TWO OF MY MAKERS.
Physically my parents' child, with my father's tall stature and my
mother's clean-cut features, intellectually I was more son to
Hammerfeldt than to any one else. From the day when my brain began to
develop, his was the preponderating influence. I had a governor, a good
soldier, General von Vohrenlorf; I had masters; I had one tutor, of whom
more presently (he for a time bade fair to dispute the Prince's
supremacy); but above them all, moulding me and controlling them, was
this remarkable old man. At this time he was seventy years old; he had
been a soldier till thirty, since then a diplomatist and politician. I
do not think in all things as Hammerfeldt thought; time moves, and each
man's mind has its own cast; but I will make no claim to originality at
the cost of depreciating what I learned from him. He was a solitary man;
once he had taken a wife; she left him after two years; he used to talk
about her as though she had died at the date when she ran away, without
bitterness, with an indulgent kindness, with a full recognition of her
many merits. Those who did not know the story little supposed that the
lady lived still in Paris. His conduct in this matter was highly
characteristic. He regarded passions and emotions as things altogether
outside and independent of the rational man. Their power could not be
denied in their own sphere and season; he admitted that they must be
felt--raw feeling was their province; he denied that they should affect
thought or dominate action. In others they were his opportunity, in
himself a luxury that had never been dangerous, or an ailment that was
troublesome but never fatal. He was hard on a blunder; as a necessary
presupposition to effective negotiation or business he recognised a
binding code of honour; he has frequently told me he did not understand
the theological conception of sin. He had eaten of our salt and was our
servant; thus he would readily have died for us; but he prayed pardon if
we asked him to believe in us. "Conduct," he said once, "is the outcome
of selfishness limited by self-conceit." It was his way so to put things
as to strip them of friendly, decent covering; had he said self-interest
limited by self-respect, the axiom would have been more accepted and
less quoted. A superficial person used to exclaim to me, "And yet he is
so kind!" A man without ideals finds kindness the easiest thing in the
world. In truth he was kind, and in a confidential sort of way that
seemed to chuckle and wink, saying, "We're rogues together; then I must
lend you a hand." But he could be ruthless also, displaying a curious
aloofness from his fellow-men and an unconsciousness of any suffering he
might inflict that left mere cruelty far behind. If I were making an
automaton king, I would model my machine on the lines of Hammerfeldt. He
had no belief in a future life, but would sometimes trifle whimsically
with the theory of a transmigration of souls; he traced all beliefs in
immortality to the longing of those who were unfortunate here (and who
did not think himself so?) for a recompense (a revenge he called it)
hereafter, and declared transmigration to be at once the most ingenious
and the most picturesque embodiment of this yearning. He played
billiards extremely well, and excused his skill on the ground that he
was compelled to pass the time while foreign diplomatists and his own
colleagues were making up their mind. I do not think that he ever
hesitated as to what he had best do. He was of an extremely placid and
happy temper. As may be anticipated from what I have said, he regarded
no man as utterly lost unless he were completely under the influence of
a woman.
Yet it was by Hammerfeldt's will that Geoffrey Owen became my daily
companion and familiar friend. Vohrenlorf visited me once or twice a
week, and exercised a perfunctory superintendence. I had, of course,
many masters who came and went at appointed hours. Owen lived with me
both at Forstadt and at Artenberg. At this time he was twenty-five; he
excelled my own adult stature, and walked with the free grace of a
well-bred English gentleman. His dark hair grew thick, rising from his
forehead in a wave; his face was long and thin, and a slight mustache
veiled a humorous tender mouth. There was about the man a pervading
sympathy; the desire to be friends was the first characteristic of his
manner; he was talkative, eager, enthusiastic. If a man were good it
seemed to Owen but natural; if he were a rogue my tutor would set it
down to anything in the world save his own fault. Everybody could be
mended if everybody else would try. Thus he brought with him into our
conservative military court and society the latest breath of generous
hope and human aspiration that had blown over Oxford. Surely this was a
strange choice of Hammerfeldt's! Was it made in ignorance of the man, or
with some idea that my mind should be opened to every variety of
thought, or in a careless confidence that his own influence was beyond
shaking, and that Owen's spirit would beat hopelessly against the cage
and never reach mine in its prison of tradition?
A boy that would not have worshipped such a man as Geoffrey Owen must
have wanted heart and fire. I watched him first to see if he could ride;
he rode well. When he came he could not fence; in six months he was a
good hand with the foils; physical fatigue seemed as unknown to him as
mental inertia. There was no strain and no cant about him; he smoked
hard, drank well after exertion, with pleasure always. He delighted to
talk to my mother, chaffing her Styrian ideas with a graceful deference
that made her smile. Victoria adored him openly, and Krak did not
understand why he was not odious. Thus he conquered the Court, and I was
the first of his slaves. It would be tedious to anybody except myself to
trace the gradual progress of our four years' intimacy and friendship,
of my four years' training and enlightenment. Shall I summarize it and
say that Owen taught me that there were folks outside palaces, and that
the greatness of a station, even as of a man, stood not in the multitude
of the things that it possessed? The summary is cold and colourless; it
smacks of duty, of obligations unwillingly remembered, of selfish
pleasures reluctantly foregone. As I became old enough to do more than
listen entranced to his stories, it seemed to me that to be such a man
as he was, and not knowing that he himself was admired, could be no
duty, but only a happy dream. There has been in my family, here and
there, a vein of fancy, or of mysticism turning sometimes to religious
fervour, again sometimes to soldierly enthusiasm and a knight-errantry
in arms, the ruin and despair of cool statesmanship. On this element
Owen's teaching laid hold and bent it to a more modern shape. I would
not be a monk or a Bayard, but would serve humanity, holding my throne a
naked trust, whence all but I might reap benefit, whereon I must sit
burdened with the sorrows of all; and thus to be burdened was my joy.
With some boys no example could have made such ideas acceptable, or won
anything but scornful wonder for them; in me they struck answering
chords, and as I rambled in the woods at Artenberg already in my mind I
was the perfect king.
Where would such a mood have led? Where would it have ended? What at the
last would have been my state and fame?
On my fifteenth birthday Prince von Hammerfeldt, now in his
seventy-fifth year, came from Forstadt to Artenberg to offer me
congratulations. Though a boy may have such thoughts as I have tried to
describe, for the most part he would be flogged to death sooner than
utter them; to the Prince above all men an instinct bade me be silent.
But Owen rose steadily to the old man's skilful fly; he did not lecture
the minister nor preach to him, but answered his questions simply and
from the heart, without show and without disguise. Old Hammerfeldt's
face grew into a network of amused and tolerant wrinkles.
"My dear Mr. Owen," said he, "I heard all this forty--fifty--years ago.
Is it not that Jean Jacques has crossed the Channel, turning more sickly
on the way?"
Owen smiled. Mine was the face that grew red in resentment, mine the
tongue that burned to answer him.
"I know what you mean, sir," laughed Owen. "Still doesn't the world go
forward?"
"I see no signs of it," replied Hammerfeldt with a pinch of snuff,
"unless it be progress to teach rogues who aren't worth a snap to prate
of their worth. Well, it is pretty enough in you to think as you think.
What says the King to it?" He turned to me with a courteous smile, but
with an unceremoniously intent gaze in his eyes.
I had no answer ready; I was still excited.
"I have tried to interest the King in these lines of thought," said
Owen.
"Ah, yes, very proper," assented Hammerfeldt, his eyes still set on my
face. "We must have more talk about the matter. Princess Heinrich awaits
me now."
Owen and I were left together. He was smiling, but rather sadly; yet he
laughed outright when I, carried beyond boyish shame by my indignation,
broke into a tirade and threw back at him something of what he had
taught me. Suddenly he interrupted me.
"Let's go for a row on the river and have one pleasant afternoon," he
said, laying his hand on my shoulder. "The Prince does not want us any
more to-day."
The afternoon dwells in my memory. In my belief Owen's quick mind had
read something of the Prince's purpose; for he was more demonstrative of
affection than was his wont. He seemed to eye me with a pitiful love
that puzzled me; and he began to talk (this also was rare with him) of
my special position, how I must be apart from other men, and to
speculate in seeming idleness on what a place such as mine would be to
him and make of him. All this came between our spurts of rowing or among
our talk of sport or of flowers as we lay at rest under the bank.
"If there were two kings here, as there were in Sparta!" I cried
longingly.
"There were ephors, too," he reminded me, and we laughed. Hammerfeldt
was our ephor.
There was a banquet that night. I sat at the head of the table, with my
mother opposite and Hammerfeldt at her right hand. The Prince gave my
health after dinner, and passed on to a warm and eloquent eulogy on
those who had trained me. In the course of it he dwelt pointedly on the
obligation under which Geoffrey Owen had laid me, and of the debt all
the nation owed to one who had inspired its king with a liberal culture
and a zeal for humanity. I could have clapped my hands in delight. I
looked at Owen, who sat far down the table. His gaze was on Hammerfeldt,
and his lips were parted in a smile. I did not understand his smile, but
it persisted all through the Prince's graceful testimony to his
services. It was not like him to smile with that touch of satire when he
was praised. But I saw him only for an instant before I went to bed, and
others were with us, so that I could ask no explanation.
The next morning I rose early, and in glee, for I was to go hunting.
Owen did not accompany me; he was, I understood, to confer with
Hammerfeldt. My jovial governor Vohrenlorf had charge of me. A merry day
we had, and good sport; it was late when we came home, and my anxious
mother awaited me in the hall with dry slippers. She had a meal spread
for me, and herself came to share it. Never had I seen her so tender or
so gentle. I had a splendid hunger, and fell to, babbling of my skill
with the gun between hearty mouthfuls.
"I wish Owen had been there," I said.
My mother nodded, but made no answer.
"Is the Prince gone?" I asked.
"No, he is here still. He stayed in case you should want to see him,
Augustin."
"I don't want him," said I with a laugh, as I pushed my chair back. "But
I was glad he talked like that about Owen last night. I think I'll go
and see if Owen's in his room." I rose and started toward the door.
"Augustin, Mr. Owen is not in his room," said my mother in a strangely
timid voice.
I turned with a start, for I was sensitive to every change of tone in
her voice.
"Do you know where he is?" I asked.
"He is gone," said she.
I did not ask where, nor whether he would return. I sat down and looked
at her; she came, smoothed my hair back from my forehead, and kissed me.
"I have not sent him away," she said. "I couldn't help it. The Prince
was resolved, and he has power."
"But why?" burst from my lips.
"It is the Prince's doing, not mine," she reminded me. "The Prince is
here, Augustin."
Why, yes, at least old Hammerfeldt would not run away.
My lips were quivering. I was nearer tears than pride had let me be for
three years past, grief and anger uniting to make me sore and desolate.
There seemed a great gap made in my life; my dearest companion was gone,
the source of all that most held my fancy and filled my mind dried up.
But before I could speak again a tall, lean figure stood in the doorway,
helmet in hand. Hammerfeldt was there; he was asking if the King would
receive him. My mother turned an inquiring glance on me. I bowed my head
and choked down a sob that was in my throat. The old man came near to me
and stood before me; there was a little smile on his lips, but his old
eyes were soft.
"Sire," said he, addressing me with ceremonial deference and formality,
"her royal highness has told you what I have done in your Majesty's
service. I should be happy in your Majesty's approval."
I made him no answer.
"A king, sire," he went on, "should sip at all cups and drain none, know
all theories and embrace none, learn from all men and be bound to none.
He may be a pupil, but not a disciple; a hearer, but always a critic; a
friend, never a devotee."
I felt my mother's hand resting on my shoulder; I sat still, looking in
the Prince's eyes.
"Mr. Owen has done his work well," he went on, "but his work is done. Do
you ask, sire, why he is gone? I will give you an answer. I, Prince von
Hammerfeldt, would have Augustin and not Geoffrey for my master and my
country's."
"Enough for to-night, Prince. Leave him now," my mother urged in a
whisper.
The Prince bent his head slightly, but remained where he stood for a
moment longer. Then he bowed very low to me, and drew back a step,
still facing me. My mother prompted me with what I suppose was the
proper formula.
"You are convinced of the Prince's wisdom and devotion in everything,
aren't you, Augustin?" she said.
"Yes," said I. "Will Mr. Owen write to me?"
"When your Majesty is older, your Majesty will, of course, use your own
pleasure as to your correspondence," returned Hammerfeldt.
He waited for a moment longer, and then drew back further to the door.
"Speak to the Prince, Augustin," said my mother.
"I am very grateful to the Prince for his care of me," said I.
Hammerfeldt came quickly up to me and kissed my hand. "I would make you
a true king, sire," said he, and with that he left us.
[Illustration: Hammerfeldt came to me and kissed my hand.]
So they took my friend from me, and not all the kindness with which I
was loaded in the time following his loss lightened the grief of it.
Presently I came to understand better the meaning of these things, and
to see that the King might have no friend; for his friend must be an
enemy to others, perhaps even to the King himself. Shall I now blame
Hammerfeldt? I do not know. I was coming to the age when impressions
sink deep into the mind; and Geoffrey Owen was a man whose mark struck
very deep. Besides, he had those theories! It was not strange in
Hammerfeldt to fear those theories. Perhaps he was right; with his
statecraft it may well be that he could have done no other than what he
did. But to my fifteen-years-old thoughts these reflections were not
present. They had taken my friend from me. In my bed that night I wept
for him, and my days seemed empty for the want of him. It was to me as
though he had died, and worse than that; there are things as final as
death, yet lacking death's gentleness. Such is it to be cut off, living
friend from living friend, and living heart from heart not grown cold in
the grave. I have told this story of my tutor and myself first, for the
influence Owen had on me more than for the effect wrought in me by the
manner in which I lost him. There must be none very near me; it seemed
as though that stern verdict had been passed. There must be a vacant
space about the throne. Such was Hammerfeldt's gospel. He knew that he
himself soon must leave me; he would have no successor in power, and
none to take a place in love that he had neither filled nor suffered to
be filled. As I wandered, alone now, about the woods at Artenberg I
mused on these things, and came to a conclusion rather bitter for one of
my years. I would tie no more bonds, to have them cut with the sword; if
love must be slain, love should be born no more; to begin was but to
prepare a sad ending. I would not be drawn on to confidence or
friendship. I chose not to have rather than to lose, not to taste rather
than leave undrained the cup of sweet intimacy. Thus I armed my boyhood
at once against grief and love. In all that I did in after days this
determination was always with me, often overborne for the time by
emotions and passions, but always ready to reassert itself in the first
calm hour, and relentlessly to fetter me in a prison of my own making.
My God, how I have longed for friends sometimes!
Geoffrey Owen I saw but once again. I had written twice to him, and
received respectful, friendly, brief answers. But the sword had passed
through his heart also; he did not respond to my invitation, nor show a
desire to renew our intimacy. Perhaps he was afraid to run the risk; in
truth, even while I urged him, I was half afraid myself. Had he come
again, it would not have been as it had been between us. Very likely we
both in our hearts preferred to rest in memories, not to spoil our
thoughts by disappointment, to be always to one another just what we had
been as we rowed together that last afternoon at Artenberg, when the dim
shadow of parting did no more than deepen our affection and touch it to
a profounder tenderness.
And that time when I saw him again? I was driving through the gates of
an English palace, encircled by a brilliant troop of soldiers, cheered
by an interested, good-humoured throng. Far back in their ranks, but
standing out above all heads, I saw his face, paler and thinner, more
gentle even and kindly. He wore a soft hat crushed over his forehead; as
I passed he lifted and waved it, smiling his old smile at me. I waved my
hand, leaning forward eagerly; but I could not stop the procession. As
soon as I was within I sent an equerry to seek him, armed with a
description that he could not mistake. But Geoffrey Owen was nowhere to
be found, he had not awaited my messenger. Having signalled a friend's
greeting across the gulf between us, he was gone. I could have found
him, for I knew that he dwelt in London, working, writing, awakening
hope in many, fear in some, thought in all. But I would not seek him
out, nor compel him to come to me, since he would not of his own accord.
So he went his way, I mine, and I have seen him no more. Yet ever on my
birthday I drain a cup to him, and none knows to whom the King drinks a
full glass silently. It is my libation on a friendship's grave. Perhaps
it would support an interpretation more subtle. For when I stood between
Owen and Hammerfeldt, torn this way and that, uncertain whom I should
follow through life, was not I the humble transitory theatre of a great
and secular struggle? It seems to me that then the Ideal and the Actual
joined in battle over me; Hector and Achilles, and I the body of
Patroclus! Alas, poor body! Greatly the combatants desire it, little
they reck of the roughness it suffers in their struggle! The Spirit and
the World--am I over-fanciful if I seem to see them incarnated in
Geoffrey Owen and old Hammerfeldt? And victory was with the world. Yet
the conquered also have before now left their mark on lands which they
could not hold.