2
There was no more talk of a revision of the constitution and reform of the hereditary house of peers. The constitutional majority of three-fourths which is required in the house of deputies before such a proposal can be taken into consideration, though there at first, no longer existed after the new elections. Oscar, immediately after his return from Altara, had shown them his daring strength. Lipara was surrounded with troops: this was as well, for the manoeuvres, for the King of Syria, who was expected. The forts were strengthened, the fleet lay in the harbour; then came the imperial decree that the house of deputies should simply ... be dissolved. What an outcry, after the promulgation of that decree, in the newspapers and in the streets! For one moment, at night, there was an abortive riot. But the emperor, furious with the Marquis of Dazzara for his delay in taking prompt and energetic measures, had next day affirmed his august dissatisfaction. The marquis was shown that there were moments when the emperor was not to be trifled with; the emperor dismissed him personally, on the spot, and told him he could go. Crushed, his eyes full of despair, the marquis left the Imperial; in the fore-court his carriage crossed that of the Duke of Mena-Doni, lieutenant-general of the hussars; he saw the duke's sensual, Neronic head, covetous with ambition, staring up at the front of the palace. The marquis threw himself back in his carriage, wringing his hands and weeping like a child....
That same morning martial law was proclaimed at Lipara and the Duke of Mena-Doni appointed governor of the capital. With a great military display and a speech of three words the emperor dissolved the house of deputies. The people trembled, beaten off, thrashed, reduced to crouching at the imperial feet. The decree was issued for the general election. Must the people be chastised to make them attached to their emperor? Was it because of the innumerable articles in the newspapers of the northern provinces—Altara, Vaza and Lycilia—which bestowed all their sympathy upon their most charming, charitable crown-prince, indefatigable, omnipresent, mitigating what suffering he could? Was it because of the colossal, fabulous presents of millions contributed from the imperial privy purse to the fund for the victims of the disaster? The result of the elections became known: the new house of deputies contained a bare, impotent majority of constitutionals. What did it profit that the liberal papers shrieked of intrigue and undue pressure? Without and within the city lay the army; each day the emperor showed himself, with by his side the Duke of Mena-Doni....
The emperor invited the old ministry to remain in office, but dismissed those of the ministers who were not absolutely authoritative.
The crisis was at an end. The great spring manoeuvres were to take place on the parade-ground so soon as the King and Queen of Syria arrived at Lipara.
In Othomar there sprang up a vast admiration for his father. He did not love him with the fondness, the intimacy, the still almost childish dependence with which he loved the empress; he had always looked up to him; as a child he had been afraid of him. Now, after the personal courage which he had seen the emperor display, the sovereign power which he had watched him exercise, his majesty rose higher before Othomar's eyes, as it were the statue of a demi-god. He felt himself a lowly mortal beside him, when he thought:
"What should I have done, if I had had to act in this case? Should I have dared to take the prompt decision to dissolve the house of deputies and should I not have feared an immediate revolution in every corner of the country? Should I, after the disturbances, have dared to dismiss the Marquis of Dazzara at once, like a lackey, attached as he was to our house and descended from our most glorious nobility? Should I have dared to summon that duke, that swashbuckler, with his cruel face, even before I had dismissed the marquis, so that the one arrived as the other departed?"
And he already saw himself hesitating in imagination, not knowing what would be best, above all not knowing what would be most just; he pictured himself advised by old Count Myxila, at last determined to dissolve the deputies, but not dismissing the marquis, not declaring martial law in Lipara and assembling the troops too late and seeing the revolution burst out at all points simultaneously, with bomb upon bomb....
To do what was most just, this seemed to him the most difficult thing for a sovereign.
But the emperor's monarchic triumph had this result, that, clearly as Othomar saw his own weakness, a reflex of strength and determination was cast upon him from his father himself, by whose side he stood. Moreover, he had not much time for brooding. Each day brought its special duties. Scarcely was he able to allow himself one hour of solitary repose. He was accustomed to this life of constant movement, of constant public appearances, now here, now there, so thoroughly accustomed to it that he did not feel the fatigue which was already exhausting him before his tour in the north and which had now eaten into his nerves and marrow. He gave this fatigue no thought, regarded it perhaps as an organic languor, a transitory symptom, which was bound to pass. And each day brought its own fatigue. Thus he had grown accustomed to rise early, at seven every morning; Lipara then still lay white and peaceful in its rosy slumber of the dawn; he rode out on his thorough-bred Arab, black Emiro, with his favourite collie close behind him, galloping with him, its pointed nose poked out, its shaggy collar sticking up; unaccompanied by equerries, he rode through the park of the Imperial to the Elizabeth Parks, in the afternoon the resort of elegant carriages and horsemen, but in the morning peaceful, wide and deserted, with barely a solitary early rider, who made way respectfully for the prince and took his hat off low. Then he rode along the white quays with their villas and palm-trees, their terraces and aloes; and the incomparable harbour lay before him, always growing an intenser blue beneath the pink morning light, which became cruder. Higher up, the docks, the ships, the hum of industry already audible. Slowly he walked his horse along the harbour; in the porticoes of the villas he sometimes caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, saw her eyes following him through roses and clematis. He loved this ride because of the soft, fresh air, because of his horse, his dog, because of his solitude with these two, because of the long, silent quays, the wide, silent sky, the distant horizon still just enveloped in latest morning mist. The morning breeze blew against his forehead under his uniform cap; thoughts wandered at random through his brain. Then he shook himself free from this voluptuousness, rode back to the town and went to the Xaverius Barracks, occupied by the lancers; to the Wenceslas Barracks occupied by the grenadiers; or to the Berengar Barracks, occupied by the hussars. Here he enquired, investigated, inspected; and here he found his equerries, Dutri and Leoni; he rode back with them to the palace, and repaired to his father's room. This was the hour when Count Myxila came to the emperor and when affairs of state were discussed with the imperial chancellor; lately the crown-prince had assisted at these meetings. Next he visited the empress, who was expecting him: it was generally a most delightful moment, this which they spent confidentially together before lunch, a moment full of charm and intimacy. He sat close by her on a low chair, took her hand, poured out to her the burdens of his heart, communicated to her his anxiety about the future, about himself when later he himself would wear the crown. At such times his eyes peered up through their lashes, with their dark melancholy; his voice was querulous and begged for comfort. And she encouraged him: she told him that nothing happened but what had to happen; that everything was inevitable in the world's great chain of events, joined link by link; that he must wait for what might come, but at the same time do his duty; and that he must not unnerve himself with such endless pondering, which led to nothing. He told her how he feared his own hesitation and how he suspected that his decisions would always come too late; and she, gently laughing, replied that, if he knew his own faults so well, he should train himself to make his mind. He questioned her about justice—the one thing that seemed impossible to him on earth—and she referred him to his own feeling, as a human soul. But yet, intensely sweet as these hours were, he felt that he remained the same under their interchange of words and that, though words had been exchanged, nothing was changed within him. Wherefore he thought himself wicked and was afraid that he did not love his mother enough, with enough conviction. Then he looked at her, saw her smiling, divined beneath her smile the nervous dread which would never again relinquish its grasp of her and felt that she spoke like this only for his sake, to cheer him, and not from conviction. And his thoughts no longer wandered discursively about him, as on his morning ride along the quays: they fell like fine mists one upon the other in his imagination and formed his melancholy.
Lunch was taken privately. After lunch he sat for an hour to Thera, who was painting his portrait. In the afternoon there were always different things to do: exhibitions, charities, institutions of all kinds to be visited, a foundation-stone to be laid, a man-of-war to be launched. Every minute was filled; and each day filled his minutes differently from the day before. Dinner was always a meal of great etiquette and splendour; every day there were numerous guests: diplomatists, high officials, officers. It lasted long; it was an emperor's daily ceremonial banquet. Then in the evening the parties at court, or at the houses of the ambassadors or dignitaries; the theatres and concerts. The prince, however, never stayed late. He then read or worked for a couple of hours in his own room; at twelve o'clock he went to bed.
He was used to this life of monotonous variety, had grown up in it. So soon as he returned from Lycilia to Lipara—the city was then still under martial law—he found it waiting for him busier than ever; the opening of parliament had followed close upon his return. The emperor was pleased with the crown-prince's conduct in the north, perhaps because of the praise which the northern newspapers bestowed upon the Duke of Xara for his ready sympathy, because of his moment of popularity. He wanted to let his son take more and more part in affairs of state and discussed them with him more frequently either alone or in the company of the imperial chancellor. But the stern measures of drastic violence which the Duke of Mena-Doni had taken—he himself at Lipara, his officers at Thracyna: furious charges of hussars against the threatening crowds—these revolted Othomar; he had heard of them with anguish and despair, though he knew that there was nothing to be achieved by gentleness. And with his veneration for the emperor, as for a demi-god of will and force, there was mingled a certain antipathy and grudge, which divided him from his father and made any interchange of thought between them difficult.
Now, after the opening of parliament, the town, the whole country had quieted down; the troops, however, remained on the parade-ground, for the approaching manoeuvres. The arrival of the King and Queen of Syria was fixed. Othomar's days succeeded one another as before. He was entertained at banquets by the officers of the throne-guards and of the other regiments to which he belonged. Yes, this was his hour of popularity. It was already said that his surname one day would be Othomar the Benevolent. It was at this time that he laid the foundation-stone of a great alms-house, to whose establishment the will of an immensely wealthy, childless duke—one of the oldest Liparian families, which had become extinct—had contributed millions.
Othomar's gentleness was in amiable contrast with Oscar's justly exerted but rough force. He himself, however, was inwardly very much astonished at this talk of benevolence: he liked to do good, but did not feel the love of doing good as a leading feature in his character.
After the dinner given to him by the staff-officers, Othomar was to go in the evening with Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni to the Duke of Yemena, to thank the court marshal officially for the hospitality shown him at Castel Vaza. The duke occupied at Lipara a large, new house; his old family-residence was at Altara.
It is nine o'clock; the crown-prince is not yet expected. The duke and duchess, however, are already receiving their guests; the duchess sent out numerous invitations when Othomar announced his visit. The spacious reception-rooms fill up: almost the whole of the diplomatic corps is present, as are some of the ministers and great court-officials with their wives, old Countess Myxila and her daughters and a number of officers. They form the intimate circle of the Imperial. A jaunty familiarity prevails among them, with the sans-gêne in vogue.
Near the duchess stands Lady Danbury, the wife of the British first secretary, and the Marquis of Xardi, the duke's son. They are talking busily about the Dazzaras:
"I've seen them," says Lady Danbury. "It's shocking, shocking. They're living at Castel Dazzara, that old ruin in Thracyna, with their five daughters, poor things! The ceilings are falling in. Three crooked old men in livery; and the liveries even older than the servants. And debts, according to what I hear, debts! I was astonished to see how old the marchioness had grown; she has taken it terribly to heart, it seems."
"Grown old?" asks the duchess. "I thought she looked quite young still, last time I saw her...."
She detests Lady Danbury, who is tall, thin and sharp-featured, her appearance rather suggesting that of a graceful adder. And she continues:
"She still looked so well; she is slender, but she has a splendid neck and shoulders.... I really cannot understand how she can have grown so old...."
And, as though brooding over this puzzle, the duchess stares at the lean shoulders of Lady Danbury.
Xardi's eyes glitter; he expects a skirmish.
"They say that the marquis used to be one of your intimates, don't they?" the Englishwoman insinuates.
But that hateful "used to be" grates on Xardi's nerves.
"I am very fond of the Dazzaras," says the duchess; "but"—and she laughs mysteriously and meaningly—"he was always an unlucky bird...."
"His excellency the Duke of Mena-Doni," the butler announces.
"The rising sun!" Xardi whispers to Lady Danbury.
Mena-Doni bows before the duchess, who smiles upon him. Lady Danbury, standing by Xardi's side, continues:
"And the lucky bird?"
"Oh no!" says Xardi, with decision. "At least, not altogether...."
They look at each other and laugh:
"Imperial eagles are the finest birds, after all, don't you think?" says Lady Danbury, jestingly.
"What do you know about it?"
"Alas, I am too unimportant to know anything! Before I get so far in my zoological studies...."
"But what have you heard?"
"What everybody hears when Dutri can't hold his tongue."
"What about?"
"About a certain tender parting at Castel Vaza...."
The Marquis of Xardi bursts out laughing. Lady Danbury suddenly clutches his arm:
"I say, Xardi, I know less slender people than the Marchioness of Dazzara who would fall into a decline if they lost the imperial favour. Et toi?"
The marquis laughs loudly and:
"Even the crown-princely favour," he whispers, behind Lady Danbury's Watteau fan.
And they chuckle with laughter together.
"His imperial highness the Duke of Xara; their excellencies Count Ducardi, Prince Dutri and the Marquis of Leoni!" are announced, slowly and impressively.
There is a slight movement in the groups. The room divides into two rows; a couple of ladies get entangled in their trains and laugh. Then they all wait.
Othomar appears at the open door; Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni are behind him. The old duke hastens towards the prince; the Marquis of Xardi hurriedly thrusts Lady Danbury's fan into her hand and joins his father.
The old duke is a well-knit, elegant man, full of racial refinement, with a clean-shaven face; he is dressed simply in evening-clothes, with the broad green riband of a commander of the Imperial Orb slanting across his breast and the grand cross of St. Ladislas round his neck.
Othomar wears his full-dress uniform as colonel of the Xara Cuirassiers, silver, red and white; he holds his plumed helmet under his arm; he presses the duke's hand, he addresses him with genial words; but, in the ingenuousness of his youthful soul, he feels bitter remorse gnawing at his conscience now that he speaks of Castel Vaza, now that he listens to the cordial protestations of the duke. Othomar also shakes hands with the Marquis of Xardi.
Then the duchess approaches and greets the crown-prince with her famous curtsey. Lady Danbury envies her her grace and asks herself how it is possible, with those statuesque lines; she cannot deny that the Duchess of Yemena is a splendid woman.... Between the duke and the duchess, the prince walks down the row of bowing guests; the Marquis of Xardi follows with the equerries.
Othomar has seen the duchess once or twice at the Imperial since his return to Lipara, but never alone. They now exchange courteous phrases, with official voices and intonations. The groups form once more, as at an intimate rout.
The duchess walks on with Othomar, till they reach the long conservatory, dimly lighted, dusky-green, with the stately palm-foliage of the tall plants, with the delicate tracery of the bamboos, which exude beads of dew against the square panes. They are silent for a moment, looking at each other; and Othomar feels that his emotions for this woman are nothing more than fleeting moments, cloudlets in his soul. The unknown has opened out to him, but has turned to disillusion. Nevertheless he is thankful to her for what she gave him: the consolation of her passion, while his eyes were still moist with tears. She strengthened him by this consolation and made him discover his manhood. But everything in life is twofold; and his gratitude has a reverse of sin. He sees the duke in the distance holding an animated conversation, underlined with elegant, precise gestures, with Ducardi; and remorse softly pierces his boyish soul.
And next to his gratitude he feels his disillusion. Love! Is this love?... He feels nothing; nothing new has come into his heart. He sees how deliciously beautiful the duchess is in her ivory brocade, her train edged with dark fur, her bodice cut square, a string of pearls round her neck. The half-light drifts past her through the plants, a faery green, with a gentle slumbering and with shadows full of mystery; her face, with its delicate smile, stands out against the background of blurred darkness. He recalls her kiss and the mad embrace of her arms. Yes, it was a blissful enervation, an intoxication of the flesh, an unknown giddiness, a physical comfort. But love: was it love?... And he has to make up his mind: perhaps it is love; and, though he feels something lacking in his soul, he makes up his mind for all that: yes, perhaps that is what it is ... love.
"And when shall I see your highness again?" she whispers.
The question is put crudely and surprises him. But this single second of momentary solitude is so precious to the duchess that she cannot do otherwise. She observes his surprise and adores him for his innocence; and her eyes gaze so beseechingly that he replies:
"To-morrow I am dining with the French ambassador; after that I am going to the opera.... Can I find you here at eleven o'clock?"
He is surprised at the logical sequence of his thoughts, at his question, which sounds so strangely in his ears. But she answers, laughing disconcertedly:
"For God's sake, highness, not here, at eleven o'clock! How could we!... But ... come to ... Dutri's...."
She stammers; she remembers the equerry's luxurious flat and sees herself there again ... with others. And in her confusion she does not perceive that she has wounded him deeply and torn his sensitiveness as though with sharp claws; she fails all the more to perceive this, because he answers, confusedly:
"Very well...."
They return, laughing, with their official, colourless voices; they walk slowly: he, so young in his silver uniform, with the helmet, with its drooping plume, under the natural grace of his rounded arm; she, with her expansive brilliancy, trailing her ivory train, waving her fan of feathers and diamonds to and fro against her Carrara-marble bosom. All eyes are turned in their direction and observe the duchess' triumph....
And Othomar now knows that his "love" will become what is called a liaison, such as he has heard of in connection with this one and that, or read of in novels. He had not yet imagined such an arrangement. He does not know how he is to tell Dutri that he has made an assignation with the duchess in his rooms; and, when he thinks of the equerry, something of his innate sovereignty is chipped off as little pieces of marble or alabaster might be from a frail column....
Joining the duke and the general, he talks of the approaching manoeuvres. He now sees the duchess standing at a distance and Mena-Doni bending his Neronic head close to her face. His great antipathy for this man is mingled with jealousy. And, while he smiles and listens to the Duke of Yemena, he feels that he now knows for certain that his love after all is love, because jealousy plays a part in it.