Having satisfied myself on that score I begged Klara to go on with her interesting revelations.
“I replied to the Russian woman that I was ready to depart and I asked for her instructions. She commenced by showing me a large photograph of you, torn from an American newspaper. Underneath it was written: Prince Séliman, who has just married Mrs. Griselda Turner. You see, dear, I knew all about you without your even suspecting me! She told me to engrave your features in my memory and to follow you when you left Berlin. She added, ‘Your mission will be to intrigue that bird there’—I beg your pardon, but those were her exact words—‘to read his private documents if there are any of real importance and to inform me as to the people with whom he associates. That won’t be difficult for you because you’re very pretty, and all those French imbeciles go crazy over pretty women, like frogs with a bit of red flannel. If he proves difficult, follow him just the same and move heaven and earth to make his acquaintance at Constantinople. At the moment, the boat service between Constantinople and Batoum is most irregular. You must help him to take passage on one of the cargo boats of the Phébus Company so that he will depart for Batoum at the earliest possible date. When he is actually on board, telegraph me in the Moscow code. Then you can return to Berlin with the feeling that your work is done.’ The next morning, I immediately recognized you at the Anhalt railway station and took very good care to get the place opposite you. You know the rest. You began the conversation and accepted every advance I made. I had to do it. But there was another impulse behind it all—something indefinable which drew me to you. Your courteous manners, our romantic little dinner at Zulma’s, the discretion which you displayed that evening at the Bristol, all those things went for my ultimate captivation, and it was not a spy doing her prescribed duty but a happy woman that you had with you that evening.”
“And after that?”
“I profited by one of your absences to examine your papers. You cannot blame me for having carried out my orders, can you? But even if I had discovered information of importance to Russia, I would never have betrayed you. The proof is that I have already made three fantastic and non-compromising reports.”
“You know perfectly well that I am not angry with you, Klara darling, and that your frankness touches me deeply.”
Then she became very grave, took both my hands in hers, and said suddenly, “Dearest—I have no idea what you plan to do in Georgia, but if you take my advice, you will give up the trip.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I joked, “Give up the trip? Are you afraid I might fall into an oil well? You make me laugh.”
“No, but something tells me that you’re taking an unwise step.”
“What makes you think so? Has Madam Mouravieff given you any reason to believe that?”
“No. At least nothing definite. But I know her reputation. She spoke of you with an animosity which portends no good for you.”
“Exactly what did she say?”
“She said, ‘Prince Séliman is one of my enemies and, in time of war, it is essential to be informed as to the activities of the adversaries.’ And her expression betrayed such a hostility toward you that I implore you to take my advice.”
I sat down on the bed. Klara’s remarks disconcerted me. It was obvious that she was in complete ignorance of the intimate drama which lay behind the whole scheme. For my part, I could see only two possible solutions: either to disregard utterly the apprehension of my golden-haired ally or else to refuse to face the danger and telegraph Lady Diana to the effect that I had decided to take no part in her Caucasian interests. But I considered that the latter course would be unworthy of me. I could not admit to Lady Diana that, alarmed by the vindictiveness of Madam Mouravieff, I preferred not to run the risk of antagonizing her and that I wanted to forsake the project and return to London. I could never look my conscience in the face if I hesitated for one minute to fulfill my agreement.
“Klara, dear,” I said smilingly, “your solicitude has proven to me the sincerity of your affection. I am deeply grateful to you. But really, you know, Madam Mouravieff is not a she-devil and I shall certainly not cancel my passage on Mr. Agraganyadès’ ship just because of the flash in her beautiful eyes. I have the proper passport, bearing the Moscow visa. I am going to join a friend. What harm can there be in that?”
“A passport! You know perfectly well how much that scrap of paper is worth! Since the insurrection in Georgia there has been a continual state of siege and you are at the mercy of the veriest whim of the Communists.”
“That may be all very true but I am leaving just the same. A rich foreigner runs far less risk than a poor Russian. Come along, Klara dearest, dress yourself and perform your final duty by seeing me board the boat for Batoum.”
At a quarter to twelve we arrived on the dock. There we saw the Djoulfa, which had as much resemblance to a steamer as a hansom-cab has to a Rolls-Royce. Klara came on deck with me. Three minutes before the last blow of the whistle, she implored once more:
“Darling—stay with me. I will telegraph Moscow that you have sailed.”
“No, you’re awfully sweet and I wish you every happiness. Who can tell? Perhaps we shall meet again some happy day in Paris or London.”
The second mate of the Djoulfa informed me that they were about to take up the gangplank. Klara and I embraced in silence. She raised her lips to mine once more and rushed down the shaky passageway. A bell rang in the engine-room and the speed was increased. I waved my handkerchief wildly. Klara answered me, standing pathetically between a pile of dirty sails and an indifferent Turk with a faded fez.
I was silently contemplating the delicate outline of my charming spy when a fat man dressed in a black gandourah with red braid on the chest looked at me with compassion. He stopped chewing something or other to say very quietly:
“It is very sad when one must leave one’s wife, is it not, Effendi?”
Curtly, I agreed. Klara was still on the dock. In her pearl gray traveling suit and her little white hat she was like one of the motionless sailboats in the harbor. This was a bitter parting. Alas, could I have but foreseen that she had told the truth about what I was about to encounter!
The Djoulfa had one funnel. But that did not prevent her from smoking abominably and covering the deck, on which opened the doors of the six cabin passengers, with thick black soot. I compared her to a floating steam-engine. The Djoulfa, furthermore, was a bad sailor. She rolled like a Holland cheese. Almost without cargo, she was on her way to Batoum to fill her 500-ton reservoirs.
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 bu
siness.”
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 Madonna of the Sleeping Cars Page 12
