Prompt Post 2
Welcome to the second round of the_eagle_kink .
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
- MORE MOD NOTES: Alright guys I know this fandom is really into historical accuracy and all that jazz but here's the thing. This is a KINK MEME and therefore historical accuracy is not ( Read more... )
In which the Rev. St. John enters an Officer's Club, recites a Psalm to Good Effect, and deepens his Acquaintance with Cpt. Aquilaine.
******************************************************
The British Officer's East India Club was the sort of lodgings that might be found in any decent city in England; the exception being the servants, Indians to a man who dressed not in the typical British servant's clothing but all in white-white trousers, billowing white tunics over top and white turbans. They padded silently over the lobby's thick carpeting on bare feet. Dark green potted palms sat in every corner, flanked by comfortable-looking stuffed horsehide chairs. A portrait of the young Queen in her coronation robes hung on one wall.
One of the resident butlers greeted them with a bow. He limped slightly from a mild club foot. “Cpt. Aquilaine, you are just in time; they are seating now. Shall I lay a place for your guest?”
“I hope so, Sanyal.” He turned to St. John. “Join us in the dining room? On Wednesday nights the Moslem cooks prepare the food, so I believe we'll have roast beef with Yorkshire pudding.”
St. John hesitated. “I have nothing to wear, and these travel clothes cannot possibly suffice. I am most sorry! All my luggage is still at port.”
Cpt. Aquilaine brushed away his concerns. “We are hardly high society, Rev. Rivers. For Sunday dinner you will want suitable clothes, but for Wednesday wash your hands, comb your hair and you will fit nicely. Sanyal, one more for the table, and set up my rooms to accommodate him for the night as well.” The butler slipped out a servant's door and the Captain indicated St. John should follow down a hallway well-lit by flickering oil lamps.
“Our butlers here are excellent and all speak good English. I met Sanyal trying to enlist in the company of Sepoys I was training. Naturally his lameness prevents him from being in the army, but he seemed so eager to serve that I offered him a position at the club instead. He never disappoints.” They paused at the base of a rather over-decorated staircase. Cpt. Aquilaine saw St. John frowning at it and grinned.
“This club was originally intended to be a hotel, but the builder-an enterprising sort of Indian, but they always get the details wrong; they are not natural entrepreneurs-had some strange ideas about what English architecture should look like. Thus we will now ascend the fanciest servant's staircase you have ever had the pleasure of setting foot on.” St. John followed in silence behind his companion, who gripped the rail rather tightly as he took the stairs a single step at a time. By the time they reached the second floor the Captain was grimacing, his mouth set in a tight line. He waved off St. John's look of concern and limped down the hall, pausing at the final door on the left.
“Welcome to my very humble rooms.”
St. John scarcely had time to take in the oriental rug, stuffed chairs, hanging plants, chaotic writing desk or innumerable army mementos strewn about the sitting room before Sanyal emerged with a basin of hot water. St. John washed up gratefully, glad for a moment's peace. All the strain and weariness of the day seemed to be crashing down upon him at once. He shrugged off his suit coat and allowed the butler to dust it while he combed his hair and desperately wished there were time for a pipe before sitting to dine.
His dismay only increased in the actual dining facilities. St. John, used to a simple life with a mere two servants and a home that was severe to the point of asceticism, and being in possession of a temperament that prized quiet conversation over gaiety, found himself ushered into a room full of loud, lively soldiers. The walls and lamps blazed with candles, the table was set with fine crystal and too many decorations, and servants bustled around pouring wine and remove plates. St. John had no complaint that the streets of Calcutta were noisy, crowded and filled with every sort of eastern exoticism-he had anticipated as much; what he did not enjoy was the idea of having to live surrounded by commotion, of having no calm haven to retire to. Still, the food look wholesome enough, so he sat while Cpt. Aquilaine introduced him enthusiastically to the rest of the company.
Reply
He felt the anger he ever struggled to control burn two hot spots on his cheeks, and he narrowed his gaze at the marine. A more awkward silence fell over the room and Cpt. Aquilaine shifted in the chair next to him. St. John tried to settle his mind and think of an appropriate response.
Ye are the light of the world. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.
He gave the room a cold smile. “Shall I give a blessing before the meal?”
Cpt. Aquilaine cleared his throat and looked uncomfortably at his dinner guest. “I think that would be very kind of you, Rev. Rivers. Pray continue.”
St. John reached into this pocket and retrieved the small Book of Common Prayer he kept on his person. He knew the 8th Psalm by heart but felt that reciting verse was showy, and reading aloud often calmed him more than other measures.
“O LORD, our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth! / who hast set Thy glory above the heavens. / Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, / that Thou mightiest still the enemy and the avenger.” His speech, which had started out flat and thin, grew warm and joyful as he read the long-familiar words. The anxiety and disappointments of the day began to drain from his limbs, and he felt glad once more of his circumstances. His voice swelled a little as emotion crept into his words. “When I consider the heavens, the work of Thy fingers, / the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; / What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? And the son of man, that Thou visitest him? / For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, / and hast crowned him with glory and honor. / O LORD our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth!” He closed the Book gently. “Amen.”
He raised his head and sighed, a contented noise. He recalled: his purpose and passion in coming to India was spreading the Word and following the will of God, not making his way in Society. As St. John composed himself, feeling the glow of a peaceful heart again within his breast, he glanced over at his dining companion, curious as to what the Captain might make of him.
Cpt. Aquilaine peered at him unflinchingly, ardently even, eyes boring into the Reverend with an almost singular intensity-then broke off into a wide grin as the rest of the table resumed their normal conversations and the food began to arrive from the kitchen. “My word, Reverend. What a fine orator you make. Politicians everywhere should be glad you have gone into the church rather government; I think you could convince Queen Victoria herself to sell her jewels and become a shop-girl instead!”
St. John flushed with pleasure but shook his head. “You must not compliment me so; it is only when I read the Bible that I can sound so fine.” And I could not even convince Jane to be my wife, let alone convince a Queen to give up her throne. “I do not think Parliament would suffer me to read psalms all day long, not when they could be arguing taxation and rotten boroughs instead. Ah, and here is the soup.”
“I must warn you, the soup is called Mulligatawny. More Indian than English-I think it delightful, but a bit of an acquired taste.”
They focused their efforts to the task of eating.
Reply
“Forgive me, Reverend, if I do not stand to pour your drink properly; Sanyal is busy this time of night and I confess by evening my leg makes activity a chore.”
“As long as you are not offended by my passing on the drink, Captain. I am a temperance man myself.”
“Not even for health reasons?”
“I will take cordial on occasion, for health, but I do not drink for pleasure.”
“Do you not put gin in your tonic water?”
“I have not even had the tonic water yet. There was none on the ship, and I have been here only a few hours.”
Cpt. Aquilaine grimaced and rubbed his leg. “This time of day old wounds ache most. Here, try a little tonic”-as he poured a small of tumbler of slightly fizzing water-“and tell me what you think.”
St. John's face twisted as he sipped. “That is most bitter.” He puffed on his pipe to cover the taste.
Cpt. Aquilaine poured a healthy dose of gin into the glass, and handed it back. “Tell me if that doesn't at least hide the unpleasantness some.” St. John gave a tentative swallow, not wanting to be discourteous, and was forced to admit that gin did improve the tonic considerably.
“I suppose, if it is to prevent the malaria, I cannot be criticized for drinking this. We shall have to keep it from the temperance society back in Stoke-on-Trent.”
“I shall take it to the grave.” His host shifted back in his chair, sipping thoughtfully at a snifter of brandy and lipping a cigar he had not yet cut. To St. John he looked older and more tired, far less happy than the man he met only a few hours ago, as if all the good cheer had faded with the sunlight. He was personally more than content to merely sit and smoke, at ease with his own thoughts, but it seemed unsociable so instead he inquired,
“Does your leg generally bother you so?”
Cpt. Aquilaine nodded grimly. “Every day this past year. They say I was lucky to have survived, and I believe them, but it is still a constant trouble to me, especially if I overtax myself.” He offered no further information. St. John waited a few minutes, alternating puffs on his pipe (the Club provided excellent blends of tobacco) with small sips of the tonic and gin before attempting conversation again.
“Aquilaine is an uncommon last name-in truth, I have never heard it before. May I inquire...?”
The Captain knit his brows, hesitating. “I would tell you, sir, but I fear that you as a man of God would find the whole tale unsavory.”
“I assure you, I would not. I have just been three months aboard a ship with all manner of sailors, and do not believe I could be shocked at this point. Pray continue, if you please.”
His friend slowly cut and lit his cigar, exhaling tentative puffs of blue smoke to get an even burn. Tobacco in one hand and brandy in the other, he stared into the middle distance as he began.
Reply
He stared into the now-empty brandy snifter. St. John took in the forlorn lines of his countenance, his thoughtful brow and expressive eyes and sensitive mouth, and the way his broad, powerful soldier's shoulders slumped as he continued his tale. His skin had been tanned by the Indian sun but in all other ways he still appeared a proud Englishman. Proud, but brought low by circumstance, with a lighthearted disposition that hid deeper, more impassioned feelings.
“I was well raised and sent to Cambridge at the appropriate time, but as you can imagine I could not belong in decent society, not as the natural son of a German. So I joined the army, hoping to win glory for myself and redeem my family's honor on the battlefield. After two years of kicking my heels in India I rejoiced when war broke out in Afghanistan. Alas, 'the best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, gang aft agley', and not three months into the campaign I took a rifled musket ball through the thigh at the Battle of Ghazni. It was touch-and-go for a time, I am told, but the surgeon managed to save my leg and after I had recovered sufficiently the army found a position for me back here in Calcutta, training Sepoys.” He gave his guest a wry smile and refilled his brandy. “Not the life I intended, condemned to limp and hobble like an old man, but we all work with what Providence has provided. What about you, Rev. Rivers? What say you to the bastard son of a faithless German?”
St. John, unaccountably moved by the tale, was nevertheless startled at how hotly he spoke. “I would say, Cpt. Aquilaine, that I have always endeavored to be a faithful Christian. And no true Christian should consider a father's sins in how he treats the son. Society may condemn your name but I cannot. I could never.”
A look of feeling and relief passed over the Captain's face, and he clasped St. John's hand in his briefly. “Thank you. You are kind.” St. John returned the look and they sat for a moment, sharing an understanding words could but poorly articulate. Ctp. Aquilaine returned to his brooding position but a burden seemed to have lifted. “Tell me your tale of woe, Reverend, should you possess one.”
Reply
St. John sipped tentatively at his tonic-water. “I have no tale of woe, Cpt. Aquilaine, so there will be little for us to commiserate about unless we compare stories of Cambridge, where I also was privileged to study. I grew up in a good household in Stoke-on-Trent with two devoted sisters, studied theology at university, and after several years as a parish rector felt called to come to India. Here I will spend a year teaching at Queen's Street Secondary School, which will provide me with time to further learn the language and customs of the land. Then I intend to set off by foot, led only by God, traveling and spreading the Word.” He did not mention Jane Eyre, although a refusal of marriage might well qualify as woeful. Such things were in the past, and could not effect him now.
“As your passion was for redeeming your family name, so my passion is for doing the will of the Lord wherever it may lead me. I have dedicated my life to being an instrument in His all-knowing hands, and whatever happens I trust that it shall be for some greater purpose, though I of course cannot see the end of the path. All my days I have trusted in His goodness and I shall accept whatever challenge and correction He sends.” St. John found his hands were clenched tightly around his glass; his heart pounded in his chest and he stared blindly at the curls of smoke rising from his pipe. “There-that is the measure of my story.”
“I have no doubt it shall end well, both here and in the next world, if your energy is any match for your zeal. But tell me of Cambridge. Which college? Did you play sport? I attended St. John's College and attempted to study history, although I confess I spent most of my time at cricket. I made an excellent batsman in my day.”
St. John drained his glass with an amused chuckle he attributed to the gin. Medicinal it may have been, but it had distinctly non-medical effects as well. Such was the danger of alcohol. “Actually, Cpt. Aquilaine, I deliberately chose not to go to St. John's College, as St. John is my Christian name and I could not bear three full years of thinking people were speaking to me when they were merely discussing school. I attended Trinity, which I believe means we are to be rivals.”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed heartily in return. “At least your name was not foreign like mine. My mother chose 'Markus' for me, with the German spelling, but thank God after she left my uncle anglicized it at the least. That is just one of many things for which I am indebted to him. And yes, we shall have to compete in something, for the glory of our respective colleges. I shall inform you immediately should I think of anything.”
Despite what had turned out to be a far more stimulating evening than anticipated, St. John stretched wearily and began to hope for a soft bed and a light coverlet. “I must beg your pardon, but it has been such a long day...”
Cpt. Aquilaine stood hurriedly, all apology. “No no, the fault is mine. I have kept you up and you must be exhausted. Sanyal has set a cot in the study-I am so sorry it could not be a proper bed, but I hope after three months at sea anything that does not sway will seem pleasant-and it is already turned down.” He led St. John to the study, where indeed a small but functional bedroom had been arranged, complete with wash basin and mirror.
“Thank you-it is more than satisfactory. As I said, I will trust in the Lord, and He has never led me astray yet. Surely you were meant to find me this afternoon! We must both be grateful for it, and I must now turn in. Good night.”
“Good night, Reverend, and sleep well!”
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
this is most beautiful. your devotion to detail is wonderful, it makes everything in this fic tactile and lush, basking in eastern sensuality. and the way you write st. john and marcus is just incredible, so spot-on and so well-altered. it is a fanfic but it is also a magnificent original story.
IN OTHER WORDS I AM ON MY KNEES YET AGAIN.
Reply
Reply
Reply
In which the Rev. St. John tries to turn his Back to the World, fails to get a Word in Edgewise, takes up his Lodgings, and has an Unsettling Conversation.
***************************************************************
Over a light breakfast the next morning-the Captain took kippers and cold cuts with mint jelly; St. John preferred simpler fare and kept to his usual porridge-Cpt. Aquilaine asked if St. John would be interested in taking up rooms at the Club.
“It was originally written in the charter that only military or naval men would be given membership, but we have been accommodating in the past and if I sponsored you there is no doubt you would be accepted. It might do our society some good to have a man of the cloth around, and I assure you the living situation is better than you will find at the Victoria.”
St. John sipped hesitantly at his scalding breakfast tea, having drunk too incautiously mere moments before and now paying for that haste.
“That is generous, Cpt. Aquilaine, and I do not want to refuse outright, but I had anticipated some sort of lodgings from the parish. Do you mind if I inquire into those first? It may be a more economical situation, and I am used to simpler living than is found here.” Seeing the look of disappointment on his friend's face, he continued hastily, “My pardon-I do not mean to sound ungrateful for your hospitality. I have no complaints being here, and everything has been satisfactory but I live so simply, I have no interest in society, and I fear I would make a very poor addition to your club's circle. Really, I am plain and dull. I read, pray, take walks and study. I am no athlete and I cannot even play at cards. Everyone will quickly grow tired of my company, yourself most of all!”
Cpt. Aquilaine shook his head as he reached for the pickled relish. “Most of the men who live here are of a good sort, but mostly taken with hunting, shooting and riding. Do not misunderstand-I enjoy those pursuits also, as my condition allows, but now I wish I had studied more at University. It would give my mind something better to do than sit and brood. I confess I looked forward to the idea of being able to talk sensibly with another educated man, but you must not stay here if you feel truly unsuited to it.”
His lonely words snatched at St. John's sympathies, but before he could respond a footman interrupted apologetically with a message addressed to Cpt. Aquilaine, written on cheap paper with a broad hand that had learned English only recently. Cpt. Aquilaine gave St. John a look of amused apology and glanced over the scrap before crumpling it into his pocket.
“I'm afraid I must go. Will you stay until you have lodgings arranged, or at least tonight? Thursday the Indians cook and we are having suckling pig with curry sauce and pie.”
“I would be happy to stay the night. When will you be back today?”
“Not until the evening. My regrets for leaving so suddenly-it is business with my Sepoys.” He rolled his eyes in false irritation and favored his guest with a little half-smile. “It is a wonder anything got done on this continent before we arrived.” He took up his cane and coat as he exited.
When St. John had finished his own meal he returned to his host's study and sat down with a book borrowed from the Club's reading room, A Grammatical Survey of Bengali. He had no reason to delay the inevitable learning that must needs take place, but found himself distracted and restless. Cpt. Aquilaine's offer would never suit, of course, but he was unexpectedly plagued by memories of Cambridge. Most of his days had been spent in the library or bent over a guttering candle, solitary and silent, but there had also been long walks through the countryside, stimulating academic debates, evenings in the public house, and brighter moments of companionship, even affection with like-minded friends. The recollection that he had once been something other than eternally cold, stern and distant frightened him into prayer.
Reply
He forced his mind back to the task of Bengali verb tenses.
Hours later, his back aching and his eyes swimming with graphemes and declensions, St. John finally noticed the hollow feeling that indicated he had forgotten to take lunch. The pendulum clock in the foyer was striking 3 in the afternoon as he made his way downstairs, and he remembered, even more significant than a missed luncheon, that he had assured Mr. Patel he would return the next day to call upon the Bishop again. Sanyal, seeing his distress, inquired as to the reason and promptly solved both problems-St. John could see why Cpt. Aquilaine had been so insistent as to keep him employed. In no time the Reverend was seated in a rickshaw, traveling at a more comfortable speed this time, one hand on the armrest and the other clutching a cold beef sandwich.
St. John was dusting crumbs off his traveling cloak when they pulled up to the steps of St. Paul Cathedral. The rickshaw driver settled under a sandlewood tree to nap while waiting for him to return. Happily, Mr. Patel was not only at his desk in the diocese office but-more fortuitously-about to head out for afternoon tea with the Bishop. He extended the offer to St. John as well, who agreed with enthusiasm. He yearned for the opportunity to meet the man whom he had long held in admiration and awe.
The Right Rev. Bishop Wilson was seated at a small table in the office's private courtyard, bent over a small but messy stack of books and papers. Contrary to every etching and portrait St. John had seen of the great man at University-in which he invariably wore the cassock and alb of a learned reverend-here, clad in a simple shirt and button-down vest, only his starched linen lappets marked him as any different from his secretary. St. John began to wonder if he had done wrong to accept the invite, as if he had accidentally walked into a private dinner party. His discomfort must have shown through, for the Bishop stood to greet them both with a welcoming hand.
“Mr. Patel, there you are and just in time. I was beginning to fear I would be left to my own devices with these ledgers. I have a surprise for tea, but who is our guest?”
“This is the Rev. Rivers, Bishop, the new instructor for Queen's Street.”
“Yes, of course. Rev. Rivers!” he shook St. John's hand vigorously. “Sit down, sit down. So delighted to make your acquaintance. I heard you have just arrived yesterday. I do hope the voyage was amenable; it can be unpleasant making the sail in springtime. Sujay-ah, Mr. Patel told me of your visit. I regret missing you, but I was inspecting a new wing of the sanitarium all afternoon. Dr. Campbell came all the way from Darjeeling to look it over with me. What an energetic man, a visionary and learned in geology as well! Rev. Rivers, we shall have time to talk now, once tea is poured. Mr. Patel, this is the new tea Dr. Campbell is trying to introduce cultivate on his hillside estates. Took the seeds from China, trying to grow the bushes on terraces. We shall see, we shall see. Do you like your tea black, Reverend?”
“Yes, thank you-” St. John started.
Reply
“I have only just started, Bishop. I learned Hindustani instead-”
“What a shame! That will never do. Are you good with languages, Reverend? I assume you are; you must be. Here-I will give you two months grace to start learning Bengali. You must know at least a little before trying to teach our poor students their catechism! You can start in fall rather than summer. That will be better anyways. The students don't learn much during summer-it's too hot to think, let alone, well, think. Let me tell you about the new sanitarium, Rev. Rivers...”
St. John began to suspect he had already said everything he would say to the Right Rev. Bishop Wilson.
Lord, I thank Thee for this opportunity to meet one of Thy greatest servants. I also thank Thee for this opportunity to improve my patience, and for the reminder to be grateful in all circumstances.
By the time he arrived back at the British Officer's East India Club dusk had fallen and he was worn through. He did not take well to excited chatter at the best of times, and although he felt shame to even think it the Bishop's giddiness had been as grating as it had been overwhelming. His nerves were rubbed raw and teeth set on edge by an afternoon of nodding and making polite noises at the flow of words crashing down upon his ears; all he hoped for was a dark room and a quiet pipe.
Alas for St. John! Such things were not to be, not yet. Cpt. Aquilaine already brooded in a corner of his sitting room, holding a neglected cigar in one hand and an equally neglected snifter of brandy in the other. He glanced up morosely at his guest.
“Your pardon-I can go back out. I shall study in the library, if you like-”
“No, please. Pray come in. I am happy for the company, although I regret I have little to say this evening.”
“Cpt. Aquilaine, would you think less of me if I said your words gave me a great and singular joy?” St. John retired into the other chair, reaching for the tobacco. Cpt. Aquilaine raised a brow at him, questioningly, and St. John shook his head. They smiled at each other a little, as mutual misery is wont to raise spirits, and spent a more pleasant half-hour enjoying the company of a fellow-sufferer.
At the sound of the dinner-bell they roused themselves; Cpt. Aquilaine proposed they eat in rather than face the dinning room, and with very little fuss one a footman brought up a selection of delicacies from the table. They ate their way hungrily through tender pork, spiced sauces, curried vegetables and and excellent suet pie with raisins. As he drained the last of his tea, St. John inquired as to the state of the Captain's day.
“Wretched, foul and overly-long. Some days everything about this country turns my stomach, and that is all I can charitably say on the matter. I do hope yours was more pleasant?”
“Regrettably not, Captain! I have finally met the Bishop, a man with the ability to talk sixteen-to-the-dozen for an hour straight, hardly pausing to draw breath. I have learned of tea cultivation, parish accounts, my schooling assignment, the pitiable state of the Dalits, the geography of the Himalayas, a good deal about Charles Wesley and an interminable amount about curry. Also, I have learned that I am to find my own lodgings, as none are available through the parish. Does your offer of a room here still stand?”
Cpt. Aquilaine beamed with a great delight. “I shall take it up with the secretary in the morning.”
Reply
Sometimes they shared a walk and he learned more of the city: the silver rupees he had been handing out so profligately were actually several day's wages to the lower classes; do not attempt to shoo a bull away from a merchant's stall, even if it is eating all the poor man's cabbages; the upper castes consider suffering to be a just punishment upon the lowest castes, who had done something in a previous lifetime to deserve their misery, so try not to behave indignantly when a brahmin's bodyguard strikes a beggar for being in the way of his master's feet.
Every Sunday St. John walked to St. Paul's Cathedral for worship services; this also allowed him to pay respects to the Bishop without the risk of being invited back to afternoon tea. Every Thursday Cpt. Aquilaine either took a solitary walk through the city (steadfastly rejecting all offers of companionship) or was called away on urgent Sepoy business. He tended to be in a worse mood than unusal on Thursdays.
One Thursday evening, six weeks after St. John signed his name to the Officer's Club register, Cpt. Aquilaine sank into an unusually sour state. St. John had grown used to these dark evenings and found them less hateful than he normally would; hearing such complaints coming from another man frequently roused him into lecture about patient suffering or the Will of God or the mortification of the flesh or some such. He could not bring himself to do so with his friend. He merely sat and nodded in sympathy while the Captain began to talk.
He complained about the Sepoys and what difficulties he had trying to mold them into a fighting force, since they repeatedly refused to interact with fellow-soldiers of differing castes. He regretted, at length, the ill fortune that had taken his health and physical agility from him prematurely. Then, with a sharp look in his eye, he looked directly at St. John and said “Reverend, what do you think of women?”
“Why, I-” St. John frowned and looked down at his tonic with gin. He had recently adopted the Captain's habit of placing a single slice of lime in the drink. “I have known good women and bad women; I would be hard-pressed to make an equivocal statement on the subject.”
“So you do not think that they are, as a class, generally inferior?”
“Not necessarily; I suppose it matters how you define that word. For example, are they more domestic, more emotional, less rational and the physically-weaker sex? Yes, for certain. But a woman's hand can turn a house into a home, elevate men's thoughts to better and loftier planes, and they provide a civilizing effect wherever they may be. And they are clearly well-suited to raise children, at least for the first few years when the babes are still tender. In short: they are frailer than us, often foolish and generally concerned with trivialities, but at their best can be brave, gentle, warm and devoted. I have met both types and while I clearly brook no patience with the former, the latter can be, well... think of our Queen. She exemplifies the best in women, does she not? Rules the nation with a soft but steady hand, does not allow her feminine emotions to overtake her good judgment, and retains wise counselors to assist and advise on matters she does not well understand.”
He thought of Jane, who could never be accused of feebleness after her escape through the moors, and whose bravery and resolution-but who had fled security and jeopardized her soul for passion. The best and the worst of womanly traits, all residing in the same breast.
Reply
“I do not recall Plato saying those exact words, Captain-”
“I am summarizing. It was what he felt. Or perhaps it was Aristotle. Do you find them attractive, Reverend?”
“The Greeks? Or women?” St. John struggled to follow the flow of the conversation.
“Women, of course! The Greeks were beautiful. Slender hips, shapely arms, noble, masculine noses, strong jaws and such balanced proportioning. Well, the men were beautiful. I am not fond of their big-hipped, soft-chested women.” He finished the newly-poured glass of brandy.
St. John frowned in disapproval at the vulgarity. “I cannot say the attractiveness of women is ever something I lent much thought to, Cpt. Aquilaine. Certainly there are fine examples, but in general such matters do not interest me.”
“Not claiming an interest in women is an admirable thing, Rev. Rivers.”
“But I do not claim an interest in men either. Men are also sinners in the eyes of the Lord, certainly better suited to governing and learning and business, but with their own unique troubles. Think of anger-that is a masculine trait, to be sure. And pride is found far more frequently in men than women. Or lust, that great corrupter-you cannot claim you have met many women who fall pray to lust or sex-sin.” He looked directly at the Captain, a touch accusatorily.
Cpt. Aquilaine returned the look through a curl of cigar smoke for a long, tense minute. “Have you ever desired marriage, Reverend?”
St. John pursed his lips around his pipe, caught unawares yet again by the shift in topics. “A complicated question.”
“On the contrary-it is a simple one! You are being deliberately obtuse.” The Captain's voice grew louder. He was well into his cups.
St. John felt the anger rising in his breast. “It is not. And I am not obtuse-you are intoxicated. I have asked a woman to marry me, yes, and she refused, but I had hoped to have her as a companion in my mission-work in India. I would have respected her as a wife, but treated her as a sister, if you understand my words. Such... other matters of marriage are too private to be casually discussed.”
“And yet you do not find that the Greek aesthetic holds any appeal to you?”
Finally, far too late to deflect the conversation gently, St. John understood what was being discussed. He was too worn to be anything but blunt. “I think the Greeks were magnificent artists and philosophers, Cpt. Aquiline, but almost singular in some of their vices, the more effeminate ones especially. More to the point, they did not know the Light of Christ and for that I cannot think overmuch of them.”
Cpt. Aquiline's face turned a dark red. “Perhaps I should be in my bed, Reverend.”
“Perhaps I should be in mine.” St. John stood and left.
Reply
Leave a comment