Genoa

by Paul Metcalf

  Deeper than Sappho, in a lunge

  Piercing Pan’s paramount mystery!

  For, Nature, in no shallow surge

  Against thee either sex may urge . . .”

  Sappho, and Hart Crane . . .

  surely, if Melville died before he was born, then, too, he was born before he died . . .

  . . . and on the 4th voyage, aging and ill, forbidden by the Sovereigns to enter San Domingo, Columbus set sail for that very port. Ovando, the new governor, busy with a fleet of 28 vessels embarking for Spain, refused to admit the Admiral . . . on board the fleet were Francisco Bobadilla, who earlier had chained Columbus; Francisco Roldan, archrebel; and a rich cargo of West Indian gold . . .

  Columbus warned them not to sail, that a storm was brewing . . .

  perhaps he noted an oily swell from the southeast, abnormal tides, oppressive air, veiled cirrus clouds, gusty winds on the water’s surface, brilliant sunset illuminating the sky, and large numbers of seal and dolphin on the surface . . .

  (as well as twinges in rheumatic joints . . .

  But the others laughed, called him a diviner and a prophet,

  (Like Melville, in CLAREL, predicting for the New World:

  (“Not only men, the state lives fast—

  Fast breeds the pregnant eggs and shells,

  The slumberous combustibles

  Sure to explode . . .”

  Ovando’s fleet set out boldly, under full sail: headed into the full blast of the storm . . .

  Later, when all but 3 or 4 of the 28 ships had gone down, with all hands lost—his enemies accused the old discoverer of having raised the tempest himself, by magic art . . .

  THREE

  When I went to St. Louis a third time, Carl was out of the hospital. It was pleasant weather—brisk and sunny—and he met me at the station with a borrowed car—a ’51 Plymouth station wagon.

  There was vigor in his face, freshness in his actions. He had a crew haircut, and was sunburned. Standing at the train gate, his collar turned up, legs spread apart, hands thrust in his pockets, he looked boyish and strong.

  (It wasn’t until after I had left him, when I was on my way back to Indianapolis, that I realized he had said nothing about what he was doing, where he was living, what his plans were—so completely was he taken up with the present moment—so thoroughly did he capture my assurances . . .

  We headed west on U.S. 40, out of the city. I recalled Carl’s driving from childhood—from the first time he massacred the cornfield on a tractor. No less erratic now, he talked volubly, gestured with one hand and the other, moved his feet restlessly over the pedals—glanced only occasionally at the road, appropriating it as he wished.

  He told me that U.S. 40 follows old animal and Indian trails, westward migration trails. It was known for a time as the Boone’s Lick Trail, for the salt lick developed by Daniel Boone and his sons. Carl told me—bouncing his broad rump, spreading his arms as he talked—how Boone had moved out here because he wanted more elbow room, Kentucky had become too crowded . . .

  (Melville: “You must have plenty of searoom to tell the Truth in . . .”

  There was the stage driver in 1840, Carl mentioned, who, when the road became too muddy and full of ruts, drove out on the prairie, made a new road . . .

  Reaching St. Charles, we turned off the highway, headed southwest over back roads, along the Missouri River. We came into rich farming country, with fine old brick houses: long, sloping shingled roofs, and generous porches. Carl mellowed as we rambled, became less talkative, and warmer, his chest expanding with the rolling orchards and fields of corn, timothy, alfalfa, and oats.

  The midday sun warmed us, and we got out of the car, walked down a deep creek valley to the river’s edge. Carl had brought along some cooked pork chops and a loaf of honest German bread . . . I had a bottle of redeye that I’d brought from home . . . we sat on the grass, near a patch of willows, and ate and drank, soaked in the sun that would be warm only through the broad noon hours . . .

  We talked of Indiana, of Mother and Father, of the old days, and of ourselves. With Yankee and rebel blood in us—joining and hanging on in the prairie—we wanted to know the difference between north and south . . . we recalled that whenever Mother thought about something, she “allowed” it was so, whereas Father “kalklated” it . . . we thought of rivers and small streams—“brooks” in the North and “branches” in the South—and of the pioneer landing on the southern coast, following the main streams inland, or perhaps turning off on a branch while the northern pioneer found the rivers—the Merrimac, the Connecticut, the Hudson, the Delaware—coming out of the North and therefore heading in no useful direction: to be crossed, rather than followed . . .

  . . . the rivers therefore becoming allies to the southerners, and, to the Yankees, obstacles, to be out-smarted and overwhelmed—as the North eventually outsmarted and overwhelmed the South. To the one, nature was objective, to be studied: the bird and flower books were written in the north, and Carl recalled the president of Indiana University, back in the last century, who must have been a Yankee: claiming that prayer could be used to arrest the laws of nature . . . the other, the southerner, was in and of nature, immersed in her . . . the likes of Daniel Boone . . .

  Going barefoot, rolling up his trousers, Carl stepped into the chill, muddy water. The river, charged with fresh rains, was swift and treacherous . . . he held his hand out to me, and I stripped off shoes and socks, followed him in. Steadying each other, we walked out to our knees . . . we could see around a bend upstream, where the water was eating out the bank, undermining some poplars . . . now and then a stump or a full tree swept past us . . . leaning toward me, clutching my hand, shouting above the rush of the waters, Carl asked how I’d like to pole a keelboat, fully loaded, upstream to KayCee or St. Joe . . .

  He became restless, turning his head one way and another . . . the sunlight sparkled on the water, and our legs were all but frozen, so that we were amputated at the knees, the joints set in ice . . .

  Back on shore, we shivered, dried ourselves. The sun was past the meridian, the air was already cool. Carl offered me wine, and I drank. Upending the bottle, he finished it in one swallow . . . and, with all his strength, hurled it upstream. Standing together—his hand on my shoulder—we watched it, bobbing in the muddy, choppy waters, floating past us, downstream . . .

  We climbed back to the car, and wandered for a while among back roads, circling, until we hit U.S. 40 again, and headed back to St. Louis. Carl was much quieter, his attention abstracted, his face almost morose. He seemed to look—and to drive—without seeing . . .

  Reaching St. Charles, we stopped once more, by the river. Carl was stone-faced, immobile, facing upstream . . . when he began to speak, it was in mumbles—to himself, or to no one . . . I knew he was quoting, but I didn’t at first know what . . .

  “Rained the fore part of the day I determined to go as far as St. Charles a french Village 7 Leags. up the Missourie, and wait at that place untill Capt. Lewis could finish the business in which he was obliged to attend to at St. Louis and join me by Land from that place 24 miles

  “I Set out at 4 oClock P.M. in the presence of many of the neighboring inhabitants, and proceeded on under a jentle breese up the Missouri to the upper Point of the 1st Island 4 Miles and camped on the Island which is Situated Close on the right (or Starboard) Side, and opposit the mouth of a Small Creek called Cold water,

  a heavy rain this afternoon

  “at 9 oClock Set out and proceeded on 9 miles passed two Islands & incamped on the Starbd. Side at a Mr. Pipers Landing opposet an island, the Boat run on Logs three times to day, owing her being too heavyly loaded a Sturn,

  a fair after noon, I saw a number of Goslings to day on the Shore, the water excessively rapid, & Banks falling in.”

  . . . his voice becoming clearer . . .

  “pass a remarkable Coal Hill on the Larboard Side, Called by the French Carbonere, this hill appear to Contain great
quantity of Coal from this hill the Village of St. Charles may be Seen at 7 miles distance. we arrived at St. Charles at 12 oClock a number Spectators french & Indians flocked to the bank to See the party. This Village is about one mile in length, Situated on the north Side of the Missourie at the foot of a hill from which it takes its name Peetiete Coete or the Little hill This Village Contns. about 100 houses, the most of them small and indefferent and about 450 inhabitants Chiefly French, those people appear Pore, polite & harmonious.”

  . . . the opening, the very beginning, of the JOURNALS OF LEWIS AND CLARK . . .

  We got into the car, and drove to St. Louis.

  Coming back to Indianapolis on the train, I reached to an inner coat pocket for my ticket, and brought out a newspaper clipping. Carl must have put it there, but I have no idea how or when, or by what sleight of hand.

  It was an obituary:

  “Mills, Maria de la Concepcion—Resident of St. Louis, died in a private hospital, after a brief illness. Survivors include the husband, Carl Austin Mills, of this city, and a brother, Rico de Castro, with the British Royal Air Force, stationed in China.”

  Holding the clipping before me—the conductor waiting for my ticket—I was several moments in recalling that a common nickname for Maria de la Concepcion was Concha . . .

  On the edge of the clipping, Carl had scribbled a pencil note:

  “Cancer—in the gut—brutal—”

  FOUR

  There was the letter Melville received from an old shipmate:

  “. . .first of all I will let you know who I am you probably have not forgotten all of the crew of the Old Frigate United States and more especially our visit to the city of Lima. my name is Oliver Russ, although I went by another name when at sea to conceal from my friends the unwise step I had taken and that name was Edward Norton I assumed my right name on coming home. Now what I wish to say is that I in the course of the next year after our return from sea I took to wife one of the fair daughters of the state of Maine and in two years from that day a son was born to us a substantial token of our mutual love and to manifest the high regard in which I have ever held yourself I named him Herman Melville Russ at that time I did not expect ever to hear of you again or that you would be numbered among the literary writers of the day. I say this to let you know that it was not the almost universal desire to name after great men that led me to do it, but a regard for those qualities which an acquaintance of eighteen month with you led me so much to admire.”

  . . . and on the lists of the 4th voyage, many names appeared—men from Palos and the Niebla—men who had shipped earlier with Columbus . . .

  they recalled, perhaps, the storm between Jamaica and Cuba, on the 2nd voyage, when the flagship was hove-to and all hands went below for a rest: the Admiral was the first on deck, and, noting that the weather was moderating, began to make sail himself, so as not to disturb his weary shipmates . . .

  Melville: “If ever, in days to come, you shall see ruin at hand, and, thinking you understand mankind, shall tremble for your friendships, and tremble for your pride; and, partly through love for the one and fear for the other, shall resolve to be beforehand with the world, and save it from a sin by prospectively taking that sin to yourself, then will you do as one I now dream of once did, and like him will you suffer; but how fortunate and how grateful should you be, if like him, after all that had happened, you could be a little happy again.”

  Columbus,

  who had always been mysterious about his past, without mother or father, a roving widower—takes a late interest in Genoa:

  From the Deed of Entail: “Item. I also enjoin Diego, or any one that may inherit the estate, to have and maintain in the city of Genoa one person of our lineage to reside there with his wife, and appoint him sufficient revenue to enable him to live decently, as a person closely connected with the family, of which he is to be the root and basis in that city; from which great good may accrue to him, inasmuch as I was born there, and came from thence.”

  “. . . and Genoa is a noble city, and powerful by sea . . .”

  “I command the said Diego, or whoever may possess the said estate, to labor and strive for the honor, welfare and aggrandizement of the city of Genoa, and make use of all his power and means in defending and enhancing the good and credit of that republic.”

  Aging, lonely, the Admiral seeks his sources . . .

  writing to friends in Genoa: “Although my body is here, my heart is continually yonder.”

  and to another, just before leaving on the 4th voyage: “The loneliness in which you have left us cannot be described . . . I am ready to start in the name of the Holy Trinity as soon as the weather is good.”

  and another: “If the desire to hear from you troubles me as much in the places to which I am going, as it does here, I shall feel great anxiety.”

  On the 4th voyage, heading for Jamaica:

  “. . . my ships were pierced with worm-holes, like a bee hive, and the crew entirely dispersed and downhearted.”

  “. . . all the people with pumps and kettles and other vessels were insufficient to bail out the water that entered by the worm-holes.”

  (Melville: “Bail out your individual boat, if you can, but the sea abides.”

  Shore-bound, shipwrecked, on Jamaica . . .

  (Melville three times underscores, in the works of another: “He that is sure of the goodness of his ship and tackle puts out fearlessly from the shore . . .”

  (and Melville, on his last sea voyage, age 68—a pleasure trip to Bermuda: “Rough passage home during blizzard Got around on hands and knees.”

  Back in Spain, finished forever with the ocean-sea, Columbus writes his son Diego:

  “Very dear son:

  “Since I received your letter of November 15 I have heard nothing from you. I wish that you would write me more frequently. I would like to receive a letter from you each hour. Reason must tell you that I now have no other repose. Many couriers come each day, and the news is of such a nature and so abundant that in hearing it, all my hair stands on end, it is so contrary to what my soul desires.

  “I told you in that letter that my departure was certain, but that the hope of my arrival there, according to experience, was very uncertain, because my sickness is so bad and the cold is so well suited to aggravate it, that I could not well avoid remaining in some inn on the road. The litter and everything were ready. The weather became so violent that it appeared impossible to every one to start when it was getting so bad . . .

  “. . . telling of my sickness and that it is now impossible for me to go and kiss their Royal feet and hands and that the Indies are being lost and are on fire in a thousand places, and that I have received nothing and am receiving nothing from the revenues derived from them, and that no one dares to accept or demand anything there for me, and I am living upon borrowed funds. I spent the money which I got there in bringing those people who went with me back to their homes, for it would be a great burden upon my conscience to have left them there and to have abandoned them.

  “Take good care of your brother. He has a good disposition and is no longer a boy. Ten brothers would not be too many for you. I never found better friends to right or to left than my brothers. We must strive to obtain the government of the Indies . . .

  “My illness permits me to write only at night, because in the daytime my hands are deprived of strength.”

  and another time:

  “I wrote a very long letter to his Highness as soon as I arrived here, fully stating the evils which require a prompt and efficient remedy . . . I have received no reply . . .”

  (Melville, in a letter, advertises CLAREL: “. . . a metrical affair . . . eminently adapted for unpopularity.”

  and Columbus signs his letters to Diego, “Your father, who loves you as himself.”

  as Melville ended a letter to Stanwix: “Good bye, & God bless you, Your affectionate Father, H. Melville.”

  Melville,

  age 69, begins wor
k on BILLY BUDD, as an afterthought to his life . . .

  creates “Starry” Vere, the educated, literary captain, aware (as Melville was) of history and tradition, knowing that their demands must and will be met . . . knowing, too, that the present act is a compound of many elements: out of the hazy near-past, the strong and clear distant-past, and the immediate moment . . .

  Melville, as Captain Vere, creates himself a bachelor . . . the old dream!

  and creates Billy, the Handsome Sailor—a foundling . . . the old Ishmael dream!

  Vere and Billy, bachelor and bastard—the two elements of Melville, split . . .

  and Vere it is (as the agent of tradition) who sends Billy to his death . . . Melville, as Vere, thereby accepting responsibility for his son Mackey’s death; and perhaps, too, for the death of the Handsome Sailor in himself . . .

  or perhaps Billy—pure and merry—was the sexual transposition of Fayaway: the dark savage girl become a pure white man,

  (Billy: “. . . a lingering adolescent expression in the as yet smooth face, all but feminine in purity of natural complexion . . .”

  (it being safer to love a man than a woman . . .

  (as Dreiser transposed himself, saying, in effect, it is not safe to be myself, I will be SISTER CARRIE . . .

  Melville, an old man, recalls Fayaway . . .

  BILLY BUDD: “In fervid hearts self-contained some brief experiences devour our human tissue as secret fire in a ship’s hold . . .”

  and Julian Hawthorne reports an interview with Melville: “. . . he told me, during our talk, that he was convinced that there was some secret in my father’s life which had never been revealed, and which accounted for the gloomy passages in his books.”

  Melville—ever the writer—placing things of self in someone else . . .

  Mrs. Glendinning, in PIERRE: “Oh, that the world were made of such malleable stuff, that we could recklessly do our fiercest heart’s wish before it . . .”

  and my hand reaches for a newspaper clipping, the first in a series—date, 1953: