Oliver VII

by Antal Szerb

“Oscar, just you keep quiet!” Marcelle shouted. “What do you know about business?”

  “As a reward for your readiness to sacrifice, my girl,” said St Germain, “I shall enlighten you as to the nature of this project. It is not unknown in the newspaper-reading fraternity that Coltor has never given up his original plan. He still wants his Concern to get their hands on the entire wine and sardine production of Alturia. The plan failed to materialise at the time because of the revolution and the abdication of the feeble-minded king.”

  “He wasn’t that weak-minded,” Oscar muttered, clearly offended.

  “But since then, the situation has changed,” St Germain continued. “Under the new ruler, Alturia has proved unable to cope with its financial problems, and there are voices, steadily gaining in number, calling for the revival of the Coltor Plan. There is now a powerful Oliverist party, who want to restore the feeble-minded king to the throne. But the great obstacle in the way of all this to date is that the king has vanished without trace. Some people think he is dead, others that he has been seen in Budapest, with a feather-grass hat on his head, and others again claim to have spotted him in Kansas City, in his shirtsleeves. We now find ourselves in the happy position of having traced him and being able to put him in contact with Coltor; as a consequence of which, preliminary discussions can now be commenced in the usual way. That’s what this business is about.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Marcelle. “Sooner or later it will become apparent that Oscar is a nobody, and we’ll end up in trouble. Where’s the profit in that?”

  “Well said,” Oscar chimed in.

  “Marcelle, my girl,” said the Count, after a short silence, “you are a fine, lovely woman, but, regrettably, you lack the spark of genius. You can’t see into the future. You don’t really think we’ll wait around for all that to come out? Nothing of the sort. The whole game will last a couple of days. Just until Coltor presents a hundred thousand dollar cheque.”

  “But why would he do that?” Honoré asked.

  “As an advance on the loan which will follow, to tide the King over his temporary financial difficulties. We cash the cheque, and instantly vanish from the city of lagoons. My friend Jacques Millevoi happens to be here with his boat at anchor … I know a place in Mexico where they’ll never find us. First you’ll have to brush up your Spanish grammar. We’ll need to stay there for some weeks.”

  “If I heard this from anyone else, I’d think it was a lot of … ” Marcelle declared. “But as it’s the Count … ”

  “Clever girl. I’ve done far more unlikely things than this before. The time old Rothschild actually believed the Pope had sent me for the two dogs, when my only form of identification was a panorama postcard of Ventimiglia … But now, my dears, we must part. St Germain needs his night of silence and solitude to work out the details of this wonderful plan. Come back early tomorrow morning, and everyone will receive his instructions. God be with you.”

  Our friends withdrew, Marcelle and Honoré fired with enthusiasm, the King and the Major deeply troubled, and Sandoval wickedly amused by the whole situation. Next, Honoré took his leave, and the others went out for some fresh air.

  “Now listen, Marcelle,” said the King, slowly stirring his cup of black coffee. “I have to tell you something really dreadful.”

  “My God! Are you ill?”

  “Possibly. All I want to say to you is that I won’t be playing the part of Oliver VII, ex-King of Alturia.”

  “What? And if I may be permitted to ask, why ever not?”

  “Why not? How can I put it? … I do have my principles.”

  “Have you gone mad?”

  “And then, I just don’t feel I’m up to the part. Look, you said it yourself: as a child I never even had my own room, I’ve no manners, no style—you yourself told me no one would ever believe I was a marquis, so who the devil would think I was a king? Especially Coltor, who has breakfast and dinner with kings every day.”

  “Wonderful! And why didn’t you say this to St Germain?”

  “I was going to, but then you shouted me down. I was afraid that if I even opened my mouth you’d make a scene in front of the old chap. And I didn’t want that.”

  “Oh, I know how very refined you are. I always knew you lacked talent, that you’re stupid, and you’re a coward. You can think about that until tomorrow. Come to your senses by then, or you’ll never see me again.”

  And with that she made her exit.

  Only the Alturians remained on the scene.

  “Gentlemen,” the King began, “now that we’re alone there is no longer any need to hide the fact that we have money. Waiter, bring us a bottle of good, strong, red Alturian wine, wherever you can get it. We must drink to the little scare we’ve just had.” Then, as soon as the waiter had disappeared, he turned pensively to his compatriots.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “It’s very simple,” said the Major. “We’re too late now for the night sailing. But we can be out of Italy on the first boat tomorrow morning. Your Highness has never seen Vienna. I strongly commend it to Your Highness’ attention. Although, as it’s summer, it might be better if we went up into the mountains … And Coltor could easily bump into you in Vienna. Perhaps Igls … But here, Your Highness’ situation is one where only rapid flight will serve. It’s like when you’re dreaming. Sometimes the only way out is to wake up.”

  “Is waking up really the only way out?”

  “At best, Your Highness might reveal your true identity to the group. But I cannot recommend doing that. Because if St Germain doesn’t do it himself, then Honoré for one will try to capitalise on our little adventure. He’d sell the great news to the papers, and you’d be made a mockery to the world. Not to put too fine a point on it, Alturia would be a laughing stock throughout the world for years to come. No, Your Highness, there’s nothing for it but for us to disappear.”

  “And Marcelle?”

  “But Your Highness,” he went on, with a hint of exasperation, “it’s my turn to observe that, now we are alone, there is no need to hide the fact that we have money. At least, enough to take her with us, and to compensate her for any unfinished business she might have with St Germain.”

  “And do you think, my dear Milán, that she would come with us if she knew … if she knew that I am a king?”

  “I know it for certain.”

  “It’s not at all certain … And then again … My dear Milán, this is something your soldier’s mind cannot grasp; she would be completely altered in her attitude towards me. Just imagine: she’d be respectful. She’d be afraid of me. And she would swindle me. She said herself that she diddled every one of her friends who had money. She considers it a moral obligation.”

  “She would never swindle Your Highness, because I’m here to look after you,” the Major said, with a dangerous glint in his eye.

  “But even if she didn’t actually swindle me, her manner towards me would change completely. She would lose her waif-like charm. She would no longer talk to me as an equal. There’d be no more ‘Oscar, what an idiot you are!’ ”

  The King sank into himself, deep in thought. Then he went on:

  “Gentlemen, I have decided. We’re staying.”

  “But Your Highness … ” the Major protested in despair.

  “Not another word, my dear Milán. We’re staying here. If there were any pomposity left in me I would say it was the royal wish. I came from Alturia to experience life from below. I can’t run away now that it’s begun to get really interesting, complicated and difficult. We must accept the strange situation we’ve got ourselves into. No great harm can come of it. So cheer up, Milán. Now the fun begins. From tomorrow I am no longer Oscar but the bogus Oliver VII, my own double. Who’s ever done that before?”

  When they arrived at St Germain’s the next day they found the Count ten years younger. His great inspiration seemed to have filled him with strength. That morning he was on a level with the greatest of theatre dire
ctors.

  He gave order after order. He sent telegrams flying round the world.

  “This is to Baudrieu, in Paris—tremendous expert in legal jargon. This to Gervaisis, in Brussels—knows how to fall asleep during conversation in the grand aristocratic manner. And this to Valmier, the perfect flunkey. We must bring them all together, the very best in their professions: at this stage we really can’t consider expense or effort. Which reminds me. Honoré, nip round to Mr Beetz in the hotel next door and sell him Marcelle’s ring. We need some petty cash.”

  Marcelle heaved a painful sigh.

  “Then carry straight on and hire the Palazzo Pietrasanta—the royal residence. Sandoval, you go and get an Alturian flag. Two gold sardines on a field of silver. If you can’t buy one, have one made. Meyer, on you falls the important duty of intellectual preparation. We need all the information we can get about Alturia and its half-witted king. In particular, we must dig up illustrated news sheets from the time of the revolution. We absolutely must locate a portrait of Princess Ortrud. Marcelle, take yourself off to one of the larger jewellers in the Merceria. Ask him to bring his collection to the Pietrasanta. We shall want something nice and showy … perhaps a pendant … yes, that’ll be best … which King Oliver is to present as a token of his love to Princess Ortrud. Then, my girl, you must find us one of those toothpaste advertisements with the king brushing his teeth.”

  “What’s that for?” she asked in stupefaction.

  “No questions, my girl. Just be on your way, and good luck to you.”

  The team raced off for the next boat to town, to carry out his commissions.

  “And me?” said Oscar, now finding himself alone with St Germain.

  “You stay here. Now we get to the difficult bit. Come, my young friend, we’ll take a little walk on the seafront. This is the place where Goethe so memorably heard the fishermen singing to one another across the water, answering one another with alternate lines from Jerusalem Delivered. I feel like singing myself. Perhaps the setting will inspire us both.”

  When they reached the Lungomare—the seafront promenade—St Germain began his little speech:

  “Now listen carefully, my young friend. I’ve something serious to say to you. You are not yet ready for your role.”

  “I’ve already told you,” Oscar replied glumly. “I’m resigned to the inevitable.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’ve never doubted for a moment that you would do it. You must have at least that much common sense. The only question now is, can you actually play the part? Do you know how to live, what to do, to be a king?”

  “Well, I haven’t thought much about it.”

  “I knew it. That’s the trouble. A good actor must have an intimate knowledge of the person he has chosen to present. And he must fully understand the greatness inherent in the role. You must rouse some enthusiasm in yourself. It’s the only way we’ll get anywhere near our still very distant goal. That’s what I want to talk to you about, my young friend.”

  “Now look, Count … ”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Don’t say a word, just listen. You have a very good-hearted, direct manner, and in general that’s an admirable quality. You know how to make yourself popular with everyone you meet. I’m rather fond of you myself. But it’s not what we need now. A king isn’t required to be a human being, like everyone else. He must be the sort of human being who can inspire his contemporaries with awe and wonder. You see, in the long, hard year that is the life of the ordinary man, the king is a red-letter day. A holiday. A lifting up of eyes in adoration to the sky. There have been great kings who achieved fame by destroying enemies abroad, and great kings who cared about the sort of chickens the peasantry cooked in their saucepans. But none of that matters; it’s not the point. Deeds and good intentions don’t confer royalty. The king fulfils his duty as a great man simply by being. Anyone can win praise for his acts and achievements: the sole duty of a king is to exist in the world. Like a mountain. My young friend, plains can be cultivated, ships can be carried on the backs of rivers, but mountains are the only things that rise, tall and silent, above the plains, rivers and nations of the world. They simply stand there, and their existence directs man’s attention to his eternal values. If there were no mountains, and no kings, my young friend, people would think that everything in the world was flat, something merely to be exploited. A king exists to draw his people’s attention to the pure air of the peaks and the heights of destiny. He is a legend incarnate, the one great comfort and reassurance. That alone does more good for the country than fifty military barracks. It is a greater source of strength than fifty battleships. And for him to raise a nation to the heights of destiny he needs do nothing more than to emanate that strange, merciful gift we call royalty. There was a medieval Hungarian king who went into the enemy camp with a stick in his hand and led his rebellious brother out of it into captivity, solely by exercising his royalty … So look to yourself, young man! Are you standing here, like a cloud-capped mountain peak, like a king? Think about it. God be with you.”

  For some time the King remained alone, pacing up and down the promenade, deep in thought. Here Goethe had once stood listening to the fishermen’s song; now visitors in beachwear raced across the sand down to the sea. But lost in his inner musings he failed to notice them. He pondered, and felt ashamed. St Germain had been the first person ever to explain to him what it meant to be king.

  Sandoval ‘enjoyed’ a daily post-prandial siesta in the ghastly little hotel room, whose window had been somehow designed to have no actual view.

  “My God, the things I do for Alturia!” he mused. “Here I am, in this smelly, airless hole, where I wake every single morning swollen to twice my normal size, thanks to the attentions of my friends the mosquitoes, and go down to the street like a pauper, or someone covered in ringworm, or tattoos … And then, the money I had from Princess Clodia, and I haven’t written her a single word … to think I could be staying in some grand hotel enjoying the choicest fish and frutti di mare instead of badly prepared pasta asciutta … ”

  There was a knock at the door. Mawiras-Tendal came in.

  “Forgive me for troubling you,” he began anxiously. “I need to speak with you urgently.”

  “At your service, Major.”

  “Sandoval, it must be as obvious to you as it is to me, that we have to do something. We can’t allow this business to carry on. His Highness’ unfortunate compliance is going to make him a permanent laughing stock in the eyes of the world. The ex-king consorting with swindlers. It’s dreadful to think what the papers will make of it! We must do something urgently.”

  “You are right, Major. But what?”

  “Look, Sandoval, we both come from old conspiratorial families. We must be able to find a neat solution. Now, I’ve got an idea. You should know that Count Antas, the former royal chief steward, is here in Venice.”

  “Antas, that old buffoon? The one I spirited away just before the revolution?”

  “The same. We must use him as our instrument.”

  “Why him?”

  “Because I can’t do anything myself. The King must never know of my part in this business. Antas will have to be persuaded that someone here in Venice is playing confidence tricks in His Highness’ name, and that he has a duty to put a stop to it by alerting Coltor and putting him on his guard. What makes it all the better is that Coltor knows Antas and will believe him. What do you think of the idea?”

  “Hm.”

  “Well, I think it’s the best solution. I’ll write to him straight away. Do you have any suitable paper? Thanks. First we’ll compose the letter, then I’ll take it and type it up in the hotel writing room. Should I write anonymously? No, it’ll be better if I forge the signature of some well-known Alturian. That’ll be more convincing. So, let’s see now … ”

  And he composed the following letter:

  Most respected Count,

  I appreciate that you are in Venice procul negotiis, hoping t
o enjoy a little freedom from worry after these last very difficult months, and I hesitate to trouble you with questions of state and politics. But this is a matter calculated to stir up the blood of every true Alturian, one that is impossible for us to look upon and still stand idly by. It is above all your professional duty to put a stop to these corrupt and wicked practices. I respectfully bring to your attention the following lines, in which I briefly describe certain outrageous events taking place here in Venice.

  You should know, Your Excellency, that Coltor has been residing on the Lido for the past few days. He has never given up the hope—as I believe you never have—that Oliver VII should one day return to his ancestral throne and bring salvation to his country by signing the proposed treaty.

  Coltor’s hopes have somehow come to the knowledge of an international adventurer calling himself Count St Germain. This fraudster has conceived the notion of hiring someone with a highly deceptive resemblance to King Oliver, differing from him only in the lack of moustache and sideburns—which this St Germain explains as having been shaved off by the King to preserve his incognito. The villain has also presumed to put up other suitably plausible members of the Royal Household, a bogus Major Mawiras-Tendal among them, and who knows when an equivalent Count Antas might appear?

  Coltor, at least from appearances so far, has gone along with all this. The royal impersonation is so perfect that it has already imposed on this highly intelligent Norlandian. St Germain is now about to take his next major step and bring Coltor and the ‘king’ together, in the hope of making a great deal of money out of the deluded entrepreneur.

  Count, this is not something from which you can stand aside. You cannot, because the resulting scandal will cause endless difficulty for His Highness personally and for the whole of Alturia. You cannot stand aside, because Coltor is our true friend, and will certainly prove grateful to the man who rescues him from the claws of swindlers by exposing them.

  While it would give me the greatest pleasure to leap into action myself, I am not someone Coltor knows and he might well decline to believe me. It would have much greater force if you, who are so very well known and respected by the man, were personally to remove the scales from his eyes.