it swung to the other extreme. People began pleading, imploring; someone picked up the revolver I flung away, and the way he handed it back, I felt he was offering up his heart. After a while this, too, became insufferable.
Some Armenian pilgrims began to torment me with their love; they caressed my coat, and droned on and on, obsequiously but unintelligibly. They spoke very little French; five of them tried putting together one decent sentence but couldn't—it was horrible. And just then their priest held his cross over me and amidst much wailing and moaning held an impromptu mass. The resulting commotion got to be too much; so as not to make a further spectacle of myself, and fools of them, I got up and left. But a young English girl threw herself at my feet and wouldn't let me go through the door.
"I adore you, can't you see?" she cried, and smiled at me with a strange, seductive smile. She then hugged me and tried to clasp my neck. She was a beautiful girl, actually, but right now she was too busy shrieking: "Don't go away, pleeease . . ." And then: "I had my eyes on you the whole way, you didn't notice. . . ? It's all right, it's all right, I can say it," she explained to everyone around. "He is my true love, my ideal." Her mind apparently became unhinged in the crisis. Her parents, a tiny old couple with idiotic smiles of their own, just stood there, seemingly in total sympathy with their raving daughter, though their eyes were imploring me to save their child, for God's sake.
After a time I was able to extricate myself from her embrace. I caressed her hair and—inappropriately enough—began to think how nice it would be to make love to this girl. In no time a fever of desire coursed through my veins . . .
There is madness in all of us, I concluded, and its source is deeper down than we care to reach.
There wasn't much left for me to do. I had the ship's foremast sawn off, lest that, too, come crashing down, and issued a few more orders in anticipation of a final catastrophe. The engine began emitting furious hissing sounds. Ominous grinding noises were coming from the direction of the propeller. And what did I do? I had a sailor arrested for trying to jump ship. I gave one more command, told them to release the steam, to avoid an explosion, after which I headed for my cabin. Once inside, I bolted the door. I was all set to do what that Don Pepe fellow had done just before: move on to the next location, as it were. I was just waiting for the lights to go out. Responsibility be hanged—let them manage as best they can. The first officer was a capable enough man.
I can't even say I was depressed. All I kept mumbling to myself was: enough. Enough! You blew it, you are worthless, so why go on? Not that chucking everything is so commendable—ach, it's awful, despicable, today the mere thought of it makes me shudder with horror and shame. But then I was so utterly broken in spirit, I longed for death, thirsted for it.
Strangely enough, I didn't think of my wife, and even if I had, it wouldn't have been enough to stop me. In any case, I decided she no longer loved me, and therefore dismissed all hope, turned away from a life gone awry. I knew strange things were beginning to happen back home, but I no longer cared to investigate. I was much too tired.
I had to stuff cotton in my ears because the noises from outside—the stamping and crashing and screeching—were becoming fearsome, apocalyptic. All I wanted at the moment was some peace and quiet, a little time to sort things out. But what? Everything I believed in—life, ambition and the rest—seemed like so much foolishness and vanity. The scales fell off my eyes, yes. What was the good of all the drudgery and pain? I may just as well have spent my years whistling on streetcorners—it would have amounted to the same thing. No, I was not sorry to leave anything behind.
But I did wash up, I washed my head and neck in cold water. Why did I do that? Not to clean
Some Armenian pilgrims began to torment me with their love; they caressed my coat, and droned on and on, obsequiously but unintelligibly. They spoke very little French; five of them tried putting together one decent sentence but couldn't—it was horrible. And just then their priest held his cross over me and amidst much wailing and moaning held an impromptu mass. The resulting commotion got to be too much; so as not to make a further spectacle of myself, and fools of them, I got up and left. But a young English girl threw herself at my feet and wouldn't let me go through the door.
"I adore you, can't you see?" she cried, and smiled at me with a strange, seductive smile. She then hugged me and tried to clasp my neck. She was a beautiful girl, actually, but right now she was too busy shrieking: "Don't go away, pleeease . . ." And then: "I had my eyes on you the whole way, you didn't notice. . . ? It's all right, it's all right, I can say it," she explained to everyone around. "He is my true love, my ideal." Her mind apparently became unhinged in the crisis. Her parents, a tiny old couple with idiotic smiles of their own, just stood there, seemingly in total sympathy with their raving daughter, though their eyes were imploring me to save their child, for God's sake.
After a time I was able to extricate myself from her embrace. I caressed her hair and—inappropriately enough—began to think how nice it would be to make love to this girl. In no time a fever of desire coursed through my veins . . .
There is madness in all of us, I concluded, and its source is deeper down than we care to reach.
There wasn't much left for me to do. I had the ship's foremast sawn off, lest that, too, come crashing down, and issued a few more orders in anticipation of a final catastrophe. The engine began emitting furious hissing sounds. Ominous grinding noises were coming from the direction of the propeller. And what did I do? I had a sailor arrested for trying to jump ship. I gave one more command, told them to release the steam, to avoid an explosion, after which I headed for my cabin. Once inside, I bolted the door. I was all set to do what that Don Pepe fellow had done just before: move on to the next location, as it were. I was just waiting for the lights to go out. Responsibility be hanged—let them manage as best they can. The first officer was a capable enough man.
I can't even say I was depressed. All I kept mumbling to myself was: enough. Enough! You blew it, you are worthless, so why go on? Not that chucking everything is so commendable—ach, it's awful, despicable, today the mere thought of it makes me shudder with horror and shame. But then I was so utterly broken in spirit, I longed for death, thirsted for it.
Strangely enough, I didn't think of my wife, and even if I had, it wouldn't have been enough to stop me. In any case, I decided she no longer loved me, and therefore dismissed all hope, turned away from a life gone awry. I knew strange things were beginning to happen back home, but I no longer cared to investigate. I was much too tired.
I had to stuff cotton in my ears because the noises from outside—the stamping and crashing and screeching—were becoming fearsome, apocalyptic. All I wanted at the moment was some peace and quiet, a little time to sort things out. But what? Everything I believed in—life, ambition and the rest—seemed like so much foolishness and vanity. The scales fell off my eyes, yes. What was the good of all the drudgery and pain? I may just as well have spent my years whistling on streetcorners—it would have amounted to the same thing. No, I was not sorry to leave anything behind.
But I did wash up, I washed my head and neck in cold water. Why did I do that? Not to clean
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