So no one tried.
The air was certainly one of more than merely immemorial antiquity. In the shade of the huge trees one felt intimations of things to which the rosary, the Pater Noster and Ave Maria, hardly seemed to apply. Of course the pilgrims, if so they might be called, hardly could have thought so. From time to time relics of the Bronze Age had been found there. Relics of the Stone Age had been found there, and Eszterhazy wondered if these flint knives, mostly now in fragments, had immolated any of the victims in the ancient and horrid rites which had certainly antedated the Goths, to say nothing of the Avars, who had later come to conquer . . . and had stayed . . . and still came and still stayed ... to pray. One did after all feel something there which one did after all not feel somewhere else. If there were not actually dryads in the oaks, not really naiads in the spring or pool or river, well, then of course, one could not really feel them. But for thousands of years, people had come and had emotional experiences there and had believed that there were dryads in the trees and naiads in the spring and pool and stream. And so perhaps it was that which one felt.
Because, to be sure, one felt something.
And as for the incident mentioned in the cutting from the Gazette newspaper? Well, there was a superstition that wood fallen from the trees in the Sacred Grove should not be taken from the Sacred Grove. Once a year, at least once a year, certainly on or very near Midsummer’s Night, great fires were made of all the wind-fall wood — otherwise the place might have become impenetrable. Heathen would not wish to take wood away, because it was sacred; Christians not, because it was, after all, sacred to heathen gods and spirits. It had long been good church doctrine; was it still (he wondered, as the gaslights hissed in the gasolier in his study) good church doctrine that the heathen gods had indeed existed and had been demons? And it was certainly contrary to some deeply-felt regional feeling, call it superstition, that no tree in the Sacred Grove should ever be felled —
— furthermore, it was, the entire area and for a league, say rather leagues, round about, the property of Prince Preez, who had very stern rules regarding the felling of any of his trees — the killing of any of his game — the taking of any of his fish —
But there is perhaps scarcely any rule which someone will not try to break, if it is to someone’s interest to break it. Oaken timber had a price, and it was inevitable that from time to time someone would try to earn that price. It was not clear from the paragraph in the Gazette which was considered the outrage, the attempted cutting-down of the tree or the successful cutting-down of the attemptor? Or just why there was considerable unrest among the peasants: though presumably in connection with the matter of the tree and the manslaughter.
Well, well, he would try to follow it up; meanwhile he carefully scissored the rough edges of the knife-cut newspaper items, neatly pasted them in their proper places in the scrapbooks, neatly made his cross-references. So much of this was in his head anyway that it wasn’t something it would do to
depend on a secretary for; and besides: he had no secretary. Though perhaps some day. Meanwhile, and quite apart from the intrinsic value of what he was doing, the storing-up of knowledge as a part of his life-plan, Dr. Eszterhazy found now (as always) that there was a simple and a rather restorative pleasure in doing such simple tasks as using the scissors and applying the paste. If this was — and it was — rather childlike, what of it? There was, after all, a child in everyone; better to minister to it in such harmless and helpful ways.
Just as he was closing the scrapbook there caught his eye the headline, VERY IMPORTANT new INVENTION. And, as before, he chuckled.
Fairly soon, however: there it was again.
Arriving for his regular session in Composition, Eszterhazy was met as usual by the housekeeper; and, as usual, she curtsied to him. Then, not as usual, she said, “Master has left word, sir, will you be pleased to go over and meet him at Engineer Brozz’s place, behind, in th’ old cow-house and spring-house as they’ve had the builders throw together and they calls it the lavatory.”
They were both there in the laboratory. Something had been added, Eszterhazy felt certain, but he was not yet aware what it was. As before, Brozz looked rather weary; as before, De Metz had his head cocked to one side. Greetings exchanged, De Metz, evidently acting as spokesman, said, “It was felt that perhaps the new invention did not sufficiently demonstrate the,” and here he paused a second, “prac-tic-al application of the invention. Of the tuned harmonic turbine and compressed-air pump. So. Doctor. Therefore —”
Brozz said, rather as one who speaks as it were weary of having spoken the same thing again and again, almost dreamily said, “It is so clean ... so clean ... no fire, no smoke, no ash — Ah. Yes. Instructor De Metz has been kind enough to make some practical suggestions, of the most helpful sort.” Sunlight diffused from the whitewashed walls, emphasizing here a ridge and there a whorl in the plaster covering the brick and stone. As though making some sort of effort, Brozz cleared his throat, lifting his head; muscles worked in his lean throat. “Instructor De Metz has assisted me to devise a small device which will —”
“But show him, show him, my dear Brozz!”
There was a flurry of apologetic sounds. Brozz moved levers. He turned wheels. The sound of water purling became the sound of water gurgling. Rushing. Brozz made one final movement and pulled a bar. By this time Eszterhazy had noticed the box, of wood and metal, which had not been there before: this was the something different, something new. And as the bar settled down into its altered position, there was a distinct click. And from the box, with sounds emulating those of the flute, the small drum, the mouth-organ, there came forth the very specific music of the Imperialusbk, the National Anthem of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania: May Providence Protect Our Royal and Imperial Sovereign From Agues, Plagues, Jacobins, and Wends; And, Indeed, From All Other Afflictions Whatsoever. Commonly called, for purposes of brevity, the Imperialushk.
(Quite another name had originally followed Jacobins, also a name of a single syllable, but political considerations indicated that it would be more tactful to substitute the name of a people which did not have a standing army.)
As the last notes — those which would accompany the words, and even to the humblest grant him and/or her the slice of bread with goosegrease — died away, Eszterhazy was moved to clap his hands: of course no more appropriate after an Anthem than after a hymn. He said, and said quite sincerely, “Charming. Quite charming.” The matter of why it was better to have the music performed by water-powered vacuum pump “and/or” compressed air when music-boxes had done it perfectly well by clockwork . . . and clockwork, after all, operates even during a drought... was quite beside the point. Although ... to be sure ... a regular music-box might not have done the flute and mouth-organ quite as well.
At once De Metz asked, “And to whom else shall we show this?” He did not add, investment possibility. He did not need to.