Further, Dorothea, the Dowager Grand Duchess, no longer lived in the Old

Schloss, and the causes of her retirement were both sad and

uncomfortable. For she too, the Princess whom the much-travelled Herr

von Knobelsdorff had described more than once as one of the most

beautiful women he had ever seen, the Princess whose radiant smiles had

evoked joy, enthusiasm, and cheers whenever she had shown herself to the

longing gaze of the toil-worn masses, she too had had to pay her tribute

to time. Dorothea had aged, her calm perfection, the admiration and joy

of everybody, had during recent years withered so fast and steadily that

the woman in her had been unable to keep pace with the transformation.

Nothing, no art, no measures, even the painful and repulsive ones, with

which she tried to stave off decay, had availed to prevent the sweet

brightness of her deep blue eyes from fading, rings of loose yellow skin

from forming under them, the wonderful little dimples in her cheeks from

turning into furrows, and her proud and hard mouth from looking drawn

and bitter.

But since her heart had been hard as her beauty, and had been absorbed

in that beauty, since her beauty had been her very soul and she had had

no wish, no love, beyond the effect of that beauty on the hearts of

others, while her own heart never beat the faster for anything or

anyone, she was now disconsolate and lost, could not accommodate herself

to the change and rebelled against it. Surgeon-General Eschrich said

something about mental disturbance resulting from an unusually quick

climacteric, and his opinion was undoubtedly correct in a sense. The sad

truth at any rate was that Dorothea during the last years of her

husband's life had already shown signs of profound mental disturbance

and trouble.

She became light-shy, gave orders that at the Thursday concerts in the

Marble Hall all the lights should be shaded red, and flew into a passion

because she could not have the same thing done at all other festivities,

the Court Ball, the Private Ball, the Dinner Party, and the Great Court,

as the kind of twilight feeling in the Marble Hall had been enough by

itself to call forth many cutting remarks. She spent whole days before

her looking-glasses, and it was noticed that she fondled with her hands

those which for some reason or other reflected her image in a more

favourable light. Then again she had all the looking-glasses removed

from her rooms, and those fixed in the wall draped, went to bed and

prayed for death.

One day Baroness von Schulenburg found her quite distracted and feverish

with weeping in the Hall of the Twelve Months before the big portrait

which represented her at the height of her beauty.... At the same time a

diseased misanthropy began to take possession of her, and both Court and

people were distressed to notice how the bearing of this erstwhile

goddess began to lose its assurance, her deportment became strangely

awkward, and a pitiful look came into her eyes.

At last she shut herself up altogether, and, at the last Court Ball he

attended, Johann Albrecht had escorted his sister Catherine instead of

his "indisposed Consort." His death was from one point of view a release

for Dorothea, as it relieved her from all her duties as a sovereign. She

chose as dower-house Schloss Segenhaus, a monastic-looking old

hunting-seat, which lay in a solemn park about one and a half hour's

drive from the capital, and had been decorated by some pious old

sportsman with religious and sporting emblems curiously intermixed.

There she lived, eclipsed and odd, and excursionists could often watch

her from afar, walking in the park with Baroness von Schulenburg-Tressen,

and bowing graciously to the trees on each side of the path.

Lastly, Princess Ditlinde had married at the age of twenty, one year

after her father's death. She bestowed her hand on a prince of a

mediatised house, Prince Philipp zu Ried-Hohenried, a no longer young,

but well-preserved, cultured little man of advanced views, who paid her

flattering attentions for some considerable time, did all his courting

at first-hand, and offered the Princess his heart and hand in an honest

bourgeois way at a charity function.

It would be wrong to say that this alliance evoked wild enthusiasm in

the country. It was received with indifference; it disappointed. It is

true, more ambitious hopes had been secretly entertained for Johann

Albrecht's daughter, and all the critics could say was that the marriage

could not be called a _mésalliance_ in so many words. It was a fact that

Ditlinde, in giving her hand to the Prince--which she did of her own

free will, and quite uninfluenced by others--had undoubtedly descended

out of her sphere of Highness into a more free and human atmosphere. Her

noble spouse was not only a lover and collector of oil paintings, but

also a business man and tradesman on a large scale.

The dynasty had ceased to exercise any sovereign right hundreds of years

ago, but Philipp was the first of his house to make up his mind to

exploit his private means in a natural way. After spending his youth in

travelling, he had looked around for a sphere of activity which would

keep him busy and contented, and at the same time (a matter of

necessity) would increase his income. So he launched out into various

enterprises, started farms, a brewery, a sugar factory, several

saw-mills on his property, and began to exploit his extensive peat

deposits in a methodical way. As he brought expert knowledge and sound

business instincts to all his enterprises, they soon began to pay, and

returned profits which, if their origin was not very princely, at any

rate provided him with the means of leading a princely existence which

he would otherwise not have had.

On the other hand the critics might have been asked what sort of a match

they could expect for their Princess, if they viewed the matter soberly.

Ditlinde, who brought her husband scarcely anything except an

inexhaustible store of linen, including dozens of out-of-date and

useless articles such as night-caps and neckerchiefs, which however by

hallowed tradition formed part of her trousseau--she by this marriage

acquired a measure of riches and comfort such as she had never been

accustomed to at home: and no sacrifice of her affections was necessary

to pay for them. She took the step into private life with obvious

contentment and determination, and retained, of the trappings of

Highness, nothing but her title. She remained on friendly terms with her

ladies-in-waiting, but divested her relations with them of everything

which suggested service, and avoided giving her household the character

of a Court.

That might evoke surprise, especially in a Grimmburg and in Ditlinde in

particular, but there was no doubt that it was her own choice. The

couple spent the summer on the princely estates, the winter in the

capital in the stately palace in the Albrechtstrasse, which Philipp zu

Ried had inherited; and it was here, not in the Old Schloss, that the

Grand Ducal family--Klaus Heinrich and Ditlinde, occasionally Albrecht

as well--met now and again for a confidential talk.

So it happened that one day at the beginning of autumn, not quite two

years after the death of Johann Albrecht, the _Courier_, well-informed

as usual, published in its evening edition the news that this afternoon

his Royal Highness the Grand Duke and his Grand Ducal Highness Prince

Klaus Heinrich had been to tea with her Grand Ducal Highness the

Princess zu Ried-Hohenried. That was all. But on that afternoon several

topics of importance for the future were discussed between the brothers

and sister.

Klaus Heinrich left the Hermitage shortly before five o'clock. As the

weather was sunny, he had ordered the dogcart, and the open

brown-varnished vehicle, clean and shining, if not over-new or smart to

look at, came slowly up the broad drive of the Schloss, at a quarter to

five, from the stables, which with their asphalt yard lay in the right

wing of the home farm. The home farm, yellow-painted, old-fashioned

buildings of one story, made one long line with, though at some distance

from, the plain white mansion, the front of which, adorned with laurels

at regular intervals, faced the muddy pond and the public part of the

park.

For the front portion of the estate, that which marched with the town

gardens, was open to pedestrians and light traffic, and all that was

enclosed was the gently rising flower-garden, at the top of which lay

the Schloss and the very unkempt park behind, which was divided by

hedges and fences from the rubbish-encumbered waste ground at the edge

of the town suburbs. So the cart came up the drive between the pond and

the home farm, turned through the high garden gates, adorned with lamps

which had once been gilt, passed on up the drive and waited in front of

the stiff little laurel-planted terrace which led to the garden-room.

Klaus Heinrich came out a few minutes before five. He wore as usual the

tight-fitting uniform of a lieutenant of the Grenadier Guards, and his

sword-hilt hung on his arm. Neumann, in a violet coat whose arms were

too short, ran in front of him down the steps and with his red barber's

hands packed his master's folded grey over-coat into the cart. Then,

while the coachman, his hand to his cockaded hat, inclined a little

sideways on the box, the valet arranged the light carriage rug over

Klaus Heinrich's knees and stepped back with a silent bow. The horses

started off.

Outside the garden gates a few promenaders had collected. They greeted

Klaus Heinrich, smiling with knitted brows and hats lifted, and Klaus

Heinrich thanked them by raising his white-gloved right hand to the peak

of his cap and making a succession of lively nods.

They skirted a piece of waste ground along a birch avenue, whose leaves

were already turning, and then drove through the suburb, between

poverty-stricken houses, over unpaved streets, where the ragged children

left their hoops and tops for a moment to gaze at the carriage with

curious eyes. Some cried, Hurrah! and ran for a while by the side of the

carriage, with heads turned towards Klaus Heinrich. The carriage might

have taken the road by the Spa-gardens; but that through the suburb was

shorter, and time pressed. Ditlinde was particular on points of

regularity, and easily put out if anybody disturbed her household

arrangements by unpunctuality.

Yonder was the Dorothea Children's Hospital of which Doctor Sammet,

Ueberbein's friend, was the Director; Klaus Heinrich drove by it. And

then the carriage left the squalid neighbourhood and reached the

Gartenstrasse, a stately tree-planted avenue, in which lay the houses

and villas of wealthy citizens, and along which ran the tram-line from

the Spa Gardens to the centre of the city. The traffic here was fairly

heavy, and Klaus Heinrich was kept busy answering the greetings which

met him. Civilians took off their hats and looked from under their

eyebrows at him, officers on horse and on foot saluted, policemen

front-turned, and Klaus Heinrich in his corner raised his hand to the

peak of his cap and thanked on both sides with the well-trained bow and

smile which were calculated to confirm the people in their feeling of

participation in his splendid personality.... His way of sitting in his

carriage was quite peculiar--he did not lean back indolently and

comfortably in the cushions, but he took just as active a part in the

motions of the carriage when driving as in those of his horse when

riding; with hands crossed on his sword hilt and one foot a little

advanced, he as it were "took" the unevennesses of the ground, and

accommodated himself to the motion of the badly hung carriage.

The carriage crossed the Albrechtsplatz, left the Old Schloss, with the

two sentries presenting arms, to the right, followed the Albrechtstrasse

in the direction of the barracks of the Grenadier Guards and rolled to

the left into the courtyard of the palace of the Princess of Ried. It

was a building of regular proportions in the pedantic style, with a

soaring gable over the main door, festooned _oeils-de-boeuf_ in the

mezzanine story, high French windows in the first story, and an elegant

_cour d'honneur_, which was formed by the two one-storied wings and was

separated from the street by a circular railing, on whose pillars stone

babies played. But the internal arrangements of the Schloss were, in

contradistinction to the historical style of its exterior, conceived

throughout in an up-to-date and comfortable bourgeois taste.

Ditlinde received her brother in a large drawing-room on the first floor

with several curved sofas in pale green silk; the back part of the room

was separated from the front by slender pillars, and filled with palms,

plants in metal bowls, and tables covered with brilliant flowers.

"Good afternoon, Klaus Heinrich," said the Princess. She was delicate

and thin, and the only luxuriant thing about her was her fair hair,

which used to lie like ram's horns round her ears and now was dressed in

thick plaits above her face with its high Grimmburg cheek-bones. She

wore an indoor dress of soft blue-grey stuff with a white lace collar,

cut in a point like a breast-plate and fastened at the waist with an

old-fashioned oval brooch. Blue veins and shadows showed here and there

through the delicate skin of her face, in the temples, the forehead, at

the corners of her soft and calm blue eyes. Signs of approaching

maternity were beginning to show themselves.

"Good afternoon, Ditlinde, you and your flowers!" answered Klaus

Heinrich, as, clapping his heels together, he bent over her little,

white, rather over-broad hand. "How they do smell! And the garden's full

of them, I see."

"Yes," she said, "I love flowers. I have always longed to be able to

live among quantities of flowers, living, smelling flowers, which I

could watch growing--it was a kind of secret wish of mine, Klaus

Heinrich, and I might almost say that I married for flowers, for in the

Old Schloss, as you know, there were no flowers.... The Old Schloss and

flowers! We should have had to rummage a lot to find them, I'm sure.

Rat-traps and such things, plenty of them. And really, when one comes to

think, the whole thing was like a disused rat-trap, so dusty and horrid

... ugh!..."

"But the rose-bush, Ditlinde."

"Yes, my goodness--one rose-bush. And that's in the guide-books, because

its roses smell of decay. And the books say that it will one day smell

quite natural and nice, just like any other rose. But I can't believe

it."

"You will soon," he said, and looked at her laughingly, "have something

better than your flowers to tend, little Ditlinde."

"Yes," she said and blushed lightly and quickly, "yes, Klaus Heinrich, I

can hardly believe it. And yet it will be so, if God pleases. But come

over here. We'll have a chat together once more...."

The room, on whose threshold they had been talking, was small in

comparison with its height, with a grey-blue carpet, and furnished with

cheery-looking silver-grey furniture, the chairs of which were

upholstered in blue silk. A milk-white china chandelier hung from the

white-festooned centre of the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with

oil paintings of various sizes, acquisitions of Prince Philipp's, light

studies in the new style, representing white goats in the sun, poultry

in the sun, sun-bathed meadows and peasants with blinking, sun-sprinkled

faces.

The spindle-legged secretaire in the white-curtained window was covered

with a hundred carefully arranged articles, knick-knacks, writing

materials, and several dainty note-blocks--for the Princess was

accustomed to make careful and comprehensive notes about all her duties

and plans. In front of the inkstand a housekeeper's book, in which

Ditlinde had apparently just been working, lay open, and by the table

there hung on the wall a little silk-trimmed block-calendar, under the

printed date of which could be seen the pencil note: "5 o'clock: my

brothers." Between the sofa and a semicircle of chairs over against the

white swing doors into the reception room stood an oval table with a

damask cloth and blue-silk border; the flowered tea-service, a jam-pot,

long dishes of sweet cakes, and tiny pieces of bread and butter were

arranged in ordered disorder on it, and to one side steamed the silver

tea-kettle over its spirit-flame on a glass table. But there were

flowers everywhere--flowers in the vases on the writing-table, on the

tea-table, on the glass table, on the china-cabinet, on the table next

the white sofa, and a flower-table full of flower-pots stood in the

window.

This room, situated at the side and in a corner of the suite of

reception rooms, was Ditlinde's cabinet, her boudoir, the room in which

she used to entertain quite intimate friends and to make tea with her

own hands. Klaus Heinrich watched her as she washed out the tea-pot with

hot water and put the tea in with a silver spoon.

"And Albrecht ... is he coming?" he asked with an involuntarily

restrained voice.

"I hope so," she said, bending attentively over the crystal tea-caddy,

as if to avoid spilling any tea (and he too avoided looking at her). "I

have of course asked him, Klaus Heinrich, but you know he cannot bind

himself. It depends on his health whether he comes. I'm making our tea

at once, for Albrecht will drink his milk.... Possibly too Jettchen may

look in for a bit to-day. You will enjoy seeing her again. She's so

lively, and has always got such a lot to tell us."

"Jettchen" meant Fräulein von Isenschnibbe, the Princess's friend and

confidant. They had been on Christian-name terms since they were

children.

"In armour, too, as usual?" said Ditlinde, placing the filled tea-pot on

its stand and examining her brother. "In uniform as usual, Klaus

Heinrich?"

He stood with heels together and rubbed his left hand, which was cold,

on his chest with his right.

"Yes, Ditlinde, I like it, I'd rather. It fits so tight, you see, and it

braces me up. Besides, it is cheaper, for a proper civil wardrobe runs

into a terrible lot of money, I believe, and Schulenburg is always going

on about how dear things are, without that. So I manage with two or

three coats, and yet can show myself in my rich relations' houses."

"Rich relations!" laughed Ditlinde. "Still some way off that, Klaus

Heinrich!"

They sat down at the tea-table, Ditlinde on a sofa, Klaus Heinrich on a

chair opposite the window.

"Rich relations!" she repeated, and the subject obviously excited her.

"No, far from it; how can we expect to be rich, where cash is so short

and everything is sunk in various enterprises, Klaus Heinrich? And they

are young and in the making, they're all in the development stage, as

dear Philipp says, and won't bear full fruit till others have succeeded

us. But things are improving, that much is true, and I keep the

household straight...."

"Yes, Ditlinde, you do keep it straight and no mistake!"

"Keep it straight, and write everything down and look after the

servants, and after all the payments which one's duty to the world

demands have been made, there is a nice little sum to put by every year

for the children. And dear Philipp.... He sends his greetings, Klaus

Heinrich--I forgot, he's very sorry not to be able to be here to-day....

We've only just got back from Hohenried, and there he is already under

way, at his office, on his properties--he's small and delicate

naturally, but when his peat or his saw-mills are in question he gets

red cheeks, and he says himself that he has been much better since he

has had so much to do."

"Does he say so?" asked Klaus Heinrich, and a sad look came into his

eyes, as he looked straight beyond the flower-table at the bright

window.... "Yes, I can quite believe that it must be very stimulating to

be so really splendidly busy. In my park too the meadows have been mowed

a second time this year already, and I love seeing the hay built up in

steep heaps with a stick through the middle of each, looking for all the

world like a camp of little Indians' huts, and then Schulenburg intends

to sell it. But of course that cannot be compared ..."

"Oh, you!" said Ditlinde, and drew her chin in. "With you it's quite

different, Klaus Heinrich! The next to the throne! You are called to

other things, I imagine. My goodness, yes! You enjoy your popularity

with the people...."

They were silent for a while. Then he said:

"And you, Ditlinde, if I'm not mistaken you're as happy as, even happier

than, before. I don't say that you have got red cheeks, like Philipp

from his peat; you always were a bit transparent, and you are still. But

you look flourishing. I haven't yet asked, since you married, but I

think there's nothing to worry about in connexion with you."

She sat in an easy position, with her arm lightly folded across her lap.

"Yes," she said, "I'm all right, Klaus Heinrich, your eyes don't deceive

you, and it would be ungrateful of me not to acknowledge my good

fortune. You see, I know quite well that many people in the country are

disappointed by my marriage and say that I have ruined myself, and

demeaned myself, and so on. And such people are not far to seek, for

brother Albrecht, as you know as well as I do, in his heart despises my

dear Philipp and me into the bargain, and can't abide him, and calls him

privately a tradesman and shopkeeper. But that doesn't bother me, for I

meant it when I accepted Philipp's hand--seized it, I would say, if it

didn't sound so wild--accepted it because it was warm and honest, and

offered to take me away from the Old Schloss. For when I look back and

think of the Old Schloss and life in it as I should have gone on living

if it had not been for dear Philipp, I shudder, Klaus Heinrich, and I

feel that I could not have borne it and should have become strange and

queer like poor mamma. I am a bit delicate naturally, as you know, I

should have simply gone under in so much desolation and sadness, and

when dear Philipp came, I thought: now's your chance. And when people

say that I am a bad Princess, because I have in a way abdicated, and

fled here where it is rather warmer and more friendly, and when they say

that I lack dignity or consciousness of Highness, or whatever they call

it, they are stupid and ignorant, Klaus Heinrich, because I have too

much, I have on the contrary too much of it, that's a fact, otherwise

the Old Schloss would not have had such an effect upon me, and Albrecht

ought to see that, for he too, in his way, has too much of it--all we

Grimmburgers have too much of it, and that's why it sometimes looks as

if we had too little of it. And sometimes, when Philipp is under way, as

he is now, and I sit here among my flowers and Philipp's pictures with

all their sun--it's lucky that it's painted sun, for bless me! otherwise

we should have to get sun-blinds--and everything is tidy and clean, and

I think of the blessing, as you call it, in store for me, then I seem to

myself like the little mermaid in the fairy-tale which the Swiss

governess read to us, if you remember--who married a mortal and got legs

instead of her fish's tail.... I don't know if you understand me...."

"Oh yes, Ditlinde, of course, I understand you perfectly. And I am

really glad that everything has turned out so well and happily for you.

For it is dangerous, I may tell you, in my experience it is difficult

for us to be suitably happy. It's so easy to go wrong and be

misunderstood, for the nuisance is that nobody protects our dignity for

us if we don't do it ourselves, and then blame and scandal so readily

follow.... But which is the right way? You have found it. They have

quite recently announced my engagement with Cousin Griseldis in the

newspapers. That was a _ballon d'essai_, as they call it, and they think

it was a very happy one. But Griseldis is a silly girl, and half-dead

with anæmia, and never says anything but 'yes,' so far as I know. I've

never given her a thought, nor has Knobelsdorff, thank goodness. The

news was at once announced to be unfounded.... Here comes Albrecht!" he

said, and stood up.

A cough was heard outside. A footman in olive-green livery threw open

the swing doors with a quick, firm, and noiseless movement of both arms,

and announced in a subdued voice: "His Royal Highness the Grand Duke."

Then he stepped aside with a bow. Albrecht advanced through the room.

He had traversed the hundred yards from the Old Schloss hither in a

closed carriage, with his huntsman on the box. He was in mufti, as

almost always, wore a buttoned-up frock-coat with little satin lapels,

and patent-leather boots on his small feet. Since his accession he had

grown an imperial. His short fair hair was brushed back on each of his

narrow, sunk temples. His gait was an awkward and yet indescribably

distinguished strut, which gave his shoulder-blades a peculiar twist. He

carried his head well back and stuck his short round underlip out,

sucking gently with it against the upper one.

The Princess went to the threshold to meet him. He disliked

hand-kissing, so he simply held out his hand with a soft almost

whispered greeting--his thin, cold hand which looked so sensitive and

which he stretched out from his chest while keeping his forearm close to

his body. Then he greeted his brother Klaus Heinrich in the same way,

who had waited for him standing with heels close together in front of

his chair--and said nothing further.

Ditlinde talked. "It's very nice of you to come, Albrecht. So you're

feeling well? You look splendid. Philipp wishes me to tell you how sorry

he is to have to be out this afternoon. Sit down, won't you, anywhere

you like--here, for instance, opposite me. That chair's a pretty

comfortable one, you sat in it last time. I've made tea for us in the

meantime. You'll have your milk directly...."

"Thanks," he said quietly. "I must beg pardon ... I'm late. You know,

the shorter the road ... And then I have to lie down in the

afternoon.... There's no one else coming?"

"No one else, Albrecht. At the most, Jettchen Isenschnibbe may look in

for a bit, if you don't object...."

"Oh?"

"But I can just as well say 'Not at home.'"

"Oh no, pray don't."

Hot milk was brought. Albrecht clasped the tall, thick, studded glass in

both hands.

"Ah, something warm," he said. "How cold it is already in these parts!

And I've been frozen the whole summer in Hollerbrunn. Haven't you

started fires yet? I have. But then again the smell of the stoves upsets

me. All stoves smell. Von Bühl promises me central heating for the Old

Schloss every autumn. But it seems not to be feasible."

"Poor Albrecht," said Ditlinde, "at this time of year you used to be

already in the South, so long as father was alive. You must long for

it."

"Your sympathy does you credit, dear Ditlinde," answered he, still in a

low and slightly lisping voice. "But we must show that I am on the spot.

I must rule the country, as you know, that's what I'm here for. To-day I

have been graciously pleased to allow some worthy citizen--I'm sorry I

can't remember his name--to accept and wear a foreign order. Further, I

have had a telegram sent to the annual meeting of the Horticultural

Society, in which I assumed the honorary Presidency of the Society and

pledged my word to further its efforts in every way--without really

knowing what furthering I could do beyond sending the telegram, for the

members are quite well able to take care of themselves. Further, I have

deigned to confirm the choice of a certain worthy fellow to be mayor of

my fair city of Siebenberge--in connection with which I should like to

know whether this my subject will be a better mayor for my confirmation

than he would have been without it...."

"Well, well, Albrecht, those are trifles!" said Ditlinde. "I'm convinced

that you've had more serious business to do...."

"Oh, of course. I've had a talk with my Minister of Finance and

Agriculture. It was time I did. Doctor Krippenreuther would have been

bitterly disappointed with me if I had not summoned him once more. He

went ahead in summary fashion and laid before me a conspectus of several

mutually related topics at once--the harvest, the new principles for the

drawing up of the budget, the reform of taxation, on which he is busy.

The harvest has been a bad one, it seems. The peasants have been hit by

blight and bad weather; not only they, but Krippenreuther too, are much

concerned about it, because the tax-paying resources of the land, he

says, have once more suffered contraction. Besides, there have

unfortunately been disasters in more than one of the silver-mines. The

gear is at a standstill, says Krippenreuther, it is damaged and will

cost a lot of money to repair. I listened to the whole recital with an

appropriate expression on my face, and did what I could to express my

grief for such a series of misfortunes. Next, I was consulted as to

whether the cost of the necessary new buildings for the Treasury and for

the Woods and Customs and Inland Revenue Offices ought to be debited to

the ordinary or the extraordinary estimates; I learnt a lot about

sliding scales, and income tax, and tax on tourist traffic, and the

removal of burdens from oppressed agriculture and the imposition of

burdens on the towns; and on the whole I got the impression that

Krippenreuther was well up in his subject. I, of course, know

practically nothing about it--which Krippenreuther knows and approves;

so I just said 'yes, yes,' and 'of course,' and 'many thanks,' and let

him run on."

"You speak so bitterly, Albrecht."

"No; I'll just tell you what struck me while Krippenreuther was holding

forth to me to-day. There's a man living in this town, a man with small

private means and a warty nose. Every child knows him and shouts 'Hi!'

when he sees him; he is called 'the Hatter,' for he is not quite all

there; his surname he has lost long ago. He is always on the spot when

there is anything going on, although his half-wittedness keeps him from

playing any serious part in anything; he wears a rose in his buttonhole,

and carries his hat about on the end of his walking-stick. Twice a day,

about the time when a train starts, he goes to the station, taps the

wheels, examines the luggage, and fusses about. Then when the guard

blows his whistle, 'the Hatter' waves to the engine-driver, and the

train starts. But 'the Hatter' deludes himself into thinking that his

waving sends the train off. That's like me. I wave, and the train

starts. But it would start without me, and my waving makes no

difference, it's mere silly show. I'm sick of it...."

The brother and sister were silent. Ditlinde looked at her lap in an

embarrassed way, and Klaus Heinrich gazed, as he tugged at his little

bow-shaped moustache, between her and the Grand Duke at the bright

window.

"I can quite follow you, Albrecht," said he after a while, "though it is

rather cruel of you to compare yourself and us with 'the Hatter.' You

see, I too understand nothing about sliding scales and taxation of

tourist traffic and peat-cutting, and there is such a lot about which I

know nothing--everything which is covered by the expression 'the misery

in the world'--hunger and want, and the struggle for existence, as it is

called, and war and hospital horrors, and all that. I have seen and

studied not one of these, except death itself, when father died, and

that too was not death as it can be, but rather it was edifying, and the

whole Schloss was illuminated. And at times I feel ashamed of myself

because I have not knocked about the world. But then I tell myself that

mine is not a comfortable life, not at all comfortable, although I

'wander on the heights of mankind,' as people express it, or perhaps

just because I do, and that I perhaps in my own way know more about the

strenuousness of life, its 'tight-lipped countenance,' if you will allow

me the expression, than many a one who knows all about the sliding

scales or any other single department of life. And the upshot of that

is, Albrecht, that my life is not a comfortable one--that's the upshot

of everything--if you will allow me this retort, and that is how we

justify ourselves. And if people cry 'Hi!' when they see me, they must

know why they do so, and my life must have some _raison d'être_,

although I am prevented from playing any serious part in anything, as

you so admirably express it. And you're quite justified too. You wave to

order, because the people wish you to wave, and if you do not really

control their wishes and aspirations, yet you express them and give them

substance, and may be that's no slight matter."

Albrecht sat upright at the table. He held his thin, strangely

sensitive-looking hands crossed on the table-edge in front of the tall,

half-empty glass of milk, and his eyelids dropped, and he sucked his

underlip against his upper. He answered quietly: "I'm not surprised that

so popular a prince as you should be contented with his lot. I for my

part decline to express somebody else in my own person--I decline to,

say, and you may think it's a case of sour grapes as much as you like.

The truth is that I care for the 'Hi!' of the people just as little as

any living soul possibly could care. I say soul, not body. The flesh is

weak--there's something in one which expands at applause and contracts

at cold silence. But my reason rises superior to all considerations of

popularity or unpopularity. If I _did_ succeed in being a true national

representative, I know what that would amount to. A misconception of my

personality. Besides, a few hand-claps from people one does not know are

not worth a shrug of the shoulders. Others--you--may be inspired by the

feeling of the people behind you. You must forgive me for being too

matter-of-fact to feel any such mysterious feeling of happiness--and too

keen on cleanliness also, if you will allow me to put it thus. That kind

of happiness stinks, to my thinking. Anyhow, I'm a stranger to the

people. I give them nothing--what can they give me? With you ... oh,

that's quite different. Hundreds of thousands, who are like you, are

grateful to you because they can recognize themselves in you. You may

laugh if you like. The chief danger you run is that you submerge

yourself in your popularity too readily; and yet after all you feel no

apprehensions, although you are aware at this very moment ..."

"No, Albrecht, I don't think so. I don't think I run any such danger."

"Then we shall understand each other all the better. I have no penchant

for strong expressions as a rule. But popularity is hog-wash."

"It's funny, Albrecht. Funny that you should use that word. The

'Pheasants' were always using it--my schoolmates, the young sprigs, you

know, at the 'Pheasantry.' I know what you are. You're an aristocrat,

that's what's the matter."

"Do you think so? You're wrong. I'm no aristocrat, I'm the opposite, by

taste and reason. You must allow that I do not despise the 'Hi's' of the

crowd from arrogance, but from a propensity to humanity and goodness.

Human Highness is a pitiable thing, and I'm convinced that mankind ought

to see that everyone behaves like a man, and a good man, to his

neighbour and does not humiliate him or cause him shame. A man must have

a thick skin to be able to carry off all the flummery of Highness

without any feeling of shame. I am naturally rather sensitive, I cannot

cope with the absurdity of my situation. Every lackey who plants himself

at the door, and expects me to pass him without noticing, without

heeding him more than the door posts, fills me with embarrassment,

that's the way I feel towards the people...."

"Yes, Albrecht, quite true. It's often by no means easy to keep one's

countenance when one passes by a fellow like that. The lackeys! If one

only did not know what frauds they are! One hears fine stories about

them...."

"What stories?"

"Oh, one keeps one's ears open...."

"Come, come!" said Ditlinde. "Don't let's worry about that. Here you are

talking about ordinary things, and I had two topics noted down which I

thought we might discuss this afternoon.... Would you be so kind, Klaus

Heinrich, as to reach me that notebook there in blue leather on the

writing-table? Many thanks. I note down in this everything I have to

remember, both household matters and other things. What a blessing it is

to be able to see everything down in black and white! My head is

terribly weak, it can't remember things, and if I weren't tidy and

didn't jot everything down, I should be done for. First of all,

Albrecht, before I forget it, I wanted to remind you that you must

escort Aunt Catherine at the first Court on November 1st--you can't get

out of it. I withdraw; the honour fell to me at the last Court Ball, and

Aunt Catherine was terribly put out.... Do you consent? Good, then I

cross out item 1. Secondly, Klaus Heinrich, I wanted to ask you to make

a short appearance at the Orphan Children's Bazaar on the 15th in the

Town Hall. I am patroness, and I take my duties seriously, as you see.

You needn't buy anything--a pocket comb.... In short, all you need do is

to show yourself for ten minutes. It's for the orphans.... Will you

come? You see, now I can cross another off. Thirdly ..."

But the Princess was interrupted. Fräulein von Isenschnibbe, the Court

lady, was announced and tripped in at once through the big drawing-room,

her feather boa waving in the draught, and the brim of her huge feather

hat flapping up and down. The smell of the fresh air from outside seemed

to cling to her clothes. She was small, very fair, with a pointed nose,

and so short-sighted that she could not see the stars. On clear evenings

she would stand on her balcony and gaze at the starry heavens through

opera-glasses, and rave about them. She wore two strong pairs of

glasses, one behind the other, and screwed up her eyes and stuck her

head forward as she curtseyed.

"Heavens, Grand Ducal Highness," she said, "I didn't know; I'm

disturbing you, I'm intruding. I most humbly beg pardon!"

The brothers had risen, and the visitor, as she curtseyed to them, was

filled with confusion. As Albrecht extended his hand from his chest,

keeping his forearm close to his body, her arm was stretched out almost

perpendicularly, when the curtsey which she made him had reached its

lowest point.

"Dear Jettchen," said Ditlinde, "what nonsense! You are expected and

welcome, and my brothers know that we call each other by our Christian

names, so none of that Grand Ducal Highness, if you please. We are not

in the Old Schloss. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Will you

have some tea? It's still hot, and here are some candied fruits, I know

you like them."

"Yes, a thousand thanks, Ditlinde, I adore them!" And Fräulein von

Isenschnibbe took a chair on the narrow side of the tea-table opposite

Klaus Heinrich, with her back to the window, drew a glove off and began

peering forward, to lay sweetmeats on her plate with the silver tongs.

Her little bosom heaved quickly and nervously with pleasurable

excitement.

"I've got some news," she said, unable any longer to contain herself.

"News.... More than any reticule will hold! That is to say it is really

only one piece of news, only one--but it's so weighty that it counts for

dozens, and it is quite certain, I have it on the best authority--you

know that I am reliable, Ditlinde; this very evening it will be in the

_Courier_ and to-morrow the whole town will be talking about it."

"Yes, Jettchen," said the Princess, "it must be confessed you never come

with empty hands; but now we're excited, do tell us your news."

"Very well. Let me get my breath. Do you know, Ditlinde, does your Royal

Highness know, does your Grand Ducal Highness know who's coming, who is

coming to the spa, who is coming for six or eight weeks to the Spa Hotel

to drink the waters?"

"No," said Ditlinde, "but do you know, dear Jettchen?"

"Spoelmann," said Fräulein von Isenschnibbe. "Spoelmann," she said,

leaned back and made as if to draw with her fingers on the table-edge,

but checked the movement of her hand just over the blue silk border.

The brothers and sister looked doubtfully at each other.

"Spoelmann?" asked Ditlinde.... "Think a moment, Jettchen, the real

Spoelmann?"

"The real one!" Her voice cracked with suppressed jubilation. "The real

one, Ditlinde! For there's only one, or rather only one whom everybody

knows, and he it is whom they are expecting at the Spa Hotel--the great

Spoelmann, the giant Spoelmann, the colossus Samuel N. Spoelmann from

America!"

"But, child, what's bringing him here?"

"Really, forgive me for saying so, Ditlinde, but what a question! His

yacht or some big steamer is bringing him over the sea of course, he's

on his holidays making a tour of Europe and has expressed his intention

of drinking the Spa waters."

"But is he ill, then?"

"Of course, Ditlinde; all people of his kind are ill, that's part of the

business."

"Strange," said Klaus Heinrich.

"Yes, Grand Ducal Highness, it is remarkable. His kind of existence must

bring that with it. For there's no doubt it's a trying existence, and

not at all a comfortable one, and must wear the body out quicker than an

ordinary man's life would. Most suffer in the stomach, but Spoelmann

suffers from stone as everybody knows."

"Stone, does he?"

"Of course, Ditlinde, you must have heard it and forgotten it. He has

stone in the kidneys, if you will forgive me the horrid expression--a

serious, trying illness, and I'm sure he can't get the slightest

pleasure from his frantic wealth."

"But how in the world has he pitched upon our waters?"

"Why, Ditlinde, that's simple. The waters are good, they're excellent;

especially the Ditlinde spring, with its lithium or whatever they call

it, is admirable against gout and stone, and only waiting to be properly

known and valued throughout the world. But a man like Spoelmann, you can

imagine, a man like that is above names and trade-puffs, and follows his

own kind. And so he has discovered our waters--or his physician has

recommended them to him, it may be that, and bought it in the bottle,

and it has done him good, and now he may think that it must do him still

more good if he drinks it on the spot."

They all kept silence.

"Great heavens, Albrecht," said Ditlinde at last, "whatever one thinks

of Spoelmann and his kind--and I'm not going to commit myself to an

opinion, of that you may be sure--but don't you think that the man's

visit to the Spa may be very useful?"

The Grand Duke turned his head with his stiff and refined smile.

"Ask Fräulein von Isenschnibbe," he answered. "She has doubtless already

considered the question from that point of view."

"If your Royal Highness asks me ... enormously useful! Immeasurably,

incalculably useful--that's obvious! The directors are in the seventh

heaven, they're getting ready to decorate and illuminate the Spa Hotel!

What a recommendation, what an attraction for strangers! Will your Royal

Highness just consider--the man is a curiosity! Your Grand Ducal

Highness spoke just now of 'his kind'--but there are none of 'his

kind'--at most, only a couple. He's a Leviathan, a Croesus! People will

come from miles away to see a being who has about half a million a day

to spend!"

"Gracious!" said Ditlinde, taken aback. "And there's dear Philipp

worrying about his peat beds."

"The first scene," the Fräulein went on, "begins with two Americans

hanging about the Exchange for the last couple of days. Who are they?

They are said to be journalists, reporters, for two big New York papers.

They have preceded the Leviathan, and are telegraphing to their papers

preliminary descriptions of the scenery. When he has got here they will

telegraph every step he takes--just as the _Courier_ and the

_Advertiser_ report about your Royal Highness...."

Albrecht bowed his thanks with eyes downcast and underlip protruded.

"He has appropriated the Prince's suite in the Spa Hotel," said

Jettchen, "as provisional lodgings."

"For himself alone?" asked Ditlinde.

"Oh no, Ditlinde, do you suppose he'd be coming alone? There isn't any

precise information about his suite and staff, but it's quite certain

that his daughter and his physician-in-ordinary are coming with him."

"It annoys me, Jettchen, to hear you talking about a

'physician-in-ordinary' and the journalists, too, and the Prince's suite

to boot. He's not a king, after all."

"A railway king, so far as I know," remarked Albrecht quietly with eyes

downcast.

"Not only, nor even particularly, a railway king, Royal Highness,

according to what I hear. Over in America they have those great business

concerns called Trusts, as your Royal Highness knows--the Steel Trust

for instance, the Sugar Trust, the Petroleum Trust, the Coal, Meat, and

Tobacco Trusts, and goodness knows how many more, and Samuel N.

Spoelmann has a finger in nearly all these trusts, and is chief

shareholder in them, and managing director--that's what I believe they

call them--so his business must be what is called over here a 'Mixed

Goods Business.'"

"A nice sort of business," said Ditlinde, "it must be a nice sort of

business! For you can't persuade me, dear Jettchen, that honest work can

make a man into a Leviathan and a Croesus. I am convinced that his

riches are steeped in the blood of widows and orphans. What do you

think, Albrecht?"

"I hope so, Ditlinde, I hope so, for your own and your husband's

comfort."

"May be so," explained Jettchen, "yet Spoelmann--our Samuel N.

Spoelmann--is hardly responsible for it, for he is really nothing but an

heir, and may quite well not have had any particular taste for his

business. It was his father who really made the pile, I've read all

about it, and may say that I really know the general facts. His father

was a German--simply an adventurer who crossed the seas and became

gold-digger. And he was lucky and made a little money through

gold-finds--or rather quite a decent amount of money--and began to

speculate in petroleum and steel and railways, and then in every sort of

thing, and kept growing richer and richer, and when he died everything

was already in full swing, and his son Samuel, who inherited the

Croesus' firm, really had nothing to do but to collect the princely

dividends and keep growing richer and richer till he beat all records.

That's the way things have gone."

"And he has a daughter, has he, Jettchen? What's she like?"

"Yes, Ditlinde, his wife is dead, but he has a daughter, Miss Spoelmann,

and he's bringing her with him. She's a wonderful girl from all I've

read about her. He himself is a bit of a mixture, for his father married

a wife from the South--Creole blood, the daughter of a German father and

native mother. But Samuel in his turn married a German-American of

half-English blood, and their daughter is now Miss Spoelmann."

"Gracious, Jettchen, she's a creature of many colours!"

"You may well say so, Ditlinde, and she's clever, so I've heard; she

studies like a man--algebra, and puzzling things of that sort."

"Hm, that too doesn't attract me much."

"But now comes the cream of the business, Ditlinde, for Miss Spoelmann

has a lady-companion, and that lady-companion is a countess, a real

genuine countess, who dances attendance on her."

"Gracious!" said Ditlinde, "she ought to be ashamed of herself. No,

Jettchen, my mind is made up. I'm not going to bother myself about

Spoelmann. I'm going to let him drink his waters and go, with his

countess and his algebraical daughter, and am not going so much as to

turn my head to look at him. He and his riches make no impression on me.

What do you think, Klaus Heinrich?"

Klaus Heinrich looked past Jettchen's head at the bright window.

"Impression?" he said.... "No, riches make no impression on me, I

think--I mean, riches in the ordinary way. But it seems to me that it

depends ... it depends, I think, on the standard. We too have one or two

rich people in the town here--Soap-boiler Unschlitt must be a

millionaire.... I often see him in his carriage. He's dreadfully fat and

common. But when a man is quite ill and lonely from mere riches ...

Maybe ..."

"An uncomfortable sort of man anyhow," said Ditlinde, and the subject of

the Spoelmanns gradually dropped. The conversation turned on family

matters, the "Hohenried" property, and the approaching season. Shortly

before seven o'clock the Grand Duke sent for his carriage. Prince Klaus

Heinrich was going too, so they all got up and said good-bye. But while

the brothers were being helped into their coats in the hall, Albrecht

said: "I should be obliged, Klaus Heinrich, if you would send your

coachman home and would give me the pleasure of your company for a

quarter of an hour longer. I've got a matter of some importance to

discuss with you--I might come with you to the Hermitage, but I can't

bear the evening air."

Klaus Heinrich clapped his heels together as he answered: "No, Albrecht,

you mustn't think of it! I'll drive to the Schloss with you if you like.

I am of course at your disposal."

This was the prelude to a remarkable conversation between the young

princes, the upshot of which was published a few days later in the

_Advertiser_ and received with general approval.

The Prince accompanied the Grand Duke to the Schloss, through the

Albrechtstor, up broad stone steps, through corridors where naked gas

lamps were burning, and silent ante-rooms, between lackeys into

Albrecht's "closet," where old Prahl had lighted the two bronze

oil-lamps on the mantelpiece. Albrecht had taken over his father's

work-room--it had always been the work-room of the reigning sovereigns,

and lay on the first floor between an aide-de-camp's room and the

dining-room in daily use facing the Albrechtsplatz, which the princes

had always overlooked and watched from their writing-table. It was an

exceptionally unhomely and repellent room, small, with cracked

ceiling-paintings, red silk and gold-bordered carpet, and three windows

reaching to the ground, through which the draught blew keenly and before

which the claret-coloured curtains with their elaborate fringes were

drawn. It had a false chimney-piece in French Empire taste, in front of

which a semicircle of little modern quilted plush chairs without arms

were arranged, and a hideously decorated white stove, which gave out a

great heat. Two big quilted sofas stood opposite each other by the

walls, and in front of one stood a square book-table with a red plush

cover. Between the windows two narrow gold-framed mirrors with marble

ledges reached up to the ceiling, the right hand one of which bore a

fairly cheerful alabaster group, the other a water bottle and medicine

glasses. The writing-desk, an old piece made of rose-wood with a

roll-top and metal clasps, stood clear in the middle of the room on the

red carpet. An antique stared down with its dead eyes from a pedestal in

one corner of the room.

"What I have to suggest to you," said Albrecht--he was standing at the

writing-table, unconsciously toying with a paper-knife, a silly thing

like a cavalry-sabre with a grotesque handle, "is directly connected

with our conversation this afternoon. I may begin by saying that I

discussed the matter thoroughly with Knobelsdorff this summer at

Hollerbrunn. He agrees, and if you do too, as I don't doubt you will, I

can carry out my intention at once."

"Please let's hear it, Albrecht," said Klaus Heinrich, who was standing

at attention in a military attitude by the sofa table.

"My health," continued the Grand Duke, "has been getting worse and worse

lately."

"I'm very sorry, Albrecht--Hollerbrunn didn't agree with you, then?"

"Thanks, no, I'm in a bad way, and my health is showing itself

increasingly unequal to the demands made upon it. When I say 'demands,'

I mean chiefly the duties of a ceremonial and representative nature

which are inseparable from my position--and that's the bond of connexion

with the conversation we had just now at Ditlinde's. The performance of

these duties may be a happiness when a contact with the people, a

relationship, a beating of hearts in unison exists. To me it is a

torture, and the falseness of my rôle wearies me to such a degree that I

must consider what measures I can take to counteract it. In this--so far

as the bodily part of me is concerned--I am at one with my doctors, who

entirely agree with my proposal--so listen to me. I'm unmarried. I have

no idea, I can assure you, of ever marrying; I shall have no children.

You are heir to the throne by right of birth, you are still more so in

the consciousness of the people, who love you...."

"There you are, Albrecht, always talking about my being beloved. I

simply don't believe it. At a distance, perhaps--that's the way with us.

It's always at a distance that we are beloved."

"You're too modest. Wait a bit. You've already been kind enough to

relieve me of some of my representative duties now and then. I should

like you to relieve me of all of them absolutely, for always."

"You're not thinking of abdicating, Albrecht?" asked Klaus Heinrich,

aghast.

"I daren't think of it. Believe me, I gladly would, but I shouldn't be

allowed to. What I'm thinking of is not a regency, but only a

substitution--perhaps you have some recollection of the distinction in

public law from your student's days--a permanent and officially

established substitution in all representative functions, warranted by

the need of indulgence required by my state of health. What is your

opinion?"

"I'm at your orders, Albrecht. But I'm not quite clear yet. How far does

the substitution extend?"

"Oh, as far as possible. I should like it to extend to all occasions on

which a personal appearance in public is expected of me. Knobelsdorff

stipulates that I should only devolve the opening and closure of

Parliament on you when I'm bedridden, only now and again. Let's grant

that. But otherwise you would be my substitute on all ceremonial

occasions, on journeys, visits to cities, opening of public festivities,

opening of the Citizens' Ball...."

"That too?"

"Why not? We have also the weekly free audiences here--a sensible custom

without a doubt, but it tires me out. You would hold the audiences in my

place. I needn't go on. Do you accept my proposal?"

"I am at your orders."

"Then listen to me while I finish. For every occasion on which you act

as my representative, I lend you my aides-de-camp. It is further

necessary that your military promotion should be hastened--are you first

lieutenant? You'll be made a captain or a major straight away _à la

suite_ of your regiment--I'll see to that; but in the third place, I

wish duly to emphasize our arrangement, to make your position at my side

properly clear, by lending you the title of 'Royal Highness.' There were

some formalities to attend to. Knobelsdorff has already seen to them.

I'm going to express my intentions in the form of two missives to you

and to my Minister of State. Knobelsdorff has already drafted them. Do

you accept?"

"What am I to say, Albrecht? You are father's eldest son, and I've

always looked up to you because I've always felt and known that you are

the superior and higher of us two and that I am only a plebeian compared

with you. But if you think me worthy to stand at your side and to bear

your title and to represent you before the people, although I don't

think myself anything like so presentable, and have this deformity here,

with my left hand, which I've always got to keep covered--then I thank

you and put myself at your orders."

"Then I'll ask you to leave me now, please; I want to rest."

They advanced towards each other, the one from the writing-table, the

other from the book-table, over the carpet into the middle of the room.

The Grand Duke extended his hand to his brother--his thin, cold hand

which he stretched out from his chest without moving his forearm away

from his body. Klaus Heinrich clapped his heels together and bowed as he

took the hand, and Albrecht nodded his narrow head with its fair beard

as a token of dismissal, while he sucked his short, rounded lower lip

against the upper. Klaus Heinrich went back to the Schloss "Hermitage."

Both the _Advertiser_ and the _Courier_ published eight days later the

two missives, which contained decisions of the highest importance, the

one addressed to "My dear Minister of State, Baron von Knobelsdorff,"

and the other beginning with "Most Serene Highness and well-beloved

brother," and signed "Your Royal Highness's most devoted brother

Albrecht."

VI

THE LOFTY CALLING

Here follows a description of Klaus Heinrich's mode of life and

profession and their peculiarities.

On a typical occasion he stepped out of his carriage, walked with cloak

thrown back down a short passage through cheering crowds over a pavement

which was covered with red carpet, through a laurel-decked house-door,

over which an awning had been erected, up a staircase flanked by pairs

of candle-bearing footmen.... He was on his way to a festival dinner,

covered to his hips with orders, the fringed epaulettes of a major on

his narrow shoulders, and was followed by his suite along the Gothic

corridor of the town hall. Two servants hurried in front of him and

quickly opened an old window which rattled in its lead fastenings; for

down below in the market-place stood the people, wedged together head to

head, an oblique tract of upturned faces, dimly illuminated by smoky

torchlight. They cheered and sang, and he stood at the open window and

bowed, displayed himself to the general enthusiasm for a while and

nodded his thanks.

There was nothing really everyday, nor was there anything really actual,

about his life; it consisted of a succession of moments of enthusiasm.

Wherever he went there was holiday, there the people were transfigured

and glorified, there the grey work-a-day world cleared up and became

poetry. The starveling became a sleek man, the hovel a homely cottage,

dirty gutter-children changed into chaste little maidens and boys in

Sunday clothes, their hair plastered with water, a poem on their lips,

and the perspiring citizen in frock-coat and top-hat was moved to

emotion by the consciousness of his own worth.

But not only he, Klaus Heinrich, saw the world in this light, but it saw

itself too, as long as his presence lasted. A strange unreality and

speciousness prevailed in places where he exercised his calling; a

symmetrical, transitory window-dressing, an artificial and inspiring

disguising of the reality by pasteboard and gilded wood, by garlands,

lamps, draperies, and bunting, was conjured up for one fair hour, and he

himself stood in the centre of the show on a carpet, which covered the

bare ground, between masts painted in two colours, round which garlands

twined--stood with heels together in the odour of varnish and

fir-branches, and smiled with his left hand planted on his hip.

He laid the foundation stone of a new town hall. The citizens had, after

juggling with the figures, got together the necessary sum, and a learned

architect from the capital had been entrusted with the building. But

Klaus Heinrich undertook the laying of the foundation stone. Amid the

cheers of the population he drove up to the noble pavilion which had

been built on the site, stepped lightly and collectedly out of the open

carriage on to the ground, which had been rolled and sprinkled with

yellow sand, and walked all alone towards the official personages in

frock-coats and white ties who were waiting for him at the entrance. He

asked for the architect to be presented to him, and, in full view of the

public and with the officials standing with fixed smiles round him, he

conducted a conversation with him for five full minutes, a conversation

of weighty commonplaces about the advantages of the different styles of

architecture, after which he made a decided movement, which he had

meditated to himself beforehand during the conversation, and allowed

himself to be conducted over the carpet and plank steps to his seat on

the edge of the middle platform.

There, in his chain and stars, one foot advanced, his white-gloved hands

crossed on his sword hilt, his helmet on the ground beside him, visible

to the holiday crowd on every side, he sat and listened with calm

demeanour to the Lord Mayor's speech. Thereupon, when they came to the

request, he rose, walked, without noticeable precaution and without

looking at his feet, down the steps to where the foundation stone lay,

and with a little hammer gave three slow taps to the block of sandstone,

at the same time repeating in the deep hush, with his rather sharp

voice, a sentence which Herr von Knobelsdorff had previously impressed

upon him. School children sang in shrill chorus, and Klaus Heinrich

drove away.

On the anniversary of the War of Independence he marched in front of the

veterans. A grey-haired officer shouted in a voice which seemed hoarse

with the smoke of gunpowder: "Halt! Off hats! Eyes right!" And they

stood, with medals and crosses on their coats, the rough beavers in

their hands, and looked up at him with blood-shot eyes like those of a

hound as he walked by with a friendly look, and paused by one or two to

ask where they had served, where they had been under fire.... He

attended the gymnastic display, graced the sports with his presence, and

had the victors presented to him for a short conversation. The lithe

athletic youths stood awkwardly before him, just after they had done the

most astonishing feats, and Klaus Heinrich quickly strung together a few

technical remarks, which he remembered from Herr Zotte, and which he

uttered with great fluency, the while he hid his left hand.

He attended the Five Houses' Fishing festival, he was present in his

red-covered seat of honour at the Grimmburg horse-races and distributed

the prizes. He accepted, too, the honorary Presidency and Patronage of

the Associated Rifle Competition; he attended the prize-meeting of the

privileged Grand Ducal Rifle Club. He "responded cordially to the toast

of welcome," in the words of the _Courier_, by holding the silver cup

for one moment to his lips, and then with heels clapped together,

raising it towards the marksmen. Thereupon he fired several shots at the

target of honour, concerning which there was nothing said in the reports

as to where they hit; next ploughed through one and the same dialogue

with three successive men, about the advantages of rifle-firing, which

in the _Courier_ was described as a "general conversation," and at last

took leave with a hearty "Good luck!" which evoked indescribable

enthusiasm. This formula had been whispered to him at the last moment by

Adjutant-General von Hühnemann, who had made inquiries on the subject;

for of course it would have had a bad effect, would have shattered the

fair illusion of technical knowledge and serious enthusiasm, if Klaus

Heinrich had wished the marksmen "Excelsior" and the Alpine Club

"Bull's-eyes every time!"

As a general rule he needed in the exercise of his calling a certain

amount of technical knowledge, which he acquired for each succeeding

occasion, with a view to applying it at the right moment and in suitable

form. It consisted preponderatingly of the technical terms current in

the different departments of human activity as well as of historical

dates, and before setting out on an official expedition Klaus Heinrich

used to work up the necessary information at home in the Hermitage with

the help of pamphlets and oral instructions. When he in the name of the

Grand Duke, "my most gracious brother," unveiled the statue of Johann

Albrecht at Knüppelsdorf, he delivered on the scene of festivities,

directly after a performance by the massed choirs of the "Wreath of

Harmony," a speech in which everything he had noted down about

Knüppelsdorf was dragged in, and which produced the delightful

impression everywhere that he had busied himself all his life with

nothing so much as the historical vicissitudes of that hub of

civilization.

In the first place, Knüppelsdorf was a city, and Klaus Heinrich alluded

to that three times, to the pride of the inhabitants. He went on to say

that the city of Knüppelsdorf, as her historical past witnessed, had

been connected by bonds of loyalty to the House of Grimmburg for several

centuries. As long ago as the fourteenth century, he said, Langrave

Heinrich XV, the Rutensteiner, had signalled out Knüppelsdorf for

special favour. He, the Rutensteiner, had lived in the Schloss built on

the neighbouring Rutensteine, whose girdle of proud towers and strong

walls had sent its greeting to the country for miles round.

Then he reminded his hearers how through inheritance and marriage

Knüppelsdorf had at last come into the branch of the family to which his

brother and he himself belonged. Heavy storms had in the course of years

burst over Knüppelsdorf. Years of war, conflagration, and pestilence had

visited it, yet it had always risen again and had always remained loyal

to the house of its hereditary princes. And this characteristic the

Knüppelsdorf of to-day proved that it possessed by raising a memorial to

his, Klaus Heinrich's, beloved father, and it would be with unusual

pleasure that he would report to his gracious brother the dazzling and

hearty reception which he, as his representative, had here

experienced.... The veil fell, the massed choirs of the "Wreath of

Harmony" again did their best. And Klaus Heinrich stood smiling, under

his theatrical tent, with a feeling of having exhausted his store of

knowledge, happy in the certainty that nobody dare question him further.

For he couldn't have said one blessed word more about Knüppelsdorf!

How tiring his life was, how strenuous! Sometimes he felt as if he had

constantly to keep upright, at a great strain to his elasticity,

something which it was quite impossible, or possible only in favourable

conditions, to keep upright. Sometimes his calling seemed to him a

wretched and paltry one, although he liked it and gladly undertook every

expedition required of him in his representative capacity.

He travelled miles to an agricultural exhibition, travelled in a badly

hung cart from Schloss "Hermitage" to the station, where the Premier,

the Chief of Police, and the directors of the railway company awaited

him at the saloon carriage. He travelled for an hour and a half, the

while carrying on, not without difficulty, a conversation with the Grand

Ducal adjutants, who had been attached to him, and the Agricultural

Commissioner, Assistant Secretary Heckepfeng, a severe and respectful

man who also accompanied him. Then he reached the station of the city

which had organized the agricultural exhibition. The Mayor, with a chain

over his shoulders, was awaiting him at the head of six or seven other

official persons. The station was decorated with a quantity of

fir-branches and festoons. In the back-ground stood the plaster busts of

Albrecht and Klaus Heinrich in a frame of greenery. The public behind

the barriers gave three cheers, and the bells pealed.

The Mayor read an address of welcome to Klaus Heinrich. He thanked him,

he said, brandishing his top-hat in his hand, he thanked him on behalf

of the city for all the favour which Klaus Heinrich's brother and he

himself showed them, and heartily wished him a long and blessed reign.

He also begged the Prince twice over graciously to crown the work which

had prospered so famously under his patronage, and to open the

agricultural exhibition.

This Mayor bore the title of Agricultural Councillor, a fact of which

Klaus Heinrich had been apprised, and on account of which he addressed

him thus three times in his answer. He said that he was delighted that

the work of the agricultural exhibition had prospered so famously under

his patronage. (As a matter of fact he had forgotten that he was patron

of this exhibition.) He had come to put the finishing touch that day to

the great work, by opening the exhibition. Then he inquired as to four

things: as to the economical circumstances of the city, the increase in

the population in recent years, as to the labour-market (although he had

no very clear idea what the labour-market was), and as to the price of

victuals. When he heard that the price of victuals was high, he "viewed

the matter in a serious light," and that of course was all he could do.

Nobody expected anything more of him, and it came as a comfort to

everybody that he had viewed the high prices in a serious light.

Then the Mayor presented the city dignitaries to him: the higher

District Judge, a noble landed proprietor from the neighbourhood, the

rector, the two doctors, and a forwarding agent, and Klaus Heinrich

addressed a question to each, thinking over, while the answer came, what

he should say to the next. The local veterinary surgeon and the local

inspector of stock-breeding were also present. Finally they climbed into

carriages, and drove, amid the cheers of the inhabitants, between fences

of school-children, firemen, the patriotic societies, through the gaily

decked city to the exhibition ground--not without being stopped once

more at the gate by white-robed maidens with wreaths on their heads, one

of whom, the Mayor's daughter, handed to the prince in his carriage a

bouquet with white satin streamers, and in lasting memory of the moment

received one of those pretty and valuable gew-gaws which Klaus Heinrich

took with him on his journeys, a breast-pin embedded, for a reason she

could not guess, in _velvet_ (sammet), which figured in the _Courier_ as

a jewel mounted in gold.

Tents, pavilions, and stands had been erected on the ground. Gaudy

pennons fluttered on long rows of poles strung together with festoons.

On a wooden platform hung with bunting, between drapings, festoons, and

parti-coloured flagstaffs, Klaus Heinrich read the short opening speech.

And then began the tour of inspection.

There were cattle tethered to low crossbars, prize beasts of the best

blood with smooth round particoloured bodies and numbered shields on

their broad foreheads. There were horses stamping and snuffing, heavy

farm-horses with Roman noses and bushes of hair round their pasterns, as

well as slender, restless saddle horses. There were naked short-legged

pigs, and a large selection of both ordinary and prize pigs. With

dangling bellies they grubbed up the ground with their snouts, while

great blocks of woolly sheep filled the air with a confused chorus of

bass and treble. There were ear-splitting exhibits of poultry, cocks and

hens of every kind, from the big Brahmaputra to the copper-coloured

bantam; ducks and pigeons of all sorts, eggs and fodder, both fresh and

artificially preserved. There were exhibits of agricultural produce,

grain of all sorts, beets and clover, potatoes, peas, and flax;

vegetables, too, both fresh and dried; raw and preserved fruit; berries,

marmalade, and syrups.

Lastly there were exhibits of agricultural implements and machines,

displayed by several technical firms, provided with everything of

service to agriculture, from the hand-plough to the great

black-funnelled motors, looking like elephants in their stall, from the

simplest and most intelligible objects to those which consisted of a

maze of wheels, chains, rods, cylinders, arms, and teeth--a world, an

entire overpowering world of ingenious utility.

Klaus Heinrich looked at everything; he walked, with his sword-hilt on

his forearm, down the rows of animals, cages, sacks, tubs, glasses, and

implements. The dignitary at his side pointed with his white-gloved hand

to this and that, venturing on a remark from time to time, and Klaus

Heinrich acted up to his calling. He expressed in words his appreciation

of all he saw, stopped from time to time and engaged the exhibitors of

the animals in conversation, inquired in an affable way into their

circumstances, and put questions to the country people whose answers

entailed a scratching behind their ears. And as he walked he bowed his

thanks on both sides for the homage of the population which lined his

path.

The people had collected most thickly at the exit, where the carriages

were waiting, in order to watch him drive off. A way was kept free for

him, a straight passage to the step of his landau, and he walked quickly

down it, bowing continuously with his hand to his helmet--alone and

formally separated from all those men who, in honouring him, were

cheering their own archetype, their standard, and of whose lives, work,

and ability he was the splendid representative, though not participator.

With a light and free step he mounted the carriage, settled himself

artistically so that he at once assumed a perfectly graceful and

self-possessed pose, and drove, saluting as he went, to the clubhouse,

where luncheon was prepared. During luncheon--indeed, directly after the

second course--the District Judge proposed the health of the Grand Duke

and the Prince, whereupon Klaus Heinrich at once rose to drink to the

welfare of the county, and city. After the luncheon, however, he retired

to the room which the Mayor had put at his disposal in his official

residence and lay down on the bed for an hour, for the exercise of his

calling exhausted him in a strange degree, and that afternoon he was due

not only to visit in that city the church, the school, and various

factories, especially Behnke Brothers' cheese factory, and to express

high satisfaction with everything, but also to extend his journey and

visit a scene of disaster, a burnt-out village, in order to express to

the villagers his brother's and his own sympathy, and to cheer the

afflicted by his exalted presence.

When he got back to the "Hermitage," to his soberly furnished Empire

room, he read the newspaper accounts of his expeditions. Then Privy

Councillor Schustermann of the Press Bureau, which was under the Home

Secretary, appeared in the "Hermitage," and brought the extracts from

the papers, cleanly pasted on white sheets, dated and labelled with the

name of the paper. And Klaus Heinrich read about the impression he had

produced, read about his personal graciousness and Highness, read that

he had acquitted himself nobly and taken the hearts of young and old by

storm--that he had raised the minds of the people out of the ruck of

everyday and filled them with gladness and affection.

And then he gave free audiences in the Old Schloss, as it had been

arranged.

The custom of free audiences had been introduced by a well-meaning

ancestor of Albrecht II, and the people clung to it. Once every week

Albrecht, or Klaus in his place, was accessible to everybody. Whether

the petitioner was a man of rank or not, whether the subject of his

petitions were of a public or personal nature--he had only to give in

his name to Herr von Bühl, or even the aide-de-camp on duty, and he was

given an opportunity of bringing his matter to notice in the highest

quarters.

Indeed an admirable custom! For it meant that the petitioner did not

have to go round by way of a written application, with the dismal

prospect of his petition disappearing for ever into a pigeon-hole, but

had the happy assurance that his application would go straight to the

most exalted quarters. It must be admitted that the most exalted

quarters--Klaus Heinrich at this time--naturally were not in a position

to go into the matter, to scrutinize it seriously and to come to a

decision upon it, but that they handed the matter on to the

pigeon-holes, in which it "disappeared." But the custom was none the

less helpful, though not in the sense of matter-of-fact utility. The

citizen, the petitioner, came to Herr von Bühl with the request to be

received, and a day and hour were fixed for him. With glad embarrassment

he saw the day draw near, worked up in his own mind the sentences in

which he intended to explain his business, had his frock-coat and his

hat ironed, put on his best shirt, and generally made himself ready.

But in reality these solemn interviews were well calculated to turn the

petitioner's thoughts away from the gross material end in view, and to

make the reception itself seem to him the main point, the essential

object of his excited anticipation. The hour came, and the citizen took,

what he never otherwise took, a cab, in order not to dirty his clean

boots. He drove between the lions at the Albrechtstor, and the sentries

as well as the stalwart doorkeeper gave him free passage. He landed in

the courtyard at the colonnade in front of the weather-beaten entrance,

and was at once admitted by a lackey in a brown coat and sand-coloured

gaiters to an ante-room on the ground floor to the left, in one corner

of which was a stand of colours, and where a number of other

supplicants, talking in low whispers, waited in a state of thoughtful

tension for their reception. The aide-de-camp, holding a list of those

with appointments, went backwards and forwards and took the next on the

list to one side, to instruct him in a low voice how to behave.

In a neighbouring room, called the "Free Audience Room," Klaus Heinrich,

in his tunic with silver collar and several stars, stood at a round

table with three golden legs, and received. Major von Platow gave him

some superficial information about the identity of each petitioner,

called the man in, and came back in the pauses, to prompt the Prince in

a few words about the next comer. And the citizen walked in; with the

blood in his head and perspiring slightly he stood before Klaus

Heinrich. It had been impressed on him that he was not to go too near

his Royal Highness, but must keep at a certain distance, that he must

not speak without being spoken to, and even then must not gabble off all

he had to say, but answer concisely, so as to leave the Prince material

for his questions; that he must at the conclusion withdraw backwards and

without showing the Prince his backside. The result was that the

citizen's whole attention was centred on not breaking any of the rules

given him, but for his part contributing to the smooth and harmonious

progress of the interview.

Klaus Heinrich questioned him in the same way as he was wont to question

the veterans, the marksmen, the gymnasts, the countrymen, and the

victims of the fire, smiling, and with his left hand planted well back

on his hip; and the citizen too smiled involuntarily--and was imbued

with a feeling as if that smile lifted him far above the troubles which

had held him prisoner. That common man, whose spirit otherwise cleaved

to the dust, who gave a thought to nothing, not even to everyday

politeness, beyond what was purely utilitarian, and had come here too

with a definite object in view--he felt in his heart that there was

something higher than business and his business in particular, and he

left the Schloss elevated, purified, with eyes dim with emotion and the

smile still on his flushed face.

That was the way in which Klaus Heinrich gave free audiences, that the

way in which he exercised his exalted calling. He lived at the

"Hermitage" in his little refuge, the Empire room, which was furnished

so stiffly and meagrely, with cool indifference to comfort and intimacy.

Faded silk covered the walls above the white wainscot, glass chandeliers

hung from the ugly ceiling, straight-lined sofas, mostly without tables,

and thin-legged stands supporting marble clocks, stood along the walls,

pairs of white-lacquered chairs, with oval backs and thin silk

upholstery, flanked the white-lacquered folding-doors, and in the corner

stood white-lacquered loo-tables, bearing vase-like candelabra. That was

how Klaus Heinrich's room looked, and its master harmonized well with

it.

He lived a detached and quiet life, feeling no enthusiasm or zeal for

questions on which the public differed. As representative of his

brother, he opened Parliament, but he took no personal part in its

proceedings and avoided the yeas and nays of party divisions--with the

disinterestedness and want of convictions proper to one whose position

was above all parties. Everybody recognized that his station imposed

reserve upon him, but many were of opinion that want of interest was

rather repellently and insultingly visible in his whole bearing. Many

who came in contact with him described him as "cold"; and when Doctor

Ueberbein loudly refuted this "coldness," people wondered whether the

one-sided and morose man was qualified to form an opinion on the point.

Of course there were occasions when Klaus Heinrich's glance met looks

which refused to recognize him--bold, scornful, invidious looks, which

showed contempt for and ignorance of all his actions and exertions. But

even in the well-disposed, loyal people, who showed themselves ready to

esteem and honour his life, he remarked at times after a short while a

certain exhaustion, indeed irritation, as if they could no longer

breathe in the atmosphere of his existence; and that worried Klaus

Heinrich, though he did not know how he could prevent it.

He had no place in the everyday world; a greeting from him, a gracious

word, a winning and yet dignified wave of the hand, were all weighty and

decisive incidents. Once he was returning in cap and greatcoat from a

ride, was riding slowly on his brown horse Florian, down the birch

avenue which skirted the waste-land and led to the park and the

"Hermitage," and in front of him there walked a shabbily dressed young

man with a fur cap and a ridiculous tuft of hair on his neck, sleeves

and trousers that were too short for him, and unusually large feet which

he turned inwards as he walked. He looked like the student of a

technical institute or something of that sort, for he carried a

drawing-board under his arm, on which was pinned a big drawing, a

symmetrical maze of lines in red and black ink, a projection or

something of the sort. Klaus Heinrich held his horse back behind the

young man for a good while, and examined the red and black projection on

the drawing-board. Sometimes he thought how nice it must be to have a

proper surname, to be called Doctor Smith, and to have a serious

calling.

He played his part at Court functions, the big and small balls, the

dinner, the concerts, and the Great Court. He joined in autumn in the

Court's shoots with his red-haired cousins and his suite, for custom's

sake and although his left arm made shooting difficult for him. He was

often seen in the evening in the Court Theatre, in his red-ledged

proscenium-box between the two female sculptures with the crossed hands

and the stern, empty faces. For the theatre attracted him, he loved it,

loved to look at the players, to watch how they behaved, walked off and

on, and went through with their parts. As a rule he thought them bad,

rough in the means they employed to please, and unpractised in the more

subtle dissembling of the natural and artless. For the rest, he was

disposed to prefer humble and popular scenes to the exalted and

ceremonious.

A soubrette called Mizzi Meyer was engaged at the "Vaudeville" theatre

in the capital, who in the newspapers and on the lips of the public was

never called anything but "our" Meyer, because of her boundless

popularity with high and low. She was not beautiful, hardly pretty, her

voice was a screech, and, strictly speaking, she could lay claim to no

special gifts. And yet she had only to come on to the stage to evoke

storms of approbation, applause, and encouragement. For this fair and

compact person with her blue eyes, her broad, high cheek-bones, her

healthy, jolly, even a little uproarious manner, was flesh of the

people's flesh, and blood of their blood. So long as she, dressed up,

painted, and lighted up from every side, faced the crowd from the

boards, she was in very deed the glorification of the people

itself--indeed, the people clapped itself when it clapped her, and in

that alone lay Mizzi Meyer's power over men's souls. Klaus Heinrich was

very fond of going with Herr von Braunbart-Schellendorf to the

"Vaudeville" when Mizzi Meyer was playing, and joined heartily in the

applause.

* * * * *

One day he had a rencontre which on the one hand gave him food for

thought, on the other disillusioned him. It was with Martini, Axel

Martini, the compiler of the two books of poetry which had been so much

praised by the experts, "Evoë!" and "The Holy Life." The meeting came

about in the following way.

In the capital lived a wealthy old man, a Privy Councillor, who, since

his retirement from the State Service, had devoted his life to the

advancement of the fine arts, especially poetry. He was founder of what

was known as the "May-combat"--a poetical tournament which recurred

every year in springtime, to which the Privy Councillor invited poets

and poetesses by circulars and posters. Prizes were offered for the

tenderest love-song, the most fervent religious poem, the most ardent

patriotic song, for the happiest lyrical effusions in praise of music,

the forest, the spring, the joy of life--and these prizes consisted of

sums of money, supplemented by judicious and valuable souvenirs, such as

golden pens, golden breast-pins in the form of lyres or flowers, and

more of the same kind. The city authorities also had founded a prize,

and the Grand Duke gave a silver cup as a reward for the most absolutely

admirable of all poems sent in. The founder of the "May-combat" himself,

who was responsible for the first look-through the always numerous

entries, shared with two University Professors and the editors of the

literary supplements of the _Courier_ and the _People_ the duties of

prize-judges. The prize-winners and the highly commended entries were

printed and published regularly in the form of an annual at the expense

of the Privy Councillor.

Now Axel Martini had taken part in the "May-combat" this year, and had

come off victorious. The poem which he had sent in, an inspired hymn of

praise to the joy of life, or rather a highly tempestuous outbreak of

the joy of life itself, a ravishing hymn to the beauty and awfulness of

life, was conceived in the style of both his books and had given rise to

discord in the Board of Judges. The Privy Councillor himself and the

Professor of Philology had been for dismissing it with a notice of

commendation; for they considered it exaggerated in expression, coarse

in its passion, and in places frankly repulsive. But the Professor of

Literary History together with the editors had out-voted them, not only

in view of the fact that Martini's contribution represented the best

poem to the joy of life, but also in consideration of its undeniable

pre-eminence, and in the end their two opponents too had not been able

to resist the appeal of its foaming and stunning flow of words.

So Axel Martini had been awarded fifteen pounds, a gold breast-pin in

the form of a lyre, and the Grand Duke's silver cup as well, and his

poem had been printed first in the annual, surrounded with an artistic

frame from the hand of Professor von Lindemann. What was more, the

custom was for the victor (or victrix) in the "May-combat" to be

received in audience by the Grand Duke; and as Albrecht was unwell, this

task fell to his brother.

Klaus Heinrich was a little afraid of Herr Martini.

"Oh dear, Doctor Ueberbein," he said when he met his tutor one day,

"what subject am I to tackle him on? He's sure to be a wild,

brazen-faced fellow."

But Doctor Ueberbein answered: "Anything; but, Klaus Heinrich, you need

not worry! He's a very decent fellow. I know him, I'm rather in with his

set. You'll get on splendidly with him."

So Klaus Heinrich received the poet of the "Joy of Life," received him

at the "Hermitage," so as to give the business as private a character as

possible. "In the yellow room, Braunbart if you please," he said,

"that's the most presentable one for occasions like this." There were

three handsome chairs in this room, which indeed were the only valuable

pieces of furniture in the Schloss, heavy Empire arm-chairs of mahogany,

with spiral arms and yellow upholstery on which blue-green lyres were

embroidered. Klaus Heinrich on this occasion did not dispose himself

ready for an audience, but waited in some anxiety near by, until Axel

Martini on his side had waited for seven or eight minutes in the yellow

room. Then he walked in hastily, almost hurriedly, and advanced towards

the poet, who made a low bow.

"I am very much pleased to make your acquaintance," he said, "dear sir

... dear Doctor, I believe?"

"No, Royal Highness," answered Axel Martini in an asthmatic voice, "not

doctor, I've no title."

"Oh, forgive me ... I assumed ... Let's sit down, dear Herr Martini. I

am, as I have said, delighted to be able to congratulate you on your

great success...."

Herr Martini drew down the corners of his mouth. He sat down on the edge

of one of the mahogany arm-chairs, at the uncovered table, round whose

edge ran a gold border, and crossed his feet, which were cased in

cracked patent-leather boots. He was in frock-coat and wore yellow

gloves. His collar was frayed at the edges. He had rather staring eyes,

thin cheeks and a dark yellow moustache, which was clipped like a hedge.

His hair was already quite grey on the temples, although according to

the "May-combat" Annual he was not more than thirty years old, and under

his eyes glowed patches of red which did not suggest robust health. He

answered to Klaus Heinrich's congratulations: "Your Royal Highness is

very kind. It was not a difficult victory. Perhaps it was hardly tactful

of me to compete."

Klaus Heinrich did not understand this; but he said: "I have read your

poem repeatedly with great pleasure. It seems to me a complete success,

as regards both metre and rhyme. And it entirely expresses the 'Joy of

Life.'"

Herr Martini bowed in his chair.

"Your skill," continued Klaus Heinrich, "must be a source of great

pleasure to you--an ideal recreation. What is your calling, Herr

Martini?"

Herr Martini showed that he did not understand, by describing a note of

interrogation with the upper half of his body.

"I mean your main calling. Are you in the Civil Service?"

"No, Royal Highness, I have no calling; I occupy myself exclusively with

poetry...."

"None at all.... Oh, I understand. So unusual a gift deserves that a

man's whole powers be devoted to it."

"I don't know about that, Royal Highness. Whether it deserves it or not,

I don't know. I must own that I had no choice. I have always felt myself

entirely unsuited to every other branch of human activity. It seems to

me that this undoubted and unconditional unsuitability for everything

else is the sole proof and touchstone of the poetical calling--indeed,

that a man must not see in poetry any calling, but only the expression

and refuge of that unsuitability."

It was a peculiarity with Herr Martini that when he talked tears came

into his eyes just like a man who comes out of the cold into a warm room

and lets the heat stream through and melt his limbs.

"That's a singular idea," said Klaus Heinrich.

"Not at all, Royal Highness. I beg your pardon, no, not singular at all.

It's an idea which is very generally accepted. What I say is nothing

new."

"And for how long have you been living only for poetry? I suppose you

were once a student?"

"Not exactly, Royal Highness; no, the unsuitability to which I alluded

before began to show itself in me at an early age. I couldn't get on at

school. I left it without passing my 'final.' I went up to the

university with the full intention of taking it later, but I never did.

And when my first volume of poems attracted a good deal of attention, it

no longer suited my dignity to do so, if I may say so."

"Of course not.... But did your parents then agree to your choice of a

career?"

"Oh no, Royal Highness! I must say to my parents' credit that they by no

means agreed to it. I come of a good stock: my father was Solicitor to

the Treasury. He's dead now, but he was Solicitor to the Treasury. He

naturally disliked my choice of a career so much that till his death he

would never give me a farthing. I lived at daggers drawn with him,

although I had the greatest respect for him because of his strictness."

"Oh, so you've had a hard time of it, Herr Martini, you've had to

struggle through. I can well believe that you must have knocked about a

good deal!"

"Not so, Royal Highness! No, that would have been horrid, I couldn't

have stood it. My health is delicate--I dare not say 'unfortunately,'

for I am convinced that my talent is inseparably connected with my

bodily infirmity. Neither my body nor my talent could have survived

hunger and harsh winds, and they have not had to survive them. My mother

was weak enough to provide me behind my father's back with the means of

life, modest but adequate means. I owe it to her that my talent has been

able to develop under fairly favourable conditions."

"The result has shown, Herr Martini, that they were the right

conditions.... Although it is difficult to say now what actually are

good conditions. Permit me to suppose that if your mother had shown

herself as strict as your father, and you had been alone in the world,

and left entirely to your own resources ... don't you think that it

might have been to a certain extent a good thing for you? That you might

have got a peep at things, so to speak, which have escaped you as it

is?"

"People like me, Royal Highness, get peeps enough without having

actually to know what hunger is; and the idea is fairly generally

accepted that it is not actual hunger, but rather hunger for the actual

... ha, ha!... which talent requires."

Herr Martini had been obliged to laugh a little at his play upon words.

He now quickly raised one yellow-gloved hand to his mouth with the

hedge-like moustache, and improved his laugh into a cough. Klaus

Heinrich watched him with a look of princely expectancy.

"If your Royal Highness will allow me.... It is a well-known fact that

the want of actuality for such as me is the seed-ground of all talent,

the fountain of inspiration, indeed our suggestive genius. Enjoyment of

life is forbidden to us, strictly forbidden, we have no illusions as to

that--and by enjoyment of life I mean not only happiness, but also

sorrow, passion, in short every serious tie with life. The

representation of life claims all our forces, especially when those

forces are not allotted to us in overabundant measure"--and Herr Martini

coughed, drawing his shoulders repeatedly forward as he did so.

"Renunciation," he added, "is our compact with the Muse, in it reposes

our strength, our value; and life is our forbidden garden, our great

temptation, to which we yield sometimes, but never to our profit."

The flow of words had again brought tears to Herr Martini's eyes. He

tried to blink them away.

"Every one of us," he went on, "knows what it is to make mistakes, to

run off the rails in that way, to make greedy excursions of that kind

into the festival halls of life. But we return thence into our isolation

humbled and sick at heart."

Herr Martini stopped. His look, from under his knotted brows, became

fixed for a moment and lost in vacancy, while his mouth assumed a sour

expression and his cheeks, on which the unhealthy redness glowed, seemed

even thinner than before. It was only for a second; then he changed his

position, and his eyes recovered their vivacity.

"But your poem," said Klaus Heinrich, with some _empressement_. "Your

prize poem to the 'Joy of Life,' Herr Martini.... I am really grateful

to you for your achievement. But will you please tell me ... your

poem--I've read it attentively. It deals on the one hand with misery and

horrors, with the wickedness and cruelty of life, if I remember rightly,

and on the other hand with the enjoyment of wine and fair women, does it

not?..."

Herr Martini laughed; then rubbed the corners of his mouth with his

thumb and forefinger, so as to wipe the laugh out.

"And it's all," said Klaus Heinrich, "conceived in the form of 'I,' in

the first person, isn't it? And yet it is not founded on personal

knowledge? You have not really experienced any of it yourself?"

"Very little, Royal Highness. Only quite trifling suggestions of it. No,

the fact is the other way round--that, if I were the man to experience

all that, I should not only not write such poems, but should also feel

entire contempt for my present existence. I have a friend, his name is

Weber; he's a rich young man; he lives, he enjoys his life. His

favourite amusement consists in scorching in his motor car at a mad pace

over the country and picking up village girls from the roads and fields

on the way, with whom he----but that's another story. In short, that

young man laughs when he catches sight of me, he finds something so

comic in me and my activities. But as for me, I can quite understand his

amusement, and envy him it. I dare say that I too despise him a little,

but not so much as I envy and admire him...."

"You admire him?"

"Certainly, Royal Highness. I cannot help doing so. He spends, he

squanders, he lets himself go in a most unconcerned and light-hearted

way--while it is my lot to save, anxiously and greedily, to keep

together, and indeed to do so on hygienic grounds. For hygiene is what I

and such as I most need--it is our whole ethics. But nothing is more

unhygienic than life...."

"That means that you will never empty the Grand Duke's cup, then, Herr

Martini?"

"Drink wine out of it? No, Royal Highness. Although it would be fine to

do so. But I never touch wine. And I go to bed at ten, and generally

take care of myself. If I didn't, I should never have won the cup."

"I can well believe it, Herr Martini. People who are not behind the

scenes get strange ideas of what a poet's life must be like."

"Quite conceivably, Royal Highness. But it is, taken all round, by no

means a very glorious life, I can assure you, especially as we aren't

poets every hour of the twenty-four. In order that a poem of that sort

may come into existence from time to time--who would believe how much

idleness and boredom and peevish laziness is necessary? The motto on a

picture postcard is often a whole day's work. We sleep a lot, we idle

about with heads feeling like lead. Yes, it's too often a dog's life."

Some one knocked lightly on the white-lacquered door. It was Neumann's

signal that it was high time for Klaus Heinrich to change his clothes

and have himself freshened up. For there was to be a club concert that

evening in the Old Schloss.

Klaus Heinrich rose. "I've been gossiping," he said; for that was the

expression he used at such moments. And then he dismissed Herr Martini,

wished him success in his poetical career, and accompanied the poet's

respectful withdrawal with a laugh and that rather theatrical up and

down movement of the hand which was not always equally effective, but

which he had brought to a high pitch of perfection.

Such was the Prince's conversation with Axel Martini, the author of

"Evoë!" and "The Holy Life." It gave him food for thought, it continued

to occupy his mind after it had ended. He continued to think over it

while Neumann was reparting his hair and helping him on with the

dazzling full-dress coat with the stars, during the club concert at

Court, and for several days afterwards, and he tried to reconcile the

poet's statements with the rest of the experiences which life had

vouchsafed to him.

This Herr Martini, who, while the unhealthy flush glowed under his eyes,

kept crying: "How beautiful, how strong is life!" yet was careful to go

to bed at ten, shut himself off from life on hygienic grounds, as he

said, and avoided every serious tie with it--this poet with his frayed

collar, his watery eyes, and his envy of the young Weber who scorched

over the country with village girls: he left a mixed impression, it was

difficult to come to any certain conclusion about him. Klaus Heinrich

expressed it, when he told his sister of the meeting, by saying: "Things

are none too comfortable and easy for him, that's quite obvious, and

that certainly entitles him to our sympathy. But somehow, I'm not sure

if I'm glad to have met him, for he has something deterrent about him,

Ditlinde--yes, after all, he's certainly a little repulsive."

VII

IMMA

Fräulein von Isenschnibbe had been well informed. On the very evening of

the day on which she had brought the Princess zu Reid the great news,

the _Courier_ published the announcement of Samuel Spoelmann's, the

world-renowned Spoelmann's, impending arrival, and ten days later, at

the beginning of October (it was the October of the year in which Grand

Duke Albrecht had entered his thirty-second and Prince Klaus Heinrich

his twenty-sixth year), thus barely giving time for public curiosity to

reach a really high point, his arrival became a fact, a plain actuality

on an autumn-tinged, entirely ordinary week-day, which was destined to

impress itself on the future as a date to be remembered for ever.

The Spoelmanns arrived by special train--that was the only distinction

about their debut to start with, for everybody knew that the "Prince's

suite" in the "Spa Court" Hotel was by no means dazzlingly magnificent.

A few idlers, guarded by a small detachment of policemen, had gathered

behind the platform barriers; some representatives of the press were

present. But whoever expected anything out of the ordinary was

disappointed. Spoelmann would almost have passed unrecognized, he was so

unimposing. For a long time people took his family physician for him

(Doctor Watercloose, people said he was called), a tall American, who

wore his hat on the back of his head and kept his mouth distended in a

perpetual smile between his close-trimmed white whiskers, the while he

half-closed his eyes. It was not till the last moment that people

learned that it was the little clean-shaven man in the faded overcoat,

he who wore his hat pulled down over his eyes, who was the actual

Spoelmann, and the spectators were agreed that there was nothing

striking about him. All sorts of stories had been in circulation about

him; some witty fellow had spread the report that Spoelmann had front

teeth of solid gold and a diamond set in the middle of each. But

although the truth or untruth of this report could not be tested at

once--for Spoelmann did not show his teeth, he did not laugh, but rather

seemed angry and irritated by his infirmity--yet when they saw him

nobody was any longer inclined to believe it.

As for Miss Spoelmann, his daughter, she had turned up the collar of her

fur coat, and stuffed her hands in the pockets, so that there was hardly

anything to be seen of her except a pair of disproportionately big

brown-black eyes, which swept the crowd with a serious look whose

meaning it was hard to interpret. By her side stood the person whom the

onlookers identified as her companion, the Countess Löwenjoul, a woman

of thirty-five, plainly dressed and taller than either of the

Spoelmanns, who carried her little head with its thin smooth hair

pensively on one side, and kept her eyes fixed in front of her with a

kind of rigid meekness. What without question attracted most attention

was a Scottish sheep-dog which was led on a cord by a stolid-looking

servant--an exceptionally handsome, but, as it appeared, terribly

excitable beast, that leaped and danced and filled the station with its

frenzied barking.

People said that a few of Spoelmann's servants, male and female, had

already arrived at the "Spa Court" some hours before. At any rate it was

left to the servant with the dog to look after the luggage by himself;

and while he was doing so his masters drove in two ordinary flies--Mr.

Spoelmann with Doctor Watercloose, Miss Spoelmann with the Countess--to

the Spa-Garden. There they got out, and there for six weeks they led a

life the cost of which it did not need all their money to meet.

They were lucky; the weather was fine, it was a blue autumn, a long

succession of sunny days from October into November, and Miss Spoelmann

rode daily--that was her only luxury--with her companion, on horses

which she hired by the week from the livery stables. Mr. Spoelmann did

not ride, although the _Courier_, with obvious reference to him,

published a note by its medical colleague according to which riding had

a soothing effect in cases of stone, owing to its jolting, and helped to

disperse the stone. But the hotel staff knew that the famous man

practised artificial riding within the four walls of his room, with the

help of a machine, a stationary velocipede to whose saddle a jolting

motion was imparted by the working of the pedals.

He was a zealous drinker of the healing waters, the Ditlinde Spring, by

which he seemed to set great store. He appeared first thing every

morning in the Füllhaus, accompanied by his daughter, who for her part

was quite healthy, and only drank with him for company's sake, and then,

in his faded coat and with his hat pulled over his eyes, took his

exercise in the Spa-Garden and Wandelhalle, drinking the water the while

through a glass tube out of a blue tumbler--watched at a distance by the

two American newspaper correspondents, whose duty it was to telegraph to

their papers a thousand words daily about Spoelmann's holiday resort,

and who were therefore bound to try to get something to telegraph about.

Otherwise he was rarely visible. His illness--kidney colic, so people

said, extremely painful attacks--seemed to confine him often to his

room, if not to his bed, and while Miss Spoelmann with Countess

Löwenjoul appeared two or three times at the Court Theatre (when, in a

black velvet dress with an Indian silk scarf of a wonderful gold-yellow

colour round her fresh young shoulders, she looked quite bewitching with

her pearl-white complexion and great black pleading eyes), her father

was never seen in the box with her. He took, it is true, in her company

one or two drives through the capital, to do some shopping, get some

idea of the town, and see a few select sights; he went for a walk with

her too, through the park and twice inspected there the Schloss

Delphinenort--the second time alone, when he was so much interested as

to take measurements of the walls with an ordinary yellow rule, which he

took out of his faded coat.... But he was never seen in the dining-room

of the "Spa Court," for whether because he was on an almost meatless

diet, or for some other reason, he took his meals exclusively with his

own party in his own rooms, and the curiosity of the public had on the

whole remarkably little to feed on.

The result was that Spoelmann's arrival at the Spa at first did not

prove so beneficial as Fräulein von Isenschnibbe and many others beside

her had expected. The export of bottles increased, that was certain; it

quickly rose to half as many again as its previous figure, and remained

at that. But the influx of foreigners did not increase noticeably; the

guests who came to feast their eyes on so abnormal an existence soon

went away again, satisfied or disappointed, besides it was for the most

part not the most desirable elements of society that were attracted by

the millionaire's presence. Strange creatures appeared in the streets,

unkempt and wild-eyed creatures--inventors, projectors, would-be

benefactors of mankind, who hoped to enlist Spoelmann's sympathies for

their hobbies. But the millionaire made himself absolutely inaccessible

to these people; indeed, purple with rage, he howled at one of them who

made advances towards him in the park, in such a way that the busybody

quickly skedaddled, and it was often said that the torrent of begging

letters which daily flowed in to him--letters which often bore stamps

which the officials of the Grand Ducal post-office had never seen

before--was at once discharged into a paper-basket of quite unusual

capacity.

Spoelmann seemed to have forbidden all business letters to be sent him,

seemed determined to enjoy his holiday to the utmost, and during his

travels in Europe to live exclusively for his health--or ill-health. The

_Courier_, whose reporter had lost no time in making friends with his

American colleagues, was in a position to announce that a reliable man,

a so-called chief manager, was Mr. Spoelmann's representative in

America. He went on to say that his yacht, a gorgeously decorated

vessel, was awaiting the great man at Venice, and that as soon as he had

finished his cure he intended to travel south with his party.

It told also, in answer to importunate requests from its readers--of the

romantic origin of the Spoelmann millions, from their beginning in

Victoria, whither his father had drifted from some German office stool

or other, young, poor, and armed only with a pick, a shovel, and a tin

plate. There he had begun by working as help to a gold-digger, as a day

labourer, in the sweat of his brow. And then luck had come to him. A

man, a claim-owner on a small scale, had fared so badly that he could no

longer buy himself his tomatoes and dry bread for dinner, and in his

extremity had been obliged to dispose of his claim. Spoelmann senior had

bought it, had staked his one card, and, with his whole savings,

amounting to £5 sterling, had bought this piece of alluvial land called

"Paradise Field," not more than forty feet square. And the next day he

had turned up, a foot under the surface, a nugget of pure gold, the

tenth biggest nugget in the world, the "Paradise nugget," weighing 980

ounces and worth £5,000.

That, related the _Courier_, had been the beginning. Spoelmann's father

had emigrated to South America with the proceeds of his find, to

Bolivia, and as gold-washer, amalgam-mill-owner, and mine-owner had

continued to extract the yellow metal direct from the rivers and the

womb of the mountains. Then and there Spoelmann senior had married--and

the _Courier_ went so far as to hint in this connexion that he had done

so defiantly and without regard to the prejudices generally felt in

those parts. However, he had doubled his capital and succeeded in

investing his money most profitably.

He had moved on northwards to Philadelphia, Pa. That was in the fifties,

the time of a great boom in railway construction, and Spoelmann had

begun with one investment in the Baltimore and Ohio Railway. He had also

leased a coal-mine in the west of the State, the profits from which had

been enormous. Finally he had joined that group of fortunate young men

which bought the famous Blockhead Farm for a few thousand pounds--the

property which, with its petroleum wells, in a short time increased in

value to a hundred times its purchase price.... This enterprise had made

a rich man of Spoelmann senior, but he had by no means rested on his

oars, but unceasingly practised the art of making money into more money,

and finally into superabundant money.