"WEIN, WEIB, UND GESANG"
That evening Mr. and Mrs. Robert Saunders were George Trafford's
guests in a private room of the Hôtel Concordia. In the centre of
the dining table stood a big silver trophy of considerable value and
questionable design. As soon as the soup had been served, Trafford
solemnly poured out the contents of a champagne bottle into its
capacious depths. He then handed it to Mrs. Saunders.
"Felicitations," she said, taking the trophy in both hands, "I drink
to St. Liedwi, the patron saint of skaters, coupled with the name of
George Trafford, winner of the King's Cup."
Saunders was the next to take the prize in his hands.
"I drink a health unto their Majesties, King Edward of England and
King Karl of Grimland, and to the President of the United States," he
said; and then bowing to his host, "Also to another good sportsman,
one Nervy Trafford. God bless 'em all!"
Trafford received the cup from Saunders, his lips muttered something
inaudible, and tossing back his head he drank deep.
"What was your toast, Mr. Trafford?" demanded Mrs. Saunders quietly.
The winner of the cup shook his head sagely.
"That is a secret," he replied.
"A secret! But I insist upon knowing," returned the lady. "Tell me,
what was your toast?"
Trafford hesitated a moment.
"I toasted '_Wein, Weib, und Gesang,_'" he announced at length.
"Wine, woman, and song!" repeated Mrs. Saunders. "A mere abstract
toast, which you would have confessed to at once. Please
particularise?"
"The 'wine,'" said Trafford, "is the wine of champagne, which we
drink to-night, '89 Cliquot. 'Woman,' is Eve in all her aspects and
in all countries--Venus victrix, sea-born Aphrodite, Astarte of the
Assyrians, Kali of the Hindoos. God bless her! God bless all whom
she loves and all who love her!"
"And the song?" demanded Saunders.
"The song is the one I have heard one hundred and fifty times since I
have been here," replied Trafford. "Its title is unknown to me, but
the waiters hum it in the passages, the cabmen chant it from their
box seats, the street-boys whistle it with variations in the
Bahnhofstrasse."
"That sounds like the Rothlied," said Saunders. "It is a
revolutionary air."
"I like it enormously," said Trafford.
"Of course you would," said Saunders. "You have the true
Grimlander's love of anarchy. But if you wish, we will subsequently
adjourn to the Eden Theatre of Varieties in the Karlstrasse. I am
told that the Rothlied is being sung there by a beautiful damsel of
the aristocratic name of Schmitt."
"I have seen her posters," said Trafford, "and I should like, I
confess, to see the original. But what of Mrs. Saunders? Is the
'Eden' a respectable place of entertainment?"
"It is an Eden of more Adams than Eves," said Mrs. Saunders. "No, I
do not propose to follow you into its smoky, beer-laden atmosphere.
I am going to accompany Frau generalin von Bilderbaum to the opera to
hear 'La Bohême.' But before I leave I want further enlightenment on
the subject of your toast. 'Wein' is all right, and 'Gesang' is all
right, but what about 'Weib'? I thought you had sworn off the sex."
"Sworn off the sex!--Never! True, I offered to one individual my
heart, and hand, and soul; but the individual deemed the offering
unsatisfactory. I now offer to the whole female race what I once
offered to one member of it."
"Polygamist!" laughed Saunders.
"No," explained Trafford, "it's a case of first come, first served."
"You are offering your heart and hand and soul to the first eligible
maiden who crosses your path?" asked Mrs. Saunders, with upraised
brows.
"My heart and hand," corrected Trafford with great dignity.
"Come, come," Saunders broke forth, "it's time we were off!"
* * * * *
The auditorium of the Eden Theatre was a long oblong chamber, with a
crude scheme of decoration, and no scheme of ventilation worth
speaking about. It possessed, however, a good orchestra, an
excellent brew of lager beer, and usually presented a tolerably
attractive show to the public of Weidenbruck. For the sum of four
kronen per head Saunders and Trafford obtained the best seats in the
building. For the expenditure of a further trivial sum they obtained
long tumblers of the world-famed _tigerbräu_.
"A promising show this," said Trafford, lighting a large cigar. An
exceedingly plump lady in magenta tights, was warbling a patriotic
ditty to the tune of "Won't you come home, Bill Bailey?"
"More quantity than quality," commented Saunders cynically.
"Personally,--not being possessed of your all-embracing enthusiasm
for womanhood at large,--I find myself looking forward to the next
item on the programme."
"What's that? The 'Rothlied'?"
"No. Midgets."
Trafford uttered an exclamation of disgust.
"Little things amuse little minds," he said rudely. "Give me a
strong man or a giant, and I will watch with interest."
At this point the curtain descended on the plump warbler, and a
powdered attendant in plush knickerbockers removed the number 7 from
the wings, and substituted the number 9.
"Oh, it isn't the midgets yet, after all," said Saunders, consulting
his programme. "It's the _Schöne Fräulein Schmitt_--the beautiful
Miss Smith. I wonder if she's as lovely as her posters."
As the curtain drew up again, a young girl tripped lightly on to the
middle of the stage, and it was at once manifest that the epithet
"_schone_" was no mere advertising euphemism.
Her black skirt was short, her black bodice low, and her black
picture hat exceedingly large, but her limbs were shapely, her eyes
marvellously bright though small, and there was a vivacity and grace
in her movements that put her predecessor to shame. When she sang,
her voice proved to be a singularly pure soprano, and,--what was more
remarkable,--gave evidence of considerable taste and sound training.
The song was a dainty one, all about a young lady called Nanette, who
conquered all hearts till she met someone who conquered hers. And
then, of course, Nanette lost her art, as well as her heart, and
could make no impression on the only man who had really touched the
deeps of her poor little soul. The last verse, naturally, was a
tragedy,--the usual tragedy of the smiling face and the aching bosom.
The idea was not exactly a novel one, but the air was pretty, and the
singer's personality won a big success from the commonplace theme.
Anyway, the audience rose to her, and there was much clapping of
hands, clinking of beer glasses, and guttural exclamations of
enthusiasm.
"Bravo!" cried Trafford ecstatically, "Bravo! Bravissimo! Behold an
artist among artistes, a fairy of the footlights! Bravo! Well done,
beautiful Miss Schmitt!"
"Charming," agreed Saunders more calmly, "and, strangely enough,
extraordinarily like a young lady I met a few years ago."
"Perhaps it is the young lady," suggested Trafford. "I noticed she
fixed her beady black eyes on you during the last verse."
"I think not," said Saunders drily. "The young lady I was referring
to was a somewhat more exalted personage than Fräulein Schmitt."
The fascinating songstress re-appeared for her encore, and this time
the orchestra struck up a martial air with a good deal of rolling
drums in it.
"My 'Gesang,'" whispered Trafford excitedly.
"The 'Rothlied,'" said Saunders.
Again the Fräulein sang, and now the burthen of her song was of
battlefields and war's alarms. The tune was vastly inspiriting, and
the audience knew it well, taking up the chorus with infectious
enthusiasm.
"It's great!" muttered Trafford, twirling excitedly at his
moustaches. "By the living Jingo, it's great!"
And of a truth the air was an intoxicating one. There was gunpowder
in it, musketry and cold steel, reckless charges and stern movements
of advance. One caught the thunder of hoofs and the blare of bugles.
Its infection became imperious, maddening even,--for the audience
forgot their pipes and their _tigerbräu_, and beat time to the
insistent rhythm, till the chorus gave them a chance of imparting
their enthusiasm to the roaring refrain. The girl herself seemed the
embodiment of martial ardour. She trod the stage like a little
war-horse, her eye sought the gallery and struck fire from the
beer-loving _bourgeoisie_. For a second her gaze seemed to fall upon
Saunders mockingly, and with an air of challenge. Then she glanced
round the crowded house, held it spellbound, lifted it up, carried it
to high regions of carnage, self-sacrifice, and glory. The audience
roared, clapped, screamed with exuberant acclaim. Their state was
_frénétique_--no other word, French, English, or German, well
describes it.
"By George, she's a witch!" said Trafford. "She's as dangerous as a
time fuse. I'll be hanged if I don't want to fight someone!"
The encore verse was more pointed, more sinister, less general in its
application. It spoke of wrongs to be righted, tyranny to be
overcome, freedom to be gained. It hinted of an uplifting of the
proletariat, of armed citizens and frenzied women, of tumult in
square and street; it breathed of barricades and civic strife, the
vast upheaval of a discontented people determined to assert their
rights. Men looked at each other and stirred uneasily in their
seats, and then glanced round in apprehension,--as if expecting the
entrance of the police. The song was a veritable "Marseillaise," a
trumpet call to revolution, a match in a barrel of gunpowder; and
with the final chorus and the stirring swing of the refrain, all
remnants of prudence and restraint were cast to the winds. The house
rose _en masse_; men mounted their seats and waved sticks and
umbrellas aloft; a party of young officers drew their swords and
brandished them with wild insurgent cries. Forbidden names were
spoken, cheers were raised for popular outlaws and suspects, groans
for unpopular bureaucrats and the King's favourites. It was an
intoxicating moment,--whatever one's sympathies might be,--and it was
obvious enough that the temper of the people was frankly
revolutionary, and that the authorities would be quite
justified,--from their point of view,--in arresting the audience and
the management _en bloc_.
"We'd better clear out," suggested Saunders; "there's going to be
trouble."
"If there's a row," announced Trafford grimly, "I'm going to be in
it. You've seen stirring times over here before, but I'm a novice at
it, and I want blooding. Shall we raise three cheers for Karl and
fight our way out?"
"Not if you want to keep your thick skull weather-proof," was the
sensible retort. "There's always discontent in Grimland, but there's
a big sea running just now, and it isn't wise to fight the elements.
Sit tight, my friend, and you'll live to see more exciting things
than a noisy night at the Eden Music-Hall."
The curtain was down again now, but the audience still roared for the
re-appearance of their favourite, still clamoured for another verse
of the intoxicating song.
"Hullo! what's this?" cried Trafford. An attendant had edged her way
up to Saunders, and was offering him a folded note on a tray. "_If
you have any pleasant memories of the winter of 1904, come round to
the stage door and ask for Fräulein Schmitt._" That was the purport
of the note, and after reading it, Saunders handed it to Trafford.
"Then it must be your lady friend, after all," maintained the latter,
smiling at his friend.
"It must indeed," acquiesced Saunders with a frown. "Come round with
me now."
"Why not go by yourself?"
"Because I am a married man," replied Saunders, "and I want a
chaperon." And together the two men left the still noisy house and
made their way to the stage door.
Under the guidance of a pale youth in a shabby pony coat, they
entered a gloomy passage, ascended a steep flight of stone steps, and
halted before a door, which had once been painted green.
The pale one knocked, and a clear musical voice gave the necessary
permission to enter.
A naturally bare and ugly room had been rendered attractive by a big
stove, several comfortable chairs, and an abundance of photographs,
unframed sketches and artistic knick-knacks. It had been rendered
still more attractive by the presence of a charming young lady, who
was engaged--with the assistance of her dresser--in removing all
traces of "make-up" from her comely lips and cheeks.
The lady in question came forward with an air of pleasurable
excitement, and smiling a warm welcome to the Englishman, cried:
"So you _have_ come, Herr Saunders! You have not, then, altogether
forgotten the winter of 1904?"
Saunders took the small hand which had been extended to him and bowed
low over it.
"Heaven forbid, my dear Princess--or must I call you Fräulein
Schmitt, now? No, indeed, so long as I have memory cells and the
power to consult them, I shall never forget the winter of 1904. It
gave me an angel for a wife, a king for a friend, and--must I say
it--a princess for an enemy. That fierce enmity! It is by no means
my least pleasurable remembrance. There was so much fun in it, such
irresponsible laughter, that it all seems now more like the struggle
of children for a toy castle than anything else."
"Ah, but you forget that I lost a dear father and a loved brother in
the struggle for that toy castle!" There was almost a life-time of
sorrow in the young girl's voice.
Again Saunders bent his head.
"Pardon me, Princess," he said, "I did not forget that, nor the fact
that you nearly lost your life, and I mine. But my memory loves
rather to linger on the bob-sleighing excursions, the tea-fights at
Frau Mengler's, the frivolous disputations and serious
frivolities--all with such a delicious substratum of intrigue."
"You have a convenient memory, mein Herr," she said quietly. "You
remember the bright things, you half remember the grey, the black you
entirely forget."
Saunders' smile faded, for there was still a touch of sadness in the
girl's words. Under the circumstances it was not unnatural, but he
thought it more considerate to keep the interview from developing on
serious lines.
"The art of living is to choose one's memories," he said lightly.
"He who has conquered his thoughts, has conquered a more wonderful
country than Grimland."
"And so marriage has made of you a philosopher, Herr Saunders?" she
returned, her soft lips curling a trifle contemptuously. "Well,
perhaps you are right--if we take life as a jest, death, then, is
only the peal of laughter that follows the jest." And then, turning
to the American, she chided Saunders with: "But you have not
presented your friend!"
"I must again crave pardon--I had quite forgotten him," apologised
Saunders. "Your Highness, may I present my very good friend, Mr.
George Trafford of New York--the winner of the King's Cup."
The American bowed low before this exquisite creature; then uplifting
his head and shoulders and twirling his moustache--a habit he had
when his emotions were at all stirred--he asked with true American
directness:
"Am I speaking to a princess of the blood royal or to a princess of
song?"
The princess and the Englishman quickly exchanged amused glances, and
a moment later there came from the girl a ringing laugh, a delightful
laugh bubbling over with humour, with not a hint of the sorrow or the
bitterness of a few moments before, while Saunders hastened to say:
"Both, my American friend! You are addressing the high-born Princess
Gloria von Schattenberg, cousin to his Majesty King Karl of Grimland!"
"Then I congratulate the high-born princess less on her high birth
than on her inimitable gift of song," said the American gallantly.
The Princess acknowledged the felicitation with a bewitching smile.
"Thank you, Herr Trafford," she said simply. "It is better to be a
music-hall star in the ascendant than a princess in exile--it is far
more profitable, isn't it?" No answer was expected, and in a trice
her mood changed again. "When I fled the country three years ago,
Herr Trafford," she continued, "I was penniless--my father dead, and
his estates confiscated. True, an allowance--a mere pittance--might
have been mine had I returned and bowed the knee to Karl." She
stopped, her feelings seemingly too much for her; in a moment,
however, she had mastered them. "But I was a Schattenberg!" she
cried, with a little toss of her head. "And the Schattenbergs--as
Herr Saunders will testify--are a stiff-necked race. There was
nothing to be done," she went on, "but develop the gifts God had
given me. Under an humble nom de guerre I have achieved notoriety
and a large salary. Germany, France, Belgium, I have toured them
all--and my incognito has never been pierced. So when I got hold of
a splendid song I lost no time in hastening to Weidenbruck, for I
knew it would go like wildfire here."
"A most dangerous step." The comment came from the American, but
there was a light of frank admiration in his eye.
"Oh, no!" she protested, a faint touch of colour in her cheek,
denoting that his approving glance had not escaped her. "It is years
since I was in this place." And smiling at the Englishman, now, she
added naïvely: "My features are little likely to be recognised."
"Indeed!" voiced Saunders, a touch of satire in his tone.
"Photographs of the exiled Princess Gloria are in all the
shop-windows, her personality is more than a tolerably popular one.
When they are placed in conjunction with those of the equally popular
Fräulein Schmitt, will not people talk?"
"I hope they will do more than that," confessed the Princess, growing
excited.
"You want----?"
"I want Grimland," interrupted the Princess; and added loftily:
"nothing more and nothing less. You will have me arrested?"
"Not yet!" declared Saunders with his brightest smile. "The night is
cold--your dressing-room is cosy. No, my fascinating, and
revolutionary young lady, the truce between us has been so long
unbroken that I cannot rush into hostilities in this way. Besides,
we are not now in 1904, and----"
"Oh, for 1904!" cried the Princess, her eyes ablaze with the light of
enthusiasm. "Oh, for the sweets of popularity, the ecstasy of
rousing brave men and turning their blood to wine and their brains to
fire! I want to live, to rule, to be obeyed and loved as a queen!"
In an instant Trafford felt a responsive glow; he started to speak
but Saunders already was speaking.
"Princess," the Englishman was saying coldly, "popularity is
champagne with a dash of brandy in it. It is a splendid pick-me-up.
It dispels ennui, migraine, and all the other troubles of a
highly-strung, nervous system. Only, it is not what medical folk
call a 'food.' It does not do for breakfast, luncheon and dinner.
After a time it sickens."
"Popularity--the adulation of my people would never pall on me,"
returned the Princess, gazing off for the moment, absorbed in a realm
of dreams.
"No, but the police might take a hand," intimated Saunders grimly.
"There is a castle at Weidenbruck called the Strafeburg. As its name
implies, it is intended otherwise than as a pleasure residence. It
is a picturesque old pile, but, curiously enough, the architect seems
to have neglected the important requirements of light and air. You
would get very tired of the Strafeburg, my Princess!"
"The people of Paris got very tired of the Bastille," retorted the
Princess hotly and flashing a defiant look at the Englishman.
Trafford's hand clinched in sympathy for her. Never was maid so
splendidly daring and reckless and fascinating! "They got very tired
of Louis XVI.," the voice was still going on, "and the people of
Weidenbruck are very tired of the Strafeburg."
To Trafford's astonishment the Princess's eyes showed danger of
filling upon uttering these last words. Her perfect mouth quivered,
and of a sudden, she seemed to him younger--certainly not more than
nineteen. Again he was tempted to interfere in her behalf, but again
Saunders was before him.
"They got tired of a good many people in Paris," the Englishman said
slowly. "Ultimately, even of Mére Guillotine. But supposing this
country rose, pulled down the Strafeburg and other interesting
relics, and decapitated my excellent friend, the King; supposing
after much cutting of throats, burning of buildings, and shootings
against the wall, a certain young lady became Gloria the First of
Grimland, do you imagine she would be happy? No--in twelve months
she would be bored to death with court etiquette, with conflicting
advice, and the servile flattery of interested intriguers. Believe
me, she is far happier enchanting the audiences of Belgium and
Germany than she would be in velvet and ermine and a gold crown that
fell off every time she indulged in one of her irresponsible fits of
merriment."
"I might forget to laugh," said the Princess sadly. "But no, I
cannot, will not, take your advice! Do you not suppose that nature
intended me to fill a loftier position than even the high firmament
of the _Café Chantant_? No, a thousand times no, Herr Saunders--I am
a Schattenberg and I mean to fight!"
The American could not restrain himself an instant longer.
"Bravo!" burst out Trafford enthusiastically. "There's a ring in
that statement that warms my heart tremendously!"
A swift frown clouded Saunders' brow. It was plain to see that the
Englishman was much annoyed at the American's outspoken approval of
the Princess's purpose; but she broke into the laughter of a
mischief-loving child.
"And _you_--are not you a friend of King Karl?" she inquired of
Trafford, while a new light shone in her eyes.
The American gave a furious twist to his moustache before answering.
"Mrs. Saunders, I believe, has recommended me as his
Commander-in-Chief," he said with mock gravity, "but the appointment
has not yet been confirmed. 'Till then my services are at the
disposal of the highest bidder."
"My American friend's services are of problematic value," put in
Saunders, recovering his temper. "He is an excellent skater, but a
questionable general. He has had an exciting day and a superb
dinner. With your permission I will take him back to his bed at the
Hôtel Concordia."
The Princess had not taken her eyes off of the American since he had
last spoken.
"He has energy," she mused, looking into space now, "also the
capacity for inspiring enthusiasm, and I am not at all sure that he
has not the instinct of a born tactician."
"But I am," Saunders broke in bluntly. "Princess, we have the honour
of wishing you good-night!"
The Princess laid a delicate hand on the Englishman's arm.
"Herr Saunders," she said, "I will ask you to see me home."
Saunders shook his head.
"You must excuse me," he said. "To-night, I am neutral, but neutral
only. I am the King's guest and must not aid the King's enemies."
"Good loyal man!" exclaimed the Princess. "_Plus royalist que le
roi!_" And then turning to the American: "And Herr Trafford? He
will not refuse to perform a small act of courtesy?"
"Trafford accompanies me!" declared Saunders firmly.
"I'm hanged if he does!" spoke up Trafford. "The lady wants to be
seen home--and I'm going to do it if I swing for it!"
[Illustration: "The lady wants to be seen home--and I'm going to do
it if I swing for it!"]
The Princess transferred her hand to Trafford's arm.
"Thank you," she said with a bewilderingly grateful look up into his
face.
"Nervy, you're a fool--a bigger fool than ever I believed you to be!"
exploded Saunders.
Trafford's only answer was a most complacent grin.
"Good-night, Herr Saunders!" said the Princess in the sweetest of
accents. "Remember me kindly to your wife and other Royalists. We
may meet again or not--my impression is that we shall.... If so,
remember that laughter is not always a symptom of child's play."
"Good-night, Princess!" returned Saunders with an exaggerated low
bow. "Forgive me, won't you, if I take the threatened revolution
lightly? The possibility of your sitting on the throne of Grimland,"
he went on with another obeisance, "opens up such delightful prospect
that I shall fight against it with only half a heart. Still, I shall
fight against it. Good-night, Prin--Your Majesty!"