might suggest the goat-tax be reduced and its revenues equalized by, say, a fourth-pennikk tax a case on refined sugar, which peasants never used anyway, preferring honey or sorghum or brown sugar-loaf; doubtless then the he-goats would be kept down out of the danger zone. He could suggest. More than that he could not do.
Meanwhile —
Engelbert Eszterhazy, Ph. D., aspirant D. Sc., was entertaining guests. “. . . the new fuel caused a build-up which choked all the tubes eventually,” Professor Gronk was complaining. Eszterhazy said that the two of them could really call on poor old Brunk shortly and show him how to filter the sludge washed off his soft coal, and re-filter and so on until the wash-water was clear enough to let back into the river. And then they two would work out with Brunk a better formula for mixing the coal dust and sawdust and whatever into a really decent fuel...: “For stoves, anyway.” The professor made a gesture. His prominent eyes swiveled all about. “It is not alone the fuel. The design is wrong I see now. The wires snap. The aerolines flap. The framework does not stand the strain. The Autogondola-Invention does not properly take the helm. The instruments, yoy meinDieu the instruments: I must tell you that not only half the time we really used the wind and not the engine but half of that time the instruments proved there was no wind to use! Seemingly, it should never have flown at all! It is as though some witchcraft or magic —”
Eszterhazy stroked his moustache. He looked pensive. “The old magic and witchery is almost everywhere in retreat, Professor. Only here at almost the very edge of the European world does it ever turn and fight. Elsewhere it masks itself and tries to sneak in via the medium and the planchette, but that is not quite the same magic. Nor the same witchery. Well. Eh? ‘The Autogondola-Invention will take years more study and work?’ Well, meanwhile let us keep it quiet. It is clearly something for which the world is not yet prepared. Have you tried the sausage? It is ... there." The Professor’s floating eyes ceased to float, concentrated on the sausage. In a moment he had left his host behind.
Instantly the place was taken by Burgenblitz of Blitzenburg; never had the Doctor seen the Baron so voluble. “The castle is doomed, Eszterhazy; the day of the fortress in the forest is over; this little adventure has shown me that anyone may put a motor on a balloon and float over dropping explosives anywhere, so what good’s a castle if you can’t defy the world from it? Well, I’m selling out. Yes. Giving up. Shall go hunt crocodiles in La Florida by the waters of the Tallahassee and the great Sewanee; my pal Pard has been persuaded to act as guide for the most modest of fees out of which he himself shall pay the native — what? Sioux? — to paddle us in their — what? Wigwams? — as I believe the catamaran is called in its native language; we shall go by way of London where the best crocodile- gun and mosquito-netting is made, also to purchase tomahawks, beads, and red cloth to trade with the Crackers as I believe the picturesque aboriginals are also called. . . .”
Eszterhazy’s eyes met those of Washington Parthenopius “Pard” Powell, who let his own eyelids slip to half-mast and drew a puff on his calumet. To have the Baron Burgenblitz actually out of the country for even whatever length of time was a gift of fortune hardly to have been looked for. “Ah Burgenblitz how I envy you,” he said. “The castle- fortress. Indeed. Doomed.” It had, like the walled city, indeed been doomed: since 1453; Burgenblitz was a slow learner. “Hm, crocodiles. Florida, hm. You will not of course wish to hunt the great saurian all the time. You would be bored. Fortunately in La Florida there is the legendary life of the planter to occupy and amuse you as well. I believe I have read a report that the soil there is excellent for the possible cultivation of the Comparatively Thin-Skinned Yellow-Green Juice Orange, of which cuttings are said to be available at the Botanical Gardens in Kew; pray mention my name to Mr. Motherthwaite, the Curator for Juicy Fruit. Ah. La Florida! You will buy lands there, eh?”
Burgenblitz, who had never once considered doing so, now cried, “But yes of course I shall! That is ... I hope . . .” he turned to his pal, Pard, "... will the picturesque aboriginal Crackers trade land for red cloth?” His pal Pard once more gave Eszterhazy a glance from his glaucous eyes. “Be tickled pink to trade it for most anything,” said he. “Money, marbles, or chalk.”
Burgenblitz drew out his pocketbook to make a note. “The money is no problem,” he said. “As for the marbles, we shall pick up some at Carrara, and I am sure that at Dover we shall be able to procure chalk.” As the two of them walked off, deep in talk, Pard Powell was heard to say that when he was in Honduras with William Walker, treacherously executed to death by the people he had come to liberate, William Walker was often heard to say that any man could plant wheat and shoot birds but more than anyone was to be admired a man who could plant orange trees and shoot crocodiles.
The gaslight hissed. There, suddenly, laughing at him, was Madame Dombrovski. A sudden retrospective vision of her clinging now to one rope aloft, now another: had he seen her fingers moving deftly, swiftly, through the ropes’ ends? .. . and if so why? Why .. . seemingly, it should never have flown at all! “Ah, Katinka Ivanovna. Tell me. Are you really Russian? Polish? Or —”
“ ‘Rilly’? Rilly, I am Rahshian Feen. Often corned famous Lonnrot to my Grandfather house in Karelia, collecting kalevala; why ease eat you ask?”
He tweaked his nose. “Oh... No particular .. .Tell me. Have you ever heard it said that many ’Russian Finns’ are witches and warlocks? That they are said to be able to raise and direct the wind by tying knots in ropes, or even by singing . . . ?” But merely she looked at him, her blue eyes merry and bright. Then she laughed, and, laughing, moved on. Move on. As host, he, too, must ... In the group nearest-by were several of the young liberals, intellectuals and sceptics. What were they talking about? Not, certainly, about the price of hog-lard, still staying calm and steady at 17 ducats, seven skillings the hundredweight — at home, that is; it was reported to have reached such astronomical proportions in Siberia owing to an outbreak of hog-cholera that the peasants were obliged to eat butter.
“No, no,” said one, shaking his head. “The hope of education as an adjunct to popularism is a vain one. Why, only now, even now, stories appear that the bulls in Transbalkania are no longer savage and have been seen and heard dancing to strange piping music with wreaths and garlands round their necks! Peasants who believe such stories are not yet ready to vote. No no.”
And said another, adjusting his pomaded moustache, “Yes, and the papers encourage that sort of thing. Look, here in today’s evening paper, Report from the Rural Districts, listen to this, it’s being said that a country girl near Poposhki-Georgiou saw a bull with a wreath of flowers round its neck and she climbed up to get it and then the bull ran off with her still clinging to its back. . . .”
“Silly girl!”
“What was her name; it wasn’t Europa I suppose?”
“No it wasn’t; what kind of a name is that; it certainly isn’t good Scythian Gothic, what?”
The one with the newspaper gave it a second look. Said, “Olga.”