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Is that clear? All right then!

This was written by Captain Pal with his stiff fingers and slow brain!

And now, my darling dolly, I have read your book and given you my opinion. But what have we to do with it? Didn’t we love one another? Haven’t we educated one another and helped one another to rub off our sharp corners? Surely you’ll remember that we had many a little encounter in the beginning! What fads of yours are those? To hell with all Ottilias and seminaries!

The book you sent me is a queer book. It is like a watercourse with an insufficient number of buoys, so that one might run aground at any moment. But I pricked the chart and found calm waters. Only, I couldn’t do it again. The devil may crack these nuts which are rotten inside when one has managed to break the shell. I wish you peace and happiness and the recovery of your sound common sense.

“How are the little ones? You forgot to mention them. Probably you were thinking too much of Nora’s unfortunate kiddies, (which exist only in a play of that sort). Is my little boy crying? My nightingale singing, my dolly dancing? She must always do that if she wants to make her old pal happy. And now may God bless you and prevent evil thoughts from rising between us. My heart is sadder than I can tell. And I am expected to sit down and write a critique on a play. God bless you and the babies; kiss their rosy cheeks for your faithful old Pal.”
When the captain had sent off his letter, he went into the officers’ mess and drank a glass of punch. The doctor was there, too.

“Have you noticed a smell of old black breeches?” he asked. “I should like to hoist myself up to the cat block and let a good old N.W. by N. blow right through me.”

But the doctor did not understand what he was driving at.

“Ottilia, Ottilia!… What she wants is a taste of the handspike. Send the witch to the quarterdeck and let the second mess loose on her behind closed hatches. One knows what is good for an old maid.”

“What’s the matter with you, old chap?” asked the doctor.

“Plato! Plato! To the devil with Plato! To be six months at sea makes one sick of Plato. That teaches one ethics! Ethics? I bet a marlinspike to a large rifle: if Ottilia were married she would cease talking of Plato.”

“What on earth is the matter?”

“Nothing. Do you hear? You’re a doctor. What’s the matter with those women? Isn’t it bad for them to remain unmarried? Doesn’t it make them…? What?”

The doctor gave him his candid opinion and added that he was sorry that there were not enough men to go round.

“In a state of nature the male is mostly polygamous; in most cases there is no obstacle to this, as there is plenty of food for the young ones (beasts of prey excepted): abnormalities like unmated females do not exist in nature. But in civilised countries, where a man is lucky if he earns enough bread, it is a common occurrence, especially as the females are in preponderance. One ought to treat unmarried women with kindness, for their lot is a melancholy one.”

“With kindness! That’s all very well; but supposing they are anything but kind themselves!”

And he told the doctor the whole story, even confessing that he had written a critique on a play.

“Oh! well, no end of nonsense is written,” said the doctor, putting his hand on the lid of the jug which contained the punch. “In the end science decides all great questions! Science, and nothing else.”

When the six months were over and the captain, who had been in constant, but not very pleasant, correspondence with his wife, (she had sharply criticised his critique), at last landed at Dalaro, he was received by his wife, all the children, two servants and Ottilia. His wife was affectionate, but not cordial. She held up her brow to be kissed. Ottilia was as tall as a stay, and wore her hair short; seen from the back she looked like a swab. The supper was dull and they drank only tea. The long boat took in a cargo of children and the captain was lodged in one of the attics.