Chapter VI: Part 6

The Princess went to the threshold to meet him. He disliked hand-kissing, so he simply held out his hand with a soft almost whispered greeting--his thin, cold hand which looked so sensitive and which he stretched out from his chest while keeping his forearm close to his body. Then he greeted his brother Klaus Heinrich in the same way, who had waited for him standing with heels close together in front of his chair--and said nothing further.

Ditlinde talked. "It's very nice of you to come, Albrecht. So you're feeling well? You look splendid. Philipp wishes me to tell you how sorry he is to have to be out this afternoon. Sit down, won't you, anywhere you like--here, for instance, opposite me. That chair's a pretty comfortable one, you sat in it last time. I've made tea for us in the meantime. You'll have your milk directly...."

"Thanks," he said quietly. "I must beg pardon ... I'm late. You know, the shorter the road ... And then I have to lie down in the afternoon.... There's no one else coming?"

"No one else, Albrecht. At the most, Jettchen Isenschnibbe may look in for a bit, if you don't object...."

"Oh?"

"But I can just as well say 'Not at home.'"

"Oh no, pray don't."

Hot milk was brought. Albrecht clasped the tall, thick, studded glass in both hands.

"Ah, something warm," he said. "How cold it is already in these parts! And I've been frozen the whole summer in Hollerbrunn. Haven't you started fires yet? I have. But then again the smell of the stoves upsets me. All stoves smell. Von Bühl promises me central heating for the Old Schloss every autumn. But it seems not to be feasible."

"Poor Albrecht," said Ditlinde, "at this time of year you used to be already in the South, so long as father was alive. You must long for it."

"Your sympathy does you credit, dear Ditlinde," answered he, still in a low and slightly lisping voice. "But we must show that I am on the spot. I must rule the country, as you know, that's what I'm here for. To-day I have been graciously pleased to allow some worthy citizen--I'm sorry I can't remember his name--to accept and wear a foreign order. Further, I have had a telegram sent to the annual meeting of the Horticultural Society, in which I assumed the honorary Presidency of the Society and pledged my word to further its efforts in every way--without really knowing what furthering I could do beyond sending the telegram, for the members are quite well able to take care of themselves. Further, I have deigned to confirm the choice of a certain worthy fellow to be mayor of my fair city of Siebenberge--in connection with which I should like to know whether this my subject will be a better mayor for my confirmation than he would have been without it...."

"Well, well, Albrecht, those are trifles!" said Ditlinde. "I'm convinced that you've had more serious business to do...."

"Oh, of course. I've had a talk with my Minister of Finance and Agriculture. It was time I did. Doctor Krippenreuther would have been bitterly disappointed with me if I had not summoned him once more. He went ahead in summary fashion and laid before me a conspectus of several mutually related topics at once--the harvest, the new principles for the drawing up of the budget, the reform of taxation, on which he is busy. The harvest has been a bad one, it seems. The peasants have been hit by blight and bad weather; not only they, but Krippenreuther too, are much concerned about it, because the tax-paying resources of the land, he says, have once more suffered contraction. Besides, there have unfortunately been disasters in more than one of the silver-mines. The gear is at a standstill, says Krippenreuther, it is damaged and will cost a lot of money to repair. I listened to the whole recital with an appropriate expression on my face, and did what I could to express my grief for such a series of misfortunes. Next, I was consulted as to whether the cost of the necessary new buildings for the Treasury and for the Woods and Customs and Inland Revenue Offices ought to be debited to the ordinary or the extraordinary estimates; I learnt a lot about sliding scales, and income tax, and tax on tourist traffic, and the removal of burdens from oppressed agriculture and the imposition of burdens on the towns; and on the whole I got the impression that Krippenreuther was well up in his subject. I, of course, know practically nothing about it--which Krippenreuther knows and approves; so I just said 'yes, yes,' and 'of course,' and 'many thanks,' and let him run on."

"You speak so bitterly, Albrecht."

"No; I'll just tell you what struck me while Krippenreuther was holding forth to me to-day. There's a man living in this town, a man with small private means and a warty nose. Every child knows him and shouts 'Hi!' when he sees him; he is called 'the Hatter,' for he is not quite all there; his surname he has lost long ago. He is always on the spot when there is anything going on, although his half-wittedness keeps him from playing any serious part in anything; he wears a rose in his buttonhole, and carries his hat about on the end of his walking-stick. Twice a day, about the time when a train starts, he goes to the station, taps the wheels, examines the luggage, and fusses about. Then when the guard blows his whistle, 'the Hatter' waves to the engine-driver, and the train starts. But 'the Hatter' deludes himself into thinking that his waving sends the train off. That's like me. I wave, and the train starts. But it would start without me, and my waving makes no difference, it's mere silly show. I'm sick of it...."

The brother and sister were silent. Ditlinde looked at her lap in an embarrassed way, and Klaus Heinrich gazed, as he tugged at his little bow-shaped moustache, between her and the Grand Duke at the bright window.

"I can quite follow you, Albrecht," said he after a while, "though it is rather cruel of you to compare yourself and us with 'the Hatter.' You see, I too understand nothing about sliding scales and taxation of tourist traffic and peat-cutting, and there is such a lot about which I know nothing--everything which is covered by the expression 'the misery in the world'--hunger and want, and the struggle for existence, as it is called, and war and hospital horrors, and all that. I have seen and studied not one of these, except death itself, when father died, and that too was not death as it can be, but rather it was edifying, and the whole Schloss was illuminated. And at times I feel ashamed of myself because I have not knocked about the world. But then I tell myself that mine is not a comfortable life, not at all comfortable, although I 'wander on the heights of mankind,' as people express it, or perhaps just because I do, and that I perhaps in my own way know more about the strenuousness of life, its 'tight-lipped countenance,' if you will allow me the expression, than many a one who knows all about the sliding scales or any other single department of life. And the upshot of that is, Albrecht, that my life is not a comfortable one--that's the upshot of everything--if you will allow me this retort, and that is how we justify ourselves. And if people cry 'Hi!' when they see me, they must know why they do so, and my life must have some _raison d'être_, although I am prevented from playing any serious part in anything, as you so admirably express it. And you're quite justified too. You wave to order, because the people wish you to wave, and if you do not really control their wishes and aspirations, yet you express them and give them substance, and may be that's no slight matter."

Albrecht sat upright at the table. He held his thin, strangely sensitive-looking hands crossed on the table-edge in front of the tall, half-empty glass of milk, and his eyelids dropped, and he sucked his underlip against his upper. He answered quietly: "I'm not surprised that so popular a prince as you should be contented with his lot. I for my part decline to express somebody else in my own person--I decline to, say, and you may think it's a case of sour grapes as much as you like. The truth is that I care for the 'Hi!' of the people just as little as any living soul possibly could care. I say soul, not body. The flesh is weak--there's something in one which expands at applause and contracts at cold silence. But my reason rises superior to all considerations of popularity or unpopularity. If I _did_ succeed in being a true national representative, I know what that would amount to. A misconception of my personality. Besides, a few hand-claps from people one does not know are not worth a shrug of the shoulders. Others--you--may be inspired by the feeling of the people behind you. You must forgive me for being too matter-of-fact to feel any such mysterious feeling of happiness--and too keen on cleanliness also, if you will allow me to put it thus. That kind of happiness stinks, to my thinking. Anyhow, I'm a stranger to the people. I give them nothing--what can they give me? With you ... oh, that's quite different. Hundreds of thousands, who are like you, are grateful to you because they can recognize themselves in you. You may laugh if you like. The chief danger you run is that you submerge yourself in your popularity too readily; and yet after all you feel no apprehensions, although you are aware at this very moment ..."

"No, Albrecht, I don't think so. I don't think I run any such danger."

"Then we shall understand each other all the better. I have no penchant for strong expressions as a rule. But popularity is hog-wash."

"It's funny, Albrecht. Funny that you should use that word. The 'Pheasants' were always using it--my schoolmates, the young sprigs, you know, at the 'Pheasantry.' I know what you are. You're an aristocrat, that's what's the matter."

"Do you think so? You're wrong. I'm no aristocrat, I'm the opposite, by taste and reason. You must allow that I do not despise the 'Hi's' of the crowd from arrogance, but from a propensity to humanity and goodness. Human Highness is a pitiable thing, and I'm convinced that mankind ought to see that everyone behaves like a man, and a good man, to his neighbour and does not humiliate him or cause him shame. A man must have a thick skin to be able to carry off all the flummery of Highness without any feeling of shame. I am naturally rather sensitive, I cannot cope with the absurdity of my situation. Every lackey who plants himself at the door, and expects me to pass him without noticing, without heeding him more than the door posts, fills me with embarrassment, that's the way I feel towards the people...."

"Yes, Albrecht, quite true. It's often by no means easy to keep one's countenance when one passes by a fellow like that. The lackeys! If one only did not know what frauds they are! One hears fine stories about them...."

"What stories?"

"Oh, one keeps one's ears open...."

"Come, come!" said Ditlinde. "Don't let's worry about that. Here you are talking about ordinary things, and I had two topics noted down which I thought we might discuss this afternoon.... Would you be so kind, Klaus Heinrich, as to reach me that notebook there in blue leather on the writing-table? Many thanks. I note down in this everything I have to remember, both household matters and other things. What a blessing it is to be able to see everything down in black and white! My head is terribly weak, it can't remember things, and if I weren't tidy and didn't jot everything down, I should be done for. First of all, Albrecht, before I forget it, I wanted to remind you that you must escort Aunt Catherine at the first Court on November 1st--you can't get out of it. I withdraw; the honour fell to me at the last Court Ball, and Aunt Catherine was terribly put out.... Do you consent? Good, then I cross out item 1. Secondly, Klaus Heinrich, I wanted to ask you to make a short appearance at the Orphan Children's Bazaar on the 15th in the Town Hall. I am patroness, and I take my duties seriously, as you see. You needn't buy anything--a pocket comb.... In short, all you need do is to show yourself for ten minutes. It's for the orphans.... Will you come? You see, now I can cross another off. Thirdly ..."

But the Princess was interrupted. Fräulein von Isenschnibbe, the Court lady, was announced and tripped in at once through the big drawing-room, her feather boa waving in the draught, and the brim of her huge feather hat flapping up and down. The smell of the fresh air from outside seemed to cling to her clothes. She was small, very fair, with a pointed nose, and so short-sighted that she could not see the stars. On clear evenings she would stand on her balcony and gaze at the starry heavens through opera-glasses, and rave about them. She wore two strong pairs of glasses, one behind the other, and screwed up her eyes and stuck her head forward as she curtseyed.

"Heavens, Grand Ducal Highness," she said, "I didn't know; I'm disturbing you, I'm intruding. I most humbly beg pardon!"

The brothers had risen, and the visitor, as she curtseyed to them, was filled with confusion. As Albrecht extended his hand from his chest, keeping his forearm close to his body, her arm was stretched out almost perpendicularly, when the curtsey which she made him had reached its lowest point.

"Dear Jettchen," said Ditlinde, "what nonsense! You are expected and welcome, and my brothers know that we call each other by our Christian names, so none of that Grand Ducal Highness, if you please. We are not in the Old Schloss. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Will you have some tea? It's still hot, and here are some candied fruits, I know you like them."

"Yes, a thousand thanks, Ditlinde, I adore them!" And Fräulein von Isenschnibbe took a chair on the narrow side of the tea-table opposite Klaus Heinrich, with her back to the window, drew a glove off and began peering forward, to lay sweetmeats on her plate with the silver tongs. Her little bosom heaved quickly and nervously with pleasurable excitement.

"I've got some news," she said, unable any longer to contain herself. "News.... More than any reticule will hold! That is to say it is really only one piece of news, only one--but it's so weighty that it counts for dozens, and it is quite certain, I have it on the best authority--you know that I am reliable, Ditlinde; this very evening it will be in the _Courier_ and to-morrow the whole town will be talking about it."

"Yes, Jettchen," said the Princess, "it must be confessed you never come with empty hands; but now we're excited, do tell us your news."

"Very well. Let me get my breath. Do you know, Ditlinde, does your Royal Highness know, does your Grand Ducal Highness know who's coming, who is coming to the spa, who is coming for six or eight weeks to the Spa Hotel to drink the waters?"

"No," said Ditlinde, "but do you know, dear Jettchen?"

"Spoelmann," said Fräulein von Isenschnibbe. "Spoelmann," she said, leaned back and made as if to draw with her fingers on the table-edge, but checked the movement of her hand just over the blue silk border.

The brothers and sister looked doubtfully at each other.

"Spoelmann?" asked Ditlinde.... "Think a moment, Jettchen, the real Spoelmann?"

"The real one!" Her voice cracked with suppressed jubilation. "The real one, Ditlinde! For there's only one, or rather only one whom everybody knows, and he it is whom they are expecting at the Spa Hotel--the great Spoelmann, the giant Spoelmann, the colossus Samuel N. Spoelmann from America!"

"But, child, what's bringing him here?"

"Really, forgive me for saying so, Ditlinde, but what a question! His yacht or some big steamer is bringing him over the sea of course, he's on his holidays making a tour of Europe and has expressed his intention of drinking the Spa waters."

"But is he ill, then?"

"Of course, Ditlinde; all people of his kind are ill, that's part of the business."

"Strange," said Klaus Heinrich.

"Yes, Grand Ducal Highness, it is remarkable. His kind of existence must bring that with it. For there's no doubt it's a trying existence, and not at all a comfortable one, and must wear the body out quicker than an ordinary man's life would. Most suffer in the stomach, but Spoelmann suffers from stone as everybody knows."

"Stone, does he?"

"Of course, Ditlinde, you must have heard it and forgotten it. He has stone in the kidneys, if you will forgive me the horrid expression--a serious, trying illness, and I'm sure he can't get the slightest pleasure from his frantic wealth."

"But how in the world has he pitched upon our waters?"

"Why, Ditlinde, that's simple. The waters are good, they're excellent; especially the Ditlinde spring, with its lithium or whatever they call it, is admirable against gout and stone, and only waiting to be properly known and valued throughout the world. But a man like Spoelmann, you can imagine, a man like that is above names and trade-puffs, and follows his own kind. And so he has discovered our waters--or his physician has recommended them to him, it may be that, and bought it in the bottle, and it has done him good, and now he may think that it must do him still more good if he drinks it on the spot."

They all kept silence.

"Great heavens, Albrecht," said Ditlinde at last, "whatever one thinks of Spoelmann and his kind--and I'm not going to commit myself to an opinion, of that you may be sure--but don't you think that the man's visit to the Spa may be very useful?"

The Grand Duke turned his head with his stiff and refined smile.

"Ask Fräulein von Isenschnibbe," he answered. "She has doubtless already considered the question from that point of view."

"If your Royal Highness asks me ... enormously useful! Immeasurably, incalculably useful--that's obvious! The directors are in the seventh heaven, they're getting ready to decorate and illuminate the Spa Hotel! What a recommendation, what an attraction for strangers! Will your Royal Highness just consider--the man is a curiosity! Your Grand Ducal Highness spoke just now of 'his kind'--but there are none of 'his kind'--at most, only a couple. He's a Leviathan, a Croesus! People will come from miles away to see a being who has about half a million a day to spend!"

"Gracious!" said Ditlinde, taken aback. "And there's dear Philipp worrying about his peat beds."

"The first scene," the Fräulein went on, "begins with two Americans hanging about the Exchange for the last couple of days. Who are they? They are said to be journalists, reporters, for two big New York papers. They have preceded the Leviathan, and are telegraphing to their papers preliminary descriptions of the scenery. When he has got here they will telegraph every step he takes--just as the _Courier_ and the _Advertiser_ report about your Royal Highness...."

Albrecht bowed his thanks with eyes downcast and underlip protruded.

"He has appropriated the Prince's suite in the Spa Hotel," said Jettchen, "as provisional lodgings."

"For himself alone?" asked Ditlinde.

"Oh no, Ditlinde, do you suppose he'd be coming alone? There isn't any precise information about his suite and staff, but it's quite certain that his daughter and his physician-in-ordinary are coming with him."

"It annoys me, Jettchen, to hear you talking about a 'physician-in-ordinary' and the journalists, too, and the Prince's suite to boot. He's not a king, after all."

"A railway king, so far as I know," remarked Albrecht quietly with eyes downcast.

"Not only, nor even particularly, a railway king, Royal Highness, according to what I hear. Over in America they have those great business concerns called Trusts, as your Royal Highness knows--the Steel Trust for instance, the Sugar Trust, the Petroleum Trust, the Coal, Meat, and Tobacco Trusts, and goodness knows how many more, and Samuel N. Spoelmann has a finger in nearly all these trusts, and is chief shareholder in them, and managing director--that's what I believe they call them--so his business must be what is called over here a 'Mixed Goods Business.'"

"A nice sort of business," said Ditlinde, "it must be a nice sort of business! For you can't persuade me, dear Jettchen, that honest work can make a man into a Leviathan and a Croesus. I am convinced that his riches are steeped in the blood of widows and orphans. What do you think, Albrecht?"

"I hope so, Ditlinde, I hope so, for your own and your husband's comfort."

"May be so," explained Jettchen, "yet Spoelmann--our Samuel N. Spoelmann--is hardly responsible for it, for he is really nothing but an heir, and may quite well not have had any particular taste for his business. It was his father who really made the pile, I've read all about it, and may say that I really know the general facts. His father was a German--simply an adventurer who crossed the seas and became gold-digger. And he was lucky and made a little money through gold-finds--or rather quite a decent amount of money--and began to speculate in petroleum and steel and railways, and then in every sort of thing, and kept growing richer and richer, and when he died everything was already in full swing, and his son Samuel, who inherited the Croesus' firm, really had nothing to do but to collect the princely dividends and keep growing richer and richer till he beat all records. That's the way things have gone."

"And he has a daughter, has he, Jettchen? What's she like?"

"Yes, Ditlinde, his wife is dead, but he has a daughter, Miss Spoelmann, and he's bringing her with him. She's a wonderful girl from all I've read about her. He himself is a bit of a mixture, for his father married a wife from the South--Creole blood, the daughter of a German father and native mother. But Samuel in his turn married a German-American of half-English blood, and their daughter is now Miss Spoelmann."

"Gracious, Jettchen, she's a creature of many colours!"

"You may well say so, Ditlinde, and she's clever, so I've heard; she studies like a man--algebra, and puzzling things of that sort."

"Hm, that too doesn't attract me much."

"But now comes the cream of the business, Ditlinde, for Miss Spoelmann has a lady-companion, and that lady-companion is a countess, a real genuine countess, who dances attendance on her."

"Gracious!" said Ditlinde, "she ought to be ashamed of herself. No, Jettchen, my mind is made up. I'm not going to bother myself about Spoelmann. I'm going to let him drink his waters and go, with his countess and his algebraical daughter, and am not going so much as to turn my head to look at him. He and his riches make no impression on me. What do you think, Klaus Heinrich?"

Klaus Heinrich looked past Jettchen's head at the bright window.

"Impression?" he said.... "No, riches make no impression on me, I think--I mean, riches in the ordinary way. But it seems to me that it depends ... it depends, I think, on the standard. We too have one or two rich people in the town here--Soap-boiler Unschlitt must be a millionaire.... I often see him in his carriage. He's dreadfully fat and common. But when a man is quite ill and lonely from mere riches ... Maybe ..."

"An uncomfortable sort of man anyhow," said Ditlinde, and the subject of the Spoelmanns gradually dropped. The conversation turned on family matters, the "Hohenried" property, and the approaching season. Shortly before seven o'clock the Grand Duke sent for his carriage. Prince Klaus Heinrich was going too, so they all got up and said good-bye. But while the brothers were being helped into their coats in the hall, Albrecht said: "I should be obliged, Klaus Heinrich, if you would send your coachman home and would give me the pleasure of your company for a quarter of an hour longer. I've got a matter of some importance to discuss with you--I might come with you to the Hermitage, but I can't bear the evening air."

Klaus Heinrich clapped his heels together as he answered: "No, Albrecht, you mustn't think of it! I'll drive to the Schloss with you if you like. I am of course at your disposal."

This was the prelude to a remarkable conversation between the young princes, the upshot of which was published a few days later in the _Advertiser_ and received with general approval.

The Prince accompanied the Grand Duke to the Schloss, through the Albrechtstor, up broad stone steps, through corridors where naked gas lamps were burning, and silent ante-rooms, between lackeys into Albrecht's "closet," where old Prahl had lighted the two bronze oil-lamps on the mantelpiece. Albrecht had taken over his father's work-room--it had always been the work-room of the reigning sovereigns, and lay on the first floor between an aide-de-camp's room and the dining-room in daily use facing the Albrechtsplatz, which the princes had always overlooked and watched from their writing-table. It was an exceptionally unhomely and repellent room, small, with cracked ceiling-paintings, red silk and gold-bordered carpet, and three windows reaching to the ground, through which the draught blew keenly and before which the claret-coloured curtains with their elaborate fringes were drawn. It had a false chimney-piece in French Empire taste, in front of which a semicircle of little modern quilted plush chairs without arms were arranged, and a hideously decorated white stove, which gave out a great heat. Two big quilted sofas stood opposite each other by the walls, and in front of one stood a square book-table with a red plush cover. Between the windows two narrow gold-framed mirrors with marble ledges reached up to the ceiling, the right hand one of which bore a fairly cheerful alabaster group, the other a water bottle and medicine glasses. The writing-desk, an old piece made of rose-wood with a roll-top and metal clasps, stood clear in the middle of the room on the red carpet. An antique stared down with its dead eyes from a pedestal in one corner of the room.

"What I have to suggest to you," said Albrecht--he was standing at the writing-table, unconsciously toying with a paper-knife, a silly thing like a cavalry-sabre with a grotesque handle, "is directly connected with our conversation this afternoon. I may begin by saying that I discussed the matter thoroughly with Knobelsdorff this summer at Hollerbrunn. He agrees, and if you do too, as I don't doubt you will, I can carry out my intention at once."

"Please let's hear it, Albrecht," said Klaus Heinrich, who was standing at attention in a military attitude by the sofa table.

"My health," continued the Grand Duke, "has been getting worse and worse lately."

"I'm very sorry, Albrecht--Hollerbrunn didn't agree with you, then?"

"Thanks, no, I'm in a bad way, and my health is showing itself increasingly unequal to the demands made upon it. When I say 'demands,' I mean chiefly the duties of a ceremonial and representative nature which are inseparable from my position--and that's the bond of connexion with the conversation we had just now at Ditlinde's. The performance of these duties may be a happiness when a contact with the people, a relationship, a beating of hearts in unison exists. To me it is a torture, and the falseness of my rôle wearies me to such a degree that I must consider what measures I can take to counteract it. In this--so far as the bodily part of me is concerned--I am at one with my doctors, who entirely agree with my proposal--so listen to me. I'm unmarried. I have no idea, I can assure you, of ever marrying; I shall have no children. You are heir to the throne by right of birth, you are still more so in the consciousness of the people, who love you...."

"There you are, Albrecht, always talking about my being beloved. I simply don't believe it. At a distance, perhaps--that's the way with us. It's always at a distance that we are beloved."

"You're too modest. Wait a bit. You've already been kind enough to relieve me of some of my representative duties now and then. I should like you to relieve me of all of them absolutely, for always."

"You're not thinking of abdicating, Albrecht?" asked Klaus Heinrich, aghast.

"I daren't think of it. Believe me, I gladly would, but I shouldn't be allowed to. What I'm thinking of is not a regency, but only a substitution--perhaps you have some recollection of the distinction in public law from your student's days--a permanent and officially established substitution in all representative functions, warranted by the need of indulgence required by my state of health. What is your opinion?"

"I'm at your orders, Albrecht. But I'm not quite clear yet. How far does the substitution extend?"

"Oh, as far as possible. I should like it to extend to all occasions on which a personal appearance in public is expected of me. Knobelsdorff stipulates that I should only devolve the opening and closure of Parliament on you when I'm bedridden, only now and again. Let's grant that. But otherwise you would be my substitute on all ceremonial occasions, on journeys, visits to cities, opening of public festivities, opening of the Citizens' Ball...."

"That too?"

"Why not? We have also the weekly free audiences here--a sensible custom without a doubt, but it tires me out. You would hold the audiences in my place. I needn't go on. Do you accept my proposal?"

"I am at your orders."

"Then listen to me while I finish. For every occasion on which you act as my representative, I lend you my aides-de-camp. It is further necessary that your military promotion should be hastened--are you first lieutenant? You'll be made a captain or a major straight away _à la suite_ of your regiment--I'll see to that; but in the third place, I wish duly to emphasize our arrangement, to make your position at my side properly clear, by lending you the title of 'Royal Highness.' There were some formalities to attend to. Knobelsdorff has already seen to them. I'm going to express my intentions in the form of two missives to you and to my Minister of State. Knobelsdorff has already drafted them. Do you accept?"

"What am I to say, Albrecht? You are father's eldest son, and I've always looked up to you because I've always felt and known that you are the superior and higher of us two and that I am only a plebeian compared with you. But if you think me worthy to stand at your side and to bear your title and to represent you before the people, although I don't think myself anything like so presentable, and have this deformity here, with my left hand, which I've always got to keep covered--then I thank you and put myself at your orders."

"Then I'll ask you to leave me now, please; I want to rest."

They advanced towards each other, the one from the writing-table, the other from the book-table, over the carpet into the middle of the room. The Grand Duke extended his hand to his brother--his thin, cold hand which he stretched out from his chest without moving his forearm away from his body. Klaus Heinrich clapped his heels together and bowed as he took the hand, and Albrecht nodded his narrow head with its fair beard as a token of dismissal, while he sucked his short, rounded lower lip against the upper. Klaus Heinrich went back to the Schloss "Hermitage."

Both the _Advertiser_ and the _Courier_ published eight days later the two missives, which contained decisions of the highest importance, the one addressed to "My dear Minister of State, Baron von Knobelsdorff," and the other beginning with "Most Serene Highness and well-beloved brother," and signed "Your Royal Highness's most devoted brother Albrecht."

VI

THE LOFTY CALLING

Here follows a description of Klaus Heinrich's mode of life and profession and their peculiarities.

On a typical occasion he stepped out of his carriage, walked with cloak thrown back down a short passage through cheering crowds over a pavement which was covered with red carpet, through a laurel-decked house-door, over which an awning had been erected, up a staircase flanked by pairs of candle-bearing footmen.... He was on his way to a festival dinner, covered to his hips with orders, the fringed epaulettes of a major on his narrow shoulders, and was followed by his suite along the Gothic corridor of the town hall. Two servants hurried in front of him and quickly opened an old window which rattled in its lead fastenings; for down below in the market-place stood the people, wedged together head to head, an oblique tract of upturned faces, dimly illuminated by smoky torchlight. They cheered and sang, and he stood at the open window and bowed, displayed himself to the general enthusiasm for a while and nodded his thanks.

There was nothing really everyday, nor was there anything really actual, about his life; it consisted of a succession of moments of enthusiasm. Wherever he went there was holiday, there the people were transfigured and glorified, there the grey work-a-day world cleared up and became poetry. The starveling became a sleek man, the hovel a homely cottage, dirty gutter-children changed into chaste little maidens and boys in Sunday clothes, their hair plastered with water, a poem on their lips, and the perspiring citizen in frock-coat and top-hat was moved to emotion by the consciousness of his own worth.

But not only he, Klaus Heinrich, saw the world in this light, but it saw itself too, as long as his presence lasted. A strange unreality and speciousness prevailed in places where he exercised his calling; a symmetrical, transitory window-dressing, an artificial and inspiring disguising of the reality by pasteboard and gilded wood, by garlands, lamps, draperies, and bunting, was conjured up for one fair hour, and he himself stood in the centre of the show on a carpet, which covered the bare ground, between masts painted in two colours, round which garlands twined--stood with heels together in the odour of varnish and fir-branches, and smiled with his left hand planted on his hip.

He laid the foundation stone of a new town hall. The citizens had, after juggling with the figures, got together the necessary sum, and a learned architect from the capital had been entrusted with the building. But Klaus Heinrich undertook the laying of the foundation stone. Amid the cheers of the population he drove up to the noble pavilion which had been built on the site, stepped lightly and collectedly out of the open carriage on to the ground, which had been rolled and sprinkled with yellow sand, and walked all alone towards the official personages in frock-coats and white ties who were waiting for him at the entrance. He asked for the architect to be presented to him, and, in full view of the public and with the officials standing with fixed smiles round him, he conducted a conversation with him for five full minutes, a conversation of weighty commonplaces about the advantages of the different styles of architecture, after which he made a decided movement, which he had meditated to himself beforehand during the conversation, and allowed himself to be conducted over the carpet and plank steps to his seat on the edge of the middle platform.

There, in his chain and stars, one foot advanced, his white-gloved hands crossed on his sword hilt, his helmet on the ground beside him, visible to the holiday crowd on every side, he sat and listened with calm demeanour to the Lord Mayor's speech. Thereupon, when they came to the request, he rose, walked, without noticeable precaution and without looking at his feet, down the steps to where the foundation stone lay, and with a little hammer gave three slow taps to the block of sandstone, at the same time repeating in the deep hush, with his rather sharp voice, a sentence which Herr von Knobelsdorff had previously impressed upon him. School children sang in shrill chorus, and Klaus Heinrich drove away.

On the anniversary of the War of Independence he marched in front of the veterans. A grey-haired officer shouted in a voice which seemed hoarse with the smoke of gunpowder: "Halt! Off hats! Eyes right!" And they stood, with medals and crosses on their coats, the rough beavers in their hands, and looked up at him with blood-shot eyes like those of a hound as he walked by with a friendly look, and paused by one or two to ask where they had served, where they had been under fire.... He attended the gymnastic display, graced the sports with his presence, and had the victors presented to him for a short conversation. The lithe athletic youths stood awkwardly before him, just after they had done the most astonishing feats, and Klaus Heinrich quickly strung together a few technical remarks, which he remembered from Herr Zotte, and which he uttered with great fluency, the while he hid his left hand.

He attended the Five Houses' Fishing festival, he was present in his red-covered seat of honour at the Grimmburg horse-races and distributed the prizes. He accepted, too, the honorary Presidency and Patronage of the Associated Rifle Competition; he attended the prize-meeting of the privileged Grand Ducal Rifle Club. He "responded cordially to the toast of welcome," in the words of the _Courier_, by holding the silver cup for one moment to his lips, and then with heels clapped together, raising it towards the marksmen. Thereupon he fired several shots at the target of honour, concerning which there was nothing said in the reports as to where they hit; next ploughed through one and the same dialogue with three successive men, about the advantages of rifle-firing, which in the _Courier_ was described as a "general conversation," and at last took leave with a hearty "Good luck!" which evoked indescribable enthusiasm. This formula had been whispered to him at the last moment by Adjutant-General von Hühnemann, who had made inquiries on the subject; for of course it would have had a bad effect, would have shattered the fair illusion of technical knowledge and serious enthusiasm, if Klaus Heinrich had wished the marksmen "Excelsior" and the Alpine Club "Bull's-eyes every time!"

As a general rule he needed in the exercise of his calling a certain amount of technical knowledge, which he acquired for each succeeding occasion, with a view to applying it at the right moment and in suitable form. It consisted preponderatingly of the technical terms current in the different departments of human activity as well as of historical dates, and before setting out on an official expedition Klaus Heinrich used to work up the necessary information at home in the Hermitage with the help of pamphlets and oral instructions. When he in the name of the Grand Duke, "my most gracious brother," unveiled the statue of Johann Albrecht at Knüppelsdorf, he delivered on the scene of festivities, directly after a performance by the massed choirs of the "Wreath of Harmony," a speech in which everything he had noted down about Knüppelsdorf was dragged in, and which produced the delightful impression everywhere that he had busied himself all his life with nothing so much as the historical vicissitudes of that hub of civilization.

In the first place, Knüppelsdorf was a city, and Klaus Heinrich alluded to that three times, to the pride of the inhabitants. He went on to say that the city of Knüppelsdorf, as her historical past witnessed, had been connected by bonds of loyalty to the House of Grimmburg for several centuries. As long ago as the fourteenth century, he said, Langrave Heinrich XV, the Rutensteiner, had signalled out Knüppelsdorf for special favour. He, the Rutensteiner, had lived in the Schloss built on the neighbouring Rutensteine, whose girdle of proud towers and strong walls had sent its greeting to the country for miles round.

Then he reminded his hearers how through inheritance and marriage Knüppelsdorf had at last come into the branch of the family to which his brother and he himself belonged. Heavy storms had in the course of years burst over Knüppelsdorf. Years of war, conflagration, and pestilence had visited it, yet it had always risen again and had always remained loyal to the house of its hereditary princes. And this characteristic the Knüppelsdorf of to-day proved that it possessed by raising a memorial to his, Klaus Heinrich's, beloved father, and it would be with unusual pleasure that he would report to his gracious brother the dazzling and hearty reception which he, as his representative, had here experienced.... The veil fell, the massed choirs of the "Wreath of Harmony" again did their best. And Klaus Heinrich stood smiling, under his theatrical tent, with a feeling of having exhausted his store of knowledge, happy in the certainty that nobody dare question him further. For he couldn't have said one blessed word more about Knüppelsdorf!

How tiring his life was, how strenuous! Sometimes he felt as if he had constantly to keep upright, at a great strain to his elasticity, something which it was quite impossible, or possible only in favourable conditions, to keep upright. Sometimes his calling seemed to him a wretched and paltry one, although he liked it and gladly undertook every expedition required of him in his representative capacity.

He travelled miles to an agricultural exhibition, travelled in a badly hung cart from Schloss "Hermitage" to the station, where the Premier, the Chief of Police, and the directors of the railway company awaited him at the saloon carriage. He travelled for an hour and a half, the while carrying on, not without difficulty, a conversation with the Grand Ducal adjutants, who had been attached to him, and the Agricultural Commissioner, Assistant Secretary Heckepfeng, a severe and respectful man who also accompanied him. Then he reached the station of the city which had organized the agricultural exhibition. The Mayor, with a chain over his shoulders, was awaiting him at the head of six or seven other official persons. The station was decorated with a quantity of fir-branches and festoons. In the back-ground stood the plaster busts of Albrecht and Klaus Heinrich in a frame of greenery. The public behind the barriers gave three cheers, and the bells pealed.

The Mayor read an address of welcome to Klaus Heinrich. He thanked him, he said, brandishing his top-hat in his hand, he thanked him on behalf of the city for all the favour which Klaus Heinrich's brother and he himself showed them, and heartily wished him a long and blessed reign. He also begged the Prince twice over graciously to crown the work which had prospered so famously under his patronage, and to open the agricultural exhibition.

This Mayor bore the title of Agricultural Councillor, a fact of which Klaus Heinrich had been apprised, and on account of which he addressed him thus three times in his answer. He said that he was delighted that the work of the agricultural exhibition had prospered so famously under his patronage. (As a matter of fact he had forgotten that he was patron of this exhibition.) He had come to put the finishing touch that day to the great work, by opening the exhibition. Then he inquired as to four things: as to the economical circumstances of the city, the increase in the population in recent years, as to the labour-market (although he had no very clear idea what the labour-market was), and as to the price of victuals. When he heard that the price of victuals was high, he "viewed the matter in a serious light," and that of course was all he could do. Nobody expected anything more of him, and it came as a comfort to everybody that he had viewed the high prices in a serious light.

Then the Mayor presented the city dignitaries to him: the higher District Judge, a noble landed proprietor from the neighbourhood, the rector, the two doctors, and a forwarding agent, and Klaus Heinrich addressed a question to each, thinking over, while the answer came, what he should say to the next. The local veterinary surgeon and the local inspector of stock-breeding were also present. Finally they climbed into carriages, and drove, amid the cheers of the inhabitants, between fences of school-children, firemen, the patriotic societies, through the gaily decked city to the exhibition ground--not without being stopped once more at the gate by white-robed maidens with wreaths on their heads, one of whom, the Mayor's daughter, handed to the prince in his carriage a bouquet with white satin streamers, and in lasting memory of the moment received one of those pretty and valuable gew-gaws which Klaus Heinrich took with him on his journeys, a breast-pin embedded, for a reason she could not guess, in _velvet_ (sammet), which figured in the _Courier_ as a jewel mounted in gold.

Tents, pavilions, and stands had been erected on the ground. Gaudy pennons fluttered on long rows of poles strung together with festoons. On a wooden platform hung with bunting, between drapings, festoons, and parti-coloured flagstaffs, Klaus Heinrich read the short opening speech. And then began the tour of inspection.

There were cattle tethered to low crossbars, prize beasts of the best blood with smooth round particoloured bodies and numbered shields on their broad foreheads. There were horses stamping and snuffing, heavy farm-horses with Roman noses and bushes of hair round their pasterns, as well as slender, restless saddle horses. There were naked short-legged pigs, and a large selection of both ordinary and prize pigs. With dangling bellies they grubbed up the ground with their snouts, while great blocks of woolly sheep filled the air with a confused chorus of bass and treble. There were ear-splitting exhibits of poultry, cocks and hens of every kind, from the big Brahmaputra to the copper-coloured bantam; ducks and pigeons of all sorts, eggs and fodder, both fresh and artificially preserved. There were exhibits of agricultural produce, grain of all sorts, beets and clover, potatoes, peas, and flax; vegetables, too, both fresh and dried; raw and preserved fruit; berries, marmalade, and syrups.

Lastly there were exhibits of agricultural implements and machines, displayed by several technical firms, provided with everything of service to agriculture, from the hand-plough to the great black-funnelled motors, looking like elephants in their stall, from the simplest and most intelligible objects to those which consisted of a maze of wheels, chains, rods, cylinders, arms, and teeth--a world, an entire overpowering world of ingenious utility.

Klaus Heinrich looked at everything; he walked, with his sword-hilt on his forearm, down the rows of animals, cages, sacks, tubs, glasses, and implements. The dignitary at his side pointed with his white-gloved hand to this and that, venturing on a remark from time to time, and Klaus Heinrich acted up to his calling. He expressed in words his appreciation of all he saw, stopped from time to time and engaged the exhibitors of the animals in conversation, inquired in an affable way into their circumstances, and put questions to the country people whose answers entailed a scratching behind their ears. And as he walked he bowed his thanks on both sides for the homage of the population which lined his path.

The people had collected most thickly at the exit, where the carriages were waiting, in order to watch him drive off. A way was kept free for him, a straight passage to the step of his landau, and he walked quickly down it, bowing continuously with his hand to his helmet--alone and formally separated from all those men who, in honouring him, were cheering their own archetype, their standard, and of whose lives, work, and ability he was the splendid representative, though not participator.

With a light and free step he mounted the carriage, settled himself artistically so that he at once assumed a perfectly graceful and self-possessed pose, and drove, saluting as he went, to the clubhouse, where luncheon was prepared. During luncheon--indeed, directly after the second course--the District Judge proposed the health of the Grand Duke and the Prince, whereupon Klaus Heinrich at once rose to drink to the welfare of the county, and city. After the luncheon, however, he retired to the room which the Mayor had put at his disposal in his official residence and lay down on the bed for an hour, for the exercise of his calling exhausted him in a strange degree, and that afternoon he was due not only to visit in that city the church, the school, and various factories, especially Behnke Brothers' cheese factory, and to express high satisfaction with everything, but also to extend his journey and visit a scene of disaster, a burnt-out village, in order to express to the villagers his brother's and his own sympathy, and to cheer the afflicted by his exalted presence.

When he got back to the "Hermitage," to his soberly furnished Empire room, he read the newspaper accounts of his expeditions. Then Privy Councillor Schustermann of the Press Bureau, which was under the Home Secretary, appeared in the "Hermitage," and brought the extracts from the papers, cleanly pasted on white sheets, dated and labelled with the name of the paper. And Klaus Heinrich read about the impression he had produced, read about his personal graciousness and Highness, read that he had acquitted himself nobly and taken the hearts of young and old by storm--that he had raised the minds of the people out of the ruck of everyday and filled them with gladness and affection.

And then he gave free audiences in the Old Schloss, as it had been arranged.

The custom of free audiences had been introduced by a well-meaning ancestor of Albrecht II, and the people clung to it. Once every week Albrecht, or Klaus in his place, was accessible to everybody. Whether the petitioner was a man of rank or not, whether the subject of his petitions were of a public or personal nature--he had only to give in his name to Herr von Bühl, or even the aide-de-camp on duty, and he was given an opportunity of bringing his matter to notice in the highest quarters.

Indeed an admirable custom! For it meant that the petitioner did not have to go round by way of a written application, with the dismal prospect of his petition disappearing for ever into a pigeon-hole, but had the happy assurance that his application would go straight to the most exalted quarters. It must be admitted that the most exalted quarters--Klaus Heinrich at this time--naturally were not in a position to go into the matter, to scrutinize it seriously and to come to a decision upon it, but that they handed the matter on to the pigeon-holes, in which it "disappeared." But the custom was none the less helpful, though not in the sense of matter-of-fact utility. The citizen, the petitioner, came to Herr von Bühl with the request to be received, and a day and hour were fixed for him. With glad embarrassment he saw the day draw near, worked up in his own mind the sentences in which he intended to explain his business, had his frock-coat and his hat ironed, put on his best shirt, and generally made himself ready.

But in reality these solemn interviews were well calculated to turn the petitioner's thoughts away from the gross material end in view, and to make the reception itself seem to him the main point, the essential object of his excited anticipation. The hour came, and the citizen took, what he never otherwise took, a cab, in order not to dirty his clean boots. He drove between the lions at the Albrechtstor, and the sentries as well as the stalwart doorkeeper gave him free passage. He landed in the courtyard at the colonnade in front of the weather-beaten entrance, and was at once admitted by a lackey in a brown coat and sand-coloured gaiters to an ante-room on the ground floor to the left, in one corner of which was a stand of colours, and where a number of other supplicants, talking in low whispers, waited in a state of thoughtful tension for their reception. The aide-de-camp, holding a list of those with appointments, went backwards and forwards and took the next on the list to one side, to instruct him in a low voice how to behave.