That meant the ministers were quarreling.
THE CRISIS WAS that the Prime Minister pretended that his feelings were hurt and that he no longer wished to be in charge. The Minister of the Railroads said that he could not transport the troops because he didn’t have enough locomotives. The Minister of Education said that naturally the teachers would go to war, and more windows would be broken and desks destroyed in the schools, and he was resigning.
A special conference was called for four o’clock.
Taking advantage of the confusion, King Matt slipped out to the royal gardens and whistled nervously. Then he whistled again, but Felek did not appear.
“Who can I talk to at such an important time?” Matt felt a great responsibility weighing on him, but he could not figure out what to do.
Suddenly Matt remembered that anything of importance should begin with a prayer. That was what his good mother had taught him.
Striding decisively, Matt went deep into the gardens where no one could see him, and then he prayed fervently to God.
“I am a little boy,” prayed Matt. “I cannot manage without your help, oh God. It was your will that I wear the royal crown, and so now help me, because I am in great trouble.”
Matt prayed to God for help for a long time, hot tears running down his face. Even a king is not ashamed to let God see him cry.
King Matt prayed and cried, cried and prayed, until he fell asleep leaning against the stump of a birch tree.
Matt dreamed that his father was sitting on the throne and all the ministers were standing at attention in front of him. Suddenly the throne room’s great clock, which had last been wound four hundred years ago, began to chime like a church bell. The master of ceremonies walked into the hall, followed by twenty servants carrying a golden coffin. Then Matt’s father, the king, stepped down from the throne and lay down in the coffin. The master of ceremonies took the crown from Matt’s father’s head and placed it on Matt’s. Matt was about to sit on the throne, but then he saw that his father was sitting there again. But now his father wore no crown and seemed somehow strange, as if he were only a ghost. His father said: “Matt, the master of ceremonies has given you my crown, and now I will give you my intelligence.”
The ghost of the king took off his own head and held it in his hands. Matt’s heart was pounding as he wondered what would happen next.
But then somebody shook Matt awake. “Your Royal Majesty, it’s nearly four o’clock.”
Matt rose from the grass where he had been sleeping a moment before, and for some reason he felt more refreshed than after a night in bed. At that moment Matt had no idea that soon he would be spending many a night on the grass under the open sky and that he would be saying farewell to his royal bed for a long time.
And, just as he had dreamed, the master of ceremonies handed Matt the crown. At four o’clock on the dot, Matt rang his bell in the conference hall and said: “Gentlemen, let us begin our discussion.”
“I request the floor,” said the Prime Minister.
The Prime Minister began a long speech. He said he could not work any more and he was sad to leave the king alone at such a difficult hour, but he had to, because he was sick.
Four other ministers said the same thing.
Matt was not the least bit scared, and just answered: “That’s all fine and dandy, but it’s war now and no time to be sick or tired. You, Mr. Prime Minister, know everything, and so you must stay on. We’ll talk again when I win the war.”
“But the newspapers said that I’m resigning.”
“So now they’ll write you’re staying on, for that is my—request.”
King Matt had been about to say: “That is my order.” But the ghost of his father seemed to advise Matt that it was better to say “request” than “order” at such an important moment.
“Gentlemen, we must defend the country, we must defend our honor.”
“And so Your Royal Highness will fight all three countries?” asked the Minister of War.
“And would you have me beg them for peace, Mr. Minister? I am the great-grandson of Paul the Conqueror. God will help us.”
The ministers liked Matt’s speech, and the Prime Minister was satisfied because the king had requested him to stay. He played stubborn for a little while, but then he agreed.
The meeting went on for a long time, and when it was over, the newsboys on the street shouted: “Extra, extra, read all about it! Crisis resolved.”
That meant that the ministers had made friends again.
Matt was a little surprised that nothing had yet been said about his making a speech to the people and riding a white horse at the head of his valiant troops. The ministers and the newspapers talked about railroads, money, bread, boots for the soldiers, and about hay, oats, oxen, and pigs, as if they weren’t talking about a war but about something completely different.
Matt had heard a lot about the ancient wars, but he knew nothing about modern war. He was only just now learning what bread and boots had to do with war.
Matt’s anxiety grew when the next day his foreign tutor appeared for his lesson at the usual time.
The lesson was scarcely half over when Matt was summoned to the throne room.
“The ambassadors from the countries which have declared war on us are here and ready to leave.”
“But where are they going?” asked Matt.
“Back to their homes.”
It seemed strange to Matt that they were allowed to leave in peace; he would have preferred to have them impaled or tortured.
“But why have they come here?”
“To bid farewell to Your Royal Highness.”
“Should I act offended?” asked Matt softly, so that the servants would not hear, for he was afraid they would lose respect for him.
“No, Your Royal Highness should bid them farewell politely. Besides, they’ll do the same.”
The ambassadors were neither tied up nor bound in chains hand and foot.
“We have come to say farewell to Your Royal Highness. We are very sorry that there has to be a war. We did everything to prevent a war. A pity we failed. We are forced to return the medals we received from Your Royal Highness, for it would not be fitting for us to wear the medals of a country with which our governments are at war.”
The master of ceremonies took back their medals.
“We thank Your Royal Highness for our stay in your beautiful capital, of which we bear the fondest memories. And we have no doubt that this petty quarrel will soon be over and our old cordial friendship will once again unite our governments.”
Matt rose and responded in a calm voice: “Tell your governments that I am truly happy that war has broken out. I will try to defeat you as quickly as possible, but my conditions for peace will be lenient. That is what my ancestors always did.”
One of the ambassadors smiled slightly and then bowed deeply. The master of ceremonies struck the floor three times with his silver staff and said: “The audience is now concluded.”
King Matt’s words were quoted by all the magazines and were greatly admired.
An enormous crowd formed in front of the palace and wouldn’t stop cheering.
Three days passed. King Matt waited in vain to be summoned. For, after all, what kind of a war is it if the king is studying grammar, doing dictations, and solving arithmetic problems?
Matt was walking around the gardens in low spirits when he heard the signal, the cuckoo sound.
A second later, he was holding a precious letter from Felek.
I’m leaving for the front. My father got drunk just as he promised he would and instead of going to bed he began packing his bags. He couldn’t find his canteen, jackknife, and cartridge belt. He thought I took them so he gave me a good thrashing. I’m running away from home tonight or tomorrow night. I was at the railroad station. The soldiers promised to take me with them. If Your Royal Highness wishes to give me any orders, I will be waiting at seven o’clock. The best dried kielba
sa, a canteen full of vodka, and a little tobacco would come in handy for the road.
It’s a sad thing when a king has to sneak out of his palace like a pickpocket. It’s even worse when his sneaking out is preceded by an equally secret expedition to the royal pantry, where a bottle of cognac, a tin of caviar, and a large piece of salmon all disappear at the same time.
But it’s war! thought Matt. And in war you’re even allowed to kill people.
Matt was very sad, but Felek was beaming.
“Cognac is even better than vodka. It doesn’t matter that there’s no tobacco.” Felek had dried some leaves and later on he would receive the usual soldier’s tobacco ration. “Things are going pretty good. The only problem is that the commander in chief is a boob.”
“A boob! Who is he?”
Matt’s blood was boiling. The ministers had deceived him again. It turned out that the army had been on the march for a week, and two not very successful battles had already occurred. The troops were being led by an old general; even Felek’s father had once called him a dolt, though of course he had been a little tipsy at the time. Matt might be allowed to observe a battle, but only from a safe distance. Matt would study, and the people would defend him. When the wounded men were brought to the capital, Matt would visit them in the hospital, and when a general was killed, Matt would attend his funeral.
“How could that be? So it’s not me who’ll defend the people, but the people who’ll defend me. What does that say about my royal honor, and what will Irenka think?” Was King Matt only a king who studied grammar and gave girls dolls which reached to the ceiling? No, and if that’s what the ministers thought, then they didn’t know Matt.
Felek was just eating a handful of raspberries when Matt grabbed him by the arm and said: “Felek!”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness?”
“Do you want to be my friend?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Felek, what I’m going to tell you now is a secret. Remember that, so you won’t betray me.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“I’m going to run away with you to the front tonight.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Let’s kiss each other.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“And don’t call me Your Royal Highness.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“I’m not the king any more. Now I’m—wait a second, what should my name be? Now I’m Tomek. I’ll call you Felek and you’ll call me Tomek.”
“Yes,” said Felek, hastily swallowing a bite of salmon.
The plan was that Matt would be by the gate at two o’clock that morning.
“Listen, Tomek, if there’s going to be two of us, we’ll need more provisions.”
“All right,” answered Matt reluctantly, for it seemed indecent to think about your stomach at such an important moment.
The foreign tutor frowned when he noticed the streak of raspberry juice on Matt’s cheek left from his exchange of kisses with Felek, but did not say anything about it because the war had the palace in such confusion.
It was unheard of—someone had stolen a bottle of cognac, some excellent caviar, and half a salmon from the royal pantry; that was special food which the foreign teacher had ordered ahead of time when he had taken on his post as tutor to the heir to the throne while the old king was still alive. And now, for the first time, he was to be deprived of his special foods. Even though the cook would replace the loss, new requisitions had to be made out and stamped by the palace administration and signed by the palace steward; and another bottle of cognac could only be supplied by order of the master of the wine cellar. And if a person was insistent and wanted permission before the investigation of the theft was completed, he could forget about his cognac for a month or more.
The tutor angrily poured the king a glass of cod-liver oil and, five seconds earlier than the regulations required, he gave Matt a sign that it was time for recess.
“IS THAT YOU, Tomek?”
“It’s me. Is that you, Felek?”
“Yes. Damn it, it’s dark, we might run into the guards.”
It cost Matt a lot of trouble to shinny up the tree, climb from the tree to the fence, and then hop from the fence to the ground.
“He may be the king, but he’s as clumsy as an old woman,” Felek muttered to himself as Matt tumbled down from the fence, which was quite high. Then the voice of the palace sentry rang out: “Who’s there?”
“Don’t answer,” whispered Felek.
When he fell to the ground, Matt had scraped the skin on his right hand and arm—his first wound in the war.
Then they slipped across the road to a ditch where, crawling on their bellies, they passed right under the guards’ noses and reached a path lined with poplar trees which led to the barracks. They went around the right side of the barracks, guided by a large searchlight on the barracks’ prison; then they crossed a little bridge and went straight down a smooth road to the central military railroad station.
What Matt now saw reminded him of the stories he had heard about the old days. Yes, it was a military camp. Wherever your eye looked, there were campfires burning, with soldiers sitting around them making tea, talking, or sleeping.
Matt was not surprised that Felek knew the quickest way to the station. Matt thought that all boys who weren’t kings were like that. But Felek was an exceptionally able boy. It would not have been the least bit difficult to get lost in that crowd where every hour another train arrived with troops, where whole divisions were constantly on the move, either pushing toward the tracks or looking for the most comfortable spots to wait. Even Felek stopped a few times, uncertain which way to go. He had been there in the daytime, but a lot had changed since then. A few hours before, there had been cannons there, but now they had been taken away by train. Meanwhile, a field hospital had arrived. Now the military engineers were near the tracks, and there were telegraph operators where they’d been before. Part of the camp was illuminated by large searchlights, and part of it was sunk in darkness. As bad luck would have it, rain had begun to fall, and since the grass had been trampled, their feet started sticking in the mud.
Matt did not dare stop, for fear of losing Felek, but he was out of breath because Felek was running rather than walking, jostling the soldiers passing him and being jostled in return.
“I think it should be right here,” said Felek all of a sudden, looking around with narrowed eyes. Then his glance fell on Matt. “You didn’t bring an overcoat?”
“No, my overcoat is in the royal cloakroom.”
“You didn’t bring a knapsack either? Only a chump would set out for war like that,” blurted Felek.
“Or a hero,” answered Matt, his feelings hurt.
Felek bit his tongue: he had forgotten that, no matter what, Matt was still the king. But he had been overcome by anger—because it was raining, because he couldn’t find the soldiers who had promised to hide him in their part of the train, and because he had brought Matt along without telling him just what he ought to take for the road. Felek had been beaten by his father, but at least he had a canteen, a jackknife, and a cartridge belt, the basic things any smart soldier took when setting off to war. And Matt—good God!—was wearing patent-leather shoes and a green cravat which, tied in haste and now smeared with mud, made his face look so pitiful that Felek would have burst out laughing were it not for all the troubling thoughts that had occurred to him a bit too late.
Suddenly, a cry rang out: “Felek, Felek!” A big boy, another volunteer, wearing a soldier’s raincoat and looking almost like a real soldier, walked over to them. “I’ve been waiting for you. The other soldiers are in the station already. We’ll be boarding in an hour. Quick.”
Oh, no, not quick again! thought King Matt.
“Who’s the kid with you?” asked the big boy, pointing at Matt.
“Well, you see, I’ll tell you later. It’s a long story, I had
to take him.”
“Oh, yeah, well I don’t believe it. If it hadn’t been for me, they wouldn’t have taken you. And now you come with this little puppy.”
“Pipe down,” answered Felek angrily. “Thanks to him, I’ve got a flask of cognac,” he added in a whisper, so Matt wouldn’t hear.
“Give me a taste.”
“We’ll see.”
The three volunteers walked for a long time without saying a word. The big boy was angry that Felek did not give him any cognac, Felek was worried that he had gotten himself into big trouble, and Matt was suffering from a case of hurt feelings; if he didn’t have to keep his lip buttoned, he would have shown the new boy how kings respond to such insults.
“Listen, Felek,” said the big boy, stopping suddenly. “If you won’t give me any cognac, you’re on your own. I got you a place, and you promised to do what I told you to. What’s going to happen later on if you start disobeying now?”
A quarrel broke out, and they might even have started fighting if a box of flares hadn’t suddenly exploded. Someone had been careless and the box had caught on fire. Two artillery horses bolted in fear, confusion broke out, a howl split the air. After another moment of panic, they saw the big boy lying in a puddle of blood, his leg broken. Felek and Matt didn’t know what to do. They were ready for death, blood, and wounds, but later, on the field of battle, not now.
“What’s going on here, what are these kids doing here?” grumbled a man who was obviously a doctor, pushing Matt and Felek out of the way. “I should have known, a volunteer. You should be home sucking a nipple, you little brat,” he muttered, cutting open the big boy’s pants leg with a pair of scissors he had taken from his knapsack.
“Let’s get out of here, Tomek,” cried Felek suddenly, spotting two field policemen in the distance, walking beside the stretcher the medics were carrying over for the unlucky volunteer.
“But can we leave him behind?” asked Matt timidly.
“What else can we do? He’ll go to the hospital. He’s no good for war now.”
They hid in the shadow of a tent. A minute later, the area was deserted again, except for the wounded boy’s boot and raincoat, which the medics had thrown away when putting him on the stretcher. There was blood on the ground.
King Matt the First Page 4
