Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (424 page)

He raised his hands to his forehead — his silk hat was on the table rim upwards; he had put it there with a despairing gesture as he came in — he raised his hands to his forehead.  “It seems to me unfair.  I — ”  He broke off again.  Anthony looked at Flora who stood by the side of her father.

“Well, sir, you will soon get used to me.  Surely you and she must have had enough of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half ways to last you both for a life-time.  A particularly merciful lot they are too.  You ask Flora.  I am alluding to my own sister, her best friend, and not a bad woman either as they go.”

The captain of the Ferndale checked himself.  “Lucky thing I was there to step in.  I want you to make yourself at home, and before long — ”

The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced Anthony by its inexpressive fixity.  He signalled with his eyes to Flora towards the door of the state-room fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, the free man.  She seized the free man’s hat off the table and took him caressingly under the arm.  “Yes!  This is home, come and see your room, papa!”

Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it carefully behind herself and her father.  “See,” she began but desisted because it was clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for his comfort.  She herself had hardly seen them before.  He was looking only at the new carpet and she waited till he should raise his eyes.

He didn’t do that but spoke in his usual voice.  “So this is your husband, that . . . And I locked up!”

“Papa, what’s the good of harping on that,” she remonstrated no louder.  “He is kind.”

“And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me.  Is that it?  How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to me?”

“How strange you are!” she said thoughtfully.

“It’s hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through to feel like other people.  Has that occurred to you?  . . . “  He looked up at last . . .  “Mrs. Anthony, I can’t bear the sight of the fellow.”  She met his eyes without flinching and he added, “You want to go to him now.”  His mild automatic manner seemed the effect of tremendous self-restraint — and yet she remembered him always like that.  She felt cold all over.

“Why, of course, I must go to him,” she said with a slight start.

He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out.

Anthony had not moved from the spot.  One of his hands was resting on the table.  She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved still closer.  “Thank you, Roderick.”

“You needn’t thank me,” he murmured.  “It’s I who . . . “

“No, perhaps I needn’t.  You do what you like.  But you are doing it well.”

He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they were near the state-room door, “Upset, eh?”

She made no sign, no sound of any kind.  The thorough falseness of the position weighed on them both.  But he was the braver of the two.  “I dare say.  At first.  Did you think of telling him you were happy?”

“He never asked me,” she smiled faintly at him.  She was disappointed by his quietness.  “I did not say more than I was absolutely obliged to say — of myself.”  She was beginning to be irritated with this man a little.  “I told him I had been very lucky,” she said suddenly despondent, missing Anthony’s masterful manner, that something arbitrary and tender which, after the first scare, she had accustomed herself to look forward to with pleasurable apprehension.  He was contemplating her rather blankly.  She had not taken off her outdoor things, hat, gloves.  She was like a caller.  And she had a movement suggesting the end of a not very satisfactory business call.  “Perhaps it would be just as well if we went ashore.  Time yet.”

He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low vehement “You dare!” which sprang to his lips and out of them with a most menacing inflexion.

“You dare . . . What’s the matter now?”

These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind her back.  Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with black bunches of hair of the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his hand) gazing sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his lobster eyes.  He was heard from the distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting that the berthing master was alongside and that he wanted to move the ship into the basin before the crew came on board.

His captain growled “Well, let him,” and waved away the ulcerated and pathetic soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the offensive woman while the mate backed out slowly.  Anthony turned to Flora.

“You could not have meant it.  You are as straight as they make them.”

“I am trying to be.”

“Then don’t joke in that way.  Think of what would become of — me.”

“Oh yes.  I forgot.  No, I didn’t mean it.  It wasn’t a joke.  It was forgetfulness.  You wouldn’t have been wronged.  I couldn’t have gone.  I — I am too tired.”

He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself violently from taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with fear as though he had been tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery.  He stepped aside and lowering his eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin.  It was only after she passed by him that he looked up and thus he did not see the angry glance she gave him before she moved on.  He looked after her.  She tottered slightly just before reaching the door and flung it to behind her nervously.

Anthony — he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed inside his very breast — stood for a moment without moving and then shouted for Mrs. Brown.  This was the steward’s wife, his lucky inspiration to make Flora comfortable.  “Mrs. Brown!  Mrs. Brown!”  At last she appeared from somewhere.  “Mrs. Anthony has come on board.  Just gone into the cabin.  Hadn’t you better see if you can be of any assistance?”

“Yes, sir.”

And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the hardihood and inexperience of his heart.  He thought he had better go on deck.  In fact he ought to have been there before.  At any rate it would be the usual thing for him to be on deck.  But a sound of muttering and of faint thuds somewhere near by arrested his attention.  They proceeded from Mr. Smith’s room, he perceived.  It was very extraordinary.  “He’s talking to himself,” he thought.  “He seems to be thumping the bulkhead with his fists — or his head.”

Anthony’s eyes grew big with wonder while he listened to these noises.  He became so attentive that he did not notice Mrs. Brown till she actually stopped before him for a moment to say:

“Mrs. Anthony doesn’t want any assistance, sir.”

* * * * *

This was you understand the voyage before Mr. Powell — young Powell then — joined the Ferndale; chance having arranged that he should get his start in life in that particular ship of all the ships then in the port of London.  The most unrestful ship that ever sailed out of any port on earth.  I am not alluding to her sea-going qualities.  Mr. Powell tells me she was as steady as a church.  I mean unrestful in the sense, for instance in which this planet of ours is unrestful — a matter of an uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions, jealousies, loves, hates and the troubles of transcendental good intentions, which, though ethically valuable, I have no doubt cause often more unhappiness than the plots of the most evil tendency.  For those who refuse to believe in chance he, I mean Mr. Powell, must have been obviously predestined to add his native ingenuousness to the sum of all the others carried by the honest ship Ferndale.  He was too ingenuous.  Everybody on board was, exception being made of Mr. Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way, with that terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is also another name men pronounce with dread and aversion.  His fixed idea was to save his girl from the man who had possessed himself of her (I use these words on purpose because the image they suggest was clearly in Mr. Smith’s mind), possessed himself unfairly of her while he, the father, was locked up.

“I won’t rest till I have got you away from that man,” he would murmur to her after long periods of contemplation.  We know from Powell how he used to sit on the skylight near the long deck-chair on which Flora was reclining, gazing into her face from above with an air of guardianship and investigation at the same time.

It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered the event rationally.  The avatar of de Barral into Mr. Smith had not been effected without a shock — that much one must recognize.  It may be that it drove all practical considerations out of his mind, making room for awful and precise visions which nothing could dislodge afterwards.

And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of the man who had persisted in throwing millions of other people’s thrift into the Lone Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks, the Spotted Leopard Copper Mine, and other grotesque speculations exposed during the famous de Barral trial, amongst murmurs of astonishment mingled with bursts of laughter.  For it is in the Courts of Law that Comedy finds its last refuge in our deadly serious world.  As to tears and lamentations, these were not heard in the august precincts of comedy, because they were indulged in privately in several thousand homes, where, with a fine dramatic effect, hunger had taken the place of Thrift.

But there was one at least who did not laugh in court.  That person was the accused.  The notorious de Barral did not laugh because he was indignant.  He was impervious to words, to facts, to inferences.  It would have been impossible to make him see his guilt or his folly — either by evidence or argument — if anybody had tried to argue.

Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him.  The cruelty of her position was so great, its complications so thorny, if I may express myself so, that a passive attitude was yet her best refuge — as it had been before her of so many women.

For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic and therefore menacing.  It makes one pause.  A woman may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an agitated fool, a too awfully noxious fool, and she may even be simply stupid.  But she is never dense.  She’s never made of wood through and through as some men are.  There is in woman always, somewhere, a spring.  Whatever men don’t know about women (and it may be a lot or it may be very little) men and even fathers do know that much.  And that is why so many men are afraid of them.

Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter’s quietness though of course he interpreted it in his own way.

He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over the reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze under the darkened eyelids in the still eyes.  He would look and look and then he would say, whisper rather, it didn’t take much for his voice to drop to a mere breath — he would declare, transferring his faded stare to the horizon, that he would never rest till he had “got her away from that man.”

“You don’t know what you are saying, papa.”

She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two men’s antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid attitudes.  For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her.

As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck.  The strain was making him restless.  He couldn’t sit still anywhere.  He had tried shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good.  He would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till he felt ready to drop, without being able to wear down the agitation of his soul, generous indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain creating precise images and everlastingly speculating, speculating — looking out for signs, watching for symptoms.

And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful, hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was saying.  Hadn’t she given herself to that man while he was locked up.

“Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to, but my daughter.  And then when they let me out at last I find her gone — for it amounts to this.  Sold.  Because you’ve sold yourself; you know you have.”

With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind-eddies of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be addressing the universe across her reclining form.  She would protest sometimes.

“I wish you would not talk like this, papa.  You are only tormenting me, and tormenting yourself.”

“Yes, I am tormented enough,” he admitted meaningly.  But it was not talking about it that tormented him.  It was thinking of it.  And to sit and look at it was worse for him than it possibly could have been for her to go and give herself up, bad as that must have been.

“For of course you suffered.  Don’t tell me you didn’t?  You must have.”

She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests.  It was useless.  It might have made things worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her father, the only human being that really cared for her, absolutely, evidently, completely — to the end.  There was in him no pity, no generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things — it was for her, for her very own self such as it was, that this human being cared.  This certitude would have made her put up with worse torments.  For, of course, she too was being tormented.  She felt also helpless, as if the whole enterprise had been too much for her.  This is the sort of conviction which makes for quietude.  She was becoming a fatalist.

What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life, the intercourse of current trifles.  That naturally had to go on.  They wished good morning to each other, they sat down together to meals — and I believe there would be a game of cards now and then in the evening, especially at first.  What frightened her most was the duplicity of her father, at least what looked like duplicity, when she remembered his persistent, insistent whispers on deck.  However her father was a taciturn person as far back as she could remember him best — on the Parade.  It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to discover whether he was pleased or displeased.  And now she couldn’t fathom his thoughts.  Neither did she chatter to him.  Anthony with a forced friendly smile as if frozen to his lips seemed only too thankful at not being made to speak.  Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while studying his hand so long that Flora had to recall him to himself by a murmured “Papa — your lead.”  Then he apologized by a faint as if inward ejaculation “Beg your pardon, Captain.”  Naturally she addressed Anthony as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora.  This was all the acting that was necessary to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man’s mouth at every uttered “Flora.”  On hearing the rare “Rodericks” he had sometimes a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole stiff personality.