RINOTTI AND PRINCE VICTOR ADOLPH
The Marchese Rinotti, after having taken his leave of the Countess Vera
and her cousin, went to his room to see whether during his absence
anything had come to him by mail requiring his attention. He was
expecting important advices. Although he was traveling for pleasure and
recreation, still he kept in constant touch with all the activities of
his post, and even here was working in the business which he was
secretly trying to further.
He was in a highly excited state of mind. The news that he had read in
the morning’s papers indicated a crisis in various controversies, the
obscuration of certain points on the political horizon; and this
furnished a favorable field for his plans. What especially intensified
his excitement was the retrospect of the last two hours, during which it
had become clear to him that the pretty Baltic widow was passionately in
love with him. She had sat next him at table. Those side glances, that
coquettish smile, aye, even that far from abrupt drawing back of her
little foot when he had accidentally touched it with his.... Rinotti was
accustomed to this kind of triumph, but it always delighted him to see
the evident signs of his mastery of the female heart—a double triumph,
because he no longer possessed the attractive power of youth;—therefore
it must be really something magnetic, something hypnotic and peculiar in
him ... or was it merely the force of his will, of his violent desires?
There is nothing like violence; one may condemn it as brutal as much as
one will—therein lies strength in war and in love. With such
“Renaissance” thoughts he took up his bundle of letters, documents, and
dispatches which were waiting for him on his writing-table and now set
to work merrily.
He had an hour and a half free: at four o’clock he was to call on Prince
Victor Adolph, to whom, since he was a royal highness, he wanted to show
his profound respect. That the prince belonged to a country with which,
according to Rinotti’s calculations, a conflict was imminent, was no
obstacle. The letters interested him intensely. The correspondents whom
he had delegated in England and France, in Germany and Austria, in
Russia and the Balkans, communicated to him details of all kinds of
transparent intrigues even when there was nothing to see through, for
they knew his predilections for diplomatic subterfuges and underground
paths, and realized that their reports would be regarded as all the more
sapient, the more they discovered evil motives concealed behind all
political transactions and demonstrations.
Rinotti jotted down on a sheet of paper notes wherein swarmed a
profusion of references to movements of troops, blockades of boundaries,
_communiqués_, airship works, and the like. In the same breath he
scribbled on another sheet of paper detached words and sentences like
“Splendid creature,” “lovely one,” “You must be mine,” “devouring fire,”
and other ingredients of a glowing _billet doux_ which that very evening
he proposed to slip into Annette’s hands at the Rose-Festival.
In the mean time Victor Adolph was expecting the promised visit. He was
sitting on his balcony and lying back comfortably in a rocking-chair,
with a book in his hand and a cigarette between his lips. He was not
alone. His constant attendant, General von Orell, adjutant, tutor,
_compagnon de plaisir_, paternal friend, and master of ceremonies, all
in one person, was resting in a second rocking-chair, also engaged in
smoking and reading. Only he was puffing a strong imported cigar and was
reading a military aëronautical journal.
Victor Adolph glanced up from his reading: “Why, he is a real poet, this
Helmer.... You ought to read ‘Schwingen,’ Orell, since you are so much
interested in aviation, as I see from the title-picture of your
journal.”
The general politely laid his journal aside, as his prince was pleased
to address him.
“Never read poems, Your Royal Highness.”
“I know that, you are too ‘matter-of-fact’ for such things.”
“Too what?” The general did not understand the English expression used
by the prince.
“Too sober, too cold-hearted, too skeptical, too....”
“Too prosaic. Granted. Dry common sense. Practical mind. I flatter
myself.”
“What news in your journal? Any great advance in the art of flying?”
“Yes, great supplies of explosives can be carried by airships.”
“Really? What a blessing.... Will not Signor Rinotti be here shortly?”
Orell glanced at his watch:—
“Quarter of an hour.”
The general preferred not to say more words than were necessary.
“Have the violets been sent to the Rose-Palace?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness. Pretty girl. But a bluestocking.... Shame!”
“Fräulein Garlett does not give the impression of being a bluestocking,
but she is very clever.”
“Women should not be clever.”
The prince laughed. “You are fearfully _vieux jeu_, my dear Orell.”
“Fearfully what?”
“Old-fashioned.”
“I flatter myself; hate all modern follies. Modern technique, especially
the technique of arms, also the modern mode of warfare interests me.
Your Royal Highness is far too little interested in such things. Here
are the experiences of the Russo-Japanese campaign....”
“I know them. There is some of that in Veresayef’s ‘Recollections of a
Physician,’ and in Leonid Andreyef’s ‘Red Laughter.’”
“Your Royal Highness reads bad books with the rest.”
“A piece of genuine good fortune that my royal father has not
commissioned you to censor my reading.”
“But his Majesty recommended me to procure useful books for Your Royal
Highness.”
“Yes, yes; those dealing with military science and Byzantine history.
But I throw aside all such rubbish.”
“And read socialistic pamphlets.”
“What if I do? The social question interests me.”
“Me, too. Must be settled. I know how to.”
“Truly, do you know that? Here behold me all eagerness! Tell me how.”
“Annihilate the whole crowd.”
A cloud of dissatisfaction darkened Victor Adolph’s face, but he made no
reply. He had no desire to be drawn into a dispute. Orell’s views were
well known to him and he avoided as far as possible affording him any
opportunity of expressing them. He took up his book again and lighted a
fresh cigarette. Yet he did not read; he only let his mind dwell on the
theme that had been broached. The social question really interested him
intensely, and not superficially either; he had studied the thing
itself. He had long been secretly a subscriber to “Vorwärts,” and many
times he had succeeded in smuggling himself into the assemblies of the
local labor union, and once he had been present, unrecognized, at an
international congress of Socialists. Not everything was clear to him in
the doctrinaire aspects of the question, but deep in his heart he was on
the side of those who are trying to obtain for the masses of the nations
the joys and dignities of life. In order to get a clear notion of the
battle against poverty, he would have had to make a study of poverty and
see for himself; and then horrible abysses of woe would have opened
before him; abysses of which people of his class and in general of all
classes, that do not belong to the proletariat, have for the most part
no conception.
And one thing particularly embittered him: the fearful lack of
comprehension which he met with when he merely mentioned the subject in
his own circles. No one seemed to have an idea of what was at issue.
Poverty? Yes, that was found everywhere, but it always had existed and
always would exist: there is no remedy, except to distribute alms, to
establish free soup-kitchens, and so on, and that sort of thing is
provided generously. To practice charity is certainly one of the
cardinal virtues, and a host of people, notably the women of princely
families, are in the front ranks, setting a good example!...
Naturally, there are also discontented people—the lazy who do not want
to work or the rascally fellows who are always after higher wages in
order to have more gin to drink. But especially guilty of the discontent
are the agitators, the so-called leaders, the mischief-making
demagogues. Opposition parties, revolutionary parties,—such have always
been,—and the only remedy against them is iron firmness. As a last
resort one always has the military to preserve the established order.
Force is the best, indeed, the only security: the threat of armed force
restrains the rabble. Without this wholesome fear the Reds would soon be
on hand to plunder property-owners or to vote that all property should
be shared equally—such nonsense! As if after such a division the
industrious and the clever would not shortly possess more than the lazy
and the rascally, and then there would be an end of all the famous
equality ... no, no, those are idle dreams.... Inequality is founded on
Nature.
These and similar phrases Victor Adolph had always been obliged to hear
when Socialism was mentioned in his environment. With especial violence
the opponents of a cause always succeed in demolishing the postulates
that are never put forward by its advocates. “Equal division of
property”—what Socialist would have ever demanded such a thing? Public
possession, State possession is not equally divided possession—it is
common possession, like the air we breathe.
The prevalent misconception which aroused Victor Adolph’s wrath extended
not only to the nature of the social movement, but also to its progress.
What it has already accomplished in organization, in clearing the way,
what it is on the point of doing, those who stand aloof do not know.
They frequently talk about the laws of nature, but only to draw from
them the conclusion that all things will and must remain as they are.
And they are ready to assist this well-beloved _vis inertiæ_ with laws
and clubs and cannon, but what the existing circumstances, what the
events will bring forth in natural consequences;—they have no notion
about that. With irresponsible frivolity they let come what may. They
see nothing of the approaching flood; should there really be a shower or
two, they have their umbrellas ready.
Victor Adolph had not himself penetrated far enough into the domain of
social and economic affairs to predict how the movement would develop,
but he followed it with deep sympathy, and was impelled to do so by two
honorable motives,—desire for knowledge and love for his fellow-men.
The prince was aroused from his thoughts by the announcement—“His
Excellency, Marchese Rinotti.” The general went to meet the visitor and
brought him to the prince. After the first ceremonious greetings had
been exchanged, obsequiously on the part of the diplomat, with friendly
dignity on the part of the prince, the prince invited the marchese to
sit down, and began the conversation with the question: “Is it decided
that your king is coming here this week?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness, in three days His Majesty will arrive.”
“And will he attend the exercises in the Rose-Palace?”
“That is his intention.”
“A great honor for the American,” remarked the general.
The prince shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I doubt if Mr. Toker has so
much awe before crowned heads as your loyal mind ascribes to him, my
dear Orell.”
“I have my doubts as to that point, also,” said Rinotti. “Mr. Toker
belongs to that caste of moneyed potentates who regard themselves as
kings. And in a certain sense they are, indeed, for they wield a
dominion over a monstrous, a sinister power. Old Europe must take
precious good care of her prestige, must stick closer than ever to her
traditions, if she would hold her own against the spirit of
Americanism.”
“That is a vague term,” said the prince. “What do you mean by
‘Americanism’?”
Rinotti’s keen-cut face took on a contemptuous expression. “I mean by it
stock-jobbery and wild quest for money; lack of ideality, of anything
romantic, of heroism; their poverty in historical recollections and
national art amply accounts for this. They have nothing of all that
which constitutes our pride, which enriches and ennobles us: ancient
monuments, cathedrals, old paintings, famous field-marshals, illustrious
families, glorious dynasties of rulers—all that is missing to the New
World; and what can it offer in their place?—sky-scrapers, gigantic
steel, meat, and oil trusts, California gold-mines, and possibly Niagara
Falls! That I will grant as the one thing poetic—but in everything else
it is a land of mediocrity, of aridity, of the barrenest prose.”
The general nodded his assent: “Quite right.”
Victor Adolph angrily crushed his cigarette into the ash-tray. “You say,
‘Quite right.’ I say, ‘Quite false,’ essentially false. I know America.
You do not know it. I spent a year at Harvard University. You have no
conception of the warmth of enthusiasm, of the generosity, of the wide
outlook, of the world-embracing ideas—in a word, of the lofty ideals
which animate that free, youthful-hearted people....”
“What fire, Your Royal Highness!” exclaimed the marchese. “Your own
youthful enthusiasm is speaking. I love it and I admire it, especially
in a Northerner.”
The prince made an impatient deprecatory gesture with his hand. “Do you
know,” said he, “that the International Agricultural Institute in Rome,
the foundation of which was a great glory for King Victor Emanuel III,
because it is intended for the service and advantage of all men, owes
its origin to an American? The man’s name was Lubin. He made a trip to
Europe on purpose to bring this idea of his to the sovereigns; with your
king, whose mind is open to grand new ideas, he found appreciation and
support.”
“I am glad Your Royal Highness has so good an opinion of my sovereign. I
hope also that Italy under his scepter will continue to accumulate
stores of glory. My country faces great tasks....”
“Undoubtedly,” interrupted Victor Adolph; “for example, the amelioration
of poverty in Sicily, the drainage of all malaria-producing swamps, the
diminution of the illiterate ... oh, great tasks are to be performed
everywhere, not in Italy alone....”
“In America as well?” asked Rinotti ironically.
“Certainly, in America as well; and possibly the example will be given
us from there.”
The prince stood up. Rinotti understood this to be a hint that the
interview was at an end: he also arose and took a ceremonious farewell.
The general accompanied him to the door and then returned to the prince.
“Desires to thank you again for your gracious reception.”
“The man is antipathetic to me,” replied the prince.
“He is false. Intriguer. Mind full of mischief. That is evident. Intends
to play our ally nasty tricks; only waiting till he becomes Prime
Minister. Then things will explode! Boundless ambition. Believes that
with the Italian airships—and it is true they are swift—they can
annihilate Austria’s fleet. But we are all ready for him.”
“You are always imagining wars and rumors of wars, my dear Orell, like
the Old Men’s chorus in ‘Faust.’ But if that worthy statesman should
really have such notions up his sleeve, he would run counter to his
king’s desire for peace. And, moreover, the Italian people have some
sense.”
“What is that—the people?”