“Diverted. Yes. I was amused... sometimes.... Always, though, I was diverted. And ah my God! how I need diversion. Ah it’s not like in the old days, before the Big Union,” when, of course, the Two Kingdoms and the Hegemonies had become the Empire; “in those days you could call the Turkish Gypsies or the Mountain Tsiganes into the Old Palace and you could sing and dance and stamp your feet and break wind,” (though “break wind” he did not precisely say), “but nowadays, damn it, oh well. — Yes. Now, that American poet from the American Far-vestern Province, his loyalty to that Valker Villiams or whatever name, really a mere adventurer I suspects, but admirable loyalty and his half-wild costume so fascinating, even that beast Burgenblitz was taken with him by and by — hah! the Pard gave Burgen’ a very good answer I thought! And why of course cut my foot off,” (though “my foot” he did not precisely say), “if that Madame Dombrovski ain’t a fine full figger of a woman!”
His face, which had lit up, now became somewhat troubled. “But, now, Engli, what d’you make of this here,” and he held up the paper.
Hog-lard hundred ducat a hundredweight, Eszterhazy read aloud. Such was the first message, if “message” really it was, of the spirits across the board. “Hmm, well, the lard-merchants at any rate should be happy.”
“Uncle” raised eyebrows. “Oh, should they? If the lard alone costs a hundred ducks a hundredw’ight, how much d’you think the rest of the hog’s going to cost?”
“Why ... I had not thought.”
Guest made a sound between groan and grunt. “No, I suppose not. Not yours to think about. Mine to think about. If hog-lard’s so high, it follows that pork be high too; if pork be high, what of mutton, beef, chicking, what of oat, wheat, grain in general, what of spuds? What’s the cause of it a-going to be? Drought? Blight? Pest? All? Oh sweet caro mi Jesu, not war I do pray?”
Host said that there might well be nothing in the planchette’s communication at all, or if there were, it might refer perhaps to a century in the future when the value of monetary units would have progressively declined, “owing to the inevitable spread of systems of credit. . . .”
Uncle Iggy did not however feel that spirits had come to speak of the price of hog-lard a century hence. “No, it’s for me own time, depend upon it. Some message to me. Tо warn about famine. At least. What’s to be
done, Engelbert?”
Engelbert Eszterhazy let his chin sink upon his chest. Then he brought it up again. “I should see to it, subtly as possible, that the Agricultural Ministry set up or buy up or even long-term lease up very many dry places to store Indian com and then other grain; these gradually to be stocked according to general market price.”
His guest stood up. “What do you philosopher fellows call it? Ha, yes,‘a counsel of perfection,’ well, it’s something to think about and you be sure I am a-going to think about it. Political economy and much such fine phrases I gladly leave to others but when I hear of hog-lard at one hundred ducks a hundredw’ight, why, then I have to think about the Old Man and the Old Woman and the kids at the little old farm in the fields and what might happen to them if prices go high as that. — Engli! My thanks! Oh no you don’t follow me out, neither. ’Night.”
Rather soberly Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Philosophy, aspirant Doctor of Science, considered what had just been spoken. It was said that the great Cuvier could conceive of an entire species on the basis of a single bone; now here was Ignats Louis — always Eszterhazy had thought him a fine man but of never very much mind at all — conceiving of war, famine, pestilence, and death... and all on the basis of a single theoretical commodity price. It was remarkable. Whatever it meant. Or whatever it would some day mean.
The Minister of Law was closeted with the Minister of War. The latter, his ministry being the senior, spoke first. “Well, I see we have two reports before us. One is on the possible dangers arising out of a demarche on our borders on the part of Graustark and Ruritania, to occur shortly; sons of bitches, why don’t they go bother the Bulgars?” The question being rhetorical, he proceeded without waiting for an answer, “And the other is the latest threat of the Baron Burgenblitz of Blitzenburg, etc., an Officer of the Imperial Jaegers, etc., etc.; son of a bitch, why doesn’t he go bother the Bulgars?” In neither case did he say, precisely, “bother.”
The Minister of Law shrugged. “But let us discuss him first, as I am sure that you have already a filed plan in case of invasion by Ruritania and Graustark, whereas we do not have a filed plan in regard to the Baron Burgenblitz. His latest threat is based on his alleged feudal right to refuse to allow one faggot of firewood to be taken from every cart thereof by way of way-tax.”
The Minister of War swore frightfully and then very rapidly stuffed snuff up each nostril and sneezed behind his hand and wiped everything with a large and rather unmilitary-looking handkerchief. Then he asked, “And has he said right?”
The Minister of Law looked rather like a Talmudic scholar who, having just presented the most beautifully lucid argument showing how in a certain instance Hillel was right and Shammai was wrong, has at length come to the point where he must needs present the fact that nevertheless in that instance Shammai was right and Hillel was wrong. “Well, in a way. Yes. Technically, if it were presented to the Court of Compurgation and Replevin, there is no doubt that the Court, if pushed into a corner, would sustain him. But, well, for one thing, the Crown has repeatedly offered to present to the Diet a Schedule whereby his and all other such rights would be bought out; and all the Parties have agreed to support it. But the cockchafer won’t apply to be bought out. And as for forcing him to sell out, well, that presents problems, too. The Autarchian Parties would not support it, surrender of feudal privilege must be voluntary and gradual, they say. Just as the Socialists and Liberals will not support his going on and denying himself the duty of paying all the same taxes as others. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.” The Minister of Law pulled at his very full mutton-chop whiskers. But no solution came out of them, pull as he would.
The Minister of War said that Socialist and Liberal leaders might publicly protest Burgenblitz’s reactionary actions, but — he thumped the green table between them — perhaps privately they were glad of them. “When he ignored the toll-gates, claiming Special Privilege, who knows how many Conservatives became more liberal or how many Agrarian Smallholders began to think socialist? True, he did pay the tolls eventually, but he might refuse again whenever he feels like it. Same with cattle-tax, same with the church-tax, with his, ‘The priest must have a pig?’ says he; ‘I’ll give him the runt of the litter,’ now that just promotes freethinking and infidelity — what century does he think he’s living in? Keeps roaring and yelling that if he is bothered he’ll retreat into his castle-fortress at Blitzenburg and haul up the drawbridge and fire on anyone who comes near him, ho! Wish they’d let me have a free hand, then! ‘My castle is my home?’ what! Just watch me with one battery of artillery reduce his home to rubble: boom-boom! BOOM! Eh?”
The Minister of Law sighed. “Yes, no doubt. But in this year of his Reign the Emperor does not wish to reduce a subject’s home to rubble. Why doesn’t Burgenblitz of Blitzenburg plant wheat and shoot birds like other country gentlemen?”