“And yet,” said Edith, “this is the doctrine of Christianity.”
“Of theoretical, not practical Christianity,” eagerly rejoined the Englishman. “I esteem the old Roman Cato, who took his life when he saw his country’s freedom disappearing, and England would never have grown great had not many of her sons been Catos.”
“Mr. Kennedy, you are proclaiming the old Greek idea of the state,” said Heideck. “But I do not believe that the old Greeks had such a conception of the state as modern professors assert, and as ancient Rome practically carried out. Professors are in the habit of quoting Plato, but Plato was too highly gifted not to understand that the state after all consists merely of men. Plato regarded the state not as an idol on whose altar the citizen was obliged to sacrifice himself, but as an educational institution. He says that really virtuous citizens could only be reared by an intelligently organised state, and for this reason he attached such importance to the state. A state is in its origin only the outer form, which the inner life of the nation has naturally created for itself, and this conception should not be upset. The state should educate the masses, in order that not only justice, but also external and internal prosperity may be realised. The Romans certainly do not appear to have made the rearing of capable citizens, in accordance with Plato’s idea, the aim of the state; they were modern, like the great Powers of to-day, whose aim it is to grow as rich and powerful as possible. We Germans also desire this, and that is why we are waging this war; but at the same time I assert that something higher dwells in the German national character—the idea of humanity. With us also our ideals are being destroyed, and therefore we are fighting for our ‘place under the sun,’ in order to protect and secure our ideals together with our national greatness.”
At this point a servant entered and announced dinner.
At table the conversation shifted from philosophy and politics to art. The ladies tried to cheer the old gentleman and banish his despair. Elizabeth talked of the concerts in Simla and Calcutta, mentioning the great technical difficulties which beset music in India, owing to the instruments being so soon injured by the climate. The moist air of the towns on the coast made the wood swell; the dry air of Central India, on the other hand, made it shrink, which was very injurious to pianos, but especially to violins and cellos. Pianos, with metal instead of wood inside, were made for the tropics; but they had a shrill tone and were equally affected by abrupt changes of temperature.
After dinner Elizabeth seated herself at the piano, and it did Heideck good to find that Edith had a pleasant and well-trained alto voice. She sang some melancholy English and Scotch songs.
“I have never sung since I left England,” she said, greatly moved.
Heideck had listened to the music with rapture. After the fearful scenes of recent times the melodies affected him so deeply that his eyes filled with tears. It was not only the music that affected him, but Edith’s soul, which spoke through it.
“What are you thinking of doing, Mr. Kennedy?” he asked the old gentleman. “Shall you remain in Simla and keep Mrs. Irwin with you?”
“I have thought it over,” he replied. “I shall not stay here. I shall go to Calcutta, if I can. It is my duty to be at my post there.”
“But how do you intend to travel? The railways still in existence have been seized for the exclusive use of the army. Remember that you would have to pass both armies, the Russian and the English. You would have to go from Kalka to Ambala, and thence to Delhi.”
“If I could get a passport, I could travel post to Delhi, where I should be with the English army. Can you get me a passport?”
“I will try. Possibly Prince Tchajawadse may be persuaded to let me have one. I will point out to him that you are civilian officials.”
Prince Tchajawadse most emphatically refused to make out the passport for Mr. Kennedy and his family.
“I am very sorry, my friend,” said he, “but it is simply impossible. The Judge-Advocate-General is a very high official; I cannot allow him to go to the English headquarters and give information as to what is going on here. The authorities would justly put a very bad construction upon such ill-timed amiability, and I should not like to obliterate the good impression which the success of the expedition to Simla has made upon my superiors by an unpardonable act of folly on my own part.”
Heideck saw that any attempt at persuasion would be useless in the face of the Prince’s determination. He therefore acquainted Mr. Kennedy with the failure of his efforts, at the same expressing his sincere regret.
“Then I shall try to return to England,” said the old gentleman, with a sigh. “Please ask the Prince if he has any objection to my making my way by the shortest road to Karachi? Perhaps he will let me have a passport for this route.”
Prince Tchajawadse was quite ready to accede to this request.
“The ladies and gentlemen can travel where they please in the rear of the Russian army, for all I care,” he declared. “There is not the least occasion for me to treat the worthy old gentleman as a prisoner.”
On the same day Heideck had a serious conversation with Edith about her immediate future. He inquired what her wishes and plans were, but she clung to him tenderly and whispered, “My only wish is to stay with you, my only plan is to make you happy.”
Kissing her tender lips, which could utter such entrancing words, he said, deeply moved: “Well, then, I propose that we travel together to Karachi. I am resolved to quit the Russian service and endeavour to return to Germany. But could you induce yourself to follow me to my country, the land of your present enemies?”
“My home is with you. Suppose that we were to make a home here in Simla, I should be ready, and only too glad to live here for the rest of my life. Take me to Germany or Siberia, and I will follow you—it is all the same to me, if only I am not obliged to leave you.”
For a moment Heideck was pained to think that she had no word of attachment for her country; but he had already learnt not to measure her by the standard of the other women whom he had hitherto met on his life’s journey, and it ill became him to reproach her for this want of patriotism.
“Mr. Kennedy has assured me that he is ready to take you under his protection during the journey,” said he. “I will speak to the Prince again to-day, and, as he has no right to detain me, it will be possible for me, as I confidently hope, to start with you for Karachi.”
“But I shall only accept the Kennedys’ offer if you go with us,” declared Edith in a tone of decision, which left no doubt as to her unshakable resolution.
As a matter of fact, Prince Tchajawadse put no difficulties in his way.
“I sincerely regret to lose you again so soon,” he declared, “but it is for you alone to decide whether you go or stay. It was arranged beforehand that you could leave the Russian service as soon as it became worth your while. Women are, after all, the controlling spirits of our lives.”