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Copyright © Thomas Mann 1909
English translation copyright © A. Cecil Curtis 1916
First published in German as Königliche Hobeit in 1909
This translation first published by Sidgwick & Jackson in 1916
Published by Martin Secker & Warburg Limited in 1940
This edition first published by Mandarin Paperbacks in 1997
penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Thomas Mann
Title Page
Prelude
1 The Constriction
2 The Country
3 Hinnerke the Shoemaker
4 Doctor Überbein
5 Albrecht II
6 The Lofty Calling
7 Imma
8 The Fulfilment
9 The Rosebush
Postscript by Constance McNab
Copyright
Thomas Mann was born in 1875 in the ancient Hanseatic town of Lübeck, of a line of prosperous and influential merchants. His father, head of the ancestral firm, had also been a senator and twice mayor of the free city; his mother was of Germanic-Creole heritage. Brought up in the company of five brothers and sisters, Mann completed his education under the discipline of North German schoolmasters and entered an insurance office in Munich at the age of nineteen. During this time he secretly wrote his first tale, Fallen, and shortly afterwards left the insurance office to study art and literature at the University of Munich. Then, after spending a year in Rome, he devoted himself exclusively to writing.
He was only twenty-five when Buddenbrooks, his first major novel, was published. Before it was banned and burned by Hitler, it had sold over a million copies in Germany alone. His second great novel, The Magic Mountain, was published in 1924 after twelve years of labour. In 1926 the chance request of a Munich artist for an introduction to a portfolio of Joseph drawings was the genesis of the tetralogy Joseph and his Brothers, the first volume of which was published in 1933. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1929.
In 1933 Thomas Mann left Germany to live for a time in Switzerland. Then, after several previous visits, in 1938 he settled in the United States, living first in Princetown, New Jersey, and later in California, where he wrote Doctor Faustus and The Holy Sinner. Among the honours he received in the U.S.A. was his appointment as a Fellow of the Library of Congress. He revisited his native country in 1949 and returned to Switzerland in 1952, where The Black Swan and Confessions of Felix Krull were written, and where he died in 1955.
For His Royal Highness Prince Klaus Heinrich the modus Vivendi means servitude to ducal functions, which he graces with unthinking obedience … until he meets the rich, exotic and liberal-minded Miss Spoelmann, who possesses her fair share of spirit and a far wider experience of the world. During the course of his unorthodox and quixotically tender wooing, Klaus Heinrich, forced to reach into unknown depths of his personality, comes to find a truer existence and the real meaning of the word ‘duty’.
Royal Highness, one of Thomas Mann’s most delightful stories, is richly resonant with many of his themes and symbols. His careful depiction (personified by Klaus Heinrich) of a decaying, stratified society rejuvenated by modern forces illustrates in fable what he regarded as a universal truth – that ripeness and death are a necessary condition for rebirth.
The scene is the Albrechtsstrasse, the main artery of the capital which runs from the Albrechtsplatz and the Old Castle to the barracks of the Fusiliers of the Guards; it is noon, on an ordinary weekday; the season is immaterial. The weather is indifferent, on the fair side. It is not raining but the sky is overcast; it is a uniform light grey, ordinary-looking and undramatic, and the street is steeped in a dull and sober atmosphere which robs it of every suggestion of mystery or strangeness. There is a moderate amount of traffic, without too big a crowd or excessive noise, corresponding to the leisurely character of the town. Tram-cars glide past and a few horse cabs pass, the inhabitants move along the pavement; a colourless crowd, passers-by, the public, ‘the people’.
Two officers, their hands in the slanting pockets of their grey military greatcoats, approach each other; one is a General and the other a Lieutenant. The General is coming from the Castle, the Lieutenant from the direction of the barracks. The Lieutenant is very young, almost a child. He has narrow shoulders, dark hair, and the wide cheekbones common in this part of the world, blue, faintly tired-looking eyes and a boyish face with a friendly but reserved expression. The General has snow-white hair; he is tall and burly, an altogether imposing figure. His eyebrows seem made of cotton wool, and his moustache droops over his mouth and chin. He moves slowly and powerfully, his sword clatters against the pavement, his plume flutters in the wind, and at every step he takes the big red lapel of his coat flaps slowly up and down. And thus the two men come face to face. Can this encounter lead to complications? Surely not. Every observer can foresee its natural course. We have age on one side and on the other, youth; authority faces obedience; venerable distinction, tender beginnings. A mighty hieratic distance and a host of regulations separate the two. Things must take their natural course! Instead of which, what do we see? Instead, the following surprising, awkward, enchanting, topsy-turvy scene takes place. The General, when he becomes aware of the young Lieutenant, alters his bearing in a surprising manner. He draws himself up, yet at the same time seems to efface himself. He, as it were, tones down the splendour of his appearance, he stops his sabre from clattering, and while his face assumes a fierce and awkward expression he is obviously undecided which way to look, and tries to conceal the fact by staring sideways from beneath his bushy eyebrows at the pavement ahead of him. To a close observer the young Lieutenant too betrays some slight embarrassment; strange to say, he appears to succeed better than the grey-haired General in hiding it with a certain grace and discipline. The tension of his mouth relaxes into a smile at once modest and genial, his eyes look past the General and into the distance, assuming an expression that is both quiet and effortlessly self-possesed. By now they have come within three paces of each other. And instead of the prescribed salute the young Lieutenant slightly raises his head, and at the same time draws his right hand – only his right, mind you – out of his coat pocket and makes with this same white-gloved right hand a little encouraging and condescending gesture, barely opening the fingers with the palm upturned, no more, but the General, who has awaited this sign with his arms to his sides, abruptly touches his helmet, steps down from the pavement with a half bow and deferentially salutes the Lieutenant, looking at him from below with devoted, watery eyes in a crimson face. His hand raised to his cap the Lieutenant returns the respectful salute of his superior officer, returns it with a look of childlike friendliness – and passes on.
A miracle! A fantastic scene! He walks on. People look at him but he looks at no one; he looks straight ahead and through the crowd, with something of the manner of a woman who knows herself to be observed. The people greet him and he returns their greetings, cordially and yet distantly. He appears to be walking with some difficulty; it is as though he were not used to walking, or as though the general attention bothered him, so irregular and faltering is his gait, indeed, at times he seems to be limping. A policeman springs to attention, an elegantly dressed woman, on emerging from a shop, smilingly makes a deep curtsy. People’s heads turn and beckon, brows are raised, his name is mentioned in a discreet whisper.
It is Klaus Heinrich, the younger brother of Albrecht II, and heir presumptive to the throne. There he goes, he is still within view. Known by all and yet a stranger, he moves among the crowd, surrounded by it and yet as though isolated in a void. He walks alone and on his narrow shoulders carries the burden of his royal station.
ARTILLERY SALVOES WERE fired when the various new-fangled means of communication in the capital spread the news that the Grand Duchess Dorothea had given birth to a prince for the second time at Grimmburg. Seventy-two rounds resounded through the town and surrounding country, fired by the soldiers from the bastions of the citadel. Directly afterwards the fire brigade also, not to be outdone, fired with the town salute-guns; but in their firing there were long pauses between each round, which caused much merriment among the populace.
From the top of a wooded hill the Grimmburg dominated the picturesque little town of the same name, whose grey sloping roofs were mirrored in a tributary stream and which could be reached from the capital within half an hour by a local railway which ran at a loss. The castle towered up there, sturdily built by the founder of the Grand Ducal dynasty, Margrave Klaus Grimmbart, in the dim beginnings of German history, since then repeatedly rejuvenated and repaired, fitted with the conveniences of the changing times, always kept in a habitable state, and especially honoured as the ancestral seat of the ruling house and the cradle of the dynasty. For it was a rule and tradition of the house that all direct descendants of the Margrave, every child of the reigning couple, must be born there. Nor was this tradition to be ignored. The country had had free-thinking and sceptical sovereigns who had made fun of it, and yet had complied with a shrug. It was now much too late to break away from it. Whether reasonable and enlightened or not, why, without any particular need, break with a time-honoured custom which so to speak had proved itself? The people were convinced that there was something in it. Twice in the course of fifteen generations children of the reigning sovereign, owing to some chance occurrence, had been born in other castles; twice they had come to an unnatural and ignoble end. But from Heinrich the Penitent and Johann the Headstrong and their proud and lovely sisters, all the sovereign Dukes, down to Albrecht, the father of the present Duke, and the Grand Duke himself, Johann Albrecht III, had been born in the castle, and there, six years ago, Dorothea had given birth to her first-born, the Heir Apparent.
The castle was a retreat as dignified as it was peaceful. The coolness of the rooms and the green shade of the surroundings made it preferable as a summer residence to the formal, gracious beauty of Hollerbrunn. The ascent from the town, up a badly paved lane between shabby cottages and a tumbling wall, through massive gates to an old inn close to the entrance of the courtyard with a stone statue of the founder, Klaus Grimmbart, in the centre, was picturesque without being comfortable. Extensive grounds, however, covered the rear part of the castle hill, and easy paths led down the wooded gently sloping park, offering ideal opportunities for carriages, drives and leisurely promenades.
As for the interior of the castle, it had last been cleaned and redecorated at the beginning of the reign of Johann Albrecht III, at a cost which had evoked much comment. The décor of the ducal apartments had been renewed and added to in a style at once baronial and comfortable; the escutcheons in the Hall of Justice had been carefully restored to their original patterns. The gilding of the intricate patterns on the vaulted ceilings looked fresh and cheerful, all the rooms had been fitted with parquet, and both the larger and the smaller banqueting-halls had been adorned with huge wall-paintings from the brush of Professor von Lindemann, a distinguished Academician, representing scenes from the history of the reigning house executed in the bright and polished manner which was far removed from and quite unaffected by the restless tendencies of modern schools. Nothing was wanting. As the old chimneys of the castle and its many-coloured stoves, reaching tier upon tier right up to the ceiling, were no longer fit to use, anthracite stoves had been installed in view of the possibility of the place being used as a winter residence.
But the day of the seventy-two salvoes fell at the best time of the year, late spring, early summer, the beginning of June, the day after Whitsuntide. Johann Albrecht, who had been informed early in the morning by telegram that the labour had begun at dawn, reached Grimmburg station at eight o’clock, travelling by the local railway (which ran at a loss), to be greeted with congratulations by three or four officials: the mayor, the judge, the rector, and the local doctor. He drove immediately to the castle. The Grand Duke was accompanied by the Minister of State, Doctor Baron von Knobelsdorff, and his aide-de-camp, General Count Schmettern. Shortly afterwards two or three more ministers arrived at the castle: Court Chaplain and President of the Church Council Dom Wislezenus, one or two court officials, and a younger aide-de-camp, Captain von Lichterloh. Although the Grand Duke’s physician-in-ordinary, Major-General Doctor Eschrich, was attending the mother, Johann Albrecht had been seized with the whim of summoning the young local doctor, a certain Doctor Sammet, who moreover was of Jewish origin. This unassuming, industrious and sober man, who was overwhelmed with work of his own and not in the least expecting such an honour, kept repeating with a stammer: ‘With pleasure … with pleasure,’ which provoked much amusement.
The Bridal Chamber served as bedroom to the Grand Duchess; an octagonal, gaily painted room on the first floor whose tall windows disclosed a splendid view over the trees, the hills and the winding river. It was decorated with a frieze of medallion-shaped portraits, the likenesses of ducal brides who had awaited their lords and masters here in the old days. Dorothea was lying in bed. A broad, strong ribbon was tied round the foot of her bed to which she clung like a child playing at horses, and her fine, well-made body heaved with effort. The midwife, Frau Doctor Gnadebusch, a gentle and learned woman with small, fineboned hands and brown eyes which took on a mysterious expression behind the thick, round lenses, supported the Duchess, saying:
‘Steady, steady now, Your Royal Highness … it won’t be long … It’s quite easy … now once more … that was nothing … permit me: open your knees … keep your chin down …’
A nurse, dressed like her in white linen, assisted her and during the pauses moved lightly about the room carrying basins and bandages. The physician-in-ordinary, a morose man with a greying beard, whose left eyelid seemed to droop, superintended the birth. He wore his operating coat over his major-general’s uniform. From time to time Dorothea’s trusted Mistress of the Robes, Baroness von Schulenburg-Tressen, peeped into the room to ascertain the progress of the labour. She was a portly and asthmatic lady of markedly middle-class appearance, who nonetheless liked to expose a vast expanse of bosom at Court Balls. She kissed her mistress’s hand and returned to a distant room in which a couple of emaciated ladies-in-waiting chatted with the Duchess’s gentleman of the bedchamber on duty, Count Windisch; Doctor Sammet, who wore his linen coat like a domino flung over his frock-coat, stood modestly and attentively by the washstand.
Johann Albrecht remained in a study which was divided from the Bridal Chamber by the so-called Powder Closet and a connecting passage. It was called the Library, in view of several manuscript folios propped up slantwise on top of the heavy bookcase, and which contained the history of the castle. The room was furnished as a writing-room. Globes adorned the walls. The strong wind from the hills blew through the open bow-window. The Grand Duke had ordered tea, and his personal valet Prahl had brought the tray himself; but it stood forgotten on the leaf of the writing desk, and Johann Albrecht paced from wall to wall, prone to a tense and restless state of mind. His patent leather boots creaked ceaselessly. Aide-de-camp Lichterloh listened to that noise while he waited listlessly in the almost bare passage.
The Minister, the chief commanding aide-de-camp, the court chaplain, and the court officials, nine or ten in all, were waiting in the State Rooms on the ground floor. They sauntered through the large and the small Banqueting Halls, where banners and weapons were suspended between Professor Lindemann’s paintings, they leaned against the slender pillars, which spread into brightly coloured vaulting above their heads. They stood before the tall, narrow windows which almost touched the ceiling and gazed through the leaded panes across the river and the town. They loitered on stone benches, which skirted the walls, or in the armchairs in front of the fireplace whose gothic cornices were supported by ludicrously small, stooping and flying stone monsters. The gold braid on the uniforms of these dignitaries, their decorations pinned to padded chests, and the broad stripes of gold on their trousers shone brightly in the light of day.
The conversation flagged. Three-cornered hats and white-gloved hands were constantly being raised to screen convulsive yawns. Nearly all the gentlemen present had watery eyes. Several among them had not had time for breakfast. Some sought entertainment by timidly examining the operating tools and the spherical jar of chloroform in its leather casing deposited by Doctor Eschrich in case of emergency. After the Lord Marshal von Bühl zu Bühl, a big man with strutting movements, a brown wig, gold-rimmed pince-nez, and long, discoloured fingernails had told several anecdotes in his abrupt, jerky manner, he settled in an armchair and profited by his gift of going to sleep with his eyes open; of losing consciousness of time and place while retaining a correct attitude and without infringing the dignity of the place.
Doctor von Schröder, Minister of Finance and Agriculture, had had a conversation with the Minister of State, Doctor Baron von Knobelsdorff, Minister of Home Affairs, of Foreign Affairs and of the Grand Ducal Household. It was a disconnected chat, beginning with reflections on art, which went on to questions of economics and finance, alluded, somewhat disparagingly, to a high court official, and even concerned itself with the most exalted personages. It began with the two gentlemen standing, with their hats behind their backs, in front of one of the paintings in the large Banqueting Hall, each of them saying less than he thought. The Minister of Finance said: ‘And this one? What does it represent? Your Excellency is so knowledgeable.’
‘Not really. It is the investiture of two young princes of the blood by their uncle, the Emperor. As your Excellency can see, the two young men are kneeling and taking the oath with great solemnity on the Emperor’s sword.’
‘Very good, unusually good! What colouring! Brilliant. What lovely golden locks the princes have! And the Emperor – he is a real Emperor! Yes, Lindemann deserves the distinctions conferred on him.’
‘Indeed he does, indeed he does.’
Doctor von Schröder, a tall man with a white beard, a pair of thick gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his blanched nose, a small tummy protruding abruptly from beneath his belt, and a stout neck bursting from the stiff, embroidered collar of his frock-coat, assumed a somewhat doubtful air while continuing to regard the picture in front of him. He was seized with a slight malaise which sometimes gripped him during his conversations with the baron. This man Knobelsdorff, this favourite and high official was an ambiguous fellow. At times his comments and replies had an undefinable tinge of irony. He was a widely travelled man; he had been all over the world; he had much general knowledge and interests of a strange and unconventional kind. And yet he was a model of correctness. Herr von Schröder could not make him out. However much one agreed with him it was impossible to feel that he was one’s own sort. His views were full of unspoken reserve; his judgements so tolerant that one was left guessing whether they implied approval or contempt. But the most suspicious thing; about him was his smile, of the eyes only, and which did not spread to his lips but seemed to originate in the fine wrinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes, or else to have in time caused these to appear. Baron Knobelsdorff was younger than the Minister of Finance, a man in the prime of life although his clipped moustache and smooth hair with a centre parting were about to turn grey; for the rest a squat, short-necked man and visibly constricted by his braided Court dress. For an instant he left Herr von Schröder to his perplexity and then went on: ‘Only it might perhaps have been in the interests of our worthy administration of the Privy Purse if the famed maestro had rested content with a few more titles and decorations – to put it bluntly, what do you think they paid for this pleasing masterpiece?’
Herr von Schröder regained his animation. The hope, the desire to come to an understanding with the Baron, to, after all, achieve intimate and confidential terms with him excited him.
‘Just what I was thinking,’ he said, turning round to resume his stroll through the galleries. ‘Your Excellency has taken the question out of my mouth. How much was spent on this “Investiture”? How much on the rest of these paintings? The restoration of the castle six years ago amounted to, in summa, one million marks.’
‘At least that.’
‘A tidy sum! Audited and approved by the Lord Marshal Bühl zu Bühl who is abandoning himself over there to a state of pleasant catalepsy; audited, approved and disbursed by the Keeper of the Privy Purse, Count Trümmerhauff.’
‘Disbursed, or owing?’
‘One of the two. This total, I repeat, debited to a fund, a fund …’
‘Briefly, the fund of the Grand Ducal Financial Administration.’
‘Your Excellency knows as well as I do what this means. Truly, it makes me shudder. I swear I am neither a miser nor a hypochondriac but I shudder when I think that under the present circumstances we go and calmly waste a million marks – on what? On a pretty whim, on the splendid restoration of a family seat needed to put children into the world.’
Herr von Knobelsdorff laughed. ‘Yes, heaven knows romanticism is a luxury, and an expensive one too! Your Excellency, I entirely agree with you. But consider, after all the whole trouble in the Grand Ducal finances is due to this same romantic luxury. The root of the evil lies in the fact that the ruling dynasty are farmers; their capital consists in arable land, their income in agricultural profits. To this day they have not made up their minds to switch to industry and business. With regrettable obstinacy they allow themselves to be guided by certain obsolete ideological principles, such as, for instance, ideas of trust and dignity. The Ducal property is in fact an entailed Trust. Profitable sales are out of the question. Mortgages, the raising of capital or credit for commercial improvements they deem improper. The administration is seriously handicapped in the free exploitation of business opportunities by its ideas of dignity. You’ll forgive me, won’t you? I’m telling you the absolute truth. People who pay so much attention to propriety as they do of course cannot and will not keep pace with the liberal and unbridled initiative of less ideologically hampered business men. Now then, what, in comparison with this negative luxury, does the positive million signify, which has been sacrificed to a pretty whim, to borrow your Excellency’s expression? If it only stopped there! But we have the regular expenses of a fairly dignified Court to meet. There is the upkeep of the various castles and their grounds, Hollerbrunn, Monbrillant, Jägerpreis, am I right? Eremitage, Delphinenort, Fasanerie and the rest. I had forgotten Segenhaus and the Haderstein ruins, not to mention the Old Castle. They are not well kept but they all cost money. And the Court Theatre, the Picture Gallery, the Library have to be subsidized. Hundreds of pensions have to be paid, even without legal obligations, purely from motives of trust and dignity. And look at the princely way in which the Grand Duke behaved during the last floods … but I’m making a regular speech!’
‘A speech,’ said the Minister of Finance, ‘which your Excellency thought would shock me, while you really only confirmed my own view. Dear Baron’ – here Herr von Schröder laid his hand on his heart – ‘I’m convinced that there is no longer room for any misunderstanding as to my opinion, my loyal opinion, between you and me. The king can do no wrong … The sovereign is beyond reproach. But here we have to do with a default … in both senses of the word!… a default which I have no hesitation in laying at the door of Count Trümmerhauff. His predecessors may be pardoned for having concealed from their sovereigns the true state of the court finances in those days, nothing else was expected of them. But Count Trümmerhauff’s attitude now is not pardonable. In his position as Keeper of the Privy Purse he ought to have felt it incumbent on him to put a brake on the prevailing insouciance, to open His Royal Highness’s eyes relentlessly to the facts …’
Herr von Knobelsdorff smiled with raised eyebrows.
‘Really?’ said he. ‘So your Excellency is of the opinion that that is what the Count was appointed for! I can picture to myself the justifiable astonishment of his lordship, if you lay before him your view of the position. No, no … your Excellency need be under no delusion; that appointment was a quite deliberate expression of his wishes on the part of His Royal Highness, which the Count must be the first to respect. It expressed not only an attitude of “I don’t know”, but also of “I do not wish to know”. A man may be an exclusively decorative personality and yet be acute enough to grasp this. Besides … honestly … we’ve all of us grasped it. And the only grain of comfort for all of us is this: that there isn’t a prince alive to whom it would be more fatal to mention his debts than to His Royal Highness. Our Prince has a something about him which would stop any tactless remarks of that sort before they were spoken.’
‘Quite true, quite true,’ said Herr von Schröder. He sighed and pensively stroked the swansdown trimming of his hat. The two men were sitting, half facing each other, on a raised window seat inside a large embrasure outside which ran a narrow stone corridor, a sort of gallery whose pointed arches disclosed a view of the town. Herr von Schröder resumed:
‘You answer me, Baron, you pretend to contradict me, and yet your words show more disillusionment and bitterness than my own.’
Herr von Knobelsdorff said nothing, but made a vague gesture of assent.
‘It may be so,’ said the Finance Minister, and nodded gloomily at his hat. ‘Your Excellency may be quite right, perhaps we are all to blame, we and our predecessors. The things that ought to have been prevented! For consider, Baron; ten years ago an opportunity offered itself of putting the finances of the Court on a sound footing, on a better footing anyhow, if you like. It was lost. We understand each other. The Grand Duke, attractive man that he is, had it then in his power to clear things up by a marriage which from a sound point of view might have been called dazzling. Instead of that … speaking not for myself, of course, but I shall never forget the dejection on the people’s faces when the amount of the dowry became known.’
‘The Grand Duchess,’ said Herr von Knobelsdorff, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes disappeared almost entirely, ‘is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.’
‘That is an answer one would expect of your Excellency. It is the answer of an aesthete, an answer which would have held quite as good if His Royal Highness’s choice, like his brother Lambert’s, had fallen on a member of the royal ballet.’
‘Oh, there was no danger of that. The Prince’s taste is a fastidious one, as he has shown. His requirements have always been a direct antithesis to the lack of taste which Prince Lambert has shown all his life. It was a long time before he decided to marry. We had almost given up hope of a direct heir to the throne. They were resigned for better or worse to Prince Lambert, whose … unsuitability to be heir to the throne we need not discuss. Then a few weeks after his succession to the throne Johann Albrecht meets Princess Dorothea and exclaims: ‘I’ll marry her or no one!’ And the Grand Duchy has a new sovereign lady. Your Excellency mentions the doubtful faces when the figures of the dowry were published; you did not mention the joy which prevailed in spite of it. A penniless princess, to be sure. But does such beauty count for nothing? I shall never forget her entry. Her first smile captured every heart. Your Excellency must allow me once more to profess my belief in the idealism of the people. The people want to see their ideal, their highest aspirations, their dream, something akin to their own souls embodied in their rulers; that, and not their bank accounts; there are others to represent those.’
‘That is precisely it; those others are absent.’
‘A regrettable absence. The main point is, Dorothea has presented us with an heir apparent.’
‘To whom Heaven may grant some financial sense.’
‘I entirely agree.’
Here ended the conversation of the two ministers. It stopped short, it was interrupted by aide-de-camp von Lichterloh who announced the happy issue of the confinement. The smaller banqueting-hall was soon filled with officials. One of the great carved doors was quickly thrown open, and the aide-de-camp appeared in the hall. He had a red face, blue soldier’s eyes, a bristling flaxen moustache and the silver braid of the Guards on his collar. He looked somewhat excited, like a man who had been released from deadly boredom and was primed with good news. Conscious of the unusualness of the occasion, he boldly ignored the rules of decorum and etiquette. He saluted the company gaily, and, spreading his elbows, raised the hilt of his sword almost to his breast crying: ‘Beg leave to announce: a prince!’
‘À la bonne heure,’ said aide-de-camp Count Schmettern.
‘Delightful, that’s delightful, I call that perfectly delightful,’ said the Lord Marshal Bühl zu Bühl in his babbling voice; he had recovered consciousness at once.
The president of the Church Council Dom Wislizenus, a clean-shaven handsome man who, as the son of a general and thanks to his personal distinction, had attained to his high office at a comparatively early age, and on whose black silk gown shone the star of an order, folded his white hands below his breast and uttered in a melodious voice: ‘God bless His Grand Ducal Highness!’
‘You forget, Captain,’ said Herr von Knobelsdorff, smiling, ‘that in making your announcement you are encroaching on my privileges and province. Until I have made a thorough investigation the question whether it is a prince or a princess remains undecided.’
This remark was greeted with general laughter, and Herr von Lichterloh replied: ‘At your orders, Excellency! Indeed, I have the honour to beg Your Excellency in Their Highnesses’ name.’
This banter referred to the Minister of State’s charge as registrar of the Grand Ducal House, in which capacity he was called to determine the sex of the princely offspring with his own eyes and to make an official declaration. Herr von Knobelsdorff complied with this formality in the so-called Powder Closet, where the new-born baby had been bathed, but he remained there longer than he had anticipated, as he was puzzled and detained by a painful discovery, which he did not, at first, mention to anyone, save the midwife.
Doctor Gnadebusch uncovered the child, and her mysteriously glittering eyes behind the thick lenses travelled between the Minister of State and the little copper-coloured creature, as it groped with one small hand – only one – as if to say: ‘Is it all right?’ It was all right, Herr von Knobelsdorff was satisfied and the midwife wrapped the child up again. But even then she continued to look down at the baby and up at the Baron, until she had drawn his eyes to the point to which she wished to attract them. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes disappeared, he examined, compared, tested, scrutinized the child for two or three minutes, and at last asked: ‘Has the Grand Duke seen this yet?’
‘No, Your Excellency.’
‘When the Grand Duke sees this,’ said Herr von Knobelsdorff, ‘tell him it will adjust itself in time.’
And to the gentlemen on the ground floor he announced: ‘A splendid prince!’
But ten or fifteen minutes after him the Grand Duke also made the disagreeable discovery – that was unavoidable, and resulted for Surgeon-General Eschrich in a short, extremely unpleasant scene, but for Doctor Sammet of Grimmburg it led to an interview with the Grand Duke which raised him considerably in the latter’s estimation and was useful to him in his subsequent career. What happened was briefly as follows:
After the birth Johann Albrecht had again retired to the library, and then returned to sit for some time at the bedside with his wife’s hand in his. Thereupon he went into the powder-closet where the infant now lay in his high, richly gilded cradle, half covered with a blue silk curtain, and sat down in an armchair by the side of his little son. But while he sat and watched the sleeping infant it happened that he noticed what it was hoped that he would not notice yet. He drew back the coverlet, his face clouded over, and then he did exactly what Herr von Knobelsdorff had done before him, looked from Doctor Gnadebusch to the nurse and back again, both of whom said nothing, cast one glance at the half-open door into the bridal chamber, and returned to the library in a state of agitation.
Here he at once pressed the silver bell topped with an eagle on his writing desk, and very curtly and coldly addressed Herr von Lichterloh who entered with rattling spurs: ‘I wish to see Herr Eschrich.’
When the Grand Duke was angry with any member of his suite, he was wont to strip the culprit for the moment of all his titles and dignities, and to leave him nothing but his bare name.
The aide-de-camp clicked his heels once more and withdrew. Johann Albrecht paced up and down with angrily creaking boots and then, upon hearing Herr von Lichterloh introduce the doctor into the ante-room, he stood behind his desk, in the attitude he adopted when granting audience.
As he stood there, his head turned imperiously in half-profile, his left hand planted on his hip, drawing back his satin-fronted frock-coat from his white waistcoat, he exactly resembled his portrait by Professor von Lindemann, which hung beside the big looking-glass over the mantelpiece in the Hall of Twelve Months in his residential castle, opposite the portrait of Dorothea, and of which countless engravings, photographs, and picture postcards had been published. The only difference was that Johann Albrecht in the portrait seemed to be of heroic stature, while he really was scarcely of medium height. His forehead was high and bald, and his blue eyes with deep shadows looked out from beneath grey brows with a distant expression of weary pride. He had the broad, rather too prominent cheekbones which were characteristic of his people. His side-whiskers and the tiny mouche below his lower lip were grey, his twirled moustache almost white. From the distended nostrils of his short but proudly arched nose two unusually deep lines ran down into his beard. The lemon coloured ribbon of the Order of the ducal house showed in the opening of his piqué waistcoat. The Grand Duke wore a carnation buttonhole.
Major-General Eschrich entered with a deep bow. He had discarded his operating coat. His eyelids drooped more heavily than usual over his eyes. He looked morose and wretched.
The Grand Duke, his left hand on his hip, stretched out his right hand and with upturned palm, waved it several times abruptly and impatiently back and forward.
‘I am awaiting an explanation, a justification, Major-General,’ he said, his voice shaking with irritation. ‘Will you be kind enough to account for what has happened? What is the matter with the child’s arm?’
The physician-in-ordinary raised his hands a little, in a faint gesture of helplessness and innocence. He said:
‘May it please Your Royal Highness … an unfortunate accident. Unfavourable circumstances during the pregnancy of Her Royal Highness …’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ The Grand Duke was so agitated that he did not wish for a justification, in fact he would not allow one. ‘I would remind you, sir, that I am beside myself. Unfortunate occurrence! It was your business to take precautions against unfortunate occurrences …’
The Major-General stood in a servile position and addressed the floor at his feet in a low, submissive tone of voice.
‘I humbly beg to be allowed to remind you that I, at least, am not alone responsible. Privy Councillor Grasanger – an authority on gynaecology – examined her Royal Highness. But nobody can be held responsible in this case …’
‘Nobody … Really! I shall take the liberty of holding you responsible … You are answerable to me … You were in charge during the pregnancy, you superintended the confinement. I have relied on the knowledge to be expected from your rank, Major-General, I have trusted to your experience. I am bitterly disappointed, bitterly disappointed. All that your skill can boast of is … that a crippled child has been born….’
‘Would your Royal Highness graciously consider …’
‘I have considered. I have weighed and found wanting. Thank you!’
Major-General Eschrich retired backwards, bowing all the while. In the ante-room he shrugged his shoulders. His face had grown very red. The Grand Duke fell to pacing up and down the Library once more in princely wrath, with creaking boots, incensed, ignorant and foolish in his isolation. However, whether it was that he wished to humiliate the physician-in-ordinary still further, or that he regretted having robbed himself of any explanation – ten minutes later the unexpected happened, in that the Grand Duke sent Herr von Lichterloh to summon the young Doctor Sammet to the Library.
The doctor, when he received the message, said again: ‘With pleasure … with pleasure,’ and even changed colour a little, but then composed himself admirably. It is true that he was not complete master of the prescribed etiquette, and bowed too soon, while he was still in the door, so that the aide-de-camp could not close it behind him, and had to ask him in a whisper to move forward; but afterwards he stood in an easy and unconstrained attitude, and gave reassuring answers, although he showed that he was naturally rather slow of speech, beginning his sentences with hesitating noises and frequently interspersing them with a ‘Yes’, as if to confirm what he was saying. He wore his dark blond hair cut en brosse and his moustache untrimmed. His chin and cheeks were clean-shaved, and rather sore from it. He carried his head a little on one side, and the gaze of his grey eyes told of shrewdness and active kindness. His nose betrayed his origin by a sudden downward curve above the moustache. With his dress-coat he wore a black stock, and his shiny boots were of provincial cut. With one hand on his silver watch-chain he kept his elbow close to his side. His whole appearance suggested honesty and professional skill; he inspired confidence.
The Grand Duke addressed him unusually graciously, rather in the manner of a teacher who has been scolding a naughty boy, and turns to another with a sudden assumption of mildness.
‘I have sent for you, doctor … I want information from you about this peculiarity in the body of the new-born prince…. I assume that it has not escaped your notice … I am confronted with a riddle … an extremely painful riddle…. In a word, I desire your opinion.’ And the Grand Duke, changing his position, ended with a gracious motion of his hand, which encouraged the doctor to speak.
Doctor Sammet looked at him silently and attentively, as if waiting for the Grand Duke to terminate his princely lines. Then he said: ‘Yes. We have here to do with a case which is not of very common occurrence, but is nonetheless well known and familar to us. It is actually a case of atrophy.’
‘I beg your pardon. Atrophy?’
‘Forgive me, Royal Highness. I mean stunted growth. Yes.’
‘Quite right. Stunted growth. That is correct. The left hand is stunted. But this is unheard of. I cannot understand it. Such a thing has never happened in my family. People talk nowadays about heredity.’
Again the doctor looked silently and attentively at the lonely and domineering man, to whom the news had only just penetrated that people were talking lately about heredity. He answered simply: ‘Pardon me, Royal Highness, but in this case there can be no question of heredity.’
‘Really! You’re quite sure!’ said the Grand Duke with faint mockery. ‘That is at least one consolation. But will you be so kind as to tell me what there can be a question of, then?’
‘With pleasure, Royal Highness. The cause of the malformation is entirely mechanical, yes. It has been caused by a mechanical constriction during the development of the embryo. We call such malformations constriction-formations, yes.’
The Grand Duke listened with anxious disgust: he obviously feared the effect of each succeeding word on his sensitiveness. He kept his brows knit and his mouth open: the two furrows running down to his beard seemed deeper than ever. He said: ‘Constriction-formations … but how in the world … I am quite sure every precaution must have been taken …’
‘Constriction-formations,’ answered Dr Sammet, ‘can occur in various ways. But we can say with comparative certainty that in our case … in this case it is the amnion which is to blame.’
‘I beg your pardon … the amnion?’
‘That is one of the fœtal membranes, Royal Highness. Yes. And in certain circumstances the removal of this membrane from the embryo may be retarded and proceed so slowly that threads and cords are left stretching from one to the other … amniotic threads as we call them, yes. These threads may be dangerous, for they can bind and knot themselves round the whole of a child’s limb; they can entirely intercept, for instance, the life-ducts of a hand and even amputate it. Yes.’
‘Great heavens … amputate it. So we must be thankful that it has not come to an amputation of the hand?’
‘That might have happened. Yes. But all that has happened is an unfastening, resulting in an atrophy.’
‘And that could not be discovered, foreseen, prevented?’
‘No, Royal Highness. Absolutely not. It is quite certain that no blame whatever attaches to anybody. Such constrictions do their work in secret. We are powerless against them. Yes.’
‘And the malformation is incurable? The hand will remain stunted?’
Dr Sammet hesitated; he looked kindly at the Grand Duke.
‘It will never be quite normal, certainly not,’ he said cautiously. ‘But the stunted hand will grow a little larger than it is at present, oh yes, it assuredly will….’
‘Will he be able to use it? For instance … to hold his reins or to make gestures, like anyone else…?’
‘Use it … a little … perhaps not much. And he’s got his right hand, that’s all right.’
‘Will it be very obvious?’ asked the Grand Duke, and scanned Dr Sammet’s face earnestly. ‘Very noticeable? Will it detract much from his general appearance do you think?’
‘Many people,’ answered Dr Sammet evasively, ‘live and work under greater disadvantages. Yes.’
The Grand Duke turned away and paced once more up and down the room. Doctor Sammet deferentially made way for him and withdrew towards the door. At last the Grand Duke resumed his position at the writing table and said: ‘I have now heard what I wanted to know, doctor; I thank you for your report. You understand your business, no doubt about that. Why do you live in Grimmburg? Why do you not practise in the capital?’
‘I am still young, Royal Highness, and before I devote myself to practising as a specialist in the capital I should like a few years of really varied practice, of general experience and research. A country town like Grimmburg affords the best opportunity of that. Yes.’
‘Very sound, very admirable of you. In what do you propose to specialize later on?’
‘In children’s diseases, Royal Highness. I intend to be a children’s specialist, yes.’
‘You are a Jew?’ asked the Grand Duke, throwing back his head and narrowing his eyes.
‘Yes, Royal Highness.’
‘Ah – will you answer me one more question? Have you ever found your origin to stand in your way, a drawback in your professional career? I ask as a ruler, who is especially concerned that the principle of “Equal chances for all” shall hold good unconditionally and privately, not only officially.’
‘Everybody in the Grand Duchy,’ answered Dr Sammet, ‘has the right to work.’ But he did not stop there: moving his elbows like a pair of short wings, in an awkward, impassioned way, he made a few hesitating noises, and then added in a restrained but eager voice: ‘No principle of equalization, if I may be allowed to remark, will ever prevent the incidence in the life of the community of exceptional and abnormal men who are distinguished from the bourgeois by their nobleness or infamy. It is the duty of the individual not to concern himself as to the precise nature of the distinction between him and the common herd, but to see what is the essential in that distinction and to recognize that it imposes on him an exceptional obligation towards society. A man is at an advantage, not at a disadvantage, compared with the regular and therefore complacent majority, if he has one motive more than they to extraordinary exertions. Yes, yes,’ repeated Dr Sammet. The double affirmative was meant to confirm his answer.
‘Good … not bad; very remarkable, anyhow,’ said the Grand Duke judicially. The doctor’s words sounded familiar, yet somehow implied an infringement of his royalty. He dismissed the young man, saying: ‘Well, Doctor, my time is not my own. Thank you. This conversation – apart from its painful occasion – has pleased me very much. I have the pleasure of bestowing on you the Albrecht Cross of the Third Class with the Crown. I shall remember you. Thank you.’
This is what passed between the doctor from Grimmburg and the Grand Duke. Shortly after Johann Albrecht left the castle and returned to the capital by special train, chiefly to show himself to the rejoicing populace, but also to grant several audiences in the palace. It was arranged that he should return to the ancestral seat the same evening, and take up his residence there for the next few weeks.
All those present at the confinement at Grimmburg who did not belong to the Grand Duchess’s suite were also accommodated in the special train of the bankrupt local railway, some of them travelling in the Sovereign’s own saloon. But the Grand Duke