Voyage Along the Horizon
By JAVIER MARÍAS
Excerpt
Even now, I cannot be sure whether his intentions were purely romantic-as he reiterated far too often-or if his many strategies were in fact a belated attempt to reestablish his somewhat faded reputation as an intrepid adventurer; or if they were a response to the shameless offers of some or other scientific institution, though I sincerely doubt that was the case. What I can say, however, is that those of us who found ourselves entangled in this allowed ourselves to be seduced by his passion and persistence, and I would even go so far as to say-though it pains me to say so given what happened in the end-that when the first few obstacles began to materialize when we were still on dry land, and there was talk of abandoning something that was still a mere proposition, it was our little coterie-and not the opportunistic men of science whose influence with the authorities had secured them a place on the trip-that was the most determined to overcome these problems and set sail, despite the adversities and the very abominable conditions under which we would do so.
Perhaps it is not very honest of me to say so, and perhaps I am only trying to console myself with false conclusions, but I do think that under other circumstances-in Paris, for example-things would have unfolded in a very different manner indeed. Had we first met on the Boulevard des Italiens some spring morning or at the opera, during a delectable intermission in Mme D'Almeida's box, instead of the middle of those vast, nauseating waters that surrounded us on all sides, day in and day out, it is entirely possible that the grievances I now harbor would be expressed with a bit more savoir-faire and a bit less bile.
In
The feeling that you have made a fool of yourself, that you have wasted an opportunity you have sought for so long, that you have acted dishonorably, forever ruined a very well laid plan, failed to rise to the occasion, lacked tact and self-control, seemed impertinent and unpleasantly obvious, lost someone's respect-in short, the feeling that you have behaved like a perfect lout, is perhaps one of the most painful and humiliating sensations a man can ever know.
A few hours later, however, when I reexamined all the facts of the story, as the light evening breeze cleared and calmed my mind, I felt my chagrin alleviated and my serenity restored. You see, I am a man who tends to be acquiescent and easy to please, and when people like myself abandon an endeavor or illusion we usually have little trouble finding the right arguments to convince us that our plans were in fact quite insipid; these arguments, in turn, allow us to actually feel thrilled and relieved when our endeavor goes awry. And so, the following morning, everything-or at least nearly everything-had already been forgotten.
Chapter Two
BOOK TWO
Upon hearing the name of a man who, according to one of the other guests, had enjoyed a lofty position in society for many years until he died penniless as the result of his excessive love for painting, the gentleman before me-whose name I hadn't quite caught when he had been introduced to me two hours earlier-grimly acknowledged the chillingly similar and recent demise of a good friend of his, a man who had spent both his life and his fortune trying to discover the reasons for which Victor Arledge, at the beginning of his so-called "golden years," abandoned literature and locked himself away in a distant relative's mansion in Scotland, where he died three years later at the age of thirty-eight. After some very intense questioning by a woman who, I later learned, had written a thesis about the famous author but knew nothing of the existence or the literary investigations of this second unfortunate soul, the gentleman before me, Mr. Holden Branshaw (or Hordern Bragshawe, I cannot be certain), responded that although his friend had been unable to fully establish the complete set of causes that had led to the demise of such an accomplished writer as Victor Arledge, his friend had indeed succeeded in gathering enough information to cobble together an ambiguous, intriguing story about the writer in question. According to Mr. Branshaw-or was it Bragshawe?-his friend had spent the final year of his life weaving all this information together into a novel that he entitled Voyage Along the Horizon, and Mr. Branshaw, who had this novel in his possession, firmly believed that once it was published, his friend would finally be recognized as one of the great novelists of his time, which would prove that though this endeavor may have cost him both his fortune and his life, at the very least it had not been a waste of his time.
Mr. Branshaw's categorical affirmations to this effect elicited no reaction whatsoever from any of the people standing with him, and after about another half an hour, as the evening began to wane and the gathering fell into a bit of a lull, the guests all rose in unison-such a like-minded group, down to the tiniest detail-and bid me goodbye, though not without thanking me profusely for inviting them to enjoy such a pleasant evening at my home. And they left. When I returned to the salon, I saw that neither Mr. Branshaw nor the lady who had written her thesis on Victor Arledge had moved from their chairs, and were now chatting away with tentative but quite genuine enthusiasm. After pouring myself a glass of port, making as little noise as possible so as not to disturb them, I sat down in an easy chair. The rather petite lady, whose age was as elusive to me as the color of her simple dress and the reason for her presence in my living room, continued questioning Mr. Branshaw about his friend's novel with courteous if rather poorly concealed excitement, and at the end of this subtle battle in which Branshaw clearly held the upper hand (his replies to all her questions were laconic even though it was obvious she was terribly eager to hear them), the lady finally ventured to ask him if she might borrow the novel for a few days, given that its publication would remain uncertain until Arledge's family decided whether or not to permit the revelation of so many secrets regarding the author's life and times. To my surprise-perhaps it was the lady's aforementioned insistence, coupled with the gentleman's very obvious attempts to momentarily stave off her questions-he suggested they meet again, and they made arrangements to see one another the following morning at Holden Branshaw's home, where he would read the book aloud to the lady, because he did not wish to part with the original copy of the manuscript, not even for a few days. And I have no idea why-perhaps he was just being polite, or perhaps he was simply terrified by the thought of having to be alone with the lady-but without missing a beat Branshaw then turned to me and insisted I join them at his house the next day if I found the topic compelling or even mildly interesting. Out of simple courtesy, I replied that I wouldn't dream of missing the reading and thanked him for the kind invitation. Following this, Holden Branshaw and the petite lady, her face aglow with satisfaction, said their goodbyes, left my house, and went off in the directions of their respective homes.
I woke up the following day-later than normal and somewhat addled by my last glass of port the night before, having completely forgotten about Mr. Branshaw-to the sound of a chambermaid violently banging at my door, with the very pressing announcement that a Miss Bunnage had been waiting for me in the sitting room for some ten minutes. For a moment or two I idly wondered who on earth she was talking about, and then hastened to wash and dress without lingering any more over the identity of this person who-I might as well say it-had had the nerve to show up at my house unannounced at nine-thirty in the morning. In less-than-ideal spirits I finally made my way downstairs and, before I even set foot in the sitting room, the lady from the previous evening jumped up to greet me, bubbling over with eager anticipation.
"Please excuse the unexpected visit," she said. "But I was on my way to Mr. Branshaw's house and as I passed by I thought I might offer you a ride there. My carriage is waiting outside, and we're already running late."
I couldn't remember the exact hour we had agreed to meet at Mr. Branshaw's house, and for that reason, I suggested-rather unsuccessfully, in point of fact-that it would behoove us to have something to eat before we shut ourselves away in a house to listen to the reading of a novel, the length of which was still a mystery to us. But Miss Bunnage was adamant about leaving and wouldn't hear of it. As she took me by the arm she repeated that the carriage was waiting, and I had no other choice but to follow her outside. Once we were off, she finally seemed to calm down a bit; that was when I noticed that she had with her a folder filled with a sheaf of papers.
"Do you think Mr. Branshaw would give me something to eat if I asked him?" I wondered aloud.
Miss Bunnage smiled and replied: "Don't worry, I'll make sure to ask him." After a pause, she added: "I must tell you, this meeting is extremely important to me. If things work out as I hope, I might be able to prevent a great injustice."
"I thought you were simply interested in Victor Arledge."
"Yes, that's right."
"Oh."
I fell silent, amused and annoyed at the same time.
Mr. Branshaw welcomed us into his home with a far more amiable disposition than he had exhibited the previous evening at my party, the consequences of which were beginning to feel intolerable, for the moment at least. After ushering us into a spacious library lined with white bookcases, he busied himself preparing me some breakfast at the almost objectionable insistence of Miss Bunnage, whose behavior, on more than one occasion, actually caused me to blush. It was during this brief interlude, however, that I was able to inspect his collection of books, and I learned that Mr. Branshaw read strictly philosophy and poetry, and very little in the way of novels. Atop the fireplace, in the spot where one would normally find an unseemly hunting scene or the copy of a Constable painting, there was a massive wooden panel that bore the following inscription:
'Tis to yourself I speak; you cannot know Him whom I call in speaking such a one, For you beneath the earth lie buried low, Which he alone as living walks upon: You may at times have heard him speak to you, And often wished perchance that you were he; And I must ever wish that it were true, For then you could hold fellowship with me: But now you hear us talk as strangers, met Above the room wherein you lie abed; A word perhaps loud spoken you may get, Or hear our feet when heavily they tread; But he who speaks, or him who's spoken to, Must both remain as strangers still to you.
Miss Bunnage, having settled into what looked like the best chair in the room, had opened her folder, removed a few immaculate sheets of white paper, and, pen in hand, waited with obvious impatience as Branshaw reappeared with a tray and I drank my coffee and ate my toast with raspberry jam. Once I was finished, Branshaw whisked the tray away and left the library, only to reappear moments later bearing the coveted manuscript, bound in navy blue cloth. He shook out the book and placed it on the lap of Miss Bunnage, who simply stared at the cover, and then he passed it over to me. Voyage Along the Horizon, it said; somehow it felt inappropriate to peek beyond the front cover. Branshaw, however, took it out of my hands just then, sat down, opened it to page 1, and said, "Voyage Along the Horizon: Book One. `'Tis to yourself I speak ...'" And he read through the entire verse.
"Who wrote that poem?" I asked, glancing up at the panel above the fireplace.
Branshaw was about to answer, but Miss Bunnage spoke up first: "Jones Very," she replied, and then added: "Please continue, and from this point on, please, I must ask you to remain silent."
Mr. Branshaw read the verse by Very again, with gusto this time, and following a brief pause, he began to read the book aloud.
* * *
It was just after the safe return of the voyage captained by William Speirs Bruce, the veteran medical doctor of the Dundee Whaling Expedition, and also right around the time that Jean Charcot was sending out missives from aboard the FranÁais that were the talk of Parisian society, that Kerrigan came up with the idea of organizing an expedition to be made up of men and women of letters-precisely those people who, after devouring the information that came in every day from the Palmer Peninsula, would gossip together in the city's cafÈs about the audacity of those pioneers and confess their own fervent desires to embark, even if only as dishwashers, on one of those Nordic or British steamships, in search of adventures filled with danger and tedious inconvenience, but also with many thrilling and serendipitous experiences, the retelling of which would no doubt dazzle their friends and readers.
Kerrigan, a charming man who possessed the subconscious of an adolescent rather than that of a man his own age, dreamed up a plan that was outrageous and intriguing from the beginning, and the jovial, carefree spirit of this entire endeavor was no doubt what prompted Victor Arledge-as he ate his breakfast on his terrace and racked his brains for a plausible yet sufficiently convoluted excuse that would free him from attending the premiere of the theatrical adaptation of his latest novel without disappointing the audience too much-to suddenly abandon the prudence and serenity with which he made most of his decisions and surrender to Kerrigan's persuasive arguments. The idea was so very novel and Kerrigan's enthusiasm so very innocent and genuine that at first Arledge could only smile and shake his head. But as his loquacious friend began to fill his imagination with images of extraordinary, exotic adventures and sights, and most especially after Kerrigan very deliberately removed from his billfold a slip of paper with a list of the people who had already agreed to participate in this expedition and very ceremoniously flaunted it before his friend's eyes, Arledge could no longer resist, and his already-weakened defenses came crashing down as he rushed to sign the embarkation card on which his name, address, and nationality were already printed, without the slightest of qualms.
A few days later, when the news became public information, the future passengers of the
Excerpted from VOYAGE ALONG THE HORIZON by JAVIER MARÍAS Copyright © 1972 by Javier Marías. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/27/books/chapters/0827-1st-mari.html
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário