Royal Highness

  Yes, this was especially noticeable in the case of the boy with the bullet through his arm and the boy who had been picked out of the water—two sad cases, as Dr. Sammet remarked. “A severed artery, sister,” he said, and showed them the double wound in the boy’s upper arm, the entry and exit of the revolver bullet. “The wound,” said Doctor Sammet in an undertone to his guests, turning his back to the bed, “the wound was caused by his own father. This one was the lucky one. The man shot his wife, three of his children, and himself with a revolver. He made a bad shot at this boy.”

  Klaus Heinrich looked at the double wound. “What did the man do it for?” he asked hesitatingly, and Doctor Sammet answered: “In desperation, Royal Highness. It was shame and want which brought him to it. Yes.” He said no more, just this commonplace—just as in the case of the boy, a ten-year-old, who had been picked out of the water. “He’s wheezing,” said Doctor Sammet, “he’s still got some water in his lung. He was picked out of the river early this morning—yes. I may say that it is improbable that he fell into the water. There are many indications to the contrary. He had run away from home. Yes.” He stopped.

  And Klaus Heinrich again felt Miss Spoelmann looking at him with her big, black, serious eyes—with her glance which sought his own and seemed to challenge him insistently to ponder with her the “sad cases,” to grasp the essential meaning of Doctor Sammet’s remarks, to penetrate to the hideous truths which were incorporated and crystallized in these two little invalid frames.… A little girl wept bitterly when the steaming and hissing inhaler, together with a scrapbook full of brightly coloured pictures, was planted at her bedside.

  Miss Spoelmann bent over the little one. “It doesn’t hurt,” she said, “not a tiny bit. Don’t cry.” And as she straightened herself again she added quickly, pursing up her lips, “I guess it’s not so much the apparatus as the pictures she’s crying at.” Everybody laughed. One of the young assistants picked up the scrapbook and laughed still louder when he looked at the pictures. The party passed on into the laboratory. Klaus Heinrich thought, as he went, how dry Miss Spoelmann’s humour was. “I guess,” she had said, and “not so much.” She had seemed to find amusement not only in the pictures, but also in the neat and incisive mode of expression she had used. And that was indeed the very refinement of humour.…

  The laboratory was the biggest room in the building. Glasses, retorts, funnels, and chemicals stood on the tables, as well as specimens in spirits which Doctor Sammet explained to his guests in few quiet words. A child had choked in a mysterious way: here was his larynx with mushroom-like growths instead of the vocal chords. Yes. This, here in the glass, was a case of pernicious enlargement of the kidney in a child, and there were dislocated joints. Klaus Heinrich and Miss Spoelmann looked at everything, they looked together into the bottles which Doctor Sammet held up to the window, and their eyes looked thoughtful while the same look of repulsion hovered round their mouths.

  They took turns too at the microscope, examined, with one eye placed to the lens, a malignant secretion, a piece of blue-stained tissue stuck on a slide, with tiny spots showing near the big patch. The spots were bacilli. Klaus Heinrich wanted Miss Spoelmann to take the first turn at the microscope, but she declined, knitting her brows and pouting, as much as to say: “On no account whatever.” So he took the precedence, for it seemed to him that it really did not matter who got the first look at such serious and fearful things as bacilli. And after this they were conducted up to the second story, to the infants.

  They both laughed at the chorus of squalls which reached their ears while they were still on the stairs. And then they went with their party through the ward between the beds, bent side by side over the bald-headed little creatures, sleeping with closed fists or screaming with all their might and showing their naked gums—they stopped their ears and laughed again. In a kind of oven, warmed to a moderate heat lay a new-born baby.

  And Doctor Sammet showed his distinguished guests a pauper baby with the grey look of a corpse and hideous big hands, the sign of a miscarriage.… He lifted a squealing baby out of its cot, and it at once stopped screaming. With the touch of an expert he rested the limp head in the hollow of his hand and showed the little red creature blinking and twitching spasmodically to the two—Klaus Heinrich and Miss Spoelmann, who stood side by side and looked down at the infant. Klaus Heinrich stood watching with his heels together as Doctor Sammet laid the baby back in its cot, and when he turned round he met Miss Spoelmann’s searching gaze, as he had expected.

  Finally they walked to one of the three windows of the ward and looked out over the squalid suburb, down into the street where, surrounded by children, the brown Court carriage and Imma’s smart dark-red motor car stood one behind the other. The Spoelmanns’ chauffeur, shapeless in his fur coat, was leaning back in his seat with one hand on the steering-wheel of the powerful car, and watched his companion, the footman in white, trying to start a conversation, by the carriage in front, with Klaus Heinrich’s coachman.

  “Our neighbours,” said Doctor Sammet, holding back the white net curtain with one hand, “are the parents of our patients. Late in the evening the tipsy fathers roll shouting by. Yes.”

  They stood and listened, but Doctor Sammet said nothing further about the fathers and so they broke off, as they had now seen everything.

  The procession, with Klaus Heinrich and Imma at the head, proceeded down the staircase and found the nurses again assembled in the front hall. Leave was taken with compliments and clapping together of heels, curtseys, and bows. Klaus Heinrich, standing stiffly in front of Doctor Sammet, who listened to him with his head on one side and his hand on his watch-chain, expressed himself, in his wonted form of words, highly satisfied with what he had seen, while he felt that Imma Spoelmann’s great eyes were resting upon him. He, with Herr von Braunbart, accompanied Miss Spoelmann to her car when the leave-taking from the surgeons and nurses was over. Klaus Heinrich and Miss Spoelmann, while they crossed the pavement between children and women with children in their arms, and for a short time by the broad step of the motor car, exchanged the following remarks:

  “It has been a great pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  She answered nothing to this, but pouted and wagged her head a little from side to side.

  “It was an absorbing inspection,” he went on. “A regular eye-opener.”

  She looked at him with her big black eyes, then said quickly and lightly in her broken voice: “Yes, to a certain extent.…”

  He ventured on the question: “I hope you are pleased with Schloss Delphinenort?”

  To which she answered with a pout: “Oh, why not? It’s quite a convenient house.…”

  “Do you like being there better than at New York?” he asked. And she answered:

  “Just as much. It’s much the same. Much the same everywhere.”

  That was all. Klaus Heinrich, and one pace behind him Herr von Braunbart, stood with their hands to their helmets as the chauffeur slipped his gear in and the motor car shivered and started.

  It may be imagined that this meeting did not long remain the private property of the Dorothea Hospital; on the contrary, it was the general topic of conversation before the day was out. The Courier published, under a sentimental poetical heading, a detailed description of the rencontre, which, without too violent a departure from the exact truth, yet succeeded in making such a powerful impression on the public mind, and evoked symptoms of such lively interest, that the vigilant newspaper was induced to keep a watchful eye for the future on any further rapprochements between the Spoelmann and Grimmburg houses. It could not report much.

  It remarked a couple of times that his Royal Highness Prince Klaus Heinrich, when walking through the promenade after a performance at the Court Theatre, had stopped for a moment at the Spoelmanns’ box to greet the ladies. And in its report of the fancy-dress charity bazaar, which took place in the middle of January in the Town Hall—a smart function, in which Miss Spoelmann,
at the urgent request of the Committee, acted as seller—no small space was devoted to describing how Prince Klaus Heinrich, when the Court was making a round of the bazaar, had stopped before Miss Spoelmann’s stall, how he had bought a piece or two of fancy glass (for Miss Spoelmann was selling porcelain and glass), and had lingered a good eight or ten minutes at her stall. It said nothing about the topic of the conversation. And yet it had not been without importance.

  The Court (with the exception of Albrecht) had appeared in the Town Hall about noon. When Klaus Heinrich, with his newly bought pieces of glass in tissue paper on his knee, drove back to the “Hermitage,” he had announced his intention of visiting Delphinenort and inspecting the Schloss in its renovated state, on the same occasion viewing Mr. Spoelmann’s collection of glass. For three or four old pieces of glass had been included in Miss Spoelmann’s stock which her father himself had given to the bazaar out of his collection, and one of them Klaus Heinrich had bought.

  He saw himself again in a semicircle of people, stared at, alone, in front of Miss Spoelmann, and separated from her by the stall-counter, with its vases, jugs, its white and coloured groups of porcelain. He saw her in her red fancy dress, which, made in one piece, clung close to her neat though childish figure, while it exposed dark shoulders and arms, which were round and firm and yet like those of a child just by the wrist. He saw the gold ornament, half garland and half diadem, in the jet of her billowy hair, that showed a tendency to fall in smooth wisps on her forehead, her big black, inquiring eyes in the pearly-white face, her full and tender mouth, pouting with habitual scorn when she spoke—and round about her in the great vaulted hall had been the scent of firs and a babel of noise, music, the clash of gongs, laughter, and the cries of sellers.

  He had admired the piece of glass, the fine old beaker with its ornament of silver foliage, which she proffered to him, and she had said that it came from her father’s collection. “Has your father, then, got many fine pieces like this?”—Of course. And presumably her father had not given the best items to the bazaar. She could guarantee that he had much finer pieces of glass. Klaus Heinrich would very much like to see them! Well, that might easily be managed, Miss Spoelmann had answered in her broken voice, while she pouted and wagged her head slightly from side to side. Her father, she meant, would certainly have no objection to showing the fruits of his zeal as a collector to one more of a long succession of intelligent visitors. The Spoelmanns were always at home at tea-time.

  She had gone straight to the point, taking the hint for a definite offer, and speaking in an entirely off-hand way. In conclusion, to Klaus Heinrich’s question, what day would suit best, she had answered: “Whichever you like, Prince, we shall be inexpressibly delighted.”

  “We shall be inexpressibly delighted”—those were her words, so mocking and pointed in the exaggeration that they almost hurt, and were difficult to listen to without wincing. How she had rattled and hurt the poor sister in the Hospital the other day! But all through there was something childish in her manner of speech; indeed, some sounds she made were just like those children make—not only on the occasion when she was comforting the little girl about the inhaler. And how large her eyes had seemed when they told her about the children’s fathers and the rest of the sad story!

  Next day Klaus Heinrich went to tea at Schloss Delphinenort, the very next. Miss Spoelmann had said he might come when it suited him. But it suited him the very next day, and as the matter seemed to him urgent, he saw no point in putting it off.

  Shortly before five o’clock—it was already dark—he drove over the smooth roads of the Town Garden—bare and empty, for this part of it belonged to Mr. Spoelmann. Arc-lamps lit up the park, the big square spa-basin shimmered between the trees; behind it rose the white Schloss with its pillared porch, its spacious double staircase which led by gentle degrees between the wings up to the first floor, its high leaded windows, its Roman busts in the niches—and Klaus Heinrich, as he drove along the approach avenue of mighty chestnuts, saw the red-plush negro with his staff standing on guard at the foot of the staircase.

  Klaus Heinrich crossed a brightly lighted stone hall, with a floor of gilt mosaic and with white statues of gods round it, passed straight over to the broad red-carpeted marble staircase, down which the Spoelmanns’ major-domo, clean shaven, with shoulders squared and arms stiff, pot-bellied and haughty, advanced to receive the guest. He escorted him up into the tapestried and marble-chimneyed ante-room, where a couple of white-and-gold swan’s-down footmen took the Prince’s cap and cloak, while the steward went in person to announce him to his master.… The footman held aside one of the tapestries for Klaus Heinrich, who descended two or three steps.

  The scent of flowers met him, and he heard the soft splash of falling water; but just as the tapestry closed behind him, so wild and harsh a barking was heard that Klaus Heinrich, half deafened for a moment, stopped at the foot of the steps. Percival, the collie, had dashed at him in a fury. He pranced, he capered in uncontrollable passion, he pirouetted, beat his sides with his tail, planted his forefeet on the floor, and turned wildly round and round, and seemed like to burst with noise. A voice—not Imma’s—called him off, and Klaus Heinrich found himself in a winter garden, a glass conservatory with white marble columns and a floor of big square marble flags. Palms of all kinds filled it, whose trunks and tops often reached close up to the glass ceiling. A flower-bed, consisting of countless pots arranged like the stones of a mosaic, lay in the strong moonlight of the arc-lamp and filled the air with its scent. Out of a beautifully carved fountain, silver streams flowed into a marble pool, and ducks with strange and fantastic plumage swam about on the illuminated water. The background was filled by a stone walk with columns and niches.

  It was Countess Löwenjoul who advanced towards the guest, and curtseyed with a smile.

  “Your Royal Highness will not mind,” she said, “our Percy is so uproarious. Besides, he’s so unaccustomed to visitors. But he never touches anybody. Your Royal Highness must excuse Miss Spoelmann.… She’ll be back soon. She was here just now. She was called away, her father sent for her Mr. Spoelmann will be delighted.…”

  And she conducted Klaus Heinrich to an arrangement of basket chairs with embroidered linen cushions which stood in front of a group of palms. She spoke in a brisk and emphatic tone, with her little head with its thin iron-grey hair bent on one side and her white teeth showing as she laughed. Her figure was distinctly graceful in the close-fitting brown dress she was wearing, and she moved as freshly and elegantly as an officer’s wife. Only in her eyes. whose lids she kept blinking, there was something of mistrust or spite, something unintelligible. They sat down facing each other at the round garden-table, on which lay a few books. Percival, exhausted by his outburst, curled himself up on the narrow pearl-grey carpet on which the furniture stood. His black coat was like silk, with white paws, chest, and muzzle. He had a white collar, yellow eyes, and a parting along his back. Klaus Heinrich began a conversation for conversation’s sake, a formal dialogue about nothing in particular, which was all he could do.

  “I hope, Countess, that I have not come at an inconvenient time. Luckily I need not feel myself an unauthorized intruder. I do not know whether Miss Spoelmann has told you.… She was so kind as to suggest my calling. It was about those lovely pieces of glass which Mr. Spoelmann so generously gave to yesterday’s bazaar. Miss Spoelmann thought that her father would have no objection to letting me see the rest of his collection. That’s why I’m here …”

  The Countess ignored the question whether Imma had told her of the arrangement. She said: “This is tea-time, Royal Highness. Of course your visit is not inconvenient. Even if, as I hope will not be the case, Mr. Spoelmann were too unwell to appear.…”

  “Oh, is he ill?” In reality Klaus Heinrich wished just a little that Mr. Spoelmann might be too unwell. He anticipated his meeting with him with vague anxiety.

  “He was feeling ill to-day, Royal Highness. He had a to
uch of fever, shivering, and a little faintness. Dr. Watercloose was with him for a long time this morning. He was given an injection of morphia. There’s some question of an operation being necessary.”

  “I am very sorry,” said Klaus Heinrich quite honestly. “An operation? How dreadful!”

  To which the Countess answered, letting her eyes wander: “Oh yes. But there are worse things in life—many much worse things than that.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Klaus Heinrich. “I can quite believe it.” He felt his imagination stirred in a vague and general way by the Countess’s allusion.

  She looked at him with her head inclined to one side, and an expression of contempt on her face. Then her slightly distended grey eyes shifted, while she smiled the mysterious smile which Klaus Heinrich already knew and which had something seductive about it.

  He felt it was necessary to resume the conversation.

  “Have you lived long with the Spoelmanns, Countess?” he asked.

  “A fairly long time,” she answered, and appeared to calculate. “Fairly long. I have lived through so much, have had so many experiences, that I naturally cannot reckon to a day. But it was shortly after the blessing—soon after the blessing was vouchsafed to me.”

  “The blessing?” asked Klaus Heinrich.

  “Of course,” she said decidedly with some agitation. “For the blessing happened to me when the number of my experiences had become too great, and the bow had reached breaking point, to use a metaphor. You are so young,” she continued, forgetting to address him by his title, “so ignorant of all that makes the world so miserable and so depraved, that you can form no conception of what I have had to suffer. I brought an action in America which involved the appearance of several generals. Things came to light which were more than my temper could stand. I had to clear out several barracks without succeeding in bringing to light every loose woman. They hid themselves in the cupboards, some even under the floors, and that’s why they continue torturing me beyond measure at nights. I should at once go back to my Schloss in Burgundy if the rain did not come through the roofs. The Spoelmanns knew that, and that is why it was so obliging of them to let me live with them indefinitely, my only duty being to put the innocent Imma on her guard against the world. Only of course my health suffers from my having the women sitting at nights on my chest and forcing me to look at their disgusting faces. And that is why I ask you to call me simply Frau Meier,” she said in a whisper, leaning forward and touching Klaus Heinrich’s arm with her hand. “The walls have ears, and it is absolutely necessary for me to keep up the incognito I was forced to assume in order to protect myself against the persecution of the odious creatures. You will do what I ask, will you not? Look on it as a joke … a fad which hurts nobody.… Why not?”