Free Decline in Prophets by Sulari Gentill Page A

you know as soon as
possible…”
    Madding and Yates left forthwith. Milton finished his drink and poured another as they waited.
    “She’ll be all right,” he said, a little too loudly. “Annie’s a tough old bird.”
    Madding was as good as his word and a crewman arrived within thirty minutes to inform them that Annie Besant had sustained a nasty knock to the head but was otherwise unhurt. Yates was keeping
her in the infirmary until they made port in New York. The evening thus dramatically and abruptly concluded, they returned to their own suites to retire.

    When Rowland Sinclair and his friends visited, Annie Besant was looking quite well despite the large bandage that swathed her forehead. She was sitting up, sipping a cup of tea.
Jiddu Krishnamurti was reading in the easy chair beside her bed. There were no other patients in the Aquitania’s infirmary and so the nursing staff was most solicitous of her every
comfort.
    “Drunk again?” Milton suggested grinning.
    “Don’t be impertinent, young man!”
    “How are you, Annie?”
    “Thoroughly embarrassed, if you must know,” she responded, smiling at the several young people who had entered the infirmary. “Everybody has been most kind, which only leaves
me feeling sillier for my clumsiness.”
    Rowland Sinclair, Milton Isaacs and Clyde Watson Jones lined up at the foot of her bed, all leaning against the rail as they asked about her health. Annie Besant regarded them warmly. It was a
particularly Australian habit, she observed—to lean. Australian men seem to lean whenever possible—against walls, posts, chairs. Her late husband would have considered it offensive,
slovenly, but Annie found it somehow charming… Australians had the ability to relax in any company or circumstance—they would face Armageddon itself leaning casually on a fence. It put
her at ease in their presence.
    “We’re lucky you weren’t more seriously hurt.” Edna refilled her cup from a silver pot on the bedside table. “Whatever were you doing?”
    Annie Besant chuckled. “I can’t remember anything, Edna, my dear, but I’m sure I was not sliding down the banisters.”
    “What a superb idea.” Milton laughed.
    Krishnamurti shook his head making a clicking sound. “I had only just closed the door to my rooms when I heard the commotion,” he said. “I ran out and found Amma had
fallen.”
    “What’s the last thing you remember, Annie?” Rowland asked.
    “Why, I was dancing with you, dear boy.”
    Rowland smiled. “Well, that’s not something you should forget.”
    “After that, things are a little confused I’m afraid… I remember turning the key… but nothing else.”
    “We’ll be in New York Harbour in a few hours,” Clyde mentioned. “Will you be strong enough to disembark, Mrs. Besant?”
    “Dr. Yates seems to think so,” she replied. “Don’t you be concerned, Clyde dear—I will be well looked after by our friends in New York. They’ve installed me
at the Plaza—you must come and see me if you have time.”
    “We’ll find time,” Rowland assured her.
    They stayed talking until Hubert Van Hook arrived with the Watermans and the Bensons, at which point they wished the Theosophists well and made their way to the observation decks. The vast
majority of passengers had gathered for the Aquitania’s entry into New York Harbour.
    Rowland had visited America before, but his friends beheld the Lady of Liberty for the first time as the ship passed between Governors and Ellis Island. He stood back from them a little with his
notebook, drawing their figures in the shadow of the colossal statue, capturing their awe and excitement in the forward lean of their bodies, the crane of their necks. He worked quickly, making
individual studies of their faces, widened eyes, unconscious smiles, the backdrop of the great city itself.
    “Bloody oath! Look at the size of those buildings!” Clyde gazed out at the arresting skyline. “They’d have to be