The Toilers of the Sea

  For the whole of the following day he remained in the Durande's office, half leaning on the table, neither standing nor sitting, answering quietly when anyone spoke to him. People's curiosity now being satisfied, no one came to Les Bravees. There is a fair measure of curiosity involved in the urge to offer sympathy. The door of the house remained closed, and Lethierry was left alone with Deruchette. The gleam that had flickered in Lethierry's eyes had been extinguished, and the gloomy air he had worn when he first heard of the catastrophe had returned.

  Deruchette, anxious for him, had, on the suggestion of Grace and Douce, put beside him on the table, without saying a word, a pair of socks he had been knitting when the bad news arrived.

  He gave a bitter smile, saying: "So they think I'm childish."

  After a quarter of an hour's silence he added:

  "These things are all very well when you are not in trouble."

  Deruchette had removed the socks, and at the same time had taken away the compass and the ship's papers, on which he had been brooding too much.

  That afternoon, a little before teatime, the door opened and two men dressed in black came in; one was old, the other young.

  The younger man, it may be remembered, has already appeared in the course of our story.

  Both men had an air of gravity, but of different kinds of gravity. The old man had what might be called the gravity of his position, the young one the gravity of his nature. One comes from a man's dress, the other from his mind.

  As their garments indicated, both were clergymen belonging to the established church. The first thing in the appearance of the younger man that might have struck an observer was that his air of profound gravity, evidently springing from his mind, was not reflected in his person. Gravity is not inconsistent with passion, which it purifies and exalts; but the most striking characteristic of this young man was his personal beauty. As he was a priest he must have been at least twentyfive, but he looked like eighteen. He showed the harmony, and also the contrast, between a soul that seemed made for passion and a body made for love. He was fair-haired, pink-complexioned, fresh, neat, and lithe in his severe attire, with the cheeks of a girl and delicate hands. He had a lively and natural manner, though repressed. He was all charm, elegance, and almost sensuousness. The beauty of his expression redeemed this excess of grace. His frank smile, revealing the small teeth of a child, was thoughtful and devout. He had the gracefulness of a page and the dignity of a bishop.

  Under his full head of fair hair, so golden that it seemed overattractive for a man, was a high, frank, and well-shaped forehead. A double wrinkle between his eyebrows created something of the appearance of a bird--the bird of thought--hovering with outspread wings on his forehead.

  He had the appearance of one of those generous, pure, and innocent natures that develop in the opposite direction from the ordinary run of men, gaining wisdom from illusion and enthusiasm from experience.

  His appearance of youth was transparent, allowing his inner maturity to shine through. Compared with his companion, the older clergyman, he seemed at first sight the son, at a second glance the father.

  His companion was none other than the Reverend Dr. Jaquemin Herode. Dr. Herode belonged to the High Church, which is a kind of popish system without a pope. In those days the Church of England was agitated by the trends that have since been confirmed and condensed in the form of Puseyism. Dr. Herode was of that school of thought, which is almost a variant of the Church of Rome. He was tall, very proper, stiff, and commanding. There was little sign of his inner vision in his outward appearance. He was more concerned with the letter than with the spirit of his faith. He had a rather haughty demeanor and an imposing presence. He was more like a monsignore than an Anglican clergyman; his frock coat had something of the cut of a cassock. His true spiritual home would have been Rome: he was a born prelate of the antechamber. He seemed to have been created on purpose to adorn a papal court, to walk behind the gestatorial chair, with all the pontifical train, in abito paonazzo.150 The accident of having been born an Englishman and a theological training directed more toward the Old than the New Testament had put that great destiny beyond his reach. All his splendors amounted only to being rector of St. Peter Port, dean of the island of Guernsey, and suffragan to the bishop of Winchester. This, to be sure, was glory enough.

  This glory did not prevent Mr. Jaquemin Herode from being, all in all, a good man.

  As a theologian he stood high in the estimation of experts in this field, and was a man of weight in the Court of Arches, the English equivalent of the Sorbonne.151

  He had the air of a scholar, an authoritative way of screwing up his eyes, hairy nostrils, prominent teeth, a thin upper lip and a thick lower one, several academic degrees, a good living, titled friends, the confidence of the bishop, and a Bible always in his pocket.

  Mess Lethierry was so completely absorbed that his only reaction to the arrival of the two clergymen was an imperceptible frown.

  Dr. Herode came forward, bowed, said a few words about his recent promotion in a tone of sober pride, and explained that he had come, in accordance with custom, to introduce to the leading men of the parish, and to Mess Lethierry in particular, his successor, the new rector of St. Sampson, the Reverend Ebenezer Caudray, who would now be Mess Lethierry's pastor.

  Deruchette rose.

  The younger clergyman, who was the Reverend Ebenezer, bowed.

  Mess Lethierry looked at him and muttered under his breath: "Not much of a seaman."

  Grace set out chairs and the two clergyman sat down near the table.

  Dr. Herode now embarked on a speech. He had heard that a great misfortune had occurred. The Durande had been wrecked. He had therefore come, as pastor, to offer consolation and counsel. This shipwreck was unfortunate, but was also beneficial. Let us look in our hearts: were we not puffed up with prosperity? The waters of felicity are dangerous. Misfortunes must be taken in good part. The ways of the Lord are mysterious. Mess Lethierry was ruined, no doubt; but to be rich is to be in danger. You have false friends; they leave you when you fall into poverty, and you remain alone. Solus eris.152 The Durande was said to have brought in a thousand pounds sterling a year. That is too much for a wise man. Let us flee temptation and disdain mere gold. Let us accept with gratitude ruin and abandonment. Isolation brings much of good; it wins us the favor of the Lord. It was in solitude that Ajah found the hot waters while leading the asses of his father Zibeon.153 Let us not rebel against the impenetrable decrees of Providence. The holy man Job had increased in wealth after his misfortunes. Who knows but that the loss of the Durande might have compensations, even temporal compensations? For example he, Dr. Jaquemin Herode, had invested some money in a very promising affair that was under way in Sheffield, and if Mess Lethierry were to join in the enterprise with what money remained to him he would recover his fortune: it was a large order for the supply of arms to the Tsar, who was then engaged in the repression of the revolutionary movement in Poland. There would be a profit of 300 percent.

  The mention of the Tsar seemed to rouse Lethierry from his abstraction. He interrupted Dr. Herode:

  "I want nothing to do with the Tsar."

  The clergyman replied:

  "Mess Lethierry, princes are part of God's plan. It is written: Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's. The Tsar is Caesar."

  Lethierry, falling back into his reverie, muttered:

  "Caesar? Who is Caesar? I know nothing about him."

  The Reverend Dr. Herode resumed his exhortation. He did not pursue the Sheffield plan. A man who would have nothing to do with the Tsar must be a republican, and he realized that some people might be republicans. In that case Mess Lethierry should think of going to live in a republic. He would be able to restore his fortunes in the United States even more easily than in England. To multiply his remaining money tenfold he need only take shares in the great company that was developing plantations in Texas, employing more than twenty thousand slaves. br />
  "I want nothing to do with slavery," said Lethierry.

  "Slavery," replied Dr. Herode, "was instituted by divine authority. It is written: If a master smites his slave he shall not be punished, for it is his money."

  Grace and Douce, standing at the door, were drinking in the reverend doctor's words in a kind of ecstasy.

  Dr. Herode continued with his discourse. As we have said, he was, all in all, a good man, and in spite of all social and personal differences between him and Mess Lethierry, he had come with the sincere desire to offer him all the spiritual, and indeed also temporal, aid within his power.

  If Mess Lethierry was so completely ruined that he was unable to contemplate any financial speculation, whether Russian or American, why should he not take up salaried employment under government? There were some good places to be had, and the reverend doctor was ready to put forward Mess Lethierry's name for one of them. As it happened, there was a vacancy in the office of deputy viscount154 on Jersey. Mess Lethierry was popular and respected, and the Reverend Dr. Herode, dean of Guernsey and suffragan of the bishop, was sure that he could secure this post for him. The deputy viscount was an officer of considerable standing; he was present, as the representative of His Majesty, at meetings of the Court of Chief Pleas, at the deliberations of the Cohue, and at executions.

  Lethierry looked Dr. Herode in the eye. "I am against hanging," he said.

  The reverend doctor had hitherto spoken in the same level tone, but now his voice took on a new and sharper intonation:

  "Mess Lethierry, the death penalty has been divinely ordained. God has given man the sword. It is written: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

  The Reverend Ebenezer drew his chair imperceptibly closer to the Reverend Jaquemin's chair and said, in a whisper that could be heard by no one else:

  "What this man says is put in his mouth."

  "By whom? By what?" asked the Reverend Jaquemin in the same tone.

  "By his conscience," whispered the Reverend Ebenezer.

  Dr. Herode felt in his pocket, brought out a small, thick volume closed with clasps, laid it on the table, and said:

  "There is your conscience."

  The book was the Bible.

  The reverend doctor's voice now took on a gentler tone. His wish, he said, was to help Mess Lethierry, for whom he had a great respect. As a pastor, he had the right and the duty to give counsel; but Mess Lethierry was free to decide for himself.

  Mess Lethierry, who had sunk back into his absorption and depression, was not listening. Deruchette, who was sitting near him and was also deep in thought, did not raise her eyes, bringing to this conversation, not very lively in itself, the additional embarrassment of her silent presence. A witness who does not speak is a burden on any encounter. The reverend doctor, however, did not appear to notice it.

  When Lethierry did not reply, Dr. Herode continued with his exhortations. Counsel comes from man, he said, but inspiration comes from God. In the counsel given by a priest there is an element of inspiration. It is wise to accept counsel and dangerous to reject it. Sochoth was seized by eleven devils for scorning the exhortations of Nathaniel. Tiburianus was stricken by leprosy for driving the apostle Andrew from his house. Barjesus, magician though he was, was struck blind for laughing at Saint Paul's words. Elkesai and his sisters Martha and Marthena are in Hell for rejecting the admonitions of Valentianus, who proved, as clear as daylight, that their thirty-eight-league-high Jesus Christ was a demon. Aholibamah, who is also called Judith, obeyed the counsel given her. Reuben and Peniel listened to advice from on high, as their names indicate: Reuben means "son of the vision," Peniel "face of God."155

  Mess Lethierry struck the table with his fist.

  "Of course!" he cried: "it was my fault!"

  "What do you mean?" asked Dr. Jaquemin Herode.

  "I mean that it was my fault."

  "Why was it your fault?"

  "Because I let Durande return on a Friday."

  Dr. Herode whispered in Ebenezer Coudray's ear: "The man is superstitious."

  Then, raising his voice, he continued, in a didactic tone:

  "Mess Lethierry, it is childish to believe that Friday is unlucky. You ought not to credit such fables. Friday is a day like any other. It is often a lucky day. Melendez founded the town of San Agustin on a Friday; Henry VII gave John Cabot his commission on a Friday; the pilgrim fathers on the Mayflower landed at Provincetown on a Friday; Washington was born on Friday, the twenty-second of February, 1722; Columbus discovered America on Friday, the twelfth of October, 1492."

  He stood up, and Ebenezer, whom he had brought with him, also rose.

  Grace and Douce, seeing that the reverend gentlemen were about to take their leave, opened the double doors.

  Mess Lethierry saw nothing and heard nothing of all this.

  Dr. Herode said, aside, to Ebenezer Caudray:

  "He does not even acknowledge our presence. This is not just his distress: it is sheer mindlessness. He must be mad."

  He took his pocket Bible from the table and held it clasped between his two hands, as one holds a bird to prevent it from flying away. His attitude created a feeling of expectancy among those present. Grace and Douce craned forward.

  His voice took on all the solemnity he could muster:

  "Mess Lethierry, let us not part without reading a page from the Holy Book. We can obtain enlightenment on the various situations in life from books. For the profane there are the sortes vergilianae; believers take their instruction from the Bible. The first book that comes to hand, opened at random, may give us counsel; but the Bible, opened at random, offers us a revelation. It affords benefit particularly to those in affliction. Unfailingly the holy scriptures will offer balm for their troubles. In presence of the afflicted we should consult the sacred book, not selecting any particular passage but reading with an open heart whatever page it opens at. What man does not choose, God chooses. God knows what we need. His invisible finger is on the passage that we find by chance. Whatever the page, it will unfailingly bring us enlightenment. Let us not seek any other light, but hold fast to Him. It is a message received from on high. Our destiny is mysteriously revealed to us in the text thus sought for with confidence and respect. Let us listen and obey. Mess Lethierry, you are in sorrow, and this is the book of consolation; you are sick, and this is the book of health."

  Dr. Herode undid the clasp of his Bible, slipped a finger at random between two pages, laid his hand for a moment on the open book, paused as if in prayer, and then, lowering his eyes, began to read with an air of authority.

  This was the passage he had chanced on:

  "And Isaac came from the way of the well Lahairoi; for he dwelt in the south country.

  "And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide; and he lifted up his eyes and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.

  "And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when she saw Isaac she lighted off the camel.

  "For she had said unto the servant, What is this man that walketh in the field to meet us? . . .

  "And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah's tent, and she became his wife; and he loved her."156

  Ebenezer and Deruchette looked at each other.

  PART II

  GILLIATT THE CUNNING

  BOOK I

  THE REEF

  I

  A PLACE THAT IS HARD TO REACH AND DIFFICULT TO LEAVE

  The reader will have guessed that the boat seen at a series of points on the west coast of Guernsey at different times on the previous evening was Gilliatt's paunch. He had chosen to make his way down the coast through the passages between the rocks and reefs: it was a perilous route, but it was the most direct. His sole concern had been to take the quickest way of reaching the wreck of the Durande. Shipwrecks brook no delay; the sea makes urgent demands, and the loss of an hour might be irreparable. He was anxious to go to the rescue of the ship's engines as quickly as possible.

  He had been concerned t
o get away from Guernsey without drawing attention to his departure, and had left in the manner of an escaping prisoner. It was as if he was trying to hide. Rather than pass in sight of St. Sampson and St. Peter Port, he avoided the east coast, slipping instead down the other side of the island, which is relatively uninhabited. When passing between the rocks it was necessary to use the oars. But Gilliatt worked the oars in accordance with the laws of hydraulics, entering the water without violence and leaving it without haste; and in this way he was able to proceed on his way in the darkness as rapidly and as quietly as possible. Anyone seeing him might well have thought that he was up to no good.

  The truth is that, launching himself headlong on an enterprise that looked pretty nearly impossible, and risking his life with the odds heavily stacked against him, he was afraid of competition from some rival.

  As day was beginning to break those unknown eyes that are perhaps open somewhere in space could have seen, at one of the spots in the middle of the sea where there is most solitude and most danger, two objects with an ever decreasing interval between them, one drawing closer to the other. One of them, almost imperceptible in the mighty surge of the waves, was a sailing boat, and in that boat there was a man: it was Gilliatt's paunch. The other--immobile, black, of colossal size--rose out of the sea in fantastic silhouette. Two tall pillars reared up from the waves into the void, supporting a kind of crosspiece that served as a bridge between their summits. This crosspiece, so shapeless when seen from a distance that it was impossible to say what it was, combined with its supporting piers to form a kind of doorway. But what was the purpose of a doorway in this waste, open in all directions, that is the sea? It was like some titanic dolmen set up there in the midst of the ocean by some magisterial imagination and erected by hands that were accustomed to build on a scale proportionate to the abyss. Its eerie outline stood out against the light sky.

  The morning light was growing stronger in the east, and the whiteness of the horizon deepened the blackness of the sea. Opposite this, on the other side of the horizon, the moon was setting.

  These two pillars were the Douvres. The shapeless mass caught between them, like an architrave borne on the jambs of a door, was the Durande.