Here he paused to draw breath and consider his next phrase, and Eszterhazy took the opportunity to approach him from behind and gently place his fingers on the man’s head. He was slightly surprised when the other went on to say, “Anyway, the baronetcy absolutely baffles the Continent of Europe – small wonder, I suppose, when every son of a baron here is also a baron and every son of a prince here is also a prince. No wonder the Continent is simply crawling with princes and barons and counts and grafts – no primogeniture, ah well . . . Now suppose you just call ’em out to me and I’ll write ’em down, can’t read this Gothic or whatever it is, so you needn’t fear I’ll get me back up if you decide I’m deficient in honesty, or whatever, Just say, oh, second down, third over – eh?”
“First down, first over,” said Eszterhazy.
Without moving his head, the Englishman reached out his long arm and made a mark in the first column of the first row. “I was christened George William Marmaduke Pemberton,” he said. “Called me George, was what me people called me. Marmaduke Pemberton was a great-uncle by marriage, long since predeceased by the great-aunt of the blood. Made dog-biscuit, or some such thing, grew rich at it, or perhaps they were digestive biscuits, doesn’t matter. As he’d never gotten any children on Aunt Maude and never remarried after she died, couldn’t get it up. I suppose, rest of me people they thought, well, let’s name this ’un after him and he’ll leave him all his pelf, you see, under the condition of his assuming the name of Smith-Pemberton. Baronetcy was to go to me oldest brother. Well, old Marmaduke left me beans, is what he left me, rest of it went to some fund to restore churches, sniveling parsons had been at him, don’t you see.
“Second down, fourth over, very well. Tenny rate, say what you will, always tipped me a guinea on me birthday, so out of gratitude and because I couldn’t stand the name George, have always used the style Pemberton Smith. Can I get any Continental printer to spell Pemberton correctly? Ha! Gave up trying. Now, as to the odyllic force or forces, in a way it began with Bulwer-Lytton as he called himself before he got his title – ever read any of his stuff? Awful stuff, don’t know how they can read it, but he had more than a mere inkling of the odyllic, you know. What’s that? Fourth down, first over, dot and carry one. And in a way, of course, one can say, ’t all goes back to Mesmer. Well, tut-tut, hmm, of course, Mesmer had it. Although poor chap didn’t know what he had. And then Oscar took a Maori bullet at a place called Pa Rewi Nang Nang, or some such thing, damn-able is what I call it to die at a place called Pa Rewi Nang Nang, or some such thing – sixth down and four, no five over, aiwah, tuan besar. Next thing one knew, Reginald had dived into the Hooghli, likely story, that, and never came up – ’spect a croc got him, poor chap, better mouthful than a hundred scrawny Hindoos, ah well.”
George William Marmaduke Pemberton Smith fell silent a moment and helped himself to two nostrils of Rappee snuff.
“And what’s the consequence? Here is my sole remaining brother, Augustus, heir to the baronetcy. And here’s me, poor fellow, name splashed all over the penny press, because why? Because of a mere accident, a Thing of Nature, here am I, as I might be here, demonstrating the odyllic forces before a subcommittee of the Royal Society, one of whom, Pigafetti Jones, awful ass, having kindly volunteered to act as subject, dis-a-pears! – leaving nothing but his clothes, down to the last brace-button, belly-band, and ball-and-socket truss – Well! After all. Is this a scientific experiment or is this not? Are there such things as the hazards of the chase or are there not such things as the hazards of the chase? First off, laugh, then they say, very well, bring him back, then they dare to call me a char-la-tan: ME! And then—”
Dimly, very dimly, Eszterhazy remembered having read, long ago (and it had not been fresh news, even then), of the singular disappearance of Mr. Pigafetti Jones, Astronomer-Royal for Wales. But what he was hearing now provided more details than he had ever even guessed at. It also provided, if not a complete explanation for, at least an assumption as to why “Milord Sir Smiht” was and had long been wandering the continent of Europe (and perhaps farther) a remittance man, as the British called it. That is, in return for his keeping far away and thus bringing at least no fresh local scandals to his family’s embarrassment, the family would continue to remit him a certain sum of money at fixed intervals.
It was still not clear, though, if he were already a baronet or was merely assumed to be because his father was one. Or had been.
And as for the odyllic force . . .
“Forces,” said the tall old Englishman, calmly. “I am quite confident that there is more than one.”
And for the moment he said no more. Had he read Eszterhazy’s mind, then? Or was it merely a fortuitous comment of his own, in his own disjointed manner?
“Or, for that matter,” the latter went on, in a generous tone of voice, “take Zosimus the Alchemist, if you like. Come in!” The hall-porter came in, bowed with ancient respectfulness (the hall-porter was rather ancient, himself), laid down a salver with a card on it, and withdrew. “Ah-hah. Business is picking up. Fifteen down, three over . . .”
Eszterhazy had not stayed beyond the half-hour, but made a semi-appointment for a later date. The card of the further business awaiting Milord Sir Smiht was facing directly toward both of them, and he could hardly have avoided reading it.
And it read: Brothers Swartbloi, Number 3, Court of the Golden Hart. Snuff-Tobacco.
Third Assistant Supervisory Officer Lupescus, of the Aliens Office, was feeling rather mixed, emotionally. On the one hand, he still had the happiness of having (recently) reached the level of a third assistant supervisory official; it was not every day, or even every year that a member of the Romanou-speaking minority attained such high rank in the Imperial Capital. On the other hand, a certain amount of field work was now required of him, and he had never done field work before. This present task, for instance, this call upon the Second Councilor at the British Legation, was merely routine. “Merely routine, my dear Lupescus,” his superior in the office, Second ASO on Glouki had said. Easily enough said, but, routine or not routine, one had to have something to show for this visit. And it did not look as though one were going to get it.
“Smith, Smith,” the Second Councilor was saying, testily. “I tell you that I must have more information. What Smith?”
All that Lupescus could do was to repeat, “Milord Sir Smiht.”
“‘Milord, Milord,’ there is no such rank or title. Sir, why, that is merely as one would say Herra, or Monsieur. And as for Smith – by the way, you’ve got it spelled wrongly there, you know, it is S-M-I-T-H – well, you can’t expect me to know anything about anyone just named Smith, why, that’s like asking me about someone named Jones, in Cardiff, or Macdonald, in Glasgow . . . Mmm, no, you wouldn’t know about those . . . Ah, well, it’s, oh, it’s like asking me about someone named Novotny in Prague! D’you see?”