XV
After that Fessenden took his tea—he detested tea—every day in the Hungarian house. Sometimes theentire court was present, all conforming to the English custom approved by their princess, except the Obersthofmeisterin, who consumed glass after glass of iced coffee, to the secret envy of the rest. Sometimes only the younger ladies-in-waiting were present besides the Archduchess and Alexandra; but even at dinner, to which he was frequently invited, Fessenden rarely had a word alone with Ranata. Twice he had ridden with the court to the summit of the Schwabenberg in the early morning, but he had been obliged to content himself with observing the fine effect of flaming hair among the sweeping branches of the acacia.
If Fessenden had not long since come to the conclusion that it was a waste of man’s valuable time to puzzle over the idiosyncrasies of any woman, he would have wondered at the sudden change in the Archduchess’s tactics. She had dropped coquetry as abruptly as she had assumed it, and now treated him with a sisterly frankness which, in some respects, was a curious imitation of Alexandra’s. The truth was that Ranata had taken warning from an angry glint in her friend’s eye, although the subject of Fessenden had been mutually avoided. Moreover, Ranata had informed herself that the American’s friendship would doubtless be as valuable to the House of Hapsburg as his love, and far easier for her inexperienced self to manage. He had thrilled her unaccountably in the Chardash, and startled and fascinated her later by his momentary conquest of her will; but she had finally taken alarm, and when he arose in her thought she wrote a letter to Count von Königsegg, or demanded the company of her lively ladies-in-waiting. When she was alone in bed she sternly reviewed the Hungarian programme, and forced herself to plan for the subjugation of the Party of Independence. On this question she had much correspondence with theminister; for she had received more than one veiled command to let politics ostensibly alone while exercising the purely feminine forces of attraction to bind all parties in a common loyalty to the throne. This was not a difficult task for a beautiful and intelligent princess within the circle of her influence; but if a powerful band of enthusiastic Radicals chose to keep themselves far beyond the outer edge of that circle, how was she, hedged by every restriction, to cast her nets about them? She did not regard Fessenden’s suggestion as feasible—not for the present at least. If all else failed, however, she finally decided, with a secret preference for following his advice, that she would summon the most influential women of the aristocracy in secret conclave, and, appealing to their patriotism, ask them to come forth temporarily from their haughty exclusiveness and meet the women of the dangerous element within the neutral shades of the palace. She had discussed this plan with her mentor, and it had been agreed upon as a last resort.
The enthusiasm and curiosity she excited among the masses were sufficient to satisfy the most patriotic and feminine heart. Every day from four to five she drove abroad, taking invariably the same route; crossing the suspension-bridge and driving out the wide Andrássyutinto the Stefeniautof the park. All Pest seemed to tumble into the streets and the footways of the bridge as she passed, and frequently there was cheering. Beloved as her father was in Vienna, his people showed him no further attention in public than a perfunctory salute; and although in Hungary the masses cheered him during his brief visits, it was much in the same manner as the American is enthusiastic over any spectacle that varies the monotony of business. But that the people of Budapest were not only genuinely delighted with this flower of the Hapsburgs, but pleased andflattered that she chose to live among them, was evident both by their spontaneous enthusiasm and its reflection in the press. In all but the Radical newspapers there was a daily chronicle of her doings, and gallant comment; the opposition had nothing to say in her disfavor, and was evidently unsuspicious of her motive in deserting Vienna for Budapest.
One morning, persuaded by Alexandra, she entered a shop for the first time in her life. It was a shop in the Vácri utcza, and she spent a delighted half-hour to the greater delight of the sordid soul that kept it. When she left it she was mobbed into her carriage by a throng that impeded the traffic. She passed through the ordeal with such a lack of condescension in her good-nature that even the women cheered her, and there were murmurs of “Rudolf!” among their “Élyens!” When driving past the waiting crowds in the street, instead of favoring her admirers with the usual fixed smile and stately bow of bored royalty, she inclined her head slowly, including many in one salutation, and sometimes smiling in a manner that seemed both spontaneous and personal.
And then, one other morning, accompanied only by the Princess Sarolta, Fessenden, and Alexandra, she visited the Hall of the Deputies, the Lower House of the Diet. The new Parliament building, that epitome of Venice on the brink of the Danube, was unfinished, and both houses of the Diet still met in the old buildings in the “Magnates’ Quarter.” Ranata insisted upon sitting quietly in the diplomats’ gallery for a time, and found much food for reflection. The magnates meet irregularly; the Deputies daily while Parliament is in session, and transact the business of the nation when not engaged in moving their kings and pawns a square further towards independence. One finds no type in Budapest, andthese were men of many types. Few possessed the famed Hungarian beauty, and the majority looked like energetic business-men whose native fires were nicely balanced by determination. They were curiously unmonarchical in appearance and atmosphere; and the unenlightened stranger would have assumed without question that they were the working body of an aggressive republic. The ministry, striking-looking men, all of the Liberal party, sat in a semicircle below the desk of the President of the House, and followed the proceedings with evident cynicism.
The President, one of the few nobles in the Lower House, was lecturing the Party of Independence upon the inconvenient extreme to which it was carrying its policy of obstruction. He sat aloft, and the beautiful Magyar language rolled down, an impassioned yet monotonous torrent. The constant interruptions from the Extreme Left in nowise disturbed it. The “Young Kossuth party” acted much in the fashion of bad boys too big for the ferrule.
“They need Tom Reed,” muttered Fessenden.
“They interest me very much,” whispered Ranata. “I have never seen anything like them. Do they represent Hungary?”
“That is what they are here for.”
“Your House of Representatives—does it look more democratic?”
“Only when it has its coat off and its feet on the desk.”
“These men—why do they want William? Why do they want any king?”
“The great body are not extremists. They know that Hungary is not ready for independence—neither internally nor by her geographical position. No country is surrounded by so many enemies—who hate her for that obstinate individuality which has survived everyreverse and threatens to engulf themselves. The Hungarians would make their own terms with William—and give him their help in smashing Russia.”
“Is this matter the talk of Europe?” asked the Archduchess sharply.
“Not of Europe, but of those who do the hard thinking.”
“How could William smash Russia?”
“He only needs the money.”
“Ah! He promised his grandfather on the old Kaiser’s death-bed that he would maintain friendly relations with Russia. It is a matter of sentiment with him.”
“Sentiment evaporates, and promises are nullified, when it comes to a question of self-protection.”
“Or ambition! Will he ever be able to get this money? The Reichstag will not vote it, and the Socialists become stronger daily. How can he get it?”
“Well—he might raise the embargo on certain American industries, and as a return favor they might advance him fifty million dollars or so.”
“You know that is one of the few things he would not dare do. He cannot afford to antagonise another party—he is as much of a politician as your Roosevelt.”
“Well, you see, success in a great war would bind all parties in a common approval.”
Ranata was a thorough European in the sinuousness of her methods; but she recalled the picturesque advice of Alexandra to push a fellow-diplomat into a corner and tell him “to speak out or get out.” She fixed her disconcerting eyes on Fessenden and asked deliberately, “Do you intend to give him this money?”
Fessenden was not to be nonplussed by methods direct or indirect. His sharp eyes met the strength of her gaze unmoved. “Can you keep a secret? Yes?If the time ever comes when our interests seem one, I shall let him have all the money he wants.”
“That is the vagueness of diplomacy.”
“I have no immediate intention of putting my hand in my pocket, if that is what you mean. Nor is the time ripe for him to strike.”
Ranata drew a long breath. To bridge an interval she asked, “Is it true—I mean in your personal knowledge—that the Balkan states would rally to him in case of a war with Russia—that they share the infatuated notion that he is destined to be the savior of eastern Europe—instead of ourselves!”
“I am as sure of it as one can be of anything in Eastern politics.”
“And this story I heard yesterday—that he is having his second son taught Hungarian—is that true?”
“I heard it in Berlin, but not from the Emperor.”
For a moment Ranata hated him. Then she registered a vow anew, and this time her chin seemed to absorb its firm pink flesh. She turned to Fessenden pettishly. “I hate politics!” she said. “I shall play my part here quietly, but there is no necessity to talk or even to think about it, except when I am obliged to discuss some point with Count von Königsegg. Of course, if you have advice to give me I shall be grateful, but at other times please forget and let me forget that I am an unhappy princess imagining I have the fate of an empire on my shoulders.”
“I am not in Hungary to talk politics.”
Ranata lifted her eyes to his; they were both soft and dazzling. “Why are you here?” she whispered audaciously.
The fires in Fessenden flew to his head and flashed from his eyes, but his voice if unsteady came to her eardistinctly. “If we are ever alone for a moment I will tell you why.”
Ranata received her first electric shock of passion. He had won again and with her own weapons. Tumultuous delight, amazement, anger, rushed through her brain. She clinched her hand in an attempt at self-control, and it slipped from her knee and touched his. She recovered herself at once.
“One would think you were a Hungarian!” she said scornfully, oblivious of the significance of her failure to comment upon the ancient ocean that rolled between them. “They need only a spark, and are accustomed to women who are always expectant of the language of love. From Alexandra I have gathered that the American man has been too well educated by his women to let himself go until he is sure he will not be laughed at, and that he is greatly assisted by the national frigidity of temperament.”
“What you learn of the national temperament will be from me, not from my sister.”
Ranata was now fully alive to her rôle. That her being was still in tumult, her brain alert with womanly curiosity, mattered nothing; she would follow her programme to the end. If that end were unimaginable for the woman, it was defined enough for the princess.
“I should like to know one man in my life,” she murmured. “And you are an American—the only one I ever could know, I suppose. I find the prospect rather delightful. But you must not insist upon flirting with me. It would be an unfair advantage—I am terribly unskilled.”
“I have not the slightest intention of flirting with you. I have had no time to learn thea b cof flirtation. Nor do I waste my time.”
“How long shall you stay in Hungary?”
“I know less about that than you do.”
“But you do not take long vacations. Surely, your enormous interests in America—they must demand your attention before long.”
“My enormous interests can—take care of themselves.”
The blood ran up to Ranata’s hair. For a second she forgot her rôle. She tasted the sweets of woman’s power for the first time, and wondered at the barrenness of the regal. “Would you stay here if your great fortune were in danger—if—”
“I should stay here if the world went to smash.”
Ranata became aware that Alexandra’s lips were at her other ear. “Sarolta is going to sleep,” whispered the warning voice. “She will be horribly cross. Hadn’t we better go?”
The Archduchess rose. “Yes,” she said indifferently. “It is quite time. And we have promised to go on the floor for a moment. The President has left his seat. Doubtless he is coming to meet us.”
A few moments later she was receiving the compliments of the ministers, most of whom she had met while her father was in Budapest. She was Archduchess of Austria and Princess of Hungary once more, touched with the happy informality of her brother. The members of the press had been requested to leave the room. The Deputies were standing at their desks regarding her with deep attention, and she played to them quite as much as to the ministers. She stood just beneath the elevated seat of the President, and its sombre dignity made the proper background for her noble height and brilliant hair. She wore a large black hat and a gown of black velvet whose jacket opened over the white softness of chiffons. The color was still in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, her short upper lip curved in a smilewhich was less gracious than youthful, and revealed teeth whose like from time immemorial have inspired man with longing and forgiveness.
Her eyes wandered several times to the benches of the Extreme Left. These men also stood at their posts. There was one who overtopped his fellows by a head. This head was shaped like a cannon-ball and surrounded by harsh black hair. His nose was short and thick, but the face was strongly built and the small black eyes dashed beneath a permanent frown.
She turned to the President. “Who is that man?” she asked.
“Molnár Lajos.” He gave the names in the Hungarian sequence. “He is one of the most influential and violent of the Obstructionists, and gives us far more trouble than the son of Kossuth.”
“Present him to me.”
The great Liberal magnate hesitated. He thought of his king and turned pale. His eye sought that of the Obersthofmeisterin. She raised her brows expressively and lifted one shoulder. The President, wondering, for he had known Sarolta through many imperious years, turned and walked over to the young Radical. For a moment it was apparent that the disciple of Kossuth hesitated, but he had the courtesy of his race, and he hardly could decline to meet even an archduchess whose smiling eyes were not twenty feet from his. Moreover, she was young and beautiful. He felt that an apologetic glance at his colleagues was unnecessary, and a moment later he was bowing stiffly before the daughter of the king he hated.
Ranata began in the royal manner. “I found your remarks very interesting. Do you speak often?”
“My painful duty compels me to, your Royal Highness.”
“Painful?” She looked at him with melting eyes. “Are you ill? Pardon me—you look very strong.”
“You misunderstand me.” (“I will not tag on your Royal Highness to every sentence,” he registered.) “It is Hungary that is ill.”
“Ah! Of course I know that you must refer to politics, Úr Molnár.” The name of a man or woman, unexpectedly introduced, can be made the vehicle of the subtlest flattery, of a half-timid hint of deepening interest, may even foreshadow a caress. Ranata’s rich voice uttered the commonplace name, with its long vowel, in a manner to mount to the head of any man. Wholly unused to the effort to please, she would have enjoyed this new exercise of power with all that was feminine in her nature, had the dynasty been rooted in the fires of the earth.
Molnár was young, he was barely thirty. He was ardent and susceptible, and for the moment he was not in love. And although he hated the House of Hapsburg as passionately as ever his great master had done, still was he monarchical born; the soul that could hate kings and love liberty was haunted by the ghosts of ancestors who had lived and died in reverence of the Lord’s anointed. The poison was entering his nostrils. If Ranata had looked like most princesses doubtless he would have held sternly to his ideals. But she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and her ineffable air of breeding, her sweet condescension, and the changing expression of her powerful eyes were pumping the blood to his head. He made a final grasp for his politics and his pride.
“It is your happiness, madame, that you can afford to know nothing about politics.”
“Ah! I wonder if I can? I have been much enlightened to-day. Enough so to understand your meaning.Should I not know more? Can any member of my family afford to misunderstand this most important part of our Empire? It is true that I am only a woman—but at least I have some influence with my father. Will you not advise me?”
“Your Royal Highness,” stammered Molnár. “Your Royal— Yes, of course you should understand our politics—would to Heaven that you did!”
“Whom shall I ask? I am in a position to hear only one side. Ah!” Her face was radiant. “You will come to the palace and give us a little lecture. My ball is to-morrow night. We can arrange then for an hour when you are not too busy to talk to us.”
“I cannot go to your ball, your Royal Highness—none of the Left will go.”
“Not come to my ball? Why not?”
“We never enter the palace.”
“But my ball has nothing to do with politics. I am not your sovereign. I have my father’s permission to live here this winter because my American friend and I are so tired of Vienna, and I am so fascinated by your city. I wish to enjoy Budapest, Úr Molnár. Is my winter to be poisoned by party feeling?—of which I know too little. How illogical, and how ungallant! You will come and bring your colleagues to-morrow night? It is to be the great night of my life, and I am sure you will not spoil it.”
“I? Ah!” Once more he braced himself. “I am afraid there will not be enough women to go round, your Royal Highness,” he said meaningly.
“That was clever. But”—she spoke very softly—“wait. I cannot do everything at once. I have an Obersthofmeisterin. Remember that you are far more your own master than I am mistress of my acts.”
As she finally dismissed the bewildered Obstructionist,she caught Fessenden’s eye. It was twinkling with appreciation of a fellow-man’s enslavement. Ranata saw in the twinkle approval of her manœuvres in a great cause, and responded to the new chord of sympathy with all a woman’s facile manufacture of subtle understandings with unconscious man.
“I feel somewhat of a Jesuit,” she said to him as they left the building. “But it is success or failure, and I shall not fail.”
“Your tactics are those of the man who wins. And I suppose you reason that men will fall in love with you anyhow—that one more or less doesn’t matter.”
“That is an idea!” said Ranata.