“Elsa,” asked her mother, anxiously, “what is the matter? Do you feel badly?”
“No, no, Mama, thank you,” said Elsa, without taking her hands from her face, “the light is blinding.”
That very student, as if Elsa had conjured him up, appeared in the bar; he was not leaping or shouting, but walking lazily with two others of his crowd. He was talking, though, and his voice carried to her buzzing ears. “La Cucaracha Mystica,” he was saying, with a flourish of theatrical inflections, “the mystical cockroach herself, the queen of insects, is on board this ship, the very figure of rampant idealism. I saw her. She is here, pearls and all, a prisoner.”
“La cucaracha, la cucaracha,” chorused the others, as instinctively malicious as monkeys. They were halfway through the first verse, leaning towards each other and making dreadful harmonies, when the bugle sounded for the second breakfast sitting. With famine-stricken comic faces they turned as one and charged towards the dining room. As by then everyone on shipboard lived for food, there was the usual crowd milling at the top of the stairs, thinning out gradually into a procession.
At lunch, the Captain was seated at the head of his table, his napkin tucked into his collar and spread neatly over his rigid chest. Dr. Schumann, seated at the opposite side, was turning his water glass about absently. At sight of the ladies of the party they both rose. The Captain withdrew his napkin, made a deep bow and seated himself once more, tucking the napkin back under his chin.
Lizzi Spöckenkieker, at his left, giggled and blushed, eying him with coy intimacy. “Dear Captain, we met this morning, I believe!” she said, indiscreetly.
“We did indeed, my dear Fräulein,” responded the Captain, with extreme formality. On his right, Frau Rittersdorf gave Lizzi a guarded look of warning and social censure, then turned her most charming smile upon the Captain, who rewarded her with a glimpse of his two front teeth and slightly upturned mouth corners. The others ranged round him, faces bent towards him like sunflowers to the sun, waiting for him to begin conversation.
“It is not usual for me to appear at table so early in the voyage,” stated the Captain, as if he were reading an address, “since all my energies and attention must be devoted to the affairs of my ship. But I am happy to be able to say that in spite of a thousand difficulties and inconveniences which added together amounted to a state of emergency, never have I been able so swiftly and so effectively to dispose of them all. On a ship, no detail is trivial; the slightest laxity at any given point may lead to the gravest consequences. For this reason,” he said, “usually I must deprive myself at intervals of the good company I enjoy at my table. But it is in the cause of your safety and comfort that I deprive myself,” he told them, putting them forever in his debt.
Little Frau Schmitt blushed at her own boldness but managed to utter in a tiny voice, “Even if it is for our own good, we are also deprived.”
Frau Rittersdorf was annoyed at this speech, which should have been made, certainly, but in much more elegant terms, with more manner, and not by Frau Schmitt, who by no means took precedence at that table. The Captain however seemed pleased. He bowed gently to Frau Schmitt. “You are very kind,” he said, approvingly.
Herr Professor Hutten, without changing the conversation from its prime subject, the presence and authority of the Captain, shifted the emphasis from the feminine to the masculine domain by speaking in general terms of the importance of the science of navigation: “Of which, frankly I can do no less than admit, I know nothing,” with the manly generosity of one who knows himself to be an authority in his own field, “yet it is of never-failing interest to me to observe how all science, as all art, is based firmly, immovably, upon mathematics. Without mathematics, where should we be for music, for architecture, for chemistry, for astronomy, above all for the scientific art of navigation, both on the sea and in the air? One may safely set it down as a rule that the better the mathematician, the better the navigator, the better the composer of music. Do you, my dear Captain, from the point of view of practical experience, find yourself in agreement with this rule?”
The Captain almost modestly admitted that his native aptitude for higher mathematics had been of great value to him as seaman. Professor Hutten went on to expand his ideas somewhat, from the purely philosophical view, while the others, more especially the ladies, listened in respectful silence, all except Frau Rittersdorf having lost the thread of discourse some time ago.
A slight but welcome interruption occurred when Wilhelm Freytag was heard again as usual to refuse the delicious Westphalia ham as appetizer. “Deviled eggs, then, sir?” asked the waiter, “or perhaps liver pâté?”
“Herring in sour cream,” said Herr Freytag, “I think.”
“Oh, Herr Freytag, are you a vegetarian?” asked Lizzi. “How interesting! How can you give up all these delicious sausages and bacon for breakfast and this delicious ham. You must try it with a slice of melon sometime. It is divine!”
Freytag, helping himself to a fine mound of fresh peas, said rather flatly, “Oh, no, I never eat pork at all,” at which Frau Rittersdorf exchanged a lifted eyebrow first with the Captain, then with Frau Hutten, then with Herr Rieber, and her fleeting thought was returned to her in the quick gleam of their eyes from all three. Herr Rieber smiled broadly, wagged a finger at Freytag and remarked, “Aha! Observing the dietary laws, I suppose.” At this improbable notion—or was it?—everybody laughed heartily and beamed upon Herr Freytag as a man who could take a friendly joke. They then exchanged a few customary remarks about the Jews and their incomprehensible habits, a sort of small change of opinion which established them once for all as of the same kind of people without any irreconcilable differences; and they settled down together comfortably prepared to change the topic; but their attention was directed to a rather noticeable commotion at the students’ table.
The boys rose from their chairs and bowed in the direction of the stairs, and one of them shouted “Vival” explosively. The woman who came in made them a formal little bow, very old-fashioned and learned in courtesy, then followed the steward to a small table where she sat alone with her back to the students. They sat down again exchanging odd malicious glances, elaborately wiping away smiles under their napkins.
She was perhaps fifty years old and she had been a fine beauty not so long ago. Her face was smooth and wax-colored, her small round mouth was painted bright red, the small, clever-looking black eyes were sketched in and lengthened with dark blue smudges, her lightly tinted reddish hair was cut short and curled around her forehead and ears. She was slender except for a lazy little belly, and her clothes were very expensive-looking; shabby as they were, they were still much too elegant for her present occasions. She wore enormous pearls in her ears, around her throat, on two fingers of her left hand. On her right she wore what appeared to be a light-colored much-flawed emerald, big as a robin’s egg and surrounded by small diamonds. These hands, very narrow, fine, heavily veined, and old-looking, were in constant movement. Thumbs turned in lightly to the palm, the hands moved aimlessly from the edge of the table to her lap, they clasped and unclasped themselves, spread themselves flat in the air, closed, shook slightly, went to her hair, to the bosom of her gown, as if by a life of their own separate from the will of the woman herself, who sat quite still otherwise, features a little rigid, bending to read the dinner card beside her plate.
Everybody in the room turned to stare at her.
“But where,” inquired Frau Rittersdorf of the Captain, “where does she come from? No one saw her come on board, nor in the town before that,” she said, doubtfully, looking around the table, “at least, none of us.”
“And no wonder,” said the Captain, importantly. “That lady—she is a Spanish condesa—was brought on board quietly, hours before the other passengers, by two police officers who attempted at once to escort her to the steerage, under the impression that I was going to put her in chains for the voyage, or at least confine her to a cabin. I could not treat a
lady so, no matter what she had done,” said the Captain, and his eyes rested gently upon his passenger; indeed, they feasted themselves upon that personage, a real member of the nobility, a species seen all too rarely upon his modest decks. “I should somehow have managed to provide for her properly; but fortunately, friends of hers reserved her stateroom by cable to Mexico, when it was learned that she would sail on this ship.”
“Her hands!” exclaimed Lizzi. “What is she doing with them?”
“She is in a highly wrought nervous state at the moment,” said Dr. Schumann. “Pardonable in her situation, perhaps. She will feel better shortly.” His tone and glance were dryly professional.
“A little on the faded side,” said Herr Rieber, and instantly repented his tactlessness when seven pairs of eyes fastened upon him in rebuke.
“She is not young, true,” said Dr. Schumann, “and her troubles are rather complicated—all completely unnecessary perhaps, but still …”
“Would I not be a dupe,” asked the Captain, glancing sharply from face to face, “to take these Latin-American politicals seriously? I was told she is a dangerous revolutionist, an international spy, that she carries incendiary messages from one hotbed of sedition and rebellion to another, that she incites to riot—you would hardly believe all the nonsense. My own opinion is, she is one of these idle rich great ladies who like excitement, who get into mischief and make more mischief without in the least understanding what they do—this is always true of women in politics of any kind!—and she has got her fingers badly burnt. Well,” his voice softened, “this will teach her a lesson, it is not for us to add to her penalties. She is only going to Tenerife, in any case. That is not so bad, and in the meantime, I wish her a pleasant voyage.”
“Those students who greeted her with such apparent respect,” said Herr Professor Hutten, thoughtfully, “resemble very little the revolutionary type as I have learned to recognize it in Mexico. I should have said of these that they are the lamentably overindulged sons of well-to-do parents who have not taken their parental duties very seriously. It is a type all too prevalent in Mexico, indeed, in all the Americas. One of our most constant problems,” he said, “was to protect our German youth from their influence in our schools. I am happy to say, relying as we did on the infallible combination of German character and German methods of discipline, we enjoyed a modest success.”
“In Guadalajara also,” rejoined Frau Schmitt, “how often I have heard my dear husband deplore a state of affairs where our beautiful German children were exposed to the pernicious foreign customs.”
“I had never imagined a revolutionist wearing such pearls,” said Frau Rittersdorf, who had been thinking her own thoughts. “If, indeed, they are real, which is doubtful.”
“When such a lady wears pearls,” said little Frau Schmitt, respectfully, “I think we may be confident they are real.”
“The students,” said the Captain to Herr Professor Hutten, heading off this dangerous feminine diversion of the topic, “are on their way to complete their studies in Montpellier, since on account of the recent disturbances the University in Cuba has been closed over their heads. It is all disorder of the most senseless kind, naturally, and should have been suppressed long ago without hesitation and with every necessary severity. As for revolutionists, they are a species of animal I am not acquainted with. I leave them gladly to those whose business it is to deal with them.” Leaning his head low over his plate, ducking up and down rhythmically, he began to gulp his dinner.
The subject seemed closed, or suspended satisfactorily, on exactly the right note.
Jenny, who felt refreshed and good-tempered after her nap, in spite of her disturbing dream, told David what she had learned about La Condesa, and was surprised at his look of lively admiration as he watched the lady, who had grown calmer and was peering nearsightedly into her salad. “Who told you all this?” he asked, unwilling to believe anything Jenny said, however entertaining it might be.
“Wilhelm Freytag, this morning while we were walking around deck,” said Jenny.
“Is it a habit by now?” asked David.
“This is only the second time,” said Jenny. “I wish you’d look at the zarzuela troupe. Aren’t they simply weird?” For some reason she could not admit the human existence of the Spanish company. They seemed to be life-sized dolls moved by strings, going gracefully through a perpetual pantomime of graceless emotions. Their frowning faces, their gestures of anger, ill-humor, mockery, contempt, all seemed too farfetched and overrehearsed to be probable; she did not believe that any of it came out of living organisms.
The Spaniards had hardly removed their several gazes from La Condesa since she appeared, and their eyes were charged with staring, bitter resentment. They nudged each other and whispered, their mouths sullen; as they ate, or turned their heads, their eyes moved and maintained their gaze.
“If they’re planning to rob her,” said Jenny, “they will give themselves away long before the deed. That fellow they call Pepe hasn’t been able to tear his eyes from her pearls once. And I really don’t blame him—look, David darling, aren’t they lovely?”
“They seem all right,” said David, “but they could be pearls from the ten-cent store and I wouldn’t know. I never saw a real pearl close up.”
“Darling, you make yourself sound as if you’d had a pathetic childhood. Did you?”
“Yes, I damned well did.”
“Well, you might at least admit they are beautiful.”
“I’m not sure I think so,” said David, “I’m so blinded with prejudice against people who can afford to buy pearls. They may be wonderful. I don’t care.”
“It’s handsome of you to concede that much,” said Jenny. “Really handsome.”
“I’d perhaps like them better if I knew they weren’t real,” said David, idly, losing interest.
“Yes, darling,” said Jenny, with sudden gaiety, “I know, that is just the kind of fellow you are—but would you like a sawdust woman instead of one with live insides? It is really strange,” she said, “but I can love you and real pearls too—now how can that be?”
She smiled at him, he watched the smile change her face altogether for the better, and smiled back at her lovingly. They seemed beautiful to each other. “Are you calling me a fake?” asked David. Jenny said, “Besides, maybe she didn’t buy them at all. Maybe she inherited them, or they were given to her by a lover.”
“Maybe,” said David, and a pleasant silence settled between them.
At the Captain’s table, Frau Hutten observed that her husband was not eating well; indeed, he was manipulating his knife feebly, raising an ill-laden fork from time to time for appearance’s sake only. His face was stern and pale, a light effusion appeared on his forehead. When the talk, rather aimless, drifted around to the Professor, it paused there uncertainly, went around him and was taken up on the other side. Halfway through her own lunch, which she was enjoying, Frau Hutten in one flash of a thought was annoyed with her husband—so reasonable a man where the problems of others were concerned, so wise and all-seeing in abstract ideas, he was no more than a willful child when it came to a question of his own good. She had helped him to their cabin two hours before, he had allowed her to stretch him flat and put cold towels on his head, and he had, in his temporary weakness, promised that he would be quiet and allow her to nurse him back to health.
Then without warning he had roused himself, had thrown away the towel and sat up, exclaiming in a loud, martial voice, “No, Käthe, this is a weakness of which I must be ashamed … it wants only a small effort of the will, and this shall be conquered …”
Frau Hutten, seeing that one of his stubborn fits was on the way, had tried to head it off, as if it were an escaping animal. “Ah, no!” she protested. “Here, Will does nothing for you. Let your Will rest for the moment, and make yourself comfortable. This is no time for the exercise of the higher faculties.”
Her husband had not troubled even to answer su
ch heresy. He had risen, squared his shoulders, drawn his brows together over his nose, and, at the sound of the bugle, had taken her arm firmly under his.
“Forward,” he said, “let us breathe the fresh air and take our food as usual, and leave all such nonsense as seasickness to our good Bébé who has no intellectual resources to speak of—il est chien de coeur,” he said, archly; they then both laughed, jovially, and went away laughing, and arrived in triumph at the table.
Now, unless they got away quickly, God knew what might happen. Losing her appetite so suddenly it left a great void that filled promptly with nausea, she did the one thing necessary to deceive her husband and persuade him from the table. “Excuse me,” she said, standing up without looking at anyone, nodding around the table slightly. “My dear,” she appealed to the Professor, “will you please go with me, I don’t feel very well.”
Herr Professor Hutten rose at once, backing stiffly away from his place, overturning his chair, which he hardly noticed. Frau Hutten had to brace herself strongly to support the weight of his assisting arm. There remained nothing to do but to go, as swiftly as possible, without another word. Not until their cabin door had closed upon them safely did Herr Professor Hutten fetch a loud hollow groan. He fell face downward on the couch, retching. Bébé crawled out of his corner towards him and licked his fallen hand more in duty than in pleasure; and Frau Hutten, overcome by the revolting sight, felt a dreadful chill down her spine. She fell back too, upon the bed, eyes closed.
“Käthe,” called her husband, hoarsely, “Käthe, help me.”
“Let me alone,” she said heavily, through stiffened lips. By means of a slow surging movement, she rolled over and reached for the bell, which she pressed down and held steadily, not letting go until the door was opened and she heard sounds of rescue in the room. Conscience, duty, attentiveness, obedience—all the granite foundations of her marriage, her wifely career slid from under her without a sound, and she sank into a hideous luxury of moral collapse. Let somebody else wait on him hand and foot for a change. Let him do something for himself. Let somebody even, for once, do something for her! She was sick of the world … she was sick to death of people … in a harsh gulping voice she demanded relief of the stewardess, whose rather amiably stupid, absent-minded face instantly chilled into hostility; and the hand that poked spoonfuls of crushed ice into Frau Hutten’s open mouth was anything but gentle.