Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (388 page)

Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying “Nothing” in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the railway station.  And as then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive “It’s what I’ve said,” which might have been the veriest echo of her words in the garden.  We three looked at each other as if on the brink of a disclosure.  I don’t know whether she was vexed at my presence.  It could hardly be called intrusion — could it?  Little Fyne began it.  It had to go on.  We stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne was a sight!), scratched by the same brambles, conscious of the same experience.  Yes.  Before her.  And she looked at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary fulness of assumed responsibility.  I addressed her.

“You don’t believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?”

She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and inexpressibly serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with all the weight of his solemn presence.  Nothing more absurd could be conceived.  It was delicious.  And I went on in deferential accents: “Am I to understand then that you entertain the theory of suicide?”

I don’t know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden and alarming aberration while waiting for her answer I became mentally aware of three trained dogs dancing on their hind legs.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps because of the pervading solemnity.  There’s nothing more solemn on earth than a dance of trained dogs.

“She has chosen to disappear.  That’s all.”

In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me.  The aggressive tone was too much for my endurance.  In an instant I found myself out of the dance and down on all-fours so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite.

“The devil she has,” I cried.  “Has chosen to . . . Like this, all at once, anyhow, regardless . . . I’ve had the privilege of meeting that reckless and brusque young lady and I must say that with her air of an angry victim . . . “

“Precisely,” Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap going off.  I stared at her.  How provoking she was!  So I went on to finish my tirade.  “She struck me at first sight as the most inconsiderate wrong-headed girl that I ever . . . “

“Why should a girl be more considerate than anyone else?  More than any man, for instance?” inquired Mrs. Fyne with a still greater assertion of responsibility in her bearing.

Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is true, but forcibly.  Were then the feelings of friends, relations and even of strangers to be disregarded?  I asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of duty to show elementary consideration not only for the natural feelings but even for the prejudices of one’s fellow-creatures.

Her answer knocked me over.

“Not for a woman.”

Just like that.  I confess that I went down flat.  And while in that collapsed state I learned the true nature of Mrs. Fyne’s feminist doctrine.  It was not political, it was not social.  It was a knock-me-down doctrine — a practical individualistic doctrine.  You would not thank me for expounding it to you at large.  Indeed I think that she herself did not enlighten me fully.  There must have been things not fit for a man to hear.  But shortly, and as far as my bewilderment allowed me to grasp its naïve atrociousness, it was something like this: that no consideration, no delicacy, no tenderness, no scruples should stand in the way of a woman (who by the mere fact of her sex was the predestined victim of conditions created by men’s selfish passions, their vices and their abominable tyranny) from taking the shortest cut towards securing for herself the easiest possible existence.  She had even the right to go out of existence without considering anyone’s feelings or convenience since some women’s existences were made impossible by the shortsighted baseness of men.

I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o’clock in the morning, with her mature, smooth-cheeked face of masculine shape robbed of its freshness by fatigue; at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil.  I looked also at Fyne; the mud was drying on him; he was obviously tired.  The weariness of solemnity.  But he preserved an unflinching, endorsing, gravity of expression.  Endorsing it all as became a good, convinced husband.

“Oh!  I see,” I said.  “No consideration . . . Well I hope you like it.”

They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of which I was capable.  After the first shock, you understand, I recovered very quickly.  The order of the world was safe enough.  He was a civil servant and she his good and faithful wife.  But when it comes to dealing with human beings anything, anything may be expected.  So even my astonishment did not last very long.  How far she developed and illustrated that conscienceless and austere doctrine to the girl-friends, who were mere transient shadows to her husband, I could not tell.  Any length I supposed.  And he looked on, acquiesced, approved, just for that very reason — because these pretty girls were but shadows to him.  O!  Most virtuous Fyne!  He cast his eyes down.  He didn’t like it.  But I eyed him with hidden animosity for he had got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences.

Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self-confidently.  “Oh I quite understand that you accept the fullest responsibility,” I said.  “I am the only ridiculous person in this — this — I don’t know how to call it — performance.  However, I’ve nothing more to do here, so I’ll say good-night — or good morning, for it must be past one.”

But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires they might write.  My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the cottage and I would send them off the first thing in the morning.  I supposed they would wish to communicate, if only as to the disposal of the luggage, with the young lady’s relatives . . .

Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined.

“There is really no one,” he said, very grave.

“No one,” I exclaimed.

“Practically,” said curt Mrs. Fyne.

And my curiosity was aroused again.

“Ah!  I see.  An orphan.”

Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said “Yes” impulsively, and then qualified the affirmative by the quaint statement: “To a certain extent.”

I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to Mrs. Fyne, and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its door by the bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the Universe.  The night was not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled; and the earth seemed to me more profoundly asleep — perhaps because I was alone now.  Not having Fyne with me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather than walk, in the direction of the farmhouse.  To drift is the only reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if it isn’t) and therefore consistent with thoughtfulness.  And I pondered: How is one an orphan “to a certain extent”?

No amount of solemnity could make such a statement other than bizarre.  What a strange condition to be in.  Very likely one of the parents only was dead?  But no; it couldn’t be, since Fyne had said just before that “there was really no one” to communicate with.  No one!  And then remembering Mrs. Fyne’s snappy “Practically” my thoughts fastened upon that lady as a more tangible object of speculation.

I wondered — and wondering I doubted — whether she really understood herself the theory she had propounded to me.  Everything may be said — indeed ought to be said — providing we know how to say it.  She probably did not.  She was not intelligent enough for that.  She had no knowledge of the world.  She had got hold of words as a child might get hold of some poisonous pills and play with them for “dear, tiny little marbles.”  No!  The domestic-slave daughter of Carleon Anthony and the little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of civilization) were not intelligent people.  They were commonplace, earnest, without smiles and without guile.  But he had his solemnities and she had her reveries, her lurid, violent, crude reveries.  And I thought with some sadness that all these revolts and indignations, all these protests, revulsions of feeling, pangs of suffering and of rage, expressed but the uneasiness of sensual beings trying for their share in the joys of form, colour, sensations — the only riches of our world of senses.  A poet may be a simple being but he is bound to be various and full of wiles, ingenious and irritable.  I reflected on the variety of ways the ingenuity of the late bard of civilization would be able to invent for the tormenting of his dependants.  Poets not being generally foresighted in practical affairs, no vision of consequences would restrain him.  Yes.  The Fynes were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn’t the daughter of a domestic tyrant for nothing.  There were no limits to her revolt.  But they were excellent people.  It was clear that they must have been extremely good to that girl whose position in the world seemed somewhat difficult, with her face of a victim, her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre status of orphan “to a certain extent.”

Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to trouble about all these people.  I found that my lamp had gone out leaving behind an awful smell.  I fled from it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark.  My slumbers — I suppose the one good in pedestrian exercise, confound it, is that it helps our natural callousness — my slumbers were deep, dreamless and refreshing.

My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my ignorance of the facts, motives, events and conclusions.  I think that to understand everything is not good for the intellect.  A well-stocked intelligence weakens the impulse to action; an overstocked one leads gently to idiocy.  But Mrs. Fyne’s individualist woman-doctrine, naïvely unscrupulous, flitted through my mind.  The salad of unprincipled notions she put into these girl-friends’ heads!  Good innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent mother (of the strict governess type), she was as guileless of consequences as any determinist philosopher ever was.

As to honour — you know — it’s a very fine medieval inheritance which women never got hold of.  It wasn’t theirs.  Since it may be laid as a general principle that women always get what they want we must suppose they didn’t want it.  In addition they are devoid of decency.  I mean masculine decency.  Cautiousness too is foreign to them — the heavy reasonable cautiousness which is our glory.  And if they had it they would make of it a thing of passion, so that its own mother — I mean the mother of cautiousness — wouldn’t recognize it.  Prudence with them is a matter of thrill like the rest of sublunary contrivances.  “Sensation at any cost,” is their secret device.  All the virtues are not enough for them; they want also all the crimes for their own.  And why?  Because in such completeness there is power — the kind of thrill they love most . . . “

“Do you expect me to agree to all this?” I interrupted.

“No, it isn’t necessary,” said Marlow, feeling the check to his eloquence but with a great effort at amiability.  “You need not even understand it.  I continue: with such disposition what prevents women — to use the phrase an old boatswain of my acquaintance applied descriptively to his captain — what prevents them from “coming on deck and playing hell with the ship” generally, is that something in them precise and mysterious, acting both as restraint and as inspiration; their femininity in short which they think they can get rid of by trying hard, but can’t, and never will.  Therefore we may conclude that, for all their enterprises, the world is and remains safe enough.  Feeling, in my character of a lover of peace, soothed by that conclusion I prepared myself to enjoy a fine day.

And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror of the Infinite veiled by the splendid tent of blue; a day innocently bright like a child with a washed face, fresh like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming one’s respects like — like a Roman prelate.  I love such days.  They are perfection for remaining indoors.  And I enjoyed it temperamentally in a chair, my feet up on the sill of the open window, a book in my hands and the murmured harmonies of wind and sun in my heart making an accompaniment to the rhythms of my author.  Then looking up from the page I saw outside a pair of grey eyes thatched by ragged yellowy-white eyebrows gazing at me solemnly over the toes of my slippers.  There was a grave, furrowed brow surmounting that portentous gaze, a brown tweed cap set far back on the perspiring head.

“Come inside,” I cried as heartily as my sinking heart would permit.

After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer door, Fyne entered.  I treated him without ceremony and only waved my hand towards a chair.  Even before he sat down he gasped out:

“We’ve heard — midday post.”

Gasped out!  The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped!  This was enough, you’ll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the ground swiftly.  That fellow was always making me do things in subtle discord with my meditative temperament.  No wonder that I had but a qualified liking for him.  I said with just a suspicion of jeering tone:

“Of course.  I told you last night on the road that it was a farce we were engaged in.”

He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of anger positively sepulchral in its depth of tone.  “Farce be hanged!  She has bolted with my wife’s brother, Captain Anthony.”  This outburst was followed by complete subsidence.  He faltered miserably as he added from force of habit: “The son of the poet, you know.”

A silence fell.  Fyne’s several expressions were so many examples of varied consistency.  This was the discomfiture of solemnity.  My interest of course was revived.

“But hold on,” I said.  “They didn’t go together.  Is it a suspicion or does she actually say that . . . “

“She has gone after him,” stated Fyne in comminatory tones.  “By previous arrangement.  She confesses that much.”

He added that it was very shocking.  I asked him whether he should have preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based that preference.  This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne’s too was a runaway match, which even got into the papers in its time, because the late indignant poet had no discretion and sought to avenge this outrage publicly in some absurd way before a bewigged judge.  The dejected gesture of little Fyne’s hand disarmed my mocking mood.  But I could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. Fyne had not detected at once what was brewing.  Women were supposed to have an unerring eye.