Even as a schoolboy, Bland-Potterton was fussy and self-important. At the
university--Balliol was his college--he was regarded as a coming man,
likely to make his mark in the world. This made him more fussy and more
self-important. When he became a recognised authority on Near Eastern
affairs he became pompous and more fussy than ever. His knighthood,
granted in 1918, and an inevitable increase in waist measurement
emphasised his pompousness without diminishing his fussiness. When
the craze for creating new departments of state was at its height,
Bland-Potterton, then Sir Bartholomew, was made Head of the Ministry for
Balkan Affairs. It was generally felt that the right man had been put
into the right place. Sir Bartholomew looked like a Minister, talked
like a Minister, and, what is more important, felt like a Minister.
Indeed he felt like a Cabinet Minister, though he had not yet obtained
that rank. Sir Bartholomew’s return from Bournmania was duly advertised
in the newspapers. Paragraphs appeared every day for a week hinting at
a diplomatic coup which would affect the balance of power in the Balkans
and materially shorten the war. Gorman, who knew Sir Bartholomew well,
found a good deal of entertainment in the newspaper paragraphs. He had
been a journalist himself for many years. He understood just whom
the paragraphs came from and how they got into print. He was a little
surprised, but greatly interested, when he received a note from Sir
Bartholomew.
“My dear Mr. Gorman,” he read, “can you make it convenient to lunch
with me one day next week? Shall we say in my room in the office of the
Ministry--the Feodora Hotel, Piccadilly--at 1.30 p.m. There is a matter
of some importance--of considerable national importance--about which we
are most anxious to obtain your advice and your help. Will you fix the
earliest possible day? The condition of the Near East demands--urgently
demands--our attention. I am, my dear Mr. Gorman, yours, etc....”
Gorman without hesitation fixed Monday, which is the earliest day in
any week except Sunday, and he did not suppose that the offices of the
Ministry of Balkan Affairs would be open on Sunday.
It is not true, though it is frequently said, that Sir Bartholomew
retained the services of the chef of the Feodora Hotel when he took
over the building for the use of his Ministry. It is well known that Sir
Bartholomew--in his zeal for the public service--often lunched in his
office and sometimes invited men whom he wanted to see on business, to
lunch with him. They reported that the meals they ate were uncommonly
good, as the meals of a Minister of State certainly ought to be. It was
no doubt in this way that the slanderous story about the chef arose and
gained currency. Gorman did not believe it, because he knew that the
Feodora chef had gone to Beaufort’s Hotel when the other was taken over
by the Government. But Gorman fully expected a good luncheon, nicely
served in one of the five rooms set apart for Sir Bartholomew’s use in
the hotel.
He was not disappointed. The sole was all that anyone could ask. The
salmi which followed it was good, and even the Feodora chef could not
have sent up a better rum omelette.
Sir Bartholomew was wearing a canary-coloured waistcoat with
mother-of-pearl buttons.
It seemed to Gorman that the expanse of yellow broadened as luncheon
went on. Perhaps it actually did. Perhaps an atmosphere of illusion
was created by the port which followed an excellent bottle of sauterne.
Yellow is a cheerful colour, and Sir Bartholomew’s waistcoat increased
the vague feeling of hopeful well-being which the luncheon produced.
“Affairs in the Near East,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are at present in a
critical position.”
“Always are, aren’t they?” said Gorman. “Some affairs are like that,
Irish affairs for instance.”
Sir Bartholomew frowned slightly. He hated levity. Then the good wine
triumphing over the dignity of the bureaucrat, he smiled again.
“You Irishmen!” he said. “No subject is serious for you. That is your
great charm. But I assure you, Mr. Gorman, that we are at this moment
passing through a crisis.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help you--” said Gorman. “A crisis is
nothing to me. I have lived all my life in the middle of one. That’s the
worst of Ireland. Crisis is her normal condition.”
“I think----” Sir Bartholomew lowered his voice although there was no
one in the room to overhear him. “I think, Mr. Gorman, that you are
acquainted with the present King of Megalia.”
“If you mean Konrad Karl,” said Gorman, “I should call him the late
king. They had a revolution there, you know, and hunted him out, I
believe Megalia is a republic _now_.”
“None of the Great Powers,” said Sir Bartholomew, “has ever recognised
the Republic of Megalia.”
He spoke as if what he said disposed of the Megalians finally. The front
of his yellow waistcoat expanded when he mentioned the Great Powers.
This was only proper. A man who speaks with authority about Great Powers
ought to swell a little.
“The Megalian people,” he went on, “have hitherto preserved a strict
neutrality.”
“So the king gave me to understand,” said Gorman, “He says his late
subjects go about and plunder their neighbours impartially. They don’t
mind a bit which side anybody is on so long as there is a decent chance
of loot.”
“The Megalians,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are a fighting race, and in the
critical position of Balkan Affairs--a delicate equipoise--” He seemed
taken with the phrase for he repeated it--“A remarkably delicate
equipoise--the intervention of the Megalian Army would turn the scale
and--I feel certain--decide the issue. All that is required to secure
the action of the Megalians is the presence in the country of a leader,
someone whom the people know and recognise, someone who can appeal to
the traditional loyalty of a chivalrous race, in short----”
“You can’t be thinking of the late king?” said Gorman. “They’re not
the least loyal to him. They deposed him, you know. In fact by his
account--I wasn’t there myself at the time--but he told me that they
tried to hang him. He says that if they ever catch him they certainly
will hang him. He doesn’t seem to have hit it off with them.”
Sir Bartholomew waved these considerations aside.
“An emotional and excitable people,” he said, “but, believe me, Mr.
Gorman, warm-hearted, and capable of devotion to a trusted leader. They
will rally round the king, if----”
“I’m not at all sure,” said Gorman, “that the king will care about going
there to be rallied round. It’s a risk, whatever you say.”
“I appreciate that point,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Indeed it is just
because I appreciate it so fully that I am asking for your advice and
help, Mr. Gorman. You know the king. You are, I may say, his friend.”
“Pretty nearly the only friend he has,” said Gorman.
“Exactly. Now I, unfortunately--I fear that the king rather dislikes
me.”
“You weren’t at all civil to him when he offered you the Order of the
Pink Vulture; but I don’t think he has any grudge against you on that
account. He’s not the sort of man who bears malice. The real question
is--what is the king to get out of it? What are you offering him?”
“The Allies,” said Sir Bartholomew, “would recognise him as the King of
Megalia, and--er--of course, support him.”
“I don’t think he’d thank you for that,” said Gorman, “but you can try
him if you like.”
Sir Bartholomew, on reflection, was inclined to agree with Gorman. Mere
recognition, though agreeable to any king, is unsubstantial, and the
support suggested was evidently doubtful.
“What else?” He spoke in a very confidential tone. “What other
inducement would you suggest our offering? We are prepared to go a long
way--to do a good deal----”
“Unfortunately for you,” said Gorman, “the king is pretty well off at
present. He got £6,000 three weeks ago out of Bilkins--the man who ran
the egg swindle--and until that’s spent he won’t feel the need of money.
If you could wait six weeks--I’m sure he’ll be on the rocks again in six
weeks--and then offer a few thousand----”
“But we can’t wait,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Affairs in the Near East are
most critical. Unless the Megalian Army acts at once----”
“In that case,” said Gorman, “the only thing for you to do is to try
Madame Ypsilante.”
“That woman!” said Sir Bartholomew. “I really cannot---- You must see,
Mr. Gorman, that for a man in my position----”
“Is there a Lady Bland-Potterton?” said Gorman. “I didn’t know.”
“I’m not married,” said Sir Bartholomew. “When I speak of my position--I
mean my position as a member of the Government----”
“Madame has immense influence with the king,” said Gorman.
“Yes. Yes. But the woman--the--er--lady has no recognised status.
She----”
“Just at present,” said Gorman, “she is tremendously keen on emeralds.
She has got a new evening dress from Emile and there’s nothing she wants
more than an emerald pendant to wear with it. I’m sure she’d do her best
to persuade the king to go back to Megalia if----”
“But I don’t think--” said Sir Bartholomew. “Really, Mr. Gorman----”
“I’m not suggesting that you should pay for it yourself,” said Gorman.
“Charge it up against the Civil List or the Secret Service Fund, or work
it in under ‘Advances to our Allies.’ There must be some way of doing
it, and I really think it’s your best chance.”
Sir Bartholomew talked for nearly an hour. He explained several
times that it was totally impossible for him to negotiate with Madame
Ypsilante. The idea of bribing her with an emerald pendant shocked him
profoundly. But he was bent on getting King Konrad Karl to go back to
Megalia. That seemed to him a matter of supreme importance for
England, for Europe and the world. In the end, after a great deal of
consultation, a plan suggested itself. Madame should have her emeralds
sent to her anonymously. Gorman undertook to explain to her that she was
expected, by way of payment for the emeralds, to persuade the king to
go back to Megalia and once more occupy the throne. Sir Bartholomew
Bland-Potterton would appear at the last moment as the accredited
representative of the Allied Governments, and formally lay before the
king the proposal for the immediate mobilisation of the Megallian Army.
“I shall have a lot of work and worry,” said Gorman, “and I’m not asking
anything for myself; but if the thing comes off----”
“You can command the gratitude of the Cabinet,” said Sir Bartholomew,
“and anything they can do for you--an O.B.E., now, or even a
knighthood------”
“No thank you,” said Gorman, “but if you could see your way to starting
a few munition works in Upper Offaly, my constituency, you know. The
people are getting discontented, and I’m not at all sure that they’ll
return me at the next election unless something is done for them now.”
“You shall have an aeroplane factory,” said Sir Bartholomew, “two in
fact. I think I may safely promise two--and shells--would your people
care for making shells?”
The plan worked out exceedingly well. The pendant which Madame Ypsilante
received was very handsome. It contained fourteen stones of unusual
size set in circles of small diamonds. She was delighted, and thoroughly
understood what was expected of her. A Government engineer went down to
Upper Offaly, and secured, at enormous expense, sites for three large
factories. The men who leased the land were greatly pleased, everyone
else looked forward to a period of employment at very high wages, and
Gorman became very popular even among the extreme Sinn Feiners. Sir
Bartholomew Bland-Potterton went about London, purring with satisfaction
like a large cat, and promising sensational events in the Near East
which would rapidly bring the war to an end. Only King Konrad Karl was a
little sad.
“Gorman, my friend,” he said, “I go back to that thrice damned country
and I die. They will hang me by the neck until I am dead as a door mat.”
“They may not,” said Gorman. “You can’t be certain.”
“You do not know Megalia,” said the king. “It is sure, Gorman, what you
would call a dead shirt. But Corinne, my beloved Corinne, says ‘Go. Be
a king once more.’ And I--I am a blackguard, Gorman. I know it. I am
not respectable. I know it. But I am a lover. I am capable of a great
passion. I wave my hand. I smile. I kiss Corinne. I face the tune of
the band. I say ‘Behold, damn it, and Great Scott!--at the bidding of
Corinne, I die.’”
“If I were you,” said Gorman, “I’d conscript every able-bodied man in
the country directly I got there and put the entire lot into a front
line trench. There won’t be anyone left to assassinate you then.”
“Alas! There are the Generals and the Staff. It is not possible, Gorman,
even in Megalia, to put the Staff into a trench, and that is enough. One
General only and his Staff. They come to the palace. They say ‘In the
name of the Republic, so that the world may be safe for democracy--’ and
then--! There is a rope. There is a flag staff. I float in the air. They
cheer. I am dead. I know it. But it is for Corinne. Good.”
It was in this mood of chivalrous high romance that the king received
Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton. Gorman was present during the
interview. He had made a special effort, postponing an important
engagement, in order to hear what was said. He expected to be interested
and amused. He was not disappointed.
Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton was at his very best. He made a
long speech about the sacred cause of European civilisation, and the
supremely important part which the King of Megalia was called upon to
play in securing victory and lasting peace. He also talked about the
rights of small nationalities. King Konrad Karl rose to the same level
of lofty sentiment in his reply. He went further than Sir Bartholomew
for he talked about democracy in terms which were affectionate, a rather
surprising thing for a monarch whose power, when he had it, was supposed
to be absolute.
“I go,” he said. “If necessary I offer up myself as a fatted calf, a
sacrifice, a burnt ewe lamb upon the altar of liberty. I say to the
people--to my people ‘Damn it, cut off my head.’ It’s what they will
do.”
“Dear me,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Dear me. I trust not. I hope not. You
will have the support, the moral support, of all the Allies. I should be
sorry to think--we should all be sorry----”
The king, who was standing in the middle of the hearthrug, struck a fine
attitude, laying his hand on his breast.
“It will be as I say,” he said. “Gorman knows. Corinne, though she says
‘No, no, never,’ she knows. The people of Megalia, what are they? I will
tell you. Butchers and pigs. Pork butchers. To them it is sport to kill
a king. But you say ‘Go,’ and Gorman says ‘Go.’ And the cause of Europe
says ‘Go.’ And Corinne she also. Good. The Prime Minister of Megalia
trots out his hatchet. I say ‘By Jove, here is my neck.”
Sir Bartholomew Bland-Pottertan was greatly affected. He even promised
that a British submarine would patrol the Megalian coast with a view
to securing the king’s safety. He might perhaps have gone on to offer a
squadron of aeroplanes by way of body-guard, but while he was speaking,
Madame burst into the room.
She was evidently highly excited. Her face, beneath its coating of
powder, was flushed. Her eyes were unusually bright. Her hair--a most
unusual thing with her--appeared to be coming down. She rushed straight
to the king and flung her arms round his neck.
“Konrad,” she said, “my Konrad. You shall not go to Megalia. Never,
never will I say ‘Be a King.’ Never shall you live with those so
barbarous people. I said ‘Go.’ I admit it. I was wrong, my Konrad.
Behold!”
She released the king from her embrace, fumbled in her handbag and drew
out a small leather case. She opened it, took out a magnificent looking
pendant. She flung it on the ground and trampled on it. Gorman stepped
forward to rescue the emeralds.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Hang it all! Don’t. Give the thing back
if you like, but don’t destroy it. Those stones must be immensely
valuable.”
“Valuable!” Madame’s voice rose to a shriek. “What is valuable compared
to the safety of my Konrad? Valuable? They are worth ten pounds. Ten
pounds, Gorman! I took them to Goldstein to-day. He knows jewels, that
Goldstein. He is expert and he said ‘They are shams. They are worth--at
most ten pounds.’”
Gorman stared for a moment at the stones which lay on the floor in their
crushed setting. Then he turned to Sir Bartholomew.
“You don’t mean to say,” he said, “that you were such a d----d ass as to
send Madame sham stones?”
Sir Bartholomew’s face was a sufficient answer to the question. Gorman
took him by the arm and led him out of the room without a word.
“You’d better go home,” he said. “Madame Ypsilante is violent when
roused, and it is not safe for you to stay. But how could you have been
such an idiot----!”
“I never thought of her having the stones valued,” said Sir Bartholomew.
“Of course she had them valued,” said Gorman. “Anyone else in the world
would have known that she’d be sure to have them valued. Of all the
besotted imbeciles--and they call you a statesman!”
Sir Bartholomew, having got safely into the street, began to recover a
little, and attempted a defence of himself.
“But,” he said, “a pendant like that--emeralds of that size are
enormously expensive. The Government would not have sanctioned it.
After all, Mr. Gorman, we are bound to be particularly careful about
the expenditure of public funds. It is one of the proudest traditions
of British statesmanship that it is scrupulously honourable even to
the point of being niggardly in sanctioning the expenditure of the
tax-payer’s money.”
“Good Lord!” said Gorman. “I didn’t think--I really did not think that I
could be surprised by anything in politics--But when you talk to me--You
oughtn’t to do it, Potterton. You really ought not. Public funds.
Tax-payers’ money. Scrupulously honourable, and--niggardly. Good Lord!”