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

“The financier?” I suggested half incredulous.

“Yes,” said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone seemed to be strangely appropriate.  “The convict.”

Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory tone:

“One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or any other home than the offices of the “Orb”; or any other existence, associations or interests than financial.  I see you remember the crash . . . ”

“I was away in the Indian Seas at the time,” I said.  “But of course—”

“Of course,” Marlow struck in.  “All the world . . . You may wonder at my slowness in recognizing the name.  But you know that my memory is merely a mausoleum of proper names.  There they lie inanimate, awaiting the magic touch—and not very prompt in arising when called, either.  The name is the first thing I forget of a man.  It is but just to add that frequently it is also the last, and this accounts for my possession of a good many anonymous memories.  In de Barral’s case, he got put away in my mausoleum in company with so many names of his own creation that really he had to throw off a monstrous heap of grisly bones before he stood before me at the call of the wizard Fyne.  The fellow had a pretty fancy in names: the “Orb” Deposit Bank, the “Sceptre” Mutual Aid Society, the “Thrift and Independence” Association.  Yes, a very pretty taste in names; and nothing else besides—absolutely nothing—no other merit.  Well yes.  He had another name, but that’s pure luck—his own name of de Barral which he did not invent.  I don’t think that a mere Jones or Brown could have fished out from the depths of the Incredible such a colossal manifestation of human folly as that man did.  But it may be that I am underestimating the alacrity of human folly in rising to the bait.  No doubt I am.  The greed of that absurd monster is incalculable, unfathomable, inconceivable.  The career of de Barral demonstrates that it will rise to a naked hook.  He didn’t lure it with a fairy tale.  He hadn’t enough imagination for it . . . ”

“Was he a foreigner?” I asked.  “It’s clearly a French name.  I suppose it was his name?”

“Oh, he didn’t invent it.  He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as it came out during the proceedings.  He was in the habit of alluding to his Scotch connections.  But every great man has done that.  The mother, I believe, was Scotch, right enough.  The father de Barral whatever his origins retired from the Customs Service (tide-waiter I think), and started lending money in a very, very small way in the East End to people connected with the docks, stevedores, minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry.  He made his living at it.  He was a very decent man I believe.  He had enough influence to place his only son as junior clerk in the account department of one of the Dock Companies.  “Now, my boy,” he said to him, “I’ve given you a fine start.”  But de Barral didn’t start.  He stuck.  He gave perfect satisfaction.  At the end of three years he got a small rise of salary and went out courting in the evenings.  He went courting the daughter of an old sea-captain who was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old badly preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses standing in a reduced bit of “grounds” that you discover in a labyrinth of the most sordid streets, exactly alike and composed of six-roomed hutches.

Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes.  The old sailor had got hold of one cheap, and de Barral got hold of his daughter—which was a good bargain for him.  The old sailor was very good to the young couple and very fond of their little girl.  Mrs. de Barral was an equable, unassuming woman, at that time with a fund of simple gaiety, and with no ambitions; but, woman-like, she longed for change and for something interesting to happen now and then.  It was she who encouraged de Barral to accept the offer of a post in the west-end branch of a great bank.  It appears he shrank from such a great adventure for a long time.  At last his wife’s arguments prevailed.  Later on she used to say: ‘It’s the only time he ever listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn’t been better for me to die before I ever made him go into that bank.’

You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details.  Well, I had them ultimately from Mrs. Fyne.  Mrs. Fyne while yet Miss Anthony, in her days of bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile.  Mrs. de Barral was living then in a big stone mansion with mullioned windows in a large damp park, called the Priory, adjoining the village where the refined poet had built himself a house.

These were the days of de Barral’s success.  He had bought the place without ever seeing it and had packed off his wife and child at once there to take possession.  He did not know what to do with them in London.  He himself had a suite of rooms in an hotel.  He gave there dinner parties followed by cards in the evening.  He had developed the gambling passion—or else a mere card mania—but at any rate he played heavily, for relaxation, with a lot of dubious hangers on.

Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day, lived at the Priory, with a carriage and pair, a governess for the child and many servants.  The village people would see her through the railings wandering under the trees with her little girl lost in her strange surroundings.  Nobody ever came near her.  And there she died as some faithful and delicate animals die—from neglect, absolutely from neglect, rather unexpectedly and without any fuss.  The village was sorry for her because, though obviously worried about something, she was good to the poor and was always ready for a chat with any of the humble folks.  Of course they knew that she wasn’t a lady—not what you would call a real lady.  And even her acquaintance with Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a village-street acquaintance.  Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat (his father had been a “restoring” architect) and his daughter was not allowed to associate with anyone but the county young ladies.  Nevertheless in defiance of the poet’s wrathful concern for undefiled refinement there were some quiet, melancholy strolls to and fro in the great avenue of chestnuts leading to the park-gate, during which Mrs. de Barral came to call Miss Anthony ‘my dear’—and even ‘my poor dear.’  The lonely soul had no one to talk to but that not very happy girl.  The governess despised her.  The housekeeper was distant in her manner.  Moreover Mrs. de Barral was no foolish gossiping woman.  But she made some confidences to Miss Anthony.  Such wealth was a terrific thing to have thrust upon one she affirmed.  Once she went so far as to confess that she was dying with anxiety.  Mr. de Barral (so she referred to him) had been an excellent husband and an exemplary father but “you see my dear I have had a great experience of him.  I am sure he won’t know what to do with all that money people are giving to him to take care of for them.  He’s as likely as not to do something rash.  When he comes here I must have a good long serious talk with him, like the talks we often used to have together in the good old times of our life.”  And then one day a cry of anguish was wrung from her: ‘My dear, he will never come here, he will never, never come!’

She was wrong.  He came to the funeral, was extremely cut up, and holding the child tightly by the hand wept bitterly at the side of the grave.  Miss Anthony, at the cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse from the poet, saw it all with her own eyes.  De Barral clung to the child like a drowning man.  He managed, though, to catch the half-past five fast train, travelling to town alone in a reserved compartment, with all the blinds down . . . ”

“Leaving the child?” I said interrogatively.

“Yes.  Leaving . . . He shirked the problem.  He was born that way.  He had no idea what to do with her or for that matter with anything or anybody including himself.  He bolted back to his suite of rooms in the hotel.  He was the most helpless . . . She might have been left in the Priory to the end of time had not the high-toned governess threatened to send in her resignation.  She didn’t care for the child a bit, and the lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her nerves.  She wasn’t going to put up with such a life and, having just come out of some ducal family, she bullied de Barral in a very lofty fashion.  To pacify her he took a splendidly furnished house in the most expensive part of Brighton for them, and now and then ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of exquisite sweets and with his hat full of money.  The governess spent it for him in extra ducal style.  She was nearly forty and harboured a secret taste for patronizing young men of sorts—of a certain sort.  But of that Mrs. Fyne of course had no personal knowledge then; she told me however that even in the Priory days she had suspected her of being an artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with the lowest possible ideals.  But de Barral did not know it.  He literally did not know anything . . . ”

“But tell me, Marlow,” I interrupted, “how do you account for this opinion?  He must have been a personality in a sense—in some one sense surely.  You don’t work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least, in a commercial community, without having something in you.”

Marlow shook his head.

“He was a mere sign, a portent.  There was nothing in him.  Just about that time the word Thrift was to the fore.  You know the power of words.  We pass through periods dominated by this or that word—it may be development, or it may be competition, or education, or purity or efficiency or even sanctity.  It is the word of the time.  Well just then it was the word Thrift which was out in the streets walking arm in arm with righteousness, the inseparable companion and backer up of all such national catch-words, looking everybody in the eye as it were.  The very drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn’t escape the fascination . . . However! . . . Well the greatest portion of the press were screeching in all possible tones, like a confounded company of parrots instructed by some devil with a taste for practical jokes, that the financier de Barral was helping the great moral evolution of our character towards the newly-discovered virtue of Thrift.  He was helping it by all these great establishments of his, which made the moral merits of Thrift manifest to the most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay ten per cent. interest on all deposits.  And you didn’t want necessarily to belong to the well-to-do classes in order to participate in the advantages of virtue.  If you had but a spare sixpence in the world and went and gave it to de Barral it was Thrift!  It’s quite likely that he himself believed it.  He must have.  It’s inconceivable that he alone should stand out against the infatuation of the whole world.  He hadn’t enough intelligence for that.  But to look