Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 405
“It will be admirable,” Da Pinta said.
“Then what more could you desire?” the Queen asked triumphantly. “I think it would be admirable, and you agree with me. My dear Da Pinta, I do not understand why you make all these objections. Is it because it is stipulated in the bond that you will make no profits? My faithful friend, can you not rely upon the well-known generosity of our house? Besides, your estates will be returned to you.”
The excellent Da Pinta, who enjoyed an income of £120 a year by the generosity of Her Majesty, set his heels together and, with a stiff bow, said that if he could not rely upon Her Majesty’s generosity no one in the world could.
“Then,” the Queen said triumphantly, “I still more do not understand why you have made all these objections to our sanctioning this project. Can it be, my faithful friend, that you have become avaricious in your old age? That I do not wish to believe. And yet you object to there being inserted in this bond a clause giving to the royal house a small share of the undoubtedly immense profits that Count Macdonald will make out of this enterprise. What, then, am I to believe? Da Pinta! Almost you force me to imagine that you expect secretly to receive from Count Macdonald that share of the profits — six-sevenths, and surely that is little enough — you desire to divert into your own pockets that share which should fall to the royal house. My dear Da Pinta, this saddens me very much; for if I cannot trust you, whom can I trust?”
Fire glowed in Da Pinta’s dark brown eyes. He stamped his feet.
“But this is imbecile!” he exclaimed. “Madam, there will be no profits, so it would be the act of a madman to put in a clause about profits.”
“Da Pinta, you forget yourself,” the Queen said. “Your sufferings have made you mad, so we pardon you.”
Da Pinta rolled his eyes despairingly upon Macdonald. “Your Excellency,” he exclaimed passionately, “will you decide whether it is I that am mad or this silly old woman?”
The Queen had folded her arms, and was complacently tapping her left elbow with the fat fingers of her right hand.
“Poor Da Pinta!” she exclaimed. “Assuredly we shall have to have you put into a strait-jacket.... But I say that assuredly I will not put my name to this document unless the clause about the profits is added.”
“And I say,” Da Pinta exclaimed, “that I will never add it.”
With a face of deep seriousness Macdonald turned to the Queen.
“I will add it myself,” he said. “It is obvious that Your Majesty is entirely in the right. Certainly six-sevenths of my profits shall go to the royal house.”
The Queen directed a glance of triumph to Da Pinta. But that nobleman once more burst out:
‘‘But if there are no profits, how can there at the same time be six-sevenths of the profits?”
“My dear chap,” Macdonald said to him in English, but speaking so fast that the Queen did not well understand him, “if there were no madness in this sort of adventure there would be no adventure.”
“What’s that? What’s that?” the Queen exclaimed. “I do not like this whispering.”
“Your Majesty,” Macdonald said, “I could not very well ask the Marquis to mend his manners at the top of my voice.”
At this point the King, who had been trying all the while to catch a large blue-bottle that noisily evaded his fingers on the window-pane — the King turned round and uttered the words:
“I say, look here!”
But the Queen went on: “I ask Your Excellency, though you as an interested party cannot be expected to return an impartial answer...”
Again the King exclaimed: “I say, look here!”
But the Queen continued: “I do not expect you to return an impartial answer. All the same, I ask you, could any one’s attitude — any royal person’s attitude — have been more correct than mine has been all through this interview? For I have two duties: one towards the people of Galizia, and the other towards the royal house.” And the Queen looked with heavy eyes at all the three who stood before her. “In the course of these tiresome negotiations,” she continued, “I have in the first place safeguarded the interests of a beloved people, and in the second I have insisted on securing the interests of the royal house against adventurers...
And then suddenly the young King burst out in English:” I say, look here! This is all bally rot. I won’t have that beastly clause put into the silly document. I won’t have Macdonald insulted, and that’s an end of it. He’s a friend of mine, and if either of you insult him you insult me. But I’ll put a clause in to say that Macdonald shall be made a Duke because he is the best friend I have. And Miss di Pradella shall be a Marchioness because she is a jolly girl, and Da Pinta shall have the Golden Fleece, and I’ll do my best to get both Macdonald and Da Pinta the Garter. So that’s an end of it.... Put all that I have said into the bond, Da Pinta, and let us have no more talking. For I think it’s our sheer duty to say that if Macdonald, who is a gentleman, refuses to make any profit, it’s our duty not to want any share of the profits. If I’m going to be a king, I am going to be a king, and I can’t have anybody — not even Count Macdonald — being... What’s that silly phrase you used at Kingston, Mac?... Oh yes, I can’t have anybody being plus royale que le roi. Put it all in, Da Pinta, as I have said. And then, for God’s sake, get the signing and sealing over. I can’t stop here all day. I’ve got more important things to do than this nonsense.”
And the King turned once more to the large blue bottle and the window-pane. Outside, his new car was shining in the sun, and he made a gesture to Mr. Salt, who, in his mackintosh, was looking up at the house.
“Now that was a very silly speech,” the Queen-Mother said. “Who wants anybody to be plus royale que le roi? You would almost think that my son suspected me of being selfish. But that, of course, is unthinkable.... Well, what do we do next?”
A sudden jab of toothache went through Da Pinta’s head, and he groaned lamentably.
“Yes, what the devil do we do next?” he cried.
“Oh, give Her Majesty the pen, and light a little candle for the sealing-wax,” Macdonald exclaimed patiently. “There is really nothing to be done except to sign and to seal. After all, all the other things can be put into some other document.”
“Of course, of course,” the Queen said.” How foolish you have been, Da Pinta, to impede us with all these objections! Of course, we must put all the rest into another document. I think your sufferings have made you mad.”
“But this is only what we all wanted from the beginning,” Da Pinta grumbled.
“Of course it is,” the Queen said. “Now be silent! Where is there a pen?”
Between two of the windows there was a little table that had upon it many silver objects. To this Da Pinta rather sulkily proceeded. He lit a little candle that sent a golden glow on to the facets of crystal ink-pots and on to the roughened surfaces of chiselled silver seal-holders, so that all the table resembled a small altar.
“Your Majesty signs first,” he said to the King. “And Your Excellent Majesty second; then I sign as witness, and seal as Great Chancellor of the Kingdom; then Count Macdonald...”
“Hallo! Where is it?” the King said. He came from the window, and, his tongue rolling round his lips, he signed his name. “Now I can go.”
“No, Your Majesty must wait to affix the seal,” Da Pinta said.
“Oh, cut it short!” the King grumbled.
Da Pinta set the sealing-wax in the little candle and, drop by drop, let the wax, like drops of blood, fall on to the parchment. He worked the wax round and round.
“And this is history!” Macdonald uttered pleasantly to himself.
The long room was getting a little dark. In the background one of the duchesses by the tea-table had gone to sleep, the old Duchesse de Creil was knitting fast. Two of the priests were talking together; the third had curious eyes fixed on the royal group by the window. The King sealed, the Queen signed, a great, fat, stupid-looking woman with pendulous cheeks of a papery white. At the second seal Da Pinta burnt his fingers, and he began to suck them and to stamp his feet. But there was at least the semblance of a decorous silence.
“And in the end,” Macdonald exclaimed, “no doubt all historic scenes at the heart of them were much like this. Napoleon I was tortured by internal cramps when he gave up his sword on the Bellerophon. Napoleon III read one of the stupidest novels in the English language all through the night before his abdiction. Without doubt, Caesar was chiefly concerned in keeping his feet dry when he crossed the Rubicon; and no doubt Alexander, when he sighed for new worlds to conquer, was only hungry...”
“Now I suppose,” the Queen exclaimed, “you will allow me to finish my tea in peace. I consider that I have been much too good-humoured.” And going towards the tea-table she held up one of her fat hands for Macdonald to kiss. He did so with one knee bent, and, graciously, she sailed on towards the two duchesses and the three priests. The King had already run out of the room, and they heard from outside the long buzz of the immensely powerful engine. It gave three great crashes, and then they heard its noise fade into distance. Macdonald went near the table and bent over Da Pinta, who was signing his name with elaborate flourishes and great care.
“Where does the romance of all this come in?” he asked gaily.
“Romance?” Da Pinta grumbled. “That detestable woman will make me spit out all my teeth one of these days! I tell you she is unbearable.”
Macdonald sat himself slowly down at the little table and picked up a quill.
“And loyalty?” he asked, “and patriotism? Where do they come in?”
“Loyalty! Patriotism! I am sure I don’t know,” Da Pinta exclaimed dismally. “It is all just a blague. It would be better to be a peasant of the Gallegos district, lying in the sun with his bit of goat’s cheese and his wine-skin, and his plough ox breathing down the back of his neck. They have no troubles...”
“Oh, come,” Macdonald said, “that’s a very commonplace unphilosophic way of looking at it. Remember that you are the saviour of your country, and that your name will be inscribed in letters of gold upon the Galizian roll of glory.”
Da Pinta only spat as if he had in his mouth little fragments of tobacco from the end of a cigar.
“You talk like a child of ten.”
“That’s because my heart is pure,” Macdonald laughed. Then he signed his name.
PART III
CHAPTER I
IT was in other ways a very busy time for Sergius Mihailovitch, for, having taken stock of his position, as it were between two breaths, it had occurred to him that, for his daily bread, he might just as well rely on the fact that he was chief manager of the Resiliens Motor Car Company. He was quite aware that all that was expected of him was his name on the prospectus of the company, and he was quite aware that his name was not worth the 800 guineas that he was at liberty to draw from the company.
He hadn’t at first had the least idea of drawing it, but on Monday, after signing Galizian bonds, there had been a meeting of the board of the company. He hadn’t indeed intended even to attend this board meeting, but there was a Mr. Lawson, who was not only sub-manager, but also the secretary of the company. Mr. Lawson had previously occupied a post with a British firm. He had quarrelled with the manager of the firm, and having been for eighteen months, as he called it, “out of a shop,” he had been forced to accept a position with this American affair. This had been a sad blow to his patriotism, for Mr. Lawson, whilst he had been in his former position, had spent much time in telling customers that all these American machines were made of meat tins, joined together with hairpins. He had spent so much time at it, and had worked himself up into such enthusiasms of patriotism, that he felt himself singularly subdued now that it was his duty to his employers exactly to give his former self the lie. He had been used to say:
“Don’t buy one of these cheap and nasty American affairs. You’ll find yourself sitting in the road one day, with bits of scrap-iron all round you, if you do.”
Now he had to say:
“What’s the good of bolstering up these lazy British firms? You pay twice as much for one of their cars as for one of ours, and the same quality. And why? Because they are over-capitalised and wastefully managed. You aren’t paying for a better, but only putting a premium on bad management. Why! only look at the finish of our bodies!”
So that as yet the words did not come very glibly from Mr. Lawson’s tongue. He had only been at the job a fortnight, and the mere organising of the offices and getting the show-rooms in order had taken nearly all the time.
Sergius Mihailovitch had seen him quite often; he had spoken to him twice. For Mr. Lawson was always to be seen running about with a sheaf of papers in one hand and a foot-rule in the other — a rather small man, with a stiffish brown moustache and worried brown eyes.
Once he had come to Macdonald and asked him if he would mind having the receiver of the private telephone from the works at Willesden set up in the passage beside Macdonald’s bedroom. And once again he had come to Macdonald in the office to ask whether he might bring his papers into Macdonald’s room, and explained that his own office on the other side of the show-room was too dark to write in, and one of the fuses of the electric light had blown out. He had to draw an advertisement for all the weekly papers, and the boy was waiting for the copy.
Macdonald said: “Oh, come in;” and the small depressed man set down on Macdonald’s desk his quill pen, his camel’s-hair brushes, and his little pot of sepia ink. With extreme industry he had begun ruling black lines upon a square of paper. He had gummed on a little half-tone reproduction of a motor car. Beneath it he had begun to write with shiny sepia:
“THE RESILIENS! EASY, ECONOMICAL RESILIENT. YOU WANT ONE!”
He looked at Macdonald, who stood over him. His face had a little depressed and weary air.
“That’s not much good as an ad.; but what can we do?”
“It looks very pretty to me,” said Macdonald. “What more do you want?”
“Oh, you want startling facts for an advertisement,” Mr. Lawson answered. “But what are we to do? For there isn’t even a single member of the aristocracy who has bought one of the things. There is no one on this side of the water to look after this sort of job. I am not the man for this, even if I had the time. It’s heart-breaking, how these Yankees manage things! I don’t know why they wanted to set up in England at all. There is no one for me to apply to for instruction. The board is nothing but old women. As for Mr. Dexter, he can’t tell the difference between a wired tyre and the hot-box of a railway engine.” His whole manner expressed so much dejection that Macdonald felt forced to say kindly:
“Oh, come, cheer up! Ought not I to provide you with startling facts?’’
Mr. Lawson said” You” in a tone that was an odd mixture of contempt for Sergius Mihailovitch the idler, and of admiration for him as an aristocrat.
“Well,” Macdonald said, “I am supposed to be the general manager. What have I got these expensively furnished rooms for?”
“Oh, you’re too much of a swell,” Mr. Lawson said.
“Your title is only on the prospectus to rope in small investors. You aren’t supposed to do any of the practical work.”
“That seems rather hard on the small investors,” Macdonald said. “I suppose they expect me to do something for my money.”
“It’s rather hard on them,” he got his answer.’ But that’s the way it’s done.”
“It’s the way it oughtn’t to be done,” Macdonald said. “Well, you can’t alter it,” Mr. Lawson said gloomily; and he rang the bell and told the commissionaire to send in the boy who had come for the copy from the advertisement agents.
“Wait a minute,” Macdonald said. “Tell the boy to wait. Let’s have a little talk about this.”
He stood reflecting for a moment, and then he sat down at the large desk opposite Mr. Lawson.
“None of this seems to me to be right at all,” he said. “Here am I, who am not expected to do anything at all, and I have this large, fine room.”
The walls of Macdonald’s office were panelled in the American fashion with dark green tulip wood. Upon the right side of the room stood a Chippendale bureau. Upon the panelling itself there hung facsimile reproductions of Rembrandt’s “Knight in Armour,” Romney’s “Lady Hamilton,” Gainsborough’s “Blue Boy,” and Van Dyck’s” Charles I” with the large white charger. All these pictures were in heavy gold frames. There were in the room three deep leather armchairs, and against the walls a dozen Chippendale dining-chairs with seats of red leather. The table in the centre was long enough to seat sixteen people, and it was of black bog oak.
Mr. Lawson also looked round upon this gentleman’s dining-room.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s the Yankee way of doing business. I’ve seen their offices in Chicago — just like this. And no business doing except getting the money out of small investors. It’s all swank, and a decent man like me oughtn’t to be set to work at a job like this. They don’t mean to do any business here.”
“Oh, well,” Macdonald said, “you might just as well say that a decent man like me oughtn’t to be in a job like this.”
“I’ll say it if you like,” Mr. Lawson echoed him.
Again Macdonald reflected. “The car is a good car, isn’t it?” he asked. “In fact, I know it is.”
“Oh, it’s a ripping good car,” Mr. Lawson corroborated, “and dirt cheap at the money, whichever quality you buy. The mere standardisation of the parts would make it an absolute boon to anybody who can only afford one car. Why, if you live in a place like Ashford and your differential goes wrong, all you have to do is to wire up to us, and you’ll get a temporary spare part by the next passenger train. Any other firm in the country would take a fortnight putting your car straight, and all the time you’d have to be without its services.”
“Well, then,” Macdonald said cheerfully, “if the car is all right, all we’ve got to do in the interests of the small shareholders is to put the other things right.”
