“Forgive me for interrupting you,” said Whitemaid, “but could you tell us where we are going?”
“To the Ministry. They are all happy to meet you.”
“And we are happy to meet them. But just at the moment my friend and I are rather hungry.”
“Yes,” said the underling with compassion. “We have heard of it in our papers. Your rations in England, your strikes. Here things are very expensive but there is plenty for all who pay, so our people do not strike but work hard to become rich. It is better so, no?”
“Perhaps. We must have a talk about it some time. But at the moment it is not so much the general economic question as a personal immediate need —”
“We arrive,” said the underling. “Here is the Ministry.”
Like much modern Neutralian building the Ministry was unfinished, but it was conceived in severe one-party style. A portico of unembellished columns, a vast, blank doorway, a bas-relief symbolizing Revolution and Youth and Technical Progress and the National Genius. Inside, a staircase. On the staircase was a less predictable feature; ranged on either side like playing-cards, like a startling hand composed entirely of Kings and Knaves, stood ascending ranks of trumpeters aged from sixty to sixteen, dressed in the tabards of medieval heralds; more than this they wore blond bobbed wigs; more than this their cheeks were palpably rouged. As Scott-King and Whitemaid set foot on the lowest step these figures of fantasy raised their trumpets to their lips and sounded a flourish, while one who might from his extreme age have been father to them all, rattled in a feeble way on a little kettledrum. “Frankly,” said Whitemaid, “I am not in good heart for this kind of thing.”
They mounted between the blaring ranks, were greeted on the piano nobile by a man in plain evening dress, and led to the reception hall which with its pews and thrones had somewhat the air of a court of law and was in fact not infrequently used for condemning aspiring politicians to exile on one or other of the inhospitable islands that lay off the coast of the country.
Here they found an assembly. Under a canopy, on the central throne, sat the Minister of Rest and Culture, a saturnine young man who had lost most of his fingers while playing with a bomb during the last revolution. Scott-King and Whitemaid were presented to him by Dr. Fe. He smiled rather horribly and extended a maimed hand. Half a dozen worthies stood round him. Dr. Fe introduced them. Honorific titles, bows, smiles, shakes of the hand; then Scott-King and Whitemaid were led to their stalls amid their fellow guests, now about twelve in number. In each place, on the red-plush seat, lay a little pile of printed matter. “Not precisely esculent,” said Whitemaid. Trumpets and drum sounded without; another and final party arrived and was presented; then the proceedings began.
The Minister of Rest and Culture had a voice, never soft perhaps, now roughened by a career of street-corner harangues. He spoke at length and was succeeded by the venerable Rector of Bellacita University. Meanwhile Scott-King studied the books and leaflets provided for him, lavish productions of the Ministry of Popular Enlightenment—selected speeches by the Marshal, a monograph on Neutralian pre-History, an illustrated guide to the ski-ing resorts of the country, the annual report of the Corporation of Viticulture. Nothing seemed to have bearing upon the immediate situation except one, a polyglot programme of the coming celebrations. “17.00 hrs.,” he read. “Inauguration of the Ceremonies by the Minister of Rest and Culture. 18.00 hrs. Reception of delegates at the University of Bellacita. Official dress. 19.30 hrs. Vin d’honneur offered to the delegates of the Municipality of Bellacita. 21.00 hrs. Banquet offered by the Committee of the Bellorius Tercentenary Committee. Music by Bellacita Philharmonic Youth Squadron. Evening dress. Delegates will spend the night at the Hôtel 22nd March.”
“Look,” said Whitemaid, “nothing to eat until nine o’clock and, mark my words, they will be late.”
“In Neutralia,” said Dr. Arturo Fe, “in Neutralia, when we are happy, we take no account of time. Today we are very happy.”
The Hôtel 22nd March was the name, derived from some forgotten event in the Marshal’s rise to power, by which the chief hotel of the place was momentarily graced. It had had as many official names in its time as the square in which it stood—the Royal, the Reform, the October Revolution, the Empire, the President Coolidge, the Duchess of Windsor—according to the humours of local history, but Neutralians invariably spoke of it quite simply as the “Ritz.” It rose amid subtropical vegetation, fountains and statuary, a solid structure, ornamented in the rococo style of fifty years ago. Neutralians of the upper class congregated there, sauntered about its ample corridors, sat in its comfortable foyer, used the concierge as a poste restante, borrowed small sums from its barmen, telephoned sometimes, gossiped always, now and then lightly dozed. They did not spend any money there. They could not afford to. The prices were fixed, and fixed high, by law; to them were added a series of baffling taxes—30 per cent for service, 2 per cent for stamp duty, 30 per cent for luxury tax, 5 per cent for the winter relief fund, 12 per cent for those mutilated in the revolution, 4 per cent municipal dues, 2 per cent federal tax, 8 per cent for living accommodation in excess of minimum requirements, and others of the same kind; they mounted up, they put the bedroom floors and the brilliant dining rooms beyond the reach of all but foreigners.
There had been few in recent years; official hospitality alone flourished at the Ritz; but still the sombre circle of Neutralian male aristocracy—for, in spite of numberless revolutions and the gross dissemination of free thought, Neutralian ladies still modestly kept the house—foregathered there; it was their club. They wore very dark suits and very stiff collars, black ties, black buttoned boots; they smoked their cigarettes in long tortoiseshell holders; their faces were brown and wizened; they spoke of money and women, dryly and distantly, for they had never enough of either.
On this afternoon of summer when the traditional Bellacita season was in its last week and they were all preparing to remove to the seaside or to their family estates, about twenty of these descendants of the crusaders sat in the cool of the Ritz lounge. They were rewarded first by the spectacle of the foreign professors’ arrival from the Ministry of Rest and Culture. Already they seemed hot and weary; they had come to fetch their academic dress for the reception at the University. The last-comers—Scott-King, Whitemaid, Miss Sveningen and Miss Bombaum—had lost their luggage. Dr. Arturo Fe was like a flame at the reception desk; he pleaded, he threatened, he telephoned. Some said the luggage was impounded at the customs, others that the taxi driver had stolen it. Presently it was discovered in a service lift abandoned on the top storey.
At last Dr. Fe assembled his scholars, Scott-King in his M.A. gown and hood, Whitemaid, more flamboyantly, in the robes of his new doctorate of Upsala. Among the vestments of many seats of learning, some reminiscent of Daumier’s law courts, some of Mr. Will Hay of the music-hall stage, Miss Sveningen stood conspicuous in sports dress of zephyr and white shorts. Miss Bombaum refused to go. She had a story to file, she said.
The party trailed out through the swing doors into the dusty evening heat, leaving the noblemen to compare their impressions of Miss Sveningen’s legs. The subject was not exhausted when they returned; indeed, had it risen earlier in the year it would have served as staple conversation for the whole Bellacita season.
The visit to the University had been severe, an hour of speeches followed by a detailed survey of the archives. “Miss Sveningen, gentlemen,” said Dr. Fe. “We are a little behind. The Municipality is already awaiting us. I shall telephone them that we are delayed. Do not put yourselves out.”
The party dispersed to their rooms and reassembled in due time dressed in varying degrees of elegance. Dr. Fe was splendid, tight white waistcoat, onyx buttons, a gardenia, half a dozen miniature medals, a kind of sash. Scott-King and Whitemaid seemed definitely seedy beside him. But the little brown marquesses and counts had no eye for these things. They were waiting for Miss Sveningen. If her academic dress had exposed such uncovenan
ted mercies, such superb, such unpredictable expanses and lengths of flesh, what would she not show them when gowned for the evening?
She came.
Chocolate-coloured silk enveloped her from collar-bone to humerus and hung to within a foot of the ground; low-heeled black satin shoes covered feet which seemed now unusually large. She had bound a tartan fillet in her hair. She wore a broad patent-leather belt. She had a handkerchief artfully attached to her wrist by her watch-strap. For perhaps a minute the inky, simian eyes regarded her aghast; then, one by one, with the languor born of centuries of hereditary disillusionment, the Knights of Malta rose from their places and sauntered with many nods to the bowing footmen towards the swing doors, towards the breathless square, towards the subdivided palaces where their wives awaited them.
“Come, lady and gentlemen,” said Dr. Arturo Fe. “The cars are here. We are eagerly expected at the Hôtel de Ville.”
No paunch, no jowl, no ponderous dignity of the countinghouse or of civic office, no hint indeed of pomp or affluence, marked the Lord Mayor of Bellacita. He was young, lean and plainly ill at ease; he was much scarred by his revolutionary exploits, wore a patch on one eye and supported himself on a crutch-stick. “His Excellency, alas, does not speak English,” said Dr. Fe as he presented Scott-King and Whitemaid.
They shook hands. The Lord Mayor scowled and muttered something in Dr. Fe’s ear.
“His Excellency says it is a great pleasure to welcome such illustrious guests. In the phrase of our people he says his house is yours.”
The English stood aside and separated. Whitemaid had sighted a buffet at the far end of the tapestried hall. Scott-King stood diffidently alone; a footman brought him a glass of sweet effervescent wine. Dr. Fe brought him someone to talk to.
“Allow me to present Engineer Garcia. He is an ardent lover of England.”
“Engineer Garcia,” said the newcomer.
“Scott-King,” said Scott-King.
“I have work seven years with the firm Green, Gorridge and Wright Limited at Salford. You know them well, no doubt?”
“I am afraid not.”
“They are a very well-known firm, I think. Do you go often to Salford?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never been there.”
“It is a very well-known town. What, please, is your town?”
“I suppose, Granchester.”
“I am not knowing Granchester. It is a bigger town than Salford?”
“No, much smaller.”
“Ah. In Salford is much industry.”
“So I believe.”
“How do you find our Neutralian champagne?”
“Excellent.”
“It is sweet, eh? That is because of our Neutralian sun. You prefer it to the champagne of France?”
“Well, it is quite different, isn’t it?”
“I see you are a connoisseur. In France is no sun. Do you know the Duke of Westminster?”
“No.”
“I saw him once at Biarritz. A fine man. A man of great propriety.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. London is his propriety. Have you a propriety?”
“No.”
“My mother had a propriety but it is lost.”
The clamour in the hall was tremendous. Scott-King found himself the centre of an English-speaking group. Fresh faces, new voices crowded in on him. His glass was repeatedly filled; it was over-filled and boiled and cascaded on his cuff. Dr. Fe passed and re-passed. “Ah, you have soon made friends.” He brought reinforcements; he brought more wine. “This is a special bottle,” he whispered. “Special for you, Professor,” and refilled Scott-King’s glass with the same sugary froth as before. The din swelled. The tapestried walls, the painted ceiling, the chandeliers, the gilded architrave, danced and dazzled before his eyes.
Scott-King became conscious that Engineer Garcia was seeking to draw him into a more confidential quarter.
“How do you find our country, Professor?”
“Very pleasant, I assure you.”
“Not how you expected it, eh? Your papers do not say it is pleasant. How is it allowed to scandalize our country? Your papers tell many lies about us.”
“They tell lies about everyone, you know.”
“Please?”
“They tell lies about everyone,” shouted Scott-King.
“Yes, lies. You see for yourself it is perfectly quiet.”
“Perfectly quiet.”
“How, please?”
“Quiet,” yelled Scott-King.
“You find it too quiet? It will become more gay soon. You are a writer?”
“No, merely a poor scholar.”
“How, poor? In England you are rich, no? Here we must work very hard for we are a poor country. In Neutralia for a scholar of the first class the salary is 500 ducats a month. The rent of his apartment is perhaps 450 ducats. His taxes are 100. Oil is 30 ducats a litre. Meat is 45 ducats a kilo. So you see, we work.
“Dr. Fe is a scholar. He is also a lawyer, a judge of the Lower Court. He edits the Historical Review. He has a high position in the Ministry of Rest and Culture, also at the Foreign Office and the Bureau of Enlightenment and Tourism. He speaks often on the radio about the international situation. He owns one-third share in the Sporting Club. In all the New Neutralia I do not think there is anyone works harder than Dr. Fe, yet he is not rich as Mr. Green, Mr. Gorridge and Mr. Wright were rich in Salford. And they scarcely worked at all. There are injustices in the world, Professor.”
“I think we must be quiet. The Lord Mayor wishes to make a speech.”
“He is a man of no cultivation. A politician. They say his mother . . .”
“Hush.”
“This speech will not be interesting, I believe.”
Something like silence fell on the central part of the hall. The Lord Mayor had his speech ready typed on a sheaf of papers. He squinnied at it with his single eye and began haltingly to read.
Scott-King slipped away. As though at a great distance he descried Whitemaid, alone at the buffet, and unsteadily made his way towards him.
“Are you drunk?” whispered Whitemaid.
“I don’t think so—just giddy. Exhaustion and the noise.”
“I am drunk.”
“Yes. I can see you are.”
“How drunk would you say I was?”
“Just drunk.”
“My dear, my dear Scott-King, there if I may say so, you are wrong. In every degree and by every known standard I am very, very much more drunk than you give me credit for.”
“Very well. But let’s not make a noise while the Mayor’s speaking.”
“I do not profess to know very much Neutralian but it strikes me that the Mayor, as you call him, is talking the most consummate rot. What is more, I doubt very much that he is a mayor. Looks to me like a gangster.”
“Merely a politician, I believe.”
“That is worse.”
“The essential, the immediate need is somewhere to sit down.”
Though they were friends only of a day, Scott-King loved this man; they had suffered, were suffering, together; they spoke, preeminently, the same language; they were comrades in arms. He took Whitemaid by the arm and led him out of the hall to a cool and secluded landing where stood a little settee of gilt and plush, a thing not made for sitting on. Here they sat, the two dim men, while very faintly from behind them came the sound of oratory and applause.
“They were putting it in their pockets,” said Whitemaid.
“Who? What?”
“The servants. The food. In the pockets of those long braided coats they wear. They were taking it away for their families. I got four macaroons.” And then swiftly veering he remarked: “She looks terrible.”
“Miss Sveningen?”
“That glorious creature. It was a terrible shock to see her when she came down changed for the party. It killed something here,” he said, touching his heart.
“Don’t cry.”
“I can’t help crying. You’ve seen her brown dress? And the hair ribbon? And the handkerchief?”
“Yes, yes, I saw it all. And the belt.”
“The belt,” said Whitemaid, “was more than flesh and blood could bear. Something snapped, here,” he said, touching his forehead. “You must remember how she looked in shorts? A Valkyrie. Something from the heroic age. Like some god-like, some unimaginably strict school prefect, a dormitory monitor,” he said in a kind of ecstasy. “Think of her striding between the beds, a pigtail, bare feet, in her hand a threatening hairbrush. Oh, Scott-King, do you think she rides a bicycle?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“In shorts?”
“Certainly in shorts.”
“I can imagine a whole life lived riding tandem behind her, through endless forests of conifers, and at midday sitting down among the pine needles to eat hard-boiled eggs. Think of those strong fingers peeling an egg, Scott-King, the brown of it, the white of it, the shine. Think of her biting it.”
“Yes, it would be a splendid spectacle.”
“And then think of her now, in there, in that brown dress.” “There are things not to be thought of, Whitemaid.” And Scott-King, too, shed a few tears of sympathy, of common sorrow in the ineffable, the cosmic sadness of Miss Sveningen’s party frock.
“What is this?” said Dr. Fe, joining them some minutes later. “Tears? You are not enjoying it?”
“It is only,” said Scott-King, “Miss Sveningen’s dress.”
“This is tragic, yes. But in Neutralia we take such things bravely, with a laugh. I came, not to intrude, simply to ask, Professor, you have your little speech ready for this evening? We count on you at the banquet to say a few words.”
For the banquet they returned to the Ritz. The foyer was empty save for Miss Bombaum who sat smoking a cigar with a man of repellent aspect. “I have had my dinner. I’m going out after a story,” she explained.
It was half past ten when they sat down at a table spread with arabesques of flower-heads, petals, moss, trailing racemes and sprays of foliage until it resembled a parterre by Le Nôtre. Scott-King counted six wineglasses of various shapes standing before him amid the vegetation. A menu of enormous length, printed in gold, lay on his plate beside a typewritten place-card “Dr. Scotch-Kink.” Like many explorers before him, he found that prolonged absence from food destroyed the appetite. The waiters had already devoured the hors-d’oeuvre, but when at length the soup arrived, the first mouthful made him hiccup. This, too, he remembered, had befallen Captain Scott’s doomed party in the Antarctic.