And so another two weeks passed. Then, one day, a comet of amazing
brilliancy shot suddenly into our social orbit, and things happened.
That this interesting stellar phenomenon was a Russian grand duke, a
nephew of the Czar, but added to the piquancy of the situation.
The hotel was all in a flutter; the manager was beside himself with
joy; bell-boys danced jig steps in the corridors; chambermaids went
about with a distracted air--and all because the grand duke,
Alexander Melovich, was to arrive on the morrow. It was an
epoch-making event. It was better than a circus, for it was free. Copies
of the Almanach de Gotha appeared, as if by magic. Everybody was
interested. Everybody was charmed, until--
The rumor flew rapidly along the verandas. It was denied by the head
waiter, it was confirmed by the chief clerk; it was referred to the
manager himself and again confirmed. Alas, it was true! The Grand
Duke Alexander was coming, not to honor the hotel, but to honor Mrs.
Carmichael Porter; she would receive him as her guest, she would pay
the royal hotel bill, she would pay the bills of the royal suite.
Yes, Blakely's mother had captured the grand duke.
A wave of indignation swept the columns of the rank and file. They
didn't want the grand duke themselves, but they didn't want
Blakely's mother to have him; Blakely's mother and Mrs. Sanderson-Spear,
and Mrs. Tudor Carstairs. In a way, it was better than a
comic opera; it was fearfully amusing.
The grand duke, accompanied, according to the newspapers, "by the
Royal Suite and the Choicest Flower of San Francisco Society,"
arrived on a special train direct from Del Monte. Having captured a
grand duke, these "Choicest Flowers" (ten in number) were loath to
lose him, so they accompanied him. They did more; they paid for the
special train. Blakely's mother greeted them, one and all, in a most
friendly manner. There was an aristocratic air about the whole
proceeding that was distinctly uplifting.
And now began a round of gaieties, the first being a tea were real
Russian samovars were in evidence, and sandwiches of real Russian
caviar were served. Real Russian cigarettes were smoked, real
Russian vodka was sipped; the Czar's health was drunk; no bombs were
thrown, no bonds were offered for sale, the Russian loan was not
discussed; the Japanese servants were not present, having been given
a half holiday. Oh, it was a little triumph, that tea! Blakely's
mother was showered with congratulations. The "Choicest Flowers"
vied with one another in assurances of their distinguished approval.
Indeed, they were all crazy about it--except the grand duke. Blakely
said the grand duke was bored to death, and that he had led him off
to the bar and given him a whisky-and-soda out of sheer pity. From
that time on the duke stuck to him like a postage stamp, so that
Blakely had an awful time escaping that night to dine with Dad and
me. He told us all about the tea at dinner, and I was surprised to
learn (I hadn't seen him yet) that the duke was just Blakely's age,
and, as Blakely put it, "a very decent sort." Not that there is any
reason why a grand duke shouldn't be a decent sort, but Rumor was
busy just then proclaiming that this particular grand duke was a
perfect pig.
The next day I had a chance to judge for myself. It seems the duke
noticed me as I got into my automobile for my morning ride, and
after finding out who I was, sent for Blakely and demanded that I be
presented to him.
Blakely was awfully angry. He said: "Look here, I don't know what
you've been used to, but in this country, where a man wishes to meet
a young lady, he asks to be presented to her. Not only that, but he
doesn't take it for granted that she'll be honored by the request.
Miss Middleton is my fiancee. I don't know whether she cares to meet
you or not. If she does, I'll let you know." The duke was terribly
mortified. He apologized beautifully.
Then Blakely apologized for getting angry, and they became better
friends than ever, with the result that the duke was presented to me
that very afternoon.
The Grand Duke Alexander was short and fat and fair, with a yellow
mustache of the Kaiser Wilhelm variety. It was rather a shock to me,
for I had expected a dashing black-haired person with flashing eyes
and a commanding presence. No, he wasn't at all my idea of what a
grand duke should look like; he looked much more like a little
brother to the ox (a well-bred, well-dressed, bath-loving little
brother, of course) than a member of an imperial family. Not that he
didn't have his points: he had nice hands and nice feet, and his
smile was charming.
You should have seen his face light up when he found I spoke French.
The poor fellow wasn't a bit at home in the English language and the
eagerness with which he plunged into French was really pathetic.
Luckily, Blakely spoke French, too--not very well, but he understood
it lots better than he spoke it--so we three spent a pleasant hour
together on the veranda. Of course, in a way, it was a little
triumph for me; the women whom Blakely's mother had snubbed enjoyed
the sight immensely, and when she appeared, accompanied by Mrs.
Sanderson-Spear and some of the "Choicest Flowers," and saw what was
happening to her duke, she was too angry for words. Heavens, how
that woman did hate me that afternoon!
The next morning six more "Choicest Flowers" arrived from San
Francisco (rare orchids whose grandfathers had come over from
Ireland in the steerage). The third son of an English baronet who
owned a chicken-ranch near Los Angeles and a German count who sold
Rhine wines to the best families also appeared; for that night
Blakely's mother was to give such a dinner as had never before been
given in Santa Barbara.
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