SOME SECRET OPINIONS.
Even such results as might be looked for on Prince von Hammerfeldt's
theory of the meaning of freedom were in my case arrested and postponed
by a very serious illness which attacked me on the threshold of my
eleventh year. We had gone to Schloss Artenberg, according to our custom
in the summer; it was holiday-time; Krak was away, the talked-of tutor
had not arrived. The immediate fruit of this temporary emancipation was
that I got my feet very wet with dabbling about the river, and, being
under no sterner control than Victoria's, lingered long in this
condition. Next day I was kept in bed, and Victoria was in sore
disgrace. To be brief, the mischief attacked my lungs. Soon I was
seriously ill; a number of grave, black-coated gentlemen came and went
about the bed on which I lay for several weeks. Of this time I have many
curious impressions; most of them centre round my mother. She slept in
my room, and I believe hardly ever left me. I used to wake from uneasy
sleep and look across to her bed; always in a few moments she also
awoke, came and gave me what I needed or asked for, and then would throw
a dressing-gown round her and walk softly to and fro on bare feet, with
her long fair hair hanging about her shoulders. Her face looked
different in those days; yet it was not soft as I have seen mothers'
faces when their sons lay sick or dead, but rather excited, urgent,
defiant; the lips were set close, and the eyes gleamed. She did not
supplicate God, she fought fate, or, if God and fate be one, then it was
God whom she fought; and her battle was untiring. I knew from her face
that I might die, but, so far as I can recall my mood, I was more
curious about the effect of such an event on her and on Victoria than
concerning its import to myself. I asked her once what would happen if I
died; would Victoria be queen? She forbade me to ask the question, but I
pressed it, and she answered hastily, "Yes, yes, but you won't die,
Augustin; you shan't die." I was not allowed to see very much of
Victoria, but a day or two afterward she sat with me alone for a little
while, and I told her she would be queen if I died.
"No. Mother would kill me," she said with absolute conviction, in no
resentment or fear, but in a simple certitude.
"Why? Because you didn't bring me in when I got wet?"
"Yes--if you died of it," nodded Victoria.
"I don't believe it," I said boldly. "Why shouldn't she like you to be
queen?"
"She'd hate it," said Victoria.
"She doesn't hate me being king."
"You're a boy."
I wondered dimly then, and I have wondered since (hardly with more
knowledge), what truth or whether any lay behind my sister's words; she
believed that, apart from any unjust blame for my misfortune, her mother
would not willingly see her queen. Yet why not? I have a son, and would
be glad to lay down my burden and kiss his hand as he sat on the
throne. Are all fathers such as I? Nay, and are all mothers such as
mine? I know not; and if there be any position that opens a man's mind
to the Socratic wisdom of knowing his own ignorance it is that in which
my life has been spent. But it can hardly be that the curious veiled
opposition which from about this time began to exist between my mother
and my sister was altogether singular. It was a feeling not inconsistent
with duty, with punctilious observance, not even with love; but there
was in it a sort of jealousy, of assertion and counter-assertion. It
seemed to me, as I became older, to have roots deeper than any
accidental occurrence or environment, and, so far, I came near to the
difficult analysis, to spring from the relation of one woman who was
slowly but surely being forced to lay down what she had prized most in
her womanhood and another who, slowly but surely, also became aware that
hers was the prize in her turn, and thrust forward a tentative hand to
grasp it. If I am at all right in this notion, then it is plain that
feelings slight and faint, although not non-existent in ordinary homes,
might be intensified in such a family as ours, and that a new and great
impulse would have been imparted to them by such an artificial
accentuation of the inevitable as must have resulted had I died, and my
sister been called to the first place. Among men the cause for such an
antagonism is far less powerful; advancing years take less from us and
often bring what, to older eyes, is a good recompense for lost youth,
and seems to youth itself more precious than any of its own possessions.
Our empire, never so brilliant as a woman's in its prime, is of stuff
more durable and less shaken by the wind of Time's fluttering garment
as he passes by.
My confessor came to see me sometimes. He was an eminent divine,
nominated to his post by Hammerfeldt in reward, I believe, for some
political usefulness. I do not think he saw far into a child's heart, or
perhaps I was not like most children. He was always comforting me,
telling me not to be afraid, that God was merciful, Christ full of love,
and the saints praying for me. Now I was not in the least afraid; I was
very curious about death--I had never seen it--but I was, as I have
said, more curious about the world I should leave behind. I wanted to
know what would be done when I was dead, and where I was to be buried.
Would they fire the guns and parade the troops? I did not rise to the
conception of myself, not knowing anything of what they did. I thought I
should be there somehow, looking on from heaven; and I think that I
rather enjoyed the prospect. A child is very self-centred; I had no
doubt that I should be the object of much attention in heaven on that
day at least. I hinted something of what was passing in my mind to the
confessor. He did not appear to follow the drift of my thoughts. He told
me again that I had been a good boy, and that now, if I prayed and was
sorry for my faults, I should be happy and should please God. This did
not touch the point that engaged my attention. I tried whether my mother
could help me, and I was surprised when the tears started into her eyes,
and she bade me, almost roughly, to be quiet. However, when Victoria
came we talked it all over. Victoria cried a little, but she was quite
clear as to her own position in the procession, and we had rather an
animated dispute about it. She said also that some one in heaven would
hold me, and we differed again as to the celestial personage in whose
lap I was to sit. I am afraid that here our imaginations were assisted
by the picture of the Holy Family in the chapel of the Schloss.
Not the least tiresome incident of this time was that Krak felt it her
duty to display affection. I do not mean to assert that Krak was not and
had not been all along fond of me, but in ordinary seasons to feel
affection was with Krak no reason at all for displaying it. I do more
justice to Krak now; then I did not appreciate the change in her
demeanour. On questioning Victoria, I found that Krak's softness did not
extend beyond the limits of my sickroom; she had indeed ceased the
knuckle-rapping, but in its place she curtailed Victoria's liberty and
kept her nose to the grindstone pitilessly. Why should caresses be
confined to the sick, and kindness be bought only at the price of
threatened death? I was inclined to refuse to kiss Krak, but my mother
made such a point of compliance that I yielded reluctantly. In days of
health Krak had exacted, morning and evening, a formal and perfunctory
peck; if I gave her no more now she looked aggrieved, and my mother
distressed. Had Krak been possessed by a real penitence, I would have
opened my arms to her, but I was fully aware that her mood was not this;
she merely wanted to know that I bore no malice for just discipline, and
it went to my heart even apparently to concede this position. There
seemed to me something a little unfair in her proceedings; they were
attempts to obtain from me admissions that I should have repudiated
scornfully in hours of health. I knew that concessions now would
prejudice my future liberty. In days to come (supposing I recovered) my
hostility to Krak would be met by "Remember how kind she was to you when
you were ill," or "Oh, Augustin, you didn't say that of the Baroness
when she brought you grapes in your illness." I had plenty of grapes.
There are few things which human nature resents more than a theft of its
grievances. I was polite to Krak, but I lodged a protest with my mother
and confided a passionate repudiation of any treaty to Victoria's
sympathetic ear. Victoria was all for me; my mother was stern for a
moment, and then, smiling faintly, told me to try to sleep.
After several months I took a decided and rapid turn toward recovery.
This, I think, was the moment in which I realized most keenly the
fictitious importance which my position imparted to me. The fashion of
everybody's face was changed; mother, doctors, nurses, servants, all
wore an air of victory. When I was carried out on to the terrace at
Artenberg, rows of smiling people clapped their hands. I felt that I had
done something very meritorious in getting better, and I hoped secretly
that they would give me just as fine a procession as though I had died.
Victoria got hold of a newspaper and, before she was detected and
silenced, read me a sentence:
"By the favourable news of the King's health a great weight is lifted
from the heart of the country. There is not a house that will not be
glad to-day." I was pleased at this, although rather surprised. Taking
thought with myself, I concluded that, although kingship had hitherto
failed to answer my private expectations and desires, yet it must be a
more important thing even in these days than I had come to suppose. I
put a question to my mother, pointing at one of the gardeners.
"If Josef's son was ill and I was ill," said I, "which would Josef wish
most to get better?"
"The King should be before a thousand sons to him," she answered
quickly, and in a proud, agitated voice. But a moment later she bade me
not ask foolish questions. I remember that I studied her face for some
moments. It was a little difficult to make out how she really felt about
me and my kingship.
Convalescence was a pleasant season. Styrian discipline was relaxed, and
I was allowed to do very nearly all that my strength enabled me.
Victoria shared in the indulgence of this time; I remember we agreed
that there would be something to be said for never getting quite well.
Had getting quite well meant going back to Krak, I should have felt this
point of view most strongly, but I was not to go back to Krak. There was
a talk of a governor, of tutors, and masters. Hammerfeldt came down and
had a long conversation with my mother. She came out from the interview
with flushed cheeks, seeming vexed and perturbed, but she was composed
again when the Prince took his leave, and said to him pleasantly:
"You mustn't take him away from me altogether, Prince."
"We rely on your influence above everything, madame," was Hammerfeldt's
courtly answer, but my mother watched his retreating figure with a
rather bitter smile. Then she turned to me and asked:
"Shall you be glad to have tutors?"
Krak was in the distance with Victoria; my mother perceived my eyes
travelling in that direction.
"Poor old Baroness! You never liked her, did you, Augustin?"
"No," said I, emboldened by this new and confidential tone.
"Try to think more kindly of her," she advised; but I saw that she was
not in the least aggrieved at my want of appreciation. "You don't like
women, do you?"
"Only you, and Victoria, and----" I hesitated.
"And Anna?"
"Oh, of course, old Anna."
"Well, and who else?"
"The Countess von Sempach," said I, a little timidly.
"Haven't you forgotten her?" asked my mother, and her smile became less
bright.
"No, I've--I've not forgotten her," I murmured. "Does she ever come to
see you, mother--here at Artenberg, I mean?"
"No, darling," said my mother.
I did not pursue the subject. I had eyes good enough to see that my
dislike for Krak was pleasanter to my mother than my liking for the
Countess. Women seem to me to have the instinct of monopoly, and not to
care for a share of affection. Such, at least, was my mother's
temperament, intensified no doubt by the circumstance that in future
days my favour and liking might be matters of importance. She feared
from another woman just what she feared from Hammerfeldt, his governor,
and his tutors; probably her knowledge of the world made her dread
another woman more than any number of men. She feared even Victoria, her
own daughter and my sister; but a woman, very pretty and sympathetic,
who would be only twenty-eight when I was eighteen, must have seemed to
her mind the greatest peril of all. It is one of the drawbacks of
conspicuous place that a man's likings and fancies, his merest whims,
are invested by others with an importance that throws its reflection
back on to his own mind; he is able to recollect only with an effort
that even in his case there are a good many things of no importance. I
did not make these observations as a small boy at Artenberg, but even as
a small boy I knew very well that the Countess von Sempach would not be
invited to the Schloss. Nor was she. My mother guarded the gate, a
jealous angel.
Thus a pleasant summer passed at Artenberg, and in the autumn we
returned to Forstadt. Then I had my procession, though it seemed
scarcely as brilliant or interesting as that wherein Victoria had held
first place while I looked down, a highly satisfied spectator, from
heaven. I was eleven years old now, and perhaps just the first bloom was
wearing off the wonder of the world. For recompense, but not in full
requital, I was more awake to the meaning of things around me, and I
fear much more awake to the importance of myself, Augustin. Now I
appropriated the cheers at which before I had marvelled, and approved
the enthusiasm that had before amused me. My mother greeted these signs
in me; since I was to leave the women she would now have me a man as
soon as might be; besides, she had a woman's natural impatience for my
full growth. They love us most as babies, when they are Providence to
us; least as boys, when we make light of them; more again when as men we
return to rule and be ruled, bartering slavery in one matter for
dominion in another, and working out the equilibrium of power.
But after my procession in the cathedral, when I was giving thanks for
rescue from a death that had never been terrible and now seemed remote
and impossible, I saw my countess. She was nearly opposite to me; her
husband was not with her: he was on guard in the nave with his regiment.
I wanted to make some sign to her, but I had been told that everybody
would be looking at me. When I was crowned, "everybody" had meant Krak,
and I had feared no other eye. I was more self-conscious now. I was
particularly alert that my mother should observe nothing. But the
Countess and I exchanged a glance; she nodded cautiously; almost
immediately afterward I saw her wipe her eyes. I should have liked to
talk to her, tell her that I liked being a king rather better, and give
her the glad tidings that the dominion of Krak had ended; but I got no
chance of doing anything of the sort, being carried away without coming
nearer to her.
Victoria was in very low spirits that evening. It had suddenly come upon
her that she was to be left to endure Krak all alone. Victoria and I
were not somehow as closely knit together as we had been; she was now
thirteen, growing a tall girl, and I was but a little boy. Yet our
relations were not, I imagine, quite what they would have been between
brother and sister of such relative ages in an ordinary case. The
authority which elder sisters may be seen so readily to ape and assume
was never claimed by Victoria; my mother would not have endured such
presumption for a moment. I think Victoria regarded me as a singularly
ignorant person, who yet, by fortune's freak, was invested with a
strange importance and the prospect at least of great and indefinite
power. She therefore took a good deal of pains to make me understand her
point of view, and to convert me to her opinions. Her present argument
was that she also ought to be relieved from Krak.
"Krak was mother's governess till mother was eighteen," I reminded her.
"Awful!" groaned poor Victoria.
"In fact, mother's never got rid of Krak at all."
"Oh, that's different. I shouldn't in the least mind keeping Krak as my
daughter's governess," said Victoria. "That would be rather fun."
"It would be very cruel, considering what Krak does," I objected.
Dim hintings of the grown-up state were in Victoria; she looked a little
doubtful.
"It wouldn't matter when she was quite young," she concluded. "But I'm
nearly fourteen. Augustin, will you ask mother to send Krak away when
I'm fifteen?"
"No," said I. I had a wholesome dread of straining the prerogative.
"Then when I'm sixteen?"
"I don't see what I've got to do with it," said I restlessly.
Victoria became huffy.
"You're king, and you could do it if you liked," she said. "If I was
king, I should like to do things for people, for my sister anyhow." She
pouted in much vexation.
"Well, perhaps I'll try some day," said I reluctantly.
"Oh, you dear boy!" cried Victoria, and she immediately gave me three
kisses.
I was certainly on my way to learn the secret of popularity. In my
experience Victoria's conception of the kingly office is a very common
one, and Victoria's conduct in view of a refusal to forward her views,
and of consent, extremely typical. For Victoria took no account of my
labours, or of the probable trouble I should undergo, or of the snub I
should incur. She called me a dear boy, gave me three kisses, and went
off to bed in much better spirits. And all the while my own secret
opinion was that Krak was rather good for Victoria. It has generally
been my secret opinion that people had no business to receive the things
which they have asked me to give to or procure for them. When the merits
are good the King's help is unnecessary.