Conrad Aiken: Blue Voyage

“Oh, but be serious! You aren’t together, are you?”

She leaned back in the small swivel chair, and regarded him from an immense distance.

“Why, of course!.. Don’t you believe me?”

“No! I’m from Missouri, ” she replied savagely. “And I think you’re real rude.”

Smith poked Demarest with his elbow, not spilling the potato from his fork.

“Now see what you’ve gone and done — made the little girl mad. Just when I was getting on so well, too.”

“ Who was getting on so well?” … Mrs. Faubion glowered.

“Of all the conceited men—!” contributed Miss Dacey, bridling.

“Ah, father, you shouldn’t blame me like this … Is it my fault?… Is the child father to the man … No; if you’d only resisted those nickel spoons — sternly — walked out proudly with empty pockets and a pure heart—”

“Well, you don’t have to tell everybody, do you?… You’ve spoiled my chances. What hope is there for me now?” He looked sadly at Mrs. Faubion. “Me, an ex-convict, a kleptomaniac!”

“What a lovely word,” said Miss Dacey. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Barnes?”

Demarest thought she was about to lay her head on Mr. Barnes’s plate — so yearningly did she gush forward. Mr. Barnes leaned back a little.

“Oh, a lovely word!” he agreed. “Still, as Purser of this ship, I suppose I ought to be careful — what?… I must warn you, Mr. Smith, that everything you say will be held against you. It’s a beautiful word; but I’m a dutiful man.”

Miss Dacey clapped her hands, jingling the bangle.

“Oh, doesn’t he talk nicely! Beautiful — dutiful! Just like poetry! Do you like poetry, Mr. Barnes? Do you like poetry, Mr. Kleptomaniac? Do you like poetry, Mr. I-don’t-know-your-name”?

“Demarest?… Certainly. If I can have a little beer and cheese with it, or a game of billiards after it!”

“How vulgar of you!.. And you, Mr. Barnes?”

“Oh yes, yes!” cried Mr. Barnes.

“ I don’t,” snapped Mrs. Faubion. “I think it’s all tosh. Me for a good dance, or a nice show, and plenty of jazz. On the beach at Wy-kee-kee!” She snapped her fingers lazily, dreamily, and gave a singular little “H’m’m!” like the dying-fall, cloying, of a ukelele.

“Twangle, twangle, little guitar!” said Smith. “I’m right with you, darling! Make it two!”

“Careful, father. Remember your years. Forgive him, Mrs. Faubion. He means well, — but you know — bubbles in the think-tank …”

“Yes, sir,” said Smith. “I sure do like a little jazz. Give me a good nigger orchestra every time. I remember once, at the Starcroft Inn, a dance hall — but no. No, I can’t tell it here. Too many ladies here.”

“Well! If that’s the way you feel about it!” … Mrs. Faubion folded her napkin, thrust it venomously into the ring, and rose. “Good night !” She walked away bristling. At the door she turned and looked hard at Demarest, who watching her. Their eyes met, then wavered apart. Smith laughed delightedly.

“That time, father, it was you .”

“ Don’t call me father ! — makes me feel too old. Brr !.. On the beach at Wai-ki-ki … Some girl!.. Have a cigar, Mr. Purser?… Mr. Demarest?” He beamed, offering cigars. Then he walked solemnly away, pinching the end of a cigar between finger and thumb.

“Jolly old boy that!” said Mr. Barnes. “Have you know him long?”

“Never saw him till today.”

“Jolly old boy!.. Are you going, Miss Dacey? Have we fed you well enough?”

“Oh, beautifully, thank you, Mr. Barnes! Do you have to go and do that awful work now?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

“Good night, then!”

“Good night!”

“Daisy Dacey,” said Mr. Barnes to Demarest. “How’s that for a name, eh? And look at her card, she gave it to me. ‘Miss Daisy Dacey. England and the United States!’ Isn’t that a scream?”

“The Western Hemisphere and Mars,” murmured Demarest.

Feeling suddenly that they had nothing more to say to each other, they drifted shyly apart. The orchestra, which had just come in from the first cabin, finished arranging its music on tripods, and struck loudly, coarsely into “My Little Gray Home in the West.” Flute, violin, piano and double-bass. The flute player, a young man with a pale, fine girlish face and a blond cascade of hair, hooked his lip earnestly over the flute: uncous lip. How white his hands were, too, on the black flute. My lit-tle gray ho-ome in the West . A brick vault in the cemetery, overgrown, oversnarled, with gaudy trumpet vine, steaming in the tropic sun. Bones in the tropic dust. My little red house in the south. Bees and bones and trumpet flowers: nostalgia, Gauguin, heart of darkness … Mrs. Faubion passed him, singing “ My lit-tle gray ho’ome —” her eyes wide and … absorbent . Demarest felt like turning up his coat collar against a draft. A tall, dark, romantic young man came after her, carrying her coat and a steamer rug. Victim No. 1. Daisy Dacey stood at the corridor door, engaged in lively conservation with the Chief Steward. She pirouetted, slid, waved her arms, giggled, and the Chief Steward looked down at her intently, preening his little black mustache abstractedly, as if he weren’t so much listening as watching, waiting. “Hello!” she cried to Demarest as he passed. “Hello!” sang Demarest mockingly. After he had passed, he heard her crying, amid the harsh music, “Never — never— never !” At the same time, thin and far away, he heard the ship’s bell hurriedly striking eight: tin-tin, tin-tin, tin-tin, tin-tin . What watch was this — Dog Watch? No. The Watch of the Great Bear. The Watch of the Lion. The Watch of the Sphinx. The Queen of Sheba would be sitting in his stateroom, on a small golden chair, clawing a pomegranate on a golden dish. “Naughty, naughty!” she cried to her Sphinx cub, wagging a finger. Then she put down her locked hands, crying, “Jump, Sphinx!” and the little gray sphinx leapt, expressionless, over the alabaster hoop. “Mad, mad. I’m completely mad.”

He walked twice round the deck in the wind and dark. It was cold. The deck was dimly lighted, and everything looked a little fantastic — enormous ventilators, mysterious people stepping out of mysterious doors, a submarine murmur of ragtime. A cluster of tiny lights far away to port indicated Long Island. As he crossed the shelter deck behind the smoking room he saw Pauline Faubion, and the Romantic Young Man, sitting, well wrapped, in steamer chairs. The Young Man was leaning his head very close to her, talking in a low confidential voice — she regarded him with solemn probing indifference. Why was it not himself who sat beside her, talking? Oh, he knew well enough why — though he knew also, with conviction, that Pauline would have preferred him to her present company … The sea was black, with hints of white, and the wind brought unceasingly from it the fluctuatingly melancholy and savage sound of charging waves.

The smoking room had become noisy and cheerful. Bottles stood on the table with half-filled glasses, blue smoke drifted in long lazy-swirling parallels, like isobars on a weather chart. Four men played whist at the table in the far corner— bang ! went down a card; knock ! went down another. Card games as a form of physical exercise. In another corner, Smith sat back alone, solemnly and appreciatively smoking. He tapped indicatively the seat next to him, blowing a rich plume of smoke. Demarest sat down, feeling relaxed and melancholy.

“Well,” said Smith, after a pause. “I’ve told you what I’m going for — what are you going for?”