Pleased to Meet You/Chapter 1

by Christopher Darlington Morley

Pleased to Meet You

I

"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."