CHAPTER XV
RINOTTI AND PRINCE VICTOR ADOLPH
The Marchese Rinotti, after having taken his leave of the Countess Vera and her cousin, went to his room to see whether during his absence anything had come to him by mail requiring his attention. He was expecting important advices. Although he was traveling for pleasure and recreation, still he kept in constant touch with all the activities of his post, and even here was working in the business which he was secretly trying to further.
He was in a highly excited state of mind. The news that he had read in the morning’s papers indicated a crisis in various controversies, the obscuration of certain points on the political horizon; and this furnished a favorable field for his plans. What especially intensified his excitement was the retrospect of the last two hours, during which it had become clear to him that the pretty Baltic widow was passionately in love with him. She had sat next him at table. Those side glances, that coquettish smile, aye, even that far from abrupt drawing back of her little foot when he had accidentally touched it with his.... Rinotti was accustomed to this kind of triumph, but it always delighted him to see the evident signs of his mastery of the female heart—a double triumph, because he no longer possessed the attractive power of youth;—therefore it must be really something magnetic, something hypnotic and peculiar in him ... or was it merely the force of his will, of his violent desires? There is nothing like violence; one may condemn it as brutal as much as one will—therein lies strength in war and in love. With such “Renaissance” thoughts he took up his bundle of letters, documents, and dispatches which were waiting for him on his writing-table and now set to work merrily.
He had an hour and a half free: at four o’clock he was to call on Prince Victor Adolph, to whom, since he was a royal highness, he wanted to show his profound respect. That the prince belonged to a country with which, according to Rinotti’s calculations, a conflict was imminent, was no obstacle. The letters interested him intensely. The correspondents whom he had delegated in England and France, in Germany and Austria, in Russia and the Balkans, communicated to him details of all kinds of transparent intrigues even when there was nothing to see through, for they knew his predilections for diplomatic subterfuges and underground paths, and realized that their reports would be regarded as all the more sapient, the more they discovered evil motives concealed behind all political transactions and demonstrations.
Rinotti jotted down on a sheet of paper notes wherein swarmed a profusion of references to movements of troops, blockades of boundaries, communiqués, airship works, and the like. In the same breath he scribbled on another sheet of paper detached words and sentences like “Splendid creature,” “lovely one,” “You must be mine,” “devouring fire,” and other ingredients of a glowing billet doux which that very evening he proposed to slip into Annette’s hands at the Rose-Festival.
In the mean time Victor Adolph was expecting the promised visit. He was sitting on his balcony and lying back comfortably in a rocking-chair, with a book in his hand and a cigarette between his lips. He was not alone. His constant attendant, General von Orell, adjutant, tutor, compagnon de plaisir, paternal friend, and master of ceremonies, all in one person, was resting in a second rocking-chair, also engaged in smoking and reading. Only he was puffing a strong imported cigar and was reading a military aëronautical journal.
Victor Adolph glanced up from his reading: “Why, he is a real poet, this Helmer.... You ought to read ‘Schwingen,’ Orell, since you are so much interested in aviation, as I see from the title-picture of your journal.”
The general politely laid his journal aside, as his prince was pleased to address him.
“Never read poems, Your Royal Highness.”
“I know that, you are too ‘matter-of-fact’ for such things.”
“Too what?” The general did not understand the English expression used by the prince.
“Too sober, too cold-hearted, too skeptical, too....”
“Too prosaic. Granted. Dry common sense. Practical mind. I flatter myself.”
“What news in your journal? Any great advance in the art of flying?”
“Yes, great supplies of explosives can be carried by airships.”
“Really? What a blessing.... Will not Signor Rinotti be here shortly?”
Orell glanced at his watch:—
“Quarter of an hour.”
The general preferred not to say more words than were necessary.
“Have the violets been sent to the Rose-Palace?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness. Pretty girl. But a bluestocking.... Shame!”
“Fräulein Garlett does not give the impression of being a bluestocking, but she is very clever.”
“Women should not be clever.”
The prince laughed. “You are fearfully vieux jeu, my dear Orell.”
“Fearfully what?”
“Old-fashioned.”
“I flatter myself; hate all modern follies. Modern technique, especially the technique of arms, also the modern mode of warfare interests me. Your Royal Highness is far too little interested in such things. Here are the experiences of the Russo-Japanese campaign....”
“I know them. There is some of that in Veresayef’s ‘Recollections of a Physician,’ and in Leonid Andreyef’s ‘Red Laughter.’”
“Your Royal Highness reads bad books with the rest.”
“A piece of genuine good fortune that my royal father has not commissioned you to censor my reading.”
“But his Majesty recommended me to procure useful books for Your Royal Highness.”
“Yes, yes; those dealing with military science and Byzantine history. But I throw aside all such rubbish.”
“And read socialistic pamphlets.”
“What if I do? The social question interests me.”
“Me, too. Must be settled. I know how to.”
“Truly, do you know that? Here behold me all eagerness! Tell me how.”
“Annihilate the whole crowd.”
A cloud of dissatisfaction darkened Victor Adolph’s face, but he made no reply. He had no desire to be drawn into a dispute. Orell’s views were well known to him and he avoided as far as possible affording him any opportunity of expressing them. He took up his book again and lighted a fresh cigarette. Yet he did not read; he only let his mind dwell on the theme that had been broached. The social question really interested him intensely, and not superficially either; he had studied the thing itself. He had long been secretly a subscriber to “Vorwärts,” and many times he had succeeded in smuggling himself into the assemblies of the local labor union, and once he had been present, unrecognized, at an international congress of Socialists. Not everything was clear to him in the doctrinaire aspects of the question, but deep in his heart he was on the side of those who are trying to obtain for the masses of the nations the joys and dignities of life. In order to get a clear notion of the battle against poverty, he would have had to make a study of poverty and see for himself; and then horrible abysses of woe would have opened before him; abysses of which people of his class and in general of all classes, that do not belong to the proletariat, have for the most part no conception.
And one thing particularly embittered him: the fearful lack of comprehension which he met with when he merely mentioned the subject in his own circles. No one seemed to have an idea of what was at issue. Poverty? Yes, that was found everywhere, but it always had existed and always would exist: there is no remedy, except to distribute alms, to establish free soup-kitchens, and so on, and that sort of thing is provided generously. To practice charity is certainly one of the cardinal virtues, and a host of people, notably the women of princely families, are in the front ranks, setting a good example!...
Naturally, there are also discontented people—the lazy who do not want to work or the rascally fellows who are always after higher wages in order to have more gin to drink. But especially guilty of the discontent are the agitators, the so-called leaders, the mischief-making demagogues. Opposition parties, revolutionary parties,—such have always been,—and the only remedy against them is iron firmness. As a last resort one always has the military to preserve the established order. Force is the best, indeed, the only security: the threat of armed force restrains the rabble. Without this wholesome fear the Reds would soon be on hand to plunder property-owners or to vote that all property should be shared equally—such nonsense! As if after such a division the industrious and the clever would not shortly possess more than the lazy and the rascally, and then there would be an end of all the famous equality ... no, no, those are idle dreams.... Inequality is founded on Nature.
These and similar phrases Victor Adolph had always been obliged to hear when Socialism was mentioned in his environment. With especial violence the opponents of a cause always succeed in demolishing the postulates that are never put forward by its advocates. “Equal division of property”—what Socialist would have ever demanded such a thing? Public possession, State possession is not equally divided possession—it is common possession, like the air we breathe.
The prevalent misconception which aroused Victor Adolph’s wrath extended not only to the nature of the social movement, but also to its progress. What it has already accomplished in organization, in clearing the way, what it is on the point of doing, those who stand aloof do not know. They frequently talk about the laws of nature, but only to draw from them the conclusion that all things will and must remain as they are. And they are ready to assist this well-beloved vis inertiæ with laws and clubs and cannon, but what the existing circumstances, what the events will bring forth in natural consequences;—they have no notion about that. With irresponsible frivolity they let come what may. They see nothing of the approaching flood; should there really be a shower or two, they have their umbrellas ready.
Victor Adolph had not himself penetrated far enough into the domain of social and economic affairs to predict how the movement would develop, but he followed it with deep sympathy, and was impelled to do so by two honorable motives,—desire for knowledge and love for his fellow-men.
The prince was aroused from his thoughts by the announcement—“His Excellency, Marchese Rinotti.” The general went to meet the visitor and brought him to the prince. After the first ceremonious greetings had been exchanged, obsequiously on the part of the diplomat, with friendly dignity on the part of the prince, the prince invited the marchese to sit down, and began the conversation with the question: “Is it decided that your king is coming here this week?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness, in three days His Majesty will arrive.”
“And will he attend the exercises in the Rose-Palace?”
“That is his intention.”
“A great honor for the American,” remarked the general.
The prince shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I doubt if Mr. Toker has so much awe before crowned heads as your loyal mind ascribes to him, my dear Orell.”
“I have my doubts as to that point, also,” said Rinotti. “Mr. Toker belongs to that caste of moneyed potentates who regard themselves as kings. And in a certain sense they are, indeed, for they wield a dominion over a monstrous, a sinister power. Old Europe must take precious good care of her prestige, must stick closer than ever to her traditions, if she would hold her own against the spirit of Americanism.”
“That is a vague term,” said the prince. “What do you mean by ‘Americanism’?”
Rinotti’s keen-cut face took on a contemptuous expression. “I mean by it stock-jobbery and wild quest for money; lack of ideality, of anything romantic, of heroism; their poverty in historical recollections and national art amply accounts for this. They have nothing of all that which constitutes our pride, which enriches and ennobles us: ancient monuments, cathedrals, old paintings, famous field-marshals, illustrious families, glorious dynasties of rulers—all that is missing to the New World; and what can it offer in their place?—sky-scrapers, gigantic steel, meat, and oil trusts, California gold-mines, and possibly Niagara Falls! That I will grant as the one thing poetic—but in everything else it is a land of mediocrity, of aridity, of the barrenest prose.”
The general nodded his assent: “Quite right.”
Victor Adolph angrily crushed his cigarette into the ash-tray. “You say, ‘Quite right.’ I say, ‘Quite false,’ essentially false. I know America. You do not know it. I spent a year at Harvard University. You have no conception of the warmth of enthusiasm, of the generosity, of the wide outlook, of the world-embracing ideas—in a word, of the lofty ideals which animate that free, youthful-hearted people....”
“What fire, Your Royal Highness!” exclaimed the marchese. “Your own youthful enthusiasm is speaking. I love it and I admire it, especially in a Northerner.”
The prince made an impatient deprecatory gesture with his hand. “Do you know,” said he, “that the International Agricultural Institute in Rome, the foundation of which was a great glory for King Victor Emanuel III, because it is intended for the service and advantage of all men, owes its origin to an American? The man’s name was Lubin. He made a trip to Europe on purpose to bring this idea of his to the sovereigns; with your king, whose mind is open to grand new ideas, he found appreciation and support.”
“I am glad Your Royal Highness has so good an opinion of my sovereign. I hope also that Italy under his scepter will continue to accumulate stores of glory. My country faces great tasks....”
“Undoubtedly,” interrupted Victor Adolph; “for example, the amelioration of poverty in Sicily, the drainage of all malaria-producing swamps, the diminution of the illiterate ... oh, great tasks are to be performed everywhere, not in Italy alone....”
“In America as well?” asked Rinotti ironically.
“Certainly, in America as well; and possibly the example will be given us from there.”
The prince stood up. Rinotti understood this to be a hint that the interview was at an end: he also arose and took a ceremonious farewell. The general accompanied him to the door and then returned to the prince.
“Desires to thank you again for your gracious reception.”
“The man is antipathetic to me,” replied the prince.
“He is false. Intriguer. Mind full of mischief. That is evident. Intends to play our ally nasty tricks; only waiting till he becomes Prime Minister. Then things will explode! Boundless ambition. Believes that with the Italian airships—and it is true they are swift—they can annihilate Austria’s fleet. But we are all ready for him.”
“You are always imagining wars and rumors of wars, my dear Orell, like the Old Men’s chorus in ‘Faust.’ But if that worthy statesman should really have such notions up his sleeve, he would run counter to his king’s desire for peace. And, moreover, the Italian people have some sense.”
“What is that—the people?”