The bishop, experienced in judging physiognomy and other matters indicative of profession, allowed the hand
at his nose to fall awav, and the snuff to dissipate in the wind (and, if not, to be joined to other dust motes of the National Capital, where, as has been hinted, thev would scarcelv be noticed), transferred book and box to
that hand, and held the newly-unencumbered one out to the visitor, remarking as he did so, “ Sir Advocate . ”
“Engelbert Eszterhazy, of the Faculty of Law, and for to serve Your Reverence. —But how—how did Your Reverence know?”
His Reverence waved the matter aside. “One knows,” he rumbled. “One knows.” He gave the visitor s hand another squeeze. “Well. Doctor Eszterhazy. So. Well. From Bella? Of course. From Bella. You see. One knows ” He gave a slight shrug.
Merely a provincial bishop he might be, the shrug said, but he was well aware of a thing /or two, videlicet that, firstly, the visitor was an Advocate at Law, Secondly, that as such he bore the title of Dr. Juris., and that, Thirdly, such a smart get-up was just the sort of smart get-ups worn by and worn only by members of the Society of Advocates in the Imperial Capital, but that, and after all, Fourthly, it was thus no use trying to humbug the bishop and maybe try to cozen him out of any of his First Fruits, Tithes, Annates, and/or other presbytiral perquisites: no use to try.
“Well, well, Your Reverence is of course quite correct. I have not come here to buy bristles!”
“Ho ho!” the bishop rumbled. “Ahahah. Bristles! Ha! That’s good. That’s a rich one. Bristles, no. But as for, ah, hum, musk?” He raised his eyebrows, twisted his mouth. “Concerning this the humble shepherd had better not ask; therefor he .won’t.
Hor
Eszterhazy’s manner, as he gave his head a slight shake, indicated that he was all too well aware of the reputation, in matters of amour, of the Faculty of Law. He said nothing of the fact that it had been decades since musk had been regarded as a proper gift by the higher-priced courtesans of the Imperial Capital. ,
“What shall I say to my excellent and reverend aqaintance, Pastor Ec- kelhofft, on your behalf, Bishop, when I return?”
“Eckelhofft, ah, Eckelhofft!” The bishop had deftly hiked up his gown and stuck the snuffbox in one pocket and the little book in another. He now raised both hands, palms out, and his eyes as well. “There is a soul for you! There is a mind! Smart? Smarter than six Jesuits! Christian souls in doubt and danger,” he apostrophized them from his garden, with the rose-bushes and the linden trees as witnesses, “such as are subject to hazards innumerable, temptations and licentious doctrines being ever found in the great cities above all places under the sun: have no fear! Sebastian Eckelhofft stands like a beacon-light! Hearken unto him, dwellers in the great imperial high-city! Sit at his feet on the Lord’s day! Eschew Lutheranism in all its forms, not to speak of even worse errors—”
The jurisconsult rubbed his long nose as though appreciative of these admonitions. “Quite a scholar, Pastor Eckelhofft,” he said.
“None better. Cicero at his fingertips, Erasmus in the hollow of his hand. —I was once a bit of a scholar myself,” the bishop said, a touch wistfully. 'Though little enough one finds for learning here, amidst the heathen hordes of Hyperborea.”
“ ‘Heathen' ah yes. Your Reverence refers to the Tartars?”
His Reverence was not so sure. Tartars, he said, Tartars were but simple souls, honest and hardworking, deceived by a false and so- called prophet, true. But there was worse than Tartarism by far to be found in Hyperborea. A Tartar after all was a mere shadow of a Turk, and the Turks, bestial devotees of Lust in all its forms, still, even the Turks had recognized in the Reformed Faith a Faith free from idolotry in all its forms . . .
“There are those here worse than Tartars by far,” he repeated darkly.
The visitor seemed both troubled and fascinated. “I would not dream of contradicting the immense wealth of knowledge and experience,” he said, “on which Your Reverence must base his statements. No doubt it was to th ese historical events which Pastor Ecklehofft referred once or twice when we were discussing—he and I—the surprising hold which the Manichean heresies used to hold, so long ago, upon so many of the inhabitants of this once-flourishing (I refer to pre-Turkish times) district . . . eh?”
But the Bishop of Apollograd did not seem inclined to assent to the eh? “Historical events? Long ago? Used to hold? Used to hold? Pre-Turkish times? Ha Ha!"
Why—surely Bishop Hogyvod did not mean to imply that—?
Bishop Hogyvod did mean to imply. That.
Had Doctor Eszterhazy ever been in Poposhld-Georgiou.
Doctor Eszterhazy touched his own long nose thoughtfully. Yes, he had.
Did Dr. Esterhazy know the famous cheeses of Poposki-Georgiou? Doctor Eszterhazy did; so. And then he must know the method in which those cheeses were ripened. By being carefully wrapped in a clean pig s- bladder, and then wrapped inside of seven sacks, and then buried beneath a dung-heap for two months. “Is it two months?” he pondred. “Well, no matter, two months or—or whatever. The dung-heap, foul though it is, produces an even and continuous heat; a fact pointed out and utilized by the old alchemists. Though maybe not to make cheese. Nevermind. Nevertheless. You put the green cheese under the dung-heap, and, if you wait long enough, what do you get? Ripe cheese. Over-ripe, to my own way of thinking; blood of a she- wolf, how they stink! So now you understand.” He gave his head a portentous nod, and stamped one of his huge feet on the herb-bordered flagstones of the garden path.
Evidently it took a moment for the visitor to clear his throat and pluck up courage to admit that he did not—
“What! Not understand? What, not” The back door of the Bishop s Seat opened and an elderly but spry woman came out, smoothing her apron. “What is there not to understand? You take the green cheese, that is to say, the Manichean or Dualist heresy, the damnable doctrine of the so-called Cathari, or Pure ones, the abominable teachings and practices of the Bulgarian Daemonoloters—you take this and you bury it beneath the dung-heap: that is, obviously, the long, long rule of the Orthodox, the Romanist Catholic, and the Turk: centuries of hiding beneath the surface of the world, like the worms they are, like the serpents which they be. And what do you get? Why what would you get, man? You would get stinking cheese, wouldn't you —Or, in other words, Christian Diabolism. What else?”
The old woman came up and courtsied in the high, antique style. “Good early evening, Sir Bishop, Cook says dinner is ready, and will the gentleman be staying—?”
The bishop’s scowl, at the mention of the word Dinner, vanished like ice in a hot samovar. “Of course the gentleman will be staying, Mrs. Umlaut, do you take him for a fool, why should he eat those greasy kickshaws at the Grand Hotel when he can eat here?”
The gentleman murmured something about Regretting, and indeed tugged at a watch; but the bishop waved the watch back into its pocket. “What? Not eat here? Not have dinner at Apollograd Bishop's Seat? Not have not have ” Here his erudite nose went up a few inches, the nostrils dilated and gave an educated snif . . or two . . . “Not have cock-and-pullet soup with sour cream fresh dill Bosnian prunes? Not have grilled squabs farced with pounded chicken livers and shallots? Not have sweet and sour red cabbage and caraway seeds? Roast breast of heifer with crisp cracklings potato dumplings and sour krout fresh home-made noodles and pot cheese plum brandy fresh- roasted coffee with fresh-ground cinnamon apple-strudel-walnuts-rasins?