Of an evening at Twist Tickle Nicholas Top would sit unstrung and wistful in his great chair by the west window, with the curtains drawn wide, there waiting, in deepening gloom and fear, for the last light to leave the world. With his head fallen upon his breast and his eyes grown fixed and tragical with far-off gazing, he would look out upon the appalling sweep of sea and rock and sky, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working more terribly than with thunder: clouds in embers, cliffs and mist and tumbling water turning to shadows, vanishing, as though they were not. In the place of a shining world, spread familiar and open, from its paths to the golden haze of its uttermost parts, there would come the cloud and mystery and straying noises of the night, wherein lurk and peer and restlessly move whatsoever may see in the dark. Thus would he sit oppressed while night covered the world he knew by day. And there would come up from the sea its voice; and the sea has no voice, but mysteriously touches the strings within the soul of “For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire.” And again, with his hand upon his forehead and his brows fallen hopelessly, “With his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire.” Still repeating the awful words, his voice broken to a terrified whisper, “His rebuke with the flames of fire!” And in particular moods, when the prophets, however sonorous, were inadequate to his need, my uncle would have recourse to his own pithy vocabulary for terms with which to anathematize himself; but these, of course, may not be written in a book. When the dusk was come my uncle would turn blithely from this melancholy contemplation and call for a lamp and his bottle. While I was about this business (our maid-servant would not handle the bottle lest she be damned for it), my uncle would stump the floor, making gallant efforts to whistle and trill: by this exhorting himself to a cheerful mood, so that when “Up with un, Dannie!” says he. ’Twas his fancy that he had gout in the tip of his wooden leg. I must lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with caution. “Ouch!” groans he. “Easy, lad!” ’Twas now in place. “All ship-shape an’ cheerful,” says he. “Pass the bottle.” He would then stand me up for catechism; and to this task I would come with alacrity, and my heels would come together, and my shoulders square, and my hands go behind my back, as in the line at school. ’Twas a solemn game, whatever the form it took, whether dealing with my possessions, hopes, deportment, or what-not; and however grotesque an appearance the thing may wear, ’twas done in earnest by us both and with some real pains (when I was stupid or sleepy) to me. ’Twas the way he had, too, of teaching me that which he would have me conceive him to be––of fashioning in my heart and mind the character he would there wear. A clumsy, forecastle method, and most pathetically engaging, to be sure! but in effect unapproached: for to this day, when I know him as he was, the man he would appear to be sticks in my heart and will not be supplanted. Nor would I willingly “Dannie, lad,” he would begin, in the manner of a visiting trustee, but yet with a little twitch and flush of embarrassment, which must be wiped away with his great bandanna handkerchief––“Dannie, lad,” he would begin, “is ol’ Nicholas Top a well-knowed figger in Newf’un’land?” “He’s knowed,” was the response I had been taught, “from Cape Race t’ Chidley.” “What for?” “Standin’ by.” So far so good; my uncle would beam upon me, as though the compliment were of my own devising, until ’twas necessary once more to wipe the smile and blush from his great wet countenance. “Is it righteous,” says he, “t’ stand by?” “’Tis that.” He would now lean close with his poser: “Does it say so in the Bible? Ah ha, lad! Does it say so there?” “’Twas left out,” says I, having to this been scandalously taught, “by mistake!” ’Twas my uncle’s sad habit thus to solve his ethical difficulties. To a gigantic, thumb-worn Bible he would turn, the which, having sought with unsuccess until his temper was hot, he would fling back to its place, growling: “Them ol’ prophets was dunderheads, anyhow; they left out more’n they put in. Why, Dannie,” in vast disgust, “you don’t find the mention of barratry “Come, now!” says my uncle; “would you say that ol’ Nicholas Top was famous for standin’ by?” ’Twas hard to remember the long response. “Well,” I must begin, in a doubtful drawl, every word and changing inflection his own, as I had been taught, “I wouldn’t go quite t’ the length o’ that. Ol’ Nicholas Top wouldn’t claim it hisself. Ol’ Nicholas Top on’y claims that he’s good at standin’ by. His cronies do ’low that he can’t be beat at it by ar a man in Newf’un’land; but Nicholas wouldn’t go t’ the length o’ sayin’ so hisself. ‘Ol’ Nick,’ says they, ‘would stand by if the ship was skippered by the devil and inbound on a fiery wind t’ the tickle t’ hell. Whatever Nick says he’ll do,’ says they, ‘is all the same as did; an’ if he says he’ll stand by, he’ll stick, blow high or blow low, fog, ice, or reefs. “Be jiggered t’ port an’ weather!” “Co’-rect!” says my uncle, with a smack of satisfaction. “You got that long one right, Dannie. An’ now, lad,” says he, his voice turning soft and genuine in feeling, “what’s the ol’ sailorman tryin’ t’ make out o’ you?” “A gentleman.” “An’ why?” Then this disquieting response: “’Tis none o’ my business.” ’Twould have been logical had he asked me: “An’, Dannie, lad, what’s a gentleman?” But this he never did; and I think, regarding the thing from this distance, that he was himself unable to frame the definition, so that, of course, I never could be taught it. But he was diligent in pursuit of this knowledge; he sat with open ears in those exclusive tap-rooms where “the big bugs t’ St. John’s” (as he called them) congregated; indeed, the little gold watch by which Skipper Tom Bull’s suspicion had been excited at the Anchor and Chain came to me immediately after the “An’ is this ol’ Nicholas Top a liar?” says my uncle. “No, sir.” “Is he a thief?” “No, sir.” “Smuggler?” “No, sir.” “Have he ever been mixed up in burglary, murder, arson, barratry, piracy, fish stealin’, or speckalation?” “No, sir.” To indicate his utter detachment from personal interest in the question to follow, my uncle would wave his dilapidated hand, as though leaving me free to answer as I would, which by no means was I. “An’ of how much,” says he, “would he rob his neighbor that he might prosper?” ’Twas now time for me to turn loud and indignant, as I had been taught. Thus: my head must shoot out in truculent fashion, my brows bend, my lips curl away from my teeth like a snarling dog’s, my eyes glare; and I must let my small body shake with explosive “Not a damn copper!” “Good!” says my uncle, placidly. “You done that very well, Dannie, for a lad. You fetched out the damn quite noisy an’ agreeable. Now,” says he, “is Nicholas Top a rascal?” ’Twas here we had trouble; in the beginning, when this learning was undertaken, I must be whipped to answer as he would have me. Ay, and many a night have I gone sore to bed for my perversity, for in respect to obedience his severity was unmitigated, as with all seafaring men. But I might stand obstinate for a moment––a moment of grace. And upon the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship, a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured, accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle they provided the only distraction at hand. “Come, Daniel!” says he, in a little flare of wrath; “is he a rascal?” “Well,” says I, defiantly, “I’ve heard un lied about.” “Wrong!” roars my uncle. “Try again, sir! Is ol’ Nicholas Top a rascal?” There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed for an obstinate whelp. “A damned rascal, sir!” says I. “Co’-rect!” cries my uncle, delighted. And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, “Well, Dannie, lad, you might ’s well measure out the other,” and when I had with care poured his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say my prayers at his knee––not often––most when high winds, without rain, shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was unnerved by the night. “The wind’s high the night,” says he, with an anxious frown; “an’ Dannie,” says he, laying a hand upon my head, “you might ’s well overhaul that there
afore you turns in. ’Twill do you good, an’ ’twon’t manage t’ do me no harm.” And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair, than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face drawn and woful. I see him now––under the lamp––a gray, monstrous, despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh––as then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed. “Good-night, sir!” There was no response; but he would look in upon me on the way to bed––into the little room where I lay luxuriously, in the midst of those extravagant comforts which so strangely came to me. And more often than not he would haul this way and that upon the covers until, as though by some unhappy accident, I was awakened. “God bless you, Dannie,” says he. “Good-night, sir.” ’Twas all he wanted––a good wish spoken in the night. To his own bare room he would then be off, a bit uncertain (I recall) in the management of his wooden leg. Under my window, at the foot of a short cliff which fell roughly into the open cove, as shall be told, the And my uncle? God knows! The harp was warped, and the strings of the harp were broken and out of tune.... ’Twas really “damned t’ port an’ weather” my uncle would have me say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers of my simple narrative think ill of the man’s dealings with a child, which I would not have them do. Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in affectionate regard, and usefully employed it: ’tis the only apology I have to offer. Would it not be possible for the more delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety? or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder course: ’tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But ’tis for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative. |