All of us possess a childhood memory which, at the
touch of some association of ideas, leaps up vividly from the past, with every detail of shape and light and sound.. When I was a child of six Sir Edgar Vincent was Governor of the Ottoman Bank at Constantinople. He had a summer-house close to the waters of the Bosphorus, so close indeed that the waves made sun- patterns upon the ceilings as in the saloon of some cross-channel steamer. In one of the rooms there was an exact replica of a bedouin tents complete with carpets and accoutrements ; at the door of the tent crouched the figure of a bedouin suitably arrayed as if at Madame Tussaud's. I was much alarmed by this figure, since it reminded me of Sir Richard Burton, who had startled me at Stiibing two years previously by thrusting his swart face into mine and hissing " Halloa! Little Teheran! " I yelled and yelled. Yet the memory of the Vincent house at Therapia (or was it Yenikeui?) is graced by a far lovelier figure. We were playing hide-and-seek, and Lady Helen Vincent had taken me with her to hide behind some curtains by the staircase. We heard the sound of the pursuers approaching. I squeezed myself into a little ball of excitement, emitting a slight squeak of delight. It is the picture of that moment which has remained to me all my life. Slowly she raised her finger to her lip. I forgot all about my pursuers and gaped up at her in amazement. She was the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen.
Previous page
