We are in the doldrums. Mr Talbot still avoids me. He has been wandering round the ship and descending into her very bowels as if searching for some private place where, perhaps, he may continue his devotions without hindrance. I fear sadly that my approach was untimely and did more damage than good. I pray for him. What can I do more?
We are motionless. The sea is polished. There is no sky but only a hot whiteness that descends like a curtain on every side, dropping, as it were, even below the horizon and so diminishing the circle of the ocean that is visible to us. The circle itself is of a light and luminescent blue. Now and then some sea creature will shatter the surface and the silence by leaping through it. Yet even when nothing leaps there is a constant shuddering, random twitches and vibrations of the surface, as if the water were not only the home and haunt of all sea creatures but the skin of a living thing, a creature vaster than Leviathan. The heat and dampness combined would be quite inconceivable to one who had never left that pleasant valley which was our home. Our own motionlessness—and this I believe you will not find mentioned in the accounts of sea voyages—has increased the effluvias that rise from the waters immediately round us. Yesterday morning there was a slight breeze but we were soon still again. All our people are silent, so that the striking of the ship’s bell is a loud and startling sound. Today the effluvias became intolerable from the necessary soiling of the water round us. The boats were hoisted out from the boom and the ship towed a little way from the odious place; but now if we do not get any wind it will all be to do again. In my cabin I sit or lie in shirt and breeches and even so find the air hardly to be borne. Our ladies and gentlemen keep their cabin in a like case, lying abed I think, in hope that the weather and the place may pass. Only Mr Talbot roams as if he can find no peace—poor young man! May GOD be with him and keep him! I have approached him once but he bowed slightly and distantly. The time is not yet.
How next to impossible is the exercise of virtue! It requires a constant watchfulness, constant guard—oh my dear sister, how much must you and I and every Christian soul rely at every moment on the operation of Grace! There has been an altercation! It was not, as you might expect, among the poor people in the front of the ship but here among the gentlemen, nay, among the very officers themselves!
It was thus. I was sitting at my writing-flap and recutting a quill when I heard a scuffle outside in the lobby, then voices, soft at first but raised later.
“You dog, Deverel! I saw you come from the cabin!”
“What are you about then, Cumbershum, for your part, you rogue!”
“Give it to me, sir! By G—I will have it!”
“And unopened at either end—You sly dog, Cumbershum, I’ll read it, I swear I will!”
The scuffle became noisy. I was in shirt and breeches, my shoes under the bunk, my stockings hung over it, my wig on a convenient nail. The language became so much more blasphemous and filthy that I could not let the occasion pass. Not thinking of my appearance I got up quickly and rushed out of the cabin, to find the two officers struggling violently for possession of a missive. I cried out.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”
I seized the nearest to me by the shoulder. They stopped the fight and turned to me.
“Who the devil is this, Cumbershum?”
“It’s the parson, I think. Be off, sir, about your own business!”
“I am about my business, my friends, and exhort you in a spirit of Christian Charity to cease this unseemly behaviour, this unseemly language, and make up your quarrel!”
Lieutenant Deverel stood looking down at me with his mouth open.
“Well by thunder!”
The gentleman addressed as Cumbershum—another lieutenant—stuck his forefinger so violently towards my face that had I not recoiled, it would have entered my eye.
“Who in the name of all that’s wonderful gave you permission to preach in this ship?”
“Yes, Cumbershum, you have a point.”
“Leave this to me, Deverel. Now, parson, if that’s what you are, show us your authority.”
“Authority?”
“D—n it man, I mean your commission!”
“Commission!”
“Licence they call it, Cumbershum, old fellow, licence to preach. Right parson—show us your licence!”
I was taken aback, nay, confounded. The truth is, and I record it here for you to pass to any young clergyman about to embark on such a voyage, I had deposited the licence from my Lord Bishop with other private papers—not, as I supposed, needed on the voyage—in my trunk, which had been lowered somewhere into the bowels of the vessel. I attempted to explain this briefly to the officers but Mr Deverel interrupted me.
“Be off with you, sir, or I shall take you before the captain!”
I must confess that this threat sent me hurrying back into my cabin with some considerable trepidation. For a moment or two I wondered whether I had not after all succeeded in abating their mutual wrath, for I heard them both laughing loudly as they walked away. But I concluded that such heedless—I will not call them more—such heedless spirits were far more likely to be laughing at the sartorial mistake I had made and the result of the interview with which they had threatened me. It was clear that I had been at fault in allowing myself a public appearance less explicit than that sanctioned by custom and required by decorum. I began hurriedly to dress, not forgetting my bands, though my throat in the heat felt them as an unfortunate constriction. I regretted that my gown and hood were packed or, should I say, stowed away with my other impedimenta. At length, then, clothed in at least some of the visible marks of the dignity and authority of my calling, I issued forth from my cabin. But of course the two lieutenants were nowhere to be seen.
But already, in this equatorial part of the globe, after being fully dressed for no more than a moment or two I was bathed in perspiration. I walked out into the waist but felt no relief from the heat. I returned to the lobby and my cabin determined to be more comfortable yet not knowing what to do. I could be, without the sartorial adornment of my calling, mistaken for an emigrant! I was debarred from intercourse with the ladies and gentlemen and had been given no opportunity other than that first one of addressing the common people. Yet to endure the heat and moisture in a garb appropriate to the English countryside seemed impossible. On an impulse derived, I fear, less from Christian practice than from my reading of the classical authors, I opened the Sacred Book and before I was well aware of what I was doing I had employed the moment in a kind of Sortes Virgilianae, or consultation of the oracle, a process I had always thought to be questionable even when employed by the holiest servants of the Lord. The words my eyes fell on were II Chronicles viii. 7–8. “The Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites which were not of Israel”—words which in the next moment I had applied to Captain Anderson and Lieutenants Deverel and Cumbershum, then flung myself on my knees and implored forgiveness!
I record this trivial offence merely to show the oddities of behaviour, the perplexities of the understanding, in a word, the strangeness of this life in this strange part of the world among strange people and in this strange construction of English oak which both transports and imprisons me! (I am aware, of course, of the amusing “paranomasia” in the word “transport” and hope the perusal of it will afford you some entertainment!)
To resume. After a period at my devotions I considered what I had better do in order to avoid any future mistake as to my sanctified identity. I divested myself once more of all but shirt and breeches, and thus divested, I employed the small mirror which I have for use when shaving to examine my appearance. This was a process of some difficulty. Do you remember the knothole in the barn through which in our childish way we were wont to keep watch for Jonathan or our poor, sainted mother, or his lordship’s bailiff, Mr Jolly? Do you remember, moreover, how, when we were tired of waiting, we would see by moving our heads how much of the exterior world we could spy through the kno
t? Then we would pretend to be seized of all we saw, from Seven Acre right up to the top of the hill? In such a manner did I contort myself before the mirror and the mirror before me! But here I am—if indeed this letter should ever be sent—instructing a member of the Fair Sex in the employment of a mirror and the art of, dare I call it, “Self-admiration”? In my own case, of course, I use the word in its original sense of surprise and wonder rather than self-satisfaction! There was much to wonder at in what I saw but little to approve. I had not fully understood before how harshly the sun can deal with the male countenance that is exposed to its more nearly vertical rays.
My hair, as you know, is of a light but indeterminate hue. I now saw that your cropping of it on the day before our parting—due surely to our mutual distress—had been sadly uneven. This unevenness seems to have been accentuated rather than diminished by the passage of time so that my head presented an appearance not unlike a patch of ill-reaped stubble. Since I had not been able to shave during my first nausea (the word indeed derives from the Greek word for a ship!) and had feared to do so in the later period when the ship was in violent motion—and at last have been dilatory, fearing the pain I should inflict on my sun-scorched skin, the lower part of my face was covered with bristles. They were not long, since my beard is of slow growth—but of varying hue. Between these two crop-yielding areas, as I may call them, of scalp and beard, king Sol had exerted his full sway. What is sometimes called a widow’s peak of rosy skin delineated the exact extent to which my wig had covered my forehead. Below that line the forehead was plum-coloured and in one place burst with the heat. Below that again, my nose and cheeks appeared red as on fire! I saw at once that I had deceived myself entirely if I supposed that appearing in shirt and breeches and in this guise I should exert the authority inhering in my profession. Nay—are these not of all people those who judge a man by his uniform? My “uniform”, as I must in all humility call it, must be sober black with the pure whiteness of bleached linen and bleached hair, the adornments of the Spiritual Man. To the officers and people of this ship, a clergyman without his bands and wig would be of no more account than a beggar.
True, it was the sudden sound of an altercation and the desire to do good that had drawn me forth from my seclusion, but I was to blame. I drew in my breath with something like fear as I envisaged the appearance I must have presented to them—with a bare head, unshaven, sunblotched, unclothed! It was with confusion and shame that I remembered the words addressed to me individually at my ordination—words I must ever hold sacred because of the occasion and the saintly divine who spake them—“Avoid scrupulosity, Colley, and always present a decent appearance.” Was this that I now saw in the mirror of my imagination the figure of a labourer in that country where “the fields are white to harvest”? Among those with whom I now dwell, a respectable appearance is not merely a desideratum but a sine qua non. (I mean, my dear, not merely desirable but necessary.) I determined at once to take more care. When I walked in what I had thought of as my kingdom, I would not only be a man of GOD—I would be seen to be a man of GOD!
Things are a little better. Lieutenant Summers came and begged the favour of a word with me. I answered him through the door, begging him not to enter as I was not yet prepared in clothes or visage for an interview. He assented, but in a low voice as if afraid that others would hear. He asked my pardon for the fact that there had been no more services in the passenger saloon. He had repeatedly sounded the passengers and had met with indifference. I asked him if he had asked Mr Talbot and he replied after a pause that Mr Talbot had been much occupied with his own affairs. But he, Mr Summers, thought that there might be a chance of what he called a small gathering on the next Sabbath. I found myself declaring through the door with a passion quite unlike my usual even temper—
“This is a Godless vessel!”
Mr Summers made no reply so I made a further remark.
“It is the influence of a certain person!”
At this I heard Mr Summers change his position outside the door as if he had suddenly looked round him. Then he whispered to me.
“Do not, I beg you, Mr Colley, entertain such thoughts! A small gathering, sir—a hymn or two, a reading and a benediction—”
I took the opportunity to point out that a morning service in the waist would be far more appropriate; but Lieutenant Summers replied with what I believe to be a degree of embarrassment that it could not be. He then withdrew. However, it is a small victory for religion. Nay—who knows when that heart of awful flint may be brought to yield as yield at last it must?
I have discovered the name of my Young Hero. He is one Billy Rogers, a sad scamp, I fear, whose boyish heart has not yet been touched with Grace. I shall try to make an opportunity of speaking with him.
I have passed the last hour in shaving! It was indeed painful and I cannot say that the result justifies the labour. However, it is done.
I heard an unwonted noise and went into the lobby. As I did so, I felt the deck tilt under me—though very slightly—but alas! The few days of almost total calm have unfitted me for the motion and I have lost the “sea legs” I thought I had acquired! I was forced to retire precipitately to my cabin and bunk. There I was better placed and could feel that we have some wind, favourable, light and easy. We are moving on our way again; and though I did not at once care to trust to my legs I felt that elevation of the spirits which must come to any traveller when after some let or hindrance he discovers himself to be on the move towards his destination.
A day’s rest lies in that line I have drawn above these words! I have been out and about, though keeping as much as possible away from the passengers and the people. I must re-introduce myself to them, as it were, by degrees until they see not a bare-headed clown but a man of God. The people work about the ship, some hauling on this rope, others casting off or slackening that one with a more cheerful readiness than is their wont. The sound of our progress through the water is much more clearly audible! Even I, landsman that I am and must remain, am sensible of a kind of lightness in the vessel as if she too were not inanimate but a partaker in the general gaiety! The people earlier were everywhere to be seen climbing among her limbs and branches. I mean, of course, that vast paraphernalia which allows all the winds of heaven to advance us towards the desired haven. We steer south, ever south, with the continent of Africa on our left hand but hugely distant. Our people have added even more area to the sails by attaching small yards (poles, you would call them) from which is suspended lighter material beyond the outer edge of our usual suit! (You will detect the degree to which by a careful attention to the conversations going on round me I have become imbued with the language of navigation!) This new area of sail increases our speed, and, indeed, I have just heard one young gentleman cry to another—I omit an unfortunate expletive—“How the old lady lifts up her p-tt-c-ts and makes a run for it!” Perhaps these additional areas are to be called “p-tt-c-ts” in nautical parlance; for you cannot imagine with what impropriety the people and even the officers name the various pieces of equipment about the vessel! This continues even in the presence of a clergyman and the ladies, as if the seamen concerned were wholly unconscious of what they have said.
Once again a day has passed between two paragraphs! The wind has dropped and my trifling indisposition with it. I have dressed, nay, even shaved once more and moved for a while into the waist. I should endeavour, I think, to define for you the position in which I find myself vis-à-vis the other gentlemen, not to say ladies. Since the captain inflicted a public humiliation on me I have been only too aware that of all the passengers I am in the most peculiar position. I do not know how to describe it, for my opinion of how I am regarded alters from day to day and from hour to hour! Were it not for my servant Phillips and the first lieutenant Mr Summers, I believe I should speak to no one; for poor Mr Talbot has been either indisposed or restlessly moving towards what I can only suppose to be a crisis of faith, in which it would be my duty and profound
pleasure to help him, but he avoids me. He will not inflict his troubles on any one! Now as for the rest of the passengers and officers, I do sometimes suspect that, influenced by the attitude of Captain Anderson, they disregard me and my sacred office with a frivolous indifference. Then in the next moment I suppose it to be a kind of delicacy of feeling not always to be found among our countrymen that prevents them forcing any attention on me. Perhaps—and I only say perhaps—there is an inclination among them to let me be and make belief that no one has noticed anything! The ladies, of course, I cannot expect to approach me and I should think the less of any one who did so. But this (since I have still limited my movements to the area that I called, jestingly, my kingdom) has by now resulted in a degree of isolation which I have suffered in more than I should have supposed. Yet all this must change! I am determined! If either indifference or delicacy prevents them from addressing me, then I must be bold and address them!
Rites of Passage Page 18
