A few chords, and then she suddenly began to sing with the full power of her voice, as if she were on the stage. She sang Rosina’s song in the Barbiere di Siviglia as she had never sung it in her life, and for the first time the words pleased her.
‘… una vipera sarò!’
What ‘nice English girl’ ever told herself or any one else that she would be a ‘viper’?
CHAPTER VII
TWO DAYS LATER Margaret was somewhat surprised by an informal invitation to dine at the Turkish Embassy. The Ambassador had lately been transferred to London from Paris, where she had known him through Logotheti and had met him two or three times. The latter, as a Fanariote Greek, was a Turkish subject, and although he had once told Margaret that the Turks had murdered his father in some insurrection, and though he himself might have hesitated to spend much time in Constantinople, he nevertheless maintained friendly relations with the representatives of what was his country; and for obvious reasons, connected with Turkish finance, they treated him with marked consideration. On general principles and in theory Turks and Greeks hate each other; in practice they can live very amicably side by side. In the many cases in which Armenians have been attacked and killed by the Turks no Greek has ever been hurt except by accident; on the other hand, none has lifted a hand to defend an Armenian in distress, which sufficiently proves that the question of religion has not been concerned at all.
Margaret accepted the Ambassador’s invitation, feeling tolerably sure of meeting Logotheti at the dinner. If there were any other women they would be of the meteoric sort, the fragments of former social planets that go on revolving in the old orbit, more or less divorced, bankrupt, or otherwise unsound, though still smart, the kind of women who are asked to fill a table on such occasions ‘because they won’t mind’ — that is to say, they will not object to dining with a primadonna or an actress whose husband has become nebulous and whose reputation is mottled. The men, of whom there might be several, would be either very clever or overpoweringly noble, because all geniuses and all peers are supposed to like their birds of paradise a little high. I wonder why. I have met and talked with a good many men of genius, from Wagner and Liszt to Zola and some still living contemporaries, and, really, their general preference for highly correct social gatherings has struck me as phenomenal. There are even noblemen who seem to be quite respectable, and pretend that they would rather talk to an honest woman at a dinner party than drink bumpers of brut champagne out of Astarte’s satin slipper.
Mustapha Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador, was a fair, pale man of fifty, who had spiritual features, quiet blue eyes, and a pleasant smile. His hands were delicately made and very white, but not effeminate. He had been educated partly in England, and spoke English without difficulty and almost without accent, as Logotheti did. He came forward to meet Margaret as she entered the room, and he greeted her warmly, thanking her for being so good as to come at short notice.
Logotheti was the next to take her hand, and she looked at him attentively when her eyes met his, wondering whether he, too, would think her changed. He himself was not, at all events. Mustapha Pasha, a born Musalman and a genuine Turk, never arrested attention in an English drawing-room by his appearance; but Constantino Logotheti, the Greek, was an Oriental in looks as well as in character. His beautiful eyes were almond-shaped, his lips were broad and rather flat, and the small black moustache grew upwards and away from them so as not to hide his mouth at all. He had an even olive complexion, and any judge of men would have seen at a glance that he was thoroughly sound and as strong as a professional athlete. His coat had a velvet collar; a single emerald stud, worth several thousand pounds, diffused a green refulgence round itself in the middle of his very shiny shirt front; his waistcoat was embroidered and adorned with diamond buttons, his trousers were tight, and his name, with those of three or four other European financiers, made it alternately possible or impossible for impecunious empires and kingdoms to raise money in England, France and Germany. In matters of business, in the East, the Jew fears the Greek, the Greek fears the Armenian, the Armenian fears the Persian, and the Persian fears only Allah. One reason why the Jews do not care to return to Palestine and Asia Minor is that they cannot get a living amongst Christians and Mohammedans, a plain fact which those eminent and charitable European Jews who are trying to draw their fellow-believers eastward would do well to consider. Even in Europe there are far more poor Jews than Christians realise; in Asia there are hardly any rich ones. The Venetians were too much for Shylock, and he lost his ducats and his daughter; amongst Christian Greeks, Christian Armenians, and Musalman Persians, from Constantinople to Tiflis, Teheran, Bagdad and Cairo, the poor man could not have saved sixpence a year.
This is not a mere digression, since it may serve to define Logotheti’s position in the scale of the financial forces.
Margaret took his hand and looked at him just a little longer than she had looked at Mustapha Pasha. He never wrote to her, and never took the trouble to let her know where he was; but when they met his time was hers, and when he could be with her he seemed to have no other pre-occupation in life.
‘I came over from Paris to-day,’ he said. ‘When may I come and see you?’
That was always the first question, for he never wasted time.
‘To-morrow, if you like. Come late — about seven.’
The Ambassador was on her other side. A little knot of men and one lady were standing near the fire in an expectant sort of way, ready to be introduced to Margaret. She saw the bony head of Paul Griggs, and she smiled at him from a distance. He was talking to a very handsome and thoroughbred looking woman in plain black velvet, who had the most perfectly beautiful shoulders Margaret had ever seen.
Mustapha Pasha led the Primadonna to the group.
‘Lady Maud,’ he said to the beauty, ‘this is my old friend Señorita da Cordova. Countess Leven,’ he added, for Margaret’s benefit.
She had not met him more than three times, but she did not resent being called his old friend. It was well meant, she thought.
Lady Maud held out her hand cordially.
‘I’ve wanted to know you ever so long,’ she said, in her sweet low voice.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Margaret answered.
It is not easy to find a proper reply to people who say they have long hoped to meet you, but Griggs came to the rescue, as he shook hands in his turn.
‘That was not a mere phrase,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s quite true. Lady Maud wanted me to give her a letter to you a year ago.’
‘Indeed I did,’ asseverated the beauty, nodding, ‘but Mr. Griggs said he didn’t know you well enough!’
‘You might have asked me,’ observed Logotheti. ‘I’m less cautious than Griggs.’
‘You’re too exotic,’ retorted Lady Maud, with a ripple in her voice.
The adjective described the Greek so well that the others laughed.
‘Exotic,’ Margaret repeated the word thoughtfully.
‘For that matter,’ put in Mustapha Pasha with a smile, ‘I can hardly be called a native!’
The Countess Leven looked at him critically.
‘You could pass for one,’ she said, ‘but Monsieur Logotheti couldn’t.’ The other men, whom Margaret did not know, had been listening in silence, and maintained their expectant attitude. In the pause which followed Lady Maud’s remark the Ambassador introduced them in foreign fashion: one was a middle-aged peer who wore gold-rimmed spectacles and looked like a student or a man of letters; another was the most successful young playwright of the younger generation, and he wore a very good coat and was altogether well turned out, for in his heart he prided himself on being the best groomed man in London; a third was a famous barrister who had a crisp and breezy way with him that made flat calms in conversation impossible. Lastly, a very disagreeable young man, who seemed a mere boy, was introduced to the Primadonna.
‘Mr. Feist,’ said the Ambassador, who never forgot names.
> Margaret was aware of a person with an unhealthy complexion, thick hair of a dead-leaf brown colour, and staring blue eyes that made her think of glass marbles. The face had an unnaturally youthful look, and yet, at the same time, there was something profoundly vicious about it. Margaret wondered who in the world the young man might be and why he was at the Turkish Embassy, apparently invited there to meet her. She at once supposed that in spite of his appearance he must have some claim to celebrity.
‘I’m a great admirer of yours, Señorita,’ said Mr. Feist in a womanish voice and with a drawl. ‘I was in the Metropolitan in New York when you sang in the dark and prevented a panic. I suppose that was about the finest thing any singer ever did.’
Margaret smiled pleasantly, though she felt the strongest repulsion for the man.
‘I happened to be on the stage,’ she said modestly. ‘Any of the others would have done the same.’
‘Well,’ drawled Mr. Feist, ‘may be. I doubt it.’
Dinner was announced.
‘Will you keep house for me?’ asked the Ambassador of Lady Maud.
‘There’s something rather appropriate about your playing Ambassadress here,’ observed Logotheti.
Margaret heard but did not understand that her new acquaintance was a Russian subject. Mustapha Pasha held out his arm to take her in to dinner. The spectacled peer took in Lady Maud, and the men straggled in. At table Lady Maud sat opposite the Pasha, with the peer on her right and the barrister on her left. Margaret was on the right of the Ambassador, on whose other side Griggs was placed, and Logotheti was Margaret’s other neighbour. Feist and the young playwright were together, between Griggs and the nobleman.
Margaret glanced round the table at the people and wondered about them. She had heard of the barrister and the novelist, and the peer’s name had a familiar sound that suggested something unusual, though she could not quite remember what it was. It might be pictures, or the north pole, or the divorce court, or a new idiot asylum; it would never matter much. The new acquaintances on whom her attention fixed itself were Lady Maud, who attracted her strongly, and Mr. Feist, who repelled her. She wished she could speak Greek in order to ask Logotheti who the latter was and why he was present. To judge by appearances he was probably a rich young American who travelled and frequented theatres a good deal, and who wished to be able to say that he knew Cordova. He had perhaps arrived lately with a letter of introduction to the Ambassador, who had asked him to the first nondescript informal dinner he gave, because the man would not have fitted in anywhere else.
Logotheti began to talk at once, while Mustapha Pasha plunged into a political conversation with Griggs.
‘I’m much more glad to see you than you can imagine,’ the Greek said, not in an undertone, but just so softly that no one else could hear him.
‘I’m not good at imagining,’ answered Margaret. ‘But I’m glad you are here. There are so many new faces.’
‘Happily you are not shy. One of your most enviable qualities is your self-possession.’
‘You’re not lacking in that way either,’ laughed Margaret. ‘Unless you have changed very much.’
‘Neither of us has changed much since last year. I only wish you would!’
Margaret turned her head to look at him.
‘So you think I am not changed!’ she said, with a little pleased surprise in her tone.
‘Not a bit. If anything, you have grown younger in the last two years.’
‘Does that mean more youthful? More frisky? I hope not!’
‘No, not at all. What I see is the natural effect of vast success on a very, nice woman. Formerly, even after you had begun your career, you had some doubts as to the ultimate result. The future made you restless, and sometimes disturbed the peace of your face a little, when you thought about it too much. That’s all gone now, and you are your real self, as nature meant you to be.’
‘My real self? You mean, the professional singer!’
‘No. A great artist, in the person of a thoroughly nice woman.’
Margaret had thought that blushing was a thing of the past with her, but a soft colour rose in her cheeks now, from sheer pleasure at what he had said.
‘I hope you don’t think it impertinent of me to tell you so,’ said Logotheti with a slight intonation of anxiety.
‘Impertinent!’ cried Margaret. ‘It’s the nicest thing any one has said to me for months, and thank goodness I’m not above being pleased.’
Nor was Logotheti above using any art that could please her. His instinct about women, finding no scruples in the way, had led him into present favour by the shortest road. It is one thing to say brutally that all women like flattery; it is quite another to foresee just what form of flattery they will like. People who do not know professional artistic life from the inner side are much too ready to cry out that first-class professionals will swallow any amount of undiscriminating praise. The ability to judge their own work is one of the gifts which place them above the second class.
‘I said what I thought,’ observed Logotheti with a sudden air of conscientious reserve. ‘For once in our acquaintance, I was not thinking of pleasing you. And then I was afraid that I had displeased you, as I so often have.’
The last words were spoken with a regret that was real.
‘I have forgiven you,’ said Margaret quietly; ‘with conditions!’ she added, as an afterthought, and smiling.
‘Oh, I know — I’ll never do it again.’
‘That’s what a runaway horse seems to say when he walks quietly home, with his head down and his ears limp, after nearly breaking one’s neck!’
‘I was a born runaway,’ said Logotheti meekly, ‘but you have cured me.’
In the pause that followed this speech, Mr. Feist leaned forward and spoke to Margaret across the table.
‘I think we have a mutual friend, Madame,’ he said.
‘Indeed?’ Margaret spoke coolly; she did not like to be called ‘Madame’ by people who spoke English.
‘Mr. Van Torp,’ explained the young man.
‘Yes,’ Margaret said, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I know Mr. Van Torp; he came over on the same steamer.’
The others at the table were suddenly silent, and seemed to be listening. Lady Maud’s clear eyes rested on Mr. Feist’s face.
‘He’s quite a wonderful man, I think,’ observed the latter.
‘Yes,’ assented the Primadonna indifferently.
‘Don’t you think he is a wonderful man?’ insisted Mr. Feist, with his disagreeable drawl.
‘I daresay he is,’ Margaret answered, ‘but I don’t know him very well.’
‘Really? That’s funny!’
‘Why?’
‘Because I happen to know that he thinks everything of you, Madame Cordova. That’s why I supposed, you were intimate friends.’
The others had listened hitherto in a sort of mournful silence, distinctly bored. Lady Maud’s eyes now turned to Margaret, but the latter still seemed perfectly indifferent, though she was wishing that some one else would speak. Griggs turned to Mr. Feist, who was next to him.
‘You mean that he is a wonderful man of business, perhaps,’ he said.
‘Well, we all know he’s that, anyway,’ returned his neighbour. ‘He’s not exactly a friend of mine, not exactly!’ A meaning smile wrinkled the unhealthy face and suddenly made it look older. ‘All the same, I think he’s quite wonderful. He’s not merely an able man, he’s a man of powerful intellect.’
‘A Nickel Napoleon,’ suggested the barrister, who was bored to death by this time, and could not imagine why Lady Maud followed the conversation with so much interest.
‘Your speaking of nickel,’ said the peer, at her elbow, ‘reminds me of that extraordinary new discovery — let me see — what is it?’
‘America?’ suggested the barrister viciously.
‘No,’ said his lordship, with perfect gravity, ‘it’s not that. Ah yes, I remember! It’s a process for makin
g nitric acid out of air.’
Lady Maud nodded and smiled, as if she knew all about it, but her eyes were again scrutinising Mr. Feist’s face. Her neighbour, whose hobby was applied science, at once launched upon a long account of the invention. From time to time the beauty nodded and said that she quite understood, which was totally untrue, but well meant.
‘That young man has the head of a criminal,’ said the barrister on her other side, speaking very low.
She bent her head very slightly, to show that she had heard, and she continued to listen to the description of the new process. By this time every one was talking again. Mr. Feist was in conversation with Griggs, and showed his profile to the barrister, who quietly studied the retreating forehead and the ill-formed jaw, the latter plainly discernible to a practised eye, in spite of the round cheeks. The barrister was a little mad on the subject of degeneracy, and knew that an unnaturally boyish look in a grown man is one of the signs of it. In the course of a long experience at the bar he had appeared in defence of several ‘high-class criminals.’ By way of comparing Mr. Feist with a perfectly healthy specimen of humanity, he turned to look at Logotheti beside him. Margaret was talking with the Ambassador, and the Greek was just turning to talk to his neighbour, so that their eyes met, and each waited for the other to speak first.
‘Are you a judge of faces?’ asked the barrister after a moment.
‘Men of business have to be, to some extent,’ answered Logotheti.
‘So do lawyers. What should you say was the matter with that one?’
It was impossible to doubt that he was speaking of the only abnormal head at the table, and Logotheti looked across the wide table at Mr. Feist for several seconds before he answered.
‘Drink,’ he said in an undertone, when he had finished his examination.
‘Yes. Anything else?’
‘May go mad any day, I should think,’ observed Logotheti.
‘Do you know anything about him?’
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1207
