Royal Higness

by Thomas Mann

  “Gimcrack,” said Mr. Spoelmann, “no use for anything.” Three arm-chairs only in the little yellow room, of heavy mahogany, with snail-shaped convolute arms and the yellow covers embroidered with blue lyres, found favour in his eyes.

  “We can put those in an ante-room,” he said, and Klaus Heinrich was relieved that these arm-chairs should be contributed to the furnishing by the Grimmburg side; for of course it would have been rather painful to him if Mr. Spoelmann had had to find every single thing.

  But the ragged park and flower-garden at the “Hermitage” had to be cleared and restocked; the flower-garden in particular was honoured with a special ornament which Klaus Heinrich had asked his brother to give him as a wedding-present. For it was arranged that the rose-bush from the Old Schloss should be transplanted to the big middle bed in front of the approach; and then, no longer surrounded by mouldy walls, but in the air and sunshine and the stiffest clay obtainable, it should be seen what sort of roses it could bear in future—and give the lie to the popular report, if it were obstinate and arrogant enough.

  And when March and April had passed, May came, bringing the great event of Klaus Heinrich’s and Imma’s marriage. It was a glorious day, with golden clouds in the sky, and its dawn was greeted by a choir from the town-hall tower. The people streamed in on foot and in carts, that fair, thick-set, healthy, reliable stock with blue, meditative eyes and broad, high cheek-bones, dressed in the handsome national dress—the men in red jackets, top-boots, and broad-brimmed black-velvet hats, the women in brightly embroidered bodices, thick, wide skirts, and big black veils as a head-dress. They joined the throng of town-folk in the streets between the Spa-Garden and the Old Schloss, which had been transformed into a processional route with garlands and wreathed stands and white-enamelled poles covered with flowers.

  Banners of the Trades Unions, rifle-corps, and gymnastic associations began early in the morning to be carried through the streets. The fire brigade turned out in gleaming helmets. The officers of the Corps of Students drove round in open landaus in full state with banners flying. Maids of Honour in white, with rose-twined staves, stood about in groups. The offices and factories were deserted, the schools closed, festival services were held in the churches. And the morning editions of the Courier and Gazette contained, in addition to cordial leading articles, the announcement of a comprehensive amnesty, in pursuance of which cancellation or remission of sentence was granted to several prisoners by the grace of the Grand Duke. Even the murderer Gudebus, who had been condemned to death, and then to penal servitude for life, was released on ticket of leave. But he soon had to be put back into prison again.

  Two o’clock was the hour fixed for the City Council’s luncheon in the hall of the Museum, with an orchestra and telegrams of respectful congratulations. But the public made merry outside the gates, with fried chips and currant-loaf, a fair, lucky-booths and shooting galleries, sack-races, and men’s climbing competitions for treacle cakes. And then came the moment when Imma Spoelmann drove from Delphinenort to the Old Schloss. She did so in processional pomp.

  The banners fluttered in the spring breeze, the thick garlands, interwoven with red roses, stretched from one pole to another, the crowd was packed in a black mass on the balconies, roofs, and steps; and between the fences of rifle-corps and firemen, guilds, unions, students, and schoolchildren, the bridal procession advanced slowly amid tumultuous uproar along the sand-strewn road. Two out-riders in laced hats and shoulder-knots, preceded by a moustachioed equerry in a three-cornered hat, came first. Then came a four-horsed carriage, in which the Grand Ducal Commissary, an official of the Board of Green Cloth, who had been deputed to fetch the bride, rode with a chamberlain. Next a second four-horsed carriage, in which sat the Countess Löwenjoul, looking askance at the two maids of honour in the carriage with her, whose morals she mistrusted. Then came ten postilions on horseback, in yellow breeches and blue coats, who played: “We wind for thee the maiden’s wreath.” Then twelve girls in white, who strewed roses and sprigs of arbor vitae on the road.

  And lastly, followed by fifty master-mechanics on powerful horses, the six-horsed transparent bridal coach. The red-faced coachman in the laced hat proudly extended his gaitered legs on the high white-velvet box, holding the reins with arms similarly extended; grooms in top-boots walked at the head of each pair of horses, and two lackeys stood behind the creaking carriage in great state, showing in their impenetrable faces no signs that plotting and underhand dealing were part of their daily life. Behind the glass and gilded window-frames sat Imma Spoelmann in veil and wreath, with an old Court lady as lady of honour at her side. Her dress of shimmering silk glittered like snow in the sunshine, and on her lap she held the white bouquet which Prince Klaus Heinrich had sent her an hour before. Her strangely childlike face was as pale as an ocean-pearl, and a smooth wisp of dark hair fell across her forehead under the veil, while her big black eyes threw glances of pleading eloquence over the close-packed throng. And what was that din, that barking close by the coach-door? It was Percival, the collie, more beside himself than anyone had ever seen him. The confusion and the slow pace at which the procession went excited him beyond measure, robbed him of all self-restraint, and convulsed him almost beyond bearance. He raged, he danced, he leaped, he circled blindly round and round in the intoxication of his nerves, and the shouts redoubled in the balconies and street and on the roofs on both sides as the people recognized him.

  That is how Imma Spoelmann drove to the Old Schloss, and the boom and buzz of the bells mingled with the cheers of the people and Percival’s mad bark. The procession crossed the Albrechtsplatz at a walk and went through the Albrechtstor. In the Courtyard of the Schloss the mounted corps of the guilds rode to one side, and took up their position as a guard of honour, and in the corridor, in front of the weather-beaten front door, Grand Duke Albrecht, dressed as a Colonel of Hussars, received the bride with his brother and the rest of his House, offered her his arm and conducted her up the grey stone steps into the state-rooms, at whose doors guards of honour were posted and in which the Court was assembled. The princesses of the House stayed in the Hall of the Knights, and it was there that Herr von Knobelsdorff, surrounded by the Grand Ducal family, executed the civil marriage. Never, it was said later, had the wrinkles played round his eyes more lively than whilst he joined Klaus Heinrich and Imma Spoelmann in civil wedlock. When this was over, Albrecht II commanded that the church festivities should begin.

  Herr von Bühl zu Bühl had done his best to get together an imposing procession—the bridal procession, which passed up Heinrich the Luxurious’s staircase and along a covered way into the Court Chapel. Stooping under the weight of years, yet in a brown toupée and with a youthful waddle, he marched, covered with orders down to his waist and planting his long staff in front of him, in front of the chamberlains, who walked along in silk stockings with their feather hats under their arms and a key embroidered on their coat-tails. The young pair drew near; the foreign-looking bride in a shimmer of white and Klaus Heinrich, the Heir Presumptive, in a Grenadier uniform with the yellow ribbon across his chest and back. Four maidens belonging to the nobility of the land, with demure looks, carried Imma Spoelmann’s train, accompanied by Countess Löwenjoul, who looked suspiciously out of the corners of her eyes. Behind the bridegroom walked Herr von Schulenburg-Tressen and Herr von Braunbart-Schellendorf. The Master of the Royal Hunt, von Stieglitz, and the ballet-loving Grand Duke walked in front of the young monarch, who sucked quietly at his upper lip. At his side came Aunt Catherine, followed by the Minister of the Household, von Knobelsdorff, the Adjutant, the princely zu Ried-Hohenried couple, and the remaining members of the House. The rear of the procession was brought up by more chamberlains.

  Inside the Court Chapel, which was decorated with plants and draperies, the invited guests had awaited the procession, There were diplomats with their wives, the Court and county nobility, the corps of officers in the capital, the Ministers, amongst them the beaming f
ace of Herr von Krippenreuther, the Knights of the Grand Order of the Grimmburg Griffin, the Presidents of the Landtag, and all sorts of dignitaries. And as the Lord Marshal had ordered invitations to be sent to every class of society, the seats were filled with tradesmen, countrymen, and simple artisans with hearts attuned to the event In front of the altar the relations of the bridegroom took their places in a semicircle in red-velvet arm-chairs. The voices of the choir rang pure and sweet under the vaulted ceiling, and then the whole congregation sang a hymn of thanksgiving with full organ accompaniment. When it died away, the musical voice of the President of the High Consistory, Dom Wislezenus, was heard, as with his silver hair, and a convex star on his silk gown, he stood before the exalted pair and preached an eloquent sermon. He built it on a theme, to borrow a musical expression. And the theme was the passage from the Psalms which runs: “He shall live, and unto him shall be given of the gold of Arabia.” There was not a dry eye left in the chapel.

  Then Dom Wislezenus completed the marriage, and at the moment when the bridal pair exchanged rings, fanfares of trumpets blared forth, and a salvo of three times twelve guns began to roll over city and country-side, fired by the soldiers on the wall of the “Citadel.” Directly afterwards the fire brigade let off the town guns by way of salute; but long pauses occurred between each detonation, giving rise to inexhaustible laughter among the people.

  After the blessing had been pronounced, the procession re-formed and returned to the Hall of the Knights, where the House of Grimmburg congratulated the newly married pair. Then came the Court, and Klaus Heinrich and Imma Spoelmann walked arm-in-arm through the Gala Rooms, where the Court was drawn up, and spoke to various members of the company, smiling across an interval of shining parquet; and Imma pouted and wagged her head as she spoke to anyone who curtsied low and answered deferentially. After the Court there was a State supper in the Marble Hall, and a Marshal’s supper in that of the Twelve Months, and everything was of the best that money could buy, out of regard to what Klaus Heinrich’s wife had been accustomed to. Even Percival, now restored to his senses, was among the guests, and was given some roast meat. After supper the students and the populace had arranged in honour of the young couple a demonstration with serenades and a torchlight procession on the Albrechtsplatz. The square outside was a blaze of light, and resounded with shouts.

  Lackeys drew aside the curtains from one of the windows in the Silver Hall, and Klaus Heinrich and Imma advanced to the open window. They threw it open, and stood in the opening just as they were, for outside it was a warm spring night. Next them, in a dignified attitude and looking most imposing, sat Percival, the collie, and looked down like his mistress.

  Several of the town bands played in the illuminated square, which was packed tight with human beings, and the upturned faces of the people were lighted to a smoky dark red by the students’ torches as they marched past the Schloss. Cheers broke forth when the newly married couple appeared at the window. They bowed their thanks, and then stayed there awhile, looking and letting themselves be looked at. The people, looking up, could see their lips moving in conversation. This is what they said:

  “Listen, Imma, how thankful they are that we have not forgotten their need and affliction. What crowds there are, standing there and shouting up to us! Of course many of them are scoundrels, and take each other in, and sadly need to be elevated above the work-day and its reality. But they are really grateful when one shows oneself conscious of their need and affliction.”

  “But we are so stupid and so lonely, Prince—on the peaks of humanity, as Doctor Ueberbein used always to say—and we know absolutely nothing of life.”

  “Nothing, little Imma? What was it, then, which at last gave you confidence in me, and brought us to study so practically the public weal? Knows he nothing of life who knows of love? That shall be our business in future: Highness and Love—an austere happiness.”

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THOMAS MANN, born in 1875 into one of Lübeck’s prominent merchant families, was only twenty-five when Buddenbrooks was published. His second great work of fiction, The Magic Mountain, was issued in 1924. Five years later he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

  The chance request of an artist for an introduction to a portfolio of Joseph drawings was the genesis of his tetralogy, Joseph and His Brothers, the first volume of which was published in 1933. In that same year Mann left Munich—where he had made his home—and Germany, to settle for a time in Switzerland.

  In 1941 Mann moved to Pacific Palisades, California. It was there that he wrote Dr. Faustus and The Holy Sinner. Three years later he became a citizen of the United States. In 1952 he moved to Kilchberg, a suburb of Zurich. There he wrote Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man, the continuation of a fragmentary story that had been published more than thirty years earlier. He died in 1955, not long after a memorable three-day celebration of his eightieth birthday.