The Veiled Lady and Other Men and Women

Francis Hopkinson Smith

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• Publié par: eprio
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 39
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Veiled Lady, by F. Hopkinson Smith
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Title: The Veiled Lady
and Other Men and Women
Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
Posting Date: September 11, 2009 [EBook #4713]
Release Date: December, 2003
First Posted: March 6, 2002
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VEILED LADY ***
Produced by Duncan Harrod. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE VEILED LADY
And Other Men And Women
By
F. Hopkinson Smith
CONTENTS
THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL
LORETTA OF THE SHIPYARDS
A COAT OF RED LEAD
MISS MURDOCK,—"SPECIAL"
THE BEGUILING OF PETER GRIGGSMISS JENNINGS'S COMPANION
SAM JOPLIN'S EPIGASTRIC NERVE
MISS BUFFUM'S NEW BOARDER
CAPTAIN JOE AND THE SUSIE ANN
"AGAINST ORDERS"
MUGGLES'S SUPREME MOMENT
To my Readers:
This collection of stories has been labelled "The Veiled Lady" as being the easiest
way out of a dilemma; and yet the title may be misleading. While, beyond doubt, there is
between these covers a most charming and lovable Houri, to whom the nightingales sing
lullabies, there can also be found a surpassingly beautiful Venetian whose love affairs
upset a Quarter, a common-sense, motherly nurse whose heart warmed toward her
companion in the adjoining berth, a plucky New England girl with the courage of her
convictions, and a prim spinster whose only consolation was the boarder who sat
opposite.
Nor does the list by any means end here. Rough sea-dogs, with friendly feelings
toward other dogs, crop up, as well as brave Titans who make derricks of their arms and
fender-piles of their bodies. Here, too, are skinny, sun-dried Excellencies with a taste for
revolutions, well-groomed club swells with a taste for adventure and cocktails, not to
mention half a dozen gay, rollicking Bohemians with a taste for everything that came
their way.
Perhaps it might have been best to enclose each story in a separate cover, and then to
dump the unassorted lot upon the table, where those who wished could make their
choice. And yet, as I turn the leaves, I must admit that, after all, the present form is best,
since each and every incident, situation, and bit of local color has either passed before or
was poured into the wide-open eyes and willing ears of your most humble and obedient
servant
A Staid Old Painter.
150 East 34th Street,
New York, March 13, 1907.
THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL
Joe Hornstog told me this story—the first part of it; the last part of it came to me in a
way which proves how small the world is.
Joe belongs to that conglomerate mass of heterogeneous nationalities found around
the Golden Horn, whose ancestry is as difficult to trace as a gypsy's. He says he is a
"Jew gentleman from Germany," but he can't prove it, and he knows he can't.
There is no question about his being part Jew, and there is a strong probability of his
being part German, and, strange to say, there is not the slightest doubt of his being part
gentleman—in his own estimation; and I must say in mine, when I look back over anacquaintance covering many years and remember how completely my bank account was
at his disposal and how little of its contents he appropriated.
And yet, were I required to hold up my hand in open court, I would have to affirm
that Joe, whatever his other strains might be, was, after all, ninety-nine per cent.
Levantine—which is another way of saying that he is part of every nationality about
him.
As to his honesty and loyalty, is he not the chosen dragoman of kings and princes
when they journey into far distant lands (he speaks seven languages and many tribal
dialects), and is he not today wearing in his buttonhole the ribbon of the order of the
Mejidieh, bestowed upon him by his Imperial Highness the Sultan, in reward for his
ability and faithfulness?
I must admit that I myself have been his debtor—not once, but many times. It was
this same quick-sighted, quick-witted Levantine who lifted me from my sketching stool
and stood me on my feet in the plaza of the Hippodrome one morning just in time to
prevent my being trodden under foot by six Turks carrying the body of their friend to the
cemetery—in time, too, to save me from the unforgivable sin among Orientals, of want
of reverence for their dead. I had heard the tramp of the pall-bearers, and supposing it to
be that of the Turkish patrol, had kept at work. They were prowling everywhere, day
and night, and during those days they passed every ten minutes—nine soldiers in charge
of an officer of police—all owing to the fact that some five thousand Armenians, anxious
to establish a new form of government, had been wiped out of existence only the week
before.
Once on my feet (Joe accomplished his purpose with the help of my suspenders) and
the situation clear, I had sense enough left to uncover my head and stand in an attitude of
profound reverence until the procession had passed. I can see them now—the coffin
wrapped in a camel's-hair shawl, the dead man's fez and turban resting on top. Then I
replaced my hat and finished the last of the six minarets of the mosque gleaming like
opals in the soft light of the morning.
This act of courtesy, due so little to my own initiative, and so largely to Joe's, gained
for me many friends in and about the mosque—not only those of the dead man, one of
whom rowed a caique, but among the priests who formed the funeral cortege—a fact
unknown to me until Joe imparted it. "Turk-man say you good man, effendi," was the
way he put it. "You stoop over yourselluf humble for their dead."
On another occasion Joe again stood by my side when, with hat off and with body in
a half kotow, I sat before the Pasha, who was acting chief of police after that stormy
Armenian week—it was over really in five days.
"Most High Potentate," Joe began, translating my plain Anglo-Saxon "Please, sir,"
into Eastern hyperbolics, "I again seek your Excellency's presence to make my
obeisance and to crave your permission to transfer to cheap paper some of the glories of
this City of Turquoise and Ivory. This, if your Highness will deign to remember, is not
the first time I have trespassed. Twice before have I prostrated myself, and twice has
your Sublimity granted my request."
"These be troublous times," puffed his Swarthiness through his mustache, his
tobacco-stained fingers meanwhile rolling a cigarette; a dark-skinned, heavily-bearded
Oriental, this Pasha, with an eye that burned holes in you. "You should await a more
peaceful season, effendi, for your art."
"On account of the Armenians, your Excellency?" I ventured to inquire with a smile."Yes." This, in translation by Joe, came with a whistling sound, like the escaping
steam of a radiator.
"But why should I fear these disturbers of the peace, your Supreme Highness? The
Turk is my friend, and has been for years. They know me and my pure and unblemished
life. They also know by this time that I have been one of the chosen few among nations
who have enjoyed your Highness's confidence, and to whom you have given
protection." Here my spine took the form of a horseshoe curve—Moorish pattern. "As to
these dogs of Armenians" (this last was Joe's, given with a growl to show his deep
detestation of the race—part of his own, if he would but acknowledge it), "your
Excellency will look out for them." He WAS looking out for them at the rate of one
hundred a day and no questions asked or answered so far as the poor fellows were
concerned.
At this the distinguished Oriental finished rolling his cigarette, looked at me blandly
—it is astonishing how sweet a smile can overspread the face of a Turk when he is
granting you a favor or signing the death warrant of an infidel—clapped his hands,
summoning an attendant who came in on all fours, and whispered an order in the left ear
of the almost prostrate man. This done, the Pasha rose from his seat, straightened his
shoulders (no handsomer men the world over than these high-class Turks), shook my
hand warmly, gave me the Turkish salute—heart, mouth, and forehead touched with the
tips of flying fingers—and bowed me out.
Once through the flat leather curtain that hid the exit door of the Pasha's office, and
into the bare corridor, I led Joe to a corner out of the hearing of the ever-present spy,
and, nailing him to the wall, propounded this query:
"What did the High-Pan-Jam say, Joe?"
Hornstog raised his shoulders level with his ears, fanned out his fingers, crooked his
elbows, and in his best conglomerate answered:
"He say, effendi, that a guard of ein men, Yusuf, his name—I know him—he is in
the Secret Service—oh, we will have no trouble with him—" Here Joe chafed his thumb
and forefinger with the movement of a paying teller counting a roll. "He come every
morning to Galata Bridge for you me