“May I speak?” she murmured, and her voice trembled.
“Most assuredly!” — he replied, half smiling— “You do me too much honour by requesting the permission!”
As he spoke, he bowed profoundly, but she, raising her eyes, fixed them full upon him with a strange look of mingled pride and pain.
“Do not,” she said, “let us play at formalities! Let us be honest with each other for to-night at least! All our life together must from henceforth be more or less of a masquerade, but let us for to-night be as true man and true woman, and frankly face the position into which we have been thrust, not by ourselves, but by others.”
Profoundly astonished, the prince was silent. He had not thought this girl of nineteen possessed any force of character or any intellectual power of reasoning. He had judged her as no doubt glad to become a great princess and a possible future queen, and he had not given her credit for any finer or higher feeling.
“You know,” — she continued— “you must surely know—” here, despite the strong restraint she put upon herself, her voice broke, and her slight figure swayed in its white draperies as if about to fall. She looked at him with a sense of rising tears in her throat, — tears of which she was ashamed, — for she was full of a passionate emotion too strong for weeping — a contempt of herself and of him, too great for mere clamour. Was he so much of a man in the slow thick density of his brain she thought, as to have no instinctive perception of her utter misery? He hastened to her and tried to take her hands, but she drew herself away from him and sank down in a chair as if exhausted.
“You are tired!” he said kindly— “The tedious ceremonial — the still more tedious congratulations, — and the fatiguing journey from the capital to this place have been too much for your strength. You must rest!”
“It is not that!” — she answered— “not that! I am not tired, — but — but — I cannot say my prayers tonight till you know my whole heart!”
A curious reverence and pity moved him. All day long he had been in a state of resentful irritation, — he had loathed himself for having consented to marry this girl without loving her, — he had branded himself inwardly as a liar and hypocrite when he had sworn his marriage vows ‘before God,’ whereas if he truly believed in God, such vows taken untruthfully were mere blasphemy; — and now she herself, a young thing tenderly brought up like a tropical flower in the enervating hot-house atmosphere of Court life, yet had such a pure, deep consciousness of God in her, that she actually could not pray with the slightest blur of a secret on her soul! He waited wonderingly.
“I have plighted my faith to you before God’s altar to-day,” she said, speaking more steadily,— “because after long and earnest thought, I saw that there was no other way of satisfying the two nations to which we belong, and cementing the friendly relations between them. There is no woman of Royal birth, — so it has been pointed out to me — who is so suitable, from a political point of view, to be your wife as I. It is for the sake of your Throne and country that you must marry — and I ask God to forgive me if I have done wrong in His sight by wedding you simply for duty’s sake. My father, your father, and all who are connected with our two families desire our union, and have assured me that, it is right and good for me to give up my life to yours. All women’s lives must be martyred to the laws made by men, — or so it seems to me, — I cannot expect to escape from the general doom apportioned to my sex. I therefore accept the destiny which transfers me to you as a piece of human property for possession and command, — I accept it freely, but I will not say gladly, because that would not be true. For I do not love you, — I cannot love you! I want you to know that, and to feel it, that you may not ask from me what I cannot give.”
There were no tears in her eyes; she looked at him straightly and steadfastly. He, in his turn, met her gaze fully, — his face had paled a little, and a shadow of pained regret and commiseration darkened his handsome features.
“You love someone else?” he asked, softly.
She rose from her chair and confronted him, a glow of passionate pride flushing her cheeks and brow.
“No!” she said— “I would not be a traitor to you in so much as a thought! Had I loved anyone else I would never have married you, — no! — though you had been ten times a prince and king! No! You do not understand. I come to you heartwhole and passionless, without a single love-word chronicled in my girlhood’s history, or a single incident you may not know. I have never loved any man, because from my very childhood I have hated and feared all men! I loathe their presence — their looks — their voices — their manners, — if one should touch my hand in ordinary courtesy, my instincts are offended and revolted, and the sense of outrage remains with me for days. My mother knows of this, and says I am ‘unnatural,’ — it may be so. But unnatural or not, it is the truth; judge therefore the extent of the sacrifice I make to God and our two countries in giving myself to you!”
The prince stood amazed and confounded. Did she rave? Was she mad? He studied her with a curious, half-doubting scrutiny, and noted the composure of her attitude, the cold serenity of her expression, — there was evidently no hysteria, no sur-excitation of nerves about this calm statuesque beauty which in every line and curve of loveliness silently mutinied against him, and despised him. Puzzled, yet fascinated, he sought in his mind for some clue to her meaning.
“There are women” she went on— “to whom love, or what is called love, is necessary, — for whom marriage is the utmost good of existence. I am not one of these. Had I my own choice I would live my life away from all men, — I would let nothing of myself be theirs to claim, — I would give all I am and all I have to God, who made me what I am. For truly and honestly, without any affectation at all, I look upon marriage, not as an honour, but a degradation!”
Had she been less in earnest, he might have smiled at this, but her beauty, intensified as it was by the fervour of her feeling, seemed transfigured into something quite supernatural which for the moment dazzled him.
“Am I to understand—” he began.
She interrupted him by a swift gesture, while the rich colour swept over her face in a warm wave.
“Understand nothing” — she said,— “but this — that I do not love you, because I can love no man! For the rest I am your wife; and as your wife I give myself to you and your nation wholly and in all things — save love!”
He advanced and took her hands in his.
“This is a strange bargain!” he said, and gently kissed her.
She answered nothing, — only a faint shiver trembled through her as she endured the caress. For a moment or two he surveyed her in silence, — it was a singular and novel experience for him, as a future king, to be the lawful possessor of a woman’s beauty, and yet with all his sovereignty to be unable to waken one thrill of tenderness in the frozen soul imprisoned in such exquisite flesh and blood. He was inclined to disbelieve her assertions, — surely he thought, there must be emotion, feeling, passion in this fair creature, who, though she seemed a goddess newly descended from inaccessible heights of heaven was still only a woman? And upon the whole he was not ill-pleased with the curious revelation she had made of herself. He preferred the coldness of women to their volcanic eruptions, and would take more pains to melt the snow of reserve than to add fuel to the flame of ardour.
“You have been very frank with me,” he said at last, after a pause, as he loosened her hands and moved a little apart from her— “And whether your physical and mental hatred of my sex is a defect in your nature, or an exceptional virtue, I shall not quarrel with it. I am myself not without faults; and the chiefest of these is one most common to all men. I desire what I may not have, and covet what I do not possess. So! We understand each other!”
She raised her eyes — those beautiful deep eyes with the moonlight glamour in them, — and for an instant the shining Soul of her, pure and fearless, seemed to spring up and challenge to spiritual combat him who was now her body’
s master. Then, bending her head with a graceful yet proud submission, she retired.
From that time forth she never again spoke on this, or any other subject of an intimate or personal nature, with her Royal spouse. Cold as an iceberg, pure as a diamond, she accepted both wifehood and motherhood as martyrdom, with an evident contempt for its humiliation, and without one touch of love for either husband or children. She bore three sons, of whom the eldest, and heir to the throne was, at the time this history begins, just twenty. The passing of the years had left scarcely a trace upon her beauty, save to increase it from the sparkling luminance of a star to the glory of a full-orbed moon of loveliness, — and she had easily won a triumph over all the other women around her, in the power she possessed to command and retain the admiration of men. She was one of those brilliant creatures who, like the Egyptian Cleopatra, never grow old, — for she was utterly exempt from the wasting of the nerves through emotion. Her eyes were always bright and clear; her skin dazzling in its whiteness, save where the equably flowing blood flushed it with tenderest rose, — her figure remained svelte, lithe and graceful in all its outlines. Finely strung, yet strong as steel in her temperament, all thoughts, feelings and events seemed to sweep over her without affecting or disturbing her mind’s calm equipoise. She lived her life with extreme simplicity, regularity, and directness, thus driving to despair all would-be scandal-mongers; and though many gifted and famous men fell madly in love with their great princess, and often, in the extremity of a passion which amounted to disloyalty, slew themselves for her sake, she remained unmoved and pitiless.
Her husband occasionally felt some compassion for the desperate fellows who thus immolated themselves on the High Altar of her perfections, though it must be admitted that he received the news of their deaths with tolerable equanimity, knowing them to have been fools, and as such, better out of the world than in it. During the first two or three years of his marriage he had himself been somewhat of their disposition, and as mere man, had tried by every means in his power to win the affection of his beautiful spouse, and to melt the icy barrier which she, despite their relations with each other, had resolutely kept up between herself and him. He had made the attempt, not because he actually loved her, but simply because he desired the satisfaction of conquest. Finding the task hopeless, he resigned himself to his fate, and accepted her at the costly valuation she set upon herself; though for pastime he would often pay court to certain ladies of easy virtue, with the vague idea that perhaps the spirit of jealousy might enter that cold shrine of womanhood where no other demon could force admission, and wake up the passions slumbering within. But she appeared not to be at all aware of his many and open gallantries; and only at stray moments, when her frosty flashing glance fell upon him engaged in some casual flirtation, would a sudden smarting sense of injury make him conscious of her contempt.
But he could reasonably find no fault with her, save the fault of being faultless. She was a perfect hostess, and fulfilled all the duties of her exalted position with admirable tact and foresight, — she was ever busy in the performance of good and charitable deeds, — she was an excellent mother, and took the utmost personal care that her sons should be healthily nurtured and well brought up, — she never interfered in any matter of state or ceremony, — she simply seemed to move as a star moves, shining over the earth but having no part in it. Irresponsive as she was, she nevertheless compelled admiration, — her husband himself admired her, but only as he would have admired a statue or a painting. For his was an impulsive and generous nature, and his marriage had kept his heart empty of the warmth of love, and his home devoid of the light of sympathy. Even his children had been born more as the sons of the nation than his own, — he was not conscious of any very great affection for them, or interest in their lives. And he had sought to kindle at many strange fires the heavenly love-beacon which should have flamed its living glory into his days; so it had naturally chanced that he had spent by far the larger portion of his time on the persuasion of mere Whim, — and as vastly inferior women to his wife had made him spend it.
But at this particular juncture, when the curtain is drawn up on certain scenes and incidents in his life-drama, a change had been effected in his opinions and surroundings. For eighteen years after his marriage, he had lived on the first step of the Throne as its next heir; and when he passed that step and ascended the Throne itself, he seemed to have crossed a vast abyss of distance between the Old and the New. Behind him the Past rolled away like a cloud vanishing, to be seen no more, — before him arose the dim vista of wavering and uncertain shadows, which no matter how they shifted and changed, — no matter how many flashes of sunshine flickered through them, — were bound to close in the thick gloom of the inevitable end, — Death. This is what he was chiefly thinking of, seated alone in his garden-pavilion facing the sea on that brilliant southern summer morning, — this, — and with the thought came many others no less sad and dubious, — such as whether for example, his eldest son might not already be eager for the crown? — whether even now, though he had only reigned three years, his people were not more or less dissatisfied under his rule?
His father, the late King, had died suddenly, — so suddenly that there was neither help nor hope for him among the hastily summoned physicians. Stricken numb and speechless, he kept his anguished eyes fixed to the last upon his son, as one who should say— “Alas, and to thee also, falls this curse of a Crown!” Once dead, he was soon forgotten, — the pomp of the Royal obsequies merely made a gala-day for the light-hearted Southern populace, who hailed the accession of their new King with as much gladness as a child, who, having broken one doll, straightway secures another as good, if not better. As Heir-Apparent the succeeding sovereign had won great popularity, and was much more generally beloved than his father had been, — so that it was on an extra high wave of jubilation and acclamation that he and his beautiful consort were borne to the Throne.
Three years had passed since then; and so far his reign had been untroubled by much difficulty. Difficulty there was, but he was kept in ignorance of it, — troubles were brooding, but he was not informed of them. Things likely to be disagreeable were not conveyed to his ears, — and matters which, had he been allowed to examine into them, might have aroused his indignation and interference, were diplomatically hushed up. He was known to possess much more than the limited intelligence usually apportioned to kings; and certainly, as his tutor had said of him in his youth, he was dangerously “disposed towards discursive philosophies.” He was likewise accredited with a conscience, which many diplomats consider to be a wholly undesirable ingredient in the moral composition of a reigning monarch. Therefore, those who move a king, as in the game of chess, one square at a time and no more, — were particularly cautious as to the ‘way’ in which they moved him. He had shown himself difficult to manage once or twice; and interested persons could not pursue their usual course of self-aggrandisement with him, as he was not susceptible to flattery. He had a way of asking straight questions, and what was still worse, expecting straight answers, such as politicians never give.
Nevertheless he had, up to the present, ruled his conduct very much on the lines laid down by his predecessors, and during his brief reign had been more or less content to passively act in all things as his ministers advised. He had bestowed honours on fools because his ministers considered it politic, — he had given his formal consent to the imposition of certain taxes on his people, because his ministers had judged such taxes necessary, — in fact he had done everything he was expected to do, and nothing that he was not expected to do. He had not taken any close personal thought as to whether such and such a political movement was, or was not, welcome to the spirit of the nation, nor had he weighed intimately in his own mind the various private interests of the members of his Government, in passing, or moving the rejection of, any important measure affecting the well-being of the community at large. And he had lately, — perhaps through the objectionable ‘discursive
philosophies’ before mentioned, — come to consider himself somewhat of a stuffed Dummy or figure-head; and to wonder what would be the result, if with caution and prudence, he were to act more on his own initiative, and speak as he often thought it would be wise and well to speak? He was but forty-five years old, — in the prime of life, in the plenitude of health and mental vigour, — was he to pass the rest of his days guarded by detectives, flunkeys and physicians, with never an independent word or action throughout his whole career to mark him Man as well as Monarch? Nay, surely that would be an insult to the God who made him! But the question which arose in his mind and perplexed him was, How to begin? How, after passive obedience, to commence resistance? How to break through the miserable conventionalism, the sordid commonplace of a king’s surroundings? For it is only in medieval fairy-tales that kings are permitted to be kingly.
Yet, despite custom and usage, he was determined to make a new departure in the annals of modern sovereignty. Three years of continuous slavery on the treadmill of the Throne had been sufficient to make him thirst for freedom, — freedom of speech, — freedom of action. He had tacitly submitted to a certain ministry because he had been assured that the said ministry was popular, — but latterly, rumours of discontent and grievance had reached him, — albeit indistinctly and incoherently, — and he began to be doubtful as to whether it might not be the Press which supported the existing state of policy, rather than the People. The Press! He began to consider of what material this great power in his country was composed. Originally, the Press in all countries, was intended to be the most magnificent institution of the civilized world, — the voice of truth, of liberty, of justice — a voice which in its clamant utterances could neither be bribed nor biassed to cry out false news. Originally, such was meant to be its mission; — but nowadays, what, in all honesty and frankness, is the Press? What was it, for example, to this king, who from personal knowledge, was able to practically estimate and enumerate the forces which controlled it thus: — Six, or at the most a dozen men, the proprietors and editors of different newspapers sold in cheap millions to the people. Most of these newspapers were formed into ‘companies’; and the managers issued ‘shares’ in the fashion of tea merchants and grocers. False news, if of a duly sensational character, would sometimes send up the shares in the market, — true information would equally, on occasion, send them down. These premises granted, might it not follow that for newspaper speculators, the False would often prove more lucrative than the True? And, concerning the persons who wrote for these newspapers, — of what calling and election were they? Male and female, young and old, they were generally of a semi-educated class lacking all distinctive ability, — men and women who were, on an average, desperately poor, and desperately dissatisfied. To earn daily bread they naturally had to please the editors set in authority over them; hence their expressed views and opinions on any subject could only be counted as nil, being written, not independently, but under the absolute control of their employers. Thus meditating, the King summed up the total of his own mental argument, and found that the vast sounding ‘power of the Press’ so far as his own dominion was concerned, resolved itself into the mere trade monopoly of the aforesaid leading dozen men. What he now proposed to himself to discover among other things, was, — how far and how truly these dozen tradesmen voiced the mind of the People over whom he was elected to reign? Here was a problem, and one not easy to solve. But what was very plain and paramount to his mind was this, — that he was thoroughly sick and tired of being no more than a ‘social’ figure in the world’s affairs. It was an effeminate part to play. It was time, he considered, that he should intelligently try his own strength, and test the nation’s quality.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 524
