The Secret Memoirs of Bertha Krupp
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Title: The Secret Memoirs of Bertha Krupp
Creator: Henry W. Fischer
Release date: February 22, 2014 [eBook #44979]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF BERTHA KRUPP ***
Produced by Al Haines.
The Secret Memoirs
of Bertha Krupp
From the Papers and Diaries of Chief
Gouvernante Baroness D'Alteville
By
HENRY W. FISCHER
Author of "The Private Lives of Kaiser William II.
and His Consort," "Secret History of
the Court of Berlin,"
etc.
_Si Krupp nobiscum, quis contra nos?_
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1916
_Copyright, 1916, by Henry W. Fischer._
_Copyrighted in England, France, Austria, Italy, Switzerland,
and all foreign countries having international copyright
arrangements with the United States; also copyright ad interim
in the United States._
_All rights reserved, including those of translation, Cinematograph
rights, Dramatic rights, and so forth._
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
1. Under the War Lord's Thumb
2. Weaving the Toils Round Bertha Krupp
3. A Mother's Reflections
4. Bertha Krupp, War Lady, Asserts Herself
5. How the War Lady was Cajoled
6. Fraulein Krupp Invited to Court
7. In the Crown Prince's Private Room
8. Stories of Court Life
9. What the Maid Saw and Heard
10. The Entangling of Archduke Franz Ferdinand
11. The Crown Prince on a Lark
12. The Fortune Teller sees Bertha in a Haze of Blood
13. "We will Divide the World Between Us"
14. Getting Even with the War Lord
15. "Auntie Majesty" and Bertha
16. How Franz Ferdinand was Fooled
17. Diamond Cut Diamond
18. A Secret Service Episode
19. Bertha and Franz
20. "Auntie Majesty" and her Frocks
21. Throttling Bavaria
22. Paying the Price
23. How Von Bohlen was Chosen
24. The War Lord's Day in Essen
25. A Royal Liar
26. Explaining "The Day"
27. Bertha's Wedding Day
28. A Foreshadowing of "Lusitaniaism"
29. Some More Secret History
30. Browbeating the War Lady
31. A Great State Secret
*THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF
BERTHA KRUPP*
_*Si Krupp nobiscum, quis contra nos?*_
*CHAPTER I*
*UNDER THE WAR LORD'S THUMB*
The Real War Lord--Putting on the Screw--The Kaiser's Plot
Revealed--Disinheriting the Baroness--A Startler for the War
Lord--Bertha to be Sole Heiress--Frederick Makes His Will--The
War Lord Loses his Temper--A Base Suggestion
On a bright August day of 1902 the neighbourhood of Villa Huegel,
overlooking the forest of smoke-stacks, cranes, masts and other
erections that silhouette the town of Essen, was like an armed camp.
Its master, Frederick Krupp, cannon king and war promoter, while not
entitled to household troops, has an army of firemen as large as the
contingent of the mighty potentate of Reuss-Greiz-Schleiz-Lobenstein,
and this was pre-eminently the season and hour of military display.
The Krupp warriors resemble Prussian infantry in dress. In discipline
and aggressiveness they are second to none serving under the eye of the
"All Highest," as the Kaiser fondly calls himself. Give their master a
dark look as he passes, and one or more of them will pounce upon you and
pound you to jelly before you can say Jack Robinson; reach for your
handkerchief or pencil in your back trouser-pocket, where a revolver
might be, and they will spit you on their fire-axe.
To-day Krupp firemen were everywhere. They lined the roads, guarded
crossings and bridges, looked up at every window, sentinelled gates and
doors. They were posted, too, in the tree-tops and on telegraph and
signal posts, while indoors, along the corridors of the villa, you met
them at every turn. Right royal arrangement that! Yet why at Huegel?
On this particular day Essen was alive with colour. Hussars in green
and silver--the Duesseldorf brand--galloping round and round the villa
circuit, kept their eyes keenly alert for suspicious characters; in
Essen, indeed, every stranger is looked upon as a double-crossed
suspect. Dragoons were there, too, from East Prussia, to watch the
hussars, for one never knows, you know. And, of course, there were
bodyguards--white tunic and breeches, black cuirass and silver helmet,
surmounted by the "bird of poisonous glare," as Heine described the
Imperial eagle. Many other uniforms, too--uhlans, chasseurs, mounted
infantry for the War Lord likes to strut abroad to the tune and clank of
a variety of arms. He would have horse marines if he were not so deadly
afraid of Mr. Punch.
Before the library door of the Villa Huegel two giant cuirassiers, sabre
in hand, revolver in belt, dull men and dangerous, of the sort that
always do their duty not as they see it, but as their superior officer
sees it.
Suppose that earthling orders a death-dealing blow for anyone attempting
to enter the room under guard. It follows, as a matter of course, that
the person is a dead man or dead woman, or maybe a dead
child--militarism rampant, but discipline triumphant! Who cares for a
corpse more or less?
A much-bedizened personage is standing in the centre of the
high-ceilinged, wainscoted room. A gewgawed War Lord; but how
unimposing he looks on foot and unprepared to meet the gaze of admiring
multitudes! He is not much taller than the average grocer's clerk, and
until Father Time sprinkled his straight, wiry hair with grey was a
decided red-pate.
The War Lord's clothes are Berlin pattern: all straight and right
angles, like the tunics of the impossible marbles that spoil his Avenue
of Victory. He wears jewellery of the kind the late mad King of Bavaria
used to decorate his actors with: a watch-chain thick and strong enough
to hold a two-year bull, a timepiece bulging like an alarum clock, and a
profusion--or confusion--of gold-mounted seals and medals. But the
finishing touch: sky-blue garters, set with rosettes of diamonds and
pearls alternating.
We know his public face--stern, haughty, cast-iron, forbidding--and his
official demeanour has been brought home to us a thousand times and more
in statue and photograph, in colour and black and white, throned, on
horseback, or standing alone in Imperial self-glory under a purple
canopy--he knows how to stage-manage himself in uniform.
The London tailor who skimped his coat in front, he hates with a deadly
hatred, for padding, plenty of it, is essential to his _mise en scene_.
See him on his well-trained, high-stepping horse, and you have the ideal
camera subject: broad shoulders, prominent chest (laden with seventy-odd
medals), strong limbs, jingling spurs, bronzed face, skyscraping
moustachios and all.
But in the drawing-room, and in mufti--what a difference! Heavy set,
somewhat short-limbed, and the face that looks strong when framed in
military cap or helmet now seems to possess only brute force.
At this moment his left hand sought the seclusion of a trouser-pocket,
while his right, studded with gems like a chorus-girl's, sawed the air
with coarse assertiveness.
"My dear Frederick," he addressed his host, balancing himself on his
right foot, "while you are here to execute my orders, all's well. But
suppose something happened to you. You are not in the best of health
and"--lowering his voice--"a careless boy. Don't deny," he added
quickly when Frederick Krupp ventured to protest. "Both my Roman
ambassador and our envoy at the Holy See heard about your peccadilloes
in the island." The speech, begun in a bantering tone, terminated
shrilly.
The Ironmaster alternately blushed and blanched. "I hope you do not
believe all you hear," he faltered.
"Never more than a third of what I'm told," replied the War Lord,
softening his voice; "but, even so, things must not be left too entirely
to chance."
Frederick Krupp went to the window, marking each step for the benefit of
possible listeners, then tiptoed to the great folding doors. He opened
the off wing suddenly and looked out. "All's safe," he said, returning;
"and what fine brutes those outside."
"Fancy them?" laughed the War Lord jovially, for he knows how to unbend
when he wants to carry a point. "Now to business. We are all liable to
die almost any moment, and you, dear Frederick, are no more an exception
to the rule than I am--or those brutes."
Frederick Krupp looked uncomfortable, and to hide his embarrassment or
gain time dropped into courtly jargon. "And what may be your Majesty's
pleasure?"
"Make a satisfactory last will, sir--a last will guaranteeing the
Krupps' goodwill for ever and a day--likewise satisfactory
dividends--for the chief stockholder, if you please."
Frederick Krupp bowed low. "Please?" he repeated. "Why, I lie awake
nights planning wars for your benefit. If there were not a Persian
Gulf, I would have invented one to pave the way for the little scrap
with England you are aching for."
"Hold your horses!" cried the War Lord. "That Bagdad railway must be
finished first. What I want is a guarantee, and a most binding
guarantee, that the Krupp works be conducted in all future as now,
according to my Imperial will and pleasure, in the interest of the
Fatherland and--our pocket," he added flippantly.
Frederick Krupp surveyed himself in the glass. "You talk as if I had one
foot in the grave," he said in the careless manner of addressing a boon
companion, or like one intimate putting things pleasant, or the reverse,
to another. Frederick Krupp died in the odour of eccentricity. There
was certainly something eccentric in his relations with the War Lord.
But the latter tolerates familiarity only so long as it suits him; and,
presently observing the clouds gather on his guest's brow, Frederick
Krupp changed his tone.
"At your Majesty's commands, I am all ears," he murmured, as, obedient
to a sign from the Emperor, he drew up an arm-chair for him.
"Sit down yourself," the Emperor ordered curtly, pointing to a tabouret.
Then, sneeringly: "Your idea was----"
"To leave everything to my wife."
The War Lord slapped his knees hard, as he always does when excited.
"So would Herr Mueller and Herr Schulze," he cried, without attempting
to conceal the insult. "Her Ladyship--chief of the Krupp works--of what
use would the Baroness Marguerite be to _my_ interests?"
Mrs. Frederick Krupp was _nee_ von Ende, and the War Lord, always eager
to use titles of nobility, chose to call her by her maiden name and
style.
Frederick Krupp, who, despite his irregularities, was genuinely fond of
his wife, moved uneasily on his low chair. "Your Majesty is
pleased----"
"To have his head screwed on tightly and in the right place," declared
the War Lord, bringing his fist down on a table at his elbow and making
the Chinese ivories jump. "Now then, without further palaver, I don't
choose to see the Baroness heiress of the Krupp works. She shall not
control my interests, do you hear? nor those of the Fatherland."
The War Lord talked as if addressing a parcel of raw recruits. His
withered left hand had pulled from the trouser-pocket, and was making
spasmodic attempts to clutch the lapel of his coat. He has the curious
taste to give this poor hand a liberal coating of rings, and his
enormous emeralds seemed to gleam more poisonously than usual upon the
cringing form of poor Frederick.
"Willy," gasped the Ironmaster pleadingly.
The War Lord was not to be cajoled.
"As I said, her Ladyship gets a pension. Leave her as big a share of
your fortune as you please," he added on second thought. "Yes, the
larger the better; it will avert suspicion--I mean forestall criticism,
of course."
"But," remonstrated Frederick, in a weak way, "Marguerite and I have an
understanding."
"Understanding," scowled the War Lord, brutality written all over him as
if he were rehearsing his pretty phrase: "Those opposing me I smash."
He contemplated Frederick for a while as a big mastiff might a King
Charles before mangling and killing it. At last he remembered there are
two ways in most things. "Of course," he began rather soothingly,
"understandings among subjects are null and void when opposed to the
Imperial will. Explain to Lady Marguerite with my compliments, if you
please," the last phrase emphasised three times by hand cutting the air
vertically.
Frederick Krupp, thoroughly cowed by this time, nodded assent. This
man, used to bull-dozing Governments the world over, a terror before his
board of directors, and a demigod to his workmen, felt a mere atom with
the eyes of the War Lord flashing wrath and contempt upon his yielding
self.
"I will; but what may be your Majesty's precise commands?" he stammered
meekly.
The War Lord perceived that his victim had become like wax under the
lash of his tongue. He could afford, then, to be magnanimous. "You
forget etiquette," he replied, with a half-smile; "since when is it
customary to question a majesty? Still, I am no Eulenburg" (referring to
the Grand Marshal of the palace), "and will overlook your _faux-pas_
this time. Listen, Frederick." He softened his speech with a "dear
Frederick," and then issued his mandate: "The Baroness eliminated----"
Herr Krupp raised his eyes supplicatingly, but the War Lord paid no
attention. "Eliminated," he repeated, accentuating each syllable.
Then, in pitying style: "Too bad you haven't got a son. However, the
Salic Law does not apply to commoners."
The Ironmaster made bold to show annoyance at the word. "Commoner by my
own free will," he protested. "Haven't I declined Earldoms and Dukedoms
even?"
"More's the pity that you remain plain Krupp, like a grocer or the
ashman, when you might be Prince of Essen," cried the War Lord, jumping
up. The Ironmaster rose as well.
Courtly usage, of course, but also a measure of precaution. He meant to
be on hand in case his august guest suffered a fall, and there is always
a possibility of that when the War Lord labours under excitement, for
his whole left side, from ear to toe, is weak and liable to collapse if
the full weight of the body is thrust suddenly upon it. As a rule, the
War Lord remembers, but when carried away by passion, or for other
reasons loses control of himself, he is prone to forget or even fall in
a heap with no warning. Such a _contretemps_ happened once at Count
Dohna's, when Frederick was one of the house party, and long remained in
his memory.
Visiting at Proeckelwitz in the summer of 1891, the War Lord had deigned
to be pleased with a pair of blacks. "Buy two more of them for a
four-in-hand, as befits the Sovereign," he said to his host.
The hint, dropped with charming German delicacy, was a command, of
course, and a year later, in June, the War Lord started for the castle
in right royal style; but he did not get far that way, since the
four-in-hand shied and bolted when the villagers burst into patriotic
song, to the waving of a thousand and one flags. As an eye-witness put
it: The leaders rose on their hind legs, the cross pieces came loose and
began knocking against their pasterns, and off they were at a furious
rate. Count Dohna let the reins of the runaways slip, and hung the more
heavily on to those of the shaft horses, who were trying to follow the
others. He let the blacks run for a while but without losing control,
and as they were about to plunge into a bed of harrows he succeeded in
checking them.
Then, for a mile or so, he gave them a run on freshly ploughed ground.
After that they went steadily.
The War Lord had put his arm around his host's shoulders when the horses
started off, and, the danger past, pressed the Count's hand, but did not
say a word. Then came the collapse. He had to be helped down from his
seat, and took no notice of the greetings of the ladies awaiting him.
Leaning upon his chasseur and Adjutant Von Moltke (now Field Marshal),
he crept to his room, his face pale as death and lips compressed.
Dinner was set back an hour, but the War Lord had not recovered his
speech when, with difficulties, he put his feet under the mahogany. His
body physician, Doctor Leuthold, was sitting opposite the august person,
and upon a sign from the medical man the War Lord rose from table after
vainly trying to swallow a spoonful of soup. Nor did he come down to
breakfast, but attended luncheon, still looking pale and haggard. Then,
for the first time, he greeted the ladies of the house, and spoke a few
words to his host; but when a forward young miss referred to the
accident he bade her keep silent by an imperious gesture, while a tremor
seemed to run through his body. He would not hear of hunting, and left
next day without having fired a shot.
Frederick Krupp, remembering Proeckelwitz, moved as near to his Imperial
guest as politeness permitted, ready to catch him in his arms if need
be, but the War Lord no sooner perceived his intention than he became
more infuriated than ever. "For Heaven's sake no heroics, Frederick!" he
roared, sitting down again. "Draw up a stool and listen."
"One second," pleaded the Ironmaster, "I will set the miniature
orchestrella going." He pressed a button, and almost simultaneously a
music-box near the door, sheathed in tortoise-shell and gold bronze,
began trilling out melodies, so as to confuse, if not obscure,
conversation to possible listeners if it waxed overloud again.
The War Lord nodded. "Not half bad. You may send me one of those
things to put in Buelow's office. There are always some Italians
lurking about--to report to Madame la Princesse, I fancy--and put the
W.I.R. on the box.
"Well, let's get back to things," he added, quickly changing his tone to
drill-ground clangour. "Madame eliminated and there being no son----"
"Your Majesty desires me to leave the business jointly to Bertha and
Barbara?" asked Krupp.
"Are there six crown princes or one?" inquired the War Lord in his turn,
with affected calmness.
"I don't follow," said Herr Krupp.
The War Lord could hardly master his impatience. Still more raising his
voice, he demanded abruptly: "Is Prussia to be divided into six petty
Kingdoms when I die because I happen to have six sons, and a small
principality besides for my daughter?"
Herr Krupp opened his eyes wide: "Your Majesty wants me to disinherit
one of my children?"
"I want you to proclaim my godchild Bertha Crown Princess of the Kingdom
of Cannon."
"But my other daughter----"
"Bertha is _my_ goddaughter!" (with the emphasis on the "my").
"Can I ever forget the honour conferred upon my humble house?"
"I trust not," said the War Lord, who is careful not to let people
forget any small favours he may bestow.
His brain works in fits and starts, in bounds and leaps, and when he
wants a thing it jumps at once to the conclusion that his fancy is a
_fait accompli_. Persuading Frederick had been easy with its bits of
browbeating and flashes of cajolery. Now, flushed with the triumph
gained, he launched forth the details. "Bertha, Crown Princess, trust
me to find the right consort for her."
"She is only a child."
"The very age when she ought to be taken in hand and moulded." The War
Lord illustrated the intended process by kneading the air with grasping
fingers, his "terrible right" alternately pushing and squeezing,
attacking, relaxing and coaxing, with the father looking on,
terror-stricken.
Such, then, was to be the fate of his little girl: a vice round her
white neck, spurs to her sides. The man before him came into the world
accoutred to ride, and seventy millions of people his cattle!
The jewels on the War Lord's ring-laden hand flashed and threatened.
That twenty-carat ruby on his little finger meant blood, and the
emerald, linked to it, might denote the poison-tongue eager to corrupt
the childish mind into an instrument of high politics. Diamonds stand
for innocence. There were diamonds galore. Oh, the farce of it! Opals,
too, a rare collection, but the stone sacred to October tells at least
an honest tale--tears.
The War Lord stripped off a gold hoop with a large turquoise. "Wear it
in remembrance of this hour, dear Frederick," he said. "The turquoise
signifies prosperity, you know."
He walked towards one of the windows and, standing within its deep
embrasure, pointed to the towering chimneys. "_My_ brave guardsmen," he
exulted, half to himself, "outposts of my Imperial will, avant-guard of
my seven millions of warriors; it will be great fun, old fellows, to
make you dance as I whistle!"
Then, with a broad smile to Frederick: "That being settled, the Minister
of Justice shall draw up your testament at once. I brought him to Essen
for that. Now, don't look frightened, boy. 'Last will' does not mean
'last legs.' You will outlive us all, I bet. Let's think of a Prince
Consort now."
"But, as said, Bertha is much too young," faltered Frederick.
"Herr," staccatoed the War Lord, "I already had the honour to inform you
that Bertha is my godchild--m-y g-o-d-c-h-i-l-d. Do you hear?" he
yelled, while startled Frederick looked anxiously towards the door.
The War Lord took the hint and resumed conversational tone. "Come now,"
he ordered, "roll call. Some of our dear friends are still in the
marriage mart." (Reflectively): "Too bad; Fritzie got married."
Bertha's father shuddered at the mentioning of a certain Count, who,
though brother-in-law of a reigning Grand Duke, was prisoner Number 5429
at Siegen jail, in Rhineland, a few years later for crimes unspeakable.
In 1902, however, the dashing Colonel of Horse had not yet been publicly
disgraced, and the War Lord launched into a panegyric of his friend.
"Yes, indeed, Fritz would have made a first-class master here. Not
overburdened with brains, but knows enough to obey orders. No humming
and hawing for him when the War Lord has spoken. But the Suien girl
caught him. The kind of son-in-law you want, Frederick."
Krupp shook his head.
"I respectfully beg to differ; none of these for my little girl."
"_These?_" The War Lord again raised his voice, but dropped into a
hoarse whisper when he heard the officer _de jour_ address the sentinels
in the corridor. "One can't say a word without being overheard," he
grumbled; "nearer, Frederick, still closer." As he continued speaking
he laid his massive right hand on Frederick's knee and hissed between
his teeth: "These? You forgot that you were referring to _my_ friends."
"I did not, most assuredly I did not," returned the Ironmaster,
disengaging himself by a swift movement and jumping up.
"You dare!" hissed the War Lord, again losing control of himself.
"I dare anything for my child!" cried Krupp, his face livid with rage;
"and I tell you to your face none of your free-living friends for my
Bertha!"
"Insolence!" roared the War Lord. "Take a care that I don't send you to
Spandau."
"I would endure Schlusselburg rather than suffer my child to marry one
of _these_," insisted the Ironmaster doggedly.
The War Lord gazed at the speaker for twenty or more seconds, then said
in a tone of command: "You can go. Send in Moltke" (referring to his
adjutant, later chief of the general staff).
With the latter he remained closeted a quarter of an hour--quite a long
space of time for a person of the War Lord's character--and it is said
that he tried to persuade the blond giant (Moltke was blond and blooming
then) that Krupp was a madman, as crazy as the Mad Hatter. Otherwise he
would never have dared oppose his plebeian will against that of the
supreme master. Of course not!
Of Moltke's counter-arguments we know naught, but the War Lord's visit
to Essen wound up with a grand banquet of sixty covers, and in the
course of it host and Imperial guest toasted each other in honeyed
words.
* * * * *
Less than two months later Frederick Krupp died by his own hand, and
Bertha Krupp--sixteen, homely and already prone to embonpoint--mounted
the throne of the Cannon Kings, as the War Lord had willed.
And, as he had insisted, she became automatically a pawn in his hand,
his _alter ego_ for destruction and misery.
Ever since his intimacy with Frederick, the War Lord had looked upon the
Krupp plant as the power house for the realisation of his ambition--the
conquest of the world; and to a very considerable extent Frederick had
aided and abetted his plans by employing his genius for invention and
business to commercialise war, and making it fit in with the general
scheme of high finance.
"Want a loan?" the Cannon King used to ask governments. "May we fix it
for you? But first contract for so many quick-firing guns."
The loan being amply secured, and the quick-firers paid for, then the
suggestion would come along: "Have some more Bleichroder or Meyer funds
on top of our latest devices in man-killers." And so on, and so on; an
endless chain.
Yet, while so eager to provide death with new-fangled tools wholesale,
Frederick could not, or would not, divest himself from the shackles of
business honesty--and his inheritance.
He wouldn't play tricks on customers. The steel and work he put into
guns for, say, Russia or Chili were as flawless and expert as in the
guns bought by his Prussian Majesty. And that was the "besetting sin of
Frederick," the damning spot on the escutcheon of their friendship, as
the War Lord viewed it. It followed, of course, that when one hundred
of the Tsar's Krupp guns faced one hundred Krupp guns of the Government
of Berlin, they would be an even match so far as material went--a thing
and condition in strict contradiction to the Potsdam maxim: "Always
attack with superior force."
How often the War Lord had argued with Frederick: Soft lining for enemy
howitzers; a well-concealed, patched-up flaw in the barrel of
quick-firers.
"I know no enemy, only customers," was Frederick's invariable rejoinder,
garbed in politest language.
Customers! Decidedly the War Lord wanted customers--plenty of them,
since, as we know, he had invested largely in Krupp stock; but to take
customers' money was one thing, and to provide them with means for
spoiling the War Lord's game was another.
When that pistol-shot startled Villa Huegel on November 22nd did it
portend the death-knell of what the War Lord called "Krupp
molly-coddledom"?
Even during Frederick Krupp's lifetime--just as if his early demise had
been a foregone conclusion--technical experts of the Berlin War Office
had been instructed to make extensive experiments with steel on the
lines ordered by Wilhelm the War Lord.
The test would be the Day!
*CHAPTER II*
*WEAVING THE TOILS ROUND BERTHA KRUPP*
"Your Play Days are Over"--The Baroness Speaks Out--In the Grip
of the Kaiser--A Room Apart
"The makings of the true German heifer," that astute Frenchman,
Hippolyte Taine, would have said of the young girl who was busy in her
garden behind Villa Huegel on the 24th of November, 1902. For her
blooming youth was full of the promise of maternity--broad shoulders,
budding figure, generous hands and feet, plenty of room for brains in a
good-sized head. Pretty? An Englishman or American would hardly have
accorded her that pleasing descriptive title, but comely and wholesome
she was, with her air of intelligence and kindly eyes.
An abominable German custom makes scarecrows out of children at a
parent's death. So Bertha Krupp was garbed in severest black, awkwardly
put together. Her very petticoats, visible when she bent over her
flowers, were of sable crepe; not a bit of white or lace, though it
would have been a relief, seeing that the young woman's complexion was
not of the best.
"Bertha--Uncle Majesty----" cried a child's voice from outside the
house, "wants you," it added, coming nearer.
"To say good-bye?" called Bertha in return. One might have discerned an
accent of relief in the tone of her voice.
"Not yet," replied her sister, running up, as she tugged at Bertha's
watering-can. "Adjutant von Moltke said something about a con-con----"
"Conference, I suppose," completed the older girl. "Will you never
learn to speak, child?"
"Uncle Majesty uses such big words," pleaded little Barbara. "Hurry,
sister, he is waiting, and you know how crazy he gets----"
"But what have _I_ got to do with him? Let him speak to Mamma. Tell
them I am busy with my flowers."
"Bertha!" cried a high-pitched voice from the direction of the villa.
"Mamma," whispered the younger girl; "hurry up, now, or you will catch
it." At the same moment one of the library windows in Villa Huegel
opened, disclosing the figure of the War Lord, accoutred as for
battle--gold lace, silver scarf, many-coloured ribbons, metal buttons
and numerals. His well padded chest heaved under dozens of medals and
decorations, his moustachios vied with sky-scrapers. With his
bejewelled right hand he beckoned imperiously.
"My child, my goddaughter," he said with terrible emphasis when Bertha
entered the room, breathing hard, "once and for all you must understand
that your play-days are over; at this moment you enter upon the service
of the State." He turned abruptly to Bertha's mother, adding in tones
of command: "You will put her into long dresses at once, Baroness. It
isn't fitting that the heiress of the Krupp works shows her legs like a
peasant girl."
"But I don't want to wear long dresses, Uncle Majesty," pouted Bertha.
The War Lord took no notice of the childish protest, but looked
inquiringly at Bertha's mother.
"Surely in matters of dress, at least, the child's wishes should be
consulted," said the Baroness half defiantly.
"But I insist," fumed the War Lord.
"And I respectfully submit that your Majesty must not meddle with
matters of toilette in my house."
The War Lord pulled a high-backed, eagle-crowned chair of silver-gilt up
to the late Cannon King's desk and pushed Bertha into it. It was the
fauteuil he had once designated as "sacred to the All Highest
person"--meaning himself, of course. As a rule its gold and purple
upholstery had a white silk cover, which was removed only when the War
Lord visited the great house.
"Cardinal fashion," he said to the astonished child, without taking
notice of his hostess's remark. "Cardinals, Bertha, are princes of the
Roman Church, and each has a throne in his house. While the See of St.
Peter is occupied, the emblem of power is turned to the wall. So,
heretofore, this throne of mine was obsolete while I was away from
Essen, but since your father, as his testament shows, appointed you his
successor under my guardianship, you shall have the right and privilege
to sit in my place. A throne for the War Lady while the War Lord is
away!"
The bewildered child was slow to avail herself of the grand privilege.
Shoulders bent forward, she wriggled to the edge, hardly touching the
seat, while her eyes sought her mother's with mute appeal.
However, the War Lord was determined to do all the talking himself. "As
I pointed out, under Papa's will, you are sole owner of the Krupp
business and mistress here," he declaimed, with a disdainful glance at
the child's mother. The Purple-born did not scruple to exult over his
victim before her daughter.
Happily, the young girl did not observe his ruthlessness, nor would she
have understood her godfather's motive.
"Mistress here," repeated the War Lord; "responsible to no one but God's
Anointed."
Bertha, now thoroughly frightened, burst into tears. "Don't cry,"
ordered the War Lord brusquely. But Frau Krupp jumped to her feet, and,
placing herself in front of the child, exclaimed with flaming eyes:
"Such language to a little girl and on the day of her father's burial!"
The War Lord saw that he had gone too far. "Come, now," he said
soothingly, "I meant your Uncle Majesty, of course. Uncle has always
been kind and considerate to his little Bertha, hasn't he?"
He asked the Baroness to be seated, while he patted Bertha's shoulder
and hair. "God-daughter," he said softly, "be a brave girl and listen."
And, with the child's eyes showing increasing bewilderment every moment,
he burst into a panegyric of himself and his sublime mission on earth,
such as even his dramatic collaborators, von Wildenbruch and Captain
Lauff, had never conceived in their most toadying moments.
He was on the most elaborately intimate terms with God, and every act of
his was approved by "his" God beforehand. "His" God had appointed him
vicar on earth, instrument of His benevolence and of His wrath.
"My child," he sermonised in accents of fanaticism, "think of the
honour, the unheard-of honour in store for you; you, the offspring of
humble parents, shall do my bidding as my God directs."
Bertha was stiff with astonishment, but the Baroness moved uneasily in
her chair and was about to speak, when the War Lord, who had paused to
observe the effect of his words, resumed:
"The Krupp business, _your_ business, my dear Bertha, is unlike any
other in the world. All other manufacturers and merchants cater to the
material welfare of man, more or less; the Krupp works alone are
destined to traffic in human life for God's greater glory and at His
behest.
"For fourteen years God has listened to my prayers for peace; for
fourteen long years I have beseeched Him, morning, noon and night, in
every crisis that arose throughout the world to permit me to keep my
sword sheathed--God's sword. But all these years myself and your
father, Bertha, have kept our powder dry, never relaxing armed
preparedness, doubling it rather, to be ready for God's first
bugle-call."
And so the blasphemous vaingloryings went on.
The War Lord strode over to the long wall of the room, dragging his
sword over the marble floor and giving his spurs and medals an extra
shake. He pushed a button, whereupon an illuminated map of Europe shot
into a frame where, a second before, a Watteau shepherdess had
impersonated _les fetes galantes du Roi_. Drawing the sword, he
delineated with its point the Central Empires, the Italian boot-leg, and
Turkey's European possessions. Then he double-crossed France, Russia
and Great Britain. "The enemy!" he cried. "Enemies of German
greatness, of German expansion, of German _kultur_--therefore, enemies
of the God of the Germans and of mine.
"But with your help I will smash them, pound them into a jelly, Bertha."
As if overcome by horror, the child glided from the impromptu throne of
the self-appointed _Godgeissel_ (the Lord's scourge) to the rug, and
buried her face in her mother's lap.
"Uncle Majesty," she sobbed, "you mean to say that I must help you make
war? The Commandment says, 'Thou shalt not kill.'"
"But the Lord also said, 'Vengeance is mine,'" quoted her Uncle Majesty;
"and God wreaks His vengeance through me, His elect, His chosen
instrument.
"Still, these matters you will understand better as you grow older," he
continued. "For the present remember this: under your father's will, I
am your chief guardian, and you must obey me in everything. While
nominally, even legally, you are sole proprietress of the Krupp works
and their numerous dependencies, you hold these properties, as a matter
of fact, in trust for me. It follows, my child, that you must leave the
direction of the works to your Uncle Majesty and his subordinates, the
directors and business managers. Do you agree to that?"
There was something hypnotic in the War Lord's delivery. As the
Baroness explained afterwards, he talked like one possessed. Add to
this his necromantic manoeuvring, his Machiavellian gestures, his
grandly weird eloquence--inherited from an uncle who died in a
strait-jacket--small wonder he prevailed upon the grief-stricken child,
when, alternately, he threatened, cajoled and flattered.
As a matter of fact, the War Lord's words seemed to have a peculiar
appeal to the richest girl in the world, who neither divined nor
imagined their sinister purpose. What pierced her comprehension
appealed to a youngster's love of independence, of shaking off mother's
leading-strings. In the avalanche of phrases that assailed Bertha's ears
this stood out: "Your mother doesn't count; you are mistress in your own
right." Very well, she would put the promise to the test. "I don't
quite understand," said the Cannon King's heiress; rising from her
knees, and without looking at her parent, added, "but I leave it all to
you, Uncle Majesty--everything."
"Do you hear?" cried the War Lord, addressing Frau Krupp.
"I have heard, and Bertha will go to her room now," replied the Baroness
firmly; and though the War Lord made an impatient gesture indicating
that he meant the child to remain, she conducted her daughter to the
door, kissed her on the forehead, and let her slip out.
When she turned round she saw the War Lord in the _Godgeissel_ chair
before the desk, resting his right arm on the blotter, his left hand on
the hilt of his sword.
"Any further commands for the mistress of the house?" she queried in no
humble tones.
The War Lord, seemingly absorbed in a document he had taken up, replied
without looking at his hostess: "Send in Moltke," whereupon the Baroness
retreated backward towards the door. She was about to drop a curtsy to
signify her leave-taking, when the War Lord cried out: "One thing more,
Madame la Baronne. From now on this room is _my_ room, and none but
myself or the Krupp heiress has the _entree_. My goddaughter may see my
representatives here, but no one else--no one."
*CHAPTER III*
*A MOTHER'S REFLECTIONS*
The Baroness and Franz--The Power-Drunk War Lord--A Pawn in the
Game--The Sweets of Power--Germany Above All--The War Lord's
Murder Lust--Fighting the Frankenstein--At the War Lord's Mercy
The Baroness's boudoir in Villa Huegel is a spacious apartment, hung in
blue and silver, the colours of her noble house. Everything that
riches, mellowed by refinement, could command enhanced its luxurious
comfort. In the home of Baroness Krupp are trophies of her visits to
foreign shores: cut glass, coins, bronzes and curios of all kinds.
Silver-gilt caskets hold royal presents, precious stuffs and monstrous
ornaments from German kings and kinglets--articles of jewellery for the
most part, too big for a woman of taste. All are crowned and initialled,
but few hall-marked. Since a prince is supposed to give away the real
thing, why bother about carats? Numerous paintings, English landscapes,
French and Italian decorative art and figures. An English grand piano
in one corner. Britishers prefer German makes, but the much-travelled
Baroness wouldn't tolerate the home product.
She is seated before a spindle-legged table with a crystal top over a
velvet-lined drawer, where Madame's royal orders and decorations
repose--crosses and stars, quadrupeds and birds of various _outre_ forms
and degrees. Pointing to one of them bearing the name of a queen famous
for her beauty and misfortunes, she murmured: "How proud I was when he
gave it to me! At that time I thought him chivalrous and believed him
sincere in his religious professions. Since he intrigues to make my
little girl the accomplice of his murderous desires, never more will I
wear it."
"Master Franz desires to speak to your ladyship," said a manservant from
behind the portieres covering the doorway.
"Show him up."
Franz was a distant relative who had lived much in the Krupp household
after he finished his studies at the late Frederick Krupp's expense. At
this time he was chief electrical engineer of the establishment,
destined for still higher honours, for experts held that the mantle of
the great Edison had descended upon Franz's broad shoulders. He was
like a big brother to the Krupp girls, and looked upon the Baroness as a
mother, having never known his own.
Tall and good-looking, Franz, as a rule, dressed like an Englishman of
distinction, but to-day he had chafed under the obligation of wearing
evening dress for breakfast, lunch and tea, because of the War Lord's
presence. Even now his nether garments belonged to the ceremonial
variety, but he wore a jacket tightly buttoned over the wide expanse of
his shirt-front.
"So it is proposed to make two kinds of steel in future," he whispered,
after closing the door and drawing the curtains. "Has that your
approval, Frau Krupp?"
The Ironmaster's widow heard only the first part of the sentence; she
was too amazed to listen further.
"What is that you say, Franz?"
The young man kissed the Baroness's hand.
"Acting without your leave or consent--I thought so," he said. "I would
have staked my life on it that you would permit no such infamy." Seeing
the Baroness's questioning eyes focused on his, he explained:
An hour before the War Lord left the Director-General had sent for
him--"to explain certain technical details," ran the message. He had to
wait a considerable time in the ante-room of the conference chamber
before being admitted, and while there could not help overhearing what
was going on inside, as the War Lord was arguing in drill-ground
accents.
This was the gist of his peroration, defended with consummate sophistry:
It was a crime against the Fatherland to supply possible enemies with
arms that at one time or another might be used against the War Lord's
Majesty. That sort of thing--treason, to call it by its proper
name--had been permitted long enough, too long, in fact; and now that
the life-long defender of misguided business honesty had been removed by
God's Hand--G-o-d-'s H-a-n-d--there must be an end of it. He (the War
Lord), ever on guard against the Fatherland's enemies, had instructed
his scientists to discover a substitute for hard steel with which to
line enemy guns and armour. These substitutes were forthwith to be
experimented with, and, if the results were satisfactory, must be
employed, instead of the real steel, whenever the War Lord so directs.
"And Frederick hardly cold in his shroud!" gasped the Baroness.
"But you," cried Franz, "you can prevent this fraud, this disgrace! You
must, you will, I am sure of it!"
The Baroness had risen and stared vacantly into the fire.
"God punish me if I would hesitate a moment to do as honour dictates,
Franz, but Frederick Krupp left his widow bound hand and foot," she
replied bitterly.
"You mean to say that you submit to the power-drunk War Lord? Abdicate
your sacred trust? Make your children and your workpeople accomplices
of fraudulent practices?"
"Haven't you heard about the stipulations which were made in your Uncle
Frederick's last will and testament?"
"Not a word," replied Franz.
"I thought Bertha would tell you."
"I was busy all the afternoon, and then came the Director-General's
order, which prevented me from saying good night to the children."
"Sit down then and listen," said the Baroness. "As Uncle Frederick often
told you, the War Lord has tried for years to obtain control of the
Krupp works. In particular he was for ever preaching against the policy
of business integrity, the proudest of the Krupp inheritances; but
though my husband allowed himself to be dominated by him in many
respects, in this, the Krupp honesty, he remained adamant, partly thanks
to my advice and strenuous opposition, I dare say. Up to now the Krupps
have never played any government false, as you know."
"But, Uncle Frederick dead, the War Lord is moving heaven and earth to
flog the firm into submission." There was suppressed rage in the tone
of the young man's voice.
"Let me finish," demanded the Baroness. "Convinced that I would refuse
to be the tool of his ambition, the War Lord persuaded your Uncle to
ignore me as his legitimate successor, and the testament appoints Bertha
sole heir and, again ignoring me, the War Lord her guardian and
executor."
"_Gott!_" cried Franz.
The Baroness went on: "His position as supreme overlord of the Krupp
business he made perfectly clear to us."
"Us? You mean the heads of the business?"
"I referred to the child and myself. He talked to the directors
afterwards." The discrowned Cannon Queen told Franz the story of the
Imperial interview. "He is the master," she said in conclusion, "Bertha
his pawn, myself nobody."
"And we, the heads of the business, and our workmen, his slaves," added
the chief electrician gloomily.
These two people, suddenly confronted by the unexpected--a wife shorn of
her rights and wounded in her holiest maternal sentiments; an honest man
commandeered to debase his genius and become an accessory to murder most
foul--sat for a while in silence, brooding over their misfortune and the
disasters threatening mankind as a consequence.
At last the Baroness roused herself. "And what did they want with you
at the conference, Franz?"
"I was admitted after the War Lord had left to be closeted with the
Director-General," replied the engineer, "and the directors seemed to me
extraordinarily perturbed--far more than the master's death warrants
among equals. Herr Braun acted as spokesman. He said the War Lord
wanted the firm to experiment with a new steel lining for guns intended
for foreign countries.
"'Foreign countries! What does that mean?' I asked, as if I had not
been an involuntary listener to the War Lord's speech.
"'Majesty's orders--it behoves subjects to obey, not to ask questions,'
said Herr Braun, with unusual severity. 'To the point, sir, acting upon
the War Lord's orders to entrust the business to expert hands, we have
decided to turn over the job to you.'"
Franz stopped short, then burst out: "What am I doing, Frau Krupp? You
just told me that you are not the head of the firm, and I am about to
reveal matters of the gravest importance confided to my keeping. I made
a mistake--I was led away by filial reverence for my benefactor's widow.
Pray forget what I have said."
Franz was about to withdraw, when a voice outside called: "Mamma, can I
come in?"
"You said good night once. I thought you were in bed and asleep,
Bertha."
The door opened, and a hand rustled the portieres.
"Are you alone?"
"Only Franz."
"Oh!"
Bertha's blonde head thrust itself through the centre of the curtains,
while she paused on the threshold. Then a naked foot in a blue velvet
slipper with a golden heel: a vision in floating white rushed in and
nestled childishly at the Baroness's feet.
"Howdy, Franz?" said Bertha, drawing her kimono tighter over her bosom.
And to her mother: "I couldn't sleep after what Uncle Majesty told us
to-night. So I came down. You are not angry, Mamma? Don't scold,
Mamma," she added, observing her mother's stern face.
Frau Krupp patted the child's head. "Fate!" she said to Franz.
"_Voila_, the head of the Krupp firm. Continue."
The engineer bowed. "With your permission, my chief," he said,
addressing Bertha.
"Anything you please, you big booby," laughed the child. Then,
seriously: "I am your chief, indeed I am. Think of bossing a big chap
like you and that arrogant Herr Braun, too!" She motioned Franz to bend
down, and whispered in his ear, "Wouldn't it be fun to sack him?"
"No nonsense, child, if you want to stay up," Frau Krupp was very much
in earnest, and to Franz she said: "Go on; I am impatient to hear the
rest."
"I was telling your mother about some business Herr Braun wants to
entrust me with," explained Franz, looking at the child.
"How very interesting," yawned Bertha; "but you can't get me to listen.
Ah, there, I see one of Barbara's dolls. I will play with it till you
get through; then supper. I didn't eat dinner with Fraulein," she
added, looking at her mother, "and there's such a goneness here,"
touching her abdomen. The greatest force for destruction in the world,
yet a child to all intents and purposes!
"Proceed," said the Baroness to Franz.
"With the chief's permission," began Franz formally; then, as if trying
to make his disclosure as indefinite as possible: "You heard about the
order from King Leopold, secured by the War-Lord's Brussels ambassador?"
The Baroness nodded, and Bertha took her eyes momentarily from her
plaything. "Big, big guns," she said, describing a circle in the air by
turning the doll's arm and hand round and round; "my apanage, poor Papa
said. Glad you reminded me. I must tell Herr Braun about it. All the
profits are to go to my children's hospital." She sat the doll astride
her knee, bobbing her up and down, then burst out laughing. "See that
head-dress, Franz, and her gown and apron--the Belgian colours. Looks
like a coincidence, doesn't it?"
Bertha embraced the doll tenderly. "Thank your King for me, Dolly. The
more guns he orders, the better for our little children here. German
interests first," laughed Bertha, looking up. "Uncle Majesty told me so
ever so often."
The "Germany-above-all" spirit, spelling moral and physical
ruthlessness, spoke out of the child. The Fatherland first, second and
third; perdition for the rest of the world, if Germany's interests be
served thereby!
Whether the heiress had an inkling of what the War Lord really intended,
it is impossible to decide; neither can there be any positive knowledge
as to the attitude she might have assumed if, perchance, she did
understand Franz's pregnant words.
Pupil of the War Lord, firmly believing in his preachings, saturated
with his theories, and over-awed by his claims of Divine mission, his
vapourings were gospel to her, and "Germany-above-all" was one of the
commandments, even though it conflicted with all the others.
A monstrous case of _folie a deux_, "deux" standing for the German
nation. Here we have a man decked out in ornate regimentals travelling
about his country telling four millions of men: "You must die for Me,"
and immediately each man says to his wife: "I wonder if there is a
special heaven for patriots like your husband?"
And to a certain class of persons he points out that science is but the
handmaiden of wholesale murder, and that they must employ their
God-given inventive genius, all their brains, all their time, to devise
new ways and means for killing as many men, women and children as there
are in the world outside of the German Empire. And they do.
And to a woman he says: "You were born to suffer. Give me your husband;
I want him for the fighting." And she forthwith tells her man to make
one more for the shambles.
And to the golden-haired girl he says: "A truce to your vanity, off with
your locks, that I may buy more rifles; and your lover I want, too. His
manly breast will make an excellent scabbard for a French or Russian
lance."
And the golden-haired one raves that she is thrice happy to be allowed
to sacrifice her beauty and the idol of her dreams for the War Lord.
"I want your fathers," he says to a playground full of children, "and
your uncles and big brothers and cousins." And the little ones cry:
"Hurrah! Long live the Emperor!"
"Would ye live for ever?" he queries of men between fifty and
sixty-five. "To the barracks with you, even if you are but good for
cannon fodder."
Someone tells him of a bunch of boys playing marbles in an alley; not
one of them has finished his education. The War Lord examines them
critically and sniffs. "You are big enough to stop a bullet somehow,"
he allows, and they are led to slaughter.
The All Highest looks upon the earth and boasts of his winged legions of
man-killers. He declaims that Englishmen and Frenchmen and Italians and
Belgians have turned out to fight God's Anointed; but adds with a sly
smile they left their women at home and their brood, that he may
out-Herod Herod. In his mind he feels the earth trembling under the
heavy tread of his armed millions and the weight of his artillery.
This Dancing Dervish of universal slaughter, this man given over to
murder-lust is the object of veneration not only of those whom he
addresses in person, because of their mistaken sense of duty and
patriotism; a whole nation, seventy millions strong, acclaim him
Saviour--Messiah of the Fatherland's destinies.
One can understand individual sacrifice, but seventy millions of people,
every mother's son and daughter, turning beasts of prey! It baffles
psychological speculation. Everywhere the "Evangelium of German
superdom," as the War Lord sees it, is loud.
Small wonder Bertha, born of man-killer stock and suckled on the breasts
of militarism, which nourished her kith and kin and their hundreds of
thousands of dependents, believes unconditionally in the doctrines
pronounced by her godfather, to her the God-head of power infinite,
omniscience incarnate!
Hence the implied rebuke to Franz: "German interests first." After that
she returned to the nursery--her Belgian doll.
Frau Krupp looked significantly at Franz. "You were going to say----
"My orders are to experiment with the War Lord's new formula for steel
on those guns for Liege."
Franz buried his head in his hands, elbows planted on knees, leaning
forward heavily, while the Baroness sat looking at him, her nimble mind
weighing the pros and cons. At last she reached out a hand and touched
the young man's shoulder.
"Franz," she said solemnly.
The young man's head shot up and he stared at Frau Krupp as if she was a
ghost. Answering the question in her eyes, he almost shouted, "Never!"
holding up his right hand as if under oath.
The Baroness placed his hand on Bertha's head. "Swear that you will
stand by this child."
"I swear, with all my heart, so help me, God," pronounced Franz, with
severe emphasis.
A peculiar look came into the Baroness's eyes, half satisfied, half
cunning, as with a sort of imperious finality she said: "It is well."
Then, turning to the child: "Bertha, run along now and tell them to
serve in the small dining-room in five minutes."
"Make it ten, Mamma, so I can put on my new _negligee_."
"All right, ten; but hurry," agreed Frau Krupp, looking at the pendule.
When the curtain had fallen behind Bertha the Baroness turned a white,
severe face upon Franz. Then, abandoning all pretence of loyalty to the
Grand War Lord, she told the terrible secrets long locked in her bosom,
secrets imparted by her late husband or gathered from his lips during
long, sleepless nights while he tossed on his pillow.
"It's the Frankenstein we have to fight," she said, "the pitiless,
heartless, soul-less Evil One, intent upon setting the world afire
through my child's inheritance. The plotting has been going on ever
since the crowned monster was enthroned. Almost the first communication
he made to Frederick, as head of the Empire, was: 'Now we must bend all
energies to get ready. And when we are, I will set my foot upon the
neck of the universe, Charlemagne redivivus!'
"Previous to that, Frederick and myself had agreed gradually to drop
cannon- and ammunition-making. The Krupps were to create, instead of
facilitating destruction. No longer was Essen to be a place upon which
a merciful God looked with abhorrence. Engines of death had made us
rich and powerful; henceforth the coined results of war were to be
employed to make waste land arable, to drain morasses, to dig canals, to
prosecute every peaceful endeavour promising to enhance the German
people's chances of happiness and prosperity. The old saw of turning
swords into ploughshares was to be enacted by the firm that had made war
thrice deadly. Then the tempter came. 'I rely upon you, Frederick!
You are the Fatherland's only hope, for Germany can achieve its
destinies only through blood and iron.'
"'One more supreme effort, Frederick, then the War Lord will turn
husbandman, making you manager-general of his great farm stretching from
the Arctic Circle to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic to Siberia.'
"As you know, the War Lord is an insinuating talker," continued Frau
Krupp, "and his autocratic manner, enhanced by occasional flurries of
condescension and persuading Frederick to join in his social
relaxations. Ah!" she cried, striking the table with her hand, "it was
these that forged the bullet which killed my husband!"
There was a shrill tone of rage and defiance in the last words. Then
emotion mastered Frau Krupp's strength. She tottered, swayed, and would
have fallen had not Franz caught her. He knew what she had suffered
through her husband's intimacy with the War Lord and his cronies, and
shuddered.
"Mother," he said unconsciously, as her head touched his breast. The
Baroness let it rest there a moment; here was a tower of strength, of
reserve force.
"Alas!" she continued, after a tense silence, "in the long run they
ensnared Frederick. He succumbed to their ensnaring wiles as a foolish
man might to the flatteries of a flirt. My counsel was no longer
sought; the promises he had made--which I had exacted in happier
days--were forgotten or denied. The very ploughs and ploughshares we
were manufacturing then were thrown into the melting-pot for guns."
She picked up a book lying on the mantel. "'Vital Statistics of the
German Empire,'" she read aloud; "'Steady Increase of Population.'" She
flung the volume on the hearth. "Multiply like the Biblical sands; it
only means that Essen works the harder to put you under the sod."
Frau Krupp dropped her voice and went on in a whisper: "Do you
understand now what your threatened retirement would mean? It would
mean that, excepting France and Great Britain, the whole of the world,
all the smaller nations, would be practically at the War Lord's mercy,
because their guns wouldn't shoot, their swords and lances wouldn't
pierce.
"Such is the goal he has been striving for, the goal he wants to attain
through my little girl. 'Have them all inadequately armed, and it will
be a walk-over for German arms,' he calculates."
"And how can I prevent the world's debacle?"
"By fighting fire with fire. You cannot fight the War Lord
openly--pretend obedience, fall in with his plans apparently, be an
enthusiastic faker, as far as he can see; but don't smirch my little
girl's business honour and submerge the world under a tidal wave of
blood by making other nations defenceless. I have your promise, Franz?"
"It's a vast prospect," answered the young engineer, "but I have sworn
to stand by Bertha----"
"I thank you," said the Baroness, as the portieres were noisily pushed
aside and a child's voice cried: "Supper's ready."
*CHAPTER IV*
*BERTHA KRUPP, WAR LADY, ASSERTS HERSELF*
Science Steps In--Franz Incurs the Kaiser's Wrath
Six months of feverish activity in the Essen works, of tests and
measuring velocities, of experimenting with ingots, hardening processes,
chilled iron castings and compound steel--who knows or cares for the
technique of murder machinery save generals of the staff? As Mark Twain
at one time labelled a book, "There is no weather in this," so the
present author will not burden his pages with figures and statistics of
any sort. It would be a tantalising undertaking at best, for the War
Lord himself was directing, and insisted that his every misunderstood,
mis-stated and often wholly untenable whim be immediately gratified by
the ready servility of Krupp employes--"his people."
Up to the time under discussion the Emperor Wilhelm had devoted nearly
all his energies to drill, political intrigue and uttering platitudes.
To dabble in formulary details, with nobody to dispute his opinion or
correct his errors, flattered him in the proportion as his judgment
about ordnance construction became more and more fantastic.
He was always going about with a half-dozen professors at his heels,
losing no opportunity of propounding nebulous and remarkable theories to
their startled but complaisant ears.
At the beginning of the present century the German professor was a
hundred years behind the times in his dress, manners and social habits.
The German Punch had rudely caricatured him into a new habitat, where
soap and water, clean collars, unfrayed trousers and non-Cromwellian
headgear held sway. Up to that period, he had bathed occasionally, had
curled his hair now and then, and thereafter relapsed into that state of
slovenliness which is labelled scientific preoccupation by the German
mob, and stands in awe of learning, be it ever so badly digested and
wrongfully applied.
The War Lord had an English mother; he is a Barbarian fond of the tub.
He perceived that professors might be made useful to him. But how make
them presentable?
A visit to England gave him the clue.
And forthwith the new order of Court dress was launched: short clothes
and pumps, silk stockings and jabot-shirts; and the official Press
rudely informed those "entitled to the uniform" that bathing was
imperative before getting into it.
The brotherhood of science furthermore received hints to patronise the
War Lord's own barber in regard to their flowing beards. "But Admiral
von Tirpitz wears a forked beard too," pleaded some. "No precedent,
Herr Professor, his Excellency has Majesty's special permit!"
With the superfluous hair, the professors likewise had to shed their
accustomed hyperbole.
"Don't speak until spoken to." "Answer in as few informatory words as
can be managed." "Invariably make your answer meet the Imperial
wishes." "Never contradict," were the Grand Master's instructions, and
the scientific men abiding by them soon found themselves in clover,
because they were "useful," while the rest were discarded.
In particular, experts in chemistry were exploited by the War Lord.
"They must help to feed my army and people"--in case war lasts longer
than expected. "They must invent new weapons of destruction"--for while
powder and lead are well enough in their way, they do not spell the end
of things.
German scientific men are very fond of power and have an enormous idea
of their own importance, but their notions are subject to fits of
extravagant humility if policy, or personal advantage, can be served by
Uriah Heepisms. The keener ones in the Imperial entourage found that it
would pay to cater to the mobility in the War Lord's ideas while there
was a certain degree of logic. And if, perchance, he happened to drop
into incoherency or extravagance, was it the professor's business to set
him right? Court usage registered an emphatic negative.
Such were the beginnings of the partnership between War Lordism and the
perversion of German science into an instrument of destruction. "Science
to the rescue of the lame and halt"--an out-of-date notion. Science
makes them by the hundreds of thousands.
The professors were powerful assistants to the War Lord in maintaining
his grip on the Krupp throat and acquiring further business concessions
from the firm; but, of course, as to realising the technical chimeras of
the War Lord's mind with respect to new-fangled war machinery, there was
more pretence than activity, for dividends had to be considered, and the
War Lord would have been the first to make an outcry if his earnings
were reduced by the fraction of a per cent.
Franz maintained his position as chief experimenter, and, his expert
judgment in gunmaking as well as in electricity being unquestioned, he
was able openly to frustrate some of the War Lord's most bloodthirsty
plans by proving them impracticable to the satisfaction of the board of
directors, which put a stop to their execution for the time at least.
"Uncle Majesty is very wroth with you," said Bertha to her relative one
evening, when the War Lord had returned to Berlin after one of his
unofficial visits to the Ruhr metropolis. He was in the habit of coming
to Essen every little while now, unheralded and incog. Likewise in
mufti; and what discarding of regimentals and associated fripperies
meant to him few people can imagine.
His uniforms are built to make him appear taller and more imposing,
while affording a ready background for all sorts of decorative
material--ribbons, scarfs, stars, crosses and medals galore.
"Wroth with me?" queried Franz.
"Yes, with you," replied the child; "and I heard him dictate a long
letter, giving you a terrible talking to. I just signed it," added
Bertha with a satisfied grin.
"And why am I hauled over the coals?" asked Franz.
"I'm sure I don't know," replied the child. "'One of the things little
girls cannot understand,' said Uncle Majesty. But I do know that you
must--I said _must_--not do it again. I won't let you, do you hear? I
mean Uncle Majesty won't."
Franz raised his hat and knocked his heels together, military fashion.
He was about to withdraw when Bertha caught him by the arm. "You are
not angry with me, Franz?" she pleaded.
"No, my chief."
"Say 'no, _liebe_ Bertha.'"
"No, _liebe_ Bertha."
At this moment a messenger caught up with the two young people on the
road to Villa Huegel and handed Franz an official-looking envelope. The
engineer looked inquiringly at Bertha. "May I?"
Instead of answer the Krupp heiress picked up her skirts with both hands
and ran towards the house.
Her letter informed Franz that the task of completing the Belgian guns
had been entrusted to other hands. Secondly, that, in future,
communications about experiments ordered by the War Lord must be
addressed to the heiress direct, not to the board of directors.
*CHAPTER V*
*HOW THE WAR LADY WAS CAJOLED*
An Intoxication of Vanity--Barbara's Plain Words--A Shameful
Memory
The Imperial Chief-Court-and-House Marshal, Count Eulenburg, has
the honour to command Fraulein Bertha Krupp to attend upon their
Imperial and Royal Majesties, His Majesty the Emperor and King,
and Her Majesty the Empress and Queen, during the Christmas and
New Year's festivities at the Schloss, Berlin.
A royal equipage will await Fraulein Krupp's pleasure at the
station, meeting the early morning train of December 22nd.
_Dress_: Silks, Velvets and Laces.
_Attendance_: Wardrobe mistress and maid; A footman.
The invitation, copperplated on an immense sheet of rather cheap paper
and sent through the mail free, created much excitement in Villa Huegel,
the more so as it was wholly unexpected, the War Lord never having
intimated that an honour of that kind was in store for his godchild.
In the meantime Bertha had risen to the dignity of opening her own
letters and using her discretion as to divulging their contents, or not,
as she saw fit, or rather as the War Lord saw fit. This was strictly
opposed to native custom; but isn't the King above the law? And certain
reports, such as those ordered to be addressed to Bertha direct--Franz's
for instance--All-Highest wouldn't have communicated to any save
himself, not even to Frau Krupp. Hence his command that the Krupp
heiress keep her own counsel in regard to her correspondence.
Bertha broke the great seal of the Court Marshal's office and her eyes
became luminous as she read the printed words and angular script. She
sat staring at the latter for a minute or two, while the Baroness,
chafing under her impotency, pretended to be busy with an orange.
Finally Barbara tiptoed behind her sister's chair and looked over her
shoulder. The fourteen-year-old girl being well up in Court
lore--having seen dozens of such letters addressed to her late
father--applied herself to the essentials, skipping the merely
decorative lines.
"Christmas and New Year's festivities at the _Schloss_, Berlin," she
read aloud. Then higher up: "Fraulein Bertha Krupp."
"Oh, Mamma!" she cried, "we are not invited, you and I. Isn't that mean
of Uncle Majesty?" She stamped her foot. "But he shan't kiss me when
he comes again--see if I let him kiss me."
"Hold your tongue, naughty child."
Bertha spoke with an air of unwonted authority. She folded up her
letter.
"Just see how high and mighty we are!" mimicked Barbara. "'Naughty
child,' and what are you? I shouldn't wonder if Uncle Majesty spanked
you sometimes, when you are alone with him; you always come away full of
humility to him and of arro--arro--" (she couldn't find the word) "the
other thing to us--to Mamma and me, I mean."
The Baroness put out her arm as if she expected the children to resort
to fisticuffs. "Barbara," she called half pleadingly.
"She will go to her room," insisted Bertha, ringing. The butler
responded so promptly that there was no doubt he had been listening
behind the portieres.
"Fraulein Barbara's governess," Bertha ordered. And as the man was
going out: "My secretary shall report at once in my council room."
"Are you mad?" cried Frau Krupp, when the curtains had dropped behind
the servant. Bertha seemed so unlike herself--unlike what her child
ought to be.
The Krupp heiress disdained to answer.
"Since I am to be their Imperial and Royal Majesties' guest, I must
prepare for the honour," she deigned after a little while; "in half an
hour I'll leave for Cologne. You may accompany me, if you like,
Mother."
The Baroness grew white under the lash of Bertha's patronising tone.
"You shall not go," she said hotly.
"If you will come to the council room you can see in black and white my
authority to go where and when I please," replied Bertha, going out.
Barbara and her mother looked at each other in blank amazement, the
child not understanding, the mother understanding but too well. Bertha
was lost to her; the supreme egotist had gained a strangle-hold on her
flesh and blood.
With the strange intuition that often moves children to do the right
thing at the right time when grown-ups are at their wits' end, Barbara
seemed to divine what passed in her mother's mind and, burying her face
in the Baroness's lap, she sobbed out convulsively words of consolation,
of endearment and unbounded affection. Frau Krupp bent over the child's
head and kissed her again and again. "My little girl, my Barbara, won't
discard Mother, will she?" she said in broken tones.
"Not for ten thousand Uncle Majesties," cried Barbara fiercely; and, as
if the words had freed her from a spell, she rose of a sudden and
planted herself in front of Frau Krupp.
"---- Uncle Majesty," she said, clenching her little fists.
Then, overcome by her breach of the conventions, she ran out of the room
and into the arms of her governess.
Frau Krupp would not have had the heart to scold Barbara even if she had
not run away. "---- him!"--her own sentiments. With such reflections
she leaned back in her great arm-chair, undecided whether she should
follow Bertha to the council room or not. Her motherly dignity said
"No," while anxiety for her child urged her to go to her.
"To think of him playing the bully in my own house," she deliberated;
"the coward, setting a child against her mother! But I know what it's
done for. He wants her like wax in his hand--the hand getting ready to
choke the world into submission."
The butler entered with soft step.
"Fraulein begs to say that she will leave for Cologne at 10.30 sharp,
and she desires your ladyship to get ready."
"Thank you, my maid shall lay out the new black silk costume. Did you
order the horses?"
"Fraulein's secretary is attending to everything," said the butler in a
hurt voice. "I don't know by what authority he assumes my duties," he
added.
"He shall not do so again, Christian," promised the Baroness.
Three hours later Frau Krupp and Bertha were going the rounds of
Cologne's most exclusive shops. The Hochstrasse is too narrow to permit
the use of a carriage; the ladies were followed, then, by a train of
commissionaires laden with boxes, for Bertha was buying everything in
the line of frocks, costumes and millinery that was pretty and
expensive. Consult her mother? Not a bit of it. The Court Marshal's
instructions were silk, velvet, laces; nothing else mattered.
The shopkeepers, of course, knew Frau Krupp; they had known Bertha
familiarly ever since she was in short frocks. The girl of seventeen
had blossomed into the richest heiress of the world, yet it would have
been almost indecent not to consider the elder woman first.
So the best chair was pushed forward for the Baroness, and man-milliners
and _mannequins_ fell over each other trying to win her applause for the
goods offered. The widow of the Ironmaster smiled and talked vaguely
about their merits, but announced that Bertha was to do her own
choosing.
Bertha went about her task like an inexperienced country lass suddenly
fallen into a pot of money. The girl seemed to be working under a sense
of assertiveness, tempered by responsibility to a higher power. That
higher power regarded her mother of no consequence. Though of a
naturally dutiful and kindly nature, Bertha assumed an air of
independence unbecoming to so young a woman.
Indeed her want of respect was of a piece with her "Uncle Majesty's"
behaviour in a little Italian town, when his father lay dying there.
The War Lord, then a junior Prince, had crossed the Alps as the
representative of his grandsire, head of the State, and instantly
presumed to lord over his mother, who was the Princess Royal of an
Empire, compared with which his own patrimony is a petty _Seigneurie_.
He arrived on a Saturday night, and at once ordered divine service for
seven o'clock next morning, an hour suiting his restlessness and most
unsuited to his parent, worn out with night vigils and anxieties.
However, to humour him, and also to gain more time to spend with her
ailing husband, the Imperial Mother acquiesced in the arrangement; but
imagine her surprise when in the morning she learned at the last moment
that, at her son's behest, the House Marshal had not provided carriages
as usual, and that she was expected to walk three-quarters of a mile to
the chapel.
Meanwhile the official procession of church-goers had started. At the
head a platoon of cuirassiers, followed by the Prince's Marshal and
staff. Next, his adjutants and a deputation of officers from his
regiment; his personal servants in gala livery; finally, himself,
walking alone, the observed of all observers.
The father's own household was commanded to fall behind. So were his
mother and sisters; the Prince was not at all interested in them. His
Royal Mother might lean on the arm of a footman for all he cared.
Here we have an exaggeration of the most repulsive traits of egotism,
self-indulgence, callousness, coarseness, cruelty and deceitfulness,
for, as intimated, Wilhelm had been careful to keep his parent in
ignorance of the affront to be put upon her.
Small wonder that a person so constituted, having vested himself with
full charge of a girl's soul and mind as she approached mental and
physical puberty, upset her filial equilibrium, while her actions
reflected the impress of his own arrogance.
*CHAPTER VI*
*FRAULEIN KRUPP INVITED TO COURT*
The Virtue of a Defect--Bertha's Reception--A Disappointment
There is a streak of malignity in the best of women. Maybe the younger
girl has nothing but praise for another a few years her senior, but she
will add that naturally "age" inspires respect. Helen has the most
beauteous eyes, the daintiest figure, the most transparent complexion,
the softest colour, the most exquisite feet, the sweetest smile and the
most delightful air of superiority, and when her friend tenders her a
box at the Play she will invite some girl conspicuously deficient in
most of these excellences--human nature, or just plain, ordinary
devilry. So Bertha's mother took a sort of grim satisfaction in the
poor taste Bertha displayed in selecting her Court gowns.
"He taught her to ignore her mother even in matters of dress; serves him
right if her appearance jars on his sense of beauty," she said to
herself more than once when superintending the packing of Bertha's many
trunks.
The Baroness had never visited the Berlin Court, and her conception of
its splendours resided in her own imagination.
As a matter of fact, the Berlin Court is the home of bad taste; plenty
of fine shoulders, but draped with ugly and inappropriate material. Some
few _petite_ feet against an overwhelming majority too large and
clumsily shod. Some fine arms and hands, since such are subjects of the
War-Lord's appreciation, but faces broad, plain and uninteresting.
The taste of a man who allows his wife to keep a bow-legged attendant is
necessarily deplorable; a king permitting that sort of thing, despite
prevailing fashions, is inexcusable.
An anecdote in point.
When, in the 'nineties, the Medical Congress sat in Berlin, the learned
gentlemen were commanded to a reception at the Palace, and in their
honour the whole contingent of Court beauties was put on exhibition.
"Did you ever see an uglier lot of women?" asked a Russian professor
afterwards, addressing a table full of colleagues. All shook their
heads sadly, depressed by the remembrance of what they had witnessed.
Into this _milieu_ of hallowed ugliness and organised _ennui_ dropped
the Krupp heiress like a pink-cheeked apple among a lot of windfalls.
As we know, she was not pretty from the stand-point of the
English-speaking races. Her complexion was good, but it lacked the
Scottish maid's transparency; her hair was fair to look upon, but there
are a thousand English girls travelling on the Underground daily whose
glossy tresses are to be preferred; her figure was a little too full,
like that of Jerome Napoleon's Queen, Catherine of Wuertemberg, whose
finely chiselled bosoms scandalised the Tuileries when she was scarcely
sixteen. She had the heavy gait of the German woman, and the vocabulary
of them all: "_Oh Himmel_," "_Ach Gott_," "_Verdammt_," and so forth, a
dreadful inheritance, which even the "Semiramis of the North" could not
shake off after fifty and more years' residence in Imperial Russia.
Her Majesty's maid of honour, Countess von Bassewitz, went to the
station with Count Keller, a minor gold stick, to receive and welcome
Bertha. Bassewitz was young and pretty--"the only happy isle in an ocean
of inelegancy," as Duke Gonthier of Schleswig used to say. Her sole
perceptible defect was indifferent hands, but, strange to say, this very
blemish got her the position at Court.
The War Lord had declared that he wouldn't have more of the "hideous
baggage" (meaning Her Majesty's ladies) that "made his house a
nightmare," and that the next Dame du Palais to be appointed was to be
good-looking, or must wear a bell, so that he could keep out of her way.
His Queen, who regards all women through the jaundiced lorgnette of
jealousy, was in despair. In her mind's eye she saw the Schloss peopled
with Pompadours, Du Barrys and Dianes de Poitiers.
The War Lord had instructed the Court Marshal to demand photographs of
applicants for the vacant post, and Countess von Bassewitz's he
considered the most promising. "Wire her to report to-morrow morning at
eight," he ordered. She arrived while the War Lord was busy lecturing
his Council of Ministers on international law, and Her Majesty saw the
candidate first. She couldn't help admitting to herself that Ina was
comely in the extreme, and that it would require a vast deal of intrigue
to induce her husband not to appoint the young girl forthwith. Then a
happy thought struck her. "You may remove your gloves," she said
condescendingly.
Countess Ina blushed and grew pale in turn; conscious of her weak point,
she was afraid it would work her undoing.
But, instead, Her Majesty smiled benignly upon those unlovely hands.
"His Majesty!" announced the valet de chambre.
"Be gloved, my child; hurry."
The War Lord didn't know what to make of it when "Dona" approved of his
selection.
"She is mysteriously confiding," he said to his crony, Maxchen (the
Prince of Fuerstenberg). But he changed his mind when, a week or two
later, he had induced Ina to take off her gloves in his presence.
The War Lord had instructed Bassewitz and Keller to treat Bertha "like a
raw egg," saying: "Her income is bigger per minute than that of all you
Prussian Junkers per annum"--a gratuitous slap, the more ungenerous
since the old Kings of Prussia gobbled up a goodly part of their landed
possessions, as Bismarck once pointed out to Frederick William IV.
Berlin pomp and circumstance! Three flags, paper flowers on lanterns, a
much-worn red carpet leading from the spot where Bertha's saloon
carriage was to draw up to the royal reception room in the station.
As Bertha, though Grand-Lady-Armouress-of-the-World, has no place in the
Army List, she must be content with walking through lines of royal
footmen in black and silver, on which account the War Lord sincerely
pitied the girl. "Twenty marks for a precedent to endow her with a
uniform," but even the obsequious Eulenburg failed to discover an
excuse.
Inside the Royal waiting-room: red-plush furniture, with covers removed,
in garish glory; a bouquet of flowers from the Potsdam hothouses; a
silver teapot steaming; on a silver platter four bits of pastry, one for
each person and one over to show that we are not at all niggardly--oh,
dear, no!
The stationmaster enters in some kind of uniform, a cocked and plumed
hat above a red face, toy sword on thigh. "The train is about to draw
into the station, Herr Graf, and may it please Her Ladyship."
Countess von Bassewitz starts for the door. "One moment, pray,"
admonishes gold stick, "the noblesse doesn't run its feet off to greet a
commoner even if she is laden with money."
Courtiers suit their vocabulary to their lord and master. Countess
Bassewitz is young and hearty. Never before had she reflected on the sad
fact that Bertha lacked birth, but now that a gold stick had mentioned
it, a mere maid of honour must needs bow to superior judgment.
So the richest girl in the world was left standing in the doorway of her
saloon carriage for a good half-minute before their Majesties' titled
servants deigned to approach. "Will take some of the purse-pride out of
her," observed Count Keller.
Then, hat in hand and held aloft, three bows, well measured, not too
low, for high-born personages' privileges must not be encroached upon.
"Aham, Aham" (several courtly grunts, supposed to be exquisitely
_recherche_), "Fraulein Krupp, I have the honour--Count Keller--Countess
von Bassewitz, dame to Her Majesty. Had a pleasant journey I hope,"
delivered in nasal accents. In Germany, you must know, it is considered
most aristocratic to trumpet one's speech through the nose after the
fashion of bad French tenors chanting arias.
Countess von Bassewitz, amiable and enthusiastic, spouted genuine
civilities. "Fraulein looks charming!" "What a pretty frock!" "I will
show you all around the shops," and more compliments and promises of
that kind.
Childlike, Bertha had expected a coach-and-four. Another disappointment!
The carriage at the royal entrance was of the most ordinary kind--a
landau and pair of blacks, such as are driven about Berlin by the dozen.
"If you please," said Count Keller, bowing her into the coach. She
planted herself boldly in the right-hand corner, facing the horses.
Bassewitz looked horror-stricken at the heiress's cool assumption of the
gold stick's place, and to smooth him over attempted to take the rear
seat; but Bertha pulled her to her side. "Don't leave me," she
whispered, with a look upon the ruffled face of the Count, who marvelled
that there was no earthquake or rain of meteors because he was obliged
to ride backwards, with a "mechanic's daughter" in the seat of honour.
*CHAPTER VII*
*IN THE CROWN PRINCE'S PRIVATE ROOM*
A Talk with the Crown Prince--Matrimonial Affairs--Bertha
Discussed--The Empress and Her Sons
The War Lord had not taken any notice of Frederick the Great's
injunction against "useless beggar princes." At the time of Bertha's
visit six of them, ranging from twenty-one to thirteen years of age,
were roaming the palace, and there was a little girl of eleven besides.
Only the eldest boy was provided for, by the Crown Prince's Endowment
Fund; the rest were booked to live by the grace of their father's
munificence and such moneys as could be squeezed out of the public in
the shape of military and administrative perquisites, unless they
contracted advantageous marriages; for while the Prussian allows himself
to be heavily taxed for the Civil List, that jolly institution, grants
for His Majesty's sisters, cousins and aunts has no place in his
catalogue of loyalty.
Talking one day to his heir, the War Lord broached the subject of a
money-marriage.
"But mother didn't have any money," the _bete noire_, Crown Prince
William, had the temerity to interpose.
"No cash, it's true; but our marriage quasi-legitimatised our
acquisition of Schleswig-Holstein, and those provinces are worth
something."
"Perhaps I had better marry Alexandra or Olga Cumberland," suggested
young William, "so that the possession of Hanover can no longer be
disputed. These girls have coin besides."
"Don't speak of them--there are reasons."
"Or a Hesse girl of the Electoral Branch."
"And turn Catholic like Princess Anna," cried the War Lord furiously.
"Shut up about that Danish baggage. I myself will get you a wife. Trust
father to find you the _comme il faut_ wife--_comme il faut_ in every
respect: politics, family, religion and personal attractiveness, for we
want no ugly women in our family."
The Crown Prince opened his mouth for a pert reply, but William
forestalled him by an imperious gesture.
"I am preparing a message for the Ministerial Council."
In the evening William invited his younger brothers--Eitel, Albert,
Augustus and Oscar--to his rooms, providing a bottle of beer and two
cigarettes per head. Having attained his majority and consequently
succeeded to the Dukedom of Oels, the Brunswick inheritance, he might
have offered the boys a real treat, champagne and tobacco _ad lib._, but
such would have been against Prussian tradition, which stands for
parsimony at home and display where it spells cheap glory.
"Joachim wanted to be of the party," said Augustus.
"And tell Mamma all--not if I know myself. It's time the kid was in bed
anyhow," said the Crown Prince with fine scorn, for Joachim was only
thirteen years old at the time.
"He will tell all the same," suggested Albert.
"And will get a thrashing for his pains. Besides, I shall withdraw my
allowance of three marks per week. Tell him so; that will settle the
mamma-child."
"He shall have it straight from the shoulder; you can rely on that, Duke
of Oels," said Eitel.
"Oels," repeated Eitel, "why didn't you inherit Sibyllenort too? The
idea, giving Sibyllenort to those sanctimonious Saxons."
"Rotten, to be sure. But old William was eccentric, you know, like his
brother, the Diamond Duke," said the Crown Prince.
"The Diamond Duke; wasn't he the chap who made some Swiss town erect him
a monument, omitting the proviso that it must not tumble down?" asked
Albert, who sets up as a scholar.
"Precisely so, and the monument is dust."
Prince William shook with laughter. "But that's not the question before
the house." Willy assumed the oratorical pose favoured by Herr
Liebknecht, the Socialist. "Boys," he continued, actually using the
German equivalent for the familiar term, "what do you think? Father
presumed to find me a wife--me!"
He repeated the personal pronoun three or four times with increasing
emphasis, while beating the board with his clenched fist--a very good
imitation of the War Lord himself.
"I am not beholden to him financially like you, not at all," cried the
Crown Prince. "He can keep his miserable fifteen thousand thalers per
annum.
"No," he added quickly, after reflection; "it will be the greater
punishment to take his money."
The Crown Prince continued: "And if father dares propose wife-finding
for _me_, what will he do to you, boys? If he has his way, you won't
marry the girl of your choice, but some political or military
possibility. There is only one way to prevent it," insisted the Crown
Prince. "We must all stand together, declaring our firm determination
to do our own wooing without interference from father. He will plead
politics, interests of the Fatherland. But for my part, I won't have
father impose a wife on me, even if the alliance gained us half of
Africa or Persia."
"And I won't marry a Schleswig," said Eitel.
"Nor I a Lippe, no matter how much Aunt Vicky cracks up Adolph's
family."
"Now then, all together," declaimed the Crown Prince. "We, Princes
Wilhelm, Eitel, Albert, Augustus and Oscar of Prussia, solemnly swear
not to have wives imposed upon us for reasons of State or politics,
father's threats, entreaties and personal interests notwithstanding."
The boys repeated the impromptu troth word for word. "Shake on that,"
said Wilhelm, holding out his hand. And the agreement was so ratified.
Then another round of beer on the Duke of Oels.
As the Princes were draining their _Seidels_--conspicuous for the emblem
of the Borussia Students' Club of Bonn University on the cover--a low
whistle was heard outside.
"The mater," whispered Oscar.
"Push the _Seidels_ into the centre," commanded the Crown Prince,
helping vigorously. He pushed a concealed button and the centre of the
table with its contents disappeared through an opening in the floor,
while another set with glasses of lemonade and cakes shot into its
place, the floor likewise filling up again.
The Princes were petrified with amazement. "Duplicate of the Barbarina
_table de confiance_," explained the big brother; "had it secretly
copied and installed without my Grand Master being the wiser."
This sort of table was invented by Frederick the Great for _tete-a-tete_
confidences with Barbarina, the famous Italian beauty.
The sight of the lemonade made the Empress radiant. "And I had been
told that you were up to all sorts of tricks," she said apologetically.
And to the Crown Prince: "I am so glad you are setting your younger
brothers a good example."
"Always, mother, always," vowed Wilhelm. "Believe me, if these boys were
as abstemious as I, they would save fortunes out of their lieutenant's
allowance."
"I came to prepare you for our visitor, Fraulein Bertha Krupp," began
the Empress.
"A mere kid, isn't she?" cried Eitel in his most blase air.
"Don't let your father hear that," said the Empress severely; and again
addressing the Crown Prince, she continued: "She is quite a young lady,
well educated and excellently well brought up. Father wants us all to be
particularly nice to his ward--treat her as one of the family."
"I say, mother," interrupted Eitel, "is there to be anything in the way
of a matrimonial alliance between a Hohenzollern and the granddaughter
of the Essen blacksmith? If so, mark me for the sacrifice. Judged by
her photos, Bertha is a bonnie girl, with plenty of life; wouldn't I
have a thousand and one uses for her money. To begin with, I would buy
myself a hundred saddle horses and a gold wrist-watch, such as English
officers wear, also a yacht."
"Not a word about _mesalliance_!" The Empress had grown red in the
face, and Eitel made haste to apologise. Putting his arm around his
mother's shoulders, he kissed her on the cheek and pleaded: "Mother,
fancy his Royal Highness, Prince Eitel Frederick of Prussia, marrying
anyone not of the blood royal! Of course I was joking. Just tell us,
Willy and me, what ought to be done about that little commoner due
to-morrow, and big brother and I will see to it that your commands are
obeyed to the letter." This with a threatening look upon the younger
boys.
"I thought father's injunction to treat her like one of the family would
suffice. It means that you must not let her see the gulf between such
as she is and Royalty. Show her the sights, but don't boast of anything
we've got. Father says she can duplicate the Schloss and Neues Palais,
all our palaces with all they contain, without considerable damage to
her purse."
"But if none of us is going to marry the little-big gold mine, and as
papa is her guardian and can do as he likes with Bertha, what's the use
of truckling to her?" asked Augustus, who has a logical mind.
The Empress who, as a rule, is not good at repartee, immediately replied
as if she had foreseen the question. As a matter of fact, the War Lord
had thoroughly coached her in what to say.
"Augustus," she replied, "of course your father's will is law with
Bertha as with everybody else; but in this case he would rather coax
than otherwise, for in a few years, you see, she will attain her
majority, and might insist upon taking the bit between her teeth, if in
the interval she had been driven too hard."
"Eminently correct," said the Crown Prince. "I endorse every word you
say, Mother, and if these youngsters don't want to understand they
needn't. They will be made to do as you suggest."
*CHAPTER VIII*
*STORIES OF COURT LIFE*
Musical Honours for Bertha--Bertha in a Temper--Luncheon at
Court--A Tantalizing Procedure--A British Experience
"Call out the guards when Fraulein Krupp drives up," 'phoned the War
Lord to the officer _du jour_ from the Council Room between writing a
treatise on a scrap-of-paper policy and making an outline of his speech,
"An Appeal to Royalism," later delivered at Koenigsberg.
To have fifty men under a lieutenant exercise their feet on a given spot
to the tune of fife and drum for the benefit of a person not born to the
purple seems to William the highest honour conferable, a delusion bred
by militarism. In the same spirit, the War Lord of Bismarck's time sent
his Chancellor the patent of lieutenant-general. "That won't buy me a
postage stamp," remarked Bismarck.
The Iron One would have preferred a pipe of tobacco, while his War Lord
went about for three days patting himself on the back for his act of
generosity and telling everybody within reach of the good fortune which,
thanks to his grace, had befallen Bismarck, "really a mere civilian."
Bertha was too young to see the absurdity of the gratuitous manoeuvre,
"the sausage intended to knock the side of bacon off the hook," as they
say in Hamburg. It cost the War Lord nothing, made healthy exercise for
the soldiers, and Bertha, still a child in experience and mode of
thought, was impressed when Count Keller, pricking up his ears at the
sound of the drum like an old army horse in a tinker's cart, shot out of
his seat, raised his hat and bowed low.
"Signal honour, upon word, Fraulein; unprecedented--almost," he added in
an undertone.
And Countess von Bassewitz, rolling her eyes in loyal ecstasy, squeezed
Bertha's arm. "Majesty must be exceeding fond of his godchild to treat
you like an equal--almost," she too added.
Drum and fife still made for ear-splitting discord when Count Keller
handed Bertha out of the carriage. His lordship, by the way, was now
congratulating himself on having been deprived of the seat of honour.
Small doubt, if he had taken it, it would have been reported to the War
Lord, and Majesty, bent on showering Royal honours on the commoner,
would have been furious.
Two lackeys at the door, more at the bottom of the stairs, still more on
the first landing--men-servants seem to be the only commodity lavishly
provided at the Berlin Court.
"_Kammerherr_, the Noble Lord von ----" (mentioning some Masurian
village) "commanded to the sublime honour--Fraulein Krupp's service"
(long intervals between half-sentences to show that the speaker was
really a Simon-pure Prussian aristocrat) "beg to submit--with Fraulein's
permission--I will conduct Fraulein to her apartments."
Bertha did not understand half the titled personage trumpeted in nasal
cacophony, but a word or two from little Bassewitz explained. Then
ceremonious leave-taking, as if it was for years; assurances of
"unexampled pleasure experienced," of "more in store," and "Majesty is
so graciously fond of Fraulein--she ought to be so happy"; in fact,
there wasn't a girl "in the wide, wide world so favoured," and more
polite fiction of the sort.
Up two flights of stairs; corridor thinly and shiningly carpeted;
electric bulbs few and far between. Ante-room, saloon and bedchamber.
In the first threadbare, red plush furniture. The bedchamber was hung
in cretonne of doubtful freshness.
"I trust Fraulein's slightest wishes are anticipated. Princess von
Itzenplitz last had these apartments, and was graciously pleased to
express her highest satisfaction," boasted the _kammerherr_.
Her Grace of Itzenplitz may have done so, but the richest girl in the
world was not inclined to put up with such third-class hotel
accommodation!
When the _kammerherr_ had bowed himself out Bertha sat down on the edge
of the bed and had a good cry. Received like a princess, and housed
like a charwoman! But she wasn't going to stand it, not she, Bertha
Krupp.
Her assertiveness, newly acquired, but all the stronger for that, made
her give a vicious pull to the bell-rope. She hardly noticed that it
came off in her hand when a lackey, scenting baksheesh, responded.
"My servants, quick!" she ordered.
"Beg Fraulein's pardon, they haven't yet arrived from the station."
"Didn't Count Keller provide a conveyance for them?" she demanded
peremptorily, hoping that her words would reach that worthy. "They must
be sent for instantly."
There were sounds of carriage wheels in the courtyard below.
"Wait," cried Bertha; "there they are at last!" She handed the servant
a small gold coin. "For the driver; let him keep the change."
The footman withdrew with a broad smile. No doubt he robbed the cabman
of half the generous tip.
Torrents of "Ohs!" and "_Ach Gotts!_" when the Essen contingent came in.
They had waited more than half an hour for the expected royal carriage,
and then in despair took the only public vehicle available.
Bertha's tirewoman inspected the apartment while giving vent to her
outraged feelings. "Darling Fraulein can never sleep in that bed. It's
as hard as rocks."
"I know," said Bertha. "But what is to be done?"
"I will send Fritz to fetch in the car your own bed, all except the
frame," decided the tirewoman after reflection.
"But wouldn't that be an insult to my hosts?" Bertha asked.
"Rubbish! The late Queen Victoria always carried her bed along, even
when she came to visit her own daughter in Berlin. Besides, we can
plead doctor's orders," said Frau Martha; and when the heiress still
seemed doubtful she added: "On my own responsibility, of course; you
don't know anything about it. The Baroness will back me up, I'm sure."
The Krupp footman was accordingly dispatched, and returned two hours
later with the bed-furnishings.
Meanwhile Bertha, all in white silk--according to the Court Marshal's
command--was waiting upon Her Majesty, who fondly kissed her and
inquired most affably after her mother--a regular set of questions
afterwards repeated by the War Lord, all his sons, and daughter. They
are not very original, these Hohenzollerns.
The Krupp heiress, who, as intimated, was first inclined to be rather
proud that the guards were called out in her honour, loathed herself for
that weakness ten minutes after penetrating the Imperial circle, for the
incessant reference about that piece of pomp made by the royal family
and their titled attendants was simply maddening. "Unheard-of honour";
"Must remember it to the end of your days"; "Most unique spectacle in
Europe"; "How thoughtful of Majesty"; "Too bad madame, your mother,
didn't witness it," were among the least stupid comments assailing
Bertha's ears on all sides. The War Lord himself went into raptures of
delight, being as pleased with his surprise, as he called it, as a
schoolboy with a new top, and then forestalled possible further
speculations on the matter of his dispensations of honour by announcing
that, in honour of Bertha, he would partake of the family luncheon.
More effusions of delight, more congratulations showered on Bertha: "He
must love his godchild very dearly"; "He wouldn't have done that for the
Emperor of China." ...
Luncheon at Court! Bertha had pictured to herself a grand function:
courtiers in gold lace, swords at their side; ladies in grand toilettes;
swarms of servants in showy liveries; a dozen or more courses, under the
direction of the Lord Steward of the Household; golden dinner service a
la American multi-millionaire; "heavenly music," and so forth.
Alas! And Bertha had brought her appetite along, the appetite of a
growing, young, country lass from a food-worshipping household!
The ladies were dowdy, the gentlemen in ordinary uniform or dressed in
abominable Berlin taste; over-loud music, with which the War Lord
persistently found fault with both time and execution. The average
_Kapellmeister_ "had not the shadow of a perception" of the composer's
artistic intentions. His views were "plebeian, necessarily--maybe his
mother was a washerwoman, poor wench"; and, after all, the War Lord
himself must conduct to "get proper results." Of course, everybody was
"convinced" of that.
"Majesty" was too "lenient." It was "truly heartrending" to hear music
so "butchered," etc.
"_En famille_," they called it, and Bertha sat at the end of the table
between two cadets, younger sons of a principality not much larger than
Richmond Park.
"Fraulein," whispered one, forgetting, under the impetus of youthful
confidences, to speak through his nose; "Fraulein has dined beforehand,
of course?"
"Why, no," she replied innocently, "and I am powerfully hungry."
"Then you will stay so"--this from the loquacious petty prince.
At that moment the soup was put before the War Lord, and he fell to
demolishing it at starving bricklayer's rate. When he had about half
finished, the family and guests were served, and when he was through,
his plate was removed and so were the rest. Bertha had had two
spoonfuls, and the petty prince, who had gulped down four or five,
grinned broadly.
Fish, entree and fowl were offered, and ruthlessly yanked away in the
same rapid gunfire fashion. To an empty stomach this teasing with
coveted food was uncanny!
"I hope you have dined well," said the Empress, after the party
adjourned to the "Cup Room" for coffee. "Was the service satisfactory?"
"Excellent," lied Bertha.
The coffee had an abominable oily taste. "From my colonies," explained
the War Lord. "Mighty good, when one gets used to it."
But Bertha noticed that while his guests were served _en bloc_, he
brewed coffee for himself and wife in a silver Vienna machine.
Desultory conversation: church building, social reform, Bismarck,
orphans, knitting socks for soldiers' children. Ill-concealed yawns.
The War-Lord would have a game of billiards, and then off to the park on
Extase (his favourite saddle-horse).
"Ride or drive, which do you prefer, Bertha?" he said to the Krupp
heiress, going out.
"As Uncle Majesty commands," lisped the young girl, very much
embarrassed.
"I promised Louise a sleigh ride. Perhaps she would like to go with
her," suggested the Empress.
"All right. Two horses and outrider."
An outrider--something, to be sure, but going to the park "with that
kid."
Princess Victoria Louise was eleven then, and intellectually no more
advanced than a child of four. Poor child! her father's ear trouble
seemed only one of the dreadful inheritances that stamped her a sufferer
from Hohenzollern disease. And Bertha had fondly imagined that she was
to be classed with grown-ups!
"Did Fraulein enjoy her lunch?" asked the motherly Frau Martha, when
summoned to help her young mistress change for the outing.
"Plenty to eat, but no chance to eat it," replied the Krupp heiress
sullenly. "Get me a sandwich or two, or I shall faint."
"We were told," wailed Frau Martha, "that lunch was dinner for servants,
and this was the menu: half-bottle of small beer each, yellow peas in
the husks, three inches of terribly salt boiled beef, three potatoes
each, two carrots, and no bread."
The Krupp servants, it seems, were no better treated than those of the
Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward) and the untitled attendants of
other royal highnesses and majesties, those of the King and Queen of
Italy, for instance.
In the 'nineties it was common report in Berlin diplomatic circles that
the Prince of Wales kept away from Berlin because he "could not induce
any of his favourite servants to be of the party," these favourite
servants being the same whom the then Court Marshal, von Liebenau--a
drill sergeant with a gold stick--designated "as the hungriest and most
impudent set of menials" he ever had the misfortune to encounter in the
exercise of his duties.
Why the epithets?
His Royal Highness's valet and his grooms had politely asked for eggs
and bacon for breakfast, and they would not have cold pork and potato
salad for supper, even though that be the Empress's favourite menu to go
to sleep on.
And those "impudent Englishmen" had the temerity to ridicule the
solitary bottle of small beer graciously allowed them by His Prussian
Majesty; and about this and more the first groom of His Britannic
Highness and the Berlin excellency had an exciting passage of words,
memorised, rightfully or wrongfully, as follows:
The Englishman: "The other attendants and myself cannot possibly worry
along on the breakfasts furnished, rolls and bad tea; and salt pork and
lentils for dinner is not what we are used to."
The Prussian Bully: "Nor do you seem to be used to household discipline.
But I will have no more of your English impudence. I will inform the
Prince of his servants' unruly behaviour."
The Chief Groom: "Thank you. His Royal Highness will then engage board
for us at a hotel, and there will be an end to starvation diet."
On another occasion pease pudding, pork, roast potatoes and beer were
sent to the rooms of Queen Marguerite's chief tirewoman for dinner, at
the Neues Palais, a couple of hours before she was expected to dress Her
Majesty for a State banquet. The dame refused it, and sent for the
Empress's chief titled servant, Baroness von Hahnke, stating in plain
terms that, unless she were furnished with food suitable to her rank and
station, she would drive into town to dine, even at the risk of being
late for Her Majesty's service.
The Baroness, frightened out of her wits, told the Empress the facts,
and the Imperial lady gave Count Puckler (responsible for the sins of
the kitchen) a terrible talking-to before her other titled servants. At
the same time she ordered a suitable dinner for the Italian lady from
her own cuisine--a dinner the extras of which upset the budget for some
weeks to come.
*CHAPTER IX*
*WHAT THE MAID SAW AND HEARD*
Revelations--Sauerkraut and Turnips--What the Dachshunds Did
FRAU MARTHA to FRAU KRUPP,
_nee_ BARONESS VON ENDE.
BERLIN, SCHLOSS, _Christmas_.
GRACIOUS LADY,--May it please the Gracious Lady, we arrived safely and
sound, and Fraulein just started off on a sleigh ride with the little
Princess, who is as foolish as the poor Mueller orphan in our hospital,
but, mind, she had something warm before I let her go.
Fraulein don't want me to say nothing, but duty compels me. Gracious
Lady, I must tell you that Fraulein got up still hungry from table and
ate four ham sandwiches, three doughnuts and a cream tart, which I
bought for her with my own money (no matter about that) ere I let her
go. After I made her warm inside, I made her warm underneath, and put
on her the beautiful sables the late Gracious Gentleman, God rest his
soul, got given to him in Russia. With all respects to Majesty, the
little Princess, in her cheap _iltiz_ (_patois_) garment, looked like a
mere rag doll compared with our Bertha, please excuse me, Gracious Lady.
Gracious Lady will forgive an ignorant girl, but the three of us, Fritz
and Lenchen and me, call the Schloss Starvation Hall.
Except Fraulein and Fritz and Lenchen, I haven't heard a decent word
since we left home. They just snarl and hiss. Because Fraulein is
called the richest girl in the world, they fetch and carry for her, like
the mealy-mouthed menials they are; but if it wasn't for the tips, I
don't think they'd do a thing for her.
Fraulein won't tell you, so I do, that the three of us rode to the
Schloss in a hired coach, because Uncle Majesty was too mean to send a
carriage for us--and to think of what at home we always provide for his
twenty and more attendants and the fine time we give them!
I see now why they are always so greedy in Essen. They never get such
meat and _vittel_ as we give them, in Berlin or Potsdam; they hardly
have enough peas in the husks and potatoes in the jackets.
Gracious Lady can't imagine their meanness in the Schloss. I am told
there isn't enough linen to give Majesties a daily change. And how the
hundreds of menservants keep clean, with only two bathrooms, and hot
water which must be carried up four flights of stairs, I can't make out.
As to the maids, they don't.
But the poor things can't help it; all they get is two marks fifty (half
a crown) a day for from twelve to sixteen hours' work, and not a cup of
coffee or a spoonful of soup in this fierce, cold weather. And think of
it, they don't get their wages weekly, as the law allows, but on the
third day of the month. The poor wretches haven't even got a place to
eat.
I won't say a thing about Fraulein's rooms.
Thought Gracious Lady would be pleased to know that I am looking after
the child, trying to keep her in good health, no matter what trouble and
expense, and I remain, with respects from Lena and Fritz, the Gracious
Lady's most obedient servant,
MARTHA.
P.S.--I had to send for towels to the car, for the ones given to
Fraulein were as hard as boards and there were only two, and the maids
said they would be changed every second day; and I beg the Gracious
Lady's pardon, but myself and Lenchen and Fritz were given two small
huckaback towels to last through the week, and a tin wash-bowl no larger
than those we feed the Great Dane out of at the villa, and no pitcher or
foot-tubs. What are we going to do?
MARTHA.
_Letter from_ FRAU MARTHA to HERR L----,
_Superintendent of the Household, Villa Huegel_.
BERLIN, SCHLOSS, _Christmas_.
HONOURED HERR L----,--This Schloss is a big pigsty, excuse the hard
words, and I can tell Gracious Lady only half our troubles. There is no
bathroom for Fraulein, no running water--our poorest cottagers in Essen
are better off. It takes about half an hour to get a cupful of lukewarm
water from the kitchen, and the maid looks daggers if you don't tip up
the tin every time.
If we could only get Fraulein's car into the courtyard (there is plenty
of room) and live in it, we would be all right, for Fraulein's meals I
could cook on the new-fangled kitchen range, which makes no smoke, and
she could have her bath regularly.
Gracious Lady will have told you about Fraulein eating at Uncle
Majesty's table. What do I say--eating? Fraulein comes back every time
half dead of hunger. Bertha says it's the quick serving, but I had a
talk with the stewardess last night, and she told me things. The
allowances even for Majesty's table, she said, are cut so fine, there is
never enough for all, family, officials and guests; and, to cover up the
shortness, the courses are served quickly as if shot from the new
machine-gun I have heard Herr Franz talk about. Some of the guests get
skipped, others are given just a mouthful, and part of the food is
carried out again for the hungry wolves of lackeys.
Mean, now, isn't it, Herr L----? But we, I mean Fraulein, has to put up
with it while here. As to grub allowed to Fritz, me and Lenchen, it's
sauerkraut and turnips and herrings and black bread; but we don't mind,
as we can buy outside. But I can't take Bertha into eating places, and
make up for what she goes short at the royal table; she has to live on
sandwiches and cake for the most part. Other arrangements as bad. I
would be ashamed to tell you of the servants' accommodations:
back-stairs, rotten-smelling oil lamps. We won't be comfortable until
we get back home once more.
For Fraulein's bed I got the linen from our car, but as we took just
enough for a night's run and back you must send some more. I wanted to
save you the trouble, and asked the housekeeper to have some washed.
Not here, she said; too few in help, no extra tubs, no place to dry.
When I offered to pay for the soap, that seemed to tickle her immensely,
but she had to refuse in the end.
Honoured Herr L----, tell the servants at the Villa they don't half know
how well they are off. I never did until coming across all this
high-sounding stop-a-hole-in-the-sieve business.
You cannot imagine, worthy Mr. Superintendent, too, what funny things
there are too--the War Lord's dachshunds, for instance, all jaws and
stomach. They look like those yellow-skinned truffle Leberwursts held
up by Frankfurters, and--what do you think?--have been taught to snap
and nibble the calves of people of quality only.
Mine they leave severely alone, thank God; but I told Fraulein not to
put on too many "lugs," lest they mistake her for a "von."
Of course I can't swear to it, but they do say that "Uncle Majesty" has
a way, by a mere look, of setting the dachshunds on people he dislikes;
they must be as smart as Herr Director-General's French poodles, I
reckon. Anyhow, they seem to know when "Uncle Majesty" is cross with
someone and go for him.
I heard you tell Herr Franz of meeting Count Posadownk in Bielefeld and
what a great man he was. And surely he is a man with a lot of
authority, but here no one is bigger than a ten-pin before "Uncle
Majesty."
George, the chief _Jaeger_ who stands behind his chair at table and
knows everything and everybody, has become quite friendly-like with me.
Well, George says Count Posadownk "gets the War Lord's goat" every time
he reads those long-winded reports of his. But the War Lord must
listen, says George; "part of Majesty's business to hear the ministers'
gab." And listen he does--the Lord knows how he manages--but ten
minutes is his limit; after hearing someone else talk approaching a
quarter of an hour, he is "ready to explode," says George.
By that time the Count is just warming up, and you would think nothing
short of an earthquake could stop him. But the dachshunds are as good
as the fire-spitting mountain we saw in Italy--or was it Switzerland?
A wink from "Papa"--"raising or wagging an ear," says George--shows the
dachshunds that Posadownk ought to make himself scarce, and in a
twinkling they get ready for attack round the short clothes and silk
stockings.
While the Count talks his head off, first one, then the other bowwow
sets up a dismal howl. Posadownk raises his voice, the dachshunds yelp
more loudly, and Majesty, pretending to call them off, makes the
hullabaloo worse still.
Just the same the Count is crazy to finish, and the dachshunds go on
inspecting his legs. Maybe he gets in a good kick or two, but the
hounds are experts in pulling at silk stockings without drawing blood.
Once or twice his Excellency went away with stockings in ribbons.
The same thing happened to others having business at the palace; the
wonder is that no one poisons the beasts. If they bit me--a dose of
something strong for them, you bet.
Remember, nothing about Bertha-and-nothing-to-eat to Her Ladyship.--The
Herr Superintendent's very humble servant,
MARTHA.
*CHAPTER X*
*THE ENTANGLING OF ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND*
Discussing the Archduke--"Intoxicate with Promises"--A Look at
the Map--The War Lord's Miscalculation
"What do you think of number one?" asked the War Lord, when the door had
closed upon Bertha at the old Chancellor's Palace.
The diplomat performing the duties of deputy-head of the Empire is tall,
inclined to corpulence, grey moustached and bright eyed. He knocked his
heels together like a recruit trembling before the drill-ground bully.
"Majesty refers to Fraulein Krupp?"
"Quite correct."
"She has the benefit of Majesty's personal guidance--there's no more to
be said," declared von Buelow, with conviction. "But who may number two
be?"
"Not quite the figurehead of number one. I refer to the gentleman coming
to see you."
"The Archduke? I was going to beg your Majesty for instructions
concerning His Imperial Highness."
"Plain Franz Este, if you please; his incognito must be taken very
literally."
"At your Majesty's orders."
"He is number two," emphasised Wilhelm; and while pretending to look out
of the window replaced his left hand, which had slipped, upon the hilt
of his sword. Then, fully accoutred, he resumed: "Number one furnishes
my arms--
"And those of the world," put in the Chancellor.
"That's where you and _all_ of you are mistaken. _My_ gun works arming
_my_ enemies? As intimated, number one helps to _dis_arm my enemies."
When he saw blank amazement on the Chancellor's countenance, he added:
"Don't ask how, for in this case purpose sanctifies the means. Number
one, then, is my right arm, while number two I intend to make one of my
men-at-arms."
Another pause for effect.
"I am all ears, Your Majesty," said von Buelow.
"Well, then, bear this in mind: Franz Ferdinand has to be indulged
despite his marriage to the little school marm. He is a fool, of
course. Well, the Chotek being an encumbrance to Franz Ferdinand, we
must make her into a quarry for our own good. What do you think?"
"I am afraid I lack capacity to follow the trend of Your Majesty's grand
ideas this morning," replied the Chancellor, remembering that he had
been chosen, not to think, but to carry out orders.
"Well, as you know, I persuaded Francis Joseph to wink at the Chotek
indiscretion. The decree elevating the ex-governess, and making her
brats of princely estate, ought to have been dated from Berlin instead
of Ischl, for it was I who placed that plum in Her Ladyship's pie, the
Olympian Emperor notwithstanding. Hence Prince Hohenberg--for Franz
Ferdinand is more or less his wife's husband--is beholden to me for such
recognition as his marriage received, and Sophie will not let him forget
it either. Accordingly, I call him 'number two' in my combination."
"If the children of this union----"
"_Dis_union," interrupted the War Lord, applauding his irony with a loud
guffaw.
"Disunion," von Buelow obediently repeated, "lay claims to the throne,
is it Your Majesty's intention to support them?"
"All Archdukes look alike to me," replied the War Lord with fine
disdain; "all fools, bigots, or both. Rudolph was an exception. At all
events, it is to our interest to give Herr von Este to understand that,
if he is determined to make Sophie both Empress of Austria and Queen of
Hungary, Germany will support his mad scheme."
"Your Majesty thinks Hungary will accept her as Queen?"
"She has to, for a morganatic marriage is a real marriage according to
Hungarian law."
"Which suggests the possibility of grave internal dissensions," said the
Chancellor.
"Quite so; to Pan-Germanism this little governess is worth five army
corps. If her marriage causes a split in the Dual Monarchy, why, we
will annex German Austria and leave the Hungarians to die, if they
choose, '_pro Regi nostro, Sophia_.' But that's quite a long way off.
What concerns us at present is getting solid with that chap. I know
what you want to say: A brute, a beast. But so long as the Chotek is
satisfied, I am."
The latter in response to an indication on von Buelow's part that he
meant to put in a word or two.
"When I come to think of it," continued the War Lord, "neither
Alexander, nor Charlemagne, nor Napoleon were what you call gentlemen
overflowing with the milk of human kindness. As I see it now--my plans
are not quite matured, of course--but this is certainly beyond question
or dispute: As my ally in the conquest of the world, a namby-pamby
partner would be of confounded little use. Besides, for sentiment I
have Victor--darling fellow!"
Saying this, the War Lord gripped his sword so hard that the point of
the scabbard threw a statuette of the King of Italy off an _etagere_,
smashing it.
"There he goes," he sneered, kicking at the broken china; "uncertain
commodities at best, these Dagos. Always fishing outside the three-mile
limit, and everlastingly ogling with England and France."
"Majesty is pleased to under-estimate King Victor's devotion to German
interests," ventured von Buelow warmly.
"When you were in Rome you used to sing a different tune," said the War
Lord severely. "But _revenons a nos moutons_: Franz Este is a bit of a
mutton thief himself"--Wilhelm laughed heartily at his quibble--"very
fond of Hungary and Bohemia. We must intoxicate him with the promise of
great things to be accomplished by the union of German
arms--German-Austrian, of course."
"May I remind Your Majesty that Franz is rather a fanatic in religious
matters?" suggested the Chancellor.
"I was coming to that," snarled the War Lord--it simply maddens Wilhelm
to find that someone, beside himself, has an idea in his head. Whether
the religious aspect had occurred to him before we don't know, but he
pounced upon it with vulture-like gusto, adopting it _in toto_ as it
were.
"You will say to him: 'Brothers in arms and in faith--the Protestant and
the Catholic Church, or the Catholic and the Protestant,' I don't care.
Remind him that Prussia offered the Pope an asylum before the invasion
of Rome by the Italians.
"Yes," he continued, "curse the Italians as much as you like; promise
him Venice and the Balkans up to the gates of Constantinople."
The War Lord pressed a button underneath a large table fronting the
Chancellor's desk, whereupon the mahogany top disappeared and another
marked off in geographical divisions, representing the map of Europe and
part of Asia, replaced it--the _Kriegsspiel_; Europe in battle-array.
The _Kriegsspiel_--War Game--shows the military strength of each country
in plain, movable figures, horse, foot and artillery, navy and
aircraft--the figures liable to correction from time to time; the exact
location of the forces is apparent at a glance too.
The same applies to fortresses, letters designating the origin of the
artillery equipment.
Above each country wave its colours in the shape of a tiny silk flag,
fastened to bead-headed pins, easy to stick in anywhere.
The War Lord pulled out a drawer and took a handful of German flags, but
before using any a new thought struck him.
"Send for Kast," he commanded curtly.
Adjutant Baron Kast appeared as if catapulted into the room.
"I forget the lettering combination--I want 'k' for Belgium. You are
sure the other equipments are marked according to latest reports."
"At Your Majesty's service."
The adjutant fixed the 'k' as required and stood at attention.
"I will call in case I need you further."
The officer was drawing backwards towards the door when the War Lord
stopped him.
"One second. I want a cross fixed to letter 'k.'"
Kast, a martinet without ideas of his own, a mere _mannequin_ moving on
the strings of discipline, looked blank astonishment.
"If it can't be done, send for the mechanic; he shall fix the new
combination overnight."
"May I try, Your Majesty?"
Kast succeeded in quick order.
"Why did you hesitate, if it's so easy?" demanded the War Lord.
"With Your Majesty's permission, I was wondering whether it was your
pleasure to have a cross placed against all the 'k's' on the map."
The War Lord looked at von Buelow, who dismissed Kast by a look.
"Out of the mouths of fools and sucklings," misquoted Wilhelm under his
breath, while a cruel sneer played about his lips. Then, to the
Chancellor, aloud: "Inborn stupidity or low cunning?"--referring to
Kast.
"The first, Your Majesty, the first. Your Majesty will agree, when I
say that I myself do not see the significance of the cross."
"You will--in time," said the War Lord brusquely. "But to continue."
He took a German flag and placed it on the spot marked Rome. "The Holy
Roman Empire of German nationality," he said.
"Which Voltaire designated as neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire,"
remarked von Buelow drily.
"Time's passed, time was, time is," quoted the War Lord, "or rather will
be." For awhile he remained in silent reverie, then turned upon the
Chancellor suddenly. "You asked the other day how to mark the English
Channel. _Gott!_ it's worth five million men to Edward. No, don't mark
it at all; for if the distance between Calais and Dover can be bridged
only half-way by our guns--no impossibility, you know--that strip of
water won't amount to more than a few army corps."
Again the War Lord remained in deep thought. "Noah's ark," he demanded
after a while.
The Chancellor pulled out a drawer at the side of the _Kriegsspiel_
table. "At Your Majesty's service." The War Lord picked figure after
figure, dropping them on the floor, until he got hold of a small white
object.
He held it between two fingers, eyeing it curiously; then moved it
deliberately across the Channel, holding it aloft, and planted it on the
spot marked "London."
"The Dove of Peace," he said; "for in London we will dictate peace to
the world. Tell Franz."
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE CROWN PRINCE ON A LARK*
A Gallop with the Crown Prince--On the Way to Surprise
_Letter of_ BERTHA KRUPP _to_ FRANZ.
BERLIN, SCHLOSS.
DEAR FRANZ,--When I promised to write, I expected to put a school-girl's
ability at composition to the test, being half afraid that my
description of Berlin and the Court might not pass muster with so severe
a critic as my dear half-brother. But something has happened that makes
living in the shadow of the throne and royal intimacies and reviews and
State balls, even the Grand Council of the Knights of the Black Eagle,
look insignificant.
Listen! Yesterday after luncheon the Crown Prince came to me with a
mysterious air. "Bertha," he said, for he is quite familiar, "you look
like a good, sporty girl; let's fool those fogies, and have a lark all
by ourselves."
You may be sure, Franz, I was frightened, and looked it I suppose, for
he added quickly: "Upon my word as an officer, your Mamma may know about
it." And then he unfolded his plan.
"I am tired to death of the baggage that attends our rides, watching
with as many eyes as a centipede has feet; this afternoon I will lend
you one of my swift English hunters, and I will ride Circe, a devil of a
horse that can outdistance father's Extase any day. Flottwitz--you know
he is Master of Horse--promised to give the others the slowest plugs in
the stables, and we will humour their dog-trot as long as the public
gaze is upon us. But once beyond the dear public's reach, off we are,
rein and spur. Don't be afraid; the grooms, too, will be mounted on
grandmothers; they won't catch us."
I felt quite relieved. "It will be jolly," I said.
The Crown Prince laughed immoderately. "What a little innocent you are,"
he cried; "running away is only the beginning. As soon as we are out of
sight, we will turn and gallop to Castle Bellevue. There we will
dismount, and I will punt you across the river. It is but a stone's
throw to the gipsy's cottage, and that is where I will take you."
I became apprehensive again. "I am afraid of gipsies," I faltered.
"Afraid in _my_ company?" cried Wilhelm. "I forbid you to be afraid of
the very devil when I am around. I am your cavalier," he added; "you
must do as I tell you." Then his tone became coaxing again. "Don't you
like to have your fortune told, Bertha? She is a 'bird at it'--makes
your flesh creep and all that sort of thing."
"But does Auntie Majesty approve?"
"Bother, Mother; I am not under her thumb," he answered, and I thought
it very horrid of him.
Well, Franz, everything came off according to programme. For a young
girl from Essen to ride down The Linden with the Crown Prince, masters
of horse, maids of honour, chasseurs and grooms is lots of fun, and I
don't know that I ever enjoyed anything so much as the throngs of people
in the streets and on the sidewalk cheering and waving hats and
handkerchiefs. But, of course, they thought me a Royal Highness or some
sort of princess, the very least.
"Can't you ride astride?" whispered the Crown Prince as we passed
through the semi-shadows of the Brandenburger Thor.
"What is that?" I asked, and somehow got the feeling that his question
was not the correct thing. So I touched my horse with the spur and
cantered away. Wilhelm joined me quickly. "Dog-trot now," he said, and
we jogged along like Herr Director-General's family on their old brown
mares.
After passing Castle Bellevue, promenaders became few and far between,
and then the long-legged hunters increased the distance between
ourselves and the rest of the party very considerably. Suddenly
Wilhelm--he asked me to call him by his first name, but I always prefix
his title--whispered: "Now, _ventre a terre_." Setting the example he
jumped a hedge, I after him--a fine race we ran for the next ten
minutes.
Then back to Bellevue. We galloped right through to the water's edge,
and were half across the river before the stablemen had caught the
horses.
_Lieber_ Franz, you must excuse; I can't write a word more. Too tired
and too excited. So good night for to-night and pleasant
dreams.--Always your good sister,
BERTHA.
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE FORTUNE TELLER SEES BERTHA IN A HAZE
OF BLOOD*
Mother Zara Speaks--Ghosts of Infamy--What the Blackbird
Foretold--The Crown Prince Stands Aloof
BERTHA _to_ FRANZ.
DEAR FRANZ,--The gipsy Wilhelm and I visited is not at all like the ones
that occasionally come to Essen at fair-time or by way of caravans. You
know we always thought them impostors and, small doubt, they were, for
the same yarn had to do for everybody: the tall, dark man, that would
come into one's life, was conjured up even for little Barbara at the
rate of ten _pfennigs_.
Mother Zara is a hundred years old if she is a day; a face the colour of
an old green-back American bank-note crumpled up--thousand and one
crow's-feet to the inch. Dress: rusty black silk, edged with moth-eaten
sable; sugar-loaf hat, filigreed with zodiacal signs; white mice
following her wherever she goes.
This much I observed while waiting. She was in an adjoining room and,
as I observed through the glass door, in no hurry to meet her visitors,
even though the servant had recognised the young master of Bellevue
Castle.
Meanwhile the Crown Prince was walking up and down, smacking his high
boots with the riding-whip. I believe he was looking for a mirror--vain
boy--and was furious at not finding one. Young Wilhelm affects to be as
nervous and impatient as Uncle Majesty, and won't sit down a second if
there is room to move about.
At last the door opened and the stooping figure of the clairvoyante
appeared on the threshold, a blackbird perching on her left shoulder and
half a dozen white mice circling round her feet, or riding on the train
of her dress.
"Mother Zara," cried Wilhelm advancing, "I brought my cousin----"
She shut him up with an imperious gesture. "Hold your tongue, young
braggart, for this is serious business."
She spoke in a high-pitched, authoritative voice, and I tell you, Franz,
I was all a-tremble when Zara fixed her eyes upon me--eyes that looked
you through, like the eyes of a sorceress you read about in the story
books.
"What do I see?" she murmured to herself, drawing figures on the sanded
stone floor.
"A deuced pretty girl," remarked the Crown Prince gallantly.
The clairvoyante shook her stick at Wilhelm. "Leave us alone," she
cried; "I want no interference."
When the door had closed Zara turned upon me like some wild thing, and I
tell you, Franz, I wished myself at our little bower at Villa Huegel,
playing dominoes with you or Mamma.
"Who art thou?" she cried. "So young, so gentle, so kind of aspect, yet
I see thee in a haze of blood."
She walked around me in a circle, dragging her terrible crutch, the mice
capering and vaulting.
"I can't make it out," she kept mumbling; "looks the German, but here
men do the ruling, and her power for destruction---- Where does it come
in?"
Of course I was too frightened to utter a word. I merely gazed upon my
tormenter and trembled.
The soothsayer drew her garments around her bones and settled down on a
low stool before the hearth. With her crutch she stirred the ashes,
separating them from live coals and addressing each heap in turn as if
they were human beings. As I perceived with horror, poor me was the
subject of her monologue.
"Keep to your hell-hole, Mother Toffana," she muttered, sending a
half-dead coal into the corner (I ought to tell you, Franz, that I have
been reading Alexandre Dumas of late, otherwise I wouldn't have
understood half the things she said). "Toffana, you are not in it with
this child," she continued. "And Joanna of Naples, husband-killer and
warrior, the number of men and women and children that died by you and
for you is nothing compared with the hosts she will send to slaughter."
"Madame la Marquise de Brinvilliers," she said to a live coal, drawing
it nearer, "come and feast your eyes on this girl. You did your work
all right for undertakers, but were a pitiful slacker just the same."
She rose and bowed ceremoniously.
"Your Majesty," she mumbled, pointing with her crutch to a glowing
ember, one of several detached from the rest. "You once waged war for
seven years on a stretch, yet the number of Prussians you killed, added
to that of your own people that perished in battle and by disease, may
be expressed in six noughts. And," turning to other debris, "your
record, Catherine of Russia, is quite as inadequate as Maria Theresa's
compared with the prospects for manslaughter held out by this young
lady!"
After an ominous silence: "Sheba, Elizabeth, Semiramis, aye, ye furies
of the White Terror who dined off Lamballe's liver, miserable failures
all of you----" She did not finish, but the end of her crutch continued
to poke fire and ashes, separating and piling up, moving and sweeping
along larger and again smaller quantities like figures on a chessboard.
She seemed dissatisfied, and as the minutes passed, her speech, or
rather her mumbling, became more and more disconnected. Suddenly she
drew her stick across the piles, levelling the lot. "No use," she
cried, turning round and addressing me; "I can't get anything out of
them. Are they holding back, or is Zara losing her cunning? But I
_will_ know," she added fiercely. "Who art thou, girl?"
I was speechless with fright, and all engrossed with her combinations as
Zara was, she scarce noticed my silence and lumbered on regardless.
Maybe, too, no reply was expected.
"Not the War Lord's wife," she mused. "Augusta is the mother of many
children, they tell me, nor----." (I didn't catch the rest, it was a
jumble of mumblings.)
After she became articulate again, I heard her say: "Oceans of blood
have been poured out. But what am I saying? She is only a child."
Then out of her black silk mantle she drew a pack of cards, threw them
on the table, and, resting her right hand heavily on the crutch, studied
the pasteboards anxiously for a while.
"Cursed mystery," she whispered. Then to the bird: "Jezebel, help!"
The black thing hopped on the table and scattered the cards with his
feet. Then he picked up one with his beak and presented it to his
mistress.
"A town in flames," said Zara after scrutiny.
More cards offered by the bird!
"A thousand baby-hands raised above the waves!
"A tumbling cathedral!
"Bodies piled mountain high!
"Women, children and old men for breastworks!
"A graveyard-ditch a hundred miles long!
"Death lying in wait on the floor of the ocean!
"Fire from the heavens," read Zara, and again and again her shrill voice
rang out, recording horrors even more dreadful.
When the bird of ill-omen had offered the last pasteboard, Zara shook my
arms with a fierce gesture. "Fiend incarnate, thy name and station!"
she yelled.
Probably Wilhelm had been listening. "How dare you touch Fraulein
Krupp," he demanded, as, running in, he stepped between me and the
sorceress.
At the mentioning of my name, a look of triumph came into Zara's face.
"My cards never lie, nor do the embers," she proclaimed. "The burning
towns, the wails of babies rendered fatherless by your works, the waste
of centuries of culture, the smoke, the fire, the calling upon all
resources of nature for the wholesale annihilation of life--five letters
cover it: K-R-U-P-P."
The feelings setting my head awhirl must have been pictured in my face,
for eventually even this fury of wrath was moved to mercy; yet like the
spirit that ever denies, Zara's pity took a cruel turn.
"Never fear," she said, with a profound curtsy; "it is written that the
oceans of blood you will help spill will not even soil the hem of your
dress.
"A world in arms, every mother's son turned upon every other mother's
son, shooting, stabbing, bombing, suffocating. Cities laid waste,
countrysides desolated, brave men changed to vultures, honest men to
thieves--your work, Bertha Krupp! But the War Lady remains scathless!
"Blood's a peculiar liquor--means death to those from whom it flows, and
profits to her that forges the bullets!
"Chimborazos of dead bodies: fathers, brothers, nephews and uncles;
excellent manure, and your dividends, little girl, going up by leaps and
bounds!
"Towns in ruins--_your_ ruins, Bertha, but they will have to be rebuilt.
More millions in your coffers!
"Ten thousands of miles of railways destroyed. Look out for big orders,
Bertha!
"The world groaning under unheard-of loads of debts--debts created that
Essen might flourish. Splendid opportunities for investment, eh?"
She continued a while longer in the same cruel vein, her basilisk eyes
glued upon mine--I couldn't get away, try as I might--while Wilhelm, my
self-proclaimed cavalier, did naught to help me. Indeed, I had to endure
her abuse till Zara herself became tired of hurling invectives, and
turned upon the Crown Prince with: "Twenty marks, please. I have wasted
enough time."
Then, like an imprisoned wild thing, seeing the open gate, I fled.
Oh, Franz, what does it all mean?
BERTHA.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*"WE WILL DIVIDE THE WORLD BETWEEN US"*
Dazzling the War Lord--Bartering Kingdoms--Juggling with the
Church
Franz Este, masquerading for incognito purposes as Duc de Lorraine, was
a tall, closely-knit man, no more at home in mufti than a gorilla in
pyjamas. A bronzed face, disfigured by the Habsburg lip and an air of
disdain, one would have picked him out of thousands as a person to
avoid!
His speech was a cross between a military command and the snarl of an
angry dog when addressed to persons beneath his rank, and against such
the physical advantages he boasted were ruthlessly exploited. Franz was
impervious to heat or cold, hence the officers of his household and his
servants had to endure both in the extreme without proper protection.
"If the master can do without an overcoat, or wear a close-fitting
uniform when it is a hundred in the shade, why not you, menials?"
He had a passion for drill and for slaughter. A day on the parade
ground, meddling with the mere outer film of things, seemed to him the
pinnacle of military achievements. He never stalked, or took risks in
the chase; the proud deer and the miserable hare alike were driven
before his gun in vast numbers that he might pump lead into them,
turning forest or plain into shambles.
He went to visit their Prussian Majesties with the fixed intention of
dazzling the War Lord with a programme of petty regulations about
military customs and appearances to be introduced at his enthronement.
A slanting row of buttons was to be set in a straight line; another was
to be lopped off altogether. Yes, indeed, he was considering, too, a
new movement in the goose-step. And those Hungarians! They had little
respect for the essentials of military obedience; but, with His
Majesty's advisory help, he would pound it into them--yes, pound it!
Gentle methods might do for women when they are decidedly pretty, but
not for the people as a whole, etc.
Music to the War Lord, who feeds on regulations and petty tyrannies as a
boa constrictor--if the whole can't be masticated at a gulp, why, leave
the rest for another "try."
Brothers in spirit and in arms!
"Franz," said the War Lord after luncheon, enlivened by French champagne
with a German label--the Court Marshal's way of encouraging home
industry to the naked eye: German products only for German Imperial
palates, but beware lest a certain august taste be displeased! A bit of
unpatriotic deception, rather than face such an eventuality!
"Franz," said the War Lord, after that fruitful and thought-quickening
luncheon, "some day we will divide the world between us--pope-kaisers
both of us."
"Pope?" gasped Franz, his mind tugging at the Jesuit swaddling clothes
that he never really outgrew.
"You know," insinuated the War Lord-tempter, "there is but one way to
re-establish rulership by divine right as on a rock of bronze:
impregnate it with sacerdotal authority. I am already Chief Bishop of
Prussia; the Lutheran popeship of the world is my game, as yours should
be the Roman Catholic popeship."
"What about the Holy Father?" suggested the Jesuits, using Franz as a
speaking-tube.
"Holy fiddlesticks," laughed the War Lord. "As one of the English Henrys
put it: 'I will be damned ere an Italian parson dictates to me in my own
realms.'"
The War Lord bowed ceremoniously. "Hail thee, spiritual and mundane
lord--true Emperor of Slavs, Czechs, Magyars, Poles, Russians, Servians,
Bulgarians and Montenegrins."
"But Italy--you promised me Italy," muttered Franz.
"Correct, in exchange for German Austria!" said the War Lord.
"Do I have to give up Vienna?"
"Rome is a more celebrated place, and if it gets too hot in August,
Petersburg will make a splendid summer resort. There is Prague and
Budapest besides. I thought you liked the Hradschin?" he added gaily.
When Franz still refrained from entering into the spirit of the
proposals, the War Lord opened a miniature safe on the top of his desk.
"Have a 'genuine,' same as Edward smokes. Have to keep them in a
burglar-proof safe--those thieving lackeys, you know. You have the same
trouble at Bellevue" (the Austrian heir's Vienna town house) "I
suppose."
"God punish the scoundrels--yes," replied the pious Franz, and,
accustomed to the cheap and nasty output of the Austrian tobacco
monopoly with its endless stogies, helped himself eagerly.
"A mark apiece," boasted Wilhelm, like a Jew commenting on early
strawberries.
"Italy being a sort of apanage to the Emperor of the Slavs"--more bowing
and scraping--"you wouldn't care to have a rival court on your hands,
would you? And that's what the Vatican will always be so long as it is
allowed to exist."
"You would abolish it?" cried Franz, alarmed.
"Not completely; I would retain the Holy Father as a sort of Christian
Sheikh-ul-Islam, yourself to be the real responsible head of the
Church."
"The Pope is not a married man."
"Alexander VI. was, and also some others. Besides, the Tsar whom you are
to succeed as orthodox pope never was a stickler for celibacy."
"Orthodox pope?" echoed Franz, his Jesuit blood a-tingle.
To his pietist understanding the mere mention of a rival Church was as a
red rag to a bull, and no one realised that condition of his mind more
fully than the War Lord. But would he allow the even tenor of these
_pourparlers_ to be disturbed by the conscientious scruples of the surly
individual smoking his _echte_? Not he!
Conscientious scruples, indeed, and in world politics too! He had not
previously given the subject any thought, but on his desk lay a letter
marked: "On the Service of the Holy See"--a happy coincidence and a
suggestion.
The papal _breve_ dealt with nothing more momentous than the shifting of
the protectorate over the Christians in Turkey, but the mysterious word
State-secret covers a multitude of lies.
"My dear Franz," said the War Lord, weighing the Pope's letter in his
hand, "the problems you seem to approach with fears and trepidation are
fully treated in this document. However, without the Holy Father's
consent, I dare not reveal his intentions. But this much I can say on
my own responsibility: after we get through with Russia, there will be
no orthodox question. The orthodox Church will have to unite with the
Catholic----"
The late Whistler would have loved to draw Franz's face while the future
Emperor of the Slavs listened with covetousness and fanaticism, the
zealot's ardour and the brute's vindictiveness written large in his
usually stony face.
"Will have to make submission to Rome," he interrupted, pounding the
table.
"As you like, King of Rome." To offset the Duke's holy fervour, the War
Lord affected a tone of calmness utterly at variance with his ideas.
"The coming union of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches----" he
continued.
"The absorption of the schismatic Church by the only true Church,"
insisted Franz.
"Will make it particularly important for you to have the office of
Pontifex Maximus in addition to that of Emperor and King," said the War
Lord. "I'll let Buelow talk details."
"After consultation with my father confessor?" asked Franz anxiously.
"Why not unfold our plans to a council of Archduchesses and the whole
priest-ridden pest?" cried the War Lord, momentarily forgetful of his
role. "I beg your pardon," he added quickly; "I was quoting Bismarck.
What I meant to say is: that our _pourparlers_ are strictly
confidential--not a word to any one, confessor, Francis Joseph, or the
Princess herself. I have your word as an officer?"
Never was a word of honour more reluctantly forthcoming than that of the
prospective Emperor of the Slavs.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*GETTING EVEN WITH THE WAR LORD*
The Hungarian Nero--The Episode of the Mouse
Emperor of the Slavs, King of Rome, Avenging Angel of the Schism and its
Grand Lord Destroyer--Pope even--though he had misgivings as to the
propriety of the latter title--what prospects for the son of the
degenerate Karl Ludwig--and the War Lord footing the bill! A
Protestant, true enough, but his friends, the Jesuits, held that the
purpose sanctifies means, whatever their character.
How they would rejoice at the news!
But his word as an officer! Pshaw! The War Lord calling himself
"all-wise," "all-seeing," etc., had been fooled for once by the
simple-minded Bohemian, for Franz's left hand was on his back when
_parole d'honneur_ was demanded, and he lost no time gripping his thumb
with the other fingers and pressing it hard.
Mental reservation! That little matter was settled, and in most
approved style. _Honi soit qui mal y pense_.
A while later Franz asked to be confessed.
"Not while your soul is in the state of disgrace," pronounced Father
Bauer with impressive solemnity.
Franz's bold front melted away like butter before a blast furnace.
"Pray confess me, your reverence!" he cried, terror all over his face.
"After due reflection," was Bauer's niggardly consent. "Your Highness
will retire to the oratory now."
And like a schoolboy ordered to bare his skin for a birching, the
Emperor of the Slavs--so proud, so adamant, so haughty before the
War-Lord--went into his bedroom, where his _prie-Dieu_ stood in front of
the miniature travelling altar that accompanied His Highness wherever he
went.
In respect to absolute submission to the clergy, Franz rivalled Charles
and Ferdinand of Spain; he retained, too, the utmost respect for the
persons of the reverend gentlemen who dominated him by virtue of their
priestly office.
On his part, Franz came from the oratory a much chastened Prince. Bauer
was waiting to hear Franz's report of his interview with the War
Lord--or as much of it as the heir thought well to divulge at the time
being, for the breach of faith he had been absolved beforehand. After
all, while Bauer had full charge of Franz's personal conscience, so to
speak, the real powers behind the proposed Slav throne was the Cardinal
Archbishop of Vienna, the Papal Legate and the Czech black aristocracy.
The latter, indissolubly wedded to Franz's interest by his marriage with
the Chotek, was his chief support in the Dual Monarchy. Hungary had
labelled him Nero, the Germans regarded him as a renegade, while Trieste
and the Trentino suspected him of harbouring treachery against the
Motherland.
That he was wedded to the idea of the restoration of the States of the
Church was a foregone conclusion, and the re-establishment of the
Austrian Archdukes--who forfeited their Italian thronelets under Victor
Emmanuel II.--would be the logical sequence.
"Of course, there is the Triple Alliance," faltered Franz.
"Not at all binding," decided Bauer, "since one of the signatories is
under the ban of the Church, and the other" (with a mock bow before a
painting of the War Lord) "a heretic."
Franz reverently kissed the Jesuit's hand. "A relief, a priceless
relief of grave conscientious scruples," he said warmly. "Thank you,
Father Bauer." Then, giving his voice quite an Olympian intonation: "We
have no further commands for you to-night."
Franz Este swore lustily when he discovered a red silk nightgown under
his pillow. After a Vienna haberdasher had told him that Alexander of
Servia had worn a night garment of this colour, he had banished them
from his wardrobe, intending to use the supply on hand for presents.
Franz tugged viciously at the crystal knobs of the rococo chest of
drawers, pulling one to the ground and dislocating the handles of
others. "Confound it! All red, Alexander-red--red as blood!"
An ill omen? A thorough fanatic, Franz was the most superstitious of
men. However, as subsequent events showed, in this case superstition
was the mother of horrors unparalleled. Alexander's fate had been
sealed eight months before, when the red-nightgowned King and his Queen
were slaughtered in their bedchamber; but somewhere among the Balkan
principalities the plot that eventually did away with Franz and his
Duchess might have been hatching even then--who knows?
The taciturn, soured, cruel Franz forgot about the Alexander-hued
nightgown when he prepared to report the day's events to his wife, for
he loved Sophie. He used a small table at the foot of the big rococo
couch for a writing-desk, and as he sat there, facing the silvered
canopy with China silk curtains falling from a crown held aloft by
cupids, his face recalled the features of a French soldier who had been
condemned to death for a series of crimes, and who, to his judges and
fellow-men, had boasted of his utter lack of feelings.
The soldier had never loved anyone, neither parents nor friends, neither
woman nor man, neither animal, nor money, nor precious things. He hated
them all, and his only aim in life was destruction. But when he lay in
the sands, bleeding from a dozen wounds, as ordered by the court
martial, a little mouse was seen to emerge from the sleeve of his tunic,
went capering up the prostrate form, and glued his nozzle to the man's
mouth. And with his last breath the apostle of hate kissed the tiny
rodent.
Like the trooper, so Franz, the man who spurned a nation's love, was not
entirely barren of sentiment. He had a tender spot in his heart for
Sophie, even as Sophie, mouse-like, loved the man who made a point of
being hated. Human nature: even Nero loved Poppaea once.
*CHAPTER XV*
*"AUNTIE MAJESTY" AND BERTHA*
A Royal "Commercial"--Blood and Benevolence
"My dear child," continued Auntie Majesty, "you ought to thank God on
your knees for permitting you those grand opportunities to do good."
"I hope I am duly grateful, Auntie Majesty."
"And, of course, next to God, it is your Uncle Majesty to whom you are
most indebted."
Bertha curtsied with the readiness peculiar to German girls, whose left
knee seems always on the point of "knixing," which word signifies an
arrested attempt at kneeling. Since Napoleonic times kneeling before
royalty has gone out of fashion, even in Spain, where the Prime Minister
was formerly obliged to play chess with the King while down on his
knees, and woe to the excellency who attempted to sit on his haunches.
Bertha assured Auntie Majesty how much she appreciated the War Lord's
efforts on behalf of the Krupp works. Her own father could not have
done more. Truly wonderful orders are coming in, the Herr
Director-General had informed her this very morning. East, west, north
and south--everybody seemed to want Krupp guns now.
"All your Uncle Majesty's doings," insisted the "crowned auntie." "His
ambassadors and consuls in all parts of the world have orders to drum up
trade for you, and those that do not succeed pretty soon find themselves
A.D. (retired), they say."
"I hope not!" cried Bertha, emphasising the last word. "I don't care
for people to lose their positions on my account, and will speak to
Uncle about it."
To say that Her Majesty was amazed at the outburst is putting it mildly.
She had been given to understand that Bertha was tractability
personified, and here she was talking in "Majesty's" own vein, a thing
Augusta had never dreamt of doing in all the years of her married life.
"Fraulein Krupp," she said very seriously, "shall have to report to your
mother what you have said."
"Mamma has nothing to do with affairs of that sort. They rest entirely
with Uncle Majesty and myself!" said Bertha.
What language, and to her! And from a mere child, too! Auntie Majesty
opened her mouth for a sharp rebuke, when she remembered what the War
Lord had said about a certain lady.
"Vulgar," had been Her Majesty's estimate.
"_Non olet_," corrected Wilhelm. "If her words are offensive, let the
jingle of her millions drown them; if she insists upon eating peas with
her knife--why, remember that Croesus ate with his fingers."
And Count Wedell (Minister of the Royal House) had only recently told
her (with a thousand apologies, to be sure) that Bertha's income was
larger than the War Lord's.
Besides, "Auntie Imperial" had promised a portion of Bertha's vast
income to "her God." She uses the personal pronoun in connection with
the Deity without blasphemous intention, of course, nor does she allow
herself to speculate on the War Lord's theory that the Hohenzollerns
control a god of their own, and that another god is keeping a benevolent
eye on Prussian baby-killers.
Augusta Victoria decided, after reflection, to give the subject a turn
favouring her pious schemes.
"Remember what the fathers of the Church have said: 'Women have no
voice'--they certainly should not meddle in administrative matters."
Her Majesty affected a smile. "Leave these to your guardian, and, when
at times his measures seem harsh or incomprehensible, acquiesce
nevertheless, for in the end it's results that count."
The Queen of Prussia is a good woman at heart. She wouldn't hurt a fly,
but a million men put under the sod roused no squeamish sentiments; for,
of course, if the War Lord makes war, it is for God's greater glory, and
did he not tell the recruits the other day that it was inexpressibly
sweet to die for him? So let the million perish.
Auntie Majesty was careful not to mix blood and iron with her arguments
in favour of gun-making and explosives. If Essen manufactured Nuremberg
toys or Munich honey cake, she could not have used more innocuous terms
referring to its death-dealing industry. At any rate, it must be kept
up--nay more, its output must be doubled and trebled to continue the
charities and works of benevolence inaugurated by the Krupp family on
the present grand scale and to extend them farther, as Bertha had
planned.
It all sounded good to the young War Lady. With Zara's perturbing
admonitions still fresh in her mind, she welcomed justification of the
course mapped out by Uncle Majesty, and the conference closed to mutual
satisfaction.
Augusta Victoria received the promise of an annual subscription of
50,000 marks for her church-building schemes, and Bertha that of Her
Majesty's hearty co-operation in Essen's social-work campaign. More
than that, Her Majesty would come to inspect Bertha's hospitals,
schools, old people's homes and asylums.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*HOW FRANZ FERDINAND WAS FOOLED*
Vienna's Opinion of the Kaiser--Afternoon Tea for the War
Lord--Playing Up to Ferdinand--When Britain Slammed the
Door--The Archduke is Not Satisfied
"There goes our Lady of the Guns," whispered the War Lord to Franz Este,
as they stepped from the private gate into the palace yard, where their
entourage, already mounted, was awaiting their advent.
"The Krupp heiress I heard about? You are her godfather, are you not?"
"More!"
Franz was so taken aback that he forgot for the moment to swing his
right leg, whereupon Umberto, objecting to such left-sided proceedings,
reared and would have thrown him, had not two energetic grooms pounced
upon the charger.
"Be careful, it's Italy you are riding," chaffed Wilhelm, when the
cavalcade was safely under way. Quite a stately procession: masters of
horse in scarlet and gold; the adjutants on duty, outriders, grooms and
a platoon of gendarmes.
"How so Italy?" queried Franz.
"Victor Emmanuel's father used him on his several visits to Berlin, and
he has been reserved for heavy-weights like yourself ever since. A
wilful beast, even treacherous."
"Hence well named," said Franz sententiously, at the same time locking
his thighs more closely. "As to the Krupp girl, what were you going to
say?"
"First tell me what Vienna thinks of my connection with Krupp affairs."
"You won't take offence?"
"Not a bit."
"And won't be annoyed even if it smacks of _lese-majeste_?"
"Rot and nonsense. Go on."
Franz drove his brute nearer to the War Lord's side.
"They _do_ say," he whispered, "that you sort of kidnapped Bertha
against her mother's will, and are now conducting the business solely
with an eye to dividends."
"They think me Leopold II.," quizzed the War Lord, alluding to the
business methods of the late King of the Belgians. "Excellent; a lie to
be encouraged! But as a matter of fact--_entre nous_, of course;
strictly _entre nous_--I acted upon the principle of _jus primae
noctis_. In olden times, when the vassal died, the liege lord assumed
charge of the property for the dead man's eldest son, presumably his
lordship's, which action forestalled wastage of the estate. As liege
lord of Prussia I deemed it my duty to prevent the disintegration of the
Fatherland's war machinery, and had myself appointed Bertha's guardian,
with full power to act. Of course, the Baroness does not like that;
neither did the vassal's widow cherish the idea of becoming a chattel."
"And is she easily managed?" asked Franz, as he dealt the fractious
Umberto a vicious blow between the ears.
"Not that fashion," replied the War Lord, when he had caught up with his
guest; "flattery is the thing with girls. That and a certain amount of
unctuousness, backed by divine right, I found quite an irresistible
combination."
"You mean to say that you flatter where you can command?" asked Franz.
"Certainly not," replied the War Lord, pulling himself up straight. "I
merely insinuate that my wishes with regard to the running of the plant
are her own; consequently, I do as I like at Essen."
The War Lord raised his riding-whip in the direction of the Master of
the Horse, trotting behind, whereupon that functionary gave spur and
galloped ahead. Thirty seconds later the advance guard wheeled right
and left, drawing up at the sides of the avenue, and leaving a clear
space for Wilhelm and Franz.
"May they enjoy the dust we are kicking up," laughed the War Lord, as
they pressed on. When, on their return to the palace, the General Staff
building was in sight, Wilhelm consulted his wristwatch. "Gottlieb's
tea hour," he said quite incidentally. "Suppose we stop and have a
cup!"
He referred to Count Haeseler, sometimes called the German Galliffet,
though as a cavalry officer in active service his epaulettes never knew
more than two stars. However, subsequently he won much fame as an
administrator and organiser, and, by catering to the War Lord's love for
mounted rifles, dragoons, hussars and uhlans, enjoyed rapid and steady
advancement. Still, having a will of his own and small hesitation to
state it when goaded to opposition, he might never have achieved the
supreme honour of field marshalship had he not been in his youth the
favourite adjutant of the War Lord's "sanctified uncle," the Red Prince
Frederick Charles, father of the Duchess of Connaught.
In the War Lord's opinion, Frederick Charles ranked next to his _Herr
Grossvater_ (Mister Grandfather), and whenever Wilhelm became too
insistent on some strategic madness of his own, Haeseler had but to say:
"That's one of the things His Royal Highness was most strenuously
opposed to," to cause the Imperial nephew to cave in.
Of course, the meeting with Franz Este had been prearranged, but
Haeseler played the surprised to perfection: Too bad Imperial Highness
was incog.; otherwise he might run over to Posen to inspect his
regiment, the Tenth Hussars. He (Haeseler) had just had that pleasure.
_Schneidig, grossartig_ (cutting, immense), and Haeseler knocked his
heels together. "Horses, men, uniforms, drill, perfect as new-laid
eggs."
"Hard boiled, I hope," said the War Lord; and all three shook with
laughter.
"And what may my marshal have been doing?" asked the War Lord.
"Reading up the testament of Frederick the Great."
"Any relation to the testament of Peter the Great?" asked Franz
anxiously.
"Imperial Highness is pleased to jest," replied Haeseler. "Peter the
Great's last will, so called, was an invention of Napoleon to justify
his making war on his friend Alexander, while the third Napoleon revived
the fraud for purposes of the Crimean campaign."
In his surprise the War Lord, who knows history only as taught in
school, dropped a bit of marmalade on his white cloth tunic.
"Unless you can prove these statements, you will have to pay for
cleaning this," he said, looking sharply at Haeseler.
"May it please Your Majesty, I will consult the card index." The
marshal pulled out a drawer. "Here it is," he said: "'_Napoleon Auteur
du Testament de Pierre le Grand_,' and here is another volume: '_Les
Auteurs du Testament du Pierre le Grand_.'"
"Authentic?" queried the War Lord.
"Abundantly so. Shall I send these volumes to the Schloss?"
"No; I have no time for reading _olle scharteken_" (ancient tomes).
"In that case I'll want them," said Franz, who was of a studious nature.
"Have you got anything more on the subject?"
"Only an essay printed in the _Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung_."
"Send that too." The Bavarian town being a stronghold of Catholicism,
Franz evidently concluded that anything printed there was akin to
gospel.
"But you referred to the testament of Frederick the Great." The War
Lord's voice betrayed impatience, and Haeseler made haste to explain,
i.e. repeat his lesson, as it were.
"May it please Your Majesty and His Imperial Highness."
"'Herr von Este,' if you please," interrupted Franz.
"Herr von Este," repeated the marshal obediently, bowing low, "the most
precious inheritance come to us from the hero of the Seven Years' War is
his admonition that Prussia must correct her coast line. He had
intended doing so himself, but time and opportunity were unfavourable,
and so his plans for blazing a road to the oceans are awaiting our
initiative. By grasping it we will carry out the last will of Frederick
the Great."
"And what were his late Majesty's plans?" asked Franz.
"To move Prussian mile-posts up to the Channel and ocean, to plant
ourselves in the sea area between the English, French and Belgian
coasts, the waters through which most of the world's trade must pass,"
cried Haeseler enthusiastically.
"But that would mean annexation of Belgium and Holland," demanded Franz.
Count Haeseler, having instructions not to answer questions of that
kind, bent over a series of maps illustrating the history of Frederick
the Second, while the War Lord, disregarding the question, commanded
curtly: "The strategic points, please."
Count Haeseler traced them at the end of a blue pencil:
"King Frederick planned a quick march from the Rhine through Belgium,
forcing Liege, then the capital of an ecclesiastical principality, and
pouncing upon Nieuport on the North Sea. Next, he intended to attack
Dunkirk and Gravelines. Then to Calais. His final objective point was
Paris, of course."
"Never heard of such a plan," said Franz.
"Because at Frederick's time these territories were an apanage of the
Habsburgs," volunteered the War Lord. "Proceed, Haeseler."
"I can only reassert what I have submitted to Your Majesty more than
once--namely, that King Frederick's plan is as sound to-day as at the
time----"
"When Prussia presented England with Canada and made secure her Empire
in India," interrupted the War Lord. "And isn't she grateful for the
inestimable services rendered by us with a generous heart?" he
continued, warming his thighs and his wrath at the gas logs. "Won't
allow us to acquire coaling stations in any part of the world. Shuts
the door in our face in Africa, Asia and America, and supports with
treasure and blood, if necessary, any scheme intended to impede
Germany's progress, territorially and economically.
"We depend for our very life on foreign trade, yet England would
restrict us to the Baltic and a few yards of North Sea coast.
"Franz," he cried, rising and holding out his hand, "I will turn the
Adriatic into an inland lake for the Emperor of the Slavs if you will
help me secure the French Channel coast line, the north-eastern
districts and the continental shores of the Straits of Dover. Is it a
bargain?"
Franz, too, had risen, and was about to clasp the War Lord's hand when
his eye lit upon the field-marshal. "You bound me to secrecy," he said
doggedly, "yet our private pourparlers seem to be property of your
General Staff."
"The heads of my General Staff know as much as I want them to, Herr von
Este, no more, no less," replied the War Lord in a strident voice. Then,
in less serious mood: "Come, now, the _Kapellmeister_ does not play
_all_ the instruments, does he? and don't you think I have more
important things to do than worry over charts and maps and figures.
That is _his_ work," inclining his head toward the field-marshal.
When Franz the Sullen still withheld acquiescence the War Lord continued
in a bantering tone: "He is preparing the way, is Haeseler. While at
Strassburg and neighbourhood, take a look at his sixteenth army corps,
kneaded and knocked into invincibility by him. If there is a superior
war machine, then our Bluecher was beaten at Waterloo. Let his boys
once get across the French frontier--they will never again leave La
Belle France. Haeseler catechism!"
And more in the same boastful martinet vein, winding up with the promise
of sending to the Austrian heir _de luxe_ editions of Haeseler's
contributions to the General Staff history of the Franco-German War and
of his technical writings on cavalry exercises and war discipline--a
sure way of pleasing Franz. Yet it was patent enough that the Jesuit
disciple was only half mollified. Desperate means were in order!
"I tell you what"--the War Lord dropped his voice--"I will lend you
Haeseler for a fortnight or a month. Invite him to Konopischt" (the
Austrian heir's Hungarian seat) "and find out everything. What he
doesn't know about horse, foot and artillery, especially horse, is not
worth knowing."
At last Franz's face lit up. "I'll take you at your word," he said
warmly.
Franz's thirst for military knowledge was insatiable. He had read most
of the books, ancient and modern, on the science of war; had consulted
all living army leaders of the day; was, of course, in constant
communication with his own General Staff; and knew the methods of the
Austrian, Russian, German and Spanish cavalry, both by practice and
observation, since he took his honorary proprietorship of the Bavarian
Heavy Troopers, the Saxon Lancers, the Russian 26th Dragoons and the
Spanish Mounted Chasseurs very seriously. But to have Haeseler for
private mentor and adviser, to be hand and glove with the premier
cavalry expert of the world, at one time apprentice of Frederick
Charles, the Red Prince, was indeed a priceless privilege.
"Will you come?" he asked Haeseler.
"Oh yes, he is coming, don't you worry," cried the War Lord, even before
Haeseler finished the phrase: "At your Imperial Highness's command."
"His Excellency shall demonstrate to me that the offensive partnership
you propose will be to mutual advantage," said Franz quickly, to
forestall possible further arguments on the exchange of the Italian
Adriatic for the French-Belgian-Dutch Channel coasts.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND*
The War Lord's Secret Staircase--Some Outspoken Opinions--Royal
Fisticuffs--Otto of Bavaria--A Secret Service Man--More Dreams
The reports of two meetings between exalted personages, held on the eve
of the day memorable for the conference at the General Staff building,
would furnish a clever editor with "deadly parallels" of vast interest.
_Dramatis personae_ of one meeting: The War Lord and Buelow. Scene: The
library of the Frederick Leopold Palace, nearly opposite the
Chancellory.
Meeting number two: Franz von Este and Lorenz Schlauch, Cardinal
Archbishop of Gross Wardein, Hungary. Scene: A private parlour in the
Hotel de Rome, near the Schloss.
The pall of secrecy hung over both trysting places. Cardinal Schlauch,
of his Hungarian Majesty's most obnoxious Opposition, would have lost
caste with his followers if seen with the "Habsburg Nero," and the
latter would have had a strenuous _quart d'heure_ with Francis Joseph
had "Uncle" known of his intimacy with Schlauch. Hence the room at the
hotel, and Adolph Muehling, guard of honour, outside the door.
Why press the old proprietor into service, when a word to the Commandant
of Berlin would have brought sentinels galore?
Because Count Udo von Wedell, head of the German Secret Service,
occasionally unloads a uniformed stenographer on an unsuspecting, but
suspected, visitor to Berlin; and, Udo failing, Captain von Tappken, his
right-hand man, might be tempted to do so. Spy mistrusts spy, you know.
On his part the War Lord was as anxious to keep his conference with
Buelow from Franz, as Este was to invent excuses for wishing a night
free from social duties or official business. Accordingly Wilhelm had
twice changed the programme.
His first idea was to receive Buelow at the Schloss. No; Franz might
hear of it. His valet (Father Bauer) was singularly well supplied with
money, and royal lackeys (confound them!) prefer _trinkgeld_ to medals,
even. Again, he might drive to the Wilhelmstrasse himself, if it were
not for those penny-a-liners at the Kaiserhof, a whole contingent of
them, bent on getting coin out of nothing. Already vague hints at an
incognito royal visitor had appeared in one or two gutter journals.
"Augustus tells me that Frederick Leopold had his Berlin house
thoroughly overhauled. Nothing unusual about inspecting the renovated
lair of the Prussian Croesus?" suggested Prince Phili Eulenburg. He
referred, of course, to the Grand Master of Ceremony and the Lord of
Klein-Glenicke, the War Lord's cousin and brother-in-law.
"By Jove, you are almost too smart for an ambassador, Phili," cried
Majesty; "you deserve a wider field, the Wilhelmstrasse or the
Governorship of Klein-Popo should be yours. Meanwhile, and until one of
those posts becomes vacant, 'phone Buelow to meet me in Leopold's
library at nine sharp. Moltke shall send six men of the First Guards to
investigate garden and all, and they will remain for corridor duty.
Augustus, of course, must communicate with Leopold's _maitre d'hotel_."
At 8.55 P.M. the War Lord, in mufti, fur collar of his great-coat
hugging the tops of his ears, slipped down the secret staircase leading
from his apartments to a side door, and into Count von Wedell's quiet
coupe. The Secret Service man who acted as groom had mapped out a
circuitous route, avoiding the Linden and Charlottenstrasse.
When the carriage passed the Kaiserhof the War Lord could not resist the
temptation to bend forward. "Udo," he said, "are you not ashamed of
yourself, robbing these poor devils at the journalists' table? If they
knew how I am suffering in your springless cab--oh, but it does
hurt!--it would mean at least ten marks in their pocket."
"Confound their impudence," said Count von Wedell. "But Your Majesty's
criticism of the coupe is most a propos--just in time to insert the item
for a new one in the appropriation."
"The devil!" cried the War Lord. "I thought this ramshackle chariot
your personal property."
Wilhelm likes to spend other people's money, but with State funds it is
different, for every _pfennig_ spent for administration reduces the
total His Majesty "acquires."
True, Prussia spells despotism tempered by Parliament, but her kings can
never forget the good old times when appropriations for the Court were
only limited by the State's utmost resources.
"My own!" gasped Wedell. "Would I dare worry Your Majesty's sacred
bones in an ark like this?"
The carriage entered the palace stableyard, the gates of which opened
noiselessly in obedience to a significant crack of the whip.
Sentinels posted inside and out, civil service men in frock-coats and
top-hats, who muttered numbers to their chief, replying in kind!
"Everything all right, Buelow upstairs," whispered Udo in Russian. He
went ahead of the War Lord through lines of his men, posted at intervals
of three paces in the courtyard and at the entrance. The vestibule was
splendid with electric light for the first time in the history of the
old palace.
As the suspicious War Lord observed, Marshal Augustus had been busy
indeed. Heavy portieres everywhere, over doors, windows, and
_oeils-de-boeuf_; to passers-by the Leopold Palace was as dead and
forlorn as during the past several years.
Up the newly carpeted grand stairway the War Lord rushed. The smiling
Buelow stood at the library door. Wilhelm merely extended his hand; he
was too full of his subject to reply to Buelow's respectful greetings
and inquiries after his health.
"Wedell will stay," he said, "for our talk will concern his department
no less than yours."
Buelow had arranged arm-chairs about the blazing fireplace, but the War
Lord was in no mood to sit down.
"Here's a devil of a mess," he said, "just discovered it in time. That
confounded Este is too much of a blackleg to be trusted."
"Too deeply steeped in clericalism," suggested Buelow.
"That and Jesuitism, Romanism, Papism and every other sableism. Found
him out in our first confab, and to-day's meeting with Haeseler
confirmed it. He will never consent to a Roman Empire of German
nationality. Wants all Italy for himself and Rome for his Church.
Intolerable!" cried the War Lord, as he strode up and down. "Twenty
marks if Otto were in his place."
The War Lord's joke drew tears of appreciative hilarity from the
obsequious eyes of the two courtier-politicians.
"Your Majesty's remark reminds me of a patriotic speech made by the
Prince of Bueckeberg at the beginning of the railway age: 'We must have
a railway in Lippe, even if it costs five thousand thalers,' said His
Transparency, amid thunderous applause."
This from the Chancellor, who, like Talleyrand, delights in quotations
and has a knack of introducing other people's witty, or stupid, sayings
when desiring to remain uncommittal on his own part. In this instance
he would rather exhaust Bartlett and his German confrere Hertslet than
discuss that Prince of _mauvais sujets_, Otto of Austria.
At the time of the discussion (it was in 1903--three years before the
royal degenerate died) the father of the present heir to the Dual
Monarchy was on the apex of his ill-fame.
He beat his wife and his creditors, he disgraced his rank, his manhood,
and, though thirty-eight years of age, was frightened from committing
the worst excesses at home only by the threat of corporal punishment at
the hands of his uncle, the Emperor. For Francis Joseph, most Olympian
of monarchs, according to the upholders of Spanish etiquette at the
Hofburg, is very apt indeed to give a good imitation of the petty
household tyrant when roused. For this reason, probably, his late
consort, the Empress Elisabeth, used to liken him to a cobbler.
Francis Joseph's most recent fistic exploit at Otto's expense was still,
at that time, the talk of the European Courts. It appears that His
Imperial Highness, at dinner with boon companions, had emptied a dish of
spinach over the head of uncle's marble statue, and prolonged the fun by
firing over-ripe tomatoes, pimentos, spaghetti and other dainties at the
already abundantly decorated effigy.
When finally he ordered Count Salm, his Court marshal, to send for a
"mandel"--fifteen pieces--of ancient eggs to vary the bombardment, Salm
refusing, of course, he assaulted the Excellency, sword in hand, and a
general medley ensued, in which considerable blue blood was spilt. No
lives lost, yet the innocent bit of _passe-temps_ brought the Emperor's
fist and cane into play again.
But our mutton is getting cold.
"Unfortunately," said von Buelow, "Franz Ferdinand is a particularly
healthy specimen of humanity."
"And even should he die like a Balkan royalty----" suggested von Wedell.
"I thought you had been unable definitely to trace Russia's fine Italian
hand in the Belgrade murders?" demanded the War Lord sharply.
"For which many thanks," murmured Buelow.
"With Your Majesty's permission, I referred to the older generation of
Balkan assassins," said Udo.
"Well, let it pass, Monsieur le Duc d'Otrante." The War Lord frequently
addressed his Minister of Police by Fouche's title, while commenting
upon Napoleon's bad taste in raising that functionary to so high an
estate. "After all," he used to say, "he was nothing but a spy, and as
treacherous as the Corsican himself."
This, it will be observed, came with peculiar ill grace from Wilhelm,
who, like the first Emperor of the French, demeaned himself to direct
personally his Secret Service, and to associate with the cashiered army
officers, _agents provocateurs_, etc., of this branch of government.
"What if Otto, as Emperor of the Slavs, sets up a claim for all Poland,
Your Majesty's with the rest?" Buelow had asked.
"I would rather see my sixty millions of people dead on the battle-field
than give up an inch of ground gained by Frederick the Great and the
rest of my ancestors!" cried the War Lord, as if he were haranguing a
mob. "Besides, why should Otto, more than Franz, covet my patrimony?"
"Because of his relationship with the Saxon Court through her Imperial
Highness Josepha."
"Pipe-dreams----" snarled the War Lord contemptuously. Then, seeing
Buelow redden, he added: "On Otto's part, I mean."
"I beg Majesty's pardon--not entirely," quoth Wedell. "Dresden is still
making sheep's eyes at Warsaw, and when Your Majesty spoke about a grand
Imperial palace to be built in Posen, King George remarked: 'Suits me to
the ground. I hope he'll make it after the kind American
multimillionaires boast of.' This on the authority of a Saxon noble
whose family established itself in the kingdom long before Albert the
Bold."
"Children and disgruntled aristocrats tell the truth," commented the War
Lord; "sometimes, at least," he added after a while. Then suddenly
facing Buelow, he continued in an angry tone: "That black baggage,
wherever one turns. Unless there be a Lutheran Pope, Monsieur l'Abee de
Rome will try and catholicise Prussia, even as Benedict XIV. tried to do
through Maria Theresa."
"It was another Benedict, was it not, who offered public prayers that
Heaven be graciously pleased to foment quarrels between the heretic
Powers?" suggested Buelow, pulling a volume on historic dates from the
shelf as if to verify his authority.
"What of it?" demanded the War Lord impatiently.
"One of the heretic Powers prayed against was England, Your Majesty."
"And you want to insinuate that I must pocket all the insults Edward may
find it expedient to heap upon me?"
"Nothing is farther from my mind, of course. I merely meant to point to
the historic fact that the Catholics always pool their interests, always
fight back to back, while the disunity and open rivalries among
non-Catholic Powers----"
"I know the litany," interrupted the War Lord rudely; "but let's return
to Este. What do you intend to do with that chap?"
"Make him work for us tooth and nail," said Buelow, "and as for any
extra dances with the Saxon or His Holiness--well, Udo will keep an eye
on him. From this hour on he must be kept under constant observation,
whether at home or abroad, in his family circle or the army mess, at
manoeuvre or the chase, at the Hradschin or at Konopischt."
The War Lord, visibly impressed, laid his massive right hand on Count
von Wedell's shoulder.
"Where is Este now?" looking at the clock.
"Suite eighteen, Hotel de Rome."
"With whom?"
"Cardinal Schlauch."
"Bishop Tank of Gross-Wardein? And who is watching them?"
"Number 103, garlic and _bartwichse_ to the backbone."
"Under the bed?"
"No, Your Majesty; in it. I varied the programme for His Highness's
sake. Like an old maid who persists in the hope of catching a man
sometime, he never misses looking under the bed."
"I will examine '103' in Koeniggraetzerstrasse at 9 A.M. to-morrow,"
commanded the War Lord; "and, Udo, if you love me, have him well aired.
An hour or two of goose-step would do the garlic-eater the world of
good."
The number, of course, referred to a Secret Service man. They have no
names so far as the Government knows, or wants to know, and, despite
their usefulness, are looked upon as _mauvais sujets_. To make up for
this their pay is rather better than that of the average German
official. They get a little less than the equivalent of L4 a week and
10s. a day for expenses. These sums constitute the retaining fee; their
main income depends on the jobs they are able to pull off. They get
paid for all business transacted, in accordance with its importance.
When on a foreign mission, they may send in bills up to L2 per day for
personal expenses, but in all ordinary circumstances the 10s. per diem
must suffice.
The War Lord turned once more to Buelow. "You said: 'Make him work for
us.' I would willingly sentence him for life to the treadmill. What's
your idea of work for Franz?"
"I refer to Your Majesty's complaint that the Austrian army is in a
state of unreadiness, of unpreparedness for war. Now, while I have no
opinion whatever as to Herr von Este's capacity as a general, I do know
that organisation and discipline are ruling passions with him."
"He would rather beat a recruit than go to Mass," interpolated Udo.
"The right spirit," approved the War Lord, "and it shall serve my
purposes. I taught the Bavarians to out-Prussian the Prussian; the
Austrians shall follow suit, or Franz will know the reason why.
"A drill-ground bully by nature and inclination, he will know how to
make an end to Blue Danube _saloperie_; and if strap and rod won't do,
he will use scorpions, like that ancient King of Judea--or did he hail
from Mecklenburg, Buelow?" Autocratically ruled Mecklenburg is Buelow's
own particular fatherland.
"I am sure the riding-whip always sufficed in our domains," smiled the
Chancellor; "but Your Majesty is right: rose water wouldn't make much
impression on Slovaks and Croatians."
"Well then," said the War Lord, "here is the programme: No more about
Lutheran popeship, Holy Roman Empire of German nationality, future of
the Holy See and so forth. Nauseate him, on the other hand, with
Austrian military _schweinerei_ (piggishness), which ought to disappear
from the face of the earth in the shortest possible order to make room
for the glories of Prussian drill, discipline and efficiency.
"With von der Goltz knocking the Turk into shape and Franz Este driving
the devil of irresolution and maniana out of the Dual Monarchy, we will
be in a position to defy the world--and to fight it, too."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*A SECRET SERVICE EPISODE*
No. 103 Arrives--The Spy's Report--The Archduke and the
Cardinal--The Ruling of the Church
Count von Wedell's office on Koeniggratzerstrasse.
Royal coupe driving up and down the opposite side of the street. No
groom--dismounted chasseur with feather hat stands guard at the big
oaken door entrance.
Long-legged brown horses, evident habitat: England. As a rule, the War
Lord drives with blacks or greys; likewise the wheel-spokes of the
vehicles used by him are gilded. Those of the carriage we observe are
chocolate colour, with just a thin silver line. Wilhelm sometimes
travels incog. in his own capital. By the way, why always
chocolate-coloured carriages when royalty does not wish to radiate
official lustre? In the reminiscences of the third Napoleon "the little
brown coupe" figured largely when the Emperor of the French went
poaching on strange preserves, and other monarchs had the same
preference.
Inside the Imperial office building: sentinels with fixed bayonets at
each corridor entrance; over the coco-nut mat, covering the right-hand
passage, a thick red Turkey runner; Secret Service men in top-hats and
Prince Albert coats every ten paces. At the extreme end a big steel
double door.
"No. 103," whispered the speaking-tube into Count Wedell's ear.
"Three minutes late," snarled that official; "but I will pay him back."
"No. 103," in faultless evening dress (though it is nine in the
morning), is conducted through the right-hand passage. He is at home
here, but no one recognises him. Secret Service rule: No comradeship
with other agents of the Government. You are a number, no more.
As he is ushered through the lines of sentinels, the royal chasseur,
drawn broadsword in his right, opens the door with his left hand. Count
Wedell meets him on the threshold.
"Kept Majesty waiting," grumbled the Privy Councillor _sotto voce_.
"Cab broke down, Excellency," No. 103 excused himself.
"Don't let it happen again. You will stand under the chandelier facing
the inner room. Attention!" commanded the chief.
And at attention, every nerve vibrating with excitement and expectancy,
No. 103 stood like a statue in the Avenue of Victory, but with rather
more grace, for no man living could imitate the War Lord's marble dolls
without provoking murder. Wedell had gone into the inner room, the
entrance of which was framed by heavy damask portieres with gold lace
set _a jour_.
"Portholes," thought No. 103, sizing up the decorations; and, keyhole
artist that he is, he soon met a pair of eyes gazing at him through the
apertures.
"Majesty taking a peep," he reflected. "I wonder what he thinks of the
man who went back on his native Nero for filthy lucre."
Whether he thought well of him or not, the War Lord kept No. 103
standing full twenty-five minutes. If in his youth he had not had a
particularly cruel drill-ground sergeant, he could not have endured the
pain and fatigue.
Suddenly the portieres parted: the War Lord, seated at a "diplomat's"
writing-desk; Count Wedell, toying with a self-cocking six-shooter,
stood at his left.
"If that thing goes off and accidentally hits me," thought No. 103,
"there is a trap-door under this rug, and a winding staircase leading to
a sewer, I suppose, as in the Doge's Palace." Comforting thought, but
who cares for a spy?
"Approach," ordered the War Lord in a high-pitched voice. When No. 103
was within three paces of the Majesty, Wedell held up his hand.
"His Majesty wants to know all about last night," said the Privy
Councillor.
"Did Herr von Este really look under the bed?" queried the War Lord,
tempering the essential by the ridiculous.
"He did indeed," replied No. 103; "and I nearly betrayed my presence
between the sheets watching him."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, Your Majesty; just a thought passing through my mind."
"Out with it," cried the War Lord, when No. 103 stopped short.
The _agent provocateur_ looked appealingly at Count Wedell. "I humbly
beg to be excused."
"I command you!"
"Well then, Your Majesty, it occurred to me that I ought to have planted
a mark's worth of asafoetida under that bed."
Did the stern Majesty laugh? He guffawed and roared enough to split his
sides--the lines between the sublime and the low are not tightly drawn
in Berlin.
"This fellow has wit," said the War Lord to Udo. "When you come to
think of it, asafoetida is mighty appropriate ammunition to use against
the Jesuit disciple." Then, with a look to No. 103: "Proceed."
"Details and all," commanded von Wedell.
"The minutest," emphasised the War Lord.
"May it please Your Majesty, I was in that bed three hours before the
parties came into the room. The Cardinal had hired Suite 18 expressly
for the meeting, his lodgings being elsewhere in the hotel. He was
first to arrive, and swore lustily because there was no crucifix or
_prie-Dieu_, as ordered.
"Cursed like a trooper, eh?" cried the War Lord. "Make a note of that,
Udo. When I am Lutheran pope I will visit the grand bane upon any
cardinal guilty of saying naughty words."
"Your Majesty will have the All Highest hands full," remarked von
Wedell. "What about Prince Max?"
"I shall take devilish good care that the Saxon idiot never achieves the
red hat. Making eyes at Warsaw and a friend at the Curia! What next?"
To No. 103: "Proceed."
"An impromptu altar was quickly set up, and when Herr von Este was
announced----"
"What name?" interrupted the War Lord.
"Ritter von Wognin, Your Majesty."
Count von Wedell promptly explained: "One of the minor Chotek titles."
"I always said he was his wife's husband," affirmed the War Lord, with
an oath. Then, to No. 103: "Well?"
"The Cardinal had taken his stand at the side of the crucifix, and when
the Ritter walked in elevated his hand pronouncing the benediction,
whereupon the Austrian heir dropped on his knees. The Cardinal seemed
in no hurry to see him rise, but finally held out his hand, saying: 'In
the name of the Holy Church I welcome thee, my son.'
"And Este kissed his hand, didn't he?" cried the War Lord.
"He certainly bent over the Cardinal's hand, and I heard a smack,"
replied No. 103.
"That settles it," said the War Lord; "the foot-kiss for me when I am
pope of the Lutheran Church."
"May it please Your Majesty," continued No. 103, "the two gentlemen then
settled down in easy chairs and engaged in a long, whispered
conversation in which alleged sayings of Your Majesty were freely quoted
by Herr von Este."
"Enough," interrupted the War Lord; and at a sign from Wedell No. 103
backed towards the door, which opened from outside. "You will await a
possible further summons in here," said Count Wedell's secretary,
ushering No. 103 into a waiting-room.
"How much has that fellow got on credit?" demanded the War Lord.
Wedell pulled out a card index drawer. "Upwards of thirteen thousand
marks."
"He knows that he'll lose it to the last _pfennig_ if he squeals?"
"The case of our man who exchanged Barlinnie Jail for the service of Sir
Edward Grey brought that home with peculiar force to everybody in the
Wilhelmstrasse and Koeniggraetzerstrasse," replied Udo.
It should be interpolated here that German spies receive only two-thirds
of the bonuses accruing to them. One-third of all "extras" remain in
the hands of the Government at interest, to be refunded when his spyship
is honourably discharged. If he is caught and does not betray his
trust, then these savings _par order de mufti_ are paid over to his
family or other heirs; if he betrays his Government, then the Government
gets even with him by confiscating the spy's accumulated savings, which
arrangement gives the Secret Service office a powerful hold on its
employees.
"Very well, recall the millionaire-on-good-behaviour," quoth the
Majesty.
No. 103 proved the possession of a marvellously retentive memory.
Quoting His Highness's confidences to the Cardinal, he repeated almost
word for word the War Lord's conversation with Franz, both at the
Schloss and at the General Staff office.
"Any memoranda used?" demanded Wilhelm abruptly.
"None, Your Majesty."
"Did the Cardinal take notes?"
"No, Your Majesty. When Herr von Este urged him to do so, he said it
was unnecessary, since he never forgot matters of importance; in fact,
could recite a text verbatim after tens of years."
"Curse their stenographic memories," said the War Lord. "I hope you
were careful to note what Schlauch said," he added in a stern, almost
threatening voice.
"I memorised his talk to the dotlets on the i's," replied the Secret
Service man, bowing low. "Quite an easy matter, for His Eminence used
words sparingly--
"To conceal his thoughts, of course." This from the War Lord.
Then No. 103 read the "notes" from his mental memorandum pad. The
Cardinal, it appears, laid down three rules "for the guidance of his
'dear son' and all other Catholic princes:
"I. Agreements with heretic sovereigns do not count unless they serve
the interests of the Church.
"II. If the proposed Slav Empire would bring about the submission of the
orthodox heretics to the Church of Rome, no amount of blood and treasure
spent in so laudable a cause may be called extravagant, the sacrifice
being for God Almighty.
"III. But if there should be a by-product" (our own term, the Cardinal's
being too circumstantial) "a by-product in the shape of a heretic
pope--pardon the blasphemous word--then Franz's ambition would be a
stench in the nostrils of the Almighty, excommunication would be his
fate in this world, the deepest abyss of hell in the other."
Count von Wedell, misinterpreting his master, thought "it was to laugh,"
but a look upon the War Lord's face caused him to change his attitude.
"Pay No. 103 five thousand marks, half in cash, half in reserve," said
Wilhelm, disregarding the one-third clause for a purpose, no doubt. "I
have no further commands for him at present."
Count Wedell stepped forward from the inner room, and the portieres
automatically closed before No. 103 had finished his obeisance.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*BERTHA AND FRANZ*
On Forbidden Ground--A Talk on Brain-Curves--Bertha is
Afraid--Shades of Krupp--"Charity Covers ----"--A Dramatic Exit
"Oh, Franz, tell me what it all means!"
If Bertha and the chief engineer had been real lovers, and had selected
the moon for a place of rendezvous, they could not have been safer from
intrusion than in the late Frederick Krupp's library with the door
unlocked, for the "room sacred to His Majesty" was a sort of Bluebeard
chamber into which no eye but the War Lord's and Bertha's must look.
Bertha had shown her mother a parcel of documents which Uncle Majesty
had ordered her to read carefully. "I will go to the library, where I
will be undisturbed," she said in her decisive tone, while the butler
was serving early strawberries sent from Italy. Strawberries in January
in a little Rhenish town! It reminds us that when Charles V., warrior
and gourmet-gourmand, sucked an orange in winter-time, his Court was
prostrate with astonishment and admiration.
And Alexis Orloff won Catherine the Great from his brother
Gregory--temporarily, at least--by sending to the Semiramis of the North
a plate of strawberries for the New Year. Yet nowadays any well-to-do
person can indulge all the year round in the luxuries that made Charles
and Catherine the envied of their Imperial class.
Bertha was in the War Lord's chair, for she felt very Olympian since she
had returned from the Berlin Court, while Franz sat on the _tabouret_
affected by the Krupp heiress during the interviews with her guardian.
"What did Zara really mean?" repeated Bertha.
"Are you prepared to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth?" queried Franz.
Bertha Krupp moved uneasily in her high seat. Her mental stature had
advanced rapidly under the War Lord's teachings, disguised as coaxings,
and while the sound principles implanted in her bosom by a good mother
were at bottom unimpaired, she was beginning to learn the subtle art of
putting her conscience to sleep when occasion demanded--a touch of
Machiavellism!
Just now she would have loved to shut up Franz, as she was wont to
silence her mother by a word or look, though less rudely, perhaps, but
her fondness for the man--though she was not at all in love with
Franz--forced her to be frank with him.
"Speak as a friend to a friend," she said warmly.
"Well then----" began Franz.
Bertha covered his mouth with her hand. "A moment, please. May I tell
Uncle Majesty?"
"What I have to say is no secret of mine and certainly it is not news to
the War Lord. By all means tell him if you dare."
"If I dare?" echoed Bertha.
"My own words."
Franz spoke very earnestly, almost solemnly: "Will you hear me to the
end, whether you like the tune or not?"
"If it relates to Zara's prophecies, I will," said Bertha. "But," she
added falteringly, "you know I mustn't listen to criticism of my
guardian."
Franz shrugged. "I quite understand. Forbidden ground even for your
Mother."
Bertha felt the sting of reproval keenly, and did not like it. Indeed,
at the moment she would have given up gladly a considerable portion of
her wealth to be restored to Franz's unconditional and unrestricted good
graces. So, humbling herself, she temporarily abandoned her high estate
and again became the unsophisticated girl whom Franz used to call
sister. "_Do_ go on," she urged; "it was all so romantic, so strange,
so mysterious, and you know I love to feel creepy.
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