Pleased to Meet You/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 residence 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 accompanied 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 papers"
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."