The captain of this semi-derelict was a Levantine. He was covered with gold stripes and bars, but his stockingless feet were encased in
espadrilles
and a blue swastika was tattooed on his left hand. Why should this orthodox Christian wear the Hindoo cross on his salt-stained skin? I did not dare to ask him the explanation of this anomaly because he obviously objected to the accidental passengers which his directors imposed on him from time to time. The friendly old Turk, with the black
gandourah
, who had sympathized with me in my sentimental misfortune and who had taken me under his protecting wing, gave me the key to this hostility:
“The captain resents having anyone on board—except the crew—because he don’t get drunk as often as he likes. He is afraid some passenger might register a complaint with Mr. Agraganyadès.”
My traveling companion seemed to know all about oriental prejudices and peculiarities. For example, I pointed out two sailors standing at the entrance to the baggage chute and remarked smilingly:
“Those gentlemen look like a pair of escaped murderers!”
The Turk gesticulated despondently, flicked off a bit of dust which had fallen on his robe, and answered, “Don’t worry, sir! They are far from being assassins but they are undoubtedly thieves.”
This important distinction appealed to me. I inquired of the clever Ottoman if he had done much traveling on the Black Sea.
“Oh, yes. On this boat and several others. I often go to Trébizonde where I have a business.”
The two sailors passed us and exchanged a few incomprehensible words. A motion-picture director would have engaged them without preamble and used them, without any make-up at all, in a pirate scene. I could not resist returning to the subject:
“Haven’t those young fellows ever tried to throw you overboard?”
“And why should they? You certainly express the idea of the western tourist who has been reading adventure stories! The Black Sea is as peaceful as Lake Geneva. In all the time that I have been traveling on various freighters, I have never had a disagreeable experience. I have only been robbed of two watches and a pocketbook which, luckily for me, only contained a hundred and fifty Turkish pounds. Last winter, the crew of the steamer
Moughla
locked us in our cabins for a few hours while they pilfered the hold. Aside from that, the crossings have been extraordinarily monotonous.”
While the
Djoulfa
plowed slowly through the choppy waves of Pont-Euxin, I investigated the identity of my neighbors. On my right, I perceived a collarless Armenian in a green overcoat, who was spreading out the contents of his trunk on his berth. He was verifying the alignments of his trinkets and imitation jewels which were lying on pink silk beds. The old Turk informed me afterward that this commissionaire with the Cyranesque profile supplied the Circassian women, who were haunted by dreams of French elegance, with articles from Paris and guaranteed that his German-bought offerings came direct from the Rue de la Paix. On my left, the narrow cabin was tenanted by a veiled woman, an adipose Mussulman, with a straw-colored
tcharchaf
.
The first repast was served at one o’clock in a dingy little dining-room, lighted by four port-holes, stained with verdigris. There were no frescoes on the walls but merely some colored lithographs which vaunted the excellent quality of Manoli, Muratti, and Abdulla cigarettes. The captain did not eat with us; only the second officer honored us with his presence. He was a swarthy Macedonian with a scarred face and a bristling mustache. He spoke English fairly well and, in an effort to imitate the British sea-wolves, God-damned lustily with each gulp of Samos wine. My friend, the Turk, talked to me about the decline in the value of cedar and the money he was making out of maple and lemon-wood. The veiled Mussulman woman had ordered a dish of soup served in her cabin. The Armenian took me aside, while we were having coffee, and endeavored to sell me a handsome Swiss watch, which sounded the hours, indicated the quarters of the moon, and announced the eclipses. I asked him if he had stolen this
objet d’art
.
He was quite frank about it. “I did not steal it, sir. I exchanged it for an old coat.”
“How was that?”
“In a public bath. On my way out, I got the wrong clothes.”
“And you didn’t return the watch to the owner?”
“Are you joking, sir? A ruffian who deliberately ran off with my property!”
The day was long. At half past four a trifling incident occurred which helped to relieve the boredom of the crossing. The tattooed captain kicked the second mate violently in the back because he found him sleeping across the door of his cabin. A terrible altercation ensued which even drowned out the roar of the engines.
The old Turk looked on indifferently. He explained the
conversation: “The mate is furious because the captain told him he was born in a pig-sty.”
I thought the discussion would degenerate into a drama when I saw the captain emerge from his cabin, armed with an enormous pistol which must have had the caliber of a seventy-five. The quarrel became hotter than ever.
“He is going to kill him!” I said to the wood merchant.
“Oh, no! The gun isn’t loaded. The captain wants to frighten him. And the other one insists that he withdraw his remark about the pig-sty.”
That evening we sighted Sinope, an unimportant place with a wooden dock which bathed itself in the black ink of the quiet sea. The next day, at two o’clock, we entered the port of Trébizonde where we were sandwiched in between three or four freighters, a dozen or two sailing vessels, and a quantity of small boats.
The picturesqueness of this harbor would have held no interest for me had I not noticed a superb steam-yacht which seemed like a starry butterfly as it rocked gently on its shiny white hull. As the
Djoulfa
was not to leave until eight in the evening, I had the entire afternoon to wander about the town.
I went ashore with the wood merchant, wished him good luck and returned to the landing where the rowboats were tied. I had perceived the yacht’s launch, piloted by a white-uniformed sailor, steering for the shore. I made out two people on board—a man in marine blue and a woman in a bright dress. I was curious to get a better view of the Americans who had chosen the arid slopes of Anatolia as a stopping place.
The gentleman in blue gave the sailor an order, jumped on to the dock and extended his hand to the lady in pink. A gust of wind blew off his yachting cap which rolled toward me. I rescued it.
As men dressed in London fashion were not usual in Trébizonde, the yachtsman looked at me and said cordially, “Rotten little west wind, isn’t it?”
“Weren’t you pretty well shaken up on the way ashore?”
“No. We are good sailors after two months on the
Northern Star
.”
“It’s a beautiful yacht. Yours, I presume?”
The American showed his platinum inlays as he laughed. “Good Lord, no. My wife and I are guests. Do you know Trébizonde?”
“Not at all well. But I shall be only too glad if I can be of any assistance. I’m not leaving until this evening.”
The lady in pink had already trained her Kodak on a little half-naked Armenian who was diving to earn cigarettes. She turned to us. A tall blonde of the athletic type, with a supple stride.
Her husband introduced himself without formality. “W. R. Maughan. To whom have I the honor of speaking?”
“To the Prince Séliman.”
An ineffable surprise lighted up the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Maughan. Had Destiny suddenly presented them to the Great Lama of Lhassa they could not possibly have manifested more profound astonishment. I must have appeared disconcerted in the extreme by their attitude because Mrs. Maughan went on, in a tone which betrayed the liveliest curiosity:
“You are the Prince Séliman?—Griselda’s husband?”
“Yes, madam.”
Mr. Maughan struck his left palm with his right fist and cried out, “Damnation! Such a meeting five thousand miles from New York. And in this dirty little hole on the Black Sea!”
He turned to his wife, taking her to witness such an extraordinary occurrence, and added, “Well, Ruth, now what do
you think of that! Prince Séliman in Trébizonde. Why, it’s like finding a needle in a haystack!”
The man’s remarks intrigued me. I said to him, a trifle sarcastically, “I am overjoyed, Mr. Maughan, to find that my presence in Armenia should be such a source of excitement for you. But may I ask why?”
“Because Ruth and I are intimate friends of Griselda’s. You never met us in New York because you were in America such a short time and because your deplorable separation from the Princess came so quickly. But rest assured that no one regretted any more sincerely than we did the misunderstanding which broke up your married life.”
“I presume that you know the story?”
Mrs. Maughan interposed, “I should think we did! We read all about your adventure at Palm Beach with Griselda’s stepdaughter. Good heavens! That was the most harmless escapade in the world. And I’ve always told Griselda that she was wrong to take the stand she did.”
Racking my memory, I suddenly recalled that the Princess, while we were on our honeymoon, had mentioned a Mr. Maughan, a lawyer downtown. I hastened to repair my forgetfulness:
“My dear Mr. Maughan, you must forgive my very bad memory. So many things have happened to turn my life upside down. Now, I know—you are a lawyer in New York and Mrs. Maughan was Griselda’s guest in the Adirondacks when my wife was still Mrs. Turner.”
“Exactly! Now you’ve got the connection.”
The excellent Mr. Maughan tapped me cordially on the shoulder and shook my hand vigorously. His wife seemed to be thinking deeply. Suddenly she took me familiarly by the arm, and with great assurance, said:
“Prince, come with us.”
“Where?”
“Out to the yacht.”
Mr. Maughan evidenced surprise. His wife silenced him:
“Leave it to me, Billy. I’ll manage everything. Prince Séliman is going to have tea with us on board the
Northern Star
.”
I could find no words to decline so cordial an invitation. We jumped into the launch and the little engine began to chug. Nevertheless, I felt ill at ease and, turning to the pink lady, I remonstrated:
“Really, Mrs. Maughan, this seems hardly the thing to do. Who is the owner?”
“Oh! Pooh!” she answered evasively. “Don’t you worry. A friend of ours. And besides, does not the etiquette of the sea require that one pick up shipwrecked sailors?”
I found Mrs. Maughan’s remark charming and I bowed my appreciation. We were coming alongside. I admired the appearance of the yacht, spotless and shining as though ready for a naval review with its glistening brass and its superb structure of varnished acajou. Mr. Maughan led me toward the tea-table, which was already laid, while his wife went off, announcing:
“Now, I am going to present you to the owner of the ship.”
Mr. Maughan offered me a large armchair. Some gulls flitted around the yacht like a number of white circumflex accents blown by the breeze. Far away, against the gray background of the mountains of Anatolia, there stood out the silhouette of the freighter, somber and smoky. In the course of a few minutes, I had been transferred from the
Djoulfa
to the
Northern Star
. So much dirty baggage on a steamer
de luxe
—was not this the symbol of my adventurous life?
The romance of my past rapidly unfolded itself on the foolscap of my memories. I could see myself again, a ruined
gentleman, saying goodby forever to Paris. I recalled that smelly deck covered with immigrants on the transatlantic liner, my miraculous good fortune in New York, my conquest of the beautiful Mrs. Griselda Turner, my adoption by the venerable Prince Séliman in Vienna, my foolishness with Evelyn, the drama in Palm Beach, my parting words to Griselda, my Bohemian life in London and my association with Lady Diana. And now, my expedition into the unknown Caucasus, strangely interrupted by an enigmatic intermission on a yacht whose owner I was about to meet.
Then I heard Mrs. Maughan’s voice saying, “Come along. We ran into a charming boy on the dock at Trébizonde—I know you will love him.”
I turned around. And then I stood up, pale as a ghost, my heart beating madly. Griselda was there.
GRISELDA ALSO TURNED PALE. BUT SHE QUICKLY regained her self-possession. Some inexplicable emotion came over me. I contemplated her tiny aquiline nose, her rougeless lips, her deep blue eyes and her bare white arms, slightly bronzed by the Mediterranean sun.
Mr. and Mrs. Maughan had discreetly moved away. Griselda sat down opposite me in a huge armchair and asked with an indifferent politeness which I found most disconcerting:
“What are you doing here, my dear? I thought you were in London.”
I told her briefly what had transpired since my departure from New York.
She listened to me without apparent interest and finally remarked, “In other words, you have become the knight errant of Lady Diana Wynham?”
“At least, I do my best to be of service to her.”
“You are absolutely right. It would hardly be proper for the Prince Séliman to accept favors from so heralded a beauty without giving something in exchange.”
“Griselda, you are quite mistaken. Lady Wynham is not and never will be my mistress.”
The Princess displayed no great regard for my affirmation. She only smiled sarcastically and remarked, “Without any doubt, you are the strangest individual I have ever met. You are a combination of the sublime and the ridiculous, if you will forgive me for saying so. A distinguished gentleman at noon—a clown at midnight—you excel in every capacity! Here you are moving heaven and earth for the sake of a woman who is not even yours. To my mind, that isn’t logic.”
“Sometimes, Griselda, it is dangerous to challenge logic, that angular old maid with flat hips. And, another thing, don’t forget that my curious behavior is a little bit your fault.”
“Oh!”
“Yes! You have treated me with extraordinary cruelty. When I left America, I took nothing except a melancholy sketch of Lake Placid on an April afternoon. Do you remember what you did? My last letter, torn into little pieces and dedicated to a springtime breeze. My poor effort mutilated! A perfect picture of the death of my hope! Do you realize that you sent away a broken man, a virtual suicide? Not knowing and caring less what would happen, the veriest chance took me to London. Having nothing else to attend to, I accepted the position of secretary, counsel, and mentor to an extremely important member of the smart set. I know you will say that there are positions more suitable to a man of my rank. Unquestionably! But that is no excuse for trying to break my spirit. Every man, no matter how weak, hopes to do something great some day, and to leave his mark on history’s crowded page. A wandering student of nature, I was amused to observe British Society through the yellow glasses of an unprejudiced aristocrat. Comfortably cradled on the Ocean of Snobbery, I had only one ambition: to wait until Fate would throw us together again. And now my wish has come true. I have rediscovered
you, Griselda, more seductive than ever, and I admit frankly that you upset me terribly.”