“Where have you been all the day, Billy Boy?”
Then there followed a short silence, after which he broke into a different song which I did not know. The words must have been warm, I think, country matters perhaps, for there was laughter to back them. A peasant, born to stone-gathering and bird-scaring, might have picked them up under the hedge where the workers pause at noon.
When I go over the scene in my mind I am at a loss to account for our feeling that Colley’s misdemeanour would be rounded out to the fullness of the event. I had been vexed earlier to see how little the stage of the fo’castle was to be relied on for conveying to us the shape and dimensions of this drama! Yet now I too waited. Your lordship might demand with reason, “Have you never heard of a drunken parson before?” I can only reply that I had indeed heard of one but had not yet seen one. Moreover, there are times and places.
The singing stopped. There began to be laughter again, applause, then a clamour of shouts and jeers. It seemed after a while that we were indeed to be cheated of the event—which was hardly to be borne, seeing how much in sickness, danger and boredom we had paid for our seats. However, it was at this critical juncture that Captain Anderson came out on the quarterdeck, took his place at the forrard rail of it and surveyed the theatre and audience. His face was as severe as Miss Granham’s. He spoke sharply to Mr Deverel, who now had the watch, informing him (in a voice which seemed to make the fact directly attributable to some negligence on Mr Deverel’s part) that the parson was still there. He then took a turn or two round his side of the quarterdeck, came back to the rail, stopped by it, and spoke to Mr Deverel more cheerfully.
“Mr Deverel. Be good enough to have the parson informed he must now return to his cabin.”
I believe not another muscle stirred in the ship as Mr Deverel repeated the order to Mr Willis, who saluted and went forward with all eyes on his back. Our astonished ears heard Mr Colley address him with a string of endearments that would have—and perhaps did—make La Brocklebank blush like a paeony. The young gentleman came stumbling out of the fo’castle and ran back sniggering. But in truth none among us paid him much attention. For now, like some pigmy Polyphemus, like whatever is at once strange and disgusting, the parson appeared in the lefthand doorway of the fo’castle. His ecclesiastical garment had gone and the marks of his degree. His wig had gone—his very breeches, stockings and shoes had been taken from him. Some charitable soul had in pity, I supposed, supplied him with one of the loose canvas garments that the common people wear about the ship; and this because of his diminutive stature was sufficient to cover his loins. He was not alone. A young stalwart had him in charge. This fellow was supporting Mr Colley, whose head lay back on the man’s breast. As the curious pair came uncertainly past the mainmast, Mr Colley pushed back so that they stopped. It was evident that his mind had become only lightly linked to his understanding. He appeared to be in a state of extreme and sunny enjoyment. His eyes moved indifferently, as if taking no print of what they saw. Surely his frame was not one that could afford him any pleasure! His skull now the wig no longer covered it was seen to be small and narrow. His legs had no calves; but dame Nature in a frivolous mood had furnished him with great feet and knots of knees that betrayed their peasant origin. He was muttering some nonsense of fol de rol or the like. Then, as if seeing his audience for the first time, he heaved himself away from his assistant, stood on splayed feet and flung out his arms as if to embrace us all.
“Joy! Joy! Joy!”
Then his face became thoughtful. He turned to his right, walked slowly and carefully to the bulwark and pissed against it. What a shrieking and covering of faces there was from the ladies, what growls from us! Mr Colley turned back to us and opened his mouth. Not even the captain could have caused a more immediate silence.
Mr Colley raised his right hand and spoke, though slurredly.
“The blessing of God the Father Almighty, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost be with you and remain with you always.”
Then there was a commotion I can tell you! If the man’s uncommonly public micturation had shocked the ladies, to be blessed by a drunk man in a canvas shirt caused screams, hasty retreats and, I am told, one évanouissement! It was no more than seconds after this that the servant, Phillips, and Mr Summers, the first lieutenant, lugged the poor fool out of sight while the seaman who had helped him aft stood and stared after them. When Colley was out of sight the man looked up at the quarterdeck, touched his forelock and went back to the fo’castle.
On the whole I think the audience was well enough satisfied. Next to the ladies Captain Anderson seemed to be the principal beneficiary of Colley’s performance. He became positively sociable with the ladies, voluntarily breaking away from his sacred side of the quarterdeck and bidding them welcome. Though he firmly but courteously declined to discuss l’affaire Colley, there was a lightness about his step and indeed a light in his eye which I had supposed occasioned in a naval officer only by the imminence of battle! What animation had possessed the other officers passed away quickly enough. They must have seen enough drunkenness and been part of enough to see this as no more than an event in a long history. And what was the sight of Colley’s urine to naval gentlemen who had perhaps seen decks smeared with the viscera and streaming with the blood of their late companions? I returned to my hutch, determined to give you as full and vivid an account of the episode as was in my power. Yet even while I was busy leading up to the events, the further events of his fall raced past me. While I was yet describing the strange noises from the fo’castle, I heard the sound of a door opened clumsily on the other side of the lobby. I jumped up and stared (by means of my louvre or spyhole) across it. Lo, Colley came out of his cabin! He held a sheet of paper in his hand and he still smiled that smile of aery contentment and joy. He went in this joyous distraction in the direction of the necessary offices on that side of the ship. Evidently he still dwelt in a land of faery which would vanish presently and leave him—
Well. Where will it leave him? He is quite unpractised in the management of spiritous liquors. I imagined his distress on coming to himself and I started to laugh—then changed my mind. The closeness of my cabin became a positive fetor.
(51)
This is the fifty-first day of our voyage, I think; and then again perhaps it is not. I have lost interest in the calendar and almost lost it in the voyage too. We have our shipboard calendar of events which are trivial enough. Nothing has happened since Colley entertained us. He is much condemned. Captain Anderson continues benign. Colley himself has not been out of his hutch in the four days which have passed since his drunkenness. No one but the servant has seen him if you except me on the occasion when he took his own paper to the loo! Enough of him.
What might amuse you more is the kind of country dance we young fellows have been performing round La Brocklebank. I have not yet identified her Sailor Hero but am sure that Deverel has had to do with her. I taxed him with it and drew an admission from him. We agreed that a man might well suffer shipwreck on that coast and have decided to stand shoulder to shoulder in mutual defence. A mixed metaphor, my lord, so you can see how dull I find myself. To resume. We both think that at the moment she is inclined to Cumbershum. I owned that this was a relief to me and Deverel agreed. We had feared, both of us, to be in the same difficulty over our common inamorata. You will remember that I had some hare-brained scheme, since Colley was so clearly épris with her, of having a MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING and bringing this Beatrice and Benedict into a mountain of affection for each other! I told Deverel this, at which he was silent for a while, then burst out laughing. I was about to inform him plainly that I took exception to his conduct when he asked my pardon in the most graceful way. But, said he, the coincidence was past the wit of man to invent and he would share the jest with me if I would give him my word to say nothing of what he told me. We were interrupted at this point and I do not know what the jest is, but you shall have it when I do.
ALPHA
Deverel and I agree that Brocklebank is or has been the keeper of both the doxies. I had known that the world of art is not to be judged by the accepted standards of morality but would prefer him to set up his brothel in another place. However, they have two hutches, one for the “parents” and one for the “daughter”, so he does at least make a tiny gesture towards preserving appearances. Appearances are preserved and everyone is happy, even Miss Granham. As for Mr Prettiman, I suppose he notices nothing. Long live illusion, say I. Let us export it to our colonies with all the other benefits of civilization!
(60)
I have just come from the passenger saloon, where I have sat for a long time with Summers. The conversation is worth recording, though I have an uneasy feeling that it tells against me. I am bound to say that Summers is the person of all in this ship who does His Majesty’s Service the most credit. Deverel is naturally more the gentleman but not assiduous in his duties. As for the others—they may be dismissed en masse. The difference had been in my mind and I did, in a way I now fear he may have found offensive, discuss the desirability of men being elevated above their first station in life. It was thoughtless of me and Summers replied with some bitterness.
“Mr Talbot, sir, I do not know how to say this or indeed whether I should—but you yourself made it plain in a way that put the matter beyond misunderstanding, that a man’s original is branded on his forehead, never to be removed.”
“Come, Mr Summers—I did not so!”
“Do you not remember?”
“Remember what?”
He was silent for a while. Then—
“I understand. It is plain when I see it from your point of view. Why should you remember?”
“Remember what, sir?”
Again he was silent. Then he looked away and seemed to be reading the words of the following sentence off the bulkhead.
“‘Well, Summers, allow me to congratulate you on imitating to perfection the manners and speech of a somewhat higher station in life than the one you was born to.’”
Now it was my turn to be silent. What he said was true. Your lordship may, if you choose, turn back in this very journal and find the words there. I have done so myself, and re-read the account of that first meeting. I believe Summers does not give me credit for the state of bewilderment and embarrassment in which I had then found myself, but the words, the very words, are there!
“I ask your pardon, Mr Summers. It was—insufferable.”
“But true, sir,” said Summers, bitterly. “In our country for all her greatness there is one thing she cannot do and that is translate a person wholly out of one class into another. Perfect translation from one language into another is impossible. Class is the British language.”
“Come, sir,” said I, “will you not believe me? Perfect translation from one language to another is possible and I could give you an example of it. So is perfect translation from class to class.”
“Imitating to perfection—”
“Perfect in this, that you are a gentleman.”
Summers flushed red and his face only slowly resumed its wonted bronze. It was high time we moved our ground.
“Yet you see, my dear fellow, we have at least one example among us where the translation is not a success!”
“I must suppose you to refer to Mr Colley. It was my purpose to raise that subject.”
“The man has stepped out of his station without any merit to support the elevation.”
“I do not see how his conduct can be traced to his original for we do not know what it was.”
“Come. It appears in his physique, his speech and above all in what I can only call his habit of subordination. I swear he had got out of the peasantry by a kind of greasy obsequiousness. Now for example—Bates, the brandy, please!—I can myself drink brandy as long as you please and I issue a guarantee that no man and particularly no lady will see in me the kind of behaviour by which Mr Colley has amused us and affronted them. Colley, plied, as we must suppose, with spirits there in the fo’castle, had neither the strength to refuse it nor the breeding which would have enabled him to resist its more destructive effects.”
“This wisdom should be put in a book.”
“Laugh if you will, sir. Today I must not be offended with you.”
“But there is another matter and I had intended to raise it. We have no physician and the man is mortally sick.”
“How can that be? He is young and suffering from no more than over-indulgence in liquor.”
“Still? I have talked with the servant. I have entered the cabin and seen for myself. In many years of service neither Phillips nor I have seen anything like it. The bed is filthy, yet the man, though he breathes every now and then, does not stir in it. His face is pressed down and hidden. He lies on his stomach, one hand above his head and clutched into the bolster, the other clutching an old eyebolt left in the timber.”
“I marvel you can eat after it.”
“Oh that! I tried to turn him over.”
“Tried? You must have succeeded. You have three times his strength.”
“Not in these circumstances.”
“I own, Mr Summers, that I have not observed much intemperance in Colley’s line of life. But the story goes that the Senior Tutor at my own college, having dined too well before a service, rose from his seat, staggered to the lectern, slumped, holding on to the brass eagle and was heard to mutter, ‘I should have been down had it not been for this bleeding Dodo.’ But I daresay you never heard the story.”
Mr Summers shook his head.
“I have been much abroad,” he replied gravely. “The event made little noise in that part of the Service where I then was.”
“A hit, a palpable hit! But depend on it, young Colley will lift up his head.”
Summers stared into his untouched glass.
“He has a strange power. It is almost as if the Newtonian Force is affected. The hand that holds the eyebolt might be made of steel. He lies, dinted into his bunk, drawn down into it as if made of lead.”
“There he must stay then.”
“Is that all, Mr Talbot? Are you as indifferent to the man’s fate as others are?”
“I am not an officer in this ship!”
“The more able to help, sir.”
“How?”
“I may speak to you freely, may I not? Well then—how has the man been treated?”
“He was at first an object of one man’s specific dislike, then an object of general indifference that was leading to contempt even before his latest—escapade.”
Summers turned and stared out of the great stern window for a while. Then he looked back at me.
“What I say now
could well ruin me if I have misjudged your character.”
“Character? My character? You have examined my character? You set yourself up—”
“Forgive me—nothing is further from my mind than offending you and if I did not believe the case desperate—”
“What case, for God’s sake?”
“We know your birth, your prospective position—why—men—and woman—will flatter you in the hope or expectation of gaining the governor’s ear—”
“Good God—Mr Summers!”
“Wait, wait! Understand me, Mr Talbot—I do not complain!”
“You sound uncommonly like a man complaining, sir!”
I had half-risen from my seat; but Summers stretched out his hand in a gesture of such simple—“supplication” I suppose I must call it—that I sat down again.
“Proceed then, if you must!”
“I do not speak in my own behalf.”
For a while we were both silent. Then Summers swallowed, deeply as if there had been a real drink in his mouth and that no small one.
“Sir, you have used your birth and your prospective position to get for yourself an unusual degree of attention and comfort—I do not complain—dare not! Who am I to question the customs of our society or indeed, the laws of nature? In a sentence, you have exercised the privileges of your position. I am asking you to shoulder its responsibilities.”
During—it may be—half a minute; for what is time in a ship, or to revert to that strange metaphor of existence that came to me so strongly during Mr Colley’s exhibition, what is time in a theatre? During that time, however long or short, I passed through numberless emotions—rage I think, confusion, irritation, amusement and an embarrassment for which I was most annoyed, seeing that I had only now discovered the seriousness of Mr Colley’s condition.
“That was a notable impertinence, Mr Summers!”
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