The “ship of fools” that Katherine Anne Porter built and launched in 1962 has, in its maritime engineering, an old and honourable pedigree. The term goes back to German humanist Sebastian Brant’s 1494 book Das Narrenschiff (“The Ship of Fools”), a work that uses 112 chapters of densely packed rhyming couplets to set forth different forms of human foolery. Brant suggests that all of us are fools – passengers and crew on a captainless ship that is sailing inexorably toward a fool’s paradise. Almost 500 years later, Porter, drawing upon both Brant’s poetic conceit and an actual ocean voyage that she once made from Mexico to Germany, sought to mix elements of realistic drama with aspects of Brant’s allegorical intent; and the result, Porter’s novel Ship of Fools, makes for an uneven but unquestionably interesting literary voyage.
Porter lived a life as interesting as any of her literary works. Born in Indian Creek, Texas, and educated in San Antonio, she early developed an interest in Mexican life and culture, and lived for quite a while in Mexico. Her conversion to the Roman Catholic faith may have intensified her interest in themes of guilt and human frailty – themes that come through strongly in books like Flowering Judas and Other Stories (1935) and Pale Horse, Pale Rider (1939). So strongly had Porter established herself as a writer of short stories and short novels that Ship of Fools, a 670-page novel, represented quite a dramatic departure from her previous approaches to fiction writing. Truly, she was sailing in a new direction, to an unfamiliar destination.
Before the ship of fools can begin its journey, the reader must join the passengers and crew at Veracruz, Mexico, the port from which the Lloyd North German lines vessel Vera will travel to Bremerhaven, Germany, over the course of about one month in the late summer of 1931. The passengers and crew, most of whom are German, look forward to leaving Veracruz: two of the passengers recall a popular saying among the German community in Mexico, to the effect that “Mexicans loathe the Americans, despise the Jews, hate the Spaniards, distrust the English, admire the French, and love the Germans” (p. 110). The novel’s narrator says of the people on board the Vera that “All believed they were bound for a place for some reason more desirable than the place they were leaving” (p. 23).
The Vera, whose title translates (ironically) as “Truth,” is described by the book’s narrator as “a mixed freighter and passenger ship, very steady and broad-bottomed in her style, walloping from one remote port to another, year-in-year-out, honest, reliable and homely as a German housewife” (p. 34).
There are 930 people on board the Vera as it sails out of Veracruz. We can’t possibly talk about them all. For purposes of this review, some of the most important people on board include the following, as described in a list of dramatis personae at the book’s beginning:
• “Ship’s Captain Thiele.”
• “Dr. Schumann, ship’s doctor.”
• “La Condesa, a [Spanish] déclassée noblewoman who has lived many years in Cuba; political exile being deported from Cuba to Tenerife.”
• “Frau Otto Schmitt, recently widowed in Mexico.”
• “Herr Siegfried Rieber, publisher of a ladies’ garment trade magazine.”
• “Fräulein Lizzi Spöckenkieker, in the ladies’ garment business; from Hanover.”
• Arne Hansen, a Swede who is described as being “at feud with Herr Rieber.”
• Herr Professor Hutten, “Former head of a German school in Mexico, and his wife”
• Herr Karl Baumgartner, “Lawyer from Mexico City – hopeless drunkard”, with “his wife Greta, and their eight-year-old son”
• “Herr Willibald Graf, a dying religious enthusiast who believes he has the power of healing”, with “Johann, his nephew and attendant”
• David Scott and Jenny Brown, “Two young [American] painters living together, on their first voyage to Europe.”
• Mary Treadwell, “a woman of forty-five, divorced, returning to Paris.”
• A Spanish zarzuela company, “singers and dancers who call themselves gypsies, returning to Spain after being stranded in Mexico”
• And, in steerage, “Eight hundred and seventy-six souls: Spaniards, men, women, children, workers in the sugar fields of Cuba, being deported back to the Canaries and to various parts of Spain (wherever they came from) after the failure of the sugar market.”
The ship, in short, replicates the class divisions and cultural tensions of the time in which the voyage is being made, from the poverty and political instability of Mexico to the menace of Weimar Germany’s fragile democracy that is crumbling under the pressure being applied by Hitler and the Nazis. It is with a bitter sense of irony that Part I, “Embarkation,” is prefaced with a quote from Baudelaire: “Quand partons-nous vers le bonheur?”, meaning “When shall we set sail toward happiness?” (p. 13)
Once the Vera is properly at sea, the reader gets to start learning about the people on board and their relationships to one another – and they are, by and large, a thoroughly disagreeable lot. American painters David Scott and Jenny Brown have a dysfunctional, codependent relationship that could keep TV’s Dr. Phil shouting “You gotta git over yourselves!” for an entire season’s worth of ratings sweeps. Jenny and David are constantly criticizing each other’s artwork, morals, and basic philosophy of life, only to make up afterward so they can begin the cycle again.
Jenny, thinking about David, looks back to the beginning of their relationship at one point, and reflects on how “She had believed that his contemptuous dismissal of all her friends was the sign of a discriminating taste and judgment superior to her own. Now it seemed to her that David watched and listened so narrowly for the fallacy, the blind spot, the small but certain marks of weakness and vulgarity in others because finding them soothed his own fear, lulled his deep uncertainties about his own qualities” (p. 195). These memories lead Jenny to an unhappy realization that “The past is never where you think you left it: you are not the same person you were yesterday” (p. 197).
Other passengers betray other forms of foolery. The widowed Frau Schmitt, accompanying her husband’s body back to Germany, is appalled by the Spanish zarzuela company, and tries to couch her own cultural prejudices in terms of Christian charity: “She had always believed so deeply that human beings wished only to be quiet and happy, each in his own way; but there was a spirit of evil in them that could not let each other be in peace. One man’s desire must always crowd out another’s, one must always take his own good at another’s expense. Or so it seemed. God forgive us all” (p. 204).
Later, Frau Schmitt, a Catholic, gets into an awkward conversation about religion with Frau Baumgartner, a Protestant, and is embarrassed by the exchange. “Even with the best will in the world, with nothing but kindness in your heart, Frau Schmitt felt again for the thousandth time, how difficult it is to be good, innocent, friendly, simple, in a world where no one seems to understand or sympathize with another; it seemed all too often that no one really wished even to try to be a little charitable” (p. 213).
The Baumgartners, with their safe and conventional religious beliefs, later end up in another quarrel, this time with the Swede Hansen, a dedicated Marxist who savours the opportunity to shock the Baumgartners with his political philosophy. “Civilization,” Hansen says, “let me tell you what it is. First the soldier, then the merchant, then the priest. The merchant hires the soldier and priest to conquer the country for him. First the soldier, he is a murderer; then the priest, he is a liar; then the merchant, he is a thief – and they all bring in the lawyer to make their laws and defend their deeds, and there you have your civilization!” (pp. 216-17)
Another dysfunctional couple on board the Vera are Herr Rieber, a dedicated Nazi, and Lizzi Spöckenkieker. Rieber, a dedicated Nazi who is married, is hoping for a sexual liaison with Lizzi; Lizzi, whose lack of attractiveness is repeatedly emphasized throughout the novel, wants simply to enjoy the feeling of being pursued by a man. The two collaborate on an errand of intolerance against Wilhelm Freytag, a German man who is returning home to his Jewish wife. Rieber and Lizzi object to Freytag sitting with them at the Captain’s table, stating that Freytag “had no right to be there. Perhaps not a Jew himself – though they had no proof that he wasn’t except his own word – but he was known – indeed, he declared it at table before everybody – that he had Jewish connections of a most intimate nature – in fact a wife!” (p. 307)
The ship’s doctor, Dr. Schumann, is acutely conscious of his own frailty, as he has a heart condition that he knows could kill him at any moment. That awareness colours his observations of life on shipboard, as when he notes the interest of the awkward young Johann in the equally young but more knowing Concha, one of the Spaniards:
Dr. Schumann, passing on his way to the steerage to attend another birth, paused to look at them with pleasure and pure generous joy in their freshness of beauty – how could such beauty come out of such dinginess and poverty as theirs? For he knew their origins, and no doubt their natures were as poor and shabby as their lives, yet there they went, as perfectly formed as champion-bred race horses, the look of longing and uncertainty in their faces as touching as the tears of a wronged child. (p. 404)
Against his will, Dr. Schumann finds himself entering into something of an emotional affair with La Condesa, the political prisoner who has been expelled from Cuba and is bound for exile in Tenerife. He sees, to his sorrow, that his frailty is not only physical but also moral and ethical.
Another of the ways in which Porter explores conflict on this “ship of fools” is through how roommates are arranged. The one Jewish passenger, Löwenthal, is stuck in a room with the pro-Nazi Rieber, who revels in the opportunity for petty acts of anti-Semitic harassment. Freytag, meanwhile, is stuck with the humourless radical Hansen as a roommate, and therefore is stuck listening to Hansen’s political rants. Freytag reflects wearily that people’s “abstractions and generalizations, their Rage for Justice or Hatred of Tyranny or whatever, too often disguised a bitter personal grudge of some sort far removed from the topic apparently under discussion” (p. 535).
As mentioned above, some of the fools on board the ship of fools seem to be more self-aware than the other fools. One of the more self-aware fools is Mary Treadwell. On this second reading of Ship of Fools, I found myself wondering if Mrs. Treadwell might be, on some level, a stand-in for Porter herself. After all, Mrs. Treadwell is an American, like Porter; she is divorced, as Porter was at the time of her journey; she is bound for Paris, as Porter was on her original 1931 cruise.
And Mrs. Treadwell engages in some elaborate reflections on identity, on illusion versus reality – themes that might be quite familiar to readers of other Porter works like Pale Horse, Pale Rider. At one point, after returning from a bizarre shipboard party organized by the Spanish dancers, Mrs. Treadwell applies elaborate, exaggerated makeup that makes her feel as if she looks like one of the Spanish dancers – something very out of character for her. Those reflections get her thinking about character generally, as suddenly her makeup disguise seems “a revelation of something sinister in the depths of her character. Mrs. Treadwell had…hardly suspected she possessed a character in the accepted sense of the word, and had never felt the lack of one. It was rather late perhaps to discover there were depths in her, where were hidden all sorts of unpleasant traits she would detest in anyone else, much more in herself” (p. 601).
The first time I read Ship of Fools, I found it pointless and interminable. I found the characters uniformly unappealing, and their dramatic situations impossible to care about. I could see why so many critics dismissed the novel as a maritime equivalent of the 1932 film Grand Hotel – a high-gloss soap opera that brings a group of disparate characters together so that one can watch them all react to each other. Indeed, partway through my first reading of Ship of Fools, I was hoping against hope for the arrival of an iceberg, or a tidal wave, or a rogue U-boat from the First World War – something, anything, to put us all out of our collective misery.
This time, however, I read Katherine Anne Porter’s 1962 Ship of Fools in the light of an earlier reading of Sebastian Brant’s 1494 Ship of Fools – and reading it in those terms changed my response to Porter’s book. Brant emphasizes, throughout Das Narrenschiff, that for all of his erudition, he is as much of a fool as anyone else. In the first chapter of his book, titled “Of Useless Books,” he looks round at his well-stocked library and states that “Of splendid books I own no end,/But few that I can comprehend”, concluding that “I’m the first [fool] here you see.”
We are all fools, in other words, and the closest approach to wisdom we can make is to perceive our own folly.
Such an outlook, I cannot help thinking, would appeal to Porter’s Roman Catholic sensibility; and as I read her Ship of Fools in those terms, I find myself differentiating among the “fools” on board the Vera. Some of the characters – Dr. Schumann, Mrs. Treadwell, Wilhelm Freytag, Jenny Brown – at least try to look clearly at unpleasant truths about themselves and their behaviour. Others, like Rieber and Lizzi, cannot be bothered – and those are the characters that we see rapidly sinking into the absolute moral abyss that is Nazism.
Of course, it is by no means a certain recommendation of the excellence of a 1962 American novel that one must first read a 1494 book of German allegorical poetry in order to fully appreciate it.
My own feeling is that, in Ship of Fools, Katherine Anne Porter was trying to bring together four not-easily-reconciled narrative and thematic lines: (1) a dutifully chronicled record of a ship journey that Ms. Porter once took from Mexico to Germany; (2) an homage to Brant’s Das Narrenschiff; (3) a commentary on human foolishness and folly generally; and (4) an allegory for the rise of Nazism.
All of this makes Ship of Fools rather top-heavy, and questionable in terms of seaworthiness; but it is never dull. My own sense is that Porter achieved her greatest heights of literary excellence through her short stories and novellas. One senses how very, very hard she worked on Ship of Fools; and if it does not represent the peak of her literary success, there is no question that – like the 1965 film adaptation by Stanley Kramer, with a great cast that includes Vivien Leigh, Oskar Werner, Jose Ferrer, Lee Marvin, Elizabeth Ashley, and George Segal – it will get you thinking.