Atlantis — Section 7

XV

A few minutes after five o'clock Frederick was already on deck.

He seated himself on the same bench as yesterday, opposite the companionway leading down to the dining-room.

His steward, a sympathetic, indefatigable young man from the province of Magdeburg, brought him tea and toast.

It was a boon to Frederick.

Every few minutes the water dashed over the railing and washed the deck.

From the penthouse over the door of the companionway, streams would suddenly come raining down, completely drenching Max Pander's little mate, who was now standing on guard.

The masts and rigging were decorated with icicles, and rain and snow were falling alternately.

It seemed as if the dreary grey dawn, with its uproar, with the whining, whistling, and howling of the furious wind in the masts and rigging, with the swishing and seething of the waters, wanted to prolong its existence infinitely, while the day refused to enter.

Warming his hands on his big tea-cup, he looked out over the ship's side, which every now and then seemed to sink perpendicularly.

His eyes glowed.

He felt as if they had sunk deep into their sockets.

After the hardships of the last few days, especially the past night, it was natural that he should feel bruised, bodily and spiritually.

He had a sense of vacancy and dull-mindedness, a welcome feeling, to be sure, compared with his sensations of the night, when the procession of images passed through his brain.

Nevertheless, the strong, moist, tonic wind, the taste of salt on his lips refreshed him.

He shivered a little, and sat with his head sunk in the upturned collar of his overcoat.

Presently he began to feel pleasantly drowsy.

But he did not fail to perceive the full majesty in the turmoil of the waves and the struggle of the floating palace.

There was beauty and strength in the steamer's fixed course, in the way it clove the rolling crests of the bottle-green waves, steady, tranquil, fearless.

He admired the _Roland_, praised it, and was grateful to it as to a living being.

Next after him to appear on deck were three children, two girls and a boy, of from five to eleven.

One of the helpful stewards fastened their chairs and most solicitously guided them to their seats, one at a time.

Children are spoiled on steamers.

There they sat, rocked to and fro, fearlessly looking out upon the solemn, awful rolling of the long waves, upon the horror of the tempest.

Shortly after seven o'clock, a slim man wearing the ship's uniform slowly approached Frederick.

Frederick had noticed him the day before and been interested by his air of cool impassibility.

He was smoking a cigarette and inhaling, as when Frederick had first seen him.

Wearing an expression of profound apathy, he seemed to be completely absorbed in this occupation of smoking and inhaling.

As if casually, he drew near Frederick's bench, touched his cap, and said: "Doctor von Kammacher?"

"Yes."

"Here is a letter for you," he said, drawing it from his waistcoat pocket.

"It came by the French pilot-boat yesterday.

The reason I did not deliver it is, that I could not find your name on the passenger list.

My name is Rinck.

I am in charge of the mail on board."

Frederick thanked him.

He was moved to see his father's handwriting.

Rather for the sake of being friendly than from genuine interest at that moment, he asked Mr. Rinck what prospect there was of better weather.

The sole answer was an unintelligible English word, a shrug of the shoulders, and a puff of cigarette smoke blown with gusto.

Frederick put the letter in his breast pocket, and he felt his heart beneath beat more warmly, less turbulently.

He had to close his eyes to prevent a hot gush of tears.

Doctor Wilhelm found him in this soft mood, and it occurred to him that perhaps after all Frederick had been tragically affected by the bitter close of his professional career.

"I slept like a bear," he said.

And it was evident from the healthy colour of his face and his comfortable way of stretching and yawning that his night's sleep had thoroughly refreshed him.

"But the weather is fiendish," he added, seating himself close beside Frederick.

"Congratulate you," said Frederick.

"I didn't sleep a wink."

"Take some veronal.

But whatever you do, come down now to breakfast with me.

The best thing for you is to keep moving.

So I advise you, after breakfast to come with me on my visit to the steerage.

It will take your mind off things and may interest you.

There are interesting types there, women, too.

But before we go, we must make ourselves insect-proof.

We'll puff powder on our clothes in my room."

XVI

The gentlemen had breakfasted--baked potatoes and cutlets, ham and eggs, broiled flounder and other fish, beside tea and coffee--and were entering the steerage.

Here, to keep from falling, they had to hold fast to the iron posts supporting the ceiling.

After their eyes had grown accustomed to the twilight always reigning in the steerage, they saw a swarm of human beings rolling on the floor, groaning, whimpering, wailing, shrieking.

The weather did not permit of the opening of the port-holes, and the exhalations of about twenty Russian-Jewish families, with bag and baggage and babies, polluted the air to such an extent, that Frederick could scarcely breathe.

Mothers lying on their backs with open mouths and closed eyes, more dead than alive, had infants at their breasts; and it was fearful to see how the retching convulsed them.

"Come," said Doctor Wilhelm, observing something like a tendency to faint in Frederick's face.

"Come, let us show how superfluous we are."

But Doctor Wilhelm and the Red Cross nurse, who accompanied him, had a chance, here and there, to do some good.

He ordered grapes and a tonic for those who were suffering most.

These things were obtained from the store-rooms of the first and second cabin.

With great difficulty they made their way from section to section.

Everywhere the same misery, the same flight from want and infuriated persecution.

Even the pale faces of those who were able to keep on their feet and had found a place to stand in that swaying shelf of misery, were marked by a hopeless, brooding expression of anguish and bitterness.

Among the hundreds of immigrants, there were some pretty girlish faces.

To a few the fever produced by the unusual circumstances had imparted a bold, passionate charm.

The glances of the physicians and these girls met.

Such circumstances overstimulate the feelings and make them highly susceptible.

Great stress, great danger cause the life of the moment to flare up more alluringly and also create a sense of profound equality among human beings.

In the very midst of fear and tension, a boldness develops ready at any moment to make a leap.

Doctor Wilhelm pointed out to Frederick a Russian-Jewish girl of about seventeen.

The expression of her face was sombre.

Her features were most delicately chiselled, and she was as transparent as an image of wax.

Doctor Wilhelm, observing the defiant air with which she glowered at Frederick, remarked that he must have conquered at first sight.

On passing farther, Frederick heard a voice bawl his name.

It was Wilke, but a very different Wilke from the one he had met on deck the morning before.

He was cursing and scolding at everybody and everything, while trying to raise himself from his mattress; a feat rather difficult for him to accomplish, because, in the first place, the rolling of the vessel in the steerage was fearful, and in the second place, he had evidently been trying to counteract the wretchedness of his condition by the imbibing of whisky.

Doctor Wilhelm gave him a sharp berating.

Wilke, very clearly, was a nuisance, perhaps even a danger, to everybody about him.

In his intoxication he fancied he was being pursued.

The rags from his open bundle lay spread on his mattress mixed with cheese and bread-crumbs, and in his right hand he held open a large pocket-knife.

Doctor Wilhelm had not been aware that he was dealing with a particular acquaintance of Frederick's. His admonitions were of no effect.

Wilke shouted that his neighbours had robbed him, and so had the stewards, and the sailors and the captain.

Frederick took his knife away from him, spoke to him in a military tone, and unceremoniously touched a scar on the rough fellow's hairy neck to recall to him the fact that he had already sewed one knife wound, from which he had barely escaped with his life.

That worked, and Wilke seemed to be repentant.

Frederick gave him some money, but not for whisky, as he told him, and added he would try his best for him, but only if he heard that he had been behaving like a decent human being.

XVII

The physicians ascended on deck again.

On breathing in the ocean's pure breath after the foul odours of the steerage, Frederick felt as if he had escaped from a hideous, suffocating hell.

With difficulty they made their way across the wet, empty deck, ever and again washed by waves sweeping overboard.

To keep their footing they had to cling to the railing.

Not a soul was on deck.

The ship, restlessly rolling and pounding, seemed to have been left to fight its fight alone.

But this was an awful scene that relieved and refreshed Frederick.

He went to the ladies' parlour, there to read the letter from home, which he had nearly forgotten.

A few women, who were not seasick, were scattered through the room, lolling in their chairs in a state of limp exhaustion.

The saloon smelled of plush and varnish.

It was decorated with a number of mirrors in gold frames, there was a grand piano, and the sound of footsteps was muffled by the soft carpet covering the floor.

The prevailing colour was blue.

Frederick made himself comfortable in one of the blue arm-chairs, and opened the envelope.

He found a letter from his mother also.

But he was more anxious to learn his father's feelings and opinion of the step he had taken, and he read his letter first.

* * * * * Dear Frederick, I do not know whether this letter will find you, or where it will find you.

Perhaps not until you reach New York, where it may arrive later than you.

I should really like you to have your old father's and mother's greetings on your trip, which is something of a surprise to us.

But we are used to surprises from you, since we have not had your unreserved confidence for a long time.

I am a fatalist, and far from wishing to bore you with reproaches; but it is a pity that ever since you have been of age, so many differences have arisen in our ways of thinking and acting.

A great pity, God knows.

If only you had sometimes listened to me--but, as I said, there's no use to come limping after with "if only's" and the like.

My dear boy, now that fate has afflicted you so sorely--I told you from the very first that Angèle comes of a diseased family--at least hold your head up.

If you do, then nothing's lost.

And I especially beseech you--don't take that nonsense of your failure with bacilli too much to heart.

You know, I've already told you I think all the noise they make about bacilli is a hoax.

Why, Pettenkofer himself swallowed the whole culture of a typhus bacillus without its hurting him.

For all I care, go to America.

It may not be a bad idea and need not be a failure, I know persons whose lives were wrecked here and who went to America and returned millionaires, to be envied and fawned upon.

I don't doubt that after all you have gone through, you have carefully weighed and considered the step you are taking.

Dear Frederick, I beg of you, concentrate.

The man who wants too much wants nothing.

Above all, get rid of your philanthropic notions.

You would never believe me when I told you that you uselessly sacrificed your money, your time, and your career to your philanthropic notions.

And don't take up with Utopias, such as, for example, Socialism is, even at best.

Bismarck is gone.

The exceptional law against the Socialists has been repealed.

Now we'll be seeing wonders from that pack of red internationals without a country.

Did you read that some Anarchist dogs have again been throwing bombs--in Paris in a café not far from the Gare St. Lazare, right among a lot of innocent people, and seven or eight were killed.

My dear boy, you were in Paris.

For God's sake, in the discontented mood you are in, don't throw yourself in with such desperate elements.

Forgive me.

It was a slip of my pen.

But here in Görlitz, far from the firing line, even a rational man, when he is troubled, begins to imagine things.

With your talents you might have been an officer on a general's staff long ago.

God be with you.

Write to us.

I am convinced that with your great talents, you will strike root over there and make your fortune.

Be on your guard against art and against side interests, from which a man cannot make a living.

Do you know that the Grand Duke has made Botho his adjutant?

It looks as if the boy might rise pretty high.

Have a good trip and sometimes think of your devoted father.

* * * * * With a sigh and a short, almost inaudible laugh of great compassion and great bitterness, Frederick folded up the letter.

"'I don't know whether this letter will find you, or where it will find you,'" he repeated, and added mentally, "or how it will find you."

Then he sat still for a while, staring into space.

After a time he became observant of the American jackanapes, who had annoyed him in the smoking-room the day before.

He was flirting with a young lady apathetically lounging in an easy-chair, a Canadian, Frederick had been told.

He did not trust his eyes when he saw the American, who had been toying with a small box of matches, pile them up carelessly, and set fire to them in that inflammable room.

A steward came up and modestly explained that it was his duty to ask him to refrain from what he was doing.

At which the jackanapes dismissed him with "Get out of here, you idiot."

Frederick drew out his mother's letter, but before reading it, he had to meditate briefly upon the matter that took the place of brains in the young American's skull.

* * * * * My Dear Son, Your mother's prayers accompany you.

You have gone through a great deal and suffered very much for one of your years.

To let you hear something pleasant at the very start, I will tell you of the children.

They are very well.

This week I convinced myself with my own eyes that they have a good home with Pastor Mohaupt.

Albrecht is splendid.

Bernhard, you know, is more like his mother and always has been a quiet child.

But he seemed more alert and more talkative.

The life in the pastor's house and on the farm seems to please him.

Pastor Mohaupt thinks both boys are by no means untalented.

He has already begun to give them lessons in Latin.

Little Annemarie asked me very timidly about her mother, but especially about you.

She spoke of you often.

I told the children there was a medical congress in New York or Washington, where they would at last make an end of that dreadful disease, consumption.

My dear child, do come back soon to this dear old Europe.

I had a long talk with Doctor Binswanger.

He told me your wife's trouble is hereditary.

It was in her all the time and would certainly have cropped out, sooner or later.

He spoke of your work, too, dear child, and thought you ought not allow yourself to be crushed.

Four or five years of hard work, he said, would make up for your set-back.

Dear Dietrich, listen to your old mother and put your trust in our loving Father in heaven.

I think you are an atheist.

Just laugh at your old mother.

But believe me, we are nothing without God's help and mercy.

Pray sometimes.

It won't do any harm.

I know how you reproach yourself on Angèle's account.

Binswanger says you may have a perfectly easy conscience.

And if you pray, believe me, God will remove every thought of guilt from your harassed soul.

You are only thirty.

I am seventy.

From the experience of the forty years more that I have, I tell you, your life can still turn out so that some day you will scarcely have a recollection of all you are now suffering.

You will remember the facts; but you will try in vain to recall the feelings of anguish with which they are now connected in your mind.

I am a woman.

I was fond of Angèle.

And yet I could observe you two together perfectly objectively.

Believe me, there were times when she would have driven any man desperate.

* * * * * The end of the letter was all motherly tenderness.

Frederick saw himself at his mother's sewing-table by the window, and in his thoughts kissed her hair, her forehead, her hands.

When he looked up, he heard the steward remonstrating with the American and heard the American say in good German: "The captain's a donkey."

The word had the effect of an electric shock.

The next instant another pile of matches sent up a wavering flare in the gloomy, terrifying twilight.

Frederick mentally cut out the young man's cerebrum and cerebellum for an anatomical examination, proceeding strictly according to the rules of dissection, as he had so frequently done in actuality.

He hunted for the centre of stupidity, which undoubtedly composed the American's whole soul, though his impudence, which he possessed in a rare degree, may also have had its seat in the brain.

Frederick had to laugh.

In his amusement he realised that little Ingigerd Hahlström no longer had any power over him, less, perhaps than, for example, the dark Jewess from Odessa, whom he had seen for the first time only a quarter of an hour before.

Captain von Kessel entered.

He greeted Frederick with a slight nod of his head and seated himself at a table beside a lady, with whom he was acquainted, apparently.

The American coxcomb and the pretty Canadian exchanged glances.

She was languishing in her easy-chair, pale but coquettish.

Frederick set her down as a woman of unusual southern beauty--straight nose, quivering nostrils, heavy, nobly arched eyebrows, black as her hair and the shadowy down over her fine, expressive, twitching lips.

Her gestures had the weary grace of a Spaniard.

She was laughing, and her long, slim form stretched on the chair shook.

Her admirer, with a comic expression of seriousness, was again building a little pile of matches.

In her weak condition she was unable to resist the impulse to laugh, and every now and then hid her face behind a black lace shawl.

It was an exciting moment when the American, in defiance of the Captain's presence, again made ready for his dangerous play.

Von Kessel, broad and ponderous and somewhat too short-legged, seemed out of proportion in the dainty parlour.

He was speaking quietly with his lady.

From the expression of his face it was evident that the weather was giving him cause to be serious.

Suddenly the matches flared up.

Now the captain's calm St. Bernard head turned slightly, and a voice said in a tone not to be misunderstood: "Put that fire out!"

Frederick had never heard an order from a man's lips so incisive, so truly commanding, so fearful.

The American turned pale and in the twinkling of an eye smothered the flame.

The beautiful Canadian closed her eyes.

But the captain, as if nothing had occurred, continued to converse with his lady.