Dutch fiction -- Translations into English; Kings and rulers -- Fiction; Princes -- Fiction
The empress saw in Othomar so very much her own son that, in the
intimacy of their morning conversations--for the crown-prince still paid
his mother a short visit every morning--she was surprised not to find in
him her own dread, but on the contrary all her own resignation, which
was the reverse side of it. But since his marriage she had found him
altogether changed, no longer, in these short moments of their private
intercourse, complaining, hesitating, searching, but speaking calmly of
what he must do, filled with an evident harmony that gave a restful
assurance to his words, his gestures and even his actions. With this
assurance he retained a quiet, dignified modesty: he did not put his
views forward at all violently; he continued to possess that
receptiveness for the views of others which had always been one of his
most prominent and attractive qualities. He was undoubtedly old for his
young years: any one who did not know better would have given him more
than his twenty-three years, now that he was allowing his crisp beard to
grow.... And yet, yet, especially in these troubled days, his old fears
would often well up within him and he would remain sitting alone for
minutes at a time, staring at a vague point in his room, listening to
the murmurs of the future, as he had listened in that haunting night
among his forefathers at Castel Vaza. He then felt that, suddenly, as
with a garment, all his new resignation in life was slipping from him,
falling from his shoulders. But he had learnt so to govern himself that
nobody, not his father, not his mother, not even the crown-princess,
noticed anything of this mental dizziness, which left him ice-cold in
his short periods of solitude, doubting his right, full of strange, soft
compassion for his people....
It was, actually, the old illness which thus, periodically, seethed in
him again like an evil sap, flowing through his veins, enfeebling his
nerves, crushing him internally, as though he would never be cured of
it. But he grew accustomed to it, no longer felt despair because of it,
even knew, during the few minutes that the malady lasted, that it would
pass and afterwards regained that sense of harmony which above all
constituted his resignation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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