I had gone past the Hudson River piers on my previous visits to New York, but this was my first chance to see them up close. I was pleased to learn that our pier was near those of the Cunard Line, where I had the opportunity to observe the red and black funnels of the Campania, which had recently established a record for the Atlantic crossing, just under five and a half days. And the City of New York, which had held the record only a few years ago, was tied up at the American Line’s docks. So there were two of the fastest ships ever built, sitting within a hundred yards of one another. Though Mr. Clemens and I would be sailing on an older, slower boat, for a moment my imagination conjured up the vision of these two “ocean greyhounds” racing side by side across the waves. Perhaps another time I should have the pleasure of crossing the ocean aboard one of them.
The office I was searching for was in a sort of warehouse on the shore end of the pier, and there were several people ahead of me at the ticket window. I had all afternoon to transact my business, so I took my place in line, content to enjoy the unfamiliar sights and scenes of a steamship terminal. At first all went quite pleasantly, if slowly. I overheard conversations in several languages and accents, and saw a variety of gentlemen and ladies in their best traveling clothes preparing to board the New York, which was scheduled to sail that very afternoon. Through a door opening onto the docks, I saw the smartly uniformed employees of the steamship line readying the great ship for departure.
But before long I became aware of a disturbance up ahead at the window. Actually, it would have been difficult to ignore, since the large, loud fellow who was the evident cause of the problem was less than ten feet away from me. “This is an outrage,” he bellowed. “I have given you the full fare for a first-class passage over a month ago, and now you tell me there is no room for me on the New York.”
The clerk attempted to explain the situation. “I’m sorry, sir, but your check was returned by the bank. We tried to get in touch with you, but you weren’t at the address you gave us. The best we can do now is find you a second-class cabin on City of New York. Or I can give you a first-class cabin on City of Baltimore, this time next week.” I felt sorry for the clerk, a fresh-faced young fellow who was clearly trying to be as diplomatic as possible under the circumstances. I wondered whether, if I were in his position, I would be so polite to someone who had given me a bad check.
But the man would hear none of the clerk’s explanation. He brandished his cane, and for a moment I was afraid he was about to swing it at the clerk, although he would have had a hard time doing any damage on account of the barred window between them. His little white goatee fairly quivered as he shouted, “The bank has made a mistake, and you have made a bigger one, you impudent whelp! If I am not on the New York when she sails, I will see to it that you lose your position. Why should I absorb another week’s hotel bills? I demand to see your superior this instant.” The fellow’s face was red, and his gestures were wild. The man behind him in the line had stepped back, as if he feared being struck by the fellow, even if accidentally. Others around the office had stopped what they were doing, staring at the growing altercation.
The poor clerk stepped back from the window and said in a tired voice, “Very well, sir. Please wait here while I call my supervisor.” He turned his back, and disappeared, while the angry customer planted his cane on the floor with a loud thump, and stood there in a posture that radiated hostility, even from behind. I saw several of the onlookers make faces and roll their eyes at one another, and one young woman struggled to suppress a giggle.
After an uncomfortable interval—it could hardly have been much more than two minutes, but the tension made it seem like fifteen—a balding fellow with a walrus mustache appeared on the other side of the window. Behind him I could see the worried-looking clerk. “I am Mr. Saunders, the manager,” he said, “Now, what seems to be the problem, mister?”
Perhaps the brief wait had calmed the irate passenger. He managed to outline his complaint in a normal speaking voice, and his gestures were considerably restrained, although he still waved his hands more than the occasion demanded. Listening to him, I thought I detected something of an accent—German, perhaps.
“I am Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten,” he said. “One month ago, I deposited my check for four hundred American dollars with your company, to secure a first-class passage on the New York. Now I am told that you have not held a cabin for me, and I am reduced to traveling second-class or else to waiting a week for the next ship. Why, if I wanted to wait another entire week, I would have asked for that date to begin with. I have a mind to walk over to Cunard and see if the English understand better how to treat a gentleman.”
“Is that so?” said Mr. Saunders from behind the window, leaning on his elbow while the passenger spoke. “Well, you may have given us a piece of paper with the bank’s name on it, but the bank says you never gave ’em the four hundred dollars to back it. I don’t know what the English call that, but in New York we call it writing a bum check. Sometimes it’s an honest mistake, and I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on that. We tried to find you and straighten it out, but you must have given us a bad address, as well. You can’t hardly expect us to hold a first-class cabin for you, not when there’s other passengers waving cash money and begging for a ride to Southampton.” Some of those waiting on line snickered at this, although they quieted down as the angry passenger looked around in annoyance.
Turning back to the window, he raised his voice again, although some of the wind seemed to have gone out of his sails. “A gentleman’s word should be sufficient to hold the cabin. I do not write the bum checks, as you call them; your bank must have made a mistake. I have been traveling, and so your message must have missed me. But see, I will give you the four hundred dollars for my cabin right now.” He pulled a wallet from his breast pocket and displayed a thick wad of greenbacks.
Seeing the money, the manager took a more conciliatory tone. “Well, I can see you’ve got the wherewithal, and I wish I could tell you I had the cabin. But it’s God’s own truth, every first-class cabin on the New York is taken. I’ll put you into a second-class cabin this minute for one-fifty.”
“Impossible!” said the prince. “What would it look like for a gentleman to travel with the common herd? I must have a first-class cabin. If you cannot provide it, I will have to see what the Campania has open. Or perhaps the White Star Line can accommodate me.”
“I can’t dictate whose ship you travel on,” said the manager, shrugging. “But here’s a suggestion. Give me a fifty percent cash deposit now, and I’ll guarantee you a first-class cabin on City of Baltimore next week. If you get a berth on another ship before City of Baltimore sails, I’ll refund every cent.”
The passenger seemed mollified, but had one last protest. “I cannot live a week in a New York hotel for free. You will be costing me a good bit of money.”
“No, look at it this way,” said Mr. Saunders. “You were ready to pay four hundred for City of New York, and I can give you the same class of room on City of Baltimore for three-fifty. Now, I don’t know about you, but I could live pretty comfortably on fifty bucks a week in New York City. Unless there’s some reason you have to be in England by this Saturday, you’ll be just as well off waiting for City of Baltimore, maybe even better off. Think about it, mister. There’s no way you can lose.”
After a pause, the passenger nodded. “Very well. If you will put your promise in writing, I shall give you a one-hundred-seventy-five-dollar deposit for the best first-class cabin on City of Baltimore. By what time do you require the full amount, should I decide to sail with you?”
“Twenty-four hours before sailing will do fine,” said the manager, smiling. “And I think you’ll be glad you decided to stay with the American Steamship Line.”
After seeing the passenger’s arrogance and unruly temper, I thought that both the American Line and I might be happier if he were to find a berth with Cunard, after all. But I was just as g
lad to see him finish his business so I could get on with my own errand at the steamship office. In a few minutes, I had handed over the necessary fee to upgrade Mr. Clemens’s reservation to a small suite, with a private bedroom for me, and I was on my way back to the Union Square Hotel.
2
The next few days, my time was divided between looking after my employer’s affairs and enjoying my stay in New York City, one of the social and cultural capitals of the world. My travels with Mr. Clemens—especially our stay in New Orleans—had spoiled my palate for the plain and wholesome cooking I had grown up with in Connecticut, and I enjoyed this opportunity to expand my culinary experience. Mr. Clemens made certain I had the chance to sample the offerings at some of the better restaurants and private clubs around Manhattan. He had a knack for persuading publishers and editors to buy him (and his secretary!) lunch or dinner, dangling in front of them the offer to write something for their houses. And so we ate handsomely without much depleting Mr. Clemens’s pocketbook.
“So, Wentworth, do you see how the literary game is played?” he said. We were strolling back to Union Square after dinner and billiards at The Players Club, of which Mr. Clemens told me he had been one of the founders. The fare had been excellent: a dozen raw Little Neck clams, turtle soup with a splash of sherry, a fresh watercress salad, and then a brace of pheasants with wild rice and all the trimmings. A couple of bottles of champagne washed it all down, with good coffee and a snifter of fine brandy to complement Mr. Clemens’s after-dinner cigar. Mr. Putnam, the head of a large publishing house, had been our host, and Mr. Clemens had repaid him with a colorful account of our trip down the Mississippi, and the shocking events in which we played some small part.
“I believe I do,” I said. “The first principle seems to be to persuade the publisher that you have something worth his time and effort. I can understand why he would think so, in your case. But how does a novice such as I get taken up by the likes of Mr. Putnam?”
“There are about as many ways as there are writers,” said Mr. Clemens. “You could send in a manuscript on some kind of bright-colored paper, or written in extra-fancy script. You could send it in by special messenger, and maybe hire a brass band to play when he delivers it. You could include a bottle of wine, or a box of cigars, or anything else of the sort, as a bribe. You could get a few well-known people to commend your writing and promise to buy hundreds of copies as gifts. Those are the common methods.”
I was startled to hear this. “Good Lord, I had no idea. I would never have thought to try anything of the sort.”
We stopped for a moment on the curb at the intersection of Seventeenth Street and Fourth Avenue, as a string of carriages hurried by. Mr. Clemens was silent for a moment, waiting for the traffic to clear. Then he turned to me. “I’m sorry you have so little imagination, Went-worth. Thousands of writers have used those methods, and no doubt others I haven’t heard of, to draw attention to their manuscripts.” There was a break in the traffic, and we stepped out into the street. Halfway across, he turned to me and said, matter-of-factly, “Of course, most of ’em don’t work worth a damn.”
I turned to him in exasperation and said, “Then why on earth did you tell me such a tale? For a moment, you had me convinced that an author has to use all these tricks to catch a publisher’s eye.” I had barely been back in Mr. Clemens’s employ a day before falling for one of his leg-pullings. At least I had learned to recognize them, instead of continuing to believe in his nonsense for as much as a week, as I had with some of his hoaxes during our riverboat journey.
“Don’t dawdle in the middle of traffic, Wentworth. These New York carriage drivers are like to run you down,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning as he stepped ahead of me toward the far side of the street. Laughing, I scurried to catch up with him.
The next morning after breakfast, Mr. Clemens and I were on our way to the elevators when a short, dark-skinned man strode up to us and said in a deep voice, “Good morning, Mr. Clemens. I trust you remember meeting me?” He was a sturdily built fellow, with a cleft chin and a huge mustache. His piercing blue eyes, surmounted by bushy eyebrows, peered at us through thick glasses.
Mr. Clemens looked at the fellow, and his eyes opened wide. “Kipling!” he exclaimed, reaching out to shake the fellow’s hand. “What brings you to New York? Come on up to my room and have a cigar!”
“I’m afraid I haven’t a minute to spare just now,” said the newcomer, whose accent tagged him as an Englishman. “I’m on my way to an appointment. But perhaps we can have dinner, if you’re staying here. I’ll be in New York for the rest of the week. My wife and I are going to England next Monday, but I hope we can find time to get together before then.”
“Why, we’re going to England, too,” said Mr. Clemens. Then he remembered me and introduced us. “Rudyard Kipling, this is my secretary, Wentworth Cabot. He went to Yale, but it doesn’t seem to have spoiled him.”
“Mr. Kipling, a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “I’ve read one of your books on India.” We shook hands.
“What boat are you sailing on?” asked my employer. “We’re on the City of Baltimore, next Monday.”
“What luck, so are Carrie and I!” said Kipling. “We should have a capital crossing, then. Nonetheless, let’s get together in the city before we leave. Are you free this evening?”
As it happened, Mr. Clemens had no engagement for the evening, and so he and Mr. Kipling agreed to meet for dinner. The Englishman then took his leave, and we crossed the lobby and waited for the elevator. “Kipling will be good to travel with,” said Mr. Clemens. “First-class storyteller, and a hell of a fine poet, too. He lives in Vermont now, but he must have spent ten years in India, learning the country and watching the people. He came to visit me at my summer place in Elmira, New York, a few years ago. Between the two of us, we cover the entire field of human knowledge.”
“Really?” I said, impressed that my employer would have such a high opinion of a man not so much older than I.
“Yes,” drawled Mr. Clemens. The elevator door opened, and we both got in and told the boy our floor number. Then Mr. Clemens fixed me with his gaze. “Kipling has mastered all there is to know,” he said. “And I know everything else.” The elevator door closed, and I found myself speechless again.
Dinner that evening was at Solari, a pleasant restaurant on University Place between Ninth and Tenth streets, a few short blocks from our hotel. I was pleasantly surprised to be included in the dinner party, having often been left to my own devices when Mr. Clemens was asked out to dinner during our riverboat tour a few short months earlier. I was not about to complain; the New York restaurants were considerably more expensive than those in the West, and I hadn’t the option of eating cheaply on the boat, as I had often done on the tour.
We were joined by Mr. Kipling’s wife, Caroline, a Vermont woman of good family (and, as quickly became evident, the repository of a great stock of New England common sense). Solari’s cuisine had been highly recommended, and Mr. Clemens seemed determined to put the restaurant’s reputation to the test. I myself thought the wine was overpriced, not to mention a bit thin, but everything else was as good as I could have asked for. I especially enjoyed my first taste of terrapin stew, the flavor of which belied its reptilian origin. For dessert I had a sinfully rich chocolate cake with chocolate icing, and by the time Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling lit their after-dinner cigars, I was beginning to wonder whether I would be able to walk back to the hotel unaided. If I or any of my companions ate or drank another iota, we might well have to find a cab for the four-block journey.
However, Mr. Clemens showed no sign of being ready to bring the evening to a conclusion. He ordered brandy and coffee, and he and Mr. Kipling began “swapping yarns,” as my employer called it. As always when Mr. Clemens dined in public, he had been recognized by many of the restaurant’s patrons, and he was enjoying the spotlight. A number of them had come to the table to extend their good wishes, or to express their apprecia
tion for something he had written, and Mr. Clemens returned their attentions by playing to the crowd: telling his best stories, with a wealth of colorful detail, and in a rich variety of accents and voices.
Mr. Kipling held up his own end of the conversation in fine style, as well—I was almost ready to believe Mr. Clemens’s declaration that he knew everything there was to know. His brief residence in Vermont (barely five years) had given him a surprising familiarity with New England life. He told stories about the fishing boats and their sailors that made me wonder how I had spent almost my entire life within five miles of the Atlantic without learning even half of what this Englishman seemed to know as well as the palm of his hand.
But it was his tales of India (he pronounced it In-ja) that brought out his true wealth of knowledge. After hearing him tell of teeming cities and primeval wilderness, beggars and maharajahs, Hindus and Moslems, deadly cobras and royal white elephants, and all the variety of life in that populous British colony, I promised myself that some day I would visit that mysterious land. If only half of what Mr. Kipling said of it were true, then it outstripped my wildest imagination. Even Mr. Clemens seemed impressed. After the Englishman told a fantastic tale of a boy raised in the jungle by wolves, my employer remarked, “I can see I’m going to have to make it my business to go see India, if only to find out whether Kipling’s a better storyteller than I am, or just a better liar.”
“It would be presumptuous of me to claim superiority to Mark Twain in either respect,” replied Mr. Kipling, smiling broadly. Mr. Clemens and Mrs. Kipling laughed, as did the eavesdroppers at several nearby tables, and the storytelling continued.
Finally Mr. Clemens recounted the tale of our trip down the Mississippi, and our stay in New Orleans, with special emphasis on how he and I had brought two murderers to justice. “Now that’s what I call an incredible story,” said Mr. Kipling. He leaned his elbows on the table and peered at Mr. Clemens with an envious expression. “It’s rare enough that anyone not a policeman has anything to do with solving a murder case, let alone two of them in the space of a few weeks. It’s unprecedented, I tell you. Will you be giving up writing and become the American Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Clemens?”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 2
