Part 15

There is a bothersome little provision in the Constitution of Monterosso to the effect that the Sovereign may not cross the frontiers of his dominions, no matter for how brief a sojourn, without leaving a Regent in command. Under the good old régime, before the revolution of 1868, the kings of Tchermnogoria were a good deal inclined to spend the bulk of their time—and money—in foreign parts. They found Paris, Monte Carlo, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and even, if you can believe me, sometimes London, on the whole more agreeable as places of residence than their hereditary capital. (There was the particularly flagrant case of Paul II., our Theodore’s great-grandfather, who lived for twenty years on end in Rome. He fancied himself a statuary, poor gentleman, and produced—oh, such amazing Groups! Tons of them repose in the Royal Museum at Vescova; a few brave the sky here and there in lost corners of the Campagna—he used to present them to the Pope! Perhaps you have seen his Fountain at Acqu’amarra?) It was to discourage this sort of royal absenteeism that the patriotic framers of the Constitution slyly slipped Sub-Clause 18 into Clause ii., of Title 3, of Article XXXVI.: Concerning the Appointment of a Regent.

“So,” said Theodore, “when you have finally made up your mind, I shall be glad if you will let me know; for I’ve got to name a Regent.”

But the Queen continued to hesitate; in the morning it was Yes, in the evening No; and the eleventh hour was drawing near and nearer. The King was to leave on Monday. On the previous Tuesday, in a melting mood, Anéli had declared, “There! Once for all, to make an end of it, I’ll go.” On Wednesday a Commission of Regency, appointing Prince Stephen, was drawn up. On Thursday it was brought to the Palace for the royal signature. The King had actually got so far as the d in his name, when the Queen, faltering at sight of the irrevocable document, laid her hand on his arm. She was very pale, and her voice was weak. “No, Theo, don’t sign it. It’s like my death-warrant. I—I haven’t got the courage. You’ll have to let me stay. You’ll have to go alone.” On Friday a new commission was prepared, in which Anéli’s name had been substituted for Stephen’s. On Saturday morning it was presented to the King. “Shall I sign?” he asked. “Yes, sign,” said she. And he signed.

“Ouf!” she cried. “That’s settled.”

And she hardly once changed her mind again until Sunday night; and even then she only half changed it.

“If it weren’t too late,” she announced, “do you know, I believe I’d decide to go with you, in spite of everything? But of course I never could get ready to start by to-morrow morning. You couldn’t wait till Tuesday?”

The King said he couldn’t.

“And now, my dears” (as Florimond, who loves to tell the story, is wont to begin it), “no sooner was her poor confiding husband’s back a-turned, than what do you suppose this deep, designing, unprincipled, high-handed young woman up and did?”

Almost the last words Theodore spoke to her were, “Do, for heaven’s sake, try to get on pleasantly with Tsargradev. Don’t treat him too much as if he were the dust under your feet. All you’ll have to do is to sign your name at the end of the papers he’ll bring you. Sign and ask no questions, and all will be well.”

And the very first act of Anéli’s Regency was to degrade M. Tsargardev from office and to place him under arrest.

We bade the King good-bye on the deck of the royal yacht Nemisa, which was to bear him to Belgrade, the first stage of his journey. Cannon bellowed from the citadel; the bells of all the churches in the town were clanging in jubilant discord; the river was gay with fluttering bunting, and the King resplendent in a gold-laced uniform, with the stars and crosses of I don’t know how many Orders glittering on his breast. We lingered at the landing-stage, waving our pocket-handkerchiefs, till the Nemisa turned a promontory and disappeared; Anéli silent, with a white face, and set, wistful eyes. And then we got into a great gilt-and-scarlet state-coach, she and Madame Donarowska, Florimond and I, and were driven back to the Palace; and during the drive she never once spoke, but leaned her cheek on Madame Donarowska’s shoulder, and cried as if her heart would break.

The Palace reached, however—as who should say, “We’re not here to amuse ourselves”—she promptly dried her tears.

“Do you know what I’m going to do?” she asked. And, on our admitting that we didn’t, she continued, blithely, “It’s an ill wind that blows no good. Theo’s absence will be very hard to bear, but I must turn it to some profitable account. I must improve the occasion to straighten out his affairs; I must put his house in order. I’m going to give Monsieur Tsargradev a taste of retributive justice. I’m going to do what Theo himself ought to have done long ago. It’s intolerable that a miscreant like Tsargradev should remain at large in a civilised country; it’s a disgrace to humanity that such a man should hold honourable office. I’m going to dismiss him and put him in prison. And I shall keep him there till a thorough investigation has been made of his official acts, and the crimes I’m perfectly certain he’s committed have been proved against him. I’m not going to be Regent for nothing. I’m going to rule.”

We, her auditors, looked at each other in consternation. It was a good minute before either of us could collect himself sufficiently to speak.

At last, “Oh, lady, lady, august and gracious lady,” groaned Florimond, “please be nice, and relieve our minds by confessing that you’re only saying it to tease us. Tell us you’re only joking.”

“I never was more serious in my life,” she answered.

“I defy you to look me in the eye and say so without laughing,” he persisted. “What is the fun of trying to frighten us?”

“You needn’t be frightened. I know what I’m about,” said she.

“What you’re about!” he echoed. “Oh me, oh my! You’re about to bring your house crashing round your ears. You’re about to precipitate a revolution. You’ll lose your poor unfortunate husband’s kingdom for him. You’ll—goodness only can tell what you won’t do. Your own bodily safety—your very life—will be in danger. There’ll be mobs, there’ll be rioting. Oh, lady, sweet lady, gentle lady, you mustn’t, you really mustn’t. You’d much better come and sing a song, along o’ me. Don’t meddle with politics. They’re nothing but sea, sand, and folly. Music’s the only serious thing in the world. Come—let’s too-tootle.”

“It’s all very well to try to turn what I say to jest,” the Queen replied loftily, “but I assure you I mean every word of it. I’ve studied the Constitution. I know my rights. The appointment and revocation of Ministers rest absolutely with the Sovereign. It’s not a matter of law, it’s merely a matter of custom, a matter of convenience, that the Ministers should be chosen from the party that has a majority in the Soviete. Well, when it comes to the case of a ruffian like Tsargradev, custom and convenience must go by the board, in favour of right and justice. I’m going to revoke him.”

“And within an hour of your doing so the whole town of Vescova will be in revolt. We’ll all have to leave the Palace, and fly for our precious skins. We’ll be lucky if we get away with them intact. A pretty piece of business! Tsargradev, from being Grand Vizier, will become Grand Mogul; and farewell to the illustrious dynasty of Pavelovitch! Oh, lady, lady! I call it downright unfriendly, downright inhospitable of you. Where shall my grey hairs find shelter? I’m so comfortable here under your royal rooftree. You wouldn’t deprive the gentlest of God’s creatures of a happy home? Better that a thousand Tsargradevs should flourish like a green bay-tree, than that one upright man should be turned out of comfortable quarters. There, now, be kind. As a personal favour to me, won’t you please just leave things as they are?”

The Queen laughed a little—not very heartily, though, and not at all acquiescently. “Monsieur Tsargradev must go to prison,” was her inexorable word.

We pleaded, we argued, we exhausted ourselves in warnings and protestations, but to no purpose. And in the end she lost her patience, and shut us up categorically.

“No! Laissez moi tranquille!” she cried. “I’ve heard enough. I know my own mind. I won’t be bothered.”

It was with heavy spirits and the dismallest forebodings that we assisted at her subsequent proceedings. We had an anxious time of it for many days; and it has never ceased to be a source of astonishment to me that it all turned out as well as it did. But—ce que femme veult....

She began operations by despatching an aide-decamp to M. Tsargradev’s house, with a note in which she commanded him to wait upon her forthwith at the Palace, and to deliver up his seals of office.

At the same time she summoned to her presence General Michaïlov, the Military Governor of Vescova, and Prince Vasiliev, the leader of the scant Conservative opposition in the Soviete.

She awaited these gentleman in the throne-room, surrounded by the officers of the household in full uniform. Florimond and I hovered uneasily in the background.

“By Jove, she does look her part, doesn’t she?” Florimond whispered to me.

She wore a robe of black silk, with the yellow ribbon of the Lion of Monterosso across her breast, and a tiara of diamonds in her hair. Her eyes glowed with a fire of determination, and her cheeks with a colour that those who knew her recognised for a danger-signal. She stood on the steps of the throne, waiting, and tapping nervously with her foot.

And then the great white-and-gold folding doors were thrown open, and M. Tsargradev entered, followed by the aide-de-camp who had gone to fetch him.

He entered, bowing and smiling, grotesque in his ministerial green and silver; and the top of his bald head shone as if it had been waxed and polished. Bowing and smirking, he advanced to the foot of the throne, where he halted.

“I have sent for you to demand the return of your seals of office,” said the Queen. She held her head high, and spoke slowly, with superb haughtiness.

Tsargradev bowed low, and, always smiling, answered, in a voice of honey, “If it please your Majesty, I don’t think I quite understand.”

“I have sent for you to demand the return of your seals of office,” the Queen repeated, her head higher, her inflection haughtier than ever.

“Does your Majesty mean that I am to consider myself dismissed from her service?” he asked, with undiminished sweetness.

“It is my desire that you should deliver up your seals of office,” said she.

Tsargradev’s lips puckered in an effort to suppress a little good-humoured deprecatory laugh. “But, your Majesty,” he protested, in the tone of one reasoning with a wayward school-girl, “you must surely know that you have no power to dismiss a constitutional Minister.”

“I must decline to hold any discussion with you. I must insist upon the immediate surrender of your seals of office.”

“I must remind your Majesty that I am the representative of the majority of the Soviete.”

“I forbid you to answer me. I forbid you to speak in my presence. You are not here to speak. You are here to restore the seals of your office to your Sovereign.”

“That, your Majesty, I must, with all respect, decline to do.”

“You refuse?” the Queen demanded, with terrific shortness.

“I cannot admit your Majesty’s right to demand such a thing of me. It is unconstitutional.”

“In other words, you refuse to obey my commands? Colonel Karkov!” she called.

Her eyes were burning magnificently now; her hands trembled a little.

Colonel Karkov, the Marshal of the Palace, stepped forward.

“Arrest that man,” said the Queen, pointing to Tsargradev.

Colonel Karkov looked doubtful, hesitant.

“Do you also mean to disobey me?” the Queen cried, with a glance... oh, a glance!

Colonel Karkov turned pale, but he hesitated no longer. He bowed to Tsargradev. “I must ask you to constitute yourself my prisoner,” he said.

Tsargradev made a motion as if to speak; but the Queen raised her hand, and he was silent.

“Take him away at once,” she said. “Lock him up. He is to be absolutely prevented from holding any communication with any one outside the Palace.”

And, somehow, Colonel Karkov managed to lead Tsargradev from the presence-chamber.

And that ended the first act of our comical, precarious little melodrama.

After Tsargradev’s departure there was a sudden buzz of conversation among the courtiers. The Queen sank back, in evident exhaustion, upon the red velvet cushions of the throne. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, holding one of her hands pressed hard against her heart.

By-and-by she looked up. She was very pale.

“Now let General Michaïlov and Prince Vasiliev be introduced,” she said.

And when they stood before her, “General Michaïlov,” she began, “I desire you to place the town of Vescova under martial law. You will station troops about the Palace, about the Chamber of the Soviete, about the Mint and Government offices, and in all open squares and other places where crowds would be likely to collect. I have just dismissed M. Tsargradev from office, and there may be some disturbance. You will rigorously suppress any signs of disorder. I shall hold you responsible for the peace of the town and the protection of my person.”

General Michaïlov, a short, stout, purple-faced old soldier, blinked and coughed, and was presumably on the point of offering something in the nature of an objection.

“You have heard my wishes,” said the Queen. “I shall be glad if you will see to their immediate execution.”

The General still seemed to have something on his mind.

The Queen stamped her foot. “Is everybody in a conspiracy to disobey me?” she demanded. “I am the representative of your King, who is Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Are my orders to be questioned?”

The General bowed, and backed from the room.

“Prince Vasiliev,” the Queen said, “I have sent for you to ask you to replace M. Tsargradev as Secretary of State for the Interior, and President of the Council. You will at once enter into the discharge of your duties, and proceed to the formation of a Ministry.”

Prince Vasiliev was a tall, spare, faded old man, with a pointed face ending in a white imperial. He was a great personal favourite of the Queen’s.

“It will be a little difficult, Madame,” said he.

“No doubt,” assented she. “But it must be done.”

“I hardly see, Madame, how I can form a Ministry to any purpose, with an overwhelming majority against me in the Soviete.”

“You are to dissolve the Soviete and order a general election.”

“The general election can scarcely be expected to result in a change of parties, your Majesty.”

“No; but we shall have gained time. When the new deputies are ready to take their seats, M. Tsargradev’s case will have been disposed of. I expect you will find among his papers at the Home Office evidence sufficient to convict him of all sorts of crimes. If I can deliver Monterosso from the Tsargradev superstition, my intention will have been accomplished.”

“Now let’s lunch,” she said to Florimond and me, at the close of this historic session. “I’m ravenously hungry.”

I dare say General Michaïlov did what he could, but his troops weren’t numerous enough to prevent a good deal of disturbance in the town; and I suppose he didn’t want to come to bloodshed. For three days and nights, the streets leading up to the Palace were black with a howling mob, kept from crossing the Palace courtyard by a guard of only about a hundred men. Cries of “Long live Tsargradev!” and “Death to the German woman!” and worse cries still, were constantly audible from the Palace windows.

“Canaille!” exclaimed the Queen. “Let them shout themselves hoarse. Time will show.”

And she would step out upon her balcony, in full sight of the enemy, and look down upon them calmly, contemptuously.

Still, the military did contrive to prevent an actual revolution, and to maintain the status quo.

The news reached the King at Vienna. He turned straight round and hurried home.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” he groaned. “You have made a mess of things.”

“You think so? Read this.”

It was a copy of the morning’s Gazette, containing Prince Vasiliev’s report of the interesting discoveries he had made amongst the papers Tsargradev had left behind him at the Home Office.

There was an immediate revulsion of public feeling. The secret understanding with Berlin was the thing that “did it.” The Monterossans are hereditarily, temperamentally, and from motives of policy, Russophils.

They couldn’t forgive Tsargradev his secret treaty with Berlin; and they promptly proceeded to execrate him as much as they had loved him.

For State reasons, however, it was decided not to prosecute him. On his release from prison, he asked for his passport, that he might go abroad. He has remained an exile ever since, and (according to Florimond, at any rate) “is spending his declining years colouring a meerschaum.”

“People talk of the ingratitude of princes,” said the Queen, last night. “But what of the ingratitude of nations? The Monterossans hated me because I dismissed M. Tsargradev; and then, when they saw him revealed in his true colours, they still hated me, in spite of it. They are quick to resent what they imagine to be an injury; but they never recognise a benefit. Oh, the folly of universal suffrage! The folly of constitutional government! I used to say, ’Surely a good despot is better than a mob.’ But now I’m convinced that a bad despot, even, is better. Come, Florimond, let us sing.... you know.... that song....”

“God save—the best of despots?” suggested Florimond.

COUSIN ROSALYS

Isn’t it a pretty name, Rosalys? But, for me, it is so much more; it is a sort of romantic symbol. I look at it written there on the page, and the sentiment of things changes: it is as if I were listening to distant music; it is as if the white paper turned softly pink, and breathed a perfume—never so faint a perfume of hyacinths. Rosalys, Cousin Rosalys.... London and this sad-coloured February morning become shadowy, remote. I think of another world, another era. Somebody has said that old memories and fond regrets are the day-dreams of the disappointed, the illusions of the age of disillusion. Well, if they are illusions, thank goodness they are where experience can’t touch them—on the safe side of time.

Cousin Rosalys—I call her cousin. But, as we often used to remind ourselves, with a kind of esoteric satisfaction, we were not “real” cousins. She was the niece of my Aunt Elizabeth, and lived with her in Rome; but my Aunt Elizabeth was not my “real” aunt—only my great-aunt by marriage, the widow of my father’s uncle. It was Aunt Elizabeth herself however, who dubbed us cousins, when she introduced us to each other; and at that epoch, for both of us, Aunt Elizabeth’s lightest words were in the nature of decrees, she was such a terrible old lady.

I’m sure I don’t know why she was terrible, I don’t know how she contrived it; she never said anything, never did anything, especially terrifying; she wasn’t especially wise or especially witty—intellectually, indeed, I suspect she might have passed for a paragon of respectable commonplaceness: but I do know that everybody stood in awe of her. I suppose it must simply have been her atmosphere, her odylic force; a sort of metaphysical chill that enveloped her, and was felt by all who approached her—some people are like that. Everybody stood in awe of her, everybody deferred to her: relations, friends, even her Director, and the cloud of priests that pervaded her establishment and gave it its character. For, like so many other old ladies who lived in Rome in those days, my Aunt Elizabeth was nothing if not Catholic, if not Ecclesiastical. You would have guessed as much, I think, from her exterior. She looked Catholic, she looked Ecclesiastical. There was something Gothic in her anatomy, in the architecture of her face: in her high-bridged nose, in the pointed arch her hair made as it parted above her forehead, in her prominent cheek-bones, her straight-lipped mouth and long attenuated chin, in the angularities of her figure. No doubt the simile must appear far-sought, but upon my word her face used to remind me of a chapel—a chapel built of marble, fallen somewhat into decay. I’m not sure whether she was a tall woman, or whether she only had a false air of tallness, being excessively thin and holding herself rigidly erect.

She always dressed in black, in hard black silk cut to the severest patterns. Somehow, the very jewels she wore—not merely the cross on her bosom, but the rings on her fingers, the watch-chain round her neck, her watch itself, her old-fashioned, gold-faced watch—seemed of a mode canonical.

She was nothing if not Catholic, if not Ecclesiastical; but I don’t in the least mean that she was particularly devout. She observed all requisite forms, of course: went, as occasion demanded, to mass, to vespers, to confession; but religious fervour was the last thing she suggested, the last thing she affected. I never heard her talk of Faith or Salvation, of Sin or Grace, nor indeed of any matters spiritual. She was quite frankly a woman of the world, and it was the Church as a worldly institution, the Church corporal, the Papacy, Papal politics, that absorbed her interests. The loss of the Temporal Power was the wrong that filled the universe for her, its restoration the cause for which she lived. That it was a forlorn cause she would never for an instant even hypothetically admit. “Remember Avignon, remember the Seventy Years,” she used to say, with a nod that seemed to attribute apodictic value to the injunction.

“Mark my words, she’ll live to be Pope yet,” a ribald young man murmured behind her chair. “Oh, you tell me she is a woman. I’ll assume it for the sake of the argument—I’d do anything for the sake of an argument. But remember Joan, remember Pope Joan!” And he mimicked his Aunt Elizabeth’s inflection and her conclusive nod.

I had not been in Rome since that universe-filling wrong was perpetrated—not since I was a child of six or seven—when, a youth approaching twenty, I went there in the autumn of 1879; and I recollected Aunt Elizabeth only vaguely, as a lady with a face like a chapel, in whose presence—I had almost written in whose precincts—it had required some courage to breathe. But my mother’s last words, when I left her in Paris, had been, “Now mind you call on your Aunt Elizabeth at once. You mustn’t let a day pass. I am writing to her to tell her that you are coming. She will expect you to call at once.” So, on the morrow of my arrival, I made an exceedingly careful toilet (I remember to this day the pains I bestowed upon my tie, the revisions to which I submitted it!), and, with an anxious heart, presented myself at the huge brown Roman palace, a portion of which my formidable relative inhabited; a palace with grated windows, and a vaulted, crypt-like porte-cochère, and a tremendous Swiss concierge, in knee-breeches and a cocked hat: the Palazzo Zacchinelli.