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

perhaps things are not what they are confidently expected to be; that it was possible that Captain Anthony was not a happy man . . . In so far you will perceive he was to a certain extent prepared for the apoplectic and sensitive Franklin’s lamentations about his captain.  And though he treated them with a contempt which was in a great measure sincere, yet he admitted to me that deep down within him an inexplicable and uneasy suspicion that all was not well in that cabin, so unusually cut off from the rest of the ship, came into being and grew against his will. CHAPTER FOUR—ANTHONY AND FLORA

Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-case to get himself a cigar from a box which stood on a little table by my side.  In the full light of the room I saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression with which he habitually covers up his sympathetic impulses of mirth and pity before the unreasonable complications the idealism of mankind puts into the simple but poignant problem of conduct on this earth.

He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then turned upon me, I had been looking at him silently.

“I suppose,” he said, the mockery of his eyes giving a pellucid quality to his tone, “that you think it’s high time I told you something definite.  I mean something about that psychological cabin mystery of discomfort (for it’s obvious that it must be psychological) which affected so profoundly Mr. Franklin the chief mate, and had even disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell, the second of the ship Ferndale, commanded by Roderick Anthony—the son of the poet, you know.”

“You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out,” I said in pretended indignation.

“It would serve you right if I told you that I have.  But I won’t.  I haven’t failed.  I own though that for a time, I was puzzled.  However, I have now seen our Powell many times under the most favourable conditions—and besides I came upon a most unexpected source of information . . . But never mind that.  The means don’t concern you except in so far as they belong to the story.  I’ll admit that for some time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and two together failed to procure a coherent theory.  I am speaking now as an investigator—a man of deductions.  With what we know of Roderick Anthony and Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital quarrel beautifully matured in less than a year—could I?  If you ask me what is an ordinary marital quarrel I will tell you, that it is a difference about nothing; I mean, these nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us when we first met him, shore people are so prone to start a row about, and nurse into hatred from an idle sense of wrong, from perverted ambition, for spectacular reasons too.  There are on earth no actors too humble and obscure not to have a gallery; that gallery which envenoms the play by stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments or words of perfidious compassion.  However, the Anthonys were free from all demoralizing influences.  At sea, you know, there is no gallery.  You hear no tormenting echoes of your own littleness there, where either a great elemental voice roars defiantly under the sky or else an elemental silence seems to be part of the infinite stillness of the universe.

Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral misery, and Roderick Anthony carried away by a gust of tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, Is it all forgotten already?  What could they have found to estrange them from each other with this rapidity and this thoroughness so far from all temptations, in the peace of the sea and in an isolation so complete that if it had not been the jealous devotion of the sentimental Franklin stimulating the attention of Powell, there would have been no record, no evidence of it at all.

I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom I suspected.  In this world as at present organized women are the suspected half of the population.  There are good reasons for that.  These reasons are so discoverable with a little reflection that it is not worth my while to set them out for you.  I will only mention this: that the part falling to women’s share being all “influence” has an air of occult and mysterious action, something not altogether trustworthy like all natural forces which, for us, work in the dark because of our imperfect comprehension.

If women were not a force of nature, blind in its strength and capricious in its power, they would not be mistrusted.  As it is one can’t help it.  You will say that this force having been in the person of Flora de Barral captured by Anthony . . . Why yes.  He had dealt with her masterfully.  But man has captured electricity too.  It lights him on his way, it warms his home, it will even cook his dinner for him—very much like a woman.  But what sort of conquest would you call it?  He knows nothing of it.  He has got to be mighty careful what he is about with his captive.  And the greater the demand he makes on it in the exultation of his pride the more likely it is to turn on him and burn him to a cinder . . . ”

“A far-fetched enough parallel,” I observed coldly to Marlow.  He had returned to the arm-chair in the shadow of the bookcase.  “But accepting the meaning you have in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge of how to use it.  And if you mean that this ravenous Anthony—”

“Ravenous is good,” interrupted Marlow.  “He was a-hungering and a-thirsting for femininity to enter his life in a way no mere feminist could have the slightest conception of.  I reckon that this accounts for much of Fyne’s disgust with him.  Good little Fyne.  You have no idea what infernal mischief he had worked during his call at the hotel.  But then who could have suspected Anthony of being a heroic creature.  There are several kinds of heroism and one of them at least is idiotic.  It is the one which wears the aspect of sublime delicacy.  It is apparently the one of which the son of the delicate poet was capable.

He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore out two women without any satisfaction to himself, because they did not come up to his supra-refined standard of the delicacy which is so perceptible in his verses.  That’s your poet.  He demands too much from others.  The inarticulate son had set up a standard for himself with that need for embodying in his conduct the dreams, the passion, the impulses the poet puts into arrangements of verses, which are dearer to him than his own self—and may make his own self appear sublime in the eyes of other people, and even in his own eyes.

Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own eyes?  I should not like to make that charge; though indeed there are other, less noble, ambitions at which the world does not dare to smile.  But I don’t think so; I do not even think that there was in what he did a conscious and lofty confidence in himself, a particularly pronounced sense of power which leads men so often into impossible or equivocal situations.  Looked at abstractedly (the way in which truth is often seen in its real shape) his life had been a life of solitude and silence—and desire.

Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may smile at his violent conquest of Flora de Barral we must admit also that this eager appropriation was truly the act of a man of solitude and desire; a man also, who, unless a complete imbecile, must have been a man of long and ardent reveries wherein the faculty of sincere passion matures slowly in the unexplored recesses of the heart.  And I know also that a passion, dominating or tyrannical, invading the whole man and subjugating all his faculties to its own unique end, may conduct him whom it spurs and drives, into all sorts of adventures, to the brink of unfathomable dangers, to the limits of folly, and madness, and death.

To the man then of a silence made only more impressive by the inarticulate thunders and mutters of the great seas, an utter stranger to the clatter of tongues, there comes the muscular little Fyne, the most marked representative of that mankind whose voice is so strange to him, the husband of his sister, a personality standing out from the misty and remote multitude.  He comes and throws at him more talk than he had ever heard boomed out in an hour, and certainly touching the deepest things Anthony had ever discovered in himself, and flings words like “unfair” whose very sound is abhorrent to him.  Unfair!  Undue advantage!  He!  Unfair to that girl?  Cruel to her!

No scorn could stand against the impression of such charges advanced with heat and conviction.  They shook him.  They were yet vibrating in the air of that stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get rid of, when the door opened and Flora de Barral entered.

He did not even notice that she was late.  He was sitting on a sofa plunged in gloom.  Was it true?  Having himself always said exactly what he meant he imagined that people (unless they were liars, which of course his brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they meant.  The deep chest voice of little Fyne was still in his ear.  “He knows,” Anthony said to himself.  He thought he had better go away and never see her again.  But she stood there before him accusing and appealing.  How could he abandon her?  That was out of the question.  She had no one.  Or rather she had someone.  That father.  Anthony was willing to take him at her valuation.  This father may have been the victim of the most atrocious injustice.  But what could a man coming out of jail do?  An old man too.  And then—what sort of man?  What would become of them both?  Anthony shuddered slightly and the faint smile with which Flora had entered the room faded on her lips.  She was used to his impetuous tenderness.  She was no longer afraid of it.  But she had never seen him look like this before, and she suspected at once some new cruelty of life.  He got up with his usual ardour but as if sobered by a momentous resolve and said:

“No.  I can’t let you out of my sight.  I have seen you.  You have told me your story.  You are honest.  You have never told me you loved me.”

She waited, saying to herself that he had never given her time, that he had never asked her!  And that, in truth, she did not know!

I am inclined to believe that she did not.  As abundance of experience is not precisely her lot in life, a woman is seldom an expert in matters of sentiment.  It is the man who can and generally does “see himself” pretty well inside and out.  Women’s self-possession is an outward thing; inwardly they flutter, perhaps because they are, or they feel themselves to be, engaged.  All this speaking generally.  In Flora de Barral’s particular case ever since Anthony had suddenly broken his way into her hopeless and cruel existence she lived like a person liberated from a condemned cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an earthquake; not absolutely terrified, because nothing can be worse than the eve of execution, but stunned, bewildered—abandoning herself passively.  She did not want to make a sound, to move a limb.  She hadn’t the strength.  What was the good?  And deep down, almost unconsciously she was seduced by