Chance, Joseph Conrad [10 best novels of all time TXT] 📗

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Title: Chance

Author: Joseph Conrad

Release Date: March 17, 2005  [eBook #1476]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHANCE***

Transcribed form the 1914 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

CHANCE—A TALE IN TWO PARTS

Those that hold that all things are governed by Fortune had not erred, had they not persisted there

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

TO SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G. WHO STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE EXISTENCE OF THESE PAGES

PART I—THE DAMSEL CHAPTER ONE—YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE

I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the dinghy of a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and skipper.  We helped the boy we had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage before we went up to the riverside inn, where we found our new acquaintance eating his dinner in dignified loneliness at the head of a long table, white and inhospitable like a snow bank.

The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black whiskers under a cap of curly iron-grey hair was the only warm spot in the dinginess of that room cooled by the cheerless tablecloth.  We knew him already by sight as the owner of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone apparently, a fellow yachtsman in the unpretending band of fanatics who cruise at the mouth of the Thames.  But the first time he addressed the waiter sharply as ‘steward’ we knew him at once for a sailor as well as a yachtsman.

Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter for the slovenly manner in which the dinner was served.  He did it with considerable energy and then turned to us.

“If we at sea,” he declared, “went about our work as people ashore high and low go about theirs we should never make a living.  No one would employ us.  And moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go-lucky manner people conduct their business on shore would ever arrive into port.”

Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished to discover that the educated people were not much better than the others.  No one seemed to take any proper pride in his work: from plumbers who were simply thieves to, say, newspaper men (he seemed to think them a specially intellectual class) who never by any chance gave a correct version of the simplest affair.  This universal inefficiency of what he called “the shore gang” he ascribed in general to the want of responsibility and to a sense of security.

“They see,” he went on, “that no matter what they do this tight little island won’t turn turtle with them or spring a leak and go to the bottom with their wives and children.”

From this point the conversation took a special turn relating exclusively to sea-life.  On that subject he got quickly in touch with Marlow who in his time had followed the sea.  They kept up a lively exchange of reminiscences while I listened.  They agreed that the happiest time in their lives was as youngsters in good ships, with no care in the world but not to lose a watch below when at sea and not a moment’s time in going ashore after work hours when in harbour.  They agreed also as to the proudest moment they had known in that calling which is never embraced on rational and practical grounds, because of the glamour of its romantic associations.  It was the moment when they had passed successfully their first examination and left the seamanship Examiner with the little precious slip of blue paper in their hands.

“That day I wouldn’t have called the Queen my cousin,” declared our new acquaintance enthusiastically.

At that time the Marine Board examinations took place at the St. Katherine’s Dock House on Tower Hill, and he informed us that he had a special affection for the view of that historic locality, with the Gardens to the left, the front of the Mint to the right, the miserable tumble-down little houses farther away, a cabstand, boot-blacks squatting on the edge of the pavement and a pair of big policemen gazing with an air of superiority at the doors of the Black Horse public-house across the road.  This was the part of the world, he said, his eyes first took notice of, on the finest day of his life.  He had emerged from the main entrance of St. Katherine’s Dock House a full-fledged second mate after the hottest time of his life with Captain R-, the most dreaded of the three seamanship Examiners who at the time were responsible for the merchant service officers qualifying in the Port of London.

“We all who were preparing to pass,” he said, “used to shake in our shoes at the idea of going before him.  He kept me for an hour and a half in the torture chamber and behaved as though he hated me.  He kept his eyes shaded with one of his hands.  Suddenly he let it drop saying, “You will do!”  Before I realised what he meant he was pushing the blue slip across the table.  I jumped up as if my chair had caught fire.

“Thank you, sir,” says I, grabbing the paper.

“Good morning, good luck to you,” he growls at me.

“The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with my hat.  They always do.  But he looked very hard at me before he ventured to ask in a sort of timid whisper: “Got through all right, sir?”  For all answer I dropped a half-crown into his soft broad palm.  “Well,” says he with a sudden grin from ear to ear, “I never knew him keep any of you gentlemen so long.  He failed two second mates this morning before your turn came.  Less than twenty minutes each: that’s about his usual time.”

“I found myself downstairs without being aware of the steps as if I had floated down the staircase.  The finest day in my life.  The day you get your first command is nothing to it.  For one thing a man is not so young then and for another with us, you know, there is nothing much more to expect.  Yes, the finest day of one’s life, no doubt, but then it is just a day and no more.  What comes after is about the most unpleasant time for a youngster, the trying to get an officer’s berth with nothing much to show but a brand-new certificate.  It is surprising how useless you find that piece of ass’s skin that you have been putting yourself in such a state about.  It didn’t strike me at the time that a Board of Trade certificate does not make an officer, not by a long long way.  But the slippers of the ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew that very well.  I don’t wonder at them now, and I don’t blame them either.  But this ‘trying to get a ship’ is pretty hard on a youngster all the same . . . ”

He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how discouraged by this lesson of disillusion following swiftly upon the finest day of his life.  He told us how he went the round of all the ship-owners’ offices in the City where some junior clerk would furnish him with printed forms of application which he took home to fill up in the evening.  He used to run out just before midnight to post them in the nearest pillar-box.  And that was all that ever came of it.  In his own words: he might just as well have dropped them all properly addressed and stamped into the sewer grating.

Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the docks, he met a friend and former shipmate a little older than himself outside the Fenchurch Street Railway Station.

He craved for sympathy but his friend had just “got a ship” that very morning and was hurrying home in a state of outward joy and inward uneasiness usual to a sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets a berth.  This friend had the time to condole with him but briefly.  He must be moving.  Then as he was running off, over his shoulder as it were, he suggested: “Why don’t you go and speak to Mr. Powell in the Shipping Office.”  Our friend objected that he did not know Mr. Powell from Adam.  And the other already pretty near round the corner shouted back advice: “Go to the private door of the Shipping Office and walk right up to him.  His desk is by the window.  Go up boldly and say I sent you.”

Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other of us declared: “Upon my word, I had grown so desperate that I’d have gone boldly up to the devil himself on the mere hint that he had a second mate’s job to give away.”

It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to light his pipe but holding us with his eye he inquired whether we had known Powell.  Marlow with a slight reminiscent smile murmured that he “remembered him very well.”

Then there was a pause.  Our new acquaintance had become involved in a vexatious difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust and disappointed his anticipation of self-indulgence.  To keep the ball rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in any way.

“He was not exactly remarkable,” Marlow answered with his usual nonchalance.  “In a general way it’s very difficult for one to become remarkable.  People won’t take sufficient notice of one, don’t you know.  I remember Powell so well simply because as one of the Shipping Masters in the Port of London he dispatched me to sea on several long stages of my sailor’s pilgrimage.  He resembled Socrates.  I mean he resembled him genuinely: that is in the face.  A philosophical mind is but an accident.  He reproduced exactly the familiar bust of the immortal sage, if you will imagine the bust with a high top hat riding far on the back of the head, and a black coat over the shoulders.  As I never saw him except from the other side of the long official counter bearing the five writing desks of the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust to me.”

Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe in good working order.

“What was the most remarkable about Powell,” he enunciated dogmatically with his head in a cloud of smoke, “is that he should have had just that name.  You see, my name happens to be Powell too.”

It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social purposes.  It required no acknowledgment.  We continued to gaze at him with expectant eyes.

He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent minute or two.  Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how he had started hot foot for Tower Hill.  He had not been that way since the day of his examination—the finest day of his life—the day of his overweening pride.  It was very different now.  He would not have called the Queen his cousin, still, but this time it was from a sense of profound abasement.  He didn’t think himself good enough for anybody’s kinship.  He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers on the stand, the boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large bobbies pacing slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of their infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and fro before the Mint.