The _Elsinore_ is truly the ship of souls, the world in miniature; and,
because she is such a small world, cleaving this vastitude of ocean as
our larger world cleaves space, the strange juxtapositions that
continually occur are startling.
For instance, this afternoon on the poop. Let me describe it. Here was
Miss West, in a crisp duck sailor suit, immaculately white, open at the
throat, where, under the broad collar, was knotted a man-of-war black
silk neckerchief. Her smooth-groomed hair, a trifle rebellious in the
breeze, was glorious. And here was I, in white ducks, white shoes, and
white silk shirt, as immaculate and well-tended as she. The steward was
just bringing the pretty tea-service for Miss West, and in the
background Wada hovered.
We had been discussing philosophy—or, rather, I had been feeling her
out; and from a sketch of Spinoza’s anticipations of the modern mind,
through the speculative interpretations of the latest achievements in
physics of Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir William Ramsay, I had come, as
usual, to De Casseres, whom I was quoting, when Mr. Pike snarled orders
to the watch.
“‘In this rise into the azure of pure perception, attainable only by a
very few human beings, the spectacular sense is born,’.” I was quoting.
“‘Life is no longer good or evil. It is a perpetual play of forces
without beginning or end. The freed Intellect merges itself with the
World-Will and partakes of its essence, which is not a moral essence
but an æsthetic essence . . . ”
And at this moment the watch swarmed on to the poop to haul on the
port-braces of the mizzen-sky-sail, royal and topgallant-sail. The
sailors passed us, or toiled close to us, with lowered eyes. They did
not look at us, so far removed from them were we. It was this contrast
that caught my fancy. Here were the high and low, slaves and masters,
beauty and ugliness, cleanness and filth. Their feet were bare and
scaled with patches of tar and pitch. Their unbathed bodies were
garmented in the meanest of clothes, dingy, dirty, ragged, and sparse.
Each one had on but two garments—dungaree trousers and a shoddy cotton
shirt.
And we, in our comfortable deck-chairs, our two servants at our backs,
the quintessence of elegant leisure, sipped delicate tea from
beautiful, fragile cups, and looked on at these wretched ones whose
labour made possible the journey of our little world. We did not speak
to them, nor recognize their existence, any more than would they have
dared speak to us.
And Miss West, with the appraising eye of a plantation mistress for the
condition of her field slaves, looked them over.
“You see how they have fleshed up,” she said, as they coiled the last
turns of the ropes over the pins and faded away for’ard off the poop.
“It is the regular hours, the good weather, the hard work, the open
air, the sufficient food, and the absence of whisky. And they will keep
in this fettle until they get off the Horn. And then you will see them
go down from day to day. A winter passage of the Horn is always a
severe strain on the men.
“But then, once we are around and in the good weather of the Pacific,
you will see them gain again from day to day. And when we reach Seattle
they will be in splendid shape. Only they will go ashore, drink up
their wages in several days, and ship away on other vessels in
precisely the same sodden, miserable condition that they were in when
they sailed with us from Baltimore.”
And just then Captain West came out the chart-house door, strolled by
for a single turn up and down, and with a smile and a word for us and
an all-observant eye for the ship, the trim of her sails, the wind, and
the sky, and the weather promise, went back through the chart-house
door—the blond Aryan master, the king, the Samurai.
And I finished sipping my tea of delicious and most expensive aroma,
and our slant-eyed, dark-skinned servitors carried the pretty gear
away, and I read, continuing De Casseres:
“‘Instinct wills, creates, carries on the work of the species. The
Intellect destroys, negatives, satirizes and ends in pure nihilism,
instinct creates life, endlessly, hurling forth profusely and blindly
its clowns, tragedians and comedians. Intellect remains the eternal
spectator of the play. It participates at will, but never gives itself
wholly to the fine sport. The Intellect, freed from the trammels of the
personal will, soars into the ether of perception, where Instinct
follows it in a thousand disguises, seeking to draw it down to earth.’”