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from where he asked bitterly: "Do you want to order anything else?"
"No," said Gray, pulling out his purse. "We're getting up and leaving.
Letika, you stay here. Come back this evening and don't say a word. Having
discovered all you can, report to me. Understand?"
"My dear Captain," Letika said with a familiarity brought on by the
rum, "only a deaf-mute would not have understood this."
"Fine. And don't forget that not in a single instance of the many that
may occur can you speak of me, or even mention my name. Goodbye!"
Gray left. From then on he was possessed by a consciousness of
astonishing discoveries, like a spark in Berthold's powder mortar,--one of
those spiritual avalanches from under which fire escapes, blazing. He was
possessed by a desire for immediate action. He came to his senses and was
able to think clearly only when he got into the rowboat. Laughing, he held
out his hand, palm up, to the scorching sun, as he had done once as a boy in
the wine cellar; then he shoved off and began rowing swiftly towards the
harbour.
On the eve of that day and seven years after Egle, the collector of
folk songs, had told the little girl on the beach a fairy-tale about a ship
with crimson sails, Assol returned home from her weekly visit to the toy
shop feeling distressed and looking sad. She had brought back the toys that
she had taken to be sold. She was so upset she could not speak at first, but
after looking at Longren's anxious face and seeing that he expected news
that was much worse than what had actually happened, she began to speak,
running her finger over the windowpane by which she stood, gazing out at the
sea absently.
The owner of the toy shop had begun this time by opening his ledger and
showing her how much they owed him. She felt faint at the sight of the
impressive, three-digit figure.
"This is how much you've received since December," the shopkeeper said,
"and now we'll see how much has been sold." And he set his finger against
another figure, but this one was a two-digit one.
"It's a pity and a shame to look."
"I could see by looking at his face that he was rude and angry. I'd
have gladly run away, but, honestly, I was so ashamed I had no strength to.
And he went on to say: 'There's no profit in it for me any more, my dear
girl. Imported goods are in demand now. All the shops are full of them, and
nobody buys these kind.' That's what he said. He went on talking, but I've
mixed up and forgotten what he said. He probably felt sorry for me, because
he suggested I try the Children's Bazaar and Alladin's Lamp."
Having unburdened herself of that which was most important, the girl
turned her head and looked at the old man timidly. Longren sat hunched over,
his fingers locked between his knees on which his elbows rested. Sensing her
eyes on him, he raised his head and sighed. Overcoming her depression, she
ran up to him, settled down beside him and, slipping her small hand under
the leather sleeve of his jacket, laughing and looking up into her father's
face from below, she continued with feigned liveliness:
"Never mind, it's not important. You listen, now. Anyway, I left. Well,
I came to the big, awfully frightening store; it was terribly crowded.
People shoved me, but I made my way through and went over to a black-haired
man in spectacles. I don't remember a word of what I said to him; finally,
he snickered, poked about in my basket, looked at some of the toys, then
wrapped them up in the kerchief again and handed them back."
Longren listened to her angrily. He seemed to be seeing his overawed
daughter in the richly-dressed crowd at the counter piled high with fine
goods. The neat man in the spectacles was explaining condescendingly that he
would go bankrupt if he decided to offer Longren's simple toys for sale. He
had casually and expertly set up folding houses and railroad bridges on the
counter before her; tiny, perfectly-made automobiles, electric sets,
airplanes and motors. All of this smelled of paint and school. According to
him, children nowadays only played games that imitated the occupations
of their elders.
Then Assol had gone to Alladin's Lamp and to two other
shops, but all in vain.
As she finished her tale she laid out their supper; having eaten and
downed a mug of strong coffee, Longren said: "Since we're out of luck, we'll
have to start looking for something else. Perhaps I'll sign on a ship
again--the Fitzroy or the Palermo. Of course, they're right," he continued
thoughtfully, thinking of the toys. "Children don't play nowadays, they
study. They keep on studying and studying, and will never begin to live.
This is so, but it's a shame, it really is a shame. Will you be able to
manage without me for one voyage? I can't imagine leaving you alone." "I
could sign up with you, too. Say, as a barmaid." "No!" Longren sealed the
word with a smack of his palm on the shuddering table. "You won't sign up as
long as I'm alive. However, there's time to think of something."
He settled into a sullen silence. Assol sat down beside him on the edge
of the stool; out of the corner of his eye, without turning his head, he
could see that she was doing her best to console him and nearly smiled. No,
if he smiled it would frighten her off and embarrass her. Mumbling to
herself, she smoothed his tumbled grey hair, kissed his moustache and,
covering her father's bristly ears with her small, tapering fingers, said,
"There, now you can't hear me say that I love you." Longren had sat
still while she had been making him pretty, as tense as a person afraid to
inhale smoke, but hearing what she said, he laughed uproariously.
"You dear," he said simply and, after patting her cheek, went down to
the beach to have a look at his rowboat.
For a while Assol stood pensively in the middle of the room, hesitating
between a desire to give herself up to wistful melancholy and the necessity
of seeing to the chores; then, having washed the dishes, she took store of
the
remains of their provisions. She neither weighed nor measured, but saw
that they would not have enough flour to last out the week, that the bottom
of the sugar tin was now visible; the packets of coffee and tea were nearly
empty and there was no butter; the only thing on which her eye rested
ruefully, as it was the sole exception, was a sack of potatoes. Then she
scrubbed the floor and sat down to stitch a ruffle on a skirt made over from
something else, but recalling instantly that the scraps of material were
tucked behind the mirror, she went over to it and took out the little
bundle; then she glanced at her reflection.
Beyond the walnut frame in the clear void of the reflected room was a
small, slim girl dressed in cheap, white, pink-flowered muslin. A grey silk
kerchief covered her shoulders. The still childish, lightly-tanned face was
lively and expressive; her beautiful eyes, somewhat serious for her age,
looked out with the timid intentness peculiar to sensitive souls. Her
irregular face was endearing in its delicate purity of line; each curve,
each elevation might have been found in many a woman's face, but taken all
together the style was extremely original -- originally sweet; we shall stop
here. The rest cannot be expressed in words, save for one word:
"enchantment".
The reflected girl smiled as impulsively as Assol. The smile turned out
rather sad; noticing this, she became disturbed, as if she were looking at a
stranger. She pressed her cheek against the glass, closed her eyes and
stroked the mirror softly over her reflection. A swarm of hazy, tender
thoughts flashed through her; she straightened up, laughed and sat down to
sew.
While she is sewing, let us have a closer look at her--a look into her.
She was made of too girls, two Assols mixed up in happy, wonderful
confusion. One was the daughter of a sailor, a craftsman, a toy-maker, the
other was a living poem, with all the marvels of its harmonies and images,
with a mysterious alignment of words, in the interaction of light and
shadow, cast by one upon the other. She knew life within the limits of her
own experience, but besides the generalities, she saw the reflected meaning
of a different order. Thus, looking into objects, we observe them not with a
linear perception, but through impression--which is definitely human and --
as is all that is human -- distinct. Something similar to that which (if we
have succeeded) we have portrayed by this example, she saw above and beyond
the visible. Without these modest victories all that was simplv
understandable was alien to her. She loved to read, but in each book she
read mostly between the lines, as she lived. Unconsciously, through
inspiration, she mack- countless ethereally-subtle discoveries at every
step, inexpressible, but as important as cleanliness and warmth.
Sometimes--and this continued for a number of days -- she even became
transformed; the physical opposition of life fell away, like the stillness
in the sweep of a bow across the strings; and all that she saw, that was
vital to her, that surrounded her, became a lace of mystery in the image of
the mundane. Many a time, apprehensive and afraid, did she go to the beach
at night where, waiting for dawn to break, she looked off most intently,
searching for the ship with the Crimson Sails. These minutes were pure joy
to her; it is difficult for us to give ourselves up thus to a fairy-tale; it
would be no less difficult for her to escape from its power and enchantment.
On some other occasion, thinking back over all this, she would
sincerely wonder at herself, not being able to believe that she had
believed, forgiving the sea with a smile and sadly coming back to reality;
as she now gathered the ruffle she thought about her past life. There had
been much that was dull and simple. The two of them being lonely together
had at times weighed heavily on her, but there had formed within her by then
that fold of inner shyness, that suffering wrinkle which prevents one from
bringing or receiving cheer. Others mocked her, saying: "She's touched in
the head", "out of her mind" -- she had become accustomed to this pain, too.
The girl had even suffered insults, after which her breast would ache as
from a blow. She was not a popular girl in Kaperna, although many suspected
that there was more to her than to others--but in a different tongue. The
men of Kaperna adored stout, heavy-limbed women with oily skin on their
large calves arid powerful arms; they courted them here by slapping them on
the back
and jostling them as they would in a crowded market place. The style of
such emotion resembled the unsophisticated simplicity of a roar. Assol was
as well suited to this determined milieu as the society of a ghost would be
to extremely high-strung people, had it even possessed all the charm of
Assunta or Aspasia; anything resembling love here was out of the question.
Thus, meeting the steady blast of a soldier's bugle, the sweet sadness of a
violin is powerless to bring the stern regiment out from under the influence
of its straight planes. The girl stood with her back to all that has been
said in these lines.
While she was humming a song of life, her small hands were working
swiftly and adroitly; biting off a thread, she looked off, but this did not
stop her from turning the hem evenly or stitching it with the accuracy of a
sewing machine. Although Longren did not return, she was not worried about
her father. Of late, he had often set out fishing in his boat at night or
simply for some air. Fear did not gnaw at her: she knew that no ill would
befall him. In this respect Assol was still the little girl that had prayed
in her own way, lisping fondly, "Good morning, God!" in the morning and:
"Goodbye, God!" in the evening.
In her opinion such a first-hand acquaintance with God was quite
sufficient for Him to ward off any disaster. She imagined herself in His
place: God was forever occupied with the affairs of millions of people and,
therefore, she believed that one should regard the ordinary shadows of life
with the polite patience of a guest who, discovering the house full of
people, waits for the bustling host, finding food and shelter as best he
can.
Having done with her sewing, Assol folded her work on the corner table,
undressed and went to bed. The lamp had been turned off. She soon noticed
that she was not sleepy; her mind was as clear as it was in the middle of
the day, and even the darkness seemed artificial; her body, as her mind,
felt carefree and dayish. Her heart beat as rapidly as a pocket watch; it
seemed to be beating between the pillow and her ear. Assol was annoyed; she
twisted and turned, now flinging off the blanket, now rolling up in it,
pulling it over her head. At last she was able to bring on the familiar
scene that helped her to fall asleep: she imagined herself tossing pebbles
into clear water and watching the faint circles grow wider and wider. Sleep
seemed to have been awaiting this handout; it came, whispered with Mary, who
stood at the head of the bed and, obeying her smile, said "Shhh" to
everything all around. Assol was asleep instantly. She dreamed her favourite
dream: of blossoming trees, a yearning, enchantment, songs and strange
scenes, of which, upon awakening, she could recall only the glitter of the
blue water rising from her feet to her heart with a chill of delight. After
dreaming of all this, she remained in that improbable world for a while
longer and then awakened fully and sat up.
She was not at all sleepy, quite as if she had not fallen asleep at
all. A feeling of novelty, of joy and a desire for action welled up in her.
She looked around with the eyes of one examining a new room. Dawn seeped
in--not with the complete lucidity of illumination, but with that faint
effort through which one can comprehend one's surroundings. The bottom of
the window was black; the top had become light. Without, by the edge of the
window frame, the morning star twinkled. Knowing that she would not fall
asleep again, Assol dressed, went over to the window and, raising the hook,
opened it. An attentive, clear silence reigned outside; it seemed to have
only now descended. In the blue twilight the bushes shimmered; farther on
the trees slept; the air was heavy and smelled of the earth.
Leaning her hand on the top of the frame, the girl looked out and
smiled. Suddenly, something akin to a distant call stirred her both from
within and without, and she seemed to awaken once again from obvious reality
to that which was clearer still and still more doubtless. From that moment
on she was caught up by an exultant richness of consciousness. Thus,
comprehending them, we listen to words spoken by others, but if one were to
repeat that which was said, we would come to understand them once again with
a different, a new meaning. She, too, now experienced this.
Picking up an old but, when she wore it, ever fresh and new silk
kerchief, she grasped it under her chin with one hand, locked the door and
darted out onto the road
barefoot. Although all was deserted and still, she imagined she
resounded like an orchestra and could actually be heard. Everything pleased
her, everything gladdened her eye. The warm dust tickled her bare feet; the
air was clear and a joy to breathe. The rooftops and clouds were etched in
black against the clearing twilight of the sky; the fences, briar roses,
gardens, orchards and the faintly seen road all dozed. In everything there
was noticeable a different order than during the day--the same, yet, in a
conformity that had formerly evaded one. Everything slept with open eyes,
furtively examining the passing girl.
She quickened her step as she got farther away, in a hurry to leave the
village behind. There were meadows beyond Kaperna; beyond the meadows hazel
bushes, poplars and chestnut trees dotted the slopes of the hills along the
shore. At the spot where the road ended and continued as an overgrown path,
a silky little black dog with a white chest and eyes tensed to speak circled
gently by Assol's feet. The dog, recognizing Assol, walked along beside her,
squealing from time to time and wriggling its body coquettishly, silently
agreeing with the girl about something as clear as "you" and "me". Assol,
glancing into its communicative eyes, was convinced that the dog could have
spoken if it had not had a secret reason for not doing so. Glimpsing its
companion's smile, the dog crinkled its nose cheerfully, wagged its tail and
trotted on ahead, but suddenly sat down indifferently, scratched its ear
which had been bitten by its eternal enemy, and ran off.
Assol entered the tall meadow grass that splashed dew upon her; holding
her hand out, palm-down, above its spikelets, she walked on, smiling at the
streaming touch. Peering into the very special faces of the flowers, the
confusion of stems, she could make out allusions--poses, efforts, movements,
features and expressions that were nearly human; she would not now have been
surprised at a procession of field mice, a gophers' ball or the rough antics
of a hedgehog, scaring a sleeping gnome with its huffing. Indeed, a grey
ball of a hedgehog rolled across her path. "Humph-humph," it snorted
angrily, like a cabbie at a pedestrian. Assol spoke with those whom she saw
and understood. "Hello, poor thing," she said to a purple, worm-eaten iris.
"You'd better stay home for a while,"--this was said to a bush stranded in
the middle of the path and, therefore, lacking leaves torn off by the
clothes of passers-by. A large beetle was clutching a bluebell, pulling the
flower down and slipping, but scrabbling up it stubbornly. "Shake off the
fat passenger," Assol advised it. True enough, the beetle lost its grip and
flew off noisily. Thus, with pounding heart, trembling and flushed, she
approached the slope of a hill and was concealed from the openness of the
meadow in the thicket where she was surrounded by true friends who -- and
she knew this--spoke in deep bass voices.
These were the large old trees that grew amongst the honeysuckle and
hazel bushes. Their drooping branches brushed the top leaves of the bushes.
White flower cones rose among the solemn gravity of the large chestnut
leaves, their aroma blended with the scent of the dew and the sap. The path,
criss-crossed by the slippery bulges of roots, now dipped, now clambered up
the slope. Assol felt at home here; she greeted the trees as if they were
people, that is, by pressing their broad leaves. She walked on, whispering
to herself or aloud: "Here you are, here's another you. How many of you
there are, my friends! I'm in a hurry, boys, let me pass! I recognize you
all, I remember you and respect you." Her "boys" patted her grandly as best
they could -- with their leaves -- and creaked with an air of kindredness in
reply. Feet muddied, she made her way out to the bluff above the sea and
stood at the very edge, breathing hard after her fast walk. A deep,
unconquerable faith rejoiced and bubbled exultantly inside of her. Her gaze
cast it beyond the horizon, from whence it returned in the faint surge of
the incoming waves, proud in its clean flight.
Meanwhile, the sea, stitched with a golden thread along the horizon,
was still asleep; save at the foot of the bluff did the water rise and fall.
The steel grey of the sleeping ocean at the shore became blue and then black
farther off. Beyond the golden thread the sky, flaring up, glowed in a great
fan of light; the white clouds were now touched with pink.
Delicate, heavenly tints shimmered within them. A quivering
snow-whiteness spread across the distant blackness; the foam sparkled and
the blood-red splash, flaring up along the golden thread, sent crimson
ripples across the ocean to Assol's feet.
She sat down and hugged her knees. She leaned towards the sea and gazed
off at the horizon with eyes that had grown large and in which nothing
grown-up remained at • all--with the eyes of a child. Everything she had
awaited so long and so fervently was taking place there, at the end of the
world. In that land of distant abysses she imagined an undersea hill;
streaming thongs of seaweed snaked upward from its slopes; amongst the round
leaves pierced by a stem at the edge strange flowers shone. The upper leaves
glistened on the surface of the ocean; he who knew not what Assol knew would
see only a shimmering and glitter.
A ship rose from the seaweed; it surfaced and stopped in the very
middle of the sunrise. From this great distance it was as clearly visible as
the clouds. Radiating joy, it flamed like wine, a rose, blood, lips, red
velvet and scarlet fire. The ship was heading straight towards Assol. Two
wings of spray were cast up by the powerful thrust of its keel; rising, the
girl pressed her hands to her breast, but the magic play of light became
ripples: the sun rose, and a bright fullness of morning tore the covers from
everything that still languished and stretched on the sleepy earth.
The girl sighed and looked around. The music had ended, but Assol was
still under the spell of its ringing chorus. This impression gradually
weakened, then became a memory and, finally, simply weariness. She lay down
in the grass, yawned and, closing her eyes blissfully, fell asleep -- a
sleep as deep and sound as a young nut, without cares or dreams.
She was awakened by a fly crawling along her bare sole. Assol wriggled
her foot impatiently and awoke; sitting up, she pinned back her dishevelled
hair and, therefore, Gray's ring made itself known, but believing it to be
simply a blade of grass that had become caught between her fingers, she held
them out. However, since the hindrance did not disappear, she raised her
hand to her eyes impatiently and instantly jumped to her feet with the force
of a shooting fountain.
Gray's radiant ring sparkled on her finger as on someone else's, for at
this moment she could not claim it to be her own, she did not feel the
finger to belong to her.
"Whose joke is this? Whose joke is this?" she cried. "Am I still
sleeping? Maybe I found it and forgot about it?"
She gripped her right hand, on which the ring was placed, with her
left, looked around in wonder, searching out the sea and the green thickets
with her gaze; but no one moved, no one was hiding in the bushes, and there
was no sign in the vastly illumined blue sea. A flush consumed Assol, and
the voices of her heart murmured the prophetic "yes". There was no
explanation for what had happened, but she found it without words of
thoughts in her strange feeling, and the ring now became dear to her. She
trembled as she pulled it off her finger and held it in her cupped hand like
water as she examined it--with her soul, her heart, the boundless joy and
clear superstition of youth--then, tucking it into her bodice, Assol buried
her face in her hands from under which a smile strained to burst forth and,
lowering her head, she slowly followed the road back home.
Thus--by chance, as people say who can read and write,--Gray and Assol
found each other on a summer's morning so full of inevitability.
After Gray returned to the deck of the Secret he stood there
motionlessly for some minutes, running his hand over his head from back to
front, which indicated a state of utter confusion. Absent-mindedness -- a
veiled movement of the emotions--was reflected in the senseless smile of the
sleep-walker on his face. His mate, Panten, was at that moment coming along
the quarter-deck, carrying a dish of fried fish; sighting Gray, he noted the
captain's strange state.
"You're not hurt, are you, sir?" he inquired cautiously. "Where were
you? What did you see? Actually, though, that's none of my business. An
agent has offerred us a profitable cargo with a bonus. But what's the matter
with you, sir?"
"Thank you," Gray said with a sigh, as if he had been untied. "That was
just what I needed, the sound of your simple, intelligent voice. It's like a
dash of cold water. Tell the crew we're weighing anchor today, Panten, and
moving into the mouth of the Liliana, about ten miles from here. The river
bed is dotted with shoals. Come for the chart. We won't need a pilot. That's
all for now.... Oh, yes, I need that profitable cargo like I need last
year's snow. You can tell the agent that's what I said. I'm going to town
now, and I'll be there till evening."
"But what happened?"
"Nothing at all, Panten. I want you to bear in mind my desire to avoid
all questions. When the time comes, I'll tell you what it's all about. Tell
the crew that we'll put up for repairs and that the local drydock is
occupied."
"Yes, sir," Panten replied dazedly to Gray's retreating back. "Aye,
aye, sir."
Although the captain's orders were quite sensible, the mate was
goggled-eyed and raced off to his own cabin, carrying the dish of fish and
mumbling: "You're puzzled, Panten. Is he thinking of trying his hand at
smuggling? Will we be flying the Jolly Roger now?" At this Panten became
confused by the wildest guesses. While he nervously wolfed down the fish,
Gray went to his cabin, took out a sum of money and, crossing the bay,
appeared in the shopping section of Liss. Now, however, he acted
determinedly and calmly, knowing down to the last detail all that he would
do on this wondrous journey. Each motion -- thought, movement--warmed him as
with the refined joy of creative work. His plan was formed instantly and
vividly. His understanding of life had undergone that last attack of the
chisel after which marble is serene in its magnificent glowing.
Gray visited three shops, placing especial stress on the accuracy of
his choice, since he was quite sure of the exact shade and colour he wanted.
In the first two shops he was shown silk of gaudy hues, intended to please
an unsophisticated vanity; in the third he found samples of imaginative
tints. The shopkeeper bustled about cheerfully, spreading out fabrics from
his old stock, but Gray was as serious as an anatomist. He patiently
unfolded parcels and bolts, laid them aside, moved them together, unrolled
and brought up to the light so many crimson strips that the counter, piled
high with them, seemed about to burst into flame. A scarlet wave fell upon
the tip of Gray's boot; a pink reflection shone on his hands and face. As he
rummaged among the slight resistance of the silk he noted the colours:
cerise, pink and old rose; the richly simmering cherry, orange and gloomy
iron reds; here there were shades of all density and strength, as different
in their imaginary kinship as are the words: "charming", "wonderful",
"magnificent", "exquisite"; in the folds there lurked allusions inaccessible
to the language of the eyesight, but a true crimson tone evaded our captain
for quite some time. The fabrics the shopkeeper brought out were good, but
they did not evoke a clear, firm "yes". At last, one colour attracted the
disarmed attention of the buyer; he sat down in an armchair by the window,
pulled a long strip from the rustling bolt, dropped it on his knees and,
sitting back with his pipe clenched between his teeth, became
contemplatively still.
This colour, as absolutely pure as a crimson ray of morning, full of
noble joy and regality, was just exactly the proud colour Gray was searching
for. It did not contain the mixed shades of fire, poppy petals, the play of
lilac or purple tints; nor was there any blueness or shadow -- nothing to
raise any doubt. It glowed like a smile with the charm of spiritual
reflection. Gray became so lost in thought that he forgot about the
shopkeeper who stood at his elbow with the alertness of a hunting dog
pointing. Tiring of waiting, the merchant called attention to himself by the
crack of a piece of cloth being ripped.
"That's enough samples," Gray said, rising. "I'm taking this silk."
"The whole bolt?" the merchant asked, politely doubting. But Gray
stared at his forehead in silence, which prodded
the shopkeeper to assume an undue familiarity. "How many metres, then?"
Gray nodded, as if telling the man to wait, and, with a pencil, figured
the amount he needed on a slip of paper.
"Two thousand metres." He inspected the shelves dubiously. "Not more
than two thousand metres."
"Two?" said the shopkeeper, jumping like a jack-in-the-box. "Thousand?
Metres? Please sit down, Captain. Would you like to see our latest samples,
Captain? As you wish. May I offer you a match, and some excellent tobacco?
Two thousand ... two thousand at...." He named a price which had as much to
do with the real price as a vow does with a simple "yes", but Gray was
satisfied, because he did not wish to bargain over anything. "A magnificent,
excellent silk," the shopkeeper was saying, "unexcelled in quality. You
won't find this anyplace else but here."
When the man had finally run out of laudation, Gray arranged to have
the silk delivered, paid his bill, including this service, and left. He was
seen to the door by the shopkeeper with as much pomp as if he were a Chinese
emperor. Meanwhile, somewhere nearby, a street musician, having tuned his
cello, drew his bow gently across it, making it speak out sadly and
wonderfully; his comrade, the flutist, showered the singing of the strings
with a trilling of throaty whistling; the simple song with which they filled
the sun-sleepy yard reached Gray's ears, and he knew instantly what he had
to do. Actually, all these days he had existed at that propitious height of
spiritual vision from which he could clearly note every hint and prompt
offered by reality. Upon hearing the sounds, drowned out by passing
carriages, he entered into the very heart of the most important impressions
and thoughts brought forth, in keeping with his nature, by this music, and
could foresee why and how that which he had thought of would turn out well.
Passing the lane, Gray entered the gate of the house from where the music
was coming. By this time the musicians were getting ready to move on; the
tall flutist, with an air of dignity brought low, waved his hat gratefully
at those windows from which coins were tossed. The cello was locked under
its owner's arm again; he was mopping his wet brow and waiting for the
flutist.
"Why, it's you, Zimmer!" Gray said to him, recognizing the violinist
who entertained the seamen in the evenings with his magnificent playing at
the Money on the Barrel Inn. "Why have you forsaken your violin?"
"Dear Captain," Zimmer objected smugly, "I play anything that makes
sounds and rattles. In my youth I was a musical clown. I have now developed
a passion for art, and I realize with a heavy heart that I've squandered
away a real talent. That is why, from a feeling of late-come greed, I love
two at once: the cello and the violin. I play the cello in the daytime and
the violin in the evening, so that I seem to be weeping, to be sobbing over
a lost talent. Will you offer me some wine? Hm? The cello is my Carmen, but
the violin...."
"Is Assol," Gray said.
Zimmer misunderstood.
"Yes," he nodded, "a solo played on cymbals or brass pipes is something
else again. However, what do I care? Let the clowns of art grimace and
twitch -- I know that fairies dwell within the violin and the cello."
"And what dwells in my tur-i-loo?" the flutist asked as he walked up.
He was a tall fellow with a sheep's blue eyes and a curly blond beard. "Tell
me that now."
"It all depends on how much you've had to drink since morning.
Sometimes it's a bird, and sometimes it's liquor fumes. Captain, may I
present my partner Diiss? I told him about the way you throw your money
around when you're drinking, and he's fallen in love with you, sight
unseen."
"Yes," Diiss said, "I love a grand gesture and generosity. But I'm a
sly fellow, so don't trust my vile flattery."
"Well, now," Gray said and smiled, "I'm pressed for time, and the
matter is urgent. I can offer you a chance to earn some good money. Put
together an orchestra, but not one that's made up of fops with funeral
parlour faces who've forgotten in their musical pedantry or,--worse
still--in their gastronomical soundings, all about the soul of music and are
slowly spreading a pall over the stage with their intricate noises,-- no.
Get together your friends who can make the simple hearts of cooks and
butlers weep, get
together your wandering tribe. The sea and love do not stand for
pedants. I'd love to have a drink with you and polish off more than one
bottle, but I must go. I've got a lot to attend to. Take this and drink to
the letter A. If you accept my proposition, come to the Secret this evening.
It's moored near the first dam."
"Right!" Zimmer cried, knowing that Gray paid like a king. "Bow, Diiss,
say 'yes' and twirl your hat from joy! Captain Gray has decided to get
married!"
"Yes," Gray replied simply. "I'll tell you the details on board the
Secret. As for you...."
"Here's to A!" Diiss nudged Zimmer and winked at Gray. "But... there
are so many letters in the alphabet! Won't you give us something for Z,
too?"
Gray gave them some more money. The musicians departed. He then went to
a commission agent and placed a secret order for a rush job, to be completed
in six day's time, and costing an impressive amount. As Gray returned to his
ship the agent was boarding a steamboat. Towards evening the silk was
delivered; Letika had not yet returned, nor had the musicians arrived; Gray
went off to talk to Panten.
It should be noted that in the course of several years Gray had been
sailing with the same crew. At first, the captain had puzzled the sailors by
the eccentric nature of his voyages and stops--which sometimes lasted for
months--in the most trade-lacking, unpopulated places, but in time they were
inspired by Gray's "grayism". Often he would sail with ballast alone, having
refused to take on a profitable cargo for the sole reason that he did not
like the freight offered. No one could ever talk him into taking on a load
of soap, nails, machine parts or some such that would lie silently in the
hold, evoking lifeless images of dull necessity. But he was always ready to
take on fruit, china, animals, spices, tea, tobacco, coffee, silk and rare
varieties of wood: ebony, sandalwood and teak. All this was in keeping with
the aristocratism . of his imagination, creating a picturesque atmosphere;
small wonder then that the crew of the Secret, having been nurtured thus in
the spirit of originality, should look down somewhat upon all other ships,
engulfed as they were in the smoke of plain, ordinary profit. Still and all,
this time Gray noted their questioning looks: even the dumbest sailor knew
that there was no need to put up for repairs in a forest river.
Panten had naturally passed Gray's orders on to them. When Gray entered
his mate was finishing his sixth cigar and pacing up and down the cabin,
dizzy from so much smoke and stumbling over chairs. Evening was approaching;
a golden shaft of light protruded through the open porthole, and in it the
polished visor of the captain's cap flashed.
"Everything's shipshape," Panten said sullenly. "We can weigh anchor
now if you wish."
"You should know me by now," Gray said kindly. "There's no mystery
about what I'm doing. As soon as we drop anchor in the Liliana I'll tell you
all about it, and you won't have to waste so many matches on cheap cigars.
Go on and weigh anchor."
Panten smiled uncomfortably and scratched an eyebrow.
"Yes, I know. Not that I ... all right."
After he was gone Gray sat very still for a while, looking out of the
door that was slightly ajar, and then went to his own cabin. There he first
sat, then lay down and then, listening to the clatter of the windlass
pulling up the loud chain, was about to go up to the forecastle deck but
fell to pondering and returned to the table where his finger drew a quick,
straight line across the oilcloth. A fist struck against the door brought
him out of his maniacal trance; he turned the key, letting in Letika. The
sailor, panting loudly, stood there looking like a messenger who has averted
an execution at the very last moment.
"Let's go, Letika, I said to myself from where I stood on the pier," he
said, speaking rapidly, "when I saw the boys here dancing around the
windlass and spitting on their hands. I have an eagle-eye. And I flew. I was
breathing down the boatman's back so hard he broke out in a nervous sweat.
Did you want to leave me behind, Captain?"
"Letika," Gray said, peering at his bloodshot eyes, "I expected you
back no later than this morning. Did you pour cold water on the back of vour
head?"
"Yes. Not as much as went down the hatch, but I did. I've done
everything."
"Let's have it."
"There's no sense talking, Captain. It's all written down here. Read
it. I did my best. I'm leaving."
"Where to?"
"I can see by the look on your face that I didn't pour enough cold
water on my head."
He turned and exited with the strange movements of a blind man. Gray
unfolded the slip of paper; the pencil must have been surprised as it
produced the scrawl that resembled a crooked fence. This is what Letika had
written:
"Following orders. I went down the street after 5 p.m. A house with a
grey roof and two windows on either side; it has a vegetable garden. The
person in question came out twice: once for water and once for kindling for
the stove. After dark was able to look into the window, but saw nothing on
account of the curtain."
There followed several notations of a domestic nature which Letika had
apparently gleaned in conversation over a bottle, since the memorandum ended
rather abruptly with the words: "Had to add a bit of my own to square the
bill."
However, the gist of the report stated but that which we know of from
the first chapter. Gray put the paper in his desk, whistled for the watch
and sent the man for Panten, but the boatswain Atwood showed up instead,
hastily pulling down his rolled-up sleeves.
"We've tied up at the dam. Panten sent me down to see what the orders
are. He's busy fighting off some men with horns, drums and other violins.
Did you tell them to come aboard? Panten asked you to come up. He says his
head's spinning."
"Yes, Atwood. I invited the musicians aboard. Tell them to go to the
crew's quarters meanwhile. We'll see to them later. Tell them and the crew
I'll be up on deck in fifteen minutes, I want everyone in attendance. I
presume you and Panten will also listen to what I have to say."
Atwood cocked his left brow. He stood by the door for a few moments and
then sidled out.
Gray spent the next ten minutes with his face buried in his hands; he
was not preparing himself for anything, nor was he calculating. He simply
wished to be silent for a while. In the meantime, everyone awaited him
anxiously and with a curiosity full of surmise. He emerged and saw in their
faces an expectation of improbable things, but since he considered that
which was taking place to be quite natural, the tenseness of these other
people's souls was reflected in his own as a slight annoyance.
"It's nothing out of the ordinary," said Gray, sitting down on the
bridge ladder. "We'll lie to in the river till we change the rigging. You've
all seen the red silk that's been delivered. The sailmaker Blent will be in
charge of making new sails from it for the Secret. We'll then set sail, but
I can't say where to. At any rate, it won't be far from here. I am going for
my wife. She's not my wife yet, but she will be. I must have red sails on my
ship so that, according to the agreement, she can spot us from afar. That is
all. As you see, there's nothing mysterious in all this. And we'll say no
more
about it."
"Indeed," said Atwood, sensing from the crew's smiling faces that they
were pleasantly surprised but did not venture to speak. "So that's it,
Captain.... It's not for us to judge. We can only obey. Everything'll be as
you wish. May I offer my congratulations." "Thank you!"
Gray gripped the boatswain's hand, but the latter.through superhuman
effort, returned the handshake so firmly the captain yielded. Then the crew
came up, mumbling words of congratulations with one man's warm smile
replacing another's. No one shouted, no one cheered -- for the men had
sensed something very special in the captain's short speech. Panten heaved a
sigh of relief and brightened visibly -- the weight that had lay on his
heart melted away. The ship's carpenter was the only one who seemed
displeased. He shook Gray's hand listlessly and said
morosely:
"How'd you ever think of it, Captain?"
"It was like a blow of your axe. Zimmer! Let's see your
boys."
The violinist, slapping the musicians on the back, pushed seven
sloppily dressed men out of the crowd.
"Here," Zimmer said. "This is the trombone. He doesn't play, he blasts.
These two beardless boys are trumpeters; when they start playing, everybody
feels like going off to war. Then there's the clarinet, the cornet and the
second fiddle. AH of them are past masters at accompanying the lively prima,
meaning me. And here's the headmaster of our merry band -- Fritz, the
drummer. You know, drummers usually look disappointed, but this one plays
with dignity and fervour. There's something open-hearted and as straight as
his drumsticks about his playing. Will there be anything else, Captain
Gray?"
"Magnificent. A place has been set aside for you in the hold, which
this time, apparently, will be filled with all sorts of scherzos, adagios
and fortissimos. To your places, men. Cast off and head out, Panten! I'll
relieve you in two hours."
He did not notice the passing of these two hours, as they slipped by to
the accompaniment of the same inner music that never abandoned his
consciousness, as the pulse does not abandon the arteries. He had but one
thought, one wish, one goal. Being a man of action, in his mind's eye he
anticipated the events, regretting only that they could not be manipulated
as quickly and easily as chequers on a board. Nothing about his calm
exterior bespoke the inner tension whose booming, like the clanging of a
great bell overhead, reverberated through his body as a deafening, nervous
moan. It finally caused him to begin counting to himself: "One... two...
thirty..."--and so on, until he said: "One thousand." This mental exercise
had its effect; he was finally able to take a detached view of the project.
He was somewhat surprised at not being able to imagine what Assol was like
as a person, for he had never even spoken to her. He had once read that one
could, though incompletely, understand a person if, imaging one's self to be
that person, one imitated the expression of his face. Gray's eyes had
already begun to assume a strange expression that was alien to them, and his
lips under his moustache were curling up into a faint, timid smile, when he
suddenly came to his senses, burst out laughing and went up to relieve
Panten.
It was dark. Panten had raised the collar of his jacket and was pacing
back and forth by the compass, saying to the helmsman:
"Port, one quarter point. Port. Stop. A quarter point
more."
The Secret was sailing free at half tack.
"You know," Panten said to Gray, "I'm pleased."
"What by?"
"The same thing you are. Now I know. It came to me right here on the
bridge." He winked slyly as the fire of his pipe lighted his smile.
"You don't say?" Gray replied, suddenly understanding what he was
getting at. "And what do you know?"
"It's the best way to smuggle it in. Anybody can have whatever kind of
sails he wants to. You're a genius, Gray!"
"Poor old Panten!" the captain said, not knowing whether to be angry or
to laugh. "Your guess is a clever one, but it lacks any basis in fact. Go to
bed. You have my word for it that you're wrong. I'm doing exactly as I
said."
He sent him down to sleep, checked their course and sat down. We shall
leave him now, for he needs to be by himself.
Longren spent the night at sea; he neither slept nor fished, but sailed
"No," said Gray, pulling out his purse. "We're getting up and leaving.
Letika, you stay here. Come back this evening and don't say a word. Having
discovered all you can, report to me. Understand?"
"My dear Captain," Letika said with a familiarity brought on by the
rum, "only a deaf-mute would not have understood this."
"Fine. And don't forget that not in a single instance of the many that
may occur can you speak of me, or even mention my name. Goodbye!"
Gray left. From then on he was possessed by a consciousness of
astonishing discoveries, like a spark in Berthold's powder mortar,--one of
those spiritual avalanches from under which fire escapes, blazing. He was
possessed by a desire for immediate action. He came to his senses and was
able to think clearly only when he got into the rowboat. Laughing, he held
out his hand, palm up, to the scorching sun, as he had done once as a boy in
the wine cellar; then he shoved off and began rowing swiftly towards the
harbour.
On the eve of that day and seven years after Egle, the collector of
folk songs, had told the little girl on the beach a fairy-tale about a ship
with crimson sails, Assol returned home from her weekly visit to the toy
shop feeling distressed and looking sad. She had brought back the toys that
she had taken to be sold. She was so upset she could not speak at first, but
after looking at Longren's anxious face and seeing that he expected news
that was much worse than what had actually happened, she began to speak,
running her finger over the windowpane by which she stood, gazing out at the
sea absently.
The owner of the toy shop had begun this time by opening his ledger and
showing her how much they owed him. She felt faint at the sight of the
impressive, three-digit figure.
"This is how much you've received since December," the shopkeeper said,
"and now we'll see how much has been sold." And he set his finger against
another figure, but this one was a two-digit one.
"It's a pity and a shame to look."
"I could see by looking at his face that he was rude and angry. I'd
have gladly run away, but, honestly, I was so ashamed I had no strength to.
And he went on to say: 'There's no profit in it for me any more, my dear
girl. Imported goods are in demand now. All the shops are full of them, and
nobody buys these kind.' That's what he said. He went on talking, but I've
mixed up and forgotten what he said. He probably felt sorry for me, because
he suggested I try the Children's Bazaar and Alladin's Lamp."
Having unburdened herself of that which was most important, the girl
turned her head and looked at the old man timidly. Longren sat hunched over,
his fingers locked between his knees on which his elbows rested. Sensing her
eyes on him, he raised his head and sighed. Overcoming her depression, she
ran up to him, settled down beside him and, slipping her small hand under
the leather sleeve of his jacket, laughing and looking up into her father's
face from below, she continued with feigned liveliness:
"Never mind, it's not important. You listen, now. Anyway, I left. Well,
I came to the big, awfully frightening store; it was terribly crowded.
People shoved me, but I made my way through and went over to a black-haired
man in spectacles. I don't remember a word of what I said to him; finally,
he snickered, poked about in my basket, looked at some of the toys, then
wrapped them up in the kerchief again and handed them back."
Longren listened to her angrily. He seemed to be seeing his overawed
daughter in the richly-dressed crowd at the counter piled high with fine
goods. The neat man in the spectacles was explaining condescendingly that he
would go bankrupt if he decided to offer Longren's simple toys for sale. He
had casually and expertly set up folding houses and railroad bridges on the
counter before her; tiny, perfectly-made automobiles, electric sets,
airplanes and motors. All of this smelled of paint and school. According to
him, children nowadays only played games that imitated the occupations
of their elders.
Then Assol had gone to Alladin's Lamp and to two other
shops, but all in vain.
As she finished her tale she laid out their supper; having eaten and
downed a mug of strong coffee, Longren said: "Since we're out of luck, we'll
have to start looking for something else. Perhaps I'll sign on a ship
again--the Fitzroy or the Palermo. Of course, they're right," he continued
thoughtfully, thinking of the toys. "Children don't play nowadays, they
study. They keep on studying and studying, and will never begin to live.
This is so, but it's a shame, it really is a shame. Will you be able to
manage without me for one voyage? I can't imagine leaving you alone." "I
could sign up with you, too. Say, as a barmaid." "No!" Longren sealed the
word with a smack of his palm on the shuddering table. "You won't sign up as
long as I'm alive. However, there's time to think of something."
He settled into a sullen silence. Assol sat down beside him on the edge
of the stool; out of the corner of his eye, without turning his head, he
could see that she was doing her best to console him and nearly smiled. No,
if he smiled it would frighten her off and embarrass her. Mumbling to
herself, she smoothed his tumbled grey hair, kissed his moustache and,
covering her father's bristly ears with her small, tapering fingers, said,
"There, now you can't hear me say that I love you." Longren had sat
still while she had been making him pretty, as tense as a person afraid to
inhale smoke, but hearing what she said, he laughed uproariously.
"You dear," he said simply and, after patting her cheek, went down to
the beach to have a look at his rowboat.
For a while Assol stood pensively in the middle of the room, hesitating
between a desire to give herself up to wistful melancholy and the necessity
of seeing to the chores; then, having washed the dishes, she took store of
the
remains of their provisions. She neither weighed nor measured, but saw
that they would not have enough flour to last out the week, that the bottom
of the sugar tin was now visible; the packets of coffee and tea were nearly
empty and there was no butter; the only thing on which her eye rested
ruefully, as it was the sole exception, was a sack of potatoes. Then she
scrubbed the floor and sat down to stitch a ruffle on a skirt made over from
something else, but recalling instantly that the scraps of material were
tucked behind the mirror, she went over to it and took out the little
bundle; then she glanced at her reflection.
Beyond the walnut frame in the clear void of the reflected room was a
small, slim girl dressed in cheap, white, pink-flowered muslin. A grey silk
kerchief covered her shoulders. The still childish, lightly-tanned face was
lively and expressive; her beautiful eyes, somewhat serious for her age,
looked out with the timid intentness peculiar to sensitive souls. Her
irregular face was endearing in its delicate purity of line; each curve,
each elevation might have been found in many a woman's face, but taken all
together the style was extremely original -- originally sweet; we shall stop
here. The rest cannot be expressed in words, save for one word:
"enchantment".
The reflected girl smiled as impulsively as Assol. The smile turned out
rather sad; noticing this, she became disturbed, as if she were looking at a
stranger. She pressed her cheek against the glass, closed her eyes and
stroked the mirror softly over her reflection. A swarm of hazy, tender
thoughts flashed through her; she straightened up, laughed and sat down to
sew.
While she is sewing, let us have a closer look at her--a look into her.
She was made of too girls, two Assols mixed up in happy, wonderful
confusion. One was the daughter of a sailor, a craftsman, a toy-maker, the
other was a living poem, with all the marvels of its harmonies and images,
with a mysterious alignment of words, in the interaction of light and
shadow, cast by one upon the other. She knew life within the limits of her
own experience, but besides the generalities, she saw the reflected meaning
of a different order. Thus, looking into objects, we observe them not with a
linear perception, but through impression--which is definitely human and --
as is all that is human -- distinct. Something similar to that which (if we
have succeeded) we have portrayed by this example, she saw above and beyond
the visible. Without these modest victories all that was simplv
understandable was alien to her. She loved to read, but in each book she
read mostly between the lines, as she lived. Unconsciously, through
inspiration, she mack- countless ethereally-subtle discoveries at every
step, inexpressible, but as important as cleanliness and warmth.
Sometimes--and this continued for a number of days -- she even became
transformed; the physical opposition of life fell away, like the stillness
in the sweep of a bow across the strings; and all that she saw, that was
vital to her, that surrounded her, became a lace of mystery in the image of
the mundane. Many a time, apprehensive and afraid, did she go to the beach
at night where, waiting for dawn to break, she looked off most intently,
searching for the ship with the Crimson Sails. These minutes were pure joy
to her; it is difficult for us to give ourselves up thus to a fairy-tale; it
would be no less difficult for her to escape from its power and enchantment.
On some other occasion, thinking back over all this, she would
sincerely wonder at herself, not being able to believe that she had
believed, forgiving the sea with a smile and sadly coming back to reality;
as she now gathered the ruffle she thought about her past life. There had
been much that was dull and simple. The two of them being lonely together
had at times weighed heavily on her, but there had formed within her by then
that fold of inner shyness, that suffering wrinkle which prevents one from
bringing or receiving cheer. Others mocked her, saying: "She's touched in
the head", "out of her mind" -- she had become accustomed to this pain, too.
The girl had even suffered insults, after which her breast would ache as
from a blow. She was not a popular girl in Kaperna, although many suspected
that there was more to her than to others--but in a different tongue. The
men of Kaperna adored stout, heavy-limbed women with oily skin on their
large calves arid powerful arms; they courted them here by slapping them on
the back
and jostling them as they would in a crowded market place. The style of
such emotion resembled the unsophisticated simplicity of a roar. Assol was
as well suited to this determined milieu as the society of a ghost would be
to extremely high-strung people, had it even possessed all the charm of
Assunta or Aspasia; anything resembling love here was out of the question.
Thus, meeting the steady blast of a soldier's bugle, the sweet sadness of a
violin is powerless to bring the stern regiment out from under the influence
of its straight planes. The girl stood with her back to all that has been
said in these lines.
While she was humming a song of life, her small hands were working
swiftly and adroitly; biting off a thread, she looked off, but this did not
stop her from turning the hem evenly or stitching it with the accuracy of a
sewing machine. Although Longren did not return, she was not worried about
her father. Of late, he had often set out fishing in his boat at night or
simply for some air. Fear did not gnaw at her: she knew that no ill would
befall him. In this respect Assol was still the little girl that had prayed
in her own way, lisping fondly, "Good morning, God!" in the morning and:
"Goodbye, God!" in the evening.
In her opinion such a first-hand acquaintance with God was quite
sufficient for Him to ward off any disaster. She imagined herself in His
place: God was forever occupied with the affairs of millions of people and,
therefore, she believed that one should regard the ordinary shadows of life
with the polite patience of a guest who, discovering the house full of
people, waits for the bustling host, finding food and shelter as best he
can.
Having done with her sewing, Assol folded her work on the corner table,
undressed and went to bed. The lamp had been turned off. She soon noticed
that she was not sleepy; her mind was as clear as it was in the middle of
the day, and even the darkness seemed artificial; her body, as her mind,
felt carefree and dayish. Her heart beat as rapidly as a pocket watch; it
seemed to be beating between the pillow and her ear. Assol was annoyed; she
twisted and turned, now flinging off the blanket, now rolling up in it,
pulling it over her head. At last she was able to bring on the familiar
scene that helped her to fall asleep: she imagined herself tossing pebbles
into clear water and watching the faint circles grow wider and wider. Sleep
seemed to have been awaiting this handout; it came, whispered with Mary, who
stood at the head of the bed and, obeying her smile, said "Shhh" to
everything all around. Assol was asleep instantly. She dreamed her favourite
dream: of blossoming trees, a yearning, enchantment, songs and strange
scenes, of which, upon awakening, she could recall only the glitter of the
blue water rising from her feet to her heart with a chill of delight. After
dreaming of all this, she remained in that improbable world for a while
longer and then awakened fully and sat up.
She was not at all sleepy, quite as if she had not fallen asleep at
all. A feeling of novelty, of joy and a desire for action welled up in her.
She looked around with the eyes of one examining a new room. Dawn seeped
in--not with the complete lucidity of illumination, but with that faint
effort through which one can comprehend one's surroundings. The bottom of
the window was black; the top had become light. Without, by the edge of the
window frame, the morning star twinkled. Knowing that she would not fall
asleep again, Assol dressed, went over to the window and, raising the hook,
opened it. An attentive, clear silence reigned outside; it seemed to have
only now descended. In the blue twilight the bushes shimmered; farther on
the trees slept; the air was heavy and smelled of the earth.
Leaning her hand on the top of the frame, the girl looked out and
smiled. Suddenly, something akin to a distant call stirred her both from
within and without, and she seemed to awaken once again from obvious reality
to that which was clearer still and still more doubtless. From that moment
on she was caught up by an exultant richness of consciousness. Thus,
comprehending them, we listen to words spoken by others, but if one were to
repeat that which was said, we would come to understand them once again with
a different, a new meaning. She, too, now experienced this.
Picking up an old but, when she wore it, ever fresh and new silk
kerchief, she grasped it under her chin with one hand, locked the door and
darted out onto the road
barefoot. Although all was deserted and still, she imagined she
resounded like an orchestra and could actually be heard. Everything pleased
her, everything gladdened her eye. The warm dust tickled her bare feet; the
air was clear and a joy to breathe. The rooftops and clouds were etched in
black against the clearing twilight of the sky; the fences, briar roses,
gardens, orchards and the faintly seen road all dozed. In everything there
was noticeable a different order than during the day--the same, yet, in a
conformity that had formerly evaded one. Everything slept with open eyes,
furtively examining the passing girl.
She quickened her step as she got farther away, in a hurry to leave the
village behind. There were meadows beyond Kaperna; beyond the meadows hazel
bushes, poplars and chestnut trees dotted the slopes of the hills along the
shore. At the spot where the road ended and continued as an overgrown path,
a silky little black dog with a white chest and eyes tensed to speak circled
gently by Assol's feet. The dog, recognizing Assol, walked along beside her,
squealing from time to time and wriggling its body coquettishly, silently
agreeing with the girl about something as clear as "you" and "me". Assol,
glancing into its communicative eyes, was convinced that the dog could have
spoken if it had not had a secret reason for not doing so. Glimpsing its
companion's smile, the dog crinkled its nose cheerfully, wagged its tail and
trotted on ahead, but suddenly sat down indifferently, scratched its ear
which had been bitten by its eternal enemy, and ran off.
Assol entered the tall meadow grass that splashed dew upon her; holding
her hand out, palm-down, above its spikelets, she walked on, smiling at the
streaming touch. Peering into the very special faces of the flowers, the
confusion of stems, she could make out allusions--poses, efforts, movements,
features and expressions that were nearly human; she would not now have been
surprised at a procession of field mice, a gophers' ball or the rough antics
of a hedgehog, scaring a sleeping gnome with its huffing. Indeed, a grey
ball of a hedgehog rolled across her path. "Humph-humph," it snorted
angrily, like a cabbie at a pedestrian. Assol spoke with those whom she saw
and understood. "Hello, poor thing," she said to a purple, worm-eaten iris.
"You'd better stay home for a while,"--this was said to a bush stranded in
the middle of the path and, therefore, lacking leaves torn off by the
clothes of passers-by. A large beetle was clutching a bluebell, pulling the
flower down and slipping, but scrabbling up it stubbornly. "Shake off the
fat passenger," Assol advised it. True enough, the beetle lost its grip and
flew off noisily. Thus, with pounding heart, trembling and flushed, she
approached the slope of a hill and was concealed from the openness of the
meadow in the thicket where she was surrounded by true friends who -- and
she knew this--spoke in deep bass voices.
These were the large old trees that grew amongst the honeysuckle and
hazel bushes. Their drooping branches brushed the top leaves of the bushes.
White flower cones rose among the solemn gravity of the large chestnut
leaves, their aroma blended with the scent of the dew and the sap. The path,
criss-crossed by the slippery bulges of roots, now dipped, now clambered up
the slope. Assol felt at home here; she greeted the trees as if they were
people, that is, by pressing their broad leaves. She walked on, whispering
to herself or aloud: "Here you are, here's another you. How many of you
there are, my friends! I'm in a hurry, boys, let me pass! I recognize you
all, I remember you and respect you." Her "boys" patted her grandly as best
they could -- with their leaves -- and creaked with an air of kindredness in
reply. Feet muddied, she made her way out to the bluff above the sea and
stood at the very edge, breathing hard after her fast walk. A deep,
unconquerable faith rejoiced and bubbled exultantly inside of her. Her gaze
cast it beyond the horizon, from whence it returned in the faint surge of
the incoming waves, proud in its clean flight.
Meanwhile, the sea, stitched with a golden thread along the horizon,
was still asleep; save at the foot of the bluff did the water rise and fall.
The steel grey of the sleeping ocean at the shore became blue and then black
farther off. Beyond the golden thread the sky, flaring up, glowed in a great
fan of light; the white clouds were now touched with pink.
Delicate, heavenly tints shimmered within them. A quivering
snow-whiteness spread across the distant blackness; the foam sparkled and
the blood-red splash, flaring up along the golden thread, sent crimson
ripples across the ocean to Assol's feet.
She sat down and hugged her knees. She leaned towards the sea and gazed
off at the horizon with eyes that had grown large and in which nothing
grown-up remained at • all--with the eyes of a child. Everything she had
awaited so long and so fervently was taking place there, at the end of the
world. In that land of distant abysses she imagined an undersea hill;
streaming thongs of seaweed snaked upward from its slopes; amongst the round
leaves pierced by a stem at the edge strange flowers shone. The upper leaves
glistened on the surface of the ocean; he who knew not what Assol knew would
see only a shimmering and glitter.
A ship rose from the seaweed; it surfaced and stopped in the very
middle of the sunrise. From this great distance it was as clearly visible as
the clouds. Radiating joy, it flamed like wine, a rose, blood, lips, red
velvet and scarlet fire. The ship was heading straight towards Assol. Two
wings of spray were cast up by the powerful thrust of its keel; rising, the
girl pressed her hands to her breast, but the magic play of light became
ripples: the sun rose, and a bright fullness of morning tore the covers from
everything that still languished and stretched on the sleepy earth.
The girl sighed and looked around. The music had ended, but Assol was
still under the spell of its ringing chorus. This impression gradually
weakened, then became a memory and, finally, simply weariness. She lay down
in the grass, yawned and, closing her eyes blissfully, fell asleep -- a
sleep as deep and sound as a young nut, without cares or dreams.
She was awakened by a fly crawling along her bare sole. Assol wriggled
her foot impatiently and awoke; sitting up, she pinned back her dishevelled
hair and, therefore, Gray's ring made itself known, but believing it to be
simply a blade of grass that had become caught between her fingers, she held
them out. However, since the hindrance did not disappear, she raised her
hand to her eyes impatiently and instantly jumped to her feet with the force
of a shooting fountain.
Gray's radiant ring sparkled on her finger as on someone else's, for at
this moment she could not claim it to be her own, she did not feel the
finger to belong to her.
"Whose joke is this? Whose joke is this?" she cried. "Am I still
sleeping? Maybe I found it and forgot about it?"
She gripped her right hand, on which the ring was placed, with her
left, looked around in wonder, searching out the sea and the green thickets
with her gaze; but no one moved, no one was hiding in the bushes, and there
was no sign in the vastly illumined blue sea. A flush consumed Assol, and
the voices of her heart murmured the prophetic "yes". There was no
explanation for what had happened, but she found it without words of
thoughts in her strange feeling, and the ring now became dear to her. She
trembled as she pulled it off her finger and held it in her cupped hand like
water as she examined it--with her soul, her heart, the boundless joy and
clear superstition of youth--then, tucking it into her bodice, Assol buried
her face in her hands from under which a smile strained to burst forth and,
lowering her head, she slowly followed the road back home.
Thus--by chance, as people say who can read and write,--Gray and Assol
found each other on a summer's morning so full of inevitability.
After Gray returned to the deck of the Secret he stood there
motionlessly for some minutes, running his hand over his head from back to
front, which indicated a state of utter confusion. Absent-mindedness -- a
veiled movement of the emotions--was reflected in the senseless smile of the
sleep-walker on his face. His mate, Panten, was at that moment coming along
the quarter-deck, carrying a dish of fried fish; sighting Gray, he noted the
captain's strange state.
"You're not hurt, are you, sir?" he inquired cautiously. "Where were
you? What did you see? Actually, though, that's none of my business. An
agent has offerred us a profitable cargo with a bonus. But what's the matter
with you, sir?"
"Thank you," Gray said with a sigh, as if he had been untied. "That was
just what I needed, the sound of your simple, intelligent voice. It's like a
dash of cold water. Tell the crew we're weighing anchor today, Panten, and
moving into the mouth of the Liliana, about ten miles from here. The river
bed is dotted with shoals. Come for the chart. We won't need a pilot. That's
all for now.... Oh, yes, I need that profitable cargo like I need last
year's snow. You can tell the agent that's what I said. I'm going to town
now, and I'll be there till evening."
"But what happened?"
"Nothing at all, Panten. I want you to bear in mind my desire to avoid
all questions. When the time comes, I'll tell you what it's all about. Tell
the crew that we'll put up for repairs and that the local drydock is
occupied."
"Yes, sir," Panten replied dazedly to Gray's retreating back. "Aye,
aye, sir."
Although the captain's orders were quite sensible, the mate was
goggled-eyed and raced off to his own cabin, carrying the dish of fish and
mumbling: "You're puzzled, Panten. Is he thinking of trying his hand at
smuggling? Will we be flying the Jolly Roger now?" At this Panten became
confused by the wildest guesses. While he nervously wolfed down the fish,
Gray went to his cabin, took out a sum of money and, crossing the bay,
appeared in the shopping section of Liss. Now, however, he acted
determinedly and calmly, knowing down to the last detail all that he would
do on this wondrous journey. Each motion -- thought, movement--warmed him as
with the refined joy of creative work. His plan was formed instantly and
vividly. His understanding of life had undergone that last attack of the
chisel after which marble is serene in its magnificent glowing.
Gray visited three shops, placing especial stress on the accuracy of
his choice, since he was quite sure of the exact shade and colour he wanted.
In the first two shops he was shown silk of gaudy hues, intended to please
an unsophisticated vanity; in the third he found samples of imaginative
tints. The shopkeeper bustled about cheerfully, spreading out fabrics from
his old stock, but Gray was as serious as an anatomist. He patiently
unfolded parcels and bolts, laid them aside, moved them together, unrolled
and brought up to the light so many crimson strips that the counter, piled
high with them, seemed about to burst into flame. A scarlet wave fell upon
the tip of Gray's boot; a pink reflection shone on his hands and face. As he
rummaged among the slight resistance of the silk he noted the colours:
cerise, pink and old rose; the richly simmering cherry, orange and gloomy
iron reds; here there were shades of all density and strength, as different
in their imaginary kinship as are the words: "charming", "wonderful",
"magnificent", "exquisite"; in the folds there lurked allusions inaccessible
to the language of the eyesight, but a true crimson tone evaded our captain
for quite some time. The fabrics the shopkeeper brought out were good, but
they did not evoke a clear, firm "yes". At last, one colour attracted the
disarmed attention of the buyer; he sat down in an armchair by the window,
pulled a long strip from the rustling bolt, dropped it on his knees and,
sitting back with his pipe clenched between his teeth, became
contemplatively still.
This colour, as absolutely pure as a crimson ray of morning, full of
noble joy and regality, was just exactly the proud colour Gray was searching
for. It did not contain the mixed shades of fire, poppy petals, the play of
lilac or purple tints; nor was there any blueness or shadow -- nothing to
raise any doubt. It glowed like a smile with the charm of spiritual
reflection. Gray became so lost in thought that he forgot about the
shopkeeper who stood at his elbow with the alertness of a hunting dog
pointing. Tiring of waiting, the merchant called attention to himself by the
crack of a piece of cloth being ripped.
"That's enough samples," Gray said, rising. "I'm taking this silk."
"The whole bolt?" the merchant asked, politely doubting. But Gray
stared at his forehead in silence, which prodded
the shopkeeper to assume an undue familiarity. "How many metres, then?"
Gray nodded, as if telling the man to wait, and, with a pencil, figured
the amount he needed on a slip of paper.
"Two thousand metres." He inspected the shelves dubiously. "Not more
than two thousand metres."
"Two?" said the shopkeeper, jumping like a jack-in-the-box. "Thousand?
Metres? Please sit down, Captain. Would you like to see our latest samples,
Captain? As you wish. May I offer you a match, and some excellent tobacco?
Two thousand ... two thousand at...." He named a price which had as much to
do with the real price as a vow does with a simple "yes", but Gray was
satisfied, because he did not wish to bargain over anything. "A magnificent,
excellent silk," the shopkeeper was saying, "unexcelled in quality. You
won't find this anyplace else but here."
When the man had finally run out of laudation, Gray arranged to have
the silk delivered, paid his bill, including this service, and left. He was
seen to the door by the shopkeeper with as much pomp as if he were a Chinese
emperor. Meanwhile, somewhere nearby, a street musician, having tuned his
cello, drew his bow gently across it, making it speak out sadly and
wonderfully; his comrade, the flutist, showered the singing of the strings
with a trilling of throaty whistling; the simple song with which they filled
the sun-sleepy yard reached Gray's ears, and he knew instantly what he had
to do. Actually, all these days he had existed at that propitious height of
spiritual vision from which he could clearly note every hint and prompt
offered by reality. Upon hearing the sounds, drowned out by passing
carriages, he entered into the very heart of the most important impressions
and thoughts brought forth, in keeping with his nature, by this music, and
could foresee why and how that which he had thought of would turn out well.
Passing the lane, Gray entered the gate of the house from where the music
was coming. By this time the musicians were getting ready to move on; the
tall flutist, with an air of dignity brought low, waved his hat gratefully
at those windows from which coins were tossed. The cello was locked under
its owner's arm again; he was mopping his wet brow and waiting for the
flutist.
"Why, it's you, Zimmer!" Gray said to him, recognizing the violinist
who entertained the seamen in the evenings with his magnificent playing at
the Money on the Barrel Inn. "Why have you forsaken your violin?"
"Dear Captain," Zimmer objected smugly, "I play anything that makes
sounds and rattles. In my youth I was a musical clown. I have now developed
a passion for art, and I realize with a heavy heart that I've squandered
away a real talent. That is why, from a feeling of late-come greed, I love
two at once: the cello and the violin. I play the cello in the daytime and
the violin in the evening, so that I seem to be weeping, to be sobbing over
a lost talent. Will you offer me some wine? Hm? The cello is my Carmen, but
the violin...."
"Is Assol," Gray said.
Zimmer misunderstood.
"Yes," he nodded, "a solo played on cymbals or brass pipes is something
else again. However, what do I care? Let the clowns of art grimace and
twitch -- I know that fairies dwell within the violin and the cello."
"And what dwells in my tur-i-loo?" the flutist asked as he walked up.
He was a tall fellow with a sheep's blue eyes and a curly blond beard. "Tell
me that now."
"It all depends on how much you've had to drink since morning.
Sometimes it's a bird, and sometimes it's liquor fumes. Captain, may I
present my partner Diiss? I told him about the way you throw your money
around when you're drinking, and he's fallen in love with you, sight
unseen."
"Yes," Diiss said, "I love a grand gesture and generosity. But I'm a
sly fellow, so don't trust my vile flattery."
"Well, now," Gray said and smiled, "I'm pressed for time, and the
matter is urgent. I can offer you a chance to earn some good money. Put
together an orchestra, but not one that's made up of fops with funeral
parlour faces who've forgotten in their musical pedantry or,--worse
still--in their gastronomical soundings, all about the soul of music and are
slowly spreading a pall over the stage with their intricate noises,-- no.
Get together your friends who can make the simple hearts of cooks and
butlers weep, get
together your wandering tribe. The sea and love do not stand for
pedants. I'd love to have a drink with you and polish off more than one
bottle, but I must go. I've got a lot to attend to. Take this and drink to
the letter A. If you accept my proposition, come to the Secret this evening.
It's moored near the first dam."
"Right!" Zimmer cried, knowing that Gray paid like a king. "Bow, Diiss,
say 'yes' and twirl your hat from joy! Captain Gray has decided to get
married!"
"Yes," Gray replied simply. "I'll tell you the details on board the
Secret. As for you...."
"Here's to A!" Diiss nudged Zimmer and winked at Gray. "But... there
are so many letters in the alphabet! Won't you give us something for Z,
too?"
Gray gave them some more money. The musicians departed. He then went to
a commission agent and placed a secret order for a rush job, to be completed
in six day's time, and costing an impressive amount. As Gray returned to his
ship the agent was boarding a steamboat. Towards evening the silk was
delivered; Letika had not yet returned, nor had the musicians arrived; Gray
went off to talk to Panten.
It should be noted that in the course of several years Gray had been
sailing with the same crew. At first, the captain had puzzled the sailors by
the eccentric nature of his voyages and stops--which sometimes lasted for
months--in the most trade-lacking, unpopulated places, but in time they were
inspired by Gray's "grayism". Often he would sail with ballast alone, having
refused to take on a profitable cargo for the sole reason that he did not
like the freight offered. No one could ever talk him into taking on a load
of soap, nails, machine parts or some such that would lie silently in the
hold, evoking lifeless images of dull necessity. But he was always ready to
take on fruit, china, animals, spices, tea, tobacco, coffee, silk and rare
varieties of wood: ebony, sandalwood and teak. All this was in keeping with
the aristocratism . of his imagination, creating a picturesque atmosphere;
small wonder then that the crew of the Secret, having been nurtured thus in
the spirit of originality, should look down somewhat upon all other ships,
engulfed as they were in the smoke of plain, ordinary profit. Still and all,
this time Gray noted their questioning looks: even the dumbest sailor knew
that there was no need to put up for repairs in a forest river.
Panten had naturally passed Gray's orders on to them. When Gray entered
his mate was finishing his sixth cigar and pacing up and down the cabin,
dizzy from so much smoke and stumbling over chairs. Evening was approaching;
a golden shaft of light protruded through the open porthole, and in it the
polished visor of the captain's cap flashed.
"Everything's shipshape," Panten said sullenly. "We can weigh anchor
now if you wish."
"You should know me by now," Gray said kindly. "There's no mystery
about what I'm doing. As soon as we drop anchor in the Liliana I'll tell you
all about it, and you won't have to waste so many matches on cheap cigars.
Go on and weigh anchor."
Panten smiled uncomfortably and scratched an eyebrow.
"Yes, I know. Not that I ... all right."
After he was gone Gray sat very still for a while, looking out of the
door that was slightly ajar, and then went to his own cabin. There he first
sat, then lay down and then, listening to the clatter of the windlass
pulling up the loud chain, was about to go up to the forecastle deck but
fell to pondering and returned to the table where his finger drew a quick,
straight line across the oilcloth. A fist struck against the door brought
him out of his maniacal trance; he turned the key, letting in Letika. The
sailor, panting loudly, stood there looking like a messenger who has averted
an execution at the very last moment.
"Let's go, Letika, I said to myself from where I stood on the pier," he
said, speaking rapidly, "when I saw the boys here dancing around the
windlass and spitting on their hands. I have an eagle-eye. And I flew. I was
breathing down the boatman's back so hard he broke out in a nervous sweat.
Did you want to leave me behind, Captain?"
"Letika," Gray said, peering at his bloodshot eyes, "I expected you
back no later than this morning. Did you pour cold water on the back of vour
head?"
"Yes. Not as much as went down the hatch, but I did. I've done
everything."
"Let's have it."
"There's no sense talking, Captain. It's all written down here. Read
it. I did my best. I'm leaving."
"Where to?"
"I can see by the look on your face that I didn't pour enough cold
water on my head."
He turned and exited with the strange movements of a blind man. Gray
unfolded the slip of paper; the pencil must have been surprised as it
produced the scrawl that resembled a crooked fence. This is what Letika had
written:
"Following orders. I went down the street after 5 p.m. A house with a
grey roof and two windows on either side; it has a vegetable garden. The
person in question came out twice: once for water and once for kindling for
the stove. After dark was able to look into the window, but saw nothing on
account of the curtain."
There followed several notations of a domestic nature which Letika had
apparently gleaned in conversation over a bottle, since the memorandum ended
rather abruptly with the words: "Had to add a bit of my own to square the
bill."
However, the gist of the report stated but that which we know of from
the first chapter. Gray put the paper in his desk, whistled for the watch
and sent the man for Panten, but the boatswain Atwood showed up instead,
hastily pulling down his rolled-up sleeves.
"We've tied up at the dam. Panten sent me down to see what the orders
are. He's busy fighting off some men with horns, drums and other violins.
Did you tell them to come aboard? Panten asked you to come up. He says his
head's spinning."
"Yes, Atwood. I invited the musicians aboard. Tell them to go to the
crew's quarters meanwhile. We'll see to them later. Tell them and the crew
I'll be up on deck in fifteen minutes, I want everyone in attendance. I
presume you and Panten will also listen to what I have to say."
Atwood cocked his left brow. He stood by the door for a few moments and
then sidled out.
Gray spent the next ten minutes with his face buried in his hands; he
was not preparing himself for anything, nor was he calculating. He simply
wished to be silent for a while. In the meantime, everyone awaited him
anxiously and with a curiosity full of surmise. He emerged and saw in their
faces an expectation of improbable things, but since he considered that
which was taking place to be quite natural, the tenseness of these other
people's souls was reflected in his own as a slight annoyance.
"It's nothing out of the ordinary," said Gray, sitting down on the
bridge ladder. "We'll lie to in the river till we change the rigging. You've
all seen the red silk that's been delivered. The sailmaker Blent will be in
charge of making new sails from it for the Secret. We'll then set sail, but
I can't say where to. At any rate, it won't be far from here. I am going for
my wife. She's not my wife yet, but she will be. I must have red sails on my
ship so that, according to the agreement, she can spot us from afar. That is
all. As you see, there's nothing mysterious in all this. And we'll say no
more
about it."
"Indeed," said Atwood, sensing from the crew's smiling faces that they
were pleasantly surprised but did not venture to speak. "So that's it,
Captain.... It's not for us to judge. We can only obey. Everything'll be as
you wish. May I offer my congratulations." "Thank you!"
Gray gripped the boatswain's hand, but the latter.through superhuman
effort, returned the handshake so firmly the captain yielded. Then the crew
came up, mumbling words of congratulations with one man's warm smile
replacing another's. No one shouted, no one cheered -- for the men had
sensed something very special in the captain's short speech. Panten heaved a
sigh of relief and brightened visibly -- the weight that had lay on his
heart melted away. The ship's carpenter was the only one who seemed
displeased. He shook Gray's hand listlessly and said
morosely:
"How'd you ever think of it, Captain?"
"It was like a blow of your axe. Zimmer! Let's see your
boys."
The violinist, slapping the musicians on the back, pushed seven
sloppily dressed men out of the crowd.
"Here," Zimmer said. "This is the trombone. He doesn't play, he blasts.
These two beardless boys are trumpeters; when they start playing, everybody
feels like going off to war. Then there's the clarinet, the cornet and the
second fiddle. AH of them are past masters at accompanying the lively prima,
meaning me. And here's the headmaster of our merry band -- Fritz, the
drummer. You know, drummers usually look disappointed, but this one plays
with dignity and fervour. There's something open-hearted and as straight as
his drumsticks about his playing. Will there be anything else, Captain
Gray?"
"Magnificent. A place has been set aside for you in the hold, which
this time, apparently, will be filled with all sorts of scherzos, adagios
and fortissimos. To your places, men. Cast off and head out, Panten! I'll
relieve you in two hours."
He did not notice the passing of these two hours, as they slipped by to
the accompaniment of the same inner music that never abandoned his
consciousness, as the pulse does not abandon the arteries. He had but one
thought, one wish, one goal. Being a man of action, in his mind's eye he
anticipated the events, regretting only that they could not be manipulated
as quickly and easily as chequers on a board. Nothing about his calm
exterior bespoke the inner tension whose booming, like the clanging of a
great bell overhead, reverberated through his body as a deafening, nervous
moan. It finally caused him to begin counting to himself: "One... two...
thirty..."--and so on, until he said: "One thousand." This mental exercise
had its effect; he was finally able to take a detached view of the project.
He was somewhat surprised at not being able to imagine what Assol was like
as a person, for he had never even spoken to her. He had once read that one
could, though incompletely, understand a person if, imaging one's self to be
that person, one imitated the expression of his face. Gray's eyes had
already begun to assume a strange expression that was alien to them, and his
lips under his moustache were curling up into a faint, timid smile, when he
suddenly came to his senses, burst out laughing and went up to relieve
Panten.
It was dark. Panten had raised the collar of his jacket and was pacing
back and forth by the compass, saying to the helmsman:
"Port, one quarter point. Port. Stop. A quarter point
more."
The Secret was sailing free at half tack.
"You know," Panten said to Gray, "I'm pleased."
"What by?"
"The same thing you are. Now I know. It came to me right here on the
bridge." He winked slyly as the fire of his pipe lighted his smile.
"You don't say?" Gray replied, suddenly understanding what he was
getting at. "And what do you know?"
"It's the best way to smuggle it in. Anybody can have whatever kind of
sails he wants to. You're a genius, Gray!"
"Poor old Panten!" the captain said, not knowing whether to be angry or
to laugh. "Your guess is a clever one, but it lacks any basis in fact. Go to
bed. You have my word for it that you're wrong. I'm doing exactly as I
said."
He sent him down to sleep, checked their course and sat down. We shall
leave him now, for he needs to be by himself.
Longren spent the night at sea; he neither slept nor fished, but sailed