Chapter XXI

In those April days the boys were already thinking of the end of the semester. Becker was resting on his laurels. Ameen and Chatterjee were not exactly resting on their oars, but each in his own way was serene, feeling that whatever we fail to be intellectually, we are still immortal souls. Wu was grinding like a mill, slow and sure. Deland was cramming as if the devil were at his heels.

At ten minutes past five, Thursday, April 16, Becker, the man of leisure, found his leisure interrupted. Saadi strode into the room, and laid a note on his desk. It was written on the paper of the Congress Hotel. “Mr. B. Rosenvine,” it read, “requests the honour of seeing His Highness, Agri Sodde, at the Russian Consulate, to-morrow, Friday, at ten o’clock.”

“Apparently a gentleman of my race,” said Becker. “And somebody who knows what they call you in Bokhara. Highness sounds pretty elevated for a good mujik like you.”

“It is my father’s agent,” snapped Saadi. “He will be registered at hotel as Roskoff. Damn him up and down and upstairs and downstairs.”

“Oh, I see. You and he are not exactly pobratims, as they say in Servia.”

“We? We elective brothers? If he speaks to me I will kill him.”

“Then you had better let me write a polite declination for you.”

“I have already written and sent by District Telegraph kid. I said, ‘His Highness presents compliments to Pig of Jew and will he please go to hell.’”

Becker laughed. “The gendarmes were very wise to lock you up in Tashkent prison. Now, I don’t want to butt in, but why are we so hard on Mr. Rosenvine?”

Saadi stamped his foot. “I cannot tell Becker. I wish Dr. Trench was here. My father is murderer. I have sworn I will not see him till he has called himself brute.”

“Bozhemoy, bozhemoy,” murmured Becker. “A social democrat enraged about a trifle like murder! Well, this gentleman may be bringing your father’s apologies for removing your friend, whoever she was.”

“Cut it out, Becker. It was my own brother. My father is worse than Fourth Ivan. It is me that he wishes to bend. But he cannot.”—Saadi began to emit tears of rage.

“What does he want to bend you for?”

“Becker, you are still damn fool. Can’t you see he wants me to come back? He wants me to strut round streets of Yalta, so he can brag he has educated son, and say Saadi sides with him against my mother Ila.”

Becker’s telephone rang. Chat was talking. “Becker, some lady desires to speak to Dr. Trench, and I informed same that the doctor is on his way to New York, and the answer does not satisfy. I will put you on the line.”

The person proved to be the operator at the Congress Hotel. She said that a gentleman named Roskoff had left a message for Dr. Trench. Well, telephoned Becker, what did the gentleman want of Dr. Trench?—He wanted Dr. Trench to call on him that evening. “Tell him,” said Becker promptly, “that Dr. Trench’s oldest student will call.”

As Becker hung up, Saadi whirled on his heel in disgust. “You are Jew all right. You will go when anybody calls.”

“It is true that I am a Jew, your Bokharan Highness, but I am also Dr. Trench’s friend, and I do not intend to see Rosenvine’s red count go trickling all over the library rug. I propose to do business with Rosenvine.”

“Well, go to it, and damn both sheenies. When you want to speak to me, you won’t find me.” Saadi slammed the door.

Nothing daunted by his friend’s sarcasm, Becker kept his appointment. At eight o’clock he was shown up to Mr. Roskoff’s room. Mr. Roskoff rose to meet him, and proved to be a dapper gentleman of fifty, with grey hair, eyeglasses, and a closely trimmed beard. He glanced at Becker’s card.

“Es ist ein deutscher Name. Does Herr Becker speak German?”

“Not very well, Mr. Roskoff. I understand it, but I am a Russian Jew. I changed my name for good and sufficient reasons.”

“Ah, ha,” said the suave, high voice. “I confess to you, my friend, I also am of Israel, and am called Benjamin Rosenvine. But German is my Muttersprache, and my business in Chicago is delicate, and if it is your kind permission, I now speak German.”

Thenceforth he proceeded in German. He had the honour to be the European business agent of His Highness Astanakoul-beg-biy-Kushbegi, sometime Vasi of Bokhara. His agency consisted chiefly in looking after investments and the sale of cotton, and negotiating the purchase of machinery for His Highness’ cotton mills at Kermineh. Latterly he had purchased far more machinery than His Highness could personally make use of, the reason being that the present Kushbeg, Nasrulla, was in constant communication with the Personage whose representative Rosenvine had the honour to be. He would not conceal from Herr Becker that his distinguished principal was technically in disgrace, but added that His Highness was almost as influential in exile as he had been in office.

Becker politely inquired where Mr. Rosenvine bought his machinery.

“In New London chiefly. Do you by any chance know a Mr. Gardner, with the Brown Gin Company?”

“No, Mr. Rosenvine.”

“Mr. Gardner has invented a wonderful machine which picks cotton from the bolls. His Highness is much interested, for a certain reason. Taxes are farmed out in Bokhara, and the government is dependent on the assessors. The assessors come when they choose. If American cotton is grown, the bolls fall open and are ruined before the assessor arrives. It will be easier for His Highness, through Nasrulla Beg, to introduce Mr. Gardner’s cotton-picker than to control the assessors, and I have just placed a large order with the Brown Gin Company. But I must not talk of these things. You will wish to see my credentials.”

Mr. Rosenvine brought a French document in which the name of Rosenvine was prominently displayed, his duties and powers were briefly specified, and the signature of His Highness was written both in French and in Persian.

Now to the point. His Highness had a son named Agri Sodde Sherif Hadji, who had long resided in Vienna, but whom Mr. Rosenvine had easily traced to the United States. Through his letters to a certain Bokharan girl, Prince Agri was known to be continuing his medical studies. Inquiry in New York had revealed the fact that he had tried to enter the medical school of Columbia University, but had been rejected on account of insufficient acquaintance with English. He was known to have started for Chicago.

“You may already have guessed, Herr Becker, that the young man who is living at Dr. Trench’s is no other than Prince Agri. He applied at Columbia University under the name of Saadi Sereef, and on my arrival yesterday I telephoned to one or two medical colleges. I found him registered at Lister College under the same name, and his address was given me as in the care of Dr. Trench in Halsted Street. I am sorry not to find Dr. Trench at home, but am exceedingly glad that he has an able representative, because I have a certain communication to transmit.”

“From his father?”

“Yes, Herr Becker. I left Yalta with a message. His father has never despaired of seeing this headstrong youth take his position in the world of affairs. Prince Agri is a young man of considerable ability, and is a great friend of the present Emir of Bokhara. His Highness has never abandoned the hope that Agri would succeed Nasrulla Beg as vizier.”

Becker smiled. “The young man does not strike me as being of a judicial temperament.”

Rosenvine answered somewhat sharply. “In the Orient, Herr Becker, the arrogant judicial temperament is unknown. As a Russian, you should be aware of that fact. Cold pretence of justice is a mark of England and my own country, and I do not admire it. In Bokhara mercy is shown, and the occasional severe judgments are justified.”

Becker returned to his muttons. “Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of the message?”

Rosenvine sank deep into his arm-chair and joined his finger-tips.

“Herr Becker, there was a disagreement between father and son about a certain affair that I am not at liberty to disclose. His Highness is not prepared to admit himself to have been in the wrong, but he desires Agri to return to Europe, to join him at his present place of residence in the Caucasus, and to make himself master of his father’s political experience. In consideration of Agri’s doing so, His Highness is prepared to make him a large allowance—a matter of twenty thousand roubles per annum.”

Becker shook his head. “The Prince, if I am to call him so, is a very emphatic man, and I should hardly expect him to look upon such a proposition favourably. The Prince is sensitive about money matters. If the misunderstanding was of a serious nature, Saadi would regard the offer as little short of an insult.”

“You are very diplomatic, Herr Becker. I know Prince Agri. On a given occasion he struck me across the face with his cane. Permit me to say that I am glad not to have met him. I sent him a courteous request to meet me at the Russian Consulate, and he replied in—well, rather intemperate terms.”

Becker smiled. He recalled the intemperate terms himself.

“I do not hold it against the boy, Herr Becker. What difference does it make? As the Talmud says, Mah nafke minoh?”

“That is hardly a correct use of the Talmud phrase, Mr. Rosenvine. ‘Mah nafke minoh’ is what these Americans call pragmatism. It means, ‘Find out what is the practical difference.’ Excuse me for correcting a brother in Israel, and let me say that you show a spirit worthy of Hillel.”

“I accept the correction, Herr Becker. Fortunately or otherwise, the message which I now have to convey to the Prince is quite different, as you shall hear. On my way to Chicago I stopped in Detroit to look at the automobile industry. His Highness has an excellent German car at Yalta, but he asked me to investigate American cars. The automobile is popular in the Caucasus, and even in Samarkand, though it has not yet reached the city of Bokhara. At Detroit I received a telegram relayed from New London.”

Becker listened intently.

“It contained the very unfortunate news of the death of the Princess Ila.”

“Who is the Princess Ila?”

“She is Agri’s mother, and he has always been devoted to her. I violate no confidence in saying that she has not for years resided in Bokhara. Bokharan standards of masculine morality are not the same, my dear Herr Becker, as prevail in Israel. You are well aware of this.”

“Of course, Mr. Rosenvine. Are you about to ask me to inform Saadi of his mother’s death?”

“If you will kindly do so. And I fear I shall have to trespass upon your kindness still further. The Prince must return to Turkestan at once. Not to Bokhara—that is unnecessary and unadvisable—and perhaps he should not go to Yalta until he can see the reasonableness of his father’s wishes. But he must go to Tashkent, and I should like to place in your hands a sum of money sufficient for his needs—say four thousand roubles.”

“Very good, Mr. Rosenvine. But he needs no such sum to reach Tashkent. I came from Moscow on a tenth of it.”

Rosenvine smiled sarcastically. “Some of our brethren have done it for even less. But the boy will be wealthy now, and it is proper that he should travel as befits his rank.”

“He does not care for rank.”

Rosenvine waved a bland declination to argue. “God knows what Prince Agri cares for. He is the most baffling mixture of arrogance and democracy that has ever come into my somewhat varied experience of life.”

“That is correct! Well, you will place the money in my hands now?”

“To-morrow, Herr Becker, as soon as the banks open. As soon as you are good enough to telephone me of the Prince’s consent to return, I will send cash by messenger. He can catch a steamer on Saturday if he is prompt.”

“Is this money from his mother’s estate?”

“I wish that it were, but that is impossible. Agri is his mother’s heir, but until he reaches Tashkent and qualifies as executor, no more money can reach him from that source. No, the money is his father’s—or, let us say, I will advance it myself. If the sum strikes him as insufficient, I will increase it, though I hardly feel justified at present in going above five thousand roubles.”

“But will he accept his father’s money, or yours either?”

Rosenvine emitted a mild exclamation. “Quatsch, quatsch, Herr Becker! If there were half a million roubles awaiting you in Tashkent, would you long entertain scruples as to railroad tickets?”

There was evidently no more to be said. Jew had met Jew and been answered, and Becker took his leave.

He walked slowly down Michigan to Jackson, and so west. The whole affair seemed like something out of the Arabian Nights. In common Jewish prudence he ought to check it up. There was no use to see the Russian Consul in a matter like this. If there was any screw loose, it would be political, and the Consul was the last person to consult. Becker’s fear was that Rosenvine might be an agent of the secret police to get Saadi back on Russian soil.

As he passed the Western Union Building, a thought struck him. Rosenvine had mentioned the Tashkent office of Astanakoul Beg. He would wire that office. He concocted several queries in Russian, but they were pretty long, and he tore them up. At last he got one to suit him. It merely asked whether the Princess Ila was dead, and ended with “Answer ten words paid, Becker, care Western Union, Chicago.” He sent that wire and it cost him more than fourteen dollars, and it left him no carfare. So he walked home.