“My dear Silberstein, I’m no crazier than you are.”
“No, sir, you can’t tar me with that brush. Believe me, when I’m in love — using that as a very broad term—there’s plenty of action. I’m no Hamlet, by God! I either get ’em, or I don’t. And if I don’t, I don’t cry about it. I look for another: the woods are full of them. It’s as easy as tripping a cripple.”
“Well, of course, I’m exaggerating slightly—”
“Ah! That’s better. You were exaggerating slightly—”
“—but there’s something in it. I don’t mean so much as applied to — well, the more fleeting sort of sexual adventure. Though it’s apt to be true even of those. But when one’s really in love — it’s a miserable business. All out of focus. No reasonable center to one’s behavior. Or my behavior, anyway. I’m always a damned fool when I’m in love.”
“If you’re talking about Romeo and Juliet stuff, all I can say is that at your age you ought to know better. The female doesn’t exist that can get me in love with her.”
“But I wonder if there’s any escaping one’s temperament in that regard? Here I am, aged thirty-five, and more horribly in love than I ever was before — in love, mind you, in the most sublimated and sentimental sense imaginable. I actually don’t feel the slightest conscious sensual attraction to the girl. Not the slightest. Oh, I don’t mean that I don’t think she’s beautiful — I do. But her beauty affects me in a very peculiar way — it seems to me merely a clue to something else, some mental or spiritual quality (though I distrust the word spiritual) which is infinitely more exciting and more worth discovery. Of course, I admit frankly that I’ve had other affairs in which there was little or nothing of this. Usually, even when I’m mildly ‘in love,’ the desire for physical contact is at once uppermost — all my tentacles and palpacles begin to quiver. Why this difference? How can we be sure that one way is any better than the other? You simply take your choice. Both of them have something of value to offer. Perhaps it’s the difference between poetry and prose. I always liked Donne’s remark on that subject—”
“Donne? Never heard of him. But spring it, if you must.”
“‘For they are ours as fruits are ours.
He that but tastes, he that devours,
And he that leaves all, doth as well.’”
“Well, God deliver me from poetry. You can have it. Take all the lyrics you want, but leave me the legs.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got to leave you. That was my dinner horn — quarter of an hour ago. I’m late.”
“Was it! And I haven’t changed yet … We’ll resume this drunken discussion later … So long!”
“Yes, so long.”
Lights of Library and Port Deck. Lights of Bar and Starboard Deck. Single Stroke. Trembling.
“Oh! Aren’t you ashamed, Mr. Demarest!”
“Ashamed, Mrs. Faubion? What of?”
“Why being so late — we’re almost finished!.. Oh, we know all about you.”
“Help, I’m discovered … No soup, thanks, steward — hors d’oeuvres, and then — let’s see.”
“Calf’s head in torture is good — I had it. Very good. Good food on this boat.”
“No — roast duckling à l’Anglaise, and vegetables. And ice cream and coffee … So you know all about me. Father’s been telling on me.”
“He has. He told us all about your swell friend in the first cabin. When are you going to announce the engagement?”
“Engagement! My God. The family jewels.”
“Is it true, what Mr. Smith told Mrs. Faubion and me, that you first met her on another ship?”
“True as the gospel, Miss Dacey. Believe everything that father tells you and you won’t go wrong. But didn’t he tell you that we were secretly married this morning — at seven bells?”
“Ha ha! Wouldn’t you like to, though! Merry laughter.”
“Married, does he say. No, siree Bob. When Demarest marries they won’t ring bells, they’ll fire cannon and blow up the ship!”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Does he look like a marrying man? Not him. Not much! He’s one of these ice-bound bachelors.”
“All right for you, Mr. Demarest — you can’t pretend any more that you’re a woman hater. Now we know the real reason why you avoid us all the time!”
“Avoid you! My dear Mrs. Faubion! What a scandalous and outrageous falsehood! Here I’ve been pursuing you from morning till night—”
“Pursuing!”
“—and I never can get any nearer to you than tenth in the waiting line. And you accuse me of avoiding you! Father, you can testify.”
“Testify nothing! We’ll never see you again on this ship. No, sir. You’re a lost man. Sunk without a bubble.”
“You hear that? And after Miss Dacey and I have been saying such nice things about you, too. Haven’t we? Your ears ought to have been burning last night.”
“Last night?”
“Last night after we went to bed.”
“Do tell me! I’m dying to know what it was.”
“Why, did you ever hear of such conceit? Actually!”
“That’s right, darling, don’t tell him a thing. Tantalize him. That’s what gets ’em every time.”
“Don’t darling me! I’m not your darling, nor anybody’s darling.”
“She’s getting mad again. All pink and mad … But didn’t you say you had a husband? Ah ha! Look at her blushing!”
“I’m not blushing.”
“Oh no, she’s not blushing. Not blushing at all. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Faubion.”
“Mr. Barnes! I wish you would teach your passengers better manners!”
“Is Mr. Smith behaving badly to you? I must caution you, Mr. Smith. You must remember that these young ladies are traveling under my protection.”
“I think he’s had a cocktail too many, Mr. Barnes.”
“COCKTAILS! I like your nerve, Mr. Demarest! And you breathing brimstone all over the table. It’s a wonder the flowers don’t wilt.”
“Where were you at the mock wedding, Mr. Demarest! didn’t you see it? I thought you were going to be the wedding guest.”
“So I was. But I forgot all about it till it was too late. How did the bride look, the pianist?”
“Oh, he was a scream.”
“And you should have heard Mr. Ashcroft doing the marriage service! Oh! I thought I should die!”
“Oh, wasn’t he a scream?”
“Yes, he certainly was a scream! What was it all about, all that about the man trying to catch the pigeon in the field, and getting it by the tail?”
“What, madam! didn’t you understand that? That was the best part of it. Don’t you try to let on you’re as innocent as all that! What was all that about the pigeon! You were the one that was laughing the loudest.”
“Careful, Mr. Smith! Careful!”
“Well, I ask you, Mr. Purser, as man to man—”
“That will do, father!”
“Don’t call me father. A man is as young as he feels … Ha ha!”
“Well … what’s funny in that?”
“Oh, nothing funny — it’s damned serious. Yes indeedy.”
“My little gray home in the west. Don’t you love that song? I just couldn’t live without that song. Are we ready to go, Pauline?”
“Yes, are we ready to go, Pauline?”
“Pauline!.. Mr. Smith, your manners are simply terrible. Good night, Mr. Barnes — oh are you coming too? Good night, Mr. Demarest!”