Pleased to Meet You

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Fiction | (with Don Marquis) | Essays | Poetry | Plays

Pleased to Meet You

Chapter 1

"I never supposed it would come to this," said Frau Innsbruck. Her vigorous torso, tightly compressed in black, creaked a little with indignation.

The small sunny chamber where they lunched together showed nothing to suggest what deplorable condition "this" was. But it seemed to be something she saw through the window. From that outlying wing of the old building they could look across a well-trimmed lawn to the façade of the château. Over the roof of mossed crumbling tiles and conical towers floated a green and white banner which had just been raised.

"How are we to behave when he arrives," she continued, "and what are we to call him? Why, the man started life as a fishmonger. I never thought we'd see such doings in the Farniente Palace."

Her companion breathed heavily over the last of his roll and honey. Herr Romsteck was elderly, portly, and austere; his manner showed that he knew any attempt to express his feelings would be inadequate. A blob of honey had fallen on the lapel of his worn but immaculate tail coat. He removed it half-heartedly, as though such trifles hardly mattered now.

"It isn't a palace any longer," he said. "I had orders this morning from the Commissioner of Public Buildings—think of that, Public Buildings—that from now on this is officially known as the Executive Mansion. The Council of the League of Nations does not desire that any 'reactionary' sentiment be retained in our government names."

"What right, I should like to know, has the League of Nations to interfere" exclaimed the housekeeper. "League of Nations, indeed! League of Barbarians. Do you know that when all those foreigners were here, English prime ministers and people like that, one of them actually smoked a pipe in his bedroom—the very room that was Duchess Liesel's boudoir. Oh, I know it is even harder for you, whose family have served here with honour for generations. But I thought that when the horrible war was over things would be better; and we've come to this. We might as well be a soviet."

"We shall have to be on our dignity," said Romsteck. "The future of Illyria is in our hands. It is the grand dukes and generals and statesmen, perhaps even the fishmongers, who get into the history books; but we are the real power behind the throne. It is we who see that their meals are suitably planned, their beds aired, their trousers ironed, their social precedences arranged. By sheer excellence of example we shall have to lift this unfortunate proletarian above his natural depravity. Let me point out to you also, it is dangerous to speak lightly of the League of Nations. They might have wiped us off the map altogether."

"Ah, the good old days," sighed Innsbruck. "The Grand Duke with his Rolls Royce and his beautiful ladies and the laughter on the terrace. There was some satisfaction in serving in an elegant and vicious household like that. There was no talk then of economies and republics and debts. The bourgeois virtues are so dull."

There was a tap at the door and Karl the wine-steward came in. He was a grizzled little fellow in a green felt apron stained by years of grubbing among cobwebs and mildew.

"Your pardon, Herr Romsteck," he said, "but here is the cellar inventory you wanted. We are a bit short in the Burgundies; when the envoys from Geneva were here they absolutely demolished the 1911 Chambertin and Hospice de Beaune. The Musigny also is very low."

"The gentlemen from the League," observed Romsteck, "have a very genteel taste in wine."

"Except the Americans. When the American commissioner was here to arrange our finances he would have nothing but champagne. However I worked off a cheap sparkling Chablis on him and he did not know the difference."

"Considering the habits of our late lamented Grand Duke," said the major domo, looking over the list, "your bins seem to be very fairly stocked."

"Plenty good enough, anyhow, for a republican administration. What a calamity!"

"It is a time of crisis," said Romsteck gravely. "There must be no nonsense about retrenchment or we shall all find ourselves retrenched out of existence. We are lucky to be here at all."

"Yes," cried Karl, "and what did it? If I had not had presence of mind to serve the 1865 cognac the evening the protocol was signed, we should have been annexed to Italy. I saw the hard hearts of those premiers begin to soften after the third glass."

"I hope you have plenty of it left," said Frau Innsbruck bitterly. "There may be need of it."

"But do you suppose there will be anyone in this new government who will appreciate the finer things?" There was the wistfulness of the connoisseur in the cellarer's voice. "These proletarians, will they have a taste for anything beyond beer?"

"We shall educate them," said Romsteck. "The tradition of our vanished aristocracy rests with us."

The door opened, admitting Pigalle, the chef, the only member of the staff who considered himself privileged to enter the major domo's sitting room without knocking. His tall white cap was furiously awry, his face engraved with irony.

"I see the flag of the republic has been raised," he said grimly. "Our chief magistrate arrives to-day. Pigs' trotters and sour kraut, I conceive, will be delicacies adequate to this evening's repast."

"Pigalle," said Romsteck, "my heart bleeds for you. I know the suffering of the great creator confronted by patrons unworthy of his art. But a word with you in all gravity. We face a situation unparalleled. It is not with pigs' trotters and sour kraut that we can raise this new ministry to a sense of national dignity. None knows better than you the elevating influence of cultivated fare. It is with truffled quails or a turbot boiled in wine that we will strike the proper note."

"On this new budget you allow me!" exclaimed the chef. "Absurd! Besides I thought it best to refrain from fish. It might be considered an allusion."

"You, who are master of your art, will know best how to proceed," said Romsteck tactfully. "Strike terror into their hearts with the delicacy of your cuisine. It is the subtlest form of revenge."

"It is true," said the chef, "that my truffled quails au basilic, and a Strasbourg pâté in the shape of a prostrate nymph, did much to mollify the tyrants from Geneva. I attribute it to that pâté that we were not annexed to Jugoslavia."

"It may well be," said Romsteck. "And now, since the Herr President will soon be here, I think we should call the staff together and say a few words in regard to the etiquette we will pursue. Frau Innsbruck, if you will have the household assembled in the great hall I shall address them briefly."

Chapter 2

The traveller in Illyria, whether a casual sightseer or one of the various commissioners, diplomats, and errants of fortune who found themselves there during the complications of After-War, has gazed through the high iron gates on the Pannonia Platz and admired the Farniente Palace at the end of its avenue of linden trees. Built long ago by a French architect for an Adriatic millionaire and occupied for generations by Austrian minor princes, it stands islanded in the loop of a little river and looks over the old city toward the opal horizon of the Carinthian alps. The town has the polyglot and cosmopolitan flavour appropriate to a region that has been a debatable ground among rival powers since the time of the Ostrogoths. The prime ministers and economic experts of the great powers carved out the republic of Illyria from the relics of a fallen empire and encouraged the newly risen Labour Party to put one of its leaders in the chair as first President. They came from Geneva to Farniente, spread maps and agenda papers over the departed Grand Duke's vast dining table, and (as we have heard) polished off what was left of the Grand Duke's pre-War Burgundies. They allotted the infant republic a generous quota of war debts to pay, arranged for a bond issue and a loan from an American banker, and impressed upon the anxious parliament the necessity of a convincing show of republican enthusiasm. They spoke sternly of order, productivity, and a prompt stabilization of the florin. Then they departed, without having given much thought to the possible social embarrassments of the new President. They had more urgent matters to wrestle with, and all they wanted for the time being was to hear as little of Illyria as possible.

But these problems were sharply present to Herr Guadeloupe as he and his daughter Nyla drove in a rickety taxi to take up official resi- dence in the palace he had never entered and which had been, only a few months before, so far beyond the horizon of his most fantastic dreams. The fishmongering that Frau Innsbruck resented was long in the past, but he remained what he had always been, a simple sturdy little man with the conscientious bonhomie of his peasant stock. He was quite aware that only the comedy of circumstance had thrust him into this position, and that both extremes of Illyrian politics would rejoice at his humiliation and downfall. He was correspondingly eager to tread softly and not make mistakes. There had been a great meeting of his supporters the night before, at which glowing forecasts were made of what the new republic would mean for the labouring classes. The New Freedom and the Folkvoice, very ill-printed proletarian journals, had come out with predictions which he knew were fallacious. A demonstration had been planned to celebrate his move to the palace. To avoid this uncomfortable publicity he sent out Nyla, two hours before the time advertised, to call a cab. They slipped away from the modest home where Nyla had kept house for her widowed father. Now, in an elderly vehicle of Detroit lineage, they came clanking solemnly down the famous alley of lime trees.

Nyla, a handsome spirited girl of nineteen, was naturally elated.

"Now, Father," she said gaily, "you mustn't be nervous. Everything will be all right. Don't push your hat over one eye like that."

Guadeloupe fidgeted unhappily in the new outfit of cutaway coat and wing collar which she had insisted on his buying. Nyla had carefully observed the British foreign minister when that handsome creature was in Farniente, and had planned the President's attire on the same lines. It was less successful on his short thick figure. His hands flitted instinctively in search of his pipe, but the arrangement of pockets in a cutaway coat was unfamiliar.

"I am nervous," he said, and began to pull off his gloves.

"Nonsense! Anyone who can talk to political meetings as you can needn't be afraid. You mustn't forget that you're a great man. Don't you dare take off those gloves until I tell you. How all this would have surprised Mother."

He relapsed into dogged and wary silence. Political meetings are easy, he reflected, but this social racket is something quite different. If we're our natural selves, the aristocrats will sneer; if we put on airs, the populace will resent it. He thought wistfully of the little home where he and Nyla had been so comfortable.

The taxi-driver, a fiercely moustached and emotional mountaineer, was enormously excited at having been chosen to drive Ilyria's first President to the palace. This would be something to talk about for the rest of his life. His sense of the dignity of the occasion suggested a slow and stately progress with much unnecessary tooting on an old rubber bulb horn. This attracted a dog of no importance who was sunning in the broad Pannonia Platz. With a quick instinct for the unusual he accom- panied the car down the sacred allée, bounding and yapping just under the fender.

"Tell the driver not to go so slow," Nyla said as they approached. "It looks more like a funeral than a President arriving. Oh see, Daddy, there's the new flag, the flag of the Republic. I'm so thrilled!"

"It will be a funeral, if that dog doesn't look out," said Herr Guadeloupe.

The driver, adjured to move faster, rather overdid it. He shot across the stone bridge, spun round the curved driveway, pulled up at the broad front steps with a squeal of brakes and sliding of tires on the gravel. Behind them, the dog, one of whose feet had been caught by surprise, yelled insult and reproach.

"Sit still," said Nyla hastily. "Probably there'll be a footman or somebody to open the door."

But the Executive Mansion seemed strangely deserted. The big doorway stood closed. The agitated taxi-man also remained nervously in his seat, afraid of doing something wrong.

"What do we do next?" said Herr Guadeloupe.

After a brief hesitation they got out, the taxi-man seized the Presidential portfolio, and they stood anxiously on the steps.

"Good God, I don't see any door-bell."

"Now, Father, don't get rattled. We've got a right to be here."

"I knew something like this would happen. If it gets into the papers2"

The driver was peering through the pane of the door.

"Why, there's the whole crowd of 'em inside there," he said hoarsely. "Shall I bang on the glass?"

"For heaven's sake don't!" exclaimed Nyla.

But he was not going to miss his chance of a lifetime to create a sensation. Already he had opened the door and thrust his head in. Romsteck, not expecting the arrival so early, was just finishing his speech to the assembled household. They were all there, footmen, chambermaids, cooks, gardeners, sentries, the whole staff of the palace, receiving their instructions. They stood respectfully grouped while Romsteck, on the third tread of the grand staircase, was explaining the ethics of domestic service under a republic.

"Hey, wake up there!" shouted the taxi-man. "Here's the President."

Chapter 3

To Herr Guadeloupe, who was accustomed to the primitive ministrations of one peasant maid, it was hardly credible that these were all servants. For an instant, seeing so unexpectedly large a gathering, the notion occurred to him that this was a conspiracy of die-hard royalists, met for some final desperation in honour of the old régime. But Romsteck, advancing with episcopal mien, was a reassuring figure; so impressive indeed that the embarrassed President at first imagined him some dignitary of the League of Nations, left behind to supervise the installation. For the League he had a wholesome horror, having learned that all its dealings cost him toil and responsibility. There was no knowing when the Paris-Constantinople Express might not drop off, at the junction a few miles away, another committee of gentlemen with brief-cases empowered to look into Illyrian affairs.

"Welcome, Herr President," said Romsteck solemnly. "You find the staff assembled to do you honour. I am the major domo."

"How do you do, Major," said Guadeloupe nervously. He removed his hat and bowed formally. Straightening again he found a tall figure in uniform holding out a hand, which he grasped with grateful cordiality.

"Your hat, Herr President," Romsteck explained.

The President tried to catch Nyla's eye, to know whether the time had come to remove his gloves.

"My gloves, Major. That is, I mean, my daughter."

"The Fräulein is worthy of this ancient house's tradition of beauty," said Romsteck gallantly. "I present Frau Innsbruck, the housekeeper."

"Also worthy of the ancient tradition," said the flustered President. Then, noticing the lady's age, he attempted to improve on the remark. "We shall cohabit in friendly tranquillity, I'm sure."

"The Herr President does me too much honour," said Frau Innsbruck.

"Don't forget to pay the taxi," Nyla whispered in his ear.

A gloved hand is awkward in rummaging a trouser pocket. It came out with some bank notes but also with the toothbrush which he had remembered at the last moment.

"My luggage," he began.

"It shall be well cared for, Herr President. If you will entrust it2"

Another open palm was ready; this time he knew enough not to shake it, but gave it the toothbrush instead. It was borne ceremoniously away.

"I mean to say my luggage will be here presently."

"The Herr President's portfolio," said the taxi-man officiously, coming forward with the brief-case, to which he had obstinately clung.

"Pardon, Major, but have you any change?" Herr Guadeloupe, thriftily examining his money, could find nothing less than a fifty florin note. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder whether Presidents have expense accounts. This was a point that had not been covered by the constitutionalists from Geneva.

"Health and happiness to the new Republic," ejaculated the taxi-man, "and perhaps at such a moment the Herr President2"

"I will arrange the matter," said Romsteck severely.

Frau Innsbruck was already escorting Nyla upstairs, and the anxious statesman felt free to discard his gloves. He was more terrified than cheered by the grave politeness of the unknown official. All his democratic instincts prompted him to suggest some little friendly celebration. He felt an immense eagerness to catch all these observant eyes with a cordial nod; he would have liked to make a short speech on the future of Illyria and follow it by treating to a drink all round. In the rustic meetings to which he was best accustomed this would have been enormously successful, but this company of maids in neat uniforms and footmen in white cotton stockings was an audience he did not understand. He was clearing his throat to make some general salutation when Romsteck advanced upon him sombrely with a whisk brush and dusted off his coat.

"The Herr President's trousers," he said sharply, and a footman knelt down to rearrange the drape of those garments.

"I'm afraid they're too long," said the President bashfully. "Please, Major, do not trouble yourself—I must shorten my suspenders." He looked round unhappily, almost fearing they would insist on his doing so immediately.

"The Grand Duke always liked to have his trousers adjusted when he came in from outdoors," said Romsteck.

"I believe I arrived sooner than you expected."

"It is of no consequence," said Romsteck. "Your apartments are in readiness. Now, Herr President, if you please I will conduct you through the mansion." He gave a sign of dismissal, and the attendants dispersed. The younger chambermaids, who had been on the verge of nervous titters, fled hurriedly to talk it over. Guadeloupe wiped his forehead.

"You are very kind," he said. "This, you will understand, is something of an ordeal."

They stood in the great paved hall, where the beautiful stone stair, with its wrought-iron balustrade, runs up to a gallery overhead. Along the wall hung portraits of old seventeenth century Dukes of Farniente. The President had hardly realized yet that he was actually going to live in this place. He felt more like a visitor in a museum.

"I always wondered what the palace was like inside," he said politely. "It must be difficult to keep warm in winter."

"This is the Red Room," announced Romsteck, leading the way to an adjoining chamber. "This escritoire of rosewood and mother-of-pearl was a masterpiece of the great Venetian cabinet-maker Belluno. The tapestry, with the monogram of the Hapsburgs, was given to the palace by the Emperor Maximilian. In this room the Grand Duke used to meet his ministers for business discussions, mainly to increase the taxes. Behind these curtains was where the anarchist concealed himself when he fired at the Grand Duke Moritz. You see, there is plenty of space for an assassin to hide." With a dramatic air he pulled the hangings aside. Guadeloupe was relieved to observe that the embrasure was empty. He wondered whether he and his cabinet could successfully discuss the rehabilitation of the florin—a subject involving much lively argument—sitting on those fragile gilt chairs.

"On this other side," continued the major domo, throwing open large glass doors, "is the grand salon. It overlooks the terrace and the rose garden. The stream, you notice, runs just beneath. We call it a moat, but of course it is really the river."

"There ought to be good fishing," said Guadeloupe cheerfully. "I dare say there are carp in that water. I could catch one for supper some day. A carp, stuffed with chestnuts, is very good eating."

Romsteck tactfully avoided the subject of fish. "The carved panels over the mantel," he pointed out, "have three bullet holes, which have been carefully retained as a souvenir of the revolution in '48. This is known as the Blue Room; here you will receive the representatives of foreign governments. The American commissioner, for instance, desiring to know when the next installment will be paid."

The President skidded a little on the polished floor, but followed his guide without comment.

"At the north end of the palace, adjoining the tower, is the ballroom. In the north tower is the Purple Room. There the Grand Duke used to entertain specially favoured ladies."

The President brightened a little.

"There was once an underground passage from the cellar of the tower, beneath the moat, to a summerhouse in the park. It was there that the Duke escaped during the Terror."

"I hope it is still open," said Guadeloupe.

"The Yellow Room, a small parlour painted with Cupids, is between the ballroom and the salon. The Duke used to play cards there after dinner. The American ambassador often came down from Vienna to play poker with him."

"I think I have heard that the Duke was unlucky at cards," said the President.

"To be in debt to America is quite in the Farniente tradition," remarked the other. "The Dukes of Illyria always led lives full of romantic hazard. There is hardly a chamber in the palace that has not been the scene of some deed of violence. In the state dining room the crystal chandelier is chipped; that happened when His Grace was attacked by a demented footman who disliked his table manners. Beyond the dining room is the billiard room, and past that, in the south tower, the Dark Room."

"The Dark Room? Was the Duke a photographer?"

"He had a hobby that way. Not all his exposures were in the most delicate taste. It used to be His Grace's boast that in a different walk of life he could have prospered as a merchant of Parisian postal cards. In fact, very likely that is what he is doing now. But this is called the Dark Room with a double significance. It was there that Prince Oscar was murdered. They laid out the body on this billiard table."

The President was growing a little weary. He had had a difficult morning, and in the stress of packing and getting off he had gone without lunch.

"I suppose, Major," he suggested politely, "there is a room where we might sit down with a glass of beer and a pipe?"

"The Grand Duke, at this hour of the afternoon, would sometimes take a cup of tea, in the English fashion," said Romsteck firmly. "But he never smoked. His laxities, if I may be so candid, were quite of another sort. The British ambassador, who occasionally came here to play tennis, was encouraged to confine his pipe to the garden."

Herr Guadeloupe had less than no enthusiasm for tea, but he dared not demur.

"It is kind of you, Major, to put me wise to these matters. I trust you will sit down with us and enjoy a cup. When must you return to Geneva?"

"To Geneva?" exclaimed Romsteck. "I have never visited Geneva."

"Oh? Well, then, which of the Great Powers do you represent?"

"And still I can't make him out," Guadeloupe complained to his daughter when he finally escaped upstairs to wash and prepare himself for tea. "If he's a major why doesn't he wear uniform? And how was I to know who he was? I thought he must be at least another Lloyd George."

"Never you mind, Daddy," she consoled him. "Isn't it all wonderful? It's like living in a fairy tale."

"Like living in a cemetery," he said morosely. "I've seen the places where all the Dukes were murdered or shot at."

"Wait till I get hold of that solemn old creature," she cried gaily. "I'll teach him not to bully you. And what do you think? I have a maid to look after me, a darling, called Lorli. And a bathroom all to myself—did you ever hear of such a thing?"

"Why, so have I," exclaimed the President, exploring. "It must be mine, for they've put my toothbrush here. Private bathrooms. Good heavens, they always said the Duke was a libertine, it must have been true."

Chapter 4

But Nyla's confidence abated when she found that she had to pour the tea—a beverage little drunk in Ilyria—with two footmen standing attentively beside her. If they had not been there she could have studied and probably solved the complicated array of jugs, dishes, napkins, spirit lamps and other utensils; but those watchful figures frightened her. The obvious course was to use some of everything, and her father sat innocently drinking from a cup that contained both cream and lemon, unaware that this would have grieved the British foreign office. There was a generous assortment of rich but flimsy sandwiches and pastries, but the hungry President, conscious of scrutiny, was too uneasy to do them justice. He sat some distance from the source of supply, with an anxious feeling that it would be unseemly to shift his chair. Each tidbit was less than a square mouthful, so the alert flunkeys were busy offering him a constant succession of dishes. He sipped in silence until the lemon, gradually warring against the cream, became unbearable.

"George," he said, "take this away and drink it for me. Don't tell that Major or he'll get me into trouble with the British government."

It required both servants, apparently, to remove the offending cup. When they had left the room Guadeloupe hitched his chair nearer the table and seized several sandwiches at once.

"I'll bet they've got some grand food in the pantry," he said dismally, "if I could only get at it. You know, this won't do. If any of the Labour members saw us in a lay-out like this, I'd be impeached.—What do you suppose we'll get for supper?" He thought sadly of the old kitchen in their vacated home in the Hirschgasse, the shining copper pots ranged on the mantel above the tile stove, the larder that he always raided late at night.

"I wonder," he added, "if there's any chance of onion soup?"

For twenty years Herr Guadeloupe had had onion soup for supper almost every evening. In fact in his electoral campaign onion soup had become almost a political symbol. The cartoonists had seized upon it as an emblem of solid proletarian thrift and the traditional Illyrian simplicities. Drawings of Herr Guadeloupe dipping in his tureen and puffing his pipe, first intended for ridicule, had proved to be advantageous. The Labour Party had been borne to power, in a manner of speaking, on a tide of onion soup.

"We may as well find out," said Nyla. "And Daddy, you must remember they probably call it dinner, and it won't be until late, seven o'clock I dare say."

Summoned by the footmen, Romsteck appeared. He looked specially austere as he had not expected to be interrupted just then. He and Frau Innsbruck had just sat down to compare notes over a private glass of beer. The President put away his unlit pipe, which he had been fingering hopefully, and rose politely from his chair.

"Pardon me, Major, for disturbing you. I just wished to know, so I can make my calculations, what time will supper be?"

"Dinner is served, Herr President, at eight o'clock. The Grand Duke preferred it at that hour, which gave him plenty of time to dress."

The President was painfully startled. "Good God, did the man stay in bed all day long?"

Romsteck preserved an offended silence, which continued until Nyla came to the rescue.

"My father is accustomed to having onion soup for dinner. He counts on it very much. I suppose the chef—the chef would not mind, occasionally that is, preparing it for him?"

The butler seemed very much shocked.

"Onion soup, Fräulein?2 Did I understand you to say onion soup?"

"Yes," said Guadeloupe. "You know, with toast in it, and plenty of cheese."

"Why, Herr President, I do not believe an onion has been served in the palace since the Reign of Terror."

Romsteck rang for the chef.

"Monsieur Pigalle," he said, "will you rehearse for the Herr President what dishes have been arranged for dinner this evening."

Pigalle, with a Frenchman's eye for a pretty girl, was in his element.

"With the greatest pleasure. To welcome the President and his daughter I have planned as follows. The menu is plain, in deference to a republican simplicity of taste, but I hope not displeasing. Hors d'œuvres varies, served in the Adriatic fashion. To follow, Homard Paprika. I thought that then a culotte de boeuf garnie, au vin de Madére; or if that seems a trifle rich we could substitute filets mignons piqués de truffes. Not to overload the stomach, Mademoiselle, I thought that some pancakes burning in raspberry brandy would be amusing; followed by a soufflé, an ice, and some fruit. I feel sure that the Herr President and Mademoiselle will have no cause for complaint."

Herr Guadeloupe, to whom French was not only unfamiliar but an uncongenial tongue for political reasons, had no very clear idea of just what these phrases represented in the way of actual victuals.

"Any soup?" he asked.

"If desired, I can add a nice julienne aux pointes d'asperges," said Pigalle. "But I believe if the Herr President always knows in advance just what dishes are to be served, he deprives himself of much of the artistry of the table."