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Imagine Krak's verdict on such a notion! "I'm not a king for my own pleasure," said I, regarding my hostess gravely. "I am a king for the good of my people." Then she said: "But don't you have a lovely time?" I felt that I was becoming rather red, and I knew that the tears were not far from my eyes. "No," said I, "not very." "Why not?" "They they don't let me do any of the things I want to."
"Good Heavens, does the world still hold Krak?" "Of course. She's rather an old woman, though. You'll be kind to her, Augustin? She was always very fond of you." "I will treat Krak," said I, "with all affection." Surely I would, for Krak's coming put the crown of completeness on the occasion. But I was amazed; Krak was utterly stuff of the past.
It was ever "Kings can not do this," or "Kings must do that," and the "this" was always sweet, the "that" repellent; in Krak's hands monarchy became a cross between a treadmill and a strait-waistcoat. "What's the use of being a king?" I dared once to cry to her. "God did not make you a king for your own pleasure," returned Krak solemnly.
"What in the world are you doing here, my dear?" said I, setting down the candle and putting my hands in my pockets. She sat up, whisking her skirts round with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other. "I came to tell you about Krak Krak's come. But you weren't here. So I lay down, and I suppose I went to sleep." "I suppose you did. And how's Krak?" "Just the same as ever!"
Only Krak and Hammerfeldt had any power over her; Krak's seemed the result of ancient domination, the Prince's was won by a suave and coaxing deference that changed once a year or thereabouts to stern and uncompromising opposition. But with my early upbringing, and with Victoria's, Hammerfeldt had nothing to do; my mother presided, and Krak executed.
It seemed to me that all my life was pictured there; I had but to look this way or that, and dead things rose from the grave and were for me alive again. There was Krak's hard face, there my mother's unconquerable smile; a glance at them brought back childhood with its rigours, its pleasures snatched in fearfulness, its strange ignorance and stranger passing gleams of insight.
But I certainly did not recollect that either Krak or my mother had been in the habit of appealing to my affections; Krak's appeals, at least, had been addressed elsewhere. Yet my mother spoke in absolute sincerity. "It's only just at first that it matters," she went on in a calmer tone. "Afterward she won't mind. You'll learn not to expect too much from one another."
Krak was as unmoved and business-like as usual. I was determined not to cry not to-night. I was not very hard tried; almost directly my mother said, "That will do." There was a pause; no doubt Krak's face expressed a surprised protest. "Yes, that's enough to-day," said my mother, and she added, "Get into bed, Augustin. You must learn to be an obedient boy before you can be a good king."
On questioning Victoria, I found that Krak's softness did not extend beyond the limits of my sickroom; she had indeed ceased the knuckle-rapping, but in its place she curtailed Victoria's liberty and kept her nose to the grindstone pitilessly. Why should caresses be confined to the sick, and kindness be bought only at the price of threatened death?
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