highness Berengar Marquis of Thracyna, knight of
St. Ladislas, must say he was sorry to a sentry and one moreover who
denied him, his highness, his rights.
His medieval little childish soul was all upset by it. He understood
nothing more. He only saw that he must do as he was told, because his
mother looked at him with such a sad expression:
"Othomar!" he sobbed, in his despair. "Othomar! Will ... you ... go with
me ... then? But how am I to do it, how am I to do it?"
Othomar smiled to him compassionately and held out his hand to him. The
empress nodded to the princes to go.
"How am I to do it? O God, how am I to do it?" she still heard
Berengar's voice sobbing desperately in the lobby.
Elizabeth had turned deadly pale. As soon as she was alone, she sank
into a chair, with her head flung back. Hélène of Thesbia entered at
this moment:
"Madam!" cried the young countess. "What is it?"
The empress put out her hand; Hélène felt that it was icy cold.
"Nothing, Hélène," she replied. "But Berengar frightened me so terribly.
I thought ... I thought they were murdering him!"
And in an hysterical fit of spasmodic sobbing she threw herself into the
countess' arms.
4
That night, before Othomar left with his equerries to dine at the French
ambassador's, he drew Dutri aside:
"I see, prince, that her excellency the duchess confides in you fully,"
he said, in curt tones. "I do not doubt that her confidence is well
placed. But I assure you of this: if it should ever appear that it was
misplaced, I shall never--now or at any later period--forget it...."
Dutri looked up strangely; he heard his future emperor address him. Then
he pouted like a sulky child and said:
"I cannot say that your highness is very grateful for the hospitality
which I have offered you...."
Othomar smiled painfully and gave him his hand....
"Or that it is kind of your highness to threaten me to-day with your
displeasure," Dutri continued.
"I know you, Dutri," the prince said in his ear. "I know your tongue.
That's my only reason for warning you.... And now, for God's sake, say
no more about this, for it ... it all gives me pain...."
Dutri was silent, thought him a child and a prince in one. He shrugged
his shoulders silently at Othomar's incomparable innocence, but he
shuddered when he thought of a possible disgrace. He had no fortune; his
position with the crown-prince was his life, his ambition, his all, for
now and for later, when the prince should be emperor!... How pleased he
had been at first that Alexa had told him everything, that he knew a
secret of his prince, who never seemed to have any secrets! A vague
pleasure that this secret would give him a power over his future emperor
had already flitted through his head, full of frivolous calculations.
And now the prince was threatening him and that power was frustrated at
its very inception! And Dutri was now almost sorry that he had learned
this secret; he even feared that the emperor might come to hear of it,
that he would be visited with the father's displeasure even before the
son's....
"If only Alexa had not dragged me into it!" he complained to himself,
with his shallow fickleness of thought.
But, although Dutri was silent and even contradicted the rumour, the
crown-prince's _liaison_ was discussed, possibly only because of Alexa's
triumphant glances whenever Othomar addressed a word to her at a
reception, at a ball. Nevertheless, Dutri's contradiction introduced a
certain confusion--for he was known as a ready blabber--and people did
not know what to think or what to believe.
But Othomar did not feel happy in his love. The fierce passion of this
woman with her fiery glances, who overpowered him one moment with her
kisses and the next crept before him like a slave and crouched at his
feet in humility before her future sovereign, at first astonished him
and, in one or two of his fits of despair, carried him away, but in the
long run aroused in him a feeling of disinclination and opposition. In
the young equerry's scented flat where they met--it was as dainty as any
young girl's sitting-room and padded like a jewel-case--he sometimes
felt a wish to repulse this woman, for all that she loved him with her
strange soul and did not feign her love; he felt a wish to kick her, to
beat her. His temperament was not fit for so animal a passion. She
seemed to harry his nerves. She revolted him at times. And yet ... one
single word from him and she mastered her fierceness, sank down humbly
by his side, softly stroked his hand, his head; and he could not doubt
that she adored him, perhaps a little because he was the crown-prince,
but also greatly for himself.
And so April came; already it was almost summer; the King and Queen of
Syria were expected. They had been first to the sultan and afterwards to
the court of Athens. From Liparia they were to go on to the northern
states of Europe. On the day of their arrival, Lipara fluttered with
flags; the southern sun, already potent, rained down gold upon the white
city; the harbour rippled a brilliant blue. A hum of people--tanned
faces, many peasants from Thracyna still clad in their parti-coloured
national dress--swarmed and crowded upon the quays. On the azure of the
water, as on liquid metal, the ironclads, which were to welcome the king
and queen and serve as their escort, steamed out to the mouth of the
harbour. There, on the _Xaveria_, with their suite of admirals and
rear-admirals, were the two princes, Othomar and Berengar, and their
brother-in-law, the Archduke of Carinthia. Innumerable small boats
glided rapidly over the sea, like water-spiders.
A shot from Fort Wenceslas, tearing the vivid ether, announced the
moment at which the little fleet met the Syrian yacht and the oriental
potentates left her for the _Xaveria_. From the villas on the quays,
from the little boats full of sight-seers, every glass was directed
towards the blue horizon, tremulous with light, on which the ships were
still visibly shimmering. Half an hour later there rose, as though
coming from the Imperial, the cheers of the multitude, surging louder
and louder towards the harbour. Through the rows of the grenadiers, who
lined the streets from the palace to the pavilion where the august
visitors were to land, came the landaus, driven by postillions, in which
their majesties sat. These were followed by the carriages of the two
sisters, the Archduchess of Carinthia and Thera, and of the suite.
The fleet, with the Syrian yacht in its centre, had steamed back into
the harbour. Across the guard-of-honour formed by the throne-guards,
through the purple draperies and the flags, the crowd were able to see
something of the meeting of the sovereigns in the pavilion. They shouted
their hurrahs; and then the procession drove to the Imperial, the
emperor with the King of Syria in the first carriage, the empress with
the queen in the next; after these, the landaus with the princes and
princesses and the suite.
A series of festivals and displays followed. After the tragedies of the
inundations and the parliamentary crisis, a mood of gaiety blew over the
capital, as it glittered in the sun, and lasted till late in the lighted
rooms and parks of the Imperial. This gaiety was because of the eastern
queen. The King of Syria may have had a few drops of the blood of
Solomon still flowing through his veins. But the queen was not of royal
descent. She was the daughter of a Syrian magnate and her mother's name
was not mentioned in the _Almanach de Gotha_. That mother was doubtless
a favourite of dubious noble descent, but nobody knew who she had been
exactly. A _demi-mondaine_ from Paris or Vienna, who had stranded in the
east and made her fortune in the harem of some great Syrian? A
half-European, half-Egyptian dancer from a Cairene or Alexandrian
dancing-house? Whoever she was, her lucky daughter, the Queen of Syria,
showed an unmistakable mixture of blood, something at once eastern and
European. Next to the true Semitic type of the king, who possessed a
certain nervous dignity in his half-European, half-oriental uniform
glittering with diamonds, the queen, short, fat, chubby, pale-brown, had
the exuberant smiles, the restless movements, the turning head and
rolling eyes of a woman of colour. Her very first appearance, as she sat
in the carriage, next to the delicate figure of the Empress Elizabeth,
in a gaudy travelling-dress and a hat with great feathers, bowing and
laughing on every side with profuse amiability, had affected the
Liparians, accustomed to the calm haughtiness of their own rulers, with
an apparently inextinguishable gaiety. The Queen of Syria became the
universal topic of conversation; and every conversation referring to her
was accented with a smile of wickedness. Withal she seemed so entirely
good-natured that it was impossible to say a word against her; and
people were only amused about her. They remembered that the Syrians had
subscribed fabulous sums at the time of the inundations. And the
merriment that blew over Lipara was a southern merriment, free from
malice and vented in sheer jolly laughter and delight, because the
Liparians had never seen so droll a queen.
The great manoeuvres took place on the parade-ground. The king
accompanied the emperor and the princes on horseback, with a bevy of
European and oriental aides-de-camp. Their consorts with their suite
watched the march-past from landaus. Berengar marched bravely with his
company of grenadiers, in which he was a lieutenant, as well as he could
march with his short little legs, and stiffened his small features, so
as not to betray the difficulty it cost him to keep pace with his men's
long step. The hussars astonished the Syrian monarch by their unity with
their horses, when in wild career they threw themselves half off and in
still more rapid rushes picked up a flag from the ground, swung
themselves up again with a yell and waved the bunting. The Africans
executed their showy fantasias, brandished their spears, which flashed
like loosened sheaves of sunbeams, and came fluttering on in clouds of
white burnouses and dust, amid which their negro heads clustered darkly
in endless black patches and their eyes glistened.
In addition there was a military tournament, followed by garden-parties,
races, regattas, popular games and fireworks. Lipara was one city of
pleasure. Every day it was traversed by royal processions, the array of
uniforms glittered like live gold, the imperial landaus rattled in the
sun, with the spokes of their wheels flashing through the light dust
which flew up from the flagged pavements of the town. Most brilliant of
all, like drops of white flame, were the diamonds which the Syrian pair
wore even in the streets. At night, when the sun ceased shining, there
shone over the white town, vague with evening light, and over its violet
harbour, festoons of salamanders and gaudy bridges of fire, factitiously
bright beneath the silent silver glances of the stars; rockets fell
hissing into the water, on which the boats showed black, and left behind
them a faint, oppressive savour of gunpowder in the night.
In the great hall of pillars the ceremonial banquets followed one after
the other, with a display of gold plate of incredible value. The Queen
of Syria wore her curious, theatrical costumes, her broad bosom always
crossed by the blue ribbon of an order covered with badges; her hair was
dressed with tall plumes, hung with small diamonds. She talked with
great vivacity, thankful for the kindness of her Liparian friends, for
the enjoyment and for the cheering. Her profuse gestures enlivened
everybody, introduced an element of fun into the stately Liparian
etiquette. Elizabeth herself could not but laugh at them. The queen
played her royal part with the self-possession of a bad but good-natured
actress. She spoke to everybody, spread amiable little atoms of her
small, chubby, brown majesty over one and all. Next her sat the king,
looking dignified and wise as Solomon. The emperor praised him for a
sensible, broad-minded sovereign: the king had already paid many visits
to Europe. The Syrian aide-de-camps were dignified too, calm and
composed, a little stiff in their ways, adapting themselves to western
manners; the queen's ladies-in-waiting wore the trains of their Paris or
London dresses a little strangely, but still looked slender in them,
brown and attractive, with their curly little heads and long,
almond-shaped eyes: still they would have been prettier in draped
gold-gauze.
The Syrians stayed twelve days before going on to Italy. It was the last
evening but one: in the Imperial a suite of fourteen rooms had been
lighted up around the great ballroom for a ball. Three thousand
invitations had been sent out. In the fore-court and in the neighbouring
main-streets stood the grenadiers.
The ballroom was at the back of the palace; the tall, balconied windows
were open and looked across their balustrades upon the shadows of the
park of plane-trees. The band resounded from the groups of palms in the
gallery. The imperial quadrille had been formed in the centre of the
room: the emperor with the queen, the king and the empress, the Archduke
of Carinthia and Thera, Othomar with the archduchess. The other official
quadrilles formed their figures around them. Hundreds of guests looked
on.
From the coruscating rock-crystal of the chandeliers, the electric light
flowed in white patches out of the high dome, glided along the
inlaid-marble walls and porphyry pillars of the ballroom and poured in
millions of scintillations on the smooth facets of the jewels, on the
gold of the uniforms and court-dresses, on the shimmering white brocades
of the trains; for white was prescribed: all the ladies were in white;
and the snow of the velvets, the lily glow of the satins were
silver-shrill. One blinding whirl of refulgence passed through the
immense room with its changing glamours. For the light never stood
still, continually changed its brightest spot, turned the ball into one
glittering kaleidoscope. The light gilded each bit of gold-lace, was
caught in every brilliant, hung in every pearl. The music seemed to be
one with that light; the brass resounded like gold.
The Duchess of Yemena stood among a group of diplomatists and equerries;
she rose monumental in her beauty, which was statuesque and splendid in
this wayward illumination. She seemed supernaturally tall, thanks to the
heavy Watteau plait which trailed from her back in white brocade. She
wore her tiara of emeralds and brilliants; and the same green stones
sparkled in a great jewelled spray that blossomed over her bodice.
The emperor came up to her; she drooped in her famous curtsey and Oscar
jested with her for a moment. When the emperor had passed on, she saw
the crown-prince approach. She curtseyed again; he bowed smilingly and
offered her his arm. Slowly they went through the ballroom.
"I have something important to say to you," he whispered, in a
conversational tone.
He could not move away with her; they would be missed. So they continued
to walk through the rooms.
"It is so long since I saw you ... alone!" she whispered, reproachfully,
in the same voice. "And what did ... what did your highness wish to say
to me?"
They spoke cautiously, with the smile of cool conversation on their
lips, deadening the sound of their voices, casting indifferent glances
around them, to see whether they could be overheard.
"Something ... that I have long wanted to tell you.... A decision I have
to take...."
The words came crumbling in fragments from his lips and not sounding
with their true accent, from caution. She perceived that he was about to
tell her some great piece of news. She trembled without knowing why....
He himself did not know whether what he was doing was cruel or not: he
did not know this woman well enough for that. But he did know that he
had purposely chosen this difficult moment for his interview, because he
was uncertain how she would bear it ... how she would bear it in a
_tête-à-tête_, when she would be able to give way to her passion. Here
he knew how she would bear it: smilingly, as a woman of the world,
although it turned to anguish for her. Perhaps after all he was
cruel.... But it was too late now: he must go through with it.
She looked up at him, moving the feathers of her fan. He continued:
"A decision.... When our Syrian guests have left ... I ... I am going on
a journey...."
"Where to, highness?"
"To ... to different European courts...."
She asked nothing more; her smile died away; then she smiled again, like
an automaton. She asked nothing more, because she well knew what it
meant when a crown-prince went on a journey to different European
courts. That meant a bridal progress. And she merely said, in a voice
that could not but sound plaintively:
"So soon?..."
So soon!... Was her imperial romance to last so short a time? She had
indeed known that this might be the end of it, for she knew him to be
too pure to retain her by the side of a young consort. Also she had
pictured an end like this after a year, two years perhaps, she
withdrawing herself, and she had pictured to herself that she would do
so without any feeling of spite against her young future empress. But
now! So soon! Barely a few weeks! So short a time as that no romance of
her life had ever lasted! She felt an aching melancholy; a mist hazed
over her eyes; and the lights of the ballroom shimmered before her as if
through water. She constantly forgot to smile, but, so soon as she
remembered, she smiled again:
"So soon?..."
"It must be...."
Yes, it must be, it could not be otherwise. For her, this was the end of
her life. She felt no despair because of this ending; only a smarting
sorrow. It was the end. After this imperial romance there would be no
other. Oh no, never more! She would sacrifice her youth to it; she would
launch her stepdaughters into society. She would be grateful that she
had lived and would now grow old. But old: she was still so young, she
still felt herself so young! She now first perceived how she loved her
crown-prince. And she would have liked to be elsewhere, far from the
brilliant ball, to embrace him once more alone, for the last time....
Oh, this sorrow because everything must end, as though nothing were more
than a fleeting perfume!...
"I am trusting you, duchess," he now said. "I hope you will say nothing
about this journey. You understand, it is all still a secret; no choice
has been made yet ... it has been discussed with no one except their
majesties and Myxila. I can trust you, can't I?"
She smilingly nodded yes.
"But I wanted to tell you at once," he continued.
She smiled again. At this moment a strange storm seemed to burst ...
behind the palace, under the palace, where? Right through the blare of
the music and the blaze of the light, a crash of thunder shook and
rolled. It was as though the palace had been struck by lightning, for
immediately afterwards, through the open windows, there came from one of
the back-wings of the palace a rattling clatter of stones, which seemed
tossed into the air, of great rafters, which fell noisily and roughly,
of shivers of glass, which seemed to be splintering shrilly on every
side....
The music was suddenly silenced. The uniforms, the court-trains rushed
to the open balconies, which overlooked the park; but the night was
dark, the park was hushed. A last couple of rafters seemed to be still
falling, with a last crash of stones....
In the bright glare of the electric light, faces turned deathly pale,
like the faces of corpses. Eyes stared at one another in terror. The
duchess half-sank against Othomar when she saw Elizabeth tear past her
with wild, vacant eyes and out at a door, her long, white velvet train
trailing madly after her, round the corner. The mistress of the robes
followed her; so did Hélène of Thesbia. The emperor appeared to give the
chamberlains some hurried orders; then he also left the ballroom,
accompanied by a few officers.
Shortly afterwards the music again burst forth from the balcony in the
gallery. Many equerries and aides-de-camp were seen bowing to their
partners, the ladies trembling as they rose. The ball proceeded; the
uniforms and trains glittered as before in the windings of the waltz.
But the smiles seemed to have been obliterated from the dancers'
features and their pallid faces turned the ball into a dance of death.
Leoni, shivering, bowed before Othomar:
"A dynamite explosion, low down in the cellars of the western back-wing.
The anterooms of his majesty's private apartments are destroyed. His
majesty requests your highness to make every effort to continue the
ball. All officers and court-ladies are commanded to dance."
The duchess clutched Othomar's arm, almost fainting. The rumour spread
around them. The equerries dragged their partners along half-swooning.
Two were seen carried away in a dead faint. The Queen of Syria stood
vacantly beside the Archduke of Carinthia, who put his arm round her
heavy waist to dance. She did not yet seem able to make up her mind.
Othomar passed his arm round the duchess:
"O God, I can't do it!" she stammered. "For God's sake, highness, don't
ask me!..."
"We must," he said. "His majesty wishes it...."
"His majesty wishes...." she repeated.
Her legs trembled beneath her as though with electric thrills. Then she
let him take her and they danced.
Every one danced.
The empress had rushed up the stairs and along the galleries to the
bedroom-floor. She did not see that two ladies were following her; she
thrust back a door:
"Berengar!" she screamed.
The young prince's bedroom was lighted. The boy had half-risen, in his
little shirt, from his camp-bed. His valet and a chambermaid stood in
dismay in the middle of the room.
"Berengar!" the empress gasped out, rejoicing when she saw him unharmed.
She threw her arms around him, pressed him to her bosom.
"Oh, mamma, you're hurting me!" cried the boy, indignantly.
Her jewels had brought a drop of blood from his little bare chest. She
now embraced him more gently, with nervous sobs that choked in her
throat. A spray of diamond ostrich-feathers fell to the ground; the maid
picked them up with awkward fingers.
"Mamma, are they blowing up the palace?"
"No, Berengar, no, it's nothing...."
"Mamma, I want to go and look! I must see what's happening!"
"Berengar...."
The door had been left open; the emperor entered, calmly. The ladies
stood in the corridor, waiting for the empress....
"Papa, may I go with you and look?"
"No, Berengar, there's nothing to see. Go to sleep...."
Then he offered his arm to Elizabeth:
"Madam," he said, tranquilly.
She threw him an imploring glance. He continued to hold out his arm to
her. Then she kissed the boy once more, soothed him to sleep:
"Wait a moment," she stammered to Oscar.
She went to the glass; the maid, with her clumsy fingers, fastened the
jewelled spray to the edge of the low-cut bodice, spread out the square
train.
"I'm ready," the empress said to Oscar, in a lifeless voice.
She took his arm; the emperor just pressed her hand; and they nodded
once more to Berengar and went.
Arm-in-arm the imperial pair appeared for the second time at the ball.
The empress was pale but smiling. She was magnificent, delicate with
dainty majesty in the trailing white velvet, upon which, on the bodice
and over the front of the skirt, flickered sprays of diamond
ostrich-feathers, formed into fleurs-de-lys. An empress' crown of
brilliants crowned her small, round head.
It was two o'clock. Generally the sovereigns were accustomed to stay
till one o'clock at the court balls. The Queen of Syria, however, in her
exuberant love of life, had begged them to stay longer. They had
consented. Had they left at one o'clock, the explosion would have taken
place at the moment when Oscar would probably just have entered his
apartments. They had first talked of the anterooms only: but it would
now appear that great damage had also been done to the emperor's own
room.
Supper began. They supped in a large hall; from every table rose a
palm-tree and the hall was thus turned into a forest of palms. The floor
was strewn with gold sand, which powdered the trains as their wearers
walked upon it. Electric light shone through the long leaves like
moonlight. In this moonlight the faces remained deadly white, like
patches of chalk, above the glittering crystal and all the gold plate.
The music clattered with great cymbal-strokes of brass.
5
"To HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN OF GOTHLAND.
"IMPERIAL,
"LIPARA,
"--_May_, 18--.
"MY DEAREST SISTER,
"At last I can find time to write to you. The excitement of the visit of
our good Syrians is over and Lipara has calmed down. But my reflections
are nothing but sadness. And this is why, Olga.
"I fear that Othomar is much more ill than the doctors perceive. He has
become thinner and looks very bad. He never complains much, but yet he
told me lately that he often felt tired. The doctors think that he needs
a rest and recommend a long sea-voyage. His journey through Europe,
about which I wrote to you in my last, will have to be postponed. And
now I want to ask you a favour.
"I know that Herman is soon going to take a long voyage on the _Viking_
to India, Japan and America; and it would be my fondest wish at this
moment that Othomar might accompany him. When the doctors advised a
sea-voyage, I discussed the matter to Oscar, but we came to no decision.
My boy, you must know, Olga, has no friend of his own age; and this made
me so sad and we did not know how nor with whom to send him on this
voyage in a way which would be pleasant for him and which would not
involve a solitary banishment from our home-circle. He is on excellent
terms with his equerries, but yet that is not what I should desire: a
cordial, mutual, confidential friendship with some one of his own age
with whom he could spend a certain time, solely with a view to enjoyment
and relaxation.
"I know quite well that it is to some extent my boy's fault and due to
his innate diffidence and reticence. Nevertheless he has qualities for
which he could easily be loved, if they were known, if he allowed them
to appear. Don't you agree, Olga? You are fond of him too: it is not
only my own blind mother's love that finds my son lovable and
sympathetic? And that is why I should be so very glad if Herman would
take him with him and learn to know him better: who knows whether they
would not then come to love each other! Othomar has already told me
that, on their journey through the north of Liparia, they were drawn
much closer together than they had thought they would be; but it was a
busy time: every moment was filled with duties and business and they had
no time to talk together and get to know each other. And yet, at such a
difficult period of united labour, two young men can learn to know each
other even without talking. At any rate, they have already become more
friendly. At one time, Olga, they used to dislike each other, to my
bitter sorrow; they would even not meet; even outwardly there was
nothing but coolness between them: oh, how unhappy all this used to make
me, when I saw our boys so hostile to each other and remembered how _we_
used to be, Olga, when we were girls together in our beautiful old
castle near Bucharest! How we lived bound up in each other! Olga, Olga,
how terribly long ago that all is! Our parents are dead, our brothers
dispersed, the castle is deserted and we are separated: when do we see
each other? Scarcely now and then, for a couple of days at a time, when
we meet somewhere for a wedding of relations; and then these are always
restless days, when we can see next to nothing of each other. Then,
sometimes, not even every year, a fortnight either in Gothland or here.
You sometimes reproach me that I, who am so fond of Gothland, come to
you so seldom, but it is always for the same reason: Othomar does not
care to leave Liparia and I can't leave my husband. I can be strong when
I am at his side, but alone I am so weak, Olga. That anything might
happen to _him_ which I should not share increases my dread unbearably.
I felt that again quite lately, when I was with Thera at Altara: our
visit was announced and binding; and, however unwilling I was to leave
Oscar, I was obliged to go, was I not? It was just at that trying
period; Lipara was under martial law. But Oscar wished me to go and I
went. Oh, how I suffered at that time!
"But I am becoming used to my fears, I do not complain and I accept life
as it comes; I only hope that my boy will also learn to accept it thus.
Perhaps he will learn. Indeed it is not so easy for him, for he will
have to do more than his mother, who, as a woman, can be much more
passive; and it is easier to learn to acquiesce passively than actively.
But the Saints will surely give him strength later to bear his lot and
his crown; this I rely upon. And yet, O Olga, it makes me so immensely
sad that we are sovereigns! But let me not continue in this strain: it
weakens one, it is not right, it is not right....
"There is also a secret reason why I should like to get Othomar away
from Lipara, though it always grieves me so much to part from my
darling. There seems after all to be some truth in those rumours about
the Duchess of Yemena: Oscar asked Myxila about it and he could not deny
it and even said that it was generally known. I do my best not to take
it too much to heart, Olga, but I think it a terrible thing. O God, let
me not think or write about it any more; otherwise it will go whirling
so in my poor head! What can my son see in a woman who is older than his
own mother! What a terrible world, this is, Olga, in which these things
take place; and how can there be such women, whom you and I will never
understand! For, after all, temperament is not everything: every woman
has her own heart; and in that we ought all to see one another; but it
would seem that we can't. In my sadness about this, I prefer to assume
that the woman loves my boy and therefore deceives her husband. Oh, it
is so wicked also of my boy: why need he be like this, he who is
otherwise so good! I just assume that she loves him. Not long ago we had
my last drawing-room, the function with which, as you know, our
winter-season ends; and, when she came up to me and bowed before me and
pressed her lips to my hand, she must have felt my disapproval and my
sadness radiating from my fingers, for she rose out of her curtsey with
a desperate look of anguish in her eyes and a sort of sob in her throat!
I stared at her coldly, but all the same I pitied her, Olga, for, when a
woman of our world is so little able to control herself at a ceremonial
moment, in the presence of her empress, her soul must have sustained a
severe shock: do you not think so too?
"We are now quiet. In a week we are going to our summer-quarters in
Xara, at Castel Xaveria; the weather is already very hot here. I should
so much like to have your answer before we leave and to know how Herman
takes my request. I know that he is very fond of me and will doubtless
gladly grant it and that he will try to like Othomar for my sake; and
let me hasten to add that it is also _Othomar's_ dearest wish that he
should travel with Herman. The sea-voyage did not attract him in the
least at first, because he knew of no one to take with him and he said
he preferred to go with us to Castel Xaveria; but, when I mentioned
Herman, he joined in my plan entirely.
"Olga, what will the summer bring us, peace or not? I dare not hope. The
winter has been horrible; our northern provinces have not yet recovered
from the disasters. The misery there is irretrievable. There is an
epidemic of typhoid and there have been many cases of cholera. The
strikes in the east are now over, but I am so afraid of that rough,
violent repression. Oh, if everything could only be done with
gentleness! That attempt on Othomar's life and the explosion at the last
ball have also made me so ill. How I should love to see you and take you
in my arms: can you not come to Castel Xaveria and spend the summer with
us? It would give me such intense, such intense pleasure!
"Kiss Siegfried and the children for me. And answer me soon, will you
not? I embrace you fervently.
"Your affectionate sister,
"ELIZABETH."