The republican had passed an anxious time since the memorable scene in the gallery. The circumstances in which he found himself were enough to bewilder his judgment. A life-long plotter against kings, he was now installed in a royal palace, under the protection of a king. What would his comrades in the capital think of this strange ending to his mission? Would they not condemn him as one who had broken his sacred oaths, under the influence of royal blandishments? The thought was a disquieting one, but, on the other hand, he could console himself by the thought of the triumph which would be his if he succeeded in really accomplishing some of the great ideals of the Socialists by means of his royal disciple. To have enlisted a king on the side of the revolution—was not this a unique achievement; one which might lead to consequences of untold magnitude? It might be possible in the course of a comparatively short time, and by perfectly peaceful stages, to transform Franconia into that model land which has been the dream of each generation of enthusiasts, though each generation may cherish different ideas of what the model land should be like. And if Franconia led the way successfully, who could doubt that the rest of Europe would quickly follow? Johann was like most of his fellows in assuming that men were reasoning beings. Once prove to them clearly what their true interests were, and he believed they would surely act on the knowledge. Of the power of the passions on human conduct he made no account. That the vast bulk of mankind cared far more for gratifying the craving or antipathy of the moment than for their rational welfare, he was sublimely unconscious. Of such stuff are apostles made.
He entered the King’s presence feeling slightly uneasy as to his reception under their new relations, and troubled also by his anxiety to avoid playing the courtier, while yet showing enough civility to secure the goodwill of his convert.
Maximilian greeted him cordially, but without rising, and invited him to a seat between the musician and himself.
“This is my friend, Herr Bernal,” he said, as Johann stiffly took the seat offered to him. “He is not a politician, as I dare say you know, but we can reckon on his goodwill.”
Johann bowed constrainedly.
“I have often heard your name, sir, and I have heard one or two of your operas, though music is not much in my line.”
Bernal could not resist a satirical smile at his friend.
“That is your misfortune, Herr Mark. Have you ever read the English poet Shakespeare?”
“I have read him in the translation.”
“Ah, but the poetry is much better in the original.” And glancing at Maximilian, he quoted in English—