Blue Voyage

VIII

Demarest sat alone in the dim-lighted smoking room. A calf-bound octavo lay on the green table before him, opened at page 544. On the black skylight, a heavy rain rattled: drumming dripping pattering whimpering. It was not loud enough, however, to drown out the gusts of music that came upstairs fitfully from below, where the masquerade ball was in progress. In fact, he could hear Hay-Lawrence’s voice — Hay-Lawrence was now a chef—in shrill imitation of broken Gallic English, followed by a spate of expostulatory French. Demarest smiled. How admirable, to be able to throw oneself into a thing like that! With so little self-consciousness! He could see, in his mind’s eye, the absurd actions with which Hay-Lawrence must be accompanying that fury of sound — the shrugged shoulders, the palms lifted and narrowed, the eyebrows extravagantly arched. “Mais oui!” Hay-Lawrence positively squealed the oui; and then was heard no more, lost in a combined outrage of rain and ragtime. Of course, he must be delighted at the chance to show off his excellent French … What was that tune. An Old-Fashioned Garden. Modern Bach. Drumming dripping pattering whimpering. Running whipping spattering scampering. “First, for the scene” (he read, “a landtschap consisting of small woods, and here and there a void place filled with huntings: which falling, an artificial sea was seen to shoot forth, as if it flowed to the land, raised with waves which seemed to move, and in some places the billows to break, as imitating the orderly disorder which is common in nature. In front of this sea were placed six tritons, in moving and sprightly actions, their upper parts human, save that their hairs were blue, as partaking of the sea colour: their desinent parts fish, mounted above their heads, and all varied in dispositions. From their backs were borne out certain light pieces of taffeta, as if carried by the wind, and their music made out of wreathed shells. Behind these, a pair of sea-maids, for song, were as conspicuously seated; between which, two great seahorses, as big as the life, put forth themselves; the one mounting aloft, and writhing his head from the other, which seemed to sink forward; so intended for variation, and that the figure behind might come off better: upon their backs, Oceanus and Niger were advanced.” An admirable descriptive prose! And what impudence to assert that there was no prose before Dryden! Great sea horses as big as the life. And the orderly disorder which is common in nature …

Silberstein, in a dinner jacket, entered laconically; with a cigar, on which the red-and-gold band was intact. In a dinner jacket, with plump shirt, he looked more than ever batrachian. Brek-ek-ek-ek. He sauntered, he rolled, he twinkled, he trolled. Drumming dripping pattering whimpering. In an old-fashioned garden.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I never saw such a lousy collection in my life. Hay-Lawrence is pretty good, though.”

“He looks the part to a T.”

“I don’t speak French myself, but I guess he slings it about as well as the froggies do?”

“It sounds all right to me. Have you been dancing?”

“No. I gave them the up-and-down — there’s nobody there worth looking at, except that little Irish kid and Mrs. Faubion. And, of course, your friend the Welsh Rarebit. By Godfry, she’s got up fit to kill!”

Drip drop drip drop. An old-fashioned garden in the rain.

“Have you seen her?… Hello — there she is. Mrs. Davis! Mrs. Davis!”

Mrs. Davis, a Hawaiian clad in swishing grass, with a white rose in her black hair and a purple Japanese lantern in each hand, leaned coyly through the doorway, one leg lifted behind her. Scarlet slippers. Then she was gone again.

The glass-eyed poker player came in, looking angrily about the room, and four others. Also Smith, soft-stepping in the rear, drawing back a little to avoid getting mixed with the game. He had been out in the rain — he had on his tweed hat and a rain-splashed raincoat. After him came a trampling troup of others, refugees from the dance. The thirsty hour was beginning to summon them.

“Didn’t see you at the dance,” said Smith, dropping off his coat.

“No, I’m not a dancing man.”

“The little girl was asking me where you were — says she’s mad at you.”

“Mrs. Faubion?”

“Sure. Who’d you think? Looks nice, too. Got on one of those blue embroidered mandarin cloaks, and nice little white silk pantaloons.”

“She’s the best-looking thing there,” said Silberstein, “which isn’t saying much.”

“She’s all right! Yes, sir, she’s all right. And she can dance, too. I wish I could dance — I’m too old to learn these newfangled things. But I’d sure like to dance with her.”

“Well, gentlemen, I think I’ll slide for home. I’ll see you in the morning, if the rain doesn’t sink us. Good night.”

“Good night!”

“Good night.”

Silberstein departed in a rattle of rain: the Long, Long Trail came mournfully up the stairs: a cork popped.

“Have a game?” said Smith. “He makes me tired, swelling in here with his dress suit.”

“No, not tonight, thanks. I haven’t got the energy. Lazy as a nigger.”

“Lazy as a nigger! Ever seen niggers work in the gangs down South?”

“Yes, I have.”

“They sure can work — when they want to.”

“Oh, I have the greatest respect for the nigger. I’m all for him.”

“He’s all right in the fields and the servants’ quarters. Yes, siree!”

“The Negro has genius — give him a chance and he’ll prove it.”

“Genius! I never noticed it. Give him a chance, and he gets too uppish.”

“Oh, I don’t agree with you. When he’s uppish, it’s only because he imitates the bad manners with which he’s been treated.”

Smith looked astonished.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about! You ought to live down South.”

“I have lived down South.”

“Well then, you ought to know better. Give him an inch and he’ll take an ell.”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Why shouldn’t he!.. Do you think he’s the equal of the white man?”

“Potentially, certainly! Good Lord, he’s only had a generation or two of freedom, scarcely any schooling, and look what he’s done already! His folk songs are the only American music, practically, that’s worth a toot.”

“Just plain savagery, that’s what it is, and I’m surprised you fall for it. You come down and live with them and look for their genius! Genius my hat! They’re black, and don’t you forget it.”

“What difference does that make?”

“A whole lot! You can’t let them mix. Got to keep them in their place.”

“Nonsense. They’re human beings, like any others. You can’t condemn a whole race because of their color! Good Lord, I never heard anything so childish!”

“Childish! Would you sit down to dinner with a nigger?”

“Certainly! I not only would, but I have.”

Smith stared.

“What! Well, no self-respecting man would. No sir.”

“I suppose you’re one of these people who feel the same way about the Chinese and Japanese.”

“Sure. To hell with them. They’re yellow — they’re not white … Good God, sitting down to dinner with a nigger! Will you listen to that!”

Smith turned his head, showing a disposition to draw in, as witnesses, the men at the next table. His voice had become louder. Demarest felt himself flushing.

“Certainly. The Negro I sat down to dinner with was a human being, and as civilized and intellectual a man as you could find. And a man very widely known.”

“Every man to his own taste, as the farmer said when he kissed the pig! I suppose next you’ll say it was an honor to sit down with him!”

“So it was.”

“You’ll have to excuse me. That’s hot air. You just fool yourself. Now look here. Suppose you had a sister—”

“I have a sister.”

“All right — you have a sister. Suppose she wanted to marry a coon, would you let her?… You know you wouldn’t.”

“I admit I’ve got strong enough primitive racial feelings in me to make me feel that any crossing of species is a mistake. And I’d certainly do my best to make HER feel this, and to make her see the social consequences of such a marriage. But if she realized all that, I don’t see that I would have any further business to interfere. No. She’s an adult, and can manage her own life. I should regret the step, for various reasons, but among them would not be any feeling that the Negro is something subhuman. Not at all!”

“Oh, good Lord deliver me! Did you hear that, you people? This man says he wouldn’t mind if his sister married a nigger!”

There was a mild, embarrassed laugh at the next table, and Demarest felt himself flushing under the scrutiny of amusedly hostile eyes. Loss of caste — this was what the smiling eyes said, but almost as if apologetically. He was made to feel, for a flash, the isolation with which a race punishes its individuals for excessive individualism, for disobeying totem and taboo. Outcast. Pariah … How idiotic of him, to discuss such a thing, with such a man, in such a place! Served him right. Drip drop. Drop drip. Better fill and light his pipe with ostentatious calm and care, and let them see his large new splendid tobacco pouch! the unhurrying fingers manipulating the sea-damp tobacco, with percipient care for every shred!

Smith, guessing that he had gone a little too far, watched, unseeing, the fingers working in the pouch. But the scene was now beyond mitigation. He rose, flushed, with angry evasive eyes.

“Funny ideas some people have,” he said. He picked up his coat.

“De gustibus—as you remarked,” said Demarest. His voice was cool, and he directed at Smith a glance which he intended to be penetrating.

“What?…” Smith wavered, hoping for a friendlier note on which to take his departure. “Well, I guess I’ll take a look at the dance before it stops. Getting toward the end.”

He moved off sadly, sedately, as if in padded slippers: quiet upholder of the conventions; modest efficient tool of society. My Little Gray Home in the West. And now he was on his way to watch Faubion — Faubion, who was wearing a blue mandarin cloak and nice little while silk pantaloons. Delicious! Smith watching hungrily, brown eye among the potted palm trees, wistfully, waiting. Misery. Misery is creation. Misery is love. Misery is—

He opened the fat octavo again. A book so massive, in a ship smoking room, smacked of affectation. Page 568. “The spurging of a dead man’s eyes. And all since the evening star did rise … A storm of rain, another of hail. We all must home in the egg shell sail” … The cokwold’s daunce would be more appropriate? The cokwolds lokyd yche on other—how did it go. Gone. My Little Gray Home in the West. His little gray head on her breast. Blue mandarin breast … “The mast is made of a great pin, the tackle of cobweb, the sail as thin—” Oh, I’ve got a pin and it must go in … “And if we go through, and not fall in—” Imitating Middleton and Shakespeare: but he did it supremely well. And then there were the mooncalves. Nymphs that smell of ambergris. And the Epicoenes, that laugh and lie down in moonshine. Where was that … Page 616 … “and stab with their poniards; you do not know the delights of the Epicoenes in moonshine.”

Dripping dropping. Not raining so hard now. The ship, in a gentle rain, on a rain-dark sea. The dance had come to an end. Gooooood-night, Ladies — A Bass, two Basses, and a John Collins … “And when they have tasted the springs of pleasure enough, and bill’d, and kist, and are ready to come away; the shees only lay certain eggs (for they are never with child there) and of these eggs are disclosed a race of creatures like men, but are indeed a sort of fowl, in part covered with feathers (they call them VOLATEES) that hop from island to island; you shall see a covey of them presently …” Happy Epicoenes! Too happy, happy Epicoenes! And what an exquisite solution of the problem! And what a light it let in upon the dark soreness of that soul! The same troubles then as now. The same troubles always, world without end, Amen. Horror becomes poetry. Horror becomes — he must go and say something friendly to old Smith. Yes. By this time he was probably in his room. Nothing about the quarrel, no reference, just a friendly remark. Ask him if he had anything to read? But no! Was it necessary? It was Smith who had transgressed. Did you hear that, you people?

They were still conscious of him, he could feel, as he passed them — they were noting the peculiar shape of his head, and the fat calf-bound octavo awkward under his arm. Yahoos! Dabblers in filth! He would show them!.. But what would he show them?… Nothing. Nothing at all. They were foolish people, simple people, helpless people, like himself; in an analogous position, as one of a homogeneous group, he too would join in the throwing of stones. “Have you read X’s last book?… The man’s gone completely to pot. I never read such tripe!” … All of us murderers. Single Stroke. Trembling. Forgot, in the excitement, to say good night to Malvolio … The stewards in the dining saloon were dragging the long tables back to their places and screwing them down. The pianist (pimply!) was lunging away forward, with his sheaf of dirty music. Cigarette ends in the palm-tree pots. The blade of a fan. A smell of face powder. After the ball was over.

Smith, on the point of turning down his alley, waited for him, mournfully scratching his mustache.

“Well!” he said. “You turning in, too?”

“Yes, that damned poker gang makes too much of a row.”

“They do, don’t they. They saw the fellow with the glass eye is a professional.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Good man to keep away from, I guess. He looks like a tough customer … Hello! Here she comes!”

Mrs. Faubion bore down upon them, threateningly, with a tooth brush in her hand. In the blue mandarin cloak. The ship, the long red carpet, pitched slowly downward toward the bow, and, laughing, she advanced with a little exaggerated run, stopping short with her face impudently close to Demarest’s face, the tooth brush flourishing in her lifted hand.

“Well!” she cried. “Mr. Man! What would you like!”

He deliberated, diving delightedly into her delighted eyes.

“I’d like to bite you!” he said.

“Oh would you!” she said.

“Yes, and if you don’t look out I will!”

She gave a little shriek of laughter, and darted down the alley that led to her stateroom. With one hand on the doorknob, she paused, put the toothbrush to her lips, and blew him a kiss, extravagant and mocking.

“The same to you!” he cried, suiting the action to the word. They smiled at each other, for a moment, with fixed eyes. Then she vanished into her room, the door shutting softly.

“Good Lord!” moaned Smith. “Why does she do that to you?”

“Yes, why?” laughed Demarest. “Good night!”

“Good night.” His tone was brusque, and he turned on his heel almost angrily. This was the death of Smith! A triumph!.. Yes, why?

142–156.

Yes, why? and again, yes, why? How delightful she had looked, the impudent little strumpet. Nothing epicene about Faubion. They call them VOLATEES. A little rougher again tonight. Creaking woodwork. That charging run of hers — a skillful improvisation. And holding her charming savage mouth so close, so startlingly close, to his!.. He unhooked and lowered the tin wash basin. A tepid trickle of water for the tooth brush. She had been brushing her teeth: as now he brushed his, with lips quaintly arched and an overflow of blood-streaked foam. Round, and round, and round, in front. Back and forth, back and forth, at the sides. Scooping downward at the nicotine-strained tartar on the backs of the lower front ones. Over the grinding-surfaces of the molars—ouch. That cursèd ice-cream tooth. Must be a little crack in the filling … Nymphs that smell of ambergris; and the wholesome dew called rosmarine. He looked once again, once again, once again, with a profound amused wonderment, with blank black pupils, into his mirrored eyes. What an extraordinary-looking object he was, with pink ears, animal hairs in his nose, and a blue mole on his cheek! And was this monstrous object making itself miserable for a—female? “But Socrates, you say these monsters are sometimes unhappy. Tell me, will you, what it is that you mean by unhappiness? For, if I can believe you, these creatures are endowed with reason; and as you will agree, a truly reasonable being cannot know unhappiness save as an attribute of the foolish …” Te-thrum te-thrum: te-thrum te-thrum. Delightful, this hour when the passengers were all gone to bed, and most of the crew, and the whole ship became quiet, absorbed, as if at last concentrated singly and solely on the business of crossing an ocean! One became aware of it — one heard the engines: the beating of its lonely heart. One felt the frame quiver, saw it change its shape even, became startlingly conscious of the fact that one was at sea; alone with the infinite; alone with God. These rows of white marshmallows on the ceiling — these little painted bolts that held the ship together — these were one’s faith! But it all seemed ridiculous, unreal. What was a ship?… What were human beings?… What was a world?… Cynthia and himself were a world … Misery. The whole thing was somebody’s dream. The whole thing was a tiny twinkle, a bursting bubble—

He turned out the electric light and crawled into the bunk, sighing. Not a sound from the Irish girl — she must be asleep. Cynthia — was she too asleep? Te-thrum te-thrum: te-thrum te-thrum. Yes, she was probably asleep. Or was she lying awake, anguished over the affair? Miserable over what she had done? really in love with him all the time? staring into the atomy darkness with eyes wide as the world? thinking of that time when — that time when — with a pongee dress — and a wide soft straw hat — with a floppy brim — English—

There was a soft footstep outside the door — it passed, then came back again — and then on the panel of the door something that sounded like a tiny knock, a knock as of one small knuckle. He lifted himself on straining elbows, the blood beating painfully in the side of his throat. Had he only imagined it — was it only the nocturnal creaking and knocking of the ship? te-thrum te-thrum; te-thrum te-thrum. He held his breath, concentrating all his attention, staring in the dark toward the suspected door, listening for the slightest sound. Suppose it was! Eagerly, softly, he withdrew himself from the pocket of ship-folded bedclothes. And as his foot touched the coarse carpet, the knock was repeated, the turning knob gave a little creak, and the door began softly to open. Faubion.