"They were very much alike. That is to say, they resembled the portraits of the same handsome woman at the ages of thirteen, eighteen, and thirty-five. They were mother and daughters. And when I said I was looking for a Miss Macedoine, they uttered exclamations.
"'Her father—he lives in the next house,' they said.
"'I have heard,' I remarked, 'of a family named—what was it?—Sarafov.' And they nodded with animation. 'You got it,' said the elder girl. 'This is mother, Mrs. Sarafov. I'm Pollyni, and my sister here is Olga. Did Miss Macedoine tell you about it?'
"'No,' I said, 'I heard in a round-about way. But tell me, where is she?'
"They looked at each other. Mrs. Sarafov spoke.
"'Are you the gentleman on the ship...?' I nodded. 'Well, I guess we can tell you. I suppose you know how she's fixed.' I nodded again. 'Well, she's got an apartment in the town. If you like we'll send a message to her, but she wouldn't be able to get here much before twelve o'clock. Perhaps you'd better call to-morrow. Afternoons she's free, you understand.'
"But of course what I was thinking about at that particular moment was the problem of the Sarafovs themselves. It was simple enough. They had emigrated to New York some years before, Sarafov taking his wife and two young children to make his fortune in the Golden Country beyond the sea. Not much, according to our standards, no doubt, but a comfortable competence in Turkey where living was so cheap. So they had come back and settled in their native town, in the Frank Quarter, while Sarafov père continued for a year or so longer his accumulation of dollars. 'Yes,' said Mrs. Sarafov. 'We liked America all right, after we got used to their ways, but this country's pretty good, too. And it's freer here,' she added, reflectively. This was so astonishing that I felt bound to demand some explanation. It was the first time I had heard of any one fleeing from America to seek liberty in the Sultan's dominions. 'Why,' said Mrs. Sarafov, 'you can't do a thing in America without you get soaked for it, some way. And the prices! A dollar don't go any distance at all. My husband, he says, 'Yes, but you are handling the money, though.' That's like a man!'
"They were astonishing. They sat there, those three extremely handsome females, easy and uncorseted, their white teeth gleaming, their perfect complexions glowing, their dark eyes and hair shining in the lamplight, and contradicted all the conventional notions I had ever held about American emigrants. They had no animus against America, you must remember, but they possessed something for which even the western republic cannot supply a substitute—a traditional love of the land of their ancestors. They had a perfectly steady and unsentimental grip upon realities. Liberty for them was not a frothy gabble of insincere verbiage, but a clear and concrete condition of body and soul. I suppose the perfectly healthy have no dreams. Their vitality, like the vitality of so many of the people in these regions, was extraordinary. It was like a radiance around them. They seemed independent of everything peculiar to our boasted western civilization. Neither patent medicines nor cosmetics nor municipal enterprise came into their lives at all. There were no books in the house. They produced figs in syrup, and sherbet and cognac, and a smooth red wine that was a most generous cordial. They gave me bread and raisins. They had all the things we read of, and strive to imitate, and which we imagine we buy in cans. They had no manners, for they ate with their fingers and licked them vigorously afterward; yet they conveyed the impression that their civilization was older than the ruined turrets above the city. They sat and moved with the poised rhythm and dignity of the larger carnivora. The girls reclined with an easy and assured relaxing of the limbs upon a settee of violet plush, and their grouping made me think instantly of ancient sculptural forms. They were without that nuance and stealthy deception which gives us such a feeling of manly superiority over our own women, and without which masculine humour would die out. Perhaps it was because, not only did they dispense with what are called breakfast foods, but with breakfast itself, that they could sit there in the merciless glare of an unshaded kerosene lamp and defy one with their flawless and amiable personalities. And while I sat there and talked to them and ate their bizarre and appetizing provender, I became aware of something even more astonishing than their failure to use the immeasurable advantages of existence in a Brooklyn apartment, where the breath of life, warmed beyond endurance, came up out of mysterious grids in the walls and dried all the vitality out of them. It wasn't only that, it transpired. These women, with their quality of hard, practical devotion to a concrete bodily well-being, conveyed something beyond all that. For when I suggested that Artemisia's way of life must place her beyond their sympathies, they registered emphatic dissent. For why? They were unable to understand. They looked at each other.
"'That's American,' said Mrs. Sarafov, distinctly.
"'Not entirely,' I protested. 'It has a certain vogue in England also, I assure you. And personally,' I added, 'I am bound to say it makes a difference. I regret it.'