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carmillaSUMMARY: Jack's restless. Stephen helps.
‘It is a very great while since I kissed anyone,’ Jack said as he heard three bells strike in the middle watch and the discreet cry of the nearer lookouts, ‘Life-buoy – starboard quarterdeck – starboard gangway’, ‘and it will be even longer before I do so again. There is no duller life on earth than a blockade.’
- The Ionian Mission
Jack Aubrey was generally held to be a cheerful and hearty man, but the slow daily grind of a blockade which offered little promise of action was enough to dull even the brightest of spirits. When the frustrations of a week-long calm were added to this already monotonous existence, it is scarcely to be wondered at that his temper grew short, and his company considerably less welcome to most of his usual intimates.
Dr. Stephen Maturin, however, was not one of those doing their best to keep out of the captain’s way. As his physician as well as his particular friend, he thought it advisable that his mind should be kept distracted and not be allowed to chase in circles and worry itself to death. ‘After all,’ he thought, ‘the Dear knows he has enough to be in anxiety about, between the French, his family, and the legal problems at home.’ They were at that time when even in the best of circumstances, Jack was wont to be brought low with thoughts of Sophie and of his children, and Stephen paid as little attention as he might to Jack’s shortness, making himself available whenever possible for a long conversation or a hand or two of piquet. Above all, their instruments were their solace, and many a night saw Killick awake in his bed, grumbling over the lateness of the hour and the generally impenetrable quality of the music.
It was one of these occasions that night. Jack had proposed a particularly restless, even violent theme on his fiddle, and proceeded to embroider it with a series of increasingly difficult variations, leaping from one note to another so that Stephen was hard pressed to answer with more than a stroke or two here and there. Jack didn’t seem to mind, however, and eventually, Stephen thought it for the best to lay aside the ‘cello for the present and to watch his friend at work.
Jack appeared to be straining after something, spiralling up into the violin’s higher register in plaintive calls, before tumbling down to the keynote once more. His brow was set in a frown of concentration, his face shuttered. Eyes closed, he tried modification after modification, but none seemed quite the epiphany he was looking for. Eventually he let his bow stutter off the string in the midst of some questing harmonic, and sat down heavily in his chair.
“It’s no good, Stephen,” he said quietly. “It don’t answer. I feel there’s something there, sure… but it don’t answer, whatever it is.”
Stephen came to take his friend’s hand.
“Let it alone, my dear,” he advised. “It will come when it’s ready.”
Jack’s fingers closed over his, and Stephen was struck by how his hand was dwarfed in his friend’s.
“Stephen,” Jack said, low, “you are uncommon good to me, you know.”
His eyes were bright still, with the brightness of music rather than alcohol, though it seemed to hold his senses prisoner like any drug.
“I should like -” he said, and went no further, but rather brought Stephen’s hand up, cradled in his own, and kissed the knuckle, turned it over, kissed the palm; then gently, slowly, brought their lips together.
It was not an amorous kiss, certainly not by Jack Aubrey’s standards. Stephen had seen Jack with his wenches, hands all over them, pressing their heads back as his lips devoured theirs. Sure this was nothing like that. It was soft, and almost tenuous, something between a question and an answer. He hardly knew how to make reply to it, whatever it was, but rather went quite still.
Jack released him with a sigh, letting his hands drop at the same time. He murmured a few words Stephen could not clearly make out. Then he shook himself, and seemed to regain some of his composure.
“Come, sir,” he said, “it’s getting late. You should be abed; and so should I, else Killick will scold something dreadful.”
Stephen managed a faint chuckle, and began to pack his instrument away. It was only when he was at the threshold that Jack called, “Stephen?”
“Yes, joy?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast?”
“Certainly. Goodnight and good rest to you, my dear.”
It was sometime later, lying in his narrow bunk, that Stephen heard the strains of the violin pick up again, following the same melody Jack had so struggled with earlier. Up and up it climbed, through increasing intricacies, always restless, always plaintive. And then, when it seemed it could go now higher, it faded to a single note, hanging unwavering. From thence, it slowly began its descent again, this time in gentle harmonies that were somehow complimentary to the phrases that had gone before. Here was the turn that Jack had sought in vain all evening, and it transformed what had been merely an interesting proposition into one of the finer compositions that Stephen had ever heard from him.
As the melody died slowly away, Stephen ran a meditative finger over his lips, and it was a long time before he finally slept.
‘It is a very great while since I kissed anyone,’ Jack said as he heard three bells strike in the middle watch and the discreet cry of the nearer lookouts, ‘Life-buoy – starboard quarterdeck – starboard gangway’, ‘and it will be even longer before I do so again. There is no duller life on earth than a blockade.’
- The Ionian Mission
Jack Aubrey was generally held to be a cheerful and hearty man, but the slow daily grind of a blockade which offered little promise of action was enough to dull even the brightest of spirits. When the frustrations of a week-long calm were added to this already monotonous existence, it is scarcely to be wondered at that his temper grew short, and his company considerably less welcome to most of his usual intimates.
Dr. Stephen Maturin, however, was not one of those doing their best to keep out of the captain’s way. As his physician as well as his particular friend, he thought it advisable that his mind should be kept distracted and not be allowed to chase in circles and worry itself to death. ‘After all,’ he thought, ‘the Dear knows he has enough to be in anxiety about, between the French, his family, and the legal problems at home.’ They were at that time when even in the best of circumstances, Jack was wont to be brought low with thoughts of Sophie and of his children, and Stephen paid as little attention as he might to Jack’s shortness, making himself available whenever possible for a long conversation or a hand or two of piquet. Above all, their instruments were their solace, and many a night saw Killick awake in his bed, grumbling over the lateness of the hour and the generally impenetrable quality of the music.
It was one of these occasions that night. Jack had proposed a particularly restless, even violent theme on his fiddle, and proceeded to embroider it with a series of increasingly difficult variations, leaping from one note to another so that Stephen was hard pressed to answer with more than a stroke or two here and there. Jack didn’t seem to mind, however, and eventually, Stephen thought it for the best to lay aside the ‘cello for the present and to watch his friend at work.
Jack appeared to be straining after something, spiralling up into the violin’s higher register in plaintive calls, before tumbling down to the keynote once more. His brow was set in a frown of concentration, his face shuttered. Eyes closed, he tried modification after modification, but none seemed quite the epiphany he was looking for. Eventually he let his bow stutter off the string in the midst of some questing harmonic, and sat down heavily in his chair.
“It’s no good, Stephen,” he said quietly. “It don’t answer. I feel there’s something there, sure… but it don’t answer, whatever it is.”
Stephen came to take his friend’s hand.
“Let it alone, my dear,” he advised. “It will come when it’s ready.”
Jack’s fingers closed over his, and Stephen was struck by how his hand was dwarfed in his friend’s.
“Stephen,” Jack said, low, “you are uncommon good to me, you know.”
His eyes were bright still, with the brightness of music rather than alcohol, though it seemed to hold his senses prisoner like any drug.
“I should like -” he said, and went no further, but rather brought Stephen’s hand up, cradled in his own, and kissed the knuckle, turned it over, kissed the palm; then gently, slowly, brought their lips together.
It was not an amorous kiss, certainly not by Jack Aubrey’s standards. Stephen had seen Jack with his wenches, hands all over them, pressing their heads back as his lips devoured theirs. Sure this was nothing like that. It was soft, and almost tenuous, something between a question and an answer. He hardly knew how to make reply to it, whatever it was, but rather went quite still.
Jack released him with a sigh, letting his hands drop at the same time. He murmured a few words Stephen could not clearly make out. Then he shook himself, and seemed to regain some of his composure.
“Come, sir,” he said, “it’s getting late. You should be abed; and so should I, else Killick will scold something dreadful.”
Stephen managed a faint chuckle, and began to pack his instrument away. It was only when he was at the threshold that Jack called, “Stephen?”
“Yes, joy?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast?”
“Certainly. Goodnight and good rest to you, my dear.”
It was sometime later, lying in his narrow bunk, that Stephen heard the strains of the violin pick up again, following the same melody Jack had so struggled with earlier. Up and up it climbed, through increasing intricacies, always restless, always plaintive. And then, when it seemed it could go now higher, it faded to a single note, hanging unwavering. From thence, it slowly began its descent again, this time in gentle harmonies that were somehow complimentary to the phrases that had gone before. Here was the turn that Jack had sought in vain all evening, and it transformed what had been merely an interesting proposition into one of the finer compositions that Stephen had ever heard from him.
As the melody died slowly away, Stephen ran a meditative finger over his lips, and it was a long time before he finally slept.