One’s first impression was an irresistible tribute to the perfect æsthetic triumph which had been achieved. But that impression was only momentary. Knowing as I did the cloud of peril which encircled the whole court, the scene soon appeared to me to be rather a ghastly mockery of Fate than a bit of beautiful realism; and I caught myself wondering how men could caper and jest and women smile and frivol in pretended unconsciousness of everything but the pleasure of the hour.
I recalled the chamberlain’s words of the day before—that the whole thing was arranged in my honour. My honour indeed! To kow-tow to the man with the dollars! To bow the knee to mammon! To fool and weedle me and dazzle me with a beautiful farce gorgeously mounted, until I would loose the strings of my own and my friend’s money bags, and pour out the golden stream to enable this kind of burlesque to be continued.
Then I caught sight of Gatrina and fell into a condition of troubled anxiety and delicious anticipation from which someone recalled me in order to present me to their Majesties—the young King and that most remarkable of women, Queen Draga.
I am not likely to forget that moment. The King who, in obedience to one of those impulses of his overpowering self-will had had courage to choose his wife from among the people and was by nature, I believe, a capable, clever and strong man, was overshadowed by his magnificent Queen. Beautiful she was not; the face was too strong, too powerful, too imperious; and although she was grace personified, in every movement and gesture of her perfectly-framed figure, it was by the wonderful magnetism of her personality that she dominated all who once yielded to the magic influence she exercised.
The few words of greeting which she spoke to me, welcoming me to Belgrade, and expressing the hope that I liked the capital, were uttered with a charm that made the merest commonplace phrase beautiful, and endowed it with the point of significant meaning of rare eloquence. At least so it all appeared to me while my own words sounded awkward, clumsy and crude in contrast.
I was replying to a question in this way when Gatrina approached the Queen, and I saw her look at me and start in intense surprise; flushing first and then turning white as the gauze dress she wore, her eyes unable to leave my face.
A few seconds passed while I went on with my reply, rambling almost at random in my confusion as I fought my way back to self-possession.
The Queen noticed something in my manner, and I saw the expression of her wonderful eyes change for a fleeting instant until she dropped them and appeared not to observe my confusion.
What I said I know not; but she smiled graciously and saying that we should have another opportunity of discussing the matter, turned to Gatrina.
“I must present you to one of my favourites, Mr. Bergwyn, the Princess Gatrina. She is most kindly disposed to all Americans, and will tell you all about Belgrade.”