“There are some obstacles that bravery and perseverance cannot overcome, my friend,” he said, slowly. “One of them is fate.”
“As fate is not governed by law or custom, I have the best reason in the world to hope,” said Lorry, yet modestly.
“I would indeed, sir, that you were a Prince of the realm,” fervently cried the Count, and Lorry was struck by the fact that he repeated, word for word, the wish Gaspon had uttered some hours before.
By this time they were joined by the others, whereupon Grenfall hurried eagerly to the balcony, conscious of being half an hour early, but glad of the chance afforded for reflection and solitude. Sitting on the broad stone railing he leaned back against a pillar and looked into the night for his thoughts. Once more the moon was gleaming beyond St. Valentine’s, throwing against the sky a jagged silhouette of frowning angles, towering gables and monstrous walls, the mountain and the monastery blending into one great misty product of the vision. Voices came up from below, as they did on that night five weeks ago, bringing the laughter and song of happy hearts. Music swelled through the park from the band gallery; from afar off came the sounds of revelry. The people of Edelweiss were rejoicing over the unexpected deliverance from a fate so certain that the escape seemed barely short of miraculous.
Every sound, every rustle of the wind through the plants that were scattered over the balcony caused him to look toward the door through which she must come to him.
At last she appeared, and he hastened to meet her. As he took her hands in his, she said softly, dreamily, looking over his shoulder toward the mountain’s crest:
“The same fair moon,” and smiled into his eyes.
“The same fair maid and the same man,” he added. “I believe the band is playing the same air; upon my soul, I do.”
“Yes, the same air, La Paloma. It is my lullaby. Come, let us walk. I cannot sit quietly now. Talk to me. Let me listen and be happy.”
Slowly they paced the wide balcony, through the moonlight and the shadows, her hand resting on his arm, his clasping it gently. Love obstructs the flow of speech; the heart-beats choke back the words and fill the throat.
Lorry talked but little, she not at all. Times there were when; they covered the full length of the balcony without a word. And yet they understood each other. The mystic, the enchanting silence of love was fraught with a conversation felt, not heard.
“Why are you so quiet?” he asked, at last, stopping near the rail.
“I cannot tell you why. It seems to me that I am afraid of you,” she answered, a shy quaver in her voice.
“Afraid of me? I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. You are not as you were before this morning. You are different—yes, you make me feel that I am weak and helpless and that you can say to me ‘come’ and ‘go’ and I must obey. Isn’t it odd that I, who have never known submissiveness, should so suddenly find myself tyrannized?” she asked, smiling faintly.
“Shall I tell you why you are afraid of me?” he asked.
“You will say it is because I am forgetting to be a Princess.”
“No; it is because you no longer look upon me as you did in other days. It is because I am a possibility, an entity instead of a shadow. Yesterday you were the Princess and looked down upon the impossible suitor; today you find that you have given yourself to him and that you do not regard the barrier as insurmountable. You were not timid until you found your power to resist gone. Today you admit that I may hope, and in doing so you open a gate through the walls of your pride and prejudice that can never be closed against the love within and the love without. You are afraid of me because I am no longer a dream, but a reality. Am I not right, Yetive?”
She looked out over the hazy, moonlit park.
“Yesterday I might have disputed all you say; today I can deny nothing.”
Leaning upon the railing, they fell into a silent study of the parade ground and its strollers. Their thoughts were not of the walkers and chatterers, nor of the music, nor of the night. They were of the day to come.
“I shall never forget how you said ‘because I love him,’ this morning, sweetheart,” said Lorry, betraying his reflections. “You defied the whole world in those four words. They were worth dying for.”
“How could I help it? You must not forget that you had just leaped into the lion’s den defenseless, because you loved me. Could I deny you then? Until that moment I had been the Princess adamant; in a second’s time you swept away every safeguard, every battlement, and I surrendered as only a woman can. But it really sounded shocking, didn’t it? So theatrical.”
“Don’t look so distressed about it, dear. You couldn’t help it, remember,” he said, approvingly.
“Ach, I dread tomorrow’s ordeal!” she said, and he felt the arm that touched his own tremble. “What will they say? What will they, do?”
“Tomorrow will tell. It means a great deal to both of us. If they will not submit—what then?”
“What then—what then?” she murmured, faintly.
Across the parade, coming from the direction of the fountain, Harry Anguish and Dagmar were slowly walking. They were very close together, and his head was bent until it almost touched hers. As they drew nearer, the dreamy watchers on the balcony recognized them.
“They are very happy,” said Lorry, knowing that she was also watching the strollers.
“They are so sure of each other,” she replied, sadly.
When almost directly beneath the rail, the Countess glanced upward, impelled by the strange instinct of an easily startled love, confident that prying eyes were upon her. She saw the dark forms leaning over the rail and rather jerkily brought her companion to a standstill and to a realization of his position. Anguish turned his eyes aloft.
“Can you, fair maid, tell me the names of those beautiful stars I see in the dark dome above?” he asked, in a loud, happy voice. “Oh, can they be eyes?”
“Eyes, most noble sir,” replied his companion. “There are no stars so bright.”
“Methought they were diamonds in the sky at first. Eyes like those must belong to some divinity.”
“They do, fair student, and to a divinity well worth worshiping. I have heard it said that men offer themselves as sacrifices upon her altars.”
“Unless my telescope deceives me, I discern a very handsome sacrifice up there, so I suppose the altar must be somewhere in the neighborhood.”
“Not a hand’s breadth beneath her eyes,” laughed the Countess, as she fled precipitately up the steps, followed by the jesting student.
“Beware of a divinity in wrath,” came a sweet, clear voice from the balcony, and Anguish called out from his safe retreat, like the boy he was:
“Ah, who’s afraid!”
The Princess was laughing softly, her eyes radiant as they met those of her companion, amused yet grave.
“Does he have a care?” she asked.
“I fear not. He loves a Countess.”
“He has not to pay the price of ambition, then?” said she, softly.
“Ambition is the cheapest article in the world,” he said. “It concerns only a man’s self.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE MAID OF GRAUSTARK
Expectancy, concern, the dread of uncertainty marked the countenances of Graustark’s ministers and her chief men as they sat in the council chamber on the day following, awaiting the appearance of their Princess, at whose call they were unexpectedly assembled. More than two score eyes glanced nervously toward the door from time to time.
All realized an emergency. No sooner were they out of one dilemma than another cast its prospects across their path, creating the fear that rejoicing would be short. While none knew the nature of the business that called them together, each had a stubborn suspicion that it related to the stirring declarations of the day before. Not one in that assembly but had heard the vivid, soulful sentence from the throne. Not one but wished in secret as Gaspon and Halfont had wished in open speech.<
br />
When the Princess entered with the prime minister they narrowly scanned the face so dear to them. Determination and cowardice were blended in the deep blue eyes, pride and dejection in the firm step, strength and weakness in the loving smile she bestowed upon the faithful counsellors. After the greetings she requested them to draw chairs about the great table. Seating herself in her accustomed seat, she gazed over the circle of anxious faces and realized, more than at any time in her young life, that she was frail and weak beyond all comparison. How small she was to rule over those strong, wise men of hers; how feeble the hand that held the sceptre.
“My lords,” she said, summoning all her strength of mind and heart, “I am gratified to find you so ready to respond to the call of your whimsical sovereign. Yesterday you came with hearts bowed down and in deepest woe. Today I assemble you here that I may ask your advice concerning the events of that strange day. Bolaroz will do as he has promised. We are to have the extension papers this afternoon, and Graustark may breathe again the strong, deep breath of hope. You well remember my attitude on yesterday. You were shocked, horrified, amazed by my seemingly ignoble effort to preserve my preserver’s life. We will pass over that, however. It is to discuss my position that I have called you here. To begin, I would have sacrificed my kingdom, as you know, to save him. He was innocent and I loved him. If, on yesterday, I would not let my kingdom stand between me and my love, I cannot do so today. I have called you here to tell you, my lords, that I have promised to become the wife of the man who would have given his life for you and for me—that I love as a woman, not as a Princess.”
The silence of death stole into the room. Every man’s eyes were glued upon the white face of the Princess and none could break the spell. They had expected it, yet the shock was overwhelming; they had feared it, yet the announcement stupefied them. She looked straight before her, afraid to meet the eyes of her subjects, knowing that sickening disapproval dwelt in them. Not a word was uttered for many seconds. Then old Caspar’s tense muscles relaxed and his arms dropped limply from their crossed position on his breast.
“My child, my child!” he cried, lifelessly. “You cannot do this thing!”
“But the people?” cried Gaspon, his eyes gleaming. “You cannot act against the will of the people. Our laws, natural and otherwise. proscribe the very act you have in mind. The American cannot go upon our throne; no man, unless he be of royal blood, can share it with you. If you marry him the laws of our land—you know them well—will prohibit us from recognizing the marriage.”
“Knowing that, my lords, I have come to ask you to revise our laws. My throne will not be disgraced by the man I would have share it with me.” She spoke as calmly as if she were making the most trivial request instead of asking her ministers to overthrow and undo the laws and customs of ages and of dynasties.
“The law of nature cannot be changed,” muttered Caspar, as if to himself.
“In the event that the custom cannot be changed, I shall be compelled to relinquish my right to occupy the throne and to depart from among you. It would break my heart, my lords, to resort to this monstrous sacrifice, but I love one man first, my crown and my people after him.”
“You would not leave us—you would not throw aside as despised the crown your ancestors wore for centuries?” cried Gaspon. “Is your Royal Highness mad?”
The others were staring with open mouths and icy hearts.
“Yes, as much as it would grieve me, I would do all this,” she answered, firmly, not daring to look at her uncle. She knew his eyes were upon her and that condemnation lurked in their depths. Her heart ached to turn to him with a prayer for forgiveness, but there could be no faltering now.
“I ask you, my lords, to acknowledge the marriage of your ruler to Grenfall Lorry. I am to be his wife; but I entreat you to grant me happiness without making me endure the misery that will come to me if I desert my father’s throne and the people who have worshipped me and to whom I am bound by a tie that cannot be broken. I do not plead so much for the right to rule as I do for the one who may rule after I am gone. I want my own to follow me on the throne of Graustark.”
Then followed a long, animated discussion, growing brighter and more hopeful as the speakers’ willing hearts warmed to the proposition. Lorry was a favorite but he could not be their prince. Hereditary law prohibited. Still his children if God gave him children, might be declared rightful heirs to the throne of their mother, the Princess. The more they talked, the more the problem seemed to solve itself. Many times the Princess and her wise men met and overcame obstacles, huge at first, minimized in the end, all because they loved her and she loved them. The departure from traditionary custom, as suggested by the Princess,—coupled with the threat to abdicate,—was the weightiest, yet the most delicate question that had ever come before the chief men of Graustark. It meant the beginning of a new line of princes, new life, new blood, a complete transformation of order as it had come down through the reigns of many Ganlooks. For the first time in the history of the country a woman was sovereign; for the first time there had been no direct male heir to the throne. With the death of old Prince Ganlook the masculine side of the illustrious family ended. No matter whom his daughter took for a husband, the line was broken. Why not the bold, progressive, rich American? argued some. Others fell in with the views of the few who first surrendered to the will of Yetive, until at last but one remained in opposition. Count Caspar held out until all were against him, giving way finally in a burst of oratory which ended in tears and sobs and which made the sense of the gathering unanimous.
The Princess Yetive won the day, so far as her own position was concerned. But, there was Lorry to be considered.
“Mr. Lorry knows that I called you together in consultation, but he does not know that I would have given up my crown for him. I dared not tell him that. He knows only that I was to ask your advice on the question of marriage, and that alone. Last night he told me he was confident you would agree to the union. He is an American, and does not appreciate the difficulties attending such an espousal. Over there distinction exists only in wealth and intelligence—position, I believe they call it, but not such as ours. He is a strange man, and we have yet to consult him as to the arrangement,” she said to her lords, pursing her lips. “I fear he will object to the plan we have agreed upon,” she went on. “He is sensitive, and it is possible he will not like the idea of putting our marriage to the popular vote of the people.”
“I insist, however, that the people be considered in the matter,” said Gaspon. “In three month’s time the whole nation can say whether it sanctions the revision of our laws of heredity. It would not be right or just for us to say who shall be their future rulers, for all time to come, without consulting them.”
“I have no hesitancy in saying that Graustark already idolizes this brave American,” said Halfont, warmly. “He has won her affection. If the question is placed before the people tomorrow in proper form, I will vouch for it that the whole nation will rise and cry: ‘Long live the Princess! Long live the Prince Consort!’”
“Goin’ back, I see,” said Sitzky, the guard, some months later, addressing a very busy young man, who was hurrying down the platform of the Edelweiss railway station toward the special train which was puffing impatiently.
“Hello, Sitzky! Is it you? I’m glad to see you again. Yes, we are going back to the land of the Stars and Stripes.” The speaker was Mr. Anguish.
“You’ll have fine company ’s fer as Vienna, too. D’ you ever see such a celebration’s dey’re havin’ here today? You’d t’ink d’ whole world was interested in d’ little visit Her Royal Highness is goin’ to pay to Vienna. Dummed if d’ whole city, soldiers an’ all, ain’t down here to see ‘er off. Look at d’ crowd! By glory, I don’t b’lieve we c’n pull d’ train out of d’ station. ‘Quainted wid any of d’ royal crowd?”
“Slightly,” answered Anguish, smiling. He was watching a trim figure in a tailor-made gown as it app
roached, drawing apart from the throng. It was Mrs. Harry Van Brugh Anguish.
“Say, you must cut some ice wid dese people. But dat’s jest like an American, dough,” the little guard went on. “De Princess married an American an’ dey say he’s goin’ to put d’ crown away where d’ moths won’t git at it an’ take her over to live in Washington fer six months. Is it a sure t’ing?”
“That’s right, Sitzky. She’s going back with us and then we’re coming back with her.”
“Why don’t he keep ‘er over dere when he gits her dere? What’s d’ use—what’s d’ use?”
“Well, she’s still the Princess of Graustark, you know, Sitzky. She can’t live always in America.”
“Got to be here to hold her job, eh?”
“Inelegant but correct. Now, look sharp! Where do we find our—Ah!” His wife was with him and he forgot Sitzky.
The guard turned to watch the procession—a file of soldiers, a cavalry troop, carriages and then—the carriage with spirited horses and gay accoutrements. It stopped with a jangle and a man and woman descended.
“The Princess!” cried Sitzky.
“Long live the Princess!” cried the crowd. “God save our Yetive!”
Sitzky started as if shot, Raring at the tall man who approached with the smiling Sovereign of Graustark. “Well,” he gasped, “what d’ you t’ink o’ dat!”
The train that was to carry them out of the East into the West puffed and snorted, the bell clanged, the people cheered, and they were off. Hours later, as the car whirled through the Hungarian plain, Yetive, looking from her window, said in that exquisite English which was her very own:
“Ah, the world, the dear world! I am so sorry for queens!”
BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK (1904)
CHAPTER I
EAST OF THE SETTING SUN
Far off in the mountain lands, somewhere to the east of the setting sun, lies the principality of Graustark, serene relic of rare old feudal days. The traveler reaches the little domain after an arduous, sometimes perilous journey from the great European capitals, whether they be north or south or west—never east. He crosses great rivers and wide plains; he winds through fertile valleys and over barren plateaus; he twists and turns and climbs among sombre gorges and rugged mountains; he touches the cold clouds in one day and the placid warmth of the valley in the next. One does not go to Graustark for a pleasure jaunt. It is too far from the rest of the world and the ways are often dangerous because of the strife among the tribes of the intervening mountains. If one hungers for excitement and peril he finds it in the journey from the north or the south into the land of the Graustarkians. From Vienna and other places almost directly west the way is not so full of thrills, for the railroad skirts the darkest of the dangerlands.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 47