the new arrival. “That theory no doubt does very well in Germania,” he said loudly. “Without imagination or brio, the artists there can only draw what they see—one Giotto is worth the whole bunch of them.”
“I’ve heard of Jotto,” said Mr. Clemens. “Is he dead?” The audience burst into laughter, although I was not quite certain what the joke was, and Signor Rubbia turned red.
Before the laughter had subsided, Mr. Clemens stood. “Well, Prinz Karl, Kipling and I were just about to go down to my cabin to see if your bottle was there. Why don’t you come along and find out if you got your money’s worth? Sounds as if there’s plenty for all of us.”
“I would be most delighted to join Herr Mark Twain,” said the prince, and the four of us swept out the door together, leaving a smiling crowd behind—with the exception of Signor Rubbia, who looked as if he had a sudden case of indigestion.
The champagne had indeed been delivered, and was already well chilled. I pulled the cork and filled four glasses. Mr. Clemens waited for the bubbles to subside a bit, then turned to the prince and said, “To your health, and many thanks for the fine going-away present!”
“My pleasure entirely, Herr Twain,” said the prince, beaming. We clinked our glasses and drank. The champagne was sweeter than most I had tasted, but very full-bodied and delightfully cool. All except Prinz Karl took seats in the comfortable chairs and sofa provided. Mr. Kipling propped his feet up and said, “If you don’t mind my asking, what brings a German prince to America? Most of the time, the poor Yankees have to go to your side of the pond to rub elbows with royalty.”
“Ah, that is a long story,” said Prinz Karl. He had remained standing, and his erect posture gave a lively sense of his aristocratic upbringing. “I will give you the brief version. America is now what Europe will be—almost for certain in the lifetimes of you two young gentlemen. Now is the last act of the play for kings and princes, I believe, and the start of the time for parliaments and ministers. In my great-grandfather’s time, things were different—a whole division our little principality raised, for him to go to Austerlitz and fight against Napoleon. Alas, the French artillery did not let him bring many of his men home again. My father still believed for many years that our principality could exist by itself, but Prinz von Bismarck became more and more insistent. The Prussians can be very persuasive, you know.”
“I believe so,” said Mr. Kipling. “The man with a big enough army can usually get his way.” There was general nodding of heads in agreement with this.
“Though another fellow with a bigger army can often make him stop and think before he does something stupid,” said Mr. Clemens. “So I take it that Ruckgarten has been swallowed up by the German empire.”
“So it has,” said the prince, spreading his left hand in front of him, as if balancing something on the palm. “To console him in his old age, my father still has his title and his little palace and his hereditary honors, but I do not think they will much benefit me. In fact, I am sure they will not—since I have been so improvident to have been born my father’s second son. To be perfectly frank with you, I do not in the least regret it. My brother Heinrich Maximillian is quite competent, and very serious. And as I say, I think the time for kings and princes is not long. So I travel about the globe, and enjoy what there is to enjoy in life, and let my brother govern as best he can without consulting me.”
“A melancholy thought, in a way,” said Mr. Kipling. He sipped at his champagne, a meditative expression on his face. “I hope that England will never find itself in such condition, but I’m not such a fool to think it will avoid those straits without strenuous efforts to stem the tide of history.”
“Well, if there’s any kind of tide in history, it rolls in and out just like the ocean,” said Mr. Clemens. “You can’t bet on progress, only on change. I’ll tell you one thing about democracy, Prinz Karl. A senator can rob you just as blind as a duke—there ain’t hardly any difference between them, except when you get tired of one senator you can usually bring in another one to rob you some new way.”
Prinz Karl and Mr. Kipling laughed heartily, and Kipling raised his glass. “Well, Clemens, I see you haven’t taken up diplomacy in your old age. I look forward to watching you properly scandalize the British lecture audiences, it should be a sight to remember.”
Mr. Clemens waved his hand disparagingly. “Scandalizing the British is child’s play—Wentworth could do it, if he put his mind to it. Now, a real challenge would be scandalizing a Frenchman—or possibly an Italian.”
“You didn’t seem to have much difficulty with that artist, Signor Rubbia,” I remarked.
“Oh, that was no challenge at all,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning broadly. “You can always rile up an Italian by making fun of art—or opera, if you’re in the mood for a real argument. I knew Signor Rubbia for a sham the instant I saw that scarf of his. It was hard to resist exposing him right on the spot. But I guess we should be glad he’s aboard—if we run out of other entertainment on the crossing, we can get hours of amusement pulling his leg.”
I was at a loss to understand Mr. Clemens’s reaction to Signor Rubbia. For all I knew, the artist was a sham. But I was not so confident of my own knowledge of art (though I knew what I liked) to judge another’s expertise. Still, a few minutes’ conversation in the lounge seemed to me too short a time to dismiss Rubbia’s opinions entirely, or to decide to make him the target of jokes and taunts. But I was not being paid to contradict my employer, or to chide him for behavior that appeared unseemly to me. Certainly, neither Mr. Kipling nor Prinz Karl took exception to his remarks, except in a spirit of fun. So I held my tongue, and resolved to listen and learn—from Signor Rubbia as well as Mr. Clemens, and even from Prinz Kail, who seemed a pleasant enough fellow when he managed to keep his temper under control.
After the first glass of champagne, Mr. Clemens suggested that we invite Mrs. Kipling to join us. “Of course,” said Mr. Kipling. “I’ll go fetch Carrie directly.”
“No need of that,” I said. “Tell me where to find her and I’ll bring her back. I’ll trust you gentlemen to save at least one glass for me.”
“And one for the lady, as well,” said Prinz Karl, smiling. “To invite her to share an empty bottle with us, it would be most inhospitable!”
“We can order up another bottle, if it comes to that,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I reckon there’ll be some left by the time Wentworth gets back, if he don’t get lost—or spend all afternoon stopping to gawk at the boat.”
“No danger of that,” I said. “I’ve got most of a week to see the ship. Where should I expect to find Mrs. Kipling?”
“She was going to the Grand Saloon,” said Mr. Kipling. “If she’s not there, she’ll probably be back in our cabin—number seventeen. Around the corner—do you know where it is?”
“I think I can find it,” I said. “If not, I’ll come back and ask directions.” I drank up the half-inch remaining in my glass, and went to look for Mrs. Kipling.
There was a good bit of activity on the decks, with passengers gathering at the rail to enjoy their last view of New York City, and crewmen wrestling with a few last pieces of latecomers’ baggage. The anticipation of our departure was a tonic in the air, and most of the passengers I passed were talking animatedly, or pointing out the sights to their companions. The excitement was contagious, and I found myself smiling and nodding to my fellow passengers as if we were all old friends, instead of people who had never laid eyes on one another before this very moment.
Actually,
