er of its end,
asking myself incredulously what motive or what notion had power to hold
back the flood of youth, seeking almost in vain to re-discover the
spring that moved me then. Yet, though I can not feel it again, I know
dimly what it was, that high, strange, noble, ludicrous ideal of my
office which so laid hold on me as to scatter passion's forces and wrest
me from the arms of her I loved. I can not now so think of my kingship,
so magnify its claim, or conceive that it matters so greatly to the
world how I hold it or what manner of man I show myself. I come to the
conclusion (though it may seem to border on paradox) that in a like case
I could not, or should not, do now what I did then. I suppose that it is
some such process as this, a weakening of emotion parallel with a
lowering of ideal, that makes us, as we grow older, think ourselves so
much wiser and know ourselves to be so little better.

I had charged Wetter to say nothing to the Countess, but he disobeyed
me. He had been to her and told her all that passed between us. I knew
this the moment I entered her room. Her agitated nervous air showed me
that she had been informed of the withdrawal of my gift, was aware that
the Embassy was no longer hers to give to Wetter or another, and was
wondering helplessly what the meaning of the change might be. To her, as
to Wetter, the death of Hammerfeldt must have seemed the removal of an
impediment; only through the curious processes of my own mind did it
raise an obstacle insurmountable. She had liked the Prince, but feared
him; she imagined my feelings to have been the same, and perhaps in his
lifetime they were. Then should not I, who had been brought to defy him
living, more readily disregard him dead?

But against her knowledge of me and her quick wit no preconception could
hold out long. She was by me in a moment, asking:

"What has happened? What's wrong, Augustin?"

I had pictured myself describing to her what I felt, making her
understand, sympathize, and, even while she grieved, approve. The notion
was so strong in me that I did not doubt of finding words for it--words
eloquent of its force and dignity. But before her simple impulsive
question I was dumb. A wave of shyness swept over me; not even to her
could I divulge my thoughts, not even from her risk the smile of
ridicule or the blankness of non-apprehension. I became wretchedly
certain that I should be only absurd and priggish, that she would not
be