Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 127
His voice ceased. It seemed to vanish, as it were, in the sighing of the wind.
I looked up. Father Time and Christmas had vanished from the room. The fire was low and the day was breaking visibly outside.
“Let us begin,” I murmured. “I will mend this broken horse.”
END
The Hohenzollerns in America
CONTENTS
The Hohenzollerns in America
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
With the Bolsheviks in Berlin
Afternoon Tea with the Sultan
Echoes of the War
The Boy Who Came Back
The War Sacrifices of Mr. Spugg
If Germany Had Won
War and Peace at the Galaxy Club
The War News as I Remember it
Some Just Complaints about the War
Some Startling Side Effects of the War
Other Impossibilities
The Art of Conversation
Heroes and Heroines
The Discovery of America; Being Done into Moving Pictures and Out Again
Politics from Within
The Lost Illusions of Mr. Sims
Fetching the Doctor: From Recollections of Childhood in the Canadian Countryside
The Hohenzollerns in America
PREFACE
THE PROPER PUNISHMENT for the Hohenzollerns, and the Hapsburgs, and the Mecklenburgs, and the Muckendorfs, and all such puppets and princelings, is that they should be made to work; and not made to work in the glittering and glorious sense, as generals and chiefs of staff, and legislators, and land-barons, but in the plain and humble part of laborers looking for a job; that they should carry a hod and wield a trowel and swing a pick and, at the day’s end, be glad of a humble supper and a night’s rest; that they should work, in short, as millions of poor emigrants out of Germany have worked for generations past; that there should be about them none of the prestige of fallen grandeur; that, if it were possible, by some trick of magic, or change of circumstance, the world should know them only as laboring men, with the dignity and divinity of kingship departed out of them; that, as such, they should stand or fall, live or starve, as best they might by the work of their own hands and brains. Could this be done, the world would have a better idea of the thin stuff out of which autocratic kingship is fashioned.
It is a favourite fancy of mine to imagine this transformation actually brought about; and to picture the Hohenzollerns as an immigrant family departing for America, their trunks and boxes on their backs, their bundles in their hands.
The fragments of a diary that here follow present the details of such a picture. It is written, or imagined to be written, by the (former) Princess Frederica of Hohenzollern. I do not find her name in the Almanach de Gotha. Perhaps she does not exist. But from the text below she is to be presumed to be one of the innumerable nieces of the German Emperor.
CHAPTER I
ON BOARD THE S.S. America. Wednesday
At last our embarkation is over, and we are at sea. I am so glad it is done. It was dreadful to see poor Uncle William and Uncle Henry and Cousin Willie and Cousin Ferdinand of Bulgaria, coming up the gang-plank into the steerage, with their boxes on their backs. They looked so different in their rough clothes. Uncle William is wearing an old blue shirt and a red handkerchief round his neck, and his hair looks thin and unkempt, and his moustache draggled and his face unshaved. His eyes seem watery and wandering, and his little withered arm so pathetic. Is it possible he was always really like that?
At the top of the gang-plank he stood still a minute, his box still on his back, and said, “This then is the pathway to Saint Helena.” I heard an officer down on the dock call up, “Now then, my man, move on there smartly, please.” And I saw some young roughs pointing at Uncle and laughing and saying, “Look at the old guy with the red handkerchief. Is he batty, eh?”
The forward deck of the steamer, the steerage deck, which is the only place that we are allowed to go, was crowded with people, all poor and with their trunks and boxes and paper bags all round them. When Uncle set down his box, there was soon quite a little crowd around him, so that I could hardly see him. But I could hear them laughing, and I knew that they were “taking a rise out of him,” as they call it, — just as they did in the emigration sheds on shore. I heard Uncle say, “Let wine be brought: I am faint;” and some one else said, “Yes, let it,” and there arose a big shout of laughter.
Cousin Willie had sneaked away with his box down to the lower deck. I thought it mean of him not to stay with his father. I never noticed till now what a sneaking face Cousin Willie has. In his uniform, as Crown Prince, it was different. But in his shabby clothes, among these rough people, he seems so changed. He walks with a mean stoop, and his eyes look about in such a furtive way, never still. I saw one of the ship’s officers watching him, very closely and sternly.
Cousin Karl of Austria, and Cousin Ruprecht of Bavaria, are not here. We thought they were to come on this ship, but they are not here. We could hardly believe that the ship would sail without them.
I managed to get Uncle William out of the crowd and down below. He was glad to get off the deck. He seemed afraid to look at the sea, and when we got into the big cabin, he clutched at the cover of the port and said, “Shut it, help me shut it, shut out the sound of the sea;” and then for a little time he sat on one of the bunks all hunched up, and muttering, “Don’t let me hear the sea, don’t let me hear it.” His eyes looked so queer and fixed, that I thought he must be in a sort of fit, or seizure. But Uncle Henry and Cousin Willie and Cousin Ferdinand came into the cabin and he got better again.
Cousin Ferdinand has got hold of a queer long overcoat with the sleeves turned up, and a little round hat, and looks exactly like a Jew. He says he traded one of our empty boxes for the coat and hat. I never noticed before how queer and thick Cousin Ferdinand’s speech is, and how much he gesticulates with his hands when he talks. I am sure that when I visited at Sofia nobody ever noticed it. And he called Uncle William and Uncle Henry “Mister,” and said that on the deck he had met two “fine gentlemen,” (that’s what he called them), who are in the clothing trade in New York. It was with them he traded for the coat.
Cousin Ferdinand, who is very clever at figures, is going to look after all our money, because the American money is too difficult for Uncle William and Cousin Willie to understand. We have only a little money, but Cousin Ferdinand said that we would put it all together and make it a pool. But when Uncle Henry laughed, and turned his pockets out and had no money at all, Cousin Ferdinand said that it would not be a pool. He said he would make it “on shares” and explained it, but I couldn’t understand what it meant.
While he was talking I saw Cousin Willie slip one of the pieces of money out of the pile into his pocket: at least I think I saw it; but he did it so quickly that I was not sure, and didn’t like to say anything.
Then a bell rang and we went to eat in a big saloon, all crowded with common people, and very stuffy. The food was wretched, and I could not eat. I suppose Uncle was famished from the long waiting and the bad food in the emigrant shed. It was dreadful to see the hungry way that he ate the greasy stew they gave us, with his head down almost in his plate and his moustache all unkempt. “This ragout is admirable,” he said. “Let the chef be informed that I said it.”
Cousin Ferdinand didn’t sit with us. He sat beside his two new friends and they had their heads all close together and talked with great excitement. I never knew before that Cousin Ferdinand talked Yiddish. I remember him at Sofia, on horseback addressing his army, and I don’t think he talked to his troops in Yiddish. He was telling them, I remember, how sorry he was that he couldn’t accompany them to the front. But for “business in Sofia,” he said, he would like to be in the very front trenches, the foremost of all. It was thought very brave of him.
When we got up from supper, the ship was heaving and rolling quite a bit. A young man, a steward, told us that we were now out of the harbor and in the open sea. Uncle William told him to convey his compliments to the captain on his proper navigation of the channel. The young man looked very closely at Uncle and said, “Sure, I’ll tell him right away,” but he said it kindly. Then he said to me, when Uncle couldn’t hear, “Your pa ain’t quite right, is he, Miss Hohen?” I didn’t know what he meant, but, of course, I said that Uncle William was only my uncle. Hohen is, I should explain, the name by which we are known now. The young man said that he wasn’t really a steward, only just for the trip. He said that, because I had a strange feeling that I had met him before, and asked him if I hadn’t seen him at one of the courts. But he said he had never been “up before one” in his life. He said he lives in New York, and drives an ice-wagon and is an ice-man. He said he was glad to have the pleasure of our acquaintance. He is, I think, the first ice-man I have ever met. He reminds me very much of the Romanoffs, the Grand Dukes of the younger branch, I mean. But he says he is not connected with them, so far as he knows. He said his name is Peters. We have no Almanach de Gotha here on board the steamer, so I cannot look up his name.
S.S. America. Thursday
We had a dreadful experience last night. In the middle of the night Uncle Henry came and called me and said that Uncle William was ill. So I put on an old shawl and went with him. The ship was pitching and heaving with a dreadful straining and creaking noise. A dim light burned in the cabin, and outside there was a great roaring of the wind and the wild sound of the sea surging against the ship.
Uncle William was half sitting up in his rough bunk, with the tattered gray blankets over him, one hand was clutched on the side of the bed and there was a great horror in his eyes. “The sea, the sea,” he kept saying, “don’t let me hear it. It’s their voices. Listen! They’re beating at the sides of the ship. Keep them from me, keep them out!”
He was quiet for a minute, until there came another great rush of the sea against the sides of the ship, and a roar of water against the port. Then he broke out, almost screaming— “Henry, brother Henry, keep them back! Don’t let them drag me down. I never willed it. I never wanted it. Their death is not at my door. It was necessity. Henry! Brother Henry! Tell them not to drag me below the sea!”
Like that he raved for perhaps an hour and we tried to quiet him. Cousin Willie had slipped away, I don’t know where. Cousin Ferdinand was in his bunk with his back turned.
“Do I slip to-night, at all,” he kept growling “or do I not? Say, mister, do I get any slip at all?”
But no one minded him.
Then daylight came and Uncle fell asleep. His face looked drawn and gray and the cords stood out on his withered hand, which was clutched against his shirt.
So he slept. It seemed so strange. There was no court physician, no bulletins to reassure the world that he was sleeping quietly.
Later in the morning I saw the ship’s doctor and the captain, all in uniform, with gold braid, walking on their inspection round.
“You had some trouble here last night,” I heard the captain say.
“No, nothing,” the doctor answered, “only one of the steerage passengers delirious in the night.”
Later in the morning the storm had gone down and the sea was calm as glass, and Uncle Henry and I got Uncle William up on deck. Mr. Peters, the steward that I think I spoke about before, got us a steamer chair from the first class that had been thrown away — quite good except for one leg, — and Uncle William sat in it with his face away from the sea. He seemed much shaken and looked gray and tired, but he talked quite quietly and rationally about our going to America, and how we must all work, because work is man’s lot. He himself, he says, will take up the presidency of Harvard University in New York, and Uncle Henry, who, of course, was our own Grand Admiral and is a sailor, will enter as Admiral of the navy of one of the states, probably, Uncle says, the navy of Missouri, or else that of Colorado.
It was pleasant to hear Uncle William talk in this way, just as quietly and rationally as at Berlin, and with the same grasp of political things. He only got excited once, and that was when he was telling Uncle Henry that it was his particular wish that Uncle should go to the captain and offer to take over the navigation of the vessel. Uncle Henry is a splendid sailor, and in all our cruises in the Baltic he used to work out all the navigation of the vessel, except, of course, the arithmetic — which was beneath him.
Uncle Henry laughed (he is always so good natured) and said that he had had enough of being Admiral to last him all his life. But when Uncle William insisted, he said he would see what he could do.
S.S. America. Friday
All yesterday and to-day the sea was quite calm, and we could sit on deck. I was glad because, in the cabin where I am, there are three other women, and it is below the water-line, and is very close and horrid. So when it is rough, I can only sit in the alley-way with my knitting. There the light is very dim and the air bad. But I do not complain. It is woman’s lot. Uncle William and Cousin Willie have both told me this — that it is woman’s lot to bear and to suffer; and they said it with such complete resignation that I feel I ought to imitate their attitude.
Cousin Ferdinand, too, is very brave about the dirt and the discomfort of being on board the ship. He doesn’t seem to mind the dirt at all, and his new friends (Mr. Sheehan and Mr. Mosenhammer) seem to bear it so well, too. Uncle Henry goes and washes his hands and face at one of the ship’s pumps before every meal, with a great noise and splashing, but Cousin Ferdinand says, “For me the pump, no.” He says that nothing like that matters now, and that his only regret is that he did not fall at the head of his troops, as he would have done if he had not been detained by business.
I caught sight of Cousin Karl of Austria! So it seems he is on the ship after all. He was up on the promenade deck where the first class passengers are, and of which you can just see one end from down here in the steerage. Cousin Karl had on a waiter’s suit and was bringing something to drink to two men who were in steamer chairs on the deck. I don’t know whether he saw me or not, but if he did he didn’t give any sign of recognizing me. One of the men gave Cousin Karl a piece of money and I was sure it was he, from the peculiar, cringing way in which he bowed. It was just the manner that he used to have at Vienna with his cousin, Franz Ferdinand, and with dear old Uncle Franz Joseph.
We always thought, we girls I mean, that it was Cousin Karl who had Cousin Franz Ferdinand blown up at Serajevo. I remember once we dared Cousin Zita, Karl’s wife, to ask Uncle William if it really was Karl. But Uncle William spoke very gravely, and said that it was not a thing for us to discuss, and that if Karl did it, it was an “act of State,” and no doubt very painful to Cousin Karl to have to do.
Zita asked Uncle if Karl poisoned dear old Uncle Franz Joseph, because some of Karl’s best and most intimate friends said that he did. But Uncle said very positively, “No,” that dear old Uncle Franz Joseph had not needed any poison, but had died, very naturally, under the hands of Uncle William’s own physician, who was feeling his wind-pipe at the time.
Of course, all these things seem very far away now. But seeing Cousin Karl on the upper deck, reminded me of all the harmless gossip and tattle that used to go on among us girls in the old days.
Friday afternoon
I saw Cousin Willie on the deck this afternoon. I had not seen him all day yesterday as he seems to keep out of sight. His eyes looked bloodshot and I was sure that he had been drinking.
I asked him where he had been in the storm while Uncle William was ill. He gave a queer sort of leering chuckle and said, “Over there,” and pointed backwards with his thumb towards the first class part of the ship. Then he said, “Come here a minute,” and he led me round a corner to where no one could see, and showed me a gold brooch and two diamond rings. He told me not to tell the others, and then he tried to squeeze my hand and to pull me towards him, in such a horrid way, but I broke away and went back. Since then I have been trying to think how he could have got the brooch and the rings. But I cannot think.
S.S. America. Saturday
To-day when I went up on deck, the first thing I saw was Uncle Henry. I hardly recognized him. He had on an old blue sailor’s jersey, and was cleaning up a brass rail with a rag. I asked him why he was dressed like that and Uncle Henry laughed and said he had become an admiral. I couldn’t think what he meant, as I never guess things with a double meaning, so he explained that he has got work as a sailor for the voyage across. I thought he looked very nice in his sailor’s jersey, much nicer than in the coat with gold facings, when he was our High Admiral. He reminded me very much of those big fair-haired Norwegian sailors that we used to see when we went on the Meteor to Flekkefyord and Gildeskaale. I am sure that he will be of great service to this English captain, in helping to work the ship across.
When Cousin Ferdinand came up on deck with his two friends, Mr. Mosenhammer and Mr. Sheehan, he was very much interested in Uncle Henry’s having got work. He made an arrangement right away that he would borrow Uncle Henry’s wages, and that Mr. Sheehan would advance them, and he would then add it to our capital, and then he would take it and keep it. Uncle Henry is to get what is called, in the new money, one seventy-five a day, and to get it for four days, and Cousin Ferdinand says that comes to four dollars and a quarter. Cousin Ferdinand is very quick with figures. He says that he will have to take out a small commission for managing the money for Uncle Henry, and that later on he will tell Uncle Henry how much will be left after taking it out. Uncle Henry said all right and went on with his brass work. It is strange how his clothes seem to change him. He looks now just like a rough, common sailor.
S.S. America. Tuesday
