The Slim Princess

III

THE CRU­EL­TY OF LAW

If the fa­ther was wor­ried by the pro­longed cri­sis, the younger sis­ter, Jene­ka, was well-​nigh dis­tract­ed, for she could not hope to mar­ry un­til Kalo­ra had been prop­er­ly mat­ed and sent away.

In Mo­rove­nia there is a very strict law in­tend­ed to elim­inate the spin­ster from the so­cial hori­zon. It is a law born of craft and in­spired by fore­sight. The daugh­ters of a house­hold must be mar­ried off in the or­der of their na­tiv­ity. The younger sis­ter dare not con­tem­plate mat­ri­mo­ny un­til the el­der sis­ter has been led to the al­tar. It is im­pos­si­ble for a young and at­trac­tive girl to make a de­sir­able match leav­ing a maid­en sis­ter ma­rooned on the mar­ket. She must co­op­er­ate with her par­ents and with the el­der sis­ter to clear the way.

As a rule this law en­cour­ages earnest get­ting-​to­geth­er in ev­ery house­hold and re­sults in a clear­ing up of the en­tire stock of el­igi­ble daugh­ters. But think of the un­hap­py lot of an adorable and much-​cov­et­ed maid­en who finds her­self wedged in be­hind some­thing unattrac­tive and shelf-​worn! Jene­ka was thus pock­et­ed. She could do noth­ing ex­cept fold her hands and pa­tient­ly wait for some mirac­ulous in­ter­ven­tion.

In Mo­rove­nia the dis­creet mar­ry­ing age is about six­teen. Jene­ka was eigh­teen--still young enough and of a most rav­ish­ing weight, but the slim princess stood as a slight, yet seem­ing­ly in­sur­mount­able bar­ri­er be­tween her and all hopes of con­ven­tion­al hap­pi­ness.

Count Mala­gas­ki did not know that the shame­ful fact of Kalo­ra's thin­ness was be­ing whis­pered among the young men of Mo­rove­nia. When the daugh­ters were out for their dai­ly car­riage-​ride both wore flow­ing robes. In the case of Kalo­ra, this aug­ment­ed cos­tume was in­tend­ed to con­ceal the ab­sence of no­ble di­men­sions.

It is not good form in Mo­rove­nia for a hus­band or fa­ther to dis­cuss his home life, or to show en­thu­si­asm on the sub­ject of mere wom­an; but the Count, prompt­ed by a fret­ful de­sire to dis­pose of his rapid­ly ma­tur­ing off­spring, of­ten re­marked to the high-​born young gen­tle­men of his ac­quain­tance that Kalo­ra was a most re­mark­able girl and one pos­sessed of many charms, leav­ing them to in­fer, if they cared to do so, that pos­si­bly she weighed at least one hun­dred and eighty pounds.

[Il­lus­tra­tion: Pa­po­va re­joiced great­ly]

[Blank Page]

These ca­su­al com­ments did not seem to arouse any burn­ing cu­rios­ity among the young men, and up to the day of Kalo­ra's nine­teenth an­niver­sary they had not had the ef­fect of bring­ing to the fa­ther any of those guard­ed in­quiries which, un­der the ori­en­tal cus­tom, are al­ways pre­lim­inary to an ac­tu­al pro­pos­al of mar­riage.

Count Se­lim Mala­gas­ki had a dou­ble rea­son for wish­ing to see Kalo­ra mar­ried. While she re­mained at home he knew that he would be sec­ond in au­thor­ity. There is an oc­ci­den­tal mis­ap­pre­hen­sion to the ef­fect that ev­ery wom­an be­yond the bor­ders of the Lev­ant is a lan­guorous and wax­en lily, float­ing in a milk-​warm pool of idle­ness. It is true that the wom­en of a house­hold live in cer­tain apart­ments set aside as a “harem.” But “harem” lit­er­al­ly means “for­bid­den”--that is, for­bid­den to the pub­lic, noth­ing more. Ev­ery vil­la at New­port has a “harem.”

The wom­en of Mo­rove­nia do not pour tea for men ev­ery af­ter­noon, and they are kept well un­der cov­er, but they are not slaves. They do not in­her­it a nom­inal au­thor­ity, but very of­ten they as­sume a re­al au­thor­ity. In the Unit­ed States, wom­en can not sail a boat, and yet they di­rect the cruise of the yacht. Rail­way pres­idents can not vote in the Sen­ate, and yet they al­ways know how the votes are go­ing to be cast. And in Mo­rove­nia, many a clever wom­an, de­prived of spec­ified and le­gal rights, has learned to rule man by those tact­ful meth­ods which are in such gen­er­al use that they need not be spec­ified in this con­nec­tion.

Kalo­ra had a way of get­ting around her fa­ther. Af­ter she had de­fied him and put him in­to a stew­ing rage, she would smooth him the right way and, with teas­ing lit­tle ca­jo­leries, nurse him back to a pleas­ant hu­mor. He would find him­self once more at the start­ing-​place of the con­tro­ver­sy, his stern com­mands un­heed­ed, and the dis­obe­di­ent daugh­ter laugh­ing in his very face.

Thus, while he was ashamed of her phys­ical im­per­fec­tions, he ad­mired her clev­er­ness. Of­ten he said to Popo­va: “I tell you, she might make some man a spright­ly and en­ter­tain­ing com­pan­ion, even if she _is_ slen­der.”

Where­upon the crafty Popo­va would re­ply: “Be pa­tient, your Ex­cel­len­cy. We shall yet have her as round as a dumpling.”

And all the time he was keep­ing her trained as fine as the prover­bial fid­dle.