“Rum, what? as the English say … Well, it’s early, but I’m off. Have a nightcap?”
“No, thanks, I’m half tight already. I guess I’ll turn in myself. I was just on the point when you came in … Good night.”
“Good night.”
Single Stroke. Trembling.
Follow Red Arrow To Boat Station No. 2.
Gentlemen.
142–156.
Boddy-Finch Lifejacket.
— Is that you, Demarest?
— Yes, this is Demarest. Who is that speaking, please?
— This is Demarest Two-prime. How do you do.
— Same to you, and many of them.
— As doctor to patient, I would suggest — ahem — a little sublimation.
— Kindly take the first turn to the left and go straight on till you get to hell.
— Yes. A little sublimation. A nice little pair of wings, now? All God’s chilluns’ got wings? A pair of gospel shoes?
— Take them back to the pawnshop. No sublimation! Inter feces et urinas nascimur. So let me live until I die.
— You must be careful not to slip back. Onward and upward forever. To higher things, and more complex: the fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of man, the leadership of Jesus. This love of yours must be kept pure, precious, and uncontaminated. A guiding star. Dante and Beatrice. Art, too. Ma tu, perchè ritorni a tanta noia? Perchè non sali il dilettoso monte Ch’è principio e cagion di titta gioia?… Up, my lad! Up Helicon once more! Once more into the breach!
— Thank you kindly, sir, she said. It isn’t sublimation I want, it’s a bath of blood.
— Civilization is sublimation … Simple to complex. Animalcule to synapse. Synapse to holdover. Holdover to art. Selah.
— It isn’t sublimation I want, it’s drowning.
— That play, now — the very moment to begin it. There they are — you see them? On a darkened stage. The hero is lying in bed. He is unconscious, result of mental and spiritual exhaustion. Poor devil. And then, from the shadowy background, the Chorus comes forward! The tyrant father! The incestuous mother! Narcissus with a hand glass!
— It isn’t sublimation I want, it’s a bath of blood.
— Terror, with the dull brow of the idiot! and the Dark Self Who Wants To Die! You see them? And they have begun quarreling! They are quarreling for the possession of your poor body that lies on the bed! The Messiah! You!
— It’s a bath of blood. Not evolution: revolution. Red riot. I’m tired. Tired of clutching the inviolable shade.
— Nonsense. This is momentary. Or else, enduring — leads you, by devious ways, through mists and poisons — you know it perfectly well … The very moment for the play. All this agony can be projected, and being projected will be healed. Fixed in immortal shape: turned to stars like Cassiopeia. Look! Look! How she shines already!
— Fleshpots!
— You deceive yourself. Granted the fleshly origin, — but it’s too late to turn back. Know your fate, Demarest! You ARE complex! To return to the simple is for you impossible! Misery! You must follow out your neurosis!
— To its bloody roots. Enough, Two-prime! Pay attention to your collar button and leave this affair to me. Cursed are they thay enjoy their suffering: for they shall never be healed.
— You may bury his body in the Egyp’ garden,
You may bury his body in the Egyp’ garden,
You may bury his body in the Egyp’ garden,
O his little soul’s goin’ to shine.
VI
The dew fell softly on the hurricane deck; stars swung over the heavenward-pointing mast, swung slightly to and fro, swarmed in an arc like swarming bees; and the large dew pattered from the wet shrouds, unevenly, now nearer and now farther off, on the moist deck and the hollow-sounding canvas-covered lifeboats. The forestay, black save for the little golden span under the yellow mastlight, slid under the Pole Star, and sliding dipped, as the prow in midnight followed the Great Circle, yielding with long leisurely pitch and scend to the persuasion of the sea. A fleece of cloud passed between Sirius and the shipboy. It flew to westward, fluent of shape, and from the starboard came another, coffin-shaped, and behind that, from the east, a low irregular cavalry of others, merging confusedly one with another, commingling softly and softly disengaging. With the freshening east wind the sea sound, from the darkness under the starboard bow, became louder. The wash of the short-breaking waves was nearer, more menacingly frequent. The stars, suddenly panic-stricken, rushed helter-skelter among the clouds. An eclipse. One belclass="underline" the sound veering dizzily down to the black water on the port side. A ship sighted? twelve-thirty?… Something cold touched Demarest’s cheek, and was gone as soon as felt. A snowflake. Another caressed his lifted hand. There were no more — it was to be merely a hint, a suggestion: nature employing, for once, the economy of the artist. St. Elmo protect us! St. Erasmus, patron of the midland sea, guard your mariners! Castor and Pollux, bless this ship, and save this ghostly company!.. The blue fires alighted softly then on the three mastheads; three corposants; and then two others, fainter, perched themselves at either end of the yardarm from which hung the wireless antennas. Was that a footstep? And were those voices?… Sounds almost imperceptible; perhaps only the whisperings of memory or foresight. It was perhaps the sound of Smith, giving himself a body in the darkness; or Faubion, coming up out of the unfathomable with a short sigh; or Silberstein, muttering as he clove the cobweb of oblivion in which he found himself enshrouded; or Cynthia, waking from granite into starlight. It was perhaps only the little sound of the atom falling in his mind, the atom falling like a star from one constellation to another, molecular disaster, infinitesimal tick, which, in its passage, created, illuminated and then destroyed this night, this ship, the corposants; Smith, Cynthia, Faubion, and Silberstein.
He moved a little aft, touching, as he did so, with his left hand, the damp lashings of lifeboat No. 14. This was the motor lifeboat, the trial of which (during boat drill) he had witnessed at noon. Fourteen is half of twenty-eight. The Number of the house had been 228–228 Habersham Street. But this too was only the silent falling of a mind atom. He moved aft, turning his back on this fatal number, which held his life in its poisonous coils, turning his back also on that ghostly company — incorporeal Smith, whose cigar tip dimmed and glowed; Faubion, on whose lifted fingers little blue corposants danced; Silberstein, who muttered; and Cynthia, whose face was turned to the east. They were already beginning to talk, standing far apart, so that their faces were only faintly discernible; but for the moment he was terrified, and delayed at the after-end of the hurricane deck, looking into the black south west; hearing the sound of the voices, but not wholly the purport. Smith, he knew, had begun by speaking Italian; then demotic Greek; then Provençal French; then Macaronic Latin. Passing then to ancient Greek, he had quoted Meleager, to which Faubian had replied, soberly, with Plato’s epitaph for the drowned sailor: Πλωτῆρεϛ σώζοισθε καὶ εἰν ἁλὶ καὶ κατὰ γαῖαν. Ah! Both by land and sea. Remember him. And remember him that lies by the Icarian Rocks, his soul given to the Aegean; and him too that was lost under the setting of dark Orion, borne helpless in ocean, eaten by fishes — Callaeschus, whom the sudden squall overtook at night. And him also do not forget, Erasippus, whose bones whiten in a place known only to the sea gulls. For everywhere the sea is the sea … It was Silberstein who added this last phrase: Silberstein of Sidon, Antipater of Harlem. Yes! It was Silberstein, and Smith repeated the Greek after him, taking his cigar from his mouth to do so: πᾶσα θάλασσα θάλασσα. They were all four silent then for a moment, while Demarest, turning, walked toward them, filling his pipe in the darkness with trembling fingers. And as he took his place a little way off from them, his back against lifeboat No. 14, Cynthia turned again and said: