His Majesty took them, swallowed, swallowed, swallowed; then, with a grateful look, handed back both glass and saucer. In a voice considerably restored, he said, “You may add to your sign, By Appointment... and all the rest of it.” Then he rode on, mostly he gestured; but by now, mostly, they knew the meaning of the gestures.
Go home, boys. Go home.. .
Magnus, “Count Calmar,” went home, too. The wandering Swiss photographer had stuck to his place throughout all the excitement and had, thus, been able to take quite a good picture of Magnus as he stood on the wall waving the Frorish flag. It sold forever back home. Only the colors distinguished the two flags, they having the same pattern, and the colors did not show in the photograph: in Scandia they said it was the flag of Scandia and in Froreland they knew it was the flag of Froreland. As to details, no one bothered them with details. Their Conjoint King had helped plant a National Flag on the walls of the palace which . . . somehow ... he had helped be captured from a brigand: they had received a Hero in a time when it was often assumed that Heroism was dead: enough. The few republicans in the Two Kingdoms (mostly bankers, big brewers, and people like that) so to speak slunk back into their lairs, moodily drank their glog and shnops and ate their boiled stockfish with mutton-fat and bitterness. The King’s return was a good deal jollier than his departure. As usual not much attention was given in the capital(s) to “Ole Skraelandi,” but — later — on the golden-mossed moors of Skraeland itself the gifts of the many, many eagle feathers were gratefully received from the Court Shaman Eeiiuullaalaa in the name of the King. The King, of course, and most warmly, invited the young Cornet Eszterhazy to come and visit, and Eszterhazy — no long Cornet — did so. But that was later.
Much later.
Brief though immense the excitement had been; immense though brief. But he had had excitement before. This was different. It was a while, a long while in fitting together all that had happened. (Most people in Bella never did!) Even he had “pumped” the shaman and the medicineman, via interpreters. Even he had gone over the great steam calliope again and again. (Could such vehicles be made to carry people, without rails?) Even he had examined the records of the police, both Public and Secret. Even . . .
It seemed to him that not alone a new world but a new universe had begun to open before his eyes, eyes from which the scales of ignorance had dropped. Gorgeous gates to which he had to find the keys. Knowledge! Knowledge! Science upon science — anthropology, ethnology, criminology, ornithology; history and law; medicine and mechanics; wisdom unsuspected and knowledge unknown. It was no longer possible to pass one’s days as a sort of upper servant, a glorified messenger; drinking, dicing, riding, hunting, whoring: these could never again suffice. Go thou and learn, somewhere he had heard the words, forgotten where, never mind where, that is what he had to do. First a course, courses, of private studies with tutors, then the university here, then universities elsewhere, then travel. And then again: study ... study ... study.
He would of course have to sell his landed estates to pay for it, but no prospect ever gave him more pleasure. These new estates were greater.
Unfortunate Sir Paunceforth! A rumor, writhing slowly and steadily as an eel bound for the Sargasso, made its way eventually down the Baltic and into the North Sea and thence to London, and so, eventually, to Windsor. Sir Paunceforth De Pueue (unfortunate Sir Paunceforth!) thought fit to mention it to the Widow.
“They say, you know, Ma’am, that there was a sort of conspiracy recently in Froreland, don’t you know, to depose their king and offer the throne to one of Your Majesty’s younger sons; haw!”
The Queen looked at him, saying nothing. Perhaps she did not care to hear of Monarchs being deposed; perhaps she was thinking how willingly she would have sent one of her sons to Froreland (had it been possible), though not necessarily a younger son; perhaps she did not like anyone to say haw! to her. She said nothing.
Sir Paunceforth tried to save the situation, tried very hard to get across the point that this was a funny story. “They say, Ma’am, that the main dish there is boiled stockfish with mut-ton fat! ... in Froreland . . .Haw!”
She looked at him with puffy, bloodshot, icy-blue little eyes. “We are not amused,” she said.
Unfortunate Sir Paunceforth!
Then the Queen said, “Where?”
But as to why the bears were so bad in Bosnia that year. ...
Further Contributions to the Natural History of Love
After a while one gets used to being a frog,
Even though eating flies is a bit off-putting at first.
One day a lovely young woman came along and kissed me.
For a moment, I thought I’d been changed to a handsome young prince, But then she said,
' “Can’t we be just friends?”
— Everett Lee Lady