The Rough Crossing, F. Scott Fitzgerald

I

Once on the long, covered piers, you have come into a ghostly country that is no longer Here and not yet There. Especially at night. There is a hazy yellow vault full of shouting, echoing voices. There is the rumble of trucks and the clump of trunks, the strident chatter of a crane and the first salt smell of the sea, You hurry through, even though there’s time. The past, the continent, is behind you; the future is that glowing mouth in the side of the ship; this dim turbulent alley is too confusedly the present.

Up the gangplank, and the vision of the world adjusts itself, narrows. One is a citizen of a commonwealth smaller than Andorra. One is no longer so sure of anything. Curiously unmoved the men at the purser’s desk, cell-like the cabin, disdainful the eyes of voyagers and their friends, solemn the officer who stands on the deserted promenade deck thinking something of his own as he stares at the crowd below. A last odd idea that one didn’t really have to come, then the loud, mournful whistles, and the thing—certainly not a boat, but rather a human idea, a frame of mind—pushes forth into the big dark night.

Adrian Smith, one of the celebrities on board—not a very great celebrity, but important enough to be bathed in flash light by a photographer who had been given his name, but wasn’t sure what his subject “did”—Adrian Smith and his blond wife, Eva, went up to the promenade deck, passed the melancholy ship’s officer, and, finding a quiet aerie, put their elbows on the rail.

“We’re going!” he cried presently, and they both laughed in ecstasy. “We’ve escaped. They can’t get us now.”

“Who?”

He waved his hand vaguely at the civic tiara.

“All those people out there. They’ll come with their posses and their warrants and list of crimes we’ve committed, and ring the bell at our door on Park Avenue and ask for the Adrian Smiths, but what ho ! the Adrian Smiths and their children and nurse are off for France.”

“You make me think we really have committed crimes.”

“They can’t have you,” he said, frowning. “That’s one thing they’re after me about—they know I haven’t got any right to a person like you, and they’re furious. That’s one reason I’m glad to get away.” “Darling,” said Eva. She was twenty-six—five years younger than he. She was something precious to everyone who knew her.

“I like this boat better than the Majestic or the Aquitania,” she remarked, unfaithful to the ships that had served their honeymoon. “It’s much smaller.”

“But it’s very slick and it has all those little shops along the corridors. And I think the staterooms are bigger.”

“The people are very formal—did you notice?—as if they thought everyone else was a card sharp. And in about four days half of them will be calling the other half by their first names.”

Four of the people came by now—a quartet of young girls abreast, making a circuit of the deck. Their eight eyes swept momentarily toward Adrian and Eva, and then swept automatically back, save for one pair which lingered for an instant with a little start. They belonged to one of the girls in the middle, who was, indeed, the only passenger of the four. She was not more than eighteen—a dark little beauty with the fine crystal gloss over her that, in brunettes, takes the place of a blonde’s bright glow.

“Now, who’s that?” wondered Adrian. “I’ve seen her before.”

“She’s pretty,” said Eva.

“Yes.” He kept wondering, and Eva deferred momentarily to his distraction; then, smiling up at him, she drew him back into their privacy.

“Tell me more,” she said.

“About what?”

“About us—what a good time we’ll have, and how we’ll be much better and happier, and very close always.”

“How could we be any closer ?” His arm pulled her to him.

“But I mean never even quarrel any more about silly things. You know, I made up my mind when you gave me my birthday present last week”—her fingers caressed the fine seed pearls at her throat—“that I’d try never to say a mean thing to you again.”

“You never have, my precious.”

Yet even as he strained her against his side she knew that the moment of utter isolation had passed almost before it had begun. His antennae were already out, feeling over this new world.

“Most of the people look rather awful,” he said—“little and swarthy and ugly. Americans didn’t use to look like that.”

“They look dreary,” she agreed. “Let’s not get to know anybody, but just say together.”

A gong was beating now, and stewards were shouting down the decks, “Visitors ashore, please!” and voices rose to a strident chorus. For a while the gangplanks were thronged; then they were empty, and the jostling crowd behind the barrier waved and called unintelligible things, and kept up a grin of good will. As the stevedores began to work at the ropes a flat-faced, somewhat befuddled young man arrived in a great hurry and was assisted up the gang-plank by a porter and a taxi driver. The ship having swallowed him as impassively as though he were a missionary for Beirut, a low, portentous vibration began. The pier with its faces commenced to slide by, and for a moment the boat was just a piece accidentally split off from it; then the faces became remote, voiceless, and the pier was one among many yellow blurs along the water front. Now the harbor flowed swiftly toward the sea.

On a northern parallel of latitude a hurricane was forming and moving south by southeast preceded by a strong west wind. On its course it was destined to swamp the Peter I. Eudim of Amsterdam, with a crew of sixty-six, to break a boom on the largest boat in the world, and to bring grief and want to the wives of several hundred seamen. This liner, leaving New York Sunday evening, would enter the zone of the storm Tuesday, and of the hurricane late Wednesday night.

II

Tuesday afternoon Adrian and Eva paid their first visit to the smoking room. This was not in accord with their intentions—they had “never wanted to see a cocktail again” after leaving America—but they had forgotten the staccato loneliness of ships, and all activity centered about the bar. So they went in for just a minute.

It was full. There were those who had been there since luncheon, and those who would be there until dinner, not to mention a faithful few who had been there since nine this morning. It was a prosperous assembly, taking its recreation at bridge, solitaire, detective stories, alcohol, argument and love. Up to this point you could have matched it in the club or casino life of any country, but over it all played a repressed nervous energy, a barely disguised impatience that extended to old and young alike. The cruise had begun, and they had enjoyed the beginning, but the show was not varied enough to last six days, and already they wanted it to be over.

At a table near them Adrian saw the pretty girl who had stared at him on the deck the first night. Again he was fascinated by her loveliness; there was no mist upon the brilliant gloss that gleamed through the smoky confusion of the room. He and Eva had decided from the passenger list that she was probably “Miss Elizabeth

D’Amido and maid,” and he had heard her called Betsy as he walked past a deck-tennis game. Among the young people with her was the_ flat-nosed youth who had been “poured on board” the night of their departure; yesterday he had walked the deck morosely, but he was apparently reviving. Miss D’Amido whispered something to him, and he looked over at the Smiths with curious eyes. Adrian was enough at being a celebrity to turn self-consciously away. “There’s a little roll. Do you feel it?” Eva demanded.—“Perhaps we’d better split a pint of champagne.”

While he gave the order a short colloquy was taking place at the other table; presently a young man rose and came over to them.

“Isn’t this Mr. Adrian Smith?”

“Yes.”

“We wondered if we couldn’t put you down for the deck-tennis tournament. We’re going to have a deck-tennis tournament.” “Why—” Adrian hesitated.

“My name’s Stacomb,” burst out the young man. “We all know your—your plays or whatever it is, and all that—and we wondered if you wouldn’t like to come over to our table.”

Somewhat overwhelmed, Adrian laughed: Mr. Stacomb, glib, soft, slouching, waited; evidently under the impression that he had delivered himself of a graceful compliment.

Adrian, understanding that, too, replied: “Thanks, but perhaps you’d better come over here.”

“We’ve got a bigger table.”

“But we’re older and more—more settled.”

The young man laughed kindly, as if to say, “That’s all right.”

“Put me down,” said Adrian. “How much do I owe you?”

“One buck. Call me Stac.”

“Why?” asked Adrian, startled.

“It’s shorter.”

When he had gone they smiled broadly.

“Heavens,” Eva gasped, “I believe they are coming over.”

They were. With a great draining of glasses, calling of waiters, shuffling of chairs, three boys and two girls moved to the Smiths’ table. If there was any diffidence, it was confined to the hosts; for the new additions gathered around them eagerly, eying Adrian with respect—too much respect—as if to say: “This was probably a mistake and won’t be amusing, but maybe we’ll get something out of it to help us in our after life, like at school.”

In a moment Miss D’Amido changed seats with one of the men and placed her radiant self at Adrian’s side, looking at him with manifest admiration.

“I fell in love with you the minute