The Ring and the Prince

I once met a fatalist whose acquaintance made a very deep impression on me. I, myself, am a fatalist in a way. I believe in an invincible fate that rules our lives. I believe in its invincibleness and its inevitableness, but this belief has never oppressed me, perhaps because good fairies stood around my cradle;

most certainly because life has given me much that is valuable and beautiful and because my nature has remained too spontaneously cheerful, light-hearted and gaily sunny, in spite of many former moments of deep melancholy, to cower in despair under the oppression of fate. I cannot remain sad and despondent long, whatever happens to me; all my soul revolts against melancholy and despair, and often I myself have been astonished that in very grave and sorrowful moments in my life, my soul, averse from grief, turned naturally to the sun and the light, and brightened as soon as it was able.
So, although I am a fatalist, my fatalism has rather been to me a philosophical consolation than an evil power leading to destruction. But I will not speak about myself.
To the fatalist whom I met, the fate in which he believed was the evil power that led him to destruction.
It is years ago – how many it is easy to calculate. It was in Rome, a short time after that terrible battle of Adua in Abyssinia. It was after the fall of Crispi, and it was at a big evening party given by Baron Blanc, the then Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Italy was in mourning for all those who had lost their lives at Adua, and all the great Roman families were in mourning for the flower of their youth, cut down on that disastrous day. That the Foreign Secretary gave an evening party was because everywhere charitable committees were joining hands, and so he opened the splendid halls of the Palazzo Sciarra, in which he lived, for a charity feast. However great the mourning of a country is, modern man is only charitable when a spectacle or some form of diversion is offered him for his gift.
Only in Italy, in an Italian palace, can a feast be so brilliant. The piano-nobile of the Palazzo Sciarra, let by the impoverished prince of that name to Baron Blanc, was one suite of halls full of flowers and lights. And shortly before King Umberto and Queen Margherita were due to arrive a friend introduced me to a young Italian, and pronounced a famous name:

- The Prince di Girgenti …
I do not feel impressed when I meet an English Lord or an Austrian Duke – I am without that kind of snobbery – but I have an affectionate weakness for great Italian names. They call up in me something strange like a memory, vague like an odour of things long past. I was glad to make the acquaintance of the tall young man with that very famous name, that famous Italian name. And there was sympathy between him and me from the first look into each other’s eyes, from the first hand-clasp …
- Fortunatissimo …, he said, and smiled, and that commonplace word had a ring of truth. We did not immediately part. When the King and Queen appeared, we lost each other: later in the evening we ran into each other again and drank champagne cup together. He spoke about literature: about my books he had read, a French translation of Majesteit and an English one of Noodlot – Footsteps of Fate, as the translator called it.
- Your book has made a deep impression on me, he said. Are you a fatalist?
I am reserved, almost embarrassed when I have to speak about myself and my books. However much of myself I give in writing, I dislike to speak about myself and my work. My speaking with him about myself was very exceptional. He listened to me attentively, and suddenly said:
- I, too, am a fatalist.
I was struck by the dark colour of his voice. It had a sombre note. About us were music, light and flowers, women covered with diamonds, and gold uniforms – one mass of splendour, glitter and light, which almost made me forget the blow that had struck the country. All the splendour and the light cheered my mood, and I answered lightly:
- Well, you may be a fatalist. But that is no reason why life should be a gloomy terror to you. You are young, healthy, good-looking, rich, and you bear one of the finest names of your country – everything smiles on you, and …
- Who knows what has been predestined for us! he answered, so sadly, staring into the glass held in his motionless fingers, that I was greatly struck.
- What can have been predestined for you that makes you shudder at the future? I asked. He made a vague gesture with his hand …
- Who knows! he said. Ruin, shame … In these days, so dark over our country, I feel more intensely than usual that something is brooding over me. So that I regret not having fallen at Adua, as my cousins and friends did. It’s the fault of your book that I am talking to you thus. And it seems very strange to me, if I may say so, that the author of such a book, such a dark book … should be a man like you, who tell me yourself that your character is sunny and light-hearted, which I am quite willing to believe. I wish I were like that.
He himself changed the conversation. We spoke about other things, and suddenly he seized my gloveless hand, and looked at a ring I wore – an uncut sapphire.
- What a fine stone you have got there, he said, putting my hand – as he seemed to be short-sighted – very close to his eyes.
- Yes, I said, it is a beautiful stone. It is a keepsake from a friend.
- It is like a drop of blue light, he said. May I just look at the ring …?
I did not like to take it off, but found it hard to refuse. And, somewhat unwillingly, I slipped the ring from my finger and gave it to the Prince … Attilio di Girgenti.
At this moment a wave of emotion went through the hundreds of guests, for the King and Queen took their leave, passing through the long gallery where we sat, and all stood aside; we, too, hastened to get up.
- Here is your ring, said Prince Attilio hurriedly, and he handed my treasure across to me.There was a commotion. American ladies, keen on seeing the King and the Queen from close by, jostled between us. My hand reached in vain for his.
- Keep the ring for the present! I called. The King and Queen passed. Like a breeze through long haulms and flowers passed the emotion of deep reverence through the lane of guests, with that particular grace of women who, with undulation of their trains, bow down before royalty.

As soon as the king and queen were past, Prince Attilio approached me.
- Did you get hold of your ring? he asked.
I turned very pale, and it struck me that he, too, was very pale.
- No! I said.
- I held it out to you! exclaimed the Prince.
- I could not get hold of it! I replied.
My heart throbbed, my knees gave way.
- I thought you had caught it! said the Prince. I have got it no longer.
- Then you dropped it! I said.
- Let us seek at once! said the Prince.
We sought. Ladies moved to and fro; dresses trailed along the floor. We sought. We found nothing. We then went to the major-domo: the Prince promised a large reward; so did I. Lackeys looked for it. They found nothing. I was very, very sad. I could have wept. The ring was very dear to me, first, because a friend had given it to me, secondly, because the stone was precious. I could have wept, and I was furious. Like a flash suspicion shot through me … It was too ridiculous … And we continued to seek … The Prince of Girgenti, an immensely rich Italian noble, stealing a ring from a foreign author, whose acquaintance he had happened to make … no, no, it was an accident, a wretched coincidence.
- It had to be, I said, philosophic as I am in the big circumstances of my life, and this loss was a great one to me. It had to be. Twice I almost lost that ring. This is the third time and … it is gone.
- I cannot be helped. I am a fatalist, like you.
We went on searching. I became very tired.
- I’ll search no longer, I said. It has been dragged away by the dresses of the ladies.
I fell down on a couch in the big gallery. Acquaintances surrounded me, but I made an effort, and became very calm, as I was very sad. The loss of a ring causes no despair or sorrow, but it can make one very sad.
- I am so awfully sorry! said Prince Attilio, beside me, pale and whispering.
- Let me give you to-morrow a souvenir of our meeting; allow me to give you a ring with an uncut sapphire, like yours. I should consider it a privilege if you would accept it from me.
I faintly shook my head.
- No, I said, I would rather not …
- Allow me, he insisted; he almost implored, his hands folded in a charming gesture. A moment I thought: very well, let him give me another ring. But I said:
- It would not be the same. What you give me cannot repair this loss.
- What can I do! he exclaimed. What can I do!
I rose and held out my hand.
- Nothing, I said. Forget my ring. I had to lose it.
- Pardon me, he murmured.
- Of course, I said. It was not your fault.
I took leave of him. The next day I went again to the Palazzo Sciarra, asked to see the secretary of the Cabinet Minister, spoke to the major-domo: my ring had not been found. That afternoon I found on my table a basket of splendid roses and an invitation from Prince Attilio for a drive and a dinner afterwards.I thanked him for the roses, but did not accept the invitation, pretending a headache. After that I did not see the prince again at Rome. But friends who knew him, and with whom I spoke about him, and told my loss, avoided my eye in a strange manner. I asked for an explanation.
- The young Prince of Girgenti, they said, has not a good reputation.
- Why not! I asked.
They told me that the old prince, Attilio’s father, had had his family jewels stolen, which were found again in a pawn-shop. It is a well-known story in Rome and they told it me with numerous details, which I shall keep from you, because they have no reference to what I will tell you.
- And it is thought that Prince Attilio himself was the thief, said my friends.
- He has stolen my ring! I exclaimed.
- That may be so, was the answer. It is even very probable.
And my friends advised me:
- Inform the police.
- No, I said. I cannot.
- Why not? they asked.
- The prince spoke to me, I said, about his being a fatalist.
- That is no reason why you should take your loss lying down, said my friends.
- I cannot do it! I said. He may not have stolen my ring. Maybe he had to steal my ring. I cannot do it. Why should he have stolen my ring? He is rich.
- He is always in financial difficulties …
I was greatly in doubt whether or not I was to believe that Prince Attilio had stolen my ring, but I had made up my mind not to inform the police of my loss.I did not.
And it struck me that Prince Attilio, a few days later at the opera, avoided me. I took no pains to meet him again. I left Rome; years passed …

Some years ago at Nice, during the Carnival, I was going with friends, an English lady and her son, to take a carriage for the battle of flowers.
- I should like to have a reliable driver, said Mrs. Hunt-Denver; on the day of my arrival at Nice I had very unpleasant experiences with the driver. If they are all like that one!
I eagerly defended the drivers at Nice.

I emphasized the fact that everywhere, in any society, you meet with unworthy members, but I maintained that the drivers at Nice were honest, reliable fellows. I know several of them very well. I like to take a drive, and when the days are long, I love to go all over the environs of Nice; as early as February Spring weaves between the trees its filmy green, white and pink lace of leaves and flowers. A motor-car goes too swiftly to enjoy anything but speed – an enjoyment in itself, certainly – and walking pleases me only by the long rests under a tree on the grass; a drive in a carriage is the form of locomotion I prefer … to enjoy nature. And when you drive in a carriage at Nice it seems as if you are driving in your own. Have you never noticed how trim and smart the vehicles are that are stationed in the Place Masséna? They glitter with enamel and nickel in the golden sunlight; the horses, in their shining harness, flowers behind their ears, are fine animals, well-kept and glossy; a rug lies at your feet, and fine beautiful trappings – sometimes, o snob! embroidered with a crown – hang from the box-seat. The driver is often a handsome fellow with a sun-burned face, neatly dressed, yellow shoes, blue tie; a buttonhole and a stylish bowler on his dark shiny hair. Nowhere in the world do you find such smart cabs and drivers as at Nice, at least not in such great numbers: at Florence there may be three, in Rome five – among whom you, o Giulio Ardenti, shall receive the palm from me, as being the very best and most elegant vetturino of the Piazza di Spagna! – but at Nice, in front of Vogada’s, where you have your tea in the afternoon, there a stationed perhaps fifty, all glittering with nickel and enamel, all provided with rubber-tyres and fine horses, well-fed, strong, proud, indefatigable. Compare them with the boors and oafs that cart you through Paris. No! Honour to whom honour is due: honour to the drivers of Nice, who have only one failing: they like a large tip and they hide the tariff of the municipality as deep as possible under the cushions of their cabs, but when you do not study that tariff too carefully, they are nice and jolly fellows, with whom you can go for glorious drives … If we were drivers, should we not also hide away the tariff and be nicer to a generous customer than to one who gives a tip of 25 centimes?
To that effect I once spoke to Mrs. Hunt-Denver and asked her for the privilege of reserving, on the day before the Battle of Flowers, the carriage we wanted to decorate. So the three of us, Mrs. Hunt-Denver, her son Geoffrey, and myself, set out that morning.
- Let us, I said, walk along the Quai-Chic (that is the Quai Masséna, which we never call by that name) – and then I shall take whichever I meet, the Petit-Brun, the Gros-Blond, or the Grand-Jaloux.
- Who are those gentlemen? asks Geoffrey.
- The three very best drivers of Nice, I say, the Petit-Brun is slight and dark; the Gros-Blond is large, heavy and fair-haired, and the Grand-Jaloux is always jealous when I take the Petit-Brun or the Gros-Blond, and is called Grand-Jaloux because he is the tallest … Let us, therefore, stroll along the Quai-Chic, as if we admired the windows of the jewellers’ shops; the gentlemen will be sure to turn up with their smart turn-outs by eleven o’clock – not before that! – to take their places in the Place Masséna.
- Look! suddenly said Mrs. Hunt-Denver, that is the driver who stole my money.
She pointed with a motion of her head to an empty cab that passed at a foot’s pace. I followed her motion. I should have taken no notice of the cab, it was not nearly so spick and span as that of my three favourites, and but for her remark I should not have deigned to look at it. But when my eyes met those of the driver, who with a flick of his whip offered us his vehicle, as is the custom in the South, I turned very pale. I had recognised Prince Attilio di Girgenti!
I said nothing the first moment. And because just behind him the Grand-Jaloux drove up, whom I had already neglected once or twice and who is as jealous as he is tall, I fortunately had a chance to hide my emotion, and called out, beckoning him:
- Grand-Jaloux!
Grand-Jaloux saluted, pleased, pulled up and stopped.
- Grand-Jaloux, I said, are you free to-morrow for the Bataille de Fleurs?
- If I was not free, I should make myself free for you! said Grand-Jaloux, by which he simply meant that he was free.
- Then you should not be so violently jealous, I said, when next time I take the Petit-Brun or the Gros-Blond …
- I shall always be jealous, sir, answers Grand-Jaloux.
The price is agreed upon. We get into the cab, and the Grand-Jaloux drives us to the flower shops. Mrs. Hunt-Denver determines that our carriage shall be decorated with mimosa and many lilacs, and large yellow and purple bows. She will put on a mauve dress, and Geoffrey and I will array ourselves in white serge suits, with mauve ribbons round our straw hats.
The sun is shining, the sky is blue, it is Carnival, Nice is gay and elegant, the prospect of to-morrow’s Battle of Flowers makes me feel happy. But suddenly I remember Attilio, whom I have seen on the box-seat of a second-rate Victoria, as cocher-de-place …
I hurriedly take leave of Mrs. Hunt-Denver and Geoffrey, who asks me all kinds of interesting things, whether we shall put on mauve ties, white gloves, white shoes, and Heaven only knows what more, and, as it is not yet time for lunch, I install myself before the Café Monnot. There I see, amongst the stationary cabs, the Petit-Brun, and, behind him, forsooth, the Gros-Blond. I make a sign, they leave their cabs for a moment, and come up to my table. Before I can say anything, the Gros-Blond calls out reproachfully:
- Why have you not engaged me for the Bataille de Fleurs?
And the Petit-Brun chips in:
- This is not at all good! Why haven’t you reserved me for the Bataille de Fleurs?
- Now listen, I say; I shall propose to the lady to engage the three of you; she in front with the Grand-Jaloux; then I with you, Petit-Brun, and the young English gentleman with you, Gros-Blond, behind; but if they do not fancy driving separately, which is extremely likely, you must understand that this time you will have to do without me, and find other batailleurs for the battle … But now I want to ask you something: do you know that new driver, a tall, slender man, very smart himself, but his turn-out not up to much, and the horse lean and ill-kept?
- Yes, yes, both say. He is a newcomer; but his turn-out is not up to much … You surely will not take him, when you can have us?
My interest in the new driver seems highly suspicious to them.
- Do you not know anything about him?
- He is an Italian, they both say.
- What’s his name?
- I don’t know! both call out again. But what on earth is that new driver to you? In the season new drivers are continually entering the service of the masters! You will remain faithful to us two, to the Gros-Blond and the Petit-Brun, won’t you, and when we are not there, to that wretch, Grand-Jaloux?
I promise, and offer them a drink, which they take standing at my table. They know nothing of Prince Attilio …
I get up and walk home, filled with thoughts and emotions … I walk along the Avenue de la Gare … Suddenly I see him; he flicks his whip at the passers-by, who take no notice … He offers his cab …
Am I mistaken? No, it is he! I first thought I might be mistaken. That new cocher-de-place is Prince Attilio di Girgenti …!!
I go up to his cab and look at him. I see a dark flush spread over his pale face. I pretend not to recognize him …
- Are you free? I ask.
- Yes, sir …
I get into the cab and give the address of my villa. Arrived, I get out, and look him in the face.
- Am I mistaken …? I venture to ask. Did I meet you … in Rome?
His smile is heart-breaking; his dark eyes are very dull.
- Yes, he said; you met me …
- At the evening party of Baron Blanc? …
- Yes …- Get off from your seat, I say. Come in. My man will see to the cab …
He becomes very nervous.
- No, he says. I had rather not …
- I want to speak to you, I insist. Let me meet you this afternoon, after lunch, without the cab … Wait for me behind the Casino …
- I cannot leave my cab behind, he says, unwillingly.
- I take it, I say, for the day … But leave it in the stable … and wait for me behind the Casino.
He is very pale, and trembles with emotion.
- I count on you, I say. Allow me to pay you for the day.
He accepts my gold piece; it almost slips from his fingers.
- Au revoir, I say, and go indoors. He drives off.
After lunch I hasten to the Place Masséna, and see, among the stationary cab-drivers, the Gros-Blond.
- Gros-Blond, I say, I want to take a drive with you, to the Madelaine and St. Roman.
- Ca, c’est gentil! says the Gros-Blond, and jumps on to the seat.
- But first drive behind the Casino. Someone is waiting there whom I want to take with me …
He sees nothing strange in that, and drives behind the Casino. Suddenly he turns round to me, and says:
- There is the new Italian driver …
- Gros-Blond, I say, it is he with whom I am going for a drive.
- He? exclaims Gros-Blond, his eyes protruding with amazement. But then he says, discreetly and respectfully:
- You are free to do as you please, sir!
- Gros-Blond, I say, that driver is an old acquaintance of mine. C’est un monsieur très-bien, who is down on his luck …
- There are more like that, says Gros-Blond; I know a marquis who is a waiter …
Gros-Blond has pulled up. I get out and shake hands with Attilio. He is very pale, and his hand trembles.
- Be good enough to get in, I say very politely. Allow me the privilege of going for a long drive with you.
He has got in, without a word. Sitting beside me, he only murmurs in a broken voice:
- Do not drive through busy streets, if you don’t mind …
I give orders to the Gros-Blond: he takes silent by-streets, and reaches the Pont Magnan …Attilio has hardly spoken a word, only stammered a few monosyllables. I furtively take stock of him: he is still pretty respectably dressed. But there is a weariness, a brokenness about him, now that he sits huddled up beside me, which strikes me painfully, when I remember that elegant young aristocrat of former times, with the illustrious Italian name.
- Can I do anything for you? I venture to ask at last.
- No, he says simply. I am not going to stay at Nice. There are too many Italians here, who know me … I shall soon go to Marseilles, and, after that, to America …
- Can your friends, your relations, do nothing for you?
- No, he answers. They prefer to have nothing to do with me … They are right. I am past help.
- But why? I ask.
He smiles pallidly.
- It is Fate, he says. You cannot go against that.
All around us are the desolate, grand and gloomy rocks of St. Roman …
Suddenly he takes my hand, and looks at my finger, where once the sapphire, which was like a drop of blue light, drew his attention …
- Tell me, he almost implores. You thought that at the moment when I held out the ring to you, while the King and the Queen were passing, I stole it?
I look at him and hesitate …
- Tell me, he urges. You thought that I stole the ring?
- What if I really did?
He shakes his head, and he says brokenly:
- I did not steal your ring. It dropped. It must have dropped and got lost, trailed off by the skirts of the ladies. I swear to you I did not steal it. No more than I stole the jewels from my father’s safe … You know the story, with all the details … I did not steal those jewels. I did not take them to a pawn-shop. Do you believe me?
- Yes, I say. And the lady I was with this morning?
He shakes his head in denial.
- I have not seen the bag which she pretends to have left in my cab, together with the parcel, while she was shopping.
- A bag …?
- With money, it seemed. And a few jewels.
- She did not inform the police?
- No … no more than you did … at the time.
- I was not quite sure …
- No more was she …
- So … you have never stolen?
- Never …
- And how is it, then, that I find you in this condition?
- They all thought I was a thief. My father, my friends. The story of your ring is as well-known as the story of our family jewels. Add to that, that I gamble … That I cannot but gamble … That as soon as I have a few gold pieces I gamble them away. That I was always hard up …
- Have you never spoken to your friends as you are now speaking to me?
- Yes. They did not believe me. No more than you believe me.
- I believe you, I said.
He seized my hand and pressed it nervously. He turned half aside, but I saw his eyes full of tears.
And then he said:
- Why … should you believe me?
He did not believe that I believed him.
My hand clasped firmly, nervously in his, he continued:
- The next day, together with the roses, I wanted to send you a ring similar to yours … I did not do it. I was afraid you would return the ring … And yet, if I had done it … But I was very weary, very disheartened … and I did not do it … What can I say? It is my Fate. Circumstances in my life always were such that everyone thought … I was a thief, that now I really do not quite know whether I have never stolen … that I am convinced I shall, one day, steal … You cannot fight it … In Rome there was a time when I was head over ears in debt … I gamble: the gambling demon in me is stronger than myself … I have quarreled with my father, my relations; my friends turn their backs upon me … You, you are kind: I feel a strange sympathy for you … I read your book: “Footsteps of Fate” … It is true … You can do nothing against it … nothing …
Never had the rocks of St. Roman seemed so sombre and forbidding. The Gros-Blond, correct, with his fat back, without once looking round, drove us along the winding path; the rocks hung menacingly almost over us: a swollen torrent roared, foaming.
- So you are going to America? I said.
- Yes, he answered.
- Why? said I, dissuasively. Be a man. Fight Fate, it is a stupid power …
- It is not a stupid power, he said. It is all-powerful. What would you have me do in Europe? In two different ways I have, in these last two years, struggled, tried to keep my head above water … I sank … There is the demon of gambling in me, and Fate above me … No, I go to America. I will try at Marseilles to get a job as steward, as stoker, I do not care what, on a ship …
- Don’t! I insisted. I cannot see that should be necessary. You must be able to make good, if you want to. You have a great name …
- … Which my father does not acknowledge me to bear any longer; which my friends and relations blame me for dishonouring.
I wanted to do something; I could not. A feeling of powerless despair came over me … We reached the town. On the Pont Magnan Prince Attilio said:
- Let me get out. It is not good for you to be seen in the company of a cab-driver.
- You are not a cab-driver, I said. You are the Prince di Girgenti, and …
He shook his head sorrowfully.
- I am a cab-driver, he said; and the day after to-morrow a stoker perhaps … Adieu. I thank you for your sympathy. Probably we shall never meet again … Only tell me this: Do you believe that I did not steal your ring, but that it dropped when I held it out to you?
- I believe you! I cried hastily.
And it was very strange, but while I hastened to exclaim that … there was a doubt in me … and I was not quite sure … in my innermost self, that Attilio had not stolen the ring …But probably he did not perceive that doubt; he pressed my hand very firmly and disappeared …

I never saw him again, and when I think of him, there is an immense sadness in my soul, for he had a most likable voice, look, gesture and manner, and I felt I know not what strange sympathy for him …