On the Proper Use of Stars

by Dominique Fortier

  7 December 1847

  Life on board a ship held captive of the ice and the night in the far reaches of the known world is virtually unbearable for two paradoxical reasons: it is a life of utter isolation, and utterly lacking in privacy, two conditions that, while opposite, are equally contrary to human nature. Man requires the company of his fellow creatures, on that we agree. But forced to spend every second of every day in the midst of other men, one may come to see them solely as animals who eat, drink, shit, and piss, who fight and sometimes die. This small society, moreover, lives in an isolation so complete that it could just as well be alone in the world. Having come as discoverers to survey an unknown land and to ply some legendary waters, the men see their kingdom reduced to the size of two wooden ships of which they know, after a few weeks, every square inch, every nail, every plank, every spot, and every fissure. That is why most attempt to escape through dreams or memory.

  Winter is a fearsome creature that bites, claws, gnaws, and devours its victims, slowly but surely. It splits nails and brings into bloom on ice and glass flowers as delicate as lace, their beauty malevolent; it numbs both limbs and mind and even the soul, which now wishes for nothing but to melt into this silent whole whose murderous purity seems like rest and peace.

  To move is pain, to breathe is pain, for it means allowing the creature of frost to enter oneself, to take over one’s being and freeze it all the way to the heart.

  The breath of the men rises in clouds from their partly open lips, as if with each exhalation part of their soul escaped, dissolved, and disappeared into the icy air. The frost seeps into the slightest chinks, becomes embedded in imperceptible cracks that it swells until the planks burst, clattering like thunder. A fine white powder covers every surface, resembling the downy moss whose apparent softness conceals a cold as dry as bone. Anyone who inadvertently places a bare finger on a metal object is forced, to free it, to leave behind shreds of flesh.

  AS THE MONTHS WENT BY, Lady Jane’s anxiety grew. She had confided in some of the gentlemen members of the Royal Geographical Society and the Royal Society, but they had brushed aside her doubts, reminding her that the Erebus and the Terror, iron-armed giants propelled by powerful engines and carrying more than enough provisions to feed their crews for three years if necessary, must be making short work of the Arctic ice. Perhaps the Passage had long since been discovered and Franklin was now attempting to find a more direct route, or one more easily negotiable by ships less powerful than his. Perhaps he had set out upon a detailed reconnaissance of this region, the maps of which were in large part blank. Jane wrote to the Admiralty, where her missives were given the same treatment and remained unanswered. Obviously no one was willing to consider that the Franklin expedition could be in a sorry plight. On the contrary, everyone needed to believe that its success was ineluctable.

  But Lady Jane was not a woman to be discouraged by such a small matter and she did not intend to be politely sent home like the wife of a foot soldier come to ask for word about her husband, whose arm is patted while encouraging words are murmured and who leaves empty-handed.

  These gentlemen were on their own turf in the Admiralty headquarters or comfortably settled in easy chairs at their club. They had numbers and the battlefield to themselves; this was obviously unacceptable and a way must be found to gain the advantage.

  Lady Jane decided to invite them to share her Christmas dinner.

  After much thought, to this dinner which seemed to her to represent, if not her last, then at least her best hope of bringing these gentlemen around to her point of view, she invited:

  Sir John Barrow, first baronet, second secretary of the Admiralty, Fellow of the Royal Society and of the London Geographical Society, and his charming wife;

  James Clark Ross, seasoned explorer, recipient of the Legion of Honour and Fellow of the London Geographical Society, and his charming wife;

  Sir Robert Peel, Prime Minister, and his charming wife (who were known to spend Christmas with her parents in Devonshire, but all the same it would not be disagreeable to announce to the other guests: “Sir Robert, who regrets that he is unable to join us, but as you well know, our first responsibility is to our family, sends greetings …”);

  William Edward Parry, he too a highly skilled explorer, rear admiral, and governor of the Greenwich Hospital, and his charming wife;

  Jim Foster, fish merchant whose shop was located in Castle Street in the same village as the castle of Sir James Forester, inventor and Fellow of the London Geographical Society, for whom the invitation was intended but who did not receive it. Consequently, he was unable to respond and was never again invited by Lady Jane. As for Jim Foster, after a moment’s incredulity, he used the envelope which had held the invitation to wrap a piece of cod and thought no more about it;

  Sir Lionel Templar, man of science and also a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society (whose charming wife had passed away some months before and who was in the habit of spending Christmas with his daughter).

  James Ross, William Parry, and John Barrow replied that they would be delighted to spend Christmas in the company of the wife of their colleague and friend, the former specifying that he would be overjoyed to meet the daughter of the latter. Lady Jane was forced to admit that she had completely forgotten Eleanor, having supposed that she would spend Christmas with her fiancé’s family. Inexplicably, it took a great deal of persuading before Eleanor accepted her stepmother’s invitation, which she promised to honour only on condition that Lady Jane invite her future in-laws, too. After doing her best to deter the young woman (those people will be bored to death, they don’t know anyone, our circle being so different from theirs they would only be ill-at-ease, do think about it, Eleanor), Lady Jane gave in and directed her energy elsewhere, refusing to worry any more at the thought that Sir John Barrow would be forced to rub shoulders with those Gells, whose fortune (recent) had to do with cloth or lace, she was not sure which. Sir Robert Peel made it known that he was sorry but that he was engaged elsewhere. He graciously thanked Lady Jane for her invitation and promised to visit her in the new year. As for Sir James Forester,he, needless to say, said not a word, any more than did Lionel Templar, which Lady Jane attributed to bad manners in the case of the first and to the sorrow of bereavement in the second.

  The weeks that followed passed quickly in visits, shopping, and various distractions intended to shake Sophia out of the torpor that seemed to have swept over her. The menu was drawn up with the greatest care. Lady Jane hesitated at length between a goose and roast beef, she shilly-shallied over serving an aspic or a sorbet as a palate cleanser, concluding that neither was necessary and that the culinary customs from the other side of the Channel were but a passing fancy. She had long since determined her seating plan, using small place cards decorated by her niece.

  It had been particularly cold for some days and when the ladies woke up on Christmas morning they caught sight through their windows of a landscape covered in snow. It was as if the trees had been wrapped in cotton, a spotless blanket thrown onto the grass, the alleys, the streets, even onto the hats of the rare passersby, who were moving quickly for flakes were still falling – lethargic, rounded, like so many balls of fur.

  The parlour was decorated simply, as is fitting for a room that is virtually mourning the absence of its most illustrious occupant at a time of year when good taste requires letting oneself be won over by a spirit of merry-making. Tufts of holly had been put up here and there; and garlands of fir adorned with sweet-smelling pomanders surrounded the fireplace and were twisted around the banister, where they resembled vines that were trying to reach upstairs. The flames of dozens of candles were reflected in the crystals of the chandeliers and the gold-framed mirrors, making the room look like a jewel box. Outside, the darkness had a nearly supernatural brilliance; moonbeams bathed in a silvery glow the soft carpet covering the ground.

  Sir John and Lady Barrow were first to arrive, soon followed by James and Ann Ross an
d the Parrys. Eleanor, her fiancé, and the latter’s parents kept the others waiting, an unforgivable faux pas in the eyes of Lady Jane, who would have much preferred that they be already seated when her most important guests arrived, to give the impression (since she could not do otherwise) of an amicable family gathering, and that they not monopolize everyone’s attention during the long minutes between the moment they were announced and the one when they finally were seated.

  Ann Ross, née Coulmann, was scarcely twenty-five years of age, charming but sadly afflicted with such timidity that she had trouble responding to even the most insignificant question and blushed the moment her name was uttered. After the introductions were made she did not open her mouth, joining in the conversation by greeting the repartee of others with a politely astonished smile.

  As she had often done during the past months, Sophia asked herself why men married silly, innocent young things incapable, even should their lives depend on it, of sustaining a discussion on any scientific, philosophical, or artistic matter, not even, in one precise case, about the weather. (“This snow is glorious, don’t you think?” Sophia had asked. “With all the faded, slightly muffled colours, it is in a way like being in a Turner painting.” “ …” young Mistress Ross had replied, smiling graciously.) Perhaps the gentlemen took pride in the restful silence of their wives. If they were so insistent on having at their sides a gentle, peaceful, and obedient companion, why for heaven’s sake did they not instead adopt a female greyhound? Somewhat surprised herself at the violence of the feeling stirred in her by the young person with pink cheeks and vacant eyes, Sophia resolved to be especially kind to Mrs. Ross.

  Eleanor, her fiancé, Philip, and his parents arrived just then. Lady Jane hoped that they would at least have the decency to try not to be noticed, but Mrs. Gell, after effusively greeting the ladies present as if they were old acquaintances, launched into a rambling conversation with young Mrs. Ross, whose smile appeared after a while to be a little weary.

  While Lady Jane was talking with William Parry about the configuration of a possible Polar sea, Hector, the butler, came to inform her that Sir Lionel Templar had arrived. Without evincing any surprise, Lady Jane greeted the news with a delighted smile, as if she were expecting the arrival of this unexpected guest who had not thought it necessary to reply to her invitation.

  Calling Hector back, she instructed him in a low voice to set another place at the table between Eleanor and Philip’s father. She would at least punish such rudeness by seating him between two deadly dull table mates.

  Hector did not obey immediately, which was unusual.

  “I say,” said Lady Jane impatiently, “what are you waiting for?”

  “Yes, Madam, only …”

  “Only what, Hector?”

  He hesitated, afraid of seeming impertinent.

  “Only, Madam, that will make thirteen at table.”

  Now that was unfortunate.

  “Add two settings, then. And move Sir John Barrow so that he is next to Mrs. Parry. The place at the head of the table will be left vacant.”

  It came time to move into the dining room, which was also decorated with fir boughs and gilt garlands. The long walnut table was covered with an embroidered cloth on which were arranged the Franklin family’s finest silver, crystal, and the Wedgwood china that was kept for grand occasions. The guests took their places and Lady Jane announced, pointing to the empty chair at the end of the table, beneath the nearly life-sized portrait of Sir John: “My dear husband and those who are with him are here in our thoughts. This empty chair reminds us of the emptiness that their departure has left in our hearts.”

  The ladies heaved a tender sigh of sympathy and the gentlemen responded with a virile nod of their heads.

  Christmas 1847

  MENU

  Oysters on the half shell

  Oxtail consommé

  Stuffed carp

  Guinea fowl with black trumpet mushrooms

  Casserole of veal sweetbreads in cream sauce

  Roasted turkey with chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce

  Potatoes maître d’hôtel

  Green peas, à la française

  Cheese

  Salade parisienne

  Fruit

  Biscuits

  Meringues

  Plum Pudding

  IT TURNED OUT THAT young Mistress Ross did not eat meat, as her husband explained on her behalf while the servants were placing in the middle of the table tiered silver platters with raw oysters in their mother-of-pearl shells arranged in a star shape on crushed ice, surrounded by wedges of lemon.

  “But my dear,” Lady Jane told him, as if she had thought that he’d spoken in jest, “as far as I know oysters are not meat. Your charming wife can enjoy them without fear.”

  “It’s just,” the younger woman began, in a voice so low that Lady Jane had to read her lips, “I do not eat fish, either.”

  “What is this?” cried out Lady Barrow as she noted that something seemed to be impeding the service. Like her husband, she was afflicted with a rather serious hearing problem.

  “Mrs. Ross does not eat fish,” Mr. Gell informed her obligingly.

  “I beg your pardon?” she replied.

  “MRS. ROSS DOES NOT EAT FISH,” he repeated, so loudly that Eleanor, who was sitting beside him and had missed the beginning of the conversation, was startled and looked at him as if she feared that he had lost his mind.

  “But the oyster is not a fish,” Sir John Barrow broke in. Having understood, he was happy to contribute this taxonomic correction.

  “Ann does not eat crustaceans, either,” Ross began, then, seeing that Sir John was threatening to intervene anew: “Or molluscs. Or, indeed, eggs or cheese. Nothing that is animal or that comes from an animal,” he concluded, while his silent spouse, her gaze lowered, turned pink before their very eyes. “Wool, for instance,” Sophia murmured between her teeth. Parry, sitting on her right, convinced himself he had heard incorrectly.

  Lady Jane, who had very little patience for this kind of caprice, took hold of the closest platter and, exchanging a look of complicity with her niece, extended it to the young woman, smiling:

  “Very well, my dear, will you take a slice of lemon?”

  Her dear refused politely, but agreed to taste the cranberry sauce, after which she accepted a tiny helping of potatoes and a few peas which Sophia, sitting nearby, estimated to number twelve, before reluctantly eating half an orange from which she removed the sections one at a time with her long, pale fingers while the other guests were at the cheese – Cheddar, Brie, Morbier – and port. (As for Mrs. Ross, she drank only water, even though Lady Jane had assured her that all the grapes in the various wines came exclusively from plants.)

  The plum pudding had, as is required, spent the past three weeks wrapped in a cloth, hanging in a cool, airy part of the kitchen where the cook came every day to stir it and lace it with a drop of brandy. To the batter had been added the traditional ring, coin, and thimble (the first ensuring to whoever bit into it a marriage during the year to come; the second, prosperity; and the third, a year of celibacy – but a happy one). The heavy, spongy, spicy lump had then been plunged into some gelatinous beef bouillon where it boiled for four hours, then it was suspended again for one week, after which it was baked for six hours.

  The guests expressed polite admiration when the pudding was brought from the kitchen already alight, the ball of fire giving off the fragrance of vanilla, clove, and orange joined by something discreet but heady, like a memory of the odour of suet.

  The carafes of Sauternes appeared on the table along with the spectacular dessert Lady Jane insisted on serving herself. Gesturing refusal, Mrs. Ross took a prune and began carefully to peel it. No sooner had the pudding been cut into than Mrs. Gell let out a little cry and, bringing her fingers to her mouth, produced the coin, which she had just bitten. Everyone congratulated her on her good luck and she turned red as if she were being complimented on some ex
ceptional skill or talent that she could be proud of.

  Soon Sophia felt between her teeth a hard object that she dreaded. It was nothing, really: she just had to hold up the thimble, smile, and wait for the gibes, most assuredly not too alarming, to be over. But she simply lacked the courage. Unthinking, she used her tongue to push the piece of metal deep into her throat and swallowed it, along with a raisin.

  The conversation, rather desultory, carried on; Ross touched upon the famine that continued to devastate Ireland; Lady Jane tried (in vain) to interest Mrs. Parry in a peculiar novel published some months before, the work of an unknown young writer named Ellis Bell; and the gentlemen rejoiced over Kent’s victory at croquet, to which they drank a delighted toast.

  Just then Eleanor let out a muffled exclamation and took from her mouth the thimble, giving rise to a variety of amused remarks:

  “I say, my boy, is your sweetheart having second thoughts?” exclaimed her fiancé’s father, laughing.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Sir John Barrow, but this time no one replied.

  Stoically, Sophia smiled, wondering if the ring, swallowed inadvertently, still had its power as a marriage-maker.