There were great rejoicings when it was known in Pera that Alexander
Patoff had been found. His disappearance had furnished the gossips with
a subject of conversation during many weeks, and his coming back revived
the whole story, with the addition of a satisfactory ending. In
consideration of the fact that Laleli Khanum was dead, Count Ananoff
thought it best to take no official notice of the matter. To treat it
diplomatically would be useless, he said. Alexander had fallen a victim
to his own folly, and though the penalty had been severe, it was
impossible to hold the Ottoman government responsible for what Patoff
had suffered, now that the Khanum had departed this life. Alexander
received permission to take three months' leave to recruit his health
before returning to his regiment, and he resolved to spend a part of the
time in Constantinople, after which his mother promised to accompany him
to St. Petersburg.
The Carvels had very soon made the acquaintance of the small but
brilliant society of which the diplomatic corps constituted the chief
element; and if anything had been needed to make them thoroughly
popular, their near connection with the young man whose story was in
every one's mouth would alone have sufficed to surround them with
interest. The adventure was told with every conceivable variety of
detail, and Alexander was often called upon to settle disputes as to
what had happened to him. He was ready enough at all times to play the
chief part in a drawing-room, and delighted in being questioned by grave
old gentlemen, as well as by inquisitive young women. The women admired
him for his beauty, his grace and brilliancy, and especially for the
expression of his eyes, which they declared in a variety of languages to
be absolutely fascinating. The men were interested in his story, and
envied him the additional social success which he obtained as the hero
of so strange an adventure. Some people admired and praised his devotion
to his mother, which they said was most touching, whatever that may
mean. Others said that he had an angelic disposition, flavored by a dash
of the devil, which saved him from being goody; and this criticism of
his character conveyed some meaning to the minds of those who uttered
it. People have a strange way of talking about their favorites, and when
the praise they mean to bestow is not faint, the expression of it is apt
to be feeble and involved.
Pera is a gay place, for when a set of men and women are temporarily
exiled from their homes to a strange country, where they do not find the
society of a great capital, they naturally seek amusement and pursue it;
creating among themselves those pastimes which in the great European
cities others so often provide for them. Politically, also,
Constantinople is a very important place to most of the powers, who
choose their representatives for the post from among the cleverest men
they can find; and I will venture to say that there is scarcely a court
in the world where so many first-rate diplomatists are gathered together
as are to be met with among the missions to the Sublime Porte. Diplomacy
in Constantinople has preserved something of the character it had all
over the world fifty years ago. Personal influence is of far greater
importance when negotiations are to be undertaken with a half-civilized
form of administration, which is carried on chiefly by persons of
imperfect education, but of immense natural talent for intrigue. The
absence of an hereditary nobility in Turkey, and the extremely
democratic nature of the army and the civil service, make it possible
for men of the lowest birth to attain to the highest power. The immense
and complicated bureaucracy is not in the hands of any one class of the
people; its prizes are won by men of all sorts and conditions, who
continue to pursue their own interests and fortunes with undiminished
energy, when they ought to be devoting their whole powers to the service
of the country. Their power is indeed checked by the centralization of
all the executive faculties in the person of the sovereign. Without the
Sultan's signature the minister of war cannot order a gun to be cast in
the arsenal of Tophane, the minister of marine cannot buy a ton of coal
for the ironclads which lie behind Galata bridge in the Golden Horn, the
minister of foreign affairs cannot give a reply to an ambassador, nor
can the minister of justice avail himself of the machinery of the law.
Every smallest act must be justified by the Sultan's own signature, and
the chief object of all diplomacy from without, and of all personal
intrigue from within, is to obtain this imperial consent to measures
suggested by considerations of private advantage or public necessity.
The Ottoman Empire may be described as an irregular democracy, whose
acts are all subject to the veto of an absolute autocrat. The officials
pass their lives in proposing, and his Majesty very generally spends his
time in opposing, all manner of schemes, good, bad, and indifferent. The
contradictory nature of the system produces the anomalous position
occupied by the Ottoman Empire in Europe.
The fact that there is no aristocracy and the seclusion of women among
the Mussulmans are the chief reasons why there is no native society, in
our sense of the word. A few of the great Greek families still survive,
descendants of those Fanariotes whose ancestors had played an important
part in the decadence of the Eastern Empire. A certain number of
Armenians who have gained wealth and influence follow more or less
closely the customs of the West. But beyond these few there cannot be
said to be many houses of the social kind. Two or three pashas, of
European origin, and Christians by religion, mix with their families in
the gayety of Pera and the Bosphorus. A few Turkish officers, and
Prussian officers in Turkish service, show their brilliant uniforms in
the ball-rooms, and occasionally some high official of the Porte appears
at formal receptions; but on the whole the society is diplomatic, and
depends almost entirely upon the diplomatists for its existence and for
its diversions. The lead once given, the old Greek aristocrats have not
been behindhand in following it; but their numbers are small, and the
movement and interest in Pera, or on the Bosphorus, centre in the great
embassies, as they do nowhere else in the world.
Small as the society is, it is, nevertheless exceedingly brilliant and
very amusing. Intimacies grow up quickly, and often become lasting
friendships when fostered by such influences. Every one knows every one
else, and every one meets everybody else at least once a week. The
arrival of a new secretary is expected with unbounded interest. The
departure of one who has been long in Constantinople is mourned as a
public loss. Occasionally society is convulsed to its foundations by the
departure of an ambassador to whom every one has been so long accustomed
that he has come to be regarded as one of the fathers of the community,
whose hospitality every one has enjoyed, whose tact and knowledge of the
world have been a source of satisfaction to his colleagues in many a
diplomatic difficulty, and whose palace in Pera is associated in the
minds of all with many hours of pleasure and with much delightful
intercourse. He goes, and society turns out in a body to see him off.
The occasion is like a funeral. People send hundreds of baskets of
flowers. There is an address, there are many leave-takings. Once, at
least, I remember seeing two thirds of the people shedding
tears,--genuine wet tears of sorrow. And there was good reason for their
grief. In such communities as the diplomatic colony in Pera, people
understand the value of those who not only do more than their share in
contributing to the pleasantness of life, but who possess in an
abundant degree those talents which delight us in individuals, and those
qualities which are dear to us in friends. It would be easy to write a
book about society in Pera, and it would be a pleasant book. But these
are not the days of Samuel Pepys; we have hardly passed the age of Mr.
George Ticknor.
In a short time after their arrival, and after the reappearance of
Alexander Patoff, the Carvels knew everybody, and everybody knew them.
Each member of the party found something to praise and some one to like.
John Carvel was soon lost in admiration of Lord Mavourneen, while Mrs.
Carvel talked much with the English missionary bishop of Western
Kamtchatka, who happened to be spending a few days at the embassy. She
asked him many questions concerning the differences between Armenian
orthodox, Armenian catholic, Greek orthodox, and Russian orthodox; and
though his lordship found a great deal to say on the subject, I am bound
to allow that he was almost as much puzzled as herself when brought face
to face in the reality with such a variety of sects. Chrysophrasia had
not come to the East for nothing, either. She meant to indulge what John
called her fancy for pots and pans and old rags; in other words, she
intended to try her luck in the bazaar, and with the bloodhound's scent
of the true collector she detected by instinct the bricabrac hunters of
society. There is always a goodly number of them wherever antiquities
are to be found, and Chrysophrasia was hailed by those of her persuasion
with the mingled delight and jealousy which scientific bodies feel when
a new scientist appears upon the horizon.
As for Hermione, she created a great sensation, and the hearts of many
secretaries palpitated in the most lively manner when she first entered
the ball-room of one of the embassies, two days after her arrival. The
astonishment was great when it was known that she was Paul Patoff's own
cousin; and when it was observed that Paul was very often with her the
cry went up that he had fallen in love at last. Thereupon all the women
who had said that he was a bore, a monster, a statue, and a piece of
ice, immediately declared that there must be something in him, after
all, and began to talk to him whenever they got a chance. Some
disappointment was felt, too, when it was observed that Alexander Patoff
also showed a manifest preference for the society of his beautiful
cousin, and wise old ladies said there would be trouble. Everybody,
however, received the addition to society with open arms, and hoped that
the Carvels' visit might be prolonged for at least a whole year.
Many of these comments reached my ears, and the remarks concerning
Alexander's growing attachment for Hermione startled me, and chilled me
with a sense of evil to come. I opened my eyes and watched, as every one
else was doing, and in a short time I came to the conclusion that public
opinion was right. It was very disagreeable to me to admit it, but I
soon saw that there was no doubt that Alexander was falling in love with
his cousin. I saw, too, what others who knew them less well did not see:
Madame Patoff exercised all her ingenuity in giving her favorite son
opportunities of seeing Hermione alone. It was very easy to do this, and
she did it in the most natural way; she affected to repent bitterly of
her injustice to Paul, and took delight in calling him to her side, and
keeping him with her as long as possible. Sometimes she would make him
stay an hour by her side at a party, going over and over the strange
story of Alexander's imprisonment, and asking him questions again and
again, until he grew weary and absent, and answered her with rather
incoherent phrases, or in short monosyllables not always to the point.
Then at last, when she saw that she could keep him no longer, she would
let him go, asking him to forgive her for being so importunate, and
explaining as an excuse that she could never hear enough of a story that
had ended so happily. Meanwhile Alexander had found ample opportunity
for talking with Hermione, and had made the most of his time.
I have said that I had always been very fond of the young girl, and I
thought that I understood her character well enough; but I find it hard
to understand the phases through which she passed after she first met
Alexander. I believe she loved Paul very sincerely from the first, and I
know that she contemplated the prospect of marrying him at no distant
time. But I am equally sure that she did not escape the influence of
that wonderful fascination which Alexander exercised over everybody. If
it is possible to explain it at all, which is more than doubtful, I
should think that it might be accounted for on some such theory as this.
Hermione was negative as compared with Paul, but in comparison with
Alexander she was positive. It is clear that if this were so she must
have experienced two totally different sets of impressions, according as
she was with the one or the other of the brothers.
To define more clearly what I mean, I will state this theory in other
words. Paul Patoff was a very masculine and dominating man. Hermione
Carvel was a young girl, who resembled her strong, sensible, and manly
father far more than her meek and delicate mother. Though she was still
very young, there was much in her which showed the determined will and
energetic purpose which a man needs to possess more than a woman.
Alexander Patoff, on the other hand, without being effeminate, was
intensely feminine. He had fine sensibilities, he had quick intuitions,
he was capricious and womanly in his ideas. It follows that, in the
scale of characters, Hermione held the mean between the two brothers.
Compared with Paul's powerful nature, her qualities were those of a
woman; in comparison with Alexander's delicate organization of mind,
Hermione's character was more like that of a man. The effect of this
singular scale of personalities was, that when she found herself
alternately in the society of the two brothers she felt as though she
were alternately two different women. To a man entering a house on a
bitter winter's night the hall seems comfortably warm; but it seems
cold to a man who has been sitting over a fire in a hermetically sealed
study.
Now Hermione had loved Paul when he was practically the only man of
those she had ever known intimately whom she believed it possible to
love at all. But she had seen very little of the world, and had known
very few men. Her first recollections of society were indistinct, and no
one individual had made any more impression upon her than another,
perhaps because she was in reality not very impressionable. But Paul was
preeminently a man able to impress himself upon others when he chose. He
had come to Carvel Place, had loved his cousin, and she had returned his
love with a readiness which had surprised herself. It was genuine in its
way, and she knew that it was; nor could she doubt that Paul was in
earnest, since a word from her had sufficed to make him curtail his
visit, and go to the ends of the earth to find his brother. Hermione
more than once wished that she had never spoken that word.
She now entered upon a new phase of her life, she saw a new sort of
society, and she met a man who upset in a moment all her convictions
about men in general. The result of all this novelty was that she began
to look at life from a different point of view. Alexander amused her,
and at the same time he made her feel of more importance in her own
eyes. He talked well, but he made her fancy that she herself talked
better. His thoughts were subtle, though not always logical, and his
quick instincts gave him an immense advantage over people of slower
intelligence. He knew all this himself, perhaps; at all events, he used
his gifts in the cleverest possible way. He possessed the power to
attract Hermione without dominating her; in other words, he made her
like him of her own free will.
She liked him very much, and she felt that there was no harm in it. He
was the brother of her future husband, so that she easily felt it a duty
to like him, as well as a pleasure. Alexander himself affected to treat
her with a sort of cousinly-brotherly affection, and spoke always of
Paul with the greatest respect, when he spoke of him at all; but he
manifestly sought opportunities of expressing his affection, and avoided
all mention of Paul when not absolutely necessary. The position was
certainly a difficult one, but he managed it with the tact of a woman
and the daring of a man. I have always believed that he was really fond
of Hermione; for I cannot imagine him so vile as to attempt to take her
from Paul, when Paul had done so much towards liberating him from his
prison. But whatever were his motives or his feelings, it was evident to
me that he was making love to her in good earnest, that the girl was
more interested in him than she supposed, and that Madame Patoff was
cunningly scheming to break off the match with Paul in order to marry
Hermione to Alexander.
Balsamides had of course become a friend of the family, after the part
he had played in effecting Alexander's escape, and in his own way I
think he watched the situation when he got a chance with as much
interest as I myself. One evening we were sitting in his rooms, about
midnight, talking, as we talked eternally, upon all manner of subjects.
"Griggs," said he, suddenly changing the topic of our conversation, "it
is a great pity we ever took the trouble to find Alexander. I often wish
he were still lying in that pleasant den in Laleli's garden."
"It would be better for every one concerned, except himself, if he
were," I answered.
"I detest the fellow's face. If it were not for his mustache, he might
pass for a woman anywhere."
"He is as beautiful as an angel," I said, wishing to give him his due.
"What business have men with such beauty as that?" asked Gregorios,
scornfully. "I would rather look like a Kurd hamal than like Alexander
Patoff. He is spoiling Paul's life. Not that I care!" he added,
shrugging his shoulders.
"No," I said, "it is none of our business. I liked him at first, I
confess, and I thought that Alexander and Miss Carvel would make a very
pretty couple. But I like him less the more I see of him. However, he
will soon be going back to his regiment, and we shall hear no more of
him."
"His leave is not over yet," answered my friend. "A fellow like that can
do a deal of harm in a few weeks."
Gregorios is a man of violent sympathies and antipathies, though no one
would suppose it from his cold manner and general indifference. But I
know him better than I have known most men, and he is less reticent with
me than with the generality of his friends. It was impossible to say
whether he took enough interest in the Carvels or in Paul to attempt to
influence their destiny, but I was sure that if he crossed Alexander's
path the latter would get the worst of it, and I mentally noted the fact
in summing up Paul's chances.
At that time nothing had openly occurred which suggested the possibility
of a rupture of the unacknowledged engagement between Paul and Hermione.
Paul several times told her that he wished to speak formally to John
Carvel, and obtain his consent to the marriage; but Hermione advised him
to wait a little longer, arguing that she herself had spoken, and that
there was therefore no concealment about the matter. The longer they
waited, she said, the more her father would become accustomed to the
idea, and the more he would learn to like Paul, so that in another month
there would be no doubt but that he would gladly give his consent. But
Paul himself was not satisfied. His mother's conduct irritated him
beyond measure, and he began seriously to suspect her of wishing to make
trouble. He was no longer deceived by her constant show of affection for
himself, for she continued always to make it most manifest just when it
prevented him from talking with Hermione. Alexander, too, treated him as
he had not done before, with a deference and a sort of feline softness
which inspired distrust. Two years ago Paul would have been the first to
expect foul play from his brother, and would have been upon his guard
from the beginning; but Paul himself was changed, and had grown more
merciful in his judgment of others. He found it hard to persuade himself
that Alexander really meant to steal Hermione's love; and even when he
began to suspect the possibility of such a thing, he believed that he
could treat the matter lightly enough. Nevertheless, Hermione continued
to dissuade him from going to her father, and he yielded to her advice,
though much against his will. He found himself in a situation which to
his conscience seemed equivocal. He knew from what John Carvel had
written to me that his suit was not likely to meet with any serious
opposition; he understood that John expected him to speak, and he began
to fancy that his future father-in-law looked at him inquiringly from
time to time, as though anticipating a question, and wondering why it
was not asked.
One day he came to see me, and found me alone. Gregorios had gone to the
palace, and I have no doubt that Paul, who knew his habits, had chosen a
morning for his visit when he was certain that Balsamides would not be
at home. He looked annoyed and almost nervous, as he sat down in silence
and began to smoke.
"Anything wrong?" I asked.
"I hardly know," he replied. "I am very uncomfortable. I am in a very
disagreeable situation."
I was silent. I did not want to invite his confidence, and if he had
come to tell me anything about himself, it was better to let him tell it
in his own way.
"I am in a very disagreeable position," he repeated slowly. "I want to
ask your advice."
"That is always a rash thing to do," I replied.
"I do not care. I must confide in you, as I did once before, but this
time I only want your advice. My position is intolerable. I feel every
day that I ought to ask Mr. Carvel to give me his daughter, and yet I
cannot do it."
"Why not? It is certainly your duty," said I.
"Because Miss Carvel objects," he answered, with sudden energy. His
voice sounded almost fierce as he spoke.
"Do you mean that she has not accepted"----
"I do not know what I mean, nor what she means, either!" exclaimed Paul,
rising, and beginning to pace the floor.
"My dear Patoff," I said, "you made a grave mistake in making me find
your brother. Excuse my abruptness, but that is my opinion."
He turned suddenly upon me, and his face was very pale, while his eyes
gleamed disagreeably and his lip trembled.
"So you have noticed that, too," he said in a low voice. "Well--go on!
What do you advise me to do? How am I to get him out of the way?"
"There can be no doubt that Balsamides would advise you to cut his
throat," I replied. "As for me, I advise you to wait, and see what comes
of it. He must soon go home and rejoin his regiment."
"Wait!" exclaimed Paul impatiently. "Wait! Yes,--and while I am waiting
he will be working, and he will succeed! With that angel's face of his,
he will certainly succeed! Besides, my mother will help him, as you
know."
"Look here," said I. "Either Miss Carvel loves you, or she does not. If
she does, she will not love your brother. If she does not love you, you
had better not marry her. That is the reasonable view."
"No doubt,--no doubt. But I do not mean to be reasonable in that way.
You forget that I love her. The argument might have some weight."
"Not much. After all, why do you love her? You do not know her well."
Paul stared at me as though he thought I were going mad. I dare say that
I must have appeared to him to be perfectly insane. But I was
disconcerted by the gravity of the situation, and I believed that he had
a bad chance against Alexander. It was wiser to accustom his mind to the
idea of failure than to flatter him with imaginary hopes of success. A
man in love is either a hero or a fool; heroes who fail are generally
called fools for their pains, and fools who succeed are sometimes called
heroes. Paul stared, and turned away in silence.
"You do not seem to have any answer ready," I observed. "You say you
love a certain lady. Is there any reason, in the nature of things, why
some one else should not love her at the same time? Then it follows that
the most important point is this,--she must love you. If she does not,
your affection is wasted. I am not an old man, but I am far from being a
young one, and I have seen much in my time. You may analyze your
feelings and those of others, when in love, as much as you please, but
you will not get at any other result. Unless a woman loves you, it is of
very little use that you love her."
"What in the world are you talking about, Griggs?" asked Paul, whose
ideas, perhaps, did not coincide with mine. "What can you know about
love? You are nothing but a hardened old bachelor; you never loved a
woman in your life, I am sure."
I was much struck by the truth of this observation, and I held my peace.
A cannibal cannot be expected to understand French cooking.
"I tell you," continued Paul, "that Miss Carvel has promised to marry
me, and I constantly speak to her of our marriage."
"But does she speak to you of it?" I asked. "I fancy that she never
alludes to it except to tell you not to go to her father."
In his turn Paul was silent, and bent his brows. He must have been half
distracted, or he would not have talked to me as he did. I never knew a
less communicative man.
"This is a very delicate matter," I said presently. "You ask my advice;
I will give you the best I can. Do one of two things. Either go to Mr.
Carvel without his daughter's permission, or else fight it out as you
can until your brother goes. Then you will have the field to yourself."
"The difficulty lies in the choice," said Paul.
"The choice depends upon your own state of mind, and upon your strength,
or rather upon the strength of your position. If Miss Carvel has
promised to marry you, I think you have a right to push matters as fast
as you can."
"I will," said Paul. "Good-by."
He left me at once, and I began to reflect upon what had passed. It
seemed to me that he was foolish and irrational, altogether unlike
himself. He had asked my advice upon a point in which his own judgment
would serve him better than mine, and it was contrary to his nature to
ask advice at all in such matters. He was evidently hard pressed and
unhappy, and I wished I could help him, but it was impossible. He was in
a dilemma from which he could issue only by his own efforts; and
although I was curious to see what he would do, I felt that I was not in
a position to suggest any very definite line of action. I looked idly
out of the window at the people who passed, and I began to wonder
whether even my curiosity to see the end could keep me much longer in
Pera. The crowd jostled and elbowed itself in the narrow way, as usual.
The fez, in every shade of red, and in every condition of newness,
shabbiness, and mediocrity, with tassel and without, rocked, swayed,
wagged, turned, and moved beneath my window till I grew sick of the
sight of it, and longed to see a turban, or a tall hat, or no hat at
all,--anything for a change of head-dress. I left the window rather
wearily, and took up one of the many novels which lay on the table,
pondering on the probable fate of Paul Patoff's love for his cousin.