Dr. Eszterhazy, in a general way, had been aware of all this, as Dr. Eszterhazy, in a general way, was aware of everything in Bella. Sometimes, he felt, he was perhaps too much aware; he had just escaped from an original (as it might be kindly to call him) who desired his patronage to perfect a process whereby clarified goose-grease might be used for lamp-oil. Eszterhazy somehow felt that this was a fuel for which the world was not yet prepared... generally speaking... but this did not mean that the process was yet without value: he had given the original in fact a note to the Semi-permanent Under-secretary of Natural Resources and Commerce, suggesting that that ministry should have tests conducted. At what temperature would clarified goose-grease freeze? At what, turn rancid? Should the freezing-point prove very low and the rancid-point very high, the product might be promoted to foreign ship-chandlers provisioning long sea-voyages. Not only might it light the lamps but, should supplies run out, it might feed the crews. It would be healthier than lard and tastier than salt-butter; perhaps more economical as well.
Bella might even become the anserine equivalent of the city quaintly called “Porkopolis,” in the American province of Mid-vest.
... and should said ministry, faute de mieux, engage Doctor Eszterhazy himself to make those tests ... well, nothing wrong with that, was there?
This being in his mind, he was perhaps only mildly surprised to see a girl herding geese down Lower Hunyadi Street. She wore the traditional blue gauze fichu of the goose-girls of Pannonia; the goose-girls of Panno- nia formed an almost infinite source of folk-lore. Who had not, as a child, and perhaps as an adult, listened to the Lament of the Poor Little l tty Bitty Goose-girl of Pannonia, Betrayed by A Nobly-born Stinkard, and failed to shed tears? Who would not recall lying on the floor by the firelight one lowering winter afternoon whilst listening to old Tanta Rukhelle, spectacles halfway down her nose, reading the story of the poor goose-girl of Pannonia frozen to death whilst faithfully tending her master’s goose in a sudden snowstorm? What popular melodrama or even new-fangled operetta could fail to include at least one scene with a poor little goose-girl in it? It was with, therefore, totally benignant reflections that he watched this particular poor little goose-girl from (presumably) Pannonia marching down the street; she was, equally traditionally, bare-footed, and — with her blue gauze fichu and her lament — equally evocative; the effect was only slightly marred by the fact that she weighed about 300 pounds. Eszterhazy, and, doubtless, everyone else watching noted that her bare feet were quite black: and so, from halfway down their traditionally white bodies, were her geese. And after her came about five-and- thirty other such goose-girls, all of approximately the same description and proportions, also driving piebald geese and also lamenting; nor was this all.
Right behind them came marching a group of the downstream laundresses, creating rather an effect in their unexpectedly sooty shifts; and, as they marched, they did not merely lament: they banged upon their washboards. And they yelled.
Loudly.
He resumed his walk in a rather pensive mood.
What did Brunk say? Brunk preferred to say nothing. What did the Council and Corporation of the City of Bella say? Officially? Nothing. Unofficially? Unofficially they pointed out that it was, after all, Brunk’s coal and Brunk’s coalyard and Brunk’s riverine rights and there was not a damned thing in the laws preventing Brunk from doing what he wanted to do with any of them. It even suggested (unofficially) that the downstream laundresses might choose to launder upstream; but even unofficially it did not suggest that the entire Kingdom of Pannonia, which also lay downstream, might also choose to move upstream. What did the newspapers say? Very little . . . as yet. .. The newspapers did, however, print an occasional “historical essay” indicative of the fact that (a) the
Emperor, besides being also King of Scythia, was also King of Pannonia. .. and, incidentally (b) did possess certain feudal powers as,Warden of the Waters. Nobody out-and-out pointed out that if the Imperial Crown, as a Royal Crown, were suddenly to exercise its feudal (as distinct from its constitutional) powers, how this might strengthen the position of any feudal-minded nobleman intent upon exercising his own feudal powers. Things were seldom simple, and this was clearly not one which was. Meanwhile, did the middle-class housewives of Bella, the best customers of Brunk’s Clean Washed Coal, patriotically boycott the product? Well, one ... it was, after all, clean ... it was, after all, not merely convenient, it was fashionable . . . other things were really not the consideration of Women . . . their own laundry was done at home with well-water . . . and what were the waters of Pannonia to them? . . . One fears that, no, they did not patriotically boycott the product.
The path of progress did not run smooth. Or even smoothly.
“Gracious sir,” asked a man who stopped Dr. Eszterhazy on the street; a man in the traditional pink felt boots worn by Hyperborean elders on festal or formal occasions; “Gracious sir, you has the look of a educated and a influential noble: can you tell me where I should git to aks about the spiritual seductions of our he-goats Back Home?”
Used as he was to odd and unusual questions, this one did startle. So much that he instantly wished to learn more. “Uncle Johnus,” said he
— Uncle was merely common good usage in Hyperborea from a younger man to his elder, and half the men Back Home there were named Johnus
— “Uncle Johnus, if you tell me more maybe I can tell you more, so let us sit down at the tavern table yonder and have fresh rolls and roasted pig-pizzle with a pipkin of rasberry wudky, and do you tell me about that; the cost,” he said, smoothly, noting a suddenly-appearing furrow on the other’s brow, “will be borne by me Out of the revenues of my grandser’s estates, which otherwise we gentry might too easily be tempted to spend on champagne wine and gypsy-girl-dancers. Come on over here, Uncle Johnus.”
Came Uncle Johnus? Uncle Johnus came. “I can always tell a noble gent when I sees one,” he said, contentedly. He skipped upon the rough stone street as though it had been made of velvet. “I take it, my lord YoungLord, that you has travelled amongst us Back Home for you known ezaxtly what we in the High Hyperborea likes for a high snack. . . .” Eszterhazy, feigning a sudden grimness which he did not entirely feel, said, truthfully enough, “I am the great-great-grandson of Engelbert Slash-Turk, the Hero of Hyperborea, through two lines of descent.” Uncle Johnus attempted simultaneously to kiss the brow, cheeks, hand, knees, and feet of the descendant, etc., but was prevented, the descendant employing the magic formula, “Don’t spill the wudky.”
Having managed to avoid spilling the wudky anywhere but down his bearded throat and having eaten the first dish of rolls with as much delight and relish as if they had been petit-fours, Uncle Johnus began to tell the matter which had, by vote of his home hamlet, sent him to the Imperial Capital; for, said he, “I tried to learn some’at in Apollograd,” provincial capital of the Hetmanate of Hyperborea, “but they laugh at me there, me lord YoungLord: they laugh at me!” Eszterhazy assured him, with perfect truth, that he would not laugh at him; thus assured, the man went on. Goats were very canny creatures, Uncle Johnus said... he-goats in particular. They could perfectly well remember that once upon a time in old pagan days they had been worshiped as gods (“They mammal was mommets, in them days,” he put it). But since then generally speaking, being subjected for example along with other animals domestic to an annual aspersion by the priests in blessing, such holy water had druv such unholy ideas clear out of their heads. Mostly. However. Lately —