The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 7

“Is he?” cried Gotthold, obviously impressed. “Come, that is a good account of the young man. I must read his stuff again. It is the rather to his credit, as our views are opposite. The east and west are not more opposite. Can I have converted him? But no; the incident belongs to Fairyland.”

“You are not then,” asked the Prince, “an authoritarian?”

“I? God bless me, no!” said Gotthold. “I am a red, dear child.”

“That brings me then to my next point, and by a natural transition. If I am so clearly unfitted for my post,” the Prince asked: “if my friends admit it, if my subjects clamour for my downfall, if revolution is preparing at this hour, must I not go forth to meet the inevitable? should I not save these horrors and be done with these absurdities? in a word, should I not abdicate? O, believe me, I feel the ridicule, the vast abuse of language,” he added, wincing, “but even a principulus like me cannot resign; he must make a great gesture, and come buskined forth, and abdicate.”

“Ay,” said Gotthold, “or else stay where he is. What gnat has bitten you to-day? Do you not know that you are touching, with lay hands, the very holiest inwards of philosophy, where madness dwells? Ay, Otto, madness; for in the serene temples of the wise, the inmost shrine, which we carefully keep locked, is full of spiders’ webs. All men, all, are fundamentally useless; nature tolerates, she does not need, she does not use them: sterile flowers! All – down to the fellow swinking in a byre, whom fools point out for the exception – all are useless; all weave ropes of sand; or, like a child that has breathed on a window, write and obliterate, write and obliterate, idle words! Talk of it no more. That way, I tell you, madness lies.” The speaker rose from his chair and then sat down again. He laughed a little laugh, and then, changing his tone, resumed: “Yes, dear child, we are not here to do battle with giants; we are here to be happy like the flowers, if we can be. It is because you could, that I have always secretly admired you. Cling to that trade; believe me, it is the right one. Be happy, be idle, be airy. To the devil with all casuistry! and leave the state to Gondremark, as heretofore. He does it well enough, they say; and his vanity enjoys the situation.”

“Gotthold,” cried Otto, “what is this to me? Useless is not the question; I cannot rest at uselessness; I must be useful or I must be noxious – one or other. I grant you the whole thing, prince and principality alike, is pure absurdity, a stroke of satire; and that a banker or the man who keeps an inn has graver duties. But now, when I have washed my hands of it three years, and left all – labour, responsibility, and honour and enjoyment too, if there be any – to Gondremark and to – Seraphina – ” He hesitated at the name, and Gotthold glanced aside. “Well,” the Prince continued, “what has come of it? Taxes, army, cannon – why, it’s like a box of lead soldiers! And the people sick at the folly of it, and fired with the injustice! And war, too – I hear of war – war in this teapot! What a complication of absurdity and disgrace! And when the inevitable end arrives – the revolution – who will be to blame in the sight of God, who will be gibbeted in public opinion? I! Prince Puppet!”

“I thought you had despised public opinion,” said Gotthold.

“I did,” said Otto sombrely, “but now I do not. I am growing old. And then, Gotthold, there is Seraphina. She is loathed in this country that I brought her to and suffered her to spoil. Yes, I gave it her as a plaything, and she has broken it: a fine Prince, an admirable Princess! Even her life – I ask you, Gotthold, is her life safe?”

“It is safe enough to-day,” replied the librarian: “but since you ask me seriously, I would not answer for to-morrow. She is ill-advised.”

“And by whom? By this Gondremark, to whom you counsel me to leave my country,” cried the Prince. “Rare advice! The course that I have been following all these years, to come at last to this. O, ill-advised! if that were all! See now, there is no sense in beating about the bush between two men: you know what scandal says of her?”

Gotthold, with pursed lips, silently nodded.

“Well, come, you are not very cheering as to my conduct as the Prince; have I even done my duty as a husband?” Otto asked.

“Nay, nay,” said Gotthold, earnestly and eagerly, “this is another chapter. I am an old celibate, an old monk. I cannot advise you in your marriage.”

“Nor do I require advice,” said Otto, rising. “All of this must cease.” And he began to walk to and fro with his hands behind his back.

“Well, Otto, may God guide you!” said Gotthold, after a considerable silence. “I cannot.”

“From what does all this spring?” said the Prince, stopping in his walk. “What am I to call it? Diffidence? The fear of ridicule? Inverted vanity? What matter names, if it has brought me to this? I could never bear to be bustling about nothing; I was ashamed of this toy kingdom from the first; I could not tolerate that people should fancy I believed in a thing so patently absurd! I would do nothing that cannot be done smiling. I have a sense of humour, forsooth! I must know better than my Maker. And it was the same thing in my marriage,” he added more hoarsely. “I did not believe this girl could care for me; I must not intrude; I must preserve the foppery of my indifference. What an impotent picture!”

“Ay, we have the same blood,” moralised Gotthold. “You are drawing, with fine strokes, the character of the born sceptic.”

“Sceptic? – coward!” cried Otto. “Coward is the word. A springless, putty-hearted, cowering coward!”

And as the Prince rapped out the words in tones of unusual vigour, a little, stout old gentleman, opening a door behind Gotthold, received them fairly in the face. With his parrot’s beak for a nose, his pursed mouth, his little goggling eyes, he was the picture of formality; and in ordinary circumstances, strutting behind the drum of his corporation, he impressed the beholder with a certain air of frozen dignity and wisdom. But at the smallest contrariety, his trembling hands and disconnected gestures betrayed the weakness at the root. And now, when he was thus surprisingly received in that library of Mittwalden Palace, which was the customary haunt of silence, his hands went up into the air as if he had been shot, and he cried aloud with the scream of an old woman.

“O!” he gasped, recovering, “your Highness! I beg ten thousand pardons. But your Highness at such an hour in the library! – a circumstance so unusual as your Highness’s presence was a thing I could not be expected to foresee.”

“There is no harm done, Herr Cancellarius,” said Otto.

“I came upon the errand of a moment: some papers I left over-night with the Herr Doctor,” said the Chancellor of Grünewald. – “Herr Doctor, if you will kindly give me them, I will intrude no longer.”

Gotthold unlocked a drawer and handed a bundle of manuscript to the old gentleman, who prepared, with fitting salutations, to take his departure.

“Herr Greisengesang, since we have met,” said Otto, “let us talk.”

“I am honoured by his Highness’s commands,” replied the Chancellor.

“All has been quiet since I left?” asked the Prince, resuming his seat.

“The usual business, your Highness,” answered Greisengesang; “punctual trifles: huge, indeed, if neglected, but trifles when discharged. Your Highness is most zealously obeyed.”

“Obeyed, Herr Cancellarius?” returned the Prince. “And when have I obliged you with an order? Replaced, let us rather say. But to touch upon these trifles; instance me a few.”

“The routine of government, from which your Highness has so wisely dissociated his leisure …” began Greisengesang.

“We will leave my leisure, sir,” said Otto. “Approach the facts.”

“The routine of business was proceeded with,” replied the official, now visibly twittering.

“It is very strange, Herr Cancellarius, that you should so persistently avoid my questions,” said the Prince. “You tempt me to suppose a purpose in your dulness. I have asked you whether all was quiet; do me the pleasure to reply.”

“Perfectly – O, perfectly quiet,” jerked the ancient puppet, with every signal of untruth.

“I make a note of these words,” said the Prince gravely. “You assure me, your sovereign, that since the date of my departure nothing has occurred of which you owe me an account.”

“I take your Highness, I take the Herr Doctor to witness,” cried Greisengesang, “that I have had no such expression.”

“Halt!” said the Prince; and then, after a pause: “Herr Greisengesang, you are an old man, and you served my father before you served me,” he added. “It consists neither with your dignity nor mine that you should babble excuses and stumble possibly upon untruths. Collect your thoughts; and then categorically inform me of all you have been charged to hide.”

Gotthold, stooping very low over his desk, appeared to have resumed his labours; but his shoulders heaved with subterranean merriment. The Prince waited, drawing his handkerchief quietly through his fingers.

“Your Highness, in this informal manner,” said the old gentleman at last, “and being unavoidably deprived of documents, it would be difficult, it would be impossible, to do justice to the somewhat grave occurrences which have transpired.”

“I will not criticise your attitude,” replied the Prince. “I desire that, between you and me, all should be done gently; for I have not forgotten, my old friend, that you were kind to me from the first, and for a period of years a faithful servant. I will thus dismiss the matters on which you waive immediate inquiry. But you have certain papers actually in your hand. Come, Herr Greisengesang, there is at least one point for which you have authority. Enlighten me on that.”

“On that?” cried the old gentleman. “O, that is a trifle; a matter, your Highness, of police; a detail of a purely administrative order. These are simply a selection of the papers seized upon the English traveller.”

“Seized?” echoed Otto. “In what sense? Explain yourself.”

“Sir John Crabtree,” interposed Gotthold, looking up, “was arrested yesterday evening.”

“Is this so, Herr Cancellarius?” demanded Otto sternly.

“It was judged right, your Highness,” protested Greisengesang. “The decree was in due form, invested with your Highness’s authority by procuration. I am but an agent; I had no status to prevent the measure.”

“This man, my guest, has been arrested,” said the Prince. “On what grounds, sir? With what colour of pretence?”

The Chancellor stammered.

“Your Highness will perhaps find the reason in these documents,” said Gotthold, pointing with the tail of his pen.

Otto thanked his cousin with a look. “Give them to me,” he said, addressing the Chancellor.

But that gentleman visibly hesitated to obey. “Baron von Gondremark,” he said, “has made the affair his own. I am in this case a mere messenger; and as such, I am not clothed with any capacity to communicate the documents I carry. Herr Doctor, I am convinced you will not fail to bear me out.”

“I have heard a great deal of nonsense,” said Gotthold, “and most of it from you; but this beats all.”

“Come, sir,” said Otto, rising, “the papers. I command.”

Herr Greisengesang instantly gave way.

“With your Highness’s permission,” he said, “and laying at his feet my most submiss apologies, I will now hasten to attend his further orders in the Chancery.”

“Herr Cancellarius, do you see this chair?” said Otto. “There is where you shall attend my further orders. Oh, now, no more!” he cried, with a gesture, as the old man opened his lips. “You have sufficiently marked your zeal to your employer; and I begin to weary of a moderation you abuse.”

The Chancellor moved to the appointed chair and took his seat in silence.

“And now,” said Otto, opening the roll, “what is all this? It looks like the manuscript of a book.”

“It is,” said Gotthold, “the manuscript of a book of travels.”

“You have read it, Dr. Hohenstockwitz?” asked the Prince.

“Nay, I but saw the title-page,” replied Gotthold. “But the roll was given to me open, and I heard no word of any secrecy.”

Otto dealt the Chancellor an angry glance.

“I see,” he went on. “The papers of an author seized at this date of the world’s history, in a state so petty and so ignorant as Grünewald, here is indeed an ignominious folly. Sir,” to the Chancellor, “I marvel to find you in so scurvy an employment. On your conduct to your Prince I will not dwell; but to descend to be a spy! For what else can it be called? To seize the papers of this gentleman, the private papers of a stranger, the toil of a life, perhaps – to open, and to read them. And what have we to do with books? The Herr Doctor might perhaps be asked for his advice; but we have no index expurgatorius in Grünewald. Had we but that, we should be the most absolute parody and farce upon this tawdry earth.”

Yet, even while Otto spoke, he had continued to unfold the roll; and now, when it lay fully open, his eye rested on the title-page elaborately written in red ink. It ran thus:

MEMOIRSOF A VISIT TO THE VARIOUSCOURTS OF EUROPEBYSIR JOHN CRABTREE, BARONET

Below was a list of chapters, each bearing the name of one of the European Courts; and among these the nineteenth and the last upon the list was dedicated to Grünewald.

“Ah! The Court of Grünewald!” said Otto, “that should be droll reading.” And his curiosity itched for it.

“A methodical dog, this English Baronet,” said Gotthold. “Each chapter written and finished on the spot. I shall look for his work when it appears.”

“It would be odd, now, just to glance at it,” said Otto, wavering.

Gotthold’s brow darkened, and he looked out of window.

But though the Prince understood the reproof, his weakness prevailed. “I will,” he said, with an uneasy laugh, “I will, I think, just glance at it.”

So saying, he resumed his seat and spread the traveller’s manuscript upon the table.

CHAPTER II

“ON THE COURT OF GRÜNEWALD,” BEING A PORTION OF THE TRAVELLER’S MANUSCRIPT

It may well be asked (it was thus the English traveller began his nineteenth chapter) why I should have chosen Grünewald out of so many other states equally petty, formal, dull, and corrupt. Accident, indeed, decided, and not I; but I have seen no reason to regret my visit. The spectacle of this small society macerating in its own abuses was not perhaps instructive, but I have found it exceedingly diverting.

The reigning Prince, Otto Johann Friedrich, a young man of imperfect education, questionable valour, and no scintilla of capacity, has fallen into entire public contempt. It was with difficulty that I obtained an interview, for he is frequently absent from a court where his presence is unheeded, and where his only rôle is to be a cloak for the amours of his wife. At last, however, on the third occasion when I visited the palace, I found this sovereign in the exercise of his inglorious function, with the wife on one hand and the lover on the other. He is not ill-looking; he has hair of a ruddy gold, which naturally curls, and his eyes are dark, a combination which I always regard as the mark of some congenital deficiency, physical or moral; his features are irregular but pleasing; the nose perhaps a little short, and the mouth a little womanish; his address is excellent, and he can express himself with point. But to pierce below these externals is to come on a vacuity of any sterling quality, a deliquescence of the moral nature, a frivolity and inconsequence of purpose that mark the nearly perfect fruit of a decadent age. He has a worthless smattering of many subjects, but a grasp of none. “I soon weary of a pursuit,” he said to me, laughing; it would almost appear as if he took a pride in his incapacity and lack of moral courage. The results of his dilettanteism are to be seen in every field; he is a bad fencer, a second-rate horseman, dancer, shot; he sings – I have heard him – and he sings like a child; he writes intolerable verses in more than doubtful French; he acts like the common amateur; and in short there is no end to the number of things that he does, and does badly. His one manly taste is for the chase. In sum, he is but a plexus of weaknesses; the singing chambermaid of the stage, tricked out in man’s apparel, and mounted on a circus horse. I have seen this poor phantom of a prince riding out alone or with a few huntsmen, disregarded by all, and I have been even grieved for the bearer of so futile and melancholy an existence. The last Merovingians may have looked not otherwise.

The Princess Amalia Seraphina, a daughter of the Grand-Ducal house of Toggenburg-Tannhäuser, would be equally inconsiderable if she were not a cutting instrument in the hands of an ambitious man. She is much younger than the Prince, a girl of two-and-twenty, sick with vanity, superficially clever, and fundamentally a fool. She has a red-brown rolling eye, too large for her face, and with sparks of both levity and ferocity; her forehead is high and narrow, her figure thin and a little stooping. Her manners, her conversation, which she interlards with French, her very tastes and ambitions, are alike assumed, and the assumption is ungracefully apparent: Hoyden playing Cleopatra. I should judge her to be incapable of truth. In private life a girl of this description embroils the peace of families, walks attended by a troop of scowling swains, and passes, once at least, through the divorce court; it is a common and, except to the cynic, an uninteresting type. On the throne, however, and in the hands of a man like Gondremark, she may become the authoress of serious public evils.

Gondremark, the true ruler of this unfortunate country, is a more complex study. His position in Grünewald, to which he is a foreigner, is eminently false; and that he should maintain it as he does, a very miracle of impudence and dexterity. His speech, his face, his policy, are all double: heads and tails. Which of the two extremes may be his actual design he were a bold man who should offer to decide. Yet I will hazard the guess that he follows both experimentally, and awaits, at the hand of destiny, one of those directing hints of which she is so lavish to the wise.

On the one hand, as Maire du Palais to the incompetent Otto, and using the love-sick Princess for a tool and mouthpiece, he pursues a policy of arbitrary power and territorial aggrandisement. He has called out the whole capable male population of the state to military service; he has bought cannon; he has tempted away promising officers from foreign armies; and he now begins, in his international relations, to assume the swaggering port and the vague threatful language of a bully. The idea of extending Grünewald may appear absurd, but the little state is advantageously placed, its neighbours are all defenceless; and if at any moment the jealousies of the greater courts should neutralise each other, an active policy might double the principality both in population and extent. Certainly at least the scheme is entertained in the court of Mittwalden; nor do I myself regard it as entirely desperate. The margravate of Brandenburg has grown from as small beginnings to a formidable power; and though it is late in the day to try adventurous policies, and the age of war seems ended, Fortune, we must not forget, still blindly turns her wheel for men and nations. Concurrently with, and tributary to, these warlike preparations, crushing taxes have been levied, journals have been suppressed, and the country, which three years ago was prosperous and happy, now stagnates in a forced inaction, gold has become a curiosity, and the mills stand idle on the mountain streams.

On the other hand, in his second capacity of popular tribune, Gondremark is the incarnation of the free lodges, and sits at the centre of an organised conspiracy against the state. To any such movement my sympathies were early acquired, and I would not willingly let fall a word that might embarrass or retard the revolution. But to show that I speak of knowledge, and not as the reporter of mere gossip, I may mention that I have myself been present at a meeting where the details of a republican Constitution were minutely debated and arranged; and I may add that Gondremark was throughout referred to by the speakers as their captain in action and the arbiter of their disputes. He has taught his dupes (for so I must regard them) that his power of resistance to the Princess is limited, and at each fresh stretch of authority persuades them, with specious reasons, to postpone the hour of insurrection. Thus (to give some instances of his astute diplomacy) he salved over the decree enforcing military service, under the plea that to be well drilled and exercised in arms was even a necessary preparation for revolt. And the other day, when it began to be rumoured abroad that a war was being forced on a reluctant neighbour, the Grand Duke of Gerolstein, and I made sure it would be the signal for an instant rising, I was struck dumb with wonder to find that even this had been prepared and was to be accepted. I went from one to another in the Liberal camp, and all were in the same story, all had been drilled and schooled and fitted out with vacuous argument. “The lads had better see some real fighting,” they said; “and besides, it will be as well to capture Gerolstein; we can then extend to our neighbours the blessing of liberty on the same day that we snatch it for ourselves; and the republic will be all the stronger to resist, if the kings of Europe should band themselves together to reduce it.” I know not which of the two I should admire the more: the simplicity of the multitude or the audacity of the adventurer. But such are the subtleties, such the quibbling reasons, with which he blinds and leads this people. How long a course so tortuous can be pursued with safety I am incapable of guessing; not long, one would suppose; and yet this singular man has been treading the mazes for five years, and his favour at court and his popularity among the lodges still endure unbroken.

I have the privilege of slightly knowing him. Heavily and somewhat clumsily built, of a vast, disjointed, rambling frame, he can still pull himself together, and figure, not without admiration, in the saloon or the ball-room. His hue and temperament are plentifully bilious; he has a saturnine eye; his cheek is of a dark blue where he has been shaven. Essentially he is to be numbered among the man-haters, a convinced contemner of his fellows. Yet he is himself of a most commonplace ambition and greedy of applause. In talk, he is remarkable for a thirst of information, loving rather to hear than to communicate; for sound and studious views; and, judging by the extreme short-sightedness of common politicians, for a remarkable prevision of events. All this, however, without grace, pleasantry, or charm, heavily set forth, with a dull countenance. In our numerous conversations, although he has always heard me with deference, I have been conscious throughout of a sort of ponderous finessing hard to tolerate. He produces none of the effect of a gentleman; devoid not merely of pleasantry, but of all attention or communicative warmth of bearing. No gentleman, besides, would so parade his amours with the Princess; still less repay the Prince for his long-suffering with the studied insolence of demeanour and the fabrication of insulting nicknames, such as Prince Featherhead, which run from ear to ear and create a laugh throughout the country. Gondremark has thus some of the clumsier characters of the self-made man, combined with an inordinate, almost a besotted, pride of intellect and birth. Heavy, bilious, selfish, inornate, he sits upon this court and country like an incubus.

But it is probable that he preserves softer gifts for necessary purposes. Indeed, it is certain, although he vouchsafed none of it to me, that this cold and stolid politician possesses to a great degree the art of ingratiation, and can be all things to all men. Hence there has probably sprung up the idle legend that in private life he is a gross romping voluptuary. Nothing, at least, can well be more surprising than the terms of his connection with the Princess. Older than her husband, certainly uglier, and, according to the feeble ideas common among women, in every particular less pleasing, he has not only seized the complete command of all her thought and action, but has imposed on her in public a humiliating part. I do not here refer to the complete sacrifice of every rag of her reputation; for to many women these extremities are in themselves attractive. But there is about the court a certain lady of a dishevelled reputation, a Countess von Rosen, wife or widow of a cloudy count, no longer in her second youth, and already bereft of some of her attractions, who unequivocally occupies the station of the Baron’s mistress. I had thought, at first, that she was but a hired accomplice, a mere blind or buffer for the more important sinner. A few hours’ acquaintance with Madame von Rosen for ever dispelled the illusion. She is one rather to make than to prevent a scandal, and she values none of those bribes – money, honours, or employment – with which the situation might be gilded. Indeed, as a person frankly bad, she pleased me, in the court of Grünewald, like a piece of nature.