SWASHES
WELL-BUCKLED
The
following I receiv'd in Morse-Code, tapp'd out by the heel of a Shoe
on a floor-board in a Rustick Hoftelry...
The Old Inn,
The Purple Moor,
17__
Dear Madame,
Help! I am an Inn-keeper's Daughter and am being held Hostage! I
have been tied up to my Bedpost by a company of Soldiers, who have
near drunk my Parents clean out of Ale, without yet paying. Tim, the
disgusting and half-craz'd Ostler, who hath been leching after me for
years, hath betray'd my secret High Toby-man Lover to them, and they
are luring him into a Trap, as he vow'd to come to me by Moonlight,
though Hell should bar the way...
I cannot endure this thought, for my Lover is a fine Buck, with a
French-cock'd hat on his forehead, skin-tight doe-skin breeches which
fit with ne'er a Wrinkle, spurr'd boots up to his Thigh, a coat of
Claret velvet, a fine lace Cravat, and twinkly Bits on his Pistols
and Rapier...
The rough Soldiery have tied me up very tightly, with a Musquet
beside me, the Muzzle beneath my Breast, which hath afforded them
much Coarse Sniggering, as I am what they call a "Bushel Bubby", and
the Gun-metal prefses most chill against me. However, I have thought
of a way to Confound them & save my Beloved, tho' at Cost of mine
own Life. With much effort & wriggling, breaking of my finger
Nails & c. & c. & c., I can reach the Trigger of the said
Musquet. If I shoot myself thus, the Report may yet warn him to avoid
this place. Madame, pray, what should I do?
BESS
(the Landlord's Daughter)
Dear Befs,
First of all,
DO NOT
PANICK!
Yr Situation is not so desperate as to
merit contemplating yr Self-destruction. This Toby-Man of yours, for
all his Airs & Graces, is but a common Criminal and Hedge-Robber,
who has doubtless kill'd & robb'd many innocent persons on the
Roads. There is more to a Man's worth than the fit of his Breeches,
fine Lace & Velvets, or twinkly Bits (although it helps, of
course, and I am not immune to the Charms of a well-turn'd Leg
or elegant Figure myself! - Alas, my dear
Valmont!).
Also, consider the likely Consequences, if
you do shoot yourself:
- Your violent & bloody Death or,
at the very least, a painful Wound in a most tender Place, likely
requiring of the Chirurgeon's knife (read Mme. d'Arblay's account
of her Operation, and I think you will be less enthusiastic to
risk such an Ordeal on a romantick girlish
Fancy!);
- The mental Distrefs caus'd to yr
worthy & much-tried Parents in having to scrape bits of your
mangl'd Mammary off yr bedroom Ceiling. Removing Blood-Stains is
very difficult when oak beams are involv'd, and as for the
Plaster-Work...!
- Further unnecefsary Distrefs caus'd
to the Soldiery, who are, when all's said, only trying to do their
Job and keep the King's Highways safe for honest
Travellers;
- Burial at the Cross-roads with a
Stake through yr Heart, as if you were a Criminal yrself, for
Self-murder;
- Losing the Chance to avenge yrself on
the perfidious & repulsive blackguard Tim the Ostler;
- The Chance that when he hears of it,
yr idiotic Criminal Paramour will be inspir'd to do something
utterly fatuous and futile, such as charge straight at the
Soldiers, brandishing his Rapier and screaming Imprecations, and
be shot down like a Dog in the Highway (with a bunch of lace at
his Throat).
I therefore suggest that you resign
yrself to the death of this Banditti of yours, and instead try to
ingratiate yrself with yr Captors. Officers only, mind: there
must surely be a pretty young Ensign, Lieutenant or even a Captain
among them. The more gold or silver Lace, the better. Their
Employment is more secure, though retains the Hasard/Thrill factor
you so clearly desire, and they too dress most charmingly...
(Even my solitary & jaded Eye has thrilled to a scarlet
Coat at the moving Magick Lantern show...!)
Tell the Officer in Command that
Tim was the Highwayman's true Accomplice, and let them shoot
him too. And do remind him (politely) to pay for his men's
Drinks before they leave the Hostelry.
The following
Mifsive in German arrived from a most accomplish'd & charming
young Gentleman in Ruritania, a Country which lies betwixt
Saxony & Bohemia. I am deeply honour'd that he has deem'd me
worthy to confult as a King-Maker:
Schloß Zenda,
Zenda,
Ruritanen,
April 1876
Gnädige
Markgräfin!
I
am a nobleman of the highest rank and progressive principles, 26 this
year. I have been placed in an impossible situation due to my Royal
father's death just a few months ago.
My father was married twice: his first
wife, a princess from another royal house, died shortly after the
birth of my half-brother, the Crown Prince; his second wife (my
mother) is of good but not sufficiently exalted family (at least not
in the eyes of the Church), and was married morganatically. I thus
have no claim to the throne, although I understand that my father was
reconsidering my official position shortly before his
death.
As Crown Prince, my half-brother Rudolf was
over-indulged, and can best be characterised now, at 29, as a
pleasure-seeking wastrel and debauchee with no interest in the
welfare of his country. He has spent most of his adult life in Monte
Carlo and Baden, at or under the tables. The Army, the Church,
and the wealthy of the Neustadt of Strelsau support him. I, on the
other hand, have worked hard as City Governor in the interests of the
working classes of the Altstadt. I now find myself hailed as "the
Champion of the Poor". The Crown Prince's clique claims this is
merely a pose, but they are blinkered by their devotion to a decadent
fool and contempt for what they regard as "a poverty-stricken,
turbulent, and (in large measure) criminal class" - not pausing to
wonder why there is poverty, unrest, and disorder among them.
Even my failure to resemble the red-haired male line is thrown back
at me with the epithet schwarz, since I take my looks from my
mother's family. If you know aught of my country, I think I need not
spell out the odious prejudice which prompts this: behind my back,
other words are used which I will not repeat, generally accompanied
by "mongrel" (mischling). My brother, needless to say, has the
Cardinal-Archbishop's support. Yet the common people are not
duped.
I feel the eyes of the people upon me,
impelling me to act. There are other pressures upon me, too, which
demand that I waste no time. Leading a popular uprising is out of the
question, as it would be crushed by the Army's superior fire-power
(as indeed happened in Strelsau in 1848). A small-scale palace
coup seems preferable - with as few casualties as possible. If
successful, I may have to consolidate and legitimise my position by
wedding my brother's fiancée, our late uncle's daughter
Princess Flavia, the next heir. But I am not sure how that will be
taken by my mistress, a poule de luxe a good number of years
my senior. Although I only met her a month ago, when visiting Paris
(ostensibly to invite President MacMahon to the coronation, but also
gaining assurances of non-intervention, should I decide to act), she
has just arrived here in Ruritanen, and seems to have further designs
upon me!
The main dangers I perceive in my plans are
a young ally whom I suspect to have his own agenda, especially
regarding my mistress - but he is a good fighter, though lacking in
principle, and I would rather risk his being on my side where I can
see him than on Rudi's; and the loyalty of some of Rudi's supporters,
notably his ADCs, one of whom is our late Father's Equerry (a pompous
windbag of a Colonel). They will stop at nothing to prop up a corrupt
imbecile through whom the Army and the Church will be able to
maintain their stranglehold on our country, and obstruct any hope of
reform.
MISCHA v. ELPHBERG
Herzog von Strelsau
& Hauptstadtsgouverneur
My Dear Mischa,
You are indeed in a difficult Situation,
dear Boy: damn'd if you do & equally damn'd if you do Nothing. Yr
Father has left a veritable poison'd Chalice, highlighting one of the
problems inherent in the hereditary Principle, especially in an
Abfolutist Government: Heaven does not always make the right Men
Kings. And talking of poison'd Chalices, that may well be a
pofsible solution for dealing with yr difsipated & debauch'd
older Brother, who I'm sure is innately Incapable of pafsing up a
Drink... (Failing that, an 'accident' with a Pretzel may
easily be arranged: he's surely incapable of munching & thinking
simultaneously.)
I understand yr meaning about the base
Prejudices prevalent in yr Country. 'Tis true of mine, also: my
Compatriot Monsieur Swann has encountered much Snobbery &
Hostility on account of his Origins. And that great poet, Herr Heine,
has commented on it most astutely. Your Mother was of converted
Family, I take it?
You seem to me to be in an inordinate
Hurry, & I am greatly apprehensive as to the Reason. My
Secretary, who claims to be some sort of Doctor, is moft concern'd at
yr Appearance: the full-blooded red on yr Cheek, brilliance of Eye,
& general Air of hectick Intenfity. She notes, too, a certain
resemblance to the late Romantick Poet & Revolutionary Sandor
Petöfi, and mutters darkly about "Lungenschwindsucht".
She fears you have endanger'd yr Life by spending too much Time in
the Altstadt Slums, and advises against any Over-Exertion such as
Sword-fights. I enclose an advertisement for a most
comfortable Sanatorium in Davos, which was sent to me by another
charming young man, Herr Kastorp. Please do take
Care!
Yr Mistrefs, as a Woman of the World -
indeed, of Pleasure - should be mature enough to accept the
pofsibility of yr Marriage. After all - if I may speak plain - what
are you to her but another businefs Opportunity/Toy-boy? Is she,
perhaps, intending to ufe you as her Retirement Fund? Or do you
suppose she may be with Child? Otherwife, you may expect she should
soon be back in Paris, Carlsbad, Monte Carlo, Biarritz, Withernsea
& c. in search of fresh Prey. But WATCH HER & YR ALLY. They
may as soon sell you to yr Foes, whatever their Motives.
Posterity will not forgive you if you try
& fail. The People will not forgive you if you fail to
try.
God Speed & (if I may)
Mazeltov.
PS: Since You are a young Man of
such excellent Taste as to appreciate the Company of older
Frenchwomen, please feel free to call upon me to share a Bottle of
Tokay some time - after you are Crown'd, of course...
But separate Glafses, to be on the Safe Side, as I have no Desire to
emulate the unfortunate Mlle. Gautier: blood-spitting is
so déclassé...
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