Blue Voyage: A Novel (31 page)

“Oh, good Lord deliver me! Did you hear that, you people? This man says he wouldn’t mind if his sister married a nigger!”

There was a mild, embarrassed laugh at the next table, and Demarest felt himself flushing under the scrutiny of amusedly hostile eyes. Loss of caste—this was what the smiling eyes said, but almost as if apologetically. He was made to feel, for a flash, the isolation with which a race punishes its individuals for excessive individualism, for disobeying totem and taboo. Outcast. Pariah … How idiotic of him, to discuss such a thing, with such a man, in such a place! Served him right. Drip drop. Drop drip. Better fill and light his pipe with ostentatious calm and care, and let them see his large new splendid tobacco pouch! the unhurrying fingers manipulating the sea-damp tobacco, with percipient care for every shred!

Smith, guessing that he had gone a little too far, watched, unseeing, the fingers working in the pouch. But the scene was now beyond mitigation. He rose, flushed, with angry evasive eyes.

“Funny ideas some people have,” he said. He picked up his coat.

“
De gustibus
—as you remarked,” said Demarest. His voice was cool, and he directed at Smith a glance which he intended to be penetrating.

“What?…” Smith wavered, hoping for a friendlier note on which to take his departure. “Well, I guess I’ll take a look at the dance before it stops. Getting toward the end.”

He moved off sadly, sedately, as if in padded slippers: quiet upholder of the conventions; modest efficient tool of society.
My Little Gray Home in the West
. And now he was on his way to watch Faubion—Faubion, who was wearing a blue mandarin cloak and nice little while silk pantaloons. Delicious! Smith watching hungrily, brown eye among the potted palm trees, wistfully, waiting. Misery. Misery is creation. Misery is love. Misery is——

He opened the fat octavo again. A book so massive, in a ship smoking room, smacked of affectation. Page 568. “The spurging of a dead man’s eyes. And all since the evening star did rise … A storm of rain, another of hail. We all must home in the egg shell sail” … The cokwold’s daunce would be more appropriate?
The cokwolds lokyd yche on other
—how did it go. Gone.
My Little Gray Home in the West
. His little gray head on her breast. Blue mandarin breast … “The mast is made of a great pin, the tackle of cobweb, the sail as thin——” Oh, I’ve got a pin and it must go in … “And if we go through, and not fall in——” Imitating Middleton and Shakespeare: but he did it supremely well. And then there were the mooncalves. Nymphs that smell of ambergris. And the Epicoenes, that laugh and lie down in moonshine. Where was that … Page 616 … “and stab with their poniards; you do not know the delights of the Epicoenes in moonshine.”

Dripping dropping. Not raining so hard now. The ship, in a gentle rain, on a rain-dark sea. The dance had come to an end. Gooooood-night, Ladies——A Bass, two Basses, and a John Collins … “And when they have tasted the springs of pleasure enough, and bill’d, and kist, and are ready to come away; the shees only lay certain eggs (for they are never with child there) and of these eggs are disclosed a race of creatures like men, but are indeed a sort of fowl, in part covered with feathers (they call them V
OLATEES
) that hop from island to island; you shall see a covey of them presently …” Happy Epicoenes! Too happy, happy Epicoenes! And what an exquisite solution of the problem! And what a light it let in upon the dark soreness of that soul! The same troubles then as now. The same troubles always, world without end, Amen. Horror becomes poetry. Horror becomes—he must go and say something friendly to old Smith. Yes. By this time he was probably in his room. Nothing about the quarrel, no reference, just a friendly remark. Ask him if he had anything to read? But no! Was it necessary? It was Smith who had transgressed.
Did you hear that, you people
?

They were still conscious of him, he could feel, as he passed them—they were noting the peculiar shape of his head, and the fat calf-bound octavo awkward under his arm. Yahoos! Dabblers in filth! He would show them!… But what would he show them?… Nothing. Nothing at all. They were foolish people, simple people, helpless people, like himself; in an analogous position, as one of a homogeneous group, he too would join in the throwing of stones. “Have you read X’s last book?… The man’s gone completely to pot. I
never
read such tripe!” … All of us murderers.
Single Stroke. Trembling
. Forgot, in the excitement, to say good night to Malvolio … The stewards in the dining saloon were dragging the long tables back to their places and screwing them down. The pianist (pimply!) was lunging away forward, with his sheaf of dirty music. Cigarette ends in the palm-tree pots. The blade of a fan. A smell of face powder. After the ball was over.

Smith, on the point of turning down his alley, waited for him, mournfully scratching his mustache.

“Well!” he said. “You turning in, too?”

“Yes, that damned poker gang makes too much of a row.”

“They do, don’t they. They saw the fellow with the glass eye is a professional.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Good man to keep away from, I guess. He looks like a tough customer … Hello!
Here
she comes!”

Mrs. Faubion bore down upon them, threateningly, with a tooth brush in her hand. In the blue mandarin cloak. The ship, the long red carpet, pitched slowly downward toward the bow, and, laughing, she advanced with a little exaggerated run, stopping short with her face impudently close to Demarest’s face, the tooth brush flourishing in her lifted hand.

“Well!” she cried. “Mr. Man! What would
you
like!”

He deliberated, diving delightedly into her delighted eyes.

“I’d like to bite you!” he said.

“Oh
would
you!” she said.

“Yes, and if you don’t look out I will!”

She gave a little shriek of laughter, and darted down the alley that led to her stateroom. With one hand on the doorknob, she paused, put the toothbrush to her lips, and blew him a kiss, extravagant and mocking.

“The same to you!” he cried, suiting the action to the word. They smiled at each other, for a moment, with fixed eyes. Then she vanished into her room, the door shutting softly.

“Good Lord!” moaned Smith. “Why does she do that to you?”

“Yes, why?” laughed Demarest. “Good night!”

“Good
night
.” His tone was brusque, and he turned on his heel almost angrily. This was the death of Smith! A triumph!…
Yes, why
?

142–156.

Yes, why? and again, yes, why? How delightful she had looked, the impudent little strumpet. Nothing epicene about Faubion. They call them V
OLATEES
. A little rougher again tonight. Creaking woodwork. That charging run of hers—a skillful improvisation. And holding her charming savage mouth so close, so startlingly close, to his!… He unhooked and lowered the tin wash basin. A tepid trickle of water for the tooth brush. She had been brushing her teeth: as now he brushed his, with lips quaintly arched and an overflow of blood-streaked foam. Round, and round, and round, in front. Back and forth, back and forth, at the sides. Scooping downward at the nicotine-strained tartar on the backs of the lower front ones. Over the grinding-surfaces of the molars—
ouch
. That cursèd ice-cream tooth. Must be a little crack in the filling … Nymphs that smell of ambergris; and the wholesome dew called rosmarine. He looked once again, once again, once again, with a profound amused wonderment, with blank black pupils, into his mirrored eyes. What an extraordinary-looking object he was, with pink ears, animal hairs in his nose, and a blue mole on his cheek! And was this monstrous object making itself miserable for a—
female
? “But Socrates, you say these monsters are sometimes unhappy. Tell me, will you, what it is that you mean by unhappiness? For, if I can believe you, these creatures are endowed with reason; and as you will agree, a truly reasonable being cannot know unhappiness save as an attribute of the foolish …”
Te-thrum te-thrum: te-thrum te-thrum
. Delightful, this hour when the passengers were all gone to bed, and most of the crew, and the whole ship became quiet, absorbed, as if at last concentrated singly and solely on the business of crossing an ocean! One became aware of it—one heard the engines: the beating of its lonely heart. One felt the frame quiver, saw it change its shape even, became startlingly conscious of the fact that one was at sea; alone with the infinite; alone with God. These rows of white marshmallows on the ceiling—these little painted bolts that held the ship together—these were one’s faith! But it all seemed ridiculous, unreal. What was a ship?… What were human beings?… What was a world?… Cynthia and himself were a world … Misery. The whole thing was somebody’s dream. The whole thing was a tiny twinkle, a bursting bubble——

He turned out the electric light and crawled into the bunk, sighing. Not a sound from the Irish girl—she must be asleep. Cynthia—was she too asleep?
Te-thrum te-thrum: te-thrum te-thrum
. Yes, she was probably asleep. Or was she lying awake, anguished over the affair? Miserable over what she had done? really in love with him all the time? staring into the atomy darkness with eyes wide as the world? thinking of that time when—that time when—with a pongee dress—and a wide soft straw hat—with a floppy brim—English——

There was a soft footstep outside the door—it passed, then came back again—and then on the panel of the door something that sounded like a tiny knock, a knock as of one small knuckle. He lifted himself on straining elbows, the blood beating painfully in the side of his throat. Had he only imagined it—was it only the nocturnal creaking and knocking of the ship?
te-thrum te-thrum; te-thrum te-thrum
. He held his breath, concentrating all his attention, staring in the dark toward the suspected door, listening for the slightest sound. Suppose it was! Eagerly, softly, he withdrew himself from the pocket of ship-folded bedclothes. And as his foot touched the coarse carpet, the knock was repeated, the turning knob gave a little creak, and the door began softly to open. Faubion.

About the Author

Conrad Aiken (1889–1973) was an American poet, novelist, and short story author, and one of the most acclaimed writers of the twentieth century. His numerous honors include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award for Poetry, the Bollingen Prize, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal. Born in Savannah, Georgia, Aiken was orphaned at a young age and was raised by his great-great-aunt in Massachusetts. He attended Harvard University with T. S. Eliot and was a contributing editor to the influential literary journal the
Dial
, where he befriended Ezra Pound.

Aiken published more than fifty works of poetry, fiction, and criticism, including the novels
Blue Voyage, Great Circle, King Coffin, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico
, and
Conversation
, and the widely anthologized short stories “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” and “Mr. Arcularis.” He played a key role in establishing Emily Dickinson’s status as a major American poet, mentored a young Malcolm Lowry, and served as the US poet laureate from 1950 to 1952. Aiken returned to Savannah eleven years before his death; the epitaph on his tombstone in Bonaventure Cemetery reads:
Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown
.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1927 by Conrad Aiken

Cover design by Michel Vrana

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1139-6

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com