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King of Alsander (Dramatic Reading)

<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> <h3>THE CONSUL</h3> Again in the mist and shadow of sleep He saw his native land. The hero of this and all our adventures, feeling unheroic and disinclined for further traffic with his fellows, did not proceed to the board of the Widow Prasko, or to the no less hospitable embrace of her lovely daughter, but nursed revenge and a sore back by a walk on the walls. The path along the summit of these old fortifications is broad and smooth: it commands sea, mountains, town and all four corners of the heavens; many lovers, dreamers and successful suicides have passed that way. Yet surely it would need more than the vivid recollection of a sound thrashing to make a man leave such a prospect as that wall affords, especially westward, to the mountains and the setting sun. So Norman walked along the walls and not off them. How to attain satisfaction? Whom to seek in this dilemma? How to be revenged and not ridiculed? How, above all, to get level with those lunatics without again being stripped and whipped like a schoolboy or enduring a worse thing, according to the strange young President's threat? What was the meaning of it, the sense of it, the clue to this mysterious and painful practical joke? Where, above all, was that ancient scoundrel of a poet and in what disguise, and why was he not present at the scene? Had the old curiosity shop been invented from the very beginning simply to attract him? How could they have known he would take the Poet's hint and look there for the present? How was it they were all prepared for him when he came? And, finally, what was the real value of the handsome buckle which he was to give Peronella? He pulled it out of his pocket: if the stones were real, and they looked it, he judged it to be worth a fabulous sum. For a moment he thought it might all have been a plot of Cesano's to befool him. But common sense soon rejected that theory: so artistic and elaborate a practical joke was far beyond the conception of that thin-brained cavalier. Norman walked twice round the walls in hopeless bewilderment, and longed to find a trusty soul to whom he could impart the whole affair. Then, as for the third time he faced the East, the sun of inspiration blazed full on the fields of his intellect. Visions of Britain's might awake to protect her humblest subject rolled across his mind; of Dreadnoughts blackening the horizon, of a ten minutes' bombardment, of being hauled from prison by merry bluejackets pouring brandy down his throat, of shaking hands with a clean-shaven Admiral, of a protectorate over Alsander, and the immediate repaving of the roads and reconstruction of the sewers. Was there no British Consulate in Alsander? Comforted by a resolve to appeal to the might of Britain, he returned at once to the board of the Widow Prasko and the no less hospitable arms of her charming daughter. They had been quite anxious about him. "And where is it?" was the girl's first question. He pulled out the exquisite toy, and Peronella cooed with delight. "My dear Peronella, it is far, far too good for you," said her mother, beaming with ostensible gratification, and burning to know whether any of the stones could possibly not be paste. "Did you really find that in that poky little shop?" said Peronella. "Oh, yes," said Norman. "It is a wonderful place, if you really only knew it." "And look at that pattern round the border," said the observant widow. "How nicely it's worked, and so small." "It is indeed," said the boy, examining it for the first time and turning a little pale. This was the pattern:—\AA/: and it reminded him unpleasantly of the symbol he had seen that afternoon. However, Norman, strong in his new imperial faith, went to his room, nearly cricked his neck examining the stripes in the mirror to see if they were still there and in good order for exhibition, turned in and slept. Rising betimes the next morning he set out upon his quest. It was a long one, and the said new-born faith in the omnipotence of the British flag underwent a severe trial during this voyage of exploration, for some people seemed never to have heard of "British" and some never to have heard of "Consulate." Those who understood the meaning of these magic words in general failed to illuminate him in particular. Peronella and her mother belonged to this latter category, and so did most of the people he met in the street. At last he was informed in a draper's shop that it was down in a street off the Palace square. He arrived at the house indicated after a diligent and toilsome search and found it to let and uninhabited. He spent another half-hour scouring the cafes for the caretaker. The caretaker, having been plied with many drinks, directed him to a street off the Cathedral square at the other end of the town. Having arrived there, he discovered the street and the number. He found himself in front of a preposterously tall house in a state of violent ruin, which appeared about to fall on his head. It bore no outward consular sign at first glance, but by standing well back on the opposite side of the narrow street and craning his neck Norman could just discern what might be a coat-of-arms above a window on the top floor. He began the ascent of a staircase which deserved all the epithets usually applied to such staircases. He discovered during the long and intricate ascent that the house, or rather tower, contained a singular variety of inmates. On the ground floor was a shop where an extremely aged man with large spectacles was carefully affixing small bits of gold braid to form one of the gorgeous patterns which adorn the festal dress of Alsandrian beauty. The first floor was devoted to the offices of an insurance company, which Norman hoped had insured its own premises. On the second floor a photographer exhibited the terrifying results of his art. The contents of the third floor were to be judged from a show-case fixed on the wall in which whole mouthfuls of false teeth were symmetrically arranged. But the entrance to the fourth floor was guarded by a portal on which, by the aid of a match, Norman discovered bell-push and the gratifying legend, "British Consulate." The door opened mechanically. "A very advanced door," thought Norman as he stepped in, "for this locality." He found himself in a small and neat office, at the first glance not remarkable. Afterwards he noticed, to his surprise, that it was full of contrivances, such as wires and switches and taps—something between a railway signal-box and the manager's bureau in a telephone exchange. Its only occupant was a thin man, with ruffled, mud-coloured hair, who was rattling on a typewriter with as much vigour as an amateur pianist thumping the presto of the "Moonlight." "What do you want?" said the typist-clerk, very rapidly and sharply, in the tone of a vixenish and virtuous housewife accosted by blundering vice in a dark street. "I should like to see the Consul," replied Norman. "Why?" said the clerk, clicking on a new line and rattling off again. "Even the British Consulate has gone mad in Alsander," thought Norman, in despair. "Or does he mean to be rude?" "I have some urgent private affairs to discuss," he said. "Passport?" urged the clerk. "I'm afraid I haven't got one," said Norman. "Name?" insisted the clerk. "Price," snapped Norman, thankful it was monosyllabic. The clerk seized a table telephone with one hand, while he still fumbled the keys with the other. "Price—private—no passport," he shouted into the vulcanite ear. "I must have come to the American Consulate by mistake," thought Norman, amazed at this un-British efficiency. "In!" roared a voice into the telephone. Norman could clearly hear it; it came from the next room. The clerk pushed a button, the inner door opened, and Norman found himself in the presence of H.B.M. Consul,[1] Alsander. The appearance of the Consul and his apartment, although peculiar, was the reverse of terrifying, as Norman was glad to find, after the mechanical horrors of the clerk's abode. In fact, it had hardly the appearance of a office at all. It was true the Consul was sitting at a large desk and wearing a very smart frockcoat, and that on the desk in conspicuous positions were volumes labelled Foreign Office Year Book, Circulars, Trade Reports, Miscellaneous, Shipping, Marriage Register, etc. But the walls of the room; presented a curiously unofficial appearance. They were papered with a thick-looking dull black paper, and ornamented with designs in black and white by Aubrey Beardsley. The carpet was a dull purple, indeed the room was in such harmony (except for the vivid letter-box red of the Foreign Office Year Book) that Norman felt his light-coloured waistcoat and pink cheeks to be unpardonable. The Consul himself was dressed with such a subtle lack of ostentation and was himself of such unostentatious appearance that Norman could not for a whole second discover him at all. At length he made out that the official had long drooping whiskers and was smoking a calabash and writing with his left hand, his right being apparently paralysed. "Good morning," he said to Norman, in a very cheerful voice, rising to receive him. "Forgive my left," he continued, cordially, as he extended that member. "A little accident, you know, Bulgarian bomb at Monastir, in the old days before the war. Compensation, you know. Well, then. However, there we are. Sit down. Take a chair. Or fill a pipe." "I am so sorry to take up your time," said Norman, settling down in an all-black armchair and reaching out for a match. "My dear sir," said the Consul. "I am delighted to see you. I may tell you I have been Consul in Alsander for two years and this is the first time I have received a visit in my official capacity. Have you"—his voice sunk into an expectative whisper—"have you a passport, signed and in order?" "I am very much afraid," said Norman, "I neglected to get one." "That is unfortunate, most unfortunate. But"—here his voice sunk to a guilty whisper "I might give you one. At all events, I assure you I am delighted to see you. Alsander is very slow, very slow, indeed." "But you must be very busy," hazarded Norman. "I have never seen anyone so busy as your clerk." "Ah, my dear sir, we must keep up appearances, you know. I let him think that I never have a moment to spare. I may tell you that I have been here two years and have not written an official letter since the day I announced my arrival. Such a change from Pernambuco, my previous post. There I never had a minute!" "But he's typing like mad," said Norman, surprised, and quite unable to rid himself of the impression of the furious energy which had seemed to him to pervade the outer office. A faint smile suffused the countenance of the Consul as he explained. "Oh, I keep him employed, copying scraps of old blue books, you know, and that sort of thing. Might be useful some day." "You must find life monotonous." "Ah, yes. Such a change from Pernambuco. No casino, no theatre. The theatre at Pernambuco was delightful. This, you know, is one of our quietest posts. Even Archangel, where I was Vice-Consul twenty-three years ago, was a lot more lively. But I do not complain. The climate is good, the salary tolerable—poli kala, as I learnt to say in Patras." "You have travelled, sir," said Norman, politely. "Oh, one knocks about a bit and sees things in the Service. Hallo!" The last ejaculation was not addressed to Norman, but to the telephone, whose bell was ringing violently. "Let him wait," said the Consul. "Perhaps," hazarded Norman, "if you are busy this morning I had better tell my story at once." "Certainly. But you need not hurry at all. It's only Dr Sforelli come for his game of chess. You know him perhaps? You have heard of him only?... Yes, the report was correct; he is one of the ablest men in Alsander. His father's name was Cohen, by the way." "Cohen Sforelli?" inquired Norman. "Just Cohen," said the Consul. "Are you an Anti-Semite?" "I never thought about it," said Norman, determined that he would begin his tale at all costs. "But I am Anti-Alsandrian at present." "Been trying to sell something? Hallo, there! Let him wait. Only Olivarbo. You know Count Olivarbo? For an Alsandrian, a man of some ability." "I hope he has not rung you up on urgent business." "Oh, dear no. I am teaching him golf. Of course, I am a little handicapped"—he glanced pathetically at his limp member—"but the rules and the style, you know, and so on." "Well, sir, if you don't mind, my business is rather serious, and I should like to come straight to the point. And to begin with, I should like to ask you whether you have heard of the Alsander Advancement Association." "Never. Is it a co-operative store?" "No, it purports to be a secret society, for the object—well, I don't know for what object." "Of advancing Alsander?" "I suppose so. But it seems to be really a conspirators' club to play bad practical jokes on innocent strangers. I was entrapped by one of its members." "This is very interesting, very interesting, indeed. I may have to take a note of this. Hallo. Who's that? My dear Cocasso, I really can't this afternoon. I am being consulted on important business. Look up Cassolis, he plays. My dear sir"—this to Norman—"you were entrapped?" "I was entrapped. The society sat in state and pretended to examine me for the position of King of Alsander." "Well, well, why not? I was examined to become Vice-Consul. We must all be examined, you know." "Yes, but that was not all. I was stripped and mauled about by a fool who pretended to be a doctor." "Stripped? Dear me! Stripped naked?" "Yes, but worse was in store for me. Because I demanded an apology for their nonsense, I was beaten." "Beaten? Dear me! Beaten with a stick? Gracious heavens! Very extraordinary! I must make a note of that. And what would you like me to do?" "Why, what do you usually do when a British subject is stripped and beaten by a lot of dirty Dagoes?" "I do not remember such an occurrence; so I have no precedent for dealing with this case. British subjects do not usually expose themselves, you see, to such odd adventures." "Do understand that it is serious, sir," pursued Norman, whose fury had been gradually mounting in face of this official apathy. "What's the good of being an Englishman if one can't travel unmolested? What's the good of all those Dreadnoughts? What are they wasting coal in the North Sea for? Why don't they come here?" "I must remind you," said the Consul, severely, "that you have no passport. I cannot possibly send for the Fleet if you have no passport. For all I know you might be Siamese." "Do I look it?" cried Norman, in dismay. "Perhaps there are light-haired Siamese mountaineers who have learnt English from Indian friends. 'Quien Sabe?' as we said at Barcelona." "It is a shame, sir—you are fooling me!" Norman's temper had quite gone. "Have you only just found that out?" said the Consul, his eyes twinkling. "I shall write to the Times," cried Norman, rising from his chair to leave. "My brother," said the Consul, with a smile, "edits the correspondence columns of that august journal. Of course, he will print your letter. But he will also print"—here the Consul rose and his tone grew severer still—"a note to say that I treated you with all civility although you had no passport and no letter of introduction, and that you deceived me to my certain knowledge by telling half-truths." "Half-truths!" exclaimed Norman. "What about the jewelled buckle that was presented to you by the society?" "Why, I had forgotten about it." "And—a much more serious matter—what about the injunction to silence which was laid on you by the President?" "You did not let me finish my story. What do you know about the jewelled buckle? How do you know there was an injunction to silence?" "That injunction to silence you had better have obeyed, sir. However, you may rely on my discretion. If you insist on demanding reparation, I am bound to state your case before higher authorities, but I warn you you will get none, and you will endanger your life and perhaps mine. The present made to you was an ample reparation for your temporary inconvenience. I will give you a few minutes to consider the matter." Norman sat down, bewildered. Before he could think of anything the telephone bell rang again. "Come in," called the Consul. Norman rose politely as the newcomer entered. "Mr Norman Price. Signor Arnolfo," said the Consul, introducing them. Norman was about to shake hands, but his hand fell. Signor Arnolfo, a young man in the national costume, was the handsome President himself! <div class="footnote"> [1] I should perhaps mention that the Consul of Alsander bears not the slightest resemblance to any Consul in the Levant, Alsander being of course a much coveted retiring post in the General Consular Service. </div> <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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