Conrad Aiken: The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

A dreadful idea had occurred to him.

“It’s nothing serious—how could it be anything serious? Of course, it’s nothing serious,” said Mr. Arcularis.

“No, it’s nothing serious,” said the ship’s doctor urbanely.

“I knew you’d think so. But just the same—”

“Such a condition is the result of worry,” said the doctor. “Are you worried—do you mind telling me—about something? Just try to think.”

“Worried?”

Mr. Arcularis knitted his brows. Was there something? Some little mosquito of a cloud disappearing into the southwest, the northeast? Some little gnat-song of despair? But no, that was all over. All over.

“Nothing,” he said, “nothing whatever.”

“It’s very strange,” said the doctor.

“Strange! I should say so. I’ve come to sea for a rest, not for a nightmare! What about a bromide?”

“Well, I can give you a bromide, Mr. Arcularis—”

“Then, please, if you don’t mind, give me a bromide.”

He carried the little phial hopefully to his stateroom, and took a dose at once. He could see the sun through his porthole. It looked northern and pale and small, like a little peppermint, which was only natural enough, for the latitude was changing with every hour. But why was it that doctors were all alike? And all, for that matter, like his father, or that other fellow at the hospital? Smythe, his name was. Doctor Smythe. A nice, dry little fellow, and they said he was a writer. Wrote poetry, or something like that. Poor fellow—disappointed. Like everybody else. Crouched in there, in his cabin, night after night, writing blank verse or something—all about the stars and flowers and love and death; ice and the sea and the infinite; time and tide—well, every man to his own taste.

“But it’s nothing serious,” said Mr. Arcularis, later, to the parson. “How could it be?”

“Why, of course not, my dear fellow,” said the parson, patting his back. “How could it be?”

“I know it isn’t and yet I worry about it.”

“It would be ridiculous to think it serious,” said the parson. Mr. Arcularis shivered; it was colder than ever. It was said that they were near icebergs. For a few hours in the morning there had been a fog, and the siren had blown—devastatingly—at three-minute intervals. Icebergs caused fog—he knew that.

“These things always come,” said the parson, “from a sense of guilt. You feel guilty about something. I won’t be so rude as to inquire what it is. But if you could rid yourself of the sense of guilt—”

And later still, when the sky was pink:

“But is it anything to worry about?” said Miss Dean. “Really?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Then don’t worry. We aren’t children any longer!”

“Aren’t we? I wonder!”

They leaned, shoulders touching, on the deck-rail, and looked at the sea, which was multitudinously incarnadined. Mr. Arcularis scanned the horizon in vain for an iceberg.

“Anyway,” he said, “the colder we are the less we feel!”

“I hope that’s no reflection on you ,” said Miss Dean.

“Here … feel my hand,” said Mr. Arcularis.

“Heaven knows, it’s cold!”

“It’s been to Polaris and back! No wonder.”

“Poor thing, poor thing!”

“Warm it.”

“May I?”

“You can.”

“I’ll try.”

Laughing, she took his hand between both of hers, one palm under and one palm over, and began rubbing it briskly. The decks were deserted, no one was near them, everyone was dressing for dinner. The sea grew darker, the wind blew colder.

“I wish I could remember who you are,” he said.

“And you—who are you?”

“Myself.”

“Then perhaps I am yourself.”

“Don’t be metaphysical!”

“But I am metaphysical!”

She laughed, withdrew, pulled the light coat about her shoulders.

The bugle blew the summons for dinner—“The Roast Beef of Old England”—and they walked together along the darkening deck toward the door, from which a shaft of soft light fell across the deck-rail. As they stepped over the brass door-sill Mr. Arcularis felt the throb of the engines again; he put his hand quickly to his side.

“Auf wiedersehen,” he said. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

Mr. Arcularis was finding it impossible, absolutely impossible, to keep warm. A cold fog surrounded the ship, had done so, it seemed, for days. The sun had all but disappeared, the transition from day to night was almost unnoticeable. The ship, too, seemed scarcely to be moving—it was as if anchored among walls of ice and rime. Monstrous that, merely because it was June, and supposed, therefore, to be warm, the ship’s authorities should consider it unnecessary to turn on the heat! By day, he wore his heavy coat and sat shivering in the corner of the smoking room. His teeth chattered, his hands were blue. By night, he heaped blankets on his bed, closed the porthole’s black eye against the sea, and drew the yellow curtains across it, but in vain. Somehow, despite everything, the fog crept in, and the icy fingers touched his throat. The steward, questioned about it, merely said, “Icebergs.” Of course—any fool knew that. But how long, in God’s name, was it going to last? They surely ought to be past the Grand Banks by this time! And surely it wasn’t necessary to sail to England by way of Greenland and Iceland!

Miss Dean—Clarice—was sympathetic.

“It’s simply because,” she said, “your vitality has been lowered by your illness. You can’t expect to be your normal self so soon after an operation! When was your operation, by the way?”

Mr. Arcularis considered. Strange—he couldn’t be quite sure. It was all a little vague—his sense of time had disappeared.

“Heavens knows!” he said. “Centuries ago. When I was a tadpole and you were a fish. I should think it must have been at about the time of the Battle of Teutoburg Forest. Or perhaps when I was a Neanderthal man with a club!”

“Are you sure it wasn’t farther back still?”

What did she mean by that?

“Not at all. Obviously, we’ve been on this damned ship for ages—for eras—for æons. And even on this ship, you must remember, I’ve had plenty of time, in my nocturnal wanderings, to go several times to Orion and back. I’m thinking, by the way, of going farther still. There’s a nice little star off to the left, as you round Betelgeuse, which looks as if it might be right at the edge. The last outpost of the finite. I think I’ll have a look at it and bring you back a frozen rime-feather.”

“It would melt when you got it back.”

“Oh, no, it wouldn’t—not on this ship!”

Clarice laughed.

“I wish I could go with you,” she said.

“If only you would! If only—”

He broke off his sentence and looked hard at her—how lovely she was, and how desirable! No such woman had ever before come into his life; there had been no one with whom he had at once felt so profound a sympathy and understanding. It was a miracle, simply—a miracle. No need to put his arm around her or to kiss her—delightful as such small vulgarities would be. He had only to look at her, and to feel, gazing into those extraordinary eyes, that she knew him, had always known him. It was as if, indeed, she might be his own soul.

But as he looked thus at her, reflecting, he noticed that she was frowning.

“What is it?” he said.

She shook her head, slowly.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing. It just occurred to me that perhaps you weren’t looking quite so well.”

Mr. Arcularis was startled. He straightened himself up.