The Captain found himself divided into many sections: he loathed Catholics on principle (he believed that priests without exception took advantage of the privacy of the confessional to seduce their more attractive female penitents), he was violently prejudiced against Spaniards as well as Mexicans, and he felt it was beneath his dignity to take the advice of a priest, as well as to admit any human meaning or importance in the doings of the rabble in the steerage. He thanked Father Carillo stiffly for his information, promised to order a general tightening of discipline, using his favorite phrase about laying in irons the next offenders against the peace, and very shortly after that his breakfast began to disagree with him.
His real trouble was, in the heavily overcrowded condition of the ship, there was no place to confine malcontents, especially if they were so numerous and so slyly threatening as Father Carillo seemed to think. In case of outright revolt, it was possible the crew would not be sufficient to control them. Suppose they should seize such small arms as were in the hold, what then?
The Captain, who had spent his professional career, except for the interval of the war, in the relative calm of merchant passenger ships, small ones on long dull cruises, had a riotous, violent imagination which now took possession of him. He dreamed for a brief moment of a cinematic crisis full of darkness, hand-to-hand struggle, flashes of light and thunderous explosions, broken heads and mangled limbs and pools of blood, screams and yells and incendiary flames lighting the sky, with lifeboats being lowered away into the heaving sea, himself still on the bridge somehow in full command of the situation, and completely calm.
Before actually leaving the bridge, however, in the present broad light of a peaceful day, he issued a hasty order that every man in the steerage—woman too, on second thought—was to be searched for weapons however insignificant, and all were to be confiscated for the duration of the voyage. This done, he felt somewhat restored, and in spite of his gas pains was able to speak of the morning’s incident with becoming casualness to Herr Professor Hutten and Dr. Schumann. They had disappointed him by accepting his manner at its face value, and seemed to think the incident of very little importance.
The Captain’s mood of disapprobation drifted from La Condesa. She was after all not to be blamed so much, since she was a lady in frail health and in a situation highly unsuitable to her caste; however, her very presence on board in such circumstances was a serious symptom of the disorder abroad in the world. Dimly her conduct reflected upon his authority as much as the impudent brawling among the steerage passengers. He was not thinking only of himself—a deviation from routine, a threat to his established rule, every moment of every day within the range of his orders, was not merely a personal affair. As Captain he belonged to a larger plan, he fulfilled his destiny in his appointed place as representative of the higher law; if he failed in his duty—and the very foundation of his duty was to exact implicit obedience from every soul on the ship, without exception—why, then the whole structure of society founded on Divine Law would be weakened by so much. He could not face such a moral catastrophe, and he need not. He would not.
He gazed fretfully, his underlip pouted, at the irritatingly complacent faces gathered around his board. Herr Freytag—who was he? A man who looked upon a ship as a public conveyance meant only to get him in safety and comfort from one port to another. Herr Rieber, the same. Herr Professor Hutten was a man of learning, but what could a professor know of the stern realities of the sea? In spite of his profound respect for Dr. Schumann, he had felt more than once that the Doctor had no real understanding of the discipline necessary on a ship, no genuine regard for rank. He had to warn him more than once, tactfully, against coddling the sailors when they were in sick bay as if they were his patients at home. There were even times when the Doctor seemed to be enjoying himself, quite as if he were merely on a voyage for his own health. It was true, except for his heart he would never have shipped as doctor, but still: when he returned from the steerage that morning, the Doctor had almost ignored the disturbance at the end of Mass, but had mentioned that during the night two women had babies on the bare deck, and he had arranged for them to have bunks in the same cabin for three or four days at least. It showed a lack of proportion in his mind somewhere, the Captain concluded, an indifference to truly serious things.
Of the women the Captain expected nothing, but their low-voiced babble among themselves annoyed him. Little Frau Schmitt was leaning over and talking across Herr Rieber to Fräulein Lizzi, while Frau Rittersdorf and Frau Hutten leaned towards her from their side of the table. Frau Hutten was shaking her head sadly. The Captain pretended to attack his dinner, but he was hot with irritation and his vitals were stabbing him cruelly.
Frau Schmitt’s grief had dried up somewhat after her experience with Herr Graf and her unlucky encounter with the Baumgartners; she wandered out on deck and paused idly, as everyone did sooner or later during the day, to watch, as at the bars of a cage, the strange life going on in the steerage. She found herself near the reserved-looking young American, Herr David Scott, also leaning on his elbows with his collar hunched up around his ears. Her eyes were attracted to a sad sight. A man, very bony and ragged and worn, but perhaps young, it was hard to tell, his tousled hair on end, was sitting, back to the rail, his knees drawn up and his bare toes curling and uncurling with sorrow; he was crying openly and loudly like a child. He wept and scrubbed his eyes with his fists, his mouth was distorted like a howling dog’s, and at his feet were several small objects, Frau Schmitt could not quite make out what they were. The other people paid no attention to him; they sat near him with stony indifferent faces; men stood in groups over him with their backs turned, women almost stepped on him going about their own concerns. He seemed completely alone in the world; there is nothing like trouble to divide the human heart from you, thought Frau Schmitt, her own heart swelling with tears once more, but this time with softer and gentler tears, because they were shed for another’s sorrow.
She spoke gently to the listening women.
“So I said to the young man, Oh, wouldn’t you think at least some one of them would speak to him? They might ask him what is the matter. The young American then said to me, They know already what is the matter; why should they ask? And then it seemed there had been an order, from whom I do not know, and the officers went among all the people and took away their knives and such little edged tools as they had, and this poor man is a wood carver.”
Frau Schmitt, deep in her story, raised her voice a little, forgetting her natural timidity in the interest she saw in the faces around her, and the Captain sat up sharply listening with a gathering frown which Frau Schmitt did not notice.
“Well, the Herr David Scott told me then this man was carving small animals from bits of wood he had brought in his bundle, hoping to sell them to people in first class. Herr Scott had half a dozen in his pocket, and he showed them to me: they were very pretty and childlike; Herr Scott said, He is a fine artist. But you know how these Americans are—they worship primitive things because they cannot understand better. They are corrupted by the Negro, of course—what can we expect? I smiled at him and said nothing; but the poor man in the steerage was in trouble! When the officer asked him for his knife, he somehow thought he was lending it, imagine, and would be given it back in a few minutes. Think of that. The young man told me everything. He had seen and heard. He was very angry in a cold pale way as if he had lost blood. Gone then for good were the hopes of that poor man, gone his happy occupation and his little knife, and so he cried, he cried like a baby.”
Frau Schmitt’s sensibilities almost overcame her again. She sat back and put her napkin to her mouth.
Frau Hutten clucked softly, deprecatingly. Lizzi said in a high infantile voice, “Oh, I don’t think that was very nice, taking the poor little man’s property away from him! Make them give it back, dear Captain, please?” Her long arm flew forth and she struck him lightly on the sleeve with her fan. The Captain did not respond w
ith the charmed gallantry she expected. His wattles grew scarlet, he bridled until his chin backed into his collar, and he gave Frau Schmitt a truly awful glare. The perfect victim of his wrath had been delivered into his hands, and he proceeded to make an example of her.
“I am exceedingly sorry, ladies,” he began, in a voice of blistering courtesy, and his glance took them all in: their unbalanced female emotions, their shallow, unteachable minds, their hopeless credulity, their natural propensity to rebellion against all efforts of men to bring order and to preserve rule in life. “Oh, very sorry indeed, ladies, to distress your kind hearts, but let me confess that I myself gave the order for the disarming of the deportees. I wish I might trust you to believe me when I say that all my acts are governed by a knowledge of the true situation regardless of sentimental considerations. In the end I alone am answerable not only for your safety but for the very life of this ship; therefore, please do allow me to advise you that I act from the gravest motives of responsibility. A little discretion, please, dear lady,” he added sternly to Frau Schmitt, “at least do us the favor not to listen to the gossip and prejudices of foreigners, who naturally are anxious to put the worst possible light on anything at all done by a German. Or if you must listen to such rubbish, above all do not repeat it to anyone!”
This unexpected climax to a trying morning crushed Frau Schmitt. She bowed her head, her shoulders drooped, a blush mounted painfully, slowly, from neck to forehead, her hands lay beside her plate and she seemed unable to lift them. From under her eyebrows she saw Frau Rittersdorf’s sweet, satisfied smile, yes, just like a cat’s. Frau Schmitt was not comforted to know she would see that smile again in the cabin that evening, and for many days after.
The ship’s band did not play in the morning, it being Sunday, but after dinner the elevating strains of Wagner and Schubert filled the salon, where the Baumgartners, the Lutzes, the Huttens, in a word the more respectable element, settled down to the relaxation of cards, dominoes, and chess. La Condesa disappeared, and later the students could be heard shouting first at shuffleboard and then in the swimming pool. Mingled with the strains of the band came a harsher music. The zarzuela company had brought a small gramophone on deck, and a sharp soprano was raised in urgent obsessive complaint, accompanied by the insinuating clack and whine of outlandish instruments. They danced together, clicking their heels and snapping their fingers resonantly, revolving about each other with the grace of birds in a mating dance, but with cold professional faces.
They stopped the music for a few minutes, talked among themselves, and began again, watching each other sharply. Ric and Rac joined in, facing each other with narrowed eyes and bared teeth, their small thighbones strangely agitated. At intervals they stamped and screamed criticisms at each other without interrupting the rhythm of the dance, their faces almost touching. Their elders watched them without interfering or offering advice. Then all but Lola sank gracefully to the deck in a beautifully composed group, and Lola the star began a slow graceful intense dance.
“Olé, olé, viva tu madre!” they cried in time to the music, clapping their hands with subtle variations of rhythm as Lola’s undulating skirts almost rose over their heads. The Cuban students came up out of the pool; reluctantly most of the Germans left their games; sailors appeared with the air of being there on duty; all were drawn irresistibly to the charming scene. Freytag, finding himself standing beside Herr Hansen, said in real surprise, “Why, she’s a wonderful dancer!” Herr Hansen turned like a man brought out of a hypnotic trance. “Eh? What’s that? She’s great—she’s a great dancer.” Not quite that, perhaps, thought Freytag, moving on, still feeling a little ashamed of his recent flurry about Lola. He felt a touch of condescension towards a man so poverty-stricken he must fall in love with the whole zarzuela and its future for the sake of such an animal as Amparo.
Lola danced grandly and severely, her features fixed in the classic erotic-frowning smile, which fetched forth ritual amorous groans from the males of her assisting company. At her last roulade of clicking heels, the others sprang up. The rehearsal over, they danced in pairs as if for pleasure, but with no pleasure in their faces, and they ignored their audience with well-rehearsed contempt.
Elsa, with her hair in a roll on top of her head, which Jenny had helped her to do and which made her look older, broader in the cheeks, averted her eyes suddenly and stepped backward as if she would hide behind her parents. Excited by the dancing, her face had fallen into a vacant, happy smile. Then alas she saw her student, with only black wool trunks concealing his nakedness, take one of the Spanish girls about the waist and begin dancing with her. Elsa’s modesty suffered a shock which caused real pain at the very center of her body; it rippled out in hot waves to her fingertips. She closed her eyes and saw in fiery darkness what she refused to see by daylight—the flexing muscles of his back, the thin beautiful ribcage, the long slender legs with boyish bony knees, and worst of all, the long fine-muscled arms embracing that girl they called Concha, her body limp and yet in movement against his naked chest. No, she could not bear it. “Mama,” she whimpered, “Mama, please, let’s go inside.”
“Are you sick, Elsa?” asked her mother. “Is there anything wrong with you?”
“No, no, please,” said Elsa, in an oppressed, patient voice. “The sun is so hot.”
“I give you until tomorrow,” said her mother firmly, “until tomorrow to be in better spirits, and then I shall give you a good purge. That is no doubt what you need. Here on this ship, with the lack of exercise, the indigestible food—yes, I could have a headache myself, easily. A good purge, that is what you need. But now control yourself, and come finish the dominoes with your father. As to your hair, Elsa, I don’t like it so. This evening you must put it back in the old way. And never change it again without asking me.”
“Yes, Mama,” she said, meekly, and sat down with her father again. Dominoes and checkers with her father, housework that she hated under the constant advice, direction and reproof of her Mama, never to be able to call even her hair her own, to be left on the shelf an old maid at last, yes, that would be her fate, she could feel it deep within her. Her heart sank and then rose again in her and began to knock desperately against her ribs as if it were a prisoner beating against the bars, as if it were not part of her but a terrified stranger locked up in her, crying crying crying “Let me out!”
Her father, noticing her forlorn face, pinched her cheek with tenderness and said jovially, “Maybe our Elsa is in love with somebody—maybe that big solemn Swede Hansen. No, Elsa, my treasure? Tell your papa and mama. We know best.”
Elsa said even more meekly, placing a double six after long hesitation, “No, no, Papa, not that.”
Frau Lutz, glancing up from her knitting, saw for a moment framed in the doorway against the bright horizon a sight which caused her to frown warningly at her husband, indiscreet as he ever was, thoughtless as usual. Arne Hansen was dancing with Amparo. She seemed to be instructing him in the mysteries of her native dances. They passed and repassed the doorway, Hansen following as awkwardly as a dancing bear, with Amparo treating him as if indeed he were that animal and she the trainer. She seemed to be scolding and laughing at him; they would pause swaying and she would take him by the elbows and shake him. In all seriousness he would begin again, his big hands and feet getting in the way, his wet shirt sticking to his pink skin. He seemed like a man bewitched, utterly indifferent to the scandalous figure he presented to the eyes of the world.
Frau Lutz, amazed at this instance of failure in her judgment of men, a subject in which she considered herself an expert, was pleased to note that her daughter’s back was turned towards this unedifying scene. She never ceased to worry, night and day, at the unbelievable hardships a mother encountered in her efforts to preserve the innocence of a daughter. Everywhere you turned, unsavory sights, immoral situations, disreputable characters, shameless behavior on the part even of those in whom you had some reason to place a little hope. Men!
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Her gaze rested upon her husband with baleful intensity. He was talking his usual foolishness to Elsa, playing his game without a care, understanding no better than ever the deadly seriousness of life’s problems; joking with Elsa about love, of all things. What would have become of them if she had been unwise enough to depend upon him in anything for a moment? Ah, she would find a very different kind of husband for Elsa, she had made up her mind to that.
Johann, pushing his uncle’s wheel chair, heard the Spanish music and went a little faster, then slowed down again as he came in sight of Lola, turning and clicking her heels. His sullen fair-skinned face, with its scanty blond stubbles of beard shining, lighted up so tenderly he looked for an instant like a young angel. He turned the chair to the rail and stopped to watch the delightful show.
“Go on, Johann,” said his uncle, for the slight joggling of the chair soothed him, and the movement against the wind helped his breathing. His shriveled flesh and his very bones were old and tired and lonely; they cried day and night for a little pity and ease and comfort. In the hospital in Mexico the nurses had rubbed him with sweet-smelling witch hazel all over, their firm young hands pressing lightly into the weariness of his shriveled muscles; they had fed him warm milk and cool fruit juices, papaya, pomegranate, lime; he sucked them through a glass tube, half asleep as if he were a baby again. In the night when he groaned and called out, a Mexican nun in her white face bands and gauzy white veil would come and minister to him, and she would swing the mattress softly on its light springs as if it were a cradle, saying under her breath, “Ave Maria …”
Now in the miserable cabin, Johann touched him with loathing, he would hand him a dripping cold cloth and say viciously, “Wash your own dirty face.” He set down trays of coarse revolting food beside him and went away without giving him so much as a spoon for the soup. In the long nights, when he would be in pain to ease nature, he might call and call until his throat closed and the pain in his chest shot through him like fire before Johann would rouse to bring him the vessel. The humiliation of the helpless flesh was punishment enough, without that hard, unforgiving face above him, averted in loathing.