FOILED in the hope of regaining her empire over King Michael, the Princess of Dardania turned with desperate vigour to the object which lay even nearer to her heart. It was not enough to count the days until she might hope to hear from Colonel Czartoriski of the success of his mission in acquainting Queen Ernestine with the villainy of the man who professed to love her—the Princess counted the very hours. At last the anxiously expected missive lay before her, but in the fulness of her triumph she allowed herself to gloat over her vengeance for a while before opening the envelope. When at length she drew out the letter and read it, the change that passed over her face was terrible to see. Colonel Czartoriski had not been successful. The Queen had positively refused to receive him when he presented himself at the Deaconesses’ Institution at Brutli. He tried bribery and cajolery in vain; and Princess Anna Mirkovics, the Queen’s maid of honour, who had acted as her Majesty’s mouthpiece throughout the negotiations, assured him that it was hopeless to attempt to obtain an interview. She offered to take charge of the letter of which he was the bearer; but in view of his mistress’s stringent order that he was to place it himself in the Queen’s hands, Colonel Czartoriski thought it well to ask for further instructions. The Princess of Dardania glanced through his formal phrases with a heart-sickening sense of bitter failure.
“He has been before me!” she said to herself, alluding not to Colonel Czartoriski, but to Cyril. “He has warned Ernestine that I shall try to prejudice her against him, and she is prepared to believe everything he says and nothing that I say. This explains his astonishing tardiness in first visiting Egypt and then Palestine, instead of going straight to Beyrout and the Lebanon. He has made things safe for himself already. Well, Czartoriski must wait at Damascus and watch for a chance of giving Ernestine my letter, and it may be possible to spoil their reunion in another way.”
That very day Colonel Czartoriski received a fiery telegram in cipher, which he read without astonishment as the hasty utterance of an outraged mother, dashed off in a moment of desperation. He would have been amazed to learn that the Princess had spent hours of anxious thought over the brief message.
“Do not return to tell me that the base wretch has achieved all he desired. Is there not one among the Christians whom he has betrayed to avenge the Holy Places on this renegade?”
Colonel Czartoriski’s chief impression on reading the telegram was that it was of too compromising a nature to be retained safely in his possession, and, after fixing the contents in his mind, he destroyed the paper. This done, he was able to consider the message calmly. The suggestion which it contained struck him as worthy of notice; for he had relinquished his earlier intention of challenging Cyril to a duel outrance, reflecting that in such a conflict he was unlikely to be victorious. Although, in the frenzied state to which the contemplation of his mistress’s wrongs had reduced him, he would not have shrunk from death if he could have ensured the destruction of his foe, he felt that justice would be but poorly satisfied if Cyril killed him and escaped unscathed. Since, then, a duel was not to be thought of save as a last resort, he allowed his mind to dwell with something like complacency on the hint thrown out by the Princess. Palestine was filled with fanatical pilgrims from Southern and Eastern Europe; how probable it was that Count Mortimer might meet with a fatal accident while in the neighbourhood of one of their stations! For a minute or two it seemed to Colonel Czartoriski that such an accident was so likely as to be almost inevitable, but as soon as his brain had regained its balance he perceived that the matter was not one to be left to chance. Unless the consequences of Cyril’s present diplomacy were pointedly brought to the notice of the pilgrims, he might pass unharmed from one end of Palestine to the other. It was clearly necessary that the destined avengers should be made properly acquainted with the state of affairs—and how should this be done unless Colonel Czartoriski made it his business? At first the old soldier shrank back appalled from the idea: it was too much like hounding men on to commit murder. But the thought of the Princess’s sorrows overcame his compunction once more, and he salved his conscience with a few curt platitudes to the effect that, since the law often failed to punish the greatest offenders, it was well to ensure that justice should be done at last. Thus satisfied that it lay with him to bring criminal and punishment together, he began to ask himself how the duty might best be performed.
It is not seldom a delicate task to put in motion the slowly revolving wheels of justice, and Colonel Czartoriski realised this as he sat smoking on the verandah of his Damascus hotel and laboured at the details of his plot. It was evident that he must not appear in connection with it, since the mention of his name would lead the world to infer the complicity of the Princess of Dardania; but he found it difficult to devise any means of inciting a crowd of unlettered fanatics to the requisite degree of hatred without communicating with them directly. After various fruitless attempts to solve the problem, he threw away his cigar and strolled out into the town, hoping that some chance sight or sound might give him the enlightenment he sought. He had scarcely left the shelter of the courtyard when the help he needed presented itself. Bumping and jolting over the alternate hillocks and hollows of the street came a carriage, in which sat a tall man with flowing black hair and beard. His dark robes, and the lofty head-dress which surmounted his stern features and piercing eyes, marked him as a bishop of the Orthodox Church. Two monks sat opposite him, so obviously in awe of his displeasure that even the discomforts of the drive evoked not the slightest murmur from either of them.
“The very man!” murmured Colonel Czartoriski. “How could I have forgotten that Bishop Philaret had gone on pilgrimage?”
The reverend travellers had only snatched a very brief rest at the Greek Convent, to which they were bound, when Colonel Czartoriski entreated the honour of an interview with the Bishop of Tatarjé. His request was granted at once, for the two men were old acquaintances. Bishop Philaret had brought the whole strength of the reactionary party in the Thracian Church to swell the forces of the Princess of Dardania when she had arranged the betrothal between her daughter and King Michael, which overthrew Cyril and restored M. Drakovics to office. In return for this signal service, it was commonly understood that when Archbishop Socrates, the Metropolitan of Thracia, should be gathered to his fathers, his successor in the see of Bellaviste would be the ambitious and able Bishop of Tatarjé. The recent events in Thracia had, of course, blurred this fair prospect, and the Bishop and Colonel Czartoriski met as fellow-sufferers by a common disaster.
“If either her Royal Highness or I myself had been in Thracia, this would not have happened,” said the Bishop, as his attendant monks brought coffee and sweet jelly for the refreshment of the visitor.
“It is a European misfortune,” observed Colonel Czartoriski gloomily.
“European? it is a misfortune to the whole Church—a thing to make one shudder!” cried the Bishop. “For many years I have looked forward to this pilgrimage, but I never ventured to leave Thracia until now. Everything seems safe—the King at Ludwigsbad under her Highness’s own eye—and I set out with a quiet mind. I spend two peaceful months in visiting our brethren in Armenia and Mesopotamia, and as soon as I am once more within reach of telegraphs and newspapers, what do I learn? Why, that the old dotard Mirkovics is Premier, and the Mortimer close upon his heels!”
In common with the other members of the reforming party in Thracia, Prince Mirkovics held that his own brother, Bishop Andreas of Karajevo, would be the most suitable successor to the present Metropolitan. Bishop Philaret did not mention this fact, but Colonel Czartoriski was acquainted with it.
“And it is perfectly certain that all might have been avoided if your Greatness had not been absent from Thracia!” he said regretfully. “Do you intend to return to your diocese immediately?”
“What is the use?” asked the Bishop snappishly. “The mischief is done, and I can’t undo it any more than your mistress can. I shall stay here until the great band of pilgrims from Scythia lands at Haifa, as I intended, and go up to Bethlehem with them for Christmas. After all, I may be more useful when I return to Thracia than if I had rushed to measure my strength against the new Ministry at once, and had failed.”
“Quite so,” returned Colonel Czartoriski, with anxious cordiality. “I am certain your Greatness will find it the best plan to remain quiescent until you see a chance to strike effectually. And, moreover, there are other reasons why I should congratulate you on having undertaken your pilgrimage this year. After a very few months Palestine will be closed to Christians.”
“Closed to Christians!” cried the Bishop incredulously.
“Has your Greatness not heard that the whole country has been sold to the Jews?”
“I heard that Count Mortimer—like a discarded servant who takes to brigandage—was trying to bring about something of the sort, but in passing through Vindobona on my way to the East I fell in with Prince Soudaroff, who assured me that everything was ready for the destruction of the scheme, and the political annihilation of the Mortimer.”
“Alas! events have not stood still while your Greatness was beyond the reach of telegraphs and newspapers. Count Mortimer is so far from being annihilated that he feels it quite safe to leave Thracian affairs in the hands of Prince Mirkovics, while he himself looks after his larger interests here. He has bribed the Grand Seignior to sell the country to him on behalf of the Jews, and next Easter he intends to be crowned in Jerusalem the first king of the Jewish State!”
The manifest improbability of this forecast did not strike Bishop Philaret. “And the Holy Places?” he ejaculated.
“I believe their inviolability is to be guaranteed by the Powers. But a paper guarantee!—your Greatness knows what that is, something that the Jews will tear up as soon as the Powers need money.”
“We will preach a holy war against Mortimer and his Jews!” cried the Bishop. “The Orthodox of Scythia and the Balkans will rise in their millions, and free the Holy Places for ever from the dogs.”
“But the conflict would be terrible, even if we were successful. Let your Greatness reflect a moment. The Jews can hire soldiers—Protestants, Moslems, Pagans even—and there will be plenty of Hebrews who have been forced to serve in the Scythian armies to lead them. And if Sigismund of Hercynia should be seized with an impulse to take their part——”
“I see, I see,” interrupted the Bishop hastily. “But is there no hope of sowing dissension among the Jews? If those of one country alone could be brought to detach themselves from this infamous alliance, its power would be broken. I would support—even propose—concessions, substantial concessions, for the Jews in Thracia, if they would consent to abandon Count Mortimer’s scheme.”
“It would be useless. By means of some extraordinary system of terrorism, the originators of the plan have contrived to force all the Jews in the world to enter into combination with them. I questioned Speyerl, the Princess’s Vindobona banker, on the subject as I came out here, but he would tell me nothing. I could see that his mouth watered at the thought of the profit he might make if he broke loose from his countrymen, but he assured me he durst not do it.”
“The thought of the next world has little terror for a Jew,” said the Bishop, with a laugh. “Count Mortimer has probably made use of very mundane threats.”
“As mundane as his own hopes,” agreed Colonel Czartoriski. “Has your Greatness guessed who is to share with him the throne he intends to establish in Jerusalem? No other than your late beloved and venerated regent, her Majesty Queen Ernestine!”
Bishop Philaret sprang to his feet, and an exclamation broke from him which in a layman would have been called an oath, but from his ecclesiastical lips was doubtless a solemn curse. If there was one person whom he hated more than Cyril, it was Queen Ernestine, who had refused him the Metropolitical mitre thirteen years before, preferring to dismiss M. Drakovics and risk a revolution rather than consent to his appointment. For some minutes he strode up and down the room, alternately muttering anathemas and gnawing his beard, then halted abruptly before Colonel Czartoriski.
“See here,” he said rapidly, “I will force my way into this convent at Brutli, and demand an interview with the Queen. She knows me of old—that I do not hesitate to strike—and I will make her understand that if she desires to see her lover again alive, he must give up both the Jews and his schemes of self-aggrandisement.”
“It is useless,” said Colonel Czartoriski again. “Her Majesty will not receive your Greatness. She refuses even to see me, although I am the bearer of a letter from my august mistress. There can be no doubt that Mortimer has warned her to receive only visitors accredited by himself. You would see no one but Mlle. Mirkovics, who will tell her mistress just as much or as little as she chooses.”
“Yes, the Mirkovics girl would face the devil and all his angels in the Queen’s behalf,” said the Bishop, not perceiving with what unpleasant company he was associating Colonel Czartoriski and himself; “but,” he spoke lightly, “if this is the case, my conscience is clear. I was merely desirous of warning her Majesty to keep her lover out of harm’s way. Curiously enough, it is a fact that the pilgrims with whom I hope to travel southwards from Haifa are extremely enthusiastic—even fanatical—in their attachment to our holy and orthodox faith.”
“True,” said Colonel Czartoriski, “and Count Mortimer is travelling northwards from the Egyptian frontier. It would be sad indeed if he met with any accident.”
“Nothing could be more lamentable,” agreed the Bishop. “In fact, I feel it my duty to take precautions lest anything of the kind should occur. The simple pilgrims may quite possibly have imbibed wrong ideas of his doings, and I will therefore make a point of explaining his true character to them. I need scarcely say that I shall warn them expressly and in set terms against using any violence if they should happen to find themselves in his neighbourhood.”
“The advice is only what might be expected from your Greatness,” said Colonel Czartoriski gravely. “It would be too cruel if all the care Count Mortimer has taken to divert suspicion from his intentions—approaching his goal by such a lengthy route and such gradual stages—were to be wasted.”
“And how sad it would be if Queen Ernestine were to see a dead body carried into her convent, instead of welcoming a living lover!” cried the Bishop, his teeth displayed in a smile that could only be called wolfish.
The two plotters at Damascus and the Princess of Dardania would have been equally surprised to learn that they had credited Cyril with a greater degree of caution than he possessed. No letter had passed from him to Queen Ernestine, and it was not with the idea of concealing his true destination that he approached Palestine from the south. Two motives, the existence of which was scarcely confessed even to himself, he allowed to sway him. One was the determination to do his duty to the utmost before gratifying his personal wishes, which sprang rather from pride in his own self-mastery than from any ascetic notion of self-denial, but the other was a dread lest his humiliation should after all be in vain. Ernestine might spurn him as he had once spurned her. Cyril did not care to contemplate this possibility, but the mere thought made him willing to defer the time when it might become a fact. Attended by his three inseparable followers, he pursued his journey without hurry, and also without undue delay, halting here and there to meet the heads of a Jewish community, and explain the significance of the new state of affairs. Encouragement was little needed at this juncture, except in the case of those Jews who had hitherto regarded the Zionist movement with suspicion or dislike. All the rest appeared to have taken a step forward—the step from bondage to freedom, from despair to hope—and many were already preparing their possessions for the journey to Palestine, awaiting only the summons to start.
At Vindobona Mansfield made the acquaintance of Dr Koepfle, to whom the Chevalier Goldberg was fond of alluding as the brain of Zionism. It struck him as quaintly curious that the man who had been chiefly instrumental in arousing an enthusiasm unprecedented in modern times should himself be enthusiastic purely as a matter of business. Business-like from head to foot was Dr Koepfle, intent on giving practical form to the dreams of many generations, and crystallising the vague maxims of scattered visionaries into a workable constitution. He was not ashamed to confess that it was the intolerant Anti-Semitism of his Christian fellow-subjects that had first suggested to him the possibility of a refuge over-seas for his race. Nay, his mind was so severely practical that he had been willing to look to the New World for a colonising ground when the difficulties in the way of obtaining land in Palestine seemed insuperable. In the same business-like spirit he accepted Cyril’s co-operation, displaying neither the empressement of the Chevalier nor the distrustfulness of Dr Texelius. Cyril, on his side, declared to Mansfield that it was the most refreshing thing on earth to come across a man who was content to accept facts as they were. Capable of meeting men of the world on equal terms, Dr Koepfle was able, on the occasion of conferring with his compatriots, to pump up as much serviceable enthusiasm as assisted him to lead them in the right way, without either chilling their zeal or allowing himself to be carried away by it. With the harshness of youth, Mansfield suggested that an enthusiasm which could be folded up and put away so conveniently might merely be assumed on particular occasions; but Cyril told him that he had failed to allow for the contagious influence of the emotion dominating a crowd.
At Trieste they fell in with a Zionist of a very different type, for here Rabbi Schaul had taken up his abode for a time, in order to bestow his blessing on the members of his flock now to be found on board every steamer leaving for Palestine. Sauntering down to the quay to look for their own vessel, Cyril and Mansfield found themselves accosted by a venerable white-bearded man in shabby robes of black, who raised his hands heavenwards and called down blessings in sonorous Hebrew on the head of the liberator of Israel, following up his words by bowing low enough to kiss the hem of Cyril’s coat. Then turning to the Jews who stood around, gazing in astonishment at the homage paid by their renowned teacher to a Gentile, he explained to them in Jargon that when the Temple was rebuilt, and Messiah reigned in Jerusalem, this stranger would undoubtedly be admitted to the royal table as a guest, not as a servant like other Gentiles, and allowed to feast on the flesh of Leviathan, since it was owing to him that the desolations of Zion were about to be repaired. Mansfield listened, deeply moved, although he understood only a word here and there. He treasured up the incident for Philippa, wishing she could have witnessed it for herself, for he knew that its pathos would have touched her keenly. As for Cyril, he freed himself good-humouredly from the old man, waving aside the throng of disciples who were prepared to follow his example, and called to Mansfield to come on board quickly.
“You know, Rabbi, that I don’t care to advertise myself,” he said.
“But how are we to refrain from showing our gratitude to your Excellency?” asked Rabbi Schaul. “Here are all these sons of Israel leaving the house of bondage for the promised land, and many are gone already. Many more are going in the spring, and I myself among them. How can I forget that, thanks to your Excellency, I shall in truth keep the Passover next year in Jerusalem?”
Cyril nodded pleasantly, and took refuge on board his steamer, where he expressed to Mansfield his satisfaction that Alexandria was their destination, and not Beyrout or Haifa, for which ports these fervid Zionists were bound.
In Egypt, indeed, there proved to be little that was fervid about the patriotism of the Jewish community. Its members were as business-like as Dr Koepfle, but with this difference—that they had their own interests in view, and not those of Zion. They treated the acquisition of Palestine purely as a matter of trade. Doubtless Count Mortimer had arranged with the Chevalier Goldberg to receive a due reward for his services, and, now that his work was over, he had nothing to do with the future of the country. It was the property of the United Nation Syndicate, and they would exploit it and make the most of its commercial capabilities for the benefit of the shareholders. It was a matter for grave discontent that the land was being colonised on such a large scale by the poor city-Jews of Europe, since the aim ought to have been to secure immigrants already accustomed to agricultural life, and not necessarily belonging to the Chosen Race. At present much time, and therefore money, was being wasted in teaching the new settlers and correcting their mistakes. Mansfield listened in sorrowful and wondering disgust while these prosperous people, themselves secure in their enjoyment of liberty and property under British rule, talked glibly of the Holy Land as an estate to be worked for their own advantage, without reference to the needs of their oppressed brethren. A scheme was even proposed, and largely discussed, for making the Holy Places more valuable from a pecuniary point of view, by means of judicious selection and rearrangement.
“It is so miserably mean and degraded!” Mansfield cried angrily to Cyril, who had rallied him on his sour looks. “These people have the romance of the ages behind them, and the fulfilment of the prophecies just ahead, and they think of nothing but cent per cent!”
“You have been disillusioned, and you speak severely,” said Cyril, with great sweetness. “I am thankful I never took the trouble to set up ideals, when I see how other people suffer in seeing theirs overthrown. But why don’t you blame the tyranny of centuries, which has reduced the Jews to this lamentable condition? You know the old excuse, that because the Jew has been allowed to deal with nothing but money, he has come to think that nothing but money exists.”
“But the Jew has allowed himself to be degraded.”
“Oh, come, I see disappointment has made you merciless. Perhaps you may be induced to modify the rigour of your judgments before long. I shall be interested to see what you think of Herschel Rubenssohn, the Ghetto poet, when we meet him in Palestine. He was the pet of London society a year ago, and now he is a bonâ fide colonist.”