Antal Szerb: Oliver VII

He moved quickly on, up the inner stairway, to the Duke’s private apartments. In a room packed with Japanese watercolours another praeternaturally ancient footman received him and offered him a chair.

In no time at all Duke Geront appeared, supported by a young woman. The claimant to the throne was seventy-five years old and in rather poor condition for his years. He wore extremely thick spectacles, groping his way ahead as he walked, and his voice wavered into a sort of bleat; but his manner was decisive and intelligent. There was much more life in the girl, Princess Clodia. She was about thirty years of age, energetic and rather stern of feature: handsome enough, but as an old woman, Sandoval thought to himself, she would be really formidable.

“Ah, Sandoval,” the Princess cried, “so they let you through the cordon? How did you manage it? They have practically sealed us off from the outside world. Our mail is opened, they listen in on our telephone calls … ”

“You must remember, your Highness, that you are a claimant to the throne. There is a price to pay for that.”

“Have you brought news from the Committee?”

“Yes. Here, in my pocket.”

He handed over a thick envelope.

“Thank you, Sandoval. I’ll go and read it up in my room. Meanwhile you may entertain my father.”

After a long search the Duke produced a netsuke from his pocket — a little button carved from stone and used for clasping the kimono at the shoulder.

“Marvellous,” he commented. “Fifteenth century.”

They talked at length about the netsuke and other things Japanese, the Duke leading him with uncertain steps through room after room, bringing out his treasures to show them off. Sandoval made tactful but persistent attempts to introduce the subject of what was to happen the following day, but even the most oblique mention of any such topic produced a display of violent irritation.

“All these stupid claims to the throne,” he muttered. “Don’t say one word about any of that. Nothing will come of it, I’m quite sure. In my late brother Simon’s reign I was next in line three times … or was it just twice? … and nothing ever came of it. All the better for it, too.”

A full half-hour or more passed in this manner, before signs of fatigue began to show on the Duke’s face. Princess Clodia and a footman came for him soon after, and made him lie down on a divan.

Clodia and Sandoval went through into another room.

“He’s interested in nothing but his collections,” she complained. “But he always was like that. He’s spent his entire fortune on them, and he’s run up so many debts he won’t be able to pay them even if he does become king. Oh well, never mind. It’s lucky I’m here. It’s not that I have an especially high opinion of myself, but I could run this country every bit as well as that daft cousin of mine, Oliver. Even when we were children he was completely useless. He used to write poetry … ”

“Your Highness, the people are always happy to be ruled over by a woman. Because the male monarchs are always swayed by their women, and the women by their men.”

For a moment the Princess frowned at this extreme impertinence, then she smiled. She thought of those exemplary women whose lives she had studied with such care: Elizabeth of England, Catherine the Great … Yes, Sandoval was right.

“The Duke will have to be shaken out of his apathy,” Sandoval continued. “Tomorrow is the day we’ve all been waiting for. For a little while at least, he ought to show some enthusiasm and appetite for the job in hand. By this time the day after tomorrow, assuming all goes well, he’ll be king — and he still won’t let us mention it in his presence.”

“You are quite right. His lack of interest could be very damaging when he comes face to face with his supporters. It might even turn the Nameless Captain against him.”

“The Nameless Captain? Does Your Highness believe in such a being?”

“Of course. I don’t understand how you could think otherwise. Who do you imagine is funding the revolution? You don’t think it’s us, in Algarthe? We haven’t a penny to our name … ”

“True, true. But then who could this Nameless Captain be? Who in Alturia has that sort of money? And is it possible that Your Highness really doesn’t know?”

“Well, that’s how it is: even I don’t know. I have speculated about various foreign powers and interests, but none of them seems very probable. I simply cannot imagine who would have anything to gain from my father’s taking the throne.”

“Delorme insists that the Nameless Captain will declare himself at the critical moment. Perhaps we’ll see him tomorrow. Meanwhile I must speak to the Duke and have one last try. Does Your Highness think he might be fully rested by now?”

“Yes, I should think so. Shall we go and see?”

The Duke was completely his old self again. He greeted Sandoval with delight, having forgotten that he had met him earlier.

“What news, Sandoval? Would you like to see something really special?” And he produced the netsuke again. “Marvellous, eh? Fifteenth century.”

Sandoval expressed proper admiration for the carving, then said:

“And I’ve brought you something rather fine.”

“What’s that? One of your own paintings?” the Duke began, rather anxiously, as Sandoval produced a lengthy scroll.

“No, no. Here you are. How do you like this etching?”

The Duke peered at it, initially rather unsure, then his face lit up, and he immersed himself with increasing delight in contemplation of the picture.

“But it’s a Piranesi! Why didn’t you say so at the start? It’s wonderful! From his best period! How in the devil’s name did you come by this? If it’s for sale I’ll buy it immediately.”

“But Father …!” Princess Clodia broke in, clearly exasperated. “You know how … And you, Sandoval, why are you teasing him like this?”

“It’s not for sale,” Sandoval hastened to reassure her. “It belongs to the National Gallery in Lara — the Director is a close friend. He lent it to me, on the side.”

“Would you let me have it on loan, then? Or as a present?” the Duke began. And his face filled with a child-like yearning. “I’ve always longed for a Piranesi like this. Only this sort, mind you; none of the others.”

“I’m sorry, but the Director has no power to give the gallery’s treasures away. That would require an order from the highest level.”

“The devil with all that. You know perfectly well that I give orders to no one in this country. Take your picture away. Take it away!”

Petulantly, he turned his face to the wall.

“But Your Highness, the day after tomorrow … ”

“What about the day after tomorrow? Are you insane?”

“Your Highness, you must remember that, very soon, you will be the highest authority in the land, and it will be yours to command.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve heard that so often. And as soon as I wanted to buy that tiny little Ostade, all hell broke loose … ”

“But when Your Highness is King of Alturia, it will be an entirely different matter.”

“What do you mean? You know Alturia. Do you think kings here have money for paintings? All they can afford is their own portraits. Or … will I really be able to have them for nothing?”

“Your Highness simply instructs the Minister of Culture that such and such a picture is to be transferred from the National Gallery to the Royal Palace, or, if you like, here to Algarthe.”

“Is that right? Can I really do that? I’d never thought of that.”

He pondered the idea.

“That changes everything,” he said, after a pause. His voice was fresh, almost youthful. “That makes the whole thing much more interesting. Why didn’t you say so at the start? So, where are these revolutionaries? Let’s see them; let’s have a look at them. I want action, not empty words! Clodia, I hope you’ve made all the necessary arrangements. I’ll keep the Piranesi here anyway.”