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146 pages

English

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Set in the imaginary country of Pannonia, Guy Newell Boothby's compelling novel Long Live the King gives readers a front-row seat to the tempestuous lives of royals. From life-or-death battlefield decisions that must be made in seconds flat with thousands of soldiers hanging in the balance, to tense political negotiations in which every word and facial expression matters, and of course, the triumphs and trials of royal romance, this sweeping novel is sure to ensnare every reader's interest and attention.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776596157
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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LONG LIVE THE KING
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GUY NEWELL BOOTHBY

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Long Live the King First published in 1900 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-615-7 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-616-4 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII
Chapter I
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How strange it seems, after this long lapse of time, to look back uponthose days, and after all that has come between. When I think of thechild whose curious fancies, strange whims, and still stranger life, Iam about to portray, I find myself inclining towards what is certainly afeeling of bewilderment, and one that might almost be said to be akin tophysical pain. That the little fellow I see in my mind's eye, playing sohappily on the far side of that River of Years, can be myself , the mansitting in this chair, who, pen in hand, is trying so hard to arrangehis thoughts, is to me scarcely believable. Between the two there loomsso vast a difference, that it would appear as if no possible connectinglink could serve to unite them with each other. Whether I am better orworse for the change must be left for more competent judges to declare.
Looking back, I can scarcely determine which is the first event in mylife that I can recall. I have always declared that I have the veryfaintest recollection of being held up by my mother at a window to seemy father present some new colours to his favourite regiment of Guardsin the square below. But if, as they say, that occurrence happenedexactly five-and-twenty years ago, and the records of the Regiment arethere to prove it, my memory must be a more than ordinarily good one,seeing that, at the time, I could not have been more than three years ofage. Imperfect though that recollection may be, however, it is quitecertain that I can distinctly recall the day, two years later, when mybrother, the Crown Prince Maximilian, being then a big boy of nine, ledhis regiment past my father on parade for the first time. I can alsoremember crying bitterly, because I was not permitted to accompany him,which eagerness on my part, so I have been informed since, was taken bymy mother's Ladies-in-Waiting to be a sign that a great military careerawaited me. That I have never so far justified either their hopes ortheir good opinion of me must be set down by the charitably-minded asthe result of a lack of opportunity. In a sense, however, I must confessit has proved almost true, but how it came about will be told in itsproper place. In the meantime, having a long story to tell, and not muchspace to tell it in, it is necessary that I should return to my earliestrecollections with as much speed as possible.
To enter upon my story proper, it is only fit that I should commencewith a brief description of the life of my poor father. Maximilian theSecond, King of Pannonia, as all the world is aware, was a monarchforedoomed to trouble from his cradle. His succession to the throne wasthe result of an accident. But for a fatal shot, fired in the excitementof a wolf hunt, and which stretched the heir lifeless upon the snow, hewould in all human probability never have been called upon to undertakethe responsibilities for which he was, not only by nature, but also byinclination, so totally unfitted. A scholar of the finest type,essentially a recluse, more at his ease in his library than in theCouncil Chamber, happier when holding a pen than when carrying a sword,I must admit it is to me a matter of wonderment that he succeeded evenas well as he did. A loveless marriage, thrust upon him by theexigencies of State, when his inclinations tended in another and verydifferent direction, marked the next downward step in his career. Mymother was the eldest daughter of Alexander the Tenth, King of Gothia,and was as ambitious as my father was the reverse. Where he was only tooglad to find an opportunity of effacing himself, she, at first, boldlycourted the admiration of the world. Among other things, she insistedupon all the extremes of court ceremonial being observed, and under herrule the sleepy old palace woke to new life. Neighbouring Sovereignswere repeatedly our guests, entertainment followed entertainment, eachconducted on the most lavish scale, until the country, which at firsthad inclined towards applause, began to show unmistakable signs ofdisapproval. Things were said in the Reichsrath that should have enabledany one less absorbed in his own private affairs than my father, andless wilful than my mother, to have seen how foolish was the course eachwas pursuing. When, eventually, the Prime Minister of the day, the Countvon Marquart, ventured upon a remonstrance, my mother cut him short witha hasty speech that was destined to rankle in his heart and to lay thefoundation-stone of the misunderstanding that, for the rest of theirlives, existed between them. Fortunately, however, for the affairs ofmen, Time is able to accomplish what argument and diplomacy cannot hopeto achieve. The duties of motherhood, and a long and serious illness,which followed my advent into the world, put it out of her power toadhere to the dangerous course she had hitherto been running. Much toeveryone's surprise, when she was fully recovered, it was found that thecraving for excitement, which she had formerly possessed, had completelyleft her. The change, however, as is so often the case, came too late;the mischief was already done. The Pannonians as a race are, so it hasbeen said, amongst the most undemonstrative of the inhabitants ofEurope. It is possible that this may be so. I am not going to admit orto combat the accusation. This much, however, is quite certain: if theyare phlegmatic, they are also retentive; and, having once derived animpression, or allowed themselves to become prejudiced in any givendirection, they seldom, if ever, return to their original condition. Forthis reason, while the change in my mother was apparent to all who werebrought into immediate contact with her, and by hearsay to many who werenot, the greater proportion of the populace were of the opinion thatevery calamity that befell the nation for years to come wasattributable, either directly or by inference, to her recklessness andher extravagance in the past. That the great ceremonials andfestivities, balls, concerts, and hunting parties, were no longer to bewitnessed by the public eye, was, in their minds, no sort of proof thatthey did not exist. With the strange perversity that so oftencharacterises the actions of a nation, those who had been most dazzledand delighted when she had lifted the sombre old court life from itsformer stagnation into its then glittering effervescence now constitutedthemselves her most bitter accusers. Thus the inevitable drew nearer,while my mother attended to her nursery with as much devotion as couldhave been displayed by any bourgeoise parent, and my father pored overhis books in the north-west tower of the palace, translating Ovid whenhe should have been pulling at the ropes of Government, and enjoying theselfish pleasures of the student when he should have been endeavouringto prevent the ship of State from foundering. The country, beingdelivered over to the mercy of party politics, rushed blindly on towardsthe maelstrom that was to engulf it, and with it our devoted family.
Having thus formally introduced my father and mother to your notice, itis necessary that I should now perform the same ceremony for my brotherand myself. Surely two lads were never more different. Max, the CrownPrince, was, as I have already remarked, my senior by four years, andthe incarnation, so far as I was concerned, of all that was manly andheroic. At the time of which I am about to tell you, and which was theturning point of our fortunes, he was twelve years old, advanced for hisage, and showing promise of development into a tall and powerful man. Inface he resembled our mother more than our father; he had her dark,piercing eyes, and, if the truth must be told, he was also gifted with avery large amount of her imperiousness and love of power. It was saidthat he was a born ruler of men, and some went even so far as to predictthat when he ascended the throne, Pannonia, under his influence, wouldresume her proper place as the leading nation of the earth. But, alas!how strangely things fall out. That which we count a certainty seldomcomes to pass, while it has become a commonplace amongst us that theunexpected nearly, if not always, happens. As an example, I must put onrecord an incident as strange as, at the time, it was disconcerting.
One day Max and I, accompanied by our tutor, were riding on the roadthat leads from the city towards the village of Schartzvam, at the footof the mountains. Five miles from home, the pony Max was riding cast ashoe, and it became necessary for us to call a halt at a blacksmith'sshop, in order that the defect might be remedied. We had dismounted, andwere standing at the door watching the work in hand, when a party ofgipsies made their appearance in the street. The majority had passed usand turned the corner; only a withered beldame, hobbling along with theassistance of a stick, remained behind. On seeing us she paused, and,addressing Max, asked for charity. Upon his giving her a coin sheinquir