The Prisoner of Zenda Anthony Hope (read e book TXT) đ
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- Author: Anthony Hope
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By Anthony Hope.
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I The Rassendyllsâ âwith a Word on the ElphbergsâI wonder when in the world youâre going to do anything, Rudolf?â said my brotherâs wife.
âMy dear Rose,â I answered, laying down my egg-spoon, âwhy in the world should I do anything? My position is a comfortable one. I have an income nearly sufficient for my wants (no oneâs 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!â
âYou are nine-and-twenty,â she observed, âand youâve done nothing butâ ââ
âKnock about? It is true. Our family doesnât need to do things.â
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 observation of Roseâs has some truth.
âGood families are generally worse than any others,â she said.
Upon this I stroked my hair: I knew quite well what she meant.
âIâm so glad Robertâs is black!â 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.
âWhatâs the matter, my dear?â he asked.
âShe objects to my doing nothing and having red hair,â said I, in an injured tone.
âOh! of course he canât help his hair,â admitted Rose.
âIt generally crops out once in a generation,â said my brother. âSo does the nose. Rudolf has got them both.â
âI wish they didnât crop out,â said Rose, still flushed.
âI rather like them myself,â said I, and, rising, I bowed to the portrait of Countess Amelia.
My brotherâs wife uttered an exclamation of impatience.
âI wish youâd take that picture away, Robert,â said she.
âMy dear!â he cried.
âGood heavens!â I added.
âThen it might be forgotten,â she continued.
âHardlyâ âwith Rudolf about,â said Robert, shaking his head.
âWhy should it be forgotten?â I asked.
âRudolf!â exclaimed my brotherâs 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 discussionâ âand also, I must admit, of exasperating my strict little sister-in-law a trifle moreâ âI observed:
âI rather like being an Elphberg myself.â
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 Strelsau or the Castle of Zenda and Number 305 Park Lane, W.?
Well thenâ âand I must premise that I am going, perforce, to rake up the very scandal which my dear Lady Burlesdon wishes forgottenâ âin 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 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 hairâ âin fact, the nose and the hair which have stamped the Elphbergs time out
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