On the Proper Use of Stars

by Dominique Fortier

  Tall hills arise, and thro’ the dell below

  A crystal river’s winding waters flow,

  Its banks with flowers adorn’d, and o’er it flung

  Its graceful boughs the pendant willow hung.

  Charm’d with the scene, beneath the grateful shade,

  To cheat the noontide hour, awhile we staid;

  The youth was skill’d in vegetable lore,

  I ask’d the history of a little flower,

  Graceful its form, and bright its lilac hue,

  And like the crane’s long beak its ripening pistil grew;

  The study pleas’d, and from the river’s side,

  Innumerous flowers our various theme supplied,

  The white ranunculus, and iris gay,

  The yellow caltha, on the morn of May

  That to their homes the cheerful peasants bring,

  And strew around, in honour of the spring;

  The hyacinth, the violet’s purple dye,

  And myosotis blue, with golden eye,

  Which oft the German youth in graceful knot,

  Bears to his love, and sighs ‘Forget me not.’

  THE HIGHER-RANKING OFFICERS dine on board the Erebus as they have done fairly often since the beginning of the Polar night. The conversation of course revolves around the Esquimaux based nearby. Little and Gore are as thrilled as children at their arrival. One would swear that they had discovered some mythical creature – a white whale, a unicorn – that they knew only from books, and that this meeting has taken them into legend. Sir John has seen others, of course, he who has travelled for weeks in the company of savages, as has Crozier, the only one who understands bits of their strange and guttural language.

  In spite of the cold and the darkness, the mood is nearly festive. Admittedly there has been no fresh meat for a long time, but the men continue to feast on salted seabirds of which the violet flesh, seasoned with cinnamon and clove, is somewhat reminiscent of deer; then there are the tasty stews that the cook prepares for the officers from dried meats and some of Mr. Goldner’s canned goods. In some of the cans bits of bone and rind have been found; one kitchen boy even swears that he discovered an eye, which Neptune swallowed before he could show it to anyone, but the contents of these tins of dubious quality will feed the seamen, the choicest morsels of course being reserved for the Captain’s table.

  As candles are precious, the holders on the walls stay dark and only a single three-branched candelabrum in the centre of the table is lit, its light casting shifting shadows onto the walls.

  DesVoeux, who has had the leisure to observe the Esquimaux over the past days, is surprised that such primitive creatures have been able to survive in an environment like the Arctic. There commences then, for the hundredth time, a discussion about the flaws and the fine qualities of savage peoples which, started shortly after they embarked, is now taken up again and again, developed and expounded upon, each man remaining fiercely attached to positions that are relinquished when weariness sets in, only to be picked up afresh, the way that ladies will go back to a piece of embroidery or knitting. Gore suggests that an attempt be made to establish relations with one or two groups – preferably made up only of men or, in a pinch, with old women who are not very enticing – who would no doubt be useful to the ships’ crews. DesVoeux resists:

  “How can one trust savages who live like animals?”

  “It is indeed true that, like animals,” begins Sir John learnedly, in a timid attempt to please both sides, “they have an innate talent for hunting. They know how to track prey for days and how to survive in inhuman conditions. But it is true as well that they know neither order nor beauty and they respect no God other than their animal spirits.”

  “Among several peoples,” Crozier intervenes, “legends tell that the Earth was inhabited first by animals and that man did not come until afterwards.”

  “The Bible, for example!” retorts Fitzjames, whose remark is greeted with thunderous laughter.

  Sir John does not join in the hilarity; there are some things that do not lend themselves to laughter. He regrets, however, that he has no pen with which to note the principal arguments exchanged during this conversation, which promises to be particularly lofty and which, he is certain, will delight his wife, with her keen interest in rhetoric.

  “Quite right,” agrees Gore once calm is restored. “And therein lies the fundamental difference: while God made us masters of all that exists upon this Earth, their false divinities force them to submit to whatever they find around them. For that reason they will never know progress and will continue forever to pace the icefield clad in the skins of beasts, whereas we have conquered the globe.”

  Crozier adds, “They may be primitive but they take marvellous advantage of the meagre resources offered by this environment: they dress in the skins of animals whose flesh they eat, they use the tallow and the fat of those animals to provide light, their bones for making needles and various small tools. They even build their houses from what they try to escape, for they use snow to protect themselves from the cold.”

  Farlone is unconvinced.

  “I grant you, of course, that they are capable of building an igloo from snow and ice and of hiding away there like the bear in its den. But there is nothing remarkable about that. Show me a city of snow or a palace of ice, and I will acknowledge that these savages may be seen as genuine men. They have no notion of society, which is the very mark of civilization, since they live and move about in groups of five or six, in dozens if need be, accompanied by five times as many dogs …”

  “Moreover,” notes Hornby, “they do not hesitate to eat them in the event that they run out of food.”

  Crozier seems dubious. Someone bends over his shoulder to take his empty plate while someone else uncorks a new bottle of wine.

  Henceforth, Sir John follows the conversation more distractedly. He feels that his liver is rather congested.

  “I, too,” replies Fitzjames, “have heard stories recounting that dogs had been sacrificed by hunters who were short of meat and unable to kill a seal – and perhaps it did happen, but I find it difficult to believe that it is standard practice. First of all, the Esquimaux need their animals too much to dispose of any in that manner; and then they are very close to their dogs. The dogs are their true companions.”

  “Ah yes, precisely!” DesVoeux breaks in, clicking his tongue. “That is one more piece of evidence, should one be needed, that those individuals are closer to wild animals than they are to civilized men: birds of a feather do flock together, after all, and one must be something of a dog oneself to share the life of four-footed animals in that way.”

  Struck with nostalgia, Sir John sees again in memory Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley, asleep at the foot of Lady Jane’s bed. It seems to him, on the contrary, that these small creatures have been significantly humanized by contact with his wife. Be that as it may, she would no doubt not appreciate this last interruption. He will omit it from his presentation.

  Crozier, though, does not intend to let it go.

  “That phenomenal ability to adapt to extraordinarily inhospitable nature, to make use of the least of its resources, living in harmony with it all the while, testifies to a form of, while not, strictly speaking, intelligence, at the very least common sense and ingenuity.”

  He breaks off, out of breath. A brief silence settles in around the table; no one had expected him to be so eloquent. Sir John gestures to ask for more port wine. Then DesVoeux speaks up again, his tone slightly mocking.

  “Really?” he asks. “Adaptability – that is to say plasticity, in a word, flexibility – is the criterion whereby we should judge the degree of inventiveness of a people? If that be so I know of no creatures more highly evolved than our friends the fish, who are so wonderfully well equipped for living underwater, whereas we can survive for no more than a few minutes!”

  Again, thunderous laughter greets this outburst and each then goes him one better:

 
; “Or bears, whose stocks of grease let them survive the winter without eating!”

  “Or the oyster, whose shell is a genuine suit of armour for the flabby animal it encloses …”

  “Or the chameleon, who assumes at will the colours of the foliage on the tree where he is perching!”

  “No,” DesVoeux starts up again, after savouring his triumph and slamming his empty sherry glass onto the table, “the ability to adapt to one’s environment, while far from being a sign of a people’s degree of advancement, is on the contrary the sign of its primitivism. Civilization consists not of submitting to the whims of Nature, on that you will agree with me, but forcing it to bend to our needs, to overpower it and constrain it.”

  He looks Crozier straight in the eye, who suddenly thinks of Sophia with painful acuteness. He clenches his fists and tries to respond but the other man has not finished:

  “That is how we can build ships that are able to cut through the ice rather than merely travel across it, drawn by dogs. That is how we can write books that give an account of our discoveries and provide information for those who will come after us.”

  DesVoeux turns his gaze towards Sir John, who puffs himself up, before dealing out the coup de grâce: “That is how cities and empires are built. That is how we triumph over chaos and ensure the rule of law!”

  Half rising, DesVoeux makes a slight bow, seeming to mock himself for having given in to such ardent declarations, but, meeting his gaze as he is getting to his feet, Crozier sees only chilly satisfaction.

  A smiling Sir John congratulates himself once again on having among his crew such perceptive men.

  Crozier is pensive. He is not quick at repartee like DesVoeux, whose sparkling wit he admires. He needs to nurture his opinions at length before he can put them into words and defend them. He cannot deny that having a strict ability to adapt to one’s environment could not be taken for proof of intelligence, but he is still convinced that there is a lesson to be learned from this form of fundamental humility.

  Excusing himself, he withdraws while another bottle of port is being uncorked. Below decks, the hammocks have been hung up for the night and most of the men are already asleep. A few are talking in low voices; others are snoring or moaning in their sleep, where a fearsome beast or a delectable damsel has come to visit them. On the ground can be seen the fleeting shadows of rats that come out only at night. From the kitchen come the usual sounds and smells. The next day’s bread is being prepared.

  Crozier’s cabin, like those of all the officers, is minute. A narrow bunk stands against the back wall, on top of a large drawer, the only storage space, where clothing and linen are piled up, along with a Bible that had belonged to his father and his grandfather before him and in which he keeps a daguerreotype of Sophia Cracroft that he has held in his hands so often that the edges are worn thin and faded; rabbit skin mittens that his sister, full of goodwill, had made for him and that he refuses to get rid of though he is unable to slip his hands inside them; and the first compass given him by William Parry, the warped needle of which points forever towards the west.

  On a tiny shelf next to the bed sit a razor, shaving brush, pomade, soap, and a small mirror. A writing desk stands against the wall in such a way as to take up as little space as possible. On the wall is an engraving of the Irish countryside, a place called Oughterard where he has never gone but where he dreams of settling down and enjoying an unexciting old age, imagining himself pruning his roses and hunting partridge in the company of his dogs while Sophia embroiders in the garden.

  He undresses, teeth chattering. The heat is kept as low as possible. The temperature was bearable in the big room where the men sleep packed together, but the cabins are ice-cold – the reason why Mayfair, on board the Erebus, is in the habit of bringing to his cabin a kitchen boy who, he says, acts as a hot water bottle.

  Crozier is well aware that these things happen commonly on boats, even between men who are not inclined that way. Nevertheless, on his ship, each man sleeps in his bunk or in his hammock, and those who violate the rule must go without their ration of toddy for a week.

  Still shivering, he slips between the sheets which have not been laundered for weeks, hot water being measured. He pulls over himself a rough wool blanket made by the Hudson’s Bay Company and opens his Bible to take out the picture of Sophia. Holding it before his eyes he runs his right hand over his belly, imagining that the fingers closing around his sex are hers. His muffled moans join the sighs that rise from a hundred bodies given over to the Polar night.

  AT THE BEGINNING of April, Sophia was invited, as she was each year, to spend a week at Halsway Manor in Sussex by her cousin, who was bored to death during the rest of the year with a husband enamoured of hunting and horses but with no interest in society, by which he meant any contact with other human beings that was not strictly necessary. On the birthday of his young wife, however, he invited her two childhood friends to the manor and allowed the ladies to indulge in as many teas, balls, and other delights as they wished.

  Sophia and Amelia set out together from London, each accompanied by a trunk in which she had found room for a good part of her wardrobe, for spring is a treacherous season; there can be a hard frost one morning and radiant sun the next. It was best therefore to be prepared for all eventualities. Sophia, having developed over the years habits she found it hard to shed, took along her pillows filled with gosling down (the only kind that was agreeable to the delicate nape of her neck), a black velvet eye mask which she slipped on for sleeping (unable to tolerate the light that seeped in through her bedroom curtains at dawn), and a tin of Darjeeling tea, which she offered as a gift for her hostess but that she had taken care to bring mainly because she refused to ingest the insipid mixture that the latter offered at breakfast time.

  Upon their arrival the guests were offered a light meal and had the leisure to chat until bedtime. Starting the next morning, however, the round of activities would begin and would go on for seven days, after which the ladies would depart.

  Around eight o’clock some discreet knocks are struck at each young woman’s door, accompanied by murmured enquiries as to whether Madame wants anything. If necessary, the knocking will be repeated a little more vigorously until an intelligible response comes from the room. Basins of hot water are brought so the ladies can perform their ablutions; the chambermaids dexterously handle crinolines, petticoats, corsets, and other essential accessories and soon the young women are ready to go down to breakfast.

  Shortly afterwards come stockists, who make the most of this week when there are guests at the manor to display their softest silks, their most irresistible jewels, their finest gloves. Sophia generally allows herself to be tempted by some trinket that she will forget about once she is back in London, while Elizabeth takes advantage of the manna to stock up on collars, lace, and hats for the coming year. The ladies then go out to stroll in the gardens surrounding the manor where they may see does with large astonished eyes, pheasants, partridges – all at risk of ending up on the dinner table. They walk briskly to whet their appetites, for lunch will be copious.

  They sit at table on the stroke of one o’clock for the main meal of the day, which consists most often of a fish course followed by one of the animals encountered earlier, roasted, accompanied by vegetables from the garden; the ladies then withdraw to freshen up and take a nap, a brief one, for the rest of the day is organized to a fare-thee-well.

  The carioles are brought up in the middle of the afternoon and they set off to visit one of the many nearby squires, delighted to entertain such young and joyful company, or they will admire some modest attraction in a neighbouring village. The weather is particularly mild for the season and the young women delight in these excursions when they may discover in the corner of a square a fountain, a stained-glass church window, a tiny museum devoted to a nearly first-rate painter, illustrious son and pride of the village, a china factory, or the ruins of a medieval dungeon. From the gently rounded f
lanks of the hills they gaze at the panorama that is offered to the strollers: in the valley drowned in the golden light of the approaching spring the budding trees wear haloes of a very pale green mist; the grey and russet houses are nestled close together; plumes of smoke rise up from their chimneys in swirls, like bundles of fur.

  They come back to the manor at dusk. Tea awaits madam and her friends, who, ravenous from the pure country air, devour sandwiches and biscuits, then each goes up to her room to dress for evening, since the guests will arrive shortly, unless a neighbouring family is having a ball or a soirée.

  Sophia asks again for hot water which the servants bring up, grumbling (Why does that woman think she’s so dirty that she feels the need to soak her body morning and night? His Lordship bathes only once a month and is none the worse for it), then she does her hair herself. The festivities get underway around eight o’clock and will continue until well past midnight, the hour when Elizabeth’s husband, who likes to rise with the sun, will go to bed, after dozing in an armchair all evening.

  The ladies meet again to share a light meal before they go to bed. As they savour terrines, pâtés, mousses, cheeses, and cold meats, accompanied by wines from Burgundy, they review the most striking events of the evening. The fires in the bedrooms are stirred up, hot water bottles are brought, and soon the three friends slip under their eiderdowns and fall into a deep sleep from which they will be drawn in the morning by some discreet knocks on the door.

  And thus unfolds life at Halsway Manor during this spring of the year 1846.

  5 April 1846

  THIS MORNING A THIRD grave was added to the two crosses whose bare arms stand out against the white sky. William Braine, aged thirty-three, was found lifeless in his bunk yesterday morning. I am told that all last week he suffered from diarrhea and cramps, vomiting yellowish bile, as did four other mariners whose condition seems less disturbing but whom Peddie has nonetheless placed under observation in the infirmary.