Chapter XI The Crown Prince on a Lark
A Gallop with the Crown Prince—On the Way to Surprise
Letter of BERTHA KRUPP to FRANZ.
BERLIN, SCHLOSS.
DEAR FRANZ,—When I promised to write, I expected to put a school-girl’s ability at composition to the test, being half afraid that my description of Berlin and the Court might not pass muster with so severe a critic as my dear half-brother. But something has happened that makes living in the shadow of the throne and royal intimacies and reviews and State balls, even the Grand Council of the Knights of the Black Eagle, look insignificant.
Listen! Yesterday after luncheon the Crown Prince came to me with a mysterious air. “Bertha,” he said, for he is quite familiar, “you look like a good, sporty girl; let’s fool those fogies, and have a lark all by ourselves.”
You may be sure, Franz, I was frightened, and looked it I suppose, for he added quickly: “Upon my word as an officer, your Mamma may know about it.” And then he unfolded his plan.
“I am tired to death of the baggage that attends our rides, watching with as many eyes as a centipede has feet; this afternoon I will lend you one of my swift English hunters, and I will ride Circe, a devil of a horse that can outdistance father’s Extase any day. Flottwitz—you know he is Master of Horse—promised to give the others the slowest plugs in the stables, and we will humour their dog-trot as long as the public gaze is upon us. But once beyond the dear public’s reach, off we are, rein and spur. Don’t be afraid; the grooms, too, will be mounted on grandmothers; they won’t catch us.”
I felt quite relieved. “It will be jolly,” I said.
The Crown Prince laughed immoderately. “What a little innocent you are,” he cried; “running away is only the beginning. As soon as we are out of sight, we will turn and gallop to Castle Bellevue. There we will dismount, and I will punt you across the river. It is but a stone’s throw to the gipsy’s cottage, and that is where I will take you.”
I became apprehensive again. “I am afraid of gipsies,” I faltered.
“Afraid in my company?” cried Wilhelm. “I forbid you to be afraid of the very devil when I am around. I am your cavalier,” he added; “you must do as I tell you.” Then his tone became coaxing again. “Don’t you like to have your fortune told, Bertha? She is a ’bird at it’—makes your flesh creep and all that sort of thing.”
“But does Auntie Majesty approve?”
“Bother, Mother; I am not under her thumb,” he answered, and I thought it very horrid of him.
Well, Franz, everything came off according to programme. For a young girl from Essen to ride down The Linden with the Crown Prince, masters of horse, maids of honour, chasseurs and grooms is lots of fun, and I don’t know that I ever enjoyed anything so much as the throngs of people in the streets and on the sidewalk cheering and waving hats and handkerchiefs. But, of course, they thought me a Royal Highness or some sort of princess, the very least.
“Can’t you ride astride?” whispered the Crown Prince as we passed through the semi-shadows of the Brandenburger Thor.
“What is that?” I asked, and somehow got the feeling that his question was not the correct thing. So I touched my horse with the spur and cantered away. Wilhelm joined me quickly. “Dog-trot now,” he said, and we jogged along like Herr Director-General’s family on their old brown mares.
After passing Castle Bellevue, promenaders became few and far between, and then the long-legged hunters increased the distance between ourselves and the rest of the party very considerably. Suddenly Wilhelm—he asked me to call him by his first name, but I always prefix his title—whispered: “Now, ventre à terre.” Setting the example he jumped a hedge, I after him—a fine race we ran for the next ten minutes.
Then back to Bellevue. We galloped right through to the water’s edge, and were half across the river before the stablemen had caught the horses.
Lieber Franz, you must excuse; I can’t write a word more. Too tired and too excited. So good night for to-night and pleasant dreams.—Always your good sister,
BERTHA.