When the small circle composed of the select of the court were at tea, the intendant announced it as his intention to celebrate the birthdays of those great minds who had contributed to the elevation of the drama, and said that he meant to begin with the approaching anniversary of Lessing's birth.

"What play will you give us?" inquired the queen.

"I should feel highly honored if Your Majesty would decide which it shall be."

"I?" asked the queen, looking toward the king, who was sitting opposite to her. Although apparently engaged with an illustrated newspaper, he must have felt that the queen's eye was upon him, for he looked up and said:

"Yes, please yourself."

"Then I should like 'Emilia Galotti.'"

All looked up, for this work, as well as Schiller's "Love and Intrigue," had, during the last reign, been placed on the list of forbidden plays.

A pause ensued. It was the king's turn to speak, and what would he say?

He remained silent. A moment later, he showed Schnabelsdorf, who was sitting near him, a portrait of a foreign scholar who had recently died, and asked whether it was a good likeness.

Schnabelsdorf replied affirmatively.

The king's voice seemed so harsh and strange that the queen felt greatly alarmed.

At that moment, Baum was about to hand a cup to the queen. She turned quickly, with a frightened look, just as if a cat had sprung upon her shoulders, and, while turning, struck against the proffered cup, which fell to the floor. If a bomb had suddenly burst, it could not have produced greater consternation. Baum picked up the fragments, and felt so terribly unhappy, that he would gladly have prostrated himself; but it would not do for him to speak or even ask pardon, for that would have been a still more heinous breach of discipline. The queen turned toward him and said:

"It was my fault, not yours."

She requested the ladies who had hurriedly left their seats, in order to satisfy their curiosity and rectify the damage that had been done, to be seated again. The lord steward beckoned Baum to approach, and whispered him to withdraw and leave the rest to the other servants.

It required all the queen's power of self-command to preserve the appearance of unconcern which etiquette demanded. Although her brain whirled with contending emotions, she sat erect and smiling, while her eyes followed the servant who was carrying away the broken fragments, just as if he were bearing with him something else which had been shattered forever.

Baum went out to the landing, and stood by the stair-rail. He felt as if stunned, and was so ashamed of himself that he would gladly have hurled himself down to the floor below. Such a thing had never happened to him before. It would disgrace him for life, and, although the queen had taken the blame upon herself, he would have to suffer for it all the same. He looked at the fragments of the cup, and only wished that he, too, had been dashed into pieces.

Order was speedily restored. Schnabelsdorf, who, in the new ministry, held the position of foreign secretary and temporarily conducted the department of education, proved himself a friend in need. With consummate tact, he succeeded in engaging the company with subjects that interested them, and thus restored their good-humor. Taking the play of "Emilia Galotti," as an instance, he said that the names which poets had assigned to their dramatis personÆ would furnish the subject of interesting investigations, or rather hypotheses. It was his opinion that in naming his intriguant Marinelli, Lessing had intended an allusion to Machiavelli, to whose character the last century had not been able to do justice. The vowels were the same in both names; and the name of Orsina reminded one of a dagger leaping from its sheath. The full round O followed by the sharp I. He continued in this vein, and afforded much interesting information in regard to the names of poetic characters. Lessing had acted wisely, substituting for the name of Melchisedek--Boccaccio's Jew--that of Nathan, for the very name reminds one of an all-embracing garment. How appropriate are the names which Goethe has given his female characters--Gretchen, ClÄrchen, Dorothea, Natalie. Even Schiller had frequently been happy in his choice of names, as, for instance, Franz Mohr--Posa--how sonorous are the O and the A.

Schnabelsdorf's conversation was both fluent and pleasing. How fortunate it is to be so well informed, and to be able to impart one's knowledge to others, without troubling one's-self about moods, broken cups, or ill-humored people looking at illustrated papers.

As no one seemed inclined to assist Schnabelsdorf, he was obliged to monopolize the conversation. At last Irma took pity on him and carelessly remarked how strange it was that no proper names were invented in our day, and that all we could do was to borrow, combine, or abbreviate those which already existed.

This suggested various unsuccessful, but mirth-provoking, attempts to invent new names.

The intendant told them of a peasant whom he knew and who had named the first of his daughters Prima, the second Secunda, the third Tertia, and so on.

The king scarcely ever looked up from the illustrated papers that lay before him, but the queen was affable and kindly toward all who took part in the conversation. She felt grateful to every one who spoke, for something had happened to her which she had really not desired. She was, even now, as ignorant of the false construction which might be put upon her motive in selecting "Emilia Galotti," as she was of having intended to break the cup. It was evident that the king's mind was agitated, for he frequently passed his hand over his brows as if to smooth them, and it was his wont to indulge in this movement whenever he felt it necessary to repress his excitement. His first thought had been: Is she really ignorant that the play has, for many years, been a forbidden one? Perhaps she is, for those who measure life by their own feelings have no sense for historic data. But suddenly a thought occurred to him--and he again stroked his eyebrows--it is an intrigue, and she is capable of it. She means to lay a trap Á la Hamlet, in order to see what effect the play will have upon us. But no, thought he to himself, in that case, she would be obliged to surprise us, and that's not her way. But anger and violence and a rebuking conscience struggled within him. His persistent devotion to the illustrated journals made it seem as if, while in the midst of the company, he had withdrawn into a private box. The king had never before, while in his private circle, read so uninterruptedly. It had been his wont to look now at this, and now at another picture, and to hand it to others for notice or comparison. But, on this evening, he read and yet knew not what he read. He would gladly have caught Irma's eye, and felt happy when he heard her expressing herself so unconstrainedly. He admired her, and would gladly have looked round to her, but dared not even smile approval of her words. He had left Schnabeldorf's remarks unanswered, and must, therefore, seem not to have heard Irma's.

The queen arose. All stood up with a sense of relief, for every one had felt opposed, although the evening had proven a cheerful one. Before withdrawing, the queen made Schnabelsdorf happy by telling him how grateful they ought to feel toward him, since he was always able to introduce such charming subjects of conversation. Then, addressing the intendant, she said in a voice louder than was her wont:

"If it is any trouble to study 'Emilia Galotti'--"

"Oh, no, Your Majesty."

"I mean if the time's too short."

"There's ample time," replied the intendant. He had already determined how he would cast the play, and intended to try the novel experiment of using the costume of the last century.

"I think," said the queen, while her voice assumed an expression which was foreign to it, "that you might give us 'Nathan the Wise' or 'Minna von Barnhelm,' if you think they can be produced more effectively."

"Let it be as it is," exclaimed the king, suddenly. "Let 'Emilia Galotti' be the play, and have the bills read: 'By royal command.'"

The king offered his arm to the queen, and, accompanied by her, withdrew. The rest of the company bowed low and soon afterward separated for the night. Those who lived without the palace got into their carriages; the rest retired to their apartments, and, although indifferent and unimportant topics had but recently engaged them, every one was busied with his own thoughts on one and the same subject.

Irma dismissed her maid as soon as possible; then, taking up a dust-covered volume of Lessing, she opened and closed the book several times in order to shake off the dust, and, at one sitting, read the whole of "Emilia Galotti."

She did not fall asleep until near morning, and, when she awoke, hardly knew where she was. The open book still lay before her; the lights had gone out of themselves, for she had forgotten to put them out, and the air in her apartment was close and almost stifling.

At about the same time that Irma awoke, bitter tears were being shed in the theater. The intendant had assigned "Emilia Galotti" to a new cast, had taken the rÔle of Emilia from the leading actress, who had looked upon the part as hers in perpetuity, and had given it to a more youthful performer. The rÔle of Claudia had been assigned to the elder actress, who sat weeping behind a side-scene, exclaiming; "Pearls mean tears, but tears do not mean pearls." The intendant, though generally kind and amiable, was unrelenting.

But Baum was far more unhappy than the dissatisfied actress. For she was still permitted to take part in the performance, while he, on account of the mishap with the cup, was no longer allowed to remain near their majesties. He deplored his misfortune to Walpurga, and she begged the queen that Baum might again be restored to favor. On the second evening, the queen inquired if the lackey Baum was ill. He was saved. Full of gratitude, he went to Walpurga and said:

"I'll never forget you for this: you've served me for life."

"I'm glad I've been able, for once, to do you a favor."

"I'll repay you some time or other, depend upon it."

Baum hurriedly withdrew, for Irma entered the room. The king came in soon afterward. He was about to speak French with Irma, but she begged him not to do so, saying:

"Simplicity is very susceptible."

"And so-called good-nature," replied the king, "is often full of malice and intrigue. Weakness all at once fancies itself obliged to be very strong."

"We must be gentle for all that," replied Irma. Although they had spoken German before Walpurga, she had not understood a word of what they said.

"I admire the power of my spy," said the king, "and confess that I bow to her, in all humility. I would never have believed such greatness possible."

Irma nodded gently, and replied: "The hero is Hettore Gonzaga, but the true Emilia Galotti loves him with a power which is worthy of him."

"And the true Hettore is neither dilettante nor weakling, and needs no Marinelli."

The relation born of shame and passion received added strength through the cunning and intriguing opposition of the queen, for the choice of the proscribed play was regarded as part of a well-considered plan. It was like a breath of wind, which, instead of extinguishing the flame, fans it. Deep within their hearts, lurked the self-extenuating plea that the queen was not the pure angel she pretended to be.

"I am firmly convinced," said the king, "that Hippocrates conjured the fatal crystal cup into Nausikaa's hand."

"No, Your Majesty," replied Irma, eagerly, "Hippocrates is a thoroughly noble man; somewhat of a pedant, indeed, but too good and too wise to do anything like that."

The king soon left and, after he had gone, Walpurga said:

"Now, Countess, you might open every vein in my body and I couldn't repeat one word of what you've been saying. I don't understand a word of it."

"Yes, Walpurga," said Irma, "the king's a very learned man, and we have just been talking about a book which was read yesterday."

Walpurga was satisfied.

"I had expected to meet the queen here," said Irma, after a while, passing her hand over her face, as if to change its expression.

"The queen isn't coming to-day," replied Walpurga. "She sent word that she isn't very well. At other times, she never misses being here when we bathe the child, and there's nothing more beautiful either, than such a child in its bath, or right after the bath. It's like a newborn babe, and splashes and shouts and crows. Won't you stop and see it for once? It's a real treat."

Irma declined and soon afterward left the room. Silent and alone, the queen lay in her room. Her heart still trembled with fear of the consequences of what she had done; no, of what had happened without her having really desired it. A dagger had been forced into her hand, as if by invisible fate. She could not, dared not use it; and yet suspicion filled her soul. Suspicion! The word suddenly seemed as if she had never heard it before, just as she had in truth never felt what it meant. Purity and innocence no longer exist. Every joyful word, every cheerful expression, every smile is equivocal. Every harmless remark has a new meaning. It were better to die than cherish suspicion. The blessed gift of fancy which enables its possessor faithfully to realize to himself, and sympathize with, the actions and thoughts of others, now became a consuming flame. Specters appeared before her waking eyes and would not be laid. If the dread truth were only determined. One can take his position against a manifest wrong, but against suspicion there is none. It renders one weak and unsteady; nothing is fixed; the very earth under one's feet seems to tremble.

The queen was not ill. She could easily enough have gone to the apartments of her son; but she could not have looked into his face and smiled--for her heart was filled with a bitter thought against the father.

She arose quickly, and was about to send for the king. She would tell him all. She wished him to release her from the torment of suspicion. She would believe him. She would only ask him honestly to acknowledge whether he was still true and at one with her. "At heart he's frank and truthful," said she to herself, and love for her husband welled up from the depths of her heart. Still, if he but swerved from himself, he has already been untrue: and would he acknowledge it? Can one expect a man to answer on his conscience, when he has already denied that conscience? And if he were to acknowledge the horrible fact, she would still bear it in silence. Anything was better than this suspicion that poisoned her heart and hardened her soul. Could it be that evil, nay, the mere suspicion of evil, destroys everything that lies within its reach?

She sat down again; she could not ask the king.

"Be it so," said she at last; "I must overcome this temptation, and the spirit of truth will lend me strength."

She thought for a moment of making Gunther her confidant. He was her fatherly friend. "But no," she exclaimed to herself, "I am not weak. I will not seek help from others. If I must learn the terrible truth, I will do it by myself; and if it is a delusion, I mean to conquer it unaided."

At table and in the social circle, the queen's behavior toward the king and Irma was more loving than ever. When she looked at her friend, she felt as if she ought to ask forgiveness for having, even for a moment, thought basely of her; but when she was alone she felt her soul carried away toward him and her. She longed to know what they were thinking of, what they were doing or saying.--They were speaking of her, smiling at and ridiculing her. Who knows? perhaps wishing her dead.

She, indeed, wished that she were dead.