Why, the Night Gone By
The words 'mustn't', 'three-quarter moon' and 'eucalyptus'; a misquotation of Shakespeare; and three sentences in which the first letters of the words are alphabetically consecutive.
Written by interest of several persons.
The three-quarter moon had risen above the sea like a lopsided silver marble, and its reflection rippled and squirmed in the distance as dawn began to approach. The sea was calm now; never still, of course, but calm; and the water was clear, apart from the occasional jellyfish or floating scrap of seaweed.
It had certainly been a beautiful night. One would not have believed in the storm that had occurred only a few hours ago. One would not have believed in the heavy clouds and white lightening that had hidden the moon and cut up the sky.
And Captain Nemo, who had been struggling all night to get his organ turned upright again, would not have believed in the wreckage of his room and salon had he not seen it with his own eyes. The wild tossing of his Nautilus had thrown everything everywhere.
He had come down out of the storm nearly five hours ago, and the Nautilus had descended. None of the crew could possibly have gotten any sleep before then, and it did not seem fair to pull them from their beds now that everything was quiet, so he'd begun the task of putting everything back on his own.
The bed was actually relatively easy to upright. The table in the middle of the salon; the chairs; the washstand in his room; all of these, too, were easy to put back, and any broken crockery he simply brushed up. But the organ...
It was incredibly heavy. By himself, despite having been at it for ages, he could not force it up again. So he'd applied strength through a lever, made of a chair back and a short stack of books. This failed. And by now his pride was so injured (along with the muscles in his arms) that he was determined to get the damned thing up by himself, and had no intention of fetching anyone to help him. Never. He eyed it challengingly, and, armed with his washstand and several books, attempted to push it just the smallest bit into the air and shove King Lear into the resulting crack.
Thus it was that Aronnax, entering the salon around eight, still awed from the night before when he watched Nemo braving the storm--though braving was the wrong word, for Nemo seemed to have enjoyed it, almost--found the Captain sitting on the floor with his teeth gritted, fingers trapped under the edge of the organ alongside the flattened King Lear.
"Mon dieu, Captain!" he cried, staring, and immediately ran across the room and tried to push the organ away.
Nemo shook his head. "I doubt you can move it alone, Professor. Please, go to the men's quarters and find Passerculus or Deinde."
"Yes, of course!"
Nemo mumbled a few curses in his own language, and shivered. He was a fool, a fool, to let his pride get the better of him, particularly in a fight with an organ, and Janthinus would certainly have to take control of the Nautilus for a while if his fingers were half as crushed as they felt.
Five minutes or so later, Aronnax reappeared with both Passerculus and Deinde, and the three of them heaved the organ off and got it to stand right again. Then Nemo was helped up, and, for the first time in three hours, stood, feeling a bit shaky and very deeply pained.
"Thank you, Deinde; Passerculus," he murmured, nodding to them each in turn. "Thank you, Professor," he added in French, turning to Aronnax.
"Of course, Captain. But your hands! Here--" and Aronnax took both of Nemo's hands gently, prodding carefully. After a moment, he looked up. "At least three fingers are broken; I daresay more. Might I have some supplies? I need gauze and splints to set them."
"Yes, thank you. Passerculus, please fetch Monsieur Aronnax what things he needs."
So again Nemo was alone, as Aronnax left with Passerculus. Three fingers broken! At least! They would certainly take two or three weeks to heal, and he hadn't the time left for that. There was no time left at all. What had he? fifteen days? Twenty? And ruined hands. Might all the gods damn him. --And might they damn the organ, as well. Why did he keep it? There was no longer any real solace in playing.
Of course, there was no particular solace in anything these days. He had enjoyed the storm as he had not enjoyed anything for weeks. There was something about the cold--or perhaps in the lightening--something that pleased him.
Aronnax was not pleasing him at the moment. That was uncommon and slightly discouraging. Ordinarily, between the ease and seeming enjoyment with which Aronnax had settled into a life on the Nautilus, and interest he provided with his knowledge of literature and love of fish, Nemo was hard pressed to look at him without wanting to smile. Lately, though, it wasn't so.
"Captain? Please find somewhere you don't mind sitting for a while and then hold your hands out for me." Aronnax had returned.
Nemo carefully avoided the chair he'd used as a lever, and chose instead one that was close to the table in the salon, so that the Professor would have somewhere to work. A small pile of bandages and splints appeared on the surface in a moment, and Aronnax sat opposite him, with a reassuring smile.
"You had splendid luck, Captain. The book prevented it from coming quite down on your hands, so your fingers are broken instead of being crushed completely. I shouldn't wonder if they wouldn't be quite all right in about six weeks or so," he said as he began touching Nemo's hands again. He drew another, slighter shiver. "They're not all clean breaks, but the ones that are may heal quite straight and fine."
"Do you mean to say that there's a chance they may not all heal straight?"
"There's always the chance, but my hope is better."
But Nemo was not at all placated. He rose sharply, despite Aronnax leaving an anxious hand on his sleeve. "Your hope is better? I must have my hands, Professor! As you must have your hands for your work, I must have mine for my own!"
"I acknowledge it, but there is nothing I can do to cure them! I can only help to heal them," said Aronnax.
"Then, for God's sake, do that." Nemo glared at him in agitation, moving his hands, and then felt a rush of pain. His face must have shown it, because Aronnax put a hand on his shoulder.
"Calm down entirely, first. You mustn't move about like that. Sit."
Nemo obeyed wearily, and sat listening to Aronnax speak quietly about what he was doing and what it would achieve. Suddenly, Aronnax looked at him sideways and said,--
"Your clothes seem damp. Did you change them when you came down from the platform?"
"Indeed, Professor."
"Certainly, I never doubted it! But I didn't want you catching cold, for we have no eucalyptus," said Aronnax blithely, setting another splint. "There!"
"'I will keep still with my philosopher'," murmured Nemo, looking at him askance. Eucalyptus? How unpredictable the man was; like minds not over pain.
"Isn't it 'I will still keep with my philosopher'?"
"No."
"I think it is."
"Then you may bring in King Lear from the salon, but it is not."
"I shall bring it, as soon as I finish with this." Aronnax tied off the bandage and left, returning shortly with the squashed, grey book and flipping through it. "Ah! Here it is! 'I will keep still with my philosopher'. You were quite right."
Nemo lifted his hands experimentally and frowned. Was he? Quite right? Surely that understanding varied wildly. Was he right? Would Aronnax believe him right if he knew anything about him? Actually, he thought about such things often. He had been thinking about them for years. Would anyone believe him right? Should he care? Sometimes he thought it was very good to be a nightmare...
"Captain," Aronnax was saying. "I've done my best on your hands, and I shall look at them regularly. I would expect them to be healed by seven weeks, certainly."
Nemo nearly smiled. "Seven weeks? Thank you, Professor." Seven weeks were impossible, but in truth they didn't matter at all. Now that he was calm, he could see that. He would bear the hurt, if there was hurt.
But Aronnax was holding up King Lear and letting it fall open anywhere. "'The tyranny of the open night's too rough for nature to endure'," he read softly. "Was that last night, do you suppose?"
"I think not. I endured it."
"Ah, but are you nature? You have done with society and you told me you were not a civilised man."
"And I'm not. But am I completely outcast by nature for that? Do you think the narwhal is a civilised creature?"
"Of course. Forgive me." Aronnax closed King Lear. "Captain--"
"Lear is full of things that fit, isn't it?" Nemo went to the window of the salon and touched the glass gingerly. "I read it often and pick out the lines I would speak, and find that, if lines can be gone by, I am Lear. But that is not true." He turned about sharply and looked at Aronnax. "Is it?" Unintentionally, he had made it a real question, and Aronnax paused for a moment, perhaps thinking.
"Truthfully, Captain, I would not presume--"
"I wish you would. As for last night, you wanted Scene ii of Act III. Kent's second line." With a slight shrug, he turned back to the window.
"Captain, for love of God, will you tell me why you are playing games with me? If I've offended you, I had no intention of doing so! If you wish me to leave, I certainly shall, but tell me why!" Aronnax's voice sounded stricken, and Nemo sighed deeply.
"'My wits begin to turn'. I am very tired. Things are drawing to a close, Monsieur Aronnax. What is there I can tell you but little--things?"
"You could tell me more!"
"I could not. Thank you for your work on my hands, and please go."
"Very well, Captain. Shall I see you to-morrow?"
"Perhaps."
Aronnax left the room, and Nemo turned to the organ slowly.
He couldn't play it. It would do too much damage, and he needed to save the damage for the important time. He would content himself with looking at it, then. The damned organ. So there was no touching that, and looking out the window at the beautiful sea did not make him happy, and Aronnax did not please him. There was only waiting left.
He rested his hand carefully on the grey book, which Aronnax had left on the table. He had been too fond of Aronnax. Perhaps he was punished for it.
"'I have one part in my heart that sorrows yet for thee'," he murmured, and went again to the window. He could look at something that did not make him happy, just as a man could easily love someone who did not please him.
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