A BIRD WITHOUT WINGS.
A man's _puerilia_ are to himself not altogether puerile; they are
parcel of the complex explanation of his existent self. He starts, I
suppose, as something, a very malleable something, ready to be hammered
into the shape that the socket requires. The two greatest forces at work
on the yielding substance are parents and position, with the gardener's
boy beneath my window crusts and cuffs, with me at the window kingship
and Styrian discipline. In the latter there was to me nothing strange; I
had grown into it from birth. But now it became suddenly noticeable, as
a thing demanding justification, by reason of its patent incongruity
with my kingship. I have shown how swiftly and sharply the contrast was
impressed on me; if I have not made that point, then my story of a
nursery tragedy is unexcused. I was left wondering what manner of king
he was who must obey on pain of blows. I was very young, and the sense
of outrage did not last, but the puzzle persisted, and Victoria's riper
philosophy was taxed to allay it. Waiting seemed the only thing, waiting
till I could fling my shoes at whom I would, and sit on my throne to
behold the bastinadoing of Krak. My mother told me that I must be an
obedient boy first. Well and good; but then why make me a king now? In
truth I was introduced over-early to the fictions of high policy. A king
without power seems to a child like a bird without wings; but a bird
without wings is a favourite device of statesmanship.
The matter did not stand even here. My kingship not only lacked the
positive advantages with which youthful imagination (aided by the
archbishop's pious hyperbole) had endowed it; it became in my eyes the
great and fertile source of all my discomfort, the parent of every
distasteful obligation, the ground on which all chosen pleasures were
refused. It was ever "Kings can not do this," or "Kings must do that,"
and the "this" was always sweet, the "that" repellent; in Krak's hands
monarchy became a cross between a treadmill and a strait-waistcoat.
"What's the use of being a king?" I dared once to cry to her.
"God did not make you a king for your own pleasure," returned Krak
solemnly. I recollect thinking that her remark must certainly be true,
yet wondering whether God quite realized how tiresome the position was.
It may be supposed that I had many advantages to counterbalance these
evils that pressed so hardly on me. I do not recollect being conscious
of them. Even my occasional parades in public, although they tickled my
vanity, were spoiled for me by the feeling that nobody would look at me
with admiration, envy, or even interest, if he knew the real state of
the case. I may observe that this reflection has not vanished with
infancy, but still is apt to assail me. Of course I was well fed, well
housed, and well, though firmly, treated. Alas, what we have not is more
to us than all we possess. I was thankful under protest; prohibitions
outweighed privileges. I have not the experience necessary for any
generalization, but my own childhood was not very happy.
A day comes into my mind almost as clear and distinct in memory as my
coronation day. I was nine years old, and went with my mother to pay a
visit to a nobleman of high rank. He had just married and brought to his
house a young American lady. We were welcomed, of course, with infinite
courtesy and deference. Princess Heinrich received such tributes well,
with a quiet, restrained dignity and a lofty graciousness. I was smart
in my best clothes, a miniature uniform of the Corps of Guards, and my
hand flew up to my little helmet when the Countess curtseyed very low
and looked at me with merry, sparkling blue eyes. Her husband was a
tall, good-looking fellow, stiff in back and manner, as are most of our
folk, but honest and good-hearted, as are most of them also. But I paid
little heed to him; the laughing Countess engrossed me, and I found
myself smiling at her. Her eyes seemed to enter into confidence with me,
and I knew she was rather sorry for me. The day was damp and chill, and,
although my mother would not refuse to go round the Count's gardens, of
which he was proud, she declared that the walk was not safe for me, and
asked the Countess to take care of me. So she and I were left alone. I
stood rather shyly by the table, fingering the helmet that my mother had
told me to take off; presently looking up, I saw her merry eyes on me.
"Sire," said the Countess, "if you sat down I would."
I bowed and sought a chair; there was a high wooden arm-chair, and I
clambered into it; my legs dangled in mid-air. Another little laugh came
from the Countess as she brought me a high footstool. I tried to jump
down in time to stop her, but she would not let me. Then she knelt
herself on the stool, her knees by my feet.
"What beautiful military boots!" she said.
I looked down listlessly at my shining toes. She clasped her hands,
crying:
"You're a beautiful little king! Oh, isn't it lovely to be a king!"
I looked at her doubtfully; her pretty face was quite close to mine.
Somehow I wanted very much to put my arms round her neck, but I felt
sure that kings did not hug countesses. Imagine Krak's verdict on such a
notion!
"I'm not a king for my own pleasure," said I, regarding my hostess
gravely. "I am a king for the good of my people."
She drew a long breath and whispered in English (I did not understand
then, but the sound of the words stayed with me), "Poor little mite!"
Then she said:
"But don't you have a lovely time?"
I felt that I was becoming rather red, and I knew that the tears were
not far from my eyes.
"No," said I, "not very."
"Why not?"
"They--they don't let me do any of the things I want to."
"You shall do anything you want to here," she whispered. I was very much
surprised to see that her bright eyes had grown a little clouded.
"We've no kings in my country," she said, taking my hand in hers.
"Oh, I wish I'd been born there," said I; then we looked at one another
for a minute, and I put out my arms and took hold of her, and drew her
face near mine. With a little gulp in her throat she sprang up, caught
me in her arms, kissed me a dozen times, and threw herself into the big
chair with me on her knees. Now I was crying, and yet half laughing; so
I believe was she. We did not say very much more to one another. Soon I
stopped crying; she looked at me, and we both laughed.
"What babies we are, your Majesty!" said she.
"They might let me do a little more, mightn't they? It's all Krak, you
know. Mother wouldn't be half so bad without Krak."
"Oh, my dear, and is Krak so horrid?"
"Horrid," said I, with grave emphasis.
The Countess kissed me again.
"You'll grow up soon," she said. Somehow the assurance comforted me more
from her lips than from Victoria's. "Will you be nice to me when you
grow up?"
"I shall always be very, very fond of you," said I.
She laughed a funny little laugh, and then sighed.
"If God sends me a little son, I hope he'll be like you," she whispered,
with her cheek against mine.
"He won't be a king," said I with a sigh of envy.
"You poor dear!" cooed she.
Then came my mother's clear, high-bred voice, just outside the door,
descanting on the beauty of the Count's parterres and orangery. A swift
warning glance flew from me to my hostess. I scampered off my perch, and
she stood up in respectful readiness for the entrance of Princess
Heinrich.
"Don't tell mother," I whispered urgently.
"Not a word!"
"Whatever they do to you?"
"No, whatever they do to me!"
My mother was in the room, the Count holding the door for her and
closing it as she passed through. I felt her glance rest on me for a
moment; then she turned to the Countess and expressed all proper
admiration of the gardens, the house, and the whole demesne.
"And I hope Augustin has been a good boy?" she ended.
"The King has been very good, madame," returned the Countess. Then she
looked in an inquiring way at her husband, as though she did not quite
know whether she were right or not, and with a bright blush added, "If
you would let him come again some day, madame!"
My mother smiled quite graciously.
"You mustn't leave me out of the invitation," she said. "We will both
come, won't we, Augustin?"
"Yes, please, mother," said I, relapsed into shyness and in great fear
lest our doings should be discovered.
"Say good-bye now," commanded the Princess.
I should have liked to kiss the Countess again, but such an act would
have risked a betrayal. Our adieu was made in proper form, the Countess
accompanying us to the door. There we left her curtseying, while the
Count handed my mother into the carriage. I looked round, and the
Countess blew me a surreptitious kiss.
When we had driven a little way, my mother said:
"Do you like the Countess von Sempach?"
"Yes, very much."
"She was kind to you?"
"Very, mother."
"Then why have you been crying, Augustin?"
"I haven't been crying," said I. The lie was needful to my compact with
the Countess; my honour was rooted in dishonour.
"Yes, you have," said she, but not quite in the accusing tones that
generally marked the detection of falsehood. She seemed to look at me
more in curiosity than in anger. Then she bent down toward me. "What did
you talk about?" she asked.
"Nothing very particular, mother. She asked me if I liked being king."
"And what did you say?"
"I said I liked it pretty well."
My mother made no answer. I stole a look at her handsome clean-cut
features; she was frowning a little.
"I didn't tell her much," said I, aiming at propitiation.
"Much of what?" came sharply, but not unkindly. Yet the question posed
me.
"Oh, I don't know!" I murmured forlornly; and I was surprised when she
turned and kissed me, saying:
"We all love you, Augustin; but you have to be king, and you must learn
how."
"Yes," I assented. The thing was quite inevitable; I knew that.
Silence followed for a little while. Then my mother said:
"When you're ten you shall have a tutor, and your own servants,
Augustin."
Hastily I counted the months. There were nine; but what did the
proposal mean? Was I to be a free man then?
"And we women will leave you alone," my mother went on. She kissed me
again, adding, "You don't like us, do you?"
"I like you, mother," I said gravely, "at least generally--not when you
let Kr--the Baroness----"
"Never mind the Baroness," she interrupted. Then she put her arm round
my neck and asked me in a very low voice, "You didn't like the Countess
better than me, did you, Augustin?"
"N--no, mother," said I, but I was an unaccomplished hypocrite, and my
mother turned away. My thoughts were not on her, but on the prospect her
words had opened to me.
"Do you mean that the Baroness won't be my governess any more?"
"Yes. You'll have a governor, a tutor."
"And shall I----?"
"I'll tell you all about it soon, dear."
The rest of our drive was in silence. My mind was full to overflowing of
impressions, hopes, and wonders; my mother's gaze was fixed on the
windows of the carriage.
We reached home, and together went up to the schoolroom. It was not
tea-time yet, and lesson-books were on the table. Krak sat beside it,
grave, grim, and gray. Victoria was opposite to her. Victoria was
crying. Past experience enlightened me; I knew exactly what had
happened; Victoria had a delightfully unimpressionable soul; no rebuke
from Krak brought her to tears; Krak had been rapping her knuckles, and
her tears were an honest tribute to pain, with no nonsense of merely
wounded sensibility about them. My mother went up and whispered to
Krak. Krak had, of course, risen, and stood now listening with a heavy
frown. My mother drew herself up proudly; she seemed to brace herself
for an effort; I heard nothing except "I think you should consult me,"
but our quick children's eyes apprehended the meaning of the scene. Krak
was being bearded. There was no doubt of it; for presently Krak bowed
her head in a jerky unwilling nod and walked out of the room. My mother
stood still for a moment with a vivid red colour in her cheeks. Then she
walked across to Victoria, lifted one of her hands from the table, and
kissed it.
"You're going to have tea with me to-day, children," said she, "and
we'll play games afterward. Augustin shall play at not being a king."
I remember well the tea we had and the games that followed, wherein we
all played at being what we were not, and for an evening cheated fate of
its dues. My mother was merriest, for over Victoria and myself there
hung a veil of unreality, a consciousness that indeed we played and set
aside for an hour only the obstinate claims of the actual. But we were
all merry; and when we parted--for my mother had a dinner-party--we both
kissed her heartily; me she kissed often. I thought that she wanted to
ask me again whether I liked the Countess better than her, but was
afraid to risk the question. What I wanted to say was that I liked none
better if she would be always what she was this evening; but I found no
skill adequate to a declaration of affection so conditional. It would be
to make a market of my kisses, and I had not yet come to the age for
such bargains.
Then we were left alone, Victoria and I, to sit together for a while in
the dusk; and, sitting there, we totted up that day's gains. They were
uncertain, yet seemed great. All that had passed I told Victoria, save
what in loyalty to my countess I might not; Victoria imparted to me the
story of the knuckle-rapping. For her an added joy lay in the fact that
on this occasion, if ever, she had deserved the affliction; she had been
gloriously naughty, and gloried in it now; did not her sinfulness
enhance the significance of this revolution? So carried away were we by
our triumph that now again, after a long interval, we allowed our
imagination to paint royalty in glowing colours, and our Arabian Nights
and fairy tales seemed at last not altogether cunningly wrought
deceptions. When we had gone to bed, again we met, I creeping into her
room, and rousing her to ask whether in truth a new age had come and the
yoke of Krak been broken from off our backs. Victoria sat up in bed and
discussed the problem gravely. For me she was sanguine, for herself less
so; for, said she, they go on worrying the girls for ever so long. "She
won't rap your knuckles any more," I suggested, fastening on a certain
and tangible advantage. Victoria agreed that in all likelihood her
knuckles would henceforth be inviolate; and she did not deny such gain
as lay there. Thus in the end I won her to cheerfulness, and we parted
merrily, declaring to one another that we were free; and I knew that in
some way the pretty American countess had lent a hand to knocking off
our chains.
Free! A wonderful word that, whether you use it of a child, a man, a
state, a world, an universe! That evening we seemed free. In after-days
I received from old Hammerfeldt (a great statesman, as history will one
day allow) some lectures on the little pregnant, powerful, empty word.
He had some right to speak of freedom; he had seen it fought for by
Napoleon, praised by Talleyrand, bought by Castlereagh, interpreted by
Metternich. Should he not then know what it was, its value, its potency,
and its sweetness, why men died for it, and delicate women who loved
them cheered them on? Once also in later years a beautiful woman cried
to me, with white arms outstretched, that to be free was life, was all
in all, the heart's one satisfaction. Her I pressed, seeking to know
wherein lay the attraction and allurement that fired her to such
extravagance. And I told her what the Prince had said to me half-way
through his pinch of snuff.
"'Sire,' said he, 'to become free--what is it? It is to change your
master.'"
The lady let her arms fall to her side, reflected a moment, smiled, and
said:
"The Prince was no fool, sire."
As the result of this day that I have described, I had become free. I
had changed my master.
We did not, however, pay any more visits to the Countess.