To the Ends of the Earth (23 page)

Summers lifted both hands in expostulation.

“No, no—spare us, I beg you! It is of little moment after all!”

“Little moment, sir, when a lady’s word—it cannot be allowed to pass, sir. One of these sailors said to the other as they descended side by side—‘Billy Rogers was
laughing
like a bilge pump when he come away from the
captain’s
cabin. He went into the heads and I sat by him. Billy said he’d knowed most things in his time but he had never thought to get a chew off a parson!’”

The triumphant but fierce look on Mr Prettiman’s face,
his flying hair and instant decline of his educated voice into a precise imitation of a ruffian sort threw our
audience
into whoops. This disconcerted the philosopher even more and he stared round him wildly. Was anything ever more absurd? I believe it was this diverting
circumstance
which marked a change in our general feelings. Without the source of it being evident there strengthened among us the determination to get on with our play!
Perhaps
it was Mr Prettiman’s genius for comedy—oh, unquestionably we must have him for our comic! But what might have been high words between the social philosopher and your humble servant passed off into the much pleasanter business of discussing
what
we should act and
who
should produce and
who
should do this and that!

Afterwards I went out to take my usual constitutional in the waist; and lo! there by the break of the fo’castle was “Miss Zenobia” in earnest conversation with Billy Rogers! Plainly, he is her
Sailor Hero
who can “
Wate no longer
”. With what kindred spirit did he concoct his misspelt but elaborate billet-doux? Well, if he attempts to come aft and visit her in her hutch I will see him flogged for it.

Mr Prettiman and Miss Granham walked in the waist too but on the opposite side of the deck, talking with
animation
. Miss Granham said (I heard her and believe she intended me to hear) that
as he knew
they should aim first at supporting those parts of the administration that might be supposed still uncorrupted. Mr Prettiman trotted beside her—she is taller than he—nodding with
vehemence
at the austere yet penetrating power of her
intellect
. They will influence each other—for I believe they are as sincerely attached as such extraordinary characters can be. But oh yes, Miss Granham, I shall not keep an eye on him—I shall keep an eye on you! I watched them pass on over the white line that separates the social orders and
stand right up in the bows, talking to East and that poor, pale girl, his wife. Then they returned and came straight to where I stood in the shade of an awning we have stretched from the starboard shrouds. To my
astonishment
, Miss Granham explained that they had been
consulting
with Mr East
! He is, it seems, a craftsman and has to do with the setting of type! I do not doubt that they have in view his future employment. However, I did not allow them to see what an interest I took in the matter and turned the conversation back to the question of what play we should show the people. Mr Prettiman proved to be as indifferent to that as to so much of the common life he is allegedly concerned with in his philosophy! He dismissed Shakespeare as a writer who made too little comment on the evils of society! I asked, reasonably enough, what society consisted in other than human beings only to find that the man did not understand me—or rather, that there was a screen between his unquestionably powerful
intellect
and the perceptions of common sense. He began to orate but was deflected skilfully by Miss Granham, who declared that the play
Faust
by the German author Goethe would have been suitable—

“But,” said she, “the genius of one language cannot be translated into another.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“I mean,” said she, patiently, as to one of her
young gentlemen
, “you cannot translate a work of genius entirely from one language to another!”

“Come now, ma’am,” said I, laughing, “here at least I may claim to speak with authority! My godfather has translated Racine entire into English verse; and in the opinion of connoisseurs it equals and at some points
surpasses
the original!”

The pair stopped, turned and stared at me as one. Mr Prettiman spoke with his usual febrile energy.

“Then I would have you know, sir, that it must be unique!”

I bowed to him.

“Sir,” said I, “it is!”

With that and a bow to Miss Granham I took myself off. I
scored
did I not? But really—they are a provokingly opinionated pair! Yet if they are provoking and comic to
me
I doubt not that they are intimidating to others! While I was writing this I heard them pass my hutch on the way to the passenger saloon and listened as Miss Granham
cut up
some unfortunate character.

“Let us hope he learns in time, then!”

“Despite the disadvantage of his birth and upbringing, ma’am, he is not without wit.”

“I grant you,” said she, “he always tries to give a comic turn to the conversation and indeed one cannot help
finding
his laughter at his own jests infectious. But as for his opinions in general—Gothic is the only word to be applied to them!”

With that they passed out of earshot. They cannot mean Deverel, surely—for though he has some
pretension
to wit, his birth and upbringing are of the highest order, however little he may have profited from them. Summers is the more likely candidate.

I do not know how to write this. The chain would seem too thin, the links individually too weak—yet something within me insists they
are
links and all joined, so that I now understand what happened to pitiable, clownish
Colley
! It was night, I was heated and restless, yet my mind as in a fever—a
low
fever indeed!—went back over the whole affair and would not let me be. It seemed as if
certain
sentences, phrases, situations were brought
successively
before me—and these, as it were, glowed with a significance that was by turns farcical, gross and tragic.

Summers must have guessed. There
was
no
leaf-tobacco!
He was trying to protect the memory of the dead man!

Rogers in the enquiry with a face of well-simulated astonishment—“What did
we
do, my lord?” Was that astonishment well-simulated? Suppose the splendid
animal
was telling the naked, the physical truth! Then Colley in his letter—
what a man does defiles him, not what is done by others
—Colley in his letter, infatuated with the “king of my island” and longing to kneel before him—Colley in the cable tier, drunk for the first time in his life and not understanding his condition and in a state of mad
exuberance
—Rogers owning in the heads that he had knowed most things in his life but had never thought
to get a chew off a parson
! Oh, doubtless the man consented, jeeringly, and encouraged the ridiculous, schoolboy trick—even so, not Rogers but Colley committed the
fellatio
that the poor fool was to die of when he remembered it.

Poor, poor Colley! Forced back towards his own kind, made an equatorial fool of—deserted, abandoned by me who could have saved him—overcome by kindness and a gill or two of the intoxicant—

I cannot feel even a pharisaical complacency in being the only gentleman not to witness his ducking. Far better had I seen it so as to protest at that childish savagery! Then my offer of friendship might have been sincere rather than—

I shall write a letter to Miss Colley. It will be lies from beginning to end. I shall describe my growing friendship with her brother. I shall describe my admiration for him. I shall recount all the days of his
low fever
and my grief at his death.

A letter that contains everything but a shred of truth! How is that for a start to a career in the service of my King and Country?

I believe I may contrive to increase the small store of money that will be returned to her.

It is the last page of your journal, my lord, last page of the “ampersand”! I have just now turned over the pages, ruefully enough. Wit? Acute observations?
Entertainment
? Why—it has become, perhaps, some kind of
sea-story
but a sea-story with never a tempest, no shipwreck, no sinking, no rescue at sea, no sight nor sound of an enemy, no thundering broadsides, heroism, prizes,
gallant
defences and heroic attacks! Only one gun fired and that a blunderbuss!

What a thing he stumbled over in himself! Racine declares—but let me quote your own words to you.

True indeed, and how should it be not? It is the smallness of those steps that enables the Brocklebanks of this world to survive, to attain a deboshed and saturated finality which disgusts everyone but themselves! Yet not so
Colley
. He was the exception. Just as his iron-shod heels shot him rattling down the steps of the ladder from the
quarterdeck
to the waist; even so a gill or two of the
fiery ichor
brought him from the heights of complacent austerity to what his sobering mind must have felt as the lowest hell of self-degradation. In the not too ample volume of man’s knowledge of Man, let this sentence be inserted. Men can die of shame.

This book is filled all but a finger’s breadth. I shall lock it, wrap it and sew it unhandily in sailcloth and thrust it away in the locked drawer. With lack of sleep and too much understanding I grow a little crazy, I think, like all men at sea who live too close to each other and too close thereby to all that is monstrous under the sun and moon.

I signalized my birthday by giving myself a present since no one else seemed inclined to! I bought it, of course, from Mr Jones, the purser. As I emerged on deck with some relief from the fetor of the ship’s bowels I met Charles Summers, my friend and the ship’s first lieutenant. He laughed when he saw the manuscript book in my hand.

“The ship was aware, Edmund, that you had finished, that is, filled the book which was a present from your noble godfather.”

“But how?”

“Oh, do not be surprised! Nothing can be hidden in a ship. But have you still more news for him?”

“This is not a continuation, but a new venture. When this is filled with an account of our voyage I mean to keep it for myself and no one else.”

“There must be little of enough note for recording.”

“On the contrary, sir, on the contrary!”

“More reasons for self-satisfaction?”

“And how am I to take that?”

“Why—elevate your nose as usual. Dear Edmund, if you only knew how maddeningly superior you can be—and now a writer into the bargain!”

I did not much care for his mixture of familiarity and amused irritation. For indeed I thought I had cured myself of a certain lofty demeanour, a consciousness of my own worth which had perhaps been too carelessly displayed in the earlier days of the voyage. Had it not gained me, among the common seamen, the nickname of “Lord Talbot”? Of course, “mister” or “esquire” is all I am entitled to.

“I amuse myself. I pass the time. What else can a poor
devil of a landsman do to occupy himself in a voyage from the top of the world to the bottom?”

“That is called folio size, is it not? You will need a great deal of adventure to fill it. The first one, for your
godfather
—”

“Colley, Wheeler, Captain Anderson—”

“And others. I wish sincerely that you will have much more difficulty in filling your second volume!”

“Your wish is granted here and now, for my head is empty. By the way—today is my birthday!”

He nodded gravely but said nothing and went on his way towards the forward part of our vessel. I sighed. I believe it has been the first time my birthday has gone unnoticed by all but myself! At home things would be different, with good wishes and presents. Here in this lumbering ship such modest entertainment, such pleasant customs go by the board.

I went to my “hutch” or cabin, that “little ease” which must serve me for sleep and privacy until we reach the Antipodes. I sat down in my canvas chair before my “writing-flap”, my only desk, and cracked the folio open on it. The area was immense. If I bowed my head and peered at the blank surface—as I must, since so little light filters into my cabin—it seemed to spread in every
direction
until it was the whole of my world. I watched it, therefore, in the expectation that some material fit for
permanence
would appear—but nothing! It was only after a prolonged pause that I discovered my present stratagem and the full result of it in recording my own, surely
temporary
inadequacy. That unhappy shrimp of a man, Parson Colley, had nevertheless in his letter to his sister, as far as I could remember, unconsciously used the massive
instrument
of the English tongue with a dexterity which called up our ship and her people—including me—as if by magic! He had set her there, lolloping in the weather. 

Yes, the weather, Edmund, the weather, you fool! Why do you not start with that? We have escaped from the
doldrums
at least. We were there too long for comfort. We have moved at last out of the fair weather of the equatorial regions and are now pushing south, the wind over our
larboard
bow so that there is once more a certain
unsteadiness
in the deck, a constant canting to the right to which I am now so accustomed I accept it and my limbs accept it as normal to living. The present weather is sharply defining our horizon for us in a dense blue which obeys Lord Byron’s famous injunction and continues to roll on endlessly—such is the power of verse! I must try it some time. Sufficient and perhaps increasing wind (not, I seem to remember, included by his lordship) moves us slanting, or ought to but seems to have less effect on our vessel than it should. So much for the weather. Colley would have
integrated
it. But as far as I can see, it has no other effect than to cool our air slightly and set the ink in the well at a slight slant. Edmund, I adjure you! Be a writer!

But how?

There is an inevitable difference between this journal, meant for, for, I do not know for whom, and the first one meant for the eyes of a godfather who is less indulgent than I pretended. In that volume I had all my work done for me. By a remarkable series of strokes of fortune, Colley “willed himself to death” and “my servant” Wheeler drowned and the result was to fill my book! I cannot
consult
it, for it lies, all wrapped in brown paper, sewn in
sailcloth
, sealed and stowed away, in my bottom drawer. But I do remember writing towards the end of it that it had become some sort of a sea story. It was a journal that became a story by accident. There is no story to tell now.

Yesterday we saw a whale. Or rather we saw the plume of spray which rose where the creature was snorting, but the beast itself remained hidden. Lieutenant Deverel, that 
crony from whom to tell the truth I remain anxious to detach myself, remarked that it looked for all the world like the strike of a cannon ball. At this Zenobia Brocklebank shrieked and besought him not to mention anything so frighteningly horrid, a display of proper female
weakness
—or the appearance of it—which enabled Deverel to move closer, take her unresisting hand and murmur some sort of comfort with a kind of echo of amatory matters in it. Miss Granham, I remember, looked, if not daggers, penknives at least, and moved away to where her fiancé, Mr Prettiman, was extolling the social benefits of revolution to our marine artist, sodden Mr Brocklebank. All that on the poop under the eyes of Lieutenant Cumbershum who with young Mr Taylor had the watch! What else? This is small beer!

Yesterday there was part of a cable laid out in the waist, then wormed, parcelled and served for some mysterious operation of seamanship. It was the only thing to record but a damned dull sight.

What the devil! I need a hero whose career I may follow in volume two. Might it be our gloomy Captain Anderson? I do not think so. There is, for all his uniform, something indomitably unheroic about him. Charles Summers, my friend the first lieutenant? He is our Good Man and therefore only to be tragic if he falls from that small eminence which I do not expect or wish. The others, Mr Smiles, the remote sailing master, Mr Askew, the gunner, Mr Gibbs, the carpenter—why not our tradesman, Mr Jones, the purser? Oldmeadow, the Army officer with his file of greenclad men? I cudgel my brains, call Smollett and Fielding into the ring, ask their advice and find they have none for me.

I should perhaps tell the story of a young gentleman of much intelligence and more feeling than he was aware of who takes a voyage to the Antipodes where he is to assist 
the governor of the new colony with his undoubted talents for, for something or other. He, he—what? There is a woman in the fo’castle among the emigrants. Might not she be our heroine, a princess in disguise? Might not
he
, our hero, rescue her—but from what? Then there is Miss Brocklebank of whom I do not desire to write and Mrs Brocklebank with whom I am at present almost entirely unacquainted and who is far too young and pretty to be tunbelly’s wife.

Wanted! A hero for my new journal, a new heroine, a new villain and some comic relief to ameliorate my deep, deep boredom.

It will have to be Charles Summers after all. We at least talk and do so with some regularity. Since as first
lieutenant
he is generally in charge of the ship he does not keep a watch. He seems to move about the ship for something like eighteen hours in the twenty-four and now knows the ship’s company, let alone the emigrants and the passengers individually by name. I believe he also knows the fabric of the ship inch by inch. His only break as far as I can see is for an hour in the forenoon—perhaps from eleven to twelve when he walks the deck like a man taking a constitutional. Some of the passengers do likewise and I am happy and really rather proud to say that Charles
commonly
chooses me as his walking companion! A pattern has settled into a custom. He and I walk back and forth the length of the waist on the larboard side of the ship, Mr Prettiman and his fiancée Miss Granham do the same on the starboard side. By common consent we do not walk as a group of four but in two pairs. Thus just as they are turning to come back from the break of the fo’castle so we are turning to come back from the break of the aftercastle! As we move towards the midpoint the bulk of the
mainmast
hides our two pairs from each other so we do not have to raise our hats or incline the head smilingly at each 
passing! Is that not trivially absurd? Only the interposition of a lumpish column of wood preserves us from having to employ all the actions of landlubberly conduct!

I said as much to Charles the other forenoon and he laughed.

“I had not considered the matter but I suppose it is so; and a piece of neat observation!”

“The ‘proper study of man’ and most necessary to one who intends to be a politician.”

“You have your career charted?”

“Yes indeed. And more precisely than most men of my years.”

“You excite my curiosity.”

“Why—I shall spend a few years—a very few years—in the administration of the colony.”

“May I be there to see!”

“Mark me, Mr Summers, in this century I am convinced the civilized nations will more and more take over the administration of the backward parts of the world.”

“And then?”

“Parliament. My godfather has what is commonly called ‘a rotten borough’ in his pocket. It sends two members to the house and the only electors are a drunken shepherd and a cottager who spends the weeks after an election in a state of indescribable debauchery.”

“Should you profit by such excess?”

“Well, there are difficulties. Our wretched estates are heavily encumbered and since a seat in the house is only tenable by a man of means I must pick up a plum or two.”

Charles laughed aloud, then stopped himself abruptly.

“I ought not to find that amusing, Edmund, but I do. A plum or two! And then?”

“Why—government! The cabinet!”

“What ambition!” 

“You dislike that side of my character?”

Charles was silent for a while, then spoke heavily.

“I have no right to. I am just such a creature myself.”

“You? Oh no!”

“In any event, I find you profoundly interesting. I hope sincerely that your career may prosper to your own satisfaction and the benefit of your friends. But does not the country begin to frown on ‘rotten boroughs’? For is it not against reason and equity that a handful of English people should elect the assembly which will
govern
all?”

“Now there, Charles, I believe I may enlighten you! That apparent defect is the true genius of our system—”

“Oh no! It cannot be!”

“But, my dear fellow, Democracy is never and cannot be representation by everyone. What, sir, are we to give the vote to children, to men of no property? To the insane? To criminals in the common gaols? To women?”

“You had best not let Miss Granham hear you!”

“Indeed, I would not for the world denigrate that respectable lady. I concede the exception. Denigration? I would not dare!”

“Nor I!”

We laughed together. Then I resumed my explanation.

“In the best days of Greece voting was limited to a
fraction
of the population. Barbarians may elect their
chieftains
by acclaim and the thundering of swords on shields. But the more civilized a country is, the smaller is the number of people fitted to understand the complexities of its society! A civilized community will always find ways of healthfully limiting the electorate to a body of highly born, highly educated, sophisticated professional and hereditary electors who come from a level of society which was born to govern, expects to govern, and will always do so!” 

But Charles was making quelling gestures with both hands. I believe my voice had indeed risen. He interrupted me.

“Edmund! Gently! I am not Parliament! You are
orating
. That time before Mr Prettiman vanished beyond the mainmast he was turning red in the face!”

I lowered my voice.

“I will moderate my voice but not my language. He is a theorist—if nothing worse! It is the common mistake of theorists to suppose a perfect scheme of government may be fitted over the poor, imperfect face of humanity! Not so, Mr Summers. There are circumstances in which only the imperfections of a contradictory and cumberous
system
such as ours will serve. Rotten boroughs for ever! But in the right hands, of course.”

“Do I detect some of the elements of a projected maiden speech in the house?”

I felt a sudden warmth mantle my cheeks.

“How did you guess?”

Charles turned away for a moment and gave an
admonition
to a seaman who was idling with some twine, some grease, and a marlingspike. Then—

“But your personal life, Edmund—all that part which is not dedicated so straightforwardly to the service of your country?”

“Why—I suppose I shall live the way one lives! I shall have one day—may it be far off—to do something about the estates unless one of my young brothers can be induced to. I must own that my loftier flights in the future have seen me freeing the estates from their heavy load by”—here I did indeed laugh at the thought—“a gift from a grateful country! But you will think me a dreamer!”

Charles laughed too.

“There is no harm in that provided they are dreams of the future and not of the past!” 

“My practical proposal, however, is no dream. At a suitable point in my career I shall marry—”