Alexandra pressed her hand on the table in a flutter of nerves, to
which she was little accustomed. But they had vibrated painfully
more than once during the dinner, although, with all her experience
of courts, she had rarely been present at so magnificent a scene.
The immense Throne Room, or Great Hall of Ceremonies, of perfectly
simulated yellow marble, relieved only by white wood heavily incrusted
with yellow bronze, seemed to quiver in its flood of amber light. The
three chandeliers were huge inverted stacks of golden leaves, with no
false note of crystal. The few women present were superbly dressed,
and covered from crown to waist with the jewels of centuries, but
they made an indifferent showing beside the barbarous magnificence
of the Hungarian magnates. Every other man at the table, except the
cardinals, was in uniform: the King, the Archdukes, and the Emperor’s
suite, in the Prussian; the few members of his household whom Franz
Joseph had ventured to bring to the jealous capital of his most
uncertain possession, and the Grand Stewards of the Archdukes, wore an
Austrian uniform; and the Ambassadors were in fullest dress. But it
was evident that the fiery independent spirit of the great nobles of
Hungary recognized no uniform except that of a glorious extravagance.
Their fancy ran riot in color, in textile, in form. But whether in
thick brocade, delicate or gorgeous of hue, in cloth of gold or silver,
in white satin fitting like a cuirass and studded with jewels, or in
silk so heavily embroidered with gold that it creaked like an armor;
whether the long velvet cloak, trimmed and lined with priceless fur,
its embroideries representing years of labor, its buttons and chains
of big uncut jewels, was worn, or used carelessly as a background,
there was nothing in Europe, not even in Russia, to compare with them.
The headpieces of fur, the plume fastened with a jewelled rosette,
were under their chairs, their high boots and silken small-clothes
were likewise eclipsed for the hour, but there was more than enough of
them to make the great golden room look like a page of old Hungarian
history. So their ancestors had sat at Árpád’s table a thousand years
ago. The hair of these men might be shorter, but it is doubtful if they
varied in another external detail. Their faces were mobile, excitable,
sometimes very clever. A few looked like men of the great world,
although in that costume it was difficult to look like anything but the
feudal lord ready on an instant’s notice to blow the trumpet in his
villages and lead his bondsmen to battle.
As their fiery glances wandered from the Archduchess Ranata Theresia
to the German Emperor, from the beautiful woman who reminded them of
their lost Rudolf to the dashing young monarch they so passionately
admired, a man after their own indomitable Hungarian hearts, they
seemed to create an atmosphere of uneasiness, of premonition. Alexandra
could imagine their swift transition from extravagant courtesy towards
their aged King into the wildest excitement of which the modern man
is capable; and endeavored to hope that William would behave himself.
The young magnate on her right, Count Zrinyi, was evidently a very
excitable person. He had from various causes approached the verge of
explosion several times. Never having met anything like this cool
American girl, he had fallen madly in love with her; the blood flew
to and from his face, his jewelled armor creaked, and twice he dashed
the tears from his eyes. Alexandra would have imagined herself in one
of the Nights of Arabia had it not been for the intervals of rational
conversation, when, seeing himself mirrored in the clear eyes beside
him, and fancying, as many a wiser man has done, that it was a kindred
soul he saw, he had talked of the grievances of the Hungarians and
their determination to have their own way in their own country. At
present they were engaged in the extermination of the hated German
language and the universal substitution of the Magyar. It mattered
nothing that less than half the population of their country spoke
Hungarian, that the spirit of Roumania still hovered over the land
beyond the Theiss, that there were whole villages where the language
was never heard, and that Croatia and Slavonia hated them; the intense
national pride and spirit which had endured for a thousand years,
weathering every conquest, every humiliation, as ardent under the two
centuries of Turkish rule as during the climax of their glory under
Matthias Corvinus, had gathered fuller strength since the Revolution of
’48; and the determination was growing daily to give emphasis in every
possible way to the individuality of this most individual of European
states. Let those pitch their tents in Hungary who would, but they must
learn and use the Hungarian language or feel themselves the aliens they
were--Austrian officers not excepted.
Alexandra yielded to an impulse, not so much of coquetry as of
curiosity; she expressed approval of his patriotism in the beautiful
Magyar tongue. She had avoided German instinctively, and they had
talked in English--like most of his class he was accomplished in many
languages. For the moment she regretted her experiment. He trembled
violently and turned white. It was then that he shed his first tear.
“You are _not_ cruel!” he murmured. “You have enraptured me! How
kind--how wonderful. It is said to be the most difficult of tongues.
Did you learn a few words, perhaps, before coming to Hungary, knowing
our greatest weakness--”
“Dear me, no. I studied Hungarian, as one of many languages, with the
Archduchess. She studied it as a matter of course.”
“That is a very practical explanation,” he said sulkily. “If I had had
time to think I should have known. Queen Elizabeth,” he looked as if
he would have raised his plumed and jewelled _kalpag_ had it not been
under his chair, “bewitched Hungary upon her first visit by speaking
perfectly the Magyar language. She took a great fancy to a young
Hungarian girl and invited her to become a maid of honor, but when she
discovered that she had been educated in Paris and had almost forgotten
her native language she sent her home to learn it, and would not
receive her into her household again until she was proficient. We have
never forgotten that. And Rudolf! it _was_ his language--we refused to
believe that he knew how to speak German.”
“Do you regret Rudolf?” asked Alexandra, in the tone she might have
used to demand his opinion of the soft music in the gallery. Again she
had touched powder with her wicked torch.
“Regret Rudolf?--_Rudolf?_” He took himself in hand and proceeded more
calmly in a moment. “Mademoiselle, I regret the Crown Prince, like many
others, for personal reasons, and, like the whole of my country, like
all Europe, in fact, for grave political reasons. He was so warm, so
genial, so fascinating--the best of good fellows, the most simple and
unostentatious of princes, and, what all princes are not--we have one
at this table, mademoiselle--a gentleman to the core. He loved Hungary
as much as Hungary loved him. Had he lived there would be no straining
at the bit now; we should be content to wait. Had he lived, there would
be in Europe to-day no uneasy anticipation of our poor old King’s
death. And not only could Rudolf make himself beloved by everybody,
but there have been few better brains born to thrones--or in spheres
where brains are more abundant. He would have sown his wild oats, poor
chap!--and have made a great ruler. Then our guest would have had a
rival worthy of his mettle. Now he has none.” With one of his abrupt
transitions he continued: “And such tact! In all the years that he came
to us and held his little court here in Buda, or was a mere sportsman
in his hunting-castle, he never made a mistake. Do you know that the
King actually has his drinking-water brought from Vienna? And the very
food we are eating--and the cooks! Bah!--I’ll eat no more. It is your
fault, mademoiselle, that I did not think of it sooner. I never go to
Vienna. When he is here--our King--I honor him, for he is old and good
and kind--now!--but you will acknowledge, mademoiselle, that he insults
us unnecessarily when he brings with him water and meat, vegetables,
fruits, to this land flowing with milk and honey.”
“Well, perhaps he does not like milk and honey. I detest both myself.
And while I am willing to admit that your language is the most
beautiful in the world--a union of velvet and steel, of music and
running water and of the sonorousness of distant thunder--yet, my
dear Count, still will I give the palm to Vienna for water. It always
tastes and sparkles as if it were gushing still from its springs in the
mountains, and I am delighted that the Emp--King brings it along.”
The Hungarian looked at her speculatively. He was not a fool, and
recognized her difference from the women to whom he was accustomed,
although he did not pretend to understand her. The mystery, and her
curious treatment of his love-making, made him more thoughtful than
usual. He was about to feel his way towards a new channel of attack
when his eyes encountered the heavy black-framed visage of the King’s
heir, and his ardent brain leaped in a new direction.
“Do you know what that man has done to-night?” he murmured furiously.
“He has left his wife at the station in a railway carriage, while he
dines here as the guest of the King! I only pretend to touch his hand!
Do you call that a man--to make a woman his wife, the mother of his
children, and treat her like his mistress? If he had not the courage to
renounce his pretensions to the throne and live like a gentleman, why
did he marry her? Would such a thing be done in your great country?”
“Oh, well, we do not have morganatic marriages,” said Alexandra
soothingly. “It certainly was inconsistent of him to marry her.”
“It is very awkward for us. We acknowledge no difference between
husband and wife in Hungary. If that man ever does come to the throne,
his wife will be our Queen--”
“Rise!” said Alexandra, “the King is on his feet.”
And now the King had made his pleasant toast to the illustrious guest,
the room had rung with enthusiastic “_Élyens_,” and the German Emperor
was facing his audience in a stillness so profound that others besides
Alexandra longed to have him begin a speech which all knew, from the
defiant almost impish light in his eyes, was to be something more than
the voluble rhetoric commonly heard at royal tables. He had been in
the highest spirits all the evening, joking with the King, at whose
right he sat in the middle of the long table, and with every one else
in his neighborhood, temporarily charming even his avowed enemy, the
Archduchess Ranata Theresia, who sat on his right. In the light-blue
and white uniform of a general of the Austro-Hungarian army, his
breast covered with orders, he had never looked handsomer; and in the
atmosphere of approval that he loved he was ready--everybody felt
who knew him--to do and dare anything. But the most expectant were
unprepared for his actual performance.
He began at last, turning with deep respect to the King, and a slight
excitement was perceptible in his strident tones.
“It is with a feeling of the deepest gratitude that I receive the
hearty welcome of your Majesty. Thanks to the invitation of your
Majesty, I have been able to visit this splendid town, whose grand
reception nearly overwhelmed me.” He paused as if again overcome by
the memory, then launched his first thunderbolt at the tempestuous
hearts of a people who but half a century before had almost succeeded
in wresting their great kingdom from the monarch whose guests they
were to-night--a people whose fathers had died cursing the name of
Hapsburg, and petitioning Heaven for the success of the Hungarian arms.
“We are following at home,” announced the German Emperor, “with
_sympathetic interest_ the story of the knightly Hungarians, _whose
patriotism has become proverbial_, and who in a glorious past did not
hesitate to sacrifice their blood--for the holy cross,” he added with
pious haste. “Names like Zrinyi inspire the hearts of German youths
to the present day. We witnessed with _sympathetic admiration_ the
festival of the thousandth birthday, which the Hungarians, surrounding
their beloved King, celebrated with such astounding pomp. The proud
architectural works of your great city give evidence of her artistic
spirit, and the bursting of the bonds of the Iron Gates has opened a
new way for commerce, and _has ranged Hungary as an equal among the
great and the most highly civilized nations of the Earth_.”
By this time the Hungarians were heaving like the sea. They had left
their seats and were pressing towards the Emperor, silently, that
they might not lose a word of his utterance; and it was evident that
only etiquette restrained their emotions. Never before, not in modern
times at least, had a monarch so flattered them. Not for centuries had
they been saluted as a practically independent state, unhyphenated,
for once permitted to stand alone under the crown of St. Stephen,
the hated double-headed bird brushed lightly aside. The air seemed
shaking with deep political import; more than one man was trembling
violently within his barbaric splendors. The Emperor pulled himself
up abruptly, and turned once more to his host, whose face, indignant
and aghast, composed itself suddenly to courteous attention. William’s
tones had been rich with sympathy for a race passionately admired. They
now softened with filial affection. “But what has made the deepest
impression upon me, particularly during my reception in Budapest, is
the enthusiastic devotion of Hungary to your Majesty. And not only
here, but in all Europe, above all among my own people, does the same
enthusiasm for your Majesty glow--an enthusiasm which I venture myself
to cherish, in looking up, after the manner of a son, to your Majesty
as my Fatherly Friend.
“Thanks to your Majesty’s wisdom, our union stands firm and
unquenchable, a blessing to our people; for it has meant the peace of
Europe for many years, and it will continue to do so for many more.
“Enthusiastic devotion to your Majesty--of this I am sure--dwells as
firmly now in the hearts of the sons of Árpád as when they cried to
your Majesty’s great ancestor, ‘_Moriamur pro rege nostro!_’”
He paused a moment before crying the hurrah for the King, which all
present expected as a matter of course would be given in German. But
William, under that apparently tactless exterior, capable of the
profoundest diplomacy, had a still surer bolt in store. Raising his
goblet on high, his eagle glance flashing from end to end of the pale
company, his passionate tones thrilling the most antagonistic heart
present, he cried:
“Giving expression now to these sentiments, we will put all we are
capable of feeling, thinking, and praying for your Majesty into those
words which every Hungarian utters with his latest breath--_Élyen a
Király!_”
As the words rang out in the Magyar language, so jealously beloved and
preserved, from the lips of a monarch whom duty had never commanded to
cope with its difficulties, the tongue the King, his host, ignored,
there was an instant of almost stupefied silence. Then some one gave an
_Élyen!_ as wild and abrupt as a battle-cry, the spell broke, the hot
blood of the Hungarians leaped to their heads, they forgot etiquette
and crowded about the Emperor, shouting until the marble walls rumbled
the echo. Their wild glances never wandered to the convulsed face of
their King, nor from the triumphant eyes of the German. Several of
the younger men and equally excited women stood upon chairs that they
might see him better. Then for the first time in that old palace there
rang out the word most hated in Hungary, “_Élyen a császar! Élyen a
császar!_” (Hurrah for the Emperor!) Then again that most musical and
thrilling of vocatives, “_Élyen! Élyen! Élyen!_”
Alexandra took her Count firmly by the arm and pushed him into a chair.
“You don’t look very strong,” she said, “and you will faint if you are
not careful.” Her own knees were trembling as she took the chair beside
him, but she proceeded coolly, “What an infant you are to be taken in
by the cleverest man in Europe--”
“He is the greatest man living,” stammered Zrinyi. “This is a great
moment in the history of Hungary, mademoiselle. It should be painted
and hung beside Munkacsy’s _Árpád_, or the _Sally of Zrinyi from
Szigetvár_. He is the man for us!--the man for us!”
“I don’t doubt every mustache in Budapest will stand on end to-morrow.
What a pity you have none.”
“Mademoiselle!” he cried, outraged at her flippancy; but she was moving
away.
She had looked once at Ranata during William’s speech. The Archduchess,
as the Hungarians pushed forward, had withdrawn from the Emperor’s side
and stood leaning against the wall, her head bent, her arms rigid. Her
face was expressionless, but, Alexandra commented, her hair had never
looked so red.
William, as the King, experiencing satiety, led the way to the
reception-rooms, turned his head rapidly in all directions, taking a
final survey of the scene of his latest triumph. His glance roved over
faces angry, approving, terrified, adoring; encountered the amused
stare of the American with haughty indifference, then rested suddenly
on the face of his young hostess. The Archduchess had dropped her
mask. Her head was thrust forward, deliberately waiting for the moment
when William’s eyes must meet hers. When they did they lingered. The
Hapsburg’s eyes blazed with a hatred so implacable, with a defiance so
reckless and contemptuous, that the Almighty’s best-beloved experienced
a shock. It seemed to him, for the first time in his triumphant career,
that he heard the steel of another will clash menacingly with his
own. Sustained in his dizziest flights by his honest belief in his
earthly mission, insolently aware that he had the best brain in the
royal hierarchy, the most splendid energy, a capacity for work never
surpassed, he was fully convinced that he had but to develop his
gifts, use all his vigilance and what patience he could find in him,
to realize his vast ambitions. But for the moment, in the presence of
another human will, and that the will of a woman, he experienced a
chill rising of the imperial flesh. He forgot his majesty, flung his
head high like an irritated stallion, glared back his defiance, and
jerked his eyes away. In a moment he was reminded of his manners.
“Your arm, your Majesty,” said the cold voice of his hostess; and in
silence, but with an impressive exhibition of royal self-control,
they walked side by side through the first circle-room into the blue
drawing-room. He was mightily uncomfortable, however, for in some
subtle feminine way she made him feel as if she were towering above
him by nearly a foot. It seemed to him that she grew an inch with
every step, that her little crown of black pearls was rising higher
and higher; and when he finally shot an apprehensive glance upward,
almost laughing aloud at his folly, he was relieved to find that her
nose was still on a level with his brow. But she was making the most of
her height, which, with the diadem on her lofty head and the immense
train dragging behind her, would have made a man of her own inches look
insignificant. It is doubtful if William ever breathed deeper relief
than when, a few moments after arriving in the drawing-room, he was
informed that the carriages were waiting to take himself and his suite
to the train, and that he must make his adieux.
The guests had scattered through the long line of rooms. Many went
out upon the balcony to watch the royal carriages and mounted escort
cross the illuminated bridge, and the roar of cheering thousands seemed
storming the hill. The royal party retired almost immediately, and
Alexandra followed the Archduchess to the sitting-room of her private
apartments. Ranata’s ladies had been dismissed, and she had closed the
dressing-room door on her tire-women. She was standing alone at the
window sobbing convulsively. The room was ringing with _Vivats_ and
_Élyens_, for it was too hot to close the windows.
Alexandra pushed her into a chair, removed the pins and pearls from the
heavy mane of hair, and sprayed her head and wrists with cologne. In a
few moments the Archduchess had commanded her tears. She threw back her
head and looked down upon shouting Pest with a sullen glare.
“What wouldn’t I have given to be able to wring his neck!” she said
in a moment. “How dared he! At my father’s table! What insolent
cruelty--he, who need fear no one living--to come here and fling his
dynamite into the weak foundations of this poor old Empire! I wish
to God I were on the thrones of Austria and Hungary. I’d pit myself
against him without a qualm. It would be two of our ancestors over
again and joy in the fight--I believe that in one of his exalted
moments he enrolled Frederick the Great among his ancestors.”
“Well,” began Alexandra, but Ranata did not hear her. She had risen and
was standing in the middle of the room, her long hair flaming about
her. To the American girl, her quivering slender figure looked ready
for a coat-of-mail, her head for the helmet. “I can’t help admiring
the brute for flinging his designs in our faces,” she exclaimed
furiously. “Did my father understand? The Hungarians?--The Emperor
dies. Franz Ferdinand--_Franz Ferdinand!_--succeeds him. The Empire,
bound together by rotten threads, begins its disintegration with my
father’s corpse. Do you remember the rapacity of Europe, that greedy
horde of vultures, after the death of Charles VI.?--Frederick’s swoop
upon Silesia? William, ‘in the manner of a son,’ only awaits the death
of his ‘Fatherly Friend’ to devour Austria to the gates of Vienna.
And Hungary? Could you not see his bait? Hungary quiescent--Hungary
once more an independent kingdom, or with himself as its nominal and
indulgent ruler!--Oh, for another Pragmatic Sanction!”
“I have a plan--if you will sit down quietly for a few moments and
listen to me. It is a practical plan, and I know it will appeal to you.”
The Archduchess resumed her seat. “Well? Tell it to me quickly. I am
panting for a practical idea. But the blood is blazing in my head.”
“William has made a deep impression on the Hungarians, and no
doubt they understood him plainly enough. But impressions can be
counteracted. He leaves here to-night, and your father will be in no
hurry to invite him again. Do you remain here this winter, instead of
returning to Vienna with the Emperor--announce that you have found no
city so fascinating, that you cannot tear yourself away; entertain
constantly and brilliantly; let loose all your bottled personal
charm--show them that you are the sister of Rudolf; be seen in public;
make a royal pilgrimage through the villages. The Hungarians resent
unceasingly that the Emperor spends but a few weeks of the year in
Budapest--and they look upon Austria as a mere annex of the great
kingdom of Hungary. They will be flattered--your slaves; with your
personality, if you will come down off your high horse, they will end
by adoring you--especially if you give them a royal good time. So much
for the present. When the time comes! When the time comes! When the
Empire shakes and William threatens, all you will have to do will be to
have a King’s Mount ready, fasten the crown of St. Stephen securely on
your head, ride up the mount, and wave your sword to the four corners
of the earth. All Hungary would break into deficient Latin and shout,
‘Long live our Lady and King!’ The dust of Maria Theresia would quiver
at that old war-cry--and she is no more forgotten here than in Austria.
You will be a fool if you throw away the greatest opportunity ever
offered to a woman cursed with royal blood.”
“It would almost be like meditating an act of usurpation,” muttered
the Archduchess; but her head was thrust forward, her eyes were
glittering. “But the alternative!--who knows? It might be for the
best. It may be my destiny. These Hungarians! There are no people in
the world so easy to arouse by appealing, not to their nerves and
passions, but to their chivalry and highest ideals.” She stood up again
in her excitement. “Do you remember when Maria Theresia, desperate
and almost helpless, with Europe sucking at every vein of the Empire,
the Austrian army an army of corpses--do you remember when she came
here, young, beautiful, pregnant, eloquent, and appealed to Hungary
to save her, how the magnates not only went off their heads and cried
that they would die for her, but inspired more than their own retainers
with their enthusiasm?--until from every mountain, from regions so
remote that William had never heard of them, there poured down tribes
so wild and terrible that Europe fled in dismay. If Austria exists
to-day, she owes it to Hungary--and no Hapsburg since Maria Theresia
has ever acknowledged the debt. And again--when Napoleon bribed and my
great-grandfather appealed, how they spurned the one and poured out
their blood for the other--who was neither picturesque nor grateful.
Throughout their history the Hungarian character has been astonishingly
consistent, their nationalism has been as unwavering, in spite of
conquests and immigrations, as that of your own countrymen. They are
as independent as republicans and as loyal as the British. But it
makes them the easier for tact and diplomacy to manage. If I convinced
them that I really loved them, that I was capable of the right sort of
rule--oh, go now. I will think all night. Come down early, will you?”
V
When Alexandra presented herself at the door leading to the apartments
of the Archduchess at ten o’clock on the following morning, she was
informed by the groom of the chambers that her Imperial Highness
awaited her in the “Hungarian House.” Her arms were full of newspapers
and her eyes sparkled with excitement. She ran down the little
staircase just beyond the door and out upon the first terrace, blinking
in the brilliant sunshine, but pausing to look at the cool gray Danube,
the splendid bridges, the gay city opposite; then wandered about
aimlessly for a few moments, her enjoyment still keen in the freedom of
the Hungarian atmosphere, the unapproachable beauty of Buda, ancient
city of kings. The hill which the palace crowns is so abrupt that its
many terraces have the effect of the hanging gardens of old; and its
pillared galleries of white stone, its wide and narrow flights of
steps leading down the steep hill-side, through parterres of flowers
or thickets of green to the great gates on the Danube, its upright
unshaded lawns and winding ways lost in romantic gloom seduce the
imagination away from the crimes that have been committed within the
fair walls above, the prisoners that have languished in the dungeons
beneath. When the most dazzling of suns floods the tremendous white
front of the palace, with its carved and pillared rotunda, its straight
and stately wings, the one bit of color in the crown of St. Stephen
above; when the statues of kings seem quivering with life and the water
of the fountain flies upward in an eager bursting of its bonds to
leap outward on all sides and rush back as eagerly, in a confused and
glittering mass of foam and spray, then must the most casual sojourner
in the city of Pest, smoking his cigar in the shades of its corso,
comprehend the proud spirit of Hungary. The royal palace of Buda is the
embodiment of that pride, personal and national, the glorified symbol
of a thousand years of steady and upward persistence, while battling
with every misfortune that can assail a devoted nation.
“No wonder Kossuth lost his head when he was lord here for a few
minutes,” thought Alexandra. “If he hadn’t--if he had sent Görgei on to
Vienna--well, may I be in at the next death!”
She descended a wide flight of marble steps on the left of the palace,
then another, and approached the little “Hungarian House,” built into
a portion of the ancient wall, almost hidden by trees as old. It was
a gay little tea-house of primitive Hungarian architecture, its inner
walls decorated with panels of native embroidery, the whole effect
light, Oriental, frivolous.
Two of Ranata’s ladies were reading under a tree nearby. The
Archduchess was alone in the one room of the house. Her eyes were
heavy. It was evident that she had slept little. They flashed, however,
and she suddenly sat erect as she saw the newspapers.
“Ah!” she exclaimed sharply. “What do they say? I did not care to send
for them, myself.”
Alexandra threw herself into a chair and rattled the journals
viciously. “I have come to read you a few select extracts. Oh, he hit
the mark--hit it in the bull’s-eye! I am told they are in such a state
of enthusiasm and excitement over there that if he hadn’t left last
night he wouldn’t have been able to get out of Hungary at all. Here’s
the first gun: ‘The majestic words will find an echo in all parts of
Hungary, which will ever remain in the debt of the great Hohenzollern,
who has forever conquered the soul of every Hungarian; ... the love and
gratitude of the Hungarian nation will follow the guest of our King
wherever he goes.’ But that is mere rhetoric. Listen to this: ‘In every
line there is so much heart and so much sympathy with the Hungarian
nation, its glorious past as well as its promising future, that it
seems not the language of politics only, but of a loving friend, on
whose well-meaning we may ever rely! Perhaps it will give cause for
reflection in those parts of the German Empire which have been prone,
without cause, to cast blame upon Hungary, now that they see with how
great a sympathy the German Emperor expresses himself in our behalf.’
Here is another: ‘As a political assurance it is the grandest which
ever came from the lips of the Emperor William himself.... Many wounds
are healed by those words, which put an end to such calumny.’ There
are two more. Of course there are columns, but I have marked the
significant extracts. ‘The toasts of yesterday will be written in the
annals of the nation with letters of gold, and sustain and rejoice
the soul of future generations. No Hungarian will read the warm and
inspired words of the German Emperor without a joyful and a burning
heart. No strange monarch has ever spoken to our nation with so much
feeling.’ This is the last: ‘Where did the German Emperor find those
colors for his palette? Why, they are our own colors! Where did he find
that tune? It is the pulse of our own hearts! God bless this great
monarch, who knows so well how to appreciate our striving country! We
utter these words of parting to him with a never-dying gratitude!’
There you are!”
“I tasted gall with every word, but I am glad they have been printed,
for they will help me to accomplish my object. I need strong
arguments--my request to remain here alone will be a tremendous
innovation. I shall send these to my father at once, that he may have
read them before our interview. They may or may not have been shown to
him. If I personally request it, he is sure to read them, no matter who
is at his elbow.
“The sole consolation,” she continued after a moment, “is that William
is not a Catholic. I doubt if the Hungarians would ever accept a
Protestant king. Perhaps if Kossuth had been a Catholic he would have
been stronger in his exile.”
“William may have to turn Catholic yet, or Socialist, to keep his
throne and get all the other things he wants. Surely religion--the
incidental husk of it--cannot mean much to a brain like that.”
“He would never let the Jesuits rule him,” said the Archduchess
bitterly. “They have been the curse of the Hapsburgs, and their
restoration constitutes Metternich’s chief claim to infamy. But their
power over rulers in this enlightened age is incredible--perhaps,
however, royalty is not so much enslaved by the Church as by its
ancestors. Even I, to whom the Catholic Church is but one of many
inherited forms, long since rejected by pride and reason--even I am
sometimes the victim of that ancient sea of superstition that murmurs
in the soul. I can see my father wash the feet of the poor and feel
nothing but amusement. I can see him march bareheaded in the Corpus
Christi procession, and only fear that he will get a sunstroke--his
face was purple last June. But there are times in the cathedral, on
great occasions of ceremony, when the mysterious colored dimness, the
long sonorousness of priests, the glorified pageant, the divine music,
and the intoxicating incense seem to liberate all the ghosts in my soul
and send them to my head. Then I have a confused sensation of being in
a past century--old doors are opened, old ecstasies, terrors, desires,
creep forth. I long to prostrate myself and grovel, to scourge myself
into a spiritual delirium, to feel the foot of the Church on my neck.
Then creep out the old lusts of cruelty, of tyranny, of torture--what
a mere ghost of power a civilized monarch has to-day! Can you imagine
that there have been moments in my life when I regretted that?--when,
under the spell of Holy Church, I have, for a moment, been a composite
of the worst of my ancestors?”
“You are always picturesque, and you always make me rejoice that I am
an American and not descended in the royal line. But I am astonished
that you ever permit your reason, your personality, to be submerged in
such a fashion! I should think if there was one woman who could seal
up her ancestors and leave them to moulder where they belong, it was
yourself. You are not morbid, except in erratic, incidental, ancestral
streaks.”
“I don’t think I am morbid in the usual sense, for I have too good an
appetite and take too much exercise. But I am bound to have deeps and
fissures in my soul, for the centuries have cut them there; and what
_must_ be in them sometimes affects my imagination. And my ancestors
have a curious fascination for me--the idea that they may or may not
have the power to shape the destinies of the living. There have been
moments when I have been disposed to prostrate myself amid the remains
of their mortal part in the crypt and demand their intercession. Did
you know that Maria Theresia used to make her daughters, on the eve
of marriage, go down into the crypt alone at night and pray among the
coffins of their ancestors? There have been times--very rarely--when
that idea has appealed to me with an almost irresistible force.”
“For Heaven’s sake stay here in Budapest, where you can live in the
sun. You have grown mouldy in the Hofburg this last year, and your
ancestors have had it all their own way. I thought you had got over
that sort of nonsense long ago. This is the result of William and a
sleepless night.”
The Archduchess laughed. “Perhaps. I am willing to suppose that my
predecessors have troubled me less all these years than they might have
done without the fatal antidote of your American humor. Nevertheless,
I have no right to be faithless to them, and I would not forget them
if I could. And I find them much more satisfactory to contemplate than
most of my living relatives, who, as a rule, have neither morals nor
brains.”
“I agree with you there. When Death lays his iron hand upon a mortal’s
power to bore, his virtues rise and sit upon the corpse. That is the
secret of the superstition which makes us think kindly of the dead. Do
you mind if I read a letter from Fess? I have been too excited even to
open it.”
“Pray do.” Ranata smiled with both sympathy and interest. Then she
sighed. “I believe your brother is the only person I envy--I mean
the only person I’d be if some fairy would bid me choose. He has
his destiny in his own hands. He has done such wonderful things!
He is famous and powerful; his future holds the most astounding
possibilities--and he is only thirty-one! Oh, your America! Where will
you stop? And what will you do to poor old Europe?”
“Now you’re talking! Come down out of your niche, with the worm-eaten
past behind it, and identify yourself with us. Therein lies your only
salvation. William and my brother have some great scheme on foot; I
don’t know what, but I know that much from a few words I happened to
overhear between Fess and my father. William and Fessenden! They could
turn the world upside down if they chose! Well?”
The Archduchess was leaning forward, her eyes blazing. “An alliance
between William and your brother?” she exclaimed. She composed herself
with a manifest effort, and added: “It is really remarkable--I know
your father and Mrs. Abbott so well, and yet your brother--I have never
seen him--not even his picture. You say those cuts in the newspapers
during your war with Spain--”
“Were probably a composite of Roosevelt, John Jacob Astor, and Cervera.
Fess, like my father, has never had his picture taken. He hasn’t the
patience, and says he has no desire to display his weak side to the
world--that the weak side of a man is more likely to come out in his
photographs than not. It is hardly remarkable that you have not met
him. First those years in South America, putting blood and iron in
place of wind inside the Monroe Doctrine; since then he has had too
much to do at home to come to Europe, except for two months in summer,
when he brings a canoe and a knapsack. About his only other recreation
has been the Spanish War. But this letter has the Berlin postmark. I
thought he had gone back. Let me see what he has to say.”
She glanced through the short letter. “He is not going back at present.
He has one of his periodical attacks of disgust for business and
details, and will tramp over here for a month or two longer.”
“Ask him to come here--to Budapest,” said the Archduchess sweetly.
“It is high time we met. And as he is the most distinguished of young
Americans, I should like him to be one of my court. I intend to have
the illustrious of all sorts about me here, in art, in letters, in
music, and irrespective of noble birth. I intend to show Europe what a
court should be.”
“You _have_ thought it out! And the Emperor? Are you sure? It is my
turn to have misgivings. He will see many objections. There is no one
so rigid in his traditions.”
“I shall stay,” said Ranata shortly. “He would never go so far as to
follow some illustrious examples and shut me up. If the worst comes to
the worst, I’ll threaten to go to America and live there.”
“Good! At last my seeds are showing their little green heads. Now I
know you will succeed in whatever you put your brain to. You may count
on me. I’ll even engage to help you alienate Fessenden’s affections
from William, and he is devoted to him.”