At the upper end of the hall a small square table looked like an oasis in a painted desert, with its service of crystal and gold, its candles shaded with pink—no doubt a satiric attention on the part of the King. Princess Nachmeister, very magnificent in pale blue brocade embroidered with silver (which, Ordham reflected, became her hideously), stood by the window and watched the young man with sharp interest as he advanced down the long apartment between the rows of gorgeous lackeys that seemed to await a concourse of kings. She despised the Anglo-Saxon race with all her German soul, believing them to be moderns without subtlety, and never forgetting that they were savages when the Italy of her ancestors was the crown of civilization; but if she had a soft spot in her fibrous old heart, it was for this protégé of hers, and it delighted her to observe that, far from being disconcerted, he had never looked more at his ease. Always, even in his boyish moments, he had the quiet aloofness of those born to the unpurchasable prizes and responsibilities of life, and although he was often nervous and shy in petty ordeals, the centuries that had made him invariably came to his rescue when suddenly placed in positions that shift the ballast of older men of less persistent breeding. Moreover, it is doubtful if the English aristocrat has deference in him for even the royal families of the minor states. He is democratic in manner, partly because it has become the fashion, partly through discretion, partly from sheer careless sense of superiority; but let no one mistake that attitude for humility of spirit or a sense of the universal brotherhood of man.
Ordham was not a little assisted in his present ordeal by his slight erect graceful figure, and he always carried his arms better than any man Excellenz had ever seen. She almost blushed with pleasure (poor lady, she could no longer blush) as she noted the respectful wonder on the faces of the lackeys. No doubt they had hoped to enjoy the embarrassment of so young a guest; and a rare entertainment it would have been to them, for the greatest nobles in Germany seldom found access to a castle where the solitary King forgot the world when he could.
Ordham seated himself with a grumble at the short time he had been given to dress. “And my servant is lost somewhere in this barrack,” he added (and this was a genuine grievance). “I could not find anything!”
“Tiens! Tiens!” (Excellenz relieved her English with French or German according to the specific gravity of her mood.) “You would have been late if I had sent for you an hour earlier. You were roaming all over the place hoping to meet Die Styr—don’t deny it!”
“Why couldn’t she dine with us? She is not going to sing an opera.”
“But she is going to sing out of doors, and her temper is worse than your own. I had a few words with her, and I never saw even a prima donna in such a state of suppressed fury. Of course she expected to sing in this room, but it seems the King has taken a vow that he will honour the memory of The Master by permitting no more music inside his castles, so—enfin!—he gets round his vow by commanding the great Styr to sing in the open—which, of course, is bad for the voice.”
“Why doesn’t she refuse—fall ill? I thought that prime donne were never without corns on their vocal chords when determined to have their own way, and that even a King must be prepared for caprice.”
“Not this King. Styr did not bring her doctor with her, and she loves but two things on earth, her art and Munich. When his Majesty commands, no excuse will serve. He alone in this realm is permitted to indulge caprice.”
“The Styr looks much too imperious to submit to such slavery—disgusting! She could sing anywhere.”
“Could she? Richard Wagner has no foothold as yet in either England or America—hardly outside of Germany. Styr’s voice would tear the old lyric rôles to tatters—divinely lyric as she makes her Isolde. It is Germany or nothing. And in Germany it is Munich or nothing—for she goes no more to Bayreuth.”