“Mr Talbot—Edmund!”
“How may I serve you, ma’am?”
Then throatily, contralto but pianissimo—
“A letter—Oh God! What shall I do?”
“Zenobia! Tell me all!”
Does your lordship detect a theatricality in my response? It was so indeed. We were at once borne along on a tide of melodrama.
“Oh heavens—it, it is a billet—lost, lost!”
“But my dear,” said I, leaving the stage at once, “I have written you nothing.”
Her magnificent but foolish bosom heaved.
“It was from Another!”
“Well,” I murmured to her, “I refuse to be responsible for every gentleman in the ship! You should employ his offices, not mine. And so—”
I turned to leave but she held me by the arm.
“The note is wholly innocent but may be—might be misconstrued—I may have dropped it—oh Edmund, you well know where!”
“I assure you,” said I, “that while I rearranged my hutch where it had been disturbed by a certain exquisite occasion I should have noticed—”
“Please! Oh please!”
She gazed into my eyes with that look of absolute trust mingled with anguish which so improves a pair of orbs however lustrous. (But who am I to instruct your lordship, still surrounded as you are by adorers who gaze on what they would have but cannot obtain—by the way, is my flattery too gross? Remember you declared it most effective when seasoned with truth!)
Zenobia came close and murmured up at me.
“It must be in your cabin. Oh should Wheeler find it I am lost!”
The devil, thought I. If Wheeler finds it, I am lost or near enough—is she trying to implicate me?
“Say no more, Miss Brocklebank. I will go at once.”
I exited right—or should it be left? I have never been certain, where the theatre is concerned. Say then that I moved towards my spacious apartment on the larboard side of the vessel, opened the door, went in, shut it and began to search. I do not know anything more irritating than to be forced to search for an object in a confined space. All at once I was aware that there were two feet by mine. I glanced up.
“Go away, Wheeler! Go away!”
He went. After that I found the paper but only when I had given up looking for it. I was about to pour water into my canvas basin when what should I see in the centre of it but a sheet of paper, folded. I seized it at once and was about to return it to Zenobia’s hutch when I was stopped by a thought. In the first place I had performed my ablutions earlier in the morning. The canvas basin had been emptied and the bunk remade.
Wheeler!
At once, I unfolded the note, then breathed again. The hand was uneducated.
DEAREST MOST ADORABLE WOMAN I CAN WATE NO LONGER! I HAVE AT LAST DISCOVERED A PLACE AND NO ONE IS IN THE NO! MY HART THUNDERS IN MY BOSOM AS IT NEVER DID IN MY FREQUENT HOURS OF PERIL! ONLY ACQUAINT ME WITH THE TIME AND I WILL CONDUCT YOU TO OUR HEVEN!
YOUR SAILOR HERO
Good God, thought I, this is Lord Nelson raised to a higher power of the ridiculous! She is having an attack of the Emmas and has infected this Unknown Sailor Hero with her own style of it! I fell into a state of complete confusion. Mr Colley, all dignity—now this note—Summers with Prettiman’s blunderbuss that was really Brocklebank’s—I began to laugh, then shouted for Wheeler.
“Wheeler, you have been busy in my cabin. What should I do without you?”
He bowed but said nothing.
“I am pleased with your attentiveness. Here is a half-guinea for you. You are sometimes forgetful though, are you not?”
The man’s eyes did not flicker towards the canvas bowl.
“Thank you, Mr Talbot, sir. You may rely on me in every way sir.”
He withdrew. I examined the note again. It was not Deverel’s, obviously, for the illiteracy was not that of a gentleman. I wondered what I should do.
Then—really, at some later date I must amuse myself by seeing how the thing would fit into a farce—I saw how the theatre would provide a means whereby I might rid myself of Zenobia and the parson together—I had but to drop the note in his cabin, pretend to discover it—Is not this note addressed to Miss Brocklebank sir? And you a minister of religion! Confess, you dog, and let us congratulate you on your success with your inamorata!
It was at this point that I caught myself up in astonishment and irritation. Here was I, who considered myself an honourable and responsible man, contemplating an action which was not merely criminal but despicable! How did that come about? You see I hide nothing. Sitting on the edge of my bunk I examined the train that had led me to such gross thoughts and found its original in the dramatic nature of Zenobia’s appeal—straight back to farce and melodrama—in a word, to the theatre! Be it proclaimed in all the schools—
Plato was right!
I rose, went to her cabin, knocked. She opened, I handed her the note and came away.
(Ω)
Omega, omega, omega. The last scene surely! Nothing more can happen—unless it be fire, shipwreck, the violence of the enemy or a miracle! Even in this last case, I am sure the Almighty would appear theatrically as a Deus ex Machina! Even if I refuse to disgrace myself by it, I cannot, it seems, prevent the whole ship from indulging in theatricals! I myself should come before you now, wearing the cloak of a messenger in a play—why not your Racine—forgive me the “your” but I cannot think of him as otherwise—
Or may I stay with the Greeks? It is a play. Is it a farce or a tragedy? Does not a tragedy depend on the dignity of the protagonist? Must he not be great to fall greatly? A farce, then, for the man appears now a sort of Punchinello. His fall is in social terms. Death does not come into it. He will not put out his eyes or be pursued by the Furies—he has committed no crime, broken no law—unless our egregious tyrant has a few in reserve for the unwary.
After I had rid myself of the billet I went to the quarterdeck for air, then to the poop. Captain Anderson was not there, but Deverel had the watch together with our ancient midshipman Mr Davies, who in bright sunlight looks more decayed than ever. I saluted Deverel and returned to the quarterdeck, meaning to have some kind of exchange with Mr Prettiman who still patrols in all his madness. (I am becoming more and more convinced that the man cannot conceivably be any danger to the state. No one would heed him. Nevertheless, I thought it my duty to keep an acquaintance with him.) He paid no attention to my approach. He was staring down into the waist. My gaze followed his.
What was my astonishment to see the back view of Mr Colley appear from beneath the afterdeck and proceed towards the people’s part of the vessel! This in itself was astonishing enough, for he crossed the white line at the mainmast which delimits their approach to us unless by invitation or for duty. But what was even more astonishing was that Colley was dressed in a positive delirium of ecclesiastical finery! That surplice, gown, hood, wig, cap looked quite simply silly under our vertical sun! He moved forward at a solemn pace as he might in a cathedral. The people who were lounging in the sun stood at once and, I thought, with a somewhat sheepish air. Mr Colley disappeared from my sight under the break of the fo’castle. This, then, was what he had spoken of with Summers. The people must have had their rum—and indeed now I recollected that I had heard the pipe and the cry of “Up Spirits!” earlier on without paying any attention to a sound that by now had become so familiar. The movement of the vessel was easy, the air hot. The people themselves were indulged with a holiday or what Summers calls a “Make and Mend”. I stood on the afterdeck for a while, hardly attending to Mr Prettiman’s diatribe on what he called this survival of barbaric finery, for I was waiting with some curiosity to see the parson come out again! I could not think that he proposed to conduct a full service! But the sight of a parson not so much walking into such a place as processing into it—for there had been about him that movement, that air, which would suppose a choir, a handful of canons and a dean at least—this sight I say at once am
used and impressed me. I understood his mistake. He lacked the natural authority of a gentleman and had absurdly overdone the dignity of his calling. He was now advancing on the lower orders in all the majesty of the Church Triumphant—or should it be the Church Militant? I was moved at this picture in little of one of the elements that have brought English—and dare I say British—Society to the state of perfection it now enjoys. Here before me was the Church; there, aft of me and seated in his cabin was the State in the person of Captain Anderson. Which whip I wondered would prove to be the more effective? The cat-o’-nine-tails, only too material in its red serge bag and at the disposal of the captain, though I have not known him order its use; or the notional, the Platonic Idea of a whip, the threat of hell fire? For I had no doubt (from the dignified and outraged appearance of the man before the captain) that the people had subjected Mr Colley to some slight, real or imagined. I should not have been too surprised had I heard the fo’castle to resound with wails of repentance or screams of terror. For a time—I do not know how long—I waited to see what would happen and concluded that nothing would happen at all! I returned to my cabin, where I continued with the warm paragraphs which I trust you will have enjoyed. I broke off from that employment at a noise.
Can your lordship guess what the noise was? No sir, not even you! (I hope to come by practice to subtler forms of flattery.)
The first sound I heard from the fo’castle was applause! It was not the sort of applause that will follow an aria and perhaps interrupt the business of an opera for whole minutes together. This was not hysteria, the audience was not beside itself. Nor were the people throwing roses—or guineas, as I once saw some young bloods try to into the bosom of the Fantalini! They were, my social ears told me, doing what was proper, the done thing. They applauded much as I for my part have applauded in the Sheldonian among my fellows when some respectable foreigner has been awarded an honorary degree by the university. I went out on deck quickly, but there was now silence after that first round of applause. I thought I could just hear the reverend gentleman speaking. I had half a mind to advance on the scene, conceal myself by the break of the fo’castle and listen. But then I reflected on the number of sermons I had heard in my life and the likely number to come. Our voyage, so wretched in many ways, has nevertheless been an almost complete holiday from them! I decided to wait, therefore, until our newly triumphant Colley should have persuaded our captain that our ancient vessel needed a sermon or, worse, a formal series of them. There even floated before my thoughtful eyes the image of, say, Colley’s Sermons or even Colley on Life’s Voyage, and I decided in advance not to be a subscriber.
I was about to return from where I stood in the gently moving shadow of some sail or other when I heard, incredulously, a burst of applause, warmer this time and spontaneous. I do not have to point out to your lordship the rarity of the occasions on which a parson is applauded in full fig or as what young Mr Taylor describes as “Dressed over all”. Groans and tears, exclamations of remorse and pious ejaculations he may look for if his sermon be touched with any kind of enthusiasm: silence and covert yawns will be his reward if he is content to be a dull, respectable fellow! But the applause I was hearing from the fo’castle was more proper for an entertainment! It was as if Colley were an acrobat or juggler. This second round of applause sounded as if (having earned the first one by keeping six dinner plates in the air at once) he now had added a billiard cue stood on his forehead with a chamber pot revolving on the top of it!
Now my curiosity was really roused and I was about to go forrard when Deverel descended from his watch and at once, with what I can only call deliberate meaning, began to discuss La Brocklebank! I felt myself detected and was at once a little flattered as any young fellow might be and a little apprehensive, when I imagined the possible consequences of my connection with her. She herself I saw standing on the starboard side of the quarterdeck and being lectured by Mr Prettiman. I drew Deverel with me into the lobby, where we fenced a little. We spoke of the lady with some freedom and it crossed my mind that during my indisposition Deverel might have had more success than he cared to admit, though he hinted at it. We may both be in the same basket. Heavens above! But though a naval officer he is a gentleman, and however things turn out we shall not give each other away. We drank a tot in the passenger saloon, he had gone about his business and I was returning to my hutch when I was stopped in my tracks by a great noise from the fo’castle and the most unexpected noise of all—a positive crash of laughter! I was quite overcome by the thought of Mr Colley as a wit and concluded at once that he had left them to themselves and they were, like schoolboys, amusing themselves with a mocking pantomime of the master, who has rebuked then left them. I went up to the afterdeck for a better view, then to the quarterdeck, but could see no one on the fo’castle except the man stationed there as a lookout. They were all inside, all gathered. Colley had said something, I thought, and is now in his hutch, changing out of his barbaric finery. But word had flown round the ship. The afterdeck was filling below me with ladies and gentlemen and officers. Those who dared had stationed themselves by me at the forrard rail of the quarterdeck. The theatrical image that had haunted my mind and coloured my speculations in the earlier events now seemed to embrace the whole vessel. For one dizzy moment I wondered if our officers were out in the expectation of mutiny! But Deverel would have known, and he had said nothing. Yet everyone was looking forward to the great, unknown part of the ship where the people were indulging in whatever sport was afoot. We were spectators and there, interruptedly seen beyond the boats on the boom and the huge cylinder of the mainmast, was the stage. The break of the fo’castle rose like the side of a house, yet furnished with two ladders and two entrances, one on either side, that were provokingly like a stage—provoking, since a performance could not be guaranteed and our strange expectations were likely to be disappointed. I was never made so aware of the distance between the disorder of real life in its multifarious action, partial exhibition, irritating concealments and the stage simulacra that I had once taken as a fair representation of it! I did not care to ask what was going on and could not think how to find out unless I was willing to show an unbecoming degree of curiosity. Of course your lordship’s favourite would have brought forward the heroine and her confidante—mine would have added the stage instruction Enter two sailors. Yet all I could hear was amusement growing in the fo’castle and something the same among our passengers, not to say officers. I waited on the event, and unexpectedly it came! Two ship’s boys—not Young Gentlemen—shot out of the larboard doorway of the fo’castle, crossed out of sight behind the mainmast, then shot as suddenly into the starboard entrance! I was reflecting on the abject nature of the sermon that could be the occasion of such general and prolonged hilarity when I became aware of Captain Anderson, who also stood by the forward rail of the quarterdeck and stared forward inscrutably. Mr Summers, the first lieutenant, came racing up the ladder, his every movement conveying anxiety and haste. He went straight to Captain Anderson.
“Well, Mr Summers?”
“I beg you will allow me to take charge, sir.”
“We must not interfere with the church, Mr Summers.”
“Sir—the men, sir!”
“Well, sir?”
“They are in drink, sir!”
“Then see they are punished for it, Mr Summers.”
Captain Anderson turned away from Mr Summers and for the first time appeared to notice me. He called out across the deck.
“Good day, Mr Talbot! I trust you are enjoying our progress?”
I replied that I was, couching my rejoinder in words I have forgotten, for I was preoccupied by the extraordinary change in the captain. The face with which he is accustomed to await the approach of his fellow men may be said to be welcoming as the door of a gaol. He has, too, a way of projecting his under-jaw and lowering the sullen mass of his face on it, all the while staring up from under his brows, which I conceive to be positively terrifying
to his inferiors. But today there was in his face and indeed in his speech a kind of gaiety!
But Lieutenant Summers had spoken again.
“At least allow me—look at that, sir!”
He was pointing. I turned.
Has your lordship ever reflected on the quaintness of the tradition that signalizes our attainment of learning by hanging a medieval hood round our necks and clapping a plasterer’s board on our heads? (Should not the chancellor have a silver gilt hod carried before him? But I digress.) Two figures had appeared at the larboard entry. They were now processing across the deck to the starboard one. Perhaps the striking of the ship’s bell and the surely sarcastic cry of “All’s well!” persuaded me that these figures were those in some fantastic clock. The foremost of the figures wore a black hood edged with fur, and wore it not hung down his back but up and over his head as we see in illuminated manuscripts from the age of Chaucer. It was up and round his face and held by one hand close under the chin in the fashion that I believe ladies would describe as a tippet. The other hand was on the hip with elbow akimbo. The creature crossed the deck with an exaggeratedly mincing parody of the female gait. The second figure wore—apart from the loose garments of canvas which are the people’s common wear—a mortarboard of decidedly battered appearance. It followed the first figure in shambling pursuit. As the two of them disappeared into the fo’castle there was another crash of laughter, then a cheer.
To the Ends of the Earth Page 9