“Ah, something warm,” he said. “How cold it is already in these parts! And I've been frozen the whole summer in Hollerbrunn. Haven't you started fires yet? I have. But then again the smell of the stoves upsets me. All stoves smell. Von Bühl promises me central heating for the Old Schloss every autumn. But it seems not to be feasible.”
“Poor Albrecht,” said Ditlinde, “at this time of year you used to be already in the South, so long as father was alive. You must long for it.”
“Your sympathy does you credit, dear Ditlinde,” answered he, still in a low and slightly lisping voice. “But we must show that I am on the spot. I must rule the country, as you know, that's what I'm here for. To-day I have been graciously pleased to allow some worthy citizen—I'm sorry I can't remember his name—to accept and wear a foreign order. Further, I have had a telegram sent to the annual meeting of the Horticultural Society, in which I assumed the honorary Presidency of the Society and pledged my word to further its efforts in every way—without really knowing what furthering I could do beyond sending the telegram, for the members are quite well able to take care of themselves. Further, I have deigned to confirm the choice of a certain worthy fellow to be mayor of my fair city of Siebenberge—in connection with which I should like to know whether this my subject will be a better mayor for my confirmation than he would have been without it….”
“Well, well, Albrecht, those are trifles!” said Ditlinde. “I'm convinced that you've had more serious business to do….”
“Oh, of course. I've had a talk with my Minister of Finance and Agriculture. It was time I did. Doctor Krippenreuther would have been bitterly disappointed with me if I had not summoned him once more. He went ahead in summary fashion and laid before me a conspectus of several mutually related topics at once—the harvest, the new principles for the drawing up of the budget, the reform of taxation, on which he is busy. The harvest has been a bad one, it seems. The peasants have been hit by blight and bad weather; not only they, but Krippenreuther too, are much concerned about it, because the tax-paying resources of the land, he says, have once more suffered contraction. Besides, there have unfortunately been disasters in more than one of the silver-mines. The gear is at a standstill, says Krippenreuther, it is damaged and will cost a lot of money to repair. I listened to the whole recital with an appropriate expression on my face, and did what I could to express my grief for such a series of misfortunes. Next, I was consulted as to whether the cost of the necessary new buildings for the Treasury and for the Woods and Customs and Inland Revenue Offices ought to be debited to the ordinary or the extraordinary estimates; I learnt a lot about sliding scales, and income tax, and tax on tourist traffic, and the removal of burdens from oppressed agriculture and the imposition of burdens on the towns; and on the whole I got the impression that Krippenreuther was well up in his subject. I, of course, know practically nothing about it—which Krippenreuther knows and approves; so I just said ‘yes, yes,’ and ‘of course,’ and ‘many thanks,’ and let him run on.”
“You speak so bitterly, Albrecht.”
“No; I'll just tell you what struck me while Krippenreuther was holding forth to me to-day. There's a man living in this town, a man with small private means and a warty nose. Every child knows him and shouts ‘Hi!’ when he sees him; he is called ‘the Hatter,’ for he is not quite all there; his surname he has lost long ago. He is always on the spot when there is anything going on, although his half-wittedness keeps him from playing any serious part in anything; he wears a rose in his buttonhole, and carries his hat about on the end of his walking-stick. Twice a day, about the time when a train starts, he goes to the station, taps the wheels, examines the luggage, and fusses about. Then when the guard blows his whistle, ‘the Hatter’ waves to the engine-driver, and the train starts. But ‘the Hatter’ deludes himself into thinking that his waving sends the train off. That's like me. I wave, and the train starts. But it would start without me, and my waving makes no difference, it's mere silly show. I'm sick of it….”
The brother and sister were silent. Ditlinde looked at her lap in an embarrassed way, and Klaus Heinrich gazed, as he tugged at his little bow-shaped moustache, between her and the Grand Duke at the bright window.
“I can quite follow you, Albrecht,” said he after a while, “though it is rather cruel of you to compare yourself and us with ‘the Hatter.’ You see, I too understand nothing about sliding scales and taxation of tourist traffic and peat-cutting, and there is such a lot about which I know nothing—everything which is covered by the expression ‘the misery in the world’—hunger and want, and the struggle for existence, as it is called, and war and hospital horrors, and all that. I have seen and studied not one of these, except death itself, when father died, and that too was not death as it can be, but rather it was edifying, and the whole Schloss was illuminated. And at times I feel ashamed of myself because I have not knocked about the world. But then I tell myself that mine is not a comfortable life, not at all comfortable, although I ‘wander on the heights of mankind,’ as people express it, or perhaps just because I do, and that I perhaps in my own way know more about the strenuousness of life, its ‘tight-lipped countenance,’ if you will allow me the expression, than many a one who knows all about the sliding scales or any other single department of life. And the upshot of that is, Albrecht, that my life is not a comfortable one—that's the upshot of everything—if you will allow me this retort, and that is how we justify ourselves. And if people cry ‘Hi!’ when they see me, they must know why they do so, and my life must have some raison d'être, although I am prevented from playing any serious part in anything, as you so admirably express it. And you're quite justified too. You wave to order, because the people wish you to wave, and if you do not really control their wishes and aspirations, yet you express them and give them substance, and may be that's no slight matter.”
Albrecht sat upright at the table. He held his thin, strangely sensitive-looking hands crossed on the table-edge in front of the tall, half-empty glass of milk, and his eyelids dropped, and he sucked his underlip against his upper. He answered quietly: “I'm not surprised that so popular a prince as you should be contented with his lot. I for my part decline to express somebody else in my own person—I decline to, say, and you may think it's a case of sour grapes as much as you like. The truth is that I care for the ‘Hi!’ of the people just as little as any living soul possibly could care. I say soul, not body. The flesh is weak—there's something in one which expands at applause and contracts at cold silence. But my reason rises superior to all considerations of popularity or unpopularity. If I did succeed in being a true national representative, I know what that would amount to. A misconception of my personality. Besides, a few hand-claps from people one does not know are not worth a shrug of the shoulders. Others—you—may be inspired by the feeling of the people behind you. You must forgive me for being too matter-of-fact to feel any such mysterious feeling of happiness—and too keen on cleanliness also, if you will allow me to put it thus. That kind of happiness stinks, to my thinking. Anyhow, I'm a stranger to the people. I give them nothing—what can they give me? With you … oh, that's quite different. Hundreds of thousands, who are like you, are grateful to you because they can recognize themselves in you. You may laugh if you like. The chief danger you run is that you submerge yourself in your popularity too readily; and yet after all you feel no apprehensions, although you are aware at this very moment …”