And so the voyage went on.Gissing was quite content to do a two- hour trick at the wheel both morning and afternoon, and worked out some new principles of steering which gave him pleasure.In the first place, he noticed that the shuffle-board and quoit players, on the boat deck aft, were occasionally annoyed by cinders from the stacks, so he made it a general plan to steer so that the smoke blew at right angles to the ship's course.As the wind was prevailingly west, this meant that his general trend was southerly.Whenever he saw another vessel, a mass of floating sea-weed, a porpoise, or even a sea-gull, he steered directly for it, and passed as close as possible, to have a good look at it.Even Mr.Pointer admitted (in the mates' mess) that he had never experienced so eventful a voyage.To keep the quartermasters from being idle, Gissing had them knit him a rope hammock to be slung in the chart-room.He felt that this would be more nautical than a plush settee.
There was a marvellous sense of power in standing at the wheel and feeling the great hull reply to his touch.Occasionally Captain Scottie would emerge from his cabin, look round with a faint surprise, and come to the bridge to see what was happening.Mr.Pointer would salute mutely, and continue to study the skyline with indignant absorption.The Captain would approach the wheel, where Gissing was deep in thought.Rubbing his hands, the Captain would say heartily, "Well, I think I've got it all clear now."Gissing sighed.
"What is it?" the Captain inquired anxiously.
"I'm bothered about the subconscious.They tell us nowadays that it's the subconscious mind that is really important.The more mental operations we can turn over to the subconscious realm, the happier we will be, and the more efficient.Morality, theology, and everything really worth while, as I understand it, spring from the subconscious."The Captain's look of cheer would vanish."Maybe there's something in that.""If so," Gissing continued, "then perhaps consciousness is entirelyspurious.It seems to me that before we can get anywhere at all, we've got to draw the line between the conscious and the subconscious.What bothers me is, am I conscious of having a subconscious, or not? Sometimes I think I am, and then again I'm doubtful.But if I'm aware of my subconscious, then it isn't a genuine subconscious, and the whole thing's just another delusion--"The Captain would knit his weather-beaten brow and again retire anxiously to his quarters, after begging Gissing to be generous and carry on a while longer.Occasionally, pacing the starboard bridge-deck, sacred to captains, Gissing would glance through the port and see the metaphysical commander bent over sheets of foolscap and thickly wreathed in pipe-smoke.
He himself had fallen into a kind of tranced felicity, in which these questions no longer had other than an ingenious interest.His heart was drowned in the engulfing blue.As they made their southing, wind and weather seemed to fall astern, the sun poured with a more golden candour.He stood at the wheel in a tranquil reverie, blithely steering toward some bright belly of cloud that had caught his fancy.Mr.Pointer shook his head when he glanced surreptitiously at the steering recorder, a device that noted graphically every movement of the rudder with a view to promoting economical helmsmanship.Indeed Gissing's course, as logged on the chart, surprised even himself, so that he forbade the officers taking their noon observations.When Mr.Pointer said something about isobars, the staff- captain replied serenely that he did not expect to find any polar bears in these latitudes.
He had hoped privately for an occasional pirate, and scanned the sea- rim sharply for suspicious topsails.But the ocean, as he remarked, is not crowded.They proceeded, day after day, in a solitary wideness of unblemished colour.The ship, travelling always in the centre of this infinite disk, seemed strangely identified with his own itinerant spirit, watchful at the gist of things, alert at the point which was necessarily, for him, the nub of all existence.He wandered about the pomerania~s sagely ordered passages and found her more and more magical.She went on and on, with some strange urgent vitality of her own.Through the fiddleys onthe boat deck came a hot oily breath and the steady drumming of her burning heart.From outer to hawse-hole, from shaft-tunnel to crow's-nest, he explored and loved her.In the whole of her proud, faithful, obedient fabric he divined honour and exultation.Poised upon uncertainty, she was sure.The camber of her white-scrubbed decks, the long, clean sheer of her hull, the concave flare of her bows--what was the amazing joy and rightness of these things? And yet the grotesque passengers regarded her only as a vehicle, to carry them sedatively to some clamouring dock.Fools! She was more lovely than anything they would ever see again! He yearned to drive her endlessly toward that unreachable perimeter of sky.
On land there had been definite horizons, even if disappointing when reached and examined; but here there was no horizon at all.Every hour it slid and slid over the dark orb of sea.He lost count of time.The tremulous cradling of the Pomerania, steadily climbing the long leagues; her noble forecastle solemnly lifting against heaven, then descending with grave beauty into a spread of foaming beryl and snowdrift, seemed one with the rhythm of his pulse and heart.Perhaps there had been more than mere ingenuity in his last riddle for the theological skipper.Truly the subconscious had usurped him.Here he was almost happy, for he was almost unaware of life.It was all blue vacancy and suspension.The sea is the great answer and consoler, for it means either nothing or everything, and so need not tease the brain.
