1
The Empress Elizabeth rode with Hélène of Thesbia in a victoria,
preceded by an outrider, from St. Ladislas to the Old Palace, which,
together with the cathedral and the Episcopal, formed one gigantic
building. Here, at Altara, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess
Eudoxie, with the imperial bride, had taken up their abode on the
previous day. From the tall fortress--a broad mass of granite with
crenulated plateaus and squat towers, overlooking Altara--the road
wandered downwards, indistinguishable beneath the old chestnut-trees, in
tortuous zig-zags. The dust flew up under the wheels; on both sides lay
villas, with terraces gay with vases and flowers and statues, sloping
lower and lower towards the town. The villas blazed with bunting; the
blue-and-white flags with the white crosses revelled in all their gaudy
newness among the dusty foliage of the old trees and acacias.
It was June, six months after the death of the little prince; but the
mourning had been lightened because of the approaching nuptials of the
Duke of Xara, which the emperor wished to see celebrated as early as
possible. The empress, however, still wore heavy mourning, which she
would not lay aside before the day of the wedding; Hélène was in grey;
the liveries were grey.
Many pedestrians, horsemen, carriages passed along the road and stopped
respectfully; the empress bowed to left and right; she received cheers
and salutations from the balconies of the villas. In this warm summer
weather a mellow welcome, a soft gaiety reigned all along the road; the
road, with its villas where the people sat in groups, emitted a
friendliness which affected the empress pleasantly and made her heart
swell in her breast with a gentle melancholy. Children ran about and
played in white summer suits; they stopped suddenly and, like well-bred
children, accustomed to seeing members of the imperial family pass
daily, they bowed low, the boys awkwardly, the girls with new-learnt
curtseys. Then they went on playing again.... And the empress smiled at
a large family, old and young people together, who sat on a terrace,
doubtless celebrating a birthday, and laughed and drank, with many
glasses and decanters before them, the children with their mouths full
of cake. So soon as they saw the outrider, they all stood up and waved,
some with their glasses still in their hands, and the empress, laying
aside her usual stiffness, bowed back with a winning smile.
And it was as though she were driving through a huge, luxurious village;
for a moment she forgot the light obsession that depressed her, forgot
why she was this day going to Valérie and allowed herself to be lulled
by her delight in the love that she divined all round her. It was the
love of the old Liparian patrician families--noble or not noble--for
their sovereigns. It was a caress which she never felt at Lipara. And
she remembered Othomar's letter, at the time of last year's inundations:
"Why are we not oftener at Altara?"
She could not for a moment desist from bowing. But she was now
approaching the town: the old houses shifted like the wings at a
theatre; the whole town shifted nearer, gay with flags, which threw an
air of youth over its old stonework. The streets were full: thousands of
visitors, native and foreign, were at Altara; there was not a room to be
had in the hotels. And the empress could scarcely speak a word to
Hélène; she could do nothing but bow and bow, perpetually....
In the fore-court of the Old Palace, the infantry composing the guard of
honour of the Austrian bride were drawn up and presented arms as the
empress drove in. The Archduchess Eudoxie was awaiting the empress.
"How is Valérie?" Elizabeth at once asked.
"Better, calmer," replied the archduchess. "Much better than I dared
hope. But she will receive no one...."
"Do send to ask whether I can see her...."
The archduchess' lady-in-waiting left the room: she returned with the
message that her imperial highness was expecting the empress.
Elizabeth found Valérie lying on a sofa, wearing a white lace tea-gown,
looking very pale, with great, dark, dull eyes; she rose, however:
"Forgive me, ma'am," she said, in apology.
Elizabeth embraced her with great tenderness; the archduchess added:
"I was not well, I felt so tired...."
But then her eyes met Elizabeth's and she saw that the empress did not
expect her to exhibit superhuman endurance. She nestled up against her
and cried softly, as one cries who has already wept long and
passionately and is now exhausted with weeping and has not the strength
to weep except very, very softly. The empress made her sit down, sat
down beside her and caressed her with a soothing movement of her hand.
Neither of the two spoke; neither of the two found words in the
difficult relation which at that moment they bore one to the other.
Two days ago, the day before that fixed for the bride's journey to
Altara, the news had arrived that Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz had shot
himself in Paris. The actual reason of this suicide was not known. Some
thought that the prince had taken much to heart the disfavour of the
Emperor of Austria and the quarrel with his own family; others that he
had lost a fortune at baccarat and that his ruin was completed by the
bohemian extravagance of his wife, the notorious Estelle Desvaux, who
herself had been ruined more than once in her life, but had always
retrieved her position by means of a theatrical tour and the sale of a
few diamonds. Others again maintained that Prince Lohe had never been
able to forget his love for the future Duchess of Xara. But, whatever
might be suggested in Viennese court-circles, nothing was known for
certain. Valérie had by accident read the report, which they had tried
to conceal from her, in the same newspaper in which, now almost a year
ago, she had, also by accident, on the terrace at Altseeborgen, read the
news of Prince Lohe's proposed marriage and surrender of his rights. Her
soul, which had no tendency to mysticism, nevertheless, in the shock of
despair that now passed through it, became almost superstitious because
of this repetition of cruelty. But when, months ago, she had combated
and worn out her sorrow, it had been followed by an indifference to any
further suffering that she might yet have to experience in life. The
death of her illusions was a final death; after her betrothal she had as
it were found herself with a new soul, hardened and girt about with
indifference. It was strange that in this indifference the only thing to
which she continued sensible was that exquisiteness in Othomar's
character: his delicacy in sparing her at Altseeborgen, against Oscar's
desire; his wide feeling of universal love for his people; all his
gentle nature and simple sense of duty.... But, however indifferent she
might generally think herself to be, this second incident struck her
cruelly, as though a refinement of fate had chosen the moment for it.
The official journey from Sigismundingen to Altara had been a martyrdom.
Valérie had endured like an automaton the receptions on the frontiers,
the welcome at the Central Station at Altara, with the greeting of her
imperial bridegroom, who had there kissed her, and the addresses of the
authorities, the offering of bread and salt by the canons of the chapter
of St. Ladislas. She had swallowed it, their bread and salt. And then
the drive through the town, gay with bunting and with triumphal arches
erected from street to street, to the Old Palace, in the open landau
with the emperor and her bridegroom, amid the cheering of the populace
which cut her ears and her overexcited nerves as though with sharp-edged
knives! Then, at the palace, it had struck Othomar how like a hunted
fawn she looked, with her frightened eyes. Prince Lohe's death was known
at Altara; and, though the people had cheered, cheered from true
affection for the future crown-princess, they had stared at her because
of that tragedy, curious and eager to see an august anguish shuddering
in the midst of their festivities, hunted through arches of green and
bunting. They had seen nothing. Valérie had bowed, smiled, waved her
hand to them from the balcony of the Old Palace, standing by Othomar's
side! They had seen nothing, nothing, for all their tense expectation.
But then Valérie's strength had come to an end. Her part was played: let
the curtain fall. Othomar left her alone, with a pressure of the hand.
For hours she sat lifelessly; then night came; she could not sleep, but
she was able to sob.
Now it was next day; she was lying down exhausted, but really she had
shed her last tear, fought her last fight, recovered her indifference:
no sorrows that were still in store for her could ever hurt her now!
Yet the fond embrace of Othomar's mother softened her; and she again
found her tears.
They exchanged barely a few words and yet they felt a mutual sympathy
passing between them. And through the midst of her sorrow Valérie could
see her duty, which would at the same time be her strength: no bitter
indifference, but an acquiescence in what her life might be. Oh, she had
imagined it differently in her dreams as a young girl: she had pictured
it to herself as more agreeable and smiling and as finding its
expression more naturally, more spontaneously and without so much
calculation! But she had awakened from her dreams; and where else should
she seek her strength but in her duty?... And she conquered herself,
whatever might be destroyed in her soul, by an unsuspected vitality--her
real nature--even more than by her thoughts. She dried her eyes,
mentioned that it was near the time when a deputation of young Liparian
ladies was to come and offer her a wedding-present; and the empress left
her alone, that she might dress.
She appeared presently, in a white costume embroidered with dull gold,
in the drawing-room where her parents sat with the empress and with
Hélène of Thesbia and the Austrian ladies-in-waiting. Shortly after,
Othomar came too, with his sisters and the Archduke of Carinthia. And,
when the deputation of young ladies of rank was announced and appeared,
with Eleonore of Yemena in its midst, Valérie listened with her usual
smile to the address recited by the little marchioness, with a gracious
gesture accepted from the hands of two other girls the great case which
they caused to fly open, showing, upon light velvet, a triple necklace
of great pearls. And she was able to find a few pretty phrases of
thanks: she uttered them in a clear voice; and no one who heard her
would have suspected that she had passed a sleepless night, bathed in
tears, with before her eyes the lifeless body of a young man with
shattered temples.
The young ladies of the deputation were permitted to see the
wedding-presents, which were displayed in a large room; Princess Thera
and the ladies-in-waiting accompanied them. There, in that room, it was
like a sudden gleam of brilliancy, flashing in the daylight from the
long tables on which the presents stood surrounded by flowers: the
heavily-gilt candelabra, gilt and crystal table- and tea-services, gilt
and silver caskets from various towns, an Altara Cathedral in silver,
silver ships with delicate, swelling sails from naval institutions and
jewelled gifts from all the royal friends and relations in Europe. On a
satin cushion lay, like a fairy trinket, a sparkling duchess' diadem of
big sapphires and brilliants, one of the presents of the bride's future
parents-in-law. And very striking was Princess Thera's present: the Duke
of Xara's portrait, a work of art that had already been seen at
exhibitions in both capitals. But it had little likeness to the original
left and was therefore the despair of the princess. It was younger, more
indecisive, feebler than the prince looked now: a little thinner than of
old, but with a fuller moustache and a lightly curling beard on his
cheeks. The melancholy eyes had acquired more of the Empress Elizabeth's
cold glance; in other respects too Othomar resembled his mother more
than before. But what was still noticeable in the young prince, in his
nervous refinement, was the look of race, his trenchant distinction, his
air of lawful haughtiness. He had lost much of his rigidity, his stiff
tactlessness, and had gained something more resolute and assured; and,
in spite of his colder look, this inspired more confidence in a
crown-prince than his always winning but somewhat feeble presence of
former days. The thoughts seemed to be more sharply outlined on his
features, the words to come more pointedly from between his lips; he
seemed to have more self-reliance, to care less for what others might
think of him. It was, although not yet quite consciously, that unique
princely feeling awakening within him: his simple, proud, innate
confidence in the single drop of golden blood which ran through his
veins and gave him his rights....
It was Professor Barzia especially who, attached as he was to Othomar
and treating him personally every day, had aroused this self-confidence
with his words, which were prompted both by his knowledge of mankind and
by his love for the dynasty, as well as by a personal affection for the
crown-prince. The cold-water douches had braced the prince up, but the
suggestions of the professor, who had aroused Othomar's latent practical
qualities as it were from their subconscious hiding-place, had probably
been a still more efficacious remedy. The prince had learnt to govern
himself and had become dearer to the professor than ever....
This devotion, born of a discovery of what others did not know to
exist--high qualities of temperament--was enhanced by Barzia's fostering
of those same qualities; and, when the prince's marriage could be fixed,
the professor looked with as much pride as affection upon his patient,
whom he declared to be physically cured and considered, in his own mind,
to be morally cured as well....
2
Two days later was the day of the imperial wedding. The town swarmed
from early morning with the people who had streamed in from the environs
and who noisily thronged the narrower streets. For already at an early
hour the main thoroughfares had been closed by the infantry, from the
fortress to the Old Palace and the cathedral. And Altara, usually grey,
old, weather-beaten, was unrecognizable, gaudy with flags, fresh with
festoons of greenery, decked with draperies and tapestries hanging from
its balconies. A warm, southern May sun shed patches of light over the
town; and the red and blue and white and green of the waiting uniforms,
with the even flash of the bayonets above them, drew broad lines of
colour through the city, with a gaiety almost floral, right up to the
Castle of St. Ladislas.
Through the streets, closed to public traffic, court-carriages drove to
and fro, filled with glittering uniforms: royal guests who were being
carried to St. Ladislas or the Old Palace. There were Russian, German,
British, Austrian, Gothlandic uniforms; briskly, as though preparing for
the ceremonial moment, they flashed through Altara, through its long,
empty streets lined with soldiers.
Beneath the chestnuts on the Castle Road the villas also teemed with
spectators, sitting or moving in the gardens and terraces; and, in the
sunbeams that filtered through the foliage of the trees, the ladies'
light summer costumes and coloured sun-shades cast variegated patches:
it was as though garden-parties were taking place from villa to villa,
while people waited for the procession of the bridegroom, who, in
accordance with Liparian etiquette, was to drive from St. Ladislas to
fetch his bride from the Old Palace.
* * * * *
Eleven o'clock. From the Fort of St. Ladislas booms the first gun; other
guns boom after it minute by minute. A buzz of excitement passes along
the whole of the Castle Road. On the almost imperceptible incline appear
trumpets and kettle-drums, preceding heralds on horseback. Behind them
come the slashing throne-guards, round the gilt and crystal
gala-carriages. The court chamberlain, the Count of Threma, in the
first; in the second, with the imperial crown and the plumed team of
eight greys caparisoned in scarlet--and the cheering from the villas
rises higher and higher--the emperor with the Duke of Xara by his side;
in the following coaches the assembled majesties and highnesses of
Europe: the Empress of Liparia, the German Emperor and Empress, the King
and Queen of Gothland, Russian grand-dukes, the Duke of Sparta and the
Prince of Naples.... The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the robed
members of the house of peers.... And the endless procession passes
slowly amid the roar of the cannon down the Castle Road, through the
main streets and into the heart of the city. There, in the Old Palace,
the bride is waiting with all her Austrian relations: the emperor and
empress, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess Eudoxie....
It is here that the marriage-treaty is signed, on the gilt table,
covered with gold brocade, upon which the emperors and empresses of
Liparia have written their signatures since centuries, upon which, after
the imperial bride and bridegroom, the august witnesses sign the
contract....
Now the whole procession goes through gallery after gallery to the New
Sacristy. It is a ceremonious parade of some minutes' duration: the
trumpeters, the heralds, the masters of ceremonies; the blue-robed
knights of St. Ladislas: the white-and-gold throne-guards; the Emperor
Oscar with the Duke of Xara, the Emperor of Austria with the bride....
Slowly she walks by her uncle's side, her head a little bent, as though
beneath the weight of her princess' coronet, from which the lace veil
floats, lightly shading her bare neck, which is studded with drops of
brilliants. Her gown is of stiff, heavy satin brocade, embroidered with
silver-thread in front and smothered in emblematic patterns of pearls;
great, white velvet puffed sleeves burgeon at her shoulders; the train
of silver brocade and white velvet is so long that six maids-of-honour
bear it after her, swaying from its silver loops. Behind the
maids-of-honour follow the bridesmaids, dressed all alike, carrying
similar bouquets: they are Princess Thera, Princess Wanda, German,
English and Austrian princesses. And the majesties and highnesses
follow; the procession flows into the New Sacristy; here the
cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with all his mitred clergy,
receives the bridegroom and the bride....
In the cathedral waits the crowd of invited guests. Despite the beams of
the summer sun, a mystic twilight of shadow hovers through the tall and
stately arches of the cathedral and the daylight blossoms only on the
motley windows of the side-chapels; in the vaultings it is even dark.
But the high altar is one blaze of innumerable candles....
The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the ambassadors, the whole
diplomatic body, the members of both houses of parliament, the judges of
the high court have entered; they fill the tiers that have been erected
to right and left. And the whole cathedral is filled: one great swarm of
heavy, rustling silks--the low-necked dresses of the ladies, whose
jewels twinkle and flash--and one blaze of gold on the glittering
military and diplomatic uniforms, which like great sparks light up the
twilight of the cathedral.
Then the trumpets sound, the organ peals its jubilant tones in the
solemn festival-march; the first procession enters through the sacristy:
the German Emperor with the Empress Elizabeth of Liparia, the
Archduchess Eudoxie and a long retinue.... Now the trumpets sound, the
organ peals unceasingly; and the invited majesties with their suites and
the representatives of the foreign powers enter in group after group.
The canopied spaces to right and left of the choir begin to fill up.
Soon the second procession follows: the dignitaries in front, with the
insignia of state; the Emperor Oscar, leading the Duke of Xara: both
wear over their golden uniforms the long draped blue robes of St.
Ladislas, with the large white cross gleaming on the left arm; four
crown-princes follow as the bridegroom's four witnesses: the Duke of
Wendeholm, the Czarevitch, the Duke of Sparta and the Prince of Naples;
the knights of St. Ladislas, the officers of the throne-guards,
equerries and pages follow after....
And suddenly a choir of high voices vibrates crystal-clear and proclaims
a blessing on the bride, who cometh in the name of the Lord.... The
third procession has entered the cathedral: the Emperor of Austria and
the Archduke Albrecht, leading the bride, with her maids of honour and
her bridesmaids; and she seems to be one white wealth of illustrious
maidenhood among her white and floral-fragrant retinue. And the anthem
scatters its notes as with handfuls of silver lilies before her feet;
her solemn advent arouses an emotion that quivers through all that whirl
of splendour, through the whole cathedral. Now, at last, appears the
fourth procession: the cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with his
bishops and canons and chaplains; the high ecclesiastics take their
seats in the tall carved choir-stalls; the rite begins....
The sun seems to have waited till this moment to come shooting down,
through the tall, party-coloured, pointed windows, in which the life of
St. Ladislas glitters with its small, square, gem-like pictures,
shooting down in a slanting sheaf of rays upon the choir, upon the
priests, upon the canopies under which the majesties are sitting,
upon the bride-groom and bride.... And all the colours--the old
gold of the altar, the new gold of the uniforms, the brocades, the
crown-jewels--flame up as though the sun were setting them ablaze: one
fire of changing sparks which, together with the numberless candles on
the altar, suddenly irradiates the church. The diadems of the princesses
are like crowns of flame, the orders of the princes like a firmament of
stars. The acolytes swing incense which is wafted misty blue, delicate,
transparent in the sunshine; the sunshine filters through the blonde
lace veil of the kneeling bride, lights a glowing fire over her
white-and-silver train, illuminates her as with an apotheosis of light
that reflects a maidenly pallor upon her. Her bridegroom kneels beside
her, wholly enfolded in his blue robe, with on his arm the sheen of the
white cross. Both now hold long tapers in their hands. And the primate,
with his jewelled mitre and his stiff gold dalmatic covered with
jewelled scrolls, raises his eyes, spreads his hands on high and
stretches them in benediction above the bent imperial heads....
The chant swells high again: the _Te Deum laudamus_, as though the waves
of the voices were rising upon the waves of the organ, higher and
higher, up through the cathedral to the sky in one ecstasy of sacred
music. The old, granite, giant fabric seems to quiver with emotion, as
though the music became its soul, and sends forth over Altara from all
its bells a swelling sea of sound, bronze in the depths and molten out
of every metal into gold of crystal purity in the highest height of
audible sound....
An hour later. On the closed Cathedral Square movement begins again,
among the waiting gala-carriages. Now the procession returns to St.
Ladislas, but behind the Emperor Oscar's carriage Othomar and Valérie
now ride together. And the city cheers and shouts its hurrahs; the
houses groan with the clamour among all the flags and trophies. The
guards present arms; and amid this festive uproar it passes unperceived
how yonder in the smaller streets fighting goes on, arrests are made, a
well-known anarchist is almost murdered by the imperialistic
populace....
With its costly pageant, now heightened by the white presence of the
young Duchess of Xara and her own retinue, the endless and endless
procession returns, through the town, up the Castle Road; and there too
the villas now obtain a sight of Valérie and cheer and cheer and
cheer....
It is in the white throne-room that Othomar and Valérie hold their
court; one and all defile before them: the ministers and ambassadors,
the members of both houses, of the courts of justice, corporations and
deputations. After the court, the breakfast, at which the table glitters
with the ceremonial gold and jewelled plate, used only at imperial
weddings. After the breakfast, the last observance: in the gold hall--a
vast low hall, Byzantine in architecture and decoration, ages old and
unchanged--the torch-dance; the procession of the ministers, who carry
long, lighted links in gilt handles, while Othomar and Valérie keep on
inviting the highnesses according to rank, invite all the highnesses in
turns and march round behind the ministers.... It is a monotonous
ceremony, continually repeated: the ministers with the torches, Othomar
with a princess and surrounded by the Knights of St. Ladislas, Valérie
with a prince and all her white suite; and it is a relief when the
function is finished and the newly-married couple have withdrawn to
change their dress. Then they appear: Othomar as commanding officer of
the Xara Cuirassiers, Valérie in her white cloth travelling-dress and
hat with white feathers; and they make their adieus. An open landau
awaits them; and with a compact escort of Xara Cuirassiers they drive
anew through the town, drive in every direction, showing themselves
everywhere, bowing to one and all, and at last drive out to the castle
where they will spend the first days of the honeymoon: Castle Zanthos,
quite near the town, on the broad river....
And the old weather-beaten capital, which remains full of majesties,
which still flutters with pennants, which in the evening is one yellow
flame and red glow of fireworks and illumination, seems all the same,
without the newly-married couple, to have lost the attraction which
turned it into a centre of festivity and splendour and imperial
ceremony; and in the evening, despite the illuminations and fireworks
and gala-performances, the Central Station is besieged by thousands who
are leaving....
3
It was months after the wedding of the Duke of Xara that the Emperor
Oscar, entering his work-room very early in the morning and moving
towards his writing-table, caught sight of a piece of cardboard, with
large, black letters pasted on it, lying on the floor by the window. He
did not pick it up; though he was alone, he did not turn pale, but on
his low forehead the thick veins swelled with rage to feel that he was
not safe from their treason even in his own room. He rang and asked for
his valet, a trusted man:
"Pick up that thing!" he commanded. And he roared, through the silence,
"How did it get here?"
The valet turned pale. He read the threatening words of abuse, with
their big, fat letters, on the ground before stooping and taking the
card in his trembling hand.
"How did it get here?" repeated the emperor, stamping his foot.
The valet swore that he did not know. In the morning no one was allowed
to enter the room except himself; he had come half an hour ago to open
the windows and then had seen nothing:
"The only explanation, sir, is that some one must have stolen into the
park and flung it through the window...."
This doubtless was the only explanation, but it was an explanation that
irritated the emperor greatly. It was not the first time that the
emperor had found such notices in the intimacy of his writing-room. The
result was the sudden arrest of servants, of soldiers belonging to the
various guards in the Imperial; but arrests and enquiries had brought
nothing to light and therefore made an all the more painful impression.
The guards of the palaces, the guards at the gilt railings of the park,
where this merged into the Elizabeth Parks--the public gardens of the
capital--were already increased; the secret police, the emperor's own
police, even kept a sharp watch on the guards themselves.
The Emperor Oscar looked fixedly at the valet; for a moment the thought
rose in him to have the man himself examined, but he at once realized
the absurdity of any such suspicion: the man had been his personal
servant for years and years, was entirely devoted to him and stood
answering Oscar's long stare with calm, respectful eyes, evidently
pondering the mystery of the strange riddle.
"Burn that thing," commanded the emperor, "and don't talk about it."
Subsequently Oscar had a long interview with the head of his secret
police, with whom he had lately had every reason to be satisfied: secret
printing-presses of anarchist papers, which were continually being
distributed, had been ferreted out; a plot to wreck the imperial train
on its way from Castel Xaveria, the summer-palace in Xara, to Lipara had
been frustrated; suspicion of being connected with anarchist committees
had fallen upon a clerk in one of the government-offices and even upon a
young officer and it was proved that the suspicion was correct in both
cases. Quite recently the police had discovered a workshop in which men
were taught how to manufacture dynamite-bombs and infernal machines. But
who the insolent miscreants were who succeeded in flinging their
threatening letters into the emperor's own room: this they had not been
able to discover. For a whole week the windows had been watched from the
park and all that time nothing had been seen; it was now a couple of
days since that secret watch had been given up. The head of the secret
police felt convinced that the culprits were lurking in the Imperial
itself and acquainted with the emperor's private habits. Sudden visits
were paid to the rooms of any servants at the Imperial of whom there was
the least doubt; and, when a groom was found to be in possession of an
anarchist leaflet containing words of insult directed against the
emperor, the man was banished to one of the convict sections of the
eastern quick-silver-mines. This banishment was the introduction to
numberless other banishments; they followed one another in quick
succession; the victims were soldiers, sailors, many minor provincial
officials: the press had even ceased to report all the banishments. The
censorship was rendered more severe; newspapers were continually being
suspended, their editors fined and imprisoned; the imperialist papers,
Count Myxila's organs, almost despotically indicated the required tone.
A socialist meeting was dispersed by hussars with drawn swords; serious
disturbances followed in the capital and infected the other large towns,
Thracyna, Xara, even Altara. A strike of dock-labourers filled Lipara
for weeks with rising insubordination; policemen were cruelly murdered
at the docks in broad daylight.
The Duke of Mena-Doni was the Emperor Oscar's right hand during this
period; and his rough displays of force kept the capital so far in
subjection that no riot burst out, that the everyday life of sunny,
laughing luxury went on, that the elegant carriages continued every
afternoon at five o'clock to stream to the Elizabeth Parks, where the
Empress or the Duchess of Xara still showed themselves daily for a
moment. But thousands of protecting eyes were secretly supervising this
apparent carelessness; the troops were confined to barracks; gleaming
escorts of cuirassiers accompanied the imperial landaus.
The empress also had asked Othomar to abandon his solitary morning rides
and never to show himself unattended. The Duke and Duchess of Xara
inhabited the Crown Palace, a comparatively new building on the quays,
where they kept up an extensive court; and in this palace the emperor
also caused domiciliary visits to be made and it appeared that there
were anarchists lurking among the staff.
This treason within their very palaces kept the empress in a constant
shudder of terror: she lived in these days an unceasing life of dread
whenever she was separated from the emperor. For she was least terrified
when she showed herself by Oscar's side, at exhibitions, at public
ceremonies, at the Opera; and this was strange: she did not at such
times think of him, but, if they were not with her, thought rather of
her children, as though the catastrophe could happen only at some place
where she would not be present.
The empress saw in Othomar so very much her own son that, in the
intimacy of their morning conversations--for the crown-prince still paid
his mother a short visit every morning--she was surprised not to find in
him her own dread, but on the contrary all her own resignation, which
was the reverse side of it. But since his marriage she had found him
altogether changed, no longer, in these short moments of their private
intercourse, complaining, hesitating, searching, but speaking calmly of
what he must do, filled with an evident harmony that gave a restful
assurance to his words, his gestures and even his actions. With this
assurance he retained a quiet, dignified modesty: he did not put his
views forward at all violently; he continued to possess that
receptiveness for the views of others which had always been one of his
most prominent and attractive qualities. He was undoubtedly old for his
young years: any one who did not know better would have given him more
than his twenty-three years, now that he was allowing his crisp beard to
grow.... And yet, yet, especially in these troubled days, his old fears
would often well up within him and he would remain sitting alone for
minutes at a time, staring at a vague point in his room, listening to
the murmurs of the future, as he had listened in that haunting night
among his forefathers at Castel Vaza. He then felt that, suddenly, as
with a garment, all his new resignation in life was slipping from him,
falling from his shoulders. But he had learnt so to govern himself that
nobody, not his father, not his mother, not even the crown-princess,
noticed anything of this mental dizziness, which left him ice-cold in
his short periods of solitude, doubting his right, full of strange, soft
compassion for his people....
It was, actually, the old illness which thus, periodically, seethed in
him again like an evil sap, flowing through his veins, enfeebling his
nerves, crushing him internally, as though he would never be cured of
it. But he grew accustomed to it, no longer felt despair because of it,
even knew, during the few minutes that the malady lasted, that it would
pass and afterwards regained that sense of harmony which above all
constituted his resignation.
It was in these days of silent fermentation that there was talk of a
marriage between Princess Thera and the Prince of Naples; nothing was
yet decided between the two families, but the young prince was invited
to Lipara to attend the great autumn manoeuvres. Shoots were arranged;
different festivities followed one upon the other. Othomar had in these
days to combat those sudden weaknesses more than ever: a strange
feeling, a shivering, a mysterious terror remained with him and no
longer left him, a terror which he dared not analyse, for fear of
discovering motives which would cause him to lose his calmness entirely.
There revived within him the recollection of the fact that shortly after
his marriage he had dreamt a dream more or less similar to his former
dream: the sinister capital filling with crape. It happened while he was
still residing with his young wife at Castel Zanthos and he had attached
no importance to it, because he considered that this second dream was
only a shadow of the former one, only the remembrance of what had
already happened and nothing more. But now, in these days of busy
celebrations in honour of the prince who was visiting their court, with
the ferment of popular discontent like a turbid, gloomy element beneath
the surface brilliancy of all their imperial display, the memory of it
revived and the terrors and shudders became more and more plainly
defined in his imagination and at one moment he felt his former nervous
weakness come over him to such an extent that he found an excuse to
summon Professor Barzia from Altara and had a long interview with the
specialist of which he did not even speak to the Duchess of Xara. When
the professor had gone, Othomar felt relieved and strengthened; only the
thought lingered within him that it was not right for a future sovereign
to be so much under the influence of a stronger mind as he was under
that of Barzia; and he proposed next time not to call in the professor's
power of suggestion, but to cure himself, in the privacy of his own
soul. This plan, to rely on his own strength in future, made him find
himself again for good and all....
The day after his interview with Barzia, he spent the whole morning and
afternoon in the company of the Prince of Naples, with whom he visited
different places and, in so doing, displayed a gaiety and liveliness
which were rarely witnessed in the Duke of Xara. The members of their
suite were astonished at this radiant cheerfulness of the crown-prince,
in whom they had grown used to perceiving always a strain of melancholy.
That evening there was a great state-banquet at the Imperial. After
dinner, the imperial family were to accompany their guest to the Opera,
where a gala-performance was to take place and a famous tenor was to
sing.
In these days, whenever the imperial family appeared in public, severe
precautionary measures were taken under the guise of glittering display.
A strong and close-packed escort of cuirassiers pranced round the
carriages which drove that night to the great opera-house. The street at
the side of the building containing the emperor's private entrance was
closed off; a guard of honour lined the staircase; the secret police
mingled with the expectant audience, which included all the smart
society of the capital....
The imperial box, with its dark-violet draperies and gold tassels, was
just over the stage of the colossal theatre. The first act was
finished--they were playing _Aïda_--when the trumpet-blasts clanged out
from the orchestra and the august personages appeared: the emperor, the
empress, the Prince of Naples, the Duke and Duchess of Xara, Princess
Thera. And their entry seemed to electrify the hitherto dull, waiting,
nervously indifferent mood of the crowded house, as though, upon their
appearance, the light in the lustres shone more brilliantly, the house
blazed out with all the changeful flickerings of its jewels, all its
flashing gilt, all the curiosity of the bright eyes that gazed at the
imperial centre-group; as though the ladies' costumes suddenly blossomed
out with one rustle of heavy silken fabrics, while the unfurled fans
fluttered to and fro as though a breeze were blowing through many
flowers in unstinted light....
Then the curtain rising on the second act, with all its melodrama of
royal Egyptian state: the victory after the war and the consequent
dances; the hero's love for the Ethiopian slave; and the Pharaoh's
jealous daughter and the procession of the gods with the sackbuts: all
sung, orchestrated, swelling symphonically in a square frame against a
painted background; a stirring picture of royal Egyptian antiquity
chanted before the eyes of modern royalty, of a modern audience,
indifferent to the rest so long as they met wherever society decided
that they should meet at the moment, under the eyes of the emperor and
his family and his illustrious young guest.... The passions on the stage
unbridling themselves in swelling bursts of music, a world of music, of
love and despair, of war and triumph and priestly ambition in music, all
music, as though life were music, music the soul and essence of the
world.... And, beneath the glamour of this music and of this factitious
life, the visible acting of the players, the glory of the famous tenor,
with his too-modern head, his dress marked by unreal because unwarlike
splendour, his bows and his smile aimed at the real world outside his
small, framed world of make-believe, aimed at the audience that
applauded after the emperor had deigned to clap his hands....
It was at this moment, this moment of ovation, this moment of lustrous
triumph for the tenor, of applause led by the imperial hands. It was at
this moment: the Emperor Oscar turning to his aide-de-camp, the Marquis
of Xardi, behind him ... the aide listening respectfully to his
majesty's command that he should summon the singer to the
withdrawing-room of the imperial box ... the Empress Elizabeth and the
Duchess of Xara, glittering in their gala, their jewels, in smiling
conversation with the young foreign crown-prince who was their guest ...
Othomar still with his gaiety of the afternoon, jesting with Thera and
the ladies-in-waiting ... the whole house gazing, when the curtain had
fallen for the last time, at all of them, in their blaze of luxury and
light....
At this moment, in the topmost gallery a sudden tumult, a struggle of
soldiers and police with one man.... A sudden rough scrimmage up there
in the midst of the most mundane expansion of aristocratic pageantry.
And all eyes no longer directed to the imperial box, but upwards....
Then, the man, struggling, releasing himself with superhuman strength
from the grasp of his assailants, surging forwards, from out of their
throng, like a black lightning-flash of fate: dark, curly head, eyes
flashing hatred, fixed and fanatical, one arm suddenly outstretched
towards the imperial grandeur below, as though at a target, with
inexorable aim. The whole house one tumult, one shout, one shriek; wide
gestures of helpless arms: all this very quick, lasting barely a
second.... A shot ... and yet another shot....
* * * * *
The emperor is hit in the breast; he falls against the empress, whose
bare, jewelled bosom he suddenly soils with blood, which at once soaks
his gold uniform through and through ... not golden blood: rich red
blood.... But the empress throws up her arms in despair; her strident
scream rings through the house. She falls back into the embrace of the
Duchess of Xara. The emperor has sunk into the arms of Xardi and of
Othomar; a furious oath forces its way through his tight-clenched teeth,
while he tears open his gory uniform so fiercely that the buttons fly
around him....
4
Outside, the Opera Square, brightly lighted with many-armed, monumental
lamp-posts, had at once become dark and swarming, filled with a vast
mob; the whole town poured into it from every street; the alarm drew
everybody thither, as though with a magnet. Detachments of hussars were
already moving through the town, keeping order among the excited
populace; the Duke of Mena-Doni was everywhere at once, trampling down
the revolution with the military at his command in whatsoever corner it
seemed to lift its head. The sky above was dark and frowning. It began
to rain....
The rumour sped that the emperor had died. It was not true. Wrestling
for breath, the sovereign lay in the crush-room of the opera-house,
amidst the panic of his family, of his suite, of the hurrying doctors.
He must not be moved, they said. He insisted. He refused to die here. He
was set on returning to his Imperial. And, straining the springs of his
energy, he commanded, he drew himself up, with the blood spurting from
his throat; Othomar and the aides supported him....
Outside, in the square, the mob grew in numbers, the panic increased,
riot seethed up from among those black clusters of people. Continual
fights burst out between groups of men, dock-labourers, and the guard in
front of the building, the police. The court-carriages returned empty,
under escort, to the palace.
Other carriages, cabs, tried here and there to force a way through the
people; they were surrounded by cuirassiers, who protected them with
drawn swords. Volumes of curses and abuse spattered up against them,
against the vaguely transparent windows, behind which were patches of
light colours, flashing sparks of jewels. Women's scared eyes peered out
fixedly, askance, without moving.
In the corridors, on the huge, monumental staircase of the opera-house,
people hustled one another, fought to get through; then suddenly all
eyes, staring wide, looked up above: the emperor was passing, bleeding,
panting for breath, surrounded by his kin.... A feeling of awe stopped
the crush for a moment; then they pressed on again.... Ladies fled till
they found themselves behind the scenes, where they mingled their
aristocracy with the bohemianism of the actors and actresses, all mixed
up, confused, amidst the terrified, humming crowd of ballet-girls,
priestesses of Isis. Gratuities were lavished: anything for a carriage,
a cab....
The Duchess of Yemena stood there with her daughters; they were looking
out for their carriage, which they had sent for at least ten times.... A
stage-carpenter shrugged his shoulders indifferently: he did not know
where to get a carriage from.
"I won't wait any longer," said the duchess, shuddering.
The girls clung to her, sobbing hysterically. She obtained a leather bag
from an actress; she hastily took off her jewels, ordered the girls to
do the same. They crammed them into the bag. She slipped a gold coin
into a dresser's hand, asked her to pin up their trains, to pin them
high, asked her to find them some black shoes. Other ladies, waiting and
half-swooning with fright, looked at her, saw her thus, strangely
practical. She succeeded in buying three long black cloaks and three
black hats from a group of chorus-girls, flung one cloak over herself,
flung the others over the sobbing little marchionesses.
"I'm frightened, mamma!" sobbed Eleonore.
The duchess was determined to get home somehow:
"Come, come along!" she urged, driving the two girls before her.
The other ladies, in alarm, watched them disappear through a back-door
into a side-street....
The duchess pressed the bag with the jewels to her:
"For God's sake, don't cry; keep your heads!" she ordered her daughters.
"Walk on quietly and not too fast. Wrap your cloaks well round you."
She walked on, tall and erect between the two little trembling
marchionesses, in those chorus-girls' clothes; rain poured down.
Clusters of people ran up against them; they mingled with them; for a
moment she lost Hélène:
"Wait a moment!" she said to Eleonore.
And they remained standing amid the press of people; troops came jogging
on; socialistic songs of triumph carolled up coarsely.... Then she went
back with Eleonore, pushing, shoving, giving Hélène an opportunity to
get back to her:
"Now both give me an arm: here!..."
They did as they were told; thus, seemingly calm, slowly, slowly, as
though they were sight-seers who had also come to look, they reached the
Opera Square, where the mob was swarming up against the guards.
Carriages passed, at a walking-pace, escorted by soldiers. A wretched
old hired growler, with a gaunt hack, pushed a muddy wheel right up
against her, grazing her knees; a cuirassier of the escort raised his
sword threateningly against her....
"My God!" she cried, awe-struck, clutching the children.
She had first recognized the driver, in a dirty coat: a footman from the
Imperial, whose face she remembered. Then, with a swift glance into the
cab, she recognized--just close to a lamp-post with a number of
ornamental branches--the emperor leaning against Othomar and her own
stepson, Xardi. But the marquis did not recognize her, for, startled by
the great light, he quickly turned his face away and bent, sombrely,
protectingly, over the emperor and the crown-prince....
The girls had seen nothing; the duchess said nothing, afraid of
betraying them.... She felt all her pluck and assurance forsake her; she
shuddered from head to foot. She could not restrain her tears for her
poor emperor, who was dying, who was returning to his palace in such a
guise. A great, dark terror took possession of her. The rain trickled
over her bosom....
"Keep your cloaks round you!" she again admonished her daughters.
Then she went on, dragging herself along and the girls as well, beside
her, stumbling on their feet...
But a whirl of people swept across the Opera Square; there seemed to be
a fight in progress: a heap of men, surrounding a group of
police-constables and soldiers, in whose midst a madman wrestled with
forcible gestures; a coarse clamour rose on high. At the lighted, open
windows of the opera-house, above the perystile, still decked in its
bright, festal illumination, face after face, appeared, actors still in
costume looked on....
"Mamma, we shall never get through!" sobbed Eleonore, softly.
The duchess thought in despair of the great Empress Avenue in which
their town-house stood; it was so far away: how would they ever reach
it, how would they ever get home?...
"They're murdering him, they're murdering him, they shan't murder him!"
bleated the people round them.
Then the duchess understood, then she saw and the girls also saw: the
mob, furious, foaming at the mouth--avengers now, though at first
malcontents, perhaps even anarchists: such were the Liparians!--the mob
pressing against the soldiers and constables, in the midst of whom the
emperor's murderer still made fight with his large, frenzied gestures.
And the avengers stormed this circle of protecting police; they dragged
the man out.... They dragged him right under the eyes of the duchess, of
her daughters....
"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" they roared brutally, men and women alike.
They tore the clothes from his body, they beat him; and he howled back.
They struck him to the ground with cudgels and trampled on him with
coarse shoes; his blood flowed; his brains spattered from his crushed
skull....
Then, at the sight of blood, they became like wild beasts; they grinned
and smacked their lips with delight.
Eleonore fell back fainting against the duchess, but Alexa shook her by
the arm:
"Keep up, keep up, for God's sake keep up, can't you?" she cried out
aloud. "I can do nothing with you if you faint!"
Her strong hands goaded the little marchioness back into life and again
she dragged them on, staggering....
5
The emperor, who refused to die, lived by sheer energy for two days
longer, with his perforated lungs, panting for breath.
And such were the Liparians: the man, the murderer, seized in the
opera-house, despite the police and the guard, had been battered into a
shapeless mass by the malcontents themselves....
And such is life: the emperor of a great country was shot dead by a
fanatic in the midst of his kith and kin and life went on.... The
country was as extensive as before: a rich, naturally beautiful,
southern empire; tall, snow-clad mountains in the north; medieval and
modern towns, lying in broad provinces; the residential capital itself,
white in its golden autumn sunshine, with its Imperial, beneath a blue
sky, close to the blue sea, round which circled the quays....
And such is the life of rulers: the emperor lay dead, killed by a simple
pistol-shot; and the court chamberlain was very busy, the masters of
ceremonies unable to agree; the pomp of an imperial funeral was prepared
in all its intricacy; through all Europe sped the after-shudder of
fright; every newspaper was filled with telegrams and long articles....
All this was because of one shot from a fanatic, a martyr for the
people's rights.
The Empress Elizabeth stared with wide-open eyes at the fate that had
overtaken her. Not thus had she ever pictured to herself that it would
come, thus, so rudely, in the midst of that festivity and in the
presence of their royal guest; thus, glancing past her, striking only
her husband and not crushing them all, at one blow, all their imperial
pride! It had come to pass and ... she still feared, she still went on
fearing, more now than before: for her son!... It seemed to her as if
she were fearing for the first time....
It was the day before the funeral of the Emperor Oscar, when the Duchess
of Xara, now the young empress, was seized with indisposition and the
doctors declared that she was _enceinte_.
The emperor's remains had already been removed in great pomp to Altara.
At St. Ladislas the Altarians were to see him lying in state between
thousands of flaming candles, with the brilliant insignia of the supreme
power at his feet; after that he was to be removed to the imperial vault
in the cathedral....
On that day too at Lipara, whose whiteness took tones of sombre twilight
beneath mourning decorations and flags flown at half-mast, the salutes
from Fort Wenceslas echoed over the town, thundering in dull tones their
regular, heavy, monotonous bombardment of farewell. Lonely,
majestically, in the town resounding with the salutes, stood the
Imperial, empty, with its caryatids staring with gloomy, downcast eyes.
The young emperor, Othomar XII., was at Altara, leading the solemn
procession. The empress-mother was at the Crown Palace, with the young
Empress Valérie.... Over their glamour, still shining, shone new
glamours, in life which had continued, which was continuing still....
The two empresses sat side by side. Valérie held Elizabeth gently in her
arms; at regular intervals the guns boomed from the fort, through the
palace...
Then Elizabeth drew herself up painfully from her daughter-in-law's arms
and spoke in low, oracular tones:
"If it's a son ... it will be a Duke of Xara.... He would so much have
liked to see a Count of Lycilia...."
The guns boomed; the two empresses, in deep mourning, wept and sobbed.
And now for the first time after a long interval--as there had also been
a long interval at Berengar's death--Elizabeth realized all her loss,
her sorrow, her misery, her despair; and she felt that that emperor, to
whom, as a very young princess, now four-and-twenty years ago, she had
been given in marriage, without love, she had come to love in this
quarter of a century of their life in common on his high pinnacle of
sovereignty....
That evening Othomar returned and, alone with his wife, with his mother,
he sobbed with them, the young emperor, whom no one had seen weeping in
the cathedral at Altara. For the Empress Elizabeth had repeated yet once
more:
"If it's a son ... it will be a Duke of Xara...."
And then the Emperor of Liparia had lost his self-restraint. In one
lightning-flash, one zig-zag of terror, he saw again his life as
crown-prince, he thought of his unborn son. What would become of this
child of fate? Would it be a repetition of himself, of his hesitation,
his melancholy and his despair?
And then with irrepressible sobs, suddenly overwhelmed by the menace of
the future, he sobbed out his grief for his father who had been and his
son who was to be! He sobbed, with his head in the arms of his young
empress, who, suddenly realizing that she must comfort him, had grown
calm and looked calmly down upon him, taking their life of majesty upon
her shoulders as though it were an oppressive, heavy mantle of purple
and ermine and nothing more, taking it up so valiantly because there
flowed in her veins as in his one single drop of sacred golden blood,
common to all of their order, their might upon earth and their right
before God....
6
"To HER IMPERIAL AND ROYAL HIGHNESS EUDOXIE
"ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA,
"SIGISMUNDINGEN.
"ST. LADISLAS,
"ALTARA,
"--_May_, 18--.
"MY DEAR MOTHER,
"I cannot tell you how your letter pained me. For God's sake, do not
excite yourself so and say such terrible things. We too regretted
intensely that you could not be present at our coronation and that your
rheumatic fever obliged you to remain at Sigismundingen; but why need
you, dear mother, look upon that fever as a punishment from God? And why
need you look upon it as a punishment from God that you did not see your
fondest illusion fulfilled and were not able to be present in our old
cathedral when Othomar, after being crowned by the primate, with his own
hands crowned me Empress of Liparia? You were not there, but yet it came
about: your illusion is truth, after all. And I tell you this without
the least, oh, believe me, without the _least_ bitterness!... A
punishment for forcing me, against my will? You must be ill indeed, ill
in body and mind, poor mother, to be able to write like that: it makes
me smile a little, I no longer recognize you. And let my smile bear
witness that I am not unhappy: oh, far from it! Our happiness is hardly
ever what we ourselves intend it to be and what we regret that it is
not....
"If you were to see me, you would see that I am not unhappy. It is May,
the sun is shining, the oriel-windows are open. In the distance, when I
look out, I can see the Zanthos winding away in a broad, gleaming
expanse of water. Close by my writing-table stands your beautiful big
silver cradle; and through the closed lace curtains I can see my little
Duke of Xara slumbering.... I don't know how to write all this to you, I
have no command of words in which to express it fully to you; but what I
feel, with this wide river landscape before me and this precious little
child by my side: oh, mamma, it is not unhappiness! It is a feeling
which hides a great deal of melancholy, but which hides nothing more
sombre than that. And really why should it, in spite of that melancholy,
not be even happiness? I am young, I am empress and I see life before
me! Round about me, I see my country, I see my people: I want it to
become the people of my heart, of my soul, entirely. I don't yet know
how, but I want to live for this people, I want to live together with
Othomar. Oh, I grant you, how I am to do that I don't yet know, but I
shall find a way, together with him! And, having a husband and a child
and a people, an emperor, a crown-prince and an empire, have I then no
aim in life? And, having an aim in life--and such a tremendous
aim!--have I not then also happiness? Is happiness anything other than
to have found a lofty, a noble aim in life?
"I am so anxious to convince you. And, if you saw me here, at our quiet
St. Ladislas, now that all the agitation of the coronation-festivities
is past, you would believe me. Othomar loves St. Ladislas and proposes
to come here every year for a month in the spring. It is considered a
good omen that my child was born here, for you know the feeling of the
Liparians, their wish to see the crown-prince of their country born at
St. Ladislas, under the immediate protection of the patron saint.
"Othomar, however, is not here at the moment: he has gone for a few days
to Lipara--of course, you know this from the papers--and writes to me
twice a day. I asked him to do this so that I might be fully informed as
to his state of mind. The tragedy of his father's death, the Emperor
Oscar's two days' death-agony affected Othomar so violently, so
violently: my God, how can I find words to describe that terror to you!
How can I still live in hope, after all that I have already suffered in
my short life and seen around me in the way of terror! And yet, yet it
is like that, for youth is so strong and I, I am strong, I _must_ be
strong....
"I admired my young emperor, in those terrible days, for his outward
calm, through which the storm-flood of all his emotions never burst
loose before the eyes of the world. Directly after the funeral, the
ceremony of signing the five sacred deeds; the immediate agitation of
the accumulated affairs of state.... A month later, the new elections,
the constitutional majority in the house of deputies, the resignation of
the ministry.... All this you will have seen in the papers.... After
that, the birth of our son and then our coronation, at the moment when
Liparia seemed shaken to its foundations! And now Othomar is at Lipara,
because of the new constitutional ministry.... Then Count Myxila, who
does not agree with Othomar's modern ideas and who has even ventured to
reproach him with some vehemence for abandoning all his father's views
upon government so shortly after his violent death and who is now
tendering his resignation.... Othomar will make an effort to keep him,
though he himself realizes that it will not be possible.... And the
revision of the constitution in the immediate future, with so many
drastic changes, probably with the inauguration of the upper and lower
chambers, while the house of peers will continue its outward existence,
but will be actually nothing more than an honorary consulting body.
These are concessions, if you will have it so, but then, you know,
Othomar has quite different ideas from his father's and, when he makes
these concessions, he undoubtedly makes them to the past and not to the
future nor to himself....
"Life is cruel, cruel in its changes and cruel even in its renascences;
and for us rulers all this is perhaps even more cruel; but the world
belongs to the future....
"The Empress Elizabeth is still here: she has suddenly grown so old, so
grey and very dull and depressed; and she does not know what to do:
whether to remain with her household at the Imperial, to stay on here at
St. Ladislas, or to retire to Castel Xaveria.... All the imperial
palaces and castles are whirling through her poor head: her private
properties and the crown domains; she does not know where she wants to
go; we of course continue to urge her not to leave the Imperial: it is
large enough to enable her to retain almost all her own military and
civil household....
"Dearest mother, I will write to you again soon: my head is still too
much in a whirl; I have touched on too many topics; my woman's brains
are not capable of thinking that all out logically and coherently and
writing it down.... And I have only been empress for such a short time
and I am only twenty-two, though I no longer feel so young.... This
letter is but a hurriedly-written reply to your doleful self-reproach,
which I now beseech you in Heaven's name to put aside _entirely_. Now
that I write this to you, the evening of my betrothal-dinner at
Sigismundingen rises before my mind. We were such a strange engaged
couple, Othomar and I! I asked him--smile at this, mamma, and don't cry
about it--whether he loved anybody. He said no. He told me he loved his
people and he stretched out his arms, as though he would have embraced
them. His people! The dawn of a new idea--old no doubt to thousands and
ages old, but new to me, as a new day is new--shone out before me, threw
light over my gloomy sufferings, brightened a road before me....
"That road, mamma, I now see stretching before me clearer and clearer
every day; and I mean to follow it with my husband and my child, with my
emperor and my crown-prince ... my crown-prince, who is waking and
crying for me!
"May God grant me strength, mamma!
"VALÉRIE."