Conrad Aiken: Blue Voyage

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

“The bath steward, sir. Do you wish a bath in the morning?”

“What time is breakfast?”

“Eight o’clock, sir.”

“Then let me have it at seven-thirty.”

“Hot or cold, sir.”

“Cold.”

The footsteps went along the alley, another knock, the voice again, farther off. “The bath steward, miss,” a girl’s voice answering. A girl next door — that was good. Who was she? Another universe brushing its hair under an electric light, calmly, with vanity. And all of them crowded together in this small ship. What was it for? Everything seemed senseless. The ship throbbed, the bed curtains vibrated on their rings. The woodwork creaked gently, slowly, as the long ship rose to the sea. Thalassa! Thalassa! The wine-dark sea.

As he went out of his room the girl next door came forth also — the Irish girl. Shutting her door she eyed him with a sort of tentative candor, a smile withheld. A brown woolen scarf, brown woolen stockings, nice ankles. He felt shy and turned stiffly away, his head lowered a little. He heard her steps behind him, apologetic, unobtrusive, oddly contriving to say, “We’re not following you — no — no;” and his own steps, becoming lighter, replied, “We wouldn’t dream of assuming it.” Curious how such relations can spring into being!.. He went fugitively up the stairs and onto the deck.

It had grown cloudy and cold. The clouds were bringing an early dusk. Whitecaps, on a dark gray sea — lines of white on a sullen sea. Should he look up Purington? He walked to the companionway which led to the deck above, and there, of course, was the sign—“ Second Cabin Passengers Not Allowed on This Deck .” Perhaps he would see Purington go by. He stood by the railing and watched a straggling procession of first-class men striding round the corner above. Their collars were turned up, hands in pockets. They eyed the sea with hostility. There was Purington. “Purington!” he called. But Purington didn’t hear. The words had been blown overboard. Two old ladies, passing, looked at him curiously, looked up at the first cabin deck, and smiled, as much as to say “Harmless!” … Disgusting old toads … Well, there was no rush about seeing Purington: he could wait. Besides, would Purington want to see him — a second-cabin passenger whom he didn’t know particularly well?… Perhaps not. He turned resolutely away and started to walk.

When he went down to dinner, he found himself sitting on the left of the Assistant Purser, who occupied the end seat. Old Man Smith was next to him, and opposite him were Mrs. Faubion (how delightful!) and another girl.

“No, sir,” the old man was saying with bantering severity. “I think you girls are too young to be traveling alone like this. It isn’t right.” He supped his soup loudly and intently.

“Too young! Well, I don’t know about Miss Dacey. But I’d like to tell you, Mr. Man, that I’m married; and if a married lady can’t travel by herself I’d like to know who can! And what right have you got, anyway, to talk to us like that — huh?” She glared at him with a comic imitation of anger.

“Married, eh? She says she’s married. I don’t believe she’s out of school … Besides, I’m old enough to be your father. I leave it to you, Mr. Captain, whether these girls aren’t too young to be traveling alone like this.”

The Assistant Purser, Mr. Barnes, red-faced and gray-eyed (sea-gazing eyes, thought Demarest — but they gazed for the most part at ledgers and passenger lists), was a little inclined to be stiff and pompous; reserved, perhaps. He laughed with uneasy amiability, looking from one face to another and crumbling his bread.

“But we mustn’t have a quarrel, must we, on the very first night of the voyage — what? Besides, where could Mrs. Faubion and Miss Dacey be safer than on a ship?”

“There!” cried Mrs. Faubion, triumphantly.

“I don’t know about a ship being so awfully safe though,” said Miss Dacey, wriggling and grimacing in a manner intended to be arch. “We know all about these sailors with a wife in every port — ha ha! Of course, I don’t mean you, Mr. Barnes!”

Mr. Barnes opened his mouth, a little taken back.

“Oh, of course not, Miss Dacey! How could you dream of such a thing!” He looked at Demarest, laughing. “The only ‘ports’ I know are New York, Liverpool and Southampton. So I suppose you credit me with three.”

Miss Dacey blushed furiously and gave another desperate wriggle. She was blue-eyed, anemic, with a long, thin mouth. She wore a bangle. Not more than twenty, thought Demarest.

“Now you know I didn’t mean that … How mean of you. I didn’t mean it at all. Though, of course, these handsome men—!” She gave a peculiarly vapid little laugh, and eyed Mr. Barnes sidelong.

“Now! Now!” cried Mr. Smith. “That’s enough! That’ll do for you. We can’t have our officers demoralized like this!”

“This is becoming a little personal, ” said Barnes.

“Highly,” said Demarest. “You’re elected.”

Mrs. Faubion laughed absent-mindedly, looking rather hard at Demarest. She was handsome, saturnine, though her features were not particularly good. There was something brooding and dark about her which, combined with her extreme youth and brilliant vulgarity, intrigued him enormously. She was extraordinarily alive. And the fact that, although a mere girl, she was married, piqued him. What did she know? Certainly there was a good deal that was hard and blatant about her — and she had picked up, in America, an astounding vaudeville sort of accent. But at the same time there was something oddly unsophisticated in her somber eyes, a burning simplicity and candor. She looked now at Smith with amused suspiciousness, and asked him:

“Are you two traveling together?”

“Why, of course!” cried Demarest. “We’re father and son.”

“What! With different names! You’re kidding me. Is your name Smith?”

“Well, now, father, that’s a delicate question, isn’t it … Shall we tell the lady the truth?”

Smith laughed. “Go on — go on!”

“Oh, don’t be silly! I know you’re not father and son.”

She eyed him with a doubtful gleam, half smiling.

“Come now!” said Demarest, “don’t you observe the startling resemblance?… You see, it was like this.”

“ Yes, it was!”

“Father, you see, had an unfortunate little affair some years ago — he has a peculiar psychological affliction — which caused him to spend two years in — er — jail. And when he came out, he changed his name.”

“ Really !” cried Miss Dacey, leaning forward intensely. “How exciting! And what is the affliction?”

“Are you sure we ought to know about this, Mr. Smith?” asked the Purser, with a fine, grave air of concern.

“Oh — among friends—!” laughed Smith, flourishing his fork.

“Yes, it’s sad, it’s sad,” said Demarest, shaking his head. “No one knows what father has suffered — nor me either. You see, father is a kleptomaniac.”

“A what ?” Mrs. Faubion cried. “ What did you say?”

“He has, every now and then, an uncontrollable impulse to steal. Spoons and forks are a great temptation to him. We can’t let him go out to dinner alone — have to watch him every minute. And a restaurant or hotel! he goes simply cuckoo when he gets inside the door … It was a restaurant that undid him! A little restaurant on Sixth Avenue. And all for a couple of nickel-plated spoons!”

“Dear, dear,” murmured the Purser, “a year for each spoon, too! How unfortunate!”