The Other Nineteenth Century (13 page)

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Authors: Avram Davidson

BOOK: The Other Nineteenth Century
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Tumbleton seemed sickened, looked at the door, looked back. Asked, “But who?
Who?”
A moment’s thought. A long moment. “Who. His name. Let us not open Satan’s mouth, lest … . Ah, yes. His name? Buchanan, his name. This is Buchanan’s head. Look.”
In this tale of London sophisticates of the late nineteenth century, the hapless Williams falls victim to the malignant emanations of a certain hidden statue. English poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) was the founding force of the influential Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in 1848. His sister was the poet Christina Rossetti. His first wife died of an overdose of laudanum in 1862, apparently a suicide; Rossetti thereafter had a long affair with Jane Morris, wife of his friend William Morris. When she finally decided
to return to her husband, Rossetti grew reclusive, and his addiction to chloral hydrate worsened, eventually killing him. In 1872, the artist was devastated when critic Robert Buchanan published his controversial attack on Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelites, “The Fleshly School of Poetry and Other Phenomena of the Day.” That Rossetti sculpted a portrait of his nemesis in his last years is not beyond conjecture.
—Henry Wessells
“But
why
a canal?”
“Cheaper, more, and better victuals.”
“Oh.”
Prince Roldran Vlox (to cut his titles quite short, and never mind about his being a Von Stuart y Fitz-Guelf) had “just dropped in” to talk to Doctor Engelbert Eszterhazy about the Proposed Canal connecting the Ister and the Danube … there were, in fact, several proposed canals and each one contained several sub-propositions: should it go right through the entirely Vlox-held Fens (“The Mud,” it was fondly called … “Roldry Mud,” the prince sometimes called himself)? should it go rather to the right or rather to the left? should it perhaps not go exactly “through” them at all, but use their surplusage of waters for feeder systems? and—or—on the one hand This, on the other hand That—
“What’s that new picture over on the wall, Engly?” Guest asked suddenly. Host began to explain. “Ah,” said Guest, “one of those funny French knick-knacks, eh? Always got some funny knick-knacks … . The British for sport, the French for fun … .” Still the guestly eyes considered the picture over on the wall. “That’s a damned funny picture … it’s all funny little speckles … .”
“Why, Roldry, you are right. What good eyes you have.”
Promptly: “Don’t soil them by a lot of reading, is why. Lots of chaps want to know about a book, ‘Is it spicy?’ Some want to know, ‘Is it got lots of facts?’ What
I
want to know is only, ‘Has it got big print?’ Shan’t risk spoiling my eyes and having to wear a monocle. One has to be a hunter, first, you know.” He made no further reference to the fact his host himself sometimes wore a monocle.
Eszterhazy returned to the matter of canals: “Here is a sketch of a proposed catchment basin—Yes, Lemkotch?”
“Lord Grumpkin!” said the Day Porter.
There followed a rather short man of full figure, with a ruddy, shiny, cheerful face. There followed also a brief clarification, by Lemkotch’s employer, of the proper way to refer to Professor Johanno Blumpkinn, the Imperial Geologist; there followed, also, an expression on the Porter’s face, indicative of his being at all times Doctor (of Medicine, Law, Music, Philosophy, Science, and Letters) Eszterhazy’s loyal and obedient servant and all them words were not for a ignorant fellow like him (the day porter) to make heads or tails of; after which he bowed his usual brief, stiff bob and withdrew. He left behind him a slight savor of rough rum, rough tobacco, rough manhood, and rough soap … even if not quite enough rough soap to erase the savor of the others. The room also smelled of the unbleached beeswax with which they had been rubbing—polishing, if you like—the furniture’s mahogany; of Prince Vlox, which some compared to that of a musty wolf (not perhaps to his face, though); of Eszterhazy himself (Pears soap and just a little bay rum) and of Professor Blumpkinn (Jenkinson’s Gentleman’s Cologne: more than just a little). Plus some Habana segars supplied by the old firm of Fribourg and Treyer in the Haymarket—London was a long way from Bella, capital of the Triple Monarchy of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania (fourth largest empire in Europe) but so was Habana, for that matter. “Gentlemen, you have met, I believe,” Eszterhazy said, anyway adding, “Prince Vlox, Professor Blumpkinn.”
Further adding, “I am sorry that my servant did not get your name right, Han.”
Blumpkinn waved his hand. “Calling me by the old-fashioned
word for the smallest coin in his native province really helps me to remember a proper value of my own worth.—Ah.
Canal
plans. I hope that when the excavations are in progress you will be sure to keep me in mind if any interesting fossils turn up.” It was not sure that Prince Vlox would be able to identify an interesting fossil if one hit him in the hough or bit him on the buttock, but Eszterhazy gave a serious nod.
He
knew how such things were to be done. Offer a small gift for reporting the discovery of “any of them funny elf-stone things as the old witch-women used to use”—they used to use them for anything from dropped stomach to teaching a damned good lesson to husbands with wandering eyes: but now all that had gone out of fashion—should certainly result in the reporting of enough interesting fossils, uninteresting fossils, and, indeed, non-fossils, to provide coping-stones for the entire length of the Proposed Canal … if ever there was actually a canal … .
“And speaking of which,” said Blumpkinn, and took two large sheets out between covers large enough to have contained the Elephant Folios; “I have brought you, Doctor ’Bert, as I had promised, the proof-sheets of the new photo-zinco impressions of the
Archaeopteryx
, showing far greater detail than was previously available … you see … .”
Doctor ’Bert did indeed now thrust in his monocle and scanned the sheets, said that he saw. Prince Vlox glanced, glanced away, rested a more interested glance at the funny French knick-knack picture … men, women, water, grass, children, women, women … all indeed composed of multitudes of tiny dots, speckles … points, if you liked … a matter easily noticeable if you were up close, or had a hunter’s eye.
“Yes, here are the independent fingers and claws, the separate and unfused metacarpals, the un-birdlike caudal appendage, all the ribs non-unciate and thin, neither birdlike nor very reptilian, the thin coracoid, the centra free as far as the sacrum, and the very long tail … .” His voice quite died away to a murmur, Professor Blumpkinn, perhaps thinking that it was not polite to lose the attention of the other guest, said, “This, you see, Prince Vlox, is the famous
Archaeopteryx,
hundreds of millions of years old, which the sensational press has rather inadequately described as the so-called ‘nolonger-missing-link’ between reptiles and birds … observe the sharp teeth and the feather … this other one unfortunately has no head … and this one—”
Here Prince Vlox, perhaps not an omnivorous student of paleontology, said, “Yes. Seen it.”
“Ah
… was that in London? or Berlin?”
“Never been in either place.”
Blumpkinn gaped. Recovered himself. Looked, first amused, then sarcastic, then polite. Eszterhazy slowly looked up. “What do you mean, then, Roldry, ‘seen it’? What—?”
Prince Vlox repeated, with a slight emphasis, that he had
seen
it. And he bulged his eyes and stared, as though to emphasize the full meaning of the verb,
to see.
“What do you—Ah … ‘Seen it,’ seen it when, seen it where?”
“On our land. Forget just when. What do you mean, ‘Am I sure?’
I
don’t need a monocle to look at things. Why shouldn’t I be sure? What about it?”
Blumpkinn and Eszterhazy for a moment spoke simultaneously. What about it? There were only two known
Archaeopteryx
specimens in the world! one in London, one in Berlin—think what a third would mean! Not only for science, but for Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania and its prestige.
Vlox, with something like a sigh, rose to his feet; clearly the subject no longer much engaged him … possibly because his own family and
its
prestige was incomparably older than the Triple Monarchy and its prestige. “Well, I’ll have it looked for, then. Must be off. Things to do. My wine-merchant. My gunsmith. My carriagemaker. A turn of cards at The Hell-Hole. See if they’ve finished reupholstering my railroad car. Tobacconist … new powder scales … . Can I execute any commissions for you, as they say? Haw haw! Tell you what, Engly, damned if I know what you want with this odd old bird, but tell you what: trade it for that funny French painting.” And he donned his tattered seal-skin cap (so that he should
not be struck by lightning) and his wisentskin cape (also fairly tattered, but wisents weren’t easy to get anymore), picked up his oakstick, nodded his Roldry-nod, neither languid nor brisk, and went out into Little Turkling Street, where his carriage (as they say) awaited him. Some backwoods nobles kept a pied-à-terre in Bella in the form of a house or apartment, Prince Roldran preferred to keep a stable and to sleep in the loft. With taste and scent, no argument.
Silence for some seconds. Such was the prince’s presence, that his immediate absence left a perceptible hole.
Blumpkinn: What do you say, Doctor’Bert, is the prince
quite
, [a hesitation] … dependable?
Eszterhazy [removing his monocle]: In some things, instantly. He would think nothing of striking a rabid wolf with bare hands to save you. In others? well … let us say that fossils are not quite in his line. We shall see. Any kind of fossils from out that way should be interesting. If the old witch-women have left any.
The Imperial Geologist blinked. “Yes … if they’ve left any—Though I suppose … imagine, Doctor, they used to grind up dinosaur bones and feed them with bread and oil to pregnant women!!”
“That’s what they did to my own dear Mother. Well, why not? Calcium, you know.”
The Imperial Geologist (the King-Emperor, Ignats Louis, in authorizing the position, had hoped for gold and, no gold being found, had shrugged and gone out to inspect the new infantry boots)—the Imperial Geologist blinked some more. “Yes,” he said. “Well, why not. Calcium … I know.”
Some years before there had appeared the book
From Ram’s Head to Sandy Cape on Camelback, by a New Chum
(Glasscocke and Gromthorpe, No. 3, the Minories, 12/-), and Eszterhazy had translated it into Modern Gothic, as he had its successors,
Up the Fly River by Sail and Paddle,
and
In Pursuit of Poundmaker, plus a General Survey of the Northwest Territories
(available at Szentbelessel’s Book House near the New Model Road at two ducats
per
or all three for five ducats, each with eleven half-tone illustrations and a free patriotic
bookmark; write for catalogue). From these translations a friendship had developed. Newton Charles Enderson was not really a “new chum,” far from it: he was a “currency lad”; and now he was on holiday from the University of Eastern Australia and hoped to explore some more, in the lands of the Triple Monarchy.
There were a number of not-very-well explored (not very well explored by any scientific expeditions, that is; they had all been very well explored by the River Tartars, the Romanou, and by all the other non-record-keeping peoples who had gone that way since the days of [and before the days of: caches of amber had been found there, and Grecian pottery] the Getae, who may or may not have been close of kin to the ancient Scythian Goths) and rather languid waterways disemboguing into the Delta of the Ister. And New Chum Enderson had wanted Eszterhazy to go exploring with him, in a pirogue. And Eszterhazy had very much wanted to do so. There were several sorts of bee-eaters which had never been well engraved, let alone photographed; skins of course were in the museums, and several water-colors had been made by someone whose identity had been given simply as
An Englishwoman,
long ago; still semi-impenetrably wrapped in her modesty, she had withdrawn into her native northern mists, leaving only copies of the water-colors behind.
“But I am afraid that our schedules don’t match. Really I do regret.”
New Chum regretted, too. “But I must be back for the start of term.”
“And I for the meeting of the Proposed Canal Committee. Well … I know that your movements are as precisely dated as those of Phileas Fogg, so just let me know when you’ll be back, and I’ll give you a good luncheon to make up for your privations. There’s a person in the country who’s promised me a fine fat pullet, and the truffles should be good, too, so—”
New Chum gave a bark, intended for a laugh, of a sort which had terrified Pommies and Abos alike. “I’m not one of your European gourmets,” he said. “Grew up on damper and’roo. Advanced to mutton, pumpkin, and suet pud. More than once ate cockatoo—
they’d told me it was chook—‘chicken’ to you—and I never knew the difference. Still, of course, I’ll be glad to eat what you give me, with no complaint … . Ah, by the way. Don’t depend on me much or at all to identify and bring back your bee-eaters. Know
nothing
of ornithology. Officially I’m Professor of Political Economy, but what I am, actually, is an explorer. Glad to give you a set of my notes, though.” And on this they parted.
Two pieces of news. The country pullet would be on hand the next day. Also alas the sister-in-law’s sister of Frow Widow Orgats, housekeeper and cook, had been Taken Bad with the Dropped Stomach—did she require medical advice?—an elf-stone?—no: she required the attentions of her sister’s sister-in-law. The house, with the help of its lower staff, might keep itself for a little while. “And Malta, who I’ve hand-picked meself, will cook for you very well till I gets back, Sir Doctor.” Malta, thought the Sir Doctor, had perhaps been hand-picked so as to prevent the Sir Doctor from thinking of her as a suitable full-time replacement—she was not perhaps very bright—but merely he said, “Tomorrow they are bringing up a special pullet for the luncheon with the foreign guest and it may not look just exactly as the sort they sell here at the Hen Mark in town; so mind you do it justice.”
Malta dropped several courtseys, but not, thank God, her stomach; said, “Holy Angels, my Lard, whatsoe’er I’m given to cook, I shall cook it fine, for Missus she’s wrote out the words for me real big on a nice piece of pasteboard.” Malta could read and she had the recipe? Well, well. Hope for the best. New Chum would perhaps not mind or even notice if the luncheon fell short of standard, but Eszterhazy, after all, would have to eat it, too.

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