Flashman Papers Omnibus

by Fraser George MacDonald

  I didn’t know it, but that brief speech had an enormous political implication, the Danish-Strackenzians being in a great sweat about the German threat to their liberty, and the German-Strackenzians bursting to get away from Danish sovereignty. Anyway, the yell of applause that greeted it was startling, the little burgomaster went red with emotion, and taking the sword he pressed it back on me, tears in his eyes, and calling me the champion of Strackenzian freedom. I don’t know which side he was on, but it didn’t seem to matter; I believe if I’d shouted “Chairs to mend!” they’d have cheered just as loud.

  I was then invited to enter the city, and it seemed a good notion to me to ride in on horseback rather than go in the coach. There was delight and confusion at this; orders were shouted, officers scampered to and fro, and then a cavalryman led forward a lovely black gelding, speed written in every line of him, and I mounted amid scenes of enthusiasm. I must have looked pretty fine, if I say it myself; they had dressed me that morning all in pale blue, with the blue sash of the Order of the Elephant over my shoulder (I’ve worn it in the last few years, by the way, at London functions, to the surprise and scandal of the Danish Embassy, who wondered where the deuce I’d got it. I referred them to former Chancellor Bismarck). The uniform set off my excellent stature famously, and since my disgusting bald head was covered by a plumed helmet, à la Tin-bellies, I’ve no doubt I looked sufficiently dashing.31

  The band played, the cheering re-echoed, and I rode through the gateway into the city of Strackenz. Flowers were showered from the balconies, girls blew kisses, the troops lining the street struggled to hold back the press, and I waved and inclined my princely head, left and right, and smiled on my loyal subjects-to-be.

  “Well, he can ride,” someone called out, and a wit in the crowd shouted back “Aye, Duchess Irma will find out all about that,” at which there was some commotion. I was aware that for all the adulation and hurrahing, there were those in the crowd who stood silent, and even some who looked positively hostile. These would be the Germans, no doubt, who didn’t want to see the state bound any closer to Denmark. However, they were a small minority, in the city at all events, and for the most part it was flowers and laughter all the way, with Prince Charming flashing his smile to the prettiest girls and feeling no end of a fellow.

  Probably because I was enjoying myself so much, it was no time at all to the town hall. I should say that Strackenz isn’t much of a city, being no greater than one of our market towns, although it has a cathedral and a ducal palace of some pretension. For that matter the whole duchy isn’t more than a dozen miles across by about thirty in length, having been whittled down over the centuries from a fair-sized province. But it was a perfect hotbed of nationalist emotions, German and Danish, and fiercely proud of its traditions, including its ducal house. The Danish faction were overjoyed at the impending marriage, hence their tumultuous welcome of me.

  At the town hall there were more dignitaries, and bowing and scraping, and I was presented with an ornamental casket bearing the city’s arms, and invited to sign an order for a jail clearance—it being the custom here, as elsewhere, to celebrate joyous occasions by letting all the hooligans and harlots out of the local clink. How this is supposed to add to the general jollity I’ve never understood—furthermore, although I’ve been in half the lock-ups between Libby Prison32 and Botany Bay myself, no one has ever held a clearance that benefited me. I’m against ’em, on principle, but I saw nothing for it here but to sign, until the moment I actually took the pen in my hand and realised, with a fearful qualm, that one thing my instructors hadn’t taught me was how to forge Carl Gustaf’s signature. I didn’t even know what his writing looked like. Probably I could have signed my own fist and no one would ever have spotted a difference, but at the time I didn’t dare to risk it.

  For what seemed a year I hesitated, at the great burgomaster’s table, with the long roll of parchment stretched out in front of me, and my pen poised, while the crowd goggled expectantly and the little burgomaster stood waiting to pounce on my signature with the sand-caster. And then my mother-wit came back to me, and I laid down the pen and said, very quietly and seriously, that before signing such a delivery—which I reminded them was a grave matter indeed—I would wish to hear a report from the justices assuring me that no malefactor who might prove a danger to the commonweal would be enlarged by the amnesty. It could wait, I said firmly, for a day or two, and added that I would find other and better ways of marking this happy occasion of my arrival.

  That pious old hypocrite, Arnold, my headmaster, would have loved every word of it, but there was a general air of disappointment round the table, although one or two of the toadies muttered about a prudent prince and wagged their heads approvingly. The little burgomaster looked ready to cry, but agreed that my wishes would be met to the letter.

  They all cheered up, though, at the next act of the comedy, when a small child was led in to present me with a peach that they had been preparing for me in the hothouse of the local orphanage. I say led in, because the child was so lame he had to go on little crutches, and there were sighings and affected cooings from the females present. I’m no hand with children at all, and have found them usually to be detestable, noisy, greedy little brats, but it seemed best to be monstrously pleasant to this one. So instead of just accepting the gift I racked my brains quickly for a touching gesture, and was inspired to pick him up—he was no size at all—and sit him on the table, and talk to him, and insisted that we eat the peach between us, then and there. He laughed and cried together, and when I patted his head according to form, he fastened on to my hand, and kissed it. The females were all snivelling foully by this time, and the men were looking pitying and noble. I felt ashamed, and still do. It is the only time in my life I have felt ashamed, which is why I put it on record here, and I still don’t know why.

  Anyway, I left the town hall in a thoroughly ill temper, and when they told me that next on the programme was a visit to the local academy, I as near as not told them I’d had enough of their damned infants for one day. But I didn’t, of course, and presently I was being conducted through the school by the professor, who made an oration in my honour in Greek and then put up his best boys to construe for my entertainment. The things these honest asses imagine will delight royalty!

  Of course the selected pupils were the usual mealy wretches who are put up in all schools everywhere on such occasions. Pious, manly little villains of the type I used to oppress myself in happier days—Tom Brown could have made a football side out of ’em, I don’t doubt, and had them crying “Play up!” and telling the truth fit to sicken you. So I decided on a bit of mischief, and looked to the back of the school for the local Flashman—aye, there he was, a big, surly lout biting his nails and sneering to himself.

  “There’s a likely lad, professor,” says I. “Let’s hear him construe.”

  So, willy-nilly, they had to put the brute up, and he was paper-colour at the shock of it. Of course he floundered and grunted and glared round for inspiration, and the goody-goodies giggled and nudged each other, and the professor’s frown grew blacker every minute.

  “Stand down, sir,” says he grimly, and to me: “He shall be corrected, highness, I assure you.”

  “That’s your sort, professor,” says I. “Lay on with a will.” And I left in excellent humour. There would be a raw backside in that school by night, or I was mistaken—mind you, I’d sooner it had happened to the clever little sneaks, but no doubt my counterpart would pass his smarts on to them in turn.

  The crowds still filled the streets for my final progress to the palace, which was a fine imposing pile on the outskirts of town, with pillars and balconies, and the running lion flag of Strackenz floating from its roof with the Danish colours alongside. The people were jammed up to the railings, and the sweep of the drive beyond was lined with the yellow-jacketed infantry of the Duchess’s guard, all in glittering back-and-breasts, with drawn swords. Trumpeters blew a fanfare, the cr
owd surged and shouted, and I cantered up the gravel to the broad palace steps. There I turned and waved, for the last time, and wondered why people will make such a fuss over royalty. It’s the same with us; we have our tubby little Teddy, whom everyone pretends is the first gentleman of Europe, with all the virtues, when they know quite well he’s just a vicious old rake—rather like me, but lacking my talent for being agreeable to order. Anyway, I was aboard Lily Langtry long before he was.

  That by the way; all such lofty philosophical thoughts were driven from my mind when I entered the palace, for there I met the Duchess I was to marry next day in the old Cathedral of Strackenz, and it is a tribute to her that while I have only the haziest memories of the brilliant throng that crowded the marble staircase and great ballroom, my first glimpse of her remains fresh in my mind to this day. I can still see her, standing slim and straight on the dais at the far end of the room, with the ducal throne framed in crimson behind her, watching me as I approached, with the spectators suddenly hushed, and only the sound of my marching feet echoing through the silence.

  This was one of the moments when it struck me: this is all a fraud, it isn’t real. Here was I, not Prince Carl Gustaf of the ancient royal house of Oldenbourg, but rascally old Flashy of the vulgar and lately-arrived house of Flashman, striding ahead to claim my noble bride. God, I remember thinking, the things people get me into, and that thought probably prevented me from wearing the devil-may-care leer that I normally assume in the presence of beautiful women.

  She was beautiful, too—far more so than her portrait had made her out. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, but already she had the hard, cold loveliness that you find only among Northern women, with their fine, long features looking as though they had been carved from marble. Her figure, in an ivory dress with a train that spread out behind her, was perhaps a trifle on the slim side, with a hint of boyishness about it, but everything was there and in good parade order. She was crowned with a little silver diadem sparking with stones, and her shining fair hair was pulled back and rolled into some kind of jewelled net behind her head. The effect of it all—so pale and pure and perfect—was rather awe-inspiring; I felt almost afraid of her.

  The way she looked at me didn’t help matters—the grey eyes were cold and proud, and I thought: this is a spoiled, arrogant madame if ever I saw one. Whatever her feelings might be about a duty marriage, she didn’t seem to care for me at first glance; I knew she was looking at my glistening bald head, and I thought angrily what a damned shame it was I hadn’t my natural adornments of curly mane and whiskers. The hand she held out for me to kiss was as pale and chilly as mist in a cemetery, and just about as welcoming. I took it, murmuring about pleasure and honour and deeply heartfelt felicitous gratification, and felt it quiver ever so slightly before it was withdrawn.

  So there we stood together on the dais, with me wondering what to say next, and then someone in the watching multitude began to clap, and in a moment they were crowding forward to get a closer look, I suppose, at the pair of us, and everyone was pleased and happy and clapping away like mad. I found myself grinning and nodding at them, but her grace stood there quite serene, with never a smile, as though this was her due, and rather a bore.

  Well, thinks I, this is going to be a chilly wooing, and then an old cove in a frock coat with orders on his breast came bowing up beside us, and turned to the throng with his hand raised for silence. This turned out to be the Chief Minister, one Schwerin; he made a neat little speech in which he managed to wrap up a nice complimentary welcome for me, a note of homage for the duchess (who couldn’t get too much of it, as I discovered), a patriotic boost for Strackenz, coupled with the state of Denmark, and a hint to the mob to keep their distance and stay out of the buffet next door until her grace and I saw fit to lead the way.

  That was about the size of it, and the good folk—who were a very well-trained court—chattered respectfully among themselves while Schwerin brought forward the more distinguished to be presented to me. These included the various emissaries to Strackenz, the British one among them, and I found myself thanking God that I’d never moved in diplomatic circles at home, or he might have remembered me. As it was, he and the others made their bows, and when they had withdrawn the Duchess indicated to me that we should sit down. We did so, both rather stiff, and while the noble assembly pretended not to notice, we began to get acquainted. It was formality carried to nonsense, of course, and if I didn’t have a clear memory of our opening exchanges I wouldn’t believe them.

  Duchess Irma: I trust your highness’s journey has not been tedious.

  Flashy: Indeed, no, although I confess I have counted every moment in my impatience to be here.

  Duchess: Your highness is very gracious. We of Strackenz can only hope that you are not too disappointed in us—we are very small and provincial here.

  Flashy (very gallant): No one could be disappointed who was welcomed by so beautiful and noble a hostess.

  Duchess: Oh. (Pause). Was the weather cold on your journey?

  Flashy: At times. Occasionally it was quite warm. Nowhere so warm, however, as I find it here. (This with a flashing smile.)

  Duchess: You are too hot? I shall order the windows opened.

  Flashy: Christ, no. That is … I mean, the warmth of your welcome … and the people in the streets, cheering …

  Duchess: Ah, the people. They are rather noisy.

  Well, I don’t give up easy, but I confess I was fairly stumped here. Usually, with young women, I get along all too well. Formal chit-chat isn’t my style—a little gallantry, a few jocularities to see if she will or she won’t, a pinch on the buttocks, and off we go. Either that, or off I go. But I couldn’t make anything of the Duchess Irma; she kept her head tilted high and looked past me, so composed and regal that I began to wonder, was she perhaps terrified out of her wits? But before I could take soundings on that, she rose, and I found myself escorting her into the antechamber, where great tables were laid out with silver plate and crystal, and a most scrumptious spread was served by flunkies while a little orchestra struck up in the gallery overhead. I was sharp-set, and while one of the Duchess’s ladies looked after her, I laid into the ham and cold fowls, and chatted affably to the nobs and their ladies, who were making the most of the grub themselves, as the Germans always do.

  This kind of function normally bores me out of mind, and beyond the fact that the food was unusually excellent, and that the Duchess seemed intent on not being left alone with me for more than a moment at a time, I haven’t any sharp recollection of it. I remember turning once, in that gay company with its buzz of well-bred conversation, and catching her eyes fixed on me; she looked quickly away, and I thought, my God, I’m marrying that woman tomorrow. My heart took a skip at the thought; she was unutterably lovely. And then it took a lurch as I remembered the appalling risk that I ran every moment I was in Strackenz, and wondered what the penalty might be for marrying the heir to the throne under false pretences. Death, certainly. I tried to smile politely at the eager, sycophantic faces around me, and to listen to their incredible inanities of small-talk, while my mind raced away looking for a way out, even although I knew it didn’t exist.

  I probably drank a little more than I should have done—although I was pretty careful—but at any rate the desperate feeling passed. The good will of the Strackenzians towards me was so evident, and so fulsomely expressed, that I suppose it overcame me and banished my fears. I found I could even talk to the Duchess without embarrassment, although it was obvious to me, if not to anyone else, that she didn’t like me; she remained haughty and distant—but then, she seemed to be the same to everyone, and they swallowed it and sucked up to her.

  Afterwards old Schwerin and a couple of his ministerial colleagues—I forget their names—took me aside and discussed the next day’s ceremony. They were fairly vague, as I remember, and gassed a good deal about the political advantage of the match, and the popular satisfaction, and how it would have a
good and stabilising effect.

  “Her grace is very young, of course,” says old Schwerin. “Very young.” He gave me rather a sad smile. “Your highness is not so very much older, but your education, at a great court, and your upbringing have perhaps prepared you better for what lies before you both.” (You little know, old son, thinks I.) “It is a great responsibility for you, but you will bear it honourably.”

  I murmured noble nothings, and he went on:

  “It is much to ask of two young folk—I often feel that such marriages of state would be the better of—ah—longer preparation. Perhaps I am a sentimentalist,” says he, with a senile smirk, “but it has always seemed to me that a courtship would not be out of place, even between royal personages. Love, after all, does not come in a day.”

  It depends what you mean by love, thinks I, and one of the others says to Schwerin:

  “You have a great heart, Adolf.”

  “I hope I have. I hope so. And your highness, I know, has a great heart also. It will know how to understand our—our little Irma. She is very much like a daughter to us, you see”—he was going pink about the eyes by this time—“and although she seems so serene and proud beyond her years, she is still very much a child.”

  Well, I could agree with him that she was an unusually arrogant little bitch for her age, but I kept a princely silence. He looked almost pleading.

  “Your highness,” he said at last, “will be kind to our treasure.”

  Strange, my own father-in-law had struck something of the same note before I married Elspeth; it’s a polite way of suggesting that you don’t make too much of a beast of yourself on the honeymoon. I assumed a look of manly understanding.

  “Sirs,” says I. “What can I say, except that I trust I shall always bear myself to your duchess as I would to the daughter of my oldest and dearest friend.”