8
Next day, through the guard of honour of the grenadiers, the people filed past the little prince's body. The following morning, it was removed to Altara and interred in the imperial vault in St. Ladislas' Cathedral. Princes Gunther and Herman of Gothland had come over for the ceremony, but the Duke of Xara was forbidden by Professor Barzia to take part in it: he remained at Lipara.
The Gothlandic princes and their suite returned with the Emperor Oscar to the capital, where, at her sister's pressing request, Queen Olga had also come, with Princess Wanda. And, in the mourning stillness of the Imperial, the family drew together in a narrow circle of intimacy. After her first tears, the Empress Elizabeth had lost her unnatural calm and constantly gave way to violent fits of sorrow, which Queen Olga or Othomar had difficulty in allaying. The emperor was inconsolable, indulging his grief with childish vehemence. Nobody had ever seen him like that before, nobody recognized him. The fact that he had lost his favourite child aroused his soul to rebellion against God. In addition to this, he had very much taken to heart his last conversation with Othomar, in which the prince had spoken to him of abdicating. The emperor had not returned to the subject, but it was never out of his thoughts. He feared that he would have to discuss it with Othomar again. He was furious when he felt how powerless he was to prevent the crown-prince from taking this desperate resolution. And he pictured the legal results if the prince maintained his purpose: the Archduchess of Carinthia empress, the archduke prince-consort and the house of Czyrkiski no longer reigning in the male line on the throne of Liparia. The possibility of this contingency, taken in conjunction with his sorrow at Berengar's death, made the Emperor Oscar suffer with that very special suffering of a monarch in whose veins still flows all the hereditary attachment to the greatness of his ancestors and who hopes to see this endure for all time. And he was also inconsolable for the loss of the child whom he loved best, more profoundly but also more silently, in greater secrecy, since he did not speak of it; and this probably made him feel more bitterly the thought of the future which he saw imaged before him. He had not even mentioned it to the empress, because of a certain superstitious dread.
And with this mental sorrow—that his robust soul, which had always retained a touch of childishness, was allowing itself to feel weak, as though it were the soul of any other mortal instead of his, a monarch's—there was mingled his substantial annoyance about the army bill. There would be three hundred millions needed: one hundred millions had already been voted for the increase of the infantry; the other two hundred, for the artillery, Count Marcella, the minister for war, had not yet succeeded in obtaining. The majority of the army committee was against this colossal arming of the frontier-forts; the minister already expected a violent opposition in the house of deputies and was fully prepared for his fall. None of the three—Oscar, Myxila or Marcella—was willing to make the least compromise. And Oscar moreover was prepared to support his minister to the point of impossibility.
It was at this time that Othomar made General Ducardi teach him the question, thoroughly, that he studied the staff-charts and military statistics and reports of the committee, that he followed the parliamentary discussions from out of his solitude. He held long deliberations with the general. He had, however, not for months attended the morning conferences in his father's room. But one morning he dressed himself—as was now no longer his regular habit—in uniform and sent a chamberlain to ask Oscar whether the emperor would permit him to be present at Count Marcella's audience. The emperor shrugged his shoulders in surprise, but combated his antipathy and sent word to his son that he might come. So soon as the minister and the imperial chancellor were with the emperor, Othomar joined them. He had grown still more slender and the silver frogs of his lancer's uniform barely sufficed to lend a slight breadth to his slimness; he was pale and a little sunken in the cheeks; but the glance of his eyes had lost its former feverish restlessness and recovered its melancholy calm, together with a certain stiffness and haughtiness. He refrained at first from taking part in the discussion, let the emperor curse, the chancellor shrug his shoulders and rely on the impossible, the minister declared that he would never give in. Then, however, he asked Oscar for leave to interpose a word. He took a pencil; with a few short, decided lines of demonstration on the maps, with a few simple, accurate indications on the registers, with a few figures which he quoted, correctly, by heart, he showed that he was quite conversant with the subject. He expressed the opinion that, in so far as he could gather from the reports of the committee, from the mood of the house of deputies, it remained an undoubted fact that the two hundred millions would be refused ... and that the minister would fall. He repeated these last words with emphasis and then looked firmly first at his father and then at Count Marcella. Then, in his soft voice, which rose and fell in logical tones, with serene words of conviction, he asked why they should not submit to circumstances and make the best of them. Why not accept the one hundred millions for the infantry as so much gained and—for this after all would be possible without immediate danger—endeavour to distribute the other two hundred over a period of four or five years. He felt certain that an increase of twenty millions or so a year would not meet with such violent opposition. By this arrangement Count Marcella would be able to maintain himself in office and to be supported by the emperor....
When he had ceased, his words were succeeded by a pause. His advice, if not distinguished by genius, was at least practical and made the most of this critical situation. Count Myxila slowly nodded his head in approval. The emperor and Count Marcella could not at once adhere to Othomar's idea and were obstinate, as though they still hoped to force the army bill through, unchanged as conceived at first. But the chancellor took the same view as the crown-prince, proved still more clearly that an arrangement of this sort would be the only one by which his majesty would be able to retain Count Marcella's services. And the end of the matter was that the Duke of Xara's proposal should be taken into consideration.
When Myxila and Marcella had gone, the emperor asked the prince to wait a moment longer:
"Othomar," he said, "it gives me great pleasure to see you once more occupying yourself with the affairs of our country...."
He hesitated an instant, almost anxiously:
"What conclusion may I draw from this ... for the future?" he continued at last, slowly.
The crown-prince understood him:
"Papa," he said, gently, "I have had my moments of discouragement. I shall perhaps have them again. But forget ... what we were discussing just before Berengar's death. I have given up all thought of abdicating...."
The emperor drew a deep breath.
"I am religious, papa, and I have faith," continued the prince. "Perhaps an almost superstitious faith. I plainly see, in what has happened, the hand of God...."
He passed his hand over his forehead, with a meditative gaze:
"The hand of God," he repeated. "I had a presentiment that one of us would die within this year. I thought that I myself should be the one to die. That is perhaps why, papa, I did not see how monstrous it was of me to take the resolution which I did. I was not thinking of myself, who was bound to die in any event; I thought only of Berengar. But now he is dead and I am alive; and I shall now think of myself. For I feel that I do not belong to myself. And I feel that it is this that should support us through life: this feeling that we do belong not to ourselves but to others. I have always loved our people and I have wished to help them vaguely, in the abstract; I threw out my hands, without knowing why, and when I did not make good, it drove me to despair...."
He suddenly stopped and looked timidly at his father, as though he had gone too far in delivering his thoughts. But Oscar sat calmly listening to him; and he continued:
"And I now know that this despair is not right, because with this despair we keep ourselves for ourselves and cannot give ourselves to others. You see—" he rose and smiled—"I cannot manage to cure myself of my philosophy, but I hope now that it will tend to strengthen me instead of enervating me, as it now flows from quite a different principle."
The emperor gave a little shrug of the shoulders:
"Every one must work out his own theory of life, Othomar. I can only give you this advice: do not be carried away by enthusiasm and keep your point of view high. Do not analyse yourself out of all existence, for such abnegation does not last and inevitably harks back to the old rights. I do not reflect so much as you do; I am more spontaneous and impulsive. But I will not condemn you for being different: you can't help it. Perhaps you belong to this age more than I do. I only wish to look at the result of your reflections; and this result is that you're giving yourself back to ordinary life and to the interests of your country. And this rejoices me, Othomar. Nor do I wish to look too far into the future; I dare say that later too you will not have my ideas, I dare say that later you will reign with a brand-new constitution, with an elected upper house. I expect you will encounter much opposition from the authoritative party among the nobles.... But, as I say, I do not wish to go into that too far and I am content to rejoice at your moral convalescence. And I am very grateful to you for the advice you gave us just now. It was quite simple, but we should never have thought of it by ourselves. We are too conservative for that. I think now that what you propose will be the best thing to be done and that it can't be done otherwise...."
He held out his hand; Othomar grasped it.
"And," he continued with the great magnanimity which, for all his despotic haughtiness, lay at the very root of his soul, "do not bear any malice because of ... of the words I used to you, Othomar. I am violent and passionate, as you know. I was fonder of Berengar than of you. But you yourself loved the boy. Bear me no malice, for his sake.... You are my son too and I love you, if only because of the fact that you are my son and the last of my race.... Forgive my candour."
Then he pressed Othomar in his arms. It struck him painfully to feel the frailty of the prince in his firm embrace, so immediately upon his words: "the last of my race...." A strange, bitter despair shot through his soul; yet he clearly divined the mystery of this frailty: an unknown moral spring, which he himself lacked, in the direct simplicity of his nature, but which, to his great surprise, he felt in his son. When the prince was gone and Oscar, left alone, thought of this and sought that spring in what he knew of his son, he did not find it, yet felt that, whatever it might be, it was something to be envied, a strength tougher than muscular strength. He looked about him; his eyes fell upon a portrait of the empress on his writing-table. How often had he not stared at it in irritation because of their successor, who was so wholly her son! But, as though a gleam of light passed before his eyes, he now looked at the delicate features without the old annoyance; and a grateful warmth began to glow within him. Whatever it were, Othomar had derived this mysterious strength from his mother. It saved him and spared him for his country, for his race. And—who knew?—perhaps this mystery was just the element which their race needed, a necessary constituent of its new lease of life.... He did not seek to penetrate any farther; the future—even though it was now emerging more clearly out of its first dimness—had no attraction for him. He loved the past, those iron centuries with their heroes of emperors. But he felt that everything was not lost. In his pious belief in the Almighty, he thought, as did his son, of the hand of God. If it must be so, it was right. God's will was inscrutable.
And grateful to the empress, grateful for the light that shone before him, he bent his knees to the crucifix on the wall and prayed for his two sons. He prayed long for the son who was to bear his crown, but longer for the soul of the child of his own blood, whose loss would be the grief that would always be as wormwood in the depths of his soul, which was now outpoured in gratitude....