Conrad Aiken - Blue Voyage

“You’re sunk,” sighed Silberstein. “See you later, gentlemen. I now struggle into a stiff shirt.”

“Good riddance,” said Hay-Lawrence. “He’s an interesting chap but he can be a damned nuisance.”

“He has a strange effect on me,” said Demarest, moving the bishop to knight five. “What is it, in such a man, that disturbs one’s balance so extraordinarily?”

“Thick-skinnedness.”

“Partly, perhaps. But something more. Is it his massive confidence, rocklike integrity? I lose, in his presence, my own integrity entirely. I feel as if I have no personality at all. Or rather, I feel that my own personality is only a complement of his — and I catch myself actually trying to demonstrate this to him — trying to be as like him as possible. Such occurrences make one wonder whether one has any more personality than a chameleon … I have, afterward, a weary and disgusted sensation — as of having wagged too much an ingratiating tail.”

Hay-Lawrence gleamed. He placed the king’s bishop at king two.

“By Jove, that’s perfectly true. I know people who affect me like that … My father always did … So does my doctor.”

“Well, boys, later on,” sang the glass-eyed poker player. He pocketed two packs of cards. They trooped out, whistling and singing. Cold air from the sea door. Bishop takes knight? No — next time. Queen to knight two.

“It doesn’t seem to make much difference,” Hay-Lawrence resignedly murmured. “Suppose I advance the rook’s pawn.” Pawn to rook three. Now — bishop takes knight! Hay-Lawrence dies slowly. A caterpillar attacked by ants. Then bishop takes bishop. A piece will be gained? Knight back to bishop four — the bishop twice attacked. Ten to one he advances the rook to king two — he does. Queen to knight six: the coup de grâce …

“Oh — well! I’ll hide the bishop in the rook’s corner … No— that’s no good … Suppose I exchange queens?”

“Queen takes queen and rook takes queen,” said Demarest, suiting the action to the word.

“Absolutely nothing I can do — I surrender.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost a piece — whatever you do …”

“Yes. Thanks very much. We’ll have another some time … Has the bugle blown?”

“I think so.”

Why “think so”? He knew it had. They descended the red stairs to the dining saloon. The orchestra was beginning the Blue Danube: and the music rose to meet them, mixed with a confused sound of voices and dishes. The palm trees trembled, swayed slowly trembling, in the bright light from pearly ceiling lights. Pink curtains were drawn over all the portholes save one, which yawned black, night-engulfing. A hundred faces feeding as one. Stewards running soft-footed on the stinking carpets, dishes clattering, dishes chirruping, trays clanging — all interwoven, pouring, with the Blue Danube . The pale pianist, with frayed and spotted sleeves, smiled wearily at the score, tum-tum: the girl-faced flute player hooked his lip, uncous lip, over the flute, and eyed Demarest mournfully, tootle-too. Blaue Donau . Should he tell Hay-Lawrence Wagner’s remark?… “My God, what a melody!.. But— Jesus Christ ! what orchestration …” No, too noisy, not the right moment for it. Save it up. Da, die, dee, dum — die— dum: die dee … Anita. He always, when a kid, at dances, danced the Blue Danube with Anita. Her odd, delicious laugh, which ended in an inbreathing bubble, like the bubbling of a starling! Darling starling. Darling, hoydenish, long-legged Anita. Down from a star by a stairway of vines . That Sunday in the rain by the pond. “But William, you don’t seem to think anything about marriage ! Do you?” Then the streetcar in the rain, the rain-soaked curtain blowing against their backs; flap, flap. Rejected. Was he heartbroken? Surprised at being able to eat a good dinner at Memorial Hall. “Where are my waffles, Sam Childers?” “On de fire, suh — waffles on de fire.”

“Good evening, Mr. Barnes — Good evening, Miss Dacey — Good evening, Mrs. Faubion — Good evening, father.”

“All right for you, Mr. Demarest!” Mrs. Faubion, mournful and reproachful, mock angry.

“For me? What have I done?”

He dived, laughing into the somber eyes, which darkened maliciously to receive him … Swimming. I swim, you swim, he or she swims. We swim, you swim — the rich sardonic mouth tearing bread.

“Oh, I know what you’ve done. And you know too .”

“Cross my heart and hope I die … Not guilty. I appeal.”

She cut her meat savagely. Roast beef au jus, underdone, in watery gules. Green and celluloid cabbage. Barnes was drinking black stout. Jingle, went Daisy’s bangle.

“The little girl’s in a bad temper, tonight,” said Smith, lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t let her have the dress she wanted …” Then louder—“Who’s your dressmaker, Madam?”

“ You be careful !”

“Careful! Reckless is my middle name.”

“Water, Miss Dacey?”

“Oo thank you, Mr. Barnes.” Titter, titter.

“Walking right by me like that!”

“Never!”

“You did! On the deck this afternoon. And I was alone.”

“You don’t ask me to believe that, do you? Alone!”

“Where was Australia?” said Smith. “How come?”

“I’m not talking to you, Mr. Smith. I’m talking to your son .”

“Oh!.. God.”

“Sixpenny fine, Mr. Smith. Swearing at meals.” Mr. Barnes serenely peeped over the tilted stout.

Da dee die dum —die dum: die dee . — Anita looked over the silver-spangled white fan, long-leggedly, gracefully gliding, the green irises of her eyes irregularly flecked, gold-flecked, the pupils dark and — witty. “I thought you were afraid of dances!.. I believe it’s all a pretense!” … That lesson in the dining room. “You don’t hold me tightly enough — that’s the trouble!” And the peal of laughter, bubbling, inbreathing. Her Empire gown — high-waisted, white, like the Empress what’s-her-name, standing at the top of the stairs — stairs of alabaster. Sorosis; Sesostris. “But she’s nervous —very highly strung,” Anita’s mother had said. “Ever since her operation” … Well, what of it? Why did she eye him (knitting) so meaningfully? Ah—! she had meant to warn him off. Die dum —die dee … Da dee die dum —Faubion was looking at him rather hard — but as if she were not quite focusing her attention — no, she was beginning to smile, but obviously the sort of smile which is an answer to a smile — it must be for someone behind him. He turned his head — it was Australia, the Romantic Young Man, who was now in the act of passing the water bottle. A well-dressed, vapid young man with a high collar and a high color; he was a little too self-conscious, elaborately polite, a shade too much of the traveling salesman’s genuflectory manner. “Swipey — I don’t like this cat — he’s too swipey.” O God that word — how fond of it Aunt Maud had been, and how terribly her choice of it lighted that part of her vulgarity which he had always hated. There must be the same stratum buried somewhere in himself, of course — or his disgust would not have been so intemperate. Where had he got it? No — he was damned if he had it! It must have been a natural dislike — that element in Aunt Maud’s sensibility (or lack of it) had done him a violence from the beginning. What could so have poisoned her? Her mind, her character, her outlook blackly poisoned — a savage coprophily, a necessity for dwelling on the foulness of things. Well — he did this himself! but not surely in the same unclean way. Aunt Maud’s perceptions were somehow septic. A septic sceptic. Himself, an aseptic sceptic. Tut tut … This was probably completely wrong. More likely it was simply Aunt Maud’s lack of sensibility — a failure to perceive things clearly, to make fine distinctions? A bitter and unbridled woman.