Michael arrived in time to receive the body of the Princess in Paris.
Before her death her mind had been illuminated by the sudden flare of
reason which is the signal of the end in cases of serious mental
disturbances. She had left various papers on which she had noted loans
made to certain persons, and judicious suggestions for her son in regard
to the management of the enormous fortune. She wanted to be buried
beside her husband, her first husband, "the hero," in the Pere Lachaise
cemetery. During the last years she had stayed in Paris, she had been
seized once more by the craze for building, and had busied herself with
the preparation of her final dwelling place. Beside the mausoleum of the
Marquis of Villablanca, whose image, frowning and indomitable, held in
one hand a broken sword, she had set up another monument no less
ostentatious with a statue which was supposed to be her exact likeness
and was nothing less than the semblance of the unhappy Queen of Scots,
as it appears in the engraving of the Romanticist period.
During the funeral ceremonies, Michael Fedor met again many persons who
formerly visited the Lubimoff palace, and whom he had thought were dead.
Dona Mercedes in tears embraced him. She had become extraordinarily
stout, and the coppery complexion inherited from her Aztec ancestors had
taken on an unhealthy ascetic pallor. She looked like the Mother
Superior of a noble convent of nuns. At her side, Monsignor, in his silk
cassock and with an air of compunction, was moving his lips to save the
dead woman's soul. "My son! We have all our sorrows." And as she said
this, the poor lady looked at another woman elegantly dressed in
mourning who stood there somewhat aloof, in the cemetery, and seemed
utterly incapacitated by the ceremony which had obliged her to rise
before noon.
The Duchess de Delille also came forward to meet him, taking both his
hands and giving him a strange glance.
"Your mother loved me ... really loved me. During these last years we
saw each other very often."
Michael nodded assent. He knew that already. The Princess Lubimoff had
been the one loyal friend of this passionate unscrupulous woman, who was
gradually losing every one's respect. She had defended Alicia when other
high society women declared open war and closed their doors to her,
fearing for their husbands' fidelity. As she used to play every winter
at Monte Carlo, she had been in the company of the Princess up to the
last moments.
"She loved me more than my mother ever did.... Perhaps she remembered
that I might have been her daughter."
The Prince walked away, as though annoyed by this allusion. He had heard
such things about her!... But all during the ceremony he kept seeing her
in his mind's eye. She was still beautiful, but so strangely beautiful.
Her skin had lost the golden tinge of ripened fruit, and now was pale,
the dull white of Japanese paper. Her large eyes, which gave off green
and yellow glints, stared with disturbing fixity and seemed at the same
time to have a blank expression, as though covered by an invisible
spider web. Her least bitter enemies accused her of a certain propensity
for spirits. She drank all sorts of American mixed drinks like an
habitue of the bars. Other people attributed her pallor and the
continual darkly bewildered look in her eyes to morphine, opium and all
the various liquids and perfumes producing lethargy and creating
"artificial paradise." The little Alicia of former years was drinking,
draining it to the last drop from the cup of life in deep draughts.
Michael Fedor thought that he had seen the last of her, but a few days
later he began to receive letters. He was alone, and must be feeling
sad, so she was inviting him to come and eat with her, informally, of
course, as was natural among close relatives. His evasions brought fresh
invitations by telephone. The Prince, like a person fulfulling a
tiresome social obligation, finally went one evening to her little
palace in the Avenue du Bois, one of the numerous imitations of the
Petit Trianon, which are to be found in various parts of the world.
The Duchess de Delille was proud of this edifice and the tiny garden
with its sharp, gilded grating, in front of which all fashionable Paris
passed. Michael was acquainted with the drawing rooms without ever
having been inside them. The illustrated journals, which cover the
styles of wealthy social life, had published photographs, in Europe and
America, of the interior of her residence. Gossip had kept him informed
of Alicia's strange life. She had suddenly been taken with the mad
desire of seeing people, of being admired, and of astonishing every one
by her prodigality. She gave a series of great fetes, and publicly
protested because the municipality of Paris would not allow her to
illuminate the entire Champs Elysees and the Arch of Triumph so that her
guests might ride up to her very door in a fiery apotheosis. She had
given a garden party in the Bois de Boulogne, with water sports, and
dances of sacred dancers, brought from Asia. The buffet supper had been
prepared for three thousand guests. On another occasion, for a single
costume ball, she spent a hundred thousand francs, to transform part of
her residence into an interior of Persian style and the next day she
began to have the rooms restored to their original state.
Suddenly she would disappear, and people would wink and make malicious
comments because she left no address. Some new love affair! Hers were
nearly always wandering fancies, that called for long trips and new
horizons! Perhaps she was in Constantinople or in Egypt; perhaps she was
in hiding in one of the large New York hotels. At times such guesses
were right; and then again the most intimate friends of the Duchess
could affirm that she had not left Paris. Was not her automobile
standing in front of the door?
This was another of Alicia's eccentricities. At all hours of the day and
night, one of her various expensive cars was kept in readiness in front
of the stairway. Three chauffeurs divided the service between them. They
stayed in the porter's quarters; and as soon as the bell was heard, they
had only to put on their gloves, run to the machine, and start the
motor. She often chose the most extraordinary hours for going out.
Sometimes it would be just after returning from a ball, then again she
would get up for a ride after she had gone to bed. Frequently she would
select the early morning hours which were usually her time of soundest
sleep.
At times the chauffeurs would succeed each other, week after week,
without leaving the gate of the mansion. The Duchess did not care to go
out. She no longer felt her sudden impulses to ride aimlessly about
Paris, while the city slept, pay unseasonable calls, or glide through
the woods on the outskirts of the capital at the height of some violent
storm. Meantime, the autos seemed to age, as they stood there
motionless, now with their wheels deep in the snow of the courtyard, and
again with the glass of the wind shield flecked with the tear drops of
the slanting rain, that swept under the glass covered porte-cochere.
During all such periods, Alicia, in spite of her restless impulsive
nature, would be spending whole days in bed, telling her intimate
friends that to keep one's beauty one must take a "rest cure" from time
to time. She would entertain her friends at dinner without getting out
of bed. The table would be spread in luxurious fashion in her large
bedroom, and lying between the sheets, with the dishes within reach on a
tiny table, she would laugh and chat for hours with her guests. Months
would go by without her seeing the outside of her house, while the
costly objects in her rooms, amassed to indulge her whims, were quite
forgotten. Her vanity was satisfied, at such times, by the mere fact of
having constructed a costly jewel case to harbor her idleness.
The Prince met her in a little reception room on the ground floor. She
was in truth receiving him with absolute lack of ceremony. She was
dressed in a black tunic of her own invention, a combination of the
Greek peplum and the Japanese kimono. Her bare arms floated free from
the soft silk that almost seemed to live, it clung so closely to her
body. Underneath it, half revealed, were the contours and perfumed
warmth of her flesh, hidden by no inner veils. Michael glanced at his
tuxedo and gleaming shirt-front as though his own costume were quite out
of place.
As she took him to the elevator, which was white and quilted like a
glove box, he caught a rapid glimpse of the drawing rooms of the lower
floor, ostentatious, but left in a shadow almost as dark as night; of
the large dining-hall, deserted, with the furniture covered; of the
little dining-room in which there were no signs whatsoever of
preparations.... Where was she taking him?... Was the table set in her
bedroom?
The elevator passed the second floor without stopping? "We are going to
my study," said Alicia. "I eat there when I am alone."
The Prince was amazed at the so-called "study," a large room which
occupied a major portion of the third floor, and in which only one or
two books in a small book-rack were to be seen. The place was decorated
in imitation "Far East" style: plain black lacquer furniture, silk
either of pale shades or of an intense dark purple, and an array of
frightful idols. A diffused bluish light, like that used in night scenes
on the stage, descended from the ceiling. A screen, embroidered with a
design in gold, formed a sort of second more intimate room, the floor of
which was covered with white rugs of fur, with long, silky hair. Heaped
about were dozens of pillows of various colors adorned with winged
reptiles and unheard of flowers.
An exotic, penetrating odor made Lubimoff wince. He knew that perfume.
And there was a look of severity in his eyes as he glanced sharply at
the Duchess.
"Sit down," she said. "They are going to serve us."
As the Prince looked about, without seeing any sort of a chair, Alicia
set him an example, dropping on a heap of cushions. Michael sat down in
the same fashion, beside a tiny mother of pearl table no bigger than a
tabouret. On it a lamp with a dark shade let fall a circle of soft
light. Inwardly the Prince began to feel a boiling of suppressed anger
as he thought of his evening wasted.
"You must have eaten this way often," she continued, "you have traveled
more than I. The style of decoration must be familiar to you."
Yes; he knew the style, the original and authentic style, and for that
very reason he did not care to see it again in imitation. Besides
obliging him to eat on the floor, there in a house on the Avenue de
Bois.... What an affectation!
But in a short time his opinion began to change. A poseur she
undoubtedly was, but affectation had already become a more or less
natural trait in her, a sort of second nature. He guessed that even in
its slightest details none of this had been prepared especially for him.
Alicia lived and ate there when she was alone just as she was doing
then. She was prey to a desire to be different from other people even
when no one was noticing her.
The servant in charge of the meal was a copper-colored man with a long
down-curling mustache. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, with a white
cloth wrapped around his legs like a skirt. He had long hair, done up on
his head like a woman's and held in place by a tortoiseshell comb. The
Asiatic was placing the huge trays containing the food on the floor:
Some of the dishes were of ancient hammered silver, others of many
colored lacquer, or of semi-transparent materials made in imitation of
emerald, topaz, and red sealing wax.
For Michael the meal looked like something a great chef might have
prepared if he had suddenly gone mad and made up the dishes in the midst
of his ravings. There was not a single item that suggested the
harmonious course of an ordinary dinner. The palate acted on the
imagination, awakening memories of distant travels, visions of far off
lands. Exotic preserves alternated with hot dishes. Pastry flavored with
penetrating perfumes was served along with sharp, biting, or intensely
bitter sauces.
Alicia, half reclining on the cushions, looking at the dishes without
appetite, extended her hand carelessly toward the most unusual
delicacies, and those with the most pungent and racy savors. Clearly
the perversion of her palate was profound. She herself saw to it that
Michael's glass was always filled. It was a drink of her own invention,
having a champagne base. It burned and rasped his mouth, paralyzing all
other sensation with its stinging coolness. It penetrated his nostrils
with a lingering scent of the rarest flowers and of Asiatic spices.
Speaking of the dead Princess, Alicia came to mention her own mother.
They were now on terms of open hostility. Her eyes began to gleam with
defiance as she was reminded of Dona Mercedes, confined in the
Champs-Elysee residence with her court of clericals, and showing herself
in public only for the organizing of pious works. She was trying to
starve her only daughter to death!... And as Michael smiled at this
explosion of anger, she explained her grievances.
"She gives me hardly anything; a mere nothing: half a million francs.
And I have to hand two hundred and fifty thousand a year over to my
husband: a rather expensive lover, whom I avoid seeing. You are really
rich, my dear, and don't understand such things.... Since the fortune is
all in her name, she tries to starve me out and keeps her money to
squander it with the priests.... Poor Senora! She can't find any
admirers now except that _Monsignor_ and other sponges like him.... And
I, her own daughter, have to implore her like a beggar for the crumbs
she gives me, seasoned with sermons.... Oh, if it hadn't been for your
mother! She really was a great lady: I never lamented my poverty to her
in vain; she gave me even more than I asked for. You know of course that
I owe you some money. A little.... I don't know how much. Didn't you
really know that?... I shall pay you back when I get my inheritance."
And with brutal frankness she expounded her full thought.
"When will that bigot leave me in peace?... Old people ought to make way
for the young. What fun do they get out of going on living?"
They had finished eating. She went on filling both their glasses with
her special drink. At first Michael had found it repugnant, but in the
end he was attracted to its refreshing fragrance which gently troubled
the senses, like an intoxication with perfumes.
"Of course you use the pipe," said Alicia simply.
He shook his head and thought of the odor which struck him on entering.
He knew what sort of a "pipe" it was, and gazed about the study. The
smoking den must be in some hidden corner!
"A man like you!" she went on. "A sailor! And I fooled myself into
thinking we'd smoke together!"
She even gave him to understand that the hope of being able to give him
that forbidden pleasure was the principal reason for her invitation. She
became resigned when she learned that the Prince, vigorous as he was,
suffered nausea every time he attempted to experiment with that Asiatic
vice. And while he lighted a havana, Alicia took from a silver case the
cigarettes which she smoked in the presence of the "uninitiated":
Oriental tobacco, but heavily dosed with opium. Suddenly Michael was
convinced of something of which he had a presentiment the moment he
entered the place, or even earlier, the moment their glances had met in
the cemetery. He saw her half rising from the cushions, with a
panther-like contraction of her muscles, as though she were ready to
spring at him. It was the concentrated impulse of the beast, beautiful
and sure of its power, unable to wait, and not knowing how to feign.
Alicia had forgotten the demi-tasse she held in her hand, as she sat
there, looking at him fixedly. The tiny blue electric spark dancing in
her eyes was something well known to Michael.
It was the offering glance of female silence, inviting violence, and
mastery. He had encountered that glance often along his path of triumph
as a conquering millionaire.... He felt he must say something at once to
break the silent charm of the beautiful witch, who, sure of her final
victory, was smiling and blowing puffs of cigarette smoke toward him. So
Michael alluded to her amorous fame, to the great number of lovers she
was supposed to have had. That might widen the distance between them.
"Ah! You too?" said Alicia laughing, with masculine frankness. "I don't
suppose your morals are the same as Mamma's! You are not going to read
me a sermon on my behavior. Although, after all, Mamma doesn't blame me
for what I do. What makes her angry is the fact that I am not afraid of
what people say, and that sometimes I am attracted to unknown men of low
birth. Poor Senora! If I were to have an affair with a king or a crown
prince, perhaps she'd even let us see each other in her house, and have
her _Monsignor_ mount guard into the bargain."
She remained silent for a moment. That disturbing glance was still fixed
on Michael.
"It is true; I have had a lot of men. And how about you? Do you think I
don't know about your wanderings all over the planet in quest of types
of women unknown to the novels and capable of giving new sensations?...
We have both done the same: only it wasn't necessary for me to travel
around so much to learn just what you have learned.... And you are not
so absurd as to imagine, as certain men do, that our cases are not to
be compared because we are of different sexes."
The Prince listened silently as she expounded her ideas. She was deeply
in love with life, and in return she demanded all that life could give
her.... The minds of other women were occupied with questions of a
material nature: desire for wealth, longings for luxury, domestic
cares.... As for her, she possessed everything; to-morrow held no
worries for her; not even in regard to her beauty, sustained as it was
by wonderful health, and seeming to increase in spite of age and her
prodigal waste of energies.
In her life, made up of caprices, always completely satisfied, even to
the point of satiety, only one thing interested her, from its infinite
variety and from its many phases, which might seem to vulgar people a
monotonous repetition of one another, but which in reality were distinct
for a mind attuned, as hers was, to exquisite sensations. That thing was
love.
"Oh please understand me, Michael; don't sit there laughing to yourself.
You know me too well ever to imagine that I believe in love as the
majority of women do. I know that a certain amount of illusion is
necessary to color the material aspect of love; we all lie about it a
little, and we enjoy the lie even though we know it as such; but way
down deep, I laugh at love as the world understands it, just as I laugh
at so many things which people venerate.... I don't want lovers, I want
admirers. I am not looking for love; I care more for adoration."
She was proud of her beauty. She spoke of Venus as though the goddess
were a real person. She admired the Olympic serenity with which the
Deity of Passion gave herself to gods and men, never surrendering her
superiority even at the moment when she was submitting to the
domination of the stronger sex. Alicia considered herself a
super-beauty, belonging to a sphere outside the ordinary limits of vice
and virtue. She thought herself a living work of art; and art is neither
moral nor immoral; its mission is fulfilled when it is beautiful.
"Poets, painters, and musicians seek to abandon themselves to the
greatest number of admirers. They do their utmost to enlarge their
circle of public worshipers and with feminine coquetry they try to
attract new suitors. I am like them. I do not need to create beauty, for
as they say, I have it in myself. I am my own work, but I love glory; I
need admiration; and for that reason I give myself generously, content
with the happiness which I apportion, but keeping my public at my feet,
without allowing myself to be dominated by those whom I seek."
Michael was sure that many artists must have left their imprint on that
woman's life. It was evident in the words and imagery with which she
endeavored to express her enthusiasm for her own body. Her pride in her
beauty was boundless. What were the ambitions of men, compared to the
satisfaction of being lovely and desired? Only the glory of warriors, of
blood-stained conquerors, whose names are known even in the remotest
wilds of the earth, equals the glory that a woman feels in the sense of
universal power over men.
"To me," continued Alicia, "the truest and most beautiful thing ever
written is 'the old men on the wall.'"
The Prince looked at her questioningly; so she went on to explain. She
referred to the old Trojan men in the _Iliad_, who were protesting
against the long siege of their city, against the blood sacrifice of
thousands of heroes, against poverty and hardship, all due to the fault
of a woman.... But Helen, majestic in her beauty, passed before the old
men, trailing her golden tunic; and they all lapsed into silent
contemplation, rapt in wonder, as though divine Aphrodite had descended
upon earth; and they murmured like a prayer: "It is indeed fitting that
we should suffer thus for her. So lovely she is!"
"I like to see men suffer on my account. How glorious if I might be the
cause of a great slaughter, like that ancient immortal woman!... I have
an exultant feeling of pride when I notice that envy and spite are
whispering behind my back, starting all that gossip that makes my mother
so furious. Only extraordinary people stir up torrents of abuse.... And
afterwards, in the drawing rooms, the very same austere gentlemen who
have seconded all that their wives and daughters have to say against me,
look at me with sly admiring glances, as I pass; and some of them blush
in confusion and others turn pale. It is easy to guess that I have only
to beckon and their silent admiration would.... I too have my 'old men
on the wall.'"
Michael suddenly realized that while she was talking she had been coming
gradually closer, from cushion to cushion as she lay resting on her
elbows. She was almost at his feet, with head held high, endeavoring to
envelop him in a wave of magnetism from her fixed and dominating eyes.
She seemed like a black and white snake, twisting forward little by
little among the cushions as though they were rocks of various colors.
"The only man of whom I have ever thought the least bit, the only one I
ever considered at all different from other men," she continued in a
half whisper, "is you.... Don't be alarmed: it isn't love. I am not
going to invert roles, and propose to you. Perhaps it is because, as
children, we used to hate each other; because you never wanted me. That
is such an unheard of thing in my life, that it alone is enough to
interest me."
She put her hands on his knees, as though she were about to rise.
"When I saw you in the cemetery, after so many years, I remembered all
that I had heard about you. Many women whom I know have been sweethearts
of yours, and I said to myself: Why not I, too? Then I thought of all
the men who have come into my life, and I added: Why not he?" ...
And now Alicia's elbows were resting on his knees, and as the Prince was
seated on but two pillows, their lips and eyes were almost on a level.
As she talked he could feel her breath on his face. It was like the
breeze in an Asiatic forest, whispering beneath the moon. The spices and
flowers with which the wine was saturated seemed to float in that
volatile caress.
Michael tried to avoid her advance, but one of Alicia's hands was
already on his shoulder. He merely shook his head.
"Don't be afraid," she added, exaggerating the caressing quality of her
sigh. "There are no embarrassing obligations with me. You may leave me
when you wish; perhaps I shall be the one to leave you first. I have
wanted you for the last few days. You must surely desire me as the
others do.... Let us live this moment, like people who know the secret
of life and all it can give.... Then if we tire of each other, good-by,
with no hard feeling and no pining!"
When from time to time in after years the Prince recalled that scene, he
always felt a certain dissatisfaction with himself. He was sure he had
seemed brutal as well as ridiculous. In his travels he had approached
women frequently in the most matter of fact way, often remembering them
afterwards with some repugnance; yet here he was, rebelling with a
feeling of offended modesty at the advances of the Duchess. No! With
her, never! Rising within him he felt the same displeasure that had once
made him raise his whip in his youth.
He found himself on his feet in the middle of the study, looking
anxiously toward the door and muttering stupid excuses. "No, I must go:
it is late. Some friends are waiting for me...." She had gained control
of herself. She too was standing looking at him with astonishment and
wrath.
"You are the only one who could do a thing like this," she said, in a
cutting tone, as they parted. "I see it all clearly now. I hate you as
you hate me. My whim was a stupid one. You have permitted yourself a
liberty which no one in the world will ever be able to take again. If I
were younger than I am I would thrash you again as I did in the Bois;
but instead, just consider that I am repeating everything I said then."
They did not see each other again.
When the Prince had set in order everything concerning the inheritance
from his mother, he thought of resuming his voyages, but on a more
magnificent scale. It was no longer necessary for him to ask the
Princess for money. He was one of the great millionaires of the world.
Those who were in charge of the administration of his affairs--an office
with numerous clerks, almost equalling the government bureau of a small
state--made the announcement that the fifteen million francs which the
Princess had received annually would soon be twenty, through the
development of Russian railways, which allowed more intensive working of
his mines.
The Colonel was commissioned to have the heavy medieval walls of Villa
Sirena torn down, and the place replanned according to the Prince's
tastes. The latter hated architectural resuscitations. He could not bear
modern buildings patterned to flatter the pride of the rich proprietors,
after the Alhambra, the palaces of Florence, or the solemn and orderly
constructions of Versailles.
"The furniture ought to correspond to the period," said Michael, "and
people ought to live in such houses as they lived in in the century
which produced that particular style. People living in an ancient house
ought to dress and eat as in former times.... What an absurdity to
reconstruct those historic shells, with the interior arranged to suit
the needs of modern men who are forced to commit an anachronism at every
step!"
He recalled the project of a millionaire friend of his, a member of the
Institute, who had built a Roman house on the Riviera, Roman in all the
exactness of its details. At the house-warming the guests were obliged
to sleep on corded beds and to eat reclining on couches; and even more
intimate conveniences were modeled on the principle of hygiene known to
the ancient Caesars. Within twenty-four hours they all pretended they had
received urgent telegrams calling them to Paris, and the owner himself
after a few months, left his house in charge of a keeper to show to
tourists as a museum.
Michael was fond of modern architecture, whose cathedrals are machine
shops and large railway stations. Applied to dwellings it pleased him
for its lack of style: white walls, a few moldings, rounded corners,
with no angles whatsoever, so that the dust might be pursued to its
remotest hiding places, wide openings letting in the breeze and the
sunlight, double walls between which hot or cold air, and water at
various temperatures, could circulate.
"Up to the present time," the Prince asserted, "man has lived in
magnificent jewel cases of art and filth. Modern architects have done
more in the last thirty years to make life pleasant than the
artist-builders, so much admired by history, did in three thousand. They
have declared running water and the bath-room as indispensable, things
which were unknown to kings themselves half a century ago. They have
invented the furnace and the water closet. Don't talk to me about the
magnificent palaces of Versailles, where there was not a single toilet,
and where every morning the lackeys were obliged to empty two hundred
vessels for the king and his courtiers. Often to be through quicker,
they threw their contents out of the majestic windows, and sometimes it
would fall on the sedan chair and the retinue of a Dauphine or an
ambassador."
Toledo applied himself to supervising the construction of Villa Sirena
in accordance with the desires of the Prince, making it a plain white
building, and without any definite style of architecture. Lubimoff
himself, at the proper time, would take charge of the artistic touches,
placing famous pictures, statues, tapestries, or rugs, just where they
would be most pleasing to the eye. The house was to be a harmony of
simple, pure lines. The walls were to have heating and cooling systems
for the different seasons, and running water was to be available in
abundance everywhere. Each room was to have its electric lights and its
electric fan.
The Prince found it a much easier task to make over his wandering ocean
residence. He simply sold the Gaviota, which reminded him of his
youthful dependence on his family, and went to the United States to look
into an advertisement. Three years before a certain multimillionaire had
begun the construction of a yacht, designed to be more luxurious and of
greater tonnage than that of any European sovereign. As the American was
about to witness the consummation of this triumph of the democratic
kings of industry over the historic kings of the Old World, he was
killed in an automobile accident, and his heirs did not know what to do
with the leviathan which would only be of use to an immensely rich,
and, in their opinion, somewhat crazy traveler. They were thinking of
selling it at a loss to the Kaiser, William II, having decided finally
to endure his demands as a sharp business man, when Prince Lubimoff
appeared. A week later on the white stern and bows of the yacht a new
name in gold letters was displayed, a name that was repeated in addition
on the life preservers and on the various tenders, the dingies, the
steam launches, and the motor boats. The American yacht had become the
_Gaviota II_.
It had the tonnage of a small trans-Atlantic liner and the speed of a
torpedo boat. Each day the wealth of an ordinary man went up in smoke
through the _Gaviota II's_ double funnels. During a trip to some distant
island, the supply of coal gave out. Immediately a collier chartered by
the Prince, came to meet the _Gaviota II_ in the farthest seas to fill
the bunkers with fuel.
Quiet harbors came to be illuminated at night, as though the sun had
risen. When the Prince gave a _fete_, the ship would be a blaze of glory
from the water to the mastheads, its outline marked by electric bulbs of
various colors, while powerful searchlights shot out movable streams of
radiance and drew the waves, the shores, and rows of city houses from
the depths of the darkness. At other times, the white fire of the
_Gaviota II's_ monstrous eyes would flash on walls of ice towering to
the clouds, and seals, penguins, and polar bears would waken from sleep
frightened by the strange luminous, puffing monster that darted off like
lightning into the mystery of night.
To be the owner of a floating palace which, when anchoring off large
cities, drew such crowds of sightseers as rare spectacles only attract,
was not enough for Michael Fedor. So he created something more
interesting even than the luxurious salons, and the refinements of
comfort of the _Gaviota II_: he built up an orchestra.
Sensuous delight in music was for him the most exquisite of emotions.
When his ears were satiated with the sweetness and melody of traditional
music, he sought unknown and often bizarre composers, who aroused his
curiosity; but he always came back to demanding as the _pieces de
resistance_ of his harmonic feasts, the masters who had been his first
love, and above all, Beethoven.
Treated as though they were officers, paid to their liking, and with the
added inducement of being able to see a great deal of the world,
musicians from every country offered their services to the yacht's
orchestra. Famous concert players and young composers came in as mere
instrumentalists. Some were ill, and sought to regain their health in a
voyage around the world in real luxury and without expense; others
embarked through love of adventure, to see new lands in this floating
castle, in which everything seemed organized for an eternal holiday.
There were never less than fifty of them.
"My orchestra is the finest in the world," the Prince would proudly say
when his guests complimented him after one of the concerts his musicians
gave at rare intervals on land.
In tropical nights, beneath the enormous honey-colored moon changing the
sea to a vast plain of quick-silver, the musicians, seated in evening
clothes before the rows of music racks illuminated by tiny electric
lights, would weave on the quiet air, which seemed to have retained the
first faint cries of the planet at its birth, the most original
melodies, the most subtle combination of sounds that the sublime rapture
of artists in god-like inspiration ever created. The music floated out
behind the boat in the mystery of the ocean, like a scarf unfolding,
breaking and scattering in fragments, with the smoke of the funnels.
When the orchestra paused one could hear the distant subdued beat of the
propellers, churning the foam with a humming sound; and then from time
to time the slow tolling of the bell calling the men on watch, or the
cry of the lookout snuggled into the crow's nest on the mainmast,
reporting his vigilance with the rhythmic intonation of a muezzin from a
minaret. And the monotonous music of the sea gave an impression of
night, and of immensity, to the music of man.
At the foot of the companionways, or on the outjutting parts of the
lower decks, the various officers and officials of the Prince gathered
to hear the concert in the night. On the prow the sailors squatted,
listening to the music in religious silence, as is often the case with
simple men when confronted with something they do not understand, but
which inspires awe. Aft, the only listener would be Michael Fedor,
standing at a distance from the music, and with his back toward the
musicians, watching at his feet, the divided, foaming waters which
rushed by like a double river far out and away from the boat. As
occasionally he raised his cigar to his lips, his pensive features would
appear for a moment in the darkness, lighted by the red glow.
The yacht held another more silent group. Those who succeeded in getting
on board in the ports always obtained a distant glimpse of a woman or
two with white shoes, blue skirts, jackets with rows of gold buttons,
masculine collars and neckties, and officers' caps. No one knew for
certain how many such women there may have been. The men of the crew
were forbidden access to the central quarters of the boat, and to the
upper deck. Some of them, chancing to break the rule through oversight,
had met the Prince's companions attired in elegant naval uniforms, or
more lightly clad, like dancers, in elaborate and exotic costumes. At
the large ports, steam launches landed these mysterious and beautiful
travelers for a few hours on shore. It was remarked that they dressed
with modest elegance and that they would speak various languages.
When the _Gaviota II_ returned and anchored in the same harbor she had
visited the preceding year, those whose curiosity had been aroused found
that the personnel of the wandering harem had been completely renewed.
They might occasionally recognize one or two of the former ladies, but
now their faces wore the placid expression of the odalisque who has been
supplanted, but is nevertheless contented with luxury and oblivion.
Some years Michael Fedor suspended his travels, during the summer, to
take up his abode at fashionable beaches. The women who accompanied him
on his long voyages remained on board, with all the lavish comforts to
which they were accustomed. At other times he parted with them, as one
dismisses a crew when a ship goes out of commission, at the end of a
trip.
Immediately he became interested in women living stay-at-home lives, in
shore society, and in summer flirtations at famous watering places. He
would take up his abode in a hotel on the coast, while his yacht was to
be seen rising from the azure waters, motionless, like a palace of
mystery and magnificence, the center of all feminine imaginings.
Living in Biarritz he came to know Atilio Castro intimately through
learning that they were related on his father's side. The Spaniard
admired the fascination exercised by the Prince, often without wishing
to do so, on all women.
Never at any period had women been more strongly attracted by luxury or
felt less scruples in the means of obtaining it than at present. This
was the opinion of Castro. Lavish display, which in other centuries had
been within reach of only the very few families, was now possible for
every one. All one needed to indulge in it was money. Besides, it was
necessary to take into account present-day progress in material things,
which has made life easier, but at the same time has increased our
needs.
"The motor car and the pearl necklace have made more victims than the
wars of Napoleon," said Atilio.
"These two things are like the gala uniform of women, and those who are
forced to go without them consider themselves unfortunate and ill
treated by fate. This twin image has shattered the illusions of maidens
and the fidelity of wives. Mothers in middle class society, with
melancholy dejection written on their faces as though they had made
stupid failures of their lives, advise their daughters: 'If you are
going to get married, make sure you will get an auto and a pearl
necklace.' And long after the modest marriage this desire still remains,
strengthened by maternal advice. Luxury is the one thought, luxury at
whatever cost. Luxury has been democratized. It is within reach of all,
obtainable through money, which has no taint, no odor, no sign of its
origin."
"You are the great provider of the expensive motor car of fashionable
make and of the rope of pearls," continued Castro. "You are the great
Sultan of magnificence. Your signature to a check is enough to sweep a
woman off her feet in a torrent of gold. Make the most of your
opportunity! The period in which you were born has left you an open
field for your talents."
And the Prince, who was not at all in need of such advice, went his way
as conqueror through a world in which the best accredited virtues
collapsed before his attack. Even sincere resistance finally appeared to
him to be a clever device for postponing surrender and increasing the
market value of desire. The millions from Russia were scattered
broadcast in smaller and smaller subdivisions, maintaining the well
being and display of many homes, indulging the taste for luxury of
numerous ladies, and keeping numberless factories busy producing elegant
novelties of female luxury. A few women felt a sincere interest in
Michael Fedor for his own sake, because of the mysterious prestige of
his voyages in a boat which was talked about as though it were an
enchanted palace; and also because of his adventures with celebrated
actresses and women of high society, which made him more attractive. But
once their vanity and curiosity were satisfied, they allowed their own
self-interest to have a word. "Why should I be any more altruistic than
the rest?"
They were not obliged to use cunning or round-about phrases in
formulating their requests. Some at the second meeting, took on a
melancholy air, and spoke of the sad realities of life. But the generous
Prince anticipated their desires. He preferred to pay his mistresses and
dazzle them with splendid gifts. Thus he could regard them as favored
slaves covered with jewels. In this way also, it was easier to break
with them: He could go away from them whenever he so desired, satisfied
with his own behavior, and quite unmoved by their tears and laments.
From his semi-oriental Russian ancestors he had inherited a great
sensual capacity, which caused him to be attracted to women, and at the
same time to feel an inalterable scorn for them. He indulged them but
could not love them; he adored them, but was stirred to indignation when
they presumed to be on terms of equality with him. He was capable of
ruining himself, of braving death for them, but he was ready to thrust
them aside with his foot if they tried in the least to govern his life.
The ambitious ones who feigned deep, passionate love for him in the hope
of marriage, the sentimental ones who tried to interest him with
psychological subtleties, and those who kept their maternal enthusiasm
even in adultery, and murmured in his ear how happy they would be to
have a child who might resemble him, waited for him in vain the
following day. "Neither deep passion, nor children!" ... Two trails of
smoke were soon rising from the yacht, carrying its owner to another
port or perhaps to another continent: or if he wished to flee from a
city in the interior, he gave orders that his private car should be
coupled to the first train that was leaving.
These flights were never undertaken without a generous remembrance.
Michael Fedor's munificence continued for those whom he had abandoned.
Each year new names were added to his budget, like that of a reigning
house which allots pensions to its forgotten servants. But the pensions
of Prince Lubimoff were for the maintenance of luxury and not of life.
The most modest were over thirty thousand francs a year. The average was
double that amount.
"Your Excellency: there will have to be a revision," his administrator
would say.
Michael would examine the list of names, hesitating at a few. He could
not recall clearly the persons who bore them. Then suddenly he would
smile, as certain visions were suddenly and attractively awakened in his
mind. He was immensely wealthy: why not keep up the luxury which was the
one dream of all of them?... He was not disturbed by the jealous thought
that his successors would be reaping the benefit of that luxury.
He felt a certain god-like pride in making his generosity felt at all
times, without letting himself be seen. In Paris a jewelry shop managed
by a Jew of Spanish origin limited its entire business to the production
of the Prince's gifts. His gems of high intrinsic value, with no false
artifices, had a certain family resemblance, a sort of imaginary
perfume which enabled the women who displayed them to recognize each
other. When it was least expected, at tea time, in the dining-room of a
hotel, at an elegant watering place at a dance, two women who had just
met would gaze at each other's ears and breast in silence, until the
boldest, blushing imperceptibly under her rouge, would ask simply: "You
knew Prince Lubimoff too?..."
Atilio Castro felt a deep admiration for his relative, less on account
of his triumphs than of the iron constitution required to sustain them.
"What a Cossack! A regular Cossack!... He is a true descendant of that
lover of the Great Catherine!"
Nevertheless, frequently the yacht would hurriedly put out to sea on
long voyages, without its master being forced to flee from any dangerous
or entangling passion. He was running away from himself, from his
perverse imagination and curiosity, which made him seek and allure
different women, upsetting his peace of mind, without rousing in him any
real desire. He undertook the most extraordinary voyages, for the sake
of the bracing air and the sense of restfulness the sea brings. The
orchestra accompanied him; but the "harem" remained on shore. He had
gone completely around the globe, following the shortest route; then he
had repeated this circumnavigation, but over a zig-zag course, to become
acquainted with all the coasts of the earth. At present he was on going
on whimsical trips; he was sailing from one hemisphere to another for
the pleasure of visiting one or another of the small islands which seem
lost in the Pacific, and are so tiny that on the maps they look like
mere dots placed after long names traced on the blue colored surface.
Returning from one of these excursions on which he went around the world
as though it were his personal property, he received by wireless the
news that Germany had declared war against Russia and France.
He felt no great surprise. He knew William II personally. It was because
of him that Prince Lubimoff avoided cruising off the coast of Norway in
summer.
The year following his acquisition of the _Gaviota II_ he had come
across the Imperial yacht in those parts. The Kaiser, like an officious,
all-knowing neighbor, came to see him in order to look over the yacht,
examining it in all its details, giving advice, reviewing the men and
materials, making a dissertation on the engines and interrupting himself
to advise certain changes in the uniform of the crew. After a breakfast
on his own yacht, and luncheon on the Emperor's, Prince Michael had had
enough of this unexpected friendship. Lohengrin, with his winged helmet,
white mantle, and both hands on the hilt of his sword, was less
unbearable than this gentleman with turned up mustache, and wolfish
teeth, dressed like a sailor, who laughed a false and brutal laugh, and
(whenever he met on the seas a multimillionaire from America or Europe)
played the role of a man of great simplicity and of an unconventional
sovereign. Money inspired deep veneration in this story-book hero, this
mystic with a mind fed on grandeur. Michael had never shared the
enthusiasm of various snobs for the German Emperor. He smiled at the
Hohenzollern's theatrical tastes, his war-like bravadoes, and his
intellectual ambitions which pretended to embrace the whole knowable
universe.
"He is a comedian," Michael said on receiving the news of the war, "a
comedian who for a long time is going to make the whole world weep....
And to think that the fate of mankind should depend on such a man!..."
Michael Fedor considered himself as a being set apart from the rest of
mankind. He lamented the war as something terrible for the rest, but
which could not influence his own particular fate. Since a madness for
blood had descended upon Europe, he would go on sailing distant seas.
Thanks to his wealth he could keep beyond the margins of the struggle.
But times changed rapidly; life was not the same: all old values had
lost their significance. In spite of her Russian flag, the _Gaviota II_
found herself halted by some English torpedo boats and was forced to
submit to a minute inspection. They could not believe that any one
should be cruising for pleasure when all the seas had been converted
into a battlefield. In the latitude of the Azores it became necessary to
force the yacht's engines to escape from a German corsair.
Besides, fuel was getting scarce. The various coaling stations located
here and there on the coast were reserved exclusively for the warships.
Important news kept coming by wireless from far-off Paris, where the
chief agent of the Prince was located. Communication had been broken off
between the Paris office and the administrators of the Lubimoff fortune
in Russia. No money was coming from there, and the French banks, with
their vaults closed by the _moratorium_, were willing secretly to lend
money to a millionaire like the Prince, but not in quantities sufficient
to meet his current needs.
The yacht came to anchor in the port of Monaco, and Michael Fedor, on
arriving in Paris, almost laughed, as though witnessing some
preposterous change in the laws of nature. The heir of the Lubimoffs in
need of money, and compelled to make an effort to obtain it--something
he had never done in all his life! Here he was having to ask for loans
at frightfully usurious rates, on the security of his distant and famous
wealth, which for the first time was regarded somewhat contemptuously!...
When communications were reestablished in an intermittent fashion
between Western Europe and Russia--which was practically isolated--the
administrator of the Prince gave a look of despair. The collections had
been reduced eighty per cent.
"According to that, I am going to be poor?" asked Lubimoff, laughing,
the news seemed so unbelievable and absurd.
It was very difficult to send money as far as Paris. Besides the rouble
was decreasing in value at a dizzy rate. Millions on reaching France
became mere hundred thousands. Mobilization had left the mines without
workmen; there was no outlet for the produce; the peasants, seeing their
sons in the army, refused to pay any money, and even to work. The
Russian government, to keep as much money as possible at home, limited
to small amounts the money sent to citizens residing abroad.
"The Czar putting me on a pension!" said the Prince in amazement. "A
thousand or two thousand francs a month!... How absurd!"
* * * * *
But he did not laugh long. His anger against the Russian court, which
had gradually been growing in his subconsciousness ever since his
expulsion so long ago from Petersburg, now moved by a selfish impulse
suddenly flared up. The Czar and his counselors, desirous of
Russianizing all Eastern Europe, were responsible for the war. They
certainly might have kept peace with Germany. Why disturb the peace of
the world, for the sake of a little race of people in the Balkans?
He coolly made fun of certain of his friends who, by devious routes
across Europe and the icy Northern seas, returned to Russia to regain
their former commissions in the army. As for him, he had no desire to
die for the Czar. It made little difference to him whether his country
were governed by Germans. There were times when he even thought that
would be preferable, so long as peace were restored rapidly, allowing
him once more to reap the benefit of his wealth, and resume the life he
had been leading a few months before, or, as it now seemed, a half
century before.
The next two years went by for Lubimoff like a nightmare. What sort of a
world was he living in?... His former friends were disappearing. Some of
the frivolous women who had made life pleasant for him were not moved in
the least by the unfortunate events which were happening; but others
showed themselves to be heroic and self-sacrificing, forgetting all they
had done before, feeling a new soul developing within them.
The Prince suddenly found himself dragged along by the world happenings.
A mysterious and irresistible force was pushing against him, causing him
to lose his balance, just as he was reaching the pinnacle of his life,
so pleasant, so vast, crowned with a halo of such glory. And now, once
started, he was tumbling head over heels, of his own inertia, and each
step he struck as he descended, gave him a harder blow, a more painful
surprise. How far would this landslide take him?... What would he strike
at the end of this unheard-of fall?...
His interviews with his Paris administrator seemed to him like something
taking place in another world, subject to ridiculous laws. These
conferences always ended with the same order on his part:
"Try and get some money. Ask for a loan.... I am Prince Lubimoff, and
this cannot last. Whoever wins--it is all the same to me--order will be
reestablished, and I shall pay my creditors immediately."
But the administrator answered, with a look of dismay: "Raise money on
property in Russia?..." Taking advantage of the former prestige of the
Prince, he had been able to negotiate various loans; but time was
passing and the enormous interest was accumulating. Lubimoff in spite of
cutting down expenses and doing away with pensions, was in need of money
for his current living expenses.
The fall of the Czar gave a ray of hope to this magnate who hated the
Imperial government. "With the Republic the war will be over sooner and
we shall come back to the proper order of things." His egoism made him
conceive of a Republic as a form of government occupied chiefly with
restoring the wealth of beings of fortunate birth. The meager shreds of
his fortune which now and then still got as far as Paris were suddenly
cut off. The fountain of wealth was dry. The crumbling of a whole world
had dammed its source, and perhaps forever.
"Your Excellency must sell," the administrator was always saying. "You
must do without everything that is superfluous. We must liquidate in
time. Who knows how long the present state of affairs may last!"
The yacht was lying idle in Monaco harbor. Almost the entire crew,
composed of Italians, Frenchmen, and Englishmen, had left it to go and
serve in the navies of their respective nations. Only a few Spaniards
remained on board, to keep the boat clean.
The _Gaviota II_ was renamed by the English admiralty, and turned over
to the Red Cross. When he signed the bill of sale, Michael Fedor felt
that he was giving up his whole past. The romantic prestige of his mode
of life was vanishing now for all time; the _Arabian Nights_ palace was
being converted into a hospital ship.... What a world!
The English millions afforded him a year of respite. The administrator
paid the huge debts, and he was able to live without economizing, in
Paris, a Paris nearing the end of its third year of war with
inexplicable tranquillity, resuming its usual pleasures as though all
danger were past. Love affairs with two distinguished women, whose
husbands were called to arms--although they were not at the
front--caused him to spend a few months, now at Biarritz, now on the
Riviera, and now at Aix-les-Bains.
His agent disturbed these enjoyments. He was constantly repeating the
same advice: "You must sell." The Prince's fortune was already like an
old ship drifting aimlessly. The administrator had stopped the last
leaks with the money from the most recent sale, but warned him at every
moment that she was taking in water through new ones.
In the end Michael Fedor grew accustomed to misfortune, accepting it
serenely.
The sale of the palace built by his mother moved him less than that of
his yacht.
At the same time his desires had changed. He was beginning to tire of
love adventures, which seemed to be the only object of existence. His
fresh and vigorous constitution, which had amazed Castro, suddenly broke
down. But this was more the result of worry than of physical wear and
tear.
He felt that he was poor, and was he not accustomed to pay royally for
his love affairs? Not being able to reward women with luxury, he would
rather flee in order not to accept from them and be obliged to tolerate
from them their caprices. He preferred to master his desires, as long as
he could not satisfy them with all the grandeur of an oriental
potentate. Besides he was tired of love, and all the pleasant things of
life a man can find in this world!...
He thought of his friend Atilio, of the Colonel, of Villa Sirena, white
and shining in the Mediterranean sunlight, among the olive trees and
cypresses.
"The earth is being swept by the deluge. Perhaps the old lands will once
more appear; perhaps they will remain submerged forever.... Let us take
refuge in our Ark, and wait and hope."