voice as I could manage: "And Your Royal
Highness has to stop bellowing at me. I'm not used to it. In Salzburg
and Vienna gentlemen don't use that tone of voice and that sort of
language to gentlewomen."

"Salzburg," cried George, "in Salzburg you got your ears boxed, but it
didn't do much good to all appearances."

"Your Royal Highness," I answered, "my mother has her faults, but it's
no one's business outside of her immediate family. And no one at this
court has a mother's authority over me."

I saw that George was beside himself with rage. "If your husband," he
snarled, "was as free with his hand as your mother, there would be an
end to your frivolities."

"Your Royal Highness forgets what you admitted yourself, namely, that
the indignities offered me while I was a child were bereft of beneficial
results. And please take notice," I added, raising my voice, "I won't
stand violence from anyone, neither from my husband--as you kindly
suggest--nor from you, or the King."

George was too surprised to even attempt a reply. He evidently didn't
know what to say or do. To avoid my eyes that were seeking his, he
turned his back on me and stepped up to a little table laden with books.
He studied the titles for a while, then, turning suddenly, held a small
volume towards me. His arm was out-stretched as if he feared to
contaminate his uniform.

"What have we got here?" he cried.

It was my turn to be astonished. "Why, according to the binding, it must
be Heine's _Atta Troll_."

"_Atta Troll_," cried George, and opening the book at random he read
half to himself:

"This bear-leader six Madonnas
Wears upon his pointed hat,
To protect his head from bullets
Or from lice, perchance, it may be."

He fired the volume on the floor and grabbed another. "What's this?"

"As the title will indicate to your Royal Highness, Nietzsche's
Zarathustra." For the life of me I couldn't see any harm in this portion
of my library.

George continued to rummage among the books. He acted like a madman.
"What's this, what's this?" he kept on saying, turning them over and
over. I thought it beneath my dignity to answer. I just stared at the
fanatic.

After he finished his hurried examination, he took one book after the
other and tossed it violently at my feet.

"Heine, the Jew-scribbler," he cried, aiming a kick at Atta Troll.

"Don't you dare," I said, "that book was given me by Her Majesty, the
Empress of Austria."