We sailed on the _Persia_, 376 feet long, 45 feet of beam, gross tonnage
3300, horsepower 4000, speed 14 knots an hour. As Dorothy knew nothing
of ocean sailing craft she was unable to share in my wonder at all the
splendor and comfort of this wonderful steamer.
From the first Dorothy was ill. Our boy Reverdy too became seasick. As I
was not affected in the least I had the care of both of them. A part of
the time the sea was very rough.
One night when we had been on the water three days Dorothy called to me.
She had been greatly nauseated during the afternoon. A sudden return of
the discomfort had seized her. I arose quickly and made a light. The
boat was rocking. A stiff breeze was blowing. We were headed through a
great darkness. Dorothy was deathly pale. She was unable to bring up
anything more and was convulsed with retching and coughing.
She grew suddenly quiet, her eyes closing, her lips parting. "Dear," she
murmured. I waited for what she would say. She had become at once limp
in my arms. I shook her gently, pressed my ear to her breast. I could
hear no heart beat. I called her, laid her down, wetted a towel, and
applied it to her head. She did not rouse. I went from the stateroom to
find the physician. He came hurriedly. But Dorothy was dead. That word
of endearment was her last.
Without, the sea and the sky were as black as a sunless cave. The water
rolled around us, pitching the boat forward and sideways. The timbers
creaked, lamps jiggled, the hallways seemed to undulate like snakes. But
the heart of the _Persia_ pumped with rhythmic regularity. The
passengers were asleep, or in various festivities, in cabins or in the
dining room. Nothing was stayed for this tragedy which had come to me.
On we went through the darkness! Dorothy was lying where I had placed
her, her head turned to one side, her face pale in the last sleep. I
aroused little Reverdy. He looked at his mother, kneeled by the berth,
and sobbed. The physician took us out of the cabin, locked the door, and
put us in another. I tucked little Reverdy in bed again; then I went out
to look, at the storm, the dark water, the impenetrable sky.
Back of me was America, flattened out like a map in my imagination, lost
and sunk like old Atlantis. I sent my mind across it from New York to
Chicago, from Chicago to California. What was it? Earth, a continent
containing an embattled and disappointed Douglas, millions of struggling
people. Ahead of me, over thousands of miles of water, an unknown Italy.
I lived over all my life, but mostly now all my life with Dorothy, from
those first days in Jacksonville when I was under a cloud because of
Zoe and the killing of Lamborn, to our days in Nashville; the ecstasy
of first love, our walks and restings among the Cumberland hills, the
kindness of Mother Clayton, her joy when she learned that Dorothy had
consented to become my wife. I saw again the face of Jackson, his eyes,
his reverence when he kissed the brow of Dorothy; his tears and his
feeble step when he walked away from us. And I lived over early Chicago,
all my days with Douglas. Where was he now on that flattened, negligible
map called America? In what soil had Zoe moldered into the earth? What
had become of Fortescue? Where were Abigail and Aldington, Reverdy,
Sarah, this night? How could the millions storming over slavery and war,
territories, sugar and cotton and iron, gold and railways think of these
things if they were face to face with a reality as stark as I was, in a
boat rolled by dark water, tossing forward toward Europe and with a
burden like the dead body of Dorothy? All this night I walked the deck.
I saw the dawn come up, ragged and blue, patched with dark clouds, which
the wind drove close to the mounting waves.
The captain ordered an autopsy. Dorothy had died of heart failure. Then
there was to be a burial at sea. In the afternoon the clouds lifted from
the sky. Toward the west the sun burned over the water, making a wake of
fire from the boat to the utmost horizon. I took a last look at Dorothy,
kissed her cold brow. Then she was wrapped with sheets on a plank
weighted with iron, and taken to the stern of the boat. I stood near to
see it all, with little Reverdy weeping as if his heart would break.
The body is cast into the water, and in the very golden wake of the sun.
I cannot hear the splash; I only see a slight flap of the sheet. The
water closes over instantly. A gull frightened into a slight veering off
turns to the spot where Dorothy has disappeared. No ripples to mark the
place where she has been received by the sea! The boat has gone on
without staying. I keep my eyes fixed on the place. Waves cross and
recross over it. The sunlight shifts. Tears and the sun blind my eyes. I
rest them a moment and then look again. Where was it that Dorothy sank?
What great fish started at the splash, the white apparition; and then
returned to nibble? To what depths has Dorothy sunk? To what darker
waters has she been towed by some creature of prey? The sailors have
gone to their other duties. Little Reverdy is by my side, weeping
softly. I must write to the older Reverdy back in Jacksonville. He is
her only relation in the world. To-night I must sleep, if I can.
But I do not sleep. I wonder if I have been a good husband to Dorothy.
What was she doing, how living, in the years past, when I was absorbed
in business, following the fortunes of Douglas, studying the books that
had no bearing upon her happiness nor, alas, upon mine? I saw her now as
patient, sometimes alone, perhaps always waiting for me, but never
complaining. How many happy hours had I sacrificed to other things when
I might have been with her! Was Dorothy happy? Did she love me? I began
to think over the occasions of her demonstrations of affection--after
all how few they were! Always tender toward me, but how infrequently
were there moments of passion, of ecstasy. Had I awakened all of her
nature? Had I been living a neutral life all these years? Was I in some
sort a negligible character, without magnetism, of unfulfilled passion?
A slumbering nature?
But where now was Dorothy's body? We were fifty miles, seventy-five
miles, a hundred miles from the unmarked spot of burial. She had sunk
fathoms into the abyss. The bell on the boat had rung the midnight, then
one o'clock. I heard it toll for two--then I slept. I awoke hearing
little Reverdy sobbing. I stood out of the berth and tried to comfort
him. Then we dressed and went to breakfast. Whatever happens there must
be coffee and toast. Then I walked the deck and longed for land.
We changed boats at Cherbourg. Then a dreary voyage to Naples. We
hurried through the noise and colorful disorder of Naples and drove by
carriage to Rome. We entered the same gate through which Milton and
Goethe had passed, into the Piazza di Spagna. At the foot of the steps
leading to Trinita di Monti--here where the foreigners stayed, the
English quarter. I found accommodations in a pension. First there was
the unpacking, and little Reverdy had to be kept comforted, if possible;
I must start him in school too. Life must always go on. I became
sensible of many bells. The strange noises of a civilization wholly
unknown to me came up through my window. I looked out upon the Piazza di
Spagna, knowing nothing of its history. Who would be my friends here?
Back of me was nearly a quarter of a century in America and before me
what?