Antal Szerb - Oliver VII

“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 to 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.