"Othomar, are you raving?" asked the emperor.
"Papa, I am not raving. What I am now telling you I have thought over for days, perhaps weeks; I don't know: time passes so quickly.... What I am telling you I have discussed with mamma: it made her cry, but she did not oppose me. She looks at it as I do.... And what I tell you holds good; I have made up my mind and nothing can make me change it.... I am fond of Berengar; I am glad to give up everything to him; and I shall pray that he may become happy through my gift. I am convinced—and so are you—that Berengar will make a better emperor than I. What talent do I possess for ruling?..."
He shrugged his shoulders in helplessness, with a nervous shudder that jolted them:
"None," he answered himself. "I have no talent, I can do nothing. I do not know how to decide—as now—nor how to act; I shall always be a dreamer. Why then should I be emperor and he nothing more than the commander-in-chief of my army or my fleet? Surely that can't be right; that can't have been what nature intended.... Papa, I give it him, my birthright, and I ... I shall know how to live, if I must...."
The emperor had listened to him with his elbows on the table and his hands under his chin and now sat staring at him with his small, pinched eyes:
"Do you mean all this?" he asked.
"Yes, papa."
"You're not delirious?"
"No, papa, I'm not delirious."
"Then you're mad."