Not haughtily--not even condescendingly--just as a matter of course. He
had evidently found out who and what I was. He had seen me address the
Pigeon Charmer, and had recognized instantly, from my speech and
bearing--both, perhaps--that dominating vital force, that breezy
independence which envelops most Americans, and which makes them so
popular the world over. In thus kotowing he was only getting in line
with the citizens of most of the other effete monarchies of Europe.
Every traveller is conscious of it. His bow showed it--so did the soft
purring quality of his speech. Recollections of Manila, Santiago, and
the voyage of the Oregon around Cape Horn were in the bow, and Kansas
wheat, Georgia cotton, and the Steel Trust in the dulcet tones of his
voice. That he should have mistaken me for a great financial magnate
controlling some one of these colossal industries, instead of locating
me instantly as a staid, gray-haired, and rather impecunious
landscape-painter, was quite natural. Others before him have made that
same mistake. Why, then, undeceive him? Let it go--he would leave in the
morning and go his way, and I should never see him more. So I smoked on,
chatting pleasantly and, as was my custom, summing him up.
He was perhaps seventy--smooth-shaven--black--coal-black eyes. Dressed
simply in black clothes--not a jewel--no watch-chain even--no rings on
his hands but a plain gold one like a wedding-ring. His dressing-case
showed the gentleman. Bottles with silver tops--brushes backed with
initials--soap in a silver cup. Red morocco Turkish slippers with
pointed toes; embroidered smoking-cap--all appointments of a man of
refinement and of means. Tucked beside his razor-case were some books
richly bound, and some bundles tied with red tape. Like most educated
Russians, he spoke English with barely an accent.
I was not long in arriving at a conclusion. No one would have been--no
one of my experience. He was either a despatch-agent connected with the
Government, or some lawyer of prominence, who was on his way to Paris to
look after the interests of some client of his in Russia. The latter,
probably. The only man on the car he seemed to know, besides myself, was
the Sleeping-Car Manager, who lifted his hat to him as he passed, and
the Ring Master, with whom he stood talking at the door of his
compartment. This, however, was before I had brought the Pigeon Charmer
into the car.
The cigarette smoked, I was again in the corridor, the bald-headed man
holding the door for me to pass out first.
It was now nine o'clock, and we had been under way an hour. I found the
Pigeon Charmer occupying the sofa. The two young Acrobats and the
Lightning Calculator were evidently in bed, and the maid, no doubt, busy
preparing her mistress's couch for the night. She smiled quite frankly
when I approached, and motioned me to a seat beside her. All these
professional people the world over have unconventional manners, and an
acquaintance is often easily made--at least, that has been my
experience.
She began by thanking me in French for my share in getting her such
comfortable quarters--dropped into German for a sentence or two, as if
trying to find out my nationality--and finally into English, saying,
parenthetically:
"You are English, are you not?"
No financial magnate this time--rather queer, I thought--that she missed
that part of my personality. My room-mate had recognized it, even to the
extent of calling me "Your Highness."
"No, an American."
"Oh, an American! Yes, I should have known--No, you are not English. You
are too kind to be English. An Englishman would not have taken even a
little bit of trouble to help us." I noticed the race prejudice in her
tone, but I did not comment on it.
Then followed the customary conversation, I doing most of the talking. I
began by telling her how big our country was; how many people we had;
how rich the land; how wealthy the citizens; how great the opportunities
for artists seeking distinction, etc. We all do that with foreigners.
Then I tried to lead the conversation so as to find out something about
herself--particularly where she could be seen in Paris. She was charming
in her travelling-costume--she would be superb in low neck and bare
arms, her pets snuggling under her chin, or alighting on her upraised,
shapely hands. But either she did not understand, or she would not let
me see she did--the last, probably, for most professional people dislike
all reference to their trade by non-professionals--they object to be
even mentally classed by themselves.
While we talked on, the Dog Woman opened the door of her compartment,
knocked at the Dog's door--his Dogship and the maid were inside--patted
the brute on his head, and re-entered her compartment and shut the door
for the night.
I looked for some recognition between the two members of the same
troupe, but my companion gave not the slightest sign that the Dog Woman
existed. Jealous, of course, I said to myself. That's another
professional trait.
The Ring Master now passed, raised his hat and entered his compartment.
No sign of recognition; rather a cold, frigid stare, I thought.
The Sleeping-Car Manager next stepped through the car, lifted his hat
when he caught sight of my companion, tiptoed deferentially until he
reached the door, and went on to the next car. She acknowledged his
homage with a slight bend of her beautiful head, rose from her seat,
gave an order in Russian to her English maid who was standing in the
door of her compartment, held out her hand to me with a frank
good-night, and closed the door behind her.
I looked in on the bald-headed man. He was tucked away in the upper
berth sound asleep.
* * * * *
When the next morning I moved up the long platform of the Gare du Nord
in search of a cab, I stepped immediately behind the big Danish hound.
He was walking along, his shoulders shaking as he walked, his tongue
hanging from his mouth. The Woman had him by a leash, her maid following
with the band-boxes, the feather boa, and the parasols. In the crowd
behind me walked the bald-headed man, his arm, to my astonishment,
through that of the King Master's. _They_ both kotowed as they switched
off to the baggage-room, the Ring Master bowing even lower than
my roommate.
Then I became sensible of a line of lackeys in livery fringing the edge
of the platform, and at their head a most important-looking individual
with a decoration on the lapel of his coat. He was surrounded by half a
dozen young men, some in brilliant uniforms. They were greeting with
great formality my fair companion of the night before! The two Acrobats,
the German Calculator, and the English bareback-rider maid stood on
one side.
My thought was that it was all an advertising trick of the Circus
people, arranged for spectacular effect to help the night's receipts.
While I looked on in wonder, the Manager of the Sleeping-Car Company
joined me.
"I must thank you, sir," he said, "for making known to me the outrage
committed by one of our porters on the Princess. She is travelling
incognito, and I did not know she was on the train until she told me
last night who she was. We get the best men we can, but we are
constantly having trouble of that kind with our porters. The trick is to
give every passenger a whole compartment, and then keep packing them
together unless they pay something handsome to be let alone. I shall
make an example of that fellow. He is a new one and didn't know me"--and
he laughed.
"Do they call her the _Princess_?" I asked. They were certainly
receiving her like one, I thought.
"Why, certainly, I thought you knew her," and he looked at me curiously,
"the Princess Dolgorouki Sliniski. Her husband, the Prince, is attached
to the Emperor's household. She is travelling with her two boys and
their German tutor. The old gentleman with the white mustache now
talking to her is the Russian Ambassador. And you only met her on the
train? Old Azarian told me you knew her intimately."
"Azarian!" I was groping round in the fog now.
"Yes--your room-mate. He is an Armenian and one of the richest bankers
in Russia. He lends money to the Czar. His brother got on with you at
Cologne. There they go together to look after their luggage--they have
an agency here, although their main bank is in St. Petersburg. The
brother had the compartment next to that woman, with the big dog. She is
the wife of a rich brewer in Cologne, and just think--we must always
give that brute a compartment when she travels. Is it not outrageous? It
is against the rules, but the orders come from up above"--and he jerked
his finger meaningly over his shoulder.
The fog was so thick now I could cut it with a knife.
"One moment, please," I said, and I laid my hand on his elbow and
looked him searchingly in the eye. I intended now to clear things up.
"Was there a circus troupe on the train last night?"
"No." The answer came quite simply, and I could see it was the truth.
"Nor one expected?"
"No. There _was_ a circus, but it went through last week."