Читать книгу A Moment's Madness - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

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He had been away nearer a year than six months; he returned to his little court improved by his travels, his dignity softened by the air of a man who knows the world, his hair dressed after the fashion of Paris, his speech adorned with delicate allusions to kings and queens; he brought with him an English valet, a set of diamonds presented to him by the Doge of Venice (these the most notable among other gifts), and the affectation of French.

Hesse-Homburg approved.

A principality as small as this that his Serene Highness ruled over is apt to be unduly proud; the castle of Hesse-Homburg was built after the plan of Marli or Meudon, the gardens laid out in the manner of Versailles; etiquette was supreme, the court complete from the Lord Chancellor to the black pages; Mr. Denton, the English valet, was reminded, on his arrival, of a performance of opera-bouffe where all the comedians appear as nobles and there is no one left to represent the citizens, so that the King and his train constitute the kingdom. Indeed, Mr. Denton had seen estates in England that would have divided between them two countries the size of Hesse-Homburg, but his admirable discretion allowed no hint of his discernment to appear.

There was a ball given in honour of his Serene Highness's return; the fountains played and coloured lights swung in the trees; ladies and gentlemen were painted, perfumed, pomaded, and laced into brocaded clothes; there was an orchestra of French fiddles on one of the castle terraces, and dancing in the long hall hung with portraits of the Prince-Electors of Hesse-Homburg.

The moonlight lay over gardens and castle like the enchantment of a fairy tale; Prince Frederic George, the Elector's brother, found it dangerous in conjunction with the low appeal of the violins; the time of year was the turning point of spring into summer, and the scent of carnations and roses stirred the air; the fountains, pretty even to those who had been to Paris, were to Prince Frederic George magical in their silver rise and fall against the wet foliage that drooped over their basins. He was staring at them when his Serene Highness touched him on the shoulder.

"Now, I am at last at leisure," said that gentleman with a kind of frozen amiability. "Let us, Frederic, talk together."

His brother bowed.

"Monseigneur."

They moved away from the fountains to a low seat under the laurels; the fiddles sounded in the distance, the plash of the water and a One rustle in the thick leaves; Prince Frederic George looked at his Serene Highness.

The Prince Elector was of a natural elegance schooled into artificial graces; his face was delicate, fair and faintly coloured, of a considerable hardness in the expression. At this particular moment he held his cane loosely in his long white fingers, and the blue tassels hanging from it swept his knee.

"Now, in my absence," he said, "how have you employed the time?"

Prince Frederic George sat stiffly, by reason of his buckram coat and the folds of black velvet round his throat; he leant forward, slowly, resting a hand on each knee.

"I have something to ask you, Monseigneur," he said, and coloured hotly in a way that annoyed his Serene Highness, who, even by this light, could perceive it.

"It is of great importance;" Prince Frederic George began again, and again stopped.

"Of what nature?" questioned his brother coldly.

There was a stir of satin as Prince Frederic George moved, and taking courage from the violins, the moonlight, and the scents of the flowers, spoke:

"I love a lady," he said bluntly, "who, I think—" He checked himself, and his fierce blush deepened.

The Prince Elector's china blue eyes were cruelly unsympathetic.

"Ah?" he answered. "Did Von Halzburg tell you of my approaching marriage?"

"No, Monseigneur." His brother looked startled.

"We have kept it secret"—the other deigned a hard, sweet smile—"until it was finally arranged. Of course, the country was expecting it—"

"Of course," said Prince Frederic George. He felt in a delicate way that it had become still more difficult to speak to his immovable brother now.

"Who is it?" He raised the dark, honest eyes that were at such variance with his foppish dress.

"I decided on a lady not unknown to you," answered his Serene Highness. "One who satisfies me with regard to fortune, person, and rank, our neighbour's daughter, the Princess Sophia Carola of Strelitz-Homburg."

The violins were hushed, leaving the fall of the fountains to sound more clearly in the stillness.

The Prince Elector felt the sudden sense of a chill, of unaccountable discomfiture. He looked at his brother, a motionless, half-seen figure in the shade of the laurels.

"And you?" he questioned.

Prince Frederic George put his hand out along the seat, and clenched the smooth edge of the marble.

"It is of no matter for me," he said dully.

His Serene Highness lifted his shoulders.

"As you please. Your love affairs—"

The other caught him up with unceremonious quickness.

"My love affairs!" His emphasis implied that the expression was blasphemy; then he lowered his voice again. "Your pardon, Monseigneur, I have no love affairs."

The Prince Elector smiled; he was in no way interested. The violins began a prelude to the dance, a throbbing invitation that came trembling through the moon-cloaked flowers.

"You intend to stay at Hesse-Homburg?" asked his Serene Highness. He turned his smooth face towards his brother.

"What else?" the answer came from the thick shadows, quiet, a little bewildered.

The Prince Elector explained. There was very little, he said, for a younger son to do at home; abroad there were chances.

"Yes?" assented Prince Frederic George. "Of what, Monseigneur?"

"Of advancement." His Serene Highness spoke drily. "Here there can be nothing."

The sense of dislike, of antipathy between them, seemed to loom, suddenly tremendous, like a tangible presence; they had always jarred on one another—never in such a fashion as to-night and now.

"There are opportunities in Paris," said the Prince Elector, "in London, in Vienna—"

"And Hesse-Homburg is small for both of us," put in his brother. "Is not that what you would say?"

His Serene Highness fondled the ribbons on his cane, and explained further, with the same even politeness, with the same hard eyes coldly stressing his words.

He spoke of what he intended with his kingdoms, of the advantage of the match with the heiress of Strelitz-Homburg, of his chancellor Von Halzburg, of new appointments; he spoke at some length, always quietly.

Prince Frederic George was not listening. When his brother ceased speaking, he turned with a weary slowness.

"I shall stay in Hesse-Homburg, Monseigneur."

A fine flush rose in the Prince Elector's cheek.

"As you wish," he said quickly.

"Your Highness can find some appointment for me?"

His brother would give no more than: "I will speak to Von Halzburg."

Prince Frederic George rose at this, bowed, and turned off down the well-set parterre, his hat in his hand. The Prince Elector looked after him with narrowed eyes, knowing that he hated him and not knowing why.

Prince Frederic George walked towards the castle and the music of the violins. Such an extraordinary and terrible thing had been contained in his brother's brief words that he felt that the world had been altered by it.

Sophia Carola was the betrothed of the Prince Elector; the elder was to have everything, even that, and for him there was nothing but silence.

He walked up the steps and along the marble terrace, and, lifting his eyes, gazed into the mystic landscape that fell away beneath the glamour of the moon into unfathomable distances.

He had never spoken to the Princess, nor to any other, of this deep secret of his; now, he never could. He did not question his brother's right nor his own helplessness; the etiquette, the formal courtliness inborn and inbred made him accept his fortune quietly with no more than a curious wonder at the pain in his heart, more intolerable than he could have believed possible.

He walked up and down the terrace aimlessly, taking no heed of the people who passed him; they seemed to him like visions of the moonlight that he could put his hand through, such an unreality had come over the world.

Presently he went in, avoided instinctively the rooms where they were dancing, and turned into a little circular antechamber softly lit with candles. The walls were painted with a gilt trellis through which roses climbed; the high ceiling was covered with pale pink clouds; in one corner, a sconce of candles either side, stood a gold bracket bearing a cupid, by Pigalle; behind it was a mirror.

The Prince leant lifelessly against the wall, his soul as bound by conventions and the ceremonies of his position as his body was disguised by brocaded clothes and his face by powder and patches.

The mirror reflected his slack figure in the stiff pink satin, his handsome face under the rolled grey curls, his hands either side of him resting against the white and gold wall.

He was neither thinking nor lamenting; apathy had mastered him. When he raised his eyes to the Cupid, it had no meaning for him. He heard through the half-open door the sound of a distant music and voices, faint like echoes; he turned his head, and noticed dully the window open into the night and the setting moon. After a while he was aware of people entering the adjoining chamber, but he did not change his position. He heard a lady sing in a fine low voice. Harp and lute accompanied her. Presently he caught her words rising with the music:

"When shall the morning come again?

(Haste while the sun is high!)

Sumner gilds the heavy grain.

And the lark hangs in the sky.

"When shall the morning some again?

'Tis only once for churls and kings.

Present joy's worth after pain,

And youth is heir of many things."

The Prince moved from the wall, his check flushed, his lips stirred; he listened with his soul in his dark eyes.

"When shall the morning come again?

The sun once set shall rise no more.

So short a time to lose or gain.

Haste, ere the first glow shall be o'er."

The Prince looked at Pigalle's Cupid, at his own face mirrored behind it, and his breath came unevenly.

"When shall the morning come again?

This day, this day alone is thine.

Up—for thy little space to reign,

Ere Death shall say, 'The night is mine'"

The song ceased; the Prince went to the window and held back the rose silk curtain.

The setting moon was showing in bars and gleams of silver behind the pine trees, and In the cast a slow pearl colour flushed the luminous sky. There was a sound of birds waking in the thick leaves, and the steady fall of the distant fountain.

"When shall the morning come again?"

"The morning!" It was his heritage, his right; he was young; it was his hour, his chance; his horse waited in the stable, she lived only a few miles away—what was there to keep him?

The once so potent reasons seemed follies now. What were his brother, the formalities, the conventions of the Court? Life was an adventure, a romance, and this day slowly breaking—his. He let the curtain fall; Pigalle's Cupid seemed smiling now; he left the antechamber.

The rooms were empty, save for the tired servants putting out the candles. They stared to see the Prince still up, but he was only aware that the dawn shone brighter through every window that he passed.

When he reached the hall he called one of the men, wearily carrying in the chairs from the terrace.

"See that my horse be brought here—quickly."

His masterful manner enforced his extraordinary command; he cared nothing what they thought of him, nor what tales were carried to his brother. He sent one of the sleepy black pages to fetch hat and cloak, and waited, leaning on the balustrade, looking into the garden. When he heard his horse's hoofs clatter on the pathway his heart gave a great bound; he put over his ball dress the cloak the negro brought, flung on the hat, and descended the wide, shining steps. The man there helped him to mount, then waited with a hesitating look.

The Prince glanced at the castle; there was a light in his brother's room; beholding it, triumph, hatred, exaltation fired his blood.

"Any message for his Serene Highness?" asked the servant.

"None," answered the Prince, still looking at the light in the window. "I ride for my own pleasure to-night. If the Elector question you, tell him that—"

He put spurs to his horse; with no backward look at the castle, but with ardent eyes on the marvellous dawn ahead of him, all flaming opal now, he rode through the park into the open country, and took the long white high road to Strelitz-Homburg. And he sang under his breath:

"When shall the morning come again?

Tis only once for churls or kings;

Present joy's worth future pain.

And youth is heir of many things."