cultivate her father’s acquaintance, and perhaps get an introduction.
Near them, Mr. Clemens spotted the Kiplings. Since I would be sitting at the same dinner table with them, I went with my employer as he ambled over to greet the couple—not at all sorry for the chance to see Miss Babson at closer range. “Hullo, Clemens,” said Kipling. “I see you’re ready to entertain the captain and his millionaire guests.”
“Oh, I doubt we have too many millionaires aboard,” said Mr. Clemens. “Most of them will have been seduced onto one of the newer and faster ships—nothing with less than four smokestacks will suit the fancy crowd. Mind you, I wouldn’t have turned down a ticket on a fast four-stacker, myself. But with Henry Rogers footing the bill, I reckon I’m obliged to economize where I can.”
“Yes, economy’s one of the cardinal virtues,” said Kipling. “Not such a great one as to persuade a fellow to take passage in steerage, of course.”
“Well, you’re too young to remember the old-time steamships,” said Mr. Clemens. “These days, I reckon even steerage is better than anything the richest man alive could buy, back then. The cabins were about as dismal and uncomfortable as the greatest minds of the day could contrive to make them: no electrical lights, no place to sit and talk except the dining room, no decorations or paintings or music. The decks were awash even in calm weather—why, on one trip I took, the captain told me he’d pumped the whole Atlantic Ocean out of his hold sixteen times during the crossing. Or maybe it was only fifteen times. It’s a pity I can’t recall the exact figure; a man shouldn’t quote such an important statistic without being certain it’s completely accurate.”
Mr. Kipling laughed, as did several of the bystanders, who as usual seemed to consider any of Mr. Clemens’s remarks (even in private conversation) to have been made for their own entertainment. Just as the laughter was subsiding, another voice cut through the noise of the crowd: “There’s that pompous ass again. He’s as tiresome as Rubbia—let’s hope he isn’t sitting near us at dinner.” It was Robert Babson’s voice. When I turned to look, I saw him staring with ill-disguised hostility at Prinz Karl von Ruckgarten, who had just come into the hallway, dressed in a semi-military uniform and carrying his gold-headed cane.
One or two of the group around Babson giggled in response to his rude comment, although I was pleased to notice that his sister did not seem amused. Instead, she laid a hand on his elbow and said something to him, too quietly for me to overhear. It was easy to guess what she had told him, though: He glared around the room to see who might have noticed what he said. His eyes locked with mine for a moment, and I looked away, feeling uncomfortable at having drawn his attention. From what I had seen of him, we had little in common; but neither did I have any reason to start off on the wrong foot with someone who had given me no particular offense or injury. Especially someone with such an attractive sister . . .
My thoughts were interrupted by a burst of light, which I realized came from the suddenly opened doors leading to the dining room. The light was emitted by numerous electrical bulbs reflecting off dazzling crystal chandeliers. The tables were covered with pure white linen, with fine gold-trimmed china at each place, flanked by sparkling cut-glass goblets and an impressive array of silverware. For a moment, the crowd seemed stunned by the sheer brilliance of the vista that had opened before them; then, as if of a single mind, we surged forward into the light, each of us searching for our proper place in the huge dining room.
Dinner that first evening at sea turned out to be memorable; not so much for the food (excellent as it was) as for what happened at the end of the meal.
Seated at the same table with the Kiplings and me were Dr. Lloyd Gillman, a retired surgeon, and his wife, Elizabeth; Lt. Col. Sir Henry Fitzwilliam, a retired British army officer who had served in Africa and India, and his wife, Helen; and Angus Rennie, an engineer whose broad accent betrayed his Scottish origins. (Having no previous experience with British titles, and whether they take precedence over military rank, or the other way around, I was not certain whether to address Fitzwilliam by his title, his military rank, or both, until Mr. Kipling came to my rescue by calling him “Colonel.”)
The colonel had finished straightening his silverware (as if to arrange it in a more precise military alignment) and was busy perusing the wine list, when Mr. Kipling introduced himself and Mrs. Kipling to the others at the table. “Kipling, Kipling,” the colonel said, looking intently at him. “Any relation to that writer fellow, the one out of India?” (He pronounced it In-ja, just as Mr. Kipling did.)
Mr. Kipling smiled modestly, and admitted that he was indeed related to the writer—“very closely related, in fact.” At this, Mrs. Kipling laughed, and everyone at the table joined in, getting the joke. We were on easy terms from then on.
“You know, I’ve read your stuff about India,” said the colonel, beaming. “I was stationed there a good fifteen years, and I daresay I know it better than most. I might pick a bone with you here or there, but I must admit you’ve got India spot on. I say, when you were in Lahore, did you happen to meet Dr. Hogworthy? Extraordinary chap—why, he used to go out into the Punjab without even a native translator. He’s back in London, now—you really ought to look him up.”
The two of them were soon embarked on a lively discussion of India, which I found fascinating. Here were two men who had been practically on the opposite side of the world, speaking with easy familiarity of exotic places and customs. Their conversation almost made me neglect my dinner of poached salmon in a delicate wine sauce, until Mrs. Kipling gave me an anxious look and inquired whether I was feeling well. After that, I remembered to eat.
Our table was near the aft wall, and I was seated with my back to it. So while I was on the periphery, I had a good view of the entire room whenever I chanced to look beyond my own dinner companions. There was a constant coming and going of waiters and their assistants, and the diners were keeping the wine steward busy, as well. At the captain’s table, which was a double-sized table (seating sixteen) at the center of the room, champagne was being poured. Even from my seat in the hinterlands I could occasionally hear the captain and his guests laugh at one of Mr. Clemens’s stories. “Why, Noah would never pass muster as a captain these days,” said my employer, and spun a fanciful scene of the Hebrew patriarch applying for his license with a punctilious German inspector.
Closer to us were the Philadelphians, split among several tables along generational lines. Robert Babson and his sister, Theresa Mercer, and several others I’d seen with them just before dinner were seated together, at the table right next to ours. Somewhat to my surprise, Wilfred Smythe was not with this party, but seated with his parents at another table with the older Babsons and Mercers, and Signor Rubbia, the Italian artist. The two tables were a study in contrasts: the young Philadelphians loud and boisterous, while their parents were models of propriety. Robert Babson, in particular, seemed in high spirits, laughing immoderately and sending the waiter on one errand after another—usually for more wine. His conversation consisted mostly of rude comments on his elders, and I thought I saw some of the older Philadelphians shoot disapproving glances in his direction, but if so, he paid them no attention.
By coincidence, Prinz Karl was also seated nearby, at a table directly between the young Philadelphians and the captain’s table. Seated with him were ladies and gentlemen of around his own age. As I might have expected, the prince had established himself as unofficial head of his table—much as Mr. Clemens had (despite his nominal status as one of many guests) at the captain’s table, or (in a very different way) Robert Babson at his. I could see the eyes of Prinz Karl’s dinner companions focused on him, smiles on their faces, and every so often, I heard laughter as he made some witty observation or delivered a florid compliment to one of the ladies. I wondered again
