The prisoner of Zenda
and a gruff voice asked in a threatening tone:
“Who talks of ‘Black Michael’ in his Highness’s own burgh?”
The girl gave a little shriek, half of fright--half, I think, of
amusement.
“You’ll not tell of me, Johann?” she said.
“See where your chatter leads,” said the old lady.
The man who had spoken came forward.
“We have company, Johann,” said my hostess, and the fellow plucked off
his cap. A moment later he saw me, and, to my amazement, he started back
a step, as though he had seen something wonderful.
“What ails you, Johann?” asked the elder girl. “This is a gentleman on
his travels, come to see the coronation.”
The man had recovered himself, but he was staring at me with an intense,
searching, almost fierce glance.
“Good evening to you,” said I.
“Good evening, sir,” he muttered, still scrutinizing me, and the merry
girl began to laugh as she called--
“See, Johann, it is the colour you love! He started to see your hair,
sir. It’s not the colour we see most of here in Zenda.”
“I crave your pardon, sir,” stammered the fellow, with puzzled eyes. “I
expected to see no one.”
“Give him a glass to drink my health in; and I’ll bid you good night,
and thanks to you, ladies, for your courtesy and pleasant conversation.”
So speaking, I rose to my feet, and with a slight bow turned to the
door. The young girl ran to light me on the way, and the man fell back
to let me pass, his eyes still fixed on me. The moment I was by, he
started a step forward, asking:
“Pray, sir, do you know our King?”
“I never saw him,” said I. “I hope to do so on Wednesday.”
He said no more, but I felt his eyes following me till the door closed
behind me. My saucy conductor, looking over her shoulder at me as she
preceded me upstairs, said:
“There’s no pleasing Master Johann for one of your colour, sir.”
“He prefers yours, maybe?” I suggested.
“I meant, sir, in a man,” she answered, with a coquettish glance.
“What,” asked I, taking hold of the other side of the candlestick, “does
colour matter in a man?”
“Nay, but I love yours--it’s the Elphberg red.”
“Colour in a man,” said I, “is a matter of no more moment than
that!”--and I gave her something of no value.
“God send the kitchen door be shut!” said she.
“Amen!” said I, and left her.
In fact, however, as I now know, colour is sometimes of considerable
moment to a man.
CHAPTER 3
A Merry Evening with a Distant Relative
I was not so unreasonable as to be prejudiced against the duke’s keeper
because he disliked my complexion; and if I had been, his most civil
and obliging conduct (as it seemed to me to be) next morning would have
disarmed me. Hearing that I was bound for Strelsau, he came to see
me while I was breakfasting, and told me that a sister of his who had
married a well-to-do tradesman and lived in the capital, had invited
him to occupy a room in her house. He had gladly accepted, but now found
that his duties would not permit of his absence. He begged therefore
that, if such humble (though, as he added, clean and comfortable)
lodgings would satisfy me, I would take his place. He pledged his
sister’s acquiescence, and urged the inconvenience and crowding to which
I should be subject in my journeys to and from Strelsau the next day.
I accepted his offer without a moment’s hesitation, and he went off to
telegraph to his sister, while I packed up and prepared to take the next
train. But I still hankered after the forest and the hunting-lodge, and
when my little maid told me that I could, by walking ten miles or so
through the forest, hit the railway at a roadside station, I decided to
send my luggage direct to the address which Johann had given, take my
walk, and follow to Strelsau myself. Johann had gone off and was not
aware of the change in my plans; but, as its only effect was to delay
my arrival at his sister’s for a few hours, there was no reason for
troubling to inform him of it. Doubtless the good lady would waste no
anxiety on my account.
I took an early luncheon, and, having bidden my kind entertainers
farewell, promising to return to them on my way home, I set out to climb
the hill that led to the Castle, and thence to the forest of Zenda.
Half an hour’s leisurely walking brought me to the Castle. It had been
a fortress in old days, and the ancient keep was still in good
preservation and very imposing. Behind it stood another portion of the
original castle, and behind that again, and separated from it by a deep
and broad moat, which ran all round the old buildings, was a handsome
modern chateau, erected by the last king, and now forming the country
residence of the Duke of Strelsau. The old and the new portions were
connected by a drawbridge, and this indirect mode of access formed the
only passage between the old building and the outer world; but leading
to the modern chateau there was a broad and handsome avenue. It was an
ideal residence: when “Black Michael” desired company, he could dwell in
his chateau; if a fit of misanthropy seized him, he had merely to cross
the bridge and draw it up after him (it ran on rollers), and nothing
short of a regiment and a train of artillery could fetch him out. I went
on my way, glad that poor Black Michael, though he could not have the
throne or the princess, had, at least, as fine a residence as any prince
in Europe.
Soon I entered the forest, and walked on for an hour or more in its cool
sombre shade. The great trees enlaced with one another over my head, and
the sunshine stole through in patches as bright as diamonds, and
hardly bigger. I was enchanted with the place, and, finding a felled
tree-trunk, propped my back against it, and stretching my legs out gave
myself up to undisturbed contemplation of the solemn beauty of the woods
and to the comfort of a good cigar. And when the cigar was finished and
I had (I suppose) inhaled as much beauty as I could, I went off into
the most delightful sleep, regardless of my train to Strelsau and of
the fast-waning afternoon. To remember a train in such a spot would
have been rank sacrilege. Instead of that, I fell to dreaming that I
was married to the Princess Flavia and dwelt in the Castle of Zenda, and
beguiled whole days with my love in the glades of the forest--which made
a very pleasant dream. In fact, I was just impressing a fervent kiss on
the charming lips of the princess, when I heard (and the voice seemed at
first a part of the dream) someone exclaim, in rough strident tones.
“Why, the devil’s in it! Shave him, and he’d be the King!”
The idea seemed whimsical enough for a dream: by the sacrifice of my
heavy moustache and carefully pointed imperial, I was to be transformed
into a monarch! I was about to kiss the princess again, when I arrived
(very reluctantly) at the conclusion that I was awake.
I opened my eyes, and found two men regarding me with much curiosity.
Both wore shooting costumes and carried guns. One was rather short
and very stoutly built, with a big bullet-shaped head, a bristly grey
moustache, and small pale-blue eyes, a trifle bloodshot. The other was a
slender young fellow, of middle height, dark in complexion, and bearing
himself with grace and distinction. I set the one down as an old
soldier: the other for a gentleman accustomed to move in good society,
but not unused to military life either. It turned out afterwards that my
guess was a good one.
The elder man approached me, beckoning the younger to follow. He did so,
courteously raising his hat. I rose slowly to my feet.
“He’s the height, too!” I heard the elder murmur, as he surveyed my six
feet two inches of stature. Then, with a cavalier touch of the cap, he
addressed me:
“May I ask your name?”
“As you have taken the first step in the acquaintance, gentlemen,” said
I, with a smile, “suppose you give me a lead in the matter of names.”
The young man stepped forward with a pleasant smile.
“This,” said he, “is Colonel Sapt, and I am called Fritz von Tarlenheim:
we are both in the service of the King of Ruritania.”
I bowed and, baring my head, answered:
“I am Rudolf Rassendyll. I am a traveller from England; and once for a
year or two I held a commission from her Majesty the Queen.”
“Then we are all brethren of the sword,” answered Tarlenheim, holding
out his hand, which I took readily.
“Rassendyll, Rassendyll!” muttered Colonel Sapt; then a gleam of
intelligence flitted across his face.
“By Heaven!” he cried, “you’re of the Burlesdons?”
“My brother is now Lord Burlesdon,” said I.
“Thy head betrayeth thee,” he chuckled, pointing to my uncovered poll.
“Why, Fritz, you know the story?”
The young man glanced apologetically at me. He felt a delicacy which
my sister-in-law would have admired. To put him at his ease, I remarked
with a smile:
“Ah! the story is known here as well as among us, it seems.”
“Known!” cried Sapt. “If you stay here, the deuce a man in all Ruritania
will doubt of it--or a woman either.”
I began to feel uncomfortable. Had I realized what a very plainly
written pedigree I carried about with me, I should have thought long
before I visited Ruritania. However, I was in for it now.
At this moment a ringing voice sounded from the wood behind us:
“Fritz, Fritz! where are you, man?”
Tarlenheim started, and said hastily:
“It’s the King!”
Old Sapt chuckled again.
Then a young man jumped out from behind the trunk of a tree and stood
beside us. As I looked at him, I uttered an astonished cry; and he,
seeing me, drew back in sudden wonder. Saving the hair on my face and
a manner of conscious dignity which his position gave him, saving also
that he lacked perhaps half an inch--nay, less than that, but still
something--of my height, the King of Ruritania might have been Rudolf
Rassendyll, and I, Rudolf, the King.
For an instant we stood motionless, looking at one another. Then I bared
my head again and bowed respectfully. The King found his voice, and
asked in bewilderment:
“Colonel--Fritz--who is this gentleman?”
I was about to answer, when Colonel Sapt stepped between the King and
me, and began to talk to his Majesty in a low growl. The King towered
over Sapt, and, as he listened, his eyes now and again sought mine.
I looked at him long and carefully. The likeness was certainly
astonishing, though I saw the points of difference also. The King’s face
was slightly more fleshy than mine, the oval of its contour the least
trifle more pronounced, and, as I fancied, his mouth lacking something
of the firmness (or obstinacy) which was to be gathered from
my close-shutting lips. But, for all that, and above all minor
distinctions, the likeness rose striking, salient, wonderful.
Sapt ceased speaking, and the King still frowned. Then, gradually, the
corners of his mouth began to twitch, his nose came down (as mine
does when I laugh), his eyes twinkled, and, behold! he burst into the
merriest fit of irrepressible laughter, which rang through the woods and
proclaimed him a jovial soul.
“Well met, cousin!” he cried, stepping up to me, clapping me on the
back, and laughing still. “You must forgive me if I was taken aback. A
man doesn’t expect to see double at this time of day, eh, Fritz?”
“I must pray pardon, sire, for my presumption,” said I. “I trust it will
not forfeit your Majesty’s favour.”
“By Heaven! you’ll always enjoy the King’s countenance,” he laughed,
“whether I like it or not; and, sir, I shall very gladly add to it what
services I can. Where are you travelling to?”
“To Strelsau, sire--to the coronation.”
The King looked at his friends: he still smiled, though his expression
hinted some uneasiness. But the humorous side of the matter caught him
again.
“Fritz, Fritz!” he cried, “a thousand crowns for a sight of brother