CHAPTER XVII
Two weeks out to-day, on a balmy sea, under a cloud-flecked sky, and
slipping an easy eight knots through the water to a light easterly
wind. Captain West said he was almost convinced that it was the
north-east trade. Also, I have learned that the Elsinore, in order
to avoid being jammed down on Cape San Roque, on the Brazil coast,
must first fight eastward almost to the coast of Africa. On
occasion, on this traverse, the Cape Verde Islands are raised. No
wonder the voyage from Baltimore to Seattle is reckoned at eighteen
thousand miles.
I found Tony, the suicidal Greek, steering this morning when I came
on deck. He seemed sensible enough, and quite rationally took off
his hat when I said good morning to him. The sick men are improving
nicely, with the exceptions of Charles Davis and O'Sullivan. The
latter still is lashed to his bunk, and Mr. Pike has compelled Davis
to attend on him. As a result, Davis moves about the deck, bringing
food and water from the galley and grumbling his wrongs to every
member of the crew.
Wada told me a strange thing this morning. It seems that he, the
steward, and the two sail-makers foregather each evening in the
cook's room--all being Asiatics--where they talk over ship's gossip.
They seem to miss little, and Wada brings it all to me. The thing
Wada told me was the curious conduct of Mr. Mellaire. They have sat
in judgment on him and they do not approve of his intimacy with the
three gangsters for'ard.
"But, Wada," I said, "he is not that kind of a man. He is very hard
and rough with all the sailors. He treats them like dogs. You know
that."
"Sure," assented Wada. "Other sailors he do that. But those three
very bad men he make good friends. Louis say second mate belong aft
like first mate and captain. No good for second mate talk like
friend with sailors. No good for ship. Bime by trouble. You see.
Louis say Mr. Mellaire crazy do that kind funny business."
All of which, if it were true, and I saw no reason to doubt it, led
me to inquire. It seems that the gangsters, Kid Twist, Nosey Murphy,
and Bert Rhine, have made themselves cocks of the forecastle.
Standing together, they have established a reign of terror and are
ruling the forecastle. All their training in New York in ruling the
slum brutes and weaklings in their gangs fits them for the part. As
near as I could make out from Wada's tale, they first began on the
two Italians in their watch, Guido Bombini and Mike Cipriani. By
means I cannot guess, they have reduced these two wretches to
trembling slaves. As an instance, the other night, according to the
ship's gossip, Bert Rhine made Bombini get out of bed and fetch him a
drink of water.
Isaac Chantz is likewise under their rule, though he is treated more
kindly. Herman Lunkenheimer, a good-natured but simple-minded dolt
of a German, received a severe beating from the three because he
refused to wash some of Nosey Murphy's dirty garments. The two
bosuns are in fear of their lives with this clique, which is growing;
for Steve Roberts, the ex-cowboy, and the white-slaver, Arthur
Deacon, have been admitted to it.
I am the only one aft who possesses this information, and I confess I
don't know what to do with it. I know that Mr. Pike would tell me to
mind my own business. Mr. Mellaire is out of the question. And
Captain West hasn't any crew. And I fear Miss West would laugh at me
for my pains. Besides, I understand that every forecastle has its
bully, or group of bullies; so this is merely a forecastle matter and
no concern of the afterguard. The ship's work goes on. The only
effect I can conjecture is an increase in the woes of the
unfortunates who must bow to this petty tyranny for'ard.
- Oh, and another thing Wada told me. The gangster clique has
established its privilege of taking first cut of the salt-beef in the
meat-kids. After that, the rest take the rejected pieces. But I
will say, contrary to my expectations, the Elsinore's forecastle is
well found. The men are not on whack. They have all they want to
eat. A barrel of good hardtack stands always open in the forecastle.
Louis bakes fresh bread for the sailors three times a week. The
variety of food is excellent, if not the quality. There is no
restriction in the amount of water for drinking purposes. And I can
only say that in this good weather the men's appearance improves
daily.
Possum is very sick. Each day he grows thinner. Scarcely can I call
him a perambulating skeleton, because he is too weak to walk. Each
day, in this delightful weather, Wada, under Miss West's
instructions, brings him up in his box and places him out of the wind
on the awninged poop. She has taken full charge of the puppy, and
has him sleep in her room each night. I found her yesterday, in the
chart-room, reading up the Elsinore's medical library. Later on she
overhauled the medicine-chest. She is essentially the life-giving,
life-conserving female of the species. All her ways, for herself and
for others, make toward life.
And yet--and this is so curious it gives me pause--she shows no
interest in the sick and injured for'ard.
They are to her cattle, or less than cattle. As the life-giver and
race-conserver, I should have imagined her a Lady Bountiful, tripping
regularly into that ghastly steel-walled hospital room of the
midship-house and dispensing gruel, sunshine, and even tracts. On
the contrary, as with her father, these wretched humans do not exist.
And still again, when the steward jammed a splinter under his nail,
she was greatly concerned, and manipulated the tweezers and pulled it
out. The Elsinore reminds me of a slave plantation before the war;
and Miss West is the lady of the plantation, interested only in the
house-slaves. The field slaves are beyond her ken or consideration,
and the sailors are the Elsinore's field slaves. Why, several days
back, when Wada suffered from a severe headache, she was quite
perturbed, and dosed him with aspirin. Well, I suppose this is all
due to her sea-training. She has been trained hard.
We have the phonograph in the second dog-watch every other evening in
this fine weather. On the alternate evenings this period is Mr.
Pike's watch on deck. But when it is his evening below, even at
dinner, he betrays his anticipation by an eagerness ill suppressed.
And yet, on each such occasion, he punctiliously waits until we ask
if we are to be favoured with music. Then his hard-bitten face
lights up, although the lines remain hard as ever, hiding his
ecstasy, and he remarks gruffly, off-handedly, that he guesses he can
play over a few records. And so, every other evening, we watch this
killer and driver, with lacerated knuckles and gorilla paws, brushing
and caressing his beloved discs, ravished with the music of them,
and, as he told me early in the voyage, at such moments believing in
God.
A strange experience is this life on the Elsinore. I confess, while
it seems that I have been here for long months, so familiar am I with
every detail of the little round of living, that I cannot orient
myself. My mind continually strays from things non-understandable to
things incomprehensible--from our Samurai captain with the exquisite
Gabriel voice that is heard only in the tumult and thunder of storm;
on to the ill-treated and feeble-minded faun with the bright, liquid,
pain-filled eyes; to the three gangsters who rule the forecastle and
seduce the second mate; to the perpetually muttering O'Sullivan in
the steel-walled hole and the complaining Davis nursing the marlin-
spike in the upper bunk; and to Christian Jespersen somewhere adrift
in this vastitude of ocean with a coal-sack at his feet. At such
moments all the life on the Elsinore becomes as unreal as life to the
philosopher is unreal.
I am a philosopher. Therefore, it is unreal to me. But is it unreal
to Messrs. Pike and Mellaire? to the lunatics and idiots? to the
rest of the stupid herd for'ard? I cannot help remembering a remark
of De Casseres. It was over the wine in Mouquin's. Said he: "The
profoundest instinct in man is to war against the truth; that is,
against the Real. He shuns facts from his infancy. His life is a
perpetual evasion. Miracle, chimera and to-morrow keep him alive.
He lives on fiction and myth. It is the Lie that makes him free.
Animals alone are given the privilege of lifting the veil of Isis;
men dare not. The animal, awake, has no fictional escape from the
Real because he has no imagination. Man, awake, is compelled to seek
a perpetual escape into Hope, Belief, Fable, Art, God, Socialism,
Immortality, Alcohol, Love. From Medusa-Truth he makes an appeal to
Maya-Lie."
Ben will agree that I have quoted him fairly. And so, the thought
comes to me, that to all these slaves of the Elsinore the Real is
real because they fictionally escape it. One and all they are
obsessed with the belief that they are free agents. To me the Real
is unreal, because I have torn aside the veils of fiction and myth.
My pristine fictional escape from the Real, making me a philosopher,
has bound me absolutely to the wheel of the Real. I, the super-
realist, am the only unrealist on board the Elsinore. Therefore I,
who penetrate it deepest, in the whole phenomena of living on the
Elsinore see it only as phantasmagoria.
Paradoxes? I admit it. All deep thinkers are drowned in the sea of
contradictions. But all the others on the Elsinore, sheer surface
swimmers, keep afloat on this sea--forsooth, because they have never
dreamed its depth. And I can easily imagine what Miss West's
practical, hard-headed judgment would be on these speculations of
mine. After all, words are traps. I don't know what I know, nor
what I think I think.
This I do know: I cannot orient myself. I am the maddest and most
sea-lost soul on board. Take Miss West. I am beginning to admire
her. Why, I know not, unless it be because she is so abominably
healthy. And yet, it is this very health of her, the absence of any
shred of degenerative genius, that prevents her from being great . .
. for instance, in her music.
A number of times, now, I have come in during the day to listen to
her playing. The piano is good, and her teaching has evidently been
of the best. To my astonishment I learn that she is a graduate of
Bryn Mawr, and that her father took a degree from old Bowdoin long
ago. And yet she lacks in her music.
Her touch is masterful. She has the firmness and weight (without
sharpness or pounding) of a man's playing--the strength and surety
that most women lack and that some women know they lack. When she
makes a slip she is ruthless with herself, and replays until the
difficulty is overcome. And she is quick to overcome it.
Yes, and there is a sort of temperament in her work, but there is no
sentiment, no fire. When she plays Chopin, she interprets his
sureness and neatness. She is the master of Chopin's technique, but
she never walks where Chopin walks on the heights. Somehow, she
stops short of the fulness of music.
I did like her method with Brahms, and she was not unwilling, at my
suggestion, to go over and over the Three Rhapsodies. On the Third
Intermezzo she was at her best, and a good best it was.
"You were talking of Debussy," she remarked. "I've got some of his
stuff here. But I don't get into it. I don't understand it, and
there is no use in trying. It doesn't seem altogether like real
music to me. It fails to get hold of me, just as I fail to get hold
of it."
"Yet you like MacDowell," I challenged.
"Y. . . es," she admitted grudgingly. "His New England Idylls and
Fireside Tales. And I like that Finnish man's stuff, Sibelius, too,
although it seems to me too soft, too richly soft, too beautiful, if
you know what I mean. It seems to cloy."
What a pity, I thought, that with that noble masculine touch of hers
she is unaware of the deeps of music. Some day I shall try to get
from her just what Beethoven, say, and Chopin, mean to her. She has
not read Shaw's Perfect Wagnerite, nor had she ever heard of
Nietzsche's Case of Wagner. She likes Mozart, and old Boccherini,
and Leonardo Leo. Likewise she is partial to Schumann, especially
Forest Scenes. And she played his Papillons most brilliantly. When
I closed my eyes I could have sworn it was a man's fingers on the
keys.
And yet, I must say it, in the long run her playing makes me nervous.
I am continually led up to false expectations. Always, she seems
just on the verge of achieving the big thing, the super-big thing,
and always she just misses it by a shade. Just as I am prepared for
the culminating flash and illumination, I receive more perfection of
technique. She is cold. She must be cold . . . Or else, and the
theory is worth considering, she is too healthy.
I shall certainly read to her The Daughters of Herodias.
