The Star of the Sea (21 page)

The
Star of the Sea
Wednesday, 17 November 1847

My dearest little blister, Rashers,
¹

Forgive the large and disgraceful scrawl but I only have one little tallow candle by me at present and in any case my eyesight seems of late to be not what it was. (I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, Willie S. Yuk yuk.) Like every other deuced bit of me for that matter.

It is said by our trusty and perspicacious Captain (who studies charts and shipping schedules like a mystical maji and uses rather lonnnnggg words in his caawwnversation) that we may meet in a week or soon thereafter the steamer
Morning Dew
coming from New Orleans and making for Sligo with a cargo of India Meal; and so I scribble down these disorganised thoughts and
greetings in the hope that they may reach you before too long. (Only larking about the Cap. Stout cove in every way. Explained me the voyage on the charts the other evening.)

It is an odd thing; but sometimes I do not know what I think about anything, quite, until I write it down, more or less. Do you ever find that, at all, dear silly little Rashers? What a very strange brother you have. Lackaday

How are you and Emily and of course Aunt Eddie? Has that daft beggar Millington popped the question to Emily yet? Do wish he’d beastly get on with it, don’t you? (We Old Wykehamists are not normally so backward in coming forward. Tell him the honour of Old Tutors House is at stake.) If she doesn’t look out sharpish you shall beat her up the aisle.
²
And how stands dear old London? I wonder when I shall see it again.

[A passage has been struck out here.]

We feel very cut off here in the middle of the great ocean, I may tell you. Wars and revolutions could have happened back home and we should not know the first thing about them. Mark you that is not an entirely unpleasant sensation, particularly after the last several years and all that has happened since Papa passed. There is a certain seductive peacefulness out here, at night especially. The sea gets
into
one somehow, like a sort of drug. Find myself speaking (and even thinking) in wavy kind of rhythms. Queerest thing. Everyone on board seems to do it after a while. At night, especially, the ocean is quite melancholy. The sound of the waves on the hull and so on. The sky is so dark that the stars seem brighter; even more brilliant and beautiful than they are in Galway. Sometimes I think I should like to stay out here for ever.

It was very sad to have to lock up the house, even sadder than to see it quite emptied of its furniture and all forlorn like a kind of
robbed Egyptian tomb. It seemed so large and so very bare as I walked around it. Hordes of the former tenants came to say goodbye, as you can imagine, and they were extremely sad, too, with many in tears. Took me quite an hour to get down the drive and hand was sore from shaking. (All of them asked after you and Em, of course.)

But they quite understand what we have had to do and wished us all the best for the future. They gave ‘three huzzahs for the name of Merridith’ as I left. There seemed to be no hard feelings at all, so please do not worry. Many pleaded with me to stay in contact and to think of them as our friends, always, despite what has happened. So please put your mind at ease about this, honestly. I hate to think of you fretting.

Vickers, the valuer from the mortgage company, assured me he would do his very best to sell the lands as one parcel and not break them up any further. So that is something. Tommy Martin at Ballynahinch has said no, I’m afraid. Seems his own situation is precarious just now and he is thinking of selling up and removing to Londinium. Pity, because he’s not such a bad egg and though mad as snakes the Martins have not been the worst to their tenants. But there is talk of that drunken old fraud Henry Blake being possibly interested in adding to his fiefdom. This wretched famine is driving down land prices of course, and Blake, being in funds, is taking great advantage. Seems bent on buying up Connemara field by field. The Commander of Tully may soon command Kingscourt too, or what is left of it. I said to Vickers I should rather eat my own head than allow that vulgar jumped-up bully to bid, but as he said himself it is a Free Market and we are hardly in any position to be selective. Isn’t it queer, dear Nat, how things come out? But there it is. If only we knew what was down the road.

Most of poor Papa’s babies had to be destroyed, which was awful. I had tried several museums and zoological societies, also the Palaeological Institute in Dublin, and had managed to find homes for some of the more valuable pieces, the skeletons and some of the rarer eggs and fossils. But most of them nobody wanted to take, being in very poor condition because of the damp in the house, and some badly infested with maggots and silverfish, and
anyway there being little enough interest in taxidermy now. A Romany from one of those travelling carnivals happened past the morning I was leaving and said he would like the sabre-tooth tiger, which he had noticed on the dumpheap in the front stableyard by the ice house. He offered me a shilling but I gave it him for nothing. Frankly, I would have paid him to take it away, the stench of the thing was so bad, like rotten horse-meat. Johnnyjoe Burke and his brother dug a great pit by the shore and we filled it up with all the remainder, then set the lot on fire and covered it in again. It was like something dreadful out of Hieronymus Bosch. This shag Darwin would have a dark puzzle indeed if ever he came with his geological cronies to dig up Kingscourt.

As for the house itself, who knows what shall happen now. It is almost unbearable to picture it being demolished, but after two long centuries of Galway storms the poor old girl is a little past her best. Best not to dwell on such horrid thoughts, I suppose.

Went to visit Papa’s grave afterwards at Clifden. It looked very well; Mama’s too. Fresh flowers had been placed on each of their stones that morning: bog asphodels on his, wild sundew on hers. A simple little gesture but I admit I was touched by it.

Forgive me for not getting around to answering your last, which I received at Dublin not an hour before we boarded. As you can imagine, things were madly busy, with packing and fetching and the devil knows what. One would not have imagined that two small children and their weary parents would need more luggage and general paraphernalia than an entire infantry division about to invade enemy territory.

Mary Duane, whom I know you will remember of old, is accompanying us to America, and Laura has been very pleased to have her help. And I have been pleased to have her, too. It sort of feels we are taking something of Kingscourt days along with us.

You ask, in your letter, about my business scheme. You are quite correct; I have kept it under my hat until now. (Not even Laura knows about it quite, and often gives me a merciless teasing for my reticence.) But if I can’t tell my own dear little Rashers then whom can I tell, I hear you say.

My secret plan is to become involved in the building of fine houses of the style now becoming fashionable among the nouveau
riche of New York. Not a word to anyone, mind. I do not want to be beaten to the ball. (Or is it ‘the punch’ to which one is beaten? Methinks it is.)

I know I do not have an actual degree in architecture, but I flatter myself that I can draw a little and in any case I believe I have something better and more useful: personal experience. I have taken the plans of Kingscourt along with me, which I found among Papa’s papers the night before I closed up the old place. I had been searching for them for years and hadn’t managed to find them – you know the state of those rum old papers, stacked up to the library ceiling like the Colossus of Rhodes – so I think it must have been meant to be, that finally I turned them up at the last. It was like receiving an unexpected bequest from Papa.

I have also brought sketches and copies of the plans of several other larger Irish country houses – Powerscourt, Roxborough, Kilruddery, [
illegible
] and many more – and hope that soon many Kingscourts and Powerscourts may be an adornment to that new city and its environs. I am completely convinced that I will not fail.

I know some say the fashion at New York in the coming decades will be to build upwards into the clouds, but having studied the whole matter at considerable length I am absolutely certain that this is fanciful nonsense. If there is one thing they have in America, it is land. Nor are they attached to it in the ridiculously sentimental old way we are in Ireland. They will always build outward and never up. Why should they do anything else, when you consider it?

In any case, when one gives even a cursory look at the science involved, one can see that any building which is much taller than it is wider and deeper may simply not be made to stand up for very long. Particularly in cities like New York or Boston which are positioned on the Atlantic. It is a matter of simple physics, nothing more. You and I know, from direct experience, how strong the Atlantic gales can be. (Remember how the slates used to be ripped from the creamery roof every winter? Not to mention all the hatpins you and Em had to use. Ha ha.) A tree with deep roots can barely stand up in Connemara, so how would ten storeys stand erect on America’s windblown shore? Even if they did, why on
earth would any non-monkey want to live so high above the ground? And if such a folly were hypothetically possible, one might reasonably have thought that by now it would have occurred to someone in England and that London would be a forest of dozen-floored monstrosities.

No, I am quite determined not to wobble in my scheme. In the past, I think, I have made the mistake of not carrying through my instincts, and have listened too readily to the opinions of others. This time I shall screw my courage to the sticking-place. And damn’d be him that first cries
Hold enough
!

As for finances, I have a little put by, but it is a very little, so we must hope that providence favours the brave. I do hope you and Emily don’t mind, but I sold a few old knick-knacks that remained in Kingscourt. I mean a painting or two, nothing very much. The piano you asked about had already been taken away by the auctioneer’s gillies, I’m afraid. A few costume jewels of Mama’s I sent on to you.

I suppose we shall put up at an hotel when we arrive at New York, but never having been there before I do not know which one as yet. We have taken a smallish house on Washington Square – number 22 – but it will not be vacant until March. I say a house, but actually a new kind of thing called an apartment suite, so we are truly entering into the modern spirit. It is fiendishly expensive but I think of it as a worthwhile investment, a stylish place to entertain clients. (Clients – my God, if Papa could hear that.) Laura will be seeing about servants when we get there. I should think we shall probably restrict ourselves to a butler, a maid-of-all-work, a valet and of course a cook. No sense in going mad.

In the meantime I am told by a queer sort of Indian prince who is on board that New York has one half-way decent restaurant, Delmonico’s on Williams Street; so we shan’t starve at any rate. (The décor is Louis quatorze, I am told.)

Our accommodation here on the ship is not so stylish, but we are rather enjoying having to ‘rough it’ a bit. We have four good enough rooms in a sectioned-off part of the upperdeck slightly away from the other passengers. Laura’s and my cabin is pleasantly furnished, though small. Jonathan and Robert have a little palace each, with much egregious tussling about whose bathroom is the
grander. Mary’s quarters are at the end of the corridor and up some stairs; and we also have the use of a large unoccupied stateroom in which the Captain has kindly arranged for a rather wonderful sort of folding-up table to be placed so we may all breakfast and dine together. So it is quite the cosy nest, even if we all must shove up in the bed, as it were. The frequent presence of stewards and servants trotting about like Yahoos makes privacy difficult and irritates Laura sometimes but I suppose it must be tolerated. (I suppose Houyhnhnms would actually trot more, but you know what I mean.)
³

The grub is a little unexciting but we don’t kick up.

Boredom is a bit of a bore, to say the least. Very little to do on a tub I’m afraid. Poor company generally. Sometimes wander down to the Smoking Saloon in the evenings to lose a few shillings to the Maharajah at cards. But can’t seem to find a single decent book on board, no matter where I hunt. Turned up a stack of old copies of the
Times
in the saloon, however, and am attempting to hullify
⁴
the editorials in a sort of chronological way. It is rather fun work though DASHED taxing, specially now I’m going blind as a bbbbbbbbboat. (ha ha).

The boys are well, and send you all their love. They are mightily pleased with themselves being little mariners but the old trouble persists with Jonathan. I think it is only a matter of
nervousness and unsettlement and hope that when he is safely lodged in New York he can rest more properly. And stop running up the laundry bill for clean sheets! Poor old sausage, he is quite the water-clock lately. But he is looking forward to spending his birthday on ship. As for Robert he is in fine twig and scoffing like a cart-horse. (Our Captain would say he surpasseth edaciousness.) I simply don’t know where he puts all the tuck. As Johnnyjoe used to remark from time to time: ‘that little Lordship must have a hollow leg, be the hokey.’