“It is difficult to take the king seriously,” said Selden. “He has always been a sort of comic-opera king, posing as the primitive chieftain of a splendid primitive race.”
“Perhaps it was not a pose,” the countess suggested.
“Perhaps not—but one can’t help suspecting a man with such a genius for publicity. And he was not always primitive. He was the cleverest intriguer in Europe; even in the war he tried to be on both sides at once.”
“Because he wanted to save his country. How can one serve a little country like that except by intrigue?”
Selden took a few reflective puffs.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’ve never met him, so perhaps I’m prejudiced. But I do know this—while he was on the throne, the country was absolutely his to do as he pleased with. He was good-natured, democratic, interested in his people—even Jeneski admits that!—but he had his evil moments when frightful injustices were done. Anybody who disagreed with him was exiled. But the principal vice of the whole system was that the people had no voice in their government.”
“How much voice have they now?” inquired the countess.
“Not much, I grant you, because they’re too ignorant. But as they grow more fit, they’ll take a larger and larger part.”
“Perhaps—if they do not starve meanwhile.”
“Anyway,” added Selden, “it isn’t merely a question of the old king. Nobody would object if he could gather up a few millions somewhere and go back and spend them on his country. But he won’t live long, and then it will be a question of Danilo. What about him? Is he the sort of man to save a country from starvation?”