SOMETHING ABOUT VICTORIA.
I feel that I give involuntarily a darker colour to my life than the
truth warrants. When we sit down and reflect we are apt to become the
prey of a curious delusion; pain seems to us the only reality, pleasure
a phantasm or a dream. Yet such reality as pain has pleasure shares, and
we are in no closer touch with eternal truth when we have headaches (or
heartaches) than when we are free from these afflictions. I wonder
sometimes whether a false idea of dignity does not mislead us. Would we
all pose as martyrs? It is nonsense; for most of us life is a tolerable
enough business--if we would not think too much about it. We need not
pride ourselves on our griefs; it seems as though joy were the higher
state because it is the less self-conscious and rests in fuller harmony
with the great order that encircles us.
As I grew older I gained a new and abiding source of pleasure in the
contemplation and study of my sister Victoria. I have anticipated
matters a little in telling of my tutor's departure; I must hark back
and pick up the thread of Victoria's history from the time when I was
hard on thirteen and she near fifteen--the time when she had implored me
to rid her of Krak. I had hated Krak with that healthy full-blooded
antipathy whose faculty one seems to lose in later years. It is a
tiresome thing to be driven by experience to the discovery of some good
in everybody; your fine black fades to neutral gray; often I regret the
delightfully partial views of earlier days. And so many people succeed
in preserving them to a green and untutored old age! They are Popes
always to their heretics. Such was and is Victoria; she never changed in
her views of other people. In contrast she was, as regards herself, of a
temperament so elastic that impressions endured hardly a moment beyond
the blow, and pleasures passed without depositing any residuum which
might form a store against evil days. If Krak had cut her arm off, its
perpetual absence might have made Victoria remember the fault which was
paid for by amputation; the moral effect of rapid knuckles disappeared
with the comfort that came from sucking them. Perhaps her disposition
was a happy chance for her; since the Styrian discipline (although not,
of course, in this blankly physical form later on) persisted for her
long after it had been softened for me. I touch again perhaps on a point
which has caught my attention before; undoubtedly my mother kept the
status of childhood imposed on Victoria fully as long as nature
countenanced the measures. Krak did not go; a laugh greeted my hint.
Krak stayed till Victoria was sixteen. For my part, since it was
inevitable that Krak should discipline somebody, I think heaven was mild
in setting her on Victoria. Had I stayed under her sway I should have
run mad. Victoria laughed, cried, joked, dared, submitted, offended,
defied, suffered, wept, and laughed again all in a winter's afternoon.
She was by way of putting on the dignity of an elder with me and
shutting off from my gaze her trials and reverses. But there was no one
else to tell the joke to, and I had it all each night before I slept.
But now Victoria was sixteen; and Krak, elderly, pensioned, but
unbroken, was gone. She went back to Styria to chasten and ultimately to
enrich (I would not for the world have been privy to their prayers) some
nephews and nieces. It seemed strange, but Krak was homesick for Styria.
She went; Victoria gave her the tribute of a tear, surprised out of her
before she remembered her causes for exultation. Then came their memory,
and she was outrageously triumphant. A new era began; the buffer was
gone; my mother and Victoria were face and face. And in a year as
Victoria said, in two or three as my mother allowed, Victoria would be
grown up.
I was myself, most unwillingly, a cause of annoyance to Victoria, and a
pretext for her repression. Importance flowed in on me unasked,
unearned. To speak in homely fashion, she was always "a bad second," and
none save herself attributed to her the normal status of privileges of
an elder sister. Her wrath was not visited on me, but on those who
exalted me so unduly; even while she resented my position she was not,
as I have shown, above using it for her own ends; this adaptability was
not due to guile; she forgot one mood when another came, and compromised
her pretensions in the effort to compass her desires. Princess Heinrich
seized on the inconsistency, and pointed it out to her daughter with an
exasperating lucidity.
"You are ready enough to remember that Augustin is king when you want
anything from him," she would observe. "You forget it only when you are
asked to give way to him."
Victoria would make no reply--the Krak traditions endured to prevent an
answer to rebukes--but when we were alone she used to remark, "I should
think an iceberg's rather like a mother. Only one needn't live with
icebergs."
Quite suddenly, as it seemed, it occurred to Victoria that she was
pretty. She lost no time in advertising the discovery through the medium
of a thousand new tricks and graces; a determined assault on the
affections of all the men about us, from the lords-in-waiting down to
the stablemen--an assault that ignored existing domestic ties or
pre-arranged affections--was the next move in her campaign. When she was
extremely angry with her mother she would say, "How odious it must be
not to be young any more!" I thought that there was sometimes a wistful
look in my mother's eyes; was she thinking of Krak, Krak in far-off
Styria? Perhaps for once, when Victoria was hitting covertly at Krak, my
mother remarked in a very cold voice:
"You remember your punishments, you don't remember your offences,
Victoria."
I could linger long on these small matters, for I find more interest and
incitement to analysis in the attitude of women toward women than in
their more obvious relations with men; but I must pass over a year of
veiled conflict, and come to that incident which is the salient point in
Victoria's girlish history. It coincided almost exactly in time with the
dismissal of Geoffrey Owen, and my pre-occupation with that event
diverted my attention from the earlier stages of Victoria's affair. She
was just seventeen, grown up in her own esteem (and she adduced many
precedents to fortify her contention), but in my mother's eyes still
wanting a year of quiet home life before she should be launched into
society. Victoria acquiesced perforce, but turned the flank of the
decree by ensuring that the home life should be by no means quiet. She
set to work to prepare for us a play; comedy or tragedy I knew not then,
and am not now quite clear. Our nearest neighbour at Artenberg dwelt
across the river in the picturesque old castle of Waldenweiter; he was a
young man of twenty-two at this time, handsome, pleasant, and ready for
amusement. His father being dead, Frederick was his own master--that is
to say, he had no master. Victoria fell in love with him. The Baron, it
seemed, was not disinclined for a romance with a pretty princess;
perhaps he thought that nothing serious would come of it, and that it
was a pleasant way enough of passing a summer; or, perhaps, being but
twenty-two, he did not think at all, unless to muse on the depth of the
blue in Victoria's eyes, and the comely lines of her figure as she rowed
on the river. To say truth, Victoria gave him small time for reflection.
As I am convinced, before he had well considered the situation he had
fallen into the habit of attending a _rendezvous_ in a backwater of the
stream about a mile above Artenberg. Victoria never went out
unaccompanied, and never came back unaccompanied; it was discovered
afterward that the trusted old boatman could be bought off with the
price of beer, and used to disembark and seek an ale house so soon as
the backwater was reached. The meeting over, Victoria would return in
high spirits and displaying an unusual affection toward my mother,
either as a blind, or through remorse, or (as I incline to think)
through an amiability born of triumph; there was at times even a touch
of commiseration in her manner, and more than once she spoke to me, in a
tone of philosophical speculation, on the uselessness of endeavouring
to repress natural feelings and the futility of treating as children
persons who were already grown up. This mood lasted some time, so long,
I suppose, as the stolen delight of doing the thing was more prominent
than the delight in the thing itself. A month passed and brought a
change. Now she was silent, absent, pensive, very kind to me, more
genuinely submissive and dutiful to her mother. The first force of my
blow had left me, for Owen had been gone now some months; I began to
observe my sister carefully. To my amazement she, formerly the most
heedless of creatures, knew in an instant that she was watched. She drew
off from me, setting a distance between us; my answer was to withdraw my
companionship, since only thus could I convince her that I had no desire
to spy. I had not guessed the truth, and my mother had no inkling of it.
Princess Heinrich's ignorance may seem strange, but I have often
observed that persons of a masterful temper are rather easy to delude;
they have such difficulty in conceiving that they can be disobeyed as to
become ready subjects for hoodwinking; I recollect old Hammerfeldt
saying to me, "In public affairs, sire, always expect disobedience, but
be chary of rewarding obedience." My mother adopted the second half of
the maxim but disregarded the first. She always expected obedience;
Victoria knew it and built on her knowledge a confident hope of impunity
in deceit.
Now on what harsh word have I stumbled? For deceit savours of meanness.
Let me amend and seek the charity, the neutral tolerance, of some such
word as concealment. For things good and things bad may be concealed,
things that people should know and things that concern them not, great
secrets of State and the flutterings of hearts. Victoria practised
concealment.
I found her crying once, crying alone in a corner of the terrace under a
ludicrous old statue of Mercury. I was amazed; I had not seen her cry so
heartily since Krak had last ill-treated her. I put it to her that some
such affliction must be responsible for her despair.
"I wish it was only that," she answered. "Do go away, Augustin."
"I don't want to stay," said I. "Only if you want anything----"
"I wonder if you could!" she said with a sudden flush. "No, it's no
use," she went on. "And it's nothing. Augustin, if you tell mother you
found me crying, I'll never----"
"You know quite well that I never tell anybody anything," said I, rather
offended.
"Then go away, dear," urged Victoria.
I went away. I had been feeling very lonely myself, and had sought out
Victoria for company's sake. However, I went and walked alone down to
the edge of the river. It was clear that Victoria did not want me, and
apparently I could do nothing for her. I have never found myself able to
do very much for people, except those who did not deserve to have
anything done for them. Perhaps poor Victoria didn't, but I was not
aware of her demerits then. I repeated to the river my old reflection:
"I don't see that it's much use being king, you know," said I as I flung
a pebble and looked across at the towers of Waldenweiter. "That fellow's
better off than I am," said I; and I wished again that Victoria had not
sent me away. There is a period of life during which one is always
being sent away, and it is not quite over for me yet in spite of my
dignity.
At last came the crash. A little carelessness born of habit and
impunity, the treachery of the old boatman under the temptation of a
gold piece, the girl's lack of _savoir faire_ when charged with the
offence--here was enough, and more than enough. I recollect being
summoned to my mother's room late one evening, just about my bedtime. I
went and found her alone with Victoria. The Princess sat in her great
arm-chair; Victoria was leaning against the wall when I entered; her
handkerchief was crushed in one hand, the other hand clenched by her
side.
"Augustin," said the Princess, "Victoria and I go to Biarritz
to-morrow."
Victoria's quick breathing was her only comment. My mother told me in
brief, curt, offensive phrases that Victoria had been carrying on a
flirtation with our opposite neighbour. I have no doubt that I looked
surprised.
"You may well wonder!" cried my mother. "If she could not remember what
she was herself, she might have remembered that the King was her
brother."
"I've done nothing----" Victoria began.
"Hold your tongue," said my mother. "If you were in Styria, instead of
here, you'd be locked up in your own room for a month on bread and
water; yes, you may think yourself lucky that I only take you to
Biarritz."
"Styria!" said Victoria with a very bitter smile. "If I were in Styria I
should be beheaded, I daresay, or--or knouted, or something. Oh, I know
what Styria means! Krak taught me that."
"I wish the Baroness was here," observed the Princess.
"You'd tell her to beat me, I suppose?" flashed out my sister.
"If you were three years younger----" began my mother with perfect
outward composure. Victoria interrupted her passionately.
"Oh, never mind my age. I'm a child still. Come and beat me!" she cried,
assuming the air of an Iphigenia.
To this day I am of opinion that she ran a risk in giving this
invitation; it was well on the cards that the Princess might have
accepted it. Indeed had it been Styria--but it was not Styria. My mother
turned to me with a cold smile.
"You perceive," said she, "the spirit in which your sister meets me
because I object to her compromising herself with this wretched baron.
She accuses me of persecution, and talks as though I were an
executioner."
I had been looking very curiously at Victoria. She was in a
dressing-gown, having been called, apparently, from her bedroom; her
hair was over her shoulders. She looked most prettily woe-begone--like
Juliet before her angry father, or, as I say, Iphigenia before the
knife. In a moment she broke out again.
"Nobody feels for me," she complained. "What can Augustin know of it?"
"I know," observed my mother. "But although I know----"
"Oh, you've forgotten," cried Victoria scornfully.
For a moment my mother flushed. I was glad on all accounts that Victoria
did not repeat her previous invitation now. On the contrary, when she
had looked at Princess Heinrich, she gave a sudden frightened sob,
rushed across the room, and flung herself on her knees at my feet.
"You're the king!" she cried. "Protect me, protect me!"
Throughout all this very painful interview I seemed to hear as it were
echoes of the romances which I had read on Victoria's recommendation;
the reminiscence was particularly strong in this last exclamation.
However, it is not safe to conclude that feelings are not sincere
because they are expressed in conventional phrases. These formulas are
moulds into which our words run easily; though the moulds be hollow, the
stuff that fills them may be solid enough.
"Why, you don't want to marry him?" I exclaimed, much embarrassed at
being prematurely forced into functions of a _père de famille_.
"I'll never marry anybody else," moaned Victoria. My mother's face was
the picture of disgust and scorn.
"That's another thing," said she. "At least the King would not hear of
such a marriage as this."
"Do you want to marry him?" I asked Victoria, chiefly, I confess, in
curiosity. I had risen--or fallen--in some degree to my position, and it
seemed strange to me that my sister should wish to marry this Baron
Fritz.
"I--I love him, Augustin," groaned Victoria.
"She knows it's impossible, as well as you do," said my mother. "She
doesn't really want to do it."
Victoria cried quietly, but made no reply or protest. I was bewildered;
I did not understand then how we may passionately desire a thing which
we would not do, and may snatch at the opposition of others as an
excuse alike for refusal and for tears. Looking back, I do not think had
we set Victoria free in the boat, and put the sculls in her hands, that
she would have rowed over to Waldenweiter. But did she, then, deserve no
pity? Perhaps she deserved more; for not two weak creatures like the
Princess (I crave her pardon) and myself stood between her and her
wishes, but she herself--the being that she had been fashioned into, her
whole life, her nature, and her heart, as our state had made them. If
our soul be our prison, and ourself the jailer, in vain shall we plan
escape or offer bribes for freedom; wheresoever we go we carry the walls
with us, and if death, then death alone can unlock the gates.
The scene grew quieter. Victoria rose, and threw herself into a chair in
a weary, puzzled desolation; my mother sat quite still, with eyes intent
on the floor, and lips close shut. A sense of awkwardness grew strong on
me; I wanted to get out of the room. They would not fight any more now;
they would be very distant to one another; and, moreover, it seemed
clear that Victoria did not propose to marry Baron Fritz. But what about
poor Baron Fritz? I approached my mother, and whispered a question. She
answered me aloud.
"I have written to Prince von Hammerfeldt. A letter from him will, I
have no doubt, be enough to insure us against further impertinence."
Victoria dabbed her eyes, but no protest came from her.
"We shall start mid-day to-morrow," the Princess pursued, "unless, of
course, Victoria refuses to accompany me." Her voice took a tinge of
irony. "Possibly your wishes may persuade her, Augustin, if mine can
not."
Victoria raised her head suddenly, and said very distinctly:
"I will do what Augustin tells me." The emphatic word in that sentence
was "Augustin."
My mother smiled bitterly; she understood well enough the implicit
declaration of war, the appeal from her to me, the shifting of
allegiance. I daresay that she saw the absurdity of putting a boy not
yet sixteen into such a position; but I know that I felt it much more
strongly.
"Oh, you'd better go, hadn't you?" I asked uncomfortably. "You wouldn't
be very jolly here, you know."
"I'll do as you tell me, Augustin."
"Yes, we are both at your orders," said my mother.
It crossed my mind that their journey would not be a very pleasant one,
but I did not feel able to enter into that side of the question. I
resented this reference to me, and desired to be rid of the affair.
"I should like you to do as mother suggests," said I.
"Very well, Augustin," said Victoria, and she rose to her feet. She was
a tall, graceful girl, and looked very stately as she walked by her
mother. The Princess made no movement or sign; the grim smile persisted
on her lips. After a moment or two of wavering I followed my sister from
the room. She was just ahead of me in the passage, moving toward her
bedroom with a slow, listless tread. An impulse of sympathy came upon
me; I ran after her, caught her by the arm, and kissed her.
"Cheer up," I said.
"Oh, it's all right, Augustin," said she. "I've only been a fool."
There seemed nothing else to do, so I kissed her again.
"Fancy, Biarritz with mother!" she moaned. Then she turned on me
suddenly, almost fiercely. "But what's the good of asking anything of
you? You're afraid of mother still."
I drew back as though she had struck me. A moment later her arms were
round my neck.
"Oh, never mind, my dear," she sobbed. "Don't you see I'm miserable? Of
course, I must go with her."
I had never supposed that any other course was practicable. The
introduction of myself into the business had been but a move in the
game. Nevertheless it marked the beginning of a new position for me, as
rich in discomfort as, according to my experience, are most extensions
of power.