“Not according to my Official Intimations,” said the Minister, slightly rustling the documents in his hand. “According to my official Intimations, he is, after all, a Count Calmar.”
“Quite so, Highness; quite so. But, actually, he is, after all, the King of Scandia and Froreland. ... You know....”
“When the King of Scandia and Froreland actually and really visits my country as such, he will actually and really be received as such. After all. Willingly. Gladly. When, however, he comes as Count Calmar, he can be received only as Count Calmar. That is what an incognito is all about, my dear Thorbringsson, you know,” said His Highness the Foreign Minister, in a lower and sympathetic and presumably less official tone of voice. “They should have thought of that in St. Brigidsgarth.”
“Of course they should have,” admitted the Ambassador; “however: they didn't. Meanwhile, Count Calmar is arriving in Bella, and — in, of course, the strictest confidence — I may tell you that Count Calmar is the King of Scandia and Froreland. Is he to be met at the station only by the Customs, the Immigration, and the Pest Control? I put the matter to you.”
The matter so put to him, the Minister of Foreign Affairs agreed that it would not do. The matter so put to the Minister of Ceremonial Affairs, he also agreed that it would not do.
“But, Holy Saint Ulfilas! Two merry-andrew monarchs, both arriving this same morning, and both incognito! For my sin, for my sin, for my own most grievous sin!”
Foreign Affairs paused in his departure, looked at Ceremonial Affairs with slightly raised eyebrows. “Really! Oh you poor chaps! Well, but who is the other?” For total reply Ceremonial Affairs performed an expansive gesture, intended presumably to outline a very large (and very female) figure. Foreign Affairs threw up his hands, rolled his eyes. “For your sin,” he said, dolefully, as he departed, “for your sin, for your own most in grievous sin!“
It was rather a quiet moment in the Stand-by Equerries’ Waiting Room. Some were slowly having breakfast off the buffet. Some sat reading the newspapers, either morning, or of the previous evening. Some sat sipping coffee. Some merely sat. The traditional loaf of large peasants’ bread (stale, traditionally) had not been thrown at a single noisy junior. Enter: a page. “Summons for two,” said he.
This was greeted with the equally traditional groan. Then someone asked, “What’s the task?”
The page (without referring to his paper): “Dowager Margravine of the Ister, one. Count Magnus —”
The Equerries (with a real groan): “Her Fatness! Ooohh!”
“Margrave of the Ister” was one of the lesser titles of the King- Emperor, but not only was his mother long deceased, she had never even been Margravine of the Ister. But all knew who had been... long before the late and sincerely lamented Queen-Empress (Ignats Louis was a widower)....
An inattentive Equerry: “Why are the scrambled eggs so tough? Cook! To the galleys!”
An attentive Equerry: “Oh Christ, it’s my turn. Will no one save me from this frightful fate?”
The Page: “Why ‘frightful’? You go meet the Public Train at the West Station, you bob and do the ‘Highborn and Noble Lady’ lay and all the rest of that cow-puckey, she bobs back, one of her witches comes forward with the charity-pyx, you drop something in, you fall back, some nobly- born nun takes over and takes them away; you come back and sign in and recover your donation from the Clerk of the Privy Purse, you sign out and collect your one-half gold-piece and you’ve got the rest of the day off and can go get bonked at Miss Betty’s —”
Cries of: “Boy! Presumptuous boy! To the galleys! Flog the boy!”
Another Equerry (holding out his hand): “Gimme Fat Emmy!” (Receives the paper summons and departs, accompanied by ribald hoots and howls.)
Yet Another Equerry: “I shall take the other task, Page. Give here.”
This was a young man with a fresh and open face on which sat a light beard and moustache, plus, to be frank, a few freckles. Unlike the majority of equerries, who had on the dun undress jackets which would be changed for dress whites before leaving for duty, he was already wearing his dress white jacket: and on it were pinned the ribbons of a few campaigns. A palace saying had it, “To face a cannonade requires a brave heart and a steady hand; and so does drinking morning coffee in a dress white jacket.” Another Equerry yet leaned over and looked at the official summons to duty. “Who in the Hell, now, is Count Magnus Olaus of Calmar? — besides being a noble of the Kingdoms of Scandia and Froreland? Hey, Engli?”
Engli said that they would see, wouldn’t they? His senior read on, “ ‘Arriving at the North Station,’ at the North! Like a consignment of rendered lard! ‘— with two companions of rank and three servitors.’ Hm, isn’t that the country the polar bears come from? Mind you don’t go back with them and freeze your boboes off.. . Bye Who’s got the morning Journal with the new roman in it?”
“I have, trade you for an Egyptian cig, I’m all out. Ta. Here you are. Funny chap, Engli, eh?”
“Funny, but nice. Oh, good: From the French, Translated. Mm.. ..”
The usual torpor regained rule over the Stand-by-Equerries’ Waiting Room.
Emma Katterina hoisted up her skirts . . . not very far . . . and bobbed a curtsey . . . not a very deep curtsey ... a station-master, even with a high silk hat, was, after all... a station-master. But he had bowed. So she had curtseyed. She repeated the motion, somewhat like all the tents of Kedar being pitched at once, when the Equerry bowed. And she repeated it a third time when the abbess of the Convent of the Purposefully Impoverished Ladies of Noble Rank Being Now the Wee Sisters of the Sacred Crown and Humble Servants of the Very, Very Poor — repeated it considerably more deeply — curtseyed to her. A certain amount of attention was paid her arrival on the Public Train (the public paid rock-bottom rates for a racking, creeping journey, but the public trains ran once a day in each direction over every inch of track belonging to the Royal-and-Imperial Ironroads, and no reservations were ever necessary); but, though more than one person in the station either bowed or curtseyed, her presence in the capital was so well known as not to attract very much attention; and she did not attend further to such further attentions as she did get. She next embraced the Lady-Abbess and to her, and to her small suite, said, “Let us briskly walk. The Mamma is, truth to tell, rather chilled.”
By “The Mamma,” she meant herself.
To the station-master and the Equerry she gave a very thin smile and a very sly glance out of the corners of her tiny eyes, as if to reassure them how she valued their formalities; then she swept out. The station, with its smells of crowds and steam and smoke, like a somewhat smaller and somewhat cheaper version of the Baths of Caracalla done in wrought- iron and smoky glass, was now permitted to resume its usual, and commercial, functions. The 18th century had made a brief appearance. Now the 19th had taken over, once again.
Having seen their baggage into the hydraulic elevator at the Grand Hotel Windsor-Lido (the Scandian Count was merely incognito, not slumming), the Equerry next saw them into the hotel’s dining room. Magnus was feeling rather better. Borg uk Borg was stiff. Borg uk Borg was always stiff. And Kopperkupp, the private secretary, had spent so many years making himself inconspicuous that no one noticed he was there. “I assume that Count Calmar, on the vin du pays principle, is desirous of trying the national breakfast?” Count Calmar merely looked at him. He was rather young, rather tall, rather blond, and rather rough, in appearance. In reality, he was not really rough at all.