I put my hand through the mosquito curtains and touch an electrical
contrivance placed there for my benefit, and immediately there appears
before me a woman neatly clothed to delight my eye, and I gaze out at
her through my mosquito curtains. She wishes me “Good morning” in my own
language, in order to save the trouble of unnecessary comprehension, and
if I had happened to be Italian, French, or German she could still greet
me in my own language, because she has been taught to do so in order
to save me trouble. She takes my commands for the morning, and then
I notice that the sun has thoughtfully got round to my window and is
casting a respectful beam or two on my hyacinthine locks. In the
vast palace the sultans are arising, and I catch the rumour thereof.
Presently, with various and intricate aid, I have laved the imperial
limbs and assumed the robes of state. The window is opened for me, and I
pass out on to the balcony and languidly applaud the Mediterranean, like
a king diverting himself for half an hour at the opera. It is a
great sight, me applauding the Mediterranean as I drink a cup of tea;
stockbrokers clapping the dinner-band at the Trocadero would be nothing
to it. After this I do an unmonarchical act, an act of which I ought to
be ashamed, and which I keep a profound secret from the other sultans in
the vast palace--I earn my living by sheer hard labour.
Then I descend to the banqueting-hall, and no sooner do I appear than I
am surrounded by minions in black, an extraordinary race of persons. At
different hours I see these mysterious minions in black, and sometimes I
observe them surreptitiously. They have no names. They never eat,
never drink, never smile, never love, never do anything except offer me
prepared meats with respectful complacency. Their god is my stomach,
and they have made up their minds that it must be appeased with frequent
burnt sacrifices and libations. They watch my glance as mariners the
sky, and the slightest hint sends them flying. At the conclusion of the
ceremony they usher me out of the hall with obeisances into other halls
and other deferential silences.
*****
And when the entire rite has been repeated twice we recline on sofas, I
and the other sultans, and spend the final hours of the imperial day in
being sad and silent together. We are sad because we are sultans. It is
in the nature of things that sultans should be sad; it is not the cares
of state which make us sad, but merely a high imperial instinct for the
correct. Silence is, of course, a necessity to sultans, and for this
reason the activity of the immense palace is conducted solely in hushed
tones. The minions in black never raise their dulcet voices more than
half an inch or so. Late at night, as I pass on my solitary, sad way to
the chamber of sleep, I see them, those mysterious minions with no names
and no passions and no heed for food, still hovering expectant, still
bowing, still silent. And lastly I retire. I find my couch beautifully
laid out, I cautiously place myself upon it, I savour the soundless calm
of the palace, and I sleep again; and my closing thought is the thought
that I am august, and that all the other sultans, in this and all the
other palaces from Toulon to San Remo, are august.
*****
Strange things happen. Once a week a very-strange thing happens. I find
an envelope lying about. It is never given to me openly. I may discover
it propped up against the teapot on my tea-tray, or on my writing-desk,
or sandwiched in my “post,” between a love-letter and a picture post
card. But I invariably do find it; measures are taken that I shall
succeed promptly in finding it. All the minions pretend that this
envelope is a matter of no importance whatever; I also pretend the same.
Now, the fact is that I simply hate this envelope; I hate the sight of
it; I hate to open it; I dread its contents. Every week it shocks me. I
carry it about with me in my imperial pocket for several hours, fighting
against the inevitable. Then at length I dismally yield to a compulsion.
And I wander, by accident on purpose, in the direction of a little
glass-partitioned room, where a malevolent man sits like a spider sits
in its web. We both pretend I am there by chance, but since I am in fact
there, I may as well--a pure formality! And a keen listener might hear
a golden chink or the rustle of paper. And then I feel feeble but
relieved, as if I had come out of the dentist’s. And I am aware that I
am not so excessively august after all, and that I am in the middle of
the Riviera season, when one must expect, etc., etc., and that even the
scenery was scientifically reduced to figures in that envelope, and that
anyhow the Hôtel Triste is the Hôtel Triste. (Triste is not its real
name; one of my fellow sultans, who also does the shameful act in
secret, so baptised it in a ribald moment.)
[Illustration: 0245]
*****
The strangest thing of all occurred one night. I was walking moodily
along the convenient marge of the Mediterranean when I saw a man,
a human being, dressed in a check suit and a howler hat, talking to
another human being dressed in a blouse and a skirt. I passed them. The
man was smiling, and chattering loudly and rapidly and even passionately
to the soul within the blouse. Soon they parted, with proofs of
affection, and the man strode away and overtook and left me behind. You
could have knocked me down with a feather when I perceived he was one of
the mysterious nameless minions who I thought always wore mourning and
never ate, drank, smiled, or loved. “Fellow wanderer in the Infinite,”
I addressed his back as soon as I had recovered, “What are your opinions
upon life and death and love, and the advisability of being august?”