Royal Highness

by Thomas Mann

  “Good-bye, Prince Klaus Heinrich,” said Doctor Ueberbein, though he did not at once leave him, but continued walking at his side with his hands clasped behind him and his red beard sunk on his breast.

  “No,” said Klaus Heinrich. “No, not good-bye, Doctor Ueberbein. That’s just it. I mean to remain your friend, you who have had such a hard time, and have shown such pride in your duty and destiny, and have made me proud too in treating me as a companion. I have no intention of resting on my oars, now that I have found happiness, but will remain true to you and to myself and to my exalted calling.…”

  “It cannot be,” said Doctor Ueberbein in Latin, and shook his ugly head with its protruding, pointed ears.

  “It can be, Doctor. I’m sure it can, they’re not incompatible. And you, you ought not to show yourself so cold and distant at my side, when I am so happy, and, what’s more, it’s the eve of my birthday. Tell me—you’ve had so many experiences and seen so much of the world in all its aspects—have yon never had any experiences in this direction? You know what I mean—have you never had an attack like this of mine?”

  “H’m,” said Doctor Ueberbein, and pressed his lips together, till his red beard rose, and the muscles knotted in his cheeks. “No doubt I may have had one once, sub rosa.”

  “I thought so! Tell me about it, Doctor Ueberbein. You must tell me about it!”

  The hour was one of quiet sunshine, and the air full of the scent of limes. So Doctor Ueberbein related an incident in his career on which he had never touched in previous accounts, though it had perhaps a decisive influence on his whole life. It had occurred in those early days when the Doctor was teacher of the young idea and at the same time working on his own account, when he used to draw in his waist-belt and give private lessons to sleek tradesmen’s children, so as to get money to buy books with. With his hands still behind him and his beard sunk on his breast, the doctor related the incident in a sharp and incisive tone of voice, pressing his lips close together between each sentence.

  At that date fate had forged the closest ties between him and a woman, a lovely, fair lady who was the wife of an honourable and respected man and the mother of three children. He had entered the family as tutor to the children, but had subsequently been a constant guest and visitor, and with the husband too had reached a footing of mutual confidences. The feelings of the young tutor and the fair wife for each other had been long unsuspected, and longer still unexpressed in words; but they grew stronger in the silence, and more overpowering, till one evening hour when the husband had stayed late at his office, a warm, sweet, dangerous hour, they burst into flames and were near to overwhelm them.

  In that hour their longing had cried aloud for the happiness, the tremendous happiness, of their union; but, said Doctor Ueberbein, the world could sometimes show a noble action. They felt ashamed, he said, to tread the mean and ridiculous path of treachery, and to “clap horns,” as the phrase goes, on the honest husband; while to spoil his life by demanding release from him as the right of passion was equally not to their taste. In short, for the children’s sake and for that of the good, honest husband, whom they both respected, they denied themselves. Yes, that’s what happened, but of course it needed a good deal of stern resolution. Ueberbein continued to visit the fair lady’s house occasionally. He would sup there, when he had time, play a game of cards with his two friends, kiss his hostess’s hand, and say good night.

  But when he had told the Prince this much, he concluded in a still shorter and sharper tone than he had begun, and the balls of muscle at the corners of his mouth showed more prominently than before. For the hour which saw their act of renunciation, in that hour Ueberbein had said a final farewell to all happiness—“dalliance with happiness,” as he had since called it. As he failed, or refused, to win the fair lady, he swore to himself that he would honour her, and the bonds which bound him to her, by achieving something and making himself felt in the field of hard work. To this he had dedicated his life, to this alone, and it had brought him to what he was. That was the secret, or at least a contribution of the riddle of Ueberbein’s unsociability, unapproachableness, and earnest endeavour. Klaus Heinrich was quite frightened to see how unusually green his face was when he took his leave with a deep bow, saying: “My greetings to little Imma, Klaus Heinrich.”

  Next day the Prince received the congratulations of the staff at the Schloss, and later those of Herr von Braunbart-Schellendorf and von Schulenburg-Tressen in the Yellow Room. In the course of the morning the members of the Grand Ducal House came to the “Hermitage” to pay their respects, and at one o’clock Klaus Heinrich drove to luncheon with Prince and Princess zu Ried-Hohenried, meeting with an unusually warm reception from the public on the way. The Grimmburgers were mustered in full force in the pretty palace in the Albrechtstrasse. The Grand Duke too came, in a frock-coat, nodded his small head to each member of the party, sucking his lower lip against his upper the while, and drank milk-and-soda during lunch. Almost immediately after lunch was finished he withdrew. Prince Lambert had come without his wife. The old habitué of the ballet was painted, hollow-cheeked, and slovenly, and his voice sounded sepulchral. He was to some extent ignored by his relations.

  During luncheon the conversation turned for a while on Court matters, then on little Princess Philippine’s progress, and later almost exclusively on Prince Philipp’s commercial schemes. The quiet little man talked about his breweries, factories, and mills, and in particular about his peat-cuttings. He described various improvements in the machinery, quoted figures of capital invested and returns, and his cheeks glowed, while his wife’s relations listened to him with looks of curiosity, approval, or mockery.

  When coffee had been served in the big flower-room, the Princess, holding her gilded cup, went up to her brother and said: “You have quite deserted us lately, Klaus Heinrich.”

  Ditlinde’s face with the Grimmburg cheek-bones was not so transparent as it had once been. It had gained more colour since the birth of her daughter, and her head seemed to be less oppressed by the weight of her fair hair.

  “Have I deserted you?” he said. “Forgive me, Ditlinde, perhaps I have. But there were so many calls on my time;, and I knew that there were on yours too; for you are no longer confined to flowers.”

  “True, the flowers have had to take a less prominent place, they don’t get much thought from me now. A fairer life and flowering now occupies all my time. I believe that’s where I have got my red cheeks from, like dear Philipp from his peat (he ought not to have talked about it the whole of luncheon, as he did; but it’s his hobby), and it is because I was so busy and rushed that I was not cross with you for never showing yourself and for going your own way, even though that way seemed to me rather a surprising one.”

  “Do you know what it is, Ditlinde?”

  “Yes, though unfortunately not from you. But Jettchen Isenschnibble has kept me well posted—you know she is always a fund of news—and at first I was horribly shocked, I don’t deny it. But after all they live in Delphinenort, he has a private physician, and Philipp thinks they are in their way of equal birth with ourselves. I believe I once spoke disparagingly about them, Klaus Heinrich; I said something about a Crœsus, if I remember rightly, and made a pun on the word ‘taxpayer.’ But if you consider them worthy of your friendship, I’ve been wrong and of course withdraw my remarks, and will try to think differently about them in future. I promise you. You always loved rummaging,” she went on, after he had laughed and kissed her hand, “and I had to do it with you, and my dress (do you remember it—the red velvet?) suffered for it. Now you have to rummage alone, and God grant, Klaus Heinrich, that it won’t bring you any horrible experience.”

  “I really believe, Ditlinde, that every experience is fine, whether it be good or bad. But my present experience is splendid.”

  At half-past five the Prince left the “Hermitage” again, in his dogcart, which he drove himself, with a groom at his back. It was warm, and Klaus Heinr
ich was wearing white trousers with a double-breasted coat. Bowing, he again drove to the town, or more precisely to the Old Schloss. He did not enter the Albrechtstor, however, but drove in through a side door, and across two courtyards till he reached that in which the rose-bush grew.

  Here all was still and stony; the stair-turrets with their oblique windows, forged-iron balustrades, and fine carvings towered in the corners; the many-styled building stood there in light and shadow, partly grey and weather-worn, partly more modern-looking, with gables and box-like projections, with open porticoes and peeps through broad bow-windows into vaulted halls and narrow galleries. But in the middle, in its unfenced bed, stood the rose-bush, blooming gloriously after a favourable season.

  Klaus Heinrich threw the reins to a servant, and went up and looked at the dark-red roses. They were exceptionally fine—full and velvety, grandly formed, and a real master-work of nature. Several were already full-blown.

  “Call Ezekiel, please,” said Klaus Heinrich to a moustachioed door-keeper, who came forward with his hand to his hat.

  Ezekiel, the custodian of the rose-bush, came. He was a greybeard of seventy years of age, in a gardener’s apron, with watery eyes and a bent back.

  “Have you any shears by you, Ezekiel?” said Klaus Heinrich, “I should like a rose.” And Ezekiel drew some shears out of the pocket of his apron.

  “That one there,” said Klaus Heinrich, “that’s the finest.” And the old man cut the thorny branch with trembling hands.

  “I’ll water it, Royal Highness,” he said, and shuffled off to the water-tap in a corner of the court. When he came back, glittering drops were clinging to the petals of the rose, as if to the feathers of waterfowl.

  “Thanks, Ezekiel,” said Klaus Heinrich, and took the rose. “Still going strong? Here!” He gave the old man a gold piece, and climbing into the dogcart drove with the rose on the seat beside him through the courtyards. Everybody who saw him thought that he was driving back to the “Hermitage” from the Old Schloss, where presumably he had an interview with the Grand Duke.

  But he drove through the Town Gardens to Delphinenort. The sky had clouded over, big drops were already falling on the leaves, and thunder rolled in the distance.

  The ladies were at tea when Klaus Heinrich, conducted by the corpulent butler, appeared in the gallery and walked down the steps into the garden room. Mr. Spoelmann, as usual recently, was not present. He was in bed with poultices on. Percival, who lay curled up like a snail close by Imma’s chair, beat the carpet with his tail by way of greeting. The gilding of the furniture looked dull, as the park beyond the glass door lay in a damp mist.

  Klaus Heinrich exchanged a handshake with the daughter of the house, and kissed the Countess’s hand, while he gently raised her from the courtly curtsey she had begun, as usual, to make.

  “You see, summer has come,” he said to Imma Spoelmann, offering her the rose. It was the first time he had brought her flowers.

  “How courtly of you!” she said. “Thanks, Prince. And what a beauty!” she went on in honest admiration (a thing she hardly ever showed), and held out her small, ringless hands for the glorious flower, whose dewy petals curled exquisitely at the edges. “Are there such fine roses here? Where did you get it?” And she bent her dark head eagerly over it.

  Her eyes were full of horror when she looked up again.

  “It doesn’t smell!” she said, and a look of disgust showed round her mouth “Wait, though—it smells of decay!” she said. “What’s this you have brought me, Prince?” And her big black eyes in her pale face seemed to glow with questioning horror.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m sorry; that’s a way our roses have. It’s from the bush in one of the courts of the Old Schloss. Have you never heard of it? There’s something hangs by that. People say that one day it will begin to smell exquisite.”

  She seemed not to be listening to him. “It seems as if it had no soul,” she said, and looked at the rose. “But it’s perfectly beautiful, that one must allow. Well, that’s a doubtful joke on nature’s part, Prince. All the same, Prince, thanks for your attention. And as it comes from your ancestral Schloss, one must regard it with due reverence.”

  She put the rose in a glass by her plate. A swan’s-down flunkey brought the Prince a cup and plate. They discussed at tea the bewitched rose-bush, and then commonplace subjects, such as the Court Theatre, their horses, and all sorts of trivial topics. Imma Spoelmann time after time contradicted him, interposing polished quotations—to her own enjoyment, and his despair at the range of her reading—quotations which she uttered in her broken voice, with whimsical motions of her head. After a time a heavy, white-paper parcel was brought in, sent by the book-binders to Miss Spoelmann, containing a number of works which she had had bound in smart and durable bindings. She opened the parcel, and they all three examined the books to see if the binder had done his work well.

  They were nearly all learned works whose contents were either as mysterious-looking as Imma Spoelmann’s notebook, or dealt with scientific psychology, acute analyses of internal impulses. They were got up in the most sumptuous way, with parchment and crushed leather, gold letters, fine paper, and silk markers. Imma Spoelmann did not display much enthusiasm over the consignment, but Klaus Heinrich, who had never seen such handsome volumes, was full of admiration.

  “Shall you put them all into the bookcase?” he asked, “With the others upstairs? I suppose you have quantities of books? Are they all as fine as these? Do let me see how you arrange them. I can’t go yet, the weather’s still bad and would ruin my white trousers. Besides, I’ve no idea how you live in Delphinenort, I’ve never seen your study. Will you show me your books?”

  “That depends on the Countess,” she said, busying herself with piling the volumes one on the other. “Countess, the Prince wants to see my books. Would you be so kind as to say what you think?”

  Countess Löwenjoul was in a brown study. With her small head bent, she was watching Klaus Heinrich with a sharp, almost hostile look, and then let her eyes wander to Imma Spoelmann, when her expression altered and became gentle, sympathetic, and anxious. She came to herself with a smile, and drew a little watch out of her brown, close-fitting dress.

  “At seven o’clock,” she said brightly, “Mr. Spoelmann expects you to read to him, Imma. You have half an hour in which to do what his Royal Highness wants.”

  “Good; come along, Prince, and inspect my study,” said Imma. “And so far as your Highness permits it, please lend a hand in carrying up these books; I’ll take half.”

  But Klaus Heinrich took them all. He clasped them in both arms, though the left was not much use to him, and the pile reached to his chin. Then, bending backwards and going carefully, so as to drop nothing, he followed Imma over into the wing towards the drive, on the main floor of which lay Countess Löwenjoul’s and Miss Spoelmann’s quarters.

  In the big, comfortable room which they entered through a heavy door he laid his burden down on the top of a hexagonal ebony table, which stood in front of a big goldchintzed sofa. Imma Spoelmann’s study was not furnished in the style proper to the Schloss, but in more modern taste, without any show, but with massive, masculine, serviceable luxury. It was panelled with rare woods right up to the top, and adorned with old porcelain, which glittered on the brackets all round under the ceiling. The carpets were Persian, the mantelpiece black marble, on which stood shapely vases and a gilt clock. The chairs were broad and velvet-covered, and the curtains of the same golden stuff as the sofa-cover. A capacious desk stood in front of the bow-window, which allowed a view of the big basin in front of the Schloss. One wall was covered with books, but the main library was in the adjacent room, which was smaller, and carpeted like the big one. A glass door opened into it, and its walls were completely covered with bookshelves right up to the ceiling.

  “Well, Prince, there’s my hermitage,” said Imma Spoelmann, “I hope you like it.”

  “Why, it’s glorious,” he said.
But he did not look round him, but gazed unintermittently at her, as she reclined against the sofa cushions by the hexagonal table. She was wearing one of her beautiful indoor dresses, a summer one this time, made of white accordion-pleated stuff, with open sleeves and gold embroidery on the yoke. The skin of her arms and neck seemed brown as meerschaum against the white of the dress; her big, bright, earnest eyes in the strangely childlike face seemed to speak a language of their own unceasingly, and a smooth wisp of black hair hung across her forehead. She had Klaus Heinrich’s rose in her hand.

  “How lovely!” he said, standing before her, and not conscious of what he meant. His blue eyes, above the national cheek-bones, were heavy as with grief. “You have as many books,” he added, “as my sister Ditlinde has flowers.”

  “Has the Princess so many flowers?”

  “Yes, but of late she has not set so much store by them,”

  “Let’s clear these away,” she said and took up some books.

  “No, wait,” he said anxiously. “I’ve such a lot to say to you, and our time is so short. You must know that to-day is my birthday—that’s why I came and brought you the rose,”

  “Oh,” she said, “that is an event. Your birthday to-day? Well, I’m sure that you received all your congratulations with the dignity you always show. You may have mine as well! It was sweet of you to bring me the rose, although it has its doubtful side,” And she tried the mouldy smell once more with an expression of fear on her face. “How old are you to-day, Prince?”

  “Twenty-seven,” he answered. “I was born twenty-seven years ago in the Grimmburg. Ever since then I’ve had a strenuous and lonely time of it.”

  She did not answer. And suddenly he saw her eyes, under her slightly frowning eye-brows, move to his side. Yes, although he was standing sideways to her with his right shoulder towards her, as he had trained himself to do, he could not prevent her eyes fastening on his left arm, on the hand which he had planted right back on his hip.