Black Mischief

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Evelyn Waugh

BLACK MISCHIEF

First published in 1932

ONE

WE, Setk, Emperor of Azania, Chief of the Chiefs of Sakuyu, Lord of Wanda and Tyrant of the Seas, Bachelor of the Arts of Oxford University, being in this the twenty-fourth year of our life, summoned by the wisdom of Al-mighty God and the unanimous voice of our people to the throne of our ancestors, do hereby proclaim…” Seth paused in his dictation and gazed out across the harbour where in the fresh breeze of early morning the last dhow was setting sail for the open sea. “Rats,” he said; “stinking curs. They art all running away.”

The Indian secretary sat attentive, his fountain pen poised over the pad of writing paper, his eyes blinking gravely behind rimless pince-nez.

“Is there still no news from the hills?”

“None of unquestionable veracity, your majesty.”

“I gave orders that the wireless was to be mended.

Where is Marx? I told him to see to it.”

“He evacuated the town late yesterday evening.”

“He evacuated the town?”

“In your majesty’s motor boat. There was a large company of them—the station master, the chief of police, the Armenian Archbishop, the Editor of the Azanian Courier, the American vice-consul. All the most distinguished gentlemen in Matodi.”

“I wonder you weren’t with them yourself, Ali.”

“There was not room. I supposed that with so many distinguished gentlemen there was danger of submersion.”

“Your loyalty shall be rewarded. Where had I got to?”

“The last eight words in reproof of the fugitives were an interpolation?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“I will make the erasion. Your majesty’s last words were ‘do hereby proclaim.’ “

“Do hereby proclaim amnesty and free pardon to all those of our subjects recently seduced from their loyalty, who shall during the eight days subsequent to this date return to their lawful allegiance. Fur-thermore…”

They were in the upper story of the old fort at Matodi. Here, three hundred years before, a Portuguese garrison had withstood eight months’ siege from the Omani Arabs; at this window they had watched for the sails of the relieving fleet, which came ten days too late.

Over the main door traces of an effaced escutcheon were still discernible, an idolatrous work repugnant to the prejudice of the conquerors.

For two centuries the Arabs remained masters of the coast. Behind them in the hills the native Sakuyu, black, naked, anthropophagous, had lived their own tribal life among their herds—emaciated, puny cattle with rickety shanks and elaborately branded hide. Further away still lay the territory of the Wanda—Galla immigrants from the mainland who, long before the coming of the Arabs, had settled in the North of the island and cultivated it in irregular communal holdings. The Arabs held aloof from the affairs of both these people; war-drums could often be heard inland and sometimes the whole hillside would be aflame with burning villages. On the coast a prosperous town arose; great houses of Arab merchants with intricate latticed windows and brass studded doors, courtyards planted with dense mango trees, streets heavy with the reek of cloves and pineapple, so narrow that two mules could not pass without altercation between their drivers; a bazaar where the money changers, squatting over their scalef, weighed out the coinage of a world-wide trade, Austrian thalers, rough-stamped Mahratta gold, Spanish and Portuguese guineas. From Matodi the dhows sailed to the mainland, to Tanga, Dares-Salaam, Malindi and Kis-mayu, to meet the caravans coming down from the great lakes with ivory and slaves. Splendidly dressed Arab gentlemen paraded the water-front hand in hand and gossiped in the coffee houses. In early spring when the monsoon was blowing from the Northeast, fleets came down from the Persian Gulf bringing to market a people of fairer skin who spoke a pure Arabic barely intelligible to the islanders, for with the passage of years their language had be-come full of alien words—Bantu from the mainland, Sakuyu and Galla from the interior—and the slave markets had infused a richer and darker strain into their Semitic blood; instincts of swamp and forest mingled with the austere tradition of the desert.

In one of these Muscat trading fleets came Seth’s grandfather, Amurath, a man wholly unlike his companions, a slave’s son, sturdy, bow-legged, three-quarters negro. He had received education of a kind from Nestorian monks near Basra. At Matodi he sold his dhow and entered the Sultan’s service.

It was a critical time in local history. The white men were returning. From Bombay they had fastened on Aden. They were in Zanzibar and the Sudan. They were pushing up round the Cape and down through the Canal. Their warships were cruising the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean intercepting slavers; the caravans from Tabora were finding difficulty in getting through to the coast. Trade in Matodi was almost at a standstill and a new listless-ness became apparent in the leisured life of the mer chants; they spent their days in the town moodily chewing khat. They could no longer afford to keep up their villas round the bay. Gardens ran wild and roofs fell into disrepair. The grass huts of the Sakuyu began to appear on the more remote estates. Groups of Wanda and Sakuyu came into town and swaggered insolently about the bazaars; an Arab party returning from one of the country villas was ambushed and murdered within a mile of the walls. There were rumours of a general massacre, planned in the hills. The European powers watched their opportunity to proclaim a Protectorate.

In this uncertain decade there suddenly appeared the figure of Amurath; first as commander-in-chief of the Sultan’s forces, then as general of an independent army; finally as Emperor Amurath the Great. He armed the Wanda and at their head in-flicted defeat after defeat on the Sakuyu, driving off their cattle, devastating their villages and hunting them down in the remote valleys of the island. Then he turned his conquering army against his old allies on the coast. In three years he proclaimed the island a single territory and himself its ruler. He changed its name. Until now it had been scored on the maps as Sakuyu Island; Amurath renamed it the Empire of Azania. He founded a new capital at Debra-Dowa, two hundred miles inland on the borders of the Wanda and Sakuyu territories. It was the site of his last camp, a small village, partially burnt out. There was no road to the coast, only a faltering bush path which an experienced scout could follow. Here he set up his standard.

Presently there was a railway from Matodi to Debra-Dowa. Three European companies held the concession in turn and failed; at the side of the line were the graves of two French engineers who went down with blackwater, and of numerous Indian coolies. The Sakuyu would wrench up the steel sleepers to forge spear heads and pull down lengths of copper telegraph wire to adorn their women. Lions came into the labour lines at night and carried off workmen; there were mosquitoes, snakes, tsetse fly, spirillum ticks; there were deep water courses to be bridged which for a few days in the year bore a great torrent down from the hills, bundling with it timber and boulders and an occasional corpse; there was a lava field to be crossed, a great waste of pum-ice five miles broad; in the hot season the metal blistered the hands of workmen; during the rains landslides and wash-outs would obliterate the work of months. Reluctantly, step by step, barbarism retreated; the seeds of progress took root and, after years of slow growth, burst finally into flower in the single, narrow gauge track of the Grand Chemin de Fer Imperial d’Azanie. In the sixteenth year of his reign Amurath travelled in the first train from Ma-todi to Debra-Dowa. With him sat delegates from France, Great Britain, Italy, and the United States; his daughter and heir; her husband; while in a cat-tle truck behind, rode a dozen or so illegitimate children; in another coach sat the hierarchies of the various Churches of Azania; in another the Arab sheiks from the coast, the paramount chief of the Wanda, and a shrivelled, scared old negro, with one eye, who represented the Sakuyu. The train was decked with bunting, feathers and flowers; it whistled continuously from coast to capital; levies of irregular troops lined the way; a Jewish nihilist from Berlin threw a bomb which failed to explode; sparks from the engine started several serious bush fires; at Debra-Dowa Amurath received the congratulations of the civilized world and created the French contractor a Marquess in the Azanian peerage.

The first few trains caused numerous deaths among the inhabitants, who for some time did not appreciate the speed or strength of this new thing that had come to their country. Presently they be-came more cautious and the service less frequent. Amurath had drawn up an elaborate time-table of express trains, local trains, goods trains, boat trains, schemes for cheap return tickets and excursions; he had printed a map showing the future developments of the line in a close mesh all over the island. But the railway was the last great achievement of his life; soon after its opening he lapsed into a coma from which he never recovered consciousness; he had a wide reputation far immortality; it was three years before his ministers, in response to insistent rumours, ventured to announce his death to the peo-ple. In the succeeding years the Grand Chemin de Per Imperial d’Azanie failed to develop on the lines adumbrated by its founder. When Seth came down from Oxford there was a weekly service; a goods train at the back of which was hitched a single shabby saloon car, upholstered in threadbare plush. It took two days to accomplish the journey, resting the night at Lumo where a Greek hotel proprietor had proposed a contract profitable to the president of the line; the delay was officially attributed to the erratic efficacy of the engine lights and the persist-ence of the Sakuyu in their depredations of the permanent way.

Amurath instituted other changes, less sensational than the railway, but nevertheless noteworthy. He proclaimed the abolition of slavery and was warmly applauded in the European Press; the law was posted up prominently in the capital in English, French and Italian where every foreigner might read it; it was never promulgated in the provinces nor translated into any of the native languages; the ancient system continued unhampered but European intervention had been anticipated. His Nestorian upbringing had strengthened his hand throughout in his dealings with the white men. Now he declared Christianity the official Religion of the Em-pire, reserving complete freedom of conscience to his Mohammedan and pagan subjects. He allowed and encouraged an influx of missionaries. There were soon three Bishops in Debra-Dowa—Anglican, Catholic and Nestorian—and three substantial Cathedrals. There were also Quaker, Moravian, American-Baptist, Mormon and Swedish-Lutheran missions handsomely supported by foreign subscribers. All this brought money into the new capital and enhanced his reputation abroad. But his chief safeguard against European intrusion was a force of ten thousand soldiers, maintained under arms. These he had trained by Prussian officers. Their brass bands, goose-step and elaborate uniforms were at first the object of mild amusement. Then there was an international incident. A foreign commercial agent was knifed in a disorderly house on the coast. Amurath hanged the culprits publicly in the square before the Anglican Cathedral—(and with them two or three witnesses whose evidence was held to be unsatisfactory)—but there was a talk of indemnities. A punitive force was landed, composed half of European, half of mainland native troops. Amurath marched out against them with his new army and drove them in hopeless rout to the seashore where they were massacred under the guns of their own fleet. Six European officers of field rank surrendered and were hanged or the battlefield. On his triumphal return to the capital Amurath offered the White Fathers a silver altar to Our Lady of Victories.

Throughout the highlands his prestige became superhuman. ‘I swear by Amurath’ was a bond of inviolable sanctity. Only the Arabs remained un-impressed. He ennobled them, creating the heads of the chief families Earls, Viscounts and Marquesses, but these grave, impoverished men whose genealogies extended to the time of the Prophet, preferred their original names. He married his daughter into the house of the old Sultan—but the young man accepted the elevation and his compulsory baptism into the National Church, without enthusiasm. The marriage was considered a great disgrace by the Arabs. Their fathers would not have ridden a horse with so obscure a pedigree. Indians came in great numbers and slowly absorbed the business of the country. The large houses of Matodi were turned into tenements, hotels or offices. Soon the maze of mean streets behind the bazaar became designated as the ‘Arab quarter.’

Very few of them migrated to the new capital, which was spreading out round the palace in a hap-hazard jumble of shops, missions, barracks, legations, bungalows and native huts. The palace itself, which occupied many acres enclosed by an irregular forti-fied stockade, was far from or erly or harmonious. Its nucleus was a large stucco villa of French design; all round this were scattered sheds of various sizes which served as kitchens, servants’ quarters and stables, there was a wooden guard-house and a great thatched barn which was used for state banquets; a domed, octagonal chapel and the large rubble and timber residence of the Princess and her consort. The ground between and about the buildings was uneven and untidy; stacks of fuel, kitchen refuse, derelict carriages, cannon and ammunition lay in prominent places; sometimes there would be the flyblown carcase of a donkey or camel, and after the rains pools of stagnant water; gangs of prisoners, chained neck to neck, could often be seen shovelling as though some project were on hand of levelling or draining, but except for the planting of a circle of eucalyptus trees, nothing was done in the old Emperor’s time to dignify his surroundings.

Many of Amurath’s soldiers settled round him in the new capital; they in the first few years were reinforced by a trickle of detribalised natives, drawn from their traditional grounds by the glamour of city life; the main population, however, was always cosmopolitan, and as the country’s reputation as a land of opportunity spread through the less successful classes of the outside world, Debra-Dowa gradually lost all evidence of national character. Indians and Armenians came first and continued to come in yearly increasing numbers. Goans, Jews, and Greeks followed, and later a race of partially respectable immigrants from the greater powers, mining engineers, prospectors, planters and contractors, on their world wide pilgrimage in quest of cheap concessions. A few were lucky and got out of the country with modest fortunes; most were disappointed and be-came permanent residents, hanging round the bars and bemoaning over their cups the futility of expecting justice in a land run by a pack of niggers.

When Amurath died, and the courtiers at last could devise no further explanation of his prolonged seclusion, his daughter reigned as Empress. The funeral was a great occasion in East African history. A Nestorian patriarch came from Iraq to say the mass; delegates from the European powers rode in the procession and as the bugles of the Imperial guard sounded the last post over the empty sar-cophagus, vast crowds of Wanda and Sakuyu burst into wailing and lamentation, daubed their bodies with chalk and charcoal, stamped their feet, swayed and clapped in frantic, personal grief at the loss of their master.

Now the Empress was dead and Seth had returned from Europe to claim his Empire.

Noon in Matodi. The harbour lay still as a photograph, empty save for a few fishing boats moored motionless against the sea wall. No breeze stirred the royal standard that hung over the old fort. No traffic moved on the water-front. The offices were locked and shuttered. The tables had been cleared from the hotel terrace. In the shade of a mango the two sentries lay curled asleep, their rifles in the dust beside them.

“From Seth, Emperor of Azania, Chief of the Chiefs of Sakuyu, Lord of Wanda and Tyrant of the Seas, Bachelor of the Arts of Oxford University, to His Majesty of the King of England, Greeting. May this reach you. Peace be to your house…”

He had been dictating since dawn. Letters of greeting, Patents of Nobility, Pardons, Decrees of Attainder, Army Ordinances, police regulations, orders to European firms for motor cars, uniforms, furniture, electric plant, invitations to the Coronation; proclamations of a public holiday in honour of his victory, lay neatly clipped together on the secretary’s table.

“Still no news from the hills. We should have heard of the victory by now.’

‘ The secretary recorded these words, considered them with his head cocked slightly to one side and then drew a line through them. “We should have heard, shouldn’t we, Ali?”

“We should have heard.”

“What has happened? Why don’t you answer me? Why have we heard nothing?”

“Who am I? I know nothing. I only hear what the ignorant people are saying in the bazaar, since the public men evacuated the city. The ignorant people say that your majesty’s army has not gained the victory you predict.”

“Fools, what do they know? What can they understand? I am Seth, grandson of Amurath. Defeat is impossible. I have been to Europe. I know. We have the Tank. This is not a war of Seth against Seyid but of Progress against Barbarism. And Progress must prevail. I have seen the great tattoo of Alder-shot, the Paris Exhibition, the Oxford Union. I have read modern books—Shaw, Arlen, Priestley. What do the gossips in the bazaars know of all this? The whole might of Evolution rides behind him; at my stirrups run woman’s suffrage, vaccination, and vivi-section. I am the New Age. I am the Future.”

“I know nothing of these things,” said Ali. “But the ignorant men in the bazaar say that your majesty’s guards have joined Prince Seyid. You will remember my pointing out that they had received no wages for several months?”

“They shall be paid. I have said it. As soon as the war is over they shall be paid. Besides I raised them in rank. Every man in the brigade is now a full corporal. I issued the edict myself. Ungrateful curs. Old-fashioned fools. Soon we will have no more soldiers. Tanks and aeroplanes. That is modern. I have seen it. That reminds me. Have you sent off instructions for the medals?”

Ali turned over the file of correspondence.

“Your majesty has ordered five hundred Grand Cross of Azania, first class; five hundred second; and seven hundred third; also designs for the Star of Seth, silver gilt and enamel with parti-coloured rib bon…”

“No, no. I mean the Victory Medal.’

“I received no instructions concerning the Vic tory Medal.”

“Then take this down.”

“The invitation to the King of England?”

“The King of England can wait. Take down the instructions for the Victory Medal. Obverse, the head of Seth—that is to be copied from the photo graph taken in Oxford. You understand—it is to be modern, European—top hat, spectacles, evening dress collar and tie. Inscription SETH IMPERA-TOR IMMORTALIS. The whole to be simple and in good taste. Many of my grandfather’s medals were florid. Reverse. The figure of Progress. She holds in one hand an aeroplane, in the other some small ob-ject symbolic of improved education. I will give you the detail of that later. The idea will come to me… a telephone might do… I will see. Meanwhile begin the letter: “From Seth, Emperor of Azania, Chief of the Chiefs of Sakuyu, Lord of Wanda and Tyrant of the Seas, Bachelor of the Arts of Oxford University, to Messrs. Mappin and Webb of London. Greeting. May this reach you. Peace be to your house.. ‘

Evening and a small stir of life. Muezzin in the minaret. Allah is great. There is no Allah but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet. Angelus from the mission church. Ecce ancilla Domini: fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum. Mr. Youkournian behind the bar of the Amurath Cafe and Universal Stores mixed himself a sundowner of mastika and water.

“What I want to know is do I get paid for the petrol?”

“You know I am doing all I can for you, Mr. Youkoumian. I’m your friend. You know that. But the Emperor’s busy to-day. I’ve only just got off. Been on all day. I’ll try and get your money for you.”

“I’ve done a lot for you, Ali”

“I know you have, Mr. Youkournian, and I hope I am not ungrateful. If I could get you your money just by asking for it you should have it this evening.”

“But I must have it this evening. I’m going.”

“Going?”

“I’ve made my arrangements Well, I don’t mind telling you, Ali, since you’re a friend.” Mr. Youkoumian glanced furtively round the empty bar–they were speaking in Sakuyu—”I’ve got a launch beached outside the harbour, behind the trees near the old sugar mill in the bay. What’s more there’s room in it for another passenger. I wouldn’t tell this to any one but you. Matodi’s not going to be a healthy place for the next week or two. Seth’s beaten. We know that. I’m going to my brother on the mainland. Only I want my money for the petrol before I go.”

“Yes, Mr. Youkoumian, I appreciate your offer. But you know it’s very difficult. You can hardly ex-pect the Emperor to pay for having his own motor-boat stole./’

“I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that yesterday evening Mr. Marx came into my store and said he wanted the Emperor’s motor-boat filled up with petrol. Eighty rupee’s worth. I’ve served Mr. Marx with petrol before for the Emperor. How was I to know he wanted to steal the Emperor’s motor-boat? Should I have given it to him if I did?”

Mr. Youkoumian spread his hands in the traditional gesture of his race. “I am a poor man. Is it right that I should suffer in this way? Is it fair? Now, Ali, I know you. You’re a just man. I’ve done a lot for you in the past. Get me my eighty rupees and I will take you to stay with my brother in Malindi. Then when the troubles are over, we can come back or stay or go somewhere else, just as you like. You don’t want your throat cut by the Arabs. I’ll look after you.”

“Well I appreciate your offer, Mr. Youkoumian, and I’ll do what I can. I can’t say more than that.”

“I know you, Ali. I trust you as I’d trust my own father. Not a word to any one about the launch, eh?”

“Not a word, Mr. Youkoumian, and I’ll see you later this evening.”

“That’s a good fellow. Au revoir and remember, not a word to any one about the launch.”

When Ali had left the Amurath Cafe, Youkoumian’s wife emerged from the curtain behind which she had been listening to the conversation.

“What’s all this you’ve been arranging? We can’t take that Indian to Malindi.”

“I want my eighty rupees. My dear, you must leave these business matters to me.”

“But there isn’t room for any one else in the launch. We’re overloaded already. You know that.”

“I know that.”

“Are you mad, Krikor. Do you want to drown us all?”

“You must leave these things to me, my flower. There is no need to worry. Ali is not coming with us. All I want is my eighty rupees for Mr. Marx’s petrol. Have you finished your packing? We start as soon as Ali returns with the money.”

“Krikor, you wouldn’t… you aren’t going to leave me behind, are you?”

“I should not hesitate to do so if I thought it necessary. Finish your packing, girl. Don’t cry. Fin-ish your packing. You are coming to Malindi. I have said it. Finish your packing. I am a just man and a peaceful man. You know that. But in time of war one must look after oneself and one’s own fam-ily. Yes, one’s family, do you hear me? Ali will bring us the money. We shall not take him to Malindi. Do you understand? If he is a trouble, I shall hit him with my stick. Don’t stand there like a fool. Finish your packing.”

The sun had now set. As Ali walked back to the fort through the dark lane he was aware of new excitement in the people around him. Groups were hurrying to the water-front, others stood in their doorways chattering eagerly. He heard the words ‘Seyid,’

‘Victory’ and ‘Army.’ In the open space be-fore the harbour he found a large crowd collected with their backs to the water, gazing inland over the town. He joined them and in the brief twilight saw the whole dark face of the hills alight with little points of fire. Then he left the crowd and went to the old fort. Major Joab, the officer of the guard. stood in the court studying the hills through field glasses.

“You have seen the fires inland, secretary?”

“I have seen them.”

“I think there is an army encamped there.”

“It is the victorious army, major.”

“Praise God. It is what we have waited to see.”

“Certainly. We should praise God whether in prosperity or adversity,” said Ali, piously; he had accepted Christianity on entering Seth’s service. “But I bring orders from the Emperor. You are to take a picket and go with them to the Amurath Bar. There you will find the Armenian Youkoumian, a little fat man wearing a black skull cap. You know him? Very well. He is to be put under arrest and taken a little outside the town. It does not matter where, but take him some distance from the people. There you are to hang him. Those are the Em peror’s orders. When it is done, report to me personally. There is no need to mention the matter directly to his majesty. You understand?”

“I understand, secretary.”

Upstairs Seth was deep in a catalogue of wireless apparatus.

“Oh, Ali, I have decided on the Tudor model in fumed oak. Remind me tomorrow to write for it. Is there still no news?”

Ali busied himself in arranging the papers on the table and fitting the typewriter into its case.

“Is there no news?”

‘There is news of a kind, Majesty. I opine that there is an army bivouacked in the hills. Their fires are visible. If your majesty will come outside, you will see them. No doubt they will march into the city tomorrow.”

Seth sprang gaily from his chair and ran to the window.

“But this is magnificent news. The best you could have brought. Ali, I will make you a Viscount tomorrow. The army back again. It is what we have been longing for the last six weeks, eh, Viscount?”

“Your majesty is very kind. I said an army. There is no means of knowing which one it may be. If, as you surmise, it is General Connolly, is it not curious that no runner has come to salute your majesty with news of the victory?”

“Yes, he should have sent word.”

“Majesty, you are defeated and betrayed. Every one in Matodi knows it except yourself.”

For the first time since the beginning of the campaign, Ali saw that there was uncertainty in his master’s mind. “If I am defeated,” said Seth, “the barbarians will know where to find me.”

“Majesty, it is not too late to escape. Only this evening I heard of a man in the town who has a launch hidden outside the harbour. He means to leave in it himself, for the mainland, but he would sell it at a price. There are ways for a small man to escape where a great man like your majesty would be trapped. For two thousand rupees he will sell this boat. He told me so, in so many words. He named the price. It is not much for the life of an Emperor. Give me the money, Majesty, and the boat shall be here before midnight. And in the morn ing Seyid’s troops will march into the town and find it empty.”

AH looked hopefully across the table, but before he had finished speaking he realised that Seth’s mood of uncertainty was past.

“Seyid’s troops will not inarch into the town. You forget that I have the Tank. Ali, you are talking treasonable nonsense. Tomorrow I shall be here to receive my victorious general.”

“Tomorrow will show, Majesty.”

“Tomorrow will show.”

“Listen,” said Ali, “my friend is very loyal to your majesty and a most devoted man. Perhaps if I were to use my influence he might reduce his price.”

“I shall be here in the morning to receive my army.”

“Suppose he would accept eighteen hundred rupees?”

“I have spoken.”

Without further discussion Ali picked up his typewriter and left the room. As he opened the door his ears caught the inevitable shuffle of bare feet, as a spy slipped away down the dark passage. It was a sound to which they had grown accustomed during the past months.

In his own quarters Ali poured out a glass of whiskey and lit a cheroot. Then he drew out a fibre trunk from beneath the bed and began a methodical arrangement of his possessions preparatory to pack ing them. Presently there was a knock at the door and Major Joab came in.

“Good evening, secretary.”

“Good evening, major. The Armenian is dead?”

“He is dead. Heaven, how he squealed. You have whiskey there.”

“Will you help yourself?”

“Thank you, secretary… you seem to be pre paring for a journey.”

“It is well to be prepared—to have one’s things in good order.”

“I think there is an army in the hills.”

“It is what they are saying.”

“I think it is the army of Seyid.”

“That, too, is being said.”

“As you say, secretary, it is well to be prepared.”

“Will you take a cheroot, major? I expect that there are many people in Matodi who would be glad to leave. The army will be here tomorrow.”

“It is not far away. And yet there is no way of leaving the town. The boats are all gone. The railway is broken. The road leads straight to the encampment.”

Ali folded a white drill suit and bent over the trunk, carefully arranging the sleeves. He did not look up as he said: “I heard of a man who had a boat. It was spoken of in the bazaar. I forget by whom. An ignorant fellow no doubt. But this man, whoever it was, spoke of a boat concealed outside the harbour. He was going to the mainland to-night. There was room for two others, so they said. Do you think a man would find passengers to the mainland at five hundred rupees each. That is what he asked.”

“It is a great price for a journey to the mainland.”

“It is not much for a man’s life. Do you think such a man, supposing there is any truth in the tale, would find passengers?”

“Perhaps. Who can tell? A man of affairs who can take his wisdom with him—a foreigner with no stock but a typewriter and his clothes. I do not think a soldier would go.”

“A soldier might pay three hundred?”

“It is not likely. What life would there be for him in a foreign country? And among his own peo-ple he would be dishonoured.’

“But he would not hinder others from going. A man who would pay five hundred rupees for his passage money, would not grudge another hundred to the guard who allowed him to pass?”

“Who can say? Some soldiers might hold that a small price for their honour.”

“But two hundred.”

“I think soldiers are for the most part poor men. It is seldom they earn two hundred rupees…. Well, I must bid you good-night, secretary. I must return to my men.”

” How late do you stay on guard, major?”

“Till after midnight. Perhaps I shall see you again.”

“Who can say?… Oh, major, you have forgotten your papers.”

“So I have. Thank you, secretary. And good night.”

The major counted the little pile of notes which Ali had placed on the dressing table. Two hundred exactly. He buttoned them into his tunic pocket and returned to the guard house.

Here, in the inner room, sat Mr. Youkoumian talking to the captain. Half an hour before the little Armenian had been very near death, and awe of the experience still overcast his normally open and loquacious manner. It was not until the rope was actually round his neck that he had been inspired to mention the existence of his launch. His face was damp and his voice jerky and subdued.

“What did the Indian dog say?”

“He wanted to sell me a place in the boat for five hundred rupees. Does he know where it is hidden?”

‘Tool that I was, I told him.”

“It is of little consequence. He gave me two hundred rupees to let him past the guard, also some whiskey and a cheroot. There is no need for us to worry about AH. When do we start?”

“There is one point, officers… my wife. There is not room for her in the boat. She must not know of our departure. Where was she when you—when we left the cafe together?”

“She was making a noise. One of the corporals locked her in the loft.”

“She will get out of there.”

“You leave all that to us.”

“Very well, major. I am a just man and a peaceable man. You know that. I only want to be sure that everything will be agreeable for every one.”

Ali finished his packing and sat down to wait. “What’s Major Joab up to?” he wondered. “It is curious his refusing to leave the town. I suppose he thinks he will get a price for Seth in the morning.”

Night and the fear of darkness. In his room at the top of the old fort Seth lay awake and alone, his eyes wild with the inherited terror of the jungle, desperate with the acquired loneliness of civilisa tion. Night was alive with beasts and devils and the spirits of dead enemies; before its power Seth’s an cestors had receded, slid away from its attack, abandoning in retreat all the baggage of Individuality: they had lain six or seven in a hut; between them and night only a wall of mud and a ceiling of thatched grass; warm, naked bodies breathing in the darkness an arm’s reach apart, indivisibly unified so that they ceased to be six or seven scared blacks and became one person of more than human stature less vulnerable to the peril that walked near them. Seth could not expand to meet the onset of fear. He-was alone, dwarfed by the magnitude of the dark ness, insulated from his fellows, strapped down to mean dimensions.

The darkness pulsed with the drumming of the unknown conquerors. In the narrow streets of the city the people were awake—active and apprehensive. Dark figures sped to and fro on furtive errands, hiding from each other in doorways till the way was empty. In the houses they were packing away bundles in secret places, little hoards of coins and jew-elry, pictures and books, ancestral sword hilts of fine workmanship, shoddy trinkets from Birming-ham and Bombay, silk shawls, scent bottles, anything that might attract attention next morning when the city was given over to loot. Huddled groups of women and children were being herded to refuge in the cellars of the old houses or into the open country beyond the walls; goats, sheep, donkeys, livestock and poultry of all kinds jostled with them for precedence in the city gates. Mme. Youkoumian, trussed like a chicken on the floor of her own bedroom, dribbled through her gag and helplessly writhed her bruised limbs.

Ali, marching back to the fort under arrest between two soldiers, protested angrily to the captain of the guard.

“You are making a great mistake, captain. I have made all arrangements with the major for my departure.”

“It is the Emperor’s orders that no one leaves the city.”

“When we see the major he will explain everything.”

The captain made no reply. The little party marched on; in front between two other soldiers shambled Ali’s servant, bearing his master’s trunk on his head.

When they reached the guard-room, the captain reported: “Two prisoners, major, arrested at the South Gate attempting to leave the city.”

“You know me, major; the captain has made a mistake. Tell him it is all right for me to go.”

“I know you, secretary: captain, report the arrests to his majesty.”

“But, major, only this evening I gave you two hundred rupees. Do you hear, captain, I gave him two hundred rupees. You can’t treat me like this. I shall tell his majesty everything.”

“We had better search his luggage.”

The trunk was opened and the contents spread over the floor. The two officers turned them over with interest and appropriated the few articles of value it contained. The minor possessions were tossed to the corporals. At the bottom, wrapped in a grubby nightshirt, were two heavy objects which, on investigation, proved to be the massive gold crown of the Azanian Empire and an elegant ivory sceptre presented to Amurath by the President of the French Republic. Major Joab and the captain considered this discovery for some time in silence. Then the major answered the question that was in both their minds. “No,” he said, “I think we had better show these to Seth.”

“Both of them?”

“Well, at any rate, the sceptre. It would not be so easy to dispose of. Two hundred rupees,” said the major bitterly, turning on Ali, “two hundred rupees and you proposed to walk off with the Imperial regalia.”

From the inner room Mr. Youkoumian listened to this conversation in a mood of sublime contentment; the sergeant had given him a cigarette out of a box lifted from the shop at the time of his arrest; the captain had given him brandy—similarly acquired—of his own distillation; a fiery, comforting spirit. The terrors of the gallows were far behind him. And now Ali had been caught red-handed with the crown jewels. Nothing was required to complete Mr. Youkoumian’s happiness, except a calm sea for their crossing to the mainland; and the gentle night air gave promise that this, too, would be vouchsafed him.

It was only a matter of a few words for Major Joab to report the circumstances of Ali’s arrest. The damning evidence of the sceptre and the soiled nightshirt was laid before Seth on the table. The prisoner stood between his captors without visible interest or emotion. When the charge had been made, Seth said, “Well, Ali.”

Until now they had spoken in Sakuyu. Ali answered, as he always spoke to his master, in English. “It is regrettable that this should have happened.

These ignorant men have greatly disturbed the preparations for your majesty’s departure.”

“For my departure?”

“For whom else would I prepare a boat? What other reason could I have for supervising the safe conduct of your majesty’s sceptre, and of the crown which the officers have omitted to bring from the guard-room.”

“I don’t believe you, Ali.”

“Your majesty wrongs himself. You are a distinguished man, educated in Europe—not like these low soldiers. Would you have trusted me had I been unworthy? Could I, a poor Indian, hope to deceive a distinguished gentleman educated in Europe? Send these low men out and I will explain everything to you.”

The officers of the guard had listened uneasily to these alien sentences; now at Seth’s command they withdrew their men. “Shall I make preparations for the execution, Majesty?”

“Yes… no… I will tell you when. Stand by for further orders below, Major.”

The two officers saluted and left the room. When they had gone Ali sat down opposite his master and proceeded at his ease. There was no accusation or reproach in the Emperor’s countenance, no justice or decision, trust or forgiveness; one emotion only was apparent in the dark young face before him, blank terror. Ali saw this and knew that his case was won. ‘

‘Majesty, I will tell you why the officers have arrested me. It is to prevent your escape. They are plotting to sell you to the enemy. I know it. I have heard it all from one of the corporals who is loyal to us. It was for this reason that I prepared the boat. When all was ready I would have come to you, told you of their treachery and brought you away safely.’

“But, Ali, you say they would hand me over to the enemy. Am I then really beaten?”

“Majesty, all the world knows. The British General Connolly has joined Prince Seyid. They are there on the hills together now. Tomorrow they will be in Matodi.”

“But the Tank?”

“Majesty, Mr. Marx the distinguished mechanic who made the tank, fled last night, as you well know.”

“Connolly too. Why should he betray me? I trusted him. Why does every one betray me? Connolly was my friend.”

“Majesty, consider the distinguished general’s position. What would he do? He might conquer Seyid and your majesty would reward him, or he might be defeated. If he joins Seyid, Seyid will re-ward him, and no one can defeat him. How would you expect a distinguished gentleman, educated in Europe, should choose?”

“They are all against me. All traitors. There is no one I can trust.”

‘Except me, Majesty.”

“I do not trust you. You, least of all.”

“But you must trust me. Don’t you understand. If you do not trust me there will be no one. You will be alone, quite alone.”

“I am alone. There is no one.”

“Then since all are traitors, trust a traitor. Trust me. You must trust me. Listen. It is not too late to escape. No one but I knows of the boat. The Armenian Youkoumian is dead. Do you understand, Majesty? Give the order to the guards to let me pass. I will go to where the boat is hidden. In an hour I will have it here, under the sea wall. Then when the guard is changed you will join me. Don’t you understand. It is the only chance. You must trust me. Otherwise you will be alone.”

The Emperor stood up. “I do not know if I can trust you. I do not think there is any one I can trust. I am alone. But you shall go. Why should I hang you? What is one life more or less when all are traitors. Go in peace.”

“Your majesty’s faithful servant.”

Seth opened the door; again the scamper of the retreating spy.

“Major.”

“Majesty.”

“Ali is to go free. He may leave the fort.’

“The execution is cancelled?”

“Ali may leave the fort.”

“As your majesty commands.” Major Joab saluted. As Ali left the lighted room he turned back and addressed the Emperor.

“Your majesty does well to trust me.”

“I trust no one… I am alone.”

The Emperor was alone. Faintly on the night air he heard the throbbing of drums from the encamped army. Quarter past two. Darkness for nearly four hours more.

Suddenly the calm was splintered by a single, shrill cry—a jet of sound, spurting up from below, breaking in spray over the fort, then ceasing. Expressive of nothing; followed by nothing; no footsteps; no voices; silence and the distant beat of the tomtoms.

Seth ran to the door. “Hullo! Who is there? What is that? Major! Officer of the guard.” No answer. Only the inevitable scuffle of the retreating spy. He went to the window. “Who’s there? What has happened? Is there no one on guard?”

A long silence.

Then a quiet voice from below. “Majesty?”

“Who is that?”

“Major Joab of the Imperial Infantry at your majesty’s service.”

“What was that?”

“Majesty?”

“What was that cry?”

“It was a mistake, your majesty. There is no cause for alarm.”

“What has happened?”

“The sentry made a mistake. That is all.”

“What has he done?”

“It is only the Indian, Majesty. The sentry did not understand his orders. I will see to it that he is punished.”

“What has happened to Ali? Is he hurt?”

“He is dead, your majesty. It is a mistake of the sentry’s. I am sorry your majesty was disturbed.”

Presently Major Joab, the captain of the guard, and Mr. Youkoumian accompanied by three heavily burdened corporals, left the fort by a side door and made their way out of the town along the coast path towards the disused sugar mills.

And Seth was alone.

Another dawn. With slow feet Mr. Youkoumian trudged into Matodi. There was no one about in the streets. All who could, had left the city during the darkness; those who remained lurked behind barred doors and barricaded windows; from the cracks of shutters and through keyholes a few curious eyes observed the weary little figure dragging down the lane to the Amurath Cafe and Universal Stores.

Mme. Youkoumian lay across the bedroom door-step. During the night she had bitten through her gag and rolled some yards across the floor; that far her strength had taken her. Then, too exhausted to cry out or wrestle any further with the ropes that bound her, she had lapsed into intermittent coma, disturbed by nightmares, acute spasms of cramp and the scampering of rats on the earthen floor. In the green and silver light of dawn, this bruised, swollen and dusty figure presented a spectacle radically repugnant to Mr. Youkoumian’s most sensitive feelings.

“Krikor, Krikor. Oh, praise God you’ve come… I thought I should never see you again… Blessed Mary and Joseph… Where have you been?… What has happened to you?… Oh, Krikor, my own husband, praise God and his angels who have brought you back to me.”

Mr. Youkoumian sat down heavily on the bed and pulled off his elastic-sided button boots. ‘

‘I’m tired.’

‘ he said. “God, how tired I am. I could sleep for a week.” He took a bottle from the shelf and poured out a drink. “I have had one of the most disagreeable nights of my life. First I am nearly hanged. Will you believe it. The noose was actually round my neck. Then I am made to walk out as far as the sugar mills, then the next thing I know I am alone, lying on the beach. My luggage is gone, my boat is gone, the damned soldiers are gone and I have a lump on the back of my head the size of an egg. Just you feel it.”

“I’m tied up, Krikor. Cut the string and let me help you. Oh, my poor husband.”

“How it aches. What a walk back. And my boat gone. I could have got fifteen hundred rupees for that boat yesterday. Oh, my head. Fifteen hundred rupees. My feet ache too. I must go to bed.”

“Let me loose, Krikor, and I will attend to you, my poor husband.’

“No, it doesn’t matter, my flower. Ill go to bed. I could sleep for a week.”

“Krikor, let me loose.”

“Don’t worry. I shall be all right when I have had a sleep. Why, I ache all over.” He tossed off the drink and with a little grunt of relief drew his feet up onto the bed and rolled over with his face to the wall.

“Krikor, please… you must let me loose… don’t you see. I’ve been like this all night, I’m in such pain.. ‘

“You stay where you are. I can’t attend to you now. You’re always thinking of yourself. What about me? I’m tired. Don’t you hear me?”

“But, Krikor—”

“Be quiet, you slut.”

And in less than a minute Mr. Youkoumian found consolation for the diverse fortunes of the night in profound and prolonged sleep.

He was awakened some hours later by the entry into Matodi of the victorious army. Drums banging, pipes whistling, the soldiers of Progress and the New Age passed under his window. Mr. Youkoumian rolled off the bed, rubbing his eyes, and peeped through the chink of the shutters.

“God save my soul,’

‘ he remarked. “Seth’s won after all.” Then with a chuckle. “What a pair of fools Major Joab and the captain turn out to be.”

Mme. Youkoumian looked up from the floor with piteous appeal in her dark eyes. He gave her a friendly little prod in the middle with his stockinged foot. “Stay there, that’s a good girl, and don’t make a noise. I’ll come and see to you in a minute or two.” Then he lay down on the bed, nuzzled into the bolster, and after a few preliminary grunts and wriggles, relapsed into slumber.

It was a remarkable procession. First in tattered, field grey uniforms, came the brass band of the Imperial Guard, playing: Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stor’d, He hath loos’d the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on.

Behind them came the infantry; hard, bare feet rhythmically kicking up the dust, threadbare uniforms, puttees wound up anyhow, caps at all angles, Lee-Enfield rifles with fixed bayonets slung on their shoulders; fuzzy heads, jolly nigger-minstrel faces, black chests shining through buttonless tunics, pockets bulging with loot. Dividing these guardsmen from the irregular troops rode General Connolly on a tall, grey mule, with his staff officers be-side him. He was a stocky Irishman in early middle age who had seen varied service in the Black and Tans, the South African Police and the Kenya Game Reserves before enlisting under the Emperor’s colours. But on this morning his appearance was rather that of a lost explorer than a conquering commander-in-chief. He had a week’s growth of reddish beard below his cavalry moustaches; irregular slashes had converted his breeches into shorts; open shirt and weather-worn white topee took the place of tunic and cap. Field glasses, map case, sword and revolver holster hung incongruously round him. He was smoking a pipe of rank local tobacco.

On their heels came the hordes of Wanda and Sakuyu warriors. In the hills these had followed in a diffuse rabble. Little units of six or a dozen trotted round the stirrups of the headmen; before them they drove geese and goats pillaged from surrounding farms. Sometimes they squatted down to rest; sometimes they ran to catch up. The big chiefs had bands of their own—mounted drummers thumping great bowls of cowhide and wood, pipers blowing down six-foot chanters of bamboo. Here and there a camel swayed above the heads of the mob. They were armed with weapons of every kind; antiquated rifles, furnished with bandoliers of brass cartridges and empty cartridge cases; short hunting spears, swords and knives; the great, seven-foot-broad bladed spear of the Wanda; behind one chief a slave carried a machine gun under a velvet veil; a few had short bows and iron-wood maces of im-memorial design.

The Sakuyu wore their hair in a dense fuzz; their chests and arms were embossed with ornamental scars; the Wanda had their teeth filed into sharp points, their hair braided into dozens of mud-caked pig-tails. In accordance with their unseemly usage, any who could, wore strung round his neck the members of a slain enemy.

As this great host swept down on the city and surged through the gates, it broke into a dozen divergent streams, spurting and trickling on all sides like water from a rotten hose pipe, forcing out jets of men, mounts and livestock into the by-ways and back streets, eddying down the blind alleys and into enclosed courts. Solitary musicians, separated from their bands, drummed and piped among the straggling crowds; groups split away from the melee and began dancing in the alleys; the doors of the liquor shops were broken in and a new and nastier element appeared in the carnival, as drink-crazed warriors began to re-enact their deeds of heroism, bloodily laying about their former comrades-in-arms with knives and clubs.

“God,” said Connolly, “I shall be glad when I’ve got this menagerie off my hands. I wonder if his nibs has really bolted. Anything is possible in this abandoned country.’

No one appeared in the streets. Only rows of furtive eyes behind the shuttered windows watched the victors’ slow progress through the city. In the main square the General halted the guards and such of the irregular troops as were still amenable to discipline; they squatted on the ground, chewing at bits of sugar cane, crunching nuts and polishing their teeth with little lengths of stick, while above the drone of confused revelling which rose from the side streets, Connolly from the saddle of his mule in classical form exhorted his legions.

“Guards,” he said loudly, “Chiefs and tribesmen of the Azanian Empire. Hear me. You are good men. You have fought valiantly for your Emperor. The slaughter was very splendid. It is a thing for which your children and your children’s children will hold you in honour. It was said in the camp that the Emperor had gone over the sea. I do not know if that is true. If he has, it is to prepare a reward for you in the great lands. But it is sufficient reward to a soldier to have slain his enemy.

“Guards, Chiefs and tribesmen of the Azanian Empire. The war is over. It is fitting that you should rest and rejoice. Two things only, I charge you, are forbidden. The white men, their houses, cattle, goods or women you must not take. Nor must you burn anything or any of the houses nor pour out the petrol in the streets. If any man do this he shall be killed. I have spoken. Long live the Emperor.

“Go on, you lucky bastards,” he added in English. “Go and make whoopee. I must get a brush up and some food before I do anything else.”

He rode across to the Grand Azanian Hotel. It was shut and barred. His two servants forced the door and he went in. At the best of times, even when the fortnightly Messageries liner was in and gay European sightseers paraded every corner of the city, the Grand Azanian Hotel had a gloomy and unwelcoming air. On this morning a chill of utter desolation struck through General Connolly as he passed through its empty and darkened rooms. Every movable object had been stripped from walls and floor and stowed away subterraneously during the preceding night. But the single bath at least was a fixture. Connolly set his servants to work pumping water and unpacking his uniform cases. Eventually an hour later he emerged, profoundly low in spirits, but clean, shaved and very fairly dressed. Then he rode towards the fort where the Emperor’s colours hung limp in the sultry air. No sign of life came from the houses; no welcome; no resistance. Marauding bands of his own people skulked from cor-ner to corner; once a terrified Indian rocketed up from the gutter and shot across his path like a rab-bit. It was not until he reached the White Fathers’ mission that he heard news of the Emperor. Here he encountered a vast Canadian priest with white habit and sunhat and spreading crimson beard, who was at that moment occupied in shaking almost to death the brigade sergeant-major of the Imperial Guard. At the General’s approach the reverend father released his victim with one hand—keeping a firm grip in his woollen hair with the other—removed the cheroot from his mouth and waved it cordially.

“Hullo, general, back from the wars, eh? They’ve been very anxious about you in the city. Is this creature part of the victorious army?”

“Looks like one of my chaps. What’s he been up to?”

“Up to? I came in from mass and found him eating my breakfast.” A tremendous buffet on the side of his head sent the sergeant-major dizzily across the road. “Don’t you let me find any more of your fellows hanging round the mission to-day or there’ll be trouble. It’s always the same when you have troops in a town. I remember in Duke Japheth’s re bellion, the wretched creatures were all over the place. They frightened the sisters terribly over at the fever hospital.”

“Father, is it true that the Emperor’s cut and run?”

“If he hasn’t he’s about the only person. I had that old fraud of an Armenian Archbishop in here the other night, trying to make me join him in a motor-boat. I told him I’d sooner have my throat cut on dry land than face that crossing in an open boat. I’ll bet he was sick.”

“But you don’t know where the Emperor is?”

“He might be over in the fort. He was the other day. Silly young ass, pasting up proclamations all over the town. I’ve got other things to bother about than young Seth. And mind you keep your misera-ble savages from my mission or they’ll know the reason why. I’ve got a lot of our people camped in here so as to be out of harm’s way, and I am not going to have them disturbed. Good morning to you, General.”

General Connolly rode on. At the fort he found no sentry on guard. The courtyard was empty save for the body of Ali, which lay on its face in the dust, the cord which had strangled him still tightly twined round his neck. Connolly turned it over with his boot but failed to recognise the swollen and darkened face.

“So His Imperial Majesty has shot the moon.”

He looked into the deserted guard house and the lower rooms of the fort; then he climbed the spiral stone staircase which led to Seth’s room and here lying across the camp bed in spotted silk pyjamas recently purchased in the Place Vendome, utterly exhausted by the horror and insecurity of the preceding night, lay the Emperor of Azania fast asleep.

From his bed Seth would only hear the first, rudimentary statement of his victory. Then he dismissed his commander-in-chief and with remarkable self-restraint insisted on performing a complete and fairly elaborate toilet before giving his mind to the details of the situation. When, eventually, he came down stairs dressed in the full and untarnished uniform of the Imperial Horse Guards, he was in a state of some elation. “You see, Connolly,” he cried, clasping his general’s hand with warm emotion, “I was right. I knew that it was impossible for us to fail.”

“We came damned near it, once or twice,” said Connolly.

“Nonsense, my dear fellow. We are Progress and the New Age. Nothing can stand in our way. Don’t you see? The world is already ours; it is our world now, because we are of the Present. Seyid and his ramshackle band of brigands were the Past. Dark barbarism. A cobweb in a garret; dead wood; a whisper echoing in a sunless cave. We are Light and Speed and Strength, Steel and Steam, Youth, To-day and Tomorrow. Don’t you see? Our little war was won on other fields five centuries back.” The young darky stood there transfigured; his eyes shining; his head thrown back; tipsy with words. The white man knocked out his pipe on the heel of his riding boot and felt for a pouch in his tunic pocket.

“All right, Seth, say it your own way. All I know is that my little war was won the day before yesterday and by two very ancient weapons—lies and the long spear.”

“But my tank? Was it not that which gave us the victory?”

“Marx’s tin can? A fat lot of use that was. I told you you were wasting money but you would have the thing. The best thing you can do is to present it to Debra-Dowa as a war memorial, only you couldn’t get it so far. My dear boy, you can’t take a machine like that over this country under this sun. The whole thing was red hot after five miles. The two poor devils of Greeks who had to drive it nearly went off their heads. It came in handy in the end, though. We used it as a punishment cell. It was the one thing these black bastards would really take no-tice of. It’s all right getting on a high horse about progress now that everything’s over. It doesn’t hurt any one. But if you want to know, you were as near as nothing to losing the whole bag of tricks at the end of last week. Do you know what that clever devil Seyid had done. Got hold of a photograph of you taken at Oxford in cap and gown. He had several thousand printed and circulated among the guards. Told them you’d deserted the Church in England and that there you were in the robes of an English Mohammedan. All the mission boys fell for it. It was no good telling them. They were going over to the enemy in hundreds every night. I was all in. There didn’t seem a damned thing to do. Then I got an idea. You know what the name of Amurath means among the tribesmen? Well, I called a shari of all the Wanda and Sakuyu chiefs and spun them the yarn. Told them that Amurath never died—which they believed already most of them—but that he had crossed the sea to commune with the spirits of his ancestors; that you were Amurath, himself, come back in another form. It went down from the word go. I wish you could have seen their faces. The moment they’d heard the news they were mad to be at Seyid there and then. It was all I could do to keep them back until I had him where I wanted him. What’s more the story got through to the other side and in two days we had a couple of thousand of Seyid’s boys coming over to us. Double what we’d lost on the Mohammedan story, and real fighters—not dressed-up mission boys. Well, I kept them back as best I could for three days. We were on the crest of the hills all the time and Seyid was down in the valley, kicking up the devil, burning villages, trying to make us come down to him. He was getting worried about the desertions. Well, on the third day I sent half a company of guards down with a band and a whole lot of mules and told them to make themselves as conspicuous as they could straight in front of him in the Ukaka pass. Trust the guards to do that. He did just what I expected; thought it was the whole army and spread out on both sides trying to surround them. Then I let the tribesmen in on his rear. My word, I’ve never seen such a massacre. Didn’t they enjoy themselves, bless them. Half of them haven’t come back yet; they’re still chasing the poor devils all over the hills.’

“And the usurper Seyid, did he surrender?”

“Yes, he surrendered all right. But, look here, Seth, I hope you aren’t going to mind about this, but you see how it was, well, you see Seyid surrendered and…”

“You don’t mean you’ve let him escape?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that, but the fact is, he surrendered to a party of Wanda… and, well, you know what the Wanda are.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything. I didn’t hear about it until afterwards.”

“They should not have eaten him—after all he was my father… It is so… so barbarous.”

“I knew you’d feel that way about it, Seth, and I’m sorry. I gave the headmen twelve hours in the tank for it.”

“I am afraid that as yet the Wanda are totally out of touch with modern thought. They need education. We must start some schools and a university for them when we get things straight.”

“That’s it, Seth, you can’t blame them. It’s want of education. That’s all it is.”

“We might start them on Montessori methods,’

‘ said Seth dreamily. “You can’t blame them.” Then rousing himself: “Connolly, I shall make you a Duke.”

“That’s nice of you, Seth. I don’t mind so much for myself but Black Bitch will be pleased as punch about it.”

“And, Connolly.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think that when she is a Duchess, it might be more suitable if you were to try and call your wife by another name. You see, there will probably be a great influx of distinguished Europeans for my coronation. We wish to break down colour bar-riers as far as possible. Your name for Mrs. Connolly, though suitable as a term of endearment in the home, seems to emphasise the racial distinction between you in a way which might prove disconcerting.”

“I daresay you’re right, Seth. Ill try and remember when we’re in company. But I shall always think of her as Black Bitch, somehow. By the way, what has become of Ali?”

“Ali? Yes, I had forgotten. He was murdered by Major Joab yesterday evening. And that reminds me of something else. I must order a new crown.”

TWO

OVEY dovey, cat’s eyes.”

You got that out of a book.

“Well, yes. How did you know?”

“I read it too. It’s been all round the compound.”

“Anyway, I said it as a quotation. We have to find new things to say somehow sometimes, don’t we?”

William and Prudence rolled apart and lay on their backs; sun hats tilted over their noses shading their eyes from the brilliant equatorial sun. They were on the crest of the little hills above Debra-Dowa; it was cool there, eight thousand feet up. Behind them in a stockade of euphorbia trees stood a thatched Nestorian shrine. At its door the priest’s youngest child lay sunning his naked belly, gazing serenely into the heavens, indifferent to the flies which settled on the corners of his mouth and sauntered across his eye-balls. Below them the tin roofs of Debra-Dowa and a few thin columns of smoke were visible among the blue gums. At a distance the Legation syce sat in charge of the ponies.

“William darling, there’s something so extraordinary on your neck. I believe it’s two of them.”

“Well, I think you might knock it off.”

“I believe it’s that kind which sting worst.”

“Beast.”

“Oh, it’s gone now. It was two.”

“I can feel it walking about.”

“No, darling, that’s me. I think you might look sometimes when I’m being sweet to you. I’ve invented a new way of kissing. You do it with your eyelashes.”

“I’ve known that for years. It’s called a butterfly kiss.”

“Well, you needn’t be so high up about it. I only do these things for your benefit.”

“It was very nice, darling. I only said it wasn’t very new.”

“I don’t believe you liked it at all.”

“It was so like the stinging thing.”

“Oh, how maddening it is to have no one to make love with except you.”

“Sophisticated voice.”

“That’s not sophisticated. It’s my gramophone record voice. My sophisticated voice is quite different. It’s like this.”

“I call that American.”

“Shall I do my vibrant-with-passion voice?”

“No.”

“Oh, dear, men are hard to keep amused.” Prudence sat up and lit a cigarette. “I think you’re ef-feminate and undersexed,” she said, “and I hate you.”

“That’s because you’re too young to arouse serious emotion. You might give me a cigarette.”

“I hoped you’d say that. It happens to be the last. Not only the last in my pocket but the last in Debra-Dowa. I got it out of the Envoy Extraordinary’s bedroom this morning.”

“Oh, Lord, when will this idiotic war be over? We haven’t had a bag for six weeks. I’ve run out of hair wash and detective stories and now no cigarettes. I think you might give me some of that.”

“I hope you go bald. Still, I’ll let you have the cigarette.”

Pru, how sweet of you. I never thought you would.”

“I’m that kind of girl.”

“I think I’ll give you a kiss.”

“No, try the new way with eyelashes.”

“Is that right?”

“Delicious. Do it some more.”

Presently they remounted and rode back to the Legation. On the way William said: “I hope it doesn’t give one a twitch.”

“What doesn’t, darling?”

“That way with the eyelashes. I’ve seen people with twitches. I daresay that’s how they got it. There was once a man who got run in for winking at girls in the street. So he said it was a permanent affliction and he winked all through his trial and got off. But the sad thing is that now he can’t stop and he’s been winking ever since.”

“I will say one thing for you,” said Prudence. “You do know a lovely lot of stories. I daresay that’s why I like you.”

Three powers—Great Britain, France and the United States—maintained permanent diplomatic representatives at Debra-Dowa. It was not an important appointment. Mr. Schonbaum, the doyen, had adopted diplomacy late in life. Indeed the more formative years of his career had already passed be-fore he made up his mind, in view of the uncertainty of Central European exchanges, to become a citizen of the republic he represented. From the age of ten until the age of forty he had lived an active life variously engaged in journalism, electrical engineering, real estate, cotton broking, hotel management, shipping and theatrical promotion. At the outbreak of the European war he had retired first to the United States, and then, on their entry into the war, to Mexico. Soon after the declaration of peace he became an American citizen and amused himself in politics. Having subscribed largely to a successful Presidential campaign, he was offered his choice of several public preferments, of which the ministry at Debra-Dowa was by far the least prominent or lucrative. His European upbringing, however, had invested diplomacy with a glamour which his later acquaintance with the great world had never completely dimmed; he had made all the money he needed; the climate at Debra-Dowa was reputed to be healthy and the environment romantic. Accordingly he had chosen that post and had not regretted it, enjoying during the last eight years a popularity and prestige which he would hardly have attained among his own people.

The French Minister, M. Ballon, was a Free-mason.

His Britannic Majesty’s minister, Sir Samson Courteney, was a man of singular personal charm and wide culture whose comparative ill success in diplomatic life was attributable rather to inattention than to incapacity. As a very young man he had had great things predicted of him. He had passed his examinations with a series of papers of outstanding brilliance; he had powerful family connexions in the Foreign Office; but almost from the outset of his career it became apparent that he would disappoint expectations. As third secretary at Peking he devoted himself, to the exclusion of all other interests, to the construction of a cardboard model of the Summer Palace; transferred to Washington he conceived a sudden enthusiasm for bicycling and would disappear for days at a time to return dusty but triumphant with reports of some broken record for speed or endurance; the scandal caused by this hobby culminated in the discovery that he had entered his name for an international long distance championship. His uncles at the Foreign Office hastily shifted him to Copenhagen, marrying him, on his way through London, to the highly suitable daughter of a Liberal cabinet minister. It was in Sweden that his career was finally doomed. For some time past he had been noticeably silent at the dinner table when foreign languages were being spoken; now the shocking truth became apparent that he was losing his mastery even of French; many ageing diplomats, at loss for a word, Could twist the conversation and suit their opinions to their vocabulary; Sir Samson recklessly improvised or lapsed into a kind of pidgin English. The uncles were loyal. He was recalled to London and established in a department of the Foreign Office. Finally, at the age of fifty, when his daughter Prudence was thirteen years old, he was created a Knight of St. Michael and St. George and relegated to Azania. The appointment caused him the keenest delight. It would have astonished him to learn that any one considered him unsuccessful or that he was known throughout the service as the ‘Envoy Extraordinary.’ The Legation lay seven miles out of the capital; a miniature garden city in a stockaded compound, garrisoned by a troop of Indian cavalry. There was wireless communication with Aden and a telephone service of capricious activity, to the town. The road, however, was outrageous. For a great part of the year it was furrowed by watercourses, encum-bered with boulders, landslides and fallen trees, and ambushed by cut-throats. On this matter Sir Sam-son’s predecessor had addressed numerous remonstrances to the Azanian government with the result that several wayfarers were hanged under suspicion of brigandage; nothing, however, was done about the track; the correspondence continued and its conclusion was the most nearly successful achievement of Sir Samson’s career. Stirred by his appointment and zealous for his personal comfort, the En-voy Extraordinary had, for the first time in his life, thrown himself wholeheartedly into a question of public policy. He had read through the entire file bearing on the subject and within a week of presenting his papers, reopened the question in a personal interview with the Prince Consort. Month after month he pressed forward the interchange of memoranda between Palace, Legation, Foreign Office and Office of Works (the posts of Lord Chamberlain, Foreign Secretary and Minister of Works were all, as it happened at that time, occupied by the Nestorian Metropolitan) until one memorable day, Prudence returned from her ride to say that a caravan of oxen, a load of stones and three chain-gangs of convicts had appeared on the road. Here, however, Sir Samson suffered a set back. The American commercial attache acted in his ample spare time as agent for a manufacturer of tractors, agricultural machinery and steam-rollers. At his representation the convicts were withdrawn and the Empress and her circle settled down to the choice of a steam-roller. She had always had a weakness for illustrated catalogues and after several weeks’ discussion had ordered a threshing machine, a lawn mower and a mechanical saw. About the steam-roller she could not make up her mind. The Metropolitan Archbishop (who was working with the American attache on a half commission basis), supported a very magnificent engine named Pennsylvania Monarch; the Prince Consort, whose personal allowance was compromised by any public extravagance, headed a party in favour of the more modest Kentucky Midget. Meanwhile guests to the British Legation were still in most seasons of the year obliged to ride out to dinner on mule-back, preceded by armed askar and boy with a lantern. It was widely believed that a decision was imminent, when the Empress’s death and the subsequent civil war postponed all immediate hope of improvement. The Envoy Extraordinary bore the reverse with composure but real pain.

He had taken the matter to heart and he felt hurt and disillusioned. The heap of stones at the roadside remained for him as a continual reproach, the monument to his single ineffective excursion into statesmanship.

In this isolation, life in the compound was placid and domestic. Lady Courteney devoted herself to gardening. The bags came out from London laden with bulbs and cuttings and soon there sprang up round the Legation a luxuriant English garden; lilac and lavender, privet and box, grass walks and croquet lawn, rockeries and wildernesses, herbaceous borders, bowers of rambler roses, puddles of water lilies and an immature maze.

William Bland, the honorary attache, lived with the Courteneys. The rest of the staff were married. The Second Secretary had clock golf and the Consul two tennis courts. They called each other by their Christian names, pottered in and out of each other’s bungalows and knew the details of each other’s housekeeping. The Oriental Secretary, Captain Walsh, alone maintained certain reserves. He suffered from recurrent malaria and was known to ill-treat his wife. But since he was the only member of the Legation who understood Sakuyu, he was a man of importance, being in frequent demand as arbiter in disputes between the domestic servants.

The unofficial British population of Debra-Dowa was small and rather shady. There was the manager of the bank and his wife (who was popularly believed to have an infection of Indian blood); two subordinate bank clerks; a shipper of hides who de-scribed himself as President of the Azanian Trading Association; a mechanic on the railway who was openly married to two Azanians; the Anglican Bishop of Debra-Dowa and a shifting community of canons and curates; the manager of the Eastern Exchange Telegraph Company; and General Connolly. Intercourse between them and the Legation was now limited to luncheon on Christmas Day to which all the more respectable were invited, and an annual garden party on the King’s Birthday which was attended by every one in the town from the Georgian Prince who managed the Perroquet Night Club to the Mormon Missionary. This aloofness from the affairs of the town was traditional to the Legation, being dictated partly by the difficulties of the road and partly by their inherent disinclination to mix with social inferiors. On Lady Courteney’s first arrival in Debra-Dowa she had attempted to break down these distinctions, saying that they were absurd in so small a community. General Connolly had dined twice at the Legation and a friendship seemed to be in bud when its flowering was abruptly averted by an informal call paid on him by Lady Courteney in his own quarters. She had been lunching with the Empress and turned aside on her way home to deliver an invitation to croquet. Sentries presented arms in the courtyard, a finely uniformed servant opened the door, but this dignified passage was interrupted by a resolute little negress in a magenta tea-gown who darted suddenly across the hall and barred her way to the drawing-room.

“I am Black Bitch,’

‘ she had explained simply. “What do you want in my house?”

“I am Lady Courteney. I came to see General Connolly.”

“The General is drunk to-day and he doesn’t want any more ladies.”

After that Connolly was not asked even to Christmas luncheon.

Other less dramatic incidents occurred with most of the English community until now, after six years, the Bishop was the only resident who ever came to play croquet on the Legation lawn. Even his Lordship’s visits had become less welcome lately. His strength did not enable him to accomplish both journeys in the same day, so that an invitation to luncheon involved also an invitation for the night and, usually, to luncheon next day as well. More than this the Envoy Extraordinary found these in-cursions from the outside world increasingly disturbing and exhausting as his momentary interest in Azania began to subside. The Bishop would insist on talking about Problems and Policy, Welfare, Education and Finance. He knew all about native law and customs and the relative importance of the various factions at court. He had what Sir Samson considered an ostentatious habit of referring by name to members of the royal household and to provincial governors, whom Sir Samson was content to remember as ‘the old black fellow who drank so much Kummel’ or ‘that what-do-you-call-him Prudence said was like Aunt Sarah’ or ‘the one with glasses and gold teeth.’

Besides the Bishop’s croquet was not nearly up to Legation standards.

As it happened however they found him at table when, twenty minutes late for luncheon, Prudence and William returned from their ride.

“Do you know.’

‘ said Lady Courteney, “I thought for once you had been massacred. It would have pleased Monsieur Ballon so much. He is always warning me of the danger of allowing you to go out alone during the crisis. He was on the telephone this morning asking what steps we had taken to fortify the Legation. Madame Ballon has made sandbags and put them all round the windows. He told me he was keeping his last cartridge for Madame Ballon.”

“Every one is in a great state of alarm in the town,’

‘ said the Bishop. “There are so many ru mours. Tell me, Sir Samson, you do not think really, seriously, there is any danger of a massacre?”

The Envoy Extraordinary said: “We seem to have tinned asparagus for luncheon every day… I can’t think why… I’m so sorry—you were talking about the massacre. Well, I hardly know. I haven’t really thought about it… Yes, I suppose there might be one. I don’t see what’s to stop them, if the fellows take it into their heads. Still I daresay it’ll all blow over, you know. Doesn’t do to get worried… I should have thought we could have grown it ourselves. Much better than spending so much time on that Dutch garden. So like being on board ship, eating tinned asparagus.”

For some minutes Lady Courteney and Sir Sam-son discussed the relative advantages of tulips and asparagus. Presently the Bishop said: “One of the things which brought me here this morning was to find out if there was any News. If I could take back something certain to the town… You cannot imagine the distress every one is in… It is silence for so many weeks and the rumours. Up here you must at least know what is going on.”

“News,” said the Envoy Extraordinary. “News. Well, we’ve generally got quite a lot going on. Let’s see, when were you here last? You knew that the Anstruthers have decided to enter David for Uppingham? Very sensible of them, I think. And Percy Legge’s sister in England is going to be married—the one who was out here staying with them last year—you remember her? Betty Anstruther got run away with and had a nasty fall the other morning. I thought that pony was too strong for the child. What else is there to tell the Bishop, my dear.”

“The Legges’ frigidaire is broken and they can’t get it mended until after the war. Poor Captain Walsh has been laid up with fever again. Prudence began another novel the other day… or wasn’t I to tell about that, darling?”

“You certainly were not to. And anyway it isn’t a novel. It’s a Panorama of Life. Oh, I’ve got some news for all of you. Percy scored twelve-hundred-and-eighty at bagatelle this morning.”

“No, I say,” said Sir Samson, “did he really?”

“Oh, but that was on the chancery table,” said William. “I don’t count that. We’ve all made colossal scores there. The pins are bent. I still call my eleven-hundred-and-sixty-five at the Anstruthers’ a record.”

For some minutes they discussed the demerits of the chancery bagatelle table. Presently the Bishop said: “But is there no news about the war?”

“No, I don’t think so. Can’t remember anything particularly. I leave all that to Walsh, you know, and he’s down with fever at the moment. I daresay when he comes back we shall hear something. He 7* keeps in touch with all these local affairs… There were some cables the other day, now I come to think of it. Was there anything about the war in them, William, d’you know?”

“I can’t really say, sir. The truth is we’ve lost the cypher book again.”

“Awful fellow, William, he’s always losing things.

What would you say if you had a chaplain like that.

Bishop? Well, as soon as it turns up, get them de cyphered, will you. There might be something wanting an answer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and, William—I think you ought to get those pins put straight on the chancery bagatelle board. It’s an awful waste of time playing if it doesn’t run true.”

“Golly,” said William to Prudence when they were alone. “Wasn’t the Envoy on a high horse at luncheon. Telling me off right and left. First about the cypher book and then about the bagatelle. Too humiliating.”

“Poor sweet, he was only showing off to the Bishop. He’s probably frightfully ashamed of himself already.”

“That’s all very well, but why should I be made to look a fool just so as he can impress the Bishop?”

“Sweet, sweet William, please don’t be in a rage.

It isn’t my fault if I have a martinet for a father, is it, darling? Listen, I’ve got a whole lot of new ideas for us to try.’

The Legges and the Anstruthers came across to tea: cucumber sandwiches, gentleman’s relish, hot scones and seed-cake.

“How’s Betty after her fall?”

“Rather shaken, poor mite. Arthur wants her to start riding again as soon as she can. He’s afraid she may lose her nerve permanently.’

“But not on Majesty.”

“No, we hope Percy will lend her Jumbo for a bit. She can’t really manage Majesty yet, you know.”

“More tea, Bishop? How is every one at the Mission?”

“Oh, dear, how bare the garden is looking. It really is heart breaking. This is just the time it should be at its best. But all the antirrhinums are in the bag, heaven knows where.”

“This war is too exasperating. I’ve been expecting the wool for baby’s jacket for six weeks. I can’t get on with it at all and there are only the sleeves to finish. Do you think it would look too absurd if I put in the sleeves in another colour?”

“It might look rather sweet.”

“More tea, Bishop? I want to hear all about the infant school, sometime.”

“I’ve found the cypher book, sir.”

“Good boy; where was it?”

“In my collar drawer. I’d been decoding some telegrams in bed last week.”

“Splendid. It doesn’t matter as long as it’s safe, but you know how particular the F. O. are about things like that.”

“Poor Monsieur Ballon. He’s been trying to get an aeroplane from Algiers.”

“Mrs. Schonbaum told me that the reason we’re all so short of supplies is that the French Legation have been buying up everything and storing it in their cellars.”

“I wonder if they’d like to buy my marmalade. It’s been rather a failure this year.”

“More tea, Bishop. I want to talk to you sometime about David’s confirmation. He’s getting such an independent mind, I’m sometimes quite frightened what he’ll say next.”

“I wonder if you know anything about this cable. I can’t make head or tail of it. It isn’t in any of the usual codes. Kt to QR3 CH.”

“Yes, they’re all right. It’s a move in the chess game. Percy’s playing with Babbitt at the F. O. He was wondering what had become of it.”

“Poor Mrs. Walsh. Looking quite done up. I’m sure the altitude isn’t good for her.”

“I’m sure Uppingham is just the place for David.”

“More tea, Bishop. I’m sure you must be tired after your ride.”

Sixty miles southward in the Ukaka pass bloody bands of Sakuyu warriors played hide and seek among the rocks, chivvying the last fugitives of the army of Seyid, while behind them down the gorge, from cave villages of incalculable antiquity, the women crept out to rob the dead.

After tea the Consul looked in and invited Prudence and William over to play tennis.

‘I’m afraid the balls are pretty well worn out. We’ve had some on order for two months. Confound this war.”

When it was too dark to play, they dropped in on the Legges for cocktails, overstayed their time and ran back to the Legation to change for dinner. They tossed for first bath. Prudence won but William took it. He finished her bath salts and they were both very late for dinner. The Bishop, as had been feared, stayed the night. After dinner a log fire was lit in the hall; the evenings were cold in the hills. Sir Samson settled down to his knitting. Anstruther and Legge came in to make up the bridge table with Lady Courteney and the Bishop.

Legation bridge was played in a friendly way.

“I’ll go one small heart.”

“One no trump and I hope you remember what that means, partner.”

“How you two do cheat.”

“No.”

“I say, can’t you do better than that.”

“What did you call?”

“A heart.”

“Oh, well, I’ll go two hearts.”

“That’s better.”

“Damn. I’ve forgotten what a no-trump call means. I shall have to pass.”

“No. I’m thinking of riding Vizier with a gag. He’s getting heavy in the mouth.”

“No. Then it’s you to play, Bishop. It’s hopeless using a steel bit out here.”

“I say what a rotten dummy: is that the best you can do, partner?”

“Well, you wanted me to put you up. If you can make the syces water the bit before bridling it’s all right.”

Prudence played the gramophone to William, who lay on his back in front of the hearth smoking one of the very few remaining cigars. “Oh, dear,” he said, “when will the new records come?”

“I say, Prudence, do come and look at the jumper. I’m starting on the sleeves.”

“Envoy, you are clever.”

“Well, it’s very exciting….”

“Pretty tune that. I say, is it my turn?”

“Percy, do attend to the game.”

“Sorry, anyway I’ve taken the trick.”

“It was ours already.”

“No, I say was it? Put on the other side, Prudence—the one about Sex Appeal Sarah.”

“Percy, it’s you to play again. Now trump it this time.’

“Sorry, no trumps left. Good that about ‘start off with cocktails and end up with Eno’s”

A few miles away at the French Legation, the minister and the first secretary were discussing the report of the British movements which was brought to them every evening by Sir Samson’s butler.

“Bishop Goodchild is there again.”

“Clericalism.”

“That is how they keep in touch with the town. He is an old fox, Sir Courteney.”

“It is quite true that they have made no attempt to fortify the Legation. I have confirmed it.”

“No doubt they have made their preparations in another quarter. Sir Courteney had been financing Seth,”

“Without doubt.”

“I think he is behind the fluctuations of the currency.”

“They are using a new code. Here is a copy of to-day’s telegram. It means nothing to me. Yesterday there was one the same.”

“Kt to QR3 CH. No, that is not one of the ordinary codes. You must work on that all night. Pierre will help.”

“I should not be surprised if Sir Samson were in the pay of the Italians.”

“It is more than likely. The guard has been set?”

“They have orders to shoot at sight.”

“Have the alarms been tested?”

“All are in order.”

“Excellent. Then I will wish you good-night.”

M. Ballon ascended the stairs to bed. In his room he first tested the steel shutters, then the lock of the door. Then he went across to the bed where his wife-was already asleep, and examined the mosquito curtains. He squirted a little Flit round the windows and door, sprayed his throat with antiseptic and rapidly divested himself of all except his woollen cummerbund. He slipped on his pyjamas, examined the magazine of his revolver and laid it on the chair at his bedside; next to it he placed his watch, electric torch and a bottle of Vittel. He slipped another revolver under his pillow. He tiptoed to the window and called down softly: “Sergeant.”

There was a click of heels in the darkness. “Excellence.”

“Is all well?”

“All well, Excellence.”

M. Ballon moved softly across to the electric switches and before extinguishing the main lamp switched on a small electric night-light which shed a faint blue radiance throughout the room. Then he cautiously lifted the mosquito curtain; flashed his torch round to make sure that there were no insects there and finally with a little grunt lay down to sleep. Before losing consciousness his hand felt, found and grasped a small carved nut which he kept under his bolster in the belief that it would bring him good luck.

Next morning by eleven o’clock the Bishop had been seen off the premises and the British Legation had settled down to its normal routine. Lady Courteney was in the potting shed; Sir Samson was in the bath; William, Legge and Anstruther were throwing poker dice in the chancery; Prudence was at work on the third chapter of the Panorama of Life. Sex, she wrote in round, irregular characters, is the crying out of the Soul for Completion. Presently she crossed out ‘Soul’ and substituted ‘Spirit’; then she inserted ‘of man’; changed it to ‘manhood’ and substituted ‘humanity.’ Then she took a new sheet of paper and copied out the whole sentence. Then she wrote a letter. Sweet William. You looked so lovely at breakfast you know all half awake and I wanted So to pinch you only didn’t. Why did you go away at once. Saying ‘decode.’ You know you hadn’t got to I suppose it was the Bishop. Darling, he’s gone now so come back and I will show you something lovely. The Panorama of Life, is rather a trial to-day. Very literary and abstruse but it won’t get any LONGER. Oh, dear. Prudence, xxxx. She folded this letter very carefully into a three-cornered hat, addressed it The Honble. William Trench., Attache Honoraire, pres La Legation de Grande Bretagne and sent it down to the chancery, with instructions to the boy to wait for an answer. William scribbled So sorry darling desperately busy to-day see you at luncheon. Longing to read Panorama. W. and threw four kings in two.

Prudence disconsolately abandoned her fountain pen and went out to watch her mother thinning the Michaelmas daisies.

Prudence and William had left an inflated indiarubber sea-serpent behind them in the bathroom. Sir Samson sat in the warm water engrossed with it. He switched it down the water and caught it in his toes; he made waves for it; he blew it along; he sat on it and let it shoot up suddenly to the surface between his thighs; he squeezed some of the air out of it and made bubbles. Chance treats of this kind made or marred the happiness of the Envoy’s day. Soon he was rapt in daydream about the Pleistocene age, where among mists and vast, unpeopled crags, schools of deep-sea monsters splashed and sported; oh, happy fifth day of creation, thought the Envoy Extraordinary, oh, radiant infant sun, newly weaned from the breasts of darkness, oh, rich steam of the soggy continents, oh, jolly whales and sea-serpents frisking in new brine… Knocks at the door. William’s voice outside.

“Walker’s just ridden over, sir. Can you see him?”

Crude disillusionment.

Sir Samson returned abruptly to the twentieth century, to a stale and crowded world; to a bath grown tepid and an indiarubber toy. “Walker? Never heard of him.”

“Yes, sir, you know him. The American secretary.”

“Oh, yes, to be sure. Extraordinary time to call. What on earth does the fellow want? If he tries to borrow the tennis marker again, tell him it’s broken.”

“He’s just got information about the war. Apparently there’s been a decisive battle at last.’

“Oh, well, I’m glad to hear that. Which side won, do you know?”

“He did tell me, but I’ve forgotten.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll hear all about it from him. Tell him I’ll be down directly. Give him a putter and let him play clock golf. And you’d better let them know he’ll be staying to luncheon.”

Half an hour later Sir Samson came downstairs and greeted Mr. Walker.

“My dear fellow, how good of you to come. I couldn’t get out before; the morning is always lather busy here. I hope they’ve been looking after you properly. I think it’s about time for a cocktail, William.”

‘ The Minister thought that you’d like to have news of the battle. We got it on the wireless from Matodi. We tried to ring you up yesterday evening but couldn’t get through.”

“No, I always have the telephone disconnected after dinner. Must keep some part of the day for oneself, you know.”

“Of course we haven’t got any full details yet.”

“Of course not. Still the war’s over, William tells me, and I, for one, am glad. It’s been on too long. Very upsetting to everything. Let me see, which of them won it?”

“Seth.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure. Seth. I’m very glad. He was… now let me see… which was he?”

“He’s the old Empress’s son.”

“Yes, yes, now I’ve got him. And the Empress, what’s become of her.”

“She died last year.”

“I’m glad. It’s very disagreeable for an old lady of her age to get involved in all these disturbances. And What’s-his-name, you know the chap she was married to? He dead, too?”

“Seyid? There’s no news of him. I think we may take it that we’ve seen the last of him.”

“Pity. Nice fellow. Always liked him. By the bye, hadn’t one of the fellows been to school in England?”

“Yes, that’s Seth.”

“Is it, by Jove? Then he speaks English?”

“Perfectly.”

“That’ll be one in the eye for Ballon, after all the trouble he took to learn Sakuyu. Here’s William with the cocktails.”

“I’m afraid they won’t be up to much this morning, sir. We’ve run out of Peach Brandy.”

“Well, never mind. It won’t be long now before we get everything straight again. You must tell us all your news at luncheon. I hear Mrs. Schonbaum’s mare is in foal. I’ll be interested to see how she does. We’ve never had any luck breeding. I don’t believe the native syces understand bloodstock.”

At the French Legation, also, news of Seth’s victory had arrived. “Ah,” said M. Ballon, “so the Eng lish and the Italians have triumphed. But the game is not over yet. Old Ballon is not outwitted yet.

There is a trick or two still to be won. Sir Samson must look to his laurels.”

While at that moment the Envoy was saying: “Of course, it’s all a question of the altitude. I’ve not heard of any one growing asparagus up here but I can’t see why it shouldn’t do. We get the most delicious green peas.”

THREE

TWO days later news of the battle of Ukaka was published in Europe. It made very little impression on the million or so Londoners who glanced down the columns of their papers that evening.

“Any news in the paper to-night, dear?”

“No, dear, nothing of interest.”

“Azania? That’s part of Africa, ain’t it?”

“Ask Lil, she was at school last.”

“Lil, where’s Azania?”

“I don’t know, father.”

“What do they teach you at school, I’d like to know.”

“Only niggers.”

“It came in a cross-word quite lately. Independent native principality. You would have it was Turkey.”

“Azania? It sounds like a Cunarder to me.”

“But, my dear, surely you remember that madly attractive blackamoor at Balliol.”

“Run up and see if you can find the atlas, deary.

… Yes, where it always is, behind the stand in father’s study.”

“Things look quieter in East Africa. That Azanian business cleared up at last.”

“Care to see the evening paper? There’s nothing in it.”

In Fleet Street, in the offices of the daily papers; “Randall, there might be a story in the Azanian cable. The new bloke was at Oxford. See what there is to it.”

Mr. Randall typed: His Majesty B. A…. ex-undergrad among the cannibals… scholar emperor’s desperate bid for throne… barbaric splendour… conquering hordes… ivory… ele-phants… east meets west…

“Sanders. Kill that Azanian story in the London edition.”

“Anything in the paper this morning?”

“No, dear, nothing of interest.”

Late in the afternoon Basil Seal read the news on the Imperial and Foreign page of The Times as he stopped at his club on the way to Lady Metroland’s to cash a bad cheque.

For the last four days Basil had been on a racket. He had woken up an hour ago on the sofa of a totally strange flat. There was a gramophone playing. A lady in a dressing jacket sat in an armchair by the gas fire, eating sardines from the tin with a shoe horn. An unknown man in shirtsleeves was shaving, the glass propped on the chimney-piece.

The man had said: “Now you’re awake you’d better go.”

The woman: “Quite thought you were dead.”

Basil: “I can’t think why I’m here.”

“I can’t think why you don’t go.”

“Isn’t London hell?”

“Did I have a hat?”

“That’s what caused half the trouble.’

“What trouble?”

“Oh, why don’t you go?”

So Basil had gone down the stairs, which were covered in worn linoleum, and emerged through the side door of a shop into a busy street which proved to be the King’s Road, Chelsea.

Incidents of this kind constantly occurred when Basil was on a racket.

At the club he found a very old member sitting before the fire with tea and hot muffins. He opened The Times and sat on the leather topped fender.

“You see the news from Azania?”

The elderly member was startled by the sudden ness of his address. “No… no… I am afraid I can’t really say that I have.”

“Seth has won the war.”

“Indeed… well, to tell you the truth I haven’t been following the affair very closely.’

“Very interesting.”

“No doubt.”

“I never thought things would turn out quite in this way, did you?”

“I can’t say I’ve given the matter any thought.”

“Well, fundamentally it is an issue between the Arabs and the christianised Sakuyu.”

“I see.”

“I think the mistake we made was to underesti-mate the prestige of the dynasty.”

“Oh.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve never been satisfied in my mind about the legitimacy of the old Empress.”

“My dear young man, no doubt you have some particular interest in the affairs of this place. Pray understand that I know nothing at all about it and that I feel it is too late in the day for me to start improving my knowledge.”

The old man shifted himself in his chair away from Basil’s scrutiny and began reading his book.

A page came in with the message: “No reply from either of those numbers, sir.”

“Don’t you hate London?”

“Eh?”

“Don’t you hate London?”

“No, I do not. Lived here all my life. Never get tired of it. Fellow who’s tired of London is tired of life.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Basil.

“I’m going away for some time,” he told the hall-porter as he left the club.

“Very good, sir. What shall I do about correspondence.”

“Destroy it.”

“Very good, sir.” Mr. Seal was a puzzle to him. He never could forget Mr. Seal’s father. He had been a member of the club. Such a different gentleman. So spick and span, never without silk hat and an orchid in his buttonhole. Chief Conservative Whip for twenty-five years. Who would have thought of him having a son like Mr. Seal? Out of town until further notice. No letters forwarded he entered against Basil’s name in his ledger. Presently the old gentleman emerged from the smoking room.

“Arthur, is that young man a member here?”

“Mr. Seal, sir? Oh, yes, sir.”

“What d’you say his name is?’

“Mr. Basil Seal.”

“Basil Seal, eh. Basil Seal. Not Christopher Seal’s son?”

“Yes, sir.”

Is he now? Poor old Seal. Ton my soul, what a sad thing. Who’d have thought of that? Seal of all people…” and he shuffled back into the smoking room, to the fire and his muffins, full of the comfort that glows in the hearts of old men when they con-template the misfortunes of their contemporaries.

Basil walked across Piccadilly and up to Curzon Street. Lady Metroland was giving a cocktail party.

“Basil,” she said, “you had no business to come. I particularly didn’t ask you.”

“I know. I only heard you had a party quite in-directly. What I’ve really come for is to see if my sister is here.”

“Barbara? She may be. She said she was coming. How horrible you look.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes.”

“Not shaven?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ve only just woken up. I haven’t been home yet.” He looked round the room. “All the same people. You don’t make many new friends, Margot.”

“I hear you’ve given up your constituency?”

“Yes, in a way. It wasn’t worth while. I told the P. M. I wasn’t prepared to fight on the tariff issue. He had a chance to hold over the bill but the Outrage section were too strong so I threw in my hand. Besides I want to go abroad. I’ve been in England too long.”

“Cocktail, sir?”

“No, bring me a Pernod and water, will you… there isn’t any? Oh, well, whiskey. Bring it into the study. I want to go and telephone. I’ll be back soon. M argot.”

“God, what I feel about that young man,” said Lady Metroland.

Two girls were talking about him.

“Such a lovely person.’

“Where?”

“Just gone out.”

“You don’t mean Basil Seal?”

“Do I?”

“Horrible clothes, black hair over his face.”

“Yes, tell me about him.”

“My dear, he’s enchanting… Barbara Sothill’s brother, you know. He’s been in hot water lately. He’d been adopted as candidate somewhere in the North. Father says he was bound to get in at the next election. Angela Lyne was paying his expenses. But they had trouble over something. You know how careful Angela is. I never thought Basil was really her tea. They never quite made sense I mean, did they? So that’s all over.”

“It’s nice his being so dirty.”

Other people discussed him.

“No, the truth about Basil is just that he’s a bore. No one minds him being rude, but he’s so teaching. I had him next to me at dinner once and he would talk all the time about Indian dialects. Well, what was one to say? And I asked afterwards and appar ently he doesn’t know anything about them either.”

“He’s done all kinds of odd things.”

“Well, yes, and I think that’s so boring too. Al ways in revolutions and murders and things I mean what is one to say? Poor Angela is literally off her head with him. I was there yesterday and she could talk of nothing else but the row he’s had with his committee in his constituency. He does seem to have behaved rather oddly at the Conservative ball and then he and Alastair Trumpington and Peter Past master and some others had a five day party up there and left a lot of bad cheques behind and had a motor accident and one of them got run in—you know what Basil’s parties are. I mean that sort of thing is all right in London, but you know what provincial towns are. So what with one thing and another they’ve asked him to stand down. The trouble is that poor Angela still fancies him rather.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“I know. That’s the point. Barbara says she won’t do another thing for him.”

Some one else was saying, “I’ve given up trying to be nice to Basil. He either cuts me or corners me with an interminable lecture about Asiatic politics. It’s odd Margot having him here—particularly after the way he’s always getting Peter involved.”

Presently Basil came back from telephoning. He stood in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in one hand, looking insolently round the room, his head back, chin forward, shoulders rounded, dark hair over his forehead, contemptuous grey eyes over grey pouches, a proud rather childish mouth, a scar on one cheek.

“My word, he is a corker,” remarked one of the girls.

His glance travelled round the room. ‘

‘I’ll tell you who I want to see, Margot. Is Rex Monomark here?”

“He’s over there somewhere. But, Basil, I absolutely forbid you to tease him.”

“I won’t tease him.”

Lord Monomark, owner of many newspapers, stood at the far end of the drawing room discussing diet. Round him in a haze of cigar smoke were ranged his ladies and gentlemen in attendance; three almost freakish beauties, austerely smart, their ex-quisite, irregular features eloquent of respect; two gross men of the world, wheezing appreciation; a dapper elderly secretary, with pink, bald pate and in his eyes that glazed, gin-fogged look that is common to sailors and the secretaries of the great, and comes from too short sleep.

“Two raw onions and a plate of oatmeal porridge,” said Lord Monomark. “That’s all I’ve taken for luncheon in the last eight months. And I feel two hundred per cent, better—physically, intellect-ually and ethically.”

The group was slightly isolated from the rest of the party. It was very rarely that Lord Monomark consented to leave his own houses and appear as a guest. The few close friends whom he honoured in this way observed certain strict contentions in the matter; new people were not to be introduced to him except at his own command; politicians were to be kept at a distance; his cronies of the moment were to be invited with him; provision had to be made for whatever health system he happened to be following. In these conditions he liked now and then to appear in society—an undisguised Haroun al-Raschid among his townspeople—to survey the shadow-play of fashion, and occasionally to indulge the caprice of singling out one of these bodiless phantoms and translating her or him into the robust reality of his own world. His fellow guests, meanwhile, flitted in and out as though unconscious of his presence, avoiding any appearance of impinging on the integrity of this glittering circle.

“If I had my way,” said Lord Monomark, “I’d make it compulsory throughout the country. I’ve had a notice drafted and sent round the office recommending the system. Half the fellows think nothing of spending one and six or two shillings on lunch every day—that’s out of eight or nine pounds a week.”

“Rex, you’re wonderful.”

“Read it out to Lady Everyman, Sanders.”

“Lord Monomark wishes forcibly to bring to the attention of his staff the advantages to be derived from a carefully chosen diet…” Basil genially intruded himself into the party.

“Well, Rex, I thought I’d find you here. It’s all stuff about that onion and porridge diet, you know. Griffenbach exploded that when I was in Vienna three years ago. But that’s not really what I came to talk about.”

“Oh, Seal, isn’t it? I’ve not seen you for a long time. I remember now you wrote to me some time ago. What was it about, Sanders?”

“Afghanistan.”

“Yes, of course. I turned it over to one of my editors to answer. I hope he explained.”

Once, when Basil had been a young man of promise, Lord Monomark had considered taking him up and invited him for a cruise in the Mediterranean. Basil at first refused and then, after they had sailed, announced by wireless his intention of joining the yacht at Barcelona; Lord Monomark’s party had waited there for two sultry days without hearing news and then sailed without him. When they next met in London Basil explained rather inadequately that he had found at the last minute he couldn’t manage it after all. Countless incidents of this kind had contributed to Basil’s present depreciated popularity.

“Look here, Rex,” he said, “what I want to know is what you’re going to do about Seth.”

“Seth?” Lord Monomark turned an inquiring glance at Sanders. “What am I doing about Seth?”

“Seth?”

“It seems to me there’s an extremely tricky political situation developing there. You’ve seen the news from Ukaka. It doesn’t tell one a thing. I want to get some first-hand information. I’m probably sailing almost at once. It occurred to me that I might cover it for you in the Excess”

Towards the end of this speech, Lord Monomark’s bewilderment was suddenly illumined. This was nothing unusual after all. It was simply some one after a job. “Oh,” he said, “I’m afraid I don’t interfere with the minor personnel of the paper. You’d better go and see one of the editors about it.

But I don’t think you’ll find him anxious to take on new staff at the moment.”

“I’ll tell them you sent me.”

“No, no, I never interfere. You must just approach them through the normal channels,”

“All right. I’ll come up and see you after I’ve fixed it up. Oh, and I’ll send you Griffenbach’s re-port on the onion and porridge diet if I can find it. There’s my sister, I’ve got to go and talk to her now, I’m afraid. See you before I sail.”

Barbara Sothill no longer regarded her brother with the hero-worship which had coloured the first twenty years of her life.

“Basil,” she said, “what on earth have you been doing? I was lunching at mother’s to-day and she was wild about you. She’s got one of her dinner parties and you promised to be in. She said you hadn’t been home all night and she didn’t know whether to get another man or not.”

“I was on a racket. We began at Lottie Crump’s. I rather forget what happened except that Allan got beaten up by some chaps.”

“And she’s just heard about the committee.”

“Oh, that. I meant to give up the constituency anyhow. It’s no catch being in the Commons now. I’m thinking of going to Azania.”

“Oh, were you—and what’ll you do there?”

“Well Rex Monomark wants me to represent the Excess but I think as a matter of fact I shall be better off if I keep a perfectly free hand. The only thing is I shall need some money. D’you think our mother will fork out five hundred pounds?”

“I’m sure she won’t.”

“Well, some one’ll have to. To tell you the truth I can’t very well stay on in England at the moment. Things have got into rather a crisis. I suppose you wouldn’t like to give me some money?”

“Oh, Basil, what’s the good? You know I can’t do it except by getting it from Freddy and he was furious last time.”

“I can’t think why. He’s got packets.”

“Yes, but you might try and be a little polite to him sometimes—just in public, I mean.”

“Oh, of course if he thinks that by lending me a few pounds he’s getting himself up for life as a good fellow.. “

In the days when Sir Christopher was Chief Whip, Lady Seal had entertained frequently and with rel-ish. Now, in her widowhood, with Barbara successfully married and her sons dispersed, she limited herself to four or five dinner parties every year. There was nothing elastic or informal about these occasions. Lady Metroland was a comparatively rich woman and it was her habit when she was tired to say casually to her butler at cocktail time, “I am not going out to-night. There will be about twenty to dinner,” and then to sit down to the telephone and invite her guests, saying to each, “Oh, but you must chuck them to-night. I’m all alone and feeling like death.” Not so Lady Seal, who despatched engraved cards of invitation a month in advance, supplied defections from a secondary, list one week later, fidgeted with place cards and a leather board as soon as the acceptances began to arrive, borrowed her sister’s chef and her daughter’s footmen, and on the morning of the party exhausted herself utterly by trotting all over her house in Lowndes Square arranging flowers. Then at half past five when she was satisfied that all was ready she would retire to bed and doze for two hours in her darkened room; her maid would call her with cachet Farine and clear China tea; a touch of ammonia in the bath; a touch of rouge on the cheeks; lavender water behind the ears; half an hour before the glass, fiddling with her jewel case while her hair was being done; final conference with the butler; then a happy smile in the drawing room for all who were less than twenty minutes late. The menu always included lobster cream, saddle of mutton and brown-bread ice and there were silver gilt dishes ranged down the table holding a special kind of bon-bon supplied to Lady Seal for twenty years by a little French shop whose name she would sometimes coyly disclose.

Basil arrived among the first guests. There was carpet on the steps; the doors opened with unusual promptness; the hall seemed full of chrysanthemums and footmen.

” Hullo, her ladyship got a party? I forgot all about it. I’d better change.”

“Frank couldn’t find your evening clothes, Mr. Basil. I don’t think you can have brought them back last time you went away. I don’t think her Ladyship is expecting you to dinner.”

“Any one asked for me?”

“There were two persons, sir.”

“Duns?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. I told them that we had no information about your whereabouts.”

“Quite right.”

“Mrs. Lyne rang up fifteen times, sir. She left no message.”

“If any one else wants me, tell them I’ve gone to Azania.”

“Sir?”

“Azania.”

“Abroad?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Basil…”

The Duke and Duchess of Stayle had arrived. The Duchess said, “So you are not dining with us to-night. You young men are all so busy nowadays.

No time for going out. I hear things are going very well up in your constituency.” She was often behind-hand with her news. As they went up the Duke said, “Clever young fellow that. Wonder if he’ll ever come to anything though.”

Basil went into the dark little study next to the front door and rang up the Trumpingtons.

“Sonia, are you and Alastair doing anything to-night?”

“We’re at home. Basil, what have you been doing to Alastair. I’m furious with you. I think he’s going to die.”

“We had rather a racket. Shall I come to dinner?”

“Yes, do. We’re in bed.”

He drove to Montagu Square and was shown up to their room. They lay in a vast, low bed, with a backgammon board between them. Each had a separate telephone, on the tables at the side, and by the telephone a goblet of ‘black velvet.’ A bull terrier and a chow flirted on their feet. There were other people in the room, one playing the gramophone, one reading, one trying Sonia’s face things at the dressing table. Sonia said, “It’s such a waste not going out after dark. We have to stay in all day because of duns.”

Alastair said, “We can’t have dinner with these infernal dogs all over the place.”

Sonia: “You’re a cheerful chap to be in bed with, 102 aren’t you?” and to the dog, “Was oo called infernal woggie by owid man? Oh, God, he’s made a mess again.”

Alastair: “Are those chaps staying to dinner?”

“We asked one.”

“Which?”

“Basil.”

“Don’t mind him, but all those others.”

“I do hope not.”

They said: “Afraid we’ll have to. It’s so late to go anywhere else.”

Basil: “How dirty the bed is, Sonia.”

“I know. It’s Alastair’s dog. Anyway you’re a nice one to talk about dirt.”

“Isn’t London hell.”

Alastair: “I don’t anyway see why those chaps shouldn’t have dinner downstairs.”

They said: “It would be more comfortable.”

“What are their names?”

“One we picked up last night. The other has been staying here for days.”

“It’s not only the expense I mind. They’re boring.”

They said: “We wouldn’t stay a moment if we had anywhere else to go.”

“Ring for dinner, sweet. I forget what there is, but I know it’s rather good. I ordered it myself.”

There was whitebait, grilled kidneys and toasted 103 cheese. Basil sat between them on the bed and they ate from their knees. Sonia threw a kidney to the dogs and they began a fight.

Alastair: “It’s no good. I can’t eat anything.”

Sonia’s maid brought in the trays. She asked her: “How are the gentlemen getting on downstairs?”

“They asked for champagne.”

“I suppose they’d better have it. It’s very bad.”

Alastair: “It’s very good.”

“Well, it tasted awful to me. Basil, sweety, what’s your news.”

“I’m going to Azania.”

“Can’t say I know much about that. Is it far?”

“Yes.”

“Fun?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Alastair, why not us too?”

“Hell, now those dogs have upset everything again.”

“How pompous you’re being.”

After dinner they all played happy families. “Have you got Miss Chipps, the Carpenter’s daughter.”

“Not at home but have you got Mr. Chipps the Carpenter? Thank you and Mrs. Chipps the Carpenter’s wife. Thank you and Basil have you got Miss Chipps? Thank you. That’s the Chipps family.”

Basil left early so as to see his mother before she went to bed.

Sonia said, “Good-bye, darling. Write to me from where ever it is. Only I don’t expect we’ll be living here much longer.”

One of the young men said: “Could you lend me a fiver. I’ve a date at the café de Paris.”

“No, you’d better ask Sonia.”

“But it’s so boring. I’m always borrowing money from her.”

In the course of the evening Lady Seal had found time to touch her old friend Sir Joseph Mannering on the sleeve and say, “Don’t go at once, Jo. I’d like to talk to you afterwards.” As the last guests left he came across to the fireplace, hands behind his coat tails and on his face an expression of wisdom, discretion, sympathy, experience and contentment. He was a self-assured old booby who in the easy and dignified role of family friend was invoked to ag-gravate most of the awkward situations that occurred in the lives of his circle.

“A delightful evening, Cynthia, typically delightful. I sometimes think that yours is the only house in London nowadays where I can be sure both of the claret and the company. But you wanted to consult me. Not, I hope, that little trouble of Barbara’s?”

“No, it’s nothing about Barbara. What’s the child been doing?”

“Nothing, nothing. It was just some idle bit of gossip I heard. I’m glad it isn’t worrying you. I suppose Basil’s been up to some mischief again.”

“Exactly, Jo. I’m at my wits’ end with the boy. But what was it about Barbara?”

“Come, come, we can’t fuss about too many things. I did hear Basil had been up to something. Of course there’s plenty of good in the boy. It only wants bringing out.”

“I sometimes doubt it.”

“Now, Cynthia, you’re overwrought. Tell me exactly what has been happening.”

It took Lady Seal some time to deliver herself of the tale of Basil’s misdemeanours. “… if his father were alive… spent all the money his Aunt left him on that idiotic expedition to Afghanistan… give him a very handsome allowance… all and more than all that I can afford… paid his debts again and again… no gratitude… no self-con-trol… no longer a child, twenty-eight this year… his father… the post kind Sir William secured him in the bank in Brazil… great opening and such interesting work… never went to the office once… never know where or whom he is with… most undesirable friends, Sonia Trumpington, Peter Pastmaster, all sorts of people whose names I’ve never even heard… of course I couldn’t really approve of his going about so much with Mrs. Lyne—though I daresay there was nothing wrong in it—but at least I hoped she might steady him a little… stand for Parliament… his father… behaved in the most irresponsible way in the heart of his constituency… Prime Minister… Central Office…. Sonia Trumpington threw it at the mayor… Conservative ball… one of them actually arrested… come to the end, Jo… I’ve made up my mind. I won’t do another thing for him—it’s not fair on Tony that I should spend all the money on Basil that should go to them equally… marry and settle down… if his father were alive… it isn’t even as though he were the kind of man who would do in Kenya,” she concluded hopelessly.

Throughout the narration Sir Joseph maintained his air of wisdom, discretion, sympathy, experience and contentment; at suitable moments he nodded and uttered little grunts of comprehension. At length he said: “My dear Cynthia. I had no idea it was as bad as that. What a terrible time you have have had and how brave you have been. But you mustn’t let yourself worry. I daresay even this disagreeable incident may turn to good. It may very likely be the turning point in the boy’s life…

Learned his lesson. I shouldn’t wonder if the reason he hasn’t come home is that he’s ashamed to face you. I tell you what, I think I’d better have a talk to him. Send him round as soon as you get into touch with him. I’ll take him to lunch at the club. He’ll probably take advice from a man he might resent from a woman. Didn’t he begin reading for the bar once? Well, let’s set him going at that. Keep him at home. Don’t give him enough money to go about. Let him bring his friends here. Then he’ll only be able to have friends he’s willing to introduce to you. We’ll try and get him into a different set. He didn’t go to any dances all last summer I remember you telling me. Heaps of jolly girls coming out he hasn’t had the chance of meeting yet. Keep him to his work. The boy’s got brains, bound to find it interesting. Then when you’re convinced he’s steadied up a bit, let him have chambers of his own in one of the Inns of Court. Let him feel you trust him. I’m sure he’ll respond…”

For nearly half an hour they planned Basil’s fu-ture, punctually rewarding each stage of his moral recuperation. Presently Lady Seal said: “Oh, Jo, what a help you are. I don’t know what I should do without you.”

“Dear Cynthia, it is one of the privileges of maturity to bring new strength and beauty to old friendships.”

“I shan’t forget how wonderful you’ve been to-night, Jo.”

The old boy bounced back in his taxicab to St. James and Lady Seal slowly ascended the stairs to her room; both warm at heart and aglow from their fire-lit nursery game of “let’s pretend.” She sat be-fore her bedroom fire, slipped off her dress and rang the bell beside the chimney-piece.

“Ill have my milk now, Bradshawe, and then go straight to bed.”

The maid lifted the jug from the fender where it had been keeping warm and deftly held back the skin with a silver apostle-spoon as she poured the hot milk into a glass. Then she brought the jewel case and held it while wearily, one by one, the rings, bracelet, necklace and ear-rings were slipped off and tumbled in. Then she began taking the pins from her mistress’ hair. Lady Seal held the glass in both hands and sipped.

“Don’t trouble to brush it very long to-night, I’m tired.”

“I hope the party was a success, my lady.”

“I suppose so. Yes, I’m sure it was. Captain Cruttwell is very silly, but it was kind of him to come at all at such short notice.”

“It’s the first time Her Grace’s youngest daughter has been to dinner?”

“Yes, I think it is. The child looked very well, I thought, and talked all the time.”

Lady Seal sipped the hot milk, her thoughts still wandering innocently in the soft places where Sir Joseph had set them. She saw Basil hurrying to work in the morning, by bus at first, later—when he had proved his sincerity—he should have a two-seater car; he would be soberly but smartly dressed and carry some kind of business-like attache case or leather satchel with him. He would generally have papers to go through before changing for dinner. They would dine together and afterwards often go out to the theatre or cinema. He would eat with good appetite, having lunched quickly and economically at some place near his work. Quite often she would entertain for him, small young peoples’ parties of six or eight—intelligent, presentable men of his own age, pretty, well-bred girls. During the season he would go to two dances a week, and leave them early… “Bradshawe, where is the spoon? It’s forming a skin again”… Later she went to tea with him in his rooms in Lincolns Inn. He lifted a pile of books from the armchair before she sat down. ‘I’ve brought you a looking glass.’

‘Oh, Mother, how sweet of you.’

‘I saw it in Helena’s shop this morning and thought it just the thing to go over your fire. It will lighten the room. It’s got a piece chipped off in one place but it is a good one.’

‘I must try it at II0 once.’

‘It’s down in the car, dear. Tell Andrews to bring it up’…

A knock at the door.

“What can they want at this time? See who it is, Bradshawe.”

“Mr. Basil, my lady.”

“Oh, dear.”

Basil came in, so unlike the barrister of her dream that it required an effort to recognise him.

“I’ll ring for you in a few minutes, Bradshawe… Basil, I really can’t talk to you now. I have a great deal to say and I am very tired. Where have you been?”

“Different places.”

“You might have let me know. I expected you at dinner,’

“Had to go and dine with Alastair and Sonia. Was the party a success?”

“Yes, I think so, so far as can be expected I had to ask poor Toby Cruttwell. Who else was there I could ask at the last moment. I do wish you wouldn’t Eddie with things. Shut the jewel case like a good boy.”

“By the way, I’ve given up politics; did you know.”

“Yes, I am most distressed about the whole business—vexed and distressed, but I can’t discuss it now.

I’m so tired: It’s all arranged. You are to lunch with Sir Joseph Mannering at his club and he will explain everything. You are to meet some new girls and later have tea—I mean rooms—in Lincoln’s Inn. You’ll like that, won’t you, dear? Only you mustn’t ask about it now.”

‘What I came to say is that I’m just off to Azania.”

“No, no, dear boy. You are to lunch with Jo at The Travellers.”

“And I shall need some money.”

“It’s all decided.”

“You see I’m fed up with London and English politics. I want to get away. Azania is the obvious place. I had the Emperor to lunch once at Oxford. Amusing chap-The thing is this,” said Basil, scratching in his pipe with a delicate pair of gold manicure scissors from the dressing table. “Every year or so there’s one place on the globe worth going to where things are happening. The secret is to find out where and be on the spot in time.”

“Basil, dear, not with the scissors.”

“History doesn’t happen everywhere at once. Azania is going to be terrific. Anyway I’m off there tomorrow. Flying to Marseilles and catching the Messageries ship. Only I must raise at least five hundred before I start. Barbara wanted to give it to me but I thought the simplest thing was to compound for my year’s allowance. There may be a few debts that’ll want settling while I’m away. I thought of giving you a power of attorney…”

“Dear boy, you are talking nonsense. When you’ve had luncheon with Sir Joseph you’ll understand. We’ll get into touch with him first thing in the morning. Meanwhile run along and get a good night’s sleep. You aren’t looking at all well, you know.’

“I must have at least three hundred.”

“There. I’ve rung for Bradshawe. You’ll forget all about this place in the morning. Good-night, darling boy. The servants have gone up. Don’t leave the lights burning downstairs, will you?”

So Lady Seal undressed and sank at last luxuriously into bed. Bradshawe softly paddled round the room performing the last offices; she picked up the evening gown, the underclothes, and the stockings, and carried them outside to her workroom; she straightened the things on the dressing table, shut the drawers, wiped the points of the nail scissors with a wad of cotton; she opened the windows four inches at the top, banked up the fire with a shovelful of small coal, hitched on the wire guard, set a bottle of Vichy water and a glass on the chamber cupboard beside the bed and stood at the door one hand holding the milk tray, the other on the electric switch.

“Is that everything for the night, my lady?”

II3

“That’s all, Bradshawe. I’ll ring in the morning. Good-night,’

“Good-night, my lady.”

Basil went back to the telephone and called Mrs. Lyne. A soft, slightly impatient voice answered him. “Yes, who is it?”

“Basil.”

A pause.

“Hullo, are you there, Angela? Basil speaking.”

“Yes, darling, I heard. Only I didn’t quite know what to say… I’ve just got in… such a dull evening… I rang, you up to-day… couldn’t get on to you.”

“How odd you sound.”

“Well, yes… why did you ring up? It’s late.”

“I’m coming round to see you.”

“My dear, you can’t possibly.”

“I was going to say good-bye—I’m going away for some time.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a good thing.”

“Well, don’t you want me to come?”

“You’ll have to be sweet to me. You see I’ve been in rather a muddle lately. You will be sweet, darling, won’t you? I don’t think I could bear it if you weren’t.”

And later, as they lay on their backs smoking, her foot just touching his under the sheets, Angela interrupted him to say: “How would it be if, just for a little, we didn’t talk about this island?… I’m going to find things different when you’ve gone.”

“I’m mad for it.”

“I know,” said Angela. “I’m not kidding myself.”

“You’re a grand girl.”

“It’s time you went away… shall I tell you something?”

“What?”

“I’m going to give you some money.”

“Well, that is nice.”

“You see, when you rang up I knew that was what you wanted. And you’ve been sweet to-night really though you were boring about that island. So I thought that just for to-night I’d like to have you not asking for money. Before I’ve enjoyed making it awkward for you. Did you know? Well, I had to have some fun, hadn’t I, and I think I used to embarrass even you sometimes. And I used to watch you steering the conversation round. I knew that anxious look in your eye so well… I had to have something to cheer me up all these weeks, hadn’t I. You don’t do much for a girl. But to-night I thought it would be a treat just to let you be nice and no bother and I’ve enjoyed myself. I made out a cheque before you came… on the dressing table. It’s for rather a lot.”

“You’re a grand girl.”

“When d’you start?”

“Tomorrow.”

‘I’ll miss you. Have a good time.”

Next morning at twenty to ten Lady Seal rang her bell. Bradshawe drew the curtains and shut the windows, brought in the orange juice, the letters and the daily papers.

“Thank you, Bradshawe. I had a very good night. I only woke up once and then was asleep again almost directly. Is it raining?”

“I’m afraid so, my lady.”

“I shall want to see Mr. Basil before he goes out”

“Mr. Basil has gone already.”

“So early. Did he say where?”

“He did say, my lady, but I am not sure of the name. Somewhere in Africa.”

“How very provoking. I know there was something I wanted him to do to-day.”

At eleven o’clock a box of flowers arrived from Sir Joseph Mannering and at twelve Lady Seal attended a committee meeting; it was four days before she discovered the loss of her emerald bracelet and by that time Basil was on the sea.

Croydon, le Bourget, Lyons, Marseilles; colourless, gusty weather, cloud-spray dripping and trickling on the windows; late in the afternoon, stillness from the roar of the propellers; sodden turf; the road from the aerodrome to the harbour heavily scented with damp shrub; wind-swept sheds on the quay; an Annamite boy swabbing the decks; a surly steward, the ship does not sail until tomorrow, the commissaire knows of the allotment of the cabins, he is on shore, it is not known when he will return, there is nowhere to leave the baggage, the baggage room is shut and the commissaire has the key, any one might take it if it were left on deck—twenty francs—the luggage could go in one of the cabins, it will be safe there, the steward has the key, he will see to it. Dinner at the restaurant de Verdun. Basil alone with a bottle of fine Burgundy.

Next afternoon they sailed. She was an ugly old ship snatched from Germany after the war as part of the reparation; at most hours of the day two little men in alpaca coats played a fiddle and piano in the deck bar; luncheon at twelve, dinner at seven; red Algerian wine; shrivelled, blotchy dessert; a small saloon full of children; a smoking-room full of French officials and planters playing cards. The big ships do not stop at Matodi. Basil at table talking excellent French ceaselessly, in the evenings paying attention to a woman of mixed blood from Madagascar, getting bored with her and with the ship, sitting sulkily at meals with a book, complaining to the captain about the inadequacy of the wireless bulle-tins, lying alone in his bunk for hours at a time, smoking cheroots and gazing blankly at the pipes on the ceiling.

At Port Said he sent lewd postcards to Sonia, disposed of his mother’s bracelet at a fifth of its value to an Indian jeweller, made friends with a Welsh engineer in the bar of the Eastern Exchange, got drunk with him, fought him, to the embarrassment of the Egyptian policeman, and returned to the ship next morning a few minutes before the companion way was raised, much refreshed by his racket.

A breathless day in the canal; the woman from Madagascar exhausted with invitation. The Red Sea, the third class passengers limp as corpses on the lower deck; fiddle and piano indefatigable; dirty ice swimming in the dregs of lemon juice; Basil in his bunk sullenly consuming cheroots undeterred by the distress of his cabin-companion. Djibouti; port holes closed to keep out the dust, coolies jogging up the planks with baskets of coal; contemptuous savages in the streets scraping their teeth with twigs; an Abyssinian noblewoman in a green veil shopping at the French Emporium; an ill-intentioned black monkey in an acacia tree near the post office. Basil took up with a Dutch South African; they dined on the pavement of the hotel and drove later in a horse-cab to the Somali quarter where in a lamplit mud hut Basil began to talk of the monetary systems of the world until the Boer fell asleep on a couch of plaited hide and the four dancing girls huddled together in the corner like chimpanzees and chattered resentfully among themselves.

The ship was sailing for Azania at midnight. She lay far out in the bay, three lines of lights reflected in the still water; the sound of fiddle and piano was borne through the darkness, harshly broken by her siren intermittently warning passengers to embark. Basil sat in the stern of the little boat, one hand trailing in the sea; half way to the ship the boatman shipped their oars and tried to sell him a basket of limes; they argued for a little in broken French, then splashed on irregularly towards the liner; an oil lantern bobbed in the bows. Basil climbed up the companion way and went below; his companion was asleep and turned over angrily as the light went up; the port hole had been shut all day and the air was gross; Basil lit a cheroot and lay for some time reading. Presently the old ship began to vibrate and later, as she drew clear of the bay, to pitch very slightly in the Indian Ocean. Basil turned out the light and lay happily smoking in the darkness.

In London Lady Metroland was giving a party. Sonia said: “No one asks us to parties now except Margot. Perhaps there aren’t any others.”

“The boring thing about parties is that it’s far too much effort to meet new people, and if it’s just all II9 the ordinary people one knows already one might just as well stay at home and ring them up instead of having all the business of remembering the right day.”

“I wonder why Basil isn’t here? I thought he was bound to be.”

“Didn’t he go abroad?”

“I don’t think so. Don’t you remember, he had dinner with us the other evening.”

“Did he? When?”

“Darling, how can I remember that?… there’s Angela—she’ll know.”

“Angela, has Basil gone away?”

“Yes, somewhere quite extraordinary.”

“My dear, is that rather heaven for you?”

“Well, in a way…”

Basil was awakened by the clank and rattle of steel cable as the anchor was lowered. He went up on deck in pyjamas. The whole sky was aflame with green and silver dawn. Half covered figures of other passengers sprawled asleep on benches and chairs. The sailors paddled between them on bare feet, clearing the hatches; a junior officer on the bridge shouting orders to the men at the winch. Two lighters were already alongside preparing to take off cargo. A dozen small boats clustered round them, loaded with fruit.

Quarter of a mile distant lay the low sea front of Matodi; the minaret, the Portuguese ramparts, the mission church, a few warehouses taller than the rest, the Grand Hotel de I’Empereur Amurath stood out from the white and dun cluster of roofs; behind and on either side stretched the meadowland and green plantations of the Azanian coast line, groves of tufted palm at the water’s edge. Beyond and still obscured by mist rose the great crests of the Sakuyu mountains, the Ukaka pass and the road to Debra-Dowa.

The purser joined Basil at the rail.

“You disembark here, Mr. Seal, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“You are the only passenger. We sail again at noon.”

“I shall be ready to go ashore as soon as I am dressed.”

“You are making a long stay in Azania?”

“Possibly.”

“On business? I have heard it is an interesting country.”

But for once Basil was disinclined to be instructive. “Purely for pleasure,” he said. Then he went below, dressed and fastened his bags. His cabin companion looked at his watch, scowled and turned his face to the wall; later he missed his shaving soap, bedroom slippers and the fine topee he had bought a few days earlier at Port Said.

FOUR

THE Matodi terminus of the Grand Chemin de Fer d’Azanie lay half a mile inland from the town. A broad avenue led to it, red earth scarred by deep ruts and pot holes; on either side grew irregular lines of acacia trees. Between the trees were strings of different coloured flags. A gang of convicts, chained neck to neck, were struggling to shift a rusty motor car which lay on its side blocking the road. It had come to grief there six months previously, having been driven recklessly into some cat-tle by an Arab driver. He was now doing time in prison in default of damages. White ants had devoured the tyres; various pieces of mechanism had been removed from time to time to repair other engines. A Sakuyu family had set up house in the back, enclosing the space between the wheels with an intricate structure of rags, tin, mud and grass.

That was in the good times when the Emperor was in the hills. Now he was back again and the town was overrun with soldiers and government officials. It was by his orders that this motor car was being removed. Everything had been like that for three weeks, bustle everywhere, proclamations posted up on every wall, troops drilling, buglings, hangings, the whole town kept awake all day; in the Arab Club feeling ran high against the new regime.

Mahmud el Khali bin Sai’ud, frail descendant of the oldest family in Matodi, sat among his kinsmen, moodily browsing over his lapful of khat. The sunlight streamed in through the lattice shutters, throwing a diaper of light over the worn carpets and di-vans; two of the amber mouthpieces of the hubble-bubble were missing; the rocking chair in the corner was no longer safe, the veneer was splitting and peeling off the rosewood table. These poor remnants were all that remained of the decent people of Matodi; the fine cavaliers had been scattered and cut down in battle. Here were six old men and two dissipated youngsters, one of whom was liable to fits of epilepsy. There was no room for a gentleman in Matodi nowadays, they remarked. You could not recount an anecdote in the streets or pause on the water front to discuss with full propriety the sale of land or the pedigree of a stallion, but you were jostled against the wall by black men or Indians, dirty fellows with foreskins; unbelievers, descendants of slaves; judges from up country, upstarts, jacks-in-office giving decisions against you in the courts… Jews foreclosing on mortgages… taxation… vulgar display… no respect of leisure, hanging up wretched little flags everywhere, clearing up the streets, moving derelict motor cars while their owners were not in a position to defend them. To-day there was an ordinance forbidding the use of Arab dress. Were they, at their time of life, to start decking themselves out in coat and trousers and topee like a lot of half-caste bank clerks?… besides, the prices tailors charged… it was a put-up job… you might as well be in a British colony.

Meanwhile with much overseeing and shouting, and banging of behinds, preparations were in progress on the route to the railway station; the first train since the troubles was due to leave that afternoon.

It had taken a long time to get a train together. On the eve of the battle of Ukaka the station mas-ter and all the more responsible members of his staff had left for the mainland. In the week that followed Seth’s victory they had returned one by one with various explanations of their absence. Then there had been the tedious business of repairing the line which both armies had ruined at several places; They had had to collect wood fuel for the engine and wire for the telegraph lines. This had been the longest delay, for no sooner was it procured from the mainland than it was stolen by General Connolly’s disbanded soldiers to decorate the arms and legs of their women. Finally when everything had been prepared it was decided to delay the train a few days until the arrival of the mail ship from Europe. It thus happened that Basil Seal’s arrival in Matodi coincided with the date fixed for Seth’s triumphal return to Debra-Dowa.

Arrangements for his departure had been made with great care by the Emperor himself, and the chief features embodied in a proclamation in Sa-kuyu, Arabic and French, which was posted prominently among the many pronouncements which heralded the advent of Progress and the New Age.

ORDER FOR THE DAY OF THE EMPEROR’S DEPARTURE

(1) The Emperor will proceed to Matodi railway station at 14.30 here (8.30 Mohammedan time). He will be attended by his personal suite, the Commander-in-Chief and the General Staff. The guard of honour will be composed of the first battalion of the Imperial Life Guards. Full dress uniform (boots for officers), will be worn by all ranks. Civilian gentlemen will wear jacket and orders. Ball ammunition will not be issued to the troops.

(2) The Emperor will be received at the foot of the station steps by the station master who will conduct him to his carriage. The public will not be admitted to the platforms, or to any of the station buildings with the exception of the following, in the following order of precedence: Consular representatives of foreign powers, the Nestorian Metropolitan of Matodi, the Vicar Apostolic, the Mor-mon elder, officers of H. I. M. forces, directors of the Grand Chemin de Per d’Azanie; peers of the Azanian Empire, representatives of the Press. No person, irrespective of rank, will be admitted to the platform improperly dressed or under the influence of alcohol.

(3) The public will be permitted to line the route to the station. The police will prevent the dis-charge of firearms by the public.

(4) The sale of alcoholic liquor is forbidden from midnight until the departure of the Imperial train.

(5) One coach will be available for the use of the unofficial travellers to Debra-Dowa. Applications should be made to the station master. No passenger will be admitted to the platform after 14.0.

(6) Any infringement of the foregoing regulations renders the offender liable to a penalty not exceeding ten years imprisonment, or confiscation of property and loss of rights, or both.

Basil read this at the railway station, where he drove in a horse cab as soon as he landed. He went to the booking office and bought a first-class ticket to Debra-Dowa. It cost two hundred rupees.

“Will you please reserve me a seat on this afternoon’s train?”

“That is impossible. There is only one carriage. The places have been booked many days.”

“When is the next train?”

“Who can say? Perhaps next week. The engine must come back from Debra-Dowa. The others are broken and the mechanic is busy on the tank.”

“I must speak to the station master.”

“I am the station master.”

“Well, listen, it is very urgent that I go to Debra-Dowa to-day.”

“You should have made your arrangements sooner. You must understand, monsieur, that you are no longer in Europe.’

As Basil turned to go, a small man who had been sitting fanning himself on a heap of packing cases, scrambled down and came across the booking hall towards him. He was dressed in alpaca and skull cap; he had a cheerful, round, greasy, yellowish face and ‘Charlie Chaplin’ moustache.

” ‘Ullo, Englishmans, you want something?”

“I want to go to Debra-Dowa.”

“O.K. I fix it.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“Honour to fix it. You know who I am? Look here.” He handed Basil a card on which was printed: M. Krikor Youkoumian, Grande Hotel et Bar Amurath Matodi, grande Hotel Cafe Epicerie, et Bibliotheque Empereur Seyid Debra-Dowa. Touts les renseignements. The name Seyid had been obliterated in purple ink and Seth substituted for it.

“You keep that,” said Mr. Youkoumian. “You come to Debra-Dowa. You come to me. I fix everything. What’s your name, sir?”

“Seal.”

“Well, look, Mr. Seal. You want to come Debra-Dowa. I got two seats. You pay me two hundred rupees, I put Mme. Youkoumian in the mule truck. Ows that, eh?”

“I’m not going to pay anything like that, I’m afraid.”

“Now, listen, Mr. Seal. I fix it for you. You don’t know this country. Stinking place. You miss this train, you stay in Matodi one, two, three, perhaps six weeks. How much you pay then? I like English-mens. They are my favourite gentlemen. Look, you give me hundred and fifty rupees I put Mme. Youkoumian with the mules. You don’t understand what that will be like. They are the General’s mules. Very savage stinking animals. All day they will stamp at her. No air in the truck. ‘Orrible, unhealthy place. Very like she die or is kicked. She is good wife, work hard, very loving. If you are not Englishmans I would not put Mme. Youkoumian with the mules for less than five hundred. I fix it for you O.K.?”

“O.K.” said Basil. “You know, you seem to me a good chap.”

“Look, how about you give me money now. Then I take you to my cafe. Dirty little place, not like London. But you see. I got fine brandy. Very fresh, I make him myself Sunday.”

Basil and Mr. Youkoumian took their seats in the train at two o’clock and settled down to wait for the arrival of the Imperial party. There were six other occupants of the carriage—a Greek who offered them oranges and soon fell asleep, four Indians who discussed their racial grievances in an eager undertone, and an Azanian nobleman with his wife who shared a large pie of spiced mutton, lifting the slices between pieces of newspaper and eating silently and almost continuously throughout the afternoon. Mr. Youkoumian’s personal luggage was very small but he had several crates of merchandise for his Debra-Dowa establishment: by a distribution of minute tips he had managed to get these into the mail van. Mme. Youkoumian squatted disconsolately in a cor-ner of the van clutching a little jar of preserved cherries which her husband had given her to com-pensate for the change of accommodation; a few feet from her in the darkness came occasional nervous brays and whinnies and a continuous fretful stamping of the straw.

In spite of Seth’s proclamation the police were 1*9 at some difficulty in keeping the platform clear of the public; twenty or thirty of them prosecuted a vigorous defence with long bamboo staves, whacking the woolly heads as they appeared above the corrugated iron fence. Even so, large numbers of un-authorised spectators were established out of reach on the station roof. The Indian who supplied pictures of local colour to an International Press Agency was busily taking snapshots of the notables. These had not observed the Emperor’s instructions to the letter. The Nestorian Metropolitan swayed on the arm of his chaplain, unquestionably drunk; the representative of the Courier d’Azanie wore an open shirt, a battered topee, crumpled white trousers and canvas shoes; the Levantine shipping agent who acted as vice-consul for Great Britain, the Netherlands, Sweden, Portugal and Latvia had put on a light waterproof over his pyjamas and come to the function straight from bed; the Eurasian bank manager who acted as vice-consul for Soviet Russia, France, and Italy, was still asleep; the general merchant of inscrutable ancestry who represented the other great powers, was at the moment employed on the mainland making final arrangements for the trans-shipment from Alexandria of a long-awaited consignment of hashish. Some Azanian dignitaries in national costume, sat in a row on the carpets their slaves had spread for them, placidly scratching the soles of their bare feet and conversing intermittently on questions of sex. The station master’s livestock-two goats and a few small turkeys—had been ex-pelled in honour of the occasion from their normal quarters in the ladies’ waiting room, and wandered at will about the platform gobbling at fragments of refuse.

It was more than an hour after the appointed time when the drums and fifes of the Imperial guard announced the Emperor’s arrival. They had been held up by the derelict motor car which had all the morning resisted the efforts of the convicts to move it. The Civil Governor on whom rested the ultimate responsibility for this mishap, was soundly thrashed and degraded from the rank of Viscount to that of Baronet before the procession could be resumed. It was necessary for the Emperor to leave his car and complete the journey on mule back, his luggage bobbing behind him on the heads of a dozen suddenly conscripted spectators.

He arrived in a bad temper, scowled at the station master and the two vice-consuls, ignored the native nobility and the tipsy Bishop, and bestowed only the most sour of smiles on the press photographer. The guards presented arms, the interlopers on the roof set up an uncertain cheer and he strode across to the carriage prepared for him. General Connolly and the rest of the royal entourage bun-died into their places. The station master stood hat in hand waiting for orders.

“His Majesty is now ready to start.’

The station master waved his hat to the engine driver; the guards once more presented their arms. The drums and fifes struck up the national anthem. The two daughters of the director of the line scattered rose petals round the steps of the carriage. The engine whistled, Seth continued to smile… nothing happened. At the end of the verse the band music died away; the soldiers stood irresolutely at the present; the Nestorian Metropolitan continued to beat the time of some interior melody; the goats and turkeys wandered in and out among the embarrassed spectators. Then, when all seemed frozen in silence, the engine gave a great wrench, shaking the train coach by coach from the tender to the mule boxes, and suddenly, to the immense delight of the darkies on the roof, shot off by itself into the country.

“The Emperor has given no orders for a delay.’

“It is a thing I did not foresee.’

‘ said the station master, “our only engine has gone away alone. I think I shall be disgraced for this affair.’

But Seth made no comment. The other passengers came out onto the platform, smoking and making jokes. He did not look out at them. This gross incident had bruised his most vulnerable feelings.

He had been made ridiculous at a moment of dignity and triumph; he had been disappointed in plans he had made eagerly; his own superiority was compromised by contact with such service. Basil passed his window and caught a glimpse of a gloomy but very purposeful black face under a white sun helmet. And at that moment the Emperor was resolving. “My people are a worthless people. I give orders; there is none to obey me. I am like a great musician without an instrument. A wrecked car broadside across the line of my procession… a royal train without an engine… goats on the platform… I can do nothing with these people. The Metropolitan is drunk. Those old landowners giggled when the engine broke away; I must find a man of culture, a modern man… a representative of Progress and the New Age.” And Basil again passed the window; this time in conversation with General Connolly.

Presently, amid cheers, the runaway engine puffed backwards into the station.

Mechanics ran out to repair the coupling.

At last they started.

Basil began the journey in a cheerful temper. He had got on very well with the general and had accepted an invitation to “Pop in for a spot any time” when they reached the capital.

The train which brought the Emperor to Debra-Dowa, also brought the mail. It was a great day at the British Legation. The bags were brought into the dining-room and they all sat round dealing out the letters and parcels, identifying the hand-writings and reading over each other’s shoulders… “Peter’s heard from Flora.”

“Do let me read An-thony’s letter after you, Mabel.”

“Here’s a page to go on with.”

“Does any one want Jack’s letter from Sybil?”

“Yes, I do, but I haven’t finished Mabel’s from Agnes yet.”

“What a lot of money William owes. Here’s a bill for eighty-two pounds from his tailor.”

“And twelve from his book-shop.”

“Who’s this from, Prudence, I don’t know the writing…?

“Awful lot of official stuff,” complained Sir Sam-son. “Can’t bother about that now. You might take charge of it, Peter, and have a look through it when you get time.”

“It won’t be for a day or two I’m afraid, sir. We’re simply snowed under with work in the Chancery over this gymkhana.”

“Yes, yes, my boy, of course, all in good time. Al-ways stick to the job in hand. I dare say there’s nothing that needs an answer, and anyway there’s no knowing when the next mail will go… I say, though, here’s something interesting, my word it is. Can’t make head or tail of the thing. It says, ‘Good luck. Copy this letter out nine times and send it to nine different friends’… What an extraordinary idea.”

“Envoy, dear, do be quiet; I want to try the new records.’

“No, but, Prudence, do listen. It was started by an American officer in France. If one breaks the chain one gets bad luck, and if one sends it on, good luck. There was one woman lost her husband and another one who made a fortune at roulette—all through doing it and not doing it… you know I should never have believed that possible…”

Prudence played the new records. It was a sol-emn thought to the circle that they would hear these eight tunes daily, week after week, without release, until that unpredictable day when another mail should arrive from Europe. In their bungalows, in their compound, in their rare, brief excursions into the outer world, these words would run in their heads…. Meanwhile they opened their letters and unrolled their newspapers.

“Envoy, what have you got there?”

“My dear, another most extraordinary thing. Look here. It’s all about the Great Pyramid. You see it’s all a ‘cosmic allegory.’ It depends on the ‘Displacement factor.’ Listen, ‘The combined lengths of the two tribulation passages is precisely 153 Pyramid inches—153 being the number symbolic of ‘the Elect’ in Our Lord’s mystical enactment of the draught of 153 great fishes.’ I say, I must go into this. It sounds frightfully interesting! I can’t think who sends me these things. Jolly decent of them whoever it is.”

Eleven Punches, eleven Graphics, fifty-nine copies of The Times, two Vogues and a mixed collection of New Yorkers, Week End Reviews, St. James’s Gazettes, Horses and Hounds, Journals of Oriental Studies, were unrolled and distributed. Then came novels from Mudies, cigars, soda-water sparklets.

“We ought to have a Christmas tree next time the bag comes in.”

Several Foreign Office despatches were swept up and incinerated among the litter of envelopes and wrappings.

“Apparently inside the Pyramid there is a chamber of the Triple Veil of Ancient Egyptian Prophecy… the east wall of the Antichamber symbolises Truce in Chaos…”

“There is a card announcing a gala night at the Perroquet tomorrow, Envoy, don’t you think we might go?”

“… Four limestone blocks representing the Final Tribulation in 1936…”

“Envoy.”

“Eh… I’m so sorry. Yes, well certainly go. Haven’t been out for weeks.”

“By the way.’

‘ said William, “we had a caller in to-day.’

“Net the Bishop?”

“No, some one new. He wrote his name in the book. Basil Seal.”

“What does he want, I wonder. Know anything about him?”

“I seem to have heard his name. I don’t quite know where.”

“Ought we to ask him to stay? He didn’t bring any letters?”

“No.”

“Thank God. Well, we’ll ask him to luncheon one day. I expect he’ll find it too hot to come out often.”

“Oh,” said Prudence, “somebody new. That’s more than one could have hoped for. Perhaps he’ll be able to teach us backgammon.”

That evening M. Ballon received a disquieting report.

“Mr. Basil Seal, British politican travelling under private title, has arrived in Debra-Dowa, and is staying in M. Youkoumian’s house. He is avoiding all open association with the Legation. This evening he called, but presented no credentials. He is obviously expected. He has been seen in conversation with General Connolly, the new Duke of Ukaka.”

“I do not like the look of this Mr. Seal. The old fox, Sir Courteney, is playing a deep game—but old Ballon will outwit him yet.”

The Victory Ball at the Perroquet exceeded all its promoters’ highest expectations in splendour and gaiety. Every side of Azanian life was liberally represented. The court circle and diplomatic corps, the army and government services, the church, com-merce, the native nobility and the cosmopolitan set.

A gross of assorted novelties—false noses, paper caps, trumpets and dolls—had arrived by the mail from Europe, but demands exceeded the supply. Turbans and tarbooshes bobbed round the dancing floor; there were men in Azanian state robes, white jackets, uniforms, and reach-me-down tail coats; women of all complexions in recently fashionable gowns, immense imitation jewels and lumpy ornaments of solid gold. There was Mme. Fifi’ Fatim Bey, the town courtesan, and her present protector, Viscount Boaz, the Minister of the Interior; there was the Nestorian Patriarch and his favourite dea-con; there was the Duke and Duchess of Ukaka; there was the manager, Prince Fyodor Krononin, elegant and saturnine, reviewing the late arrivals at the door; there was Basil Seal and Mr. Youkoumian, who had been hard at work all that day, making champagne for the party. At a long table near the back were the British Legation in full force.

“Envoy, you can’t wear a false nose.”

“I don’t at all see why not. I think it’s very amusing.”

“I don’t think that you ought really to be here at all.”

“Why? M. Ballon is.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t look as if he were enjoying himself.”

“I say, shall I send him one of those chain letters?”

“Yes, I don’t see why you shouldn’t do that.’

“It will puzzle him terribly.”

“Envoy, who’s that young man? I’m sure he’s English.”

Basil had gone across to Connolly’s table.

“Hullo, old boy. Take a pew. This is Black Bitch.”

“How do you do.” The little negress put down her trumpet, bowed with grave dignity and held out her hand. “Not Black Bitch any more. Duchess of Ukaka now.”

“My word, hasn’t she got an ugly mug,” said the Duke. “But she’s a good little thing.”

Black Bitch flashed a great, white grin of pleasure at the compliment. It was a glorious night for her; it would have been rapture enough to have her man back from the wars; but to be made a Duchess and taken to supper among all the white ladies… all in the same day….

“You see,” said M. Ballon to his first secretary, “That is the man, over there with Connolly. You are having him watched?”

“Ceaselessly.”

“You have instructed the waiter to attend carefully to the conversation at the English table?”

“He reported to me just now in the cloak-room. It is impossible to understand. Sir Samson speaks all the time of the dimensions of the Great Pyramid.”

“A trap, doubtless.”

The Emperor had signified his intention of making an appearance some time during the evening. At the end of the ball-room a box had been improvised for him with bunting, pots of palm, and gilt cardboard. Soon after midnight he came. At a sign from Prince Fyodor the band stopped in the middle of the tune and struck up the national anthem. The dancing couples scuttled to the side of the ball-room; the guests at supper rose awkwardly to their feet, pushing their tables forward with a rattle of knives and glasses; there was a furtive self-conscious straightening of ties and removing of paper caps. Sir Samson Courteney alone absentmindedly re-cained his false nose. The royal entourage in frogged uniforms advanced down the polished floor; in their centre, half a pace ahead, looking neither to right nor left, strode the Emperor in evening dress, white kid gloves, heavily starched linen, neat pearl studs and jet-black face.

“Got up just as though he were going to sing Spirituals at a party,” said Lady Courteney.

Prince Fyodor glided in front and ushered him to his table. He sat down alone. The suite ranged themselves behind his chair. He gave a slight nod to Prince Fyodor. The band resumed the dance music. The Emperor watched impassively as the company began to settle down to a state of enjoyment.

Presently by means of an agency, he invited the wife of the American minister to dance with him. The other couples fell back. With gravity and grace he led Mrs. Schonbaum into the centre, danced with her twice round the room, led her back to her table, bowed and returned to his box.

“Why, he dances beautifully,” reported Mrs. Schonbaum. “I often wonder what they would say back home to see me dancing with a man of colour.”

“I do pray he comes and dances with Mum,’

‘ said Prudence. “Do you think it’s any use me trying to vamp him, or does he only go for wives?”

The evening went on.

The maitre d’hotel approached Prince Fyodor in tome distress.

“Highness, they are complaining about the champagne.’

“Who are?”

“The French Legation.’

“Tell them we will make a special price for them.”

“… Highness, more complaints of the champagne.”

“Who this time?”

“The Duke of Ukaka.”

“Take away the bottle, pour in a tumbler of brandy and bring it back.”

“… Highness, is it proper to serve the Minister of the Interior with more wine? He is pouring it in his lady’s lap.”

“It is proper. You ask questions like an idiot.’

The English party began to play consequences on the menu cards. They were of the simplest sort: The amorous Duke of Ukaka met the intoxicated Mme. Ballon in the Palace w. c. He said to her ‘Floreat Azania’…

“Envoy, if you laugh so much we’ll have to stop playing.”

“Upon my soul, though, that’s funny.”

“Mum, do you think that young man with the Connollys is the one who called?”

“I daresay. We must ask him to something sometime. Perhaps hell be here for the Christmas luncheon… but he seems to have plenty of friends already.”

“Mum, don’t be snobbish—particularly now Connolly’s a Duke. Do let’s have him to everything al-ways…”

Basil said, “I’ve been trying to catch the Emperor’s eye. I don’t believe he remembers me.”

“The old boy’s on rather a high horse now the war’s over. He’ll come down a peg when the bills start coming in. They’ve brought us a better bottle of fizz this time. Like Fyodor’s impudence trying to palm off that other stuff on us.”

“I wonder if it would be possible to arrange an audience.”

“Look here, old boy, have you come here to enjoy yourself or have you not? I’ve been in camp with that Emperor off and on for the last six months and I want to forget him. Give Black Bitch some bubbly and help yourself and for the love of Mike talk smut.”

“Monsieur Jean, something terrible has come to my knowledge,” said the French second secretary.

“Tell me,” said the first secretary.

“I can scarcely bring myself to do so. It affects the honour of the Minister’s wife.”

‘Incredible. Tell me at once. It is your duty to France.’

“For France, then… when affected by wine she made an assignation with the Duke of Ukaka. He loves her.”

“Who would have thought it possible? Where?”

“In the toilette at the Palace.”

“But there is no toilette at the Palace.”

“Sir Samson Courteney has written evidence to that effect. The paper has been folded into a nar-row strip. No doubt it was conveyed to him by one of his spies. Perhaps in a roll of bread.”

“Extraordinary. We will keep this from the Minister. We will watch, ourselves. It is a secret between us. No good can come of it. Alas, poor Monsieur Ballon. He trusted her. We must prevent this thing.”

“For France.”

“For France and Monsieur Ballon.”

“… I have never observed Madame Ballon the worse for drink…”

Paper caps were resumed; bonnets of liberty, conical dunces’ hats, jockey caps, Napoleonic cas-ques, hats for pierrots and harlequins, postmen, highlanders, old Mothers Hubbard and little Misses Muffet over faces of every complexion, brown as boots, chalk white, dun and the fresh boiled pink of Northern Europe. False noses again; brilliant sheaths of pigmented cardboard attached to noses of every anthropological type, the high arch of the Semite, freckled Nordic snouts, broad black nostrils from swamp villages of the mainland, the pulpy in-flamed flesh of the alcoholic, and unlovely syphilitic voids. Ribbons of coloured paper tangled and snapped about the dancers’ feet; coloured balls volleyed from table to table. One, erratically thrown by Madame Fifi, bounced close to the royal box; the Minister of the Interior facetiously applauded her aim. Prince Fyodor glanced anxiously about him. His patrons were beginning to enjoy themselves. If only the Emperor would soon leave; an incident might occur at any moment.

But Seth sat alone among the palms and garlands, apparently deep in thought; his fingers fidgeted with the stem of his wine glass; sometimes, without raising his head, he half furtively surveyed the room. The equerries behind his chair despaired of per-mission to dance. If only His Majesty would go home, then they could slip back before the fun was all over…

“Old boy, your pal the Great Panjandrum is something of a damper on this happy throng. Why can’t the silly mutt go off home and leave us to have a jolly up.”

“Can’t conceive why young Seth doesn’t move. Can’t be enjoying himself,”

But the Emperor sat tight. This was the celebration of his Victory. This was the society of Debra-Dowa. There was the British Minister happy as a parent at a children’s party. There was the Minister of the Interior, behaving hideously. There was the Commander-in-Chief of the Azanian army. And with him was Basil Seal. Seth recognised him in his first grave survey of the restaurant and suddenly, on this triumphal night in his own capital, he was over-come by shyness. It was nearly three years since they last met, and Seth recalled the light drizzle of rain in the Oxford quadrangle, a scout carrying a tray of dirty plates, a group of undergraduates in tweeds lounging about among bicycles in the porch. He had been an undergraduate of no account in his College, amiably classed among Bengali babus, Siamese and grammar school scholars as one of the remote and praiseworthy people who had come a long way to the University. Basil had enjoyed a reputation of peculiar brilliance among his contemporaries. On the rare occasions when evangelically-minded undergraduates asked Seth to tea or coffee, his name occurred in the conversation with awed disapproval. He played poker for high stakes. His luncheon parties lasted until dusk, his dinner parties dispersed in riot. Lovely young women visited him from London in high-powered cars. He went away for week-ends without leave and climbed into College over the tiles at night. He had travelled all over Europe, spoke six languages, called dons by their Christian names and discussed their books with them.

Seth had met him at breakfast with the Master of the College. Basil had talked to him about Azanian topography, the Nestorian Church, Sakuyu dialects, the idosyncrasies of the chief diplomats in Debra-Dowa. Two days later he invited him to luncheon. There had been two peers present and the President of the Union, the editor of a new undergraduate paper and a young don. Seth had sat silent and entranced throughout the afternoon. Later after long consultation with his scout, he had returned the invitation. Basil accepted and at the last moment made his excuses for not coming. There the acquaintance had ended. Three years had intervened during which Seth had become Emperor, but Basil still stood for him as the personification of all that glittering, intangible Western culture to which he aspired. And there he was, unaccountably, at the Connollys’ table. What must he be thinking? If only the Minister for the Interior were more sober…

The maitre d’hotel again approached Prince Fyodor.

“Highness, there is some one at the door who I do not think should be admitted.”

“I will see him.”

But as he turned to the door, the newcomer appeared. He was a towering negro in full gala dress; on his head a lion’s mane busby; on his shoulders a shapeless fur mantle; a red satin skirt; brass bangles and a necklace of lion’s teeth; a long, ornamental sword hung at his side; two bandoliers of brass cartridges circled his great girth; he had small blood-shot eyes and a touzle of black wool over his cheeks and chin. Behind him stood six unsteady slaves carrying antiquated riflles.

It was one of the backwoods peers, the Earl of Ngumo, feudal overlord of some five hundred square miles of impenetrable highland territory. He had occupied himself throughout the civil war in an attempt to mobilise his tribesmen. The battle of Ukaka occurring before the levy was complete, saved him the embarrassment of declaring himself for either combatant. He had therefore left his men in the hills and marched down with a few hundred personal attendants to pay his respects to the victorious side. His celebrations had lasted for some days already and had left some mark upon even his rugged constitution.

Prince Fyodor hurried forward. “The tables are all engaged. I regret very much that there is no room. We are full up.”

The Earl blinked dully and said, “I will have a table, some gin and some women and some raw camels’ meat for my men outside.”

“But there is no table free.”

“Do not be put out. That is a simple matter. I have some soldiers with me who will quickly find room.”

The band had stopped playing and a hush fell on the crowded restaurant. Scared faces under the pa-per hats and false noses.

“Under the table, Black Bitch,” said Connolly. “There’s going to be a rough house.”

Mr. Youkoumian’s plump back disappeared through the service door.

“Now what’s happening?” said the British Minister. “Some one’s up to something I’ll be bound.”

But at that moment the Earl’s bovine gaze moving up the rows of scared faces to its natural focus among the palms and bunting, reached the Emperor. His hand fell to the jewelled hilt of his sword—and twenty hands in various parts of the room felt for pistols and bottle necks—a yard of tarnished dam-ascene flashed into the light and with a roar of hom-I49 age he sank to his knees in the centre of the polished floor.

Seth rose and folded his hands in the traditional gesture of welcome.

“Peace be upon your house, Earl.”

The vassal rose and Prince Fyodor’s perplexities were solved by the departure of the royal party.

“I will have that table,” said the Earl, pointing to the vacated box.

And soon, quite unconscious of the alarm he had caused, with a bottle of M. Youkoumian’s gin before him, and a vast black cheroot between his teeth, the magnate was pacifically winking at the ladies as they danced past him.

Outside the royal chauffeur was asleep and only with difficulty could be awakened. The sky was ablaze with stars; dust hung in the cool air, frag-rant as crushed herbs; from the Ngumo camp, out of sight below the eucalyptus trees, came the thin smoke of burning dung and the pulse and throb of the hand drummers. Seth drove back alone to the black litter of palace buildings.

“Insupportable barbarians,” he thought. “I am sure that the English lords do not behave in that way before their King. Even my loyalest officers are ruffians and buffoons. If I had one man by me whom I could trust… a man of progress and culture…”

SIX WEEKS PASSED

SIX weeks passed. The victorious army slowly demobolised and dispersed over the hills in a hundred ragged companies; livestock and women in front, warriors behind laden with alarm clocks and nondescript hardware looted in the bazaars; soldiers of Progress and the New Age home-ward bound to the villages.

The bustle subsided and the streets of Matodi resumed their accustomed calm; copra, cloves, mangoes and khat; azan and angelus; old women with obdurate donkeys; trays of pastry black with flies, shrill voices in the mission school reciting the cate-chism; lepers and pedlars, and Arab gentlemen with shabby gamps decently parading the water front at the close of day. In the derelict van outside the railway station, a patient black family repaired the ravages of invasion with a careful architecture of mud, twigs, rag and flattened petrol tins.

Two mail ships outward bound from Marseilles, three on the home journey from Madagascar and Indo-China paused for their normal six hours in the little bay. Four times the train puffed up from Ma-todi to Debra-Dowa; palm belt, lava fields, bush and upland; thin cattle scattered over the sparse fields; shallow furrows in the brittle earth; white-gowned Azanian ploughboys scratching up furrows with wooden ploughs; conical grass roofs in stockades of euphorbia and cactus; columns of smoke from the tukal fires, pencil-drawn against the clear sky.

Vernacular hymns in the tin-roofed missions, ancient liturgy in the murky Nestorian sanctuaries; tonsure and turban, hand drums and innumerable jingling bells of debased silver. And beyond the hills on the low Wanda coast where no liners called, and the jungle stretched unbroken to the sea, other more ancient rites and another knowledge furtively encompassed; green, sunless paths; forbidden ways un-guarded save for a wisp of grass plaited between two stumps, ways of death and initiation, the forbidden places of juju and the masked dancers; the drums of the Wanda throbbing in sunless, forbidden places.

Fanfare and sennet; tattoo of kettle drums; tri-colour bunting strung from window to window across the Boulevard Amurath, from Levantine cafe to Hindu drug store; Seth in his Citroen drove to lay the foundation stone of the Imperial Institute of Hygiene; brass band of the Imperial army raised the dust of main street. Floreat Azania.

FIVE

ON the south side of the Palace Compound, between the kitchen and the stockade, lay a large irregular space where the oxen were slaughtered for the public banquets. A minor gallows stood there which was used for such trivial, domestic executions as now and then became necessary within the royal household. The place was now deserted except for the small cluster of puzzled blacks who were usually congregated round the headquar-ters of the One Year Plan and a single dog who gnawed her hindquarters in the patch of shadow cast by two corpses, which rotated slowly face to face, half circle East, a half circle West, ten foot high in the limpid morning sunlight.

The Ministry of Modernisation occupied what had formerly been the old Empress’ oratory; a circular building of concrete and corrugated iron, its outer wall enriched with posters from all parts of Europe and the United States advertising machinery, fashion and foreign travel. The display was rarely without attendance and to-day the customary loafers were reinforced by five or six gentlemen in the blue cotton cloaks which the official class of Debra-Dowa assumed in times of bereavement.

These were mourners for the two criminals-peculators and perjurers both—who had come to give a dutiful tug at their relatives’ heels in case life might not yet be extinct, and had stayed to gape, entranced by the manifestations of Progress and the New Age.

On the door was a board painted in Arabic, Sakuyu and French with the inscription:— MINISTRY OF MODERNISATION HIGH COMMISSIONER & COMPTROLLER GENERAL: MR. BASIL SEAL.

FINANCIAL SECRETARY: MR. KRIKOR YOUKOUMIAN.

A vague smell of incense and candle-grease still possessed the interior; in all other ways it had been completely transformed. Two partitions divided it into unequal portions. The largest was Basil’s of-fice, which contained nothing except some chairs, a table littered with maps and memoranda and a telephone. Next door Mr. Youkoumian had induced a more homely note; his work was economically con-fined to two or three penny exercise books filled with figures and indecipherable jottings, but his personality extended itself and pervaded the room, finding concrete expression in the seedy red plush sofa that he had scavenged from one of the state apartments, the scraps of clothing hitched negligently about the furniture, the Parisian photographs pinned to the walls, the vestiges of food on enamelled tin plates, the scent spray, cigarette ends, spittoon, and the lit-tle spirit-stove over which perpetually simmered a brass pan of coffee. It was his idiosyncrasy to prefer working in stockinged feet, so that when he was at his post a pair of patent leather, elastic-sided boots proclaimed his presence from the window ledge.

In the vestibule sat a row of native runners with whose services the modernising party were as yet unable to dispense.

At nine in the morning both Basil and Mr. Youkoumian were at their desks. Instituted a month previously by royal proclamation, the Ministry of Modernisation was already a going concern. Just how far it was going, indeed, was appreciated by very few outside its circular, placarded walls. Its function as defined in Seth’s decree was “to promote the adoption of modern organisation and habits of life throughout the Azanian Empire” which, liberally interpreted, comprised the right of interfer-ence in most of the public and private affairs of the nation. As Basil glanced through the correspondence that awaited him and the rough agenda for the day he felt ready to admit that any one but himself and Mr. Youkoumian would have bitten off more than he could chew. Reports from eight provincial vice-roys on a questionnaire concerning the economic resources and population of their territory—documents full of ponderous expressions of politeness and the minimum of trustworthy information; detailed recommendations from the railway authorities at Matodi; applications for concessions from European prospectors; inquiries from tourist bu-reaux about the possibilities of big game hunting, surf bathing and mountaineering; applications for public appointments; protests from missions and legations; estimates for building; details of court etiquette and precedence—everything seemed to find its way to Basil’s table. The other ministers of the crown had not yet begun to feel uneasy about their own positions. They regarded Basil’s arrival as a di-rect intervention of heaven on their behalf. Here was an Englishman who was willing to leave them their titles and emoluments and take all the work off their hands. Each was issued with the rubber stamp, REFER TO BUREAU OF MODERNISATION, and in a very few days the Minister of the Interior, the Lord Chamberlain, the Justiciar, the City Governor and even Seth himself, acquired the habit of relegating all decisions to Basil, with one firm stab of indelible ink. Two officials alone, the Nestorian patriarch and the Commander-in-Chief of the army, failed to avail themselves of the convenient new institution, but continued to muddle through the routine of their departments in the same capricious, dilatory, but independent manner as before the establishment of the new regime.

Basil had been up very late the night before working with the Emperor on a codification of the criminal law, but the volume of business before him left him undismayed.

“Youkoumian.”

” ‘Ullo. Mr. Seal?”

The financial secretary padded in from the next room.

“Connolly won’t have boots.’

“Won’t ave boots? But, Mr. Seal, he got to ave boots. I bought them from Cape Town. They come next ship. I bought them, you understand, as a personal enterprise, out of my own pocket. What in ell can I do with a thousand pair boots if Connolly won’t take them?”

“You ought to have waited.”

“Waited? and then when the order is out and every one knows Guards to ave boots, what’ll appen then? Some pig wanting to make money will go to the Emperor and say I get you boots damned cheaper than Youkoumian. Where am I then? They might as well go barefoot all same as they do now like the dirty niggers they are. No, Mr. Seal, that is not business. I fix it so that one morning the Army Order says Guards must have boots. Every one say but where are boots? No one got enough boots in I59 this stinking hole. Some one say I get you boots in three weeks, month, five weeks, so long. I come up and say got boots. How many pairs you want? Thousand? O.K. I fix it. That is business. What does the General say?”p>

Basil handed him the letter. It was emphatic and almost ungenerously terse, coming as it did in an-swer to a carefully drafted recommendation beginning: The Minister of Modernisation presents his compliments to the Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Army and in pursuance of the powers granted him by royal decree begs to advise…

It consisted of a single scrap of lined paper torn from a note-book across which Connolly had scrawled in pencil: The Minister of Damn All can go to blazes. My men couldn’t move a yard in boots. Try and sell Seth top hats next time. Ukaka C. in C.

“Well,” said Mr. Youkoumian doubtfully, “I could get top ats.”

“That is one of Connolly’s jokes, I’m afraid.’

“Jokes is it? And ere am I with a thousand pair black boots on my ands. Ha. Ha. Like ell it’s a joke. There isn’t a thousand people in the whole country that wears boots. Besides these aren’t the kind of boots people buys for themselves. Government stuff. Damn rotten. See what I mean?”

“Don’t you worry,” Basil said. “We’ll find a use for them. We might have them served out to the clergy.” He took back the General’s note, glanced through it frowning and clipped it into the file of correspondence; when he raised his head his eyes were clouded in an expression characteristic to him, insolent, sulky and curiously childish. “But as a mat-ter of fact,” he added, “I shouldn’t mind a show-down with Connolly. It’s nearly time for one.”

“They are saying that the General is in love with Madame Ballon.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I am convinced,” said Mr. Youkoumian. “It was told me on very igh authority by the barber who visits the French Legation. Every one in the town is speaking of it. Even Madame Youkoumian has heard. I tell you ow it is,” he added complacently. “Madame Ballon drinks. That is ow Connolly first ad er.”

Quarter of an hour later both Basil and Mr. Youkoumian were engaged in what seemed more important business.

A morning’s routine at the Ministry of Modernisation.

“Now, look, Mister, I tell you exactly how we are fixed. We have His Majesty’s interests to safeguard. See what I mean. You think there is tin in the Ngumo mountains in workable quantities. So do we. So do other companies. They want concession too.

Only to-day two gentlemen come to ask me to fix it for them. What do I do? I say, we can only give concession to company we have confidence in. Look. How about if on your board of directors you had a man of financial status in the country; some one who His Majesty trusts… see what I mean… some one with a fair little block of share allocated to him. He would protect His Majesty’s interests and interests of company too… see?”

“That’s all very well, Mr. Youkoumian, but it isn’t so easy to find any one like that. I can’t think of any one at the moment.”

“No, can’t you? Can’t you think?”

“Unless, of course, you yourself? But I can hardly suggest that. You are far too busy?”

“Mister, I have learned how to be busy and still have time for things that please me…”

Next door: Basil and the American commercial attache: “The situation is this, Walker. I’m—the Emperor is spending quarter of a million sterling on road construction this year. It can’t come out of the ordinary revenue. I’m floating a loan to raise the money. You’re acting over here for Cosmopolitan Oil Trust and for Stetson cars. Every mile of road we make is worth five hundred cars a year and God knows how many gallons of oil. If your com-I62 panies like to take up the loan I’m prepared to give them a ten years monopoly…”

Later, the editor of the Courier d’Azanie.

M. Bertrand did not look a man of any importance—nor, in fact, was he. The Courier consisted of a single sheet, folded quarto, which was issued weekly to rather less than a thousand subscribers in Debra-Dowa and Matodi. It retailed in French the chief local events of the week—the diplomatic entertainments, official appointments, court circular, the programmes of the cinemas, and such few items of foreign news as came through on the wireless. It occupied one day a week of M. Bertrand’s time, the remainder of which was employed in printing menus, invitation cards, funeral and wedding announcements, in acting as local correspondent for a European news-agency, and in selling stationery over the counter of his little office. It was in the hope of a fat order for crested note-paper that he presented himself in answer to Basil’s invitation at the offices of the new Ministry.

“Good-morning, Monsieur Bertrand. It’s good of you to come. We may as well get to business at once. I want to buy your paper.”

“Why, certainly, Monsieur Seal. I have a very nice cream laid line suitable for office use or a slightly more expensive quality azure tinted with a linen I63 surface. I suppose you would want the name of the Ministry embossed at the head?”

“I don’t think you understand me. I mean the Courier d’Azanie”

M. Bertrand’s face showed disappointment and some vexation. It was really unpardonably high-handed of this young man to demand a personal call from the proprietor and editor-in-chief whenever he bought a copy of his journal.

“I will tell my clerk. You wish to subscribe regularly?”

“No, no, you don’t understand. I wish to become the proprietor—to own the entire concern. What is your price?”

Slowly the idea took root, budded and blossomed; then M. Bertrand said: “Oh, no, that would be quite impossible. I don’t want to sell.”

“Come, come. It can’t be worth much to you and I am willing to pay a generous price.”

“It is not that, sir, it is a question of prestige, you understand,” he spoke very earnestly. “You see as the proprietor and editor of the Courier I am some one. Twice a year Madame Bertrand and I dine at the French Legation; once we go to the garden party, we go to the Court and the polo club. That is something. But if I become Bertrand, job-printer, who will regard me then? Madame Bertrand would not forgive it.”

“I see,” said Basil. To be some one in Debra-Dowa… it seemed a modest ambition; it would be a shame to deprive M. Bertrand. “I see. Well, suppose that you retained the position of editor and were nominally proprietor. That would fulfil my purpose. You see I am anxious to enlarge the scope of your paper. I wish it to publish leading articles explaining the political changes. Listen…” and for a quarter of an hour Basil outlined his intentions for the Courier’s development… three sheets, advertisements of European firms and government services to meet increased cost of production; enlarged circulation; features in Sakuyu and Arabic; intelligent support of government policy… At the end of the interview M. Bertrand left, slightly bewildered, carrying with him a fair-sized cheque and the notes for a leading article forecasting possible changes in the penal code… convict settlements to replace local prisons… What extraordinary subjects to mention in the Courier!

At eleven the Anglican Bishop came to protest against the introduction of State Lotteries.