I looked toward the door, in time to see Prinz Karl walk a few steps into the room and look around. Almost at once, his eye lit on Robert Babson sitting at the card table, and a scowl came over his face. I watched with interest, wondering whether he was about to renew the confrontation here; others must have noticed his entry, as well, for there was an expectant hush in the buzz of conversation. Then the prince turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out of the room. Seeing the expressions of his companions at the card table, young Babson turned and looked behind him, just as the door closed. Seeing nobody there, he shrugged and resumed playing his hand, and the tension waned as rapidly as it had risen.
But while I expected the conversation to return to the prince’s apparent duplicity, and what he expected to gain by it, the arrival of Colonel Fitzwilliam prevented us from pursuing that topic. He sat right down and resumed the conversation he and Mr. Kipling had begun over dinner. Naturally, Kipling introduced him to Mr. Clemens, and they began to discuss travel, especially to India and Africa, two areas of the world about which Mr. Clemens was curious—as was I, in normal circumstances. But my long, active day (not to mention a sufficiency of food and drink) began to catch up with me. Shortly after the colonel’s arrival, I found myself struggling to hold back one yawn, then another. There was no point fighting the inevitable. I bade the three men good night, leaving my whisky unfinished, and made my exit.
I had meant to go directly to my cabin, but since this was my first night on a ship at sea, I decided to look out on deck to see if the rain had stopped. If the weather had cleared, I could walk back to my cabin by the outside route, and perhaps get a look at the stars. The ship did seem to be moving a bit more gently than before, although it was possible I was simply getting used to its motion.
I opened one of the doors that led outside, and sure enough, the rain seemed to be over for the moment, although the deck was still a bit slippery, and there was a hint of chill in the air. I walked over to the rail and looked out into the night. To my disappointment, the clouds were still covering most of the sky, although there was a hint of light ahead of us, where the clouds appeared to be thinner: the moon, I thought. I turned to go to my cabin, and realized that I was not alone on deck. Leaning on the rail, looking pensively out to sea, was Wilfred Smythe, the minister’s son.
“Good evening,” I said, feeling I should at least acknowledge his presence. I wondered if he had been in the Grand Saloon to see Mr. Clemens play the dictionary joke on his father—and to see his father turn the tables on my employer.
He looked up as if startled out of a reverie. “Hello, Mr. Cabot,” he said, recognizing me. “Are you enjoying the night air?”
“I’d enjoy it more if the sky were clearer,” I said. “But I guess we’ll get our share of that before we get to England. Actually, I’m just getting a breath of fresh air before turning in. It was a bit stuffy in the smoking room.”
“I suppose so,” he said, turning to look out at the waves again. “I’ve never been a smoker or a gambler, so I doubt I’ll spend much time there. In any case, neither the atmosphere nor the company really agrees with me.”
“Well, I’m neither a smoker nor much of a card player, myself,” I told him. “Still, one can find an enjoyable conversation now and then.”
He was silent for a long time after I said this, and I began to grow uncomfortable. Perhaps, I reflected, I should leave him to his thoughts; he was clearly in no mood for talk. I myself had no great desire to linger. I was just about to take my leave when he broke the silence again. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m being rude. I don’t mean to be. But here I am aboard a ship with the one person I’d most enjoy being with, and I can’t be with her because someone else—someone I loathe—has won her affection. I fear I’m not going to be very good company tonight, Mr. Cabot. I suppose I shouldn’t bore you with something that’s not your concern in any case.”
“No offense taken, Mr. Smythe,” I said. There was another awkward silence, and an abashed look came over Smythe’s face, presumably at having blurted out his secret to someone he had barely met. It was not hard to guess that he must be referring to Theresa Mercer, who was now engaged to marry Robert Babson. I saw no reason to prolong his embarrassment, and so I yawned and said, “I doubt I’d be very good company, myself. I’m dog-tired, and just came out for a quick look at the ocean before going to bed. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wish you a good night and be on my way.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cabot,” he said. “Good night, and perhaps we’ll have a more pleasant talk another time.” We shook hands, and I made my way to the cabin, where I fell asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.
8
The next morning, Mr. Clemens and I both slept late and went to breakfast together. Breakfast seating was catch-as-catch-can, as opposed to the more formal seating for dinner, so we sat at the same table. As usual, he ordered up a beefsteak and fried eggs, with plenty of black coffee. I had the eggs and coffee, but decided to substitute bacon and toast for the beef. We had both polished off our main courses and were sipping our second cups of coffee, when a man and woman came over to our table.
“Excuse me,” said the man, holding his hat in his hands. “Aren’t you Samuel Clemens, the writer?”
“Guilty as charged,” said my employer, setting down his coffee cup. “What can I do for you?”
“I don’t expect you’ll remember us,” said the man, “But I’m Michael Richards, and this is my sister, Susan—Mrs. Daniel Martin, she is now. You were friends with our parents in San Francisco, nearly thirty years ago.”
“I’ll be tarred and feathered,” said Mr. Clemens, looking at the pair with suddenly heightened interest. “Would that be John and Emily Richards who lived on Mason Street?”
“The very same,” said Susan Martin. “You used to come to our home for dinner. We were very young, but we still remember those visits.”
Mr. Clemens stood up and shook Mr. Richards’s hand. “What a surprise! Of course I remember you. You couldn’t have been much more than eight years old back then, full of mischief unless my memory’s playing tricks on me. Your parents are well, I hope?”
“Mother’s very well, still living in San Francisco,” said Mr. Richards. “Dad passed away some years ago, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Clemens, then turned and introduced me. “I haven’t been back to San Francisco in a coon’s age, but I remember your mother well. She used to cook the best meals I ever had in those days.”
“We remember you, too,” said Susan Martin, a twinkle in her eye. “We used to hate it when our parents said you were coming to dinner.”
“What?” said Mr. Clemens, raising his eyebrows. I had never seen him so surprised. “I can’t believe it.”
“Oh, yes,” said Michael Richards, with a shy smile. “We had to eat out in the kitchen and listen to you grownups in the dining room, talking and talking—it seemed like forever. I suppose you must have been very amusing, because I still recall my parents laughing. But we children must have missed the jokes, because all I can remember is wishing you’d leave, so Mother could tell us our bedtime story. I guess nobody ever thought to ask you to tell us a bedtime story.”
“Well, that was before I had children of my own,” said Mr. Clemens, recovering his composure. “There’s no telling what kind of story I’d have told you—probably something scandalous. Nowadays I have a large stock of appropriate stories, tested on my own three little girls. But it’s probably too late to do you any good.” He took Mrs. Martin’s hand and held it in both of his, smiling. “I implore you to forgive me for being such a boring guest.”
“You were forgiven long ago,” said Mrs. Martin, with a laugh. “I just wish we had been old enough to come into the dining room, so we could recall all the stories you did tell back then. Mother has told us some of them, but I’m sure there were others just as good.”
“Well, I certainly remember Emily very fondly. You’ll gi
ve her my best regards when you see her again, won’t you?”
“We certainly will,” said the woman. “And it’s a pleasure to see we’re traveling on the same ship. But we’ll leave you to finish your breakfast now—I’m sure we’ll get a chance to speak again.”
After she and her brother left the dining room, Mr. Clemens took a sip of his coffee, then looked at me with a melancholy expression. “I can’t believe I used to know those two as small children, and now they’re on the brink of middle age. I wasn’t much older than you at the time, Wentworth!” He shook his head and fell silent. I myself could only think that on first glance, I had thought of Mr. Richards and Mrs. Martin as being of an age with my own parents. Perhaps it would be best not to mention this to Mr. Clemens.
Meanwhile, I became aware of Signor Giorgio Rubbia speaking loudly at a nearby table, where he sat with Mr. Babson and Mr. Mercer and their wives, all of whom were members of the art tour he was leading. “The artist’s business is not to copy what he sees,” Rubbia said, and I perked my ears up, hoping to hear the expert’s opinion on a subject I found fascinating. “Any simpleton with a little black camera can do that as well as Michelangelo. But his photograph can never express what that face makes him feel. For that you need the soul of a true artist.”
“What does it matter what the silly artist feels?” said Robert Babson, who had just wandered into the dining room. He looked as if he had been up very late, but he still managed a sneer at Rubbia as he plopped himself into a vacant seat next to his father, the lawyer, and said, “Somebody else will feel differently about it, and another man will have his own feelings, different from the first two. There’s no end to it, and no telling whether one picture’s better than another.” Then he turned to a nearby waiter and barked, “What does a fellow have to do to get a cup of coffee?”
“Directly, sir,” said the harried-looking waiter, who was loaded down with a tray of food for another table.
“Well, don’t be too slow about it,” said Robert Babson, clearly irritated. I wondered if he had a hangover.
Meanwhile, Signor Rubbia had turned to Mr. Mercer, who seemed a more receptive audience for his comments on art. “The soul of a true artist will always reveal itself. The mere representation of a subject, this is only the surface. Any idiot can learn to draw correctly—give me time enough, and I could teach a monkey to draw.” Rubbia shot a significant glance toward Robert Babson as he said this, but the young man paid him no attention, so he continued. “With a true artist, the representation of the subject is only the medium for his perception of the essence of things.” He made an expansive gesture with his hands, as if to suggest the vastness of an artist’s perceptions.
“Very true,” said Mrs. Mercer, and her husband, the banker, nodded. “Art is so much deeper than copying what you see.”
But Robert Babson was not convinced. “All anyone wants from a painter is a picture to hang over the fireplace,” he said. “Who wants to pay hundreds of dollars for some awful muddle where you have to look at the label to tell whether the fellow’s drawing a house or a sailboat? Or the kind of tripe you get from these self-appointed geniuses who make a woman’s skin green and speckled to express their precious feelings. What are they feeling, anyway—a toothache?” He grinned, and looked around the table as if to invite approval for his jape.
Babson’s father and one or two others at their table laughed, although neither of the Mercers seemed to find the quip amusing. In any case, Signor Rubbia was not ready to give up the contest. He slapped his hand on the table and said, “One who has drunk nothing but small beer may think that all wine is the same, but let him taste a few bottles of a good vintage and he will mend his opinion. When you have seen the great treasures of Europe, you will begin to understand better what art is about. Then perhaps your opinion will count for something.”
“And until then, you get to lord it over us, and tell us what provincial boobies we are,” said Robert Babson. “Well, I don’t care what some painter feels. You might as well worry about what a plumber or carpenter feels.”
Signor Rubbia stood, visibly checking his temper. “I believe I am finished with breakfast. Gentlemen and ladies, I will see you later.” He bowed to those still at the table and left. Young Babson watched him go, smirking.
“Well, a ray of morning sunshine,” said Mr. Clemens quietly, with a sour expression that belied his words. “Young Babson wouldn’t be my idea of steady company—he needs to work on his manners, for one thing—but he’s not afraid to call a spade a spade. Or in this case, call a phony a phony.”
“I wouldn’t want to share a stateroom with him, either,” I said, shifting the angle of the conversation away from a subject on which Mr. Clemens and I were evidently doomed to disagree. It surprised me that a man who made his living from one branch of the arts could so easily sneer at another. I wondered if it could be professional jealousy. Then again, he seemed to have no difficulty making friends with his fellow writers—Mr. Kipling, or Mr. G. W. Cable, whom we had met in New Orleans. “Did you see that skirmish between him and Prinz Karl last night?” I asked.
“I saw what happened after the prince stood up; that was pretty hard to miss. What did you see, Wentworth?”
“Babson pitched a wine cork at the other table and it landed in the prince’s coffee—exactly as the prince said. So Babson was lying when he denied it.”
“I figured as much,” said Mr. Clemens. He cocked a wary eye toward the table where Robert Babson and his parents were seated. “He was shooting off his mouth all night long in the smoker. The later it got, the louder he got, though he never got funny enough to make it worth listening to. But why don’t we go catch a breath of fresh air out on deck? It’ll probably be a lot more pleasant than in here, and maybe the company will be better, too.” He slid back his chair and rose to his feet.
I gulped down the last of my coffee and stood to join him, and we headed for the exit. Behind us, I could hear Robert Babson grumble, “What’s taking that fellow so long to bring my coffee?” The more I saw of him, the less I liked him. I was glad that Mr. Clemens and I had basically finished our breakfast before Babson had arrived.
Out on deck, the rain had entirely gone away, and the sky was bright blue with wispy clouds directly above us—the kind the old sailors around the New London dock called “mares’ tails.” High wind’s coming, I thought to myself, remembering some of the yachtsman’s lore I’d picked up in my youth. The ship seemed to be making excellent headway; despite her age, she was rated at just over eighteen knots on the eastward passage, a respectable speed even by today’s standards. And while the motion of the waves was readily perceptible, I found it exhilarating rather than disturbing.
A good number of other passengers had already come out on deck. Some were sitting in deck chairs reading or conversing; others were leaning on the rail and looking out on the waves. Mr. Clemens and I had rented deck chairs in New York, but the wet weather the day before had kept us from having them brought out. If the fine weather held, I would ask our cabin steward to bring the chairs out today. It would be pleasant to lounge on deck in the warm sun—despite the lateness of the season, it was quite temperate today. But the North Atlantic had a reputation for nasty weather, and we would be lucky to have such fine days all the way across.
Toward the bow we found Mr. and Mrs. Kipling, he in his old tweed coat and soft felt hat, she in a sensible wool dress and knit shawl. They were passing a pair of binoculars back and forth, looking at a speck on the southern horizon that I decided must be another ship. “Good morning, Kipling,” said my employer. “What are you looking at—pirates?”
“Ho ho, that would be a rare sight, wouldn’t it?” said Mr. Kipling, laughing. “What if I told you it was the Royal Navy, coming to reclaim the colonies at last?”
“Hell, they already tried that once,” said Mr. Clemens. “Burned Washington to the ground and chased away Congress. Now, that could have been a real service—Congress is the only indigenous
American criminal class. But the invasion didn’t do us a bit of good, in the end. After the war was over, the damned congressmen came back and built the whole mess up again, worse than ever. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to burn it down again, especially if you could be sure the congressmen didn’t get away this time. In fact, I’d contribute to the cause.”
Mrs. Kipling smiled and wagged her finger at my employer. “Why, Mr. Clemens, you ought to hold up our American side more firmly. I’m afraid you’ve left it to me to contradict Ruddy, and that would hardly promote domestic tranquillity.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly willing to contradict him, as long as it don’t mean I have to stand up for Congress,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ll leave them to handle that job themselves. Half of them are lawyers, anyhow, so they’re used to defending thieves.”
Just as he said that, Mr. Kipling’s jaw clenched, and I heard him mutter, “Speak of the devil.” I turned to follow his gaze and saw Prinz Karl von Ruckgarten stroll into sight at the far end of the deck, wearing a beaver top hat and a knee-length cape fastened at the throat. His gold-handled cane rested across his right shoulder.
Prinz Karl’s face lit up as he spotted our little group and waved to us. “Good morning, my friends,” he called out in a hearty voice, and he quickened his step to join us.
It was obvious that Mr. Kipling was in no way pleased at the prince’s arrival, but Mr. Clemens raised his hand and returned the wave. Out of the side of his mouth, he said to Kipling, “Make some excuse if you want to get away; I’ll keep him occupied.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 8