Young Doctor Eszterhazy
Thou, eye-bitten, hag-ridden, elf-shotten, anse-rotten:
Under the wolf’s paw, under the eagle’s feather,
Under the eagle’s claw, ever mayest thou wither.
— Anglish Spell
I, eye-clear, hag-dear, elf-sustained, anse-unblamed:
Over the wolf’s paw, over the eagle’s feather,
Over the eagle’s claw, may I ever have good weather.
— Northish counter-spell from The book of the Troll-Hag (Trulldhaggibouger)
It was the year that the bears were so bad in Bosnia.
The year that the bears were so bad in Bosnia and Queen Victoria actually said, “We are not amused,” was a year very crucial in the affairs of Far-Northwestern Europe, as well as those of Scythia-Pannonia- Transbalkania.
The always-tremulous Union of Scandia and Froreland was once again in a state of perturbation, the Frore Nationalists now insisting upon a separate Bureau of Weights and Measures, and the Scands (entirely as a matter of principle, having nothing to do with the imposts on stockfish and goat-cheese) resisting this under the well-known motto, Where will it end? That Froreland and Scandia constituted “Two Gloriously Free Monarchies Conjoined by One Single and Magnanimous Monarch” was a truth as well-known as it was troublesome. The monarch at this time was Magnus IV and III, “Staunchly Lutheran and Ever-Victorious King of the Scands, Sorbs, Goths, Lapps, Lipps, and Frores; Protector of the Skraelings, Terror of Iceland and Ireland, and Benefactor of the Butter Business” — known more generally as Magni — the reaction of the King to this most recent and non-negotiable demand, was to put down his glog-glass and offer to “settle the matter once and for all” by shooting dice for Froreland with the Khan-Tsar of Tsartary — Finnmark and Carelia to be the counter-stakes. This sporting suggestion was met with a most ringing silence all round about the Arctic Circle.
Hence, the train of cars departing from the Finnmark Station in St. Brigidsgarth at a most unusual hour: the Conjoint Cabinet of the Two Kingdoms had met in secret session and decided to send the Terror of Iceland and Ireland, Benefactor of the Butter Business, on an immediate and unofficial tour for the benefit of his health . . . Magnus being notoriously a martyr to bronchitis, liver-complaint, and elf-shot . . . . The incognito title selected was that of Count Calmar; the Royal preference for Great-Duke Gotterdamurung being stiffly and decisively discouraged by Aide-de-Camp Baron Borg uk Borg.
As the journey was unofficial and had been almost unannounced (the Court Circular: The King has retired to the rural areas for a period of time), there was neither a military nor a civil sendoff: only two tiny groups; both on the wrong platform, with two banners: a new one, reading Swearing Eternal Fealty to the House of Olaus-Olaus- Astridson-Katzenelenbogen-Ulf-and-Olaus, Froreland Demands a Separate Bureau of Weights and Measures; and an old one, barely legible, representing the forlorn hope of A Fourteenth Full-Bishop For Faithful Froreland — this last was really getting very scuzzy and should have been replaced long ago — and would have, only it was “stained with the Blood of the Martyrs” — that is, of Adjutant-Bishop Gnump, always excessively prone to nosebleed. (He did indeed die, at the age of 87, during the royal absence, an advent marked by public mass recitations of the Shorter Catechism by all the as-yet-unconfirmed schoolchildren of the two kingdoms — even including the Unreconciled Zwinglians, by special dispensation of their Vicar-at-Large, who stipulated only that at the beginning of the famous and controversial Consubstantiation Clause they were to “pause perceptibly before continuing.”)
For the first two days of the journey, “Count Calmar” had done nothing but drink champagne and play boston with his Aide-de-Camp; the third day he spent in bed (not in berth: in bed: even kings incognito do not travel without maximum basic comfort). Fairly early on the fourth day, the train drew to a slow, steamy halt at a station in what appeared to be a largely industrial suburb of a moderately large city; Magnus peered and blinked. “Is this Antibes?” he inquired, dubiously.
“No, Sire,” said Baron Borg uk Borg. And cleared his throat.
“Not Antibes. ... Cannes?”
“No, Sire. Not Cannes.”
“Not Cannes. Oh! Nicel No . . . not Nice. .. .”
“Not Nice, Sire.”
Magnus considered this, slowly. Very, very slowly. Next he asked, “Then where?”
“Sire,” said Baron Borg uk Borg, who had been awaiting this moment, entirely without enthusiasm, for a long, long time; “Sire: Bella.”
“Oh,” said Magnus. “Bella.” He scraped his tongue against his front teeth. He examined the result. Then, with a sort of convulsion, he leapt to his carpet-slippered feet. “Where?” he cried.
“Sire. Bella.”
The silence was broken only by the tchoof-tchoof, tchoof-tchoof of a very small shunting locomotive, about the size of a very large samovar, in the adjacent marshalling yard. On the platform the assistant station- master was yawning, buttoning his tunic, and eating his breakfast bread-and-goosegrease. A much younger man in a much smarter uniform came walking up quite rapidly. Someone in a frock-coat and a red, blue, and black sash stood by, blinking tiredly.
“No palm trees,” muttered Magnus. Then, “For God’s sake, Borg, get me a glass of glog,” he said. “And tell me where the devil we are... for a moment I thought you said ‘Bella’!”
“ . . . Sire . . . . ”
The Conjoint Cabinet had decided that Scythia-Pannonia- Transbalkania was quite a good idea. “Perhaps,” suggested Royalforen- siccouncillor Gnomi Gnomisson; “Perhaps Magni can learn from a sovereign who rules three countries, how to manage, anyway, Jesus Christ, two.” All the other ministers muttered, “Hear, hear!” and pounded firmly on the green table. (The Special Minister for Frorish Affairs had actually muttered, “Froreland demands a separate Bureau of Weights and Measures,” but he pounded just as firmly as the rest.)
“May you be be-taken on an ice-floe by an impetuous polar bear!” cried Magnus; “At eight o’clock in the morning with a tongue like a stoker’s glove! I cannot meet an emperor!”
“ . . . Sire . . . . ”
“But why is he coming here incognito?” asked Ignats Louis (King- Emperor of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania). “He has never come here cognito; why is he coming here incognito?”
The Minister of Ceremonial Affairs had not become Minister of Ceremonial Affairs for nothing. “Because he is a Lutheran, Sire, and it is Lent,” he said, as smoothly as though these facts had not just occurred to him. “Your Imperial Majesty could not officially receive a Lutheran during Lent.”
“No, he couldn’t, could he,” observed Ignats Louis, who sometimes had trouble with pronouns. “Poor old chap’s a Lutheran, isn’t...” he paused a moment, swept on. “Well, well, so be it and be it so. Lent. Pontifical High Divine Liturgy this morning again, eh. Tell the Right Reverend Mitred Protopresbyter to keep the sermon short.”
Then he put on his morning uniform saying slowly, “King of where?”
“But he is after all the King of Scandia and Froreland,” said the Scandian and Frorish Ambassador. Again.