Chapter 21: Sus Scrofa

For two exasperating weeks, now, the Schwindlewald pass had remained hermetically sealed with snow, utterly isolating the valley. It is true that a Swiss airplane had appeared overhead and had dropped several tons of bread which we did not require, and a message couched in hysterical language reminding us that God would protect us while several score of sweating Swiss dug us out.

Personally I didn’t care except for the highly objectionable colony of boches with whom I was obliged to share an imprisonment which otherwise would never have bored me.

But the royal circus was a dreadful visitation—kings, queen, lesser fry, and Bolsheviki became almost unendurable, even when, during the first week of our captivity, they flocked by themselves and conspired to their hearts’ content.

Had this condition endured, the situation might have been borne with a certain philosophy. But the inevitable, of course, happened: one week of exclusive gregariousness was enough for these people: they began to bore one another.

It showed first, characteristically, at table. Tino and spouse, always engaged in continual bickering to the vast discomfort of everybody, now had it out in star-chamber proceedings; and the King, badly battered but jaunty, appeared at table with one eye partly closed and a mouth so swollen that he could not comfortably manipulate a cigarette. He explained that he had bumped his head in the dark. But it was perfectly understood who had bumped it.

King Ferdinand became moody, and his cunning, furtive features often bore a white, scared expression. He developed, too, a morbid mania for a most depressing line of conversation—celebrated assassinations being his theme, —and he ransacked the history of all times in search of examples, Eddin Bey slyly assisting him.

Sluggish livers and piggish feeding probably accounted for the sullen lethargy of Von Dungheim and Bummelzug. Their ever latent and brutal tempers blazed at absurd trifles, involving usually the bad manners and lack of respect shown them by the Bolsheviki, who chattered back at them like enraged monkeys, terrifying the Princess Pudelstoff who had never forgotten her “dream.”

Admiral Lauterlaus, whose personal habits were always impossible, now spent most of his time bullying the wretched Secretary Gizzler or, with a telescope such as chamois-hunters carry, squatted on the veranda steps and swept the Bec de l’Empereur for “gamps,” and heaven knows what else.

Only the Countess Manntrapp and Eddin Bey appeared to retain their good humor. The Turk, a handsome fellow of distinguished manners and gay address, evidently possessed a lively eye for pulchritude. He lost no time at all in paying his sly court to my servants, beginning with Thusis, progressing to Clelia, and ending with Josephine Vannis in the kitchen: and he accepted defeat with such cheerful and humorous alacrity that they all forgave him, I think, and his perfectly frank suggestions that they return to Adrianople with him and honor him by becoming the nucleus for a zenana.

He found, however, a pretty bird of his own vivacious and volatile temperament in the exceedingly bored Countess Manntrapp. And they were often together and apparently having a jolly flirtation, being cleverly aware of each other’s character and entertaining no delusions.

Except for these two at table and on the veranda, and except for the companionship of Smith, and now and then an opportunity for a few cautious words with Thusis, those days would have been insupportable for me. A hungry hun is bad enough; an ill-tempered one is worse; but a bored boche!—imagine a penful of them with time heavy on their hoofs!

The old story—”What’s time to a hawg!”—has no significance among the Sus scrofa or the “Bosch Vark.” Bored, the embers of that dull, slumbering rage glow hotter; the sulky silence is broken by grumbling, then by quarrels; the blind, senseless instinct to brutalize and rend obsesses. Small wonder the boche desires a place in the sun where his herds can spread out from the constricted and common wallow!

Tino had again appeared at luncheon with the other eye done in thunderous tints of purple, taupe, and an exquisite mauve. Parallel scratches adorned his nose; some of his mustache was missing. But I must admit he took it jauntily enough, and his bland explanation—something about tripping over a rock in the woods—was accepted by all and believed by none.

The queen, still somewhat pasty and pinched from the effects of this ritual in camera, ate haughtily, disdainful of what anybody might really think, and calm in her conviction that the Hohenzollern is responsible to Gott alone for whatever a Hohenzollern may choose to do.

That she had done plenty to Tino was painfully visible: but he was in a jocose and waggish humor, and his barrack-room quips and jests were plainer than usual. In fact, they became so coarse that even the Admiral bristled his beard and eyebrows, sniffing lack of respect for himself in the loud-mouthed levity of the King.

And I was getting madder and madder, Thusis and Clelia being present to wait on table as usual, and I was on the point of making a sharp observation to King Tino, when a sudden burst of applause from the other end of the table checked me. The Countess Manntrapp was speaking. She continued:

“This enforced imprisonment is becoming exceedingly dull for everybody. Why not divert ourselves? Has anybody any suggestions to offer?”

“A mountain party,” rumbled Admiral Lauterlaus. “I, in my time, a famous hunter of ‘gamps’ have been.”

“We don’t wish to break our necks to divert ourselves,” sneered the queen.

“A fishing party!” exclaimed Von Dungheim. “If there is a good big net we can all help draw it and clean out every trout in the stream!”

“Droly,” expostulated Tino, “you have such wholesale ideas! Our host might possibly object, you know.”

At the very idea of anybody objecting to the destructive wishes of a Prussian officer, General Count von Dungheim glared at me.

“Why not give a baby-party?” inquired Smith, blandly.

“A—a baby-party!” repeated Baron Bummelzug vacantly, in English; “what perhaps iss it a baby-party?”

Thusis, serving me, bent over and whispered in my ear: “Not the sort of baby-parties they gave in Belgium; there are no babies.” And she moved serenely to serve the queen, her beautiful face placid and inscrutable.

The Princess Pudelstoff began to clap her pudgy hands excitedly:

“A baby-party! A baby-party! That’ll be fun! That’ll be great! And we’ll have a feed and a spiel——”

“Ach wass!” shouted the Admiral exasperated. “Tell us once what it iss a baby-party, und stop your noises yet!”

But the excited Princess had become uncontrollable, and she began to hammer on the table with her fat fists, shouting:

“A feed and a spiel! For God’s sake somebody start something in this hellofa hole!”

Amid her clamor and the ominous roaring of the infuriated Admiral, I tinkled my goblet with my fork and presently secured comparative silence for Smith.

In a few pleasant phrases he explained to them the simple intricacies of the American baby-party.

“I’ll come!” cried the Countess Manntrapp, delighted.

“I also!” echoed Eddin Bey.

Tino was visibly enchanted at the prospect, and he clapped King Ferdinand on his elephantine back exultingly:

“We’ll go as twins!” he cried. “This is most agreeable to me! Eh, Sophy? I’m half dead for a bit of a frolic! Everybody must come. Nobody is to be excused. Desperate cases require desperate remedies. Ennui is what is killing us; diversion is what we need!”

He was pounding the breath out of King Ferdinand who began to cough and dodge and blink wildly at everybody out of his little wild-pig’s eyes, when I stood up giving the signal.

“The party,” announced Smith, “is for to-night! There will be games, a dance, and a supper. All are politely invited!”