Royal Highness

by Thomas Mann

  “What d’you mean?” she cried. “I’m in a hurry!” And as she said it she pushed the rifle-butt, and the stupefied sergeant with it, aside, and walked down between the lines, went straight on her way, turned to the left into Universitätsstrasse and vanished.

  “I’m dammed!” cried Lieutenant von Sturmhahn. “That’s one for us!” The officers at the window laughed. The spectators outside, too, were much amused, and not unsympathetic. Klaus Heinrich joined in the general hilarity. The changing of the guard proceeded with loud words of command and snatches of march tunes. Klaus Heinrich returned to the “Hermitage.”

  He lunched all alone, went for a ride in the afternoon on his brown horse Florian, and spent the evening at a big party at Dr. Krippenreuther, the Finance Minister’s house. He related to several people with great animation the episode of the guard, although the story had already gone the round and become common property. Next day he had to go away, for he had been told by his brother to represent him at the inauguration of the new Town Hall in a neighbouring town. For some reason or other, he went reluctantly, he disliked leaving the capital. He had a feeling that he was missing an important, pleasant, though rather disquieting opportunity, which imperatively demanded his presence. And yet his exalted calling must be more important. But while he sat serene and gorgeously dressed on his seat of honour in the Town Hall, and read his speech to the Mayor, Klaus Heinrich’s thoughts were not concentrated on the figure he presented to the eyes of the crowd, but rather were busied with this new and important topic. He also gave a passing thought to a person whose casual acquaintance he had made long years before, to Fräulein Unschlitt, the soap-boiler’s daughter—a memory which had a certain connexion with the importunate topic.…

  Imma Spoelmann pushed the harsh-voiced sergeant aside in her anger—walked all alone, her algebra under her arm, down the ranks of the big fair-haired grenadiers. How pearly-white her face was against her black hair under her fur toque, and how her eyes spoke! There was nobody like her. Her father was rich, surfeited with riches, and had bought one of the Grand Ducal Schlosses. What was it that the Courier had said about his undeserved reputation and the “romantic isolation of his life”? He was the object of the hatred of aggrieved rivals—that was the effect of the article. And her nostrils had distended with anger. There was nobody like her, nobody near or far. She was an exception. And suppose she had been at the Citizens’ Ball on that occasion? He would then have had a companion, would not have made a fool of himself, and would not have ended the evening in despair. “Down, down, down with him!” Phew! Just think of how she looked as she walked, dark and pale and wonderful, down the ranks of fair-haired soldiers.

  These were the thoughts which occupied Klaus Heinrich during the next few days—just these three or four mental pictures. And the strange thing is that they were amply sufficient for him, and that he did not want any more. But all things considered, it seemed to him more than desirable that he should get another glimpse of the pearly-white face soon, to-day if possible.

  In the evening he went to the Court Theatre, where The Magic Flute was being played. And when from his box he descried Miss Spoelmann next to Countess Löwenjoul in the front of the circle, a tremor went right through him. During the opera he could watch her out of the darkness through his opera-glasses, for the light from the stage fell on her. She laid her head on her small, ringless hand, while she rested her bare arm on the velvet braid, and she did not look angry now. She wore a dress of glistening sea-green silk with a light scarf on which bright flowers were embroidered, and round her neck a long chain of sparkling diamonds. She really was not so small as she looked, Klaus Heinrich decided, when she stood up at the end of the act. No, the childish shape of her head and the narrowness of her shoulders accounted for her looking such a little thing. Her arms were well developed, and one could see that she played games and rode. But at the wrist her arm looked like a child’s.

  When the passage came: “He is a prince. He is more than that,” Klaus Heinrich conceived the wish to have a talk with Doctor Ueberbein. Doctor Ueberbein called by chance next day at the “Hermitage” in a black frock-coat and white tie, as usual when he paid Klaus Heinrich a visit. Klaus Heinrich asked him whether he had already heard the story of the changing of the guard. Yes, answered Doctor Ueberbein, several times. But would Klaus Heinrich like to relate it to him again?… “No, not if you know it,” said Klaus Heinrich, disappointed. Then Doctor Ueberbein jumped to quite another topic. He began to talk about opera-glasses, and remarked that opera-glasses were a wonderful invention. They brought close what was unfortunately a long way off, did they not? They formed a bridge to a longed-for goal. What did Klaus Heinrich think? Klaus Heinrich was inclined to agree to a certain extent. And it seemed that yesterday evening, so people said, he had made a free use of this grand invention, said the doctor. Klaus Heinrich could not see the point of this remark.

  Then Doctor Ueberbein said: “No, look here, Klaus Heinrich, that won’t do. You are stared at, and little Imma is stared at, and that’s enough. If you add to it by staring at little Imma, that’s too much. You must see that, surely?”

  “Oh dear, Doctor Ueberbein, I never thought of that.”

  “But in other cases you generally do think of that sort of thing.”

  “I’ve felt so funny for the last few days,” said Klaus Heinrich.

  Doctor Ueberbein leaned back, pulled at his red beard near his throat, and nodded slowly with his head and neck.

  “Really? Have you?” he asked. And then went on nodding.

  Klaus Heinrich said: “You can’t think how reluctant I was to go the other day to the inauguration of the Town Hall. And to-morrow I have to superintend the swearing-in of the Grenadier recruits. And then comes the Chapter of the Family Order. I don’t feel a bit in the mood for that. I find no pleasure in doing my duty as the representative of my people. I’ve no inclination for my so-called lofty calling.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it!” said Doctor Ueberbein sharply.

  “Yes, I might have known that you would be angry, Doctor Ueberbein. Of course you’ll call it sloppiness, and will read me a sermon about ‘destiny and discipline,’ if I know you. But at the opera yesterday I thought of you at one point, and asked myself whether you really were so right in several particulars.…”

  “Look here, Klaus Heinrich, once already, if I’m not mistaken, I’ve dragged your Royal Highness out of the mud, so to speak.…”

  “That was quite different, Doctor Ueberbein! How I wish you could see that was absolutely different! That was at the Citizens’ Ball, but it was years ago, and I don’t feel a twinge in that direction. For she is … Look you, you have often explained to me what you understand by ‘Highness,’ and that it is something affecting, and something to be approached with tender sympathy. Don’t you think that she of whom we are speaking, that she is affecting and that one must feel sympathy with her?”

  “Perhaps,” said Doctor Ueberbein. “Perhaps.”

  “You often said that one must not disavow exceptions, that to do so was sloppiness and slovenly and good-nature. Don’t you think that she too of whom we are speaking is an exception?”

  Doctor Ueberbein was silent. Then he said suddenly and decidedly, “And now I, if possible, am to help to make two exceptions into a rule?”

  Thereupon he went out. He said that he must get back to his work, emphasizing the word “work,” and begged leave to withdraw. He took his departure in a strangely ceremonious and unfatherly way.

  Klaus Heinrich did not see him for ten or twelve days. He asked him to lunch once, but Doctor Ueberbein begged to be excused, his work at the moment was too pressing. At last he came spontaneously. He was in high spirits and looked greener than ever. He blustered about this and that, and at last came to the subject of the Spoelmanns, looking at the ceiling and pulling at his throat when he did so. To be quite fair, he said, there was a striking amount of sympathy felt with Samuel Spoelmann, one could see all over the t
own how much beloved he was. Chiefly of course as an object of taxation, but in other respects too. There was simply a penchant for him, in every class, for his organ-playing and his faded coat and his kidney-colic. Every errand boy was proud of him, and if he were not so unapproachable and morose he would already have been made to feel it.

  The ten-thousand marks donation for the Dorothea Hospital had naturally made an excellent impression. His friend Sammet had told him (Ueberbein) that with the help of this donation far-reaching improvements had been undertaken in the Hospital. And for the rest, it had just occurred to him! Little Imma was going to inspect the improvements to-morrow morning, Sammet had told him. She had sent one of her swan’s-down flunkeys and asked whether she would be welcome to-morrow. She and sick children were a devilish funny mixture, opined Ueberbein, but perhaps she might learn something. To-morrow morning at eleven, if his memory did not mislead him.

  Then he talked about other things. On leaving he added: “The Grand Duke ought to take some interest in the Dorothea Hospital, Klaus Heinrich, it’s expected of him. It’s a blessed institution. In short, somebody ought to show the way, give signs of an interest in high quarters. No wish to intrude.… And so good-bye.”

  But he came back once more, and in his green face a flush had appeared under the eyes which looked entirely out of place there. “If,” he said deliberately, “I ever caught you again with a soup tureen on your head, Klaus Heinrich, I should leave it there.” Then he pressed his lips together and went out.

  Next morning shortly before eleven Klaus Heinrich walked with Herr von Braunbart-Schellendorf, his aide-de-camp, from Schloss “Hermitage” through the snow-covered birch avenue over rough suburban streets between humble cottages, and stopped before the neat white house over whose entrance “Dorothea Children’s Hospital” was painted in broad black letters. His visit had been announced. The senior surgeon of the institution, in a frock-coat with the Albrechts Cross of the Third Class, was awaiting him with two younger surgeons and the nursing staff in the hall. The Prince and his companion were wearing helmets and fur coats. Klaus Heinrich said: “This is the renewal of an old acquaintance, my dear doctor. You were present when I came into the world. You are also a friend of my tutor Ueberbein’s. I am delighted to meet you.”

  Doctor Sammet, who had grown grey in his life of active philanthropy, bowed to one side, with one hand on his watch-chain and his elbows close to his ribs. He presented the two junior surgeons and the sister to the Prince, and then said: “I must explain to your Royal Highness that your Royal Highness’s gracious visit coincides with another visit. Yes. We are expecting Miss Spoelmann. Her father has done such a lot for our institution.… We could not very well upset the arrangements. The sister will take Miss Spoelmann round.”

  Klaus Heinrich received the news of this rencontre without displeasure. He first expressed his opinion of the nurses’ uniform, which he called becoming, and then his curiosity to inspect the philanthropic institution. The tour began. The sister and three nurses waited behind in the hall.

  All the walls in the building were whitewashed and washable. Yes. The water taps were huge, they were meant to be worked with the elbows for reasons of cleanliness. And rinsing apparatus had been installed for washing the milk-bottles. One passed first through the reception room, which was empty save for a couple of disused beds and the surgeons’ bicycles. In the adjoining preparation room there were, besides the writing-table and the stand with the students’ white coats, a kind of folding table with oil-cloth cushions, an operating-table, a cupboard of provisions, and a trough-shaped perambulator. Klaus Heinrich paused at the provisions and asked for the recipes for the preparations to be explained to him. Doctor Sammet thought to himself that if the whole tour was going to be made with such attention to details, a terrible lot of time would be wasted.

  Suddenly a noise was heard in the street. An automobile drove up tooting and stopped in front of the building. Cheers were heard distinctly in the preparation room, for all that it was only children that were shouting. Klaus Heinrich did not pay any particular attention to the incident. He was looking at a box of sugar of milk, which, by the way, had nothing striking about it. “A visitor apparently,” he said. “Oh, of course, you said somebody was coming. Let’s go on.”

  The party proceeded to the kitchen, the milk-kitchen, the big boiler-fitted room for the preparing of milk, the place where full milk, boiled milk, and buttermilk were kept. The daily rations were set on clean white tables in little bottles side by side. The place smelt sourish and sickly.

  Klaus Heinrich gave his undivided attention to this room also. He went so far as to taste the buttermilk, and pronounced it excellent How the children must thrive, he considered, on buttermilk like that During this inspection the door opened and Miss Spoelmann entered between the sister and Countess Löwenjoul, followed by the three nurses.

  The coat, toque, and muff which she was wearing to-day were made of the costliest sable, and her muff was suspended on a golden chain set with coloured stones. Her black hair showed a tendency to fall in smooth locks over her forehead. She took in the room at a glance; her eyes were really almost unbecomingly big for her little face, they dominated it like a cat’s, save that they were black as anthracite and spoke a pleading language of their own.… Countess Löwenjoul, with a feather hat and dressed neatly and not without distinction, as usual, smiled in a detached sort of way.

  “The milk-kitchen,” said the sister; “this is where the milk is cooked for the children.”

  “So one would have supposed,” answered Miss Spoelmann. She said it quickly and lightly, with a pout of her lips and a little haughty wag of her head. Her voice was a double one; it consisted of a lower and a higher register, with a break in the middle.

  The sister was quite disconcerted. “Yes,” she said, “it’s obvious.” And a little pained look of bewilderment was visible in her face.

  The position was a complicated one. Doctor Sammet looked in Klaus Heinrich’s face for orders, but as Klaus Heinrich was accustomed to do what was put before him according to prescribed forms, but not to grapple with novel and complex situations, no solution of the difficulty was forthcoming. Herr von Braunbart was on the point of intervening, and Miss Spoelmann on the other side was making ready to leave the milk-kitchen, when the Prince made a gesture with his right hand which established a connexion between himself and the young girl. This was the signal for Doctor Sammet to advance towards Imma Spoelmann.

  “Doctor Sammet. Yes.” He desired the honour of presenting Miss Spoelmann to his Royal Highness.… “Miss Spoelmann, Royal Highness, the daughter of Mr. Spoelmann to whom this hospital is so much indebted.”

  Klaus Heinrich clapped his heels together and held out his hand in its white gauntlet, and, laying her small brown-gloved hand in it, she gave him a horizontal hand-shake, English fashion, at the same time making a sort of shy curtsey, without taking her big eyes off Klaus Heinrich’s face. He could think of nothing more original to say than: “So you too are paying a visit to the hospital, Miss Spoelmann?”

  And she answered as quickly as before, with a pout and the little haughty wag of her head. “Nobody can deny that everything points in that direction.”

  Herr Braunbart involuntarily raised his hand, Doctor Sammet looked down at his watch-chain in silence, and a short snigger escaped through the nose of one of the young surgeons, which was hardly opportune. The little pained look of bewilderment now showed on Klaus Heinrich’s face. He said: “Of course.… As you are here.… So I shall be able to visit the institution in your company, Miss Spoelmann.… Captain von Braunbart, my aide-de-camp …” he added quickly, recognizing that his remark laid him open to a similar answer to the last. She responded by: “Countess Löwenjoul.”

  The Countess made a dignified bow—with an enigmatic smile, a side glance into the unknown, which had something seductive about it. When, however, she let her strangely evasive gaze again dwell on Klaus Heinrich, who stood before her in
a composed and military attitude, the laugh vanished from her face, an expression of sadness settled on her features, and for a second a look of something like hatred for Klaus Heinrich shone in her slightly swollen grey eyes. It was only a passing look. Klaus Heinrich had no time to notice it, and forgot it immediately. The two young surgeons were presented to Imma Spoelmann, and then Klaus Heinrich suggested that they should continue the tour all together.

  They went upstairs to the first story; Klaus Heinrich and Imma Spoelmann in front, conducted by Doctor Sammet, then Countess Löwenjoul with Herr von Braunbart, and the young surgeons in the rear. Yes, the older children were here, up to fourteen years of age. An ante-room with wash-basins divided the girls’ and the boys’ rooms. In white bedsteads, with a name-plate at the head and a frame at the foot enclosing the temperature- and weight-charts—tended by nurses in white caps, and surrounded by cleanliness and tidiness—lay the sick children, and coughs filled the room while Klaus Heinrich and Imma Spoelmann walked down between the rows.

  He walked at her left hand, out of courtesy, with the same smile as when he visited exhibitions or inspected veterans, gymnastic associations, or guards of honour. But every time he turned his head to the right he found that Imma Spoelmann was watching him—he met her great black eyes, which were directed at him in a searching, questioning way. It was so peculiar, he never remembered experiencing anything so peculiar before, her way of looking at him with her great eyes, without any respect for him or anyone else, absolutely unembarrassed and free, quite unconcerned whether anybody noticed it or not.

  When Doctor Sammet stopped at a bed to describe the case—the little girl’s, for instance, whose broken white-bandaged leg stuck straight out along the bed—Miss Spoelmann listened attentively to him, that was quite clear; but while she listened she did not look at the speaker, but her eyes rested in turn on Klaus Heinrich and the pinched, quiet child who, her hands folded on her breast, gazed up at them from her back-rest—rested in turn on the Prince and the little victim, the history of whose case she shared with the Prince, as if she were watching Klaus Heinrich’s sympathy, or were trying to read in his face the effect of Dr. Sammet’s words; or maybe for some other reason.