Ship of Fools (33 page)

“The trouble with those students is simply that they haven't been born yet,” said Jenny, severely. “They are just their parents' bad dreams. Elsa, you should try to forget about that boy.”

“How can I forget him,” asked Elsa, a trifle fretfully, “when I see him every day? But my mother says La Condesa is a disreputable woman, title or no title, and that I must on no account even speak to her. How can I speak to an older woman unless she speaks to me first? And yet, how I should love to know what it is like to be that kind of woman!”

Jenny said, smiling, “But Elsa, you
are
coming on, fast. What an idea … what would your mother say? Now tell me, after this merry evening at the movies, why were you crying?”

“I am so happy sometimes, and then so miserable,” confessed Elsa, simply, and she wiped her eyes where the tears began to form again.

“That's all right then,” said Jenny hastily, “if it's nothing more serious than that. I'm not sleepy. I'll take a turn around the deck and look at the moon; good night.”

“Good night,” said Elsa, in a pacified voice; and the long confusions of her day slipped into easy dreams.

Frau Otto Schmitt was still feeling somewhat intimidated by her recent encounters with a world of male unaccountability which she found dismaying in her new and tender state of widowhood. She was beginning to realize with astonishment that she had never really known any man but her husband; no women except wives of her husband's friends, or old maid teachers as remote from her womanly confidences as if they belonged to another species. For years she had hardly seen anyone, outside of her classrooms of younger students, except in the company of her husband: indeed, she had lived her married life almost literally in his presence. His state of health after the war had made it seem at times almost as if he were her child; in better times, a kind sympathetic brother; yet always her husband, after all. And oh, what a poor preparation for her life without him he had given her! Where could she turn, to whom could she speak, sure of a gentle human response?

Almost she took it as an answer to prayer when Dr. Schumann appeared alone at the head of the deck and stood at the rail. She approached him as nearly as she might without, she hoped, appearing to ambush him, but she longed to be near him if only for a moment, for he soothed and reassured her sense of all that was right, good, and appropriate in every way.

The left side of his face was turned towards her, and she could have worshipped that noble
Mensur
scar. Her husband's scar, quite as impressive as the Doctor's, had been her life's pride. It reminded her of salutary facts: that his family had been superior to her own, that his university dueling had further enhanced him socially; that altogether he could have made an advantageous marriage, a rich one. But no, he had chosen her, with her tiny dowry, and her brothers who had never touched a foil; and had never, he told her, regretted it for a moment; for which she never ceased to be grateful to him. The Doctor's scar was as perfectly placed as could be: for if a student wavered, turned his head or lowered his chin, he was apt to be slashed even on the forehead, or the cheekbone—she had seen too many such scars—and it was a disgrace to him, unless it could be blamed on the awkward swordsmanship of the other—and how does one go about explaining
that
, all one's life? Frau Schmitt had grown a little tired of hearing Frau Rittersdorf boast that her husband was a bold dueler, always the challenger, always the victor, with four scars on his left cheek, every one a beauty, a split to the teeth, and not a quarter-inch apart! Well, she suspected Frau Rittersdorf of exaggeration, at times. Besides, one good scar well placed was enough—what was it for, after all? A token in the living flesh, another kind of medal bestowed for proved courage. Having achieved it, a gentleman might then go about his other concerns and occupations.

In her shy adoring mood she almost crept towards the Doctor, who turned and gave her that serious smile she admired in him, and seemed about to speak, when the raucous chorus of “
Cucaracha
” broke upon the evening air. La Condesa, in a flowing white dress and green sandals, sailed out of the salon in her swarm of grotesque courtiers, riffled her fingers and smiled charmingly at the Doctor, and walked on swiftly, her skirts flying, the students howling their song and keeping time in a rumba step. One of them, a stringy boy in purple tweed Oxford bags, like tucked-up skirts, lolloped in the rear a safe distance, mimicking her frail complaining voice: “Ah, youth, beautiful youth, she's not having any, thank you.”

He even had the impudence to wink outright at Frau Schmitt, who scarcely believed her eyes. She turned in dismay to Dr. Schumann, and could only gasp, “Well!… but did you ever?”

Dr. Schumann moved nearer, and they stood together watching the students—their convulsed gait, their apelike grimacing, the flying impudent gestures of their hands, in the graceful wake of La Condesa. How could she, who seemed so acutely aware of herself and all around her, tolerate for a moment such effrontery? He suppressed a huge sigh, turned back to the sea, and said to Frau Schmitt, in a melancholy voice: “It is hardly to be believed, the malignance of the young. We hear a great deal, do we not? spoken against the middle-aged, and too much of it is true—about our growing faults of sloth, of selfishness, of complacency, of despair—”

“I hope not despair, dear Dr. Schumann,” said Frau Schmitt, uneasily.

“Above all, despair,” said the Doctor firmly. “But the real wickedness,” he said, “is in youth. We sin, we older ones, and we know we sin; some of us try hard to repent, to make reparation. But they—” he inclined his head towards the students—“they sin and they do not even know it; or they know it and they glory in it. They are shameless, cruel, and proud … they love themselves with a passion unknown to age—perhaps exhausted,” he added, with some sudden touch of humor, “in age … but still, they sin all day long against all that exists, from the human heart to the Holy Ghost, and when they are tired of sinning they lie down and sleep like newly washed lambs. All that ignorant scorn and mockery,” said the Doctor, “all that senseless cruel jeering against a lady who is suffering, and who has never harmed them!”

Frau Schmitt said, with naïve, gentle wonder: “But Doctor! This is the first time I ever heard you speak harshly!”

“I mean to be harsh,” said the Doctor, calmly. “I am the voice of rebuke itself lifted in the wilderness, or over the waste of waters! I wish my words were stones that I might throw them to crack the heads of those savages.”

“Or their hearts,” said Frau Schmitt.

“No, they have no hearts,” said the Doctor.

Frau Schmitt was silent, feeling that she had been drawn beyond her depths, and yet, such depths as she longed to be drawn to. Ruefully she watched his gaze as it followed the figure of La Condesa disappearing around the stern; saw what she saw, read it in her own way, thought her own simple thoughts. What a pity such a good man should fall in love with such a woman. And at his age too, and married, and all! Oh, it was frightening, and it happened all too often. Her faith in the Doctor wavered, sank, recovered somewhat, but never in its former glory. She felt newly wounded, left out of things again, life was going to pass her by. She wished only to say her rosary and place herself in God's hands, and go to sleep and forget. There was never again to be anything pleasant or good in this world for her. After a stricken moment, she murmured a little formal phrase proper to leave-taking, and went on her way.

Dr. Schumann wondered at himself, reflected somewhat on his words, and regretted them as immoderate: that is, spoken out of place, with undue emphasis, at the wrong moment, and to the wrong person—indeed, they should never have been spoken at all, he concluded, the feeling which inspired them being itself suspect. He made a little Act of Contrition in the depths of his mind, stretched himself in the nearest deck chair, and closed his eyes. The deck was dimly lighted and deserted for the moment, all silence except for the lulling sound of the waves. Dr. Schumann, who before had been playing with the notion of signing up for another voyage, then and there in a flash of insight knew that this voyage was to be his last. In his relief at being given a glimpse of the certain end of a journey that was proving to be, mysteriously, a surprisingly trying time for him, the Doctor fell into a gentle sleep.

When he opened his eyes, La Condesa was stretched beside him in the neighboring chair to his right, quite at her ease, wide awake, pensively beautiful, regarding the darkened sea as if she were waiting for a curtain to rise. He was so amazed he almost stammered:

“W-what have you done with those terrible young men?”

“They can be a little dull at times, that's true,” she told him calmly. “They got tired of playing the monkey, and said they were going to play dice. You were sleeping enviably. How do you do it?”

Dr. Schumann sat up, feeling refreshed and restored to his center. He said almost merrily, “A clear conscience, of course!”

“Of course,” said La Condesa. “I can see that you are a man who could not live without a clear conscience.”

“There are worse things to have,” said the Doctor, sturdily, being by now well aware that he must begin to take a firmer hand with this erratic lady who was after all his patient. “Tell me, have you nothing to reproach your own conscience with just now?”

“I know nothing about a conscience,” said La Condesa. “I have instead just the faintest sense of honor which does almost as well … intermittently! But as to my promise to you, I have kept it until now—can you not
see?
But it does not make me happy; no, it causes me acute anguish, I have cactus in my veins, and why do I do it? For you, as I told you; why do you ask more?”

“I did not even ask that,” said Dr. Schumann, “that least of all. Indeed, I never would have made so bold as to dream of such a thing.”

“I know,” said La Condesa, almost with tenderness. “I need badly something to help me sleep. I cannot endure any longer.”

“Try just a little longer to do without,” said the Doctor, “and I promise to help you when the time comes.”

“I detest martyrdom in all its forms,” said La Condesa. “So unbecoming to me. I cannot be heroic—I detest that even more. Yet, see—here I am promising to be both because you think it may be good for me—good for what, my soul?”

“Your soul as well, no doubt,” said the Doctor, amiably.

“Do you expect some great change in me because of this strange voyage, so unexpected, so unlike anything I have ever known?” asked La Condesa. “A miracle of some kind?”

The Doctor began to speak, and at that point they both noticed the rather comic pair, the scrawny Lizzi and the little fat Herr Rieber, ascending to the boat deck, followed rather furtively at a little distance by Ric and Rac, the twins. Neither La Condesa nor the Doctor mentioned these apparitions, or hardly noticed them, and went on with their conversation, pleasantly.

Ric and Rac, after skulking about the boat deck, keeping well out of sight of the objects of their attentions, whose habits and designs they knew well, heard at last a confusion of most promising sounds coming from behind the second great funnel, a fairly dark and private place: a light scuffling, slipping boot heels, frantic smothered feminine yaps and hisses, a male voice gleefully gurgling and crowing. Ric and Rac could not understand the words, but they knew in their bones the lingua franca of gallantry. Discreetly as little foxes they approached, holding each other back, for fear the other would get the first glimpse, exchanging shrewd glances, the whites of their eyes gleaming, their pointed red tongues running round their open mouths. The wind whistled past their ears and whipped their hair against their cheeks; their stringy garments flattened against their meager frames as they leaned upon the funnel and slid round towards the enticing noises.

In greedy silence and stillness they observed the expected scene. Lizzi and Herr Rieber were huddled together on the deck, backs to the funnel, fighting, laughing, wrestling. He was trying to play with her knees, and she was pulling down her skirts with one hand and pushing feebly at him with the other. Ric and Rac waited for something more interesting, but the bony girl broke away and shoved the fat man almost over on his back. The front of her blouse was open almost to the belt and the children remarked with distaste that there was really nothing to see. Tossing her head about, squealing, the girl's wild eyes pointed suddenly at Ric and Rac. She gave a shrill, new kind of scream, “Oh, look, oh look, oh—” waving her long arms at them.

Herr Rieber sobered at once, and as Lizzi sprang upright in an instantaneous unfolding movement like a jackknife, he got to his feet by squatting first, then supporting himself on a coil of rope and at last heaving himself up with a laborious groan. Ric and Rac merely took a step backward around the funnel, still gazing, balanced for flight if necessary.

“
What
are you doing here, you shameless creatures?” asked Herr Rieber, taking a somewhat choked but severely paternal tone.

“Watching you,” said Rac, pertly, putting out her tongue; and Ric joined in, “Go on, don't stop. We'll tell you if anybody's coming.”

Herr Rieber, honestly shocked by such early cynicism, rushed at them snarling, with ready hands, but they leaped out of his reach.

“Out of here!” bawled Herr Rieber, almost beside himself. Ric and Rac danced, actually clapping their hands for pure glee, as Herr Rieber bounded here and there after them, aiming blows which landed in air and turned him right about. Ric and Rac pranced savagely around him, shouting, “A peso, a peso, or we'll tell—a peso or we'll tell—a peso—”

“Monsters!” cried Lizzi hoarsely. “You horrible little—”

“A peso, a peso!” chanted Ric and Rac, still sliding around Herr Rieber and avoiding his blows with perfect ease. Herr Rieber stopped, panting, head down like an exhausted bull in the ring. He reached in his pocket. A peso rang on the deck and rolled. Ric put his foot on it. “One for her too,” he said, “one for her.” His face was sharp and cool and wary. Herr Rieber cast away another peso. Ric snatched them both and clutching them in one hand he motioned to Rac, who followed him instantly.