irrational act.”
Wallace expelled a huff of exasperation. “You may say so, sir.”
Doyle pressed his fingertips over his lips, disarranging his mustache. His eyes scanned the horizon, which was dimly visible now, as the mist had cleared and the moon was half full. “Then there must have been foul play.”
“Or they were mightily frighted of something.”
“Out of their senses with fear. Yes. But if the captain was, as you say, a steady man, of some experience …”
“That’s what has always puzzled me about the incident. I can’t think the man I met in Marseille would abandon a seaworthy ship in a panic.”
The doctor smoothed his mustache ruminatively, and the captain moved his head from side to side, pondering the unsolved mystery.
“Perhaps,” concluded the doctor, “they didn’t all leave at once.”
A COLORED GENTLEMAN
In his own time, a man is very modern
.
J OSEPH C ONRAD
At Madeira, the
Mayumba
disgorged seven of her passengers and took on only one, a heavyset one-legged American as black as his coat, with snowy side chops descending past his strong jaw and wadded gray knots receding from his wide brow. He hobbled on his crutches directly to his berth. The night proved a rough one and the ship plunged through the turbulent water, sails trimmed, engine sputtering, her prow monotonously slapping down into the trough of every wave. By morning all was calm and the passengers gathered, bleary eyed, for their breakfast, but the American didn’t appear. It was not until afternoon that the doctor found him ensconced in the saloon sipping weak tea, genially charming the generally reticent Miss Fox. Though Doyle had half a mind to turn away, Miss Fox caught his eye and waved him into the conversation, announcing to her companion, “Here is our good Dr. Doyle.” Henry Garnet, for that was the American’s name, raised himself slightly in his chair, holding out a manicured hand, his lips parted suddenly in a smile too broad and too ready. A brief exchange followed in which it was revealed that he was the freshly appointed American consul to Liberia on his way to take up his post. To the doctor’s commiserating remark about the rough weather of the night before, Mr. Garnetoffered the astonishing reply that he had hardly noticed, being distracted by his reading of Prescott’s
Conquest of Mexico
. Was the doctor perhaps acquainted with this excellent volume?
Doyle pulled up a chair and settled into it with a sense of being snared by a complex web of previously unimaginable stickiness. He did indeed admire Prescott’s work. The consul enlarged upon the subject of recent histories, revealing his thorough familiarity with Motley’s
Rise of the Dutch Republic
. The conversation strayed to philosophical authors. The Negro confessed that in spite of certain reservations a strong favorite of his was Waldo Emerson. “One admires him for the felicity of his style, if not for the depth of his vision,” he concluded.
Had Mr. Garnet encountered the works of Oliver Wendell Holmes? Doyle earnestly inquired.
“Indeed,” was the reply. Mr. Holmes’s essay collection
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table
had delighted him when he was a young man. He had followed them in
The Atlantic
with the greatest pleasure and benefit.
Doyle fairly rubbed his eyes in wonder. Surely this man had been born into slavery or was the son of a slave. How was it possible that he should have acquainted himself with Prescott and Motley; at what sort of table exactly had he enjoyed the “benefit” of Holmes’s table talk? Miss Fox interjected a remark Doyle didn’t follow, so deeply had he fallen into puzzlement. When he came to himself and sought to reenter the conversation, he found the black man’s black eyes twinkling with such evident amusement it was as if he had read his thoughts. Miss Fox shot Doyle a chilly, incomprehensible glance; had he spoken without his own knowledge? His wonder dissolved into something sour and
Wallace expelled a huff of exasperation. “You may say so, sir.”
Doyle pressed his fingertips over his lips, disarranging his mustache. His eyes scanned the horizon, which was dimly visible now, as the mist had cleared and the moon was half full. “Then there must have been foul play.”
“Or they were mightily frighted of something.”
“Out of their senses with fear. Yes. But if the captain was, as you say, a steady man, of some experience …”
“That’s what has always puzzled me about the incident. I can’t think the man I met in Marseille would abandon a seaworthy ship in a panic.”
The doctor smoothed his mustache ruminatively, and the captain moved his head from side to side, pondering the unsolved mystery.
“Perhaps,” concluded the doctor, “they didn’t all leave at once.”
A COLORED GENTLEMAN
In his own time, a man is very modern
.
J OSEPH C ONRAD
At Madeira, the
Mayumba
disgorged seven of her passengers and took on only one, a heavyset one-legged American as black as his coat, with snowy side chops descending past his strong jaw and wadded gray knots receding from his wide brow. He hobbled on his crutches directly to his berth. The night proved a rough one and the ship plunged through the turbulent water, sails trimmed, engine sputtering, her prow monotonously slapping down into the trough of every wave. By morning all was calm and the passengers gathered, bleary eyed, for their breakfast, but the American didn’t appear. It was not until afternoon that the doctor found him ensconced in the saloon sipping weak tea, genially charming the generally reticent Miss Fox. Though Doyle had half a mind to turn away, Miss Fox caught his eye and waved him into the conversation, announcing to her companion, “Here is our good Dr. Doyle.” Henry Garnet, for that was the American’s name, raised himself slightly in his chair, holding out a manicured hand, his lips parted suddenly in a smile too broad and too ready. A brief exchange followed in which it was revealed that he was the freshly appointed American consul to Liberia on his way to take up his post. To the doctor’s commiserating remark about the rough weather of the night before, Mr. Garnetoffered the astonishing reply that he had hardly noticed, being distracted by his reading of Prescott’s
Conquest of Mexico
. Was the doctor perhaps acquainted with this excellent volume?
Doyle pulled up a chair and settled into it with a sense of being snared by a complex web of previously unimaginable stickiness. He did indeed admire Prescott’s work. The consul enlarged upon the subject of recent histories, revealing his thorough familiarity with Motley’s
Rise of the Dutch Republic
. The conversation strayed to philosophical authors. The Negro confessed that in spite of certain reservations a strong favorite of his was Waldo Emerson. “One admires him for the felicity of his style, if not for the depth of his vision,” he concluded.
Had Mr. Garnet encountered the works of Oliver Wendell Holmes? Doyle earnestly inquired.
“Indeed,” was the reply. Mr. Holmes’s essay collection
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table
had delighted him when he was a young man. He had followed them in
The Atlantic
with the greatest pleasure and benefit.
Doyle fairly rubbed his eyes in wonder. Surely this man had been born into slavery or was the son of a slave. How was it possible that he should have acquainted himself with Prescott and Motley; at what sort of table exactly had he enjoyed the “benefit” of Holmes’s table talk? Miss Fox interjected a remark Doyle didn’t follow, so deeply had he fallen into puzzlement. When he came to himself and sought to reenter the conversation, he found the black man’s black eyes twinkling with such evident amusement it was as if he had read his thoughts. Miss Fox shot Doyle a chilly, incomprehensible glance; had he spoken without his own knowledge? His wonder dissolved into something sour and
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