Bab Bab 1 · The Rassendylls--With a Word on the Elphbergs

. The Rassendylls--With a Word on the Elphbergs

“I wonder when in the world you’re going to do anything, Rudolf?” said

my brother’s wife.

“My dear Rose,” I answered, laying down my egg-spoon, “why in the world

should I do anything? My position is a comfortable one. I have an

income nearly sufficient for my wants (no one’s income is ever quite

sufficient, you know), I enjoy an enviable social position: I am

brother to Lord Burlesdon, and brother-in-law to that charming lady, his

countess. Behold, it is enough!”

“You are nine-and-twenty,” she observed, “and you’ve done nothing but--”

“Knock about? It is true. Our family doesn’t need to do things.”

This remark of mine rather annoyed Rose, for everybody knows (and

therefore there can be no harm in referring to the fact) that, pretty

and accomplished as she herself is, her family is hardly of the same

standing as the Rassendylls. Besides her attractions, she possessed a

large fortune, and my brother Robert was wise enough not to mind about

her ancestry. Ancestry is, in fact, a matter concerning which the next

observation of Rose’s has some truth.

“Good families are generally worse than any others,” she said.

Upon this I stroked my hair: I knew quite well what she meant.

“I’m so glad Robert’s is black!” she cried.

At this moment Robert (who rises at seven and works before breakfast)

came in. He glanced at his wife: her cheek was slightly flushed; he

patted it caressingly.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked.

“She objects to my doing nothing and having red hair,” said I, in an

injured tone.

“Oh! of course he can’t help his hair,” admitted Rose.

“It generally crops out once in a generation,” said my brother. “So does

the nose. Rudolf has got them both.”

“I wish they didn’t crop out,” said Rose, still flushed.

“I rather like them myself,” said I, and, rising, I bowed to the

portrait of Countess Amelia.

My brother’s wife uttered an exclamation of impatience.

“I wish you’d take that picture away, Robert,” said she.

“My dear!” he cried.

“Good heavens!” I added.

“Then it might be forgotten,” she continued.

“Hardly--with Rudolf about,” said Robert, shaking his head.

“Why should it be forgotten?” I asked.

“Rudolf!” exclaimed my brother’s wife, blushing very prettily.

I laughed, and went on with my egg. At least I had shelved the question

of what (if anything) I ought to do. And, by way of closing the

discussion--and also, I must admit, of exasperating my strict little

sister-in-law a trifle more--I observed:

“I rather like being an Elphberg myself.”

When I read a story, I skip the explanations; yet the moment I begin to

write one, I find that I must have an explanation. For it is manifest

that I must explain why my sister-in-law was vexed with my nose and

hair, and why I ventured to call myself an Elphberg. For eminent as,

I must protest, the Rassendylls have been for many generations, yet

participation in their blood of course does not, at first sight, justify

the boast of a connection with the grander stock of the Elphbergs or

a claim to be one of that Royal House. For what relationship is there

between Ruritania and Burlesdon, between the Palace at Strelsau or the

Castle of Zenda and Number 305 Park Lane, W.?

Well then--and I must premise that I am going, perforce, to rake up the

very scandal which my dear Lady Burlesdon wishes forgotten--in the year

1733, George II. sitting then on the throne, peace reigning for

the moment, and the King and the Prince of Wales being not yet at

loggerheads, there came on a visit to the English Court a certain

prince, who was afterwards known to history as Rudolf the Third of

Ruritania. The prince was a tall, handsome young fellow, marked (maybe

marred, it is not for me to say) by a somewhat unusually long, sharp and

straight nose, and a mass of dark-red hair--in fact, the nose and the

hair which have stamped the Elphbergs time out of mind. He stayed some

months in England, where he was most courteously received; yet, in

the end, he left rather under a cloud. For he fought a duel (it was

considered highly well bred of him to waive all question of his rank)

with a nobleman, well known in the society of the day, not only for his

own merits, but as the husband of a very beautiful wife. In that duel

Prince Rudolf received a severe wound, and, recovering therefrom, was

adroitly smuggled off by the Ruritanian ambassador, who had found him

a pretty handful. The nobleman was not wounded in the duel; but the

morning being raw and damp on the occasion of the meeting, he contracted

a severe chill, and, failing to throw it off, he died some six months

after the departure of Prince Rudolf, without having found leisure to

adjust his relations with his wife--who, after another two months, bore

an heir to the title and estates of the family of Burlesdon. This lady

was the Countess Amelia, whose picture my sister-in-law wished to remove

from the drawing-room in Park Lane; and her husband was James, fifth

Earl of Burlesdon and twenty-second Baron Rassendyll, both in the

peerage of England, and a Knight of the Garter. As for Rudolf, he went

back to Ruritania, married a wife, and ascended the throne, whereon his

progeny in the direct line have sat from then till this very hour--with

one short interval. And, finally, if you walk through the picture

galleries at Burlesdon, among the fifty portraits or so of the last

century and a half, you will find five or six, including that of the

sixth earl, distinguished by long, sharp, straight noses and a quantity

of dark-red hair; these five or six have also blue eyes, whereas among

the Rassendylls dark eyes are the commoner.

That is the explanation, and I am glad to have finished it: the

blemishes on honourable lineage are a delicate subject, and certainly

this heredity we hear so much about is the finest scandalmonger in the

world; it laughs at discretion, and writes strange entries between the

lines of the “Peerages”.

It will be observed that my sister-in-law, with a want of logic that

must have been peculiar to herself (since we are no longer allowed to

lay it to the charge of her sex), treated my complexion almost as an

offence for which I was responsible, hastening to assume from that

external sign inward qualities of which I protest my entire innocence;

and this unjust inference she sought to buttress by pointing to the

uselessness of the life I had led. Well, be that as it may, I had picked

up a good deal of pleasure and a good deal of knowledge. I had been to

a German school and a German university, and spoke German as readily

and perfectly as English; I was thoroughly at home in French; I had a

smattering of Italian and enough Spanish to swear by. I was, I believe,

a strong, though hardly fine swordsman and a good shot. I could ride

anything that had a back to sit on; and my head was as cool a one as you

could find, for all its flaming cover. If you say that I ought to have

spent my time in useful labour, I am out of Court and have nothing

to say, save that my parents had no business to leave me two thousand

pounds a year and a roving disposition.

“The difference between you and Robert,” said my sister-in-law, who

often (bless her!) speaks on a platform, and oftener still as if she

were on one, “is that he recognizes the duties of his position, and you

see the opportunities of yours.”

“To a man of spirit, my dear Rose,” I answered, “opportunities are

duties.”

“Nonsense!” said she, tossing her head; and after a moment she went on:

“Now, here’s Sir Jacob Borrodaile offering you exactly what you might be

equal to.”

“A thousand thanks!” I murmured.

“He’s to have an Embassy in six months, and Robert says he is sure that

he’ll take you as an attaché. Do take it, Rudolf--to please me.”

Now, when my sister-in-law puts the matter in that way, wrinkling her

pretty brows, twisting her little hands, and growing wistful in the

eyes, all on account of an idle scamp like myself, for whom she has

no natural responsibility, I am visited with compunction. Moreover, I

thought it possible that I could pass the time in the position suggested

with some tolerable amusement. Therefore I said:

“My dear sister, if in six months’ time no unforeseen obstacle has

arisen, and Sir Jacob invites me, hang me if I don’t go with Sir Jacob!”

“Oh, Rudolf, how good of you! I am glad!”

“Where’s he going to?”

“He doesn’t know yet; but it’s sure to be a good Embassy.”

“Madame,” said I, “for your sake I’ll go, if it’s no more than a

beggarly Legation. When I do a thing, I don’t do it by halves.”

My promise, then, was given; but six months are six months, and seem an

eternity, and, inasmuch as they stretched between me and my prospective

industry (I suppose attachés are industrious; but I know not, for I

never became attaché to Sir Jacob or anybody else), I cast about for

some desirable mode of spending them. And it occurred to me suddenly

that I would visit Ruritania. It may seem strange that I had never

visited that country yet; but my father (in spite of a sneaking fondness

for the Elphbergs, which led him to give me, his second son, the famous

Elphberg name of Rudolf) had always been averse from my going, and,

since his death, my brother, prompted by Rose, had accepted the family

tradition which taught that a wide berth was to be given to that

country. But the moment Ruritania had come into my head I was eaten up

with a curiosity to see it. After all, red hair and long noses are

not confined to the House of Elphberg, and the old story seemed

a preposterously insufficient reason for debarring myself from

acquaintance with a highly interesting and important kingdom, one which

had played no small part in European history, and might do the like

again under the sway of a young and vigorous ruler, such as the new

King was rumoured to be. My determination was clinched by reading in _The

Times_ that Rudolf the Fifth was to be crowned at Strelsau in the course

of the next three weeks, and that great magnificence was to mark

the occasion. At once I made up my mind to be present, and began my

preparations. But, inasmuch as it has never been my practice to furnish

my relatives with an itinerary of my journeys and in this case I

anticipated opposition to my wishes, I gave out that I was going for a

ramble in the Tyrol--an old haunt of mine--and propitiated Rose’s wrath

by declaring that I intended to study the political and social problems

of the interesting community which dwells in that neighbourhood.

“Perhaps,” I hinted darkly, “there may be an outcome of the expedition.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well,” said I carelessly, “there seems a gap that might be filled by an

exhaustive work on--”

“Oh! will you write a book?” she cried, clapping her hands. “That would

be splendid, wouldn’t it, Robert?”

“It’s the best of introductions to political life nowadays,” observed my

brother, who has, by the way, introduced himself in this manner several

times over. _Burlesdon on Ancient Theories and Modern Facts_ and _The

Ultimate Outcome, by a Political Student_, are both works of recognized

eminence.

“I believe you are right, Bob, my boy,” said I.

“Now promise you’ll do it,” said Rose earnestly.

“No, I won’t promise; but if I find enough material, I will.”

“That’s fair enough,” said Robert.

“Oh, material doesn’t matter!” she said, pouting.

But this time she could get no more than a qualified promise out of me.

To tell the truth, I would have wagered a handsome sum that the story

of my expedition that summer would stain no paper and spoil not a single

pen. And that shows how little we know what the future holds; for here I

am, fulfilling my qualified promise, and writing, as I never thought

to write, a book--though it will hardly serve as an introduction to

political life, and has not a jot to do with the Tyrol.

Neither would it, I fear, please Lady Burlesdon, if I were to submit it

to her critical eye--a step which I have no intention of taking.