Absolutely ignorant of this world of the sea, a great ship like this interested me from the start. It impressed me no little that all the servants were English and that they were, shall I say, polite? Well, if not that, non-aggressive.
Another thing that impressed and irritated me a little was the stolidity of the English countenance as I encountered it here on this ship. I didn’t know then whether it was accidental in this case or national. There is a certain type of Englishman—the robust, rosy-checked, blue-eyed Saxon—whom I cordially dislike, I think, speaking temperamentally and artistically. They are too solid, too rosy, too immobile as to their faces, and altogether too assured and stary. I don’t like them. They offend me. They thrust a silly race pride into my face, which isn’t necessary at all, and which I always resent with a race pride of my own. It has even occurred to me at times that these temperamental race differences could be quickly adjusted only by an appeal to arms, which is sillier yet. But so goes life. It’s foolish on both sides, but I mention it for what it is worth.
I went to my room and began unpacking, but was not there long before I was called out by G. to meet Miss B. and Miss X.
“Get your cap and coat,” he said in his authoritative way, “and come out on deck. Miss B. is there. She’s reading your last novel. She likes it.”
I went out, interested to meet these two, for the actress, the talented, good-looking representative of that peculiarly feminine world of art, appeals to me very much. I have always thought, since I have been able to reason about it, that the stage is almost the only ideal outlet for the artistic temperament of a talented and beautiful woman. Men? Well, I don’t care so much for the men of the stage. I acknowledge the distinction of such a temperament as that of David Garrick or Edwin Booth. These were great actors, and, by the same token, they were great artists, wonderful artists; but in the main the men of the stage are frail shadows of a much more real thing—the active, constructive man in other lines.
I found that this very able patron of mine was doing everything that could be done to make the trip comfortable without show or fuss. Many have this executive or managerial gift. Sometimes I think it is a natural trait of the English—of their superior classes, anyhow. They go about colonizing efficiently, industriously. They make fine governors and patrons.
Not only were all our chairs on deck here in a row, but our chairs at table had already been arranged for—four seats at the captain’s table. It seems that from previous voyages on this ship G. knew the captain. He also knew the chairman of the company in England. No doubt he knew the chief steward. Anyhow, he knew the man who sold us our tickets. Wherever he went, I found he was always finding somebody whom he knew. I like to get in tow of such a man as G. and see him plow the seas.
I covertly observed the personality of Miss X. Here was some one who, on sight, at a glance, attracted me far more significantly than ever Miss B. could. I cannot tell you why, exactly. In a way, Miss B. appeared, at moments and from certain points of view, with her delicacy, refinement, sweetness of mood, the more attractive of the two. But Miss X., with her chic face, her dainty little chin, her narrow, lavender-lidded eyes, drew me quite like a magnet. I liked a certain snap and vigor which shot from her eyes, and which, I could feel, represented our raw American force. A foreigner will not, I am afraid, understand exactly what I mean; but there is something about the American climate, its soil, rain, winds, race spirit, which produces a raw, direct incisiveness of soul in its children. They are strong, erect, elated, enthusiastic. They look you in the eye, cut you with a glance, say what they mean in ten thousand ways without really saying anything at all. They come upon you fresh like cold water, and they have the luster of a hard, bright jewel and the fragrance of a rich, red, full-blown rose. Americans are wonderful to me—American men and American women. They are rarely polished or refined. They know little of the subtleties of life, its order and procedures. But oh, the glory of their spirit, the hope of them, the dreams of them, the desires and enthusiasm of them! That is what wins me. They give me the sense of being intensely, enthusiastically, humanly alive.
After dinner we adjourned to the ship’s drawing-room, and there Miss X. fell to playing cards with G. at first, afterward with Mr. K., who came up and found us, thrusting his company upon us perforce. The man amused me, so typically aggressive, money-centered was he. However, not he so much as Miss X. and her mental and social attitude commanded my attention. Her card-playing and her boastful accounts of adventures at Ostend, Trouville, Nice, Monte Carlo, and Aix-les-Bains indicated plainly the trend of her interests. She was all for the showy life that was to be found in these places, burning with a desire to glitter, not shine, in that half-world of which she was a smart atom. Her conversation was at once showy, naïve, sophisticated, and yet unschooled. I could see by G.’s attentions to her, that, aside from her crude Americanisms, which ordinarily would have alienated him, he was interested in her beauty, her taste in dress, her love of a certain continental café life which encompassed a portion of his own interests. Both were looking forward to a fresh season of it, G. with me, Miss X. with some one who was waiting for her in London.
After dinner there was a concert. It was a dreary affair. When it was over, I started to go to bed, but, it being warm and fresh, I stopped outside. The night was beautiful. There were no fellow-passengers on the promenade. All had retired. The sky was magnificent for stars—Orion, the Pleiades, the Milky Way, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper. I saw one star, off to my right, as I stood at the prow, under the bridge, which, owing the soft, velvety darkness, cast a faint, silvery glow on the water—just a trace. Think of it! One lone, silvery star over the great dark sea doing this. I stood at the prow and watched the boat speed on. I threw back my head and drank in the salt wind. I looked and listened. England, France, Italy, Switzerland, Germany—all these were coming to me mile by mile. As I stood there, a bell over me struck eight times. Another, farther off, sounded the same number. Then a voice at the prow called, “All’s well,” and another aloft, in the crow’s-nest, echoed, “All’s well.” The second voice was weak and quavering.