Chapter 35

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35.

A Scare and a Fresh Scandal

Miss Williams, in the lounge with her mother, was thinking of
the night before, her partner, and the dancing. She did not fool
herself. She knew it had meant nothing to Hugh; but *she* had had
a good time, now she wanted more good times. Again she wanted to be
in the smoking-room. She wanted to dance and flirt and feel a man's
arms around her - so much so, that she even told herself that any
man would do.

This was her mood when her "tame" boy-friend, Marshall, put in
a sudden appearance and asked if she wouldn't like to dance.

They went back and were amazed by what they discovered in each
other.

After several drinks and dances he brashly proposed a stroll about
the deck, damp and raw though it was. They bundled up and went out
and soon came to the flight leading to the boat deck. He knew what
sometimes happened up there. He also knew it would be cold and blowy,
not a safe place for a girl. Nonetheless, on the pretext of "seeing
what the night looks like from up there", they ventured up, leaving
the lighted promenade and issuing into a dark, windblown whistling
world of life-boats, huge funnels, ventilators, and an angry sky.

The ship rolled and pitched. Miss Williams, wanting excitement,
wanted this; yet now she told herself it might be a little too much.
She felt queer and shaky. There were railings, yes; but the boat
deck, even in the daytime, gave her an insecure exposed feeling, it
was so high and uninhabited. Now, at night, in this strange
blackness, in this weird light, it seemed a place of pitfalls where
anything might happen. She and Marshall might be attacked, or might

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fall overboard, and no one would know it until hours after the sea
had swallowed them.

Thinking of falling overboard recalled Andy Sherman. Perhaps he
had jumped off from this very deck.

As they went aft she held tight to her companion's arm.

A pale glow came from somewhere, a luminosity which made things
appear ghostly.

She told Marshall how spooky she felt. He laughed, and from the sound of it she was sure he felt spooky too. What protection was he? He hadn't so much as put his arm around her.

Going by a nook, they abruptly stopped. In it they saw a dark
bundle, something wrapped in steamer-blankets. Marshall kicked it
with a nervous thrust. Two human faces appeared.

Said the male face, "What the hell."

Marshall stammered something, and quickly went on.

Then a fellow and a girl dashed by, laughing and shouting, he
chasing her.

Miss Williams and Marshall turned to watch. At the head of the
flight the girl stopped, doubling over with laughter. The fellow
rushed up, caught her in his arms, and kissed her as though he
were collecting a bet. Miss Williams saw Marshall smile tolerantly.

Again they moved on.

They stopped to stand by a railing. She made him stop, in hope,
in fright too. Here he might kiss her. Wasn't this why they had come
up? Then why didn't he? What would he think if she kissed him right
on the lips? They weren't bad lips. Rather nice, in fact.

Behind them were the ship's great slanting funnels, smoking and
roaring, a terrifying sound as if the wild night had found voice.

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Before them, almost within arm's reach, were the life-boats. The boats were white. The davits were white. A ghostly whiteness. Right in front was a boat covered, as all were, by tarpaulin.

Far down was the black sea, the waves on-rushing to swash and pound against the ship.

A black roaring wildness, Miss Williams felt, as if she were out in some high jungle-place in a storm. It did not seem possible that just below, only a deck's distance, easy to be reached, were bright warm salons, her mother, the smoking-room.

Just then she thought she heard a noise in the nearest life-boat, a scraping. Fodlish. She'd imagined it. Her imagination was running away with her. One couldn't hear a scratch, even if there was one, with all these other sounds booming around. Nonetheless she stole a glance at her MEX boy-friend. He, at the same time, turned to look queerly at her.

The next thing they knew they saw the tarpaulin lift. Out peered a ghastly pale face with wild eyes and a growth of beard.

Miss Williams flung her hands to her mouth.

The head ducked down.

She set off, Marshall right after her. Together they made a dash for it, racing along the deck and down the flight.

The man in the boat peered out again. The way was clear. He knew he had been seen. Soon the whole ship would be up in arms. Now was his chance to make an break and reach Andra.

Andy pushed back the cover, stood up, shivered convulsively, and then lurched out.

On deck he paused, uncertain which way to run.

He dashed towards the stern. Two figures appeared. He wheeled

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around and raced forward. Somebody came up the front flight. He swerved to the left across the ship, tripping over the couple in blankets. He collected himself and dashed on, <u>silently</u> knocking against ventilators, hurdling stays, ducking people.

Now he felt that hundreds of people were chasing him. He was sure he heard their cries and shouts. He saw seamen dive for him. He saw passengers hot on his heels. And he was right, save for the number. Miss Williams had put in an alarm, and a wild <u>chase</u> was going on through shadows and ghost-light and the paraphenalia of the boat deck, while the wind whizzed and moaned and the great black funnels roared.

At last he saw an open way and made a race for the flight, reached it, and rattled down to the promenade deck.

The lights confused him.

Back he ran towards the smoking-room, scaring the wits out of several people just then coming from the main door.

In through the dance-floor, throwing all into commotion. Into the smoking-room, and he flung himself panting on the wall-seat next to Andra.

Andra sprang up, got him between herself and Jim Phelps, and than faced the in-pressing crowd.

but
The crowd surged up <u>by</u> stopped at the table, partly because of Andra and Phelps, partly because, now that they got a clear view of him, it was dawning upon them that the fellow they had been chasing was none other than the supposed suicide, Andy Sherman.

Andra told them so in plain words.

Andy himself now had his arms propped on the table. All fear had gone. He was giving the crowd eye for eye, with a sneering

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contempt, as if thinking, "What a pack of howling fools you are."

The purser came in. Two husky seamen moved in front to clear the way.

He nodded to Andra, glanced at Phelps, took a long look at Andy, and said, "He will come with me. You too, please, Miss Feala. And you, Mr Phelps. I think that will be all."

Andy leisurely but stiffly arose.

Again the seamen cleared the way.

Andx Andy and Andra and Phelps went to the purser's private office ᵇ were a long and, so far as the ship's company, concerned, a secret conference was held.

The passengers at large were left to make what they could and would of it. They made a lot.

For the rest of the night the smoking-room was in a furore.

"Andy Sherman didn't jump overboard after all!"

"Who fed him? It's a wonder he didn't die."

"How could he have kept himself cramped up?"

"Who discovered him?"

"What's the purser going to do?"

"Did you see that Andra Feala?"

"What's the idea?"

Miss Williams and her boy-friend were the most sought-after couple on board, for that night and the next day.

From all the buzzing one thing became clear. Andy had created a scandal by reappearing. This was definitely established by the entire ship's company by noon of the following day.

That he had jumped overboard, yes, they could forgive that, even enjoy it. Never would they forgive that he had come back to life.

"Why, the outrage!"

"He didn't commit suicide!"

"He's among us again!"

"He should be put in irons!"

As a matter of fact, nothing of the sort was done. After his session with the purser, after the purser × had consulted with the ship's doctor and other officers, Andy was permitted to continue his passage as contracted by his ticket; and though they watched him closely thereafter, he was at liberty.

His belongings, all tied in neat bundles, were returned.

Andy established himself in his cabin in the same berth.

Day in day out, as formerly, he was to be seen in the smoking-room at Andra's table; and he seemed to know that though he was in ill-fame he was still the ship's first celebrity.

Chapter 36

36.

Deep Waters

n

Dressed in a waterproof, Hugh was mouting the main stairway, smoking an after-breakfast cigarette.

He was thinking of Edith, feeling her too. Why she had done that, cut the relationship, was no mystery. All along, behind everything else, she had felt she was involved in a clash of egos, was set and determined not to get the worst of it, was looking for a chance to show him that she was on top. So, when he offered her most, she rejected him. When he was at his best she walked off and left him, thus feeling that it was her triumph and his defeat, not realizing that the real defeat was a defeat, not of his ego, but of a genuine human exchange.

Edith was typical. How many of today's women were like her. In their thirties or forties, embittered, with the strength of bitterness they fought and tried to destroy the very thing that they wanted most when they were in their twenties. Hardened women, denying love, rejecting help, they sought revenge against the male. If the male were weak, they'd accept but at secretly despise him. If he were strong, out would come their guns, and their one aim would be to out-ego him, all the while protesting against his egotism, saying they would like him if he weren't so high and mighty in his conceit. Should he turn the tables on them, they'd hate him. But they were clever. At the first sign that the table might be turned, they'd run away - like Edith.

It was appaling, really. This ego-degredation of the relation
between men and women. It was so widespread that you ran into it

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all the time, that nowhere could a man find a genuine woman. He was sick of it, profoundly sick. True, there was a certain excitement in it, as all contests are exciting, as all pervertities are. No doubt he too was at fault. There was a way to handle hard women, and he should know this way. This was for him to learn. Meanwhile, the best he could do was to break it off, if he found it going as with himself and Edith. Edith had been one step ahead of him, that was all. So, good - and an end to it.

Hereafter, in so far as it was up to him, he'd leave that lady strictly to herself. Here was his chance, and he would take this chance, to rid and unmesh himself from the Edith-complexity.

She was too heavy, with too much rigidity and weight. Now as he looked back, he realized that his chief and almost constant sensation was when with her was just this - she weighted him, he felt he was carrying around a load of rocks. Her value and her handicap. A really splendid person, Edith - but she'd be too heavy, too embittered, too negative for most of the men she'd met; not one of them, if his eyes were open, would want to take on such a problem - and, therefore, a tragic woman who'd have to go her way alone.

Hugh emerged on deck and was surprised to note how the weather had modified. Though the sky was still overcast, the sea had toned down and the wind had shifted, apparently to the south. The air, fresh and tonic, was almost warm again.

Many people were already out. Again the deck-chairs were occupied.

He nodded and smiled as he passed acquaintances. Soon there came upon him a sense of pleasure - more, a sense of freedom. A contraction that had been in him for days was suddenly no more. His eyes saw things. His ears heard. He was in contact with the sea-world as he'd

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never been before; and, at the same time, he was in himself, was
himself again. His body moved. When his mind said, "Yes, *I am free* -
but free for what? Another day like all the others?" his body
answered, "Never mind, just move with me and see what comes."

Vera had seen Hugh mouting the stairway. At this sight of him
alone, she had come to quick decision.

He had gone out to pace the deck. She too would go out. She would
make sure that this morning he would meet her.

So out she went, suddenly trembling.

She glanced down the deck but did not see him. So she stood by
the rail, facing so that she could watch for him and at the same
time pretend to be absorbed by the ocean.

Hugh rounded the deck-cafe and started up the long wide stretch.
A figure up a way caught his attention, the lift of the head, the
movement of an arm and hand as she pressed blown whisps of hair
under her hat - and what a jaunty hat, with that green feather!

As he drew nearer, she turned her head, as if by chance, and he
was a very startled man.

"Good morning! I didn't recognize you at first."

"Good morning! You didn't?"

"I was asking myself, 'Now who is she? Where has she been all the
days and nights of the ocean?'"

"Right here."

"I don't believe it."

He looked into her pale blue eyes, he saw her skin, as smooth
and clear and perfect as a child's. He saw a woman; and he wondered
where he had been all the time, wasting himself on militant Edith,
moping about distant Barbara; and he felt that the woman of her was

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seeing him, searching to find his realness.

"Like this weather?" she asked.

"I certainly do. Liked yesterday too. No, come to think of it, I didn't like yesterday one bit. Did you hear the fog-horn last night, that is, early this morning?"

"No!"

"Yes! A weird howling woke me up. My cabin is just over there off the promenade. I couldn't imagine for the life of me what it was, that spasdomic bellowing as if sounds were coming from a mōmmoth's belly. I sprang up, looked out, prepared for most anything. Then I realized it was only the great <u>Burgundy's</u> siren - which is enough. The fog was pretty thick."

"Sorry I missed it. I like fog-horns. All sorts of things were happening last night. Where you there when Andy Sherman ran in?"

"No, but I heard of it, of course."

"What do you think?"

"Don't know. Poor kid. May have done it simply to get attention, but something must be pretty bad to drive him to do a thing like that. Buried himself without dying. Or, perhaps a <u>life</u>-boat meant something -"

"Gossip is running wild."

"Naturally."

She hesitated. "You too are in it, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"Oh, my, yes! What they haven't said! Like to hear?"

"Of course."

"Well, for one thing, they have you as the man who made Barbara leave Hod."

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"What!"

"Oh, yes," she laughed, "and I'm just beginning. She fell in love with you in New York. You were Hod's best friend. You are a lawyer, her lawyer, and you will handle the case in Paris, and after the divorce you two will get married and live happily ever after."

"A fairy tale. Where did you hear all this?"

"Keep your ears open and you may hear. Shall I continue? Edith Gilroy is one of your old flames, and she is on board, pursuing you to Europe to complicate matters in Paris."

"Oh me, oh my!"

"Yes, it gets better and better. You are mixed up in the Andy affair too. Really. To be rid of Hod you got him interested in Andra Feala and Hod cut Andy out and drove the poor boy to take dope."

"You can't have heard all this."

"What do you think? Think I've invented it? You see, no one knows who you are or where you are from or what you do or why you are going to Europe or, in short, anything about you. People are curious, and the less you tell them the more they invent. Oh, there are some marvelous inventions! You are almost a myth. Everyone is sure you are someone incognito and that Hugh Langley is not your real name."

He laughed. "Who is everyone? Does this include you?"

"Some say you are in the diplomatic service. Some say you are a Jesuit. Some -"

Suddenly he was irritated. "I dislike prying. I don't like to be invaded. Again I ask, who has been saying all these things? Not people in general. Someone of our group? You yourself? Do you

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want to find out? If so, ask me directly."

"We have discussed you. Isn't that natural? You must remember that all the rest of us have known each other for years. We've been together so much that we know each other inside out."

"Of course. I'm a comparative stranger, now that you remind me. I had sort of forgotten it. Didn't see or feel myself as you must. That part of it is all right. Not pleasant, but understandable. Natural, as you say. But my point is this. Do you think want to know who and what I am? Then ask me. Better, take me in. Here I am, all of me. There you are, all of you. Let it be a direct thing of one whole person to another whole person. Do you want labels and classifications and a case history? Do you need them as a means of knowing me? If so, as I said before, you can have them. There's no cause for you to beat around the bush."

"Suppose I should? Would you be disappointed? You must remember that very few of us have a sixth sense, and with most of us our five senses are not very good. If you have relied upon them, only to find yourself in trouble, again and again -"

"I understand - but have you found you could rely upon labels?"

"No - I suppose not."

"Then there you are."

She said, "Then there you aren't, would be better."

Now they smiled to each other and were silent for a while.

Then he said, "Call me, if you will, a Burgundian, namely, someone who sprang to life on this ship, who will pass out when the ship reaches France. Is not that enough?"

"Splendid! I'm a Burgundian too."

were

Again they silent, gazing out across the sea.

"Tell me," he asked, "one thing about Hod and Barbara."

Her brows arched as if to say, "Aha, I was expecting that!"

"Yes?"

"Were they ever really married? I mean, did they impress you as belonging together as man and wife?"

"Definitely yes. They were married three years. The first year, they were the happiest couple I knew - and you must realize that it means a great deal for me to say this."

"Why?"

"Oh, because. Because, for one thing, I was in love with Hod at the time. Does it surprise you? For another, I had a grudge against Barbara. It wasn't simply jealousy. Yes, I was jealous. Why not admit it? Barbara is one of those darlings to whom the world gives everything. She didn't have to work or love or suffer or even ask. All came to her."

"She is not quite that way now, is she?"

"No, I suppose not. Not quite. She's getting a few knocks now, less attention. But then, in comparison with her, do you know how I felt? Picture yourself in a house with one other person. When the postman comes he brings all the mail for her, none for you. When boxes and packages arrive, they're hers. A phone call - not for you. An invitation - for her. Callers, all to see her. While you - and, mind you, there's nothing wrong with you, you are quite presentable, passably interesting, and that original appearance, that original personality, capable of really loving someone, and yet knowing your life to be so special - you fold your hands and feel grateful if she lets you see what comes for her. Is it any wonder?"

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"At the same time," he said, "I feel sure that never at any time was it that extreme. Something has come to you, and that something has fulfilled your life far more than all the gifts have fulfilled Barbara's."

"That's rather startling. How do you mean?"

"Startling? It's quite evident. You have an interior life, she has none. You have a quality that you give to life, she gives nothing. I don't mean she has no quality. She has, but she neither lives it nor gives it. It does no one any good, not even herself."

"Nor does mine do me any good - if I have it - which I can't believe."

"It's not a question of believing, it's a matter of being conscious. Tell me, what do you do? I grant you that it is not a fair question, since I've told you absolutely nothing about myself - despite your adroit manoeuvers."

"I wasn't manoeuvering. Am I blushing? Really. It may have sounded that way. I suppose I did want to know something, but truly I don't care a thing about the ordinary details of a person's life. I mean, they don't really matter to me. I'm curious, of course, but the real values - if a person is sincere, if you feel you can trust yourself to him, trust him, I mean -"

"I believe you," he said; and at that moment they both knew that their relationship was on a deeper basis. "Will you answer?"

"Surely. I used to dance."

"There! Of course. I should have known."

"Why?"

"Something about you. You handle your body quite beautifully. I've pictured you dancing."

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"You have? What kind of dances?"

"Religious mostly, I should think. And then, by way of contrast, something humorous and puckish."

"You amaze me!"

"You said you _used_ to. Have you stopped? Why?"

"I've never been able to explain it to myself. I don't know. Perhaps the flesh was willing but the spirit was weak."

"No," he said at once, "I'd say just the opposite. The flesh was weak, the spirit was willing."

"How do you mean?"

"There's something in your body, or, at any rate, in your outer person that makes you give up. It's not your spirit. The interior of Vera is a flame which the exterior blows out...and on it goes... burning and being blown out, burning and being blown out..."

She had placed her hand on his arm. "Let's walk, shall we?"

"Gladly."

As they moved along their bodies fell into the same rhythm, the same cadence, flowing; and both knew that an experience was with them, they within it, gathering and lifting, dipping and rising with the ship.

How complete! That man and woman have the nature to give each other such completeness! So unexpectedly it had come about...delayed for half the days of the ocean...but now claiming them.

For periods they were silent. When they spoke it was of little things that passed away. The ship's company in the long row of deck-chairs oggled them. They looked and saw and didn't see and flowed on.

Once he called her attention to the Bradleys and the Tildens ...

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back on the stern deck at shuffleboard, Tilden with hand in pocket,
making sure shots, dreaming of empires. "Would you like to watch
them, or perhaps play?"

She shook her head.

"I feel the same way."

Hod and Miriam were seen on the boat deck in a spirited game of
dock-tennis.

"A good sign," said Vera. "Miriam is good for him, doesn't take
him too seriously. He hasn't had any physical exercise for months.
His body needs it. Hod's been used to it for so long. I hope he
keeps it up. Have you ever seen such energy?"

"Seldom. It would be good for him if we didn't see so much -
which we wouldn't, if he would rightly use it. I don't think we
should judge a man's energy by the amount we see flying around
loose, but by what he produces within himself as well as out in the
world. The personality of a great producer might, at off hours,
**appear** energyless - for the very reason that he has constructively
used it all in the course of his working day. I wish you'd tell me
about Hod. But look, here's the smoking-room. Haven't we had enough
airing?"

So they went in. Hugh ordered drinks and cigarettes.

With happy awareness they leaned forward, sort of absorbing
each other.

Vera told him about Hod. Hod, the college hero; the dashing
madman who went off to the diamond mines of South Africa; who quit
the mines and hunted big game; who cometed through Europe, getting
into scrape after scrape; who suddenly turned up in The States, his
head full of wild schemes.

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"And they worked, you know. That was the amazing part of it. Every scheme made money. He's that kind of a man. One summer he visited the old place at Lake George, and met Barbara. Hadn't seen her since she was a girl, quite young I mean - and Hod was a different man. Settled down. Everything went smoothly until... He's never told me what really happened. Doesn't know himself. The bottom dropped out. He went all to pieces. I'd had some influence with him before that, before his marriage. That was the period, well - when he and I were together. Since then... Hugh, isn't there anything one can do? Hod is worth it. He really is. He is one of the amazing men of this earth. All he needs is something, some word, some key -"

"I'm sure of it."

"Why don't you talk with him?"

"What can I do? No real reason, except that we haven't come together that way. Perhaps we will before the trip is over. I hope so. Not that I'll be of any help, but simply that I'd like to know him." He smiled oddly. "There are times when a man wants the companionship of man."

"Too many women?" she laughed.

"Rather say, not enough men."

"I've heard of you and Tilden."

"That wasn't men, that was a battle. About Hod, there's another thing, something that makes me wonder. It's as if he had a piece of fool wedged into him. Don't misunderstand. I'm quite aware that Hod is anything but a fool. In some matters he doubtless has uncommon intelligence. In others - well, I've given you my candid impression. There's a fool in him, a piece of fool wedged in; and, if I'm not mistaken, it is this that pulls all the trouble down on his head."

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"I quite agree."

"On the other hand, Hod has energy, as you pointed out. He has, in addition, that basic indefeatable thing called stamina. Where there's energy there's hope. Unless the energy is stubbornly misused. In his case, I feel that the time is coming when his ego-impulses will have, not exhausted but somewhat satisfied themselves. Less and less his power will be misused to induce self-intoxication. Moreover, the man has an organic lever on himself. As yet it doesn't function as it should, but it will."

"An organic lever?"

"His capacity to be ashamed of himself. According to my view, only a shameless person is hopeless. Such a person, even though he can still discriminate between what is becoming and what is unbecoming, has no emotional power with which to make himself do ~~what~~ the ~~becoming thing~~ he knows he ought to do. Feelings such as shame and remorse tend to give us this power, and Hod has them."

"That's true," she agreed. "Hod is always sorry - but, unfortunately, usually when it is too late, that is, ~~after~~ he has done the thing. The feeling doesn't deter him; it merely ~~gets~~ him off and relieves his conscience - so that he can go and do the same awful thing again."

"Exactly. That's how he is now. But, if you will forgive me, it's better to be sorry late than never. There's always the chance, you know, that the late person will be on time, even ahead. Tardiness, in the sense we are speaking of it now, is a matter of disorganization. Hod's options are frightfully disorganized - and this explains why he, with all of his physical and nerve strength, is so weak in some other respects. He is rather weak with women, isn't he? I mean

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if he isn't blowing them over and blunderbusing. They pull him here, they push him there. They rope him in, and he can't get away. Even little Sid floors him with a well-aimed word. But he is, don't you think, collecting himself somewhat? Seems to me he is. The few times I've seen him the past day or two he gave me the impression of being remarkably 'all there'."

"I'd like to believe it."

"Then let me say one thing to you, Miss Vera. Be jealous if you must, but don't let jealousy or anything make you interfer with what some person other than yourself can do for him."

"What makes you say that?"

"Not to offend you. Simply the general knowledge that one of the reasons why human beings are miserable and remain miserable is because each person believes that he and only he can set things right. Under this delusion he becomes righteously vicious and goes out of his way to tear down the good works of others simply because they are not his or her handiwork."

"Hum," she said. "That's the kind of person you think I am. I suppose you are referring to my 'righteous viciousness' towards Barbara?"

"I think all of us are such persons. Hod, strangely enough, much less than either you or myself. True, he grabs people in his thick paws, but not much damage is done because he is not subtle enough - on the principle that a blunderbus is no where near as dangerous as poison-gas. And if the gas takes the shape of a sweet face or a wise face or a helpful face..."

"You are right, of course, in general as you say. I shall try not to become too personal again." After a pause she suddenly asked, "Hugh, what in God

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"Hugh, what in God's name is the matter with us? I mean, why are we as we are, so awful?"

He shrugged. "Better minds than mine are still baffled. Fundamentally perhaps because, though we are conscious as human beings are conscious, we are not conscious of being human beings. In truth it would be difficult to say exactly what we are conscious of - certainly not our *humanness* or our *beingness*. There's much to indicate that we're actually sleeping. I'm absolutely convinced that not one of us is aware of even a fraction of the awful things we do. Most that happens is done in us and through us and out to others, blindly. But Good and bad. The good is not large, the bad is sizeable. It takes a very awful thing to make us aware of it. And this awful thing is so glaring that it sort of hypnotizes us and makes us fix on it, thus further paralyzing our sense of the good. And this fixation on the awful gives rise to our pessimism, our cynicism, our hopelessness and faithlessness and lack of love and lack of sympathy and the maniacal condemnations which we heap upon ourselves. We are the only species in Nature that hates itself. I grant that we have cause to, but I hold that we should not yield to it but should, on the contrary, devote our lives to making ourselves otherwise. If we were thoroughly blind it would be all right. If we were thoroughly awake it would be marvelous. But this semi-sight, this terrible fixation on 'evil', this is what slays us. And, mark you, we take pride in slaying. The pessimist, the cynic, the so-called realist - they pat themselves on their hunchbacks and take pride in showing that the world is, according to them, all malice and violence, and nothing else - and thus they add to the material which does indeed fit their description."

"And you believe there is something else?"

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"I know it - because I've seen and, to some extent, measured it - which, by the way, is a definition of man's aim in life: to see and fulfill his possibilities. What is this that's going on at such a furious rate all around us, this rehashing and reproducing of what mankind in part has been doing for God knows how long, the hatreds, the cruelties, the perversities? If it is not a means of purgation is it nothing - merely a perpetuation of futilities, abnormalities, and horrors. In this Main Street there should be a Stop-Sign that would electrocute whoever tried to go by. At least a few would continue existing. As it is, it looks as though the perpetuators are going to exterminate all of us."

"I suppose I am one of those who should be electrocuted?"

"Half, only. I think you already have been, half. Not so long ago."

"What makes you say that?"

"Don't quite know."

She asked, "Do I look demolished?"

"Far from it."

"Chastened?"

"Perhaps that's it. You've learned a 'great lesson', as they used to say."

"I hope so. And you, Mister Hugh?"

"Once I was electrocuted through life." - but, dammit, I came back to

"Devils do."

"And saints?"

"Saints," she said, "are resurrected devils. I mean, the last of his nine lives the devil becomes a saint."

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"Aren't you optimistic?"

"Didn't you tell me to be?"

For a while they chatted along of little things, their words
occupied with these things, but the rest of themselves focused on
each other, sensing qualities and attitudes and feelings, watching
to see what would come up.

All at once she asked, "What do you think of Barbara?"

"I hardly know her."

"That's true in a way, but you have your impressions. I was asking for these. Don't answer if you don't want to."

"Think of her? She's too young, spiritually young I mean, to think much about. Life has driven her into her cabin. In there she dreams and is perhaps quite lovely. Once she comes out into the open, everything is dashed. You only see the shell, because she's so fearful of being hurt."

"Then what attracts you?"

"Am I attracted?"

"Aren't you? One would have thought so, to see you dance."

"Oh, that. She is light. She has, at times, a certain gaiety.
She at least gives you the illusion that she is plastic, that you
can mould her - as many young people do, and it is only later that
you realize that often enough they are as stubborn and rigid as
a person in her forties. I suppose a man of my age and experience,
as it is said, is drawn to a young girl in reaction against the
heavy weighted women he has known, just as you often find unusual
older women drawn towards young men who give them a similar illusion.
The ideal man-woman relationship comes about, I feel, when the two
people really blend together. But suppose this hasn't happened for

you. You get tired of waiting. You get even more tired of battling
with some person of your own age and maturity. You give up believing
that you'll ever find your true complement. So what, then? Instead
of looking for some one with whom to blend, you look for some one
who will fit in with you without protest. I'm not saying Barbara
means this to me. To be candid, I don't know what she means - perhaps
nothing. I'm simply explaining how it might work in this case as
it has surely happened in many others."

"I see." She was thoughtful and then asked, "But if you know
all of this in advance, why do you go on? Or perhaps you have given
up hope of the ideal. Do you think that the 'fitting in' kind will
satisfy you? You haven't said anything about this."

"Am I going on? Doesn't seem to me that I am. I've hardly seen
that young lady, much less spoken to her, in days. No, I haven't
given up hope. I do not think the 'fitting in' kind would satisfy
me - not for long - not longer than it would take for my reaction
against some one else to wear off."

"Aren't you - I don't know what word to use. Aren't you too
negative? Your explanation, I mean. You speak as if you'd only
like a girl like Barbara because of a reaction. Couldn't you like
her for herself, for the quality you spoke of? Couldn't you love
her, if she were lovely, even though she was spiritually young? It
seems to me you could. I - well, I may as well say it, I wonder
if you don't."

"Love her? Love Barbara? No, of course not. I can't see a thing
to make you think so. Ah - wait - yes I can. You were sitting near me
that night in this smoking-room before we did that solo
dancing. Ah, yes. You saw my state, then. All right, we'll grant

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it was a state. But what state? Love of *her*? No. Delight with what
she stirred in *me*? Yes. In fine, if I was in love with anything I
was in love with my own state. She simply happened to be the
stimulus - that night."

"Are you that egotistical?"

"Not by choice."

Vera thought, "In love with his own state. I've known people to
get married on less. On the other hand, whatever the state, a man
marries only the woman *wh* from whom he cannot escape."

Said Hugh, "That night, Barbara happened to vivify me. She hasn't
since." Fortunately he looked down to find a cigarette.

No other single word had touched her. This did. She caught the
word vivify. It caught her and sizzed through. To be vivid - this
was what she feared she wasn't. To vivify others - this was what she
feared she couldn't do. In her was something unquickened, flat and
bland like cod-liver oil.

She might be 'deep', 'intense', 'generous', 'loyal'. To what
purpose? She lacked an essential yeast. *This* essential yeast. And
Barbara had it. Barbara had it now for Hugh as she had had it for
Hod.

For a time she was caught in her own upheaval.

Suddenly she took hold of herself. Now she realized that here
again she was pronouncing her own doom, as she'd been doing all
her life.

She looked up and saw Hugh gazing at her. To the question in
his eyes she replied, "Remember that very expressive word we used
to use - hay-wire? I'm glad you do, because it tells exactly what
happened to me. Something went hay-wire," she laughed. "Awfully
good, isn't it? The word, I mean."

Chapter 4

37.

On and On

tea
Towards four o'clock Hugh asked, "How would you like it in my cabin? No one has graced it yet."

"That would be fine! In New York I used to feel I couldn't get along without something in the afternoon."

He held back the curtain and Vera entered a cool white room obviously inhabited by a man. While he placed the order she strolled about looking at things: his steamer trunk; articles on a table; a dressing-gown, quilted, of rich maroon **maroon** color, that hung from a door leading, she guessed, into the bathroom.

Then she went to a window and gazed out across the deck across the vast blue spread, feeling that life had a strange way of denying one for long periods and then, all at once, heaping one with just splendid things so that she felt ashamed for having been critical and bitter, so that she felt grateful and sort of overwhelmed with wonder.

She wished he would come up and hold her. She wished he wouldn't, not yet.

"Like it?" he asked. "The cabin?"

"Very much. I've discovered something about you. That you do like color after all. I've wondered why you wear dark things. Oh, they are becoming but they make you look so sober and remote. Now I've seen - look," and she pointed to the robe, "and look at those ties. They are **gargantuan** brilliant. Why don't you put them on? And where are your white trousers and sport-coat? You really aren't a monk, you know."

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"All right. Tomorrow you'll see a new man."

"Why wait that long?"

The steward rapped and came in with the tea. "Anything else, m'sieur?" Hugh saw him steal a discrete look at Vera.

"Nothing, thank you." When the man had gone he asked, "Will you?" and he moved the table near her chair.

Her hands were beautiful, her arms, her body and person.

He wanted to tell her what he suddenly felt - that she was amazingly genuine, amazingly true, amazingly faithful, faithful to herself, to what she believed and valued, to her feelings, to anyone for whom she had regard or whom she loved - that no power on earth could make her untrue.

When she had served him she leaned back. Now he felt in her a mellowness, a serenity, and - a subtle drawing.

Presently she said with a little smile, "I've a confession to make. Like confessions?"

"From you."

"This morning I was trying to draw you out. I really didn't know it at the time. Know why? It wasn't you, it was myself. I fell into my old cautious role, the thing that makes me want to peep into a room - even though I already know what's in there - peep into life, before entering it."

"Caution is a good thing, if it serves selectivity."

"But I didn't really need it. Days ago I made the selection - or, it was made for me. Don't you see? I mean, so far as knowing what you are -" she flushed and added, "Don't you think I should be just a little cautious - now?"

He seemed not to feel so.

333 3/9

She looked at his fingers - slender, adroit - and felt that he
was right.

And now the stream was rising, gathering them, lifting in their
throats and eyes, making them know that its fulfillment was destined,
simply tarrying until the moment had arrived.

All at once they heard the gong for first-service dinner.

They looked with surprise and saw that the day had darkened.

Hugh quietly left his chair and went to the window.

Now again he heard the waves swashing against the ship, knew he
was aboard a ship, that ship the *Burgundy*.

The darkening of the waters, the surrender of all finite things
to vastness, the capture of the world by that strange light, not
day, not dusk, not twilight...

Vera came over and stood beside him. His arm went around her.
Her head rested on him. Neither moved or spoke for a long while.

Then he drew the curtains, switched on the table-lamp.

"We should dress?"

She nodded.

"And cocktails."

She smiled, but with reservation.

"We will have them here, if you like."

The reservation was gone.

"Porto or sherry?"

"Porto," she said.

"Why not have dinner here too? While you are dressing I'll dress
and arrange everything."

She kept her radiant eyes upon him. With hardly a sound she reached
the door and was gone.

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He lit a cigarette and hummed and paced the floor.

Presently he came to himself, called the steward, and placed
orders.

Soon after the proto arrived he heard a faint rap on the door,
and Vera came in, standing there a minute for him to see her, for
her to see him.

"Quite beautiful," he said.

"Quite handsome."

He gave her his hand and lead her in with a touch of ceremony.

Soon he poured and proposed a toast, his favorite now - "To all
world-riders - and may they have strong hands, throbbing hearts, and
clear heads!"

"Subtle hands," she said; and they drank.

Dinner arrived. They ate with relish, not much. Wine they wanted.

And the potent whirl was upon them.

After a time he suggested, "We might dance."

Again he sensed a reservation.

"The only other place is down in tourist. We don't want that.
Let's go back."

So back they went. All of the group was there, wondering, but no
one broke in.

After the first dance he took her arm and led her on deck. They
walked up the deck, the deck of the *Burgundy*. Beyond the railing
was the great dark sea. Before them,...

As they neared the main door she suddenly trembled. His hand
tightened on her arm until he brusied it. She whispered, "I'll leave
you here."

He followed, and went to the cabin.

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Soon Vera came in with swift movement, her eyes sparkling, breathless as if she had run the staves of the whole ship. He closed the door and locked it.

He moved towards her. She gave him her hands. He held them tenderly, squeezed, then crushed them, drawing her to him, holding her quivering.

And they were claimed by the great stream of all living and all binding.

They awoke at about the same time. They lay quietly, gazing at the white ceiling streaked with shadows of the shutters and morning light, hearing the humming swashing sounds of a ship crossing the vast waters.

Presently he heard her voice - "Wonder is on the earth." She turned on him playfully, "Isn't it, isn't it, Mister Hugh?"

His voice

"Quite," he agreed, making his-eeve sound drowzy. He wanted to drift for yet a while, his body felt so smoothed out, so light and washed and silken.

She kissed him. His lips were cool. "Are you like that?"

"How?"

"As cool and as absolute as a fruit, as if you didn't need me or anything."

"More or less, I guess. You?"

She surprised herself. "Why, yes, I guess I am!"

He ordered breakfast. When it came she was in the bath.

When they sat down to eat they were laughing and carrying on like two children.

"To think we're on a ship!" she exclaimed.

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"Why not?" and both now noticed that since last night his voice
had dropped.

"What _is_ a ship?" she asked.

He frowned, disinclined to think or answer questions or do anything
save let be and have fun. "Obviously, it is whatever and however one
sees it."

"To Hod it's a hospital."

Both made a face.

"To you?" she insisted.

"Ah, me," he laughed. "What do you want? Several days ago I'd have
jumped at the chance to say all sorts of things about it - that it is
an epitome of the modern world - man in transition, having left one
thing, not yet having reached another - man locomotive, moving -
an end to the man rooted in possessions, an end to the vegetable-man
rooted in the soil. The new man will be rooted in himself and to the
air, and as a moving being he will participate, be _connected_ with,
the soil, the waters, the whole earth - and he will not forget that
the earth and he himself are in the universe, and that the universe
too, is his legitimate participating-place."

"Do you have a feeling you are moving, ever moving, reaching
and stretching towards some far off something?"

"Very much."

"There: I knew you did. Know how? Yesterday when you were talking
I had the strangest sense of you. I saw you on a plateau like the
mesas of the Southwest going along by yourself with your eyes off
there on a star. What is it, Hugh? What mad voyage are we on? _What_
is 'off there'? You want it. I want it. Hod wants it. No ordinary
thing will ever satisfy him. Are we mad? I believe we are the only

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sane ones. I feel this is the only normal way. It is the real norm.
To be content with what life usually gives you from day to day - this
is the subnormal. Something is lacking in such people, isn't there?

He nodded, and between smokes said, "Something has gone to sleep.
Only their bodies are partially awake. A partially awake body sees
no more and demands no more than what is on the table."

"Then it's true!" she cried. "I am right! There is value and
reason in my madness. You know, I'm really quite mad. Here's an
example. Do you know how I feel now? I feel as if, since yesterday
morning, we've stepped out of Time, as though Time were a vast house
with a door, and we've stepped out of that door, we've existed in
the blue space surrounding that house while all the rest of the world,
within the house, has been going on as usual - and out here in this
blue space the star is nearer us - we can almost reach it, but not
quite."

"I can tell you one thing. In that blue space you are quite
marvelous."

"Ah, yes, but now - now we are coming back into the House of
Time, leaving this space, entering that door, and though we'll
always remember it, we'll have to take up the ordinary rounds
again."

After a pause she said, "Hugh, I don't want to bind you in any
way, but I would like to ask of you one thing, as human being to
human being."

"Ask, my dear."

"I want you to promise me that if it is humanly possible you will
not let this meeting on the Burgundy be our first and our last. You
have said you were a Burgundian. So have I. That stands. But in

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reality we know there will be a life beyond this ship, and I want
you, I somehow need you to tell me that you and I, some where, some
time, will meet in that life. Why I ask this is because - I can't
put it in words. You are closer to that 'something', to that star -"

"You have my promise, and any other thing you want that I can
give. But as for being closer to that star -" he shook his head.

After a time he said, "You've brought something to mind, sort of
crystallized it, something I've come to realize on this ship, what
people like you and I must learn to do. I'm sure it's true for me.
It may be for you. We have two main forces in us, two directions
which are opposed, though not necessarily in conflict. One leads us
to desire the world of life and experience, the world at large. The
other leads us to wish for the world beyond. The first involves all
that living can give, the desire for it, the hunger, the drive to
participate in and partake of the life of natural man in the fullest
possible way. The second involves a withdrawal from life, a pursuit
of special experiences, aloneness -"

"I've never heard anyone else -"

"Then you know what I mean?"

"Clearly. I know it. The only difference is that I've expressed
it differently."

"How?"

"To give myself; to have a satisfying independence. And I've never
been able to do either. Always I've swung between an unsatisfying
independence and an unsatisfying giving of myself."

"True, Vera, we are talking about the same thing. I think it would
help you if you use a word other than independence. We aren't independent,
we never have been and never can be. We are <u>dependent</u>, inescapably.

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Use, instead - 'a satisfying individuality' or 'a satisfying alone-
ness'. So we can say - you have wanted really to give yourself; you
have wanted really to be yourself. This clarifies the problem and
points to its solution."

"I think I see it already."

"Want do you see?"

"How can you give yourself if you are not yourself? You must
first have a self to give. Then you will naturally give it - and it
will be naturally received by anyone who is like you. I'm getting
wound up in my words, but it is really clear to me."

"Then we'll let that rest, and come back to my first point.
Here are the two directions, one, out into the world, the other,
into oneself. Usually, however, neither of them is pure. Because
both are impure they are in conflict and block each other. This
means that we are not out there, and we are not in ourselves. In
fine, we are nowhere, torn between this or that, never able to be
this *and* that. We swing between an unsatisfying participation and
an unfruitful loneliness. We must learn to participate purely. We
must learn to be purely alone. This *means* that we must recapture our
full *being*. *Being* is the base of everything. But how are we to
*but* recapture it, we who think and move *yet* seldom feel? This, Vera,
*sion* is a matter for long and 'deep' discussion when we meet in that
life beyond the ship," and he suddenly got up and looked among his
things for an address-book.

"So then," he said, handing it to her. "An address through which
you can always be reached."

She gazed at him, wondering what he felt and why he had been so
abrupt, then lowered her eyes to write. It seemed ridiculous, not,

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not ridiculous, she did not know what.

He replaced the book. "There. One of these days I'll suddenly
turn up -"

"You won't be in Paris?"

"Don't know. Really don't. Depends. But my promise will hold.
Whatever happens -" and he smiled, "see, I cross my heart. I cross
it that Vera and Hugh will meet again and I'll bring you a packet
with a ring and a key with instructions how to use them."

Now she too threw off her serious mood, and arose. "I must go
quickly. Look -" and she went over and pointed, "see, I already
have one package." She undid it. Her day-suit!

"A far-seeing young lady."

"Of course. What did you think, that I was going to trail out
in board daylight in my evening gown?"

While she dressed he gazed out the window. When she was ready she
went over, slipped an arm through his, and they stood there.

Then they kissed, smiled, stood off...

And she was gone.

Hugh went back to the window and again gazed out across the sweep
of ocean, his feelings suddenly in a strange conflict. In some way,
for some reason which he was not clear about, he was disappointed.
In another way - Vera existed for him as the sea for the ship. She
was under him, around him, in him, with the long sure swells that are
the ocean. And behind the conflict was an indescribable poignance.
wordless

327

Chapter 38

Preparations for the Ball

Hugh left the cabin; and for the rest of that day felt that he
did not want to return to it, that it should remain unentered, un-
touched, as if it were Vera's place, a place she had had once and
would never have again.

Why it seemed more hers than his, he did not try to explain; the
feeling of it was in him, and it increased as he went through the
day. Why, in part, he had been disappointed, he did not attempt to
analyze, except to say that he couldn't expect the first contact
of two such people as himself and Vera to be perfect, except to
remember how cut-across he had felt when she, apparently insensitive
to his mood and thinking only of what she wanted, had insisted that
he talk and think instead of be - and this last, after all, was but
a little thing. Besides, once he had begun talking he had, as usual,
felt good about it.

On deck he ran into the group. This morning it included Betty,
Sid, and Barbara. They were wagging about costumes and all that had
to do with the event scheduled for that evening. To Betty he said
he was glad to see her out again. To Barbara he was stiff, as she
was to him. He was interested to note, however, that she had lost
the knack of making him resentful. Several times he sort of fixed
her with his eyes.

Marsh turned on him, made much of his brilliant tie, asked what
he would mask as, then decided it for him - as near a pharaoh as
she could make him.

Formerly he had liked balls, perhaps he still did; but now, for
some reason, all of this talk and fuss seemed nonsensical.

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he left them, When the group trooped off to the ship's costumer's, a feeling that he would not mask and might not go to the ball at all, or, if he did, it would be alone and as a spectator.

Towards mid-afternoon Hod spied him and he was called into another party where the same kind of talk and fuss was going on. After exchanging a few words with Miriam and Mrs Raymond, he wanted to move on, but Hod held him.

A Mrs Porter came up, and he was introduced. Then a Mr Kohl, the dark complexioned man with strange grey eyes. He felt to talking with Kohl and was glad he had stayed. Kohl turned out to be an animal painter and big game hunter, on his way to British East Africa to bring back specimens for a museum. While he chatted with Kohl he watched Hod and Miriam together, and felt that something good was happening there. This put him in a much better mood.

But when it came time for him to dress for dinner, he did not want to go to his cabin, and he did not want to dress, and he did not want the ball, and he even thought of going down to tourist-third and spending the evening there.

He dressed hurriedly, and went back towards the smoking-room.

Far up the passageway he heard sounds of merrymaking. A swirl of people filled the corridor, some going back as he was, some, a seeming forward overflow, coming back and going into the lounge to have cocktails there. He was surprised to note how few he knew, how few he even remembered seeing before. It was as though either he or they had just come aboard, as if the Burgundy had just stopped at some island in mid-ocean to let people on for just this occasion.

At the entrance he stopped. Never before had he heard such a din. Never before had he seen the place so crowded, every single table

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filled, people perched on the arms of chairs, sharing seats, squeezed in, even perched on the window-sills. And, no doubt of it, all of them were having a very gay time, whatever might be happening to him.

He peered through the smoke to locate his group. There they were, squeezed in around the two largest tables in the room, with Hod in the center, Miriam next to him, and everybody else including the Tildens, the Raymonds, Mrs Porter, and Kohl. And, yes, Vera and Barbara were there too, and Betty - just about everyone he really knew - and now they seemed strangers, he alien to them, so much so that he didn't feel he wanted to or had the right to go over - but he did.

Hod looked up, stood up. "Hi, Hugh! Hi, angel! Hi, old timer! Here's my old angel! Find a place for him! A drink to him - the newest member of the order of world-riders!"

Hugh smiled in spite of himself. "A drink to you - the oldest member of that same order!"

"Not cocktails for Hugh! Champagne! Just been for you to come in to pop a bottle. Garcon!"

By the time the bottle came, Hugh had squeezed in between Marsh and Betty, and he was feeling good because of Hod's unexpected, exaggerated, but hearty and timely welcome.

The drink warmed him. He drank one glass and then another, with no regard for how champagne should be drunk. He saw Vera studying him. He caught himself eyeing Barbara. To Marsh he made his voice heard about the din. He answered Hod, shout for shout. He felt very warm towards Hod, with good-will for Miriam because she meant something good to Hod.

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Somehow he happened to hear the gong sound for second-service dinner. No one else seemed to. Everyone stayed on, all the tables rasing racket, several of them singing or shouting.

After a time, some man behind him bellowed - "Dinner!"

He turned around and saw Bert Diggs, and saw people suddenly get up and, with rustlings, laughs and shouts, begin filing out.

He found himself standing up with others of his party. They too swirling out, he with them, streaming through the white paneled passageway, bumping against the sides, brushing each other, filling the place with merrily raised voices.

Down the brilliant main stairway, into the dining-room.

"Scoop and dash," cried Hod. "We want those tables again. Haven't a chance if we're not there first. Reservations won't mean a damn thing."

When once again in the smoking-room, Hugh noticed something. In
During the race back, Barbara had slipped away. He waited a while,
but she did not return.

"So," he said to himself, "she's going to lock herself in her cabin again. I'll be damned if she will."

He heard Marsh call to Hod, "What are we waiting for? It's time to mask." The grand march begins at nine."

He heard no more. He abruptly left the party and strode off.

On Barbara's door he knocked.

"Who is it?"

"Hugh."

He expected a delay. The door was opened at once, and an icy defiant young lady faced him.

"What do you want?"

"You - to come to the ball with me. There isn't much time if

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we are going to mask."

"I'm not going."

"Yes you are. Glare, stare, be mad, fight -"

She started to slam the door but he kept it open with his foot.

"Fight, slam the door, anything else. I've come to get you, and you are going. This is foolish. You'd think we hated each other. You'd think we'd had, as they call it, a big row. It isn't so. You know it isn't. Then why all this? Something went wrong, that I grant. Do you know what it was? I don't. The last time we met we were at least friendly, remember? We've hardly spoken to each other since. In all reason, what _could_ have happened? Yet something did. Look at us now. It's foolish. I want to dance with you tonight. Let's dance now. Tomorrow we can talk things over, I mean really talk, first thing in morning, if you want. I'll call for you, and we'll clear up everything. But it can't be so very much, can it?"

let
She lowered her eyes and took her hand fall from the knob.

"I don't know."

"It isn't possible. You've done nothing. I've done nothing. Nothing against you, I mean. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps it's because we haven't done. Tomorrow we'll straighten it out. Until then, for the sake of something perfectly enormous, think what you will of me, only come and dress and march and dance. Look," and he pointed to the gaily costumed folk passing back and forth at the end of the passage. "It's going to be quite a ball, you know."

She peeped out.

"Then you will come? If not for me, for yourself. You know you don't want to miss it."

With a quick movement he caught her by the arm and raced her

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to the smoking-room.

The party had gone; but she knew what cabins they were using as
dressing-rooms; so he raced her there, leaving her at the women's
place while he ran on to join the men, now for the first time thinking
of what Vera might feel when she saw himself and Barbara together,
not wanting to hurt her, hoping she would not be hurt, feeling she
wouldn't be, wondering what on earth had suddenly spurred him to
do such a thing, going on doing it all the same.

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CHAPTER 39

39.

Bal Masque

In the cabin Hugh found the men struggling into costumes, Hod
into a matador outfit too small for him, Morgan into a bucaneer,
Sid into a peasant habit, Kohl into an African garb. He had just had
time to wind something around his head when he heard ship's boys
in the corridor pounding gongs, summoning the masqueraders for the
grand march. The men hurried and finished and started out. He grabbed
a black mask and ran with them to the women's cabin; then all of
them raced through the passageways, up the stairs, and joined the
march, he himself now feeling a bit ridiculous despite the fact that
his mask hid his face from view.

Barbara, in a windsome dress, was at his side, all thrill he
was sure. In idea he knew she was there, not in sensation. So far
as any special feeling of *her* went, he might as well have been
marching with any figure in *feamle* dress, Marsh or Alice Tilden or
Miss Williams.

Somehow he recognized Andra. He wore a glittering habit
decorated with what seemed like crystals. Having picked her, he
had no difficulty spotting Andy and Jim Phelps. Phelps was a pirate.
Andy was a skeleton? And there was Bert Diggs, a court jester,
careening and cutting up.

To the music of a transformed orchestra the march went on until,
having circulated through all the public rooms, it was stopped in
the lounge, now the ballroom, for the award of prizes.

Then the band struck up with dance music. As if a dam had burst
there was a rush to the floor, a mad uproar and eddying, and it

348-334

seemed to Hugh that the entire ship's company, those in costume and
those not, tied to squeeze onto the floor.

He and Barbara were swept on; and, for a while, like the rest,
they danced with as much abandon as the crowded space would allow. In
time however he asked himself precisely who his max partner was.
Barbara? It was impossible to tell. Perhaps, for the same reason,
she could not feel especially him. Everyone seemed to have lost his
identity or her individuality. Each one was but a part of the carnival - which
was good in its way, being just what a carnival was, and was for -
but - now he disliked it that his legs were checked by other legs
and could not step and glide with freedom, and the racket of band
and voices began doing unpleasant things to him.

At the end of the second dance he led her away towards the smoking-
room. In the passage they ran into Hod, Miriam, Marbh and
Morgan, also going back. The six of them were greeted with a great
hullabaloo by those of the party already gathered at their table.

Stewards were giving out red tape, rattles, whistles.

The rattles were rattled. The whistles were blown. Tape criss-
crossed all over the room. Confetti showered. Paper balls sped
back and forth.

The jazz orchestra from tour first-third had been officially brought
upstairs. While the regular band played in the ballroom, the jazz
band volleyed in the dance-room. A stream of couples milled back
and forth between the two. As they passed through the bar they
contributed scooting tape and showering confetti.

Hugh stilled liked it, this bal masque - at least he told himself
he did; but he could not help but observe what a surface thing it
seemed, all worked up from the outside with drink and noise.

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Morgan, sitting next to him on one side, had sighted a party down the way. In it were the baron, the blonde beauty, and the ship's doctor. This ship's doctor had a tempting bald spot. Morgan could not resist it. He fired balls. One hit. The doctor turned around, stood up, and fired back. Then all the men of both tables began throwing hard, and some of the balls were wet, and one of the wet ones socked Hugh just above the eye.

Then it was dancing again, with everything mixed. Morgan took Barbara, Kohl took Vera. Hugh found there was nothing for him to do but take Mrs Raymond.

When he contrived to have Barbara again he asked, "Happy?"

She nodded.

"Not sorry you came?"

She shook her head.

"When you dance with others do you miss me?"

She said yes.

"You'd better. Not for your sake but for theirs."

But he could not claim her long this night. No one could claim anyone. Not only were partners changed within the group, but men from other groups came over, and twice he had to let Barbara go with strangers.

When it was his dance again he asked, "Who's the young fellow?"

"He is engaged. His fiancée came to see him off and saw me and said I was a girl he could dance with! She picked me as a nice safe girl!"

"No doubt she was right about you, but I haven't the slightest desire to see you make the passage safe for him. Let someone else win his fiancée's gratitude."

350 336

All of a sudden there was greater confusion. Cut-in dancing had been started. Hugh saw men stealing whom they could and being stolen from. He held her close and looked forbidding; but it did no good. She was stolen. He took Andra from Jim Phelps. Andy took her from him. For a time he was stranded. Then he got Barbara back again.
This time she had gossip.

"Isn't it thrilling?" she began.

"How, specially?"

"Mrs Tilden received a love-note!"

"No!"

"She did. It asked her to be at a certain place at a certain time. Urgent!"

"Who wrote it, does she know?"

"Oh, yes."

"Is she going?"

"I don't think so. I don't know."

"Do I know him?"

"He's on the floor now."

Just then he saw the baron go up and take Alice from Morgan.

"Not him?"

She nodded and laughed.

"Tilden won't like that one bit - no more than I would."

When the dance ended and they were passing into the smoking-room she said something he did not catch. He glanced at her and saw that all of a sudden she looked very tired."

"What did you say?"

"I wonder - will you mind? I've had an awfully good time. Will you mind?"

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"So soon? It doesn't seem we've been together at all."

"My head is dizzy. I'm all in a whirl. I can hardly see straight. I guess I'm very - I wish I wasn't."

"I'll mind very much, but I suppose you'd better."

At her cabin she said, "It was great fun. I'm awfully glad you made me. I used to hear I was stubborn. I never believed it. Now I do. I'm frightfully stubborn, and ungracious too - sometimes. I don't mean to be. Goodnight, and thank you."

"And thank you. And don't forget that we're going to have that talk tomorrow. If we don't meet on deck before ten, I'll come for you."

As he went away he asked himself - What talk? He felt he had nothing to say to her. And why this date, why this to-do about time and place of meeting ? The bal masque, for him if not for her, had been a thin experience - and his meeting with her tomorrow would be thin too. Then why commit himself, why tie himself up, why all the bother? If he could have but had from it all one outstanding beautiful memory.

Costumed couples were racing through the passageways, restraint gone. At an intersection he was run into, and got tangled up with four noisy people who made fun of him for not being as tipsy and foolish as they were. He couldn't tell which girl was with which fellow.

At another point he stopped to see what was going on down the hall. Six or more people were there, and at first it looked as if a man and woman were in a fight. No, they were merely slapping each other - and enjoying it.

He stepped out on deck for a breath of air. The black night sea spread far away. Waves dashed against the gliding side of the ship.

352-338

The **Burgundy** swathed on.

A majestic ship; a vast sea, contained and replenished, never violating itself, faithful to nature and to the dignity of the universe - while people, the ship's company, the earth's company... and among these people he had to live and suffer and make and build - to make the thin solid, the pro-miscuous faithful, the mean noble, the artificial real. The worse the lot the finer the structure he would have to build.

He strode down the deck. Coming up the deck was a party of revelers with arms joined. Swaying and zig-zagging forward, they laughed and shouted and sang pausing at the windows of deck-cabins to serenade.

He passed Thelma walking with a man he did not know. Right behind them came Vera and Kohl. He saluted them and went on, wondering what was going to happen between Vera and Kohl.

As he was about to enter the smoking-room, Artnur Tilden, evidently bent on something, brushed by. He had an idea that Tilden was looking for his wife.

Just inside the door stood Morgan talking to a strange girl. Marsh was not in sight. The girl had button-holed Morgan and was engaging him in one of those queer interminable conversations which sometimes spring up between a man and a woman in their cups.

Of the entire party only Hod, Miriam, and the Raymonds were still at the table. Perforce, Hugh joined them. Hod and Miriam were in a world of their own. Raymond, grey and weary, was not staying on only because his wife insisted.

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At other tables the spontaneous thing had gone. The merry-
makers, grotesque opposites of their original selves, were
forcing excitement, whooping it up, making themselves carry
on. Crudeness had fastened upon them. A rowdy spirit was
abroad, a vulgar and pitiable attempt to pump life into husks
and beat blood-rythms on broken drums.

Upon these waters, upon this earth
I will build my house. As the trees
have roots, as the ocean has bottom,
so will my house be founded, deep down
in firm substance. It's walls will be
flame, it's roof will be heaven, and I
shall dwell therein with all I love.
And if the winds scatter I will build
again. And if the waves claim I will
reclaim. For in my soul there is a
building, and it must be built.