In fine, it was Tristan pining for Isolde—with the important variation that Tristan journeyed to Isolde for the reason that Isolde failed to come to Tristan. One evening, very suddenly, I left England and set out back to the Far East.
II
I travelled with Sir Hugo and the Russian General, and we took the eastern route. I had recognized Sir Hugo’s gait as he came my way one day in crowded Piccadilly, but stopped in front of a shop window. And when I came up I saw Sir Hugo gazing at long rows of D.S.O.’s and O.B.E.’s displayed behind the window. He was going out as professional adviser—to Siam, I think, he said—or some suchlike place, and we arranged to leave together. And then the General who was going out to Wrangel’s Army in Constantinople joined us. He was to get off at Port Said.
On board next morning I showed the General an alarming Reuter message from Constantinople. The French Government, it ran, had ordered the disbandment of General Wrangel’s Army, offering to transport the refugees back to Russia or to Brazil, but General Wrangel declined the offer, refused the invitation to go to Paris, and demanded the return of his arms and munitions which the French had already sold to Georgia, where they had fallen into Bolshevik hands. Money, gold and silver valuables and jewels had been stolen from the steamer in which General Wrangel was staying. Important military documents regarding the campaign in the Crimea had also been stolen.
“I know,” he said, “it is a most damrotten game, you know. I give dem h‑h‑hell, those damrotten Frenchmen. They are all damrotten Bolsheviks, they are.”
“Well,” I said quietly, “Kolchak has tried it. Denikin has tried it. Yudenich has tried it. I should give it a rest now.”
“Ah,” he laughed, “all this has merely been a little rehearsal. We shall begin seriously in a year or two. It’s the only way to stop bloodshed.” He puffed at his heavy cigar and his eyes twitched in the smoke.
“A rehearsal. … Yes, I too intend to begin ‘seriously’ when I get to Vladivostok,” I laughed.
“Is it not rather an adventure in futility?” Sir Hugo asked.
“He has taken my advice at last.” The General kissed his fingertips. “What eyes!—”
“What calves! What ankles!” I completed automatically.
Silence.
“The boat’s beginning to roll.”
“Where are all the passengers?” asked the General.
“I fear they must be indisposed,” Sir Hugo said, “in consequence of the heavy sea.”
The General paused a little, gazing down at the cause of the passengers’ indisposition. “Of course,” he said, “this rolling and pitching ought never to be.”
“Oh!” said Sir Hugo.
“It is entirely due to bad steering. Now on Russian ships when there is rolling or pitching the captain leaves his breakfast-table without a word, goes up to the man at the steering-wheel, beats him in the face the number of times he considers adequate (v mordoo, do you understand?)—”
Sir Hugo nodded to indicate that he understood.
“—and retires, without a word, to the saloon and continues his breakfast. And believe me, Sir Hugo, there is no more—ha, ha, ha—rolling or—ha, ha, ha—pitching! No more.”
“Hm,” said Sir Hugo. “Doesn’t the man at the steering-wheel ever … protest?”
“No,” said the General. “He knows what it’s for. The whole beauty of it is that the transaction is carried out swiftly, efficiently, quietly, without a sound … to everybody’s satisfaction.”
“This quietude of method, General, seems to have produced, to put it mildly, quite a stir recently?”
“Not carried out quietly enough,” explained the General, indicating the root of the trouble.
“The times are dead and over, anyhow.”
“They are dead and over,” sighed the General, as if mourning a dear relation.
Silence again. The wind full of that vigour of the sea swept across my face.
“Do you see that ship there, sir?”
“Which ship where?” came the answer.
“That ship there,” said I, pointing at the only vessel on the only sea.
Sir Hugo looked.
“It’s not a ship,” he said. “It’s a boat.”
“But, oh! sir,” I breathed in courteous remonstrance.
“Only His Majesty’s ships are ships,” came the dry rejoinder. “All other vessels are boats. … But to return to the question at issue, what were you going to say about the boat?”
“Well, I thought it was the Aquitania, but now I see it isn’t,” I said, looking down into the green-blue waves. “Do you remember the U-boat scare three years ago when we crossed to New York? It was a time when you felt that at any moment you might find yourself floating on the water owing to the disappearance of the boat.”
“The ship,” corrected Sir Hugo. “The Aquitania … I mean the boat … I beg your pardon, you’re right this time and I apologize. But why the devil didn’t you say so straight out instead of wasting my time and your time with … with … with such a rubbishy matter?”
Ominous silence.
Then said the General, “Perhaps we might go and have a drink?”
A week later we were entering the harbour of Port Said. We stood at the rail, balancing ourselves on our heels, as the liner, rolling heavily, turned into port.
“We’re already four days late,” Sir Hugo said.
“I know. I have never been on such a damrotten ship before,” remarked the General. “Now I remember on a Russian ship I once crossed the Pacific in, the captain promised to reach Yokohama by a certain date, but, as usual of course, failed to do so by a week or more. Well, all the passengers on board, officers and civilians, men and women, first-class passengers and even those who worked their passage, used to go up to the captain’s cabin every morning and beat him in the face (v mordoo, you understand?)
