Henry and his travels

Contents

CHAPTER page

I. A Little Merchant ... i

II. Memories.20

II

W HEN Henry came home from school the day after his expedition to Kahlenberg his mother perceived that there was something that worried him and she imme¬ diately concluded that it was the excursion to Denmark.

“What troubles you, Henry?” she asked.

“We are going on a trip with Mr. Miinther to-morrow to the Capuchin Church and to the Hofburg. We are to meet at eight o’clock. I am so glad, mother. I have never seen the im¬ perial tombs.” \

Of all his studies Henry was most interested in the history of Austria. His father had been an officer and a warm friendship had existed between him and the murdered crown prince, Franz Ferdi¬ nand, a friendship that had started at the officers’ school and had continued until the assassination in Serajevo of the crown prince and his wife.

Henry’s words reminded his mother of the happy time when her husband was alive and they had friends. They were not rich, indeed, almost poor; but it was a happy time. They had loved each other, their child, their home, and they had hoped that their good fortune would continue. The friendship of the crown prince and his wife had been a source of great joy to them; but this joy had had an abrupt ending, which augured the shipwreck of their own happiness.

Henry had eaten dinner at the American chil¬ dren’s commission, which had one of its numerous stations in Hohenbergstrasse and for the moment he had only one desire—to get his mother to tell something about the time of the empire. But he knew that this wish was not easily fulfilled. His mother did not like to talk about that time. How¬ ever, he would try.

“Mother, I wish you would tell me a little about the heir apparent. Archduke Franz Fer¬ dinand. I can remember him and his wife and their children. Sophie was the oldest, then came Ernst, but there was another boy. What was his name?”

Mrs. Selmer drew her hand over her forehead and her face twitched with sorrow. But she forced herself to smile and said:

“He was named Max. But why shall I tell you? You are old enough to understand that it pains me to talk about those days.”

“Yes, mother, but Mr. Munther told us to-day about the Emperor Franz Joseph and the heir apparent. He said that Austria would not have suffered so much if the heir apparent had lived and had become emperor instead of the Emperor Carl. Do you believe that?”

“I do not know,” Mrs. Selmer said, “but I know that the Archduke was a good man and your father’s best friend. And I know that your father was beside himself when he heard about the mur¬ der in Serajevo. But come and I will tell you the story. But you must promise me to take a walk when I have finished.”

Mrs. Selmer sat on the edge of the bed and began to relate as follows:

“The friendship between your father and the heir apparent began long before I met your father. It was at the officers’ school and at that time the Archduke was not yet heir apparent. He was chosen soon after the death of the Crown Prince Rudolph.

“The heir apparent was a reserved man. He had had an unhappy childhood and he never got over its effects. He once took your father into his confidence and asked him to be his friend. He said that he had never had a friend but that He must find one or else his gloomy thoughts would get the better of him. Their friendship lasted until it was ended by death. When the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was appointed heir apparent your father wished to withdraw from his relation of friendship with the future emperor, but the archduke would not permit it. He declared that he had more use for a friend then than ever before. The relation, therefore, remained un¬ changed and your father became the heir appar¬ ent’s adjutant, a position that gave him much joy and aroused much envy in others.

“In a matter that was all-important for the heir apparent your father advised and supported him with all his might. It cost him his position as adjutant, but your father has told me that if he had been reduced to the ranks he would have given the same advice.

“As you know, a member of the imperial family may not marry beneath his station, least of all a future emperor. Therefore, people were troubled when they learned that the heir apparent had fallen in love with a court lady, Sophie von Chotek who, although she was of noble birth, was not a princess. The heir apparent went to the emperor and confessed to him and asked his permission to marry. But the emperor flew into a rage and commanded the heir apparent to go abroad and stay there until he had recovered from his madness.

“When the heir apparent went abroad he was accompanied by your father as his secretary. The heir apparent knew that Sophie Chotek’s mail was examined, so he did not dare to send her letters through the post office. But he could not give up his correspondence with her, so your father went back and forth with their messages. He had to disguise himself every time he crossed the frontier, but he said that the thought of the joy with which he was received by them made the journey short and the difficulties slight.

“The heir apparent’s journey abroad lasted a year. When he returned and again demanded the right to marry the woman he loved, the emperor yielded. But a short time afterward your father was appointed on the general staff and the heir apparent was told to choose another adjutant. In some way the emperor had learned that your father had been the archduke’s right-hand man. The archduke tried to prevent the transfer, but the emperor was immovable. It was at that time that I met your father.

“You have had a father to be proud of—good, brave, faithful and free from boasting. He told me nothing about his friendship with the archduke and Sophie von Hohenberg, as the archduke’s wife was now called until one day he came and said:

“ ‘You must go with me to Konopischt. Will you be ready to-morrow at eight?’

“I knew that Konopischt was a palace that be¬ longed to the archduke and that it was in Bohemia, but I could not understand why your father had so suddenly decided to go there. I must have shown my surprise, for your father smiled and gave me a card. On reading it I was no less surprised, for it read as follows:

*We have for a long time been expecting to see you and your future wife here at Kanopischt, Come this week! This is a command.

Sophie and Franz Ferdinand."'

“I did not know what to think and asked your father for an explanation when I first learned of his friendship with the archduke. I remember that I did not look forward to that visit with pleasure; it seemed to me too distinguished an acquaintance. But your father comforted me with the assurance that I would soon change my mind. The archduke was a reserved man, but genial and faithful to his friends, and Sophie von Hohenberg was sincere and natural, a wife who lived and breathed for her husband.

“Finally I allowed myself to be persuaded. We spent three days at the wonderful Kanopischt, days that I shall never forget. I remember what the archduke said to me when I was presented and he saw my embarrassment: ‘I am your future husband’s friend, nothing else. Regard my wife and me as your friends—and forget the high¬ nesses.’ And these were not mere words. They both loved your father and they could not do enough for us. We walked in the beautiful park, we drove up into the mountains and spent the evenings in the archduke’s study. All court eti¬ quette was forgotten. ‘We will be human beings,’ the archduke said, ‘without regard to what the Hofburg may think.’

“Later, after your father and I were married, we often received an invitation to Belvedere, where the archduke and his wife spent a part of every year, or a card came announcing that they would visit us. Many were scandalized that the archduke should visit us and that we should be en¬ tertained at his palaces. They thought that there were enough noble officers for the archduke to interest himself in, instead of a poor officer of the middle class. But the archduke was faithful in his friendship, as was also Sophie von Hohenberg.

“Then came the frightful day when the arch¬ duke and his wife were murdered in Serajevo. One of your father’s fellow-officers brought us the news and your father was completely overcome. I wept, but your father could not weep. He was almost paralyzed with grief. ‘I must go out to the children,’ he groaned again and again. ‘They are at Kanopischt. The little Sophie cannot bear it, she is so delicate.’

“I tried in vain to restrain him. He drove in an automobile to Kanopischt, but when he arrived the children had been taken to the Hofburg. He then drove to Serajevo where he arrived in time to accompany the bodies to Vienna. That was a consolation.

“When the funeral took place in the chapel at the Hofburg, your father was one of the guard of honor by the coffin of the archduke. He never learned who had granted him this last dear ser¬ vice to his friend, but some thought that it was the emperor himself.”

Mrs. Selmer was silent and stared before her but Henry drew a deep breath and said:

“Mother, I remember the archduke and Sophie Hohenberg. She was always so kind and von friendly and so was the archduke. I especially remember the daughter Sophie. She kissed me once when I fell and hurt myself. That must have been at Belvedere. I remember another time at Belvedere. Little Sophie, Ernst, and I were alone in the nursery, playing, when the em¬ peror came in. Sophie made a low curtsey and Ernst bowed but for the moment I could not think which I ought to do. So I stood straight and the emperor smiled and asked me my name and who my father was. But I had forgotten everything and could not answer and then the emperor laughed and asked if I was afraid of him.”

Mrs. Selmer did not hear what Henry was saying. Her thoughts were far away. Her eyes were staring, her face had stiffened, the only sign of life was a slight quivering of the mouth. Henry looked at his mother and started. He could not bear to see his mother’s grief. He leaned toward her, placed his hand over hers, and cried:

“Mother!”

The terror in Henry’s voice recalled his mother to consciousness. She sighed, relaxed, and turning to him, said:

“What is the matter, my boy? I was away for a little while with your father, up in the mountain where the eternal snow lies. It helps me to go there once in a while in my thoughts. But you cannot understand that. We have so much that is hard to bear, Henry. What do you want?”

“I only want to say that you must not be sad. I shall soon be grown up and I shall work so that we can buy some pretty furniture again and get enough food. I shall always stay with you, so that you will not be alone.”

“That is a good boy. But now go and leave me alone. You promised me to do that. When you return I shall be in a good humor again.”

When Henry had left the house he considered where he should go—to the Meidlinger railroad station or to Schonbrunn Palace. It was not easy to make a choice. The station was no longer used and the broad space with the many tracks and old discarded locomotives was a fine play¬ ground for the boys of the neighborhood. But his mother’s story made Schonbrunn appear more attractive than usual. The emperor had lived there and there the archduke and Sophie von Hohenberg had taken part in many entertain¬ ments. The choice finally fell on Schonbrunn.

At the end of Hohenbergstrasse there is an en¬ trance to the palace park which was open to the public. Henry walked through the park to the great hall from the roof of which there is a won¬ derful view over the whole of Vienna and out towards the mountains surrounding it. Henry stopped and gazed at the roof. He wished that he might go up but it cost money; everything cost money.

“Do youv wish to go up on the roof?” asked an elderly man, in a shiny, black suit and a uniform cap.

Henry shook his head and said in explanation:

“I would like to but I have no money.”

“No,” said the old man, shaking his head, “we have no more money in Austria. The War took it all. You are young. Perhaps you will see a new, splendid sunrise; but I am old. For me there is nothing but eternal night. How have we sinned that our punishment should be so severe r

Henry could not answer but he looked at the old man and saw in his face the same grief, despair and hopelessness that he had seen in his mother’s. And the old man stood and nodded his head as if there were many truths to be confirmed.

“See, my boy. I served in the palace down there for forty years. I was a valet and the old emperor often talked with me when no one was looking. Now the palace is only a museum. We have no emperor, all the servants have gone, only inquisitive people come to gaze and to rejoice that the old times have passed. They took pity on me and made me an inspector here in the park.”

“Did you know the heir apparent and his wife, Sophie von Hohenberg?”

“I have often seen them,” the old man said, “and I have talked with Sophie von Hohenberg. Her highness was always so kind. She was an angel and her children were lovely. Even the emperor finally grew fond of her. I once saw them walking where we are standing now and the emperor suddenly stopped and kissed Sophie von Hohenberg on the forehead.”

“I knew the heir apparent and Sophie von Hohenberg,” Henry said, “I visited them at Belvedere.”

The old man looked astonished. His tired eyes examined Henry, but he found too many patches on his clothes.

“You must be lying,” he said, striking the ground with his cane.

“No, I am not,” Henry assured him eagerly, “I have been at Belvedere several times. And they visited us, too.”

“Who is your father?” the old man asked.

“Father was a major but he fell in the War. His name was Selmer.”

“Selmer, Selmer I” The old man’s face cleared. “Then I have seen your father. You are speaking the truth, my boy. He was the heir apparent’s friend. He carried letters between him and Sophie Chotek. The emperor was angry with your father for a time, but when the heir apparent died the emperor wished to have your father stand guard at the bier. I know it.”

The old man took Henry’s head between his hands and tears poured down his cheeks.

“Major Selmer’s son,” he groaned, “and in patched clothes. There are many of us that have burdens to bear. Perhaps we shall be able to bear the burden until we are free and it is bright again. . . .”

The old man asked Henry where he lived and Henry told him all about his home which had grown poorer and poorer. He told also about his disappointed hope, the trip to Denmark of which he had heard so much.

“I have a grandson who is in Denmark,” the old man said. “According to his letters, Denmark must be a wonderful country. It is too bad you cannot go there. But there are so many that it is not easy.”

The old man stood and gazed ahead of him and then said:

“Have you been at the Hofburg?”

“No, but mother has been there twice.”

“Did she say that you were Major Selmer’s son?”

“I do not know,” Henry said. “But would that help?”

“Perhaps. There are still men in Austria faith¬ ful to the memory of the emperor. If they learn that you are Major Selmer’s son I am sure you will go. ... You must go there. We will go together. I will speak in your favor. Of course Major Selmer’s son must go to Denmark. When can you go? To-morrow at eleven?”

“Yes, if mother will let me go.” Henry’s face beamed with joy at the prospect that his dream would be realized.

“We will go to see your mother,” the old man said, looking at his watch. “I must learn where she lives. After you are gone I will visit her. I have still a little left from the old times and as long as I have something Major Selmer’s wife shall not starve.”

Henry looked at the old man and thought to himself that he had never seen so kind a face. Then he seized his hand and said:

“Why are you so good to mother and me? You do not know us and you did not even know father.”

“I have seen your father,” the old man said, “and he was a handsome man. He was the friend of the heir apparent and Sophie von Hohenberg, and therefore I honor his memory.”

It was a memorable evening for all three and it made them forget for a while the last wretched years. The old inspector and Mrs. Selmer talked and Henry listened. When the inspector finally took leave, it was determined that he and Henry should meet at one of the entrances to the palace the following morning at eleven.

“You will see that you go to Denmark,” the old man said, as he started down the stairs.

“I believe so, too,” Henry answered.

But his mother kissed his forehead.

“My boy so far away in a strange land,” she said. “It is hard to imagine. But I shall be happy. You need good food, you are so pale and thin.”

The old inspector called out good-by again. They replied and went in. Two chairs, a little table, a bed and a wardrobe—that was all that was left of a pretty home. No curtains at the windows, no bedspread, no tablecloth. Povertyshowed everywhere.

“Mother, don’t you think that some time we shall be able to buy back some of the old furni¬ ture, father’s divan, for example?”

“I hope so,” Mrs. Selmer said, with a sigh, “but you must go to bed, Henry. It is late.”

Ill

AT THE HOFBURG

W ITHOUT much difficulty Henry found the entrance, and he was soon joined by Mr. Gutmeister.

“Are you here?” Mr. Gutmeister said. “You have your recommendation from school?”

Henry gave it to him and they went up to the office. It was crowded with children and grown people and the officials had their hands full. Henry looked around for the gentleman without a beard. There he sat at a table. He had no beard.

Henry pulled the inspector’s coat and said: “There is the gentleman without a beard. Will you speak to him?”

The old inspector went up to the desk, saluted and presented his business. Henry stood by his side with beating heart. But the answer was not very reassuring:

“We will put his name on the list; but it will be a long time before he gets away, perhaps never.”

AT THE HOFBURG

“He is a son of Major Selmer, Henry Selmer. His father gave his life for his country and now his mother is so poor. It seems to me that he has a special claim.”

The gentleman at the desk leaned forward and took Henry’s hand and spoke to him:

“So you are Henry Selmer’s son! You shall go to Denmark on the first train, in a week.” He held his hand before his eyes a moment while Henry glowed with happiness. “Your father was my comrade,” the gentleman said. “Before the War I knew him only slightly but we joined the same regiment and he fell by my side. He was a good man and a brave soldier. Be like him. Of course you shall go to Denmark. I shall arrange it all. Now you must get a medical certificate and send it here.”

Henry and the old inspector thanked him but the gentleman at the desk shook old Gutmeister’s hand and said:

“No, I must thank you because you looked after Henry Selmer’s son. You have done me a service and I thank you.”

The inspector and Henry left the room and the latter was in such a hurry to carry the news home that his old friend could hardly keep up with him.

‘‘Wait a moment,” the old inspector cried, “I want to go home with you and speak with your mother. Perhaps I can help her in some way.”

During the following days Mrs. Selmer smiled and appeared happy while Henry was present, but when he was away she often struggled hard to keep back her tears and not always successfully. She rejoiced at his good fortune, but it was hard to think of his going away to a strange land— leaving her alone. She would not see him for several months and they had never been separated before for a single day. It pained her, too, to have to send him away like a poor boy, with patched clothes, old shoes, and almost entirely without underclothes. But it was necessary. She realized more clearly than ever before how poor they were. She was free from worry only when she slept, and many nights she could not sleep.

A few days before the departure Joseph Gutmeister and his wife called with a package for Henry. It contained a pair of stockings, a pair of trousers, and a cap.

“A suit was too expensive,” the old inspector said, apologetically, “so we bought the stockings and the cap instead. That makes two pieces instead of one.”

“How could you think of such a thing!” Mrs.

AT THE HOFBURG

Selmer said, her voice choked with tears. “It is too much. I can never repay you.”

“Don’t say anything about it!” Joseph Gutmeister said. “They did not cost much. We are alone, mother and I, and we have clothes enough from before the War.”

They spent a pleasant evening together. The food was Spartan, consisting of black bread and tea, but a quiet joy pervaded the bare room. Two found joy in giving, two, in receiving.

“Good-by and many, many thanks,” Mrs. Sel¬ mer said. “May God reward you for all your love.”

“Farewell and thanks for receiving us. We are only plain folk, but we had our bright days when you had yours and we know and share your grief,” the old inspector said, drawing his hand across his eyes. “In a few years I shall be no more; my time is past. God grant that the young people may do more than the old ones I We must do everything for our young people; on them rest the tasks that we neglected or failed to perform.”

Mrs. Gutmeister took Mrs. Selmer’s hand and whispered:

“You have a fine boy. Rejoice that he is going to Denmark where he can gain strength to withstand the winter.”

After their guests had left Mrs. Selmer said to Henry:

“Nobody is so poor as to be without friends, and we have ours. Do not forget to thank God and never forget those who are kind to you.”

And Henry nodded his head. He, too, felt that he had much to be thankful for.

IV A Danish Home

T he owner of Kjaerholm, Henrik Lund, and his wife sat in the twilight, she with her knitting, he with his pipe. He had been talking about the day’s work and what should be done on the morrow and she had listened, rejoicing over the energy that echoed in his speech. Then they had discussed their only child and their words were troubled. Carl was not strong. He had suffered many ailments, and they had con¬ sumed his strength and courage. Just now he was not ill, but his cheeks were pale and he complained all the time of feeling tired. He was far from being the robust boy they would have wished him to be.

“Do you know, mother,” Henrik Lund finally said, “I believe he ought to have a companion to play around with. He is all the time with women and that is not the way for a twelve-year-old boy to live. You spoil him with your care. And you are not the worst one, either. Maren is quite impossible, the old pepper pot! She would be delighted to carry him around all day and would like to rock him to sleep every night. Yesterday when you were at the smith’s I happened to go out into the kitchen and found Carl with one leg in a tub of warm water and Maren on her knees before him, taking off his other stocking. I asked them what they were doing and Maren explained that Carl had got his feet wet and that they must be warmed before he put on dry stockings. Then I imprudently asked if he was so weak that he could not take off his own stockings. But I was driven out with blessings that were sincere and powerful. I understood only cattle, not children. I was heartless, a monster, that did not love my own child. I did not hear any more for I ran away.”

Mr. Lund laughed heartily at the thought of Maren’s righteous wrath and his wife joined him. She knew that Maren did not mean anything with her angry words.

“Maren is all right,” she said, “she has fussed over Carl since he was a baby and she loves him more than anybody else in the world. She is as good as gold and a splendid servant. But you know that just as well as I do and would not let her go for anything. I have worried too that

A DANISH HOME

Carl is without companions of his own age, for ever since Neils Frederick moved away, he has not had a single friend.”

“I have an idea,” Lund said. “We hear a lot about those starving boys in Vienna. Why not take one of about Carl’s age? We have plenty of room and food and Carl would have a comrade whom he needs.”

“But we cannot talk with a foreign boy,” Mrs. Lund said, dropping her knitting in her lap.

“Not at first but we can make signs and every¬ body understands the sign language. It won’t be long before a youngster learns to speak Danish when he does not hear any German. Let us decide to take one of these boys for Carl’s sake and one that is not too quiet. I would like to see Carl come home with a torn coat or trousers.”

Mrs. Lund smiled at her husband’s eagerness. “You express yourself rather forcibly but fortu¬ nately I know you so well that I understand what you mean. You wish Carl to develop into a real man and you don’t think the prospects are very good at present. Perhaps you are right. We can at least try what a little boy from Vienna can do.”

“Then I shall telephone to Consul Bessermann,” Mr. Lund said. “He is in charge and meets the children at the border. I will ask him to send a regular little rascal who can turn Kjaerholm upside down. He must be able to find a boy like that in such a crowd.”

“Be careful!” Mrs. Lund laughed. “I remem¬ ber how you were as a boy, full of tricks from morning till night. Do you think I should be happy if Carl grew to be like that? I am not so sure. Your parents were not always delighted with you.”

“Maybe not,” Henrik Lund admitted, “but I don’t believe that they often had cause to be ashamed of me. There was no malice in my monkeyshines. I really wish Carl to be shaken up. He needs to have his lungs filled with fresh air. A boy should be a boy and not a sissy.”

Mr. Lund was interrupted by Maren who came shuffling in with the evening coffee and he told her about the expected visitor.

“Next Saturday a boy is coming here for the vacation for Carl to tumble about with.”

Maren put down the tray and assumed her favorite position with her hands at her sides and her head slightly turned.

“Where is he coming from?” she asked.

“From Vienna, I believe.”

“Where is Vienna? It isn’t here in Jutland, is it?” Maren asked cautiously.

A DANISH HOME

“No, it is in Austria,’’ Mr. Lund informed her.

“Oh! the dear child, it must be way down South,” Maren exclaimed, clasping her hands. “How did you hear about him?” she asked sus¬ piciously for Mr. Lund sometimes teased her and she was always ready for him.

“I don’t know anything about him.”

Maren was astonished. Then Mr. Lund ex¬ plained to her how the children there needed help in order not to succumb to hunger. But these explanations did not improve Maren’s temper. The country and its distress were too distant for her to grasp.