The Prisoner of Zenda
Hope, Anthony
Published: 1894
Categorie(s): Fiction, Action & Adventure, Romance, Thrillers
Source: http://www.gutenberg.org
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About Hope:
Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, better known as Anthony Hope
(9 February 1863 – 8 July 1933), was an English novelist and
playwright. Although he was a prolific writer, especially of ad-
venture novels, he is remembered best for only two books: The
Prisoner of Zenda (1894) and its sequel Rupert of Hentzau
(1898). These works, “minor classics” of English literature, are
set in the contemporaneous fictional country of Ruritania and
spawned the genre known as Ruritanian romance. Zenda has
inspired many adaptations, most notably the 1937 Hollywood
movie of the same name.
Also available on Feedbooks for Hope:
•Rupert of Hentzau (1898)
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right is Life+70 and in the USA.
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Chapter 1
The Rassendylls—With a Word on the
Elphbergs
“I wonder when in the world you’re going to do anything,
Rudolf?” said my brother’s wife.
“My dear Rose,” I answered, laying down my egg-spoon,
“why in the world should I do anything? My position is a com-
fortable one. I have an income nearly sufficient for my wants
(no one’s income is ever quite sufficient, you know), I enjoy an
enviable social position: I am brother to Lord Burlesdon, and
brother-in-law to that charming lady, his countess. Behold, it is
enough!”
“You are nine-and-twenty,” she observed, “and you’ve done
nothing but—”
“Knock about? It is true. Our family doesn’t need to do
things.”
This remark of mine rather annoyed Rose, for everybody
knows (and therefore there can be no harm in referring to the
fact) that, pretty and accomplished as she herself is, her family
is hardly of the same standing as the Rassendylls. Besides her
attractions, she possessed a large fortune, and my brother
Robert was wise enough not to mind about her ancestry.
Ancestry is, in fact, a matter concerning which the next obser-
vation of Rose’s has some truth.
“Good families are generally worse than any others,” she
said.
Upon this I stroked my hair: I knew quite well what she
meant.
“I’m so glad Robert’s is black!” she cried.
At this moment Robert (who rises at seven and works before
breakfast) came in. He glanced at his wife: her cheek was
slightly flushed; he patted it caressingly.
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“What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked.
“She objects to my doing nothing and having red hair,” said I,
in an injured tone.
“Oh! of course he can’t help his hair,” admitted Rose.
“It generally crops out once in a generation,” said my broth-
er. “So does the nose. Rudolf has got them both.”
“I wish they didn’t crop out,” said Rose, still flushed.
“I rather like them myself,” said I, and, rising, I bowed to the
portrait of Countess Amelia.
My brother’s wife uttered an exclamation of impatience.
“I wish you’d take that picture away, Robert,” said she.
“My dear!” he cried.
“Good heavens!” I added.
“Then it might be forgotten,” she continued.
“Hardly—with Rudolf about,” said Robert, shaking his head.
“Why should it be forgotten?” I asked.
“Rudolf!” exclaimed my brother’s wife, blushing very prettily.
I laughed, and went on with my egg. At least I had shelved
the question of what (if anything) I ought to do. And, by way of
closing the discussion—and also, I must admit, of exasperating
my strict little sister-in-law a trifle more—I observed:
“I rather like being an Elphberg myself.”
When I read a story, I skip the explanations; yet the moment
I begin to write one, I find that I must have an explanation. For
it is manifest that I must explain why my sister-in-law was
vexed with my nose and hair, and why I ventured to call myself
an Elphberg. For eminent as, I must protest, the Rassendylls
have been for many generations, yet participation in their
blood of course does not, at first sight, justify the boast of a
connection with the grander stock of the Elphbergs or a claim
to be one of that Royal House. For what relationship is there
between Ruritania and Burlesdon, between the Palace at Strel-
sau or the Castle of Zenda and Number 305 Park Lane, W.?
Well then—and I must premise that I am going, perforce, to
rake up the very scandal which my dear Lady Burlesdon wishes
forgotten—in the year 1733, George II. sitting then on the
throne, peace reigning for the moment, and the King and the
Prince of Wales being not yet at loggerheads, there came on a
visit to the English Court a certain prince, who was afterwards
known to history as Rudolf the Third of Ruritania. The prince
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was a tall, handsome young fellow, marked (maybe marred, it
is not for me to say) by a somewhat unusually long, sharp and
straight nose, and a mass of dark-red hair—in fact, the nose
and the hair which have stamped the Elphbergs time out of
mind. He stayed some months in England, where he was most
courteously received; yet, in the end, he left rather under a
cloud. For he fought a duel (it was considered highly well bred
of him to waive all question of his rank) with a nobleman, well
known in the society of the day, not only for his own merits,
but as the husband of a very beautiful wife. In that duel Prince
Rudolf received a severe wound, and, recovering therefrom,
was adroitly smuggled off by the Ruritanian ambassador, who
had found him a pretty handful. The nobleman was not
wounded in the duel; but the morning being raw and damp on
the occasion of the meeting, he contracted a severe chill, and,
failing to throw it off, he died some six months after the depar-
ture of Prince Rudolf, without having found leisure to adjust
his relations with his wife—who, after another two months,
bore an heir to the title and estates of the family of Burlesdon.
This lady was the Countess Amelia, whose picture my sister-in-
law wished to remove from the drawing-room in Park Lane;
and her husband was James, fifth Earl of Burlesdon and
twenty-second Baron Rassendyll, both in the peerage of Eng-
land, and a Knight of the Garter. As for Rudolf, he went back to
Ruritania, married a wife, and ascended the throne, whereon
his progeny in the direct line have sat from then till this very
hour—with one short interval. And, finally, if you walk through
the picture galleries at Burlesdon, among the fifty portraits or
so of the last century and a half, you will find five or six, includ-
ing that of the sixth earl, distinguished by long, sharp, straight
noses and a quantity of dark-red hair; these five or six have
also blue eyes, whereas among the Rassendylls dark eyes are
the commoner.
That is the explanation, and I am glad to have finished it: the
blemishes on honourable lineage are a delicate subject, and
certainly this heredity we hear so much about is the finest
scandalmonger in the world; it laughs at discretion, and writes
strange entries between the lines of the “Peerages”.
It will be observed that my sister-in-law, with a want of logic
that must have been peculiar to herself (since we are no longer
5
allowed to lay it to the charge of her sex), treated my complex-
ion almost as an offence for which I was responsible, hastening
to assume from that external sign inward qualities of which I
protest my entire innocence; and this unjust inference she
sought to buttress by pointing to the uselessness of the life I
had led. Well, be that as it may, I had picked up a good deal of
pleasure and a good deal of knowledge. I had been to a Ger-
man school and a German university, and spoke German as
readily and perfectly as English; I was thoroughly at home in
French; I had a smattering of Italian and enough Spanish to
swear by. I was, I believe, a strong, though hardly fine swords-
man and a good shot. I could ride anything that had a back to
sit on; and my head was as cool a one as you could find, for all
its flaming cover. If you say that I ought to have spent my time
in useful labour, I am out of Court and have nothing to say,
save that my parents had no business to leave me two thou-
sand pounds a year and a roving disposition.
“The difference between you and Robert,” said my sister-in-
law, who often (bless her!) speaks on a platform, and oftener
still as if she were on one, “is that he recognizes the duties of
his position, and you see the opportunities of yours.”
“To a man of spirit, my dear Rose,” I answered, “opportunit-
ies are duties.”
“Nonsense!” said she, tossing her head; and after a moment
she went on: “Now, here’s Sir Jacob Borrodaile offering you ex-
actly what you might be equal to.”
“A thousand thanks!” I murmured.
“He’s to have an Embassy in six months, and Robert says he
is sure that he’ll take you as an attache. Do take it, Rudolf—to
please me.”
Now, when my sister-in-law puts the matter in that way,
wrinkling her pretty brows, twisting her little hands, and grow-
ing wistful in the eyes, all on account of an idle scamp like my-
self, for whom she has no natural responsibility, I am visited
with compunction. Moreover, I thought it possible that I could
pass the time in the position suggested with some tolerable
amusement. Therefore I said:
“My dear sister, if in six months’ time no unforeseen obstacle
has arisen, and Sir Jacob invites me, hang me if I don’t go with
Sir Jacob!”
6
“Oh, Rudolf, how good of you! I am glad!”
“Where’s he going to?”
“He doesn’t know yet; but it’s sure to be a good Embassy.”
“Madame,” said I, “for your sake I’ll go, if it’s no more than a
beggarly Legation. When I do a thing, I don’t do it by halves.”
My promise, then, was given; but six months are six months,
and seem an eternity, and, inasmuch as they stretched
between me and my prospective industry (I suppose attaches
are industrious; but I know not, for I never became attache to
Sir Jacob or anybody else), I cast about for some desirable
mode of spending them. And it occurred to me suddenly that I
would visit Ruritania. It may seem strange that I had never vis-
ited that country yet; but my father (in spite of a sneaking
fondness for the Elphbergs, which led him to give me, his
second son, the famous Elphberg name of Rudolf) had always
been averse from my going, and, since his death, my brother,
prompted by Rose, had accepted the family tradition which
taught that a wide berth was to be given to that country. But
the moment Ruritania had come into my head I was eaten up
with a curiosity to see it. After all, red hair and long noses are
not confined to the House of Elphberg, and the old story
seemed a preposterously insufficient reason for debarring my-
self from acquaintance with a highly interesting and important
kingdom, one which had played no small part in European his-
tory, and might do the like again under the sway of a young
and vigorous ruler, such as the new King was rumoured to be.
My determination was clinched by reading in The Times that
Rudolf the Fifth was to be crowned at Strelsau in the course of
the next three weeks, and that great magnificence was to mark
the occasion. At once I made up my mind to be present, and
began my preparations. But, inasmuch as it has never been my
practice to furnish my relatives with an itinerary of my jour-
neys and in this case I anticipated opposition to my wishes, I
gave out that I was going for a ramble in the Tyrol—an old
haunt of mine—and propitiated Rose’s wrath by declaring that
I intended to study the political and social problems of the in-
teresting community which dwells in that neighbourhood.
“Perhaps,” I hinted darkly, “there may be an outcome of the
expedition.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
7
“Well,” said I carelessly, “there seems a gap that might be
filled by an exhaustive work on—”
“Oh! will you write a book?” she cried, clapping her hands.
“That would be splendid, wouldn’t it, Robert?”
“It’s the best of introductions to political life nowadays,” ob-
served my brother, who has, by the way, introduced himself in
this manner several times over. Burlesdon on Ancient Theories
and Modern Facts and The Ultimate Outcome, by a Political
Student, are both works of recognized eminence.
“I believe you are right, Bob, my boy,” said I.
“Now promise you’ll do it,” said Rose earnestly.
“No, I won’t promise; but if I find enough material, I will.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Robert.
“Oh, material doesn’t matter!” she said, pouting.
But this time she could get no more than a qualified promise
out of me. To tell the truth, I would have wagered a handsome
sum that the story of my expedition that summer would stain
no paper and spoil not a single pen. And that shows how little
we know what the future holds; for here I am, fulfilling my
qualified promise, and writing, as I never thought to write, a
book—though it will hardly serve as an introduction to political
life, and has not a jot to do with the Tyrol.
Neither would it, I fear, please Lady Burlesdon, if I were to
submit it to her critical eye—a step which I have no intention of
taking.
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Chapter 2
Concerning the Colour of Men’s Hair
It was a maxim of my Uncle William’s that no man should pass
through Paris without spending four-and-twenty hours there.
My uncle spoke out of a ripe experience of the world, and I
honoured his advice by putting up for a day and a night at “The
Continental” on my way to—the Tyrol. I called on George
Featherly at the Embassy, and we had a bit of dinner together
at Durand’s, and afterwards dropped in to the Opera; and after
that we had a little supper, and after that we called on Bertram
Bertrand, a versifier of some repute and Paris correspondent to
The Critic. He had a very comfortable suite of rooms, and we
found some pleasant fellows smoking and talking. It struck me,
however, that Bertram himself was absent and in low spirits,
and when everybody except ourselves had gone, I rallied him
on his moping preoccupation. He fenced with me for a while,
but at last, flinging himself on a sofa, he exclaimed:
“Very well; have it your own way. I am in love—infernally in
love!”
“Oh, you’ll write the better poetry,” said I, by way of
consolation.
He ruffled his hair with his hand and smoked furiously. Ge-
orge Featherly, standing with his back to the mantelpiece,
smiled unkindly.
“If it’s the old affair,” said he, “you may as well throw it up,
Bert. She’s leaving Paris tomorrow.”
“I know that,” snapped Bertram.
“Not that it would make any difference if she stayed,” pur-
sued the relentless George. “She flies higher than the paper
trade, my boy!”
“Hang her!” said Bertram.
9
“It would make it more interesting for me,” I ventured to ob-
serve, “if I knew who you were talking about.”
“Antoinette Mauban,” said George.
“De Mauban,” growled Bertram.
“Oho!” said I, passing by the question of the `de’. “You don’t
mean to say, Bert—?”
“Can’t you let me alone?”
“Where’s she going to?” I asked, for the lady was something
of a celebrity.
George jingled his money, smiled cruelly at poor Bertram,
and answered pleasantly:
“Nobody knows. By the way, Bert, I met a great man at her
house the other night—at least, about a month ago. Did you
ever meet him—the Duke of Strelsau?”
“Yes, I did,” growled Bertram.
“An extremely accomplished man, I thought him.”
It was not hard to see that George’s references to the duke
were intended to aggravate poor Bertram’s sufferings, so that I
drew the inference that the duke had distinguished Madame de
Mauban by his attentions. She was a widow, rich, handsome,
and, according to repute, ambitious. It was quite possible that
she, as George put it, was flying as high as a personage who
was everything he could be, short of enjoying strictly royal
rank: for the duke was the son of the late King of Ruritania by
a second and morganatic marriage, and half-brother to the new
King. He had been his father’s favourite, and it had occasioned
some unfavourable comment when he had been created a
duke, with a title derived from no less a city than the capital it-
self. His mother had been of good, but not exalted, birth.
“He’s not in Paris now, is he?” I asked.
“Oh no! He’s gone back to be present at the King’s corona-
tion; a ceremony which, I should say, he’ll not enjoy much. But,
Bert, old man, don’t despair! He won’t marry the fair An-
toinette—at least, not unless another plan comes to nothing.
Still perhaps she—” He paused and added, with a laugh: “Royal
attentions are hard to resist—you know that, don’t you,
Rudolf?”
“Confound you!” said I; and rising, I left the hapless Bertram
in George’s hands and went home to bed.
10
The next day George Featherly went with me to the station,
where I took a ticket for Dresden.
“Going to see the pictures?” asked George, with a grin.
George is an inveterate gossip, and had I told him that I was
off to Ruritania, the news would have been in London in three
days and in Park Lane in a week. I was, therefore, about to re-
turn an evasive answer, when he saved my conscience by leav-
ing me suddenly and darting across the platform. Following
him with my eyes, I saw him lift his hat and accost a graceful,
fashionably dressed woman who had just appeared from the
booking-office. She was, perhaps, a year or two over thirty,
tall, dark, and of rather full figure. As George talked, I saw her
glance at me, and my vanity was hurt by the thought that,
muffled in a fur coat and a neck-wrapper (for it was a chilly
April day) and wearing a soft travelling hat pulled down to my
ears, I must be looking very far from my best. A moment later,
George rejoined me.
“You’ve got a charming travelling companion,” he said.
“That’s poor Bert Bertrand’s goddess, Antoinette de Mauban,
and, like you, she’s going to Dresden—also, no doubt, to see
the pictures. It’s very queer, though, that she doesn’t at
present desire the honour of your acquaintance.”
“I didn’t ask to be introduced,” I observed, a little annoyed.
“Well, I offered to bring you to her; but she said, ‘Another
time.’ Never mind, old fellow, perhaps there’ll be a smash, and
you’ll have a chance of rescuing her and cutting out the Duke
of Strelsau!”
No smash, however, happened, either to me or to Madame
de Mauban. I can speak for her as confidently as for myself; for
when, after a night’s rest in Dresden, I continued my journey,
she got into the same train. Understanding that she wished to
be let alone, I avoided her carefully, but I saw that she went
the same way as I did to the very end of my journey, and I took
opportunities of having a good look at her, when I could do so
unobserved.
As soon as we reached the Ruritanian frontier (where the old
officer who presided over the Custom House favoured me with
such a stare that I felt surer than before of my Elphberg
physiognomy), I bought the papers, and found in them news
which affected my movements. For some reason, which was
11
not clearly explained, and seemed to be something of a mys-
tery, the date of the coronation had been suddenly advanced,
and the ceremony was to take place on the next day but one.
The whole country seemed in a stir about it, and it was evident
that Strelsau was thronged. Rooms were all let and hotels over-
flowing; there would be very little chance of my obtaining a
lodging, and I should certainly have to pay an exorbitant
charge for it. I made up my mind to stop at Zenda, a small
town fifty miles short of the capital, and about ten from the
frontier. My train reached there in the evening; I would spend
the next day, Tuesday, in a wander over the hills, which were
said to be very fine, and in taking a glance at the famous
Castle, and go over by train to Strelsau on the Wednesday
morning, returning at night to sleep at Zenda.
Accordingly at Zenda I got out, and as the train passed
where I stood on the platform, I saw my friend Madame de
Mauban in her place; clearly she was going through to Strel-
sau, having, with more providence than I could boast, secured
apartments there. I smiled to think how surprised George
