Post by Salzmank on Jul 20, 2018 13:07:57 GMT
“Captain Gair” —Russell Kirk, Confessions of a Bohemian Tory
Early one spring morning, having played chess with a friend into the wee hours, I was walking down broad ancient South Street, in medieval St. Andrews. Nothing was stirring, and not even an automobile was parked in font of the tall medieval Scottish houses. But as I passed the university library, swinging my walking stick, I became aware of someone standing across the street, regarding me.
It was a very short man, coming hardly above my shoulder, peculiarly dressed—for he wore a riding habit, complete with derby, boots, and a crop. No horse was in sight. Seeing me return his stare, he called out, “I say!” and began striding his way across the road toward me, cracking his whip against his boots. Though he walked with a swagger, it was not the step of a tipsy man. “Captain Gair!” he exclaimed, by way of introducing himself.
He came close up to me. His face was mottled with red and purple veins, the countenance of a hard drinker, and whiskey was strong on his breath; but his educated speech was distinct. When he saw my stick, he stopped cracking his crop, and seemed uneasy, as if he had expected to confront a different sort of person.
The most peculiar thing about this being was his eyes—black and tiny, darting and quick to flee, never meeting my look, and frightened. “I say,” Captain Gair commenced, “why—it’s cigarettes. Yes, that’s it—cigarettes.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I replied, “but I don’t smoke them, and don’t know where they might be found at this hour.”
“No, no,” went on my Captain, nervously, “I don’t require cigarettes. I don’t smoke—nor drink, either. It’s petrol—yes, that’s it, petrol, petrol.”
But as our conversation proceeded, it turned out that he didn’t need petrol, either. He wanted to know how long I had lived in this town. And when I told him, “Four years, off and on,” he stared about him, into the mist, as if utterly lost, a strayed soul. So I bade him goodnight, and left him gazing after me. The mist swallowed him.
Next day, and indeed all next week, I inquired about town concerning this Captain Gair. But no one had ever heard of him. If my Captain was a phantom, though, his was a spirit with spirits on its breath.
It was a very short man, coming hardly above my shoulder, peculiarly dressed—for he wore a riding habit, complete with derby, boots, and a crop. No horse was in sight. Seeing me return his stare, he called out, “I say!” and began striding his way across the road toward me, cracking his whip against his boots. Though he walked with a swagger, it was not the step of a tipsy man. “Captain Gair!” he exclaimed, by way of introducing himself.
He came close up to me. His face was mottled with red and purple veins, the countenance of a hard drinker, and whiskey was strong on his breath; but his educated speech was distinct. When he saw my stick, he stopped cracking his crop, and seemed uneasy, as if he had expected to confront a different sort of person.
The most peculiar thing about this being was his eyes—black and tiny, darting and quick to flee, never meeting my look, and frightened. “I say,” Captain Gair commenced, “why—it’s cigarettes. Yes, that’s it—cigarettes.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I replied, “but I don’t smoke them, and don’t know where they might be found at this hour.”
“No, no,” went on my Captain, nervously, “I don’t require cigarettes. I don’t smoke—nor drink, either. It’s petrol—yes, that’s it, petrol, petrol.”
But as our conversation proceeded, it turned out that he didn’t need petrol, either. He wanted to know how long I had lived in this town. And when I told him, “Four years, off and on,” he stared about him, into the mist, as if utterly lost, a strayed soul. So I bade him goodnight, and left him gazing after me. The mist swallowed him.
Next day, and indeed all next week, I inquired about town concerning this Captain Gair. But no one had ever heard of him. If my Captain was a phantom, though, his was a spirit with spirits on its breath.